Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

Gliding on his Steel Wing over the school's restricted zone, Harry listened to the sounds from the campfires, wondering if Monsieur Armodéc was right - and if so, which steps in an evil plan were still missing. He couldn't think of any, maybe because he was tired, so tired.

The Muggles ... Today, Harry's answer might have been different, when asked about booster potions. Still no expert, he was nonetheless wiser than before. His first answer might be yes, there were some, except nothing comes for free - as with the dope from Lleyrin the Fist, eventually a body, after having been challenged beyond reason, would claim its recovery.

Harry's second answer would be a warning - never ever trying a booster solo, without the partner using the same stuff. The thought alone, that he might have rejected the goblet after Beatrice had emptied her own, was sending a shudder along his spine. But he hadn't, finding himself prepared for an unforgettable experience.

Only the picture in Beatrice's remark had been wrong - the dragon wasn't Harry himself, no, this had been her role, dragon and rider at the same time. Well, not all the time, they had been riding each other, burning in a fire that refused to be extinguished, bodies collapsing to ashes which, shortly afterwards, started to glow again, to drown in a new wave of ecstasy.

However, the potion hadn't made him a phoenix. In the morning, Harry cured the bruises on both of their bodies, and Beatrice returned the favour by offering another drink, "for stabilizing," as she said, seeing his suspicious glance. And now he was paying - with an aching body, with a numb mind, with trembling fingers.

Rahewa had noticed, of course. Seeing her amused glances, Harry could imagine what she was thinking. Be it - as long as Rahewa couldn't imagine the details. He didn't think he would repeat the experience ... Once had to be enough, Monsieur Armodéc was right, a tiny amount of desire should be left. At least this stuff seemed not addictive, although Harry would know for sure only in a week or so.

They were almost done with their patrol. Rahewa's glances hung at the campfires - she loved sitting at a fire, listening to songs, and to guitar players. The sympathy was mutual; Rahewa represented something like the good-luck charm of the camp, at least as popular as Harry himself, probably more. And she was safe there - Muggles of both sexes would make any molester pay dearly.

About to finish, having crossed their starting point, Harry sensed someone in the underbrush. Another intruder, trying to break the rules of the game by crossing at a point where the patrol had already checked. Well, fair play among Muggles wasn't Harry's problem. Silently, he motioned Rahewa to follow, dived down, and approached the spot. Now he could see a shape in his getsumai no michi.

"Come out," he called, "and get your showers."

The figure raised an arm. A tiny flash, a sharp report, and something wheezed past Harry's head, leaving a ringing in his ears.

"Stupefy!"

The figure collapsed on the ground.

Harry found exactly what he had expected, a young Muggle, the face unknown to him, the right hand holding a large piece of metal. And only now, Harry realized what had happened - the piece was a handgun, which meant the flash had been a shot, and the rush near his head had been the bullet, missing close.

---

This Muggle had shot at him! Harry looked at Rahewa. "Do you know how to handle guns?"

"Only from movies." Rahewa had a murderous expression in her face; she seemed ready to pay back with a knife, not caring about the man's stunned state.

Harry pointed his wand. "Enervate."

With a moan, the man came awake and looked around. Seeing the two figures towering over him, he presented a mix of fear and expectancy.

Harry asked, "Why did you shoot at us?"

"Why? Because you're Dirty Harry - it was a showdown, man. You know, you with your wand, and I with my gun. Okay, I missed - that's it. Make my day, Harry."

Blank Harry looked at Rahewa. "Do you know what he means?"

"He thinks you're going to kill him now." Rahewa's face didn't move. "Do him the favour, Harry."

"Certainly not." He looked at the man. "Get up."

"You'll shoot me when I'm standing, huh? But I'm not getting up, you'll have to do it this way ... C'mon, man, that's not bothering Dirty Harry, is it?"

Glancing toward his partner, Harry said, "He's crazy."

Rahewa agreed - for her still more reason to kill him now.

Not for Harry. He stupefied the man again, then used a first-aid charm for accident victims, trained long ago with Professor McGonagall, to carry the motionless bundle to Samantha's hut, and to call, "Sam, come out! Sheriff work's waiting for you."

Samantha agreed with Harry's opinion, while not with Rahewa's. She handcuffed the figure. "Leave him here. I'll talk with Dumbledore, but I guess we'll send him off tomorrow. Who wants the hassle of a trial?"

Harry handed her the gun. "Here - you know better what to do."

Samantha examined the piece. "That's a collector's item - an old German world war gun. It's called Luger; buying such a piece cuts you short by a thou any time."

"Does that tell us anything?"

