Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

Between his new Squad service and his encounters with the camp people, Harry tried to proceed further in his three projects. Dragon Animagus, Portkey Programming, and Poison Balls required an awful lot of time, while Harry took care not to neglect aikido and kenjutsu, and not to forget Ginny's training in haragei either. And every now and then, something to relax - Social Ethics with Boring Binns.

After the Muggles had appeared around Hogwarts, the students from one side and Dumbledore from the other side had put some pressure on the ghost - to talk about Muggles, about their ethics, their social structures, their beliefs. Binns first hesitated, then started with this topic, only to realize - and to confess - that his knowledge was somewhat outdated.

Then a miracle happened: Binns started to talk with the Muggles.

As soon as it was dark enough outside, the ghost floated into the camp to talk with the young people, to discuss modern concepts versus those of his own youth, or those of the wizards. For his first meeting, Binns had asked Harry for an introduction. Since then, he made his visits alone.

The ghost had no trouble finding audiences, quite the opposite. The young Muggles seemed fascinated. Even after the novelty of Binns' ghostly appearance had faded, the attraction didn't stop - someone who was ready to talk with them, to listen, someone who could refer to events of the last centuries, however without always pointing out how much better it had been then, such a person was rare.

Truth to be told, Binns was also popular for very practical reasons. He loved sitting at a campfire, and his particular choice for an evening would burn without a constant supply of wood. What's more, a touch of the ghost's hand did enough to refill the beer cans of his conversation partners. This could certainly be called the healthiest beer around - being the result of a ghost spell, it disappeared from within the stomachs rather quickly, without making drunk and without causing the need to pee twice per hour.

Even so, Muggle ethics were nothing new to Harry, and he could use these classes to think about his projects. The most significant progress manifested in the Poison Balls project, although Ron with his tight schedule was doing less than his planned share.

"It's all right," said Harry. "Listen, Ron - you're doing a hell of a work for the school, what with all these lists, and the basic chemistry seems settled. The only time when I really need you is for shootings."

In a shooting session, Ron would send water balls, and Harry had to shoot a counter ball for intercepting Ron's bullet. They used water because it was harmless - once Harry had mastered the skill of catching nine out of ten balls, they would complete the task with the real stuff - sulphuric acid from Ron, a strong lye from Harry, for example sodium bicarbonate.

They worked near the lake, mostly with spectators. Of course, the Muggles in the camp thought it was a practice for their Squad service, without feeling objections - no, they were applauding Harry's every hit.

---

After some problems at the beginning, Harry realized that this task was no different from hitting Bludgers with a club, and hitting other Quidditch players with a Bludger. Only the time to react was shorter, which meant his built-in ballistic computer had to work faster. Speeding up these instinctive calculations was the real work, anything else just fun. Currently, Harry's hit ratio ranked somewhere around five out of ten.

One day, walking to their training spot, Harry heard a young man shout, "Hey, Sammy, come along - Clean Harry's doing another show."

Clean Harry?

He approached the young man. "Say - I thought I'm the water cop. Then what does that mean, Clean Harry?"

To his astonishment, the young man blushed deeply and seemed more than a bit scared. "Er - sorry, Harry, er - I didn't mean to offend you, it just slipped - "

Harry had learned Mugglese. "Be cool, man, everything's roger, nobody's getting hurt, okay? Just tell me, that's all."

"Er - yes, Harry, sure thing. You know, that's your name here - I mean, you're still the water cops, you and that girl, what's-her-name - Rahewa, yes, but you're Harry, and because it so fits, you're Clean Harry. Got it?"

"I'm not sure. Because of the water?"

"No - yes ... Say, don't you know Dirty Harry?"

"No. Who's that?"

"Ahh, man, Harry, you kidding? Dirty Harry, the cop with the forty-four magnum?" And suddenly, the whole group of spectators hurried to explain that this other Harry was a movie character, a police officer in Los Angeles who didn't bother with rules, and with a habit of killing half a dozen bad guys per movie.

Harry had mixed feelings. "I'm not sure whether I should feel flattered."

"But of course, Harry - that's a hero, really, believe me. Those are really bad guys he's killing. And every shot is a hit - like yours. And he's really cool - how he walks, and never moving a muscle - "

"That's crap."

"Huh?" The audience was staring at him.

"That's unrealistic, totally unrealistic. Killing someone, even a killer, you know what that does to - " Harry stopped himself.

"Hey, it's just a movie - nobody wants to see realistic movies, stay cool, okay? ... Say, do you have a problem with that name, Clean Harry?"

"Er - no, it's okay. I'm just using water, and I don't kill people."

