Alexandra Sutton and the Nighthawk's Trinket

Alexandra Sutton and the Nighthawk's Trinket

Chapter 5

Being fifty percent of a recognized couple was, quite frankly, a new experience to me - it took a certain amount of getting used to.

For a start, I was no longer identified by something like "Oh, you know her... She's that weird Slytherin half-blood with the glasses." I was now "That Slytherin that Ben Stebbins is seeing." Oddly, he never became "The bloke who's going out with Alex Sutton." I assumed this was simply because he was much better known round the school than I was.

The weather was getting colder. For a few mornings, it had been possible for the four of us to pillage some of the more portable items on the breakfast menu and eat al-fresco by a south-facing wall that was a suntrap that stubbornly clung on to the last remnants of the summer. But a cold snap at the beginning of November put an end to that. The lawns and paths were covered with mounds of leaves, the sky took on the dull leaden look it would mostly keep until April and everything outside took on a surly air of muddy dampness that would remain until the snow and frost started to set in.

Ben and I mostly retreated to the library. Despite its size, Hogwarts has few comfortable neutral spaces where people from different houses can meet, fewer where they can meet privately. Of course, you heard stories about what sometimes went on in the unused dungeon classrooms. Who knows? Perhaps there really were couples who were prepared to tolerate the dark, the damp, the peculiar smells, tripping over the rotting hulks of old furniture and crunching an occasional rat's skull with their shoes. Not to mention the phosphorescent slime-mould on the dungeon ceiling that reputedly gave off mildly hallucinogenic spores and was close to sapience thanks to hundreds of years of potion fumes. I don't know, perhaps I'm being picky.

The library, by contrast, was well lit and well heated, though admittedly that was for the benefit of the books - Madame Pince made no secret of her opinion regarding the relative importance of books and students in the grand scheme of things. But at least it was possible to talk quietly as we did homework together in the evenings. On a typical, thrill filled Friday evening, towards the end of November, we were doing just that.

"You know, I used to think the reason people tend to only go out with housemates was because they were being a bunch of insular cliquey buggers," I said. "Now, I think they're being practical."

"Well, we have weekends..." said Ben.

"When we're busy working."

"Transfiguration, twice a week..." he continued, mentally ticking off some list.

"When to speak one word risks death by McGonagalling."

"And mealtimes..."

"When we can wave at each other from opposite sides of the Great Hall."

"I see what you mean - we really have to do detentions together more often. Alternatively, you could chuck me and go out with some nice Slytherin sixth-year like Turing or Bletchley."

"Going out with Miles Bletchley," I said, "implies spending time in his presence and occasionally speaking to him. Shovelling six months accumulation of guano out of the Owlery is starting to sound good."

"I'm as good as shovelling owl crap... Alex, you are such a romantic! But never mind, at least we have all day in Hogsmeade tomorrow."

"At least we have that...see ya tomorrow."

We exchanged grins, he squeezed my hand, gathered up his books and left.

I looked at my watch, it was getting close to curfew time so I followed his lead and shoved my books into my bag. As I stood, I saw Draco Malfoy, standing by a bookcase and pretending to read something. His expression was a smirk but when he spoke, his tone of voice was a sneer.

"So you're going out with some Hufflepuff, Sutton.... That's not surprising. I imagine you had to look elsewhere when you discovered no wizard in your own house would be prepared to touch some half-breed like you with a ten-foot pole. "

Oh, Buddha! How long had he been there? I really don't need this.

"Well at least I've avoided going out with one of my cousins, ferret-boy. Which is more than any of your ancestors could manage."

I turned my back on him and I stalked back to the common room.

Annoying little twerp.

***

The next day, I missed Ben in the queue of people in the Great Hall, waiting to sign out. It didn't matter, Hogsmeade was a small place and I knew we would find each other sooner or later. There was nothing I needed to buy except some wizard tooth-rot from Honeydukes. Rachel had confided it was the de-facto currency amongst first-years - much like cigarettes in prison. I promised to get her a supply though I made a mental note to make sure she wasn't planning to pay a classmate to do her homework. Gryffindor or not, she was still a Sutton. We are the sort of people who would fight to the death for the right cause - but not before checking there was no chance we could simply bribe the enemy to go away and leave us alone.

