A/N: Jongluer asked about the inspiration for a steel wand. That would have to be Rolling Thunder. Every year for the July Fourth holiday, Almost every Veteran with a motorcycle rides into Washington, DC. As a rule, they will organize at some points outside the city, and enter in large groups. The police will block off the side roads and highway ramps for them. I had the advantage, one year, of being on a bridge overlooking one of the highways with a good view each way. At one point, all you could see in either direction was motorcycles.

While I watched, I had an idle thought: What if some of them were wizards (or witches)? And I finally had the chance to throw that idea into a story.

Chapter 17: September Reminiscing

Greaser was pacing his shop. For years, he had successfully dealt with questionable people. In both the muggle and wizarding world. But now those people were beginning to question him. They found it suspicious that federal agents would visit him regularly yet never arrest him.

Then one or two people were caught. Suspicions became concerns. Now, on both sides of the magical fence, former friends were concerned about how reliable Greaser was. To make matters worse, David Winter had arrived at the door, in daylight, and with company. Greaser knew that his former friends were making their decisions. He knew they were watching him. There was a knock at the door.

"Greaser," David said in a loud and cheerful voice. "I'm glad you're here."

"What do you want this time?"

David was standing close to the door, but his two companions stood back a few feet. One was looking at the motorcycles that Greaser was reworking and nodded appreciatively. Not that he would ever become a customer.

Greaser moved his hands carefully, trying to keep them in the shadow. In sign language he said, we're being watched. Vocally he said, "What the hell do you guys want now?"

David Winter smiled inwardly. For the first time he was truly grateful that his Aunt Ellen had been born deaf. He signed back. I know. "I only wanted to congratulate you."

"I don't need anything from you except peace and quiet." I won't last much longer. I have to run.

"We won't bother you much longer," David said with a laugh. I have a plan. It will work.

Greaser stared in disbelief. A plan? A way for him and his son to live a normal life? Without having to hide? He could avoid a muggle gunman easily enough, but there were wizards who would not hesitate if they believed he had betrayed them. "What are you talking about?"

David reached out his hand and gently led Greaser out into the yard, heavily fenced to keep the inquisitive from getting too close to the bikes and cars in his lot.

"Do you know, Henry? May I call you Henry? "Do you know that your record is amazingly clean. You have been listed as a person of interest in several dozen crimes over the years, but there has never been enough evidence to make you a suspect. You should be proud of your record."

"If my record's so clean then why are you here?"

David waved for the two men to come forward. "I told some friends about you and they also thought you were a person of interest. They looked at your record and decided that they would ask you a few questions. Do you mind? They're simple questions. You've answered them hundreds of times, I'm sure."

Greaser stared hard at David Winter. His next line fit perfectly. "What are you getting at?"

"Excuse me," the older of the two men asked in a matter of fact voice. "Are you Henry Renault?"

"Yeah," Greaser answered carefully. He noticed the street kid loitering by the gate. He may have only been sixteen but Greaser knew the kid was working. The kid had just leaned back to hear what was going on. There was probably a wizard nearby as well, using an eavesdropping spell.

The older man asked his second question. "And is this an accurate copy of your birth certificate." He held up a sheet of paper.

"Yeah," Greaser answered.

The man nodded as he reached into his pocket. "We obtained this from the French government. You acknowledged that you are French by birth and our records show that you have never become a naturalized citizen. As an investigatory agent for the Immigration and Naturalization Service I must demand to see your green card."

Greaser was shocked. The man was holding a pair of handcuffs and his partner had drawn his revolver. It was then he understood what the plan was. "I . . . I don't have one. I don't need one. I've been living here for fifteen years . . ."

"Save it for your lawyer, Mister Renault." He put the cuff on Greaser's outstretched had and deftly forced him to turn around, attaching the other cuff. "You are under arrest for violation of the immigration statutes and you will be held for deportation pending the results of your hearing."

As Greaser was led away, he saw the kid suddenly become bored and leave. He almost had to laugh. All of his problems were solved. His so-called friends would believe that he hadn't ratted them out. They would know that he didn't escape, either. He would have to go back to France. To visit Paris again. The old haunts where he met his late wife. He would walk along the Seine where they had strolled so many times. Greaser stopped as he understood one more thing. He would have to meet his In-Laws.

Louis sat quietly reading his letter, his breakfast forgotten. Denise noticed his look.

"Louis? What's wrong?"