Harry's audience nodded with some relief, their faces clearly indicating that they would have liked to ask him something more, except they couldn't muster the courage, in particular because Harry's expression made clear how unwelcome these questions would be.

---

Even so, the news spread around. Some days later, he was in the camp with Rahewa, extending a patrol to a visit since they had to guide back a caught intruder anyway, when Rahewa said, "Harry, look - your groupies."

She smiled at her words, with unmistakable pride. Looking around, Harry saw three girls approaching them. He recognized his missed opportunity - Sally. He greeted her, smiling. "Hello Sally - how are your burns?"

The girl grinned back. "Under control - thanks for asking." Then Sally seemed to search for words, quite surprisingly with her. "Say, Harry - the boys haven't got balls enough to ask you, so I thought ... Is it true?"

"True? What?" As if he didn't know already.

"They say you're a real cop, and you have killed - how's it called, in the line of duty. Is it true?"

"I'm a student, not a cop."

The girls were watching his face.

"Harry's not a cop, he's a warrior. And it's true."

Harry wheeled around, staring at Rahewa.

She looked defiant. "Every wizard knows it. And you said yourself that we should be honest, and keep to the truth."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, sure ... I wasn't going to lie, I just tried to avoid an answer."

The girls looked at Rahewa, expectantly. "You know about, don't you? Tell us."

Realizing what she had done, Rahewa seemed suddenly speechless, and glanced at Harry instead.

He took her shoulders. "It's okay, probably you're right." Then, toward the other girls, he said, "Yes. There were two - one was a killer, and the other was about to kill a girl - I had no other choice."

Sally looked awestruck. "So you're really like Dirty Harry ..."

"No, I'm not!" Hearing himself almost shouting, Harry calmed down. "It's horrible - you're sick for days, and it's always good for a bad dream in the night. Sorry, but it's nothing to - I'm not proud of it."

Sally, with her strong sense for straight moves, also seemed to have some feeling for the differences between movies and real life. "Yes," she said, "I can imagine - no, I can't, but ... Harry, you aren't a normal student, are you? I mean, it's not just by accident that you're around when - er ..."

Rahewa had found her speech. "Harry's the wizard who's going to destroy Voldemort."

The name told them nothing.

Harry glanced at Rahewa, then sighed again. "Okay, tell them - the short version, please."

Almost bursting of pride, Rahewa started, "Voldemort, that's a dark wizard - the worst, he uses black magic, and kills people. When Harry was a baby, Voldemort killed his parents, and then tried to kill him. But the spell bounced back and crushed Voldemort himself - that's were Harry's got his scar ... It took Voldemort twelve years to recover enough for another try."

Rather than the ahs and ohs she might have expected by now, Rahewa earned mostly blank looks. Sobering up a bit, and maybe also realizing that a hero was made of public opinion rather than personal action, she said, "Well - er, Harry said the short version, so - since then, Voldemort tried several times to kill him, but Harry was always the winner - the last time, he had to let him live because Voldemort had a hostage, and this was the only way to rescue him alive. Er - yes, that's it."

And only now, Rahewa started blushing deeply.

Sally saw it and smiled at the girl. "He's your childhood hero, except that now he's real, right?"

Rahewa turned seriously red.

The Muggle girl had no teasing in her voice. "Good for you. I wish my own hero would come alive."

* * *

In the meantime, Ron took pains to spread the name Clean Harry in the school, finding acclaim from most students, and from some teachers - witches, in particular. Samantha, for example, had settled to that. "Hey, Clean Harry, when are you going to visit your dragon the next time?"

Ron's answer came first. "When she'll invite him to California."

Next second, Ron was knocked flat - hit by a large water ball, and of course dripping wet. Harry glanced at his friend. "Pity your counter balls aren't as fast as your mouth - you should train that, Ronnie-chéri with the wet pants."

Ron looked furious, however kept silent, and for good reason - Harry was standing there almost in combat stance, his wand ready, and his cheeks very tense.

Samantha stepped in. "Game's over, you squabblers - and you better pick yourself a groupie or two in the evening, because the next time I'm going to play too - except I'll use some unfair tricks. Got me?"

His face grumpy, Harry turned to her, muttered, "Now," and started to march off.

"Now what?"

"You asked me a question, if you darkly remember. That's the answer. Carrie's better company than the lot here. Bye."

Samantha looked at Ron. "Honey, you better stop joking about that Cho, what do you think?"

Ron nodded. "Or hone my reflexes." Coming up, a painful groan escaped his throat.

"Does it hurt, Ronnie-boy?"

