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!
AN: To answer some reviewers; this isn't a full on remake of the original fic. It's more of a remaster, aiming to keep the general structure of the original while improving stuff like grammar and brevity. What can I say? I'm just not very original.
Chapter 10: Splat!
It was a peaceful night in Zurich, and the two Polizei agents assigned to watch over the illustrious Mister Black were enjoying the quiet as they sat in their car facing the hotel.
"It's quiet so far," the first watcher asked her partner. "Reckon anything will happen?"
"Doubt it," the man replied. "We're Swiss! One of our defining traits is our neutrality." He sat back in the driver's seat, placing his hands behind his head. "Trust me, we got the easy shift tonight…"
Almost as soon as the final syllable left his lips, the peace of the night was shattered by a chorus of screams, which terminated not ten yards away as a mass of dark robes hit the ground with a not-insignificant crunch.
At first, the lady watcher had thought that some rowdy guest had chucked a load of linen out of the window… and was quickly disabused of the notion when the pile of robes began to bleed.
Their shock was broken by the male watcher clearing his throat. "I do believe we should probably be calling for backup…" he murmured.
"I would say so, yes," the female watcher replied, already summoning up a happy memory for the message Patronus. "You think that Black would refrain from any more killings if we asked nicely?" she sighed.
"Yeah, and while you're at it, try asking a fish to stop swimming," replied the older man with a shrug.
After a coin flip to decide who was to report back to HQ and who was to go up and check on Black, the woman disapparated back to their office, grousing all the way about the paperwork she could have avoided if the bastard Black had just waited an hour for the next shift to start.
After a quick bit of cover work (aided by a Confundus) on the hotel staff, the man was soon outside Room 1003. Knocking on the door, he heard a few muffled Reparos by its occupant, before the door was opened by the unidentifiable face of Mister Black himself.
"Mister… Black?" the watcher asked.
"Ah," Harry replied. "Swiss Guard? I've been expecting you."
"Er… nothing so grandiose, sir. I'm Willelmus Petersen, of the local Polizei," the watcher replied.
"Fair enough," Harry said, his calm countenance masking the frustration he felt at once again having his peace disrupted. "Would you like to come in, or should I come with you?"
"If my guess is right, I dare say you'll be wanting to check out anyway, yes? Why don't we take a slow walk down to the lobby while I ask you a few questions?" Petersen asked, not wanting to offend- nor overly placate- the dangerous man to whom he spoke.
"Fine," Harry acquiesced. "I didn't even have the chance to unpack, anyway…"
As they descended using the stairs, Harry explained his side of the last hour, while Petersen took notes.
"...So they simply… appeared out of nowhere?" said the older man, eyebrow raised.
"It was the weirdest thing," Harry groused. "I don't even know how they knew I was there! I've not been hit by any tracking charms as far as I can tell…"
Running his wand over Harry, Petersen confirmed that no, he had no tracking on him at all.
"Why would Death Eaters be looking for you, Mister Black?" Petersen asked, though the answer seemed obvious on the surface; revenge, for the humiliation handed them in Holland. Still, despite the swathe of righteous fury that Black had been tearing though Europe over the past week, there was still an infuriating lack of information about the man; Petersen would therefore angle for as many tidbits as he dared, while he had the chance.
"Well, I don't know that they were there for me, per se," Harry admitted. "But they're always after my blood in particular, so I assumed that I was the target."
"Yes… I see," Petersen mused. Inwardly, he was relieved; it didn't tell him much about the man that he didn't already know, but it was enough that he could plausibly dodge having to arrest Black; he wasn't sure his entire precinct at once was capable of that, never mind him alone. "Well, i don't believe there's much else we can do here. I'll call a car so you can go to a different hotel while we finish Obliviating the local area; we may need to contact you for more details afterwards, if that's OK?"
"Yeah, yeah," Harry sighed, exasperated, as he sat on the curb looking thoroughly fed up. "All I wanted in Switzerland was some peace, chocolate and maybe a new watch. Was that so damn much to ask?"
