Chapter 125 – The First Wave Forms
The first month of classes flew by. As much fun as most of the students had with the unusual experience of staying at Hogwarts over the summer, the return to the familiar routine of classes, house rivalries, and Quidditch tryouts, among other things, was more welcome than most students would have guessed, even if it did include attending classes and doing assignments.
Harry settled into a routine that was not too dissimilar to the way the prior school year ended. He was enjoying his classes, even Potions, now that most of the awkwardness surrounding his relationship with the Professor was no longer an issue. There were no comments about his status as Professor Snape's bondmate, especially now that Draco was no longer leading the Slytherins in tormenting and baiting Gryffindors.
Ron had suggested that this new acceptance might more directly be attributed to Harry's status as King of the Wizarding World. Harry was reasonably sure that there was no venom behind that observation, but with Ron, there was always a thread of jealousy waiting to trip you up. He just shrugged at the observation and changed the subject, hoping against hope that it wasn't true, anyway.
Harry privately concluded that the best part of settling into a routine this year was Severus' decision that it was time for him and Harry to resume their fencing lessons. Harry had enjoyed them last year – they seemed like good exercise, and there was a sort of elegant dash to the whole thing. He enjoyed the close attention Severus always paid to him during their lessons, as well. It was almost like dancing, but this year with a greater urgency.
Severus wasn't entirely sure that he understood what made him conclude that he must begin these lessons again. His initial interest in teaching Harry how to duel was spurred by his own selfish desire to have some reason to touch the young man. Now, they not only slept in the same bed, but were sharing an active sexual relationship that involved frequent and significantly more intimate touching than was part of a fencing lesson. But, for some reason, he felt very compelled to resume the lessons.
Something that was just between the two of them came to more public attention a couple of weeks into the school year. Hermione had tried to schedule a study session for Thursday afternoons, and was surprised that Harry said he wasn't available. She confronted him as the group at the Gryffindor table was finishing supper one evening.
"There are no classes that afternoon, and Quidditch practice won't begin for another couple of weeks, Harry. This is a good chance to get ahead on some of the work in a couple of classes, and it's really important for you to make the time for this," she nagged, ever so gently. She'd already browbeaten Ron and the likely members of the Gryffindor House Team to participate, and Draco had joined in with a few Slytherins, so Harry's nonparticipation was a thorn in her side.
"I'm not skiving off, Mione. Really. Severus has scheduled my fencing lessons at that time. He feels this is something I need to learn, and that's when he has an opening in his schedule. We agreed that we would have those lessons then."
Harry wasn't prepared for the very negative reaction that statement got.
"Turning you into quite the Slytherin, isn't he" Ron observed with a look of distaste on his face, although he added "No offense" when he realized that Draco was sitting next to him. Neville didn't say anything, but the expression on his face suggested he agreed with Ron.
Hermione saw the hurt in Harry's eyes, although he'd been careful to keep any reaction from his face. She was puzzled, as she suspected they all were, with why the Professor thought Harry needed to learn to fence. Fencing, dueling, was a blood sport, a vestige of the old pure-blood culture, all very un-Harry-like, she would have thought. But unlike Ron, she wasn't going to denigrate the whole thing with a crack about turning Harry into a Slytherin. There must be some reason Harry was learning to fence.
"Well, I suppose the activity is good exercise," Hermione offered tentatively. "Probably improves posture, agility, things like that."
Draco stepped in, more to answer Ron's slur at Slytherin than to defend Harry, but he had to agree with Hermione. "No one fences the way they once did. Go back twenty, thirty years or more, fencing and dueling were huge. Every House at Hogwarts had a dueling club, and almost every pure blood who came here had learned how to fence at home. Hasn't been that way in years because no one is interested anymore. The people I know who do take fencing lessons, or who practice regularly, actually do it for the exercise. It's really quite a demanding sport, mentally as well as physically."
Draco was the only one at the table who'd had any real experience with fencing, as he'd been taking private lessons at home since he was five. He even took lessons after he'd started at Hogwarts, when he was home for the summers. He was rather confident that his observation that fencing involved mental effort effectively assured that none of the others were ever going to be anxious to take it up. Ron gave Draco a funny look and stood up to get back to his common room. Neville, who'd had a fencing lesson or two as a child and had no aptitude at all for the sport, nodded at Draco and walked off with Ron.
Harry smiled at Hermione and Draco. "Thanks for that. Sorry about your study group, Mione, but I promised Severus. At least you know that I'm improving my concentration and posture while I'm working on my fencing."
These Thursday afternoon sessions required more concentration and stamina than Harry remembered these lessons requiring last year.
