The Orpheus Imperative

CHAPTER TWO. DON'T SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION.

A FEW DAYS EARLIER.

TUNGUSKA AUTONOMOUS REGION, SIBERIA. REPUBLIC OF RUSSIA.



The Land Rover's engine sputtered and then roared into vibrant, noisy life. Mariana Van Diemen closed the bonnet with a flourish, and then smiled.

“You see,” she said. “Not so hard, after all.”

Professor Eric Burnham, a stoic, tweedy English academic, and the man in charge of the expedition, leaned out of the window.

“I always knew you'd be invaluable, Mariana,” he said, smiling broadly. “All right then, shall we get this show on the road?”

Mariana grabbed a clump of leaves from a bush by the side of the track, and used it to wipe the oil and grease off her hands. Then she walked round to the passenger side door, her hiking boots squelching in the mud left over from last night's rains, and climbed in.

“Would you like me to drive?” she asked, pausing before strapping herself in.

The Professor considered this. “I'll be fine for the time being,” he said. “But I'll let you know when I start feeling tired. We can't risk a crash all the way out here. Especially not these days. We'd be stranded.”

Mariana punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Stow your pessimistic talk, you blaggard!” she joked. “Let's get a move on. This place gives me the creeps.” She hunted in the glove box for the packet of baby wipes they had brought along.

The Professor nodded. “You and me both. And it's like this for a thousand miles on all sides. The largest boreal forest on the planet.”

“It's all trees to me,” Mariana said, looking out of the window. Their progress along the badly made Siberian roads had been slow, laborious, and heart-stoppingly boring. “It looks like God got carried away with the recipe for Northern Maine. This place reminds me of being at summer camp.”

“You need to appreciate the beauty of it,” the Professor said. “This place is untouched … the hand of man has never set foot here …”

“Apart from this Muggle road,” Mariana joked. She held out a packet of biscuits. “Like a cookie, Professor?”

“Thanks.” The Professor took one, and popped it in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a minute.

“To me,” he went on, after swallowing, “this place holds fantastic secrets. It's so primeval and so haunting. This is the sort of territory where you'd almost expect to find new societies … new tribes … ones who have never had any contact with Westerners. Ones who don't even know they're living in Russia, who never even heard of the Soviet Union.”

The Land Rover splashed through a puddle. Looking out of the window, Mariana could see discarded cans of Coca-Cola in the undergrowth.

“Untouched and undiscovered,” she said quietly, with a slight chuckle in her voice that the Professor misinterpreted.

“Exactly my point,” he said, banging his hand on the dashboard. Ahead of them the track sloped upwards, before curving around to the right about four hundred metres away.

“So, where are these new societies?” Mariana asked. “Pardon me for pouring cold water on your plans, Professor, but they seem remarkably elusive. Unless you count that logging crew we passed on the road a few kilometres back.”

“They'd probably count as a new society on their own,” the Professor muttered underneath his breath. “Environmental rapists, that's what they are.”

“There are millions of trees,” said Mariana. “A few here and there aren't going to cost the earth. Besides, aren't you supposed to replace them?”

The Professor nodded. “Yes, yes, in theory. However, out here, who's going to know … and in a place like this, we could be losing whole species we never knew about before.”

“I don't see what could survive around here,” said Mariana. “Apart from water rats.”

The Professor nodded. “Yes, it is a bit boggy, isn't it? Check the map, I didn't see any bogs around here.”

Mariana unfolded the map, which the Tunguska Resource Extraction Board – the only people to have surveyed the area properly – had given them. All this actually meant was that the company had built a logging road and a couple of auxiliary trails, branching off into the forest, and then mapped them.

“There's no marshland marked,” Mariana said.

“How odd … we must be getting near that lake they marked, then,” the Professor said.

Mariana followed the trail north with her finger. “That lake is about eighty klicks from here,” she said. “We won't make it before nightfall. Besides, the road doesn't pass anywhere near the lake.”

“How strange,” said the Professor. He looked as if he was about to go on speaking, but he got cut off, for at that moment there was a loud bang and the Land Rover slipped sideways in the mud. He slammed his foot on the brake pedal and the car stopped, jolting them both forwards

“Shit!” Mariana yelled.

“We've blown a tyre,” the Professor said resignedly. “Well, thankfully we have spares.”

Mariana opened her door. “Yeah, sure, but not many of them. Right. I suppose I'd better get the jack out and we'll get that tyre off.”

The Professor pulled on Wellington boots, and walked around to the front offside wheel. He kicked it. Sturdy as anything.

“Must be the other one,” he muttered, walking round to the nearside wheel. Sure enough, it was as flat as a pancake.

“Damn and bugger!” he swore. “I should've noticed that tyre was out before we struck camp.”

Mariana appeared from behind the vehicle, clutching the jack. “Is everything okay, Professor?”

“I've been a damn fool,” said the Professor. “Come on, let's get the wheel off.”

“We could always use magic,” Mariana said.

“We can't risk it ,” said the Professor. “The Russians have been known to get very bolshy with practicing wizards. Even the new state isn't especially tolerant.”

From close by came the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping under the pressure of a human footstep. Both of them froze.

“When you said other societies, Professor …”

“It's possible,” said the Professor, his eyes scanning the densely packed trees for the source of the sound, “that we might have found one …”

They both drew their wands instinctively.

“The shamanic basis of wizarding society,” said the Professor, in a hushed whisper, eyes still flitting from side to side.

“… may have its roots in, or at least, have been discernibly influenced by Siberian tradition,” Mariana finished the sentence for him. “Many elements of our ability to practice magic seem to find their parallels amongst the tribal dwellers in this densely forested part of Russia.”

She paused.

”Your book, Professor. The introduction. Page six.”

“Well remembered,” the Professor said in a whisper. “Keep very quiet, Mariana - I think it came from over there. We may be about to witness wizards in their natural state.”

Something flew through the air. Mariana screamed as whatever it was struck the Professor clean through the heart. He toppled backwards onto the track, and lay gasping in the mud.

Mariana dropped to her knees beside him. “Professor! What do I do?” She was dimly aware of movement amongst the trees behind her. People were coming … people armed with bows and arrows.

A slight gurgle escaped the Professor's throat. His fingers clawed uselessly at the dirt. Then his head lolled sideways, he gave a slight lurch, and died.

“Professor!”

Whoever had fired the arrows was coming closer. Mariana could hear them, their presence loomed loud in the forest. It seemed as if everything else had fallen silent.

“Oh shit,” she breathed. She glanced at the arrow, which was sticking out of his chest. It was very well crafted. There were snowy white feathers attached to it, to aid it in flight, and some sort of inscription on the shaft.

Her fingers closed around it, and she yanked it, hard, out of the Professor's chest. The inscription was very hard to make out. It appeared to be some kind of ancient script. It was almost like Ogham – an ancient British runic alphabet. But of course, she knew that it couldn't possibly be so – not out here in the middle of Siberia.

Her attention turned back to the Professor's prone body. There was no way on earth she could leave him out here in the woods. Somehow, she would have to get him into the Land Rover, and make it back to base camp quickly.

There was a rustling sound, and something jumped out of the undergrowth behind her. Startled, she fell backwards, and scrabbled round to find herself staring straight at a crossbow, armed and pointed at her face.

She looked up. In front of her stood a young man, who looked about fifteen years old. His black hair shimmered an almost translucent green in the dark light of the forest. His skin was so pale it was almost white, and his eyes had no pigment. He was naked, save for a thin, white loincloth, and a gold ankle bracelet.

“Kut rwra da tvai bur et?” he asked, softly. The language was alien to Mariana's ears.

A faint gurgle escaped Mariana's throat.

“Tlana et eka hwcan?”

“I don't understand,” she said.

“Et bur nata da etuka pey.” The young man relaxed his crossbow, and beckoned for her to follow. “Ved cva e, ranulka. O dlac bur nata kzun! Pluru tvai-e ved!”

“I can't just leave –” Mariana started. Instantly the crossbow was back at her throat.

“Daw etka tlren-e, ranulka. Ved, ved!”


JULY 29^TH 2012.

HEATHROW AIRPORT, FINAL APPROACH. 05:00 BST.

“Lights acquired,” the pilot said.

The red-eye flight out of JFK had been uneventful – rather boring, to tell the truth. The sky was clear and the sun was creeping up over the eastern horizon, casting the London skyline in shimmering light. Another beautiful day was on the cards. The computer checked the trim, preparing the plane for a near-perfect descent into Heathrow.

“I'll be glad to get home again,” the co-pilot said conversationally. The pilot grinned in response.

“Rather,” he said, with feeling. The engines throttled slightly, the pitch of their ever-present noise increasing ever so slightly.

“That's odd. We must be hitting a headwind.”

The acceleration was pushing both of them back into their seats. “Air speed two twenty and rising,” the co-pilot said, a faint note of worry creeping into his voice.

