Merit and Inheritance
Chapter Fifteen
A Series of Improvisations
Harry still had two witches on his hands, one of whom had incurred the wrath of an entire principality, the other an innocent, at fault only for being a loyal retainer of Harry James Potter. Well, loyalty, to work at all, must work both ways. Harry needed a solution to the immediate security problem. He still thought the holiday caravan village in Blackpool was perfect camouflage. A week in Blackpool might be just the thing for calming down after all the London excitement. Furthermore, with Pansy and Romilda stashed in Blackpool, Harry and Daphne would be able to unpack all of Cyrus' financial entanglements without the distraction of Bergs looking over their shoulders. At least that was Harry's hope.
It was late, too late to pop into a holiday park and ask about accommodations, in Harry's view. He did know of a small magical guesthouse, though, where he could deposit the witches until morning, when they could go on to the park and see about rentals.
The owner of the guesthouse was Rosmerta's sister, and she wasn't a prude. Still, when Harry materialized on her sidewalk and came in with his bloody hand, trailing two witches, the lady had to ask:
"Mr. Potter, this isn't a party, is it?"
"Not at all," Harry assured her. "Some overnight accommodations, please. Two connecting rooms, if you have them. I realize it's the busy season. I'm prepared to pay the holiday rate."
"Oh, I have the rooms," said the landlady. "I don't pry into guests' business, either, within reason. It's just the noise. From so many, you see."
All three started to laugh. The landlady handed over the keys and waved at the stairs. The witches went up, while Harry stayed on the ground floor.
"Breakfast?" Harry asked. The witches stopped climbing.
"Seven, in the dining room," said the landlady, pointing at a large room with lots of windows, just through a double doorway from where they stood.
"I'll try to make it," Harry said. "Best not go out until I can join you."
"Mr. Potter…what?" tried the landlady.
"Nothing," said Harry. He leaned in for a bit of extra confidentiality. "An ex-husband, legal papers, I'm just getting a friend a little breathing room. To prepare, you see."
"Oh, those can get difficult," the landlady said with a nod. "Good luck. Was he a real piece of work?"
"Just for starters," Harry assured her. "I'll have to rely on your discretion, naturally, but, it gets worse."
"Oh, stick it to him, then," said the landlady. "Make him squirm."
"Well said, Madam," Harry nodded, "Well said. Am I hearing the voice of experience?"
Madam Rosmerta's sister just rolled her eyes, so Harry walked outside and disapparated from the top step.
"Thank-you, Kreacher," Harry said as Kreacher held open the door at #12 Grimmauld Place. "Now I think I need some dittany for this hand."
Harry went straight to the kitchen and held his hand under the tap over the sink. The bleeding started up again, but Harry let it go on for a bit. He wanted to make sure any trace of material from that cursed cave was gone from his person, inside or out. Harry knew he should take his hand to emergency at St. Mungo's but it was late, he was exhausted, and he really didn't want to deal with it right then.
When Harry thought he'd given everything a sufficient rinsing-out, he turned off the tap and shook the water and blood off his hand, wanded a clean cloth off a nearby shelf and laid his hand out on top of the cloth.
"Oh-oh," Harry thought. The edges of the slash across his palm were glowing. It was very subtle, but the edges of the cut had the same, pale greenish-blue glow he had seen in the cave.
"Kreacher, you can put the dittany away," said Harry. "I'm going out again."
He wrapped the towel around his palm and held on. The palm started to throb. Harry walked to the front step, visualized the emergency entrance to St. Mungo's, and disapparated.
When he got to St. Mungo's, Harry bumped into the magical medical bureaucracy.
"Just a form or two so we can get you properly evaluated, Mr. Potter," said the smiling wizard as he handed Harry a clipboard. Harry looked at the nametag pinned to the loose cotton pullover.
"Walter," it said. "Magical Medical Records"
Harry had lived a life, through no volition of his own, that filled volumes of magical medical records. He wondered if Walter knew where they were. He must have a file somewhere, he thought. Interesting reading, without a doubt. Harry nearly reached up and touched the place where his lightning bolt scar had been.