"Yeah, I think so. Seems to be a fanatic with weapons, and gunfights, and all that crap." Samantha sighed. "To be honest, Rahewa's more right than wrong ... Harry - if someone shoots at you the next time, just kill him, okay?"

Rahewa looked satisfied.

Not so Harry. "Are you out of your mind? Do you know what you just said?"

"Yes, I do." Samantha stared at him. "He'll come back, Harry, and no matter how you look at it - a bad dream every now and then means you're still alive, right?"

Yes, she was quite serious, something to think about while Harry marched into the camp, followed by Rahewa. He wanted to talk with some other Muggles about gunfighters.

Reaching their preferred group, with Pete, Sally, and the others, they were welcomed with hello - and with two sodas. Rahewa was quickest. "We just found a guy with a gun. He shot at us."

Her report raised surprise and consternation, followed by fury. "Shooting at you? Where is he? If the others hear that he's been shooting at you, he's dead meat."

The group's full concern was directed toward Rahewa. Nobody could imagine Harry as the dead, or wounded, victim of a gun attack. And somehow, Rahewa couldn't find the time to clear the misunderstanding.

The news seemed to race through the camp. More figures were gathering and wanted to have a look at the water cops in their unhurt state.

Pete said, "I'm sorry, Harry. That's bad - not at all what we want to have here. But some people are just crazy - you can't look into their head, until's too late. I really hope it doesn't leave bad feelings - I mean against the others. You know, something like Muggles versus wizards ..."

"No, I'm not going to generalize - I'm here to talk with you about such people. He said it was a showdown and called me Dirty Harry ... Pete, what do you think - how many guns are in the camp?"

The young man shrugged. "Very few, I think ... Knives, yes - but this is England, Harry. Sure, in the States, you'd find lots of them, and many more maniacs like that shithead, but here ... I figure he couldn't get it straight; for him, wizards and movie figures seem to be the same."

Sally had listened. "Pity you didn't kill him, Harry."

"You too? Everybody's telling me that - what a crap!"

"But he'll come back, and try again."

"Maybe so ..." Thinking about the suggestion, Harry said, "On the other hand, imagine I'd come and say, I just killed an intruder because he was shooting at me - that would give bad feelings."

"You could be right. But by tomorrow, everybody knows that some dipshit has tried to kill a water cop - which means, the next time, you can kill him and they'll give you applause."

After some more discussion about armed lunatics, Harry left the round to find his bed before falling asleep upright. He also left behind a beaming Rahewa, who relished the attention, and the opportunity to determine which songs to play. After all, according to the spreading rumour, she had barely survived an attack from half a dozen sub-machine guns, and one of the assailants had been ready to throw handgrenades, hadn't he?

* * *

Professor McGonagall looked a bit suspicious. She knew Harry would not lie to her; however, she also knew about his very individual view of things.

"You meet the Weasley twins, it takes all day long, and this has to be counted as classes? Harry, that sounds like the impossible trinity."

"But it's true, Prof - they can offer the best training place for putting charms into items. By the way, you know them only from Hogwarts. They're businessmen now - you should visit Swashbuckle Sweets once, then you'd know."

After some more explanations, Harry's visit with the twins was settled. He informed his other teachers personally - for reasons of politeness as much as for his aversion from asking Ron; terms were a bit tense lately. Then, next norming after breakfast, he went for his training.

Walking toward the train platform, his standard jump spot, Harry swore to himself - the portkey for Hermione, from Hogwarts to the Ile de la Tortue, would only be his second. His first portkey would be his very personal one, from his dormitory to this platform.

For this, he would have to talk with Dumbledore - otherwise, the portkey would never work. The protective zone around Hogwarts relied on a kind of static wave charm, creating interferences with all Apparition and portkey charms. The two linkports in the school - toward Beauxbatons and toward Durmstrang - had been completed by the Headmaster himself, by synchronizing them with the magic wave. Dumbledore and McGonagall were the only ones who knew the specific pattern.

Would they tell him? This sounded very much like the Muggle technology of safes - a combination of numbers, one out of a billion, supposedly the only way to open the safe. But there were people who could open safes with a stethoscope and a pair of sharp ears, while others were using brute force, explosives or a cutting torch. Harry would talk with Ray ...

Swashbuckle Sweets had already opened and looked almost full, that early in the morning. George was selling, and Harry became aware that George's customers - adults without exception - were enjoying his constant stream of remarks as much as the goods they had come for.

"... half-pound of Funny-Talks, here you are, sir, so you can finally tell your boss what you really think of him, oh yes, without being present - although, what's the fun if you can't see his face - which means, you'll need someone else to tell you, I mean after he's stopped wetting his pants from laughing ... Hello Harry - Fred's in the rear room ... Galleons or pounds, sir?"

