Chapter Seven: The McLaggens
The following weekend Harry made his way to the Wasp Hive, home to the Wimbourne Wasps. A remote stadium built on the rugged Jurassic Coast, the precarious southernmost stand overhung the eroded cliff-edge and loomed over the waves below, held up by no more than a series of rock stacks.
It was in this section that Harry awaited his guests, having bought out an entire bench. He had travelled early out of an abundance of caution and, if he were honest, a good dose of excitement for the game to come. Not even the weight of Voldemort's soul could overcome his natural love for Quidditch: the speed, the violence, the dramatic twists and turns. It was something truly his own, something Voldemort had never experienced, and he cherished it all the more for it.
A carnival atmosphere greeted him. Drums were beating, flags waving, and fans singing as the stadium rapidly filled its capacity of three thousand. With a dedicated bar in each stand, the crowd only grew more raucous as the drink flowed. With the benefit of Sonorus Charms, the noise in the stadium was deafening, and Harry surreptitiously cast a Lip-Reading Charm around his bench, one that would allow him to understand his guests without needing to overcome the noise.
His attendance had not gone unnoticed. He was not in disguise, since he was meeting the McLaggens, and the sight of Harry Potter in the midst of the crowd attracted many pointed fingers and stares. Luckily, none approached him directly—none except the Wasps' manager, who came with a photographer to shake his hand, drape a Wimbourne scarf around his shoulders, and take photos for a press release.
Harry made no objection. It would be useful to be seen for something unrelated to Voldemort or politics, and having a known enthusiasm for Quidditch would increase his popularity with the common wizard. For whatever absurd reason, the people preferred to be ruled by those they considered relatable, a ridiculous notion but one he would be forced to indulge if he wished to remain in public favour.
Fame was not without its benefits, however. The manager gave instructions to the bar staff that Harry and his guests should not be left wanting for anything, and by the time the McLaggens arrived, large metal tankards of ale awaited them.
Cormac was ecstatic as Harry shoved a drink into his meaty hands. "Potter! You absolute legend! Here, let's get the introductions out the way…"
He introduced Harry to a small army of burly young men. There was Cameron, his oldest brother, bearded and beer-bellied, then square-jawed Carter, his cousin, and Cyrus, a nephew who must have been several years below Harry at Hogwarts. More followed, and Harry welcomed each with a firm hand shake, committing their names to memory, but all his attention was on the man at their rear.
"And course, this is Uncle Tiberius," Cormac said at last, after the multitude of cousins had filtered past to take their seats on the bench. Despite Cormac's informal mode of address, Lord Tiberius McLaggen was actually his great-great-uncle, the patriarch of the family and a contemporary of Tom Riddle. His face was lined, his hair gone to grey, but there was still a steely strength to him.
Tiberius greeted him with an outstretched hand and a speculative gleam to his blue eyes. "Harry Potter, a pleasure."
"The pleasure is mine, Tiberius," Harry responded, deliberately adopting Cormac's familiarity and dispensing with the man's proper title. It would not do to adopt an overly deferential tone with a man he intended to call his partner. "I hope you're well?"
"Quite well, thank you."
Tiberius took a seat to Harry's right, with Cormac to his left, and they exchanged empty pleasantries—the weather, his journey to the stadium, the match to come. There would be no talking business during the Quidditch, and even the most oblique reference to politics would have been a grave error. One did not simply get into bed with strangers; Harry first had to assure Tiberius he was the right sort before he could even think about broaching talk of the Wizengamot.
The drink flowed freely as they talked, and knowing the McLaggens to be a brash and rowdy lot, Harry made sure that they saw him drinking plentiful quantities of ale—big drinkers always warmed to those they perceived as their fellows. Of course, he did not tell them that he was wandlessly vanishing the liquid before it even hit his stomach—a skill he had initially developed to deal with the risk of veritaserum, but equally apt for this task. Intoxication would not serve him here.
Soon enough, the match was underway, and Harry found his attention naturally absorbed as he tracked the fast-paced action. The Wimbourne Wasps were known as an aggressively physical team, their two beaters widely considered the best in the league, and once their chasers held the Quaffle it was unlikely they would be dispossessed. The Appleby Arrows were forced to rely on speed and agility to counter the relentless assault—interception was their greatest weapon, but even so their Keeper was forced to hold back a relentless series of shots on the hoops.