"Next of kin"
Harry sat, looking at the line. His hand hurt and he wanted the form-filling to be over. He didn't have any kin, strictly speaking, next-of or otherwise, so he saved time and improvised.
"Healer Daphne Greengrass," he wrote, for the first time.
Walter collected the clipboard, quill and completed forms and disappeared through a door, leaving Harry sitting on the waiting room sofa. He didn't have to wait very long.
"Mr. Potter?" asked a familiar voice.
Harry looked up to see Daphne standing by another door, dressed in a St. Mungo's uniform, waving him over with a clipboard.
Was it Harry's imagination or did Daphne give him a look as he passed by on his way to the treatment room?
"Harry Potter," Daphne said as she waved Harry toward a padded table. "Hop up? Good."
She sat down on a stool and began reading.
"Hand?" she said. Harry held out his hand. The towel wasn't excessively bloody.
"Looks worse than it is," Harry observed.
"Uh-huh, that's typical," said Daphne. She drew her wand, pointed it at the towel and levitated it across the treatment room and into a bin. Her wand picked up a green cloth on the way back, which Daphne dropped next to Harry's thigh.
"You can put it down there. Just let it rest on the drape," Daphne said. Staying away from the multiple slices on Harry's palm, Daphne moved the hand from side to side, using lumos to put more light on the cuts.
"Can you turn it over?"
Harry lay his palm down on the green drape.
"Abrasions to dorsal aspect," said Daphne, making a note on the parchment. "Put it back, palm up, please."
"What did you get into?"
"A fight?" Harry answered.
"Do you want help or not?" asked Daphne. She didn't sound angry but she wasn't messing around, either.
"I grabbed for a wrist but got the knife. A dagger, actually. Two edges. The green stuff was in the cave. On the rocks. I didn't see it until just a little while ago, when I was washing my hand off at home. Can I put dittany on it and go get some sleep?"
"The green stuff is a luminescent algae that is going to eat your left hand," Daphne said. "Chomp. Chomp. Although, there is a potion that ought to stop, then reverse the damage, if you aren't busy doing something else. How important is your hand to you, in comparison to sleep? You choose."
"I could sit up a little longer, I suppose," Harry said.
"Oh," said Daphne. "I'd have bet you were going to choose sleep."
Daphne left the treatment room without another word and before long two men entered. They wore the same uniforms as Daphne. Harry couldn't tell if they were healers or some other kind of professional.
"We'll need to get that jacket from you, Mr. Potter," said one. He gave it a good looking over, especially the left sleeve.
"Not bad," he said, taking out his wand and casting some kind of spell. "Mr. Potter, was this transformed from another garment?"
"Yes, it started out as a cloak, then it needed to become…"
Harry didn't think a long explanation was needed.
"So it was a cloak," he said, finishing up.
The man with the jacket gave his wand another little flick and said 'finite.' Harry's cloak was back. The man hung it on a coat tree.
Meanwhile, his colleague brought down a deep, white enamel vessel that Harry couldn't name. It was filled halfway to the top with water, then the water was heated with a charm and a cup of liquid added to the water. Green vapor poured over the edge of the pot and sank to the floor, eventually covering the entire treatment room, three or four inches deep. The vapor roiled when the men moved about, sending up tendrils that dissipated and sank back into the mass.
"Try not to breathe it in," advised one of the men.
"And just put the hand in, Mr. Potter," said the other man. "That's it, all the way down to the bottom. There can be contamination anyplace from your hand on up so we might just as well take care of it all at the same time. Comfortable?"
"Yes, thank-you," said Harry.
"You're going to be here with us for some time so if you have to change position, just call us. I'm Frank and this is Bill."
Harry was considering asking for Frank or Bill to bring him something to read when the treatment room door swung open and Daphne came in. She looked at Harry's hand in the solution. Frank and Bill stood still, alert for further orders. Some signal passed between the three that Harry didn't catch, and Bill went out, followed by Frank. Frank pulled the door completely closed, leaving Daphne and Harry alone.
