(A/N: Those of you who are anxiously awaiting word on Hermione will have to suffer a bit in this chapter… but rest assured, next chapter will more than make up for it.
MirielleGrey is my beta for this story, though if I'm lucky, I may draw her 10-year-old daughter into the vortex as well. (Insert evil cackle here.) My thanks to her, though honorable mention must go to Robert Howard and Leslie Charteris.)
(Disclaimer: Well, if Harry and Company did belong to me, you can bet some things would make more sense!)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
IV: Pieces on the Board
*
There was a Healer watching him, but at least she was unobtrusive, sitting in the corner of the Minister's office, and not hovering beside him like a mother hen. Cushions kept him propped up in his chair, and a blanket was wrapped around his legs, but his robes were well-tailored and didn't let his body's gauntness show. Kingsley Shacklebolt might have to yield to the realities of his physical condition, but at least he could salvage a bit of his dignity.
"Thank you, Diggory," he said, as the Head of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures concluded his report. "We'll want to keep moving forward with the Werewolf Registry reforms, of course, but it sounds as though things are well in hand." He coughed, and sipped from a goblet filled with green potion. "Let's move on. Department of Mysteries?"
Croaker, Head of the Department, gave the same three-word report he always gave at the Minister's weekly briefings. "Nothing to report."
Shacklebolt nodded; no news (from the Department of Mysteries) was usually good news. "Right. Department of International Cooperation?"
Kerricks, Head of the Department, gestured silently to his young protégé. Zabini cleared his throat and began, "The Benelux Ministries have finally agreed, in principle at least, to our proposal for free trade…" He continued for a few minutes, speaking in a low, pleasant voice that never lost his listeners' attention. Everyone around the table was nodding in appreciation as he concluded his report.
"Thank you, Zabini." It was obvious to Shacklebolt why Kerricks had Zabini give his reports: the young man was a charmer. International Magical Cooperation could do no wrong, if Blaise Zabini said it was well. "Let's wrap this up so we can get on with the day. Department of Magical Law Enforcement?"
Robards, Head of the Department, passed a sheaf of parchment around the table. "Take one and pass it on," he said. Given that Magical Law Enforcement was easily the largest Department in the Ministry, a written summary was far less tedious than a verbal report would be. "You'll see the usual number of actions taken by our Aurors, Enforcers, and other agents. The statistical report shows no increase in Dark activity this year. At the moment, the Swivingham prostitution ring is attracting the most attention, and that case'll be brought before the Wizengamot within the week."
"'Attention'? A bloomin' media circus," snorted Diggory. "I'm still surprised it wasn't thrown out of court."
"Granger's built a solid case," Robards countered. "I don't think they're going to slip away on a technicality."
"Technicality?" The disgust in Diggory's voice was unmistakable.
Further discussion was curtailed when the Minister began to cough again. The coughing fit was longer this time, more violent, and the Healer was halfway to Shacklebolt's seat before she was waved back. "I'll be all right," he managed to wheeze, taking another pull from his goblet. "Thank you for your concern, ladies and gentlemen. Robards, I'm pleased to hear about Granger's progress. I want all Departments to be ready to offer any assistance she may request. If there's no further business, this briefing is done." He caught Croaker's eye as the Department Heads stood and shuffled towards the door.
Croaker came to Shacklebolt's side and gave the Healer a mild glance. She nodded and retreated back to her corner, giving them privacy. He nodded in return and looked down impassively at Shacklebolt. It was typical of an Unspeakable: he wasn't about to volunteer information, even to the Minister of Magic.
"Did it work?" Shacklebolt asked.
Croaker didn't pretend to misunderstand. "No."
"So what happens now?"
A slight shrug. "We keep trying."
Shacklebolt scratched his ear thoughtfully. "Has it occurred to you that your best course of action may be to simply walk away from this? We've done without it for a long time, really: we don't execute criminals anymore. Not that Azkaban's a holiday resort."
"We've been denied access," said Croaker stonily. "We want to know why."
"And that's part of it, isn't it? How dare you be denied access, eh? Shoe's not very comfortable when it's on the other foot, is it?"
Stung, Croaker for once responded with more information. "We still have the runes that appeared; we will crack the code…" He fell abruptly silent as he realized how much he was saying.