---

Harry had to wait a few minutes, then Fred found the time to give him first instructions. "Harry, your main problem is that you have to test your own results. If you had to eat every sweet you've charmed, you'd be dead sick within twenty minutes - not taking into account any side effects from your charms, that is. That's why we'll do a basic training first. Look here."

Harry looked at a box with pastilles - white, could have been peppermints, could also have been Go stones.

"That's raw material - light peppermint taste, nothing else. For starters, you'll colour them red. Now watch." Fred placed a handful of pills on the table, pointed his wand and said, "Rubirate," together with a smooth movement along the row.

The pills shimmered in fire engine red.

"That's it. If the pills remain red for five minutes, you know that it sticks. Don't bother with this multi-hit touch - you won't need it for portkeys, I mean, you're not going into mass production, are you? Okay, have fun - if you've managed, you'll find me next door."

A box of white pills and a wand. Harry felt like an idiot - grateful to be alone. But there was no doubt, Fred had been serious, and this elementary training was indeed a clever idea. Harry took a handful of pills and placed each of them separately on the table.

"Rubbirate."

The pill remained white, except it was no longer hard, felt more like a piece of rubber.

"Rupirate."

The pill turned dark, coppery - and flat, hard, with an imprint. It had turned into a Muggle coin of India. After a moment, it fell back to its original state.

"Rubbi-rate."

Like shredded in a mill, the piece crumpled to dust - without regaining its original shape. Harry counted this as progress.

"Ruptirate."

The pill broke in two halves. Well, not exactly as planned.

"Rubirattle."

The piece was banging against the table, in a rapid staccato, astonishingly loud, not stopping. After a moment, Fred appeared, stopped it with a movement of his wand and a grin. "You're very inventive, Harry, by all means."

Well, at least, now he knew how to undo his attempts.

"Rubirats."

A rodent with large red eyes was staring at Harry. He quickly made it disappear, however not before it could issue a last squeak.

Fred was there, grinning more than ever. "Harry, want a tip?"

"Yes, of course."

"Speak it softly - keep your lips like a girl doing a blowjob - er, not necessarily a girl, that is - know what I mean?"

Harry himself was reddening, although this couldn't be counted as progress. He waited until his adopted brother had left. In Fred's presence, he just couldn't ...

"Rubirate."

Ahh - the pill changed colour! Brown, unfortunately, which wasn't good, returning to white after a few seconds, which wasn't better. Maybe it had to do with his giggle at the last syllable.

Half an hour later, Harry had gathered ten pills of equal colour. They weren't quite as shining as Fred's, but then, painting pills wasn't the goal, was it? At least, they were stable.

Fred nodded. "Okay, Harry - that's been step one, storing a spell in an object. The next step is to make the object work as a storage - so that the charm's kept only until someone uses that object, thereby becoming the target of the charm."

"But a portkey should work for all people touching it."

"One step after the other, okay? And besides, couldn't you think of a one-time portkey?"

Yes, Harry could indeed - Sirius' mailbox had been such a portkey; otherwise, he would have tracked him much earlier.

---

In his second training session, Harry had to charm the pills so that the red colour was given to the first fingers touching them. Then the colour had to stay inside until someone was biting into the pill, or licking it.

This someone was of course he himself. A fire-engine red tongue looked weird, really - scarier still than vampire teeth. Still, Harry accepted Fred's statement - such pills wouldn't sell.

Harry had intended to treat the twins in a restaurant, but this wasn't realistic - not with Swashbuckle Sweets open all day long. So Harry went for those delicious meat rolls, of course buying more than they could eat. Fred and George assured him that the remaining rolls would still be fine in the evening - cooled out of course. If you didn't like it that way, a little heating charm would solve the problem.

The twins' shop provided an excellent training camp, as Harry became aware when Fred advanced to the next level - multi-layer charms. The Funny-Talks were multi-layered, with a layer for muting the person and another one to store the sentences in a bubble. This step turned out a real challenge.

Unfortunately, it meant he had to eat the sweets.

An hour later, Harry felt sick. By that time, he had managed to mute himself, and to store something in the bubbles. It had even some similarity to his test sentence - The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, only the words were mutilated, and Harry's delayed voice somewhere between squeaking and growling.

He stared hatefully at the tiny piece he just had charmed. The thought of its taste on his tongue was almost good to throw up. He found Fred next door.

"Sorry - I'm fed up for today, in the literal sense of the word. Anything else I could do?"

"Nothing I could show you, and you're not yet good enough for production work, Harry."

"Well, then ... I'll be back tomorrow morning. Thanks so far - bye."

