Wheels Within Wheels – Part Three
Iolanthe
Chapter Forty-Six
St. Guinefort
The morning following the Potter-Blacks' claiming of their trophies, rights and privileges dawned clear and sunny. Harry rose eager for breakfast and looked forward to enjoying his meal on the patio while the sun was still low. If he was lucky, there might be a little salt air-scented breeze coming their way from the Channel.
Daphne was up and gone from their room when Harry woke, not an unusual occurrence for a couple when the wife is a professional woman and mother with babies. Those tend to be master organizers in any society, and they trade sleep for the knowledge they are doing the right thing by the little ones.
Daphne had once given Harry a long gown, much like the ones Dumbledore affected in his later years, as a birthday present. It had hung in the closet for long periods, but Harry had been pulling it out more and more to wear down for breakfast. He liked to wear it with a bill-less soft cap made of crimson silk with a gold brocade band. James and Iolanthe had commissioned the cap from Madame Malkin some Christmases past, and Harry was never absolutely certain whether it was meant to be a family in-joke folly or a serious reference to his admitted attachment to Gryffindor. Either way, he pulled the gown over his head, stepped into a pair of matching slippers, clapped his hat on his head and proceeded to the nursery.
A quick peek at the twins confirmed they were happily sleeping, so Harry crept out of the room and down the stairs. The patio was unoccupied, giving Harry his choice of seating. He looked around and picked out his table and chair to give him the best view down the valley to the Dart, with provision for avoiding an angle on the rising sun that would force him to scoot around again and again to avoid facing it directly. Harry had just finished pulling his chair up to the table when Daphne appeared, reaching down to place a cup of coffee, saucer and napkin in front of him. Harry looked around and gave her a smile.
"Good-morning," he said, "What a pleasant way to start the morning. Have you had breakfast?"
"I waited for you," Daphne said. "What would you like to eat?"
"Hadn't gotten that far," Harry said. "Will you sit down?"
Harry waved his hand at a chair, pushing it out so Daphne could sit. She sat down, an air of some sort around her.
"Periwinkle?" Harry called out.
The elf appeared at his side.
"Some coffee for Lady Daphne, please, and one of the anise biscotti she likes," Harry said.
When the coffee and cookie arrived, Harry took it himself and placed it in front of Daphne.
"May I?" he asked.
"Of course," Daphne said, giving Harry one of the dazzling smiles that always made his heart thump a couple of times. "Mmm…" she said as she took her first sip.
Daphne put her cup back on the saucer and picked up the biscotti. Harry leaned back in his chair and waited until Daphne had dipped the biscotti in her coffee and bitten off the end.
"You look exceptionally bright and shining this morning, Daphne," he said. "I don't know what it is, or how to describe it. You shine. I guess that is it. You shine."
Daphne gave him a sly look, but didn't say anything. She dipped the biscotti one more time, looking over at Harry as she bit into it and chewed.
"You took me last night," she said, apparently in explanation. "Claimed and possessed me."
Harry couldn't help it if his mouth turned up at the corners and his eyes crinkled just a little.
"Well," he said, "If I did, you gave as good as you got. Maybe more."
"Mmm…" said Daphne, "I felt magical, my lord. That was your doing. Top to toes, I felt it. I couldn't have said this a day ago. When I got out of bed yesterday, I thought I was the happiest witch in Britain. My husband gave me my dream home, and my dream family. I had a great job, doing good for our people, one that confers respect. I had no money worries or material wants. Senior witches know I am at home on Wednesday afternoons and put on their better robes to call on me. You've just gone and changed my world, again."
"You've lost me, Lady Daphne," Harry said.
Daphne reached across between them and took Harry's fingers in her two hands.
"All of my life, I've known I was a witch, and a noble one," Daphne said. "Merlin knows, circumstances decreed every little witch and wizard growing up in a magical household back then knew those details, from birth onwards. Knowing your blood status could be a matter of life or death. I've been Lady Potter-Black since our marriage, too, something I appreciate immensely. But when you put that Black ring on my finger last night and claimed me as your consort, Harry Potter, you worked magic that changed something inside me. Did you feel it when you put yours on?"
