Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world is the property of J.K. Rowling.
The plot is of my own invention.
Breakfast Monday morning arrived far too early for Ginny and Diane; their bodies, having just adjusted to eastern United States time, now had to readjust to Greenwich Mean Time. At the Gryffindor table, Ginny collapsed onto the bench next to Harry and looked up to see Diane nodding-off into her cold cereal. Seven o’clock in the morning felt like two o’clock to the girls.
At the far end of the Hall, the Ravenclaw table was abuzz with chatter as Luna Lovegood returned to her usual seat. Harry watched her closely until he saw Hermione was a step ahead, having planted herself near her friend. But their concern was for naught. If Luna’s fresh image hadn’t made her more acceptable, her role in the final days of Voldemort were enough to garner her new respect. After hovering near Luna for a few minutes, Hermione returned to sit across from Harry and confirm what they had hoped.
“She seems fine, Harry. And the others have welcomed her enthusiastically. I’m sure she’ll be ok,” the Head Girl informed him discreetly. Harry nodded his thanks and returned to his toast and tea. He had taken only one more bite when McGonagall called the Hall to attention.
“Students, I am pleased to present to you our new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, Madam Jacqueline La Porte.”
At the far left end of the head table was a tall, blonde woman; she stood briefly and gave the Headmistress a respectful half bow.
“I would like to speak with Mr. Potter and Miss Bradley following breakfast this morning. And I would also like to welcome Miss Lovegood back to Hogwarts.” There was a short round of applause throughout the Hall, the Ravenclaw table supplying the most enthusiastic.
“What’s this about, Harry?” Diane mumbled, her eyes half-closed.
“Don’t know. We can’t be in trouble, you’ve been away,” he kidded. Diane tried to flick a spoonful of cold cereal at Harry but it backfired and ended up in her own lap.
Ginny and Hermione looked at each other, shaking their heads.
“What?”
“Harry, you have to be kidding,” Ginny said, exasperatedly, “I’ll bet McGonagall wants you two to work with the new Defense Professor. And does she look familiar to you?”
“Now that you mention it, she does… but I can’t place her. She’s from the continent, that’s all Remus knew about her. I think he said she was from Italy.”
As the students began to get up and head off to class, Harry said goodbye to Ginny and walked around the table to Diane. He pulled a lock of her hair out of her cereal bowl, cleaning it with a quick cleansing spell.
“Come on, Di, duty calls.”
A piteous groan was the only response. But when Harry tried to take her arm, Diane finally gave in, mumbled something rude and rose to her feet, looking every bit as exhausted as she sounded.
The Headmistress was speaking with Professor La Porte when Diane and Harry approached, but stopped to introduce the students. “Mr. Potter, Miss Bradley, this is Madam La Porte, our new Defense teacher.” The three shook hands and exchanged polite greetings. Then McGonagall continued. “Potter, I would like you and Miss Bradley to schedule time with Professor La Porte to discuss ideas for a revised Defense curriculum. You both have a number of special abilities that need to be explored, documented and shared with the students.”
“Yes, professor, but er”wouldn’t someone like Hermione be better suited for this?” Harry asked.
“If this were simply writing lesson plans I would agree, but Miss Granger is busy enough as it is, and your input deals more with practical applications than planning. Now, if there are no further questions, I’ll leave you three to arrange a schedule.” McGonagall started to turn away then stopped, looked at Diane and said sternly, “Miss Bradley, students who are allowed special privileges should be fully awake afterwards, or no future considerations will be made.”
“Uh, yes, ma’am,” Diane said sleepily. As soon as McGonagall turned to depart, she stuck her tongue out comically. Harry stifled a laugh by covering his mouth.
“Ahem.” Professor La Porte cleared her throat. When she began to speak it was with a heavy French accent. “I hope I will earn equal respect, Miss Bradley.”
“Oh, sorry, I was kidding.”
“I know; so was I.” La Porte said coolly. “I would like to meet with both of you during your scheduled Defense periods this week. If you check your timetables, you will notice that all Defense classes have been cancelled until next Monday. I want a clear idea of what I’m dealing with, and you both, Mr. Potter in particular, can help me with that. And Mr. Potter, were you planning on reinstituting your Defense club this year?”
“Er”no, ma’am. I don’t have the time and, well, we’ve had a competent teacher so far.”
