Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

As every good spy knows, even a spy as mediocre as Harry, the best method of hiding a secret is wrapping it into another secret. Naturally, somone else's secret would be most convenient, in particular right after uncovering it. Following this rule, Harry and Hermione had no trouble when they returned to Hogwarts and reported that a fake werewolf had been unmasked.

Any unusual emotion, every glance could be interpreted that way.

It took Harry a day to feel master of working senses again. It took him another day to realize that - at a minor scale - they were doing the same Fabrice Armodéc had done.

This should have been sufficient to feel ashamed. But Harry remembered the agreement with Hermione: no mentioning again, never: And there was no doubt, walking around feeling shame would have been the worst method of making it public.

Maybe Ginny had her thoughts. Once or twice, she looked at him and Ron and Hermione in a way ... Only she knew from past experience that digging deeper would do no good, in a wider sense of the word, and probably felt bound by her own promise. Harry, on the other hand, had the good sense not to investigate further.

To some degree, he felt grateful for the time of freedom to which Cho had condemned him ... and herself too, because this provided the basis on which he could store the memory away, together with a decent amount of guilt, just enough to conform with his ethics, no more than affordable. This, more or less, was the package from his mind's perspective.

While his body ...

It plainly refused to store the memory away, seemed to complain furiously about being spoiled first and kept starving then. Harry had some trouble looking at Hermione as usual, without thinking back - and he caught himself thinking that the modified recipe of that dope might be worth knowing.

Long exercises in the training hall didn't help much, more the opposite. Danielle suddenly represented a temptation - worse, she seemed to feel it. Only the certain knowledge that this would get out of control right from the spot, simply because Danielle had no reason to discipline herself, prevented Harry from following an invitation that hadn't been cancelled ever, was renewed at each dance lesson with a glance, a slight touch.

He made the exercises nonetheless, actually trained more than ever. It was partly to fill the time and temper his impatience while waiting for results from Francesco Lopez, and of course it was to be prepared when the detective's tele shots would present a known face.

Then the events pushed Harry's problem aside.

It was at suppertime. He sat down and started eating. When his glance routinely swooped over the Gryffindor table, he noticed that Rahewa's seat was empty. So she would be visiting her mother.

Then he saw her coming in from the Entrance Hall. The girl didn't even look at the table, instead kept walking mechanically toward the staircase to Gryffindor Tower.

Scanning with his haragei was just for confirmation; even without that, just trusting his eyes, Harry knew. He shot up, followed her, and managed to reach Rahewa when they were already out of sight from the hall.

She noticed him. "Harry ..."

"I know. Come upstairs."

In Gryffindor Tower, deserted at this time, with all other students at supper downstairs, Harry walked to a chair, sat down, and put the girl on his lap, her head at his shoulder.

"So she's gone; her suffering's over. Now you can mourn."

And the girl did. Clutching to him, pressing her arms around his neck, she sobbed, more violently every now and then, while Harry held her, rocked her gently, stroking this long black mane which felt quite different from some other. He saved words that couldn't help, saved mind waves for a better occasion - later, after this twelve-year-old had had her time to cry, when only the loneliness and the desperation were left.

Those who never cry do it seriously. Rahewa was still hiding her face at his throat when Harry heard noise from the door - a conversation between the Fat Lady and some Gryffindor students.

He murmured, "People are coming. Let's go."

Rahewa didn't ask where, just kept following him, lacking any will of her own, no thought left to worry about being seen with a swollen, tear-stained face.

Harry led her downstairs, meeting a few younger students, who looked at Rahewa curiously, and with disbelief, then guided her through some more corridors until he reached his destination.

Some house elves looked up and started to smile, but quickly stopped when they saw the girl in her misery. Then Dobby came hurrying. "Ah, Master Harry, what is giving Dobby the honour of this great wizard's visit?"

"Hello, Dobby - sorry to bother you at such a time. This is Rahewa Lightfoot. Her mother died today, and that's why we couldn't join the supper table."

