Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Summary: Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the prettiest Mrs. Robinson of them all? Also, big trouble in little China.

Midnight Blues

Part III: Murder is My Employment.

12.) The Doorway, Pt. 2
or,
Real Time with Bill Granger.

May 3, 2005

"Now you just wait one bloody minute!" Shouts Tracey from twenty paces off where we sit. It's then that I remember that I had implicitly told her that I would spill the beans about Shangri-La so she wouldn't have to go beg Boris for details.

"'Lo, Miss Davis," I intone with mock courtesy as the brunette stomps our way. "You're just in time."

Tracey's miffed expression instantly transforms into her usual expression of lazy amusement. "Look at you three, all bundled up together like the first scene of threesome porno." She says, though all three of us are plenty apart, and then she focuses on Hermione. "Oh, Hermione, the Vigneto and the Klase? You devil, you! Whose eye are you trying to catch?"

Hermione, to her credit, doesn't rise to the bait. "No one in particular; I just thought that it might be good to break them in," she points to her high-fashion blouse and dragonskin leggings. "I mean, I'd wear something more comfortable, if I owned such a thing."

"No need to be snooty, I did you a favor. You looked like a bloody pikey before." says Tracey with a smile, to Hermione's eternal horror at being compared to gypsies. Satisfied with her riposte, Tracey plonks down next to me, on the other side of Ron and Hermione.

There she slaps my thigh and grins: "So what happened in Shangri-La? Did you find enlightenment?"

"You know I've always thought spies should be a little more somber," I muse at the M.I.7. agent, "but you're as obnoxious as a drunk pureblood on Victory Day."

Tracey snatches the flask of whiskey from me and takes a long swig from it. "Well, I am a pureblood, it's relatively close to Victory Day, and I'm rectifying the sobriety mishap, so you may be close to correct. Now, don't keep us waiting."

Hoping that she's the last of people coming for the greatest story ever told, I catch Tracey up quickly to where I left Ron and Hermione last night and begin the tale again.

February 14, 2005

I pulled out the ring Boris had gifted us, all I needed now was to find a Lodge. A hulking gold behemoth, with stags and lions engraved into it, a ruby sat dead-center, a secret reminder of what House I'd been in at Hogwarts. I wouldn't be totally surprised if Tracey's was silver with an emerald stone. Regardless, I slipped the ring onto my middle finger (it had always been too large for my ring finger and too gaudy for casual wear) and looked around to make sure no one was looking. Problem was, however, that lots of people were looking by virtue of how crowded and lively the streets were. I slowly pushed away from the forming crowd of people and sneaked down an alleyway by the dwarf quartet's building. Once sufficiently away from prying eyes, I channeled some magic into the engraved silver band and spoke the words:

"Directio," pretty obvious, but Boris's reasoning was that the most obvious was the least likely to be used by his enemies. I don't know if I believe him, but he is the spymaster, not me.

All at once, as I spoke, a light-based map of Shangri-La seemed to emanate from the the small ruby jewel stone set in the middle of band. It came out in a fierce red, like that of blood, every inch of the city seemed to be mapped before me. Buildings, theaters, restaurants, they were all there in miniature scale. And about two or three miles from where I stood was a blinking golden light, indicating a Lodge.

So there was a Lodge in this city. Thank God for small fucking mercies, yeah?

One of the nifty things about our rings is that you can use them as a position-portkey. Essentially, you can use it as a Portkey to any Lodge nearby, so long as you pick it out on the map before doing so. It's makes Portkey travel much faster and more convenient, but it has a pitifully limited range, unlike the more conventionally made Portkeys' nearly unlimited travel radius, at about 50 miles in all directions. That was why Tracey used a second Portkey back to England: we'd never have made it otherwise.

I picked out the Lodge on the map and set it as destination by pressing on the small golden glow. There's always a nominal wait time of ten seconds, and this was no different. I took one last look around the alley, still deserted as before, and heard the singing, though not as bawdy as before. And then, when my count reached ten, there was a fierce navel-pulling tug through time and space itself, and in a flash, I found myself in a crumpled heap atop a grassy knoll. Not fifteen feet from me was a small Chinese-styled home at the bottom of the small hill. I looked around, finding myself in an enclosed space, the house fenced off from the rest of the city. It didn't look much like a Lodge, but they've always been deceiving.

I got up, dusted my robes off, and headed to the door. I rapped twice, paused, and knocked thrice more. A voice came through the door:

"Password?" It was not Asian-accented, oddly enough. The voice sounded entirely British, which knocked me off my concentration for the slightest moment, and caused me to answer in a rush:

"Death is whimsical today," I replied.

A short pause followed. Then the door slid open, revealing a man that looks like he belongs on a 19th-century archaeological dig than in a Lodge, with his monocle and adventure-wear and handlebar moustache. The man bid me enter:

"It is always nice to see a fellow traveler of the path!" He exclaimed jovially and slapped me on the back a little too hard for my liking. "Ah, but where are my manners! I am Sir Basil Farnsworth!"

"Sir Farnsworth?" I asked, incredulous. That was enough to surprise me, for the fact that Basil is a well-noted magical political scientist, analyst for the British government, and all-around mental case. If anyone reeked M.I.7., it was this crackpot: "What brings you to Shangri-La, friend? I don't recall receiving any jobs here. It's very rare for things to go wrong in this city, you know?"

"Really?" I questioned with an arched eyebrow. Hozhen made magical China sound like something out of an Orwellian night terror, so I'm not quick to believe everything's entirely kosher, despite what the happy barbershop quartet may have indicated.

