The Orpheus Imperative

THE ORPHEUS IMPERATIVE.

CHAPTER THREE. THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN.

Free to eat and buy anything,

Free to fuck from Paris to Beijing,

And freedom of speech won't feed my children,

Just brings heart disease and bootleg clothing.

Manic Street Preachers, 2000.

31^ST JULY 2012.

RON'S HOUSE, ABINGER HAMMER. 07:15 BST

"It's called anarchy," Ron said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. "It's a Muggle thing. They believe in total freedom to do anything. Bear arms and what have you."

"It sounds rather chaotic," said Mary, sitting up in bed. The TV set on the nightstand was burbling the morning news. "Who'd be a Muggle, eh?"

Ron took up a comb and tried to part his eyebrows.

"... amongst the ideologies considered to be of continuing significance," the TV said, "Anarchy is the only one that has never been tried. Now, here in Russia, the land that gave birth to the great social experiment of the last century, we may yet find out if Anarchism will bring the promised, longed-for utopia, or whether the course of mankind's history is about to take another detour through hell. Last night, a hundred thousand students gathered in Red Square, calling for the resignation of President Elect Boris Zuganov. The demonstration passed without incident, although Moscow Police say they arrested forty-five people, mainly for offences relating to public drunkenness. This morning, the Russian capital is calm, but with troops on the streets in most of the major cities and a tide of civil unrest sweeping the country, for how much longer Russia's capitalist dream can last remains to be seen. This is Shannon Smith, BBC News, Moscow."

Ron set the comb down, and walked round to the bed. He bent down, and kissed Mary on the cheek.

"Take care, darling. Mind the traffic," she said.

"I will," said Ron. "Say goodbye to the kids for me ..."

"Oh, don't forget you're scheduled to speak at the school later," said Mary.

Ron rolled his eyes. "With a secretary like mine," he said, "I don't think there's much chance me forgetting. Take care, now."

It was already a warm morning as Ron walked out to the car and unlocked it. He flung his briefcase onto the passenger seat, removed his jacket, and hung it on the peg in the back. Then he switched on the radio and backed the BMW out of the driveway.

"... is Talk Radio 105.6. We're getting reports that unidentified terrorist factions have launched a concerted attack on natural gas pipelines in the Siberian outback. As yet, these reports are unconfirmed. We will bring you more news as it comes in. In the United States, the Republican Party yesterday launched a concerted bid to return to power in the elections to be held this winter. High on the agenda will be an attempt to break the eight-year Democratic stranglehold on the government and to vanquish from memory the humiliating collapse of the Bush government in 2004 following the President's descent into alcoholism. In Olympic news, there has been further medal success for Britain's athletes in Mumbai, with gold and bronze in the men's 100 metres. Mexico's Juan Merino took the silver. In the women's race, Gabrielle Smith lost out by two tenths of a second to Israel's Gloria Denisovich. Britain now sits tenth in the medal table, one place behind the US ..."

THE CARLTON-BRISTOL HOTEL, LONDON. 08:15 BST.

Draco was being chased by a giant Labrador puppy through a field of cornflowers, their heads bobbing in the breeze when an insistent, constant ringing began to nag gently at the fringes of his sleep-bound consciousness.

He woke up, blinked a couple of times, and picked up the handset.

"Wrstfgl?"

"Mr Malfoy, this is your eight-fifteen wake up call ..."

"Drstfzn," Draco said. "Ank oo."

He replaced the handset, and waved a hand absent-mindedly in the direction of the TV.

"... area of high pressure lodged over Britain means we should see fine, sunny and hot weather for the next few days, certainly over the weekend. That means pollen levels are going to be high all over the Home Counties. Today we can expect a burn time of around twenty minutes in the sun, with temperatures in London topping thirty-four degrees or ninety-five Fahrenheit. If you're heading out to the coast, it'll be a bit cooler, where a light breeze will keep temperatures down in the high twenties. Tonight, it will be hot and sticky, with temperatures not dipping much below twenty-one. Tomorrow will see more of the same. This is BBC London Weather ..."

Draco changed the channel.

"... drought conditions continue. There are now hosepipe bans in force across the region, with Surrey, Berkshire and Kent being the worst affected areas. If we turn to the weather outlook for the rest of the week ..."

"... latest swimsuit fashions, and at eleven-thirty, there's last minute holiday advice, with the best deals from low-cost airlines. So, if you're hitting the beaches in France or Spain this summer, stick with ITV1 throughout the morning ..."

"... standing now outside the Kremlin, where a few moments ago there was a large explosion from within the walls. There is now a plume of black smoke ... dense black smoke rising into the air, we think coming from the area of the main parliament building, where the Duma remains in emergency session. As I'm talking to you now, fire tenders are beginning to arrive at the scene, and there are several news helicopters circling overhead ..."

Draco, who was halfway out of bed, watched the report with interest.

"... coming as it did so soon after the Russian government confirmed that unidentified terrorist factions have blown out a two kilometre section of the Tiksi-Krasnoyarsk Natural Gas Pipeline in the Tunguska Autonomous Region of Siberia, there is little doubt here in Moscow that the two incidents are somehow connected. Dermot."

"Thanks. Well, as Bill mentioned in his report, the Russian government has in the last fifteen minutes confirmed that a major ecological incident has occurred in an area of Siberia known as the Tunguska Autonomous Region. Tunguska, an area of Russia formally known as Evenki, seceded from Moscow following the Civil War of 2004 and lies to the west of the Dead Zone devastated by nuclear conflict. Tunguska's secession was never formally recognised by any authority. Power in the region lies mainly with two logging conglomerates and the owners of the Pipeline, based in Krasnoyarsk, who are said to employ a private army to police their property. So far there has been no comment from the de facto Tunguskan capital of Tura ..."

There was a sharp knocking on the door. Draco hurriedly pulled on boxer shorts and a very faded, very worn T-shirt. Lettering across the back spelled out the legend 'My team beat Gryffindor and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.'

"Who is it?" he called.

"You ordered breakfast to be sent up, sir, at eight-fifteen precisely."

"No I didn't," Draco said, taking the chain off the door and opening it a fraction. Outside stood a trolley, draped with a white linen tablecloth, and standing behind it was a man of about twenty-three years of age, dressed in a red uniform and wearing a peaked hat, cocked at a jaunty angle.

"Mr Malfoy, breakfast for one, no toast and extra orange juice, eight-fifteen," the valet said.

Draco scratched the nape of his neck thoughtfully. Perhaps, he thought, this was all part of the service.

"You'd better come in, then," he said to the man, opening the door. The trolley was duly wheeled into the room, and with it came the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Draco suddenly felt ravenous.

"Just leave it over there," Draco said. "I'll do the rest."

"Thank you, sir."

Draco slipped him a five pound note, and the valet bowed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click. Then he inspected the trolley. There was a pot of strong, black coffee, a jug of what appeared to be freshly squeezed orange juice, a small bowl of fresh fruit and a packet of cereal - Sultana Bran, to be precise.

"Very pleasant," Draco said to nobody in particular. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and then crossed the room to open the window. His room looked out over the street outside, and the noise of the rush hour traffic filtered up to where he stood. It looked like being another beautiful day.

His unsolicited breakfast complete, Draco showered and attired himself for the day in dark grey Armani. Then he meandered down to the lobby.

"Your car is waiting outside," the receptionist said to him, when he enquired about taxis to Charing Cross Road.

"My car?" Draco asked. "I didn't ask for a car."

"You are Mr Malfoy, are you not?"

"Yes, that's me."

"A car with a driver is waiting outside for you," the receptionist said.

He stepped outside into the warm morning air. A doorman bowed smartly to him. A man and a woman, clad in dark black robes, fastened across the neck with gold, were standing next to an old Daimler, with two pennants fluttering from the bonnet, one the royal standard, and the other the blue and white flag of the International Confederation of Wizardry. Their unusual attire went entirely unnoticed by the pedestrians surging past - clearly some sort of disguising charm was at work.

"Mr Malfoy, I presume?"

"Yes, yes," Draco said, shaking hands brusquely. "I take it you're my driver ..."