Mid-afternoon. Returning to Hogwarts would mean joining classes - bah. This would be followed by supper - arrghh. Then Harry found an idea how to spend the time.

---

First he went to Mr Spinbottle's office. The lawyer was out, would be back early evening.

Then Harry reached his preferred shop for the kind of present he had in mind - a single flower. Moments later, he stood in front of a house with an interesting mix of styles.

Mrs Chang beamed. "A surprise at the right time, and such a nice one! That's lovely, thank you, Harry."

Gratefully, he accepted tea - strong, bitter, easing up his sickness. The woman laughed, hearing about his training. "You should use magic sweets, which disappear after a few minutes."

"Yes, right - like Binns' beer." Harry explained how the ghost performed his Muggle studies in the evenings, described the situation with the camp around Hogwarts, and what was so attractive for the young people.

Mrs Chang enjoyed this afternoon chat very much, abandoning all Chinese - or western - formality, as her question made clear. "Do those groupies reach their goal?"

"Erm - don't ask me, er, somehow, I wasn't in the mood to discuss it with the other students."

"I can't believe they're all too young for you. Since you're not the type for living in chastity, Harry, there must be another reason to keep you out of reach for them."

Harry felt as if today's training was showing late effects - his face reddening, his voice unable to speak.

"This conversation is just between the two of us, Harry. And I hope you're not suffering from a culture shock - monogamy isn't exactly a Chinese virtue, but for all I hear, it's not a British either." Mrs Chang had the fine tact to look somewhere else when she added, "I know that you haven't seen Cho for quite some time, so - but maybe I'm really too curious - "

"Did you hear from her?"

"She called several times, but she's very reluctant with details. So most of my knowledge is guesswork - as if that's something new for a mother. Over the years, I could develop some skill in that."

Harry had found his speech. For compensation, he didn't know what to say.

Mrs Chang patted his hand. "My daughter's a devil in disguise, except that sometimes the disguise wears thin - I'm sure you've found out already by yourself. That's why I'm so glad she picked you - I wouldn't know anyone else who could get along without losing the fight within weeks ..."

Harry had to grin at that.

"... so my only concern is about - er, fundamental issues. Do you still love her, Harry?"

This answer could be given easily. "Oh yes, definitely. I miss her badly."

"That's all that really matters. In the meantime ..." Cho's mother didn't finish her sentence.

A thought made Harry grin again. "One of my projects is about portkeys, and summoning. Then I had this picture - me summoning Cho, to ask her what was going on. Can you imagine how she would look, summoned against her will?"

Mrs Chang joined his laughter. "That would be a bad idea, Harry."

"Yes, I realized that much. I'd never do it - it was just this funny picture."

The woman poured more tea. "Since you're so reluctant about your social life, Harry - how's business? Does your money work for you?"

"Probably - as far as it's allowed to work."

"Some other individual project, aside from Groucho Spectors?"

"Erm - yes. But it's a non-profit case." Harry explained how he had come to support Mrs Lightfoot, that is was only a question of time, as it seemed, and that - unless a small miracle happened - Cho's joke would become the most serious issue of the world.

Mrs Chang looked sad. "What a terrible fate. If ... Do you have an idea whom to ask, when - I mean if the time comes?"

"Yes, I have some candidates - of course, none of them has been asked yet. Anyway, the list isn't long."

The woman looked at him. "Would you mind adding an entry, Harry?"

* * *

The question was lingering in his mind when he met Mr Spinbottle in the lawyer's office, to hear that Mrs Lightfoot's state was unchanged. Unchanged, that meant - the treatment did not catch, at least not more than stabilizing her state for a while.

How long was a while?

"Shorter than what will follow, Mr Potter. I'm sorry that I can't offer better news. You should think about your plan seriously - when the day comes, a quick reaction from our side will save a lot of hassle, particularly so for the girl. To avoid an assignment to a foster home, we should be ready with our application coming out from the funeral - sorry, that's lawyer talk, but it's true."

"Okay, Mr Spinbottle. I'll talk with my candidates."

Why did this thought feel like stealing a child from a mother? Harry had to push himself forward mentally, made a first step the next day after his time in Swashbuckle Sweets, a time in which he had reached the point that Fred and George would be ready selling Funny Talks made by Harry.

His first candidates - where would he find them? In his house or in her apartment?

As if a failure would take more than a few seconds. Strange how your thinking kept to a habit of walking, or flying at the best, even after you had mastered Apparition. There were wizards arguing that this counted as proof for Apparition being an extremely unnatural art. But according to this logic, Muggle electricity had to be rated similarly unnatural. Proof: humans had no sense for recognizing current or voltage.

