Chapter 35 – Needful Things
Harry couldn't take much more of the boredom. Ron wouldn't be in until five to relieve him for the next shift and he still had half of his own shift to wait out. He was thrilled to have the Auror Office functioning normally again now that Ron and Hermione had returned from their honeymoon, and scheduling shifts was so much easier, but he still lamented that he could use more bodies.
Time to talk to Kingsley about the Hogwarts Auror Training Programme again. Surely his class had been more than evaluated by now, leaving little doubt as to the program's success. But Harry still had to admit that the entire enterprise needed a bit of tweaking if it were to become a standard course of study at the castle. There were so many logistics to work out and soon, if it were to be implemented for the 2000-2001 school year.
He didn't really feel like training at the moment. He and Ron had all but set their wands on fire over the past few days' one-on-one sparring, and he still had to work time into his schedule to train with Ginny and her new wand. It suited her perfectly, but such a powerful wand in the hands of such a powerful witch could cause mass devastation with the simplest of spells. Her Bat-bogey hex at Falmouth testified to that. The poor sod had Bat-bogeys the size of seagulls pouring out of his nose and if Harry hadn't insisted Ginny release him when he did, the man would have been left with mince for a face.
He figured he would start with the art of meditation. After all, if she harboured any hope to gain some modicum of control over her high-powered magic or the important art of Occlumency, she needed to learn to centre herself first. Snape's admonition, close your mind, was about as useful as teats on a boar warthog, but there was really no way to teach Occlumency, as such. It was something that had to be learned on one's own, beginning with the ability to organise one's thoughts and memories through meditation, and then build mental shields around them. But in Ginny's case, Harry could stand right beside her in her mind, which would make the process a lot easier for her, although it would still require a lot of training and discipline.
Perhaps a visit to Lee's office for a quick chat with Parvati might help. Harry imagined that the Patils' ethnic background included practising many Hindu relaxation techniques. After all, the entire family wished to learn the art of Occlumency, and so far, Percy had yet to present any pearls of wisdom from the Ministry library. He'd have to ask him about that when he had the chance.
But what is there to do now? I have no Glumbum—er—memos to answer, all the reports are copied and filed, and all's quiet on the western front, as it were. "No memos? How in Hell did that happen," he muttered to himself.
Still bored, Harry decided to have a look at a few old files to pass the time. He stood and stretched, then walked over to the filing cabinets that lined the rear wall joining his and Ron's offices. He had to stifle a laugh, for nearly one entire cabinet had been devoted to one FLETCHER, MUNDUNGUS ALOYSIUS. Only the files containing the rap sheets and trial records of notorious Death Eaters filled more drawers.
Harry decided to leave the Death Eater files alone as he'd had enough of that lot for the time being. Instead, he thought he'd have a look at the criminal life of his favourite habitual thief. "These ought to be interesting…or entertaining," he muttered to himself with a smirk. He leafed through the case files until he came upon one dated September-October of 1969. Fletcher, Mundungus A. Possession—Controlled Substances. "Dung? A smuggler," he asked himself.
Dung's a thief, so it only stands to reason he'd probably have been involved in trafficking at some point, you prat. On several occasions during the war, Fletcher had raided Grimmauld Place and stolen all manner of Black family treasures—countless solid silver items including a couple of rather ornate tea services, crystal goblets, and…Slytherin's locket, which he'd ultimately sold to Dolores Umbridge of all people. Selwyn heirloom, my hairy arse.
He pulled the file and returned with it to his desk. He slouched down in his leather desk chair—a Christmas gift from his amazing and beautiful Ginny—conjured a mug of black coffee, and propped his booted feet up on the desktop. He couldn't help but chuckle at the trouble Dung managed to get himself into with highly-dangerous and illegal potions ingredients, magical street drugs, and overall mischief.
Reading further on, Harry found that he wasn't the first to work out that Fletcher was at least a kleptomaniac. According to his file, three St Mungo's Healer-Psychologists had classified him as mildly deranged and susceptible to impulse and suggestion due to a childhood accident involving a bull belonging to a Muggle farmer near York and some accidental magic, and testified to that effect in court. In the end, his sentence included a year-long stay on St Mungo's psychiatric ward and forfeiture of…bloody hell! "Could it still be there," he gasped.
Harry quickly dropped his feet to the floor, banished the now-tepid coffee, and all but flew out of his chair. He quickly scribbled down the catalogue number of the item in question on a slip of parchment and returned the case file to its proper place in the file drawer. Please let it be there. Please let it be there. He repeated this plea to whichever gods might be listening as he raced down the stairs to Level Ten where the Wizengamot courtrooms and Ministry holding cells were located. Also housed on that level was a room few ever gave much thought to unless they actually had to visit it—the DMLE Evidence Storage Repository.
Harry had to pass through the gaol section in order to access the repository. Although there was scarcely a magical soul on earth who didn't know who he was on sight, he still had to present his badge and Ministry ID, as well as register his wand to pass through the guard station.
Former Head Auror Gawain Robards had implemented elevated security measures immediately following the war to prevent imposters and other shady characters from gaining access to restricted areas of the Ministry during the trials of captured Death Eaters and others compliant with Voldemort's policies—essentially, suspected war-criminals. During her trial, the twisted and evil Voldemort copycat-criminal, Mafalda Prewett, resided there in a specially-built isolation cell.
"Very good, Chief Potter," the Hit-wizard at the desk growled, handing back his credentials. "Ain't nobody been down 'ere since they snapped that barmy Prewett-bint's wand and locked it up."
"They didn't burn it," Harry asked, aghast.
"No, sir," the man replied. "They say You-Know-'Oo's wand's in there too. Right creepy if you ask me."
In truth, the whereabouts of Tom Riddle's yew wand were currently unknown. He had discarded it in some fashion in favour of the Elder Wand, proclaiming himself its master. But that wand's true master had never been Voldemort or even Severus Snape, the man he killed to take control of it. No, its master had been Albus Dumbledore for more than fifty years. The night the old headmaster died on Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower, control passed to the young wizard who disarmed him—Draco Malfoy. The reluctant Death Eater never knew he had been a master of the legendary instrument.
Control passed once again the night Harry, Ron, and Hermione escaped Malfoy Manor. In a short battle, Harry disarmed his schoolyard nemesis, alleviating him of his hawthorn wand, which robbed him of control over the Elder Wand, which Voldemort held. At that moment, the Elder Wand turned its allegiance to Harry Potter, proving itself when Voldemort's point-blank Killing Curse failed to kill the young wizard yet again, resulting in his own demise. That wand now rested in a locked case in a secured wall safe hidden behind a painting somewhere at Ionúin Bhaille. Only Harry knew its exact location.
"Well, thanks—er—Carstairs. I'll just have a look, then."
"Right you are, Chief," the man said, handing Harry a large brass key. "Don't know why they didn't give you one o' these keys, sir. As 'Ead Auror, you're s'posed to 'ave one. Just be sure to check out wiv us when yer done so we know yer all right.
Harry waved his arm in reply without looking back, as he jogged toward the Evidence Repository. His mind reeled with thoughts about what could be hidden behind the door and how long it had all laid there collecting dust…and Merlin knew what else. When he arrived at his destination, he stopped to catch his breath. It hadn't been the jogging that left him breathless, but the sheer size and makeup of the door itself that took his breath away. The steel door boasted finely-cast brass fixtures and must've have measured at least three metres in height. Judging from the design and craftsmanship of the key, Harry surmised the lock mechanism must've been Goblin-made. Good thing.
