Stacking the Deck

It was too nice of a night to sit inside the too-warm restaurant. The first hint of autumn hid in the warm evening air. A breeze blew cool through the yellowing leaves. Jones and Wronski claimed a bench along the cobble-stoned pedestrian zone, each taking an end and using the middle as a table for their foil-wrapped plates.

"If you don't unwrap it until you're ready to eat, it stays warm, especially the falafels," she advised as her fingers danced off the edges of the hot foil. "You can leave the tabouli and the rice until last. The bread gets cold immediately so eat that first."

Wronski leaned against the metal armrest and observed while she busied herself with a steaming piece of flat bread and a tan mound of hummus. The woman scooping up a mound of tan goo hardly resembled the depressed creature of less than an hour ago. His shoulders barely rose as he sighed and poked at the thick silver package of his own flat bread. "Sounds like you're an expert at this."

Nodding vigorously, she sucked on an index finger while peeking under a corner of the foil to see what was hidden there. Whatever it was, it could wait. "I love this place. The food's good, it's cheap and fun to eat. Plus," she glanced up and smiled smugly, "it isn't that damn wurst or pickled fish. Now, if this burgh got a good pizza joint, I'd be set." The next section of the plate revealed slices of pungently spiced lamb. She unwrapped another slice of bread, smeared hummus on it and then crowned it with some of the lamb. "Thanks, Paul. I appreciate this so much. You're my best friend."

Stifling a chuckle, Wronski angled his body so he could drape an elbow over the armrest and slouch slantwise across the bench. "You think Werner's back at the tavern or at the office?"

Her reply was muffled by a mouthful of food. She held up a finger and chewed with gusto. After a gulp of soda, she answered. "It's a Friday night. Most single guys I know would be out, but who knows with Werner? It's still kind of early. He could be either place. We can go to the tavern after this. I'll buy the first round."

"Rose," he whined.

Jones stopped her perusal of her rapidly dwindling plate and looked up. "Oh. Sorry. I know this isn't a night out." Folding the foil back around her food, she glanced in the direction of the Auror offices. "We can check there first. I bet that he's still there. If not, then he'll probably show up at the tavern. I know you don't like to hang out with them. I keep forgetting that."

"Yeah, well, let's find him and see if he knows who you can contact."

"Aren't you going to eat? It's good, you know." Leaning over, she grabbed at the fat, shiny block of the wrapped bread. "I think it's still hot. Go on! Eat something. Anything. You're losing weight and you're too skinny already."

Wronski glared. "You sound like my mom."

Leaning an elbow on the back of the bench, she readied a sarcastic response. Wronski had already done enough. He had been there when she needed him and was now playing the role of best friend better than any other of her best friends ever had.

"Ok," she said with a shrug, "don't eat. Don't toss it, though. Except for the bread, it all reheats perfectly fine. Your loss." Ignoring him, she peeled back the foil, began to eat and was soon rewarded by the sound of him unwrapping his meal.

Things always look better after dinner, she thought, lighting a cigarette. It topped off the meal beautifully. While she enjoyed what felt like a perfect moment in the calm before a storm, Wronski picked at his food. At least he had eaten some of it. Not enough in her opinion. "You should get a girlfriend, Paul. Nice guy like you, I'll bet you could sweet talk one of the local girls or maybe that pretty teacher in the Arithmancy area. I think she likes you."

Bent over his meal, Wronski shot her a disgusted glance. "Now, you really sound like my mother. Quit."

"I'm just trying to help," she said as she exhaled. "What's her name? I've been introduced twice, but I never remember it."

"Zhaliba. I don't know her first name, but I know who you're talking about. She's got a crush on Siegfried for some reason. I see her trying to chat him up all the time. I don't think she's ever given me the time of day." He tilted the plate of food to better catch the light from a streetlight. "I'm done. Do you want me to save any of this?"

Squinting, she tried to tell what was left, but, in best Wronski fashion, he'd sculpted half of the food into little mounds and flattened it. "Nah. I'll pass. Besides, how would I keep track of it? I left my satchel at Durmstrang. I feel free without it. Damn thing weighs a ton." Chuckling to herself, she finished her cigarette and dropped it onto the sidewalk. "Ready to go find Jo?"

"He hates it when you call him that." Making a stack of their litter, he swept down and picked up the smoldering butt. "He gets those little creases next to his eyes when you call him that."

"Yeah. I know. C'mon, let's go find the Chief Auror of the Northern District, the mighty Johannes - see I know the whole name - Werner."

