Anarchy in the U.K.: Clash City

Gunny Mustang McCoy sat across the desk from Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley was looking over the transfer paperwork that Mustang had brought him.

"What about your daughter?" Kingsley asked.

"She'll be enrolling at Hogwarts by the end of the week, sir," Mustang said. "Remus had already said he'd arrange transportation for her." Kingsley nodded and stacked the papers neatly on the corner of his desk. He looked up at Mustang.

"Your reputation as a tracker is formidable, Gunnery Sergeant," he said.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," replied Mustang.

"We, um, seem to have lost track of several people who are rather important to the plans of the Ministry," Kingsley said. "I would like to assign you and an Auror to find them for us."

"Alright, sir," Mustang said. "Who am I looking for?" In response, Kingsley opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew file folders. He handed them across the desk to Mustang. The Marine took the files and looked at them. Each one contained a biographical information sheet, list of known recent activities dating to December 18, 1997, a list of known aliases, and a photo of each person represented in the file.

"These three are crucial to the success of the Ministry over the Dark Forces," Kingsley explained. "They will need to be located and brought back to the Ministry, alive." Gunny McCoy glanced up from the files. "These are your official orders, as per the Ministry of Magic of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland as well as the United States Department of Magic. Enclosed is the name of the Auror that you will work with. She will meet you at 2100 hours in the Atrium." He handed Mustang another file folder.

"Very well, sir," Mustang said. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Kingsley said. "Those are your official orders, now here are your real ones." Gunny McCoy looked up from the new file, his attention caught by the tone of Kingsley's voice. "You will do your utmost to ensure that those three do not get captured by you, your partner, or anyone else. It is extremely important that the Ministry have no part in the search for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. The Order of the Phoenix and wizard kind in general hold a great interest in keeping these three unimpeded in their work." He paused and allowed for these words to sink in for the Marine. "You are authorized to you any means necessary to ensure their safety. Understood?"

"Aye, aye, sir," Gunnery Sergeant Mustang McCoy said.

"Good," said Kingsley. "Get to it, Gunnery Sergeant."

**********

Cokehead Joe was not at all nervous or scared about walking around in Knockturn Alley. It was noon, so he wasn't worried about being seen; watchers didn't come out until around six in the evening, when the weird...well, weirder... people came out. Right now would be the smart criminals, the ones who knew how things worked in the Alley and knew how to not be seen. Cokehead Joe supposed, though, if a threat were every to be made against him in Knockturn Alley, the people around now were probably the ones smartest and most dangerous, and, therefore, the ones Cokehead Joe would never want to piss off. For now, though, he turned the collar of his Navy surplus raincoat up against the rain and pulled his scally cap lower over his eyes and kept his eyes to the ground, occasionally looking up and glancing around.

He ducked into a shop tat was well known to crooks and law-abiders alike. It was a shop famous, or infamous, for the weird and powerful merchandise that was traded and sold here: Borgin & Burkes. Cokehead Joe had been here twice before and never liked the place. It had the smell of rotting... something. It was just the smell of decay and death that seemed to emanate from everything around him.

Tipped off be the sound of the bell above the door tinkling, Borgin stood and walked over to Cokehead Joe. "Good day, sir," he said. "May I assist you in any way?"

"Yeah," Cokehead Joe told him. "I've been lookin' for my uncle. You seen him?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but if you could provide me with more information than that, perhaps I could be of more service... perhaps a name?"

"Dung Fletcher," Cokehead Joe told the old man. Borgin's face wrinkled in disgust.

"I see," he said. "I'm afraid then, that you must leave." Cokehead Joe cocked an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"If you have any sort of tendencies like your uncle, then you are not welcome in my shop. I have been swindled and stolen from by a Fletcher once too often."

"If you are insulting my family," Cokehead Joe warned, "then you must not know who I am, or what I do to people who do such a thing."

"Of course I know who you are," Borgin said. "You are the drug addict."

"Cokehead Joe."

"Yes, well, if your uncle is indeed lost, I would suggest asking a Death Eater. Rumor has it that the Dark Lord keeps meticulous records of the murdered, and would be delighted--" Borgin never got to finish the sentence. That's because Cokehead Joe grabbed him by the front of his robes and slammed him to the wall.

