Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

First lessons of the new year continued to present perspectives of very individual schedules. This was true for Harry as much as for other students. Any idea, any project would be welcomed, as long as it halfway met the nominal category. More, the teachers appeared quite flexible in accepting integrated projects, spanning more than one course - however with the notable exception of Boring Binns. Not surprisingly so, this ghost failed to notice the didactic developments of the last two hundred years.

Hermione, for example, had little trouble convincing Snape that her Wolfsbane Potion project was an issue for Defence against the Dark Arts as much as for Potions. As a result, she could keep working almost regardless of the regular class schedule. She had done the same in Transfiguration with Almyra, who had even less objections than Snape.

Only Charms didn't fit in her pattern, simply because Hermione could not yet apparate. But there was no doubt - as soon as she had mastered that, Hermione would find a justification to extend her project into Charms. Small wonder, with Lupin as the teacher.

Harry and Ron's Poison Ball project seemed a good candidate for the same kind of integration, as Snape pointed out. "The regular schedule is old news for you, Harry - you could replace me any time, should I fall sick. And I'm very interested in that project - it's mostly new even for myself."

Harry didn't feel flattered, this way or the other. He said, "Prof, it's no problem to keep you informed about our progress, but for Defence - I was thinking more of Summoning, and of course how to prevent being summoned, or how to prevent someone from summoning another person."

"Summoning ..." Snape seemed not overly happy with that. "Isn't this something that would fit more to Charms?"

There was no doubt - Snape wanted to pass the burden to Lupin, which raised Harry's suspicion that the teacher could not summon by himself. But so what - Snape couldn't shoot poison balls either.

"Maybe," replied Harry, "but there's something else I want to place in Charms." At Snape's questioning look, Harry felt obliged to reveal more than he had planned. "It's portkey programming."

And sure enough, Snape went for his chance. "But that's exactly what I mean! Apparition, Apparition Pursuit, Summoning, and portkeys - Harry, these are all variations of the same theme. Now that you've mastered the first two of them, for me it's obvious that you should continue with the topic where it started - in Charms."

Except that it hadn't really started in Charms. Harry's skill originated mostly from his encounters with Voldemort. As crazy as the idea seemed, Harry couldn't help thinking that this dark wizard would be more successful a teacher than Snape and Lupin together.

Snape had an idea. "If you extend your Poison Ball project a bit, to correlated techniques ... For example, to balls with other effects - fireballs, or explosives, one ball good enough to blow a building ..."

Harry grinned, remembering a demolition team at the Magical Tours headquarters, consisting of him and Belinda. "I can blow a building even now - without explosives."

Snape shook his head. "You can damage it by sheer force - that's something totally different, crushing down rather than blowing up."

Ron, who had listened, joined Snape's side. "Let's give it a try, Harry. Firecrackers big-style, that should be fun. And the basic techniques are the same."

"All right, then ..."

It might indeed be fun, only that Harry gave a damn for demolishing balls. For him, the Poison Ball project was something to cover Potions, more or less the only reason. While summoning ... It would allow him to carry people who could not yet apparate. It would enable him to do more - in his mind, he was summoning Cho to ask her what the hell was going on ... Oh Lord, would she be mad, being summoned against her own will. Harry had to grin at the thought, while the others, seeing his grin, assumed he was finally getting a taste on the extended project.

Against her will ... Harry knew he would never do it, no matter how badly he wanted to see her, talk with her, touch her. In the meantime, there was someone else, someone to play games with in which will was a factor - to be dropped, abandoned in favour of subordination, until the game was over.

Since the scene at the lake, a fever kept racing through his veins, highly addictive as he knew - the same fever had caught Marie-Christine, or maybe she had infected him. It was under control as long as they were separated, almost under control with others around. It would erupt the moment they were alone.

---

First dance lesson for fourth-years, beginners. Harry and Marie-Christine were touching each other only for seconds, to demonstrate the basic steps in slow waltz, and some time later again, to show the basic steps in disco fox. For the rest of the lesson, both of them watched the students, and Harry had to hide a smile at the sight of these boys with their self-conscious movements, blushing, with difficulties to find a remark. He could almost imagine - if, by some accident, their hands were going to touch one of these young breasts, there'd be burn marks visible.

This was followed by the first lesson in the courses for fifth and sixth-years, refreshing steps taught long before, remembered quickly, after a few minutes of clumsiness. With them, the movements were no longer self-conscious. Harry could feel vibrations between couples here and there, although their glances toward each other told enough even for people without haragei.

Of course, during these lessons, Marie-Christine was the teacher, and Harry was the assistant. Just the natural state, what else - and then the lessons were over, and they were walking toward her office. Inside, looking at each other, the fever was back.

"This is madness," said Marie-Christine. "You should go, 'arry - instantly."

"Then tell me to go."

"Didn't I, right now?"

"No - you only said it would be senseful, and reasonable, and for the better of us. That's all I heard."

Marie-Christine didn't answer.

He moved closer. "You taught me a game. Since then - "

"I didn't - I only mentioned it, you started playing it all by yourself!"

