Potter Professions

Harry appeared in the garden behind the large bungalow of the Weasley summer residence. Being able to keep this size of a garden green in summer, in this part of France, was the ultimate sign of Ron's wealth, and gave Harry pleasure whenever he came here.

This wealth was something new. Ron had known since boyhood what it meant to turn every sickle twice. As a politician in the educational sector, Ron had a good income, but as a politician with the wrong convictions, he'd never hit the pot at the end of the rainbow, the one found so effortlessly by others with better connections. And with a large family ...

In support of Ron's secret work for the Great Plot, Harry and Cho had of course paid him an extra salary. But these payments were as hidden as Ron's work, which meant they went into savings accounts for the children, and Ron and Janine didn't even dream of spending a single euro for themselves.

Finally, some years ago, Ron had struck gold. When the wave of children with magic grew into a tsunami, all the schools which, in time, hadn't listened to the warnings of a certain Ron Weasley found themselves totally unprepared. Ron could use his sudden popularity to publish guides for the cooperation between Muggles and Magicals. It was exactly the topic he had preached about for years, except that now these guides sold like crazy, making even Ron's branch of the Weasley Tribe wealthy enough to buy this estate.

Harry walked to the building. With its white-plastered walls under a red-tiled roof, it represented the rural architecture of this region. His senses told him that there was more than one person inside but certainly less than the complete family plus his own youngest children.

The children probably were elsewhere, maybe at the beach, and only Ron and Janine were home. Hoping he didn't arrive at a very untidy moment, Harry pressed the button for the doorbell. He could hear the chiming inside.

After a moment, the door opened. Janine stood there, leaning at the doorframe. She looked at him with the trace of a smile and more than a trace of neglect.

"Hello, Janine. I do hope my unannounced visit isn't inconvenient for you."

"Salut, 'arry. No, your timing's fine. Actually, this would be a good opportunity to seduce me."

He smiled, acknowledging the joking part while ignoring the bitterness. "Really? But you aren't alone, are you?"

It earned him a real smile in return. "Your manners are truly flawless, 'arry, you didn't even tell me how I look. Come in."

---

He followed her into the kitchen, sat down, and accepted a drink.

Janine took a seat across from him. "The children are all at the lake today. Ron is in his office, writing his next book." She made a wry face. "So you were right. Was it guesswork or did you sense him?"

Harry could sense the presence of people within a certain radius. Janine knew that; however, since this sensing required some efforts and since Harry didn't invest these efforts as a permanent habit, Janine's remark could be understood as a question whether he had some reason to be on constant alert.

"It wasn't guesswork," he replied, "but for no special reason. It's bad enough that I gave up on aikido and kendo. With a daughter like Sandy and a son like Gabriel, you have no choice, you ought to keep a few tricks in which they can't play rings around you."

"That's a worry I lost a while ago." Janine sipped at her own glass, which she had filled with red wine moments ago.

A few minutes earlier, still in Carron Lough, this trademark of French life had been one of the expected attractions. Now, glancing at his sister-in-law, Harry wondered if he could watch a warning signal, and decided to ask.

"Some trouble in paradise?"

"Not with my children," was the immediate answer. "And none with yours, either; they're sweet." At these words, Janine's expression again turned to a genuine smile.

Harry used the opportunity to interrupt, "Then it must be the dog. Bolo."

Janine laughed mockingly. "Yeah, sure, because there isn't anyone else left."

After a moment, in which he gave no reply while tasting every sound of this particular laughter, she said, "You know, money doesn't solve all problems. And sometimes, it raises new ones. And occasionally, it just doesn't play a role."

"Maybe I should drink to this deep insight." Glancing at Janine's glass, he added, "And maybe I shouldn't."

This time, her short laugh was joyful. "Don't you worry, it's not that bad. And what about yourself?"

"Hmm - maybe I came here just before drowning in the booze looked like a good idea."

Janine's face grew serious. "Cho?"

"No ..."

Seeing Janine's expression, he added, "At least not in first place. I was sitting at home, and the walls closed in on me, and I asked myself how to pass the time. Janine, I'm looking for a job. Need a babysitter? I can show first-class references."

"No doubt," replied Janine. "Unfortunately, one of your own references already got the job." She described how Esmeralda found pleasure and satisfaction in tending the youngest, Felix.

"Competing with my own daughter," said Harry. "Somehow, that sounds familiar. And what about for Elaine?"

"That would mean competing with my son. Alain is a very caring older brother." Janine's voice revealed pride. "Maybe you should have tried your luck in Bulgaria."

Janine's remark referred to the Krum children - Hermione had started her family later, so her children were still younger. But no matter how much any stressed mother might welcome Harry on a particular day, these could only be visits, not a full-time job as it had been in the past years with his own children.