He looked up startled. "Oh, nothing. My old man. He gave up his shop. He's moving back to France."

"That sounds nice. Did he say where in France?"

Louis folded the letter and put it away. "That's what surprised me. It ain't from him. It's from my Grandfather."

It wasn't only Denise looking at Louis. Everyone was curious now.

"Why would that surprise you?"

Louis shook his head as though to shake the last of his disbelief. "I never knew I had a grandfather. Pop never said anything. And now I get this letter saying He's there, He's in charge of me, and He's sending me to school."

"School?" Denise asked.

"In France?" another girl asked, then smiled "I wonder which one."

"I only know one," a fifth year girl answered. "Louis, If you go there before the end of the month, can I be your date to the ball?"

Louis stared at the crowd around him, mostly girls. None of them looked sympathetic. And not a few had the look of avarice about them.

"I hate you, Malcolm."

"It's nice to see you too, Dewey. I guess you didn't make the Quidditch team."

Dewey snarled at his brother as they walked down the hallway. "I made the team. As backup. I'm a better beater than any they've got. I'm almost as good as Draco as Seeker, and I'm a decent chaser. But they won't make me part of the regular team."

"And you're blaming me?"

"No. They are. They don't want Malcolm's brother playing for them. Greg even said that they'd of grabbed me in a heartbeat if Uncle Lucius went through with the adoption."

Yeah, like I'm going to believe that.

"Dewey, it's not my fault. Blame Draco. Slytherin hasn't had a winning season since he joined the team. How would it make him look if you won a game for them."

"Nice try," Dewey noted. "But Draco's the one got me to be backup. They weren't even going to do that."

"Fine. It's my fault. At least you're on the team."

"I still hate you."

"Like I really care." Malcolm stopped. "Dewey, I almost forgot. Mom sent us some cookies. Here's your half."

Dewey took the paper bag. "Thanks." As he reached in for a cookie he asked, "are you going to Beauxbatons for Hallowe'en?"

"They'll let me know sometime next week. Probably. Unless something happens. Did you want to go?"

"Yeah. Maybe that girl will be there and we can play Quidditch again. And Malcolm. I still hate you."

Normally I wouldn't say a thing to McGonagall except last year he was playing at night and he drove his broom straight into the ground. I'm hoping he does it again this year.

"Howdy, Pard'ner. Welcome to the Sleepy Hollow Ranch."

The man looked at the house-elf standing on the counter. The denim jeans. Homemade flannel shirt. Cowboy hat and boots made to fit.

"Are you in charge?" The man had a distinct English accent.

The house elf laughed in a manner which said he had been asked this before. "No way, pard'ner. No way they'd put Pecos Tim in charge. I ain't got the gumption to stick to anythin' that long. Let me get the clerk for ya." Timmy turned his head and yelled, "Hey, Frank. Got a live one here." He turned back. "See ya around, Pard'ner." And he disappeared.

"Sorry about that," Francis said as he walked behind the clerk's desk.

"About not being here, or about the house elf."

"Both, I guess." Francis gave a polite smile.

"I am curious," the man asked. "How is it you have a freed house elf working for you?"

"Timmy, I'm sorry, Pecos Tim is not free. We tried everything but he doesn't want to be."

"But he was wearing clothes."

Francis' smile became real. "Yeah. My wife figured out that we can't give him clothes but we can give him the stuff he needs to make his own clothes. The denim jeans were his own idea."

The man pulled out a note pad and began writing. "And how long have you owned this house elf?"

"About three months."

"And he changed from an ordinary subservient house elf to what he is now in only three months."

"Who are you and why are you taking notes."

The man smiled. He wedged his quill into the notepad and extended his free hand. "Phineas Glyph. I'm with the Daily Prophet. We were looking for a feature story, you know, to keep people's spirits up. What with all that has been going on back home."

Francis shook the man's hand as he listened. Wheels started turning in his head. This was free advertising. English families would relish the idea of a vacation free from the local problems, whatever they were.

"I'm Francis . . ."

"I know," Phineas Glyph said. "We met once before but you might not remember me. You gave me a brief interview at your brother's adoption. If I might ask, is this the same house elf you claimed was once your brother. Amusing story, that."

Francis paused as he thought how to answer. He already told the man that Timmy wasn't free, and he remembered the newspaper story about the adoption. It mentioned that Nob had been set free. He had to tell the truth.