"Did I? But the doing alone's meaningless to me - it becomes thrilling only from your response, and that's what makes it so irresistible." Marie-Christine's face, flushed, told him the fever pitch was rising in her like in himself.

"Come here," he commanded.

"Are you going to tie me again?" But she came to him.

"No - that's not necessary. I thought about it - I figured it's just your own will to be helpless, and to follow my orders." Harry turned her against the wall. "Spread your arms."

Marie-Christine obeyed, her breath quickening.

His hands trailed from her temples to her ears, her shoulders, over her breasts. "There's nothing that holds you, except that your hands feel like glued to the wall, and you're waiting for my next command."

"If someone comes in ... the door's not locked."

There was no key in the lock. In Harry's state, it took him only a second until a faint Click gave proof that locks could also be closed by willpower. His hands trailed over Marie-Christine's hips, under her skirt, and upward again. "Spread your legs a bit more."

He followed the outline of her panties, moved over the silken fabric, came to a rest over her mound, slowly intensifying the pressure, releasing, stroking.

Suddenly he stopped. His hands retreated from under the skirt, pulled her gently away from the wall. "That's it. You're free."

Marie-Christine wheeled around, glared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's ... Nothing - just that the game's over for now."

Her voice was snarling. "Listen, 'arry - I'm not your sex toy! You've started the game, and now you'll damn finish it!" Her hands moved under her skirt, her body twisted shortly, then she had stripped off her panties. With her next step, she was at the desk, leaned against it. "Get moving!"

So the game of domination and subordination had its limits, and a few more rules than Harry had recognized in the short time. Which was fine with him - after all, the basic intention was still the same, and if his original planning had been somewhat different, there was always room for flexibility. And besides, this switching of roles offered its own thrill - in addition to the basic purpose.

He obeyed.

* * *

Kenzo looked pleased to see that Harry hadn't lost any skill during vacation, had even gained new skill in jump-kicks aiming high. No - he didn't look pleased, as his face wasn't moving at all, he felt pleased.

Harry grinned. "This jump earned me an offer for a role in a movie." He told his sensei about the scene with that Claude, and the conversation with Tony Chee.

The Japanese smiled. "You would be badly surprised, Harry. The Chinese have a long tradition in combining theater, dance, and their versions of aikido in an artful mix. There are a few directors whose movies are wonderful - but if you think aikido is stressing, have a look at how these people do their training ... And of course, at the end of these movies, all characters are dead."

"All?"

"Yes - a truly Chinese movie is a sad thing."

"Then Tony Chee must have adapted some of the western style, because in his plots, I'd be the winner, and alive, to fetch my princess or whatever."

Now the smile was only in Kenzo's eyes. "What's the sense in playing this in a movie? Isn't that exactly what you're doing in real life, Harry?"

No - not quite, because Harry's princess was still in the movie, while he himself had to stay here, fetching someone else in the meantime.

But he wasn't going to say that aloud, instead hurried to address another topic before Kenzo was reading too much in his mind. "Sensei, I started a training with Ginny to intensify her haragei. But I'm not the most qualified teacher for that - on the other hand, I think she wasn't going to ask you by herself, that's why I wanted to tell you."

The teacher kept silent for a moment, then said, "So she has gained some experience, and now she wants to add the skill." He bowed. "There's a lesson in this, Harry."

Harry tried to see it, but failed, confessing so in his expression.

"An enemy like Voldemort is not necessarily the most dangerous one. There has never been a doubt of his intentions, right?"

* * *

When Lupin heard about Harry's planning for portkey programming plus summoning, and how Snape had transferred the task over to Charms, he smiled wryly. "Clever Severus - we're both pretty weak in that corner, but it's me who has to confess to you, Harry. What a shameful moment, a Hogwarts teacher at a loss to guide his student in such a project."

Only that Harry felt more joy than shame in Lupin, giving him some pleasure because he himself was this advanced student. Although this pleasure mixed with indifference - wasn't he also a thief who had stolen his skill from a dark wizard? Maybe not on purpose, but it wasn't the result of hard work.

Still, Harry grinned. "And what now, er - Prof?"

Lupin chuckled. "As a first measure, we should agree that you'll only be so impertinent if nobody's around. Second, I'll show you that there's nothing wrong being stupid as long as you can make do."

Impertinent, huh? "You've got all my attention, oh teacher mine."

After calming down from his laughter, Lupin showed a malicious expression. "I know a man, an expert in portkey programming. I'll give you his address, and you'll visit him - isn't it just nice you can already apparate? Oh yes, before I forget, this is of course someone in the Transportation Department."

So much for impertinence. Lupin had paid back instantly, scoring twice as high as Harry - the name Harry Potter would raise the most friendly welcome in a member of this department, no question about that, after Harry's public - and not so public - actions and statements against the department, its former boss, and its reputation.

Harry sighed. "Great. They'll like me at first sight, better than a troll in the kitchen."

"Shouldn't be a problem, Harry - you know, a little politeness does miracles." Whistling joyfully, like someone who had just completed an artful task - teaching, for example - Lupin went to collect the address.

So Harry was in for some travelling - to the Ministry for Charms, to that dragon station for Transfiguration and Care, to Haiti for Transfiguration and Potions, although not his own.