Harry inserted the key into the lock, sucked in a deep breath, and then released it as he turned the mechanism. With a series of loud clicks, the tumblers fell and the door swung free. "Lumos," Harry whispered with a wave of his hand. He had managed to develop some minor talent with wandless magic during his Auror training. He suspected the ability came with the removal of the Horcrux from his scar, but he didn't find it important enough to pursue. Still, he didn't want that bit of information to get out, so he never used it in the presence of anyone other than Ginny, Ron, or Hermione.
At his command, small torches resting in iron sconces blazed to life before him. As he moved through the aisles, more torches ignited, lighting his way through the stuffy room. It appeared much larger than Harry expected it should, much like the Ministry library. In fact, it rather reminded him of the Hall of Prophecies in the Department of Mysteries, except the shelves held not thousands of glass orbs, but hundreds upon hundreds of tagged items collected from cases dating back to the seventeenth century.
It took him the better part of an hour to reach the twentieth-century aisles, which shelves groaned under all manner of cursed Muggle artefacts, confiscated wands—some snapped—and sealed crates of what Harry guessed were the controlled and illegal substances and potions ingredients. He'd all but despaired of ever finding the one item he was looking for until he came to the end of a particularly dark aisle. He peered around the end of the shelving unit and blinked a few times to allow his eyes to adjust to the diminished light. Moments later, he caught a glint of metal and his pulse increased. This time, he drew his wand and lit the end of it in order to illuminate the darkened niche. He whooped with glee, for there he found what he hoped would still be here—a beautiful Harley-Davidson custom chopper!
The Head Auror reverently approached the classic motorcycle, extending a shaking hand to stroke the front fender. The tyres had long-ago dried out, so they lay flat on the floor. Tyres are easy enough to replace. Stowing his wand in his robes, he grabbed hold of the handlebars and released the kick-stand, and then thought better of trying to roll it out into the open. Since the tyres were flat, he didn't want to damage the rims, so he drew his wand again and pointed it at the wonderful machine. "Scourgify," he murmured, clearing it of the thick patina of dust that had built up over the years. Satisfied with that, he swished and flicked his wand to levitate it from its 30-year-old parking space. Slowly, the motorcycle lifted into the air and floated out of the shadows into the yellow-orange light cast by the torches in their sconces.
"Merlin's headers," he whispered to the bike as he guided it carefully to the floor. "You're magnificent. Ron's going to love you, old man." Harry began to examine the old Harley. The fenders and fuel tank that once shined coal-black, were festooned with classic flames in blue and gold. Ron'll want red and gold for sure—and probably orange and yellow flames. The chrome elements showed scratches and bits of blistering due to weather and the ravages of time. Perfectly repairable. Harry couldn't be sure, but the engine appeared to be a 1966 or '67 1200cc Shovelhead V-twin. He suspected that since the bike had been thoroughly customised, that engine probably had been as well. If not, we'll bore it out a bit and give it some more go.
Harry had developed a love for petrol motor-powered vehicles ever since his father-in-law presented him with Sirius' fully-rebuilt and restored 1969 Triumph Bonneville 650. In addition, the young Auror harboured a secret desire to one day own an Aston-Martin DB5, a high-end British sports car reminiscent of the silver-gray model Sean Connery drove as super-spy James Bond in the 1964 film, Goldfinger…less Q's toys.
He and Ron, under Hagrid's tutelage, joyfully learned to ride the 650 just last spring, so there was no doubt in Harry's mind that Ron would love riding the Harley as much as he loved riding the Bonny. "We'll have to do something about your handlebars, mate," Harry told it with a shake of his head. "Ron's a big bloke, so it's ape-hangers for you."
Harry continued to inspect the old chopper, letting his thoughts wander concerning the magical modifications he and Arthur would make to further customise it to magical standards. He thought they might install the flying and cloaking features that graced his Triumph, not to mention the ever-full fuel tank.
Concerned about how he might move the bike from that room to Ionúin Bhaille, Harry stroked the day's worth of growth on his face. After a few minutes' pondering, he got an idea—requisition. As Head Auror, he could requisition any evidence for any reason. Since he'd had legal dealings with Dung already, he could use that as his excuse. Now to talk Dad into this.
Having decided on a course of action, Harry levitated the chopper back into its space, conjured a proportionate patina of dust onto it, and turned to leave. As he walked back through the aisles of the detritus of cases long-since investigated, solved, tried, and filed, he decided it was time to clean house. He guessed that many of the items contained in that massive room had been there long enough to be of no further use to DMLE, so they should be returned to their rightful owners, their families or their heirs, or auctioned off outright.
Harry also decided that all wands stored in that room should be destroyed and that he, personally, should be the one to do the deed. If Voldemort's yew wand truly did reside there, he could ensure that it would never be used to hurt another human being ever again. As for the rest, it would take a veritable army of Ministry interns several months to inventory and re-classify it all to accomplish the task. But the Shovelhead had to be removed and sequestered before any of that would ever happen.
Harry exited the Evidence Repository and locked the door, checking it for security, and then returned through the cell block, bidding a good afternoon to Carstairs as he passed by. As soon as he reached the stairwell, he began a seven-floor sprint to Level Two and the office of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Breathing heavier than usual and sweating slightly from the physical exertion, he burst through the doors into the corridor that led to Arthur's office. You're going soft, Potter.
Harry stopped outside his surrogate father's office and bent over to catch his breath, hands on his knees. He cast a drying charm over himself to evaporate the sweat from his face and clothing, and then with a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped through. "Go on in, Harry," Arthur's secretary said. "He's just going over your reports."
"Thanks," Harry replied politely, and continued into Arthur's inner office.
The balding redhead looked up at his son-in-law over his reading glasses. "What can I do for you, son?"
"Dad, I need to talk to you about something I found in the Evidence Repository," Harry said, taking a seat in one of the easy chairs provided for visitors.
"Oh? What did you find," he asked, setting the pile of reports aside. "Something dodgy?"
Harry chuckled. "Dad, there's loads of dodgy stuff in there, but this particular item—I need to requisition it."
Arthur sighed, removed his reading glasses, and then allowed a little grin to grace his lips. "Okay, Harry. You've got a Kneazle amongst your Pixies. What are you up to?"
Harry smirked a little and then did his best to school his features. "There's no beating around your bush, is there? Okay, look—I was bored today, so I decided to read a few old case files. I found a whole drawer devoted to one Mundungus Aloysius Fletcher." Harry then launched into his story of the case file he'd read and what he discovered in it that led him to the repository.
"Ah—so you want to requisition the motorbike, is that it," the older wizard asked. Harry nodded. "But you don't want it for yourself, is that right?" Harry nodded again.
"Sir, I want to see if we can fix it up for—"
"Ronnie."
"Yes, sir," Harry admitted. "He loves to ride Sirius'—my—Triumph, and here's a golden opportunity for him to have a bike of his own. I think it'd be the best present we could ever give him."
"Harry, sometimes Molly and I wonder if you're too good to be true," Arthur said, leaning across his desk in order to speak with a diminished voice. "Actually, this little requisition of yours should be relatively easily done. Just a few forms to fill out and submit to…me! Once I sign them, the bike's yours to do with as you see fit. If anyone asks—or even cares—we'll call it a re-opened investigation."
"Brilliant," Harry cheered quietly. "Once we're clear, I'll just shrink it and stow it a robes pocket. When I get it home, I'll hide it in a closet until I can bring in the Phelps brothers to build us a garage to tinker with it in."
"We? Us? You're including me in this," Arthur chuckled. "I assume, then, you want the same custom package I installed on the 650?"
"I want Ron's bike to be every bit as magnificent as mine," Harry told him with conviction. "Would you mind?"
"Not at all, Harry. It's about time another of Ronnie's dreams comes true," Arthur promised. "What say we get started on those requisition forms? I'll file them first thing in the morning and we should be able to take the bike legally at the end of the day."
"You won't regret this, I promise," Harry gushed.