"Oh, of course, it's not like things are perfect all around," said the man, gesticulating wildly, "but everyone knows that Shangri-La is a sacred space. You do not bring your fight here."

"Tell that to the people I'm hunting," I drawled.

"Escapees?"

"They weren't even the original targets," I answered. "Original one was a Dark Lord. Who is dead. They escaped with an artifact I was to recover. And I'm not letting them get away with it. Even if I have to 'bring my fight' into Shangri-La."

Basil looked blankly at me for a moment. Then he bursted out laughing, which, unsurprisingly, was a booming basso. "Well, why didn't you say so, boy? Let's get you fed and then get to work!"

"What? No, no, nonononono, I don't need anything to eat and I work alone," I protested ineffectually as my stomach growled.

"Believe you me," said the elder man. "You're going to want food, and you're going to want my help if you plan on getting anything done in this city!"

I must confess, I have weakness for authentic Chinese food, so you'd give me a pass if I found myself distracted by the veritable feast Basil laid at my feet close to an hour later.

All Lodges employed House Elves of the highest quality for meals, but this was something else entirely. And having had nothing but Hozhen's slop for the past fortnight, you'd excuse me for not standing on ceremony. I ate to my heart's content and not even Sir Farnsworth's staring could stop me from savoring a meal of this caliber. For his part, he waited politely until I was ready to converse before speaking his mind:

"So," he began conversationally. "Do you prefer brandy or would you care for something more local? Something tells me we'll need a lot of alcohol for your story."

"Rye, if you have it. If not, brandy will suit fine."

"Brandy it is," said the scientist. "Follow me."

The elder man's knees popped as he stood up from the small table. Having eaten sufficiently for the first time in weeks, my mind snapped into 'observation-mode', a state of mind that I'd been working overtime recently. It was, however, still effective enough that I could see the odd discrepancies of this particular Lodge: it was small, far smaller than any Lodge I'd seen in the past; it was nearly empty, and Basil himself was no permanent fixture, having to be within Britain for most months out of the year.

You see, Ginny always told me that there was the five Ws of writing, and they were doubly important for a journalist such as herself. Anyone who's been to primary knows it's 'Who, what, where, when, and why", but I let her believe she was teaching me something novel because there's so little in the way of chances for her to do that.

Ginny (and by extension, my Grade 4 Writing professor, Miss Dancy) said that the 'Why' is what your piece of writing most hinges upon, it's the meat of your dialectic. The rest of it is bullshit. I knew the bullshit, but I didn't know the why as to Farnsworth's visit, I needed to figure out his 'why' before he found out mine. Sure, I had the advantage of being anonymous at this point, but Farnsworth is a genius, and I am merely smart; that advantage could turn sour in moments. You might call me paranoid, but being a mercenary suddenly dropped into a world of spooks, paranoia is good for the soul.

Basil eventually led me to a sliding door, which opened to reveal a wooden staircase that led us down to a lounge far more Western than I had expected. Of course. One must keep up appearances whilst allowing for more familiar comforts down below.

The professor conjured up a two glasses and a bottle of brandy with little more than a wave of the hand. "Here," he said as he poured the amber liquid into one glass. I took the proffered drink and sipped at it, as I assumed was etiquette. I'm not particularly keen on getting drunk on sips, something about retreating into savagery with civilized measures seems woefully lacking in self-awareness, but I manage to persevere.

For his part, the professor waved at a comfortable-looking leather couch not ten feet from us and bid me sit. He puttered around the room, heading toward a desk with a lock on a drawer and poked a finger at it. The lock seemed to fall apart and the drawer opened of its own accord. He reached in and pulled out a medium-sized rectangular box.

"Cigar?" He asked as he opened the box and wagged the ten cigars within it under my nose.

"I'll take one," I replied, snagging one of the large brown rolls.

Farnsworth laughed. "Good man!" He exclaimed and sat down next to me. We both set about clipping and lighting, myself by wand, him by hand. It was interesting to not how little the man relied on a wand, in fact I didn't see it anywhere on his body. He seemed to be preternaturally skilled at wandless magic. When all was said and done, the professor gave me a kindly smile and spoke again: "Now then, lad, why don't you tell me exactly how you found yourself in Shangri-La?"

May 5, 2005

"Wait a minute," says the brown-haired man. He takes a long sip of his Manhattan, the dry vermouth of which blends in with the scotch of my Rusty Nail and the whole table is awash with the acrid scent of alcohol. His wife looks on in mild disgust at our devotion to Satan's Juice, but that hardly changes anything, we are still drinking after all.

William Granger looks rather dapper in his suit and exudes class with the martini in hand. And he should; after all, Mr. Granger is a man who's made a modest fortune for himself and loves to front the affectation of having a vast one to play with. Say what you will, it works: I feel a pauper compared to the man (though I've just burdened my pockets with about twelve-thousand galleons) in a considerably cheaper suit.

To Bill's left sits his wife, Helen. And absent from this odd outing is the daughter Granger, off in court defending some poor man against a Wizengamot plaintiff. This was originally supposed to be one of our golf outings followed with lunch, but it turned to just-lunch at a semi-swanky restaurant. I've always been more comfortable at your run-of-the-mill dives and pubs, but apparently the Grangers are in good with the owner and I get a free meal with a side of odd looks from the psuedo-noveau riche, though I suspect that has more to do with being a cyclops than being uncomfortable.

"Wait a minute," he says again. "You had drinks and cigars with a political scientist in a Chinese outpost for the magical M.I.6. and then told him how you ended up in China? Forgive me for being cynical, Harry, but that sounds like bullshit."