---

But his first journey had another destination.

Mr Spinbottle passed him a sheet over the desk. "This is Mrs Lightfoot's address for the next time - the Cambridge University Hospital. She moved yesterday, and the good news is that one can visit her any time of the day, or the evening."

Harry examined the paper, looked up. "And the bad news?"

The lawyer leaned back in his chair. "That's confidential patient information, Mr Potter. I'm authorized by my client to inform you, but the authorization doesn't extend any further - to nobody else." He looked into Harry's eyes. "Nobody, not even - "

"Yes, I know what it means!" Harry calmed down. "Sorry, Mr Spinbottle. Okay - what is it?"

"Leukaemia."

"Oh, no."

"Yes, unfortunately. Mr Thorndyke, her physician in the East-End Hospital, said it's quite advanced, and the only chance would be a donation of bone marrow. Even with that, it would be an open question, but it's unrealistic: who'd be ready to give such a donation to a Canadian immigrant?"

"Bone marrow?" It didn't sound good, not like donating a few pints of blood.

"Yes. It had to be the same blood group, at the least, and more similarities - I'm no doctor, don't ask me for the details. Probably the only candidate would be her daughter, except that Mrs Lightfoot refused point blank to accept this kind of donation, and made very clear that it would be a breach of confidence to ask the girl. Now you see, Mr Potter, why I had reason to emphasize this point."

"Yes, of course ... Does her husband know?"

"I didn't tell him, I didn't see him, and I didn't ask my client about him." Mr Spinbottle's expression changed from formal to informative. "I think he doesn't know."

"How ... what did the doctor say, how it'll continue?"

"They're very reluctant to give a prognosis. The chances for a healing are small; you can read that from the statistics. Otherwise - something between three months and a year, and don't ask me which end should be called the worst case."

"Well ... At least, I'm grateful that you trust me enough, Mr Spinbottle ..."

"You shouldn't thank me, Mr Potter. I know what I'm doing to you - being at the same school with that girl, but I felt sure you wanted to know, for example to think ahead."

"Ahead?" Only after a second, Harry realized that the lawyer was referring to Harry's own remark, quoting Cho, and to what Mrs Lightfoot had answered. What once had been a joke suddenly became a possibility with a bitter undertone. He asked, "Would it work?"

Mr Spinbottle had the answer ready. "Not with you personally, Mr Potter. Taking away Rahewa's custody from her father won't be a problem - assuming the girl agrees, but only in favour of someone over twenty-one ... Without trying to predict bad luck, you may start thinking of realistic alternatives, if that's your intention."

Harry nodded, in his mind scanning a list of possible candidates. He felt sure - if the question really came up, he would have an alternative, maybe even two. But this was a second-choice solution, nothing to be welcomed now.

The lawyer interrupted his thoughts. "There's another aspect, Mr Potter. I've done a bit of homework, about my client's background. What I found is a possible explanation, and the possible basis for a lawsuit."

Harry looked blank.

"The Lightfoots lived in Canada, in Beaver Falls, a small town about hundred miles north of Ottawa. And Beaver Falls, that's the location of a nuclear power station, and a zone whose cancer statistics are significantly higher than the Canadian average. Ironically, this was one of the reasons why they emigrated, although not the only one."

"You mean, the radioactivity of that nuclear plant has caused Mrs Lightfoot's leukaemia?"

"You can get leukaemia anywhere on earth. But your chances are a thousandfold better - so to speak - when living in Beaver Falls, or in any other town that close to a nuclear reactor. This is especially true for American or Canadian reactors because the laws in these countries are not exactly suited to protect their citizins from toxic or radioactive waste ... I'm not predicting anything, Mr Potter, least of all an unlucky outcome for my client, but - at the risk of appearing cruel as much as greedy, I have to tell you that a lawsuit against the company running the plant would offer good chances."

"How's that? If the statistics are that bad, there had to be dozens of lawsuits for similar reasons, or do I miss a detail?"

"There's indeed a detail which prevents most of these complaints, Mr Potter. It's money. Filing such a complaint and running it through the courts takes about twenty thousand galleons. The chances to win are three to one, and the average compensation, paid to the claiming party, is something about four-hundred thousand galleons."

"I see ... Thank you for the information, Mr Spinbottle. No, I don't think you're greedy, and the cruelty isn't yours ... Before I can say anything to this idea, I'll have to talk with Rahewa - and before I can do that, something else must have happened, something which I still hope won't happen."

"Certainly, Mr Potter." The lawyer's voice indicated that he shared Harry's feelings, while for him it was basically a question of time. Statistics and probabilities were his daily work, so he had stopped hoping against all odds long before.

* * *

Walking from the Hogsmeade linkport toward Hogwarts, Harry tried to settle his mind how to break the news to Rahewa. He found no good solution, other than to give her the sheet, and to make sure Rahewa's travelling back and forth, using the linkport services, didn't fail due to lack of money.

It turned out simpler than he had expected. He met Rahewa at her return from her last class of the day, still before supper, gave her the sheet, and asked her whether she had enough cash for linkport tickets - to reach the hospital, and to reach Gringotts for a refill.