"I saw what you wrote on your admission form," Daphne said, all of the officialdom gone from her voice.
"The prior sickness and injuries record? I always like the 'Other' box. It's such fun to write 'Bitten by Basilisk' because I get to visualize you healers' reaction."
"No, not the prior sickness and injuries, Harry Potter," Daphne said. "Your next of kin."
"Is that okay with you? I don't have any next of kin, so I had to improvise. You truly were the first person who came to mind," said Harry.
"It's fine," Daphne said. "Beyond fine. Use it whenever you need to. I'm not too busy to take on next of kin duties for you."
Daphne had watched to make sure Frank closed the door all the way when he and Bill left, so she felt it was time to demonstrate just how fine it was with her that Harry Potter wrote her name in as his next of kin. Looking straight into Harry's eyes, Daphne stood and stretched both arms out, over his shoulders, and kissed him on his lips. Then she drew her arms in, holding the back of Harry's neck in the crook of her right arm while she lay her left hand on the back of his head. She got his face in the position she wanted, in relation to hers, and used her tongue on his lips, darting in, asking wordlessly for him to open up to her, which Harry did, after which they spent a minute or two letting their tongues get to know one another.
"So, how's the hand feel?" Daphne asked, giggling a little, as she stood in front of Harry, her arms still resting on his shoulders.
"Hand?" asked Harry. He turned his head and looked at the potion in the big soaking vessel.
"Oh, you mean this hand? Feels great!"
"Good," Daphne said. "You're going to be keeping it there for a full hour. The potion isn't effective after that."
"You broke our rule," Harry said.
"What rule?" asked Daphne.
"Business first, personal later," said Harry.
"Harry Potter, you're my patient. How is your morale?" asked Daphne.
"Incredible. Over the moon," Harry replied.
"Excellent," said Daphne. "Patient morale is essential for rapid healing. Now, what in Merlin's name were you doing?"
"Ahhh…" Harry began. He knew he had to lay it all out for Daphne. He'd try for a short version. Ten minutes passed. Harry edited out leaving Marcella on the island in the cave with Dieter Berg and taking the late Regulus Black home to spend the night. That kept the story under fifteen minutes, which was an accomplishment.
"And this is all since you left Greengrass Manor?" asked Daphne, sounding a little incredulous.
"Yeah," said Harry. "I am going to have to get some sleep. I'm trying for breakfast at the guest house in Blackpool tomorrow morning because the plan is to move. Security, you know."
"Well I guess so," exclaimed Daphne. "When you've got an international hit squad on your trail…"
"I was wondering about something else, though," said Harry.
"What was that?"
"What are you doing here? I thought you had private patients and an office somewhere," Harry asked.
"I have the other practice, but there is a shortage of healers so I take about 20 hours a week in Emergency," said Daphne. "It's more of a give-back, although the money is worth just as much when I go to spend it. Why?"
"How will you find the time to take over the Greengrass family business affairs?" Harry asked.
"Oh, I've got that all worked out," smiled Daphne. "Cyrus sat down and opened up the books. They're a mess, just as we anticipated. Still, I have his ledgers, bank statements for last year and this, and his payment due file. As soon as my expert can make himself available, two to three hours ought to give us a complete picture of the Greengrass finances."
"Brilliant," said Harry. "Do I have to sleep here tonight?"
"No, when the hour is up, we'll rinse the hand thoroughly, apply dittany along with a wound-closing charm and you're good to go. Dittany three times daily and after each handwashing for the next two days, don't get in any more knife fights until the hand is fully healed, come back in at the first sign of incomplete cleansing and subsequent problems from the algae. Luckily for you, it announces its presence with an unworldly glow. Can you stay out of trouble long enough to accomplish all of that?"
"Thank-you, Daphne," Harry said. He looked at his left hand immersed in the potion, working it a little. "I owe you."
"I owe you, Harry," said Daphne. "Except we don't really owe the other one anything. That's the real meaning of how being next-of-kin works, isn't it?"
She gave him a wink before slipping out the door.
