Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world is the property of J.K. Rowling.
The plot is of my own invention.
“Then do it the Muggle way, you berk! But for God’s sake, show some backbone…”
SMASH…
“You mean like that, you stupid English boy?” Colonel Pierre Rousseau rubbed his fist as he watched Ron Weasley shake his head and spit out the blood which had rapidly pooled in his mouth. “We did not ask for your help. If you wish to be here then you will follow MY orders. And that goes for you, too, monsieur Weasley.”
Charlie stood on the far side of the small room, having a better time controlling his temper than his youngest brother. He held up his hands, palms turned outward in mock surrender, barely able to hold back his own annoyance with his superior’s orders. Colonel Rousseau knew it, too; the elder Englishman had followed his orders. Still, it grated on the commander that a good bit of what the boy on the floor had said was true.
Walking over to his brother, Charlie held out his hand, only to have it slapped away. His face showed disappointment with Ron, and his concern was doubled when he jumped up and left the room. Up until this point, Ron’s differences with the various French officers in charge of the siege were minor and he had successfully held back his temper. But it had been only a matter of time, Charlie knew, until he would exploded. That it had to happen in front of Rousseau was most unfortunate.
“Colonel, I apologize for Ron’s behavior. He’s impulsive and doesn’t always think things through.” Rousseau nodded curtly, accepting the apology. Then Charlie cautiously continued. “But Colonel, part of what Ron said is true. If we don’t tighten the noose around these bastards they will continue to escape.”
Rousseau slapped his hand down on the map table, causing Charlie to jump a bit and wonder if he had gone too far also.
“Damn it, Weasley, I know that. But do you know that if your brother had said that in front of my subordinates I would have challenged him? Dueling is NOT illegal in France.”
Bloody fool! He’s more interested in his honor than getting the job done... “I’ll remind him, Colonel,” said Charlie forcefully. “And I’ll remind YOU that we are here at the orders of YOUR superior...”
“NON!”
“OUI!, COLONEL! Minister Mellanson IS the de facto Minister of Defense until…”
“NON!” shouted Rousseau, even more vehemently, and shaking his finger at Charlie. “I do not recognize that woman until she has been confirmed by the Assembly. She has no experience and I will NOT let her paramour tell me how…”
SMASH…
This time it was the Charlie looking down at the Colonel spitting out blood. “Look you bloody imbecile, if I remember correctly, you had exactly zero experience in the field before this summer. Ron and I are both commissioned officers in the French Resistance. We have been invited by a legally appointed Minister in your government to assist and advise. I’ve been involved in this war for years, Ron nearly as long. I would hate to have to use my influence as a… paramour to have the Minister replace you. Comprendez vous?”
And just that quickly, much of the goodwill the English and French had built over the past month evaporated. Rousseau got to his feet and stared at Charlie, loathing evident in every muscle of his face. “Get out, Weasley. You will be informed of any orders affecting tonight’s operation.”
Picking up Ron’s cap which had fallen off the table, Charlie threw Rousseau a mock British salute and left the office. As soon as he exited the door, he heard the Colonel summon a number of officers; the anteroom emptied except for one woman making notes at an old, stained oaken desk. She looked at Charlie and pointed to the men’s toilet. “Een zair, monsieur.”
Taking a calming breath, Charlie entered the lavatory. Ron was sitting on the counter with a wet paper towel plastered over his left chin and cheek. There were a number of bloody towels stuffed into the rubbish bin. “All right, Ron?”
“Bloody perfect, Charlie, Tré is going to kill me! How could she put that buffoon in charge?” He threw down the towels uncovering a swollen cheek with a gash in the center, apparently Rousseau had punched Ron with his ring hand.
“Yeah, he is a bit of an arse,” agreed Charlie. Sitting next to his brother on the counter, Charlie took out his wand and healed the cut. “Look, Ron, even if he’s an imbecile you can’t call him...”
“I know, Charlie, I know! Maybe I should resign the commission. I’m rubbish at French and can’t do what I want to do anyway.” Standing, Ron began to pace about the spacious bathroom. He poked his head into a couple stalls to be sure no one was listening.
“I wouldn’t be too concerned about eavesdroppers, Ron. I’m sure his place is wired,” said Charlie, pointing to three small fixtures on the ceiling.
“Wired...? As in bugged?” Ron flushed red as a look of horror came upon his face.
“I’m pranking you, Ron, calm down. Why are you so worked up?”
The younger Weasley shook his head and sat again. “I just want this over.”
“Why? What are your plans afterwards? Thinking about going back to Hogwarts?”
“NO! Definitely not, at least not this term.”
“Hmmm. Do you have any plans? What if this all ends tomorrow?” Ron answered with silence. In other words, he didn’t know what he would do. “Your French is almost understandable now; are you thinking of staying here?”
“Probably not. Nettie will be returning to school and... we talked about it. She said it wouldn’t be fair to me to wait around three more years for her to get her Healer’s Certification. And I agreed.”