"William!" Chides Helen with a scandalized look in her eyes. William gives me a 'Do you see the kind of shit I put up with?' sort of exasperated smile and apologizes in an unapologetic tone to his wife.

Now I know where Hermione gets it from.

"Bullshit, horseshit, whatever shit it sounds like," I say, "that's the way it went."

"Alright then," says Mr. Granger, "so what happened ne—?"

"Sorry! Sorry!" Interrupts another voice, all three of us look up to see Hermione strolling toward us at a surprisingly rapid pace for the high heels she wears. "Mum, Daddy, sorry I'm late. The hearing went overlong—I won, of course—but I tried—Harry? What are you doing here?"

I down the rest of my drink in a gulp and signal a waiter for a refill. "I could ask you the same question, Herms." I turn to Mr. and Mrs. Granger. "Not that I'm dismayed by Hermione's joining us, but I thought this was all unplanned. Was I wrong?"

William shoots me his best Private Pyle stare as Helen does the typical mother-fawns-over-child act on Herms. "Oh, my little Squirrel, you look so beautiful!" She smooths out the jacket of Hermione's business suit and picks an imaginary piece of lint from her daughter's smooth hair, but what interests me is her nickname for dear, sweet Hermione and said woman's fearful glance at me. With a shark-toothed smile, I mouth 'Squirrel?' and Hermione winces.

Oh, I'm not letting that go.

Helen continues to compliment Hermione's turn in fashion, which only serves to dampen the mood because everyone with a brain knows that Hermione doesn't want people complimenting Tracey's buys. Hermione grumbles aloud somewhat, which surprises me. I suppose that not having parents, however, it strikes me odd when children that do are so cavalier with their displeasure for them. But, then again, I suppose I'd do the same had mum and dad lived, if not more.

What? You don't think so? Come on, my mother sacrificed her life and confined me to the home of an unremitting cunt for seventeen years, a fate worse than Camp Delta torture, than allow Voldemort to off me, she was bound to be a helicopter parent.

After all is said and done, Hermione takes a seat. "I'm glad that we're all together, Squirrel," I studiously avoid Hermione's murderous glare and address her parents. "But I get the feeling you two are working toward something. So you may as well out with it before we continue with my adventures through China."

"You're telling them about that, too?" Asks Hermione.

"Yes," I answer. "Do you mind hearing it again?"

"Once was enough," is her quick reply, "but I can suppose I can muster a second hearing."

"In a moment," says William. "We do have to talk to you about something else."

Hermione and I exchange glances. "Talk away," she says.

It's the parents' turn to exchange glances. "Now that you're raising a child together," begins Helen, seeming to choose her words carefully. "We have some ground rules to lay for you two."

This is met with a duet of groans.

"We're looking after a child," I correct. "We are not raising one together. And to allay any of your fears, we're not shagging either."

"Harry!" Shouts Hermione in admonishment. William merely looks amused as the waiter returns with my cocktail:

"Really? You two do carry on like a couple."

Hermione blanches. "Ugh! Father! Harry's like my brother!"

"You don't have a brother, Hermione," responds her father, "you don't know what it's like."

"That's besides the point," I counter. "You needn't worry as I'm as attracted to Hermione as I am coconuts. She's terribly unerotic."

"Unerotic?" Squeaks Hermione, suddenly oblivious to her parents' presence. "Just because I choose not to dress like a whor—?"

"Have you looked at your clothes lately?" I cut across before Hermione can finish, and she withdraws with a deep red blush. "Besides: spike nails, Squirrel, spike nails."

The brunette's blush deepens in embarrassment, but she immediately covers it with a scowl. "Unerotic! I'll have you know I'm plenty erotic!"

"Shouldn't shout that from the rooftops there, Herms," I grin as Hermione realizes how loud she's being and throws an apologetic look to her suitably mortified parents. "And I don't think you are," I continue, "you'd have to prove it to me."

Hermione growls lightly, but the banter has turned playful at this point, more to make the Grangers even more uncomfortable than to really trade insults. "Any time," she replies, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "You come to my room and just ask. I will turn your world upside-down."

"Is that a promise?" I return lowly, with a hint of husky. Truthfully, I'm proud of Hermione; she's always so uptight, unwilling to revel in the smallest sort of merrymaking, that it makes me inconceivably happy to see her having fun at the expense of her parents, of all people. It's another sign of just how truly and deeply her companionship with horrible, horrible people such as Ron and I has influenced her and it's wonderful.

"No," says the brunette, crushing my non-existent hopes. "I prefer men with aim."

Ouch.

I tap my eyepatch. "Low blow, Herms. Low blow."

"Oh, you thought I was talking about your eye, did you?" It's the brunette's turn to grin. "Ginny has loose lips."

Now that's just mean. And what the bloody hell does Ginny mean I have bad aim? She's the one that flops like a dying fish every time we shag. And it's literally impossible to miss her, like shooting a watergun into an empty airport terminal, if you know what I mean. Loose fucking lips, indeed! Bad aim? Fucking hell, I might just have to shag Hermione to prove her wrong.

"She has more than one set of them," I reply quickly. "You should ask her why sometime."

"You know what?" Starts Mr. Granger loudly over Hermione's scandalized expression. "How about we do not talk about this and lets us return to Harry's story."

"Yes. Let's," I reply and continue on with Shangri-La.

February 14, 2005

I gave Farnsworth a heavily-edited version of the trials and tribulations of Hozhen's lair. I only vaguely mentioned the Blood Mages, but the elder man's eyes alighted at the mention of 'Chamberlaine':

"It seems," he said then, "that our interests run parallel at this moment."

