Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

January brought the first real snow of this winter. It had barely come down, covering the muddy ground with a thick layer of brilliant white, when the weather turned crisply cold. For two days, a sharp wind was blowing, chasing clouds of powdery snow over plains and toward the walls of Hogwarts, then the temperature dropped deep below freezing point. A milky sun, small and powerless, hung in a hazy sky, providing a dim light with few sparkles in a landscape of black and white.

Soon afterwards, the Hogwarts lake was coated with ice, thin first, then solid enough to hold the weight of students.

In this landscape, Harry could be seen day after day. Dressed in a thick coat and wearing gloves, his face hidden under the mask knitted by Dobby, he was working on his Portkey Programming project.

Tirelessly, tenaciously, stubbornly.

Samantha compared him with the men who once had built a railroad track across the American continent, coast to coast. What Harry built, though, no railroad track but a portkey link - to be charmed, tested, and destroyed instantly ... And another one, a bit longer. And another one.

He didn't go west, he was aiming south. A portkey from Hogwarts to The Burrow would mark his next milestone. It was tedious work, in particular when preparing for another step - from the farthest point mastered, Harry had to explore his next target, reaching it on his Steel Wing, settle the picture in his memory, testing with an apparition jump, testing with a short-distance portkey, and then the real test - a full-distance portkey.

And, at the end of each step, the proof of accuracy - the one-timer version.

The small towns next to Hogwarts marked his first destinations. Ever so slowly, the increase from one step to another was growing by more than a mile. Then Harry reached Bellingham, the first nominal point on his schedule.

From then on, he kept working on two routes. The western route spanned from Bellingham over Alston, Durham, Darlington, Leyburn, Pateley Bridge, to Leeds as the first major city. From there over Sheffield, Nottingham, Leicester, Northampton, to Milton Keynes, Luton, and finally London.

The eastern route went from Bellingham to Perrith, Kirkby, Lancaster, Bolton, to Manchester, Stockport, Derby or Stoke on Trent, to meet the other route at Leicester. The steps were bigger here, so the western route was always the first on which a longer distance had to be tested.

While on tour, Harry celebrated every successful test with a small nitro ball, shot into the next snow drift, creating a nice jet of exploding snow. It gave him a kind of grim joy, it was an audible markstone, and most of all - it trained his experience with the chemical formala of nitroglycerine.

---

By any spectator of his daily routine, this technique would have been called just the proper method for achieving the desired skill. For Harry himself, however, it was more. Literally to the point, his work presented the visible expression of his current state.

Feeling lonely? All right then, out into the cold, doing solitary work. Feeling disoriented? Up into the air, looking for the next target. Burning in anger about Rushmore, or Cho, or himself? A trip into the snow would cool him down.

Returning to Hogwarts, he went into the training hall, for thirty minutes of exercises, to flex his muscles, to warm up. Then hot-water tub, then steam room.

Then supper - wolfing down quantities that half the Gryffindor table was staring at Harry in disbelief, watching him with a mix of astonishment and envy. And some teachers too - Samantha, for example, or Danielle, wondering how Harry managed without gaining a single pound of fat.

And then the evenings ... Working with his map of maps for a while, feeling satisfaction about the day's progress. Except this feeling didn't hold, not for long, and this kind of satisfaction delivered a thin surrogate for another one. A well-trained, hard-working body was poorly suited for chastity. Awfully poor, to be precise ... not at all, to say the truth.

Harry interrupted his routine once to visit Rex and his dragons. But they had curled up in some hibernation, unwilling to move in the sharp frost. All Harry learned was that the baby dragons, dog size when he'd seen them before, now were as big as horses.

Well then, back into the portkey mill.

Harry had reached Bellingham and was working toward Alston when the Daily Prophet quoted a Muggle politician. This man suggested to gather all wizards - and witches - and send them into some exile, maybe Madagascar, or New Zealand, or somewhere in Canada, should be enough place for all of them, shouldn't it?

The wave of uproar in the press - wizarding and Muggle - lasted until Harry had passed Alston, also Durham at the west and Perrith at the east, and was working toward Darlington and Kirkby. Columnists at both sides agreed that exile might indeed be a good idea - for boneheads like this right-wing rowdy.

Even so, the number of places was growing in which Magicals - the new Muggle term for wizards and witches - were persona non grata. This included restaurants, shops, but most of all casinos and other places for games of luck - turfs, for example. How reliable was a horse race if wizards were standing at the third bend, ready to slow down a winning champion?

