CHAPTER 4: SECRETS & SUBORDINATION
It appeared to be empty, nothing but a cream fabric lining inside, and a poke—first with his finger, then with his wand—revealed the bottom to be solid as well. Ron acknowledged the iffy status of his deductive powers, but he'd lived in the magical world long enough to know that the look and feel of a thing meant next to nothing, and he'd lived with Harry long enough to know he didn't keep his glasses in a case, which meant it was charmed.
Ron stole another look at the uptight expressions of the chairs and rugs. They'd evidently absorbed Hermione-ness by living in close quarters with her for so long, and Ron shuddered to think how Hermione's face would look if she caught him like this.
He hesitated, then prodded his wand into the case again and muttered, "Revelio."
Nothing happened. Ron supposed he should've expected that. Harry was an auror; if he really wanted to keep something hidden, a second-rate wizard like Ron wasn't going to be able to get at it.
Nothing new there. Harry'd been doing important, secretive things for a decade now, and he never told Ron anything about it. And sure, objectively Ron understood that he probably had orders to keep his trap shut, but neither he nor Harry had ever followed the rules back in the old days. Mates shared things; fuck the system.
Ron tossed the glasses case back into Harry's trunk with a glare. Then he thought better of it and rearranged all the items as they had been prior to his intrusion. He shut the trunk, slapped the numbness out of his knees, and then scooped the invisibility cloak off the kitchen chair where he'd tossed it earlier.
Operation Sneak had failed, but Operation House Elf might still be a win.
Ron gave the trunk a last, dark look, and then tucked the cloak around himself, creaking out the door into the hallway.
He figured the kitchen would still be in the same place it had ten years ago. Though progressive in some respects, H.U.M.M. had a decidedly obstinate streak when it came to renovations. The Alumni Association fought hard to keep everything exactly the same. One stone out of place and people like Draco Malfoy would throw a bloody tantrum. It had been in the paper a while back that a student had gone missing after the man-eating moss that thrived on the roof of the astronomy tower had chewed its way through the shingles to the castle's interior. The Alumni Association had threatened to cut funding to H.U.M.M. Grounds Management if the roof was replaced, or, in fact, if the moss was touched at all, and Malfoy, when asked what he proposed the school do instead, had said, "Put up a sign," which, to the cynical amusement of the masses, is exactly what they did.
Ron still got the gold-lined envelopes in the mail every year, inviting him to join the Association in opulent cursive letters and words longer than his— Well, best not. He took great pleasure pinning them to the wall and seeing how close he had to get before he could peg them with an Incendio spell. Benjamin had joined in one year, and he'd been impressed at Ron's range — a record 124 paces.
Of course, had he recognized Ron as the third member of the Golden Trio, he probably would have been less impressed.
Reaching one of the main hallways, Ron was called abruptly back from memory lane when he nearly got bowled over by a speed-walker in a leather jacket. He had to jump out of the way to avoid getting stepped on, whacking his elbow on the corridor wall in the process, which hurt much more than it had any right to. Scowling at the back of the speed-walker's head, Ron rubbed his bruised arm and stepped more carefully back into the flow of student traffic. From then on, he paid close attention to his surroundings as he wound down the castle's halls to the giant pear painting that marked the entrance to the kitchens.
The pear was as fat-bellied and chartreuse as ever, and Ron had no particular desire to tickle it, but he did, and the portrait swung open to reveal the smoldering ovens, roaring stovetops and impeccably scrubbed floors of the Hogwarts kitchens. That a school this size only had one kitchen and one dining hall was pure lunacy, but the Alumni Association would fight it tooth and nail if the administration ever decided to take pity on the students and add another. Merlin forbid the suffering stop. The rumble of a thousand student stomachs was as much an iconic element of the hallway echoes as the clanking of the living suits of armor.
The smell of something burning put a stop to the cynical spiral of Ron's thoughts. Weren't the house elves supposed to be good at cooking? Frowning, he located the top of the smoke plume and followed it back down to a frying pan of kippers and the house elf beside it, who was frozen on his step stool, staring at Ron.
Ron had never liked the way house elves stared, and this one had a particular neon gaze that reminded Ron of some experiences at equally neon muggle night clubs he'd rather forget.
He scowled at the elf. "Your kippers are burning, mate."
The elf jumped, dropped its spatula, and barely managed to stay standing on the stool. "My humblest apologies, sir," it squeaked as it clambered off its perch to retrieve the utensil.