"How so?" I asked, hoping I sounded earnest rather than suspicious.

"Walk with me," the professor ordered cryptically. He left his brandy and cigar and walked back the way he came. Finding out that I was not a fan of brandy, I left it behind, but being a big fan of tobacco, I kept the cigar. Farnsworth kept walking out the sliding doors and past the fenced area of the Lodge I'd apparated into. Soon we were back out onto the streets for an afternoon stroll, past crowds of men, goblins, dwarves, you name it, to the greatest place in the world:

A brothel!

And a pub as well, but mostly a brothel. It was a surprisingly classy place by the long river, the sort of digs with a large circular pub on the first floor and two curving staircases on either side of the pub heading to a second floor lined with doors and beautiful women fanning themselves and doing whatever else it is that hookers do in their free time.

Now, it'd be wrong of me to assume that Farnsworth had no sexual drive, but I had expected him to satiate it on his own time. That he brought me here was surprising, to say the least.

"Now, I know it's been a while, but I didn't exactly come all this way to get my rocks off," I drawled as we headed toward the bar, owned and operated by a middle-aged man with a slicked handlebar moustache. "Bourbon, neat," I said to the bartender.

"Didn't you?" Asked the Professor with a note of surprise as an old-fashioned glass was slapped in front of me and filled with a thimble-full of amber liquid. With a smile, he then continued. "We're not here to get 'our rocks off', as you say, but to speak to several acquaintances of mine. Acquaintances that are familiar with this 'Chamberlaine'. It just so happens that I myself have questions concerning this man."

"Questions?" I repeated dully.

Farnsworth slowly nodded. "Questions that started small and have grown quite large thanks to your dealings with Hozhen and Blood Mages. I shudder to think what a man with as much secrecy shrouded around him as this man might do with the Lance."

"The Lance?" I found myself repeating him a lot.

"You didn't think I was completely out of the know, did you, Mister Potter? I knew about the excursion to Siberia, and having heard that the others had made it safely back to England with the exception of a monosighted Harry Potter, you'd forgive me for being suspicious of the brown-haired, one-eyed man at my door."

"I suppose so," I replied, and a part of me was glad to be done with the farce, but I'd still have to be wary until I knew that Basil was absolutely trustworthy. "But now that that's out of the way, to who do you want me to speak with?"

"A sea captain by the name of Henry Bellamy is currently stuck at port. From what I've been briefed with, he has met with the governor of this city and Chamberlaine when his ship was impounded until a full inspection of the it has been conducted."

"Do I really want to know why it was impounded?"

"Suspected piracy."

"Suspected, attempted, or successful and now extremely unsuccessful?"

Farnsworth merely looked back for a short moment before replying: "Yes."

We hung around the bar for several minutes. I sat and drank whilst Basil stood and seemingly stared off into space. After refilling twice, Basil suddenly hopped once or twice in the most awkward manner I've ever seen from a man and shook my shoulder vigorously.

I was merely happy to reintroduce myself to alcohol, and not entirely too happy to broken from my tearful reunion. "Yes?" I intoned with more than just a hint of annoyance.

"There he is! There he is!" Basil rudely pointed at a man just walking into the brothel with shoulder-length black hair and tired, light brown eyes. His face wasn't old enough to have that stringy, aged look most men acquire in middle age, but the beginnings of frown lines and crows feet speckled the corners of his mouth and eyes. A short beard, more scruff than anything else, sprouted from his cheeks. It didn't look particularly well-groomed or cared for, meaning he hadn't had much chance to bathe or look into a mirror since his ship was impounded.

I knocked back the drink and turn to Farnsworth. "So, how do we tackle this? Quietly spirit him away and beat it out of him?"

"You are a terribly unsubtle man, do you know that, Mr. Potter?"

"I prefer honest to unsubtle."

The professor shook his head. "Call it what you may, but we're going to be dishonest. You will go to him and pretend as though you're looking for work on a ship. When he tells you his ship is impounded, remain insistent. He'll eventually bid you come with him and I will take care of the rest."

I may be many things, but cowardly is not one of them and stupid is. So I agreed and turned to the bartender, asking for an entire bottle of Scotch, which I find amazing that this brothel even manages to keep anything but baijiu stocked. But I stamped my surprise down and headed for the table where Bellamy sat in solitary watch over this den of drunkards and perverts.

"Mind if I sit there, friend?" I said in my most convincing Midwestern-American accent. "You look a little bored."

Bellamy chuckled softly. "You could say that again, mate," he then looked me over once, finally coming to rest on the unopened bottle of whiskey and kicked out a chair. "You're welcome to sit if I'm welcome to share."

It was my turn to laugh. "Wouldn't have it any other way." As I sat down, I noticed Farnsworth leave the brothel out of the corner of my eye.

We sat and drank for close to for forty-five minutes, shooting the shit, talking both Quidditch and Football. Turned out our man Bellamy was a Leeds supporter in football, to which I expressed my condolences. I know the feel, being Crystal Palace supporter, but I pretended to be a Chelsea man, because what American in their right mind would support Crystal Palace?

I'm sure I'm boring you with all my talk of football, so I'll get to the point.

Eventually, I decided it was time to get serious, now that I had buttered the man up a little bit.

"Now," I said, leaning in. It was better to be direct than wait on Farnsworth to come up with a more profitable plan. Seeing as Chamberlaine seemed to be associated with the governor of Shangri-La, I assumed a pirate such as Bellamy would hold no love for the man and give up his location easily. A gamble, to be sure, but the alternatives seemed far too tedious. "I've heard you met with the governor."

