Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I [FictionAlley Edit]

Chapter One v2 -- History in the Making

"By Virtue of the Power of Authority given by Her Majesty's Letters Patent under the Great Seal and by the Ministry of Magic for the Commonwealth of Nations, we do hereby Constitute and Appoint Gawain Robards to be a Captain of Aurors in Her Majesty's Auror Office from the Twenty-Fifth day of June, Nineteen Ninety-Six . . ."

-- from the commissioning of Gawain Robards, 1996.

Colwyn Glen Cemoyth always thought himself very average as a young man, and was rather proud of it. He had determined, through his habits as a historian, that his entire life had been very average indeed. Always one to cover his bases, he had taken the time to organize a portfolio of evidence, in case he was ever challenged on this matter.

Col (the average nickname for a 'Colwyn') was the spitting image of his father, Glen Cemoyth. Honestly, this was not a difficult feat, since his father carried the Cemoyths' thick, curly black hair and blue eyes that seemed to pervade all ranks of their household.

His mother Rosamund Wilde was of Welsh descent, but born in London in the mid-1920s. Her family weathered the war defiantly in their home. They had been planning to rebuild the family eatery near Finsbury with Rosamund as the hostess, as she had the best figure of her siblings.

Much to their consternation, Rosamund ran away from home at the age of sixteen, and contact with her side of the family was about as diligent as a flobberworm in heat.

Not that any of the Cemoyths would claim to know anything about flobberworms, of course. You see, they were a family of Muggles, and proud of it. Not that they knew what the word Muggle meant anyhow, and Colwyn was determined to maintain his family's perfectly average appearance, following the death of his father.

His father had always insisted on Colwyn's success in his studies, like any other father. The Cemoyth family had a long-standing unspoken tradition of always having at least one family member working as a historian. Glen held that profession at the Royal Museum in Edinburgh, and Colwyn was on his way to succeed him.

Col finished primary and secondary school with top marks (rather average for any serious student, thought Colwyn), and was matriculated at the University of Oxford. He even held an average, sportive, and rather obligatory sibling rivalry with his year-older brother Donald, who attended the University of Cambridge (and whose nickname was, of course, Don). When Don died in a freak accident in 1979, Col mourned his passing as he saw was proper.

However, this was probably the point where Col would later be forced to demarcate the end of his life as an average man.

Gradually, the elder Glen Cemoyth faltered in what used to be his steady pace in life. It was easy for Colwyn to notice, because he had become entirely accustomed to his family's extremely normal behavior.

It was perfectly average for Glen to mourn when Rosamund Wilde Cemoyth died in an automobile accident. It was not, however, average for Glen to start casting furtive looks over his back in the wake of Don's death several years later. Col would have understood if his father had, for instance, gone into depression -- after all, Don's passing meant the second death in the immediate family within a decade. The paranoia Glen had apparently developed did not sit well with Col's notion of an average life.

Using his excellent historian's instinct, Col narrowed down his father's recent activities in an attempt to find something -- anything -- that didn't quite click like it should. Eventually, it came down to the only three changes that had occurred in Glen's rigidly structured life.

Firstly, his father had switched toothpaste from the old Colgate brand to the new Aquafresh brand, which had recently debuted. While it was possible that his father was simply checking over his shoulder to see if the neighbors had noticed his new pearly white smile, Col doubted it.

Secondly, his father had developed arthritis. But Col didn't see how that would cause Glen to sneak glances at his surroundings, as if something were about to pounce. In fact, though he was not a medical professional, he was fairly certain that craning one's neck to look around corners was not a commonly prescribed method for treating the ache.

Finally, there was one day when Glen had been visited by his distant cousin, Etharn Cimoiod.

Glen hadn't known any relatives by the name Cimoiod up until that point in time. While he loved to study the trends and causes of events in history, genealogy was an entirely different beast he'd rather not perturb. He'd known that at some point, the Pictish Cimoiod family had become the Cemoyth family and given their allegiance to the Kingdom of Alba, which in turn became Scotland.