"Do you know anything or not, you senile old bat?!" Cokehead Joe shouted in his face. "Is he dead?!"

"How should I know?" Borgin whimpered. "I'm just a shopkeeper!"

"Bullshit, you know a lot!"

"I swear I don't know anything!"

"Like hell!" shouted Cokehead Joe, throwing him into a cabinet. Cokehead Joe hauled back with his fist and was about to punch Borgin when somebody near the door shouted, "Impedimetia!" and he was thrown off his feet into the opposite wall. Cokehead Joe looked up to see a man standing framed in the doorway, glaring at him through a curtain of greasy black hair and pointing his wand directly at Cokehead Joe's chest.

"You are not welcome, here," the man sneered. "Leave at once." Cokehead Joe could tell by the fierce look in the man's eyes that he meant business. Cokehead Joe picked himself up off the floor and walked past the man to the door. Just before he left, he glanced back and saw the man helping Borgin to his feet. Cokehead Joe caught a few of the words the greasy-haired man was saying. "...the gold locket...the one with the 'S' on it..." Cokehead Joe bowed his head against the rain and headed towards the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.

**********

Lupin looked at his watch and swore under his breath. "Dammit!" he muttered. "Where the hell is McCoy?" At that exact moment, the door to the kitchen opened and revealed a United States Marine in an immaculate service alpha uniform and a teenaged girl. It was Gunnery Sergeant Mustang McCoy and his daughter, Erin Kelly. And, by Remus's watch, they were ten minutes late. Remus had barely opened his mouth when Mustang cut across him.

"I'm not late, Remus," he snarled. "Don't even think about saying that I am."

"By my watch, you are," Remus shot back.

"Your watch is digital," Mustang said. "It doesn't work in this house." Remus looked at his wrist. Indeed, where it had only a minute before read '13:10:54' now was displaying '68:75:99.' Remus harrumphed.

"Fine," he said. "Did you already talk to Kingsley?""

"Yes," Mustang said.

"And he told you the real score?"

"That's right." Remus nodded.

"This, then, I take it, is Erin?" Remus asked. Mustang nodded. "Welcome to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, Erin. I apologize for the inhospitable surroundings."

"It's alright," she said. Honestly, she did not care.

"Well, tomorrow," Remus continued, "you and an Order agent will go up to Hogwarts so that you can start school. I trust that Professor McGonagall owled you with your booklist?"

"Yes," Erin said.

"Alright then," Remus said, sensing that the teen did not wish to talk to him. "Well, I need to speak with your father, so If you will please excuse us." Mustang turned to his daughter.

"Actually, I'm going to head out right after this, so I guess this is good-bye."

"Right," Erin said. "Well, I won't forget to write," she said, giving her father a brief, one-armed hug.

"Good," Mustang said. "And make sure to write your grandparents, or they'll have my head on a platter."

"Okay," Erin said. She turned towards the door. "See you, Dad."

"Bye, Erin."

**********

Erin climbed the stairs outside the kitchen to the landing above, her duffle bag slung over her shoulder. When she arrived on the landing, which had been unoccupied when she and Mustang had first arrived, she found that an attractive redhead was standing their waiting for her.

"Hi," the redhead said with a reasonable facsimile of cheerfulness. "I'm Ginny. Remus asked me to show you around." Erin cocked an eyebrow at Ginny's June Cleaver-esque liveliness, but decided to go along anyway. Ginny led her up the main staircase to the second floor and down a dusty hallway to a bedroom. Once inside, and with the light on, Erin saw that there were two beds; one of them was clearly slept in. The room was fairly spacious, it had a small window that was boarded over and had its own washroom. While it was dark and grim looking, it was clean and surprisingly, not sinister and foreboding, like the rest of the house was. Ginny pointed her wand at the fire place and a roaring blaze leapt up in the grate. She sighed and sat down in one of the chairs before the fire.

"Put your stuff wherever," Ginny said, the cheeriness gone from her voice and replaced by gloomy hollowness. Erin put her duffle on the unoccupied bed and sat down in the other armchair near the fire. "Sorry about the happy-go-lucky act I put on downstairs," Ginny said. "Remus has the hallways bugged with enchanted microphones. The rest of the Order thinks I'm just agog to be helping."