"No, but were it so easy to tell Death Eaters to stop being murderous idiots…" Petersen commisserated, placing a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder.
"That much I know, but I've been in Zurich less than two hours," Harry groused. "Couldn't they have waited at least a couple hours more?"
After seeing Mister Black off, Petersen turned to see another Polizei officer walk toward him.
"Well, Will? Get anything from the Black Centurion?" the officer called.
The Black what? thought Petersen. Bloody Praetorio and their overactive imaginations. Still, considering everything else Black had managed in the past week, Petersen had to concede that they might have been on to something this time.
"Only what we've come to expect from the man as of late, Hans," Petersen replied. "To hear him tell it, they simply appeared in the air in front of his balcony and fell to their deaths without any of his 'assistance' needed."
"His story check out with you?"
"As far as I can tell… though I haven't checked his room yet, admittedly," Petersen said sheepishly.
"You what? Bloody hell, Will, you're clumsy in your old age," Hans exclaimed. "Who knows what he might have left in there, if we're lucky- quick, let's go before the hotel touches anything!"
The two officers hurried back to Room 1003, mercifully untouched by anyone since the incident, and before he even dared enter, Hans had wand out and was casting every analysis and detection spell he knew.
"Well?" Petersen asked nervously.
"Nothing," Hans replied, reading the diagnostic readouts from his wand. "At least, nothing that tells me his actual goal. Lots of emotional and spell spoor… Reducto and Reparo on the various furniture and a whole lot of frustration."
"Oh, yes, I do recall hearing him cast Reparo through the door," Petersen added. "And he did seem pretty pissed."
"But this seems unlike him… unless…" Hans trailed off.
"What?"
"This amount of spoor is like a thick coat of paint over every other magical signal in the room! If any other spells were cast beforehand, we'd never be able to tell…" Hans breathed. "So what if he wrecked the place on purpose, to cover whatever he actually did in here?"
"But then what about the emotional spoor? It's almost impossible to leave on purpose, Hans," Petersen countered.
"Remind me again who we're dealing with, then try telling me what's impossible, Will."
"...point taken," Petersen conceded.
Smirking, Hans turned back to his diagnostics, and his eyes widened as his wand pointed at the room's table. "Wait a sec," he exclaimed. "Here, this pamphlet…"
Petersen pointed his own wand at the paper, checking for traps; once satisfied there was nothing on there, he picked up the leaflet.
"Looks like he missed a spot. Tracking charm on this," he announced. "It's an ad for this very hotel. He must have gotten it from an info desk."
Hans grabbed the pamphlet and scanned it, his eyes widening. "Not just any- see this stamp? It's from the desk at the Zurich Magical Customs center," he explained. "We'd better get there and find who gave it to Black before he does and we have another 'accident' on our hands. Grab my arm, I'll Apparate us there."
Petersen didn't need telling twice, and took his colleague's hand moments before Hans Side-Along-Apparated, depositing them directly in front of the info desk. The woman at the desk was quite shocked at their sudden appearance, given that apparition in the building was usually restricted to international arrivals.
"Can… can I help you?" the desk woman stuttered.
As soon as he had his bearings, Petersen had his wand out, though not pointed at anything as of yet. "I will only ask you once, madam," he growled. "Did you hand a leaflet rigged with a tracking charm to a man earlier today?"
"I have no idea what you mean," the woman laughed incredulously, as if butter wouldn't melt. "Why do you ask?"
"Damn, Hans, we must have the wrong place then," Petersen said, though Hans noticed his partner wink to him out of sight of the desk clerk. "Sorry for the intrusion, ma'am. It's just a very serious crime has been committed and whoever passed on that leaflet is an accessory to that crime…"
"What happened?" the desk clerk asked, though she knew exactly what she'd had a hand in doing. Not that it could be connected to her in any way… right?