"Well, keep me informed," Shacklebolt concluded. "Though I still say you should let sleeping dogs lie. It's not as though we ever knew what the thing really was."
A wintery smile tugged at Croaker's lips. "If we knew what it really was, it wouldn't be in the Department of Mysteries."
*
Outside the Minister's office, Amos Diggory was managing to hold on to his temper, but it was proving a struggle. An outrage, that's what it was! What was the wizarding world coming to?!
Someone fell into step beside him. He looked up to see Blaise Zabini walking with him. "You look troubled, Amos," he ventured.
Diggory champed his jaws and didn't respond for a moment. "I agree that Swivingham is slimy," he said eventually. "I think his whole organization is foul. He certainly ought to be put away."
Zabini nodded sympathetically. "A disgrace to the name of wizard."
"But for Granger to…" Diggory swallowed his words and fell silent. They continued down the corridor, Zabini patiently waiting.
"And the worst part? That Swivingham could actually find customers! Willing to pay for a roll in the muck!" burst out of Diggory. "Do they feel no shame?"
"That, of course, is what Granger will emphasize in her prosecution," noted Zabini. "Without paying customers, Swivingham's offense wouldn't have been so… lurid." He gave a graceful sigh. "I don't blame her, of course; she can't help the way she was raised. Have you ever seen the Muggle tabloids? They air their dirty linen in public on a daily basis."
"I suppose I must get used to it," grumbled Diggory. "The Minister wants us to cooperate fully with her as she goes to trial…"
They'd reached the door to Diggory's office. He nodded farewell to Zabini and stepped inside. Zabini caught the edge of the door before Diggory could close it.
"There are… degrees of cooperation, Amos," he said softly. He gave Diggory a conspiratorial smile, released the door, and continued down the corridor to the lift.
*
"Hello, hello! Good to see your smiling faces," said Neville Longbottom, sitting on the corner of his desk. "Welcome to your fourth year of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Take your seats, that's it, let's get started." He looked cheerfully around the classroom at all the familiar faces - this was his fifth year teaching Defense, and he'd been with each of these pupils from their first days at Hogwarts.
"Now last year, as you'll recall, we covered Dark creatures of various types, and a few examples of Dark objects. This year, we'll begin focusing on the Dark spells themselves: curses, hexes and jinxes, spells applied directly on one wizard by another. We'll start this week with the mildest of curses - though they're really not that mild, are they? - compulsions. Forcing someone to act against their will or wish." He smiled and folded his arms over his chest. "Who can tell me the most powerful such compulsion curse?"
Half a dozen eager hands shot up, and Neville again marveled at the turn his life had taken. If someone had asked him, when he'd been a fourth-year taking Defense, whether he'd ever be teaching the class - and a respected practitioner of the subject, to boot - he'd have laughed in their face. But as the leader of the D.A. in his seventh year… as the man who'd summoned Gryffindor's sword to destroy the last Horcrux… he was respected, even liked, by his students, and he couldn't be happier.
He fleetingly wondered, as he nodded to a volunteer, if they'd respect him as much if he weren't teaching a "sexy" course like Defense Against the Dark Arts. If he were teaching, oh, say, Herbology…
"The Imperius Curse?"
"Yes, one of the Unforgivables. It's the best known of the compulsion spells, and certainly the Darkest - but not the only one. Muggle-Repelling Charms, Notice-Me-Not charms: they could be called milder forms of compulsion, wouldn't you say?" One of the girls had kept her hand raised. "A question, Miss Vincent?"
"Professor, what about love spells, or potions? Are they Dark magic? And, well, there are magical creatures that can force a person to like them… if that's done against their will, does that make them Dark creatures?" Miss Vincent was pointedly not looking at Miss Weasley as she asked the question. For that matter, it seemed the entire class was looking everywhere except at Miss Weasley as they waited for him to reply.
Miss Weasley, for her part, was looking fixedly straight ahead, with the shuttered look that meant she was trying not to explode - either in tears or in anger. Neville sighed and looked Miss Vincent in the eye. "You're probably referring to the Persian slinkfur. It's true, the slinkfur loves to be petted, and sends psychic 'pleasure' signals to anyone who approaches. But such creatures are no more Dark than, say, the Cheering Charm you learned in your second year… and for the same reason. Would anyone care to guess what that is?"
