Disclaimer: Kiss me. I am Irish.

A/N: Damn right this is an update. Just read an enjoy—or critically review. S'up to you.

-Joe

An Unfound Door

Chapter Four – A Turquoise Sky

Harry's eyes snapped open and he sat up with a whimper. He gazed wildly around at his surroundings until memory came crashing back down like a half bottle of firewhiskey the next morning.

Hermione Granger sat on the floor next to him in the Vault. She looked relieved. "Thank Merlin, you're awake."

"How…?" A merry band of axe-wielding goblins hacked away at his throat. "How long was I out for?"

"About ten minutes," she said. "I didn't know whether to leave you and go get help or try and levitate you down off the roof."

Visions of tumbling to an untimely death danced in his head. "You shouldn't be here." He felt terrible. Every nerve in his shoulders and arms seemed to be twitching. Sitting still was impossible. "You didn't touch anything did you?"

"No."

"Good. I'm still not sure what half of this stuff is meant to do."

"Harry, you need to go to the Hospital Wing—you nearly died!"

Harry contemplated that while rubbing some feeling back into his legs. He was still shirtless. The oily veins had disappeared from his arms. His hand was caked in blood, the jagged words I must not tell lies scabbed over on his skin. "No. That's probably the worst thing I could do right now. No one can know about this. I'm fine, Hermione. Look…"

He stood up with a not inconsiderable effort and offered her his hand. Harry pulled Hermione to her feet with a grunt.

"Well, Miss Granger. I suppose I should welcome you to the Arbiter's Vault."

"What is this place?"

"Another of the castle's better kept secrets."

Harry moved to collect his shirt from near the entrance, but the few steps made his head spin. He leant against a lavish desk to catch his breath, his thoughts, and perhaps his resolve.

"Is that… Sirius Black?"

"It certainly is."

"But—"

"You've been made privy to some very important secrets all at once here, Hermione. What I need from you now is trust. Trust that there is nothing untoward happening, until I can collect myself."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, thought better of it, and bit her tongue. She nodded… and managed a tense silence for all of thirty seconds while Harry pressed his fingers to his forehead and tried not to cry.

"Harry, what is this place?"

"A heartbreaking work of staggering genius."

"Do you live in here?"

"I work in here."

"Doing what?"

Harry shrugged. "Anything and everything. Magical theory, runic spellwork, incantation modification, spell creation, potion mastery, minor weather augmentation…" Soul Entrapment. "You know, tornadoes in a bottle. All the cool things we're not supposed to study until we leave this castle."

Hermione cast a quick eye along the shelves and the rows of old, dusty magical texts and tomes. Her eyes grew wider and wider, which told Harry she was at least passing familiar with some of the books. All of them were priceless and none of them belonged in a school for children. And yet, there they were.

"Can I borrow—?"

"No."

"But just—"

"No."

Hermione made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl. "So… poisoned?"

"Yes."

She stared at him until the silence became uncomfortable. "Well? Who do you think would have done it? Why would they have done it?"

"Unfortunately, the list of suspects is long and rather powerful, if you think about it."

Hermione licked her lips. "Voldemort?"

"For one. Not his style, if I know anything about the monster, but okay. He makes the list."

"The… the person who wrote your note! The Dragonfly Queen?"

"Again, yes. Has to be considered. Professor Umbridge?"

Hermione seemed startled by the idea. "But she's from the Ministry and, however incompetent her methods, a teacher…" She frowned. "And has you carving lines into the back of your hand."

"A streak of cruelty, yes? That's three names. Let's just add 'Death Eaters' as one collective bunch. Four names. Can you think of anyone else I've been in contact with?"

"You met with…" Hermione had the good grace to blush. "Fleur Delacour this morning, didn't you?"

Harry chuckled. "Yes, but no. She wouldn't do this. I was thinking more along the lines of my fellow students. Perhaps one that I've spoken more with in the last week than in the last four years."

Hermione paused. "Me?" she asked quietly. "You think I—?"

"It has to be considered, doesn't it? And now you know one of my deep, dark secrets." Harry drew his wand and tapped it thoughtfully against his palm. "I fear it's the memory charm for you, Miss Granger. No one can know about this place."

"You wouldn't!" Hermione took a step back and, as an afterthought, fumbled for her wand. "How did you even learn…?" She stopped herself, casting a jealous eye at the Vault's unique library.

"Tell me why I shouldn't?"