It was soon clear the Appleby would be placing all their hopes in a quick catch by their star seeker, Gregory Cotton.
"Knut for a seeker's thoughts?" Cormac asked with a nudge. "How do you rate Cotton?"
"He moves well," Harry said, keeping his eye on the seeker high above. "A classic Denisovsky search pattern. But it's a bit safe. A professional league snitch will have learnt the pattern years ago and figured out how to hide from it. It's too traditional for a fast catch."
Tiberius raised an eyebrow. "A confident analysis from one so young. Perhaps the Arrows, as professionals, know something that you do not."
Harry sensed that they might be talking about more than Quidditch. "Perhaps you're right," he admitted. An elder like Tiberius would not appreciate overconfidence in a youth. "But I like to think I know what I'm doing. Either way, we shall soon find out—the proof of the pudding is in the eating, after all."
"You're too modest, Potter," Cormac added. He turned to Tiberius. "Harry here is probably the best seeker Hogwarts has seen in decades."
"Is that so?" Tiberius mused. "Well, if you're so confident, perhaps a wager? Twenty galleons says Cotton gets the snitch before Wimbourne lead by one-fifty."
A test of resolve.
"Deal," Harry said, and they shook on it. He turned back to Cormac, and a flash of legilimency told him the boy was a Keeper. "And what about you, Cormac? As a Keeper, what's your expert evaluation of Janvier?"
Cormac puffed up under his attention. "He's the best in the league. You might have seen him in the world cup, a couple years back—he was France's only properly good player, single-handedly got them into the Quarters. Appleby's not getting anything past him."
At that very moment, two Appleby Chasers managed to execute a perfect one-two that left Janvier stranded at one end of the hoops, hopeless to prevent the Quaffle from sailing into the opposite goal.
"APPLEBY SCORES!" cried the commentator, and the Appleby end roared in approval, jumping for joy at the unexpected turn of play. A wave of fireworks shot out of the crowd, exploding just above the players in the form of giant silver arrows.
Cormac's face turned an interesting shade of red.
"An aberration, no doubt," Harry said, slapping him on the back in an attempt at laddish camaraderie. "The only goal we'll allow them."
But it was not to be so. Appleby were suddenly resurgent, dominating the game with quick ball-handling. Allowing a single goal had knocked Wimbourne's confidence, forcing them to play more cautiously, but Wimbourne's strength was aggression; caution suited the more technical Appleby chasers.
Appleby goals followed one after another. With each success, their supporters became more vocal, jeering at the Wimbourne home crowd, singing lewd chants and setting off ever-larger fireworks.
"APPLEBY SCORES!" the commentator shouted again, after another impressive goal. "WE'RE BACK WHERE WE STARTED, FOLKS. ALL LEVEL AT SIXTY-SIXTY!"
At this declaration, the ecstatic Appleby supporters unveiled their pièce de resistance, hundreds of them raising their wands aloft. High above, clouds unfolded from the clear blue summer sky, casting shadow on the pitch below. The wands moved as one, twirling and sweeping in a collective transfiguration as the newly-formed clouds shifted into the shape of a great bow and a swarm of buzzing wasps.
Cormac's face twisted with annoyance. "Oh, for fuck's sake! They're not even in the lead!"
The Appleby supporters didn't care. As Harry watched, the cloud-bow began to fire silver arrows at the wasps, shooting them down with pinpoint accuracy. It was quite a neat piece of magic.
Tiberius smirked. "How unfortunate. It seems your bet was unwise, Harry. At this rate, Wimbourne may not lead at all by the time Cotton takes the snitch."
Harry suppressed his irritation. He did not care a whit about Wimbourne—he was only pretending to support them, after all—but losing was something he greatly disliked, no matter the context.
"Perhaps, Tiberius," he said, standing up from the bench. "But our fate is within our own hands, if we have but the courage to act."
Now it was Harry's turn to raise his wand aloft. Alone in the Wimbourne crowd, a single figure indiscernible amidst the mass of supporters, he pointed his wand at the clouds above, and drew up his power, and when he spoke, his words carried above the cheers and calls of the stadium.
"Vespaebula Conjurus!"
The pitch darkened. Greater clouds unfurled in the sky, larger than those conjured by the Appleby crowd, dwarfing their magic in size. Excited chattering broke out among the Wimbourne supporters, and they pointed and cheered as Harry's clouds responded to his magic, taking the form of a hundred giant wasps, angry and armoured.
