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Muggle Summer, Wizard's Fall
Senior Advisor, Part 2
By canoncansodoff
Author Notes:
Chapters 24 - 26
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.
Chapter 24 - 10 Downing Street
Tuesday, July 3, 11:30am
Buckingham Palace, London
Hermione was startled when she heard a soft knock on the library's door. She tried to close the open window on her laptop display, but missed and clicked on the "minimize" button instead. She silently cursed as Harry entered the room before she could fix her mistake.
"Lunch is here," he announced, as he crossed the room with a neck nuzzle in mind.
The bushy-haired witch tried to casually shut her laptop screen down before he could look over her shoulder at her display.
"Still working on your presentation?" Harry asked, as he gave her a hug from behind
She nodded and leaned her head back into the hug. "There's no such thing as perfect when you're presenting to the Prime Minister."
Harry chuckled into her ear. "But they already have the summary version of the brief you wrote for the Queen, right?" he asked. "They'll only need more in case your report wasn't comprehensive enough, and what are the odds of that?"
Hermione sighed. "Comprehensive would have meant giving them the latest edition of Hogwarts, A History...how could anyone expect us to brief Muggles on Voldemort and the current state of the wizarding world in two-thousand words or less?"
The Queen's Wizard opened both hands and as he counted off, he asked, "How about 'Voldemort sucks and the Ministry of Magic isn't much better'?...that's only ten."
"Bah!" exclaimed Hermione. "No time for cute banter."
"Agreed," said Harry. He then impishly added, "Which makes me wonder why you are taking a "virtual tour" of 10 Downing Street on the internet."
Hermione blushed, and stammered a bit. "Well, I...guess I was just wondering what the inside looks like, and, erm..."
Harry smiled as he pulled his girlfriend up from her chair and led her by hand out to the dining room, where plates of food were waiting. "You could have just asked me," he noted, as he took a seat, "I was there a few times last week, after all."
"Well, you were busy in the bedroom practicing wandless magic," Hermione explained. "Didn't want to disturb you."
"What's alright?" Hermione asked, as she sat and started to tuck in. "My explanation, or 10 Downing Street?"
"Both," Harry quipped, with an intentional air of indifference. "The building's a lot smaller than Windsor or Buck, of course, but the upstairs flat was kind of cozy."
"What? You didn't tell me you were inside the P.M.'s living quarters as well."
"You didn't ask, and I didn't think it was important,...besides, I was only up there long enough to check all of the fireplaces for hidden floo connects."
Harry paused, and then said, "Erm, cozy, like I said." He then shook his head and asked, "You aren't a little starstruck at the idea meeting the P.M. at his place, are you?"
"No," Hermione quickly replied.
"Well, maybe...a little," his girlfriend admitted.
Harry smiled. "I'm a bit surprised," he admitted. "I mean...you didn't get this wiggy when we met the Queen, or the Royal Family."
"Well, that's different," said Hermione. "I didn't have time to get nervous before meeting the Queen, or before arriving here at the Palace...somebody thought it best to keep the whole thing a surprise."
"I'll only take partial blame on that point," said Harry. "I was mostly clueless for most of that day as well." He then asked, "But why be nervous now? I mean, Tony's a nice guy, and he..."
"First-name basis already?" Hermione asked in almost a shriek.
The Queen's Wizard shrugged his shoulders. "He kept wanting to call me Lord Gryffindor, so I had to strike a deal in order for him to call me Harry."
Hermione sighed deeply while her head shook back and forth in amazement.
Harry squinted a bit, as if trying to solve a puzzle. He had seen this look on Hermione's face before, but couldn't quite place it...Lockhart!
"School-girl crush on the Prime Minister?" he asked nonchalantly.
Hermione's cheeks flushed red. "No, of course not," she quickly replied.
Harry smiled, and used the conversational pause to finish off his bowl of soup. And to force Hermione's hand, because there was something behind that reply...
"Well, not any more, at least," she sheepishly admitted. "Half the girls in my primary school class had crushes on him...I mean, he was young, and handsome, and articulate..."
Harry patted her arm. "Your secret's safe with me."
The Queen's Wizard snorted, then noted, "Funny that you didn't seem all that giddy when we were introduced at Ascot."
"Probably a bit too nervous about riding in the Queen’s landau, your show and the Dementors," Hermione explained. She then looked at her watch and stood, throwing her serviette on the table. "Not much time...my hair's still a mess, I need to change, and brush my teeth, and..."
Harry followed her into their bedroom's walk-in-closet for a look into the full-length mirror. He grabbed her from behind and looked over her shoulder as Hermione flattened the front of her skirt with her hands. "It's so much easier in the wizarding world when robes cover everything...are you sure that I look good in this outfit?" she asked.
Harry smiled as he angled around her shoulder for a kiss.
"I'd rather that you were wearing only a smile and your Art Club badge."
Hermione shushed him and pushed him away. He stumbled a bit and fell against the closet wall with a "thump."
"Quiet!" she hissed. "You'll wake up mum and dad next door."
The messy-haired wizard grinned and asked, "Who says that they're still sleeping?"
"Why do you say that?" Hermione replied. "Did they leave while I was in the library?"
"Erm, no...I'm quite sure that they're still in there."
"But I haven't heard them," Hermione noted.
As if on cue, they heard a mumbled comment and a short giggle coming through the wall that separated the two bedrooms.
Hermione's look of shock reflected well in the full-length mirror. "Did I just hear my mum giggle?" she whispered.
Harry snorted, and then said, "Guess I should been more thorough and cast a silencing spell on back of the closet as well."
"You mean you heard more than...more than that?"
With arched eyebrows, Harry asked, "Do you really want me to answer that question?"
Harry nodded as he grabbed Hermione's hand and led her out of the master bedroom.
"You know, your mum and dad have been brilliant this past month. We're lucky to have them around."
"Yes, I know that, it's just that sometimes they seem to forget that we are around."
"Well old habits might be hard to break...it's not like you've been home much the past six years."
"Old habits?" Hermione said. "Too much information, I think."
"Speaking of too much information," Harry said, changing the subject, "are you still fretting about the magical secrecy laws?"
Harry shook his head. "We've got things all lined up...you wrote the report for me, I gave the report to the Queen, and then she decided to give it to the Prime Minister. I was technically the only person that broke the secrecy laws, except that I didn't because that's my job as Queen's Wizard."
“You know, we never did get around to meeting with a wizard barrister to discuss all of this."
Harry nodded. "You're right, we haven't, and we probably should...have a meeting time in mind?"
"Sure," Hermione replied with a bit of sarcasm, "I'll just shoe-horn it in between meeting the Ministers, harvesting the basilisk, setting up the Summer Institute and horcrux hunting."
Harry smiled as he reached over and grabbed Hermione's hand. "Hey, I'm supposed to be the one overwhelmed with the enormity of my task, not you," he noted. "Buck up, Hermione...it certainly could be a lot worse."
"I'm certain of it," Harry replied. "Without the Prince's help and everything since, I might still have been alone on Privet Drive with my Aunt and Uncle, with another month's time ahead before I could legally do magic."
Hermione smiled. "It does sound like a rather bleak alternative universe, doesn't it?"
Harry looked around the suite, gave Hermione's hand another squeeze, and said, "All in all, I'm becoming very fond of present circumstances." He then noted, "We still have the name of the barrister that Mr. Weasley recommended...maybe we can owl and see if he'd consider making housecalls?"
Hermione nodded as she returned the squeeze. "Sounds like a plan...so long as he doesn't come calling while my parents are..."
"Hey!" Harry interrupted, "were you just about to make smutty comment?"
His girlfriend smirked. "Maybe."
Harry smiled as he leaned back in his chair. "Amazing," he concluded. "This summer is getting better by the minute."
The two magical teens only had a few minutes to talk with the Prince of Wales during the short drive from the Palace to 10 Downing Street. He was along as the Crown's representative, and to facilitate any discussion on the role of Queen's Wizard.
The Prince handed each of them a two-page document and said, "Here's a brief work-up on meeting participants. Besides the P.M. there will be the Home Secretary Michael Duluth, Sir Walter Hibbing from MI-5 and Sir David Eveleth, who heads MI-6."
Harry looked down at the page, which had small head shots and brief biographies of the three men. "They're all card-carrying Muggles, right?"
"Erm...as far as you know," the Prince replied. “Mind the Home Secretary...he’s a bit mugglish, and a rather outspoken critic of the Royal Family."
The Prince nodded. "Hates the peerage in general...grew up in one of the rougher parts of Manchester, and rails against anything that smacks of privilege."
Harry nodded, then noted, "So he's the reason why you've suggested we avoid using our titles, and play down my financial resources?"
"Exactly," the Prince replied. "We need to give him every reason to listen to what you have to say."
"And just what will we be discussing that would make it so vitally important that they listen to us?"
The Prince paused, before giving Harry a rather rueful grin. "Life, The Universe, and Everything."
This response didn't do much to ease the two teen-ager's nerves, despite its cheekiness.
Upon their arrival, the Palace's car drove through the opened wrought-iron gate that blocked off the small cul-de-sac. Tourists clamored to see who might be stepping through what the Prime Minster's very own web site calls "the most famous door in the world." They weren't disappointed when the Prince of Wales exited the vehicle. A cheer rang out and camera shutters clicked as the Prince turned, took a few steps towards the crowd, and waved. He had hoped that this gesture might focus attention away from Harry and Hermione as they quietly stepped out and made straight for the building's entrance. These hopes were quickly dashed, however, as squeals of recognition rang out.
"Oh, my he's so dashing in that suit!"
"And even more handsome, in person!"
Fleet Street photographers and television cameramen on permanent stake-out for these sorts of arrivals called out for Harry to stop long enough for a proper photograph. Harry rolled his eyes, but figured that it would be best to comply. He winked at Hermione as he grabbed her hand and spun around for a joint wave.
"There's that bird he was with at Ascot!"
"Oi, Mr. Wizard, leave her and marry me!" shouted one teen-aged girl, to the delight of the assembled crowd.
"Forget that," a male voice cried out. "Leave him and I'll show you some real magic, miss!"
The fake grin that Harry had plastered onto his face for the cameras turned real with that response. Luckily, the door opened and they were shown through the front entrance without hearing any more competition for Hermione's heart.
"Oh, Merlin," Hermione exclaimed as they settled themselves in the front entryway. "How much did you pay that bloke to say that?"
Harry snorted. "Pish-posh, Hermione," he replied in a singsong voice. "Your beauty provides every reason for equal-opportunity ogling." He then turned and addressed a rather bemused-looking Royal. "No disrespect intended, Your Highness."
"None taken, Harry," the Prince replied. "I can assure you that I am quite used to be upstaged when traveling in the company of a beautiful woman."
Hermione blushed at the comparison as they were shown through a pair of not-quite-as-famous white French doors and into the ground floor proper.
"Looks bigger than what I expected from the web site," she admitted.
Harry smiled as they were shown to small reception room adjacent to the Prime Minister's office. Kingsley Shacklebolt was there, dressed in a three-piece Muggle suit and openly flirting with a pretty aide who sat behind a desk.
“Looking good, Mr. Shacklebolt,” Harry called out.
Kingsley reluctantly turned his attention away from the Minister’s aide. “You look almost as snappy yourself, Harry…or are we Lord Gryffindor today?”
The younger wizard grinned. "Just Harry, thanks."
Shacklebolt nodded as he shook hands all around. That the Prince responded by calling the Auror by name suggested that it wasn't the first time the two had met.
“Do try and stay out of trouble in there,” Kingsley asked.
“Don’t I always?” Harry replied a smile. “Oh, and Shack, let's not have any Weasley products extending underneath the doorway, right?”
“Of course, Harry,” the Auror replied, with a shocked “who me?” expression on his face.
Just then the room door opened and the Prime Minister himself welcomed the Prince, Harry and Hermione into his office. He gave both the Prince and Harry a firm handshake, quietly welcoming Harry by first name. The Queen's Wizard wished he had better peripheral vision when the P.M. added an elbow grab to the handshake he gave Hermione.
Two members of the house staff followed behind the three in order to clear away the remnants of a working lunch. The Prime Minister waited for these staffers to clear out before introducing the two teens as "Agents Granger and Potter."
The MI-5 and MI-6 chiefs smiled in recognition; while neither had met Harry and Hermione face-to-face, their photographs had been included in the dossiers built in advance of their appointment as intelligence agents. Both men stood and gave warm handshakes. In contrast, the Home Secretary's tepid handshake seemed designed to minimize (to the greatest extent possible) the amount of skin contact.
“Thank you for joining us this afternoon,” the Prime Minister said, as he walked behind his dest and took a seat.
“Erm, thank you for the invitation, Prime Minister,” Harry replied. “If I might ask, would you mind if we magically secure the room?”
“You, secure the room?” asked the Home Secretary incredulously. “Where do you think you are, boy?”
“I suspect, Mr. Duluth,” said the Prince, “that Agent Potter is talking about ensuring that the magical protections he set in place last week are still functioning.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Harry quickly added, “although our scans will also detect mug-...erm...mundane eavesdropping devices.”
“Oh, well…” the Muggle leader replied, “Mr. Shacklebolt swept the room an hour ago, but please, feel free.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Hermione replied, as she and Harry removed both wands and mobiles from their pockets. “Would everyone please power down their mobiles, laptops and other electrical devices?” she asked.
There was only a little bit of grumbling as the shut down chimes of computers and mobiles sounded out. Once getting nods from everyone in the room, and ascertaining that nobody was wearing a pacemaker, Harry and Hermione cast a series of heavy-duty silencing spells on every wall, the ceiling and floor. They also checked the shrouding of the magical portrait, as well as the de-activated floo connection. After giving everyone the “all-clear” to power-up their various electronics, Harry and Hermione took their seats.
"That looked like a rather thorough sweep," the MI-5 Chief noted. "But was it completely necessary? It was my understanding that the protective walls..erm...wards?...yes, the protective wards you set up last week kept magic out."
Hermione nodded. "The anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards are still in place, as are the magical sensor barriers and the block against floo travel put on the fireplace." She then added a caveat. "But that doesn't mean that a wizard couldn't have walked through the barriers, and then found a way inside the building so that they could eavesdrop."
The Prime Minister frowned. "Do you two have reason to doubt Mr. Shacklebolt's discretion?" he asked.
Harry shook his head. "I've known Auror Shacklebolt for a couple of years, now. Although he is a Ministry employee, he's also been invoved with the Order for some time, and I have no reason not to trust him."
The Prime Minister nodded, as the Home Secretary flipped through a stack of papers in front of him. "Order?" he finally asked with a scowl. "Are you talking about your so-called Order of Arthur, or that vigilante group mentioned in your briefing documents?"
It was Hermione's turn to frown as she replied, "He was a member of The Order of the Phoenix, Mr. Home Secretary, and I'd like to think of them more as an NGO than a vigilante group."
"Ah yes," the MI-6 Chief interrupted. "That brings up a question raised when I read your brief...which, by the way, was quite brilliant, Agent Granger...I'm glad to have you aboard."
"Don't get too territorial, there, Sir David," the MI-5 Chief chided. "She's just as much an MI-5 asset as yours."
As Hermione blushed at the compliment, Harry politely noted that correct chain-of-command for the briefing documents, saying that for their purposes Hermione was working for him.
"And that technicality is necessary to keep your noses clean with respect to magical secrecy laws?" the Prime Minister asked.
"No need to worry," the MI-6 chief noted, "All of this is covered under the Official Secrets Act, and none of us are about to reveal your actions to the wizard police."
Harry nodded and gave the chief a grim smile. "Unfortunately, Sir David, good intentions aren't always good enough when you want to keep secrets from the wizarding world."
Both security chiefs frowned. "And why is that, Agent Potter?" the MI-5 Chief asked.
"Some wizards can read minds, Sir," Harry explained, "and there is a effective magical truth serum called veritaserum."
"Mind readers?" the Home Secretary asked with alarm. "Should we be worrying that you are reading our minds right now?" he asked. Then, not quite under his breath, he muttered, "Not that we'd be able to trust that you'd tell us the truth."
Harry took in a sharp breath, and Hermione thought it prudent to reach over and grab hold of his hand while he silently counted to ten.