"The tracking spell allowed a large group of British criminals to illegally apparate into the country, see, with the express intent of attacking- and most likely murdering- a certain individual by the name of Mister Black…" Petersen explained with faux concern."
"How horrible!" the info desk woman exclaimed with a little more concern than necessary. "But why would you believe that I had something to do with this?"
"Well, I shouldn't tell you this," Hans said, now he knew Petersen's game and how to play along. "But Mister Black killed the whole lot of them. Ten hardened criminals, and he swatted them like bugs!" Yes, gravity probably helped… but the woman didn't need to know that.
"And naturally, after he discovers how he was tracked, he'll most likely be coming for the person who gave it to him next…" Petersen added. "So we thought we'd come get a look at the staff here, you know? Makes it easier to identify the corpse."
The girl was sweating now, but Hans figured a bit more pressure wouldn't hurt. "You know it probably wouldn't help anyway, right, Will? I mean, after seeing what he did to those Death Eaters… I'll never be able to eat g'hacktes und Hörnli again, I swear!" he said, with mock disgust.
"You're bluffing," the info desk woman stammered, dropping the ignorant pretense. "There's no evidence that I was the one that set up the tracker!"
"Oh, no, of course not," Petersen said, shaking his head. "But Black probably won't care… frankly, if I thought he'd be after me for any reason, I'd lock myself up and throw away the key just to feel safe. And that's not even getting into what the Death Eaters must be thinking of doing to the person that led one of their squads into an ambush…"
The desk clerk stayed silent for a few long moments, her head conjuring up image after horrible image; even the tame ones made death seem like a preferable alternative. Petersen was no Dumbledore, but he had a knack for manipulation; especially when turning a criminal's desires and fears against them.
The clerk collapsed to her knees, terror creeping up her spine as she realised just how serious her predicament could be.
"I-I'll talk," she stuttered, eyes wild. "I'll give you everything; contacts, dates, names… just- just keep them away from me!"
"Oh? What happened to 'I have no idea what you mean'?," Hans quipped, smirking.
"Don't fuck with me!" the woman yelped, angrily. "I'm scared for my life here!"
"And I'd be much more sympathetic if you weren't so eager to lead a man to his death," Petersen replied, his voice icy. "Now, if you could accompany me to HQ- and restrain yourself from further falsehoods- perhaps I can find you a nice safe cell away from the consequences of your actions, hmm?"
"Ah, Petersen," called the desk officer closest to where Petersen, Hans and the desk woman had just Portkeyed in. "Chief wants you in his office. Who's the perp?"
"This lovely specimen? She helped set up the attempted hit on Black," Petersen replied matter-of-factly.
"Scheiße, and she's still alive?" the desk jockey exclaimed with unabashed curiosity, making the woman cringe in fear and Hans smirk. "Want I should handle her while you go see the chief?"
Petersen considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Single cell, extra lock," he said, glancing at the terrified woman with a cold smile. "Oh, and a suicide watch. Don't think Black will go through us to kill her, but better safe than sorry, eh?"
Leaving Hans and the woman to their own devices, Petersen walked over to the door belonging to the HMLECI (the Head of Magical Law Enforcement and Chocolate Inspection- this was Switzerland, after all) and rapped smartly on the door.
"Enter," a gruff voice called. "Ah, Petersen. Come in and close the door behind you." Recognising the chief's code for 'put up privacy spells, mate', Petersen did so before turning to his boss.
Once the final spell had settled, the chief relaxed, his countenace shifting from "hard boiled police chief" to something more personable. "What a mess, eh, Will?"
"Figuuratively and literally, Markus," his subordinate replied wearily. "What do you need me for?"
"Unfortunately, I fear that we might have to arrest this Black fellow over what happened with those Death Eaters," the chief Markus replied, face grave. "And I wanted your input, given you've had the most face time with the man."
"What?" Petersen exclaimed. "They tried to kill him and he returned the favour in self defence. Open and shut case, I'd have thought." The unspoken implication- that trying to arrest Black would be an exercise in futility and probably end up killing them all- hung over both men.
