Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

Coming out on the Ile de la Tortue, Harry had his wand ready. Stepping forward, he sensed around with eyes and ears and haragei. But there was nothing, of course, except for the quiet house in front of him with some of its windows lighted. Keeping watchful, not feeling anything unusual, he moved closer, then used the heavy metal knob to bang at the door.

There were steps inside, then Beatrice's voice called, "Ou-est lá?"

"Beatrice? It's me, Harry."

The door came open. Beatrice looked with astonishment at him as he was standing there in the last light of the day.

"What are you doing here, 'arry? Fabrice isn't at home."

"I know, because I know where he is." Though not in the metaphorical sense, as Harry became aware.

The young woman's look grew alarmed. "What - pardon, come in." Inside, Beatrice said, "Something happened to him, right?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Because I'm not stupid. Is he dead?"

"Yes, he is."

When Beatrice had heard Harry's story, she looked pitying. "Poor Armodéc ... Poor stupid little boy."

"He certainly was stupid to contact Voldemort. Do you know how he could get in touch with him?"

"No. He's already been in touch with him when I came here for the first time."

"Oh, dammit." Now Harry felt deeply alarmed. "Are you sure?"

Beatrice looked wondering. "He left for some visits every once in a while - and he was always so interested to hear how you were getting along. That was so untypical of him, normally he didn't care of other people's doings - well, unless they had to do with ..."

Sex - what else, Harry could finish the sentence by himself easily. "And you knew all the time?"

Beatrice held his stare. "I had my thoughts, but it took a while for them to develop - remember, I came after Désirée left. And then, when you didn't touch the issue at the breakfast of your last visit, I was sure you knew."

"Knew?" Harry looked puzzled. "What made you think so?"

"But 'arry - you never told him anything really confidential, or what was currently going on. And not asking in that direction - quite as if you didn't suspect him - was the cleverest move I could imagine."

Harry stared at the young woman, readjusting his perception of her - from a nice, and skilled, flower of the night to an experienced arbiter of plots, secrets, tactics.

He smiled ruefully. "I had no idea."

Beatrice shot him a consolating look. "Then you did the right thing just on reflex. Actually that doesn't surprise me a bit."

"So you didn't approve his doings?"

"With Voldemort?" Beatrice looked as if having heard a very stupid question. "Fabrice was a little boy, who'd never overcome his first sexual experiences - he just couldn't put real-world things into proportion, especially something as monstrous as the Dark Lord."

With eyes wide in surprise, Harry became aware that Beatrice was right, and that he himself had been blinded - well, maybe understandably so, but -

"And he has robbed me."

"Robbed you?"

"Yes, my potions."

Harry looked at Beatrice, trying to cope with the speed at which his vision of things was shattering to pieces.

"Two bottles of the ecstasy potion, the pure kind." Seeing Harry's look, Beatrice smiled. "Did you think it was his development, 'arry? Oh no, not Fabrice, not something into which you had to invest more than some nice words and a slow hand and a hard cock. It's my recipe - he learned about it only after I came to him."

"So you and Hermione - you're both ..."

Beatrice's smile turned archly. "We're both potions witches - yes, I think that's the common factor you were going to point out."

"And the night with me ..."

Beatrice flushed a bit. "Was the first real - er, field test. And the result was that I changed the mixture, as you probably noticed by yourself the last time. I'm sorry if I used you without warning - but believe me, I've been suffering as much as you, was sore as hell for several days."

Harry started to giggle, then stopped - after all, there was a death involved.

---

Beatrice had lighted up a bit. "I'm glad you're not mad at me, 'arry, because I need your help."

"What for?"

"I want to leave from here, as you can imagine - I don't think there's any sense in waiting for an inheritance, or for my payment. I have no sickle, so if you could make a portkey to Port-au-Prince, you'd solve a problem for me."

He examined Beatrice again, from a totally different perspective. "Do you have any money there?"

"No."

Well, that was more or less what he'd expected to hear. Probably Armodéc had promised the full payment at the end, or it was locked in some account that would never open again, now that the false loup-garou was dead.