“I see. So you two will just go your seperate ways? No... complications?”
“That’s right, we’ll just go our seperate ways,” answered Ron with resolution.
“You two have become good friends, haven’t you?” Charlie asked quietly; he knew they had. Then Ron did something he had had been doing for almost a week: He replied in French, basically saying, ‘Yes, we are good friends. I will miss her.’ Charlie nodded silently.
“What about you and Essie... eh, Tré? I think you two are a bit more than friends.”
“I’m staying, Ron,” Charlie declared firmly.
“Good. I’m happy for you. Do you, uh, you know... love her?”
“Oui.
Ron smiled. “Bon! I’m happy for you.”
Ron’s love life was seldom the subject of conversation between the brothers these days. It was clear that he and Antoinette had become close, but as soon as Charlie felt the lingering depression from his breakup with Hermione pass, he left his younger brother to himself. The past two days, however, Charlie noticed a vein of melancholy creep back into Ron’s life, shortening his temper. He was only relaxed when he was physically near Nettie.
“Say little brother, I’m not trying to butt into your life, but did you both agree on this, er, separation?”
Ron didn’t answer, but he had a look on his face Charlie recognized. It was the same look he had when he said he and Hermione had ‘agreed’ to split up. “Ron, if you love her, three years isn’t much. You could find a job in... where is that school... Nice?” Ron was shaking his head, probably unconsciously. “Maybe you could work as a… translator?”
Ron turned to tell his brother where he could shove his advice, but Charlie was smiling. “You’re a bloody arse!” But the humor worked, Ron laughed and was broken out of his spell of gloom.
“Come on, let’s get the team together and review tonight’s operation.”
And that, Charlie knew, was something which would perk Ron up. He loved preparing and planning for an operation. This would be their sixth together. All had been dirty, dangerous, physically draining and highly successful, at least as far as Rousseau was concerned. But both brothers were becoming frustrated that the scope of each plan was so shallow. The first two they could understand. Ringing the ‘usurpers’ at the Ministry building was slow and dangerous. The building was a fortress in itself and there were many underground avenues for escape, mainly through a labyrinth of sewers. Each of these had to be sealed magically and regularly monitored. But there were still holes to find.
And everything they had to do needed to be done away from Muggle eyes. For the underground operations, this was not so much of a problem; above ground, however, was another matter. There were few invisibility cloaks and this part of Paris was very busy eighteen hours a day. Additionally, the power and water conduits leading to the building could not be shut down, many simply passed through the structure and supplied the neighboring buildings with the needed utilities.
And then there were the sewers. Three waste and six runoff tunnels existed under the Ministry building. These runoff pipes were large, nearly two meters in diameter and could be easily patrolled twenty-four hours a day. But the sewage cloacae were less than a meter across and chocked with the vilest collection of scum and waste anyone could imagine. No one wanted the job of setting the barriers, let alone patrolling them. A Resistance fighter named Fince had tried using a Bubble Head Charm around his entire body, and it worked fine, until he popped it on a sharp projection. It took his friends an hour to hose him off.
When Ron ‘volunteered’ Charlie and his team for ‘sewer duty,’ the Englishmen’s popularity had plummeted to an all-time low. That was operation four, a week before, and since then Ron had been grumbling that they needed to push the underground barriers under the building to discover the source of the escapes. But Rousseau would not listen. He was preparing for a long siege and aggressive actions were not part of the master plan. This was the third time Ron had argued forcefully for more action, and the third time he was refused.
Gathering in an office at the center of the building used as Resistance headquarters, Ron, Charlie and their three teammates sat to plan the night’s operation. The map was unfolded and Rousseau’s orders were inside. But no one needed to read them, the annotations on the map made it clear that the sewers were their target... again. Even Charlie gave his brother an annoyed look before starting the planning session. But Ron’s face had a smile on it, the map, clearly altered recently, showed the team moving under the building for the first time.
“Ok, Claude Bryon’s team will be here, at the north exit,” Charlie said, pointing to the maintenance entrance to the sewage line leading from the north side of the building. “Frederique Le Marsh’s group here,” he jabbed at the east access this time. “And we lucky ‘Sewer Rats’,” two of the team punched Ron half-playfully on the arm, “will enter the tunnel of love here.” To no one’s surprise, Charlie’s finger landed at the west access portal. One of the men, Terone Joffe, crude even by a vulgar soldier’s standards, snickered and asked who was going to watch his rear. When the laughs died down, Charlie continued.
“Who’s up for leading this time? Is it you, Montel?”
The tiny, bald fighter shook his head and pointed to Ron. “Monsieur Weasley gets to lead the parade tonight,” Montel said in halting English, smiling at the ‘leader.’
“Aw, Bloody...”
“Shut it, Ron, you asked for this.” Charlie discarded the top page of the map and opened the second sheet. This one showed the path of the sewer as it went under the building. “Ok, we start here, Ron will lead, I’ll follow him. We’ll proceed the hundred meters under the fence and to this grate.” The map showed a small access grate at the edge of the Ministry building, far too small for a person to squeeze through, but each would take a moment to get a breath of ‘fresh air’ at the spot.
