There and Back Again Lane
Ch.18 – The Erl-King, Part Two: With Pearl and Ruby Glowing
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly. If th' assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease, success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and end-all – here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'd jump the life to come.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act I, scene vii
An Aside: Common People
The Leaky Cauldron, London
A pair of old men sat at a table, a bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky between them. Acrid, pungent smoke billowed from their clay pipes sending blue smoke to the rafters where it was quickly absorbed by the dark brown fog creeping slowly downward. They were chatting about the usual things – sexual innuendos about the barmaids, Quidditch results, and the best way of ridding oneself of the pox – when the older of the two noticed something terribly odd to his left. His brow furrowed, eyes squinted, and tanned teeth chomped on his pipe. 'What's that, then?' he grunted to his compatriot, pointing to the interloper with the mouthpiece of his pipe.
The other man squinted in the general direction his friend indicated but saw little without his spectacles. He hunted for them, patting his rough linen robes before finding them perched atop the bird's nest of grey crowning his head. Lowering his glasses, he peered through the alcohol and tobacco induced fog to be doubly sure of what he saw. 'I think that's what's called a "reader/reviewer," Edmund,' he returned after carefully examining the newcomer with his rheumy eyes.
Edmund peered again at the unusual figure seated across the room, staring at them. 'Bollocks, Tim. They're a myth.'
'Hmm.' Tim blinked, considering what Edmund said, looking once more at the person in their bizarre clothes. What kind of person doesn't wear a robe when going out these days? 'You're prob'ly right.'
Certain they had witnessed something akin to a pink elephant, the two men immediately addressed the situation with a few further glasses of Firewhisky.
Port of Shadows
Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh
---(Harry's POV)---
Here I stand and, as Martin Luther reputedly said, I can do no other. Difference is that his mouth wasn't gaping wide with astonishment and exhaustion at the time, nor were his eyes blinking in disbelief at a pack of rudely crafted midgets and their demented garden gnome-like pets on leads. I've no desire to know what the red-capped beasties eat. Their sharp little gnashing teeth and grasping claws are reason enough to avoid them. But the whatever-they-are ordered the gits on sticks to leave us be, so they mustn't be that horrid, eh?
Tonks is unfazed by our mad dash to and up the steps. Ginny, however, is uncharacteristically winded, gasping as if suffering an asthma attack. When I move forward to see if she's OK, both of them gesture for me to stay back. After a while, Ginny appears to master her laboured breathing, though the slight shaking of her clenched left fist reveals otherwise.
The four on the steps before us, above us, whatever, scarcely acknowledge the host gathering behind them. As they'd come from that fire-blackened tower that Ginny had informed me is the wizard's police barracks, I guess we're now Bonnie and Clyde, except without the concomitant Serge Gainsbourg theme song. Pity, that. The wizard constables still hold their wands menacingly, yet the uncertainty that had been plaguing them – written in bold on their pained faces – has been erased, replaced by the conflicting emotions of discomfiture and relief. The head whatsit repeats his(?) ultimatum while those handling the red-capped beasties give the leads more play that their charges seek to exploit to the fullest, snapping and clawing at the air between them and the four, eyes bulging with hatred and hunger.
The senior officer stands closest to us. He squares his shoulders, disguising to the three behind him the unease that's all too visible on his face. The sole woman in the group straightens her hat in an effort to appear unconcerned by the new dilemma. The two men on the flanks move in closer to the other two for safety and comfort. They know us, or at least Ginny and Tonks. An eternity passes before our pursuers stow their wands in their robes and clamber back onto their broomsticks to soar off to the blackened tower. The sound of hobnail boots on cobblestones storming into the distance behind us announces the departure of our earthbound tormentors. Only then do Ginny and Tonks return their wands to their robes as we climb to meet our rescuers.
Tonks motions for us to stop a few feet from the top of the stairs as she advances towards our defenders. She curtseys – odd sight – to their leader before parlaying with him in some foreign language that Ginny informs me is gobblegook. My face creases in disbelief, but she explains that goblins talk Gobbledegook just as Merpeople speak Mermish. When the look of bemusement fails to withdraw, she pats my arm stating I'll remember this one day. Will it make any more sense then than it does now?
Some of the goblins are, I must say, very well dressed. In their silk waistcoats, ties, and dress jackets, gold watch-bobs, and gaberdine trousers, they wouldn't look out of place at a Victorian dinner party if they were taller and hadn't such pointed features, or teeth. They'd fit in perfectly in the City, though. The others, whom I assume must be guards, look like deranged extras from a Kurosawa samurai film or an historical drama on the Beeb in their steel cuirasses. This lot forms a cordon around us reining in the Red Caps (I'm becoming accustomed to being astonished), swatting the beasties that come too close to us with wooden truncheons.
The former group advances towards us, Tonks following a step or two behind the leader. She introduces us to Managing Director Dergspruan. Ginny curtseys as well – oddity number two – while I try my best at a polite bow. To my surprise, I see a small, clawed hand held out before me. Gingerly, I shake it – surprisingly warm, that hand – noting a peculiar hint of recognition in his eyes. His brow furrows, and he searches for some familiar feature on my face as Ginny had two years ago. So much for being David Southam.
We follow the well-dressed goblins inside the white marble structure, our escort making certain no one molests us any further. Ginny stays close to my side. For some reason, I think she intends to ensure I don't commit some horrible breach of protocol, or tell anyone my true name. The look on her face seems to confirm that suspicion. Guiding me by the arm as if I'd been blinded, she leads me inside.
'It's a bank,' I murmur. Brilliant deduction, Mr University Graduate. Ginny rolls her eyes in amusement – at least, I hope it's that – and prompts me to move along. Despite the size of the building, I'm amazed not to be confronted with a forest of load-bearing pillars. Those there are bear etchings reminiscent of Roman victory columns. Instead of relating a tales of battlefield triumphs, they reveal grief, betrayal, and resurgence, this last particularly prominent at the average goblin's eye-level. The intricate depiction is repeated at least one more time as the pillars rise up to the beautiful vaulted ceiling. Light streams in through high, thin stained glass windows that remain free of grime in spite of all the candles within and the fires outwith. The windows begin with the comparatively cheery tale of the establishment's business. The last set of windows resembles the rosette behind the high altar at Notre Dame in Paris or Chartres, although the story the one here portrays deals less with redemption than retribution. Mildly disgusted by the tales of woe of those who'd wronged the bank, I stare fixedly at the floor. It's a mixture of black and white marble tile arranged in a chess-board pattern – I assume to reinforce that this is indeed a financial establishment – broken by the occasional mosaic with the bank's name and motto in three languages, the most prominent of which I assume is Gobbledegook. Gringotts. I run that word a few times through my mind, hoping it would trigger a memory, but all I feel is an awkward shame, if not complete embarrassment.
Ginny peeks at me expectantly, possibly concerned I'd taken her feigned annoyance at face value, especially now that my face is screwed up in concentration. Squeezing her hand I smile quickly back at her. She looks done in, wheezing slightly. It's my turn to look anxious and stricken. 'Might have a broken rib,' she replies to my unasked question.