"I'm sure I won't, son. Now about those forms," Arthur said, rummaging through the file drawer contain within his desk.
"Right," Harry agreed, quill at the ready. "Bring 'em on, Dad."
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Alastor Gumboil walked doggedly along Diagon Alley with the latest issue of The Quibbler hled tightly in his grasp. He had read Hermione's article in the Prophet and would now read the full story in Xeno Lovegood's paper. He had very mixed feelings about the article, but past experience told him that Lovegood would print only the truth where the Weasleys or the Potters were concerned.
On one hand, it annoyed him that Hermione published such an article without telling him, and even more annoyed since he could do absolutely nothing about it. He was downright outraged about the discoveries Hermione had made, but immensely proud of her skills of digging up the historical events showing the unjust treatment of Muggleborns. In Gumboil's view Hermione was the personification of the modern Muggleborn witch, with her vast magical talent and power combined with her position as Lady Black in the Wizengamot. On the other hand, the fact that she rated as one of the most beautiful witches in Britain was a good thing too.
"Of course Witch Weekly has to park two Purebloods in the two top positions—Ginny Potter and Cho Chang," Gumboil spat to himself. "Hermione Granger is far better-looking than those two put together."
The fact that the Most-Beautiful-Witch list was voted on by the readers and not the magazine itself was something Gumboil disregarded entirely, as it didn't fit with his agenda. Muttering further to himself about the injustice of Wizarding publications, he reached The Leaky Cauldron and quickly found an empty table.
Hannah Abbott Longbottom approached with a warm smile and notepad at the ready. "Mr Undersecretary, what might the Leaky serve you today?"
Gumboil looked at the menu, despite he'd already decided. "I'll have fish 'n' chips with mushy peas and a pint of Butterbeer, please," he growled, trying not to sound too peevish.
"Thank you, sir," Hannah replied and turned on her heel to deliver the order to the kitchen, leaving Gumboil to read the longer version of Hermione's article in The Quibbler. Her way of laying out the facts in a way that anyone could understand never ceased to amaze him. What he didn't know was that Ginny Potter had been most helpful to this end.
Hannah returned with his food and Gumboil levitated the magazine to hover just before his eyes, allowing him to continue reading while he ate. This article explained the fate of John Baker in greater detail, and also described the warding of Pureblood-owned properties with more facts. Gumboil remembered his parents struggle during the war. Their home had not been hit by the bombs, but nearby explosions had shattered windows on several occasions, not to mention the worry they'd lived with.
Following the Battle of Britain, his father enlisted in His Majesty's armed forces in 1941, fighting with Montgomery's 8th Army in Africa and later, under new commanders, on Sicily and in Italy. Gumboil had heard many tales of his father's experiences during the war and wasn't surprised that Baker had taken action. In Gumboil's view, the man was a hero.
Once he finished the article, Gumboil tried to summarize his thoughts and feelings. He was barking mad at the injustice. What if the Purebloods had decided to protect their properties by confunding or imperiusing the Muggle leaders to stop the war? Would anyone have been sent to Azkaban? "Not jolly likely," he muttered to himself in reply.
He was more than willing to bet a hefty number of Galleons that the hypocritical buggers would've decided in the Wizengamot that even the use of the Unforgivables in this case would've been for the greater good. After all, they would've used it on only a few Muggles—Churchill, Hitler, Stalin and a few others and they'd have ended the war. In the Muggle history books, it would've all been recorded as a neat little cease-fire followed by a lovely little peace negotiation.
Gumboil folded The Quibbler and ordered a cup of tea. He still couldn't decide whether he was impressed or annoyed with Hermione's way of publishing this article unilaterally. He knew she was very careful to make sure anything she wrote wouldn't be misused, but it galled him that she had the audacity to make such a move on her own. Yes, she's careful to protect her good name. After all, she can't put her brilliant protective charms on every issue of the Prophet or the Quibbler.
With a smile on his lips, he left the Leaky and Flooed to the Ministry. Arriving in the Atrium, he headed for the lift and Level One where his office was located. The first thing he noticed in his Inbox was a memo addressed to Undersecretary Alastor Gumboil. The handwriting was undoubtedly Hermione's. Thrilled, he opened it.
Dear Mr Gumboil,
I suppose by now you've read the article I published in The Daily Prophet. In case you're unaware, there's also a more-detailed version in the latest issue of The Quibbler. My hope is that the historical—yet recent—injustices I revealed in my exposé will raise questions about the Wizarding community today. As stated in the article, I intend to work though official channels in the Wizengamot to right wrongs such as these and award people like John Baker the recognition and accolades they so richly deserve, if only posthumously. Furthermore, I believe my article will afford ELF opportunities to lobby important issues in order to change a number of archaic laws and bring our world into the twenty-first century.
Sincerely,
Hermione J Weasley, OMFC
"She's good. Really good," Gumboil admitted under his breath. "Why shouldn't she use her position as a member of the Wizengamot?" He reluctantly agreed that it would benefit her more than publishing the article through ELF. Furthermore, ELF would probably benefit more from the article being published this way, too. Validation. But it still annoyed him that Hermione acted independently and that he hadn't been able to peruse the article beforehand and put his ghost-stamp-of-approval on it. Hermione was a great asset for ELF, but she effectively closed every possible avenue to him to make her the poster-child for the organisation.
"Time for a special meeting," he grumbled, popping the lid off a new bottle of ink and checking the nib on one of the several quills he kept in his desk drawer. "Let Hermione work with the Wizengamot—I'm going to work with my people." With a low chuckle, he began to write.
S—
It's time for the storm, without P or W.
G
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Minerva McGonagall sat in her office reading over the latest issue of The Quibbler, Hermione's article in particular. She couldn't help smiling to herself as she read. It was just like her favourite student to have enough conviction, smarts, and guts to pen such a report and then publish it for the entire Wizarding world to read, regardless of popular opinion or her Blood-status.
"Come in," she said absentmindedly as a knock sounded on the door. She had scheduled a weekly coalition meeting with the Heads of House in order to share the latest gossip, report on upcoming events, and address issues concerning the management of the school as an institution of magical learning and as a home for its students. Professor McGonagall barely looked up from the magazine to greet Professors Hagrid, Flitwick, Sprout and Slughorn. Each Head took his or her seat and waiting a few moments while the headmistress finished with her reading.
"Hermione Weasley is one brilliant witch," Professor McGonagall stated, her lips twitching into a mild smirk. "Have you read this article of hers in The Quibbler?"
Everyone but the Gryffindor Head nodded. "But I 'eard what it's all abou'," Hagrid, who wasn't much for reading anything, asserted. "Poor bloke, tha' Baker fella. Sent ter bloody Azkaban fer savin' all them lives. The place still gives me nightmares, it do."
"I surely hope Miss Gr..." Professor Slughorn began, but remembered he spoke of a married woman. "... Mrs Weasley will achieve some change in the Wizengamot. My House consists primarily of children of the old Pureblood families and quite frankly, they're right terrified after the things that have happened over the past few months, and I can't say as I blame them. And Should a group of children be judged according to the sins of their elder relatives who sided with Voldemort, or decided to toss Baker into Azkaban, while they gladly warded their own homes?" The portly Potions Master wiped his shiny brow with a rather lacy handkerchief as his eyes darted around the room seeking support.
"I think we, as a school, housing the future Wizarding generations should answer Hermione's call," Professor Sprout suggested.
"In what way, Pomona," Professor Flitwick squeaked, clearly intrigued by the idea.
"Mrs Weasley promises to present new legislation to the Wizengamot, so why don't we ask the students to write their suggestions," Sprout replied. "It's time magical children learned how their government works."
