Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

Full moon had passed, and Hermione wanted to know what had happened with her test candidates, how her first elixir had performed in their bodies. With mixed feelings, Harry started his second journey toward Haiti to gather the results.

He apparated from Hogwarts in the early afternoon, arriving at Saint Marc an hour before noon local time. Visiting this Caprien Marût alone made no sense - not without a translator.

Seeing Harry, Benoît quickly closed the door behind him, to do the talking in the street. Madame Dussolier was still asleep, as he said, which indeed explained enough. The voodoo witch would be very unkind to be wakened prematurely, she would be terribly unkind to hear that Harry was the reason, and her unkindness would have just one target: Benoît.

The young man looked surprised, seeing Harry without a broomstick. Harry told him he would jump by Apparition, only to hear that Benoît could not apparate. So Benoît would use the Firebolt, which would take forty minutes - a time span Harry had to kill somehow, here or in Gros-Morne.

There was nothing that held him in this street, or anywhere else in Saint Marc. After watching Benoît disappear at the horizon, Harry jumped to Gros-Morne, to sit in the only cafeteria within sight, drinking soda - the only drink available that came in a closed bottle. Harry remembered Almyra's warning too well and had no intention to pay his debts toward Hermione with drinks and dinners in Haiti and diarrhoea in Hogwarts.

By the time Benoît arrived, Harry had company. Caprien was sitting across the table, talking rapidly and angrily. Harry had explained several times that he was waiting for Benoît's translating, to no avail. He couldn't even understand whether it was the money or the potion that made this test candidate so upset.

With Benoît's help, Harry learned quickly that it was both. The potion had shown a strong taste of vanilla, which was correct. The effect otherwise had been extremely unsatisfying, from Caprien's perspective. He had transfigured into a werewolf, very much as usual - only to lie helplessly on the ground, unable to do anything, defenseless against any attack that might have come. Still worse, Caprien had lacked the grandiose feeling of freedom, power, and invulnerability which for him granted the only pay-off in those nights. While describing this state, Caprien's voice sounded bitter and disappointed. Apparently, he had expected a full success with the very first sample.

Harry paid five galleons, rather than three as agreed before, and instructed Benoît to express his sympathy. It wasn't really true, but then it was no lie either, and mollifying a grumpy candidate seemed definitely better than searching for a new one, in particular when relying on the services of Madame Dussolier.

After Caprien had left, Harry said goodbye to Benoît, paid the drinks, and apparated to the Ile de la Tortue.

Monsieur Armodéc was pleasantly surprised, faked a small embarrassment to be found unprepared for a lunch guest, and hinted a faint disappointment that Harry hadn't come for an evening dinner. With a jovial voice, he mentioned that Harry, at his next visit, might find the door closed until six o'clock in the evening. However, there was little doubt - this hadn't been a joke, Monsieur Armodéc meant it and intended to play the game by his own rules.

Harry was unable to detect any sign of a kitchen unprepared for a lunch guest. There was enough food for more than two people, served by the young woman whose name, as he learned, was Désirée - quite fitting in his opinion.

He listened to his host's description of the effects, according to which the potion had done nothing whatsoever. It made him very suspicious, although Monsieur Armodéc had identified the taste correctly. Harry decided to recommend a more complicated mix of control tastes to Hermione - maybe a first taste when drinking it, and an after-taste when it was gulped down.

Then he had to sing and dance for his supper, which was a lunch at local time. He spoke about Hogwarts, about himself, about other students. Monsieur Armodéc was a good listener, his questions indicated a sharp mind while the man avoided pressing any item. Altogether, Harry's contribution didn't feel unpleasant at all, certainly much more entertaining than he had expected.

Before he left, his host asked, "Did you inform Mademoiselle Hermione about my invitation, Mr Potter?"

"Yes, of course."

"And what was her answer?"

"She said she'll think it over. As long as she can't apparate yet, she's a bit reluctant."

Monsieur Armodéc smiled. "If it's just the discomfort of travelling, please tell her that I could arrange a portkey from Port-au-Prince to my place here any time. If there's another reason for her reluctance - Mr Potter, of course you're both welcome together. I hope there wasn't any misunderstanding."