Severus was more driven than usual, Harry had thought, as their first hour of practice came to an end several weeks ago. Harry had always enjoyed the process of having his body positioned just so, and the nearness of Severus as he demonstrated exactly how each specific move was to be made. That hadn't changed, but it was no longer the totally sensuous experience it had been. It seemed to really matter to Severus if anything was amiss, and it hadn't been that way before. Actually, Harry realized with a rush of embarrassment, the roughness and urgency of the lesson was shockingly arousing to him.
As he sipped a glass of pumpkin juice and waited to catch his breath that afternoon (while willing the sign of his arousal to soften), Harry looked closely at Severus' face, fearful that the change in tone of this practice session was a sign of some bigger or more profound change in their relationship. Nothing about Severus' demeanor suggested that anything was wrong, and even his face, and those extraordinary eyes, gave nothing away. Severus noticed the scrutiny, and with just an elegant raising of his eyebrow, invited Harry to explain.
"Um, uh . . . Severus, is something wrong? Are you upset with me?" Harry ventured.
Severus seemed genuinely perplexed by the question. "Why in Merlin's name do you think that?" was all he could offer in response.
"I loved the practice session, don't get me wrong, but this one was different from what we were doing last year. I don't know – it's hard to put a finger on, but . . . just different." Harry wasn't particularly proud of that explanation, and half expected a withering comeback from his bondmate, either because of the inarticulate explanation for his concern, or because the older man somehow recognized the signs of Harry's embarrassing erection.
"No, nothing is different. Of course, now that you've mastered some of the basics, we're working on refining and perfecting your approach. Perhaps that feels more demanding?" was Severus' response.
In his own mind, Severus was actually startled that Harry had detected the difference in the approach from the year before. He had no explanation, but he felt an urgency himself as they fenced. He'd never imagined that Harry would notice it too.
The ensuing Thursday afternoon sessions were repeats of that first one, each an energetic, spirited and very physical workout that left both men sweaty and gasping for breath.
They usually worked out in rooms specially fortified by the castle for dueling, but one afternoon, they arrived to find Professors Sinistra and Flitwick in the middle of a dueling session of their own. Severus scowled, but when two such expert fencers were dueling, neither was going to even notice that others had joined them. He was about to suggest that he and Harry should select another time to return, when Harry offered an alternative.
"Let's see if the Room of Requirement is available, Severus, rather than give up the hour we've both set aside for our practice," he suggested, very sensibly.
Severus nodded his agreement, and with one final scowl over his shoulder at the combatants making use of the practice room, he followed Harry off to the corridor from which one could access the Room of Requirement.
They were in luck. After Harry passed the blank wall three times, a door appeared, and as they walked through, a space ideally configured for dueling practice appeared before them. They made good use of the space, too, and had a particularly aggressive and grueling session that afternoon.
As Harry sipped a glass of pumpkin juice when the session was over, he was startled, and then embarrassed to see a comfortable-looking daybed appear off in the corner of the room. He'd never stopped ending these new and improved lessons with a raging erection, and today was no exception. The room sensed that, and was offering a gentle suggestion as to what Harry needed to deal with his problem.
Unrealized by Harry was that Severus had experienced the same arousal as he did from the rough intimacy of their fencing practice, and Severus blanched when he saw the daybed, mortified that Harry would suspect the reason for its appearance.
Harry's Gryffindor nature carried the day. While Severus was mentally running through options to deflect attention to his own base desires that, he was sure, had no doubt prompted the appearance of the daybed, Harry recognized its appearance as the gift that it was, and he took action. He stood up and gently but firmly took Severus by the arm and propelled the larger man toward the daybed.
"I still seem to have some energy to burn off, Severus. We won't be bothered while we're in the Room of Requirement, and we can be a bit late getting ready for supper," he said as he pushed Severus down on the soft surface, and began stripping his own shirt off.
The confusion on Severus' face melted very quickly into lust, to Harry's great relief, and Severus joined Harry in the process of getting out of his shirt. Their mutual resolve was gone by the time each had his shirt off, and which point Harry had launched himself onto Severus and the remainder of their clothes were shed in a squirming wrestling match. The couplings that followed were far rougher than Harry had experienced before; quite possibly, had they engaged in this activity at any point prior to today, he would have been quite distressed by the experience. But he was comfortable with and trusting enough of Severus now to not be worried that he would be injured, and experienced enough himself to be reasonably confident that he would not injure Severus.
The two were soon spent, sweaty and even more exhausted. As they rested to recover their strength, Severus lazily cast a Tempus charm, wandlessly, and they were spurred to dress quickly by the realization that supper was going to begin in mere minutes. Severus helped the process along with a few spells to clean them quickly and get their clothes sorted and straightened, and the two men jogged from the Room of Requirement to their respective entrances to the Great Hall for supper.