The control tower cut in. “Flight Seven-Five-Niner – you are way above the glide path. Throttle back to two ten, roger.”

“Roger,” the pilot checked. He flicked a switch to disengage the autopilot. This was evidently not going to be the smooth landing he had envisaged. He pulled back on the wheel and simultaneously shifted the throttle. Nothing happened.

“Shit,” the co-pilot said. “Speed two forty eight and rising –”

The pilot jerked the wheel angrily. The plane did not respond. He glanced quickly at the altimeter. They were 500 metres up.

“Heathrow Tower, this is Virgin Seven-Five-Niner. Abort the landing, we're going around –”

“Roger that, Seven-Five-Niner,” the radio crackled with a sudden burst of static.

The pilot pulled the wheel swiftly back. The co-pilot stared at him in horror.

“Seven-Five-Niner, please state the nature of your problem, roger.”

The pilot's voice was dead flat. “Virgin Seven-Five-Niner is declaring an emergency. We cannot disengage the autopilot –”

“Two sixty six and rising –”

The engine note rose suddenly, the plane lurched and the nose pitched slightly. Ahead, they could see the lights of the A4 at Hatton Cross Station, and the lights of cars moving along the road.

“Jesus Christ!” The co-pilot pulled the throttles all the way back. Normally, this would have reversed the thrust, but nothing happened. “Air speed now three hundred ten, altitude –”

“Reset!” the pilot yelled.

The co-pilot nodded. He flipped up the protective cover, and jabbed violently at the button. As if in response to this, the airliner began to yaw round to the left. The lights of the runway disappeared from view as the nose pitched downwards again.

“Shit! Shit!”

Buzzers were going off in the cockpit. The pilot wrenched the wheel hard over, but the plane would not respond. He could see cars moving along underneath them on the road, oblivious to the danger.

“I cannot reacquire the runway! Repeat, I cannot reacquire the runway!”

“This is Heathrow Tower, we are declaring a ground emergency.”

Lights were coming on all over the place. There was a beeping sound as the computer rebooted at long last.

“Undercarriage! We've got her back!”

“Roger that, Virgin Seven-Five-Niner – you're not going to make the runway –” the radio cut suddenly.

The plane jerked wildly as the pilot swung the wheel around. Both men could hear the whining sound as the undercarriage finally engaged.

“It won't work! Altitude fifty and falling –”

“What's that light?”

The jet pitched downwards again. The last thing either of them saw before the life was torn from all three hundred and ninety souls on board were the lights of a lorry moving towards them on the road, as the plane dived nose first onto the carriageway.


DIAGON ALLEY, LONDON. 12.15 BST.

Ginny smiled at the young waitress who delivered their food. The girl couldn't have been long out of Hogwarts … indeed, from the look of her she was probably still a student there, working over her summer holidays to earn a bit of extra cash.

“Thanks,” Colin said. He folded his copy of the Prophet, took up his coffee cup and sipped.

Ginny read the front page idly. A team of pararchaeologists from the Merlin Foundation at the University of Tintagel had disappeared on an expedition in Siberia. As the expedition was partially funded by the Albus Dumbledore Centre for Magical Research, its disappearance was naturally attracting a great deal of media attention.

“Hope they find them all right,” Ginny said, half to Colin and half to herself.

“I'm sorry? The archaeologists?”

“Yes,” said Ginny. She lowered her sandwich.

Colin shrugged. “The silly sods were practically going into a war zone,” he said. “They should've known what to expect.”

“War zone?” Ginny asked.

Colin nodded. “Devon reckons it's only a matter of time before Russia implodes,” he said.

“Devon is a bit of a peacenik, isn't he?” asked Ginny.

“That too,” Colin said, munching on his sandwich. “He says the Anarchist Movement is gaining ground in Russia. Sweeping away the cobwebs of a New Dark Age, he says.”

“Whatever, he's talking bollocks,” said Ginny. She flipped the paper over, and scanned the Quidditch results.

“Nah, I reckon there's something in anarchism,” said Colin. “Wish I was a Muggle sometimes. Wizards are so conservative.”

“Anarchism?” Ginny exclaimed. “I thought that was all May Day rioting and disrupting peace summits and stuff.”

“Oh no, the anarchist philosophy is actually quite profound,” said Colin. “Anarchy states that all systems of values are inherently meaningless, that no political system works, that life as we … well … as Muggles lead it is essentially baseless. They want to improve their condition through the total destruction of the current social order.”

“Sounds dangerous to me,” said Ginny.

“I suppose,” Colin said. “It's an interesting concept, nevertheless.” He chewed thoughtfully. Pieces of chicken tikka fell from the wrap he was eating and scattered across the plate.

“You should tell Devon to get a haircut.”

“I keep trying,” said Colin. “Believe me.”

Ginny changed the subject. “I see the Cannons lost again …”

“What?”

“Oh, never mind,” Ginny said lightly. She looked at her sandwich, and suddenly didn't feel especially hungry anymore.

“So,” said Colin. “Tell me how it went.”

Ginny shook her head. “Not on your life,” she said. “I'll just end up complaining and then you'll accuse me of being bitchy.”

“But you are bitchy, sweetheart,” said Colin. “It's what I like about you.”

Ginny pushed her plate slightly aside. “You know,” she said hurriedly, “I'm not really especially hungry today … you can have that if you'd like it.”

“No, I couldn't,” said Colin. “Now, tell me about your bloody dinner.”

Ginny laughed. “Bloody is about the word for it,” she observed. “Oh, honestly, it couldn't have gone much worse than it did, to be frank.”

“Argument?” Colin asked, sipping at his coffee.

Ginny nodded. “The big one, this time. Mum drops so much shit on me. I felt quite overwhelmed.”

“Only quite?”

“All right, all right … completely overwhelmed,” Ginny said.

Colin finished his wrap and drained his coffee. “Are you eating that?” he asked.

Ginny shook her head. “No, I was force fed enough stew last night to keep me going till doomsday,” she said.

Colin shrugged. “I think you'll get too thin, if you aren't careful …”

“Heavens! You sound just like Mum.” Ginny toyed with her sandwich absent-mindedly.

“She's getting you down, isn't she?” Colin said, leaning across their tiny table, his face suddenly creased with concern.

Ginny nodded. “God, Colin. I just don't know what to do anymore. It's like I'm some sort of black sheep, or something. Mum seems to believe that I actually want to spend my entire life chained to a kitchen stove. I can't do anything right. If I do overtime to earn a bit more money she gets me for overworking myself and neglecting her. If I go on a halfway decent holiday I apparently have ideas above my station - hell, if I go outside Britain I'm getting above my class! If I don't get a man I'm frigid. Mum doesn't know what lesbians are, but if she did she'd probably accuse me of being one. It's just so annoying!”

“There must be someone you can talk to –” Colin began.

“Dad has no opinion on anything,” said Ginny. “I can talk to Ron sometimes, and Bill, but even they get the same after a while. The others, oh don't talk to me about the others. You'd hardly believe a Weasley was capable of thinking outside the box.”

“I thought you weren't into Ron,” Colin said.

“He's the only one I really feel comfortable with,” said Ginny sadly. “He was an Auror, too, so he kind of knows what the whole deal is.”

“I always forget that,” Colin said, munching on Ginny's sandwich. “He seems so unlike an Auror. His mindset and all. I can't see him in the role. He left ages ago though, didn't he?”

Ginny nodded. “Yes. Before we joined up. He left the same year Harry did … he claims he could never lose so much again. I think he thinks it's best if he sticks to playing the boring, provincial politician.”

“He does tend to shield himself,” Colin mused.

“Oh, that isn't the half of it,” said Ginny. “He loved being an Auror – though it mightn't look much like that any more. He got credit for things he did on his own merits, not as Harry's sidekick. I don't think he would ever have left if things hadn't turned out the way they did.”

She was cut off suddenly by the beeping of her pager. Characters scrolled rapidly across the screen.

“Break time's over, kiddo,” she said, sighing. “Back to the classroom.”

STOKE POGES, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. 14:20 BST.


That afternoon found the two agents standing outside a semi-detached Victorian cottage just outside Slough, near the Pinewood Film Studios, where one of the witnesses to a local bank raid lived. There was a very elderly, rust streaked Volkswagen Golf parked outside. A large ginger tomcat slept on the porch.

Ginny rang the doorbell, and they waited. A middle-aged woman, who had the frumpy, outfitted-at-Laura-Ashley look of a social worker about her, opened it.

“Helen Montgomery? I'm Special Agent Ginny Weasley, this is my partner, Special Agent Creevey. We're here about the business at the bank.”

“Oh, hello,” she said. “You must be the people to take my statement. The Police told me you'd be along. You'd better come in.”

