Earlier that day . . .

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Walking out into the bright, sunlight morning Booth paused in front of the hotel and rubbed his palms together. "Okay," he grinned at his companions, "so where are we really going?"

Harry threw a questioning glance at Ron. "To the Ministry of Magic," he responded. "Where did you think we were taking you?"

Booth's shoulders fell slightly. "I don't know, I just thought you might have some super-secret magic wizard stuff to show me."

Ron laughed. "What do you think we're doing, Yank? You can't buy tickets at the local pub for a guided tour of the Ministry of Magic. Although you're welcome to try – g'head, I'll stand back and watch."

Booth glared at the younger man for a moment then laughed. "Good point." He slapped Ron on the back, perhaps a bit harder than necessary to judge by Ron's grimace of discomfort. "Lead on, my good man," he said in a broad, incredible fake British accent.

The men set off walking at an easy pace, reaching within a few minutes one of the distinctive signs that indicated an Underground stop.

"This Ministry place is in the subway?" Booth asked in confusion.

"No," Harry answered. "But this is the quickest route to the visitor's entrance from here especially since we promised your wife we'd be using Muggle transportation." He skipped lightly down the steps, the other two following behind.

When they emerged a few stops later Booth noticed the neighborhood had changed significantly. A general air of neglect hung over grimy buildings, litter blowing across empty streets. His eyes sharpened even as his shoulders seemed to relax and loosen beneath the cotton shirt he wore. On reflex his hand went to his right hip; he cursed beneath his breath when he found nothing.

"Uh, guys?" he spoke in a low voice as he watched two men with shaved heads slink through a nearby doorway. "You might want to remember that I don't have my gun with me."

Harry shrugged, walking ahead nonchalantly, his smaller frame betraying no hint of nervousness or fear. Ron caught Booth's eye. "Don't worry," he grinned. "We'll protect you."

The American cast a watchful eye down the street, automatically noting open windows and potential rooftop hiding places and, for the moment, let the gibe go.

"Right, here we are," Harry said, turning down a small street and stopping beside an old-fashioned red painted phone box. The door leaned on one hinge when he tugged at it; after a casual glance around, he pulled his wand and made a quick repair. "Come on, then, inside," he waved at the other two.

Booth watched uncertainly as Ron squeezed in after Harry. "You want me to get in that thing?" he asked.

The two men nodded.

"With both of you."

Another nod.

"There's not enough room in there for a sneeze," Booth remarked, obviously, "let alone someone my size."

"It will be a bit of a tight fit," Harry agreed, "but we'll manage. Step in."

Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, he somehow maneuvered his wide shoulders into the narrow gap between the two men. Barely able to move, Harry reached beyond him and closed the door.

"Ow, that's my foot."

"I can't even feel my feet anymore."

"I . . . can't . . . breathe . . ."

"Hey, watch the hands!"

"That's the door jamb!"

"Somebody needs to dial the phone," Harry instructed. "I can't lift my arms."

Looking down, Booth found himself standing directly in front of the broken equipment. He picked up the receiver and shook the broken cord dangling helplessly. "I don't think we'll be calling anyone," he said, "although we might need to so we can get someone to bring the Jaws of Life and get us out of this thing!"

Harry sucked in his stomach and tried to press back further against the glass. "Don't worry about the receiver," he managed, "just dial 62446."

"62446?" Booth repeated, one brow lifted in query.

"Before we're crushed to death would be nice," Ron grumbled. "Why are Americans always so bloody big?"

Leaning slightly in Ron's direction as he dialed, Booth smiled in satisfaction when he heard a heavy oomphf as the red-haired man was pushed further against the already cracked window pane behind him. Booth opened his mouth to make the caustic comment he had ready when another voice spoke around them.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic." The woman's words were clear and loud. "Please state your name and business."

"Harry . . . Harry Potter," the same gasped out. "And Ron Weasley. And . . ." he paused and glanced at Booth. "What's your full name?"

"FBI Special Agent in Charge Seeley Booth," he responded, lifting the broken handset to speak loudly into the receiver.

"Mr. Booth is here as a guest of the Auror's Office," Harry said. "Er . . . he's a Muggle."

The box was quiet for a several long moments.