Wizards tried to make clear that spells were not exactly invisible, could be watched easily. It didn't help much.

However, other reports indicated that more business-oriented people had already started integrating both worlds - the organized crime, for example. It seemed as if every gang, and first of all the larger connections, were hiring wizards like crazy. They could solve certain problems quite efficiently.

When Harry was aiming at Leyburn and Lancaster, a spectacular robbery made headlines in the newspapers. A gold transport, protected by everything Muggle technology could offer, and guarded by two dozens of professional security men, had been found empty - nobody killed, not even hurt, just unconscious. Well, bullet-proof glass and armoured vehicles did not protect against clever plots and stunning spells.

While the police was still scanning the entire country, and the offered reward for useful information climbed toward the half-million line, security companies started a second rush - for Goblins, as experts in dealing with magical attacks against gold and other valuables.

* * *

Harry had reached Leeds on his western and Manchester on his eastern route when he got a letter from Paul Sillitoe. Paul asked for a meeting in his office, as the place where he had all his results in grabbing distance.

The letter had been waiting for Harry all day. Now it was too late, so Harry had to wait until next afternoon before he could apparate to the Daily Prophet building.

Paul greeted him. "Want some drink, Harry? It'll take a while until I've told you what I found out ... and what I didn't."

Harry accepted a cup of tea and had no objections when Paul extracted a squarely-shaped bottle to add some flavour - Cointreau, adding also some heat.

"Let me tell you first what I did, Harry, so you'll have a chance to follow my conclusions" - Paul grinned - "or disagree with them. But I can tell you in advance, I didn't go into some far-fetched guesses, simply because there was no need. It's amazing - again and again - how much you can figure out with simple statistics."

To Harry, this sounded as if, some minutes from now, Paul would tell him the address of Voldemort.

Apparently, his face had shown this expectation, because Paul said, "I haven't found his residence; statistics don't do miracles. And I wasn't able to pump any of the authors - they were tight as a vir - er, didn't tell me anything. But this would have been a surprise anyway."

Harry nodded, readjusting his hopes.

"I checked the major newspapers in the leading western industrialized countries, plus their news agencies. Here in Europe, this covered our own lovely island, then Germany, Italy, France, and Spain ... yes, and the Netherlands, because this is just a big marketplace for everything, from dope to slave girls, and news are trade goods like any other. Then the United States, Canada, Australia, and Japan."

Harry, who had brought his magic map, quickly marked these countries while Paul watched in fascination. Looking at the map, two emotions were fighting in Harry's mind: Paul had done a hell of a job, and still, large parts of his world map remained dark.

Paul saw it too. "Don't get confused by that picture, Harry. Square miles isn't a measure here - forget Africa, forget from Russia to Siberia, forget China ..."

No he wouldn't - well, okay, maybe in this context.

"My pattern was two newspapers per country - the leading one in serious journalism and the leader in the yellow press. That worked well here in Europe, while in the States, the boundaries are somewhat floating, that's why I had to add some more American newspapers. Anyway, I scanned through a total of twenty-four newspaper archives, plus five news agencies."

"My God!"

"I looked for articles about wizards and for the dates when they were published first, and where. I could drown you in a flood of facts and lists, Harry, but to finish before dawn - basically, I looked for first publications of any particular fact, rumour, or lie that was published about us."

So far, it looked quite obvious to Harry.

"Then, of course, I had to filter out the news from the agencies."

It no longer looked obvious to him.

Paul explained, "If a news comes from a press agency, it's simultaneously published by all newspapers with a subscription to that agency; the only difference then is the question when the new day begins in a particular country. What we're looking for are stories passed over from some wizard to a journalist of a specific newspaper - that's the only chance to locate our source."

Paul smiled triumphantly. "But guess what I found! Without any exception, the news from the agencies were waterproof! Isn't this wonderful? That's statistics at their best, Harry."

"Wait a second! What - "

"Press agencies - the leading ones, I mean - are a suspicious bunch of people. They have a reputation to lose, that's why it's very hard to sell them a hoax. And our dark lord didn't even try."

Harry looked into a beaming face. "So? What's so wonderful about that?"

"Can't you see it? It's proof that our approach was right!"

Harry, who had lost any doubt some time earlier, couldn't appreciate the beauty in this statistic.