“Right here the pipe splits left and right. Montel, you will remain here while Ron, Tyrone, Renard and I move to this spot.” Circling his finger vaguely, Charlie finally put it down somewhere near the middle of the building. “If we are lucky, someone from Byron and Le Marsh’s teams will meet us there and we will finally have the entire network mapped.”
“What if no one shows up?” asked Renard, another tiny man with red hair, nicknamed ‘Renard,’ the fox, by his teammates.
“We sit there and wait until they do... according to the Colonel’s orders.” Charlie picked up the ‘official’ order and reread it. “It doesn’t say how long. I guess that detail slipped his mind in all the excitement this afternoon. They all sniggered, except Ron. Word of the confrontations was impossible to keep secret.
The next hour was spent discussing contingencies, communications in the small, cramped pipes and other important details. The operation was scheduled to begin at 0200 hours and be complete by 0330, IF everything went according to plan. Following a break for dinner, the three teams involved that night met with their backup and support sections. These sections were comprised of various personnel from the entire siege force and were responsible for activities such as anti-Muggle patrols, equipment maintenance and emergency assistance or medical care. Ron was please to see that Nettie would be observing for the first time that night. She looked nervous, but who didn’t?
Those who were able slept until 0030 when they were awakened to make final preparations. The most important item on every sewer rat’s agenda was conditioning their eyes to the low light conditions of the sewers. Each person would have their wands lit, but only dimly. As the departure time approached, everyone changed into a tight fitting rubberized suit that covered the entire body except the eyes and mouth. Eyes were protected by a simple set of Muggle goggles, Spelled to resist water and other material build-up. No one wanted to think much about what that other material might include.
For the mouth there was simply nothing that could be done. Each required the freedom to verbalize spells, so any sort of breathing device, even the now proven-faulty Bubble Head Charm, was forbidden. Their only consolation was the nose plug on the goggles which helped with the stench.
Black shoe polish was applied to the face to reduce reflection, though they all knew that they would be covered with something equally dark anyway.
Each five-man team was roped together for safety and to prevent getting lost in the darkness, a real possibility, even among the relatively small system of pipes. Each also carried an extra ten meter section of strong nylon cord. On Charlie’s team, each person carried their wand and a spare, one he personally bought each member of the team, recounting his recent visit to Iceland.
And that was it. The orders were to reconnoiter and map. Engaging the enemy was forbidden unless attacked. Ron shook his head as Charlie read the orders on final time.
At 0150 the team moved to their jump-off point, a few hundred meters away the two other teams were doing the same.
At 0157, Ron started to move to the front of the team when he felt someone take his arm. Nettie’s eyes were wide with fear as she told him to be careful.
He smiled back. “Always.”
At 0200, Ron opened the access hole and climbed into the sewer. Charlie was right behind him followed by Renard, Tyrone and Montel. As this group had the furthest to travel, they began a few minutes before the others. The plan was to have each group at the edge of the building by 0220. Of course, no one knew where the other groups really were, but that was the plan.
At 0230, Ron’s team left Montel at the first branch, just as planned. Five minutes later they came upon their first problem.
Ten meters past Montel’s branch, the pipes split three ways, but the diagram had shown only a two-way split. Communications with the man behind you was nearly impossible without shouting, something that might draw attention to their presence, so Ron did the only thing a person could do in a limited space; he stopped and kicked his brother in the head.
Far from being surprised at his brother’s action, Charlie only regretted that Ron had momentarily dislodged his nose plug. After a few seconds of retching, he did the same thing they had practiced before their first foray into the sewers two weeks earlier, he tapped on Ron’s foot a short code asking what was the problem.
To this question Ron had only three choices: First, he could call off the operation, forcing everyone to crawl out backwards. Second, he could wait. But since no one had ever come up with a good reason to wait they never planned to use it. Finally, he could signal that they proceed with caution, an indication of a possible problem or detection. This was Ron’s choice.
When Charlie reached the same juncture a moment later he saw Ron’s dilemma, and his solution. Where the four sewage lines met was a cistern about one meter square. Bending himself uncomfortably, Ron was able to turn around and speak to his brother while scrunched up in a chest-high accumulation of waste.
“Look,” Ron said, pointing down the left pipe. In the distance they could see the faint light from Bryon’s team. They had reached the rendezvous spot first and had lit a wand with a low-intensity glow. Also, somewhere down there was Le Marsh’s team, though there was no indication of their presence.
“Ok, little bro, what do you suggest?” Charlie knew that Ron would press for investigating the unmapped pipe.
Ron looked around as best he could, picked up a handful of muck and threw it down the pipe towards the faint light. “Damn, Charlie, I just can’t tell which way the others might come in. Maybe it’s this way,” he pointed down the third and unknown pipe.