"Guess what, Sammie-girl?" Before something worse could happen, Ron raised his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I forgot - but he's been using his full power with that ball ... Whew, that was a bad one."

Samantha watched the disappearing figure. "So it's true love, huh?"

* * *

In spite of his rage, Harry had the presence of mind to take his broomstick - what he intended today was inviting Carrie to a flight through the air. He took the Firebolt Two, clearly the better choice in case he would touch the dragon in mid-air.

Tyrannosaurus Rex looked pleased to have company, which meant someone listening to his chat. "Harry, old monkey, good to see ya'. Carrie's carrying - should be, that is. Heat's over, and she was quite busy - hope you can say the same about yourself, old plumcake, then it's true at least for one of us - what do you say?"

"Hello, Rex."

"Oh my, doesn't sound like that, does it, Harry-boy? What a shame, at your age - maybe you're doing something thoroughly wrong, what do you think? I tell you, when I was that young ..."

Harry had to grin. "Yeah, sure - the girls were queuing up, right? I guessed as much, knew it when I saw you the first time - the legendary Rex, nobody around who didn't hear about him and his - er, drive."

The human gnome chuckled. "Got it, Harry, old turnip ... Well, at those times ..."

However, hearing about Harry's request, Rex had his doubts. "You'll have to wait for that till later in the afternoon - even then, Carrie might not be in the mood. Maybe you should try it with Samuel - he's younger and likes flying more."

"Samuel?"

"Yes, one of the two males, named after the angel Samuel, you know, the one with the flaming sword, and guess why?"

"Wasn't it Gabriel?"

"Was it? Beats me, Harry, old choirboy, at least you should be careful with Samuel, he's a bit playful, he is ..."

After enduring the endless stream of words for a while, Harry walked to Carrie, where he was welcomed friendly and - thank God - silently. However, as predicted, Harry found no echo when dancing through the air on his Firebolt.

"Well then - let's see how it works with your lover, if you don't mind."

Samuel was smaller than Carrie, which seemed pretty meaningless, from the perspective of a broomstick flyer, and Samuel's skin was of course green - dark green on the back, light green at the underside. By far not as brilliant as Nagini's green, although with such a large body, the effect was quite impressive.

And Samuel was ready to fly - after some playful breathing, raising quite a few drops of sweat in Harry's face, not all of them from the sheer heat of the thundering flames. However, this teasing welcome made clear that the dragons knew exactly what they were doing with their firebreathing - since it was done for joy and fun, Harry came not even close to a real burning.

---

Up in the air, he realized quickly that Samuel wanted him in sight. Flying circles around the dragon was okay, as long as Harry did so in the dragon's viewing angle. Flying behind the dragon made Samuel uneasy, and approaching his underbelly wasn't a good idea at all.

Flying side by side with the large dragon head, Harry remembered Samantha's words. Riding a dragon ... He inched closer, until he could touch Samuel's head. "Mind if I'm riding you?"

No answer.

Careful not to break the body contact, more careful to send messages of fun and confidence, Harry inched still closer, and a little behind, until a large neck offered room, above the point where the sharp, horny comb rose. Then, ever so gently, he moved himself onto the neck, lowered the broomstick power, finally resting his full weight on the dragon's neck.

An incredible feeling. "Hey, Sammy, super - brilliant!"

The response came as a vibrato, followed by a roaring jet of flames, some feet ahead. Obviously a sign of joy from the dragon - still, at that speed, the airstream sent a wave of heat that Harry felt a hot rush over his face, could smell the stink of burned hair for a second.

"Be cool, man, okay?"

And dragons loved a steep dive like any other flyer. At the last second, Harry jumped up - he felt no intention of finding out what the landing shock of a dragon body could do with a human rider.

He touched down and walked to the dragon. "That was great, Sammy, thank you. Flying, huh? There's nothing like that - well, okay, with one exception, that is."

Rex was beyond himself. "Harry, old vulture, you've done it! Ruddy brilliant, really, I say! Riding a dragon, that's ..." The incredible happened: Rex was speechless.

Harry took the opportunity to thank him and to disappear quickly - there was still another visit he had in mind today.

* * *

It was Fred who opened the door, wearing a white apron and a white cap. "Harry - come in. How you're doing? Short of sweets?"

"Hello, Fred. No, I didn't come for the end product."

"It can't be us, can it? Hello, Harry." George had appeared.

Harry laughed. "No - we've finally found a replacement for you two, someone who's as good at wisecracking as you've been."

"Really?" George looked doubtful. "I'd thought it impossible. Who is it?"

