Harry Potter and the Color of Magic by Chardvignon

Rating: PG
Genres: Humor, Mystery
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 07/01/2007
Last Updated: 09/02/2007
Status: Completed

Harry Potter and Discworld Crossover! After defeating Voldemort, Harry Potter has survived and
fulfilled his ambition to become an Auror. But after a raid that backfired spectacularly, Head
Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt thinks Harry needs training to think like a copper. The one man who can
do the job? Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch. ---- ADDED BY FIC ADMIN gal-texter
on Jan 2009: click here for link to completed version:
http://recs.portkey.org/includes/view_rec_details.php?rec_id=2167




1. Disclaimer and Author's Notes
--------------------------------



**Disclaimer**

For those of you who wish to skip directly to the fic, all you need to know is that no attempt
is made to usurp or disparage the properties of J.K. Rowling or Terry Pratchett, or their
respective publishers. Characters, events and places from “Harry Potter” and “Discworld,” belong to
J.K. Rowling and Terry Pratchett, and their worldwide distribution partners, respectively.

**Summary**

This fan fiction posits a post-Voldemort world in which Harry has survived, vanquished
Voldemort, and succeeded in his quest to become an Auror. However, his new boss, Kingsley
Shacklebolt, is less than pleased with his progress so far. When he manages to succeed -
haphazardly - in his latest assignment, Kingsley decides to send him for additional training to the
only man he can trust - Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch.

**Important Note that May Interest only Me**

This story originated at FFN.net, which was the first fan fiction site I became aware of, coming
to this genre somewhat after everyone else. I lurked for a long time before I decided to write my
own story, and the impetus for HP&COM was an article I read one day on the BBC website, in
which author Terry Pratchett (of *Discworld* fame) blasted J.K. Rowling for “being elevated at
the expense of other writers.”

I was greviously distressed at this, not just because both Pratchett and Rowling are two of my
favorite authors. The tenor of the interview (located under the Entertainment link of the BBC News
website) appears to be that of a reaction from Pratchett to an interview that Rowling did with
*Time* magazine, in which the article claimed Rowling has “reinvigorated the world of
fantasy.” Pratchett, in the BBC article, retorts that the genre has always been “edgy and
inventive,” without Rowling's help.

Thought provoking stuff, indeed, and his comment did smack to me of a bit of “me, too!” on the
part of Pratchett. This bothered me, since I can think of few writers of the past decade who have
been as successful - and less in need of elevation - as Pratchett, who has had his own work
translated into comics, stage plays, and other media. Between the two of them, Pratchett and
Rowling represent two of the most successful British writers within any genre today, but fantasy is
also blessed by the work of Graham Taylor, Eoin Colfer, Philip Pullman, Neil Gaiman, Iain M. Banks,
and the many other active British writers who have done much to stir interest in the genre.

Pratchett did retract his comment - sometime later, I think in the US with the release of Thud!
- that his comment had been taken out of context, and he only meant that Rowling was one of many
writers who should all received credit for reviving worldwide interest in fantasy/science fiction.
Regardless, by then I was about half-way through my writing.

Neil Gaiman also pointed out in an interview (a link to which is posted on Mr. Gaiman's
website), that neither he nor J.K. Rowling were the first writers to invent a boy wizard - Gaiman
did so with Tim Duncan in his *Books of Magic* series - and neither he nor Rowling were the
first to have a boy wizard who was sent to a magic school, turned out to a precocious, powerful
wizard, and had all sorts of (mis)adventures.

So who gets credit for the Harry Potter archtype, or the meme behind the story?

Some researchers point to Eleanor Estes as the first to use this a boy wizard in school, from
her book *The Witch Family* from 1960, which pre-dates Ursula K. LeGuin's *Earthsea*
trilogy by nearly 10 years. However, variants on this theme can be traced all the way back to the
famous *Xiyuji*, a fictional account of a very real event, the journey of the monk Xuanzang to
India to obtain the *sanzang*, or Tripitaka, which are the sacred “three baskets of wisdom” of
Buddhism, and are sometimes referred to as the Buddhist bible. Xuanzang's published accounts of
his journey - and his journey's journey into mythology - was completed before 700 A.D.

The *Xiyuji* is a fantasy work in which the monk is accompanied by the much more memorably
character the Monkey King, Sun WuKong, whose mischievous magical powers both assists and sometimes
hinders the party on their way to India. As a Sinologist, I have read variants of the Xi Yu Ji and
spinoff stories - some dating from the 9th century AD - which clearly presage the Harry
Potter concept. However one wishes to examine this genre from a `purity' perspective, it is
clear that the story arc of boy wizard in school has been around for a very, very long time
indeed.

Where I think Pratchett has a more important - and to be frank rather more disturbing - point
has to do with the concept that `fantasy' had died, and Ms. Rowling invigorated it. Growing up
in the 70s and 80s, I do remember a point, post-Tolkien, where the good fantasy *did* in fact
stop. Oh, of course, there were other writers to pick up; Mervyn Peake, for example, or if one
wished to go back further, Dunsany, Chesterton, etc. I briefly looked into Piers Anthony's
work, and found it very witty but not as fulfilling as Pratchett, then got lost briefly in Carter
as the interest in spells faded and swords increased, and finally landed on H.P. Lovecraft when I
had seen enough death to appreciate it.

But for all of those writers - many of whom were prolific - the worlds did stop in the 70s and
80s. Maybe it was because the end of the Cold War meant we were turning our attention to the stars
- but science fiction, to me, was pretty lousy at that point too, and George Lucas and Spielberg
aside, there wasn't much to look at (or read). Star Trek: The Next Generation had not yet been
opted for a pilot, and Banks - who in my humble opinion is the best writer working in sci fi today
- wasn't even at uni at that time. Spider Robinson, of course, was doing a lot of work, but
I'm basing this primary on British fantasy fiction. Where was it?

In recent discussion on this topic with some of my other friends (all of whom write on at least
a semi-professional level, that is, more often that I do), we could not pin-point what it was that
left us cold about the fantasy/science fiction worlds during this period. Maybe it was just Reagan.
But that's to simplify a much more worrisome problem: just what in god's name happened to
our imagination in this period? One of my writing friends has discussed the issue of `feeding his
muse' which seemed to go hungry for a bit; certainly part of my aim in writing fanfiction is to
feed my own, see where it goes, and (hopefully) spawn further discussion. (After all, someone has
to consume the output of Loretto, Ky., and it may as well be myself and like-minded denizens.)

So I return to my opening point; Pratchett's comments notwithstanding, we've abundance
of good writing at the present time, and whether J.K. Rowling is responsible for that or not (and
probably not, in my thinking), we should appreciate what we have. The media simplifies these
complicated things because they can't be bothered to write the real stories that would force us
to think unpleasant thoughts. (I get to say this as a card-carrying member of the media
establishment, a Press Club member to boot.) No, Rowling didn't revitalize the genre
single-handedly; she happened to step in at a time when more people were reading fantasy again, and
her success allowed the media - in all of its immediate gratification glory - to seize upon her as
a savior, when in fact she was riding a wave that had already gotten to be quite sizable by the
time Bloomsbury accepted her manuscript. Let's face it; Bloomsbury didn't buy Harry Potter
out of the kindness of their hearts. They bought it because they felt there was a groundswell of
interest, and they needed a big hit that would keep them competitive. The fact that Harry Potter
did better than, say, Artemis Fowl or A Series of Unfortunate Events, may be more due to marketing
and timing.

Whatever you think, I began writing this fic as a sort of `truce' in my own mind between
Pratchett and Rowling. There's no need to get your bloomers in a twist, everyone. Settle down,
draw up a glass of your favorite beverage (particularly if it comes from Loretto, Ky.), adjust your
light accordingly, crack open the books (all of them, preferable) and give your inner muse some
fodder.

In Pratchett's follow-up, he claimed he had meant was that the media seemed fixated on
Rowling to the exclusion of other fine authors, namely Pullman, Coifer, et al. I am not certain
about either incident (since of course I wasn't there and have to rely on the printed
interview), but ultimately, it doesn't matter what Pratchett thought - Rowling, notably, has
not taken the bait of discussion. I see the argument as akin to the camps of who likes the Beatles
and who likes the Rolling Stones - at the end of the day, it's all music, and generally, fans
purchase across authors, not to the exclusion of one.

And finally … if you think you've got something to share with the world, don't worry
about getting flamed that you're hogging the spotlight. Start here, if you wish, and see where
it takes you.

**Chardvignon.**

**Supplementary Notes for Portkey Readers**

Following advice and reviews from FFN, minor modifications have been made to the story
throughout, mostly from a Discworld point-of-view. The story takes place the summer after
*Thud!*. Science of Discworld is not necessary reading, but the wizards at Unseen University
and Hex will retain their powers and job titles from the *SoD* series (recognizing that it is
not purely canon). We are post *SoD III* by about six months.

-->



2. A Ticket to the Boneyard
---------------------------



**A/N Please read the full disclosures in Chapter One.**

**A Ticket to the Boneyard**

*I should have known*, Harry Potter thought, *that* *it was not* *going to be
my day*.

In fact, it could not be called *anyone's* day.

Harry was certain he had locked the back door using the *colloportus* charm; there should
have been no way that anyone got through it. That left only one way out, the front door, and he had
entered through the front by himself.

It was true, undoubtedly, that he was too early. He had forgotten to set his watch back on
returning from France yesterday, and so he thought he was running 30 minutes late, instead of in
fact being 30 minutes too early. Owing to that, his colleagues had not gotten themselves into
position, and so when he went in the front, they were not there to cover anyone who was running
out.

The Auror squad had expected to raid this shop to find out who was selling *phellus* venom,
a Class-A non-tradable substance, used by some delinquent wizards as a cheap high. Fred and George
Weasley had heard rumors through a supplier it might be coming from Brighton, and so here they all
were. But when he informed the 10 occupants of the Cauldron and Crusher that this was an
Auror's raid, they laughed, and let him look through the entire premises - meaning he saw, at
that point, he had arrived too early, and the deal hadn't yet gone down. However, just before
leaving, he spotted two of the shop keepers about to hex him. Harry ducked most of the hexes before
immobilizing the few remaining staff, before he got hit with a nasty jinx in the back from one of
the customers. Everyone else had fled out the front - unhindered - as the spells started flying,
and rushed to a waiting lorry.

However, one customer somehow made it through the back door - which Harry swore he had locked
tighter than Umbridge's … well, look, tightly, okay?

Seeing a group of villains dash into a waiting van, Harry shot a series of fireballs at it while
it was driving off madly. His shot put out its rear tire, and caused it to crash, which had the
added advantage of stunning most of the passengers (all of whom lived through their injuries) and
getting quite a nice load of *phellus* to drop out the back, producing the evidence they
needed.

Unfortunately, one of the fireballs missed the van entirely, and struck the gas main to the set
of flats next the road.

The resulting fireball singed off Harry's eyebrows and caused enough property damage to
require Harry and his colleagues - who had by now arrived and were trying to figure out just how
Harry had managed this - to need to spend almost four hours *obliviating* the memory of the
muggles, none of whom were injured, but all of whom suddenly recalled that the van had struck the
gas main when the driver negligently crashed into the wall.

“Must'a bloody been a drunk,” said one to the reporters from ITV who happened to show up and
film the conflagration.

All of which had led Harry - after a good hour in the Auror's trauma center, hidden in a
secret recess of the Ministry of Magic - to his current meeting with his boss, Kingsley
Shacklebolt, head of the Auror Division.

“How in the name of Merlin did you defeat Tom Riddle, Harry? A first-year trainee would have
better success than you in most of your cases,” Shacklebolt fumed.

Harry blushed and looked down, in part because he felt that Shacklebolt had a point. Some of the
routine of being an Auror was vital, and Harry wasn't that great at it. *I wonder if I should
have listened more closely to* *Hermione* *all those years in Hogwarts*, he thought
glumly.

“You listening to me, Potter?” Shacklebolt growled.

“Sir. Yes, Sir,” Harry said, staring straight at his feet.

“Sit down, Potter,” Shacklebolt said, sliding open his desk drawer. He took out a bottle of
firewhiskey that was about half full, and splashed out two generous measures and curtly pushed one
at Harry. Harry drank down a small sip. Kingsley drank down a large one.

“What the hell are we going to do with you, Potter? You're the greatest spellcaster I've
known since Dumbledore. I mean, you can do things with a wand, that damn it, you aren't
*supposed* to be able to do. But when it comes to being an Auror …

“Harry, being an Auror is sort of like a combination of being a police officer, a soldier, a
spy, and a politician. You have to be able to see some balance. You can't just go blasting in,
and you also have to follow the rules.”

“I understand, sir.” Harry said.

“No, Harry you really don't. Not that I think that's a bad thing, mind. But you need to
learn, all over again,” Shacklebolt said.

“You're not going to make me run through the training program again, are you sir?” Harry
shuddered.

“No,” Shacklebolt said. “I think that our training program is too inadequate for someone such as
you. So I'm going to send you on secondment to someone who I think can train you. You'll
leave in three days, and spend no less than three months working as a watchman in the city I'm
sending you.”

Shacklebolt reached back into the recesses of his desk and picked out a giant sealed manila
folder, which he tossed to Harry. “You'll find a portkey inside - shaped like a pen - and a
full dossier of information, along with a personal letter than you will need to take to your
temporary commanding officer. Under no circumstances are you to reveal where you are from to
anyone, although the commander has been briefed on you. Understood?”

Harry knew that tone very well, and got to his feet. He drained the glass of firewhisky and
picked up the dossier. “Understood, sir.”

“Dismissed, Potter.”

Harry walked out of the office, and back to his own office in the Ministry of Magic. He closed
the roll-top on his desk, picked up a small package on his chair, and walked to the Ministry Lobby.
He placed his day tag in the familiar slot.

“Night, there, Mr. Potter,” called Edgid Froom, the night guard.

“Night,” said Harry, wearily, and went to the apparition point to apparate back to his flat.

He arrived in his front hallway and set things down on the table. Hermione Granger walked in
from the sitting room and eyed him carefully. “Tough day, love?” she asked, walking in and planting
a kiss on his cheek.

“You have no idea,” Harry said, embracing her.

“Well, give me one, then,” Hermione said.

“I have to leave in three days to do a 90-day secondment outside of London,” Harry said.

“*What*?” Hermoine said, feeling as if she had just received a blow. “Where?”

“Generally we say, `who, when and why,' after that,” Harry said, dejected but still trying
for humor. He tore open the envelope, and found a sealed letter with the Ministry of Magic
stamp.

*Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch*

*Pseudopolis Yard*

*Brass Bridge Lane*

*Central, Ankh-Morpork, DW*

“Ankh-Morpork, wherever that is,” Harry said.

“I've got a *bad* feeling about this,” Hermione said.

-->



3. Hope to Die
--------------



**A/N Please review the summary and disclaimers in Chapter One.**

**Hope to Die**

As was usual, Harry was up first, and had the coffee brewed before Hermione was fully awake.
Despite the fact that he could transfigure or glamour a cup in seconds with magic, he felt that it
never had the taste the real stuff did.

True to his morning ritual, he had spread out the file Shacklebolt had given him the night
before, and was leafing through its contents. He had already found the Portkey, kept in a separate
envelope with a date and time printed on it. This he had set aside, along with a letter addressed
to the Commander Sir Samuel Vimes.

*Royalty for a cop*, Harry thought. *Wonder when we'll see that in the
Ministry.*

Accompanying the packet was a large fold-out map, and three separate packets. Unusually, they
were extremely lengthy and detailed. Shacklebolt must have used a shrinking charm on them to fit
them inside the envelope since each one had nearly 100 pages. With the uncomfortable feeling that
he was revising for an exam, Harry read the titles on each report.

*Discworld - Current Politics and Important Movements*
 *Discworld - State of the Magical Art
Discworld (Ankh-Morpork) - Current Dealings with Earth (Roundworld)*

Harry wasn't sure which to open first, so he picked up the one on magic art, and turned the
first page.

Contents Updated - June 15, 2007.

*That's yesterday,* Harry noted.

Discworld - Current Location - A'Tuin is heading towards Sol via Antibes at apogee mk. -42
vel. 6.31 light years. Will rendezvous with Earth on this course in 1,387 earth years at present
velocity. Will not come into visual telescope range for 682 years. A'tuin appears to be
maintaining his anti-radio telescope shield as we have no indications Hubble has photographed
A'tuin, despite muggles now possessing photographs of his location.

Magic clusters - Magic is falling off the disc at a rate of 789,000 thaums per day. This appears
well within normal tolerance. Minor magic charges appear from time to time; recently two small
Kuiper Belt Objects (tentatively identified as NASA 2003.293BH4921 and NASA 2003.293BH4922) were
transfigured into a pot of flowers and a blue whale, which appear to have promptly crashed into a
neighboring planetoid. Despite this, and unconfirmed reports of Cohen the Barbarian moving towards
the hub, magic appears to be normal.

Discworld remains an intensely magical world in which *small* disturbances can have
extremely *large* echoes. Cf. `Origins of Discworld, with Some Observations on
Roundworld,' by Ministry Unspeakables I. Cohen and J. Stewart. Wizards at Unseen University,
with supplementary evidence from the History Monks, have long been aware that thaumic breakdown is
only prevented by continuing belief and evolution. Spell work remains non-wandless for the most
part, as a wand is such a powerful item that it becomes inherently unstable. Ultra-humans do not
seem to possess magic powers although some reports of Eldritch or preternatural surge appears to be
common …

Harry was totally beguiled. What the *hell* was Shacklebolt doing? And *where* the
hell was this? Heading towards Sol via Antibes … Harry had been pretty bad at Astronomy, but
wasn't that … in outer space?

The door opened and Hermione came in. “Mmph,” she said as she poured herself a cup of coffee,
and took a long swig of it. “Oh, that's good,” she said. “Instant human.”

She looked down at the paperwork on their kitchen table and sighed. She had hoped to have this
conversation yesterday, after dinner, when she would be at her best. But a glance at Harry after
they had washed up told her that it wouldn't happen. He had been very moody, and seemed to not
wish to talk about anything, which wasn't surprising. *He must think he's headed out to
Ireland or the U.S. or somewhere, and won't be easily back on weekends, but he can call me or
maybe I can come over for a weekend*, she thought. *He doesn't even know where he's
going*.

But Hermione did.

Discworld was certainly an advanced topic, but anyone who sat NEWT-level Arithmancy and read the
more obscure spell research journals would be drawn to it as a topic like moth to flame. Hermione
had read virtually every article she could find on Discworld, and even participated in a conference
with Professor Vector on the subject, where she presented a short paper. It turned out, as she had
met a senior wizard from Discworld at the conference - he styled himself `wizzard,' she
recalled - that most of her conclusions were wrong, but that, to her, made it all the more
fascinating.

She *so* could have talked about this last night. Prepared him. Helped him. But when he got
so moody, her maternal hormones kicked in and she wanted to squeeze every last bit of sadness out
of him. To comfort him and love him. It was a role she had played since he had defeated Voldemort,
more than five years ago, when he was 18.

Since then - and in particular to help stave off the nightmares - they had been sleeping
together. They weren't married, yet, which was no end of a shock to Molly Weasley - but they
had something, and she wasn't willing to jeopardize her relationship for the sake of
conformity. And it wasn't as if her parents cared; so far as Hermione's mother and father
were concerned, they were already as good as married, and Hermione's mother had begun dropping
hints about grandchildren.

He still didn't sleep well. She tried, but she knew it was tough on him. She quietly walked
behind him and leaned into him, and Harry absently reached up to stroke her.

“Morning, love,” Harry said. “Sleep well?”

“Like always,” Hermione said, taking another sip of coffee. “Sweetheart?” she asked.

“Yes?” Harry said. Living with another person as long as he had meant you learned what the tone
meant, quickly. It meant he was going to give in to a Hermione request, even if he didn't like
it.

“I want you to do something for me,” Hermione said.

“Yes, I knew that much,” Harry said.

“I want you to finish reading all of this material this morning, and then take it with you and
see Professor Vector and Headmistress McGonagall to discuss it today, please,” Hermione said.

“Huh?” Harry asked. *Vector*, he thought. *I can barely even remember what she looks
like. We may have exchanged one sentence in seven years*.

“Harry … you never took arithmancy,” Hermione began. “If you had, you would have learned about
Discworld. It's an entire planet that is held together solely by magic. Ankh-Morpork is one of
the principal cities on the disc. That's where you're being sent. You clearly don't
understand a lot about it, and they might be able to help you prepare for going there.”

Harry was befuddled. “You *knew*! You knew last night! Why didn't you tell me?”

Hermione sighed. “Sweetie, I would have, but last night you were flashing me that prickly `I
don't want anyone close to me' look and when I see it, I just want to hold you and keep you
safe. I could see you weren't really in a mood to talk about it. So this is the first
opportunity I've gotten.

“Now listen, Harry, please, do this for me, will you? I know you have been given this as an
assignment, and I know you are conscientious enough to carry it out. Please just give me the
knowledge you are going to try and prepare fully?”

Harry felt he couldn't argue with that. “Okay, I'll owl them today, and see if I can get
to see them in the next day or so. I've been given the time off to prepare for the trip,
anyway.”

Hermione paused. He was *so* not going to like this. “They're expecting you today,” she
said. “I sent an express owl after you went to sleep. They will see you in McGonagall's office
at 2:15 p.m.”

“You did that without even asking me?” Harry said, angrily. “Hermione, how could you?”

“Harry, please, there is … a lot I know about this you don't yet. For one thing, you do not
yet appreciate just how dangerous this is likely to be, and I do not want to risk losing you. I
will do everything I can to get you prepared to go, it's all I can do - but don't be angry
at me because I love you!” Hermione grabbed him into a hug.

“I - I'm sorry Hermione, I didn't realize how much you seem to care about this,” Harry
said. “Of course if this is important to you I'll do it. And you're right - I don't
know much about this Ankh-Morpork and if McGonagall and Vector can help me, I'm certainly happy
to call on their services. I don't know how dangerous it could be, though - I'm sure
Shacklebolt wouldn't have made me do this if it wasn't safe.”

Hermione beamed. “Oh, thank you Harry! Now I have to get ready for work, I'm pulling a
double shift today, so I'll be home very late, and don't wait up.” She worked in the
theoretical and technical section of the St. Mungo's Spell Damage and Curse Lifting department,
mainly trying to push the envelope of magic in the hopes for finding cures for those who lives were
permanently affected by magic.

“I thought you didn't have the double shift until Friday,” Harry said.

“I switched so that I can take all day tomorrow off,” Hermione said. “I intend to spend it with
you. Alone. In bed. Think about that if you need something to keep you going.” She kissed him on
his scar and walked to the bedroom to change, as Harry flushed with anticipation.

He refilled his coffee mug, and began to go through the dossiers in earnest. Presently Hermione
left, and reminded him of his appointment. Harry managed to finish reading all three documents, and
glance at the map a few times before lunch, for which he drank a quick cup of soup.

At ten minutes past two, he carefully replaced his documents, picked up a fresh notebook and a
new pen (muggle writing implements were an Auror's best friend) and walked to the fireplace. He
picked up a small pinch of floo powder and said quite clearly, “Hogwarts.”

He stepped out of a fireplace, and came face to face with Albus Dumbledore.

“Hello, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, his blue eyes twinkling with merriment.

-->



4. Eight Million Ways to Die
----------------------------



**A/N Please read the full disclosures in Chapter One.**

**EIGHT MILLION WAYS TO DIE**

Stepping completely into the room, Harry brought himself upright in front of the picture of
Albus Dumbledore, which had been hung in Headmistress McGonagall's office since the headmaster
had died at the end of his sixth year. Like many of the portraits of former headmasters (and
mistresses), it contained a glamor of Albus Dumbledore, that existed to offer support and guidance
to the current Hogwarts headmaster. Although Harry had gotten used to talking portraits - after
all, the picture of Phineas Nigellus had been moved from Grimmauld Place to his current flat that
he shared with Hermione Granger, in the event he needed to contact someone at Hogwarts urgently -
but his personal relationship with the Headmaster always made his heart leap into his throat when
he faced the picture.

“Hello, Headmaster,” Harry said quietly.

“Really, Harry, you can just call me Albus,” the portrait replied, merrily. “Lemon drop? Oh, I
quite forget that Minerva is not as fond of them as I was. I think you'll find some Bertie
Bott's Every Flavor Beans on her desk, though as you may recall, I never seemed to get ones I
quite enjoyed.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” Harry, said, quietly again. Waves of sorrow hit him every time he saw the
painting, even though he was pretty much over most of the events of the defeat of Voldemort.

“Now, Albus, don't patronize Mr. Potter, and you really should ask before you give away my
candy,” came a familiar Scotch voice as McGonagall walked up to Harry. Behind her was Professor
Vector. Harry began to vaguely remember her from many Hogwarts banquets, though he had never really
gotten to know the arithmancy and ancient runes professor.

“Good day, Headmistress, Professor,” said Harry. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short
notice.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Potter,” Ms. Vector said. “Always a pleasure. Particularly for one who has the
opportunity you are going to have.”

“Please, let's all sit down,” McGonagall said. “Would you care for tea, Harry?”

“Please,” said Harry and she waved her hand. A tea set and biscuits appeared. From behind them,
Dumbledore coughed gently.

“Yes, Albus?” she said softly.

“Just a quick word, and then I'll be off to visit another painting, Minerva. I think it will
be easier if I am not here while you are talking to Harry. Of course, should you need me, you only
need call,” Dumbledore said.

“Really, headmaster, I think you can stay,” Harry said.

“No, Harry, I think it is better you listen to Minerva and Ms. Vector now,” Dumbledore said. “My
own experiences on Discworld might prejudice your views, and I think you need to see clearly with
your own eyes right now. I wish I could offer you better counsel, but of course, I am quite dead,
and you are only talking to an image with a limited facility for advice. Good day. I am sure I will
see you before you leave,” and with that he strolled out past the frame whistling.

“I wonder where he goes,” Harry said aloud.

“Albus claims to have seven portraits in total, though I know of only six of them, including
this one,” Minerva said. “Regardless, Harry, our time is short given what we need to cover. We
should begin immediately. Professor Vector?”

The arithmancy professor had been quietly waiting for her cue, and took it at once.

“Harry, before you came to Hogwarts, what kind of a student were you in muggle mathematics?” she
asked.

“Well, just average, I guess,” Harry replied.

“No calculus? Matrix or combinatrics? All of these should be covered in most muggle
curriculums,” Vector said.

“No, I never got there,” Harry said. “Geometry, algebra, some trig, that was it.”

“I see,” she said, her face a mask. “Have you ever read about chaos theory or quantum
mechanics?”

“Umm … I think Hermione's talked about it once,” Harry replied.

“Right,” she said. “What do you know of Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity?”

“That's … that's … E=MC2, I think,” Harry said. “Energy equals matter times
the speed of light, squared.”

“Excellent, Mr. Potter! What does that mean in plain English?” Vector beamed.

“Err … I've got no idea,” Harry said, miserably. His two former professors must have been
very disappointed in him. He felt horrible. *Why couldn't they have sent Hermione
instead*, he thought.

Then an even worse thought ran through his head: *If I need to know all this, I'll never
be an Auror*.

McGonagall, however, was smiling. “I told you he'd be perfect,” she said.

“Flawless,” agreed Vector.

Harry blinked. “Excuse me?” *You mean I'm* not *in trouble for not knowing something,
for once* he thought.

“We are pleased, Harry, that you come to us pure and unbesmirched with prejudicial thoughts on
how science works,” McGonagall said, sipping her tea. “That will make this *much* easier.”

“Indeed,” Vector said. “We had to unlearn quite a bit of Hermione's knowledge before we
could do anything with her,” the professor said, smiling.

“Let me begin, Harry, by explaining a bit about where we are,” McGonagall said. “Right now, we
are on planet Earth, which is the third planet from the largest yellow star in our particular
galaxy. So far as we know, there is no other planet in our particular galaxy which can support
carbon-based bipedal life forms, which is what we are. Muggle scientists believe that our planet
has been in existence for about four and a half billion years, and that we humans have existed for
about 20,000 years on this planet.

“Within that system - an understanding that I must say I agree with completely - our universe
obeys certain laws and rules. These laws include gravitational force, the speed of light and sound,
and so on. The way in which the universe behaves is described by a set of rules that is known in
the muggle world as physics, and in the wizarding world as Arithmancy.”

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Virtually as far as most of our advanced magical research has shown,” Vector continued,
“arithmancy - that is, the rules of the spells of magic - works in absolute lockstep with the
notions of physics.

“Oh, yes, you can levitate an object for example with the *wingardium leviosa* spell,” and
here she took out her wand and floated her tea cup above the desk, “but in fact, the teacup is
still obeying the laws of physics. It is flying in a low-earth orbit, propelled by the force of
magic, which in this case is being transmitted via my wand. Were I in a muggle spaceship, propelled
by liquid hydrogen, the concept would be no different at all.”

“So magic and physics are the same thing, then?” Harry asked.

“It would be more accurate to say that in using magic, you are still bound by the laws of
physics,” Vector said. “That's important here on Earth, because on the Discworld, where you are
going, that is not the case.

“On Discworld, the laws we know and expect of physics - and of magic - are *not* the same.
On Discworld, magic is more powerful than physics, and the over or under use of it can have
dramatic changes in reality.”

“Professor Vector, where exactly is Discworld? I have a map - it shows Ankh Morpork as a city on
this Discworld - but it mentions something called A'tuin, and a constellation in Antibes,”
Harry asked.

McGonagall and Vector exchanged glances. Here was where the difficulty was going to begin.

“Harry, the Discworld is an entirely flat planet - shaped like a disc, or if you like, a pizza -
that rests on the back of four elephants. The elephants in turn sit on the back of a turtle. The
turtle's name is A'tuin, and he flies through space, currently projecting at a place we
expect to find him near Antibes,” Vector said.

“What … but, a turtle that could support a planet … how could a turtle …” Harry started
laughing. “All right, you're having me on,” he said. “I'm not quite that stupid. No turtle,
no elephant, could survive in the vacuum of space, and of course, none could be large enough to
support an entire world, even if it was squashed into a pancake.”

He looked up to see if they were laughing at him. They weren't.

“I'm quite serious, Harry,” Vector said, quietly. “According to the wizards of Discworld,
our entire universe with its billions and billions of stars and planets and people has existed for
less than three of their years, and is the byproduct of one of their experiments in magic.”

Harry gaped, open-mouthed. The entire world … it couldn't be … what about the dinosaurs and
all that? He had been a little weak in his earth sciences courses pre-Hogwarts, but what was the
existence of the Discworld implying? Alternate realities? He had once heard Hermione talking about
something called the `multiverse' instead of the `universe' but … he just couldn't
understand. He stared at the biscuit in his hand. What was *real*?

“Harry, I know this is a lot to take in,” McGonagall said. “For what it is worth, in the
Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries we have a number of Unspeakable wizards who have
concluded similar things about the Discworld that they have concluded about us. The current
Ministry view is that Discworld has existed only for about 600 of our years, and was a byproduct of
some of the excess magic used during the reign of the Asian leader Tamerlane during 1369.

“We don't know which truth to believe, and frankly, Harry, it is irrelevant. The fact is,
our world exists, the Discworld exists, and we can travel between them. You will find that their
world is much like ours, except that in terms of technology, they have progressed approximately to
the late middle or early modern ages. Gunpowder is known in a limited form only. Electricity has
not been harnessed. Steam power is known of, but has not yet been practically applied. The horse
remains the main working animal for transportation and ploughing, the sword remains the primary
weapon in battle, and copper coins the main medium of exchange.”

Harry's head was reeling. “And there are wizards,” he said finally.

“And there are wizards,” Vector confirmed. “The vast majority of them live in an educational
complex - quite different from Hogwarts” and Harry did not fail to notice her dismissive sniff
“called the Unseen University.

