Disclaimer: I want to believe I'm an Author. Unfortunately for my ego, I am just playing in J.'s sandbox, and all the universe in this story is intellectual property of Ms R. and associates. I don't even own a Learjet. Well, if I were rich enough to afford one, I'd likely get a Dassault Falcon, but this is irrelevant to this story.
(A 7X with satcom to be able to read fanfic online while in flight. And EVS. And…hmm, yes. Sorry. OT there).
Chapter 10 – Much less fun to enjoy
"What the hell…?" Venus jumped away from her counter, wand out, a hex on her lips while considering the tangled bodies that had just appeared in the School's Portkey Area. She lowered it, recognizing Julie Martin and Sophie Wilkins, who had left earlier in the morning to visit a wand crafter. She kept her wand in hand, for Sophie had hers out and an automatic gun in her right hand.
"Put me through the Marshall's office, Venus" called Julie, collecting herself.
"What happened?"
"A gang of Snatchers. Sophie injured some of them…"
But Venus had already dialled 919 – the magical emergency number – and was holding the phone to Julie, who explained the situation, describing the Snatchers at the best of her abilities, while Hermione was nervously reloading the P7. Venus observed her sliding the gun back in its holster.
"Okay there, Sophie?"
"No. I suck at Magical fighting. I must thank dad for the handgun, I'd have a dick in each hole without it."
"Hey, don't…"
"Don't 'don't' me, Venus. Fuck it. I just…I didn't know how to handle myself. Sure, I put a shield strong enough that half a dozen of those drunkards could pummel it for hours, but they had me pinned down! I just shot them out of sheer frustration."
"And you made a number." said Julie. "The Marshalls were on zone before the Snatchers managed to leave the area. They were trapped by their own Anti-Apparition ward".
"How come?"
"You shot the caster in the hand."
"Oh!" said Hermione with a frown. "But didn't you tell me that they'd likely be unable to ward the area?"
"They might have activated a preset net. You just surround the area with a set of Rune stones and just activate them with a rather simple spell."
Hermione made a face, unconvinced, but her thoughts were cut short by a chime announcing an arrival in the internal apparition room. Two men in uniform stepped into the lobby.
"Now you're in for the paperwork, my dear"
Fuck my life.
-x-
Harry Potter polished the last paragraph of the Transfiguration Essay, waved a drying spell over the parchment to avoid any stains and rolled it. Hermione would be proud of him. He stretched and looked aimlessly at the dying flames in Gryffindor common room's fireplace. He was alone, as usual. Alone, but at peace. Neville had called it a night an hour ago, Ginny a few minutes later. There was just the noise of the fire, the rain outside with the usual gust of wind howling in the intricate stonework of the outer walls.
Then it happened.
A disturbance in the fire, an unexpected growth of the flames, then nothing. Harry blinked and shook his head. Better pack and go to…
But a new disturbance in the fire caught all is attention. More than ever, when he saw the grinning face of his Godfather in the flames.
"1 was starting to think you'd go to bed before everyone else had disappeared," said Sirius. "I've been checking every hour or so. Startled a firstie at some point."
"You're nuts, Sirius! It's awfully risky! Why didn't you call me on the mirror?"
"I did! I just tried all day long!"
Harry sighed. "Yeah, sorry, Sirius, it's stored away in my trunk. I don't want to take chances with the mirror in my satchel."
Sirius nodded. Or he seemed to, as far as Harry could read his expression though the flames.
"How are your headaches? Does your scar still hurt?"
"It tingles, more. I can push the pain away now. Thanks to Kreacher's help last summer, and to a book Snape gave me, I think I've made progresses in Occlumency."
"SNAPE?"
"Well, yes. It's not that we get along tremendously. But he's been quite decent to me this year. In fact, he's one of the most decent teachers here. McGonagall is useless, Dumbledore borderline rude, at least with Snape I know where I stand"
"Umbridge?"
"No more detentions. Low profile. Good opportunity for working on Occlumency during DADA classes. She's a nasty bitch, though. She would do well in the Death Eaters"
"Don't think she's one," replied Sirius. "But I agree her agenda fits in with Voldemort's. You should hear Remus ranting about her."
"He knows her?"
"All Weres do. It's quite impossible for them to get a job thanks to a bill she submitted a couple years ago." Then, Sirius made an excited face and began asking for the next Hogsmeade weekend.
