Muggle Summer, Wizard's Fall
Lord High Steward, Part 2

By canoncansodoff

Previous Knight Protectors of the Realm, Part 1 Knight Protectors of the Realm, Part 2 Queen's Wizard, Part 1 Queen's Wizard, Part 2 Senior Advisor, Part 1 Senior Advisor, Part 2 Officer and Gentleman, Part 1 Officer and Gentleman, Part 2 Special Ambassador, Part 1 Special Ambassador, Part 2 Lord High Steward, Part 1 Lord High Steward, Part 2 Ch 45: Ringa Pakia Next

Disclaimer: Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

Chapter 42: Project Arcanum

Friday, July 13, 6:00 am, MI-5 Headquarters, Thames Bank, London

As Ron’s surgery passed the three-hour mark of what would ultimately be a ten-hour long procedure, Hermione Granger let a yawn escape from underneath her surgical mask.

The vibration of her Art Club badge did much to reestablish her clarity of mind.

She moved quickly to a corner of the operating theater, touch-activated the badge which was hidden underneath her surgical scrubs, and engaged in a brief, whispered conversation.

“Hermione?”

“Go ahead, Harry,”

“The Queen requires our presence.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

The young witch looked down at her attire.

“Do we have time to change?”

“Steve said as soon as practicable, and given the meeting location, I doubt that formal attire is necessary.”

“Is everything okay up in Balmoral, Harry?”

“As far as I know,” he replied. “I thumbed out a quick after-action report on my BlackBerry that she was cc’ed on…perhaps she has questions.”

“She was awake at this hour?”

“Apparently so…Steve’s the anchor point…do you want me to wait?”

“No, go ahead…I need to secure Ron’s kit before any of the magical devices walk off, or inadvertently affect the electronics.”

“Good idea,” Harry replied. “I’ll let the Queen know.”

Once the Queen’s Wizard signed off, Hermione gave her father a badge call. She then approached the Hogwarts Matron and pulled her away from the table.

“I’ve got to go out for a while,” Hermione whispered.

“Is it something that would warrant my return to the Infirmary?” Poppy asked.

The younger witch shook her head. “Harry and I have been summoned to Balmoral. My dad is going to scrub in and take my place here.”

Poppy looked back towards the operating table, and then shook her head. “No need for that…things appear to be going well here.”

Hermione bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey, but I’m afraid that there is a need. He’ll be able to contact us using his badge, and then there’s the fact that all visitors to Thames Bank need an escort while they’re here.”

The Hogwarts Matron frowned. “This is more than just a medical facility, then…isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you are far more than just a visitor here, aren’t you?”

Hermione nodded.

Madame Pomfrey snorted. She has suspected as much from the deference that the Muggle medical team and gun-carrying guards had shown the young witch.

“As if the wizarding world’s problems are enough…now you have responsibilities in the Muggle world as well?”

A gloved and scrubbed Roger Granger entered the operating room before Hermione could launch into a lengthy response. So instead she shrugged her shoulders, smiled, and said her good-byes.

Nurse-provided directions led Hermione into a post-op ward, where Ron’s bloody clothing and combat gear had been placed on a side table. As she sorted out what needed to be secured and what could be safely left behind, she came across an Art Club badge that was still pinned to a blood-stained black wool jumper.

An idle thought crossed her mind…that if there had been more than twelve badges, then Poppy could have been given one, and wouldn’t have needed her father to convey messages from within the operating room. This thought was immediately linked to a concern that had been nagging Hermione since her visit to Carlisle Castle the day before. The thought and concern were then tied together by a guess…a guess that Ron wouldn’t be in a position to use his Art Club badge for at least the next day or two.

The young witch nodded to herself, and offered a silent apology to Ron as she unpinned the badge from his jumper and brought it with her to Balmoral.

oo00OO00oo

Hermione’s arrival was greeted by more than a few howls.

“Oh, hush,” admonished the Queen, as she gathered one of her precious corgis into her arms.

The young witch’s eyes followed the Queen’s other canine companions as they scurried underneath a bed.

The Queen’s bed.

In the Queen’s bedchambers.

“Sorry for the welcome, Ambassador Granger,” the Queen said with a smile. “They are still getting used to all of this popping in and out.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the teenager replied, as she reflexively grabbed the ends of her hospital scrub shirt and curtsied in front of the monarch.

The fact that the Queen had called her “Ambassador Granger” did not register in her mind. Not much of anything could have registered in a mind that had now zoned in on the fact that the Queen was presently sitting on an unmade bed wearing an RAF officer’s jacket over top a dressing gown and slippers.

“Sorry for my delay, Your Majesty,” she added, trying to keep her facial expressions neutral even as she spied Harry’s rosy cheeks from the corner of her eye.

“No worries, Ambassador,” the Queen replied. “Lord Gryffindor was just recounting the mission for us.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hermione nodded. She then noted that the “us” wasn’t a plural form of the “Royal We”; Steve, Parvati Patil, and one of the Queen’s Muggle handmaidens were also in the room.

“How is Sir Ronald?” the Queen asked, noticing the spare Art Club badge in Hermione’s hand.

“Still in surgery, Ma’am,” the young witch replied. “It will likely be six or seven more hours before they’re done.”

“Then there is some other reason for you to have his Order of Arthur badge?”

Hermione was caught off guard by the question, and quickly looked down at the emblem.

“Erm, no, Ma’am, I mean...yes, this is Ron’s badge, but he isn’t using it right now, and I had an idea…”

Parvati couldn’t keep her snark in check.

“Hermione having an idea,” she said with a snort. “What a surprise.”

The bushy-haired witch gave the witch-in-waiting a dirty look, then turned back to the Queen.

“Begging you pardon, Ma’am, but…we haven’t yet figured out how to ensure your safety at Carlisle, and…well, isn’t the sovereign always a member of their royal orders?”

The Queen, having at least twice as much sleep as anyone else in the room, was the first to catch on. A smile formed on her face as she considered the possibilities.

“We would we pleased to test your hypothesis, Ambassador Granger.”

“Hermione?” Harry asked in a low voice, as his Consort offered up Ron’s badge to the Queen.

“We know that Muggles can use these badges, Harry,” she replied. “If Her Majesty is a member of the Order of Arthur by default, then….”

Harry’s eyes lit up as he finally understood her logic. He then turned and watched as the Queen set her corgi onto the ground, then pinned the spare Art Club badge onto the lapel of her unbuttoned wool jacket.

“It’s ‘Clarence’, is it not?” The Queen asked.

The fact that the badge lit up in response to the monarch’s use of the activation phrase was all the confirmation that was needed.

“How delightful!” stated the Queen. She pressed against one of the badge’s rays and called Harry. His Art Club badge vibrated and lit up in response.

“So if she can call, then maybe she could jump away from danger?” Harry asked.

“Perhaps we should find out, and give Sir Evan an early morning visit?”

Harry couldn’t help but snort at the thought of the Queen jumping into Sir Evan’s Round Tower magical tent wearing her dressing gown and slippers.

The Queen smiled. “Yes, we suppose you are correct, Gryffindor…wouldn’t want to stop Sir Evan’s heart from the shock.” She then walked to the corner of the room, ’called‘ Steve, and successfully badge-jumped to the other side of the room.

The monarch looked quite pleased with herself, and badge-jumped again, this time to Hermione’s side.

Her corgis were not amused, though, and howled after each trip.

“Excellent,” the Queen declared. “Now Agent Wall can get some much needed rest.”

“Ma’am?” Steve asked.

“There is less of a need for a rallying point to be always by our side if we are able to instantly rally ourselves to a different location, correct?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Steve replied (a bit reluctantly).

“Excellent, then you are dismissed, Agent Wall…go to sleep.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The Queen then turned back to Hermione.

“We presume that Sir Ronald will not have need of this badge for at least a few hours?”

“No, Ma’am,” Hermione replied.

The monarch raised an eyebrow as she turned her focus towards the young witch’s attire. “Were you assisting in the surgery, Ambassador?”

“Erm, no Ma’am…Madame Pomfrey, our school nurse, is there.”

“Ah, yes,” replied the Queen. “We understand that you brought more than one visitor to Thames Bank this morning.”

Harry jumped into the conversation. “Yes, Ma’am, we brought Ron’s father in…not just to be there for the surgery, but….we thought he was owed an explanation as to how his son was injured and what he’s been doing for us.

“Sir Ronald’s father…he works in the Magical Ministry, correct?”

“Yes, Ma’am, but he took a Wizard’s Oath not to reveal what I said or what he saw there, so no worries on that point.”

“And what is your opinion of his loyalties?”

“Couldn’t be any prouder of his son, Ma’am,” Harry replied. “His son Ron, that is.”

“We understand your point…there is an estranged son, yes?”

Harry didn’t catch the Queen’s meaning, but Hermione did.

“Yes, Ma’am…Ron’s brother Percy is, well…a Ministry functionaire.”

The Queen nodded. “Would you recommend, then, that Sir Ronald’s father be vetted for a position on the Magnum Concilium?”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other and held a silent conversation. It was Harry that then turned back and said, “Yes, Ma’am, Head Auror Robards and he are about the only ones in the Ministry’s upper management that we know well enough to truly trust.”

“Excellent,” the Queen replied. “We will have the process begun, then.”

“Would you like us to ask Mr. Weasley, Ma’am?” Harry asked.

The Queen looked at Harry and Hermione’s tired faces and shook her head.

“There are others to whom that task can be delegated,” the Queen replied. "Which brings us to other issues…Gryffindor, for how many hours have you gone without sleep?”

Harry caught his breath, and replied cautiously. “Not that many, Ma’am.”

“We would be pleased with more specificity.”

The bleary-eyed wizard looked at his watch. “A little over twenty-four, Ma’am.”

“And it the same for you Ambassador Granger?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The Queen sighed. “We wish that these conditions be remedied forthwith.”

“Ma’am?”

“You both need some sleep,” the Queen replied candidly. “We need both of you at your best tomorrow at Carlisle.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

“Still a bit early for using Sir Evan at the Round Tower,” he thought out loud.

“And the Love….I mean, our tent is presently occupied,” Hermione added. She then looked towards the attending witch-in-waiting, and added, “Thanks, but no thanks, Parvati.”

The Queen chuckled to herself.

“We are concerned that you both are pushing yourselves too hard,” she said. “It is rather tight here at Balmoral…we just dismissed Agent Wall to a cot in our dressing room. Were there a way to ensure….ah-ha!” The almost smug-looking monarch then called out, “Private Dobby?”

A kilt-wearing house elf popped into the room and bowed so low that his nose touched the carpeting.

“Yes, Major Harry Potter Sir’s Queenie, Ma’am?”

Harry choked on some spittle. Hermione drew pale. The Queen just smiled to herself and chuckled as she patted the top of her bed.

“Private Dobby, we would be pleased were you to change the linens and dress this bed for Major Potter’s and Ambassador Granger’s use.”

Harry choked on some more spittle and Hermione drew paler, causing the Queen’s grin to grow.

“Private Dobby be doing that right away!” the house elf said brightly.

After a few seconds time and a blur of activity, the large four-poster bed was made up with Potter-Plaid linens and a crimson duvet that bore the Clan Potter crest.

“Your Majesty,” Hermione objected, “We are honored but….”

“And we, Ambassador Granger, would be pleased to have our wishes met,” The Queen replied. She then turned to Dobby.

“Would you please ensure that these two actually use this opportunity to rest?”

“Dobby can do that!” he said with a vigorous headshake. He then turned to Harry and Hermione and used some house elf magic to confiscate their BlackBerrys.

“But…”

“We have been frustrated with our ability to be useful down here,” The Queen said with a smile. “Now that we have new means of shared communication we will be pleased to determine personally if there is a situation serious enough to warrant your awakening.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry said reluctantly.

Parvati Patil was grinning from ear to ear as she followed the Queen and her Muggle hand maiden out the door into the adjacent dressing room.

“Remember you two…the royal command was to sleep!”

“Yes, Parvati,” Hermione chimed in reply. She then turned to Harry and gave him a tired, but still distinctive, “Can you believe this?” look.

Harry shrugged his shoulders and yawned as he pulled down the duvet.

“I think that the ICW delegation can find its way back to the Ministry on its own, don’t you?”

“Yes, but…eek!” Hermione chirped, as she was lifted up into the air and levitated over the bed.

“Private Dobby does be promising Major Potter’s Queenie,” the house-elf said seriously. “Major Potter, Sir and Mistress Consort does be needing to sleep.”

“Yes, Dobby,” Hermione sighed, as she was gently dropped down onto the mattress. She reached for the edge of the duvet, only to be taken by surprise once more as all of her outer clothing disappeared.

“Dobby!” she hissed, now dressed only in a Potter-plaid thong. “What are you doing?”

“Dobby be helping,” the house-elf replied. Nodding towards their matching Potter-plaid thongs, he asked, “This not be how the Great Harry Potter Sir and Harry Potter’s Sir’s Mistress Consort be dressing for bed?”

Hermione looked down the length of her body, then over towards Harry’s. “Erm…Dobby, you can keep the BlackBerrys for now, but badge and weaponry?”

The house-elf nodded, and a moment later Hermione found her MI-5 badge hanging from a necklace, her Art Club badge fixed to bare skin above her right breast, and her “flat-panel” charmed handgun holster fixed above her left. A knife was strapped against the outside of her right leg, while her wand and wrist holster were now tied onto her left forearm.

Noticing that Harry had been similarly equipped (with the addition of his charmed sword hilt pasted onto the back of his neck), she shook her head, smiled, and said, “Thank you Dobby, we’ll take it from here…okay?”

Dobby gave a deep bow, then popped away.

The snarky comment forming on the tip of her tongue was lost when Hermione turned towards her near-naked boyfriend and was captured by the intense focus of his green eyes.

“Harry?”

“I was so afraid, Hermione,” he whispered. “I thought I had lost you.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said sympathetically, as she fell into his arms. “I love you.”

“I love you to,” he replied, as his lips searched for hers.

A few minutes after Hermione’s lips were found, Harry’s hands found the soft curve of her thigh. Her eyes lit up with surprise, and she rolled off of his body with a giggle.

“Oh, Harry, we…we can’t!”

“We can’t what, Hermione?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“But…but this is the Queen’s bed!”

Her boyfriend shrugged as his fingers drifted up Hermione's thigh. “I always thought that our first ‘first time’ would be memorable...talk about memorable locations!”

“You….Harry Potter, you are incorrigible!”

The Queen's Wizard was about to say something when he rubbed his fingers together and caught his breath.  He smiled devilishly, and declared, “And you, Hermione Granger, are very…”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Hermione warned.

“Even if it’s true?”

“Especially if it is true!”

The banter was interrupted by a frowning house-elf that popped in between them.

“Does Major Potter and Mistress Consort be needing separate beds to be following Major Potter’s Queenie’s orders?” he asked.

Harry was very close to hexing his house-elf friend before he thought better of it.

“No, Dobby…we were just about to close our eyes.”

“Does Dobby need to be staying in bed between Harry Potter Sir and Mistress Consort?”

“No, we’ll be good,” Hermione said with a laugh. She kissed Harry on the tip of his nose, then rolled onto her side facing away from him. “Good night you two.”

Dobby turned towards Harry.

“You win, Dobby,” the Queen’s Wizard said with a resigned grin on his face. Once he rolled onto his side facing away from Hermione, Dobby the house-elf nodded his head with approval, and popped away.

 

 

8:28 am, The Ministry of Magic

The five-person ICW Delegation began to pop out of the Ministry of Magic’s inbound floos exactly forty-eight hours, two minutes and thirty seconds after Percy Weasley had invoked the two-day waiting period for their investigation (it would have been closer to forty-eight hours on the dot, had the floo network not been intentionally slowed down to more closely monitor traffic). Percy was again there to “greet” the Internationals, looking far less harried and surprised then during their first encounter.

“Good morning, good morning to you all,” he said with false cheer, as he handed each member of the delegation an oversized identification badge attached to a lanyard necklace. When the Emperor’s Wizard questioned the need for nametags that read “ICW” in six-inch tall letters, Percy insisted that it was only done to ensure that every Ministry worker would know to provide them with any requested assistance.

Telling the five-member delegation that a room had been prepared for their use during their investigation, Percy led the group past the wand check and into a waiting elevator that whisked them directly up to the first level. Thorson, the Norwegian King’s Wizard, didn’t much care for the fact that this space was adjacent to the Minister of Magic’s office, but Percy explained that this was only so that they’d be that much closer to his office, and that he would be at their disposal during their review.

Silencing and eavesdrop detection charms were cast just as soon as Percy left the room. This effort was focused enough to miss the fact that the Special Assistant to the Minister was casting charms of his own other side of the doorway.

The sound barrier charm that Percy cast was strong enough (by design) for the international delegation to miss the alarm that blared out ten minutes later, announcing that the Ministry of Magic was under attack.

 

8:45 am, Azkaban Island

The overworked, underpaid and always inebriated warden of Azkaban was sleeping off his latest hangover on the office couch when the magical painting that hung behind his desk roared to life.

“Open the gates!” shouted the portrait of a splendidly dressed nobleman. “Open the gates! ’Tis Gloucester that calls!”

When this announcement went unanswered, the portrait muttered, “Where be these wardens that they not wait here?”

After a few more calls, the portrait finally got a growling response from a just-wakened wizard.

“What are you on about?”

“Mark me!” bellowed the painting, after spotting the horizontal source of this response. “And haste ye to hear it, that ye, with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love, may sweep to thy Ministry’s defense!”

The noisome wizard scowled. “Whazz’at…meditation…love?” With a shake of his head he rolled over to face the wall and added, “Bugger off!”

“Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?” lamented the portrait. “Good God! These wizards should such stomachs bear!”

Seeing no other recourse, the elegantly dressed nobleman unrolled a scroll and read from script the crass words that were strange to his oil paint ears.

“Initiate Prison Lockdown. Ministry Defense Plan Alpha-One-Bravo.”