"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!" the commentator cried. "BY JOVE! IS THAT HARRY POTTER?"
Harry wasn't finished. His wand curved through the air like a conductor at a concert, the entire crowd craning their necks for a view of him.
"Oppugno!"
The wasps darted towards Appleby's bow. Arrows fired frantically, the Appleby supporters trying to strike down Harry's conjurations. With each arrow, he felt the pressing opposition of a hundred wizards' magic, but his will was steel, his magic an ocean, and even the collective power of the Appleby supporters was for naught against him. His wasps swept through the bow, tearing the conjuration to shreds, and cries of dismay went up from the other end of the pitch—matched only by the cheering of the Wimbourne crowd.
Not yet satisfied, Harry swept his wand downwards, and immediately the cloud-wasps began to dive bomb the pitch, moving with a speed which belied their insubstantial nature. The Appleby players were forced to dodge and swerve around the wasps as they fell like rain, and a great cry of protest went up from the Appleby supporters, but no whistle was blown. The referee was allowing play to continue.
The Wimbourne chasers took advantage of the chaos to score twice.
Harry sat back down. Cormac and the other McLaggen brothers were gazing at him with awe, and many others around them mirrored their expressions, but Harry's eyes were only for Tiberius.
"Intriguing," Tiberius said. "Most intriguing. Well, Mr Potter, you have my attention."
After that, the match was an easy win. With the crowd behind them, and encouraged by their two goals, the Wimbourne Chasers recovered their previous momentum, and the points rolled in. By the time Cotton caught the snitch for Appleby, Wimbourne had achieved a commanding lead.
The referee blew his whistle.
"WIMBOURNE WIN!" the commentator declared. "ANOTHER VICTORY FOR THE WASPS!"
The Wimbourne crowd roared with approval. Fireworks shot into the air, wave after wave of them, coming not from the crowd but from the rafters of the stadium itself, and they detonated in a great ring in the sky.
And then large parts of the celebrating crowd started to leap off the edge of the stadium. They plummeted a hundred feet through the air, arms and legs flailing, some of them still attempting to drink from flagons as they fell, plunging past the rock stacks and down into the roiling waters below. Group after group jumped, hundreds in total, and the remaining crowd cheered as they went.
"The Wimbourne Wave!" Cormac cried, his eyes alight with victory. "Come on!"
He tugged at Harry to follow him; the other McClaggens were already rushing up the bleachers to the stadium's edge. Harry looked to Tiberius.
"Go," Tiberius said, amusement in his eyes. "It is the privilege of the young to do foolish things. I will see you later for dinner."
Harry suppressed a grimace. He had no desire to jump into the cold sea, but this, it seemed, was another sacrifice he must make. He allowed Cormac to pull him to the edge.
"On three!" Cormac called, and his arm was around Harry's shoulders like a vice. "Ready? One! Two!"
He jumped on two.
A long and tiresome afternoon followed. Once the McLaggens had clambered out of the sea, they insisted on dragging Harry through every pub in Wimbourne. The town was heaving with wizards, a breach of the Statute of Secrecy occurring on every street corner, but the heavily-obliviated Muggle townspeople took the disturbance in their stride, believing the town to be home to a community of amateur water-polo enthusiasts.
With so many wizards around town, it was impossible for Harry to keep a low profile. Every Wimbourne fan wanted to buy him a drink the moment they saw him, and Harry was forced to consume a volume of alcohol which surely would have killed him if not for his vanishing trick.
As it was, the McLaggens were somewhat the worse for wear by the time they reconvened for dinner at a high end London restaurant. Tiberius was waiting for them in a private room, sitting at the head of a long dining table. Harry took the seat to his left; Cormac to his right.
Conversation came easily as the boys related the details of their afternoon to Tiberius. But as their starters arrived, Harry began to monopolise Tiberius' attention, drawing him away from the trivial conversation of his grandsons and nephews.
"I believe you enjoyed a long career at the bar, before retirement," Harry began. "You must have quite the collection of war stories."
Tiberius smiled. "Oh, like you wouldn't believe. But I'm not sure they would be of interest to a youth…"
Harry shook his head. "Please, go on."
