The Orpheus Imperative

Saffron de Valera looked around. A couple of minutes ago, they had been outside, on the main road, in bright sunlight, with traffic roaring by. And now …

"You do understand why we can’t take any chances," the taller of the two men said. He was pointing his wand directly at her neck. His face was hidden behind a half white, half black mask, and his perfectly cut robe hung beautifully off his square shoulders.

She nodded, inwardly cursing herself for being concerned with the look of the guy.

"After all, we don’t know you."

Saffron nodded again.

"You could be anybody," he turned away, briefly, and picked up the revolver from the table behind him. She had been eyeing the gun without making it obvious. It was a Smith & Wesson, a powerful weapon in the wrong hands. These hands were the wrong hands. Her thoughts drifted to her wand, secured in its pouch against her leg. Her fingers drifted idly to the small, silvery ball secreted in the pocket of her jeans. The others were waiting in the back of a Muggle Transit van, parked outside … she had only to break it … to activate the distress signal …

"Well, I’m not," she said firmly. "Now, I would like to see the artefacts, please?"

The man waved his hand dismissively. "Patience, Doctor de Valera … patience."

Saffron snapped. "No … you listen to me, Tagg. I am paying you very well for this. I am paying you more than I should, and I am only doing this because I know certain people would be very interested in acquiring what you have to sell. Do I make myself clear?"

Tagg toyed with the gun. "I don’t think, Miss de Valera, that you quite appreciate the essential, fluid dynamics of our current situation … to whit, I am holding the gun. You are holding a lot of money. Don’t make me more pissed off than I already am. This meeting was very unfortunately scheduled in my calendar."

Saffron scowled. "I don’t think that you are in a position to threaten me. I have a guarded interest in such an acquisition … but I happen to know several influential people who would jump at the chance to have your neck on the block at Azkaban."

Tagg chuckled. "Such a pity then," he said, "I would kill you before you had the chance to squeal. Now, play nicely and follow me, sweetheart."

Saffron nodded. "I have my eye on you," she warned.

"I’m quite sure you do. That’s beside the point."

Tagg, robes swishing about him, led her silently out the door through which they had entered the building, and Saffron found herself not in the quiet, Muggle alleyway to which this door had previously led, but in some sort of underground vault. The ceiling was supported by tall stone arches, about ten or eleven feet high. It appeared to be some kind of vaulted crypt … there were niches in the walls that might once have held urns, and empty stone slabs. She was immediately very alarmed. She had not anticipated their using such advanced dislocation magic. Saffron offered up votive thanks that she was wearing a tracking charm.

Tagg stopped and pushed open a small wooden door.

"This way," he said, beckoning to her.

Saffron stepped cautiously through the doorway, and found herself in another large, vaulted room. The hot summer’s sun was pouring through the high, narrow. Shafts of dust danced intricate ballets in the air.

On the floor in the middle of the room sat a large, sculpted head of solid rock, clearly carved with an expert hand. Its eyes were glittering opals, set deep into the white quartz. They had an unearthly, magical quality, as if the eyes were somehow watching her. It was both unutterably beautiful and horribly disturbing all at once, and Saffron felt a shiver travel down her spine.

"Olmec," she said, "or possibly Toltec, at a guess I’d say about twelfth century CE. It has the hallmarks of a master sculptor … see the near perfect – "

Tagg raised his hand for silence.

"Not for nothing are you the John Dee Professor of Magickal History at Oxford," Tagg said. "But we can save the theoretical lectures for someone who gives a damn."

Saffron glared at him.

"It is more intact than I had dared hope," she said. "However did you get it out of Mexico without being discovered?"

"We didn’t get it from Mexico," Tagg answered. "It’s Scottish."

"It’s Meso-American," Saffron said. "Trust me, I’m a trained pararchaeologist."

Tagg shrugged. "It was found in Scotland," he said. "Try telling that to the Board of Magii."

"They’d never believe it. You’re lying …"

Tagg shrugged again. "Miss de Valera … it is a matter of supreme indifference to me whether or not my sources are correct. Nevertheless, this is Scottish in origin. The stone is of a type that geologically is part of the Appalachian mountain chain … as is most of Northern Scotland. It was carved in Scotland. Now, you may dream up whatever theories you can when you get this back to Oxford … but now I would like my money …"

"Let me see the rest of the merchandise," Saffron said. "No merchandise, no money. The head is interesting, but it isn’t what I came here for."

"Of course," Tagg said. "Of course … Miss de Valera, you are a shrewd businesswoman …"

"I do what I have to do," Saffron said. "Now show it to me."

Her fingers drifted idly to the silver summoner.

Tagg held up something dusty. "The skull of Lord Voldemort," he began.

"Bollocks."

"Yes, complete bollocks," said Tagg. "Actually it is Egyptian. A very unusual piece. The head and the skull have been dried out … mummified. The brain remains …"

"That’s impossible … using traditional mummification techniques," Saffron began, starting forwards.

Tagg raised a finger. "Not so impossible," he said. "The brain is intact. A very, very powerful component in many potions …"

"Many potions that are not strictly legal."

"Miss de Valera … none of this is strictly legal. That is not the issue. You want things I can supply you with. Many of them at low, low prices. Take a look at this flute."

He handed it to her. It appeared to be a primitive, handmade flute. Saffron de Valera would have been able to translate the runes carved into it, but sadly, the real Saffron de Valera was actually fifty miles away in Oxford.

She nodded. "What does this do?"

"Blow the notes in the right sequence," Tagg said, "and it will open a portal directly to Hades."

She nodded. Her fingers curled around the summoner.

"A snip at eighty Galleons."

Her fingers tightened.

"Might I tempt you with this?" She looked up … he was holding a bell jar. Floating in preserving fluid was the body of a rat.

"What does that do?"

"Nothing, it’s a dead rat. However, it holds enormous significance," Tagg said. "I would hate to let dear Scabbers go."

She gave a start at the sound of the name, then coughed hurriedly to mask it.

"Something the matter?"

She shook her head, and broke the delicate outer shell of the summoner. "Nothing whatsoever," she said, looking at the rat. "Thank you, Tagg. I’ve seen everything I needed to see."

"Do I take it we have a deal?" Tagg asked. She could tell he was practically salivating behind that hideous mask. "It would kill me to part with such beautiful artefacts … and there are, Miss de Valera, a considerable number of people who would be very interested in acquiring some of these things. I’m having special interest from a source in Switzerland … and a team of Mexican archaeologists are most keen on getting their hands of some of the Aztec pieces …"

He was cut off by a sudden and completely unexpected popping sound as two wizards and a witch Apparated into the room.

Tagg was taken momentarily by surprise. "What is this?" he roared, whirling around.

"This is your worst nightmare," one of the wizards said. The three of them lowered the hoods of their robes (one of them had blue, spiky hair). "This is a raid. These are our warrant cards. You will go face down on the floor now."

Tagg turned to look at Saffron. "You bitch!" he growled.

"Sadly, true," said Saffron. She withdrew her wand from its little pouch. "Identicatus Revelare."

Her blonde hair shimmered briefly in the dim light, before reverting to its natural red shade.

"Petrificus Totalus!" the blue haired wizard yelled.

An icy sheen overcame Tagg’s face. His body stiffened, and then, like a plank of wood, he toppled backwards onto the floor, an expression of enraged surprise etched across his face.

Special Agent Colin Creevey pocketed his wand and turned to Ginny. "Well, that was surprisingly easy," he said.

Special Agents Kemp and Branford looked on.

"Almost worryingly so," Branford drawled.

"Poor bugger never knew what hit him," Ginny said. "Thanks, guys. You came in right on cue."

"Our speciality," Branford smirked. He looked around the room. "Interesting cache. I’d say this is worth a fair bit to the boys in Forensics …"

"And they’ll take it from here," said Kemp. "Now, I guess we’d better bag some of this stuff up …"

"Agent Kemp and I will secure the perimeter," Branford said. "There might be more of them. Agent Creevey, Agent Weasley. You know what to do."

Colin smiled. Kemp and Branford left the room at a brisk pace. When the door had shut, he turned to Ginny.

"You done good, girlfriend," he said.

Ginny smiled broadly. "Thanks," she said. She crossed the room to where a tall, dusty bookcase was standing against one of the walls.

"Some of this stuff looks really interesting," she said. "I know several people who’d kill to have books like these …"

"Well, lets hope they don’t find us, then," said Colin. He picked up the bell jar. "Eww … a rat."

"I’ll make a start on bagging the smaller things," Ginny said, idly running her fingers along the spines of the books.

"Give me a moment," Colin paused, fishing inside his robes. "Leave everything exactly where it is for now. We need to get documentary evidence. By nightfall this place will be crawling with Aurors and everything will be gone."

He produced a small, slim, digital camera - the sort favoured by Muggles.

"Stand well back please," he said.

The camera went off with a click, a slight whirr, and a flash.

"Super," Colin said. "Now … to take a better look at some of these things as we go through the keyhole. So, Lloyd, who could live in a crypt like this?" he paused. "Hey, Ginny, you did Central American Magick … have you seen that head?"

"Tagg told me it was Scottish," said Ginny, who was sealing the Egyptian skull inside a plastic bag.

"It doesn’t look it," said Colin. "Looks Aztec to me."

"That’s what I said," Ginny replied, sealing the bag. "Hand me a few more of those, would you?"

Colin produced a roll of bags from the seemingly cavernous depths of his robes, and threw them across the room at Ginny, who caught them neatly. "Thanks!"

Colin took a step backwards to focus his camera, and almost tripped over Tagg’s immobile body, which was lying prone upon the floor.

"We’d better watch that," he joked. "Ugly bugger, isn’t he?"

"That’s a mask," Ginny said, sealing up more books.

"He’s still ugly," Colin sniffed, as if the fact somehow offended him. "I’d better take that mask, I suppose …"

"Not without waking him," said Ginny. "Wait until we’ve got him in the cells. You can do a strip search then."

Colin paled. "I really, really hate strip searches," he said.

"Yes, you wouldn’t imagine the places they find to hide things," Ginny said. "I mean, who’d have thought you could fit so much up …"

"Thanks, Ginny," said Colin. "Thanks ever so much for that. You do realise you have just put me off men for life …"

Ginny winked. "That was the plan, lover."