The clearly spoken orders from the Minister’s office caused the warden to immediately sober up. He jumped to his feet, winced at the pain this motion caused within his head, and asked the portrait to repeat what was said. When the magical portrait complied, the warden swore loudly, then immediately drew his wand and turned towards the five glowing crystals that were set along the side of his desktop.

A unique sequence of five wand tip touches to these crystals, when combined with an authorization incantation, set klaxons ringing throughout the prison. The warden then touched the crystals in a different order, and said a second incantation that caused the framed portrait of the Duke of Gloucester to swing away from the wall.

The warden ducked under the swinging frame and removed emergency portkeys from a hidden cache. The wizard then ran out to the mist-shrouded prison yard, where he was soon met by the prison’s full complement of guards and other personnel. The portkeys were distributed, authorization codes were called out, and the island was left to prisoners who were all locked within their cells.

Thirty seconds later, automated “lock-down” wards burst up from the prison’s walls and arched into a shimmering, menacing hemispherical dome.

Barely a minute after Azkaban was abandoned by its guardians, stunned and bound bodies began to appear onto its bare-dirt grounds.

oo00OO00oo

The portkeys hidden within the Ministry-provided nametags caught the ICW delegation by surprise.

Four of the five Internationals stepped out of the cascade of flashing lights and onto the grounds of Azkaban with wands drawn. Those wands were quickly dropped when painful discharges of electrical energy shot down from the thick fog and struck their wand-bearing hands.

“Damn that stung!” shouted the King’s Wizard, as he crouched low to the ground and tried to shake out the pain. He looked out into the thick mist that enveloped the group and asked, “Where did that spell fire come from?”

“Given the poor sightlines, and that the lightning struck not the tallest of us, but those who were holding wands, I’d say it was a passive ward boundary,” opined his Japanese colleague.

“So where are we, then?” asked the Swedish witch.

“A convenient distance away from the Ministry of Magic, no doubt,” replied the Emperor’s Wizard. He then turned towards his Maori friend, who was already working on the visibility problem using wandless magic.

As the dense fog began to lift, a half-dozen prone bodies came into view, scattered within the walled grounds. Taking in the sight of guard towers and the smell of fresh sea air, the King’s Wizard announced, “They’ve sent us to their Azkaban Prison!”

“It appears so,” replied the Japanese wizard, as he strode towards the nearest immobilized body. Reaching down and feeling a pulse of the man dressed in blue Auror robes, he added, “Though I suspect that these people would know with more certainty.”

Noting that an electrical penalty had not been applied to the Maori sorcerer’s wandless cloud communing, the Emperor’s wizard crouched down next to the nearest body and cast a wandless variation of Finite Incantatum.

“What’s going…where am…who are…oh, Merlin, they didn’t?” the revived wizard mumbled.

“It appears that somebody most certainly did,” replied Matsuhisa. Grabbing the hand that was reaching for a wand, the Shinto priest added, “That would be unadvisable, Sir, given the apparent warding of our location.”

The downed wizard stared at the Japanese spell caster for a moment, then patted the portion of his sleeve that covered his holster.

“The wand has gone missing, anyway,” he observed. Glancing furtively at his surroundings, the wizard then reached for what used to be pinned to his chest.

“Damn,” he swore.

“Missing something other than your wand?” Matsuhisa asked.

Head Auror Robards nodded and sighed.

“My badge.”

oo00OO00oo

9:15 am, Ministry of Magic

As the smoke cleared from a diversionary false alarm that was set up to get most of the MoM staff out of the Ministry, the mercenary Dutch Charms Master slumped down onto a chair in front of the Minister of Magic’s desk.

“One down, one to go,” he murmured, as he pulled a stamina potion from his robe pocket.

“Well, time is wasting away, Vanderwood,” Scrimgeour snarled. “We didn’t pay you to sit on the job.”

The young Dutch wizard rolled his eyes.

“Just need to catch my breath,” he replied. “That was by far the easier of the two.”

“So it worked, then?”

The dreadlocked wizard looked around Scrimgeour’s office. Not seeing anyone else about, he said, “Guess you’ll have to ask me to be sure.”

“Right, then…where is the British Ministry of Magic located?”

The Dutchman furrowed his eyebrows.

“I have no idea.”

“Sure you’re not just saying that to cover your arse?”

The young wizard rolled his eyes and held his wand tip towards his heart.

“I swear on my magic that I have no idea where the British Ministry of Magic is located,” he stated, quickly adding, “Aside from a guess that it is most likely someplace within Britain.”

The Charms Master paused for a few moments, then cast a Lumos spell as confirmatory proof.

“Right then,” he declared. “As soon as you’re done shipping folks out of the Ministry and have closed down the floo network, I can move on.”

The Minister of Magic nodded, and activated communication mirrors that linked him with Umbridge and Percy Weasley. Once they gave an “all clear,” Peter Vanderwood cracked his fingers, rolled his neck muscles, and stared intently at Rufus.

After thirty seconds of incredibly focused thought, the young wizard raised his wand towards the Minister of Magic’s chest and whispered, “Fidelius.”

Rufus braced himself for the same kind of chest-pounding that the last spell had delivered, and watched nervously as long wisps of magical memory were drawn out from the air and into the Dutchman’s wand. The flow of inbound magic quickly grew…from two or three per second, then ten or twelve, then to a continuous attack of energy from all directions. The young wizard’s eyes bulged out and his wand arm began to tremble, but he kept his aim true…even as his wand began to overheat and burn his hand.

As this rush of magic grew buffeted him with a loud roar, Scrimgeour tried to cover his ears…only to find his body immobilized by both the spell’s connection and the onslaught of gathered knowledge that was racing by his sides. He winced at the pain, and imagined that his ears were now bleeding just like the Dutchman’s.

But still the Charms Master’s focus stayed true, and his wand held firm.

The wave of magic drawn into the office began to channel itself into a whirling vortex of energy, as if a tub of bath water was draining into Vanderwood’s grip. Scrimgeour was now shouting an open-mouth cry that couldn’t be heard above the roar, until the tornado of magic collapsed down on itself, and disappeared into the butt end of the Charms Master’s wand. And with a snap, all of that magical energy…all of the knowledge that the Fidelius spell had stolen from the world…was discharged out the front end of spell caster’s wand and square onto the Minister of Magic’s chest.

The impact sent both wizards spiraling backwards, and they fell to the ground unconscious.

oo00OO00oo

When the Minister of Magic was later revived by Percy Weasley, his ears rang so loudly with pain that he couldn’t hear the Special Assistant’s words. Scrimgeour batted away Percy’s wand, realizing that the younger wizard was going to attempt to heal his burst eardrums, and struggled to his feet. Stepping over the still unconscious body of the Dutch wizard, the Minister of Magic lurched towards a locked cabinet of healing potions that had been gathered just for this potential outcome.

“Minister, can you hear me now?” asked Percy, after two different potions had been downed.

Rufus snorted as he looked around his bruised and battered office, and nodded.

“Weasley…how….how did you get to the Ministry this morning?” he asked with a painful wheeze.

“Well I…I….I can’t recall!” Percy said with wonder.

Scrimgeour’s lips formed a thin smile. “That is something worth hearing, then.”

It was only fifteen minutes later, and with no small amount of reluctance, that the newly-formed secret keeper passed two slips of paper to his two Special Assistants.

The first read, “The Ministry of Magic is located beneath Central London.”

The second stated, “The Ministry of Magic can be reached by magical methods of transportation.”

 

 

9:30 am, Azkaban Island, North Sea

Introductions made after all six stunned high-level Ministry personnel had been wandlessly revived by the ICW delegation established that Azkaban Island was presently a “stooge-free” zone. Amongst the handful of now-wandless wizards who had been ambushed, stunned and rendered from the Ministry to Azkaban were Gawain Robard’s two most loyal lieutenants, his buddy from the Portkey Office, and Hit Wizards Numbers 1 and 2. Robards and the other two Aurors had been meeting with MLE Director Oswald, while the two Hit Wizards and Portkey Office head had been called into a separate meeting by Matilda Hopkirk to review Hit Wizard team deployment procedures.

A more complete picture of who was considered loyal to the Minister’s Office (and who was not) came when a third wave of witches and wizards arrived via three separate portkeys. Within this group of twenty were several non-Slytherin student interns, including Peanut Butter Brigade members Lisa Turpin, Lavender Brown, and Ernie Macmillan. The balance were either parents of non-Slytherin students (like Hannah Abbott’s mum), or Ministry workers who had been critical of the Minister’s office.

These witches and wizards had responded to an general alarm and gathered in the Atrium, where they were informed that the Ministry of Magic had come under attack by Muggle nerve gas. As the space began to fill with foul-smelling smoke, they were instructed to form into pre-assigned groups and take hold of distributed emergency portkeys.

The group assignments had struck some of these witches and wizards as suspicious, as they were disproportionately Potter-friendly. But fears that this was some type of ruse, or that they’d be sent into harm’s way had been dampened, by the fact that their groups also included Slytherin students and older pure-blooded bigots. These Ministry loyalists, however, had all taken their hands off of the portkeys just before they sent the others to Azkaban (instead of to Hogsmeade, as they’d been told).

It didn’t take long for the entire group of witches and wizards to find commonality, once the members of the ICW delegation introduced themselves, and explained why they had been visiting the Ministry. The Minister’s Office had been involved, for reasons that became clear once they began to brainstorm on not just how they’d get off of the Island, but how they might return to the Ministry.

A quick check of the prison complex confirmed what had already been suspected…the guards had abandoned the island to its inmates, thinking that they were needed to thwart and imaginary attack on the Ministry. The lockdown wards that kept prisoners within their jail cells also prevented the new arrivals from using their wands.

That Azkaban would incarcerate witches and wizards who could use wandless magic (beyond apparition spells) was something that had not been anticipated during ward construction. Exploiting this gap, however, still required a good deal of collective thought. The Maori and Japanese wizards employed a very different style of magic…there was, for example, no wandless version of the Portus spell in their repertoires. They did have a type of messenger spell on hand, but these were caught up by passive outer wards that intercepted all types of magical communication.

All types of direct magical communication that was known to the Ministry, that is…as was demonstrated when Lisa Turpin proposed a clever use for Rongo’s cloud whispering skills.

 

 

9:45 am, Orkney and Shetland Desk, Met Office, FitzRoy Road, Exeter

The young Muggle meteorologist whose Met Office duties covered weather advisories for the Orkney and Shetland Islands had just returned to his desk with a fresh cup of tea when he saw something rather odd.

He stood up onto his tiptoes so that he could peer into the office cube next to his.

“Oi, Jerry…come take a look at this!”

“What’s that…another naughty web site that slipped under the Department’s filters?”

“No, nothing like that…just take a look.”

The weatherman’s cube-buddy shook his head, and reluctantly crab-walked his office chair out into the aisle and into the next work station. He frowned when all he spied on his mate’s computer screen was a satellite image.

“What’s caught your fancy this time?” he asked. “More clouds shaped like Posh Spice?”

The weatherman waved dismissively. “No this is for real…you know that island past Fair Isle that’s always covered in clouds?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

The weatherman pointed to a spot on his huge display.

“What do you think this means?”

The Muggle Weatherman leaned closer to the display, then frowned.

“So they’ve changed into something resembling the letter W…is that all?”

“No…I mean yes…when have you ever seen clouds form up that way?”

“Okay, so it’s not something you see every day…what’s with all of the excitement?”

“Know how the boss is moaning over the budget cuts all the time?”

“Yeah.”

“Know how he says the public has gotten complacent, and taken weather reports for granted?”

“Where you going with this?”

“Publicity, my boy…publicity. We send pictures of this out to the press, and given them some ideas on what it might mean. They put it on the news, attribute it to us and our department, and we’re famous.”

“More likely infamous,” his mate replied. “What possible meaning could a W-shaped cloud have?”

“Hmmm…let’s see,” the weatherman said. “It’s Friday the 13th, which is always an unlucky day….the W could stand for ‘warning,’ or maybe…..win. Hey, that’s it!”

“What?”

“Not ‘what,’ you oaf…the W stands for ‘win.’ All we need know is to check the sports pages and figure out who is playing, and suggest that it’s a sign that one team or the other is going to win today.”

“Sure that this isn’t an excuse to web surf on company time?”

“No, no…this is all business-related. You take football and cricket, while I peruse the Racing Post.”

The weatherman snorted at the suggestion, but the clear skies currently over the Highlands would give him enough time to follow this lark for a bit.

 

 

oo00OO00oo

10:15 am, The Bunker, Balmoral Castle

When a lumbering, dead-to-the-world Steve failed to respond to either mobile or badge-call, Wally gave the Queen her first opportunity to anchor a badge jump.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” he said, after gathering his bearings (they were in a small sitting room with the Queen’s Muggle handmaiden and Padma Patil, who had taken over for her sister). “We’ve got some problems in the wizarding world.”

The Queen was not amused by Wally’s elaboration…not by the method of delivery, mind you…it was the information itself that was so disturbing. She glanced at a wall clock and sighed.

“It is a sad state of the Realm when we can go no longer than four hour’s time without need of Gryffindor and Ambassador Granger’s services.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Wally replied. “Shall I wake them, then?”

“No, no, we shall do that necessary task,” the Queen replied, as she activated her borrowed Art Club badge.

Harry Potter was sleeping far more lightly than Steve was, and woke instantly when his Art Club badge began to vibrate. He panicked when he realized that it wasn’t Ron who was trying to call him, and made a snap decision to immediately badge-jump to the Queen’s side.

“What’s the emerg…” Harry called out, with both drawn wand and drawn sword.

“Oh, my,” said the Queen.

“Oh, baby!” hissed Padma Patil, who was the on-duty witch-in-waiting.

“Nice response time,” noted the Queen’s Muggle handmaiden.

“Nicer bum,” snarked Wally.

Finally realizing that the Queen was not under attack, Harry followed Wally’s and Padma’s line of sight down to his tartan thong and blushed a deep red that travelled halfway down his chest. Sheathing his sword, he turned towards the Queen and asked, “You called, Your Majesty?”

The monarch tried not to smile, but failed.

“We need your attendance, and that of Ambassador Granger’s,” she replied. “Would five minutes’ time be sufficient for your needs, Gryffindor?”

Harry scowled at Padma and Wally, who were trying to ogle and stifle their giggles at the same time. He then returned his attention to the Queen, called for Hermione on his badge, and summoned up the shreds of his dignity.

“Thank you, Ma’am, that will be fine…and, erm…sorry about….”

Hermione’s response allowed Harry to badge-jump back to the bedroom before figuring out the least embarrassing way to complete his sentence.

Dobby’s help with his clothing then allowed Harry to spend most of those five minutes explaining to Hermione why he had just jumped bare-arsed to the Queen’s side.

 

 

oo00OO00oo

The news that Wally had brought to The Bunker kept the snickering to a minimum once Harry and Hermione returned to the Queen’s location dressed in fresh combat blacks.

The Weasley Twins had provided on-the-ground confirmation of what Muggle sentinels had observed from a distance…hundreds of Ministry of Magic employees had suddenly appeared in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade with word that they had just escaped a Muggle poison gas attack. There was a lot of ongoing confusion about who got out in time and to where. The ICW delegation was nowhere to be found, as were more than a few members of the Peanut Butter Brigade. Efforts to determine whether they had been trapped inside the Ministry were thwarted by the inability of anyone to remember where the Ministry of Magic was located, how Ministry personnel had escaped, and how they might be able to return.

Anticipating Harry and Hermione’s immediate concerns, Wally provided a roster of known locations for members of the Art Club, Clan Friends and the Peanut Butter Brigade. Arthur Weasley and Luna were still at Thames Bank, waiting for Ron to come out of surgery. Remus was now minding Poppy, having relieved Roger Granger so that he could return to Cumberland Lodge and his wife for some much needed rest. Sir Evan was anchoring the Prime Minister’s undisclosed location, the Twins were making repairs to their shop, and Tonks was taking a kip at Hogwarts.

Returning to the false attack problem, Harry called for Dobby, who informed Harry that the Ministry’s house-elf staff had been evacuated, and that they had no idea of how they might return. This additional clue was all that Hermione and Harry needed to turn to each other with the same conclusion.

“Fidelius Charm.”

The Queen and Wally were not unfamiliar with this type of magic, as this type of protection had been discussed (and eventually discarded) when wards were designed for Windsor, Number 10, and the like. Questions on why the Ministry had taken this step, and what might be done to counteract it, were placed on the back burner in favor of locating the ICW delegation, or any of the other Peanut Butter Brigade members who might have gone missing.

This decision prompted Wally to bring up a second piece of potentially relevant information. MI-5 ¾ analysts who had been tasked with continually scanning the newswires and Internet for any bit of odd news that may have been magically related had seen the Met Office’s press release, and forwarded to Wally a weather satellite photograph centered over an island in the North Sea. Hermione took one look at that same image and gasped.

“Padma, take a look!” she ordered.

When the witch-in-waiting looked across the conference table at the picture, she asked, “Ehwaz?”

Hermione shook her head, and turned the photograph around so that it faced Padma.

“Ehwaz reversed,” the bushy-haired witch declared.

“How can you tell if it’s reversed or not?”

“Got to think that north was assumed to be the imaginary top of page,” Hermione replied.

“Could either of you stop and translate for the rest of us?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked up at Harry, then to the Queen.

“The magical rune Ehwaz is shaped similarly to the letter W,” she stated. “Except that the outer lines are relatively longer…just like it’s shown in this image.”

“And this matters, exactly…how?” asked Wally.

“This island is almost always shrouded in clouds, right?”

“That’s what the Met Office says.”

“And now, all of a sudden, the cloud cover breaks up and forms this message?”

“What kind of message could this be, Ambassador?” asked the Queen.

Hermione placed the satellite photograph in front of the monarch, then rotated it 180 degrees.

“The rune Ehwaz, oriented this way, most commonly stands for transportation, Ma’am.”

