Make A Wish: The Legend of Mister Black
Original Story by Rorschach's Blot
Rewritten by CassieAsterisk
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter or any related properties. If I did, I like to think I'd be a bit more careful about what I say on social networks.
This is a REWRITE of the excellent story by Rorschach's Blot, readable right here on FFN. I started this as a bit of creative writing practice and found that I quite liked the result; so after asking the almighty Blot themselves for permission, I decided to cast my doggerel into the sea of the Internet for others to enjoy. If the Blot or others tell me I can no longer do so, then I shall stop.
That being said... enjoy!
Chapter 3: Arbor, Art and Awards
It was a short trip to Jodenbreestraat, and to Harry's next stop- the Rembrandt House Museum. With every step closer he took, his mood brightened with excitement.
It wasn't something he admitted openly, but Harry had a great love of art in general. Being locked in a cupboard for much of his childhood had, by necessity, strengthened his imagination; it was that, or go mad from the isolation and cruelty. He would sit back on the threadbare mattress in that cramped space and allow his mind to wander free where his body couldn't. It was magic before he knew magic even existed.
It was this that he respected about art, and artists, more than anything; an artist's ability to capture those dream worlds in real life with only a few paints and a canvas. It was a magic that only Muggles could truly wield.
And now he was standing in what once was the house of one of the greats, and his heart felt fit to burst from his chest.
He had to force himself to hurry through the museum, but he took the time to marvel at the sights of the house; just being able to see the easel at which Rembrandt worked, the bed in which he slept and died, was a privilege that Harry felt immensely grateful for.
It was an experience he repeated almost eight times that afternoon, and his only regret was that his inevitable conflict with Voldemort would deprive him of the chance to re-visit any of them.
As he returned to his hotel, his thoughts were contemplative of the differences between magical paintings and Muggle, and a realisation came to him.
For all their fancy movement and communication abilities, magical paintings were just… a daub of paint and a bit of magic, a soulless imitation of whatever they depicted. True art was what he'd witnessed today; pieces that managed to convey the soul of their maker with every brush stroke. It was magic such as magic itself could only dream of achieving; a crayon scribble compared to the Mona Lisa.
"Amateurs," Harry couldn't help but mutter to himself as he boarded the lift to go up to his room, intent on a nice relaxing bath.
The two Staatstovenaars in the lobby that were surveiling him using long range microphones, however, were very much not relaxed after picking up the odd wizard's comment. In fact, they almost had heart attacks. Looking at each other with wide eyes of surprise and not a little respect, the two officers Apparated back to their precinct to give their reports on Mister Black.
Almost as soon as they'd touched down in the bullpen, they noticed the entire department seemed to be leaning in and listening intently. Evidently, Mister Black had left quite the impact with his feat earlier; especially with the report that Van der Mijer gave.
The silence was broken by the voice of their supervisor, Wieland.
"Peters, Jansen, report," he commanded.
"Well, what do you want to know first, Wieland?" the first of the two- Staatstovenaar Mark Peters- asked of his boss.
"Give me a general overview of his movements over the day," Wieland clarified.
"Mostly, he spent his time in galleries and museums. Seemed to focus on the arts more than anything."
"Did he notice the tail on him?" the supervisor wondered.
"I want to say he didn't, Wieland, but after what just happened, I'm not so sure," Jansen piped up nervously as Mark tried to gather his thoughts.
Wieland raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Well, as we were in the lobby of his hotel, we saw him shake his head, smirk a bit, and mutter the word 'amateurs' under his breath," Peters explained. "The whole manner in which he did it struck me as… well, intentional. Like he knew we could hear him."
"And given what we've speculated from his actions and the report he gave to van der Mijer," Jansen added, "I reckon he was aware of the surveillance from the start."
"Even with the non-magical gear?" Wieland asked in shock. Figuring that any magical method would be detected, defeated and only really serve to piss the enigmatic wizard off, they'd broken out the microphones in order to listen in.
Evidently, not even this was enough. "Was that the only indication you received?"
"The only blatant one," Peters said. "But he spent a fair bit of time window shopping… and now I'm not so sure he was looking at the items. More likely he was using the reflection of the glass to keep an eye on us."
