Chapter Seven - Conspiracy. Isn't it?
Samuel H. Sterner carefully trimmed the nib of the last quill, and set it next to its twins. With care a wizard needed no more than one, but it was regulation to have the three and so three there were. The two unused were trimmed to match the one that was. That was not a regulation itself; more a habit of orderliness that regulation could instill. It had certainly done so for the estimable Sterner. Regulation, procedure, protocol - the web of interconnected prescribed behavior was a comfort.
The auror wore the proper, dark blue dress robes of an officer, embroidered wands in silver thread marking rank, and had since his promotion to Section Chief, First Order, High Dean of the Training Corps. Regulation required it, and Sterner found the dress robes more to his taste than the brown, trenchcoat-like robes of the field operatives. He pulled a recently polished and freshly oiled, leather-bound ledger close, and began translating the sloppy and regrettable instructor notes into neat, precise evaluations.
The process did not take long, and was entirely -not- due to the increased care and diligence in the taking of the notes that he had tried to encourage. Blackburn, for one, seemed to be testing the boundaries of what might work as ink. Section Chief, First Order, High Dean of the Training Corps Samuel H. Sterner was not quite the broom-in-the-mud he was made out to be. He quite often, at least for reports that were not part of the official record, crowded the 'r' and 'n' in the man's name together so that it appeared to be Blackbum. Just a bit of frivolity, jocularity, no harm done. The bloody tit deserved it anyway for last month's cat pee, black walnut shell, and dung 'ink'.
No, the transcribing of the notes took less time because there were fewer reports, a direct result of there being fewer trainees. The Waverly field debacle had destroyed public confidence in the Ministry, making recruiting candidates difficult even for a field that had once turned them away in droves. The disaster in Hogsmeade had hit the ranks hard too. Every section was stretched as thin as contraband cauldrons, making the lack of new wands more critical. And, standards could only be lowered so far, his eye automatically finding the name Ronald Weasley.
Sterner set his quill aside for a moment. In some way, this was Potter's fault. The treachery of the sanctuary collapse should have had the earnest, the righteous flocking to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But then up turns Potter with, "Hey ho! You-Know-Who is defeated again. I'm off for quidditch, ta!" Absolutely gutted turn out. As, Sterner had to admit, did the widespread protests at the time against anything connected to the Ministry. It would certainly have helped to require Potter's service as an auror, as a show of confidence. Conscripted, that was the thing. An action that would have unfortunately needed leadership just at the moment of vacuum.
That vacuum was enough when it came to vanishing the details of it all though. The High Dean had heard rumors of another rebounded Killing Curse, of a desperate race across the continent, and of the final confrontation at Beauxbatons. Whether any of it was actually true was only something that Shacklebolt seemed to be privy to. He, and that lunatic Moody had their own little band of Unspeakables. And that had worked out so well for the Department of Mysteries, they and their bloody Waverly fields.
Maybe it was for the best that Potter was wasting time with quidditch, reconsidered Sterner. The man was far too impulsive for the job. The Cannons - and all because he was guaranteed a starting position. More patience, thought Sterner, that would have been his counsel. A season or two behind Fangerford for a bit of sharpening, and Potter would have been ready to fly for Puddlemere United. Merlin knows he was making a splash now, no doubt, but championships are what it is really all about.
The High Dean sighed and picked up his quill again. The he set it down and instead drew his wand. This he aimed at the last sheaf of notes, attempting a rather exotic spell that should revert any alterations made to the documents. Having only studied the magic in the Ministry library, though, Sterner could not tell if it had been successful. Or even if he had cast it correctly in the first; there had been no mention of a halo of yellow-green flames engulfing the subject of the spell.
The notes, in the thick lines of the habitually dulled nib that Wilberforce 'Pillsy' Pilates used, were undamaged. Possibly unchanged as well; Sterner had neglected to examine them beforehand. Pillsy ran the live-spell exercises and capture scenarios, and Sterner suspected that someone with influence was, well, influencing the reports. He shuffled through the parchment for the results for two particular trainees.
The first was for William Blanning. Blanning was, the High Dean felt, the ideal auror candidate. He received the highest marks in the classroom and his performance in drills was outstanding, precise, textbook. Blanning followed procedures rigorously and protocols exactly. He also captured the target or targets personally in eight out of ten scenarios.
