Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

Fitzgerald Fraenkel, publicly better known as Winston Winslow, the moderator of the popular show Late Listeners, creased his forehead when he heard the doorbell ring. This damned girl arrived too early - it didn't really matter, only he just couldn't stand such irregularities. But she looked very promising, was just the right age - as young as possible without raising a legal conflict ... Well, he would have the opportunity to teach her the rules.

Before walking to the door, he made an effort to smooth out the creases - they weren't helpful in the camera, and they weren't helpful with that girl either.

It was a girl all right, but not what Fitzgerald Fraenkel had expected, no resemblance with his new, promising acquaintance. Much too young, although ... And she looked as if jumped out of a western movie - very American Indian, with a leather skirt, a leather shirt. A bit skinny, but -

"Mr Fraenkel?"

"Yes?" He examined the face, these coal-black eyes which could have been very disquieting, if you were prone to a bad conscience.

A hand came up. "I was asked to deliver this letter, and to wait for an answer."

"A letter?" Fitzgerald Fraenkel opened the envelope and found a single sheet inside - no, a picture. It showed a - damned, that girl, the same picture he'd received days ago, together with that letter which had caused some worries, if only for a short while.

He looked up, ready to shout, or maybe pull the girl inside first - totally unprepared for this piece of wood which was pointing at him.

She said something.

A tight jacket of velvet-coated iron was covering his body, his mind, blinding his sight, deafening his ears, blocking ...

* * *

Hardness - under his back, under his shoulders, under his aching head. Something tight at his wrists, also at his ankles, somehow locking him ... Then Fitzgerald Fraenkel came fully awake, to forget such minor unpleasantries instantly because something more urgent sent an icy thrill down his spine.

He was lying on the wooden planks of his own party room, in the basement of his weekend house, the same place where any moment another girl might arrive - would arrive, and hopefully catch the situation well enough to call for help. Because he was lying spread-eagled, his arms and legs tied to the floor.

And before him - no, between his legs - sat this girl, looking more American Indian than ever with her crossed legs and her unblinking stare.

His voice sounded shrill even in his own ears. "What's this? What do you want from me? Where are you? ... Untie me, quickly!"

She just stared.

"What's that supposed to mean? Is this a game or what? What do you want here?"

"I'm here to send greetings from a friend of mine. You know her; you saw her picture some minutes ago."

The icy thrill turned to a terrifying tingle in Fraenkel's entire body. With some effort, he gained his self-control - years of TV weren't lost on him.

"Greetings? That's a weird kind of greetings, but okay, tell them, then untie me and get lost."

"No, I'm afraid it takes longer." Suddenly, the girl's eyes flared, and a horrible giggle escaped her throat.

Was she insane? Dear God ... Pushing the thought aside, Fraenkel complained, "That's unbelievable! How long do I have to lie here, until you've managed this damned greeting?"

"Let's see ..." Suddenly, a mean-looking knife appeared in the girl's hand. "First - first, I'll cut off your left ball - or maybe the right?" Another giggle, and a questioning tone in her voice, as though this was a light conversation ...

Then Fitzgerald Fraenkel's mind caught the meaning in these words, and his strength turned to water.

"That'll be tomorrow morning - there's no sense in cutting off a ball if you don't have time to think about it." The girl giggled again. "Then you know how it feels, so you can appreciate the time until the other one is due - maybe in the evening?"

"You ... you're mad - "

Suddenly, the knife was at his throat, and the girl's head above his own, a frightening expression in her face.

"Don't say that ... don't say that ever again, or I'll show you what's madness!"

She was really insane - insane, and he was in her power, unable to ...

"Okay, okay - I didn't mean it, you know, I was a bit upset. I mean, this situation here, it's a bit scary, really ..."

She was sitting again, playing with that knife. "That's the purpose - but don't you worry, I'm not going to kill you. The next day, you'll be free - after I've cut your pecker."

Into Fraenkel's agonized moan, the face appeared over him. "Unless you say that again ... Nobody's going to say that to me - nobody, hear me? Nobody!" The knife was dancing over his face, but the girl's high-pitched voice felt worse.