In Hogsmeade, I first dropped into the Three Broomsticks to see if Ben was there. As usual, the place was crowded. A forlorn group of usual customers looked, as usual, mightily ticked off about having their quiet haunt invaded by about a hundred chattering students. In the corner, a hag was sitting on her own. She was responsible for occupying about ten percent of the place on account of the fact that nobody was going within fifteen feet of her.

I pushed through the crowd with the twin objectives of scanning the faces for Ben and trying to get myself to the bar, but I was unexpectedly jostled against a table around which were clustered Jordan, the Weasley twins and their little brother.

"Hey, Sutton. Can we have a word?" said a twin.

"What do you want, Weasley?" I said, slowly and suspiciously. One of the many blessings of not being their friend was that I could address either of them by their surname and not even try to tell them apart - which would probably give me a headache.

"Sit down, Alex; sit next to Ron. We want to ask a favour."

Ron looked like he was about to say something, but thought better of it.

"Well?" I asked again.

One of the twins conspiratorially leant forward and planted his elbows on the table.

"There's a bloke behind you - no, don't look round. He's sitting close to the bar with two goblins. We want to know what they're discussing. Lee squeezed past them on his way to the gents' but they're speaking in Gobbledegook..."

"And Katie Bell says you're brilliant at it," said the other twin.

Whatever they were up to, it obviously stank and getting involved was a bad decision. Still, flattery will get you everywhere - perhaps I should hint that to Ben. Damn! I'm easily distracted these days.

"If I do this, we're even?"

"Of course."

I waited a few seconds, pretending to think about it.

"Right, I'll need one of you to volunteer..."

"No problem," said a twin, offhandedly. "Do whatever this delightful Slytherin tells you, Ron."

The younger Weasley had been blandly staring into space, his butterbeer almost untouched. He gave a start like somebody had shoved a cattle prod into his unmentionables.

"Don't worry, I don't bite," I said, "at least not often. We're only going to go up to the bar to get more butterbeers. You can manage that?"

"Why?" he spluttered.

"Because I can't stand at the guy's elbow, blatantly earwigging on his conversation. I need to pretend to be listening to whatever drivel you can come out with. It'll help me if you waste as much time as possible buying five butterbeers. Get the drinks wrong, spend half a minute fumbling through your pockets to find the money then get that wrong. Try to look a bit gormless. Just like you are now, in fact!"

I felt like I was talking to a six year old. It was quite odd, the twins had plenty of brains and a surplus of innate deviousness. When I had the misfortune to encounter him, Perfect Percy had struck me as a pompous Gryffindor arse - but they didn't make idiots Head Boy. The two older brothers had left years ago yet they must've had one hell of a reputation because faint whispers of it lingered on. I think the young one only inherited the red hair.

"Is that clear?" I said, giving it time to sink in.

"Clear," he affirmed, reluctantly.

We got up and slowly moved towards the bar. One of the goblins looked suspiciously at me, but he continued to talk quietly to the man - I recognised him now, the Ministry bloke who had something to do with organising the Tournament. I looked casually at Ron and struggled to hear what they said. By this point, pointing my at wand my ear and muttering an incantation to improve my hearing would have been a slight give-away. Besides, get that one even slightly wrong and the ticking of your watch suddenly sounds as loud as a church bell; You'd be nuts to attempt it inside a noisy crowded bar; and if you weren't nuts, you'd would be by the time the charm wore off.

"So how come you're not with your chum, Potter? He's got the first Tournament task on Tuesday, hasn't he?"

"None of your business, Sutton," Ron hissed fiercely.

"That's true, Weasley, it's none of my business -"

Zaknapr, that means gold. Now there's a surprise! " - but I'm sure my friends would be doing everything they could to help me if I was champion. But then, unlike Potter, I was entitled to enter the Tournament."

"And unlike Harry, you weren't picked."