"Sir," Hermione replied, "You needn't worry that either of us are traipsing through your mind right now. Legimency is a difficult art to master. I can't do it, and even if I could there are ethical issues involved with invading someone else's mind without permission."
The Home Secretary nodded, then turned his gaze towards Harry. "Do you have the ability?"
The Queen's Wizard nodded. "I have been studying the technique for the past month. As Hermione indicated, it is a difficult subject, and so far the best I can do is read some hidden emotions and the occasional surface thought."
The Home Secretary sat back in his chair and asked, "For what purposes are you attempting to become a mind reader?"
Harry replied coolly, "So that the mental defenses of Hermione and my colleagues can be tested and improved upon."
The MI-6 chief asked what type of mental defenses existed, and whether it would be possible for non-magical people to learn them. Harry and Hermione then spent a few minutes describing mediation as a useful technique for anyone, with the caveat that it would be hard for a Muggle to completely occlude his or her mind from even a moderately competent legiilmens. The Home Secretary then tried to steer the conversation back towards his concerns.
"In the section describing the different political and military groupings within your world, this Order of the Phoenix was identified as having an 'unknown status'...why can't you tell us what this group is doing at present time?"
Hermione paused for a moment, then turned to Harry and offered him the chance to respond. He replied, "Neither Hermione or I were part of that organization. They have likely gone to ground, as they were likely compromised by the same spy that murdered Headmaster Dumbledore."
"Yes," said the Home Secretary, rather coolly, "There was mention of more than one case of divided loyalties in the briefing document." He then stared directly at Harry and said, "It gave me pause to wonder exactly where your loyalties lie."
Harry's brow furrowed. He once again silently counted to ten as static electricity seemed to build within the room. Finally, he said, "With all due respect, Sir, I take my sworn fealty to Her Royal Majesty quite seriously."
"It is one thing to say you are loyal to the Queen, young man..." the Home Secretary countered.
"On that point you are wrong, Sir," Harry coolly exclaimed. "When it comes to a sworn oath, a wizard's word is everything."
The Prime Minister tried to wrestle back control of the meeting. "I believe that any questions of where Agent Potter's loyalties lie were put to rest at Ascot," he concluded. "Wonderful job there, by the way," he noted as an aside to Harry. "Most spectacular battle that I never saw."
"That's my point exactly," the Home Secretary said, "We don't know that he was fighting against anything real...it could have been a complete fabrication."
"That's quite enough, Duluth," the Prime Minister said firmly. "I'll tolerate no more of this tripe from you."
"It's not tripe, it's the truth, and if you're too blinded by whiz-bangs and Royals to see it, then Lord God help us all." He then stood and announced, "I, for one, have heard all I need to hear."
As the Home Secretary reached down to retrieve his briefcase the Prime Minister turned towards the Prince and pointedly asked, "Your Highness, given present circumstances have you an opinion on how Her Majesty might view my use of royal prerogative?"
The Prince smiled. "In this situation, I am quite confident that your powers of patronage would not be challenged by the Queen."
"Very well, then," the Prime Minister replied. He then turned back towards the Home Secretary and said, "Duluth, I can no longer afford your narrow-mindedness within my Cabinet. Consider yourself sacked."
The Home Secretary's face turned a brilliant shade of red (Harry couldn't decide if it was due to anger, embarrassment, or the fact that the man was holding his breath). As he stormed out the office door, Harry could see the edges of the Prime Minister's lips curl up slightly.
There was nothing "slight" about the grins on the faces of the two intelligence chiefs.
"Splendid play, old man," the MI-6 chief told the Prime Minister.
"Well done indeed, Prime Minister," the MI-5 chief added.
The Prime Minister nodded gravely. "I'm sorry that you had to see that," he said to Harry and Hermione. "He was a right pain even before he was briefed in on the wizarding world, and it's only gotten worse since then. Coming face-to-face with a witch and wizard obviously sent him over the edge."
Harry nodded. "I'm sorry, Sir, for causing such a mess for you."
The Prime Minister smiled. "No worries, Harry...he'll go sulking back to Parliament and whine behind my back during the Labor conferences, but he was already doing that."
"At least he can't go to the papers," the Prince noted.
The MI-6 chief nodded in agreement. "Not without violating the Official Secrets Act, and even then he runs the risk of looking the fool for taking a principled stand against the Queen's Wizard and magic use."
"Almost worth using one of those memory charms on him," the MI-5 chief noted.
"Almost, but not nearly close enough," the Prime Minister concluded. "That was, after all, one of the chief complaints to be lodged during my meeting with the Minister of Magic."
The MI-5 chief nodded, and then tapped his knuckles down on his copy of Hermione's briefing document. "So based on this report, do you think it's time to convene a War Cabinet, Prime Minister?"
The Prime Minister thought for a moment. "Not right now, Sir Walter," he replied. "That would mean bringing in the opposition leader, and briefing in a few others on the wizarding world. I'm leaning towards a crisis committee...at least until we've cleared up some issues with the Ministry of Magic." His eyes then narrowed a bit, and he said, "We'll have to reschedule that meeting, however...I suddenly have a Home Secretary to replace." He then rang up his Chief of Staff and instructed him to have a press release worked up, and to set up an emergency Cabinet meeting for later that day.
After ending the call, the Minister turned his attentions back to his guests. "I am afraid that we no longer have time to fully address our meeting agenda, other than to say that the report was top-notch."
"Thank you, Prime Minister," Hermione replied with a blush.
"I have to say, though, that I was a bit disappointed that you didn't make any recommendations on how the Ministry of Magic could be changed for the better...for example, whether we should work to have Scrimgeour sacked."
Harry nodded. "The Queen didn't give us that particular charge, and neither Hermione nor I thought it to be our place to offer unsolicited advice to Her Majesty and her government."
The Prime Minister nodded. "Well, then, perhaps I'll have to tweak your charges," he replied. He then turned towards the intelligence chiefs and added, "Unless either of two have any objections?"
The heads of MI-5 and MI-6 shook their heads. "You are obviously in their chain of command, Prime Minister," the MI-6 chief explained.
The Muggle leader's eyes lit up. "I am, aren't I?" he replied.
The Prince cleared his throat. "Her Majesty might take issue should you lay claim to too much of Her Wizard's time."
The Prime Minister nodded. "What if I arranged to have Agent Granger reassigned to my office?"
Hermione let out an audible "eep!" as the Prince smiled. "Her Majesty is quite fond of Dame Hermione, but has no formal claim on her time. That said, I think that the question should be posed to Agent Granger and the Queen's Wizard."
The MI-5 chief concurred. "Their primary assignment as MI-5 3/4 agents is to continue what they were doing to battle Voldemort and protect the Realm and its citizenry."
The Prime Minister nodded. He then asked, "Agent Granger, I have need of a Senior Advisor for all issues involving magic and the wizarding world. I also am keenly interested in how other Muggle governments interact with their magical communities, and would like to appoint a Special Ambassador to the greater wizarding world. Would you be interested in either or both of these posts, so long as they didn't interfere with your primary mission?"
Hermione sat gobsmacked, doing the fish-out-of-water thing with her lips, before replying. "I'm honored that you'd consider me, but I'm not sure that I'm the best candidate, and not sure about how we could work the secrecy laws, for that matter."
"Don't be so modest, Agent Granger," the Prime Minister replied. "Can you think of any other person in the realm that knows the Muggle and wizarding worlds as well as you do?"
"I'm sure that there's somebody older that does..."
"And would you imagine that this hypothetical person would hold top-secret security clearances, a close working and personal relationship with the Queen's Wizard, and the resources available to you as a member of the Order of Arthur?"
Hermione snorted at the rhetorical question. "No, I imagine not." She then asked Harry what he thought.
The Queen's Wizard gave her a bright smile, and said, "I think it's a brilliant idea." He then turned to the Prime Minister and asked, "As a Senior Adviser and Special Ambassador, would she have a desk here at 10 Downing Street?"
As Hermione gasped and swatted Harry on the arm for his presumption, the Prime Minister smiled. "We're a bit cramped for space, but I think that I might be able to pull a few strings."
He then stood up from his desk, causing everyone else to do the same. He then asked, "Agent Granger, have you had a proper tour of the building yet?"
The Prime Minister walked around the desk and grabbed Hermione lightly by the elbow as he gestured towards the door. "No, no, I think a bit of a look about would be appropriate...you and I can scout out suitable desk space for my newest Senior Advisor."
"Erm..um...whatever you say, Prime Minister,"
The Muggle leader turned to Harry and the Prince. "Would you two like to join us? I'll have at least a few minutes before all Hell breaks loose with the Home Secretary situation."
Harry smiled as the Prince gave him a hand gesture indicating that it was his decision to make.
"No, that's quite alright, Prime Minister," Harry replied. He then turned to Hermione. "Why don't you go along and just pop back to the Palace when you're done? I'll go and get an owl off to that barrister."
Hermione smiled brilliantly. She wanted to give him a proper snog, but decided in present company to limit her affections to a gentle hand squeeze. "Okay, Harry, just call if you need me."
And with that, the meeting concluded. The Prince asked the Prime Minister if they might linger in his office long enough to sample his collection of single malts. The Prime Minister readily agreed, then escorted Hermione out for her tour and introductions to his staff. Once the door closed, the Prince walked over to a sideboard and poured out four glasses of whisky. As he distributed them he said, "Well, that went better than expected." He then raised his glass and offered a toast.
"Gentlemen, to Dame Hermione's bright future within these walls, and to the former Home Secretary's less-than-luminous future outside of them."
"Hear, Hear," the MI-6 chief said, as they each sipped from their tumblers. Harry considered tossing his glass into the fireplace, but then thought better of it.
In bed that night, Hermione finally remembered to ask what was discussed whilst she was on her tour.
"Well," Harry said with a smile, "we shared a toast to your potential posting, and then Sir Walter asked Sir David whether he thought they had just lost a future MI-5 3/4 Chief to the Prime Minister's Staff."
Harry's smile grew. "He said it was more likely that they lost a future Prime Minister, rather than a P.M.'s staffer."
"Really he did...and then the Prince asked whether he was thinking Muggle Prime Minister, or Minister of Magic."
Hermione pulled the top sheet over her head in embarrassment. "Oh, Merlin!"
"Yeah, and they asked me what I thought."
"Oh, Harry," she cried out, still covered, "Don't tell me you went along with that nonsense."
"Okay, I won't tell you then," Harry replied brightly.
After a moment's silence, Hermione pulled the sheet down in frustration. "So tell me what you said."
Harry pulled Hermione into a comforting embrace. "I told them that I'd be proud of you whatever your career path was, and that it wouldn't matter to me if you were one or the other or both, so long as it didn't require you to leave behind what I thought was an even more important posting."
"What?" Hermione asked with surprise. "What are you on about, Harry?...what position would be more important than Prime Minister or Minister of Magic?"
Hermione gave Harry a look of shock. "Please don't tell me that they asked you that same question, or that you gave them that same answer."
"Okay, I won't tell you that they asked me that very same question, or that I gave them that very same answer."
Hermione tried (and almost succeeded) to push Harry off of the bed. "Oh, you prat...tell me!"
"What's the problem?" Harry asked innocently, "Would you have been embarrassed if I really did say that?"
She was about to answer when she remembered being in a similar situation before.
"Why Harry, are you back on your Slytherin passive-aggressive path of finding out the answer to a question that you don't dare ask outright?"
Harry smiled as he crawled back towards Hermione. "Maybe," he said, as he ran a hand up her leg.
Hermione swatted Harry's hand away before stating her opinion on Harry's tactics.
"Gillyweed, Mr. Potter…gillyweed."
Chapter 25 - The Senior Adviser
Wednesday, July 4, 7:35am
Buckingham Palace, London
The fact that Harry Potter was dressed and ready before Hermione was spoke volumes about just how nervous she was about her first official day on the job at 10 Downing Street.
“Can I do anything to help?” he asked, walking into the walk-in closet of their Buck Master Bedroom. He found his girlfriend facing the full-length mirror, dressed in a tailored two-piece suit, black hold-ups, and low-heeled pumps.
Hermione used her hands to pull her hair away from each side of her face. A moment later, she turned and asked, “Which earrings?”
The Queen's Wizard cocked his head to one side and squinted, first at the gold hoop in her left ear, then the pearl that dangled from her right. After a moment of consideration, he replied, “Erm..they both look nice.”
“I said, which earrings, Harry.”
The well-dressed wizard smiled as he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Hermione’s waist. She tried to push him away with the admonishment, “Wrinkles!”
Harry snorted, and only pulled her closer as he placed his nose within nuzzling distance of the pearl and softly replied, “Ironing Charm.”
While Hermione was protesting that there wasn’t time to recharm her clothes, he stepped back, gently held each of her ear lobes in his hands, and asked, “Perhaps you might want to consider ‘none of the above’?”
The Boy-Who-Lived then answered Hermione’s confused expression by retrieving a small box from his trouser pocket. Inside was a pair of flawless three-quarter carat diamond earrings.
Hermione’s eyes lit up as she quelled a frown of frustration by biting on her bottom lip. “Oh, Harry,” she said as she pulled him into a hug. “Thank you…you shouldn’t have.”
“Why not?” he replied. “It’s only fitting that you look your best on your first day.”
A chuckle came from her lips as Hermione quickly swapped out her mismatched pair of earrings for the diamonds and placed the rejects back into her jewelry box with their mates. She turned back towards the mirror and let out a sigh.
“Harry, they’re brilliant, but I’m working undercover,” she noted.“Not too many interns could afford to be wearing earrings as nice as these.”
“Oh, sorry,” replied her boyfriend, as he wrapped his arms her and pulled her back into a firm embrace. “Maybe I can chew them down in size?” he asked, as he tried to determine whether diamonds have any taste.
Hermione swatted his hands away from her waist and craned her neck away from Harry’s kisses. “Stop it…this is exactly why I blocked out extra snagging time in our schedules last night.”
When a wand snapped out from her arm holster Harry thought she might be trying to back her brush-off with a hexing. He quickly backed away, which gave Hermione plenty of room to cast a weak reducing spell that shrank the gemstones down to a much more modest size.
“You know,” Harry said, “I also bought a smaller pair if you wanted the stones to be that size.”
Hermione smiled through the mirror. “Oh, no, these are fine,” she replied, as she viewed her handiwork. “I rather like knowing that they are larger in real life.”
The bushy-haired witch nodded. “It’s like wearing expensive lingerie,” she explained. “They’re just as functional as plain-Jane knickers, but a girl just feels better knowing that she’s hiding something luxurious under her outfit.”
“Is that so?” Harry replied with a smirk. “Anything like a bloke getting excited at the thought of his girl going commando, even if he can’t see it for himself?”
Hermione smiled, having discovered a way to thank Harry for his thoughtful gift. After making one final check in the mirror, she Accio’ed her briefcase, then used her free hand to pull Harry’s head into a crushing kiss. Tearing her lips away from his, she bit down lightly on his left ear lobe, and then whispered sweetly into his ear.
“I don’t know if it’s the same thing,” she replied. “But maybe you can tell me when I get home tonight.”
Harry was too shocked to provide a witty retort, and by the time that his tongue had regained functionality Hermione had reached inside her jacket to activate her badge. With her mum “on the phone,” he didn’t dare say anything as she made a silent adjustment to her wardrobe. Mother and daughter chatted just long enough for Hermione to get the all-clear to badge-jump.
She disappeared. Her knickers didn’t.
Hermione reappeared in Windsor Castle, inside the ground floor Round Tower apartment that her parents now called home. A few minutes later, she got a call from her boyfriend while she was walking with her parents to the Royal Mess.
“Erm, Hermione…did you forget something that you’ll need for the day?”
“No, I don’t think so…oh, and I just wanted to say thanks again for your thoughtful gift this morning.”
“Erm…you’re welcome,” Harry replied. “I have to say that your thank-you gift has wreaked havoc with my thoughts.”
“Want to hear just what kind of thoughts I’ve been having?”
“Maybe later,” Hermione replied. “I’m with mum and dad right now.”
“Really?” Harry asked. “Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll let you go. Good luck, Sweetheart…I know you’ll knock them dead.”