"No - I'm sorry, my mistake. You're a reasonable girl - I'm sure we'll get along."

"Oh yes, we will." Her smile, the sudden white in her eyes - the words were dying in Fraenkel's throat.

Somewhere upstairs rang a doorbell.

The knife was back. "Who's that?"

"A ... a girl, I was expecting her."

"That's not good - she has to go."

"Yes - I'm sure she will, tell her - "

This horrible smile again. "No - I am sure she will." The girl left the room, not making a noise.

Should he shout? Fitzgerald Fraenkel felt like stupefied, unable to catch a clear thought.

There were voices upstairs, then a door closing ... steps, a squeak - some banging, then a cry, "No, please, no!" A scream, another, then a choked sound, horrible, like steam bubbles in boiling water ... Another banging.

Light steps ... Some shuffling ... water running somewhere, then it stopped.

The girl appeared in his view - knife in one hand, a paper tissue polishing - no, drying it, in the other, dark stains all over her dress. "It's okay - she's not bothering us any longer. I'll be back - now I have work to do." And she was gone.

He couldn't suppress a single sob. Pretty soon, he was going to wet himself ... Why not now? Because there was some pride, and some hope, fading quickly at the bumping sounds from upstairs.

* * *

Fitzgerald Fraenkel came awake. In a former part of his life, he had been better known as Winston Winslow, but this part seemed long ago, and no matter how long it had lasted, regardless of how much it had brought fun and excitement, money and fame, it had been rather unimportant, compared to this time now, which had started yesterday.

Less than a day, and he had even slept for a while - surprisingly, considering the situation - but these few hours had delivered a new experience every minute.

How it was to be helpless and in the power of a lunatic. How it was to fight shrieking panic because this lunatic was an under-age girl, giving him the creeps worse than any grown man. How it was to lie motionless, hour after hour, until muscles started to cramp, sending unbearable pain through his limbs. How it was to be hungry, to long for a glass of water like never before. How it was to wet himself.

How it was to be scared shitless - except, unfortunately, it wasn't true in the literal sense; sooner or later, he would have to smell his own stink. And before or afterwards, or most likely at the same time, he would learn how - how ... The thought made Fitzgerald lose control of his bladder again.

And suddenly she was standing there. These inaudible steps - he would have twisted, if not for his tying, would have trembled uncontrollably, if not for his stiff muscles.

And there was the knife, and the horrifying smile. "All right, I figure it's time for a little knife-work, isn't it?" A giggle, then Fitzgerald felt the blade cut his trousers, not even bruising his skin. Another flash of the blade, and his underpants laid cut open. He could feel how his testicles were trying to hide in his body.

"Eeeek - you're dirty ... Maybe I should clean you first - my friend said you did that with her too, although that's not a seemly work for a girl my age, but ..." She left the room again.

Fitzgerald could hear water running upstairs.

She was back with a towel and a dish in her hands.

The ringing of the doorbell stopped her.

There was a knock at the door, then he could hear the door opening. Had she left it open? Dear God ... A voice.

"Hello? ... Is there somebody? ... Mr Winslow?"

His mouth was too dry, he felt unable to choke a single sound.

"Mr Winslow? ... Savannah? ... Savannah!"

The girl seemed to shrink, was curling down, her face turned toward the door.

"Savannah, where are you? - Come out, I know you're here!"

"Hchch." Fitzgerald Fraenkel tried to find some saliva. "Heeah."

For a terrible instant, the girl was staring at him, then she froze again, curling more. Then there were steps, and a figure appeared in the door frame.

"Sav - oh my God!"

And now Fraenkel recognized him and remembered the voice - this young wizard, what's-his-name, Harry something ... Didn't matter, was even better, a wizard wouldn't -

"Just a second, Mr Winslow - I have to take care of Savannah, before ..." The young man was grabbing her shoulders. "You bad girl, what did you do? ... Now, now, it's okay, don't start crying, just come with me, everything's all right, c'mon ..."

His eyes almost popping out of their sockets, Fraenkel watched the young man guide a sobbing bunch of misery out of the room.

The young man came back a minute later. Next instant, Fitzgerald Fraenkel was released from his tying, although still unable to move.