Ouch!

Hold it, what are they saying now? Pienrozma wad-akzeciv - wager, big wager! That's it, they're talking about betting! The man helping to run the Tournament must be betting on the outcome... and they're negotiating on odds. I hope the twins know what they're getting into.

"Besides," Ron continued, "why should you care what happens to Harry? I'm surprised you're not wearing one of those stupid badges. "

I shrugged. "Right now, the only thing I've got against Potter is his annoying habit of catching Snitches. He spectacularly beat the system and I admire that, but it seems likely he'll meet his come-uppance on Tuesday. Happily though, that's not my problem."

Anybody detested by Malfoy that much was bound to have some good points. Not that I would dare say this to Ben or any Hufflepuff. It was amazing they hadn't yet built a bonfire to burn Potter's effigy.

The landlady was now looking oddly at Ron, wondering what was keeping him, so he hastily ordered five butterbeers. But it didn't matter now, the goblins had shaken hands with the man and were leaving. They strode off as forcefully as somebody four feet tall can stride, giving the impression this wasn't the sort of place they went out of choice and they weren't keen to linger. As they left, Ben and Sarah Fawcett came in. I told Ron all I had heard of the conversation so he could pass it on to his brothers, plucked my butterbeer from the counter and went to join my friends, leaving young Weasley with the awkward problem of carrying four drinks with two hands.

***

On Tuesday, the school trooped down to the stands to watch the first Tournament Task. Even the most studious didn't mind skipping afternoon lessons to see a spectacle not witnessed in a century. And there was no question that the setting did justice to the occasion.

God knows, wizards have no shortage of faults, but what a handful could accomplish when they set their minds on something was breathtaking. Literally overnight, wooden stands had been erected around a large oval arena to create an amphitheatre big enough to accommodate a thousand students and at least as many guests. Above the top tier, a ring of flagpoles carried huge heraldic banners of Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. True, that lent the whole thing a slightly disturbing Nuremberg effect, but they weren't to know. On the side opposite to us to us, near the front, an elaborately decorated box accommodated the high muckety-mucks although the only ones I could make out were Dumbledore, on account of his beard, and the French headmistress, on account of her size.

Ben, Sarah, Nick and I sat high up in the stands, amiably squabbling over a single pair of Omnioculars, even though they were slightly wonky and tended to randomly show the action in double speed reverse. The excited babbling of the crowd had been hushed for a minute when there were signs of activity in the arena, but the noise was redoubled as comprehension rippled across the stands that they were bringing on a dragon! An actual, live, silver-coloured, bloody great dragon! Some snooty-nosed young authority sitting in front of us loudly identified it as a Swedish Short Snout and I was prepared to believe him. Twelve-year-olds with that infuriatingly superior, tone of voice tend to be right about things.

The dragon handlers finished whatever they were doing with the beast - something to stop it from instantly taking to the air and making a late lunch from a few first years, I suppose. They retreated from the arena accompanied by cheers from a crowd that was now so delirious with excitement it would have cheered Filch's cat to the rafters. A moment later, a magically amplified voice of a commentator echoed around the stands - the bloke from the pub, it turned out. The champions' first task, he explained, would be to retrieve a golden egg that was being sat on by a dragon. Presumably, the dragon was not going to be co-operative. The thought that, a few weeks before, I had actually been idiotic enough to volunteer myself for this made me slightly queasy.

Ben nudged me with his shoulder.

"I've got a present," he said, handing me a badge.

"Oh, one of those things. Look, if you don't mind, I won't bother."

"Why not? What have you got for Potter?"

"Nothing at all. But those badges are Draco Malfoy's little scheme and I'm damned if I'll ever fall into line behind him."

"It's only a stupid badge, Alex. What's your problem?"

It seemed that the Hogwarts houses took it in turns to dominate everything. The eighties had been Slytherin's time. We had won the house cup year after year, Slytherins had carried away every academic prize going and the Quidditch team was gloriously invincible. Hell, even the Slytherin Gobstones team had swept all before them! When Mother was at Hogwarts during the sixties, Ravenclaw ruled the roost in exactly the same way because success breeds success - if you start by believing you're invincible then the actual winning becomes almost easy.