"No. Tim was owned by and elderly guest we had at the ranch. She gave Tim to my wife and me as . . . I guess you'd call it a belated wedding present." Francis gave a solemn frown. "Regretfully, she left the ranch the next day and passed away not long after that. We'll never have a chance to repay her."

"Marvelous story. Can I confirm that."

Francis nodded. "Ask anyone."

"And about this house elf. Is he really named Pecos Tim."

"As of last week. Our apartment is small an there's not much for him to do. By making him Pecos Tim, it keeps him busy and makes an added attraction for the ranch. He's learning to use a rope and he'll be doing tricks as soon as he can get the hang of them. We expect him to be popular with the kids."

"And you said he makes his own clothes?"

"Yeah, that way they're his to begin with. It seems you can't free a house elf by giving him clothes if he already owns them."

"Curious." Phineas made additional notes in his pad. "And what activities do you have for the guests?"

Francis stepped out from behind the counter. "Why don't I give you the grand tour."

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm looked up from his bed. "Reese? What are you doing here?"

"I need this," Reese explained, taking a small box off Malcolm's night table."

"Take it," Malcolm said angrily, Then shouted out loud as he suddenly awoke, "I don't need it any more."

"Malcolm?" Louis asked groggily from the next bed.

"Sorry. Bad dream."

"Well, have them quietly. We're trying to sleep."

"There are wards all around the ranch to keep ordinary people out unless they specifically intend to come here. That's usually for food deliveries and such. We're lucky in one respect. The local vet has a brother who could do magic. We can have her come up here anytime without causing problems."

"And this is a beautiful view from up here," Phineas said as he looked down from the horse's back.

"Yeah, Pete and I became friends our very first day. He's an amazing horse even for a pegasus."

"How can you know that? You mentioned he was the only one you ever saw."

"Yeah, but most of our guests have seen flying horses before. I know Pete is special because of the comments they make."

Phineas laughed. "Point taken."

"Anyway, the main building is the hotel, the barn next to the corral is the stable and the one on the other side of the hotel is actually a ballroom."

"A ballroom? On a ranch?"

"Barndancing," Francis reminded the reporter.

Anthony stood in front of the headmaster. He was still wearing his apron from working in the kitchen. Hector Filch was giving him a curious stare as though he couldn't decide if he should be angry or amused.

"Can you explain this sudden act of rebellion, young man."

""It was Reese, Sir. But it wasn't sudden."

Filch eyed the boy with disbelief. "Do you mean it was planned?"

"No, Sir. Not at first. But . . . perhaps I should start from the beginning."

Anthony thought back to that first day. It was Tuesday. They always served spaghetti on Tuesdays. Reese looked up in annoyance as the head cook poured the cans of tomato sauce into the large pot. Reese actually looked disgusted when she threw in a half cup of oregano as seasoning. Then Reese made his first rebellious statement.

"Why don't you boil the meatballs? It'll be faster."

The cook smirked. "Because the ground beef will fall apart. Shows how much you know about cooking."

Anthony should have guessed then that Reese was planning something. Because all Reese did was smile and say, "I guess you're right."

It was something about the spaghetti. Reese complained that she spoiled the easiest meal in the world. Then he started going to the kitchen early. Reese began helping with other things. He even missed one class to help with the deliveries. Anthony saw him, after class having a serious conversation with the delivery man. Reese never had a serious conversation about anything. Anthony later found a way to describe it perfectly. He was like a thief checking out the bank before he robbed it.

This morning, Reese had missed class again to help out with the delivery truck. That was when Anthony became involved. He saw Reese and became suspicious. He decided he could miss a class of his own.

"What are you doing?" Anthony asked as he confronted Reese at the kitchen entrance.

"Good, you're here. Grab these and hid them in the storage room."

Reese gave Anthony two boxes marked Misc. to carry before the boy could object. Reese gave the driver some money. The driver gave Reese his change, his receipt and two more boxes.

"Hurry up," Reese said as he literally pushed Anthony ahead of him. "We don't want to get caught."

Fear and Reason caught up with Anthony at the same time. Fear because he was now involved in another of Reese's plans. Reason told him he should have known better because he was dealing with Reese.

"What are we doing?" Anthony whispered as they hid the boxes behind the freezer.

"Teaching these people a lesson." Reese eyed him warily. "You're not thinking of chickening out, are you?"

"I wasn't even thinking of chickening in?"

"C'mon. We still have the rest of the truck to empty. I volunteered us."

"You knew I was coming?"

