Wheels Within Wheels – Part Three
Iolanthe
Chapter Forty-Seven
Not Exactly Misrepresentation, Just Subtle
"Where are we going?" Daphne asked as she and Harry exited the elevator penthouse on the roof of St. Mungo's.
Harry had made a date for lunch with his wife at breakfast that morning. He was following his resolution to not only tell Daphne, but show her, much more than he had been, how much he loved and appreciated her, especially for the support she gave him every day.
"I could not do any of this, without you," he'd said, his right hand underneath Daphne's and his left on top, twiddling Daphne's Black signet between his thumb and forefinger. "I want to show you. Talk really is cheap, without action."
"Of course I'll make time for lunch," Daphne had said, smiling. Melting.
Hogwarts School was in Scotland, so it stood to reason it would have a tartan. Harry hadn't had an idyllic schoolboy experience at Hogwarts, but he took pride in some of the accomplishments from his schooldays. He liked to wear an alumni pin. The pin itself was a very beautiful cloissone' thistle. It was worn on a gentleman's lapel atop a rosette folded from a swatch of the Hogwarts tartan.
On Monday morning, Harry took his alumni pin to the technical section and requested it be made a port key, to take him and one other person from London to the town of St. Guinefort, with a return by the same route one hour and fifteen minutes later. Harry had his assistant visit the map section where he picked up a slim, bilingual visitors' guide to St. Guinefort, which had not only a street map but a list of restaurants, bars, apothecaries and assorted businesses that the day tripper might need.
"St. Guinefort," Harry said. "I have to see the town. Well, on our side we'd call it a village, but it's still the capital, since it's the only settlement. We'd better at least grant it town status. Hold on!"
Harry reached around Daphne's waist with his right arm while watching the second hand of his watch tick down to activation. The port key went live and they landed on a patch of well-trampled grass on the edge of the town of St. Guinefort, which Harry took to indicate that was the usual port of entry for visitors and/or commuters. His previous trip to the island had been concerned with the resort development that was somehow connected to the Lafleur movement. He'd thought he would know how that worked by now, but the researchers had yet to produce a report.
"Where are we?" Daphne asked as she unwrapped herself from Harry's arm.
"This is the town side," Harry said. "There's a café on the square that is known from…ah…Point A to Point B, and I've been dying to try it. Couldn't enjoy it alone, so…"
That was the moment Daphne caught on.
"Harry Potter, you diabolical, manipulative, sum total of unworthy adjectives," Daphne said as they struck out on the track to town. "You're not taking me to lunch in St. Guinefort, you're using me as cover for a visit to St. Guinefort. You're working, aren't you? Admit it!"
"Well, primarily, I'm taking my wife out for lunch," Harry said, "But, I suppose, yes, of course, one never knows when a useful observation will fall into one's lap. It happens. Be a shame to waste an opportunity."
"You, Harry Potter, are completely compromised, morally," Daphne said. "Ethically, you do not have a leg to stand on. What would Kingsley say if he knew you were taking me along on your little reconnaissance?"
"Absolutely nothing," Harry said, letting just a little hurt and discomfort infuse his tone. "You required me to promise to use you, when the time comes. You have poked your witch nose into operational matters before despite my sincere pleas to the contrary. You've done well, don't get me wrong. Today, we're going to have lunch. We'll sit across from one another, someplace with a view of the comings and goings. You'll scan your way, and I'll scan mine. We won't talk about anything in particular. We're a couple over from London checking out the possibilities for a family vacation, possibly this coming August. We've heard it is nearly too late to book rooms, but we thought we'd check anyway. Are you having fun yet?"
"…" Daphne tried, but got no further.
"Exactly," Harry said, the overtones in his voice constructed entirely of self-congratulation. "Smell the Channel?"
The shop windows in St. Guinefort had signs with French and British flags indicating the languages spoken within. Some had other languages as well. One shop had modified its language icons, with the French tricolor paired with the black, red and white of Trinidad and Tobago.