"Certainly not. Aside from the state of her project, Hermione's only reason was the inconvenience of broomstick riding."

"Of course. It's not really lady-like, is it, Mr Potter?"

* * *

There was no sense in denying any longer. Sirius' words brought it to the point: the Muggles had detected the wizards, God only knew how. Occupying the lakeside in the evening turned out only the first step, although the one with the greatest initial impact. It prevented Harry from meeting with Marie-Christine, reason enough to be mad at those Muggles.

Harry wasn't sure whether his anger was justified, or targeted toward the right people. The lakeside in the evening, this should have been a perfect place, what with the other young people around, and their doing, unbelievable how openly they acted. Still, this was no help, neither to himself nor to Marie-Christine, quite the opposite. And other places - her office wasn't really suited for that, and her bedroom ... They had used it once, both of them feeling a restraint strong enough not to repeat the experience, for example because Marie-Christine didn't know how much these walls were keeping noises inside, didn't want to find out, but didn't want to keep silent either.

The lakeside had been only the beginning. One day, the first figures appeared before the school buildings, to linger around, to stare, to disappear after a while. Then they were back, or others, and more.

Then Samantha reported an encounter with some of them. Several young men, more or less drunk, had tried visiting her in the night - to meet Lousy first, with bad consequences for two of them, to be confronted afterwards with a furious Samantha, who had awakened from the noise.

Harry asked, "What did you do with them?"

"I handcuffed them, and let them sit in the grass for the rest of the night, guarded by Lousy. In the morning, I sent all but the two wounded ones off - only that, somehow, they'd lost their trousers, must've been some spell that slipped my mouth in the heat of the fight - er, morning, I mean." Samantha grinned. "They won't come back, Harry - I told them, if I ever was going to see them again, they'd find out what a nice little spell does with their dicks. You should've seen their faces - scared dickless, hehe."

Harry didn't join the laughter. "And the other two?"

"Well, I couldn't leave them that way - some nasty bite wounds, Lousy's a hell of a fighter. So I took them to Madam Pomfrey ... It's almost a miracle they didn't wet their pants, or worse. Afterwards, I sent them off too."

---

However, it wasn't as funny as Samantha had made it look in her description, not at all. Two days later, three young men walked into the building, apparently challenged by their friends. They tried to kidnap a second-year, probably just to drag him outside and to interrogate him about Hogwarts. However, the boy called for help, and quite successfully so: a moment later, his classmates were around, and by the time Professor McGonagall appeared as the first teacher at the scene, the three Muggles were suffering from tickling charms, hair across their faces, engorged ears, and other unpleasantries you might expect from second-years.

As a first measure, signs appeared around the school, reminding Harry of the signs he'd seen around the dragon camp, only that they were a bit closer to the truth.

Closer to the truth didn't help, more to the contrary. Muggles started crossing the invisible borderline at all times of the day - young ones, of both sexes, to master this particular challenge. When some of them were caught, they had to suffer something harmless like a tickling charm, or the spell which made the feet dance for a few minutes. The number of intrusions was growing rather than fading.

Dumbledore gathered teachers and students in a school meeting.

"The situation here," explained the Headmaster, "is basically the same as anywhere else. The Muggles have - at bad last - found out that we exist. Your guess is as good as mine about how this could happen. Currently, the official state is very unclear - there is no established relationship yet between the Muggle world and the wizarding world. For us, that means we have to take care of ourselves."

There were quite some suggestions how to take care, causing a sharp response from Dumbledore.

"We must keep the Muggles out of our school - which doesn't mean we can treat them badly, quite the opposite. It is essential that we do everything to establish good relations between Muggles and wizards, of course without giving up our sovereignty, in particular without putting the order of Hogwarts at risk."

And then the Headmaster explained what it meant. "As a first measure, I'm afraid, we have to re-establish the Flying Squad - we need guards and patrols because that's the only way to keep the Muggles outside. I have no intention to build walls, or fences, around Hogwarts - most likely, the excitement about this school will fade soon enough, and then we'll have the area for us again."