Harry came to a decision, realizing that he had found it already moments before. "Port-au-Prince is your choice?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll make the portkey to the linkport; that's about the only place in Port-au-Prince I know." Harry felt in his pockets. "I have twenty galleons with me, but tomorrow I'll contact Gringotts, and day after tomorrow, you can go to the local residence, then there'll be an account ready for you. Ten thousand galleons - should be enough so you can pick your choice which of your talents to use for a profession."

Beatrice's eyes met his own, after having widened in disbelief. "That's considerably more than Fabrice was owing me."

Harry shrugged. "I'm not paying Armodéc's debts. I've got some money to be spent in the fight against Voldemort, and Armodéc's silliness may have helped me - whatever, it feels like a Zen equation, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't. To me, it feels like ..." Beatrice stopped, came over, then slowly placed a kiss at both of his cheeks - the French welcome. "Thank you, 'arry."

He grinned. "It's no sacrifice at all - not even a small one."

Beatrice recognized the joke and smiled warmly. "You're very gentle. I knew that already before, that's why I didn't ask for money - I felt sure you wouldn't let me starve." Her expression changed. "But you still surprised me - and that's why I want to ... Wait for me!"

She left the room. When she came back some minutes later, she deposited two small bottles on the table - a half-bottle of red wine, and an even smaller bottle with a clear liquid.

"These are my last reserves, 'arry - the ones Fabrice didn't know about. Your offer allows me to get along without selling them and gives me the means for producing others in a while, so they're rightfully yours."

Harry inspected the bottles with mixed emotions. "The red wine - is it what I think it is?"

Beatrice smiled. "Yes. It's the ecstasy potion in the mixture that's been used the last time - just the right level, wouldn't you say so?"

Harry nodded. "Yes - provided you don't have to go into some office early next morning."

Beatrice laughed.

"And the clear one?"

The potions witch became serious. "It's a brain booster - very efficient, only slightly addictive, and when the effect's over, you'll feel like dead for a while." There was pride in her voice. "This is my first one - I used it on myself to master the other recipe."

Staring at the bottle again, remembering some other occasion and a white powder, Harry asked, "Do you know Giants?"

"No - why?"

"They have something similar. I know one; once he gave me a sample for a certain purpose, and it had exactly the effects you just described."

Beatrice nodded. "This knowledge isn't unique - at least you know what to expect, so I don't have to worry that it knocks you down. This bottle contains about two wine glasses - one glass is the proper quantity for a single trip."

Harry walked to her, planted kisses on both cheeks. "Thank you, Beatrice - I wish you luck in your future business."

She smiled. "Watch out - most likely, I'll be a competition for your 'ermione."

"She isn't mine, and she'll work at Hogwarts. Before I forget - what keyword for the account?"

Beatrice needed just a second. "Ecstasy."

* * *

Harry programmed the next-best gate post for the Haitian capital. Some minutes later, after giving him a last wave, Beatrice disappeared with her astonishingly small bag. Now Harry stood under the trees, looking thoughtfully at the building. Was there any sense in scouring Armodéc's rooms for evidence?

Maybe so - though not for him. He should send Francesco Lopez here; the detective knew how to scan through rooms and desks. Did Francesco understand French? Could be, with his name - and if not, any English term would stand out like a pimple on the forehead. Or a scar, for that matter.

Harry felt like the only person on this island, the next living soul hundreds of miles away. It wasn't true; he guessed the next town no further than three miles downhill. But it gave him the right feeling for the idea that had been crossing his mind since the moment Beatrice had explained the nature of that clear liquid in the small bottle.

Room enough ... Nobody would watch him fail. Still more important: nobody would watch him succeed.

Harry went inside, found a glass, and filled it with the oily liquid, emptying the bottle almost to half. It didn't taste oily - cool, sharp, nearly tasteless, spreading an almost unbearable heat after a few seconds.

When he reached the plain outside, the burning had faded and had given way to a feeling of crystal-shaped fur covering his tongue and his throat.

His view widened, deepened, thickened. He recognized every single leaf in the tree across, the bark at the trunk, its structure ... He was part of a vibrating scene, in harmony with the surroundings.