“The main problem with the Discworld, Harry, is that there is *too much* magic,” she
continued. “So much so, that while magic is vital to the continuation of the existence of
A'tuin, the elephants, and the disc, too much magic can send the disc over the edge into
catastrophic shock. To balance out the fact that you are going to be there, for some time, we will
be taking in one of their wizards here, to try and keep the balance, and of course to pool our
knowledge and try to aid each other as much as practicable. Really, I must admit I am very grateful
that you are going there for some training, as the opportunity for an extended visit by one of
their wizards marks quite a unique event that I am most looking forward to,” Vector concluded.

“So long as he doesn't eat us out of house and home,” muttered McGonagall.

“Now, you need to know quite a few things about the rules of magic on Discworld, Harry,” Vector
continued. “The rules of magic are quite vital there. Accidental magic on Discworld is so
inherently unstable that …” her voice trailed off.

“That what?” Harry asked.

“Well, I suppose it won't make *much* of a difference if you perform accidental magic
on Discworld,” Vector said.

“Because their Ministry of Magic can't detect it?” Harry asked.

“Because if you perform some accidental magic on the Discworld, your entire body will explode
into about eight million particles simultaneously at the speed of light,” Vector said, happily.
“The resulting explosion would be about fifty or sixty times greater than that of the largest
nuclear explosion in the history of Earth. You won't know the difference, of course, since
you'll be too dead to care.”

There was a long pause.

“I think you'd better tell me all the rules,” Harry said, soberly.

-->



5. All the Flowers are Dying
----------------------------



**A/N PLEASE READ THE DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE**

It was past 8 p.m. before Harry was ready to leave Hogwarts for London. He was thoroughly
exhausted, and although a light dinner had been brought on trays to the Headmistress' office by
Winky the house elf, he felt a combination of hungry, bloated, and overall as if the Hogwarts
Express had repeatedly run over him.

“Mental stress,” retired Auror Mad-Eye Moony had once said to him. “Worse than all the forms of
stress known. The main byproduct of constant vigilance. It gets you down and just grinds on you -
makes you feel horrible, like you don't know whether to take a nap, go for some exercise, eat,
sleep, or kill the cat. Best part of the job, really.”

Just before he had left, Albus Dumbledore had stepped back into his portrait. “Ah, Harry, so
sorry to see you so tired,” the former heamaster said. “I'll see you back here in two days,
though.”

Something about that tugged at Harry, and he stopped and turned around. “How do you know
I'll be back at Hogwarts, sir?”

The headmaster's eyes positively twinkled. “Because the only way for you to get to
Ankh-Morpork and Discworld is through Hogwarts castle. Now go home and get some sleep - but one
last thing, Harry.”

“Yes sir?” Harry asked abstractedly, facing the fireplace with a pinch of floo powder in his
hand.

“You do *know* what it is you are supposed to be doing in Ankh-Morpork, don't you?”
asked Dumbledore quietly.

“Yes, I'm … I'm … training? I'm …” Harry stopped, perplexed. In the entire packet,
there was nothing about his own list of orders. He knew there was a letter for Commander Sir Samuel
Vimes - whoever that was - but there was not a list of orders for him, Harry Potter.

“Headmaster, do you know what-” Harry turned to face the portrait.

But Albus Dumbledore was not there.

With a sigh, Harry returned to his flat - made emptier by the lack of Hermione's presence,
and after tossing his reams of notes on the table, took a shower and went to bed.

A few hours later, he felt Hermione's warm body closing in to his. He put an arm around her
as she snuggled close.

And there, gentle reader, we shall leave our hero and heroine. Perhaps things happened and
perhaps they didn't. It shall suffice to draw a veil - well, no, not a veil, they're
practically see-through - but a curtain, over the couple. You know - a curtain. The thingys that
covered the stage when you had to do that horrid play in third grade singing about the food
pyramid, and were terrified that you were going to widdle in your shoe when it went up and revealed
to you, in the darkness beyond, your parents waving frantically at you to *look at the
camera!* whilst your elder sister smiled the evil smile at you she always did just before giving
you a wet Willie.

Frankly, you should be ashamed of yourselves. If you're old enough to be part of the adult
conspiracy, your imagination should supply more than enough details. If you're not old enough,
then you can simply imagine that Harry and Hermione sat up like you and your friends do at
sleep-overs and talked about whether trees dream, until they fell asleep.

**Sigh** Whatever. But sparks may have flown, and the earth may have rotated, if you get my
drift. If things did happen, then you can expect that they treated each other with respect and
devotion throughout the process. Honestly. Go take a cold shower.

It wasn't until late the following afternoon Harry managed to look presentable enough to
stick his head in the fireplace and try to speak to Shacklebolt about his orders. Shacklebolt
wasn't in, and Harry left a message with his secretary - stamped *Urgent! Open Immediately
Upon Pain of Extraordinarily Painful Death!* - requesting an immediate owl to explain the
situation.

When he and Hermione were not engaged in more athletic pursuits, she was helping him revise the
information he had from his packet, McGonagall and Vector. Harry was now acutely aware of the fact
that the number between 7 and 9 was a very dangerous one, which contained real power in it. This
was owing to its symbolic representation of octarine, the eig- check that, the *extra* color
in the spectrum, which was the color of magic.

He knew that wizards at Unseen University had split the thaum. He had a reasonable knowledge of
geography, but thought it unlikely he would be venturing to remote locations such as Four Ecks, the
Agatean Empire, or Uberwald. For the most part, Harry thought he would be staying in Ankh-Morpork,
reporting to Commander Vimes, who he now realized reported in turn to Lord Havelock Vetinari, the
Patrician and Supreme Ruler of Ankh-Morpork.

Considering the entire situation, Harry had resolved to do something he had not done in years:
not to take his wand with him. He would attempt, if possible, to resolve things through muggle
methods, which meant he *was* taking a few of Sirius' old muggle weapons with him,
including a few cans of mace, a pair of tungsten steel handcuffs, and two short daggers that he
could conceal in his sleeves. They had finished packing and were discussing dinner options when the
owl arrived.

The note from Shacklebolt was terse.

*You'll figure it out. KS.*

“Well, that's bloody helpful,” Harry said, tossing the note in the fire.

“Harry, what are you bringing Mr. Vimes as a gift?” Hermione asked.

“I hadn't really thought about it,” Harry said. “But you're right, I should bring them
something. What about … I know there's an un-opened bottle of firewhisky in the cupboard,
it's probably expensive - a gift from Tom, I think, a few years back after the end of - well,
Riddle. That would do.”

“Okay. So we're going out for steak, then?” Hermione asked.

“Think so, it seems most of the other food groups are going to be represented,” Harry said. “All
an Auror needs - the coffee and doughnut food group, the cold-and-soggy pizza food group, and the
stale beer food group. I'd like a big, decent piece of meat as my last meal for a condemned
man.”

“I think I'd prefer you to have a healthier diet, and I'd like a nice, big piece of
meat, too, as my last decent meeting with an incredible man,” Hermione said, wickedly. “But I
suppose I'll settle for you. Let's go - if we get there by 7:30, we should get home in time
for a few more innings before we should get some sleep.”

Dinner and afters passed uneventfully - well, extremely eventfully, if you must know, but
frankly, that's Harry and Hermione's business, not yours.

It was the following morning that reduced Hermione to a state of tears.

She and Harry were locked in the tightest hug she could manage. “Be careful. And … be careful. I
am going to miss you so much,” she said. “I love you … come back to me.”

“I'll be fine,” Harry said. “And … just think it's like one of those summers when we
were separated from other while we were at Hogwarts.”

“I don't ever want to be separated from you,” Hermione said, crying. “It's so
unfair.”

“As we both know, life isn't fair. Now be strong for me,” Harry said. “I'll miss you,
but I'll find a way to write or something.”

“Or something,” Hermione said. She kissed him deeply. “I'm leaving now, because if I
don't, I'll rip your clothes off and tie you to the bed and force you to stay here.”

“I might enjoy that,” Harry said, grinning. “Let's leave that for a thought in the early
fall.”

Hermione smiled, wiped her face, and then used the floo to get to St. Mungo's. Harry checked
over his belongings one last time, and used the floo.

“Sweet Rolls!” he said.

Sweet Rolls was a nondescript coffee shop on a nondescript alley off of a nondescript street in
a seedy part of Islington. Harry emerged in its empty kitchen, and walked through the back door.
Sweet Rolls' main feature was that it backed onto Grimmauld Place.

Walking carefully down past a house, and seeing no muggles in sight, he muttered a spell under
his breath while quickly waved his hands, and the familiar bulk of 12 Grimmauld Place came into
sight. The serpentine bell had been replaced with a wolf's head, which howled when he rang
it.

“Wotcher, Harry,” said his colleague Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin as she opened the door. “Care for a
cuppa?”

“Sure, auntie,” Harry said, kissing her on the cheek. Since their marriage, Remus Lupin and
Nymphadora Tonks had formally adopted Harry as their nephew. They had no children, and apparently
there were no plans for any. Harry had given them Grimmauld Place as a wedding gift, and Tonks had
taken it upon herself to have the place made over. Harry had to admit that the results were
spectacular; he was often glad to come over and unwind with his godfather - uncle - and have some
semblance of family.

“None of that, today, luv,” she said saucily. “Here *yer* goin' on a nice lil'
vacation and *I* get to inherit your case load. Thanks a bloody lot.”

She tried to look angry and failed miserably, so she ran her hands through his hair. “Come on.
Wolfman Jack's in the kitchen.”

“Harry!” Remus said, standing up from the table. He came and embraced his godson/nephew/son he
never had and Tonks conjured a fresh pot of tea. “So you're heading out, I hear.”

“Yeah, in just a little bit, actually,” Harry said.

“I've heard Discworld's pretty wild,” Tonks said. “You be careful out there, pard.”

“We'll see,” Harry said. “It's going to be different, that's for sure. Look, I
really came by to ask you if you'd check in on Hermione while I'm gone. I know she's
going to mope and worry.”

“Of course, kiddo. Count on us,” Tonks said.

“Let me know if it's true that the Disc is overrun by beautiful women of questionable
virtue,” Remus grinned, which earned him a smack on the head from Tonks. “What was that for? Just
an innocent inquiry.”

“Hardly innocent, knowing you,” Tonks said smugly. “And besides, what about the woman right in
front of you?”

“Ah, yes, but then, although it is undeniable that you are beautiful, your virtue isn't in
question, it's known,” Lupin said, devastatingly. He leaned in and kissed his wife, who was
beet red and trying - and failing - to think of a withering riposte.

“Ugh, watching family kiss,” Harry said. “I'd say get a room, but you have several dozen in
this place.”

“And the kitchen's always the best for snogging, anyway,” Tonks said, breaking off the kiss.
“Now get going, I'm on my way out the floo as well, and Remus is up to no good today, I'm
sure, also.”

They strolled to the fireplace. Tonks gave Remus a huge kiss and groped him. “Back at the usual
time, love,” she said, and she floo'd to the Ministry. Remus hugged Harry one last time.
“Anything happens out there, you run like hell, and get your ass back here,” he said quietly. “The
rest of you, too. But this is serious, Harry. I took a double first in arithmancy. I know enough
about the Discworld that the usual rules don't apply. So don't pretend they do. You need to
put someone down, do it. You need to run, do it. Don't play hero in a place where heroes tend
to die. You hear me? You need to run, you run.”

“I hear you,” Harry said. He hugged the last Marauder and floo'd to Hogwarts.

The portrait of Albus Dumbledore looked at him, but said nothing, and the glanced at McGonagall
and nodded. Minerva walked towards the door, and placed her hand conspicuously in her pocket. She
removed a key ring and dropped it on the floor, before saying, “Harry, our guest wizard will be
arriving in a few minutes. After that, we will have to wait for the magical energy to rest for some
time before sending you. This will give you an opportunity to talk with him and get last minute
instructions.” She turned to walk towards the door.

“Um, professor, you seem to have dropped-” Harry began.

“I'M COMING POPPY,” McGonagall shouted at the top of her lungs, rushing for the door.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, behind him.

“Yes, sir?” Harry said, confused.

“Quickly, now. Pick up Minerva's keys and open her filing cabinet. Red key. Third drawer,
back,” Albus said.

Harry dashed to the keys and opened the cabinet. The third drawer of the filing cabinet held
files in the front, but in the middle it was cut off and held a small object wrapped in cloth.
Opening it, he found a pair of two-way mirrors such as he and Sirius once used. This set, however,
was much smaller, and one was encased in a slim, wooden case, and the other had a heavy, silver
backing.

“Now run up to the owlery, and send the silver one via one of Hogwarts' Express Owls to
Hermione Granger, in your London apartment,” Dumbledore said. “If you write your address on a label
with Minerva's quill, and place it in one of the white envelopes from her desk, it will get
there safely and quicky. Keep the other mirror in your pocket. The owlery may be opened with the
brown key on Minerva's ring.”

Harry looked at the portrait. “Professor?” he began.

“We have no time now, Harry,” Dumbeldore cut him off. “You must have a way of contacting us in
emergency and Ms. Granger is your best hope if you need assistance. She certainly is always welcome
here should you need information we can provide. The mirror in the wooden case will survive the
journey to Ankh-Morpork; the silver one is Hermione's. Now run. And come back here, before you
go into the Great Hall. There are a few things I need to tell you.”

Harry did not wait another instant but placed the mirror into the envelope - which suddenly
seemed to shrink to fit it - and placed the label over the outside. He raced to the owlery and
chose one of the Hogwarts owls with its distinctive protective cap. “Here you go,” he said,
“Hermione Granger, care of 4A, Glamour House, 7 Victory Place, Docklands, London, E14. What's
inside is breakable, so please do set it down gently.”

The owl hooted and sped off, and Harry quickly returned to the headmistress' office.

The portrait of Albus looked carefully at Harry. “Harry, as you have no doubt gathered, there is
mischief afoot in Ankh-Morpork. You should be on guard at all times. Expect the unexpected. I
believe your new colleagues will treat you kindly, but they are all seasoned professional troops,
and will expect you to act the same.

“I strongly advise you to reserve your opinion and keep quiet about things, at least for the
first few weeks,” Albus continued. “It is vitally important that residents of the Disc *do
not* know about Earth. Your commanding officer, the wizards, and perhaps a few elite members of
the Watch will know your true identity. Conceal yourself from all others. A cover story will be
fabricated. Finally, try to learn as much as you can. You may find that the skills that the other
members of the Watch possess are learnable and practicable in your field here in London. You are,
after all, on secondment. Represent us well, and make us proud of you, not that we have any doubts
about your ability. If all else fails, remember that you have allies in your companions. Finally,
Harry, I do not know if you will get the opportunity, but if you do, I advise you to attempt to
visit the Kingdom of Lancre. If you can go there, please try and visit an old friend of mine,
Misstress Esmerelda Weatherwax. Bring her some candy, if you can do such a thing. It would mean
much to her.”

“Yes headmaster,” Harry said.

“You will find some bars of Honeydukes' best reserve dark in Minerva's bottom drawer,”
Dumbledore said. “They were, I believe, a special private gift for Minerva upon her achieving Head
Witch in the Wizengomet. I'm sure they would go over a treat for Miss Weatherwax or whomever
else you meet. Please take them, leave her keys on the desk, and proceed to the Great Hall to
receive our guest.”

*Minerva's going to hex me into oblivion*, Harry thought. He took all the chocolates he
could find, opened his wallet and dropped six galleons into her drawer. He left the keys, and
grabbing his already-shrunk luggage, walked to the Great Hall.

On the floor of the Great Hall, a five-sided pentagram had been etched, with a candle at each
point. The Hogwarts staff were chanting quietly and holding hands in a circle just outside the
pentagram. McGonagall stepped forward and threw a handful of sulphurous ash into the pentagram,
taking great care not to break the lines of magic.

The pentagram glowed blue, and Harry watched dumbstruck as a form began to take shape. It seemed
to be screaming and bloodied, and spun in a six-dimensional knot before finally coming into purpose
with a loud *pop*.

The man - for so it was - was clad in red robes with brown trim. His pointy hat had the word
“Wizzard” written on it in sequins. At his feet was a small chest, which seemed to scurry
menacingly by itself. A large vase, containing a huge bouquet, was next to the chest, with a small
card attached.

“Well, that was moderately agonizing,” the man said. The morphic field collapsed, and the
pentagram ceased to glow.

Suddenly, the flowers went from gorgeous, full blooms to dead, shriveled husks. At the same
time, a puzzled look struck the wizard's face, and he went grey, clutched at his chest, and
fell to the ground with a dull thud.

All Harry could do was to look on in astonishment as Madam Pomfrey raced through the pentagram
to the side of the visitor.

-->



6. Burglars Can't be Choosers
-----------------------------



**A/N Please read the disclaimers in chapter one.**

The wizard Rincewind was being helped to his feet unsteadily by Madam Pomfrey. Harry walked over
to him.

“Are you all right?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“I am in Hogwarts?” Rincewind answered.

“Yes, you're in Hogwarts,” Madam Pomfrey replied.

“Well, since that's where they were sending me, that's right, I suppose,” Rincewind said
testily. “It doesn't make me feel any better.”

“Are you sure that you are all right?” asked Harry. “It almost looked as if you had just …”

“Died?” Rincewind prompted the missing word.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“No, sadly, I seem to be still alive,” Rincewind said. “I did rather hope that death
wouldn't be this painful.”

“Are you hurting right now?” Madam Pomfrey asked. “I can give you a quick-relief draught which
will take away much of the sensation of pain.”

Rincewind looked dubious. “Maybe later,” he said finally. He stretched himself, took a few
awkward steps, and promptly threw up all over Professor Flitwick.

Rincewind sat down heavily on the Luggage.

“*Scourgify*,” said McGonagall promptly, waving her wand and cleaning up Professor
Flitwick. “I am sorry, Professor Rincewind, that you did not seem to travel very well. Still, I
warmly welcome you to Hogwarts. I am Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.”

“I am alive,” Rincewind said. “I consider that traveling well. I had a bundle of flowers to
offer to you, Headmistress, from our Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, with his greetings. However,
they seem even less disposed than I am.”

“Never mind,” Harry said quietly. Though he did not have his wand, he had learned to cast many
spells both wordlessly and wandlessly as standard Auror practice. “*Reparo*,” he muttered
quietly, and the flowers crept back into bloom.

Minerva looked carefully at Rincewind and Harry. “It will be a short amount of time, I
understand, before we can send Harry through,” she said. “I understand you have a PortKey, Harry,
but you must understand that to send you as far as Discworld it will require extra effort, that a
PortKey cannot provide. Such events necessitate the use of the pentagram here. Why don't you
and Professor Rincewind try and share as much information as you can together while we wait?”

This was conveyed not so much in a suggestion as a *statement*. The faculty emptied out of
the Great Hall and left the two wizards looking at each other. Finally Rincewind broke the ice. “So
you're Harry Potter,” he said, glumly.

“Yes … how did you know?” Harry said, startled.

“Black hair, green eyes, scar on your forehead?” Rincewind said. “Oh, and the fact that I knew
that I was here to swap places with you, and Headmistress McGonagall called you by name. And
finally, because a young woman named Hermione Granger carries a picture of you, and she showed it
to me last year.”

Harry was completely taken aback by this. “You've met Hermione?”

“At the Discworld/Roundworld Conference on Alternative Magic a year or so back. Or was it three
years back? I can't remember,” Rincewind said. “Anyway, the conference was held at Stonehenge,
but I had to come here via Hogwarts. This isn't my first visit to Earth, you know. I've
been here four or five times, in my capacity as the Egregious Professor in Cruel and Unusual
Geography at Unseen University, in Ankh-Morpork.”

He neglected to add the “unpaid” part, or the fact that he was also the fretwork instructor,
investigator of slood dynamics, or the inheritor of other titles that Ridcully had not been able to
find any other full-time faculty to keep permanently. Or at least not through breakfast the next
morning.

“So do you know what you're getting into?” Rincewind asked.

“I suppose not,” Harry said. “Everyone seems to be careful to tell me absolutely nothing.”

For the first time, something resembling a smile hovered over Rincewind's face. “Story of my
life,” the Discworld native said.

“Mine, too,” Harry said.

Rincewind cocked his head at an angle and remembered a trip he had taken to Four Ecks.
“Don't have any relatives in Four … in Australia, would you?”

“Not that I know of,” Harry said.

“Hmm … yes, well, nevermind,” Rincewind said, briskly. “I'll tell you what Ponder and Hex
have figured out. Over the past few months in Ankh-Morpork, we have had some *unusual*
fluctuations in magic, corresponding with an increase in *unusual* crimes. Lord Vetinari has
asked Unseen University to cooperate with the City Watch in its investigation. As you may
comprehend, this cooperation has not exactly been very cooperative. Ergo, I'm here, officially
to research some obscure problems with L-Space as part of the investigation, and you're going
there, ostensibly to work for the Watch, but in reality to act as a spy for Unseen University to
discover what is in fact going on.”

Harry was stunned at this. Finally he could only manage “What kind of unusual fluctuations, and
who are Ponder and Hex?”

“Ponder is Professor Ponder Stibbons. You'll report to him at Unseen University, mainly
because the Archchancellor cannot be seen to be bothering with anything this important, as it might
encourage the faculty to force him to do something energetic like teaching. That doesn't
matter, since Ponder is the only wizard you will want to talk with, anyway. First, he's about
our age, so he's not blinded by his position into thinking he knows everything, and second, he
probably knows more about Roundworld - er, earth - than any other wizard.

“Hex is … from my limited knowledge of your world's technology, a living computer. It can be
annoying at times, and sometimes you want to throw a brick at it, but often if you use it correctly
it can give you very useful information. Ponder is the main wizard that uses Hex, so if you stay
close to him, you can ask him to get information from Hex for you. As to the unusual occurrences,
I'm sure you're going to hear more on that than I know. I don't get told anything,
being in the library, most of the time.”

“I'm supposed to report to a Commander Sir Samuel Vimes. I am really expected to spy on
their Auror - their Watch?” Harry asked.

“That's what the wizards expect, though I rather think you're better off telling neither
of them what you find out,” Rincewind said. “I've met Commander Vimes quite a few times, and
he's actually one of the few good chaps, from what I can tell. You'll probably be working
with one of the more junior members of the Watch. Carrot, possibly. Overall they're a good
group. Well, with the exception of Nobby. At any rate, tell them all what you think they want to
hear, and decide for yourself what you need to do, that's my advice.”

Harry nodded. At least Rincewind seemed to be interested in giving him good advice. He felt
better knowing that at least one person seemed to be on his side. “What do you intend to do here?”
asked Harry.

“Absolutely as little as I can get away with,” Rincewind replied, completely truthfully.

Harry nodded slowly and thought for a moment. “Will you promise to communicate with me if I need
information?”

Rincewind sighed. “You mean I have a choice?”

Harry nodded. “I'll either leave you completely alone, so much as that is practical, or if
you pledge to assist me, perhaps I can help you in making your stay as comfortable as possible,
given the circumstances.”

Rincewind nodded. This would probably be the best offer he could get. “Okay,” he said.

Harry whispered furtively. “Dobby?”

The little house-elf *popped* into the room. “Oh, Harry Potter sir! Dobby is so happy to
have seen Harry Potter today!” the house-elf smiled broadly, clasping his hands together. Harry was
only slightly aware of a light patter near him, but his time was short and he knew he needed to get
his instructions to the house-elf quickly.

“Dobby, I know you work at Hogwarts, but I'd appreciate it if you could do a favor for me,”
Harry began.

“Anything for Harry Potter!” Dobby nearly glowed. “Dobby would be so happy to serve Harry
Potter, who has freed us from the evil wizard, who gave us clothes, who,”

“Yes, Dobby,” Harry said, interrupting to stem the flow of praise. “What I'd like you to do
is help -” and here for the first time he looked up to see that the wizard Rincewind was gone from
the room.

“Dobby, our visitor - Professor Rincewind - was just here,” Harry stammered.

“He is currently running outside of the Great Hall towards the main doors, Harry Potter, sir,”
Dobby said. “Would you like him to come back here?”

“Er, yes, please, Dobby,” Harry said.

The house-elf *popped* away, and a few seconds later, *popped* back, with an arm
around the speeding Rincewind, who hit the floor running a second time.

“What are you running from?” Harry called.

“This- that- don't *do* that!” Rincewind said, exasperated. “Do *not* sneak up on
me like that. When things like that happen in Discworld, you wind up suddenly dead!”

Harry remembered what his godfather had said only this morning: *if something looks wrong,
run*. It looked like Rincewind had a *lot* of practice. This was the second most important
thing the wizard had taught him.

“Right, well, you can run later. For now, get over here,” Harry said calmly. He seized the three
of them and they huddled close.

“Dobby, do we still have those old, unused reading rooms in the library?” Harry asked. “The old
moldly ones that Snape used to fill up with all the books we wanted to read and he hid from
us?”

“Oh, yes, Harry Potter, sir. There are a number of old, unused rooms like that in the library,”
Dobby said. “Madam Pince has not been in some of them in this decade.”

“Dobby, this is Professor Rincewind. He's … visiting us. I want you to take one of those
rooms, clean it carefully, and set it up as a small studio apartment for the Professor. Get a key
made to the door, and make sure there's only the *one* key,” Harry said. “Then, I want you
to give that key to Professor Rincewind. I'm sure that McGonagall is going to give him a room
in the teacher's turret towards the back of the castle, but I want this to be his private room,
do you understand, Dobby? I do not want, if at all possible, *any* members of the staff to
know that Professor Rincewind has a private study. Glamor it so the outside still looks dusty and
unused.

“And if you are asked, Dobby, where Professor Rincewind is - tell the truth. That you don't
know where he is, *for certain*. He could, for instance, be taking a walk outside by the lake.
Or he could be in the Great Hall. He might have been walking around the castle somewhere. If you
are forced, Dobby, then of course you should tell people where he is. Otherwise, try to make sure
that Professor Rincewind is disturbed as little as possible. However, if I have a message for
Professor Rincewind, you are to bring it to him as quickly as you can. I will send my messages
through Hermione, Dobby, so she might contact you. Is this acceptable?”

The house-elf wriggled up and down. “Of course, it is, Harry Potter sir! This is very easy
indeed!”

Rincewind looked at Harry as if he had just been handed the reigns to a shiny new carriage,
complete with a double-tandem team of Sto Lat thoroughbreds, and been given 500AM dollars for oats
and stable fees. “You would do that for me?” Rincewind said.

“If I need your help, I expect it,” Harry said simply. “Hermione will know how to get in touch
if we really need it. Otherwise, have fun, stay out of trouble, and I'll see you in three
months.”

Rincewind nodded. “You'd better get ready to go,” he said. “And I mean it about Stibbons.
He's no fighter, but he's your best contact in a pinch. Stibbons can get hold of me as well
in a second if need be. And on the Watch, Carrot is the best of the bunch. Stibbons and Carrot. If
you have any trouble, they're the people you want on your side.”

*Very helpful*, thought Harry. “Any last advice?” he asked.

Rincewind nodded. “Keep your eyes shut, hold your breath, and if at all possible, go to the
bathroom before you leave.”

Harry realized he was talking about the transit. “Is it really that bad?” he asked.

“No. It's worse.”

Harry was looking to step out when the faculty of Hogwarts returned. “Harry, it is time,”
McGonagall said. “You need to get into the pentagram now,” she said.

The Luggage and the vase had been removed. Harry wasn't sure where it had moved to;
Rincewind's chest had appeared to have a mind of its own. He shrunk his own bags into the
pocket, stepped into the pentagram and then pulled the envelope containing the pen-cum-Portkey from
his pocket.

It began to glow faintly blue, and the pentagram joined it. The candles' gentle dance of
light suddenly spiked.

*Keep your eyes shut, hold your breath …*

Harry Potter felt his insides twist into a six-dimensional knot and his brain turn into a
pretzel. If PortKey made your feel as if you had tug behind your navel - similar, in fact, to the
sensation that many a rider has experienced on the Six Flag's “Death Dropper” ride - then this
made you feel as if you had a tug somewhat below your navel … let's call it, say, five inches
or so below, on the average person, unless you're a little taller or shorter … and of course on
the other side of the navel.

Most humans don't have a tail. Darwin, if you believe him, suggests that it gradually
evolved away. Travel between earth and the Discworld reminded you that, not only did you have a
tail, it wasn't *happy* about being evolved away.

During the worst of hangovers, people generally get the sensation of movement, even when they
are quite still. Right now, Harry Potter felt as if he had entered the Three Broomsticks, asked
Madam Rosmerta to begin with the firewhisky and not stop until he had sampled each exotic potion
she had to offer, and then been spun around on a top for a few hours.

He kept his eyes quite shut, even though he hard voices.

“Should he just be lying there that way? He looks too still.”

“I'm quite certain he's alive; that spell took more energy than usual. It wouldn't
have required so much if he was dead.”

“You're sure it not Rincewind, just with a change of clothing?”

“No, he'd be on his feet running, by now.”

Harry moaned and began to flutter his eyes. He was on his side in a marked pentagram, with a lot
of very … well, how shall we put this? *Gravitationally challenged* men surrounding him.

“Oooh,” he said.

One of the less rotund mounds - men - stepped forward. “Mr. Harry Potter?” he said rather
nervously.

“Erm?” managed Harry.

“Nice to meet you. Ponder Stibbons, head of the Inadvisably Applied Magic Department,” Stibbons
said, stepping forward to help him to his feet. “May I introduce our Archchancellor, Mustrum
Ridcully.”

“Mr. Potter, delighted,” said an extremely athletic looking wizard, who vaguely reminded him of
Snape, albeit a Snape that understood the meaning of the word `hygiene.'

“Ahh,” said Harry, managing to stretch his arm out and come reasonably close to fail to shake
hands.

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Potter? There were some difficulties,” said the
Archchancellor.

“What just happened?” Harry managed to gasp out.

“You just caused a substantial surge in magic,” Stibbons said. “The High Energy Magic building
is shielded for this eventuality and I'm sure everything will be fine. The Bursar is giving the
librarian some of his dried frog pills, and I'm sure he will be swinging from the library
shelves again quite soon.”

Harry noticed that … was that a *monkey* they were attending to? Who had been lying down,
and was now shaking himself up?

“Well, if that's really all, I personally think it's time for tea,” said a wizard, who
happened to be the Senior Wrangler.

The Dean did not take this threat amiss. The Senior Wrangler was known to help himself to the
majority of the clotted cream if he made it first to the table. Although extremely rotund men are
not known for speed, the room nevertheless began to empty quickly.

“Well, Mr. Potter, nice to meet you and all, I'm sure Mr. Stibbons will assist you, good
man, Stibbons,” and the archchancellor quickly exited the room. He knew his wizards, after all.

“Sit down, Mr. Potter,” Stibbons said, carefully escorting him to a chair. “I assume you will be
capable of normal speech in a moment. I am aware that the process is not very pleasant. Rincewind
has informed me that he is settling in nicely.”

Harry gulped down some air, and finally felt he was not going to throw up. “You've uh …
talked to … uh … uh … already?” he managed.

“Oh, yes,” Stibbons said. “Hex had opened a channel to him virtually the second you began to
dematerialize on the Roundworld. We've been speaking for a few minutes now. Rincewind?”

A disembodied voice spoke from somewhere above Harry. “I told you it wouldn't be any
fun.”

“You were right,” Harry said, looking for the source of the voice. It appeared to be coming from
a skull that sat atop a maze of wires, parchments, quills, an ant farm, a live rat, and … something
that went *parp* occasionally.

“Now look, Harry, we haven't much time. I've received a clacks from Pseudopolis Yard;
they want you there on the double. Hold up your hand for a moment,” Stibbons said.

Harry did so, and felt a sharp prick.

“Ouch!” he said, pulling his hand back. His finger had been pricked.

“I said hold still,” Sibbons said crossly. He used a small vial to take a small out of blood out
of Harry's finger, about the amount usually removed for a cholesterol test, and then put a
piece of sticking plaster over it.

