The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

by The Unoriginal

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to the respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter five – Slap the Monster on Page One

'I have nothing against the press

They wouldn't print it if it wasn't true'

JOE JACKSON, Sunday papers


Nymphadora Tonks had long realized being an Auror was not all it was cracked up to be. Shifts were long, overtime taken for granted, and every minute spent doing something fun was paid for in advance with hours and hours of paper-shuffling dullness.

She morphed into the disguise, adjusted the robes on her now-broader shoulders, and went.

Twice a year, the top brass at the Ministry decided that something had to be done about all the dodgy business going on in Knockturn Alley; twice a year, on cue, the shopkeepers caught wind of the incoming clampdown, and the endless game of hide'n'seek began.

On one hand, hiders had the upper hand as they could choose a single spell and perfect it to an art, whereas seekers needed to know all the three hundred and sixty-two magical methods of hiding and related counterspells.
On the other hand, concealment charms were notoriously difficult and the safest of all, the Fidelius, was an impossible achievement for all but the most gifted wizards: and the patrons in Knockturn Alley were lowlife, dropouts, unable to master enough magic to support themselves through lawful means – whereas Aurors were la créme de la créme of the wizarding world.

At least, this was the official line.

Therefore, what with all three hundred and sixty-two methods having been tried, unsuccessfully, at Mr. Phelan's bookshop, the inspectors had concluded that there was really nothing illegal going on on those premises. Weird, for a Knockturn Alley shop, but true.

Tonks was unpersuaded. The shop was big, the rent was accordingly high, and in her opinion it just did not move enough books to survive, not at ⅝ off the cover price – unless it had a sideline with a higher markup, like selling Dark scrolls or stolen property. She even had a bet going with Dawlish about it.

There were owls landing and taking off from a turret on the first floor, but, as they were property of the customers and not the shop's, Aurors had not been authorized to search them. That didn't bother Tonks; a slight handicap only made the match more challenging.

She reached her destination and looked at the peeling insignia above the bookshop façade: only a faint trace of the gilded letters still reminded of the shop's erstwhile reputability, dating back from a time when Knockturn Alley was still called Contouring Alley and safe to walk even after nightfall.

LOOSE BINDINGS for TIGHT PURSES

Remainders, 2nd Hand Books & Palimpsests

A piece of parchment, thin and foxed, Spellotaped to the window under the "OPEN" sign, was more in line with the times and the surroundings:

Costumers Beware: Books by Gilderoy Lockheart

No Longer Saught due to a Dropping Demand.

Thanks for your Understanding.

Either somebody had never got the hang of Self-Correcting Quills, or it was all part of the pretence.

She entered the bookshop and the little bell above the door clinked. Mr. Phelan quickly lay the book he was reading flat on the counter, hiding its cover: something obscene, probably. She resisted the temptation to cast a Summoning Charm straight away: if this guy really sold forbidden material, nabbing him for possession of erotica would be like booking in the Carrows for jaywalking.

"Good morning," she said.

"'Mornin'," Phelan replied, eyeing her suspiciously. "Anythin' specific yer lookin' for?"

"Just having a look, thanks."

"Help yerself, then." Having classified her as 'innocuous', he leaned back against the armchair and resumed his reading. Tonks had given herself the appearance of a lanky wizard, with a dark complexion and acne scars, buck teeth and a non-existent chin; hardly Auror material.
And yet Knockturn Alley's owners knew that a plant from the Ministry might take any form; they would not sell prohibited merchandise to anyone but their most loyal customers.

The shop hand, a thick youth too young to do magic, was doing the floor the hard way, scrubbing the tiles with a mangy mop, and glared at her as she passed by; the water in the bucket was as black as the stone slabs it was supposed to clean. The traders in Knockturn Alley had a policy of keeping their premises shoddy, to prevent casual customers from wandering in, but this one had elevated the custom to an art form.

As usual for this shop, people came in and browsed, but very little money changed hands as a result. A lame hag was paid a pittance for a water-damaged copy of Dangerous Magical Plants of England and Wales (5th Edition); prolonged dickering took place over a stack of Witches Behaving Wickedly; a Sneakoscope started wailing as soon as a wizard with an empty haversack dangling from his shoulder set foot within the shop (Phelan just glared at the wizard, who turned on his heels and left).

Tonks wandered along the aisles, making a show of picking up books and putting them down: they were stacked so haphazardly that at one point, as she was taking out a copy of Common House-Elf Ailments, the entire content of the shelf slid onto the floor like a cartload of bricks.

"Still doin' all right over there?" Phelan asked loudly.

"I'm good, thanks, I'll put them back," Tonks replied, peering from behind a towering bookcase, her arms full of tomes.

Phelan shook his head, clearly annoyed with the clumsy idler messing up his bookshop, but reluctant to leave his comfy chair.

An entire wall was devoted to Lockhart's works – Travelling with Trolls, Year with the Yeti and the like – and no one did so much as approach them. Talk about a "dropping demand": it had fallen right through the floor.

Through the floor...

Struck by a sudden inspiration, Tonks searched the lower shelves, matchboards and floor for Muggle devices that wizards would have ignored, but to no avail: there was no unusual wear, scratch marks or other telltale sign of a secret door. She would really have to pay Dawlish the three Galleons after all. Had her instinct failed completely?