"Actually, no. I'm Special Agent Branford, this is Special Agent Laura Kemp. We work with Agents Weasley and Creevey on Team Alpha. I understand you met with Commissioner Black yesterday?"

Draco nodded. "And what is this reception committee in aid of, Agent Branford?"

"We're under instructions to escort you to Beauchamp House, Mr Malfoy," Branford went on. "If you'll pardon my rushing you, we really should get moving. There's a lot to get through today."

Draco nodded. "I'm ready," he said. "Let's go."

The drive through central London was as smooth as any Draco had ever had before. The car glided through the traffic like some kind of spectre.

It was when it became clear to Draco that they were not heading for Charing Cross Road at all, but deeper into the City itself, that he became slightly worried. He wondered if he ought to have asked to see Branford's ID, or something. They sped along Fleet Street towards St Paul's Cathedral, before turning left at the Bank of England.

Draco gave a slight cough. "I was under the impression that we were heading for Beauchamp House," he began, "where I was yesterday."

Branford turned around in the front passenger seat - Kemp was driving - and smiled. "We are," he said. "There just aren't any facilities for cars at Diagon Alley, so we have to use a different entrance."

The Daimler stopped outside the service entrance of a tall, glass skyscraper, arcing trails of shimmering blue into the morning sky above them. The roadway sloped down to what appeared to be a large underground car park. There were traffic lights and warning signs and speed bumps. As Kemp drove them down the ramp, Draco spotted closed circuit television cameras swivelling to follow them. He was aware of a large, black Transit van tailing them as they went.

"This is our main vehicular entrance," Branford explained, as a barrier was raised for them. The ramp began to bend around to the left in a spiral. Giant fans hung from the ceiling, suspended overhead on thick steel girders.

At the bottom of the ramp they passed through another security checkpoint. Guards in smart dress robes observed them pass by, and Draco could have sworn he detected the barrel of a gun swivelling to follow their progress. A steel-lined tunnel, easily big enough for two very large lorries to pass side by side, stretched away ahead of them.

"Not long now," Branford said, above the constant roar of the extractors. "We are now fifty feet under the streets of London," he kept up a running commentary. "The underground facilities at D.A.U. headquarters were commissioned in 2006, and completed in 2010, two years ago. Most of our vital facilities are housed in the underground complex here at Bishopsgate. Although it is part of Beauchamp House, the building you were in yesterday, its location is distorted by very advanced magic. Similarly, most of our-above ground facilities are located in various buildings throughout central London. This minimises the risk of the entire D.A.U. being compromised in a terrorist attack."

"You get terrorist attacks often?" asked Draco.

"We've not had one yet, Mr Malfoy," Branford said. "A bit different to your day, I'll wager."

Draco nodded. Back during the War, the facility at Beauchamp House had been all they had, indeed, all they had needed. But with the threat of Voldemort decisively eliminated, he did find himself wondering exactly why the Department should have gone to all this trouble. What were they afraid of? Surely with the recent crisis, and under the terms of the Restriction of Wizardry Act, they would be scaling back their operation instead of expanding it so very rapidly.

His train of thought was interrupted at that point as the car drew to a halt. There was a set of traffic lights, which turned red at their approach and more security guards, these ones very obviously packing guns. A very obvious sign proclaimed, 'D.A.U. Headquarters. Beauchamp House. Bishopsgate Facility Entrance. Checkpoint 2a. These premises are private and trespassers will be prosecuted. Use of deadly force authorised.'

"Well," Branford said. "Nearly there."

Kemp wound down the window, and one of the guards strode around to the driver's side of the Daimler.

"Papers, please."

These were duly handed over.

"Special Agents Kemp and Branford, Team Alpha, Associate Agent Draco Malfoy," Kemp said.

The first guard handed Kemp the papers back, while the second walked around the car, checking underneath it.

"Everything seems in order, Special Agent Kemp," the guard said. "You've been assigned Bay 267, Parking Level 1."

"Right-oh," Kemp said cheerfully. "Thanks, Geoff, can we expect to see you in the pub later?"

"No worries, don't forget you owe me a pint, Laura. I'm not letting you get away with sneaking off before last orders," the guard said, stepping back from the car. The light flashed green and Draco could have sworn the man gave the car a friendly tap on the roof as they moved off.

"Um ... forgive me," Draco began. "But ..."

"You'll need to report to the Agent Reception Unit," Branford said, as Kemp backed the car expertly into a vacant parking space. "Don't worry, Sirius will show you what to do."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Draco.

"For now, stick close by me," Branford went on, as all three of them climbed out of the car. The air was stale and very unpleasant, and Draco felt quite nauseous. The charm that those guards had cast on him seemed to be giving him some kind of headache. Feeling very confused, and wishing himself back in Spain, he followed the two agents meekly.

APEX CORNER, HANWORTH, LONDON. 09:00 BST.

"Happy birthday, by the way, Harry."

"..."

"Well, it is, isn't it?"

Harry Potter fumbled pathetically with the keys to the car. He was still hung over from the previous night, his head aching and his tongue, despite two injections of coffee, covered in some strange immovable fur. At seven that morning he had woken up to find a prostitute sprawled frankly indecently across his bed, his nostrils full of the odour of spent fag smoke, alcohol and patchouli scented massage oil.

"Harry? You okay, mate?"

Harry clutched at the roof of the car.

"Do you want me to drive? You look fucking awful," Alex Palmer said, putting the bag containing their Egg McMuffins on the roof.

"I'll be okay," Harry said. There had been a second owl perched on the bonnet of his Jaguar when he left for work. Its claws had scratched the paintwork. He had shooed it away with a rolled up copy of the Independent, although it had seemed reluctant to go. He worried briefly that it might have been a birthday card from Ron.

"Get anything nice?" Alex asked, as Harry opened the door and climbed in.

"Not especially," Harry said, wishing to God he had a line of coke and a rolled up fiver on his person. Alex passed him his breakfast, and for a minute they sat there, munching thoughtfully. "I got a card from the local branch of the Lib Dems. But I rather think they were fishing for a vote."

"No other ones?" Alex went on. "Not even from your parents?"

"They both died a long time ago," Harry said. Alex's face crumpled up at his faux pas.

"Shit ... sorry ... you never said ... sorry, Harry."

"Not your fault," Harry said, biting into his foul muffin. Alex was staring blankly ahead out of the windscreen.

"I was going to say," he said, as a group of schoolchildren - truants, clearly - walked across the car park and disappeared inside McDonalds, "thanks for picking me up. I appreciate it."

Alex's elderly Volkswagen Paasat was in the garage for yet another service. Which meant that Harry had had to drive all the way across town to his partner's tiny starter home in Sunbury.

"Not a problem," Harry lied. He opened his window, and hurled the remnants of his foul breakfast out of it. "We should make a move," he went on.

Alex nodded, wiping crumbs from his mouth with a paper serviette. "Want that coffee?"

Harry shook his head. "Much more coffee and I'll be jittery all day. The coffee from that place is absolutely bloody foul, anyway." He switched on the engine, and edged the Jaguar out of its space. The forgotten muffin was crushed under the wheels.

"Did you see that documentary last night?" Alex asked, as Harry accelerated up the slip road and they rejoined the A316, blending into the slow moving morass of vehicles.

"Which one?" Harry asked. He was in no particular mood for small talk. Especially not for the kind which Alex seemed to favour. He hadn't been watching TV anyway, the previous evening, so the point was moot whatever Alex said next.

"I think it was on Channel 4," he said. "Something about storybook wizards. It was interesting. There was loads of stuff about how things like wands and broomsticks were inspired by old folk rituals and really pretty mundane stuff."

"Oh," said Harry without emotion, moving into the middle lane. A faulty police speed trap camera flashed at him for no reason.

"Yeah," Alex continued, his boyish enthusiasm for the subject undaunted, "it was really interesting. I thought it might be the kind of thing you're into."

Harry slowed for the Whitton roundabout. "How so?" he asked.

"Oh ... no reason," Alex said.

"Well, very clearly there's a reason," Harry said as he cut up a bulky Toyota minivan, "otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up, would you?"