Harry's taking care of the children, playing the househusband while Cho ran her Groucho Industries, had started with Sandra. It had continued with Gabriel, and when he and Cho adopted Carlos and Esmeralda, after their parents had been killed, it seemed only natural to keep it that way. Cho had done her sabbatical around that time, had never resumed her Groucho job full time as before, but she had found other ways of spending her time, and after all, why not? Harry loved raising his children.

Now Sandra was sixteen and Gabriel fourteen, both of them old enough to prefer a bit of separation from their parents. Carlos and Esmeralda, now eleven, would start their first term at Hogwarts after the summer break. The prospect of an empty house was one of the reasons why he was sitting here, asking for help.

---

"No," he said, "I guess I should try something entirely new instead."

"At the risk of touching a touchy point" - Janine's smile told him she remembered the past discussions about this issue well - "what would be so bad at doing another movie? Or two, or three?"

Harry snorted. "If I needed the job mainly for money, that would be the best solution for sure. But honestly, Janine, I'm not really an actor, never have been. And playing the kung fu fighter at my age, well ..."

He had played this role in three movies - the Eagle trilogy - immediately after finishing school. His crusade, which had ended with the destruction of Voldemort, had raised a deep desire in him for something simple, something easy, and free of responsibility. Playing the young Caucasian kung fu fighter with his aikido skill had been the perfect choice.

The director, Tony Chee, had become his friend and his partner in practising the arts of weaponless combat. But Tony was dead and gone, so this chapter was closed for him.

"So Tony being dead is not the only reason?" asked Janine right now.

"No," replied Harry. "I'm too old for kung fu, I'm out of practice, and I never learned to play a role that wasn't a mirror of my own situation."

"What about your Animagus shapes?"

Harry had played in other movies as a dragon, his Animagus shape. He had also provided the shape of a Centaur - not his own, that of his Golden Patronus, as something that had to be recoloured in the final movie but provided more natural movements than any computer animation.

"Dragons are out of fashion," answered Harry. "At least that's true for movies, and as you know, I'm not going to do commercials. While the Centaur shape - well, I always felt a bit ashamed, misusing it for a movie."

Janine nodded. "Yes, I can understand that. And the Great Plot - it's funny to watch how this project employs all kinds of people but not you."

Harry flushed. "These days it's mostly administration, and, you know - me and routine work ..."

The Great Plot had started fourteen years ago. It was a conspiracy with the goal of converting all Muggles to Magicals, involving the High Priestess at the top, the Goblins in the middle, and Groucho Biochemicals at the bottom. But Harry had been, and still was, the spirit behind the plan, no doubt about that.

The goal was not reached yet, not completely. But for the last four years already, since nearly every child on earth showed magical power, there wasn't much plotting left to do. Now it was a mere administration task, resting in hands better suited for routine work than Harry's. Janine's remark referred to some other people's involvement in the Great Plot - that of Ron all these years, and that of Cho lately in her position as a MABEL executive.

Now she asked, "What about Groucho?"

Harry looked amazed. "You know what happened the last time, don't you?"

"Yes, I know." Janine waved impatiently. "But that's as old a story as your fame and, besides, Cho is no longer CEO, so wouldn't there be a place for you somewhere in the company?"

Harry didn't think so. Groucho was Cho's playground. The fact that she was seen in the Headquarters hardly once a week made no difference to him. He had messed in her business once, at the age of seventeen, and this lesson stuck. Time might pass, circumstances might change, but he wasn't ready to do more than play the occasional consultant in Groucho meetings, offering his opinion when asked, and his occasional help in the matters of portkey production.

Some years ago, the Law Enforcement Squad would have offered him a job any time, any hour of the day. The Squad no longer existed, not as an independent authority. His godfather, Sirius Black, had been their last chief, before his early retirement had cleared the way for the Squad's integration into the regular police forces.

As Sirius was only in his sixties, this retirement hadn't really come that early. Nonetheless, he felt as though he'd been moved aside, and drove his wife, Deborah, crazy. He and Harry shared the need for something to do, something more meaningful than writing their memoirs.

---

"If you don't need a job for money like other people," said Janine with some exasperation, "then why can't you develop a hobby that consumes all your free time?"

Because his children were his hobby, Harry was tempted to reply. He left it unsaid out of respect for Janine, who might face the same void in some years, when even Felix, her youngest, was old enough to get along without his mother. Aside from that, he had tried to find a hobby. Sailing - an outdoor sport, seemingly natural for someone living in a castle that overlooked the Irish Sea. Sailing had been an attempt to compensate for his fading interest in aikido and the other martial arts he used to practise with Tony, and didn't want to practise with anyone else. Sailing was something you could do alone.

Provided you were a sailor. Harry wasn't.

He did okay. He could sail a boat, yes. But he never exceeded the level of a "good weather sailor," not in his own eyes, because he'd never caught the excitement, the true adventurer's fever. And besides, his family also showed limited enthusiasm for it. They had better things to do than sit in a ketch or a katamaran just because the helmsman was Harry.