"Oh, I like that," Harry said as they passed the shop. Someone inside was playing a Soca tune, something about an Obeah lady, a spell cast by wining, a Conga line, and some other things Harry didn't catch.
"What's wining?" Harry asked.
"Harry, I…" Daphne said. "Wining, it must be something like wining and dining."
"Oh, well, you're an Obeah lady, I thought it must be standard in the profession," said Harry.
He pulled out his guide and turned to the map page.
"Let's see," he said. "It doesn't look like we can go wrong. There is a restaurant up ahead, so why don't we take a look and see if we want to give it a try, and if not, we'll do these blocks here? There's bound to be something."
"It's your party, you diabolical, manipulative…"
"That's a yes, then," Harry said, "And here we are! Look—le Coq Blanc. My gosh, Daphne, how French is that? Sidewalk tables! How is it we never knew about any of this before? You'd think we'd have all come here for an end-of-term blowout, isn't that what the students are supposed to do these days?"
"There were other things going on, if you remember," Daphne said. "How much do you remember, anyway?"
"Not that much," Harry admitted, pulling out a chair for Daphne while he looked around for a waiter. "I guess that means we had to have been having a really good time."
"Sir and Madame," the waiter said as he rushed over to push Daphne's chair up to the table. "Welcome. We have two specials today, chicken and fish, both are very good. If you will be having either I'd suggest a glass of white wine. You cannot get this particular wine anywhere but le Coq Blanc. If it is not the best you have tasted you will not be charged."
Harry ordered one chicken and one fish special and two glasses of the white.
"Is Sir wearing a memento from Hogwarts School?" asked the waiter as he closed his pad.
"Yes, thank-you for asking. Madame and I are alumni," Harry said.
"Very good sir, welcome to St. Guinefort," said the waiter. "Enjoy your visit."
The waiter returned inside.
"Ever been here?" Harry asked. "I wasn't really clear before. You knew a bit about it."
"Not unless I passed through with Father, when we were doing five countries in six hours, or something like that," Daphne said. "Don't ask me where I got the bits I knew. Read them somewhere, I suppose. What have you got so far?"
"The whole island is magical. There are a lot of legends. Moving out of the way of a ship-to-island collision is a legend," Harry began. "That is not to say it's not true. Geopolitically St. Guinefort is something of a puzzle, as are lots of other island statelets. Neither Britain nor France claim it, because the muggle governments are oblivious to its existence. The magical administration is downright quaint. There is no advantage for either the British Ministry for Magic nor its French counterpart to claim the place. It has no strategic value and tax revenues would be less than the cost of administration, so the two ministries officially recognize the other's sovereignty. In effect, they can't give it away.
"St. Guinefort the island doesn't make any more sense geologically than it does geopolitically," Harry went on. "The rock is out of place, not related to the bedrock on either side of the Channel and not like the other isles. It could have been put here, presumably through the use of magic, but no one has come up with a plausible theory for who did it, what kind of magic would have been used, how long ago, and so on. If you hypothesized Captain Merlin and his Magical Tugboat, you would be as close as anyone has gotten. Who's to say it couldn't have been? Besides, it's completely irrelevant to the discussion because only magical types come here and they expect a certain amount of ambiguity in daily life."
The waiter arrived with two of the lunch specials, one fish and one chicken, and two glasses of the white.
"No way I can finish this," Daphne said, appraising the generous glass. "I'll go back, reassure them all is well and I'll see them tomorrow, and twenty minutes later the young Toms will be taking nourishment."
"Don't count on me," Harry said, "I can't go back to work in a polluted condition. Maybe they'll pour our leftovers into a bottle for us to take home. Pardon my inattention as a father, but when did the twins cease being kittens? They're Toms already?"
"Certainly," Daphne sniffed. "Anything less would be disrespectful. They're fine young Tom cats."
Harry nodded, glad he'd been brought up to date.