His mind dropped the last doubt, kept only determination and knowing, and power, calm, so incredibly calm ... There was the narrow entrance to the sphere state - almost leisurely, Harry approached it and went through.

The all-power state, matching every vision, crossing any level, a corridor through existence ...

The tree jumped into his view, like a zoom in a spector globe - but it wasn't growing, rather seemed shrunk, a bonsai plant whose man-sized trunk felt just right to be snapped apart, should he need that space, or feel upset.

Only he felt no anger - quite the opposite, an incredibly high spirit, a sense of strength, and majesty. And these smells - a bouquet richer than anything he'd ever sniffed before. Then his view - it spanned almost a full circle, with only a small sector out of sight, which could be covered instantly with the flick of an eye. His eyes could move independently from each other - why hadn't he noticed before?

Harry made a few tentative steps ... Just in time, he remembered to leave these trees unbroken; he had no intention of providing traces which - by any wizard - would be related to a dragon. Only there wasn't enough space for him.

Turning, he felt a powerful tail that balanced out the momentum while blowing underbrush aside. Aiming for space ...

His body moved, then soared up - mighty wings were beating the air, kept in motion through strings like ship ropes, driven by muscles which felt tireless, strong enough to cross an ocean.

---

The tree tops fell below. Gliding forward, Harry recognized a shadow that was moving underneath, painted sharply in the bright moonlight. His shadow - a dragon shape!

A scream of triumph broke in his mind, boiling up, reaching his mouth, and shooting out as a thundering jet of fire, seemingly short, compared to his new body, even though he guessed its blast at thirty feet, maybe more.

Sailing over the trees, downhill toward the sea, Harry realized - tireless had been just the feeling of the first moments; dragons were no long-distance flyers.

Arriving over the beach, in fair distance from the closest town, he swerved down until his claws were touching the wet sand. It was a perfect landing - part of his role or the result of Quidditch training over years? Whatever.

And now, the second test.

Sphere state - all right, Harry stood on the beach, the waves lapping at his feet ... human feet, and legs, feeling as if he'd run for miles, something he'd never done before.

The brain booster was still singing in his blood, forming a union with the triumph in his mind, in his soul. This was the right time for another performance.

Relax ... sphere ... the zoom jump again, telling him quicker than any other sense that he'd successfully transfigured. A short jet, roaring orange-yellow, erupted almost reflexively.

Spreading his wings, climbing into the air, Harry learned that dragons paid a hefty price for every foot of air travel, and this time his course led uphill, no longer an effortless sailing.

Had he found a plain large enough, he would have touched down to travel the rest with apparition, so tired he was. But the forest stretched uphill without offering any gap before the top.

He almost crashed through the trees, then bumped to the ground. A dragon couldn't gasp - but he could be too exhausted for the backward transfiguration.

Some minutes later, he had recovered, now feeling painfully hungry. Better he satisfied this need as a human ... Better he found the way back into his own shape.

And a dragon felt no doubt. A moment later, Harry could listen to the shrieking protest in the muscles of his own arms and legs. Well, it couldn't be much worse than three hours of aikido.

He was wrong. It could. Much worse.

Part of it was probably the payment for the booster dope. His original plan - to fetch Francesco Lopez for a thorough search - had to wait till tomorrow. Harry apparated back to Hogwarts and told his alarm clock that he was deadly serious for ten o'clock, which left him six hours of sleep.

* * *

The drill sergeant's bellowing pulled Harry out of a thick, shapeless mist, abandoned only with reluctance because it was so warm and cosy. Then he was sufficiently awake to remember the previous day, and all the pending tasks.

He had slept in his clothes. And he felt pretty sure that his smell would be bad enough to frighten off any dragon.

After a long shower, burning hot followed by freezing cold, after dressing in fresh clothes, after a visit of the house elves to gain some food - so much actually that even Dobby had a strange look - Harry felt almost normal ... Normal for a return from the Ile de la Tortue, notorious for its various dopes and energy-draining events.

At this time of day, everybody else was in classes. So he apparated to London, first to talk with Gringotts about the account for Beatrice, then to check with Spinbottle whether Mr Lightfoot had already come to terms.