"A Muggle you said?" the woman asked in surprise. "Hold please."

"Why did you have to tell her the bloke's a Muggle," Ron grumbled, pushing back against the iron wall that was Booth.

"I think they'd find out," Harry answered in the same tone.

"Thank you," the voice returned. "Visitor, please attach this badge to your robes." Hearing a rattle, Booth reached into the change bin and pulled out a thin, plastic badge. "Fbi Booth, Guest of the Auror Office" it read. The word "Muggle" was printed in large block letters across the top.

"Please report directly to the security desk," she continued. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Have a nice day!"

With a rumble, the floor beneath their feet began to move. "What the hell . . ." Booth yelped in surprise as the light from outside slowly disappeared as they sank below street level. No sooner had the phone booth become completely dark than a broad ribbon of light shone on their feet, slowly widening until the darkness disappeared completely as they reached the Ministry. Their journey stopped with a thump. Reaching past Booth again, Harry pushed the door open and the three of them stumbled out into the atrium.

Booth glanced around the wide, open room curiously as Harry led him to the registration desk around which a group of wizards had gathered, staring without expression at the approaching trio. Booth recognized Kingsley and held out his hand in greeting.

"Ah, so it is you, Mr. Booth," the Minister accepted the offered hand. "Harry, Ron," he added. "There was some concern that the Ministry might be facing an invasion," he commented in response to Harry's questioning glance.

"Hermione is giving Dr. Brennan a tour of Hogsmeade," Harry explained.

Ron nodded. "We thought we'd show . . . " he leaned over to read Booth's visitor's badge ". . . 'Fbi' around the Ministry," he concluded with a smirk, deliberately pronouncing the initials as the word 'Fibi.'

"One of these days, Alice . . ." Booth murmured, his warning tone obvious even as the reference flew above Ron's head.

"Hmmm," Kingsley considered for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, fine. But," he added with a glance at Harry, "nothing below this level."

"Understood," Harry agreed.

He and Ron presented their wands for inspection, repocketed them and led their guest across the dark, polished floor.

Booth paused beside the fountain, staring in awe at the enormous replica of a wand rising from a base carved in the shape of a closed hand. Water shot out from a single point at the tip of the wand, falling to form a wide variety of dancing, complex patterns before splashing gently into the shimmering pool below.

"That's amazing," he commented, awestruck. "How do you get the water to . . ." he paused, watched a wizard step out of a burst of green flames that appeared in a fireplace along the opposite wall, and shook his head. "Never mind."

"Seems a bit simple to me, this fountain," Ron commented, stopping beside Booth. "The Ministry wanted to put a statue of Harry up but he said no."

"Absolutely not," Harry agreed, shaking his head.

Ron's lips quirked as he looked over at his best friend. "Just think, though, you could have been immortalized forever in stone. Standing here in this fountain, water coming out of your . . ."

"Ron, Harry!" The voice calling their names interrupted Ron's comment but didn't stop Harry from punching his shoulder before they turned to greet the newcomer. "So it's true, you brought a Muggle into the Ministry?" He eyed Booth warily.

"Seamus Finnegan, Booth." Harry introduced the two of them. "You heard about what happened at the memorial dedication?"

Seamus peered closely at Booth's badge. "Fibi?" he asked.

"No, it's . . . never mind," Booth shook his head. "Booth is fine."

"Huh." Seamus shrugged and turned back to Harry. "Yea, I heard. Meant to be there myself but I've been in Devon for a week about those exploding cauldrons." He raised a brow in Ron's direction.

"Don't look at me, mate," Ron held up his hands. "Our cauldrons are clearly labeled Not for Use in Brewing Potions."

"Labels come off, don't they," Seamus retorted, his jaw set. "I've told you and George they should be a different color or . . ."

"We're not selling puce-colored cauldrons, Seamus!" Ron argued. "We might as well not stock them!"

"Ahem." Harry decided it was time to interrupt. "Seamus is with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," he explained to Booth. "He and Ron have a row about once a week over one of their products. Ron and George own a couple of joke shops," he explained on seeing Booth's confused expression.

"Tell George I'll be 'round about those cauldrons," Seamus tossed over his shoulder angrily as he walked away.