Professor McGonagall nodded in agreement. "If there are a decent number of House Points to earn, I think our students are liable come up with many fine and viable ideas. And the more ambitious would most likely read a lot more Wizarding law than we currently include in our curriculum," the headmistress said.
"Any amount of reading would raise that standard, since Hogwarts has all but dropped that course of study from its curriculum," Flitwick added. "Perhaps Civics might be included as a required course of study for the fifth, sixth, and seventh years."
"Filius, you may just have something there," Minerva agreed. "It's time we pulled our collective head out of the sand and got down to some good old-fashioned education beyond—what did Severus call it?"
"Incantations and silly wand-waving," Pomona snickered.
"Right," Minerva agreed, pointing at the Herbology mistress.
"Rubeus and Minerva, you're closest to Mrs Weasley. I only taught her for two years," Professor Slughorn said. "Would it be possible to invite her for tea, show her what the students have suggested, and then decide which of their ideas, if any, she'll bring to the Wizengamot. Those students whose work is approved might be rewarded with some token of appreciation?" Some things never changed. Professor Slughorn enjoyed promoting talented students through his Slug Club via dinner parties and other events, but this would be an opportunity for all students.
"Sluggie, you're a genius," Professor Flitwick exclaimed, clearly supporting the idea.
"There's a lot o' them kids looking up ter our 'Ermione," Hagrid said. "An' we 'ave Madame Bones on our staff, an' since she's the Chief Warlock, we should include 'er inter this plan."
"Excellent," Professor McGonagall beamed, clapping her hands together. "I'll ask Amelia if she'd be willing to act as an advisor to students with questions concerning Wizarding law. And if it would interfere with her Transfiguration lessons, I could take a class or two for a couple of weeks."
It was decided that Professor McGonagall would contact Hermione to present the idea and ask if she would be willing to carry the best ideas from Hogwarts to put before the Wizengamot. The rest of the meeting progressed in the usual fashion, with each Head presenting the latest news from their Houses and their concerns for their students' marks and progress. At the close of the meeting, the four of them left the headmistress' office chatting excitedly about the prospective resurgence in interest in British Wizarding governmental procedure and protocol.
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Ron and Hermione stepped out of the Floo in the Ministry Atrium. "How's your schedule today, 'Mione," Ron asked, reaching for her hand.
Hermione dusted some soot off her shoulder. "I'm hoping for owls from Xeno Lovegood and the Prophet about the article," she said. "Otherwise, it's just another day in Paradise."
"Ah. Since you wrote the article as a member of the Geezergamot, the owls would come here instead of the Burrow, yeah," Ron concluded, taking her hand in his as they walked toward the lifts in a leisurely fashion. "Mum'll be eternally grateful that you leave work at work, since Harry, Dad, and I tend to bring it home with us."
"Yes, you do," she giggled. "So…what about your day," Hermione countered as Ron pressed the call button for the lift.
"Well…Harry and I have a meeting with Dad first. And…unless there's an emergency that demands our personal attention, we'll keep working out the logistics of the tournament…apart from our standard routine."
"So lunch at noon, then," Hermione reminded him, her eyes sparkling and bright.
"A full hour after elevensies, Love," Ron grinned, stepping into the lift.
"See you at noon, then," Hermione sighed, giving Ron a peck on the cheek as the lift jerked to a stop. "Level Four," the annoying female voice announced. "Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."
"No kidding," Ron grumbled as he escorted his wife to her offices. With a final kiss, she passed through the glass doors. Selma waved to Ron with a warm smile before he turned and jogged to the door that led to the stairs. He feared three weeks of honeymoon had weakened his otherwise powerful leg muscles and he wanted to be in top physical condition for the tournament.
Bursting through the stairwell doors on Level Two, Ron jogged on to the Auror Office and stopped outside the door to catch his breath. It wasn't so much that he was out of breath—he just didn't want to appear that way. With a deep, cleansing breath, he opened the door to his shared office and crossed the room to the locker area where he found Jock Thompson donning his maroon robes for his shift.
"Jock, the chief and I will be in a meeting with Da—Mr Weasley," Ron told the veteran Auror.
"Aye," the man replied. "The tourney's on then, is it?"
"Aye," Ron replied with a twinkle in his sapphire-blue eyes.
A few minutes later Harry arrived too. "G'mornin', you lot!"
"Why are you in such a good mood," Ron asked. "Ginny's on the road, isn't she?"
"Yeah. So," Harry replied with a grin.
"So you didn't get any, which doesn't explain the shit-eating grin you're wearing, mate," Ron chuckled.
"Oh didn't I," Harry asked in retort. "Ginny's on the road, but that doesn't mean I didn't get any. I can Apparate, you know. And there are such things as Portkeys. And she can Apparate…"
Jock stood there red-faced, trying to hold back his Falstaffian laughter. "What the Chief wants, the Chief gets, laddie, an' yoo of all people should know that!"
Harry just looked Ron in the face and nodded curtly. "Yeah, Ron. You should know that."
"Shut it, Chosen Prat-Who-Lived," Ron snorted. "You ready?"
"Yeah, let's go," Harry laughed, slapping his partner on the back. "We shouldn't be long, Jock. Duty roster's on the bulletin board."
"Cheers," Jock replied with a grin as Harry and Ron left the locker room. "Those two may be young, but they're damned good!"
Harry and Ron entered Arthur's office, and closed the door behind them. "Welcome, boys," Arthur greeted them heartily. "I expect you're here to talk about the upcoming duelling tournament?"
"Right in one, sir," Ron confirmed. He had already told Arthur about the tournament the same day Kingsley had given his official approval.
Arthur invited them to sit on the sofas across the room, while he retrieved a few parchments from his desk and joined them. "Before we get into that, I've had a note from Kingsley. I don't think this'll come as a surprise to either of you," Arthur said, handing a copy to each of them. "As you can see, Kingsley wants the Auror Training Program up and running this autumn and I'll need to know what kind of resources that would require."
Harry and Ron read the note. This was good news—beyond good. It was glorious news! Harry had thought about the need for more Aurors the other day when he found the Harley-Davidson.
"Dad, um... Arthur," Ron said. "Harry and I had an idea yesterday about Auror Training."
"I'm listening," Arthur said with a curious twinkle in his eye.
"Broomborne Aurors, sir," Harry declared. "Ron's idea."
"Broomborne. Intriguing," Arthur commented. "Tell me what you're thinking, son."
"Remember the effect Harry and Ginny had in Montrose during the riot," Ron began. Arthur nodded, so Ron continued. "Properly trained, we think a squadron of Broomborne Aurors can be a very effective fighting force, which will undoubtedly save lives."
Arthur pondered the concept for a while. "Do you have Aurors with enough flight skill?"
"Ron and I aren't in a position to lead a Broomborne unit, but we thought about asking Cho. She was a really good Seeker for Ravenclaw. She usually matched me manoeuvre for manoeuvre," Harry said.
"Except when you ploughed her with your Wronski Feint," Ron interjected.
"Hey, we can't all be Krums," Harry snickered, nudging his brother in the ribs.
"Stuff it, ponce. Dad, I'm not sure there's anyone else with that kind of talent in the Office today, but if Cho got to work with an apprentice or two in the Auror Training Programme, I'm sure we could have them ready for action as soon as we intern the recruits," Ron added.
Arthur nodded again, so far approving of his sons' proposal. "What Harry and Ginny did in Montrose was truly remarkable, so it's more than obvious that we should be able to train a Broomborne Auror Squadron." Arthur then shifted to a more formal tone. "Harry, speak with Auror Chang. If she's willing, you have the go-ahead to assemble and train a Broomborne unit."
Arthur didn't want to give Auror Chang a direct order, since at this stage, this venture is purely experimental. He hoped she'd jump at the chance and volunteer, but from what he'd seen in Harry's young Aurors, he was confident that she'd agree to take the assignment.