'The shop with the missing windows?'
She nods and coughs a little, but thankfully there's no blood on her lips. When I move to find us somewhere to sit, she wraps an arm around me and tells me to follow Tonks. Ginny's boss is busy conversing – in English – with the managing director as we traverse the great hall towards the rosette. The clerks are arranged along the hall in a horseshoe, seated behind enormous cherry wood desks that dwarf not only the clerks but their clients as well. From this superb vantage point, a galaxy of bright beady eyes watches our every move as only four other non-goblins are still in the bank at this late hour. Beside every fourth desk is another of those pillars. Obviously, goblins are not a forgiving lot.
We eventually reach where Tonks and Mr Dergspruan are waiting near the end of the hall. Ginny's face is a little flushed and her breathing is heavier than usual but she seems well enough to continue at the moment. Mind, if her leg was broken she'd likely either hop or drag herself the entire way to wherever it is we're going. The managing director's tapping his foot with impatience as Tonks seeks to distract him with questions about the bank's architecture while casting worried looks in Ginny's direction. The Guv gives me a brief smile as I gingerly prop up her charge once more, albeit not without a couple of laboured huffs. I peer at Ginny's lips again and see only a little clear spittle. Her face is no more flushed than before. Two good signs; how long will this last?
The corridor to Mr Dergspruan's office is immaculate, so much so I'm afraid of skating accidently across the polished parquet floor. The panelling is an elegant stained maple adorned with portraits of what I assume are former directors. And they're moving. The directors, that is. I whisper this to Ginny only to receive a glare of utter incredulity until she remembers how new these things are to me now, or again. I'm going to do my own head in soon enough. The subjects in the portraits do not appear at all pleased to see us, their contempt evident in snarls, glowering, and even cursing. I find myself trying to remember when I last had a drink...
Once inside, I carefully lower Ginny onto one of the high backed chairs. The managing director is seated behind a large bureau upon which lay several parchment broadsheets filled with minute Elizabethan (I think) calligraphy. Though I can read upside down – marvellous learning experience, university – none of the words are decipherable. Neither Tonks nor Mr Dergspruan suffer from my inability.
'Standard contract,' he intones pulling out a mahogany pointer tipped by a small ivory or whalebone goblin's hand to indicate the relevant clauses. 'Sign here,' tapping the contract with the hand, 'here, and here.'
To Mr Dergspruan's dismay, Tonks takes the time to read the enormous document. 'You are not getting my firstborn should we fail to keep this secret,' she declares, scratching out that clause. Keep what secret? 'And I see that paragraph wasn't in the contract Professor Flitwick signed.' The little git behind the desk groans and grumbles that it ought to have been.
'What about theirs?' he inquires expectantly.
'None of our firstborn are at issue,' she returns.
He grumbles a bit further before finally deciding to have her simply sign under that professor's name while muttering about 'bloody wizards.'
'You lot have always been trouble, meddling in things far beyond your piddling comprehension,' he grunts. 'Ever since the house-elves, there's never been a witch or wizard who could be trusted.'
'I think you are forgetting who tried to fool whom here,' Tonks muttered.
'So it's perfectly fine for some daft troll of a wizard to breed a more accommodating sort of goblin, eh?'
Tonks motions to the three of us. 'Do we look like the sort who would do such a thing?'
'No,' he answers. 'But neither did he.' The debate, insofar as Mr Dergspruan is concerned, had just concluded. 'But the Prince wills it so we must obey,' he states tapping the countersigned contract once with the mahogany rod, whereupon it swiftly rolls itself up and vanishes. Hopping off his chair he wanders to the door. 'Well, follow me.'
Ginny mutters a few oaths to which I add a smattering of my own as I assist her from the chair. During the discussion, I had tried to discern whether she had broken a rib or two, but she batted my hand away each time I attempted even a superficial examination. Tonks waits for us by the door with the faintest of grins. 'Nearly there, children.' The fatigued woman beside me considers uttering a few more curses at that but decides against delaying us further.
It's a regrettably long trip down bare torchlit stone staircases to our eventual destination. Ginny shudders as we enter the dark octagonal room, a reaction I know has nothing to do with her injuries. She holds me tighter and seems to have lost about ten years. Tonks and I have to coax her into the room. Other than us, only Mr Dergspruan and another goblin are in the room, standing in the centre. The other goblin holds a book, The Accidental Tourist of all things, in his hands. 'Come on,' Mr Dergspruan bellows (insofar as he is capable), 'there's only five minutes before the Portkey activates.'
The goblin with the book holds it out for us to grasp, or so I realise after Ginny and Tonks latch onto it. For another three minutes we stand around like idiots holding a bloody book until...
I think I'm going to spew...
Permanent Secretary Babbage's Office, Ministry for Magic, London
---(Babbage's POV)---
The Weasley woman's file makes unpleasant nocturnal reading. So many skeletons rattling in cupboards, all threatening to tumble out now. If it hadn't been for Minister Bones's personal interest in the girl we could have dismissed her application to the Aurors citing mental instability – plenty of witnesses to support that – or that she was simply too recognisable. The Potter excuse. We could have kept her safely away from the Ministry, hived her away somewhere, maybe playing Quidditch, being a Healer, a mother, who knows what, and made everyone's life a little easier.
Instead, my bureau is littered with a host of notes from the Haseltoun MLES barracks announcing not only did the two escape the patrols but that they were assisted by a third, which was somewhat expected, a further six operatives from the Dark Arts Response Team are in hospital, and the local plod had managed to irritate the goblins. Would the Wizengamot truly convict me if I turned Minister Perkins into a newt and mistakenly dropped her in a boiling cauldron? (Purely hypothetically, of course.)
Shacklebolt might even start asking questions. Nothing's more frightening in politics than a question to which one's interlocutor already knows the answer. He would begin with something suitably innocuous at first, such as, 'Why do members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad have Aurors under surveillance?' only to follow it with, 'Why are those MLES members attacking those same Aurors?' We could contrive a reasonable explanation, say that an Auror with a history of mental instability – again, the blessed records from St Mungo's, witnesses from school and Auror training, and last, the secret surveillance transcripts – had gone rogue. She even kidnapped a Muggle and modified his memory to make him believe he was Harry Potter, her lifelong obsession. It might work, especially after the administrative order for Potter's Obliviation has been conveniently misplaced. Or should I say, 'placed under consideration.'
Ah, there's Rutherford. Without the order. Bugger.
'Where is it, Rutherford,' I demand, certain my fury is evident through my measured tone.
'She's pissed, sir,' he groans excitedly. 'She's sitting in dark corner singing about centaurs and their enormous...'
Hammering my open palms upon my bureau, my subordinate's brief description of Mistress Clarke's folk song repertoire ceases abruptly. Clutching his elbow, we hurry through the Ministry to the Archives wasting no time for idle chit-chat or the flock of inter-office memos that have taken to fluttering about my head.