They followed her inside, along a musty smelling hallway with floral wallpaper and into a small sitting room with a large blue sofa and two mismatched armchairs. The fireplace held a large potted plant, and the mantelpiece a profusion of framed photographs. An ugly circular rug in the middle of the floor, a large bookcase filled with tattered paperbacks, and a small TV set, topped with a digital reception box, a DVD player and an old and dusty VCR, wires trailing across the carpet to an overloaded socket, completed the décor.

Helen bustled around them, straightening cushions. “I apologise for the way things look around here,” she said. “My husband's out at work, thank heavens. He doesn't like me to have people over. Can I get either of you a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks,” said Ginny. “This won't take long, and we've got other people to see this afternoon.”

“Those uniforms are very unusual,” Mrs Montgomery said, sitting down on one of the armchairs. “You're C.I.D., aren't you?”

Colin shook his head. “No, madam, we're D.A.U.”

“D.A.U.? I've not heard of them,” Mrs Montgomery said suspiciously. “Are you having me on?”

“No, madam,” Colin said. “We at the D.A.U. do not have a sense of humour as far as we are aware.”

Ginny activated the recording charms. “If you could walk us through what you saw, Mrs Montgomery, then we'll be out of your hair.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs Montgomery perked up a little. “Shouldn't you be writing this down?”

“My colleague has an exceptional memory,” Ginny said. “We're training him for the Olympics.”

“Oh, I see,” Mrs Montgomery said softly, although she did not seem convinced. “Well, now. I was queuing to pay my gas bill, you see. My husband would have done it, but he had work so he told me to. I was standing about three places from the front of the queue when these three men came in.”

“Can you describe them for me?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, no, dear,” said Mrs Montgomery. “My husband doesn't like me looking at other men. I suppose I caught a brief glimpse of one of them, maybe. He had dark hair and glasses. There was one tall one and one who was wearing a blue t-shirt. I didn't see much else …”

“Okay, that's no problem,” Ginny wondered privately what anybody did before closed circuit television. “Just walk us through what happened.”

“Very well. They had these … things … things I can only really describe as, well, as wands. I'm sorry I can't be more useful to you.”

“None of them had guns?” Ginny prompted.

“Oh, no, I'd definitely have noticed. It was as if they had wands. Magic ones. You should see what happened next. They were obviously very well prepared young men. They got us all down on the floor … that took some doing, I have a touch of arthritis these days; and then the strangest thing happened.”

“Carry on.”

“They were yelling at the cashier to fill up a bag, pointing these wands at her. I don't know why she obeyed because they weren't guns or anything. I would have said something but I didn't know what they might do next. After all, they might have been armed …”

“I see. Don't worry, Mrs Montgomery,” Ginny said, leaning forwards in her seat. “You did exactly the right thing. Do go on when you feel ready.”

“They took the bag,” Mrs Montgomery said, “and one of them held the door open. The last one out turned round, and waved his wand around a bit, and there was this sort of … sort of light …”

“Can you describe the light to me?”

“It was sort of yellowish …”

Ginny turned to Colin. “Memory Charm?”

Colin nodded. “Mrs Montgomery. Did the man who … waved his wand at you … did he say anything at all while he did it?”

Mrs Montgomery smiled suddenly. “Oh yes, I remember very clearly. It sounded like 'oblivious.'”

“Definitely a Memory Charm,” said Colin.

“A whattie?”

Ginny turned to Colin. “It sounds like a badly performed charm,” she said, confidently. “Something must have shielded her from the effects. Mrs Montgomery, do you wear a pacemaker or any electronic equipment?”

Mrs Montgomery nodded. “Yes, dear. I have a bionic eye. My husband and I had an argument with an apple corer many years ago. He didn't mean to stab me with it. But it's amazing what doctors can do nowadays. It runs off a little computer, and it's just like the real thing –”

“Electronic equipment can interfere with incorrectly performed Memory Charms,” Colin turned to Ginny. “I suspect that's the most likely explanation.”

Ginny nodded. “I agree,” she said. “In which case, we need to use a more powerful variant. Okay, Mrs Montgomery, I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Special Agent Creevey here is just going to hypnotise you and replace some of your memories.”

“Why would he want to …” her voice trailed off into the ether.

“Thank you,” said Colin. He looked directly at Mrs Montgomery, fixing her with his eyes. His pupils dilated, and his irises glowed red.

“Mrs Montgomery. What you witnessed was a bank robbery. A normal bank robbery. The three men were carrying guns, just regular guns. There was no yellow light, you merely saw the sun reflecting off a car windscreen, and there were no wands. When the last man left the bank, he shouted, 'Nobody follow us.' It was a normal bank robbery. Do you understand this?”

Mrs Montgomery nodded.

“That about wraps it up, Colin,” said Ginny, getting to her feet. “Perform the charm and let's get out of this dump.”

“While we're here,” said Colin, ignoring her, “get yourself a life, woman. Your husband is a manipulative, abusive arsehole. You are going to divorce him tomorrow and you are not going to regret doing so for one minute. You are going to stop shopping at Laura Ashley and go instead to Harvey Nicks and buy yourself some proper clothes. You are also going to give this place a make over, because let's face it, the 1940s look is so last century. Do you understand me?”

Mrs Montgomery nodded. Ginny sighed. “I'll be outside in the car,” she said. “Don't get too wand happy, now.”

She walked out of the sitting room and back outside into the sunshine. She sat down on the bonnet of the car and waited. After about two minutes, Colin came back out of the house.

“Mission accomplished,” he said, spinning his wand jauntily in the air. “Now, let's head back.”

Ginny slipped off the bonnet, and walked around to the drivers' side. “You know, Colin,” she said, as she started the engine. “I really ought to report you for that.”

Colin closed his door and fastened his seatbelt. “But you aren't going to,” he said, “because you love me too much.”

Ginny flung the car into gear. “You are evil, C,” she said, as they swung out of the driveway and back onto the main road. “I am now completely convinced that this is the case.”

Colin opened the glove box, and took out a can of Coke. “You know you love it, G,” he said, cracking it open. Warm pop bubbled out of the can.

Ginny accelerated past a dawdling van. Ahead the road sloped down and round towards the A40. There was very little traffic that afternoon. Colin swigged his warm drink and she flicked the radio on as they headed back into London.

“… BBC News. Downing Street has confirmed that both the Foreign Secretary and the Secretary of Defence were on board the Virgin Atlantic flight that crashed on the A4 near Heathrow just seconds away from the runway. This hour, following the recovery of the plane's black box flight recorder, crash investigators continue to comb the wreckage for survivors. It is believed that the crash may have killed up to ten people on the ground as well, although a party of schoolchildren in a minibus were miraculously unharmed and are being treated in hospital for shock and minor injuries. The cause of Britain's worst air disaster since the bombing of a Pan Am airliner over Lockerbie in 1988 is as yet unknown, although eyewitnesses report that the plane was lurching violently from side to side as it approached the airport – there does not appear to have been any explosion on board – although terrorism is not being ruled out. The Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, is expected to release a statement soon. In other news, the Scottish Parliament moved a step closer to complete independence this morning, with the signing of an important treaty at Holyrood House in Edinburgh …”

RON'S HOUSE, ABINGER HAMMER, near GUILDFORD, SURREY. LATER THAT AFTERNOON.

“Are you feeling okay, now?” Ron asked, stepping out onto the patio. He was carrying a hideous floral patterned tray with a very large jug of iced lemonade on it and two plastic tumblers, both with bendy straws. “Not car sick any more?”

“A bit better,” said Ginny. “Thanks.”

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the shadows in Ron's back garden were just beginning to lengthen. Out here, miles away from London, it was slightly cooler, although it was still very hot indeed.

Ron sat down on the other chair, and poured lemonade into the glasses. The ice cubes chinked against the lip of the jug. In the field at the bottom of the garden a tractor was moving slowly along.

“Was it a good drive down?” Ron asked, as they watched the tractor move away and out of sight behind a nearby coppice.

“Traffic on the A3 was a bit mad,” said Ginny. “But after Roehampton it sort of thinned out a bit and got better. Of course, five years ago I could just have Apparated.”

Ron nodded grimly. “Yes, it's a pity they're banning all the old ways,” he said. “We'll all be living as Muggles soon, you mark my words. You know the ban on Portkeys is going to go through the House? We're voting on Friday.”

“Really?”

Ron nodded. “I'm afraid so. Most of the Alliance plans to vote against it, but the Magical Union still control the House – and they want to assimilate. Honestly, I'm all for greater interaction with Muggles, but some of these politicians are ridiculous,” he trailed off. Ginny didn't say anything.

“We need firm leadership,” he went on. “Now isn't the bloody time for wishy-washy idiots. We need to be strong.”

He sipped his lemonade. The tractor chugged slowly back into view again.

“I wonder what they're doing,” Ginny said, conversationally.