Quite on purpose, Harry's voice had been loud enough to be heard in the corners of the large kitchen. As expected, a moment later house elves came swarming, to comfort the girl, to find a hot chocolate, and some cake, just something light to nibble at, nibble some more until, after a while, it would be gone.

As a spin-off, Harry got enough leftovers from the supper he'd missed. Maybe it was a lack of reverence, only he didn't think so, and by all means - food always seemed at risk these days.

Rahewa came out of her trance, saw him chewing, and decided to follow his example with something that would hold a bit longer than cake. Youth was strong, and survival instincts kicked in.

Harry felt relieved. "I'd suggest to let Mr Spinbottle handle the preparations for the funeral. Is this okay with you?"

A nod.

"Did your mother specify anything - a particular wish?"

"She wanted to be burnt."

A cremation, then. Harry darkly remembered that this was a habit of American Indians - or maybe of north-American ones, or some of them. "And where?"

A shrug. "The cemetery of our quarter."

"I'm sure some Gryffindors would like to attend to the funeral, and I'd provide a direct link. I guess I know a Ravenclaw too, and a Beauxbatons girl - "

"No."

Harry looked at Rahewa with astonishment. "Why not?"

"No."

"Rahewa, they feel with you. They want to - "

"They didn't know her. If it's me they feel with, they'll stay off."

The emphasis with which this - admittedly correct - argument was issued told Harry the reason. Her father ... The less people knew about him, the better.

After some more arguing, Rahewa accepted a compromise. The members of her Quidditch team would be allowed, then her co-dancers from the Grass Dance crew, and of course Professor McGonagall as the Gryffindor Head of House.

When they had finished the negotiations, it seemed as though Rahewa felt quite pleased at the thought of this small crowd. From what Harry could sense, she had dreaded a lonely ceremony with a dead soul, a forlorn one, and a lost one, not counting the priest.

This done, and with their stomachs filled, they thanked the house elves for the help, and the sympathy, then left the kitchen. Outside in the corridor, Rahewa seemed at a loss to imagine what to do next.

Harry could. "Come with me."

When they entered Gryffindor Tower again, Harry's hand had to take hold of a girl at the verge of panic, because heads were turning to them. He took Rahewa's shoulders and moved her so that she felt him present right behind her.

"Hey, folks - give a minute!"

While the general attention was focusing on them, Harry held tight and sent a wave of soothing comfort. Not letting go, he said, "Most of you didn't know - Rahewa's mother has been very ill for quite a while. She had leukaemia - and this afternoon, she died."

He waited a few seconds. "That's why right now Rahewa isn't herself. And if you come to her and she tells you to bugger off, then maybe that's what she thinks, or maybe she just doesn't know what else to say."

There were some nods of understanding in the wall of stunned faces and sympathetic eyes.

"At any rate, leukaemia isn't contagious, and Rahewa isn't any more dangerous than she was yesterday. I thought it's the simplest way to tell you all ... Thank you."

Harry had barely finished when Rahewa's classmates came to escort her to a place - probably to give her company as much as to squeeze her for more details.

Well, youth was robust. Harry took the opportunity to gain his own small circle, to tell them that they had an appointment about three days from now, just as far apart as the Hogwarts Express platform.

Ginny and Hermione were looking at him with a tiny bit more than appreciation, while it was Ron who said, "Harry, you're doing bloody well in this matter."

"Small wonder - I've been involved, and I was prepared. Tomorrow morning, I'll be off to meet Spinbottle."

"And then?" Ginny's question was obviously addressing more than the chores of a funeral.

"Spinbottle will handle the formalities."

The question had certainly included a pending offer, and a pending decision, however Ginny didn't press further, probably realizing that all this could be launched only after the legal path was free.