"In your dreams, oh fag hag of mine!"

Colin regarded Tagg with something approaching pity. "He must be really ugly if he needs to pull that Phantom of the Opera charade all day …"

"I think it’s probably because he’s a Death Eater," said Ginny. "Or at least, he was. Some of them have apparently found it hard to adjust to normality again."

"It depends how you describe ‘normal’," said Colin. "Hey … talking about all the depressing facets of normalcy, how is Ron?"

"Depressingly normal," Ginny sighed. "I’m meant to go home for dinner tonight. Mum has somehow got it into her head that we need to have a big family meal …"

"That’d be a sight, it’d be like feeding the five thousand," Colin quipped.

"Feeding the thirty, or thereabouts," said Ginny, turning to face him. "But it feels like five thousand, especially with all those bloody kids."

"I thought you wanted kids?" Colin said.

Ginny laughed. "Not after I’ve seen what a gang of toddlers can do to a place. It’s like a genuine Blitzkrieg when the Weasleys get together."

"Not up for it?" Colin asked.

Ginny sighed again. "No … not especially."

"Home is where the heart is," Colin said sentimentally. "At least your parents still acknowledge your existence …"

"I suppose so," said Ginny. "Though believe me … I don’t see it like that."

"Nah … no reason to," said Colin, looking down at the ground. "It’s only when you don’t have family anymore that you stop to think how much you do actually love them."

"Love isn’t the point," said Ginny. "I love every single last one of them. They just irritate me. It’s like living in an old time soap opera. They’re all constantly nagging me to get married."

"So why don’t you?" asked Colin, without thinking.

"Just because," said Ginny. "The right man never showed …"

"Or the right man buggered off without a by-your-leave," Colin replied.

"That too," said Ginny. "Anyhow, a Weasley family dinner is the last thing on the planet I want to do today …"

"You could always come to the theatre with me," said Colin. "I got tickets for the new Tom Stoppard play. You know, with Alan Rickman."

"Ooh, he used to be so sexy," Ginny grinned.

"And the play’s good, too," said Colin. "I do love Stoppard. Sheer fucking genius only comes along once or twice a century, you know … they’ve done studies – "

"Who has?"

Colin shrugged. "The Americans, I suppose …"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Would you like a shovel to extract yourself from the hole you are digging, Colin?" she asked.

Colin smiled. "No, some sort of JCB would be more my style. So, do you want to come or not? Alan Rickman, that woman who used to be in Eastenders and thingy."

"Thingy?"

"Yeah, you know …"

"I’m awfully afraid I don’t, Colin," Ginny laughed.

Colin plucked at names for a second or too. "Judi Dench?"

"She’s in Oklahoma at the National, silly," said Ginny.

"The other one then … woman who did To The Manor Born … sitcom … ages and ages ago. It pops up on BBC 2 every now and then."

"You mean Penelope Keith," Ginny said.

"That’s the girl," said Colin. "She’s in it."

"I’d love to come," said Ginny. "But this dinner - I should go to the dinner, really. I owe it to Mum and Dad. And I know they don’t see enough of me. Ron never fails to tell me as much whenever we meet up."

"Ah, they mean well," said Colin. "And you’ve got to love them."

"I suppose so," said Ginny, although she frankly wasn’t so sure. Weasleys were all very well on their own … but when in a group, an outsider could very easily feel trapped. And Ginny felt very much like an outsider these days, what with all her siblings going on and on about their precious children and swapping parenting tips over the table. It made her feel quite left out. It made her feel … like Bridget Jones. She shuddered at the very thought. God, deliver us from Weasleys … for thine is the kingdom …

It was the kind of sweltering Mediterranean afternoon when the only thing any sane, reasonable person wants to do is shut themselves away indoors with a glass of something chilled and bubbly, and wait for the heat to abate. The tarmac was sticky underfoot, and a long line of vehicles, mainly British, German and Dutch ones, pale faces of children pressed against the rear windows of overloaded estate cars, moved along the coast road. The only people foolish enough to be outside were tourists, going steadily pink in the fearsome sun.

A beautifully restored Riva Aquarama launch conveyed Draco Malfoy across the harbour, away from the tourist tat, to an enormous yacht anchored just beyond the breakwater. It was one of the floating gin palaces of the super-rich, the ones that cruise aimlessly around the Med all summer long, from the Costa del Sol to Ibiza, to Cannes and Cap D’Antibes, to Monaco, Cyprus, Cephalonia and Turkey. The ones that wintered in the Caribbean, doing the selfsame thing in Barbados, the Bahamas, Key West and Aruba; a whole sub-culture of the modern elite.

This particular yacht was, without a doubt, the most grandiose piece of marine architecture Draco had ever set eyes upon. The vast hull, measuring at least two hundred feet from bow to stern, was painted a dark shade of navy blue. The superstructure was pure white, the deck rails were polished gold, the deck fine, imported, South American hardwood, the windows tinted against unwanted paparazzi. Atop the ship sat an array of electronic hardware. A satellite dish to beam in television from all over the world, directional antennae and an enormous, bulbous radar dome, looking for all the world like an un-lanced boil.

Draco gazed upon it appreciatively.

The man driving the launch nodded. "Cost upwards of seventy million dollars," he said. "The interior was designed by Antonio de Valentino … with space for nearly thirty passengers. And she’s fully automated, of course. She can go across the Atlantic with a crew of one … and an educated chimp could do that job."

He clearly meant for Draco to be impressed, but he wasn’t.

The launch swung round to a small platform at the back of the yacht, where steps led up to the stern deck. Her name and port were picked out in florid, gold script across the stern. ‘Lady Virginia. Aruba.’

Draco hopped aboard as the other man made the launch fast to the davits, and, slipping a 50 Euro note into the pocket of his svelte, white jacket, he climbed the stairs to the deck.

The stern deck of the Lady Virginia served as an al fresco dining room. Real linen was spread across an elegantly-laid table; there were serviettes shaped into florettes, crystal wine glasses, sterling silver cutlery and little bowls of tapas. Draco, who had not eaten lunch, was unable to resist sneaking an olive.

"Señor Ortega will see you shortly," a voice said.

Draco jumped and turned. A young woman, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen was standing just behind him, clad in a gown of almost-transparent red muslin under which she wore the bottom half of a string bikini.

"Good," said Draco. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Tobacco is a poison and tarnishes the soul," the woman said. "But we have some champagne, if you would like."

"I won’t say no," said Draco. "Mind if I sit down, Miss …"

"Shore, Rhapsody Shore."

"Your accent seems a little, confused," said Draco, as Rhapsody opened one of the bottles. The cork popped, and bubbles spilled onto the deck.

"Whoops," she said. "My Mother was Swiss and my Father an Afrikaner, but I lived in California a while …"

"I see," said Draco. He removed his sunglasses, and tucked them into the neck of his black T-shirt. He could hear, somewhere, the humming of a computer, but couldn’t quite put his finger on where the noise was coming from. "And what brings you on board Señor Ortega’s floating pleasure dome?"

"He treats me well," Rhapsody said, as champagne sloshed into the glasses with an expert flick of her wrist. Draco observed that a diamante bracelet was slipping down the tan skin of her arm. "And he is a darling."

She pronounced it ‘dar-link.’

"I’m sure he is," said Draco, sipping the champagne. It was a very fine vintage.

"This is good," he said.

"Nothing but the best," Rhapsody said. "Help yourself to a tapa or two."

Draco cast his eyes across the vast array of little dishes ranged across the tabletop. But he didn’t touch them.

One of the smoked glass doors clicked open with an electronic whirr, and a fat, balding man stepped out onto the deck. He was securing the tie of a white, monogrammed bathrobe around his waist. In the dim light of the interior, Draco could make out the flickering of a computer screen.

"Señor Malfoy," he said. "Señorita Shore, lo has encontrado?"

"Claro que si," Rhapsody said. "Quieres que me vaya, ahora?"

"No, sientate," Ortega said. He took a seat himself, and looked at the tapas, as if daring it to offend him.

"What is this insidious muck?" he asked, in accented English. "Take these gambas away. Bring us a proper tapa of Segurena sheepmeat."

"Si, Fernando," Rhapsody said. She got to her feet, and removed the offending dish.

"I despise seafood," Ortega explained to Draco, "in all its forms. Try the chicharrones. They are the fatty excrescences, from the long intestine of the pig, you understand, fried in olive oil, a treat from my farms in the Alpujarras. Strong food for strong men … champagne is not ideal … anis is better … also we have longaniza, salchichon, tocino, morcilla … the finest sausages in all Andalucia."

"You have your fingers in many pies," said Draco.

"I love the pigs," said Ortega. "Fat, como yo, understand? And delicious, as well. A nice … sideline to the other side of the business. A man gets bored of having money, Malfoy. You yourself must know this."

"A little wealth is not a dangerous thing," Draco said.

"You would know," Ortega said, jovially, spearing a piece of sausage meat on the end of a silver fork. He leant in closer, so that the two men were facing one another across the table, and immediately, his demeanour seemed to change; his voice became lower, his expression more serious, his brow furrowed. "What will you … pay for them?"

"Four hundred Euros the lot," said Draco.

"You have the money with you now … I hope?"

Draco nodded, and drew his wallet out of the inner pocket of his black, leather jacket. It was bulging with a wad of banknotes. Draco flicked it open, and began counting out the money.

"Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred," he said. He paused to lick his finger momentarily before continuing. "A hundred and twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, two hundred, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, three hundred, ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, four hundred. It’s all there."

Ortega nodded, fat fingers stretching out to grasp the small pile of notes. "It’ll do," he said.

Rhapsody Shore reappeared from somewhere else at that point, and set down another dish on the table.

"Rhapsody," Ortega said, turning to the girl. "Los papeles, por favor?"

"Y la documentación?"

"En mi estudio. En el cajón, en mi escritorio. Date prisa!"

"Si, si … claro."

"She needs … how you say … a kick up the arse from time to time," Ortega said, waving his hands nonchalantly. "Please … try the lamb."

Draco did. It was very good. Rhapsody returned with a gaudy red plastic attaché wallet.

"The information you seek is all there," Ortega said.