“Oh, and just so you know, I’ve got your little gift in my coat pocket, in case you need them back sometime during the day.”
“Erm, no…Harry…that’s quite alright.”
“Hey, no problem, Hermione...I never realized it, but if you fold them just right they make a rather dashing pocket square….the red silk even matches my tie.”
“Don't you dare...don't you think about daring to….wait, don’t tell me that you’re serious.”
“Maybe,” said Harry, rather cheekily. “Are you going to tell me that you’re seriously considering not wearing knickers to work today?”
“Merlin, Hermione…I mean…not even going to fire a ‘notice-me-not’ charm up your skirt?”
“Oh! …you are quite the perver…erm, perfect boyfriend.”
Harry laughed. “Didn’t want to say ‘pervert’ within earshot of your parents, Hermione?”
“Well fortunately, I don’t have that problem…nobody here to hear me go on and on about exactly where the skinny part of this thong was just a few minutes ago.”
Hermione mouthed a silent curse.
“Something wrong?” Emily Granger asked.
“No,” her daughter replied, “Harry’s just providing some therapeutic distraction….aren’t you Harry?”
“Only looking out for you, my Dear.”
“Yeah, right, Harry…talk to you later.”
Once she pocketed her mobile her father asked, “A distraction from this big surprise you want to tell us about?”
“Erm…maybe,” Hermione said with a grin. She waited until they had been seated for breakfast and had their orders taken before elaborating.
Roger and Emily Granger had worked a second shift from 3pm until 11pm on the day previous, so there hadn’t been a chance for Hermione to tell them about her visit to 10 Downing Street. They were thrilled when she stated that she had provisionally accepted both postings as Senior Advisor and Special Ambassador. One of the first questions they asked was about her age…while Roger and Emily were quite certain that she would be up for the job, they wondered what the Muggle public, the press, or her co-workers would think about a teen-ager advising the Prime Minister. Hermione assured her parents that they had already thought of that issue, and come up with a work-around.
Hermione’s working relationship with the Prime Minister was to be a tightly-held secret, and revealed only on a need-to-know basis. Roger and Emily were on the “need-to-know” list as Art Club members, as there might come a time when they’d be called on to badge-jump to the Prime Minister’s defense using Hermione’s badge as an anchor. She would be working undercover as a summer intern, and assigned to the office of the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff. Hermione would still be a bit young for the job, as almost every intern came to the Prime Minister’s office after university. But the age difference wasn’t that great, and MI 5 ¾ had worked up a plausible backstory.
“So what kind of intriguing history have they manufactured for you, Sweetheart?” her father asked.
“Oh, nothing too exotic,” Hermione replied. “My mum and dad are expats working in the States, and I did all my schooling over there. Apparently, I was some sort of child prodigy that entered uni at thirteen.”
“Well that part’s not far off the mark,” Roger proudly boasted.
“Daddy!” Hermione exclaimed. She then went on to note that she supposedly just graduated from Duke University with a degree in political science, and will doing the internship while she decides whether to study law at Oxford or Cambridge.
“Duke?” Emily asked. “Any particular reason why they chose that school for you?”
“It’s the best known American university that wasn’t attended by anyone presently working in the Prime Minister’s office,” Hermione explained. “That reduces the risk of me getting tripped up by somebody who actually read at that school.”
Emily nodded in understanding. “So, then, how is it that our college graduate suddenly found herself working for the Prime Minister?”
“Oh, in the usual manner,” Hermione replied. “Personal connections.”
“Really?” Roger asked. “Of what sort?”
Hermione smiled. “Why, didn’t you know that the Prime Minister is a close friend of the family?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hermione. “We see him nearly every time he visits the States. So I have to remember to call the Prime Minister T-t-t-Tony once in a while.”
Roger shook his head. “Afraid to call your childhood crush by his first name, Sweetie?”
“Dad, no!” Hermione shot back. “It’s just that, well..to call the Prime Minister by his given name...”
“It’s just a name, dear,” her mum replied. “Just like Voldemort, right?”
“Erm…right…just like Voldemort,” said Hermione. “So, if you ever visit the office you’ll have to call him T-Tony as well.”
“And I no longer have a schoolgirl crush on him, I’ll have you know,” Hermione noted. “In fact, it was Tony that introduced me to the Queen’s Wizard.”
“Really? Then let me guess,” said Emily. “Since you’re so close to the Prime Minister…”
“Erm..right…since your on a first name basis with the P.M. you won’t have to do all of the menial tasks that interns are assigned to complete?”
“Right in one, mum,” Hermione replied. “Probably won’t make me any friends amongst the other interns, but there had to be a reason for an irregular work schedule, and independent research projects that involve a lot of travel.”
Roger snorted, then asked, “So are you going to be spoiled by a nice office with a view, then?”
Hermione shook her head. “That would be a bit too much,” she explained. “There’s only a couple of offices besides the P.M.’s…erm…Tony’s that have windows, and the interns are assigned tiny workstations down in the basement.”
“Oh, I see,” said Roger. “So how do you plan on maintaining your cover with so little privacy?”
Hermione smiled. “They also assigned me a broom closet.”
“Yes, a broom closet. It’s a bit cramped, but it’s on the main level and has four hard walls and a door.”
“And just what do you plan on accomplishing within a broom closet, dear?” her mum asked.
“Oh, nothing too naughty,” Hermione replied with a smile. “Fred and George are going to stop by for a visit sometime today and help me do a little interior decorating.”
“Fred and George?” asked Roger. “Oh…imagine that they might know a few room expansion charms?”
Hermione gave her dad a wink. “Don’t tell Tony, but I think that by the time they’re through I’ll have a bigger office than he does.”
The Grangers laughed at Hermione’s joke, and added their own comments about taking care not to be seen entering or leaving her broom closet with the Prime Minister.
“So what else are you planning on doing today, dear?” her mum asked.
“Well,” Hermione replied, “I may be asked to brief in the new Home Secretary on the wizarding world. I gather you heard about Duluth being sacked?”
Roger gave his daughter a knowing grin. “Yes, the story was in all of the papers this morning,” he replied. “Although I have to say that my eye was drawn more towards the other headline story of the day.”
Roger nodded as he rose from their table and walked over towards a stack of the morning dailies. Pulling four different newspapers from the pile, he returned to his wife and daughter and spread them out on the table.
Hermione grimaced at a page-covering photograph of Harry and her standing in front of 10 Downing Street. The headline over their heads read, “Abracadabra!” with the underlying subtitle “P.M. Seeks Magical Cure for Sagging Poll Numbers.”
“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione lamented. “Did The Sun have to put me on the front page?”
“Would you rather they made you a Page Three Girl?” Emily asked.
“Erm, no,” Hermione replied with a blush in her cheeks. She looked over the other dailies and asked, “The Mirror, the Times, even the Guardian? Is there a newspaper that didn’t publish a picture of Harry and me on the front page?”
Emily patted her daughter’s arm. “I’m sure that there were a few on the Continent that didn’t dear.”
Roger Granger shook his head in amazement. “You know, it is amazing…the publicity you and Harry get, the company you keep, and the ease at which you move within the circles of power and privilege…”
Hermione gave her father a rather cross look, then let out a sigh. “Guess I never really thought about it before,” she admitted. “After all, the wizarding community is rather small, so it never seemed all that strange to be rubbing elbows with the Minister of Magic and other top officials at the Ministry. Especially being Harry’s friend and all…he’s the one that’s had a rough go of it.”
“What about that awful story during fourth year?” her mum asked.
Hermione snorted. “Well, that one turned out to be almost accurate, in the end, didn’t it?” she asked. “But I never had it as bad as Harry…he’s always struggled with the unwanted fame and notoriety.”
Mrs. Granger smiled, “So now you can better empathize with Harry?”
“More like commiserate,” said Hermione. After a moment, though her expression brightened, and she asked “Can I have that copy of the Times, Dad? I want to clip out that photograph.”
Roger looked over his shoulder at the unread stacks of newspapers. “Erm…don’t see why not, Sweetheart,” Roger replied. “Starting a scrapbook, then?”
Hermione shook her head. “I’m afraid that some Royal staffers have already been assigned that task. I have a simpler plan in mind for that picture.”
Hermione gave her parents a conspiratorial smile.
“Posting it off to the Dursleys in Romania.”
8:40am, Prescott’s Bank, London
Had he been given a choice, Harry Potter would have still met with the Prime Minister and Minister of Magic, just to get it off of his planner “To Do” list. Not that the replacement of a major cabinet minister wasn’t a good enough reason mind you…and he had to admit that upsetting Scrimgeour and his lackeys with the delay was a nice consolation prize. It also opened up a large block of time in his schedule, and allowed him to book a meeting with the wizard barrister who had come so highly recommended.
The early hour reflected the barrister’s busy schedule, while the meeting location reflected an agenda that went beyond magical secrecy laws. It also gave Harry an excuse to dig Sirius’s spell-shrunk motorbike out of his rucksack and take it for a spin.
He had arrived at Prescott’s a good twenty minutes before his scheduled appointment…had the morning traffic been any less congested he might have considered riding around the City for a while longer. As the bank didn’t open to the public until nine, he had been directed to a side door, where a uniformed guard was waiting to greet him. Less than a minute later, Harry found himself downstairs within the expansive office of the bank’s president.
“Good morning, Lord Gryffindor, please have a seat,” said the president.
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins, but please, call me Harry.”
The elderly bank executive smiled. “As you wish, Harry. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
It didn’t escape Harry’s attention that the bank president knew exactly how he took his tea without asking. As Jenkins handed the young wizard his cup and saucer he asked, “So how is the weather upstairs…rain still holding off?”
“Erm, yes,” Harry replied, as he took in the obvious fact that a basement-level room wouldn’t have windows (at least within a Muggle building). “Pardon me for asking, but I’m surprised that your office isn’t up on the bank’s top floor.”
Jenkins smiled as he returned to his seat behind his desk. “In any other Muggle bank I dare say you’d be right. But given our bank’s ownership, well….a basement-level location makes it easier for some of our Directors to pop in and out without bringing attention to themselves.”
Harry nodded. “Makes sense,” he replied. “I’m sorry that I’m a bit early for the meeting…I could wait upstairs in the lobby so as not to inconvenience you.”
“Not a problem at all, Lord, erm…Harry,” the bank president replied. “Your request for meeting space yesterday reminded me to review our commitment to provide you with our highest levels of service. As such, I was just going over your accounts.”
Harry sighed. “You know, I really should object to all of the special treatment, but as I’m sure that you’re acting on Ragnok’s instructions, I’ll just have to accept it and offer my thanks.”
The bank director smiled warmly. “While you are most welcome, I hope you realize that given the extent of your holdings that you would still be receiving this level of service.”
“By the bank’s president, himself, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Actually, that could have been the case,” Jenkins replied. “There are only a handful of senior account managers that are both aware of the wizarding world and capable enough to handle active portfolios as large as yours. As a result, I’m much more involved in client services than the president of a typical Muggle bank.”
“So you manage the accounts of other wealthy wizards, then?” Harry asked.
“Anyone that I know?” Harry asked with a grin.
The bank president chuckled. “Confidentiality rules prevent me from answering that question, Harry. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no, I understand,” the Queen's Wizard replied. He paused for a moment to flesh out a thought that had popped into his head, and then asked, “Is it hard to keep track of the rules and regulations of both the Muggle and wizarding worlds, Mr. Jenkins?”
The bank president shook his head. “Despite the fact that Prescott’s is goblin-owned, it is chartered under the Bank of England, and operates completely under the Muggle government’s rules and regulations.”
“So my money in this bank is managed separately from the galleons in my Gringott’s vaults?”
The bank president nodded as he took a sip of his tea.
Harry then said, “So if I got into trouble with the Ministry of Magic, and it ordered my accounts frozen or tried to confiscate them…”
“We would not be bound by that order,” the president replied. He added, “I daresay that Gringott’s would also take a dim view of complying with that order under present circumstances.”
The Boy-Who-Lived frowned. “So, if a convicted Death Eater had his accounts frozen or confiscated by the Ministry of Magic, and the goblins did comply with that order, then he or she could still get money from accounts they may have in your bank?”
The bank president coughed a bit, then confirmed for Harry that was indeed the case.
“So, Mr. Jenkins, what would it take to have a Death Eater’s Muggle accounts frozen?” Harry asked.
“The order would have to come from Her Majesty’s Government,” the president replied.
Harry nodded. “Is there any sort of cooperation between governments, so that the Ministry of Magic could ask the Muggle government for its help in this kind of situation?”
Jenkins nodded as he finished off his tea. “The possibility exists, but I’m not aware of that kind of request ever having been made. Frankly, I doubt that the Ministry would ever dream of a pure-blooded Death Eater sullying himself enough to use the Muggle banking system.”
"But without violating your confidentiality rules, would it be fair to say that the Ministry ought to be having those kinds of dreams?”
The bank president thought for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, Harry, I think I can say that the Ministry’s dreams have always been too... unimaginative.”
Harry nodded as a clock chime struck the hour. A few seconds later, the bank president’s telephone rang, and he informed Harry that a Mr. Abrams had arrived and asked for him.
As Jenkins walked the younger man upstairs to an empty conference room, he said, “I understand that Mr. Abrams is one of the very best barristers in the wizarding world.”
Harry replied, “He came highly recommended, but I’m glad to hear you say that as well.”
The bank president then said, “Forgive me if it is not my place to ask, but have you set your affairs in order in case, well…”
The Queen's Wizard gave his host a rueful grin. “No worries, Mr. Jenkins. Given your advisory status it wasn’t out of place.” He added, “Making sure I have a ironclad will is actually high up on the list of services I’m hoping to have a barrister provide.”
Jenkins nodded. “Well, if there is anything else I can do either during or after your meeting, please let me know.”
Harry shook the bank president’s hand, and replied, “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. I can assure you that you have already been a big help this morning.”
The bank executive nodded, as Harry turned and introduced himself to the wizard who, within a few minute’s time, would become the head of Clan Potter’s legal staff.
11:40am, 10 Downing Street, London
Hermione Granger was in the middle of a transfiguration spell when her Art Club badge lit up with a call from her boyfriend. She abandoned the effort mid-incantation and immediately activated her badge.
“Erm, everything’s fine…sorry Hermione...I know we said mobiles for non-emergency calls but I haven’t been able to reach you that way for some time.”
“Oh, guess I have been doing a fair bit of active magic,” she replied.
“I’m in a broom closet with Fred and George.”
“The Weasley Twins, eh?” Harry asked. “Do I need to send a prefect patrol over there?”
“Very funny,” Hermione replied. “I do believe that I told you they had volunteered to help set up my new office.”
“Yes, yes…just messing with you a bit. So how is it going?”
“Brilliant, for the most part...bit of resentment from the other interns, like I feared.”
“Well that’s too bad…any chance that you can join me for lunch?”
“Erm, I’m sorry, Harry, but my new boss already asked me,” Hermione replied. “And then I’ve got meetings all afternoon.”
“Oh, well, that’s alright,” replied her boyfriend. “Just thought I’d check.”
“No, Hermione, it’s fine...I’ve still got you for dinners and late-night snacks, right?”
Harry smiled into his badge, wondering if Hermione knew what he wanted to see on his menu that night. But he put those randy thoughts aside and focused on business.
“So the new barrister is going to work out rather nicely, I think.”
“Really? In all of the ways that you were hoping?”
“Uh-huh,” Harry replied. “I told him to make his legal research on the secrecy laws his top priority, by the way…he thinks he might have an answer by tomorrow.”
“That soon?” asked Hermione. “That seems awfully fast if he plans on doing a thorough job of it.”
“I thought so too,” said Harry, “but he assured me that he had a bit of magic up his sleeve.”
“Well, he is a wizard barrister, I guess.”
“Oh, and another thing,” said Harry. “Right before that meeting I had the chance to talk with Prescott’s president.”
“That’s the one,” Harry replied. “It was a very interesting conversation…he danced around his confidentiality requirements well enough to let me know that there are Death Eaters withdrawing funds from their Muggle bank accounts.”
“Rather ironic, isn’t it?” said Hermione.