Harry tried Sirius' house first, striking gold. His godfather was at home, and Deborah with him. They asked Harry how he was doing, and he said fine. Then they asked how Cho was doing, and he said he didn't know, raising some eyebrows. Then they asked him how Hogwarts was doing, and he said there were a lot of Muggles around, waiting to - er, figure out how was sex with a wizard, or a witch, depending on the gender and the preferences.

Sirius nodded. "Yeah, the old pattern. Bring in something new, and that's what's bothering people more than anything else. For Muggles, it's wizards and witches. For the westerners, it's a slant eye, for the white man, it's a black woman ... Damn sex drive."

Harry was laughing.

Deborah too. "It's understandable, isn't it? Anyway, that's no problem for Harry - he has checked off the list more or less." She looked at him. "Isn't that so - slant eyes, in particular?"

"Well - erm, this groupie business isn't my taste, so the category Muggle is still open." Too late, Harry realized another category he hadn't excluded, which was correct, except ... And Deborah had noticed, as he could see from the curious sparkle in her eyes.

---

Time to change the topic. "While on the subject, so to speak ... Are you two going to marry?"

A hit. They were staring at him, forgotten Deborah's question, at least for the moment. Sirius asked, "Since when's this your business, young man?"

"Since recently - all I can say so far is, I'm asking for a good reason."

Deborah had blushed sweetly. "You find us a bit unprepared for that question, Harry."

"Really? Are you talking for both of you? Would you say the same if I was here with Nagini?"

Deborah's cheeks were burning. She exchanged a glance with Sirius, who suddenly understood, his own face gaining colour, who swallowed and said, "Since my goddamn godchild has a goddamn sense too much for my taste - the thought has crossed my mind too" - he glanced at Deborah, then back at Harry - "but I wasn't in a hurry with that. And for sure I had planned to discuss it without you, Harry. Why do you ask?"

"Because ... erm, could you imagine adopting a daughter?"

Sirius scored first in finding his speech. "Maybe so - just to see how very unusual a certain goldchild is. Who is it?"

"Rahewa."

"Oh no - two of a kind, that's too much."

What Harry sensed in his godfather was surprise, shock, and something like fright, though no horror, while seeing Deborah's face was enough to know - there was no fright at all; apparently, she could warm up for the idea with astonishing speed. Her question confirmed it.

"What about her natural parents?"

Harry described the situation. "I spoke with Spinbottle yesterday - he said I should get ready in time. Well - you're the first I wanted to ask."

Sirius' voice sounded hopeful. "So we're not your only candidates?"

"No - only those I wanted to check first."

Deborah asked, "Which are the others?"

Harry kept his face steady. "I think I shouldn't answer this question. You should find your decision without thinking about other people."

"Yes, you're probably right." Deborah smiled. "Although - I'd be ready to guess some candidates, with some children of their own."

Harry smiled back. "Sure - it's not that difficult. For them, I had to ask more people. But the list is longer, that's all I'm saying."

"That's interesting ..." Deborah's mind seemed busy scanning possibilities, apparently with unsatisfying success.

Sirius had a more practical question. "How much time do we have, Harry?"

"Good question - no, it's not. Maybe two months, maybe a year. Maybe her mother comes around - but that's very unlikely."

After some more minutes, in which Deborah was imagining scenarios with an adopted daughter, disquieting her possible husband considerably, the conversation turned back to Muggles. Sirius described how the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle authorities were trying to come together - at an agonizing speed, really, keeping like that, maybe in a century or so ...

---

Then Deborah was talking about contacts between wizarding press and Muggle press, and suddenly she started to grin. "Harry, you like being interviewed, don't you?"

"Like a pimple at the - where it hurts when sitting. Why do you ask?"

"We're in contact with a Muggle TV station. They have a talk show - you know what a talk show is?"

Harry didn't - not exactly, so Deborah explained it to him. Then she said, "They asked us for wizard guests. That means, they're looking for people who are somehow known, famous, popular in the wizarding world. Funny I didn't think of you first place, but you're the perfect candidate. What do you say?"

"No thanks."

"Pity ... You'd be a good candidate, Harry - you're used to press, and TV isn't that much different. You'd be an ambassador of the wizards, better than many others - you know the Muggle world - "

"No."

"They're paying well, Harry. For someone as famous as you ..."

"Forget it - I'm already rich." Only now, Harry became aware that the story of his money was news to Sirius and Deborah. Too late - he had to tell them.

In spite of the criminal facts involved, even the chief of wizard police looked pleased. "That's super, Harry - I'm glad you've earned something from all that, and this Crownshield can praise himself lucky to be alive."

"Somehow, I owe it to your involvement. Want half of it?"