He paused just long enough, then answered himself. "Because such magic may influence how a person feels, but it can't dictate how the person acts. They aren't really compulsions, strictly speaking. Even under the strongest love potion, a person can control his actions - if he's got anything resembling a spine." This last part was delivered without a trace of a smile, and he took some satisfaction as Miss Vincent shrank down slightly into her seat.
Neville decided the point was made, and continued with his lecture. "Not all compulsions are necessarily Dark, mind you. Those entered with the willing consent of both parties, for instance - starting with the Unbreakable Vow. Powerful, yes, and dangerous, certainly - but not Dark. Somewhat less severe are magically binding contracts, wizards' oaths, and the like, where the parties' own magic is used to constrain their actions." He paused, and looked speculatively over his class. "Um. Are you old enough?" he wondered out loud.
Several of the boys sat up straighter, as though to make themselves taller and therefore 'old enough'.
"Yeah, I'd say so." His smile returned. "May I assume that some of you have entertained… daydreams… about being married someday?" He held up his hands in mock terror. "No, don't tell me! I don't want to know!"
It got some "eww's" and some laughter, as it often did. And Neville noted that it brought a blush to the cheeks of two or three witches, as it also often did.
"Well," he went on, "that's an example of magical oaths. When a couple says their marriage vows, it's magically binding on them - the Muggle concept of 'divorce' has no basis in the wizarding world. It really is 'until death us do part'… your own magic will see to that." He gave a reassuring shrug. "Of course, that same magic usually serves to keep people from marrying the wrong person - it's easy to see if one's magic is incompatible with someone else's. So relax." He paused, and couldn't help adding in his mind: As I myself found out, in the nick of time. Aloud he added, "Besides, none of you are that old enough yet."
The class laughed again, and Neville was pleased to see that Miss Weasley had joined in, her earlier angst forgotten. Neville fancied the young Veela would have no more trouble, on that point at least. "But back to Dark compulsions. Who here can tell me about the Ironbound Book of Skelos?"
*
"You know," said Ron, "no matter how rotten a week I've had, I can always count on your sunny disposition to cheer me up."
Draco Malfoy stared balefully at Ron from the other side of Azkaban's visiting room. It was, perhaps, the only room in Azkaban that made a pretense of interior decoration… only a pretense, though, a splash of abstract colors in a frame, hung crookedly on one wall. It was certainly more for the benefit of the visitors than the inmates.
"Go to hell." Malfoy's voice was hoarse and scratchy. His complexion, which had always been pale, was now an unhealthy white - except for the bags under his eyes, which were almost black.
"Sorry, I'm only a visitor here." Ron reached into his rucksack and pulled out two butterbeers. "But come on… have a drink with me. You know, for old time's sake." He opened the bottles and set one on the small table next to his chair: the table flexed its legs and walked across the room, stopping next to Malfoy's chair. Malfoy eyed the bottle but made no move to take it.
"It's not poisoned," Ron said encouragingly.
"No. I couldn't be so lucky." Malfoy snatched up the bottle and drank deeply from it.
"Got some pasties in here, too," Ron offered. "As good as they used to serve at Hogwarts - remember those golden days? Oh, now, don't be such a sourpuss. Pasties have got to be better than whatever gruel you usually get. 'Course, whatever you used to feed your house-elves is probably better, too…"
Malfoy drained the bottle. "Weasel, the dementors are bad enough. I shouldn't have to put up with your torture, too."
"Why, Malfoy, what a coincidence. I said that about you for years." Ron smiled beatifically. "The difference is, now you do have to… and I don't."
"Damn you!" Malfoy screamed, and raised the bottle as though he were going to hurl it at Ron's head. Instead, he checked himself and delicately set the bottle back on the table. When he spoke again, he'd regained some control, but his voice throbbed with rage. "Why the hell do you come here? To see me rotting away? As some kind of sick, petty revenge?"
Ron leaned back in his chair. "Oh, gee, let's see. If all you ever did to me was go on about my family and how poor we were compared to yours… well, that'd be sick, petty revenge. But…" He started counting on his fingers. "Spiking that mead I drank. Letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Trying to kill Dumbledore. Nearly killing us. Your wonderful hospitality at Malfoy Manor. Attacking us in the Room of Lost Things." He grinned at Malfoy. "Naw, I'd say this is healthy, well-deserved revenge."
