Love Among Muggles

Jerry Gribbins, a timid Muggleborn who worked as a dishwasher and cleaner, felt ill. Really, terribly sick. To begin with, he'd felt shivery and had a runny nose. A dose of Pepper-Up potion sorted out those symptoms, but then he'd got a bad stomach ache. No sooner had he taken a dose of something to cure that than he started being violently sick. Jerry guessed that mixing the two potions might have caused a bad reaction. He asked his flatmate Michael Osborne to call into the cafe where he worked and tell his boss he wouldn't be at work for at least a day.

Michael didn't mind. The mid-February morning was cold but bright. He had arranged a Valentine's Day date with his pretty Junior Healer for that evening, and his thoughts were taken up with her. Being Muggleborn, Michael looked utterly unremarkable as he walked through the London streets. He usually walked to the Leaky Cauldron with Jerry and then used Floo to reach the Ministry, so he'd just take a small detour to tell Jerry's boss that Jerry was ill. The barman always joked that he could set his watch by Michael.

Already out and about, Alastor Moody was enjoying some early morning sleuthing. He'd rummaged through Caractacus' Potts office bins on several occasions but had found nothing of interest. Absolutely nothing. Potts' rubbish consisted of food packets and old copies of the Daily Prophet. This intrigued Moody. Moody burned all his own unwanted parchments as a matter of course. Bills from the grocer, junk mail from magical supply companies and memos from the head of the department, all went into his fireplace. However, in Moody's experience a person only went to that trouble if they had something to hide or they really knew what a Dark wizard could do with it.

While not politically minded, Moody was sensitive to Darkness. He could almost feel it. What had a year previously been an occasional twinge was now an ever-present mental itch. He was used to identifying people whose potions and spells used Muggle body parts, or whose incantations caused pain and suffering. In the past Dark wizards had been easy to spot. Most of them struck their fellows as cracked (or merely eccentric if they were rich enough), and were obviously very different to most of the people around them. Not any more. Moody thought of it as creeping Darkness. Wizards who he knew were thoroughly decent underneath were asking why the Muggleborns at the Ministry weren't being subjected to regular scrutiny, if not being fired altogether. Witches Moody liked were expressing fears that if Muggleborn children continued to be admitted to Hogwarts, future generations' ability to do magic would be severely weakened. Their minds were slowly being influenced by nasty ideas.

I don't do politics, Moody thought, and that's the problem. I can arrest a man or woman, but I can't arrest a whisper. Someone's started a chain of fear, and you can't lock fright up. All it takes is a comment -- like that fool Macnair's, about Muggles still prosecuting people for witchcraft - and it gets passed along, and people get scared and react without knowing what they're fighting against. Muggles haven't been able to prosecute for witchcraft since 1951, but most witches and wizards don't know that, and so the lie and fear spreads.

Settling down by a dustbin, Moody pulled his new hat over his eyes and watched the windows of Caractacus Potts' townhouse. The man's wife and children lived outside London, and he went home only at weekends. During the week he lived in this townhouse all by himself. Potts had plenty of free time with no prying eyes.

As Moody sat, not moving, he mulled over his current active cases. There was the Solstice incident in Warwickshire. The thought of that crime going unpunished infuriated Moody. What sort of sick person burned helpless Muggles? His own parents had thought of them as lesser beings, but even so they had seen Muggles as things to pity and protect, not to harm. Even attacks on centaurs and trolls, creatures entirely capable of self-defence, angered Moody, and he wished he could prosecute those cases with the rigour he used in Wizard cases. He would never close a murder file. They sat in the bottom drawer of his desk, waiting until he could catch up with the killers. To Moody's credit, his drawer was only half-full.

After the Solstice case there was the Dark wizard who'd burned the Muggles - what did Tonks call them, hoppers? Hoppies? Something like that. That folder looked like sitting in his desk for years, too. Now he was here watching Caractacus Potts, and it was absurd how much time he'd spent on him given that he only had a vaguely worded suspicion to go on.