In this, Dumbledore should be seriously wrong.

At least, he had the good sense to follow Samantha's suggestions - she was the only one with experience how to deal with large groups, with people who were basically good-natured but, thanks to human nature, with the potential to change into a howling mob within minutes, if not seconds.

As a consequence, there was a training seminar.

"You're cops," said Samantha to the audience, which consistend of the four Quidditch teams, in the case of the Gryffindors quickly filled up by Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, because they were old enough for the job; there had been no time searching for a replacement of Katie and Alicia with the focus on Quidditch qualities. "You're cops, and you have to be nice cops - but always cops. And now I'm going to tell you what this means."

---

It meant, for example, that they had to wear name tags at their chests.

"An anonymous cop, that's bad, very bad. A nice cop has a name, first name, that is. That's rule number one. Rule number two - that's your name, nothing else. If someone calls you, 'Hey, buddy,' this someone has to be sorry about that - in measures, of course. And now let's get a list of appropriate measures."

A good measure after a minor insult - for example, addressing a cop with something other than the correct name - was the jitterbug, the charm of the dancing feet. In contrast, the tickling charm was banned immediately. "Your measures must hurt," said Samantha. "Those people must stop laughing, and they must wish they hadn't been caught. Tickling - they're laughing no end, so at least the people around think it's fun. Pain, up to a limit, that's the only solution."

This said, Samantha's expression changed. "You've heard the Headmaster. If any of you, ever, has the funny idea of using the Cruciatus, then you'll wish Dumbledore's the first to hear about, rather than myself. I've seen my share of cops violating the rules, and if you're interested in seeing me mad, I mean really mad, just give them a Cruciatus."

Eugene Hammett, a Slytherin Chaser, had a comment. "Prof, I thought this is the Flying Squad, which means Viktor's our boss - but listening to you, it sounds as if you'd be the boss."

The question seemed reasonable enough, in contrast to Eugene's voice, which had sounded as challenging as possible. The audience was waiting expectantly for Samantha's answer.

She walked to Eugene's seat.

"Viktor and I, we agree in a few basic facts. For example, we share the assumption that you can piss and shit without our help, that you don't need a boss for that. Correct so far?"

Eugene, his face reddening, gave no answer.

Samantha's arm snapped forward, caught Eugene's collar, and pulled him close to her face. "Say, Yes sir, madam, sir."

"Yessir - madam, sir."

Dropped from Samantha's hand, Eugene fell back into his seat.

"In questions of discipline, Viktor and I further agree that we'll work in close cooperation. If the question ever comes up, you can translate that to something like, one of us will watch while the other's going to bawl you out."

Samantha walked back to address the full audience.

"The Squad is a voluntary service. The same goes for any additional guard service outside the Squad. But don't be confused; it doesn't mean this is a show of joy and leisure. The Muggles here, that's like having caught a tiger at the tail - now we just can wheel it around."

Miranda Pincus, Ravenclaw Keeper, asked, "Prof - what's so dangerous in a few Muggles? Aren't you exaggerating a bit?"

Samantha's answer made more than one face thoughtful.

"As you know, I come from Texas. That means, I know a bit more about racial differences and their possible effects than you people in merry old England. There's one wizard or witch to a thousand Muggles - and we're different. We're a minority, much more so than black people in the United States, and what's worse, we're more powerful than Muggles. This situation's hot, and that's why you better listen how to behave like a good cop."

When Samantha asked for other useful charms of the non-serious but hurtful category, Harry offered water balls. Since his stupid game in front of the gnome holes, he and Ron had made quite some progress in their project.

Samantha looked pleased. "That's perfect, sweetheart - a water cannon is the ideal weapon against a mob, and that's the wizard equivalent."

Some others grinned, hearing Samantha call Harry sweetheart. They stopped grinning quickly when they tried to shoot balls like Harry and Ron. As it turned out, nobody else was able to do it, not at short terms, without a lot of training.

Patrols should be run frequently and at irregular times, so the Muggles couldn't settle to a rhythm. Also, they should be run in twin teams.

---

Ron looked at Harry. "What about the two of us?"