"Agreed," Wieland nodded, rubbing his eyes. "This is no blemish on your record, you two. If this was your average suspect I dare say they wouldn't have spotted either of you."
"We knew he was good," Peters responded. "And now we have at least an inkling of just how good."
"Stings a bit, though," Jansen groused. "We were so busy watching him that we never even noticed he was watching us."
"No shame in being beaten by the best, boys," Wieland said, folding his arms. "And if this Mister Black lives up to the skill he's shown so far, we're lucky he even gave you leave to try."
Harry was in high spirits as he awoke nice and early the next morning. The visits to the museums and art galleries yesterday had given his subconscious plenty to work with, his dreams being rather more pleasant than the nightmares he'd been plagued with up to now.
Dressing and leaving the hotel, he navigated the maze of alleys that was the entrance to the Kalverstraat magical section, his senses assaulted by a storm of scents, sights and sounds. It was certainly an interesting sensation, but it didn't do much for his sense of direction. He gave up the idea of finding anything without at least a map, and walked into the nearest shop intent on asking for some advice.
"Hello, can I assist you?" an idle shopkeeper said, perking up as Harry came in.
"Er, yes," Harry said uncertainly. "I was hoping to visit the tulip fields in the north of the country. Is there a store that does Portkeys there and back, somewhere around here?"
"Ah," the woman smiled. "You want Floral Tours. Two doors up, just head in and tell the man behind the counter what you need and he'll set something up. Oh, while you're here…" She held out her hand to indicate a display, and Harry realised what kind of shop this was- a photography shop!
"Have you any interest in a camera?" the assistant asked. "You don't seem to have one with you, and I reckon you could use one if you're heading to the fields. Beautiful sights, there."
The assistant made some good points, Harry mused. The experience was the important thing, but a memento wouldn't go amiss. Besides, it wasn't like he couldn't afford it, and it was only polite to return the favour to the helpful woman.
"Sure," he said. "Do you have any recommendation?"
"Well, any recommendation I make would depend on your use-case," the woman explained. "We have a wide variety, from ten Guldens up."
"Hmm," Harry grunted, trying to think of a way to explain his tendency to stumble across trouble. "I suppose durability is my number one concern; I tend to… do a lot of physical activities." Dodging Killing Curses and regularly fighting Dark Lords counts as physical activity, right?
"Uh-huh," the assistant said, scribbling on a small notepad. "Anything else?"
"Something small and self sufficient would be nice too, not needing film or regular maintenance," Harry listed. Sure, his bag had near limitless room, but reaching in to grab his camera every time he wanted a picture would get boring pretty fast.
"OK," the assistant confirmed. After a moment's thought, she smiled. "I think I have just the thing. I have to warn you, though, it's a tad expensive."
"If it's good, I'm sure it'll be worth every Gulden," Harry reassured. "Tell me about it."
"I'll do you one better and show it to you," the assistant smiled, as she pulled a box off the shelf nearby. Inside the unassuming box was a similarly unassuming rectangle of metal, with leather padding around the sides.
"This is the Magichrome SX-70," she said, indicating the small badge on the edge of rhe rectangle. "Doesn't look like much, I know, but watch…"
She ran a finger across the badge, and the camera sprang to life, expanding upwards, panels shifting around to form a much more conventional camera shape.
"It's based off a non-magical design, but with some extra features to really improve its versatility," she explained. "Fits your durability requirement; it can function in any environment you care to name, and even if you do manage to scratch the surface, it has a self repair for physical issues and a three-century warranty for magical. First Wizard to reach the bottom of the Mariana Trench took one of these with him."
"Wow," Harry gasped, and meant it."Anything else?"
"A couple other features," the assistant continued. "As you saw before, it can compact itself to pocket size and it can print its own photos. Would you believe those were features even before Magichrome made any magical modifications? Those non-magicals really know their stuff."
Harry nodded. He was glad that magical Britain's disdain for muggle methods didn't apply to other countries.
"And finally, no film needed," the shopkeep announced. "See that hatch? You can jam anything in there and it will auto-transfigure it into usable film. Only one caveat…"
"What's that?" Harry asked, amazed that there was any downside to this amazing bit of kit at all.