'Sir...' A glower silences Rutherford immediately. Minister Perkins is drowning in it and seeks to take me with her. I'm going to do my level best to ensure that's not the case.
With those bloody memos still winging about me, I drag my underling to the wellspring of dread. I have always hated the Ministerial Archives ever since I was a ickle clerk in Records. Elspeth Clarke was the Mistress of Rolls then, and no less unpleasant. As were the Archives. Leaving the flock of pink missives behind, we enter the catacombs. The faint glow of the lanterns lighting shelves and cabinets of various woods – oak, teak, mahogany, cherry – provides just enough light to see the occasional spider scutter after silverfish or other spiders, or away from rats, themselves the prey of cats and a few kneazles. Despite the scant illumination, the scrolls and tomes crowding the shelves had yellowed with age, or perhaps it was the Conservation Charms the old crone placed on everything. A few missed kicks at some mewling miscreants later, we stood before the hag herself, tongue lolling in her tan-toothed maw, three-quarters empty bottle clutched firmly to her withered chest, swishing in time with her breathing. When I find out who put her in this state, I shall murder them slowly for encumbering my memory with that image.
'Mistress Clarke, you vile harridan, wake up!'
'Sod off, Blether-breeks!' A swift glower told Rutherford if ever he repeated that moniker he'd be off on the South Georgia penguin census detail quicker than he could say 'inkpot.'
'You wretched harpy, rise from your stupor before I force you from it!' I bellow, holding my wand outstretched.
Feeling far happier in semi-sobriety than under complete detoxification, Mistress Clarke staggers her way back into the vertical plane. 'What do you want, Babbage?' she grunts as she lights the pungent tobacco in her clay pipe.
'Administrative Order XIX-L2/JOS/98/312e,' I hiss in an effort to convey the need for secrecy. Rutherford knows the reference, but not its contents. Let's hope the demented crone can understand subtlety.
'Potter?' Hell and buggery. I nod curtly and order Rutherford from the room. 'Just a minute,' she grumbles, spits, and shuffles away. At least she knows where it is.
Wait a moment. Drink and her remembering what that order covers so swiftly. Can't be... Someone must have researched the Arcane Records and found a reference to the order. It must have been that bloody Granger woman again. We'll have to put her under surveillance again, maybe send over a little frightener.
When Mistress Clarke returns with the order, she has an odd look on her face. Snatching the document from her grasp, I perform the decryption charm, scan it line by line, poring over the paper for some indication of tampering, but I see nothing. The page even bears the ministerial watermark. 'It's a copy,' she announces after I'd exhausted my limited knowledge of such matters. 'A very good one, but a facsimile none the less.'
'Who gave you that bottle?' I demand.
'That would be telling.'
'Who?' Rather than responding, she let her tongue explore the far reaches of her mouth while her bleary, bloodshot, and jaundiced dark brown eyes stare apathetically into mine. 'I can have you for being drunk on duty,' I warn only to receive a scoffing huff.
'I'm not one of your lackeys, Burblage,' her voice scrapes out. 'Besides, I'm the only one who understands the Archives,' she sneers, 'so try and replace me, you wretched little grindylow.' I feel the point of her sharp claw as she pokes at my chest through four layers of clothing, grimacing in discomfort. The foul creature smirks.
'You're not that irreplaceable,' I protest. 'After all, you've allowed, perhaps even conspired in the theft an arcane document. Not even Minister Bones could overlook such misbehaviour.' Aren't I the kneazle amongst the gnomes?
Mistress Clarke ponders my words for a few moments. Scowling in her struggle to gauge the potency of my threat, she grunts and trundles to her bureau, removing a pewter goblet from one of the drawers. 'I don't think I need to worry so much about Minister Bones's opinion in the matter.' I can feel the indentation of her teeth on my skin as she grins. Buggery.
Emerging from the Archives with the copy of the order in hand (and those sodding memos once more clamouring for attention), I clap a strong arm on Rutherford. I press him into the lift and inform him in no uncertain terms that discussing these events to any other entity will result in an expeditious transfer to the Orkneys. He chunters an affirmation to his shoes. As we travel to the second level, only the anxious shuffling of his feet reveal he's still nearby. It's good to have such able underlings.
Another sight awaits me when I enter Minister Perkins's domain. An expression of disgust reigns on her face as she gazes out the window at the torrential showers Magical Maintenance routinely gives her whenever she seeks a cross breeze. The memos hovering above me, believing their task complete, incinerate themselves to circle me in faint ash. Since the Minister has long been accustomed to this churlish game, some sundry other quandary must be affecting her. 'I know.' The resignation in her voice makes any further explanation unnecessary. She continues none the less. 'The devil himself told me.'
Ah, the Goblin Minister must have informed her about the incident outside of Gringotts's Haseltoun branch. My new information about the order boils away her irritation leaving only distilled panic and a host of oaths behind.
'What of Shacklebolt?' I enquire.
'Nothing so far,' she mutters, stomping to her bureau. 'But it's only a matter of time. Ideas?'
'Why did you have the Haseltoun Magical Law Enforcement Squad chase after those three after that Weasley woman sent the first lot to hospital?' Scolding Madam Perkins has become an annoyingly regular occurrence. 'Couldn't they simply have observed the subjects discreetly?'
Deep blue eyes peer fixedly at her steepled hands. The words linger on her lips before finally crashing to earth. 'It was a Dark Arts Response Team.' Hit wizards. Brilliant. What else will she throw at that woman? 'The Town Council sent them after the local plod found Catesby.'
'And why would the Council do that, Minister?' I reprove.
'We didn't want them to know with whom they were dealing, did we?' she reminds me. 'After Catesby, the Council had no idea what they were facing and called out the heavies. Dudson was called in to assist. He left the Council and the team leader with the impression they were dealing with Death Eaters, so the situation isn't entirely irreparable there.'
My eyebrow rises involuntarily. I'm surprised anyone could possibly be that gullible. Though, if they believed they were dealing with Death Eaters, why hadn't they called in the Aurors? When I voice my concerns, Madam Perkins fails or pretends not to notice; sometimes, it's very difficult to discern the difference.
'In any case, the team leader contacted the Office through Dudson saying they had the perfect opportunity to capture Weasley and Tonks.' She places deliberate stress on that word 'capture,' reinforcing her policy shift as if I am as dim as she. 'Six against two,' she insists, 'with the two in an enclosed space. Capture them, modify their memories, send them on some distant assignment – say, Belize – for a few years or simply lose them and all would be perfect.'
Honestly, I can understand the temptation to do something and why Madam Perkins believed the hit wizards. 'But why send in the local plod afterward?'
'Well, seeing six hit wizards pummelled and that café demolished, the Council believed Tonks and Weasley truly were Death Eaters. I think the locals simply became caught up in the chase.' A pause as dangerous as a mother dragon guarding her eggs hangs ominously in the air.
'And?' I finally ask.
'It seems some of the MLES recognised Weasley and Tonks through their foe glasses,' she murmurs to her ink blotter. Damn.
'Does the Council know?'