"Anything else," Arthur asked, knowing his sons. Their faces and body language belied the fact that there certainly was something else on their minds.
"I think the new Auror Training Program should be run out of Hogwarts, like our training program was," Harry suggested."
"Really," Arthur asked.
"Realistically, there will be few, if any, future Aurors to be found among the general public," Harry reasoned. "I think we'll find our future Aurors among the top sixth- and seventh-year students at Hogwarts."
"Harry, that's brilliant," Ron said enthusiastically and took up the mantra. "If Professor McGonagall's willing, we could draft them in their NEWT classes, and instead of studying for an exam, their course of study would directly connect to their chosen careers. 'Mione and I talked about this a few days ago. She was right when she said that Harry and I would have done a lot better in school if we'd known the practical use of the classes, rather than a lot of dry theory and meaningless practice."
Arthur looked at Ron quizzically. "You're suggesting that future Auror recruits—or cadets, as it were—should enroll in their five required NEWT classes, but also receive supplemental Auror training to help them put the theory into real applicable practice, is that right?" Ron nodded, his blue eyes shining with the thrill of the possibilities.
"That's the idea," Harry agreed. "And once they have their NEWTs, they keep training until they're ready to pass the Auror Exam and earn their licence. Hell, Dawlish, Ross, and Thompson would be stellar instructors for Auror procedure. Percy did a helluva job teaching us Ministry protocol, and the rest of us could take part in the physical and practical parts."
"I'll bet Dennis Creevey would love to join the Broomborne Squadron," Ron said.
"He's a fantastic Seeker," Harry said with a grin. "Trained him myself, you know."
"And he's a member of old DA," Ron pointed out. He then adjusted his position on the sofa. A mischievous grin stole across his freckled face and he leaned toward his father. "So who do we harass with swarms of memos to negotiate arrangements for the training program?"
Arthur chuckled merrily, somehow suspected that if anyone could pull this off, Harry and Ron could. "It's actually you, Harry, who has the final say about the Auror Training Program. I simply provide the Galleons and as Head of the DMLE, I more than recognise the need for a few more Aurors to restore it to full-strength. Since your DA training at Hogwarts turned out so well, I'd suggest that you set up a meeting with Minerva. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to host the next Auror class."
Since the Auror training was so extreme it was always the current Head of the Auror Office who was responsible for the training, as was Gawain Robards when Harry and Ron trained last year.
Arthur conjured up some tea before they began talking about the tournament. "I've read your proposals for the tournament, and Kingsley's approval thereof," Arthur began. "Officially, DMLE has been given charge of the event as it's our department hosting it, but in reality, it's your baby. What do you need from me?"
"We'll probably need a few Troopers to conjure the stage and stands," Ron said.
"Where do you think it should be," Arthur asked.
"We need our training facilities, otherwise they'd be ideal. But I'm thinking the Atrium," Harry suggested. "We could banish the memorial fountain—temporarily—and erect bleachers and press boxes and stuff like Muggle stadiums have.
"That would certainly give the general public the chance to watch the duels," Arthur said. "I'll clear it with Kingsley."
"We'll also need qualified referees, commentators, scribes who record the results, pages to carry messages between officials, that sort of thing," Ron added. "And we'll need representatives who can visit each office in the Ministry to answer any questions employees may have before they commit to entering the tournament. And we're very likely find more jobs for the willing along the way."
Arthur took notes on a parchment. "I understand there will be both individual and team competition," he asked.
"Yes," Harry said. "But entry is limited to Ministry employees only."
"Do you realise the interest this tournament will attract," Arthur asked, and then added, "Since I assume you will participate."
Harry moaned. "Be the one to defeat Harry Potter, yeah," Harry huffed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.
"Something like that, yes," Arthur chuckled.
They all knew how much Harry disliked his fame, but truth to be told, it would be something special to watch Harry duel, since he was exceptionally talented. Like it or not, Harry was the Saviour of the Wizarding World and had been touted in the press as The New Dumbledore. Who wouldn't want to witness as the Great Harry Potter handed opponent after opponent their arses in duel after duel.
"We'll alert Lee to handle the press," Ron said. "I think he'd make a great commentator, since he used to announce Quidditch at Hogwarts. Dean could do colour with him."
"Done. Once you set a date for the tournament to start, you'd better have him send that press release. Get with him to draw up a list of publications to notify," Arthur suggested.
"There's no need to wait. We need to offer training sessions at the Auror Office, but how about February 1st for opening day?" Harry asked.
"Sounds good, but what about security," Arthur asked.
"Troopers," Ron said pointedly. "Any of them who aren't competing can be assigned in rotation to cover the event."
"In that vein, might I suggest another Muggle practice concerning press coverage," Arthur asked over his reading glasses."
"Sure, Dad. What is it," Harry asked.
"A certified and accredited Press Corp," Arthur said. "I understand that Muggle bootball teams issue official credentials to the press, which gain them access to restricted areas of the stadiums and arenas the teams play in."
"That's football, Dad, and yeah, they do. You're right. Perhaps Percy can draw up an application form for no more than two from each—one sportswriter and one photographer," Harry suggested.
"The fewer extraneous people wandering about, the fewer potential security breaches. In fact, anyone working this event should be issued official credentials," Ron added. "And February 1st allows plenty of time to prepare the tournament."
"Then it's settled," Arthur said. "By the way, what do you want to call the event?"
"The individual competition will be called The Gawain Robard's Cup, and the team tournament will be The Alastor Moody's Cup," Harry declared. "We thought those two deserved some kind of tribute for all they've done for the Auror Office, the Ministry, and ultimately, the people of Wizarding Britain."
Arthur nodded approvingly. It was fitting to honour these two great Aurors this way. Both men had been skilled duellers and men who served the Auror Office with distinction. With the logistics for the Robard's and Moody's Cups in order, the meeting adjourned. Harry and Ron left Arthur's office and bolted to the Auror Offices to find Cho Chang and deliver the happy news.
As soon as they stepped into the break room, they found Jock Thompson once again munching on pastries and drinking a steaming mug of strong coffee. "Back frrom the Lion's Den, Chief?" the Scotsman grinned.
"Yeah, and in one piece to boot. Would you happen to know where Chang is," Harry asked.
"I think she and Bonesy headed ferr the cafeterria only a minute ago. Ye should be able tae join 'em if you want a bite."
Ron grinned. Food.
"All right mate. Another shot at that illusive Agrippa," Harry asked snarkily.
"Of course." Ron said. "And the chance to have a quick snog with my wife." Alternately, Ron's collection of Famous Wizard Cards wasn't complete without Agrippa and no matter what anyone thought about his quest to find that particular card, he had no intention of giving up the search.
Harry rolled his eyes at his friend's obsession with Hermione. "Ron, you're married. You can snog her at home. Hell, you snogged her all over the place before you married her. Why is a snog so special now?"
"Why were you grinning like a fool this morning," Ron asked in reply. "You've been married to my sister longer than I've been married to yours and you can't keep your hands off her!"
"That's different. Hermione's home every night," Harry argued good-naturedly. "Ginny goes on the road for days and weeks at a time."
"You can Apparate, you know. There are Portkeys. She can Apparate…" Ron retorted, throwing Harry's own words back at him, laughing at his deep-down body blush.
"Touché," Harry conceded. "Now let's get downstairs so you can stuff your face and snog my dear sister. You'll hold the fort, Jock?"
"Aye, laddie. I'll manage. It's a rrather quiet day. Therre was a Squad herre drroppin' off a rrattlin' box. They suspected a currse and didn't darre tae open it. It turrned out tae be a trrap ferr Garrden Gnoomes and the Gnoome in question was barrkin' mad. That's all the action we've seen today."
