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 said, enjoy!
Chapter 7: The Art of Drunken Warding
After a few hours of sleep, aided by two pitchers of water and the strongest hangover cure the local apothecary could stock, Harry awoke… still feeling pretty damn hungover. Still, though, he was far more functional than before; functional enough to look over the book that Mister Schmitt had given him.
One of the first paragraphs read thus:
If one aims to become skilled in the art of warding- be it casting, checking or removing them- a wizard's foremost priority is to activate what is commonly known as 'mage-sight'.
All magical people have mage-sight- it is why we can see spells being cast, and suchlike- but it takes a conscious effort to force the eyes to see the finer threads of magic that make up wards and other subtle sorceries.
It is deceptively simple to perform this effort. First, one must visualise, in their mind, their magical core. Then, one must (for lack of a better term) push magic from their core up and through their eyes, as if pushing water through a pipette; this influx of magic will sharpen the visual senses and allow the wizard to perceive threads of magic they could not otherwise. After some practice, this action will become almost subconscious, mage-sight sliding in and out of place at will.
"Okay… seems easy enough," Harry muttered. He'd gotten quite adept at feeling his magical core; it was especially apparent when he cast his Patronus, a slight tug in the center of his chest. It was this presence that he now focused on. trying to imagine a flow of magic coming from it and pouring into his visual cortex.
"C'mon, c'mon… arglemather slippin' rippin' dang fang rotten zarg barg-a-ding-dong!" Harry screamed in textbook Angrish, as a searing pain flooded an entire quarter of his head. He twitched in place for a while, musing as he did that it probably wasn't wise to magically expand one's sight range while one's eyeballs felt like a pair of tennis balls fresh from use in Satan's own squash court.
After several minutes of writhing, Harry's faculties recovered enough that he could continue reading the passage.
WARNING!
Performing this ritual whilst suffering from any sort of impairment related to the brain and eyes, such as a concussion or a hangover, will cause intense pain as well as one or more of the following side effects:
-Insanity
-Phantom pain
-Deafness
-Various neuroses
-Itchy nose
-Death
It is a long-held myth that doing this ritual whilst hungover will grant a wizard a much more detailed form of mage-sight. While it has been known to do so, this is very rare and should NOT be attempted intentionally. The author of this book accepts no responsibility for any injury caused by doing so.
Several more minutes were spent cursing the authors of this damned book for not placing such an important warning on the top of the page. After his fit of pique, he gave himself a cursory check; he wasn't blind, he wasn't deaf, he was still alive, and had no more than the usual complement of neuroses. He obviously couldn't check for insanity, so he felt safe in assuming that all his marbles were still present. About the only thing that gave him pause was a tingling at the tip of his nose- a problem easily solved by a quick scratch.
Shame he had no way to check whether he had advanced mage-sight, given the book didn't seem to say anything about the difference between the two types. Oh, well.
A tapping at the window distracted him from his musings, and he opened it to admit a rather regal looking owl wearing Swiss Guard colours. It passed a small note to Harry, who gave the bird a good scratch behind the head before it took wing once more.
Mister Black, the note said in handwriting that could only have been Schmitt's, I apologise for the intrusion, but I forgot to give you a crucial piece of information, should you deign to help us. The wards we would have you inspect are of the 'Arachne' schema; the particulars of which should be within your book. -Gunter Schmitt
That was handy to know, Harry mused, as he flipped to the relevant section in the tome. Arachne wards were aptly named, it seemed; the threads of the ward spreading from a central spot and expanding like a spider's web. Despite his pounding head, Harry read and absorbed the information quite easily, and while he was no experienced cursebreaker he figured he could offer at least some insight into the wards.
It was a well rested and thankfully hangover-free Harry that arrived, via Portkey, to one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen. It was a massive church, with white stone and exquisite paintings everywhere he looked, and Harry realised that this was a place of true historical value.
"Ah, Mister Black," a familiar voice called out to him after the tell-tale pop of apparition announced his arrival. "Welcome, my friend, to Saint Peter's Basilica."
"Mister Schmitt," Harry replied in greeting. "I hadn't realised that you wanted me to look over an entire building, but I'm glad I came anyway. It's… breathtaking."