Bellamy froze, and then looked at me carefully. "And why would a drinking buddy care about that?"

"The man took something of mine," I said simply.

"Sure," replied the pirate with a boyish grin on his face. "I see that you need to meet with Chamberlaine. I fail to see how I get involved."

"Just how impounded is your ship, Mr. Bellamy?"

The other man took a long drink before replying. "Very."

"What if I said that if you gave me a location, I'd give you the time to free that ship of yours?"

"I'd call you mad," snorted the pirate. "And you'd have to free the ship first. Wouldn't want you backing out on a deal, after all."

"Done," I answered. Farnsworth had let slip the location of Bellamy's ship and a run-down of the men guarding it. I could have the dry dock it had been steered into cleaned out by the next morning. "I can get you that ship free by midnight. On the other hand, you'll have to be gone before dawn. Don't want to alert any guards to your missing."

"Well," said the man. "Now, I am intrigued."

And that was how I found myself entering a large, three story boathouse under the cover of darkness from a metal grate leading to the sewers. Farnsworth nearly had a conniption when he found I'd changed the rules of the game, but agreed it was a better course of action than the one he would have, which would have involved paid thugs attacking Bellamy and I when I'd charmed him enough that he'd take me to his mates. He then showed me the underground sewers, which could be used to reach almost anywhere in the city, this boathouse being one of the many.

Guards in odd orange robes marched hither and thither whilst the more stolid watchmen sat with their stoic gazes and pursed lips. Thankfully, it was night time, when the guard rotation was at it's lightest, meaning there were around ten guards, 3 per floor for the first two, and four on the top, by my counting.

I'm going to skip the next part because it's violent, bloody, and may change your opinion of me forever, Mr. Granger.

May 5, 2005

"Wait," begins Mr. Granger quickly. "You're a Crystal Palace supporter?"

"Well, they hold a special place in my heart, along with Liverpool."

"That's an odd combination," replies the good Doctor, earning exasperated looks from both wife and daughter. "Especially after that embarrassment in 1989."

"My dad was a supporter. You know, Welshman and all," I reply. "I wouldn't call myself a fan, per sé, but I do have a soft spot for them."

"Why Palace, then?"

"My mum was a supporter."

"And he's a hipster," Hermione finishes for me.

"I hate you, you know that?" I say, Hermione just smiles demurely, as sarcastic as humanly possible for her. "Though, it's more about the sport in general. Just like quidditch. I like watching it because the sport is good. Lord knows I didn't get many chances as a child."

Hermione looks at me pityingly because she knows the only time I could watch football were odd weekends when the Dursleys would visit that bitch Marge because I was considered an affront to the sanctity of football by my uncle, a man who couldn't kick a ball around for his life. William, on the other hand, has no idea of the sob story behind my childhood and stares at me with something like a brewing storm in his eyes:

"Besides, who do you want to me to support? In with the pensioners and the Nazi sympathizers at Chelsea?"

"How about Arsenal?"

"Fuck that noise, that's as boring as boring could be."

"Arsenal? Boring?" Repeats Mr. Granger dully, and I realize I have made a terrible mistake.

"Ooh, you're in for it now," says Hermione, rubbing my shoulder in a soothing manner, as though I'm a child who just got whipped by his father and is in need of consoling from his mother.

"Well, I've got to leave real soon, so let's get cracking on this story," I say before Mr. Granger can start.

February 14, 2005

Either way, after a bunch of sneaking and stabbing and whatnot, the boathouse was clear and I sent my patronus to Bellamy. Soon, the man came with a host of other piratey-looking fellows, all unshaven and sorely needing bathing.

"Well I'll be damned," said Bellamy with a low whistle of appreciation. "You managed to free our ship. How'd you find it?"

"I have my sources," I replied as the pirate's crew went aboard.

"And yet they can't give you information about our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Chamberlaine?"

"Apparently not," I said, "the man's a bloody ghost. Don't know his first name, don't know who his allegiances are to, I don't even know if he's a he, all I know is Chamberlaine's here in this city somewhere."

"Aye, I can help there," Bellamy waved me off. "Look, I didn't get to meet Chamberlaine personally, but he did send two underlings to the governor's chambers for my questioning. A sweet little blonde number, green eyes, English accent. And another one, brown hair, grey eyes, goatee, frightening smile."

"That'll be Abbot and Robards," I rubbed my forehead with my fingers. "Those two are a whole other can of worms. So, this means Chamberlaine and the Governor are in tight?"

"Very, from what I gather. Governor Tseng doesn't seem to make a single decision without the okay from Chamberlaine's goons."

Odd, I thought. Why would a Governor take any input from a person with Blood Mages in their employ? "Why does the Governor listen to Chamberlaine? As far as I know, he or she doesn't hold any power in government."

Bellamy shrugged as two of his men passed by with what looked to be a crate of pilfered goods. "What I hear is that it has to do with money. Tseng's been paid off rather extensively by Chamberlaine, and he's been paid a lot of gold for the... second opinion."

"So, the gist of it is Chamberlaine's still in the wind then, and I freed your ship for no reason?" I asked with raised eyebrow.

"Hold on, hold on, I didn't say that," Bellamy backtracked quickly. "I said that I can help there. I didn't personally see the man, but I did see his goons. They have to report back to him at some point during the day. You seem like a clever man, if you get an audience with a governor, or find yourself on his plantation, you could follow those two at day's end back to the evil lair."

"And how do I get myself an audience with the man?"

"That's up to you," said the brown-haired man, "but crime usually works. Bear in mind, you'll be personally facing the goons then."