"Padfoot could give another shot at the King's Cross trick"
"Don't you dare take a stupid risk again, Sirius!" Harry almost yelled, "This is too much of a risk, according to Malfoy's innuendo on the Express, I'm quite certain he knows about Padfoot. Don't be careless for fun, please."
"You're less like your father than I thought," he said finally, a definite coolness in his voice. "The risk would've been what made it fun for James."
"Would mum have found it fun too?" Harry snapped back. Then, seeing the shadow of hurt in his Godfather's expression, he added in a tired voice, "Look, Sirius, I'm not him, okay? I'd love nothing more to see you around, but I don't want to see you tossed back in Azkaban, right?"
Maybe I'd love seeing Hermione around more, in fact.
"I guess you're right, Pup. But I would've loved to meet this girlfriend of yours I've heard of…"
"Fuck off, Sirius, that's Luna, she's not my girlfriend. Just a poor soul with a life as fucked up as mine, so we have something to share."
Sirius seemed to shrug.
"Okay, Prongslet, but I don't want you to hang on the memory of the scary bookworm. I know you miss her, but she's dead, okay?"
"Don't call me Prongslet, Sirius. It's unfitting, okay?" I am not James he all but yelled.
Now, Harry was upset, he would almost agree with Molly Weasley on Sirius' lack of potential as a father figure. What the Hell am I doing here?
-x-
Hermione was not feeling well. Her head was about to explode, her mouth was dry, she was on the verge of nausea, and overall feeling dirty. And…oh, yes. She would have smiled, but it was too painful.
"Hey, beautiful"
"Bloody hell…Those Hippogriffs did a number on me."
"Take this one"
She felt a vial in her hand, uncapped it and drank it. A few minutes later, she was feeling better. Her senses were back to normal and she could make out the layout of Ray's room.
Ray was back in front of four different computers, all buzzing their own tune. She was lying on the couch, tucked under a blanket. She grudgingly sat, eyed a bottle of tequila lying close to where her hand had been.
"Feeling better?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"You needed this one. Glad you talked to me last night, I'm the only guy in town who'll help a woman drink herself silly and stay a gentleman."
"I owe you one, Ray. How much for the bottle?"
"On the house, Sophie. And it's bottles. Plural"
"Sweet Merlin…"
-x-
Algernon Croaker was pacing in front of the few people assembled in a meeting room, deep down in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. Soon after the news of Voldemort's rebirth, the better part of the DoM staff had activated the Dark Lord Master Plan, designed a decade ago to put the department on a battle footing should a new threat arise. And as usual, the Plan had not survived more than a few weeks after its activation. Before the first contact with the enemy, as a matter of fact. Now, everything had to be thought over once again. A long night ahead.
He suddenly stopped, ticking his fingers as he enumerated:
"Crabbe Junior, gunshot in July. We retrieved the bullet, in the wall he was leaning on, a military gauge. Sniper rifle."
"Walden McNair. Unidentified poisoning, due to a Muggle injection. The empty syringe was lying on the floor"
"Draco Malfoy, likely a gunshot, smaller calibre than the one who killed Crabbe, aimed for maiming, with good result I must add."
"Borgin and Burkes burnt to a crisp. Borgin found dead, in the rubble. Borgin was wearing a gaudy necklace with dark curse residue. Many unique artefacts destroyed."
He paused.
"And the rubber duck incident in Minister's Fudge office. It looks like there is a pattern out there."
The youngest operative cleared his throat.
"Er, excuse me sir, but what exactly is a…Rubber Duck?"
A long night, indeed.
-x-
It was a sight that would have puzzled more than a biologist. Somewhere in the south-western desert, a Puma and a Hawk were side by side watching the sunrise, in the chilly air of late October. Of course, said biologist would have been quite stunned by both animals morphing into human beings some minutes later.
They exchanged nods and vanished with a barely audible popping sound.
Now, their sudden reappearance a very short time later, fifty miles north, was a non-event. The man on duty at Moab School for Magical Studies' lobby barely looked at the two young women who made their way downstairs to the fitness centre.
They used the dojo for an hour working on katas. Tanita, having learnt Jeet Kune Do as a child in Kayenta, could coach Hermione in the basics aspects while twice a week, a more serious approach took place during sports classes taught by Maureen O'Grady, who had a hard time figuring out how to help her adjusting her 'inherited' knowledge to her total lack of practice. Tanita's sessions were at her image, fast, punchy, and sweaty. Tanita had a knack for noticing the flaws and would enthusiastically explain why it was mandatory to fix them.
