The Bermuda Trap

Author's Note: LIFSA stands for Location and Identification of Former Serving Aurors

It was just like one of those new dramas the BBC puts out every few months. A grimy street in a big city. A dilapidated bench cemented in front of a series of small, graffiti strewn storefronts. Barred windows, dead-bolted doors and trios of policemen on their daily beat were common - even more common than the probationary criminals and junkies in the shady parts of the alleys. Six o'clock on a mild summer morning.

William Canning was just one of the many Bobbies who traversed the more disreputable and derelict portions of London (the city of this particular feature). As it so happens, he was on his beat with partners Ted Griffin and Marty Helman, on the very morning which our story takes place.

Sergeant Canning was strolling past the aforementioned bench, his gaze roaming from left to right, skimming the entire sidewalk and occasionally venturing onto the street. He noticed the newly cracked window on McCribbin's Pawn Shop, and then his eyes swayed back over to the empty bench. Sergeant Canning then glanced across the street, nodding at Ted Griffin, who was interviewing a witness to a recent break-in. When he returned his gaze to the bench once again, it was occupied. A man in his mid-twenties with striking blond hair and dark sunglasses was casually reading that morning's newspaper. Will stopped mid-stride, his eyes wide, mouth open.

As he had never been a man of many words, Will kept silent and thought over the possibilities. One, the man had been there all along. However, his dark shirt and newspaper, which would have readily camouflaged him in any other part of London, stood out here rather sorely. Will never missed anything when he was on his beat. There was absolutely no chance that he had missed that man either coming up or down the street, and he definitely hadn't crossed it. So, no, the man had certainly not been there the entire time. No reasonable explanation came to mind; Will ground his teeth in frustration. He was a damned fine police officer; what was wrong with him today?

Moving on,

thought our brilliant Bobbie. Option Two was that he had just gotten off of a bus - problem was, the bench was not anywhere close to a bus stop. And his third choice . . . well, if his third choice was correct, he'd tie his shoes together and hop down Oxford in his pants. William Canning's third alternative was this: that the silver-haired stranger had simply appeared out of nowhere. Just like in the movies. A special effect, only there was no stage crew here.

Must be going barmy,

he thought to himself. Shaking it off, Will continued on his trek down the street. It was perfect timing, too, for no sooner had Will rounded the corner than a little 'pop' sounded and the bench suddenly held two people. The newest occupant was blessed with a full head of hair the brightest shade of red, and just as the previous resident, was sporting a pair of sunglasses. Had Sergeant Canning been present, he most likely would have fallen over.

"Good morning," muttered our first bench-sitter, the one with the silver hair, as he folded his newspaper and set it on the bench beside him.

The other squinted before replying. "You do have a habit of picking the worst places to meet, you know that. Your policeman back there is going to jump off the nearest building before he believes what we've just done. You know how silly Muggles can be."

The silver-haired man smiled. "Of course. They'd never say anything to their authorities, and even if they did they'd be shut up in a nuthouse. Don't fret George, I've got this one under control. Just pretend we're MI-5."

George shook his head and glanced to his left, checking for passers by. "Bloody MI-5 you are too," he said under his breath.

The other man leaned back and smiled. "You know it Georgie, you know it."

George shoved his hands in his pockets and stared into his lap. "What did you want me here for, Draco? What's it this time? I'm getting tired of pulling all of this crap behind everyone's backs, and one day we're going to get caught, and Lochlan's going to string the both of us up."

Draco's newspaper rustled. His face lost any trace of a smile and it was a moment before he spoke again. "There's been a development with LIFSA. They think they've found . . ." he trailed off, tilting forward and rubbing his forehead with his left hand. George leaned back, stretching one arm out on the top of the bench as he removed his sunglasses. "They think they've found . . him."

The expression on George's face was difficult to interpret, it changed so often in the minutes that followed. Shock slid off of his face to be replaced by a brilliant smile, which in turn vanished into a mask of grim acceptance.

Several people walked up the sidewalk behind them. The silence between the two had a tangible, almost lifelike quality. Finally, Draco pushed up his sunglasses, revealing a haggard face and dark circles underneath his eyes. He'd clearly been up most of the night.

George opened his mouth, but was unable to come up with words. He shut it again, only to have Draco smile wryly at him and shake his head.

"I hear you have a job opening," said Draco.

George nodded. "Why is that important?"

"You were going to offer it to Hermione?"

"Yes, I was."

"Good. It was a great idea. But not anymore." The street traffic was becoming quite thick; they now had to speak slightly louder than normal to be heard. "Now," Draco began, rubbing his hands together, "now you're going to have it filled before you see her again. I've got a candidate back at the office - they pulled her from some third level entry, so she has no idea what's at stake."

George nodded again "We always seem to have a contingency plan, don't we? You tell me this," he said, pointing a finger at Draco. "Tell me what I'm supposed to tell her."

All he could do was shrug. "I've no idea. Tell her the position was filled before -"

"Well that one was obvious," snorted George.

Draco glared at him before continuing. "As far as you are concerned, the only thing I told you today was that Hermione wasn't to have a job. You don't know why, you just took the orders and went merrily along your way. Hermione," Draco began, staring out at the busy road, "Hermione is to know nothing. If you tell her . . . we're both likely to lose our jobs."

George whistled under his breath, and shifted his position on the bench so his elbows were on his knees and he was staring at the sidewalk. "Who gave you the right," he said slowly, easing his way into the conversation, "to play God in people's lives? What you're doing -"

"We're doing," corrected Draco.

" - it's criminal! It's taking Hermione's life and James' life and putting them in a cage and monitoring their environment! What do you think," he breathed heavily, rage clearly contaminating all possibility of cooperation. "What do you think she's going to do when she finds out? You're all going to be there to watch her, aren't you? All of you, with your binoculars and camouflage in her garden hedge!" George broke off, shaking his head. "For God's sake, give the woman a break. Let her live her own life. Stop trying to control them like rats in a cage."

Draco was mute for a moment. "It's not just me, it's not just them, George. It's you as well. Don't forget who you work for."

"I work for them. I don't make the decisions. And had you simply told me to deny Hermione the position I would have, most likely without question. But you had to spoil all my fun of doing a job I actually enjoyed. Let me tell you Draco," began George sullenly, but with resolve. "Let me tell you that this is the last assignment that I will ever do. After this, you're on your own. No more contacts in Diagon Alley."

George stood up, his expression harsh. "You're on your own, Mr. Malfoy. And I intend to keep it that way." And then he disapparated.