Stacking the Deck

The weekend couldn't get there fast enough for Rose Jones, confused and conflicted professor of both the Dark Arts and now the Defense Against the Dark Arts. Her ego rebelled at the thought of lying outright to her newest students. They had all been so eager, so intense, so... so, something she recalled in herself. After listening to all twenty of them describe their backgrounds and, with just the tiniest indication of interest from herself, their hopes and dreams of a future in which they single-handedly held back the tide of dark magic and helped others live better lives, speeches that at times she could have sworn she heard a string section swell into an inspirational soundtrack, her resolve to mislead them began to crack. By the time she reached her office, she promised herself that she would research as many real detection spells as she could find and teach them all to that class. Then, reality set in.

"Hey!"

Jones turned towards the shout; the sight changed her inner conflict into amusement. Wronski staggered towards her, lugging a box brimming with paper. The box was full to the point of almost overflowing. Brightly colored, plastic-wrapped magazines slid in time to his steps. On top, sliding just out of sync to the rest, were three long, white envelopes. Letters!

Mail arrived from the outside world sporadically. As far as anyone, meaning herself and Wronski, could figure out, the mail accumulated somewhere and then was delivered when it reached a trigger weight or the Magic Eightball of Life said it was time. Magazines were especially affected. The weighty academic journals so beloved by Wronski were always months out of date and the weekly news magazine he used to keep track of "out there" came batched in two or three month bundles, usually with a few weeks missing. Personal letters, however, were promptly processed. Bills and other bulk mailed items fared the same as magazines. Jones had discovered that credit cards and the Durmstrang mail schedule were a bad mix. The late fees had accumulated to the point that the convenience was outweighed by the penalties. Even after canceling her various cards, it took months to sort out all the finance charges. The lack of a phone had complicated matters. A few phone calls would have sorted out the worst of the problems, but there were no such conveniences at Durmstrang. Wronski stubbornly held onto his cards and had, much to his great embarrassment, had to entrust his mother to pay his bills and therefore have access to his complete, rather pathetic financial structure.

"Mail! Is that both of ours?"

"Yeah, the Bursar caught me after lunch and told me it had arrived. You have a couple of letters." He grunted as he lifted the box a few inches. "Seattle return addresses. I didn't recognize the handwriting on one of them. Oh, and one looks official. Has one of those plastic address windows. It's not the IRS so, who cares, right?"

"Official? Are all these on top mine?" She glanced up long enough to see him nod and push the box towards her. A quick peek at the corners of two showed familiar handwriting, but the other had a printed return address with an ominous seal: Department of Magical Affairs - not a good sign. They never sent mail, not through official channels; that would raise a few eyebrows. "Put the box down, Paul."

"Why? Just take your letters and we'll sort through the rest of it later. C'mon, Rose! It weighs a ton!"

"Did you touch this letter?" She pointed at the oh-so-ordinary envelope with the very unusual seal.

"I dunno. Maybe. The Bursar touched all of if, of course. I might have. I know that I tried to separate out your letters from the rest." Bumping the box against him, he huffed into the staff room and hefted it onto the table. "Why?"

"You didn't check for any kind of spell on it or anything?" The old paranoia set in, a justifiable one where the Department of Magical Affairs, the employers of America's version of the Aurors, was involved.

"No. Now you're making me nervous. Why would I need to do something like that?" He stared at the contents of the box and began rubbing his hands together as if to clean them. "It wouldn't be poisoned or cursed?"

"No. That wouldn't be their style. At least I don't think it would be. That bastard Peterson might do something like that. Smith is enough of a coward to maybe try something specific to me. It isn't like they haven't hauled me in enough times. Bastards took skin and blood samples a few times." She set her satchel down next to the box and leaned on it while she considered all the possibilities.

"So, detect it. You're teaching the class, aren't you?" He sounded confident, but Jones caught the two steps back that he took.