Enthralled by the discussion, Hermione realised that she had followed the native girl in the showers instead of returning to her room. In all her years at Hogwarts, she had always kept a distance, quite a lot of modesty, as a matter of fact, in front of Lavender or Parvati who were not shy when among girls, and now, she was exposing herself…or was she? She mentally shrugged. Of course she was not. Well, she was glad to be able to apparate inside the building, since she had no fresh clothes to put on…
She nevertheless yelped – and rather high pitched – when a passing Jolene pinched her left buttock with a lewd comment.
Once dried – towels were thankfully available in the locker room, she apparated straight to her bathroom and dressed in the only businesslike clothes she had, a grey suit with heels, completed with tiny handbag and black leather satchel. She left the P7 in her safe, since she knew she would not be able to keep it during the day. After a last check of her hair made in a low bun and went downstairs, waved to Venus and after a steadying breath, vanished from the apparition room.
"Hawkeye, dear! Hermione's here!"
Hermione's father rolled his eyes: for weeks she had taken on the habit to call him by his nickname; he had somehow retaliated calling her Hotlips with the weird result that they seldom used their first names.
But her statement was nonetheless true, as Hermione came out of her room.
"You look lovely this morning, dear"
"Thanks, Mum"
"Dad's due to drive you to the airport in thirty minutes. Did you have anything to eat?"
"A protein shake after practice. I'm not very hungry this morning."
"Come on, dear, eat something"
Hermione nibbled on a bagel spread with cream cheese, without conviction. She was freed by a car pulling to a stop in the driveway. She kissed her parents goodbye and got out to climb into the car. The rear door opened seemingly by itself and she sat down beside Sam who was also wearing a suit. In the front seat, the two men in black suits and sunglasses did not even acknowledge her presence and, as soon as the door was shut, the car pulled out towards Boulder Airport.
A few minutes later, it stopped in front of a nondescript Business Jet with it's engines running. Another nondescript man in black opened the door and they moved from the car to the aircraft. Two people, a balding man and a woman both dressed in suits, but thankfully not black, were waiting for them, settled in large leather seats in the middle of the cabin. Sam and Hermione sat in the facing seats while the flight attendant, a young woman – middle twenties, dressed in guess which colour – without sunglasses but with a suspicious bulge on her lower back, was closing and double checking the door. They had not even buckled up that the Learjet – Hermione had seen the model name on a copper plate behind the cockpit – was already taxiing. A very short stop on the runway threshold and the cabin level noise increased a little, and then they were airborne.
Hermione looked at Sam, who raised an eyebrow to the man, who bent slightly towards her.
"Welcome aboard this Federal Government's jet, Miss Granger. I'm Director Pileggi, in charge of the Department of Magical Affairs, Central Intelligence Agency. This is Special Agent Anderson, Deputy Head of the Federal Bureau of Magical Law Enforcement"
Hermione's eyebrows shot up, she straightened her skirt and said:
"Nice to meet you, Sir, Madam. I might sound rude, but how come top level Federal officials are involved in the aftermath of a gun fight in Montana?"
"An easy answer, Miss Granger, I don't give a shit about what happened out there." replied Anderson.
"Oh?"
"Yes, oh." replied Pileggi. "I suppose your…uncle there never bothered telling you who provide the Passport for Sophie Wilkins and the Student Visa?"
Hermione looked at Sam who shrugged.
"Er. Thanks for the help?"
"You're very welcome" said Pileggi, signalling to the flight attendant who came with a coffee pot and a plate of Cinnamon Rolls. When she bent to pour coffee, Hermione checked her lower back – not that way, you dirty minded bastard, just above – it was likely a Sig Sauer.
Pushing the plate of pastries towards her, he went on:
"No, Miss Granger. Our main concern these days is what is happening in Britain. And we know for sure that you have a unique insight on what happened out there, and we'd love to hear your story. I suggest you pick one of those," he picked a roll for himself "to put some sugar in your system and tell us your tale."
He took a bite, nodded approvingly and swallowed before adding, "You can start from the beginning. September 1st, 1991 would be perfect. We have a three hours flight in front of us."
Hermione being Hermione, managed to squeeze her four Hogwarts years into two and a half hours, give or take a few minutes for technical stops – coffee is diuretic – and the cabin was silent as the aircraft was coming close to its destination. She had taken some time to study everyone. The flight crew was Muggle, Pileggi was likely a Squib – sorry, Magically Disabled – while Anderson and the flight assistant were both witches. She turned her seat so she could watch the landscape. The weather was splendid and all the intricacies of the Chesapeake Bay coast were visible behind them.