“It’s a big part of the rune set equations used to make broomsticks fly, Your Majesty,” Padma offered.

Hermione nodded, then rotated the picture back around.

“But, Your Highness, when you write a rune upside down…we call it reversed…the opposite meaning is indicated.”

The Queen nodded. “So in this case, the opposite of transportation is…”

“Confinement, Your Majesty.”

The Queen pursed her lips in thought. “And you propose that these clouds may have been manipulated by magical means?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Is this a traditional form of magical communication, then?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Hermione replied with a smile. “In fact, I’ve only come across one witch or wizard who is capable of this kind of weather magic.”

“Rongo!” Harry exclaimed.

Hermione nodded. “We may have just found the location of the ICW delegation.”

“They’ve been banished to some remote island in the North Sea?” asked Wally.

Nodding in agreement, Hermione replied, “Not just any old island, Wally…they’ve been sent to Azkaban.”

“Right then, time to organize a rescue effort,” Harry declared, as he looked down upon the photograph. “Doesn’t look that far away from the Scottish Coast and Fort George…we can run a squadron of brooms out from there.”

“Don’t you think the prison’s been protected against that type of assault?” asked Hermione.

Harry frowned. “Probably warded against inbound messengers spells or owls as well.”

“Need to think outside the box,” Padma declared. “Maybe use Muggle means of transportation?”

Steve followed on this suggestion with his own survey of the satellite photograph. “Could fly Sea Kings out there…treat it as a marine rescue operation?”

Harry shook his head. “Wards might play havoc with any attempt to land on the prison grounds….unless…”

Hermione grew instantly nervous at the gleam that developed in her boyfriend’s eye.

oo00OO00oo

Wally’s eyes narrowed when, ten minutes later, Harry presented him with his very own charmed flight helmet.

“Rambo?”

Harry smiled. “I thought about nicknaming you Dolce & Gabanna, but it wouldn’t all fit on one line.”

Wally rolled his eyes. “But…Rambo?”

“Steve’s idea, actually,” Harry quipped.

“Really?” asked Wally. “And he is the final arbiter on these types of decisions?”

“Well, I could have asked Mad-Eye Moody, couldn’t have I?”

The secret agent closed his eyes and sighed.

“So how do I go about changing my moniker?”

“Only by doing something incredibly brave, or incredibly embarrassing,” Harry replied with a smile.

“Well if that’s the case,” said Wally.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Wally waited until Harry’s back was turned before he badge-called Hermione and made a suggestion.

A delighted Hermione, in turn, had Dobby wait until Harry was wearing his helmet before he secretly altered the script that ran across the Queen’s Wizard’s forehead.

Harry couldn’t get Wally to explain why he was snickering during their motorbike ride from Balmoral to the village of Crathie, one-half mile east. The RAF had constructed a staging area there, and one of its heavy-lift helicopters had been made available for the Queen’s Wizard’s use.

The crew chief of that helicopter gave Harry a strange look as he backed his motorbike into its cargo bay.

“Why a Bonny?” he asked.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “I inherited it.”

The serviceman squinted, and then asked, “Why Conan?”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry.

The crew chief pointed towards Harry’s flight helmet.

“How’d you earn the nickname Conan?” he asked again.

Harry frowned, and whipped the flight helmet off of his head. He stared at the place where “Seeker” had once been written, then stared sternly at Wally.

The Muggle secret agent winked, drew an imaginary sword from a back-mounted scabbard, held it in a heroic pose.

“You did say that accommodations could be made for doing something embarrassing, right?”

Harry shook his head. “This is what I get for jumping to the Queen’s defense?”

Wally laughed. “No, Conan…this is what you get for flashing the Queen your manly loincloth.”

 

11:45 am, Over the North Sea

A very nice dream involving royal bedrooms and a skyclad girlfriend was interrupted by a gentle shake on the shoulder.

“Five minutes to Skull Island, Conan.”

Harry opened his eyes, stared at the helicopter’s crew chief, then nodded and sat up straight. He was only slightly surprised that he had fallen asleep during the brief flight…while it was very loud within the cargo hold of the CH-47 Chinook helicopter, he was also very tired.

“Thanks,” the teen-aged wizard yelled back, as a smirk came to his face. It wasn’t the new nickname that amused him, but rather the nickname given by Muggle sailors and aviators to mist-shrouded Azkaban Island. While there weren’t any 40-foot tall apes on the island, what a Muggle would encounter were they to visit would seem just as strange, and just as dangerous.

“Where’s Rambo?” he asked.

“Up front,” the crew chief said with a grin. “Tossed his biscuits three times already… now he’s looking out the cockpit’s front windows trying to avoid number four.”

Harry grinned. “Cheeky bastard deserves it,” he muttered to himself, as he unbuckled his safety restraints. He then stood and made his way towards his tail-facing motorcycle. As he double-checked his saddle bags, he caught the Muggle crew chief giving his ride a close look. He seemed no less interested now then when Harry had ridden the bike up the helicopter’s rear door ramp an hour previous.

“You really going to ride that out the back, Sir?” he called out.

Harry just smiled and nodded as swung a leg over its seat. Tapping into his charmed flight helmet’s comm system, he called out, “Hey Rambo, going to come back and send me off?”

There was a snort on the other end of the “line,” followed by, “Willing to risk me decorating your flight suit with dry heaves, Conan?”

“Nothing a bit of magic wouldn’t clear up, Rambo.”

“So long as you do it outside,” the secret agent replied, as he walked onto the deck and made his way to the motorbike. “Wouldn’t want any magical interference to make this ride any bumpier than it already is.”

“Two minutes!” yelled the crew chief, as he bent down and began to release the tie-downs that had held the motorcycle in place during the flight. As his two passengers engaged in conversation that he wasn’t privy to, the Muggle muttered to himself about the absurdity of it all. He’d hosted his share of special op types and their gear during “dark” flights over hostile territory…watched boats launch off the flight deck and into the water, and Land Rovers drive off the ramp and onto dry land. But this was just crazy…a motorcycle jump from 8,000 feet? Without a parachute strapped onto the rider’s back?

Once the ties were unfastened and stowed away, the crew chief gave Harry a “thumbs-up” to indicate that he was free and clear of any restraints. He then helped Wally clip into a safety harness, before latching himself onto a separate lanyard. At sixty seconds to drop, the crew chief stepped up to his control station and lowered the rear door until it was level with the flight deck.

“Something wrong?” the amused airman yelled towards Wally, who was clinging with white knuckles onto the back of a jump seat.

The MI-5 ¾ Agent shook his head tersely, not believing how nonchalantly the crew chief was walking around the bay with the back door opened to air and sea.

The crew chief walked to Harry’s side for the final count as the helicopter cruised at 160 knots over open water. When the young wizard kick-started the motorcycle’s engine, and kicked back the stand with the heel of his dragon-hide boots, the normally tight-lipped crew chief couldn’t help but ask a question.

“You some James Bond type, Sir?” he yelled, as Harry revved the engine.

Harry turned towards the man, and smiled.

“Something like that, Sergeant,” he replied with a grin.

The crew chief snorted, then counted down with his fingers from five. As soon as the last finger dropped down to form a closed fist, Harry launched Sirius’s motorbike out the back and into the open sky.

The crew chief watched with disbelief as the Bonny’s “normal” response to gravity halted a few seconds later, and the motorbike powered into a wide left turn.

“Better than Bond,” the crew chief muttered, as he closed the door.

The sound of some uncharacteristically coarse language over the helicopter’s internal radio system broke the crewman’s musing. When he called up to the cockpit and asked what had prompted the cursing, he was instructed to look out the aft side bubble window.

What he saw caused the crew chief to launch into his own coarse comments, more out of admiration than of anger.

oo00OO00oo

Given the seriousness of his mission, Harry Potter probably shouldn’t have taken the time to pull his motorcycle up next to the helicopter that had brought him to Azkaban and gestured to the pilot as if he wanted to race. But with the weight of both the Muggle and magical worlds seemingly on his shoulders, he thought it was the perfect time to, if only for a few minutes, act his age.

“Erm…Lord G?” Wally asked weakly.

“Go ahead, Rambo.”

“The helicopter pilot is asking if you are challenging him to a drag race.”

Harry responded with a hearty laugh, and an ersatz “wheelie.” He then snapped off a roguish salute towards the helicopter, and shot forward as he pushed the bike’s speedometer just past 200 mph.

As soon as it was well established that his motorbike could out fly the Chinook, Harry dropped into a dive and headed towards the island below. He pulled up a mile short and a thousand feet above the sea, and pulled out his trusty pair of omnioculars from a saddlebag. A group of witches and wizards were facing towards them and waving their arms from the center of the prison’s “exercise yard” (poorly named, as Azkaban’s prisoners were never let out for exercise). All except the tallest, who was focusing more on the peculiarly shaped clouds above the island than on Harry.

Spotting Head Auror Robards within the crowd, Harry tried to fire off a messenger Patronus, only to watch it strike up against an invisible ward and dissipate. Worried that his charmed motorbike might stall if it hit that same boundary, Harry used additional Patronus spells to scout out the hemispherical ward boundary.

A quick badge call to his wardmistress girlfriend prompted Harry to hover just above the ward boundary, some seven hundred feet above the waiting crowd (the thinking being that if Harry or his ride were incapacitated when he crossed the boundary that one of the wand-wielding wizards or witches could stop his fall with a spell). He then reached into his bag, and pulled out a small metal box that was tethered to a scale-sized parachute.

After flipping on a switch mounted on one side of the box, Harry called up towards the hovering helicopter.

“Seeker to Ralph…Seeker to Ralph.”

“Thought my nickname was Rambo,” Wally weakly protested.

“I’m thinking you’ve earned a new name after the dry heaves.”

“Ha-ha…very funny, Conan…what can I do for you?”

“I’ve sketched out a ward boundary, and activated a canary.”

“Hold on, then,” Wally replied.

Harry dropped the “canary” a few moments later, once the slightly-green MI-5 ¾ agent announced that the helicopter had locked onto the electronic device’s signal. The box’s parachute fluffed full with air, slowing down the device’s descent enough so that Wally could relay altimeter readings.

“Six hundred feet…five hundred…four hundred…”

“It’s past the ward boundary,” Harry noted. “Everything still working?”

“Affirmative,” Wally replied. “Two hundred…one…hold on, Harry…the canary died at one-hundred and twenty feet.”

“Damn,” Harry muttered. “Must be another type of ward…I’m going in for a closer look.”

At Hermione’s instruction, he turned off the motorbike’s magical controls, and dropped unpowered (and unharmed) down through the outer wards. Once on the other side, Harry quickly turned the motorbike back on, and let out a sigh of relief when he regained magical flight control. From that point it was a quick and simple descent down to the second ward boundary, which was defined by a second canary that Harry had let hang from the end of a fifty-foot length of rope.

The violent dismissal of a second messenger spell at this second ward boundary caught Harry’s attention. The fiery incineration of a broomstick that he had pulled from his saddlebags and tried to drop to the group of witches and wizards beneath him was downright scary.

Head Auror Robards looked up at the hovering Queen’s Wizard, then pointed towards the top of a guard tower. Harry cottoned on, and flew to a spot five feet to his side of the shimmering ward boundary that enveloped the tower’s observation deck. Fortunately, the wards didn’t intercept sound waves, allowing Harry to shout questions across to the Head Auror, once the older wizard climbed the tower’s stairs.

The Queen's Wizard took off his helmet and hung it from his handlebars. “Well, well, well…what’s all this, then?” he glibly asked, with a wave towards the shimmering wards.

“A whole lot of trouble for witches and wizards,” Robards replied grimly. “It’ll fry anything magical, along with anyone in contact with the magical objects.”

Harry nodded. “I take it you’re not able to bring down the wards from your end?”

Robards shook his head. “The Warden disappeared before any of us arrived, and activated a separate ward that makes wand use impossible on this side …unless you’re wearing the right kind of charmed pendant.”

“Which you aren’t?”

The Head Auror snorted. “They relieved me of my portkey badge and wand when they ambushed me at the Ministry.”

“They being Rufus and friends?”

“That would be the most obvious answer.”

Harry smiled grimly. “So they’ve decided to go nuclear.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh…Muggle saying,” said Harry. “They hidden the Ministry of Magic and locked it down…nobody in or out. Not that we’d know how to get in even if it wasn’t hidden.”

Robards thought about this information for a few minutes, then frowned. “Fidelius?”

“That’s our thinking.”

“So how long before your brilliant girlfriend develops a work-around?”

Harry smiled. “She’s working up some ideas even as we speak...could always use a hand, if you’ve got the time.”

Robards shook his head as he glanced down at the spot where his badge used to be. “Well, it appears that I’m in the job market, so….”

“Excellent,” Harry replied. “Just have to get you all off the island, then.”

The older wizard nodded, then looked up at the helicopter that was hovering a few thousand feet above their heads.

“Got room in that beast for thirty witches and wizards?”

Harry looked up, then nodded. “I think so, although getting it down here in one piece may be an issue…what’s set up on the outer ward boundary?”

“Normal stuff,” Robards replied. “Anti-apparition, message interception, owl redirection, Muggle repellent...”

“Not sure that the pilot will fancy the idea of flying through that, even if the canary made it past.”

“Canary?” asked the Emperor’s Wizard.

“Muggle magic detector,” Harry replied.

Robards nodded. “The edge of the boat dock is just beyond the wards.”

“Really?” asked Harry. “Well would make things somewhat easier…let me get on the phone with them.”

“Great,” said the older wizard. “And while you’re at it, can you ask if they’ve got extra clothing or blankets?”

“Erm…sure…what for?”

The defrocked Head Auror smiled thinly. “We’ll need to leave wands and anything that’s imbued with magic on this side of the barrier.”

Harry puzzled over that comment. “So…any clothing that’s got cooling charms or magical water repellents applied?”

Robards laughed at the situation and nodded. “Figures that this would be the day that I’d wear my magically animated boxer shorts.”

The Queen's Wizard’s eyes went wide at the implication, and he looked down to the prison grounds, where Lavender Brown, Lisa Turpin, and Mrs. Abbott were huddled with the other witches and wizards.

“Oh, Merlin… I know some of those witches!”

The former Head Auror snorted. “Then here’s hoping that they are all wearing Muggle knickers.”

 

oo00OO00oo

It took more than an hour to improvise a method to safely transfer the stranded witches and wizards from the guard tower, across the ward boundary, and then down to the Muggle helicopter that hovered with an opened hatch just off the end of Azkaban’s supply dock. Harry appropriated the Chinook’s rescue basket, and tied it onto his length of rope. He then had the trapped witches and wizard climb into the basket one at a time and tip it over the tower’s edge. RAF-issue blankets allowed the rescued individuals some measure of modesty as they left their climate-controlled clothing behind. Of course some of the witches didn’t mind disrobing in front of Harry…Lavender Brown’s blanket slipped open “accidentally” a few times, and Hannah Abbot’s mother displayed no qualms at all about showing off her matched set of black Muggle undergarments.

While none of witches and wizards were happy about escaping from the prison without their wands, charmed wedding bands, or any other magical personal items, they did take comfort when the Japanese wizard and Rongo volunteered to protectively bury the lot using their wandless magic before they crossed over.

Leaving the Azkaban prison population behind was an easy decision to make given how cramped the Chinook’s cargo hold became once the stranded witches and wizards were coaxed (and occasionally coerced) into the Muggle flying machine. Harry freed up some room by shrinking down his motorbike and transfiguring the blankets that each rescued party wore into simple robes.

The plan to transport the rescued witches and wizards to the nearest inhabited island was rethought once the Norwegian King’s Wizard provided some surprising information on the sovereignty of the Shetlands. While Muggle control of the islands had been pawned off to the Scottish king in 1468 by King Christian I of Norway, magical control of this crucial portion of the Norsca Network had been retained. The Norse Ministry of Magic therefore still held jurisdiction over the islands, and while the stranded British witches and wizards would be welcomed as refugees or guests, there wouldn’t be an easy way for any of them to return to magical Britain using magical means.

While more than a couple of witches and wizards thought that staying away from the control of the British ministry would be a good thing (given how they’d just been treated) some had families back home, while others were anxious to openly side with Harry and the Queen against Scrimgeour and his lackeys. Harry tried to modestly shy away from these offers, but was smart enough to realize that this group could serve as an excellent nucleus to the magical Home Guard that the Scottish First Minister had seemed so eager to lead a few days back.

So the decision was made to head South, and carry the group a slightly longer distance to a remote portion of an active airfield on the Orkney Islands. Hermione badge jumped to the landing zone soon after they arrived, carrying a pack full of clothing, as well as portkeys to Hogwarts and a bag filled with confiscated Death Eater wands for the group to sort through for potential matches. After distributing these items, she asked the ICW delegation to join her for an impromptu conference on the tarmac.

“On behalf of the Her Majesty the Queen and her Muggle government, I wish to offer our humblest of apologies for your treatment this morning at the hands of the Ministry of Magic,” she said formally.

The Japanese wizard waved off her concerns.

“We are well aware of the political realities you face, Ambassador,” he replied. “What is the current state of communications between Muggle and Magical Ministries?”

“Nonexistent,” Hermione replied. “They’ve issued a press release to the Daily Prophet and WWN with the bogus claim that Muggle nerve gas was used as a prelude to an attack on the Ministry. Didn’t outright declare that it was an attack by Muggles, but the implication is there, and that’s justified their actions.”

“Of secreting the Ministry away from both Muggle and magical worlds?” asked the King’s Wizard.

Hermione nodded. “They claim that they’re only trying to preserve the wizarding world’s secrets, by keeping the Muggles from gaining access to the Floo Network, or the surveillance system…even the Department of Mysteries, although they don’t say what’s inside that’s worth protecting.”

“What’s public reaction been like?” asked the Swedish witch.