"So, what do you do to help?" Erin asked.

"Well," Ginny said slowly, as if contemplating whether she could trust Erin or not. Apparently, she decided she could, because she continued. "I'm to be doing reconnaissance for an upcoming operation." It was the second time in the day when Erin could tell that the person talking to her did not want further inquiries into their actions.

"Sounds more interesting than what I've got ahead of me," Erin said. Ginny smiled a little, nodding understandingly.

"Right, you've just got classes and homework inside the world's biggest child confinement center," Ginny said. "I'm glad to be shot of the place."

"So, you graduated recently?" Erin asked.

"Graduated? No. I dropped out," Ginny said. "I couldn't take it. That's why Remus is sending me to do recon in Belfast, so my parents don't figure it out for a while." Erin's eyes widened slightly; she was surprised that Ginny would be so careless with the location of her assignment. Ginny must've realized that she had slipped, because a moment later she clapped her hand to her mouth. "You didn't hear that," she said urgently.

"Of course not," Erin assured her; she had learned from her father's work that she was to pretend that she had never heard nor seen anything she wasn't supposed to. "I don't even have ears."

"Right, well, I don't think that you're going to tell anyone, are you?" Ginny said, laughing nervously. "Well, anyway, I'm heading out after I get you to Hogwarts. Remus got us a car that can do remote trans-Apparation."

"What?" Erin said blankly.

"Remote trans-Apparation," Ginny repeated. "It's another fusion of Muggle-Wizard technology. It takes an enchanted computer built into an enchanted car and, using the coordinates in the computer, Side-Along Apparates the car, its occupants, and luggage to the destination. Don't even need a license."

"I'm surprised that the Ministry doesn't require a licence for that," Erin said. If there was one thing Erin knew about the British Ministry, it was that they regulated everything, right down to Sugar Quills.

"Well, they don't exactly know about it," Ginny said. "Did you notice that Remus looked like he had a toothache?" Erin nodded. "Some guy in the CIA owed Dumbledore a favor, so McGonagall tried to cash it in for the Order; she wanted the remote trans-Apparators for some cars my father had enchanted. Remus sweetened the deal. He had one of his teeth pulled the last time he transformed."

"What do you mean, 'the last time he transformed?'" Erin asked.

"Oh, Remus is a werewolf." Ginny said this casually. Erin stared. She was surprised that Ginny would not be perturbed by the fact that there was a werewolf three floors below them. Ginny noticed Erin staring. "What?"

"He's a werewolf?" Erin said.

"Yeah," Ginny said. "So?"

"So? So, why on earth do you trust him?" Erin said. Ginny narrowed her eyes and her gaze went icy.

"Because he's a good man and he would never do anything to betray the Order," Ginny said.

"How do you know? The word in Washington is that more than eighty-five percent of werewolves are hunting Harry Potter for You-Know-Who."

"Remus is one of Harry's dad's oldest friends," Ginny said. "He's the lucky one; James and Sirius are dead and Pettigrew will be worse than that when Harry finds him. Remus is the closest thing Harry has to a father right now." Erin still didn't quite believe what Ginny said about the werewolf, but she could tell that she not only had crossed some invisible line, she had sprinted past it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I guess I just--"

"You were just talking about something you didn't understand?" It was Erin's turn to get angry. She didn't show it, though; she had walked into this young woman's room and had insulted someone who was clearly a close friend. Neither teenager said anything. Finally, Ginny broke the silence. "We ought to get some sleep; we've got to get going early tomorrow."

**********

Cokehead Joe pushed open the back door of the Leaky Cauldron and walked in slowly. Business had taken a slight upturn; many people in their late teens to mid twenties figured that if Dumbledore could be killed at Hogwarts, they could be killed anywhere, so they adopted a roguish, devil-may-care attitude towards their personal safety, taking risks that they wouldn't have a year before. Granted, Cokehead Joe could never imagine going to a pub as a risk, but Cokehead Joe was also known to start fights at Quidditch matches between the Appleby Arrows and the Wimbourne Wasps.

He shed his raincoat and took a seat at the bar, hanging his coat on a hook as he passed the coat rack. Tom walked over.