"Perhaps I'll just find a way to sneak up on them. I don't want to spend too much time in their presence, they're bound to recognize me," I smiled. "Our pact is honored. You're free to go."

Bellamy smiled and turned away from me, freezing when I spoke again:

"Unless, you want to make yourself some gold?" I shrugged with a smile when the pirate turned back. See? We were two of a kind, Bellamy and I: money's always the bottom line. "You did say Chamberlaine may have paid off the Governor rather extensively."

"Oh, you cheeky bastard," remarked the pirate. "You want me to help you determine if there's more to that fortune."

"You caught me," I drawled.

The pirate stalked off to two other men, people I assumed were his first mate and quartermaster. But I couldn't be sure, this is the 21st century, after all, and I don't know what the standard designation for pirate crews are because there really are so few of them these days. And the Somalis don't count. So I stood there feeling half like an eighteenth century criminal and half like a high-powered broker. And even more so like a whore left high-and-dry until Bellamy returned with his mates:

"Alright mate," he said. "Let's hear your plan."

May 5, 2005

Lunch eventually turns to drinks at a bar across London, where Mr. Granger and I continue our race to jaundice. Helen had turned down the offer in favor of returning to the Grangers' dental practice to file some paperwork. For some reason, Hermione decided to come along and she sits next to us, absentmindedly stirring her Long Island Ice Tea. William continues to suck down Manhattans and I switch to an Old Fashioned, hoping for something a bit smoother than what I drank last.

"Pirates, you say?" William shakes his head. "You people live in a strange, strange world."

Hermione sighs loudly. "You can say that again."

"I'm sensing a story coming along, Miss Granger," I drawl, giving Hermione the floor.

"Well," starts Hermione, looking slightly flushed. Either she's already drunk or she wasn't expecting me to care about what's been going on with her. "I've been writing a proposal."

"A proposal?" Questions William, arching an eyebrow in the same manner I'm so used to seeing Hermione do.

"Oh, it's... it's..." Hermione's expression contorts to something resembling complete and utter exasperation. "Oh, the Ministry is so utterly backwards!"

"Yes, go on, vent about something we've known for twelve years," I deadpan, earning one of Hermione's shoulder-smacks and an irate look from her father. I had forgotten, Hermione is William Granger's princess, and he will go to hell and back to make his princess happy:

"Kindly shut your mouth, Potter," he says in a manner I consider to be quite rude (though my offended expression is ignored by both Grangers), and then turns to Hermione and continues more softly: "You were saying, Hermione?"

"Oh. I'm working on a proposal, and it isn't going very well, daddy."

"A proposal?" I interrupt. "I thought you stopped working on those once you left Magical Creatures."

"I'm trying to draft up a Europe-wide prison reconstruction bill," Hermione sighs. "Bad enough that Azkaban is the way it is, but every prison on the continent? Sure, some may not have used Dementors but they're all still in terrible shape. It's barbaric. We need better facilities, even for the condemned."

"I'm assuming you're getting push-back?" William asks.

"Like you wouldn't believe," replies Hermione. "My boss says that I shouldn't be drafting anything to begin with, as I am not a lawmaker; Kingsley thinks it's a splendid idea but he won't do anything to pick it up because 'politics' and 'many people believe our prisoners should be suffering'. It's not like I'm asking for a penthouse suite for every inmate, but they could use a shower every once in a while."

I squint through my one good eye. "Kingsley, you say?"

"Yes, Kingsley," snarks Hermione in a surprisingly Ron-esque manner. "You know, tall, bald, former Auror, current Minister of Magic? Yeah, him."

"No need to be sarcastic, it's unbecoming of you, especially because I'm offering you help."

Hermione narrows her eyes. "How?" She asks.

"That's for me to know, and for you to not bother caring about," I answer. "Let's just say I did Kingsley a huge solid and he owes me an equally huge favor. Next time you wanna go talk to our esteemed Minister about 'politics' and criminal housing, bring me along. I'll have him on his knees begging you for reforms."

Hermione, William, and I exchange glances. Hermione's is, surprise, concerned; she must be wondering what exactly it is that I have done for Kingsley to make the man feel like he owes me such a favor. But before she can ask, I check my watch and feign alarm at the time.

"Cor, Jesus!" I exclaim aloud. "I'm late for a very important meeting. You two enjoy your father-daughter bonding time," I speak to William, then Hermione: "I'll finish up the story next we meet and I'll see you at home, Herms."

I finish off our extended lunch-and-drinks with a handshake for Bill and a kiss on the forehead for Hermione and then trot for the doors of this fine, fine establishment.

"Hullo, Mrs. Malfoy," I greet somberly as I cross the threshold of the cold Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa Malfoy, still beautiful as ever, regards me with something approaching pleased surprise. But, then again, I suppose we life-debtors do have a way making those we owe our lives to quite happy. She and I have never become friends in the post-Voldemort era, but Narcissa did save my life and I did save her son's life, so we've always been on good terms. We'll probably never watch a quidditch match together, but I've had some rather enlightening conversations with her at parties and Ministry functions Hermione would drag Ron and I to.

"Mr. Potter, it's a surprise, but a good one, I've been looking forward to receiving you again for quite some time," she says, ever the diplomatic Slytherin. "I see you've been... adventuring since last we met. Scrapes aside, you do look well, however."

I'm getting really sick of the eyepatch references now, but I must keep up appearances. "Ah, yes. Occupational hazard," I reply politely. "Mal—Draco said he had something for me. Is he around?"