“Mixed,” Hermione replied. “The Ministry personnel who were tricked into leaving the Ministry and haven’t been allowed back have figured out what’s going on. The ones we’ve been in contact with are wearing the snub as a badge of honor. As for the general public…well, they’ve always been easily influenced.”

“Great,” Harry replied. “So where do we go from here?”

“Oslo,” replied the Japanese wizard. “We’ve gathered all the information that’s needed to make a recommendation to the Supreme Mugwump.”

Harry frowned. “And then what?”

Matsuhisa shrugged his shoulders. “That is for the diplomats and leaders to decide.” He then turned towards Hermione and asked, “Do you speak on behalf of Her Majesty’s Muggle government?”

Hermione grimaced, and turned to Wally. He shrugged.

“Prime Minister himself named you Special Ambassador to the Wizarding World,” he replied. “So long as you keep in contact with him and the Queen…”

“As if we don’t have enough to worry about with Carlisle tomorrow,” Harry stated. He looked over towards a line of small aircraft sitting outside of an airport hanger.

“Think we could charter one of those to fly to Norway, Wally?” he asked.

Wally asked, “How many passengers?”

“Actually, I think you can arrange transport, Major Potter,” Thorson interjected.

“How so?”

“Take Matsuhisa-sensei and me to the Shetlands on your motorbike. We’ll all use the Norsca Network station there to jump to Oslo, then you can…how do you call it…anchor?”

“Anchor a jump for Hermione?” Harry asked.

Thorson nodded. “Dyrrheim Station is as centrally located a place as any to convene a meeting.”

Harry nodded, then turned towards the other Internationals. Anticipating his question, the Swedish witch said, “If it’s just the same, I’d like to return to your Summer Institute, both to teach the Muggleborns and to help defend them and their families.”

Rongo and the Indian wizard expressed similar views, with the Maori wizard particularly interested in doing something to make the Ministry pay for forcing him to leave his All Blacks rugby jersey at Azkaban.

Harry then asked, “So once I ferry you to Shetland Station, I could just shrink my bike and badge-jump back to Balmoral?”

The Japanese wizard snorted, and shook his head. “I did say that it would be left to both diplomats and leaders, did I not? I suspect that Supreme Mugwump will wish to confer with both Ambassador Granger and the Lord High Steward of Britain.”

Shaking his head, Harry said, “That’s one title that I’ve yet to have forced upon me.”

Matsuhisa smiled, and acknowledged Harry’s point. “Forgive me, Lord Gryffindor, but I think there will be no less interest in a meeting with the Lord High Steward-designate.”

 

 

Chapter 43: And Now for Something Completely Different

Friday, July 13, 3:30pm Gringott’s Bank

The true power and specificity of the Fidelius Charms cast by the Dutch Charms Master were on display when he activated a portkey that sent him from Percy Weasley’s office to the steps of Gringott’s in Diagon Alley…while he had no trouble realizing that he was using magical transportation to leave the Ministry, the magic now kept him from knowing that those same methods could be used to return.

Not that the young wizard had any desire to go back, or to spend any more time than necessary within Britain…which was why he was so intent on converting the Ministry’s final payment from galleons to Euros, and catching the next Chunnel train to the Continent.

The Dutch charms master groaned at the sight of an extremely long line of account holders that had snaked outside of the bank’s front doors. He queued up, and waited for a few minutes to see how fast the line was moving. Listening in on the wild rumors being passed was amusing but tedious (someone was actually claiming that the imaginary Muggle gas attack on the Ministry involved poisonous fart bombs). So once the young wizard determined that it would take hours to reach the front of the queue, he walked up to the front and paid a matronly witch fifty galleons cash to take her place in line. The goblin guards, thinking the transaction to be a shrewd bit of business, ignored the complaints of those behind him, and ushered the Dutchman to the first available teller.

“Key please,” intoned the bored goblin.

“Don’t have one, actually,” the young wizard replied, as he handed over the Ministry’s draft. “Just want to redeem that check and convert galleons to Euros.”

The diminutive bank teller looked carefully at the document.

“One moment,” he stated, before he hopped off of his high stool and scurried away with the signed check in hand.

A few minutes later, a much taller goblin appeared in front of the Dutchman, standing on the back of the original bank teller (who was now serving as a sentient stepstool). He passed the Ministry’s draft back to the wizard and curtly stated, “There are insufficient funds available within the vault against which that draft is drawn.”

“That’s impossible!” declared the dreadlocked wizard.

“What makes you think that?”

“We had…we had a binding magical contract,” replied the Charms Master. “It would have been obvious if the Minister knew that he was passing a bad check.”

“Then perhaps the Minister was unaware of recent changes to the Ministry’s tax base?” the goblin replied with a toothy grin.

“So why can’t you just take the funds from a different Ministry account?”

“We would need Ministry authorization,” the goblin replied.

“In person?”

“Yes, although they could just as easily write a new draft against holdings within a different vault.”

“Don’t really want to take the time, but….oh, bugger!”

“Is something wrong?” asked the toothy Goblin.

The Dutch wizard sighed, desperately trying to determine how he’d get back to the Ministry. Once he decided that his charms work was too good for his own good, he shook his head and chuckled.

“What’s so funny, wizard?”

“If I can’t cash this check, and the Ministry is keeping me from returning for a new one, then they’ve just breached the binding contract.”

“And you find the loss of payment amusing?”

“Not really,” replied the young Charms Master. “But the consequences of that loss of payment are downright hilarious.”

“How so?”

“You’ll see for yourself, if they show up and make inquiries face-to-face,” the wizard replied, cryptically adding, “Won’t even need a stepstool.”

The goblin arched an eyebrow. “Do you wish to leave a forwarding address, in case the Ministry desires to make you whole with respect to the contract?”

The Dutchman shook his head.

“Percy will know where to find me,” he said, before taking back the rubber check and heading towards the front doors.

There was a part of him that wanted to hang around, just to see how the three buffoons who ran the British Ministry of Magic would react to their cursed transformations. But there were significant risks to staying, and he’d sufficiently front-loaded his overpriced fees in anticipation that something like this might occur. So as soon as he cleared the bank’s wards, he apparated to the Muggle hotel where he’d spent the previous two nights. From there he hailed a taxi for Waterloo Station, whilst softly singing the Kabouterdans…

Make a turn in a circle.
Stamp with your feet on the ground.
Wave your hands in the air.
Sit with a sigh.
Stamp around like a goose.
That is how the gnome dance goes!

oo00OO00oo

In the Minister of Magic’s office, no one can hear you scream…at least not after all of the support staff had been tricked into leaving.

The commanding height, chiseled chin and leonine features that had served Rufus Scrimgeour so well when it came to browbeating suspected criminals and pompous Wizengamot members were gone…gone in a bright flash of light that had left him half as tall and far less intimidating.

“Minister Scrimgeour! Minister Scrimgeour!” two voices cried out in dismay.

No longer tall enough to see over the edge of his desk, Rufus slipped down from a now-oversized chair, drew his now-oversized wand, and scampered around the side, causing the bells that hung on his coxcomb hat to jingle.

“Well, at least I’m in good company,” the wizard mused, as he took in the appearance of his underlings.

Percy and Umbridge had each lost half their height, and made up a fair bit of the difference in grossly expanded waistlines. Percy was dressed in a brightly-colored shirt and red Muggle overalls, oversized clown shoes, and a green coxcomb hat with silver bells on the tips. Dolores sported a long purple skirt, canary-yellow blouse, and a frilly green apron. Her coxcomb hat was red, with a large flower in it.

The Director of Knowns had grown a red beard that mirrored Scrimgeour’s white beard in length and style (in that both lacked mustaches). While Umbridge had managed to avoid a facial hair curse, her hair had turned bright yellow, and now hung in thick braided pigtails. Her nose, like Percy's and Scrimgeour’s, was proportionately grossly oversized, and sloped like a ski-jump.

“What in Merlin’s name?”

“It’s the kind of prank my twin brothers would pull,” Percy stated.

“Let’s hope that it’s just a prank,” Scrimgeour replied, as he tried to transfigure his current costume back into proper robes.

The spell didn’t work, and a follow-up tickling hex successfully applied to Percy proved that it wasn’t because Scrimgeour had lost his magic, or lost compatibility with his oversized wand.

Percy and Umbridge drew their own wands, and the three proceeded to cast every spell cancelling charm that they knew on themselves.

Nothing worked.

“We haven’t eaten or drank anything,” Scrimgeour mused.

“The Fidelius charm contract, Minister!” Percy whimpered. “It’s the only reasonable explanation…unless everyone else in the Ministry has been similarly pranked.”

“Why don’t you go and find out?” huffed Umbridge.

“Easier to check on that contract,” Percy countered. “I still have it in my office.”

The red-bearded midget waddled out of the Minister’s office, and returned a few moments later holding a smoking piece of parchment by one corner. He rolled it out on the floor, revealing a message with flashing red letters that was superposed over the original black-inked script.

“CONTRACT BREACHED BY MINISTRY OF MAGIC!”

“Oh, bugger,” Percy muttered.

oo00OO00oo

4:00pm Dyrrheim Station, Oslo, Norway

The look of wonder on Harry’s face belied the fatigue as he strolled down the main concourse of Dyrrheim Station. He knew that he should have been using the precious down time to rest…that was, after all, why Hermione had insisted on them booking a room at the station’s inn while she was back in London for consultations. But there was too much to see…too much to take in, on what was, after all, Harry’s first trip away from Britain’s shores.

The Queen’s Wizard had met witches and wizards from different countries and traditions at the Quidditch World Cup, so it wasn’t the many languages being spoken, or the difference in clothing that caught his attention. And while he’d been impressed by the station workings, and the magic behind it, Dyrrheim wasn’t any more awe-inspiring than his first trip to Diagon, or his first sight of Hogwarts.

It was the conflation of Muggle and magical that caught Harry so off-guard. While there was no doubt that Dyrrheim was part of the wizarding world, the influence of non-magical society was everywhere. The station’s newsstand (which stood next to a Starbucks) offered the Muggle Aftenposten and International Herald Tribune, as well as The Daily Prophet and Le Monde Magique. Travelers passed Harry wearing black tie-ups or trainers as often as dragonhide boots. Within a small magical toy shop Harry discovered scale-model airplanes that had been charmed to fly just as well as the plushie dragons and hippogriffs that sat in the next bin.

The true scale of muddling between magical and mundane really struck home when Harry came upon Dyrrheim Station’s entertainment concourse. Along the margins of a small-scale magical amusement park filled with screaming children were themed restaurants/bars that had been lifted straight out of the Muggle world…

To his immediate left was “Ten Forward,” with windows filled with stars and entrance doors that automatically slid open with a distinct pneumatic-sounding “ping.”

On Harry’s right was “Rick’s Café American”…a facility that glamour-charmed its staff and patrons in grayscale tones to match its black and white décor.

And on the far end of the concourse…well, there was no doubt where he was heading once Harry read the advert for the adobe-walled structure, and spied its rather furry bouncer.

A wide grin grew on the Queen’s Wizard’s face while he made his way past the carnival rides and games, and began to hear the melody of an iconic ragtime jazz tune. Wondering just who (or what) might be playing the clarinet (or its Tatooine equivalent), Harry gave a nod towards the Wookie that sat just outside the door, and walked with confidence into the “Mos Eisley Cantina.”

The room was just as dark and dank as its cinematic analogue, which suited Harry just fine as his eyes adjusted…this made it easier for him to gawk anonymously at the other patrons. At least he assumed that they were patrons…that more than a few “people” resembled aliens, or were dressed in Jedi robes, led Harry to suspect that there were a few house actors in the mix.

The Queen’s Wizard stepped up to the bar and ordered a butterbeer with a pepper-up chaser from a gruff bartender. While waiting for his drink, someone brushed against his left side. He turned, and locked eyes with a dark-haired beauty with three breasts.

“Erm..hello,” he squawked, trying desperately not to allow his eyes to drift down towards the woman’s diaphanous top.

“I like your robes,” the woman said seductively, and with only a trace of Scandinavian accent to her English.

“Thanks…I…like yours too,” he stammered, as the woman ran a finger down his sleeve.

The woman smiled as she pulled the sheer front to the side and exposed her tri-peaked chest to Harry.

“Want to play with them, Mr. Wizard?”

“Erm…aren’t you in the wrong movie?” he asked.

“Is that a complaint?”

“No, not really.”

The witch smiled, and leaned forward.

“You look like the kind of wizard who could use a good wand polishing.”

Harry chuckled. “Thanks, but I’ve got that covered.”

The witch smiled, and reached for Harry’s crotch.

“Well, then we’ll just have to uncover it, won’t we?”

Harry grabbed the woman’s hand and shook his head.

“Thanks, but I’m waiting for my girlfriend,” he replied firmly.

The witch pouted.

“Earth slime,” she muttered, as she drifted towards a pair of wide-eyed potential customers that had just entered the bar.

The vibration of Harry’s Art Club badge kept him from tracking the success of her sales pitch too closely.

“Go ahead, Roger,” he muttered into his chest.

“Have need to weigh anchors, Milord Admiral.”

Harry rolled his eyes and said, “Give us a sec, then.”

Wishing to keep their badge-jumping abilities quiet, Harry slipped into a loo that was far more sanitary than authenticity might have otherwise demanded and waited for a Han Solo-wannabe to wash up and leave.

“Welcome to magical Norway,” he said, after anchoring Roger Granger’s badge-jump.

Hermione’s father snorted as he glanced at the tile and chrome trim.

“Looks rather like Muggle Norway to me,” he stated.

“Tell me that once we’re outside,” Harry replied, as he cast a ‘cone of silence’ charm. He then asked, “So what’s going on back home?”

“Hermione is still with COBRA…have you heard anything from her?” When Harry shook his head he continued on.

“Ron’s out of surgery, but Remus says that it’ll be a couple days until he comes around?”

Harry nodded. “Draught of the Living Death doesn’t have a counter…in for a penny, knocked out for forty-eight hours.”

Roger nodded with understanding. “So the three Internationals are back at the Institute…classes have been cancelled, and Rongo has all of the students out on the pitch dancing up a storm.”

This garnered a raised eyebrow. “Literally dancing up a storm?” asked Harry.

Roger shrugged. “We sent all of the others that you rescued there as well…convinced them that it would be easier for their families to be gathered if the Ministry still thought they were on that island.”

An Imperial Storm Trooper entered the loo just then, and disappeared into a stall. Roger asked a loud question with his arched eyebrows.

“Star Wars theme bar,” Harry said with a grin.

“But how would witches or wizards know about…”

“Industrial Light and Magic,” Harry replied.

“So the line between magical and mundane is a little less rigid outside of Britain?”

“So it would seem,” said Harry. “But I should get going…there was a reason for you to swap places with me, right?”

Roger smiled grimly. “Powers that be want you to escort some live eyes into your Rookery flat.”

“Live eyes?” asked Harry. “Live ammo as well?”

Hermione’s dad shrugged. “Imagine that you’ll find out soon enough. Wally is set to anchor you.”

Harry sighed. “Right, then we’ll need to get you up to my room, where you’re out of the way.”

“What?” asked Roger. “And miss my chance to use the Force?”

“It’s their chance to use wands that worries me,” Harry replied, gesturing towards the door. “Most of those surly blokes look to be playing parts, but if any of them aren’t…”

“Then I’ve got a badge-full of back-up,” Roger replied. “Not to mention a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“I don’t know…”

“Aw, come on, Harry…please?”

Against his better judgment, the Queen’s Wizard acquiesced.

oo00OO00oo

MI-5 Headquarters, Thames Bank, London

It would have been easier for Harry to regain equilibrium after badge-jumping from Norway to London had he actually arrived at the anticipated destination.

“Wally?” he asked, looking around at an empty conference room. “Why are we at Headquarters, rather than the Rookery?”

The well-dressed secret agent waggled his eyebrows. “Because your guests are being picked up here, Lord G…why do you smell like a well-used ashtray?”

Harry glanced down at his attire.

“Erm…guess the cantina was a little smoky.”

“What were you doing in a cantina?”

Harry chuckled as he pulled out his wand to cast a cleaning charm, and replied, “Turning down the advances of a working girl with three baps.”

Wally arched an eyebrow as he grabbed Harry’s arm. “Don’t bother with those…you’ll need to switch out to your dapper Muggle kit.”

“What for?”

“Because you will look rather silly otherwise, when you step out of the stretch limo.”

Harry silently stared at Wally for a beat, then shrugged his shoulders and began to unbutton his robes.

“So,” Wally asked, “this woman with three breasts…don’t imagine that her name was Eccentrica Gallumbits?”

The Queen’s Wizard frowned.

“No, reckon she fancied that Schwarzenegger sci-fi movie…who is this Gallumbits?”

Wally rolled his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Hitchhiker’s Guide, Lord G…you know, I’m going to have to have a word with Roger about your Muggle cultural immersion classes.”

“Hey, I rather like his syllabus,” Harry said with a grin, as he pulled a Kevlar-reinforced suit jacket out from his bottomless rucksack. “What’s wrong with his movie list?”

“It doesn’t involve any reading,” Wally replied with a frown, as he pressed down Harry’s lapels. “How is it that this jacket isn’t wrinkled beyond repair each time you ball it up and stuff it in your pack?”

“Magic,” Harry replied with a snort.

“Just as well,” said Wally. “Wouldn’t do for you to be all frumpy and rumpled after I played up your rugged good looks to the girls.”

“What girls?”

“The girls that you’ll be putting up in your bachelor pad, Lord G.”

“Thought that I was helping forward observers and a sniper team or two to set up in my Rookery flat?”

“You are.”

“And they’re all female?”

“Yes.”

“And this is part of some plan from higher ups?”

“Indeed.”

“So why am I putting an all-girl team up in my flat?”

“Plausibility, Lord G,” he replied with a smile. “You did say that some of the Patriarchs use their flats to house their mistresses, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And, though it breaks my heart to say so, you do fancy girls more than blokes?”

Harry snorted, and in a gesture of mock-comfort, placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Oh, Ralph…you know that you’d be on the top of my dance card if I didn’t.”