Ted Tonks and Andromeda Black. It always came back to them. Tonks swore his friend, the spy, had been framed. Well, Moody wasn't convinced the evidence was good enough either, but it hadn't been his case. The first Muggle killings had happened on the night Andromeda Black came of age. More recently, Ted Tonks had tried to defend the hoppers. Moody had seen that for himself, and there was no way the incident had been staged to make Ted Tonks look good. Tonks was clean, he was sure. The girl knew what Ted had been doing for work, though. And Ted had sent him off on this wild Potts chase after a hint from his girlfriend. Moody didn't trust the girl. Could she be manipulating Ted and, through Ted, Moody?

Am I just doing the Blacks' dirty work? Moody wondered. I can't imagine Druella and Cygnus letting their daughter have a Muggleborn boyfriend even if he is a useful dupe, but maybe I'm underestimating them. Alastor Moody felt a warm glow as he contemplated possible conspiracies and deceptions. Considering all the possibilities was the best way to ensure he wouldn't get any nasty surprises.

***

Ted kissed his mother goodbye, and she waved him off from the doorstep of their tiny red-brick terraced house with a smile. Mrs Tonks was a small, stocky woman with lobster-red hands and muscular forearms like a docker from a lifetime of hard work and cleaning. She was very proud of her son, who'd somehow won a scholarship to a fancy school, but who later came back and took care of the family. Thanks to Ted's earnings, his younger sisters would be able to go to nursing or teacher training college and the whole family would have a brighter future.

Ted whistled as he walked. He was wearing a very proper Muggle suit and hat, because his parents still believed he had a job in an obscure part of the Home Office. He'd walk to the Tube and catch the underground to the nearest station to the Ministry entrance. Ted looked around himself. He knew these streets were shabby by most standards, but it was home, and he was among decent, hard-working men and women. The same sky hung above Hackney and Buckingham Palace. It was shaping up to be a beautiful, crisp day, and he wondered if the weather was as pleasant up in Scotland. He liked to think of himself and Andromeda enjoying the same sunshine. Perhaps the Valentine's card and box of chocolates he'd sent her had arrived now. Ted had spent an evening emptying out a box of Honeydukes chocolates and carefully fitting Muggle ones in their places, before putting a Charm on the little card that told you what all the centres were so Andromeda would know what she was eating. Wizards! Ted thought. Only they could include beetle crunch in a selection box. What's wrong with a nice coffee cream? -

I hope Moody finds out who killed the hippies, he thought, or that he decides to let me go back to proper work. If I have to write any more leaflets for Jack, I'm going to go mad. As if anyone needs something telling them how a washing machine works. You get instruction manuals with them!

***

Andromeda, like many girls and boys around the Great Hall, smiled happily as an owl landed in front of her. She gave it her bacon rind as a treat and detached the parcel from its leg.

"What is it?" Ellen Hartley wondered.

"Is it a book?" Hellebore Smith asked excitedly.

"Hellebore," Broderick Bode said with patience, "only you would consider a book a romantic gift."

Hellebore held up a small volume of love poetry that an owl had delivered to her, and said, "Not just me, Broderick."

Hellebore began flicking through the book, but Andromeda was watching as Broderick smiled and blushed at Hellebore's delight. Over at the Slytherin table, Venus was squealing with delight over a hideous pair of gloves; they were clearly a gift from Pongo Bulstrode. She met Lucius' eyes, and smiled at him. His eyes settled on her sweets, and he looked alarmed, then mouthed, "You guessed they were from me?"

Andromeda stared hurriedly down at her plate, trying not to giggle. Because no one knew about Ted, everyone would assume she didn't know who her admirer was, and Lucius was trying to pretend a box of Muggle chocolates - admittedly in a magical box - was from him!

Then she turned her attention to her box of sweets, and was filled with wonder at the strange and exotic fillings within. Strawberry cream! Nut cluster! Not an insect, eyeball or strange centre in the lot. She hoped Ted appreciated the magical cufflinks she'd owl-ordered for him, which were designed to protect him from random spells. They wouldn't protect him from anything serious, but would be useful in a busy magical environment.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

**

Alastor Moody perked up when Caractacus Potts left his house. He'd decided he disliked Potts. Partly for his obsession with blood - Moody was pureblood, but as he hadn't had to do anything to get it, he didn't think it was worth making a fuss over. More importantly, he disliked the prissy way Potts moved, and his mean little pursed mouth. Everything about the man signalled exclusion and closure, right down to his constipated walk.