"Are you mental? ... Besides, I still have the whole compensation for my time in Azkaban - wizards pay their cops better than the Muggles, believe me. No thanks."

Harry turned to Deborah. "And you?"

She grinned. "Thanks, but you know, I'm going to marry a rich man. No, Harry, but if you could say yes to my idea ..."

"Deborah, I'd pay money if you'd stop talking about that."

"Think it over - by the way, would it help to say that for me, coming with such a talk show guest, this would be a big hit?"

"No - it would make it still more difficult."

"What a pity ..." Then Deborah's face turned to a malicious grin. "Harry - if you say yes, I promise you to change Sirius' mind, about Rahewa, that is."

Startled, Sirius glared at her. "That's a damned trick, so unfair ... I didn't even officially propose for you, and - "

"Save it, Sirius." Harry smiled, not too happy. "We've lost already, can't you see?"

* * *

It was very funny. The people from Seven-Eleven, the Muggle TV station, wanted to call him - failing that, to send him a fax. Harry heard about it when talking the next time with Deborah, after she had sent him a letter in which she asked for his visit in her Daily Prophet office.

"What do they want, Deborah?"

"The usual stuff - casting, pre-arrangement, test recording, test make-up, things like that."

"For Heaven's sake - what have you put me into?"

Deborah grinned. "Why don't you ask your Cho - isn't she in the movie business now?"

"She isn't mine!" Harry was almost shouting.

"No? Then whom else?" At this moment, Deborah registered Harry's face. "Sorry - it was thought as a joke, but somehow, I seem to have stepped into the greasepot. Wasn't my intention, Harry - "

"It's okay - no, it's not, but I'm not mad at you; you were just the one I could shout at. Well, if I can't tell you - we've shared enough ..."

A quick grin at both faces.

"... but if you keep some facts to yourself when telling Sirius, I'd be grateful." Then Harry told Deborah about the current state between himself and Cho - as an outline, that was.

Deborah's sympathy seemed split, though not in the middle. "She's fighting for her place in the sun, Harry - I can understand that quite well. And besides - you seem to have found an - er, interim solution."

"Did I?"

Woman that she was, Deborah couldn't resist. "Who is it, Harry? Almyra?"

Harry laughed. "Heavens, no! What made you think so?"

"Erm ..." Suddenly, Deborah looked embarrassed. "Somehow, I ... Almyra's the only coloured women I know in your environment, and ..." Her voice trailed off.

"Ah, now I can follow up your thinking." Harry grinned. "Maybe you take things too literally. Anyway, let's come back to this talk show."

Deborah didn't really believe that she had been wrong - except for her guess, obviously so, only the moment for asking was gone. "Okay - what can I tell them?"

"You're my agent in this thing - make an appointment, tell them that I'll come for the evening, early enough for some talk before, and that's it."

"They won't like it - normally, they prefer to fix every detail in advance - "

"Didn't you say it's a live talk show? If I understood you right, that means we're talking, and they're broadcasting it."

"They hate surprises. Usually, there's almost no unplanned sentence spoken."

Feeling lightly at the burden put upon his agent, Harry said, "Well, this time they're in for a surprise."

Deborah sighed. "Okay, Harry - you're famous enough for such extravagancies. And then, there's the question of your payment."

"Negotiate with them. It's all yours."

"That's ridiculous. Okay, you're rich, but - "

"There's another reason," interrupted Harry. "I never told you." And then he explained how Mr Spinbottle had made his offer, representing a dead client, at least a dead man's money.

---

Deborah listened in astonishment. "Hmm ... I think you took the right decision - in a way I'm glad you were asked first, because, to be honest, I'm not sure whether I could have resisted."

"At that time? I think you're guessing from today's state of mind. At any rate, do we agree now that the money from them is yours?"

Suddenly, Deborah looked very pleased. "Yes, okay - that's terribly kind of you, Harry ... I only don't know how to explain that to Sirius."

"Tell him the truth - he knows what happened with the fifty thousand."

"You told him? Without telling me?"

Harry smiled. "No - he's never heard of that offer. But the fifty grand went into the Enforcement Squad's widow fund, and Sirius will make the connection by himself."

The pleasure was back in Deborah's voice, together with a refreshed curiosity. "Look there, our Harry - always full of surprises ... I'd like to treat you for a lunch, to celebrate my salary - er, I mean yours."

Harry examined her face. "Celebrate, huh? I know exactly what's on your mind."

Deborah smiled mischievously. "Yes, you're right, but show me a woman who could resist the temptation to squeeze you a bit. And you know that this conversation is just between the two of us, don't you?"