“Not entirely sure,” said Ron. “It must be getting near time to start bringing the crop in, though.”

A cabbage butterfly flew past and alighted on a rosebush. Silence descended between the two of them.

“How's work?” Ron asked at length.

“Not too bad,” said Ginny. “We've been given a new case. Quite an important one, as well.”

“Obviously,” said Ron, smiling. His eyes followed the progress of the lumbering tractor. “You're the best, after all.” He paused. “God, I miss it, sometimes.”

“What?”

“The thrill of the chase … the adrenaline … the buzz you got. Being an Auror was really something else, Ginny. You're a lucky lady …” he trailed off. “I wish I still had that excitement in my life.”

“You're lucky too,” said Ginny comfortingly. “You're Reeve of Wessex, for heaven's sake. And you're carrying the Wizarding Alliance Party's nomination for Minister of Magic at the next election. That's an exciting prospect. People are baying for change, you know.”

“Hmm …” sighed Ron. He didn't sound at all convinced by this. “I suppose you're right.”

“What if you get in?” Ginny asked.

“If I get in. Well … obviously we're still planning our manifesto … it's actually going quite well, though we can't agree on a coherent foreign policy,” Ron said. “I like to think I'd make a difference in the current situation, certainly.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know, reverse some of the terms of the Restriction of Wizardry Act. That hit us too hard. The Ministry should've held out for easier terms. After all, it wasn't our fault. We can barely even use magic in our own homes, and that's no way to live. And what with this new fracas Sirius was telling me about … you're working on these bank raids, I take it?” Ron asked.

Ginny nodded. “That's my case,” she said. “You know Sirius wants to bring Draco Malfoy back from Spain to deal with it?”

Ron spluttered. “Whatever for?”

“I don't quite know,” said Ginny. “Sirius has his reasons, I suppose. But he can be so secretive sometimes. It's like trying to talk to a wall. Work's so bloody overwhelming these days – I'm not sure I can cope much longer.”

“You'll do fine,” Ron said. “Auror work is meant to keep you busy, you know, Ginny. Be a bit boring if you weren't running around like mad.”

“There's a lot on at the minute,” Ginny said. “The D.A.U. has bees in its bonnet over these bank raids.”

Ron nodded. “Sure,” he said. “You think it's Dark Wizards?”

“We have to consider every angle,” Ginny noted. “Sirius was making noises about a resurgence in Dark Activity … and you know, I agree with him. It has to be related to the Crisis in some way.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Ron said. “Did you hear about the plane crash?”

“What of it?”

“There were some important people on that plane. Wizards, too. Were you listening to WWN or the BBC again?”

“Yes, I heard about the wizards. These are troubled times,” Ginny lied.

“Absolutely,” said Ron. “The Crisis was just too damaging,” he went on.

“But then, you have Mary to stand by you,” said Ginny. “I don't have anybody.”

Ron smiled. “Yeah … yeah … you're right, of course.”

“She's lovely,” said Ginny. “No … really … I do believe that. I know you think we think she's boring but we don't,” she lied. “She's lovely, really she is.”

Ron looked satisfied at this falsehood. “I'm very lucky, I suppose,” he said at length.

“Yes, of course you are,” said Ginny. She thought briefly of Mary Weasley – the only witch she had ever met who was devoid of any detectable personality traits. Probably, she thought, Mary had some dark secret, maybe involving bodies buried under the back patio … then she reconsidered … Mary was far too dull to be a murderer. Still, she seemed to make Ron happy.

“I can't imagine being single,” said Ron, draining his glass of lemonade. “Not any more. I don't know how you do it, Ginny. I just couldn't face waking up in the morning and not having anybody there for me to share my life with. I just don't work without her.”

“Single life is easier than you think,” Ginny observed. “You can do what you like, eat what you like, walk around the house naked if the fancy takes you.”

Ron raised his eyebrows.

“Um, not that I ever do,” Ginny lied hurriedly. “When you're single you only have one person to please. Everything's about you.”

“That strikes me as a rather selfish existence,” Ron said. “More lemonade?”

“No, thanks. Maybe in a bit.”

They sat in silence for a minute or so.

“I do … I do sometimes wish I had a boyfriend, though,” Ginny said. “It would be nice, after all.”

“Why don't you try and get one, then?” Ron asked. “There're plenty of eligible bachelors out and about on the streets these days.”

“Hmm,” Ginny agreed tacitly. “I'd like to wake up next to someone and to know that he's mine. I miss that tight, gooey feeling you get when you're in love. I had that with Harry and I still miss it.”

Ron turned to look at her. “Well, there's always the Lonely Hearts column in the Daily Prophet if you get desperate. A friend of Mary's works on the advertising desk. I could get her to have a word … perhaps a discount?”

“I don't think I'm quite that desperate yet,” Ginny laughed. “Ron?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to get sloshed?”

Ron looked at the half-drunk jug of lemonade. “Well, it seems a shame to waste it,” he said. “But … let's spike it!”

***

Ginny sighed, kicked off her shoes and relaxed as Ron poured more vodka into her glass.

“Better?” he asked.

“Mmm, thanks,” said Ginny. She closed her eyes and relished the feeling of the warm sun on her face.

“We'll have to move these chairs if we want to stay in the sun,” said Ron. There was a creaking sound as he sat down again. “The shade from the trees will reach us soon.”

“Let's give it a while,” sighed Ginny dreamily.

Ron leaned back in his chair. “This is the life, isn't it? What more could any decent person honestly want? Good booze, sun, company …”

“A boyfriend,” Ginny murmured wryly. Ron snickered.

“Well, get slaughtered then, and let it all come tumbling out,” he said. Ginny opened her eyes. Overhead, a glider drifted on the warm updrafts. She reached for her glass and drank.

“I haven't had sex for five years,” Ginny remarked absently. “Hey, Ron … do you have a good-looking friend or possibly even a houseplant that would take me out to dinner this Saturday?”

“Do you think you and Harry would ever have got married?” Ron asked casually.

Ginny turned to look at him. “I don't know,” she said. “The way things were going … maybe … maybe not. It was seven years ago, after all. I hardly remember him in a lot of ways.”

“What was that other guy's name?” Ron asked.

“Vile Richard?”

“That's the fellow. What was wrong with him?”

“He was vile,” said Ginny simply. “Also he washed dishes at the Leaky Cauldron for a living when he told me he was a vampire slayer. Anyway, he was a rebound thing. Hung like a snail, too.”

“Ginny!”

“He was.”

“Oh, and Harry?”

“I'm not going to talk about Harry's … equipment,” Ginny giggled.

“You did love him, though?”

Ginny nodded, and sipped her wine. “Oh yes, without a shadow of a doubt,” she said. “Harry was wonderful. He was good and kind and genuine and he never put his dirty pants in the laundry … but I still loved every misguided inch of him. He was my match. My equal. And after he left I found I … like you don't work without Mary, that I just didn't work without him. I suppose that's what put me off men.”

Ron didn't reply.

“And now he's off … Merlin alone knows where, and I seriously doubt I'm ever likely to see him again,” she said, hinting.

“He's doing … I won't say well. He's holding it together, albeit barely,” Ron said to her softly. “We haven't spoken in a few months, but he seemed okay last time we met. I certainly wouldn't recommend you getting together again.”

Ginny turned to look at Ron. “Why does he speak to you?” she asked.

Ron smiled wryly, and twiddled his thumbs. “Actually, we barely talk at all these days. I've a family. I'm part of this one big happy Weasley family military-industrial complex,” he said with a slight grin. “Harry works with the vice squad, sleeps around, you know the deal. For a while, I think Harry liked to keep up with what was going on. Perhaps it made him feel safer, or something. He was still in love with you for a long time after you split.”

Ginny looked mournful.

“Then he decided he couldn't show his face in the wizarding world again,” said Ron. “I guess the guilt just ate him up. Harry isn't exactly emotionally balanced …”

“Living in a cupboard does that to you,” Ginny said quietly.

“Yeah. But he seems happy. Inasmuch as Harry is ever happy. He's got a flashy Jaguar and an expensive cocaine habit.”

“Girlfriend?”

“A string of cheap tarts,” said Ron, “a string of cheap tarts and a couple of illegitimate kids in various parts of London. He doesn't see them – the mothers took out a court order to force him to pay maintenance.”

“What are the kids called?” Ginny asked.

“I haven't the foggiest,” said Ron. “I've never even met them.”

There was another dense and rather impenetrable silence.

“I can't imagine being kept apart from my kids,” Ron mused.

Ginny scoffed. “There's hardly much chance of that happening,” she said. “Everybody knows how picture perfect Ron Weasley's life is – an idyllic childhood in every sense of the word led into five years service in the Second Voldemort War during which you covered yourself with glory, then got married and –”

“Scared,” Ron said, quietly. “I got scared.”