A large man arrived next to their table, rotund and bald, wearing black trousers, a black vest and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves.
"You are both from Hogwarts?" he said, without any introductions.
"We are," said Daphne, "Are you?"
"No, my magical education was in France, but my daughter was accepted at Hogwarts," said the man. "She loved it. Forgive me, my name is Henri."
He pronounced his name as 'ahn-WREE.'
"Harry."
"Daphne."
Everyone shook hands. Harry and Daphne hadn't been at Hogwarts with Henri's daughter, but they certainly would have known some of the same people. Henri, it turned out, was the third generation proprietor of le Coq Blanc.
"Monsieur Henri, we're looking for someplace different, and quiet, for a little vacation for the family," Harry said. "We're just here for lunch today, and some information about accommodations, availability, that sort of thing. Oh, my manners, forgive me, would you like to sit down?"
Le restauranteur M. Henri turned out to be the source of some of the best research Harry and Daphne did on their visit. There wasn't anything in St. Guinefort in the way of a major hotel, but one or two places could accommodate the numbers the Potters had in mind, although they might have to take the entire establishment to get enough rooms. The long-planned tourist hotel on the beach had been in the works for at least ten years, possibly more. Monsieur Henri was not certain any actual work had taken place after the initial surveying and installation of a fence. In Monsieur Henri's opinion, the beaches on the southern, France-facing side were far superior, but that was a matter of individual taste and preference.
Nearly everyone on the island spoke French and English. The islanders were determined, almost universally, to resist the development of a patois, and most people raised their children to strictly segregate their French and English vocabularies. There were a few exceptions. Monsieur le maire made it a point in his annual address to stress the respect for the distinct languages and cultures of both countries. This was coincidentally highly advantageous for the visitor-friendly commercial sector of St. Guinefort, since both British and French wizardry were noted for their snobbery in such matters.
"So true," Daphne agreed to some point Henri made. She and Harry had traded making little commentaries and responses throughout Monsieur Henri's briefing, so each got plenty to eat. They did discipline themselves on the wine consumption, pleading the need to return to work in a reasonable condition. Harry had the presence of mind to ask if Monsieur Henri would consider selling a bottle of the white for them to take back to London, which led to some more interesting but not very valuable information on the winemaking history of Monsieur Henri's family, the vineyard that grew the grapes that went into the wine, and so on.
Taking their leave, Harry and Daphne paid, thanked Monsieur Henri for the interesting conversation, and set out for the patch of trampled grass on the edge of town.
"Fascinating," Harry said. "Did you detect any reference, no matter how indirect, to anything connected to the Lafleur movement, Jacques Lafleur and/or Michel Lestrange?"
"No," said Daphne, "But was it conspicuous by its absence, or truly absent from St. Guinefort?"
"That will take a little more research," Harry said, looking at his watch. "Almost there. I'll go on inside with you then take the floo to the ministry, I think. Ten or fifteen minutes there might be a good investment of my time. Then around three hours at my place, I think, then home. How's that sound?"
It sounded okay.
Harry asked for, and got, ten minutes with Ralph Mann. He went over his concerns with the financial crimes function, asking Ralph to identify one investigator whose integrity was unquestioned, to be detailed to Harry's department for sixty to ninety days.
When he got back to his own office Harry sat down and made some notes. He'd learned a few things, and he had new questions that needed answering. Harry had no idea when Ralph's detailee would arrive, so he called in the heads of the analytical and field offices and outlined the kind of work needed to get some insight into the St. Guinefort Partners and their hotel project that never seemed to go anywhere.
By four p.m. Harry was ready to go home. He even remembered to take their bottle of Monsieur Henri's wine.
Harry floo'd to his study at Potter Manor and went out seeking human contact. He found the children on the patio, under Tracey's supervision. Iolanthe was on the settee holding Davis and James had Evans. Both of the babies were busy draining bottles. Zelda was behind a quidditch magazine and Lissette was reading a book.
"Periwinkle?" Harry called.