Harry's next few hours were as frantic as the previous day had been, but much less dangerous. Returning to #12 Grimmauld Place after his release, Harry checked on the condition of his infieri. Kreacher had made sure Regulus was comfortable in the basement. The actual dungeon still awaited a good cleaning, so Regulus occupied a cot in a room with shelves lining the walls. It was clear the room was used for storage at some point. Witches didn't typically spend a lot of time on home canning so Harry tried to avoid thinking about what Walburga stored on those shelves.
Harry slept from around one until close to seven a.m. He took a very quick shower and put on a muggle-style business suit of a good worsted wool. The fabric was tough and would stand up to abuse, should any come its way. Harry had also added some charms of a defensive nature that gave him a little additional protection from ambushes and other annoying local conditions. His Black family tie was where he'd tossed it on top of his dresser. It looked pretty good, considering it had been through everything with him since he'd left the office with Daphne the day before. He gave it a quick once-over cleanup with the wand, brightening it up and treating it to a nice ironing charm.
Harry called out to Kreacher to tell him he was leaving and took the floo to the guesthouse in Blackpool, stepping out into the lounge/front desk area precisely at seven. He didn't expect to see the landlady, necessarily, but was surprised to find the lounge deserted. Harry went on into the dining room.
Pansy and Romilda sat at a table with a view of the garden. They had coffee but nothing to eat. Harry walked over and said hello.
"May I?" he asked.
"Of course," the witches said in unison.
"How's the hand?" asked Pansy.
"Long story," said Harry. "It feels fine, now, but I had to go to St. Mungo's last night. That luminescent algae from the cave is dangerous. At least to wizards. My healer said it would eat my hand. Sorry, not before breakfast."
"Oh, that's fine, Harry," said Romilda. "You listened to everything I could throw at you and didn't flinch. It's the least I can do to return like for like. I'm glad you're going to be okay."
Pansy waved to a waiter.
"Hope you're ready to eat, because I am," she said.
When they'd ordered Harry motioned them to lean closer.
"Your landlady is Madam Rosmerta's sister, don't know if I told you," Harry began. "Our cover story is this is a piece of a messy divorce. The divorcee is avoiding a difficult husband for a few days."
"Oh, I can just see it," said Pansy. "Who's getting divorced?"
"I didn't say," Harry said. "We might want to maintain a bit of ambiguity."
Romilda and Pansy looked at one another, grinned and nodded.
"I'm liking this better all the time," said Pansy.
"Now, relocation," Harry began.
Except for the break in conversation when the waiter brought breakfast, the rest of the chitchat revolved around the positives and negatives of moving from the guesthouse to the caravan park, moving on from Blackpool altogether, and the capabilities of the Bergs.
"I thought about your in-laws last night while I was soaking in that potion," Harry said. "Dieter told me some 'family correspondents'—his words—advised they'd seen you near our office and that I probably knew your whereabouts. Any ideas on who those might be?"
"No," said Romilda. "Pansy was the only person I saw that I knew."
"Then there's Marcella, and her backup, at the hotel," said Harry.
"That took me by surprise, too," said Pansy. "How did they find you? Credit card? Runes?"
Harry looked back and forth between them.
"I don't have a credit card," said Romilda. "I was sixteen when my father sold me to Lorenzo. Too young for a credit card. He wouldn't have done the administration with Gringotts to get me one, anyway."
Romilda was caught up in a moment of recollection of extreme annoyance. Pansy was doing detective work. Harry was looking for the hole in their calculations.
"Romilda, I'm not asking just to pry into your private affairs, but what all did you bring with you from…from…"
"Our Place?" Romilda suggested. "Some pieces my late husband gave me. The diamond necklace. My wedding ring. Two broaches. Pearls. Two hair combs."
"That's all?" Harry asked.
Romilda nodded.
"It's all upstairs," she said. "Do you want to see it? We can go up."
"Pansy, hold on to the table," Harry said as he got up. "Show me."
"All of it, on the bed," Harry said as soon as the door was closed. "Quick. This might be important."
Romilda began pulling shrunken packages out of her rucksack, mostly from her shopping trips.