"Just gimme a pint," Cokehead Joe grunted. His run-in with Borgin hadn't gone as well as he would have liked. Tom set a pint glass in front of Cokehead Joe and turned to serve another patron. Just before Tom left, something occurred to Cokehead Joe. "Hold up a sec," he said. Tom turned back with raised eyebrows. Tom leaned closer at Cokehead Joe's beckoning. "I'm in the market for some obscure merchandise," he said, sotto voce. "You know anyone?"

"Well, you're gonna want Borgin & Burkes," Tom said. "It's in Knockturn Alley."

"Naw, I'm talking some real weird shit," Cokehead Joe said. "I've already checked; they haven't got what I want."

"Well, there are some dealer that come in every now and again," Tom said.

"Who's the best?" Cokehead Joe already knew what Tom was going to say, but he needed to lead up to his more important questions.

"That'd be Mundungus Fletcher. He'll find you what ever you want, 'cepting he might try and con you," Tom added. Cokehead Joe bit back a retort at this slight at his uncle.

"Where can I find him?" he asked.

"You know, now I think on it, he ain't been in for near a month," Tom said, scratching his chin. "You could ask that guy there about where he might be; he's an information broker." Tom was pointing to the far corner of the room where a hooded person sat sipping some sort of beverage that was smoking. Cokehead Joe picked up his pint, nodded to Tom and sauntered over to the hooded person.

"Lemme guess," the person said as Cokehead Joe sat down. He was surprised to hear that it was a woman, and a young woman at that, perhaps in her late teens. "You're looking for your uncle, right, Junkie Joe?"

"How do you know who I am?" Cokehead Joe demanded automatically.

"You want to cover up the tattoo on your forearm when trying to hide your identity," she said, looking up and smiling slightly. "It says, 'Kokadjo, ME.' The story of your birthplace is kinda well known in the criminal underworld." Cokehead Joe took a sip of his pint and looked at her face; there was a curious array of pimples that weren't quite covered by makeup, which spelled 'SNEAK.'

"If everyone knows the story, then why not use the right nickname?" Cokehead Joe asked.

"Because it is equally known that you hate it when people call you a drug addict or a junkie," she explained. "So, was I right about your uncle?"

"Yeah, you know anything?"

"Depends," she shrugged. "You gonna pay me?"

"No," Cokehead Joe said flatly. The young woman was slightly taken aback. Until now, all of her clients had ponied up at the prospect of not getting the information they wanted.

"Why not?" she spluttered.

"Because I know people who know Hermione Granger," Cokehead Joe smirked. "Your story's pretty popular around the campfire, too, Marietta."

"So what if you know that bitch?" Marietta seethed.

"Well, just think," Cokehead Joe said. "It could either be a promise of an anti-jinx, or a threat of even more damage to your pretty little face. Chew on that for a while." Marietta knew that Cokehead Joe had her backed into a corner; if she didn't tell him what she knew, he'd set Hermione on her again, while if she did tell him, she wouldn't have to wear a hood or a scarf all the time.

"He was trying to find Potter," she finally said. "Apparently, he had come across some sort of locket that someone said was Slytherin's. He first tried to sell it to Borgin, but the barmy old fool had a stroke of genius; he said he knew of certain people who would do worse than murder to get it back. Don't ask what made him say that, I don't know. He didn't buy it." Marietta paused and took another sip of her drink and a long drag on her cigarette. "Fletcher figured that Borgin was talking about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, so he sets out to find Potter. Problem is, he stared looking via the Floo Network, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's spies in the Ministry heard about it through the records the Department of Magical Transportation keeps. Fletcher was last seen being accosted in front of Gringotts by a known associate of Walden Macnair, the Death Eater and former Ministry executioner who broke out of Azkaban. The people who witnessed this figured that Fletcher tried to swindle someone again--" Cokehead Joe clenched his teeth. "--so they didn't do anything to stop it. An Auror was summoned to break it up, but when Macnair's lackey saw the Auror, he grabbed Fletcher and Apparated them both away."

"Where to?"

"Not sure about it," Marietta said, "but a safe bet would be Belfast. Macnair's been operating out of there for about eight months and it doesn't look like he's going to be movin' any time soon."

"Alright." Cokehead Joe drained his glass and stood up, turning to leave.

