The Quetzal's Fire
Harry Potter
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A/N: Well, here's the chapter that should have been finished about two months ago. I promised myself that wouldn't happen, but… anyway. A gold star if you correctly identify the real Felix Hernandez. CD reccomendations: Appalacia Waltz, featuring Yo Yo Ma, Sailing the Seas of Cheese by Primus, Mercy Mercy by the Buddy Rich Big Band, and Bitches Brew by Miles. Here's part 15, and it's pretty long, but it still has a cliffhanger. I should cut a little bit of the melodrama, I guess.
Part Fifteen: Puddlejumping
Severus Snape was infuriated. The last damn thing he'd intended to occur so near his renouncement of Lord Voldemort had just went ahead and happened.
"I'm going to bloody Peru, Headmaster," the potions master hissed. "Peru."
Albus Dumbledore surveyed his spymaster and friend with sympathy.
"To meet with Pacahuti Mirabál?"
Snape nodded, his jaws obviously clenched.
"Severus, you know that your safety cannot be ensured even within these walls if you do not carry out this mission." Snape drew a dramatic breath.
"Yes, Albus, you're damn right I do. That is why I'm so bloody angry about this."
Dumbledore said nothing, considering.
"My experience of you doesn't seem to see you in such a snit about all this, Severus."
Never misses a trick, Snape thought sardonically, the image of Rubeus Hagrid coming to him.
"Muggle transport, Professor. British Airways from…" Snape checked a piece of paper. "Heathrow."
"I suppose you will have to hurry, then, to meet it," Dumbledore said with a forced smile.
"Yes, professor, I suppose so." Snape bit the syllables from the air. He turned on his heel and slammed the door.
As Snape packed all of his hazardous duty gear, Harry was sitting in Abd al Rahman's class. They were going over famous duels, something that gave Harry unpleasant flashbacks to a certain amnesiac teacher.
"So, Felix Hernandez found himself pinned down behind this boulder, here. He knew he was far overmatched. He had no way of retreat. Grindelwald is walking towards him. What must be done?" Harry shivered involuntarily. This specific occasion was also far too familiar territory—something very much like the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Dean raised his hand. "Yes. Mr. Thomas."
"Transfigure something into a copy of him?" He shrugged. That about summed up what everyone else could think of.
"An excellent guess, but transfiguring an inanimate object into even a lifeless clone would have left him exhausted and unable to capitalize on the distraction that would have been created. What's more, it would have been an incredible gamble for Felix to have risked his life on a facsimile. There were no guarantees that the copy would have been found first. Yes, Mr. Zabini."
"I would have launched something flashy to the opposite direction and run."
al Rahman grinned. "That is exactly what Felix did. As all of us have heard, discretion is by far the better part of valor." Abd looked concernedly at Harry, who was focused on the blackboard with a mangled expression. He faked dropping his chalk in order to walk to Harry's front desk. "Harry, can you continue?" the professor muttered as he bent over.
Harry
frowned. "Yes, professor," he replied, equally quiet. al Rahman
returned back to the board. "Perhaps you could offer me some
coordination training, Mr. Malfoy. I do believe my heritage may have
something to do with my ability to handle a piece of chalk.
"So,
Felix cast a sparkler, which appeared about fifty feet to the left of
the rock, on the opposite side of the bluff. He sprinted down the
hill, found a ditch, got in, and covered himself with leaves for the
night. He escaped the Dark Lord of the day with mere bruises, and a
rather deflated ego. Tomorrow, we will continue with Grindelwald, but
Professor Dumbledore will be running the class and recounting his
famous duel with that Dark Lord. I shall let you lot go five minutes
early. Do enjoy your lunch." Various cries of jubilation
resulted as everyone threw their books into bags and booked it out of
the classroom.
Harry was about to leave with Ron and Hermione when Abd stopped them.
"I am very sorry to have to remind you of two years ago, Harry, but it is a very important tactical lesson."
"I understand, sir."
"Have a good week-end, all of you."
"Thank you, sir," Hermione said.
United Airlines Flight 0117 to John Fitzgerald Kennedy International Airport, New York, a Boeing 747-400D, was slowly rolling down the taxiway to the runway. It contained about two hundred fifty people, a very small number for a plane of its size and on such a route. One of its passengers was overcome by a sense of fatalism. Severus Snape, who was sitting in seat 5A, next to the window, was wondering why Voldemort had consigned him to mere muggle transport. Granted, it was first class, but the Dark Lord's driving ambition was a genocidal rage against this vehicle's inventors—certainly, if Snape was one of his most trusted and valued advisors and confidants, he would not be forced into "puddlejumping" without an explanation. Snape recovered from his reverie and regarded the muggle adjacent to him, a shapely muggle woman of Indian stock in a crisp suit who was obviously worried about something.
"Are you quite alright?" he asked her, not unkindly.
"I'm bloody terrified of flying. I've puddle jumped every month for three years for business, but I've never gotten over flying. Taking off is the worst part," she said, grimacing. "You must think I'm daft,"
"Not in the least," Snape replied hurriedly. The only part of Snape that could be described as slick was his hair—which he was very fervently wishing he had a better shampoo for. The woman tried to smile, but she just looked queasy as the Boeing's pilot threw open the throttle. Snape marveled at muggles as the jets' rotors started whirring, positively vacuuming all the surrounding air into them. He couldn't help but think that even Voldemort would have to marvel at the sheer power of an airplane. The plane lunged, hurtling down the runway with a vengeance, finally shoving the suit-clad potions master back into his upright and locked seatback. He peered out of his window at the rapidly shrinking metropolis and then stole a glance at his companion, who had her eyes clinched resoundingly shut as the PA ponged warmly and a strange synergy of Bronx, Russian, and Puerto Rican accents started talking.
