Paris, France: the city of light, the city of romance, of lovers strolling
along the Seine, of shy flirtation, of secretive trysts in quiet rooms. It
was late afternoon, and the Jardins des Tuileries, the beautiful open
gardens in the centre of the city, were full of tourists milling aimlessly
and people walking home from work.
Two men sat on a bench, conversing quietly. They had a clear view of everything happening in the Tuileries. One was arguing his point on the modern merits of Jean-Paul Sartre's early works when his companion nudged him.
"Pierre, chut!" he whispered, pointing out a businesswoman walking briskly in from the street, entering the gardens from a gate near their bench. Her hand slipped discreetly into her attaché case and came out with a small, thick envelope, blank on both sides but sealed securely with the stamp of an old British family.
It happened very fast. The businesswoman marched past an old man tossing seed to the birds, and dropped the envelope on the pavement. A pigeon immediately snapped it up in its beak and flew off. The two Frenchmen on the bench watched silently as the pigeon flew over the pond and let the envelope drop onto the deck of one of the scale-model sailboats that floated in the water. The boat drifted all the way across the pond to a pleasant rosy-cheeked man, who removed the envelope and placed it behind him on the path. A child in a passing pram threw his toy on top of the envelope and his mother bent to retrieve it, taking the envelope as well. She pushed the carriage on, heading towards the exit of the gardens, and dropped the envelope at the feet of a tattered beggar before leaving the Tuileries at the opposite end from where the businesswoman had entered.
The Frenchmen observed this whole chain of events without saying a word. Now they both stared at the beggar. A thin hand emerged from the pile of rags shrouding the man and drew the envelope towards him. The envelope disappeared inside the sleeve of his frayed raiment.
Then the beggar rose and walked out of the Tuileries. The Frenchmen stood, drew their wands and followed him. "Let's follow him, it may be the famous Sirius Black," said Pierre in French.
It didn't take long for them to almost catch up to the beggar. The vagrant, sensing that he was being followed, began to speed up. He tipped his head to the side, and the Frenchmen, feeling the keen gaze eyeing them from under the shabby pointed hat, busied themselves admiring a street vendor's cheap wares. The beggar walked faster and the Frenchmen abandoned all pretence of subtlety and began pushing people aside to catch up to the vagabond. The beggar broke into a run. He wove between pedestrians and onto the road, dashing across just before the light changed. The Frenchmen lost him in the crowd on the other side of the street.
"Come on Jean, let's Apparate after him," said Pierre in French to his friend.
"Where? We do not know where he is going. Instead we should go to Voldemort. Perhaps he will reward us for the information of Black's whereabouts."
"The information Lord Voldemort wanted was in the letter that changed hands in the park!" Pierre snapped. "We were instructed to follow the letter to Black, but now we've lost both! And Black will probably not stay in the city very long, not now that he has his envelope."
"Lord Voldemort will be furious!" said Jean, wringing his hands. "Could we not even guess at the contents of that envelope? If we have nothing to tell him we'll be killed!"
Across the street Sirius Black stripped off the vagabond rags and hurried down the sidewalk in the Muggle clothes he wore underneath. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Frenchmen stuck on the other side of the street, and he smiled and ducked into a deserted alleyway. There he pulled the precious envelope out of his sleeve and ripped it open. Inside was a thin stack of redirected mail and a small sealed plastic bag of silver powder.
Sirius dove into his mail first of all. One coded message each from Remus Lupin, Mundungus Fletcher, Arabella Figg, and Albus Dumbledore, and two regular messages, from Harry Potter. Sirius first opened the latter and read hungrily of Harry's summer, his nightmares, the pain in his scar, Arabella Figg's disclosure, his first week back at Hogwarts. Then he read the letters from Lupin, Fletch and Figg, all written in ancient runes. They all mainly said the same thing, in heavily veiled code: something was happening in Britain, but none of them understood exactly what.
Lastly the letter from Dumbledore was opened and read. This one was clearly the most important, being written in Sumerian cuneiform, an obsolete writing used nowadays only in highly classified documents of the Order of the Phoenix.
"B: [it said] Trouble here. Strange veiled hints from Voldemort, but about what? Snape being excluded from Death Eater intelligence. Need you to spy here. Plan may centre on Potter's death. Security inadequate, need agents. Gather as many field agents on continent as possible and come back. Floo powder enclosed. D."
Sirius frowned, puzzled. What the devil could Voldemort be planning? Chances were, he was plotting a grand re-entry onto the world stage. Sirius groaned. Bella Figg had once told him that Voldemort was obsessed with Harry, the cause of his downfall. And the murder of Harry Potter, boy- hero, would be completely shattering to the magical community. That was it, then: Voldemort was cooking up a major scheme to kill Harry once and for all, and thus re-emerge on the scene after his fourteen-year absence. How would he do it? A knife in the dark? A hex furtively executed in the midst of a crowd? An abduction and a duel, like before? A full-blown war to crush every witch and wizard who opposed Voldemort's rule, and to draw Harry out of hiding for his ultimate termination on a battlefield?
Sirius took a deep breath. Perhaps he was overreacting. The timing of these instructions' arrival was auspicious: he had been missing his godson a lot lately. He would get to see Harry in person for the first time since the night of Voldemort's resurrection in June. Sirius smiled to himself as he gathered together his letters and the Floo powder, then Apparated out of the city to find the other Phoenixes.