"Well ... you know ... all that weird stuff your house is full of," Alex went on, a little perturbed. "I just assumed you were a pagan at weekends, or something."

"Well, you can quit fucking assuming," Harry said angrily, "I'm nothing of the kind."

"There's no shame in it," Alex said. "My sister's a practicing Wicca. She calls herself a white witch or something, and she works as a computer programmer for McLaren down in Woking."

"Impressionable people fucking about with herbal remedies and wearing white robes and real witchcraft and wizardry are two very different things," Harry said, annoyed. "Quite disparate entities, in reality. The basic theory's the same of course, but actual magic is a completely different game of fish ..."

Alex looked at him. "So you admit you're interested?"

Harry changed the subject hurriedly. "What do you think about the Olympics, eh? Reckon there'll be some more medals in it for us?"

DEPARTMENT OF AURORS AND UNSPEAKABLES, LONDON. 09:15 BST.

Sirius opened the door by pressing his palm to an electronic touch pad, and it slid upwards into the ceiling with a hiss of pneumatics.

"This," he began, ushering Draco over the threshold, "will be your office."

Draco paused, and drew in a short, whistling breath.

"It's brilliant," he said. A huge plate glass window looked out over the River Thames, affording a view across the river to County Hall, the Eye, rotating slowly, and behind that the vast, silvery office towers of the new South Bank Mega-City Complex. Huge yellow cranes were going about their business.

The office itself was small, but perfectly well contained. One whole wall was taken up with a glass fronted cabinet that contained, amongst other things, coffee making equipment and several very official looking ledgers. There was an elegant, contemporary desk with the very latest computer (a blue Mac Demon-Pod) sitting on top of it, and a chair that looked too comfortable to be legal.

"It's very swish," Draco said. He crossed the office to the window, and pressed his hand against the glass. It dissolved under his touch, and his fingers went straight through it. He jumped back in alarm.

"That's liquid glass," Sirius explained. "The very latest thing. Totally impregnable from the other side without using your unique palm print identifier."

Draco put his arm through the window. The air outside was roasting hot compared to the air conditioned interior. He stepped through, and out onto the balcony.

"It's good, isn't it?" Sirius said through the glass.

Draco nodded. He turned to look up at the building. Overhead, steel struts supported a winged canopy that called to mind the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.

"I take it this is the dislocation magic Agent Branford was telling me about," Draco said, as he pressed his palm to the glass, which shimmered slightly under his touch, before dissolving to let him through.

"Exactly right," Sirius said. "Oh ... there's one other feature I haven't shown you yet."

"I'm all ears," said Draco, taking his seat. "Show me."

"Tap the blue button on your computer keyboard," Sirius said with a sly grin.

"Um ... okay then," Draco replied. He tapped the button lightly, and instantly the other wall opposite him disappeared, revealing a sight that made Draco's heart sink.

This was not a private office.

Ginny looked up from her computer terminal. "Morning, Sirius," she said.

"Special Agent Weasley. What a surprise," Sirius said, a slight grin suggesting he had been planning this all along.

"I see you've been showing Malfoy here his new office," Ginny said, pressing a button on her mouse. Her printer began to spew out a lengthy document. She got up - Draco observed that she really did look utterly fanciable in her uniform - and walked over to them.

"How have you been enjoying your morning, Draco?" she asked.

Draco wasn't quite sure what to say back to that. He had, after all, been variously frisked several times, poked with metal instruments, instructed as if he was some sort of baby, and then subjected to a lengthy medical examination.

"It's been absolutely peachy," he said.

"I'm pleased to hear it," Ginny said. "Did you meet Wanda?"

"The M.O?" Draco asked. "Yes, I met her."

"Met is probably the word," said Ginny. "Tell me, did she spend an inordinate amount of time with her hand up your arse ..."

"That'll do, Special Agent Weasley," Sirius snapped, annoyed.

BEIRUT, LEBANON. 12:26 Local Time.

A dusty, black Lexus saloon conveyed Fernando Ortega away from the bustle of the port, along the Corniche and into the city proper. It was a hot day, but the breeze coming off the sea meant that it was at least bearable.

Reconstruction in the city centre had been slow and painful following the seventeen-year long war, but these days all that was left to show for it were the pockmarks left by bullets on some of the older buildings. This was how Ortega remembered the city. Back in the late 1970s, back when people knew Beirut as the Paris of the East, back before its ruin, he had holidayed on its beaches, partied in its bars and bought souvenirs in its souks.

The car drove slowly past the Omari Mosque, stuck in a slow moving procession of other, equally dusty vehicles, before turning left, left, and then right onto a narrow back alley. Buildings seven or eight storeys high loomed overhead, casting shadows across the width of the alley. Washing hung on lines between the open windows. Here and there a burst of dire, local pop music could be heard.

The driver stopped, but left the engine running.

"This is as far as we go," he said. "The alley is too narrow."

Ortega nodded, and opened the back door of the car.

"Go to the red door," the driver said. "Knock twice. You know the drill."

Ortega nodded, slammed the back door, and loosened the tie he was wearing. The Lexus reversed hurriedly back into the street, and drove off, and he was left standing alone. The alleyway smelled strongly of human faeces. Clearly the sewers were not up to the job.

The red door was, as usual, locked and barred formidably against any intruders. He knocked three times, and immediately a little window sprang open.

"Can I help you?"

Ortega sighed. "It's me, Alfonse. Last week it was me. The week before it was me. Don't you recognise my face?"

"Can I help you?"

Ortega sighed again. "The weather is very hot. Could I perhaps trouble you for a glass of coffee?"

"We have only water!" Alfonse croaked triumphantly.

"Water will do nicely."

"Then pass, friend."

There was the sound of bolts sliding back, and then the door opened just wide enough to admit Ortega. He stepped inside, into the semi-darkness. Alfonse, who carried a small flashlight and a cane, huffed at his elbow.

"Fourth floor. Go on up."

Ortega mounted the stairs. A little light filtered down from a dirty skylight, illuminating what had once been an impressive marble staircase in the home of a wealthy Druze trader. At the top of the stairs a green door opened onto the roof. He pushed it open, and immediately his ears were assaulted by the noise of the helicopter that stood before him. Two armed guards in ex-US army combat fatigues were packing Kalashnikov rifles. Ortega stopped, as was the proscribed routine, and allowed one of the men to blindfold him, and the other one to wrap him in a stifling Invisibility Cloak. Then he was led to the helicopter, and seated in the passenger compartment at the back.

The flight inland from Beirut was a noisy, uncomfortable and disorientating experience, albeit one Ortega was, by now, very used to. It took about half an hour to get to the Collective's current location. His associates were always careful not to reveal their true location to junior members such as himself; it could have been anywhere in Lebanon, it could even have been Syria or Israel, for all he knew. All the junior, earthbound operatives were ferried to the meeting place this way. Ortega reckoned there were probably some of them on board now with him, although of course, he couldn't see them.

Eventually, a slight bump, and the sudden absence of noise informed him that they had landed. Sure enough, the door at the side of the helicopter was opened, and someone removed the cloak and blindfold.

"Good afternoon, Ortega," the other man said. It was Darren Beitbridge, an arrogant and unrepentantly racist South African entrepreneur, and also the most powerful wizard south of the Sahel, owner of vast tracts of real estate, holder of a majority interest in several Muggle diamond consortiums, and controller of about a quarter of the ready cash on the African continent. Ortega knew well he was small fry compared to Beitbridge. But Beitbridge, of course, had been blindfolded for the flight, just like him.

"Good day."

"Nice trip?" Beitbridge asked, as the two men stepped down onto the landing pad. They were on the roof of a large, whitewashed building that formed part of a compound overlooking a deep, mountain lake.

"I came in on the yacht," Ortega said. "Overnight. I was in Spain yesterday."

Beitbridge smiled indulgently. "You want to invest in a Learjet," he said. "I flew in. Yesterday, I was on my ranch in the Transvaal. You should come down for a visit. The hunting is spectacular."

Armed guards led them down a flight of metal steps, and through a small grove of olive trees to another building. The door opened, and the two men stepped inside, out of the heat and into a cool, shaded courtyard. There were fragrant shrubs and climbing plants, and a trickling fountain.