Now, after years of coming last, getting called 'duffers', overhearing people expressing condolences to their parents over the house the kid was sorted into... Now one of theirs could become the best of the best. If that happened, there was a chance the rest of the nineties could belong to them and I think, deep down, they knew it.

So one of the Hufflepuff seniors wanted his girlfriend to show support for his house and his good friend who happened to be champion. All she had to do was wear a stupid little badge. It was a perfectly reasonable request; she shouldn't even have needed to be asked, especially as he would have backed her to the hilt, without question or hesitation, if the situation had been reversed.

"I'm really sorry, Ben. But hell will freeze over before I wear one of those."

Crap! Did I just say that?

"FINE!" he said. Though it clearly wasn't.

At that moment, a whistle blew and the crowd erupted again as Cedric Diggory stepped into the arena.

***

The next day, I sought him out to apologise though I wasn't sure who was at fault. When I bumped into him in the corridor between classes, I found he was looking for me for the same reason. We compromised, both said sorry and changed the subject as fast as possible.

"I was talking to Dennis Burdett at breakfast - you know, one of our seventh year prefects," Ben said. "Well, he was told, in confidence, by the Head Girl that Dumbledore's planning a big formal party on Christmas Day and attendance is open to everybody above fourth year. Don't tell anybody you heard it from me, by the way - they want to keep it quiet until next week."

"Dumbledore's keen to impress the foreigners," I grinned. "But it sounds a blast. Are you going to summon the courage to ask somebody, Mr Stebbins? Or are you scheduled to stand by the punchbowl all evening, looking pathetic and conspicuously alone?"

"Oh, I don't know, Miss Sutton. I was going to ask a Durmstrang girl I met - a charming young lady, she opens butterbeer bottles with her teeth and is currently learning her seventh word of English! But as a back-up in just case she turns me down, I thought I'd also ask some sullen-faced Slytherin harpy I happen to know. What about you? Who are you aiming to go with?" I shrugged. "My plan for the evening involves a good book. But I might condescend to look in for five minutes if a certain moronic Hufflepuff lout gets down on his knees and begs."

Sharing grins, we went off in opposite directions, he to double Potions and myself to Charms.

***

As November turned into December, the weather closed in. Wind, sleet and hail took it in turns to rattle the windows and the castle was filled with the sort of cold draught that persistently follow you round corners and up stairs. Then, with shocking speed, the last week of term rolled into view. Hogwarts was by now draped with Christmas decorations that were even more wildly exuberant than usual. Traditionally, they were Professor Flitwick's job and he had enlisted his sixth and seventh year Charms students to help. My allotted task had been putting up icicles and charming them not to melt. A Ravenclaw classmate and I had spent a pleasant afternoon wandering the castle with a ladder, sticking them everywhere we could (including small ones under the noses of all the statues).

Rachel had gotten used to Hogwarts faster than I got used to seeing her there and she was now the inseparable friend of another first year Gryffindor called Diana Hayward. I got the impression that, for Rachel, having an elder sister in Slytherin was now a bit like having a loopy great-uncle who wanders the village at five in the morning, wearing only his pyjamas and shouting at squirrels - embarrassing but there was little you could do about it. It remained bearable because friends were polite and pretended they didn't notice.

So, when she boldly strode up to the Slytherin table with her little friend at breakfast on the last Sunday of term, it was too much of a temptation not to needle her a bit.

"Well good morning, little sis! How are things?"

She looked at her friend and rolled her eyes in a look-at-what-I-have-to-put-up-with manner.

"I'm fine, Alexandra."

She didn't waste time on idle chit-chat. One of her first year Slytherin classmates threw a dim-witted insult at her, but she fastidiously ignored him - the way the Queen ignores it when a horse pulling her carriage relieves itself.

"Alexandra, Diana's invited me to stay for the first few days of the holidays. Her parents said okay but they want Mum and Dad's permission and it's too late to write to them. Can we telephone or something...?"

