CHINA DOLL VI-- BEST OF BOTH WORLDS
It was not an easy job, shipping a hippogriff.
Of course, a hippogriff was the last thing the postal service thought they were shipping, all they knew that the undescript cardboard box addressed to a Mr. P. Foote, esq., shook and howled like a banshee having an epileptic seizure. It was when several postmen flat out refused to touch the parcel as it was being unloaded into a Hong Kong train station that their supervisor called his superior...
----
"And what can I do for you fine people?" Vix leaned over the bar, her starched white uniform plunging dangerously low.
"Two coffees," Remus sputtered through a yawn, glaring belligerently at the wide-awake Sirius. "Both for me..."
"Surprise me," Sirius said as Vix grabbed a notepad to take his order. "Just surprise me for under four pounds because I don't feel like emptying my wallet."
Giving him the look of disgust inherent to all females, she turned away and sauntered into the repaired kitchen. Despite first glances, the damage from Whimsy's explosion had been minimal, in fact, the only thing that was broken beyond repair was the plate glass window, now filled up with a piece of plywood, already covered from side to side with the graffiti of 1000 different artistically-inclined vandals.
Sirius settled back in his chair and his attention slowly drifted to a television hanging over the bar which had remarkably survived the blast. It was now broadcasting what had to be local news on a low volume. He was about to say something to Remus when a name caught his ear. "...P. Foote, esq. Frankly Huey, I don't think we've seen anything like this." Sirius's head whipped around and he saw a pretty young reporter gesturing to a cardboard box as tall as she was jumping around a train station like a frog on steroids. A crowd of increasingly bewildered pedestrians gawked openly. "Due to their privacy policy, the International Postal Federation refuses to open the package at this time, but is instead holding it at the Singh Station until it is claimed by the mysterious P. Foote, esquire. I hope if any of our viewers know of the whereabouts of this elusive man, they will contact him and let his know his package is waiting-- enthusiastically," she added as the box gave a loud squawk. Flashing a mouthful of pearly whites, the reporter spoke once more into the camera, "This is Nsia Mbambe, signing off."
Sirius could feel Remus's cool gray eyes on the back of his neck before he even turned around. "What did you do?"
Sirius smiled wickedly and for a second Remus thought they were back at Hogwarts in the days when Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs roamed free. "You know how hippogriffs and portkeys disagree, and it wasn't as if I could leave Buckbeak in Madrid. To be entirely truthful, he saved my life."
Remus looked completely non-impressed; "You shipped the damn bird?"
Sirius clucked his tongue, "It's not a damn bird, if you want to be correct it's currently a cramped one."
"How stupid are you?" Remus growled; the sleep washed from his face by absolute dismay. "Do you think the bird would just stay still for 2000 miles? How could it NOT be noticed?"
"Its no big deal," Sirius shrugged. "We just go down to the station and grab the box, right?"
"It was on their telepison!" Remus scowled and then wondered briefly why Sirius was snickering. "You expect the Muggles to let us sneak in and sneak out? Not that sneak is even an option when we have a seven-foot hippogriff with us! There will be pictures, news stories... what is someone sees? What is Snape hears? He's not stupid, he'll know who P. Foote is in an instant!"
"Snape doesn't live in Hong Kong," Sirius protested sullenly.
"I am willing to bet there are more wizards here than Jonathan Whimsy and Su Naoto," Remus scowled. "You are in hiding, Sirius."
"Alright!" He threw up his hands, a chastened expression on his face. "You get it."
"What?" Remus sputtered, obviously this was not what he had had in mind.
"I obviously can't," Sirius smirked. "And I can't leave it there. Think of Hagrid."
"I could care less," Remus persisted, but the words sounded false even in his own ears.
"Thanks Moony," Sirius replied, a genuine smile on his face.
"You owe me," Remus snarled, trying desperately not to loose his caution in Sirius's happy-go-lucky aura.
"Nah, we're even," Sirius smiled. "Remember the time in sixth year when I lent you my broomstick; to take Viola Lorenzo out on that romantic ride out under the stars? You never paid me back."