* * *

The ceremony was over. Calling it a funeral seemed wrong - yes, there had been a coffin disappearing out of sight, however horizontally into a cubicle that soon afterwards would be filled with a roaring firestorm, rather than vertically downward into earth and quietness.

Harry had used the time to examine Mr Lightfoot, who had arrived sober and in a dress better than expected. Yet no dress could hide the destructive work of heavy drinking - in the man's face, in the stance of this body whose slenderness had been passed on to a daughter, keeping the uncontrolled trembling to itself.

Rahewa had been silent, almost motionless, all through the ceremony.

The other guests left, with Professor McGonagall somehow managing to be simultaneously head and tail of the row that filed to the flower pot outside, programmed earlier by Harry. Having noticed Mr Spinbottle's pointed look, Harry separated from the group and waited until the lawyer met him at a bench.

"Mr Potter, I spoke with my deceased client's husband about your intention to have his daughter adopted into another family - family's the term I used, whatever it means in detail."

"And?"

"He flatly refuses to agree."

Remembering what he had sensed from the man, something in Harry boiled up, ready to take action of the violent kind. Then he calmed down - wasn't he just speaking with a lawyer of the cunning kind?

"So, is he?"

"Yes. I think I know what's motivating him - and why he feels in a position to stand his ground."

"Which ground?"

"I told him he'd lose a legal battle, considering his habits, and his well-known reputation. He just laughed at me - so to speak. And he told me why we can't use that threat."

"Why not?"

Mr Spinbottle grimaced. "He would return to Canada, taking his daughter with him, at least claiming his right to have her ordered to follow. This return, Mr Potter, would lead back into some tribe - with enough people, families, women to make our case lost instantly."

A devious plot - seen from Harry's perspective, still more from Rahewa's.

"Is he serious?"

"Frankly, Mr Potter - he's trying to save what he sees as his pension, I mean his daughter, and her ability to earn some money. And that's - "

"Of course!" Harry registered his impoliteness. "Sorry, Mr Spinbottle - but of course you're right. We can buy him."

"Exactly. Although, right now it's a bit difficult, you'll have to expect some weeks before such an attempt might be successful."

"He's got some money?"

"Unfortunately so." The lawyer seemed embarrassed - a surprising emotion for all Harry knew. "There was an insurance with him as the beneficiary."

"A life insurance?" Harry felt surprised twice more - to find a life insurance in the Lightfoot household, and to hear it had been paid out so quickly.

"No, not exactly. It was a funeral insurance, about two hundred and fifty galleons." And that made clear why Mr Spinbottle didn't know how to look: all expenses of the funeral, or cremation, had been covered by Harry.

A true Zen joke - the first of black humour Harry could remember.

After a moment, he found his speech again. "I see. But I wouldn't know how you could have prevented that, Mr Spinbottle, so please don't feel - er, professionally offended, if you know what I mean."

The lawyer nodded, not bothering to stop being just that.

"Would you dare to guess how long it will keep him - er, liquid?"

Mr Spinbottle hinted a smile at this involuntary joke. "If he'd be careful, several months - but normally, after some weeks, people in his situation lose discipline. So I'd say, four to six weeks, Mr Potter."

Six weeks of burning uncertainty?

An idea started to form in Harry's mind, then took shape.

"Mr Spinbottle, I'll follow your advice, and offer him money - but I'll do it in a style you - as a man of the law - needn't witness. Can you tell me where to find him?"

The lawyer gave Harry the names and addresses of three pubs, then said, "I dearly wish I could witness, Mr Potter. A funeral insurance, really! Would you mind telling me afterwards?"

"I can tell you what I'll do - offer money, as I said, and make the offer a bit - er, urgent."

"Ahh - an offer he can't deny, then?"

Harry, who knew the term, grinned. "Not that bad. After all, someone has to be quite alive to suffer from nightmares, right?"

* * *

Next day, early evening, Harry entered the Crooked Pirate to find Mr Lightfoot at the bar. This could hardly be rated as a lucky hit; Harry had tried the Happy Clown and the Round Corner before.