"Oh, I agree," the Head replied, shaking his head. "But the British Minister is having a fit right now, complaining that we're being too lenient with a man who's killed multiple British nationals. He's demanding that we at least have a trial."
Petersen snorted. "Even if we got Black to walk into a courtroom willingly, the prosecution would be laughed out of it five minutes later," he explained. "Oh, we know he's had something to do with every incident, but we can never get any evidence; that, or he has ironclad justification." Petersen sat forward to emphasize his point. "You realise that everyone he's killed- with only one exception- has had the Dark Mark on their arm?"
"Even the ones from earlier tonight?" the chief muttered. "Speaking of, I haven't yet had a report on the hotel incident. Give me the gist of it."
"It's exactly as I said, Chief," Petersen shrugged. "The only thing we found in the room was a tracking charm on a leaflet that a D.E. freelancer planted on him- she's in custody, by the by. Beyond that, and the stack of Death Eater pancakes in the hotel plaza, there's nothing to implicate that Black was in any way involved."
"What makes you think it wasn't an accident, then?"
"No offense, Markus, but I've been doing homicides since you were in high school," Petersen grumbled, "and in all that time I have not seen a case remotely like this."
"I'm not saying you're wrong, Will," the chief said, holding a hand up in placation. "I'm already working on placating the Brits… though it's going to take some spinning to explain how some of Fudge's biggest campaign contributors had the bad taste to pretend to be Death Eaters while indulging in their secret passion for base jumping…" The chief sat heavily in his chair, resting his head in a hand. "All I want is to know how Black slipped up."
"Well… he didn't, Markus," Petersen replied. "Again, all I have is suspicion- bolstered by a couple decades of experience."
"Fine, then tell me your suspicions," the chief ordered.
"Alright, alright," Petersen replied, and so he did; explaining all the little coincidences that had piled up into the incident that was causing them such consternation. Black's choice of hotel room, his presumed movements, and what they knew of the man from other countries' reports.
"...basically, I have to agree with them," Petersen finished. "I don't know if he expected the tracker, but given how easily he spotted all the Staatstovenaars' tails, I reckon he knew it for what it was as soon as he had it in hand- and decided to spring the trap on his own terms, rather than theirs."
"All in the space of an hour… damn," the chief breathed.
"Yeah, a masterstroke to say the least," Petersen agreed. "We knew he was good at making things look like an accident, but this was on another level."
"Scheiße," the chief swore. "No wonder the Italians were so happy to see him leave."
The two sat in companionable silence for a moment or two before the chief stood and smiled at his colleague.
"Well, Will, thanks for your input," he chuckled. "And if you see Black, thank him for making it relatively easy on us. Now, I dare say you have a report to write, and I've got a British idiot to placate…"
"Have fun with that, Markus," Petersen jibed.
"Oh, quit looking so smug, Will. It's your damn fault I have this job, remember?"
"Not my fault that I was smart enough to turn it down and you weren't…"
Late the next morning found Harry awake and stretching, having had a decent night's sleep for once. Perhaps all that frustrated cursing yesterday- and subsequent Repairing Charms- had drained him a bit more than he'd thought. Walking to the balcony of his new room- a bit smaller, but not enough to spoil the view- Harry made a point of peering over the edge to make sure that no more Death Eaters had decided to embrace the call of the void. He smiled upon seeing a nice clean plaza, free of broken bodies and bloodstains.
Donning his daisy-fresh Allweather's and shouldering his trusty pack, he made his way downstairs; only to run into a familiar face as he exited the elevator.
"Ah, Mr… Petersen, right?" Harry asked the man, who appeared somewhat less grizzled in the morning light.
"Good morning, Mister Black," the officer said good-naturedly. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in a while, actually," Harry said, punctuating the sentence with another stretch. "I assume you have some more questions for me?"
"Actually, not exactly," Petersen said, shaking his head. "We need you to sign off on the statement you gave yesterday, but past that it's all being written off as a tragic accident."