"Wait! What about the anti-jinx?" Cokehead Joe turned back, bent down, and whispered in her ear. Marietta's eyes went wide. "That's the anti-jinx?"

"Well, yeah," said Cokehead Joe. "Hermione said she used a splice between Jelly-Legs and Furnunculus Curse. She had to refine it so that it would spell a word, but she said that using the Jelly-Legs anti-jinx then the Furnunculus anti-jinx would clear it up. See you." He crossed the room, took his coat off the coat rack and walked out into Muggle London.

**********

Hermione walked up to the front desk at the upscale hotel in Edinburgh. It was a Muggle hotel, so it was the general consensus that Hermione deal with all the business, while Ron and Harry hung back; Ron would have been too confused to handle Muggle business, and Harry just didn't like dealing with people anymore. Hermione knew this was because the weighty tasks of hunting down the Horcruxes and murdering Voldemort were taking its toll on him.

"Hi," Hermione said brightly to the clerk behind the desk. The young woman glanced up from her computer screen and took in Hermione's slightly disheveled appearance and clearly judged her to be poor...or at least poor enough to not warrant her attention.

"Just a moment," she sneered. Hermione sighed slightly and waited. After about five minutes, Hermione tried again.

"Excuse me, but how long is this going to take?" she asked, politely, but no longer cheerful. The clerk looked up again.

"I said, in a moment,"

"I know what you said, but we're very tired and we'd like a room--"

"Please wait," the clerk said forcefully.

"Well, there's no need to get shirty about it," Hermione frowned.

"Do I need to call the manager?" the clerk threatened. Before Hermione could answer, Harry stepped up to the counter. Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance; now the clerk was in trouble. What followed would be the only time that Harry ever spoke harshly to a stranger.

"Listen, bitch," he snarled. "We're rich, very tired, very hungry, and now I'm really pissed off. Open up a room right now. Or do I need to call the manager?" The clerk gaped at Harry for a second, then set to work checking them in.

"Will you be paying with a credit card?" she asked in a small voice. Harry reached into his jacket and slammed an American Express card down on the counter.

Three minutes later, the clerk was handing over the room keys.

"Enjoy your stay, Mr. Phillips."

"Thank you," Harry said with a cold smile. He picked up his bag and led the way to the elevator. He pressed the call button and he, Ron, and Hermione stepped aboard. He pressed the button for the fifth floor. After a moment of silence, Hermione spoke.

"That was appalling of you, Harry," she said softly. Harry sighed.

"I know," he said, hanging his head. "But I was worn out with the crap she was giving you."

"So that was to protect me?"

"Maybe," Harry said. "I don't know."

"Ginny might be right," Hermione said. She and Ron saw Harry tense up at the sound of Ginny's name. "You do have a hero complex."

"Yeah, well, Ginny can stuff it," Harry growled in a very uncharacteristically cruel voice.

"Watch it, mate," Ron warned.

"Or what?"

"Look, I know that something happened between you two, but don't talk about her like that."

"Don't tell me how I can talk about people!"

"Both of you, shut up!" Hermione said. "Let's just order some room service and get some sleep; we'll feel better in the morning." Ron and Harry shut up and stepped off the elevator and walked down to their room, a suite with two beds and a fold out sofa. Harry tossed his bag onto the sofa and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked.

"Walking," Harry said. "I'll be back later." And with that he left. Hermione looked like she was going to say something, but Ron stopped her.

"Leave it," he said. Hermione's face fell slightly, but she returned to getting her pajamas out of her duffle bag and headed into the bathroom to take a shower.

**********

Some hours later, Ron awoke to the sound of crying. He squinted in the darkness to see Hermione sitting by the window watching the cityscape, tears running down her face.

"'Mione?" he said, his voice muddled by sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, swiping at her eyes and turning away. Ron sat up, more alert now.

"Don't give me that, you're crying."

"No, I'm not," she insisted. Ron heaved a sigh. He swung his legs out of bed and sat next to her on the loveseat that faced the window overlooking the city.

"Hermione, please tell me what's wrong." They looked at each other for a long moment.

"This whole thing," she cried. "Sirius and Dumbledore are dead, Bill's a half werewolf, people killing, people dying, and it's all up to us to stop the whole thing! Meanwhile, Harry's gone 'round the twist, he can't seem to think of anything but killing Voldemort and Snape! The whole fucking world is spinning out of control!" And with that, she collapsed into Ron's arms, sobbing. Ron just held her, patting her on the back and making reassurances.