"Is that the Pentagon?"
Now Washington DC was visible below, as the jet was in its final approach on Washington National Airport (1). She could see Washington Monument, and from there identify the features, the White House, the Mall and the Hill.
The jet taxied straight to a hangar and they disembarked. Pileggi took a piece of rope from his satchel, and Hermione noticed that it was Anderson who produced a wand to activate the Portkey.
-x-
Harry had once again been startled by the almost sudden appearance of the High Inquisitor around a corner, on his way to the Great Hall for dinner. Nobody ever expects the Hogwarts Inquisitor, indeed. Justin Finch-Fletchley had earned a detention for his impersonation of the Monty Python sketch, and even if the Pureblooded Pink Menace had not caught on the reference, she was perfectly aware of the disrespectful intent.
He had barely sat down at Gryffindor table for breakfast when a Post owl swooped from the ceiling in front of him. One of the letters was from Hermione's contact, and he would not open it around Umbridge, while the other was a proper Wizard Mail on parchment. Guessing it's author, he opened it; it was indeed from Jolene Raimondi. He had came to like the witty American girl, who was indeed doing some thorough research into contemporary Wizarding Britain, and the insightful questions she was sending twice a week were helpful in his own understanding of the big picture.
Dear Harry,
I'm (almost) sorry for the long delay, but I had to wait for some data to emerge and you'll quickly understand.
Thanks to V's bragging down in the Chamber of Secrets, and his letter game, I have traced his ancestry. His name is indeed Tom Marvolo Riddle. His father was a Muggle Baronet called Tom Riddle and eloped – likely with the aid of some potion – with a witch called Merope Gaunt. He eventually broke free of her grip and she gave birth to a son before dying. Merope Gaunt was the daughter of Marvolo Gaunt, a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself.
Tom Jr. grew up in an orphanage in Greater London, until his Hogwarts years, although he would be back there for the Summer Break.
"Back to jail between school years, eh?"
He was indeed a Hogwarts student, he started 1939, was a Prefect and the Head Boy, and graduated in 1945.
His father and grandparents were murdered in July 1943, and his uncle, Morfin Gaunt was sentenced to life in Azkaban for the crime. It's likely that V is the real killer and framed him.
According to some testimonies, V was already a practitioner of the Dark Arts while at Hogwarts, and had gathered a steady core of followers. His nickname was already in use then.
He worked for a couple of years for Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley, a surprising choice considering his school achievements. Then, Tom Riddle disappeared, forgotten by most, until Lord Voldemort started his reign of terror in the 1960s.
I am still sorting the huge file I downloaded listing all the casualties of his era. If the last killed were your parents, some Death Eaters stayed active after Nov 1st, 1981 and the final victims were Alice and Frank Longbottom, in St Mungo's long-term damage ward since then.
Harry shuddered. Alice and Frank Longbottom? Neville's parents? It would explain a lot. He vowed to try and get his friend to open a bit.
Nothing really about you. Once all the insane stuff is in the trash can, there's nothing. I mean, nobody was there, it's all speculation. I just wonder how you story leaked. AD had put you in a safe place, nobody had seen you, yet everyone knew about your scar, your looks? Weird, isn't it?
Now let's dig a bit. Searching the UK Registries, there is a Lily Evans who died in 1981, oldest sister to one Petunia Evans, married to a Vernon Dursley, living in Little Whinging, Surrey. Where did you say you lived before Hogwarts? Even if DEs are not prone to use Muggle means of getting information, they are not morons either. It's not gospel that they would never resort to locate you the Muggle way, and it's pretty easy.
Fishy, hmm. Well, the more I try to understand contemporary Britain, the more I find weird things, and in this chaos, you are often the attractor, as mathematicians say.
The end of the letter was asking for more details on the Hogwarts Syllabus, sample timetables and other details. He folded the letter and put it back in it's envelope and finally started to eat his breakfast.
-x-
The Portkey had dropped them in a secluded area near one of the entrances of the CIA Headquarters in Langley. Hermione produced her passport at the lobby and received a visitor badge with her photograph on it. To her surprise, Sam pinned a CIA badge on his jacket, and they walked across the complex for a while until, after going through a maze of corridors, reached an underground meeting room. She was feeling like a Patricia Cornwell character and was somewhat excited by the whole story. She had bought "From Potter's Field" – the title had caught her interest for an obvious reason – in Boston to busy herself while waiting for her connecting flight and had quickly became fan of the Scarpetta series.