Yes, she had.

It had been too simple. After supper, still lingering at the Gryffindor table, unsure whether he should work up the courage to ask Marie-Christine for a meeting at the lake, Harry saw Rahewa coming down a staircase, walking straight to his place. Her face was expressionless. Her mind wasn't.

"Harry, can we have a walk?"

"Sure."

He followed her to the exit. Outside, quite instinctively, he turned toward his favourite place - near Hagrid's grave - before realizing that the girl didn't follow. He asked "What's wrong with that place, Rahewa?"

"Er - nothing, only we have to pass the hut, and the dog there. He's mean."

"Lousy? C'mon, I'll show you what a mean dog this is."

Rahewa didn't look happy, but then, she hadn't looked happy inside. At least, she followed him.

And yes, Lousy was lying before the hut. A moment later, he was sitting, with a motionless stare, and next second, he was racing toward them.

Rahewa had barely time to stiffen before the dog was there, ignoring her completely, jumping like a pinball to reach Harry's face, eager to deliver a few wet kisses.

Harry knelt down, smiling, patiently enduring the stormy welcome. This done, Lousy raced back to the hut, no doubt to return with the leather ball.

Rahewa had watched the scene. "He treats you totally different from us other students, Harry. If I'd been alone, he would already hang at my leg, or my neck, for all I know."

Harry laughed. "No - he just differentiates between people he knows and people he doesn't. In a minute, I'll introduce you to him." Walking to the place, shooting a ball once a minute, he told Rahewa the story how Lousy had found his new home in the hut.

They sat down in the grass, and Harry demonstrated the shooting spell. When the dog was back again, dropping the ball to the ground, he took the dog's large head between his hands. "Look, Lousy - that's Rahewa, a friend of mine."

Dog and girl looked at each other, examining what they saw, the reluctance mutual. At Harry's instruction, Rahewa's hand came forward, to be sniffed at, with the result that Lousy glanced at Harry as if to say, So what?

"She can shoot balls too." Harry nodded to Rahewa. "Let's see."

The girl's hand seized for the ball. The dog's politeness was just good not to snap forward, and not to growl.

The ball was on Rahewa's fingertips, her wand pointing. "Volitollite."

The ball jumped up, its trajectory too steep, the power too weak: it fell down less than thirty feet away.

The dog looked at Harry, an expression in his face that said, You aren't serious, are you?

But Harry was. "Go - fetch the ball."

Had Lousy's head been shaking, Harry would have felt no surprise. The dog came up, gracefully, with all the time of the world, traipsing to the ball, a casual movement of the head to grab it, then he came back and stood there, waiting.

Rahewa's arm was outstretched.

The dog came a step closer. Then, just outside her reach, he let the ball drop to the ground, and amber eyes looked into black ones, sending a clear message: Dare me!

There was no challenge like a challenge - even from a dog. Rahewa's next ball went flat over ground, passing eighty feet before coming down, and a dog already racing after it without waiting for an order.

---

Harry smiled. "That's settled. Okay, what's the matter?"

Rahewa waited until she had shot the next ball. "I was in the library. I looked up the Cambridge University Hospital."

Damn. Girls returning from the library - in Harry's experience, trained with Hermione, this meant trouble.

"They're rated quite high, and expensive too ..."

Was this the direction Rahewa was driving at? In this case -

"... and the book said it's Great Britain's most famous treatment center for cancer."

"Really?"

"Leukaemia, in particular, and related forms of blood cancer."

"Related forms? ... Beats me."

"Me too," admitted Rahewa. "But the book said that what publicly is called leukaemia splits into a dozen or so different forms, with similar symptoms, and similar treatment, only that some of them respond well to treatment while others don't."

Harry tried to look surprised. "For a book about hospitals, this one seems to be quite detailed about leukaemia. How come?"

"Very simple." Rahewa's eyes were scanning his face. "It wasn't a book about hospitals. It was about leukaemia."

"And you read all that in the few minutes since - "

The shaking of her head stopped him. "I read it already days ago. Today, I just went back to refresh my memory about the Cambridge University Hospital."

"And why did you look into that book, days ago?"

"To be ... For people from Beaver Falls, leukaemia is something you'd think of, if someone falls sick and it's more than a flu. There's a nuclear power station nearby. The town has a public swimming pool, with heated water all year long - cooling water from the reactor. They have sort of fountains - like a big mushroom, except it's a toadstool, painted like a fly agaric, and every five minutes or so the water comes down from them. You can stand in the waterfall deep in December - all children in town do it. Must be the cleanest bunch of kids in Canada." The joke came in a flat voice, lacking any joy.

"Did you do it yourself?"

"Of course - the water's clean, I mean it's not radiating, they check it once a month."

"Since when does that swimming pool exist?"

"Since before I was born. My mother used to do the same, as a girl. Except in those times, they didn't check." Rahewa shot another ball.

After a moment of silence, Harry asked, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"You spoke with Mr Spinbottle, who spoke with the doctor, I think. I went into the library. I just told you what I've learned, and what I knew before."