Ronald Weasley, at the bottom of the cauldron, muddled through the course work in barely acceptable fashion, and had proved himself to be downright dangerous in drills. He had yet to make a single capture. Yet Pillsy supposedly rated him at the top of the class, and Blanning, the 'Wunderkind', below average.
'Wunderkind' was Sterner's pet name for the lad, and one he had not shared widely. He did not want the recruit to feel he had to live up to the sobriquet.
The problem, thought the High Dean, might be that Pillsy had got ahold of the wrong end of the wand when it came to the exercises. It just might be that Pillsy, who had recently rotated off of field assignment, was rating the squads as a whole instead of the individual effort. Certainly the casualty reports were different enough; the squad saddled with Weasley hardly seemed to lose anyone. All that meant was that the 'Dunderkind' was at least not hindering his fellow trainees. Sterner had watched Arthur's boy in an exercise once. He had hung back, shouting nonsense as far as Sterner could make out, and even flattened one of his own team mates with a wayward spell. Somehow, though, Pillsy had given full marks for the pathetic performance.
The exercises with Blanning were more, well, proper and correct. The exact, specified formations and spell order were used, and every procedure was followed perfectly. It was hardly Blanning's fault if his squad mates could not keep up. A recent field operative like Pillsy should appreciate a man of action, one would think.
A heavy knock at his door pulled Sterner from his reports. "Come," he called, unsealing the door with his wand.
"Auror Pasternock, High Dean sir," announced the visitor in a curt voice.
Sterner nodded. Enock 'Pasty' Pasternock was a veteran field auror, tall and thickly built. Sterner quite liked him. He was respectful and cognizant of rank from the first, and did not require reminding as so many others in the field did. Pasty used to be known as 'Knockers' until he decided one day that he did not like it. Hard to argue it with an auror of that experience, especially if the man was also known for eating anything as long as it was wrapped in a pastry crust. "Need something then, Pasty?"
"Nanda is out,sir," said Pasty. "Auror Pilates says I can take out this 'Wunderkind' of his. With your permission, of course."
Sterner nearly grinned. Pillsy was recommending the 'Wunderkind', eh? He -knew- someone had been messing with the evaluations. Probably just switched names on them - a small change was easier to protect than a wholesale one. "Reward for his hard work, hah? Granted, Pasty. Just not to anything too lively."
"Yes sir. This one's not... lively at all."
v - v - v - v - v
Section Chief, First Order, High Dean of the Training Corps Samuel H. Sterner finally closed the ledger, with more than a little unease. While the revelation by Pasty had neatly confirmed his suspicions, and the transposing of all the marks had been simple enough, it bothered Sterner, greatly, because these were official documents, that he could not work out how the changes had been made each time. There were limits to the sensitivity of the training gear that was readily available to him, since it had to account for the ham-handed (Weasley), and who knew what the Department of Mysteries could work up. But, to accomplish the feat each occasion, unnoticed and undetected by any of the aurors involved? That implied, to the High Dean, both powerful magics and, hah, conspiracy.
Unless, the thought now came to Sterner, that it was not the ink used in the writing that was altered, but the parchment. Pillsy just used the provided forms - forms provided by another department of the Ministry. That was an agenda and interference, but not, thankfully, actual conspiracy in his ranks. If those forms were enchanted to, say, rearrange the parchment when a certain name was written, then of course any spells trying to find changes made to what was written would fail, because what was written was still there. It would only appear different.
That was a promising line of inquiry, one that would be made easier to follow by a hot mug of tea and a small plate of lemon biscuits. Sterner headed for the break-room and found, to his surprise, the diligent Blanning in the hallway. "Back already, Blanning? Made short work of it, eh?" Pasty had said that the assignment was not lively, but for it to be finished already the situation had to have been trivial. A waste of the lad's talent.
"Back, High Dean sir?" asked Blanning. He held a bundle of rumpled parchment.
Perhaps, thought Sterner, Nanda had turned up after all. "Didn't Auror Pasternock take you out?"
"No, sir. Sorry, sir. Um, he did give me these reports to complete, though," said Blanning.
"Did he, now? Where is he?" Those were official paperwork and official procedures were to be followed in their filing. A guilty thought went and hid in a corner of Sterner's mind.
"Don't know, sir. He went somewhere with Weasley."
v - v - v - v - v
"Ginny! Over here!"
Ginny Weasley waved back and headed for the booth table that Hermione Granger was claiming. She sat down, looking around at the half dozen teles showing what looked to be the exact same muggle football match. The pub was not crowded at all; she was no expert, but perhaps a bit more variety might bring them in. "What is that?" she asked, pointing at the tall glass in front of the other witch.