Draco, conscious that his gun, concealed in its holster, was digging into his hip, reached out slowly, and slid the folder across the tabletop. He flicked it open. There were several Polaroid photographs inside it. The date stamp showed them to have been taken within the last four days. They appeared to show the Consejo Regional de Magia … the offices of the Regional Magical Authority, which were situated in Granada – Draco knew them well, he spent a lot of time there. A black Mercedes saloon with Cadiz licence plates was parked outside, and two men were talking to one another. Draco flicked through the photos.

"Last Thursday," Ortega said. "The other photos are stills, taken from the closed circuit television system at a provincial bank, the Caja de Madrid, in Ronda. The men are the same."

Draco looked at these pictures too. It was Saturday morning now, and the men, brandishing handguns which were unidentifiable in the rather poor quality pictures, were holding up two of the cashiers. Another, shorter man was keeping the customers penned in a corner.

Ortega began to speak again. "The final photo was taken by a police speed trap camera, two kilometres outside Ronda, on the C339. Twenty minutes later. The car is a black, 1998 Mercedes Benz C-180, registered in Cadiz … as you see, the same model as the previous photoset shows."

A connection I could’ve made without Ortega’s assistance, Draco thought. Still … sometimes one has to make a pact with the devil in order to catch the devil.

"I need names …"

"I don’t know names, Señor Malfoy," Ortega said. "You asked for information. I provided it for you. Anything further is therefore entirely your own business."

"You must know names," Draco said.

Ortega shrugged. "And even if I did? A few hundred thousand Euros? This robbery … this petty crime is below me. I think you forget that I make several million dollars a year. And that’s without tax. I would not presume, Señor Malfoy, to affront me like this."

Rhapsody was massaging Ortega’s shoulders rhythmically.

"You’re quite right," said Draco, reasoning that, after all, it was probably not a good idea to aggravate Ortega further.

"Won’t you have a little more wine, Señor Malfoy?"

Another young girl, whom Draco had not seen before … this one couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, clad in a black, one-piece swimsuit, which left less to the imagination than it should have done, stepped up from somewhere behind him. She poured the sparkling wine slowly into a fresh glass.

"I’d better not," said Draco. "I have to drive up to the Serrania later, for a dinner date. It wouldn’t do to be drunk on those mountain roads."

"Dear me," the other girl said, leaning forwards so that her hair brushed against Draco’s, and letting her hand trail down his chest. "You don’t mean to tell me, Señor Malfoy, that you cannot hold your alcohol?"

This was a red rag to a bull, as far as Draco was concerned. He closed his fingers round the stem of the glass, holding it beneath the bowl, just like he had been taught to do by his Father, lifted it to his lips, and sipped.

"More tapas?"

Draco smiled, and set down the champagne flute on the table. He indicated the file full of photographs.

"May I keep those?"

Ortega sighed extravagantly, and looked down at the deck.

"We shall see. Why don’t you … have something else to eat, Señor Malfoy?"

Draco smiled, and plucked a single olive from one of the dishes. Clasping it between thumb and forefinger, he popped it into his mouth. It was flavoured with crunchy, aromatic herbs.

"It’s good," he said.

"Isn’t it, though? Have some more," Ortega pushed the bowl towards him.

"I think I’ll pass," said Draco.

"Señor Malfoy … you are in danger of abusing my hospitality."

Draco scowled at Ortega. "Look. You’ve got your money," he said.

Ortega picked up the cash again, rolled it up and tucked it into the pocket of his monogrammed bathrobe.

"I do have my money," he said. "This is true. But you look so thin."

"I’m having dinner tonight," said Draco. "I’m saving space."

"Why not stay here?" Ortega gestured around him. Rhapsody Shore was sitting on his left hand side, toying with a small piece of sausage, and blinking coquettishly at Draco. She slid the morsel into her mouth, and licked her fingers clean, one by one, taking her time.

"We have wine, we have women. Señor Malfoy, Hell cannot hold my parties. When I snort coke in Marbella, people lose their hats in Texas. Why not stay with us?"

"I would sooner keep my date," said Draco.

Ortega spread his arms wide in an impressive shrug. "Of course, of course. We have done the business we arranged to do. What more is left to take care of. Take your photographs. I will have the launch take you back to Marbella."

Draco rose from the table. The eyes of the others followed his every move. Slowly, he retrieved the plastic folder from the tabletop.

"Vaya con dios."

Draco nodded. "Gracias, señor."

Draco was ushered down the steps at the stern of the vessel and into the waiting launch. The driver was still sitting there, and he touched his cap respectfully as Draco made himself comfortable. And then, with a spluttering as the launch’s engine roared into life, they were off.

A faint sound drifting over the headland caught Draco’s ear. It sounded like the whirring rotors of a helicopter. He turned around in his seat, but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Without warning, his head exploded with pain … something struck him hard across the back of the skull, and he felt himself pitch forward onto the stern of the boat, polished wood sloping gently and terminally down to the frothing seawater.

He heard the whining of the boat’s engine as it came to a full stop, and, struggling not to slip off the back of the launch, he clutched onto the tiny pennant that was fluttering in the sultry breeze.

"Shit … shit …"

Draco hauled himself bodily upright … the boat was rocking gently … he looked up, and into the barrel of a gun, pointing directly between his eyes.

"I wouldn’t advise you to do anything, Malfoy," the man said. "Now, Señor Ortega would like to have his photographs back, if you please."

Draco’s reply was suddenly drowned out by a clattering, roaring sound as the helicopter flew low overhead. Draco could see two men leaning out of the side door, clutching what looked like submachine weapons.

This took the launch’s driver by surprise … he looked up, startled at the sudden intrusion, and Draco seized his chance. He lunged forward, grabbing the man around the legs in a near perfect (if completely illegal) rugby tackle, propelling him backwards. The man yelled. Draco could feel the wind from the helicopter whipping at the water, and he worried briefly for his hair. The other man brought his knee up, swiftly, catching Draco in the groin. Draco roared in surprise.

"Nobody," he gritted his teeth, "attacks a Malfoy’s family jewels …"

He clenched his fist … landed a punch squarely on the man’s nose; there was a satisfying crack as it broke. Blood was flowing freely now.

"The photos!" the man yelled.

Draco punched him again. This time, the sleeve of his jacket caught the throttle lever, pushing it forwards and thrusting Draco onto the other man. There was a sudden burst of acceleration and the launch flew forwards. Draco could hear gunfire nearby.

"Get … get off me …"

Draco was in no mood for pleasantries. Unhooking his sleeve from the throttle and using his left hand to steer the boat, he slammed his right fist down, hard, into the man’s stomach. Bullets ripped past and splashed harmlessly into the water. The sound of the rotors drowned out everything else. The boat skewed round in a circle, throwing up plumes of spray and drenching both of them as they fought on. Draco brought the other man up, grabbing him by the collar of his immaculately-pressed shirt, and slamming his fist into his face. The man’s head lolled gently sideways. He was knocked out.

The clattering of the rotor blades brought Draco back to his senses. Adrenaline pumping through his body, he grabbed the throttle. The boat wheeled around a full, three hundred and sixty degree circle, and the engine whined in protest. The helicopter hovered overhead. Draco, staring up at the open side door, could see the men inside fixing new ammunition clips to their guns. They were taking aim.

Bullets tore through the boat, splintering the fragile hull like matchwood, impacting all around Draco. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he had thrust the throttle forwards, and the launch was hurtling away from the beach, heading out to sea. Draco clambered into the front seat, and grabbed onto the wheel, spinning it round. The engine growled and grumbled angrily. The air was filled with the smell of petrol and the noise of the helicopter.

The launch surged forwards, skipping across the water like an expertly thrown pebble. The wind picked up … whistled through Draco’s hair as the boat gathered speed. Draco chanced a peek backwards to see the helicopter floating lazily in mid-air, angling itself for the pursuit. Draco pushed the throttle forwards just a little bit more, and ducked down in his seat, the better to afford at least a modicum of protection from the bullets he knew would be coming.

They ripped through the air around him, splashing into the water and crashing into the wooden hull. Draco knew full well that unlike in a thousand movies, such weapons could cut through pretty much anything … he would just have to pray that his pursuers were lousy shots.

He reached the base of the headland … here he was in open water, and the waves picked up a little bit, spilling over the bow as he swung the launch round, past the treacherous rocks at the foot of the cliffs. It was stunningly beautiful … the rocks were tinted with a reddish hue, and spilling over the edges came clumps of verdant, aromatic scrub … but he had no time to appreciate it. The helicopter came roaring low over the top of the headland. Draco spun the wheel about again, and watched as it overshot him. The two men were reloading their weapons. Draco frantically scanned the open sea, looking for anything … any form of cover …

There was a breakwater … an entrance to a marina about three quarters of a mile away, on the opposite side of the bay. If I can just make it that far, Draco thought to himself, they can’t risk shooting up a public place.

There was a loud bang from behind him. Startled, he turned … the helicopter was once more on his tail. Smoke and flames were licking at the stern of the launch. One thing was for certain … this abused craft was not going to be able to hold out for much longer. Draco slammed the throttle down as far as it could go, and braced himself as the bow lifted up out of the water. The faint, clattering sound of gunfire echoed in his ears. A yacht in full sail was moving slowly out of the marina, passing between the breakwater and the shore … but its presence barely registered. All he was focused on was making the security of the harbour before his boat was reduced to kindling.

The helicopter was gaining on him. The rotor blades were whipping up the water all around him. Draco glanced over his shoulder a second time. The other machine was flying directly at him, its nose pointing down almost vertically at the water … their intention, clearly, was to get him with the rotors.

Another launch, towing a water-skier behind it, flashed momentarily across his line of vision. Draco glanced back round. There was a ramp, used for jumping, about three hundred yards directly in front of him. The yacht was passing directly in front of it.

"Come on!" Draco willed every last drop of power out of the Riva’s beleaguered engine. The ramp was coming closer … two hundred yards … a hundred … fifty …

There was a horrible sound of splintering wood as the hull scraped on the ramp … and then he was flying through the air. He heard the helicopter’s engine whining as the pilot tried frantically to gain height …

The momentum of the jump carried Draco’s launch clean over the deck rail of the yacht. The next thing he heard was the sound of crashing china and crockery … table linen, expensively clad guests and what looked like a wedding cake went flying as the launch smashed its way through the other vessel. And still it kept going. The Riva went clear through to the other side, and Draco found himself skimming the surface of the water, before what was left of the launch hit the sea wall, catapulting Draco over the railings, and straight onto an ice cream vendor’s cart.