"Her name's Samantha - the new teacher for Care. A woman from Texas, an ex-deputiy sheriff." Remembering the scene before leaving, Harry added, "And Ron's filling the gaps, except I can't always laugh."

Fred looked at George. "To make one thing clear - that Samantha's my replacement, okay?"

George asked, "A drink, Harry? You'll get only one - we're short in time, sorry."

"So much to do, or did I really find you on the way to a date with girls?"

Fred grimaced. "Just work, unfortunately - although, for you as our creditor, this should be good news."

"So your business is flourishing?"

"Flourishing - that's almost an understatement." George looked satisfied. "The Muggles, Harry. They can't get enough - the simplest things, with the Star-Spangled Sugar Pearls alone, we could sell like crazy. We just can't satisfy the orders - literally."

"Orders? Do they send letters?"

"We're expanding, Harry. Mail order, retailer, wholesale - the full scale. There are orders from all over the world. The Muggles have something, it's called Internet - don't ask me for details, since here we work with contractors, but we're looking desperately for people, employees, I mean. House elves, wizards, students, housewifes - we'd do with anyone."

Remembering discussions with his possible future father-in-law, Harry said, "Expanding, huh? Remember the old rule - expanding by more than hundred percent in a year is a short cut to bankruptcy."

"Hey, Harry?" Fred stared. "You're a businessman lately? I mean, okay, you're rich, but - "

"But I know Mr Chang, who teaches me trade every now and then. And what I hear tells me you need capital. Am I right?"

Fred and George looked at each other, turned to Harry simultaneously, and nodded.

"Ten? Twenty?"

"Erm ..."

"Fifty?"

George explained. "We have two choices how to expand - small-scale and big-scale. The first requires about eight thousand, the other about thirty-five. We couldn't make up our mind yet - besides, this has been just planning so far. It wasn't as if we couldn't ask you, or the bank, but - "

"I'm ready for both, that's okay. My only comment is a mix of Zen wisdom and quoting Mr Chang - don't make the second step before the first."

"Yeah, we had the same feeling." Fred looked up. "So it's the small scale - eight grand."

"Make it ten, so you have a bit leeway."

"Good idea. But this time it must be a regular loan, Harry - okay, maybe not bank standard, which would be twelve percent interest, but - "

"Ah - wait a minute." Harry grinned. "You know something what I need to know, that's why I came here. Listen - you teach me how to do it, for those ten grand. How about that?"

"What do we know that's worth ten thousand galleons?"

"I've got a project about portkey programming. Part of it is storing spells in items. And that's exactly what you're doing, right? Storing spells in sweets, basically the same technique ... So, what about this deal?"

George laughed. "Harry, that's ridiculous. If you want to learn that, come for a few days and work for us. It'll take you a day or so before the first spell sticks. It'll take you another day for the proper scaling - from then on, you're in production ... You're welcome any time as an apprentice, but this has nothing to do with a credit of ten thou."

"I thought it was a good idea."

Fred smiled. "Thanks for the offer. We appreciate it, but ... call it pride, or whatever. We can afford it, you don't even ask for a guarantee, and we won't mind a few percent below bank standard, but only so much."

"Well, then - what about twelve percent below bank standard?"

"Six."

"Three percent - that's three more than what money in a vault's giving."

"Yeah, but not a realistic credit condition."

"Four - that's my last offer."

George laughed. "That's a crazy discussion. Okay, Harry, four - thank you."

"You're welcome. And my learning, how can we do it?"

"Come in the morning - any day, weekends included. As I said - expect two days until you're fluent."

---

Harry left, not without accepting a large box of sweets, to be polite, also by habit, although his own taste was more with simple, straightforward sweets - chocoballs, for example, less with this trick stuff. Thinking about whom to pass it further, he realized that Samantha had no experience yet with them, at least not with those of the twins.

She wasn't in her hut, had left it open - why not, with Lousy guarding the door? The thought that he wasn't stealing anything, was delivering a box instead, made Harry grin - maybe at some point, Samantha might wish it had been the other way around. This time finding some paper, he left a short note with the box.

He had missed supper. Feeling more empty space in his stomach than comfortable, Harry tried to decide which way to go - house elves in the kitchen or Muggles outside, always ready to trade a grilled sausage or three for the company of Clean Harry. Just then, Ron entered the hall, apparently returning from his office, considering the tired look in his face.

Harry hesitated just a second. "Ron - greetings from Fred and George. Their business is booming."

Ron came closer. "So we're on talking terms, huh? That's good, because there's something I have to tell you. Our project partnership's over - I'm signing off."

"Now? Why?"