“Yes, Remus Lupin struck me as a fine instructor; we’ll speak about that later.” La Porte paused and smirked at Harry. “So if I do see you restarting the club I can assume you’re finding my tutelage unsatisfactory?”
Harry’s mouth dropped opened, and he had placed his foot into it firmly this time. “N-No, Professor, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that…” Harry looked to Diane for some support but she just shrugged with a sleepy look on her face.
“Please don’t concern yourself, Mr. Potter, I understand the reasons for what you did two years ago; I would have done the same thing.” Picking up her things, the new professor bid the two good morning and departed.
“It’s amazing, Harry, isn’t it? The way you can find the wrong things to say. You’re almost as good at it as Ron.” Diane turned to leave.
No kidding.
When Harry and Diane entered Remus’ old office, now Professor La Porte’s office late that afternoon, Remus was, to Harry’s surprise, there also. But he only stayed long enough to turn over a few notes and ask Harry to come by the Room of Requirement when he was finished.
The first meeting went smoothly and Harry found it intellectually challenging, something he could say about few of his Defense classes over the years. But more importantly, he felt like he was making a concrete contribution. When it was over, La Porte asked that Diane remain behind; Harry excused himself and left to find Remus.
As directed, Harry caught up with him in the Room of Requirement after a brief stroll in front of the invisible door, (under the watchful eyes of Barnabas the Barmy,) and thinking of a place to speak with his friend. The Room had set itself as a comfortable sitting room and Remus waved Harry in; he had been lounging on a sofa, still recuperating from his last Transformation two nights before.
“Harry, how are you?” Remus began casually.
“Great, Remus… why?”
“A couple things, Harry. You haven’t been to Gringotts since you turned seventeen, have you?” Harry shook his head. “You need to stop by during the Christmas Holidays. Now that you’re of age you have full access to you family vault, so you should know what’s in there. Also, I wanted to speak with you about something, er, sort of personal.” He saw Harry’s face fall. “Nothing like that, Harry,” he chuckled. “Er”Iwashopingyouwouldbemybestman.” Remus blurted out so rapidly he was barely understandable.
“Sorry, your what?”
“Best man, Harry. I, er, proposed to Tonks and we’re getting married.” Remus was now standing, pacing nervously in front of Harry. The teen jumped up and embraced his jittery friend.
“That’s brilliant, Remus! And yes, sure, I accept. Er”thanks for asking me. I’ve never been a best man before; only been to a couple weddings for that matter.” Harry asked about his role as best man and was briefed on the general responsibilities and promised more information soon. As their conversation continued, Remus’ jumpiness and hesitation diminished and Harry could tell he was happy.
“The wedding won’t be until spring, so there’s plenty of time to prepare,” he assured Harry when he again brought up the responsibilities of a Best Man.
Harry relaxed and asked his friend something he had forgotten about the past few weeks. “Say, Remus, do you have any pictures of my parents? The ones Moody and Hagrid gave me are great, but I was wondering if there are more.”
Remus sat back with a look of concentration on his face. “I might have a few, but I think I know where we could find more, and I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this earlier. I’ve never cleaned out Sirius’ old office at Grimmauld Place. I know he had a lot at one time; let me poke around and see if I can find anything. Oh, and Harry, I expect an Owl any day from Molly and Arthur about you and Ginny joining us for part of the Christmas holiday.” Harry’s face lit up at hearing this. ”Feel free to invite Diane, too, unless she has family in the States?”
“Nah, just an aunt and uncle. She likes them but they’re a lot older and don’t have any children. I’ll mention it to her; I think she’d be happy to join us, even if it is Grimmauld Place.”
Thanking Lupin again, Harry returned to his room excited about the wedding and the holidays, more signs that life was returning to normal.
|-|-|-|-|
Michael Allen sat on the edge of his bed after a restless night. He’d had little sleep, and the little he had was filled with nightmares about his experience the previous week. The Dictaphone tape had been played, rewound and played dozens of times to the point where Digger had it nearly memorized. And while he could understand each word spoken, he could not comprehend their cryptic meanings. In his world of scientific principles there was little room for the… occult?
But it couldn’t be! he kept telling himself, occasionally looking around the room and expecting a Candid Camera crew to jump out at him. But it was! It is! “Shut up, Allen, you’re daft,” he muttered to himself. But he wasn’t insane; the tapes showed that he had considered insanity the rationale for the odd occurrences he had been experiencing “ the ones he was experiencing now sounded like one he’d been having in his erased memory. He glanced at his desk, thinking back on the words of the two men who had entered his room.