"Both Secretaries will be here at one, Director," said a plump woman to Pileggi. "Shall I get your lunches as planned?"
"Yes please, Dolly, I appreciate."
They entered the room, where half a dozen people were already waiting, mostly civilians with just a man and a woman in uniform, who, spotting Uncle Sam, came to greet him.
"Colonel Lightfoot. Nice to see you, it's been a while."
"Indeed General Trautman."
There was a little small talk and eventually, they took seats around the table, leaving only a third empty.
Pileggi formally opened the meeting and introduced Hermione.
"Hermione Granger is in the United States under the identity of one Sophie Wilkins."
"Witness Protection Program?"
"Not yet, General. Miss Granger is a British Citizen, First generation witch, and spent the four previous school years in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Miss Granger was a close friend of Harry Potter."
"Ah!"
"We have debriefed Miss Granger this morning. And we do have an issue."
-x-
It had once again been a long day. Harry barely scrapped some free time to read Hermione's letter in an alcove on a deserted corridor, on the seventh floor.
Dear Harry,
Things are weird. I mean, weirder than usual. I got a new wand, Juniper tree and Griffin feather – Still Gryffindor somewhere, eh? – but with a seal of Rattlesnake Venom and Lethifold fur (wtf?) on the handle. A 'grey' wand someone said. Custom made. It works very well.
But the trouble is…I'm useless with it. Oh, don't worry, I can use it to Charm and cast Spells and Transfigure things and so on…but we got into a fight before Portkeying back to Moab. A gang of Snatchers ambushed us (I was with Julie Martin, the Charms Teacher). I could put up a shield to stop them but I didn't know how to handle myself. What to cast. What to do? It took me a minute to snap out of my funk and revive Julie (She'd been stunned) and I eventually made a number on the bad guys with my Muggle gun.
I was so angry! I AM so Angry! I've been learning and studying and such, and…
Harry paused. Books and Cleverness…And in fact, it was coming next:
Books and Cleverness…that's worthless. I think I pissed off the whole Moab staff, complaining. I even pissed off myself. I...no, drop it.
Oh, Harry, I miss you so much!
I'm taking a plane tomorrow to meet some people who can somewhat help me, but I don't know who they are, yet. Crap, this Cloak and Dagger stuff is getting old. I just wish we could be together, go to classes, do homework, find a quiet place and shag your brains out.
(*chuckle*)
I got it bad for you and you know what, just writing it made my day!
Love, H.
Harry folded the letter, with a tightness in his pants, and went to the nearest window. It was dark outside. Once his arousal was in check – he'd have to do something about it later – he moved from the cold, and paced the corridor. Hermione's words had led him to consider his own achievements in Magical Combat. He had survived a 'duel' with Voldemort, only by the sheer luck of their brother wands behaviour. He had the gut feeling that they would meet again, and this fight would be more than the settling of an old grudge. It was not by chance that he had 'vanquished' the Dark Lord in 1981. And the attack could not have been random. In the folder sent by Jolene, statistics showed that Voldemort never attacked alone, and seldom took part in the raids. So, if he had attacked Godric's Hollow himself, then it was a matter of importance. How could he, Harry Potter, fifth year student in a school where Defence Against the Dark Arts was just not taught, get the upper hand on a Dark Lord with decades of experience? He needed to improve. He needed help. He needed a place to work and train stealthily. Yes. A…
In front of him, a door had materialized.
-x-
As soon as a young man had collected the lunch trays, an officer led three people to fill the spaces in the conference room. She felt a Muggle and two magicals. She had seen the Muggle on television, often close to President Clinton, maybe seventy years old, thin, with a piercing stare which went straight to her. There was a witch she recognized as the Secretary for Magic, the US Minister for Magic. The last wizard, in a sober tweed suit, was screaming 'British inside'.
The introductions were quickly made, most attendees having already worked with the others. The Muggle was indeed the Secretary of State, the Witch Soledad Garneros, and the last Wizard was introduced as Algernon Croaker, Head of the Dark Arts Threat Division of the Department Of Mysteries.
"Thank you all for accepting my presence at this meeting." he said after introducing himself "I am here with no official position from the Ministry of Magic, and nobody in Britain is aware of my journey to America. I must add that I am very pleased to see Miss Granger alive and well, since the news of her disappearance had saddened many of us Division Heads who were expecting great things from her."