"Welcome aboard flight 0117 to New York City-Kennedy International. My name is Dimitri Vazquez and I'll be your captain for today. We don't expect much trouble for today, so our flight should be about five and a half hours in duration. We'll be serving a light lunch about an hour before we land. Our in flight entertainment will be…" the pilot's voice trailed off "…Waterworld, starring Kevin Costner. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight, and let us know if we can do anything for you."
"Not Waterworld. What a bloody horrible film," groaned the woman sitting next to Snape.
"I've never seen it, myself," Snape remarked.
"I daresay most of us haven't, unless you fly as much as I do," she remarked dryly, withdrawing a copy of the Times (of London) from her bag. "Care for the paper?"
"Oh, yes, please," the sinister potions master replied, wishing he would be able to work during the flight. He withdrew United's magazine from the seatpocket, bored out of his mind. It contained nothing interesting, just a profile of some muggle group called Nirvana, who apparently had just released a "live album", whatever that was.
"So, what is it you do for a living?" asked Snape's companion, turning towards him. "I'm Namrata Kothari, by the way." She extended her hand. Snape shook it firmly.
"Severus Snape. I am a teacher, actually. Secondary school. I teach… chemistry."
"Severus? That's an interesting one,"
"An emperor of Rome, actually. One of the worse ones," he admitted ruefully.
Namrata chortled. "Well, at least you aren't the Nero of grammar schools,"
"Such as it is," he replied. "What is it you do?" he asked.
"I'm a software engineer, for Oracle. I shuttle between New York and London. I'm more of a manager now," Kothari replied wistfully. "It's a terrible job,"
"I'll be the judge of that," the Professor replied, his cadence taking its usual sneering, slick tone.
"I suppose so."
The beverage cart arrived shortly thereafter, but Snape and Kothari were too engrossed in conversation to answer.
About four o'clock Cuzco time, Lord Voldemort's head appeared in the fire that don Pacahuti Mirabal always kept burning in his compound.
"Riddle. I'll fetch Pacahuti," Rodrigo Santana said, looking up from an agent's report.
The English Dark Lord bristled at the percieved slight. What did the lowly Peruvian think he was, addressing a Dark Lord by name? Fuming, and thinking of all the ways he would punish a similar insubordination in his own ranks. Mirabál strode in shortly, Santana at his side.
"Yes, Lord Riddle? I have precious little time. We are about to replicate more dementors," the wizard said, apologetic.
"I shall not occupy you, Lord Mirabál." Voldemort said in his icy, grating tone. "I have sent an operative for Dumbledore over to you. He thinks I do not know of his betrayal as of yet. He will arrive at Lima's… airport… in seven hours."
"Very well." Mirabál said pleasantly. "Is that all?"
"Yes." Voldemort was wary, expecting something in return. Still, he made to leave the fire.
"Riddle, you'll need to send over extra help if I am to do this," Mirabál announced, just as pleasant as before. "Lucius Malfoy is particularly adept with the transfiguratory arts, is he not?" A continent and an ocean away, Voldemort gritted his fanglike teeth, then swallowed. Mirabál was no uppity underling. He was, in fact, a member of the Cabal of Five, the council of the superlative Dark Wizards.
"He is. I shall dispatch him in two days' time. We have an important action to stage."
"I understand completely, Tom. Contact us if you will need anything else." Voldemort nodded sharply, then left the Floo. Mirabál turned to his subordinate. "Off to Lima, Rodrigo."
Severus Snape's flight from JFK was landing in Lima. He had Namrata Kothari's phone number in his pocket and a far happier outlook than he'd ever had in his life.
"Bievenidos a Lima, señores y señoras. Llegarémos al terminal en unos pocos minutos. Por favor les quedía en sus asientos hasta estámos a la puerta. De todos el tripulación, estámos contento que han selectado United."
The 757 taxied to the terminal, as calm as the sky above. Snape, however, felt his trepidation grow as they approached the building. His doubts that sprung from his condemntation to muggle transport had risen again.
He collected his book (some trashy muggle paperback) and his luggage and shuffled off the plane, resenting the single aisle. Feeling much like a steer, the erstwhile Dark wizard trooped up the jetway with those he had once sworn to leave dying in the streets. Needless to say, Snape didn't hold much stock in irony.
"Severus Snape?" asked a tall, muscled man at the exit of the jetway.
"Yes,"
The man extended his hand. "Rodrigo Santana. I am don Pacahuti's second. He regrets not being able to meet you personally, but the experiment is occupying all of his attentions at the moment."
"I understand." Snape adopted the surly demeanor he usually took around his students.
"I have a driver awaiting us outside. May I carry something?" Snape gratefully handed his massive duffel bag to Santana. The car, a handsomely appointed Mercedes-Benz E Class sedan, was idling at the entrance to the terminal. A white gloved driver was standing at its side. He immediately took the bag as Santana motioned for Snape to get inside first. The potions master nodded and slid in.
"It will take us about four hours to arrive in Cuzco. Something to drink?"
"Ogden's." Snape said, trying to sound impatient.
"We only have Jack Daniel's. Ogden's is quite rare here,"
"Whatever whiskey you have," Snape snapped. He did need a drink, now that he thought of it. Santana opened the small refrigerator he'd had installed in the place of a middle seat, withdrawing the precious firewater.
"Ice?"
"Yes." The driver wordlessly passed a glass of ice back.
"Una mas, Alejandro." Santana poured out a shot for each of them.
"Salud," he said gravely, raising his glass to Snape. Snape did the same, then took a long pull.
This was the worst part. Santana wouldn't have minded using a plain old .45, but don Pacahuti insisted upon wizardry. His one fault, Santana mused, oddly detached. At least the gringo was out.
"Avada kedavra."
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