"Yeah. I am." Put that way, it had the air of competition, something she'd never been able to resist. "Ok, you're on." She took out her wand, but then stood there dumbly staring at the letter. "I need to think. Give me a second."

Thinking involved smoking. The ritual of taking out the pack, tapping out a cigarette, lighting it and then taking that first, long inhalation was calming. It helped her focus on the problem.

"Well, they couldn't do anything general, that's for sure. Too risky and it would bring them the possibility of a lawsuit. It's been sent through some sort of mail, but not the post office. See, no cancellation marks." She gestured with her wand at the corner where what looked like a stamp sat. "So, this has gone through some sort of regular channel, but not the usual mail. The address confirms it. I don't get that sort of mail addressed to 'Ms. Rose Jones; Dark Arts Department; Durmstrang Institute'. It wouldn't get here. All of my mail goes to that dummy mail drop they have in Norway or that other one in Germany." Another deep lungful of smoke. "Interesting. I wonder where you can send mail to using that system. I also wonder how many dummy mail drops there are. Didn't you say that Gregorov gets mail addressed to some place in those funky letters?"

Wronski hummed a response as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I don't care about the mail drops. What's up with the magic cops?"

"I'm getting there. Hang on. Let me think some more." She finished the cigarette in a third long pull and pinched it out. "I think it's probably safe. Maybe." Everything felt itchy again and she used the tip of her wand to scratch at her nose. "Hand me the other two letters. I have a hunch that at least one of them might have a clue."

"Hand you? You get them yourself. Accio them or something." Wronski slouched defiantly and, if possible, buried his hands deeper into his pants pockets.

"Good idea. Works for me. Accio letter!" The closest envelope zipped out of the box and flew towards her. Grabbing it, she carefully read the return address and frowned. "Ricco. I haven't heard from him in months." Staring off into the distance, she tapped her hand with the edge of the envelope. "Doesn't make sense. He has my email address." Nothing sprang to mind as she sighed and ripped open an end.

"Dear Rose," she mumbled. "Peterson came by the other day. No warrant, but that didn't stop him from just waltzing in. Said he saw you this summer. Said that Gillespie is willing to testify in the tribunal and that you better watch out. He hinted that he might even have someone else who would be willing to talk. Said a bunch of other stuff, too, but he smelled like a bar when he came by. I think he's in trouble. I asked around but couldn't find out much. Sorry. I did try. Whatever happened last summer was bad for his career path. Boo hoo. Hope that creep tanks. Anyway, be warned! Oh. They confiscated my PC as evidence for something. Don't worry, I keep all my email on that web account and I made sure to delete it all off. I had a buddy mail this for me from Canada. Hope you get it. Say hi to Jackie for me. Sorry for the bad news, Ricco."

"Tribunal? Like a military tribunal? That sounds bad. How bad?" Wronski stared, mesmerized by the innocuous-looking envelope.

"They don't try people like us in a regular court. We get a tribunal." Wearily, she pulled out a chair and sat down next to the box of possible horrors. "If they have someone willing to testify, I'm screwed." All emotion left her voice. "I can never go home. Ever."

"I thought you couldn't go back anyway. They put that locator spell on you, right? Didn't you tell me that you'll die with that thing on you? What's different now?"

It was hard for her to say what had changed. Maybe it was the knowledge that Gillespie had decided to testify. Maybe it was the hint that there might be another witness. While it only took one confirmation, two would cinch the judge's opinion. Maybe it was hearing it from Ricco, whose only involvement in the entire magical community was having a grandmother who did a little freelance spellwork. Nothing serious, really. Of course, when she'd been a kid, it had sounded scary. Reaching over the top of the box, she used her wand to drag over the other letter. "It's from Davy."

"Davy? Oh, your brother. Right." Wronski shuffled past her, eyes still riveted to the last letter, to take the chair on her other side, the side further away from the box. "Maybe you have a new niece or nephew?"