Ron strode over and put out the stove fire with his wand to prevent the poor kippers from charring any further. Though he supposed it served them right. Kippers were one of the only foods that disgusted him.
The house elf was now at the sink, meticulously scrubbing the fallen spatula with its fingernails, which was also rather disgusting.
"Where are the rest of you at?" Ron demanded.
The elf dropped the spatula again.
"They hid, sir," it said as it stumbled back down the stool's steps. "They do not like strangers in the kitchen. It is disruptive to the work environment, and we work hard to keep the work environment comfortable for all elves."
"Oh," said Ron, who was not used to elves taking any sort of stand. "Sorry, mate. Didn't mean to dampen your synergy. I'm just here to see if one of you has time to give me cooking lessons."
The elf, now back on its stool, recommenced scrubbing the spatula. "I am sorry if it inconveniences you, sir," it said, "but we are all very busy with Hogwarts work."
"I see," said Ron, wishing he could speak with a more accommodating elf. "Do you think I could… help you out, maybe? If you show me how, I'll cook whatever you want. Extra pair of hands, you know?"
The house elf blinked at him with its creepy, neon stare, but it managed to keep ahold of its spatula this time.
"Work in the kitchens?" it repeated, voice pitched even higher than usual.
"Yeah. Just for a couple weeks. Learn my way around."
The elf's eyes turned suspicious. "You don't work with the Freedom Project, do you? We don't want any of your clothes. House work is a pride and an honor and—"
"I'm not with the Freedom Project," Ron assured him. "Never heard of it. I just want to learn to cook."
The elf continued to eye him as though he might be hiding a scarf down his trouser leg, waiting for the opportune moment to attack. "Alright," it allowed at last. "I'll have to see what the others think. Wait outside please."
It hopped off its stool with the wet spatula and began waving Ron towards the portrait hole.
Ron, who had no desire to get wet, did as requested and hunched next to the pear painting under the cloak. It was a long ten minutes (which Ron mostly spent scowling at the water spots the elf's spatula-waving had left on his shirt) before the portrait hole reopened.
"We have made our decision," declared the elf.
Ron had gotten rejected from a thousand positions in his life, but never from an unpaid one that didn't even require a degree. If he started getting turned down from those too…
"We will take you on."
Ron let out a sigh of relief before he caught himself and remembered to look cool. "Thanks, mate," he said.
"We are short on the morning shift, which starts at five and ends at one. You will be expected to arrive on time— no, early!" the elf exclaimed with a stern expression, which had little effect on Ron, used to the stern expressions of Hermione, Hogwarts Professors, employers and landlords. "And you will follow all instructions."
"Sure. Within reason, you know," Ron nodded. "Starting tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yes," the elf confirmed. "My name is Knobbs. How do you wish for us to refer to your most esteemed personage?"
Just when Ron was beginning to get a handle on the guy. Esteemed personage. "Lord Wease should do fine," he said.
The elf bowed. "Very good, Lord Wease. Then I shall be seeing you at 4:50 tomorrow. Have a good day."
Ron supposed sarcasm didn't really exist in elf culture. "Yeah, you too, mate," he said, and waved as he exited the portrait hole. Lord Wease it was then. Maybe he should've picked something more flattering.
Auror Amadou Fokobo frowned at the toxicology report that had just come in. The witch who'd administered the tests was named Listra Chaff, and the loopy 'L' in her signature was covering part of the last line of text. Amadou hated that.
"Ashworth," he called as he continued to skim through the lilac-scented document, "Get me The Register of Magical Drugs, Volumes 87 through 94."
Abigail Ashworth spun her chair about as if electrocuted. "Right now?"
Amadou met her eyes over the top of the sheet. "Is what you're doing so important that it can't be interrupted?"
"I guess not."
He recommenced his reading. "Then yes. Right now."
A telltale scraping noise grated against Amadou's ears as several things on Abigail's desk scuffed back into their original positions. He didn't look up to see, but he knew they'd left marks in the wood.
"Lift please."
"What?"
"When you put things away, don't slide; lift. You're damaging the desk."
"I can fix it."
"How about you try not damaging it in the first place."
"Yes, Mr. Fokobo."
"Please call me Fokie." He flipped to the second page of Ms. Chaff's report. "I hate the name Fokobo."
"Yes, Mr. Fokobo."
Amadou closed his eyes until Ashworth was gone. He could confund Chutro for assigning him a mentee; the man knew how low his tolerance was, and yet he always chose to provoke him.