The man examined him and the snake around Harry's body with limited surprise, nearly untraceable enthusiasm. "Yes?"

"We have to talk, Mr Lightfoot."

"Not me. Leave me alone."

Somehow, as the bartender remembered, his regular had an attack of some sickness, making him pale first and flush then, while oily sweat was breaking out in that ruined face. The young man helped him to a table in a corner and ordered a double of the usual, and a wodka-spiced orange juice for himself. Some minutes later, when the young man signaled for another double, his regular looked a lot better, however quite afraid the attack might return.

Harry had changed from the opposite seat to one at the side, this way avoiding most of the man's breath. "Mr Lightfoot, you know who I am?"

Sullen silence.

Harry's hands came together, making him look like a thoughtful student, whereas his opponent just had learned the hard way what it really meant - something to avoid under all circumstances.

"Yes," scowled Rahewa's father.

"I'm not entirely sure that you're fully aware who I am - in this issue, I mean. For starters, Mr Lightfoot - I'm the one who paid the funeral cost..."

Oh yes, Mr Lightfoot knew.

"... which total up to four hundred galleons. You owe me four hundred galleons, Mr Lightfoot."

The glass, which just had been raised - with a steady hand, unsurprisingly so at this time of the day - sat down with a clank. Rahewa's father - a horrible thought, somehow, though undeniable after a short glance at him - stared thunderstruck.

"Four hundred galleons is nothing for me ..."

Harry took his time to let the message sink in, watching as the man's expression changed from desperate fright to a fretting expectation.

"... but it's enough to get you busted at the spot. We both know that you have received the funeral insurance payment. By the way, the chief of police is my godfather."

Another message to sink in, raising quick changes between hope and fear in a face which surely had been as calm and strong as Rahewa's - at some time in some past.

"So this is one level we can work on - the legal one, the one that would be carried out by Mr Spinbottle as the expert for business that's legal and public."

Could this wreck of a brain still read messages between the lines? Yes it could, as Harry registered, certainly if they came as blunt as this one.

"But I'm here to offer you a deal."

To emphasize this aspect, Harry signaled the waiter for another double shot to fill Mr Lightfoot's glass. His own drink stood nearly untouched; Harry had ordered the vodka mainly because someone else's reek was easier to endure if you had drunk some booze by yourself.

When the waiter was gone, Harry continued, "Yes, a deal - money, I mean. That's your intention, to live off your daughter's money - and that's your only interest in your daughter. Isn't that so, Mr Lightfoot?"

The man opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted before his first word.

"I forgot to tell you - this snake here, Nagini's her name, knows when you're lying. Maybe Rahewa told about her - she certainly did, question is whether you've been around. Anyway - if Nagini tells me you're lying, you'll feel pain, Mr Lightfoot. And this pain will be so much that you'll regret having lied ... So, after this forewarning, do we agree that your only interest in Rahewa is to have a secure income?"

"I'm a sick man - er, Mr Potter."

Harry suppressed his impulse to sneer in distaste, felt grateful to have prepared himself for this conversation so thoroughly with Samantha - regarding drunkyards - and with Hermione about potions and nasty tricks.

"Don't use that word, Mr Lightfoot!" Harry's expression, his voice could have startled stronger men. "Not in this context - your wife was sick, really sick. You ... I know that alcoholism is considered an illness, only for me it isn't." Harry's voice changed to hissing. "I could cure you, Mr Lightfoot - that's an alternative to a money offer. You'd stop drinking within two weeks' time - and do you know why?"

Now the man really looked scared.

"We have some potions witches at Hogwarts, and I spoke with them. There's a potion, Mr Lightfoot - it could be deposited in your body. One gulp of liquor would make you throw up, and feel like burning to death inside for ten minutes ..."

The man looked at him in absolute horror, no doubt believing every word Harry said. Which meant his faith in potions was significantly stronger than Hermione's.