"Ah, but I am an Andalucian," Ortega said. "I shall die in my homeland. We are very attached to our country."

"And I to mine," said Beitbridge. The guards melted away, and in their place, a waiter scurried forwards, holding a small tray on which stood two glasses of whisky.

"For our guests," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Finest Scotch, naturally. With plenty of ice. I know you South Africans like your ice ..."

"Thank you, my man," Beitbridge said, taking one glass and handing the other to Ortega. "When might we see Orpheus?"

"Orpheus will be with us presently. Currently he is indisposed."

DEPARTMENT OF AURORS AND UNSPEAKABLES, LONDON. 12:00 BST.

Sirius took a sip of mineral water, and rewound the tape slightly. The figures sitting around the negotiating table at Camp David whizzed rapidly backwards. When the French representative had sat down after refilling the water jug from his glass, he stopped it, and pressed play again. Then he took up his pen and a bit of paper.

"... how do we see this, Gentlemen?"

The British delegate, the Secretary of Defence who had died in the plane crash, looked up. "I still say it's entirely their own business whether or not they choose to sell off obsolete weapons. It's not for N.A.T.O. to dictate Russian dismantling of military equipment that was obsolete in the nineteen-seventies."

"Your objections have been noted, Christopher," his American compatriot cut in. "However ..."

"I'm with Mr Norman," another man, who was facing away from the video camera, but whom Sirius had already identified as the Turkish representative, "I don't believe that Russia, even with her internal problems, poses a significant threat to the Western Bloc. She's seen unprecedented stability since the Civil War, incredible growth that puts our economies to shame. I believe this current crisis to be nothing more than a slight hiccup. Russia will recover and move on. Look at how more integrated the Bear becomes with Europe as a whole. There's talk they'll be in the next round of E.U. entrants, unlike certain more qualified nations."

"That's not the issue, Benjamin. The issue is a military one! The Russian government has decommissioned more than eight billion dollars worth of equipment, tanks, helicopters, scud launchers, missiles. What's going on? This appears to be nothing less than complete disarmament."

"Do we know the weapons are being decommissioned?" the Polish representative, an overweight man whose name Sirius had forgotten, asked. "Are they not being sold?"

"Who's going to buy weapons made forty years ago?" the British replied. "Nobody would give them a second glance, especially after the Treaty of Amman."

"That's precisely what needs to be found out, then," the Pole said.

Sirius stopped the tape, and pulled up the Pole's file on the internal computer system. The man's parents had been central figures during the Solidarity uprisings of 1981, and he himself had begun his political career in 1993, rising rapidly through the ranks of the Polish government, he had been a junior cabinet minister when Poland entered the E.U. and had lobbied successfully for her entry to N.A.T.O. in 2005. He was also, according to the computer, dead.

Sirius did a double take. Then he picked up the telephone.

"Is that the News Archive?" he said. "This is Alpha-Commissioner Black, my voice print ID number is 2404 Reference E. I'd like you to pull me up Muggle news reports relating to the Polish government in the last two days."

"All networks, sir?"

"All networks," Sirius said.

"One minute, sir." The phone was hung up. A second later, the wood-panelled wall slid back, and a large, plasma TV screen filled the entire space.

"... Tass Vision International reports breaking news this hour from the streets of Wroclaw, Poland, where the Polish Minister for Foreign Affairs was gunned down in broad daylight as he shopped in a local supermarket. The assassin, according to eyewitness reports, fled the scene in a white, Latvian registered Toyota Landcruiser, which has been found abandoned on the main A4 highway some five miles away from the scene of the crime. Officials of the Polish government have yet to comment."

FOUR MILLS ESTATE, PECKHAM, SOUTH LONDON. 12:15 BST.

Alex trotted to keep up as Harry mounted the dank, narrow stairway that led upstairs to the first floor flat. The scene was a grimy council estate on the fringes of Peckham. Crumbling flat blocks linked by fetid, badly lit walkways that should properly have been demolished many, many years ago. Broken glass crunched underfoot as Harry brushed aside washing, strung overhead to drip dry in the intense summer heat.

There were two uniformed officers standing guard outside flat 56, which turned out to be a neat, well-kept little property in the heart of all the squalor. The door was painted red, and there were little net curtains, and a Neighbourhood Watch sign tacked to the window.

"Detective Inspector Potter?" one of them asked.

Harry nodded, and flashed his identification at them. Alex did the same.

"This is my colleague, Alex Palmer," Harry said. "May we go in?"

The officers nodded. "There's a W.P.C. and a Rape Crisis Counsellor in there now with Miss Taylor," one of them said. "Take things easy, sir."

"I will."

The two men stepped over the threshold. The flat smelled of dogs and clean laundry. There was a small telephone on a little table, and a postcard from Lagos. Doors opened off the narrow hallway into a small sitting room and a kitchenette.

"It doesn't look much like a house of sin," Alex whispered.

Harry didn't say anything, and pushed open the door to the main bedroom. Miss Taylor, an attractive black woman in her mid-thirties, was sitting on the bed, and a worried looking W.P.C. was standing next to the built-in wardrobe. The counsellor looked up as they came in.

"Morning, Harry," she began. "May we speak outside, please?"

Harry nodded, and backed out of the room. Alex stayed where he was standing, and the counsellor joined them, closing the door softly behind her.

"How are things, Janet?" Harry asked, recognising the woman immediately. They had worked together in the past.

"Obviously, Miss Taylor's very upset," Janet began. "And I don't think it would be a good idea to question her too closely at this stage ... she's very scared ..."

"You've told her that we never treat prostitutes as criminals," Harry began. "Exactly what is she scared of? Deportation?"

"Miss Taylor came here legitimately on a Nigerian passport in 1996 and was naturalised in 2003," Janet said scornfully. "She works at a travel agency in Dulwich during the day."

"Why's she on the game ..."

"She's saving for her daughter's university fees," Janet said. "Naturally, the daughter, who's at Bristol uni reading Molecular Biology, doesn't have a clue ... she's worried the daughter will find out. She's a very committed Christian."

"I see," Harry said. "Did we get any information on the rapist?"

"White, about fifty, conservatively dressed, brown hair, balding, with a slight limp," Janet said. "Oh. One thing ... he dropped this ..."

She produced a small length of wood contained within a plastic bag, and handed it to Harry.

"I can't make head or tail of it," she said. "It looks like some kind of wand ... though I hesitate to call it that."

Harry also thought it looked like a wand. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, mentally making plans to follow this one up and speak to Ron about it. "There's no such thing as magic."

"Well, anyway, it was on the bed when he left," Janet said. "We can only assume that he dropped it."

Before Harry could reply, there was the sound of a sudden explosion, and the whole building shook. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and a scream echoed from inside the bedroom.

"Holy fuck," Alex was saying. "That was damn close."

"What was it?" Janet asked, clutching at the door handle.

"Only one way to find out." Harry pushed past the two of them, and pulled the front door open. Both of the policemen outside had disappeared, and black smoke was rising into the sky, about a hundred yards distant. Clutching the wand, still, Harry made for the stairway, clattering down the concrete steps two at a time. People were coming to the doors of their flats. They looked worried.

He pushed past the two police cars that were parked outside. The sound of ringing alarm bells met his ears as he ran swiftly to the corner of Adelaide Grove. Rounding the corner, he saw the source of the explosion. A car, barely recognisable as the Ford Mondeo it had once been, was burning by the roadside. The car bomb had taken the entire front out of a small, local branch of the National Westminster Bank. The A.T.M. was spewing banknotes onto the ground and the staff, two cashiers and a manager, were standing, shell-shocked, dusty but otherwise unharmed, on the pavement.

Harry ran towards them. "What the hell happened?" he began, flashing his card.

"Raiders," the manager was saying. "They must have got away with about a hundred thousand at the least ... then ... their getaway car ..."

He pointed dumbly to the blazing wreck.

"... blew up ... it just ... blew up!"

People were beginning to congregate in the street. Harry could hear the sound of approaching sirens. He tried to wave the crowd away.

"Please back off! Let's have some room here ..."