“Blimey, Marvin, you don’t use a binding spell, use a bloody stunner!”
And later, “Be sure you erase every note, I don’t want to cross the boss-lady. You better thank Merlin that Shacklebolt isn’t still part of this. He’d have your hide.”
There were dozens of these brief comments throughout the tape, recorded accidentally, surreptitiously, but few made any sense. ‘Spells’ and ‘Petrificus Totalis’ or some such nonsense, and ‘Stupefying.’ The distant mumblings, obviously spoken over his unconscious body, sounded vaguely fiendish in nature. But one comment in particular made his blood run cold: “She wants us to stop by next Friday to be sure there’s no fresh Harry Potter material.” Next Friday is in two days!
And who the blazes is this Harry Potter? Allen agonized. And why was someone, or some group, trying to keep him away? How were they making him forget? Drugs? Obviously! Probably what caused that CVA, too, he reasoned. The recording indicated that he had been making some significant progress in his search for the man (boy?), and mentioned the town of Godric’s Hollow, and the local Police station where he’d made a significant discovery about Potter’s parent’s home: 4 Flower Lane.
The notes on the Dictaphone made references to other tapes holding information; Allen could find nothing but gaps in his records.
But where to go from here?
Allen had been obsessed with finding Harry Potter for weeks; of course, he had no memory of this now, other than the scraps of information on the tape. But he realized there may be a bigger fish to catch. Potter was, apparently, only one cog in a great wheel of something very, very strange, probably some Satanic cult… he was certain. And right now the only way to find out about the ‘bigger picture’ was through the two weirdoes who would be returning to his flat in a couple days.
So Michael Allen sat at his desk and began to draw up a plan. It had to be simple and effective, and he had to have help. PC Repairs.
“Hi Mr. Allen. Get that new laptop yet?”
“No, not yet, Billy. Say, if you haven’t taken your lunch break today I thought I would treat you and talk about a project I’m working on.”
Billy looked startled for a moment. “Oh, sure… just let me tell the boss I’m headed out.” Half a minute later Billy appeared with his jacket and another kid to occupy the seat behind the counter. “Where to, Mr. A.?”
Thirty minutes later, Billy and Michael were finishing their lunch. Allen had laid out his plan carefully, and most of the time Billy just nodded while chewing his fish and chips. When finished, the journalist asked what Billy thought.
“Sounds mega-bogus, Mr. A., I mean, really, dude, there’s something important you aren’t telling me,” he poked Allen in the chest. “That’s obvious, and I don’t want any trouble with the law.”
Carefully constructing his response, Allen tried again. “You’re right, Billy, I am leaving out some important details. Do you know what I do for a living?” The young man shook his head. “I’m a journalist, and a good one. I can’t tell you everything about this story I’m working on (because I don’t know what the hell it is myself!) but I promise you, it’s big, and it might be a little dangerous, too. The people I want to catch are very, eh… powerful, I think, and they won’t give up.” Allen stopped to think about how much more he should reveal. “I know that some time Friday they will be coming back to my flat. If I can catch them in the act I’ll have the evidence I need to take this to Scotland Yard.” Yeah, sure, Allen, like you would! “I’m being as up front with you, Billy, as I can, so this is all I can tell you right now. Will you trust me?”
It was just too much for the technician to resist. The money was excellent, the job easy, pretty much, and Allen’s vague hint that he might have his name in the papers was the icing on the cake. “Ok, Mr. Allen…”
“Billy, please call me Digger.”
“Ok, Digger. I have a couple ideas that can make your plan better…” As Billy explained, Allen smiled and admired the lad’s inventiveness. The next two days would be very busy, but the rewards could be substantial.
It was time for Michael Allen, and Billy the techie, to work a little magic of their own.
|-|-|-|-|
To say that the atmosphere in the Ministry of Magic was tense would be a gross understatement. When Arthur Weasley arrived Monday morning, he made it a point to enter the building with Percy; two wands are better than one. He truly didn’t know what to expect. The Assembly had broken up last week with the Wizengamot meeting to select the new Minister of Magic, but there had been no news of anything over the weekend. Almost half the Ministry was still staffed with wizards, witches and squibs of highly questionable loyalty, remnants of Voldemort’s influence. And many were all keenly aware that their fate was largely due to the two red-haired men walking by.