“What was that for?” Harry asked.

“Several things,” Stibbons said, “we need to register your thaumic signature, so we can be sure
to locate you in an emergency. I also hope to use your blood for a little experiment. More on that
later.”

The disembodied voice spoke again. “What exactly did the clacks say?” Rincewind said.

“That Potter needed to be at Pseudopolis Yard by four bells,” Stibbons said, distractedly.

Harry, at the moment, was beginning to feel a bit … odd. He felt disoriented, and as if he
needed … something …

“You'd better get him on his way, then,” Rincewind's voice spoke.

“Right … Potter, do you know much about Ankh-Morpork?” Stibbons asked.

“I've been here … three minutes?” Harry retorted. “I wonder if you could show me where,” he
began.

“Right, come with me, then,” Stibbons sighed.

They walked out of the High Energy Magic building, down a path through the garden, and to a
parapet overlooking the gates of Unseen University. Harry looked down at the road. It was unpaved,
and muddy from constant traffic. “Do you see that tower over there?” Stibbons asked.

It would be hard to miss. At least 15 stories high, it rose above most everything else in the
entire city, save for the equally large tower behind him. There were lots of small, high towers,
but they seemed thin and … pedestrian … compared to the opulence of these two. From the parapet
they were on, Harry saw that most of the buildings were at most two or three stories high.

“Well, you're not going there,” Stibbons said. “That's the Patrician's palace.”

“Okay,” said Harry. *So why did you point it out to me?*

“But I want you to try and get there from here,” Stibbons said. “Just keep an eye on it, keep
heading towards it, until you get to a bridge over the river Ankh. That'll be the Brass Bridge.
Don't cross the bridge, but pass it, and Pseudopolis Yard will be the next building you come
to.”

“Right,” said Harry. “You're not coming with me?”

“You mean, leave Unseen University?” Stibbons said, clearly shocked.

“I suppose that would be necessary,” Harry said. “But at any rate, before that, could you show
me where,”

Stibbons looked nervous and interrupted him. “Head for the -uh, tower. And Pseudopolis Yard - on
your left past the Brass Bridge.” He ran back in the direction of the High Energy Magic building.
Harry slowly walked down the steps onto the road, and as he did so, the gates silently slammed shut
on him.

He sighed and began walking though the muck. After a few minutes, this became difficult.
Although the buildings were low, they were so dark and squalid as to sometimes block out his view
of the tower. He kept trying to head in what he thought was the general direction of the tower,
when he stepped into a dead end. It didn't help that he was feeling … as if he'd drunk 50
cups of coffee and 20 cups of water. He felt bloated and occasionally smacked his lips.

Seeing as he was now staggering slightly, it took him a moment to notice that there was a small
group of men in the dead end, who looked at him with narrow eyes.

“Millennium Hand, and Shrimp,” said one.

“I'm thinkin' you took a wrong turn back there,” came a voice, although Harry
couldn't tell who spoke.

“Not much meat on him, anyway,” said another.

“You're not from these parts, are you, pardner?” came the second voice again. Harry still
couldn't see who was speaking in the pallid light.

“Er, no,” he said.

“Where you trying to go?” and … was that a *dog* speaking to him?

`Pseudopolis Yard,” Harry said.

“Ah, the new copper,” said a man. Harry's eye's focused … the man had … a … *duck*
… on his head?

“Back down the street, first right, stay on that street for about 150 paces, make your first
left, you're there,” said the dog.

“Er … well, thanks very much,” Harry said, and followed the instructions. Now he could see the
river … if river it was. The Thames looked more pure. But still, the instructions were correct - he
could see the sign halfway down the street.

“Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork City Watch”

He was running now. “Oh gosh oh gosh og hosh,” he said, and staggered into the watch house. A
dwar- a diminutive person, Harry thought quickly - was on duty.

“Yes?” came a bored tone.

“Er can you tell me where I can find a bathroom?” Harry said. He couldn't hold this much
longer.

“Nearest city baths is down the street, take a left, but they aren't serving men at the
moment, only women at present,” the person of short stature said.

Harry was sweating now. “Oh Merlin … but … what if I have to go now?”

The dwarf looked at him in surprise. “You mean like you gotta do a shit?”

“YES,” said Harry through clinched teeth.

“Then why'd y' ask about taking a bath? You want the latrine, you mean,” the dwarf said.
“Out the door, turn right.”

Harry dashed out and went right around the building, where he saw a second entryway. A woman
emerged out of it, wearing armor and a badge, and briefly smiled at him. Harry went to the
entryway, which led to two doors, neither marked.

*Which which which which which* left, thought Harry. Beggars can't be choosers.

He walked in. The smell was … indescribable. There were covered stalls. He went to the firs open
and saw … a hole in the floor. That was it. He stepped over both sides, and did what was
necessary.

As he stepped out, sometime later, he saw a young woman going through his bags. Without thinking
he used a stunner. “Stupefy!”

*KERRR-BAMMM!*

The stunning spell, which normally held its victims for about 30 seconds, smashed the burglar
through the wall, back into the foyer of the watch office. He saw the dwarf, sitting behind the
desk, look at him in awe.

“What the gods-”

“Guards! Guards!” came a barked cry.

The woman whom he had seen leaving the latrine earlier was on his faster than he'd ever seen
anyone attack him. A pair of other guards were clearly on him.

“So what do we have here, then?” came the question from an obviously displeased Watchman.

*Great, now I've done it,* Harry thought glumly.

“Care to explain why you're in the women's latrine?” asked the female Watchman-woman,
thought Harry.

“Er, there wasn't any sign - I just went in to use the latrine, and I didn't see which
was which,” Harry said. “When I came out, I saw this woman going though my things, and I just tried
to stop her, honestly,” Harry said.

“It's Theresa,” said the dwarf who was reviving her. “Her license is up to date - I know, I
stopped her last week.”

“License?” Harry asked.

“License to thief,” the dwarf said. “What did you think? She had perfect right to try and
steal.”

“Huh?” Harry said.

“Look, lad, you're in a world of trouble right now, do you understand that?” came a gruff
voice from his right.

“I was just trying to see Commander Vimes,” Harry said.

“Oh, you'll see him, all right,” said the gruff man smugly. “After a night or two in the
Patrician's scorpion pit.”

“But I have an appointment with him! At four bells!” Harry said.

The Watchmen - and women - eyed each other for a second.

“Can you prove that?” asked the woman guard.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. She stared at it, wide-eyed.

“Get him in Vimes' office,” she barked. “Nobby, get this wall fixed.”

“Why do I-” came a whining voice.

“Because I say so,” said the woman guard. She seized Harry by the front of his clothes, dragging
him through the rubble of the door, and down a long corridor. “Kid, I hope to gods you're a
good diplomat, because I reckon you're gonna need to be.” she said. She knocked once on a door
and shoved him in, and closed the door behind him.

Harry blinked as he realized the room was much darker than outside. A man was sitting behind a
desk, smoking a cigar. He looked at him narrowly.

“So you're Harry Potter. Auror First-Class Harry Potter,” he said. The words “First-Class”
seemed to have a little less than the normal “first-class” ring to them.

“Yes sir,” Harry said.

“You've got a letter for me,” Vimes said,

“Yes sir, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, sir,” Harry said, handing it over.

Vimes took it slowly, never letting his eyes lose track of Harry's. Without looking, he
broke the seal on the envelope and removed the letter. Finally he read it, extremely slowly. He did
not look back up at Harry.

“You're here 10 minutes,” Vimes began. “You then proceed to show up late to my office,
trespass into a woman's latrine, cause malicious property damage by blowing a hole in the wall
to said latrine, commit assault and battery on a registered burglar in the course of normal employ,
and manage to essentially blow any pretense of a cover story we were going to concoct.”

“I, uh, guess so,” Harry said. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Vimes took a deep puff on his cigar.

“Shacklebolt was right. You're gonna be hell,” Vimes said. He then smiled broadly. “Sit
down, Potter.”

Harry did so. *Gonna be a long day*, he thought.

-->



7. The Hit List
---------------



**A/N PLEASE READ THE DISCLAIMERS IN CHAPTER ONE.**

**THE HIT LIST**

Vimes was silent for a while, smoking and staring at him. Harry felt as if holes were being
bored into his soul. He took the opportunity to attempt to be civil.

“I have brought you a small gift, sir, as a token of my appreciation,” Harry said. He reached
into this bag and found the bottle of firewhiskey, which Hermione had wrapped and added a small
card to that read `to Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, with compliments, Harry Potter.'

Vimes looked at it darkly.

“You trying to insult me, Potter?” he asked.

“Sir?” asked Harry, confused.

“I asked you if you were trying to insult me,” said Vimes. His voice was very calm. Harry knew
that level of calm; it was the type calm that people attempted to maintain when they really wanted
to rip your throat out. The calm that really wasn't very, in other words.

“I don't understand, sir,” Harry said. “I'm not trying to insult you.”

Vimes sighed. “Didn't they tell you anything about this place?”

“Sir, I had three dossiers to read, none of which made much sense, and the only person who
really gave me any decent advice was the wizard Rincewind, and I spoke to him extremely briefly,”
Harry said.

“You didn't talk to Shacklebolt about me?” Vimes asked.

“He wouldn't answer my questions,” Harry said ruefully. Vimes smiled. “That's like the
old sonofabitch,” he said quietly. “What about Dumbledore?”

“Dumbledore?” asked Harry quietly.

“Yes, Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore. Didn't you speak with him?” Vimes asked.

Now it was Harry who drew a breath to remain calm. “Sir, Albus Dumbledore is dead. He died more
than five years ago. I was there,” he said, evenly. Now he stared Vimes straight in the eyes.

Vimes dropped his cigar. “Albus Dumbledore is dead?” he said, amazed. Harry could tell the man
was truly shocked.

“Yes, sir. I personally witnessed his murder, and attended his funeral. The perpetrator …
isn't with us, anymore,” Harry said quietly.

Vimes stared at Harry sharply, then retrieved his cigar. There were a series of bell-pulls
behind his chair and he now reached up and pulled one. The woman officer returned to the room.

“Sergeant Angua, this is Harry Potter. He's joining us as a new recruit from the
Counterweight Continent,” Vimes said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

“Yes, sir,” Angua replied.

“Is Sergeant Detritus here?” Vimes asked.

“Just reported to the squad room, sir,” Angua said.

“Send him to me. And get a message to Captain Carrot that I want to see him,” Vimes said.

Angua saluted and walked out. Vimes looked back at Harry. “I'm what you would refer to as an
alcoholic, Harry. I haven't had anything to drink in more than 10 years. A gift of whiskey to
me would normally be perceived as insulting, but I can see that you did not have the benefit of the
best counsel, and I also see a use for this, if you don't mind.”

Before Harry could respond, a *crack* came at the door. Harry stared. A *ROCK TROLL*
entered the room, wearing a badge. Harry couldn't believe it. How the hell did Vimes get a rock
troll to work on this force?

“U want to see me, sah?” asked Detritus.

“Sergeant Detritus, this is Harry Potter. He's joining us as a new recruit from the
Counterweight Continent,” Vimes said. “When you interviewed Chrysophrase yesterday, did he tell you
anything of interest relating to the last incident at the Ankh-Morkpork Downs?”

“Dat piece of schist ain't sayin' nuttin' to me, Commander Vimes, sah,” Detritus
said. “But he *knows* sumpin', I know it. Reckon it's the same as last time - young
Brick might hear some `tings, but not me, wit' da stripes and all.”

“Right,” said Vimes. “I want you to take Littlebottom and go back to the Downs. Get Doughnut
Jimmy and see what he'll tell you. Likely it'll be nothing until you invite him to join you
in a bottle of whiskey,” and Vimes handed him the bottle of firewhiskey, carefully ripping the note
so that only the words `to Commander Sir Samuel Vimes' were legible.

“Now, this whiskey is likely to be more potent than normal, so don't let Littlebottom get a
hold of any of it, but you can probably manage a glass or five,” Vimes continued. “Try to get what
you can out of Doughnut before he passes out, and then let Littlebottom take a look at the
area.”

“Right you are, sah,” said Detritus, taking the bottle with him. He turned to Harry for a
second. “Please to meetchu,” he said, then saluted and left.

“Right, Potter,” Vimes said. “As you are now aware, there are several contacts between your
world and Discworld,” Vimes said. “Generally, the Patrician, in conjunction with a few senior
need-to-know advisors, monitors the magic output very carefully in order that there is no
instability between the dimensions. The wizards know more about this than I do, but overall,
it's possible to pierce the dimensions in many ways, unleashing total cosmic destruction.
Understand?”

*Total cosmic destruction,* Harry thought. *Not good.* “Okay,” he said.

“Over the past few months, we've monitored some very bizarre spikes in magic. We're not
totally sure why,” Vimes admitted. “This has come at a time of some very bizarre crimes in
Ankh-Morpork.”

“Murder?” asked Harry.

“No, what's strange about murder? Simplest crime in the world, if you think about it,” Vimes
said. “A bizarre crime is a crime, Harry, for which you cannot fathom a motive or an opportunity.
There's virtually always a motive for murder - love, hate, gain, accident … it doesn't
matter if you don't know the motive, plug in a few and see what happens.

“No, a bizarre crime is when you find something that just doesn't fit. Like the theft of an
object that no body wants anyway, such as a pile of trash. Or the sudden and spontaneous desire on
the part of the citizenry to pay their taxes on time,” Vimes said. “People don't *like* to
take out the trash. Nor do they *like* to pay tax. So when you see people doing things which
are clearly against their own interests, rather than their own beliefs, you should get suspicious.
It usually means they're up to something.”

Harry had been listening very carefully to Vimes, and he began to see what Shacklebolt meant.
You couldn't just tie people up and use Veritaserum on them. You had to understand what they
were *thinking* if you wanted to *prevent* crime.

“Can you give me some idea as to what has been happening in the city, Commander?” Harry
said.

“The first items weren't that noticeable,” Vimes said, lighting a new cigar. “First, William
de Worde - the editor of the Ankh-Morpork *Times* - reported that someone stole his old
printing press. Now this was an old one, I want to point out. He hadn't used it in more than
five years, and it sat in the back of an old warehouse. He only noticed the theft because at the
same time Harry King - that's our local garbage man - remarked on a massive theft of paper from
one of the neighboring warehouses, so Worde checked up on it. At first, we thought someone might be
setting up a rival paper, either here or in Sto Lat or possibly even Klatch, but so far, nothing.
Just the theft of paper and a disused printing press.

“The second thing was more worrying. The Igors began to behave strangely. They would disappear -
not that that's unusual - but reappear talking normal, which is unusual. And they were less
organized, which is very unlike them. Igors are very territorial; they work where they work, and
they don't go into other areas. But now they've been seen all over. This was troubling.”
Vimes looked at Harry's face. “You'll hear more of them, later. For the time being, all you
need to know is that the Igors are behaving strangely,” he said.

Harry nodded.

“It was the third thing that prompted me to get a hold of Shacklebolt,” Vimes said. “The tattoo
parlors here are often associated with illicit gambling, so we keep a close eye on them. In recent
months, this has been by far the most popular tattoo for people to get.” He pulled a drawing out of
the inner recesses of his desk and showed it to Harry. The drawing was of a human skull with a
snake coming out of the mouth.

Harry looked at it in shock.

“The Dark Mark,” he whispered.

Vimes nodded. “Whole gangs of youths have been getting it,” he said. “I suppose you can guess
what they're calling themselves.”

“Death Eaters,” Harry whispered.

“Close,” Vimes said. “They're calling themselves the Grave Gourmands.”

“It sounds like some kind of sick joke,” Harry said.

“What they're up to is no sick joke,” Vimes said. “They've been attacking most of the
smaller temples in Ankh-Morpork. Not the Temple of Small Gods - that's too large - but small
shrines to Nuggan, Sweevo, Annoia … they're destroying them utterly, razing them to the ground.
The priests, of course, are hopping mad. It seems there is a hit list of gods they're going
after.”

“How many gods do you have?” asked Harry.

“No idea, but several dozen, at least,” Vimes said. “Here on the Disc, gods respond to belief.
They dwell over the Disc in Cori Celesti, a city at the top of the massive mountain at the hub.
Carrot - that's Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson - has been there. As I understand it, when there
are enough people who believe in an idea or a fixation, the god spontaneously pops into existence.
Most of the gods who have been targeted thus far have been smaller gods, but they're working
their way up the food chain to the larger gods, too.”

Harry nodded uncertainly. *Words had power*, he thought. He looked at Vimes
expectantly.

“Well, that's it. We've compiled a hit list of potential targets for the Grave
Gourmands, places they're likely to hit before they move up to the Temple of Blind Io or the
Great God Om. Your mission here, Harry, will be to find out what these Grave Gourmands are doing,
prevent them from carrying out their attacks on temples, and to uncover how they're linked to
your own world, and stop that, too. Understand?”

“Sir. Yes sir,” Harry said. “What about?”

“Practicalities?” Vimes asked. Harry nodded.

“You're going to be working with Captain Carrot and Sergeant Angua,” Vimes said. “Don't
tell them who you really are or where you're really from, though I daresay they'll pull it
out of you, in time. Carrot's the best man we've got, and Angua can sniff out details from
virtually anything. As far as anyone else is concerned, you're from the Counterweight
Continent, a second-year Watchman. You're here to learn about technique and you're going to
return to the Counterweight Continent in order to build up a more efficient Watch.

“In the meantime, I'm putting you up with Carrot at his boarding house. He's got a spare
room. I assume you don't have any problem working with dwarfs?”

“Sir, I don't have any prejudices against people of different stature,” Harry said,
carefully.

“Carrot is certainly of different stature,” Vimes said, “but I didn't ask you that. I asked
you if you had a problem working with dwarfs. The race. Carrot is a dwarf. Any problems?”

Harry pictured the dwarf manning the desk when he came in. *Typically short, long beard,
looked like an axe hit him in the face*, he thought. Harry hadn't had any experience with
dwarfs on earth. He assumed there was a good reason that Vimes was asking this. “No problems at
all, sir,” he said.

“Good. You'll be paid the standard Ankh-Morpork wage, two dollars per week. You might ought
to change some money now, if you want to have a bit of ready cash,” Vimes said. “Earth money runs
too heavy against the Disc, anyway, we can't afford to let anyone see a few extra pounds
here.”

Harry nodded and pulled out his wallet, and extracted fifty galleons. Vimes stared at it,
incredulously. “What - the - hell - is this?” he asked. Harry blinked. “Wizarding money, sir. Fifty
galleons. The galleon was trading about 7.8 to the pound, when I left.”

Vimes stared at it. “It's … gold,” he said.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Is this a problem?”

Vimes was remembering details from long, long ago, about a fire in the city, and an idiot
traveler from the Agatean Empire. *What was his name? Four Tree? No … Twoflower, that was
it.*

“I think that this amount, roughly, could cover my payroll for the next month,” Vimes said
weakly.

Harry looked at him, shocked. “How much do you have on you at present?” he asked.

Vimes looked in the petty cash drawer in his desk. “About 200 AM dollars,” he said.

Harry thought. “Right, give me 50, and keep the rest safe,” he said. “If I go around breaking
down more walls, you might need it.”

Vimes handed over 50 dollars. “How'd you do that, by the way? Got a gonne or something?”

“Er, no sir, that's a simple spell that often can immobilize people for up to about 30
seconds,” Harry said. “I've no idea how it picked up that much power. I didn't realize that
magic was so wild here. I'll be more careful in the future.”

“You'll be dead,” Vimes said, “if you keep letting go like that. Keep it in mind. Running is
always a better option.”

*Third person today who's told me that*, Harry thought.

A knock came on the door, and a giant entered.

“Sir,” said Captain Carrot, saluting.

“Carrot, this is Harry Potter, a new recruit joining us from the Counterweight Continent,” Vimes
said. Potter, this is Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, your direct report.”

Harry looked up … only to look up some more. He had never grown very tall, considering that his
diet during puberty consisted solely of the Dursley's table scraps and the carb-rich,
protein-poor diet at Hogwarts. Carrot was a … dwarf? He was at least six-foot-six.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Harry gulped.

“A pleasure, Lance-Constable Potter,” Carrot said, shaking Harry's hand. His grip felt like
iron, anyway.

“Carrot, Potter's a bit of a special case,” Vimes said. “I want him shadowing you at all
times. That means living in your quarters rather than at the Watch house. I presume this will be no
problem?”

“Not a problem in the slightest, Commander,” Carrot said.

“Right, then,” Vimes said. “Get him changed into regulation Watch issue, settle his things at
your place, and then get ready for tonight's operation. Dismissed.”

The two junior officers of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch saluted their commanding officer.

“Sir. Yes sir,” they said in unison, and walked out.

Vimes watched the door shut, and then thought about the stunning revelation the young wizard had
told him.

*Albus Dumbledore was dead?*

The thought was not settling. There was only one person Vimes could ask about this. And he
intended to do so. At once.

-->



8. Enough Rope
--------------



**A/N PLEASE READ THE DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE.**

**ENOUGH ROPE**

The squad room of the Psuedopolis Yard City Watch was … a squad room, certainly. It's sort
of the type of place that you expect that the Manchester United football club to come in, sweaty
and muggy after a hard day on the pitch, strip out of their kits, take a quick shower and then
change into something appropriate for an evening at the Ministry of Sound.

Except that … in Ankh-Morpork you didn't get designer carpeting. Or flat-screen televisions
on the walls. Or fluffy towels. And almost certainly, the unwashed socks of a sweaty, tired group
of footballers who had been practicing and playing for five hours in the hot sun and getting muddy
smelled much, *much* better than the Psuedopolis Yard squad room.

What you did get was the result of the Watch - initially being a human male dominated profession
- suddenly having to deal with the realities of being an integrated, multiracial workforce. So that
meant that certain individuals had to stop stealing the soap (Nobby), and take down the offensive
pictures of ladies of questionable virtue (Nobby), start bathing more frequently (Nobby) and *oh
gods will you stop eating those damned* mouse fat-and-garlic fishballs deep fried in lard and
served with hot pepper sauce *in here?* (Nobby).

There were a series of lockers, with curtains so that individuals could change in a relative
lack of privacy, and a set of showers, with cold- and cold-running water. Well, it should have been
water, but it was a mixture of the rain-water barrels and sludge from the Ankh that passed through
a filter that the King of the Golden River had installed, and Vimes had paid for. It reacted like
water (mostly).

Harry was given his own locker, into which he put most of his regular clothes, as he was given
an official watch uniform to wear. Carrot also issued him a regulation Watch truncheon, and Harry
carefully concealed his throwing knives up his sleeves when Carrot wasn't looking.

He also got a badge, stamped (sat on) by Detritus before he left with Sergeant Littlebottom.
Harry looked at the badge carefully: it read “Ankh-Morpork City Watch, 705, Harry Potter. Fabricati
Diem, Pvnc.”

To him, this was the most prized possession so far: to come into a foreign city and be given
*the shield*. It was a symbol that he was going to be trusted to work with his fellow
officers. He cared enough to give his best, but he hoped it would not be too long before he took
the badge off and replaced it with his Ministry of Magic Auror's badge. He was also issued a
small homing pigeon in a cage (*a bit like Hedwig*, Harry thought) and a set of semaphore
paddles.

“I think we should store your personal effects really at my boarding house,” Carrot said. “I
hope you don't mind living with dwarfs.”

Harry looked up at Carrot again. “Not at all,” Harry said. “But if you don't mind me
asking…” he began tentatively.

“Go ahead,” said Carrot, his smile as always fixed into place.

“Why exactly do you live with dwarfs?” Harry asked.

Carrot looked perplexed. “Why do I? Because I am a dwarf, of course.”

Now it was Harry's turn. “You ah … you are?”

“Of course I am,” Carrot said. “Can't you tell?”

“Um, well that is, I thought dwarfs were … not at as tall as you seem to be,” Harry said. “And
you don't seem to have a beard. Or long hair.”

There had been a few other Watchmen in the squad room, and now the atmosphere became …
dangerously quiet, Harry realized.

Then a voice spoke up. “He also doesn't smell like rat,” said Angua. “And he doesn't
carry an axe or a hammer.”

It seemed she spoke in jest, but there was certainly an *edge* to it.

Finally another dwarf came up. “Look, mate, I know you're new in town, where you from
again?”

“From Lon- the Counterweight Continent,” Harry said quickly.

The dwarf frowned. “Don't know where Lon- is,” he said. “Been to the Counterweight Continent
a couple a' times, too.” He looked at Harry menacingly.

“Believe me, you'd miss it,” Harry said. “Even I give it a miss, as often as possible.”

The dwarf grunted. “Righ. Well, I know there ain't a whole lot of dwarfs on the
Counterweight Continent, but you better learn this right now: Carrot's one of us, see? Got a
problem with that?”

“No,” said Harry quietly.

“Good, cause I live in that boarding house, too,” the dwarf said. “Sef Stronginthearm. I'm
sure if Carrot says it's okay, then there won't be any problems. But we don't like too
many humans around. It's one thing for … Carrot's friend, but too many humans … we get a
bit touchy, got it?”

“Got it,” said Harry quietly.

Carrot intervened. “Let's go. That's enough, Constable Sef. You should be out on patrol
by now. Got everything, Harry?”

Harry nodded and he, Carrot and Angua left the squad room and began to walk over the Brass
Bridge, which Harry noted was made of wood. They walked in silence for a bit.

“He was adopted,” Angua said.

“I'm sorry?” Harry asked.

“Carrot. He was adopted by dwarfs as a child,” she explained.

“Oh, I see,” Harry said. “So you never knew your birth parents?”

Carrot and Angua stopped. There was a *very* dangerous silence indeed. Finally Carrot said
“I don't have many memories of them.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry said. “The same thing happened to me.”

Carrot turned and looked at him closely. “What did you say?”

“The same thing happened to me,” Harry said. “My parents were killed when I was very young, so I
don't have any memories of them. I was raised by a … foster family, too.”

*That's near enough the truth, anyway*, he thought.

Carrot and Angua exchanged a look. “Well, it seems we have more in common, perhaps, than we
thought,” Carrot said. “How long have you been a Watchman?”

“We call ourselves Aurors, where I'm from,” Harry said. “After school I went to a two-year
training program, and I've been on active duty ever since … I'm, er, in my second year,
now.”

They continued walking and reached what appeared to be a large inn. “The Quene's Head: Rooms
for Let,” beckoned a large blue sign. They walked around the back, and Carrot greeted a woman
skinning rats.

“Good day, Missus Axebaiter,” he said.

“Oh, good to see you, Mr. Carrot,” she said, smiling through her beard. “And Miss Angua, so nice
to see you on your own two feet.”

Angua smiled a bit forcedly. “A pleasure, Miss Axebaiter.”

“Miss Axebaiter, I'd like you to meet Harry Potter,” Carrot continued. “He's a new
recruit for us and at present he'll be staying with me. Please add his room rate to my
bill.”

“Oh, there's no need for that, hon,” she began.

“I insist, Miss Axebaiter,” Carrot continued

“Well, very well, then,” she said. “Four dollars a week, with four dollars in advance, luv,” she
said to Harry. He pulled out one of the 10AM notes he had been given. “Please keep the extra two
dollars, Miss Axebaiter,” Harry said. “I'm sure we'll be taking meals or buying bread or
something.”

She looked at Harry appraisingly. “You eat bread, do you?”

Carrot looked so pleased he could burst. “Harry! You didn't tell me you ate bread! Why, that
makes you practically a dwarf! I'm so glad to hear it. When the others hear this, they'll
certainly ask you to join them for a meal and some fellowship.”

Angua smiled, amused. “That's not precisely what he meant,” she said. “But we don't have
much time now. Let's go up and drop off your things.”

She pulled out a key she wore around her neck on a very small … *what did Hermione call those
things?* Harry thought. *A choker, that was it*. They entered, walked up stairs, and went
into a hall to room 9. She unlocked the door, and entered a tastefully decorated bedroom attached
to a small sitting area, with a small second bedroom in the back. She walked into the second
bedroom, pulled a few things out of the closet, and brought them into the main bedroom.

“You've got the back,” she said, moving some clothes into a closet built into the wall,
shunting aside some of Carrot's extra uniforms.

Harry watched for a moment, feeling stupid. “Um, you and Captain Carrot *are* …”

“Yes,” Carrot responded. “We *are*.”

“Right then,” said Harry, carefully putting things into the small bedroom. *Given how powerful
my magic is here, I'm a bit nervous to try a silencing charm*, he thought. *We'll just
have to see how it goes*.

As he came out, Angua looked at him sharply. “Put the knives away, too,” she said. “You use the
standard Watch equipment you were issued, and no aides to it.”

“How did you know?” Harry began, but she cut him off. “They've been used before. There's
dried blood on them. I know,” she said.

Harry walked back into his room and examined the knives closely. They had been cleaned, but now
he could see a small amount of dried blood on the silk that covered the tang. *I'll be
damned*, he thought. *How did she figure that out*?

“You hungry?” said Carrot. “Our watch is going to start tonight at 11 bells. We can get
something to eat and nap before the night shift. I can get some bread, if you want.”

Angua smiled. “Harry, you don't actually know what dwarf bread is, do you? I'm sure
it's not available where you come from.”

Carrot's brow wrinkled. “Aren't you from Lon- on the Counterweight Continent? I know
there are only a few dwarf populations there, but you can get bread.”

Angua smiled. “Right. Harry's from the *Counterweight Continent*.” Her grin flashed
toothily at him. “Okay, Harry, since you clearly don't get much dwarf bread *where you are
from*, I'll tell you that dwarf bread are rocks. Literally. They're totally inedible for
most humans. The dwarfs use them as weapons. So I suggest we get a Katchian Hots, extra mushrooms.
That's a vegetarian pizza. Sound okay?”

Harry looked at her. *She knows*, he thought. *But I'm not admitting anything.
I'm living my cover. I'm from the Counterweight Continent.* Then another thought.
*She's nice, at least. She didn't let me just eat the dwarf bread. She didn't object
to me taking her room in her boyfriend's house. I need to be nice to her*.

He smiled. “That sounds great. And then maybe you can fill me on our assignment tonight? I am
very fortunate to be working with such an experienced team. I'm sure that I will learn a great
deal from you both.”

Carrot's smile threatened to cut his face in two, and even Angua looked pleased. “I'll
run out and get it,” she said. “Ron's Pizza Hovel pretty much always makes it the way I want
when I show up *in person*. Carrot, you can explain to Harry what the plan is.” Both men
watched as she bounced out of the room.

There was a pause.

“She seems a very nice fellow officer,” Harry said.

“She's the most amazing person I know,” Carrot said, still looking at the door.

“Sounds like my girlfriend, too,” Harry said.

“You have a girl friend?” Carrot said.

“Or she has me,” said Harry. “I don't know which. Her name is Hermione. We've been
dating for about eight years now.”

“Wow, such a long time!” Carrot said. “Do you have plans to get married?”

Harry shuddered. “Um, maybe. It's … complicated. Right now, we're just … trying to
figure out a middle ground.”

Carrot looked interested. A bit *too* interested, Harry thought. But the Captain quickly
changed the subject by bringing out a map and setting it on the table. “Here's the Ankh, and
this is the Brass Bridge,” Carrot said. “This has been the pattern of attacks so far - the one on
Sweevo was here, Nuggan here, and Annoia here.” His hand moved across the map, then stopped on a
red X. “This is a small temple to Monolith, the troll god,” he said. “One of our officers,
Constable Dorfl, has been smuggled into the shrine to take the place of the sacred statue.” He
looked up at Harry. “The trolls *do not* like this, and I must say I agree with them. Normally
we wouldn't be disenfranchising their god, even temporarily. However, in this case, as Angua
has informed me, we cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. Sergeant Detritus can't
accompany us on this mission since he can't be seen to be condoning what is officially
blasphemy. So he'll be patrolling the Shades later tonight.