"Don't you understand?! I had no choice-"
"And Harry even saved your life at that last one. Your thug fried the Room with Fiendfyre, and he still flew in and saved your whiny arse. Heck, if Harry'd lived, he probably would have tried to keep you out of Azkaban… that's the sort of bloke he was, always giving people another chance." Ron's grin had turned feral, and its message was clear: But I'm not Harry.
They glared at one another across the visiting room. Malfoy was the first to break the eye contact. "Guard!"
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You prefer the comfort of your cell?"
"Over sitting here watching you gloat? Damn straight. I've got better things to do." Malfoy stood defiantly as the door opened to admit one of Azkaban's human guards. "Weasel, my actions may have put me here. I've made my own hell. I admit it." He smirked, almost the same smooth smirk he'd worn as a Prefect and member of the Inquisitorial Squad. "But so have you, Weasel. The difference is, I'll admit it… and you won't."
Ron lowered his brows. "What the hell are you talking about…?"
Malfoy cut him off, and the malice fairly danced in his voice. "Heroic Ronald Weasley! Got the fame, got the girl, got everything he'd always wanted - and doesn't even have to stand in the Boy Wonder's shadow any more." The smirk broadened. "And then it all fell apart. Sucks, doesn't it? God, how you must hate your life."
He walked out of the room with his head high, as though the guard were escorting royalty instead of a prisoner. And as Ron watched him leave, his face changed from puzzlement to despair, before settling on anger.
*
It was another sleepless night for Harry. They'd been common, almost routine, in his first year of exile, but it had been months since he'd had a night this bad. They were nights spent recalling his past, the friends and loved ones the Hallows had forced him to give up… recalled with a vague, unsettled feeling that never identified itself. Distantly, he wondered if he should be worried by it.
After several hours of staring at the dark ceiling, Harry decided that he might as well get some use out of insomnia. He rose from his bed, slipped out of his room and headed for the front desk.
He'd discovered that, after midnight - if no guests arrived to require attention - the inn's night clerk would retire to a cot in the manager's office. Harry had taken advantage of this, and of the Stealth Cloak, to use the computer at the front desk in the small hours of the morning.
A quick glance showed that the clerk was down for the night. He took a seat in front of the computer and, with a few keystrokes, logged onto the clerk's Internet account. He wasn't nearly as expert with computers as Ted Lupin, but he could browse the Net well enough for his purposes. Two purposes, mostly.
I can't go back to being a chef, he thought with some regret. Not even under another name: Jacob Clayman's style was far too distinctive. It was my own fault: I needed the job, they asked for a demonstration, and I had to give myself an "edge". A few well-chosen magical spices, and voilà. And of course, once I had the job, I had to keep on with the spices… it was only a matter of time before some wizard noticed. And also of course, it had to be Tori Weasley. I don't dare assume she hasn't told, um, anyone.
So no haute cuisine for me anymore. Mmm, gardening? Lawn maintenance? God knows I've years of practice…
At the moment, there were no online listings for job opportunities in gardening. Harry considered using his savings to start a small lawn care business of his own… once it was safe to come out from under the Cloak. In the meantime, he brought up websites that summarized local news and police logs, in pursuit of his other purpose: looking for those who needed help - who he was able to help.
It's not as though I could end world hunger or stop a war, he reflected wryly. A couple of times, I've been lucky enough to be on the scene of a disaster - but I can't avert calamities on a regular basis. I'm not Superman - he at least had super-hearing. By the time I hear about a disaster, it's usually too late. But I can help scam victims, or accident victims…
He stiffened as one police report caught his eye. Or victims of abuse…
The report took only moments to scan. Domestic disturbance… constables called twice in one week… husband appeared drunk both times… wife refused to file charges, claiming all was well… Harry couldn't be completely sure, since the police report wouldn't give the most important details… but a clandestine visit to the house would soon show him the truth of the situation.
And then, perhaps, a little behavior modification, courtesy of the Elder Wand.
Not Superman, no, he decided with a grim smile, as he logged off the computer. But maybe Simon Templar.