"Well, if you insist. Let's see… hmm. It was not the most valuable case—far from it—but my personal favourite was a curious dispute between a dragon reserve and an apothecary. The matter concerned a contact for the supply of dragon blood. For a time, all was well, and the reserve dutifully supplied the apothecary with blood on a monthly basis. But then there was a dragon pox outbreak, resulting in a decline in dragon populations. Suddenly the price of dragon blood went up, and the reserve wanted to escape its contract so it could take advantage of the higher prices.
"In the event, the reserve settled upon an argument that the contract was never concluded in the first place. I was instructed by the apothecary to insist that the contract remain in place. Naturally, we had to investigate how the contract came to be. I shan't bore you with the long exchange of letters back and forth as terms were negotiated. The key thing was this: eventually, terms seemed to have been agreed. There was a meeting of minds. Then, at the last moment, the apothecary sent a further counter-offer, one that increased the minimum grade of blood required. The reserve only sent a single response: a jinxed letter which grew a fist and punched the gentleman at the apothecary in the face."
Harry laughed. "But surely that was it? If they never agreed the terms, there was no contract."
"So you might think!" Tiberius cried, his eyes lighting up at Harry's apparent interest. "But it was for me to argue that indeed, in the right context, a jinx could constitute acceptance of a contract." He chuckled. "Quite the novel point of law, I think you will appreciate. But the crucial point was that after sending that letter, the reserve had indeed started supplying dragon blood to the apothecary, and the apothecary properly paid for those deliveries. In that context, I argued—and the Council of Commerce agreed—that the proper interpretation of the jinx was that it communicated a reluctant acceptance of the revised terms put forward by the apothecary."
"Quite the feather in your cap," Harry said. "I must take care over whom I jinx, lest I agree to a contract."
Tiberius guffawed. "Just so!"
More stories followed as dinner progressed to the main course. When an erumpent horn had exploded in a South African port, Tiberius had defended the owner of the horn. A few years later, he had been hired to pursue claims against a hedge fund following the collapse of a scheme to use an illegal time-turner to send investments into the past. And in the fallout of the war, he had acted in a string of cases where businesses alleged they had been forced into unfavourable contracts under duress from Death Eaters.
Harry was by no means a lawyer, but he had picked up a smattering of magical law over his many years rubbing shoulders with purebloods, enough to find Tiberius' tales genuinely engaging. But eventually he decided he had been patient enough; now was the time to broach the erumpent in the room.
"You'll forgive me for being blunt," he said, looking Tiberius in the eye. "It is clear you have considerable experience of how our world works. In just a few weeks, the Wizengamot will be voting to recommend an Interim Minister. Do you intend to put yourself forward?"
"Not at present," Tiberius said, taking a sip of wine. "It's true, I am a somewhat influential person, and not only because of my work at the bar. After retirement, I was appointed to the Floo Office Impropriety Inquiry, which got me a fair number of headlines, if I say so myself. And I currently sit as a non-executive director for the Nimbus Corporation and trustee for Saint Mungo's Hospital. Naturally, I've developed many contacts within various Ministries, and have particularly strong connections with the Departments of Health and Transport. I am, by any measure, a safe pair of hands."
Harry nodded. "But…?"
"But I know my limits, Mr Potter. If I were to run, I would lose. The position will go to Travers or Bones, and everyone knows it."
Harry sighed. Therein lay the problem. "And who do you think it will be?"
"Travers," Tiberius said firmly. "Bones is greater as a witch, to be sure. But that won't be enough to get her over the line. Her coalition of support is too fragmented. She must balance the interests of Dumbledore's reformers with her Ministry allies, and the two groups detest each other. Meanwhile, Travers only has to keep one group happy—the traditionalists. And that is not even considering their respective patrons."
"Dumbledore and the Dark Lord."
"Of course. To be frank, the Dark Lord is far more willing to get his hands dirty to secure victory. I don't fancy Amelia's chances."
"And so we will end up with a Minister sympathetic to the Dark Lord," Harry said. "A grim prospect, to be sure. If only there was someone else. A figure who could take votes from both Travers' traditionalists and Bones' Ministry allies. A centrist who exposes Dumbledore and the Dark Lord for the extremists they are."
Tiberius gave him a wry smile. "If only. But Dumbledore and the Dark Lord are the true powers in this land. To stand against their candidates, one would need a patron of equal standing."