"Shh, it'll all be alright," he whispered to her. "We'll figure it out."

"No, we won't," she contradicted.

"Yes, we will," Ron said. "We'll fix everything. I promise you."

"What if we fail?"

"Then we'll fail together." This renewed Hermione's crying. Ron held her until she could cry no more, and then he still held her.

"I'm sorry I had to shove all of this on you," Hermione said, still clinging to Ron.

Ron just smiled and kissed her forehead. Hermione looked up at him, a slight smile played across her face. Something that had been buried in the back of Ron's mind was clawing its way out. Hermione was feeling the same way; all the pent up emotions from the last six years seemed to break the dam that was holding them back and came flooding out. And neither was sure how it happened, but quite suddenly, they were locked in a passionate kiss, every feeling from every moment of every day, surging through them in one electrifying moment.

**********

Mustang paced back and forth in front of the repaired Fountain of Magical Brethren, dressed in civilian clothes, as per instructions, waiting for his partner. He was unsure what to expect; he really hoped that he wouldn't get someone like the hulking gorilla from the security checkpoint. However, Mustang was somewhat sure it would be someone like that. Therefore, it was a very large surprise when a cool female voice spoke to him from behind.

"Gunnery Sergeant McCoy?" Mustang turned to see an attractive young woman perhaps in her mid twenties, dressed in Muggle attire befitting a corporate secretary, her hair done up in a bun on the top of her head. There was an aura around her that told Mustang that this young woman would take no nonsense. McCoy felt an inexplicable attraction so strong that he felt like he'd been winded.

"Yes, that's me," he said after a brief moment of speechlessness. She held out her hand.

"Miranda Frost," she said, shaking Mustang's hand. "British Ministry, MI-6."

"Mustang McCoy, USMC, DoM."

"If you'll forgive the brief introduction," Miranda Frost went on briskly, "We need to move; one of our targets has been sighted in Edinburgh." She began to walk towards one of the fireplaces that were characteristic of the Ministry Atrium.

"Which one?" Mustang said. He was only asking this to keep up appearances; Remus had told him hours before that Harry had been seen walking alone in Edinburgh, but due to the nature of his true assignment, was ordered not to act.

"The primary one," Miranda said. "The other two are suspected to be in a hotel room not far from a local wizard pub; if we Floo now, we can make it." Without warning, Miranda turned to the fireplace, grabbed a fistful of Floo Powder from the pot on the mantle and threw it into the fire, shouting, "The Greyhound Inn!"

Mustang quickly followed suit.

**********

Hermione woke just as the sun was creeping up on the horizon. She looked over at Ron, his rhythmic breathing a telltale sign of deep sleep. Abruptly, someone tried to open the door, but was stopped by the chain across the doorframe.

"What the shit--?" came Harry's voice. Hermione sat bolt upright as the door shut again and Harry muttered, "Alohomora!" and the chain slid out of place. Ron's eyes flew open and he shot up into a sitting position as the door opened and Harry walked into the room to discover his two best friends in bed together, the bed sheets pulled up to cover themselves.

"Harry!" exclaimed Ron. "Uh, we were just--"

"I can see what you were just," Harry interrupted. Hermione had almost feared that Harry would fly off the handle. Instead, he seemed to be holding back a grin. Ron and Hermione glanced at each other. "Look, I'm not even going to ask." He checked his watch. "It's eight o'clock. I'll be down in the hotel restaurant. Meet me there in a half hour, okay?"

"Okay," Hermione said. Harry chuckled to himself, shook his head and walked out. Both Ron and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he was out of the door. They looked at each other, laughing. Hermione leaned closer to him and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Ron drew her closer, tighter into each others' embrace.

"That was better than I thought he'd take it," Ron said as he laid back, Hermione snuggled close.

"Yeah, I thought he'd blow a gasket." They fell silent again.

"You know, this means the end of our friendship," Ron said after a moment. Hermione sniffed.

"I know," she said. "I'm not so sure that's a bad thing. I think that we're more compatible as lovers than we are friends." Ron kissed her softly again.