"There's no way of doing that. Look, I'll write to Uncle Charles. I'm not sure if he technically is our guardian. But I am sure he'd be happy to pretend. Especially if mean he won't have to bother going to King's Cross to pick you up next Saturday."

"You mean you're not..." Comprehension dawned. " Oh, that's right - you're staying to go to the Yule Ball. And you're going with Ben Stebbins, aren't you?"

I grunted an affirmative. I was well aware that half the people sitting nearby were soporifically listening to us for want of something better to do.

Oh, hell! I hope she's not going to ask me what I'm going to -

"What are you going to wear, Alexandra?"

Damn!

"Jennifer's old ball gown - Mother gave it to me," I mumbled.

The fuchsia gown suited Jennifer but my Muggle older sister was noticeably shorter and an awful lot blonder and paler than I was. It had been given to me only because I had to have something I could call dress robes, but it had been given without the slightest expectation that I would ever actually need it. The only things to be said in its favour were that it vaguely resembled witch's formal robes, it didn't have the explosion-in-a-sequin-factory look many witches seemed to go for and, after alterations, it fitted, mostly.

But, looking on the bright side, Ben wouldn't mind if I turned up wrapped in house-elves' tea towels and any souvenir pictures would be wizard photos - hopefully in black and white.

Rachel grinned. "Ok, let me know what Uncle Charles says. See you later, Alexandra." Her task completed and with her friend impatiently tugging at her sleeve, she ran off.

I noticed Ben trying to catch my eye from the Hufflepuff table so I gratefully pushed aside a half-eaten bowl of congealing porridge, picked up some toast and got up. We met at the door of the Great Hall, but were rudely shoved aside by a solid mass of French people, chattering at the top of their lungs as they stampeded through the doorway to get at the food. Not to eat, you understand; they were there to sneer at it.

"Hey, Mr Stebbins! Keep your eyes off that champion of theirs."

He looked uncomfortable so I changed the subject.

"Everybody knows she's a quarter Veela; but do you remember what Lupin said about Veelas last year in Defence Against the Dark Arts - what happens when they lose their self-control? Well, some of the girls in Slytherin were wondering, if you got her really, really angry, would she turn into a sort-of three-quarter human, one-quarter chicken thing?"

"I suppose you lot are planning to find out before she goes back to Beauxbatons."

"I'm saying nothing." I smirked.

As the weather was reasonable, we strolled out the main doors of the Entrance Hall. I was enjoying the moment; I postponed thinking about the undone work due in on Monday and prattled on.

"One of Rachel's friends invited her to stay for the first weekend of the holidays. Her first encounter with a wizard household is going to be an eye-opener, I know mine was."

"I hope she makes a better impression than you did."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You do know my parents thought you were odd when you were staying with us over the summer. My mother wanted to know how an apparently sweet sixteen year old girl had somehow accumulated about forty-five years worth of cynicism."

"But I was perfectly polite to them!"

"Oh, you can be pleasant to people when you want to be. It's just that you give everybody the feeling you're always thinking of what you're going to say about them later on, behind their backs. But I've known you since first year so I should have had plenty of time to get used to how two-faced you can be."

"Two-faced?" I spluttered. I didn't feel angry, more like worried that this was obviously leading somewhere.

"Yesterday, Eloise Midgen casually mentioned to me that you must have beem really pleased after the first task. It was obvious I had no idea what she was talking about so she explained that the barman who helps Madam Rosmerta in the Broomsticks was taking bets on the Tournament and, on the Saturday before the first task, she overheard you putting fifteen Galleons on Potter to win. She only remembered because it seemed strange to her that a Slytherin would do that."

At that moment, I must have looked odd - just opening and closing my mouth in shock with no words coming out. But what could I have said? That I had learnt a few minutes before that one of the Tournament organisers was betting hundreds of Galleons on Harry Potter? And that, together with Potter's mysterious appointment as joint champion, made the whole Tournament appear to be so well rigged it might as well have been a sailing boat! That I didn't actually want Potter to win, but at the time I thought that shouldn't stop me from taking advantage of somebody foolish enough to mark down Potter as an outsider and offer odds of eight to one.