Percy wished his father good day as they went their separate ways, and Arthur proceeded straight to Phoebus Penrose’s office to check on developments. When he arrived, Kingsley Shacklebolt was present. He knocked on the door frame and was waved in by Penrose who had his nose deep in a piece of parchment. Arthur nodded at Kingsley and received a silent greeting in response. He set his things down and took a seat.
“Very well, Shacklebolt, keep it up, at least until we have a new Minister.” Receiving a nod as a dismissal, Kingsley exited, closing the door behind him. Arthur waited for Penrose to speak.
“Have a good weekend, Arthur?”
Startled by the unexpected personal question, he only nodded.
“That’s wonderful, because it may be the last one you have for a while,” Penrose replied with a grimace. “As of today you are released from all your current responsibilities and, I ahem…” Penrose cleared his throat and placed a look of disgust on his face that had Arthur concerned. “…promote you to Minister of Internal Affairs. Hold your questions, Arthur, it gets worse. You are also commissioned by the Wizengamot to the new post of Minister for Muggle Relations. Congratulations.” Penrose dragged out the last word, laced thick with sarcasm, and Arthur knew why.
For hundreds of years, the Ministry had shunned any sort of formal liaison with the Muggle world. Their reasoning was believed sound, up to a point. As Fudge had experienced a few years before, some sort of interaction was inevitable under extraordinary circumstances. The note from the Muggle Prime Minister the week before had forced the Ministry into action. The Muggles had the Wizarding world over a barrel, at least in England. They outnumbered the magical folk more than ten to one, (something the Muggle leader did not know,) but more importantly he was aware that the Wizarding world desired anonymity; any confrontation would only result in the demise of their cherished way of life. And the specter of slavery was not unrealistic, many still believed. Wizards were paranoid that Muggles would somehow seek to control them to do their bidding, wage their wars and provide them with their every desire.
Yet something had to be done, and soon. The war had been devastating to the Wizarding economy in England. Initial rough estimates put revenues down by almost seventy percent. That was the anticipated direct result of the thrashing the Purebloods had taken in the war and the loss of “payments” made to the Ministry for favors by Pureblood families like the Malfoys. This was more than offset by the seizure of Death Eater’s family’s accounts in Gringotts, as well as their property in England and around the world. But all that money was being held in legal limbo until the courts could be reestablished and cases brought forth. Gilbert Wimple’s association with Bailey Snodgrass and McKenzie Twittle proved that the court battles would be long, bloody and costly.
The Ambassadorship Arthur could understand, and probably even enjoy, but Minister of Internal Affairs? That had a faintly fascist undertone and was not at all appealing. And though the position was new, the idea behind it was not. Since Grindelwald, most European Magical governments had established some sort of internal security or police department to deal with internal issues, apart from the normal governmental channels. But the fear of a secret police organization, such as Grindelwald controlled in Germany, had, so far, made the organizations generally toothless. Boris Titov’s group in the Balkans was an exception, but it was also an example of the problem with the concept. The effort it put into creating the Soul Bottles was enormous, and though they played a key role in the victory over Voldemort, it left a very bad taste in everyone’s mouth. No one at Hogwarts that September would ever forget the spine-chilling screams heard when Lucius and Draco Malfoy’s bottles were destroyed by Bellatrix Lestrange.
When Arthur presented his objections, Penrose was sympathetic. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Weasley, the only significant responsibility you will have over the next year will be overseeing the formal investigation into the return of Voldemort. Here.” The acting Minister handed him a brief parchment explaining what the new Minister for Internal Affairs’ responsibilities would encompass. It looked tedious, but that was better than setting up a new Gestapo in London.
“Who will be taking my current job?”
“No decision, yet. Now about the Emissary job: talk with Foreign Affairs and see how they structure their department... then do the exact opposite.” Both wizards laughed. “Obviously, your first responsibility will be to contact the Muggle Prime Minister… what’s his name again?”
“Blast, Phoebus, Anthony Blast.”
“Right, set up an appointment and try to stall him as much as possible. But don’t irritate him, either.”
“Yes, sir. Any ideas about why we still don’t have a Minister of Magic yet?”
“Oh, I have a lot of ideas…” Penrose said sarcastically. I believe the Freedoms and Liberals are just fighting over their new authority. Neither party has been in power for decades and they probably just forgot how to get things done. I suppose you and I are to blame for that. But… I suspect the biggest reason is because they have complete power until they elect the Minister, then they have to share it.” Penrose smiled a very knowing grin. “I’ll come by as soon as I hear anything.”