Ginny turned to look at him. “You always say that,” she said. “You say you could never stand to lose so much again –”

“I couldn't,” said Ron. “Not ever. Not in a million years.”

“And what if you carry the party's nomination?” Ginny went on. “In a few months you could be Minister of Magic.”

Ron nodded. “Yes. That scares me too,” he said quietly.

GINNY'S FLAT, PUTNEY. 20:30 BST.

Ginny arrived home at her flat on the top floor of a converted Victorian mansion block at about half past eight. She closed the front door and waved her wand to turn the lights on

A small pile of junk mail lay on the doormat: an application to apply for a credit card she already had, a book club circular, an offer to peruse a fine set of Royal Wedding commemorative plates for fourteen days without obligation, and a holiday brochure she had ordered – the cover showed a palm fringed Thai beach. She binned everything save the brochure straight away, and then walked through into the kitchenette. In such intense summer heat, she always kept a bottle of tap water in the fridge, which she took out now and drank from gratefully.

Then she opened the French windows onto the roof terrace. She had been lucky to come by this property. The terrace was not especially large, but it was private, and held just enough space for a couple of sun loungers, a few hardy plants in large terracotta pots, and a foldaway rotary washing line.

A commuter train rattled along the line below her. Songbirds struggled to be heard over the incessant hum of traffic. The setting sun was casting beams of golden light over the city. Somewhere nearby a police siren wailed.

Ginny sighed, and went back indoors. She had furnished the flat according to her own taste, in complete contrast to Ron's chintz-filled imitation of a Muggle home, Ginny eschewed carpets, doilies and horrid flowery wallpaper for bold Ikea furniture, woodblock floors … and candles, lots and lots of candles.

The old, original fireplace was long since boarded up as a safety precaution, but the hearth and the mantelpiece were still intact, and upon the mantelpiece sat two things that were very precious to Ginny: a small jewelled box, bought in a bazaar on holiday in Iran, and a single photograph of Harry. She picked the photo up and looked at it.

She'd taken the photo shortly before Harry's twenty-third birthday, at the height of the Second Voldemort War. Amongst all the carnage, death and destruction that the wizarding world had wrought upon itself, somehow the two of them had managed to build a relationship that Ginny had believed would last until they died.

Harry was almost impossibly handsome. Gone was the awful, untended hair of childhood, replaced by a short cropped, elegant style, a little spiky at the front. His glasses were small and sleek and Italian. His scar shone out like some kind of homing beacon.

Harry turned slightly so that he was facing the camera, and his face cracked into a broad grin. However bad things were when they had split up, she knew that this Harry, the one in the photograph, would always have a grin and a laugh for her. This Harry still loved her.

Suppressing a slight lump that was tickling the back of her throat, Ginny set the photograph back down on the mantelpiece – Harry winked and pulled a silly face at her, before disappearing out of shot entirely – and walked swiftly into the tiny bedroom. She switched on a light, as it was quite dark enough already, and, kneeling down beside the double bed – Ginny was nothing if not hopeful – she pulled a large cardboard box out from underneath it. A fine coating of dust had settled all over it. She blew the worst of it away before lifting the lid.

Sitting on top was an old envelope, sealed at the back with red wax, imprinted with the arms of Saint Mungo's Hospital. The seal was unbroken, yet Ginny knew well what the envelope contained.

She took a deep breath, and broke the seal open. Then she lifted the flap of the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of parchment, a certificate, which she extracted …


Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

Certificate of Mortality

I hereby bear witness to the death of Ms. Hermione Anne Granger this 26^th day of December in the year 2003 A.D. I have confirmed the identity of the body in the presence of the Registrar of Deaths Horace Weintraub and I have taken possession of the effects of the deceased.

Moreover, I understand that the body of the deceased has been thoroughly examined by a mortician, and that the coroner has declared the cause of death to be strychnine poisoning.

Signed and witnessed on the 26^th December 2003 by:

Harry James Potter
Virginia Margaret Weasley
William Michael Weasley
Ronald Clarence Weasley
Draco Sextus de Mayneord Plantagenet-Malfoy

Signed: Horace Weintraub. Registrar of Deaths.

Ginny looked at it, read it again a couple of times. This was the first time she had seen the certificate in nine years, even though she remembered its sealing as if it were only yesterday. They had been in a nicely furnished ante-chamber at Saint Mungo's, with a fire blazing, a Christmas tree decked with candles in one corner, and several large and overstuffed sofas. It had been hard to believe that the next room was clinical, austere and lit by harsh artificial lights … and that it contained a single body, wrapped in muslin and ready for interment, lying upon a gurney.

Sniffing, she tucked the certificate back inside its envelope, and set it carefully down on the floor next to the box.

She pulled out a bundle of yellowing letters, tied together with red ribbon. There were close on to two hundred of them. It was just possible to make out the lingering scent of lavender. She discarded them quickly.

Underneath the letters were two ledgers, filled with line upon line of Ginny's tiny handwriting, and underneath that, a framed photograph. Gold lettering charmed to scroll across the bottom of the frame read 'Hogwarts School Leaver's Ball. June 30^th 1998.' She had not set eyes upon it for some years. It showed her, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville Longbottom, all arm in arm on a Mediterranean terrace, overlooking an aquamarine blue sea. Their faces were streaked with fiery hues as the sun set in the background. Ginny could almost smell the pine woods, hear the music and the laughter, taste the wine and smell the food.

“Close your eyes.”

Ginny did so. She felt something cold bump against her neck.

“Now you can open them. What do you think of it?”

Ginny opened her eyes, and turned to look in the mirror. Hanging around her neck on a silver chain was the most beautiful amber pendant.. It shone against the pale skin of her neck.

“It's lovely,” she said.

“I'm glad you like it,” said Hermione. “I thought it'd go well with that dress you bought.”

“Oh, it will,” said Ginny. “Thanks.” She was beyond speechless. She didn't think anybody had ever given her anything so nice before. She was very proud.

“I thought you deserved it,” said Hermione. “Between you and me, I overheard Professor Vector say your Arithmancy exam was one of the best in the school.”

“I hope you didn't buy this because I got good grades,” said Ginny, smiling at her reflection.

Hermione slipped up behind her, and adjusted the necklace so that it sat better.

“Not at all,” she said. “You're one of the best friends I've ever had, Ginny. I just wanted to … well … to say thank you. Remember all the times when Harry and Ron were being bloody unbearable to me?”

Ginny smiled. “That happened rather too often,” she said.

Hermione laughed. “Yes, I suppose it did, rather,” she said. “Now, I think your dress is going to need taking in a bit. You've lost weight and we want it to look nice for Harry, don't we?”

“To be quite honest,” said Ginny, as she unbuttoned her blouse. “I don't think Harry'd notice my clothes if I showed up in a maid's outfit. He's that besotted, the poor creature.”

“I'm sorry you have to suffer him,” said Hermione in jest.

“Actually, I rather adore the constant attention,” said Ginny. “What girl doesn't dream of getting flowers owled to her in full view of the school?” She hung her blouse on a coat-hanger. “Shall I wear sexy undies or boring pants?” she asked.

“I think,” said Hermione, “I think you should ask yourself what Harry would like?” she winked.

Ginny pretended to be scandalised. “Me! In a sexual relationship with dear Harry? Ron will kill him if he tries anything.”

“Very probably,” laughed Hermione, hanging up Ginny's clothes for her. “But Ron isn't to know, is he? I'll be busily distracting him.”

Ginny grinned wickedly. “You've won me over,” she said. “Leopard skin thong it is, then….”

She was cut off by a sudden knocking at the door of the bedroom. She grabbed her dressing gown hastily, wrapping it round her and securing the cord about her waist.

“Who is it?” Hermione called.

Ginny could hear the sound of impatiently shuffling feet outside. It could only conceivably be Harry.

“Just a moment,” Hermione said, winking at her. She skipped over to the door, and unbolted it. It was Harry, red-faced from the climb upstairs and looking quite earnest.

“Are you nearly ready?” he began. “We want to go soon – oh ...”

He stopped short upon catching sight of Ginny. “I'll take that as a no, then,” he said. “Your Mum said to tell you if we don't leave soon we'll miss our Portkey.”

Ginny grinned seductively at her boyfriend. “Harry?” she started.

“What?”

“Do you think I should wear my leopard skin thong?”

Harry went pink, gurgled incoherently, and then vanished. The door banged shut, and both girls listened as he stumbled quickly downstairs.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Hermione laughed. “Now Ron will kill you, too.”

“My underwear is none of Ron's business,” said Ginny. “Besides, it was worth it just to make Harry go a funny colour.”

She stopped. Her eyes flitted across the room to the window. Outside, the late afternoon sun was just beginning to sink behind the woods at the back of the Burrow.

“I'll miss you guys,” she said softly.

