Author's Note: This is a crossover, and therefore AU. As I often do, I've brought HP forward in time twenty years, purely for my convenience.
All rights are hereby given to the appropriate copyright owners.
5 November 2001
Jane Moneypenny didn't hate Mondays so much as tolerate them - the pile of intelligence reports that came in over the weekend was almost always large and absolutely always interesting. For definitions of interesting that included oh, this might be a bit of bother and let's get the bastards! and everything in between. Distilling the reports from throughout the Commonwealth and around the world into a concise summary for her boss, the woman code-named M, was Jane's primary, though tedious, task every week, and she was quite good at it.
This Monday would be especially challenging, as tonight was Bonfire Night, and celebrations would take place throughout the country, causing more mayhem than Guy Fawkes ever had. Fortunately, Jane lived in London, and in London, celebrations were typically limited to fireworks…though they could start much earlier than Jane would prefer.
But that was tonight. This morning, Jane crossed to the coffeemaker discreetly set back on a shelf above the credenza behind her desk and set it to heating the water she'd filled it with the previous Friday. M would never demand that Jane make coffee for her, but Jane enjoyed a cup - just one cup - every Monday morning, and it was truly no trouble to make a second cup for her boss.
While the water heated, she took a seat at her desk and booted up her computer. The sooner she began reviewing the reports that had come in over the weekend, the sooner she could get on with the rest of her work.
She'd just called up her email program, where the vast majority of those reports would be waiting, when the outer door opened.
"Good morning!"
She knew the voice, of course, but she'd never heard it quite so cheerful before.
"Good morning, 007," she said without looking up from her screen. "It seems you had quite the weekend."
"Dreadfully dull without you, Moneypenny." James Bond, Agent 007, sounded entirely too flirtatious for this early on a Monday.
"Are you certain?" She finally looked up to offer him a smile. "You sound far too chipper to have had a dull weekend."
"The weekend was most definitely dull," Bond replied. "But this morning brought great cause for good cheer."
"And what might that be, James?" Jane asked.
"That bit of bother MI-13's been keeping an eye on seems to have taken care of itself."
A chill ran down her spine. Given her family, she knew far more about that department than most people did, but that was a well-kept secret, even in the office of the director of MI-6.
"What do you mean, took care of itself?" Jane asked, carefully neutral.
"I'm quite interested in the answer to that question myself."
The new voice had Jane speaking automatically. "Ma'am."
"Good morning, M," Bond said, shifting position slightly so that he could see both women. His tone was somewhat more formal when he addressed M directly. "I stopped by Paddington's office for an update, as our last briefing indicated that the trouble in the Wizarding World might be spilling over into ours in ways that couldn't be contained."
"I am aware," M said, and Jane bit back a smile at the older woman's tone, as frosty as her hair was white. "Tell me something of which I am unaware."
"Right." Bond glanced at Jane, but she had her expression under control and merely arched an eyebrow at him. "Well. Paddington's people got hold of one of their newspapers-" James held a rolled piece of - yes, parchment - up in one hand "-and it says that the terrorist Voldemort is dead."
Relief swept through Jane, and she fought not to let it show. MI-6, like MI-5, might be aware of the Wizarding World and exactly what MI-13 dealt with, but her own role in that world was a well-kept secret and would remain that way if she had anything to say about it.
"Excellent news," M said. "How did it happen?"
As James began his tale - one that sounded even more fantastic than Jane would have expected - Jane reached for the parchment he held so that she could scan it into their database of incidents and she would add it to the briefing she'd present to M later today.
Certainly, Paddington and MI-13 would have their own copies, but Jane was not one to shirk a duty simply because it resulted in a bit of duplication now and then.
While Bond and M spoke, Jane rose and unfolded the parchment - a copy of the Daily Prophet, she saw now, dated a few days before - and turned toward the scanner.
The headline made her freeze in her tracks, her breath as still as the rest of her.
YOU-KNOW-WHO DEAD!
ATTACK ON POTTER FAMILY REBOUNDED!
BABY HARRY ONLY SURVIVOR!
The parchment started to slip from suddenly nerveless fingers, and Jane clenched it tightly so she could read the article.
Despite the sensationalist headlines, the article itself was somewhat light on details. Still, Jane gathered that Voldemort himself had attacked James and Lily Potter, and the only survivor was their fifteen-month-old son Harry.
Harry.
Jane set the Prophet aside and turned back to face M and Bond, who were still discussing the article and its implications.
She cleared her throat quietly, but it was still enough to draw the others' attention to her.
"Sorry, ma'am," she said to M, "but I need to take a personal day."
Those sharp blue eyes focused on her and Jane unconsciously straightened her shoulders. "Is there a problem, Miss Moneypenny?"
Of course there was, else I wouldn't be asking for a personal day. Jane kept the thought to herself, swallowed hard, and forced herself to say the bare minimum necessary.
"Lily Potter was my sister."
*BREAK*
James guided the Range Rover southwest along the A3 toward Surrey, occasionally stealing a glance at the unusually quiet woman in the passenger seat beside him.
As soon as Moneypenny had said that Lily Potter was her sister, M had blown out a short, sharp breath, clearly deciding to table questions for later, and said, "Take her wherever she needs to go, 007. She's in no condition to drive."
That had been clear - in place of the spectacularly competent, witty woman James had come to know during his time with MI-6 now appeared a woman who looked as though she'd lost her whole world.
There had to be some way to pull her out of her not-quite-fugue state. James cast about for topics of conversation, finally settling on,
"I didn't realize you had a sister."