The young man made efforts to help him. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr Winslow. Savannah - she's a bit, er ... And then she was gone, and all I knew, it had started after we'd been watching this video cassette - but she had mentioned your name, and fantasized a bit, weird stuff, really. Here we are, just sit down, okay ... Yes, and when she was gone, I was really worried because - er, well, she's ... Anyway, I've found her before ... Are you okay?"

No, he wasn't. But yes of course he was, alive and complete.

"Mr Winslow, can I leave you alone for a while? I have to take care of Savannah, before ... I'll be back in half an hour, and then we can go to the police, and - "

"No!" A croaky shout.

"Er - what do you ... Wait a second, I'll get you a glass of water."

Aaah - water, wonderfully wet water, giving him back some of his speech.

"Take her ... just take her and leave."

"Sure, Mr Winslow, it won't happen again - I still don't know, maybe she had help from outside. But shouldn't we report this accident? I mean - "

"No - er, Harry, no. Just go, okay? I'm all right. If the press - no, just take her away and make sure she's not ... The sooner the better, and the less is said about - "

"No, she's not going to escape again, and nobody would believe her anyway, so ... Are you sure, Mr Winslow?"

"Harry, do me a favour and go - now. I've got an urgent ... You were just in time, nothing serious happened, and there's no sense in suing a ..." Fraenkel still couldn't muster the courage to say it aloud. "Thank you for your help, and now go."

"If you think so, Mr Winslow - well, then, goodbye, sir."

Fitzgerald Fraenkel was alone. He couldn't really walk, every step was another hell, but nature's pressure kept pushing him forward.

* * *

Forty minutes later, he was ready to face a new part of his life - showered, dressed, a gallon or so of water in his recovering body. In a while, he might be able to eat something.

Entering the living room, he froze - still too weak for more. A whimpering escaped his throat.

A figure in his favourite chair - a young man, sneering smile, a wand pointing - amazing how quickly you could learn to be scared from a pointing wand. But the worst - this hair, these freckles, he looked like -

"Hello, Fitzgerald - here we meet at last. Wasn't easy to find you - my sister won't tell me, but by some lucky accident - well, never mind, I'm here."

Fraenkel started to tremble. "What ..."

"Why I'm here? Now guess why, Fraenkel-boy - what do you think I came for? Can't you imagine?"

Yes he could, but didn't dare.

The young man glanced around. "Say, have you seen a young girl? Looks pretty American Indian - Savannah's her name. She said she would - well, maybe ... Oh, what's that?" The expression in the young man's face changed to disbelief. "She was here, wasn't she? And she tried to - but somehow you managed to turn the knife around, huh? Well, I think I have to be careful when it's time."

And then Fitzgerald saw it, following the young man's glances - stains, splashes, a puddle - dark red, almost black. He slumped down into a chair, his stare fixed at the bloody mess - Lucille, or what was left of her.

The young man's voice made him turn.

"Well - remarkable, really; I hadn't thought someone could ... You were lucky, because - you don't want to know what she had in mind, believe me. While me, I'm going to do a quick and clean job - won't hurt much, for what I've been told, but you never know in advance, right?"

This wand was growing and growing in Fitzgerald's view.

"Well, then, Fraenkel, no sense in wasting time, right? A last prayer?"

"Please ..."

The young man looked angry. "Now take it like a man - I thought you were a control freak. Won't take long, really. ... No prayer? Okay."

Something like a flash, and a cloud.

Fitzgerald still could see, was however unable to move. Was this death? Probably not, because he also could hear.

"... just to be safe, since this killing spell's a bit complicated, and I'm not that good at it. But let's see ..." The wand was pointing again, the young man murmuring something.

Nothing happened.

The young man was looking at his wand, held it up, turned it, then inspected the top closely. At the same instant, a flash burst out, a green cloud, hiding the figure from view ...

A terrible scream, fading.

When the cloud was gone, the chair was empty. Where a moment before a body had been sitting, the upholstery and the armrest were etched like from some acid, and a horrible scent hung in the air.

So Fitzgerald could smell, too, only he couldn't move.

Would someone pass by? Or was he bound to die from this stupid spell, after surviving two attacks?