The other two policemen, accompanied by Alex, rounded the corner at that point. Two Asian men were running towards them from the opposite direction.

"What's going on ..."

The manager shrugged, and turned to comfort one of his cashiers.

"I saw everything. They came into my shop ..."

Harry stepped forward to block the overexcited man. "Keep calm, sir. What did you see?"

"They came right in, bought two packets of chewing gum, some Lucozade and a Daily Mirror. There were two of them ... about six feet tall, maybe in their fifties ..."

"Easy ... take it easy," Harry said. "We'll want to take your statement, sir. Please don't go anywhere." Alex and the policemen were helping to clear a route through the assembled throng for the first of two paramedic units, which were edging their way through. A fire engine rounded the corner.

"Stand clear! Stand clear!"

Harry surveyed the wand. Then he turned back to the Indian. "Was there anything unusual about their appearance?"

"No ... they looked very conservative. Smart suits and everything," he continued. "He was going bald. He had a limp, too."

"Clear the area!" one of the firemen shouted as the crowd of children pressed in closer. Overhead, a police helicopter was circling like a buzzard. Harry, however, was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice anything.

TEAM ALPHA'S OFFICE. D.A.U. HEADQUARTERS, LONDON. 15:26 BST.

"Coffee, anybody?"

Ginny paused next to the machine. Draco looked up from his computer, where the details of a bank raid that had occurred that morning scrolled down his screen as fast as his computer could download them from the Muggle police force's internal network.

"Black, no sugar," Draco said. "And do we have any biscuits?"

Colin, who was standing by the window, looking out over the river, turned to look at him. "Not since someone scoffed the bloody lot," he said.

Draco pushed his mouse around in boredom. "Well, I can't help it if the Department takes it upon itself to supply exceptionally tasty biscuits."

"You'll get all fat," Colin sniped, sitting down at his desk, "and then nobody will want you anymore. Least of all me."

"My heart bleeds. I couldn't give a flying fuck what you think of me, Creepy," Draco said. His computer pinged as the download finished. "I know the ladies, you see, unlike some people in this room. I know what the ladies like; fine wines, Belgian chocolates for instance. Consequently the ladies like me."

"Wanker," Colin hissed under his breath.

"Didn't quite hear that, Creepy," Draco said. "You know ... doing this job is a lot like making love to a beautiful woman ..."

"Can it, Malfoy," Ginny said, pouring their coffee. "Colin was good enough to get you that panini at lunch."

"Yes, it was very good," Draco said. "The employees of the D.A.U. have been quite spoiled, it would seem. The only thing that could be said for the canteen at the office in Granada was that it occasionally did very good chorizo sausage, and their churros was out of this world ... I could get to like having a Starbucks franchise two minutes from my desk."

Ginny set down the coffee cup on Draco's desk, and turned her back on him haughtily, hurrying back to her desk. Colin was fuming and tapping furiously at his keyboard.

"Thanks, Gin," Draco went on. "I must say, I think we're working very well, together, don't you, Creepy?"

Ginny sat back down, and adjusted the height of her chair. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses, brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and turned her computer back on.

"How's that download coming, Malfoy?" she asked.

Draco picked up his coffee, and blew on it to cool it down.

"We're all done," he said. "I've just logged out of the Met's internal network and ... oh fuck ..."

"What?"

"I did not commit an illegal operation! Fuck!" Draco yelled. Colin smirked to himself, and sat back in his chair.

"Press restart," Ginny sighed, "it should've saved the information in a separate file. I'll walk you through the procedure."

Draco clicked uselessly with his mouse. "Does anybody know what an invalid access action performed by an external agent at file path 288 means?"

"It means someone just hacked into your computer," said Colin. "How odd. I wonder who that could've been?"

Draco looked as if he was about to explode, but, luckily, Colin's bacon was saved by the timely entrance of Sirius, who was holding what appeared to be a lengthy dossier.

"What's in that lengthy dossier you're holding, then?" Ginny asked, as Sirius closed the door and activated the Silencing Charms with a quick swish of his wand and a muttered incantation.

"This is crucial evidence," said Sirius. "Ginny, did you download that stuff for me?"

"We're nearly done," said Ginny. "Unfortunately we, er, had a bit of a computer malfunction at the crucial moment. Malfoy here's trying to recover the data now."

"Good stuff," Sirius said. He handed the file to Ginny. "I'd like you to take a look at that, please."

"Whose is it?"

"Polish government's," Sirius said.

"And the Polish government has bearing on this case how, exactly?" Ginny asked, sounding sceptical.

"I'm not sure, yet," Sirius said. "I've been through it with a fine toothcomb. I know there's some sort of connection, I just don't know how yet."

"A connection with the bank raids?"

Sirius nodded.

"Um, okay, it's abstract ... but let's work with what we've got," Ginny said. "How did you come to this conclusion?"

"You remember that meeting I told you about?" Sirius said. "The one in New York?"

Ginny nodded. "Sure do."

"Well, he was there, this Malinowski chap," Sirius said. "And now he's dead, gunned down by a lone assassin. And those British Muggle politicians were on the plane that crashed, and they were at Pocantico and Camp David too."

"It looks like someone is killing off the delegates," Draco began.

"That's a bit far-fetched," Ginny said. "Let's not jump to any conclusions. It could just be a coincidence."

"How so?" Draco asked.

Ginny became flustered. She was unused to having a smart-arsed git like Malfoy trying to disparage her opinions. "Because it's not systematic. There's no logic to it. Why gun down the Pole in a public place and not at his home? Why risk the collateral damage of killing all the innocent civilians who were on that airliner? So we know the Brits were killed by wizards, but we know nothing about our Polish friend. There's no connection between them! Nothing makes sense."

"Actually, I disagree," Colin said. "Isn't it possible that whoever the killers are ... assuming they were the same people - and I know that's a big assumption to make at this stage of the investigation, but let's roll with it for now - want it to seem like the killings are unrelated? Look at it from our point of view - knowing what we know about the situation. But a Muggle investigator who wasn't as clued up as us would be clutching at straws, and probably wouldn't think to try and fathom a connection."

"Well, can we find a connection?" Draco asked. "Surely that's imperative, now."

"Well, I was coming to that," Sirius said, sitting down on the edge of Ginny's desk. "I've already found one. All three of the dead men were wizards."

Draco smirked at Ginny. "Good enough for you, Special Agent Weasley?"

SAMMY O'DONNELL'S WINE BAR & GOODTIME FOOD-EATERY, DIAGON ALLEY, LONDON. 19:30 BST.

Colin unfurled his napkin and draped it gently across his lap as the waiter placed a very substantial bowl of battered squid in front of him.

"Your calamari, sir. Madam, your appetisers will be along directly. I apologise for the delay - we're more than a little bit short staffed this evening."

"Thanks, it's no problem," said Colin. He drizzled lemon juice over his squid, and picked up the salt shaker. 'Church of the Poison Mind' played at a discreet volume in the background. "Did you clock that waiter's arse? I'd like to give him one."

Ginny merely sipped at her wine and did not respond. The background music changed to the Pet Shop Boys cover of 'Go West.'

"You seem disconsolate, ma cherie," Colin said, spearing an unfortunate squid on the end of his fork. "Did Malfoy upset you?"

Ginny put her wine glass back down again. "Jesus Christ, Colin. I thought you'd never ask."

"I didn't want to. I thought you wouldn't want to talk about him - the nasty little bugger."

"He's been on my mind ever since we left the office. I was just waiting for you to say something."

"He did upset you, then?"

"Not really," said Ginny, as the waiter set a plate of potato skins down in front of her.

"We have garlic mayonnaise, cream cheese and chives, guacamole or salsa."

"How is the salsa?" Colin asked.

"It's very hot, sir," the waiter responded.

"I'll take the garlic and the guacamole," Ginny said.

"Certainly."

"I thought he upset you, to be honest," Ginny said, as soon as the waiter had disappeared again.

"How so?" Colin asked, his mouth full.

"Well ... I always knew he was a horrid little Nazi," Ginny went on, "but I never expected him to be so horrible to you!"