"It is, isn't it?" Schmitt agreed. "I never get tired of visiting this place. Before we continue, however, I should ask if your visit is merely for pleasure or business?"
"Business, Mister Schmitt," Harry said. "I think I can at least give you some insight into the wards; but I must insist that you get a second opinion as I am by no means experienced."
"That is entirely acceptable, Mister Black," Schmitt smiled, a warm sight despite the normal stern face he wore. "And there is the matter of your payment…"
"No payment necessary," Harry said quickly; he really didn't need any more wealth than he had already. "The chance to see more of this building is all the payment I need."
"I'm afraid the matter is not up for debate, Mister Black, though your charity is appreciated," countered Schmitt. "The Vatican requires that any assistance on this matter- no matter how trifling- be compensated in turn."
"If they insist," Harry conceded.
"We shall discuss the particulars later; meantime, please, walk with me."
The two moved through the beautiful cathedral, Harry's head on a swivel as he took in as much of the sight as he could. It was several hallways before they finally stopped in front of a very old, very large, very beautiful sculpture. It depicted a woman in robes cradling a somewhat older man, who lay prone upon her lap.
"The Madonna della Pietà," Schmitt breathed. "One of Michelangelo's greatest works, and one of the Vatican's most treasured possessions."
Harry almost couldn't breathe. This was the kind of thing he'd hoped to see- but didn't dare dream of doing so- during his travels. It was a true thing of beauty- and they wanted him, a mere student, to oversee its security?
"Alas, even this is not safe from the attacks of vandals," Schmitt growled. "One such miscreant managed to damage the statue slightly, as well as the wards surrounding it. The damage to both has been repaired, and the man responsible dealt with; but given the Pietà's pricelessness, the Vatican deemed it prudent to make sure it was checked before any further action was taken."
"I see," Harry whispered. "Well, I shall try my best to give you as much information as I can."
"This is the original ward plan," Mister Schmitt explained, handing Harry a scroll of parchment. "The repairs were mostly around the keystone, which is placed here." After this, the older man stepped back and allowed Harry to do his thing.
Engaging his mage sight with a push and noting how much easier it felt now he wasn't hungover, Harry looked over the wards of the statue. Indeed, they very much resembled the example the book showed of an Arachne ward. He walked around the perimeter of the statue, making note of the structure here and there. Eventually he grunted, catching Schmitt's notice.
"A problem, Mister Black?" the Swiss Guard inquired, voice showing no hint of the nerves he felt.
"I don't know for certain," Harry replied. "The ward schema looks accurate, everything seems to be in order… but there's something about the section just here," he explained, pointing out the circle around the keystone. "I think it's a different shade of green than the rest of the schema. You wouldn't notice without looking hard, I think."
Mister Schmitt raised an eyebrow. "I see."
"There's a few other spots where this occurs… here and here," Harry mentioned as he pointed to two other sections. "I don't know if it's something simple, but as these two threads appear to be major structural points, I'd get them checked out. Never know what might cause the whole ward to collapse, you know?"
"Indeed," Mister Schmitt agreed. "Anything else?"
Harry shook his head. "Thank you for your estimation, then, Mister Black," Schmitt smiled once more. "I believe the minimum fee is twelve hundred ducats for your service; is this sufficient?"
"Er, yes," Harry confirmed, wondering what a ducat even was.
"And which account would you like this to be paid into?"
Uh oh, Harry thought. He didn't want to give any details in case it was used against him… but given how insistent the Vatican seemed to be on paying him, he wasn't sure what to do. Thankfully, Schmitt picked up on the other man's hesitation and offered another option.
"If required, I am happy to send it to the gnomes along with a request for a new private account in which to store it," he said. "I sense that this would be preferable for you, yes?"
"Yes, by all means," Harry sighed in relief. "Just forward me the account details later; I will likely be staying in the city for a couple of days yet."
"It shall be done, Mister Black," Mister Schmitt smiled. "Meanwhile, I believe that you, like me, hold a great appreciation for the arts and the architecture of the Basilica. Shall we take a tour around before you leave?"