Half an hour later, he felt a tingling in his arms and legs. Soon afterwards, he could move enough to reach the bathroom and to throw up - only water, not much either, very painful.

He felt like a wreck. He was too weak. He couldn't eat. But he had to look where the rest of Lucille might be hidden.

Almost an hour later, Fitzgerald Fraenkel slumped down in the chair again and stared at the dark stains. He had found no body, no traces ... Maybe that girl had been a better - er, witch, had used a better spell, something which didn't leave traces.

If he could get rid of these stains, and this damaged chair ...

At dusk, Fraenkel gave up. No matter how much red he would wipe off, the stains seemed undiminished, as if burned into the floor and into the wall. He would need new wallpaper, and a new rug or whatever.

After a short meal, he fell down on his bed and was asleep minutes later, only to wake with a scream, his pyjama damp of sweat, the bedcover too. Was it only sweat?

* * *

Next day, Sunday, provided a new version of hell. The after-shock had set in: Fitzgerald was dropping things; he couldn't even hold his cup steady. When closing his eyes, he saw a strange-looking girl in his view, when opening them, he was imagining green clouds. And this smell in the air, not fading although the windows were wide open ...

Monday morning, he was trying to decide whether to return to the city when the doorbell rang. He lost his grip at the teacup - it shattered to pieces on the floor, splashing tea around.

There stood a bobby outside. Fitzgerald steadied himself, then opened the door.

"Mr Fraenkel? Good morning, sir. We're looking for a young woman, Lucille Hearst. According to our information, we might find her here. Is this correct?"

"Er - no, constable - er, yes, we had planned to meet here, but she didn't appear."

"When did you expect her, sir?"

"Er - Friday evening, but she didn't come."

"And you weren't worried?" Two hard eyes staring at him.

"Er - no, constable. Well, you know, I thought she'd changed her mind, so - er, I saw no sense in calling after her like a schoolboy, you understand?"

"She's not inside?"

"No - I told you, she didn't come." Fitzgerald started regaining balance; police was something familiar, something he could handle.

"Mind if I have a look inside, sir?"

"Yes, indeed. She's not here, I didn't see her this weekend - that's all."

The man's eyes were like stones. "It's your right to say that, sir. Another question is what it makes me thinking. I'll be back, sir, with the required document. You're not going to leave, are you?"

"I have to drive back to London, pretty soon, actually."

"Then we need your car's sign, sir. Please don't be afraid if you see a car following yours - it won't be criminals, sir, quite the opposite. And if you tell me where you hide your spare keys, we won't have to replace the doorlock, once you've left ... Good morning, sir."

Fitzgerald Fraenkel closed the door and leaned against the wall inside, out of sight from the street. These stains ... He needed a story, and he needed it quickly. There was no corpse; without that ... The stains were the leftovers from a movie scene, he hadn't found time to let them clean up. No, he didn't know what these movie people used to fake blood ... Awfully thin, that story, but good enough - and he would present someone who confirmed it.

Unless, of course, the police was more successful in finding the corpse. The thought made him tremble again - driving a car in this state, he was likely to find himself in the crash barrier. He had to calm down - control was mandatory now, only he couldn't muster enough control to stop shaking.

* * *

Not too far away from Mr Fraenkel's destination - should he arrive unhurt - Sirius returned from his bedroom, after changing back into civil clothes - wizard clothes. He looked at Harry.

"I can't help thinking that my performance was highly unlawful. This man looked like a wreck - had I been a real cop - er, I mean, had I been there on my own duty, I would have taken him with me."

Harry didn't grin. "Unlawful? You played a Muggle cop, you, a wizard cop. A petty crime, I think."

"Will I ever hear the rest of the story?"

"I don't know, because it's not my decision alone. All I can tell you, it was for a good reason, and a lot of Lucilles would have to thank you - believe me."

Sirius' expression hardened. "That's information enough, Harry; maybe I know already all I need to know. Makes me think I'd like to know what happened with that man during the weekend."

A fire glowed in Harry's eyes. "Something he'll never, ever forget. But we played by his own rules: no injury, nobody hurt - outside, that is."