“Yes, indeed,” said Harry. “Anyway, the point is that while the Ministry of Magic has frozen the Gringott’s accounts of all of the Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban, those orders don’t affect any money they might have in Muggle banks.”
“And the Ministry hasn’t asked the Muggle government to follow their lead?”
“Not according to Mr. Jenkins,” Harry replied. “So, I was wondering if…”
Hermione quickly agreed. ““I’ll ask about it during lunch.”
9:30pm
567 Fulham Road
Fulham, London SW7
It was all Lucius Malfoy could do not to hex the Muggle bird that was ahead of him in line to use the ATM machine. Humiliating enough to have to dirty his hands with the Muggle bank cards and confounding money boxes, but to have to wait for the privilege?
The money run had been a nasty part of his daily routine ever since the Ministry of Magic had frozen his Gringott’s accounts. The Dark Lord hadn’t cared much for his excuses for the first missed “donation” to their cause, and shown his displeasure quite emphatically. His initial response was to rob a Muggle bank, but those prats had put some sort of exploding blue ink bomb in the bag of pounds that they’d made off with, and the black-market money changers had refused to convert the notes into galleons. And that brought about the next round of expressed displeasure from his master…after their devastating defeat at the Ministry of Magic, Voldemort had ordered his remaining forces to go to ground, and to not draw attention to themselves.
Apparently, robbing a Muggle bank at wand point whilst wearing a Death Eater costume was considered attention-getting.
And so, the elder Malfoy was forced to tap into his own Muggle accounts. He knew that Prescott’s was goblin-owned, and hadn’t been willing to risk walking into the bank and withdrawing funds in person. ATM machines were the only reasonable recourse. He could have given his bank card to someone else to get the funds, but there were trust issues, not to mention his reluctance to reveal to anyone his dependence on a Muggle machine.
The woman in front of him finally completed her button pushing and walked away with her cash in hand. Lucius approached the machine (confidently leaving his crib sheet of written instructions in his pocket), pushed his card into the slot, and punched in his secret code. When he got to the withdrawal screen he hit “other,” then punched in a request for 350 pounds (a daily withdrawal limit that forced him to repeat this process all too frequently).
Malfoy then stood impatiently while the ATM informed him that it was “completing the requested transaction.” He had done this enough times to know what came next…the “thump-thump-thump” sound of notes being counted out, just before the little door opened and pushed out his money.
“I wonder how spitefully low the exchange rate will be tonight,” he thought to himself. Suddenly, he heard a low growling, grinding noise coming from a different part of the machine. He looked up and read, “We are unable to release funds from your account at this time. Please contact your bank for more information.”
“What!” he shouted, pounding on the side of the machine.
His raised voice and actions drew the attention of a bobby who just happened to be driving down the street in his squad car. The Metropolitan Police officer stopped, rolled down his window, and asked the predictable question.
“Well, well, well, what’s all this then?”
Malfoy whipped around, ready to raise his wand, before realizing just whom he would be aiming it towards.
“My apologies, officer,” he finally drawled. “There seems to be a problem with this machine…it won’t give me my money.”
“Really?” the bobby asked. “Well, that happens sometimes when you don’t have the funds to draw against.”
“But you don’t understand, officer, I have more than a million quid in that account.”
The bobby squinted at Malfoy.. “Is that so, sir?” he asked. Recalling his pre-shift notice that arrest warrants had been issued and bank accounts frozen for a number of suspected terrorists, he added, “Perhaps if you give me your name and account information, we can clear this matter up?”
The Death Eater startled a bit at the suggestion. “Erm, no officer, that won’t be necessary. I’ll visit the bank in the morning. Must be some sort of clerical issue.”
The police officer nodded as he considered the man's appearance. Malfoy was dressed in a suit and tie, but was under a glamour spell that made him look nothing like the photographs that had been circulated around with the notice.
A radio call came into his squad car, announcing that a group of hooligans was pestering some tourists just down the road. The bobby decided that there wasn’t enough in front of him to justify not responding to that call.
“Mind you temper, Sir,” he said, just before driving off.
Malfoy let out a deep breath, realizing just how close he had come to creating a little more attention to himself. With a string of curse words seldom heard in the wizarding world (much less Muggle London), he turned back to the machine, hoping to at least retrieve his bank card.
The machine had no intentions of giving it back.
Thursday, July 5, 10:15am
Hampstead Gardens, London
On the morning after the ATM ate Malfoy's bank card, the sound of multiple apparition arrivals on a street in Hampstead Garden caused Harry Potter to curse his hastily made plans.
“Merlin’s balls! Multiple pops in an alley-way half-block down the street…knew we should have taken time to set up the anti-app wards!”
“Language, Harry and save it for the after-action,” Hermione advised through her Muggle com gear. As she was inside the building that Harry had been guarding, she asked, “Are they inside or outside the perimeter?”
“Enough time to clear the street and call for help, then.”
Harry looked at the half-dozen Muggle police officers that were milling about and ordered, “Get off the street and inside, the lot of you!”
“What for, Guv’nor?” asked one of the older constables (who was clearly not used to taking orders from a teenager).
Harry let out breath in frustration as he ran up to the officer and shoved his MI-5 identification badge up into his face.
“Because I’m the ranking officer on the scene and I bloody-well say so, you git!”
The older man took a step back, quickly apologized, and then took it upon himself to ensure that the orders were carried out. Harry then took cover behind a post box, and looked across the street towards Hermione’s father. Despite the situation, he couldn’t help but smile at what he saw.
Roger Granger had already established a defensive position behind a police car and donned his dragonhide vest, shield-charmed headgear and “wizardvision” goggles. His mini-Uzi rested on his thigh (shoulder stock open and finger on trigger) while he carefully arranged a small collection of Weasley products in a line down beside his feet.
“Roger, Emily...are you with me?” Harry asked into his radio.
Hermione's father looked up and smiled. “Locked and loaded, Harry,” he replied.
“My husband, Secret Agent Rambo,” lamented Emily, as she took in the scene from her perch. “All set here, Harry,” she added.
"Should I come out and help?" Hermione asked.
"No, stay put for now," Harry replied. "Easier for me to explain away my presence as Queen's Wizard, and you can anchor if it hits the fan out here." He then added, "Switching over to badge-phone now."
Harry quickly activated his Art Club badge’s “party line” and announced, “Listen up, folks…Harry here with an update…we’ve got nine…no, ten unidentified wizards in Muggle clothing that just apparated outside our notice-me-not line. Prepare to back-up.”
Too many people replying at once made it impossible for Harry to make anything out.
“One at a time,”he complained. “Remus, you first.”
“Probably not,” snarked Harry, “but that doesn’t mean they aren’t from the Ministry.”
“Where did they arrive, and what are they doing right now?” asked Tonks.
Harry looked down the street and announced, “The apparated into an alleyway, and tried to make their way towards our position before they hit our defensive perimeter. Right now they’re…they’re talking with the Muggle police who’ve got the street blocked off on their side."
“Talking?” asked Tonks. “Harry, what kind of magic have you guys used in the last few minutes?”
“I used a detection spell and Finite Incantatum five minutes ago,” Hermione replied.
"Thought you said you set up notice-me-nots?" said Tonks.
"We used the pre-spelled police tape," Hermione explained.
“Well, then, doesn’t sound like it would warrant sending out an Oblviator squad,” Tonks replied. “Harry do you want me with you, or should I go to the Ministry and see what they’re up to?”
The Queen's Wizard paused and said, “Well, since they haven’t drawn wands yet…go to the Ministry, Tonks.”
“Will do, boss.” Tonks replied.
“Erm, hold on,” Ron replied, from his office within the Ministry of Magic. In the intervening seconds the Queen's Wizard ordered Fred and George to badge-jump to Emily Granger’s roof-top position with a bag full of their toys.
“Harry,” said Ron, once he got back on, “Neville heard a rumor that MSO detected use of an Imperious curse forty-five minutes ago, about a mile from your location.
“Well that makes sense, given what I’ve found here,” said Hermione.
“MLE dispatched Mad-Eye and an Auror team to investigate,” Ron added.
“Mad-Eye?” asked Harry. He quickly looked back down the street and asked, “Roger, is there more there than what meets the eye?”
Hermione’s dad peeked around the corner of the police car and compared what he could see with his bare eyes against the view fed to his goggles from a helmet-mounted camera.
“Same-same,” he announced (using the code phrase that indicated that he didn’t electronically “see” any disguised, disillusioned, or invisible wizards).
“Auror teams have five members, not nine or ten, and Moody’s not one of them,” Harry reasoned. He was just about to order a nasty welcome for their guests when another series of pops was heard coming from the opposite direction.
“More Muggle-dressed company,” Harry announced, as a second group of wizards appeared from an alleyway.
“Five of them,” called out Fred from the rooftop. “And the blond hair bloke with a limp is one-eyed. peg-legged, and uglier than he seems.”
“Really?” asked Harry. “How do you think we should greet him, Fred?”
“Harry…play nice,” warned Hermione.
The Queen’s Wizard sighed. “Yes, dear…Roger, stand down, pick up, and move to Emily’s position.”
Harry joined the other Art Clubbers on the roof, scribbled out a quick note, and called for Hedwig (who had been perched on a nearby lamppost). With the message attached to her leg, he gave her a quick pet and soft-spoken command.
Fifteen seconds later, a rather distinctive owl swooped down and landed on a newspaper box right next to where Mad-Eye Moody was standing. The retired Auror turned towards her (while his magical eye remained locked onto the building’s entrance) and took the offered message.
Dear Moody,
We had the situation under control before you guys showed up. We also have the drop on you and your men.
Meet me in two minutes inside the donut shop just to your right if you want an explanation. Or, if you want a live-fire training exercise, walk through the notice-me-not charms and climb up onto one of the parked cars…you’ll have a better view of Fred and George’s inventory in action.
The retired Auror looked up along the rooflines and let out a deep laugh that carried down the street. He really wanted to see Harry in action, but as he glanced down both ends of the street he saw at least fifty different Muggles that would need to be obliviated if he pushed for a fight.
“Another day,” he decided. He turned and began barking at the other Aurors, berating them for not immediately recognizing the perimeter warding. Sending both teams of Ministry personnel back to the office with a cryptic comment about an ongoing Unspeakable operation, he stepped inside the restaurant.
After a quick threat assessment, he sat down at the counter and asked the waitress for a cup of tea.
“Well,” he said to himself, “At least this time the Boy picked a meeting place that has both types of plumbing.”
Later that afternoon, Hermione Granger attended a meeting in the Prime Minister’s office, along with the new Home Secretary, the MI-5 and MI-6 Chiefs, and a recording secretary. The only agenda item was that morning’s action.
The MI-5 Chief began by reciting known facts. At 9:30am that morning, Mrs. Evelyn Hawthorne, a thirty-four year old mother of three from Hampstead Garden, calmly walked into a NatWest branch on Golders Green Road and, after patiently waiting her turn at a teller’s window, attempted to rob the bank at gun point. The bank teller wet his trousers, then made the startling observation that the gun being held to his face had a plug solid barrel. He alertly called for help, and bank security apprehended the woman before she could exit the building.
The Yard investigators that arrived at the scene were puzzled by the fact that the suspect made no attempt to hide her face, or wear a disguise. While there had been other criminals that had displayed this kind of brazenness/stupidity, none that they could recall had done so and chosen to rob their own personal bank. In addition, the “gun” she had used turned out to be a solid piece of metal, with no working parts (much less bullets).
But perhaps most puzzling was her freely offered (and unique) motive:
“Because a very nice man asked me to.”
Mrs. Hawthorne had no criminal record, and was described by her neighbors as an intelligent, polite and outgoing person who frequently volunteered her time at church. She had no apparent financial issues, and obviously didn’t fit any of the standard profiles.
On the day previous, MI-5 ¾ had made arrangements with Scotland Yard to be immediately notified of any bank robbery attempts, particularly those involving criminals dressed in odd clothing or black robes and white masks. While the woman’s clothing was relatively normal (if a bit dated), the other facts in the case warranted a phone call, and ten minutes later, MI-5 ¾ arrived on scene and took situational command.
When the MI-5 Chief reached this point in the story, he asked Hermione to pick it up from there. With both her original and revised notes in front of her, she stood and began her presentation.
“The facts as they were first relayed to us suggested the possibility that Mrs. Hawthorne had been magically coerced into the attempt. This, by the way, has since been confirmed by sources within the Ministry of Magic. On the chance that the wizard or witch responsible might still be at or near the scene I immediately apparated to the site.”
“Apparated?” asked the new Home Secretary.
“Erm…I used magic to travel near-instantaneously from my office here at 10 Downing Street to the crime scene. Once there I anchored the badge-jump of Agent Potter and two other MI-5 ¾ agents.”
“A different means of magical transportation that allows the twelve Order of Arthur members to come to each other's aid.”
Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “Had there been Death Eaters in the area, then yes. But as a practical matter, it’s much easier to badge travel to a location that you’ve never been to before, and two of the agents were Muggles, and therefore unable to apparate.”
“But you didn’t badge-travel, right?” asked the Home Secretary.
“Erm, no, I apparated. It’s not impossible to apparate using only a coordinate set, just more difficult.”
“Let her get on with the story, Mr. Chisholm,” asked the MI-6 chief.
Hermione waited for an exchange of stares between the two men before continuing. “My three colleagues immediately established a perimeter around and above the bank entrance while I entered to examine Mrs. Hawthorne’s weapon. Diagnostic spells indicated that there was magical residue on the object, so I used Finite Incantatum and discovered that the gun was, in fact, a transfigured stainless steel fork.”
“What did you say you did?” the Home Secretary asked.
Hermione smiled. “I cast Finite Incantatum…it’s a magical spell that stops currently operating spell effects...for example, do you remember yesterday when you asked me for proof that magic was real?"
"Hard to forget a flying pig that sings Gilbert and Sullivan.”
“Yes, well... Finite Incantatum is the spell I used to turn that pig back into the folding chair."
“So can you make a gun using that same sort of trick?” asked a skeptical Home Secretary.
Hermione looked towards the Prime Minister for guidance. After getting a nod of approval she drew her wand. Not seeing a fork in the immediate area, she looked down at the Prime Minister’s desk and asked, “Would that stapler do?”
When the Home Secretary gave a noncommittal shrug Hermione gathered her thoughts and cast her spell. The others in the room marveled as the stapler slowly melted, morphed and reformed into a handgun. Once Hermione lowered her wand and gave an all-clear, the MI-5 Chief reached over for a closer look.
Finding what appeared to be the magazine release, he popped open the box and examined the individual bullets as he handed the gun over to his colleague. Letting out a low whistle he then asked, “And .357 cartridges, as well?”
“Erm…that was what I was aiming for, sir.”
The MI-5 Chief passed the gun over to his colleague, who reloaded it and began playing with the release.
“Will this handgun fire, Agent Granger?” he asked.
Hermione chewed on her lower lip. “I’m not sure, sir, and quite frankly wouldn’t want to be the one to find out.”
The MI-6 Chief looked up and smiled as he carefully placed the handgun back onto the desk. “Perhaps, then, it might be more useful in its original state?”
Hermione nodded as she raised her wand and canceled out the transfiguration.
The Prime Minister, who had been almost beaming with enthusiasm at this display, asked, “Dame Hermione, why is it that your transfigured handgun was so much more realistic than the one used at the crime scene?”
The witch’s ears turned a bit red, and she paused before responding. “There are probably a couple of different reasons why, Sir. First, it’s easier to transfigure objects that are similar in size, weight and material.”
“And the stapler was closer in weight and size to a handgun?”
“Yes, Sir,” Hermione replied. “Second, it’s much easier to get a realistic transfiguration if you are familiar with the target object.”
The Home Secretary smiled. “And just how would a pretty young lady such as yourself be familiar with a gun like that?”
This time, it was towards the Security Service Chiefs that Hermione turned for a visual cue. When they both smiled and nodded, she slowly reached inside her jacket, carefully pulled out a weapon, and said, “I am authorized to carry the exact same handgun.”
Surprised, the Home Secretary asked, “Mind if I take a look?”
Hermione shrugged her shoulders, then checked the safety, popped open the cartridge, and handed both pieces across the desk. The Home Secretary, who was well versed in military weaponry, took particular interest in the bullets.