* * *

Chief Auror Werner was indeed still in his office. The on-duty junior Auror assigned to the counter rolled his eyes when they asked. The station was lightly staffed that evening. Two Cerebors bent over reports at one of the ugly metal desks while a junior-level Auror dozed at another, pretending to read a thick manual on procedures. They watched as "their" Auror walked slowly over to Werner's closed door. The man's shoulders drooped as he summoned his courage before knocking.

"Hey, look!" Wronski poked Jones in the shoulder and pointed. In the back of the room, at the edge of the desk closest to the wall was a telephone. "Was that always there? I've only been here that one time." Scowling at the memory, he looked back towards Werner's door. "I wonder if I could use it if I paid them. There have been times I've needed to make a phone call and I never have a phone card when I need one."

"You'll have to ask. Bet you can as long as you agree it's a favor." Wronski's wince at the suggestion almost made her laugh. "I wonder if I can weasel in a call to my brother? I have his work number and I worry that they might have his home phone bugged." Depression began to set in while they waited. The Auror stood in the door, listening to a long mumble from Werner. At last, the man jerked to attention and stepped aside as Werner himself appeared. Silhouetted by the office light, the shadow Werner raised his hand in a summons and stepped back into the brightness of his office.

Werner's office was far more impressive on the outside than the inside. The room was tiny. It barely held a desk and two chairs for guests. A file cabinet was stuffed into a corner, kept company by a stack of boxes that served the same purpose. Nothing on the walls or on the desk gave any clue to a life outside of those walls. Jones had to turn sideways to be able to sidle into a chair. Wronski's lean form easily managed to get through the narrow passage to the chairs with only a sharp smack to his shin from the edge of the desk.

Preferring to stand, Werner leaned onto his hands as he stood behind his desk. Jones had to admire the effect. The body language was dominating, but she'd had the same trick played on her by men who really did want to put her into her place, preferably one where she would have to stay for twenty or thirty years

"What do I owe this," Werner made certain to pause for dramatic effect, "pleasure? A Friday evening, no less. What brings you to my office?"

"I'm hoping you might have some information I need. I got a letter today." A sudden urge to smoke almost overwhelmed her. She needed something to do with her hands, something to distract her so she didn't turn into a blithering idiot.

"Yes?" Werner prompted.

"Rose got a letter from the Department of Magical Affairs," Wronski cut in.

"It took them longer than I had expected." Werner stood and lost himself in an internal calculation. "I would have thought they would have acted last month."

"You knew that I'd get something from them?" Jones scooted her chair closer to the desk. "Did you know anything about it?"

Turning back towards his guests, Werner shrugged. "I expected that your acquaintances, Agent Peterson and Agent Smith, would exact some form of revenge upon you. It seemed in line with their natures. There have been several attempts to extradite you."

"Really? Why hasn't anyone told me about them?" Feeling both left out and afraid, she began shuffling the edges of a pile of papers on Werner's desk. "There's more."

"Really?" Werner brightened as he sat down. "I must confess that I am curious as to how they have proceeded. What was in this letter you received?"

"They're going to try me in absentia. For tax evasion." She looked up, expecting him to laugh and was instead surprised to see him nod as he considered what she had said.

"Interesting. I had thought they would continue their pursuit of you for the variety of accusations they have addressed in previous requests. Taxes." Still nodding, Werner picked up a pen and began to make notes. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. They're also revoking my citizenship. They can't do that. I never went to a consulate or any official offices and told anyone that I wanted to relinquish my citizenship."

"Really?" The nodding changed to a headshake and a thin smile spread over Werner's face as he continued taking notes. "Your country is very possessive in regards to affiliation. Interesting."

"Will you quit saying that!" Jones snapped. "I don't understand where they got that from. Do you have any idea who I can talk to? I want to find out where they got that idea and, get this, someone told them I had sworn allegiance to another country. Where would they get that idea?"

"From me perhaps." Werner didn't look up as he finished writing. "I took it upon myself to do you this favor. Their efforts to take custody of you had increased over the end of the summer. Agent Peterson was quite insistent that I turn you over to them. We do not extradite to countries with the death penalty. Trying you for tax purposes, which does not invoke a death penalty, would eventually have required me to arrest you and release you into their custody. It seemed a small enough thing to provide them with another avenue to use, one that would free you from any bounds they had upon you." He looked up, still smiling. "You may thank me, of course."

"Thank you!" she sputtered. "What were you thinking? I can't go back now! Immigration will stop me at the International Portkeys and that means they'll have cancelled my passport. I can't go home." The last was torn out in a long sob.

Looking uncomfortable, Wronski pushed his chair closer to her and began the useless ritual of patting her on the back. "She's kind of upset," he explained. "I think she hoped to cut a deal somewhere along the line and go home."