"I wouldn't call it tragic, personally, given that the only injured were Shit Eaters," Harry opined. "Perhaps 'fortunate' is a better adjective."
"Quite," Petersen agreed, sincerely. "Anyway, I'm actually here on behalf of some of my countrymen in Italy; they wanted me to escort you to a meeting with the gnomes."
Harry looked puzzled for a moment before remembering the job he'd done for Mister Schmitt over at the Vatican, and the payment they'd politely forced him to take.
"Oh! Yes, I suppose I should go and make sure everything's square there," he explained.
"I can Side-Along us both there if you wish?"
"No offense, but I think I'd prefer non-magical transport for now, Mr. Petersen," Harry replied evenly. "After last night's… incident, it's rather put me off magical movement for a while."
"Call me Will, Mister Black, and yes, I can certainly understand that. I'll call us a cab; don't worry about the fare, we Polizei get it reimbursed." The two boarded a taxi, and soon were off to the financial quarter of Zurich.
"I realise it's not been particularly pleasant so far," Petersen asked, trying to strike up a coversation to ease the tension he felt having such a dangerous individual sitting so close, "but how is Switzerland treating you?"
"What little I've seen has been lovely," Harry replied. "Especially the people; very friendly."
"We do try," Petersen chuckled. "Part of the whole 'neutrality' image, you know? Any plans for the rest of your stay?"
"Hm… not really," Harry mused. "Maybe some more chocolate, and I would really love to get one of those famous Swiss watches. After that, I'll probably move on."
"Leaving so soon?" Petersen inquired, partially because his boss would want to know, but also because he was genuinely curious.
"Not because of anything to do with your country or its people… I just don't feel comfortable staying in one place too long, you know?" Not to mention that wherever there's Death Eaters, the Order soon follows. "I guess I'm still in search of some peace and quiet, and Switzerland is getting a tad too exciting."
"I understand, Mister Black, I do," Petersen said, resisting the urge to chuckle. He was starting to warm up to Black; it was a shame that he felt forced to leave so swiftly. "Where next, then?"
"Germany, I think," Harry said. It was one of the few places he hadn't yet been in Europe, and for good reason. "After that, who knows?"
"Berlin or Munich, they're both lovely this time of year," Petersen remarked. "Ah, we're here."
The two disembarked and walked into a relatively unassuming building; not nearly as grandiose as Gringotts, Harry thought, but it had an elegance and beauty all its own that he rather preferred. Once they were inside, Petersen gestured to a door near the back of the main hall marked 'Private'.
"Through that door is a desk; give your name to the gnome inside and they will take it from there," Petersen explained. "I wish I could assist further, but I've got to get back to the precinct…"
"No worries, Will. Thank you for your company and advice," Harry said, shaking the man's hand.
"It was my honour, Mister Black," Petersen smiled, and turned to leave the building. After waving goodbye, Harry turned to the door and rapped smartly on it three times. Moments later, it was answered by a short man in tidy robes and a large pair of glasses. "Yes?"
"Good morning, my name is Mister Black and I was told I was to come and meet with the gnomes?"
The little man nodded. "Right this way, then," he replied briskly.
As they walked down a hallway, Harry decided to ask the question that had burned in his mind since Rome.
"I don't want to sound foolish," he said, "but I'm only experienced with goblin banking. Is there any difference I should be aware of with gnomes?"
"You labour under a misapprehension, sir," the short man said with an even cadence that suggested he'd had to say this all too often. "Zurich's banks are not run by gnomes; that is simply a rather ignorant nickname used by society at large. It is purely human-run, though we do employ a few goblins for their valuation skills."
The small man raised an eyebrow. "I assume then that, despite your excellent German, you are British?"
"Er, yes," Harry said.
"Mm. I dare say that you'll find banking with us to be a much more pleasant experience, then, since we've never been forced to allow a monopoly in order to avert a war."