“Our job is to stake out the temple, and if possible apprehend the perpetrators. We don't
know how they intend to take out this temple, since trolls are made mainly of rock, which
doesn't burn easily, and this is temple carved from rock. All the other temples were burned.
But we're pretty sure they're going to hit this temple tonight. They've also got plans
against the temple of the Seven-handed Sek and the Ode to Errata, but our informant suggests that
this is the first one they'll hit.”

Harry nodded. “Where will we be?”

“Dorfl inside the inner sanctum, which is about the size of a broom cupboard. You and I will be
in a second-floor office across the street, in an upstairs room that's normally used as a
counting room. We'll have access to the temple from two different ramps across the street.
Angua will be … about, you know, on the street probably.”

“Won't it be dangerous for Angua to be on the street alone?” Harry asked.

“Almost certainly not,” Carrot said, smiling, as the lady in question re-entered the room with a
pizza and a bag, containing a few bottles of ale.

After reviewing their plans, the three all went to get a few hours of sleep. It was important,
Angua informed her two men, that they try to be at their best at night.

Harry did not sleep well. Perhaps it was because his mattress had been stuffed with firewood, or
the noise from the Inn made it sound as if he were lying next to a giant with indigestion. He
finally decided that he was nervous about the operation, and making a good second impression, since
his first impression was still being cleaned up, grudgingly, by a group of habituals in lieu of
paying a fine.

He thought he heard some scraping noises and something that suspiciously sounded like a dog when
he was in half-sleep, but said nothing when Carrot formally woke him.

“Where's Angua?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“She'll … meet us there,” Carrot said. He picked up his truncheon, and tied on a sword belt,
which held a short sword in a scabbard. Harry looked at it questioningly. "Captain's
privilege," was all Carrot said.

They walked down the road. Ankh-Morpork by night was definitely a more threatening city, Harry
decided. He had been almost accosted three times by thugs, many of whom only stopped when they saw
Carrot next to him.

Finally they arrived at a dimly-lit alley. (Dimly-lit, of course, is a relative term; here it
means that if you were blessed with military-issue night-vision goggles, light would be perfectly
adequate. Or if you were a bat.) Carrot motioned him into an even darker corner, which Harry's
eyes eventually made out into a doorway. Carrot moved silently up the stairs, which seemed to creak
only when Harry stepped on them. As they arrived at a second-floor landing, Harry made out an
individual with a candle approaching them.

“All right Captain Carrot?” came the voice. Harry could barely see the speaker, but did notice
that the head seemed to be an … awkward angle.

“All right, Mr. Slant,” Carrot said cheerfully. “We do appreciate your assisting the Watch in
our inquiries.”

Mr. Slant lurched. “It's the responsibility of all lawyers, of course, to assist the law if
it is within our interest. And billable,” he said.

“We'll be here,” Carrot said. “I think you had best return to your own duties so that it
does not unduly reveal our presence.”

“Of course, Captain,” Slant said. He looked down at Harry. “A new apprentice?”

“Constable Potter is a new recruit who has joined us from the Counterweight Continent,” Carrot
claimed. “We're trying to promptly get him some practical experience.”

Slant nodded, which moved his head to the other side of his body. “I'll be off, then,” and
shimmered away.

Harry had been watching him carefully. The lawyer was clearly a zombie. *Reserve judgment*,
he thought. “Where can we see the street?” he asked Carrot.

“Over here,” Carrot said. They peered out of an open window across the balcony and into the
street. Harry made out a cement-looking archway, with flaming torches on either side of the portal.
There was some type of sign over it, but Harry was not up on Runes, and even if so, would not have
made out its meaning (which were, in fact, ancient troll words invoked by nearly all trolls when
they were hefting a boulder: `look out!').

He could just see that the through the archway, was another door, which was partially open, and
clearly had a statue inside of it. “Dorfl?” he asked, making the strange name sound as best he
could. Carrot nodded almost imperceptibly. Harry looked again at the scene. The entire temple
structure, as it were, was about 12 feet high, nine feet wide, and eight feet deep. *Either the
troll god wasn't attracting many followers, or the pious trolls observed ceremonies one at a
time*, thought Harry.

They stood, almost motionless, for nearly two hours. Several times Harry saw a brownish-yellow
dog wander around, but there was no other sound. For nearly two hours, that is.

On what would have been the time when the minute hand moved over to signify when it *was*
two hours, all hell broke loose.

First, someone tossed what Harry would describe later (with grave difficulty) as a Molotov
cocktail. This lit up the doorway with blinding light and fire, and permitted the other assailants
to fire some kind of siege weapon at the doorway. The bundles of rock and pitch smashed the door to
the inner temple.

Constable Dorfl, being a golem, was fireproof, but the rocks smashed him through the back of the
shrine. There was a howling from the left, as Harry saw the dog return and bite one of the Grave
Gourmands on the leg. “Come on!” he heard, and his head spun. Carrot was already down the stairs,
sword in hand, and on his way out the door. Harry elected to run to the balcony, where he could
look down at the scene.

“You are under arrest for conspiracy to make an affray,” Carrot was saying calmly. “If you
surrender, I can assure you that we will listen to your petition quite carefully.”

One of the Death Eaters - *Grave Gourmands*, Harry forced himself to think - just began
laughing at that. He motioned with his fists. “Get the copper!”

Wearing black, at least four of them spun from their positions beside the wall, surrounding
Carrot. Now Harry planned his move carefully. Two more steps … one more … and the Death Eater -
*GRAVE GOURMAND*, yes I know, thank you, stop distracting me - was in perfect position.

Harry jumped off the balcony, twisting in the air as the Grave Gourmand - hah, got it right,
that time - raised an axe.

Harry's feet landed just below the Grave Gourmand's shoulder blade. “Arrgh!” was the
only printable word he made as he fell to the ground. The dog - a wolfhound, Harry saw - jumped on
a second attacker. This left Carrot facing only two attackers, and rather than use his truncheon,
he chose a gauntleted fist. The *smack* that resulted left only one would-be attacker, who
suddenly got a bad case of panic.

The remainder of the attackers - however many there were, it was more than four - began to
retreat with the job half finished. “Don't pursue them!” Carrot shouted when Harry began to
show chase. “Let's get Dorfl on his feet, first.”

“Maybe I can use a spell to stop them and hold them down,” Harry said, thinking about how
carefully he would need to gauge his magic.

“Okay,” Carrot said. “Give it a shot.”

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated. He wanted to use the *incarcerous* charm to glamour
some ropes that would tie up the perpetrators, without causing too much harm.

He thought carefully and felt himself summon magic physically. “*Incarcerous!*” he said
confidently.

“Umm … was that what you meant to do?” Carrot said uncertainly. Harry opened his eyes.

Ropes were *everywhere*, making a spider's web of the street. A few handed landed in
the mess of the temple door and were on fire. They created a veritable wall between Carrot, Harry,
and the Grave Gourmands, who produced extremely sharp knives, and quickly began to slice their way
through the ropes, grabbing their injured colleagues.

“Maybe I can use a cutting charm,” Harry began, but Carrot put his hand on his shoulder.
“Perhaps not just yet,” Carrot said. “Besides, we can use the ropes to help pull up Dorfl.”

They made their way through the mess to where Dorfl was still on his back inside the ruined
temple doorframe.

“Dorfl? Can you hear me?” shouted Carrot.

“Yes,” Dorfl said, simply.

“You're going to be too heavy for us to lift,” Carrot said. “Can we use these ropes to hoist
you up?”

“If You Pass The Ropes To Me Over The Archway, I Can Use Leverage To Pull Myself Up,” Dorfl
said.

Carrot looked down at the wolfhound. “Grr,” it said quietly, and pulled the ropes into its
mouth, and scampered up a few nooks and crannies to get to the top of the archway, before backing
down carefully again. It avoided the burning pitch and handed the ropes to Dorfl, who pulled and
promptly hauled himself up.

The Golem walked over to the burning oil and stamped on it repeatedly until the fires were out.
Carrot, meanwhile, had drawn his captain's short sword and was cutting a path through the
rope.

“Don't worry about trying to pick it up,” Carrot said. “People will come and take what they
need. By morning it will be clear.”

Harry was humiliated. His magic clearly was having some *additional* power in Discworld. He
sighed. He had meant to be able to tie up the Grave Gourmands, and give the Watch a chance to
interrogate them. Instead, he had just gotten in the way. Again.

“That was really amazing,” Carrot said. “I thought wizards were just useless, but you clearly
learn a lot more practical things on the Counterweight Continent.”

“Huh,” said Harry, looking down.

“Just look at all this fabulous rope! It's really useful,” Carrot said. “I don't think
we ever would have got Dorfl up without it.”

“I Think I Will Take Some Of This With Me,” Dorfl said, spooling a few dozen feet of cord around
his arm. “I Will Report Back To The Cable Street Particulars, Captain Carrot.”

“Very well, Constable Dorfl. And a very good showing from you this evening,” Carrot said.

“Thank You Sir,” Dorfl said, as he walked away.

Harry was looking dejected. The wolfhound was sniffing him quite closely. Harry put his head on
the animal's head and scratched her behind the ears. “Hey, girl,” he said absently, and then
looked up at Carrot. “This a Watch dog?” he asked. The animal growled low. Harry looked down, and
realized the animal wasn't dog at all; in fact, it was a wolf, but the most well-manicured wolf
he had ever seen. Its muzzle and mane positively glowed.

Carrot rubbed its head affectionately. “Sort of. Go on ahead, we'll see you,” he said,
patting the wolf, which barked and ran off.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to screw up so badly,” Harry said miserably. “ I mean … we had
them, and I blew it with that damn spell.”

“What?” asked Carrot absently. He had been inspecting the small mangonel that had been used to
demolish the temple. “Oh, we didn't do so badly,” he said. He lashed out with his sword and
smashed the mangonel into pieces. “We've taken out one of their siege weapons, and prevented
them from damaging the sacred statue. I'll have Detritus bring it back tomorrow.”

“What now?” Harry asked.

“Let's go to the Watch pub,” Carrot said. “I'm sure that Commander Vimes will be there,
and we will introduce you to some of the other Watch members.

*Great*, thought Harry. *Not even a week and I get to be chewed about by two different
commanding officers.*

“Okay,” he said, unwillingly. “Let's go.”

-->



9. When the Sacred Ginmill Closes
---------------------------------



**A/N PLEASE REVIEW DISCLAIMERS IN CHAPTER ONE.**

**WHEN THE SACRED GINMILL CLOSES**

They walked for some time, back over the Brass Bridge, and to a nondescript building just down
from the Watch house. There was no sign to advertise the pub for custom; this was a place you
either knew about, or were invited to, but didn't make the mistake of knocking on
unannounced.

As they entered the dingy bar-room, Harry noticed the device on the door, barely legible through
the grime: `The Sacred Ginmill.'

“It used to be called the `Mended Drum,'” said Carrot, “but the publican changed it a few
years back when he became an Omnian.”

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the low candles and the blue haze of smoke from a dozen reeking
pipes, he finally found Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, sitting between Angua and a dwarf. He was
smoking his cigar and drinking a cup of coffee. Angua was drinking beer from a porcelain tankard
that bore her name. The dwarf had a glass of what appeared to be sherry.

“So in any event, sir, I'm not sure what else we could have done. In total there were 12 of
them, all heavily armed. When Potter took out the one on Carrot, they started to flee. Had Dorfl
not gotten hit with the shot from the mangonel, I think we could have managed them,” she was
saying. “At least we're all alive to fight another day, sir.”

Carrot and Potter sat down, and following Carrot's beckoning arm, the publican came over
with two mugs of mead. The two Watchmen joined their colleagues, but were careful to say nothing.
They both looked at Vimes' face.

Vimes did not look pleased. In fact, from Harry's long experience in dealing with displeased
superior officers, he had the expression of barely maintaining his ability to be calm. But he did
not shout, yell, or do any such thing; he merely nodded.

“Cheery?” he said quietly.

The dwarf nodded.

“Well, it's like your hunch, sir. There were definitely a lot of Igors there, but I
don't know exactly how many,” she said. “We managed to get out of Doughnut that they had been
experimenting on several dead horses, but he passed out before he could tell us how many. Based on
the results from the Quirm 100, and the amount of blood and ichor I found, I'd say at least six
horses.

“And there's something else; there was a power source, there, too. I don't know what it
was, but it was heavy, and hooked up with copper wire. If I didn't know better, sir, I'd
say it was necromancy. But why would anyone want to revive a dead horse? Surely once they've
been beaten that's enough.”

*Why indeed*, thought Vimes. *If Albus were here I would ask him.* He sighed.

Harry stared at Vimes' face. The Watch commander looked about a thousand years old.

“Now do you two want to tell me how you screwed everything up?” he said quietly. He did not make
eye contact.

*Hugely bad sign*, Harry said, and swallowed.

“It's my fault, sir,” Harry said, expressionless.

“Indeed,” Vimes said. “Care to elaborate?”

“Sir, I've been in Ankh-Morpork less than 24 hours. I've no idea how things work here,”
Harry said. “I've used two spells which normally should have an effective range of about 20
feet, and an effective duration of less than one minute.

“For some reason, everything is concentrated. I've tried to tone down the power I'm
drawing, but it only seems to be concentrated. My over-use of power tonight allowed the culprits to
escape. The mission failed because of me,” Harry said.

“I think that's a little strong,” Carrot said. “The mission failed because we didn't
have enough manpower, not that we ever do. Had we had Dorfl on our side, we would have that group
of Grave Gourmands back in the Watch House at this very minute. We didn't think they'd have
a siege weapon. They are clearly more organized than we first appreciated.”

Vimes just nodded, and finally made eye contact with Potter. Harry saw his look of deep
distaste.

“I went to see someone this afternoon, Potter,” he said. “Apparently Albus Dumbledore *did*
die more than five years ago.”

Harry just stared out him.

“That's a dam' shame, Potter, because I don't know if we're up to solving this
problem without him,” Vimes said evenly.

“Come, Commander,' Carrot said. “We've solved lots of serious incidents without undue
outside interference.”

“Very few have had these overtones, Captain,” Vimes replied.

He turned back to Harry. “As of this moment, Potter, I am ordering you to not use *any* of
the magic you have learned up this point in your life, or to use any of your magic devices from …
*home*. None. Not one. Clearly they are too powerful, and I don't want to lose my officers
as a result of your unfriendly fire. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes sir,” Harry said, quietly.

“Crystal clear?” Vimes persisted.

“Sir, yes sir,” Harry said. “So long as I am part of the Watch, I will not use any of my magic
from home, sir.”

“Learning to be a Watchman, Harry, is a tough thing. You're going to need to be in touch
with your mugg- your human side, do you understand me?” Vimes said.

*He almost said muggle,* Harry thought. *He knows a lot about Earth. I need to keep up
the pretence, and become Discworldian*.

“Yes sir,” Harry said.

“Carrot and Angua will help, but overall, Potter, you're going to have to learn to common
sense, not magic. I don't use magic in my force, Potter. What are we supposed to do? Magic
weapons out of thug's hands, and hope their fingers remain attached? *Magic* people into
being good? No. I can see where that goes. We don't magic out the truth here, Potter, we
investigate, probe, question, and ultimately prod buttock.

"You don't need magic to learn things from a crime scene, as Sergeant Littlebottom here
will teach you. I'll assign you to work with her a bit, since as a forensic alchemist she picks
up more things at the crime scene than the other officers,” Vimes said. "Find clues, fit the
jigsaw together … that's what being a copper is all about, Potter.

“But, and please let me make this clear, Potter, you'd better learn to be a Watchman
*fast*. Because we don't have the luxury of time to figure out how you *might* help
with your magic,” Vimes continued. “If things all go to hell, Potter, believe you me I will be
happy in throwing you to the demons from the dungeon dimensions.”

“Understood, sir. Crystal, sir,” Harry said miserably.

“Ok, Potter, that's enough, then, for now,” Vimes said. “Anything else, Carrot?”

There was an uncomfortably long pause, as Carrot unaccountably couldn't find anything else
to say.

“Right, then, if it's all the same to you, sir, I'll be off to get some sleep,” Harry
said. “Between the trip here and the events of earlier yesterday, I'm a bit exhausted.”

“Right, Potter. You go on, then,” Vimes said.

“Shall I accompany you, Harry?” Carrot asked.

“No, I'll make it,” he said. “But I guess I need a key …”

Carrot gave him his key. Harry smiled wanly. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

After he left, Angua stood up. “If it's all the same to you, sir, I'll just make sure he
gets home.” She walked to the door, and with a clink, took off her armor. This was apparently a
well-understood tactic, because Sgt. Colon immediately picked it up and placed it on a hook.

Less than twenty minutes later, she walked back in the door, and picked up her armor, and tied
the breastplate on. She walked back to the table. “He made it fine,” she said. “Now, sir, with all
due respect, would you please tell us where he's really from?”

“I thought we established that,” Carrot said. “He's from Lon-, on the Counterweight
Continent. Although I admit I've never heard of Lon-.”

“Please. He's nothing of the sort,” snorted Angua.

“Are you certain?” Carrot asked.

“You calling *this* nose wrong?” Angua retorted. “I got a *good* sniff of him at the
Temple of Monolith earlier. He's no more from the Counterweight Continent than I'm from
Four Ecks. Now, sir, please?”

Vimes looked into his cup. “You're quite correct, Angua. He's not originally from the
Counterweight Continent,” he said quietly.

“Yes, sir,” she said expectantly. Even Carrot looked interested.

“*Hurry up, please, it's time.”*

“However, and as far as the two of you are concerned, he *i**s* from the Counterweight
Continent, unless he chooses to tell you otherwise. Got it?” Vimes said, in a bored tone.

“Sir, I really would appreciate a bit more than that,” she said. “What I smelled on him was…”
she shuddered.

“What?” Vimes prompted.

“He *reeks* of magic. It's all over him. He's … just not all human, sir. No wizard
I've ever smelled is even close to as powerful as he is. And he doesn't smell like
*anyplace* I've ever smelled. A mix of octarine, olive green and sky blue. And maybe a
just a faint smidgen of a nutty Edam cheese.”

Vimes continued to look at his coffee.

“Sir?” she said, realizing she wasn't going to get an answer she wanted.

“I've already said, Sergeant, what I intend to say on the matter,” Vimes said.

“Yes, sir,” Angua sighed.

Vimes continued to stare into his coffee. “In one way or another, Potter's the key to all
this,” he said. “The dam' thing is, Potter either doesn't realize it, or is having trouble
finding out *how* he's the key. We've *got* to keep him alive, and yet at the
same time, a large part of me wants to dump him in the Ankh at high tide to wash our hands of the
matter.”

“Oh, you wouldn't want to do that, sir,” Carrot said. “After all, he could just walk away,
and in any event, he wouldn't get very clean that way.”

Vimes looked sharply at Carrot for a second, then looked away. “We'll have a squad meeting
tomorrow, and go over the maps again,” he said. “Then we'll check with the Cable Street
Particulars and see if they've had any look at the other temples.”

“*Hurry up, please, it's time.”*

“Should I go to Cable Street now, sir, and bring their reports to the meeting tomorrow?” Carrot
asked.

“*Hurry up, please, it's time.”*

“No, let's all go home and get a decent night's sleep, and we'll send a runner to
Cable Street before the squad meeting,” Vimes said. “Corporal Pessimal will deal with the paperwork
and arrange the meeting agenda as normal, and he can report to me if he believes we should change
tactics. Actually, I don't think I want to read any *reports* before I set into motion my
plan for tomorrow night.”

“Why sir? What are we going to do tomorrow night?” Carrot asked.

“The same thing we do every night, Carrot. Try to prevent people from taking over the
world.”

-->



10. Out on the Cutting Edge
---------------------------



**A/N Please read disclaimers in Chapter One.**

**OUT ON THE CUTTING EDGE**

Harry finally woke up feeling as if his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and found it
to be true. The pounding headache he was used to from years of fighting off mental attacks from
Voldemort, but the ramifications of Roundworld/Discworld travel, the botched stake out from last
night, the hideously uncomfortable bedding, and the drinking late in the evening had sent him to
bed feeling lousy. All of the former might have been justification for his ill-feeling, but what
really sent him over the edge was the ban on magic.

As soon as he'd arrived back in Carrot's room, he'd gone straight for his mirror,
intending to contact Hermione. But reflecting on things, he decided not to use it. It was a magic
device from his own world, and he'd given his pledge to Commander Vimes not to use magic. He
hadn't fully made a wizarding oath, it was true, but to Harry he felt obligated to keep his
word regardless, and mournfully kept the wooden case shut and not spoken to his lady friend.

In his painful morning half-daze, he wandered into Carrot's combination welcome
room/bedroom/dining area. There was a mug and a pot of a coffee-like substance on the table, and a
note.

“Dere, Hairy,

I wille meet you at, the Watche Housee, Butt I must go to Cable Street firste to get, some
papers. Period. Then I will meet you at the Watche Housee for the Squad Meeteing. Period. Have,
some coffee. Period.

Carott. Period.”

*You don't need papers, looks like you need some help with* *grammar*, Harry
thought. But he poured out some coffee. It was lukewarm, bitter and sour at the same time, but
still clearly caffeinated. *Oh well. I guess Watch coffee is the same the world - the Disc -
over,* Harry thought.

He pulled on his uniform and shuffled through the streets across the Brass Bridge and first went
to behind the station to the latrine - *right* this time. It was indistinguishable from the
one he had been on the left side, but still serviceable.

He entered the squad room. There were a number of dwarfs, Detritus the troll and a few other
trolls, he recognized Dorfl the golem from last night, sitting with two other golems, Angua, and a
quite few other humans … except maybe for the … monkey? … missing link? … over in the corner.

Harry was tapped on the shoulder, and he turned to meet a tall, thin human. “Greetings,
Lance-Constable Harry Potter, I am glad to meet a new Watchman,” said the stranger. Harry noticed
other people in the room shudder. “Pleased to meet you,” Harry said. “You are-”

“Constable Visit-the-Infidel-with-Explanatory-Pamphlets,” Visit said. Harry stretched to catch
this.

“Visit-”

“-the-Infidel-with-Explanatory-Pamphlets,” Visit finished.

“I see,” Harry said, not seeing at all.

“May I ask, Harry, whether you have considered the damned state of your soul? Are you perhaps a
follower of the Almighty Om?” Visit inquired.

“Of - who?” Harry asked.

“Don't mind Washpot,” said the monkey-looking man. *How can you* speak *grubbily,*
Harry wondered. “He just wants to give you some of the pamphlets what he leaves in all the other
temples.”

Visit looked hurt. “Would you like a pamphlet, Harry?”

Harry had been through enough to realize that the fastest way to get rid of most unpleasant
visitors was to give in to their demands as quickly as possible and then ignore them. “Oh,
certainly Constable Visit, I'd appreciate that.” *I haven't found any toilet paper so
far*.

Visit almost cried. “Here, Lance-Constable Potter, here!” Visit stuffed about four greasy
pamphlets into Harry's hands. They bore titles like *Smiting the Inner Sinner* and *The
New Revelations of the Old Prophecies Which We Now Think Are Probably Not Heretical.* “Should
you wish to go out Exhorting with me, Harry, I would be most honored, Om be praised in a tasteful
manner to other religions.”

“Er, yes, well, perhaps some other time,” Harry said. It seemed to have the right affect, since
Visit wandered off to torment another youthful watchman. At that moment, Vimes and Carrot strode
in.

“Attention the Watch!” Corporal Pessimal announced. Harry rose along with the rest of the Watch
house.

“At ease,” Vimes said, lighting a cigar. The Watchmen sat down. “Right. Listen up. Carrot has
details regarding last night's attack on the Temple of Monolith, as some of you may have
already read in this morning's edition of the *Times*. We'll start with that.” He
nodded in Carrot's direction.

“Last night, four Watchmen were involved in an operation to stop the wanton destruction of
sacred property that has allegedly been occurring by the splinter group known as the Grave
Gourmands,” Carrot began. “The attack on the Temple of Monolith was largely unsuccessful, and the
sacred statue and premises were not seriously damaged. The perpetrators were using a siege weapon
of relatively recent construction. Unfortunately, none of the alleged perpetrators were
arrested.”

“What types of rock and timber were used in the device, Captain?” asked Cherie Littlebottom.

“Cable Street has some of those over there, Corporal Miss Littlebottom,” Carrot said. “We'd
appreciate your expertise on them. It might help us locate where the mangonel was constructed, and
thus where the base is.

“Now at the present time, our informant has alerted us to the fact that at least two other
temples are likely to be targets. Since the Grave Gourmands will be expecting Watchman, I would
like to propose that Constable Downspout and Constable Reg Shoe take the lead on surveillance for
the other two temples, with two teams of Watchmen in reserve, who can be there in a minute's
notice should attacks occur. I will be putting together a list of Watchman who will be drawing
double duty today to protect these sacred spaces, and Corporal Pessimal will post it later.”

There was a general groan at this. *No different if I was in Auror headquarters and
Shacklebolt just announced an extra shift*, thought Harry glumly.

“As always, keep your ears open and keep Watching,” Vimes said. “I want this group badly.”

“Next item. As many of you know, reports have come in from all over the city regarding the
strange behaviour of the Igors. I have asked Igor about Igor, but it doesn't appear at this
time Igor was involved, though we can't say the same about Igor. Still, you will all remember -
particularly you, Dorfl - the last time we had something like this happen. People ended up dead. I
am not expecting any funerals over this, Watchmen. Igors are supposed to save lives, not take
them.”

“Sir, what is it that Igor is doing, exactly,” one of the dwarfs Harry had not met asked.

“Good question. As you know, most of the Igors communicate with their entire community, but they
do not have to share their communication if they choose not to do so. Since Igor has been left out
of the loop on what Igor initially asked Igor, we don't know for certain, but it seems that
Igor and Igors after that Igor have been ignoring their usual trade to deal with … necromancy.”

There was a shudder throughout the Watchroom. *That shook them up*, Harry thought. *But
which Igor is which? Of course, if it* is *necromancy, that means that Igor is a witch, unless
Igors is a witch … which Igor is witch?*

*I have got to talk though this with someone*, he thought, shaking his head.

“Question, Constable Potter?” Vimes asked.

“Er - not at this time, sir. I just don't think I've met Igor,” he said, in what was
probably the only safe thing to say.

Vimes looked at him sharply and nodded. “I don't think Igors are very common on the
Counterweight Continent, are they?”

“No, sir, at least not in Lon-” Harry responded.

“Right, I'm assigning you to work with Littlebottom on this at present, Potter,” Vimes said.
“You'll learn more about the facets of Ankh-Morpork that way. Interview Igor and Igor, and
Igor, too, if necessary.”

*Seems a safe enough cover*, thought Harry. *But I still have no idea what he
means.*

“What else, Carrot?” Vimes said.

“Two more muggings and three rapes last night in the Shades,” Carrot said. “Plus a bit of GBH
over by the Misbegot Bridge. I don't think it was raining, so that seems very quiet. Sergeant
Detritus?”

“Was quiet last night. Too quiet,” Detritus said. “Someone know sumpin', I fink. Come to
fink of it, der usual squad of gang boys seems a bit smaller - not so many of `em to clump
around.”

“This might follow the pattern that more seem to be joining the Grave Gourmands. Reg? Any news
from your end on that?” Carrot asked.

Harry looked at - a *zombie? Merlin, these guys have* everyone. *Talk about your
affirmative action program.*

“'Sno news from the newly inhumaned,” Reg said. “If they're takin' body parts,
it's not from the main three cemeteries in the city.”

Vimes puffed his cigar. “Littlebottom reported that several horses were dead or reported dead
from the track. Although horse flesh presumably wouldn't be used for necromancy, the weight
might, if they were trying to put a few hundred pounds weight of flesh into coffins. So keep your
eyes open if there are a lot of sudden closed-coffin burials.”

“Anyone else have a report?” he asked.

There was silence. “Right, that's it.” The room began to move.

Pessimal stood up one last time, and the room lapsed back into rigidity. “Right you lot, the
Watch! Let's look out for each others' backsides out there!” A small ragged cheer went up.
The meeting was over.

Littlebottom sought out Harry. “Sergeant Cherie Littlebottom, forensic alchemist,” she said,
offering out her hand.

“Lance-Constable Harry Potter, Lon-,” Harry said.

“Right,” the dwarf said, looking at him appraisingly. “So you've never met Igor before.”

“That's right,” Harry said.

“Had breakfast yet?” Littlebottom asked.

“Not really,” Harry said, truthfully. The pizza seemed a long time away. Maybe they would be
able to get some baked beans on toast, or eggs and bacon, with any luck.

“Best way, then,” Littlebottom said cheerfully. “We'll eat before lunchtime anyway to avoid
the rush, but I'll grab myself a rat on a stick on the way. Let's go see Igor. He used to
be downstairs here in Psuedopolis, but we did some renovations to the attics after we dealt with
the recent Koom Valley mess, and we've moved Igor upstairs. More space for his workshop, and of
course, it abuts the roof so the lightning rods are easier to manage.

"Only difficulty is, now you can't get there from here - we had to build a supporting
wall and so we have to walk around the corner just to go upstairs.”

They walked out the front of Watch house parallel to the Ankh. Halfway down the street the dwarf
strolled over to a vendor selling food out of a cart. “Morning, Mr. Dibbler. One rat on a stick,
please,” she said, then glanced at Harry. “Or do you want one, too? My shout,” she offered.

“Er … no, not just now,” Harry said. He looked into the cart and found Littlebottom to be
telling the absolute truth. The man had a selection of deep-fried rats impaled on skewers.

“Right, that'll be a dollar,” Mr. Dibbler said.

“Come, Mr. Dibbler, the price is always 50 cents for the Watch,” Cherie said smiling firmly.

“Well, yeah, I guess, that's true,” he admitted. “But it's cuttin' me own
throat.”

They exchanged specie and species and walked on, with Harry trying very hard not to watch the
Watch sink its teeth into the rat with obvious relish.

“New to Ankh-Morpork, then?” she said between bites.

“My first time here,” Harry said.

“Yeah, I thought you looked a bit dry behind the ears. Good nip in the Ankh'd fix that. Mind
you, you might have to wash off, afterwards,” she said, finishing off her nibbling on the tail.
They turned the corner and Harry could see the back of the Watch House, and a long staircase that
led up to a door near the top floor. “Here we go,” she said, disposing of the stick in a bin beside
a marquee that read `Psuedopolis Yard Prosthetic Igorring.'

“Igor works for us at the Watch,” she explained. “Although technically he's a corporal, he
doesn't work on the street unless we're expecting a riot, when seconds count. Now one thing
- don't mention his speech impediment, okay? Not word one.”

“Got it.”

She creaked open the door and walked inside. Harry followed her into what he believed was the
cleanest area he had seen in Ankh-Morpork so far.

“Igor?” she said quietly.

“Yes?” said Igor, emerging behind them on the stairs. Harry jumped - and something in his
hindbrain screamed *run*. He then dashed past the counter into the back, which he saw looked
like an operating theatre. He looked back to see Cherie and someone - presumably Igor - staring at
him.

“How did you *do* that?” Harry asked.

Cherie smiled. “It's just one of those things Igors do,” she said. “Why don't you come
back and let's talk.”

Coming to them, Harry looked closely at Igor … or was it `the' Igor. The Igor was ... well,
at least human looking, certainly. The man had three noses, innumerable scars, and … an extra arm?
His face looked like ... the worst mass of tissue from the worst traffic accident imaginable.

“Tell Commander Vimes the noses are almost done, it's an extra week on the four ears, and
the arm will be ready by the end of Grune,” the Igor said.

“Ah … what …” Harry said. He felt bile in his throat. It was a good thing he hadn't
eaten.

“Harry, Igors are expert at creating, grafting and attaching regenerative body tissues,”
Littlebottom explained. “When we were dealing with this gang from Ephebe last month, they liked to
waylay Watchmen and cut their noses or ears off. Igor grows one back on his own body or a surrogate
to about 80 percent completion, and then transplants it onto the recipient. With a bit of
curetting, within about a month, you can't tell the difference. And it's a new appendage,
so it works even better than the old one.”