"Garden Gnomes. Certainly dark creatures worthy of Auror attention," Ron snorted ironically. "I take it you managed it without getting bitten."
"We stunned the little buggerr and had the Squad tak it back tae its home. He'll be up and aboot in a few oors," Jock reported amusedly.
"Fair enough," Harry replied. "We're going to have a spot of lunch while we're down there, so we'll be back in a bit. Let us know immediately if we're inundated with a Flobberworm uprising, will you?"
"Go eat, ye daft lad, beforre Red therre wastes away tae nothin'" Jock chuckled, taking another bite of his rather flaky pastry, dropping crumbs into his coffee. "Go on. Get outta herre, noo!"
Laughing and joking, the two top Aurors in Britain raced one another down the stairs like a pair of hyperactive schoolboys, pushing against one another for the advantage. Harry burst through the doors into the corridor on Level One just a fraction of a second before Ron.
Harry had gained a healthy amount of muscle since the war, as had Ron, but Harry's body was wiry whereas Ron's was bulkier. Harry's smaller size afforded him a slight speed and agility advantage over his best mate, but neither man had anything to be ashamed of, physically. The two Aurors rarely paid much attention, but they often received approving stares from the female denizens of the Ministry of Magic, all wishing they walked in Ginny's or Hermione's shoes.
Striding into the cafeteria, still exchanging banter about their relationships with their respective wives, they spied their quarry sitting at the table next to the one they usually shared with the Lunch Bunch. Glancing at the clock, Ron guessed they had about fifteen minutes before he needed to race upstairs to escort his wife to lunch.
"Mind if we join you," Harry asked with his typical Harry-grin.
"Not at all," Susan said.
Harry bought a cup of hot chocolate and Ron ordered coffee and three Chocolate Frogs to hold him until he could share a proper lunch with the others in their group.
"We heard about today's terrible and cursed box." Ron said with a snicker.
"Yeah, that was really scary," Cho giggled.
"The poor Squaddies were a bit embarrassed about the whole thing," Susan laughed.
Harry took a sip of his hot chocolate before changing the subject. "Um…we had a meeting with Arthur this morning, and we have a go-ahead on something we think might interest you Cho."
The two witches looked at Harry with great interest, Cho in particular. "Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"
"Ron, it's your idea. Why don't you break the news," Harry suggested.
Cho's eyes moved to Ron's face and she raised her eyebrows suspiciously. "Out with it, Weasley."
"Relax, Chang. It's nothing bad. In fact, it's pretty cool if you ask me," Ron replied, rolling his eyes. "What it is…is that we want to add a whole new branch to the Auror Office. A Broomborne Squadron."
Cho's eyes lit up like fireflies and her smile revealed straight white teeth. In a word, she was thrilled. "That sounds like a great idea," she gushed. "From a broom we'd have an overview of the battleground and a greater scope of attack…but it'll take a load of training and practice to learn to draw a bead on a target at full speed."
Harry and Ron could see that the former Ravenclaw Seeker already thought about the possibilities. "So you like the idea," Harry asked, his emerald eyes sparkling.
"Oh, absolutely! It's brilliant," Cho exclaimed.
"We're glad you approve because we'd like to assign you to lead and command the Broomborne unit," Ron said with his lopsided smile.
"M-me," Cho asked. "Y-you want to give me a command?"
"Oh, don't look so surprised Chang," Susan laughed. "You're a brilliant flyer and a great fighter. Trés formidable."
Cho tried to calm down and maintain some semblance of professionalism, but this was big news. Sure, she had led teams on several operations, but to command the first unit of its kind was something else entirely. "I'd be honoured and happy to lead the unit, sir," Cho replied, composing herself and adding sir without thinking about it. "Who else do you have in mind for this unit?"
"Um…well…we're not sure yet, actually. We plan to officially implement the Auror Training Programme again this autumn and if Minerva is willing, we'll do it at Hogwarts, inviting NEWT-level students to enroll. I'm hoping Dennis Creevey will join." Harry explained "And maybe others from the House teams."
Cho thought for a few moments, weighing her words carefully. "Honestly, Harry, that's wonderful. I guess we've proven ourselves, then?"
"Evidently," Harry confirmed. "Minister Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley were all for it—no arguments."
"I'm assuming this is an experimental venture—this Broomborne-thing," she asked for clarification.
"Officially, yeah," Ron replied.
"In that case, let's not overload our arses right out of the gate. Three or four candidates should be enough to start with," she suggested.
"Sounds like a plan, Cho," Harry agreed. "Any questions at this point?"
"No, sir," she replied, once again assuming the air of professionalism. "Only I request that I be allowed to pick and choose my trainees."
"Request granted," Harry replied. "If you're going to train and command this unit, it only stands to reason that you should evaluate the candidates as you see fit."
"Thank you, sir. We won't let you down," Cho promised, blinking back tears of pride.
With handshakes and words of encouragement all around, Ron left the cafeteria to meet up with Hermione while Harry commandeered the Lunch Bunch's customary table. Ron had once again missed the elusive Agrippa card, finding his own, Harry's, and his sister's new Ginny Potter edition. Bugger.
After lunch, Harry planned to pay a little visit to Lee Jordan and his team to compose a preliminary press-release to be published in The Daily Prophet the following day. Since that particular newspaper had worldwide distribution, the announcement was sure to create a buzz and draw the interest of several duelling journals on the international level, as well as many magical sports publications around the globe.
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Early Saturday morning, Fiona took a leisurely shower and dressed in clean scrubs. She had invited Seamus to join the Breakfast Club that day before he returned to Hogsmeade to sleep. While he slept, she planned to pay a visit to WWW to have a chat with Angelina and Verity about George before she popped off to St Mungo's for her usual Saturday shift on the pediatric ward.
If she was honest, she was worried about her favourite Weasley cousin. His usual upbeat and enthusiastic demeanour had gone flat. He seemed pre-occupied and glum, blowing off work in favour of locking himself up in his flat in Diagon Alley to brood. Fiona suspected it had to do with the spectacular failures of his last two inventions, the Ape-arition Bombs and the Farting Fudge. There was no doubt that the two products were great ideas for pranks, but George's lack of attention to minute detail nearly resulted in disaster in testing. The effects lasted too long and could have led to permanent injury to the victims.
She'd just finished plaiting her strawberry locks when a light knock came upon her door. Seamus. "C'mon in," she called merrily. Because he had been on patrol with Lavender Brown, the two lovebirds agreed to lay off last night. At Fiona's behest, the two called a professional truce, which Fiona was sure Harry appreciated. It probably made his scheduling duties much easier.
"Are ya decent, Love," a familiar brogue called from the sitting area.
"Yeah, I'm decent," she replied, bounding into the room from her loo. "And I'm hungry enough ta eat a herd of Erumpents!"
"Well, then. If the Prewetts are anything like the Weasleys, far be it from me ta stand between you and yer breakfast," Seamus chuckled, taking her hand and kissing it properly in the space between the knuckles of her index and middle fingers.
"There'll be no breakfast until ya give me a proper good-morning kiss, Finnegan," Fiona warned with a glint in her sky-blue eyes.
"As you wish, milady," Seamus grinned, pulling her close to his body. "Yer gonna be the death o' me, woman. Ya know that, dontcha?"
"Only if you don't shut up and kiss me," she giggled.
With his free hand, Seamus tipped her chin up to gaze into her eyes. "You are beautiful, Fiona Francine Prewett." The suave Irishman had known for months that Fiona was the woman for him, but he didn't want to assert that fact yet. It was too soon and he didn't want to frighten her off. No, the day he would tell her unequivocally that he loved her hadn't arrived yet. For now, he'd be content to treat her like a princess and give her as many kisses as she wanted.