"I see," Harry murmured. "I, uh, I'm sorry if I caused any offence with the whole 'gnomes' question."
The small man seemed to relax a bit, a smile forming on his face. "Thank you, Mister Black, and apology accepted. No offense taken," he said warmly.
As they continued down the rather long hallway, Harry asked more questions regarding the differences between this bank and Gringotts. Unlike them, this bank handled both magical and mundane matters; they saw no reason to limit their customer base to a mere 10% of the population, after all. Plus, their accounts were much more accessible; where Gringotts made do with bulky remote pouches, Zurich's banks had embraced the convenience of ATMs and debit card technology, allowing a wizard to use one solution for all their money needs. Once again, Harry was reminded of how backwards British magical society was in places.
It wasn't long before they arrived at the short man's office, and once both men were comfortable, they could get to business.
"Firstly, your account documentation and your account card," the gnome explained. "It looks mundane at first, but tap the back of the card with your wand and it will display your current balance."
Harry did so, and was amazed to see the card's surface ripple and darken, before glowing letters and numbers appeared.
"There is a short breakdown of each currency present in your vault, and at the bottom, a total, which is shown in CHF- Confederation Helvetica Franc- by default, but will change to reflect your current location at any given time. It is usable in any mundane ATM and can be used for payment in any magical store outside of Britain."
Harry was very impressed by this; momentarily he wondered why the goblins hadn't come up with something like this, before realising that they probably had; they just didn't want to share it with what they saw as an ungrateful wizarding populace.
"Secondly, I have this to pass on to you from Monte Carlo of all places…"
Harry winced. All he remembered of his short stay in Monte Carlo was arriving, placing a single bet with the chip he was given as a Portkey, and then getting very, very pissed. He didn't know what they might want with him, but he doubted it would be good.
However, upon being given the document, his dread was swiftly replaced by shock and not a little confusion.
"Is… is this figure correct?" he asked the short man in shock, pointing at the bottom line with a shaking finger.
"Down to the last decimal point, Mister Black," the banker grinned. "That bet you placed ended up winning a significant sum; and unearthed a massive magical cheating ring, to boot. They initially suspected you as well, apparently, but after you didn't cash in immediately, they changed their tune."
"Surely that doesn't explain all of this, though?" Harry said, doing some quick mental maths.
"True," the banker conceded. "Well, in addition to honouring the original win, the casinos wanted to thank you for exposing the cheating ring by gifting you a small share in each casino under their control."
"How much, out of curiosity?"
"By my reckoning, 0.2% from each casino," the banker answered after a quick study of the paperwork. "Doesn't seem like much but it does provide a small, consistent income." The short man didn't think it important to mention that such a deal also benefited the casinos immensely; after all, anyone trying to cheat them now would- however insignificantly- be stepping on the toes of the great and terrible Mister Black… and who would risk pulling the pin on that grenade?
"Merlin," Harry breathed, flopping back in his chair still stunned by the wealth he'd literally managed to stumble into. "Any other news?"
"Nothing as of the moment, Mister Black- unless you had any further questions?"
"Do you need my address or anything?" Harry muttered, blinking. "Only, I plan to travel some more before returning to Britain." Not that I want to, mind, he thought bitterly.
"A transaction statement will be delivered every month through your card, with any other notices included," the banker explained. "It is also tied to your magical signature and cannot be removed from your person unless willed by yourself, so worry not about losing it or having it stolen."
"That's useful," praised Harry. "Well, uh, I think that's everything…"
Harry and the small banker walked back down the long hallway to the main hall, and just before Harry walked through the door, he shook the man's hand.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you, sir," Harry said, smiling.
"The pleasure was all ours, Mister Black," the banker replied, "and in the future, if you feel like having your other account handled by somebody more professional, we'd be happy to assist…"
Harry laughed. "I think I may take you up on that, sir," he chuckled.
As Harry found his way into Zurich's magical district using his trusty travel guide, his mind was still on the unexpected wealth he had been informed of by the bank… and soon he found himself staring through the window of a magical watchmaker, studying the colourful array of timepieces therein.