Werner stared at the two and suddenly laughed. "I most seriously doubt that. Your authorities were quite adamant about her status. Should they be able to acquire her, they would try her in a tribunal and convict her on several serious Dark Arts charges." He leaned over and pulled out drawer in his desk from which he withdrew a thick manila folder that he sat down in the middle of his desk. "If even a third of these accusations are true, Professor Jones will live out the rest of her days in prison, or worse." He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. "Does the state of Washington have the death penalty? Or is this Tribunal able to issue that sentence? Agent Peterson's last missive indicated that was the outcome he sought. A most irritating man."

Jones jerked away and hunched over, dragging a sleeve at her brimming eyes. She hadn't cried in public in years. The first tear steamed downwards to hang on her lip. The next paralleled it, unleashing a sloppy tide. "Take me back, Paul."

* * *

It was a very long weekend. It was hard to get out of bed on Saturday and then difficult to get dressed. Jones dragged around her small quarters, stubbornly clad in a faded terrycloth bathrobe - unwashed, uncombed and feeling unloved. After making the circuit from bedroom to office in a slow shuffle, she picked up two folders of homework and wandered back to sit down in her living area to do nothing. In a world suffused with gray, nothing seemed to matter. Her entire reality felt inverted and lifeless. Whenever there was the slightest chance of her mood improving, all she had to do was look to the right and see her posters of the Seattle skyline to send her back into her personal pit of despair. Despair was a depressing, but safe place to hide. Climbing out meant facing the situation and she wasn't ready.

Jones' Sunday morning fared a little better. The helpless feeling was still there, but her rising anger battered at it. Still defiantly dressed in her robe after noon, she slumped in her favorite chair and stared at nothing. Nothing was hard to keep in focus. It kept sliding away with increasing frequency to show her life in all of its shabbiness. Things itched. She felt greasy and mad.

Get up! her brain yelled. Get up or they win. Peterson wins. That whining coward Smith gets to count a point. The two federal agents hadn't been able to win in the decade or so that they'd hunted her. Nothing had ever been proven because she was better than they were. No one had trained her in the Dark Arts. She'd done that all that herself. The only classes she'd ever really had in magic had been taught by a series of matronly types who took turns on Wednesday afternoons lecturing a motley group of uninterested kids about "the craft". Most of it had been useless. It had been better than nothing but not by much. Not like the training these ungrateful brats got.

Scooping up one of the ignored folders of homework, she opened it to look at the wad of homework awaiting her attention. Ritual Magic. The worst of her course load and probably the one that more students took than the others combined. And why was that? she asked herself. Because they thought they were going to learn love spells and how to determine the sex of their baby, that's why. She'd never had a single promising Dark Arts student in that course. Her Special Projects class, that was different. The best and the brightest wanted to take that one; it had a reputation of being difficult and demanding and there was always a waiting list. Those students wanted to learn. Just like the students in her Defense Against the Dark Arts class. So they could be one of them and turn people like her into prisoners. Maybe the logic wasn't watertight, but it sounded very real to her. Real enough to punch a hole through the grayness and to light a fire in her again. Better to light a candle and curse the darkness, she mused with a smile and headed back to take a very long shower.

* * *

The new week, Jones resolved, was going to be better. It had to be. Monday brought no new revelations, save one and it hardly surprised her - Heinrich Adler wasn't doing his own homework. Usually, she passed out the homework and retrieved the new assignments at the beginning of class. It was an untidy time of paper shuffling, but it worked. She'd made the mistake of rereading the official letters again over lunch, trying to figure out if there was something she could do, some official channel she could use to do something, anything. Wronski had suggested going to Stockholm, the first hop in the International Portkey route from the village, to try and see someone at the consulate. Haken had asked the pointed question of what would it serve save to cause her family more problems back home. It was food for thought and gave her more things to chase around in her head. Homework lost its usual priority for her, but her students dutifully dropped off their assignments as they came into class. It wasn't until that evening while she sorted through all of the folders that the discrepancy caught her eye - the handwriting on the two homework assignments supposedly turned in by Herr Adler didn't match. Not even close. Ammunition, something she could deal with!

Tuesday, a day she usually looked forward to as it and Thursday were her lightest class load days, was just another day to get through. It was Wednesday she anticipated.