He hadn't, which didn't worry the lawyer in the least. "He will, Mr Potter - within the next two weeks, believe me ... Money's a sirens' song for him."

Harry arrived back in Hogwarts just in time for lunch. Even though his breakfast was less than two hours past, he felt ready for another pile of food.

Ron examined him. "Hello, Harry, long no see. What happened to you? When I woke up this morning, I found you, fully dressed, on your bed. I just put the cover over you."

"Thank you. It's the effect from a brain dope I took to - er, find something out."

"Brain dope? That Giants' stuff?"

"No, but something similar. I got it from Beatrice, Armodéc's mistress."

Hermione tried to find the right expression of astonishment, innocence, amusement -

Harry cut her short in her efforts. "Armodéc's dead."

Hermione lost interest in fake emotions. "How? ... When? ... Where?"

"He's been found dead in a Boston hotel for happy hours - with a vampire bite in this throat, and with - er, all signs of an ecstatic death."

Without so much as a second's thought, Hermione said, "That's no suicide."

"No, it's not." Harry looked at her, wondering. "But how do you know?"

"He's a coward - was a coward, I mean, and cowards don't commit suicide. And he's - was - a bad loser, so he went to someone for his revenge, and this someone saw fit to kill him." Hermione's eyes widened - apparently registering the meaning of Boston, maybe also registering that this would not necessarily exclude revenge, involving herself.

Harry nodded. "Yes - probably Voldemort. Beatrice said he's been in some loose contact for quite some time, and that he's been trying to squeeze me for the current state of my search. And I had no clue."

Ron asked, "Did you tell him?"

"No - for all he knew, we're stumbling through the mist."

Grinning, Ron turned to Hermione. "That's our Harry - thick as a brick and naive like the proverbial husband, but a set of world-class instincts."

Hermione choked, coughed, and flushed, with a beaming Ron who blamed it all to his remark, and nobody around to wise him up.

---

Harry explained what he had done to provide Francesco Lopez with information and pictures, and that he would apparate to Boston as soon as he could expect the Pinkerton detective in his office.

Then Ron remembered where this conversation had started. "So where does this brain dope fit into the picture?"

"Beatrice was left without any money. Her payment's probably lost in some legal abyss, assuming there's anything left. Anyway, I told her I'd help, and spoke with Gringotts this morning ..."

The glances from Ron and Hermione, although showing much in common, felt nonetheless quite different.

"... and she wanted to return a favour for a favour ..."

The glances were asymptotically converging.

"... well, and it turns out Beatrice is a potions witch. So she gave me this bottle with the dope."

Poor Hermione, whose face showed a rapid succession of emotions, was condemned to keep silent while Ron's grin changed from naughty to appreciating, then apologetic.

"And then - well, I used it for a breakthrough in - er, Transfiguration."

Now Ron just gaped, while Hermione was beaming. "Did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Holy dragon ..." Ron's face was in awe.

Harry grinned. "Not holy, no - but otherwise you're right. I've been flying around a bit - boy oh boy, that's a stressful thing! A Steel Wing's easier."

"And how's it otherwise?"

"Well, I've been under the influence of the dope, so you might ask me again in a few days. Basically ... I'd say, it feels perfectly normal, in a way - you can see almost three hundred and sixty degrees, you smell everything, the trees look small, and you wonder if you should snap a few to make room ... Aside from that, you feel yourself."

Hermione still beamed. "Congratulations, Harry. Does Almyra know?"

"Not yet - I've been so busy ..."

Almyra had noticed the excitement at the Gryffindor table and was more than ready to talk with Harry in her office. The door was barely closed when she asked, "What's new, Harry?"

He smiled. "I've been flying yesterday."

"And what - " Almyra stopped, her eyes growing, her hands grabbing him, her voice breathless. "Tell me - was it ..."

"Yes - a dragon."

Next moment, his sister in spirit hung at him, her arms around his neck, squeezing him with hands, arms, and some other parts of her anatomy. "Oh, Harry - you did it, you really ..." Almyra stopped again, leaning back, looking anxiously. "Tell me it's true - it's no joke."