"Because." Hermione lowered her wand. "Because I don't think you want to, not really. You're better than memory charms." She smirked. "You're a good boy."

"Not according to the papers." Which were starting to become more than a touch annoying. Harry put his wand away. "But you're right, I suppose. Memory charms seem lazy anyway. A bit crass and unsophisticated. You seem rather certain of yourself after having known me a whole half a week."

"I'm a good judge of character. Is it true you killed a basilisk?"

"Yes."

"And repelled an army of dementors?"

"Once or twice." But not thrice, he thought with a dismal glance at his floating godfather.

"And duelled the Dark Lord?"

Harry took a small bow. "And lived to tell the tale. One of only a handful of wizards to ever do so. Another list of likely suspects right there, don't you think, but for entirely different crimes..."

"I won't tell anyone about this place, if you're keeping it a secret—"

"The fact that you know about it creates problems, but thank you."

"—and so long as I can have a look at some of these books."

"Oh don't be that person." Harry sighed. "Very well. But they never leave the Vault. That wall of knowledge presents a significant advantage. It would not do to have it fall into the wrong hands."

Hermione beamed and stopped herself from bouncing on the spot. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"A little beaten, but no worse for wear. I think we'll leave your marvellous discovery about my note until the morning, however. Sleep is what I need."

"Oh, okay." Hermione shuffled her feet. "I'll be going then."

Harry was grateful that she had picked up on the dismissive inflection in his words.

"But tomorrow I want to know more about all this, okay. Like why… why Sirius Black is here! The Prophet said he was dead."

"Close enough."

Hermione waited for him to say more, to say anything, but he held his silence. She shrugged and walked towards him. Harry stepped aside to let her pass, but she surprised him with a quick, gentle embrace.

"I'm glad you're okay, Harry. It would have been awful if you'd died."

"I'd like to think so, yes."

Hermione smiled—it seemed a touch sad. "Your life is chaos, isn't it? Always like this, all the time. And to think I thought you'd want to join our defence club…"

"I know. It's a little fucked up, if I can use a teenager's vernacular. And why not? We're young and stupid and there's no one else here. It has always been chaos for me, Miss Granger. Dark, swirling chaos. There's very little time for friends or school clubs in there."

"Well, now you're just playing to the drama, aren't you?"

"What would you do if a seemingly immortal madman with infernal dark powers blamed you for his downfall?"

"I… well, I don't know."

"No you don't, and that's a good thing. Gives you time for friends or school clubs. Weekends in Hogsmeade." Harry shook his head. "You've long overstayed your welcome, Hermione. Time to go."

"Yes. Can you show me the way? It's rather dark out."

Harry nodded. "At least it's not sunset."

"What?"

"Just trust me. Don't ever come to this place without me."

Harry walked Hermione back across the roofs and lowered her down onto the seventh floor balcony, overlooking the bailey courtyards. No one saw them, no one ever did. They could have been the only two people in the whole school.

"Goodnight, Harry."

She disappeared into the castle and Harry returned to the Vault.

When he was home, he took a seat next to Sirius and held his head in his hands for a long minute. There was still the blue potion to set on the boil. As it was, this day's delay with Dumbledore and the poisoning would make meeting the next deadline difficult.

"But not impossible, Sirius. So, who do you think tried to kill me this time?" Harry cast a few diagnostic spells on the charms that were keeping his godfather's soulless body alive and healthy. "Poison's not Voldemort's style, is it? Think I should tell my father? Yeah, me neither."

Harry summoned his satchel from across the room and retrieved one of his personal vials of sapphire tonic. He tossed the elixir back fast and hard. It hit him instantly. Every tired nerve in his body flared to life. His eyes widened and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

"To the dark, swirling chaos, ladies and gentlemen." He tossed the vial against the stone floor. The tinkling sound of shattering glass was enjoyable.

"She said my job wasn't exciting enough. That I should try and make Auror. I dunno. When you can't pick up a girl in Knockturn Alley on a Friday night I think that's a pretty golden sign it's time for a change."

"You want into the next intake I can put in a word with Kingsley Shacklebolt. He handles recruitment."

Alvin shrugged. "No offense, Jimmy, but aren't you kind of an outcast these days?"

"Offense taken, you Welsh bastard."

"From your mouth to my chapped ass, Potter."

The Irene Maersk was anchored a quarter mile offshore in the Strait—in the deep dark frenzied waters. From their vantage point atop of the vast limestone cliffs of Dover, James Potter watched the Muggle vessel as the crew disembarked into fast, noisy watercraft. He had an old Cleansweep slung over his shoulder and a menthol cigarette dangling from his lip.