Arthur nodded and picked up his things, seeing Penrose was dismissing him.
“Good luck, Arthur.”
|-|-|-|-|
“Awake, are you? How are you feeling today?”
“I feel like I was blown up and pieced back together,” Charlie replied, as he had since being released to Tré’s care a few days earlier. Both smiled at the joke. Looking like he was trying to clear his vision, he rubbed his eyes and tried to sit up. “Are we still in Vernon?”
“We were never in Vernon, love, we’re at my flat in Paris.” Tré watched her friend carefully, he had shown signs of disorientation every morning, and this one was no different.
“That’s right... forgot. Help me to the loo?”
“Certainly.”
Tré sat Charlie up in bed and put his slippers on, then he slid off the edge of the mattress, trying to balance himself. Stooped over due to the thick, restrictive scar tissue across his abdomen, back and chest, he held firmly to her arm and hobbled to the adjoining room. It was only the second day he could walk there, but he was determined to never use another bed pan. When finished, Tré helped him brush his teeth and led him back to bed.
“The nurse will be here soon, love, and I have to get to the office. There’s a letter from your mother on the table. Would you like company for lunch?” Charlie smiled, and closing his eyes, drifting back to sleep before answering. Leaning over, Tré gave him a kiss and caressed his cheek. You definitely a shower or bath tonight, she promised him silently.
The nurse arrived as Tré was preparing to leave. The short, overweight French woman asked about Charlie’s night and gave Tré a concerned look when she was told about the continued morning disorientation.
“Should I be worried about this?”
The nurse hesitated. “I’m not sure. The doctor’s report said his heart was stopped about four minutes. That’s the limit, anything after that almost always causes brain damage.”
Tré closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose and fought back her emotions. “When will we know for certain?” she asked, sniffling.
“We may never, but his motor skills returning this quickly are a good sign. And his internal organs seem to be healing well. Did you massage the ointment into his scars last night?”
“Yes, but they are very tight and it pains him...”
“I understand, Minister, but they must be worked, every day. Do you understand?” Nodding, Tré thanked the woman again and left for her job.
Charlie’s lunch had progressed from a thin chicken broth to a rich potato and egg dish with bits of ham. It was a small step but it felt good to have something solid in his stomach. Tré had told him the previous week about the terrible injuries he had suffered, about Nettie’s refusal to let him die when his heart had stopped, and her bold action in pushing the other Healer to walk her through his gut to repair a torn artery. He was grateful to have the chance to speak with her, and thank her, before she left for Nice. Still, he was going to have a long recovery; there’s only so much potions, magic and Healers could do.
Another spoon of food found its way into his mouth by Tré’s hand. Both smiled as she fed him for he was entirely capable of feeding himself, and Tré knew this, too. When he first protested, she insisted, saying, “I never had any children to take care of, so you will have to do.”
“You might still, Tré, you’re only thirty-eight, yes?” But she just smiled and sent another bite of food his way.
“How’s the job?”
“Tedious... different... it weighs very heavily, everything I do.” Tré put the bowl and spoon down, shaking her head. “I’m not just making decisions for a few people, now it’s the entire country. I was lucky I wasn’t kicked out for appointing Rousseau to head the Ministry battle.”
“How could you know? He was supposed to be a fighter, that’s what everyone heard.”
“Well, they were wrong, weren’t they? And if I had bothered to speak with a few of his subordinates I may have found these weaknesses sooner.”
“Rubbish, Tré, how could you have found out? You had one day to make a decision...”
“And it was the wrong one, Charlie! Politics is like… like handling dragons: one false move, no matter how innocent or justifiable it may be, can spell doom.” Here was an analogy Charlie could identify with. He nodded and gave in as Tré stroked his cheek, an action he loved and that calmed him. “I must go now, my dear, you rest and I will walk you around more this evening.”
“I need a bath, too. Help me with that, will you?”
Tré gave Charlie a kiss and turned to the nurse entering the room. “I believe Mr. Weasley is feeling better today.”
|-|-|-|-|
“But it’s perfect, Digger!”
“You bloody well better be joking, Billy. Do you know what happened to me the last time those bastards paid me a visit?” Billy didn’t, and said so. “I had a stroke, and spent three days in the hospital, not to mention having forgot a month of my life.”
“Well… you don’t look like you had a stroke,” the tech offered weakly.