"Oh come on, it's hardly like I'm not used to the odd homophobe," Colin replied.

"You should complain to Sirius."

Colin winked. "I got my own back though, didn't I?"

Ginny nodded. "Violating several major directives along the way. Properly I ought to court-martial you. But it was just too funny to see his little face fall."

"I might try and pull him," said Colin.

"Malfoy?"

"Well, he is dead sexy."

"I suppose," Ginny conceded.

"It'd be a challenge," Colin said. "Of course, homophobes are all repressed gay men anyway."

"Don't talk bollocks."

"That's my theory, at any rate," Colin went on. "You have to admit that ... well ... Draco is hot."

Ginny nodded. "He knows how to dress," she said. "Unlike you, who showed up at work this morning in a pair of Lycra running shorts and a T-shirt saying 'Get It Here.'"

"We do not talk about my jogging attire," Colin said in mock offence. "I'm hardly going to run to work in my suit now, am I?"

"You could do," said Ginny.

"In a heat-wave like this one? You must be fucking mad, girlfriend."

Ginny changed the subject. "Do you think he's telling the truth about his girlfriend?"

Colin nodded. "Without question. I caught him on the phone during his lunch break. He was phoning round cancelling all his credit cards. Now, that's the sign of a man who's worried about someone going on a shopping spree."

"Do we know much about the girlfriend?" Ginny asked.

Colin shrugged. "Some feisty Latina, no doubt," he said. "We shall have to question your man Draco more closely about his love life."

"Shall we take him for drinks after work tomorrow?"

"I think we will," Colin smiled. "Hey, and now Harry's coming back, too."

"Well," Ginny said. "We don't know that for sure. I think Sirius would like him to, for sure."

"Oh, for sure," Colin said. "Hey ... can you imagine Harry and Malfoy having to work together?"

Ginny giggled. "It'd never work. It's like some evil plot."

"Perhaps it is an evil plot!" Colin exclaimed, warming to his theme. "It would certainly explain a lot."

"Whatever. It'd certainly be nice to see him again," Ginny said. "Perhaps we'll know soon."

HEADQUARTERS OF THE ORPHEUS COLLECTIVE, nr AL' AZIZIYAT, GOLAN HEIGHTS UNITED NATIONS ADMINISTERED ZONE. 21:45 Local Time.

Heavy, oleander-scented night had already fallen across the scrubland, and the air was thick with the croaking of crickets and the whirring of cicadas in the bushes.

A flight of two United Nations observation helicopters whirred overhead, searchlight beams scanning the ground in a repeating pattern. Reports of separatist guerrilla activity in the area had galvanised the usually laid-back peacekeeping force to a flurry of activity, which was how the Collective liked it. The more the soldiers searched for whatever was causing the disturbances, the further away they moved from their true target.

Many of the Collective's senior members had taken issue at first with prolonging the armed struggle over the Golan Heights when peace had largely returned to the region. However, once they had seen how the mutual suspicion they had created between the Israeli farmers in the Hula Valley and their Syrian neighbours had allowed them to carry on their work without being disturbed, they stopped complaining.

So it was that that evening, under the light of flaming torches and screened from the patrolling army units by the most sophisticated magical wards ever conceived, the Orpheus Collective convened on the cool terrace to eat a banquet of Romanesque proportions. Slave boys were on hand to pour the wine and even feed some of the more corpulent men present. Ortega, who was well used to fine things, found the sheer scale of the banquets that the Collective threw staggering, and as he downed yet another glass of wine, found himself being regaled with a tale of political intrigue by one of the Collective's Eastern European members. This man, whose name was Michael Bystré, was from Hungary, controlled a vast arms dealing conglomerate and was rumoured to have links to the Russian Mafia.

"It was vital the Pole was removed from the equation," he said softly, pursing his lips around the rim of his wine glass. "If he had gone public ..."

"The consequences for us, and for the Imperative, would have been catastrophic." The man sitting to Ortega's left, whose name he had not caught, smiled sourly.

"How did you do it?" Ortega asked.

"Very simple, my friend," Bystré said. "I use Muggles for all my assassinations. Their memories were wiped clean of any association with me, and I have arranged for them to be caught by the Polish police before very much longer. A quick and public trial followed by swift retribution and the Polish public will be satisfied that the case has been closed."

"And what of the new Foreign Minister?" the third man asked.

"The Polish government is meetig in emergency session as we speak," Bystré said with an air of great satisfaction. "His potential successor has been waiting in the wings for some time now, and will no doubt be secretly overjoyed to have his big chance. It is regrettable to us that he is a Muggle, but sometimes things do not go entirely our way."

"However," Ortega said, "this means we've lost one N.A.T.O. country."

"Yes. Regrettable," Bystré said. "Nevertheless, I cannot impress upon you enough the seriousness of the Pole's breach of our trust. Better to have one nation unchecked and better for us if it is an insignificant player, as opposed to the United States or Britain. We do not want to expose ourselves before our time."

One of the slave boys charged their wine glasses, and then backed away into the darkness as a gong echoed around the terrace.

"Gentlemen," a commanding voice boomed. "I present to you, Orpheus."

From out of the shadows stepped a shadowy figure, wrapped in a black cloak, his face covered by a gold mask that appeared to have no eyeholes. The crowd fell instantly silent.

"I trust my kitchens and my slaves have served your needs well," he said in a low, rasping voice. "I come to you with good news, friends. Within the last hour our Russian associates have risen in revolt. As I speak to you now the Kremlin burns and the government has fled. Within the last half hour the President of Russia himself has claimed political asylum in Finland."

There was appreciative cooing.

"Our Russian friend, Vladimir Ulyanov, cannot be with us today. He is preoccupied with the task of forming the new Russian government. While lesser men than he have fled the country, he remains in Moscow even now. In a matter of hours the Anarchist government will be proclaimed."

A low whisper travelled around the terrace. The edges of Orpheus' gilded mask crinkled into a smile.

"Gentlemen. Russia is ours to do with as we will. You know the next step."

THE RODERICK PLUMPTON JUNIOR SCHOOL, ALDERSHOT, HAMPSHIRE. 20:00 BST.

"We think we're safe behind the walls that we build ourselves," Ron said, concentrating on the winking red light of the W.W.N. television camera and spreading his hands wide, taking in the assembly hall of his children's school. "But we're not. We have somehow allowed ourselves to become complacent. To fool ourselves into ... somehow believing that everything is okay. This is a delusion! Like cancer, the terms of the Restriction of Wizardry Act, though maybe well-intentioned, are eating away at the fabric of wizarding life in Britain and throughout the world. Let there be no doubt that just as in reality, all the cells, all the people that make up our society, be they wizard or Muggle or in between, are at risk from this cancer. Thank you."

The hall broke into a ripple of relieved applause. The speeches were over at last. Sweat was pouring from Ron in buckets. He was not an accomplished public speaker by any means. He stepped from the podium and rejoined Mary and the children in the front row of seats. It was the school's last gathering of the year, a prize-giving ceremony, a chance to look back on the achievements of the children. It shouldn't have been an excuse for political rhetoric, but Ron had been invited to speak, and his campaign team had decided it would be a good photo opportunity. Mary cast her husband a supportive smile, but Ron's attention was taken by his oldest daughter, Charlotte, who was glaring at him from where she sat, corralled with the rest of the Reception class.

"You did great," Mary said, squeezing his arm as the headmaster took to the stage to introduce the Under 11 Quidditch team.

"Mr Weasley, you have an urgent phone call," a school administrator whispered to him as the head began to speak.

"Maybe this is it, dear," Mary whispered, as Ron got to his feet. Only Neville Longbottom, the chief of his staff, and the Wizarding Alliance Party Committee staffers knew of his plans to be at the school tonight. Only they had the number.

Ron's heart pounded as he followed the younger woman out of the hall. He tried to deflate his expectations, after all, the Wizarding Alliance were trailing the Magical Union by fifteen points in the opinion polls, and with the elections due in November ...

He was ushered into the school office, and the phone was pushed into his hand.

"Hello?"

"Mr Weasley ... this is ... look, you've got to get out of that school right now, sir. I've really screwed up." The voice on the other end of the line was panicked.