Hearing that, a twelve-year-old with coal-black eyes had trouble keeping her face straight. But next moment, she was saved.

"Mixed teams," called Samantha. "There won't be a girls-only team."

"Why not?" asked Deirdre Redmond from the Hufflepuff team, somewhat upset.

"That's an invitation for gang-raping," was Samantha's answer, raising doubts in many minds whether this teacher and ex-deputy was still seeing things in the right proportion.

Harry turned to Ron. "That makes it clear, I think - a Weasley-Weasley gang, and a Potter-Lightfoot gang, right?"

Seamus and Dean were of course teaming together, and poor Wynton had to look somewhere else. What he had in mind was Miranda Pincus, but he moved too slow while some other people had the same idea. What he came up with was Simon Ryerson, the Slytherin Keeper.

Harry met a beaming Rahewa. "Hello, partner."

And of course, Rahewa wouldn't give it a rest until Harry showed her how to shoot water balls. She had trouble as soon as the projectile grew bigger than Lousy's leather ball, her bullets were dropping badly, therefore losing speed and force rapidly, suited well to raise laughter from a Muggles audience. This was why Harry saw her training this spell with a fierce energy during the next days.

* * *

Through his Daily Prophet subscription, he could follow up the large-scale development between Muggles and wizards, because this newspaper had started offering a full page - called "Daily Echo" - with quotations from Muggle newspapers. They were a day or two old, only it didn't matter.

In the press, it had started very much like the usual summer break nonsense, as a variation of the Loch Ness beast - that was how the Muggle press put it. Except that the reports did not fade, quite the contrary, were growing, and reader mail confirmed that other people had had similar encounters.

Initially, they had been called weird people, classified by the press as with so many other groups and sects. Then, nobody knew how, the first articles appeared with descriptions of "supernatural" skills. Of course, the press had taken pains to present them as jokes, as something to be read with a smile. And then, little by little, the teasing formulations faded while the facts remained. Meanwhile, the tenor in the press was something like, "It can't be true, can it, however, here's what we have found."

In addition to the question how all this had started, Harry was asking himself what all these people around Hogwarts had in mind. It felt like a siege - of a friendly kind, though, so far without confirming Samantha's worries. Looking out a Hogwarts window, one could see long arrays of tents with campfires in the evenings, and one could hear a lot of music - from portable radios, still more from groups with guitar players and singers. These groups had quite some appeal for the students, creating a situation of mutual magnetism.

Harry spoke with Dumbledore.

"Harry, you know about Muggles as much as I," answered the Headmaster. "The people down there are young - your age, maybe a bit more. If you want to know what's driving them, go and ask."

Harry spoke with Samantha.

"Do that, Harry. And don't forget - whatever you're going to do there, or say, is public relations. You're our ambassador, so do me a favour and behave like that."

For his first serious contact, Harry selected an evening patrol. Before jumping off, he turned to Rahewa. "Today, I want to talk with them. What about you?"

He could have saved the question, knew the answer in advance - Rahewa's eyes were shining when she replied, "I'm with you, Harry."

Of course. Together straight into the lion's den - that was the picture in Rahewa's mind, in a way not even unrealistic.

Harry smiled. "Well, then - let's go."

Scanning over the camp area, followed by glances from below, listening to his haragei, Harry picked a group of eight young men and women who were sitting in a loose circle. Apparently, later in the evening, they would start a fire, to sit and drink, maybe to sing, while right now the group was just hanging around idly.

---

Harry touched down and dismounted. "Good evening."

Incredible stares.

He signaled Rahewa to touch down and to join him.

A voice, awestruck. "I don't believe it - the water cops."

Water cops? "My name's Harry. That's Rahewa."

"Hey, man, cool, man. That your broad? A bit young, I'd say, but it's a matter of taste, isn't it?"

Harry's gaze fixed the young man. "That's my partner, and her name's Rahewa, as I said."

Arms came up in a gesture of surrender and pacification. "Is okay, man - be cool, okay? Nothing personal, just to say hello."

"Hello ... Please call me Harry."