"Do I look like your bloody house elf? Tell him yourself!" Ron shouted. "Mangy git used to have a sense of humor," he muttered to the departing man's back.

Harry waited a beat and then clapped his hands together once. "Well now that the excitement is over, why don't we show you around a bit?"

More than just a few times in the hours that followed, Booth wished his children were with him as he toured the Ministry of Magic. Moira would have asked questions non-stop and gotten lost a dozen times disappearing into corridors and slipping into offices while he wasn't looking. Simon and Henry would have been beside themselves chasing the memos flying through the air and poking fingers into photographs that moved and they would have been thrilled beyond imagining in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures when introduced to the reality of such creatures as dragons, goblins and trolls.

When the three men stepped out of the lift on level seven, however, Booth was glad his adventurous sons were safely back home.

There was a roar of sound as applause and cheering broke out, people reaching out to slap his back or grab his hand.

"A wizard/Muggle Quidditch match!" The rather short young black man who spoke slapped Ron on the shoulder. "Brilliant! Just brilliant!" His grin widened as he held out a hand to Booth. "Lee Jordan. I'll be calling your match."

"Calling?" Harry asked, somewhat alarmed. "It's just going to be Ron and Booth, there's no need for . . ." Lee was shaking his head.

"Oh, no. As soon as I got George's owl, we started planning. Come see!" He dragged them into a small office where a half-dozen sheets of parchment were scattered across an even smaller desk.

Harry picked one up at random, skimmed it quickly and drew a shocked breath. "Hogwarts? We're doing this at Hogwarts?"

"Where else are we going to find a Quidditch pitch available to use?" Lee asked rhetorically. "The professional teams are all using theirs – it's the middle of the season."

Ron took the page from Harry and read it, his eyes wide. "You got permission to use it?"

"Neville helped us out," Lee grinned. "And, you know, Madam Hooch always had a soft spot for Fred and George. She fixed it with Professor Cornfoot."

"The headmaster agreed to let a Muggle play Quidditch on the grounds?" Harry eyed Lee suspiciously.

"Well . . . we might have forgotten to mention that part," Lee mumbled, shifting stacks of paper on his desk. "Look," he added quickly, holding up a page, "these are the robes Dean designed."

"Robes?" Ron paled. "Hermione is going to explode."

Booth snatched the sheet from Lee's hands. "Hey, I did not agree to wear a dress!"

Lee snatched it back, his expression offended. "That's not a dress, it's a Quidditch robe!"

Harry stepped in to defuse the moment. "You did all this since yesterday?" He glanced down at the desk and turned one page slightly so he could read it better. "What's this? You have me listed as Seeker?"

"Yea," Lee beamed. "On the Muggle's team."

"Hey, why does he get Harry?" Ron asked, irritated.

"Because he's a Muggle," Lee explained patiently. "He'll probably lose anyway, might as well give him a sporting chance."

"Wait a minute . . ." Booth interrupted.

"So who's my Seeker then?" Ron spoke over Booth loudly, attempting to peer over Harry's shoulder.

"That would be me, Weasley," a snide voice entered the discussion. He passed a roll of parchment to Lee. "You wanted my suggestions for other players."

"Get off, Malfoy," Ron bit out, looking over his shoulder at the newcomer squeezing into the already crowded office. "When's the last time you were on a broom? And why would you want to be on my team anyway? Sabotaging us, are you?" He glared at Lee, who shrugged.

"He was in the Leaky Cauldron last night and overheard us planning. He volunteered."

"Why?" Ron turned to face Draco, arms crossed against his chest combatively.

The blonde-haired man held up one finger. "One, I get to beat Potter." Two fingers. "Two, I get to beat a Muggle." Three fingers. "Three, I get to beat Potter."

"Not yet you haven't, Malfoy," Harry growled. Despite the passing of time, there was no love lost between the two men and it showed.

"Now, now," Lee grinned, enjoying the ire. "Save it for the match." He rubbed his hands together in glee. "This will go down in the history books, boys! So, here's the deal – tomorrow afternoon after the Hogwarts match . . ."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" Booth shook his head. "Our plane leaves tomorrow afternoon. We have to do this tonight."