If anyone noticed Severus sweeping into the Great Hall to sit at the Head Table moments after the food appeared on the tables at the same time that a slightly flushed Harry nudged his way between Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, they knew better than to say anything about it.
X X X X X X X X X X
Cornelius Fudge spent a final week using the flat in Abbeville, although he apparated into Britain most days, to use various libraries.
He sorely missed access to Lucius Malfoy's resources, but his rise in the Ministry years ago was based on his own ability to ferret out information that was either not easily available, or that others did not want known. It had been a long time, and some of the resources he'd once used were no longer available, but other resources had replaced them. It was just a matter of deciding what he needed to know, and working the available resources. It helped that he was able to use different libraries, sometimes even one in the morning and another in the afternoon, so he could ask research librarians his questions without concern that he was divulging too much to any one person. If anything, his political experience in the years since he regularly did this sort of research helped him – he was a master at sweet-talking the ladies who occupied most of these positions.
By the end of that week, Cornelius had crafted the story that would be behind his next adventure, one that he hoped would be the first step on his path back to power at the Ministry.
He was careful and knew that attention to every detail was essential to his success, so he'd researched everything from current muggle men's fashion, to real estate trends in the Little Whinging area, to the business of Grunnings. He had found the address of what seemed to be the only hotel in Little Whinging, had a list of restaurants and clubs and the name of an estate agent in the community. Several large books in the muggle libraries had proven to be valuable sources of this kind of information, and fortunately, he was able to use his magic to shrink them so he could stroll out of the libraries with the reference materials he needed, right under the watchful eyes of the librarians.
Cornelius was still a little vague on what business he was going to say he was in. Knowing that the Grunnings firm made drills did not really tell him what Vernon Dursley did there. If he was going to make contact with Dursley through his work, he needed to be prepared to interact with Dursley more than deal with the firm. He had a cover story about a family investment firm that he was confident would serve him well until he had enough additional information to refine it further.
Cornelius, who was now using the name Charles Frost and sporting snowy white hair, apparated in a muggle-style business suit to a busy hub in a London suburb on Saturday morning, and from there, took a muggle train to Little Whinging. He wanted to stay in town that weekend to look the place over, maybe gather some local news and information, before actually engaging with the locals at work on Monday.
He was glad that he'd shrunken his trunk for travel, but once he exited the train, he transfigured it into a modest suitcase, easy enough to carry with him on the short stroll down the road to the Whinging Hotel. Carefully schooling his features not to display the utter disappointment he felt arriving at this over-done and yet still slightly shabby muggle edifice, he entered the lobby and approached the registration desk.
He wasn't entirely sure how this all worked in the muggle world, but was confident of his ability to use a confundus spell on the clerk if necessary, in case anything was amiss. He had made a reservation using that muggle contraption, the telephone, but did not know what would happen when he arrived. He'd also secured a small piece of odd, brittle muggle material, called a "credit card," that would allow him to pay his bill without having to carry wads of muggle money. It identified him as Charles Frost, and he'd made arrangements through the same solicitors who handled the bills for the Abbeville flat to deal with this thing, as well.
Cornelius offered his name, as he'd do at a magical inn, and waited to see what happened next. She typed some words into a big box, and seconds later, a machine next to it roared to life, spewing paper with neat little type on it.
As the young lady, presumably named "Ashley" based on the metal badge on her jacket, took the paper from the machine, she smiled at him and spoke at last. "Ah, yes, Mr. Frost, lovely to have you here! Staying for a week I see, and we have a lovely room for you. Breakfast is in the lounge to your left, the lift is just past the potted palms over there, and our restaurant serves one of the finest Sunday dinners in Surrey, very popular. I recommend it. If you'd just sign here, we're all set. Do you need any help with luggage?"
Cornelius was relieved that they were "all set." Always better when everything worked out right without having to use magic, especially when you aren't really familiar with the protocol. He signed with the offered biro, noting how ugly the writing was with the strange ink in there, and he was careful to use his assumed name.
"No, thank you, Ashley, I can manage it myself. Thank you for the advice on the restaurant; I'm not sure if I'll be here for dinner, but if my schedule permits, I will take your recommendation, I'm sure. Good day to you." He nodded formally, as was his habit, and headed over to the dusty potted palms, to navigate the lift up to his room.