Then Croaker summarized the situation, Voldemort and the Death Eaters, Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, the cowardly policies of the Fudge Administration and pointed out the likely presence of a fourth group involved in a guerrilla-styled work of destabilization.
Hermione noticed that General Trautman had pointedly looked at Uncle Sam.
Suddenly, the Secretary for Magic said to Hermione, "Miss Granger, it seems you have first-hand information on Harry Potter's previous encounters with Voldemort. What can you tell us?"
Hermione summarized Harry's adventures at the best of her abilities, then the Secretary asked:
"And what can you tell us on Harry Potter himself."
Hermione smiled and began talking. "I first met Harry Potter on the train to Hogwarts, on September 1st, 1991. He was scrawny, dressed in used clothes many sizes too big and sharing the largest stock of sweets I ever saw. He was modest, almost shy, caring and open. We grew closer and closer, and he was the first real friend I ever had. He is selfless, open-minded, curious and very dedicated when properly motivated. He is forgiving, loyal. Intellectually, he has a great potential, and is magically very powerful. I saw him chase a hundred Dementors with a corporeal Patronus at thirteen."
Some wizards in the room did not hide their surprise.
"His Boggart will turn into a Dementor."
"What he fears the most is fear itself."
She nodded.
"He has a…saving people thing, and while he's a natural born leader, his ability to care can be his weakness."
The room stayed silent. Then the Secretary for Magic asked, with a smile, "You do love him, don't you?"
Hermione blushed slightly.
"Miss Granger" said the Muggle Secretary of State, "our worlds – I insist on plural – are threatened by this Voldemort. You are doing a good job keeping a grasp on both, and I know how hard it is. You might very well be the key to solve this issue."
"Me?"
"Yes" said the Secretary for Magic. "You are very bright, dedicated and you have the…incentive. We need you. You are, like it or not, another Chosen One"
"No. I'm useless. I know too little, I'm not skilled enough…"
"Yet."
"I'm still in school. I learn lots, I like that. I can work harder, but I won't gain experience…"
"We'll train you."
"It takes time. Listen, I want to be part of the fight. I need to, even."
"We'll give you time. All the time you need."
"But Harry doesn't have time to wait until I'm trained!"
"We do. We can provide you with time. All the time you need. You know the drill, don't you?"
Hermione's mouth formed an 'o'.
"You broke her, Madam Secretary." said Sam with a mock sight of exasperation. "Now we've got to fix her again"
-x-
All to soon it was November 1st. For Harry, it was the first Quidditch match of the year. Against Slytherin. Joy. Some Slytherin had initiated an intense campaign of psychological warfare aimed at Ron, who would be trying to play Keeper for the first time. Harry had a rather bad feeling about the match.
And in fact, as soon as they were airborne and the first moves made, a loud song rose from the Slytherin stands.
Stomp stomp clap.
Stomp stomp clap.
Weasley cannot save a thing, He cannot block a single ring, That's why Slytherins all sing: Weasley is our King.
Stomp stomp clap.
Weasley was born in a bin He always lets the Quaffle in.
Stomp stomp clap.
Weasley will make sure we win Weasley is our King.
Stomp stomp clap.
Oh my.
And Warrington, Slytherin's new Captain, scored for the first time.
Make that a double Oh My.
The Slytherin choir, conducted by a glowing Pansy Parkinson, was singing louder and louder. Twenty nil.
Thirty nil.
Forty nil.
Forty ten.
Fifty ten.
At least. Harry dived, while Malfoy was waiting, not eager to fall victim of a Wronski Feint. But it wasn't. A couple steep turns, a quick climb and Harry's hand closed on the winged ball. Thanks Merlin.
And then he barely felt it, a sort of whooshing sound, instinctively barrelling to avoid a late Bludger. Shit, this one would have hurt. He landed close to his team, minus Ron who was still up in front of his hoops. Close to Malfoy, too, who limped towards him.
"Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you?' he said to Harry. "I've never seen a worse Keeper…"
"Yeah, me neither." Cut in Harry, before Malfoy could voice his next insult. "Well, since you're the worst Seeker in school, it balances things, doesn't it? Fair game"
And Harry turned his back to Malfoy.
So Malfoy went on, hurling insults to the Weasleys in general, Harry and the three chasers having to restrain Fred and George.
"Or perhaps," said Malfoy, leering as he backed away, "you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasleys pigsty reminds you of it."
All it took was a split second. Harry would remember this very tiny time slice, because for the first time, as all the ingredients were here, in stoichiometric proportions, he felt a cold detachment from reality, pondered…and drew his wand to shoot a powerful cheering charm to George, then to Fred. Then, he walked to Malfoy.