"That's all right, man, Harry. Have a seat, Harry, and that cool br - er, young lady too. A beer?"

Not his favourite, however Harry accepted, not seeing soda around. Seeing a beer in Rahewa's hand made him still less happy, in sharp contrast to Rahewa herself.

After a sip, he asked, "Water cop? What does it mean?"

"Keep cool, man - er, Harry - but you are the two, aint'cha?"

After a moment of embarrassment, and after Harry could make clear that no, he wasn't offended, just wanted to know, they had the first of several surprises in this conversation. He and Rahewa were sort of famous among the camp people.

Violating the trespassing rule, as Harry learned, was a sport. Passing the forbidden zone and reaching the building while a patrol was running in the air counted ten points. It was possible, with some luck. It was apparently impossible when the patrol consisted of Harry and Rahewa, recognized easily, in particular because none of the other patrols used these damned water balls.

A young man - Pete his name - said, "Man oh man, if you're hit by that water - hurts like hell. At first, there was always a soft ball and a hard one, but now there isn't much of a difference."

Hearing that, Rahewa beamed.

The camp people had responded to the challenge. Being caught by another patrol still scored two points. Being caught by the water cops scored five, while the score for completing the task under their eyes would score fifty - should it ever happen.

Another young man, Art his name, asked, "Say, Harry, what's so special about you two? Day time, night time - it just doesn't matter. How do you manage?"

"It's called haragei. It's nothing magical, I learned it from an old Japanese. And Rahewa's an American Indian, a Cree."

Mysterious combat arts of the far east, combined with the native skill of a Cree - the group agreed that the score should be raised to hundred. Then the broomsticks took the general attention. Pete asked, "That your air horse, Harry? Looks awfully cool. Mind if I have a closer look?"

"Be careful! Don't touch it - it strikes back."

Pete grinned. "Yeah, of course - like my bike. Can nobody ride it but me."

There was no experience like bitter experience. Harry shrugged. "I've warned you. Do what you want, but don't complain, okay?"

"That's understood, man - er, Harry. I won't - ouch!" A painful groan, and Pete was holding his right hand. He gasped, his face grimacing. "Dammit - whoa, does that hurt ..." The beaten wrist was swelling by the second.

---

Harry felt pity. "Give me your hand. Hold still, just relax."

Breathless silence around. Sitting in the lotus position, Harry held the young man's hand and wrist with his own hands, sending waves for the next minute. Then he said, "All right, that should do the job. Try it."

Pete flexed his fingers, an incredulous grin spreading his face. "Wow - cool, man, super cool - it's gone, Harry, that's the real stuff. Great, thanks."

Other people gathered closer, looking, probing. "Harry, you're a healer?"

"No, not really. Madam Pomfrey's our doctor witch, I can handle only bruises and wounds, but nothing serious."

"Maybe you can help Sally - Sally, come here ... Here, look, Sally's got a bad case of sunburn on her shoulders, which is kind of handicap for her because she can't lie on her back, and for Sally that's almost worse than the sunburn, if you get my drift ..."

The remark didn't raise a particular echo in the round, least of all from Sally who just sat down, took off her T-shirt and nothing else because she wasn't wearing a bra.

It looked really bad, the skin dark red, partially covered by tiny bubbles. Nobody would have been able to endure shoulder straps on this, although Harry didn't expect Sally to endure them at other times.

"Hello, Sally ... Lie down, please, face on your arms, and try to relax." While sitting there in the lotus position, his hands on the shoulders of Sally who might have fit in his own class by her age, Harry was reminded of a similar scene, in some forest a year ago.

After a minute, low murmur started around them. After two more minutes, the murmur grew excited - there was no doubt, the skin had started smoothening, the bubbles fading.

Five minutes later, Harry took his hands off. "That's it, Sally - the skin's probably still a bit sensitive, but it'll be okay tomorrow morning."

Sally's head came up, her hands touched her shoulders, her eyes widening. Then she looked at him. "I'd like to give it a little stress test - with you, Harry."

Appreciative remarks in the round, and an offer for a tent.