*And here about all we have worthy is Sekele-grow*, Harry thought. He was impressed, in
spite of himself. “Can you do internal organs as well?”

“Well, of course,” said Igor. “They are harder to replace, though as there are more infections
during the process. But should you find yourself losing your head, believe me, I can get you
another one here in the body shop. My stitching is exquisite - no one can even see the seams.”

*I'm not going to go there,* Harry thought, *but the infection**s* *are
b**ecause you don't have the antiseptic environments we would* *have* *in a
hospital. Blimey, if muggles ever found out about this place … there would be a rush for it. Anyone
who ever had a traumatic injury. Or was in an accident. The plastic surgeons would have a field
day*. “Sorry, Mr. Igor, how exactly do you do this? Is it magic?” Harry asked.

“All the Igor Clans are, in fact, magic in part, but no, we don't use involve magic at all
in the way you're thinking. We do need fat, though. Lots of it. About half a pound was involved
just in this one ear,” Igor said.

“We get most of our fat from Uberwald, where the fifth elephant landed,” Littlebottom explained.
“That's actually my home. The fat is mined by dwarfs deep underground, and then shipped to
Ankh-Morpork.”

“Very impressive,” Harry said. “You're really on the cutting edge of traumatic medicine. Mr.
Igor, how many other people are you in your profession?”

Igor looked confused. “You mean how many other Igors are there?”

“Er, yes, how many people are Igors?” Harry asked.

“No, *Igor.* Igor is dead,” Igor explained.

“I see,” said Harry blankly. “I thought *you* were Igor.”

“No, no, I'm Igor. You mean Igor,” continued Igor.

The reality slowly dawned on Harry. “All of you are all called Igor? How do you know which Igor
you want?”

“You just ask for Igor, of course,” Igor said.

Littlebottom gave him a knowing look. “I heard Constable Littlebottom explain that there was a
recent meeting of Igors. You didn't attend, I take it. How many Igors did attend?”

“About eight, I think. That means all the Igors in Ankh-Mopork save two,” Igor said.

“Ten total in Ankh-Morpork,” Harry said aloud. “And … where you're from … how many?”

“Not so many, in my clan, any more. Only about 50,” Igor said calmly. “But of course, there are
thousands of Igor in the world.”

“I see. Well, you didn't attend, but the others did,” Harry said. “Why didn't they have
you attend the meeting?”

For the first time, Igor looked uncomfortable. He maintained his silence and Harry cast around
for an opening. “Perhaps they felt you and the other Igor weren't capable of helping them?”

“There's naught wrong with Igor! He's just a young Igor, he's only been Igorring
about 50 years now,” Igor shouted. “How was he to know that he couldn't …” his voice trailed
off and Harry felt an inward glow of satisfaction.

“That he couldn't what?” Harry asked.

Igor's eyes narrowed. “Nothing, that's what.”

Harry smiled. He knew this tactic. “And so you couldn't do it either, which is why they
didn't invite you?”

Igor knew the tactic, too, and was ready for this question, however. “No, I can do it, all
right, but … this has to do with the whole essence of being an Igor. To the clan, it's bad
enough that I work for Vimes. Igor doesn't trust me anymore. Look, I really can't say.” He
looked at Littlebottom. “Igor drinks too much now,” he said finally. “He goes to the pub a lot. You
know which one. He's depressed. If Igor wants to say something, fine. I had nothing to do with
it.”

Harry realized they were being asked, politely, to leave. He was trying to think of any last
questions, when he suddenly saw a piece of the jigsaw for the first time.

“Igor, did you say it took half a pound of fat to grow that ear?” Harry asked.

The Igor's face was impassive, but he responded to his craft. “Yes, that's right.
Could've done with less, but I really wanted it to look nice.”

“Where do you store the fat?” Harry asked.

“It's officially purchased by the Ankh-Morpork government, and doled out to the Igors at
cost,” Littlebottom said. “The carts bring it to a store room that's kept cool in between …”
suddenly the dwarf's eyes narrowed. “In between the Patrician's Palace and the race
track.”

“Anything … unusual there recently?” Harry asked.

The Igor stared into space. Littlebottom stared at the ceiling. Finally she said “The Watch will
be making inquiries, of course, in the normal course of our duties. Of course, it is a large
area...”

Igor continued to stare into space. “Yes, I'm sure that everything is normal. I'm sure
the Watch will find that everything is in order, particularly in the store rooms nearest the
loading docks, where the carriages alight and toss off anything … damaged in shipment.”

“Well, thank you for your time, Igor, I'm sure Commander Vimes will be encouraged about the
situation regarding the appendages,” Littlebottom said. “Let's go, Potter.”

They walked for some time in silence. “That was good questioning back there,” Littlebottom
said.

“I only asked out of ignorance,” Harry said. “I really didn't know anything about
Igors.”

“They were still good questions. Questions I wouldn't have thought of,” Littlebottom
said.

“What's next?” Harry asked.

“Cable Street to see the mangonel and send a clacks for a routine check on the fat deposits.
Then we'll need to get Angua's help for tonight to talk with Igor,” Littlebottom answered.
She looked at Harry. “How about an early lunch, then?”

“Sure … is there somewhere we can get … um” Harry began.

“Not rat?” Littlebottom said, trying her best to look hurt.

“Please,” Harry begged.

Cherie smiled. “Angua's a vegetarian, and so there's a nice place that does a lovely
Ephebe salad with olives and cheese. You might prefer meat. Like most dwarfs I consider myself
vegetable friendly, but right now I could sink my teeth into some bangers and mash.”

“Lead me to it,” Harry said.

“King's Head. Not too far,” the dwarf replied, and led him towards the city center.

“By the way,” Harry said. “You mentioned Igor had a speech impediment. I didn't notice it at
all.”

“Igors lisp, mainly. He doesn't,” Cherie explained. “Ergo, a speech impediment.”

Harry let this float over him. “You mean, he doesn't have a speech impediment, so
*that's* a speech impediment?”

“Precisely,” she said.

Harry was silent for the rest of the walk to the King's Head.

“What are you thinking?” Littlebottom asked as they sat down and a waitress came to take their
order.

“What an amazing amount I'm learning about Ankh-Morpork,” Harry said. “It's like an
onion.”

“Smelly, prone to rot, but easy to stew and spice things up?” Littlebottom asked.

“I meant more that there were a lot of layers, but your statement seems accurate, too,” Harry
said. “We'll, let's eat, and then see where this lead takes us.”

-->



11. Telling Lies for Fun and Profit
-----------------------------------

**A/N Please review disclaimers in chapter one. Sorry for the delay; real life again. Y’all
know.**

**TELLING LIES FOR FUN AND PROFIT**

They walked off to Cable Street. Harry was still thinking about what he had seen so far in
Discworld, and then posed a new question to Littlebottom.

“So, Sergeant Littlebottom, what exactly is a mangonel, anyway?” Harry asked.

The dwarf looked up at him suspiciously. She had been present when Vimes said he wasn’t going to
tell Angua or Carrot where Potter was from, and she had learned a few things about interrogation
herself in her years on the force. She was going to use that experience now.

“Ah. A mangonel,” she said.

“Yes, I think Captain Carrot said it was a siege weapon of some kind,” Harry continued.

“Very true,” Cherie replied. “I suppose you don’t see them so often out there on the
Counterweight Continent.”

“At least, not where I’m from,” Harry responded diplomatically.

Cherie eyes him closely for a moment, then resumed her focus on the street in front of them.
“Well, he hasn’t said so much, but I’m assuming it must be a small one,” Littlebottom began. “A
full size mangonel would normally require four trolls to carry and operate, or roughly 25 humans.
You didn’t see that many attackers last night?”

“No,” Harry said. “Only about five.”

“Right, well, mangonel is an old Latitian word. In full size, a mangonel is a single-arm,
tension-torsion catapult. It can throw a boulder more than 1,000 feet. From what I’ve heard, it
sounds as if this was a small version with a bucket arrangement that let it fire smaller stones and
burning pitch. It would certainly explain how they could knock down those other temples,” she
said.

Harry thought about it for a minute.

“How big did you say they were?” he asked.

“At full size, about the size of a house,” she said. “Two stories tall, easily. They take a long
time to set up and break down. Which is why I’m interested at seeing this one, and in particular
the wood it was made of.”

“That’s right, I remember you saying that at Pseudopolis,” Harry said. “I’m not sure I
understand what you mean by that.”

“You sit in a wooden chair at lunch?” she answered him with a question.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“At a wooden table?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said again.

“In a wood-frame house? And eat out of a wooden bowl with a wooden spoon?” she persisted.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” said Harry, mildly aggravated. “So what?”

The dwarf stopped him in the middle of the hot summer street. “So look around you, Sonny Jim,”
she said. “Where the hell are all of the trees?”

Harry blinked and looked about him. It was true, he realized. In all the time he had been
walking around, he hadn’t seen a single tree. Now he cast his view further down the cross street
they stood near. No trees there. None down by the Ankh.

“Okay, where are the trees?” he asked.

“None, in Ankh-Morpork,” Cherie explained. “Yet we need them. Wood is vital for many things –
construction, daily goods and siege weapons. So we import virtually all of our wood.

“The Patricians’ Forest is just outside the main city walls to the North of us. It’s a forest
that primarily consists of red pine. Timber that is forested there is delivered to a part of the
upstream Ankh and floated in through the city’s water gate down to the Morpork region of the city,
where the big timber yards then cut it into lumber and toss runoff back into the Ankh. The
Patrician is very careful about how much wood is cut, when, and by whom. You have to have a license
to cut it. So if we find one of the Patricians’ brand marks on the wood, we know who cut it and
when.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry. “But what if it isn’t red pine?”

“Oh, that would be even more interesting,” Littlebottom said. “It could be any of a number of
woods that I can identify. I doubt that it was made of teak, liana, rosewood or mahogany, of course
– those exotic hardwoods all come from the Agatean Empire or Four Ecks and they’re damn’ expensive
– but it could be oak, for instance. Which would also give us an idea of where it was made.”

At this point Cherie could no longer contain herself. “So being from the Counterweight
Continent, I guess all the ones you’d have seen would be made out of red oak,” she said.

“Er, yes,” Harry said. “Lots of red oak on the Counterweight Continent. Big one near my house in
Lon-.”

“Mmm.” Littlebottom pursed her lips. They walked near a clacks pole and saw a street sign that
read ‘Cabel Street’. “I assume this is it?” Harry asked.

Littlebottom said nothing but took a side street marked “Notan Alley.”

“Don’t know about the force in Lon-,” she said, “but Cable Street is what we call around here
our non-uni force.”

Harry blinked and tried to understand. “Your non universe?”

“No, non-uni force. You know. Plainclothes,” she said.

“Oh, right,” Harry said. “Undercover.”

Littlebottom gasped and turned to him. “No way! You really have Watchpeople in bed with their
targets?”

“Sorry, figure of speech,” Harry said. “I meant we don’t wear a distinguishing uniform but blend
in with the common people so that we can detect crime. That describes most of our force.”

“I see,” Littlebottom said, stroking her beard. “But what if there’s a big riot? I mean, it’s
easier to control the population if they see a dozen uniforms running at them.”

“Not much of a problem back home,” Harry said. “Clandestine activities are our big
headache.”

“Okay,” Littlebottom said. She looked up at the side of a tall building – a warehouse, Harry
thought – and looked at a gargoyle that was on the side eave. After a second, a dim doorway opened
across the street. “Let’s go,” she said, leading him inside.

She walked in and nodded to a few dwarfs who were writing reports. Harry didn’t catch the full
exchange she had, as it was in dwarvish, but eventually she finished and they walked toward a
workshop in the back.

They entered a room in which a large table was set for tea. A group of painted wooden manikins
sat in various positions as a butler in morning dress proffered a tray around. Finally he set it at
the head of the table and the tray went flying through the air, decapitating the manikin at the
end.

“Right, I want that ready for the Patrician’s tea party on Thursday,” came a voice, unperturbed
at the violence. “Hello, Sergeant Littlebottom.”

“Hello, Qu,” she said.

Harry had been gaping at the scene of the workshop of death, and turned to see Littlebottom in
discussion with an elderly man with a shaved head, dressed in saffron robes. “I’m sorry, what did
you say?” he said, turning to the elderly man.

“I said hello, Lance-Constable Potter. My name is Qu,” Qu said.

“How did you know my name was Potter?” Harry asked.

“It’s on your badge,” Qu said.

“Harry, Qu is a member of the History Monks,” Littlebottom explained. “Although they normally
live within their sanctuary, the members of the History Monks are obliged to live in the world for
part of their lives. One of the leaders of their order, Marco Soto, lives here in Ankh-Morpork and
has kindly arranged for Qu to come to work with Cable Street for the next few years as his service.
He’s shown us any number of very … unorthodox devices which have come in quite useful in watch
service.”

Harry looked back at the teaset. “I reckon so,” he said.

“You’re not from Ankh-Morpork,” Qu said. “From the Counterweight Continent, perhaps?”

“Yes, from Lon-, actually,” Harry replied.

“Really?” Qu said in surprise. “I believe that’s less than a full day’s walk from our monastery
in the Ramtops. I was under the impression that no-one lives in Lon- anymore,” he began.

“Very few,” Harry interrupted.

“Because it is so overcrowded,” finished Qu.

“Er,” Harry began, unsure of what to say.

“What do you have to show us today, Qu?” interjected Littlebottom.

“I have reconstructed the mangonel,” Qu said. “Shall we?”

They walked into a back room where the siege weapon, mostly back into working order, rested
amongst other interesting implements of war. Harry was drawn to the peculiarity of some of the
items on the workbench and began to examine them, as Littlebottom cast her expert eye over the
wooden frame.

“Captain Carrot’s attack on the machine was very effective,” Qu said. “The damage was
considerable. Luckily, there was a large amount of rope lying beside it, so it made it easy to drag
the pieces and then re-build it. I’m glad I didn’t need the wood that I had to rebuild it, since if
I didn’t have it, I would have needed it.”

Harry just looked flummoxed by this. Littlebottom began looking at the joins as Harry picked up
a small, folding paper fan. He flipped it out and ducked, as a series of thin, needle-like knives
darted out of the fan, nearly decapitating him. Harry dropped the fan and hit the floor, and Qu was
beside him in a flash, catching the fan before it hit the ground. The venerable monk merely smiled
at him. “I can see you’ll be quite a fan of my work, Potter,” he said.

Littlebottom called Harry. “Potter, stop fooling around and have a look at this.”

Harry walked over. “See the in-seam split? You can see right through to the wood there. The
bucket’s the same material. That’s white oak, that is.”

“I see,” said Harry. “Where would a stand of white oak trees be found?”

“Probably Lancre,” Littlebottom said. “No less than five days’ good ride from here, if your
horses are strong and the roads are good. If the roads are muddy and you can’t get forage for your
horses, could be two weeks.”

Harry backed up and looked at the war weapon carefully. Although the warehouse wasn’t that
brightly lit, it was much better than the dark night. “If someone brought this from Lancre, surely
it would have caused a sight. Wouldn’t someone have noticed them on the city streets with it?”

“I doubt it,” Qu said. “Even though you can observe a lot, just by watching.” He walked around
and pressed a lever. The mangonel collapsed, into an easily identifiable structure. “It’s a horse
cart!” Harry said.

“Mule, more like,” Littlebottom said, looking at the axle. “But yes, this would explain how they
got it past the Watch at the city gate. If they had a cover over it, like they usually do, it
wouldn’t even be a remarkable occurrence. Must be 300 carts coming in and going out each day – they
just got lost in the middle.”

Harry jumped into the ‘bed’ of the cart, which would be the folding arms of the mangonel. “Lots
of carts every day, Sarge?” he asked.

“That’s right, Potter,” she said. “All carrying vegetables, meats, other goods for trade or
sale.”

“And there’s a Watch at the gate, you said,” Harry continued.

“Right again,” Littlebottom said.

“And do people have to pay some kind of toll to get in?” he asked.

“Ah, the Patrician’s Tariff!” the monk spoke up. “A crime, it is, that Lord Vetinari can levy a
heavy fine even on us who have given up on the world. I have to pay a heavy toll every time my
monastery sends me materials to work with here, and they end up just going back to the Watch.
Really, the way it’s going, a nickel isn’t worth a dime, anymore.”

“Um, right. So everyone pays tax,” Harry said. “So what did this cart carry, besides the
mangonel? Rocks, maybe?”

“Good question, Harry,” Littlebottom said. “I have a feeling it wasn’t rock. Let’s examine the
shot.”

The shot was on the table which contained the fan and some other items. Harry tried to pick up a
piece of rock, misjudged the weight, and dropped it. Again, Qu with his amazing dexterity snatched
the rock before it struck the floor.

“You’re quite a catcher,” Harry said.

“I managed,” Qu said, imperturbably.

“So you see,” Littlebottom said. “This is mainly building rubble. That piece of concrete even
has some paint on the outside. No, they probably got the rubble locally.”

“So we still don’t know what they brought in from Lancre,” Harry said.

“No, and that’s an important point,” Littlebottom said. “The absence of evidence is not evidence
of absence. They probably brought in something, and we haven’t seen it yet. We need to tell that to
Commander Vimes.

“Anything else, Qu?”

“I think that’s it for now, but thanks for making this visit necessary,” Qu said.

Littlebottom nodded and walked to the door. Harry followed her and Qu grabbed his sleeve.

“I know you are not from here,” Qu said, smiling benignly. “You are at a place where the roads
intersect.”

Harry thought. His life in London as an Auror was certainly in flux. In some ways he still
missed his old friends who had died on the way, and hadn’t really mourned them properly. This
undoubtedly influenced his relationship with Hermione. Even though he was sure he loved her, he was
terrified to commit to her ultimately. When his emotions were laid bare, Harry felt naked.

“I’m certainly at a crossroads,” Harry said. The monk smiled and walked slowly with him. “It is
important for you to know where it is that you are going. Otherwise, you will end up somewhere
else,” Qu said.

“Ah – ah – ” *why do monks always speak in riddles?* Harry thought. “I guess that’s true,”
he said.

They approached the door, where Littlebottom was waiting for them. Qu smiled. “You have come to
a fork in the road,” the old man in saffron said. “My advice to you is, take it.”

The old man faded back into the dimly lit warehouse.

“Old Qu likes you,” Littlebottom says. “Passing on his baubles of wisdom like that.”

“I guess,” Harry said, staring back at the dimness.

They walked out into the hot, sticky Ankh-Morpork afternoon.

“Look, Potter, it’s none of my business, but I’ll level with you,” Littlebottom said. “You’re
coming up a bit short on your answers. The old man and I know you’re not from Lon-, wherever the
gods-forsaken hell that is. Firstly, red oak is not native to that part of the Ramtops, and you
would never have had one growing by your house growing up, since red oak is only found in Four
Ecks. Secondly, the Counterweight Continent’s wars are full of the use of mangonels, and you didn’t
know what one was, whereas if you had really grown up there, you would already have known. Thirdly,
you don’t know whether Lon- is a big city or a small hamlet. Finally, Angua knows you’re not from
around those parts, too, and her opinion trumps all the others.”

Harry said nothing. He just continued to stare straight ahead.

Finally the dwarf sighed. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Surely you’ve seen enough of us by
now to know we’re a mixed bag of all sods. Trolls and dwarfs on the same force. Ghouls, gargoyles
and golems. Even werewolves and a vampire and an Igor. And can’t forget the humans, too. We’re all
pretty messed up, you know. We’ve all got our battles we’re fighting. But there’s one thing that
keeps us together.”

Harry let at least a minute pass. “What’s that, then?” He asked finally.

“When we’re out here, we watch out for each other’s backsides,” Littlebottom said. “I don’t give
a damn where you’re from or what you did to get here. But when we’re on patrol, I expect to go home
the next day, and not be a chalk outline. Are we communicating here?”

“Sergeant Littlebottom, the first attempt on my life came when I was 15 months old. Since then
I’ve basically been fighting to stay alive more or less constantly,” Harry said, completely
truthfully. “I may not be from around these parts, but I understand the parts I have to play. So
I’ve got your back out here. I expect you to have mine, too.”

“Right, that’s good,” Littlebottom said. “I don’t want to make a chalk outline around you,
either. Now we’ve settled that, let’s report to Vimes.”

They walked back to the Pseudopolis in companionable silence. Learning from the desk that Vimes
was in, they went into the hall and knocked on the door. From experience, Littlebottom didn’t wait
for a reply but entered.

“Ah, Littlebottom, Potter, just who I want to see,” Vimes said, lighting a cigar. “What do you
have to add?”

“Sir, the mangonel was made of white oak, almost certainly from Lancre,” Littlebottom said. It
was designed to fold up into a mule cart, which is probably how it was brought into the gate,” she
said. “We don’t know if it was loaded with anything, though I’m sure that our lovely little boys
brought some of their toys with them. The shot was local building rubble. I recognized part of it
as that slab house that was knocked down last week.”

“So there’s a Lancre connection, and they probably brought something in we haven’t seen yet,”
Vimes mused. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” the dwarf continued. “Potter wormed out of Igor that something suspicious is
happening at the fat depository, near the entrance where they’re dumping out the spoilage. I’d like
permission to make our routine annual inspection soon. Also, Igor said that Igor may know a lot
more about what’s going on. I’d request Sergeant Angua’s assistance in tackling that interrogation,
sir.”

Vimes sat back and puffed smoke for a while. “You’ll only get there late at night, and it won’t
be tonight,” the commander said finally. “Requisition Angua for that tomorrow night. As for the fat
deposits, that’s a good idea. You can probably get Detritus to assist you, and three of you can
tackle that –”

He was interrupted by a pound on the door and a breathless Sgt. Colon entered. He had grime on
his uniform, and smelled of smoke.

“Sir, they’ve hit another temple. Hyperopia. Started a big fire, still burning. Casualties, too,
this time,” Colon managed.

Vimes drew a sword out of the back and began to equip. “How many?”

“Not sure, sir, at least a dozen was worshippin’ the Sacred Lace at the time, and it was
burnin’” Colon said. “And Nobby said that they Grave Gourmands was throwin’ a lot of pamphlets
about, too, to people and such around the temple.”

Vimes turned. “Pamphlets?”

“Yessir, I haven’t looked at ’em, neither has Nobby, but we figure they must be like some of
Washpot’s, er, Constable Visit’s, sir. So maybe these Grave Gourmands is just a buncha new
Omnians,” he said. “You know they have a schism like every decade.”

Vimes had finished dressing and handed Harry an axe. “We’re starting to work on the fire, then
let’s get Visit and Dorfl to look at the pamphlets and see if it’s some Omnian thing. We’ll worry
about the rest later. Get a general clacks out and get all available Watchman to the area.”

Colon nodded and left in a hurry.

He got up. “Right you lot, there’s work to do, let’s get at it,” and he led the group out the
door.

The Watch generally gathered to begin fire relief operations, and as a result no-one had a
chance to follow up on their work from earlier.

Which meant that no-one got a chance to look at the pamphlets stuck on Vimes’ desk by Nobby
(less one or two which wouldn’t be missed and could be used as valuable latrine paper), before the
Patricians’ butler placed a stack of paper containing the latest tax rolls on top of it, later that
evening.

Which was a pity, because if someone had been able to read it, it might have provided them with
a very valuable clue.

Unfortunately, as the pamphlet got buried in the endless pile of paperwork that was on Vimes’
desk, it meant that no one read the story of ‘Lord Voldemort and the Astounding Visionary, by Rocky
Silverarm.’



12. Burglar in the Library
--------------------------

**A/N PLEASE READ DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE.**

**THE BURGLAR IN THE LIBRARY**

Hermione Granger felt she had been very calm, confident, collected, and most of all, patient.
*Too patient, really*, she thought to herself as she toyed with her green peas.

“Now, sweetie, you shouldn’t sulk, I’m sure Harry is fine,” Tonks said. “It’ll give you lines,
you know, and then he’ll dump you. More wine?”

Hermione made a face. She knew Tonks and Lupin were doing their best in their own ways to
support her, but that did not change how empty she felt inside.

“It’s been three days,” she said for the fourth time. “He should have at least called me on the
mirror just to tell me that he was safe. I’ve tried more than a dozen times and he’s never there. I
… just … hurt inside. I can’t even begin to describe it.”

“I’m sure he’s thinking about you, Hermione,” Remus said. “Perhaps he’s just been too busy or
surrounded by muggles to be able to answer you.”

“Oh, you mean he’s too busy for …” *me*, she thought as her voice trailed off. It came out
in a snarl and Hermione instantly felt guilty. She didn’t mean to bite Lupin’s head off.

“Come, Hermione, you should be more patient,” Tonks said. “I know you’re a very patient person,
just watching you work as a doctor.”

“Damn it, Tonks, I’m a practical medical spell research theorist, not a doctor!” Hermoine
snapped. “And for your information, most doctors aren’t patients!”

“I thought all doctors had patience,” Lupin said mildly, and his soothing voice made Hermione
feel worse again.

“Look, I’m sorry I’m jumping down your throats,” Hermione said. “I do appreciate the dinner and
the lunch the other day and how you’re trying to help me cope. It’s just that, well, most doctors
don’t have their loved ones trapped on a world in a parallax dimension and with no idea how he is
or if he needs my help.”

A tear squeezed out of Hermione’s eye and trickled down her face. Tonks got up and walked over
to her and snatched her into a hug from behind. Hermione sniffed, and Tonks made eye contact with
her husband, who very silently left the room. Hermione sniffed again, and Tonks brought her into a
strong hug, and held the younger woman as she cried quietly for a few minutes.

“It’s just not fair that everything happens to him,” Hermione sobbed finally. “I feel so
helpless, and I love him so much.”

Tonks quietly rubbed Hermione’s shoulders. “Have you talked to McGonagall?” she said
quietly.

“Umm … no, why?” Hermione asked.

“Well, she sent him there, and didn’t Hogwarts take in an exchange wizard? Maybe they can give
you some answers,” Tonks said, soothingly.

“You’re right, auntie. I ought to ask them,” Hermione said. “I just didn’t want to bother them
with my childish requests.”

“Childish? Girlfriend, if my big, furry husband was missing this long, I’d have the entire Order
of the Phoenix plus the Ministry Auror staff on 24/7 alert,” Tonks said. “Harry’s a bit of a
special case. I think we can dispense of the childish nature of your request.

“Yo Wolf-boy!” she shouted. Remus appeared in an instant. “Sweetie, would you please
*please* get in touch with McGonagall and let her know that we need to speak with that other
wizard tomorrow about our nephew?” Tonks batted her eyelashes, now cerulean blue, for extra
effect.

Lupin smiled. “I’ll go myself,” he said. “Will I be escorting you, Miss Granger?”

Hermione smiled a watery smile. “Yes, please, Uncle Remus,” she said. “I guess I could floo away
at lunch or after work.”

“Let’s plan on after work – say 5:30, okay,” Remus said. “I’ll have it all set up.”

“Thanks. Thank you both so much,” Hermione said. “I … I think I’m going to spend the night at my
parent’s house, okay? I haven’t really even told them that Harry’s gone.”

“Sure, sweetie,” Tonks said. “You’re always welcome here, you know, if you need a place to
crash, too. I can tie up the wolf and it can be just us girlies.”

“I usually enjoy it when you tie me up,” Remus said, wickedly.

“Ooh … ooh … ooh … too much information,” Hermione said.

“Yea, righ’, Hermione,” Tonks said, joining her husband in a wicked grin. “Like you two
young’uns haven’t tried it.”

Hermione blushed shades of red hitherto unknown in her countenance. “Er … yes … and on that
note,” she stood up. She walked over and kissed Lupin on the cheek, and then hugged Tonks a last
time. “I’ll be here tomorrow 5:15, okay?” she said, and apparated out before even seeing Lupin’s
nod.

Lupin smiled. “Poor kid, she must be out of her mind with worry. But I’m sure that Harry’s
fine.”

“Oh yes, I agree,” Tonks said. “Still, I hope you meant what you said.”

“About seeing Minerva? Of course,” Lupin said.

“Yes, I’m aware, but that’s not quite what I meant,” said Tonks, holding out a set of Auror’s
handcuffs with a knowing smile.

…

The following late afternoon had Hermione arrive at Grimmauld Place at 5:10, even though Lupin
assured her that McGonagall would not be ready to see her until 5:30.

“Lots of things going on in prep for the school year,” he said.

After a quick spot of tea, by 5:25 they were in McGonagall’s office, which remained empty.
“Headmistress? HEADMISTRESS!” Hermione shouted.

“Now, now, Ms. Granger, no need to shout,” came the twinkling-eyed portrait of Albus
Dumbledore.

“But, Headmaster, we need to see Headmistress McGonagall right away,” Hermione said, breathless.
“It’s about Harry, we haven’t gotten in touch, and I’m so worried.”

“I know, Ms. Granger. However, I also know that Harry has not contacted you under orders from
Samuel Vimes, his commanding officer,” Dumbledore said, smoothly. “He is perfectly fine, just
obeying orders.”

“How do you know?” Hermione persisted.

“Ah, my dear, that I am afraid I cannot discuss with you. Suffice it to say that I am fully
aware of Harry’s current well-being, which is perfectly well,” Dumbledore said. The portrait’s eyes
twinkled merrily. “However, if you are really interested in finding out, I suggest you speak with
Dobby.”

“Dobby?” Hermione said, perplexed.

“And now, I’m afraid I have much business in front of me,” Dumbledore said. “A pleasant evening
to you, Miss Granger, and of course to you too, Remus.” The image of Dumbledore strolled out of its
portrait.

“What – what did that mean?” asked Hermione.

In answer, Headmistress McGonagall entered the room. “Good evening Remus, Hermione,” she
said.

“Good evening, Minerva,” Remus said. “Would you mind so much if I took a toffee? Nymphadora
doesn’t permit me them, you know,” he said, nicking one off her desk.

McGonagall flashed a withering glance at him, which didn’t dissuade the former Marauder in the
slightest.

“Now, Hermione, I understand you wish to speak with Rincewind,” McGonagall said.

“Yes, please, Headmistress,” Hermione said.

“Minerva, Hermione. You’re no longer my student,” McGonagall said.

“Please, *Minerva*, can I see Professor Rincewind?” Hermione said, feeling drained
already.

“Professor Rincewind is … quite an enigma,” the Headmistress said, with a slight frown. “I do
not believe that he has been really seen by any of the faculty, other than Irma, and she never
seems to know where he is when I ask her. Still, he has never yet been known to be late for a staff
dinner, which are at 6 p.m., as I think you might remember. So if we walk down to the Great Hall, I
am sure that you will find him there when meal-time comes.”

The trio walked quietly to the Great Hall, with each step Hermione remembering adventures of her
school daze. The return to Hogwarts after so many years was somewhat overwhelming to the former
prefect and Head Girl.

At the dinner table, very few of Hogwarts’ professors were gathered for the evening meal. Among
them, however, were Argus Filch, Madam Irma Prince, the librarian, Professor Horace Slughorn, and
Sibyll Trelawney. At the stroke of six, Rincewind came scrambling into the room, and suddenly
dishes appeared in front of each of the diners, including Hermione and Remus.

“Welcome to our old friends, and may our dishes improve our appetites,” McGonagall said.

The meal began in pleasant earnest. Hermione noted that Rincewind’s plate was notable for its
congregation of complex carbohydrates.

“Professor Rincewind?” she began timidly.

“Rincewind,” he said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione asked.

“Just Rincewind. No professor,” he said. “What can I do for you, Miss Granger?”

“Rincewind, I have not been able to get in touch with Harry,” she said. “I am so worried about
him. Is there anything you know,” she said hesitantly.

“Hex?” asked Rincewind quietly.

“Yes?” came a disembodied voice, somewhere in the region of Rincewind’s pocket.

“What is the present location of Harry Potter?” Rincewind asked.