“I got better; fortunately it was very minor. Whatever drugs they used I don’t want them to use again.” Allen was game for Billy’s ideas, up to a point, but actually being in the apartment when the two goons arrived was stretching it a bit.
“Ok, Digger, how about this?”
Allen groaned, it was getting to be late on the Thursday before the goons, as they had taken to call the two men, were to visit again. He made a motion with his hand.
“They came on Friday night last time, right? Right then, they’ll probably do the same tomorrow. Let me rig another camera in the hallway. When they come to the door I’ll alert you…”
“Billy, I’m not going to be in there when they arrive…”
“Then how are you going to find out what they did to you?” he said reasonably. “I could… let me think. I’ll watch them and if they start after you I’ll run into the room with this.” He held out an evil looking metal device which Allen had noticed earlier in the day.
“What the hell is that?”
“A cattle prod.”
“Where did you get a cattle prod?”
“Give me some credit! I work in an electronics shop so I made one. It’s good for a six hundred volt shock or two… never really tested it though,” Billy admitted.
“Look Billy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I really don’t want this to go bad. I’ll watch with you from across the hall.”
Sighing, Billy almost gave in. “Right then, I’ll do it.”
“You’ll do what?”
“I’ll play you, Digger. We’re about the same size.”
“Billy… no, if they discover you aren’t me it could be dangerous. And besides, I don’t know how to work all these gadgets.”
“Digger, one of us has to be in there or they won’t do anything. From what you told me they are not just looking for notes about this Potter berk. They may just turn and leave if you aren’t there.”
Allen bowed his head, shaking it slowly, like a horse might shake off a fly on its nose. He finally gave in. As much as he hated to admit it, the boy was spot on. “Ok, Billy, I’ll do it, but I must be insane. The moment they look like they’re doing something odd, get you and your cattle prod in here.”
“Right, good show! This really is the best way, and you can try to talk to them; maybe you can draw out something important.” Shaking his head, Allen went to kip for a while.
When he awoke an hour later, Billy had made the finishing touches on all the electronic recording devices in the flat and corridor. Then the two sat down and recorded a message to themselves about what they were doing. Billy had insisted that it would look good for them if Scotland Yard needed the details about what happened before the break-in. Digger agreed. Finally, nearing midnight, Billy retired to the empty flat across the hall from Allen’s and made a final check of all the equipment. They were ready.
Friday morning and afternoon passed with no sign of the goons. Billy was trembling from all the caffeine he’d consumed and his eyes felt like they were on fire from staring at the four monitors arrayed in front of him. But more hours passed before anything happened, and what happened had a far more profound affect on waking Billy than the caffeine. At ten fifteen, he noticed two strangely dressed men outside Digger’s door. I must have blinked, they weren’t there a second ago… He pressed the button they’d rigged to alert the journalist and saw in another monitor Allen swivel around in his chair and stand. The video and sound recorders were all running.
Both men drew weapons from beneath their cloaks, Billy saw, though they did not look very intimidating, more like drum sticks. They looked at each other and pointed them at the door. When a yellow glow came out, Billy dropped his tea in his lap and froze; fortunately the tea was not hot. What the HELL are they doing?
Inside the flat, Allen had a distinctly nauseating feeling of deja vous. His door spring open and two men stepped inside, but they were obviously startled to see their target advancing on them and forgot to close the door completely. Digger, for all his worth, could not think of a single thing to say, even after all the scenarios he had rehearsed with Billy.
As one of the men raised his hand, the one bearing a stick, Allen held his hands up in surrender and spat out the first thing that came to his mind. “Stop, I’m one of you!”
It worked, for a moment at least. The threatening hand lowered a few centimeters and the man spoke, suspicion clear in his voice. “Not bloody likely. Well, where’s your wand? And be quick about it.”
Allen’s luck ran out at that point and no amount of quick thinking could disguise the look of complete confusion that came over his face.
“Ah, I thought so; sorry, old bean.” The right goon raised his hand again and started to speak the stupefying spell. Something else came out instead. “Stupif-Ahhhhhhhh.”
Digger saw Billy standing behind the crumpled intruder, the cattle prod still in his hand. In an instant, Allen closed on the other man, just three steps away, and leapt at him. At the same instant, Billy raised the cattle prod, but before their eyes the man muttered something indecipherable, spun and disappeared. With his momentum unchecked, Allen plowed into the cattle prod and Billy. Aside from falling to the ground, both men were uninjured and Allen was grateful that the charge in the shocking devise had been expended on its first target.