"I agree," he murmured. "Plus, after you've seen someone's orgasm face, there's just no going back after that; there's no more secret between you."

"I suppose," Hermione laughed. She looked at the clock. It read 8:11. "We should get going."

"Yeah," Ron said. "I want to shower before we head out; who knows how long until we stay in a hotel again?"

"I don't think there's time fore the both of us to shower," Hermione said grinning. Ron grinned back.

"I can think of a way we can save time."

**********

Harry looked up as he stirred sugar into his coffee to see Ron and Hermione enter the hotel restaurant. Harry smiled as he saw they were holding hands.

"It's eight-forty-five," Harry chided them.

"Sorry, mate," Ron said as he pulled a chair out for Hermione, then sat down himself. "There was a problem with the shower." Harry could deduce by the way Hermione tried to suppress a smile what Ron meant. Harry chuckled and took a sip of his coffee.

"So, am I going to have to stay in my own room from now on?" Harry said, signaling to a waitress. And for the first time in eight months, all three of them were laughing. The waitress headed over and the three gave her their orders. The waitress moved off. Suddenly, Hermione could see on Harry's face that something was wrong. There was still a slight smile on his face, but the faintest crease crossed his forehead, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and his eyes, which had been alight with happiness for his two best friends, returned to their now customary chips of emerald ice. He sipped his coffee casually and spoke to Ron and Hermione.

"Do not look around," he instructed. "Do not even look in the reflection from the mirror behind the bar. Behind you, about five tables away, there's a couple that has been watching us for about five minutes." Ron set his coffee cup down and glanced at Hermione, his face falling slightly.

"Shit," he said. "Death Eaters?" Harry shook his head ever so slightly.

"Doubt it," he said. "Something about the guy makes me think that they're Ministry."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"Well, I can see his left forearm; he's got on a short sleeved shirt," Harry explained. "He hasn't got the Mark. He looks to clean-cut and respectable to be a mercenary that the Death Eaters hired." Harry thought for a moment. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do: Ron, you lean over and whisper something in Hermione's ear. Hermione, when he does this, look offended, slap him in the face and shout something at him."

"Like what?"

"I dunno; think of something. Shout at him, get up and storm out of here. Go to the staircase. Ron, you wait for a moment, look to me as if for guidance and I'll tell you to go after her. You go to the staircase. Apparate up to the room, grab our stuff and then Apparate to the parking garage where we left the jeep. I'll meet you two blocks west of here ten minutes after that. Got it?"

"What about you, mate?" Ron asked.

"Don't worry; I'll be fine," Harry said. "Okay? Get to it, Ron." Ron took a deep breath, then leaned over and whispered something to Hermione which he clearly meant to be intimate. She immediately drew away from him and slapped him.

"What kind of girl, do you think I am?" she shouted at him, causing heads all over the restaurant to turn in their direction. "I can't believe I fell for your charade!" She grabbed up her coat and stomped out of the restaurant. Ron, convincingly flabbergasted, looked across the table at Harry, who wore an equally fake expression of shock on his face.

"You'd better go after her, mate," Harry said in a voice that carried. Ron shook his head as if to clear it, picked up his own jacket and left the restaurant, calling to Hermione as he went. Thankfully, Ron had the good grace to use one of her aliases.

"Annie!" he cried, running from the place. Harry looked around at the other customers and grimaced apologetically around at him. For a split second, he locked eyes with the man who he was sure was tailing them. Harry got up and walked out of the restaurant to the front desk of the hotel.

"Good morning," he said to the clerk. It was a different person now. "I'll be checking out now."

"What room?" the clerk asked.

"Five-oh-six," Harry told him, handing over the key. The clerk called up the information on his computer and handed Harry a slip of paper.

"Sign here, Mr. Phillips," he said.

"Mr. Phillips?" a man's voice said behind him. Harry looked around to see the man from the restaurant there. The woman who was with him, Harry saw, was crossing the lobby to the stairwell. Harry glanced at her, then back at the man.

"Sorry about his," he said. And without warning, Harry brought his knee up into the man's crotch, hard. The man gave an "oomf!" of surprise and extreme pain and dropped to his knees. Harry ran over to the wall and yanked down on the fire alarm handle, tripping the alarm.