“… I agree, Ron, I’ll bring Tyrone and Renard up and wait for you to return.” As Ron started to proceed, Charlie grabbed his arm. “If you see ANYTHING unusual, Ron, get back here. Understand?”
“Oui, mon capitan!” Ron chuckled, hiking up out of the cistern, and starting down the third pipe.
After about ten more meters, he stopped to make a notation on his map about the pipe. As he finished, the cold feeling of water cascading down his back told him someone above had just flushed a toilet. Swearing quietly, he put the map away and continued forward another ten meters.
According to his dead reckoning, he should be close to the northwest corner of the building and as yet he had not seen anything even remotely usable as an escape route. When he had proceeded a few more meters he came to a dead end. “Aw shi…” he started saying, then stopped himself, realizing the swear was redundant. Over the next two minutes he crawled backwards until he came to the cistern. Sliding back into the pool of muck, he turned to tell Charlie what had happened and noticed his safety line was severed. And Charlie and the rest of the team were nowhere to be seen.
Hermione was livid. When Harry and Ginny walked into the Head Girl/Head Boy suite they saw her “ or more correctly, heard her “ and exchanged glances of concern. Hermione never talks like this! Obviously some of Ron’s language had rubbed off on her over the years. What concerned the couple even more was that she seemed fine at dinner just a couple hours earlier.
“Hermione?” Ginny called out to her friend.
The bushy-haired witch let out another cry of anger and slammed something down on her desk. Harry and Ginny pushed her office door open and saw their friend sitting, arms folded across her chest and face screwed up in a scowl, wet with tears.
“It really is too much this time! she cried out, pointing to a paper on her desk: The Prophet.
Ginny stole a quick glance at Harry and he nodded. It was not as if they weren’t expecting the publication to run some sort of obnoxious story about someone they knew; they had all discussed the fact that the paper had been strangely silent about Harry after the initial flurry of praise.
Ginny set her bag on a chair and went to her girlfriend to offer comfort; Harry picked up the paper and was happy to see, at least, that the story about him was not on the front page, this time.
By: Rita Skeeter
And who could deny him? this writer asks herself. Harry Potter has become the Playboy of the United Kingdom since his September stomping of Lord Voldemort on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Mr. Potter has recently been seen accompanying his long-time interest, Ms. Hermione Granger, with whom he shares the Head Boy/Head Girl suite at school; a more recent love, Ms. Ginevra Weasley, daughter of Minister Arthur Weasley; and an American exchange student, Ms. Diane Bradley, from the Salem School of Magic in the United States.
Sources placed Mr. Potter, Ms. Weasley and Ms. Bradley in the Americas for a two week holiday in late September, including at least one day at a well-known nude beach just south of Miami. We are certain the party brought back many memorable photographs for Ms. Granger who could not join them...
“I’m so sorry about this, Hermione,” Harry said when he finished the article.
“Harry Potter,” shouted Hermione, leaping to her feet. “If you don’t stop blaming yourself for things others do I’m going to hex you into next week!
Ginny glanced at her boyfriend knowingly and Harry got the message. Ron isn’t the only Weasley whose behavior has rubbed off on Hermione.
“Ok, ok… I’m… sorry for saying ‘I’m sorry’.”
“Don’t worry about it; I should be used to this by now.” Then she flashed Ginny a grin. “So? Where are the pictures?”
Ginny burst out laughing and Harry turned an appropriate shade of red.
“Who has pictures?” Diane called out from the suite’s common room. Dumping her ever-present overfilled bag of books next to Ginny’s, she skipped cheerily into Hermione’s office with more energy than any of them had noticed in her recently.
Not wishing to ruin her good mood, Harry gave a sanitized version of the Prophet’s article.
“You gotta be kidding, Harry. Well, who cares about that rag? Look what I got this afternoon from Jason.” She handed Harry a thick Muggle post envelope with an official looking return address. Glancing at Diane, who looked as if she was about to explode, he pulled out the cover letter which accompanied the small quarter-ream of attached papers. Ginny and Hermione came around either side of Harry and read over his shoulders. When they finished, all three looked at Diane as if she had sprouted another head.
“Why are you excited about this, Di?” Harry finally asked, after receiving nudges from the other two girls. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with your, er… parents stuff.”
Giving Harry and the others an exasperated look, Diane took the papers back. “You’re right, Harry. But the lawyers moved the date up. I leave in two weeks! Then it’s all over! And I’ll be home for Thanksgiving, I mean, at Salem with my friends. And, um…” her face was becoming one, big smile,” McGonagall said I could take one of you with me,” she smiled deviously, “as long as it wasn’t Harry or Hermione.” She spun around and grabbed the youngest Weasley’s hands. “Ginny, would you like to go with me? You’d have to miss a few days of class and…”
“Sure, Di.”
“…the jet lag is a killer, but I could really...”
“I’ll go, Diane.”
“…use the support… oh, wow… great! We leave Tuesday after class. That ok?”
Ginny beamed. “Brilliant!”
With the two girls walking away, arm in arm, to plan their trip, Hermione noticed Harry’s expression; it was not a happy one. “Problem, Harry?”