"Let's say I have too much work otherwise."

"Hmm ..." Registering the truth in these words as well as their careful choice, Harry adapted his reply to this style. "And what can we think between the lines?"

"Whatever ... Maybe I've been hit by one water ball too much."

"Ah, that's where the wind blows." Harry nodded. "Do you think your remarks should only be returned with other remarks?"

"Maybe not, but there was no need to do it with your goddamned super power - that's not what you'd expect from a friend, really."

"So it hurt more than expected?" Seeing his friend's expression tightening, Harry added quickly, "Then maybe it also hurt more than planned - which is somehow funny, because that seems to happen here and there, lately."

No answer, maybe a glance with a bit more concern than before.

Calmer, Harry said, "I know that you have lots of work to do. I'll keep the partnership open, in case you change your mind. And if I have a problem, then certainly not because of unbalanced shares. Besides, maybe Sam's advice wasn't that wrong."

"About Muggle groupies? I thought ..."

"What?"

"Nothing - forget it." Ron was in a hurry to change the subject. "How was your trip with the dragons? Your hair looks a bit burned."

"Carrie's carrying, which makes her lazy. But I had a flight with a male Common Welsh Green - Samuel. And then I was riding him."

"And then you got burned?"

"No - not on purpose, I mean. He was breathing fire from joy, only the airstream brought a bit too much."

Walking away, Harry felt Ron's stare in his back, and sensed a feeling of frustration more than excitement, as if Harry had claimed to be the true successor of Charlie the dragon guard.

Well - he couldn't help. If Ron was frustrated, he might visit Janine. After all, she was just a linkport away.

* * *

The next full moon would be due soon. Hermione came along to remind Harry of that, and of the need for his next trip to Haiti. Harry nodded, avoiding a sigh in her presence. It would be unfair, and he had trouble enough with his friends. "By the way," he said, "this Armodéc told me he could establish a portkey from Port-au-Prince to his estate - and that we could come together."

Hermione smiled. "Did he? Tell you what - once you can program portkeys, you'll make one from Hogwarts to his house, and then we'll visit him together."

This suggestion seemed just the kind you might expect from Hermione - simple, practical, to the point. Only that Harry couldn't help wondering what exactly was the point, from her perspective.

He inspected the flasks. "What's the taste in them?"

"Strawberry."

"And the after-taste?"

Hermione looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't manage. Harry, can you arrange it so that you can watch while this Armodéc's drinking?"

"Arrggh ... Okay, I'll try."

As if to set her own mind at peace, Hermione said, "Shouldn't be that bad - you'll get a dinner, and you said he's nice, didn't you?"

"He's interesting - nice isn't the term I'd use."

"But not as unpleasant as this Caprien Marût, right?"

"No, he's not unpleasant - " Harry stopped, saved his argument at realizing that for Hermione, the issue seemed already settled. Then another thought crossed his mind. "Say, how's Lupin doing in the test?"

Hermione looked indignant. "Harry - that's confidential information."

He stared at her, perplexed.

She blushed a bit. "It's true. Yes, you hear the case stories of the Haitians, it's unavoidable, but this doesn't justify me telling you Lupin's results. Why don't you ask him? Or Almyra?"

The hint was faint but obvious. Two years ago, Almyra had run a case study of Harry, and nobody had told Hermione, with the result that she encountered the worst blame of her lifetime, spinning around and shouting, "Voodoo."

Of course, her argument qualified as waterproof. And Hermione was savouring this moment, while Harry could do nothing ... Wrong - he could use Zen, or if not Zen, then the method of solving Zen riddles, by laughing them away.

He grinned at her, grinned and grinned, sending a clear message - yes, she had balanced out a bit, he acknowledged that, remembering the initial score well, oh so well ...

Hermione bit her lips, avoided his eyes, suddenly quite eager to resume her work.

* * *

Harry travelled after the last classes of the week, Friday afternoon. This choice left all options open, on a scale which went round and round in his thoughts while sitting in Gros-Morne and waiting for Benoît. What he had in mind was a dinner, period. Only - what he had in his bag, among some flasks, was a toothbrush and several other utensils.

He reached the house at the peak of the Ile de la Tortue long before six. At least, he arrived past lunchtime, even past siesta time. Monsieur Armodéc smiled. "Enchant‚, Monsieur Pottère ... You're a bit early, which is just fine because it gives us the opportunity to prepare for the - dinner."

For a split second, Harry was wondering which preparations might be required in this household for another - dinner - guest. However, Hermione's order was lasting heavier on his mind. "Monsieur Armodéc, I'm afraid I have to be terribly impolite, although I'll try to wrap it a bit."