My goldfish impersonation didn't matter; saying anything would have been a waste of air. Cedric Diggory was a good friend of Ben's so it seemed unlikely, to say the least, he would see things the way I had done.

"You know what your problem is, Alex Sutton?"

Oh God! Here we go...

"You're a half-blood, but everything about you is Muggle. You think like a Muggle, you talk like a Muggle. I could say you'd prefer to be a Muggle but there's no need because you are one in all but name. You're not really a witch; you're just some Muggle with a wand." "You bloody purebloods - you just have to throw your damn ancestry in my face at every opportunity. I have put up with this crap every day for six years in Slytherin but unfortunately I was a fool for thinking you might be different. Well, I'll tell you now, I wouldn't be putting on airs if I was some pureblood idiot who's probably got eleven toes on account of having a family tree THAT'S A BIT SHORT OF BRANCHES!"

I could tell he was within a hair's breadth of hitting me. The tomboy part of me almost wanted him to. Of course, I would have instantly hit him back or pulled out my wand and done something vicious. Perhaps in the aftermath of that, when we were ruefully nursing injuries and serving detentions, then maybe, just maybe, the mere words that were exchanged might have seemed unimportant. I could have subtly hinted that "Aunt Flo" had been visiting and blamed her for everything I said and did. When Ben worked out what I was talking about, his embarrassment would surely have made him accept my quite genuine apology as the quickest way of changing the subject. The whole row might have simply blown over.

Unfortunately, his damn chivalry held him in check long enough for his incandescent anger to turn into contempt. He turned on his heel and walked away without another word. Ignoring some slightly stunned spectators, I walked away in the other direction.

Running off to the girls' toilets seems an odd thing, until the time when it seems like the perfect place to be alone - ignoring the cold, the discomfort and the constant echoing noise of a drip from a broken tap. I must have spent an hour sitting in there, alternately cursing my stupidity, trying to devise some bizarre plan to smooth over the damage and sometimes just trying to hold back tears.

It was some time later, when I had composed myself, that I knocked on the door of Snape's lair. The door opened on its own.

"What do you want, Sutton?"

"Sorry to trouble you, Professor. But I need to inform you of a change of plans - I won't be staying in school over Christmas, nor will I be attending the Yule Ball."

***

The platform at Hogsmeade station was emptier than usual on the Saturday morning after the last day of term. Almost all seniors were staying until the day after Christmas so they could attend the Yule Ball. Amongst the screaming hoard of first, second and third years, I did my best to stay inconspicuous though this was made difficult by the fact I was taller than almost everybody else on the train. For the first time ever, I had a compartment on the Hogwarts Express to myself and could brood to my heart's content. Rachel poked her head in two or three times during the trip but was smart enough to see I preferred to be left alone. From the shrieks of laughter that carried through from the next compartment, Christmas seemed to have arrived early (later, it emerged they were having Chocolate Frog races with the loser getting eaten). I tried to bury myself in a book; the witch with the refreshment trolley was the only person I spoke to between the Scottish border and the London suburbs.

It was early evening when the train pulled into King's Cross and Uncle Charles was waiting beyond the barrier for us, wrapped up in a heavy greatcoat and looking fed-up. He affected to despise Christmas and it was his habit to spend the holidays in Egypt because the country was warm, the markets in Cairo's old city were stuffed full of cheap antiquities (some even genuine) and, being Islamic, the place was blissfully free from Yuletide spirit.

"As I'll be at home this year, we're spending Christmas day with your Aunt Susan in Salisbury," were the first bitter words he greeted me with. His tone of voice made it clear he viewed this entirely as my fault. It seemed neither he nor my father got on very well with their sister.

"Hello and merry Christmas to you too. You know what Rachel's doing?"

"Yes, I got your letter - she's coming now; those must be the people you mentioned."