He was trapped - neatly, and completely.

"Rahewa ... Whatever Mr Spinbottle told me, I'm not authorized to tell further. Your mother would cancel the order immediately if she'd hear about him passing information further - even to you."

Rahewa wasn't surprised. "Yes, that's what I thought. She thinks I'm too young to know the truth, and she doesn't know that I know that much about leukaemia."

Harry was wondering himself. "How did you learn all that?"

"I once had a friend. She died at the age of eight. When I asked why, I was told from leukaemia. At that time, it didn't tell me anything. But since then, I paid attention whenever the word appeared somewhere - in newspapers, for example. I'm ... You don't need to breach your promise, Harry - you didn't lie to me either, like asking me why bother about leukaemia, so ..." The girl's head fell forward, to hide her face. A moment later, her silent crying changed to a violent sobbing.

Lousy was quicker than Harry, and less reluctant. He tried to lick Rahewa's face, was even successful with his comfort as she was grabbing him more than pushing him away.

---

Harry put an arm around thin shoulders. "I'm sorry, Rahewa ... At least, there's still a chance."

"Yes I know - the book showed the statistics. One out of ten, if it's detected early. One out of fifty, if not." Rahewa wasn't asking him where her mother's case ranked in this scale, and Harry felt grateful for that.

Rahewa's sobbing had faded. She looked up, no longer caring of the tears which still trickled down. "Harry - when I heard about you, and heard that your parents died so early, I always tried to imagine how it is. How is it, to have no parents?"

"I don't know how to answer that, because I don't know how it is to have parents. I have just two memories of my parents - I told you about one of them, when they appeared together during my fight with Voldemort, remember? Well, the other - I never told you, because ... Anyway, I think now's the right time."

Harry explained how he had relived the scene of his mother's death, during his encounters with Dementors. "That's why I went to Lupin, to find a protection against this scene in my mind. And the result was the Patronus."

Rahewa listened quietly. It wasn't the answer to her question, but even so, she understood what he was trying to tell her.

Taking the opportunity, Harry said, "Coming back to your question - I can tell you how it is to live with people who don't like you, who hate you, and curse the day you were brought to them. But I won't, because - Rahewa, I promise you - whatever's going to happen, you won't have to live with people who don't like you. If ... There's nobody to replace a mother, but there are people who can come close. I found Ma Weasley, or maybe she found me - "

A figure was approaching them. Lousy, seeing this figure, suddenly seemed guilty, like a culprit caught in the act.

The figure stopped. "I love it - leading young, innocent dogs astray, and as if that's not enough, Harry, you're doing it together with young, innocent girls." Samantha, arms akimbo, turned her attention to the dog. "And you - Lousy the guard, huh? Lousy the lousy guard, that's more to the point, that is."

At this moment, she recognized Rahewa's face.

Samantha knelt down. "Miss Lightfoot - also known as Rahewa, the girl in whose presence I shouldn't shout at Harry, because that's very dangerous, as I've been told. Except that right now, it looks more the other way around - if I'd shout at you, I guess it'd be Harry at my throat. I mean, okay, he has no knife, but he knows other tricks."

Said Harry smiled. "Hello, Sam. We took over the care of non-magical creatures, especially those bored of guarding a hut."

"You did an excellent job, really." The woman looked at the girl. "Okay, hon - what shall it be? Should I get lost, or are you going to tell me?"

No answer.

Samantha sat down. "You're right, there's a third option - to get my ass to the ground, and my mouth shut. All right, I'll keep it shut, at least afterwards, in particular because nobody would believe me. Imagine - me saying, 'I met Rahewa Lightfoot, and she was crying.' You know what people would say? They'd say, 'Impossible. Either you've met someone else, or you've been dreaming.' Since I can trust my eyes, this must be a dream - that's the only explanation." Samatha fell back into the grass, closing her eyes, giving a pretense of sleep.

This was the signal for Lousy with the bad conscience - to lick Samantha's face, doing what he could to make for good weather.

Samantha squeaked, and Rahewa couldn't avoid a smile, and Harry was wondering if he had to extend the list of possible candidates, would the dreaded day ever come - the time to look around for someone old enough, in the eyes of an inflexible law, to collect a daughter.

* * *

Harry's second tour carried him to Haiti. With just a week left before the next full moon, Hermione was pressing him to do it now - if anything went wrong, there would be still time for a second journey, without losing a complete month.

They spoke with Almyra, received the address of her mother's friend and sister in the spirit of voodoo. A Madame Dussolier, living in Saint Marc, a town north of Port-au-Prince, the only city with a linkport in Haiti. Madame Dussolier had located two loup-garous - to be precise, she had located more, but only two of them were ready to serve as test candidates, of course for money.

"Harry," said Almyra, "you should travel with your broomstick, because the traffic lines on that island are worse than bad ... And it should be the Steel Wing - not because you'll be attacked, just to make sure the broomstick doesn't get lost. Haiti is among the poorest countries on earth; stealing is a necessity for them."

After a moment's thinking, Almyra added, "And you should travel with Nagini. She'll warn you if someone has funny ideas about a rich tourist coming along, but what's more important, you'll look more like a voodoo priest than anything else - which means nobody will dare to attack you."