The woman stopped with her hand on the stairwell door and saw Harry sprinting for the door, just as the lobby was beginning to swarm with terrified people trying to get out. This woman, though, was quick. She got through the crowd and burst out the front doors, looking left and right. She spotted Harry as he ran down the street. She started after him. Even wearing work boots, jeans, and a leather jacket, she could tell that Harry was fast. But she was gaining on him.

Just as they reached the end of the second block, a jeep pulled up and blocked his path. But instead of turning down the next street, Harry jumped into the jeep and shouted at the driver to go. The jeep sped off. She slowed to a halt, panting, cursing herself for not catching him.

**********

Miranda entered the hotel lobby to find Mustang sitting in on one of the couches, a bucket of ice held between his legs. Mustang looked up and saw her. She shook her head.

"Excuse me, this is a sealed area," a policeman said, walking over to her and Mustang. "Just what makes you think you can be here?" Instinctively, Mustang and Miranda drew out their wallets and showed credentials.

"MI-6," Miranda said.

"U.S. Consulate," said Mustang. The policeman nodded and backed off. Miranda sat next to Mustang.

"Okay, now what?" she said. Mustang checked his watch.

"Buy you a cup of coffee?"

**********

One hundred-forty-five miles away, in Belfast, Northern Ireland, John "Matchbox" McNamara pushed open a door, stole a quick glance around the deserted alley and entered a dilapidated building. He walked down a short hallway and into a dimly lit room that was teeming with thugs. There were groups of them clustered around tables, smoking, drinking, and playing cards. McNamara worked his way through to another door at the back of the room, where another thug was guarding the door. The man stood up as McNamara approached. McNamara said something to him and the man knocked once on the door, then opened it. McNamara entered.

Inside was Walden Macnair, the Death Eater warlord of Belfast. In just eight short months, Macnair had bribed, swindled, and threatened his way into the Belfast criminal underworld. Now, Macnair effectively owned, operated, or in some way influenced every crime in the city, save for some petty theft. The criminal bosses from before Macnair were still in charge to some extent; they still had their old territories...but they paid a hefty fee to Macnair. The ones that didn't cough up or resisted... well, they had an extended sleepover with some fishes as Macnair took over their territories. This put him in excellent position to influence the other bosses. The British and Irish Ministries had no idea that Macnair was so ensconced in Belfast.

Whatever he actually did accomplish for the Dark Lord, Macnair had a rather inflated opinion of himself. He seemed to see himself as the Vito Corleone of the British Isles, something that annoyed the piss out of McNamara. Macnair was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, sitting behind an enormous carved desk, and smoking a cigar.

"Ah, John," Macnair said as McNamara entered. "Welcome to my humble abode. And what can I do for you on this, the day of--"

"Oh, shut up, Macnair," McNamara snapped. "Good Lord, you're from Glasgow. Now act like it." Macnair scowled at McNamara.

"What do you want?" he snarled.

"Just to drop this off," McNamara said, producing an envelope from his cloak and dropping on the desk in front of Macnair.

"What is it?"

"That is a letter from a double agent inside the American Muggle Central Intelligence Agency."

"So you want me to read Muggle filth?" Macnair said. "You know as well as I do that the Dark Lord forbids anything to do with Muggles that doesn't involve torturing, killing, raping, or in some other way causing them damage."

"Hear me out on this one, Walden," McNamara said. "The letter also contains one transformed werewolf tooth of Remus J. Lupin, pulled from his mouth and sent to the CIA as part an information exchange at the last full moon." Macnair sat up; this was good news. "There are very few things that can kill a werewolf. Avada Kedavra, silver bullets, and--"

"The Lunar Sharde Potion," Macnair finished. McNamara nodded. "Well, now that we've got the key ingredient, we still need to make the thing."

"Yeah, well, I'm leaving that up to you," McNamara said. "Got any bright ideas?" Macnair made his thinking face, which McNamara privately thought looked ridiculous.

"Actually, yeah," he said. "I've got a couple of American blokes coming in to town for some other business. They're Potions Masters; I ought to be able to, ah, persuade them to do this for us."

"Well, then, that's all I had for you," McNamara said. "I need to go back to London; Scrimgeour is having a meeting with the senior Aurors." Macnair nodded. McNamara stood and walked out of the room.