"Your stuff, from the house, don't worry about the other," said Harry. "Your ring! With the rest."
Romilda moved a little quicker. Last on the pile was her wedding ring, a thick gold band she pulled off and looked at a moment before tossing it with the rest.
Harry drew his wand and held it over Romilda's gifts. He moved left, then right, then turned the wand ninety degrees and went back and forth. Without a word he began throwing Romilda's treasures back in the rucksack which he slung over one shoulder.
"Get back to Pansy," Harry said. "You're sure this is everything? When you're done eating you should both come up here. Stay together. Don't leave this building. Wait for my instructions."
"Wow," said Romilda. "What did you pick up?"
"We'll talk about that," Harry said, "Just not right now."
Harry raised the window, stepped onto the sill, squeezed himself into the tightest ball he could manage and sprang out of the room. Romilda heard a little pop and leapt across to the window. She expected to see Harry flat on the ground, but there was no one there.
Harry materialized on the lawn before Potter Manor. He was in a real hurry but he managed to give the grass and border plantings a quick looking-over on the way to the front door. He really had to start paying more attention, he told himself. If Mort didn't want to do outside maintenance he was certain to know an elf who did. Maybe one who'd like to join the staff at a manor. Harry was beginning to think he might have a chance to fill another vacancy on the Potter Manor roster, but he was wary of getting too far out ahead of events. That way led to over-ambitious assumptions and great disappointment. Still, a little lawn care wouldn't hurt.
Harry went back through the steps of the day before. Once inside he kept going, skipping the salon and the portraits of all those powerful Potter, Peverell and Black witches and wizards. At the rear of the house was a small breakfast room. It faced east so it got a lot of sunlight. The portraits in the breakfast room had double layers of sheets, artist's canvas, actually, to keep the sun from shining on the paint. Harry went in, looked around, and put the ruck down on the table.
The sun was high enough that it no longer shone directly into the room but it was still very bright. Harry waved his wand at the three windows in turn, darkening them to cut down the amount of light getting in. Only then did he raise his wand and send the drapes off somewhere.
"Mum? Dad?" Harry asked, keeping his voice down. James Potter blinked and looked around, hand already patting the top of the desk at which he sat, trying to find his glasses.
"Harry! What brings you here?" James asked. "Lily, look who's come for…what time is it? Breakfast? Lunch?"
"Harry," Lily said, making it a statement. "Give me one. Or two."
Lily left her frame on some kind of just-woke-up errand. Harry wondered if portraits brushed their teeth first thing in the morning.
"What's up, son?" asked James. "You look a bit stressed."
"I am," said Harry. "A Hogwarts acquaintance has had a run of some pretty bad luck. Some people from Europe came after her. We've managed to get her to a safe haven and I think I know how they've been tracking her."
Lily came back into her frame.
"Okay, where are we?" she asked.
"Harry is helping out a Hogwarts friend who is on the run," said James.
"She's in a safe place, with Pansy, who you remember…"
"Oh, darn," said James.
"Shut up, James, please," said Lily, adding, "Darling."
"I figured out how they were tracking her," Harry said. "Something she was carrying with her is charmed."
Harry turned the rucksack upside down and let the jewelry and other items fall into a pile. He started spreading everything out on the breakfast table.
"Is that a wedding ring?" Lily asked. "That's what you're looking for."
"How do you know?" asked Harry.
"Glad you asked and not me," muttered James. Lily gave him a look but didn't say anything.
"Young woman, older man?" asked Lily.
"I'll say," answered Harry. "He had grandchildren older than her."
"It isn't so common anymore," said Lily, "But a century ago it was more or less assumed that a wizard, especially a wealthy one, would give his bride an enchanted wedding ring, so he could trace her if need be. I only learned about it after I got to Hogwarts. I either read it or one of the witches told me. Got your wand? Cast a revelio. See what happens."
Harry did as Lily suggested. The gold ring rattled on the table, just enough to make a little sound, then a kind of glow appeared above the ring, condensing into an image of an old man standing straight, dressed in a formal three-piece suit, white shirt and white bow tie.