Periwinkle arrived with a 'pop' and Harry handed her the bottle of wine they'd picked up.
"This would be perfect whenever we have chicken, or fish, or a great big bowl of fresh greens and tomatoes and a baguette," Harry said. "Just a little chill, not too cold. Cool."
Periwinkle might have taken mild offense at Harry's pedantic instructions for chilling white wine, but if she did, she didn't let on. Harry took the unoccupied half of the settee, lay back and stretched out his legs.
"How was the lunch date?" Tracey asked.
"Very pleasant," Harry said. "We'll have to go back and take you. Have you ever been there? I managed to live this long without every hearing of St. Guinefort. According to the official brochure there is a big carnival on their Saint's Day, the twenty-second of August."
"I'd heard of it but I've never been," Tracey said. "How did you go?"
"Port key," Harry said. "I suppose we could apparate, now that we have a location to go back to."
Davis and Evans finished their bottles almost together. Both seemed inclined to doze off rather than join the party. Harry looked down the slope towards the greenhouse and saw Teddy Lupin coming up the path through the gardens.
Greetings went around: "Hullo, Teddy…" "Hullo—hullo—hullo…"
"Something to eat or drink, Teddy?" Harry asked.
"No thank-you," Teddy said, "Just wanted to talk to James."
James got up and handed Evans to Harry, then went inside with Teddy.
"Wonder what?" Harry said.
"Plant based," Tracey declared.
"Organic and magical," Iolanthe added.
Evans woke up and started fiddling with a little magical ring toy he had been holding while he ate. The rings were charmed to link and unlink, so they kept little wizards busy for long periods, taking the rings apart and putting them back together. Davis had never really drifted off after finishing his bottle, so he heard the rings clinking and asked to sit up to watch.
Before long, though, watching wasn't good enough and Davis reached out and took the toy from Evans, getting all but one ring, the one in Evans' hand. Evans wasn't having it. His hand shot out and before Davis could pull it away Evans jerked the rings back, reattaching his prize to the original ring, now complete except for the single ring still in Davis' fist.
"Oh," said Harry. "How interesting."
Harry took the end of the little chain, the one furthest from Evans' tiny fist, and pulled. The chain came away, except for the one link Evans still held. Davis laughed and waved his arms up and down. Harry held the chain out to Davis, who touched his remaining link to the group and pulled, getting everything but the link between Harry's finger and thumb. Evans decreed it was time for him to have a turn.
"Harry Potter," said Tracey, "I'd say you've reverted."
"You may be correct," Harry said, "But reverted to what? That's the question, isn't it?"
The next morning, Harry convened another meeting with his head analyst and the head of field operations.
"We will need to know some details about that magical resort in St. Guinefort," he said. "See what we can find out about the owners of that partnership. It would be useful to know who organized the partnership, who the partners are, where the financing came from, and if it has been the same principals all along or if the original partners sold it. See if we can find out who owns the land inside the fence. Names, not shell companies. Where did the money come from? How much did they pay? Has the land been transferred since the partnership was organized?
"Then there's that magical principality on the Mediterranean," Harry continued. "Who is the sovereign? If it is a principality there must be a prince. Does Lafleur hang out there? What connection does he have?"
The deputies nodded and left. This was their moment. Their meat and potatoes. They really liked their jobs.
Harry took a few minutes to think about developments. He was certain the hotel on St. Guinefort had a Lafleur connection. The main reason was intuitive. He'd used his sorting technique on a reading file and the reports on the Lafleur deputy's activities on the Isle of Man, the holiday hotel, and the tiny magical principality between Monte Carlo and France had presented themselves. There had to be a connection, but what would it take to prove it?
Harry could have been said to harbor an obsession as he thought about the complex of issues that had emerged since Iolanthe had become acquainted with Lissette Lestrange. All of the individual situations seemed to lead back to Jacques Lafleur. The threads were tangled; they needed untangling. Harry tried to pay attention in afternoon meetings but didn't have a great deal of success. The Lafleur puzzle was far too compelling. Ordinary departmental housekeeping couldn't compete.