“These aren’t standard issue, are they Miss Granger?”
“Erm, no Sir,” Hermione replied. “Custom-made silver points.”
The Home Secretary frowned. “That’s quite a weapon, how do you handle the recoil?"
"I lift weights, sir, and the handle has an applied cushioning charm."
"But why not something smaller?”
“Because, sir, lycanthropes have thick hides.”
“Lycanthropes?” asked the Home Secretary.
“Werewolves, you idio…erm, Mr. Chisholm,” said the MI-5 Chief (remembering that he did, in fact, report to the Home Secretary). He then turned to Hermione and asked, “Agent Granger, what inferences can be made if firearm familiarity was the main factor for the design of Mrs. Hawthorne’s play gun?”
Hermione nodded. “That would suggest that the wizard who transfigured the fork didn’t know much about Muggle firearms.”
“Not really, sir, unless it was a Muggleborn witch or wizard who cast the spell.”
“And Death Eaters tend not to be Muggleborns, correct?”
“That would be an understatement, Sir,” Hermione replied.
The Home Secretary returned the gun and magazine box to Hermione. After reloading the magazine, she slipped the gun back inside her jacket. This action caught the Home Secretary’s attention (if forced to confess, he would have admitted that his eyes had been drawn to a hint of Hermione’s cleavage).
“Agent Granger, how is it that you can carry that hefty gun under your jacket without giving your tailor fits?”
Hermione (after once again gaining silent permission) opened up her jacket. As if there was a gun-sized cavity within her chest, she reached into the one-eighth inch thick magical holster that lay flat against her shirt and smoothly pulled her weapon.
“Magic,” she replied with a smile.
The Prime Minister once again berated the Home Secretary for getting Hermione’s story off-track, and asked her to continue. The teen-ager told them that a few minutes after she examined the toy weapon the first team of Aurors arrived at the scene. It only took a few more minutes for her to summarize their actions from that point up to Harry’s meeting with Mad-Eye.
“Once Agent Potter explained what had happened to Retired Auror Moody, the three of us made a visual and magical sweep of the area for potential magical threats. Finding none, we returned situational control to the Yard and left to write-up our reports.”
The Prime Minister thanked Hermione, then asked for her opinion on what had happened. She told them that, based on the gathered evidence, she believed that a Death Eater had cast an Imperius spell on Mrs. Hawthorne, gavin her the fake weapon, and then ordered her to rob the bank, with intentions to have her turn the money over to him. She then linked this to that morning’s report that three separate attempts had been made to access frozen Death Eater bank accounts using ATM machines. Finally, she concluded that the Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort were low on funds and needed some cash.
“Why didn’t they try to rob a wizard bank?” the Prime Minister asked.
Hermione smiled. “They probably thought their chances were better on our side, as there has never been a successful theft from a wizard bank,” she replied.
Hermione paused, and decided to risk a little cheekiness. “Probably has something to do with the trolls and dragons that they use as guards, Sir.”
When the Prime Minister wondered out loud why more wizards hadn’t tried to steal from Muggle banks, Hermione noted that there had been one successful attempt (that, unfortunately, they only had learned about that morning). She also added that Agent Potter was presently meeting with his contacts within the Ministry of Magic, as he had voiced the exact same question.
The new Home Secretary, who had been aware of the wizarding world for all of a day, asked Hermione, “Why do wizards need money in the first place? Can’t they conjure up whatever they need?”
Hermione nodded, and replied, “Not exactly, Sir, athough magic can do quite a lot towards that end.” She used utility bills as the prime example, with wizard households using magic to replace electricity, magic to heat and cool their homes…even for water and sewer service. She told them that transportation costs were minimal; most wizard buildings were connected to the floo network, which only has a small monthly subscription fee, and floo powder was pretty cheap.
“Just how cheap?” asked the Home Secretary.
“Erm…don’t know actual costs, since I’m not a homeowner, but I do know that it only costs five sickles to use a public floo.”
“Five sickles? How much is that?”
Hermione paused. “Well, the current exchange rate is about five pounds to the galleon, and there are seventeen sickles to a galleon and twenty-nine knuts to a sickle, but then there are also conversion fees based on transaction amounts, and other factors…”
“Maybe it would be easier to compare it to something used in both worlds?” suggested the Prime Minister
“Oh, well, that makes sense,” Hermione replied. “Let’s see…with five sickles you could either buy a pint of ale at the Leaky Cauldron, or a triple-scoop ice cream cone at Fortescue’s.”
“Ah, beer,” the MI-6 Chief noted, “the universal currency.”
“And just how far can you travel for the price of a pint?” asked the Prime Minister.
“It’s a flat fee,” Hermione replied. “You can travel anywhere within the domestic floo network”
“So you could commute to work from Edinburgh to London for just a few quid?”
Hermione nodded. “Less, actually, if you were using your private connection rather than a public one.”
“Amazing,” said the Home Secretary.
“So I’ve found most of what I’ve learned of the wizarding world to be,” noted the Prime Minister. He then said, “Which brings us back to the original question…why do wizards need to work, and why would Death Eaters need to rob banks?”
Hermione paused, then cast her eyes downward as she admitted, “I’m sorry, Mr. Home Secretary, but I’ll need to get back to you if you want a definitive answer. Economics isn’t an elective at Hogwarts, and not a subject that I have studied.”
The Home Secretary frowned. “Seems like a relatively simple question, Agent Granger.”
The Prime Minister scowled a bit at his newest Minister before turning to give Hermione a reassuring smile. “My apologies, Dame Hermione. I’m afraid that Mr. Chisholm and the rest of us must take care to remember that you are not just a teen-aged student, but one that has only been part of the wizarding world for, what…five years?”
“Six, Prime Minister.” Hermione replied quietly.
“Right, then,” the Prime Minister said. “Perhaps you can tell us something about what wizards do spend their money on, besides ice cream and beer.”
Hermione looked up and nodded, as she paused just long enough to put together what she hoped was a coherent response. “The shops in Diagon Ally generally sell books, robes, magical objects and animals, and potions ingredients. Only the most powerful witches and wizards can conjure meals that have any nutritional content, so I guess that they also have to buy their own food.”
“Let’s start with that list, then,” the MI-6 Chief said. “What sorts of magical objects would these terrorists be interested in buying?”
Hermione was starting to respond when an idea struck. “Excuse, me gentlemen, but I just realized that I know a few people who are much better positioned to answer that question. Would you like me to see if they are available?”
“Who are they, and how long would it take for them to join us?”
“They are rather successful businessmen with a shop in Diagon Alley.” Hermione turned to the MI chiefs and added, “It’s the Weasley twins…you might have heard about their visit to headquarters?”
Four eyebrows arched up as the MI-5 and MI-6 Chiefs sat back a bit in their chairs. The MI-6 Chief then replied, “So long as they promise not to blow anything up or turn us into canaries…”
The MI-5 Chief added, and turned towards the Prime Minister. “Fred and George Weasley are wizards and Order of Arthur members that have been collaborating with MI- 5¾’s Q Branch…quite brilliant, and relatively harmless, so long as Agent Granger keeps them on a short leash.”
Hermione smiled. “That I will. They also can be with us presently, if you wish.”
The Home Secretary sported a puzzled look. “I thought I read somewhere that this building was protected from wizards popping up out of nowhere.”
Hermione nodded, then replied, “Mr. Home Secretary, I designed, installed and control the protective wards. I can change them to allow certain people to apparate in and out.” She then unbuttoned her suit jacket to reveal the badge that was fixed to the inside lining. “But to answer more directly, as members of the Order of Arthur, Fred and George can by-pass anti-apparition wards by badge-jumping.”
The Prime Minister looked around the table, and seeing no objections gave Hermione a curt nod. After a brief badge-call and assurances that he’d play nice, Fred Weasley badge-jumped into the meeting, wearing dragonhide gloves and an apron that were both covered in a thick green fluid. The noxious cloud of gas coming off of this liquid was sufficient to set off the room’s smoke detectors and automatic sprinklers.
“Fred!” Hermione exclaimed as she quickly pulled out her wand. “Get rid of that goo!”
As he was protected by a bubblehead charm, the look of shock on the Weasley Twin’s face was readily visible. He immediately badge-jumped back to the shop, leaving Hermione behind to deal with the mess. She cast a bubble-head charm on herself, then banished the visible cloud of gas that was left behind. She then turned to cast bubble-heads on the Prime Minister and others, only to discover that they had taken matters into their own Muggle hands and were all wearing emergency full-face respirators.
At that moment Kingsley Shacklebolt and two Muggle security agents burst into the room with weapons drawn. The Auror quickly assessed the situation, then used a freezing-spell to ice-over the sprinkler system’s output. He then told the Muggle agents to see that the sprinkers were shut-down; once they left, he helped Hermione magically dry out the office and its occupants.
After many apologies, reassurances and references made to absent-minded professors, Hermione asked a contrite Order of Arthur member to return to the meeting room, this time wearing regular robes (as much as lime green and yellow checkered robes could be considered “regular). When the MI-5 Chief asked for an explanation, Fred said that he had been working on an experimental potion that would allow someone to see through glamour charms and disillusionment spells.
The MI-6 Chief thought for a moment, and then asked, “So you are trying to create a magical potion to do what we non-magicals can already do with our camera equipment?”
“Erm, yes, I guess so,” said a rather bemused wizard. Fred in turn, asked what the gas masks were for, and was impressed with the their utility as “replacements” for magic.
“I dare say this shows just how much there is to know about each other worlds,” commented the Prime Minister.
Giving Fred a curt expression, the Home Secretary added, “As well as the dangers involved in moving from one world to the other.”
Hermione took this comment as a stinging rebuke and looked down at her folded hands. “Once again, I apologize, Mr. Home Secretary,” she said. “But please don’t blame Fred for the accident. I was the one who asked him here to help me.”
“Dame Hermione, again, you are too self-critical,” the Prime Minister gently chided. “I for one, recognize and appreciate the willingness of you and your magical colleagues to provide assistance to Her Majesty’s Government. You are trying to chart an unknown course between our two worlds, and there are bound to be bumps along the way.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Hermione replied.
“It’s Tony, right?” he asked, using some of the charm that helped make him such a brilliant politician.
Fred then was asked to give an off-the-cuff lesson not just on wizard world economics, but on the very nature of magic itself. He explained that potion ingredients couldn’t be magically created, and needed to be either grown, caught or gathered. Similarly, most magical objects like wands and brooms could only be created by skilled craftsmen, using proprietary or complex spells developed over lengthy apprenticeships. This dove-tailed into a description of the Weasley’s business ventures, and in particular their now booming business selling shield-charmed cloaks and hats. Hermione explained that there were large variations in magical skill and power with the wizard population, and that the reasons for the Weasley Twins’ financial success lie more in their wizarding skills than their business acumen.
The Home Secretary took all this in, and then asked, “So, Agent Granger, in terms of power and ability, just how would you rank yourself and the other magicals working for us?”
As the young witch stuttered, Fred answered for her. “Hermione here would be way too modest to answer properly, so let me say that she is, far and away, the brightest witch in our generation.”
“Oh, Fred, stop it,” Hermione chided.
“It’s true, and you know it, Hermione,” Fred replied. He then turned to the others and asked, “Do any of you have any idea on just how unique the warding is for this building?”
When nobody chose to respond, Fred continued, “They are without a doubt the best you can buy right now, and I should know because we just paid a cauldron full of galleons to have them installed on our shop.”
“Fred?” Hermione asked. “Why did you pay the goblins to…”
“Because we needed to pay them so that they could pay you,” Fred replied with a smile. For the others’ benefits he explained that Hermione had invented attenuated wards, and had licensed the goblins to sell and install them within the wizarding world. He then asked Hermione, “Just how much did you charge to ward this building and the Queen’s property?”
She shrugged. “Nothing…just part of our jobs.”
Fred nodded. “Thought so,” he said.
The MI-6 Chief asked what the cost would have been. Fred did some mental math, then replied, “Well, I only know about this building, Windsor, Buckingham and Cumberland. Assuming the goblins gave you the preferred customer discount, roughly two-hundred and fifty thousand Galleons.”
“More than a million pounds sterling?” asked a skeptical Home Secretary.
Hermione chewed on her lip for a moment, and then reluctantly nodded.
“And that’s just a bit of her brilliance,” Fred claimed. “Let’s see, who else…of course there’s Harry..the two of them defeated a five-member Auror team all on their own last month.”
“You mean the Queen’s Wizard?” asked the Home Secretary.
“Yes, as well as Lord Gryffindor,” added the MI-6 chief.
“And an security service agent,” said the MI-5 chief.
“Not to mention Clan Chief, Patriarch, Tri-Wizard Champion and Teen Witches Weekly’s ‘Most Snoggable Wizard’ three years running,” said Fred (causing Hermione to blush a bit).
“So he has a lot of titles,” said the Home Secretary. “Is he a leader? Can he fight?”
Hermione’s firm grip on Fred’s elbow was needed to keep the rather irate Weasley from drawing his wand. “Can he fight?” Fred bellowed. “Can he fight?” he said again, this time with more amazement in his voice.
“Harry successfully fought and rescued Hermione from an eight-foot tall troll his first year of school. At the time, he was eleven years old, four-foot nothing and five stone in really wet robes. Second year he saved my sister’s life by killing a forty-foot basilisk with a sword. Third year he was casting a Patronus spell, fourth year he fought a dragon, dueled the Dark Lord to a draw, fifth year he led Hermione, my brother and sister, and three other teens in a successful fight against a dozen of the most powerful Death Eaters alive, and then Voldemort again, and….Hermione have I missed any Dark Creatures?”
Hermione smiled. “You mean besides Umbridge?”
Fred and Hermione shared a laugh (in spite of themselves), as the Prime Minister spoke up.
“Mr. Chisholm,” he said with a clipped tone of voice. “You should know that this issue was raised by the previous Home Secretary, just a few moments before he was sacked. Both Her Majesty and I have every confidence in Dame Hermione, Lord Gryffindor and their colleagues.” He paused for effect, then snarked, “Although we might have cause to reconsider Mr. Weasley and his green goo.”
As Hermione snorted quietly to herself, the Prime Minister continued. “You have been briefed on the Battle of Ascot, as well as the actions by Treasury yesterday that no doubt led to this morning’s events. They have earned their titles and our trust, and if you aren’t on board then let me know now so that I can go shopping for another Home Secretary.”
Home Secretary Chisholm sat back and sucked in a breath. “No need, Mr. Prime Minister, and I apologize…I was only looking for information.” He then apologized to Fred and Hermione and contritely added, “I guess the notion that we have teenagers running this operation shouldn’t be any more surprising than the finding out about the wizarding world itself.”
Hermione replied with a nod and slight smile. “No worries, Sir.”
“Right, we’ve beaten this dead horse enough,” said the Prime Minister. “Dame Hermione, would it be possible for you to look into possible motives for these robberies and report back? I’m also interested in any protective measures that we can use to guard Muggle financial institutions from magical attack.”
“Of course, Sir,” Hermione replied. “Should I start right away, or am I needed for the balance of the meeting?”
The Prime Minister looked down at his agenda. “No, I think that we’ve got things covered here.” He then looked up and gave Hermione a warm smile. “And if something does come up, I do have your mobile number on speed dial.”
Hermione choked down an “eep!” and reminded the Prime Minister to call Wally or Steve if she was “out of range.”
Deciding that Gringott’s might be the best place to conduct her research, she called Harry, asked him to meet her at the Twins’s shop, then badge-jumped with Fred back to Diagon Ally. As soon as they arrived, Fred asked why the Prime Minister rode horses, and what was to be gained by beating dead ones.
5:00pm
Gringott’s, Diagon Ally
After listening to Clan Chief Potter and his Consort describe the day’s events, Ragnok the Goblin sat back in his office chair and placed his fingertips together in thought.
“These are troubling events,” he decided, “with implications for both of your enemies.”
“Both, Clan Chief?” Harry asked.
The goblin smiled a toothy smile. “Well, perhaps it is more appropriate to identify the current wizard government as your adversary.”
Harry nodded, and then said, “As I consider Head Auror Robards more friend than enemy, I was surprised to find him so reluctant to talk about this morning’s attempted bank robbery.”