Rachel emerged through the barrier with Diana and her parents. The Haywards introduced themselves and chatted with Charlie. All the while, they were carefully vague about certain things, such as the school we had just come from, while my uncle skilfully pretended to be quite clueless. After a few minutes, the mother apologetically said they would have to scoot if they were to get to Paddington Station in time to catch their train home. Everybody parted on good terms and Charlie and I went to the front of the station to get a taxi back to South Kensington.

***

Christmas was the slack season and Lydia, who usually ran the shop for Charlie, was taking her three weeks off to go skiing in Austria. So, if somebody had called in at Charles Sutton, Antiquities on Kensington Church Street on the morning of Monday the 21st of December, they would have found behind the desk a young, bespectacled witch who was looking scrubbed and polished and wearing a neat charcoal skirt-suit. If the visitor was observant, they might have noticed she was also bored out of her skull.

In fact, the only people to call that morning had been the postman and some moustached oaf with an angular blonde wife in tow - a couple who seemed to illustrate what happens when a walrus marries a weasel. I didn't dare imagine what the children were like because, judging by the number of Hamley's bags they carried, they had been Christmas shopping for a squad of at least five.

Charles claims he can't afford to judge by appearance. He says he never has since the day a man came into the shop who looked like an unemployed bricklayer, but who turned out to be a multimillionaire record producer with an interest in ancient Egyptian art that was practically a fetish. But even he would have despaired about making a sale to this pair. They settled on a bronze statuette of a hunting dog they must have glimpsed through the window while I hovered behind them at a discreet distance.

"Do you think Marge would like it?" said the bloke, in what he thought was a whisper.

"Not really... it's a bit modern looking for her taste."

The woman looked about sniffily. "I don't think much of this shop, Vernon."

"I know, we're customers and should be treated as such - that girl looks like she couldn't care less."

That's not true! I had put down my paperback when they came in.

The man beckoned to me with a curled index finger. "Young lady.... Yes, you, young lady. Come here and tell me what this dog is."

"Oh...the Hellenistic, votive bronze? It's quite an interesting item that we only recently acquired. Of course, you noticed that it was made by the cire perdue method and finished by cold-working? An inscription on the underside indicates it was dedicated to the goddess Artemis at the temple sanctuary in Phocaea. There is a similar item in the Berlin Staatliche Museum, undoubtedly by the same maker, which Van Der Velde discusses in chapter six of his book. The piece dates from around -"

He looked exasperated.

"Yes, yes, yes! But how much is it? You've not bothered to put on a price ticket."

"That's 6500 pounds, sir."

They both looked at me as though I'd calmly announced I was planning to fly to Mars that spring to help out in the chocolate bar harvest. So, feeling wicked, I politely mentioned that the Portobello Road antiques market was only ten minutes walk away and they should find something cheaper up there. The woman gave me a look that was venomous enough to turn milk sour and they walked out without another word.

I returned to my desk and slumped down, resting my forehead on my crossed arms. After a while, I started idly balancing pencils on their points. There was a little HB forest standing on the desk when the noise of the door being flung open made me hastily knock them over and hide my wand.

"Oh... it's you," I said, as Uncle Charles entered. "The post came when you were out." I indicated a bundle on the desk and got a grunt in reply.

Charlie tossed aside the junk mail and Christmas cards and opened the only proper letter.

"Jesus!"

"What is it?"

"It's from Lovell," he said, simply. He looked slightly stunned as he handed it to me.

Maundown Cottage
                                                   Wiveliscombe
                                                   Somerset
                                                   19th December

      My Dear Charles,

      I'm sorry I can't give you a better warning. Our little
      partnership has been long and profitable and it pains me
      deeply to leave you in the lurch. But IT IS the only thing
      to be done. WE HAVE BEEN RUMBLED, Charles!! A ghastly reprobate
      wizard called Josiah Mitchell saw me this morning and gave me
      proof that he KNOWS ALL!!!! He has demanded that I buy his
      silence - something I am decidedly unwilling to countenance
      because his silence looks to be VERY expensive.