Harry looked around, checking for lurking children or open windows.
"A little," Harry said, "But when we drank our toast, and I kissed you in there in the lady's study, with Walburga looking down…"
"Something?"
"Yes," Harry said. "Lots more than some. Your eyes, the expression on your face. Some kind of transaction between us. I didn't know what it was, but it felt good. I couldn't breathe, literally. The way you looked at me right then, I would have killed and eaten a kraken for you. You're so right. I did go upstairs and claim Lady Potter last night, didn't I? And Lady Potter claimed me, too, didn't she?"
By this time Harry's voice had become a low growl. Feral. Hungry. He'd had a bit, but wasn't sated. He wanted more, soon, that was clear. Daphne leaned over the table, worked her hands into his, her fingertips curled around to find and caress the Potter and Black signets. She didn't need to answer his question. Talk was redundant, no, completely inappropriate just then. Daphne traveled back to the moment when Harry slid her ring home, gasped again, and finally looked away.
"Let me see to your breakfast, my lord," Daphne whispered, getting up.
She came back, followed by Periwinkle who held a large tray with a plate of scrambled eggs, sliced tomatoes and two toasted muffins. Daphne put the plate in front of Harry but didn't sit.
"Pumpkin juice and silverware for Lord Harry, please," Daphne said. The elf sent the tray somewhere and produced the juice and utensils, which Daphne took from her and arranged in front of Harry.
"That will be all for now, Periwinkle" Daphne said, "Thank-you."
Harry looked at Daphne standing there.
"Lady Daphne, may I invite you to sit down and join me?" Harry said.
"If that is your wish," Daphne said.
"It is," said Harry, "My fondest wish at the moment."
"You'll need something..," he went on.
"When you're finished will be fine," Daphne said. She kept her hands to herself so Harry could eat.
"No," Harry said, "Periwinkle!"
"Please bring us a second plate, Periwinkle," said Harry, which Periwinkle did. Harry put his muffins on the plate and put it in front of Daphne, then he added two forks-full of his scrambled eggs and the thinnest slice of tomato. The second half of the muffin went on top. Periwinkle could have done it with a snap of her fingers, but Harry was making an offering. One doesn't delegate that.
"I'm sorry, Lady Daphne, if you won't eat, please worry that a little so I'm not a complete cad," said Harry.
"Of course, thank-you," Daphne said, and picked up her breakfast sandwich.
They continued that way for a while. Harry pondered Daphne. Daphne paid obeisance to his lordship at every opportunity. Harry wondered how long his medieval witch consort would find their new magical experience fun. He decided, in the end, to conduct a little experiment.
"Rounds this morning?" Harry asked.
"Yes, a short one, or it should be," Daphne began. "Several patients were discharged yesterday, and a few more spend Saturdays and Sundays with family. If we don't have new admissions to evaluate I'll be home by twelve or one."
"Is my healer wife back?" Harry asked without any prologue. Daphne gave a little start.
"Your healer wife did not go anywhere, my lord," Daphne assured him, "Nor will she. You merely acquired an ancient and most noble witch consort to warm you through the cold winter nights in your keep. Rest assured, your witch consort finds her condition in life most agreeable, or she wouldn't put up with it.
"Destiny is un-scientific," Daphne went on. "But so is magic. I have just been tossed into a deep, deep pool of magic I knew nothing about, so let a witch explore a little. My lord has been pleased with the events of the last twelve hours?"
"Oh, yes," Harry said. "You have made the events of the last twelve hours delightful. Sweet. Ambrosial."
"Then perhaps my lord would like to refrain from making the magic go away by looking too closely," Daphne said. "Perhaps my lord would prefer to relax and enjoy such delights as his consort can provide him, if I am not being too bold."