Paul leaned back. "Harry, you're no journalist, so I'll try to forgive you. But you must know, filtering out lies, half-lies, and half-truths is the hard part. If someone tries to trick an agency, these people pay back instantly - they do what's called burning a source, publish the news as an attempted hoax. And since this never happened here, we have an extremely significant pattern, which tells us that the entire plot has been controlled by someone. Okay, maybe for you it was clear from the beginning, but not for me, I can assure you."

"Sorry, Paul ... I didn't catch it immediately, but now it's clear."

The researcher and journalist looked more satisfied. "Okay, that left the firsts - what every newspaperman is dreaming of. And here" - the beaming returned in Paul's face - "I found the next pattern. Almost without exception, the stories were published first in English-speaking papers."

Harry, for whom this offered small surprise, had learned from the previous minutes, so he looked pleased.

"There are just two exceptions - both in the same newspaper, the German Bild-Zeitung. First I had some trouble with them, thought for a while that your old friend had a temporary hired hand or so, but then I figured it out. This newspaper is notorious for the large scale on which they're lying, so it's clear what happened - they invented the stories by themselves!"

"You sure?"

"Pretty much ... There were just two other newspapers who took them over, the Dutch Telegraaf and Le Soir in France - both in the neighbourhood, and both of them quoting carefully, something like 'According to an article' and so on."

More from curiosity, Harry asked, "Which stories did they invent?"

"One about artificial roadworks on highways - makes sense only there, but cleverly thought up; the other's about cursing their national football team, so it can't win important contests - not really important for us, but this local flavour is another indicator that these were fakes."

---

Paul smiled in admiration of such collector's items, found himself alone with his feelings, and finally continued,

"So, then I checked the remaining list again, and even more closely than before. And then I found the next two patterns. Harry, these stories are clustered, in both time and space."

"Aha."

Paul, now in full swing, failed to notice Harry's blank look. "Let's concentrate for a moment on the clustering in time. These stories came in waves - say, one wave in time for weekend issues, then a few days nothing to let them work, then the next wave - see what I mean?"

Yes, expressed in plain words for the common Hogwarts seventh-year, Harry saw what Paul meant.

"Which of course is another proof of our theory, that someone is sitting somewhere, then gathering his hired hands, telling them what to spread next, and waiting again for the public effect."

By and by, Harry got a sense for these statistics, loved so much by people like Paul, or Ron.

"Now there's a very interesting change in the pattern, Harry. For a while, there's always a delay of one day between the American and the British newspapers. Then, suddenly, it changes - the delay is gone; the papers at both sides of the Atlantic publish their new stories at the same day. And this change" - Paul looked triumphant again - "was shortly after the Tyler massacre."

"Paul - sorry, but you've lost me."

The researcher smiled. "Of course - you have to track it down on a timetable. Let me guide you step by step, to check whether we come up with the same conclusion. Okay, assume you're Voldemort, and you call your helpers for the next meeting. When would you do that, Harry?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, at which time of the day?"

"Oh - late afternoon, early evening, I'd say."

"Exactly! So let's say they gather somewhere here in England, at tea time, okay? Then Voldemort tells them what to do, and they swarm out. And now watch! The meeting is at day one. The British informants meet their press contacts, most likely at the same evening. The journalists write the story, but it's already too late for next day's issue, so the stories appear in the issues of day three ... Okay so far?"

Harry, fully familiar with time differences, suddenly could see the pattern. "Yes, of course - while the American ones, jumping back after the meeting, have a local time somewhere in the morning, and that's time enough to meet their contacts to have the story published at day two."

Paul nodded enthusiastically. "Yep - here we go ... And now a bit of speculation from my side, but it's not difficult. The Tyler massacre tells Voldemort that the United States are much better suited to spread rumours to the worst effect, so he moves from England over there. Maybe he had another reason too, but look at the new time pattern. He gathers his people still in the afternoon, and now it's in the States that an order from day one results in publishing at day three. While his British helpers, jumping back, come home around midnight. They call their press contacts first thing next day, which is day two, and the stories appear one day later, which is day three."

Harry stared at Paul in awe. "That's incredible - you've found out that Voldemort moved from England to the States, and when ... Paul, the premium is yours."

A grin. "Be careful, because now comes the clustering in space, and this isn't as precise as the clustering in time ... Until the change in the days pattern, our own newspapers had a majority of stories - not a big one, but enough to support our theory - "

"Your theory - I buy it, but the honour goes to you."