Harry only could hope he wasn't blushing - but if so, then probably more with respect to Rahewa's presence. "Thanks, but ... and besides, it's a bit too public for my taste."

Someone said, "You should try the lakeside, Harry - lots of room, it's private enough."

"Really? I'd never guessed, without your advice."

Laughter. Pete called, "See, folks - the man knows what he's talking about."

Damn. Rahewa was listening attentively. Still worse - the group had found their main topic. "Say, Harry - how is it, er, between you magic people? You know, sex and so."

"How should it be? There's no difference."

"Really? It's hard to believe - you know, all people here would like to know how it is, with someone magical. Harry, you could have almost every girl here - Sally's no exception, maybe just a bit more straightforward, that's all."

Seeing Harry's nonplussed expression, the others confirmed that Pete had told the truth. To some degree, this camp was just like any other open-air gathering around the Muggle world, for sun, fresh air, free love, drinks, dope, and music. But in addition, these were groupies - waiting for the chance to find out by themselves if there really was no difference.

"Say, Harry, aren't you using spells for that?"

Harry, who only recently had used a spell to great effect in that, made an astonished face. "What for?"

"Er - to help things a bit."

"Dunno - it never crossed my mind. Maybe if I'm in need of a bit help ..."

Roaring laughter. A girl glanced into the round and shouted, "If you guys would cut yourself a bit shorter at your joints, you wouldn't need help either."

More laughter. Another girl asked, "And what about love potions?"

"Hmmm ... It's not out of the question, but I'm no expert in that."

Rahewa was grinning, with the effect that the girls were storming her with more questions about this issue. Watching this, Harry suddenly became aware that Rahewa didn't stop grinning, and that her speech came somewhat blurred. He grabbed her, then shook her.

"Rahewa - how much beer did you drink?"

The grin faded and was replaced by a miserable expression. "Too much, I'm afraid ... Harry, I'm sick."

---

Two girls took her and guided her aside. A moment later, Harry could hear how Rahewa was getting rid of that beer in reverse order of drinking.

Pete looked guilty. "Sorry, man - wasn't planned that way. I thought you people could sober up with a spell, or so."

Harry felt anger, mostly toward himself. "No, we can't - we can't drink more alcohol, we can't fuck more than other people, and if our boss ever hears about this here, she's going to give me hell. You see, we're almost normal - except that we can shoot water balls."

Sally added, "And heal sunburns - while no other ones, unfortunately."

Rahewa was guided back, looking like death warmed over - maybe a bit more alive, what with her cheeks burning of shame. Harry asked, "Rahewa, can you fly?"

"Dunno ... Yessinkso."

He jumped first, ready to grab her, should it be necessary. However, although swaying from side to side, Rahewa kept on her broomstick. Harry waved. "Follow me."

"Thass' nodde 'rection to the showl, 'arry."

"No, it's not." Reaching an empty spot at the lakeside, he let Rahewa touch down before he followed and unmounted himself. "Okay - time for a swimming, maybe two."

It sobered her up some. "I've gon'no swimsuit."

"Doesn't matter. I know how you look, and it's dark."

It sobered her up considerably, replacing dizziness by embarrassment. Harry had to look away while she was undressing, then Rahewa jumped into the water, presenting a bare backside for the shortest moment possible.

Sitting close to the waterline, Harry monitored her presence with his haragei, just in case her drunkenness proved worse than it seemed. But as far as he could judge, Rahewa was getting better. Well - probably she would be cured from beer, or other drinks with more alcohol than suitable for a twelve-year-old, which meant any.

Rahewa came out, looking almost normal, no longer embarrassed, only shameful. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"It's okay - it was my mistake more than yours."

She didn't think so.

"Whatever - shall I blow you dry with a hairdryer spell?"

Turning naked in front of him seemed a bit too much. "No thanks." Rahewa sat down at his side, curled like a ball.

"Rahewa, that's been your last alcohol for the next four years, right?"

"Yes."

Harry smiled. "Well, then ... Did I tell you the story of my first Beauxbatons ball, when I had my own encounter with more alcohol than was good for me, to wake up next day ..."