"Indeed," Harry said. He took a sip of wine, allowing this one to settle in his stomach. He always had been partial to a good red. "But let us not be coy. Such patronage is exactly why I am here."
There was a moment of silence; a pause as the conversation shifted. When Tiberius next spoke, it was with a curious, musing tone—he was not dismissing the idea completely out of hand.
"I appreciate the directness," Tiberius said. "And you certainly do not lack for confidence, to place yourself as a peer of such great men. Arrogance, I would call it, were it not for your stunt during the Quidditch. Which is obviously why you did it. But you are young still, not yet out of Hogwarts, and your would-be rivals are established powers. Even if you might match them with a wand, you are an underdog. Why should I attach myself to you?"
"That depends on you, I suppose," Harry said. "It is a question of ambition. If you are happy to remain where you are, then it is better to do nothing. Endure and adapt to the new world, whatever shape it may take. You will remain a respected figure. But you will never taste true power, and the history books will not record your name. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride."
Tiberius' eyes flashed; Harry could tell he had his attention.
"Let us say that you want more," he continued. "If that is the case, then you shall need to take a risk. Your evaluation is entirely correct. I am the underdog in this contest. But with the greatest risk comes the greatest reward. I offer you nothing less than the position of Minister for Magic, the highest office in our land."
"An office which would put a target on my back," Tiberius said.
"True. But, forgive me, you are already an elder statesman. You have lived a full life, with many accomplishments, and even more heirs. If there was ever a time to take a risk, it is now, in the twilight of your years."
Tiberius chuckled. "I'm old, so I might as well pop my clogs? That's your pitch?"
"All men must die," Harry said, though he knew it to be a lie. "It is time now to think of your legacy. Will you be Tiberius McLaggen the barrister? Or Minister McLaggen?"
"I confess, I do like the sound of that," Tiberius said. "But let us not pretend you are offering me a gift. This is a transaction. What is the cost? What is it you want?"
Harry shrugged. "The Dark Lord wants me dead. Dumbledore, if given the choice, would have me pacified and feeble. What I want is a Ministry that is beholden to neither of them. A strong Ministry, lead by a strong man with true independence."
Tiberius snorted. "You place too much faith in the Ministry. Even without Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, it has its own dysfunctions."
"No doubt," Harry said. "Believe me, after the last year, I am under no illusions as regards the Ministry's virtue. For all the objections to Dumbledore's solutions, his diagnosis is not wrong. The Ministry is in need of reform. But I leave such weighty matters to wiser men with greater experience." He lifted his wine glass in a toast to Tiberius. "No, reform is not my concern. I am more interested in the immediate threats to stability."
Conversation lapsed for a time as they finished their mains. It was clear Tiberius was thinking, and Harry had no intention to rush him. Only when dessert was served did Tiberius respond.
"So it will be spheres of influence, then. I take your advice upon matters concerning the Dark Lord and Dumbledore. And in turn, you take my advice on all other matters of general policy."
"In essence, yes."
"I am not opposed in principle," Tiberius said at last. Deep satisfaction filled Harry; progress at last. "But let us not be hasty. We have only just met."
Harry suppressed his irritation. "The vote is in a matter of weeks. We do not have a great deal of time to waste."
"I am aware," Tiberius said. "But you must appreciate my reticence. There is something inherently absurd about this—a teenage boy wishing to play kingmaker. It is only because of your popularity and obvious power that I am entertaining it. But words are cheap. I am still to get the measure of you. Do you really have the commitment and discipline to see this through?"
"I assure you, I do," Harry responded. "For me, this is a matter of life or death."
"Hrm. I should like you to prove it."
"I see." Harry smirked. This was not about proving himself at all. "You have a problem."
Tiberius coughed. "It is a small matter. A dossier of documents which might cause embarrassment. If I am to stand for Interim Minister, those documents will need to… disappear."
"And who precisely holds this dossier?"
"Anastasia Volkova."
Harry raised his eyebrows. It was a name that had been whispered carefully even in Grindelwald's time.
"I know of her," he said. "This is not such a small matter."
"Perhaps not," Tiberius said. "But if you are to be my patron, you must prove yourself Peerless."
"Very well. Where is Miss Volkova to be found, these days?"
"I'm surprised you don't know," Tiberius said. "The young people consider it the place to be. An establishment known as the Undercroft." He paused. "To enter, you will need a date."