"Whatever - so the Times and the Daily Mirror had a lot of first stories, compared to their American counterparts. Then, after the move, this changes. The west coast papers, which beforehand were almost ignored, suddenly have a lot more, the San Francisco Chronicle, for example ..."

Hearing about the west coast, for a moment Harry had trouble concentrating on the issue at hand.

"... while the share of our local papers is shrinking, and that's enough for me to say - Harry, since October last year, Voldemort's residence is in the States."

---

"And where?"

When Paul hesitated, Harry felt almost desperate - if he had to scan a half-continent rather than this island here, the entire project could hardly be rated as a success.

"Yes, where ... What I'm telling you now isn't quite as well based on statistical facts as the previous stuff, so let's see if your own speculation would go the same direction. Assume you'd move over to the States, and assume you'd look for a quiet place - where would you go?"

"California." It came without even thinking.

Paul grinned. "Certainly. But let me try again. You're not you, you don't know anything about some company near Hollywood - you're Voldemort, born and raised in England. Where would you go?"

"Hmm ... If I'd be a traditionalist, of course it had to be one of the New England states, but if I were looking for nicer wheather, I might settle for some lovely place - Virgina, for example."

Paul nodded. "That's very much what I thought by myself. And that's why I scanned some more papers, local ones. In the south, I found nothing specific - the Richmond Observer or the Washington Post never had a first-timer. But guess who had? The Boston Globe, Harry, and quite a lot, considering its minor role compared to papers like the New York Herald Tribune. And now, if you look at this fantastic map of yours - zoom in ... here, what do you find?"

With a gasp, Harry pointed and marked. "Salem."

"Yes, sir - a centre of witchcraft, just right to find wizards of all kinds, especially those with a knack for dark magic."

Paul exhaled deeply. "Okay, Harry - let me summarize ... You're looking for Voldemort, and for all I know, you should look in the eastern part of Massachusetts, in the southern part of New Hampshire, and maybe also in the southern part of Maine. Look for someone who has moved in around October last year ... That's it."

Harry swallowed. It was still a large area, but after a moment, he realized what his researcher had performed - sizing down from a world to a continent, and from there to a tiny spot at this continent's map.

"Paul, that was brilliant, absolutely marvellous. These patterns you found - I'd have looked here in England forever." Harry nodded in confirmation. "Yes, the premium is yours."

A wide grin. "Thank you, Harry."

"You thank me? I have to thank you - it's still a lot of work, but there's a focus - "

"Do you have an idea how to continue?"

"No, not yet."

"What you have so far is enough to let some professional searchers start working."

"Professional searchers?"

"Yes - private investigators." Paul's finger pointed at Harry's map, with the effect that the display zoomed in again. "You'll find a lot of them over there, all kinds. I have a tip for you, with good news and bad news. Want to hear it?"

"Of course."

"Contact Pinkerton - it's the largest agency in the States. The good news, they're serious, honest, they're professional, and they have enough people for this job."

"And the bad news?"

"It'll cost you a fortune."

Harry grinned. "For some reason, that's more good news than anything else."

"Is it?" Paul raised his eyebrows. "You've got a strange perception of money, but so what, it's yours. By the way, I found something else - might be of some interest for you."

Rummaging through a pile of newspapers and magazines, Paul extracted an issue of Time. "Here - the cover story might be worth reading, I'd say."

Staring at the cover, Harry agreed. Under the headline "Groucho Returns," it showed a large spector globe and three heads. Sylvie ... Jesamine ...

And Cho.

* * *

Paul's results had all ingredients to be discussed carefully with some other people before making the next step. Leaving the Daily Prophet building, Harry decided to start right away - with his godfather.

He walked the distance to the ministry and used the time to settle his own mind. Reaching the building, he noticed how irrationally human brains could work: Sirius' office would have been not farther apart from Hogwarts than a single apparition jump, and still, to him the ten minutes' footwalk seemed less effort than coming from the school.

Sirius listened to Harry's summary with an unmoving face. Nearly two years of police work had left their traces in his mimicry.

Coming to the end, Harry asked, "What do you think of it?"

"Sounds realistic." Sirius nodded appreciatingly. "And if Paul's ever pissed off by his job, he can sign to the Squad any day - you may tell him that."

"Do you think that'll ever happen?"

"No," admitted Sirius, "unless he wants to find out what it means to be really pissed off."

"That reminds me - I read in the newspaper that more and more wizards are hired by gangsters. What does it mean? What's the effect for you?"

Sirius pointed at the pile on his desk. "More work ... and closer cooperation with Muggle police."