For a moment … all was silent.

Draco picked himself up. He could hear shrieks and bangs …the sounds of running footsteps. The helicopter, unable to gain enough height, had sawn through the mainmast of the yacht …

For a moment, it hung in mid-air, before tumbling slowly to the water with a satisfying explosion. Draco ducked as burning wreckage was hurled into the air. The yacht was coming about, its captain frantically screaming orders as wedding guests hurled themselves over the side, convinced that they were sinking.

"They had it coming," Draco said to himself, softly.

He looked down. Two small boys, clad in swimming trunks and licking ice cream cones, were looking up at him, stunned.

Draco brushed dust off his jacket.

"Can’t stop," he said, winking at them, before disappearing into the crowd.

The late afternoon sunlight still slanted in through the windows as they took their seats in the conference room. Like most of the official buildings in wizarding London, the room was opulently furnished with a crystal chandelier, walls of panelled hardwood, a finely-polished walnut table, and luxurious green leather chairs. It could almost have been a smoking room in a venerable manor house or some gentleman’s club.

The double doors banged open, and the Departmental Commissioner strode in, his long, black robe slithering snake-like behind him on the floor.

"Glad to see we’re all here," he said, standing behind his chair – which was larger than all the others - at the head of the table and removing his hood. The Departmental Commissioner was a tall man in his early fifties. His long, dark hair was tinged with grey, his features gaunt and ashen. Sirius Black had never fully recovered from his ordeal in Azkaban. "If we can get started. My secretary should have given you all copies of the report on the Committee for Muggle Protection’s findings into the Crisis … although this report may run to seven hundred and fifty pages in length," Sirius fingered his copy absent-mindedly, "there is a useful summary at the back with which I suggest you acquaint yourselves immediately. It could well be relevant in the near future."

They nodded. "How so?" Ginny asked, flicking open her copy of the report. Page after page of densely packed text stared defiantly up at her.

Sirius sat down. "We came too close to being discovered," he said. "And we cannot afford for that to happen. It could be very dangerous for us and the Muggles. Tagg proved that himself. If we hadn’t stepped in, he would have gone public with those artefacts."

"I dread to think what could have happened," Colin said.

Sirius nodded in agreement. "Yes, we were very lucky Intelligence came up trumps when they did. Thankfully you chaps … and chapesses," he added, catching Ginny’s eye, "have the best bally back-up squad in the business. Even the Consejo Internacional can’t muster the same resources, and they’re backed by the C.M.I.A. You should be bloody grateful."

"Don’t think we’re not," Ginny interjected.

"Therefore," Sirius went on. "I’d like you all to be especially watchful over the coming months. This threat, whatever it is, hasn’t gone away. We’ve dealt it a blow … but it’s still out there and it wants in on our patch. Remember our motto?"

"Constant vigilance," Colin repeated dully.

"That’s the spirit," Sirius said. "On a personal note … I’d like to thank all of you for your … er … fine work this morning. I hear it was a complete success?"

Colin nodded. "Oh, indeed, yes."

Sirius smiled. "I don’t think I want to know what you’ve done there …" he mused, as Colin’s brightly coloured hair caught his eye.

"Just trying a new look, sir," Colin said brightly.

"Yes … I can see that. Anyhow, we now have complete closure on the Tagg case. The artefacts have been crated and sent to St Nicholas’ College, Oxford for examination by our forensics team. The real Miss de Valera is helping them. Tagg will be tried and convicted for sure. It rather looks like we have seen the end of that particular enterprise –"

Simon smiled and toyed with a fountain pen. "Well done, Famous Five … you have captured the whole gang. Now go home for tea and currant buns –"

Sirius gave him a sideways look. "Thank you for that assessment, Mr Branford," he said. "Now, as I’m sure you are aware from watching the Muggle news, there has been an unprecedented spate of bank robberies in and around London."

Colin coughed awkwardly.

"I don’t watch television, sir," he said.

"No time," Ginny added.

Sirius sighed, exasperated, and turned to Simon and Laura.

"No time at all," Simon said. "I’m usually far too busy …"

"I don’t even own a set," Laura said.

Sirius put his hands over his face. "For God’s sake," he said. "Whether you actually watch the damn box or not is a matter of supreme fucking indifference to me. I’d like you to take a look at these pictures."

He waved his wand over the table. A swirling, grey mist shot out of the end of it, resolving itself into a rapidly spinning ball that hovered about a foot off the surface of the table. After about five seconds, an image became visible.

It was a small bank … a fairly typical example of the genre. There were a couple of chairs, posters on the walls, a short queue and a long desk, shielded behind glass panels. The footage had been taken from a closed-circuit television system … the little scrolling numbers proclaimed it to be 11.30 a.m. on July 25^th.

"This is the East Molesey branch of H.S.B.C., in Surrey," Sirius said. "As you can see, not exactly an important bank … but a fair target for a couple of crooks …"

As he spoke, two men appeared, seemingly from nowhere. They were both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts.

"Our subjects …"

The two men walked up to the counter, one of them taking out what appeared to be a small, automatic firearm. They watched as the Muggles dived to the floor. Sirius paused the image with a flick of his wand.

"What are we seeing here?" he asked.

"It seems to be a fairly typical armed robbery," Simon observed. "A couple of guns, very probably replicas, quite badly planned … neither of them are wearing face masks or anything …"

"You have to admire their confidence," Colin said.

"You think those are guns?" Sirius asked. "Look again." He flicked his wand and uttered a short spell. The camera zoomed in at his command.

"Fuck me," said Colin. "They’re not guns!"

"Wands," said Ginny. "They’re using wands. That’s why they’re not taking the trouble to disguise themselves. They can just perform a few memory charms on the way out."

"How fiendishly clever," Simon said. "I wonder why nobody ever thought of it before."

"They did," said Sirius. "This next bit of film was shot at Barclays Bank in Hayward’s Heath in March."

The hovering image changed, and they found themselves watching a virtual replay of the previous film. Two men brazenly Apparated into the middle of a crowded bank, in broad daylight, on a Saturday - and robbed it.

"How chillingly effective," said Simon. "Are they the same two men?"

"We think so," said Sirius. "Nobody’s been able to get a positive identification on either of them. They are obviously wizards, but they’re not registered at the Ministry. This next film was shot in May. This time at the National Westminster in Guildford."

They watched it in silence.

"There are others, twenty eight others," Sirius said. "Variously branches of six major national banks in Bromley, Wimbledon, Crawley, Richmond, Watford, Banbury and Tunbridge Wells. These men have gotten away with over fifty million pounds in a little over six months. They are always careful. They always erase the memories of their victims. They make it appear they are using guns and they take only used notes, and only used notes that are to hand. They are clearly so confident of their abilities they don’t even bother to wipe the security videos."

"The notes would be untraceable, too," said Ginny.

"Very smart," said Colin.

"It doesn’t stop there," said Sirius. "The Consejo try to keep a lid on what’s happening in the Spanish-speaking world but we know for a fact that there have been robberies in Spain, Mexico and Argentina, following much the same pattern. The Germans have had the same trouble, mainly in Hamburg and Bremen, the Americans, the Swedes, the Norwegians and the Danes."

"So it’s big?" Ginny asked.

Sirius nodded. "In total more than five hundred million pounds has been taken. That can buy you a fair amount."

"What have they been buying?" Colin asked.

Sirius shrugged. "Nobody is entirely sure. We must assume they are not using it in the Muggle world … and for that reason it looks as if they are sitting on it. Gringotts International keep checks on all large transactions, and have done since the Second Voldemort War, when the banks were used as a money laundering system –"

"Could they have bought things?" Ginny asked.

Sirius shook his head. "Five hundred million pounds coming into the wizarding economy would be immediately noticed," he said. "We’ve checked out the major wizarding companies with connections in the Muggle world, De Beers, several large publishing houses, General Motors … nobody has reported any unusual flows of money."

"Dark wizards?" asked Ginny. "Or just intelligent crooks?"

Sirius shrugged. "It’s a mystery," he said. "That’s why we’re bringing you folks on board. The Department thinks it’s dark wizards."

"May I ask a question, sir?" Laura asked.

Sirius nodded.

"Is this related to the Crisis?"

"Indubitably," Sirius said, without a moment’s hesitation. "I, personally, am convinced it is linked in some way. It has to be. We just can’t figure out how."

"Perhaps the threat is channelling it for its own uses," said Ginny.

"It’s a thought …" said Sirius dubiously.

"Albeit a far-fetched one," Simon interrupted. "Given that not even Intelligence has the first idea what the threat actually is. Only that there is one. Nobody’s even bothered to give it a name."

"I think it is related," said Colin. "Think back a couple of years … during the Crisis … okay, so nobody was robbing banks … but more Muggles were involved than should have been … more people were hurt and more people died. It’s obvious. The Muggle world and the wizarding world appear set on an inexorable collision course –"

"If that happens –" Ginny breathed.

"Then God help us all," said Sirius.

Colin banged the table with his fist. "We can still stop it happening," he said. "It isn’t too late. It wasn’t too late last time … and we prevailed …"

"What if it’s worse than the Crisis?" Laura asked. "That was just a few malicious people scheming for their own ends … selling us to the gutter press for a fistful of notes," she shuddered. "What if it’s like the War?"

"We can’t know that," said Sirius. "You’re speculating about a situation that possibly doesn’t even exist, Agent Kemp."

"So can we say we even have a right to get involved?" Laura challenged him.

"I’m not saying that," said Sirius. "We have to get involved."

"I understand," said Ginny.

"You are the elite. The cream of the cream …"

"The sour cream," Simon muttered.

"Quiet … you are the best the Department has to offer. I want to see some results, people," Sirius said, looking around the table like a predator. "You can get the results, but only if you are working together. I know you can. I saw you do it during the Crisis. You did it again this morning with Tagg. And I know you’re going to get me these fuckers, too … and bring me their heads on silver platters."