* * *

Wednesday's lunch consisted of junk food. Two bags of chips, half a box of cookies and a candy bar washed down by cold coffee, just the sort of meal to put her in the mood for a confrontation. The lunch hour dragged as she paced in her classroom. Her comfortable shoes made only little padding sounds until she spun around at the door and at the other wall. There, the dust seemed to enthusiastically scrape under feet in eagerness for the show to come. She stopped repeatedly at the desk by the door, opening the folders to look again at the supposed Adler homework, just to make sure she saw what she thought she saw. It was going to be grand. The evidence was all there.

Feet thumping down stairs and voices chattering, the sounds of classes about to start. Jones closed both folders and took her place behind the desk. The students seemed to sense something and, as each passed her, fell silent after turning in their assignment. Touching nothing, she waited until a smirking Adler deposited his homework on the pile. Then, using the tip of her wand, she pulled it out and looked at the handwriting. Different from either of the two previous assignments.

"Herr Adler." Wearing the air of someone about to spring a trap, she straightened and tapped his assignment with her wand. "Your homework."

"Ah, Frau Professor," Adler said, standing at his place. "Is there something you wish to speak to me about." He hooked his thumbs into a belt that looked odd against the red robes. He spread his elbows away from his body, taking up as much space as possible. The boys on both side of him had to lean away to give him room.

"Come here. I want to show you something." She tried to keep a neutral expression. Her eyes gleamed in anticipation of winning and the corners of her mouth refused to stay still.

It was as if she had asked a very great favor. Adler looked down, shook his head and then sighed loudly. How could someone as lowly as her tell him to do anything? It should have looked like a sulky teenager refusing to comply, but instead had the feeling of a great lord being asked to sully himself before an insubordinate. Adler walked forward, scuffing his boots harshly on the stone floors until he stopped in front of her and once again resumed his thumbs-in-the-belt stance.

Jones' lip curled in anticipation. She hated posers and this kid had all the earmarks of one. She took a few seconds, savoring the moment. It was going to feel so very good to cut him back to size. "Your homework," she intoned, pointing her wand to newest assignment. "And this assignment." The first folder was tipped open to show the paper there. "And this one." The second set of papers was shown. "Note how the handwriting doesn't match on any of these three. Can you explain that to me?"

Adler smiled. It was enough to make her want to blast him into a thousand pieces. How could he stand there and just smile at her?

"Frau Professor, surely you must have received the note." At Jones' suspicious look, he turned slightly to look over his shoulder at the class. "The note," he repeated. "I have retainers to deal with such things for me."

"Retainers?" Jones knew he was lying. He had to be. Just in case though, she opened the folder she used for the class' roll sheets and looked to see if she'd missed something. There was no note. Folding her arms over her chest, she dangled her wand from her fingertips and fixed what she felt was a withering glare on the towering Adler. It gave her a chance to get a good look at him. He looked like what one would expect from one of the pureblood noble families. Tall, white-blond hair, piercing blue eyes, far too handsome face. She would have hated him on sight on general principles. Everything about him screamed privilege. The robes weren't the usual ones the students wore at Durmstrang. The wool looked almost like velvet and then there was the belt, something no one else wore. Silver eagles and crossed wands decorated the length of it. The buckle seemed to span his waist and it was comprised of eagles and wands. "Retainers?" she tried again.

"Of course, I have brought only the ones necessary for a man of my rank."

"And they do your work for you?"

"No, of course not. I dictate and they write. It is as it should be." His eyes narrowed slightly. She could hear the dare, prove that he lied.

"I have no note concerning any," she put as much sarcasm as she could muster into the next word, "retainers. If you're taking this class, I expect you to do the homework. All of it." Between her anger and the poor choice of lunch egging her heartbeat faster, her face reddened. Heinrich Adler became the only thing she saw. Jabbing a finger at his chest, she snarled, "I don't think you've done any of the homework. I expect to see you after dinner for detention. Be here at eight and be on time…"

It took a full fifteen minutes after Adler had bowed and returned to his seat for her to stop shaking. The lecture, the first in a series on summoning rituals, lost its usual verve when she delivered it in a monotone. There were no questions or comments. She finished before the bells tolled. "Read the chapter in Rituals of the Four Points on invocations. I want five thousand words comparing what I covered here and what the book addresses by Friday." She busied herself with gathering up the folders of homework for the class. "In your own handwriting."

The class filed out silently. She watched as each one passed by her. Everyone kept their eyes on the doorway, except Adler. He slowed in front of her, placed a hand to his chest and bowed. It should have looked humble, but the mockery was plain. Her already black mood did not improve for her next class.