"It's true. I came across some brain dope - don't ask me how, that's a longer story - and I took it, and tried - and I was a dragon."

Once more, Almyra tried to dance with him through her office.

"Al - I'm too weak for that - dragon flying is such a hard work, and that dope ..."

She let him go. "When can you show me?"

"Hopefully tomorrow - maybe at the old dragon camp." Harry grinned. "It's unbelievable how much space you need for that."

"Can ... can I invite Remus for this demo?"

Harry sobered up. "Let me test it without the dope, okay? Once it has worked just so, I'm ready. Until then" - his finger went to his mouth - "psst."

Almyra smiled. "To everyone?"

"Especially to everyone."

Knowing this feeling so well, Almyra agreed to keep the news confidential, waiting for his okay. A failure in a demonstration - how ridiculous would that look, with such an unconventional aim.

* * *

Confronted with the alternatives of apparating to Boston or falling asleep, Harry went for Boston. Finding doors and windows closed, he decided to wait inside and apparated into the office.

Moments later, he felt a presence outside in the hall and quickly called, "It's me, Francesco."

The door opened, showing a Pinkerton detective in underpants and with an ugly-looking revolver in his hand.

"Damn you - scaring honest people to death, that early in the morning."

"I'm sorry, but I have some trouble with my own sleep. Tell me, how did you notice me?"

"An alarm system, what else? Motion, weight, body heat ... Give me a few minutes." The figure disappeared toward the bathroom.

When Francesco Lopez was showered and dressed, Harry told him that they had time enough for a breakfast. While the detective was slowly settling for a new day, Harry explained what he had in mind, plus a censored summary of the previous evening.

Finishing his third cup of coffee, the detective asked, "Okay, then, can I spend money for a charter flight?"

"Charter? Listen, Francesco, let's go outside and I'll make you a portkey to - "

"Wake up, Harry! I'm a Muggle, remember?"

"Oh dammit ..." Angry toward himself and his slow brain, Harry was just calculating the loss of time on a charter flight of eight hundred-odd miles when he suddenly stopped. "Did we ever try?"

Francesco showed angelic patience. "Linkports don't work for us."

"Linkports, yes. Only I don't program linkports."

Suppressing any further comment, the detective followed Harry behind the house and to a large trash bin.

After a moment, Harry was ready. "Okay - touch it, then we'll know."

"Whatever suits the custo ..." The last word was probably finished, though not here in Boston.

Jubilating inwardly, Harry apparated to the Ile de la Tortue, finding his conversation partner all right. "You see - either my portkeys are superior, or you're a hidden wizard."

"Yeah, great - but we're too late, unless you can do a time machine." The suspected wizard pointed past Harry.

Turning, Harry saw what the detective meant, could even smell it, now that he paid attention. Where he remembered a house in colonial style, a thin column of smoke rose from a pile of ashes and black-smouldered debris.

* * *

During the next days, Harry's hope for locating Voldemort within hours, days at the most, shrank to nil. As Francesco Lopez told him, any attempt the detective had made to investigate into contract whores had hit a brick wall - and where Francesco could manage a dent in that wall, he'd drawn blanks. Who was interested in callgirl rings? Maybe - if it had been a callvampire ring.

While this wasn't encouraging news, Harry felt at least sufficiently recovered to try his first sober dragon. For this purpose, he went to the former dragons' camp.

Sober he was, and unsuccessful too.

He returned to Hogwarts and spoke with Almyra, who said, "That's pretty common, Harry - you're blocking yourself. I mean it doesn't help much knowing that, but ... And I don't think it's a simple transit anyway."

"No, it's not. Did you have the same problem?"

Almyra looked uneasy. "No, but so what, I just had to do an owl, and that's - "

"A fraction of a percent of a dragon, I know. Al, who's trying to fool whom here? We both know it's not a question of quantity."

"But a dragon has magical power."

"And owls have magical skill. C'mon, give me a break."

Almyra sighed. "Listen, you did it the first time with some dope. It worked. And now, somewhere inside, you believe it works only with that dope. That's simple psychology."

"But whan can I do to release this block?"

"You could use the stuff again - only, it would make things worse. You could - " Almyra stopped, grinned, then blushed.