Cornelius spent Saturday and most of Sunday morning wandering around the town, getting an idea of what was where, chatting up the shopkeepers and waitresses in the small restaurants to get a sense of the people and the current events and gossip. As unpleasant as consorting with muggles may be, politics was politics, and the things that worked for him in the magical world worked just as well in Little Whinging. He found the Grunnings offices, and the office of the estate agent he intended to see on Monday. There was a businessmen's club just up the street from Grunnings, which he assumed would be the one the Dursley man frequented, if he belonged to any clubs. A light application of magic on the maitre de assured him of a warm welcome and guest privileges in the club for the ensuing week, or as long as he needed.
Cornelius took Ashley's advice on Sunday and reserved a table at the Whinging Hotel restaurant for dinner. It drew a surprisingly large crowd, but then again, he did not see many fine dining establishments in the area that might be competition. Cornelius had a table off to one side, with a good view of the room and the street outside the large window that looked over the street.
He was enjoying an acceptable roast with surprisingly tasty mashed turnips as three middle-aged women were seated at the next table. As they fussed over the menu, and ordered disgustingly sweet drinks from the waiter, Cornelius concluded that they were three unmarried ladies out for a monthly "treat" at what was to them a very fine establishment. He paid them no attention, until a name whispered by one of them caught his attention.
The mousy-looking one with her hair in a prim, graying bun was sharing some gossip, it seemed, about someone she worked for. "And Mr. Dursley, well, you know what he says about this?"
It was clear that the others heard regularly about what Mr. Dursley did or said, as one rolled her eyes at the reference, although they both bent forward to hear whatever it was. Cornelius could not quite hear over the general hubbub in the bustling restaurant, but he was able to gather quite a bit of information about his target from the things that were shared more loudly.
Cornelius was enjoying a brandy after his meal as the ladies at the next table had moved on to gossip about the vicar's wife. He mulled over all that he'd just heard about Vernon Dursley, and marveled at how things had changed over the three years since he first heard of the man.
Cornelius, like most persons of consequence in the wizarding world, knew that Dumbledore had stashed the Potter boy somewhere, but all official attempts to find him had come to naught. The boy appeared at Hogwarts right on schedule, but disappeared during the summers, as if into thin air.
Until the summer before his third year at Hogwarts, that is.
There seemed to have been some sort of altercation at the Dursley household, resulting in Potter using accidental magic to blow up Vernon's sister Marge. Cornelius stepped in immediately to be sure all was covered up, but took advantage of the chance to learn exactly where Potter was living. He instructed the Ministry team that handled the incident to surreptitiously check on the family after Potter was back at Hogwarts.
The Ministry team observed the Dursleys living in solid muggle middle-class splendor, treating their boy Dudley like a prince. They assumed that Harry fit into the family smoothly, and that Dudley was at the house more often because he went to a school located just a town or two away. It never occurred to them that Harry's experience in the Dursley home was different in any way from the doting, even fawning care heaped on the other boy. It wasn't until a year and a half later that any information surfaced that would contradict that report.
One of Cornelius' many "sources" contacted him when she detected a rather rare and complicated magical spell on some muggle school records that had been shipped to a storage facility in a remote part of Britain, near where she lived. Cornelius asked her to obtain the spelled records and send them to him directly. It took some of the most accomplished Ministry spell-breakers over a month to undo the magic that protected the records, and once he saw what the records disclosed, Cornelius understood why these mundane muggle documents warranted such strong magical protection.
Harry Potter was abused by his relatives. It was clear. From the boy's first year at school until he went to Hogwarts, various officials at the school he attended dutifully recorded all manner of injuries with which he came to school – black eyes, bumps on the head, broken fingers, sprained ankles, even a broken collarbone! The earliest entries indicated that he told the teachers and nurses that his uncle had hit him, or his aunt had smacked him, or his cousin had beaten him up. It seemed that, sometime in the first year, Potter learned that no one was going to help him, and it was possible that he got in trouble for having implicated his family, so he stopped blaming them, saying that he fell, or tripped. The magic surrounding the records prevented anyone from recalling them, or from being able to read them later, so there was never any recognition of a pattern.
Had the boy not had magic, it was doubtful that he could have survived with this family. As it was, his magic healed the broken bones much faster than a muggle's bones would heal, and presumably made short work of the soft tissue injuries as well. Cornelius had never had access to any of the medical records kept at Hogwarts, but he was certain that the mediwitch there had her hands full when the boy first arrived, getting him back to rights.
He'd tasked several of his most trusted associates with gathering more information about Potter's muggle family. When they shared what they found and documented, Cornelius was absolutely certain that his plan to adopt the boy would work, as he had ample evidence of the abuse Potter suffered at the hands of his muggle relatives.