"Here they are, Mr. Fokobo."
"Fokie." Rather than accepting the stack of green-bound journals she was holding out, he flicked his wand and sent them flying through the air to hover in an arc in front of him. "Thank you; that's all."
Abigail nodded quickly several times, the motion popping several of her curls loose from their bun, before returning to her desk. Then there was another obtrusive scuff as her materials slid back into place.
"Lift," Amadou told her before waving his wand again to send the pages fluttering as they cross-referenced themselves against the toxicology report. It took just under two minutes to find a match. The other journals restacked themselves while Fokie plucked Volume 93 out of the air and scanned the page at which it had frozen. "Ashworth," he said, "Look up Frank Devereaux for me, please."
"Right now?"
"Since we've already established that you're not doing anything important, I'd say yes, right now would be lovely."
Ashworth blinked at him dumbly (though he was sure she'd caught on to his impatience), then used the arms of her chair to lever herself upright. "Would you like me to take The Register of Magical Drugs back, too?"
"Yes. Might as well make it one trip."
If he'd been looking at her then, he would've seen her mouth quirk. "Not that you won't be sending me on another in ten minutes."
Amadou glanced up with hoisted brows, but the girl had already turned away and begun the long trot down the hallway to the records room.
It was not until an hour later that Amadou finally waved all his files aside and sat down in his seldom-used office chair. The thing was three years old and still smelled like the muggle shop it had come from.
"Ashworth, it looks like we have our first field assignment."
She spun immediately, and Amadou considered with dry amusement that this was the first time he'd gotten such a prompt response from the girl. "Really?" she asked.
"Really. An old case has reopened, and I'd like to see to it personally this time." He steepled the tips of his fingers. "Have you heard of Frank Devereaux?"
"Excluding thirty minutes ago when you asked me to look him up, no. Who is he?"
"He's a paranoid conspiracy theorist, but he manages alright for himself considering. Two years ago, we caught him making pills — the illegal, magical kind — and we sent an auror, the one you Brits all love—" Amadou swirled his hand absently through the air. "—What's-his-name, the one with the scar."
"Harry Potter?" Abigail asked, tone almost scathing, though her eyes had widened.
Amadou did not understand why everyone in London expected him to keep track of their celebrities. "That one," he said. "I reported the pattern I'd discovered in the toxicology, and they sent Mr. Potter to sort it out. He went undercover and discovered the creator of the pills, this Frank Devereaux, but he suggested we wait to bring him in because he suspected that he was part of a larger drug ring. He did, in fact, find evidence of a ring, but the leaders got wind of the investigation and fled the country. If they're back, then I want to see it through myself this time. Unfortunately, I fear we'll have to begin by speaking to this Mr. Potter. His paperwork on the case was not done to the level of detail I would like."
"We're going to talk to Harry Potter?"
"That is what I said, yes."
"When?"
"Well, as soon as possible. I sent out an owl just a minute ago telling him to floo here. Schedules permitting, we should be seeing him sometime this afternoon."
Abigail's hands flew to her hair as if to hold the stray curls in place. "My God," she said, "We're going to meet Harry Potter."
But three hours later, they still hadn't heard back. Two rolled around, and then three, four, and at five an envelope floated in, which Ashworth plucked from the air after glancing at Amadou to confirm he wasn't going to do it himself.
"It's from PM." (PM was the commonly used shorthand for Personnel Management around the office.)
"Who specifically?"
"Limmings."
"Open it."
Abigail opened the letter to read, and Amadou watched as her eyebrows grew lower and closer together with each line they traversed. "The letter bounced," she said, "The one you sent to Harry Potter. Limmings says—"
Amadou summoned the letter.
Fokie, you know you're supposed to talk to me before mailing the in-field aurors, it began in Limmings's tight scrawl, and contacting Potter is particularly problematic at the moment. Not only is he undercover, but he hasn't switched over to our new check-in system. We sent a notice to the safe house he was staying at last month about the new system, but he hasn't yet sent us his confirmation, and he missed the new check-in date. I'm sure you understand the implications. Given that his current mission is an offshoot of the one your letter addressed, I think you might be interested in communicating with the investigation team. I'm just putting it together now, so when I know who's heading it, I'll put you in contact. –Jack Limmings
Amadou vanished the letter and stood.
"Are you going to talk to PM?" Ashworth asked.
"Yes. You should go pack."
"PM gave you the investigation?"
"No," Amadou said as he reached the door, "but they're about to."