"Maybe," she sighed. "But probably not. I checked my email last week and Jackie didn't say anything about Rainbow being due early." Defeat crushed her back into her seat. She didn't want confirmation of the news and stared at the envelope until Wronski leaned over, took it and then ripped it open. Still clinging to the limbo of despair, she waited, listening while he fished around in his coat for his reading glasses and then to the rattle of paper as he read it.

"This basically says the same thing. I guess your buddy Peterson has been busy visiting everyone associated with you. I don't know whether he wants to keep you here or scare you into coming back. He also says that someone named..." Wronski tried sounding out the name. "I think this says 'Taicho', but I'm not sure offered to take care of Gillespie, if you really wanted him to. Do I even want to know who this Taicho person is?"

Still staring off into the distance, she began chewing on a thumbnail. "No. You really don't, but it's nice that she offered."

"There's also something about a problem with taxes. Something about a car. He doesn't mention anything specific." Wronski immediately whisked the glasses off his face and back into his coat. "Here," he said, stuffing the letter into her limp hand. "Want me to open the last one? I will," he sounded strained, "if you want me to."

Listlessly, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Would you? No. Wait. You were right. I should look at this as some sort of challenge and try to see if they've done anything to it."

"You don't look so good. Can I get you something? A glass of water? An aspirin? I think I have some antacid tablets or," he brightened, "I could mix up some sort of sleeping potion or pour a shot of bourbon."

"The last sounds like the best." She heard him get up and leave. Everything sounded muffled. The room felt cold for September. Distracted, she continued chewing at her thumbnail until a salty taste filled her mouth. Gagging, she looked at her hand. Blood blossomed around the base of her thumbnail, spreading over her thumb and down the side of her hand. "Dammit!"

"Here." Wronski pushed a coffee mug half-full of an amber-colored liquid towards her. "I think this might be better than anything else."

The bourbon tasted strange mixed in with the coppery-salt blood; it burned down her throat and spread harshly over her empty stomach. "What is that crap that Loup always says? 'Alcohol and the Dark Arts don't mix' or something like that?" She took another sip. It tasted better this time, but her stomach contracted and went queasy. "I might have to admit that she's right about something." When Wronski reached to take the mug, she pulled it closer. "I didn't say that I didn't want it." After two more sips, she decided that she really didn't and handed it back. "Let's do a little magic, Paul. Why don't you get closer and we'll do some more work on your education. Ok?"

Standing, she faced the letter and held her wand aloft, promptly going blank. Think! "Let's start with the basic of all basics. Exhibeo!" From where she stood, she couldn't see any change. "The Exhibeo isn't much of a spell, really. What it does is detects the presence of magic. You can build on it, but all it really does is show whether there's a trace there. I think you can fool it if you know how."

"There are many variants to that particular enchantment, which will increase its viability as a tool." Standing in the doorway, his arms laden with folders, two books and a net bag full of scrolls, Haken nodded towards the box. "I have heard that you received an official letter. May I see it?"

Vaguely, she wondered how he could have heard so quickly, but that was Haken - always asking questions. "Yeah. Sure." Jones waited until he crossed the distance.

Haken's toothy grin looked forced as his eyes flickered over the letter, its seal and the address. "I see that the Americans have become a part of the current. A change for them." Leaning closer, he sniffed. "A direct route. Very few hands have handled it." Another sniff. "Perhaps six others. The Bursar, Professor Wronski, two I do not recognize, Gunnar Halvorsen, and," he arched an eyebrow, "your friend Mr. Peterson." As he turned to go, he said, "You are wise to examine it closely before you open it."

"Wait!" she called out, but Haken rounded the corner. "What is it with him?" Annoyed, she turned back to her current problem, almost expecting to see a coiled serpent or a demon instead of the incredibly prosaic envelope. "The Exhibeo didn't produce any results. The next step would be the Discernere. It does more, but it really needs the secondary spells added into it to make any sense out of it." Jones squinted at the letter. "Usually, if there's any kind of spell, the Exhibeo will show something. Maybe it's poisoned?"