He'd come so close, it still hurt to think about it. His position in the Ministry would have been unassailable had only his plan to adopt Potter gone through! But, for some unknown reason, that daft old coot, Dumbledore, saw fit to marry the boy off to that hideous Snape, of all people.
As he sat in the restaurant of the Whinging Hotel, sipping his brandy, Cornelius felt the familiar rage building up inside of him as he thought back on that splendid, foiled plan. He took a deep, centering breath. No use getting all upset again at history.
Today was a new day, after all. And he had a new plan. In all likelihood, a better plan. He could not wait for tomorrow!
Cornelius had learned from the conversation on which he eavesdropped that Dursley always arrived at the office at 9:45 on Monday mornings. His usual Monday telephone call with the people at the head office would occur at 10:30, and "the numbers for September were looking good," so he'd been in a great mood all day. That meant he was likely to take at least two hours for lunch at his club up the road.
From scattered comments made in that conversation by the woman, Margaret Enderlee, who he surmised was Dursley's assistant, Cornelius had concluded that Dursley's role at Grunnings involved distribution of the drills manufactured by the firm someplace up north. He'd gotten some trade information about Grunnings and had some information upstairs about the drills, and now he knew what Dursley did.
If necessary, the family investments he represented so vaguely could be found to include a business that needed a direct contract with a drill manufacturer. He hoped the trade information would give him an idea of the use to which these drills were generally put, so he could position the imaginary family business appropriately to need them.
He was creative. It was very possible that the family business would not even have to become part of this conversation, but details were always important. He'd not made an appointment with the estate agent for Monday, and now he thought he'd find a way to meet Dursley at lunch on Monday and let events suggest what he needed to be doing in Little Whinging after that.
Everything hinged on the best way to be sure he had the access he needed to the crackpots behind this anti-wizard movement. Dursley was his point of entry, so he no doubt needed an excuse to be nearby for some period of time. Maybe he didn't need to be here to negotiate a contract with Grunnings for drills. Maybe he needed to be looking for space for a manufacturing plant, or maybe he needed undeveloped land on which he would build something, he thought, as he signaled the waiter for another brandy when he brought the ladies their check.
Things fell neatly into place for Cornelius on Monday.
He visited the club a bit before one o'clock, figuring that Dursley's regular call had to take at least two hours, and then allowing him time to walk over to the club. He made quite a production of making the acquaintance of the staff and the various members who arrived when he did. He had just been introduced to Reggie Mason, the estate agent he had intended to meet later in the week, when his real target waddled into the bar. Merlin's beard, he was a size!
Reggie enthusiastically called out to Vernon, who lumbered on over and who greeted Charles Frost quite cordially upon being introduced. Reggie proposed that the three share a table for lunch, and just like that, Cornelius was in.
It took Cornelius no time at all to get the conversation on to current events, and who would think anything of that? With no prodding from him at all, Reggie mentioned magic, and soon Reggie and Vernon were going strong on the subject of wizards. When Cornelius agreed with the two of them and expressed his admiration for those taking action, he was invited to join them on Tuesday afternoon at an event Reggie had organized in a nearby town, and at which Vernon was speaking. He accepted immediately and enthusiastically.
Cornelius' biggest challenge of Monday afternoon was the need to adjust his carefully-crafted background story, leaving Grunnings out of it, dropping his search for suitable space to open some sort of business, returning to his vague family investment business cover.
Tuesday highlighted to Cornelius a sad parallel between wizards and muggles.
He joined his two new friends for a drive in Reggie's automobile (a trip that left Cornelius feeling nauseous) and watched as various speakers warned a small crowd about the evils of magic. Vernon was among those who stirred the crowd up with cries that they must do something. But that was all it was – just talk. No one in the room was actually going to act.
Until he took the podium. Adding a bit to his story, Cornelius spoke of his time in the army, in foreign lands, fighting the enemy. He had never been in an army, of course. He figured he'd have known if there was a muggle war being waged right here in Britain, but assumed, muggles being muggles, there were hostilities going on somewhere, and Englishmen being Englishmen, at least some of them were involved, wherever it was.
Once again, he vague references were sufficient. He was the voice of military authority to this lot. And he spoke of specific actions that they were going to take to do something about magic. The people at the meeting were galvanized by Cornelius' rhetoric, and felt the call to action.
Charles Frost represented the tipping point. These town meetings were no longer going to be opportunities to fuss and yell about magic – they were now going to be recruiting events for an anti-magic army, and Mr. Frost knew of one stronghold castle, up in Scotland, where the leaders of the wizards were hiding. He'd help guide this army to defeat the scourge of magic.