There was one hobby which Harry could imagine himself doing for hours, days, week after week. This was music. Learning how to play the guitar, and playing it on and on, was a dream he sometimes had. He had never told anyone, never even tried, and for good reason. Confronted with his son Gabriel and the other people in Gabriel's band, he would have looked like an old fool in his amateurish attempts. They were just too good.

"Well," said Janine when he kept silent, "if there isn't anything new that would solve your problem, maybe you should return to old ways. The other day, Ron said he could use someone with a sense for oddities as good as yours."

"I wasn't aware of this quality," replied Harry, nonetheless feeling pleased. "It also takes me by surprise to hear that Ron, of all people, saw that in me."

Janine grinned. "Well, what he really meant - and what I tried to express in polite words - was more something like your presence alone ensures that the shit will hit the fan some time soon ... Provided there is some." She touched his hand. "And never mind the expression - it was definitely meant as approval."

"And what was it? Or where?"

"Something with schools, what else?"

He could hear the weariness in her voice.

"I didn't pay attention to details, if there were any. This is also the reason why I'm sending you alone to him - if I hear him talking again about schools, I might start screaming."

"Is he so single-minded recently?"

"An acute case of workoholism for sure." Janine's jawline tensed. "You may tell him that - maybe he listens to you more. And you may tell him also that, even if we aren't going to have another child, there's nothing that forbids screwing his wife, because if he's not going to do it, then - "

She stopped herself, looking pleadingly at Harry. "Please find a better way to express the message, but make sure the message comes through, and clearly."

Next moment, a quick grin crossed her face. "What about that job?"

"Erm - maybe I should talk with Ron first." Seeing Janine's face at this reply, Harry added, "And, besides - wouldn't this exactly match the description you gave a moment ago? About my presence alone, and what'll happen soon?"

Her laughter accompanied him all the way to Ron's office.

* * *

The rehearsal was over. Released from their obligations, the band members were sitting idly, noodling around.

Ireen set the sleeping Timothy down and started to dismount the electromagic equipment while the girls looked at each other, wondering if they should ask for their favourite pieces. Since the three musicians knew them by heart, they hadn't felt the need to play them as well.

Gabriel put the accordion away in its case. Because of its silky bellows, the instrument was considerably more delicate than his small wooden flute, even though it was so much bigger. Even with the bellows tied together, he wouldn't leave it exposed to accidental damage.

This done, he sat down on his own stool for another moment, idly listening to Tomas' guitar. The gypsy seemed to be doing hardly more than a leisurely stretching of finger muscles, but he would have gathered an audience quickly, had there been other people around.

Gabriel relaxed in preparation for scanning his memory. What girl had he heard singing?

He'd been six or seven; they'd been living in Ireland, though it wasn't long after the move from California to Carron Lough. Beverly, who'd been his babysitter on the few occasions when both of his parents had had other obligations, had found herself double-booked, with two jobs on the same evening.

It was probably because the Potters had called her at the last minute, Gabriel reflected - otherwise, Beverly wouldn't have accepted the other job.

Anyway, she'd managed, by bringing both children over to her own apartment. And when Gabriel, after some prompting from Beverly, had confessed that he'd begun playing flute, the other little girl had explained that she sang, and had sung a song. Or maybe two.

She'd been a bit older than he, if he remembered correctly. And her name ... something Irish, but similar to a name that was more common ... similar to Kathleen ...

"Caitlin!"

Ireen halted her step and looked at him questioningly. "Caitlin? Who's that?"

"A girl I heard singing once," said Gabriel, smiling with childhood remembrances. "It was long ago, and I have no idea whether it's realistic in any sense - but she's all that comes to my mind for singers, so I guess I should try."

"Right," said Ireen. "And the sooner, the better ..." She grinned. "Using the opportunity, if you can follow my drift."

Oh yes, Gabriel could. Creating a fait accompli until the next time Héloise, the barrier between the band and a singer, paid attention to her Dragonfly fellows. Or duties.

To find the girl, he had to find Beverly first. To find Beverly, he had to ask her mother, Chrissy Vanzandt, who was his mother's former assistant and, today, her successor to the highest chair in Groucho Industries.

It would be interesting to watch their reactions: that of Beverly, and that of this girl, Caitlin. Especially when he said what he wanted from her - and there would be the inevitable question, and he would say yes, he was indeed serious ...

Already grinning in anticipation, Gabriel walked to the bag with his phony, the magical version of a cellular phone as manufactured by Groucho, to call Mrs Vanzandt. She wouldn't be on holiday, not while his mother took time off to spend a few weeks in far-off Canada.

She wasn't in his shortkey list either. So he pressed the request button and said, "Mrs Vanzandt, please - Groucho Headquarters, Dublin."