“Er, no, not really. You know, I’ll just miss them, I mean, Ginny.” He paused while Hermione gave him a suspicious look. He cleared his throat. “Want some tea? Diane gave me some Muggle orange and lemon flavored stuff last month…”
“Sure, Harry. Orange sounds good.”
They walked into their common room where Harry quickly heated-up the teapot with a beverage warming charm. Hermione pulled mugs out of a cabinet and tore open the two Bigelow Orange & Spice teabags Harry had handed her. When they sat on the sofa a minute later, the room was wonderfully scented by the tangy aroma of the steeping tea.
“It smells lovely, Harry, and reminds me of Christmas. Orange and cloves, that must be it,” Hermione said thoughtfully, a satisfied smile on her face. Harry thought it was the most content and happy he’d seen his friend in two months.
“You doing ok, Herms… oh, sorry, Hermione?”
“You’ve been hanging around Diane too much, Harry, slipping up like that.” But the Head Girl showed no indication of being angry.
“Yeah, maybe. But really, how are you? I see you every day and sometimes you look like you’re just going through the motions. You’ve been looking forward to this year since we first arrived; I thought you’d be happier.”
“Wow! Heavy-duty interrogations tonight?” But Hermione smiled again. “I’m… ok, I guess. But you’re right about the Head Girl job, right now I feel like its only purpose is to distract me from Ron.” Harry waited for Hermione to take a sip of tea to see if she would continue. She did. “I must admit, I’m lonely as heck at times. Without Ron around there’s no one to argue with.”
Her weak attempt at humor backfired and Harry saw his friend close her eyes and tighten her lips, obviously trying to hold back her emotions as memories of her relationship with Ron assaulted her. It passed quickly, however, and she changed the subject. “I’m having lunch with… Mrs. Weasley this Saturday. It probably isn’t a good idea, me being as bloody fragile as I am!”
This time the humor worked. Setting her tea down, Hermione conjured a tissue and made a great show of weeping and lamenting her life. They both cracked up.
“I assume you’re going to the Burrow for the Christmas Holidays?”
“Right, don’t have anywhere else to go, do I?”
“That was an enthusiastic answer,” Hermione shot back in surprise.
“Oh, no, the Weasleys are great, it’s not them. I was hoping to do something with Remus and Tonks… and Ginny, of course. But I think I expended all my good will with Mrs. Weasley on that trip to the States. What about the Granger family? Jane and Bob off to San Moritz again?”
“Oh sure! You must think all Muggle doctors are rich.”
“Only when they’re married to each other.”
Hermione gave a deep, genuine laugh that reminded Harry of better times. “No, we’re going to stay home this year. Just do normal Muggle things like clean the castle, redecorate, that sort of thing.”
“Oh sure, ‘clean the castle,’ I hear that all the time. And that reminds me, I have to see if Dobby and Winky would like to work on Grimmauld Place for me… I’ll pay them, of course. Can’t have the S.P.E.W. members after me, can I?”
“Quick thinking, Harry,” Hermione laughed. “Look, it’s getting late, we should start the rounds.”
“Slave driver.” He stuck his tongue out at her.
“Come on, lazy.” Hermione held her hands out and pulled Harry up.
The next hour was spent walking around the castle and detracting House Points from the dozen or so students who were out of their common rooms without permission. But overall it was a quiet evening and when they returned to the suite they saw Ginny and Diane had already collected their things and left. And Harry had a short note waiting for him.
Hi, you don’t mind me going off with Di, do you? I’ll stay if you like. G.
“Harry?” called Hermione from her office.
“Hm? Yeah?”
“Everything ok?”
“What, it’s my turn to be interrogated now?”
She waved him in, pointing to a chair. “Yes. Sit. Harry, does Ginny know about Diane?”
“Does she know what? Oh… OH! How do you know?”
“Unlike guys, Harry, girls talk. Diane told me a couple weeks ago. Are you worried about her and Ginny being together?”
Damn, she gets straight to the point! “Consciously, no. Do you think I should tell her?”
“I think you should tell Diane to tell her. No, I take that back. I think you should talk to Diane about your concerns, if you’re really worried, that is.”
“She always told me she wouldn’t come between Gin and me. Maybe I’m just over-reacting.” Slouching down in the chair, he scratched the side of his neck uncomfortably.
“How would you feel if Dean or Michael asked Ginny to travel overseas with them?”
Harry thought carefully about that one for a moment. “It’s really not the same, is it, Hermione?” She gave him a non-committal shrug. “Blokes seem a lot more aggressive than girls when it comes to, er, you know…”
“You’re too much, Harry Potter! You definitely have to get over your fear of talking about human biology before you have children.” They both laughed at that. And it was true, too, which made it all the more humorous.
“Ok, I’ll think about it. Right now I’m going to revise a while. See you tomorrow… Herms.” Hearing a swishing sound, Harry had to move fast and duck to avoid whatever it was Hermione was casting at him. The spell missed, but he heard her say “Good night, oh Chosen One.”