Yawning, he shuffled along behind his quarry. He didn't feel the need to get too close. He knew where Potts was going - to his office on the corner of Diagon Alley and Nocturn Alley for another day of burning files and memos that Moody would never be able to filch from his bins.

Potts, however, turned down Nocturn Alley and kept going. Moody was curious. Was Potts meeting someone? The sort of people who hung around this part of town were more likely to meet at midnight, not just before nine in the morning.

Moody took a quick peek into the window of Borgin and Burke's as he shuffled past. A few items caught his eye - a family crest appeared to have been hastily and clumsily removed from the silver. It looked more like the sort of thing you'd see in the Whitbies' pawn shop further down the road, but the Whitbies were known for fencing stolen goods, not magical items. Moody decided to come back later and seize the silver to check for dangerous magical properties, and possibly to identify the previous owner. Borgin and Burke could have the things back if they weren't too dangerous.

He looked up to see Caractacus Potts disappearing around a corner. Moody knew the layout of Nocturn Alley well; when he'd trained back in the Grindelwald era, he'd learned the importance of knowing his enemy's territory as well as his own. He knew every nook and cranny along the street, he knew where fire escapes were, and he knew where the loose tiles on the roof of the Whitbies' shop were (you could have a nasty fall if you ran across them and they gave way). Moody also knew where there was a small way out from Nocturn Alley to Muggle London, and it looked like Potts could locate it too.

Potts' footprints were clear in the mud of the tiny gap between two buildings, and they ended at the strange patch of mist that led into an alley on the Muggle side. Moody cursed. He hadn't expected Potts to go anywhere near Muggle London, and so he'd dressed like a magical tramp, in battered pointy hat and worn-out robes. He'd have to Apparate to his office for trousers. With a sigh and a crack he returned to the Aurors' office and changed.

By the time Moody Apparated back to the little gap in Diagon Alley, he was certain Potts would be long gone, but hoped to be able to track him somehow. Potts had only had ten minutes to get ahead, and Moody didn't think the man knew Muggle London well. He might need to cross a road, and that would definitely make him stop. Potts had probably only seen two or three cars in his life. Even the streets in Muggle London, made of tarmac or concrete slabs rather than tarmac, would be strange and disturbing to Potts at first. Moody remembered his own first encounter with a Muggle road, all painted with strange yellow and white lines. Perhaps Potts would freeze when he saw them.

As it was, Moody didn't get as far as following Potts. A group of Muggles were clustered around someone injured on the pavement. Moody wasn't going to interfere, but then he heard one bystander say, "I fink some bloke frew a firework at him - there was a big flash, an 'e just dropped."

Moody stopped and pushed his way through the crowd, saying, "I know first aid, let me through."

A woman bending over the fallen person looked at Moody and said, "You ain't goin' to do much good, I'm afraid. 'E's 'ad an' 'art attack."

Moody rolled the young man in his neat Muggle suit over, and recognised Michael Osborne from Goblin Liaison. He looked peaceful, as though the spell had caught him from behind. That was a mercy, at least. Moody had never seen the Killing Curse cast, but Aurors who'd served in the Grindelwald era had described it to him, and he knew that it was what had been used here. Potts had to have cast it. Moody made some attempt to restart Michael's heart in the Muggle fashion, just for show, but he knew Michael would never come back.

The woman pulled Moody's arms away after a while. "Someone's called an ambulance. 'E's beyond 'elp, though, poor sod." He rocked back onto his knees and looked down at Michael, and up at the Muggles milling about, their faces crumpled with worry.

Potts didn't know he was being followed, Moody thought. I need to get to the Leaky Cauldron and see if he got back into wizarding London that way. I doubt he'd have dared Disapparating from a London street. I'm going to get him and his wand, and if Priori Incantatem shows anything, by Merlin I'll have him in front of the Wizengamot within a week.