Reese grinned as though it should have been obvious. Later on, Anthony discovered that Reese had simply lied to him. But Reese's plan worked. Anthony now felt that he was involved and was too curious not to find out how it ended. And he had one good reason for not worrying about what happened afterward. He could always blame Reese.

Anthony and Reese helped out in the kitchen as usual that Tuesday afternoon. When the dishes were all washed, Anthony took off his apron. He had enough time to get to his last class of the day. Then he heard the click. Reese had pulled the fire alarm.

"FIRE IN THE STORAGE ROOM. QUICK, BEFORE THE CANS START EXPLODING."

Reese held one of the door to the serving area open and ushered everyone out as smoke came under the door of the storage cabinet. He made Anthony hold open the other door, to make it easier for all half-dozen of the kitchen employees to escape the fire. As the last person left, Reese pulled Anthony back and slammed the doors closed. He slid the locking bar into place then ran to the single door on the other side and locked that as well. He stopped by the delivery door to make sure it was still secure. Then he opened the cabinet door and pulled out the smoke bomb, dumping it into a glass of water to distinguish it.

Anthony's reaction was typical of anyone in his situation. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Taking over," Reese answered seriously. "Get the grill ready."

"What?"

"We're making dinner. Turn on the grill."

"Why? What do you expect me to do?"

"Cook the ground beef while I chop the peppers and onions. And don't forget the garlic."

Anthony was amazed. Reese filled three pots with water and let the pasta soak. The he took two more pots and poured the sauce into them adding some oregano but also basil and a couple of other spices.

As the sauce simmered, Reese began to chop the peppers. Then he washed the onions. Anthony asked why and found out that if you washed them first, they didn't make you cry. That was when he understood that there was one thing Reese did know about. They were going to make real SPAGHETTI instead of the usual plastic pasta.

Anthony pushed the ground beef around the grill, adding everything that Reese had chopped. The smell was filling the room. And another smell. Reese ran to the ovens and pulled out the freshly baked bread rolls and put them in the warming bin. He then told Anthony when to add everything to the sauce, then went off to fix the dessert. Anthony peaked when he had the chance. Reese was at the whipping machine. Tonight, dessert would not be gelatin.

Everything was ready. Anthony unlocked the door. The head cook stormed in and walked straight up to Reese. Reese was smirking and holding a spoon with the sauce. The head cook hesitated then took the spoon. She tasted it and nodded.

Anthony rolled out the warming bin to the serving area. The students were already queuing up, the earliest ones commenting on the smells. The staff set everything up in the serving trays and the meals were passed out. Anthony was given his own meal and sat down at a table, still wearing his apron. He loved everything. Even the Chocolate Mousse.

Finishing his tale, Anthony sighed and waited for the headmaster's reaction.

"And how did Reese manage to get the money for his purchases?"

"He has a rich cousin who owed him a favour."

Filch scowled. "I know about the rich cousin."

"Sir, could I say something on Reese's behalf. While we were cooking he kept bragging about what he did. He even said that nobody could complain about the money. And he showed me the receipts. Vegetables are cheaper than meat and he actually gave out more food at about the same cost."

"Are you saying he knows his way around the kitchen."

"As I explained, Sir. He learned everything he wanted to know."

Anthony didn't say why Reese did all of this. To him it was obvious. Reese wanted to prove that there was something he was better at. Besides hitting people.

"Then it's decided," Filch said with finality. "From now on, you will report to Reese when you work in the kitchen."

"But the head cook?"

"Resigned out of extreme embarrassment. Imagine working in a kitchen for thirty years and being outdone by a sixteen year old dish washer. We're calling it early retirement."

"Then Reese is head cook?" Anthony asked in amazement.

"The Head Chef," Filch said with amusement. "He will still take classes part time until he finally passes them all. His mother insists on that. But he is sixteen and legally qualifies as an adult."

"Cor. And I thought he was barmy."

"You're looking chipper this morning," Louis said as he sat down next to Malcolm.

Ginny smiled from across the table. "We were talking about his brother. It seems Reese was thrown out of school or something. If he's not going to school at Glen Levitt then he won't be visiting here all the time."

Louis nodded. "And why is he now frowning?"

Malcolm looked up. "Reese got a job in the kitchen. I guess he'll be visiting Millicent after he does all the dishes."

Louis shared Malcolm's frown. "I don't know Reese. I only met him twice, but he strikes me as the last person who would take a job."

I know what he means. I expected Reese to end up as a dishwasher. But not willingly.