Suddenly, Harry's deal with Hermione seemed quite unbalanced - three weeks of coaching for an unknown number of journeys into hostile territory? Maybe, at the end of this year, he would find reason to ask for an upgrading. He glanced at Almyra. "Are you trying to make it a bit more thrilling, just to ease up my mind?"

Almyra's expression was serious. "These are the Caribbeans, Harry - sun, rum, black magic, and violent death. If something happens, it'll happen quickly."

Hermione handed him four flasks. "They have to drink one of them - the second one is just a backup, if they spill the first ... They should drink it one or two days before full moon. On the last day, it would be too late."

Harry studied the flasks. "Before breakfast, after meals, or how else?"

Hermione checked his face, somewhat suspiciously - was it a serious question or a teasing joke? She couldn't decide, because she was restricted to what her eyes told her. "Doesn't matter - it's only important that the body has assimilated the potion before the critical night."

The time difference to Port-au-Prince was five hours. Harry arrived at London Linkport in time for the six o'clock portal. Passing through, he stood in the linkport of Port-au-Prince - small, dirty, deserted, twenty degrees hotter, or so it seemed, and almost nobody in sight.

It was one o'clock local time - siesta time. Nobody called it like that, except life would stay in suspension for the next three hours.

The heat was unbearable. Harry looked around for a cafeteria, a shop, a soda stand - anything to get a drink. There were some, without exception closed till later in the afternoon.

Almyra had warned him of drinking anything outside a closed bottle. What now? Within the next sixty minutes, he would suffer a heat stroke, or fall down from dehydration.

---

Then his mind recovered from the first heat shock and started working again. Next moment, Harry was back in London Linkport, to buy a six-pack of soda cans, and seconds later, he stood again outside the Port-au-Prince linkport. Thank God for big favours like Apparition.

Waiting three hours was out of the question. Harry mounted his Steel Wing to start a low-altitude flight at medium speed, low enough to recognize road signs, slow enough to read them. In spite of the heat, he wore the flight helmet that had come with the Steel Wing - the wind was cooling his body, but Almyra had warned him not to expose his head to the open sun.

When he arrived at Saint Marc, after something like seventy miles following roads without suffering from their bad state, through a magnificent landscape of forests alternating with fields of banana trees or sugar cane, it was three in the afternoon. Harry shot up in the air to get an overview.

Saint Marc was a small seaport. Harry saw a few fish trawlers, boats, however nothing that resembled a rich man's sailboat or cabin cruiser. Even so, the scene reminded him of a sailboat in the Irish Sea.

From high above, the water surface looked flat like a mirror, deep green close to the borderline, more bluish farther outside. Harry dived down, realizing that the surface was indeed almost flat, and took the opportunity for a full-speed race, feet above the water, keeping course for several minutes. At the Hogwarts lake, it would have ended after seconds, not even reaching the Steel Wing's full speed. Here, aiming toward a shapeless horizon, nothing but water and sky in his view, he experienced another kind of endless space, not unlike his diving tours in the lake.

When he pushed upward to turn, feeling better than minutes before, Harry saw the trace he had left on the surface, already fading in the distance. Returning to the shoreline, he felt a presence - someone watching him.

Coming closer, he still couldn't see much of his spectator, however enough to give it a try. A small boy, probably less than ten, mostly hidden behind a boat lying upside down at the beach, only the upper part of the boy's head visible, two large eyes in the black face recognizable even from the distance.

According to the traveller's guide, green dollar bills were the means to start a conversation here. According to Almyra, Harry was better off behaving like a voodoo priest. Shouldn't be a problem, with a brilliant green snake around his body - in particular with nobody except himself knowing that Nagini still felt a bit seasick after the race across the water.

Harry touched down, feet at the ground, not dismounting. His right arm pointed toward the boy - slowly, then made an unmistakable gesture. Come to me.

The boy was pulled forward - arms slack, a horror-stricken face, a body which didn't dare to resist. With some effort, Harry kept his face steady, suppressed pity as well as laughter while watching.

"Montre-moi la route vers Madame Dussolier." (Show me the way to Madame Dussolier.)

A fearful nod, then the boy walked ahead, his movements gaining firmness after a few steps - he knew the way, he could obey the command.

Harry followed, resting on his Steel Wing. He didn't know if there were many voodoo priests seen on a broomstick, but certainly more than walking through streets at siesta time.

Every now and then, the boy turned to see whether this terrifying figure was still following. Harry could feel how the boy was calming down with every step, then suddenly felt worried again.

Next moment, it was clear why. They had reached the destination, a house not different from the others, and the boy seemed deeply afraid what might happen to him, now that this voodoo demon no longer needed his assistance.

Harry seized in his pocket. The boy stood there, frozen.

Harry's hand came out and waved. The boy stepped forward.

Harry held a galleon between his fingers - maybe not the most common currency here, but dollar bills just didn't fit his hard-earned image.

"C'est pour toi. Tu étais très serviable." (That's for you. You've been very helpful.)