It sounded so familiar - women telling him this was a private conversation, before or after milking him for details of his social life. But then, these weren't lies. So Harry accepted - the invitation as well as the conversation Deborah had in mind.

When he had finished his story about the night on the Ile de la Tortue, Deborah's face showed some signs of - well, excitement. "Harry, I'd like to know that recipe."

"Would you? I'm not sure - if I had a bottle of that stuff, I don't think I'd want to use it - with Cho, I mean. This experience was kind of once in a lifetime."

"Could be. But then - you made that experience, while I didn't. Aside from that - maybe Cho would think differently. Would you be ready to predict her own choice?"

Harry thought it over. "I'm afraid so, yes."

* * *

When he saw Deborah again, she had the appointment settled. "Wednesday in a week, Harry. The show starts at ten in the evening, they expect you no later than seven."

"Three hours in advance?"

"Yes, unfortunately ... This guy looks very professional; he doesn't like accidents, or unplanned statements."

"Which guy?"

"The talkmaster, Harry." Deborah rolled her eyes for such ignorance. "His name's Winston Winslow, and the show's called 'Late Listeners.' Starting after ten, that means sex talk is allowed."

"Allowed, huh? Is it mandatory too?"

Deborah grinned. "That depends - you'll see, and you'll be part of it, won't you?"

"Winston Winslow - that must be a joke. Nobody has such a name."

"Maybe it's a pseudonym. But don't call him Lewis Losefast - he wouldn't take it well."

Harry chuckled. "Hey, that's good, Deborah."

"Not my invention - that's how they call him behind his back."

* * *

With the distinct feeling that he could await this evening, would not miss it afterwards, Harry jumped back to Hogwarts, only to grab his Steel Wing and to zoom off. He wanted to perform some experiments for his Poison ball project, needed a deserted place for that, and scanning on a broomstick high in the air was a better method than jumping around.

His project ... Until recently, it had been a twin project. Harry still hoped Ron would come back. He thought he saw a chance - during meals, Ron seemed more polite than hostile, more interested than indifferent. From what Harry knew, the real problem had to be Ron's administration work, eating up all time affordable, and more. The little grudge would have been cleaned away quickly, but Ron hated undeserved favours, for example a project in which he could not contribute his full share.

The former Giants' camp looked deserted enough. No Muggle in sight, none that could be sensed - if these people were still around in winter, this would change, as the huts were still good to protect against bad weather. While for now, they could serve as the perfect training area.

Harry grinned toward himself. Would there be some huts left, once he was done with explosive balls? But first, he wanted to know whether he could compete with a technology that seemed pretty simple - throwing small projectiles at high speed.

Muggles had guns, to shoot bullets weighing a few ounces at astonishing speed. From Samantha, Harry knew that a bullet's initial speed was about thousand feet per second. Compared to that, the leather balls shot for Lousy were miserably slow.

How fast were the bullets thrown with slings? Lleyrin's men had adapted this weapon of Bulgarian shepherds, with remarkable success. Certainly less than thousand feet per second, however fast enough to kill other Giants.

Of course, in a way, this was playing around. According to Samantha, Muggles used guns sometimes to kill, sometimes to wound, always at risk to hit the wrong spot, provided they could hit anything. In comparison, a stupefying spell or a killing curse were more to the task. And still ...

For starters, Harry made some tests with miniature water balls, very much like those he had used against the gnomes in The Burrow, only at higher speed. They splashed against the wall of Lleyrin's barn, his test target, to evaporate quickly in the heat, or to be sucked in by the dry wood.

He concentrated harder on the speed, invested his full power. The popping sound grew more impressive, and the wood showed dents where he had hit. Water was too soft.

Muggle bullets were made of lead - maximum weight in a small volume. The Giants had used steel. Conjuring up metal was hard work, stone simpler - granite, for example.

Yep! Weight had to be the key factor - up to a distance of hundred feet, Harry could shoot holes into the barn. In addition, he got a better understanding of the fascination that emanated from guns.

Hitting the target was something else. Harry marked a target circle at the barn wall with the glowing tip of his wand. Almost finished, he had to throw a medium-sized water ball - the wood was so dry, it had caught fire.

Then he shot ten bullets. Too low, all of them. Yes of course - gravity affected even high-speed bullets, the rules of ballistics applied here as for any other projectile made of matter. Aiming spells was simpler, they didn't raise the need for a sight that had to be adjusted differently for varying distances. Suddenly Harry understood why the ballistics of water balls had been so much more complicated than those of Bludgers - a Bludger had magic power to compensate the impact from gravity, while a water ball was just water.