A few seconds passed, then the still-familiar voice of Beverly's mother said, "Gabriel, is that you?"

"Yes, Mrs Vanzandt, hello, it's - " He stopped himself, remembering his manners. "Er - do you have a minute for me?"

"Ahh - can I call you back? In about ten minutes?"

"Yes, sure, I'll be here." He pressed the disconnect button.

---

Looking up, he could see that the girls were still uncertain what to do next. Sophia, who was their spokesperson because the holiday house at the Black Sea, a few miles north of Primorsko, had been rented by her parents, asked Gabriel, "So what's going to happen here now? Do we get our favourite music?"

Gabriel grinned back. "You mean the Chitty Chats?"

The Chitty Chats were a girl group who currently ranked on top of the charts. They were a far cry from Dragonfly in both success and musical quality, though in different directions for the two criteria.

"No," replied Tanitha with some disgust, then added accusingly, "You know what we mean! Your music."

Gabriel shook his head. "I'm waiting to be called back - I can't concentrate on music in this kind of mood. And most likely I'll be gone for a while after this call. But why don't you ask Tomas to play?"

Tomas was the only band member who couldn't be found easily, because didn't hang around all day at the holiday house or the beach, so it seemed only natural to use the opportunity.

However, natural apparently meant different things for boys of fourteen and girls of eight. "No, not him," said Sophia, obviously expressing a shared opinion. "If you can't play, can you summon us back?"

Gabriel glanced at the guitar player, to see how Tomas handled such an offhanded rebuke of his string artistry. The gypsy looked the same as a second before, except perhaps for a slight twisting in the corner of his mouth - a change Gabriel noticed only because he had felt Tomas' amusement in his mind. After all, neither the Serrano family nor the entire gypsy tribe were short of kids of all ages, so being used, misused, or ignored by children had to be a familiar experience for him.

Gabriel examined the waiting group. "Summoning, huh?"

Expectant nods. What they meant was something truly unique, something no one else could offer - chain summoning. They would hold each others' hands, and Gabriel would summon all of them together to the house near Primorsko. Not one after the other, no matter how quickly - no, simultaneously.

During the last six years, Gabriel had perfected his summoning technique, to the effect that today he left everyone else behind. It was his way of coping with an experience in which his previous abilities had been insufficient to let several people escape from a deadly trap. They had, eventually, escaped - thanks to Sandra's efforts, supported by Gabriel's own power and that of Héloise and Michel.

Since then, Gabriel practised summoning like he practised playing the flute - in other words, using every opportunity.

Of course, the girls weren't really dependent on his skill. They all had porties, which were phonies combined with a magazine portkey; pressing a button was all they had to do in order to appear in the Krum holiday house. It had been a question of honour for Gabriel's father to provide these porties for all children, as his own way in preparing for holidays in which his son's band caused the need for journeys between the Durmstrang school and a house at the Black Sea. It didn't turn him bankrupt; porties were manufactured by Groucho Transports and Security.

But a portkey journey was a lonely affair, compared to group summoning, and so Gabriel felt no surprise to see all four girls nod in unison.

"And Timothy?"

Before any of the girls could answer, Ireen said, "Leave him with me - no need to wake him up now." Her voice sounded casual, and only someone with a finer sense might have noticed that Ireen, a Muggle for the longest part of her life, felt somewhat scared at the thought of Timothy involved in a group summoning that relied on hands holding each other.

Someone like Gabriel, for example - who simply nodded and said, "All right, then. Gather round, my ladies ..."

Beaming in expectation, the four girls formed a circle together with Gabriel, grabbing each other's hands. Suddenly it looked very much like a scene in a kindergarten class.

Gabriel looked at the youngest of them. "Come on, Alex, count us down."

This counting down was a necessary part of the ceremony, and woe to Gabriel if he forgot. A small risk, after all, since Gabriel himself had been the one to introduce the habit, taking over a ritual his father had established when Sandra was a girl of three.

Five-year-old Alexandra looked important and fully concentrated. "Five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... go!"

Gabriel, perfectly aware of the four other presences in physical contact with each other and himself, apparated and summoned at once. They appeared on the small patch of grass in front of the Krum house, exactly what he had selected as their apparition target.

He could as well have carried them directly into the house. But the blast from five bodies displacing an equivalent volume of air, even bodies as small as these girls', would create two tornados, first a real one which would damage the orderly room, and then a metaphorical one from Hermione to damage Gabriel's pride. He could do without that.

He accompanied the girls inside to make sure they wouldn't be alone in the house. When he saw Viktor look up and smile at the group, he waved a hello before apparating back to the Durmstrang hall.

---

Contrary to what he'd said to the girls, he could well put his flute to his lips and whistle some snippets while waiting for Mrs Vanzandt to call back. But this was something totally different - single notes, incoherent phrases, little more than breathing through a flute rather than through his nose, while his mind wandered back to memories of Beverly's babysitting.