The scent of ash and the earlier mental image of a maternally enraged pyropteraped weigh heavily on my thoughts. 'I don't believe so,' she havers, eyes widening as the creaky cogs start to mesh within.
'Just to be sure, we should have the offending members debriefed by a couple loyal Obliviators,' but Perkins shakes her head. We lost those that modified Potter's memory in a spate of Death Eater ambushes shortly after the Ministry shipped him off to that Muggle hospital. The others are so obnoxiously concerned about the moral implications of their work. What happened to loyalty and love of one's community? 'Or send them on a fact-finding mission to New Zealand. You know, somewhere lovely yet distant.'
The Minister ferrets about her bureau for a quill that hadn't been nibbled and gnawed to the nib and scratches out a brief word to the Haseltoun Millies superintendent. The grimace of terrified befuddlement still hasn't left her quavering visage. 'What about the goblins and that bloody woman?'
Good question. The wind and rain beating against the window pane give me an idea. I explain to Madam Perkins that the three have no means of leaving Gringotts save through the front entrance. All we would have to do is wait for them to leave goblin territory and they are ours. But the why worries me.
The gates weren't especially well protected by the time they had encountered Catesby. Weasley and Tonks must have suspected that in view of the local plod's distaste for my Minister. Still, those two had favoured rushing to the centre of town and toward the MLES barracks. Did the two women have someone there actively assisting them? Somehow I don't think so. Furthermore, the Gringotts managing director announced the goblin prince had vouchsafed for their safety.
Despite the protection Professor Flitwick's name offers them there, Dergspruan's hospitality won't be longstanding. His hatred of wizardkind is far too old and strong. Indeed, I doubt that it will last the day. So, why would they head there rather than towards one of the gates? What could they secure there, other than funds, that they couldn't anywhere else? Tonks and Weasley's savings from their Auror's wages and Potter's weekly stipend – from what I remember of the latter (the order neglects that point since it was outside of the Department's purview) – aren't large enough to warrant wasting the opportunity to have flown from Haseltoun to who-knows-where. Then there is the question of Headmaster Flitwick. How much does he know?
'Minister, we should have someone watch over the Weasleys' Floo connections.'
For the first time in days, a true smile graces her simple face. 'It's being done as we speak.' Dear me, she's actually beginning to learn.
Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Diagon Alley, London
---(Remus's POV)---
Charmed candlelight provides steady illumination over the sordid details of ministerial corruption as I sit reading the administrative order for Harry's Obliviation in the backroom of the establishment I now call home. The cramped, spiked bureaucratic scrawl reveals the panic of those days despite the precision of the writing itself. Indeed, the scribe was almost too precise.
Unlike many ministerial documents I've had the misfortune to run across during my life, this order is positively disorganised. Sections cover the troubles faced by the Department from the remaining Death Eaters and the loss of so many important members of the magical community, Harry's treatment such as it was, and a brief discussion of his rantings. I'd witnessed only a few of his explosions, and though the potions I'd been taking deadened some of the force and volume of his words, it should have been obvious to me then what the Healers and Ministry officials were pressing us to accept was wrong. Not that I blame Hermione.
The Ministry tended to ignore me – while the executor of Harry's godfather's will, I was a werewolf – and placed all of its considerable weight on her narrow shoulders. Ron was too busy battling with the Healers concerning his sister's care – a task in itself – and coping with the deaths of so many family members to be by Hermione's side all the time. Perkins and her minions always lurked about until an emergency sent Ron away before badgering his girlfriend with queries and entreaties. The Ministry denied Hermione any contact with her parents or anyone else in the world outside of that ward in St Mungo's. Cut off and progressively cut down, it amazes me she resisted so long.
Faced with the Ministry's report on Harry's ranting, it's not surprising Hermione kept his survival a secret from Ginny. Initially, it seemed as if he despised the youngest Weasley, that he blamed her for his state. Perkins and a few pliant Healers made certain that Harry was sufficiently incoherent whenever Hermione visited, a process to which the order refers in veiled terms. The scribe does, however, attempt to legitimise these antics by stressing the mutual danger Harry and Ginny would have put on the Ministry, their families, and themselves had Hermione not been pressurised into agreeing to Perkins and Babbage's scheme.
Ah, Babbage. The little swine has managed to keep his name out of this dossier as much as possible. It will be an incomparable pleasure to let Rita loose upon him when the time comes. One can almost see her mandibles at work as she demolishes the troll's schemes.
We kept our stay in the Archives as brief as possible. A beetle by nature, Rita was terribly skittish about being in an environment so dominated by arachnids, while it was too close to my last metamorphosis not to reel from Mistress Clarke's reek. Once the Quick Quote Quills had performed sterling service transcribing the order, I secreted four copies and the original along with one of the goblets, hiding them within my rolled surcoat. The other goblet I gave to Miss Skeeter in lieu of liquid payment by Galleons and Sickles. For Mistress Clarke, I left a promise to return with two similar goblets should she abide by our arrangement. If the old crone accepts those terms, which I'm certain she will, she'll be bound by a magical contract and will be unable to reveal our deal to Perkins, Babbage, or anyone else.
Sickened by the stench of perspired drink, foul pipe tobacco, and the preserving agents on the collection that reinforced the Conservation Charms, Rita and I left Mistress Clarke to a blessedly egregious hangover – God willing – as we slipped from the Archives into a pair of Magical Maintenance boiler suits hidden in the lift in a satchel of tools by one of our two contacts for the operation. My contact has done very well for us in the past, having furnished us with Minister Bones and Madam Hopkirk's signatures to release the administrative order into our possession. Familiar with the intricacies of the bureaucracy, he's managed to keep Amelia Bones apprised of our needs without compromising the rest of us, saving both her and the rest of us from immediate discovery in case of failure.
I daresay Madam Bones shares her late niece's fondness for Harry, though I doubt it goes so far as the desire for an April-September romance. One never knows, though. Her odd silence in the face of our efforts to recover him is worrisome, even to Hermione. Does she, like Fred, resent Harry for her loss? If he had cared for Susan more, perhaps they would have remained together. Yet it was evident to anyone with eyes that he was far too gone on Ginny by that ill-fated Christmas.
Molly and Arthur thought he was still grieving for Sirius. Harry was, but his gaze wasn't altogether haunted by the death of beloved godfather, my dear friend. There was a fresh pain in his eyes, one which he wasn't able to hide completely behind that wall Occlumency and stubborn guilt had built, whenever he looked at the youngest Weasley. Ron and Hermione were too busy arguing – Hermione in bitter, anxious frustration while Ron persisted in his confused substitute for foreplay – to notice. I wagered with the Twins that when their brother finally clued in we'd need a blizzard to pull that couple apart. As for Ginny, I don't know what had taken hold of her that year. She could talk to Harry, but rarely looked at him straight on unless there were others to distract her. On several occasions, his jaw clenched as he bit back his irritation at her behaviour. I confronted him with my observations, but he baldly lied that it was only the constant throbbing of his scar and nightmares of Sirius that were making him tetchy. The little bastard knew I didn't believe him. He'd grown so accustomed to lying to himself about his feelings by then he could no longer distinguish the difference.