A black hand grabbed the coin, careful not to touch him. Incredibly large eyes were widening - Harry could swear this wasn't the first galleon the boy had seen.

"Allez."

A nod, a tentative step backward, another, then the boy was racing down the street. Reaching the corner, he looked back once, then he was gone.

---

It was probably still siesta time, only that Harry had lost patience with this sleepy town. He dismounted and knocked at the door.

Nothing.

He felt a temptation to blow the door inside, but suppressed it in favour of a good first impression, remembering Lupin's remark. He took his wand and pointed toward the door.

The door rattled with a loud bang - to be heard halfway down the street, certainly enough to wake anybody's sleep inside that house.

The door opened. A young man, about Harry's age, looking startled.

The young man's name was Benoît. He did errands for Madame Dussolier - an obvious necessity, as Harry realized moments later. Madame Dussolier was the fattest creature he'd ever seen. He almost couldn't believe his eyes, seeing this obscenely engorged figure.

But he could believe his other senses, and they told him that this witch didn't like him, hadn't taken well to his knocking, seriously objected his lack of respect, and couldn't await the moment he was gone, simply because she was frightened of him, still more frightened that someone else might recognize this emotion.

The sooner the better - so far, Harry shared her feelings. As a result, only minutes later, skipping all the formalities between voodoo priests, he and Benoît were standing in the street. Harry asked, "Where does our first customer live?"

Benoît's answer didn't sound like French. After several attempts, they settled to a compromise - Harry would concentrate harder, and Benoît would speak slower, also a bit closer to French than his common French-Creole dialect.

The first loup-garou lived in Gros-Morne, a town in the north - about eighty miles away, more than the distance between Port-au-Prince and Saint Marc.

"How do we travel?"

What Harry understood sounded like a schedule for a two-week safari. They would arrive maybe deep in the night, maybe next morning, maybe never. What Harry had in mind could only be rated as an impossibility - Benoît was ready to listen and to answer just because the alternative seemed still worse - entering the house again and admitting that he'd been unable to get rid of this English demon.

Harry sighed. "Can you ride a broomstick?"

Yes, his guide could.

No, his guide didn't have any.

A broomstick store? Benoît had heard about a store in Port-au-Prince, only he wasn't sure.

Harry saw a better solution, but first he wanted his guide placed safely away from that witch with the fat for two. "Let's go to the harbour."

Close to the beach, he extracted a soda from his six-pack, handed it to the young man. "Here. I'll be back in ten minutes - don't move."

London, Diagon Alley, Quality Quidditch Supplies. Dammit - closed, eight o'clock in the evening local time. His anger rising, Harry let the door bang still louder than at the house in Saint Marc.

A face at a window. A moment later, the door came open - the face belonged to a young broomstick fanatic by the name of Ernest Galbraith, who once had visited Hogwarts to see a Steel Wing in flight.

Five minutes later, Harry left the shop with a smile and a brand new Firebolt Two. Being rich was nice when you had to solve problems.

Benoît stared at the broomstick, his black face shining in excitement. Harry saw his chance. "If we get along well in this task, you and me, it's yours afterwards."

And up they were, no longer restricted to road signs, and to low speed, taking course as the crow flies, at the full speed of a Firebolt Two. Forty minutes later, Gros-Morne appeared ahead and below.

---

They went down at an open place, next to a crossing, framed by a mix of palms and banana trees. Benoît told Harry to wait here, while he was going to fetch the man, and for God's sake to watch his Firebolt. Then he walked up the street.

He came back ten minutes later, accompanied by a young man, between twenty and thirty, wiry body, hollow eyes. His name was Caprien Marût, and Harry didn't understand a word he was saying. Benoît had to translate.

"He wants the money first."

Hermione's - and Almyra's - instructions had been quite clear in that point. Payment after the cure, and after the candidate had described the taste. Clever Hermione had mixed in a strong flavour - the same in all four flasks. If the candidate was unable to describe the taste, or if the description was wrong, there would be no money.

Harry explained the public part of that to Benoît, who translated into French-Creole, wiping off his appreciating grin before turning to Caprien Marût.

A sour-looking face, a nod, and a hand outstretched for the flasks. Taking them, Caprien Marût turned and walked off without another word.

Harry watched him leave, looked at Benoît. "Nice guy, huh?"

The answer was a shrugging, more French than anything else around, including the language.

"So where's our second candidate?"

Harry no longer expected to find him around the next corner, and he was right. They jumped up, to reach Port-de-Paix, another small seaport forty miles to the north - but only as a navigation point. Crossing ten miles of water, they reached the Ile de la Tortue.

Benoît ignored the two small towns in sight, instead flew straight to the highest point on the island, touching down on a lawn in front of a building in colonial style.

Apart from the style, and the position on top of the hill, Harry was reminded of a house on a Japanese island, still more so when a young woman opened the door - although she was black, of course, good-looking, dressed classy enough to make clear this was no house maid.

Without surprise, Harry looked at their host, seeing very much what he'd expected after the woman at the door. Fabrice Armodéc was an older man, expensively dressed, his complexion as well as his manners almost incomparable with those of that Caprien.