“As well he should, my friend,” Ragnok replied. “It might have led to a discussion on why the Ministry of Magic failed to report the somewhat more successful robbery two weeks ago.”
Having gone far past the point where Hermione had to worry about directly addressing the Goblin chief, she asked, “May I ask how you know about that robbery, as well as why and to whom the Ministry needed to report?”
The Goblin replied, “We learned on the day following that bank robbery that an attempt was made to exchange the stolen and soiled pound notes for Galleons at a money changers in Knockturn Ally.”
The Goblin nodded. “The bag of money that was handed over to the thieves had an exploding pack of blue ink within it.”
Harry asked, “Why didn’t the Death Eater just Scourgify the money?”
Ragnok smiled an even larger and toothier smile. “They no doubt tried, but the ink is derived from a goblin dye that is magically resistant.”
Hermione nodded. “So the Goblin nation helps the Muggle financial industry to protect their assets?”
The Goblin replied, “We help them protect not only their assets, but also our own. We are heavily invested in the Muggle world, as the Ministry of Magic bars goblins from investing in wizard businesses.”
“That makes sense,” Harry replied. “If I might ask, did you act on this information?”
“Indirectly,” Ragnok replied. “Voldemort was sent a message warning him not to make future attempts against Muggle banks.”
“A goblin howler, delivered inside the mouth of the severed head of the money changer that the Death Eaters tried to do business with.”
While Hermione was taken aback, Harry whistled, and had to confess just a bit of admiration for the directness of approach. Neither asked how the Goblins delivered the message, respecting their ally’s need to keep certain secrets to himself.
“Guess this morning shows he didn’t think too much about the warning,” Harry noted.
“Indeed,” Ragnok replied. “The Grand Goblin Council is currently debating how to send a warning that he will be forced to heed.”
Harry nodded, then asked, “And you said that the Ministry is required to report this type of theft?”
Ragnok nodded. “By treaty they must report any attempt by a wizard to steal from a Muggle bank within their borders. It must be made less than three days of its occurrence, whether it is successful or not.”
“The International Confederation of Wizards,” Ragnok replied.
“Because of secrecy concerns?” Hermione asked.
“Exactly,” said the goblin. “It is one of the key indicators that a wizard government is failing to police its own citizenry, and to uphold their joint obligation to preserve the magical world’s secrets.”
Harry thought for a moment, and then asked, “That’s because the Muggles would be keen to figure out just how their banks were being robbed, right?”
Hermione nodded. “And there would be enough c-mugs out there to provide answers.” She then asked Ragnok, “Are there sanctions involved?”
Ragnok nodded. “More than three attempts within a one-year period is cause for international intervention.”
“You mean other wizard governments would take control of the Ministry?” asked Harry.
“Not necessarily,” Ragnok replied. “First would come a intensive audit of Ministry practices and personnel. Only if that audit showed more than a tolerable amount of corruption, or if the robbery attempts continued, would the Ministry lose its authority to rule.”
“I can see why the Ministry might be tempted to under report, then,” said Harry. He then asked, “How often does this sort of intervention happen?”
“Rarely” said the Goblin. “We have Gringott’s branches in nearly every wizard country, and our warnings are usually enough to keep the criminal elements in line.”
Harry nodded, and then asked “So what do you suggest we do?”
Ragnok paused for a moment, and then replied, “Tell the Muggle Prime Minister that the goblins are working on the problem, and warn them that there may be some changes at the Ministry of Magic in the near future.”
Harry and Hermione stood and offered their thanks for Ragnok’s valuable time. Just before they left his office, Hermione remembered her assignment from the Prime Minister.
“One last question, Clan Chief?”
“Do you have any idea why Voldemort is so desperate for cash?”
Ragnok smiled. “We understand that since the attack on the Ministry there has been a run on, and resulting extreme shortage of, certain types of potion ingredients.”
“Which types of potion ingredients?” Harry asked.
The goblin replied with a toothy grin.
“Those typically required for the healing of battlefield wounds.”
If glamour charms could accurately reflect the underlying condition of the wizard that wore them, then Lucius Malfoy would have looked like a mess as he walked the streets of Muggle London.
The failed robbery attempt was a complete and utter disaster. He thought that he had covered all contingencies, having used a generic black-market wand to ensnare his Muggle accomplice, then sped off in a Muggle taxi before the Ministry could track down his use of the Unforgivable. He knew that Muggles like to rob their own banks, so what was the risk that his involvement would be detected? Apparently more than he had anticipated, as he watched the foiled attempt from a safe distance.
Now, a charitable man might have forgiven Lucius, and blamed his poorly thought-out plans on the lingering effects of too many Cruciatus curses that were held too long.
But his Lord was neither a man, nor forgiving.
The best he could hope for was that the Ministry’s self-protection skills would kick in, and that it would once again fail to report the robbery attempt. It was too much to hope that the Goblins wouldn’t find out, though, which is why he now found need to provide ransom not just for his life, but for those of his wife and son.
In retrospect, he should have raided his emergency funds from the start, and depleted the cache before attempting more risky means of satisfying his Master. But emergency funds were just that…for emergencies, and so long as that infernal money machine was spitting out pound notes he had been fine.
A hundred thousand galleons in gold, fifty thousand pounds sterling, two dozen large uncut diamonds and an assortment of precious jewelry were waiting for him in a place that only he could recall visiting once he left. Lucius sighed, and once more wished that he could sit out the rest of this Second War in the safety of his Patriarchal suite. But the Dark Lord’s reach was far, and his mark most insistent when it burned in need of his attendance.
As he approached The Rookery, the elder Malfoy recalled far happier visits, when the streets of Soho were filled with Muggle wenches that were ripe for the taking. He briefly considered seeking more of that kind of company, before realizing that he would be too tired to enjoy a warmer bed. Malfoy was, in fact, too tired to notice that he was being watched as he entered the building and took the lift up to his private floor. Not that he would have cared, having come to rely upon the anonymity of his glamour charm.
A quick lift trip was followed by a quick meal and reassuring check that his stash was still there. Deciding that a good night’s sleep in a warm bed was worth the risk of delaying his return to Voldemort, he shed his clothes and crawled under the silk sheets of his four-poster bed.
His sleep was more fitful than good.
His dreams would have been worse, though, had he been aware of the calls that had gone out and the plans that were being made on the city streets below.
Chapter 26 - Stone Cold Harry
Friday , July 6, 5:45am
87 Shaftesbury Avenue
Soho, London
It was with great reluctance that Lucius Malfoy rose from bed and prepared for the day. He bathed, shaved and dressed in his finest robes (still confident that his glamour charm would hide his attire under the image of a Muggle business suit). The Malfoy Patriarch then emptied his emergency cache into an ever-expandable bag (that had been left in his safe for just that purpose) and tied it to his belt.
Lucius called for a house-elf to fill the dining room table with a rich assortment of breakfast foods. As he sat there, eating what he hoped was not a last meal, he considered his Muggle transportation options for the trip to Salisbury. It would have been so much easier (and quicker) to apparate, but after the disaster at the Ministry, he could no longer trust that the records of his magical transit would be ignored or lost before acted upon.
The thought of that debacle and its aftermath gave Lucius one more opportunity to curse Mulciber’s parents for foregoing the contraceptive charm on the night that the idiot Death Eater was conceived. Couldn’t have thought to suggest that the Dark Lord order a few of their spies to maintain cover, just in case his plan to take over the Ministry failed, could he? Mulciber, the smart guy from Ravenclaw, with his brilliant scheme that would have vaulted him to the front of the Inner Circle’s pecking order. Of course, the Slytherins he was trying to climb over on the way up the corporate ladder would have been cunning enough to plan for a worst case. Unfortunately, though, those same Slytherins were too busy angling amongst themselves for post-victory power…because there was no reason why their undercover operatives shouldn’t have been able to hand them the keys to the Ministry of Magic.
But now they were either gone or exposed…Edgecombe at Floo, Richards and his crew at MSO, Reg in the Minister’s office….all of them. For more than two years Death Eaters had apparated, floo’ed and hurled Unforgivables with the confidence that (so long as they weren’t too blatant) their undercover colleagues would watch their backs and cover their tracks at the Ministry. But now, the Dark Lord and those who had escaped the battle had to assume that almost every swish of their wands could be detected and tracked down by those who wished them harm.
This was the reason why Voldemort had ordered his minions to go to ground, and to avoid the use of magic at all costs (at least until they could determine just how vulnerable they really were). This was also the reason why so many survivors of the battle were still injured and in pain; as the “no-magic” order included healing spells, magical potions were the only safe recourse. This had made Snape even more pompous and insufferable, and forced the Death Eaters to forage for potion supplies and gather the funds to pay for them.
And sent Malfoy down the path that had led to where he was presently.
Lucius longed for the good old days (i.e. six weeks previous), when healing spells would have been hidden by the unplottable location of their hide-out. But the goblins had (amazingly) decided to cooperate with the Ministry of Magic and their “seized assets” orders. Reasoning that the Ministry couldn’t seize Death Eater assets that they couldn’t find, Gringott’s had gone to great lengths (and great expense) to collapse the wards that made any piece of real estate owned by a sanctioned land owner unplottable. Fortunately, the crash of these wards was a spectacularly loud event, and Voldemort and his followers had been given enough warning time to leave their suddenly plottable location before the MLE came snooping about.
Efforts to find a suitable hideaway owned by an unsanctioned and unmarked pure-blood sympathizer had been unsuccessful; Malfoy was certain that at least one such place existed, but suspected that knowledge of just who owned that place and where it was located was a secret guarded by a Fidelius charm. As a result, they had been forced to scatter about the countryside, and to stay in locations where their magic use could be tracked.
About the only silver lining to the sharp downgrade in living conditions was that Voldemort also had to abide by the “no-magic” rule (as best as his own temper would allow). There had only been an occasional lapse into application of the Cruciatus, and each time this happened they’d been forced to quickly move their base of operations to less pleasant locations. Given the conditions of the basement Voldemort now inhabited, Malfoy doubted that he’d be cursed again for his failure, or summoned to that cursing by the Dark Mark’s burn….not that there weren’t mundane ways for Voldemort to show his displeasure (particularly with MacNair and his axe still around).
Feeling the heft of the money bag tied to his belt, Malfoy decided that he could afford to hire a taxi for the two-hour trip to his Master’s lair. He rose from the table, used the loo and combed his hair one last time before taking the lift down to the lobby. He brushed by the house-elf concierge and and strode out onto the street with a swaggering demeanor bolstered by the cash hanging from his belt.
The sidewalk and street were relatively deserted, but not oddly so given the hour and location. He took note of his surroundings only long enough to determine that there wasn’t a taxi cab within hailing distance, then turned towards Piccadilly Circus, where he would certainly have better success. As luck would have it (or so he thought), a car for hire turned onto the street and made it’s way towards him not fifteen seconds into his brisk walk. When he hailed it down, the elderly male driver rolled down his window, tipped his hat, and asked,
“Salisbury as in Salisbury Avenue, Guv’nor?”
“No, you fool…Salisbury as in Wiltshire.”
“Oh, well, where do you want to go in Salisbury?”
“I’ll have more than enough time to tell you along the way.”
“Fair enough, Guv’nor…you do know it will be a steep fare…sure you wouldn’t rather I take you to Waterloo Station?”
“Yes, I am aware of the cost, and no, I’d rather enjoy my own company, thank you.”
The driver paused as “he” made use of her peripheral vision. She then smiled, and said, “Well if it’s solitude you want, Guv’nor, we can help.”
Malfoy had just enough time to wonder about the driver’s choice of pronouns before he was struck in the back by two darts attached to fifteen feet of wire. A split second later, 50,000 volts of electrical energy traveled down that wire and overwhelmed Malfoy’s central nervous system. Dazed, confused, and stripped of all neuro-muscular control, Lucius dropped to the pavement in a heap.
Secret Agent Wally shouted the all-clear once his TASER gun had fully discharged. By that point, Ron and Harry had already leapt from their hiding places and made their way to the taxi. The two teen-aged wizards quickly opened the car’s rear door and stuffed the still-trembling body into the back seat. They then climbed inside and sat on top of Malfoy’s body as a still-disguised Tonks slid over to the passenger seat. Wally jumped behind the wheel and sped away, leaving Hermione and her parents behind to explain away the questions of potential eyewitnesses. Fortunately, their governmental ID’s were enough to avoid the need for memory charms.
As soon as Wally turned the corner, Tonks reached into the glovebox and handed Harry a syringe full of Muggle sedative (which stopped Lucius’s squirming just as well as any magical stunner). She then crouched down in her seat and covered herself with Harry’s invisibility cloak. Five minutes later, Wally pulled the taxi into the delivery bay of an unused warehouse.
Once the garage doors closed, Harry and Ron quickly dragged their prisoner’s body out of the taxi and into the back of a waiting lorry. They stripped Malfoy’s body bare, bound him in Muggle handcuffs and ankle chains and had Tonks cover his body with the invisibility cloak. Ron then stuffed the clothes, the money bag, and Malfoy’s wand into Harry’s expandable rucksack and badge-jumped to Windsor Castle. Meanwhile, Wally and Steve had used their Art Club badges to trade places (Steve had remained at the Palace with the Queen), and Tonks changed her physical appearance from an elderly taxi driver to a gangly teenaged boy. Steve and Tonks then jumped into the lorry’s cab, and drove back out onto the street as Harry held the bay doors open. Harry then closed the garage doors, drew his wand, and shrank the taxicab down to the size of a child’s toy.
Other than the badge-jumps, it was the first bit of detectible magic that they had used all morning.
Harry pocketed the car and, after double-checking the area, used Sir Evan’s anchor point to join Ron within the Round Tower. Thirty minutes later, Steve and Tonks arrived at Windsor Castle in the lorry, carrying with them the first prisoner to be held in the Castle for more than three hundred years.
Thirty minutes later, Emily Granger was washing up after her all-night vigil when she heard her husband enter their ground-floor apartment.
“Honey,” Roger called out, “do you know where my surgery kit is?”
“Erm, it’s in one of those boxes we’ve got stored in the tent...why?”
A minute later Roger entered the bathroom holding his kit in one hand and a large pair of dental pliers in the other. “Thanks dear…the kids need some help with the prisoner.”
“Really?” his wife asked. “What kind of help?”
“They just found another portkey.”
“But I thought the plan was for them to do the strip search in town?” Emily asked.
“They did,” Roger replied. “But then they decided to get out their magical dowsing rods to do a body cavity search.”
Emily squirmed at the thought. “And they needed to use those rods instead of their wands?”
Roger snorted. “Yeah, Harry said he draws the line at sticking his wand up troll's nostrils.”
Emily squirmed some more and asked, “So they found something that requires dental tools to extract?”
“Erm, well, actually yes,” Roger replied.
“So how would an evil wizard keep a portkey stuck up his...?”
“Relax, Emily…wrong body cavity.”
“Hermione says Mr. Evil Wizard had one of his molars charmed as a voice-activated portkey.”
“Oh, well, then…I guess your kit would come in handy.” Emily then glanced into her husband’s bag and noticed something missing. “Not planning on using Novocain, Dear?”
Roger gave Emily a hard look. “This Malfoy is good friends with the wizard that tried to cut Hermione down in the Department of Mysteries.”
Mrs. Granger nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
11:30am
Somewhere Hidden in Wiltshire
Voldemort knew better than to ignore the latest message from Gringott’s. Not willing to risk another semi-public dressing down, he ordered his followers (save for Nagini) to leave him alone in his ersatz basement-level chamber.
This new message was wrapped in a manner more boring, but less bloody, than the last. Within the cardboard box was a small red gemstone. Having seen these types of missives before, Voldemort placed the stone down on top of a low table and touched the top facet with his wand tip. A translucent purplish beam of light sprung from the crystal and resolved into a pensieve-like monochromatic image of a dozen goblins, facing him from behind a wide table.
“Hear now, Voldemort, nee Riddle, the recorded words and the ruling of the Grand Goblin Council!” cried out the image sitting at the table’s center.