"And you are hotter'n a two-dollar pistol, Seamus Patrick Finnegan," she breathed, her heart pounding in her chest. Seamus was the first man she'd ever met who could set her heart to racing like that. Even Rupert D Watson with all his charm and charisma couldn't do that to her. Sure, he made her blush, but he never set a fire in her belly like Seamus did.
Gently and sweetly, Seamus pressed his lips to Fiona's, moving them passionately while he caressed her back with one hand and held her face in his other. It took all of his considerable will to refrain from scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed for an all-out snog. Instead, he reluctantly broke the kiss and drew her into a tight embrace. "Ready for that breakfast now, chéadsearc," he whispered into her ear.
Fiona thought she'd swoon. When he spoke the Gaelic to her, her knees turned to water and the very breath all but left her body. She couldn't decide if this was love or infatuation, but she certainly hoped with ever fibre of her being that it was love. Seamus Finnegan's attentions were never aggressive. He always comported himself like a gentleman and never attempted to touch her inappropriately, even during a full-on snog. But when he touched her face, chills ran down her spine; when he spoke the Irish…there were no words to describe it. "Mm-hmm," she moaned.
Seamus chuckled and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Come on, Miss Prewett. We'd better getcha fed before ya pass out."
Fiona nodded and stepped out of his embrace. "Deeds," she called, opening the door. "Breakfast with Hagrid!"
With an enthusiastic hoot, the great horned owl launched from his perch and led the way out the door, his majestic wings flapping and then spreading wide to glide down the stairway to the Great Hall.
"He's really somethin'," Seamus observed.
"Yeah, he is. He adopted me after me 'n' Granny fixed him up," Fiona explained. "I turned him loose, but he just kept comin' back. He really loves Hagrid."
"There ain't an animal alive that doesn't love Hagrid. Even Blast-ended Screwts love Hagrid," Seamus laughed.
"Blasted what," Fiona asked with a giggle as they descended the stairs.
"Blast-ended Screwts," Seamus laughed. "You don't wanna know."
"Yes I do!"
"Ask Hagrid. He'll be glad to tell you all about them," Seamus smirked. "Ugly ruddy beasts."
Fiona and Seamus took their seats at the head table and began to dig into dishes of scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon, Irish bangers, French toast, assorted fruits, American fries the way Fiona loved them, and assorted pastries and beverages. "I'll never get over the food here," she groaned, spearing a bit of French toast with syrup.
"It's the best," Seamus agreed. "When Harry offered me this assignment, I jumped on it just for the food." And now I have an even better reason to be here.
Fiona picked up her goblet of pumpkin juice. "To Harry!"
"To Harry," Seamus agreed, and they both drank deeply.
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After a satisfying breakfast, Fiona and Seamus took their leave. Seamus slung Fiona's backpack over his shoulder and escorted her from the Great Hall and out the towering oak doors onto the grounds. He insisted upon walking with her to Hogsmeade, if only to prolong their time together. By the time she'd finish her shift at St Mungo's, he'd be on duty again with Lavender and unable to visit her in her quarters, even for a few minutes.
"Here we are—Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," Seamus said with a heavy sigh. "And here I gotta leave ya, Love. There's a bed at Three-B waitin' fer me and I could use a good kip."
"Seamus, I worry that you don't get enough sleep," Fiona said, adjusting the collar on his maroon robes. "You're up wanderin' the castle all night, then ya hang around ta have breakfast with me—I just don't wantcha ta git sick over me."
"Ach, ya sound like her Aunt Molly," Seamus winced with a half-smile. "But I do get enough sleep, thanks, and ya got nothin' ta worry that red head about. And I happen to enjoy havin' breakfast with you."
Fiona blushed prettily. "What am I gonna do with you, Seamus Finnegan," she giggled, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Tie this back, will you? Ya look like a scruff!"
"You like it," he teased. "I know ya do. Ya said ya liked long hair on a man once, as I remember."
Fiona ducked her head and leaned into his chest. "Yer right. I do, but just tie it back. I don't like it hangin' in yer face, hidin' yer eyes."
"Woman, if you don't let me go, I'm gonna drop right here in the High Street," Seamus chuckled again. "But if it pleases you, I'll tie it back so you can see that I have eyes."
Oh, you've got eyes, all right. "Okay. I'll see ya in the mornin' if I don't see ya later tonight," she promised. "Now go!"
"I'm goin'," he laughed. Then he leaned down for a final kiss before they parted ways until breakfast the next morning. She stood on the step of WWW watching him jog back up the street to the Three Broomsticks and his warm bed.
Shaking her head and smiling to herself, she pushed the door open and stepped into her cousin's shop. As she expected, George was nowhere to be found, but Angelina and Verity were both there, dusting a stocking the shelves in anticipation of another brisk day of business in Hogsmeade Village.
"Onie," Angelina cried, dropping her feather duster. "What brings you to our humble establishment this morning?"
"Hey, Onie," Verity called from the front counter. "What can we do for you?"
"Do ya have a few minutes," Fiona asked, biting her lip. "It's about George. He's—"
"You've noticed too," Angelina sighed. "He's in a slump."
"Yeah, he is," Verity agreed. "We can't get him to leave that flat for more than a few hours at a time. He's even hired a new crew to run the store in the Alley."
"Yeah, he stationed us here because it's safer in the Village," Angelina said. "I don't know what in hell he's on about. The war's over, already!"
"Can I ask you ladies something," Fiona asked, once again chewing her bottom lip.
"Sure," Verity replied. "What's on your mind?"
"Before Cousin Fred…died…did either of them ever work alone?"
"Are you kidding," Angelina exclaimed. "Those two were thick as thieves! Never would one be without the other…except during—you know." Angelina's dark skin hid the blush that most-assuredly crept up her neck and onto her face.
"Yeah, George took Fred's death pretty hard, but Ron came to help out right after the war—before he joined the Aurors," Verity said. "They came up with some pretty good stuff for the hols—the Funny Floo Powder, the Stun-bombs, Carol's Candy. All big hits."
Fiona nodded thoughtfully and eyed the other two witches. "So after Ron left, did George hire another…inventor?"
"No, he didn't," Angelina said. "Why?"
Verity's eyes lit up as she caught on to Fiona's drift. "Are you telling us that George needs a side-kick? An assistant? Another…arm?"
"Yeah, I think that's it," Fiona said. "When I first came here, my Aunt Molly wasn't too inclined to accept me. I was all set ta go home and forget it all, but George stopped me and begged me ta stay."
"So…what? You're saying his slump is a result of loneliness," Angelina asked, aghast.
"That's exactly what I'm sayin', Ang. Cousin George is standin' in a river 'n' dyin' o' thirst," Fiona said. "He's surrounded by friends and family, but he's as alone as an ol' coyote. His mistakes are cries for help."
"He needs a partner," Verity concluded. "He needs another inventor to keep him grounded and focused. He and Fred worked like a well-oiled machine; when Ron came to work with us, he and George worked almost as well together. When Ron left…"
"George was sad to see him go, but he'd never stand in his little brother's way," Angelina continued. "He knew he and Harry dreamed of becoming Aurors and he couldn't be prouder of Ron."
"Then that's it. George needs a partner in the lab," Fiona said. "I'd be glad to help out, but I'm wrapped up in my apprenticeship and my work at St Mungo's. All of George's siblings have careers of their own and wouldn't know the first thing about inventin' 'n' prankin'."
"That leaves one of us," Angelina said sadly. "I was pants at Potions. I got only an 'A' on my Potions OWL, so that was it for me. I can't cook either, come to that."
The three witches laughed at Angelina's confession, but it was short-lived laughter. "So…any ideas?"
Verity's face broke into a wide smile and her eyes lit up with the light of a great idea. "Me! I could help George in the lab!"