* * *

Dumbledore would ask him about his conversation with the Muggles - naturally so, after having recommended just that. This in mind, Harry wanted to prepare himself by talking with Samantha first. But once more, the Headmaster gave proof of his fine sense for timing - he caught him before Harry found a chance to see the Texan ex-deputy.

Feeling slightly trapped, with respect to what had to be the central part of his report, Harry said, "Prof, I'd prefer to have Samantha also in this discussion."

Dumbledore examined his face, then nodded. "You're right - just a moment."

Entering the Headmaster's office, Samanta had an opportunity to watch the inverse of her own job - a magical creature, Fawkes of course, taking care of a wizard by sitting on Harry's shoulder. And Harry could do with the calming effect - in a way, this talk with Dumbledore seemed more difficult than any other he could remember. How to explain the concept of groupies to an age-old Headmaster?

When in doubt, begin at the beginning. "Yes, we spoke with them," said Harry. "For what we could see, they're nice - and they accept us as authorities. Rahewa and I, we're called the water cops." He explained the intrusion game and the scoring.

Samantha grinned.

Dumbledore looked at her. "What do you think - should we keep it that way? Or should we change our policy?"

Samantha stopped grinning. "It's like one of those festivals. Ever heard of Woodstock, Albus? Or Monterey? It's what I said - a large number of people, that's a short-fused bomb. Woodstock was an example how things can go well, and Monterey an example how you can blow it. It's crucial that we handle them with a long leash - I think we should train the Squad a bit more."

Harry said, "There's something else. We could offer medical services - I'm sure it would consolidate terms between them and us." He described his own doing with Pete and Sally.

Dumbledore said, "That's an excellent idea. Poppy always complains that our students are too healthy, she feels underemployed."

Samantha grinned again. "Girls with sunburns will ask for Harry, no doubt, except that those sunburns will suddenly appear at unusual parts of the body - unusual for sunburns, that is."

Dumbledore had a dry smile. "I'm only in charge of the official service, and that will be given by Poppy. What else, Harry? What do these people want?"

When in doubt, make it short. "Well - erm, the bottom line is, they want sex with someone magical."

The Headmaster listened silently and without any expression in his face while Harry explained how the camp people would like to offer all they had - free beer, free dope, free love, free music.

Samantha was grinning more than ever. "What's the scoring for that, Harry? Twenty points for a quickie, and fifty if it's the water cop?"

Dumbledore looked a bit indignant. "Samantha, please."

But the mob and festival expert shook her head. "No, Albus, I'm serious. They want it, and they'll get it - if you'd try to prevent that, you might as well try to nail a drop of quicksilver to the wall. All we can do is channelling it properly - if we'd try to keep them separate from each other, we'd be confronted with a steam pot on which someone closed the lid. It'd blow in our faces, at the worst possible moment."

The Headmaster looked unhappy. "Channel it? How?"

"Visits in the camp only in pairs, or triples. Students of the classes one to four need an older student as company. Information campaigns - Poppy should make sure she has enough preservatives to cover the request - "

Dumbledore almost gasped.

Samantha shrugged. "This school has been secluded, but that's over. You can't stop it, Albus, so march ahead. A school like Hogwarts, a boarding school, is always a target for people from outside. So far, there haven't been any, but now ... We can praise ourselves lucky if they're as nice as Harry said."

Dumbledore looked at his scout. "Are they that nice, Harry?"

"Yes - but they behave according to their own standards. For example, alcohol will be a problem, because our students are not used to that at all. Funny, how Monsieur Delacour was right in his judgement - "

"Monsieur Delacour?"

Harry explained how Fleur's father had given him a crash course in the basics of drinking alcohol. "The camp people know how to handle beer, but most of our students don't. The teachers should put in a lesson or two about drinks."

Samantha nodded. "The modern times have caught us, Albus. Just face it."

---

And the Headmaster faced it, following the given advice, in particular because reports from other places showed what could happen if the wizards were trying to isolate themselves. A school in Boston, USA, had tried the wrong approach - with bad results. A crowd had stormed the school, with nasty accidents on both sides. Since then, this school had to deal with Muggle school authorities at one side, claiming the right to supervise schools of any kind, and with lawyers on the other side, due to lawsuits filed against each other.