"He looked haunted ... I wonder if he's going to continue as a talkmaster."

"Who cares? And haunted? Maybe by his own memory."

After jumping back to Hogwarts, Harry walked to Ron's office. He found his friend inside - together with Moaning Myrtle. She wasn't moaning at all, instead looked quite expectantly at him, except somehow the name stuck.

Ron asked, "Did it go all right?"

"Yes. Sirius squeezed him with those few sentences so much - I'll do a spector recording for you and Rahewa. There's just one thing - I think Myrtle should wait a few more days."

The ghost girl looked surprised. "Why? - I'm ready to play my role."

"No doubt about that. No, if you haunt him now, he might be a bit close to suicide, or it might drive him over the edge. That would go too far, a breach of a promise."

Myrtle wasn't too disappointed. "All right, then - it gives me time to study my role a bit longer ... Harry, I might find a taste in that."

Harry grinned. "But not more than two visits to this man, okay?"

* * *

So the fancy clothes from Gerry's Fashion hadn't been bought for nothing, this added one nice aspect in that party. And Harry was here for a purpose - one less than expected when suggesting the idea, but he had a task to perform, still one more than the last time.

Meeting Cho hadn't been the most pleasurable experience. Also, Harry didn't know what to expect from the other two women, but they suprised him pleasantly.

Sylvie grinned. "Hello, Harry - good to see you, and good to have you on board."

"Hello - er, Sylvie. You're not upset about your reduced share?"

Sylvie, once Madam Hooch for Harry, laughed. "Twenty-four and two thirds percent of a running company's a lot more than a third of nothing. It's still good to become obscenely rich, mark my words. And besides, we've been blocking each other with our minorities so often - " Sylvie stopped, registering a glaring flash from a pair of eyes.

Jesamine, formerly known as Professor Grubbly-Plank, hadn't noticed, or didn't care.

"The same's true for me, Harry. A board of three women - I wonder if this has been the best idea. Two women and a man, or two men and a woman, that would be ideal. Now it's three to one - fine with me."

Harry felt pleased enough from this welcome, and prudent enough to keep his mouth shut while invisible smoke was fuming out of some nicely shaped ears. He wore his light-grey suit, perfectly prepared for his role. And he had been busy with some more preparations, thanks to his knowledge of Japanese culture, thanks to a conversation with Cho. It had taken place in his hotel suite.

"Harry - three of our five candidates are Japanese enterprises."

"Yes?"

"Yes. And the one we'd like to close the contract with is one of them, right?"

"Yes."

"People told me it would complicate the negotiations considerably if" - Cho seemed to choke at every word - "if a woman's the spokesperson. I think you know this stupid habit, don't you?"

"Yes."

"So ... Erm, well - Sylvie and Jesamine suggested to let you take over that role. What do you think?"

"Yes."

"Yes what? Yes, you think the same? Or yes, you take over?"

"Yes. Yes."

For a very short moment, Harry expected to see a grin in Cho's face, only it didn't come. "Can you say a bit more?"

"Yes."

"Would you say a bit more?"

"Yes."

Cho's mouth opened to breathe some fire, but closed again. She swallowed. "Then please do it."

"Their representatives are native Japanese, right? Then we need tea cans, tea cups, tea, and a geisha."

"Just one - for all of them??"

Harry controlled his face, his voice, and his words. "She has to do the tea ceremony, that's all - nothing else, I mean, but she has to do it properly."

This was the land of the unlimited possibilities, and California the state which had brought it to perfection. An hour later, everything was settled.

---

Their prime candidate was Narita Industries, not quite the biggest of the three Japanese competitors, however the one with the best reputation for high-quality devices. The other two interested parties represented more the mass market, while spectors were planned as high-priced luxury systems - in the beginning, at least.

They could talk with Narita in first place, or last in row. Either position would imply no loss of face. Harry decided to take them first. It robbed him of a chance to test his own performance, but it would simplify the other talks.

He stood waiting in the room, Cho a step aside, when Sylvie guided the three men inside. Harry bowed and received bows in return.

He stripped off his shoes, then sat down in the lotus position before the low table. The men did the same, recovering from the surprise - no chairs, just cushions, and a moment later, the geisha came in to perform the tea ceremony.