It was against the rules. If Rabe had caught her, there would be hell to pay, but her nerves were shot and she wanted to scream. Shutting the door to her room, she walked up to the first bench and sat down. Her hand fumbled in her coat pocket until she found her cigarettes and lighter. It took a few tries to get the lighter to work. Once lit and she sucked the cigarette down as quickly as she could, her head cleared. Shouldn't have lost her temper, shouldn't have called him on it in front of the class, shouldn't have done a lot of things. Dammit. Scratching her head with one hand, she stared at the other, watching the slight trembling still itself. Too angry. What was it about guys like that that just set her off? He'd be trouble. She could make book on that. And, worst of all, her day wasn't over. She still had both the Special Projects and the Detection and Dispersal class, her moral dilemma. "In for a penny," she muttered and lit another one. That one deserved to be savored. Enjoying every moment, she inhaled and held it, feeling the nicotine weave its little chemical spell over her. It was better. She could cope. Time to shift gears for something entirely different.

Hiding her little rules infraction set the mood. Not that it took much, a little breeze summoned to pull the smoke through tiny chinks in the castle wall, the same thing worked backwards to draw the scent of outside in to mask the lingering smell. It felt good to work the magic and get the little thrill knowing she'd bent the rules. Rabe would never guess. The others might. Gregorov could. He spent enough time as a wolf to keep the heightened sense of smell. Haken could probably do so, too. Rabe, however, wore enough cologne to give her headache in the morning. She doubted he could smell anything else.

The best and the brightest of the Dark Arts students arrived mostly on time and took their places for the Special Projects class. Her nerves still on edge, she took the easy route: a surprise essay quiz. She made sure it was long enough to take over half the class time. None of the students were surprised. Most of them had already taken at least two of her other courses. When the quiz was done, she had them discuss possibilities for their first project of the year. The class could almost teach itself. It gave her time to think.

The next class arrived as the bells finished tolling the hour. Jones was impressed. Having made that trek the previous week, she knew it was a long trip even when it was entirely down stairs. Watching them take their seats in her dungeon classroom, she compared these students to the ones who had just left. The upper division Dark Arts courses tended to have students from established, frequently wealthy, old families. Jones thought she could practically smell the money on many of them. In all of the courses, she heard "my father this", "my uncle or aunt that", and the dreaded "in my family…." They tossed their surnames about as if she was supposed to recognize them and be awed by that alone. How could she be when Durmstrang was really her only contact with the European wizarding community? After her first year at the Institute, she'd given up trying to explain that what their relatives did didn't impress her one bit. Family and connections were all to many of the young people in her classes.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts students were a very different lot. Many of the accents were different, far less polished, and the uniform red robes frequently shabby, not the deep, blood red hue. For many, serving in the various branches of law enforcement was almost a family tradition. She counted six out of the twenty who mentioned a relative who currently served as an Auror, Cerebor or as a member of the vast Ministry system. She'd noted how others had nodded along when those posts were mentioned. While not certain if the correlation was correct, it was easy to equate these young men and women with the middle class kids she'd grown up with whose fathers were cops. There was an almost fanatical fervor when they talked about right and wrong, Dark and light. Where she had been inspired before, she now grew cautious. Someone's decision as to what was "right" still bothered her.

Still not quite decided as to how she wanted to approach the course, she spread her collection of notes out in front of her while she waited "a few more minutes" for any stragglers to arrive. Lester's notes looked promisingly vague. He had an entire page of theories bulleted and another of possible topics regarding legal issues. Both looked like good ways to kill weeks of class time. Jones studied each page while her students took their seats and settled in. Her own notes listed spells that reacted to any sort of magic. They just did something, not necessarily useful, but at least there would be an audible or visual cue that magic was present. It would be more than generous to call all of them useful. Still, they did technically detect basic, unshielded magic. A professional's work should be safe. Frowning at the list, Jones knew it wasn't what the class hoped to learn. They wanted to be able to fight the evil Dark wizards and keep the world safe for what they considered right and good. Right and good in their opinions. Right and good in the unmourned Lester's opinion, too. He really had been a right bastard, she decided, glancing once more at the assembled class, which was prepared to take notes. Lester had done a lot of research for the course. Taking a deep breath in preparation to start, she recognized a pattern to the syllabus he had prepared. She coughed back a laugh as the pattern of magics he had selected became more apparent. Lester, she finally realized, had been placed in exactly the same position she was and had reacted the same way. His goal had been to avoid revealing anything useful and yet fill an entire school year's worth of lectures.

It was hard to make any other choice. Her deceased colleague, had she ever really spoken with him, would have agreed. Obfuscation, wasn't that almost the same thing as dispersal? And wasn't it the opposite of detection?

"Good afternoon. Today, we're going to start this class with a few of the more prevalent theories regarding what sorts of spells would be hidden…"