"I would be honoured, Mister Schmitt," Harry said.
Mister Schmitt proved to be a very good tour guide, his lectures on the various halls and artifacts of the Basilica hooking Harry in a way that would make any of the teachers at Hogwarts seethe in jealousy.
He learnt of so much in the two hours he and his new friend spent wandering those hallowed halls, enjoying every second of it; and it was only when he'd wished Gunter a good day and walked out into Rome proper that he realised just how drained he was from the experience of checking the wards.
Hailing a cab to head back to his hotel, Harry decided that a day's rest was in order before he saw any more of the Eternal City. After a day or so of sleep and idle research, he figured that he'd had enough lazing around and resolved once more to see all that Rome had to offer.
Pulling out his trusty travel guide, Harry flipped to the section concerning the city, looking for a way into the magical areas.
Of all the methods in which one can enter a given location's magical section, Rome's is one of the most versatile. The Via Veneficus can be accessed from nearly anywhere in the city; all one requires is to find a three-way crossroads, of which there are many.
Once such a crossroad has been found, all a magical person must do is wait; and after about one minute, they will find a fourth road has appeared. This road can be identified apart from the rest by a statue, or image, of Trivia: a woman with three heads, one a snake, one a horse, and one a wolf.
Stowing his guide, Harry soon found an entrance to the Via Veneficus not twenty meters from his hotel; buoyed by this good fortune, he walked into the magical district with a spring in his step..
He moved around for a couple of hours, checking out various stores, until one caught his attention; Curios and Relics, said the somewhat simple shopfront. Well, it sure got my curiosity, Harry mused as he entered.
"Ah," the wizened old woman behind the counter said as she beheld her newest customer. Despite her age, she cut an impressive figure, waves of white hair emerging from the shawl covering her head. "Welcome, welcome."
"Er, hello," Harry greeted uncertainly. "Just browsing."
"Take your time," the crone said. "And don't be afraid to search deep… even I've forgotten some of the things we have for sale."
Harry wasn't surprised; both because of the woman's obvious age (seriously, she made Dumbledore look young) and the sheer amount of stuff on the shelves. It was a jungle; mostly junk, but with a few seriously interesting pieces here and there.
He had been searching for about thirty minutes when a glint of polished metal caught his eye. Reaching for it, Harry pulled back a sheathed, oddly shaped dagger. It was simple, but very well made, to his eye; and as he unsheathed the blade, he noted the sharpness and the wavy patina of the metal.
"Ah," the woman called. "I see you have found something interesting indeed."
"It sure is," Harry said. "Can you tell me about it?"
"A pugio," the woman explained as she cradled the dagger. "I know not how old it is, but it has charms upon it to keep it ever-sharp and free of rust. Plus a little spell to keep it concealed until drawn. It will serve you well, I think…"
Harry couldn't help but believe her on that, as she offered the blade back to him. Hoping he'd never have to use it as the weapon it was, Harry decided to buy it regardless; one never knew when they'd need to cut something, after all. "How much?" he asked the crone.
"I don't rightly remember how much I paid for it," she replied. "Perhaps fifty sestertii, I reckon. So… how does two aureus strike you?"
"Deal," Harry agreed. He'd have paid more, to be honest. Thanking the woman, he left the store, missing the wry, toothless smile that spread across the crone's face.
"Interesting," she mumbled to herself as she watched the boy leave. "There wasn't any magic on that dagger yesterday…"
It was some time later, as Harry was browsing further along the Via, that he overheard some interesting words between a fishmonger and his customer.
"...hear the British Minister is gonna do some explainin'," the fishmonger said. "About why they've been dragging their feet on that Dark Lord problem they've got."
"More like he's gonna make some excuses as to why the Brits shouldn't toss him out on his ear," the customer replied. "Not that I'm gonna have time to turn the wireless on and listen to it anyway…"
"Just duck into the Merry Maenad," the fishmonger said, as he gestured to a nearby watering hole, its sign depicting a merry woman in a toga drinking greedily from a goblet of wine. "Roberto has a wireless set up for it."