Strong, bitter, burning hot.

Their guests sipped in joyful excitement. For Harry, this was more a memory of an island in the south of Japan than a refreshening drink, while Cho, kneeling on her cushion - the only decent position with a business costume - seemed to suppress a grimace.

They exchanged polite pleasantries.

Mr Nakajima, obviously their speaker, looked at Nagini. "A remarkable example, Potter-san."

"Her name is Nagini. She is my talisman in business conversations, Nakajima-san. Contrary to snakes' reputation, she reminds me to keep words and mind in harmony."

Maybe the man couldn't decipher the message to its full extent, however his reaction made clear that he had recognized it as such.

The cups were empty. The geisha filled them again, then left the room - the signal for the real beginning.

Harry said, "Nakajima-san - at midnight, Groucho Spectors will announce the signing of a contract with a partner, a joint venture to start the market for spector entertainment."

His opponent bowed.

"Until then, both sides are still entitled to change their minds."

Another bow.

"Groucho Spectors won't change their mind, since our perception is clear for quite some time. The same isn't true for the announcement. This might be a situation in which words and mind have not yet reached the perfect harmony."

This message had been clear enough. Mr Nakajima's eyes had been widening for an instant, now he looked expectantly.

"But then, it's not midnight yet."

The ball was in Mr Nakajima's field, and he took it without hesitation. "Narita Industries has a strong interest in new and growing markets. It sees its natural role in a leading position, in particular with markets of advanced technology."

Harry bowed.

"By weighing chances and risks, and by looking for reliable partners, Narita Industries was pleased to see that Groucho Spectors can take a severe blow, and still is standing upright."

Harry showed the faintest hint of a smile. "For weighing his decision, a prudent man takes all the time given to him ..."

Mr Nakajima responded with the tiniest bow.

"... while the warrior looks at his opponent's wakizashi, waiting for the dai-katana."

This time, Mr Nakajima beamed. "Potter-san, you show an admirable knowledge of bushido. This gives me reason to assume you're also aware of the only possible way how Narita Industries and Groucho Spectors could join in a partnership."

Harry wasn't aware. However, reconsidering the words, he had little doubt what this Nakajima meant, and he didn't like it. He said, "History and mythology give us many examples how the most powerful giant was led by a small child through unknown territory - with great success."

Mr Nakajima rewarded the parry with an appreciating smile. His next words made clear that the time of metaphors was over.

"True, Potter-san. But people treat modern business differently from myths, that's why Narita Industries can imagine a joint venture only with a share of fifty-one percent on their side."

Which could have been counted as a great success. Only that Cho would kill him. So Harry said, "New technologies open new horizons. They also may require a new flexibility."

Mr Nakajima's smile grew somewhat sadly. "There are strong traditions in Japan, Potter-san - as you're obviously aware, considering this invitation. It would be too great a loss of face when returning to admit that Narita Industries will earn less than half of the profit."

Was this a signal?

When in doubt, suggest. "That's understood, Nakajima-san. For this reason, we offer a triple split. Forty-nine percent at both sides, with full entitlement - profit and vote. The remaining two percent are split again - profit at Narita Industries, vote at Groucho Spectors."

Mr Nakajima exchanged glances with his two fellows. Harry could watch the wordless conversation easily - one of them was ready to agree, the other was not.

Mr Nakajima looked at him. "The prudent man weighs his decision as long as there's time left, Potter-san. There's still some time until midnight."

Harry smiled. "Indeed. He also weighs one decision at a time - that's why this offer remains valid only for the next hour. Afterwards, we'll weigh our next decision, if it's still necessary."

---

When the men had left, Cho stood up and stretched herself, grimacing. "I should have come in a kimono, only that our other guests would confuse me with someone from the next hostess service."

Harry kept his face expressionless. "What an absurd thought."

Cho's eyes were flashing. "It's just a matter of location. Here, in contrast to the Caribbeans - " She stopped herself, with some effort. "Okay - they didn't steal our equipment, right?"

"No."

"And now we have to wait an hour before we can talk with the others?"

"No."