Hiram Riddle lurked in the back of the room and watched this muggle wonder, Charles Frost, stir the muggles up. This was exactly what the Dark Lord wanted this team to do, but Hiram certainly had not had any luck, and from conversations he'd had with his fellow Death Eaters, none of them were stirring up much action. This man was just what they needed.
Later that evening, as those in the service of the Dark Lord gathered in the dining hall at Riddle Manor, Hiram reported that he'd found a muggle (who knew where Charles Frost came from, so why not take credit?) who not only spoke eloquently against magic, but seemed capable of actually getting the muggles to act. Lord Voldemort was very pleased by this development.
"Well done, young Hiram! Mr. Frost sounds like the missing part of the puzzle here. The muggle estate agent from town served us well in reaching out to form a group of like-minded citizens through his contacts in real estate, but we needed a fire-brand, a visionary, who can inspire action. I think we may have this person in your Mr. Frost," Voldemort murmurred, as he seemed to make a decision. "You must see to it that he makes the acquaintance of those from other parts of Britain who might be inspired to join this anti-magic army. For now, all of you remain the in the shadows as much as you can, gently guiding this endeavor and helping it along so that none know where the help came from. At some point, we know that they will need to amass weaponry of some sort, and we can be of great help then, maybe even be more visible."
Voldemort's original plan had been thwarted, but he'd taken a very different approach this time. Rather than attempt to control events, this time (at least eventually), he'd allowed events to unfold and looked for opportunity and serendipity to present themselves. He was very pleased, very pleased indeed with the progress being made. His Death Eaters had been good at organizing and rousing the muggle rabble, but they lacked the vision or skill to really inspire them to act. Wherever this Mr. Frost came from, he was just what they needed. His appearance, just as it was needed, seemed to confirm the rightness of his endeavor.
In the ensuing days, Cornelius was astonished at the progress he made. He was receiving invitations from across England to speak at anti-wizard community events. These groups all had similar goals, but there seemed to be the loosest of connections between them. He was surprised, and very grateful, that he'd been able to reach out to so many so quickly. They needed his leadership and organizational skills! He abandoned the room at the Little Whinging Hotel by the end of the week, and largely abandoned the elaborate history he'd created for himself. He didn't regret all the work he'd done – he realized that it was necessary to enabled him to reach out to Vernon Dursley, and in doing so, he'd been able to connect with the anti-wizard movement. The serendipity of it all suggested that he was, indeed, on the right path.
X X X X X X X X X X
As September came to a close, Lucius Malfoy was approached by a long-time Ministry flunky on behalf of someone who he reported to be one of his more reliable informants, who purportedly had "interesting information" to sell. At first, he was inclined to dismiss the elaborate set-up as something that no longer mattered to him, but he quickly thought better of it. In a way, he missed all the intrigue of gathering information others did not want known, knowing something others did not, and being able to use his knowledge to his own advantage. What harm could be done in indulging in this silly game one more time?
Lucius agreed to have the flunky, who he knew traded in low-level, often stale information but who occasionally stumbled onto something interesting, set up a meeting for him with the informant. He proposed that he meet the informant at a small, very discreet inn a short walk from Diagon Alley. Lucius had often entertained his lovers there and trusted the proprietor and staff for their discretion as well as their security, which seemed prudent for this meeting as well.
On the agreed-upon date and time, Lucius apparated directly to the inn from his office, rather than risk being seen entering or exiting, and took a table in the corner of the front room, sipping a whiskey while he awaited the arrival of the informant, who arrived on foot a half hour later. Lucius didn't recognize the man.
"'Evening, Guv," the lanky man in workmen's robes offered as he manhandled the chair and took his seat. "I'll have me one of them whiskeys."
Lucius nodded to the barman, watching Lucius' guest intently but discreetly, and the requested drink was delivered.
The man sniffed it, smiled and took a gulp of the amber liquid. He winked at Lucius as he offered his opening to these negotiations. "Been seein' some strange things, lately, Guv. I thought to myself, who might know what to make of all this? Who might know if we needs to be takin' action? Or if anythin's amiss? I right wasn't sure. But I knows Mallory over at the Ministry – we goes way back. So I went to see him, and told him a little bit of what I's been seein'. He tells me, right off, that Lord Malfoy will be very interested in this. So, here I am."
Lucius stifled thoughts that this man was some sort of back-water bumpkin. He always assumed, entering into any negotiation of this sort, that the other party was as sharp and savvy as he was. Of course, it was always difficult to put a price on something without having any idea what it was.
"I am always interested in the events of the world, as Mr. Mallory knows. I have absolutely no idea about what you've observed, so can offer no thoughts at all whether it is of concern or interest to me, or to anyone," he replied languidly.