Teddy and James worked late on the evening of July 30. They were much too cheery when they got to Potter Manor about an hour before sundown. Harry was sitting in his study, staring out towards the far wall, although no observer would have interpreted his activity as being focused on the wall. He was sporting a stare much to vacant for that.
Daphne caught James as he re-entered the manor after seeing Teddy to the green.
"What?" James asked.
"That's right, James Greengrass POTTER," Daphne hissed. "What? I know that look. Don't make me wheedle it out of you."
The prospect of his mother, the Healer Lady Daphne Potter-Black, wheedling was too much to bear. James turned away, regained a little control, and came back.
"I'd rather show it to you," he said.
"Where?" asked Daphne.
"The Mill," James said, "Just upstream a bit from the bridge."
Daphne looked at the door to the study. There hadn't been any noise from in there for twenty minutes or so. She decided to take a chance.
"Harry," she said, "James and I will be outside."
"Okay," came Harry's reply. That was it. Just 'Okay.'
"Stick in the mud," Daphne muttered as she led James to the front door. "You'll never know what's going on if you don't get up and go look."
It was a nice evening so Daphne and James walked to the Mill. Daphne caught up on all the news from the greenhouse, or 'The Exquisite Conservatory' as it was becoming in Potter parlance. She probed around assessing James' readiness for the coming school term, looked for indicators he was worried about particular subjects or professors, all the while concentrating on communicating expressions of confidence in James' abilities as a scholar and practical botanist.
"Here we are," James announced, waving the back of his hand at a pile of limestone. It could have been excess from the construction of the manor, placed out of the way until needed for some repair or addition.
"It's a pile of rocks," Daphne said. She looked at James. He still looked awfully pleased with himself.
"Yes," James said, the pride evident in his voice. "Yes, it is, and yet it is so much more."
James fished around in his shirt pocket and removed a small piece of parchment, which he handed to Daphne.
"Read this, and think about what you are saying," James advised.
Daphne looked at the copperplate calligraphy in the fading light.
"Lumos," said James, putting some light on the sheet.
"Harry Potter wishes to sit on his bench," Daphne read, the blocks beginning to shift almost before she had finished.
"Mum," James said, offering his arm, which Daphne took. James conveyed her to the limestone bench and bade her sit, then stepped back.
"You did this?" Daphne asked. "What's it for?"
"Teddy and I did it," James said. "Dad said he would like a stone placed around here so he could sit on the stone, alone with his thoughts and the sounds of nature. I talked to Teddy, Teddy and I took an idea to Grandfather, he did some refinements and helped us with the charm, and here we are. How is it? Can you think better? The cool stone, the babbling brook…?"
"Yes!" Daphne said, almost a shout. "Oh, you wizards! He's going to love it, James. Sincerely, I love it, already!"
"I hope so," said James. "He asked for a rock. Don't want to over-refine it and lose the rusticity."
"James," Daphne said. "This is seriously advanced magical landscape architecture, even if you and Teddy did bring in Father. Can you put it back?"
"Of course," laughed James. "Just get up and read the back of the little page…"
"Harry Potter is finished sitting," Daphne read. The blocks lost their bench form and became a pile of rocks.
"You'll keep our secret until tomorrow?" James asked.
"Certainly," Daphne said. "I wonder if we should plan coffee on the patio, then a stroll down so you can give your father his present, then breakfast under the arbor for everyone?"
"I'm for it," James said. "He may decide to take the day off for a period of intense stream-visiting."
Harry did love his birthday present, and the breakfast afterwards. Daphne'd had the presence of mind to floo-call Kendra and Victoire when she and James returned to the house. The elves laid on a spectacular al fresco breakfast under the arbor, attended by Harry, Daphne and the children, Tracey and Zelda, Kendra and Fabio, Andromeda, Victoire and Teddy, and of course Lissette. Harry had to send a message by owl saying for reasons of a family activity (he couldn't bring himself to characterize his birthday breakfast as an emergency), he wouldn't be getting to the office before ten-thirty or eleven.