His next ten bullets were in and around the circle. Even so, Harry's accuracy was pretty bad, compared to a marking spell from the same distance. Either he had to mount a sight at his wand, or he'd never achieve precision. A wand with a sight? ... The thought felt too ridiculous, time for serious work - explosive balls.

Ron had provided the basics of explosive materials before leaving the project. Conceptually, an explosive was a material which turned to gas, so fast and with such a force that it could blow walls of stone. Muggles used special chemicals, they were called gelignite, TNT, C4, nitroglycerine, to name a few. And what, if you please, was TNT, or C4? Ron had said they should try nitroglycerine - a fluid, its chemical formula pretty simple, and the impact on the target would be enough to ignite the stuff.

---

And what if it was supposed to explode in the air?

Then Harry had to conjure a multi-layer projectile, with a nitroglycerine ball outside and a fuse charm inside.

That was something to be trained, now, with his hard-earned knowledge about multi-layer charms in objects. Except that Harry would keep to water - a heating-up charm would turn the water to steam, which was a gas all right, and if the heating occurred fast enough, he had a mild form of explosive, just good for training.

Heating up a water ball within fractions of a second turned out more difficult than expected. Eventually, Harry found the trick - the water ball had to be not greater than Lousy's ball, then he could blow it up to a nice cloud of steam.

Scanning through the barn, he selected a few test objects - a box, a large can, a bale of straw, placed them outside.

His steamballs pushed the box further away, without tearing it apart. Well, he would try it again another day with real nitroglycerine.

The bale of straw was the perfect target. The water ball hit, apparently getting into the bale before blowing up, with the result that a nice fountain of stray shot up into the air, slowly sailing down to the ground.

The can marked Harry's last target. It was lying at its side, with the opening toward him. The first water ball was a miss. The second one disappeared in the opening. Next moment, steam came hissing out, and the can was ringing like a church bell.

Great. Harry shot five more balls inside, grinning madly at each bang. His can bell had chimed six o'clock, almost correctly.

Done for the day. He stored his wand.

Coming around the corner, Harry saw the man standing near the Steel Wing, a gun in the right hand. The gun was pointing toward himself, freezing him in mid-step.

The lunatic.

Damn, why hadn't his haragei warned him? Had he been so absorbed in his practising that he didn't notice, or had this crazy Muggle developed some jaho? Even now, Harry couldn't sense clear emotions - there was a significant difference between the wavering echo in his mind and this gun, aiming at him, held by an arm which didn't waver at all.

"Hello, Harry ... Did you spend a few training rounds? The noise you've made was certainly loud enough."

"Did you get your gun back, or is this another one?"

"I've got enough of them, don't you worry - okay, not a forty-four magnum, but I think it's overrated anyway."

"What do you want from me?"

"I told you already - a shoot-out, high noon in Hogwarts, or whatever this place here's called."

High noon? This guy was crazy, it was close to six. But telling him so might not improve things. Harry asked, "Do you have a name?"

"They called me hombre."

Mental, definitely. "And how do they call you now?"

For some reason, the question wiped off the smile from the man's face. "Very funny. Draw your wand!"

"What for?"

There was spit flying from the man's mouth. "You stupid asshole, you motherfucker, get your wand out!"

Slowly, Harry brought his hands together, holding them close to his chest, as if wringing them, or praying. Now he was ready. He exhaled deeply. "No."

The gun moved down, pointing toward the ground, hanging in the man's grip. "That's your chance - draw your wand, you piece of shit!"

Slowly as before, Harry sat down, taking the lotus position, his hands always folded, pointing at this lunatic, except that - for any Muggle, and for most wizards - he looked as if praying for his life.

"No."

"What's this? You playing Mahatma Gandhi? Get up!"

Harry didn't move, all his attention at the man's movements, and at the unclear messages from his haragei. According to what he could sense, this was a game, with one player upset because the other didn't follow the rules.

The distorted face looked as if crying any second. The gun came up, Harry had his mouth already open to send the curse, to see, just in time, the muzzle aim toward something else. Three, four rapid shots, rage in the man's face, and frustration. "You coward - stand your man!"

"Thanks, but I'm sitting already."

And now the man really started crying. His shoulders slacked, his arm fell down. When the gun was almost pointing at the man's feet, his finger pulled the trigger, and again, and again - five times, until the empty gun locked. Then the figure turned around, walked away - slowly, head down, a forgotton gun still in his right hand.

Harry watched the figure disappear. Everybody had asked him to kill this lunatic, should he ever return. But Harry couldn't. Not as long as his own life wasn't really at stake. And it hadn't been for a second - his haragei seemed more reliable than his eye report, registering a deceptive appearance.

Unless haragei failed with someone insane, and he had made a bad mistake, not using the opportunity.