"... but I'm digressing; as I said, I'm here to offer a deal."

Harry waited until the horror had faded from this map of burst vessels and lost hopes. Then he said, "My part is, you'll receive your pension, just what you had in mind, but from me. More exactly, from Gringotts. Hundred galleons per month, Mr Lightfoot ..."

Harry paused, letting the sound resonate.

"... as long as you live. I guess it's less than ten years, but that's up to you - at any rate, there'll be a fund behind that won't dry out. So, if you're going to see your seventies, it'll still feed you."

Numbers started to work in a face, and in a brain which - at this time of day and the current level of booze - was probably at its peak.

When the interest in his conversation partner had grown sufficiently, Harry placed the second navigation point in this promising future.

"If you try to contact your daughter for more, for an add-on - if you contact Rahewa, the pension will break off for a month ... Any such attempt will cost you a month's worth of your money, Mr Lightfoot."

His money ... the well-chosen term had the desired effect on the man, as Harry could watch, so much so that Mr Lightfoot went for his chance.

"That's not enough. Two hundred."

"So that's my offer." Harry spoke as though he hadn't heard the reply. "Hundred a month - should allow you a life of your choice. But maybe you disagree because you don't like the offer, so let's come to another alternative - "

Harry interrupted himself, looking up sharply at something at the other side of the room.

* * *

Mr Lightfoot, following Harry's example, craned his neck to see what was going on, but found nothing of any particular interest. When his glance returned to his conversation partner, the young man held a tiny flask in his hand, and a nasty smile in his face.

"Don't you want to sip at your drink, Mr Lightfoot?"

Frozen in shock, the man stared at his glass, at the flask in which a small rest of a colourless liquid was lapping.

"No I won't ... You're trying to poison me."

A harsh laugh, piercing in his ears, and suddenly a wave in his mind that felt like a bucket of ice water - Rahewa's father knew how that felt, his wife had used this terrible trick once.

"It can happen any time, Mr Lightfoot - every day, every hour, in each bar you're going to visit. I hired some detectives - Pinkerton, the name may tell you something. And don't ever think those people won't agree to such a job, read their history - Pinkerton detectives have shot and killed hundreds of strikers, hired by people with money."

Mr Lightfoot seemed to know - a sad remnant of a past in which he'd been a worker with an interest in social history, or just in the risk of cutting a strike on American ground.

"But I'm digressing again ... Basically, as I said, I'm here to offer you a deal. Hundred galleons at the first of each month you manage to live, and to stay off your daughter's life - as soon as you've contacted Mr Spinbottle to sign some papers."

With this money not farther away than the touch of a hand - a signing hand, Mr Lightfoot suddenly found the courage to express his true feelings. He glared at his opponent.

"You bloody bastard ..."

The bartender, looking up from some noise, saw that his regular seemed to have another attack from the demons that were found at the bottom of liquor bottles, unusual only because these demons preferred the dark of the night, while now it was just early evening. But the young man apparently found the means to comfort him - the pained yell faded, changed to a miserable sob, and ended moments later.

Relieved, the bartender turned his attention back to his work.

"This offer, Mr Lightfoot, stays open for the next four weeks. If you have signed until then, we're in business. If not - well, then I'll start some other business ..."

"You'd kill me - won't 'cha?"

"No, Mr Lightfoot." An unsettling smile. "I'll make sure you'll live to remember - every minute of the few weeks it would take to drain you off the booze. And then I would let Mr Spinbottle hunt your money - four hundred for the funeral, fifty thousand for the medical cost, then the support for your daughter - you'll hate every minute of your life, but you'll live."

The stare from these green eyes alone, burning in a face too old for what looked like a graduate student, made Mr Lightfoot shiver. But maybe it was the rush of cold air from the door.

"So we better concentrate on the bright side of things. Hundred galleons a month is what you can achieve, if you sign within the next four weeks ... Think it over, Mr Lightfoot."