"Perhaps it was our destiny to find our way here, together," Daphne summed up, making conditional what was really a statement of fact, even considering destiny is un-scientific.
Both of them stopped talking and smiled while Harry put his left hand over Daphne's right, this time his fingers finding her Black signet and rubbing it. Conditions being favorable, the state of affairs went on, all silence. It might have gone on like that through the morning, had Iolanthe not stepped out on the patio with a ready comment.
"That's some hot stuff, parents," she said, "We're still impressionable teens."
"I know, darling, and we don't want to warp your psyches by letting you see adults doing anything that is subject to misinterpretation, do we Mr. Potter?" Daphne asked.
"Of course not, Healer Daphne," Harry said. "They're brave, upright young Slytherin witches, and we want them to stay that way. Breakfast?"
"Sure," Iolanthe said. "I'm for bacon, eggs, fresh tomatoes and toast. Lissette?"
"Yes, please," Lissette said, at very low volume.
"Good," Harry said, standing up. "Just give me a little room…"
He drew his wand and began putting tables together and moving chairs, soon delivering an arrangement that would accommodate the entire household, if the entire household eventually straggled out to the patio for breakfast.
"Periwinkle?" Harry called, putting in an order for a platter of scrambled eggs, toast, sliced tomatoes, and two place settings.
"You'll have to do your own beverages," he said. "I'm off to change."
Iolanthe let Harry get all the way to the first interior door before giving her mother a look.
"Any lessons I need to learn for married life?" she muttered.
Daphne tried desperately to maintain a dignified face, suitable for a noble witch of her rank. For one brief moment she thought, 'Now I know what Astoria did to Mother,' before erupting.
"No," she managed, finally. She made herself calm down enough to restore normal breathing.
"No, dear, it was just two people who really needed each other, got very lucky and recognize it," Daphne said. "Every now and then we take the opportunity to say so. And thank-you."
"That's a lesson," Lissette piped up. Iolanthe and Daphne took note.
"Yep, good one," Iolanthe said.
"I'll go in this morning, but I should be back by noon," Daphne said. "Why don't you come up with something for us to do? A swim at your grandparents' or a local ramble. You can show me all your recent discoveries. Lord Harry ought to be reasonably malleable on that point."
"That's a great responsibility, Mother," said Iolanthe.
"You can handle it," Daphne said, "Or I wouldn't give it to you."
With that she rose and followed Harry inside to change into her St. Mungo's attire.
Harry went by the coffee shop and ordered his usual cup, paid and continued to his office. The analysts had pulled together a fairly substantial morning reading file, for a Sunday. Harry went through, looking for threads and connections, anything that would indicate adversaries of the ministry were arranging plots and subversion for their own purposes, or simply to raise hell and sow frustration among the magical populace. On first reading the reports looked like any other Sunday morning file. Harry's counterparts around the world, muggle as well as magical, did much the same thing he did on Sundays. They read the long deep-thinking reports the analysts had finished up too late on Friday to make it into the Saturday files, along with the stew of mixed tidbits from Saturday the field reporters thought worthy of sending up before Monday.
Harry tried to be careful on Sundays. Most of what he read would be received knowledge dressed in the new clothes of professional language and the comforting drone of familiarity. Some would be old news items combined in an original way to pose as fresh insights gained through close study of a recent phenomenon.
During the transition from the Slughorn stewardship to that of Harry Potter, Horace Slughorn had cautioned against the seduction of the familiar.
"That little annoyance that you get used to, that never seems to blow up into anything harmful, Harry, that is the one that can really hurt you, the minister, and the ministry as a whole," Slughorn had said. "It has happened to me. No one is immune. You are your own chief analyst, no matter what the organization chart says."
Wizard researchers had known and used a technique for centuries to help them master piles of un-catalogued files and archives. Harry had learned of it in auror training, although he hadn't paid it a lot of attention at the time. Iolanthe might have called it 'Barely more than a parlor trick,' but Harry had found with practice that he could sift and collate to save time, and often got a fresh perspective from the results of the little spell.