"That should be about it. She's ours for the next few hours. Word from Fletcher is the contraband is below deck. We'll have to do a check for any residual enchantments."

James and Alvin mounted their brooms and kicked off from the lush green grass. They dove down toward the sea, skimming along the choppy waters. Salty spray speckled the lenses of James's glasses.

The two men came in low on the cargo ship, swerving between her ten thick anchor chains. Alvin followed James's lead, veering up and around the hull and over the navigation bridge. They alighted on the weather deck amidst solid towers of shipping containers.

"You tired of these inspections yet?" Alvin asked. "Pretty dull work for the man who swept up ninety percent of the Death Eaters in Azkaban, isn't it?"

James shrugged. They left their brooms leaning against the upper deck. No need for them down below.

"The way old Mad Eye tells it is you were the best he ever taught. Even he learnt to get out of your way, boss, when it came to You-Know-Who's followers. S'why I want to be an Auror. Do some good like that. Especially if… if he's back from the dead."

"Voldemort," James said, opening up the galley doors and stepping into the virtual darkness. He cast a quick, wordless lumos and moved down the metal corridor toward the stern. "Use the name, Al. It won't bite."

"Right. Yeah, sure."

The schematic on these merchant ships never varied much. James found the stairwell to the lower deck, through the crew quarters, and made quick work of reaching the cargo hold. He and Alvin stood in a large space dominated by steel containers. The uncertain weather had forced the crew to extend the hatch cover. Apart from dull electric globes and James's wand, there was next to no light.

"You take the left side, I've got the right." He rubbed the rough stubble coating his cheeks. "Hmm."

"What is it?"

"Probably nothing," James said. "Likely nothing. Something seems a bit off, is all. Constant vigilance, that's Alastor Moody's first lesson, Al. Wand out, okay."

James ambled away down the length of Irene Maersk with his wand held aloft for illumination. The shipping crates and containers stacked thirty feet high all looked the same in the dull light. He could taste sea air and motor oil.

If truth be told, he was tired of all this. Of Dover and the apprehension of illegal contraband. It was dull. There was nothing satisfying about intercepting a crate of dodgy broomsticks or half-assed love potions. He was an Auror, damn it, and a good one at that.

Although never one to brag. A ghost of a smile flittered across his face. Lily, sweet Lily, had beaten all the bravado and bluster out of him a long time ago. Still, it wasn't a stretch to say he was one of the best spellslingers the Aurors had seen in the closing months of the Dark War—and the years that followed, rounding up the scum.

Those had been good days. Productive days. After burying Lily he had thrown himself into the work. For the simple reasons that only the guilty could ever understand. Vengeance, justice, a desire to harm. Now though, now…

If Albus and Harry were to be believed, then the good gods of magic had granted him a second chance. Not for lofty vengeance but personal revenge.

And I owe the dead that much, he thought, navigating the grid-like maze of crates and containers.

He turned down one of the farthest rows and came to a stop. He licked his lips—there was a tang on the air, like copper. Or blood under the tongue.

Magic.

He ran his hand along the nearest container. A red, somewhat rusted, strongbox about twenty feet long. It was warm to the touch. Bingo. Lingering enchantments, most likely Muggle repelling charms. He walked around the crate, casting the usual set of detection charms, when he saw the symbol.

James took a moment to absorb just what he was seeing. The mark burnt into the side of the container was familiar, that was for damn sure. He couldn't fathom the meaning behind it, but—

"Boss?" came a voice from the next row over. "All clear this side, Jimmy!"

Alvin.

Shit.

Acting on pure instinct alone, James cast a quick burst of superhot flame and obliterated the markings. He dispelled the smoke and moved around to the front of the consignment.

"Over here, Al! I think I've found what we're looking for."

Alvin came jogging around the crates, wand aloft. "Good stuff. Well, let's have a look at the damage. I'm betting Firebolt knockoffs."

"A galleon says its not."

"You're on."

Alvin unlocked the massive bolts, snipping the padlocks with a cutting charm. The doors of the container slid open on squeaky, rusted hinges. Piles of brooms spilled out onto the floor, clattering loudly against the silence in the cargo hold.

"Ha!" Alvin punched the air. "You owe me a shiny gal—"

The broomsticks growled.