“By still, my beating heart,” the secret agent replied, as he rapidly fluttered his eyelids. He then added, “Time to meet your harem, Conan.”

The Queen’s Wizard rolled his eyes, and followed Wally out the door.

The walk from conference room to lift allowed Harry to mull over the situation, and to have a question ready once they were alone in a descending car.

“So Wally…these are Muggle Jane Bonds, right?”

“Yes.”

“But they’re going to be setting up in a magical flat?”

Wally nodded. “That’s why we’ve recruited two of your Brigadiddies to help them out.”

“Two of my what?”

Two of your Peanut Butter Babes.”

“Babes, huh?” Harry asked with a wink. “Thinking of batting from the other side of the wicket, now?”

Wally chuckled and shook his head. Lift doors opening to the ground level lobby gave him an excuse not to banter back.

“So…who is it?” Harry hissed.

Wally smiled. “You’ll see.”

Harry scowled. “So now you’re a comedian as well?”

All he got in response was more chuckling, as Wally led him past the guard desk and out the front doors, where three sexily dressed women were waiting for them with their luggage. In short order, Harry was introduced to a blonde beauty with a big chest and bigger hair, a taller, intelligent-looking woman with shorter, straighter black hair, and a gorgeous brunette with high cheek bones and a brilliant white smile.

As Roger Granger’s crash course in Muggle entertainment had inexplicably not yet covered an iconic 1970’s American television show (or a much more recent big-screen cover), the names Kelly Garrett, Sabrina Duncan, and Jill Munroe meant nothing to Harry.

Wally, however, thought the aliases were hilarious, and entirely appropriate.

If the three women were surprised at their fellow secret agent’s young age, they didn’t show it…instead, he saw in their eyes cool professionalism, and a hint of danger. And since he was working diligently to keep his eyes from drifting down towards plunging necklines and thigh-baring hemlines, there was more than enough time for Harry to make that assessment.

The arrival of the longest motor vehicle that the Queen’s Wizard had ever seen kept them from going much beyond introductions.

“Is this a company car, Wally?” he asked, gaping at the white stretch Hummer.

“All part of the role-play, stud,” the secret agent replied, as the hired car stopped and his partner popped out dressed in a tuxedo.

“Good afternoon, Guv’nor,” the driver said with a salute.

“Oh, cut it out, Steve,” Harry whined. “Queen let you out of bed, then?”

“Something like that,” the agent quipped. He then turned towards the female agents and tipped his hat. “May I take your bags, ladies?”

As the three female secret agents rolled their bags towards the oversized boot, Harry pulled Wally aside.

“So where are the witches?”

The dapper Muggle winked, opened the limousine’s rear door, and waved an arm towards the leather-trimmed, LCD-lit interior.

“Hey Harry!” a voice called from inside. The Queen’s Wizard ducked his head, and caught his breath at the sight of a whole lot of Lavender Brown’s and Lisa Turpin’s legs. The two were sitting on a side-mounted bench, facing him, with glasses of champagne in their hands. Each was wearing a pink sequined micro-mini dress with a plunging neckline and knee-high white leather boots.

“Erm…Hi, Lavender...Lisa.”

His blonde-haired house mate smiled and uncrossed her legs. A flash of red knickers hit Harry in the face as Lavender slowly straightened her leg out towards him.

“You know,” she cooed seductively, “after that crowded flying trip in the Muggle helio-chopper, it’s so nice to now have this much leg room…don’t you think?”

“Ahhhh…yes, well…I’m glad that you’re comfortable,” Harry stammered.

Lisa smiled as she shifted down the bench to create some space between herself and the other witch.

“So come have a seat, Milord,” she said, patting the bit of upholstery next to her hip. “And tell us about your lover's hideaway.”

“Erm…no need to crowd, given all of the available seating, is there?”

“Just climb in, Stud,” one of the female agents said from behind, as she gave the young wizard’s bum a slap. Harry lost his balance, tumbled forward, and ending up with his face nearly in the Lavender lap.

“Oh, my,” she hissed, as she ran her fingers through the Queen's Wizard’s hair. “It’s just like my dreams…except that you’re still wearing clothes.”

“With these tinted windows, don’t let that stop you,” quipped ‘Kelly’ as she ducked her head and slipped onto the rear-facing leather bench.

“No thanks, I’m good,” Harry said quickly, as he scrambled up onto the empty bench facing Kelly.

“Yes, that’s what we’ve heard,” Lavender said, as she waggled her eyebrows.

The other two “Angels” climbed into the seating area, and Wally poked his head inside the vehicle.

“I’d tell you not to do anything that I wouldn’t do, Lord Gryffindor, but…”

“You wouldn’t do buts, Wally?” Harry replied with a grin.

The secret agent’s eyes lit up and he blew Harry a kiss.

“Of course not, Milord…you know that I’m saving myself for you.”

“Scamp!”

“Scoundrel!”

“Would you want me any other way?”

“I want you in the worst way, luv!”

“In your dreams!”

“Don’t think I can wait that long, Milord.”

“Too Much Information!”

Wally smiled, and dramatically held the back of his hand to his forehead.

“And too little time for a tug.”

“Not from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh! You wound me, Sir!”

Harry chuckled. “And I suppose you want me to kiss it all better?”

“Yes, well…a bloke can dream, right?” Wally said with a laugh, as he finally closed the door and sent the car off.

As Harry’s eyes readjusted to the interior lighting, he spied smiles on the faces of the three secret agents. Lisa and Lavender, however, had far more contemplative looks.

“So, Harry?”

“Yeah, Lavender?”

“Something going on between you and your male friend?”

Harry snorted. “No, no…just a bit of flirty banter.”

“So…you were flirting with him?”

“Not for real, Lavender,” Harry replied, adding, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

His housemate frowned a bi. “So if you fancy witches, why can’t we get a rise out of you when we’re dressed this way?”

Harry took in a deep breath, then expelled it as he took Lavender’s hand from his leg and scooted away from her.

“Because I’ve got good Occlumency skills, and a very hot girlfriend.”

Lavender cocked her head to one side for a moment of thought. She then gave him a sly smile, dragged a finger down the length of her plunging neckline, and said, “So maybe your very hot girlfriend shares?”

Harry snorted softly. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

A vibrating ray on his Art Club badge kept Harry from hearing Lavender’s retort. He held out his hand, brought a single finger to his lips asking for quiet, and activated his badge.

“Something wrong, Roger?” he asked.

oo00OO00oo

Roger Granger had been sitting at the Mos Eisley Cantina’s bar trying to decide whether he’d rather be a Jedi or Han Solo when someone pulled on the sleeve of his Clan Potter robes. He turned and reflexively jerked back from the onslaught of bad-breath coming from a dark-robed wizard who owned more fingers than teeth.

“Hey! I don’t like you!” the man declared with a slurred voice.

Roger frowned…the drunk was dressed in wizard’s robes, discounting the possibility that it was a hired actor doing a bit of role-play.

“Sorry to hear that,” he muttered, as he turned away from the wizard and looked down at his drink.

A few seconds later, Roger felt a more insistent tapping on his shoulder.

“I said that I don’t like you!”

Roger swore under his breath, and “called” Harry with an activation phrase whispered into a hunched shoulder.

Harry’s response was intentionally muffled with a robe sleeve.

“Look, mate,” Roger said clearly. “I’m just minding my own business…not looking for a wand fight.”

The foul-smelling wizard sneered, and casually pulled a twelve-inch long dagger from his sleeve.

“Who said anything about fightin’ with wands?” he asked, as he pretended to clean his grungy black fingernails.

Roger could feel the attention of the bar shift towards the confrontation. A hand that had reflexively slipped inside his robes and reached for a hand gun stopped when he remembered where he was, and how much trouble he might get into by drawing a Muggle firearm within a room filled with wizards. So instead, he drew that hand back and snaked it up into his sleeves, where Weasley Wheezes were strapped to his forearm.

“Well, that’s an interesting knife,” Roger declared.

This observation was all that a certain wizard listening in from the back of a London limousine needed to decide that his potential father-in-law could use back-up. Harry immediately badge-jumped to Roger’s side in the quietest “apparition” that the cantina’s patrons had ever seen. Getting a quick visual confirmation of the scene that he’d pieced together over the open badge line, Harry smoothly pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from its back-mounted scabbard.

Shaking his head dismissively, the Queen’s Wizard unbuttoned his suit jacket, and swung the blade in a chest-high sweep that ended with its tip pointing towards the heckler’s hands.

Harry then smiled, and using his best Aussie accent drawled, “That’s not a knife…This is a knife.”

After a moment of near-silence, the nearly-toothless wizard correctly read the situation and scowled. A knife was sheathed, a few coins thrown down at the bar, and he was ushered out the front doors by jeers and derisive laughter.

As Harry sheathed his own “knife” the other bar patrons lost interest and went back to their own hushed conversations. Roger returned the “portable swamp” and “instant darkness” balls that he’d been gripping to their respective slots on his arm pack and shook his head.

“Thanks for the help, Harry,” he said. “Though I was expecting more Obi-Wan and less Crocodile Dundee.”

“Couldn’t be helped, Bruce,” Harry quipped, trying to hold the accent in place. “Left my light saber back in London.”

Roger snorted, and joined in with his own drawling accent. “Fancy a drink, then, Bruce?”

Harry chuckled. “Wish I could, Bruce, but I’ve got to get the Sheilas settled in.”

The banter was interrupted by a much thicker (and far more authentic) butchering of the Queen’s English.

“Beaut showing there, mate…that sword draw was flat out like a lizard drinking!”

The Queen’s Wizard turned towards the newcomer, who was dressed in khaki-colored robes similar to those worn by a half-dozen similarly dressed men who were crowded into a corner booth.

“Erm, thanks,” he replied.

“Mind you, the Aussie accents are all dunny dangles.”

Roger laughed at the negative assessment (even if he didn’t know its exact provenance).

“Yes, well…not everyone is fortunate enough to have been born on God’s own Earth.”

“Too right, there,” the wizard grinned. He stuck out his hand and said, “Name’s Bruce.”

Roger snorted, shook the wizard’s hand, and replied, “Michael Baldwin.”

The Australian squinted at Roger for a moment, then broke out into a roar.

“Right, then…that might get a bit confusing…mind if we call you New-Bruce?”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way, Bruce,” Roger replied.

The Aussie nodded and turned towards the Queen’s Wizard, who stuck out his own hand and said, “I’m Harry.”

The wizard in khakis caught sight of the lightning bolt-shaped scar and drew in a breath.

“Bloody hell…what do you think this is, bush week?”

The Queen’s Wizard frowned. “Fine then…call me Bruce.”

The khaki-robed wizard nodded. “Don’t mean to be rude…it’s just that I’ve had to deal with two other Boy-Who-Lived ring-ins, just in the last few months…and we aren’t supposed to hook up to the real one ‘til Pommyland.”

Roger let out a snort as Harry’s eyes went wide at the thought of possible impersonators Down Under.

“So what business do you have with the real Harry Potter?” he asked.

“Why would you need to know, mate?”

“Because he really is Harry Potter, Bruce,” replied Roger.

“For real?”

Roger nodded. “Unless it’s one of your Queen’s Wizard-wannabes who is sleeping with my daughter.”

“Hey!”

The Australian Auror’s eyes went wide. He ignored Harry’s protests and said, “Cris’sake…what the bloody hell you doing here?”

Harry cocked his head to one side.

“Having a drink?”

The Australian wizard looked down at Harry’s butterbeer with a sniff.

“That’s not a drink!” he declared. “Oy! Bartender! Throw two more tinnies on the tab!”

Harry used this distraction to activate his Art Club badge.

“Wally?”

“Go ahead, Lord G?”

“Am I supposed to be meeting with a group of Australian wizards?”

“No, you’re supposed to be in a limo with Charlie’s Angels…what’s going on?”

“Nothing much…had to make a quick trip back to Oslo to back-up Roger.”

“Everything okay, then?”

“Yeah, no worries…except for meeting the Aussies.”

“Oh, well, yeah…that was supposed to happen later on tonight …they’re already in Oslo?”

“I guess so.”

“How did they get there so fast?”

“Magic, I reckon,” Harry said snidely. “So what’s the story?”

The Australian turned back towards Harry levitating a platter of beer cans in front of him.

“Story on what, mate?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Harry. “I was just checking in with my headquarters.”

“Using that fancy bit of jewelry?” the wizard asked.

“Not that you know,” Harry replied.

“Well come on, then, and meet the boys,” replied the Australian, as he headed towards a booth filled with similarly-dressed wizards. Harry ended his call to Wally with a quick request for Steve to call back once he’d arrived at the Rookery, then followed along with Roger.

“Took you long enough, Bruce!” whined one of the men sitting within the booth.

“Sod off, Bruce.” The wizard replied, as he slipped the tray filled with beer cans onto the table, pointed towards Roger, and added, “Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to a man from Pommeyland named New-Bruce.”

“G’day New-Bruce,” the wizards all replied.

The wizard then turned towards the Boy-Who-Lived and said, “And this here, mates, is none other than Harry Potter.”

“Go on! Give us the good oil!”

“Yes, yes, it’s true, or else he wouldn’t be rooting New-Bruce’s shiralee.”

“Hey! Who said that I’m…rooting?”

“Harry Potter, Bruce. Harry Potter, Bruce. Harry Potter, Bruce…that fella’s my best mate Bruce, and that daggy bastard over there…his name is Bruce.”

“G’day.”

“Is your name not Bruce, then?” one of them asked Harry.

The Queen’s Wizard shook his head as Roger broke out into a wide grin.

“Yes, yes…I know, that's going to cause a little confusion.”

“Good that you see it…mind if we call you Bruce to keep it clear?”

Harry smiled and nodded his head. “No worries.”

“Right then,” stated one of the boothed Bruces. “Have a seat and we’ll start the faculty meeting.”

Roger smiled. “Of the philosophy department at the University of Walamaloo?”

“How’d you guess, New-Bruce?” the Aussie asked. “But first I'd like to ask the padre for a prayer.”

A different Bruce held a hand over the tray of beer cans and said, “Oh Lord, we beseech Thee, Amen!!”

“Amen!”

Somebody named Bruce called out, “Crack tubes!” and everyone opened a can.

Harry was in the middle of a long draw on his beer when his Art Club badge vibrated. He quickly pulled his lips away from the can when he glanced down…then relaxed a bit when he realized that it was Steve who was calling, rather than the Queen (whose “ray” was right next door).

“Alright, there, New-Bruce-too?” asked one of the Australians.

“No worries,” Harry replied. “Just a bit of business to attend to. So are you lot really are heading towards Britain?”

“That’s the plan, New-Bruce-too,” replied Head-Bruce. “Her Majesty the Queen asked the Prime Minister for some assistance…we here are going to be ‘Advisors,’ while you sort out your squabbles.”

“She asked your Muggle Prime Minister to send Magical Advisors?”

Bruce shrugged. “A bit more casual about secrecy issues Down Under.”

All of the Bruces nodded, and intoned, “Australia, Australia, Australia, we love you, Amen!”

“Crack tubes!”

“But they’re already cracked, Bruce.”

“Oh, bugger, so they are. Drink up then, and Bruce…your shout, mate.”

“Is not…I bought the round before you…it’s Bruce’s shout.”

“I’ll buy,” Roger offered.

“Oh, no, New-Bruce, can’t have that…not allowed in the Rules.”

“What Rules?”

“Rule Six.”

“But Bruce, there is no rule six!”

Roger snorted. “Rule seven then?”

One of the Bruces automatically called back, “No Poofters!…oh, blast!”

All of the other Aussie Aurors roared with laughter, and pulled the Bruce who had responded to his feet.

“Cultural sensitivity training,” Head-Bruce explained, as the respondent headed towards the bar. “Not allowed to call the natives and homosexuals what we used to.”

“So how is that training?” Roger asked.

“Well, it’s positive reinforcement, you see,” Head-Bruce replied. “Every time one of the boys calls a homosexual a ‘hoofter-with-a-p’, he has to buy the next round.”

Roger laughed. “Wouldn’t that be negative reinforcement?”

New-Bruce shook his head. “Nothing negative about getting a beer out of it, is there?”

Harry smiled and added, “Sounds like a good excuse to drink.”

“Now, New-Bruce-too…are you implying that we need a excuse to drink?”

Harry snorted. “No, never…especially since it’s…what time is it back in Australia right now?”

Head-Bruce shrugged and smiled. “It’s always tinny time, mate.” Something then caught his eye and he looked passed Roger’s shoulder.

“Aw, Cris’sake…there goes the bloody neighborhood.”

Harry turned his head, and spied six bare-chested warrior-sorcerers enter the bar.

“You got a problem with Maori, Bruce?”

“No, no…just a bit of friendly rivalry with our Kiwi colleagues.”

“Hey Bruce,” one of the others called out. “Isn’t it time for something completely different?”

“Why so it is,” Head-Bruce stated.

“So what’s something completely different?” Roger asked with a grin of anticipation.

“A man with a tape recorder up his nose,” replied Head-Bruce.

The Aussie proceeded to tilt his head to one side and stick an index finger up his left nostril. Whatever magic that was hidden within his nose started to broadcast a recording of a brass band playing what might as well be considered the Australian national anthem, and all of the Bruces began to sing along…with gusto and raised tins.

But as Harry didn’t know the words to “Waltzing Matilda”, he used this distraction to pop back to London.

oo00OO00oo

Steve was sitting in the back of the stretch Hummer when he anchored Harry’s return jump, and the same magic that had parked him outside Hermione’s bedcurtains (rather than inside) took hold once more.

Lavender’s eyes shifted skyward from the wizard who had just appeared on her lap and she cried out, “Thank you, Morgana!”

“Erm, sorry about that,” Harry said, as he pulled his house mate’s hugging arms away from his waist and shifted over onto a seat.

“Don’t be, I’m not sorry,” she replied.