And then he winced, because that was both inane and, in the circumstance, cruel.
Moneypenny - or should he call her Jane, at least for now? - turned her head toward him with a small smile.
"We've never had that kind of relationship, 007."
A fact James was only now beginning to regret. If they'd had more than a professional - if flirtatious - relationship, he might have a clue what to say, how to comfort her.
"Perhaps not," he allowed. "But perhaps that's for the best, right now." She looked at him, clearly baffled, and he smiled a little in return as he explained, "I have no preconceptions based on anything you've told me in the past. I can simply listen to you talk about your sister."
Moneypenny regarded him seriously for a long moment before she said, "Sisters, actually. There are - were - three of us. Me, Lily, and Petunia."
James couldn't help raising an eyebrow at that. "Jane seems a bit…pedestrian, no offense, compared to your sisters' names."
Moneypenny actually laughed, and James congratulated himself for lightening the mood, however briefly. "I'll have you know I was named for Henry VIII's favorite wife. And my mother's favorite flower."
"An interesting combination. Jane Rose?"
"Violet Jane," Moneypenny answered. "Lily Catherine - named for the wife Henry was married to the longest - and then Petunia Anne - named for the most infamous wife. My father wrote Renaissance History at Oxford. With Honours."
"You don't use Violet?" Personally, James thought it suited her.
"Not for a very long time."
And that was the end of that topic of conversation, James thought, oddly amused, before he cast about for another. A road sign provided one.
"We're out of London proper," he said. "Where next?"
He followed Moneypenny's - Jane's? Violet's? Maybe Moneypenny was best, after all, at least for now - instructions to Little Whinging and then to Privet Drive, finally parking in front of number four.
The house was large and square with a low garden wall in front. Several chimneys jutted from the roof. Beyond it, James saw what was likely a flower garden that in summer was probably a riot of color, though at this time of year only some shrubbery remained.
He followed Moneypenny to the door at a distance far enough to be respectful of her privacy but close enough to offer support if she should need it.
Moneypenny rang the bell, and after a moment, the door opened to reveal a tall, thin, blonde woman with a face that reminded James uncomfortably of a horse.
"Vi," the woman said, and shifted a toddler from one hip to the other. "It's been a while."
"Tuney," Moneypenny returned, and the woman made a moue at the nickname. "Have you heard? About - about Lily?"
Petunia sniffed. "Yes, I've heard. It's nothing to do with us, though, is it?"
"What happened to Harry? Do you know?" Moneypenny asked. "The paper doesn't say."
"Paper?" Petunia's face suffused with anger. "You actually subscribe to that - that - rag?"
"I saw a copy at work," Moneypenny said.
Petunia's gaze narrowed. "I thought you're a secretary."
"In the Foreign Office. I see rather a lot of things that most people don't."
Which, James thought, was true enough, but there seemed to be something else underlying Moneypenny's tone. He'd ask her about it once they were back on the road to the city.
Petunia sniffed again and turned into the house. "You'd best come in, I suppose. It's a story that shouldn't be overheard."
James followed Moneypenny into the house and closed the door carefully behind him. Years of training and experience had him surveying the interior of the house while Petunia Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Was settled her child into a high chair and set about preparing a plate for him - or James assumed the baby was male thanks to the anchor pattern embroidered on his shirt.
James paid no attention to the women speaking softly in the other room as he surveyed the lounge and looked up the stairs to the upper floor where morning light streamed through a window at the top of the stairs.
Everything appeared well-kept - almost perfectly well-kept, as though he were in a showplace instead of a home. Then he remembered that on the drive down, Moneypenny had mentioned her brother-in-law was hoping to become the director of some manufacturing company. Corporate politics would almost demand that a director's home be well-kept for those occasions when he might entertain business guests.
Still, James imagined that Moneypenny's - house? flat? - home would be neat and tidy, but still feel, well, homey in ways this sterile place didn't.
He was just turning to join the women in the dining area when something made him pause. It wasn't a sound, not really, though it could have been just at the edge of hearing. No, it was an instinct that told him they weren't as alone as he thought.
James considered alerting Moneypenny, but discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. Yes, she would be sensible and follow his lead, but he couldn't guarantee her sister would, especially with her young son around.
So he eased his Walther PPK from its holster at his back and turned back into the lounge, this time clearing it as if he suspected an enemy might be hiding somewhere inside.
A metallic glint drew his attention to a cupboard built into the wall supporting the stairs.
There was, of course, nothing unusual about a lock on a cupboard, though James would've expected a child-proof lock rather than a simple sliding bolt. … A shiny, new-looking simple sliding bolt.
The very newness of it niggled at James' awareness. Yes, there was a toddler in the house, but if Moneypenny's efficiency ran in the family, the bolt should have been a childproof lock that was installed months ago and already showing signs of developing a patina of use.
He approached the cupboard with care and as quietly as the hardwood floor would allow, then paused to one side, as if it were a full-sized doorway and not one that was barely taller than his knee.
He held there, stretching out all his senses…and heard the faintest of rustling noises.
Cautiously, he bent just enough to reach the bolt and slide it aside, the click as it fell into its open position abnormally loud to his ears, but the conversation in the dining area didn't change at all, so perhaps it wasn't that loud.
The rustling sound got ever-so-slightly louder, and James eased the door open, his Walther ready to fire at anything inside the cupboard.
A flash of movement and white had him stepping back…and then he saw just what was moving and bit back a curse.
A child - a toddler, really, close to the same age as the one on Petunia's hip - lay staring up at him, tangled in a white blanket.