Training and Confrontations

Chapter I

Saturday, November 4, 1995

"Vernon Dursley?"

"Yes, I am," Vernon said, his best salesman's smile on his face. He held out his hand. "Are you Mister Marvolo?" Vernon might now be a manager of long standing, the youngest in the company who hadn't been related to a founder or major shareholder, but he still had the abilities that had helped him rise to the top of his world.

"Oh, no," the man answered with an equally practiced smile. Vernon nodded. This man looked too English to have a name like Marvolo. He was also far too young to be head of an established business like this one, although he could be related to the owner. Still, best to be polite. "I am one of Mister Marvolo's business managers, however. My name is Julian Commodore." Julian shook hands while Vernon looked about.

"I never noticed this building before," Vernon commented.

"It's rather out of the way," Julian said with a more genuine smile. "Shall we get right to business?" He gestured to a pair of armchairs next to a fireplace.

"Alright," Vernon answered. "You do know your request is . . . unusual."

"We can talk around the subject, or we can talk directly," Julian said. "I can assure you, this office is secure and there is no one else in the building, other than Peter."

"That's the doorman who let me in?"

"Well, more like the chairman's personal assistant." Vernon frowned at that, then shrugged.

Vernon looked around. The office reeked of old money. He looked at Julian and said, "We can play it either way."

"Alright. We want that shipment of drills. We are willing to pay £501,000. That is almost ten per cent over your usual price. In return, they must be delivered off the books, to a delivery company which will call on your warehouse. Your report shall simply say 'sold for cash'."

Vernon frowned. "But why? It's not illegal to sell these drills, or ship them."

"It is illegal to ship them to some people, in some places."

"Oh, I understand," Vernon said, seeing something confirmed. He managed to hold his tongue, but said to himself, 'Blood diamonds, probably in West Africa.'

"I see you understand the implications, for us and for your company."

Vernon frowned. He had many unadmirable qualities, but he always preferred staying on the right side of the law. "It wouldn't precisely be illegal," he hedged.

"But it would put us, and Grunnings, in a bad light," Julian said. "Neither of us would like that."

"True," Vernon agreed. "Still, if everyone is careful. . . ."

"Exactly." The young man smiled. "Feel free to remove any references to your company or serial numbers, but rest assured, we will remember where we bought them. Shall we call it a deal, Mister Dursley?"

Vernon smiled and held out his hand. They shook on it.

Julian Commodus Malfoy smiled as the fat Muggle walked out of the building, also smiling. The Marvolo Holding Company operated almost purely in the Muggle world. The current owner had not been aware of the company until he had turned twenty-one, and had taken some pleasure in making money out of the people he hated.

Sometimes, it had been very useful.

Julian was almost a Squib. He had shamed his family by barely making some minimum O.W.L.s, doing very well on magical theory and failing all the applied portions. He had not been invited to attempt any N.E.W.T.s. His cousin had also been ashamed of him, but had come to him with a proposition when his O.W.L.s had come out in 1982.

Julian turned around when he heard footsteps.

"He took the bait?"

Julian nodded. "Of course. After all, this isn't quite illegal, but it is just dirty enough to justify what we're doing, and we actually do need the drills for the illegal diamond mines. We just could have gotten what we wanted with only part of the premium. He probably thinks we're new at this."

"The Master will be pleased."

"I am glad I was able to serve Him directly," Julian answered. "What next?"

"Can you stand consorting with that . . . Muggle?" Peter Pettigrew asked.

"Of course."

"Well, he is, well. . . ."

"A Muggle? I've been working with the Muggle world for thirteen years. I don't care much for them, but they can be tolerated. I do admit that Dursley seems a bit more objectionable than most."

"But you can do it."

"Of course I can, that's my job. When do I find out why?"

Peter frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"Pettigrew, I am very good at what I do -- making money for the Master in the Muggle world. I have just wasted nearly five thousand Galleons of the Master's money because we paid enough extra to bait the Muggle. I would not like to be punished for it. I may not be an official Death Eater, but I am still His servant and employee."