"Well, Guv, Mallory says you're a trustworthy sort – wouldn't take advantage. I work at Eastbrooks," the man offered. Lucius nodded in reply. Eastbrooks was a not-quite-reputable business, not that they traded in dark objects like Borgin and Burkes. More the sort of place one went if one needed an untraceable wand, or an item that had gone missing from someone's vault, or weaponry. Weapons?
"Do tell me a bit about what you believe you've observed, sir. I am aware in general of the sort of wares in which Eastbrooks tends to deal, and might have some interest in offering compensation for this news," Lucius replied, anxious to move this forward.
The man leaned in, hardly necessary in the nearly-empty inn, but he now saw the opportunity for profit.
"I seen quite a bit of trade lately in weapons. Not just bows and arrows, and long swords, but trebuchets. Who's buying and selling? We need to discuss that."
Lucius was now in his element. He leaned closer himself, and the two men whispered intently for several moments as an appropriate level of compensation was agreed upon, and information about the sale and shipment of significant amounts of weapons to "private collectors" in over a dozen cities was provided. Lucius was quite impressed with the level of details the man recalled about who bought what. It was quite a massive purchase, and he was inclined to agree with his informant that it seemed more like one purchase shipped to different places than multiple smaller purchases.
"I assume, sir, that you have some agreement with Mallory to split the compensation you garner from our meeting. What I'd like to propose," Lucius said, as he placed five large 100-galleon coins on the table, "is that we arrange to speak in the future directly, should you have more news to impart. If you speak to Rufus, the barman here, he knows how to reach me, and you and I can meet here again at an agreed-upon time. I'd anticipate that the level of compensation we've agreed to today would continue, although presumably, you would not be obligated to share any of it."
The man smiled, teeth crooked and stained. He downed his tumbler of whiskey, and nodded at Lucius as he stood, pocketed the coins, and sauntered from the inn.
Lucius waited until he was gone, and likely nearly back to Diagon Alley, before he stood himself and approached Rufus to settle his tab.
"I invited that gentleman to contact you should he have additional information that he'd like to discuss with me, and that you know how to reach me to arrange a meeting." Lucius added a couple of 100-galleon coins to the amount that covered his tab, and handed it over.
Rufus grinned and nodded, as he stepped aside so Lord Malfoy could go into the back room and use the floo to depart. He had no idea of the games Malfoy played, but the man took very good care of those who served him well. Very good care, indeed.
For his part, Lucius spent a good hour back in his office at the Ministry that evening pondering his encounter and the information he'd procured. Of course, he never acted on information from just one source. He had a contact, the very bright squib daughter of a dark family, who augmented the rather meager wages paid to her in her family business by using her network to collect and sell confidential business and financial records. She did not discover secrets, but had the means to verify information once Lucius had specific questions. He dispatched an owl to her immediately, asking for the details on the shipments now of interest to him. He'd do or say nothing until she verified what he'd been told.
Regardless of when he acted, he allowed himself to contemplate the magnitude of these purchases. Assuming, as he was inclined to do, that this was one large purchase staged to look like multiple smaller ones, it was staggering. This was not a collection, this was not for defense of remote properties. A vast quantity of the weapons used by wizards was being dispatched across England, into cities and large towns.
This looked like someone was getting ready for a war.
X X X X X X X X X X
The muggle Prime Minister watched with growing alarm as the militancy of the anti-magic movement increased with lightening speed. There had been lots of meetings for a while now, but lately, the rhetoric had been stronger and the groups seemed to have reached some kind of tipping point. Not only were they now actively advocating attacking witches and wizards, they had begun to reach out to one another and act together. The reports of the agents of his government who kept close tabs on such things were frightening.
It occurred to the Prime Minister that, while the magical Minister could reach out to him through that horrible little portrait, he had no way to initiate contact with her or the Ministry of Magic. Every time he though to try to use the portrait to send a message, the little man wasn't in it. He called Martin Entwhistle into his office.
"Yes, sir?" Entwhistle asked, taking a seat and preparing to take notes.
Waving the pad aside, the Prime Minister asked "How can I make contact with your people? I want to speak to your Minister, and I swear, as soon as I look at that little picture over there, the little man disappears."
Entwhistle had heard something of the work ethic of the image in that portrait – he was notoriously hard to get to cooperate, even when the Minister requested his help. He'd heard that the gentleman in question had been just like that in life, as well.
"I can alert the Minister of your desire to speak to her right away, sir, and we'll set something up that will enable you to make contact when you need to reach her. We don't have anything like a telephone in our world, but we have other ways to do this," Entwhistle said, and he stood and went to the fireplace. Kneeling before it, he tossed in some floo powder and firecalled to the Minister's office. Her assistant assured him that the Prime Minister would step through the floo in the next few minutes.