Steve snickered and shook his head in disbelief.

“So, Harry, we’re double-parked in front of the Rookery, and I’ve just gone back over their briefing.”

The Queen’s Wizard nodded. “You all know about the memory erasing magic that will affect you once you leave the building?”

Secret Agent Jill nodded. “Everything that happens inside the building stays in the building.”

“And all of you are okay with that? I mean, it’s not something that we’ve been able to fix.”

“Oh, we’ll muddle through somehow, Harry,” Lavender purred. “Consider it our sacrifice for the war effort.”

Harry stared at the blonde witch for a moment, then let out a deep breath.

“Right then, I’ll have to escort you in two at a time, just to drag you through the magical wards…we’ll split the witches in the first two shifts, just to keep the others from freaking out from the magic inside.”

The Queen’s Wizard ignored Lavender’s comment that he could split her anytime he wanted, and addressed Agent Kelly’s question.

“There might be a house-elf concierge inside,” he explained. “You certainly won’t be the first lovely Muggle ladies to visit, but partnering with a magical will help with any questions you might have.”

With plans thus made, Steve stepped outside and began transferring luggage from boot to curb. Lisa Turpin and Agent Sabrina followed Harry out to the sidewalk and clutched his arms tightly as he pulled them into the ground floor lobby. A house elf was indeed there to greet them.

“Good afternoon, Patriarch Potter,” the diminutive sentient said with a low bow.

“Good day to you, Gilbert,” Harry replied with a smile. “I’d like to introduce you to Lisa and Sabrina. They’re my…well, let’s just say that I’ll be hosting them in my flat for a period of time.”

A nearly-imperceptible glimmer shined in the House Elf’s eyes. He bowed once more and said, “Very Good, Sir…and ladies, welcome to the Rookery. If there is anything that the two of you need during your stay, please do not hesitate to call for me.”

“Thank you, Gilbert,” Lisa replied. Sabrina only nodded, but the fact that she hadn’t blown her cover upon first sight of a non-human sentient was, in Harry’s opinion, impressive.

“If that is all of your luggage, ladies, I’ll bring it up to the flat presently.”

“Well, actually, Gilbert,” Harry replied. “I’ve got more luggage…and three more ladies waiting outside.”

The House Elf’s eyes went just a little wider with surprise, as he began to make favorable comparisons between this Patriarch and his grandfather, who had been secretly referred to by all of the Rookery staff as “Randy Andy” Potter.

He bowed a third time and replied, “I would be most pleased to attend to Miss Lisa and Miss Sabrina while you complete your party.”

“Thank you, Gilbert,” Harry said with a smile.

Before he could turn towards the entrance, Lisa Turpin took some initiative and pulled Harry into a tight embrace.

“Don’t be too long, lover,” she cooed.

Harry choked on some spittle and whispered his questioned response into her ear. Lisa kissed his cheek, gave his bum a squeeze, and whispered back that she was just staying “in character.”

Wondering just how he was going to explain this to Hermione, the Queen’s Wizard sighed, and headed back outside, where Lavender Brown insisted that only one more shuttle was needed. When Harry pointed out that he only had two arms, the witch smiled, and asked for a piggy-back ride.

She was most disappointed when Harry offered only his left arm, with Secret Agent Jill taking hold of his right. He quickly and efficiently returned for Secret Agent Kelly, and accepted Steve’s wishes for good luck.

Of course, both understood that those wishes were offered more for his next visit with Hermione, rather than for anything associated with the group that was waiting for Harry inside the lobby.

 

Chapter 44:  Lord High Steward  

Friday, July 13, 5:00pm, Knockturn Alley  

The teen-aged wizard who approached the entrance to his Knockturn Alley safe house had a spring in his step and a smile on his face.  What he had just discovered was so massive…so magnificent…that he had almost forgotten that the information had been obtained while he’d been in the polyjuiced form of a two-sickle whore.   The lewd suggestions and rough fondling of the guard who stood just inside the doorway served as quick reminder.  But Draco Malfoy merely slapped at the Death Eater’s groping hands as he brushed by and burst into their hideaway’s ersatz potions laboratory.  

“Godfather!”  

There was a slight hitch in the counter-clockwise stirring of a foul-smelling potion, but no other indication that he’d been heard by the dark robed wizard whose back had been to the door.  

“The Ministry has gone into hiding!” announced the boy with baps.  

The vocalized count shifted from baritone to hiss, but did not lag behind the stirring.  

“The Alley is ours to play with!”  

The Potions Master finished his count, and with back still turned to Draco, carefully wiped off the cauldron’s contents from the two-foot long willow-wood spoon that he’d been using to stir.  

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” demanded the presently curvaceous wizard.  “The Ministry of Magic has disappeared! This is the perfect chance!”  

Still silence…or relative silence, as one could still hear Draco’s excitedly raspy breaths and the cauldron’s soft boil.  Then an explosion of sound, fury and movement…as Snape spun on his heels and smashed the side of his godson’s head with the stirring spoon.   The young wizard cried out in pain and crumpled to the ground.  

“Perfect chance to do what?” the Potions Master demanded, as he hovered over Draco. “Openly defy our Master?”  

“But…things have changed since then,” Draco retorted, as he cautiously pulled himself off of the ground. “There are opportunities that didn’t exist before…”  

The Potions Master growled and grabbed the front of Draco’s witch’s robes with one hand while raising the wooden stir stick with the other.  The younger wizard winced and covered his head in anticipation of a strike that never came…but only because Snape was worried about the blood spray contaminating his brews.   The greasy-haired wizard settled for slamming his godson up against a wall.  

“But nothing!” he raged. “Your persistent inability to do what you are told to do is going to be the end of you…..and the end of me!”   A face slap that dropped the younger wizard back to the floor served as Snape’s sentence-ending punctuation.  

“Insolent whelp!  (kick to Draco’s feminine arse)  

“Stop!” the younger wizard begged.  

Snape sneered. “If it weren’t for promises made to your mother (kick to the shin) made necessary by your inability to finish off Dumbledore…(kick to the gut)…”  

“Please, stop!”  

“Simple cowardice (rib kick)…quite understandable in your case…but this reckless impatience?  (two more kicks to the arse)  

“Why are you…”  

Snape reached down and pulled Draco up by the front of his robes, until his face was just a few nose hairs away from the potions master’s face.  

“It’s not ‘why are you,’ you ponce (violent shake)…the correct question is, ‘What are you….a Bloody (spewed spittle) Gryffindor?”  

The former head of Slytherin again hurled the Malfoy scion against the wall, then turned away in disgust as Draco slumped to the floor and whimpered.  Snape covered his face with his hands, and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers as he fought to regain control of his temper.  After several deep breaths, he turned back towards his godson and spoke in a tone of voice that, while lower in volume, was no less menacing.  

“Barty Crouch Junior sucked down polyjuice potion and hobbled around on a peg leg for the better part of a year while he waited for the Master to determine the optimal time to return.  Do you think that he ever second guessed our Lord?”   

“N-N-N-No…”  

“Your Auntie Bella spent fourteen years in Azkaban…when the Dark Lord opened the door to her cell and freed her, do you think that her first words to him were, ‘What took you so long?’  

“Erm….”  

“The correct answer is, ‘I don’t think so,’ you idiot,” hissed Snape. “And this past year, our forces had to bide their time and keep to the shadows while you dithered for months making repairs to that cabinet…didn’t have anyone following you around whinging ‘Can we attack Hogwarts now? Can we attack Hogwarts now?’, did you?”  

Draco shook his head.  

“If you have any hope of surviving the summer…much less of successfully serving our Lord, you will learn to be obedient…and patient.  Your orders are to follow my orders…and my current orders are to lay low, and do nothing more than get our injured back to full health.  Speaking of which…where is the knotgrass?”  

“Erm…didn’t make it to the Apothecary,” Draco whispered. “When I heard about the Ministry, and saw the lack of Auror patrols…thought we could just raid the shop and cart their entire inventory back…”  

A dangerous hiss escaped from Snape’s lips.  He glanced over at an hourglass and gauged how many sand grains had yet to drop.  

“You have fifteen minutes before the polyjuice wears off…I suggest that you use them to complete your assigned task…unless you would rather put that whore’s arse of yours to work providing some…physical comfort…to our patients?”  

Draco’s eyes went wide at the threat.  He shook his head violently, rose off of the floor, and bolted towards the door.  

oo00OO00oo

A few blocks away from the site of Draco’s beat down, Harry Potter and his five new houseguests all crowded into the Rookery’s lift.  The three Muggle secret agent “Angels” took up positions behind and to the Queen's Wizard’s sides.  He snorted when he spied the pout on Lavender’s face, and mouthed a silent thanks to the others as he used both palm print and wand tip to close the lift’s doors and send it up towards his flat on the twenty-third floor.   

When they passed by the fourteenth floor, Harry’s thoughts drifted towards the Malfoy patriarch, who was still holed up in his Rookery apartment (based on continuous remote surveillance). The one-armed wizard hadn’t left his flat since the day of his capture, but that didn’t make Agent Potter any less concerned about his presence now that his own flat was to be occupied.   When the lift came to a stop on the Queen Wizard’s floor, “Jill,” “Sabrina” and “Kelly” each pulled handguns out from Morgana knows where and adopted defensive stances.  

“Stand down, and holster those weapons,” Harry ordered.  “The flat is secured with my own magic.”  

“Unless someone starts hurling cars towards it?” Jill asked.  

The teen-aged wizard shrugged and pulled out his wand.  “If it’ll make you feel better, let me take point while I give you a tour.”  

Jill pursed her lips, and then nodded.  “Fair enough. Kelly…you hang back with the bags and the bints.”  

“Hey, who are you calling a bint?” Lavender protested.  

The Muggle woman replied only with a hard stare as the lift doors opened and Harry pushed out into the main sitting room.  

“Oh, my!” hissed Sabrina, as she furtively glanced at the antique furnishings.  

“Save the Roadshow for later, Sir Michael!” Jill barked.  

“Yes, Mum.”  

“Shall we, then, Sir?” Jill asked.  

Harry shrugged, nodded, and began his whirlwind tour of the flat. As the group of three made their way from room to room, he asked, “Can we drop the ‘Sir’ business?”  

“You do outrank us, Sir,” Sabrina tersely replied.  

Harry snorted. “Not by my doing…so you’re MI- 5 ¾, then?”  

“On loan to MI-5…clears us to operate domestically.”  

Harry nodded as he led the two women into the bedroom hallway, and wondered how expansive the verb “operate” was with regard to their mission.  His guests visibly relaxed once he walked them through the fourth and final bedroom; Jill reached up and pulled the wig of massive brown hair off of her head, while Sabrina sat on the bed and kicked off her high heels.  

“Cor, I really hate dolling up that way,” Jill sighed, as she rubbed her fingers through her short, spiky black hair.  “Mind if we set up here, Sir?”  

Secret Agent Potter shrugged. “It’s Harry, not Sir…and you five can split up the four bedrooms however you want.”  He then turned to Secret Agent Sabrina, who was staring an oak washstand that sat opposite the large poster bed with something akin to lust in her eyes.  When she jumped off of the bed and ducked her head underneath its front ledge, Harry asked, “Looking for a listening device?”  

The attractive thirty-something Muggle pulled her head back out and shook it.   “No…I was looking for a maker’s mark.”  

“A what?”  

“A manufacturer’s label,” Jill explained.  “Sabrina, here, has a kink for antique furniture.”  

“I certainly do not!”  

“Okay, fine…you have a kink for shagging on top of antique furniture.”  

Sabrina rolled her eyes.  “Pay no attention to my uncouth colleague.”  

Harry snorted.  

“You’ve got an amazing collection here, Sir,” Sabrina stated.  “Assuming that everything else is as authentic as this piece seems to be.”  

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry replied.  “It was all here when I discovered that I owned this flat.”  

“Really?”  the brown-haired Muggle asked, as she dragged a finger along a rounded corner. “Do you know how old the building is?”  

“Erm…built in the 1890’s.”   

Sabrina nodded. “Right time frame for this Arts-and-Crafts style.”  

“If you say so,” Harry replied.  An idea then came to mind, and he pulled a shrunken portfolio from his ever-present, never-full knapsack.  The two women startled when Harry’s spell work returned the thick book to full size.  

“Going to have to get used to all this magic,” Sabrina muttered.  

“Isn’t that’s what the bints out there are for?” asked Jill.  

The Queen’s Wizard was too busy scanning a “scroll-down” list of properties with his wand tip to pick up on the exchange.  Once he found the Rookery, he “expanded” its description to provide an itemized list of rooms, and then, for each room, an inventory of his possessions.  

“Let’s see…bedrooms….last bedroom down the hall…furniture….”   Harry looked up.  “So that’s a washstand, then?”   

When Sabrina nodded, Harry “clicked” on the word “washstand” with his want tip and a full description of the piece crowded onto the page of text.  He showed the book to the secret agent and asked, “Does Charles Rennie Mackintosh mean anything to you?”  

Sabrina squealed in delight.  

Jill frowned.  “Alright, luv…let’s get back to the others before you start rubbing off on the woodwork.”  

“Yes, Mum,” the brown-haired Muggle mumbled.  “So anyone mind if I set up here in this bedroom?”  

Harry shrugged.  “You can have the Master, for all I care.”  

Jill snorted.  “Is that an invitation to share a bed, Sir?”  

Harry’s eyebrows disappeared under his hairline.  “Not at all…there’s no need for me to stay here, now that I’ve got you into the building…right?”  

“Depends if you’re talking about mission needs, or what those two girls think they need.”  

“Well, since what I need are my bits not being hexed off by Agent Granger…”  

“Which Agent Granger?” Sabrina snarked.  

Harry chuckled and replied, “Take your pick.”  

oo00OO00oo

Sabrina’s willingness to stay with the plan was severely tested when they returned to the main room and she took a second look at what she had originally assumed was a reproduction of one of Pissarro’s Kew Gardens masterpieces.   Harry’s willingness to stay with the plan was severely tested when they returned to the main room and Kelly casually asked him to help unzip her skimpy dress.   Secret Agent Potter tried to stay cool and not flinch at this request, thinking that a “real” James Bond-like secret agent shouldn’t blush like a hormonally-charged teen-ager.  Unfortunately, the lack of an observable bra strap as he pulled down the zipper didn’t help.   

Nor did the way that the dress slipped onto the floor, leaving the secret agent in only her knickers.  

“Still acting like you’re part of my harem, then?” he asked in an almost-breaking voice.  

Kelly smiled as she covered her bare breasts with one arm and turned towards the young wizard.  

“Sorry…but I hate wearing dresses, and I always try to stay in character.”  

“Watch it, Kelly,” Jill warned.  “His girlfriend outranks you.”  

“Pity, that,” the woman replied, waggling her eyebrows.  She then leaned down to her opened bag, pulled a skimpy t-shirt from the pile of packed clothes, and slipped it over her head.   

As Harry’s eyes drifted down the woman’s frame, he asked, “Dare I ask where you three hide your holsters?”  

Kelly laughed, and turned around to face the Queen’s Wizard.  She then lifted one leg, turned her knee outward, and said, “Probably the same place where your girlfriend hides hers.”  

Patriarch Potter risked a quick glance and was rewarded with a view of the secret agent’s magical holster… stuck high up her inner thigh, almost touching the crotch of her blue bikini-cut knickers.  

“Wally handed them out just before we met,” Jill added from across the room. “Said that the twin wizards who made them had wanted to see to the installation themselves.”  

“Yeah, that sounds like them,” Harry replied with a smile, noting that the other two Muggle secret agents had now opened their own bags.  But the clothes that were subsequently pulled from these cases were thrown aside in a quest to get to what was hidden underneath.  

While the three Muggle agents began to assemble broken-down sniper rifles and spotting scopes, Harry turned towards the two witches, whose dresses now also lay in a heap on the floor.  

“What are you doing?” he demanded.  

“Just getting comfortable, like she was,” Lavender replied, as she waved her arm towards Kelly in a motion that caused a fair bit of jiggling. “Not that it matters.”  

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Harry asked.

The blonde-haired witch smiled as she reached over and helped unhook Lisa’s bra.  “It doesn’t matter how much of me…or us…you see…or how much of you we see, because none of us are going to remember any of it once we leave this flat, right?”  

Harry closed his eyes, let out a deep breath, and shook his head.   

“The memory charms only work on guests…since I own this flat I’ll remember everything.”  

“Oh,” Lavender replied.  “I must have misheard during the briefing…give us a few seconds, then.”  

Harry nodded, and waited patiently for permission to open his eyes again.  But when that permission was granted the two witches were still topless, and just barely covering their breasts with their arms.  

“Lavender!” Harry growled, as he averted his eyes.  

“Alright you two…you’ve had your fun,” barked Secret Agent Jill. “Go pick out your bedrooms, cover your bits, and get back out here immediately.”  

The commanding tone in the Muggle agent’s voice acted just as well as any compulsion charm, and the two teen-agers dashed down the hallway with their bags in tow.   Harry resisted the temptation to check out his classmates’ bums, and turned back towards the other three.  As the women set their gear up on the balcony that overlooked Diagon Alley, he briefly reviewed Lucius Malfoy’s tenancy within the building, and the remote monitoring and internal security systems that were in place to keep him at bay.  

Once that topic was covered, Harry asked, “So that’s a sniper rifle?”  

Jill nodded. “It’s a L115A…the latest and greatest.”  

The Queen’s Wizard stepped forward for a closer look, totally ignoring the view that a hunched-over Kelly was offering down her shirt.  

“The latest and greatest sniper rifle uses a bolt action?” he asked.  

Jill snorted. 

“Thought you knew more about wands than rifles?”  

Harry opened his suit jacket and revealed his own hand gun, resting in a magical holster that sat flush against his chest. “Crash course in multi-tasking.”  

“So it seems,” Jill replied.  “As for the bolt-action…it allows us to manually control the release of empty cases.  There are times and places where the noise of an automatic case ejection would give away our location.”  