His host had obviously fun. "You have my full attention, Monsieur Pottère."

"Erm - I'd like to be present, er, when you'll drink the potion ... I'm sorry, but ..."

The black face split into a laughter, with sparkling eyes and rosy gums. "So Mademoiselle Hermione doesn't trust my honesty, maybe not at all ... I'm really looking forward to make her acquaintance, yes, I am."

"You know, there were some significant differences in the descriptions - "

Monsieur Armodéc waved dismissively. "No problem, Monsieur Pottère. I'll drink it tomorrow at breakfast - it's the least important meal of the day, so it won't spoil anything. You're welcome to join me, to be my guest until then."

Without any clicking, the trapdoor had closed. Harry was asking himself, had he stepped in voluntarily? Had Hermione pushed him, and if so, by accident or on purpose? He just didn't know.

"So this was the impoliteness, Monsieur Pottère - quite tolerable, as it turns out, given the circumstances Then what's the wrapping?"

"Er, yes ... Please call me Harry - it feels more comfortable, after all, we'll have a lot of conversation, so - "

"Thank you for the offer - I'd be glad to follow, only I'm a bit reluctant to return the favour."

"Oh - sorry, it wasn't meant the other way around, Monsieur Armodéc - this would be totally out of proportion. Er, if we were talking English, I could address you with sir - funny how the French language leaves a gap here ..."

"You're right, Harry, it's indeed a gap."

Surprised, Harry stared at his host who just had pronounced this name which, so far, had made any other French speaker fail.

Monsieur Armodéc noticed. "It's the environment here, Harry - English, French, and Spanish. But what I was going to say, it's indeed interesting - addressing me as Monsieur would lack the bluntness and impertinence of Mister in English, except that this title is already reserved, to be used by servants and waitresses. Of course, there's almost an equivalent in French - Sire, except that it's much too humble for our situation, it's definitely not a translation of sir."

Harry had an idea. "But I could use it without this connotation - you know, saying Sire and thinking sir."

"A very elegant solution, Harry, the sign of a truly independent mind - keeping the etiquette while simultaneously stripping it of any formality. Your French is admirable, by the way, in particular for a native English."

---

Harry's grin indicated that he had registered the thick-layered flattery, and that they might as well drop it. Then he explained how he had encountered a similar problem with the Weasleys, had solved it by using sir for the one and Ma Weasley for the other, reduced to Ma if some barrier had to be broken.

He also told his host how two fairies, Céline and Muriel, had solved a language problem within a week. Then, referring back to the fine differences between etiquette and formality, he spoke about Zen and the differences between true and right.

This topic kept them engaged in a longer discussion, and Harry enjoyed it. If this had to be rated as a honey trap, then of first class in every detail, with the honey still nowhere in sight.

Eventually, the conversation turned to Muggles.

"So there are lots of people around Hogwarts," said Monsieur Armodéc, "and they're friendly, and the school people are friendly to them, and everything's very nice. What a wonderful picture ... It won't stay that way."

"Why not?"

"Because we're different, Harry. People don't like seeing differences in other people - actually, that's true for Muggles and wizards alike. If the difference becomes too big, a war will start."

"But the difference doesn't change - it's the same all the time."

"The objective difference, Harry - while the subjective one changes from day to day. Simply speaking, the Muggles haven't realized yet what we are. Sooner or later, something will happen at some place. And then ... I'm glad to have my place here, and I'm glad to be different already for decades - " the man smiled, "which doesn't mean I won't drink the potion."

"What if they get used to the differences - I mean before something happens?"

Monsieur Armodéc shook his head. "I'm talking from experience. I never hurt anyone seriously as a loup-garou - Haiti is a good place for them, people have experience, know how to handle such cases. And still ... After years of coexistence, suddenly the atmosphere changes - you've done nothing, but the others make clear you're no longer tolerated."

Harry could see disquieting parallels between this man's opinion and that of a Texan ex-deputy. "What do you think, sir, how did it happen?"

"Living here, separated from Muggles as much as from other wizards, certainly disqualifies me as an expert for that question. On the other hand, it makes me a perfectly objective referee. I thought about the possible reasons, eventually coming to my own conclusion - and what you've told me about the young people at your school, Harry, fits well to my analysis. Do you want to hear the result, or do you want to reconsider the steps of my analysis?"

"I'd like to follow up your steps, sir."