"As a matter of fact, you're on the path to the clue, Malfoy. There's something Motherly at the Weasley's. The fact that they can make people feel at home just because they want to. Called Selflessness. Helping others without afterthought, just because it's the right thing to do. Not to make allies, or indebtedness. You should try that once. It's refreshing."
And he walked away, grabbing a chuckling George by the arm.
"Let's get out of there before those two charge into deep shit," he said to the girls.
There would be hell to pay when the charm wore off, but he had seen how Umbridge was avidly watching the scene, waiting for the brawl to explode, and her frustration when the situation calmed down. He couldn't afford giving more ammunition to the Inquisitor.
-x-
"The room is warded, you'll be safe. And the glass is stainless, we'll be just behind the wall."
Hermione nodded and entered in the tiny meeting room. Algernon Croaker was sitting in a chair, a neutral expression on his face. She laid the jacket of her suit on the back of the chair, so no obstacle could be found between her hand and the P7 handle, and sat down on the opposite side of the table.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Miss…Wilkins"
"I had nothing to fear from Albus Dumbledore."
"I am not Albus Dumbledore. I don't have enough names. Nor a sweet tooth raised to perversion."
"I'll take your word on it. So?"
"We know you, as I already said. We keep an eye on Hogwarts' best, and you've been shining since your first year. We are aware of your potential, and you have the support of the DATD. I would like to share some facts. The main one deals with Harry Potter. There's a Prophecy, kept in the DoM, a Prophecy made to Albus Dumbledore. We don't know the full text, because only people in the scope of the Prophecy can listen to it, but some part were leaked, heard by a Death Eater when it was made."
The one with the power…
Hermione fought back the temptation to brag with the full text of the Prophecy as told by Lily Potter. Croaker told her the first part, but he was not aware of the "marked as an equal".
"Why am I not surprised?" said Hermione, "Unless he's a paedophile, Voldemort's interest in Harry must have a reason. Well, he can be a paedophile, too. Wouldn't be surprised either. But I digress. I guess Voldemort is keeping low profile until he gets hold of it?"
"Yes, and so do we. And so does Dumbledore. His little group of vigilantes is keeping guard at the DoM."
"Wait, that's what that guy, er…Podmore, was it? He was on duty at the DoM?"
"Yes. And he was Imperiused to retrieve the Prophecy, without success. But there is another couple of things you must know. The main one is the technique Voldemort used to survive. It's something called a 'Horcrux'. The Diary destroyed by your friend in your second year was one. We think that he created five others, splitting his soul in seven parts to achieve immortality"
Hermione nodded.
"And then, I suggest you study a neglected aspect of the Wizarding Culture. The fairytales. The Tale of the Three Brothers is rather educational. Dumbledore would let you stew for quite a bit, but I'm not him. Think on Ignotus' artefact. I'm quite confident it will ring you a bell. Good luck, Miss Wilkins"
He stood up, laying a thin book on the table.
The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
-x-
The spirit of the victory was…Missing in Action, sort of. Harry's Cheering Charm on the Weasley Twins had worn off and were offering a novel show: sulking. Ron Weasley was defeated, hence, sulking. Ginny Weasley was just sad. Some Butterbeers and snacks had appeared, but people were drinking out of boredom. It was not the usual raucous celebration. Harry quickly drank his Butterbeer and headed to the portrait hole, planning a trip to the Room of Requirement.
"Potter!" – Gred.
"Wait a minute." – Forge.
"Yes, guys?"
"Why did you prevent us for teaching Malfoy a lesson?"
"You wouldn't have taught him a lesson…"
"We'd have beaten the living shit out of him."
"And what lesson would it have been? That when you shake a red cloth in front of a Gryff, he charges like a bull? That's just what he was looking for! Umbridge was looking at the coming fight with a predatory gleam in her eye. He was BAITING us for Pete's sake. And you good Gryffs were rushing head first into the trap."
"It was a matter of honour."
"Oh, great. As if it means something when Malfoy is involved. I think I made a good job defending it myself."
"Oh, yeah. Very Slytherin of you, Harry"
He paused. Looked at the twins in the eye. Gred, and then Forge.
"So? Am I supposed to be challenged on my Gryffindor…honour, here? Go fuck yourselves, guys." Harry snapped, turning his back.
The dummies in the Room of Requirement were in for a bad night.