"Oh, really? And how's that?"

"We get along." Sirius smiled. "We share the same problem, that forms a strong bond. Officially, we're still waiting for some rules and laws, and without them, we're not supposed to do anything together. But if we'd wait for that ... No, Harry, we've learned from each other, both sides had some opportunity to realize that the others are more than a bunch of idiots, and that's quite a basis."

"What do they hire wizards for?"

Sirius grinned. "Opening locks - what do you think? And all other kinds of tasks for which a little spell is quicker, more efficient, quieter, less violent, or whatever. To give you an example: a broomstick flyer can pass a border practically undetected while carrying any goods not suited well to be controlled by customs. Small volume, high value - dope, for instance."

Harry wasn't particularly interested in dope. "Is there anything, any pattern which indicates that Voldemort could be involved?"

Sirius shook his head. "Just the common list of ordinary crimes ... Okay, something like that robbery is spectacular for the press, while from our standpoint, it's nothing but a simple robbery at a larger scale."

"Simple?"

"Yes." His godfather grinned. "It's not even armed robbery, which shows you how much the government is lagging behind - robbery with a wand had to be counted as armed robbery, quite obviously so."

Harry had one more question. "What do you think of Paul's suggestion to hire private investigators?"

"That's exactly the job they're good at." Sirius looked at him sharply. "When you talk with them, make sure they know what they're looking for. You have to warn them - a private eye doesn't expect something like Voldemort at the other side, not even in crime novels."

"Yes, you're right." Harry grinned. "And if they don't take me seriously, I'll refer them to you, okay? ... Say hello to Deborah - see you."

* * *

The Headmaster wasn't in his office; Harry had to wait until the next evening. In the meantime, he mastered the distance to Sheffield and Stockport - maybe the promising news had inspirited his accuracy.

Dumbledore listened, then said, "That's quite remarkable, but it fits well to Voldemort's profile, don't you think so?"

Harry looked uncertain. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Professor."

"If you consider this plot - he made it unsuspicious enough so nobody pointed him out while the campaign was running. But he didn't really hide his work - he never did before, and maybe he expected more disastrous results ... Right now, the two worlds are trying to cooperate, probably not what he'd planned - which means we should expect new actions from his side."

Harry was at a loss to imagine what that might be. "Professor, what do you think of Paul's idea? With the private investigators, I mean."

Dumbledore didn't look too happy. "I don't know anything better, Harry, although I have bad feelings at the thought of sending Muggles toward Voldemort."

"Yes, Sirius said the same - he said I should warn them thoroughly."

"He's right - also for another reason. They shouldn't jeopardize your advantage, Harry."

His advantage? "Which is?"

Dumbledore looked astonished. "Voldemort doesn't know that you're looking for him - I thought it was obvious ..."

Probably so, enough for Harry to show two coloured cheeks.

"... and if he finds out, he might disappear again, and then you're back to square one."

Back to square one - a remark which let Harry's mind drift off for a moment, with the result that he almost twisted when Dumbledore asked, "Are you still in contact with Mademoiselle Théroux, Harry?"

"Er - not currently, no."

Dumbledore's face was expressionless. "It might be a good idea to discuss this with her - the hit ratio of her psychological profiles was astonishingly high, so she might come up with another guess that helps to locate him."

* * *

As much as Dumbledore was probably right - Harry felt sure, if this meant asking Cho for Marie-Christine's address, then no thanks, buddy. But maybe ... He decided to talk with Almyra, with some kind of flexible strategy, playing by ear.

His introduction was innocent enough: he presented the Time issue from Paul. "Look here - have you seen that?"

No she hadn't, and scanned through the article with a pleased look at her face.

"So she's making headlines ... well, and money too." Almyra looked up. "They would have paid back your loan quickly - maybe you've been somewhat premature in this, Harry."

"Yeah, that bothers me all the time, really ..."

Almyra could laugh about his joke more than Harry himself. He said, "Al - I got a letter from Cho. A thank you, for staying off from her parent's house at New Year."

"Yes, I know." Almyra's laughter faded, made room for a careful smile. "You had scored quite a bit ..."

Harry watched Almyra's face. "But?"

"But then I had to deliver your bottle." Almyra shook her head. "Oh my - she almost went berserk ..."

Harry wasn't impressed much - why, he hadn't been present. "Did she throw it away?"