However, the only mention that he was actually connected to this distant family branch came when Col and Don were joining their father for dinner. They witnessed their father -- who was a short, balding man -- push the larger and well-built Etharn forcibly out the front door. After the door slammed in his face, Etharn stood on the porch for a moment before walking back to his rented automobile and driving away.

The brothers inquired of Etharn at dinner, but Glen would not tell them anything more than the fact that the Cimoiods and Cemoyths were once tied together many, many generations ago, and that they were to be regarded as the black sheep of the family.

Eventually, Colwyn realized that this was the only likely cause for his father's onset of paranoia, and he resolved to confront his father on the matter. Unfortunately, he would never be allowed the chance to do so, for his father died shortly after.

The coroner who examined Glen Cemoyth's body was the same coroner who had previously examined Donald Cemoyth's body. The coroner shared his extremely puzzled thoughts with an already distraught Colwyn, which was understandable, but unfortunate nonetheless. Glen and Donald had died in what seemed to be the exact same manner -- both behind locked doors and with a rather surprised expression on their faces.

Apparently, the men of the Cemoyth family were not only inclined to be historians, but they also had a propensity to drop dead for absolutely no reason at all.

By this time, Colwyn Cemoyth was in his mid-thirties, and the loss of his loved ones finally caught up with him. He no longer had any family apart from the few relatives he'd known about : his mother's estranged family in London and his father's father, whom he had only met fleetingly. Over the years, he had also had a couple of failed romances to throw into the mix. Colwyn Cemoyth was very much alone, and also very much afraid of dying without warning. He began to adopt his father's habit of checking around corners.

The one thing that probably saved Colwyn from going through a mid-life crisis was the fact that he had been able to find employ as a historian at the Royal Museum, like his father before him. It comforted him to know that at least there was still one Cemoyth carrying on the family's long-standing tradition, though he did not know why.

The answer came in the form of a loud rap on his front door almost a decade later, on one warm June evening in 1996 while Colwyn was busy making himself tea.

Colwyn, now in his mid-forties, still lived alone, and still worked at the Royal Museum in Edinburgh. His black hair was still curly and thick, but his face was beginning to show the lines of his frequent worry. He had gained a little weight while still trying to remain in shape, resulting in a figure halfway between pudgy and stocky. He tried very hard to be good-natured to the people he knew, but always checked his corners.

He had traded in his average nature for a cautious demeanor and almost tip-toed to the door. He opened it and was greeted by a pair of men who would finally erase all hope of being average from his life.

"H -- hello?" he managed to stammer.

"Cemoyth," grunted a tall, long haired man, who extended a blue-tattooed arm in greeting. "Apullius, the Druid. Cimoiod, the Secret Keeper," he added, pointing to Etharn, who stood beside him.

Colwyn's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak.

"Thanks Apullius," said Etharn, patting his shoulder. "Forgive the intrusion Colwyn, but would you mind very much if we conversed for a while? We are cousins, you see, and it is urgent that we speak of family matters."

In spite of himself, Colwyn decided that he liked Etharn. He spoke with a confident air, and his voice soothed Col's nerves. He was slightly shorter than Apullius, and tattoo-free. He was also not a "druid," whatever that was.

"Please -- come in," said Col, stepping aside. He led them into the parlor, and went to fetch tea. All the while, his heart was racing. Here was a man whom his father had pushed out of his own house, accompanied by a tall stranger with tattoos all over his arm. He suddenly wondered what had ever possessed him to allow them into his house in the first place. Curiosity? Maybe. Col had always been a truth-seeker -- it is what made him rather successful in his research. Etharn presented himself as a nice fellow, and Colwyn had never met anybody from his extended family before.

Unfortunately, he also bore good habits as an analyst and mild skeptic, and he was finding it difficult not to snort at his distant cousin's story. The only thing that kept him from bursting out in disbelieving laughter was the sight of Apullius, tall and stoic, sitting on the couch opposite him and staring into space with a very grim expression on his face.

But really, giants? Secret Keepers? And what on earth was a Muggle?

"Non-magical folk, like you and me," explained Etharn.

"Hold on, Magic? You came all the way from goodness knows where to tell me about some fairy tale?"

Etharn looked mightily concerned.

"You aren't going to throw us out like your father did, are you?"