Keeping up the pretense until last, she approached the counter. Phelan laid the book flat on the desk again, but this time she was able to decipher the upside-down header: The Misadventures Of Monique Hunt, Or The Vixen Chastised: clearly a timeless classic. Probably illustrated.

"Taken a fancy to anythin'?"

"Not really. Just some scrubbed parchment, please."

"How much?"

"Three feet."

"Careful not to break the bank, bud," Phelan muttered as he measured the required length, cut and tied it in a roll, clearly annoyed with the small extent of her purchase.
Tonks paid and left, feeling defeated.

Williamson was waiting for her at the corner near the Larsner & Fencer pawn shop, leaning against the wall and smoking a pipe, his unmistakeable Auror-ity causing peddlers and beggars to give him a wide berth.

"How'd it go?" he greeted her, smiling.

"A wash," she admitted.

"Never mind, we all botch up from time to time."

"Even their parchment is third-rate: look here, the writing is still showing through. Whoev... Hang about a bloody SECOND!"

"What?" Williamson said. But Tonks was already marching back towards the shop, wand drawn.

The door was opened with such force that the little bell flew away from its mount.

"THIS SHOP IS IMPOUNDED BY ORDER OF THE MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT DIVISION! Keep your hands away from your wands, everybody," Tonks announced at the top of her lungs. Then, waving her own wand towards Phelan and the boy: "You're under arrest, both of you."

Williamson, who had followed Tonks inside the bookstore at a run, was still wide-eyed and uncertain; Phelan, instead, once past the initial shock, had come to himself rather quickly.
"That's not on, officers, that's not on," he protested. "Yer lot was here just last week, scarin' away me customers, and now you come in disguise and put down evidence..."

"Nice try, mister," Tonks barked. "How about this evidence?" She marched to the all-Lockhart bookshelf, pulled out a random book and threw it open.

It had been thoroughly hollowed out, leaving a thin parchment border around a central cavity, and inside it lay a small book bound in red Morocco leather; the cover seemed to throb rapidly.

Just looking at it made Tonks' eyes water.

"Crivens!..." Williamson cried.

In spite of the need to keep a forbidding scowl, Tonks felt her lips curl upward.
Yeah, shifts were long, overtime taken for granted, and every minute spent doing something fun was paid in advance with hours of dullness. But sometimes it was worth it.

The boy, who had remained frozen since the start of the commotion, threw his mop onto the floor and marched right up to Williamson.

"Oi, officers. I wanna make a deal."

Tonks and Williamson exchanged looks. This was always the most interesting part, when the rats started to bite each other in their hurry to jump ship.

"Cody, don't act the maggot," the owner warned. "Keep yer gob shut and it will blow over."

"Shut up, before I charge you with perverting the course of justice," Williamson growled, pointing his wand at Phelan's face. Then, in a kinder voice and to the boy: "What is it you meant to tell us?"

The boy licked his lips anxiously.

"What about an unregistered werewolf?"


"Oh no, not again," Father moaned as he unfolded the Daily Prophet. Draco was going outside, with his broom underarm and a Snitch in hand, and just caught a glimpse of the diminutive delivery owl flying out of the kitchen window.

"What's happening, Lucius?" Mother inquired.

"Hogwarts going to the Grims is what's happening," he growled. Draco paid little heed: Father was likely to get incensed for the most curious things, like which fairytales ought and oughtn't be in the school library. But then he turned the newspaper around so that they could see and snarled: "Look at this."

The title covered the entire front page:

WEREWOLVES IN HOGWARTS!

(YET AGAIN ?)

Ministry source reveals fear

of infiltration among students

The artist's impression below the block capitals showed a werewolf howling at the moon from the Hogwarts rooftops.
Suddenly, the room went cold, then started to spin. Draco tried to grab the banister and missed it by a good mile. A galaxy of light exploded behind his skull, then everything fell into darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on one side and the back of his head was pounding badly. From the lingering smell, he realized Father had administered him something from the dispensary.

"What... happened?"

"You passed out," Father explained. "And hit your head on the floor. Gave your mother quite a scare."

"Sorry. The picture... brought it all up again," Draco explained hastily.

He made to sit up, but a swarm of black flies danced before his eyes.

"Lie down. That lump on your head needs tending to."

Draco complied, moaning when something cold was smeared against the back of his head. Then a sudden revelation filled him with a mixture of relief and dread.

"How... Should I still attend school?"

"Yes, Draco. The Dark Lord's wish is for all the young ones to stay at Hogwarts and he's not going to change his plans because of some vermin infestation. Fudge had better take care of this before the year starts." Father grimaced. "Not that I expect him to. I can't stay and chat now, I'm due at the Ministry in half an hour."

The Ministry... Potter's hearing was due today. Father had hinted he was going to be tried by the full court, get expelled, and have his wand snapped. Draco wished he could find any solace in that thought.

He opened his eyes. The Prophet had been dropped halfway to the staircase and the werewolf, crouched at the top of a buttress like a hairy gargoyle, snarled silently at Draco from the front page.


BONUS: The Daily Prophet cover can be seen at: 7307/11556142325_a88cdebd46_