The idea was to focus on a subject or person and let magic bring the most promising documents to the top. Harry held his wand over the closed file folder and thought of Jacques Lafleur, Michel Lestrange and the Lafleur Movement.
Harry didn't know exactly what lay behind the technique. It had to be some combination of silent magical casting, wand work and the opening up of the subconscious to mix and fuse the techniques just at the borderlands of cognition. Harry was careful not to look too closely, lest he make the magic go away.
When he felt he had reached the limits of his ability to manipulate the documentation, Harry laid his wand down on his desk, took two deep breaths and opened the folder.
The first sheet up was a one-page report on a Lafleur deputy who was seen walking through the lobby of Gringotts' branch in the Isle of Man, went to ground for a couple of hours in a private dining room at a magical pub, emerged and held a Lafleur seminar at a local wizard's estate before returning to London by port key. The second was an analysis of an odd construction project. Someone was securing permits to build a resort hotel on a tiny magical isle in the Channel that was inside a perpetual fog bank. Harry recognized the name. He wondered who would want to take a trip to a fog bank, since that would be what a stay at the hotel would amount to. The third report described a visit to a magical micro-state located on a cove between Monte Carlo and France, where there isn't supposed to be a micro-state at all, by a person who might have fit the description of Jacques Lafleur. It wasn't possible to determine if it had been Lafleur or not, as whenever the person was under observation they had the hood of their cape pulled up.
None of it added up for Harry. He checked the time. There was still an hour, or a little more, before he would be expected at home. Harry decided to take a walk to the technical section, perhaps his favorite place in his department. He waved his wand in front of the door and listened for the lock to click. He had no idea who would be in on Sunday, although the rule was there should be a qualified specialist there, so they didn't have to go searching for one in the event of an emergency or an immediate request from the minister. The specialists were all qualified in three or more disciplines. With a little luck, today's would be able to organize a port key.
At four minutes before eleven, Sunday morning, Harry traveled by port key to the tiny Channel Isle of St. Guinefort, a magical spot, unplottable, and very hard for anyone, muggle or wizard, to stumble upon. A peculiar combination of physics, meteorology and whimsy generates a great deal of humidity while cooling the air over the island just enough to ensure steady replenishment of the hemisphere of fog around and over the place. Wizarding meteorologists had spent nearly three centuries debating whether magic is or was involved in installing the perpetual fog. Results were inconclusive.
Oddly enough, once on St. Guinefort, Harry found the day to be sunny and quite temperate. He wasn't hot, but he wasn't cold, either. There is only one settlement on St. Guinefort, and for convenience' sake it is named St. Guinefort.
It didn't take very long to find the proposed site of the tourist hotel. The north side of the isle is a long, curving strand. The far western end, where Harry's port key landed him, is boulders. Walking eastward, the boulders are succeeded by cobbles, then tiny pea-gravel, and finally golden sand. The sandy end is around one hundred meters wide throughout its length, give or take ten meters. A fence of the type muggles call chain-link marked off a large parcel. It was continuous, more or less rectangular, and sported a very disagreeable security shack that sat next to a sagging gate. A sign announced Harry was looking at the future site of Le Henge St. Guinefort, which struck Harry as the most reprehensible use of Franglais, of those he'd personally heard or read. That still left lots of room, he acknowledged to himself.
Le Henge, according to the sign, would be a friendly resort for the contemporary magical family. The architect's rendering was peeling and a bit faded, but it showed two upright megaliths framing the beach and two beautiful women, presumably witches, judging by the wands worn like sabers under the strings of their bikini bottoms. Harry wondered where they planned to get the megaliths. Who required Neolithic ruins for a trip to the beach, for that matter?
"Can I help you?"
A rather thickset man in a shirt with SECURITY stitched on a shoulder patch stepped out of the shack and called out to Harry. He wasn't exactly belligerent, for a security guard.
"Doing my miles for the day," Harry said. "The sign…"
He waved his hand at the monoliths and bikinis.