Then Mrs Vanzandt called, and the first thing she said was, "Say, why don't you just come over, so we can talk over a cup of tea?"

Yes, why not indeed? Gabriel apparated into the lobby of the Groucho Headquarters, the closest point possible because all offices in the higher ranks were protected by apparition locks, another product manufactured by Groucho Transports and Security. From the lobby, it took him only seconds to use a portkey lift to the CEO's antechamber, and from there he could walk through the open door into Mrs Vanzandt's office.

She looked up, smiling. "Hello, Gabriel, have a seat. How are things in Carron Lough?"

"Good, I hope. I just came from Durmstrang."

"You came from where?"

"From Durmstrang, the school in Bulgaria. We use their Great Hall for on-stage rehearsals."

Mrs Vanzandt started to giggle, stopped, then looked at him with a slight touch of embarrassment. "Sorry, Gabriel - you know, sometimes it's still a kind of culture shock for me." She shook her head. "Me saying, 'Why don't you come over,' and you ..."

Chrissy Vanzandt was remarkable in more than one way. Probably her most impressive attribute, in her job as the Groucho chief executive officer, was her Muggle nature; she had never shown interest in being converted to a witch by the High Priestess.

"Why? You were right," said Gabriel apologetically.

"Yes, sure, I know that you might as well have been in Japan, it's only that knowing is one thing and being used to ... Anyway," Mrs Vanzandt interrupted her own musings, "what can I offer you? Tea? Soda? Orange juice?"

"Tea is fine, thanks. You know, they drink a lot of tea in Bulgaria - tasting the home brew once in a while is nice."

"Why, is it that bad down there?"

"Not at all." Gabriel shook his head in emphasis. "They know what they're doing with their tea. No, it's just totally different - not quite as strange as tea in Japan, but - "

Mrs Vanzandt laughed. "Oh yes, I only can agree with that."

As the Groucho CEO, Beverly's mother travelled to Japan when visiting the production plants. Gabriel and Michel together paid visits to Miyikura Inc., not only the manufacturer of Michel's tubular drums, not only the manufacturer of the finest wood flutes you could find around the globe, but also Dragonfly's second-largest sponsor after Groucho. They offered their own instruments for free, which was more generous than it sounded, considering their prices. For Gabriel and Michel, visiting Miyikura gave the same thrill that visiting a theme park gave to other boys.

The tea arrived, and Gabriel told Mrs Vanzandt why he was looking for Beverly.

"A singer, hm? Well, this should be the country to find one. At any rate, I don't remember the families for whom Beverly did babysitting." Mrs Vanzandt looked wondering. "But why didn't you call her directly?"

"Well, erm ..." Gabriel shrugged. "It's been a while since the last time I saw her. I mean, I know she studies medicine in Edinburgh, but - er, calling her without preparation somehow would have felt like apparating into someone's family room when you could as well come to the door and ring the bell."

Mrs Vanzandt smiled warmly. "You're so much like your father, especially where he and Cho do contrast so sharply - "

Noticing the expression on the face of Gabriel, his mother's most devoted fan, Mrs Vanzandt laughed. "Yes I know, but I can claim a friendship of twenty years with your mother, and if that doesn't allow me to point out a few truths, then I don't know."

Politeness prevented Gabriel from protesting aloud. However, good manners weren't enough to avoid his look, not at a time when he himself worried a bit about the coolness between his parents.

Maybe a similar thought just had crossed Mrs Vanzandt's mind, because she dropped the issue at once.

"Beverly had a practical for some bloody knifework or other, just at the end of the semester. She wasn't sure how long it would take, but she planned to be on holiday right the next day with her friends." Mrs Vanzandt showed a grin. "With one of them in particular."

"Where?"

"Somewhere in Spain - a campsite by the Mediterranean, if I remember correctly." Mrs Vanzandt wrinkled her nose. "Call me a snob if you want, Gabriel, but I'd have preferred a bit more luxury for my daughter ... Oh, it's not the young man's fault, they both could afford more than a tent, but this group is truly classless, from what I've been told, and for some of them tents are the only choice."

Beverly was twenty-three, old enough to make her own decisions, and camping by the shore sounded lovely to Gabriel. For their own group in Bulgaria, with a two-year-old as the youngest, a house made things simpler, but Beverly and her friends didn't have this problem.

He finished his tea with Mrs Vanzandt and thanked her for the information, then went down to the lobby. Seeing the crowded hall, he went out into the small park that surrounded the large building. During lunch time, the park would be full, but now he had the choice between several benches.

---

He sat down on a bench under a tree and fetched his phony. "Beverly Vanzandt, please - either in her student apartment in Edinburgh or at a campsite in Spain, on the Mediterranean coast."