"We’ll do it," said Laura.

"You’re Team Alpha …" Sirius went on. "Don’t forget that. First and fast!"

Colin rolled his eyes. "Fucking hell, next he’ll be asking us for a group hug. Spare us the sodding team-building, boss. You’re not in America now. We know all this …"

Sirius looked awkward. "Yeah … well … don’t let it go to your heads," he said. "Now, I have been in touch with my contact at the Consejo Internacional in Madrid –"

"The reclusive Spaniards?" Colin asked in surprise. "Whatever for?"

"Because," said Sirius. "I am doing a little head-hunting. There’s a young chappie who has recently come to my attention. He’s a bit of a loose cannon, but he gets results. He worked with us for a while, before going abroad in 2005, right at the end of the Voldemort War …"

He waved his wand again, and the image changed, showing a handsome, no … an impossibly beautiful, face, framed with hair so blond it was almost white. Ginny and Colin glanced at one another, and fell in lust immediately.

"This is Draco Malfoy," said Sirius. He stopped and looked up. Ginny and Colin were staring at him as if he was quite mad.

Draco handed the keys of his Jaguar to the valet, who nodded and smiled appreciatively.

"Con cuidado, okay?" Draco smiled, slipping a fifty Euro note into the man’s hand. "Es mi amor."

"Claro, señor, claro," the valet replied.

Draco turned, and hopped nimbly up the steps and into the air conditioned foyer of the Parador. The chill air was blessed relief after the thirty five plus degree temperatures outside.

The maitre’d eyed him suspiciously.

"Malfoy, veinteun horas … mesa para dos. Lo siento, se me hizo un poco tarde …"

"No hay problema, señor. Su compañera ya esta aquÃ-."

"Bueno, bueno."

"Una mesa sobre la terraza… okay … si quiere usted seguirme, señor?"

"Gracias," said Draco.

He was led through the restaurant, where well-heeled tourists were dining expensively and well, and out onto the terrace. There were torches sending jets of flame into the air, and a cooling breeze blowing off the mountains.

Monica was sitting at a table that was threatening to fall off the edge of the terrace, a wrought iron railing separating her from a three hundred foot drop into the gorge below. The dying rays of the sun were peeking over the tops of the mountains.

"Llegás tarde," she said, scowling at him. "Ya he ordenado."

"Lo siento," Draco said soothingly, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Tuvo dificultades con algunos clientes hoy. Some people made trouble …"

"That is no excuse," Monica said, still scowling.

"Do I get a kiss, anyway?" Draco asked, leaning across the table expectantly.

"Only if I get a promise that you will be good," she answered. "And buy me that dress I wanted when we go to Madrid."

Draco had spoken with his superiors earlier in the day - and this was the part that he was dreading telling her.

"Well … actually, we won’t be going to Madrid," he said. "Not for at least a couple of weeks …"

"You promised me!"

"I know, I know, my sweet," Draco cooed. "And I’m sorry. I really wanted to go, too. Desafortunadamente, they want me to work …"

"But it is the summer. You said you were going to take as much leave as they would let you. We were going to Goa!"

"I will take leave," said Draco. "It’s just … there’s stuff happening … important stuff, and stuff I need to stay on the Costa for –"

"It is bad enough," Monica sniffed, "that you spend all your days on the Costa with the high-flyers than up here in this desolate countryside."

"It’s beautiful countryside!" Draco retorted. "You need to get out more."

"Me gusta la ciudad," Monica huffed. "I want to be amongst people, to live life. This town has all the pace of a slug."

"And when this case is over," Draco reassured her, "I will take as much leave as they will possibly let me have without losing my job, and we will go to Madrid and I will buy you that dress you saw -"

"And the earrings?"

"The diamond ones? Yes. I will even buy you those. You’ll look a thousand times more beautiful than you do now," he said. "But can’t you suffer my work just until the middle of August?"

"You had better mean August," Monica said, "and not October. I know you too well, Draco. You will put our vacation off and off and off and we will arrive in Goa during the monsoon."

"For you, I would change the weather," Draco said.

"I know you could," she winked, her voice softened. "Who’s my little qualified Mage …"

A slight cough from a hovering waiter caused them both to look up.

"Are you ready to order, sir?"

Draco checked the menu briefly. He quite often ate at the Parador, the state-owned luxury hotel that perched on the lip of the gorge, and usually, he ordered the same thing …

"Paella," he said. "Y una botella de vino. Que tiene hoy?"

"Nuestro Rioja es sin igual, Señor."

"Vale," said Draco. "Una botella, por favor."

The waiter bowed slightly in deference, before hurrying away. Draco turned back to Monica, but she was gazing out at the view.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?" Draco asked, leaning in closer and taking her slim fingers in the palm of his hand. He caressed the skin sensuously, allowing his fingers to tease at the ring he had bought her last birthday.

"It is nice," Monica said, softly. "Desolate, but possessed of a beauty that is … all its own …"

"I’ll settle for just beautiful," Draco said softly. The tips of his fingers danced lightly up the pale skin of her forearm. "You know you don’t actually have it in your power to resist me," he teased.

"I could learn," said Monica. "I’m not just a pretty face, you know."

"I never said that you were."

"That’s okay then."

Their wine arrived. The waiter poured the tiniest mouthful into one of the glasses and stood back while Draco tasted it.

"It’s especially good," he said. "Nice bouquet. Me gusta."

The waiter smiled thankfully, and proceeded to fill their glasses. Overhead, hang-gliders were wheeling in the dying light, borne aloft on the updrafts. The flowers on their table bobbed their heads in the breeze.

"Come to Madrid," Monica said, at length.

Draco sipped his wine. "This is important," he said. "I have to stay down here!"

Monica smiled mischievously. "You never tell me what your work is," she said. "I will believe you are really are a Consejo Operative when I see the proof. Right now I think you to be … oh … probably sweeping streets in Estepona, or serving the English tourists con hamburguesas."

"All the money has to come from somewhere," Draco began.

"I am not so stupid as not to know that you come from an extremely rich family," Monica whispered.

Draco sighed. The Malfoy name still commanded a certain respect wherever it went … but in his heart of hearts he knew that it was a ruse … an act that he was keeping up. The Second Voldemort War had ruined his father … his business reduced to the barest skeleton of what it had been. The upkeep alone of the house in Wiltshire was more than the amount his father was earning in one year. The vault at Gringotts was running rapidly dry.

Of course, this state of affairs concerned Draco not one iota. Indeed, he kept the family name merely as a formality. He was well aware that, since the train of events that had led to him sitting at this table, in this restaurant, at this time, had been set in motion, he had no more right to the money, or the house, or to call himself his father’s son, than did Harry Potter himself. And God alone knew what had happened to Harry … for Draco certainly didn’t. Nor did he care. Throughout their time working together, the two men had been constantly at one another’s throats.

He picked up his wine, and sipped it.

"Are you not drinking?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I may have a little," Monica said.

"Good, because I am not drinking all this myself. The one bottle’s going to cost us at least twenty five Euros as it is …"

"It’s that expensive?"

Draco nodded. "It’s damn good, too."

"You always were a connoisseur," said Monica, wistfully. "I remember when we first met … I remember when we fell in love …"

Draco smiled at the memory. He had been new to the Departamente de la Ley Suramericano de Magia … new to the Consejo Internacional … having fled Britain to exorcise many personal demons. His first posting, as a newly qualified Operative, had taken him to Buenos Aires, there to fall in with a young witch … Monica. Their first night out had taken them to a small club at the heart of the city … it had been Monica who had had the dubious honour of leading Draco in his first tango.

"You were fiery, back then," she said, jerking him back to attention.

"I still am fiery … look … grr!" He bared his teeth.

"No, now you are silly," she said. "You are too involved in your work. You never look at me anymore. You used to make love like an animal."

"I can do that," Draco defended himself.

"It is not that," Monica said, putting her hand over his. "I think I love you … I think I still do. But sometimes you are so cold to me … so … so unlike how it was."

Draco did not say anything.

"I … I love you dearly," Monica continued. "I really, honestly do. Even after all this time. But the truth is we none of us are getting any younger, and with age comes a certain maturity -"

"You’re saying I’m immature?" asked Draco, the edges of his voice tinged with a faint anger.

"I’m saying there are certain things that people our age come to … well … do," Monica said.

"You want me to propose to you?" Draco asked.

She looked away hurriedly.

"I don’t know what I want anymore," she said. "This relationship has changed so much. I just don’t know."

Ginny descended through the balmy evening sky, her sleek new broom slicing easily through the still air. She flew low over the Muggle village before turning right and heading out across open fields. To her left was the copse where she had played with her brothers, to the right the dirt track that led to her childhood home. The air was suddenly heady with the scent of flowers in bloom, and wafting towards her on the breeze came the smell of cooking.

The track veered left at the old millstream, and headed across the meadow that Fred and George used to use for Quidditch practice. There, sitting in a small dip in the land, was the Burrow itself, looking welcoming and cosy. There was a profusion of cars parked outside. Am I the only person to have come by broom?

She touched down lightly outside the front door, and dismounted from her Windsailor 600. She leant the broomstick up against Ron’s Volvo as she readjusted her shoulder bag.

"Hey … mind the paintwork! I’ve just had her touched up!"

She spun round on the spot. Ron was walking towards her, his hair glowing red in the dying rays of the sun. He was wearing a loose summer robe over trousers which were slightly too short for him, a T-shirt and sandals … with socks. Ginny baulked.

"Hello, Ron! It’s good to see you, too! How did you know I’d arrived?"

"We spotted you coming up the drive," he said, hugging her tightly. They didn’t get to see as much of each other these days as they would have liked … and Ron had always been her favourite brother, after all. She fondly remembered forcing him to play tea parties with her ‘My Little Muggle’ sets.

"Come on, the gang’s out back. We were never going to fit all of us inside the house - and on a day like today! How are you, Ginny? We don’t see as much of you as we’d like to …"

"Work’s very busy," Ginny explained, as she let him take her by the arm. "I don’t have a lot of spare time."

Ron nodded. "You work too much," he said.

Ginny laughed. "I enjoy my work and I like doing it," she said.

