Transatlantic flights are tedious, even on the Concorde. But Jack Crawford was on official US government business, so he had to use official US government means of transport. Besides, he hated Floo travel and his long-distance Apparating skills were rusty; he didn't want to embarrass the bureau, and himself, by getting splinched somewhere around Marble Arch.
The in-flight modem service was far too slow for his liking, so he downloaded and printed off the information he needed at an Internet kiosk in Dulles while he waited for his flight. (The information that he needed from the Muggle world, that is; he already had several copies of the Daily Prophet stacked neatly in his briefcase.) He had just finished printing off the last London Times article when the boarding call for his flight rang out over the loudspeakers.
The in-flight meals on the Concorde were a rarity for airline food, in that they actually verged upon the tasty. But Crawford's ability to enjoy life had been seriously diminished in the course of his late wife Bella's terminal illness. Clarice Starling's having been ground under Krendler's slimy heel, and then her sudden disappearance before Krendler could slaver over pictures of her being led off in irons and an orange jumpsuit to a federal penitentiary, finished off what little capacity for enjoyment he had left in him. He consumed without savoring the chicken Cordon Bleu set before him; he hadn't eaten anything yet that day, and only his sudden drop in glucose level reminded him of the need for sustenance.
He pushed aside the empty tray and opened his briefcase. When he was sure no one could see, he managed a quick glance at the article and accompanying photos adorning the front page of the topmost Daily Prophet.
"MUGGLE MAGICIAN" DR. READER DOES IT AGAIN, read the headline. Below it was a lengthy article on how a certain Muggle psychiatrist named Dr. Reader, already famous for his restoration of sanity to Frank and Alice Longbottom, had just worked similar wonders on other victims of Lord Voldemort and his minions.
It was also noted in the article that Dr. Reader was the new guardian of The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, freeing him from the clutches of cruel Muggle relatives. Dr. Reader's assistant and companion, one Lucy Stellanova, was also profiled; she was shown in one of the pictures as well, her right profile held resolutely towards the camera.
With the patience of those who feel they have nothing left to lose, and the marinated-into-the-bone discipline of a model FBI man, Crawford continued to look at the image of a smiling, talking Miss Stellanova. He waited, and waited, and waited some more. He was waiting for the magically-captured image of her to turn towards him and show her left cheek.
A flight attendant walked by, and Crawford was obliged to feign an active search for a lost something-or-other in his briefcase, keeping one eye focused on the Daily Prophet photo.
Suddenly, there it was. Her image turned and showed Crawford, just for an instant, her left cheek.
Just as he expected, there was a mole on it, high on the cheekbone. The mole of the type the French called "Courage".
Crawford slammed the briefcase shut.
=================
One minute Sirius was in dreamland, human, happy, and chatting with the most hypnotically beautiful woman he had ever met; the next he woke up to find himself in Regent's Park, in dog form, being gently prodded by an old homeless Muggle woman with a carrier bag.
"Don't mind me, ducks," she said, squeezing next to him on the park bench. "I just needs to rest me weary legs, is all." She patted him with a grimy hand wrinkled and worn from years spent out of doors. She then rummaged around in her carrier bag, and pulled out a ham sandwich. "Got this from a friend of mine at the pub up the road," she said fondly. "I'll let you have part of it."
Sirius accepted with a quick, happy bark. As he bolted down his portion, he made a mental note to find out where this woman normally stayed, so he could return the favor with one of Reader's and Lucy's delicious creations.
That brought him back to his dream. It was the same one he'd been having for some weeks now. A dream in which Lucy Stellanova figured prominently.
Sirius put his head between his paws. Lucy was out of his reach; she already had a perfectly good lover, thank you very much, and she had absolutely no interest in trading him for a convicted murderer on the run. Sirius was not going to be a homewrecker, even on the off chance that Lucy would welcome his overtures.
Besides, Sirius told himself, he was just reacting to his being starved for love, or even human contact. It'd been such a long time since he'd ever had a girlfriend, a real girlfriend; there were a few one-night stands with some charitably-minded librarians, but being an escaped convict was not conducive to forming long-term romantic relationships. And then, to fall half-dead from hunger, only to wake up in the care of the most beautiful woman in existence, the woman who was his godson's guardian... no wonder his heart ached like a schoolboy's.
The Muggle woman looked at him concernedly. "You all right, ducks?" she said. "That sandwich agreeing with you?" Sirius turned his caramel-colored eyes to her and nodded, then nuzzled her as she stroked his neck. "Poor thing. Tell you what: why don't you come with me down to the pub? We'll see if Bill'd be willing to get you a doggie-dish of ale or summat."
This sounded very good indeed to Sirius, and he barked his approval. Maybe a quick pint -- or rather, dish -- might help get his mind off of Lucy. Tail wagging, he fell into step beside the homeless woman as she rose up and walked off down the street.
============
Some distance away, in Dr. Reader's Harley Street clinic, Neville Longbottom studied the tip of the hypodermic needle with a critical eye, slowly pressing the plunger until he was rewarded with the sight of a clear drop. A drop at the tip meant no air bubbles existed that could be inadvertently injected into a patient's bloodstream. This was exceedingly important, as air bubbles in the bloodstream could trigger deadly heart attacks.
Dr. Reader had just started allowing him to give injections to his patients, both at St. Mungo's and at Harley Street, and Neville wanted to show the doctor that he was worthy of his trust. He was already working at the doctor's side as his pill-dispenser, measuring out the medicines Dr. Reader prescribed, and doing so with a deftness and precision that would have been impossible for Neville less than two months earlier.
Before him, on the examination table, was a little Muggle girl of six years of age. Her eyes were frozen in the stare that is the hallmark of the catatonic. She was strapped to the table with velvet-lined restraints of strong leather; this was an unfortunate but necessary precaution, as she tended to spend her brief periods of activity in mutilating whatever she could get her hands on, even if it was only her own self.
The little girl's name was Joanne, Joanne King, and she lived in Camberwell. Joanne's mother had brought her in for treatment of her catatonia, and, though she would not say it, for independent, professional confirmation of the physical and sexual abuse she strongly suspected was being meted out to Joanne by Joanne's stepfather.
Neville was careful not to unneccessarily touch Joanne as he injected the sedative-hypnotic into her veins. As much as his sympathetic and kind nature made him want to hug the poor suffering child, that would not be at all professional. Furthermore, if Joanne was indeed being sexually abused, any touching that reminded her of that abuse would set back her treatment indefinitely.
The injection finished, he smiled what he hoped was a friendly, reassuring smile at the little girl on the table. She looked so small, so frail, so helpless, he thought. How could anyone dare to harm such a little one as this?
He turned quickly away from the child, so that she would not see the anger that suddenly darkened his face, and spent a few seconds composing himself. Then he moved to the wall next to the table, and pressed the intercom button.
"Dr. Reader," he said in a voice that was already a close echo of Reader's in terms of calmness and resonance, "your next patient is ready."