Voldemort scowled at the cheek of these goblins to order him around. Unfortunately, having recently lost half of his wizard minions to death, injury or capture, scowling was about all that he could do to them.
“You and yours have ignored our previous warning, and dared destruction of the veil of secrecy that protects the magical world,” said the goblin. “Your minion Lucius Malfoy attempted another robbery of a Muggle bank, this time through use of an Imperius Curse.”
“Bugger!” Voldemort muttered to himself, “That insolent idiot!”
“We await word on the extent of damage before passing final judgment,” the goblin continued. “In the interim, we require Lucius Malfoy’s head on a stake, to be placed in front of Gringott’s Diagon Ally branch as warning to those whose actions risk ruin for our world. This must be done before the sun rises on the morrow, or your warning will be made much worse.”
The image sputtered out, leaving the Dark Lord alone with his thoughts.
The sound of clumping footsteps traveled through the basement as the former Unspeakable climbed down the stairs to attend his Master.
“I have need to summon Malfoy.”
“Yes, My Lord, you wish me to bring the car around, then?”
Voldemort growled at the inconvenience.
The area around the village of Avebury had one of the highest ambient magical energy levels within all of Britain. The stone circle had something to do with this; back in its heyday the ancient megalith was almost as effective as a wizard’s wand when it came to focus. Avebury’s megalith was neither as large nor as powerful as Stonehenge, but it also wasn’t as popular with tourists (both Muggle and magical). This made it an ideal location (particularly when the weather was dark and stormy) for the discrete wizard who wished their spell use to be lost in the background.
Augustus Rookwood had been an Auror before being recruited by the Department of Mysteries, and had been trained to drive Muggle automobiles. As one of the few Death Eaters with this skill (and the only one within Voldemort’s Inner Circle) he had been pressed into service as the Dark Lord’s personal driver once apparition became untenable. It was therefore his job to ferry his Master from their current hide-out to Avebury. It would have been a better job if he’d been able to find a magically-resistant car with more headroom, but such was his current lot in life.
The Death Eater parallel-parked his 1967 Austin Mini Cooper S after a twenty-minute drive, and then scouted the area on foot whilst wearing a “notice-me-not” charmed cloak. Not finding any security threats, he returned to the car and gave his similarly-dressed Master the all-clear. After Voldemort climbed out of the passenger seat of the automobile the two wizards walked thorough the driving rain into the center of the circle, where Rookwood bared his left arm for the Dark Lord’s use. As Voldemort dug the tip of his wand into the Dark Mark, he cast the summoning spell that focused on a single Death Eater, rather a blanket summons that called all who were marked.
Rookwood could tell by the scowl in his Master’s voice that Lucius Malfoy wasn’t going to be making a social call.
1:00pm
Round Tower, Windsor Castle
Malfoy’s Dark Mark had been burning for more than hour by the time the sedative that Harry had injected wore off. It was by no means a nice way to regain consciousness.
Metal manacles stopped Lucius’s attempt to grab his Mark with his right hand, and leg irons kept him from running to find relief. He cried out from the pain that came from both arm and mouth, only to find his cries muffled by bloody cotton gauzing. After another painful cry (this time it was more a cry of alarm), Lucius used his tongue to confirm that his mouth was short a few molars; a quick failed apparition attempt then confirmed his fears that his escape routes were rather limited.
Malfoy collapsed back to the ground, and fought through the painful throbbing in his arm and lower jaw to assess his surroundings. He was dressed in Muggle clothing and held in a windowless stone-walled cell. His Muggle arm and leg manacles were chained to the wall, and a tunic-clad house-elf was carefully watching him with arms crossed over his chest.
“Dobby!” Malfoy mumbled through the gauzing. “Get me out of here.”
“Bad Wizard forgets he gave Dobby clothes. Dobby is Free Elf, now,” the house-elf replied. Dobby then popped out of the cell, leaving Lucius to consider just how much more pain he could take from his Dark Mark.
A minute later Malfoy heard the jingling of keys, and the door to his cell opened. Harry Potter then confirmed Malfoy’s worst fears by entering the cell with a wand in his hand and evil smile on his face.
“Good afternoon, Lucius, did you have a nice little kip?”
Malfoy’s cursing was muffled by the cotton.
“Oh, sorry,” said Harry, “Let’s see if the bleeding has stopped.” He aimed his wand at Malfoy’s mouth and banished the bloodied gauze. “Is that better?”
Lucius decided on the silent treatment, so that he could focus what energy he had on pain management.
Harry snorted, then asked. “Say, is there a reason why your Dark Mark is all splotchy and purplish?”
Malfoy said nothing in response, other than, “I want to see my solicitor.”
“Oh really?” Harry asked. “Do you have a Muggle solicitor?”
“Why would I need one of those?” Malfoy spat out.
“Because you were captured by Muggles, using Muggle means,” replied Harry. “And despite the fact that you’re being watched over by a house-elf and prevented by wards from apparating away, you are being held at the Muggle Queen’s Pleasure.”
Malfoy’s attempt at witty repartee was hampered by the need to spit out the mouthful of blood that had gathered.
“Oh, sorry about the dentistry,” Harry replied. “Wouldn’t do any good for you to use that portkey, would it?”
“That would depend on your perspective, Potter.”
Harry smiled and gave Malfoy a polite round of applause. “Oh, well done, Lucius, that was almost as snarky as Snape.”
Malfoy instinctively knew it would be pointless to try and take a swing at Harry, but made the attempt anyway. He quickly wished that he hadn’t moved his left arm.
Harry’s smile grew even more evil as he noticed Malfoy’s pain. “Quite a predicament you appear to be in, Lucius…your Master wants you to visit him, doesn’t he?”
“Of course, you insolent brat,” Malfoy spat back.
“How much longer before the burning drives you mad?”
“Oh come, now, Lucius…I might be able to help if you were a little more candid.”
Malfoy glared at Harry. “You’ll get nothing from me, and the Mark will kill me before I talk.”
Harry chuckled. “Oh, that’s nothing we didn’t already know. Based on what Dobby has told us, we’re quite certain that you are resistant to Veritaserum, and that we couldn’t trust a word that you said.” He then cocked his head and asked, “But are you that willing to die for your Master?”
“Doesn’t look like you are going to give a choice,” Malfoy shot back.
“Ah, but there’s where you are wrong,” Harry replied. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a long strip of fabric, and, after a Petrificus Totalus spell ensured Malfoy’s cooperation, wrapped the fabric around his upper left arm. A second reach into Harry’s rucksack produced a foot-long piece of wooden dowel, the end of which Harry tied into the knot of fabric.
“I know you don’t think too much of Muggles,” Harry said during this process, “but you would be amazed at just how smart they are. For instance, did you know that Muggles have discovered a way to remove a Death Eater’s dark mark?”
Harry stepped back once he finished wrapping what was now a loose tourniquet and admired his handiwork. He then cancelled the petrification spell, and reached into his rucksack for a hacksaw.
Malfoy drew in his breath at the sight.
“It’s rather brutal, I’ll admit,” said Harry, “but if the choice is death or the sound of one hand clapping….”
“What!” Malfoy shouted. “You’re really going to cut my arm off?”
“Oh, no, no, no, Lucius,” Harry replied (his smile never having left his face). “You should remember that you are in Muggle custody….Muggles don’t do that sort of thing to their prisoners…it would be cruel and unusual punishment.”
As a fresh wave of pain shot up from his Dark Mark, Malfoy spat out, “Then what are you going to do with that saw?”
Harry smiled. “Why, give it to you, of course.”
He made good on his word and levitated the hacksaw into Malfoy’s grip.
Harry then noted, “Just because I can’t lop off your arm to save your life doesn’t mean that you can’t help yourself.”
As he used his wand to magically lengthen the chain that held Malfoy’s right arm, Harry said, “So what do you think, Malfoy, do you have what it takes? Do you have the same kind of courage that a Muggle would display in your situation?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Malfoy stammered. “No Muggle would be strong enough to cut off his own arm.”
“Ah, but there’s where you are wrong,” Harry replied with a smile. “A couple of years ago over in the States, a Muggle hiker out on his own in the wilderness got his arm trapped between some rock. Waited days for help, but nobody came. So rather than die of dehydration, the Muggle cut off his own arm.”
“No, it’s the truth,” Harry replied. “Of course, all he had was a pocket knife for the job…that hacksaw should cut through bone way faster.”
Malfoy looked down at his throbbing Dark Mark, and then over at the saw held in his right hand.
Harry interrupted his decision-making process. “But maybe you need a role-model closer to home?” he asked.
When he caught Malfoy’s eye again, Harry simply said, “Pettigrew.”
Lucius’s eyes went wide at the thought. He asked, “Not planning on giving me any pain potion?”
Harry shook his head and clucked. “Sorry, Lucius, but you might have heard…there’s a run on healing potions these days.”
He then made his way to the door. Just before leaving, he turned and said slyly, “Besides, Lucius…Wormtail didn’t need any pain potion when he cut off his hand in order to summon his Master. Do you really need any to avoid your Master’s summons?”
The jail door slammed shut, leaving Malfoy alone with his choices.
Outside, Harry let out a deep sigh and cast a reinforcing Silencio on the cell door and walls. He said a silent prayer that Hermione wasn’t there to hear his little speech, afraid that she might think he was turning too Slytherin.
Sir Evan came up to the door and asked, “So how long do you think he’ll last?”
“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “Depends on how much pain he’s learned to tolerate under his Master’s care.”
When Harry shuddered at the thought of what he’d just done, a small set of arms appeared and wrapped themselves around his leg. “No worries, Harry Potter, sir,” said Dobby. “You are a great wizard. Bad Master doesn’t deserve you giving him a choice to live.”
“Yes, I know, Dobby, but thanks,” Harry replied. He then paused, and asked, “Dobby, thank you so much for coming to help me today.”
“Dobby is honored to help the great Harry Potter, sir” the house-elf replied.
Harry smiled and asked, “Dobby, my friend, would you be willing to help me with another task?”
Dobby’s eye’s went wide. “The great wizard Harry Potter calls Dobby, friend?”
“Oh, of course, Dobby…because you are.”
Dobby’s eyes watered and he burst out into tears as he once again hugged Harry’s leg. “Dobby would do anything for his great friend Harry Potter, sir.”
Harry smiled as he crouched down to Dobby’s eye-level. “Dobby, there’s a couple of very good reasons why we need your former master alive, but the choice is his right now. If he does decide to live, somebody has to watch over him to make sure he doesn’t bleed to death. I don’t think that I’m strong enough to watch him cut off his own arm…would you be willing?”
While Dobby’s command of the Queen’s English was limited, his sense of poetic justice was anything but limited. As a Malfoy house-elf, Dobby had lost count of the number of times he had been forced to physically punish himself. He gave Harry a face-splitting smile and nodded his head vigorously. “Dobby would like to help.”
Harry smiled and patted Dobby’s arm. “I thought you might.” He then reached into his rucksack and produced a pair of omnioculars.
“And while you’re there, would you also be willing to record the event?” Harry asked as he handed the glasses to the house-elf. “We should make sure that Malfoy’s master knows just how truly loyal he is.”
Dobby smiled, nodded his head, and then popped to the other side of the cell door.
1:30pm
10 Downing Street, London
Having spent his lunch hour practicing the use of quill and ink, the Prime Minister was able to manufacture a splotch-free signature upon the official letter that Hermione had written. As she dusted the page and rolled up it up for a wax seal, he asked, “Are we prepared for the consequences should the Ministry not act upon this notification?”
Hermione nodded. “I believe so, sir. The goblins are confident that any intervening international body would be better than what’s there now, and we do have the support of quite a few junior staff at the Ministry.”
“Are we prepared, then, if the Ministry does act in self-preservation?”
Hermione smiled. “As I noted in my briefing document, Harry and I believe there to be significant gains for the Muggle world in either event.”
It was the Prime Minister’s turn to smile. “Well let’s send this off straight away, then.”
Hermione nodded, wrote an address on the outside of the message, then turned her attention to the newest full-time resident at 10 Downing Street.
“Beckham, we’ve got some work for you.”
A large male Great Horned Owl swooped down from his perch in the corner of the Prime Minister’s office and silently landed on his desk. Hermione showed the Prime Minister how to attach his message to the owl’s outstretched leg, then opened the window.
“We’re not expecting an immediate response, Beckham,” Hermione said, “so you can fly back straight away from your delivery.”
The owl bobbed its head up and down, and then gracefully flew out the window.
3:30pm, The Round Tower, Windsor Castle
Harry was up in his Round Tower quarters reading an advanced charms textbook when Dobby suddenly appeared with a pop.
“Come quick, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. The Bad Master is all bloody and has fainted dead away.”
Harry quickly called for Roger Granger’s help. Harry ran down the stairs as Roger ran up, and they met in the middle in front of Malfoy’s cell. They entered a blood-splattered cell and found Lucius’s severed arm on the floor, while blood spurted through an opened artery where that arm used to be attached.
“Bloody fool cut above the tourniquet!” Roger yelled, as he pulled the belt from his own trousers and ran towards the prisoner. Harry, thinking that he may have forgotten to show Malfoy how the Muggle first aid device worked, used a freezing spell on the stump to staunch the flow of blood. He then took in the Death Eater’s deathly pale complexion, and yelled for Dobby to retrieve some blood replenishing potions. The house-elf immediately popped away to an adjacent cell, which had been converted into a magical dispensary of sorts. He returned with three bottles of potion, which Harry quickly forced down the Death Eater’s throat.
Not sure whether he had reacted correctly, or in enough time, Harry badge-called for Tonk’s help. The young Auror jumped to Harry’s location, and after a quick assessment cast a spell that fully cauterized Malfoy’s wound.
After ensuring that their prisoner would survive, Tonks asked Harry what had happened. He quickly recapped his conversation with Lucius, then reached down to the floor and retrieved the omnioculars from where Dobby had dropped them.
“Bloody stone cold harsh,” Tonks said, after she reviewed the recorded images. “He was using the saw to try and cut through his manacles, and didn’t switch over until the Dark Mark was actually smoking…want to look?”
Harry and Roger both politely declined. Harry did, however, suggest the name of someone who might be interested in the images, and asked if Tonks would deliver a recording of the image. The metamorph smiled as she used her wand to get an image dump.
Tonks said, “Harry, I can’t decide whether this is the greatest prank you’ve ever pulled, or your most Slytherin stunt...don’t ever let me get on your bad side.” She then badge-jumped to the back of the Weasley Twins’s joke shop, slipped out the back door, and made her way towards the local bank.
4:30pm, St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle
With forty-five minutes to go before Evening Service, the Dean of St. George’s Chapel made his way out beyond the choir screen for a brief scan of the neve. The last of the afternoon public tours had made their way through the area, and he often made it a point to ensure that the worship area wasn’t too heavily trodden upon. There were, of course, chapel staff with these responsibilities, and he did trust them, but…the afternoon sun was lovely this time of year, when its rays filtered through the stained-glass windows above the chapel entrance, and it was a good excuse to escape (if but for a moment) the ever-present financial concerns that came with the upkeep of a six-hundred year old building.
As he made his way up the central aisle he spotted a familiar face that was obviously out of sorts. After a glance at his watch showed he had a few minutes to spare, the clergyman strode down to the last pew, and slid over to take a seat next to the Queen’s Wizard.
“I would ask how you were this fine afternoon, Lord Gryffindor,” the Dean said, “but I’m afraid that the answer to that question is readily apparent.”
Harry snorted. “It has been a rather bad day at the office, Dean Conner, and please, just Harry, alright?”
The vicar nodded. “You seem to be carrying a heavy burden…is there anything you want to share with me, Harry?”
The Queen’s Wizard shook his head. “Thanks for asking, Dean, but I really can’t talk about it.”
The vicar paused for a few moments before replying. “You know, Harry, anything we discussed would be just between us.”
“I know, Sir, but there are, erm…official reasons why I can’t say anything.”
The clergyman nodded. “Perhaps there is somebody else, then, with the proper clearances…Dame Hermione, perhaps?”
Harry shook his head. “No…I mean yes, she is somebody I could talk with, but I’m afraid that it wouldn’t help.”
“Because I already know what she would say.”
“But she seems so…how can you know for certain what she would say?”