The man's French was flawless. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Monsieur Pottère? Nice to meet you."

He offered drinks, and they accepted. From this moment on, Benoît - although still in full view, sitting in his chair - seemed to blend into the walls, probably a habit developed over years of working with Madame Dussolier. He wasn't part of the conversation, only he couldn't be anywhere else because someone might need his services any second.

The host asked, "How was your journey, Monsieur Pottère?"

"Longer than the next ones will be, Monsieur Armodéc. Now that I've been here once, I'll be able to come directly."

"Apparition? You seem very young for that, but then, you seem quite young for the other things I read about you."

Harry looked at the man with astonishment.

"To be honest, Monsieur Pottère, it was your name which brought me into this - er, project."

If anything struck Harry more by surprise than this announcement, then Nagini keeping silent.

"Yes ... Of course, your name didn't come up in the conversations - but that of your school, Hogwarts, and I had a feeling that I might meet you in the course of these tests. And I was right."

Harry selected his words carefully. "That comes unexpected, Monsieur Armodéc."

"Certainly. By the way - if I understood you right, you'll apparate back, which means we could send your guide home, with compliments to Madame Dussolier."

---

So Benoît hadn't blended out of the host's view, while he now stood up, thanked for the drink - almost untouched - and was escorted out by the young woman. It made Harry curious - did this wealthy loup-garou just prefer a more private conversation, or was he trying to avoid an earwitness who'd be interviewed soon afterwards by that fat voodoo witch?

When in doubt, ask. "I was wondering, Monsieur Armodéc, how you came in touch with Madame Dussolier - across such a distance."

"The community of loup-garous is small, and to some degree, it binds people closer together than - er, social ranks. I'm not even sure whether this attempt of escaping is reasonable - but there are some tempting factors, and what's more, I don't believe it'll work."

"You like being a werewolf?"

The dark face smiled. "It's not a question of like or dislike. So far, it was a fate. But you must know, Monsieur Pottère, that even this cruel punishment of nature has its pay-offs. Once a month, I'm suffering terribly, while for the rest of the time, I'm rewarded with a virility that's absolutely unusual for my age, maybe even for much younger men. Imagine how disappointed my young flower of the night would be, should this change."

With some effort, Harry avoided an open stare. This was new to him, and it would be interesting as much as difficult to discuss the topic with Lupin. "Then why did you join this project, Monsieur Armodéc?"

"Oh, there are more desires - curiosity, for instance. And besides, if it really works, I'm sure your people will manage a counter potion. No, it wasn't the money which caught my interest" - the man laughed, making a gesture around to indicate a room full of expensive items - "it was the people. Monsieur Pottère, I felt the hope that my payment would be given in conversations - while it's pure luck beyond my highest expectations that it's you who'll do the visits."

He was hoping? And what if ... Harry felt confronted with the most polite form of blackmailing, and all that for three weeks of coaching.

Monsieur Armodéc seemed to follow his thoughts. "For compensation, I will not only do my duty, no, I can offer some benefits like excellent dinners, my own contributions to the conversation - and if you decide to stay overnight, Monsieur Pottère, you'll find any comfort and pleasure you might expect in a guest room."

Now Harry was really speechless.

"This is of course just an option. However, in this French part of the Carribeans, it's a very natural one, I can assure you. So I'm confident you don't feel shocked - which would be a surprise, unless the reports in the French newspapers were greatly exaggerating."

Harry cleared his throat. "Monsieur Armodéc, so far, my only comment is that your own contribution to the talking is definitely fascinating."

"Not more than anything else I could offer, that's for sure, Monsieur Pottère. But to come back to our business, how's your involvement in this project?"

"It's run by a friend of mine - her name is Hermione Granger. I'm just the messenger, that's all."

"Hermione - what a wonderful name. I'd like to meet her." Seeing Harry's glance, the host laughed. "Rest assured, Monsieur Pottère, that I can adapt quite well to the conventions and standards of my guests. If I'd appear offensive, then certainly not by accident."

Which allowed a few interesting conclusions. For example, that this man had something similar to Harry's haragei - the articles in French newspapers couldn't have been the only reason to offer him a guest room as well as company for the night, almost in the second sentence. And then of course his judgement of Harry, something to think about.

"Monsieur Armodéc - today, I'm not prepared to stay longer. But the next time, I'll be ready to trade - er, stories for a dinner."

"Very well, Monsieur Pottère. I'm looking forward to it."

After delivering the flasks as well as the instructions, Harry said goodbye and was escorted to the door by the young woman. He smelled her perfume - had she been wearing it at his arrival?

Outside, he decided to fly a slow patrol over the island before jumping back to Hogwarts. It wasn't really for orientation - no, he just needed a few minutes to think, and up in the air was an excellent place to do that.

The project was running, and Harry could report the first task completed. Well, and what should he report in addition? Should he tell Hermione that she was invited to a dinner, and maybe more? Should he discuss the side-effects of werewolvism with her, or with Lupin? ... Or with Almyra?

Giving a full report would be sort of a safety belt, keeping him away from offers extending beyond a dinner, yes, definitely so. Only that this safety raised a very limited appeal.