"Oh no," Col replied, shaking his head. "I appreciate the entertainment. But I thought you came here for an urgent matter, not to share tall tales. I have some ghost stories about Northumberland that'll curl your hair, once you're done with yours."

Etharn looked confused for a moment, before realizing that Col was being facetious.

"Colwyn -- "

"Call me Col, please. Everybody in our family does."

"Col," Etharn amended, "I'd heard from my father that our families never quite saw eye-to-eye ever since the Middle Ages. But I assure you, every word I've said is true. Our side of the family, the Cimoiods, is an old Muggle Secret Keeping family -- and I'm the last of them. We're about to die out."

Col put his teacup down and leaned back into his chair.

"My condolences, Etharn, but what does this have to do with your whole" -- Col waved his fingers in the air for effect -- "magical fairy tale?"

Etharn was nonplussed.

"I have a duty to make sure that the secrets we keep are passed on. Since you are the nearest living relative -- "

"I get to listen to your story, and tell it to someone before I die. Right."

Etharn looked surprised for a moment, and then quite pleased that his cousin had picked up on his task so quickly. Glen had simply stared at them for a while before chasing them out.

"Why yes, yes that is what you must do."

Col rolled his eyes.

"Shall I fetch myself a notepad?"

"Oh no, no," said Etharn, standing. Apullius rose as well, so Col followed suit.

"These secrets are not to be passed down under the written word."

Col jumped, for it was the first time Apullius had said anything since his introduction on the porch. His voice was lower than one would expect from even a man of his size, and it made the walls reverberate when he spoke at volume.

"What -- "

"Not to worry," said Etharn cheerfully. "The secrets are passed down through a clever bit of Blood Magic. They will be given directly to your memory when I die."

"Wh -- Blood? Magic?"

"Col, listen to me," said Etharn, turning serious. "I realize that you don't actually believe a word of what I said. However, I beg you to remember what I've said. When I die, you will become aware of the family secrets."

"You haven't told me how I will become aware of them -- "

"Not important. You'll find out. You must remember that the only people who you are to divulge any information to are those who are loyal to Rowena of the Hogwarts School."

"Now hang on just one minute," blustered Col. "You haven't told me anything. How can you simply come to my house, tell me all of this rubbish, and then expect me to take you seriously? And if this is a family matter, why are you here, Apullius?"

Ethan and Apullius had been turning to leave, but Ethan turned back towards him.

"I am truly sorry, cousin. I know how this feels for you, because this is exactly how my father explained it to me. I cannot tell you more in person; but when I die, the whole story" -- he tapped the side of his head with a finger -- "will become yours."

"Why do you keep referring to your death as though it will be before mine? You're younger than I am, for goodness' sake. Is someone out to kill you?"

Etharn smiled. It was a very sad smile, and Col was taken aback by its weight. He turned back towards Apullius. The self-proclaimed druid put a large hand on Etharn's shoulder, and before Col could step forward to seize his cousin's arm, there was a soft pop!

They had vanished into thin air.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Over three hundred miles to the south, a tall man with a lion's mane emerged from a small eatery owned by the Wilde family. His hair was thick, golden brown, and flared out handsomely. Though it was beginning to show whisps of silvery gray, the signs of age simply contributed to the aura of power he exuded. His golden yellow eyes and bushy eyebrows added to his likeness to the king of wild cats. He walked with a slight limp, the result of a fierce fight earlier in his years.

He was Rufus Scrimgeour, previously the Head of the Auror Office, and recently appointed Minister for Magic of the United Kingdom. He was also late.

Briskly walking to a nearby alleyway and rounding the corner, Scrimgeour pulled out his wand and Apparated mid-stride with a sharp crack, reappearing in his office while still walking. He strode over to his desk and hurriedly scribbled a few more lines onto the parchment he'd been working on before his lunch break.

The small portrait behind his desk of an ugly little man wearing a long, curly silver wig cleared its throat.

"Just finishing this letter," said Scrimgeour. "Tell them I'll be there in a moment."

