Chapter 9: Take this letter, sweet owl, and carry it into the abyss
The soft hoot of an owl woke Bill from his sleep, everyday it seemed to sound a touch earlier. Five in the morning, 'working hours for an honest man' his boss would say. At first, Bill would smile while a string of expletives ran through his mind, now he just nodded. Hogwarts was a waste to him. A beautiful waste of time.
He was forty-three years old, single and he still had to stop himself from cursing his alarm every morning.
Bill did not complain though, that was just a trap. A few of his co-workers liked to complain endlessly, and now they were gone. Everyone wanted to be gone, but not the way they took. Going back to the muggle side to live with their relatives, working a bad job and trying to get some muggle education in them while they still had a chance.
Leaving magic was hard for everyone, and downright impossible for Bill.
So, he pulled himself out of his small bed and wore his transfigured suit. It itched like crazy and he had to reapply the magic every other day, but it did not look half bad. After that, he left his apartment and walked through muggle London. To save some money he avoided the Knight Bus and just walked. He was never that talented, so apparition was no option, but he could save some sickles every day.
By five forty-five he'd arrive at the Ministry's entrance to flush himself to work. It was funny at first, now it was just there. The rage he felt at being no better than 'shit' subsided after a year or two. He was though, no better than 'shit' that is. 'At least for now,' he would think privately. He was a good student at Hogwarts and had written a few books about muggle and wizard culture, not that they've been published or anything.
A lesser man would blame it on the pure-bloods, not that they were wrong, but he could not think like that. One day he'd change something here.
"Bill," a man with tired eyes said in greeting.
"Matt," said Bill.
Neither sounded real, it just sounded like a noise which ought to be heard. The tapping of feet when one walked, the roaring of a floo and the sigh of a greeting two people shared when they were trapped.
They walked down to the Magical Maintenance Department to sign in for work.
Once they saw their boss, the half-blood copy of them. The man was barely a half-blood though, his great-great-grandfather was a pureblood, apparently, and everyone else was a muggle-born. Little difference it made to most, but to Bill, it was a wall. The man, Thomas, was just as sad as them, but he had a family and he was an office worker. Bill and Matt were the alley cleaners.
"Bill, Matt, get'n here," Thomas grunted while walking into his three-wall office. A fancy cubical Bill used to say.
Bill and Matt followed him inside, a little worried. They normally cleaned Diagon Alley in the morning, before the shops opened, so they had it pretty good.
"Greg and Alan quit," Thomas said without looking at the two behind him. "You're in Knockturn Alley t'day."
"What," said Matt a little stunned. Diagon Alley was an easy gig, comparably, but Knockturn Alley tended to be a bit dangerous. The people there hated the Ministry and some were not afraid to mess with Aurors, never mind the cleaners.
"They lef' for 'Merica," Thomas explained. "Now you two got the job."
Bill just sighed, knowing what he said did not matter. Matt knew that too, so the man just shook his head.
"You two get an extra sickle t'day," said Thomas. "So, no complaining, ya' hear?"
"Yeah," sighed Bill. 'What's a little more shit.'
The two left the office and floo'd over to the leaky cauldron. Perks of the job, the powder was free to come and go here. They just had to sign their name and write their position on a slip by the fireplace so Tom could bill the Ministry.
They did not talk to each other, what else would they say? They knew each other too well to dislike one another. They just left the pub and walked towards Knockturn Alley.
They had their wands held a bit tighter that day, and moved a bit faster, but they did their job. Luckily, rarely anyone was up that early. They had to use some Ministry approved spells to clean the Alley's road and some of the shops. It was an opt-in system, if you wanted your place cleaned by the worker bees you had to pay the queen.
It was not back breaking work, merely waves of the wand, but those who stay in this position are never the best at magic. It was tiring for the two since their spells only covered a few feet at a time. Sure, Dumbledore could wave his wand and silently clean the entire street, but even an average wizard would find a better job.
So, Bill and Matt cleaned the Alley in record time, then they sat around for an hour wasting time. They knew how long they were expected to take, so they would take that long.
They then would go back to the Ministry and sign out for the day, taking a few sickles for their trouble. The extra sickle was pretty nice.