Mrs. Malfoy smiles wryly and shrugs as she lets me into the house. "Where else does he go? He should be in his office. He's speaking with another client. Would you like a drink? Water? Alcohol?"

"Water's fine. And his office? Gettin' real official for the world's most unofficial job, innit?" I deadpan as we pass a hauntingly familiar room in which all sorts of horors were inflicted during the war; Mrs. Malfoy doesn't laugh at the joke but her smile widens, because Malfoys are apparently incapable of laughing, or they all have severely retarded senses of humor. Either way, despite being the literal definition of eye candy, the woman is utterly dull company.

Then again, I wouldn't say her son is much better. He doesn't even have the looks.

"Perhaps," Narcissa agrees with my earlier jab as we sit at the overlarge dining room table, "but he and his father are one of a kind: it's official, or it's just plain off. It works for us; not everyone can be as hardy and adventurous as you."

I suspect that's a backhanded compliment. Which I'm not entirely surprised at: Narcissa Malfoy may have saved my life once, but that makes her no less of a bitch than she's always been. Her flattery has always been poisonous; wrap up an insult in a carriage of compliments and no one will say anything to you. I would respond, but I do need Draco's help, and despite the many claims I've made of his poor temper, snobbery, and all-around soullessness, the man does love his mum. Instead, however, I respond in kind, an insult wrapped in a compliment:

"Of course. There are many kinds of people in the world, and they accomplish many things, whether they're those born hardy and adventurous, after the entire world, or those who are born, struggle, and die in their small little corners, eh?"

Narcissa surprises me with a slight chuckle this time. "Ah I see. Miss Granger's the brain, but you're the wit, aren't you?"

"Ah, no, that's Ron," I reply with an air false modesty. "Me? I'm just a slightly clever show-horse."

A voice from the floor above interrupts our odd conversation. "I'm ready, Potter! Come on up!"

"But that's the best kind of show-horse," Narcissa says pleasantly as if she hasn't heard her son at all, but there's something predatory in her gaze. Her hand comes up to my right arm and she drapes hers over mine. I look up to find a very coquettish smile on her face. "You shouldn't be a stranger. People like us have to stick together," she strokes my arm lightly several times and then lets me go.

Needless to say, I'm more than confused.

When I reach Draco's office, a surprisingly austere (for a Malfoy) room of dark marble and equally dark walls with its few decorations being naval-oriented in nature, I relay my meeting with his mother in rushed fashion to my former schoolboy enemy. "Oi, Malfoy, I think your mother just made a pass at me. It was weird."

"Yes, yes, she's been doing that lately," Draco replies severely, running a hand through his over-pomaded hair in what I can only assume is an attempt to look like an even bigger twat than he already is. "I think it's because she misses my father."

"Not a good reason to jump into the sack with a man twenty years her junior," I counter, incredulity straining my tone.

"So?" Malfoy shrugs, the literal epitome of uncaring. "Maybe she wants a shag. Give it to her if you want, I don't care; do you want this information or not?"

"Sure I want the information," I begin, "but you wouldn't care if some random bloke shagged your still-married mother?"

Malfoy shrugs once more. "Man, woman, or dragon, it's her life. She's an adult."

"So if I went down there after getting this file, propositioned her, and then shagged your mum, you wouldn't care?"

"Of course not," Malfoy replies, as if this topic is stupid and merits no discussion. "I'd warn a nimrod like you against it, however; I've heard my mother is notoriously hard to please."

Never mind my conversation with Narcissa, I actually think this might take the cake for the strangest conversation I've ever had.

"Is this—is this a Pureblood thing?" I question, utterly behooved at Malfoy's cavalier attitude toward his mother's sex life. God knows if my mother was propositioning former classmates of mine whilst my father was rotting for life in Azkaban, I'd have a heart attack.

"Is what a Pureblood thing? What is so bloody special about this? Leave it and let's talk business."

"Alright, we can do that, but let me just say that I think your attitude towards this whole thing is a little too calm."

"Great. It's too calm. Whatever. Now I've been looking into this Chamberlaine bloke of yours, and this guy's something else entirely."

Draco's mum forgotten, I take a seat across from his desk. "Something else? How so?"

"He leads a pretty secretive outfit. I've been trying to trace it out from his zero point, and Merlin, their pockets run deep." Draco starts and pulls out a manila folder from one of his desk drawers. "Think the Blood Mages and Shangri-La was the extent of his power? I've found relations all over the East: the Chinese, Russians, Indians, Romanians, you name it, they're there."

"Jesus," I reply appropriately, sifting through page after page of connections, from newspaper clippings to hostile takeovers, to even certain government actions. "Robards and the Blood Mages are just the tip of the iceberg."

Draco snorts. "You do have a knack for understatement, Potter. They call themselves 'The Prophets', and at the head of it is this man no one has ever seen. A real ghost. I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but take it from someone who has had experience in this area, you should get out before it's too deep."

I respond in kind with a similar snort. "Aw, you do care. Thanks for the concern, Malfoy, but I'll be fine. You mind if I stay around the manor for a few minutes, just to get the logistics of this down? If I do it back at home, Hermione's bound to be breathing down my neck."

"That woman is too bloody nosy for her own good," Malfoy shakes his head. "Fine. There's another office down the hallway. I'll have my mother bring you some coffee if you need it."

"Yeah, sure," I reply, already heading out the door and not really listening.

An hour-and-a-half later, my head hurts from converting all the data into possible motives of 'The Prophets'. How bloody ominous.