"The film it produces tends to smell of whatever you used to create it; a bug in the transfiguration spell that Magichrome couldn't fix."
Harry giggled. "That's it? Well, I dare say that won't be a problem unless I need a picture and the only available material is manure or something," he joked, reaching for his wallet and giving it the requisite three taps. "I'll take it."
Bidding the friendly assistant farewell, Harry pocketed his new camera and walked up to the store that she had described. In retrospect, he now knew how he'd missed it the first time; the place was festooned with so many flower arrangements that it resembled more a florist's than a travel agency.
"Hello?" he called as he entered.
"Ah, yes?" a confused looking man said as his head popped up from behind the counter. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you could set me up with a portkey to the tulip fields," Harry explained.
"Ah," the man said, smiling. "We can indeed. Were you planning to go alone or as part of a tour?"
"Just alone," Harry replied.
"Probably for the best," the man admitted. "Last tour just left and the next one isn't for a couple hours. Return trip, I'm guessing?"
"Yes, please," Harry confirmed.
"Alright, here you are," the man said, handing Harry a card with a picture of a tulip. "Tap it with your wand to activate, then say 'Tulip' to leave. When you want to come back, tap again and say 'Kalverstraat'."
"Simple enough," Harry said, as he paid the man a Gulden. "Thanks."
He stepped outside and with a word, he disappeared to the north.
Stumbling as the Portkey deposited him, Harry found himself on a hill, with a truly breathtaking view of several tulip fields. It was a sea of floral beauty below a bright blue sky, with Holland's trademark windmills here and there spinning in the gentle breeze.
Whipping out his camera, Harry took several experimental photos, and was gratified to see that the camera printed clear, vivid copies of each picture barely a second or two after they were taken; definitely worth the money, he thought in satisfaction. He took a deep breath, enjoying the flowers' scent on the air.
He supposed that other people would find it odd that a boy of his age would spend his time visiting museums, admiring art, and taking pictures of flowers. But then, not many other people of Harry's age had seen- or suffered- as much as he, nor did they have the weight of certain death upon their shoulders. After some of the horrors he'd witnessed in his short life, he figured that he was entitled to some beauty in equal measure now and then.
Standing just off the centre of the hill (in case someone else came in on a Portkey), Harry spent an indeterminate amount of time just basking in the beauty and freedom, before deciding to walk down and take a closer look at the flowers.
Strolling across the path through the tulips, it wasn't long before Harry's Seeker senses drew his attention to one tulip in particular, which danced in a rather unnatural manner. Curious, Harry walked over to look inside the flower, expecting to see a fat bumblebee or something; there were a good few of them about.
That wasn't what he saw, however.
Inside the flower was a strange creature running about; it hadn't noticed Harry's approach, and seemed to be moving erratically of its own volition. It was a weird kind of mix between a guinea pig and a dormouse; and on its forehead sat a stubby, irregular horn, looking like a party hat that had been squashed and crumpled.
Smiling at the little critter's antics, Harry decided that now was a good time to test the zoom capabilities of his camera, and took a good amount of photos. The stabilization was great; none of the photos came out blurry, the critter's features captured in perfect detail even as it scampered this way and that.
Soon after, Harry decided to head back. He'd have stayed longer, but there was more to see elsewhere and he needed all the time he could get. Sighing in contentment tinged with regret, he triggered the second Portkey, taking him back to Amsterdam and the Kalverstraat.
He'd barely landed and gotten his bearings when a voice called out to him.
"Mister Black?" a friendly looking man called. Harry turned to regard him and his partner, who were both dressed in basic Staatstovenaar gear and flashing their badges.
"Hello, officers," he smiled. "I promise I was just looking at the flowers this time."
The lawman laughed a tad nervously. "No worries, Mister Black, we're just here to extend an invitation," he explained. "The Hooft van der Staatstovenaars has requested you meet with her."
Hooft van der Staatstovenaars… essentially the head of Holland's DMLE, Harry thought. "Ah, your colleague, Annie, mentioned that they might. What could they want with me?" he asked out loud.
"Oh, you aren't in trouble," the lawman smiled. "Really. She just wants to meet the man that has so fascinated her department."
"Really?" Harry wondered, his eyebrows raised. What had he done to deserve that? "I'm sure I can do that. When?"