The man in the portrait left. Scrimgeour cursed under his breath. He had been busier than he had ever been in his life, and it had only been three days since his appointment to Minister. Even before that, he had been busy preparing the Auror Office with its transition from peacetime policing and investigative duties to its original function as a combat operations unit.

For the Aurors, the situation looked grim. With He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on the rise once again, the magical community needed to put its best foot forward in its own defense. That foot was the Auror Office, and it was tiny. There hadn't been a single new Auror since Nymphadora Tonks in 1993, and several had died or disappeared in the past years.

That put the remaining number of Aurors at roughly thirty. Ten of those were overseas: three somewhere in Persia, two along the border of Pakistan and India, two in training exercises with the Australian Aurors, and the remaining three were presumably in Eastern Europe, but had since gone missing.

Scrimgeour scowled. The Americans wouldn't have had this problem, the damn war-mongers. They always kept a full Auror Corps, which he looked upon with disdain. In his opinion, their training was never up to par with his Auror Office, but at the rate he was losing men, he might not have a choice but to ask the American Commandant for a provisional force.

Now as Minister, Scrimgeour had to wage a war on the political front as well. The followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been targeting highly visible targets since his public appearance in the Ministry itself.

One of the targets was his old boss, Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Auror Office was perfectly capable of operating with little to no contact with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It only worked under the Department in peacetime, due to the closely related nature of their missions.

The transition to the wartime independence of the Auror Office had been symbolized by the reinstatement of a Captain of Aurors, the office now held by Gawain Robards.

With the loss of Commissioner Bones, the Law Enforcement Offices were in chaos for a few hours before Pius Thicknesse was appointed to the position. The Improper Use of Magic Office and Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office were the least affected by the chaos, but the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol was out of action long enough for cases to accumulate, and the patrol wizards were still trying to play catch-up.

Then they had lost Emmeline Vance, a well-known ambassador in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. She was a celebrated writer and had often written columns appearing in the Daily Prophet, regarding the affairs of the International Confederation of Wizards. It was Scrimgeour's opinion that this was what had brought about her death -- she had recently been rallying the support of her readers to petition the Confederation members to create legislation to protect Muggle-born witches and wizards.

Of course, the most surprising thing to Scrimgeour about the whole affair was the fact that the Prophet had actually printed the latest edition of Vance's column, as the editor of the Prophet was known to be a proud pureblood. His instincts had kicked in and he grew to suspect that the editor had allowed Vance's column to be printed in order to allow Vance to put herself in danger. Before he could investigate further, he had been promoted to Minister, and the editor had gone missing as well.

The letter that Scrimgeour was writing at the moment was the third in a series of petitions to Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Like Minister Cornelius Fudge before him, Scrimgeour sought the services of one Harry Potter -- the only person known to survive the wrath of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -- in order to raise public support of the Ministry.

The Ministry of Magic was losing footing left and right due to the disappearances and acts of violence. A few days prior, an explosion had destroyed the Brockdale Bridge, killing Muggles and wizards alike. Muggle newspapers attributed the explosion to the largest bombing yet by the Irish Provisional Republican Army. The magical community knew that it had been the work of the Death Eaters, followers of the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, et cetera, et cetera.

If that had not been trouble enough, a large-scale assault occurred in Wales, and this time there had been evidence that giants were involved. Trees were uprooted, houses destroyed, and a large swath of country land wasted. Teams of Obliviators were working around the clock, and the magical community was, for a while, dangerously close to exposure.

It was only his second day as Minister when Scrimgeour had approved the arrests of several innocent people as Death Eaters. It brought a bad taste to his mouth, but public support for the Ministry seemed to have reached its tipping point, and the Ministry needed to show itself capable of some sort of action, and quickly.

To have Harry Potter as a figurehead would mean that people could rally to the Ministry under his name, and that meant that they stood a chance against the Dark Lord. But to do that, apparently, he needed Dumbledore's approval.

Quickly scratching 'Albus Dumbledore' onto the envelope with his quill, he turned back to the portrait of the man with the wig.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic," he incanted. It was a very silly protocol, in his opinion, especially since Fudge was already there with him.

After affixing a wax seal, he attached the letter to the leg of a tawny owl at the window, and stepped into the fire at the same time that the portrait came alive to tell him that his request had been granted.