Seconds passed - more than at his previous call. Then Beverly's unmistakable voice said, "Gabriel! Where are you?"

Before he could answer, a squeak came over the phone and Beverly's voice saying, "No! Don't do that! ... Stop it, now!"

The words were accompanied by so much giggling that Gabriel didn't feel like interrupting. After a moment, he said, "Right now I'm sitting in the park behind Groucho Headquarters. I wanted to ask you a question."

"Then ... ouch ... Cameron!" After a second, somewhat quieter, Beverly's voice again. "Gabriel, why don't you come over here? Cameron won't let me talk with a guy he doesn't know, not over the phone." Another giggle.

Gabriel had to grin in symphathy. "You mean, he's going to relax at seeing me?"

"What? No, quite the opposite," replied Beverly, "I thought you'd come and teach him manners."

Gabriel suppressed a laugh. True, he didn't need a wand to teach any person a lesson. Only that was the last thing he had in mind, bullying a total stranger of whom he knew just the name and that this man was deeply in young love with Beverly. The funny thing was that years ago but for quite a while, Beverly had had a terrible crush on Gabriel's father, so much so that everybody couldn't help but notice. At that time, Beverly would have died of shame to learn that everybody knew. And now she behaved as though she had gotten herself the most jealous man one might find, and found pleasure in letting someone else teach him lessons.

Gabriel wasn't ready to believe in the jealousy at such a degree, nor in Beverly's serious wish to give her boyfriend lessons. But meeting her sounded like a good idea. Enjoying the company of grown-ups, no matter how young, instead of children between two and eight, even for a little while - that had appeal right now.

"Okay then," said Gabriel into the phony. "Please tell him to watch out - if you ever manage to tell me where you are, and if I can find the way."

* * *

When he heard the doorbell chime, Ron Weasley didn't pay much attention. There were many possibilities as to who it could be, and most of them didn't matter to him.

Then he heard voices without recognizing them, except that one of these voices had to be that of his wife. Then he heard nothing, which meant Janine was sitting with the visitor somewhere, probably in the kitchen. This limited the number of possibilities.

Now Janine laughed, loudly. This narrowed the alternatives down to just a few. It had to be a family member. From the Baillard family, it could be Raoul, Janine's brother closest in age, and a possibility Ron couldn't estimate better, for he didn't know Raoul's whereabouts these days.

From his own family, it could be his sister Ginny. Her sharp tongue would raise such laughter. But Ginny would be drowning in work at this time of the year - the autumn collections would hit the market soon, and model agencies were spinning in a frenzy to manage the photo shootings.

However, Ron could cross off some other siblings. Certainly not Bill - Janine liked Bill, but Ron's oldest brother just wasn't the type to raise a roaring laughter. A smile, yes, any time, but if Bill ever learned a new dirty joke, he would tell his wife Fleur privately, so she could tell it in public. She was so much better at that task.

The visitor was certainly neither of the adult twins, either. Janine's excitement about Fred's and George's kind of humour could only be called limited. She considered them both to be not quite mature, and she never forgot certain remarks they'd made during tight times, while the twins could practically print their own money with the successes of Swashbuckle Sweets, their sweets company. Listing Percy in this context was a waste of time and energy.

This left just one sibling, an adopted one, and also the most likely source of Janine's outburst. Harry.

This, in turn, raised the question of why Harry was here. Ron would hear about it any moment now, but he preferred to be prepared for Harry's presence.

The reason was that - well, his friend and brother would be deeply astonished to learn that, to Ron, his presence, and especially his arrival, always came as something of an attack. There was no rational explanation, or perhaps a very simple one: the Great Plot. It was Harry's work, from Ron's perspective, and this work had condemned Ron to a career as an undercover agent in public for ten years. At a time when everything seemed fine, Voldemort dead, old threats gone, Harry had started something new and - in its own way - more frightening than any Death Eater plot Ron had ever seen. And Ron's own role was that of the preacher among pagans.

Several times, these pagans seemed to become cannibals. Agreed, only in a metaphorical sense, except that for a politician there were moments when the literal sense might have been preferable.

For the last few years it had paid off. Ron could finally have the life he had dreamed of, could spoil his family beyond reason if he felt the impulse, but deep down he kept a kind of wariness toward things coming from Harry's direction, most notably Harry himself.

So what could it be?

Coming to check the well-being of his children? That couldn't be the sole reason; the list of Harry's flaws did not include the belief that he alone could handle them. Coming to report news? Bad news? Maybe that this strange rift between Harry and Cho had deepened beyond a certain limit? Or good news?

No. In either case, Harry would have chosen another time. It was something urgent and immediate. An accident or another unpleasant event could be dismissed at once - such an urgency would not have faded so suddenly in the presence of Janine alone. Which left only solitude - an acute attack of loneliness, boredom, frustration -

A knock at the door.