James grabbed Alvin and pulled him back out of the doorway as two crimson pinpricks of light blinked to life in the depths of the container.

"Wh—?"

Wood splintered underfoot as a leopard the size of a minivan lumbered out of the darkness, screeching loud enough to wake the dead. It came out at speed, slamming into the crates opposite its cage. It looked disorientated and unsteady on its massive paws… like it had been drugged.

A cloud of hazy green fog fell from its jaws, seething between razor-sharp teeth.

"Sweet Merlin," Alvin gasped. "That's a fucking nundu!"

"Just a baby one," James said, thinking fast. As if that makes a difference. He cast two quick bubble-head charms, one for him and one for Al. "It looks mighty pissed to me."

The nundu had dented the bottom container on a stack of four. The crate buckled, crumpling as if it were cardboard. Thirty feet of steel freight began to topple.

James hadn't stopped to admire the unfolding pandemonium. He grabbed two of the dodgy Firebolts and threw one at Al, who stood there as pale as a ghost, wand hanging uselessly at his side.

"Up!" He made it a command, forcing the authority into his voice. Alvin blinked and complied with all the speed impending death could muster.

The two men took to the air as the nundu's tail whipped into the space below them. The creature roared, eyeing them, and stood up on its hind paws.

It leapt.

A claw scraped across James's boot and then a white-hot line of fire burned his foot.

He wondered idly if he'd just lost an appendage, but the majority of his concentration was focused on rising up. Higher. The nundu hit the floor below them and several tonnes of shipping container collapsed on top of it.

James and Alvin avoided the falling debris, flying sure and fast between the toppling crates. The shriek of metal on metal was near deafening.

The sound below all that was worse. The nundu was still roaring. The clash of claws on steel was like nails on a chalkboard. It was fighting its way out of the fallen maze of containers.

James fled and Alvin followed. They flew swiftly but surely back up the stairwell and through the corridors into the crew quarters. It was slow going for two minutes in the galley, but the sight of daylight spurred them on.

They burst out above deck and took to the sky, dispelling the bubble-head charms. From above, the ship looked relatively peaceful bobbing on the surface of the sea. From above, there was no sign of the monster held within its belly. James glanced at his foot. His boot had been torn clean away and his sock was stained a cherry red. He glimpsed bone.

"Wait here."

James didn't hang around to see if he was obeyed. He flew low, fast—although not as fast as on a genuine Firebolt—and brandished his wand. His booted foot and his broken foot dangled in the freezing waters of the Channel.

Can't have it getting out and swimming to shore. No, siree, that just won't do.

He summoned a beam of intense liquid fire—a laser of pure searing energy—and directed its ire at the ship's broad hull. Not stopping to really think about what he was doing, his spelled flame ate through the plating. Thick globules of melted steel ran in rivulets into the water, sizzling and burning.

James tore through the ship's hull like a knife through warm butter.

He flew alongside the ship at speed, wand ablaze, and dug a deep trough, exposing the innards not to daylight but to inky, wet blackness. It was thicker at the stern, but he managed. A rash of white heat blisters peppered his wand arm.

The ship began to groan and list starboard as the English Channel poured into it. He must have ignited something combustible, because muffled explosions resounded from the interior. She was screaming.

James flew out and up away from his handiwork as the force pressing against the broken hull became too much. The vessel tore herself apart.

"Who the fuck thought they could import that beast?" Alvin said. He clung to his broom tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

James grunted as the sea claimed the Irene Maersk and the deadly cargo within. The waters churned and foamed as it absorbed the vast freight ship. Dozens of containers bobbed amidst the maelstrom, clanging against one another in the swash. Who indeed?

His hand and foot needed healing, but he waited first ten minutes, then twenty. Long enough to be sure that the beast had drowned. When the half hour was up, James nodded and he and Alvin flew back to shore. He kept his face calm, neutral, masking the concern he felt.

Not for his injuries. Or even for the illegal importation of one of the deadliest creatures on the planet.

No, it wasn't so much the nundu that worried him, but the crude, glowing lightning-bolt shaped scar that had been carved into the side of the creature's cage.

For the first time in memory, Hermione found it difficult to concentrate on her Transfiguration lesson. Her foot tapped against the stone floor under the desk and she bit at her nails. Her parchment was a mess of scribbles and doodles.

Professor McGonagall was discussing the preparatory theory of Inanimatus Conjurus, the conjuring of inanimate objects. It was essentially seventh year practical course work, but a good grasp of the theory was part of the O.W.L. assessments in June, which would roll around all too soon.

