Remus eventually gave in on the Fidelius, so Dumbledore performed the ritual before he left. Whoever had called it a charm was engaging in a fit of vast oversimplification for the purposes of categorization. The spellwork to set it up wasn't quite like building wards, but it was intense. When he left, only the three of us would be able to find the house. He provided Remus a scrap of parchment with the address to show the people he wanted to have access, because the secret could be transmitted by writing (and that immediately struck me as a huge security hole). I also mischievously suggested that the headmaster inform Tonks, purely so there would be a friendly auror who could get access in an emergency.
I quickly realized I'd forgotten about Bob and worried whether he would be affected, but he assured me that it mostly worked on humans and beings whose minds worked similarly, and wouldn't affect him any more than it would a familiar. That was probably another huge hole in the defenses that I might have to bring up someday if the things coming out of the Nevernever began to attack more deliberately.
Christmas morning was another haul that just reminded me how many friends I'd accumulated. I'd spent a lot of time over the fall semester making minor enchanted items for basically everyone, though perhaps even more work had gone to making The Prince's Potions. I'd had Remus send me a ream of standard-sized paper and laboriously, using my best penmanship (quillmanship?), transcribed the Half-Blood Prince's improvements to the recipes in my potions book. I'd left out the spells.
Because he, himself, had to use a non-electric typewriter to actually write his novels, Remus had invested in a pretty beefy photocopying machine of the kind you'd need to quickly run off a whole manuscript copy to submit to a publisher. It had its own anti-magic wards in one of his larger closets. It was the perfect thing to create practical copies that weren't in danger of evaporating to a spare counterspell. I'd run off a copy for each of my friends in NEWT-level potions, as well as a copy for Mathilda who hoped to do well enough on her OWLs to take it in her next year.
Remus had gone through it when I was copying and binding, and was impressed. He figured that kind of thing might sell well, though I felt a little weird about stealing someone else's work even if the wizarding world didn't care about copyright. I'd forgotten to ask Dumbledore about whether Severus Snape, the Death Eater who'd died trying to destroy Voldemort, was likely to have called himself the Half-Blood Prince in school.
On the return end of things, most of my friends had gotten me magical materials or gift certificates to the shops at Hogsmeade. The most surprising was a card from the Grangers that had 200 pounds of cash included (the value, not the weight). It also included a stern admonishment that they knew how much I'd done for Hermione, and suspected how valuable her gifts would be at enchanted item shops, so I was not to act like it was too much. They'd obviously figured me out, because I was about to.
I once again wound up with three "mystery" gifts. Dumbledore gave me a book on protean enchantments similar to what I'd done for Filch and Mrs. Norris, all about passing various things between linked objects. An unknown package had a similar wrapping to the tartan scarf I'd received the year before (which I'd eventually found out was the pattern for my mother's clan, the McGregors). It contained an obscure book on focusless transfiguration, which looked helpful. Finally, my godmother had sent a card and two invitations to the Malfoy New Year's Eve party. The card read:
As discussed briefly, the rest of your debts will be discharged by keeping the secrets of my guest. You will be introduced at the party, so do please attend. I know you are fashion-challenged, so a suit will arrive for you. -L
Not really knowing how much debt my godmother thought I had left to discharge, I was vaguely worried about how much it was worth to keep someone's secrets. And then I realized that I probably wouldn't be able to share my suspicions of what had cracked open the veil on the solstice, and my stomach dropped.
That wasn't the only concerning letter I got on Christmas day. Early in the afternoon, a post owl dropped off a short note that was on Ministry parchment in a very formal script. It looked feminine.
Mr Dresden. In light of your recent service helping to rid the world of Fenrir Greyback, I would like to meet to discuss potentially rescinding your Doom of Damocles. Please meet me at the Ministry cafeteria for lunch on the 26th. You may respond via the owl that brought this letter.
"The Fidelius has a lot of security holes," I mentioned to Remus while I sought his opinion about the letter. "Owls can make it through."
"Deliberate, I think," he shrugged. "We could put up a ward that kept owls out or redirected them if it was an issue. But usually you want to receive mail, just not enemy visits. Anyway, I think it's safe enough for you to meet on this, though it seems rather clandestine. Someone at the ministry probably thinks they can use you to forward some agenda. If it was completely on the up-and-up, you'd meet at their office."
"About what I figured, thanks," I told him. "I guess I'm going to see what the Ministry's cafeteria is like."
And that's how I found myself in the location in question the next day. The guy at the front desk hadn't really been able to figure out what to do without a wand to scan for an ID badge, but had made due with my blasting rod, even though the output had been gibberish. The whole society was too focused on wands as registration devices. Once you started seeing security holes in how wizards did things, it was hard to stop. No wonder Moody was so paranoid. At least, since I was just meeting someone at the cafeteria, it wasn't too much of an issue.
The room in question was on the main atrium level that I'd flooed into, which was good because sorting out the numbering system for the floors would have been an extra headache. It was fairly large, since it was the choice of Ministry workers that didn't want to scan out and back in to get lunch. While done in the typical woods-and-tapestries decorating style of the wizarding world, its form factor was pretty standard. One wall had food stations with a tray shelf in front of them, and the rest was tables once you'd gotten your food. Apparently, cafeteria architectural design didn't really change much between centuries and cultures.