“Oh, that makes sense,” said Harry.  “How big a bullet?”  

“A .338,” Jill replied, as she pulled large bullets from a box and handed them over for the wizard’s inspection.  “Comes in three flavors…armor piercing, incendiary, and silver-tipped.”  

“Nice…so you can set targets on fire?”  

“Sets what’s left of the target on fire,” Sabrina stated, while she dropped her head to look through tripod-mounted digital binoculars.   

“Damn I hate this,” she added.  

“What?”  

“Not seeing with my eyes what we see through these electronic binoculars.”  

“They aren’t half as bad as this new digital scope,” chimed in Kelly, as she settled in behind the rifle’s sight.  “Still having trouble adjusting for the extra weight.”  

“Well that’s why they pay us all those pounds, girls,” Jill replied.   

This earned the woman a derisive laugh from the other two.  

“Cor, you know that we could all make more in one freelance contract than we get paid in annual salary.”  

“And miss out on the chance to serve in Her Majesty’s Secret Service?” Jill asked.  She winked at Harry and then added, “Not to mention the fact that the job lets us work with handsome young men in fabulously furnished flats.”  

“Oh, no…not you as well,” Harry replied.   

“Why not?” Jill asked with a grin.  

“Erm…because I outrank you, and so does my girlfriend?”  

“Yes, there is that,” Jill admitted with an overly-dramatic sigh.  “Of course, I could have just been lusting over the furniture.”  

“Who are you trying to kid, Jill?” asked Sabrina.  “I’ve sat on your flat’s ratty sofas, and know for a fact that you’d rather have one of those two girls sharing your bed than Harry.”  

“Although both Harry and his girlfriend might be a different matter,” chimed in Kelly with a laugh.  

“Oh hush, you two,” admonished Jill. “And stay on task.”  

“We’re done,” Kelly replied, as she stepped back from the rifle and grabbed her own pair of digital binoculars.  “So what do you think Sabrina…two hundred yards to the near side of the alley, and three to that big white building at the end?”  

“Sounds right to me,” the antiques-lover replied.  The two passed their binoculars back to Jill and Harry so that they could take a look.   

“Almost close enough to not need a spotter,” offered Jill, as she got her first “live” view of Diagon Alley.  

“So you’re set up to target Death Eaters if they attack the Alley again?” Harry asked.  

“That’s the mission at present time,” Jill replied.  

“But how can you be sure?” the Queen’s Wizard asked.  “There is a magic spell that could force innocent people to dress up that way and pretend to be a bad guy.”  

“Does it really matter if they’re shooting lethal spells at other innocents?” Sabrina asked.  

“Well…are you three good enough shots to target a wand hand, rather than a head?”  

The dismissive “Harruph!” from all three women was taken as a “Yes.”  

“But we’d still need to be able to tell one way or the other,” Kelly offered.  

Harry dropped the digital binoculars from his eyes and stared through the Alley’s notice-me-not wards.  He still had his modified omnioculars with him, but he really didn’t want to tie up Dobby full-time on a Dark Mark watch, like he did during the Garden Party.  Lisa and Lavender could take turns scouting for Death Eaters in the Alley, but giving Lavender a way to peek underneath a wizard’s robes seemed like a bad idea…until Harry realized that this was a case where the Rookery’s wards would work in his favor.  

The Queen’s Wizard turned and called for the two witches.  They bounced back into the main area wearing tight-fitting Muggle shorts and t-shirts.  

“Yes, Harry?” Lavender asked.  

“So, we were just talking about this mission,” Harry explained, “and I was wondering what you’ve been tasked with.”  

“We’re here to help these Muggles deal with a magical flat,” Lisa replied. 

“Which is about all we can do right now, given that we left our wands behind at Azkaban, and neither of us got a really good match from those spares that Hermione had for us to pick through.”  

Harry nodded.  “So what if I had an extra task for you two while you’re here?”  

Lavender shrugged. “Your wish is our command, milord.”  

“Oh, stop that,” Harry snapped, “and come on over here to the window.”  He then passed his omnioculars to Lisa, and explained his idea.  

After he was done, Lavender excitedly asked, “So, our new job is to stare at naked bits all day long?”  

“Your job is to look for Dark Marks under robes, and to pass that information on to the other three,” Harry corrected.  “Keep to the window, so as to avoid frying their electronics on the balcony.”  

“And if we happen to see some bits…unintentionally, of course?” asked Lisa.  

Harry nodded, and then smirked as Lavender fought to contain her pervy excitement.  

“Don’t get too worked up, girls,” Jill offered. “You’re going to forget anything that you see once you leave the building.”  

“Oh…yeah…good thing, that,” Lavender replied flatly.   

“So when do we start?” Lisa asked.   “No time like the present,” Jill replied.

“The three of us will be working in pairs using staggered shifts…sixteen hours on, eight off.  Only need one of you on duty, though, so you’ll have rotating twelve hour shifts.”  

“Unless Harry can round up one or two more volunteers for this bit watch,” Kelly snarked.  

“It’s up to you two,” Harry said, with a nod towards the teenaged witches.  “Want to share the watch and work shorter shifts?”  

Lisa and Lavender looked at each other, then turned back towards Harry and shook their heads.   “It might be rough, but I think we’re up for the challenge,” Lavender replied.  

“Right, let me know then,” said an amused wizard.  He left it to them to decide who had first watch, and made his way to the flat’s kitchen to see how well it was stocked.  While estimating how much food was available, he heard Lavender curse out loud.  He rushed back to the sitting room, and found her looking out the window with his magical spyglasses.   “What’s that, Lavender…a Death Eater?”  

“No, something worse…a hundred-year old wizard with a potbelly hiding his bits…was it too much to hope for something more pleasant to track?”  

“You’ll have to take the good with the bad, I guess,” said Harry.  

“Yes, I will,” Lavender replied coyly, as she swung her magically enhanced gaze away from the window.   Harry had barely enough time to cover the front of his robe-covered crotch with a book pulled from a nearby shelf.   

“Hey!” he protested.  

“Fine,” Lavender spat, as she lowered the omnioculars. 

“So Harry…making any shopping trips to the Alley any time soon?”  

“Not as far as you’ll remember,” he replied nervously.  

A badge call saved Harry from further embarrassment, and he jumped out of the apartment with the book still in place as a visual shield.  

Thirty seconds later, an electronic chirping noise caused Lavender to startle.   

“What’s that?”  

Jill rolled her eyes as she pulled out her mobile, and snorted when she read the text message that had just been delivered to it.  

“We’ve been issued plain spoken instructions by Agent Granger to keep our baps covered and our hands off of her boyfriend.  

“How plain spoken?” asked Kelly.  

Jill looked back down at her mobile display and replied, “Quite plain…says that we’ll be the test subjects of her modified ‘bit-bogey hex’ otherwise.”  

Lavender shook her head dismissively.  “Never heard of that one…now if she’d said bat-bogey hex…that’s a real spell...”  

“Could have been a typo?” offered Sabrina. “What’s a bat-bogey hex do?”  

“It enlarges nasal discharges, and transfigures those discharges into bats that fly out of your nostrils and attack your head,” Lisa stated.  

Jill frowned. “So if her threat wasn’t mistyped, and Agent Granger has modified that spell, then instead of having bats flying out of your nose, they would be coming out of your….”  

The draining of all color from Lisa’s and Lavender’s faces, and their reflexive knee clenching were more than sufficient responses to the question.    

oo00OO00oo  

Having ventured back out into public a second time and finally completed the task that had been assigned to him, Draco Malfoy slipped back into the Knockturn Alley safe house just a few seconds before the polyjuice potion wore off.  As he delivered the potions ingredient to his Godfather, the blonde-again wizard tried to decide which was worse…the leers and lewd comments he’d once again endured from the entrance guard, or the fact that the Death Eater hadn’t looked that much less interested once Draco had reverted to male form right before his eyes.   That kind of unwanted attention from other Death Eaters had never been a problem for Draco, given his father’s position within Voldemort’s Inner Circle.  But by now it was an open secret that Lucius Malfoy had somehow lost favor with the Dark Lord, and no longer had influence.  That meant that it was only his Godfather who stood between Draco and those Death Eaters who thought he had a pretty mouth…and that wasn’t quite the same thing.  

Draco tried to block all of this out of his mind as he escaped to his little corner of their cramped sleeping area and plopped down onto his assigned bed.  He wanted it all blocked because he wanted to focus on the fact that he actually did have a pretty mouth…and pretty bits…at least when he had been disguised as a female prostitute.   

It gave a teen-aged boy ideas…ideas that might have been put to use behind the drawn curtains of a poster bed, or a discrete notice-me-not charm.  But Draco didn’t enjoy that kind of privacy within the safe house…and he certainly wasn’t about to relieve his…urges…with other male Death Eaters around.   

“No,” the Malfoy scion thought, “I’ll slip out tonight and let a real girl satisfy those urges…now that there’s nobody patrolling Diagon Alley.”  

It would have to be Diagon Alley…the witches out and about in Knockturn Alley were all quite adept at protecting themselves against any kind of magical compulsion to spread their legs.  And if he couldn’t find a pretty witch in Diagon…well, there’d be at least one or two wizards there that he could assault.   Not to assault sexually, of course…he was no poofter.  It would be just a simple theft…to get enough galleons to return to Knockturn and properly hire a good-looking whore…a real witch with baps at least as large as his had just been.    

 

5:30pm, Balta Sound, Unst, Shetland Islands  
Had the Muggle crews of the three 33rd Squadron helicopters that had been scrambled from RAF Benson not previously transported Harry Potter and his TPOMS squadron, they might have been more curious as to why they had been ordered to fly to an abandoned air station in the Shetlands and to wait there for passengers.  

They also might have been more surprised when they spotted a motorbike flying towards them at a high rate of speed.  

Harry pulled his charmed Bonny up to a ground-level hover next to an opened hatchway.  

“Evening, Conan,” one of the pilots called out.  

The Queen’s Wizard smiled at the airman’s greeting, which he took to represent both the informality and acceptance that he’d sought during his short tenure within the British Military.  

“Haven’t been waiting long, I hope?”  

“Not at all, Major.”   

“That’s good…ready to get going, then?”  

“We’re under your wing, Conan…or handlebars, as it were.”  

Harry snorted.  “Right…we’ve got about five miles to cover, heading up the inlet.  Think you’ll be able to find a place to land?”  

The helicopter pilot laughed.  “On these treeless rocks?  Yeah, we’ll manage somehow.”  

“Fair enough,” Harry admitted.  “Don’t follow too close behind, or you’ll hit a ward line and develop a sudden desire to empty the trash bins back home…Oh, and don’t be thrown by the sudden appearance of your passengers, or how they’ll be dressed.”  

“How many, then?”  

“Forty-one, including myself.”  

“You won’t be leading us home on the Bonny, then?”  

Harry shook his head.  “Better I be back in one of the cabins…some of our guests have never flown in a helicopter.”   Picking up on the glint within the pilot’s eyes, the Queen’s Wizard quickly added, “And some of our guests are diplomatic V.I.P.’s, so ease off on the puke-producing joyrides, right?”  

The pilot snorted, and replied with a reluctant nod of the head.  

Five minutes later, the three helicopters touched down on a small uninhabited island that sat a hundred meters out into an inlet. Brisk winds held the attention of the pilots as their rotors spun, so it was up to the co-pilots and crew chiefs to gawk as Harry shrunk his motorbike, pocketed it, then walked into an open field and opened an invisible door.  Their interest in Harry’s magic quickly shifted over to the multiethnic stream of strangely dressed people that emerged from trap door, seemingly out of nowhere.    Aussies in slouch hats and khaki robes helped dark-skinned Swazi warriors stow their leather shields and spears into the cabin of the first helicopter. A half-dozen bare-footed and bare-chested Maori followed a team of blonde Norwegian wizards dressed in Muggle combat fatigues into the second.   And the Queen’s Wizard led the Supreme Mugwump, the Emperor’s Wizard, the King’s Wizard, and a mixed bag of magical North Americans into the third.   Coarsely-worded orders barked over comm systems brought the Muggle crews back on task as the portal for the Norsca Network’s Shetland Station disappeared behind the group of magicals.  The three helicopters gently lifted off, and headed on a southwesterly bearing towards the Orkneys…where their passengers could use portkeys without tripping the British Ministry of Magic’s frontier wards.  

 

oo00OO00oo  

7:00pm, Ministry of Magic, Fidelius-protected Location  
The select group of residual Ministry personnel who had been invited to dine in the Minister of Magic’s office were disappointed with the menu…most of them had assumed that a “working dinner” would involve better food than what was presently available within the house-elf-less cafeteria.  But it was not the case, since Scrimgeour was suffering just as much as they were from the absence of Ministry house-elves.  Of course, as secret keeper he was the one who might have been able to fix that problem, but Rufus was in no mood to stray outside of the Ministry’s confines to track down the house-elves until he had to…even with the amped-up glamour charm that actively hid his contract-cursed gnomish figure.   So it was stale biscuits and spell-warmed tins of canned meat that were shared as the group reviewed the present state of the Ministry.  

The skeleton staff and those family members who had been told the secrets and brought within the wards were focusing only on the most critical of services.  Staffing within the Ministry wards was tilted heavily towards the Magical Surveillance Office, the WWN, and guard duty.  Some thought this defensive stance was redundant, given the apparent robustness of the Fidelius charms that had been cast, but neither Scrimgeour nor his Senior Lackeys fully trusted the efficacy of the Dutch charms master’s work (especially once his contract had become void and they’d shrunk down and ballooned out into Kabouter-scale figures).   The Head Unspeakable was no more forthcoming about the status of the Department of Mysteries than normal…he insisted that he had sufficient staff to guard their secrets and left it at that. 

Given this reticence, Croaker wasn’t surprised when Scrimgeour asked him to remain once the meeting broke up.  

“So…enough people to guard your Department, but none to spare for the common defense?” asked Rufus.  

The Unspeakable shook his head.  “Not after this morning’s culling,” he replied.  “Lost many of my best witches and wizards…just because of their suddenly suspect heritage.”  

“Yes, well…given Potter’s influence and power within the Muggle world…”  

“Balanced against the years and years these Muggleborns and so-called half-bloods have spent within our world?” Croaker snapped.  “It’s crazy! Crazy, I tell you! It’s as if we’re doing the Death Eater’s dirty work for them!”  

“Now, now, it’s not that bad,” Scrimgeour insisted.  “We haven’t hurt them…or arrested them…and once this meeting in Carlisle is over and done with, and the ICW comes back on board, we can start to bring them back into the fold…”  

Croaker snorted.  “Right…there are a lot of assumptions within that timeline.”  

Scrimgeour shrugged his little shoulders, using a motion that was mirrored by his “normal” glamour charm-aided avatar.   “Speaking of timelines…how goes it with the Irish Annex?”  

The Unspeakable frowned.  “Slowly, given available staff…but we should have everything ready by tomorrow afternoon.”  

“Good,” replied Rufus.  He then pushed a scroll across the desk and added, “Here is the prioritized evacuation list.”  

The Head of the Department of Mysteries unrolled the scroll, scanned the order of names, and immediately protested.   “Where are my people on this list?”  

“Mostly not there, obviously…somebody has to stay back to guard all those mysterious secrets, right?”  

“And you can justify filling this list with family members…like Percy’s little sister…because…”  

“Because I’m the Minister of Magic?” Rufus calmly replied.  “There is a certain logic to it, you know…unless your people can come up with a way of moving all of your secrets with you.”  

“But…”  

“And there’s a certain advantage to your Unspeakable status, don’t you think?”  Rufus asked.  “If the worse happens, who could know what side your people were on?”  

“How about the Unspeakables that we’ve already kicked out?” Croaker scathingly replied.  

Rufus frowned.  “Yes, well…it would seem that the fixing of this problem is entirely in your hands.”  

“And how am I supposed to fix this?” Croaker asked, as he waved the scroll in front of the Minister.  

“Two ways come to mind,” replied Rufus.  “Either work to expand Annex capacity…or make sure that we don’t have need of it by fixing that damn Orb.”  

Croaker closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then accepted Scrimgeour’s dismissal.  While neither option sounded tenable, there were more than a few hours remaining before Carlisle.    And many more than that, should his staff’s efforts to repair at least one of their broken time turners bear fruit.  

 

oo00OO00oo  

9:30pm, Buckingham Palace, London

The black-haired teenager who wore Queen Wizard’s Robes over Parachute Regiment mess dress startled when a gentle hand roused him from an unscheduled nap.  

“Erm…what….Your Majesty?”  

The Queen shushed her Wizard.   “Relax, Gryffindor…no cause for alarm.”  

Harry shook the cobwebs away, and took in his surroundings.  He had been waiting for Hermione and her parents to arrive at Buckingham Palace, just as he had all those weeks before…waiting in the very same gold-trimmed room, sitting in the very same chair by the fire…and had apparently fallen asleep.  

The Queen’s Wizard sat up, and stretched as much as he dared stretch within the Queen’s presence.   “Is it time for dinner, then, Your Majesty?”  

“Well past, actually,” the Queen replied with a smile.  “But you were so tired; we thought it best to let you rest.”  

Harry frowned.  “Thank you…I apparently needed it…although…”  

The Queen saw through Harry’s confusion over her presence and smiled. 

“We decided to wake you in person, rather than risk your sudden appearance at the reception with a drawn sword and…slightly less clothing.”  

The well-dressed wizard blushed and shook his head.  

“I’m never going to be able to live that down, am I, Your Majesty?”  

The monarch’s eyes sparkled.  “Not a chance, Conan.”  

Harry choked off a snort, as he stood and walked with the Queen towards the same drawing room where Hermione and he had been created Knights Protectors of the Realm.  Along the way she provided a quick update on the negotiations between Her Government and the International Confederation of Wizards.  