"There you are," said Lily. "He's with her, wherever she goes."
Harry looked at the ring, then back and forth between his parent's portraits.
"Well I'll be," Harry said. "We learn something every day, don't we? Who thinks up this stuff?"
"So Harry, are we going to get the whole story?" asked James. "This looks like a Marauder-worthy operation."
"James!" exclaimed Lily. "If there are people following that ring, and Harry needs to get rid of it, we don't want to waste his time with chit-chat."
"Right," said James. "Lily is the smart one, Harry. Listen to her."
"Well, I don't know what he should do. Can you get it out of here? Far, far away?" asked Lily. "That is probably your best option. Do fox and hounds, going away from their real quarry with each jump."
"That's brilliant," said Harry. "I know just the place."
Leaving the rest of Romilda's haul on the table, Harry said good-bye to his parents' portraits, then re-installed their drapes. He let the windows return to normal. Harry considered putting the wedding band on one of his pinkies but decided to keep it in the rucksack. It might be necessary to do an emergency separation from the charmed ring and he didn't want to be trying to get the little thing off when time was important. While taking a final look around, a thought occurred and he cast a sticking charm on the table top. He was pretty sure he knew the counter-spell.
Dashing to the front door, Harry did a hurry-up job of re-nailing the planks, thinking all the while that his first priority, after he got Cyrus Greengrass stabilized and drove the wolf from his door, would be to spend some time on Potter Manor. He liked living in London but there were resources in Devon that he'd never have in the city. Besides, it would be handy for picnics, if he actually found someone who would accompany him to the country, and a manor house, for a picnic. Perhaps, before they went further, he should establish whether Daphne liked picnics.
Harry's first stop was the coast, Dartmouth, to be exact. He looked at the Channel and imagined apple orchards, stone homesteads and jewel-box Norman churches. Harry reappeared on the edge of an orchard, just across the road from a little Norman church. He resolved to come back to Normandy for some slow, serious tourism, just as soon as time allowed, before apparating on to Gibraltar. Then he went to Morocco, then on down the coast of west Africa, then inland. Harry had never been to Gao, although someone had once sent him a post card from there. He materialized at the airport, which had been the photo on one side of the card. Harry remembered the message on the back of the post card: "You've heard of Timbuktu? Well, Gao is beyond Timbuktu!"
The land around Gao, Mali, is flat. Even so, he could pick out some kind of hill or rock or some sort of feature a few miles outside of town and apparated over to it. Nothing at all there. It could have been a mirage, Harry thought. No matter.
Harry drew his wand and imagined an augur boring down into the desert. Before long he had a hole, two meters deep below the surface. In went Romilda's ring. Harry passed his wand over the rucksack. He cast revelio. Nothing showed up. He thought it over while he refilled the hole with the wedding band at the bottom. If there was a trace on the ruck, he didn't want to take it right back to England. Nor did he want to leave it there to mark the spot of the wedding band's resting place. There probably wasn't, but who really knew what the Bergs had discovered, up there at Our Place over two millennia? Subtle family magic was a distinct possibility, if not an actual probability.
Harry stepped back from the hole and checked his work. There was a little difference in the appearance of the hole and the surrounding area. A few sweeping motions with the wand had it uniform in no time.
Harry stopped next to a desert track on the way back to Gao. It was one of the routes that went here and there in the Sahara, used by everything from camels to semi-trailers. No one was around, but someone would be, in a day, or next year. After giving it one last looking-over, Harry dropped the rucksack. He hoped someone would find it who could put it to use. With luck it would be a long-haul trucker. Someone who'd keep it moving. Because one never knew.
With no need for further diversions, Harry disapparated and reappeared in Tangier. He stopped for something cold in a café with a spectacular view of the strait. He could have easily stayed for a few days. The first twenty-four hours would have been devoted to sleep and the next forty-eight to sitting on a shady terrace with a view. Still, he knew events didn't stay benign indefinitely, and he had two vulnerable witches stashed in Blackpool who were counting on him being back that day. Much as he hated to, Harry found a hidden spot and headed for England.