"A gin and tonic. It's lovely."
"What's in it?" asked Ginny.
"Gin and tonic. Oh, and a bit of lemon," smiled Hermione.
"How ever did you find this place?"
"It's perfect, isn't it? Not a wizard sort of place at all, the drinks are quite reasonably priced, and it's nearly empty when there's a home match. They get a lot of away supporters coming in too, so a new face doesn't draw much attention. The banger and mash is good as well," explained Hermione. "The name, The Merlin, is what caught my eye, of course, and Swindon is convenient to both London and the Burrow."
"It's not," disagreed Ginny. "I had to take the Knight bus here, and had to go all the way up to Sunderland first because Goody Barwelt paid extra. I know the whole area around Otterly St. Catchpole, and get around London well enough near the Ministry or Diagon Alley. But Swindon?"
"Only for the first time. After that you can apparate," insisted Hermione.
"To where? The pub has streets on three sides and a car park in the back."
"I'll show you a couple of places, all right? Do you want something to drink?"
"This is because of that Abreictio by George, isn't it?" asked Ginny. She looked to the bar, which was useless because the names and logos on the tall handles were completely unfamiliar. "I don't suppose there's anything like butterbeer?"
"Try the cider," suggested the older witch. "And no, the Abreictio was only for seven leagues; we're well outside that, as it happens."
"Bet that surprised you?"
"It was dangerous, Ginny! I could have ended up anywhere outside the seven league radius. What would have happened if I had suddenly appeared in the middle of a crowd of muggles? Or a busy carriageway? I could have been in big trouble with the Ministry, or George could have."
"Where did you turn up, anyway?"
"The, er, Thames. It isn't funny! I admit I might have overreacted a little, but these sort of careless spells are a danger to us all," argued Hermione. "How are George's eyes now?"
"They're fine. Why didn't you just conjure a blanket, or grow the towel Gigi was wearing?" asked Ginny. "I say wearing. But given -that- display..."
"I said I overreacted, all right?"
"Yeah, and now you can't come within seven leagues of the git," noted Ginny. "Makes Sunday dinners at the Burrow a bit tricky."
"I don't think it will last that long," said Hermione. "I've been working on it."
"Oh? Well, you're right to keep an eye on the Mistress of the Mirk. She's ended up near starkers each time they've met now! It doesn't -seem- to be planned, but..."
"You're still worried about it being Veela magic," summarized Hermione. "From all accounts I've read, it doesn't work like that."
"Maybe she got ahold of some of that luck potion, that Felix Festive?"
"Felix Felicis? It's possible, given enough galleons, but I seriously doubt that. She was battered between the door and the dungbombs like a bludger between two beaters."
"Maybe the brewing wasn't quite right? It's got to be some kind of magic; I mean, it, um, can't really be fate?"
v - v - v - v - v
"So, you aren't going to tell him ahead of it?"
"No, I'm not bleedin' goin' to tell 'im." It was Ginny Weasley who said it, but the voice belonged to someone well into their third pint of cider. Someone who might not have realized how strong the sweet, fizzy drink was. "'S better to ask for a Reparo than, than... not, or somethin'. You can do anythin' with enough nerve."
"What about the Quibbler? I thought you were helping Luna," said Hermione. The second gin and tonic was, so far, untouched as the first was carefully nursed.
"I am. 'Hinky Horkumps - Horklumps Have Holiday in Your Melon Patch.' Mostly creature features 'cuz the Ministry's gone and hidden it's wand," replied Ginny. "'Sides, I'll be lucky to make even the practice squad for the Harpies."
"Luna has no conspiracy theories at all?"
"About Horklumps? No. I'm supposed t' meet up with a goblin-potted - goblin-spotted - goblin-spotter... flock? herd? club? Some time. They should be full of it," assured Ginny. "Them. Maybe I should switch to those gin and tonic."
"No, I don't think that would be a good idea," said Hermione quickly. "And I believe they refer to themselves as coveys. Oh, I think that's Harry."
"Wot, like a bunch of pigeons? Tha's daft."
"Quail, actually. I don't see Ron with him."
"Who?"
"Ron. I don't see him with Harry."
"Harry's here?"
"Yes, Ginny. That's why we are here - to meet up with the boys and talk about where things stand," reminded Hermione a bit sharply.