Harry saved her. "I could get laid, only it has some other bad side-effects."

"To the point, Harry. There's a certain - " Almyra stopped again, this time beaming. "That's the keyword - if you can't visit one dragon, at least not for this purpose, just visit another! Be social with dragons, Harry."

Rex was polite but busy. "Harry, old toothpick, you're at your own outside. The camp's moving soon - I'm in papers over my ears."

Which, altogether, didn't need that many papers, what for this dinosaur's size as well as for his fluency in administration tasks. While for Harry, who had only reluctantly warmed up to the idea of showing his - untrained - skill to that man, it was good news.

He greeted Carrie, said hello to Samuel, then went over to the young ones, which almost had reached the size of a full-grown dragon.

Watching them for the quarter of an hour, Harry felt relaxed enough, and social enough - when his eyes followed their movements, their play, he was aware of his own thinking in dragon terms.

All right, then: sphere ... hold it, and - the closest of the chicken dragons zoomed into his view. He'd managed!

---

Next moment, a high-pitched shriek filled the air, and the dragon child - suddenly looking small and quite its age - hurried off, seeking shelter at its mother.

And here she came - glaring, not even stopping to check, full attack right on the spot. A hot wave rushed over Harry's head - on reflex, the protective folds had closed over his eyes. When he opened them again, Carrie was moving alongside him to position herself for the neck-breaking blow of her tail.

"It's me," Harry felt like shouting, managing just a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. Still worse - over there, he could hear the crashing of some male, or males, approaching.

This was no scene for transfiguring back. He lifted his wings, suppressing a moan when another roaring jet from Carrie taught him how sensitive they were to fire attacks - and fled.

Half a mile off the camp, Harry transfigured back, then apparated to Hogwarts.

Almyra inspected him. "You look a bit ruffled."

"It's my pride." Harry told her what had happened.

She was fighting honestly ... Pressing her hands over her mouth - a familiar gesture from past times. Then she lost, bursting out in helpless laughter.

Harry looked as offended as he could. "That's infamous! Only a duel can wash off this ignominy. Meet me at the dragons' camp after supper, together with your second."

To his surprise, his performance had been so convincing that Almyra looked startled.

He winked at her. "I'll come with a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth."

Almyra couldn't laugh any longer. "For an instant you really scared me."

"Let's say that's a good omen for another stage performance."

Challenging himself should do the trick. He collected Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Rahewa - all of them with their broomsticks, for security reasons as much as to avoid the detour to the Hogwarts Express platform.

Almyra and Lupin greeted the others with a smile, and the new Animagus with an encouraging grin. "Harry," said Lupin, "hundred feet distance, please, for the better of us. I won't call - I'll move my arms to the side, up, and down. Okay?"

Harry retreated - apparating, of course, this was no place for humble walk. He stood waiting, then saw his friend's arms move aside, rise, and fall down.

Sphere state ... freedom enough to - an eagle and a dog zoomed into his view, pretty close. The dog turned to run while the eagle spread her wings to climb into the air.

Without hesitation, Harry followed.

And seconds later, he saw four tiny figures on broomsticks closing in, while a dark spot at the ground turned its head up to issue a long howl.

Aiming carefully toward empty air, Harry expressed his wild joy in a thundering jet of fire - forever the subject of discussions between his four seconds - had this been thirty feet, or forty as Ron had it, or still more as Rahewa wasn't tiring to claim?

Harry didn't really care. But he wasn't tiring to listen this debate.

* * *

The Beauxbatons ball came due. It would take place without Harry. Almost, that was - the Grass Dance bit was scheduled, and Rahewa insisted. "I'll dance for my mother," she said.

But this would be all for her part, and so Harry felt sure not to do the same mistake as in the Hogwarts ball - not joining seriously, only to hang around.

It started okay. The conférencier was shouting "Grass Dance," Harry managed his spell, which changed the parquet into a rug of prairie grass, his crew took positions, and began to move.