Well, he thought wryly to himself, I did want a Swiss made watch… and it would be a shame to have all this money and not use it, right?
Walking inside, the first thing Harry noticed was the steady tick-tock of hundreds of perfectly calibrated, perfectly synchronized watch movements. For a moment, he wondered if it was a magical effect or if the watchmaker was simply that exacting, before he was interrupted by a voice.
"Hello there," came a voice from behind the counter. Harry looked over to see a man wearing strange headgear covered in lenses and a light, bent over a dismantled timepiece and using some tweezers to set a very delicate part in place. "I will be with you in around forty-three seconds…" Even as he spoke, the rest of him shifted not one iota, so focused was his attention.
"I'm in no hurry," Harry replied. "In fact I'm quite enjoying watching."
The man didn't reply, but smiled. Exactly forty three seconds after his last word, the man sat back, surprising Harry.
"Ah, my apologies, friend," he said, lifting the lenses from in front of his eyes. "Watchmaking is full of delicate moments such as these; even more so with magic involved. What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for a watch… though I fear that might be stating the obvious," Harry said, eliciting a chuckle from the watchmaker. "Preferably, the most durable one you have."
"I do indeed have such a watch," the watchmaker said. "One moment." Leaving the counter, the man glided throughout the shop, collecting a selection of pieces from various nooks and crannies, before arranging them on a velveted surface for Harry's perusal.
"These five watches are some of my finest," the watchmaker explained with the barest hint of pride. "Each movement is assembled by myself, by hand, to the Swiss standard- no magic involved."
"No magic at all?" Harry replied, awed. He couldn't imagine making something so intricate without at least a small bit if magical aid.
"Not on the movement itself, no," the man continued. "The magical standard for timepieces does allow for a few spells to be used and applied to the movement, but I find that as the charms weaken, the watch becomes prone to malfunction. I hold myself to a higher standard; for magic would not be magic without the mundane to balance it, yes?"
Harry couldn't help but agree with that; he doubted most other British wizards would, however.
"I digress," the watchmaker continued. "While I forbid the use of magic on the movement, the casing is a different story. For example, this," he said, as he picked up one of the gaudier watches.
"It is made of magically treated 24-carat gold. Hold it flat on the table by the straps, would you?"
Harry did so, holding the delicate-looking timepiece flat on the countertop, only to yelp as the watchmaker pulled a large, demolition grade sledgehammer from thin air and smashed the watch with all his might, shaking the entire room. The man laughed uproariously at Harry's reaction. "Ah, I never get tired of doing that," he crowed.
"W-what-" Harry stuttered.
"It is my guarantee, sir," the watchmaker grinned, as he pointed at the watch he'd just pulverized. "Look."
Harry looked- and to his amazement, the golden watch was just as pristine as when he'd first beheld it. Not a scratch or dent marred its crystal clear lens. "Wow," he breathed.
"This watch has been proven to withstand the heat of a volcano, the ice of the Antarctic, and is water resistant to a depth of 10,984 meters… give or take a couple," crowed the man. "And it is almost impervious to any known spells and magical substances, up to and including basilisk venom."
"Sold," said Harry. "Though- no offense- do you have something more, er, low key? I'm not really one for ostentation."
Within minutes, Harry was the owner of a new watch- with a dark, almost black, gunmetal construction and luminous green accents on the face and hands. As he walked out of the watchmaker's shop, he appraised his new timepiece, pleased with its construction; yes, it had cost a pretty penny, but that gap would probably be filled by the income he got from the casinos before he even needed it again.
His next and final stop was a portkey store nearby that came highly recommended by the watchmaker, and twenty five CH francs later, he was on his way to Berlin; where he would hopefully finally find that peace and quiet that fate kept denying him…
Reviewers are statistically more likely to come into vast amounts of wealth in their lifetime.
(note: the above sentence has not been fact checked)