"That's what I thought. Very well, then ... Thinking about the possible causes, I found three which are basically different. At closer investigation, two of them split again, making five - or seven, depending on how to count. It could have been an event of nature, like the heating-up of the atmosphere. It could have been the work of Muggles, splitting into the alternatives single Muggle or group of Muggles, and simultaneous development at different locations - as it happened so often in the history of science. Finally, it could have been the work of wizards, again splitting into single, group, and simultaneous development ... These were the possible causes I checked. Would you agree to this collection, Harry?"

"Hmm - comes a bit fast, the question. What about a miracle?"

Monsieur Armodéc almost grimaced. "Which implies the existence of God - I could go along that far, Harry, but it also implies that God has an impulse to fool around with humankind every now and then - to play with us, if you don't like the other formulation. I'm not ready to take that into account, I'm afraid. Are you?"

"Whether or not - at least I'd list it as a cause to be evaluated like the others."

"Why not?" Monsieur Armodéc shrugged. "So let's split the first possibility, event, into the alternatives natural and super-natural. It doesn't change my result. I discarded a super-natural event for the said reasons, and I dropped the idea of a natural event because I couldn't imagine any. We know how glacial epochs start and end, we know what makes the ozone disappear - what should be a natural cause that Muggles suddenly recognize us?"

"Beats me."

"They would have recognized us long before, if not for many efforts from the wizarding world to prevent that. This is my main argument, and also the one which made me drop Muggle work as the triggering factor. So I was left with the work of wizards as the origin."

"Why would some wizards do that?"

"Yes, why indeed? This question was helpful to exclude the remaining alternatives. If we assume that independent persons or groups, all around the globe, have started to reveal our world to the Muggles, then we must assume an impulse like the one that was driving scientists and engineers. The first aeroplanes were developed because people wanted to fly - almost simultaneously at all locations with a comparable level of technology. Now, what should have driven those wizards? Actually, that's your question, Harry."

What a nice trick of semantics, or maybe rhetorics. "I asked because I didn't know the answer."

"Nor do I. My answer is - there's no such impulse, and that's why I dropped this alternative too."

---

Harry had objections about this step - fully aware that Monsieur Armodéc had used the same technique as recommended in Zen. If you don't know more, use what's at hand. Only his host had done so for an analysis, while Harry saw it as a method for determining some action. Well, maybe there was no difference at all, maybe analysis could be considered an action too.

"This left a wizard," continued the host, "or a single group of wizards, as the originators. Since a single wizard couldn't possibly do the work alone - if you trace back the first reports, Harry, you can see that it started around the world - my conclusion is that this was the work of a group. If a group is following the same target, there's always a single mind in the background."

"And who should that be?"

"To answer that, first we have to decide whether this wizard is well-minded or evil-minded. When assuming good reasons, I have two problems, Harry - I don't know any such person, never heard about any, and I can't see any benefit in the results. While, when assuming evil reasons, the answer isn't that difficult, is it?"

Voldemort? Harry wasn't ready to accept this answer.

His face showed it. "Sir, it doesn't make sense to me yet. So far, there hasn't been anything evil. Quite the opposite, it looks like a great chance for both sides."

"So far, Harry - yes. But what made you think the plan's already completed?"

And right then, just when Harry remembered the conversation with Firenze and tried to remember the Centaur's exact words, the dinner was ready.

Entering the dining room, still working on this memory, Harry found himself caught off balance - registering a table set for four people. A second later, the other two appeared - Désirée and another young woman.

Monsieur Armodéc introduced this woman as Beatrice, not bothering with family names. Beatrice was placed directly opposite Harry's seat, giving him the opportunity to study her, and to realize that she was doing the same with him.

When he addressed her as "Mademoiselle Beatrice," she said, "Just Beatrice, 'arry." So the mastering of his name wasn't common in Haiti, or she came from somewhere else.

Beatrice was not as dark as Désirée, or Monsieur Armodéc. Black-haired, with an extremely short cut, covering head and neck like a tight fur. She wore a white dress, closing high at her throat while leaving arms and shoulders bare. The fabric looked soft, following the contours of her body so tightly that Harry had little doubt - the next layer underneath would be skin. Her slender figure, her small breasts, together with the pronounciation of his name, raised his suspicion that Beatrice was of Arabic origin, but then, nobody could call him an expert for the Carribeans.

Monsieur Armodéc hadn't missed Harry's widening eyes at the end of their previous conversation, hadn't forgotten either, and now asked for the reason. So Harry spoke about his encounter with Firenze, about former encounters, one in which he had been riding the Centaur, and another in which it had been Cho. The conversation shifted to other magical creatures, and Harry confessed that he was currently dealing with dragons.

Désirée asked, "Isn't it extremely dangerous, Harry? One breathing in the wrong direction, and you'd burn to death alive."