And Minister Bones? She knew the burden her niece had consciously assumed by taking such a prominent position in Harry's camp. In my heart, I doubt Madam Bones condemns Harry for Susan's demise. Though Madam Bones has stayed mute, she has carefully and quietly assisted us when and where possible. That must count for something.
Our other contact, Horace Whitlow, provided us with the Magical Maintenance coveralls. He's Rita's old schoolmate. More importantly, he Magical Maintenance's shop steward. A mixture of Rita's flattery and his animosity towards Minister Perkins secured for us a twenty-minute window after we depart during which it will be impossible to Disapparate from the Ministry. Something about the need 'to reinforce the existing wards against unauthorised egress or ingress.' Perkins's reward for being the chief negotiator of Magical Maintenance's last contract. Arthur loved that story about the month of nightmarish weather they visited upon Fudge's ministry through the enchanted windows, especially as he hadn't had to experience any of it himself.
Invisible in the commonplace orange boiler suits despite the clanging satchel that held our robes, we travelled leisurely through the corridors. The work order that protruded from my chest pocket would be enough to dissuade any officious prat who sought to stop our progress. Blithely wandering through Level Two, we visited Kingsley Shacklebolt's empty office. Ostensibly, we were there to repair the inflammability ward on a wall lamp. Fenchurch, the old git, stopped us at Kingsley's door. Knowing full well who we were and why we were there, he peered intently at our work order through his bifocal foe spectacles before permitting us to proceed. Rita, in a moment of sheer inspiration, trod on his foot and elbowed him in the midst of apologising for her first offence. As he left us in a wake of curses, I hid the original of the administrative order for Harry's Obliviation in Kingsley's filing cabinet, having furnished the Archives with a reasonable Quick Quotes Quill-rendered facsimile.
The fates for the other four copies were already arranged. I kept one. Ron and Hermione, Fred and Angelina, and Tonks will each receive a copy. I'd agreed to share mine with Miss Skeeter in accordance with the terms of our contract. Ron and Hermione will reserve theirs for Harry and Ginny if and when they arrive. The other two, the ones that sent me on this dreadful expedition, will use theirs to prepare the solicitors once Harry regains his memory. Tonks is our second reserve after Kingsley. She will likely keep her copy at Gringotts.
We doffed the coveralls at our Apparition point inside a school that had closed for the night in favour of the Muggle clothes hidden underneath, we lost any potential minders in the Underground. Finally above ground, Rita and I strolled – well apart, I must stress – the London pavement taking a circuitous route to Diagon Alley.
I hate to admit it, but Rita made a disturbingly convincing Muggle. She even dressed sensibly rather than audaciously in court shoes and a proper dress suit. The year-long probation Hermione gave her seems to have had some positive effect after all. Yet Rita's eyes still leapt from their sockets upon learning about Harry's survival. I can tell she desired to publish that information to the waiting world, but our magical contract constrained her. Even so, I was tempted to Obliviate her to secure her silence. Pity that it would have caused more problems than it would have solved.
Rita's grey jacket and skirt were jovial when next to my sombre black suit. I seem to have just attended a funeral, or a disinterment. Scanning the order as the Quills scratched their way along the rolls of parchment, I may as well have. Seated alone in the backroom of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes while Fred and his assistant – Dennis Creevey of all people – are joyfully tormenting the clientele with new products. From the screams and squeals of delight, Fred's creative energies are stronger than ever. This exultant atmosphere sweetly counters the wickedness written within the order.
I had thought Hermione had told me all of the circumstances surrounding Harry's Obliviation, but she couldn't have been aware of what's in the Ministry's files. I had witnessed many varieties of bureaucratic perfidy performed within England in my time, but Fudge and his cronies surpassed the folly of the Ministry during Voldemort's first rising. Fudge was not entirely at fault for the corruption bred during his administration, though he was guilty of allowing it to fester and propagate. Such is the lot of government in times of restoration. Minister Bones is having more success in restraining most of the ambitious power-seekers, but some – like Perkins, inherited from the old administration – have slipped through. Much as Rita and I had through the Ministry.
Fortunately for Harry and all who love him, Hermione's time with he and Ron gave her a healthy suspicion of authority. Had she not, Ginny would never have found him and he would likely have been dead either from complications in hospital or a post-release 'accident,' such as forgetting to hold onto broomstick on his ride home. Perkins may have allowed him a sort of half-life. If Harry was lucky, he might have been living in some dreadful council flat on a dismal estate somewhere, Salford maybe. Hermione's involvement, along with the Weasley name and a sadly pre-occupied Professor Flitwick, gave Harry a happier past and the chance of a respectable future, his parents' legacy safely held for his use rather than the Ministry's.
Fred comes in sporting a devilish grin at his cleverness. When he sees the reading material before me, the smirk becomes a grimace. Nausea washes across his face. 'Did you have to bring that down here?' he moans. For a day – it feels like an eternity – I've been reading this drivel, seeking to make sense of the wickedness therein, but all I see are dark hearts and fouler minds.
'What do you have against Harry anyway?' I heard the tale, but it never made much sense to me. Molly died protecting her family while arguing with Harry which one ought to go through the Floo first. Harry collapsed completely after that, having lost the only maternal figure he'd ever known. She was one of the few remaining connections he had with the wizarding side of his family, Lily having been the daughter of that accountant second cousin the Weasleys never mentioned. Ginny was kept ignorant of that piece of the family drama, though it's doubtful she would have repudiated Harry after learning she was his second cousin who knows how many times removed, especially considering how quickly Harry recovered from the realisation. He'd never known how closely related wizarding families could be until his fifth year when Sirius described the Black family's sordid history.
Fred gathers the strength to answer. 'He'd always brought misfortune on the Weasley women, whether it was Ginny, Mum, or Hermione.' My brow furrows as I seek to divine his reasoning. 'Because of Harry, Malfoy slipped Ginny the Great Git's diary. Harry perpetually sent Mum into a tizzy about how dreadful he was being treated by the Dursleys and then by acting like a right prat to her since his fifth year after she'd loved him like one of her own.' All true, all very true, yet it's surprising he avoids the obvious explanation. Perhaps it's still too painful a memory to relive. 'Hermione – whatever her faults – always did what she thought was best for him. Saved him from that Cho's evil clutches, first off.' I remember Cho Chang well from when I was a professor at Hogwarts. She was a very nice and fairly bright girl. 'OK, she were pretty and, to be honest, a decent Quidditch player, but compared to Ginny...'
'I thought you said Harry was wrong for Ginny.'
Fred ignores my comment. 'Harry was responsible for that brief rift between Mum and Hermione in our, my sixth year. Mum thought Hermione was playing with ickle Harrykins heart, the poor sod.' He stands before me now, eyes squinting and mouth drawn from the stress of reliving the memories of those days. 'And,' he leans towards me, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, 'he was the cause of Hermione's miscarriage.'
My God, she only recently told me she was pregnant. 'She hasn't...'