Phoebus Penrose paced in his office as Arthur Weasley reported to him the results of Shacklebolt’s investigation of Gilbert Wimple. When Arthur finished, Penrose made no attempt to disguise his feelings. “That was highly unsatisfactory, Arthur. Do you think we tipped our hand?”
“No, and neither does Kingsley.”
“And you are confident of Shacklebolt’s abilities?”
“Completely.”
“Good, good. Please ask him to start looking into Snodgrass and Twittle. Whatever it is they’re planning, if anything, it must be uncovered soon.”
“I agree, Minister, but…”
“Blast it, Arthur, call me Phoebus or Penrose. I’m not the Minister of Magic.”
“Yet, Phoebus, but you will be. and you know it. You’ve held this mess together and gained a lot of respect. You’re a strong leader.”
“And that’s precisely why I won’t be voted in, Weasley: I’m too strong and too ethical.” Penrose held his hands up, fluttering them as if he were praising himself. Arthur laughed. But Penrose rounded on him, shaking his finger. “The Purebloods will find someone suitably weak or corrupt, like Fudge. Merlin help us then. And did you see that poppycock in the Prophet questioning Shacklebolt’s work?”
Arthur nodded and groaned. He had seen it, and it made him sick… or sicker. But they had always known that the blanket authority given to the new head of the Aurors would cause problems, not withstanding Kingsley’s honest efforts at protecting Wizarding rights. At least Penrose didn’t bring up that article about Harry…
“And Arthur, what the devil is going on with Potter and your daughter? Or should I say Potter and ‘his harem’?”
Cringing, Arthur just shook his head. “Phoebus, it’s that damnable Skeeter woman…” He looked up and saw the Minister stifling a laugh.
“Never mind, Arthur, I don’t care and I don’t believe anything that woman writes in any event. Now, moving on…” Penrose walked back to his desk and looked at a piece of parchment. “Ah, yes! The Wizengamot reconvenes next week. You can bet that Snodgrass or Twittle… or Snodgrass and Twittle will be there with some laughably bogus petitions. Arthur, these next few months are going to be most trying.”
“Phoebus, you know, the final Wizengamot authorization legislation is finishing up in committee tomorrow,” said Arthur, standing also “ pacing also, a devious look on his face. A family member would have seen where Fred and George received a healthy portion of their genes. “Perhaps we can slip something in that Wimple won’t see…”
“Don’t tell me you’re suggesting something inappropriate, Arthur,” Penrose responded harshly, but with his own devious smile.
“No, of course not, Phoebus! And I should have thought of this sooner. We’ll need to get someone to help us, and immediately. Someone who knows how to work with legislation.”
“I’m afraid my years here helped me little in making friends with the legal side of the Ministry. Do you have any ideas?” Weasley shook his head. “One of your sons… Percy? had some legal training, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but I don’t think we should rely on him for legislation. His work dealt strictly with contracts and bargains. But he might have a contact; shall I go ask him?”
“Yes, do that, Arthur, and bring him back, please.”
Arthur returned shortly with his third son, both slightly winded. Penrose ushered them in and closed the door, locking and soundproofing the room, too.
“Percy, is it? Thank you for coming in so promptly.”
“Certainly, sir. How can I serve you?”
“I believe it’s more a question of how you can serve the country. Has your father told you anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Good!” Penrose exclaimed. “No sense chancing the entire building hearing something. Percy, what we need to do is…”
Twenty minutes later, Percy Weasley Apparated from the Ministry of Magic building to the small flat he had been renting for the past two years. Locked in the large oak desk, where he had studied all the law dealing with contracts that he could find, was a list of names. These were professors he’d run across or heard about, and a few of whom he had met. Browsing the list, he quickly found the name he was looking for. It was a special name, and one of only a handful on the list who Percy knew for certain did not work for Voldemort, to any extent.
After cleaning up a bit and donning his best robes, Percy Apparated to the side of the house of Professor Michael Gibson, who lived, oddly enough, on the opposite end of Grimmauld Place from the Black Mansion. With only a Muggle legal pad, three pens (not quills) and a ‘gift’ for Gibson, Percy approached the door and knocked one time. Moments later the door opened and Percy was greeted heartily by the only Muggle on his long list of contacts.
“Percy! How are you, son?” Gibson exclaimed. “Come in, come in!”
That was the easy part. “Thank you, Professor. I was wondering if I could trouble you with a question about…”
“Now, Percy, none of that. Leave business until later. How about some tea?”
“Well, yes, I mean no, sir. Thank you, but this really is quite a pressing matter.”
Gibson eyes the young man over the top of his half-glasses, sighed and led him to his office. Directing Percy to a sofa, he sat himself behind his desk and put on a business-like face, one not at all happy about work. “Very well, Mr. Weasley, what can I do for you?”
Percy smiled for a fraction of a second, forgetting what he had to tell the man. “Professor, do you remember last July when I brought you that odd contract, the one with all the missing words and peculiar references to, ahem a sacrifice?”