I bet Harry's library has books on how to actually do the spells, she thought. That would ensure an exemplary grade, if not with flying colours.

Hermione sighed with frustration. Harry Potter had been conspicuously absent from breakfast that morning. She had been slightly concerned, given the previous evenings poisoning, but he had been on the mend when she left his so-called Vault. Laughing and joking even.

I hope he's okay.

To go running to the professors now, with stories of Harry lying unconscious or worse in a secret room on the roofs, full of restricted tomes and wanted felons, would quash any and all hope of ever reading those texts. Outside of becoming an Unspeakable, of course.

Hermione had promised her silence.

Hermione had kept her silence.

Still, she would be tapping her foot nervously against the floor until she saw Harry saunter into the Great Hall for lunch, with that scruffy old green satchel slung over his shoulder.

Harry awoke on the cool, damp floor of his lab in a pool of his own vomit.

He rolled over, groaned, and wondered just how long he had been lying unconscious. His wristwatch told him it was 11:58, but was that immediately before noon or midnight? The Vault was windowless; he had no way of knowing.

With a weighty sigh he made it onto his shaking knees. His legs didn't want to support him, but he was having none of that. A heavy scent of ammonia and alcohol clung to the air.

His cauldrons had been on the boil for far too long.

"Bother…" he muttered. It had been the mix of all the antidotes, not to mention the bezoars, that had knocked him out. Sure, they had saved his life, but the side effects… He was glad Hermione had left when she did. If he had passed out again, his secret lair most likely would not have remained so secret.

Eight of the twelve platinum cauldrons bubbling away on the smooth benches were salvageable. Not a complete loss then. Still, the ingredients that had been wasted in the four ruined potions weren't cheap.

Harry estimated a total loss of just under a thousand galleons.

And it made meeting the next deadline even more unlikely. He had been planning on visiting the Floating Markets this coming weekend, five days from now, but that wouldn't be possible—not if he had any hope of brewing enough of the blue potion before Gus came knocking.

I'll have to go at night, after dinner…

"Portkey. I'll need a portkey." He couldn't fly to France and back without being missed.

Harry yawned—his head spun. A gnawing hunger and fatigue clung to his weary body. He cleaned himself—and the floor—up and set about tracking down something to eat. Sweet Merlin let it be daylight outside.

After checking on Sirius, Harry decided to forego a shower in the living area up the spiral stairs, in favour of sustenance. He snatched up his satchel, headed through the curtain of magical mist, and out into a bright summer-nee-autumn day.

The fresh air was bracing. After a moment of hesitation, he reached into his bag and uncorked a vial of the blue potion. Perhaps it was foolish to take another tonic so soon after his almost-lethal cocktail last night, but most of that had ended up on the floor, so… He tossed it back and felt a rush of invigorating energy.

The hunger pangs faded and his teeth chattered together. Every sharp angle of the castle came into startling focus. A thousand glittering beams of sunlight refracted against the distant lake in a spectrum of vibrant colour. The snow-capped mountains seemed to be aglow with vast, might halos.

Despite all that, Harry's legs still shook as he set off across the roofs. As he traversed the peaks and crags, his thoughts turned to the attack on his life.

The games is afoot, he thought. But that didn't mean he had to play by the rules his unseen adversaries had set.

He had been reacting so far. Allowing these things to happen while doing very little to offset similar events in the future. That needed to change. He was better than this, smarter.

So far his shadowed enemy—or enemies—had successfully poisoned him and forced his hand last night in regard to Hermione. That was as much ground as Harry was willing to give.

It would have been the simplest move in the game to have obliviated Hermione Granger. To wipe her memory of the Vault, Sirius, and the poisoning clean away. Simple, and also smart—logical. Traits Harry prided himself on. And yet…

He had no right.

Not now and not ever. Better a cell in Azkaban than to get away with a spell that amounted to theft at the very least, and mind-rape at the very worst. Perhaps that was weak, illogical, and may ultimately prove disastrous, but Hermione had done nothing to deserve it. Trust had to be earned, Harry knew that. As he saw it now, with both the Vault and Sirius known to another person, she had the perfect opportunity to prove his faith well granted.

And that was a good feeling. It reminded Harry of the afternoons spent with Cedric and Fleur, practicing their spellwork. He missed those days.

If the Hufflepuff and Beauxbatons champions had been his first two friends, then perhaps Hermione could be his third.