Madam Pomfrey started her medical service, using a large tent that had been erected at the borderline between camp and school area. For Harry, it was little surprise hearing that a good part of Madam Pomfrey's clientele seemed in perfect health and came only to ask for love potions and other boosters of sexual desire.

Then the doctor witch had a few serious cases. A Muggle, using an aqualung and armed with a rubber harpoon, had dived in the lake. Apparently, he had met a merman, and had used his harpoon. The merman responded with a spear into the chest. The Muggle had managed to escape, but would have died nonetheless, if not for Madam Pomfrey's intensive care during the next hours.

Some others had come up with the crazy idea of hunting in the Forbidden Forest. They had returned with lots of bruises, a few broken ribs, and a broken arm - probably an encounter with Centaurs.

As a consequence, a second, smaller tent was established, the Witchcraft Information Desk. Students, fifth-years and up, were doing service duty - not quite from dawn, however till dusk. The job was extremely popular, and Ron found himself caught in a schedule trap - assistant manager, Squad team member, and student with his own set of projects was a bit too much.

Then, one evening, Harry and Rahewa were on patrol just in the first darkness of the evening, when Harry heard a high-pitched scream start in the camp, a scream which didn't stop. He waved Rahewa to follow, already accelerating.

Until Harry reached the scene, the scream had faded to the panic-stricken sobs of a girl. He pushed through the surrounding people, but found the girl unhurt, except for the nameless terror in her face. He took her shoulders and sent a calming wave. "It's okay, we're here. What happened?"

"A - a man ... He looked like - his head! His head was almost off, but ..." The girl shuddered. "He spoke with me!"

Harry exhaled with relief, suppressing a laughter. "That's okay - you've met Nearly Headless Nick. He's our house ghost - his real name's Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."

"Your house ghost??" The girl stared at him.

"Yes, of the Gryffindor house. There are some others - the Bloody Baron, the Fat Friar - and of course Moaning Myrtle. Yes, and then there's Peeves the Poltergeist - you can only hope he doesn't take to haunting the camp - "

Harry's last remark had been a mistake - the girl seemed ready to scream again. Quickly, he said, "Now calm down. What did Nearly Headless Nick say?"

"I don't remember. When he started to speak with that head - I was screaming, and screaming, and he disappeared."

"I guess he just wanted to say good evening." Harry tried to find something that would cheer up the girl. "You know, because his head's still hanging to his body, he's not accepted in the club of the truly decapitated ghosts. It's bothering him no end, because he's not entitled in the yearly hunt of this club - "

"Hunt? When??"

Harry felt like biting his tongue. "Relax! They're not hunting people, neither Muggles nor wizards. All they do is playing a game of polo with their own heads. It's funny, really, because the heads are commenting upon the game of their bodies ..."

The surrounding people were retreating from Harry.

"Okay, okay - listen, one of our teachers is a ghost. Binns - Boring Binns, we call him, because you just fall asleep in his classes."

A young man asked, "Harry - er, how do you call up a ghost?"

"Not at all - they come and go at their own will. But they show good manners - as I said, Nearly Headless Nick probably wanted to introduce himself, he likes socializing with people. Once I was invited to his anniversary party, couldn't avoid it."

The surrounding people had come closer again, wanted to know how the party had been.

"Well, I'm no party freak - the only real problem was the food. Ghost food - you don't want to know, because when you see that, you're fed up for a day, believe me. But otherwise, these are nice people - of course with the exception of Peeves. He's a real pest."

A timid voice. "Harry - er, what shall we do if this Peeves haunts the camp?"

Harry grinned. "Call the Bloody Baron - he's the only one Peeves is scared of."

This wasn't exactly what his audience had hoped to hear.

"Peeves's harmless - just a pain in the ass. If he starts zooming around, call for help."

Followed by Rahewa, Harry left a crowd of thoughtful Muggles, who tried to figure out whether a camp of tents was a better place for meeting a ghost than a building with walls, and who hoped this Peeves would keep to teasing students rather than themselves.