"Even if it makes you late for dinner?" Ron asked. "Mum was practically going spare. You should think of her more, Ginny. You know she’s unhappy …"

Ginny unhooked her arm from Ron’s, and regarded him with an icy glare. "Only because I haven’t got myself a man," she said. "All Mum wants is a son-in-law she can knit socks for at Christmas. You lot are so bloody traditional," she huffed.

"Your biological clock is ticking, Gin," Ron said.

Ginny snapped. "I’m thirty one!" she exclaimed. "Even if I wanted kids at this point - which I don’t - I’ve got a good fifty years left in me …"

Ron shrugged. "Suit yourself," he mumbled.

They rounded the back of the house at that moment, and all the angry thoughts which were swirling around Ginny’s head dissipated in a flash.

Hanging lanterns were strung between the trees, illuminating three huge trestle tables, each groaning under the weight of bowl upon bowl of food. Overhead, she could just make out the faint, shimmering outline of an anti-insect charm. Tiki torches … those must have been Bill’s idea, she thought … had been stuck in the ground, and were blazing merrily. And seated around the table, in all their flame-headed glory, was the Weasley clan.

To say that the Weasleys had undergone a population explosion since the end of the Voldemort War, Ginny often said to Colin when they were both drunk and maudlin, was to make a gross and miscalculated understatement. The family was impossibly huge, and on a day like today, there was no mistaking it.

Seated at either ends of the giant table were Molly and Arthur Weasley, the matriarch and patriarch, rulers of all they surveyed, benevolent and affectionate grandparents, collectors of plugs and makers of vast bowls of vegetable soup. Age, as is the case in the wizarding world, had been most gracious to both of them, and Arthur’s hair had barely a hint of grey, despite his seventy six years.

Then there were the rest of them. The oldest Weasley brother, Bill, was currently in his second marriage to a jewellery designer from Antwerp called Brunhilda, who was five months pregnant. There was Charlie and his wife, Rhiannon. He had occupied the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts master at Hogwarts since 2004, and had recently been promoted to Head of Ravenclaw House – although everyone knew it was McGonagall’s job he wanted. They had two children, Benjamin, an asthmatic, hyperactive nine year old, and David. Then there was Percy, the ‘boring’ one, who had married his long-term girlfriend, Penelope Clearwater, in 1999. To date, there were three sprogs resulting from that union: Siobhan, at twelve years of age, born on the first of January 2000 and exactly as old as the Century, Ronan (9) and Arian (7).

Slightly below the older boys in the Weasley family pecking order came Fred and George, both of whom had made their mark in the business world and now ran toyshops in London, Hogsmeade and Tintagel. Fred had, to nobody’s surprise, hooked up with Angelina Johnson, and even though they had not bothered to get married (much to Molly’s consternation), there was a three year old daughter who went by the name of Malinda. George and his bride of six months, Jana, had already succeeded in spawning baby triplets Eiffon, Pip and Naomi, who were a handful … several handfuls, to be exact about it.

Finally, at the bottom of the heap was Ron. Circumstance had led Ron away from his childhood sweetheart, but he had at least found the stability and happiness he craved with Mary, who was quite possibly the most boring witch in Britain. They had two sets of twins: Charlotte and Rachel (6) and Christopher and Jasmine (5). That made twenty-seven of them altogether.

And then there was Ginny.

Molly Weasley swooped down upon her only daughter like a vampire, wrapping her in a hug that threatened to squeeze the life out of her.

"You’re late," she fussed. "Let me look at you."

She held Ginny at arms’ length.

"Oh, I am so pleased to see you," she said. "You never drop by these days … I see you’ve lost some weight, too. You look very dapper in that uniform but you might have changed before you came over …"

"I was very rushed," said Ginny, protesting uselessly as she was escorted briskly over to the table … and bloody hell but that food looked stodgy…. "Our meeting overran and –"

"Never mind that," Molly interrupted, waving over a clean plate with a flick of her wand. "You could just have told Mr Black you were already booked but it doesn’t matter anymore. Now, did you have a pleasant flight? Ron was telling me you’ve been working overtime lately –"

Ginny was a little overwhelmed and smiled wanly as bowls were passed her way and her plate was slowly laden to overflowing with heaps of creamy mashed potatoes and heart-stopping beef casserole. Small, orange things that might have been carrots floated in the glistening potage. She longed for pasta, pesto sauce, a light tomato and mozzarella salad …

"Get that down your neck," Ron, seated next to her was saying. "You look like you haven’t eaten all day."

This was true … she hadn’t.

"I had a sandwich at lunchtime," she lied.

Molly flustered around her. "You need to learn, Virginia, that that simply will not suffice! You need good solid meals inside you. A decent cooked breakfast instead of that Muggle cereal you eat …"

Ron was nodding sagely.

"It’s called Shredded Wheat, Mum. And it’s very good for you. Fried food is disgustingly full of calories –"

"Well, you never used to let that bother you," Molly went on. "Then you need a proper lunch. I expect you ate one of those foul foreign sandwiches!"

"They’re called panini, Mum," said Ginny. "And they’re very wholesome –"

"That’s as may be … those Russians simply don’t know how to feed themselves," Molly went on. Ginny didn’t bother to point out that they were Italian. In Molly and Arthur’s eyes, most of mainland Europe blended into one mega-country, where the food was uniformly foul and the locals uniformly shifty.

"You need proper food," Molly sniffed. "The Leaky Cauldron does some lovely specials these days. You should try their bangers and mash. And a lovely battered haddock they do on Friday’s, isn’t that right, Arthur?"

"Yes, dear."

"Well, there’s a nice sandwich bar Colin and I go to," said Ginny. "It’s near the office, and it’s on Diagon Alley, so it isn’t as if we’re out amongst Muggles …"

"That’s another thing!" Molly Weasley crowed triumphantly. "You spend far too much time with Muggles. I’m not saying I have anything against them, fascinating culture and what-not, they’re just not like us, dear."

Ginny dabbed at her mashed potato with her fork.

"No, Mum," she said.

"You could have chosen to live with us," Molly said. "Heaven knows we’d treat you right. I’m sure that flat can’t be good for you. All that electricity. I hear it causes cancer!"

"I don’t think I could face the commute, Mum," Ginny said. "Dorset to London is a bit much for me. Especially now they’ve banned non-essential Apparating …"

"Well then, you could live with Ron and Mary," Molly said. "Where is it you live, nowadays, dear?"

"Guildford, Mum," said Ron, through a mouthful of food. "But Guildford’s actually a long way outside town –"

"Guildford! Now that’s a nice name," said Molly. "Much nicer than - where was it again?"

"Putney," Ginny sighed.

"Actually, Mum. Putney is one of the nicer parts of London," Bill chimed in.

"Don’t eat with your mouth full, dear. And, oh, Ginny, when in heaven’s name are you going to find yourself a nice husband? It can’t be good for you, having to work …" Molly eyed Brunhilda suspiciously at this point. It was widely known she disapproved of Bill’s ‘strange, foreign’ wife … especially because she earned her own money. In Molly Weasley’s eyes, separate bank accounts were things that happened to other people.

"I’m perfectly happy as I am, Mum," said Ginny. "I don’t want to be married to some wizard who’ll tie me to the stove all day. I like my independence … besides … the right man just hasn’t come along yet …"

Molly looked wistfully at the tablecloth, which was red and white gingham. "You would’ve done so well with Harry," she sniffed. "He was right."

Ron put a hand on her arm. "Mum … you know we don’t talk about Harry …"

"He was such a nice little boy," said Molly. "It can’t be good for him, poor love, having to live with the Muggles … it must play merry hell with his skin …"

"Harry is fine," Ron said. "He’s doing great," he lied. "I saw him just the other week. He’s not been so happy in a long time."

"What’s he doing now?" Charlie asked.

"He’s on the Vice Squad, I think," said Ron. "You know … prostitutes, pornography … that sort of thing."

"Ooh, pornography … that sounds important!" Molly exclaimed. She disapproved of vice in general. "Why don’t you get in touch with Harry, Ginny?"

"Oh, what would I say?" Ginny exclaimed. "We never see each other and he’s made it abundantly clear he wants to live as a Muggle. We live different lives. Anyway … I don’t have to even marry a wizard. I want to marry for love, not for the ability to make things fly around a room …"

Molly was scandalised. "Virginia Margaret Weasley! Marry a Muggle! Over my dead body, young lady!"

"Oh, Mum. Don’t be so stuck in the past," said Ginny. "Hundreds of witches and wizards marry Muggles … Harry’s Mum was …"

"But they’ll be teased something dreadful at Hogwarts," Molly said. "Look what happened to poor Hermione –"

The table suddenly fell very silent. Molly flushed red.

"I … I’m sorry," she said, bowing her head. "I shouldn’t have said that."

"It’s all right, Mum," Ginny said.

Arthur perked up. "What about that Colin lad you work with? He seems like a very nice young man."

Ginny cringed. So did Ron.

"Um, Dad …" Ginny said quietly

"I don’t really know how to put this," Ron began.

"But," Ginny said.

"Well …" Ron added

"Colin’s gay."

Arthur smiled. "Well … that’s a good thing, then. You wouldn’t want a dreary old thing."

"Dad …" Charlie said.

"I think you need to get an up-to-date dictionary," Fred stifled a laugh.

"Why?"

"Well," said Ron. "It’s sort of hard to explain, Dad. It’s like … two blokes … only instead of with a woman … sort of … with one another … like …"

Arthur bellowed with laughter. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ronald!" he guffawed. "And I’m not entirely sure that you do, either."

"Besides, Colin is attached," said Ginny.

"Got a girlfriend, has he? Good on the lad! You’re missing out there, Ginny."

"Something like that," Ginny muttered under her breath.

"I swear you will drive me mad, Virginia," Molly said. "Now, eat your dinner. I tried to raise you properly … God knows I tried …"

Ginny countered. "Mum … it has nothing to do with that whatsoever," she said, struggling to keep a lid on her temper. "You did a very good job of it and I love you dearly …"

"You have such a funny way of showing it," Molly replied. "You’re never here. Last Christmas you didn’t come home for the Midnight Service …"

"I went with some friends in London, to St Paul’s Cathedral," said Ginny. "It doesn’t mean I love you any less, Mum. Besides, the Midnight Service here is always the same … someone needs to tell that vicar it’s a mistake to have a live donkey in the church –"

"His brother runs a donkey sanctuary," Molly began.