Watching, Harry felt chills run down his spine. Nobody in the crew who wasn't aware, all of them contributing their own interpretation, astonishingly expressive for their age ... And in the middle, the formation slightly different - Rahewa, faced by Damon who was appealing to her, inviting her, encouraging her to live on ... While Rahewa was changing from demure to desperate in her movements, from radiant to rigid and back to rebellion against fate.

The others faded out, one after the other. Only Rahewa was left in the spotlight - any second now, she would fall down.

She didn't. With her last movement, she came to a standstill, then her arms moved up, hands covering the face, heavy sobs shaking the body of a twelve-year-old.

Harry's arm tried to signal for the spotlight - without success; the man behind didn't know this was no part of the performance.

He just apparated to the spot, took Rahewa onto his arms, heading behind the stage. And mercifully, the hall went black.

Moments later - the parquet was back in place - Harry stood on the stage, a numb and powerless Rahewa at his side, the rest of the crew flanking them.

He turned toward the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, this Grass Dance has been danced in the memory of Naomi Lightfoot, the mother of our Rahewa here. She died some days ago, and the dance is supposed to tell you what Naomi Lightfoot would have said: You're alive, so go and enjoy it! ... Thank you."

Guiding Rahewa, Harry pushed his way through people, down to the linkport. Back at Hogwarts, he said, "Get yourself a coat - I'm waiting here."

Then he realized that he'd be far better off with a coat of his own. When coming downstairs again, the girl was standing there as if delivered and forgotten.

"Let's have a walk."

They reached the spot near Hagrid's grave - and Lousy's, too, despite a cold April night just the right place for what Harry had in mind.

"Rahewa," he said, I have some candidates who'd be ready to adopt you at the spot."

She looked at him.

"I'm none of them - I'm too young, says the law. Anyway, that's delayed, because your father is refusing to let you go."

He had the full attention of two coal-black eyes, shimmering in the scarce moonlight.

"I offered him a deal. Mr Spinbottle's sure he'll accept. The offer's running out in about two weeks. I told him there's an alternative he ought to avoid, because he won't like it, if he - "

Rahewa came to life. "He'll accept."

"You sure?"

"Expect his agreement - er, day after tomorrow."

"Rahewa, what - " Harry stopped, realizing how little sense there was in calling through the nightly air, or after a figure who quickly walked toward the school building, not turning back.

Next evening, after supper, Rahewa signaled Harry to meet her in the Entrance Hall, deserted at this time of day. When he reached her, she said, "He signed the contract today, Harry."

"Super! Then ..." Harry stopped, examined Rahewa's face. "How did you convince him?"

Rahewa's answer came in a flat voice. "I told him that I'd fulfill the Cree tradition which forces me to support him, as long as he lives. And I told him that this life would last one more week - counting from yesterday. He knew I was serious."

"But then - "

"I told him, first I'd kill him, then myself, and then I'd come after him - wherever that might be." Rahewa didn't grin. "You must know, Cree are scared shitless of ghosts."

* * *

Harry's visit, next morning in Mr Spinbottle's office, confirmed Rahewa's information. "You may talk with your bank," said the lawyer, "to set up the pension fund. Then leave Mr Lightfoot to me."

At Gringotts, Harry was invited into a small office where Mr Moroney greeted him with the Goblin equivalent of a thin smile.

"Good morning, Mr Potter. The fund you have in mind - covering a monthly payment of hundred galleons - would be something around twenty thousand galleons."

"Is it? I didn't check."

"Yes, Mr Potter. Unfortunately, after the last payments and by holding aside the guarantee for this month's bill from Pinkerton, your account is down to something of three thousand galleons."

An icy cold creeped down Harry's back.

"Gringotts has followed up your transactions, Mr Potter, and even though we are not supposed to comment on our customer's decisions, let me tell you that we - er, do not object yours."

No money left ... Harry felt numb.

"Gringotts - that is, the Goblins - would even go so far as to cover another month's payment for this agency." Mr Moroney smiled a bit broader. "We know of course the purpose, which we support wholeheartedly. If this additional month wouldn't be sufficient, I'm sure we might find a similar solution - while for more private purposes, I'm afraid we have to handle your request according to standard rules."

Could a Goblin look embarrassed?