When he returned to his one-bedroom apartment it was almost nine in the morning, a few hours before he started his other job splitting wood. He worked for a small company that sold firewood in bulk, his job was to split logs and then bring the bundles of wood back to the warehouse. He was paid by the bundle, but not a lot since magic made it go by fast. Oddly, he worked with another Matt there.
What he was not expecting to hear was the tapping of an owl trying to get into his window.
'Shit,' he thought. Mail was rarely a good thing.
Opening the window, he took the letter and sent the brown owl off without any treats, those were expensive and he did not own an owl.
Mr. William Medley
I am writing to you today about your book, The Hufflepuff Hero. I find it is a remarkable piece of history that has never been shared properly. Few know about Charles Smith, the Hufflepuff seventh year who died during a muggle raid in a Braemar inn. No one seems to know about the muggle who shot and killed one, Mr. Edgar Selwyn.
It was a horrifying moment during the Dark Lords' reign which was hardly mentioned in The Daily Prophet. You are also a skilled writer and journalist. The way you tell the store just enhances the reality in which we lived for the longest time.
If you are interested in publishing your book through the new publishing house Dragon Scratch Tails, owl us at your earliest convenience. We are opening a small office in the town of Plekton and would love to meet with you.
Thanks,
Dragon Scratch Tails
The Most Ancient and Noble House Black
Bill just read the letter again before stopping to look at the sender. "The Most Ancient and Noble House Black," he whispered. No name was more terrifying for a Muggle-born, save one.
Bill did not go to work that day, he just looked at the letter and paced anxiously. He had a choice, to do to the meeting or not. On one hand, it was everything he ever wanted. On the other hand, it was offered by everything he ever hated. The book they wanted to publish was about The Hufflepuff Hero, something innocuous. Why would the dark wizards want to publish that? Did they even know Bill was a muggle-born?
Questions were asked over and over to no one, as Bill paced and sat for hours. It was not until his anxiety took the best of him and he vomited into his toilet that he came to a decision.
"Fuck it," was the cultured response of a forty-three-year-old who had nothing much to lose, save his life.
He took out some parchment and penned a response. He would be at the meeting tomorrow with all of his manuscripts and if it was some sick joke, he would just take it. If it was real, though, he would finally be someone. Not this insignificant worker bee who had to work two jobs just to find time to dream about getting this very letter.
-XxXx-
The hard clang of glass meeting wood woke Pieris Fetterbush from an alcohol induced sleep. He shot up from his bed, wand ready, and scanned the room with his wrinkled eyes. The sound of his empty bottle of rum rolling across the floor grabbed his attention as he let down his guard. Then the headache came.
Pieris stood and summoned a flask to his hand. He took a deep swing and shook his head roughly as the potions effect spread. His headache left him and the minor dizziness he had been feeling left with it.
The room he in was small, just enough to sleep and dress. Leaving it he entered an office that held thick rolls of parchment and odd trinkets. The walls were covered in strange art while the selves and desks were hidden under stacks of parchment.
Atop one of those stacks was a letter.
Captain Pieris Fetterbush,
Over a decade ago you and your men worked in service of the Most Ancient and Noble House Blackthorn, today we call upon you once more.
For my father you served in a time of darkness, winning bounties of gold. Over the years you have kept our deals confidential, you have spent your Galleons well and you have served others with the same strength that which you once served us.
Will you serve the house Blackthorn once more?
Lord Blackthorn
What do you do when a mysterious letter comes to you in times of peace, promising gold? You respond.
To the new Lord Blackthorn,
For the last Lord Blackthorn, we used our strengths to find fruit fit to harvest, what would we do for you? There is plenty of hidden fruit to be found across the world, but we travel little in the courtrooms of the Northern Isles. We search the seas of the Mediterranean for hidden bushes, plants and trees. We have done well, in the past, to find gardeners to share their secrets, but the climate up north is far different. Many of your farmers will find us humble sailors and hunters too uncultured to share their secrets, so we may need to find others to loosen their lips.
We can search, but may not find, or we can hunt in the northern seas for clever beasts.
We are ready, for a price.