Interested now in spite of himself, Wronski scooted his chair closer. "Nu-uh. Contact poisons are almost impossible to make person-specific. Unless they have something really personal and really fresh from you, it shouldn't work. It would be too dangerous to send something like that out. Maybe you ought to try that Confirmare spell that Loup uses on all of her food?"

"I think that only works on organics."

"You don't know?" Wronski leaned away, eyes wide. "Really?"

Feeling defensive, she ground both fists into her hips and glared. "No. I don't know for sure. There. Does that make you happy?"

"Hey, I didn't mean to piss you off. I'm just surprised is all."

Seconds ticked by while she alternated between glaring at her friend and at the envelope. "Oh, the hell with it. Open it."

"Me? It's your letter."

"You said you would." The envelope sat looking suspiciously harmless against its backdrop of brightly colored magazines. "Nah. Peterson wouldn't want to kill me this far away. He couldn't enjoy it. I bet the letter must have something really nasty in it."

Nervously, she licked her lips and then darted a hand out to seize the missive. Nothing happened. No shocks ran through her, no burning sensation, no paralyzing pain. Wrestling her wand into a different position, she burrowed her other hand into her coat pocket, searching. "I need to clean out this coat. I can't believe how much junk is in it." Her fingers identified wadded up pieces of paper, an empty package of cigarettes, two packs of matches, a broken pencil and, finally, her anthame. Using her thumb and forefinger, she unsheathed it and then cautiously slit the end of the envelope open. There was a lot of paper folded up in the envelope. More than a simple letter. With the tip of her knife, she teased the envelope off and then stared at the neatly folded papers.

"Aren't you going to read them?" Wronski asked, sounding both bored and irritated. "If you don't, then I will. It'll be dinnertime at this rate by the time you finally read the stupid things."

She took a deep breath and then unfolded the papers. At the top of the first page was a large, official seal followed by a message bursting with bureaucratic terminology. She didn't understand it on the first reading, but the second time through things fell into place. "I can't believe this."

"What?" Wronski snatched the letter from her hand and began fumbling in his coat for his reading glasses. Shaking them open with an impatient flick, he shoved them onto his face and began scanning the text. "What? What is this? Is this a summons of some sort? This says they're going to try you in absentia for..." He shuffled to the next page. "Tax-related crimes. Oh my God, they're going to get you on taxes!" He flipped back to the first page and began rereading from the start. "If I understand this correctly, you're being tried for leaving the country for tax evasion. I remember reading about this. They call people like this 'taxpatriots'. I guess paying your taxes wasn't something you were too worried about when you fled the country, huh?"

Jones looked away and sat heavily back into her chair. Mumbling to herself, she fell into a funk.

"There's more. You want to read it first?" He shook the handful of pages at her, but received no indication that she'd heard him. With a shrug, he shuffled the first two pages to the back and started to read the next one. "Oh. Wow. How'd... Wait a sec. This can't be right."

"What?" Dull-eyed, she slowly turned to face him.

"Did you go to a consulate and give up your citizenship? These are official papers declaring that you're no longer a citizen of the United States. There's a bunch of this stuff here. I only read the first page, but it says you've lost your right to call yourself an American citizen."

"No. I never did anything like that. Give me those." Fear woke her from her stupor. Her hands shook when Wronski handed her the letter. It was all there: the very official government seal, the watermark, the official signatures and the sea of dense text. "I don't understand this at all. It says that I'm a naturalized citizen of Norway. Norway? Have I ever been to Norway? And that I've sworn an oath of allegiance to a country other than the US. Where did they get that?" The papers fell limply into her lap. "I need to talk to someone official."

Wronski grabbed the documents. "We need to do some research. It cites something called '8 USC 1482'." Putting the paper down on the table, he leaned over it and read it again, this time running a finger along each line while he analyzed the verbiage. "If I understand this correctly, someone has informed them that you've become a naturalized citizen in Norway. If they were looking for a way to get rid of you, then that's one way. I guess they don't invoke it very often, but the government can use that to remove your citizenship. It's the 'swearing an oath of allegiance to another country' part I don't get."