Feeling in great need of a potent headache charm, Remus laid his head on the table. "Do shut up."
----
Remus had never liked hippogriffs. Big, feathery, and annoyingly arrogant had always been his assertion of the monsters that Hagrid had held so dear. Therefore, nothing but great love for Sirius and a dull loyalty to the old gamekeeper could have possessed him to go down to the station that July morning.
Once he got there, he had the strong inclination to bolt. The crowd had swelled from the few stragglers portrayed on the news to a few hundred, all gazing at the quaking box with morbid fascination. Biting his teeth, he pressed into the melee. It was like trying to fight your way through the crowd of third-years that gathered when Honeydukes was giving away free samples. Only worse: third-years were short. After much pushing, shoving, and other aggressive whatnot, Remus finally squeezed his way to the front, where three haggard representatives of the International Postal Federation stood holding the box down. Around them stood about a dozen preening reporters, one of whom Remus recognized as "Nsia Mbambe" from the diner.
Trying to avoid the television crews, he skulked up next to a particularly worn postal worker. "Er... that's my package."
The man turned to him as if he was the messiah come again, "Mr. P. Foote?"
"Esquire," Remus added, figuring if he was going to impersonate Sirius he may as well do it properly.
"Sign here," the postman pulled out a clipboard. Buckbeak chose that moment to let loose a long anguished bellow such as only a hippogriff could produce, and any trace of color rapidly fled from his face. "Sign. For the love of god..."
Taking the clipboard, Remus scribbled something sufficiently illegible and turned to the cardboard box. How to actually transport a hippogriff inconspicuously had never crossed his mind, and unfortunately for Remus, it had not crossed the minds of the editors of the Idiot's Guide either. If he actually pulled it off, whatever else life threw at him afterwards would be an absoblute joke.
"Mr. Foote," sinking further into his swamp of dismay, Remus found himself faced with the smiling Nsia Mbambe and her complete camera crew. "What a pleasure to meet you at last!"
Lying through his teeth, Remus took a step backwards away from her smiling visage. "You too."
"So," she said, her candy-coated smile persisting. "Our viewers are just dying to know what's in that box!"
"Frankly," Remus snapped, giving Mbambe a black look, "It's none of your viewers business."
"Oh come now Mr. Foote," Nsia flashed another rehearsed smile. "Don't be such a Scrooge!"
Having grown up in the boarding school we all know as Hogwarts, which never in its recorded history had never submitted his students to Charles Dickens except in cases of extreme punishment, Remus hadn't a clue of what Mbambe was talking about. "What?" he said blankly.
"Ebeneezer Scrooge?" Nsia pressed on at his blank look. "Bah Humbug? The Ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future?" Because she wasn't making any progress, Nsia gave up. "If you won't tell us what's in that box, Mr. Foote, maybe you could give us a hint?"
"No," Remus said flatly grabbing the pushcart which Buckbeak's box was precariously balanced on. "And if you'd excuse me..."
"You're disappointing our viewers, Mr. Foote!"
Remus didn't even bother to reply as he wheeled the hippogriff into the swarming crowd.
----
Nsia pulled the tiny microphone off her button-down jacket and with a quick glance to assure her cameraman was busy flirting with a waif half his age, she snuck off into a dark corner of the station. Normally her side job as a reporter was completely useless. Nsia often felt as if she had to give that packaged smile one more time, or attend just one more garden club meeting she would scream. Nevertheless, this seemingly inane story had turned up interesting results, results he would die for.
Pushing a dreadlock out of her face, Nsia pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. As she glanced around to make sure she was truly alone, Nsia dialed a number she had long since committed to heart. "Orien? I found your Brit..."
----
"Do you need any help with that, Mr. Foote?"
Wheeling around in a moment of alarm, Remus felt his heart race. "Not from you."
"Temper, temper," Jonathan Whimsy gave the patronizing stare he had utilized so well.
"What do you want?" Remus growled.
"You know very well what I want," Whimsy hissed in response. "And you're going to give it to me, or else you're friend sets up a kissing booth."
Remus made no reply, deadlocked in Whimsy's stranglehold.