"It could use a little touch-up," Harry said, "Just an observation, of course. It had to have been nice when it was new."
The security guard looked at him. Strictly speaking, the function of security was to confront and remove trespassers, but Harry was on the public roadway, so he wasn't trespassing. Nor was he nosing around, even if he was making a little conversation. Mr. SECURITY judged him a non-threatening wizard and relaxed.
"I expect so," said the guard, "The developer wants to do things right."
"Well, sure," Harry agreed, "It's their reputation, for good or bad. I expect they want to be seen as a solid business that delivers quality products."
"And they take care of their people," the man said, "Never miss a payday, and they have good benefits."
"Sounds great," Harry said, "You're a fortunate man. The…St. Guinefort Partners, LLC…of Douglas…Isle of Man…" Harry read the information painted near the foot of the sign board. He said it aloud as an aid to memory, trying to project a solitary hiker too habituated to his own company.
"Anyway, the St. Guinefort Partners is very lucky to have you, Mr…"
"Lestrange," said the guard.
"Got to keep moving or I'll never get the miles," Harry said. "Very nice talking to you."
He gave a wave and took off eastward, disappearing behind a little grass-covered dune barely in time to be obscured from the view of the security shack when the port key returned him to the roof of his building.
"What the hell?" Harry thought to himself as he made his way to the technical office to turn in the port key, a bamboo staff about five feet long. It made a fine companion on a hike, something to file away for future reference. Who would suspect a wizard who liked exercise was doing anything besides exercising? Look at the stick! The further advantage being as long as you were hiking with your stick, you never had to worry about getting back for the activation of the port key.
Harry passed by his own office to check for messages. He removed a little notebook he carried and wrote a few notes.
"St. Guinefort. Development. Partners. Douglas," he wrote, then, "LESTRANGE? Fence?"
Harry got back to his study at Potter Manor and went looking for Daphne, or, failing finding Daphne, anyone among Tracey, Iolanthe, James, Lissette, Zelda, Millicent or Ginny who might be around who could tell him what had been going on while he was out.
He found Tracey and Zelda in the room at the rear of the house that led to the patio. The weather was exquisite, with a little offshore breeze coming in from the Channel. Tracey had all the doors open. The room was out of the sun and caught the breeze.
"Whomever designed this house and oriented it just this way is a genius," he thought.
Tracey and Zelda didn't seem to be doing anything in particular. They had a duffel packed and sitting on the floor between them. Harry took a guess.
"Swim? Greengrass Manor?"
"Uh-huh," Zelda said, "Just as soon as Daphne gets back. Are you going?"
"If I'm invited," Harry said. "I need to get my things. There's no rush as long as we're waiting for Daphne, because she'll need to get a few things, too. Tell you what…I need to visit an owl, then I'll put my stuff in a bag and be ready when Daphne gets here."
By the time Harry sent off a note by owl and had swimming trunks in his bag, his shoes swapped out for sandals, and his floppy straw hat down from its shelf, Daphne was back. She flew through her own packing and change-out from her St. Mungo's garb, conscripted Iolanthe and Lissette for infant assistance, and herded everyone to the fireplace in the small library/gallery that still refused to choose what it wanted its function to be.
Iolanthe was exerting extreme self-discipline from the moment she exited the Greengrass Manor library's fireplace, because her usual custom continued to be to shout, "Grandmother!" at the top of her lungs as she made her way to Kendra. That wouldn't do, though, with Evans snoozing in his little sling just inches from Iolanthe's mouth.
The swimmers converged on the sunny room whence they could see Kendra and Fabio in the gazebo, finishing up lunch, by the looks of things.
"Lunch?" asked Fabio.
"Swim?" guessed Kendra.
"Swim, then lunch?" Daphne tried, knowing the answer. She led the parade to give Kendra a kiss, followed by a hug for Fabio. "Coming with?"
"Why not?" said Fabio, getting up.