“Somewhere in Ankh-Morpork,” came the voice. “His thaumic signature has surged twice with his
use of spells. They have spiked at extreme levels of magic. As best I can tell, Mr. Potter is
currently asleep, which would follow as the Watch has been busy at present in putting out a fire in
the city centre.”

“Anything important?” Rincewind asked before Hermione could get in a question.

“The Temple of Hyperopia has been attacked,” said Hex. “It was not completely destroyed, as I
have detected clacks questions which will likely appear in the *Times* tomorrow. The Watch
extinguished the fire in the early hours of this morning.”

“Can I speak to Harry?” Hermione jumped in.

“As I said, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter is currently asleep at another location in the city. I do
not have a means of rousing him,” Hex’s voice came. “However, he is overdue to return to the Unseen
University, and obtain a device which Professor Stibbons has designed, which could potentially
facilitate trans-dimensional communication.”

“Hex, send a clacks to Pseudopolis Yard, delivery tomorrow in time for the morning meeting, that
Mr. Potter is asked to report to Unseen University’s High Energy Magic building,” Rincewind
said.

“Does he still have my mirror?” Hermione asked.

“Please detail mirror possession,” the voice continued.

“Before Harry left, he had a mirror – I have the pair – that would allow us to communicate. Does
he still have it?” Hermione asked.

There was a surprisingly long pause, which permitted most of the staff to finish their entrees
and proceed to the desert.

“I have not detected any use of these mirrors, which would certainly leave a thaumic trace,” Hex
finally replied. “I have no idea why Mr. Potter has not used his mirror. However, it is
unnecessary. Professor Stibbons’ alternative device should prove functional for communication.”

Rincewind had finished his meal, well before the rest of the staff. Hermione’s plate was still
almost full. With a smile to the rest of the staff, he got up. “So nice to see you again, Miss
Granger, been too long and all that, now I must get back to my work, see you soon, I hope,” and
before she could stop him, Rincewind had made it to the door.

She quickly followed, but by the time she got to the hall, Rincewind had vanished.

“How the heck did he-” she began. *Maybe he had an invisibility cloak … or maybe he went in a
room quite close*, she thought.

“He can’t be so far away …” she stood outside for a moment perplexed. Finally, she was joined by
Remus.

“Did you find out everything you needed to know?” he asked, startling her.

“No, actually. But he’s vanished … somewhere in the castle, and I don’t even have Harry’s – I
mean your – old map to find him,” Hermione said.

“Maybe there’s another way?” Remus suggested.

“How so?” asked Hermione.

“Dumbledore suggested asking Dobby,” Remus said.

“That’s it! Uncle Remus, you’re a genius,” Hermione’s eyes positively glistened. “*Dobby*,”
she whispered furtively.

The house-elf appeared with his usual *pop*.

“Yes Miss Granger Miss,” Dobby said.

“Dobby, I am looking for Professor Rincewind, who was helping me get in touch with Harry,”
Hermione said. “Do you know where he is?”

To their surprise, the house-elf looked very nervous for a moment. “Dobby said he wouldn’t … but
the missus asked for Harry Potter … and Harry Potter said it was okay … so it must be okay,” Dobby
said, finally.

“The professor is in the library, behind the muggle studies section, there is an old reading
room,” Dobby said. “It looks empty, but Dobby made it nice and comfy and the Professor will be
there.”

“Thank you, Dobby,” Hermione said, and strode a familiar path to the Hogwarts library. Through
the doors of the main library, now eerily quiet without students, a rush of memories came flooding
back to her. She quickly passed through Spell Research, Potions, Magical Creatures, and would
arrive at Muggle Studies. She brushed past a stack and then … *Transfiguration*? She walked
back and was at … Magical Creatures again?

She turned back to the head of the Muggle Studies row, determined to find the doorway, and
physically ran into Remus. “Oof!” she said.

“It’s here,” he said quietly. “A variant on the Confundus charm, used as a glamour. Very clever.
We used it once to bewitch McGonagall’s door so she couldn’t find her own classroom.”

“Remus!” said Hermione, shocked. The Marauder shrugged. She now looked carefully and saw that
the doorway looked old, abandoned, and almost forced the eye to ignore it.

“Turn your head to the side,” Remus said, “and look at it out of the corner of your eye.”

Now she could see the outline of the door clearly. She pulled at the doorknob and the door swung
open, gaining a glimpse of Rincewind diving behind a comfortable sofa. Hermione withdrew her wand
and with a quick flick had the sofa hovering in the air.

“I was not through with you,” she said sternly to the wizard. “Now sit down!”

“How? The sofa’s in the air,” Rincewind said.

Hermione set it down gently, and Rincewind complied. Hermione looked at a coffee table in front
of the sofa, covered with books, and a few notebooks with Rincewind’s scribble.

“Burgling from the Hogwarts library, then?” she asked.

“Hardly. Just … researching,” Rincewind said. “I am an assistant librarian at Unseen University
as well as holding a temporary post here, after all.”

“As well as a lot of things,” she said. “Who was that we were talking to at the dinner
table?”

“That’s Hex,” Rincewind said. “I guess you would say he is kind of a computer.”

“And he can communicate with you?” Hermione said.

“I can utilize anything which would be understood as a communication device as a transmission
locus,” came the voice again. Hermione now saw that it came from a small crystal ball that sat on
the coffee table.

“And I can use this to speak with Harry?” she demanded.

“More accurately, I can permit Mr. Potter to use a communication relay to contact you,” Hex
said. “It is possible that I can create a flux flow in order to permit the contact to commence from
your side.”

“Right. I’ve got a mobile. That’s a communication device,” Hermione said. “I assume I can have
you get Harry to call me in some way?”

The voice was silent for a moment again. “Please hold your … mobile … to the sphere,” Hex
said.

Hermione pulled her phone out of her purse and put it next to the sphere, and both briefly
glowed blue. “I can’t use the phone at Hogwarts, since the magic interferes with it, but I can use
it in London,” she said.

“This is a fascinating device,” Hex said. “I notice there are numbers on it. What do they
do?”

“I can input a number, and a signal goes from my phone and attempts to reach the phone that has
that number,” Hermione said. “If the other phone can be contacted, then I can speak to the person
who is using the other phone.”

There was again some silence. “I have made a modification on this end,” Hex said. “If Mr. Potter
can get to the High Energy Magic building, he will be able to contact you on your mobile.”

That pacified Hermione. She picked up her mobile and turned to Rincewind. “You’d better make
sure he gets my message,” she said. “Now, is there anything else I should do, or just leave you
here?”

Rincewind said nothing for a moment. “If you speak to Harry, you can tell him I still don’t
understand the spiking feature of the magic that’s being thrown off,” he said glumly. “The thaumic
equation doesn’t make much sense right now. Stibbons and the Librarian are working on it on their
end, but I can’t reproduce the same spell trace patterns here on Roundworld, at least not in the
same thaumic spectrum.

“He needs to talk with Stibbons about it. If I can repeat it the same fluctuation, we’ll know
something.”

“What exactly will we know?” Hermione asked.

“That I can repeat it,” Rincewind said, moodily.

“Hmph. Is there anything I can do to help?” Hermione asked.

Rincewind stared into space. “Hex?”

“Yes?” said the computer.

“Can I also contact Miss Granger through her mobile, if I use the crystal sphere?” he asked.

A few interdimensional switches later, and the crystal sphere had a few runes glowing on it. One
read ‘Hermione Granger’ and the other read ‘Harry Potter’ with yet another reading ‘Hex.’

“Try pressing the name first, and if we can make contact, you should be speaking with the
correct indiviual,” Hex said. “By necessity, I, of course, will be carrying all of the
conversations through the High Energy Magic building, so I will be able to monitor your
communication.”

Rincewind pressed the ‘Hermione’ button. Hermione’s phone began to ring.

“But … but it’s never worked in Hogwarts before,” she gasped, looking at her phone. The readout
showed ‘HECKS’ as the caller. Hermione pressed the call button and was speaking with Rincewind in
stereo.

“You can hear me?” was repeated by witch and sphere.

“It seems it works on magic,” Rincewind repeated in person and through the earpiece.

Hermione closed the phone. “Okay. Thank you for your help,” she said. “If I can be of
assistance, don’t hesitate to call me.”

She and Remus walked out of Rincewind’s door without even a goodbye – somehow Hermione felt this
was the right thing to do – and back towards McGonagall’s office and its floo connection.

“Let’s not tell the faculty about Professor Rincewind’s office,” Remus said.

“You don’t think they already know?” Hermione asked.

“I strongly doubt it,” Remus said. “It’s more likely that he’s sequestered himself for a reason,
probably one that Harry knows. There are ways to become invisible in Hogwarts if you really need to
be. It may be that we need him to be.”

…

The smell of smoke lingered even after the long shower at the Watch House. Harry found it merely
irritating, but when he woke around mid-day, he found Carrot still asleep and a note from Angua
saying she was going out to run out the oxygen in her lungs.

*Wish I felt that strong*, Harry thought.

He dressed and went down to the Watch House, not bothering to wake Captain Carrot. *He’s had a
tough couple of days*, thought Harry. *If Angua gets back and they’re alone, well, that’s
fine*.

Although it was long past noon, Harry wandered into the staff room where Sgt. Colon and other
Watch regulars were playing a card game that Harry had learned was called ‘Cripple Mr. Onion.’ He
was debating in his own mind whether to teach the Watch Exploding Snap, but given the limitations
on his magic, had decided not to.

“Constable, I think there was a clacks for you,” Colon said gruffly. “Should be in your
pigeonhole.”

“Umm … my what?” asked Harry.

“Your pigeonhole,” Colon said. “I know you were issued a Watch homing pigeon.”

“Yes sir, I was,” Harry said. “But I’m not sure where it is, now.”

“It’ll be in your pigeon hole, of course,” Colon said. He pointed a grimy finger toward the back
of the squad room. “Back thataway.”

Harry trudged to the back, the odor of fresh pigeon droppings rising in his nose with each step.
Turning a corner, he saw a series of neat cage openings, with scores of pigeons cooing in each. He
looked until he found one marked ‘PUTER’ and decided it was probably his, the other names not
coming nearly close enough. Moving the pigeon – and its output – to one side, he found a folded
paper.

To: Harry Potter, Constable, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Pseudopolis Yard
From: Ponder Stibbons, Director of Inadvisably Applied Magic, Unseen University
Mr. Potter, please report at once to the High Energy Magic building with regards to our
conversation of three days ago.

“Mph,” said Harry. *Now what? I guess I should inform my commanding officer.* He strode to
Sam Vimes’ office, but found a sign saying ‘THE ACTING COMMANDER IS CURRENTLY’ and a scrawled note
that said *Sgt. Colon*.

He returned to the squad room.

“Sergeant Colon,” Harry said hesitantly.

Colon didn’t even look up from his roster. “Yes, Lance-Constable Potter?”

“I need to see a contact at Unseen University, so I was hoping to get permission to go over
there,” he said.

Colon flipped a few pages. “Says here you, Detritus and Littlebottom are to check out the Fat
Warehouse. I haven’t seen her yet, she’ll probably be in a bit late cause of the fire.”

“Well, perhaps I can go over there and come back and we can then go to the warehouse,” Harry
said.

Colon glared at him. “You don’t do anythin’ in this city without a partner, lad. Who’s your
partner?”

“I’m not really sure. I’m staying with Captain Carrot, but I was working with Sergeant
Littlebottom yesterday,” Harry said.

Colon wiped his brow. “Potter, you always need to have a partner. At all times. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Harry said. *Wonder how I’m going to manage this,* he thought.

“Detritus is in the firing range. The two of you can go together to Unseen University, and then
you get back here and meet up with Littlebottom,” Colon said. “The firing range is outside the
Watch building, to the left, and into the yard marked ‘Donut Entry.’”

“Donut Entry?” Harry asked.

“It used ter say ‘Do Not Enter’ but the last time Detritus used the crossbow, he broke the old
sign,” Colon explained. “Get on, now. I got a lot to do till Commander Vimes gets in.”

*Oooh**, this sounds bad,* Harry thought, but he walked till he found the sign as
marked, and saw a group of dwarfs, men and troll aiming various weapons at a set of targets some 30
or so yards away.

Detritus had a siege weapon about the size of Harry in his hands, and was shooting a single bolt
through the back of a manikin. It pinned the dummy through the center and embedded it into the
wall.

“Hah! Six for six! You owe me three rats, Sef,” came a happy voice.

“Darned trolls,” growled the dwarf.

“Hello there, Potter,” said Nobby. “Care for a shot?”

“Not just now,” Harry said. “I was coming to ask Sgt. Detritus if he could join me in a patrol
over to Unseen University to interview a source.”

“Defintly can do dat,” Detritus said, setting down the crossbow and picking up a truncheon the
size of a small tree. “You got an arm?”

“Two of them,” Harry said.

“No, u got your stick?” Detritus asked.

“Oh, my nightstick,” Harry said. He held it up. “Right here.”

“Les’ go den,” Detritus said.

Man and rock down the muddy streets towards the university. “Who we gon’ see?” Detritus
said.

“Ponder Stibbons, in the High Energy Magic building,” Harry replied.

Arriving at the university gates, Harry was surprised they did not swing open. “How do people
get in?” he asked.

“Der don’t, mosly,” Detritus said. He swung his truncheon at the gates, making a loud
*clang*. “Dat’ll get Modo coming.”

Moments later, an irate-looking dwarf arrived. “*Do* you mind? I just repainted that … oh,
it’s you sergeant,” his tone becoming more civil. “What do you want?”

“Der Watch got business wit Mr. Stibbons, Mr. Modo,” the troll answered. Modo motioned with his
hand and the gates swung open. “He’ll be in the HEM building,” the dwarf said, wandering away. “To
your left.”

The High Energy Magic building was clearly the one with the most shielding, and Harry and
Detritus entered cautiously. *He’d be with Hex … where is that?* thought Harry. He noticed
someone walking by in robes. *Bound to be a student.* *Let’s see if they all answer to the
voice of authority.*

“Hey you,” Harry barked as fiercely as he could.

“Er, me sir?” said the wide-eyed undergraduate.

“Yeah, you,” Harry said. “We’re the Watch. Where is Professor Stibbons?”

“Down the stairs, corridor on your right, the main laboratory,” squeaked the student.

Without a word, Harry and Detritus passed him and began walking down the stairs.

*I wonder if that’s how I looked my first year at Hogwarts*, Harry thought. They came to a
door marked ‘HEX and EXPERIMENTAL MAGIC DEPARTMENT.’

Harry raised his hand to knock on the door, then decided against it, and pushed it open.

Ponder sat with his back to them, studying a massive chart that extended 30 feet across, and
stood nearly half the height of the room. Three or four students were rushing around, color-coding
various parts of the chart.

“So this is again the second thaumic spike,” Stibbons was saying. “I want to see …” hearing the
door swing open, he turned. “Ah, Mr. Potter, glad to see you. Sgt. Detritus, good, good, come
in.”

Stibbons pointed to a yellow flare on the wall. “This is you, Mr. Potter. Two spikes. One about
45 minutes after you arrived, another about eight hours later. I assume you understand that?”

Harry remembered his spell use and shuddered. “That seems right,” he said.

“Yes, we’ve captured and cross-referenced your thaumic signature. We knew these were yours,”
Stibbons said. “Here are some other ones – the first a few months ago, then a few weeks ago, and a
few yesterday. We don’t have a signature for these. No idea who’s doing it, but it’s some pretty
intense magic, mixed with belief. Don’t suppose you’ve got any information on that?”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at Potter.

*Think like a Watchman*, Harry thought. “We are making our inquiries, of course,” Harry
said. “What else was it you wished to tell us?”

Stibbons sighed. He went to his workbench and returned with a small object, slightly larger than
Harry’s palm. “Here. I used your blood, an Imp, Hex’s remote magic attraction facility, and the
crystal sphere to create a device I call a Potter Discworld Adjustator. It can be used through
Hex’s Extradimensional Mailing Facility to send and receive communication between you, Hex, and
Roundworld.”

“You mean it’s a PDA with e-mail enabled?” Harry asked.

“Well, I suppose you might say that,” Stibbons said in a huff. “But your way makes it sound so
*common*. You can navigate with it using your open hand. You can ask it to communicate with
Hex, Rincewind, or Hermione Granger.”

Harry took the PDA and flipped the top open, which made the imp blow a raspberry.

“Well, whadya want?” it asked.

“Hermione Granger,” Harry said.

After a few minutes, Harry heard a noise like an old-fashioned telephone ringing. “Mmm … yeah …
hello?” came a groggy voice.

“Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Harry!” he heard her say. “It’s … it’s two thirty in the morning!”

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t know the time difference. I can call back …”

“NO! Why haven’t you called me! I’ve tried on the mirror more times than I can count! Are you
all right? Are they treating you okay? What’s it like?” she said, rapidly becoming awake.

“’Mione, I’m sorry I haven’t called you earlier, I was expressly forbidden from using Earth
magic,” he said. “I’ve just gotten a PDA that I can contact you with, but this isn’t a good time,
I’m afraid. I just wanted to see if it would work. I promise I’ll call you back in about six hours,
when you’re awake, and I’m not on patrol,” he said.

“Oh … okay …” she said. Harry could hear the disappointment in her voice. “I love you,” she
said.

“Me too,” Harry said. He closed the PDA.

“Right,” he said to Stibbons, putting the PDA in his Watch uniform pocket. “Thanks for that.
We’ll be in touch.”

Without another word, he and Detritus left the university.

“Dat go okay?” the troll finally asked him when they were back on the streets of
Ankh-Morpork.

“Better than okay,” Harry said. “That’s the best thing that’s happened since I’ve gotten
here.”

“Dat’s good,” Detritus said. “Cuz when we get Littlebottom, we’re gonna go over to der Fat
Warehouse, and I ‘spect we’re gerna prod some buttock. And dat’s gonna be der best thing that’s
happened fer me in a week.”



13. T E N
---------

**A/N PLEASE SEE DISCLAIMERS IN CHAPTER ONE**.

And no, the chapter title isn’t a Lawrence Block title. I was writing dialogue and all of a
sudden it hit me. You’ll figure it out.

**T E N …**

Harry was sitting down in the seedy pub, slowly and quite contentedly finishing a pint. The beer
was swill, true, but it was still beer, nonetheless. Harry felt a great deal of satisfaction that
the raid had gone splendidly and they had made real progress. Angua and Littlebottom were
occasionally finishing drinks of their own, and occasionally poking around for an Igor they were
going to interrogate later, and occasionally waiting for someone named Susan to show up. He was
fine to let them deal with that; Harry wanted to replay once more in his mind the successful events
of the day.

…

“Right, Potter, so you do understand *now* how this raid will work?” Sergeant Littlebottom
repeated exasperatedly for the fourth time. Harry felt like he understood from the first, but
considering what happened his last Auror raid, he thought it was prudent to make sure that they
were all on the same page.

Littlebottom and Detritus were to go inside first; Harry was to poke around out the back, with a
dwarf corporal named Dunkerbrang. As Littlebottom and Detritus called a ‘surprise inspection,’
Harry and Dunkerbrang would be looking for who was running to where to hide what; they were the
front line of the investigative forces. Harry wished he had his invisibility cloak, but then, he
felt learning standard Auror – er, Watch – practices was an important part of his training.

Harry and Dunkerbrang would then hopefully catch those covering up whatever was wrong fat
handed, and they would be able to interrogate them to find out who was stealing high-grade fat.
Harry attempted to dunk his donut in the coffee again. Lard knew, it wasn’t the biscuit-makers.

…

Harry and ‘Dunk’, as he wanted to be called, quietly stole into the back of the Fat Warehouse.
Detritus and Littlebottom were going to give them a few minutes to find a position before they
would enter ‘very loudly and prodding buttock.’

“Merl- … uh, *gods*, the smell …” said Harry.

“Yep, really takes me back,” Dunk said.

“Back where?” asked Harry.

“I’m from Uberwald, as are a lot of the dwarfs on the Watch. I used to work in the fat mines. I
loved the smell of fat in the morning … smells like … triumph,” Dunkerbrang said.

“Right,” said Harry. He was looking into the offal storage pits. Nothing too unusual that he
could discern. Each pit had an iron bucket, that swiveled over it, containing flaming pitch. This
was used for burning off contaminated fat. “Let’s get a bit closer to the doors over there, so we
can see anyone moving,” Harry said. “We’ll crouch down under that storage vat.”

The dwarf nodded and the two moved. A few minutes later, they could hear loud shouting and the
sounds of running feet. *That must be Detritus prodding buttock,* Harry thought.

There was a quiet period, and then the sound of stealthy footsteps. A door opened, and a short
thin man crept into the offal storage. He quickly ran to the far end of the room, and pulled
something under his vest and tossed it into the pit. He moved over to the pitch bucket.

“We’ll never stop him in time,” Harry said, as they dashed towards him. “Unless …”

“What?” said Dunkerbrang.

“Sorry about this,” Harry said, and reached down and tossed the dwarf.

Dunkerbrang sailed through the air, arching his last few feet so that his metal helmet collided
perfectly with the thin man’s legs.

“Geraaaaarrgh!”

The thin man was down, writing in pain, and Dunkerbrang stood over him with the steely (and
toothy) glint of a dwarf that’s just found a particularly troublesome rat.

“Well, well, what’s this then?” Dunkerbrang asked.

Harry finally caught up and climbed the scaffolding to look into the offal pit. The man had
thrown in a large notebook.

Harry gingerly climbed down into the pit, and picked it out. As he brushed off the debris, he
noticed it was … hairy. He looked carefully into the pit, and steeled his stomach.

It was undeniably a horse’s tail.

“Looks like a real mare’s nest here,” Harry said. “This, I presume, is where the missing horses
have gotten to.”

“You’ve … you’ve got nothin’ on me,” the thin man said.

“You mean besides the horse hair?” Dunkerbrang said. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Avoir,” said Mr. Avoir. “I’m the bookskeeper.”

“Well, Mr. Bookskeeper, maybe you can explain the entries here, and why there are so many horse
carcasses in that offal pit?” Harry said, brushing the fat off his robes. He wouldn’t be eating
steak again anytime soon.

“I … I …” Mr. Avoir suddenly didn’t seem too interested in talking.

“Let’s go bring him to meet Sgts. Detritus and Littlebottom,” Harry said. “I think it might be a
good idea for them to prod another buttock.” He had brought the horse tail with him.

As the passed through, the workmen were endeavoring to explain to an impatient Cherie that they
were just doing their jobs. The statements they were making were probably helped by the fact that
Detritus was occasionally poking them in the chest with a sledgehammer-sized fist, making comments
like, “I know it was you what did it, wasn’t it?”

“Ah, Harry, Dunk,” Littlebottom said, bored. “Seems you’ve found someone who had something to
hide. What’ve you got there?”

“He was attempting to destroy the books,” Harry said. “In an offal pit filled with horses.”

“Is that so?” Cherie said. “Well, lads, looks like you’re all for the Patricians’ scorpion
pit.”

At this a chorus of denials broke out.

“It was all Avoir!”

“He was gettin’ paid by the Igors!”

“We didn’t want to do it! He threatened to have the Grave Gourmands burn our homes!”

“SHUDDUP!”

Detritus’ roar silenced the suddenly timid mob.

“Right, Detritus, you stay here and guard the premises. We’re taking them back to the yard for
further inquiries,” Littlebottom said.

They had removed the workmen (four of whom were discharged after making statements) and left Mr.
Avoir in the cells, with several copies of the books for Vimes to go through.

Harry had assisted in the interview process and writing up the paperwork, until Angua and
Littlebottom arrived in the early evening.

“Nice work today, Potter,” Angua said. “We’re off to beers.”

“Oh, a drink would be great,” Harry said.

Angua looked at him quizzically. “I guess we can get one,” she said. “We’re going to get the
Igor, remember?”

“Right,” Harry said, puzzled. “I thought you see we were going for…”

“Susan knows where Igor is. She’ll be at Biers,” Angua said. “B-I-E-R-S. Biers.”

“Oh, I see,” Harry said. “I was under the impression we were going to a place to get beers.”

“We’re not,” Angua said.

“So what is Biers, anyway?” asked Harry.

“A pub,” Littlebottom said.

…

“I’ll have one,” Harry said.

“One what?” asked the bartender. Harry saw he was an Igor by the third ear he was sporting, and
then by the fact that his face resembled a topographic map of Scotland.

“This pub is called Biers, by the sign,” Harry said. “I’ll have one. A beer.”

The barman, who was an Igor who seemed to share Igor’s same speech impediment, looked at Harry
closely for a minute, and then at Angua. “He’s with me. We’re waiting to see Susan,” she said.

The Igor shrugged and passed out a round of beers to the Watch. That had been six beers ago.

“Any idea how much fat they stole?” Harry asked Littlebottom. He had mainly been taking the
interviews.

“Well, I went back and checked the pit, and also the entries in the log books. I reckon about
nine thousand pounds,” Littlebottom said.

“Nine thousand pounds!” Harry said. “How could they hide it all? I mean, racehorses are big, but
they’re not *that* fat.”

“Yeah, that’s what you might think,” Angua said. “You’ve clearly never been out to the track
here.”

“What would they do with all of it?” Harry asked. “I mean, wouldn’t someone notice that much fat
going missing?”

“Not if it was going to an Igor,” Littlebottom said. “They’re always carting fat to and from
their workshops. An Igor with a cartload of fat’s a pretty common sight in Ankh-Morpork. Probably
they started with a few hundred pounds here, few hundred pounds there, and then topped up more
recently.”

“So you could replace the arms and legs of a gigantic army,” Harry said. “Maybe they’ve got an
army already and before going into battle, this way they could grow a whole series of limbs and
stuff before a battle, and after the battle, they’d have a lot of arms just at hand, and be able to
replace on foot.”

“Mmm … I doubt it,” Angua said. “An army that would need that much replacement wouldn’t be easy
to hide. It would have a camp, require provisions, supplies … you can’t exactly hide something that
big. Besides, even if you had a pre-grown appendage, the surgery would still have an absolute
minimum recovery time of about a month. A campaign might last six months, true, and you’d
accelerate your troop replacement time, but if you are really counting on these troops coming back
to you in order to stay successful, you’re army’s not that big. I mean the Agatean Empire can put
more than 50,000 men under arms in a month. No one else has a regiment that large, not Klatch, not
Fourecks. And they wouldn’t go about requiring fat deposits beforehand.”

As Harry was digesting this, Susan Sto-Helit arrived. She noticed the Watch sitting prominently
at the bar and immediately moved to join them.

“Harry, this is Susan Sto-Helit,” Angua made the introductions. “Susan’s an old friend. Harry’s
a Watchman, temporarily on loan from Lon-.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Harry, offering his hand. Susan took it. As he took Susan’s hand,
Harry was aware of the sensation of touching a block of ice, and stared into the vacuum of her
eyes, which bored deeply into his soul. He flinched backwards reflexively.

“I suggest you find a better name for it than Lon-,” she said quietly. “Igor, I’ll have a glass
of white wine, please.”

A glass appeared in front of her so quickly that Harry wasn’t sure how it got there. He was
looking at Susan and felt sweat on the back of his neck. *Who is this person?* He thought.
*Kid gloves treatment, right now*.

“Susan, Harry’s helping us out with an investigation,” Littlebottom said. “We’ve been
investigating the Fat Warehouse today. It seems … a good bit of extremely high-quality fat has been
… misplaced. We have reason to believe Igor knows something about it.”

“Ah,” said Susan non-committally, staring straight ahead. Her eyes went glassy for a moment and
she took a deep sip of her wine. “I’m pretty certain you’ll find him in Ye Olde slop shop right
now, less than 200 yards from here, on your left as you go out the door. He’s probably pretty
drunk.”

Littlebottom and Angua left immediately.

Susan had finished her drink in two swigs and motioned to Igor for another. It appeared again,
in a spotlessly clean glass, a rarity at Biers.

Harry still wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Susan. *Okay, it’s safe enough to start with
small talk, I guess.* “You’ve had a tough day,” he said.

“Really. How did you tell?” Susan said.

“I know the body language. No talking to anyone, quick consumption of alcohol, staring straight
ahead. You look like my girlfriend when she’s had a bad shift,” Harry said.

“Yeah?” Susan said, flashing a smile at him. “Yeah, I have. These doggone Grave Gourmands …
they’re driving me batty.”

At the mention of the Grave Gourmands, Harry’s senses instantly became alert. “Really? How is
that, exactly?” Harry said, careful not to let too much interest into his voice.

“Well, I’m a school teacher, you see. The gangs the kids get involved in these days … I wouldn’t
mind it so much if it were a simple speciesist thing. Anyway, Jeremy spoke in class today.”

“Jeremy?” asked Harry.

“My boyfriend, Jeremy Clockson,” Susan said. “At any rate, we were discussing the concept of
temporal reality. My boyfriend is somewhat of a … specialist when it comes to time. So I asked him
to talk about the topic.”

“And what happened?” asked Harry.

“As I said, Jeremy spoke in class today. And, well, clearly I remember calling on the boy,”
Susan said. “Seemed a harmless little way of getting the class to pay attention. Oh, but when I
pulled away the Grave Gourmand pamphlet he was reading, did we unleash a banshee. I had to send him
home, eventually.”

“So they’re marketing them down to children now,” Harry said.

“Apparently, the pamphlets seem to be crafted as children’s stories, but I find a lot of adults
reading the things, too,” Susan said. “I’ve seen a few people getting the tattoos and everything. I
don’t really know what they seem to want. I’m beginning to wonder if the attacks on the temples are
just a cover for-”

“A cover for what?” Harry asked, but he didn’t get an answer, as Susan had noticed that Angua
and Littlebottom had returned with a clearly very drunk Igor.

The Igor noticed Susan eyeing him coldly. He shrugged and the other Igor arrived, seemingly
unbidden, with a large cup of Klatchian coffee.

“Drink it slow,” Igor said. “And you won’t get *knurd*.”

The Igor took a sip. People who aren’t used to drinking high-octane caffeine can’t handle
something on the nature of Klatchian coffee, and for Harry, just the *smell* alone was enough.
It seemed to work. Igor straightened his back a bit and made a quick chiropractic adjustment.

“Though what’h thith, then?” said Igor moodily.

Susan continued to look at him disdainfully. “When you left my service, you informed me you were
going to be working on an area of research quite important to the Igor.”

She left it there, dangling, like a participle out on loan. It felt … *dangerous*.

“Yeth?” said Igor.

“So I’m not particularly pleased that the Watch has … politely … asked me to locate you,” Susan
said. “You understand what that means.”

The type of silence that drifted over Biers was the one that usually followed the phrase ‘so, do
you feel lucky?’

Igor considered this carefully. “What do you want to know?” he said finally.

“We already know that you’ve been stealing fat,” Harry forwarded boldly. “What is this, some
kind of necromancy?’

“Necromanthy?” the Igor scoffed. “Nah, tha’th not that hard, really. Find a good dead body,
raith it up, get it to do your prophecy for you. I mean, they tell you thingth, when they’re dead,”
Igor spat coffee. “No need for fat. Tho, you learn thtuff. Most necromantherth just want to raise
the dead to ask them thtuff.”

Harry was quickly back on the attack. “So you are trying to equip an army of Inferi?”

“Huh?”

“An army of reanimated corpses that you can replaces appendages on so that they continue to
fight,” Harry explained. “You are working for someone who intends to use the newly dead as battle
troops.”

“Why bother?” the Igor said, looking at him sharply. “You want ghoulth or animated thkeletonth,
that’th dead easy. Eathier than necromancy, even. No need for fat at all.”

Harry sat, wide-eyed. *What the hell? Then why do they need all that fat?*

“Right, we’re a bunch of silly buggers,” Harry said. “What the hell do you need all that fat
for, then?”

The Igor chuckled. “Thith ith new, thith ith. Totally a new idea.” The Igor thipped his coffee.
“Thith a *rethurrecthion*,” the Igor said. He leaned forward to whithper. “Ith-”

And then the world turned upside down.