Peter rolled up his left sleeve. Between the leather glove he wore and the rolled-up sleeve, flesh and silver met. At the end of the flesh, the Dark Mark was faintly visible. "You will have to take your cousin's and my word, unless you wish to discuss it directly with the Master."

"I asked a legitimate question," Julian retorted, unimpressed by the Dark Mark. "When do I find out why? I don't care when and I don't care why. That's up to the Master. I just want to know I won't be operating in the dark anymore at some point, so I don't make any stupid errors through ignorance."

Peter thought. He hated acting on his own. Still, Malfoy did have a point. "The Master has a plan other than this one. If that works, this one will be unnecessary. If it doesn't, then he will need access to the Dursley's home. Now Dursley has a nasty wife, and a son who has the worst of both of their qualities, although I've heard they spoil their spawn beyond belief. They also have guardianship over a Half-blood, whom they will never freely mention, so do not inquire. Can you figure things out?"

Julian thought about that, and everything he knew. After a few minutes, he asked, "Potter?"

Peter nodded. "So, become somewhat friendly with Dursley over the next few months. If necessary, we may ask you to become even friendlier, but that can wait until February at the earliest, May at the latest." Voldemort hoped that Potter would hurry up and visit the Department of Mysteries well before Christmas, in which case this plan would never be used.

"Very well. I shall do my best to please the Master."

Christmas, 1995

Petunia looked on fondly as Dudley ripped into his presents. Her attention wavered slightly as Vernon gave a grunt of mixed satisfaction and worry.

"What's wrong?" she asked as Dudley attacked yet another wrapped game cartridge.

"Present from a business associate," Vernon said. "Commodore; I told you about him. Sent him a good bottle of twelve year old scotch."

"And that is?"

"Top-of-the-line cognac."

Petunia nodded. "Then you must be an important contact for him. Is he married?"

"Don't think so," Vernon mused. "Of course, I doubt the man is twenty-five."

"Then invite him out or over for dinner after Dudley goes back to school."

Vernon nodded, and they turned their attention back to Dudley. No one could have sensed that magical wards were weakening, to allow yet another person access to #4 Privet Drive.

Friday, February 23, 1996

"Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mister Commodore," Petunia simpered. Vernon grunted in agreement. He was too satiated to do more. In fact, Vernon had dined so well, he decided perhaps he should begin listening to his physician, who not only wanted him to lose weight but also start on blood pressure medication.

"You're both very welcome," 'Commodore' replied. He smiled. "I only get to eat like this on the expense account, you know."

"We understand," Petunia said. "We do hope you'll join us for dinner sometime, perhaps even visit us for dinner one evening?"

"Are you sure you'd want me?" the young man said, with a charming wistfulness that Petunia totally fell for.

"Of course," she answered. "You are always welcome in our home."

This made the wards weaken for young Malfoy even more. Since he did not actually bear the Dark Mark, he would be able to walk into #4 Privet Drive whenever issued a specific invitation from Petunia. If he did not carry his wand, or use magic while there, he would not register on any of the ward detectors or other devices.

Marvolo's placed an even larger, if more legitimate, order with Grunnings in March, and Vernon got all of the credit for the sale. Commodore/Malfoy took the Dursleys out to dinner three more times, in late April, mid-May, and early June. The Dursleys took Commodore to dinner once, in early May, and had him to dinner at their home in late May. He expressed himself so pleased to have had 'a really proper English dinner' that the Dursleys were very happy to have him to dinner a second time at Privet Drive, this time in late June.

Malfoy was very nervous the afternoon of Monday, June 23. Something had happened the week before the previous Thursday night into Friday morning. The Dark Lord's primary plan had fallen apart, and then the Dark Lord himself had dueled Dumbledore to, at best, a draw. At that point, rumor had it that the Dark Lord had been seriously injured. In any case, the Dark Lord was acknowledged as having returned.

Those were disturbing developments, from Julian's point of view. Pettigrew had been very evasive, most likely because he hadn't been present. Still, it seemed as if the Dark Lord had tried to do something to Potter, and had been hurt, although again Pettigrew had been very evasive.

Julian Malfoy sat in his office, staring out the window and thinking. His seniors had been warned off that afternoon, which meant someone important might be coming.