"In Swindon?"
"Away from the various minders, yes. Now smarten yourself up a bit."
"Smarten - Hermione, I'm, I'm half pissed!"
"Only half?"
"I said I wanted somethin' like butterbeer!"
"And I said to -try- the cider, not to down three pints of it straight off," scolded Hermione.
Ginny scowled, at least until she could hear footsteps. Then, she switched to a smile that only looked slightly manic. "'Lo Harry!"
"Hullo Gin, Hermione," nodded Harry, settling himself into the booth beside the redhead. He looked around.
"Where's Ron then?" asked Hermione.
"I don't know. I thought he'd be here. I was late out of practice and he wasn't at the meeting place." Seeing the face of the witch opposite darken, Harry added, "I gave Dobby a sickle to wait there, just in case."
"Worried he won't find oh-so-convenenien-convenient Swindon?" teased Ginny.
"You okay, Gin?"
"She's fine, Harry. Or, at least, not feeling any pain," dismissed the older witch. She then sighed. "The problem is that the wiz- er, that is, our world has fallen seriously behind when it comes to instant communications. Did you know, muggles have at least three ways to contact a person almost wherever they are? The beetle is a good, well, a start, but not exactly within reach of the common wiz- man. Did you really pay the full asking price, or did the twins give them to you at cost?"
"Erm, I don't know, really. I had that signing-on bonus at the time, so it didn't matter," shrugged Harry. He and Hermione shared the pair of beetles. He knew that it bothered Ginny, but Mad-Eye was probably right about security, and anything that connected Ginny to him was a risk.
"Don' tell Mum that," warned Ginny. "I think she fancies yer savin' up to get a house."
"What is that you're drinking?"
"'S not pumpkin juice!"
"I think Ron should have one as well."
"Then order one for him. But I thought aurors were firewhiskey drinkers."
"I meant that he should have a beetle too, Ginny," clarified Hermione.
"An' I should have a Firebolt."
"That isn't the same thing at all, Ginny."
"Right. 'Cuz one's an absolute stonkin' broom and the other's a bloody bug."
"Gin, please. Not so loud," urged Harry.
"It's fine, Harry," said Hermione. "The muggles might hear us, but they'll think we're whinging on about the local football team."
"Anyway, if you want my brother to turn up, just order some nosh."
v - v - v - v - v
Barkeeps, publicans, and club owners have a sort of sixth sense when it comes to patrons, particularly for such as arrive already looking like, or for, trouble. They instinctively reach for, at various times through history, the thick oak truncheon, the loaded shotgun, or the looming presence of a man named Sean. Today in the Merlin, the hand found the phone with the local authorities on speed-dial.
The cause for concern was the arrival of a tall, red-headed young man in a leather trenchcoat who, going by the stains on that coat, might just have already unleashed that anger prior. There was no emergency yet, but a prudent thumb hovered over the correct button. The agitated newcomer stalked past the bar to a booth table towards the back. Inexplicably, the owner of the poised thumb promptly lost interest in the potential calamity, and set the phone down.
The patrons occupying the table did pay attention to the new arrival; he could hardly be ignored as he abruptly punched the one with messy dark hair in the ear.
"You absolute tit! That bloody hurt!" snapped Harry Potter, rubbing his ear. He had managed to dodge most of the blow, but the seating at the booth left him trapped. "What the hell was that for?"
"For being a bloody useless layabout, that's what for!"
"Ron, sit down. Please. We're in a public -"
"What are you on about?" demanded Harry. He left off 'you bloody stupid troll' because, though he had turned to be able to fend off further blows, he could not return them.
"You bloody lot have bloody done nothing for near a bloody year! I am the -only- one -"
"That is quite enough, Ronald Weasley! Please sit down."
"Like bleeding History of Magic all morning, then utter bastards throw hexes at us, and then they want to go out on calls. Like it was bloody pudding, no less!"
"Ron, you are going to overload my charm. Sit! Down!" ordered Hermione, so forcefully that for one brief moment there might have been the head of a griffon seen in the mass of bushy hair. Harry, who was already sitting, sat some more. Ron dropped heavily into the seat next to the witch, and slouched sullenly. Until, at least, he noticed the plates. He pulled one closer.
"That's mine, Ron," warned Hermione. "That one too," she added after her paramour made for the other serving.
"Come off it - you can barely eat one, and now you're eating two... eating -for- two?!" flustered the reluctant auror.