"You," Angelina asked. "I never took you for the pranking sort."
"Yeah, me," Verity cried. "I got an 'O' in Potions. If I'd been a Slytherin, ol' Snape would have surely offered me an apprenticeship for a mastery. But alas, I'm just a lowly Ravenclaw and wasn't worthy of the greasy git's notice."
"You know…" Fiona began. "If that's true and you still want to go for a Potions mastery, I could put in a good word for ya with Sluggy—I mean, Professor Slughorn. If you're that good, he'd be tickled pink to take you on."
"Do you think so," Verity asked excitedly. "Do you think George would let me work with him in the lab? Angie?"
"I think we need to sit him down, sober him up, and put this idea to him," Angelina said with absolute conviction. "And when we convince him to let you, you can write Professor Slughorn about that apprenticeship. I mean, can you imagine what the two of you could do for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"
"Ladies, looks like we got us a plan," Fiona said. "Now it's up to you two to put it into action. I'll do what I can, but Miss Verity's George's only hope at this point. You gotta convince him of it and drag him up outta this slump he's got himself into."
"Fiona, you're a genius," Angelina cried, tears pooling in her dark eyes. "You've given me hope for my George." She stepped forward to give her man's cousin a heartfelt hug.
"After work tonight, we'll go to the flat and drag him out for a chat," Verity said determinedly. She turned to Fiona and looked into her eyes pleadingly. "Can we tell him this was your idea?" Verity knew very well how much weight Fiona's opinion carried with her boss.
"You tell my cousin whatever you gotta tell him to make him listen," Fiona said. "If he gives ya any mess, Floo me and I'll set him straight with a healthy kick up the ass. But I really don't think it'll come to that. He loves Angie dearly and thinks the world o' you, Verity, so yer chances're pretty good. Just keep me posted."
Angie stood stunned at Fiona's declaration of George feelings for her. "He—he loves m-me? G-george really l-loves me?"
"Of course he does," Verity and Fiona said together. "Ain't that man ever told you that?"
"No. No, he hasn't. I think it's…I dated Fred before he was killed—pretty much all through school," Angelina confessed. "George and I were just good friends, but we started talking at a party and…well, he hired me for the shop and we just started hanging out together."
"Hanging out? Ang, you've been dating for over a year," Verity argued. "He invites you to just about every Weasley function there is! If that's not dating, I don't know what is."
"Yeah, but I can't help but wonder if he invites me just to be nice, you know," Angelina argued. "I mean, they're all nice to me and treat me like I belong, but…"
"Ya do belong and I'll tell ya why I know that: That day Georgie took me ta the Burrow ta meet Aunt Molly, she took one look at me and asked him where you were," Fiona told her pointedly. "And Ronnie did the same when he showed up. Maybe Georgie ain't said anything because he's afraid he'll dishonour Fred's memory or somethin'."
"Do you think so," Angelina asked, her eyes wide with hope.
"I'm no shrink or nothin', but that's how it looks ta me," Fiona assured her. "An' for what it's worth, when George talks about ya, he gets this goofy grin on his face and a kind o' far-away look in his eyes."
"You could take the initiative once we pull him out of this slump and work his confidence up again," Verity suggested. "One night when you're out together…"
"Angie, just tell him how you feel; he needs ta know that," Fiona said flatly. "It might help him get over himself, as Ginny would say."
"Right, and then assure him that you're over Fred and that it's okay to grieve—and that you always will," Verity added. "And you'll grieve together. You've lost the same loved one and you're both hurting. It's time to heal, and it's apparently up to you to start the process."
"Miss Verity's right, honey. It's time," Fiona agreed, glancing at the clock mounted on the wall over the service counter. "And speaking of time, is that there clock right?"
Angelina looked up at the clock and then checked her watch. "Yeah, it's right."
"Then I need to get a move on. I'm due at St Mungo's at noon and I've got a twelve-hour shift ahead o' me," Fiona said with a sigh. "It's a good thing I like kids."
Angie drew her into another hug. "Thanks again…for everything, Onie."
"Hey, no biggie," Fiona assured her.
"Um…be sure to say hello to Seamus for us," Verity added with a smirk. "Don't think we didn't see you two making eyes at each other outside."
"That's a talk for another day, thanks," Fiona blushed. "But he is pretty hot, ain't he?"
"Show me an Auror who isn't," Verity giggled. "That Tony Goldstein's looking pretty good these days…"
"All right! This is where I came in," Fiona laughed, moving toward the door. "I'll see you ladies later!" She opened the door and rushed out to the sound of a klaxon, which Verity silenced with a flick of her wand.
As she passed the Three Broomsticks, Fiona quickly stole a glance at the second-story window that looked into Seamus' rooms. She blew a kiss at it and Disapparated to London and St Mungo's Hospital. Back inside the shop, Angelina and Verity continued with their work, all the while discussing a strategy for Operation Weasley.
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Harry and Arthur met in Arthur's office under the guise of working out more logistics for the tournament. In reality, they were there to requisition a certain Muggle-related artefact for further investigation. All the proper paperwork had been filled out and filed, stamped and approved, and now it was time to put their plan into action.
During the week, Harry had contacted Phelps Brothers Builders about a fully-functional and stocked garage, suitable for housing at least two cars and a motorcycle, and a workshop, complete with pit. Harry ordered a complete set of Snap-On® tools, cabinet, and every sort of fluid, oil, cleaner, and lubrication a tinkerer could ask for and all the accessories necessary to work with it all.
Construction was set to begin the following Monday morning, so Arthur determined that they would shrink the Harley and stash it in a secure container which Harry would hide in one of the wall-safes at Ionúin Bhaille. Once the garage was finished, they'd take the Harley out into the woods, away from the village where Bill would break whatever curses that tainted it. At that point, the three of them would sneak it into the workshop, tear it down piece-by-piece, and clean every still-functional component, replacing what they needed to, and then rebuild and restore the chopper in time for Ron's birthday on the first of March.
"Why go to all the trouble of cleaning the parts by hand," Arthur asked, having little understanding of the intricacies of the combustion engine. "All I had to do with Sirius' bike was to replace damaged parts and Tergeo or Scourgify the dirt and grime away."
"Dad, the Triumph hadn't been sitting idle for forty years; this Harley has," Harry explained. "Since wizards don't know squat about these things, they just parked it down here without at least draining the fuel tank. The inside of that tank is coated with sludge about the consistency of varnish. The oil left in the engine has turned to tar—these are things we can't just fire spells at without inflicting irreparable damage. Besides, think of the greater sense of accomplishment when we're finished."
Arthur cast an amused smile at his son-in-law. "Harry, to hear you talk, we're restoring a work of art."
"We are, Dad," Harry smiled wistfully. "We are."
With a flick of his wand and a softly-spoken Reducio, the big Harley-Davidson shrunk to the size of a 1/24 model, which Harry sealed in a hard plastic box. He then slipped it into his robes and the two of them left the Evidence Repository with a cheerful wave to Trooper Carstairs.
"Coming for supper, son," Arthur asked as they rode the lift to the Atrium level. "Molly cooked all your favourites—including treacle tart for afters."
"Wouldn't miss it," Harry agreed. "Just let me pop home and change out of these heavy robes."
"Fair enough," Arthur agreed. "See you at the Burrow in a bit, then."
The two of them Disapparated—Arthur to the Burrow and Harry to Ionúin Bhaille. Upon arrival home, Harry headed straight to his study where a framed print of his dream Aston-Martin hung on the wall behind his desk. With a wave of his hand, the picture swung forward revealing a small safe. He turned the dial left, then right, and then left again until he heard a faint click. He opened it and slid the box containing the chopper inside. With a sly smile, he closed the door and spun the dial. He waved the picture back into position and left the study.
"Mischief managed."