Chairs were pushed back and the assembly of guests all rose to their feet when the Queen and Her Wizard were announced and entered the room.  The monarch nodded her recognition as Harry quickly scanned the crowd.   It looked to be a far friendlier audience, in his opinion, then the first time he'd been in that room.  Harry’s Aunt and Uncle were nowhere to be seen, although Hermione’s parents were there, dressed in their Order of Arthur kits.  Most of the other Order of Arthur members were there (Ron was not, as he was still out cold from the Draught of the Living Death). The TPOMS squadron was there as well, having been relieved of sentinel duty by the International “Advisors” that Harry had ushered in from the Shetlands.   The current Prime Minister and his wife had risked a return to London, and had been chatting amicably with his predecessor’s wife.  The lines of succession had also been risked a bit by this gathering, with both the Prince and his younger son in the room.  The latter was standing within a small, but powerful grouping that included the cricket-loving former Prime Minister, Gawain Robards, and the Japanese head of the ICW.  

Members of the Household staff were on hand to guide those who would now serve the Queen as her Magnum Concilium in front of the Monarch.  The Sword of Gryffindor was once again placed in the monarch’s gloved hand as she restored to service an advisory panel that, for now, was limited to just three members...Harry, Robards, and the former Prime Minister.  

Just how blurry the dividing line had become between the magical and mundane worlds was brought home to Harry as the Supreme Mugwump and other foreign witches and wizard stood in silent support while he swore the following oath:  

You do swear by Almighty God to be a true and faithful Servant unto The Queen’s Majesty as one of Her Majesty’s Magnum Concilium.  You will not know or understand of any manner of thing, whether magical or mundane, to be attempted, done or spoken against Her Majesty’s Person, Honour, Crown or Dignity Royal, but you will lett and withstand the same to the uttermost of your power, and either cause it to be revealed to Her Majesty Herself, or to such of Her Government as shall advertise Her Majesty of the same.  You will to your uttermost bear Faith and Allegiance to the Queen’s Majesty; and will assist and defend all civil and temporal Jurisdictions, Pre-eminences, and Authorities, granted to Her Majesty and annexed to the Crown either by Treaty or Acts of Parliament, or otherwise, against all Enemies, be they either Foreign or Domestic, Magical or Mundane.   And generally in all things you will do as a faithful and true Servant ought to do to Her Majesty. SO HELP YOU GOD.  

The room burst into applause when the Queen brought Harry to her side and presented her newly installed Lord High Steward for the first time.  He accepted both the title and applause with far more grace and poise than he might have earlier in the summer…until the Prince of Wales caught his eye with a wide smile and nine fingers raised in the air.  

“Oh, Bloody Hell!” the Queen’s Wizard whispered to himself.   Or at least tried to whisper to himself.  

“Something wrong, Gryffindor?” the Queen asked.  

“Erm, no…sorry, Your Majesty…The Prince was just reminding me that I now possess more titles than he does.”  

The monarch chuckled.  “We believe the both of you to be too modest, if it matters…”  

“Yes, Ma’am.”  

“And we remind you that your role as Lord High Steward is mainly ceremonial…at least until our meeting tomorrow at Carlisle?”  

“Yes, Your Majesty.”  

The extent of the Queen’s Wizard’s newfound authority was tested not fifteen minutes later, when Harry’s mobile chirped while he was glibly insisting (over drinks) that the Prince count up his ceremonial military commissions.  The young wizard excused himself, walked to a slightly quieter corner of the room, and held a brief conversation.  

The Prince watched the expression on Harry’s face turn far too serious for his liking.    The Norwegian King’s Wizard, who had spotted Harry’s movement, approached the Prince and asked, “What’s going on, Your Highness?”  

“Not quite sure,” the Prince replied.  He watched the Queen’s Wizard activate every ray on his Art Club badge, and then added, “But whatever it is warrants the involvement of the entire Order of Arthur.”  

More than just the King’s Wizard and Prince realized something was amiss when Hermione Granger suddenly disappeared with a pop.  That caught the attention of everyone in the room, and since “everyone” all had high level security clearances, the Queen’s Wizard decided just to make a general announcement.  

“If I can have everyone’s attention, please,” he called out. “A Death Eater has just been spotted in Diagon Alley. He hasn’t attacked anything or anyone, and there is no indication of any other enemy activity at this time, but…to be cautious…”  

The Queen’s voice carried over the responding din of noise, as whispered conversations broke out and chairs were pushed back.   “My Lord High Steward…how may we all be of assistance?”  

The room turned silent, as all eyes turned towards Harry Potter.  He tried to sort out needs and priorities on the fly.   “Well, first off…might be prudent, Your Majesty…Hermione just apparated back to the Bunker, and could serve as an anchor for a return trip to Balmoral?”  

“Makes sense, Your Majesty,” the Prince interjected, as he glanced towards his son on the other side of the room. “Lines of succession, and all that?”  

The Queen took in a deep breath, and then nodded. “We then leave the situation in your capable hands, Gryffindor…Mr. Wall…Miss Patil, your attendance?”  

Secret Agent Steve and On-duty Witch-in-Waiting Parvati Patil followed the Queen out of the room as everyone one else bowed and curtsied. This allowed the young witch to apparate and the other two to badge jump to Balmoral Castle without generating undue interest.   

The orderly evacuation of the Queen made it easy for those remaining to sort out where they were needed without too much prodding by her Wizard.  Harry did pull aside the former Prime Minister, Gawain Robards, and the Norwegian King’s Wizard (the designated ICW advisor to the Magnum Concilium), and led them towards MI-5 ¾’s auxiliary command post in the basement of Buckingham Palace.  

“Keep your wands in your pockets, if you can,” the Queen’s Wizard asked, as they entered the room.  “The electronics are rather touchy.”  

His three companions nodded in agreement (although only two actually had wands in their possession).   Harry walked up behind a Muggle agent that was sitting in front of a bank of monitors and clasped a hand on his shoulder.  

“Good evening, Scott.”  

“Good evening, Sir.”  

Harry pointed towards one specific screen and asked, “That’s the Rookery2 feed, right?”  

“Yes, Sir.”  

“Can you get me an open channel to our colleagues inside, then?”  

“Right away, Sir.”  

The Queen’s Wizard turned and pointed out a few of the Diagon Alley landmarks on the television monitor while the electronics operator pushed a few buttons.  

“Merlin!” Robards exclaimed. “How long have the Muggles been spying down upon us?”  

“Now, now, Gawain, mind the pronouns,” Harry replied with a grin. “We…and that includes you after that oath you just swore…we have had this equipment in place for a little while now.  It’s how we spotted the werewolves running during the attack on Fred and George’s shop last week.”  

“Line’s open, Sir,” the operator announced.  

“Thanks, Scott,” the Queen’s Wizard replied.  He then raised his voice and called out, “Hello Rookery…you there, Angels?”  

“Hello, Charlie,” one of the Muggle secret agents quipped.  

“Who’s Charlie?” asked a second female. “Could’ve sworn that was Harry’s voice.”  

“Muggle joke, Lavender,” Harry replied.  

“Oh…Hi Harry!”  

“Hello, Lavender…and before we get too much farther, I should let you know that I’ve got a few others here in the room listening in, including Head Auror Robards, and the former Muggle Prime Minister.”  

“Does that mean we can’t tease you…and talk dirty?” asked Lavender.  

“Depends on which former Prime Minister it is,” the men heard a third female voice mutter.  

“Wow, these microphones…they are so sensitive!” Harry quipped.  

“Oops.”  

“Right, then,” the Queen’s Wizard pushed on.  “We’re looking at the live feeds from Diagon right now…where’s the Death Eater?”  

“Draco just slipped behind where Fortesque’s used to be,” Lavender replied.  

“He just….wait…did you just say Draco, as in Draco Malfoy?”  

“The one…and only, thank Morgana,” Lavender quipped. “I’d recognize that ferret’s face and blonde hair anywhere…and if that wasn’t enough, his bits were miniscule.”  

“Too much information, Lav,” Harry whined. “Don’t want to know how you could identify him based on bit size.”  

“Oi, what do you think I am?” Lavender protested. “I wouldn’t touch that ponce’s pouch with a two-foot telescope…which is what you’d need to see them, by the way.”  

“Lavender!”  

“Just saying that it’s clear that Draco has been compensating all of these years,” the witch explained.  

“More to the point…did he have a Dark Mark?” asked Harry.  

“Oh yeah…that was much larger…easy enough to spot.”  

“So now that we’ve got that squared away…can anyone tell me what he’s done so far?”  

“Not much,” Jill replied. “He slipped out of Knockturn Alley about fifteen minutes ago…kept to the shadows…looked like he was waiting for someone.”  

“Has there been a lot of foot traffic?” Robards asked.  

“Negative,” replied Jill.  "Hasn’t been much at all since we’ve been set up here, and no one has been out since sunset.”  

“Not surprised, given the absence of Auror patrols,” Gawain noted.  

“Hold on…here’s someone just coming out of Gringott’s,” Jill announced.   

Harry and the other men in the command post squinted at the monitor display.  

“Your binoculars must be better than our cameras,” Harry announced.   

“Subject is a male, dressed in a hooded robe…maybe 190 centimeters tall…”  

“And six inches long…”  

“Lavender!”  

“Sorry.”  

“Sure you are…eyes up, and tell us if he’s marked…and I’m not talking about birthmarks, either!”  

“Yes, Harry,” the witch replied. “And no Harry…he doesn’t appear to have a Dark Mark.”  

“Right then…let’s see how this plays out.”  

By this point the image of the hooded wizard could be tracked on the remote monitor display.  The Queen’s Wizard and his colleagues watched as the pedestrian walked at a very quick pace away from Gringott’s and towards the camera.  Harry used this time to quickly brief in the former Prime Minister and King’s Wizard on Draco Malfoy’s rap sheet…a rap sheet that potentially grew longer when a red beam of light dropped the unmarked Wizard in a heap onto the street.  

“What happened?” the former Prime Minister asked. “Did we just witness a magical murder?”  

“Wrong color beam,” Harry replied. “Killing curse is green…that was more likely a stunner.”  

“To what end?”  

Draco Malfoy’s motives became clear when he darted out from behind the building, ran to the unconscious wizard’s position, and cut the victim’s money pouch off of his belt.  

“So it’s a simple robbery?” asked the former Prime Minister.  

“Looks that way,” the King’s Wizard announced.  “Not exactly a capital offense…pity, that.”  

“Might have to provide a bit of incentive, then,” Harry announced, as he activated his Art Club badge.  

“Fred?”  

“Yeah, Boss?”  

“You in your shop right now?”  

“Yeah…trying to get all the whiz bangs ready for tomorrow.”  

“That’s good….Draco Malfoy is in front of the ice cream parlour right now.  You up for bringing him down?”  

“Absolutely.”  

“Still got a few of those barbed balls lying about?”  

“Think so.”  

“Here’s what I want you to do, then…”  

After giving Fred his marching orders, and imploring him to keep himself safe, Harry spoke up to his disembodied all-female audience.   “Did you hear the plan, Rookery?”  

“Affirmative,” replied Jill.  

“Got the Death Eater target in your sights?”  

“For now...he’s heading towards Knockturn,” replied Secret Agent Sabrina.  

“Excellent,” replied Harry. 

“Just take care to remember, then, that the wand in his hand is a lethal weapon.”  

“Understood,” replied Jill.  “And your friend Fred….”   

“Is presently working for Her Majesty, and is attempting to keep Her Peace.”  

The former Prime Minister nodded, and then spoke up.   “And that means by any means necessary, Agent.”  

You could almost hear the snap to attention in her voice as the female MI-5 sniper replied, “Yes, Sir!”  

oo00OO00oo  

Severus Snape’s godson would have already been in the clear by now, had he been focused more on his safety and less on whether he now had enough galleons to hire a threesome.   And thus formed his undoing.

Still thirty feet away from turning the corner, the blonde-haired wizard heard a voice shout out.   “Draco Malfoy, you are violating The Queen’s Peace! Stop where you are, drop your wand and place your hands on your head!”  

The teen-aged wizard’s eyes went wide. “A Weasley?” he muttered. “This will be fun…”  

The blonde-haired Death Eater spun on his heels, crouched down into an attack stance, and raised his wand, all while quickly trying to decide whether to first taunt the red-haired Gryffindor, or cut to the chase and AK his sorry arse.  

The decision wasn’t quick enough.  

The left side of Draco’s skull caved in, struck by a high caliber, high-velocity bullet.    He was dead before his body hit the ground.  

“Sweet Merlin!” gasped Fred, as he watched the blood splatter.   With a dragonhide-gloved hand still on his Art Club badge, and ready to jump at Avada’s first syllable, the red-haired wizard began to walk towards the corpse.  

“Don’t dawdle, Fred,” ordered Harry, who had watched it all play out on CCTV.  “Don’t want you anywhere near that bullet wound if that other wizard wakes up, or somebody else crawls out of Knockturn Alley to investigate.”  

“Erm…Roger that, Boss,” the wizard weakly replied.   

When he got to the sprawled out body, the Weasley twin kicked Draco’s wand away from his hand. Only then did he move his own gloved-hand away from his badge…and only long enough to pull a barbed metal ball out of a shoulder pouch, and toss it towards Draco’s head.   There was more than enough blood on the Slytherin Prince’s face to activate the goblin-fashioned portkey, and the entire body disappeared.   And what had just happened…what he had just seen…was more than disturbing enough for Fred Weasley not to make a joke about having just delivered a take-away dinner to Fenrir Greyback.    He quickly grabbed Draco's wand and badge-jumped away…to anyplace other than Diagon Alley.  

Back in Buckingham Palace, the Queen’s Wizard announced “Good work, everyone,” with far too much steel in his voice for the liking of the Norwegian King’s Wizard.  

“Alright, there, Harry?”  

The Queen’s Wizard stared at the bank of monitors for a few more seconds, and then nodded his head and quietly replied…   “I ain’t got time to bleed.”  

The former Prime Minister frowned at this bit of Muggle movie dialogue.  

“Enough time for a drink, then…now that the threat has been neutralized?”  

Harry sighed.   “Yeah…I’ve got a bottle of the Prince’s favorite stashed upstairs in my Quarters…and there’s a scale model of Carlisle Castle…we could go over tomorrow’s plans over drinks. Guess we can…kill…two birds with one stone?”  

The former Prime Minister sucked in a deep breath, and then slowly let it out.  Patting the young man on the shoulder, he then declared, “We do what needs to be done, Gryffindor…only what needs to be done.”  

11:59pm, Carlisle Castle, Carlisle  
The Treaty of Carlisle designated the grassy fields nestled within the junction of the Rivers Eden and Caldwell as the place where signatory parties or their successors would meet, should any of those parties see need.  The choice was quite intentional, geographically speaking.    Carlisle was a Border Town, and its castle was originally a Roman fort and garrison that stood along Hadrian’s Wall.  The first “modern” stone fortifications, which dated back to the Eleventh Century, were raised less than ten miles from the Scottish border.  It was therefore considered to be as close to “neutral ground” as one could get, especially considering the history of feuding and attack in the first seven centuries after its construction.  

If there was anything curious about the choice, it was that the Treaty’s meeting fields were located just under the shadow of Carlisle Castle’s walls…a position of relative strength for the English monarch.  That advantage had been seized upon in the days leading up to the meeting.  The British Army had reclaimed the tourist attraction (which had served as the headquarters for an Army regiment up to 1959), and returned the castle to its original purpose.  Goblin-constructed wards now protected a garrison of three-hundred active duty troops, armed with both high-tech weapons, and lower-tech alternatives that were less likely to fail around magic.  

The fields identified by treaty were being closely monitored by these troops, using the same kind of digital cameras and electronic monitoring equipment that proved useful at Edinburgh and Salisbury.  They didn’t know what they were looking for in this area, which now hosted two football fields and the local cricket pitch, but had been told that they would know once they saw it.   

That prediction came true at the stroke of midnight, when a dense fog spilled up and over the banks of the two rivers, and a powerful wave of magic washed up and over the castle walls.    The wailing of a World War II-era hand-cranked siren (pulled from the Regimental museum for just this eventually) brought the castle to life…and interrupted a therapeutic hot-tub consoling session inside of a magical tent that had been pitched in the Castle’s Inner Bailey.  

“Damn it, what now?” Harry complained, as he reached over the wooden tub’s edge for his Art Club badge.   “Wally?”  

“Hey, Harry…looks like a pulse of magical energy just hit your location…knocked out every camera and electronic sensor on the ground.”  

“We’re under attack?” asked the Queen’s Wizard, while his girlfriend and he stepped out of the water and dried themselves off with charmed bathrobes robes.  

“No signs of one at the moment,” replied Wally. “Still have raw video footage from the drone-mounted camera that is patrolling over your heads. “But hard to say, actually…there is a dense fog that has formed on the meeting fields…our infrared cameras should be able to penetrate…but can’t, for some reason.”  

“Roger that, Wally…we’ll check it out."  

Harry and Hermione quickly donned black fatigues trimmed with Potter plaid, which identified them as loyal wand-wielders.  Dobby popped into the tent and provided them with night-vision goggles and digital binoculars that he had retrieved from an EMP-hardened cache inside the Round Tower.  The two teenagers ran up to the castle’s walls with that equipment, and arrived just in time to see the fog retreat back towards the river banks…and to stare in wonder at what the fog had left behind.  

A megalithic stone circle had been raised in the middle of the Treaty’s meeting fields, and, on the far side of those fields…a magical full-scale counterpart to Carlisle Castle now stood.

 

Previous Knight Protectors of the Realm, Part 1 Knight Protectors of the Realm, Part 2 Queen's Wizard, Part 1 Queen's Wizard, Part 2 Senior Advisor, Part 1 Senior Advisor, Part 2 Officer and Gentleman, Part 1 Officer and Gentleman, Part 2 Special Ambassador, Part 1 Special Ambassador, Part 2 Lord High Steward, Part 1 Lord High Steward, Part 2 Ch 45: Ringa Pakia Next