“You'll still see us,” said Hermione. “It isn't exactly as if we're going away for ever,” she stopped. “And you're not, are you?”

“I hadn't any immediate plans,” said Ginny. “Besides, I can't go anywhere at the minute.”

“This bloody war,” said Hermione.

“At Hogwarts it doesn't seem so bad,” Ginny started, selecting the inappropriate underwear from her chest of drawers. “Dumbledore at least does a good job of shielding us … and everyone knows You-Know-Who is still scared of him. Now it's like we're being thrust into this horrid, messed up world. I don't think I'm ready for that.” She turned back to Hermione.

“We've all had to grow up very fast,” she said. “Hey – at least I'll be getting three years at Cambridge. Whereas Harry and Ron just had to rush out straight away and join the fight. They didn't give a thought to their careers after the war's over. Those boys are so gung-ho it beggars belief … ” she trailed off.

Ginny smiled.

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “Come on … get dressed. This is going to be the best evening of your life, Ginny.”

“Then let's make it so,” Ginny said, smiling.


JULY 30^th 2012.

LONDON. 09:35 BST.

Ginny was in a peculiarly upbeat frame of mind as she headed into London on the Tube that morning. As the train rattled across Putney Bridge, the morning sun glinted off the surface of the Thames – now cleaner than it had been at any other time in history, and she felt filled with optimism.

Nor could the lousy buskers at Leicester Square Station dent her mood, or the crowds of commuters surging along the pavements. It was already very hot outside. Businessmen were loosening their ties and doffing their jackets as Ginny crossed over Charing Cross Road and headed for the Leaky Cauldron. All around her the pavement cafes were bringing tables and chairs out into the dappled shade of the plane trees. A huge banner advertising a 'Reclaim The Streets' march was strung across the street.

The Leaky Cauldron was a haven of quiet and coolness that morning. Ginny slipped straight through without stopping, and went out the back way into Diagon Alley. Beauchamp House was only a short walk away, and ten minutes later she was being ushered into Sirius' office by his secretary.

To her considerable surprise, only one other person was in the office, and he wasn't Sirius by any stretch of the imagination. The man sitting in Sirius' chair was about her age, thirty-one or thirty-two, probably. He had the evenly tanned skin of a man who actually lives in a hot climate, rather than spending two weeks a year toasting himself there. The warm tones of his skin made his hair stand out even more. It was a striking platinum blond, long and swept back and immaculately kept. He was leaning back in the chair as if he owned the place, and was dressed casually in Muggle clothes, a pair of the very latest smart jeans and a tight grey silk t-shirt. Of course, she recognised him immediately.

“Special Agent Virginia Weasley,” the man said, toying with a file on the desk – a file Ginny recognised, with a surge of sudden anger, as her own. “I never thought I'd see the day.”

“Good morning, Malfoy,” Ginny said coldly. She hung her handbag on the back of one of the other chairs. “It's been a while.”

Draco looked idly around Sirius' office. “Yes, it has,” he said. “You know, I got off my plane yesterday and I suddenly remembered why I left this country in the first place. Everyone is so bloody cold and stuck up. I can't stand it.”

Ginny pulled out her chair, and sat down. “Well … I'm really pleased to see you, too, Malfoy.”

Draco laughed. “Stop it. You fucking hate me and you're not going to make a secret of it. Believe me, nothing would please me more than to be back in Spain.”

“Yes, I heard that was where you went,” Ginny said acidly. “You couldn't face your responsibilities here, and now you can't face your responsibilities there.”

“Crap – I had no responsibilities here,” Draco said. “You don't know the half of it, Weasley.”

“So tell me. What are you doing in England?”

“I just broke up with my girlfriend,” Draco said. He shrugged. “I had an intriguing offer and I thought I might give it a go – seeing as I'm not tied down any more.”

“I'm not as green as I'm cabbage looking,” Ginny quipped. “I know more about you than you ever thought possible.”

Draco sneered, and slid her file across the desk to her. “That's nice, dear,” he said, in a patronising tone. “But you shouldn't believe everything that Potter told you. That file makes interesting reading, by the way. I could build an interesting psychological profile of you from your work records alone.”

“Try me,” Ginny said, folding her arms, aware that Draco was trying to deflect the subject of their conversation away from himself by throwing up walls everywhere. He clearly didn't want to let anybody in.

“I'd say,” said Draco, twirling a pen round and round between his fingers, “that you have a fiercely independent streak. You don't take kindly to rules or authority. You've learned how to play the system and how to work it to your advantage – which it most certainly has. You've risen through the ranks with unusual speed which suggests to me that someone in this place is a fan of your methods, which are unorthodox, to say the least. You've clearly modelled yourself on someone else – I suspect I wouldn't be a million miles out if I suggested that his first name was Harry. You get the results that you want – but you're not happy at all. If I'm any judge of character, a lot of people in your life don't want you to follow the paths you're following. At best these people are apathetic, and at their worst they are downright unsupportive. You respond to their criticism by throwing yourself into your work at the expense of your social life. You are in perpetual fear that you will wake up one morning and find that you have become Bridget Jones.”

Ginny didn't react.

“It doesn't take a genius to work you out, Ginny, and I just did so,” he said. “Why did you join the D.A.U., Gin?”

“I thought –”

“You were following your boyfriend. Well, that's sweet,” he sneered, “but it's fucking stupid, too. Your entire career is based on nothing more than a failed relationship. How deeply sad. How very amusing.”

Ginny looked nervously at her hands, and then back up at Draco. He sat up properly in his seat, and regarded her with detachment.

“You never got over Potter, did you?” Draco observed idly.

“What do you mean about Harry?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, don't pretend to be stupid, Gin. You're an extremely intelligent woman, an Oxford graduate, I see. Stupidity doesn't really suit you, and it never has. Harry abandoned you –”

“We were growing apart for a long time,” said Ginny coldly.

“Yes, and I'm a teapot named Erika,” Draco drawled. “You never got over him, it's painfully obvious that you're still carrying a torch for the sad bastard, even though he's probably dead – drunk himself into an early grave, I daresay –”

“Harry is still alive,” Ginny cut in angrily.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “That isn't what I heard,” he said. “I heard he had a bust up with the boss man and stormed out, never to be seen amongst wizards again –”

“That much is true,” Ginny said. “He works for the Metropolitan Police Force, these days. He's just not in contact with me very much.”

“As good as dead, then,” Draco smirked. “I think that you're idealising something that never existed. Potter always was a pathetic little runt. All the same, it's odd. I never thought I'd see the day when precious Potter was reduced to an alcoholic wreck. Funny how things work out, isn't it? The Golden Boy is a pathetic burnout at thirty-one, while the one they scorned is a successful Consejo Operative.”

“Are you implying I'm obsessed with Harry?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, touché!” Draco drawled. “Very well done indeed. How long is it since you got laid, Ginny?”

Ginny flushed bright scarlet. “And you weren't obsessed with Harry in any way whatsoever?” she taunted.

“I would say it was … in my interests to regard his progress,” Draco said cagily. “I wouldn't say I was obsessed with him.”

“And you were never jealous of him, either?”

“No. I'm disgustingly rich and very pretty. Potter wore cast off clothes and had hair like a Beatle.”

“Funny,” Ginny said. “Harry always used to say you were wildly envious. He thought you coveted his fame. When you were working together, he laughed about it all the time. He thought it was funny, the way you idolised him.”

“Potter was hardly the best judge of character,” Draco said. “Look at the bunch of deadbeats he fell in with, after all.”

Ginny scowled.

“I'm surprised you'd have the guts to show your face around here again,” she retorted.

“Me?” Draco asked. “Why ever do you say something like that? I could've come back anytime I wanted …”

He trailed off.

Ginny felt smug. She watched as Draco shifted awkwardly. Clearly the confidence was some sort of act. She suspected something.

“So why did you come back? I mean, aside from the girlfriend thing?” she asked. “I'd have thought you exiled yourself pretty much permanently.”

Draco looked up. “I came back because Commissioner Black is offering me a weighty salary and a pair of golden handcuffs to join your team –”

“Join Team Alpha?” Ginny exclaimed incredulously. “But there're only ever four agents –”

“So the Commissioner's Secretary was good enough to inform me,” Draco said. “However, it would appear that for little old me they are prepared to make some kind of an exception.”

“Huh … good for you,” Ginny snorted.

“I don't know what this is about either, Weasley,” Draco snapped. “Two days ago I was working on a very important case for the Consejo Internacional down on the Costa del Sol. Beats me why they're prepared to pulled me off it.”

“Well, I'd have been just as pleased if you'd stayed in Spain,” Ginny said. “What are they offering you? Immunity from prosecution?”

“Immunity from prosecution?” Draco scoffed. “Why ever do you ask?”

“Just because you came round to our side in the end,” Ginny said, “doesn't mean you've got a blank slate, Malfoy. There're plenty of people out there who would cheerfully gut you for some of the things you've done. And you've got the Dark Mark to prove it.”