The journalist lay awkwardly atop Billy, both too stunned to move.
“Digger…?” Billy whispered.
The older man pushed himself off the younger. “What the hell?” he said in return.
|-|-|-|-|
“How’d’you like your first Quidditch game, Di?” asked Harry, his voice barely audible, muted by his scarf and the stiff wind.
“Interesting; are they usually that short?”
“No, not usually,” Ginny answered. “But we had a good incentive to end the game quickly.”
Diane didn’t have to ask Ginny what she meant. The game had been moved up from eleven o’clock to nine o’clock due to the approaching bad weather, and even the American knew it would have been nearly impossible to play in the wind and fog that had showed up only moments after Harry had caught the Snitch, ending the game. Hermione and Luna joined them as they passed the castle and followed the path down to Hogsmeade.
“You’re in for a treat, Di, Hogsmeade is unique in all of England,” Ginny said. “It’s the only completely Wizarding village left in the country. You don’t have to keep watch out for Muggles here.”
“Where are we meeting the guys?” Diane asked Harry.
“Zonko’s, or what used to be Zonko’s. They went out of business a couple years ago. But that’s not until noon; we have a lot of other places to show you first.”
The five friends spent the morning window shopping and ducking into a store now and then to thaw out. It was still a couple weeks until winter began, but the northern winds and chilling mists made long outdoor exposure painful. Each showed Diane their favorite store (or stores) and the American marveled at the range of products available to them. “Nothing like this exists in the States,” she said to them at each shop, amazement and delight plain in her voice.
As noon approached, Harry noticed Hermione acting jittery, obviously nervous about seeing Ron for the first time in two and a half months. He, on the other had, couldn’t wait to see his best friend. Luna was quiet and spoke mostly with Diane and Ginny; the memories of other times in the village were throwing her some emotional curves. But it was, by and large, a fun morning. For the first time in years they didn’t have to be concerned about a Death Eater attack.
Harry felt Ron before he saw him. Passing a corner just a block from the old Zonko’s store, the tall read-head pounced on his friend from behind a wooden fence and punched him playfully on his arm. “Put that down!” Ron exclaimed as he saw his friend’s wand come up quickly to meet the tip of his nose. Then the former student enveloped his former roommate in an affectionate embrace. “Sorry I missed the match, Harry. Heard you won.” Then, without so much as a hello to the females, Ron draped his arm around Harry’s shoulder and led him off to Fred and George who were waiting a block up the street. Behind, and off to the side, the girls laughed at the display of affection, and even Hermione noted that they were both instantly happier to be together. When she caught a flash of Ron’s eyes she smiled, but he didn’t spend enough time looking to notice it.
By the time everyone had congregated around the twins, Ron had released Harry and started introducing the two property managers they had been meeting with. He came to Hermione last and snapped his fingers repeatedly, feigning an inability to recall her name. Harry and Ginny laughed at the inside joke, Hermione smiled and introduced herself.
“And remember that name, all,” Ron announced, “Hermione Granger, top marks in all her years at Hogwarts and bound for greatness.” The words alone might have sounded vaguely patronizing to an outsider, but Hermione knew otherwise. She locked eyes with her former boyfriend and shyly mouthed a thank you. As Fred and George led everyone off to lunch at The Three Broomsticks, Ron intentionally lagged behind and took Hermione’s hand as she walked past, pretending not noticing him. He waited a few seconds before speaking.
“Hi there.”
“Hello, Ron. Thanks for the kind words.”
“Only the truth.” Ron looked suddenly lost for words.
“How have you been? We heard some things through Ginny…”
“Nah, don’t believe all that rubbish,” he laughed. Hermione smiled and conceded.
“I swear you’ve grown taller.”
“Oy, ‘Mione, now you sound like my mum!” Both laughed at that. Inside, Hermione’s heart was beating so hard she was certain Ron could see it through her jumper and coat. How long has it been since he called me that?
Then Ron’s face became serious. “I… I’ve missed you, ‘Mione.” He took her hands and removed her thick mittens, lacing their fingers together.
This action was so completely unexpected that Hermione panicked, almost pulling away. “I’ve missed you, too, Ron,” she said hastily, trying to present a neutral front. Ron’s face showed little emotion.
“Lunch?”
“Of course,” she laughed, nodding to the others walking towards The Three Broomsticks.