Harry thought that a drink sounded good right about now, hot as the Italian summer day was. Being able to listen to Fudge's pitiful attempts to save his career would make for great entertainment too.
Inside the relative darkness of the bar, Harry coughed as he breathed in the tobacco smoke that seemed to linger around waist height, and moved to the nearest empty seat. "Mind if I sit here for a few minutes?" he asked the old man at the same table.
"If you like," the man croaked in a strong Sicilian accent.
The two sat and listened to the Wizarding Wireless as it reported Fudge's announcement. Fudge appeared to be shifting the blame as expected; however, this time he was blaming 'the worldwide forces of organized crime that were only too happy to bolster the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, setting back my- er, our efforts to defeat the Dark Lord'. Harry snorted. Typical Fudge; always willing to take credit, never accepting any of the blame.
Harry's thoughts were interrupted by the gravelly voice of the old man at his table. "What do you think of the British Ministry's announcement, Mister…?"
"Er, Black," Harry responded. "And frankly, I think Fudge is an idiot. No true organized criminal would want to join the Dark Wanker's cause."
The man raised an eyebrow, signaling the bartender to bring him and Harry another drink. "How so?"
"Well, from what I understand, Voldemort's cause and that of organized crime are basically incompatible," Harry explained, sipping his drink. "I speak from experience when I say that Death Eaters are barely more than mindless killers, willing to murder anyone for almost no reason at all; civilians, enemy combatants, even their own."
The old man nodded, encouraging Harry to continue.
"Whereas organized crime is, well, organized," Harry said, gesturing. "They're dangerous, very much so, but being dangerous does not mean being violent; their business is making money, and pointless violence isn't conducive to profit. And when they are forced to get nasty, it's usually against other criminals."
"Still, I imagine a few of the weaker families would be tempted by the Dark Lord's offers," the old man countered.
"That would be a mistake, I reckon," Harry replied, not noticing the old man's eyes widening in the dark. "Like I said, most of the deaths that occur in organized crime are criminals killing other criminals. Still murder, but the law tends to assign a lower priority to such cases." His eyes moved down to stare at his drink. "But if they started going against innocent people, as I suspect Voldemort would persuade them to… well, they'd be screwed either way. If they refused, Voldemort would probably kill them, and if they agreed, the kid gloves would come off and the law would come at them full force for harming innocents."
"I see," the old man agreed. "Better, then, to stay out of the whole thing?"
"Yes," Harry said bitterly, wishing he had that choice. "You enter a war willingly, you have to accept all that it entails; sometimes, you might find yourself in a situation you can't escape."
"Indeed," the old man nodded. "Well, thank you for indulging my curiosity, Mister Black."
"It was a good conversation," Harry agreed, downing the remnants of his drink. "Though now that Fudge's waffling is over, I should be going."
"Well, in return for amusing this old man, allow me to cover your drink," the old man offered, and Harry bid him thanks and a good day before walking back into the Italian heat.
As soon as the old man was sure he was out of earshot and unlikely to return, he gestured to his left- and a nondescript man in a crisp black suit moved out of the shadows and into his presence.
"Call the other allied heads together," he ordered. "We need to have a meeting as soon as possible."
"Will do, boss," the suited man acknowledged. "Want I should send a crew to teach that guy a lesson?"
"Why would you do that?" the old man questioned.
"I thought you'd feel insulted," his subordinate replied uncertainly. "given how he just waltzed in here and sat next to ya."
"An insult?" the old man chuckled. "It was no such thing; in fact, I do believe that- from his point of view- he was showing remarkable restraint in simply talking politely to me, and I intend to take his words to heart," he explained, sipping from his glass. "I have no desire to know what will happen if we don't."
"With all due respect, sir, why are you taking this so seriously?" the suited goon asked, unable to restrain himself despite knowing the danger of curiosity in his line of work.
"Did you not catch his name, Tony?" muttered the old man. "That was Mister Black- one of the most dangerous men in Europe- and if half the rumours are true, even if you did manage to kill him… you would not survive his employers' reprisals." Another sip refreshed the old man's throat. "Anyway, when such a man deigns to give you a polite warning about how things are going to be from here on, it does not pay to disregard it without heed…"
Outside the bar, four people were frozen in shock and not a little terror as they realized what had just occurred. As soon as they recovered their faculties, the team leader gave a set of frantic orders.