Captain Pieris Fetterbush
Coded messages were a bit much, but paranoia saved a great many lives.
Captain Pieris Fetterbush,
I hope the weather finds you well. The north is cold, but our coats are thick. The waters are treacherous to those who fish, so only the stealthy succeed. There are whispers of a school of fish making its way into the calmer waters. An old man told me that he had lost a friend who was trying to catch a few, now he realizes he needed extra hands to hold the net. He plans to catch a few fish this coming season and leave before the others notice. They apparently sell well at market. Each fish is valuable because they are hard to catch.
It's a shame, though, that I cannot have you search our fields for fruit to sell. It seems I will need to find a Northerner who knows the local fields. Perhaps you know a few?
Lord Blackthorn
With the letter came a small package. Inside was a shining gem that glowed faintly in Pieris's hands.
"Someone reliable, then," Pieris said to himself before he started to pen a new letter.
Lord Blackthorn,
My ship is steady and strong this season. We have just reinforced the bow. It sails smoothly in the harshest of seas. We even have a fancy new magic which keeps the birds away. Once they see you, you'll find yourself covered in shit. Apologize, it is a sailor phrase; we avoid unnecessary shit.
I know a man in the North who guided my crew through trouble water, he knew an easy path. With him at your side, you could find fish in the sea or the noble Heart fruit on land. He has a few friends which he works with as well, who I have not met. They are said to grow plants so well that they could make a farm in Alley ditches.
I know that times can be hard, so I feel for your fisherman friend. I know that the Pureblood Felix Rosier is having some financial issues. His father died in the war and left his son with broken connections, no one likes to work with the son of a Death Eater it seems. Felix is a bit dim, but he still has friends. Broke as can be. Imagine, being friends with so many rich witches and wizards, but being broke.
The northerner, who I mentioned earlier, is a man named George Smith. That might not be his real name though. He sleeps most of his days in The Spiny Serpent, a dried-up old bar.
Let me know when there is fishing to be done.
Captain Pieris Fetterbush
A Rosier and a fake name. Alaric smiled as he began to write another letter. He would have to send Missy to meet this George Smith, and he would use one of the Black family managers to contact Rosier for a meeting. Some small business can be used as bait so Alaric can slip a message to this Rosier wizard.
Dark wizards were selfish and greedy, many followed after Voldemort to strengthen themselves. The Rosier family failed so they would naturally latch on to others for help. The stigma of being a 'Death Eater spawn' was what stopped the Rosier allies from giving significant aid, but it would not stop Alaric. Even if someone traced the deal back to Alaric, his name was mud.
With a few meetings and a lot of Galleons, Alaric would gain a voice and an ear inside Voldemort's followers. By the time the Dark Lord returned, Felix Rosier would be in too deep to turn on Alaric. Honour amongst thieves was held up by blackmail after all.
With Felix Rosier being used as an informant for the high class, this George Smith will be a lead in the lower class.
Alaric planned to make use of others to grow his network. Only Pieris Fetterbush should know his face, and Cassiopeia spoke highly of the man. He could keep a secret and he was happy to do the less desirable tasks. A warship filled with capable witches and wizards would soon sail to Britain.
-XxXx-
Soon the old Black and Blackthorn managers started to move with purpose. An old machine scrapped away it's rust. The Daily Prophet said nothing of it's newly found wealth, some owners retired after selling part of their claim to the paper. The Black family owned a small 13% of the paper, the Blackthorn owned even less at 8%. A new company, Dragon Scratch Tails, needed to ensure that their advertising would be handled responsibly, so they bought a hefty 5% and freelanced a few of the more… notorious reporters for other work. Plethoric Potion Provision Provider, an odd name, was a seller of potion ingredient, brewing supplies and finished products; the company decided that with three subsidiaries they each needed to have a 4% stake in The Daily Prophet to get ahead of any bad news.
A total of 38% of the paper was sold in a little over five months, not that anyone cared. With dozens of sellers and no new majority owner, life moved on. Over the next few years a few more sales would be made, but nothing substantial. 13% over three years did not look like a takeover, especially if that 13% was sold off to different places. A few companies wanted to save their image, buy favour, what was the harm.