The young man left. Rahewa's father watched as he passed the waiter, to pay the bill and to point to his table. A moment later, the waiter arrived with another double shot.

"That's from your pal, buddy. I ought to tell you, it's clean, but it's the last clean drink from that source - whatever that means, as if I'd sell doped booze!"

With a sickening twist in his stomach, Mr Lightfoot realized how much could happen to a drink, on its way from the bottle to the mouth. He quickly took his glass to wash the thought off.

* * *

Hermione wanted to know what her remaining Haitian candidate had encountered in the recent full moon's night, and she seemed eager to manage alone. It raised a new problem for Harry, showing him that his portkey project wasn't completed yet - or if so, then only in the eyes of a state-of-the-art programmer while Hermione was judging from a user's perspective, not caring of technical constraints. A portkey to carry with you - her return ticket, what else?

Harry experimented with a coin, wrapped in paper, in a purse. The coin worked well, that was the unsurprising good news. Unfortunately, it worked through paper and purse.

How to wrap a portkey?

A Zen joke, by all means - a portkey was actually a non-portable key because the effect leaked through.

Then Harry had the right idea, tested it, and felt pleased as much as intrigued. He found Hermione to delivered a small bundle.

"Here, your return ticket. If you want to jump, open it and feel through until you sense the coin. Do it quickly, and please come back with that bundle, okay?"

"Why quickly?"

"Because of the wrapping - it has some side-effects."

Harry had found the right answer - a little challenge for Hermione, to be faced without asking more, to be mastered by a genius brain.

Only this was exactly what made Harry quite nervous, so he waited near the Hogwarts Express platform, biting mental nails - until he saw Hermione's figure appear from nowhere.

She just stood there, didn't move.

Harry rushed over and took the bundle out of Hermione's hands, careful not to touch its contents.

Hermione came awake from her trance, looked at him with dreamy eyes - in spite of the cool March weather outside, these were what anyone else would have called bedroom eyes.

"Hello, Hermione - did your visit go well?"

"Er - yes ... What is this, Harry?"

He grinned. "A Veela shawl. It's the only wrapping for a portkey I know about, except that it has this peculiar side-effect."

Hermione was breathing a bit harder than the effort of walking toward Hogwarts justified. "A Veela shawl, huh? Where can you get something like that?"

"This question isn't really your average level." Harry grinned broader. "From a Veela, of course. You're still suffering from the heat - Haitian heat, I mean."

A quick grin from Hermione. "Yes, must be that - because the other doesn't feel like suffering."

As Hermione reported, Caprien Marût had encountered a few slight symptoms, not more. She had her flask back, and twenty galleons less in her purse. The next step would be to check if these symptoms would increase. If not, her potion was proven to work permanently - just leaving a rough edge to be smoothened, only that Hermione wanted to start the last fine-tuning not before having proof of the basic success.

And for Harry, the Haitian episode was over. All he still had to do was programming two portkeys every four weeks and lending his Veela shawl ... It crossed his mind that this should be counted as the risky part.

* * *

With the local business settled, with the business of Rahewa's father in a bothering wait state, Harry could concentrate all his efforts on the open issue - Voldemort. Earlier than his next regular visit was due, he apparated to Boston.

Francesco Lopez wasn't in his flat. Harry could have entered the apartment in several ways, only it just felt too impolite - and besides, what if a Pinkerton agent stuck to the habit of building deadly traps by routine?

An hour later, Harry had more luck.

Francesco Lopez let him in. "Does sensing bad news across an ocean belong to your unusual skills, Harry?"

"No, I just didn't know what else to do. Why - what happened?"

"Maybe nothing - from our project's view. But you might have a look at what I've found."

Harry followed the detective into his office.

"One of the non-standard routines I developed for this task, Harry, is a weekly scan of the police reports ... Unusual deaths, unsolved cases - events which might smell like magic involved, dark magic in particular."