Julian didn't loathe Muggles, or Muggle life, like the rest of his small but widely-spread family did. He didn't like them, but he didn't want them all killed or enslaved. He just wanted them regulated somehow, and for Pure Bloods to have the proper leadership of the wizarding world.

Of course, meeting with Muggles like the Dursleys showed that some Muggles were much worse than others. And marginal wizards like himself? What might his place be in some new order of things?

"A very limited one, but perhaps not without some purpose, and even honor," a soft voice came from behind him.

Julian twisted around and then fell out of his chair. He was smart enough to stay on the floor. "Master?"

"You may barely be a wizard, but I see you have some sense at least," Voldemort stated. He moved over to one of the armchairs near the fireplace. "As you can see, rumors of my injuries have been greatly exaggerated."

"That is very gratifying to hear, Master." Julian kept his head down.

Voldemort watched one of his least important servants, at least in terms of magical power. He needed the time to collect his thoughts. While his body was mostly uninjured, he had had a splitting headache since his attempt to possess Potter. Had he stayed in Potter's mind, he knew he might have been critically injured, and perhaps even damaged his own mind permanently. Potter's power had been impressive, and had stayed impressive for the thirty-six hours after their confrontation. Had Potter kept that power positive, instead of angry, Voldemort knew he might have been injured even more severely than he had been.

"The primary plan has failed," Voldemort finally said. "We shall therefore switch over to your plan." Voldemort paused, and asked, "Tell me, and remember, I WILL know if you lie, why do you have doubts?"

"Even for a weak wizard, such as my self, no Muggle can take me on directly. But there are so many of them, Master. They are ignorant, but not all are stupid. Even in the days when they only out-numbered us at most two hundred to one, our ancestors could not defeat them. Now, there are some seven thousand million of them, many armed with weapons and technology that are more powerful than what we can stand up to. How many of us are there, world-wide, Master? Thirty million people connected to our world in some way? How many of them are Muggle-born, half-Bloods, mixed-bloods, Squibs, near-Squibs, or those no more powerful than I am? That you can be, that you deserve to be, the greatest single power on Earth makes sense, Master, but how can you put the Movement in total control?"

"You have a mind, you have served me well, and you have a very different point of view than my other servants, therefore I shall not punish you," Voldemort stated, of course not adding that at the moment sending a Cruciatus curse would make his head hurt even worse. He could tolerate more pain than a normal person, but most people would already be screaming from his current pain.

"You are partially correct. We cannot take over, yet. We need to take over the magical parts of Western Europe, and put the Mudbloods in their place. When I was young, I wanted to see all the Mudbloods dead, and the Muggles destroyed. I have learned since then. We shall take over the magical world, and, with that unified, we shall be able to take over the Muggles. It will take decades, but I am in no great hurry. Operations such as this one shall help in those endeavors."

"I am pleased I am able to serve, Master."

"You have no decent place in the Wizarding world," Voldemort pointed out bluntly. "Your family would prevent you from marrying. You have been allowed a place where you can function, and become wealthier than the vast majority of wizards. Your cousin Lucius would have just as soon had you killed. Be grateful for what you have, boy!"

"Yes, Master!"

"When do you meet the Dursleys next?"

"Tonight, my Lord."

"Go on."

"They have only mentioned that their son will be home tomorrow afternoon, Master."

"No mention of Potter at all?"

"None, Master, and Pettigrew didn't think it wise to ask anything about him without specific instructions."

"Do you agree?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why?"

"Master, is it possible we were misled, and that Potter doesn't live with these people? Or at least doesn't anymore?"

"Why?"

"They have many photos throughout the house, Master. Potter is not in any of them. If it wasn't for one thing that Pettigrew told me. . . ."

"Which was?"

"That Potter had been locked into one bedroom, at least between his First and Second year."

"And?"

"The door to the smallest bedroom had marks where locks had once been placed, and, well. . . ."

"Well what?"

"There was a small flap cut into the bottom of the door. Some Muggles have them on outside doors so that cats or small dogs can go in and out at will. Some prisons used to have similar arrangements."

"How interesting."

"Master, these Muggles must hate the boy. If he returns there this summer, that might work to your advantage. I merely saw no evidence that he will return."