"Steady now…" he whispered, lowering himself down off the roofs and onto the seventh floor balcony. Never had the Great Hall and the marvellous banquets of food seemed so far away.

The game's afoot, James thought. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, Auror robes neatly pressed, staring into a gently crackling blue-flamed fireplace in Rufus Scrimegeour's office.

He favoured his good foot, although the healers had done a fantastic job setting his compound fracture and soothing his burns. Only a slight limp gave away that he had been injured at all.

The Head of the Auror Department cleared his throat. "Any idea who thought they could import the beast?"

James's mind flashed over the glowing lightning bolt carved into the shipping container. "No, sir."

"Any idea how they got it in the crate and managed to get it this far without raising any alarms?"

"No, sir."

"And you're sure it drowned?" Scrimegeour asked, sitting alongside the fire in a high-backed leather chair.

"Yes, sir."

Scrimgeour considered that, warming a small glass of firewhiskey between his hands. It was after hours, deep beneath the streets of London. Long shadows stretched out either side of the fireplace—an encroaching darkness clawed at the two men.

"I want you back in the Ministry, Potter. You're being assigned to lead a new task force. There's some nasty unregistered potion doing the rounds. We need you to expose the distribution network and bring in whoever's brewing it."

"Sir? Isn't that more MLE's thing?"

Scrimgeour shrugged and finished his drink. "Take this as your chance to get back in the Ministry's good graces, James. Whatever game Dumbledore and your boy are playing, be it true or not, shouldn't hamstring one of my best. Fudge can swallow a quaffle if he thinks he can micromanage my department."

James scratched at the rough stubble on his cheeks. He would not miss the monotony of Dover, that much was true. Apart from recent business, working there had been about as thrilling as listening to old Cuthbert Binns. "Alright. Can I have Shacklebolt?"

Scrimgeour chuckled. "I think he'll insist. This isn't a priority job. But it needs to stop. So far, in small doses, the Crystal Blue, as they're calling it, is harmless. Addictive, but relatively harmless. It increases stamina and higher functioning abilities. But it's something we've never seen before."

"In larger doses?"

"Vivid hallucinations, euphoria, elation, rapture. It's a narcotic, Potter. Half dozen cases of permanent brain damage in St. Mungo's in the last three months. And now three in the last week alone. Common link is this potion. Whoever's behind this is stepping up their game, wider and smarter distribution. The Prophet's running with an exclusive on the dangers tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Good." Scrimgeour nodded, settling the matter. "So tell me, how's Audrey?"

James stared at his boss for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "Keep a secret, sir?"

Scrimgeour seemed to hesitate just a moment before barking a gruff, 'Of course."

"Audrey's pregnant."

"Ah!" He stood and offered James his hand. "Congratulations."

"Three months. She's starting to show, so it won't be a secret much longer, but we haven't told Harry yet…"

"Mum's the word. My best to the both of you." Scrimgeour returned to his chair. "I think we're done for the evening. Go home, James. I'll want a preliminary report tomorrow afternoon—take Shacklebolt, two others—and put a stop to this potion nonsense."

"Sir." James saw himself out.

After he was gone, Scrimgeour poured himself another drop of whiskey. He watched the crackling flames for a moment, thinking about all the loose threads dangling on some unseen tapestry—the disappearances, the promotion of a few suspect faces close to Fudge—and his thoughts turned, with wearied apprehension, to Albus Dumbledore.

"Did you catch all that?"

The Headmaster of Hogwarts stepped out of the long shadows aside the fireplace, a silky invisibility cloak clasped in his frail old hands.

"Of course you did. James Potter is the perfect mix of brute force, intelligence, and keen detective skills. He'll have whoever the supplier is before Christmas, guaranteed."

"That is not as important, Rufus, as having our allies back in the Ministry." Dumbledore stroked his beard. "You see the pattern now, do you not? We cannot afford a repeat of Voldemort's first rise."

"I'd ask if you knew what you're doing, but I know better than that." Scrimgeour raised his glass. "It's the boy that worries me. Young Harry. From what little I understand of your machinations, Headmaster, you're going to ask far too much of the Potter family."

AN: Man, just what in the hell is going on in this story? I wish I knew. Make it easier to write. Okay, thanks, as always, for reading. Check out my Amazon profile for links to my original fiction!

Tomorrow, January 30th, all my stories will be FREE for Kindle. I'd appreciate a review if you have five minutes, though.

Y'all come back now,

J-Dawg