"You are late, Ron, not me," said Hermione, while pulling both plates of bangers and mash to her. In addition to sausage and potato, there was a saute of summer squash and tomato on the side. "You can have my leftovers. Why are you late?"
"What about Ginny?"
"She's not late either. Erm, I mean, she's in the loo," replied Harry, still rubbing his ear in a peeved way.
"In the loo," repeated Ron. He looked to Hermione. "Er, shouldn't you - you know, I thought it was sort of the done thing, that girls - "
"No, not unless there is serious plotting to do. Now tell us why you are late," ordered the witch.
"Went out on a bloody call, didn't I?"
"A call. You're still a trainee, Ron. Why would they allow that?"
"I don't know. Said he wanted someone who knew what was important," answered Ron. "Everyone acted like Father Christmas had come early."
"And do you?" asked Harry.
"Do I what?"
"Know what's important?"
"No I bloody don't. I grabbed a bunch of these, but Pasty didn't think we were looking at the result of a potion." Ron reached into his robes and dropped several fat brass, shouldered tubes onto the table. He then snapped, "And neither do you, wasting time playing quidditch."
"Potion?" wondered Hermione, selecting one of the peculiar metal vials.
"Wasting time playing quidditch? Merlin, are you even hearing yourself? You took a blow to the head, didn't you?" asked Harry with exaggerated concern. "Or been Confunded. What do you think Hermione?"
"I think you're both being -"
"No, he's right." sighed Ron. "The Cannons are on pace for their best finish in a century. That's, that's important."
"Well, yes, it's a pleasant change for their supporters, not finishing at the very bottom of the table, but it's not -"
"But why couldn't I play keeper and you be the bloody double-again?" asked Ron sharply.
"Double-agent, Ron," corrected Hermione.
"Because you are ruddy awful in practices, and coaches are a bit keen on those practices. Besides, we all agreed about the prophecy. Neither can live while the other survives - more living for me means less survival for him," replied Harry. "Anyway, how would that work, me spying on myself? That'd be a bit stupid."
Hermione recognized the signs, they were not at all subtle, and pushed a plate in front of Ron. "I've finished with that one, you can have the rest if you want."
"Oh, can l? Well thank you both so bloody much for - wait, did you even eat anything?" asked Ron, explosion interrupted.
"Only the best parts, of course."
"You only ate the soggy mess -"
"The summer squash and tomato medley, which had a piquant touch of herb. And, the ends of the sausages which are the crispest parts; also the mashed potato where the butter had pooled," described Hermione. "Now, what about this call you went on?"
"Completely mental," muttered Ron looking at the substantial remains. "The middle is the best part."
"The call, Ron?"
"The bit with extra butter - yeah, all right," continued Ron.
"This is what's important, is it?" gibed Harry. He had quit rubbing his ear because no one appeared to care.
"Wot?"
"You were going to tell us about the call. When your mouth is empty, please," hinted Hermione.
"Well that's it, then. Might as well get something from the bar, or maybe do a little shopping," said the Chosen One with a roll of his eyes.
"By the way, Harry, not all us believe your interpretation of the prophecy, which is not so much an interpretation as it is a blatant rationalization for something you and Ron wanted to have happen."
v - v - v - v - v
"What'd I miss?" asked the young female Weasley cheerfully. She slid onto the bench seat next to Harry.
"Ron getting two entire sausages into his mouth at once," informed Harry. "Erm, why the gloves?" Ginny now wore a pair of white gloves that reached past her elbows.
"That was my childhood, Harry. And the gloves are because the twins just can't ever leave well enough alone," complained Ginny. "Their So-Bored-Now potion is a smash hit, but now where the discolouration ends up is random."
"It shouldn't be - I paid extra for that dose," said Hermione. "It's guaranteed."
"Yeah, but all they'll refund is the difference in price between it and the bog standard version. I don't think the twins even care about that if it results in some mischief," sighed Ginny, looking at her gloved hands.
"Hmmph," sniffed Hermione unhappily. "Well done on the transfiguring, though."
"Oh, er, it isn't. All I could manage under the circumstances was a sticking charm and toilet tissue. And a bit of a glamour at the end," admitted Ginny. "Let me tell you, a three foot long tongue is no picnic in a public toilet. It, it isn't funny Harry!"
Booth tables, thought the Boy-Who-Lived, are what is known as tactically unfavorable ground. Moody would have had a good shout about about it, without actually explaining how to avoid it. The brass vial that Ginny had thrown bounced off of his forehead and tinkled across the floor. Probably no new scar.