"No - but you should be prepared for a few tough words about that, if the opportunity arises - "

"Well, if she thinks we should discuss it, then she may invite me, offer some drink ..."

Almyra looked at him with anger in her face. "That wasn't a good one, Harry. And besides, don't wait for an invitation."

"No, I don't."

"What I mean is - she said, it was you who broke off, so it has to be you to make the next move. She says, her office is open all day long."

"Now that's helpful to know, really! What should I do there? Listen to her complaints about undesired presents? If she didn't like the bottle, then why didn't she spill it in the sink? If she didn't like the papers from Spinbottle, then how come they weren't returned?"

Almyra simply bypassed his own suada. "What you should do there? Talk with her, without me in-between. I would consider this an improvement - for all three of us, honestly."

Harry grinned, with limited pity. "I know that feeling. You do someone a favour, travel somewhere, and strange things happen ..."

Almyra grinned back. "Touché ... But really, I think that's the only way to come any step further."

He nodded. "Probably so. Okay, I won't wait for an invitation, but I'll certainly wait for any sign that the situation will be different - afterwards. That's the absolute minimum."

"Minimum?" Almyra seemed desperate of such stubbornness. "Harry, how can you set conditions if you love her?"

His answer came instantly. "Very simple - someone taught me, someone with long hair and a short name, and an even shorter fuse."

"Well ..."

Almyra seemed looking for a nice word to end the conversation. Remembering one reason for his coming, Harry said, "Wait a second - do you know Marie-Christine's address?"

His sister in spirit glared at him furiously. "No - and even if, I wouldn't give it to you!"

"Save it - it's about Voldemort. Paul Sillitoe has tracked him down to some area, and when I spoke with Dumbledore about it, he suggested to hear Marie-Christine's comment."

The fury was gone, making room for concern in Almyra's face. "Oh ... No, I don't know her address. Shall I ask Cho?"

Harry shook his head. "No. For her, Voldemort isn't a better reason than any other."

* * *

Mostly with respect to Dumbledore's remark, Harry let a few days pass before approaching his next step. Contacting Muggle detectives, this seemed easier done than said, somehow, at least considering the feelings this idea raised in his mind.

While mulling it over, he continued in his project, welcoming the warmer weather though not the rain that came with it. However, after passing Nottingham at the west and Stoke on Trent at the east, Harry reached Leicester, the place where his two routes joined. This seemed omen enough ... Time for a visit to those Pinkerton people.

But along came Hermione, searching for the politest form to tell Harry that another trip to Haiti was due.

He nodded. "That's all right. Considering my progress, I'd say the next time it'll be the two of us who are going on that trip, and then - "

"Really?" Hermione looked expectant. "What's your farthest distance right now?"

"Leicester."

"That's - er, pretty close, I mean compared to Haiti."

Harry grinned inwardly - Hermione shying off from a blunt statement, that was rare.

"Yes, sure, but look where I stood a month earlier, just two miles or so. The increase isn't linear. Once I've reached London, I think I can try bigger steps - Paris, or some other point in France ... or Germany - "

"Or Bulgaria."

Harry grinned openly. "What's the value of a Bulgaria portkey in coaching?"

The reply came instantly. "Depends on what kind of coaching, Harry." At least Hermione's smile looked innocent.

* * *

Monsieur Armodéc was very interested to hear about Harry's activities in his search for Voldemort. For reasons Harry couldn't even explain to himself, he kept Paul's story to himself and instead spoke about criminal statistics, that he had contacted his godfather for this purpose, and about the chances of the recent gold robbery being Voldemort's work.

His host seemed a bit disappointed. "That's not very imaginative, Harry. From the outside, it looks as if you don't take this search seriously."

"Oh, I do ... And I'm open for suggestions."

Which was of course the polite version of something like, Shut up if you don't know better.

And Monsieur Armodéc smiled, taking Harry's remark exactly as it was meant. "Why don't you try another travel through the void? Didn't it work before?"

"Yes - but what I found was Nagini, not Voldemort."

"Who said so? At that time, they were together, weren't they?"

"Sure - although, at my third visit, only Nagini was at home, while Voldemort was somewhere else, catching Lupin. And I came out at Nagini, not at him."

The loup-garou shrugged. "What's wrong with giving it a try?"

Monsieur Armodéc was right, as Harry had to agree, and he decided to follow this advice before jumping over the big water to hire dozens of Muggles. Would be really stupid to spend ten thousands of galleons, only to realize that his enemy could be found just a trancing spell away. If he would be able to contact him ... Voldemort would know then that he was looking for him, but if it worked once, it would work again even after his enemy had moved to another country.

