Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
THE SONG OF SOLOMON
Chapter 12: The Appointment
Mundungus Fletcher spat as he shrank into the corner of the alleyway, cursing the damned autumn rain that had left him cold and wet. It was Friday evening, and loud music drifted from the backdoor of the bar in which his appointment was to be held. His ears, trained sharp by livelihood despite his years, could hear the ringing laughter of young patrons entering the establishment. How he wished to join them for a drink.
For exactly five years he had been doing this, earning a meager commission from both Potter and Malfoy. The payment was not exactly scant, but Mundungus had expected more. Much more.
He was, after all, smuggling a C-sub. If only either man could be more generous and provide him a minute amount for his own trade. All his other patrons did that, unknowingly perhaps, but that was a detail that hardly mattered.
Instead, he stuck his hand into a pocket of his tattered trousers and felt the open Snitch inside; one of them came up with this wretched idea.
The plan was simple enough. The client-seller Muffliato had been set in place, per tradition of trade of this sort; it meant the two sides were never to engage in direct contact with one another. Since Mundungus' association with the Potters was pretty much a known fact, few of his kind would dare to bother him on the streets or steal his possessions. Malfoy would meet him at an obscure location, which could be anywhere inside the country. Once settled, the taciturn blond would show Mundungus the month's supply of the silvery powder, preserved and protected in a vial, which he would then place inside the Snitch and spell it close for transport.
Mundungus had tried to force open the sphere, of course; he had even visited several of his locksmith friends for that purpose. No one had been able to solve the mystery of the close, and Mundungus could not fathom how the offering would unlock for Potter alone. His quest ended because an associate had attempted to sell the Snitch to a Quidditch shop, which had offered to pay a handsome price for such an antique model.
Mundungus Fletcher had never cared much for the Potters, but he put a lot of worth on his own head. He could kiss it goodbye if he failed the delivery.
Ginny had been doing well, fit enough even to play Quidditch with her family. She had no recollection of the nightmares at all, feeling as though she had woken from a long, dreamless sleep. The medication had always arrived on time, and, Mundungus recalled resentfully, in excess such that her supplies had never run short. She used to complain about the medication's stench and bitterness, but Malfoy seemed to have solved that problem as well.
Which made Mundungus drool at the thoughts of the payment that must have changed hands.
He had never seen a Knut of it and the Potters did not seem eager to sell their possessions; nevertheless, Mundungus imagined an entire Gringotts vault filled with Galleons and Sickles, alight with antiques and precious stones that sparkled and glistened. It made the Christmas gifts from the Potters, crates of Firewhisky and finest cigars that would last a lifetime, look rather petty in comparison. The shine of the fine leather coat that Malfoy had thrust into his arms during their last meeting appeared less than impressive too.
Speaking of Malfoy… Mundungus checked the time on his watch and frowned. It was atypical for the blond to be late.
The rain was falling harder now, and Mundungus craned his neck towards the opening of the narrow passageway. He knew it was futile; anyone could spot a Malfoy from miles away.
An hour passed. The music from the bar was louder than ever. Mundungus strained his ears to listen for footsteps. There were none.
Two hours. The music was feverous, its thunderous beat matched only by the violent pounding of his heart.
Three hours. The music slowed, chiming a death knell for the evening. The sound of rain reigned again, in the splatter against rooftops, the splash as drunk patrons stumbled and collapsed over rain-sodden steps, and the sloshing of his shoes that paced up and down the alleyway.
Four hours. The light on the porch of the backdoor dimmed with a click. The alleyway was pitch dark; even the skies were devoured by the gloom, the rain vanishing at almost the same instant.
Mundungus didn't bother to retrieve his wand. With a faint pop he Apparated to the Potters' residence, fearing the tempest that was sure to come.