"It's a shame that your powers do not equal your mind, Malfoy," Voldemort stated. "Tell me, do you know what these are?" Voldemort held out a dozen small squares of what looked like heavy cloth, each one perhaps an inch across.

"No, Master."

"Good. Then you can plant them with near innocence. These are inactive, so they should pass any detections the Old Man might have near the house. The magic, even when active, is neutral, so they would pass dark detectors in any event. Since they are neutral, and we shall not use them to directly harm the boy, they should even pass the strongest wards without so much as a shiver in the protective threads." Voldemort scowled. "You are certain you can access the house tonight?"

"I was told weeks ago that it might be critical to have access at some point this week or next. Pettigrew told me this late last week, and I have arranged for Potter's aunt to pick me up and take me there." Malfoy smiled. "I told them we were thinking of another questionable purchase in the autumn, which means a bonus for Dursley."

Voldemort smiled. If Potter's aunt, the one on whom the blood protection was based, brought Malfoy over the wards, he was assured admittance. "You are indeed going to go far in the New Order. Who knows, perhaps we will find you a Mudblood or two to stud. Perhaps the results, when raised properly, would be acceptable." Malfoy bowed, and Voldemort went on. "In order for you plant one of these, you scratch your thumb nail into one side and drop it. It will disappear within thirty seconds, and they will stay where they are dropped for ninety days, and then dissolve. You have twelve. Make note of where you drop them. Inside the house would be best. Inside Potter's room would be nice, but do not risk getting caught. If we can get rid of his Muggle relatives, too, well that would an extra bonus."

"There is a toilet downstairs, where I can wash my hands at least, and I should be able to make my way upstairs to the main bath at least once."

"Good. I leave that to you."

"Yes, Master."

"Pettigrew will take your report in the morning."

"Yes, Master."

"Did you lay the portkey targets?"

"Is that what they were? Then yes, I did."

"Where?" Pettigrew demanded.

"I was lucky. The doors were all ajar upstairs. Two each in each of the three occupied bedrooms. One in the upstairs bathroom, one in the downstairs toilet. One on the downstairs landing. The other three are in the dining room. If anyone comes to the rescue too quickly, the people downstairs should be able to cover those upstairs."

"Good work. I shall so inform the Master."

Friday, June 27, 1996

"Go to your room, boy!"

Harry glared at his uncle. "No dinner, sir?" Harry managed to ask politely.

"I'm hungry!" Dudley declared.

Vernon looked indecisive.

Petunia took the problem into her hands. "Both you boys go to your rooms."

"But Mum!" Dudley protested, "I have to meet Piers. . . ."

"I SAID, both of you go to your rooms! I have some nice meat pies. I'll bring them up in a bit."

"I want three. . . ."

"WHAT?" Vernon roared. "If you want to compete in that tournament in August, you still have to drop at least six pounds of excess weight!"

"You may have two," Petunia said, "and a salad."

"But Piers. . . ."

"You have to get up at Six to make it to training," Vernon reminded his son. "If you have the energy to go out tomorrow night, go ahead!"

Five years before, Dudley would have thrown a tantrum without another thought. His parents, and Harry, could see the thought pass through Dudley's brain. Instead, however, he made a huge sigh of disgust and stomped up the stairs. Harry wisely followed without a word, taking his trunk, broom, and Hedwig in her cage awkwardly along.

Sitting down on the rickety desk chair, Harry suddenly smiled. Apparently, whatever else he could say about the Dursleys, the scene had jolted him out of the mild depression he had been in since Sirius' death, at least for the moment. He was far from happy, but he was thinking clearly, more clearly than he had in months.

Still, just the thought of Sirius nearly sent Harry back into that black feeling. Instead, he made some decisions. He opened the window and Hedwig's cage, and placed the cage near the window. "Fly out if Aunt Petunia comes before I'm ready to send some notes. If they won't let you back in, go to Ron."

Hedwig seemed to think about that, and then blinked twice.

"You'll know if I'm not here, right?"

Hedwig blinked twice again, and Harry smiled.

Harry pulled out parchment and a self-inking quill from his trunk, and sat down.