"You expect me to pull this masterpiece off by tonight?" Lee asked incredulously. "Nothing doing. It's gotta to be tomorrow."

"Our plane leaves . . ."

"We'll fix that," Lee waived away the complexities of international air travel without concern. "So, tomorrow afternoon . . ."

"Bones is going to kill me," Booth murmured, closing his eyes briefly. He jabbed a finger at Ron. "This is all your fault. Maybe she'll kill you instead."

"She'll have to get in line," Ron mumbled, "because Hermione is definitely going to want to murder me."

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Ninety minutes later the three men sat in the Leaky Cauldron nursing pints of mead. Booth hadn't even quibbled when they had to stuff themselves back in the phone box to leave the Ministry; his mind was stuck imagining Brennan's reaction when she found out about the gigantic spectacle his little game with Ron had become.

"It's all in how we tell them," he explained to Ron. "We can't just blurt it out, we have to lead them to it gently."

"Unless they already know," Ron said morosely. "They've been in Hogsmeade all day. If it's all over the Ministry, it's probably all over Hogsmeade."

"Damn." Booth frowned at his drink. "I think I need something stronger than this."

Ron's head lifted. "We can do stronger." Before anyone could respond, he bounded out of his chair and headed to the bar, returning moments later with three small glasses from which a gentle haze of smoke rose.

Booth lifted his glass to the light and examined the liquid carefully then raised it to his nose and sniffed. Finally, he shrugged. "Cheers," he said, then tipped the glass and downed the contents in one long swallow.

"No!"
"Wait!"

He barely heard Ron and Harry over the roaring in his ears and the blazing inferno that followed the liquid down his throat. Coughing, wheezing, eyes overflowing, he bent over, pounding the table with one fist while his companions slapped at his back and spoke urgently to him.

When he could breathe again he stared at them, tears still streaming down his cheeks. "What . . . the . . . hell . . . was . . . that . . . stuff?" he managed to rasp through his ravaged throat.

"Firewhiskey," Harry explained, sliding the empty glass away. "You're supposed to sip it, not down it. Open your mouth," he instructed. "Let's see if your teeth are still there."

Dentition intact, Booth sat struggling to breathe for a few more minutes while Ron and Harry sipped at their drinks. Slowly a crooked, happy grin spread across his face.

"Let's try that again." He bounced up from his seat and headed to the bar. "Three more glasses," he told Tom, slapping his hand down on the bar. "Put it on the ginger's tab." Walking carefully back to the table, he passed the glasses around and sat down. "Now, we do this again. Cheers!" He lifted his glass and sipped carefully, blowing away smoke before swallowing.

Three rounds later, he'd built a nice pyramid of empty glasses in the middle of the table. They had also collected an audience, most of whom came up to shake Harry's hand and stayed to stare in surprise at the Muggle sitting happily – if somewhat tipsily – in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron drinking firewhiskey with their hero.

Booth suddenly decided Brennan really needed to experience firewhiskey herself. "Let's go get her!" he said, standing up with a jerk that almost sent the fragile pyramid tumbling. He grabbed Ron's arm. "Come on . . . do that whoosh! thing!"

Ron shook his head. "Can't," he said. "Been drinking." He waved a newly refilled glass in the air, sloshing a few drops onto the table where they sizzled into the wood. "Might . . ." he swallowed a burp, ". . . splish," he ended with a slight slur.

Booth sat back down with a thump. "What the hell is splish?" he asked, trying to balance his newly empty glass on top of the pyramid.

"It's when you app….app…..whoosh 'n leave part of you behind," Ron managed to get out, blinking slowly at the wobbling display.

A thread of sobriety wound through Booth's subconscious. "What part?" he asked, horrified.

On the other side of the table, Harry giggled. "Not part," he snickered. "Parts. Bits. If you're not careful, you leave bits of you behind." He punched his best friend. "Ron usually loses a toenail or two."

"They grow back," Ron hunched his shoulders.

"You've been whooshing us . . ." Booth's hand swooped above the table in a dramatic gesture, " . . . all over the place and you didn't tell us we might lose a toenail?"

Harry shook his head, then closed his eyes and grabbed for the edge of the table. "Hermione doesn't splish . . . splinch."