      I'm liquidating my assets, Charles, and I'm making myself
      scarce. I have long planned an extended holiday somewhere warm
      so I am simply bringing my plans forward. Possibly, I shall
      return in a year or two when things cool down a little,
      possibly not.

      Now, Charles, you MUST empty your cupboards and clear out your
      cellars and your attics. Harden your heart, dear boy, and
      divest yourself of EVERYTHING I have supplied to you. If
      Mitchell spills the beans you may expect a visit from Ministry
      wizards soon after though they'll undoubtedly pretend to be
      Muggle police detectives investigating some other routine
      matter. BE OF STOUT HEART!!! Pretend to believe they really are
      Muggles, deny everything and make sure that shop of yours is
      as clean as a whistle! I'll write again as soon as I can.

      Lambert

"Is he as camp as that in real life?"

"It's no laughing matter, ALEX!"

"Sorry."

"I have to move fast. I'll make a few phone calls; you go down to the strong room and fetch the inventory that's in the red file so we can check off which items Lambert supplied."

I clattered down to the cellar, almost twisting an ankle on my heels, and spun the combination into the dial. With a heave and a creak the door opened, revealing rows of empty shelves. Well, empty aside from a note.

Somebody had beaten us to it.

***

"So what I imagine happened," said Charlie, as he surveyed the strong room, "is that after Lovell said 'sod this for a game of soldiers' and did a flit, this Mitchell somehow found out almost immediately. He figured the only remaining way to turn his knowledge into money would be to come after me because he knew I could hardly go to the police and tell them I'd been burgled by a wizard."

I was worried. He was looking strangely calm for somebody who'd just lost about a third of a million pounds in antiquities.

"The note he left said he'd be in touch. So I suppose he's going to offer you the chance to ransom your own stuff. That makes sense, it saves him the hassle of trying to fence everything."

"Bastard!" spat Charles. "How would he have done this?"

"I dunno. The charms to open simple locks are trivial, but something like your vault would be quite tricky. Possibly he Apparated..."

Charles looked grim. "Let's just find out."

It took a while to find what we wanted on the surveillance camera tapes. The camera in the shop and the one at the back door had seen nothing. But the one pointing at the vault door had caught a man appearing out of nowhere. The silent, black and white image showed static for a second - the magic affected it, I suppose - and we saw the back of a man who was examining the vault door by the light of his wand. He tapped the door and swung it open. In a moment, he was inside the strong room. We caught glimpses of him methodically filling a large sack with the boxes from the shelves. The sack didn't bulge, even after he'd put in enough boxes to fill a small van. He took the last one from the shelf, closed the vault door behind him and was gone.

My uncle leant back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk.

"What would your lot do to somebody guilty of burglary?"

"I'm not sure. But I bet theft would be considered the least serious of the charges - they like to make public examples of anybody who deliberately jeopardises magical secrecy and a seemingly impossible burglary would do precisely that.... Are you saying we send this tape to the Magical Law Enforcement people?"

"Good God, Alex, try to act like you've got a brain! I'm a Muggle. I'm not supposed to know about the Magical Law Enforcement squad. That would be like asking for one of those sods to come round early one morning and do their little memory trick. How on Earth can I restart my side-line if I remember nothing about it?"

Restart it!

"Oh please... NO! You're already scheming to make me to take over the role of Lovell in your little operation? Admit it...you are. Well I can tell you now, you can bugger right off!"

His response was a lopsided grin, which made me even more uneasy.

"First things first," he said. "Mitchell may think he's got me over a barrel. But he doesn't know about you and he doesn't know about my CCTV. If we can find him then we can blackmail him back - we will tell him he can have this tape and our silence in exchange for returning my bloody stuff!"

"And we don't mention that our threat's empty because we have our own reasons for not daring to report him. You do know that if he's smart enough to work that out for himself, your plan falls flat on its arse..."

"Won't happen, Pollyanna! He's not going to risk being sent to that Azkaban place of yours. We'll just see who blinks first because if it comes down to it, I will nail that bastard, no matter what the consequences."

I had a bad feeling about this.

***

Author's Notes

Hamley's is a very large and very famous toy shop in Regent Street in London