"Now, if you've no prior engagements," the other officer said. "We can reschedule if that's the case."
"No, no, I was just planning to do some shopping; nothing that can't wait," Harry shrugged. "Lead the way, gents."
The first officer held out his badge. "Staatstovenaar badges double as Portkeys," he explained. "Grab ahold and we'll be there momentarily."
Harry did so, and his third Portkey of the day took him to the foyer of the Staatstovenaar HQ, where waited a rather formidable looking middle aged woman in Staatstovenaar fatigues. Harry was indeed reminded of Amelia Bones as he beheld her Hollandic counterpart; though she had quite the smile on when she saw him materialise.
"Ah, Mister Black," she said in a deep contralto. "I am Sanne Vermeer, Hooft van der Staatstovenaars. Thank you for accepting my rather sudden invitation."
"A pleasure to meet you, Hooft van der Staatstovenaars. It seemed like the polite thing to do," Harry replied. "What did you wish to talk with me about?"
"Ah, just call me Sanne," Vermeer laughed. "I was tricked into taking my position so I never cared much for the title."
"Well, Sanne, I have to compliment you on your work regardless," Harry replied. "The Staatstovenaars are a well organised force. Leagues better than some I've seen."
"Thank you, Mister Black," Vermeer said. "That's why I asked for you, actually; to thank you, on behalf of my country, for your intervention yesterday."
"No thanks necessary," Harry said, no pride in his voice. "I did what had to be done, and anyone with the ability would have done the same."
"I respectfully disagree," Vermeer retorted. "I looked over the reports; by all accounts, you put yourself at risk yesterday to save lives; not just the life of whoever they were after, but the lives of the bystanders they would have targeted otherwise. It takes true mettle to do that." She didn't mention that among the bystanders were the Minister's wife and child; Mister Black being who he was, he probably already knew.
Harry said nothing. He really didn't think it was all that special; if Sanne only knew that the Shit Eaters wouldn't even have been in the Kalverstraat if it wasn't for their tracking him there…
"More importantly, the Minister thinks the same way," Vermeer continued. "And in recognition of the service done for this country, it is his- and my- great pleasure to bestow upon you this; a badge of induction into the Orde van Oranje-Nassau."
Harry was speechless as Sanne handed him an open box with a blue and white cross medal within. "I- I can't accept this," he choked.
"I understand," Sanne grinned. "People like you and I don't do it for the money, or the thanks."
"But when I confronted them I thought they were after me," Harry confessed in shock. "I decided it was better to attack than to run."
"Even had you known that for sure, though, would you have run? Or would you have stayed and fought, in the defense of innocent lives?" Sanne countered, gently, echoing the very same words her old CO had spoken to her years ago, when she'd received her own medal.
"Of course I'd have stayed," Harry said forcefully, as if there was no other answer to give. "But like I said, anyone would have done the same. Like Annie- er, the Staatstovenaars, for example."
Sanne smiled again and shook her head, making note of Mister Black's little slip of the tongue. She should look into a promotion for van der Mijer sometime; if Black was willing to endorse her, even in such a small way, it said good things about the officer. "I can see you won't be swayed," she said, "but you can be certain that you deserve that pretty little hunk of metal, at least in my eyes."
"I… thank you, Sanne," Harry said, trying not to let the gratitude he felt clog up his voice.
"So, changing the subject," the woman said. "What are your plans going forward?"
"Thinking of going to Paris," Harry shrugged. "I always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower. After that… I don't know. I tend to make these plans on the fly."
"I see," Vermeer nodded. She would pass some of this info along to her French counterpart, just in case trouble followed Mister Black across the border. "Well, from me and my department, I hope your travels are peaceful. Meantime, I have a meeting to attend and I imagine you're looking forward to returning to your hotel. This Portkey should take you back there."
"That I am, and thanks for the Portkey," Harry admitted. "Well then, Hooft van der Staatstovenaars, good night to you, and may your dreams be better than mine," he said in farewell, smiling sadly before triggering the Portkey and disappearing.
"Goodnight, Mister Black," Sanne said lowly to the empty air. "And once again, thank you."
Kindly review. I hear 9 out of 10 dentists recommend it.