Thinking about, Harry found this a sensible thing to do, reminding him of this proverb about following tracks.

"Well, and some days ago, there was such a case. A man has been found dead - in a hotel room. The hotel guests usually come without luggage, for one night, and the couples leave in different directions. But it's at the upper end of this particular scale."

"Did he die from a heart attack?"

It had been planned as a joke, but the Pinkerton detective didn't catch it. "Most unlikely. True - he must have been very agitated at the moment of his death, but what's so unusual is the cause of death. By the way, this isn't public information."

So Francesco Lopez was feeding on federal - or maybe also local - channels. Following an impulse, Harry asked, "Has he been bitten to death by a werewolf?"

A perplexed expression appeared in the detective's face. "No - by a vampire, that's how the wounds look. The police still thinks it's a fake, but I've wised up a bit, thanks to some database ... For what I know, the man had a visitor who was ordered to ride him without a saddle, and she did, and just when he was about to reach what he wanted, she turned to a vampire and sucked him to death."

Remembering Drilencu's lessons, Harry nodded. "Yes, that fits. It's certainly magical - and fairly unusual."

Francesco Lopez extracted a large black-and-white potograph. "That's the guy."

The wound marks at the throat were clearly visible. The man's face looked very dead, frozen in an ecstatic grimace. It also looked very black, and very much like that of Fabrice Armodéc.

By the time Harry had recovered, the detective could hardly temper his impatience, with the expression of a gold digger seeing a nugget enclosed in stone.

"Okay, Harry - tell me everything."

One hour later, Francesco Lopez knew - well, not everything, yet enough to proceed, apparently also enough not to squeeze his customer further. He looked genuinely happy.

"Harry, you're right! We're on track, and we're close."

"Are we?"

"Sure, if we can track down this Armodéc's steps, and moves. That's simple platfoot work - "

"Platfoot?"

"Detective work - not thinking, just searching, collecting. Can you come up with a picture of the live Armodéc?"

"Hmm ... Pretty unlik - " Harry stopped, then smiled. "Of course - do you know what a spector mind recording is?"

Francesco Lopez didn't, whistled awestruck when Harry explained it to him. "Golly - that's a detective's dream come true. And where can you do that, and come out with a few colour pictures?"

"Here in Boston? Dunno - " Again, Harry stopped himself and grinned, though somewhat wryly. "But I know a studio in Santa Monica that can do it."

"Ah, yes of course." The satirical undertone in the detective's voice died rather suddenly when Harry told him he'd be back in a while and disappeared, the air softly popping in.

Jesamine was in her office, thank God for medium favours.

"A spector recording - and a confidential one, am I right? C'mon, Harry, you get the special treat - the boss herself, because the boss owes you, and what's more important, I'm fed up with shuffling papers."

Forty minutes later, Harry had a cassette with the last dinner conversation on the Ile de la Tortue, plus some colour hardcopies. He beamed. "Thank you, Jesamine - that's help when I need it."

"For you any time, Harry. Say, how confidential is this?" Jesamine's tone made it clear that she was thinking of one particular spectator, rather than some public audience.

Harry grinned. "No need for censorship."

"Good to hear that. And how's it going?"

He examined Jesamine's face. "You know about our - er, latest agreement?"

"Sure thing."

Harry smiled, hearing this reply from an ex-teacher and now Cho's friend and business partner. "Well - might be my special friend has just made his one little big mistake."

"Be careful, Harry."

"Will do ... Say hello from me - and thank you, Jesamine." Off he went.

Francesco Lopez looked like a fifty-year-old seeing what could not possibly be - Santa Claus alive. "Harry, you make me wonder if there's a future for Muggle detectives."

"There is, Francesco - don't take me for standard."

The Pinkerton detective was still fighting a hysterical fit of giggles when Harry said goodbye, after promising to return for any news he could contribute, or just for the sheer hope of hearing them.