“No, I never got one,” said Draco.

“Harry said –”

“Yes, Potter always did have a way with the truth,” Draco said. “He was like that at Hogwarts too: quite happy to bend the rules if it would serve his nasty little purposes. Potter isn't the minor deity you still seem to think he is. Best you ditch the torch you're carrying for him. Concentrate on more attainable, prettier targets.”

Ginny scowled again. “You sicken me.”

“The feeling's mutual,” Draco retorted. “It doesn't really surprise me Potter's been filling you full of his bullshit. He always struck me as rather insecure about his own abilities.”

“Don't give me that,” Ginny snapped. “You haven't changed at all since you left. You were an arsehole then and you're an even bigger arsehole now.”

“Truth is,” said Draco, ignoring her, “I saved his life. Truth is I saved his life on more than one occasion. Truth is, Ginny, though Potter may not have wanted to admit it, Hermione would still be alive if he had listened to me.”

“Don't say that,” said Ginny. “Nobody can know how things would have turned out.”

“I turned up hard evidence that should've convinced Potter not to attend the Ball … and especially not to take Hermione with him,” Draco declared. “He was too goddamned stuck up to even look at it.”

“You were just playing little games with Harry,” Ginny said. “You wouldn't know loyalty or friendship if they bit you on the arse. You went to Argentina out of pathetic self-interest.”

“I went to Argentina to stop myself from being fucking hunted down and murdered! Outwardly I was one of Voldemort's spies,” hissed Draco. “I couldn't stay in England, especially once people knew that I was a double agent. They'd have fucking killed me. I had to go.”

“Like you never actually stopped serving You-Know-Who. You just twisted your allegiances to serve your own purposes. I don't trust double agents – never have done. They have a tendency to get confused – a tendency to forget what side they're really fighting on,“ Ginny began. She was cut off as the door to the office banged open and Sirius came in.

“Enough fucking around, Malfoy. Leave my chair to me.” He scowled, brushing papers out of the way. He set down a cardboard holder containing three plastic cups of coffee on the desk.

“Naturally, Commissioner,” Draco acceded, standing up.

“I wasn't sure how you took yours,” Sirius said, seating himself and removing his outer robe, “so I just got an Americano.”

“That'll do fine,” said Draco, taking a seat beside Ginny.

“Ginny, a dry cappuccino, like always,” Sirius said, pushing one of the cups towards her. Ginny thanked him and lifted the lid.

“Right,” Sirius started, when they had all made themselves comfortable. “Now, I imagine you have both made each other's acquaintance?”

Ginny glared at Draco. “You could say that,” she said.

“Good … well, Ginny, as the Unit Commander of Team Alpha, I wanted you to be present this morning. The fact is, as I'm sure you've both probably worked out, Special Agent Weasley will be your Commanding Officer, Malfoy –”

“Now hang on!” Draco interrupted. “Nobody said anything about superiority. I haven't even taken the position yet!”

“And I'd be extremely happy if you didn't,” Ginny muttered under her breath. It was most unprofessional of her, but fortunately neither of the two men noticed.

“You will,” Sirius said. “I think you'll find we're both working on the same wavelength here, Malfoy –”

“I don't get –“ Draco started.

“The Consejo has been putting a lot of time and effort into breaking an international crime ring,” Sirius went on. “Am I right or am I not, Mr Malfoy?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Draco said. “I was on secondment to the Consejo Regional – in Granada. My field is hardly international syndicates. You'll excuse me, Commissioner, if I say that I am finding this whole interview rather puzzling. Now, I'm booked on the afternoon flight to Malaga, so I'd appreciate it if we could get down to business.”

“Let me explain,” said Sirius. “As I understand it, you've been having a few problems with bank robberies in your jurisdiction.”

“Well, nothing out of the ordinary,” said Draco.

Sirius pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and walked over to the office window. “Don't play silly games, Mr Malfoy,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on the balls of his heels. “You surely aren't be so foolish to believe that the D.A.U has not kept a detailed dossier of your movements and activities since you left Britain. Believe me when I say that there is nothing in your life, personal or professional, that I could not find out at a moment's notice. I know your bank details, the combination to the safe you keep behind that Monet print in your bedroom, I even know the names and addresses of all five of the women you were casually fucking behind your girlfriend's back. However secretive the Consejo may want to be, the entire outfit has been effectively compromised by British Intelligence since the early 1980s. When I say you have been having problems with bank robbers, I know that you have been having problems with bank robbers.”

“Well,” said Draco, fumbling for words in his embarrassment. “I suppose … yes. But it's hardly an international affair …” he trailed off. “Is it?”

Sirius nodded. “It most certainly is,” he said. “We've been investigating related incidents here as well. The Consejo is admittedly good at covering things up, but they've been tracking similar criminal activities in several other Spanish-speaking countries. Mind you, most of them are too thick to string two coherent leads together.”

“I see,” said Draco. He looked uneasy. “You say you knew everything about me?”

Sirius nodded.

“What colour are my pants?”

“Black silk. Boxers. With little dragons on them,” Sirius said without hesitating. Draco reddened.

“And just what are my bank details?” Draco asked.

“You have € 2,311.47 in a standard savings account at the International Bank of Wizardry. Your account number is 567,300 and your PIN is 1980 … unoriginal, even for you. In addition to this sum you have around £23,000 in a high interest savings account at Gringotts. Your last withdrawal from the I.B.W. was from a Cirrus cash-point on Leicester Square at 8:15 a.m. this morning. You took out thirty pounds in Muggle money, and ten Galleons. From there you went to Starbucks, where you bought a chocolate fudge brownie and a tall latte. You read the Independent and glanced through a copy of Time Out. From Starbucks, you proceeded past the Warner Village Cinema, where you checked the listings. You paused briefly outside the window of a sex shop. You crossed Charing Cross Road at approximately 8:44 a.m. and nearly got run over by a taxi. The licence plate of the taxi read LD 55 YBZ. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Draco looked a little stunned.

“No, I … I don't think so,” he said. “Can I ask how –”

“Classified,” said Sirius, smiling at him. “Under the terms of the 2011 Restriction of Wizardry Act the D.A.U. is compelled to monitor all wizarding activity in the United Kingdom very closely. You can't even cast a spell without us noticing it.” He spoke with a note of bitterness.

“Clearly an impressive set-up,” Draco said, nonplussed. He glanced around the office. “Are we being watched now?” he asked.

Sirius nodded. “Recording charms are relaying this information to one of the most sophisticated data gathering centres on the planet, which just happens to lie underneath this building. I'd be happy to show you around.”

“That might be nice,” said Draco. He glanced at Ginny with raised eyebrows, as if to say, 'what the hell kind of nutter is this guy?' Ginny, however, knew that Sirius was merely playing a very clever game with his subject.

“Good, I'll arrange that,” said Sirius. “Now. As you no doubt remember from your time employed with us, the D.A.U. is one of the slickest and best crime-fighting organisations in the world. We outdo the M.C.I.A. – we certainly outdo the Consejo Internacional. There are those who rank us above Interpol and even the F.B.I. I am offering you a salary of 80,000 Galleons per annum, with full benefits for you and your life partner, pension and London weighting. You will also have a car from the pool. All our cars are specially adapted by the McMurron & Finch Magical Coachworks and carry an extensive range of features. You will also be able to take advantage of our employee fitness centre and a range of tailored financial advice, as well as assistance in finding accommodation –”

He was cut off by a smart rapping at the door.

“Come in!”

The door opened a fraction. Ginny turned to see Colin poking his head in.

“Sorry, sir. I was told to come straight up,” he said softly.

“No problem, Agent Creevey,” said Sirius. “Take a seat – we're just in the process of walking Mr Malfoy here through his position …”

At this, Draco turned to look at Colin. Colin stopped in mid-step, and his jaw dropped a mile.

“When you've quite finished, Agent Creevey,” Sirius said impatiently. “We have plenty to get through this morning.”

Colin seemed to come to his senses. He shook his head, as a shaggy dog might after romping in water. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I got a little caught up with my thoughts.” He sidled over to the desk, pulled out the other remaining chair and sat down, crossing his legs.

“Um, carry on,” he said, after a brief pause.

“Yes, thank you,” said Sirius. “Now, Mr Malfoy, would you like a little time to consider our offer?”

“I would like to know what the job entails,” said Draco coldly. “I mean, at 80K I'm already pretty sure you're not going to have me swabbing down floors or working in the canteen – however I confess to remaining just a little bit confused.”