"That box is inconvenient," Whimsy waved his hand dismissivly. "I suggest we dissapperate."
Remus shook his head slowly, "Go away..."
Whimsy turned the full force of his calculating stare of him, and strangely enough, his voice softened. "You have a duty, Mr. Foote, a duty to me, a duty to your friend, and most importantly a duty to the freedom of wizards everywhere."
Remus did not bother to stifle his hollow laugh, "You're a real spin doctor, you know that?"
"Ah well," His moods never ceasing to change, Whimsy grinned. "We all have our little talents."
"Where to?" Remus said, feeling his defenses crumble out from under his feet.
"My office," Whimsy replied with a knowing smile. "I knew you'd come around."
----
"Hello 24 Hour Diner, this is Vix speaking. How may I help you?" Amazingly after yesterday's blast, the electricity still worked, allowing Vix to reopen her restaurant for business almost immediately. All in all the only lasting impact the bomb had was to assure Vix that there truly was a god.
"This is Orien." On the other hand, maybe the almighty was not watching…
"What do you want?" She sighed, quickly gathering up all shreds of self-control for further usage.
He paused, and when Orien next spoke his voice was full of triumph, "I found your Englishman."
Vix drew a blank, "What Englishman?"
"The one who bombed your shop," Orien hissed.
Vix gave a quick look to the outer room, where Padfoot was sitting, devouring his hash. "The Englishmen didn't bomb my shop."
"They're in league with Jonathan Whimsy," Orien replied as if she was a six-year-old schoolgirl.
"Peachy for them," Vix snapped. "And they didn't bomb my shop. Frankly, I don't care who did. I can't do anything about it, it's over."
"Don't be stupid, Vix," Orien's voice rasped over telephone wires.
"I'm not stupid," she replied with childish force.
"Why are you defending the foreigners?" Orien mused more to himself than his sister. "Why all of a sudden are you siding with them?"
"Maybe I'm not a heartless bigot," she snapped.
Orien grew quiet and Vix could almost see the anger radiating through the phone line, "Where are they?"
Vix glanced towards the dining room once again, "What do you mean?"
"Where are they, Vix?" He said threateningly. "They've contacted you, where are they?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" She said, trying desperately to stop her voice from wavering in its sincerity.
"Don't lie to me." Orien said, his voice rising to a roar. "Don't lie to me!"
Her hand shaking uncontrollably, Vix slammed the phone down into the receiver.
----
Sho Seiji had made 10 billion dollars in three years. Roughly rounded to 3.25 billion dollars a year, he felt he had maybe a slight reason to feel smug. Maybe slightly bigger than slight. But hard work did not come without a price, and so Seiji found himself hunched over his computer as the sun dipped itself into the sea, long after his office had officially closed. He kept the blinds open, and occasionally glanced up from his black and white spreadsheet to gaze at the tantalizing rays of the pre-dusk sun.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Seiji heard a slight click behind him and realized it was his office door closing. Wheeling around in his chair, he saw an unfamiliar tall young man with raven dark hair just brushing his shoulders.
"Yes..." Seiji replied, slightly shaken. "Yes it is."
"When I was small," the young man continued, speaking in the tone of a one much in years, "my father used to take me down to the water's shore at sunset, and we'd play the waves. I used to try and hold the color in my hand. It never worked of course."
"Yes," Seiji said, too mesmerized by the man and his aura to make any more than a monosyllabic answer.
"Sunsets are beautiful," the man inhaled deeply and Seiji felt a wave of cold slide through him. "It is the most magical time, when night and day meet. The intoxicating brightness slides into its seductive gown, you can loose yourself in night, shed all vestiges of reality. Sunset holds the best of both worlds."
"Who are you?" Seiji finally managed to choke out a coherent sentence.
A smile danced across the young man's face, and his hale features seemed withered and old. "I am Lord Grindewald," he breathed, "I am Lord Voldemort… I am living, I am dying. I am hope, I am despair. I am night, I am day. I am the best of both worlds." Seiji remained paralyzed as the fangs slid into his neck.