"Who is this?" Ron demanded angrily. He was deeply disappointed.

"Just get out of there! I've ... I've screwed up. I've already called the police."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Just trust me, Mr Weasley! Please! Go! Now!"

The woman was holding out another phone to him. "They say it's urgent, sir."

Ron set the first phone down. "Ron Weasley."

"Sir, this is Terry Boot, I'm Beta Commissioner of the D.A.U. We'd like to get you and your family to the school's security office. We have some agents en route and they're going to meet you ..."

Sudden screams erupted from the hall, followed by the unmistakable, rippling sound of gunfire. The woman standing next to him jumped.

"What's that?"

Ron grabbed his wand. "We'll go check it out."

Well dressed witches and wizards, wild-eyed and panicked, were streaming out of the double doors that led to the hall, some of them carrying young children in their arms, being pushed and elbowed by the desperate throng. Some had lost all control and were screaming as Ron waded into the flood. It was slow going as he fought his way back into the hall. Shoulders and elbows pummelled his body from all sides. When Ron reached the doors, he saw the first blood, streaming down the face of an elegant middle-aged witch, coating her white silk robes in brilliant crimson.

He heard the crackling, fizzing sound of flying curses emanating from within the hall. He paused as a tide of humanity surged past him. Ron was battered by blows so great that he felt himself being swept backwards, away from his family. He tore at their sleeves, fighting back. A bolt of green light whistled overhead, and people fell to the floor. Ron slammed into a man who was dashing towards him. He turned, and they looked at each other for a moment. He was wearing a calf-length leather overcoat. He raised a wand, tracing a line up Ron's body. The man's eyes smiled.

"No!" Ron yelled, as a curse smashed into the struts supporting the bleacher seating, melting and twisting the metal. The other man turned, startled, and in that instant, Ron hurled himself under the seats, affording some protection. He heard desperate shouts and the sudden ripple of automatic weapon fire, prickling painfully at his ears as he ran, bent double, between the seats, the gun swivelling to follow his running figure. Ron's head exploded with pain as he collided with a concrete pillar, and in that instant, the gunfire fell silent.

"I suggest you come out, Mr Weasley," a voice said. Ron's breath came in shallow gasps as he paused. He heard the sound of a fresh magazine being clipped into a gun. It was a sound he remembered well from his days in the Aurors. He dropped to his hands and knees, and began to crawl.

"You may well run, but you can't hide," the voice said. The panicked screaming had stopped, but Ron's mind was filled with visions of horror. Three of the children were at home with a babysitter ... but Mary ... and Charlotte!

"Maybe you are worried about your family," the voice said, as if reading his thoughts. "Perhaps you and I could go find out if they're okay?"

Ron could see the gunman's feet, clad in brown Doc Martens, moving past not five feet from where he lay crouched, on his stomach amidst the struts. The feet paused, and retraced their steps. A voice began to sing.

"One, two, three four five."

The gunman paused.

"Once I caught a fish alive ..."

Ron hitched his breathing.

He jumped up onto the bleachers, his feet clanging on them as he stepped up. Ron looked up to see the muzzle of the gun, a golden one, pointed downwards, aimed at a spot mere inches from his head.

"Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Then I blew his brains out."

The footsteps paused.

"I think I've found you, Mr Weasley. Behold the end of your world."

He dropped to his knees above Ron's head. There was a swastika carved onto his knuckles.

A single shot rang out, and the gunman collapsed onto the bleachers, quite dead. Blood cascaded from above, and Ron rolled hurriedly out of the way.

"Mr Weasley! Are you in here?"

Ron's throat was pinched with terror so violent he could barely breathe. Five men in Auror uniforms were fanning out across the deserted hall, covering the doors with their weapons.

"Mr Weasley!"

"I'm here!"

He got to his feet, and struggled out from his hiding place.

"Are you hit, sir?" one of the agents, his robes bore the insignia of a Unit Commander, asked.

Ron brushed dust and cobwebs from his ruined dress robes. "I'm fine ... I think," he said. He glanced at the gunman's body, which lay spread-eagled on the seats where it had fallen. A neat hole above his ear was the only trace the fatally accurate sniper had left.

"Are there any more of them? Sir? Can you hear me?"

Ron turned, gave a short lurch, and vomited all over the floor. He felt calming hands on his shoulders.

"You'd better come with us, sir."

One of the other agents was talking into a flip-down microphone, connected to an almost invisible earpiece and transmission unit that clipped onto his ear. "This is Red Fox. We have secured the main hall. Mr Weasley is unharmed, repeat unharmed. The package is secure."

The third agent was bent next to the body. "Shit," he said, opening the man's jacket. "He must have ten magazines sewn in here!"

Ron's mind began to drift. "I have to go," he said. "My family ..."

"We're checking their status now," the Commander said.

Ron could hear a commotion coming from outside. "I need a doctor!" someone was shouting.

The agent with the radio pressed his finger to his ear in order to hear better..

"Copy that," he agents said after a moment. "Mr Weasley, your family are outside. They're shaken but unharmed."

Two of them held onto his elbows as he was escorted from the hall, past the slumped bodies of two parents who had not been lucky enough to escape with their lives.

"Were they after me?" Ron asked.

The Commander nodded. "Some kid phoned in an assassination attempt to the Aldershot branch of the M.L.E.S. They tipped us off in turn, and the kid's story checked out. You were lucky, sir. We were just rotated off duty at Oak House and were heading back to London. We were on the M3 a few miles away when we got the call through."

Oak House was the country retreat of the Minister of Magic, situated about twenty miles away, deep in the countryside.

"What story?" Ron asked, blearily. "What story checked out?"

The agents glanced at each other. Ron guessed what was happening immediately.

"Sir, you're about to become the Wizarding Alliance nominee for Minister of Magic."

***

They drove in convoy along the A31, heading back towards Guildford, Ron's BMW flanked front and back by two D.A.U. Vauxhall Omega pursuit cars and motorcycle outriders from the local Muggle police force. An agent sat at the wheel of Ron's car, whilst the frightened family sat in the back. Sunset was late in the summer months, and the sky was a breathtaking shade of royal blue as they turned onto Shere Road at Clandon Park and headed towards the tiny village of Abinger Hammer.

Ron was not altogether surprised to see a large surveillance van parked on the opposite side of the road as they drew up outside Fordwater House, Ron's vast, stockbroker belt residence. Another agent, this one packing a powerful sub-machine pistol, was standing by the gate as the cars swept onto the gravel driveway, and drew to a halt outside the front door. Lights were on inside the house.

"Is everything okay?" Mary asked. Charlotte had remained stony faced throughout.

The agent nodded. "The perimeter is secure," he said. "Your family is inside."

Mary flung the back door open and climbed out of the car. She was practically crying as she seized their daughter by the hand and ran for the front door. Ron watched her go.

"Shit," he said.

The agent inspected his fingernails. "I'm sure she'll be fine, sir. Shock is a common reaction after what you've all been through."

Ron realised he was shaking like a leaf.

"We'll be providing round the clock protection for as long as you wish it," the agent went on, "and ..."

"I don't need protecting from anyone," Ron said angrily, swinging his legs out of the car. "Were you going to Avada Kedavra the paparazzi or something?"

"I doubt it'll come to that. But the fact you were targeted by an organised assassin today means you'll have to rethink your security arrangements, especially over the coming months," the agent said. "Perhaps we should go inside, sir. You look like you need a drink."

"I need several fucking drinks," Ron snapped

He walked up to the front door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Mary was standing in the doorway of his study, holding a glass of Scotch with several very large, clear ice cubes floating in it.

"I thought this might help," she said.

"Where're the kids?" Ron asked, taking the glass from her and raising it to her lips.

"Charlotte went upstairs to see the others," Mary said. "Marisa will put her to bed for us. I don't think she's really aware of what's happened."

Ron looked around the hallway, and sipped his whisky. "I'm not entirely sure that I am, either," he said. "It's the last thing anybody was expecting."

Mary smiled at him. "We'll be fine, Ron, you'll see us okay -"

There was a slight cough from behind them. The Unit Commander and his agents were standing in the doorway. Ron smiled. "I think you boys had better come and get a stiff drink. Mary, find us some glasses, will you?"