“What happened, did it come back to bite you in the arse? I told you…”
“No, sir, not at all. In fact, it worked perfectly. I even have a copy of the complete agreement here that I want to show you. It’s a fascinating bit of history now.”
“That monstrosity? I thought you had put it together for some… Tolkien drama at Oxford.”
Percy, quite uncomfortable with what he had to say, squirmed in his seat. Gibson, a seasoned trial lawyer, noticed it. He knew that Percy was about to tell him a fantastic story, and he was correct. “Let me see the contract, Weasley.”
“Eh, no sir, I better explain a few things first.” Standing, he drew his wand and cast a silencing spell that left his older friend looking a tad alarmed. It had already been a long day and Percy pocketed the wand and ran his hands over his face. “Tolkien, eh? That’s not too far off the mark, actually…”
Persistence usually pays off! Why is everything a dead end?
For two solid weeks, house after house, road after road, block after block, Digger Allen had combed most of the streets of old Godric’s Hollow. And every night he returned to Peachey House with little more than a notebook full of scratched-out names, sore feet and a migraine.
After the first week, the week he was certain would hold a breakthrough, his headaches became so intense he traveled to Bristol to see a physician. Armed with the latest wonder drug, he returned to the sleepy little village and the near crippling headaches. The medications helped little, though the pounding in his head usually ran its course by the time he turned in for the day. Allen was beginning to think his search was cursed.
By the second week of November, the journalist was seriously contemplating abandoning his look for the mysterious Potter boy. And though he knew persistence in his line of work was essential, frustration was starting to take over. Every time I go out it’s one, BIG headache. If they didn’t go away when I stopped for the day I’d QUIT!
Allen paused. No, it couldn’t… Get a grip Mickey! He had stopped on the front steps of the boarding house after another fruitless day. His headache was receding. Turning around and laughing at the absurd hypothesis forming in his brain, Digger began retracing his steps and mentally reviewing the questions he wanted answered. It was about a mile and a half to the part of town he had been to that day. By the time he had traveled half the distance he felt like retching for the pain in his head.
He turned back to Peachey House after steadying himself. A few blocks later the headache was again receding.
What the deuce?
Again he reversed his direction, back towards the old part of town, and was rewarded a couple minutes later by the pressure in his head, but this time it was too much. He doubled over and vomited on the street. It provided little relief, physically, yet it gave him a strange degree of satisfaction. Staggering like a drunk, again back to Peachey House, Allen considered forgoing any further tests of his strange idea “ it was simply too strange.
The next day he took the bus back to Bristol and consulted with the physician he’d spoken with a few days earlier. This time he carefully worded his questions, lest the man think him insane. “The headaches are back, doctor, even the pills don’t help.”
He was given only a couple alternatives. First, he could take a long break from what sounded to the doctor like a stressful assignment. Or he could check into the nearest hospital for tests. Or there could be something else, something local to the area that might be the cause. “Many of these old towns in Wales are deep in the hollows of the hills where stale air and even natural gasses collect. You may simply be sensitive to something in the air. Where did you say this place was?”
“Never mind, doctor, I’m sure that’s it. I think I’ll wrap up my work and head back to London.”
The physician beamed. The patient was, after all, following his first suggestion.
The next morning, Allen contacted a pair of physicians in Godric’s Hollow and spoke to them about the side-effects of over-exposure to natural gas. Indeed, a severe headache was one of them. But if it’s gas, why am I the only person to notice it? He asked about local allergies and was assured that nothing in the surrounding countryside was unique to the area.
Another dead end!
Unwilling to face any more migraines by himself, Allen asked one of the newer tenants of Peachey House, a Russell Blake, whom he had met a few nights earlier, if he cared to visit the old part of the town. Having nothing else to do, Blake happily agreed and Allen called for a cab. When the car arrived, the driver was given a detailed set of directions to follow that left the man thinking he had a lunatic aboard. His reservations not withstanding, the cabbie departed, and over the next thirty minutes they meandered in and out of nearly every street surrounding the oldest part of the village. No headache.
Next, believing this time the search for Harry Potter would be different, Allen asked the driver to follow another set of directions. The man shook his head but did as he was told, pointing to the fare meter. Allen told him he would be fully compensated.
This next series of streets were different. Almost immediately Allen’s head began to throb. He discretely asked Blake and the drive if they “smell anything funny.” He received only two stares in return.
Allen stopped the cab and waited a few minutes, feigning interest in the local architecture so the other two men wouldn’t believe him completely daft. Then he issued his third set of directions and they departed. Within a minute the throb had become a full-blown migraine and by the time they reached the address in the oldest section of town, Allen was pale, sweating and faint. He stopped the cab, ran to the roadside, and vomited. Weaving back to the car, Allen fell into his seat and told the cabbie to return them to Peachey House by the shortest route. Alarmed, the driver said he was heading to the hospital but Allen insisted he return to his room. Five minutes later, feeling much better, Allen and Blake were deposited at their house and the cab departed with an absurdly high fare and tip.