Entwhistle had to stifle a smile at the shock on the Prime Minister's face. "The floo can be used to speak to others on the network, not just to visit them physically. She saw my face in the flames at her end, and we spoke," he explained.
The green flames flared again just seconds later, and the Minister of Magic herself stepped into the room. As she shook hands with the Prime Minister, Entwhistle quietly stepped out of the room, to advise the others in the staff area that the Prime Minister was not to be disturbed.
The Prime Minister paced across his carpet, even as the Minister took a seat. "Mrs. Bones, we have very troubling information. We've told you of the growing anti-magic sentiments many of our citizens have expressed, and your Mr. Potter has been very generous with his time in preparing those messages with the Royal Family. But things have changed in the last several days. Our agents monitoring the situation report that the agitation is growing, and we fear physical attacks are imminent. We are trying to stay close to this, and prevent the attacks, but there are so many groups, scattered across the land, and we are concerned." He did, indeed, look very worried.
"I certainly appreciate your candor and the warning, Mr. Prime Minister," Amelia replied. "Do you have any details? We can certainly work on improving our defenses where necessary, and possibly from some the information you have, we might be able to identify where the attacks are most likely to occur."
"Of course, of course, I'll have copies of the reports made for you, right now. And several of our agents took photographs of the gatherings. I'll have a set made of those for you, as well." He added, almost apologetically, "These are our standard photographs – they don't move like yours do."
He strode over to his desk, and pushed a small button. A light on Entwhistle's desk lit up, and he entered the office, careful to close the door behind him lest others see that he had a guest who had not been observed arriving.
"Entwhistle, I'd like to provide the Minister of Magic with a set of the reports that were filed this morning and of the photos that were sent in. How quickly can you get that done?" the Prime Minister asked.
"I'll bring them right in," was the reply, as Entwhistle withdrew, only to appear seconds later with a thick folder. He'd used magic to replicate the folder he'd prepared for the Prime Minister, but did not explain. Let the man think he'd prepared two sets initially, if it made him feel better.
Amelia accepted the folder, and after shaking the Prime Minister's hand and nodding at Entwhistle, she departed via the floo.
When Amelia got to her office, she began to read through the large sheaf of paper. She noticed that two names appeared in connection with quite a few of these meetings – Charles Frost and Vernon Dursley. She also noticed, as she read through more of the reports, that an awful lot of people with the surname Riddle were involved.
As she was pondering these names, Albus Dumbledore was announced by her assistant.
"I was in the Ministry on Hogwarts business, Amelia, and thought I'd stop in to visit an old friend," he offered by way of greeting. "It looks as if I've caught you at a bad time."
Amelia looked up from the reports sharply. "Albus, I've just gotten some information from the muggle Prime Minister about the growing anti-magic movement. I just scanned it myself, and several names keep repeating. I'm drawing a blank on them, but I'm sure I've heard them before. Here, take a look." She pushed the pile of papers across to him as he took a visitor's seat next to her desk.
Albus spent just a moment noting the names of those who attended the various meetings as speakers, and flipped through to some pages in the back with photos of unmoving muggles. He spent several minutes studying the pictures before he shook his head and sighed deeply.
"Amelia, Vernon Dursley is Harry Potter's uncle. Here, this is a photo of him – the very large man standing next to the smaller man with white hair." He handed one of the photos over to her. "Dursley was at Hogwarts while the muggles slept, and I saw him, so I know that's him. The man next to him seems to be the one identified as Charles Frost. He's in several of these pictures, usually with Dursley. I think we know him better with dark gray hair, wearing wizards robes and using his real name – that looks like Cornelius Fudge to me." Amelia gasped in agreement.
"And Riddle is a name I know well. I think I recognize the faces of several of the people identified here as Riddles, although that's not their real surname. I think this one here," as he pushed another photo over, "is one of the McNair boys, Hiram if I recall. He was at Hogwarts ten or so years ago. So, why do so many of these people seem to have the same surname? We had a boy named Tom Riddle at Hogwarts years ago. Today, most know him by his assumed name: Lord Voldemort."
Amelia dropped the papers she had been holding in her hand when Albus said that. "You mean, Cornelius Fudge is now in league with . . . with . . . him?" she asked incredulously, but not quite able to say Voldemort's name. "But they are all wizards, and this is an anti-magic movement. What are they up to?"
Albus tilted his head as he considered. It certainly was odd to see wizards leading an anti-magic movement among muggles. And he knew that Cornelius was terrified of Voldemort, so that was a most unlikely alliance.
What in Merlin's name was going on here?