"Oy! That's Ministry evidence, that is!" declared Ron.
"Evidence of what, though?" asked Hermione.
"Well it, um - I don't know. I mean, exactly and all. Oh Merlin, the muggles have it. If there's any potion left in it…"
"I really don't think these were for potions," started Hermione. She put the one she had been examining back on the table. "It sort of looks like -"
"Get it back, Ginny. The bloody High Dean is enough of a Snape already."
"What? Why -"
"You did throw it, Gin," reminded Harry, not mentioning whom she had thrown it at.
The red-headed witch got up with a huff and headed for the two men puzzling over the shiny object.
"What was the call you out on about, Ron? Was it dangerous?" queried Hermione.
"Not by the time we got there. Blimey, the whole family was murdered, though. The place was a bloody mess," replied Ron. "Liter'ly. Remember that piercing curse that berk Bit Stupid used on the centaurs? Same thing, only it seemed like it was the only spell the nutter who did it knew."
"So, er, so the, the stain on your robe…?"
"I slipped stepping over the dad."
"Was it Death Eaters, you think?" asked Harry. Hermione had turned a bit green. so he slid over to sit across from his best mate, just in case.
"Dunno - no Dark Mark if that's what you mean. Auror Pasty didn't have a history on them, you know, the family. Seemed like ordinary folks."
"Mmm," hummed Harry, half distracted by the growing group around his girlfriend. He was not worried, yet. He wondered if what Ginny had done for his scar had worn off or not. He had not felt anything, and Ginny had not said anything. She would tell him straight away, wouldn't she? "Where was this?"
"In Wales, near some place with too many l's and the y in the wrong spot. The house was pretty lonely, set back into a wood."
"Auror... Pasty?"
"Pasternock, but that's what he said to call him. You all right, 'Mione?"
"Why didn't you clean off your robe, Ron? You were walking around in public? Like that?"
"Don't need to. Self-cleaning charms, yeah?" shrugged Ron. "It's nearly gone now."
"It - it was worse?"
"Bloody mess. I did say."
"You said nutter. There was only one killer? How do you know?" asked Harry. Ginny was disengaging herself, finally, from her new admirers at the bar.
"Only one set of footprints. Er, 'til we got there."
"Only one set of footprints left behind. If there were others involved they might have been a bit more careful," Hermione pointed out. "Why doesn't this bother you more?"
"Just get used to it, being around Harry."
"What?" asked Harry as he stood to allow Ginny the tactically poor ground of the inner seat.
"I meant after Bellatrix and Wormtail."
"Helps if you don't think about it, or, in Ron's case, at all," sniped Ginny. "This is a shell casing from a Browning Ma Deuce, according to the bloke with the bum leg. And no, I don't know what that means."
"I thought it looked a little familiar. I saw some shells for my uncle's rifle once, but these… I can get my whole thumb in it." trailed Hermione.
"They're fifty cal, er, rounds, if that helps," added Ginny. "I think that's each."
"So, a muggle did it?" wondered Harry. That did not sound right.
"Not alone," insisted Hermione. "It may have been meant to look like muggles did it."
"Ma Deuce - hey, that's French, right? We can get the midget, er, Gigi to find out about it!" realized Ron.
"Deuce isn't French," corrected Hermione.
"Sure it is. What's she always saying? 'Oh mon deuce.'"
"It's 'Oh mon Dieu,' which means 'Oh my God.'"
"Well, maybe she's got more than one. Deuce."
"That would be 'Oh mes dieux," explained Hermione. "Deuce means two."
"See? More than one."
"Oh, shut up, Ron."
"Fred's the one for muggle weapons, if he wasn't being such a git," advised Ginny. "You'll have to ask him, though, since he's too much of an idiot for me these days."
"I can hardly get away as it is, with the bloody High Dean always sniffing around. That bastard's just waiting for his chance."
"Yes, well, unfortunately, it may be a few days before I can get to Diagon Alley. No more than a week, I'm certain," admitted Hermione. Harry gave her a curious look, but did not say anything. It went without saying that things between he and Fred were a bit sticky.
"It's back to Gigi, then. I'll tell her that Hermione needs to know, and to ask George, who'll ask Verity to ask Fred," decided Ginny. "The Mistress of Mirk will have that owl of hers on its way so fast it'll lose feathers."
"The what?"