Apologizing for the ruined excursion, Allen bade a curious Blake good day and went to his room. Lying on the bed, he waited for the remnants of the pain to recede before he began to think about what had just happened.
It was seventh grade again, back in his home town of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Science, his least favorite subject, was the first class of the day and they had started the year talking about formulating hypotheses: A tentative explanation for an observation, phenomenon, or scientific problem that can be tested by further investigation. Variables, constants and controls, he hated every minute of the subject, despite the teacher’s claims that this subject might save a life some day. Fat chance!
But this evening, many decades later, that claim might come true. It may not exactly save my life, but it could make my job a lot easier. Jumping up, Allen went to his desk, took out a new pad of paper, and began to list out every possible variable and constant that had occurred in the cab. He knew that there was no logical reason he should have suffered the migraine. What was in the car that affected all three men? He knew he likely had every bit of data already, now he just had to put it into its proper place.
First, the control group: That was simple, everyone in the village, particularly those who lived in the old section. They’ve lived here, most of them for decades, and the local doctor couldn’t recall any reports of mass migraine illnesses.
Constants: The air, certainly. There was not industry, heavy or light, for miles. The food “ he hadn’t eaten anything unusual over the past month. In fact, he had taken most of his meals at the house or in one of the town’s pubs. Age? He was pushing sixty, but a good portion of the village was, too.
Variables: Here’s where it got tricky. The problem was that there were so many! And as in a simple bean growth experiment, the more variables, the harder it is to identify the facts.
“But really,” Michael Allen asked himself reasonably, “what variables were in the car with me?” His answer only confused him more: “Nothing significant!”
He slammed his pencil down in frustration. He KNEW he was missing something obvious, something that would point directly to the cause of the headaches.
Then he remembered his idea from the previous day. Could simply thinking about something, as I approach it, cause the pain? It fit… possibly. It was the only significant variable between the three men in the cab that he could come up with. And people experience psychosomatic pain all the time. Could that be it? He wasn’t certain, but he had an idea how he could test it.
The next morning, Digger called on Russell Blake, claimed restored health, and asked if he wanted to visit the old part of the town again. Blake said yes and a call was again made to the cab company. Thirty minutes later the same cabbie arrived, asking if he wanted the same tour as the previous day. Much to his surprise, Allen said yes, he did, and handed the driver the directions.
When the cab returned to Peachey House thirty minutes later, Blake was furious at Allen for calling off the second trip and trudged off to the nearest pub. Allen paid the cabbie and went straight to his room. There he took out a flask of Jack Daniel’s Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey, his favorite hard liquor, and drank half its contents. The experiment had failed. No headache.
Now completely discombobulated, and beginning to seriously wonder about his sanity, Allen reread his notes and tried to find out why the test failed. After two hours, and the rest of the flask, he lay on his bed in utter despair of ever finding out why Harry Potter was so hard to find. He had let the odd headaches distract him for two days, and that was… that was… could that be…? No, that’s TOO absurd! But what the hell? I already think I’ve gone spare, let me prove it now.
Jumping up, Allen raced down the stairs, made a call, and waited out from for ten minutes until the cab appeared.
“YOU AGAIN?” barked the cabbie in delight.
“Yes, me. Take me directly to this address.” He handed over the paper and sat back, wondering which mental institution he would check himself into if THIS hypothesis was proven true.
Six minutes later the cab arrived, as did Michael Allen, without a headache. He jumped out of the car, ran around it, jumped back in and instructed the driver to return to Peachey House. They made it back in four minutes.
“Now, my fine cab driver, repeat that route until I say ‘stop,’ and THEN return here pronto.”
“I think maybe I should ask for the fare in advance,” the driver muttered to himself.
Four minutes later they returned. Allen paid the cabbie, gave him a fiver for a tip, and then staggered to his room. The headache was back. It hadn’t happened on the previous trip when he was looking for answers as to why his head hurt. It HAD happened on the last trip when he was concentrating on finding the elusive Harry Potter.
The pieces were fitting together, except that they formed a blank puzzle. He knew something very, very strange was occurring, but what?
Then again, Allen rationalized, maybe I am going crazy. That explanation fits better than anything else.
A/N: Thank you for reading, especially those who left remarks.
I have been reminded, (repeatedly,) that SIYE is a Harry/Ginny ship site, and I have not forgotten that. And neither should you. ;-)
Of other expressed concerns: NO, Diane and Hermione will not become a couple. NO, Diane and Ginny will not become a couple. NO, Diane and Harry will not become a couple. AND NO, Diane, Harry, Ginny and Hermione will NOT become whatever it is you call one guy and three girls. (Lucky?)
Is Ron dead? Not yet.
Where’s Luna? Home, still recovering.
What’s going on with Remus and Tonks? More on them soon.
What’s going on with Bill & Fleur? Give me a break! They’re newlyweds… what do you think they’re doing?