“No, I mean, would you have lunch with me?” Ron was pointing in another direction.
“Oh… I… I…”
“It’s just lunch, Hermione, not a world cruise,” he said soothingly, smiling.
“Ok, sure.”
Ron could barely hear the answer and arched his eyebrows. “Really?”
Hermione nodded. “But I want my mittens back, it’s freezing out here. And where’s your hat?”
Laughing, he pulled one out of his coat pocket. “See, I know you too well.” Putting the hat on, Ron led Hermione around the corner from where he had jumped out at Harry. There was a small pub snuggled between two buildings; Hermione had never noticed it before. When Ron opened the door she turned to him with an apprehensive look on her face.
“It’s safe, I’ve been here a couple times.”
“You never told Harry or me about it, but it must be good to earn your patronage.” Am I flirting with him? Calm down, girl.
“It is, especially the Reuben, and I just found it the other day.”
“You were in town this week? Why didn’t you stop by and see us?” Hermione asked, while shedding her winter coverings. Then she caught a look on Ron’s face and said no more.
“Harry, where are Ron and Hermione?” asked Ginny, as they stepped into The Three Broomsticks. He looked around and shrugged.
Fred cut in to supply the answer. “Ron said he wanted to talk to Hermione… alone, so they’ve drifted off somewhere...”
“Probably some place like Madam Puddifoot’s,” George added.
“Shut it, you two, don’t start,” Ginny spat out, not interested in hearing her brothers’ teasing.
As the party seated itself, numerous Hogwarts students stopped by to greet Fred and George and Hagrid sat with the group for a few minutes while waiting for Professor Flitwick to arrive. It was the first time most of them had been into Hogsmeade since the war ended, and the atmosphere was remarkably lighter and friendlier.
To Fred’s surprise, Diane whispered something to Ginny and his sister moved so the American could sit next to him. He gave her a questioning look and Diane asked him, “Are you blue yet?” He nearly choked on his Butterbeer. Then she proceeded to query him about his business and their future plans for expansion.
Before they knew it, two hours had passed and the crowds of students were thinning out. Ron and Hermione had arrived at one thirty and joined their friends; both ignored questioning looks and even some off-color jibes from the twins. When the tab was paid and the group had donned their winter wear, they all walked over to the Hog’s Head to see Aberforth Dumbledore, but he was nowhere to be found, though the barman said he expected him back later that evening.
After one final stop to purchase a bottle of wine for his parents, Ron walked back to Hogwarts with his friends, leaving the twins and the two property managers to finalize their transactions.
“Feels a bit creepy, mate, walking back here. You sure McGonagall won’t have a fit and toss me out?”
“Give me some credit, Ron, I’m Head Boy, Hermione and I can bring guests in…”
“…as long as they behave themselves,” the Head added, stepping between them, then looking to Ron. “We’re going to be watching you closely, Weasley.”
Everyone laughed, Harry especially enjoyed hearing her making fun of Ron; Apparently they had a good lunch.
The remainder of the afternoon and evening was spent in the Gryffindor common room where Ron was assailed by dozens of former classmates and housemates, all eager to hear of his exploits in France, his medals, and the dozen or so girls he had allegedly conquered. Every time someone brought up the ‘girls,’ Harry noticed, the number seemed to increase. And every time someone brought up the number, Harry looked over to Hermione. She sat quietly, appearing happy, chatting with Ginny and Diane, but Harry earnestly hoped she was paying attention to Ron’s responses, for they were humble and mature.
As the hour grew late and the room emptied, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Diane and Hermione sat together on two sofas facing the fireplace. Hermione sat herself next to Ron, though neither showed any reaction to the maneuver. Harry was anxious to get Hermione alone and ask some questions, and from the looks on their face, Diane and Ginny had the same idea.
It was well past midnight when Ron said he had to be returning home. Now it was his turn to maneuver and he said his goodbyes to Harry, Ginny and Diane, and then asked Hermione to walk him down to the front entrance. She consented and they left the others scratching their head and formulating questions.
The Head Girl returned to her suite a few minutes later. At first she stopped, as if she wanted to talk, but then shook her head in a way that begged Harry not to ask any questions. He suspected that she didn’t know the answers to potential inquiries anyway.
A/N: Obviously Amanda Bright has a serious problem on her hands. Even with all the powers of magic, it does seem to stretch the imagination that wizards could exist without being discovered. The question is, therefore, what will happen when someone stumbles across an “impossible” situation?