The Igor’s mouth continued to move, but no sound came out. A crossbow bolt flew threw the open
window, entered through the back of his brain, and the point darted out Igor’s forehead. His body
collapsed over the bar.

Littlebottom caught the Igor as he fell, and went about immediately determining if she could
resuscitate him. Meanwhile, Angua dropped her breastplate, and dashed out the front door.

Harry moved to go after her, and Susan grabbed and held him.

“Not yet,” she said.

A howl came from outside.

“Now go,” Susan said.

Although he wondered why she had stopped him, Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He dashed
after Angua, and caught sight of movement down the road. As he ran towards it, all Harry remembered
hearing later was ‘*fwoom*.’ And seeing a light that could have subordinated the sun.

There was a horrid, acrid smell in the air … and he staggered forward, dazed and blinking. There
was Angua, naked, lying on the street, whimpering. Blood poured from her nose and mouth. Her face
was speckled with small grains of shining metal.

“Uh … uh …” she moaned. “Oh gods …”

Harry carefully made his way to her. The smell and the ringing in his ears was still painful,
but he got to Angua.

“Are you okay?” he asked. *Stupid question.* *I’ve got to get her out of here, so long as
she doesn’t have a broken vertebra.* “Can you I move you? Do you feel pain in your back or
legs?”

“Mm … uh … okay,” Angua said.

Harry gingerly picked her up. She weighed much less than he had thought. He carried her back
into Biers, and laid her on a table. “It’ll be okay, Angua,” he said. *I hope.*

“Oh dear gods,” Cherie said, coming over to look at Angua. “Igor’s gone. There’s nothing we can
do for him, but Angua …”

“IGOR!” she shouted. The barman appeared immediately. “I want two pitchers of clean water, now,”
she said.

They appeared in front of her as if by magic. “Harry, keep flushing out her mouth and her nose,”
Cherie said. “I’m going to get Carrot and Igor.”

Harry took the pitcher and carefully moistened a relatively clean cloth, and began to wash
Angua’s face. As he did, she began to cry. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve should’ve
waited.”

“Susan kept me back,” Harry said, continuing to wash her face. “She’s not here now.”

“Mmm ... ” Angua said. “She was trying to be nice.”

“Oh …” she moaned a bit. The bleeding seemed to be stopping, but her entire face was swelling
up. “Thanks. Really. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Harry said. “Part of the job.”

“Not just that … for giving Carrot and I some private time,” she managed. “We haven’t been
together in weeks. I’m worried he doesn’t find me attractive any more. I really needed him.”

Harry looked down at Angua’s mane of hair, and her undeniably attractive body, made *much*
more revealing than he needed to know. Given his job, and the realities of the war, he’d seen many
other girls besides Hermione out of their kit; he was faithful to Hermione, but still male. Angua
certainly would rank in *his* top five.

“How could he not find you attractive?” Harry said.

“He sees how I look first thing in the … you know … evening?” she tried.

“Uh, yeah,” said Harry.

“Well, I know I’m no prize early on, but I’m sure it all work out,” Angua said.

As he continued to work on cleaning her up, the room seemed … dimmer a bit. Harry glanced up and
noticed that the shadows had crept in around Angua and himself. There was a … drawing of a throat
somewhere in the back of the room, as if someone was hissing. “Did he … hurt Angua?” he somehow
felt, rather than heard.

“Uh oh,” she muttered.

“What’s with these people?” asked Harry, as his fingers closed around his truncheon.

“They … think you’re normal,” Angua managed. “I’m not strong enough right now to be able to …”
her voice trailed off and she fell into a coughing fit.

Suddenly, the door opened.

“Where is Angua?” came a strident voice. The denizens of the bar hesitated, and then shot back
to their seats in Olympic standard time.

One unwritten rule that most Ankh-Morpork residents were *very* aware of was that you
didn’t get between Captain Carrot and his girlfriend. At least, not for more than a few seconds.
Everyone knew that Captain Carrot was too nice and kind to actually hurt anyone but … perhaps, just
for the sake of longevity, it would be as well *not* to test the theory. Even the undead can
be very attached to their unlife. And even if a vampire could be resurrected just with a drop of
blood … perhaps it wasn’t worth experimenting to find out if Captain Carrot really *did* know
some things that could put you in a grave. Involuntarily, that is.

“Captain? She’s here,” Harry said.

Carrot rushed over. “What was it, Angua?” he asked, holding her hand.

“Some kind of bomb. Aniseed and silver nitrate,” she gasped.

A look crossed Carrot’s face. Harry knew that look. It was a look that he had on his own face
when, just before he had killed Tom Riddle, he had received word that Hermione had been subject of
a near-fatal Death Eater attack.

*Someone, somewhere, is going to be* very *sorry about this,* Harry thought.

“I know what aniseed is, but why make a bomb of it? And the silver nitrate …” his voice trailed
off.

“Angua is a werewolf,” Carrot said calmly, looking into Harry’s eyes, daring him to say
anything.

“She is?” Harry said, suddenly concerned. *Silver could kill her, and the aniseed … must burn
her olfactory glands*, he thought. *Good thing the boys back home never thought of that. On
the other hand, the next time I face one of Greyback’s minions, this might be useful
information* …

“Is this going to be a problem?” Carrot said, in a clipped voice.

“Well, I can try to make a wolfsbane potion for her,” Harry said. “I’ll need to speak with Igor
about his apothecary stores. It should help her. I usually try to make it for my uncle, just before
the full moon. He and my aunt pretty much have it under control.”

Angua and Carrot looked at each other, and then at Harry.

“Your uncle is a werewolf?” they said in chorus.

“He’s … he’s just got a … furry little problem,” Harry said, defensively.

Angua smiled, really smiled at that. “Well, I don’t think it’s a problem … but furry little
something, I think I can use that.”

“Yes, it’s something a little furry,” said Carrot happily, smiling at Harry. Angua cringed and
looked daggers at Carrot, but the officer was oblivious.

“Here we are all worried about you fitting in, and it turns out you’re practically a dwarf and
live with werewolves yourself! Really, Harry, you’re just one of the Watch,” Carrot said
happily.

He turned to the patrons of Biers for a moment. “We’ll be investigating the circumstances of
Igor’s death,” he said. “Since I’m pretty well aware none of you would use a bow, I’ll give you one
minute to get out so that the Watch can go over the area. After that, anyone who remains will be
detained for questioning.”

There was a brief of interlude of, oh, four seconds. And the room cleared. In a
*hurry*.

The door swung back open, and Cherie, Detritus, Sgt. Colon and Nobby came in.

“Ah, pretty bad,” Colon said happily. Nobby went straight to the Igor and examined the bolt
carefully. “A 17-inch expansion bolt with six vanes, half-moon nock, modified composite point with
razor bludgeoning. I think it was featured in Stronginthearms’ winter catalog, but I find that it’s
not so good in extremely windy conditions.” He looked up. “You didn’t hear anything? No whizzing
sound, for instance?”

Harry shook his head no.

“Then I’d say it was a recurve crossbow, from the distance it’s in his skull, at least 175
pounds draw, maybe even 200,” Nobby said. From the angle it’s in him, it came through the window.
We could take a piece of string and tie it to the bolt, and work our way back to where he must have
stood.”

Nobby began going through the Igor’s pockets, surreptiously examining the contents. “Yep, all
Igors usually carry some string, here’s some. I’ll hold it here, if someone paces it off.”

“You can pace it off, Nobby,” Carrot said, holding his face in a tight smile. “That way we can
make sure we get all the contents out of his pockets.”

Nobby gave Carrot a sidelong glance, shrugged, and then tied the string to the arrow and began
to walk to the window. Colon walked outside, retrieved the string from Nobby, and the two of them
began to search for the origin of the shot.

Detritus had been making a careful chalk outline around the Igor. Soon, a knock came on the
door, and Igor – that is, the Watch Igor, haven’t you been paying attention? – came in.

“Ah,” the Igor said. “I thought it might happen.”

“Do you know who would have wanted him inhumaned?” Carrot asked.

“Carrot, I like my job at the Watch. But there is some delicate Igor politics going on here in
the background. All I’ll say right now is that Igor shouldn’t ha’ been trying to deal with all that
fat. There are challenges for Igors, and certainly all Igors want to be on the cutting edge of
Igorring. Igor wanted to be up there … he got too greedy. It was better this way, maybe.”

“So he *was* behind the thefts at the Fat Warehouse?” Harry asked.

“I believe so,” Igor said, dexterously removing the crossbow bolt, and handing it to Carrot, who
was careful to hold the end of the string for Nobby and Colon.

“I’m going to recycle his usable parts,” Igor said. “He’d’ve wanted that.”

“Where was he taking the fat?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know. It was out of Ankh-Morpork, though, I’m pretty sure,” Igor said. He lifted up
Igor’s body and placed it over his shoulder.

“I’ll be leaving now, Captain,” Igor said. “If I act quickly I can spare the internal organs as
well.”

“Fine,” Carrot said. “We just need to wait on Fred and Nobby.”

On cue, they walked in. “Seems like the shot came from behind those rubbish bins outside that
slop house,” Sgt. Colon said. “About 400 feet, that’s a heckuva good shot.”

“Tha’s where we found him,” said Angua quietly. She was still laying on her back and resting.
“He was in there drinkin’ and we brought him here.”

“Well, there goes one of our best leads,” Carrot said. “Tomorrow, the Watch will make inquiries
at the slop shop. And we’ll resume our questioning of Mr. Avoir. Meantime, it’s been a long day for
everyone. Detritus, if you’re finished here, let’s all turn in.”

“Yep, dat’s all, folks,” Detritus said, putting his chalk away.

Carrot picked up Angua as though she were a rag doll, and carefully cradled her in his arms.
“Come on, Harry. Let’s go back home. Tomorrow is another day.”



14. The Specialists
-------------------

**A/N Disclosures in Chapter One.** **As always.**

**THE SPECIALISTS**

Harry was staring at the ceiling. Captain Carrot was sitting beside Angua, who lay in the bed,
sleeping miserably, but somewhat comforted after taking the draught of wolfsbane potion that Harry
had made for her.

He was surprised it was so easy to get the materials in the dead of night, but he supposed that
when Captain Carrot asked – politely – the closed apothecary to open and give him what he wanted,
the healer had seemed *very* eager to oblige.

*It was about 9 a.m. when I was at UU*, Harry thought. *And that was … about 2:30 a.m.,
so if it’s now just after midnight, then it’s … what, about 7 p.m.? I guess?*

Harry flipped open the PDA. The imp glared at him. “Ya gotta a call,” it said sulkily.

“From who?” Harry asked. “I never heard a bell ring.”

“I don’t give out rings, or play bells, nor none o’ that other stuff. I glow yeller, got it,”
the imp said. “Anyway, it was yer bird, Hermione. She said to give her a ring.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “Do it.”

The imp grunted and disappeared below the handset. After a second, Harry heard a familiar
voice.

“Harry? Is that you?” Hermione said eagerly.

“Yep,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Hermione said. “I’m just finishing dinner. How about you?”

“I’m fine, I think it’s one o’clock in the morning here,” he said.

“Gosh! Why call so late?” Hermione asked.

“I’ve … been busy,” he said. There was a brief pause.

Hermione knew from experience what it meant then an auror was out late at night, and got home
and felt too tired to sleep.

“Are you all right?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Our partner Angua, who is also Carrot’s girlfriend, got hit pretty bad, though.
I helped as best I could, but I just kept looking at her and thinking it was you,” Harry said.

“Oh Merlin, Harry, don’t say that,” Hermione said. “I … I’m not there to help you, I’m so sorry,
but what can I do?”

“Nothing,” said Harry flatly. “It’s just one of those days.”

There was another pause.

“Do you know that I love you more than anything in the universe?” Hermione asked.

Against his will, Harry smiled. “Yes,” he said.

“Are you sure you know? That I love you? That I’d do anything to make your life easier?” she
said.

“Just talking to you makes it easier,” said Harry. “The imp said you called earlier, but this
PDA doesn’t ring, it glows, apparently, and I had it inside my pocket, so I never noticed.”

“That’s okay,” Hermione said. “But yes, I did call earlier. I had spoken with Professor
Rincewind at Hogwarts. He wanted to tell you that he hasn’t yet been able to reproduce the thaumic
trace they’ve found.”

“Right,” Harry said. *That was what Stibbons said. They couldn’t find the thaumic
signature.*

“Um, Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“What the heck does that mean anyway?” Harry asked.

“Well, Harry at Unseen University, they measure magic in thaums,” Hermione’s voice, as soothing
and self assured as it had been at Hogwarts, washed over Harry. “It’s sort of like measuring
electricity in ohms or heat in BTUs. You remember, when we tried to tell Ron not to buy that new
heater for Mr. Weasley because it would draw too much power?”

Harry snickered. It had taken very nearly burning down the Burrow for Molly Weasley to finally
get her husband to agree to test his muggle devices out in the shed. “How could I forget?” he said.
Now he really *was* smiling.

“Well, we knew it was dangerous and it wouldn’t work properly because the heater was attempting
to draw too many ohms from that rickety old extension cord,” Hermione said. “Think of thaums the
same way. The *lumos* spell, for instance, can be cast wordlessly and wandlessly, just by
force of will. Nearly all wizards or witches – even those close to squibs – can achieve that. On
Discworld, you would say that it requires very few thaums indeed. Now, in comparison, one of the
Unforgivable curses …”

But Harry’s mind was racing ahead – er, back – now, to a heated conversation he had with
Bellatrix Lestrange, many years ago. ‘You’ve got to *mean* them!’ she had shouted about trying
to use the Cruciatus Curse, that gloomy evening in the Department of Mysteries. He had learned that
with a vengeance – that the Unforgivable Curses really required effort and strength to cast. He
hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss it again with Ms. Lestrange, owing to the fact that he had
severed her vocal cords – and indeed, her entire head – with Godric Gryffindor’s sword on the night
he had finally killed Tom Riddle.

“Hello? You there?” Hermione asked.

“Sure am,” Harry said. “So the more powerful the spell, the more thaums it draws, and I guess it
follows that not each wizard or witch has the ability to generate the same amount of thaums, which
explains why some of us are squibs, and some are as powerful as Albus Dumbledore.”

“Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” Hermione said. “Each individual has a unique source of
their own power that they put into a spell, so your thaums are inherently different from mine. This
also explains why some wizards are drawn to certain wands, and others are not.”

Harry’s memory replayed a portion of his life at Ollivander’s. ‘The wand chooses the wizard,’
the old shopkeeper had said.

“But if you have enough power, you can force a wand to still cast,” Harry said, thinking about
his own experience in fighting during the war. “The spell might not be as powerful as you want, but
if you have the power, you can still push it out.”

“Right, but it also would bear your imprint,” Hermione said. “A thaumic signature is like a
fingerprint. If you have the signature, you should be able to find out what wizard cast the
spell.”

“So the wizards … they don’t know who’s casting these spells?” Harry wondered aloud.

“That’s what I guess, Harry,” Hermione said. “You see, there are probably less than 200 wizards
and witches on the whole of the Discworld, so they can find out everyone’s unique thaumic signature
pretty easily. There were more than 200 wizards when we were at Hogwarts. London alone probably has
several thousand, and the whole of England tens of thousands. We couldn’t keep track of all of them
by thaumic trace.”

“But the reason that they can’t trace the thaumic signature is because it’s not a Discworld
wizard,” said Harry. “It’s a Death Eater.”

Hermione felt a cold chill ripple through her body.

“But, Harry, it …” her voice trailed off.

“No, that’s got to be it,” Harry said. “It’s the only piece of jigsaw that fits. For people who
aren’t supposed to know about earth, every person I meet seems to know about it. Plus, the Dark
Mark is being used here. I’ve seen it; it's not just the tattoos. When they smashed the temple
of Hyperopia, it was there, lingering, in the smoke. The reason that the wizards at Unseen
University don’t know this thaumic signature is because one of the Death Eaters that escaped us
somehow found a way a here.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.

“Thanks, sweetheart. I love you so much,” Harry said. “You always help me to see things for what
they are.”

“You be careful,” she said, her voice wavering.

“I will be,” Harry said, suddenly sleepy. “I’m going to bed now – must be past 2 – but thanks
again. I love you. I’ll call soon.”

“Harry – Harry! You don’t do anything stupid, now! Harry! I love you!” Hermione shouted at the
phone.

“I love you, too, babe. Good night,” Harry said. He looked for an off button, and didn’t find
one. “Imp?”

The imp peered out.

“I – am finished at this time with my conversation,” Harry said.

The imp nodded sleepily and the PDA stopped glowing.

Harry laid down. *Death Eaters in Ankh-Morpork*, he thought. *Now we just have to figure
out where they are and how to stop them*.

…

The next afternoon saw a conference in Vimes’ office with Captain Carrot, Lance-Corporals Angua
and Littlebottom, and of course Harry, reporting to the Commander.

“Right,” Vimes said, pulling a drag on a cigar. “So, what do we know so far? Carrot?”

“The assaults on temples continue, with Annoia being hit last night,” Carrot said. “Pamphlets
are now being distributed after each attack, and some have now surfaced at most of the city’s
markets. Each time, the Grave Gourmands torch the temple, and seem to create a skull mark after
they do it. They must not have a spare mangonel, because when they hit Annoia they used barrels of
torch oil that were rolled into place and then ignited.”

“The Dark Mark,” Harry said.

“What’s that?” Vimes said.

“We call it the Dark Mark,” Harry said. Vimes looked at him sharply and nodded curtly.
"Right, just hold up on that for a moment, okay, Potter?"

Harry nodded.

“Next, I want to here from Cherie,” the Commander said. "What have you learned?"

“Sir, Igor was definitely behind the thefts of fat, in my opinion,” Littlebottom said. “The
autopsy I performed with Igor definitely shows traces of Uberwald #2 high-grade tallow on him. I
don’t know what they were doing, exactly, though I’d be willing to bet he was working on the
horses, first. Angua, Harry and I were close to hearing it before he got hit with the crossbow
bolt.”

“He said it wasn’t necromancy,” Angua said. She had recovered a good deal of strength in the
night, and taken another draught of the wolfsbane potion in the morning. “He said it was more like
a resurrection, though I don’t know what he meant by that. I may go back and interview Susan again,
just to see if she can get me any more details about what he may have been doing after he left her
service.

“Colon and Nobby have been back to the slop shop. No ideas yet who did the shooting. The trail’s
been pretty covered.”

“Has Visit said anything about an Omnian conspiracy?” Vimes asked Carrot.

“He said the pamphlets seem a bit weird,” Carrot said. “Not blasphemy, as such, but it wasn’t
any tract he was familiar with.”

“Okay,” Vimes said. He looked at Harry. “The Dark Mark. Anything else?”

Harry hesitated. He knew that he needed to tell the Watch what he had realized last night, but
wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

“That's what we've seen before, the Dark Mark," Harry said. "I presume
that's really why I'm here, because the wizards at Unseen University haven’t been able to
determine its thaumic signature, and …" His voice trailed off. This was where it was going to
get tough.

“Well?” barked Vimes.

“Sir, permission to speak freely,” Potter said.

Vimes looked at him sharply, and then at his Watchmen. “Granted.”

“Exactly how many people know – really know – where I’m from?” Harry said.

“I don’t know what you mean, Constable,” Vimes said in a neutral voice.

Carrot looked puzzled again. “Aren’t you from Lon-?” he asked.

Harry looked exasperated, but looked straight at Vimes. “The wizards all know where I’m from,
sir. As do you. Sergeant Angua knows I’m not from the Counterweight Continent. I’m assuming her …
special … abilities have helped her in that regard. Sergeant Littlebottom seems to know or suspect.
A monk named Qu in the Cable Street Particulars apparently knows where I’m from. And last night,
Ms. Susan Sto-Helit …” his voice trailed off. He wished he had spent some more time talking with
Susan, he really wasn’t sure *what* she was.

“Well, is there anyone else? I don’t feel like I’m keeping up much of a pretense, here.”

There was a short silence.

Vimes finally offered: “The Patrician certainly knows. I think that’s it.”

“So where are you really from, Harry?” asked Carrot, going straight to the heart of the
matter.

Harry said nothing, but looked at Vimes. Finally the Commander took a deep drag on his cigar and
then a breath.

“Right, you lot, what’s being discussed now is absolutely considered a Patrician’s Secret. If
you don’t wish to end up spending the rest of your life locked up with Leonard of Quirm, you’ll
forget everything you’ve heard as soon as you leave.

“Potter’s from a city called London. That’s the capital of a country called England, located in
a parallel world to ours known as the Roundworld. I’ve been there, myself, on loan to their version
of the Watch. It’s … an entire world, accessed within the HEM building at Unseen University.”

To Harry’s surprise, everyone seemed to accept this with equanimity.

“So we can travel between both worlds?” Carrot asked.

“Yes, but it is imperative to the continued existence of both of our worlds that we do not,”
Vimes said sharply. “The wizard Rincewind is currently on Roundworld trying to balance the fact
that Mr. Potter is here. Mr. Potter is, in fact, an extremely powerful wizard on his own world. He
was principal in the capture and execution of a leader of group of renegade wizards. Who used this”
– and here he showed the picture of the Grave Gourmand’s tattoo – “as a badge of
identification.”

“We call it the Dark Mark,” Harry began. Now his story was easy. “The people who wore it, in my
world, are called Death Eaters. Death Eaters – Grave Gourmands – you see the resemblance. The Death
Eaters or Grave Gourmands were the followers of an extraordinarily powerful wizard named Tom
Marvolo Riddle. Riddle held a reign of terror over most of Europe – er, most of our country and our
surrounding neighbor countries – for more than 50 years.

"So. The Dark Mark. I think that the reason the wizards don't know who is creating this
image is because it's a wizard from my world. I don't know who it is yet, but there were
several high-profile followers of Tom Riddle who escaped capture.” Harry said.

“And now these tattoos are showing up here?” Littlebottom said. “Could he have escaped
here?”

“No,” Harry said. He hesitated, and then said the rest of it. “I killed Tom Riddle. Personally.
It was him or me. Riddle killed my parents. My family. My friends. He recognized no authority other
than himself. In the end, it was him or me. So it was him. Believe me when I tell you that what I
went through … he is as dead as dead gets.”

“Although I didn’t have the pleasure of being there to observe personally, I heard the story
from many personally who were involved with Mr. Potter," Vimes said.

“So it’s not him,” Carrot said. “But one of his followers? Another one of these Death Eater – or
possibly a Grave Gourmand?”

“Um, maybe. Possibly. Which brings me back to my point earlier,” Harry said. “Although my world
is more advanced than yours in some ways, in some ways your study of magic is more advanced than
ours. Wizards who use magic leave a distinctive thaumic trace. Apparently, there is some evidence
that the magic that has been happening here is not of Discworld origin. I suspect that the reason
is because one of the Death Eaters has found a way to the Disc, and so the wizards at Unseen
University don’t know his signature. As a result, they're looking for something they can't
find.”

“So what about the whole thing about knocking down temples?” Angua asked. “We’ve got, what, four
attacks so far, and these pamphlets that they’re scattering around? Do they follow some kind of
Omnian religion?”

“To be honest, I really have no idea what an Omnian is,” Harry said. “But I can tell you that
although murder and arson are part of their method of operating, attacking temples is completely
new. They never did anything like that before. And these pamphlet things, that was never their
style. So I don’t really have an answer for you. Maybe there are two different groups acting
together, not just one.”

“We’d better find the answers to some questions soon,” said Vimes, in a voice which made each of
the Watchmen stiffen their backs.

There was a brief silence. “Commander, didn’t you say that there was a printing press stolen?”
Harry asked.

“Yes, there was. Now I assume you are going to suggest that the stolen printing press and paper
are obviously being used to print the pamphlets,” Vimes said.

“Er, yes, I was,” Harry squeaked.

“Yes, Potter, that seems likely,” Vimes said.

Harry breathed. *At least I’m not totally stupid.*

“So, we need to find that too,” Vimes said. “Too many problems … we’ll have to specialize.”

Several puffs of smoke made their way to the ceiling.

“We need to trace the fat and this Igorring, find the Lancre connection suggested by the
mangonel, find the printing press and find out more about the pamphlets,” Vimes began. “Also, we
need to stop the attacks on the temples, and prod the wizards again on this thaumic signature.”

His voice trailed off. The puffing didn’t.

“Right, the temples, the printing press, pamphlets, and Omnians. Carrot, I want Visit on that,
primarily, with you as backup. There’s no one else who has as much credibility moving in and out of
the temples as the two of you.

“Potter, you’re the wizard here, you’re on the thaumic problem.

“Angua, you and Littlebottom are leads on the fat team and Igorring. You know more about tracing
it and the terrain.”

Vimes blew a smoke ring. “Potter, I’m assigning Detritus to work with you primarily, since I’ve
never yet found any magic that can blast a rock troll to pieces. I agree that your cover story
wasn’t that well crafted, not that we had a lot of time to do so. Detritus won’t ask, so don’t tell
him where you’re from. Keep going on living the cover you’ve established as best you can. I
understand how Qu and Susan Sto-Helit can have seen through that. Once again, don’t tell them
anything unless they ask directly, and even then, use your judgment.”

The room was silent as the meeting was coming to an end. The Watch – other than Harry – got to
its feet. They looked down and he looked up.

“It just seems that we should be doing more, even though that’s so much,” Harry said.

“Yes, well, if we could, we would,” Vimes said. “Any suggestions?”

Harry sighed. “I don’t know. I just wish that I could ask Albus Dumbledore for advice.” He stood
up to join his colleagues in dismissal. As he did so, Vimes reached for his helmet and got up as
well.

“Great idea, lad. I’ll do it.”



15. The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza
-----------------------------------

**A/N You should know the drill by now. It’s in Chapter One.**

**THE BURGLAR WHO STUDIED SPINOZA**

Harry went to the hole-in-the-wall again, after the meeting, and back in the squad room,
Detritus was waiting for him. “So youse is my new pardner,” the troll said without preamble.

“I guess so, Sergeant,” Harry said.

“Dat’s fine,” Detritus said. “I’s like workin’ wit new peoples. We gonna go thru th’
university?”

“Just there, I think,” Harry said. “We’d better let Stibbons know we’re coming, I guess I could
send them one of those clack-things.” His hand strayed to his pocket for a pen, when he encountered
the PDA. “On second thought …”

He flipped open the PDA. The imp squinted back. “Can you connect me to Ponder Stibbons?” Harry
asked. The imp shrugged. “If he’s in with Hex, I reckon,” and then pulled some microscopic
levers.

The disembodied voice of the thinking machine came through the PDA. “I understand you wish to
speak with Mr. Stibbons,” Hex said. “He is currently in the library with the Librarian. I will get
a message to him that you wish to see him.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. “I guess we could…” his voice trailed off as he looked at Detritus,
whose face was a crater of thoughts-in-process. Much the same as a glacier is a
canyon-in-progress.

“Whose is you talkin’ to?” the troll demanded.

“Its …” Harry didn’t actually know who – or what – Hex really was. “An entity at Unseen
University.”

“Well, tell this Anne that we is coming right now,” Detritus said. “You heared that, Anne?”

There was a slight pause. “We await your visit, Sergeant Detritus and Constable Potter,” said
the voice of Hex. The PDA stopped glowing.

Harry stared. “You don’ give wizards too much time,” Detritus said. “Otherwise, you got to wait
for them to finish eatin’ and it takes too long.”

“Okay, I guess,” Harry said. “By the way, who is Anne?”

“Anne? Dat’s who you is talkin’ too,” Detritus replied.

“I … thought I was talking to Hex,” Harry said.

“You said you was talkin’ to Anne Nitity,” Detritus said. “Never met her. I gues she’s new.”

Harry sighed. “Let’s go, shall we?”

Harry and Detritus trudged back down the soggy streets of Ankh-Morpork to Unseen University.
Despite the trolls’ near four-foot height disparity over Harry, he noticed that the two of them
shared the same, well-worn, Watchmen’s gait, emphasizing comfort over speed. This ensured they
stayed in fine lockstep all the way to the university.

They reached the gates, which swung open for them soundlessly, and closed back, and they
returned to the High-Energy Magic building.

Mr. Stibbons was slightly breathless. “Don’t waste much time, do you?” he complained. The wizard
turned his attention to the students, who were studying the color-coded thaumic chart. “Mr.
Turnipseed, and Mr. Cottonmather. Please retrieve a block of the super-cooled ice, and place it on
Sergeant Detritus’ head.”

The troll sat down in front of the chart, and the two students quickly came with a sizable block
that they sat on Detritus’ head.

“Right, everyone, that’s it for today,” Stibbons said. “And no sneaking in to download naughty
parchments on Hex via L-space. If I find out who is doing that, it’s expulsion.”

Amidst a quibbling of ‘it’s not us, it’s the Dean,’ the students left.

“Right, Mr. Potter, now what is it?” Stibbons said.

“Er, first, why the block of ice?” Harry said.

Stibbons looked at Harry impatiently. “Trolls’ brains are made of silicon. When cooled, the
silicon vibrates faster, allowing greater and deeper range of thought. Since your partner is here,
we might as well get some thought out of him.

“Now, let’s get up to speed. Hex, open a channel to Rincewind, will you?”

There was a pause. “What is it?” came a sleepy voice.

“Rincewind, I’d be worried about interrupting your beauty rest, save for the fact that you have
no beauty *to* rest,” Stibbons said. “Potter is here. What can you tell us about the thaumic
signatures?”

There was some disembodied muttering. “Well, I think it’s a Roundworld wizard,” Rincewind said
moodily. “But there aren’t any journals or books on the thaum, or on thaumic trace, here at
Hogwarts. I don’t think that wizards here have begun to recognize thaumic patterns. Even the most
advanced of their arithmancy texts doesn’t cover it. That’s making it hard for me to see what a
thaumic signature would look like from this side. I’ve been catching little glamours, things I can
trace, to see if I can generate a thaumic field, but no luck so far.”

“Hmm…” Stibbons stoked his chin, wishing for the umpteenth time he’d been able to grow a beard,
so that at least he would look dignified. “Well, Harry?”

“Professor, perhaps it would be best if you could show me some thaumic signatures on this chart,
so I can get an idea of what to look for,” Harry suggested.

Stibbons sighed and walked up to the chart, which was full of multicolored lines and dashes.
Dates ran across the bottom axis and a scale was on the right axis. Harry noticed, now, that the
chart was attached to two polls, which scrolled across, so that parchment moved as the chart kept
current, but it could be rolled back to see previous positions.

“Here’s *your* spike,” Stibbons said. “This was the one soon after your arrival. See the
date, here, at the bottom? Your spike is a mix of blue and ocatrine, with a little greenish hue.
It’s quite high – nearly 7,700 thaums. Very few wizards here are capable of generating that level
of power just by force of will.”

“And every single wizard and witch known are mapped by their signature?” Harry asked.

“Well, not every one,” Stibbons admitted. “But still, we can guess at most of them. Look down
here for instance,” he said, and flowed the chart so the scale suddenly read in the hundreds,
rather than the thousands. “See this brown and violet? Notice it’s nice and smooth, rather than
spiky, like yours? That’s Esmerelda Weatherwax. No doubt she’s using her borrowing magic. I don’t
have to run any tests, I just know it’s her since I’ve seen it so often I know it like that back of
my … hmm, that’s strange.”

“What?” prompted Harry.

“She’s drawing at least twice the normal power she usually does when she’s borrowing,” Stibbons
said. He thought for a moment. “Oh, well, she’s probably teaching young Tiffany Aching borrowing. I
know that Miss Weatherwax has wanted to teach someone the magic for some time, and Tiffany’s just
the right age. In any event, these little traces down here are some of the other Lancre witches.
Brown, with some violet. This one is definitely Perdita Nitt.”

Harry took this in. “So what are the strange thaumic patterns?”