There's too much going on here and I barely get any of it. Bank accounts, connections, possible allies and enemies. The gist of it is that this sounds like a deep network in the East. Why then, would they care about an old relic that can control some people? They've already got enough control to the East. Questions, questions. I'll need to get this to Boris as quick as possible, who knows what might happen now that Robards and Hannah know I'm after them?

"Mr. Potter?" Interrupts a voice; I look up to see Mrs. Malfoy looking back at me. "Draco tells me you wanted coffee?" I look back down at the immense paperwork, back at Mrs. Malfoy, and remember Draco's words. He did say she's an adult. A slow smile curves across my lips:

"Is that offer for alcohol still available?"

Narcissa arches an eyebrow and looks vaguely amused. "Maybe. Follow me, Harry."

Several hours later, I find myself in the Lodge, staring off into space with the manila folder in hand and grin on face.

"You're looking chipper today," Tracey says brightly, breaking me from my reverie. "Or, at least less dour and sour than usual? Care to share?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I just discovered I'm a man today," I reply, lounging back in my chair.

Tracey's grin is Cheshire-like. "Twenty-four years old?"

"Yeah."

"Almost twenty-five?"

"Yeah."

"Took you this long to find out you have a penis?"

"Yea—wait, what?"

Her laugh is tinkling. "Come on, Boris is waiting for us."

Boris sits behind his desk, reminding me starkly of an older Draco, and raises both eyebrows when I slap Malfoy's file onto his desk. "Take a look at this," I say, stepping back and crossing my arms.

"And what's this?" Boris returns. He's since dropped his ridiculous Russian accent and an unplaceable Londoner drawl is left in its wake.

"Our friend Chamberlaine is a busy man," I say. "These are connections, bank accounts, and possible motives for his group's actions."

"That's fine," replies Boris. "I'll take care of this. Don't worry about Chamberlaine or The Prophets; we'll add your findings to Farnsworth's from China. In the meanwhile, Tracey will be leading you to our Ministry Headquarters."

"Wait, so that's it? Nothing else?"

Boris smiles. "Oh, I'm sure there'll be something soon enough, but you remember our conversation when you got back, right?"

Gritting my teeth, I nod.

"Good," Boris returns. "You're not a wand-for-hire anymore, you're salaried now, so you'll have more responsibilities as well. Welcome to M.I.7., Mr. Potter, now get out of my office."

Before I can protest, Tracey grabs me by the arm and drags me out of Boris's office, drags me out of the Lodge and portkeys us both without even warning me first. Have I ever told you how much I detest portkeys? I hit the deck rather unceremoniously of wherever we've portkeyed, but any complaint is ripped from my throat when I see where we're at. Wizards and witches, all in a state of tense readiness scurry about from typewriters and desks, files and folders in hand as far as the eye can see. An odd hum rings around the office, reminding me vaguely of a very old computer. This place is filled with information and the very air of it seems laden with secrets. I now know I'm at center of Magical Britain's beating heart, a place more unspeakable than the department of mysteries: it's the magical Circus, a spy agency hidden god-knows-where. I look back at Tracey and she regards me with something like a grin.

"You like?" A man's voice interrupts. I look up to see a middle-aged man staring back at me with a veritable mountain of files. "Boris told us you'd be coming and the Minister himself vouched for your loyalty. Congratualations, I'm your new boss. Now take these and get decoding."

He drops the files he's carrying into my hands and starts to walk away.

"Does my new boss have a name?" I call after him. The man turns back with a slight smirk on his lips:

"You're a spy now. None of us have names," and then he's off, leaving me with an armload of files and no directions.

"His name's John Greenwich, he's just having fun with you," says Tracey.

"That's great, but what the hell am I supposed to do with these?" I ask her, indicating the files.

"Come with me, I'll show you what to do," says the brunette. "Look at you, a regular James Bond. How's it feel?" She asks, once we reach two desks, one of which is laid out for Tracey and the other for myself.

"Surprisingly not shitty."

"Good. Let's get to work, then."

A/N: Are you confused? I hope not. China will be finished next chapter, and it will explain just how Harry got roped into working for the M.I.7. and not just with them, Draco, and why Kingsley owes him a favor (though some of you might already be able to guess). I thought this chapter might feature her, but unfortunately Luna's been pushed back to next chapter. Next chapter involves a lot Potter-Cunningham bonding, Potter-Davis badassery, and, as ever, Weasley-Granger bickering.

Chapter Notes:

The Malfoys: I don't know if JKR ever elaborated on what happened to the Malfoys beyond Draco having a son and being at King's Cross in the epilogue, but I'd assume Lucius would probably get life for everything he'd been involved with for Voldemort. Narcissa would likely have gotten leniency for saving Harry's life and Draco would escape punishment as well for being attached to his mother. So, that's how it is: Draco and Narcissa are free, but Lucius is in Azkaban.

Hermione's Proposal: I think Hermione would've grown up from fighting for lost causes like House Elf freedom (though she'd likely still believe in it), and channel it into more practical pursuits, such as improving prisons and criminal trials.

Not a lot of Ron in these past few chapters. This will continue for a couple more chapters before the dynamic duo is reunited in a big way.

The "hauntingly familiar" room in Malfoy Manor that Harry mentions is the one Hermione was tortured in.

Did Harry just have a drink with Mrs. Malfoy? Assume away.

In that vein, there was a lot of alcohol in this chapter. I don't know if that's my subconscious telling me I really want a drink or all the characters are just natural alcoholics.

P.S. Did anyone expect Harry to be a Crystal Palace supporter? The Wales-Liverpool connection is a joke that all the Welsh support either United or Liverpool instead of the local clubs.

Thanks for reading!

Edited: Added dates for ease of reading.