-x-
"…and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion." Hermione lowered her right hand. It had been a shock to discover that because her maternal grandmother held dual French – US citizenship, she was eligible to the newly established expeditious naturalization of children process, and thus was now a US citizen without having time to think about it. She was almost annoyed.
"Great, that's settled, then. Come on."
Pileggi dragged her though never ending corridors.
"Director, I'm only sixteen, I don't thing I can apply…"
"Hermione Granger is sixteen. Sophie Wilkins is twenty one since September 19th, got it?" He stopped, facing her. "Look, you will need to use secret facilities jointly operated by CIA and DMLE. Therefore, you need to be a CIA Agent. I cannot forge a fake identity for a non-US citizen, even for this Dark Lord of you Brits. It would be treason. But for a US Citizen, I can. Let's go."
Hermione, chastised, followed her boss to be. But she couldn't help but wonder which flaw in the reasoning she'd missed.
-x-
Harry paced in front of Barnabas the Barmy and his dancing trolls until the door leading to the Room of Requirement appeared. To his surprise, it did not shape itself has a training area, with training dummies, racks of dumbbells and punch bags. He found a cosy study, with roaring fire. He smiled. The Room was sometimes behaving like a shrink, and he wondered if some of it's magic was not working like the Mirror of Erised, adjusting his wishes to something more suitable on the long run. He once again wondered if Hogwarts was not sentient to some extent to operate such a place.
After the accidental discovery, he had called for Dobby. The Elf had explained the come-and-go room and it's mechanics, so he had been able to use it regularly for practising. So, if today the room was set as a study, he guessed he had to do some studying. He dropped himself into the comfortable chair in front of the desk and sighed, then frowned. A little book was lying on the leather writing-pad.
The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
-x-
Special Agent Sophie Wilkins followed Director Pileggi into yet another meeting room. Her Awareness identified a Muggle and two more magicals. Introduced as Krista McNamara, the witch spoke.
"Wilkins, Director Pileggi pulled me here from a barbeque for the mad story of an agent to be put on par with the best before yesterday. That I can't do, lad, but we'll take some shortcuts. Said you were among the Moab Punks, aren't you?"
"I am."
"Good. At least they enrol neither morons nor pussies down there. Here's the drill" she said, sliding a device towards her. A strange device, looking like a toddler's game, with four shiny colour pads.
"It's set for the Portkey area in MS Square, blue pad. Regular Portkey area in this building, yellow. Emergency Room in the magical wing of Langley's hospital, red. Green is the Out of Plane training area."
"Where is it located?"
"Out of this earthbound plane, dumbass. Geographically, tied to an ancient ritual site in Nevada, in the Nellis Air Space"
"Area 51?"
"Doesn't matter. You'll spend twenty-four days periods in this place, then Portkey back to Moab for your regular day at school. That's to resynchronise you to the normal plane. 24, that's the expansion factor. Twenty-four days for twenty-four hours. Portkey out at 7 a.m., back at 7:02."
"but..."
"Ah, you caught the trap? That would make you out of Moab fro a whole day. Thus, you'll recognize this?" she said, showing a familiar looking hourglass, if a tad bigger than what Hermione remembered from a couple years ago. "Time turner, 12 hours a turn, turn twice and voila. Regular day, and so on. Five days a week. That's one hundred and twenty extra days a week. Got it? Pack a week's worth of clothes, what you feel you might need, your firearms."
"Yes Madam."
"So hit the fucking blue pad and get the hell out of here before I ain't got any steak left. Dismissed."
ANs
1) Washington National (KDCA) was named Ronald Reagan in 1998 only. Story takes place in 96.
2) For the record, in 1996, the Secretary of State was Warren Christopher.
3) In a recent review, DannyBoy2k insightfully pointed out that I'd been over the board a few chapters ago, when Draco Malfoy was shot in Hogsmeade. The trouble lies in pages 254 – 255 of Jane's Guns Recognition Guide, fifth edition. Left : The Accuracy International AW50F, Right : the Accuracy International L96A1. Obviously, in 1996, Hawkeye would use the latter, although he would have fired the Lee-Enfield L42A1 if a marksman in the Falkland War. In both cases, the ammunition is NATO 7.62x51 standard. In a haste, I picked the wrong rifle (shame on me, the AW50 production started in 1999) which is indeed a .50", with far more destructive effects than those described in the scene.
4) Pileggi, Anderson…I didn't go too far for those OC names…Trautman can be a tad harder to trace. Unless you are a fan of…ah ah. Won't tell! It doesn't matter anyway.