The posse split up, everyone making for a bedroom to change.
Everyone jumped in from the cabana except Harry and Daphne, who had Evans and Davis and their swim bubbles to distract them. Lissette took off to swim around under water, shooting up and getting air from time to time as a way of self-reporting on her welfare. Harry went over the results of his research as he pushed the twins back and forth between Daphne and himself.
"Ever heard of St. Guinefort?" Harry asked. "The island, not the saint."
"The island is magical, out in the Channel, and perpetually surrounded by fog," Daphne said. "That St. Guinefort?"
"The very one," Harry said.
"Any particular reason St. Guinefort has come to your attention?" asked Daphne.
"It's peripheral to the Lafleur situation," Harry said. "Might not be anything."
Harry let it drop and pushed Davis towards Daphne. Davis' bubble bumped Evans' and they both giggled and waved their arms.
"Such good swimming!" Daphne assured them both.
James arrived. He played a game with the twins that involved grasping an ankle in each hand underwater and turning in circles so the infants became a kind of aquatic carousel. The construct possessed huge amusement value for the not-quite-six-month-old wizarding mind, judging by the ensuing baby whoops.
"So?" Daphne demanded, Harry having left her hanging.
Fabio swam up.
"I was just telling Daphne I've learned about a magical Channel Isle, a place I'd never heard of," Harry said. "St. Guinefort."
"Sure," Fabio said, "The stuff of legend. In a perpetual fog bank. It figures in muggle sailors' sea stories, like Fiddler's Green and Davy Jones' locker. I've always thought it would be rewarding to do some reading on the enchantments, if I didn't have anything else to do. I heard if the fog gets confused with normal foul weather and a ship's course will run it aground, St. Guinefort moves out of the way just enough to avert disaster."
"That would be some powerful magic," Harry said.
"Not to mention exquisitely beautiful," Daphne added. "James! Are you spinning them around too fast?"
Evans and Davis didn't seem to think it was too fast, but James slowed down in the interest of harmony.
"Someone is pulling permits to build a beach hotel," Harry said. "There may be Lafleur organization involvement. Nothing solid."
"Is St. Guinefort British or French?" Daphne asked. "The island, not the saint."
"I'm not sure," Harry said. "I think we ought to check with ministry protocol and find out for sure. That could turn out to be significant."
"It could," Fabio said. "If it is British, and magical, civil administration would fall under the ministry. If it is French, oo-la-la, le bureaucratie. Timelines for response extend further with each passing mile you travel south. Take your lunch. And a toothbrush. I assume you'd like to see the plans?"
"Plans," said Harry. "Why plans?"
"Oh," Fabio said, "I thought you wanted to learn all about the hotel. The builder has to submit plans as part of the permitting process. For approval. The bigger the project, the more plans. Structure, electrical, water, waste disposal. Those are usually enough for a house. For a resort hotel there would be detailed plans for the foundation and the civil engineering studies. The natural environment is a factor. If something is going to be mitigated via magic, let's say slope, for instance, then the magical environment has to be addressed. It can get complicated. You could get a lot of information from those plans."
"Sounds like it," Harry said. He started making a mental To Do List for several members of his close staff.
Everyone did get their fill of swimming, eventually. Daphne and Tracey called their broods together and decreed it time for drying-off and migrating to the gazebo for lunch.
Light summer fare led to some stretching out on chaises in shady spots. Harry counted five confirmed naps and one suspected. Fabio had gone to his study, which was where Harry found him.
"Do you know anything about magical Manx business?" Harry asked.
"Well, Man, as I'm sure you already know, has some interesting attributes," Fabio said. "The incorporation rules allow for a lot less transparency. Some kinds of transactions are completely free of tax. Magical banking takes advantage of some nooks and crannies that don't exist here. Any particular reason you ask?"
"Not yet," Harry said. "The magical resort hotel developers are St. Guinefort Partners, LLC, of Douglas."