Cho glared at him, for a moment at a loss of words - at least of those she seemed ready to speak out. "What else? This is a question that can't be answered with Yes or No!"

"They'll be back in half an hour."

In fact, it took forty minutes. One additional condition was that any public statement would keep to the version of fifty-one percent for Narita Industries, which was acceptable. Another was that the joint venture had to be run under the name Narita Spectors.

Harry looked at Cho, saw her nod, and was grateful for this neutral name "Groucho." If the name Chang had been in the company title ...

Anyway, the deal was settled.

The next two conversations, with the other two Japanese candidates, were short, polite, and eventless. They hadn't sent the burglars either.

Then some chairs were moved back into the room, adjustments to the expectations of western businessmen. The next company on the list was Helix Inc., the only survivor of an US-American entertainment systems industry.

They had sent two men. Cho was about to ask the first trap question when one of them said, "Miss Chang, we can shorten things. Mr Armstead's waiting for your visit - we'll drive you. To make sure you'll follow the invitation - Miss Grubbly-Plank's already there. So, if you want to have her back ... It's not too far away."

Both Cho and Harry were staring at the man. They had found the people behind the burglary; Nagini hadn't been required at all.

The man opened his jacket to show a gun in a holster. "Let's go, and quietly. You just have to sign a contract, you'll be back within an hour."

Harry stood up. "Okay, then."

The man's head was shaking. "Only her. You stay here, and keep quiet, if you know what's good for her."

Cho said, "He's a shareholder with a blocking minority. If he doesn't agree, the signature's invalid."

The man hesitated. Apparently, he wasn't fluent enough in high finance math, was more at home with guns and errands. Then he nodded.

Reaching a large limousine, they were stopped, their bodies were scanned for weapons - quickly, professionally, while the other man held his own gun ready. The first man found their wands. "What's this? Are you wizards?"

Harry said quickly, "Yes."

"Doesn't matter - without your woods, you ain't but nothing." However, the two men were on full alert, as Harry could sense during the drive of fifteen minutes.

Mr Armstead's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Miss Chang, you're going to announce a spector deal with a partner at midnight. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"Since you didn't talk with us, the partner must be someone else. That's not acceptable for Helix. We took measures to change your mind. And we have prepared a contract - here it is. All you have to do is sign this contract, and of course announce us as your partner. Takes just a minute - then Edgar will drive you - and Miss Grubbly-Plank - back to your party."

Harry asked, "What are the conditions?"

Mr Armstead looked at him, back to Cho. "Who's this clown?"

"A silent partner. He holds a blocking minority."

"Then he's better not blocking. The bottom line's that we have a sixty-forty split, and guess who's on which side?"

Cho said, "I want to see Jesamine before I'm going to sign."

"Why not?" Mr Armstead turned to the second man. "Bring her in."

The man walked to another door, opened it and called something, then stood waiting. A moment later, Harry saw Jesamine appear - escorted by two other men, one at each side, holding her arms.

---

This was the moment ... Edgar alone, behind him. A triple group at the door, and Mr Armstead, hopefully unarmed.

Harry wheeled around, his hands together like praying. Only it wasn't a prayer, left no time for any prayer; the Killing Curse disappeared in Edgar's head while Harry was already turning toward the group.

The other man was pretty fast. His gun had come up and was almost aiming at Harry when the disarming spell pulled it out of his hands and sent it through the air. Harry caught the gun and dropped it in Cho's lap, then his attention was back at the group.

He lost a precious fraction of a second while registering the scene, lost another before he could trust his eyes.

Jesamine Grubbly-Plank was gone. But there was a skunk, ducking low, tail up in the air, shooting a fluid into the faces of the two escorts, raising shouts of surprise and pain.

Checking on Mr Armstead, Harry saw the man's hand reach for a drawer in his desk. And Cho had the gun, seemed to know how to use it, which meant she would shoot next moment - but they needed Mr Armstead alive.

"No." Harry barely touched Cho's shoulders to make clear what he meant, then he was flying over the desk, legs first, kicking Mr Armstead plus chair away from the drawer.

Harry landed and wheeled around. The gun in Cho's hand was aiming at three men, two of them busy to rub their eyes, their faces burning red. And a horrible smell hung in the room.