Ron decided to gamble a bit and called, "Come in, Harry!"

---

The door opened, showing exactly the face and the figure he had predicted. Harry came in, stepped closer, then leaned against a sideboard and smiled.

"What a clever boy you are! Always have been, come to think of it."

"Only a bit insensitive, huh?"

Harry looked confused. "Do you expect me to protest? This particular flaw in your character is exactly the reason why I'm here."

"Oh, really?" Ron leaned back in his chair. "Then how come I suspect you of trying to catch me in my own wisecrack?"

"Your bad conscience." Harry grinned. "And besides - about that, I was ordered to reprimand you a little bit. It should be no problem for you to determine the origin of this order, should it?"

Ron's eyes narrowed. "Wanna polite answer or an honest one?"

"Actually, none at all," replied Harry nonchalantly, "because this was a rhetorical question. What I'm ordered to tell you is this, you should drop your keyboard and mouse every now and then and use your joystick instead ... the built-in one," he added after a second, "in case you wondered."

"I didn't." Ron felt a twist at his mouth, however not from a humorous impulse. "Can we now come to your problems?"

Harry held his arms up like in a kind of surrender. "I'm sorry - I didn't ask for this particular messenger job, so don't look at me that way. But you know what? It takes one to know one."

"Huh?"

"What I mean is, I won't ask you when you did it with your wife the last time, and you won't ask me how long it's been that I did it with mine. All right?"

Disarmed in shared guilt, Ron grinned wryly. "And it's not even because we'd have an affair with another woman. What a bloody shame, isn't it? Well, my excuse is - writing is such a creative process, it consumes up all of your libido. And what's your - "

"Stop it!"

Harry shook his head. "Don't excuse yourself, don't apologize, least of all to me - as I said, it was just a message I had to deliver. I'm here to ask for a job, and Janine hinted that you might have something for me."

"Really?" Ron couldn't follow at once. "What did she say?"

"Something about sending me would be enough to let things develop to the worst ..."

He still couldn't remember any such conversation with Janine.

"... and it had to do with schools, probably that's why Janine suppressed the memory of any detail."

"Ah - that." He nodded. "Yes, at least I can remember now. But that's more of a bad joke than any specific idea. It was just - I remembered how you found things out of nowhere, traces, and there was a school situation in which such an ability would be welcome. But I can't see any job for you in that, so let's look somewhere else."

"Would you please tell me what you're talking about? Me, finding things? What did I ever find? It was always the other way around, things found me - with trouble taking first place." Harry's expression showed a mix of stubbornness and desperation.

Somehow it looked very familiar to Ron. "I know," he said, "those were Cho's words - you aren't looking for trouble, trouble finds you. But it never was really true, I mean, not since we've known each other. Whenever things looked smooth and straight, you had a talent to see the odd corners, to figure out that something was fishy."

"But I always had help - "

"That's exactly what I mean," interrupted Ron. "You meet these people, these figures nobody else would notice. Remember how you uncovered the Magical Tours conspiracy? It all started with a bloody first-year Ravenclaw, sitting at the lunch table and crying."

"Oh, that." Harry smiled at the memory. "Young Damon, who didn't reply to his parents' mail. But he was a second-year then."

"Whatever. This ability of yours - it's a pity the Law Enforcement Squad doesn't exist anymore. You'd fit there seamlessly." Ron sighed. "Maybe you should apply to the regular police ... Criminal Investigation, I mean."

"And maybe you should just tell me what it was that made you wish I was there."

---

Ron chuckled, however more from embarrassment. "Funny you use these words - the typical holiday greeting. Because it's a school, exactly as Janine said. And there were some things that made me think, this is just one coincidence too many ... Maybe I tried to play Harry, after all these years." He felt his cheeks flush.

"And who said you weren't successful?" asked the real Harry. "I'm the wrong person to argue about coincidence versus fate, I gave up on that game long ago. So please, just tell me what caught your attention."

Ron sighed deeply. "There's a school. It's not a - " He stopped himself. "No - wait a second, you should get the facts in the order I got them, I want to see whether you come to the same conclusion I did. It starts with - " Halting again in mid-sentence, he rummaged through his desk, stood up, walked over to an attaché case, extracted a sheet, and came back.

"This is a letter that I got." He passed it over to Harry, who started reading.

When Harry looked up again, Ron explained, "I get many letters with a plea for help, in one way or another. Most of them are filtered out before they can reach me. What comes through is special in some regard - it means it's more than just begging for money or influence or breaking the rules or whatever. That's how I came to read this letter."

Harry glanced at the sheet in his hands. "This special school in Brest, what is it?"

"Right, that was my next step, too." Ron nodded in satisfaction about a shared first response. "The school is called Ecole des Etudiants Magiques Gênés and it's exactly what the name says, a school for magically handicapped students. Those who can't cast spells like others, who show only traces of magic, or no magic at all, or just need more time to learn spells than a normal student ..."