"You see that a lot," said Fabio. "If a wizard or group of wizards wanted to put together a deal and keep their names out of the paperwork, the partnership papers are drawn up and everything is in conformance with Manx magical law, which lets the actual principals and investors act through nominees. The investors can be partnerships or investment funds as well. There are reasons to do it that way, but the effect is the authorities won't be able to determine who is really behind a project without spending months, even years, on the investigation. Most of the time it's not worth it, which is well-known to the owners of the funds."
Harry leaned back, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Any particular reason someone would form a partnership and acquire some land, then sit on it for years and years?" Harry asked, thinking of the weathered sign by the security shack.
"The original investor or investors could get the project to a certain point and put it up for sale at a profit. That is pretty common. There are companies that look for opportunities, acquire a site, get a design approved then sell the whole thing to the people who do construction and commissioning," Fabio said.
"Then they sell it to someone else who runs it?" Harry asked.
"Sometimes, yes," Fabio said. "Some people like the initial part, the research, testing the business plan, buying the property, designing the project. They might not have an affinity for construction, so they sell at a certain point. They've added their value and want to get out and do it again."
"This is all much more common among muggles, of course," Fabio said. "The wizarding population is quite small by comparison, so we know more about the other wizard's business. Anonymity is a lot more difficult for us, for that reason alone. Myself, I enjoy the relationships I've built with the suppliers so I don't go looking for ways to obscure myself."
"None of what you've just described has ever come to my attention," Harry said. "I guess I always saw magical business as an extension of Flourish and Blotts, or Fortescue's, or your commodities trade."
"Harry, there's no reason why it should come to your attention," Fabio said. "Look, when you were an auror, did you go out and patrol for tax evaders or embezzlers? No, because you were trained to look for different categories of crime. Who did the financial investigations?"
Harry felt like he'd been punched, square to his sternum.
"There's another section," said Harry, "Bart worked there, before he was a prosecutor. Oh, my."
"Mmm-hmm," Fabio said, smiling. "He probably learned more than he'd anticipated from that assignment, and from his work in the prosecutorial service as well, I'd guess. Then, at some point, he decided to put a little aside for his and the missus' old age, or he saw he could make himself useful to the charismatic leader he'd begun to follow. Now he's in deep."
Harry leaned back and stretched his legs out before him. He always wondered if Fabio's leather couches were enchanted. His seemed to sense his agitation. It waited for him to get stretched to full length then it wrapped him in an embrace, warm, but not too warm, just firm enough. It must have been a great position for thinking because Harry saw several next steps all at once.
"We need to vet the financial crimes unit," he said, beginning to think out loud. "We need to find at least one incorruptible investigator. We'll have to take the files. I can keep them safe. Anyone from Bart's era gets reassigned.
"Oh, crap, Fabio," Harry said, remembering his position and responsibilities. "I'm so sorry. You didn't hear any of that."
"No, I didn't," Fabio said. "All I know is what I read in the Daily Prophet, Harry. Honestly."
"Fabio," Harry began, "I don't know how I worked around this for so long without exposure to the grimy trade you just described, but I am in your debt. My reading for the next forty-eight hours is set. Now, once again, this situation has the potential to get out of hand. My connection with the Greengrass family is well-known, so anyone blaming me for spoiling the party could, conceivably…"
"We know, Harry," said Fabio. "Kendra and I both know the drill. We'll look out for ourselves. Go ahead and do your job."
Harry went back to the patio and the chaises in the shady spots. No one popped up and asked, "Ready?"
There weren't any chaises left, leaving Harry stumped, standing still trying to come up with a place he'd like to go or something he'd like to do while he waited for the party of travelers to finish their naps. He saw a little movement in his peripheral vision and looked just in time to see Iolanthe finish conjuring him a chaise.
"Go ahead," she said. "It won't fall down. Auntie showed it to me."
Harry did try the chaise, and it didn't fall down. He stretched out, but he couldn't sleep. He did make good use of the time, though, as it seemed the chaise was just the place for thinking through his problem.