"Toenails don't hurt," Ron insisted. "Not like this." He fumbled with the shirt he wore beneath his robes for several minutes then stood unsteadily, tossed his robe over a chair and pulled his shirt off. "Look!" he leaned in close to Booth, pointing to the deep scaring on his shoulder. "That hurt."

Booth inspected the old wound then rolled his eyes. "That's nothing." Pushing back from the table he stood up and, after several tries, managed to get his shirt unbuttoned. "This," he said, struggling to get it off with one hand and point to an old bullet wound with the other, "this hurt."

A group of young witches sitting in a table closer to the bar tittered and stared avidly at the two half-dressed men.

Ron peered at it closely. "That little thing?"

"I got shot! That hurts" Booth insisted. "And look at this," he added, twisting to display another old wound in his side. His feet shuffled as he struggled to keep his balance. "I got shot here, too."

"I guess I'm not the only one you annoy," Ron snickered.

Booth grabbed the younger man and locked his head in the crook of his elbow. "Who's annoyed now, huh?" he asked.

At the table, Harry laughed uproariously as the two men stumbled around in a circle, Ron struggling to break free of the hold. Tables and chairs were hastily moved, clearing an open space in the center of the room as the other wizards and witches in the tavern surrounded them, calling out advice and suggestions.

Finally Ron managed to loosen the hold and the two of them grappled back and forth, swapping insults as they wrestled for supremacy amid the cheers and jeers of the watching crowd. Finally, Ron managed to sweep the older man's legs out from under him and Booth landed with a thump on the floor. He lay on his back, catching his breath.

"I let you win," he breathed, laughing, reaching up to grasp the hand Ron extended to help him up.

"I took it easy on you," Ron countered. "I didn't use my wand."

"You can't fight with those little sticks," Booth sneered. Someone stuck another glass of firewhiskey in his hand. "It would just get in the way."

"No, it's a wizard's duel," Ron explained, accepting another glass and sipping.

"What, you stand there and threaten to turn each other into toads?" Booth joked.

Ron, having finished his drink, thought that was hysterically funny and doubled over laughing.

"I'd put my gun up against your little stick any day," he insisted, tossing back the last of the smoking liquid.

"Well, you'd have to," Ron nodded wisely, stumbling as he lost his balance. "You couldn't win a wizard's duel."

"If you can do it, I can do it," Booth insisted, jabbing his thumb toward his own chest so hard he took a few steps back.

"I've got five galleons on the Muggle," a voice in the crowd spoke up, joined suddenly by a host of others. Coins clinked and deals were struck and somehow, Ron and Booth ended up with yet another glass in their hands.

"He can use my wand," a young witch tittered as she stepped forward, blushing a deep red and giggling when Booth gave her a wide smile and accepted the long, golden brown offering.

"What's happenin' here?" Hagrid's deep voice cut through the noise as he cleared his own path through the crowd. His huge hand rested on Harry's shoulder where he sat, head on his arms, eyes closed. "Harry? Harry? What's goin' on here?"

Harry's eyes fluttered open sleepily. "Ron's dueling," his eyes drifted closed. "With the Muggle." His head dropped back to his arms.

"What?" Hagrid's voice was alarmed. "He can't do that! Ron!"

Booth, standing at one end of the cleared space and surrounded by wizards offering him advice on how to hold a wand and cast spells, looked up at the huge man yelling at Ron. "Woa," he said loudly. "That guy's huge!"

"Shhhh!" Ron said loudly. "He'll hear you!"

"Alright, lads," Hagrid said. "I think ye've had a wee bit too much to drink. Give me the wands before someone gets hurt."

Ron giggled. "I can't get hurt. He can't use a wand!"

"From the looks of things," Hagrid responded, "ya could hurt yerself. Hand over the wands."

Their audience began to grumble and complain until Ron and Booth joined the chorus, arguing over their intention to duel. Bright red sparks flew from the tip of Ron's wand as he waved it around haphazardly. Finally, Hagrid threw up his hands and backed away.

"Only one thing left to do," he said, reaching into his overcoat and withdrawing his pink umbrella. "He'll thank me later."

With a wave of the umbrella, he sent a streak of silver soaring into the distance.

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What's a Quidditch match without Lee calling it, right?