Much as he would have liked to combine his work day with intense stream-visiting, the things he needed and the people to whom he'd assigned tasks were in London, in the building occupied by the department that was never acknowledged. Harry got a short distance into his meeting with Pythagoras, the head of the analysts, and the chief of the operations section, and knew he needed to push the investigation to completion, so he could get the results to Kingsley.
"Consistent with a complete and thorough study and assessment, please, please keep at it and get this done," Harry said. "They are doing everything wrong, misusing magic in the furtherance of criminal acts, abusing minors, laundering money, you name it. We have to put an end to this. We'll keep it in-house through close of business. I want us all to agree we're ready before we hand our work off to the aurors."
"Sir," said Pythagoras, "Have you considered letting the aurors assign someone to keep an eye on you? Watch your back?"
"No," Harry said, "The aurors have enough to do. The only person from the Lafleur bunch who would have a problem with me would be Jacques Lafleur, or someone thinking he or she was doing something Lafleur wanted done. They would be wrong. If Lafleur wants to harm me, he will come himself. If that happens, very few aurors would be capable of holding him off, much less putting him out of commission."
"Told you," said the head of operations as he stood up. "Thank-you, sir."
Pythagoras held Harry's gaze an extra beat.
"Please think about it," he said. "You can always change your mind."
"I appreciate the thought," said Harry. "I mean that, sincerely."
Though still incomplete, the investigation had already established the Lafleur outfit were running a criminal enterprise. Lafleur wrongdoing covered a wide, complex spectrum. Lafleur nominees were principals in a number of companies that bought and sold St. Guinefort Partners, LLC, of Douglas. The transactions were done in Douglas, via direct transfers between accounts. That was why they showed up on the minimal banking reports required by the Manx authorities.
The land inside the muggle fence watched over by the security guard was not owned by St. Guinefort Partners, LLC. It was leased from the municipality of St. Guinefort, which amounted to the sovereign national government of the island. The lease period was five years, but it was renewable at the option of St. Guinefort Partners. There was no tax on the land, the land rent being the only cost to St. Guinefort Partners. Plans had been filed with the engineering office of the municipality, but at the request of St. Guinefort Partners approval action had been suspended pending a design decision, unspecified. St. Guinefort Partners had been sold three times in five years.
Harry was forced to admit he admired the simplicity of it all. St. Guinefort Partners, LLC, owned nothing of value, so there was no exposure to catastrophic loss. Lafleur had the sunk costs of the land lease, some building plans, a cheap fence, a faded sign and a salary for one security guard. For that he had acquired an instrument that enabled him to move millions of galleons through the bank accounts of corporations that existed only in the incorporation papers in the file folders in a lawyer's office in Douglas. Needless to say, all of the sales had been for one hundred galleons and other consideration. Lafleur had an instrument for cleaning up the ill-gotten gains from almost any perfidious enterprise, his own or another's, as the occasion warranted. As an additional sweetener, aside from a few tax stamps required when the incorporation papers were transferred from one fund, partnership, trust or venture capital firm to another, the trading of St. Guinefort Partners, LLC, was essentially tax-free for everyone.
Harry conceded that he wasn't a legal expert, despite his experience as an auror. The miscreants he chased were much less sophisticated and given to committing clear-cut crimes like theft, assault and unauthorized dabbling in dark magic. This was something different and he'd like to wind up the information collecting and hand everything off to the aurors, with the appropriate sanitation in the interest of keeping his department out of the record.