“Well,” said Sirius. “As we have established, worldwide there has been a sudden rise in crime perpetrated against Muggle targets by wizards. The D.A.U. are naturally very, very concerned about this. Following and taking into account the events of the Crisis in 2010, the reasons for our concern become even more apparent. The Crisis nearly spelled the end of us. Thankfully for us the Muggle government has a vested interest in keeping the fact that there is a secret society in their midst – well, a secret. They were able to cover it up fairly effectively. However, such was the nature of the Crisis that it has resulted in a polarisation of both magical and non-magical attitudes. There are now many in the Muggle world who know of our existence, and should this knowledge enter into the more public domain we would be finished. Equally, the magical media has performed an admirable job of stirring up anti-Muggle feeling –“

“This is all old news,” said Draco.

“I haven't finished yet,” Sirius said, glaring. “I'm sure you'll understand that we cannot allow ourselves to come into conflict with the Muggle world again. It could well be disastrous. The Government has already passed numerous acts restricting the use of magic, such as the unilateral ban on Apparating.”

“So the rise in crime against Muggle targets –“

“Is a source of concern. Exactly right,” said Sirius. “Now, yesterday morning a rather dangerous new factor suddenly appeared in the equation.”

Ginny and Colin glanced at one another.

“Is this about the plane that went down, sir?” Colin asked.

“Ron said something about it yesterday,” Ginny said.

Sirius nodded. “Ron's right,” he said. “The Muggle Secretary of Defence and the Foreign Secretary were both on board the plane when it went down.”

“They were in the States for some conference or other,” Colin said, “I think it was something to do with the UN Security Council. Forgive me, sir, but what exactly does this have to do with bank robbers –”

“Close,” said Sirius. “Ever heard of a place called Pocantico Hills?”

Colin shrugged.

“Should we have done?” Draco drawled.

“No reason for you to know,” said Sirius. “The Rockefellers have an estate there – it's not far from Manhattan. They were there, and so was the Minister of Magic and other top brass from the Ministry.”

“Bloody hell,” Ginny said.

“All strictly hush-hush, of course,” Sirius said. “Several American senators with influence in both the Magical and Muggle worlds also attended the summit. There were financiers, industrialists and consultants with connections in the Magical world, and more than a few world leaders, too. They deliberated on the findings of an earlier summit at Camp David.”

“What does this mean?”

“It means they're trying to avert another Crisis,” Sirius said. “I was faxed these documents by the Ministry this morning. It seems that several major multinationals are covering up widespread fraud. Money is going missing all over the world, and nobody seems to know why, how, or where it's going. Assets are being dumped like crazy. The Muggles are starting to think that the big players are getting wind of another economic crash. And of course, when people start thinking the stock market is going to collapse, the stock market usually does collapse.”

“So the plane crash was no accident?” Colin asked.

Sirius shook his head. “I'm afraid not,” he said. “They showed me the black box recorder yesterday afternoon. A powerful charm shorted it shortly before landing. There was an intense magical signature all over it, and of course our monitoring equipment picked that up. This is terrorism, but Magical terrorism, of a sort we haven't seen before. It was directed against Muggles and Wizards alike – it was killing without discrimination – now that's dangerous. We're skating on thin enough ice as it is.”

“Do we know how the charm worked?” Ginny asked.

“Haven't the foggiest,” said Sirius. “The black box has been removed by the aviation authorities, and they don't intend to let us near it anytime soon. As far as the detail of the crash itself goes, we know that charm somehow sent the plane's on-board systems haywire. It interfered with the electronic equipment on board the aircraft, and caused it to crash.”

Colin glanced at Ginny.

“Where does Team Alpha come in?” Colin asked. “How does this relate to our bank robbers?”

“I'll tell you,” said Sirius. “We have to move fast and we have to move quickly. Malfoy, I brought you on board specifically because of your work during the Second Voldemort War.”

Draco nodded.

“You are one of the best anti-terrorist agents in the world,” Sirius went on. “I don't expect you to let me down on this one. Agent Weasley, you will be heading up this operation. Use Malfoy's expertise … trust him … he knows what he is talking about.”

“What about me?” Colin asked.

“I intend to exploit your talent in forensic anthropology,” Sirius said. “You'll be spending a lot of time in the laboratory, I'm afraid, Agent Creevey. Agents Kemp and Branford will back up all three of you. We also need a Muggle liaison.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“Someone to work through the connections in the Muggle world,” Sirius said. “Someone with an intimate knowledge of the criminal mind, and an intimate knowledge of the criminal underworld. Someone who knows how to help us –”

“Do you have anybody in mind for that particular job?” Ginny asked.

Sirius said. “Yeah, we have a few leads, as it happens.”

“And what if I refuse?” Draco asked.

Sirius smiled. “That's just it,” he said. “You can't refuse.”

“Yes I can!” Draco snapped. “I don't want to work under a Weasley. It's unheard of.”

Sirius leaned back, and folded his arms. “You can't refuse, Malfoy,” he repeated, a little more slowly this time. “The Consejo Internacional have transferred you.”

“What?”

“I can't stress enough the magnitude of what we are getting involved in,” Sirius went on.

“Yeah, yeah, can that bollocks,” Draco interrupted angrily. “The Consejo have transferred me?”

Sirius nodded. “Indeed,” he said.

“They can't transfer me …” he began.

Sirius waved a bit of paper at him. It might have been an official document, but it looked more like a phone bill. “They have done,” he said. “It's all here.”

“But … but …”

“But what?”

“I'm … I'm Draco Malfoy,” Draco uttered uselessly.

Colin looked at the floor and snickered, “The man's on fire today.”

“Perhaps you'd like some time to think about it, Malfoy,” Sirius went on.

Draco got to his feet. “Right now all I can think about is missing my fucking plane home.”

“Well,” said Sirius. “Of course, ultimately it is up to you, I suppose. Of course, our very generous pay offer stands. You'd be earning considerably more here in London than say, in a rural office down in Andalucia. The contract is very fair, I feel … very fair indeed. But it's up to you.”

Ginny looked at Draco. Half of her hoped he'd storm out … leave … get out of her life. After all, their re-acquaintance, though brief, had not exactly been a whole lot of fun. But half of her, though, kind of wanted him to stay.

Draco said nothing.

“Well?” Sirius said, after a minute or two.

“You mentioned a Muggle liaison,” Draco began. “You mentioned leads. Is there anybody specific you have in mind. I like to know who I'm working with.”

Sirius nodded. “Oh yes,” he said. “The man's name is Potter, Harry Potter. You might have heard of him?” Ginny was unable to tell whether or not Sirius was being sarcastic at that point.

Draco glared. “We've met,” he sneered. “You want me to work with a substance abusing, alcoholic disgrace to the wizarding world, then?”

Sirius nodded again. “Aye,” he said. “That's the plan.”

Draco, unimpressed, folded his arms. “And where,” he enunciated, slowly, “is the good sense in that little scheme? Forgive me, Commissioner, but I was under the impression that the D.A.U. employed the very best. I was under the impression that you were the best. Or is that merely some hyper-inflated, subjective bullshit that you feel duty bound to feed to all your recruits?”

“Oh, it makes sense,” Sirius began.

“I am not working with Potter,” Draco said.

“Like I said. 80,000 Galleons is a fucking huge amount of money for a year's work,” Sirius said.

“You can't buy me, Commissioner,” Draco replied.

“Also,” Sirius said, “we think Harry might know something we don't.”

JULY 31^ST 2012.

KEW, LONDON, 07:02 BST.

Winking red digital numbers burned across his eyes. An alarm grated on the inside of his skull.

“Shut the fuck up!” Harry yelled.

He lashed out, striking the alarm clock on its side. The plug snapped out of its socket, and the clock fell to the floor, silenced.

Harry burrowed down underneath the duvet. The fan he kept next to his bed on such hot, sweaty nights was still whirring. His head pounded, throbbing with wave after wave of pain. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to die.

He would have to get up. He shrugged off the covers, and reached for the half-empty Smirnoff bottle next to the bed. He poured a generous measure into one of his tumblers, and knocked it back swiftly. The shock of the alcohol searing down his throat almost made him gag. Shaking slightly, he screwed the cap back onto the bottle. There was a pocket mirror on the bedside table, with a faint, powdery residue scattered across the glass. Discarded next to it lay a thin plastic drinking straw.

Harry moaned. He dabbed at the powder with his finger, and rubbed what remained onto his gums in desperation. Then he laid out a line from the last of his stash. He'd have to score later.

Sitting back and savouring the bitter postnasal drip, he became aware of someone else in the bed with him. It was a woman he didn't recall seeing before, not that that was in any way unusual. Dirty blonde hair was strewn untidily across the pillows.

Harry pulled on a ratty dressing gown and, as an afterthought, left a fifty pound note on the table for whoever the woman was and headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He switched on the radio. The calendar in the kitchen showed it was July 31^st, his thirty-second birthday.

The fact barely registered. Neither did the owl, sitting on the railing of the balcony outside his flat.

END OF CHAPTER TWO.
TO BE CONTINUED SOON …