The room was mostly empty due to it being the holidays, and the note had specifically not suggested that I was being treated to lunch, so I just went ahead and got my own tray, paid for it, and found a table. The offerings were mostly Christmas dinner fare, probably leftovers.
I'd been there maybe fifteen minutes past noon when what I'd assumed was a passing secretary cleared her throat to get my attention, "Hem hem."
My first impression was that the small woman was wearing more pink than I'd seen on anyone outside of kids going to ballet class. The second, uncharitable impression was that the pink was a defense mechanism to indicate that she was a woman at all, or at least a witch and not some female of another magical species. Bob had told me legends of frog people called Fomor in some of our discussions of magical races, and I kind of wondered if she had one in her family tree. She definitely had the Innsmouth look.
Seeing she had a tray and was waiting, I stood and pulled out a chair for her to sit. No reason not to be chivalrous even if the woman in question had to make questionable wardrobe decisions to make it obvious she was female. "Thank you, such a gentleman," she said in a voice that she seemed to deliberately pitching up into a more childish register. I thought maybe she was actually a schoolgirl with that disease that makes you age faster, progeria.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, me finishing up my lunch and her eating a small portion of ham and potatoes. If the cafeteria had been full, I'd have assumed she just wanted a place to sit. Since it was empty, she was either the person I was supposed to meet or just a very lonely office drone.
Finally, after we'd finished, she daintily wiped her mouth on her napkin and said, "Now. You are, of course, aware who I am?"
I shrugged, "Sorry. American."
That seemed to cut through whatever self importance she'd worked up, and she just sniffed, "Ah. Of course. Though I believe your magical ancestors were British?"
"Supposedly," I told her, still confused by the whole conversation. "But she died when I was born, so I was raised pretty similarly to a muggleborn."
"Unfortunate. Though I understand you have some contact with individuals like Lucius Malfoy, who can model appropriate British norms to you?"
I kept the scowl off of my face, barely. She hadn't come out and said it, but I was already getting the vibe from this lady that she was one of the useful bigots Malfoy kept in his faction. "I'm tutoring his son in runes and enchanting," I agreed, instead. "Oh, and I guess I'll be at his New Year's party."
"Excellent! Young Draco has a bright future," she gave me a wide-mouthed smile. "I am, since you are unaware, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Delores Umbridge. You may call me Madam Umbridge."
"Harry Dresden," I told her, unnecessarily, but she'd left the pause.
"Quite. I've read your file. Auror Dawlish is quite convinced that you murdered your mentor, a Justin DuMorne. However, Auror Savage and Moody's notes speak to someone being pursued by… undesirable elements. Which is it, Mr. Dresden?"
I didn't trust this woman at all, much less know whether she was another Death Eater, so I tried to keep it simple, "Unfortunately, Dawlish didn't know Justin as well as he thought he did. Neither did I. He tried to do some kind of dark ritual to me and it went wrong. I got out, he didn't. Since then… several other dark wizards and werewolves seem to have it out for me."
She stared at me for a few long moments, clearly trying to get my measure, then decided, "I can work with that. The important part is that Auror Moody's report indicates you were integral to killing Fenrir Greyback. Given his documented attack on you in the summer, and his known proclivities, self defense is much easier to sell."
"Who are we selling it to?"
"The Wizengamot, of course," she simpered. "This may be an excellent opportunity to advance my legislation to further protect Britain from werewolves."
"What does that legislation involve?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"While complete success would involve full tracing and eventual relocation to safe reserves as we do with dragons, in the near term I'm confident we can put more restrictions on movement, publish identities and photographs publicly so all citizens will be warned, and compel employers of known werewolves to accept partial responsibility for their indiscretions."
"Would any of that have helped against Greyback," I asked, the first question that popped into my head while I chewed on the other ramifications.
"Not… directly," she admitted. "But he relied heavily on other werewolves that he had infected to help him stay free of the law. We would either have better ability to surveil them or the ability to charge them for not following the law."
I actually thought about it further, without going with my knee-jerk of disagreeing with her on principle. Remus was an exception to the normal process, according to Bob. Most werewolves would, eventually, succumb to the curse and become dangerous. But would further limiting their options do more than immediately push them all to embrace living outside the law?
"What about including research into how to break the curse? Or at least inventing some kind of protection that keeps it from being able to latch onto victims?" I asked.
She waved a hand as if it was inconsequential, "It's been tried. Your potion professor's work has been the only line of research that's had much result. At the end of the day, they all chose to become werewolves. There is little magic that can overcome that kind of willing decision."
Again, I couldn't actually disagree with her point, as much as it galled me. All my intuition was telling me that this woman was an even worse person to ally myself with than Malfoy. But, in this case, the trade she was offering of getting Dawlish off my back forever might be worth it. As much as I just wanted to tell her to go to hell…
"Can I see the text of the law, before I make a decision?" I asked.
She thought about it, then nodded. "I'll have a copy for you at Malfoy's party. Choose soon, though. I want to propose this at the spring session, and need to include your presence or absence in my plans."
With that, I nodded and we left, me to go home and tell Remus that I might be selling him out to get what I wanted…