Two men sat on a bench, conversing quietly. They had a clear view of everything happening in the Tuileries. One was arguing his point on the modern merits of Jean-Paul Sartre's early works when his companion nudged him.
"Pierre, chut!" he whispered, pointing out a businesswoman walking briskly in from the street, entering the gardens from a gate near their bench. Her hand slipped discreetly into her attaché case and came out with a small, thick envelope, blank on both sides but sealed securely with the stamp of an old British family.
It happened very fast. The businesswoman marched past an old man tossing seed to the birds, and dropped the envelope on the pavement. A pigeon immediately snapped it up in its beak and flew off. The two Frenchmen on the bench watched silently as the pigeon flew over the pond and let the envelope drop onto the deck of one of the scale-model sailboats that floated in the water. The boat drifted all the way across the pond to a pleasant rosy-cheeked man, who removed the envelope and placed it behind him on the path. A child in a passing pram threw his toy on top of the envelope and his mother bent to retrieve it, taking the envelope as well. She pushed the carriage on, heading towards the exit of the gardens, and dropped the envelope at the feet of a tattered beggar before leaving the Tuileries at the opposite end from where the businesswoman had entered.
The Frenchmen observed this whole chain of events without saying a word. Now they both stared at the beggar. A thin hand emerged from the pile of rags shrouding the man and drew the envelope towards him. The envelope disappeared inside the sleeve of his frayed raiment.
Then the beggar rose and walked out of the Tuileries. The Frenchmen stood, drew their wands and followed him. "Let's follow him, it may be the famous Sirius Black," said Pierre in French.
It didn't take long for them to almost catch up to the beggar. The vagrant, sensing that he was being followed, began to speed up. He tipped his head to the side, and the Frenchmen, feeling the keen gaze eyeing them from under the shabby pointed hat, busied themselves admiring a street vendor's cheap wares. The beggar walked faster and the Frenchmen abandoned all pretence of subtlety and began pushing people aside to catch up to the vagabond. The beggar broke into a run. He wove between pedestrians and onto the road, dashing across just before the light changed. The Frenchmen lost him in the crowd on the other side of the street.
"Come on Jean, let's Apparate after him," said Pierre in French to his friend.
"Where? We do not know where he is going. Instead we should go to Voldemort. Perhaps he will reward us for the information of Black's whereabouts."
"The information Lord Voldemort wanted was in the letter that changed hands in the park!" Pierre snapped. "We were instructed to follow the letter to Black, but now we've lost both! And Black will probably not stay in the city very long, not now that he has his envelope."
"Lord Voldemort will be furious!" said Jean, wringing his hands. "Could we not even guess at the contents of that envelope? If we have nothing to tell him we'll be killed!"
Across the street Sirius Black stripped off the vagabond rags and hurried down the sidewalk in the Muggle clothes he wore underneath. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Frenchmen stuck on the other side of the street, and he smiled and ducked into a deserted alleyway. There he pulled the precious envelope out of his sleeve and ripped it open. Inside was a thin stack of redirected mail and a small sealed plastic bag of silver powder.
Sirius dove into his mail first of all. One coded message each from Remus Lupin, Mundungus Fletcher, Arabella Figg, and Albus Dumbledore, and two regular messages, from Harry Potter. Sirius first opened the latter and read hungrily of Harry's summer, his nightmares, the pain in his scar, Arabella Figg's disclosure, his first week back at Hogwarts. Then he read the letters from Lupin, Fletch and Figg, all written in ancient runes. They all mainly said the same thing, in heavily veiled code: something was happening in Britain, but none of them understood exactly what.
Lastly the letter from Dumbledore was opened and read. This one was clearly the most important, being written in Sumerian cuneiform, an obsolete writing used nowadays only in highly classified documents of the Order of the Phoenix.
"B: [it said] Trouble here. Strange veiled hints from Voldemort, but about what? Snape being excluded from Death Eater intelligence. Need you to spy here. Plan may centre on Potter's death. Security inadequate, need agents. Gather as many field agents on continent as possible and come back. Floo powder enclosed. D."
Sirius frowned, puzzled. What the devil could Voldemort be planning? Chances were, he was plotting a grand re-entry onto the world stage. Sirius groaned. Bella Figg had once told him that Voldemort was obsessed with Harry, the cause of his downfall. And the murder of Harry Potter, boy- hero, would be completely shattering to the magical community. That was it, then: Voldemort was cooking up a major scheme to kill Harry once and for all, and thus re-emerge on the scene after his fourteen-year absence. How would he do it? A knife in the dark? A hex furtively executed in the midst of a crowd? An abduction and a duel, like before? A full-blown war to crush every witch and wizard who opposed Voldemort's rule, and to draw Harry out of hiding for his ultimate termination on a battlefield?
Sirius took a deep breath. Perhaps he was overreacting. The timing of these instructions' arrival was auspicious: he had been missing his godson a lot lately. He would get to see Harry in person for the first time since the night of Voldemort's resurrection in June. Sirius smiled to himself as he gathered together his letters and the Floo powder, then Apparated out of the city to find the other Phoenixes.