Stibbons rolled the chart back. “The first one, many months back now, you’ll see is a thaumic
spike at nearly 59,000 thaums. That’s massive. In fact, it’s off the scale. So much off the scale
that we can’t show the spike. You can see we have part of it, but no more, since it ran over the
meter. It could even have been 90,000 or 100,000 thaums, we don’t know.”

The patterns were in a loathsome chartreuse, with a dash of hideous beige. They were the types
of colors that would normally be chosen by the interior decorator of hell for a truly repugnant
style of window-treatment.

“Now I’ll alter the scale a bit, so we can see this same type of spike. Five of them, all
together, all in the 12,000 thaum range, same color, same spike signature,” Stibbons said.

They looked at the chart. *This is where Hermione is home*, thought Harry. *She’d read
this and immediately see the connection-*

“The temple attacks,” came a rumble.

Harry looked at Stibbons, who looked back at Harry. Then they both looked at Detritus.

“The thaumic pattern you are indicating corresponds to the dates and times of the attacks on the
various city temples by the Grave Gourmands,” Detritus said.

*That does it. I’m putting a permanent freezing charm on his head,* Harry thought.

“It’s the Dark Mark,” Harry said aloud.

“The what?” Stibbons asked.

“He’s right,” said Harry, growing excited. “It’s the Dark Mark.”

He was beginning to see the allure of charts that had long ago revealed itself to people like
Hermione Granger, and other children, who go on to lives as weatherpersons or economists. On a
chart, you could track an idea down, stick a pin it, and leave it fluttering like a wounded
butterfly … but unlike the butterfly, you could pull the pin out, and the idea would get up and fly
for you again, so you could pin it down and watch it in a different position. In a sense, it was
like saying Riddle’s name – it made it that much easier to think you could defeat him. People got
all caught up with “oh no, it’s *LORD VOLDEMORT* who is after me!” But they never got so
fussed over, “eh, just smelly ole Tommy Riddle again, the cheeky bugger.” You could smack Tommy
Riddles out of your life like an aggravating gnat. Lord Voldemorts were tough. But on the chart …
reduced to simple mathematical patterns, they were stripped of their outer vestige of superiorness
and left as a line. A line that you could *erase*.

“Hot damn, Detritus! Right on,” Harry said.

“Cool,” corrected Detritus.

“Would you mind explaining what all this is about?” asked Stibbons.

“Okay, the Death Eaters … the Grave Gourmands, whatever you want to call them,” Harry said,
impatiently in a rush now. “When they attack something, they leave a mark. Their calling card, if
you will. It’s a symbol of a human skull with a snake coming out of the mouth. We call it the ‘Dark
Mark.’ When they would attack someone, they would end the attack by destroying the home or building
and then use a spell to cast the Dark Mark over the area, so people know they’ve attacked it.
That’s what this is. It’s a record of a wizard using the Dark Mark.”

Stibbons considered this. “So your theory, then, is that the previous high-thaum spike was of a
Roundworld wizard somehow making his way to Discworld?”

Harry was a bit disconcerted that Stibbons had figured it out so quickly, but nodded
approvingly. “I think it’s the only theory that fits,” Harry said. “But I don’t know how they got
here. When we took out Voldemort, the leader of the Death Eaters, certainly some of them escaped.
We never did round all of them up – about 10 made it out on the loose we knew of. Voldemort dabbled
in all sorts of magic, so it’s possible he learned of the Discworld.”

There was a silence. “Anything else on your end in the library, Rincewind?” Stibbons asked.

“Not such as yet, no,” Rincewind said. “So far as I can tell, there is no L-Space opening
emanating from the Hogwarts library. It’s certainly possible to use L-Space to get *into* the
library, but I’m almost certain it would be a one-way trip. I can’t see any way out from here.”

“What’s L-space?” asked Harry.

“Well, a bit hard to explain,” Stibbons said. “Rincewind? You’re the librarian here.”

“Mmm. Harry, knowledge equals power, right?” came the disembodied voice.

“Okay,” Harry said.

“And power equals energy. Energy, via the theory of relativity, equals matter, with a bit of
help from the speed of light. And matter equals mass,” Rincewind finished. “This is the L-space
equation. What it means is that if you aggregate enough books in one place, you can bend the
space-time continuum. A library is the perfect place to create an L-space node. Senior librarians
or careful readers can use the nodes to travel from library to library, all across the
multiverse.”

This was too much for Harry. “I’m sorry, but do you mean that if I just read enough in the
Hogwarts library I could travel through different worlds and dimensions?”

“Precisely,” Stibbons said. “Good literature can take you anywhere. In this case, however, and
in the right conditions, even one word is enough, if there is enough belief. Unfortunately, or
rather fortunately, Roundworld does not have the right conditions.”

“Because magic works differently there?” Harry asked.

“Perhaps,” Stibbons said. “I’ve never detected deitygen or imperativium in even small elemental
form there. Here on Discworld, those elements are vital constructs of belief, which is how things
run.”

There was a general silence as the four – plus Hex, of course – absorbed this.

Harry shook his head for a minute. Deitygen and Imperativium … those were too hard to grasp. He
went back to the physical reality of the chart.

“Okay, so *why* are they attacking temples, then?” Harry asked. “I mean, the Death Eaters
never did anything like that on Roundworld. Oh, they went for high-value, publicly visible targets,
all right. But never temples.”

Stibbons looked disappointed. “I was hoping you were going to tell me that was exactly what they
*did* do. But even so, these aren’t major deities. The attacks are all on small gods. Not the
big players.”

Harry considered this. “Well, who are the big players?”

To their surpise, it was Detritus that spoke. “In terms of followers, Om, the Blind Io, the
Lady, Fate and Offler the Crocadile-headed have the most followers on the Disc,” the troll said.
“There are many, many minor gods, that spring up when the requisite amount of belief is generated,
and also that die out, when there is no longer belief to support them. A god is numinous only so
long as there is sufficient belief to support it.”

There are many things that can trigger memories. Smells, in particular, are closely associated
with memory, such as, “ye gods, it smells just like the last time that someone forgot to take the
trash out.” But some words can trigger memories just as effectively. Fortunately for Harry, the key
word here was ‘numinous.’

It had been about three years ago, and it had been an Unusual Saturday. Unusual in the sense
that neither he nor Hermione had any plans whatsoever. Being an Auror was a full-time job that
precluded the concept of weekends, since the bad guys tended to view them as work days. And
Hermione’s constant experiments often meant she was on call, normally to put out the fire. But this
Unusual Saturday …

This Unusual Saturday they both had completely free. It was Harry’s idea that the day could most
profitably be spent by sleeping in till 1 p.m., heading down for a pub lunch at 1:30, and then
making it lazily back to catch the end of the quidditch on the Wizarding Wireless.

Hermione, on the other hand, had enrolled them at a muggle ‘Working Day’ at the British Museum.
They would attend a six-hour series of lectures on the topic of Chinese mythology. Harry had
realized, somewhat belatedly, that if you are in love with someone, you will sometimes do very
*stupid* things for them.

In this case, the *stupid* thing to do would have been to sleep in, get drunk, and listen
to quidditch. So he didn’t. Instead, he went with Hermione.

To his surprise, he enjoyed it. The lectures were fascinating, the professors – from many lofty
universities around the world – were engaging and brought interest and humor into their talks.
Augmented by the collection of arguably the greatest museum on earth, it was a startling revelation
to Harry that learning could be fun.

By far the most interesting lecture had been made by a fellow from Surrey, who although not a
professor, had lived in China for 30 years and was as learned as anyone. This man collected dead
gods.

“ ‘When a god loses his numinous power – that is, his power to be effective and cause fortune
for his followers – that god begins to suffer. Fewer people believe in the god. Eventually, the god
is fired. The statue of the god is removed and discarded, and a new god takes his place. The old
god is no longer believed in, and a new god is necessary. This belief requires a new temple, a new
statue, and new rituals,’ ” the man had explained. He had gone around collecting the statues of the
dead gods, which now anointed his garden inasmuch as some muggles collected lawn gnomes. Harry had
reflected that if Mrs. Weasley had gone round to his house for tea, she’d have fainted dead
away.

He had been dwelling in a reverie over this memory for so long that Stibbons had to physically
tap on the shoulder.

“What?” said Harry, jumping.

“Care to share what you’re thinking?” Stibbons asked again.

“I’m thinking about dead gods,” Harry said. “What is the net result of the smashing of the
temples? I mean, the really big gods, probably, it would case public outcry and then there would be
a rebuilding campaign and the temple would get re-dedicated.

“But the smaller gods … people would stop going to the temple, since it’s burned down. Maybe
they would join another temple, maybe they would believe in another god, but probably … it would be
apathy. They’d forget about dealing with the gods for awhile, until some big event came along. If
you knocked off enough small gods, would that create an available pool of belief?”

Stibbons was writing, furiously, in a notebook. Rincewind’s voice came through the wires again.
“I’ve been to Cori Celesti, the home of the gods,” he said. “I think your theory is possible. Lots
of gods get created every few seconds, but because there isn’t a sustaining amount of belief, they
vanish back into the mists, and the excess belief is returned. If you knocked out enough small
gods, yes, I reckon you could generate a belief vacuum.”

“But who would want to create a belief vacuum? You’d have to fill it,” Stibbons said. “Would the
Grave Gourmands really want to create some kind of new god?”

“Perhaps they are merely attempting to control the excess belief,” said Detritus. The ice had
nearly melted away now. “Maybe it could be parceled and sold for profit to the major gods.”

“That’s possible,” Stibbons said. “Possibly. It would very quickly get them into high stead with
the major gods, who would covet that extra belief, and further cement their power.”

Harry wasn’t quite thinking that. “I’m not so sure,” he said finally. “I keep thinking there’s
something more, something we haven’t seen yet. But this is the furthest we’ve gotten so far.”

Detritus stood up. “Then we better get back to the Watch house,” he said. “I’s got a feelin’ we
got to get on patrole.”

Harry looked at his sergeant sadly. “So when the ice melts …”

Stibbons nodded. “He used to have a hat which kept his brains specially cool. It was designed by
a dwarf who was his first partner, I understand. But his partner was killed in the line of duty,
and he swore he’d never wear another.”

Harry nodded. He understood the fierce devotion you had to your partners. It was part of what
made you a Watchman. It was most certainly going to be part of what he incorporated into his being
an Auror. Harry reflected he might not have been the best partner his various Auror colleagues had
had in the past. That, he thought, would have to be made up for.

“Right, sergeant. Back to the Watch, then,” Harry said.

The sergeant nodded towards Stibbons. “Bee seeing u, sah.”



16. Write for Your Life
-----------------------

**A/N The disclaimer is in the usual spot, chapter one. Ye faithful should know that by
now.**

**WRITE FOR YOUR LIFE**

It was more than six days before Harry could share his news with the team in a formal meeting in
Sam Vimes’ private office. It wasn’t that he had intentionally withheld the information; but he
quite simply had had no time to discuss his findings. One of the unwritten rules of the police
force (just under ‘there is always too much paper work’) is that ‘there is never enough
manpower.’

In this case, the lack of manpower meant that the Watch were busy watching many other problems.
There were, apparently, some difficulties in delivering the mail, which entailed their efforts in
that vein, and there were some challenges in working with Uberwald relations. Harry wasn’t
altogether clear on this point but apparently it had something to do with vampire rights.

When the specialists finally were able to return to the Watch house, Harry was nearly bursting
to tell them his findings at UU. To his disappointment, his fellow Watch officers weren’t nearly as
excited about his findings.

“So, you’re sure now, that it’s a Death Eater,” Vimes said, glassy-eyed, clearly bored with
Harry’s in-depth explanations of the thaumic chart.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, eagerly. “It’s certainly a Death Eater.”

“And how does that differ from your opinion of a week ago – sorry, of whenever our last meeting
was?” Vimes said.

“Um … well, it’s the same opinion … it’s just that … I’m sure now,” Harry said, a bit hurt.
*Now I know how Hermione’s felt all these years*, he thought. *I owe her so much*.

“Right. We were sure before, too. Ok, so now we know it. But if it walks like a duck, quacks
like a duck, and has webbed feet like a duck, it’s probably one of Foul Ole Ron’s friends, right?
We don’t need to scientifically prove things. We just need a reasonable doubt that we can make a
case with,” Vimes said. He looked at Harry, who seemed upset. “Well?”

“It’s just that, well, Ron is one of my closest friends,” Harry said. “There’s no need to call
him foul, although I know some people who would use harsher terms.”

“I’m pretty sure Commander Vimes didn’t just insult your friend, Harry,” Angua said with a
smirk.

“Huh?” Harry said.

“Ron is a member of our city’s … vagrant population,” Carrot explained.

“And he reminds you of a duck?” Harry said.

“Nah, it’s his friend, the Duck Man,” Vimes said, lighting a cheroot. “He has a duck on his
head.”

Suddenly, Harry’s mind cast him back to his first day in Ankh-Morpork. “And he has a … dog,”
Harry said, neutrally.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Gaspode,” Angua said. “He’s a thinking-brain dog.”

*Merlin, this place is messed up,* Harry thought.

“Right. What else? Cheery?”

“Well, not so much, sir,” she said. “We haven’t been able to find out what Igor was doing in the
city. Igor thinks it had to do with some really serious Igorring, and the horses were test cases.
But we still haven’t found his lab, if he had one. Angua doesn’t seem to think he did.”

All eyes went to the Watchwolf. “Sir, I’d smell that fat and the horseflesh underwater. Even the
Ankh. The only place it smells is near the track. I bet that they were bringing equipment from
wherever the Grave Gourmand Local #102 is, experimenting, and disbanding, all within the same
evening,” Angua said. “It would mean that it took a *lot* longer, they couldn’t control the
conditions well enough, and they couldn’t leave experiments out overnight. But it would be safer.
There would be literally nothing *to* arrest. Or seize. So he didn’t have a hideout per se.
But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t making notes, reports, and there’s no record. We have to find
that.”

“Any idea where the fat is now?” Vimes said.

“I’m almost sure it’s left the city,” Angua said. “I traced the smell out of the city’s west
gates. I think it went down the Lancre road, but I can’t be as sure of that.”

“There was a Lancre connection, wasn’t there?” Vimes said. “The mangonel?”

“Yes, the mangonel was made of Lancre wood,” Littlebottom replied. “Of course, it could have
been cut down some time ago and re-assembled. So we can’t be sure it was recent. But overall, I’d
have to say the evidence points to some kind of Lancre connection.”

“Yes, that was Albus’ advice. Keep looking in Lancre,” Vimes said impassively.

“Albus Dumbledore?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Vimes said quietly.

“I told you he was dead, didn’t I?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Vimes said again, quietly.

“Then how did you possibly ask him?” Harry asked.

“It doesn’t matter how, he’s dead,” Vimes said.

“*Y e s*, but you just said you spoke with him,” Harry persisted.

“Your powers of hearing are truly remarkable, Potter,” Vimes said, in a manner that reminded
Harry *exactly* of Severus Snape.

“So … how … did *you* do some kind of necromancy?” Harry asked, uncertain where he should
be taking this. “Sir, he was my closest mentor, a vital friend … *how* did you talk to him!”
Harry’s voice ended in a shrill shout. *Not what I should have said,* Harry thought.

If Vimes was angered at Harry’s tone, he gave no sign of it. “No, Potter, I do not do
necromancy. Nor ouijia boards. Nor yet do I write letters to the temples. I asked him. We discussed
the situation for some time, and Lancre seemed the most suitable avenue of investigation.”

Harry was now beyond flummoxed, and also angry. “*HOW*?” he nearly shouted.

“How is none of your dam’ business,” Vimes said sharply. “The point is, that he suggested that
we check out Lancre. I’m assigning you, Angua, and Carrot to go and check it out. I need
Littlebottom here as my forensics expert, and Detritus will probably welcome the buttock-prodding
possibilities that Carrot’s absence will suggest. On our end, we will continue to a
search-and-destroy mission for Grave Gourmand targets within the city.”

There was a silence over the group. Harry knew that he shouldn’t have shouted, and he regretted
it, but he wasn’t going to apologize just yet. He still had not yet forgiven people for keeping
information from him. Loyalty, amongst all of the other virtues, was *everything* to
Harry.

“Which leaves Carrot,” Vimes said. “I haven’t heard from you today. What do you have?”

“No traces of activity for the past few days,” Carrot said. “The pamphlets keep showing up.
First, they were just occasionally available after the temple attacks; now they seem to be
spiraling out of control. It’s like someone has set up a private challenge to people to write more
about their mythology. Constable Visit says that it’s interesting, and he doesn’t think it’s
Omnian. There’s an open encouragement for readers to write their own adventures and ideas for their
god, if god we can call him. No Omnian leader would suggest that. It almost seems as though the
common people are being asked to willfully contribute to the creation of a mythology.”

“What is it, exactly, that is in these pamphlets?” Harry asked.

“Here, have one,” said Carrot, handing him *Lord Voldemort and the Super-Heated Beaker, by
Rocky Silverarm.*

Harry’s eyes widened at the title, and turned the page.

“I was almost sure it was a dwarf at first, from the name ‘Silverarm,’” Carrot said. “But I
don’t think so, now. The writing style seems too … *off*. And then I thought it might be a
troll with cold-thinking availability attempting to pull off a dwarf writing style, but I don’t
think that’s it, either.”

“The name is probably just another alias,” Vimes said.

Harry’s eyes widened as he traced down the words. *No, it can’t be …* he thought, but then
he read further.

“Well, possibly,” Carrot said. He had never liked it when people didn’t use their own names.

By now, Harry was reading through at a pace which would have made Hermione Granger proud. Smoke
was now openly billowing over his head and Angua was motioning at the rest of the room. Glass began
to cascade as windows down the hall shattered.

Carrot carefully walked over to Harry and snatched the pamphlet out of his hands. Harry didn’t
need to look at it any more, but stared at Carrot in wild surprise.

“What is it, Harry?” the Captain asked in a tone that brooked no compromise.

“That (EXPLETIVE DELETED) son of a (EXPLETIVE DELETED) stupid (EXPLETIVE DELETED) (EXPLETIVE
DELETED) whinging (EXPLETIVE DELETED) (EXPLETIVE DELETED) (EXPLETIVE DELETED)!” Harry screeched.
The windows had stopped breaking, but clearly Harry was still throwing off dangerous magic
vibes.

“Such language in a high-class establishment such as this one,” Angua said quietly, much amused.
“Please, not the Y-word or the K-word. Care to try that again?”

“That mother fu-” Harry began.

Commander Vimes held up his hand. Harry caught his eyes. “Calm down, lad. Take a deep breath,
first.”

Harry complied. The magic field seemed to lessen a bit. “Why didn’t I see this earlier?” Harry
demanded. “I now know *exactly* the *one* person who’s responsible for all of this.”

“Ok,” Vimes said. “Think you can explain it without killing all of us?”

“Pettigrew,” the word was ripped from Harry’s throat as a guttural snarl.

“Petticoats?” asked Carrot, looking at Angua.

“Not discussing that here,” she muttered under her breath.

“Pettigrew. Peter F-ing Pettigrew,” Harry snarled. “Also known as Wormtail. He’s an animagus, a
rare kind of wizard on my world who can change into the form of an animal. In Pettigrew’s case, his
form is very appropriately a rat.”

“And you’re sure it’s him?” Vimes asked.

“Damn sure,” Harry said. “Several reasons. One, the name on the pamphlet. Rocky Silverarm. Rocky
is another word for Peter in my world,” he began. *Thank heavens for those Biblical Latin classes
Aunt Petunia forced me to take.* “Secondly. Pettigrew’s hand was severed in … an accident,” he
said. “It was replaced with one of silver, so that if he happened to encounter one of his mortal
enemies, who is a werewolf,” and here he glanced at Angua, “that is to say, my uncle, then he would
have a line of defence.”

Harry took another long, calming breath. “Pettigrew was one of Voldemort – who is also known as
Tom Riddle – one of his closest followers. After I defeated Voldemort, Pettigrew escaped. He’s been
wanted but at large for more than five years. We’ve come close a few times, but never caught him.
Now I see why.”

“So this Pettigrew is here, now,” Vimes said. “And the stories about Voldemort? This ties into
what you were dealing with earlier?”

“I think so,” Harry said quietly. “I suspect that by generating stories about Voldemort,
Wormtail is attempting to develop belief in him here on the Discworld. But this seems a completely
new talent. I don’t think Pettigrew could have done the story-writing alone.”

“Hired a ghost, you think?” Vimes asked.

“I’m sure he didn’t, sir,” Carrot said. “Their ectoplasmic fingers would drift right through the
quills.”

Vimes looked at his senior Watchman sharply then back at Harry. “Where would you get stories
from, then?” he asked.

Harry flipped open his PDA. “Rincewind,” he said tersely. The imp took one look at his eyes and
knew it wasn’t a good time for a snappy comeback, not if he wanted to stay in one piece.

Seconds later came the disembodied voice. “Harry? Is that you?” asked the assistant
librarian.

“Rincewind, I need you to check on the library and all surrounding literature sources for any
increase in writing on Lord Voldemort over the past five years,” Harry said. “If you don’t know how
our library works, I strongly encourage you to ask Hermione, as I think she can find anything in
there in less than one minute.”

“Right, anything on Voldemort,” Rincewind said. “And that has some relevance your end? Hex has
been feeding me some of the information on the belief patterns, and I think I can map the glamour
here soon and decipher the thaumic sig-”

“That’s irrelevant now,” Harry said. “We know *who* we’re dealing with, just not
*what*. Find out about the stories. That’s got to become top priority. Let Hermione know it’s
Peter Pettigrew that’s made his way to the Disc.”

“Pettigrew on the Disc, stories about Voldemort, got it,” Rincewind said. “If you don’t mind,
I’ll ring off now.”

“Potter out,” Harry said, closing the PDA so fast that the imp inside muttered out curses at
him.

The rest of the room had been observing the conversation in disbelief. Public conversations
using PDAs was *not* normal practice.

“Er, sorry,” Harry said.

“What was that?” Vimes demanded.

“Um … it’s … uh … a PDA,” he said lamely. *Uh-oh, I’m in for it now,* he thought. *I
shouldn’t have let them see advanced wizarding technology.*

“How does it work?” Carrot asked. “It seems faster than a clacks!”

“A clacks … right … what’s a clacks?” Harry asked.

“This is going to take a little while,” Littlebottom said.

“Time … is not currently one of my problems,” Harry said, easing back in his chair.

…

Three hours had gone by on Roundworld before Hermione Granger could take off enough time to get
to Hogwarts. She stepped through the floo, and seeing that the portrait of Albus Dumbledore was
empty, she stepped quickly through McGonagall’s office to head to the library.

A few seconds on either side, she would have managed not to get intercepted.

“Ms. … Hermione … Granger,” came a well-remembered voice.

“Er, yes, Professor Vector,” she called out, and turned around.

“Where is this wizard from Discworld?” Vector demanded. “I have gone to such links in attempting
to draw him into conversation that I went to the lengths of wearing a strapless dress to dinner
twice in a row and placing myself directly in his field of vision. The man disappears after every
meal and is unfindable. I trust *you* however know where he is.”

The thought of her former Arithmancy professor in a strapless dress was more powerful than
virtually any of the Unforgivable spells Hermione had been subject to during the capture of
Voldemort. “Ah-” she began.

“I know you’re going to see him,” Vector continued. “I insist upon accompanying you.”

“Professor Vector, this really isn’t the best time,” Hermione began.

“Hermione! The man has been here for nearly two weeks, and we have barely spoken a word! There
is so much for us to … discuss!” Vector pressed. Hermione’s fingers itched slowly down towards her
wand, which she had carried in a concealed side holster for six years. Harry had bought them,
custom-made, for her Ron as they had helped him – such as they could – with the little matter of
Voldemort’s horcruxes.

“Oh, well,” Hermione stammered, buying a few precious seconds.

“Good. Where is he,” Vector said, tapping her foot, triumphantly.

“I really *had* thought these days were over,” Hermione said to herself. The wand snapped
into position so fast Vector never saw it. “*Petrificus* *Totalus!*”

The spell hit the arithmancy professor squarely between the eyes. She became as merely a block
of stone, foot pausing in mid-tap.

“Oh, oh oh … Professor Vector, I am *so* sorry. I’m sure this would be worth a month’s
worth of detention, if not more, probation, certainly, though not necessarily expulsion,” Hermione
said. “But, er, I am no longer a student here, so I suppose that won’t matter so much. I apologize
again, and I will tell him to talk with you some, but right now, I *have* to help Harry,”
Hermione finished.

She used a quick Disillusionment charm on herself, and then dashed to the library unimpeded.
Making her way to the charmed door, she quickly opened with no difficulty, now knowing it was
there. “Professor Rincewind?”

He slowly looked up from under the table. “Hermione?”

“Yes, what are you doing under the table?” she asked.

“I, er, dropped my quill just now,” Rincewind said. He stood up, and picked it up off the table.
“Here it is, silly me.”

“Yes, fine, there’s no time for that now, Professor,” Hermione said. “We have to help Harry.
Tell me again about what he said.”

“Certain stories have turned up on Discworld, in pamphlet form, that appear to have been
privately printed using a stolen printing press,” Rincewind said. “Harry said he thought Peter
Pettigrew was responsible, and that the stories concern one Lord Voldemort.”

“Voldemort,” Hermione whispered.

“I take it you know him,” Rincewind said.

“He’s Harry’s arch-enemy … he killed Harry’s parents when Harry was still a baby. Later, he
killed Harry’s stepfather, his friends … everyone Harry knew. He was one of the most powerful
wizards of the last 100 years,” Hermione said.

“And I am helping you with this?” Rincewind said. “I think not. I can get Hex to get me on a
beach in Australia 190 years ago in less than 10 seconds. So, it’s been a pleasure,” he began.

Hermione’s fingers were on the wizzard’s throat before he could even blink. “We will *not*
abandon Harry,” she said in a voice that left no uncertainty about how the universe was going to
exist hereafter. “Er … right,” Rincewind said. “Would you let me breathe at least?” The grip
loosened imperceptibly.

“So what are we going to do?” Rincewind managed when he figured that he could speak again.

“You tell me,” Hermione said evenly. “You called me, remember.”

“Harry said that we should check for any stories concerning Lord Volemort,” Rincewind minced
out.

“Sit up. Slowly. If you try to move too quickly, I’m going to have Dobby put an
anti-disapparation charm on your leg that will splinch you in half if you try to leave,” Hermione
said.

Rincewind didn’t know what *splinch* meant, but he was pretty sure that it wasn’t pleasant.
He took a deep sigh. “I can get the Librarian to use L-Space to search for works on this
Voldemort,” he said.

“Right. Do it,” Hermione said, flatly. Mentally, she began to compose a fairly intricate
search-and-replace sell, based on a bubble-sort algorithm.

Rincewind sighed and looked at the crystal ball. “Well?” he said.

There was a pause.

After a few seconds, the sound “Ook?” came through.

“We need to check L-space for stories on a … Lord Voldemort,” Rincewind said, looking at
Hermione sadly.

“*Ook*?”

“It might mean the end of both Roundworld and Discworld,” Rincewind said.

“Ook!”

“Yes, well, we can wait,” Rincewind said calmly.

“Your librarian is … not very verbal?” Hermione said.

“He’s an orangutan,” Rincewind said, calmly. He hoped he projected some menace, but in his heart
knew he projected only spinelessness. “Excellent librarian.”

“I … see,” Hermione said, quietly. She completed the spell in her mind. Quietly drawing her
wand, she uttered *verbosity maxima actua*.

Books slowly filed through the doorway onto the table. After a few seconds, they glowed brightly
and then sat. Hermione looked carefully. There were a total of five tomes.

“Nothing new has been written in the last year,” she said. “We’d have it. Here’s the revised
edition of *Hogwarts: A History,* which includes a full chapter on Harry and Voldemort. This
is *Dark Wizards Discovered*, published two years ago. Has a few things on Voldemort,
Grindelwald, Azarath, and a few other naughty boys. The other three … they’re all pretty old,” she
said.

“Ook!”

“Indeed?” asked Rincewind.

“Ook!”

“Oh, very well. I’ll deal with it. Thanks so much,” Rincewind said.

Hermione looked at him expectantly.

“He’s says there’s something called … the internet?”

…

Floo travel was new to Rincewind, but that didn’t mean he was adding it to the means that he
enjoyed traveling. In fact, truth be told, Rincewind hated all forms of travel. Travel meant you
were going places, and if there was any wizzard who wanted nothing more than to be hidden under
thick blankets as the world passed him by, it was Rincewind.

“Can I get you something?” Hermione asked. “I think I’ll open a bottle of wine, if it’s all the
same to you.”

Rincewind decided not to prod Fate. Too often, Fate prodded back. With a sharper stick.
“Whatever you decide,” he said.

They were in the apartment she shared with Harry in the Docklands. The computer was booting up.
Hex had seemed extremely interested in the process.

“Right, this our PC,” Hermione said. “It seems to work sort of like Hex works. The internet … is
sort of like a way to connect every person who has a computer. You can share whatever information
you want.”

Rincewind was concentrating on what Harry had told him.

“Like stories,” he said.

“Right,” Hermione said. “There are several sites on the web … sorry, there are several sort of
virtual libraries where people can simply write and store stories. Anyone who wants can write them
and read them.”

Rincewind’s mind boggled. “You mean … *anyone* can do this?” He was truly scared. *Good
thing their universe doesn’t have Deitygen,* he decided.

“Pretty much,” Hermione said. “Now, there aren’t many wizards who have computers. Very few. Most
of them ignore muggle – that’s what they call non-wizards – technology. But some have them. They
often try to integrate the two, often with pretty disastrous results. And Harry or I end up putting
out the fire.”

She didn’t elaborate. At least Fred and George had finally figured out how to use computers, and
kept the secret well-hidden from their father. *Merlin knows what he would do with them*,
Hermione mused.

“Right, so these people that write the stories, they know about Voldemort?” Rincewind asked.

“Well, very few do, actually,” Hermione said. “Harry tends to be the more popular character.
There’s a few thousand stories out there. Maybe a few more. I tend to … skip … the ones that have
Harry … um …”

Rincewind didn’t need Hermione to elaborate; he had been to Fourecks, after all.

“Completely understood,” he said. “How many are there involving Harry and Voldemort, or just
Voldemort?”

“Well, I check every six months or so,” Hermione said. “Harry refuses to look at it or see any
of it. I think he’s a bit embarrassed or angered by it all. But last I checked, you see here,
there’s a little counter, there were about 1,000 stories in total. So I’ll just update real quick
…”

Hermione’s fingers clicked things that went click. The screen changed. Rincewind noted the
changes. He also noted that Hermione had gasped and was as white as the screen.

“I take it that was not what you expected?”

Hermione did not answer. She was nearly catatonic.

Rincewind tapped his crystal ball. “Hex?”

“Yes?”

He read the screen carefully. “Please inform Mr. Potter that, in the past six months, there have
been … 415,463 stories written about Voldemort and himself on the Internet. At least some of them
have appear to have been ported to Discworld.”

There was a pause.

“I will relay the message at a period of convenience,” Hex replied. “Mr. Potter is on the
move.”

“On the move? Where to?” Rincewind said.

“The General Pull-thaumic Signals tracking device built into his PDA indicates that he is on the
road to Lancre,” Hex said. “He is almost certainly with other members of the Watch. It would not do
for the Watch to discover the existence of a GPS-coded Potter Discworld Adjustator.”

“Very well,” Rincewind sighed. He looked at Hermione, whose eyes were still the size of dinner
plates from staring at the screen.

“I’m returning to Hogwarts,” he said. “If I require Ms. Granger, we’ll contact her at that time.
I think she might need some time … alone.”

Rincewind had been instructed on the workings of floo by Hermione, and he seized some powder
sitting on the mantle and flooed himself out.

Hermione sat, her mind trying to comprehend what was happening. *No … no, we defeated you, you
spooky bastard. I will not …* not *…* NOT *let you hurt Harry, ever again …*