Harry returned to Hogwarts after the dinner, arriving at four in the morning local time. This gave him a sufficient excuse to sleep till eleven, to take the lunch for a breakfast, and to leave for his portkey work before anyone could find a chance to discuss such an unruly schedule.

* * *

Working with full concentration, Harry managed two steps in rapid succession - Northampton and Milton Keynes. The portkeys themselves had worked almost immediately; most of the time had been spent in the air, exploring the target on his Steel Wing.

He decided to drop Luton - the next step would be London, probably tomorrow. And then he would establish a portkey to The Burrow, and another one to the Cambridge University Hospital, and ... Harry realized - if, for some reason, he would be expelled from Hogwarts now, he could start a business of his own. Potter's Portkeys - or something similar. A pleasurable thought.

Reaching the Gryffindor table after his usual routine through the exercise hall and the recreation room, Harry found Ron waiting for him with a letter.

"Mail for you, Harry. It came with the Tours people - must have been minutes after you left."

The envelope expressed the message Urgent with words, colour, and stamps. Opening it, Harry found a very short note.

He looked at Ron. "What's asap?"

The answer came from Hermione. "As soon as possible." She had barely finished her last word when she suddenly started, nervously glancing at Ron.

Ron just grinned. "It's okay; I didn't know the answer anyway."

Hermione looked relieved, while Harry said, "I translate that to after supper - a single meal per day's just not enough to survive."

Hermione looked at his dish, while Ron found the courage to speak out what she was thinking. "Single meal, huh? Some other people wouldn't manage such a pile in a single day."

Between two bites, Harry asked, "Are you talking about pencil-pushers?"

"Definitely not. I, for example, use a very nice pen, not a pencil - and I'd never push it, Heaven forbid - "

"Yeah, sorry, I forgot, for things as aesthetic as - " Just in time, and warned by Ron's alarmed glance, Harry suppressed the end of his remark - Ron writing poetry was strictly confidential, within the boundaries of the Weasley-Potter gang.

Hermione had noticed of course, but didn't press the issue - a clear sign that she had expected hearing the words love letters, and this was a topic hotter than hot - not concerning Ron, but with respect to Harry and his current state.

Every spoonful swallowed raised two levels at once in Harry - that of the food in his stomach, and that of his curiosity. Never before had Sirius been that short and mysterious in a message. So with his last bite chewing, Harry was already up, heading for his coat.

Reaching the Hogwarts Express platform, for a short moment he felt tempted to try a portkey to London now, then dropped the idea quickly - he just hadn't the nerve now, while wondering more by the second what Sirius wanted from him.

At that time of day, he tried the house first, and found his guess confirmed. Sirius opened the door.

"At last! Harry, I've been waiting for you since lunch!"

"Sorry - I got your mail only minutes ago, been outside all day long. What's so urgent?"

"Come in."

Still no answer inside - with astonishment, Harry watched his godfather dialing a cellular phone, then heard him say no more than, "Black ... Yes, he's here ... Fifteen minutes? Okay, bye."

Still not hearing any explanation, Harry said, "You really make it thrilling, don't you? Give me a hint what this is all about."

"No."

Perplexed, Harry stared at Sirius. "That bad? The last time you sounded like that was when you fetched me from Privet Drive, and the next thing I heard was the plot against the Hogwarts Express."

For a fleeting instant, Sirius' eyes widened, then he had his face under control again. "Just a few minutes, Harry - I don't want to say anything because I should keep you as unbiased as possible. A drink?"

---

A drink was welcome, with so much food to be digested. When the doorbell rang, Harry kept seating, although with some effort, but was on his feet at once when Sirius returned with two visitors, a man and a woman.

"Harry," said his godfather, "I'd like to introduce you to some colleagues of mine - Tracy Chipman, and Wayne Ellis. Miss Chipman, Mr Wayne, this is Harry Potter."

"Good evening, Mr Potter - nice to meet you."

The words, and the handshake, were enough to tell Harry that these colleagues weren't British ones. This left just one conclusion, in particular with the woman's colour, which was a dark, saturated brown: these two had to be American cops.

Next moment, the man surprised Harry still more when he presented something like an identification card in a small leather case. "Mr Potter, my partner and I, we are special agents of the FBI, working together on a case that ... Well, this case is the reason for our coming."