"The binding spell!" she squealed and slammed both hands onto the table. "That's an oath of sorts. I bet someone reported that, too!"

Turning each page over, looking for any other bit of hidden information, Wronski shook his head. "I can kind of see how they might get you for taxes. My mother made me report my salary from the first year I took this job. You probably never did, did you?"

"No. Of course not. Why should I? I can't go back, so screw them on the taxes!" She crossed her arms and glared at nothing in particular. "But my citizenship! How could they?"

"What does it matter? You keep saying you can't go back." He tapped the pages to line up and then carefully refolded them.

"It matters to me. I always sort of hoped that I might find a way to go home some day. Maybe cut some kind of deal. I don't know!" She exploded in frustration. "I bet Peterson did a jig when he found out that he had me all these different ways. If I go home, they can finally try me in that damn tribunal. Two witnesses! That bastard Gillespie! Oooooh! And tax evasion... Dammit. Guess I shouldn't have just thrown all those letters from the IRS away, but I never thought they'd push it this far. That could stand but the other stuff.... I never applied for citizenship anywhere else. I swear it. Plus, how could they ever find out about the binding spell? Who would have told them about that?"

"Maybe you should talk to Werner? Maybe he can find something out?" Leaning over, he pushed the papers towards her and then, with a sympathetic smile, patted her arm.

"The car!" Jones' eyes bugged and then she threw her head back and let out a long moan. "The fucking car! Oh, poor Davy!"

"Whoa! Wait! What are you talking about? What car? Is this the car that your brother mentioned?"

"My car. Davy cosigned a loan for me. Doing the freelance witch thing isn't exactly the sort of job that makes banks comfortable about loaning you money. So, Davy cosigned the loan for my car. He knew I was good for the money and I was, too, until I had to leave. I mailed him the keys from the airport. Oh, damn. I bet that's part of it. You said there was something in his letter about a car, right? I bet they seized it."

"Rose." Wronski pitched his voice as low as he could. "There's nothing you can do about that. You can send money to him. You can't testify or go back into the States. You know they'd love to get their hands on you and, if they have witnesses, you'll never see the light of day again." Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder. "Hey, it'll be ok. This is Peterson's way of getting even. If they can't extradite you, then they can strip you of your rights. I bet they were thrilled to find a way to get at you. You knew he had to come up with some way to get even."

"Yeah, but dragging innocent family members into it isn't fair. Davy never did anything wrong. And now there's the baby, too." Burying her face in her hands, she tried to imagine how awful it must have been for her brother to deal with Peterson and probably Smith, too. All because of her, all because she hadn't been able to stay away from the Dark side of things and the money it generated.

It was amazing what you could learn, though. Between the books, which were growing easier to find all the time, the clients' needs and the other professionals, Jones discovered that a little bit of knowledge went a very long way. In the strange mix of the modern world and the ancient Dark magic, knowledge was indeed power. A medical chart and a credit card statement usually gave her more than enough information for the most popular and best-paying jobs. A little pressure there, and it was all very neat, almost clean. Things were good until the corporate jobs rolled in. Then, the Feds got interested and the Magic Cops started making regular rounds.

"Do you want me to go with you?" Wronski asked.

When she looked at him, all she could see was pale blue eyes peering through a shock of sandy hair. Just like Rhys. At least Rhys was safe. He had one of those jobs that kept him moving all the time or maybe it was running away. Davy had been the one to set down roots and become the upright representative for the Jones clan. Davy should have run, too.

"Go?" she echoed before turning her attention again to the horrible letter.

"Yeah, let's go see your buddy Werner. Maybe he can tell you who to talk to. He seems to be plugged into all of the Ministry stuff. He probably can tell you where to go if not whom to talk to." Wronski waited while she sniffed and slowly ran her red-crusted thumb along the fold of the letter. "Buy you dinner?"

A little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "The combination plate? The big one?"