The Prime Minister of Muggles was reserved in appearance. He was balding, and all of his hair was grey, but neatly combed. He wore glasses with a thick black rim. Scrimgeour had seen his face on campaign posters before with a calming and friendly smile, and standing upon, of all things, an upturned soapbox. However, the Prime Minister's face today was full of lines and worry, and there was a definite look of fear in his eyes.

"How do you do?" asked the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

"Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic," said Scrimgeour, taking the hand briefly. As he did this, he looked around the Prime Minister's office, wordlessly casting an analytical spell he had often used as an Auror. There were four windows, each heavily enchanted with curse-wards and silencing spells. The aura of the silencing spells disappeared between the windows, but Scrimgeour could sense them through the masonry. Of the portraits on the walls, three were affixed with Permanent Sticking Charms, one of which was another portrait of the man with the silver wig.

The walls themselves were protected in the same manner as the windows, but the door was unlocked. Scrimgeour slid his wand out of his sleeve and pointed it at the keyhole. They heard the lock click.

"Fudge told you everything?" he asked the Prime Minister, still scanning the room.

"Er -- yes," said the Prime Minister. "And if you don't mind, I'd prefer that the door remained unlocked."

"I'd rather not be interrupted," said Scrimgeour shortly, "or watched." He pointed at the windows and the curtains fell from their hangings to cover them.

"Wait, before you got here," the Prime Minister said, clearing his throat, "Fudge said something about Dementors attacking people . . ."

"I'm afraid it's true, Prime Minister," said Fudge, weariness apparent in his voice. "They abandoned Azkaban a week ago and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't a blow."

"Yes," Scrimgeour sighed. "Fudge and I had to redirect patrol wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol and two Aurors to cover for them. Out of maybe two hundred, there were five Dementors who remained at their posts in Azkaban, but surely you understand that we don't exactly trust them to perform above and beyond the call of duty."

"But," sputtered the Prime Minister, with fear in his voice, "didn't you tell me that they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people? And suck out their souls?"

"That's right," said Scrimgeour, motioning towards the chairs around the Prime Minister's desk. "And they're breeding now. We have no idea how, though. It's been a subject of continuing debate, whether or not Dementors are asexual."

The Prime Minister sank into his large leather office chair, looking quite pale.

Scrimgeour and Fudge took seats opposite him.

"Apologies, Prime Minister," began Scrimgeour. "As you can imagine, I am extremely busy these days. Let's get down to business. Firstly, your security."

"I am perfectly happy with the security of my office -- " said the Prime Minister, sitting up.

"Well, we're not," Scrimgeour growled. "It will not end well for your Muggles, if their Prime Minister is successfully Imperiused. The secretary in your outer office -- "

"I'm not sacking Shacklebolt, if that's what you're asking!" said the Prime Minister in a fiercely defensive voice. "He's probably the best person I've got on my staff. Highly efficient, gets work done twice as fast as anyone else -- "

"Because he's a wizard," finished Scrimgeour. The Prime Minister looked surprised. "He is an Auror -- Company Commander, Lieutenant Kingsley Shacklebolt. I supervised his final training exercise and qualifying examination myself. When Fudge requested an Auror for your protection, I recommended him."

"Now wait a moment! You can't decide who works on my staff -- " blustered the Prime Minister.

"I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt," said Scrimgeour, without a trace of a smile on his face.

"I am -- "

"Then there is no problem, correct?"

"I . . . well, as long as Shacklebolt continues to perform at his standards . . ." began the Prime Minister, but Scrimgeour didn't let him finish.

"The next order of business is that man, your Junior Minister."

The Prime Minister looked affronted.

"Chorley is just suffering from stress; surely all he needs is a bit of a vacation."

"Prime Minister, he was quacking like a duck in the middle of a crowded Muggle street," Scrimgeour reminded him bluntly. "He is suffering from the effects of a botched Imperius Curse. We will be taking him to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, so that our Healers can monitor his recovery."

"Er, what -- but . . . Will he be okay?" asked the Prime Minister.

Scrimgeour shrugged and Fudge looked apprehensive.