"Oh, Mum!" Ginny exploded. "It’s not my bloody point! I don’t give a toss if the vicar’s brother runs bleeding Microsoft …"

"There’s no need for language, dear!"

"Can’t you understand, Mum? This isn’t the 1950s anymore! People don’t live the way you might like them to. They may want to but that isn’t how the world works these days! People stay single and live away from home and do what they want to do. And they’re so much better for it!"

"I don’t see what’s wrong with the way I live my life, thank you very much," Molly huffed. "If you’re going to come over all hateful, Ginny, then you can go home …"

Ron stepped in. "Mum … she didn’t mean it …"

Ginny flung her napkin to the grass. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ron! Of course I bloody meant it …"

"Virginia!"

"Ginny, I’m trying to help," Ron placated.

"Well, you’re not doing a very good job of it!" she snapped. "No wonder you left the Aurors … you have all the tact of a nuclear bomb!"

Molly was enraged. "Ginny … you apologise to your brother right now!"

"It’s okay, Mum. Really. She’s had a long day at the office."

"If she wasn’t so absorbed in her work she wouldn’t be so rude!" Molly declared. "It’s too hard on the rest of us, Ginny, you working like you are. You’ll give yourself ulcers …"

"Damn it, Mum. You’ll give me ulcers before I do!" Ginny retorted. "I don’t know why I bloody came. I had an invitation to go out tonight. I could have gone to the theatre with my friends. I don’t have to stand around here and be insulted by my own family!"

"Well, then you should have gone to the theatre!" Molly wailed. "Oh! Just, just go - before I snap!"

Ginny snorted in anger and despair, turned on her heels, and marched off across the garden. She pushed open the back door, and went into the Burrow’s tiny kitchen. There was a stack of washing up waiting to be done next to the sink. Ginny took a taper from the jar on the high shelf, and lit candles in the dim evening light.

"If only they’d get electricity," she said to herself. "They could have a dishwasher and everything."

She could hear loud remonstrating coming from outside. The Weasleys were having a traditional family argument.

"If only they wouldn’t be so bloody stubborn," she whispered. She turned on the taps. The large, stone sink began to fill slowly with steaming hot water.

She heard footsteps on the patio outside, and the door swung open. It was Bill.

"Gin, love … you don’t need to do the washing up," he said. "Here … I’ll put a spell on it … it can do itself for once."

Ginny squirted soap into the water. "It’s okay," she said. "I want to."

"No you don’t," said Bill, firmly, taking the soap dispenser out of her hands. He took out his wand. "Come through into the parlour … we can talk there …"

"I only want to see Mum happy," Ginny couldn’t help herself. She felt a tear trickle slowly down her cheek.

"Yes, I know," said Bill.

"Please let me do the washing up?"

"We’ll do it together," said Bill. He turned off the taps, and took up one of the plates. "You wash, and I’ll dry. Oh … shit, don’t cry, sweetheart."

"I just want her to … to respect my choices," said Ginny, through her tears.

"I understand," said Bill. "Really I do …"

"It’s entirely my choice if I get married or not," said Ginny. "And right now I’m happy working. I like my job, I get loads out of it …"

"I think Mum’s problem is that you never seem to stop," said Bill. "You do always cancel her dinner invitations. And she does love you so much, and she loves seeing you … she loves seeing all of us. It’s just hard for her. It’s hard for both of them … their nest is empty and they want to see it full again. That’s why they love the grandchildren so much. It just seems like you have no time for her anymore."

"I like working … it takes my mind off … things …"

"Any things in particular?" Bill prompted. Ginny handed him a plate, and he took up a dishcloth to dry it with.

"Not really," said Ginny.

"It’s the Harry thing, isn’t it?" Bill said, setting the plate down. "Is it honestly still that?"

"It might be, I suppose," Ginny said.

"Bollocks! It is the Harry thing," Bill said. "Come on, it’s been seven years …"

"He speaks to Ron," she said, resentfully.

"Ron was always a good friend to him," said Bill. "I remember when I came home that one time. How you were so excited and so scared because you didn’t even think he’d like you!"

Ginny smiled, in spite of her tears. "Yes," she said. "I was a bit obsessive."

"You need to get over him," Bill said. "It’s holding you back, sweetheart. Besides, it got ugly, didn’t it? That’s what I heard …"

"Yes," said Ginny. "There was … there was rather a lot of ugly stuff. Harry left rather than face his disciplinary …"

"It hit him hard, didn’t it … the Thanksgiving thing …"

Ginny nodded. "Harder than anybody would have thought possible. But it wasn’t his fault," she went on. "He was never blamed or anything. It was tragic but it wasn’t his fault. Then, of course, he started drinking …"

The door opened again.

"We’ve got spells for the washing up, you two," Ron said. "I’ve spoken to Mum … she’s all right, now."

"I’m sorry," said Ginny.

Ron shoved his hands in his pockets. "No … no, don’t be," he said. "You’re sort of right, in a way."

Ginny hung her head. "I hate seeing Mum upset," she said. "I know how hard life is for her at the minute … and I try, I really do …"

Ron slipped his arm gently around her, and held her close and tightly. "I know," he breathed into her hair. "I know you do. And she does appreciate it, really she does. You just have to understand that the world has changed so radically, things are different now to how they were ten years ago. Poor old Mum’s just … just running to catch up."

Ginny sighed deeply, and relinquished her grip on her brother.

"I know, I know," she said. "Thanks, Ron."

"But you still need to find yourself a husband, pronto," he teased.

Ginny flicked soapsuds at him.

"Do you want to talk to her?" Ron asked, quietly.

Ginny shook her head. "Maybe I’ll drop by tomorrow … when I get a moment." She wiped her eyes again.

"Mind you, she’ll be livid," Bill added.

"Yes, thanks for that," Ron snapped at his brother.

"I should go home," said Ginny.

"I’ll drive you," Ron started forwards. "It’s getting dark … you shouldn’t fly by yourself in this light."

Ginny smiled, and kissed her brother on the cheek. "That’s very sweet of you, Ron, but you and Mary are meant to be staying the night, and I can do without any more blood on the carpet."

There was a brief tapping at the kitchen door. It opened to reveal Arthur and Molly. Arthur had his arm around his wife. She had been crying.

Ginny started forwards. "I’m sorry, Mum," she began. Her father waved her back.

"What’s done is done," he said. "I think you two should have a proper chat … like you used to."

Molly looked up. "I’ll make us a cup of tea," she said. "We can sit in the parlour. Charlie and Percy are going to take the kids off to play a wide game in the woods."

"I’m pretty good at boring people to death," Arthur said. "You two should be able to have a nice, proper natter."

"I’ll put the kettle on, then," said Ron. He picked it up off the stove, and carried it over to the sink.

"Thanks," said Ginny, her voice husky.

That night, Ginny’s sleep was troubled. She lay in her childhood bed, curled up underneath a single sheet, with the windows wide open. The scent of a summer’s night at the Burrow had always been very comforting to her. Very comforting indeed. Yet that night she was unable to drift off. The camera of her mind’s eye was replaying images of Harry to her, again and again and again.

Stifling a little cry, Ginny turned over onto her stomach and pillowed her arms underneath her head. She allowed herself the briefest of moans. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed midnight, and she heard the footsteps as the last remaining stragglers climbed up the stairs to bed. For a few moments, the pipes hissed and banged, and then fell silent again, and the only noise that filled the room was the faint hissing of crickets outside. Ginny had lived all her childhood at the Burrow, but back then, there had been no crickets. Now they were spreading north on the advancing tide of Global Warming … these days there were orange groves in Kent, and in East Anglia, farmers grew vines in lieu of barley.

Her thoughts, as they always did on nights like these, drifted inexorably back to Harry. She remembered the last time she had seen him. It had been the day before his disciplinary hearing, when he had rolled up, wasted, at the door of her flat at about two in the morning, waving a spent bottle of vodka above his head and singing a song about potatoes. She helped him inside, removed his clothes and put him to bed on the sofa.

The next morning, when she went through to make coffee, he had gone. He had left behind a five pound note, crinkled and creased and stained with a pure, white powder. Ginny dreaded to think what that powder might have been. She threw the money straight in the bin, and then walked back into the sitting room. It was then she noticed that he had also left behind the tiny locket he wore around his neck.

She picked it up and opened it. Inside were the usual photos, her on the left side, and Hermione on the right. There was also a piece of paper, with one word written on it; ‘sorry.’

Ginny grabbed the pillow and covered her head with it to mask her sobs. Outside, on the landing, Bill paused.

"Harry again," he said to himself. He shook his head sadly …

Draco let the bathroom door bang casually shut. Sighing, for he was very tired indeed, he shrugged off his dressing gown and slipped off his underpants, before padding softly across the room to the bed.

Monica was sitting with the sheets drawn up around her, reading a dense Umberto Eco novel by the dim light of the bedside light. Draco slipped between the sheets, and leaned over to kiss her. She moved her face away at the last minute.

"What’s the matter?" Draco asked. Monica slipped a thin, leather bookmark between the pages, and laid the weighty tome gently to rest upon the bedside table.

"It’s nothing," she said. But she was still looking away from him. The window onto the balcony was open, and the thin curtains were blowing in the light, night time breeze coming down off the Serrania. There was a half moon riding high in the sky, gentle beams caressed the line of her delicate cheekbones.

"It is something," Draco said. He put a hand on her shoulder, only to have it shrugged rudely away. "Dinner not up to scratch?"

"Nothing so mundane," she began.

"Okay. What, then?" Draco whispered. He allowed his fingers to trail gently down the sides of her nightdress. "Otro? Has encontrado otro?"

"No … sabes que no es verdad," she protested, softly. "Te quiero a tÃ-, Draco."

"Bueno. AsÃ- … qué? Normally you can’t keep your hands off me."

"Es diferente. Ahora … todo es … todo es diferente, Draco. Has cambiado …"

"Yo?"