Then there was the mysterious principality in the South of France. That might be a situation someone like him could deal with. If Lafleur had access to his own magical micro-state, or a firm grip on the proprietor of one, the St. Guinefort Partners might be small potatoes. The possible appearance of Lafleur in the principality was still the fuzziest element among the three that appeared at Harry's starting point. He needed the field section to produce, something, or they would have to drop the subject. Well, maybe they wouldn't drop it. There was a magical principality where there wasn't supposed to be one. With a situation like that, a person with Harry's job would be expected to conduct a little research.
The magical world had its own directories, equivalents to the Almanac de Gotha or De Brett's or Burke's guides. Harry stepped out of his office and told his assistant he'd be at the ministry, in the library, looking up a couple of things. It shouldn't take more than an hour, but there was something he wanted to check on personally, and the assistant was to feel free to summon Harry back if anything arrived that required his immediate attention.
Harry nodded to the ministry librarian at the desk and went on to the stacks. He pulled out a magical atlas and a guide to magical noble houses that he'd consulted before. The thing was hopelessly arcane and followed a cryptic organizational plan. That aside, once a witch or wizard figured out how to keep the target subject fixed in their mind just so, the book turned helpful, even a bit pushy.
"Ever think of asking for help?"
"Hermione! How…" Harry began.
"Oh, if I told, it wouldn't be a mystery!" Hermione said, just slightly cutting him off.
"Let's see, geography and a question about ancients and nobles, intersecting someplace on the Mediterranean coast of Europe," Hermione said, assessing Harry's reference books.
"Yes," he said, becoming slightly irritated. "Anything else I should know?"
"Uh-huh," Hermione said, "You should take conversations right over there to the little conference rooms with doors that close. That's what they are there for."
She picked up the guide and left, without another word, so Harry brought the atlas. It was just easier.
"Does this have to do with Jacques Lafleur?" Hermione asked when Harry had closed the door. She rubbed her hand across the chair seat before sitting. Dust free, she noted with approval.
"Yes," Harry said, "There was a report, very vague, or fragmentary, little more than gossip. He, or someone who could have been him, was seen in one of those little jurisdictions on the coast."
"Just any jurisdiction? Nice? Cannes?" Hermione asked.
"Close," Harry said. "It's supposed to be a magical micro-state, a principality, near the border between Monte Carlo and France."
"Oh, l'Anse des Sorciers," Hermione said. "Very magical. Muggles enter a tunnel on the coast road that is France on both ends, enter from France, exit to France, but magical types enter and come out in l'Anse des Sorciers. It's not really a bay, more of a cove. A village on the water and the big house up on the hill. A little stream cascades down over some rocks. It's most dramatic."
"You're a font of information, Hermione," Harry said. "Once again. Tell me what I need to know."
"It's a principality," Hermione said, "A sovereign state. The rulers have practically fetishized discretion, you could say, which is why it is still independent. Rumor is it is up for sale, land, rights, privileges and immunities."
"Is there a title?" Harry asked.
Hermione turned to the back of the guide book, to the index. She ran her finger down a column then worked back until she found the page.
"Serene," Hermione said.
"Isn't that usually Serene Highness?" Harry asked.
"There are Serene Highnesses, that's true," Hermione said. "Let's see. Ha!"
Harry took that to mean Hermione had unearthed another of her precious facts.
"Lothar the Magnificent, the great thirteenth century sorcerer/magical empire builder," she read, "Rewarded a soldier in his service with the land and was in the middle of declaring the soldier and his progeny Serene Highnesses in perpetuity when Lothar was assassinated by a spurned lover. The court lawyers and seers disappeared into the archives and concluded the soldier had been awarded the land and was declared a Serene, but since Lothar had not gotten beyond that point then the title would remain in its truncated form."
Harry felt, as he often did, that magical life was testing his gullibility.
"Odd," said Hermione.
"Hmm…?"
"Well, the soldier's name was Hugues Lestrange," Hermione said. "What is it with you and that family?"
"Wish I knew," Harry shrugged.
Harry and Hermione broke it off, returned the books to their shelves and thanked the librarian on their way out the door. It was time they got back to their regular jobs, the ones the ministry actually paid them to do.