Harry stupefied all three of them. Then he walked over to the dead Edgar, to take his and Cho's wand. By the time he had reached Cho and delivered her wand, Jesamine was back in her own shape.

The fight was over. Not so the negotiations.

Harry went to Mr Armstead, who still was trying to get up. He helped him up. When the man was standing, Harry's flat hand hit the reddened face with his full force.

Mr Armstead staggered, but kept upright with some effort.

"You only survive," explained Harry, "because we need someone to tell your cronies, and because there's something to do. At midnight, we'll announce our partnership with Narita. If you ever try that again, you'll have to deal with them as well."

The man's face, as bad as it looked, made clear that he knew what this meant.

"By Tuesday evening, I expect our equipment to be back. Until then, you'll have transferred five hundred thousand dollars to Groucho, for compensation. If any of that's missing, I'll be back ... Say yes."

Silence.

Harry shot a water ball - medium size - into the face, then waited until he was sure the man could hear again. "Say yes."

"Fuck you."

Harry's wand pointed at the glass wall with the magnificent view to the nightly downtown of Los Angeles. Next moment, with surprisingly little noise, the wall disappeared. Fresh air streamed in - a relief after the skunk smell.

Harry pointed his wand toward Mr Armstead. "Either I hear a yes in three seconds, or you'll find yourself outside there in mid-air. One ... two ..."

"Okay - okay."

"Your man will escort us downstairs, and your chauffeur will drive us back. If something else happens, something that's upsetting me the least bit, I'll come and play with that building. And if that happens, you can only hope to have enough money for a repair, because no insurance will cover it - there's no policy covering damage by wizards. So think twice before having another funny idea."

---

Then Harry had time for Jesamine, to beam at her. "That was brilliant, really. A skunk - for two years, I kept wondering which animal's your choice."

"Yes, a skunk - I just liked this shape, and the colours." Jesamine grinned. "But you can understand why I was so reluctant to admit - I mean, who'd appreciate a skunk?"

"I - a minute ago. Without that ... It was tight enough."

Driving back, Harry sat alone with Cho in the back compartment of the limousine. Jesamine was driving in her own car, the same in which she had been kidnapped. This was even better: as unlikely as another attack seemed, two independent cars were some kind of guarantee.

And it allowed a more private conversation.

Cho looked at him. "Why did you kill that man?"

"Stupefying would have taken too long, disarming even longer - the Killing Curse's the fastest by far, and with the others ... Besides, if these people do not really suffer, they just don't take you seriously."

"Do you think they'll deliver?"

"Oh yes ... Funny how it's always a detail - I could have tortured him, without any effect, but a missing wall in the twentieth floor, and him two steps away, was convincing more. I could feel how he was surrendering."

Cho looked thoughtful. "Half a million ... We could return your first investment."

"Not quite. Half a million dollars is less than hundred thousand galleons."

"Is this the reason why you didn't ask for more?"

Harry felt perplexed for a moment, thought about Cho's argument. "Maybe you're right - Ron says I'm always asking too little. But I didn't think of my investment at that moment."

"No - it was a joke ... sort of." Only Cho couldn't laugh. "Harry the fighter, and Jesamine the Animagus, while I'm sitting there - "

Harry's voice was sharp. "Stop it! You've brought me into the car, and you've brought Jesamine to us."

"Did I?" Cho looked wondering. "It wasn't anything planned - I was scared to be alone with them, and I really wanted to be sure about her. You've saved me again, Harry, so I guess I should be thankful - "

"Don't bother - I had perfectly egoistic motives, if that's some help."

Cho laughed, changed abruptly into sobbing.

Harry grabbed her on reflex. "It's okay - it's over, we have won. They won't come back, they're not going to mess with Narita Spectors."

Cho didn't resist, seemed to find comfort in his hugging. Which didn't mean anything - just an anti-climax after a terrifying situation; in a minute, she would sober up, angry at herself for crying in Harry's presence, angry at him for ... whatever.

Nothing was over. Not the party in which Harry had no more function. Not the battle between him and Cho. And the memory of the dead Edgar hadn't even begun.