"Si, claro que tu! You’ve changed so much," she turned back to him, blinking her eyes and gently reached out to caress his cheek. "I love you so much and … and everything is just so different."

"Explain," Draco said.

"Ever since those … putas at the Consejo promoted you. You have been running around the country like there’s no tomorrow. You are never here, Draco. Never here anymore. With me. I get so lonely in this town …"

"What’s wrong with the town?"

"Oh, it sucks!" Monica said angrily. "The people are so boring! They are bumpkins! Unsophisticated spawns of … of unions between farmers and their sheep!"

"It’s a beautiful old town," Draco said. "We have a lovely home. You can go up into the mountains … take your friends. When we were in Mexico you cycled all over the city. What’s so different about here? It’d be a lot safer, for one thing …"

"I had friends in Mexico! Good friends."

Draco stroked her hair. "Monica … you’ve left a trail of friends all over the Spanish speaking world," he said. "What’s so different about here?"

"I want to go home," she said. "My friends aren’t here. They’re all in Buenos Aires."

"I can’t …" Draco began, looking down at the duvet lying across his lap. "The Consejo don’t want to … there aren’t any bloody postings in Argentina anymore …"

"Brazil, then. We were so happy in Rio," she smiled at him.

"Bollocks," Draco snapped. "You hated it and so did I!"

Monica recoiled, hurriedly. "No es verdad –"

"It is bloody true," Draco said. He looked up into her eyes. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout."

Monica sniffed. "It’s okay," she said. "I understand. You have no time for relationships. No time for me. It’s all about your work. I understand completely."

"It isn’t all about the work," Draco said softly.

"Oh, pull the other one. It has bells on!" Monica snapped, flinging off the bed sheets. "You wouldn’t notice if … if … if I was a man!"

"I rather think that’s not true," huffed Draco.

Monica turned round, her face twisted into an enraged scowl. "You make me so, so angry, Draco!"

Draco wrung his hands pathetically. "Darling … I’m … I … I didn’t think …"

"No … you’re too damn right you didn’t think! Because you never do fucking think! It is always about you. My mother warned me about men like you. Just because you have looks and money you think you can … can treat women like shit. I know I should have married Alfonso …"

Draco sat, too stunned to speak.

"Your attitude is wrong! You are … all wrong for me. You never bring flowers … you never bring ice cream or wine or dresses … you’re a selfish, static Englishman!"

"Darling …" Draco started. Monica had flung open the door to the wardrobe, and was pulling clothes off the racks within. "Darling … what are you doing?"

"I am going to Madrid!" she declared. "I am going to stay in the city for a couple of days … while I think about - about us. About what I want to do. I am going to go shopping!"

Draco glanced at the bedside display unit. It blinked into life, flashing the time and a local weather report across the flat-screen. "It’s half past midnight!" he exclaimed. "Monica … be reasonable … go to sleep … we’ll talk in the morning. You don’t even have a driving licence …"

"I am going now!" she sniffed, imperiously. "I will take a bus if I have to …"

"There aren’t any buses!" Draco tried to reason.

"Then I will wait at the bus station. Or I will go via Malaga –"

Draco jumped to his feet. "Monica! You’re being stupid!"

"You will leave the room while I change, " she ordered.

"I’m not wearing anything –" he stopped. She was glaring at him. It was a glare that could have melted icecaps. A glare that could have started wars. "I’ll be outside …"

He slipped past her and out into the hallway. The porch light was still burning outside. Even though it was hot, Draco shivered. He could hear thumps and bangs coming from their bedroom as she heaved suitcases about.

"Shit … shit … shit," he repeated over and over to himself. He put one hand on the wall to support himself, and as he did so, his eyes fell upon a framed photo of them on Copacabana Beach … in happier days. They were both holding drinks, mai tais, with little green umbrellas. She was grinning a broad, happy grin across her face, and the corners of his mouth were turned up in a wry smile. A group of children were playing an energetic game of football behind them, and every so often the ball would roll out of shot …

The bedroom door banged open, and Draco whirled around. Monica was standing there, holding a blue suitcase that Draco had forgotten they owned.

"I will call you when I get to Madrid," she said. "You must think about us too, about where you want our relationship to go, about what you want to happen. We cannot go on like this. No podemos vivir …"

"Wait …" Draco started to say, but before he could form the germ of a sentence, she had swished past him, opened the front door, and stormed out onto the street.

Draco, unthinkingly followed.

"Darling … stop!"

She turned at the bottom of the steps, set her suitcase down on the ground, and looked back up at him as he stood naked under the porch light.

"I still love you."

She shook her head. "No. You love your work. I can’t love a man who loves his work like you do …"

"I can … I … please … look what you’ve reduced me to!" Draco raised his voice. "Come back inside. I’ll make chocolate … we’ll talk …"

"I am going to Madrid! I need shops to feel whole!"

"There are shops here …" Draco began, realising as he said it that he shouldn’t have said it, for this only served to anger her further.

"They are for tourists!" she snapped. "Go back inside, Draco! I am leaving and I mean it."

"Monica!"

She turned away, and began to walk off down the street.

"Monica!"

He watched until she turned the corner onto the Plaza, and disappeared from view.

"Ay, hombre. No sabes como tartar a una mujer!" someone shouted.

Draco looked round. An elderly man was leaning out of a fourth storey window, smiling at him.

"No se meta en lo que no le importa!" he shouted back.

The man shrugged. "Debe ponerse algo encima!"

"Ah, callése!" Draco shouted. He turned and went back into the house, slamming the door shut behind him, he collapsed against it, breathing heavily.

"Oh shit … shit!" he yelled.

Draco slipped from the shower, and wrapped a towel around his waist. Then, water dripping from his long hair, he went into the kitchen. The tiled floor was deliciously cool beneath the bare soles of his feet. It was barely nine in the morning, and the temperature outside was already hitting twenty six degrees. Draco dreaded to think what it would be like down on the coast today, without the slight chill that came with the higher altitude.

He flicked his wand at the espresso machine, and while it gurgled into life, walked through into the living room cum dining room. He and Monica had spent many happy hours … many happy meals, in this room. Sitting together, just reading or playing cards or drinking or …

Draco stopped himself. Thinking about shagging would do nobody any good, he decided. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the TV set.

"… this morning at 9.00 a.m., European Standard, this is Tass Vision International News. Making the headlines this hour … the Group of Six summit in Tokyo has ended in chaos as the Chinese and Russian delegations walked out claiming Japan was trying to destabilise Russia to gain control of the resource wealth of Siberia and the Urals. Any breakaways by Russia’s eastern region could result in a Moscow-Beijing military alliance, and a possible repeat of the 2004 civil nuclear conflict that devastated large areas of central Russia."

Draco opened the French windows onto the balcony.

"… thought the great racehorse Shergar had been killed by the I.R.A. in the 1980s, but it seems he was smuggled out of Ireland and taken to Bahrain. ‘The boom in the Arabian bloodstock industry stems from the stallion Desert Thunder, who died in 2006,’ says Tom Mulholland of the British Bloodstock Board. ‘Desert Thunder was a brilliant sire, producing many more winners than his breeding suggested he would. It made us suspicious, and genetic tests at our Riyadh laboratory prove that old Desert Thunder was in fact Shergar.’"

"Finally this hour, an estimated 100 million email messages have been lost in cyberspace as the recent spate of problems on the Internet continued. The overburdened Net is now showing the effects of what experts are calling ‘data sclerosis.’ As recently as a decade ago, it was thought that a few megabytes of bandwidth ought to be enough for any individual using the system. Service Providers failed to anticipate, however, that individuals would not only be receiving but also transmitting vast amounts of data. The Internet has finally begun to crack under the strain, with personal video being the biggest drain; more than a billion people have workstations with integrated video, and similarly, use of the Net for videophones, multimedia desktop conferencing and dial-up movies has created huge demand for capacity."

The set beeped.

"To hear this report in Spanish, select button one. To hear this report in French, select button two. To hear this report in Russian, select button three …"

Draco waved his hand at the TV set again, and stepped out onto the balcony.

He had indeed been fortunate to acquire this place, he thought … the balcony overhung the precipitous gorge that bisected the ancient hill town of Ronda, and afforded a view deep into its murky, shadowy depths, where the now insignificant river that had carved the gorge trickled over the rocks. Looking to his right, he could see the famous 17^th Century bridge, the star of a thousand postcards, and on the other side of the gorge was the Moorish Palace. For a few years, Ronda had been the capital of the last remaining Moorish kingdom in Spain, before the Muslim rulers had finally been driven out in 1492. The Palace itself was a thing of beauty, filled with mosaic floors and gardens with little fountains. Steep steps plunged down into the caves below, eventually opening up at the bottom of the gorge, in a place known as the Sultana’s Bathing Platform. Of course, these days nobody swam in the river. It was filled with effluent and litter, and the bottom of the gorge stank to high heaven most of the time.

He heard the espresso machine bubbling violently, and struggling to put all thoughts of Monica from his mind, he went back into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard, pulled out his favourite cup, the one with the little broomstick motif that she had bought him on his last birthday, and poured himself a double shot of espresso.

"Here goes," he said, to himself. He lifted the cup to his lips, and downed the contents in one. "Shit! That stuff is foul!" he exclaimed to nobody in particular.

He set the cup down, opened another cupboard, and took out eggs. Then he lost heart, put them back in their box, and shoved the door shut.

"Shit … shit … shit … shit," he sulked to himself.

There was a fluttering of wings from outside. Draco looked up, alarmed.

The most magnificent tawny owl he had ever seen was perched regally on the balustrade. There was a rolled piece of parchment attached to its leg.

"Where did you come from?" Draco cooed, stepping back out onto the balcony. The owl put its head pensively on one side, and regarded him through unblinking eyes with very obvious distaste. It stuck out its leg, and allowed Draco to untie the letter. He observed that its wing had been ever so slightly clipped, and that it was wearing a numbered tag, embossed gold. Draco knew of only one organisation that used embossed gold tags on their owls.

The Ministry of Magic.

"Whatever could they want with me?" he asked himself. "I work for the Consejo now …"

The owl ruffled its feathers at him, and did not reply.

Draco unrolled the parchment … his address was clearly marked, and whoever had sent it had used an official Ministry seal. He began to read the letter contained within …