"At any rate, one more thing Prime Minister: I'm currently faced with a dwindling number of Aurors," said Scrimgeour gravely.

"Er -- Aurors, they are your special forces teams, correct?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Scrimgeour, nodding. "They are our primary defense against dark wizards. Back when times of war were more frequent, they were usually the spearhead of our forces, like your Royal Marines are today."

The Prime Minister nodded his head proudly. Then a look of concern washed over his face.

"When you say 'dwindling number,' how many are -- "

"About twenty."

The Prime Minister's eyes widened and looked like they were going to pop out of his head.

"You only have twenty people?"

For the first time since Scrimgeour had entered the office, the Prime Minister saw a look of worry flash across the lion-haired man's face.

"Well, also have ten overseas, but some are missing and I'm not sure when I will be able to call the rest back," said Scrimgeour with a distant look on his face. "During the last war against the Dark Lord, we had about two hundred Aurors. Half of them were killed in action, and then a good number called it quits after the war, and recently a handful has disappeared."

"We also have the patrol witches and wizards," added Fudge, "but in terms of combat, those are simply men and women who received a passing N.E.W.T. in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Their job is to enforce laws, not to wage wars."

"I -- " said the Prime Minister, looking aghast. "Why are you telling me? I can't just go up to the Royal Marines and -- "

Scrimgeour looked surprised and then laughed with a slightly bitter undertone.

"No, no, you misunderstand me, Prime Minister. I'd rather not involve the Muggle military if I don't have to. The last time anything like that happened was during the war against Grindelwald, and the casualties were atrociously high."

"Grindelwald?" asked the Prime Minister, confused.

"Er -- the Muggle theater of war was referred to as the Second World War, I believe," supplied Fudge.

The Prime Minister's mouth formed a small 'o' of realization.

"Anyhow," continued Scrimgeour, "protocol requires me to inform you that we are considering asking for direct support from the International Confederation of Wizards. I hope it does not come to that. And no -- " he amended, for the Prime Minister had begun to voice his concern. "This wouldn't require you to take action with the leaders of other Muggle nations. In other countries as well, the magical community and the Muggle community remain fairly separate in politics."

"Though," Fudge chipped in, "we're not sure if we will receive any assistance in the near future. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been stirring up trouble all over the world. I understand that the Bulgarian Minister for Magic is having a hard time suppressing several vampire uprisings."

At the word 'vampire,' the Prime Minister had gone even paler.

"If we ask for any outside help, the most likely to respond would be the Americans and the French. Personally, I'd like to see us recruiting straight out of Hogwarts -- "

"And a fat lot of good that would do us!" growled Scrimgeour dangerously. "As I recall, Fudge, you spent the last academic year refusing to train the students at Hogwarts in combat."

"I -- but . . . well," Fudge looked extremely flustered. The Prime Minister narrowed his eyes and began to speak, but Scrimgeour continued.

"Fudge here intentionally refused to allow the students last year to practice defensive spells, out of fear that the headmaster of the school was raising an army to overthrow him." Scrimgeour looked positively murderous.

"And it would have done us a world of good if he had! While I was still the Head of the Auror Office, the headmaster told me he was developing a special program this year to compensate for the lack of training, but until the first batch of students finishes it, we have no rising candidates for the Auror Office."

The Prime Minister mulled this over in his head. Scrimgeour and Fudge stood up to leave.

"Well, that's all the business we have for today, Prime Minister."

"Wait," said the Prime Minister. "Is -- I'd appreciate if we could keep in contact. Is there some way I can reach you?"

Fudge and Scrimgeour exchanged looks. In the past, the Prime Minister of Muggles and the Minister for Magic had only maintained tenuous relations, required by protocol. They'd never heard of a Prime Minister asking to keep in touch before.

"I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister," Scrimgeour replied. "If I am too busy, I shall send Fudge here. He is on my staff as an advisor. If you need to reach us, just ask one of these portraits." He pointed with his wand to the three portraits that had been permanently stuck to the walls, which glowed each in turn.

With that, the two wizards bid the Prime Minister of Muggles a good day, and stepped into the fire.

H I S T O R Y I N T H E M A K I N G

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