Like in trance, Harry stood up. "Thank you, Mr Moroney. I didn't know, I wasn't checking my account - "

"Mr Potter, please keep in mind though - it's not beyond question, there's no problem with some stupid rules. You're certainly trustworthy for a credit."

Harry could smile. "I know, Mr Moroney, I never doubted that. It's just that someone who can spill half a million that quickly might expect some closer investigation, and tighter control. Am I right?"

"Yes, Mr Potter." Goblins definitely could look embarrassed.

"That's understood. Thank you, Mr Moroney, but let me check another possibility first."

Harry had to bide some time before he could expect someone awake in Boston. He did so - partially - in Swashbuckle Sweets, asking carefully, learning that business was running great, that the twins were expanding still, so Harry's loans were in good hands but unlikely to be paid back soon, hopefully he didn't mind, did he?

No he didn't.

When Francesco Lopez heard that they had to strike a hit soon because Harry was running short of money, awfully short actually, the detective nodded. "That's not the only reason, Harry. We have checked almost everything within reach ... There isn't much left."

As promising as this sounded in financial terms, for the second time this day an icy cold was passing Harry's back, reason enough to reach warmer weather - Californian weather.

---

The secretary was all smile, which told Harry it was all fake; nobody could be that joyful so early in the morning, local time.

Cho was perplexed. She looked at him uncertainly. "Harry, you? It's not over yet, is it?"

"No. I'm here for - er, business reasons."

"Business?" Cho smiled. "Not possibly spectors, is it? Then maybe movies?"

"No. It's about Rahewa. Her mother died some days ago, and when - "

"Yes, I heard, but too late for attending the funeral." There was some reproach in Cho's voice.

"I could talk Rahewa into accepting a few people at the funeral - no more than her teammates and McGonagall. I didn't exclude you on purpose."

"Oh ... I should have - sorry, forget it."

"Well, her father didn't want to let her go - for quite selfish reasons. After some conversations, we finally agreed on a deal - he'll get a pension, and Rahewa can pick her new family."

Cho beamed. "Clever Potter - for once using honey rather than the whip."

"Clever, yes ... The fund will be about twenty grand - galleons, I mean. Cho - er, can you lend me twenty grand?"

She stared at him. Next moment, her face glowed in dark red. "You're broke?"

"No - not exactly. There's a rest, and Gringotts told me they won't let me hang with - with the Pinkerton bill. But for other purposes ..."

Cho had found her composure. "Harry, of course I'll ... No, I mean, you don't have to - " She stopped, swallowed. "I can't remember having felt as ash ... Dammit!" She looked up. "Give me a few minutes - you don't have to make debts for that."

Harry watched as Cho made a phone call to her bank, asking some Barney for some minutes of his time, right now - ten minutes from now, exactly.

Cho stood up, looking better. "Wait here, Harry - I'll be back in - er, thirty minutes, the road's free at this time." She pointed to the spector globe at the other end of the large office. "There's a cassette inside - might be of some interest for you."

Out she went, a beaming determination in her face.

Harry found the right controls without trouble. Then he watched - unsurprised - Marie-Christine and her partner demonstrate tango from the basic steps to the most advanced figures.

When the door opened, he turned, about to tell Cho that the cassette was great. But it was Cho's secretary. "Mr Potter - what exactly did Miss Chang tell you where she was planning to go?"

"To her bank - why?"

"Yes - er, the bank manager just called and asked whether she'd still come, or if she'd cancelled ..."

Harry checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes since Cho had left.

He looked at the woman. "Can it be the traffic?"

"No, that's too long, unless something - "

He interrupted her. "Can you drive me that route?"

"Er - yes, of course. Just a second, I'll inform one of the girls."

The secretary came back quickly, looking worried. She guided Harry to an elevator which carried them down into the basement, the park deck of the building.

Approaching a Japanese model, the woman stopped. "That's strange."

"What?"

"Here, that's her car. She didn't use it to ... But then, she wouldn't walk, the bank's two miles downtown."

Harry stared at the shiny limousine, registering its size, the position of this parking lot - near the open entry, near the elevator ... Obviously the boss woman's car.

And for anyone still in doubt, the sign at the wall said 'Cho Chang.'