'It was about four years ago, when Ron and Hermione separated.' That explains quite a bit, though why they had kept this from me, I've no idea. 'Ginny demanded that Ange and I not tell anyone. We weren't supposed to know, either.'
'Harry never intended any of that, you know.'
'Yet...' Yet. If Harry hadn't delayed that night, Molly would still be with us, with who knows how many other Weasleys. Arthur might have survived to become a junior minister, Bill and Fleur might be plaguing Europe with a horde of fair-haired heartbreakers. Charlie might even have made it back from Romania that fateful year. And George might be here still inventing alongside his brother, the Twins against the Filches and Umbridges of the world, raining chaos upon the self-righteous and humourless. As it should have been...
'You remember how Ginny was...'
The shelves distract Fred for a moment as he recalls the past. He collects some fresh stock for the front that he carefully places on my table. 'Better than most, if you remember.' Hermione had told me of the scene at St Mungo's after Harry's funeral. 'She could barely speak to him after her first year for fear of what he thought of her. Never even thought of asking her to the Yule Ball after Cho turned him down. Not to say she would have gone back on going with Neville any road, just that it would have been thoughtful for him to have considered her, right? And how she defended and supported him in her fourth year. She didn't have to, did she?' Though I dislike to think it, I'm becoming increasingly appalled by the indifference of my friend's son. Fred pulls up a stool and sits across from me. 'So, what's in there will improve my opinion of him?'
'It might make you more sympathetic.'
'Ange and I asked you to find that didn't we?' he grumbles tapping the scroll. 'I'm not so daft as you obviously think.' He glares straight into my eyes daring me to contradict him. 'Remus, for years I believed Harry was an arrogant little shit who thought he had a monopoly on grief. I despised him for how he blamed himself for Mum's death, how he scurried away from Ron and Ginny like he was the only one suffering.' His eyes still fixed me to my stool. The intensity of his gaze, usually so fleeting as it sought targets for barbs and pranks or avenues of escape, was discomfiting, if not frightening. 'Not that I didn't blame him myself. He could have Flooed from Grimmauld Place when Mum told him. Perhaps she would have died a little sooner. He should have simply forced her to go, but she never would have allowed that.' He smirks at the memory of his mother's iron resolve.
Grumbling, he grabs the merchandise from the table. 'I know he wanted Mum to leave before him that day. Maybe by that point he thought only the Great Git could kill him.' He can no longer look me in the eye as his face reddens in anger at the memory. The colour slowly fades and he breathes a heavy sigh. 'But Mum would never leave one of her kids behind, no matter how much Harry fought with her. Like any good mum she could be a fool where her children were concerned.' His steps are leaden as he ventures back out to the front. 'At least he had the balls to tell Dad what happened.'
With that he leaves me alone with my own unhappy reminiscences and dreams of a world in which other paths had been taken. Neither Molly nor Fred knew of the prophecy. Even if they had, it's unlikely anything would have changed. Though as any teenager, Harry had grown to resent Molly's mothering, he never would have willingly left her side. His collapse after her death was complete. Only the deaths of Ron, Hermione, or Ginny would have affected him more then. Confronting Ginny's grief forced Harry back into the present and gave him the desire to train harder. By the end, he was willing to die or even kill to protect the Weasleys though Death continued to devour them. Though Death feasted on his soul until there was nothing left save the faintest hope at least one member of his adopted family would survive the war.
In the end, Harry believed he could no longer even rely on that pale dream. He died thinking he had lost everything and everyone, that he was once again and forever alone, unloved, and cursed.
Is it right to thrust that world, our world back on him?
Gringotts, Diagon Alley, London
---(Ron's POV)---
Two hours late.
Days like these drive a man to drink. Then again, after last night...
Oh, God, how things've gone wrong. How were we to know back then, so many years ago, how things would turn out? Ginny was barely ten weeks old the first time Harry and his mum defeated You-Know-Who. (OK, Voldemort. Shudder. Satisfied?) Now she's ready to take on the world for that damn fool.
Harry. Who would have thought twelve years ago on that train to Hogwarts what a curse he'd bring on our family. Then, we were nine. What are we going to do with Ginny? Her falling for Harry was adorable when she was eleven, but it rapidly became a bloody curse. By then, though, supporting Harry was a Weasley tradition – the sole one I'd started, if you exclude Fred and George introducing me – one that I thought the Department of Mysteries and Harry's prattish behaviour that year had cured.
I should've realised that second year, when the elder Malfoy planted Riddle's diary for Ginny to find, being near Harry was dangerous. Or our fifth year when Harry saw that snake attack Dad. Fred and George knew. I remained pig-ignorant, up until the end.
No, that's unfair. It's not his fault, really.
I look down at my arms and swear that I can see the marks from the brain through my robes and clothes. All those bloody potions I'd taken in the Infirmary after the night Sirius died could only work so well. The occasional uncharacteristic thought burrows its way through now and then. Like when I broke my hand on the door jamb after Hermione told me about Harry...
What a cock-up.
Don't get me wrong. It was great seeing Harry again. Despite what had been done to him – what we'd done to him – he hadn't changed much. More relaxed, carefree maybe. Even Fred thought so. If he approves of Harry, there may be some hope. Yet since Ginny brought Harry to London, everything's gone pear-shaped. Hermione's on edge, though she won't say why. Ange nearly murdered Fred. (According to Fred; she probably just gave him a good bollocking.)
What we'd done to them. What I'd done to them. To Harry, to Ginny... and to Hermione.
But then we were three. (Won't bother to count Percy. He'd buggered off to God knows where, the git.) Not that any of us were able to deal with much of anything at the time. Fred was no longer the gregarious sort. Lee Jordan and Dennis Creevey kept him out of the shop after he nearly bit the head off of some student. That left him having to muddle through the family's affairs with me and a potion-addled Remus. Not that either of them was around much. Remus was in hospital more often than not. Fred was busy with the funeral arrangements, absolutely refusing to have anyone save Ange help him. Ginny, of course, was in and out of consciousness. Leaving me to deal with the solicitors, the Ministry, the Healers, and Harry.
Though in truth, it was Hermione who was burdened with Harry's problems. And Ginny's. The Ministry had embarked on a campaign of divide and conquer. Flinging difficulties with Dad's pension my way, as well as with the legacies of the rest of the family, and some of our friends, all requiring urgent meetings with the solicitors, Gringotts, that shit Perkins, and with other little pricks from the Ministry. Keeping me away from Hermione, and her away from her family.
'The importance of keeping the wizarding community's secrets safe from the Muggles,' was their excuse. Being family, that didn't matter, but the Ministry officials didn't listen, no matter how much she begged them. They seemed congenial when I was around, not that I trusted them. But something would always come up to drag me away...
Hermione was drowning in it by the end. She was having no success in getting the Healers to decrease the doses they gave Ginny. They inundated her with reports on Death Eater attacks and pleas to accept the Ministry's scheme for Harry. She was in tears when she'd told me what they'd planned. She wanted to wait, at least until he was cogent. But the pressure was simply too great. I couldn't bear what was being done to her, and Harry didn't seem likely to recover. In the end, I begged her to accept the Ministry's findings, if only for her own sanity. Yet later I hadn't the courage to stand by her when she discovered all of St Mungo's and the Ministry's lies.