Harry snorted. “Do you know that saying about letting your conscious be your guide?”
“Well, when my conscious talks inside my head, it sounds more like Hermione than Jiminy Cricket.”
“I see,” the Dean replied. “So something has happened, something that you obviously feel bad about, and you don’t think that she would approve.”
The clergyman sighed. “Harry, when you and Dame Hermione first came to me a few weeks ago, I was struck by just how responsible you both were. Focused and mature beyond your years…when combined with the Queen’s confidence I was intrigued enough to make a few polite inquiries.”
Harry swiveled his around to give the vicar a look of concern.
“Nothing too insistent, mind you,” the dean said, as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You see, a good shepherd must know his flock.”
“Erm…sure,” Harry replied. “And what did you discover from your inquiries?”
“Besides the fact that you and Dame Hermione are deeply committed to both each other and to the Queen’s service?”
When Harry smiled, the vicar patted his thigh.
“I learned that you both ride in chariots of fire.”
When Harry’s blank expression told Dean Conner that he didn’t understand the reference, a thought sprung to mind. He stood and said, “Harry, you are welcomed to stay here and reflect, but you should know that our evening service starts in a few minutes.”
Harry stood. “Oh, well…don’t want to cause a disturbance.”
“No worries, Harry,” the clergyman said. “I know of a place with a bit more privacy.” Looking down the side aisle, he called over one of his acolytes.
“Paul,” he asked, “would you please bring my young friend here to the Royal Closet?”
Once the white robed assistant had led Harry off towards the front of the Chapel the vicar moved to an anteroom and made two mobile calls.
The first was to a Castle resident who knew a few things about warrior’s guilt.
The second was to his choral director, with a last-minute musical request.
A few minutes later, Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by a question.
Harry looked up and gave Sir Evan and Roger Granger a feint smile as they quietly sat on the ends of the low bench that Harry had been using.
“So you two know the Dean, then?” Harry asked.
Sir Evan nodded. “We’ve crossed paths a few times…imagine it comes with living and working here now.” He then took a look at the immediate surroundings and said, “This has to be the fanciest closet in the world.”
Harry nodded once more, as organ music began to play from below.
The “Royal Closet” was a private, inward-facing enclosed balcony that sat just above the Chapel’s choir. Built by Henry VIII so that his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, could watch the Order of the Garter ceremonies, its stained glass windows were set in dark wooden frames, and displayed heraldic motifs and coats of arms. The private viewing area provided the three men the opportunity to talk quietly without bothering other worshipers.
Harry asked about their prisoner as the organist began the introit. Roger told Harry that Malfoy’s condition was stable, and that he was still unconscious. Dobby was keeping watch. They then sat quietly, until the chapel choir filed in and the organ began to play a familiar hymn….familiar to Harry not because his Aunt and Uncle had taken him to church, but due to the fact that Hermione’s dad had shared with Harry his love for classic Muggle comedy.
“Mr. Granger,” Harry asked, “why are they playing a Monty Python song in church?”
Roger chuckled as Sir Evan looked at Harry with confusion.
“I think the question should be why they played a church song on Monty Python.”
Harry’s follow-up question got nipped by Roger’s hand signal, allowing the first lines of the hymn to be heard clearly:
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
Sir Even found a hymnal and flipped to the right page as Harry heard the choristers sing about building the city of Jerusalem in England (which Harry considered strange, because knew for certain that that city was located in Israel). But then he heard calls for golden bows and arrows and spears, and then something about a chariot of fire…
And that caught Harry’s attention fully:
I will not cease from Mental Fight
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant Land.
Harry looked down into the chapel as Dean Conner broke away from the processional and took his seat across from their vantage point. The vicar quite clearly looked up towards the Royal Closet gave the three men a small smile and nod of recognition.
“So he knows?” Harry asked quietly.
Roger evenly replied, “In general terms, yes.”
“And what do you think that message is?”
The eldest Art Clubber paused for a moment before replying.
“Probably that war is hell, and that a just war sometimes forces good men to do bad things, and that they aren’t any less worthy of being loved for it.”
Harry processed the response before chuckling. “Is that today’s lesson, then?”
Sir Evan shook his head. “No, Sir Harry, it’s what Albus Dumbledore told me some sixty years ago.”
“Dumbledore told you that?” Harry asked with surprise.
Sir Evan shrugged his shoulders. “We were behind enemy lines, no real options for taking prisoners…”
“Albus ‘Always-give-them-another-chance’ Dumbledore didn’t give quarter?” Harry asked incredulously.
When Sir Evan shrugged his shoulders again and nodded, Harry pressed for details. He got none, with the war veteren explaining that his exploits with Dumbledore were either too painful to talk about, or something he had promised never to talk about.
A few minutes of silence passed while Harry tried to process this new information. He had just started to wonder whether Dumbledore had considered his horrible childhood at the Dursley’s one of those “bad things” that he had been forced to do whilst fighting a just war when Hermione’s dad tried a different tack.
“You know, you weren’t the only one there at the time, Harry,” he noted.
“Yes, but it was mostly my idea and I was the ranking officer,” Harry replied. “The blood’s on my hands.”
Sir Even then said, “After you left Tonks came back with the Ministry’s file on Lucius Malfoy.”
“Why did she do that?” Harry asked.
“So that we could better understand that Malfoy deserved worse than what you offered him.”
Harry shook his head. “The ends don’t justify the means.”
Sir Evan waited a few seconds before repeating. “War is hell, and a just war sometimes forces good men to do bad things…Harry you gave the man an option to live…that’s far more than he would have done if roles had been reversed.”
Harry shook his head. “But we’re supposed to be better than they are.”
Sir Evan shook his head. “But Harry, war is hell, and a just war…”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Harry said.
Roger then asked, “So looking back, what would you have done differently? What could you have done differently?”
Having thought about these questions for more than hour, Harry had a quick response.
“We could have given him an anesthetic…we could have had his arm surgically removed...I could have done less taunting, and enjoyed the taunting less…”
“Did you enjoy it, Harry? It doesn’t look like you’re happy about that now.”
Harry thought for a moment, and then replied, “I enjoyed having the upper hand, for once…but I didn’t enjoy all that blood.”
“And you cared enough to take the quick actions necessary to save his life, correct?”
“Yes but for our own purposes,” Harry shot back. “If we didn’t need him alive I might have just let him bleed out.”
Sir Evan nodded. “Let’s say you decided to lop off his arm before the pain got too intense. How exactly would you explain that to a Muggle board of inquiry investigating maltreatment of a prisoner?”
Harry hemmed and hawed. “Well, I guess we didn’t have proof that the summons would kill him, even knowing that Voldemort would call for him after the goblins delivered their ultimatum.”
“So you gave the prisoner a choice. Could have been a little less painful for him, and a cleaner cut made, but we certainly couldn’t provide him with a sharper weapon, could we?”
“So then, quit beating yourself up, young man,” Sir Evan ordered. “You gave the prisoner the chance to make his own choices. You could have done better with the tourniquet, but you saved his life and now you learn from your mistakes. Carry on, boy.”
“Not so simple, I think,” Harry replied. “We still have the guinea pig armor issue to deal with.”
Roger sighed and nodded his head. “You know, Harry, there was a day when common criminals could reduce their prison sentences by voluntarily serving as test subjects for experimental medicines.”
Harry thought for a moment, and then said, “I’m sure that your daughter would tell us that given their status those prisoners couldn’t do anything on a truly voluntary basis.”
“Rubbish,” Sir Evan replied. “Give him a range of options, and so long as not volunteering doesn’t make his punishment any more severe than it would have been…”
“And that just gets us to a different problem,” Harry replied. “There’s no capital punishment in Muggle Britain, and we don’t trust the Ministry to keep him locked up if we turned him over.”
Sir Evan thought for a moment, and then asked, “Do your goblin friends have any qualms about offing their prisoners?”
Harry’s eyes brightened at the thought. “I don’t think that they’re shy at all about that sort of thing.”
Roger then asked, “Is there any way to strip Malfoy of his magic?”
Harry frowned. “I don’t think so, at least not with any spell or ritual I’m aware of.”
“Okay, so you can’t take his magic…can’t you make him forget how to use it?”
Harry gave Hermione’s dad a wide-eyed look, wondering if he would have been sorted into Slytherin had he been born with magic.
“I never thought of that before,” Harry replied. “Sounds brilliant, but I’ll have to ask Hermione.”
With a nod the two older men stood, and as Roger patted Harry on the shoulder he said, “You do that, then, Harry…but not before you ask her for a good hug, okay?”
Harry nodded. The two older men then told him that they were returning to the Tower. Harry said that he would be along in a bit, as he wanted to wait and ask Dean Conner a question after the service. Roger and Sir Evan nodded, then walked out of the small alcove.
Not five seconds later, Harry felt another familiar presence enter the room, and a moment later the familiar presence was replaced by a familiar set of arms that wrapped themselves tightly around Harry’s chest.
“Your dad just give you a call?”
Hermione’s vocal confirmation was lost as her lips pressed up against the nape of Harry’s neck. Rather than ask again, he reached around and guided her down towards a seat next to him. Harry then wrapped his arm tightly around Hermione’s waist. As she rested her head on his shoulder, the two quietly sat for the balance of the service.
Once the service ended, they made their way downstairs, and asked for a few minutes of Dean Conner’s time. He quickly agreed, and led him to his office.
Once the confessions were made, and loving affirmations provided, the details of “just war” doctrine were discussed. Particular attention was paid to Augustine directives on the treatment of prisoners and the administration of mercy, especially when the vanquished were no longer a threat to peace.
Harry and Hermione returned to the Round Tower hand in hand, with borrowed treatises by St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, and homework assignments to be completed before a scheduled follow-up meeting.
As Fred and George Weasley helped engineers from MI- 5 ¾’s Q Branch set up a test fire range in the false-story just below the Round Tower’s roof, Harry and Hermione reviewed contract language with their vanquished prisoner.
“So, let’s review then, Lucius,” said Harry.
“Your first option is a life-sentence to be served in a Muggle detention facility. We’d have to help them keep you incarcerated, so we would necessarily obliviate every single memory you have about the wizarding world, and how to perform magic…including apparition. The Muggles will then send you to a secret military prison on the island of Diego Garcia…it’s in the middle of the Indian Ocean, and more than a thousand miles away from land, so you’d have problems leaving even if you did remember how to apparate.”
Hermione jumped in, adding, “There would be opportunities for a reduced sentence…down to only ten-years if you voluntarily drop your mental shields and allow us unfettered access to your memories. We also would guarantee you reasonably pleasant living conditions.”
“At least when compared to Azkaban,” said Harry. “But mind the fact that you would be released from prison into the Muggle world, and without your memories of magic, you’d be somewhere in between an ignorant squib and a Muggle.”
Taking note of the prisoner’s scowls, Hermione decided keep things moving.
“Under the second option, you start by publicly denouncing Voldemort…we’re thinking a press conference on the front steps of Gringott’s. We’d announce it in the papers to make sure you get a good-sized crowd to talk to. Several hours before that, though, we’d break your wand and you would swear a wizard’s oath to answer any question that we ask of you truthfully, completely, and without intent to deceive. And then you’d talk. After the press conference, we’d turn you over to the Ministry of Magic.”
“Without a knut to my name, one-armed and with a death sentence hanging over my head?” asked Malfoy rhetorically.
“Well, the first two for sure, but we wouldn’t have any say in how the Ministry dealt with you,” Hermione replied.
“Moving on,” said Harry, “Option three is simple…we hand you over to the goblins.”
“Again,” said Malfoy, “I would be without a knut to my name, one-armed and have a death sentence hanging over my head.”
“With goblins, I’d have to agree with you on all three points,” Harry admitted.
“Let’s get to the last option, then,” Malfoy snarled.
“Ah, yes, Option four,” Harry replied. “You agree to be a test subject for body armour that we believe may be resistant to the killing curse. We get three shots, and will try not to kill you outright. If the armour works, you will be released from our custody tonight and dropped off exactly where we picked you up this morning. Your memories of the entire day’s events would be erased by magical means. Your wand stays with us, but you’d get your money bag back, and we’d make no effort to capture you for three days.”
“And if the armour doesn’t protect me, you’ll swear a wizard’s oath to send Draco the money bag, along with an extra million galleons thrown into it?”
“Erm, yes…maybe you could give us his delivery address in advance?” Harry asked.
“Ah. Oh well, can’t blame me for trying, can you?” Harry asked. “So, what do you think, Lucius?”
Malfoy squinted hard at Harry, but bit off a retort so that he could focus on the options as they were presented to him. Betraying his Master then living as a Muggle for the rest of his life was right out. Under the second option he would likely be AK’ed on the steps of Gringott’s before he had the chance to complete his first sentence. Or, if the Ministry did protect him long enough to take him into custody, he probably would be summarily thrown through the Veil.
The third option was right out as well. A painful, humiliating death was a certainty, and the best he could hope was they he’d become a martyr in the next Goblin War.
And martyrdom wasn’t something that the Malfoy Family cared to be remembered for.
The final option was the only one that gave him a chance of survival, and it was obvious that his captors wanted him to choose it so as to test their bloody armour. As if anything could block the killing curse. But he had to admit that the Muggles had proven themselves resourceful, at least with the Boy’s help…they obviously thought themselves above testing on their own Muggle prisoners.
Then there was the question on whether the boy could even cast the killing curse successfully. He had seen Bellatrix’s memories of the night they were captured in the Department of Mysteries, and knew that Potter didn’t have it in him to successfully cast a Cruciatus, much less an AK. But assuming he did, or they found somebody else…what if their armour worked? He could sit out the rest of the war in his Rookery flat, beyond the reach of the Dark Lord, the Ministry, and Potter. And if the armour didn’t work…well he’d be dead, but it would be painless, the Malfoy name wouldn’t be tarnished, and his incompetent son stood a chance of living long enough to sire a worthier heir.
He looked up at Harry and Hermione with disgust, and said, “The last option.” He then spent ten minutes signing a stack of release forms and “hold harmless” agreements.
“Well, then,” Harry said, “anything else we could do to help you enjoy your stay?”
Lucius sent his “scowl scale” to eleven and let loose. “Would it be too much to ask for a decent last meal?” he asked.
Harry smiled as he conjured a table and chair. “Dobby?” he asked.
A moment later his friend arrived.
“Yes, Harry Potter, sir, what can I do to help?”
“Would you please prepare your former Master’s favorite meal for him?”
Dobby didn’t look too happy about the request, but trusted Harry enough to pop away, only to return a few moments later with a bottle of wine and a steak dinner.
“Good-looking filet, there, Dobby,” Harry said. As the house-elf swelled with pride, Harry turned towards their prisoner and decided to test-drive a bit of mercy.
“Sorry about the emergency dental work, Lucius,” Harry said. “Couldn’t have you slip away from us, but given things…sure you don’t want something softer to eat?”
“I’ll manage,” Malfoy shot back.
“You know,” Harry said, “with a bit of help we could probably transfigure a partial set of Muggle dentures for you.”
“Muggle replacement teeth?” Malfoy asked.
“I’d rather eat soup the rest of my life.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t say we didn’t offer.” He then turned and asked Dobby for one final favor.
“Of course, Harry Potter, sir, what can Dobby do?”
Harry let one of his slightly evil smiles slip out.
“Grab a knife…Lefty is going to need some help cutting his meat.”
They waited until the theater crowds had left the street to push Lucius Malfoy out of the back of an unmarked van right in front of the Rookery. Had his memories not been swiped of the day’s events, he would have been wondering how in Merlin’s name Muggles had invented body armour that had saved him from Alastor Moody’s killing curses.
In between wondering just how he had lost both an arm and a wand.
Malfoy realized that he had been memory charmed, and had lost knowledge of what had happened that day. The knowledge of just how dire his predicament had been the night previous had been retained, however. So it was all he could do not to immediately rush inside the Rookery. Instead, the one-armed wizard took a walk, and used the cover of darkness to get lost within the crowds of Piccadilly Circus, before doubling back to his Rookery flat.
His movements were stealthy enough to have shaken off anyone who might have been following him. The walk did nothing, however, to stop digital and magical cameras from recording his return from their fixed vantage points right across the street.