"Oh no, they know what they're doing. At my last visit, I was flying with one of them - Samuel's his name. He let me even ride - it was great. For him, it was as much fun as for myself."

"I like riding, too," said Beatrice, "though neither Centaurs nor dragons."

Which left still more than one alternative, without even counting Hippogriffs.

---

Then Monsieur Armodéc shifted the discussion to lifestyles, confessing that he had dedicated his life to matters of taste and style. "Action, combat, violence - for me this always felt too close to my state as a loup-garou. So I decided to use my time - and my money - for the fine art of luxury. I studied the history of luxury, and I couldn't help noticing that the ultimate style still has to be reached."

Harry, definitely no expert in luxury, asked, "What would that be, the ultimate style?"

"I'm still in search of the proper answer," replied the host. "Avoiding decadence - that's a basic prerequisite. For example, look how the Roman emperors celebrated their orgies - terrible examples of decadence and bad taste." Monsieur Armodéc almost shuddered.

Harry grinned. "Could you explain, sir? Our Professor Binns was a bit short in that topic - maybe because it was in the second year."

"They tried to do everything at the same time - eating, drinking, having sex, and as if that wasn't enough, watching murderous games. Imagine - you're eating, all around you people copulating, the most beautiful slaves walking around naked, and outside one gladiator killing another - that's barbarian. Still worse - they were saturating all senses, rather than satisfying."

Not knowing any better, Harry asked, "Then how should it be done?"

"Very simple - one after the other, with time in-between to savour the experience, and to store the memory. How could you concentrate on this dinner if Désirée and Beatrice would be sitting there naked?"

Truth to be told, even a dressed Beatrice was taking a lot of Harry's attention away from the delicious food. But then, maybe it had to do with the time lag.

"There's a time for everything," said the luxury expert, "for every single sense. Eating - watching a naked woman ..."

"Or man," said Désirée.

"... watching a couple, engaging yourself in a sex act, all these tasks require your undiminished attention. And afterwards, a tiny amount of desire must be left - gluttony's a crime against taste."

"Then I'm a criminal," said Beatrice.

Monsieur Armodéc smiled. "Are you?"

"Certainly. When watching a couple, all I have in mind is to join them. And when having sex, I won't stop before the last amount of desire has faded."

"And you, Harry?" Eyes were resting at him.

Harry felt like a team member nominated one league too high. "I agree that there's a time for everything," he said. "I don't think a Roman orgy would be my style. Otherwise - er, you may ask me the question again some years from now."

Monsieur Armodéc laughed. "That's a facet in which you're ahead of me, Harry, and quite naturally so."

"Which?" Harry expected an answer referring to age.

"This very British style - understatement."

The time lag was giving Harry more trouble. According to his inner clock, he should be sound asleep. So he felt more relieved than startled when Monsieur Armodéc, quite suddenly at the end of the dinner, announced that it was time for a man his age, and disappeared together with Désirée.

Which left him alone with Beatrice.

He looked at her. "I'm afraid it's time for me too - my body says it's three o'clock in the morning. Unfortunately, Monsieur Armodéc missed to show me my room - "

"I can show you - mine's across." She stood up. "Follow me, 'arry."

For a moment, he could watch a slim body moving in front of him, then they reached a room which reminded him of the large guest suite in Hogwarts. Not by accident, as Beatrice made clear, pointing to some doors.

"That's your room, 'arry, and that's mine." She walked to a table with a jug and two goblets. "Let's have a nightcap." She filled the goblets.

Harry examined the dark-violet fluid, which seemed to sparkle. "I'm not sure whether that's a good idea - "

"You've been extremely reluctant with drinking, 'arry, but this one's different. It's a nightbane potion."

"What's that?"

"It bans ghosts and demons. It bans yesterday and tomorrow, time and space. It leaves only the night, and ourselves." Beatrice's eyes met his own. "Drink, 'arry."

Seeing her emptying the goblet, he followed.

For a moment, he still could hold the thought that this might give Hermione a sample how to put taste and after-taste in a potion. The first sip tasted cool, smooth, smoky, inviting him to gulp it down, then a fire started to glow, down his throath, down his stomach, into his groin, burning away all tiresome feelings, blowing all his concerns to ashes, leaving empty space outside this room, outside this moment.

The same fire glowed in Beatrice's eyes, in her hands which pushed him backwards until he fell onto a chaise longue, which stripped off his clothes feverishly.

Still in her dress, she mounted him. "You're my dragon, and I'm your rider. Breathe your fire into me, 'arry."