We lost our baby... How could I have done that to Hermione? And our child. To this day, I don't know why I stormed out of our flat. I reckon I couldn't bear being reminded of my complicity in Harry's 'surrogate death,' as Remus terms it. It wasn't Hermione I was furious with, but me.
Now we're right back where we started.
So here I sit in a private office at Gringotts reading a copy of the Ministry's secret file on Harry's 'treatment' growing sicker with each and every page. After I re-read each passage for the fourth time. I thought Remus said he'd decoded this... The report's as unintelligible as ever. The Ministry must employ a special committee of goblin and wizarding solicitors to write this rubbish.
Remus rang early this morning – bloody fellytones – about the order without being to direct. Needless to say, at six in the morning with a pregnant wife (sleep being at a dreadful premium), a bit of directness wouldn't have hurt, but knowing him it must have been an emergency. We met at a coffee bar in Hammersmith, far enough from anything to dissuade any ministerial interest, where we obliquely discussed several issues involving the Wizarding Wheezes. Intellectual property rights and the like, as if I know anything about that bollocks. During which he passed me the dossier now before me, affixed to which was one of those Muggle sticky-notes reminding me to keep it safe. Scanning the first page after returning home and seeing the name 'POTTER' I immediately knew why.
Yet the strange occurrences for the day didn't end there. Reading the report – order, whatever – I was puzzled for what to do. I mean, I was certainly going to put it into my and Hermione's vault at Gringotts. Then the message from Tonks came, spat up from that silly small cauldron on the bureau. Ginny was with her in Edinburgh, in Haseltoun, and with Harry. No bad news there, except...
Except Tonks reported that Ginny and Harry had run-ins with three gits who must have been sent by that prat Perkins. Tonks's own concerns of further encounters were evident in the short missive. Just then, Hermione woke calling my name. Taking this as an omen – she's never been able to understand my superstitious ways – I rushed to the bed in a panic. She was mildly distraught as well, though one would have to know her well to tell. A slight downward twist at the right corner of her mouth. When she saw the anxiety on my face and what I was holding, her concern became more apparent. We conferred and decided to contact Kingsley since neither of us wanted to risk the baby and I was far too recognisable – we are third in the League, you know – to swan off to Haseltoun. Besides, if I didn't attend today's practice, the manager would shunt me off to the reserves. And, to be honest, I let my worries about losing them again take precedence over the need for discretion or the likelihood Ginny would again shun us.
Shacklebolt was furious that Ginny hadn't sought to inform him that Harry was with her. 'Indiscreet, unsafe, insane,' scribbled in a shaky hand was all he could manage other than an order to Apparate immediately to the Ministry ('Ministry, NOW.'). It's unnerving when someone as unflappable and erudite as Kingsley can only respond in such a curt fashion.
When I arrived, he thrust a book in my hand and ordered me to do whatever it took – beg, plead, whatever – to convince Ginny to leave Harry with Tonks for the time being. Ginny was to discreetly return to their flat to await a disciplinary hearing. As I began to protest, he assured me the hearing was merely a formality and that the worst she'd receive would be a desk job at Auror HQ. He could tell I didn't believe him, but he refused to accept my whinging about Quidditch practice or my insistence that she'd find him more convincing these days. Or that since he already knew about Harry, why couldn't he go? After his ten-minute explanation how Fidelius Charms operate (you see if your eyes don't cross after someone tells you, 'Just because I know where he is doesn't mean that I know where he is,' several times), I resolved to take his word for it and was thrust northward. In the end, Tonks's sedative and Harry's illness rendered my worries and Kingsley's planning academic. I wonder how Kingsley's taking it...
Yet the day's strangeness didn't end there. Midway through a scrimmage – during which I made several spectacular saves and only let in one shot – I was called down for an urgent message. Hughes, the manager, wasn't well pleased. Back to being a substitute, his glare declared. The prick. The messenger, however, looked impressed, which could only mean disaster.
It was only a standard parchment envelope with florid green writing with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned on the purple wax seal. Purple seal… I tossed a couple Galleons to the lad and hastily carried the letter into the changing rooms as if it was a Howler sent by Mum. I needn't have worried so, as Professor Flitwick merely informed me that I was to meet Ginny, Harry, and Tonks at Gringotts, inconspicuously sneak them to somewhere safe, and win the League Cup single-handed. OK, so that last request was a bit of a stretch, but not far off. Ginny's likely still pissed about Kingsley finding out. There's nothing I need less than further aggro from my not-so-little sister after a six-hour Quidditch practice and only two hours of sleep. That said, it will be good to see her again, especially after how distant we've become.
What a family we Weasleys are these days. Before, we couldn't be separated despite how large a brood we were, excepting that git Percy, of course. Though Charlie was in Romania and Bill in Egypt, the family always managed to keep in touch, always close. Now, though, we're separated only by a stretch of road or rail but see each other only irregularly. Ginny hasn't really visited us in years. Fred only comes because Angelina insists, and they only come on alternate Christmases, spending time with her family the other times. Hermione's not taking it well at all. You'd think being an only child, and a swotty one at that, that she'd be used to being alone. But losing Ginny nearly sent her round the twist. Hermione knows she tends to mother Ginny now and then, but she can't help feeling protective of her sister-in-law after what happened in our seventh year. Their absence is driving me mad, as well.
As I slowly fall asleep in this private office with my cure for insomnia open before me, I reflect on the bizarre influence our family name now holds over the wizarding world. Long ago, I wondered what Harry must have felt like, especially in those early years before he'd truly grown accustomed to the prevailing sense of idiocy that surrounded him from being the Boy-Who-Lived. I now know why he despised the attention, the fawning. I just want to go home, hug my wife and child-to-be, spend time with them, and forget the rest of the world. But nothing's ever so simple.
Still, there are some benefits. Such as being able to wait in an office rather than out in the open, and receiving the sincere regrets of a senior manager of Gringotts. All Bill's doing, really. Those years of curse-breaking in Egypt and the rest of the Near East, filling the coffers of Gringotts with gold and furthering the bank's own schemes for protecting its vaults. He was one of the foremost in the field, though he never let on.
I admit, in spite of Bill's coaching – nagging, really – of how to behave around goblins, I was dead nervous when the Managing Director of all people came to greet me. He politely held out his hand with a welcoming toothy sneer I assume was meant to put me at ease. Graciously – I hope – I bowed and shook his claw, trying all the while to still the discomfort as his long fingers encircled my hand for the second time. Placing a small but firm palm on my lower back, he guided me gravely to the back offices of the senior management. At first I was terrified that Professor Flitwick was unable to convince Gringotts to accept Tonks and Ginny's scheme. Then I panicked that they were going to renounce the terms of my and Hermione's mortgage. I had forgotten how odd the day had already been.