"Lou, Agatha, get to following Black. Antonio, get back to the precinct as quickly as possible and report this to the Praefectus," he snapped. "I'll stay here and… watch the bar."
At the headquarters of the Praetorian Guard, the Italian magical law enforcement agency, a wide eyed officer tore through the bullpen straight towards his superior's office, leaving a trail of pandaemonium behind him.
"Sir," he yelled as he rapped on the door of the Praefectus Praetorio rather more loudly than necessary. "Sir, you need to hear this."
"Come in," said the Praefectus, a rather stern man with salt-and-pepper hair and a military bearing. "This had better be good, Antonio."
"Sir," his panicked subordinate panted. "Mister Black is in Rome."
"That's all?" the Praefectus enquired, his face betraying none of the interest he was feeling. "Hardly reason to be bashing on my door like that."
"There's more, though," Antonio babbled. "He walked into Alberto Nachelli's favourite bar, sat next to the man himself without a care, and all but threatened him with a bloodbath if he didn't fall in line."
Bloody hell, the Praefectus thought to himself. Anyone that could insult the chairman of the Allied Magical Families in such a way- and walk away unscathed- was not a man to cross. "How did Nachelli respond?"
"He thanked Black, then called a meeting of the alliance," Antonio reported. "Had to warn Tony Forelli against going after Black too; said that even if they managed to off him, his employers would finish them off."
"Good work, Antonio. Here, sit down, get a drink," he told his subordinate, while sticking his head out of the office to yell orders. "I want a recall on all available officers, and get half a dozen men to back up the Nachelli watch. Move it, people!"
There was a chorus of assent as the bullpen became a hurricane of activity. Satisfied, the Praefectus turned back to Antonio, who was shakily downing a glass of water. "Now," he ordered, "tell me everything."
What followed was a tale that, had it come from anyone else, he would have dismissed as fantasy; but Antonio was one of his most trusted men, and his word was as good as gospel. This Mister Black had really just waltzed in, sat on the personal table of the most feared magical mob boss in Italy, and laid down the law. And Nachelli- a man so ruthless that even the Praefectus feared him- had bowed to the man's authority. He could see why Antonio had been so agitated, and ordered the man to clock off and get some rest.
"All due respect, sir, but I'd rather go back to my post," Antonio replied, licking his lips nervously. "The captain's alone and I want to make sure he has some backup before the reserve squad gets there."
"I understand," the Praefectus nodded, silently commending the younger officer for his bravery. "Go."
Barely had he seen Antonio off and gotten seated, though, before another man burst through his door: Folchini, his department's liaison to the other law agencies. He sighed. "Make it quick, Folchini, we're in the middle of something damn big here."
"I just got off the Floo with Gunter Schmitt of the Swiss Guard, boss," Folchini explained. "You know that the Vatican was looking for a guy to check the Pietà's wards, after that vandalism case?"
The Praefectus nodded, not seeing where Folchini was going with this.
"Well they found one," Folchini continued, "and he brought up some flaws in the structure. Said that the repairs were of a slighty different shade of green than the rest."
"And?" his superior growled, losing his patience.
"And mage-sight doesn't work like that!" Folchini exploded. "It's usually monochrome- if he saw colours, it means that he did something seriously risky to get the 'advanced' mage-sight- something most people die for, or go mad attempting!"
"What was this guy's name, Folchini?" the Praefectus asked, with a sinking feeling that he knew already.
"Apparently," Folchini replied, "it was Mister Black."
The Praefectus cursed loudly, before ordering Folchini to give him a full report. Afterwards, he sat back in his chair, massaging his temples to alleviate the incoming headache.
"So we've had Mister bloody Black traipsing around my city for two days already," he grumbled, forcing himself into a state of calm. "Get me a report- everything we know he's done, any strange occurrences he could be connected to. I want to know as much as I can… and maybe we can be prepared for the next bombshell he drops into our laps."
Review please. They're great at cutting through grease and leaving your Snape clean and shiny.