Ron had as much authority over this school - or as little - as he had over any other in the European Community, in which he was an employee in the culture and education section. Someday, after the completion of thorough research, they would know whether these students were real squibs, Muggles resistant to magic, or just children whose mothers never ate or drank any of the food or drinks in which the magic-inducing potion was hidden. For the time being, treating the symptoms was the only cure.

"The school is big, although not the only of its kind in France, and it receives students from all over the country. That's why it's a boarding school. It's located on the estate of a former Navy cadet school."

Harry snorted. "I wonder what the locals think about this particular change. And I wonder what the students themselves think of this estate. But anyway - what was your next step?"

"Guess what? What every good bureaucrat would have done in this situation: check the reports."

"Ah, yes, of course - that's a great source of information about oddities."

Ron smiled triumphantly. "You shouldn't comment on things you don't know about, Harry - actually, that's a bad habit you developed over the years. It didn't happen to you when we were together in school. But to come back to - "

He stopped because Harry was chuckling heavily, apparently unable to calm down. "What's so funny?"

"There must be some nostalgic filter on your memory," explained Harry. "But that's fine with me, so - never mind, just go ahead."

---

Ron made a mental note to see about this filter in the next weeks with some contemporary witnesses like his sister-in-law Fleur, then continued, "Well, what you obviously don't know is that every school for children who are handicapped in some physical or mental sense, or magical like here, is ordered to report any event out of the ordinary, including every accident that requires more than outpatient treatment ..."

Harry bowed silently, acknowledging the defeat of his prejudice against bureaucracy.

"... For a school of that size, the amount of violence between students seemed astonishingly low, in particular when taking into account how much frustration they must feel. At first I thought this might be a benefit from the psychological support services this school offers - "

"No, there's another reason," interrupted Harry. "Coming to that school, all these students suddenly realize that they aren't the only freaks around. That's something you never forget."

Ron felt pleased, and showed his feelings in a smile. "See, I had to ask a psychologist to figure that out."

"Not your fault," replied Harry. "You grew up with the full knowledge that you're a wizard, while I got the Dursley treatment." Harry touched the double scar at his forehead. "There's a built-in freak expert inside here."

"Okay, so watch out. The reports also listed some suicides. In such a school, it shouldn't be too surprising. I mean - remember how Bill lost his magic for just a few weeks, and how close he came to jumping from a bridge?"

Harry nodded. Bill's temporary loss of magic, together with an almost deadly fever, had been the triggering event that brought the Potters and the High Priestess together.

"I checked a few more numbers. For example, the ratio of teachers applying for transfer. It's high, compared to other schools, still higher compared to other schools for handicapped children. But then, this type of handicap is fairly new, so it'll take a while for these schools to be as stable as those for physically or mentally handicapped students."

Harry said, "I'm in no position to agree or disagree with your judgement."

"No, you're not. At this point, I decided to forget it. There wasn't the slightest hint of anything weird. A school with traumatized students, lots of stress for students and teachers alike ..." Ron looked at Harry. "It may sound brutal, uncaring. But believe me - in my position, I can't arrive on a white horse to save every damsel in distress, not like some other people."

"Whoever that may be" - Harry looked pleased - "all I can say is, apparently you did not forget."

"Purely by accident," replied Ron. "A few weeks later, the new quarterly reports were due. And because I hadn't completely managed to forget about this letter, I had nothing better to do than check the newest report from that school. And - well, there was another suicide."

"Jean-Jacques Delacroix," said Harry, and there was no question in his voice.

"Right. It was one of these moments - something touches you, if only from a distance. Just because I remembered the name ... This time I called a psychologist in that school - actually, that's when I got explanations for the low violence and the high transfer ratio. This doctor offered to send me the files of all four suicides, and I said okay."

Harry sat silently, expectantly.

"Three of these four suicides were in the last year - " Ron made a dismissive gesture. "You know the old saying - don't trust statistics you didn't fake yourself. And I have seen my share of statistics. I knew that all these numbers were within likely ranges."

Harry smiled. "If you think I could locate the triggering detail with this little information, or ask the right question, your estimation of my fishy sense is totally unrealistic. But obviously, something in the files rang the alarm bell in your mind."

Ron smiled back. "Maybe alarm is too strong a word, but otherwise you're right. And this was the moment when I wished I had this special feeling - "

"Hey," interrupted Harry, "don't make it more thrilling than necessary! What else did you find?"

"I checked the grades of the students who had committed suicide. The first two showed no magical improvement whatsoever, fully matching the picture. But the last two were different - and this Jean-Jacques Delacroix was graded as 'weak magic but reliable results'."

Ron looked at his friend. "So he wouldn't have been a powerful wizard, but a wizard for sure. Why does such a student commit suicide?"