They bustled through into the foul, stone-flagged kitchen, whilst Mary busied herself collecting together spirit glasses.

"Take a seat," Ron said, "and name your poison."

Without any warning, there was a gunshot, and a harsh, clanging sound from outside, and the entire kitchen was suddenly illuminated with painfully bright floodlight. Ron jumped, Mary shrieked and dropped a tumbler in the sink.

"What the hell's that?" Ron asked.

The agents had already gone for their guns.

"Probably it's nothing, sir," the Unit Commander said.

"It didn't sound like fucking nothing," Ron answered.

"I'll go check it out."

Ron turned back round, and leant on the kitchen table. "I really can do without this," he began to say.

A Junior Agent whom he did not recognise poked his head around the door. "Perimeter security just apprehended an intruder trying to gain access to the property," he said. "We're holding him outside now."

"I'd better take a look," the Unit Commander said. "Sorry, Mr Weasley sir, that whisky will have to wait."

"Screw the whisky, I'm coming to take a look at this fucker," Ron said.

"I don't think that's a good idea." The Unit Commander attempted to bar Ron's exit from the kitchen.

"Is he armed?"

"Is he armed?" the Commander repeated to the Junior Agent, who shook his head.

"Not as far as we're aware, sir," he said. "That doesn't rule out the possibility he's carrying some kind of explosive device on his person. We're going to have to run a search ..."

Ron was livid. "Let me get a look at this arsehole," he growled.

"Very well, sir, but ..."

They followed the Junior Agent out through the front door. Two Special Agents were holding another, shorter man against one of the Vauxhall Omegas. His legs were spread wide, and his hands were placed on the roof of the car. His face was turned away and in the glare of the floodlights, all Ron could make out was a silhouette.

"But I keep telling you!" the man was protesting, as another Agent patted him up and down, searching for explosive packs. "I'm Harry Potter!"

"Yes, and I'm the King of Norway," the Agent snapped back.

Ron and the Commander stopped a few feet away.

"He's all clear, sir," the Agent said, saluting smartly. "No weapons on his person."

The Commander nodded. "Thanks, Haakon. You may stand down."

"Right away, sir."

The Commander waved Ron back slightly, and then approached the captive cautiously. "Come on then, old chap," he said. "Let's have a look at you. Who the bloody hell do you think ..."

He was cut off short as the man turned around to face them both. At this point one of the searchlights shifted position, and his features suddenly became visible.

"Holy cricket!" the Commander exclaimed.

***

"So I ... I parked round the corner and I just walked round," Harry stammered, his hands shaking violently as he clasped them round his mug of hot chocolate, "there were loads of cars parked outside, but I didn't think anything of it - I assumed they were for the pub or something. I walked through the gate, and two of your bloody goons jump on me, pin me to the ground and jab fucking assault rifles in my back ..."

Ron sat back down in his armchair. "They're not my goons," he said wearily. "I'll have the D.A.U. remove them come the morning."

"Hah. Jumped by the fuckers I used to work for," Harry smiled a little. "How perfectly ironic."

He sipped his chocolate. They were sitting in Ron's study at the back of the house, looking out over the lawns, sloping gently down to the fields beyond. The entire room was lined with bookshelves, each one crammed with expensive sets of books that Ron and Mary had ordered from catalogues and never bothered to read. There was a single, antique mahogany desk, an abnormally large drinks cabinet, and two amply built armchairs. A small table set between the two of them held a small plate of biscuits.

"They're for protection," Ron said grimly.

"Protection from what? Ze Germans?"

"Oh, I just ... well ... it's been kind of an exciting day," Ron said.

"How so?" Harry asked.

"The Party just nominated me as their candidate for the next Minister of Magic," Ron said.

"I take it that's good -" Harry began.

"And then this evening I had to give an address at Charlotte's school and there was a bit of a ruckus -"

"What kind of a -"

"Some people trying to get their point across by shooting up an assembly hall full of kids, actually," Ron said. He was surprised, inwardly, by how easy it was to say it out loud. After all, it couldn't have been much more than a couple of hours ago. Already it was beginning to seem like a horrible dream that he'd just woken up from.

Harry was talking, "... bloody fucking awful, Ron! No wonder they've given you protection! It must have been some kind of hit man."

"Yeah ... yeah," Ron said, blankly.

"You okay?"

Ron looked at Harry.

"I haven't seen you in months," he began. His voice was edged with laughter as he regarded his friend. "I haven't seen you in fucking months, Harry."

"No ... but I had something ..." Harry said. He suddenly looked worried, haunted. His face was so gaunt and ghostly pale, even in the warm light of the study. "Ron, look. I really, really need your help on something."

"Oh shit ... not again, Harry! Not tonight! Why now?" Ron asked. "Why tonight? Why did you choose tonight to turn up here? I have enough on my fucking plate without having to deal with you again! I have to raise my kids, I have to plan an entire fucking election campaign! I'm sick of having to lend you money I'm never going to see you again, or come down from some booze-fuelled binge! You can't do this to me, Harry! You can't keep running to me like this. This isn't how it is any more. It fucking kills me to see you killing yourself snorting the G.N.P. of Colombia. I can't cope with that, Harry -"

"So apart from it being my birthday, then," Harry said.

Ron stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh," he began. "Oh ... arseburgers."

"That and I did actually have something I wanted to show you ... until your goons nabbed my shoulder-bag," Harry said.

"I'll ... I'll get it back," Ron said. "Just a minute. Stay right there. Um ... don't nick anything."

He disappeared out of the door to search again for the Commander. Harry rose from his seat, walked over to the French windows, and opened them. The night air was unusually chilly. Perhaps the heat wave the country was in the grip of was finally breaking. Turning away, he walked back over to the bookshelves, selected a tome at random, and pulled it out. Harry had not read anything much beyond the morning papers and various glossy men's lifestyle magazines for some time. The book he was holding now was a Folio Society edition of The Iliad.

The door clicked shut as Ron came back into the study, bearing Harry's bag.

"Here you go," he said, brightly. "Ever so sorry about everything. Happy Birthday, by the way."

"You're the second person to have noticed," said Harry bleakly, returning the book to its space on the shelf and taking his seat again. "I thought you might have sent that owl I sent packing this morning."

Ron looked puzzled, "Owl? No, I didn't send any owls. I'd completely forgotten it was even your birthday," he said. "I wonder who that could've been from." He handed Harry the bag. "Perhaps we should meet up in London tomorrow, or something. We can get a drink, have a meal or something."

Harry affected nonchalance at Ron's suggestion while secretly struggling to hide his pleasure at it. With fumbling hands he opened the bag, and pulled out a plastic zip-lock bag, of the type used to contain exhibits in a courtroom.

"What do you make of this?" he asked, handing it to Ron.

"It's a wand," Ron said. "I'd say rosewood, about nine point eight inches. Well made, too. Not an Ollivander, though. The girth is uniform throughout, Ollivander's wands tend to taper to a point. This looks like it could be a Stradivarius. Could also be a Romanov, though."

Harry looked surprised. "You can tell all that just by looking at it?"

Ron raised his eyes towards the ceiling. "Percy used to collect them - it's amazing how much of it rubs off. But where did you come by this?" he asked.

"That's just it," Harry said. "I found it this morning. We're working on an important case at the minute. I don't know if you know anything about it, but there've been a lot of very strange bank robberies all over the region just lately."

"Strange in what way?"

"Well ... the witnesses are always slightly confused, for a start," said Harry. "Nobody ever claims to remember anything ... which is very odd, but it means there's no substantial evidence, aside from the fact that vast quantities of money have been vanishing into thin air. Now, until this morning, it never occurred to me that someone might be making use of dark magic ..."

"And let me guess. This morning, you found this wand?" Ron asked.

Harry nodded. "Exactly right," he said. "I think someone dropped it."

Ron set the bag back down on the table. "Well, very clearly someone dropped it, Harry," he said. "Exactly what do you expect me to do with it?"

END OF CHAPTER THREE.

TO BE CONTINUED SOON.