'Mr Weasley,' the Managing Director Fogruk snarled after shutting the door to the empty office behind him. I'd never seen a goblin so embarrassed before, and I hope never to see another in such a state again. 'I offer my most sincere apology for Director Dergspruan's rudeness.' If goblins could blush, his face would be bright red. The snorting as well as his twitching ears, squinting eyes, and gnashing teeth made an even worse sight. 'Had we known about that second contract earlier, it would never have been inflicted upon your family.' I, of course, had no idea what he meant.
For any goblin, the act of acknowledging a mistake to a wizard is tantamount to an admission of servitude. Bill taught me that important lesson. If wasn't for him and his work for Gringotts over the years, I'm certain I never would have heard about Dergspruan's machinations, Professor Flitwick or not. I duly accepted the Managing Director's regrets with the proper dignity, wincing as I lower myself onto knees sore from hours of Quidditch practice to shake his claw and address him being to being. 'I am humbled by your honesty, sir.' I must remember to find Hagrid's recipe for treacle and send that little worm Dergspruan a batch.
I'm reminded of Harry version of how Hermione used the centaurs to dispense with Umbridge that fateful day. It was the summer before our sixth year and we'd recently received our OWLs. A hideous bit of summer reading that was. Sick of seeing her go off on one of her self-righteous tirades about how we ought to have paid more attention in class if we'd wanted more bloody OWLs, and worried that I might forget how fond I was – and am (married her, didn't I?) – of her, he brought up the centaurs. 'Yes,' he said arching his brow, 'and who was it who forgot how proud centaurs are?'
I've only seen Hermione that discomfited four times in my life as she suddenly remembered about needing to find Ginny for something. Part of me wanted to grin with him while another urged me to knock that smirk off his smug git face. My opinion of him didn't improve when he gave me a shove. 'Well, go on then,' he chortled, nodding in the direction she'd scarpered. My ears burned with the realisation of how obvious my affection for Hermione was. Still, it took the threat of her spending Christmas with Viktor that finally prompted me to act. (Upon reflection, I'm happy to say Hermione tricked me into that, especially after that Christmas.)
Thinking back on how Hermione ridded us of that pustule reminds me I've no idea how to sneak the four of us out of here. And no secure means of contacting anyone who might be able to help. Bugger. I wonder if the Managing Director has any ideas. Speak of the pointy-eared angel...
Director Fogruk re-enters the office with a pair of disgruntled underlings trailing behind. 'Mr Weasley, being that humans, even those so cognizant of our ways as you, tend to forget certain necessities of our trade, I've taken the liberty of arranging a safe means of transport.' Well, I understood the last bit. I think.
'And what might that be?' I enquire.
'How would you feel about advertising our new education savings account for young parents?' My stomach plummets to my kidneys and considers going further.
'Er...'
'We've run it through your club,' he announces with a new toothy grimace that I suspect is intended as an encouraging smile. 'They loved the idea.' I'm sure they did.
'Now...'
'This isn't gratis, Mr Weasley,' he adds ostentatiously, index claw in air. 'No, no. You will receive the going rate,' a pittance, 'as well as a five hundred Galleon,' here he fails to suppress a shudder, 'initial investment in your son or daughter's plan.' Slapping his hands loudly behind his back he awaits my decision. 'Hmm?' Not very patiently, obviously.
'How will this help us leave?'
I never thought I'd ever compare a goblin to Hermione, or vice versa, but the way he rolls his eyes... 'Because,' biting off an insult just in time, 'we've arranged a press conference.' During which the rest might escape unseen.
'Are you sure this will work?' It has been five years since Voldemort's fall and I was in the first seven only four times last year, despite performing better than Rathbone, our starting Keeper, each time. (Sodding manager.)
And that stern glower... I always thought Mum learned that particular talent from Nan, or Professor McGonagall. Well, it might work.
'I still want to see them beforehand,' I demand.
'They should be arriving forthwith,' Fogruk grins. His usual scowling self is much easier to stomach. The two underlings usher the three into the office.
Tonks comes in first, calmly but her robes are askew and certainly not in accordance with the MR&R (Ministry Rules and Regulations). She smiles broadly none the less, unsettling me even more. Ginny and Harry follow next. The way they're glaring at each other reveals they're in the midst of an argument though since she's consented to his arm resting along her side and he her arm across his shoulders, it mustn't be a serious one.
'You really should let me examine you,' Harry insists. 'I do have a first aid certificate.'
'We'll wait until we see Hermione,' Ginny grumbles.
'Ginny,' Tonks pleads, sick of the sniping, 'just let him look. What could it hurt?'
'Me,' my sister quips, 'a lot.'
Time to be the concerned brother. 'OK, what happened?' A faint cough reminds all of us that Director Fogruk is still in the room.
'Briefly,' he grunts gazing at his pocket watch, 'these two ladies had another run-in with the law.' Groaning at my goggle-eyed and gormless reaction, he continues. 'And Miss Weasley here seems to have broken a rib. Or two. Can we get a move on?'
Fogruk merely shrugs as we gaze at him in complete disbelief. 'Well, you lot want to leave, don't you?'
Very well. On with the dog and pony show...
A/N: Hermione and Ginny will appear in the next chapter, The Beasting. Hermione and Ginny will appear in the next chapter, .
Q & A with the befuddled writer - please note that if I haven't responded to your review, the only reason is that my mind is completely addled. Permanently. Sorry about that. And now, in reverse order received...
To japanesejew, I checked the chapters (8, 12, 15) you mentioned to see what might be wrong (admittedly I just scanned them, rather than go through them thoroughly), but they seem to be ok. If you still find them to be a problem, please contact me again and I'll give them a thorough going over.
To Santa Claus, sorry about the confusion I've caused. (For a brief, but occasionally outdated look at British slang, check out "The Best of British" online), which covers a fair array of mostly English slang. Some Scots slang slipped into one chapter, such as "glaikit" which means daft or dim (check out "ScotSpeak" online). "Prat" generally means "idiot" or "childish idiot." A Permanent (Under)Secretary (of State) --or Permanent Secretary --is the seniormost civil servant within a government department; in other words, the one who usually runs things and truly knows what's going on. A minister generally is assisted by a private secretary who keeps the minister in line while the Permanent Secretary is busy running the department. The old British show "Yes, Minister" offers a good overview of the British government, and is quite funny as well!
To Naitch03, thanks for enjoying the story!
To Elizabeth, I hope I've answered the questions of whether Harry's still a squib or not so far, and I hope you're still reading.
To Madam Whitbrook, many people have complained about the all-too-quickly switches in POV and all I can write is that you're likely correct. What works fine in the writer's mind doesn't always transfer nearly so well onto the page, especially if the intervening connections (the ability of the author to write well) aren't that good. In later chapters, I've tried to make the space between shifts in POV longer (between 1,000-2,000 words) so readers get various sides of a story or to shift locales to advance the plot, which hopefully makes the read a little easier. I apologise for the failings before (and possibly since), and I hope you are continuing to read this story.
To knbnnate, thank you very much!