Harry looked at Sirius, then back at the man, at the woman. "Special agents? Are you - "

The woman spoke, with a contralto in which someone had sharpened the edges. "It means we're not attached to a specific location, Mr Potter. And no, we are no Magicals - that's another reason for our coming."

While Sirius was busy preparing drinks, Harry found the time to recover from his surprise, and to examine these two agents more closely. FBI ... All he knew was that they could work nationwide and were called if a crime crossed state boundaries. Mr Ellis was middle-sized, middle-aged, hair trimmed very short, sand-coloured with some grey in it. The woman seemed younger, somewhere at the other end of her thirties, bulky figure, looked as if she could lift Harry without breathing harder.

But as different as they were, Harry registered a common factor in their expressions. A smile, if ever shown, had a short life in these faces.

Agent Ellis put his glass back on the table. "Mr Potter, I'd like to tell you about the case we're working on and then hear your comment. Is this okay with you?"

"Er - would you tell me first why you want to tell me?"

"No."

"Well, that's very much what I expected, after Sirius ... Okay, then."

"Mr Potter, do you know what an amusement park is? Or entertainment park?"

Seeing Harry's hesitating glance, Agent Ellis explained. "They're quite typical for the States. An amusement park is something like a fair, running all year long - or closed only at times when the cold weather, or the snow, prevents them from operation. And they're large - very large, they offer roller coasters of half a mile and more, all kinds of rides, and anything else that's good to give fun to a family with people of all ages."

Harry tried to imagine a fair spanning a mile and more, had trouble with that - his experience with fairgrounds was badly limited, thanks to fifteen years with the Dursleys.

"Like with other forms of entertainment in our time, amusement parks are more and more developing into high-technology parks. They try to offer the ultimate thrill - for people with a reasonable mind, who don't think a shot of heroine or jumping from a tower is the only way to get a kick in their life. You have to know, Mr Potter, these parks are big business, and the number of visitors per year is astronomical - on a sunny day, you'd have to wait in line almost an hour before you could enter the next cart in such a roller coaster."

An hour? Harry couldn't imagine a ride worth that much patience - well, not if you had a Steel Wing, maybe that was the difference.

"In the recent years," continued Agent Ellis, "they built a new attraction - ghost trains. After the first park had started, the others had to follow - competition's hard. And just recently, they've started to make them really fanciful. They hired Magicals."

---

Harry couldn't suppress a grin.

Agent Ellis didn't smile back. "Whatever they're supposed to do in detail - their job is to scare even a visitor who's seen it all, been there before. And they're quite successful in that - ghost trains with wizards and witches are all the rage - the hottest ticket in town."

Still grinning, Harry asked, "Do they hire ghosts, too?"

"No. A ghostly appearance is an elementary thing with the simplest methods."

Harry didn't agree, but then, he was no expert in the amusement business.

"Such a mix of thrills and shocks raises a conflict, Mr Potter. People in the States have developed a habit of suing other people for their own mistakes, and naturally, a ride in one of those ghost trains would be the perfect cause for a lawsuit. This is why every visitor has to sign an agreement that he's doing it on his own risk, that he can't take the park responsible for any damage resulting from excitement, fright, shock, and so on ... It won't surprise you to hear that this alone makes them even more attractive - a reported heart stroke is about the best advertisement they can get."

For a moment, something like disgust could be heard in Agent Ellis' voice. When he spoke further, it was gone.

"Then, one of these parks had some kind of accident. Coming out from the ghost train, a visitor was found unconscious. Of course they have medical stations, good ones, actually, but they were unable to bring him back to consciousness. So they sent him to the next Mayo Clinic - in a neutral car, of course; this kind of accident doesn't count on the bonus side."

"And?"

"He's still unconscious, together with three other cases that occurred shortly afterwards, although in different parks. We came into the story after the third case, when a local cop was clever enough to check for similar events. The fourth case occurred while we were working on the others. We interrogated the wizards and witches of those parks, and as far as we could figure out, they're not the ones to blame. But something in what they said gave us reason to come over and discuss it here, with Mr Black."

Maybe it had been Sirius' strange behaviour, more than Agent Ellis' report, which made Harry's mind spinning in one direction.

"These four people - what exactly is their state?"

Agent Chipman answered. "No visible damage. Heart beat and other physical functions regular, but no brain activity whatsoever. The docs classified them brain-dead."

Harry felt his neck hair rising, then looked at Sirius. "The Kiss of Death."