Through the Grapevine

Chapter I -- The Mouse and the Trap

Life was good for David Marsh. His best friend from school, Timothy Lovejoy, had finally managed to bring about the promotion he had always wanted. Now he sat in a room almost every wizard wanted to look inside -- the locked room in the Department of Mysteries. The Head office.

The room could only be described as anticlimactic. Sure, his immense leather chair was remarkably comfortable, so much so that he could doze off in it. True, his sweeping, mahogany, spell-proof table was a luxury that only the Minister could boast. Yes, the wall behind him was in fact a sweeping window that overlooked a beautiful beach with perpetual sunshine pouring in. However, he could not shake his deep, inexplicable feeling of antipathy towards the office -- he sometimes felt he did not belong there. He had assured himself he would become accustomed to the room, or else continue using his old office in the Hall of Prophecies.

The fire flashed green and a red memo appeared from its dying embers. Marsh stood up as if his chair had caught fire. He reached an arm out and snatched the memo from the air. Red meant urgent. And there were very few wizards who could send him a red memo directly -- namely the other six Head of Departments, Senior Undersecretary Lovejoy and the Minister himself. The Minister's Council.

As he prised open the memo, he recognised the almost robotic handwriting instantly. It belonged to Lovejoy:

My office ASAP.

Marsh let the memo slip from his hand. It hung in the air for the slightest moment before bursting into flame, its ashes littering the otherwise spotless carpet. As the final particles of ash were laid to rest, Marsh was already at the fire, a handful of Floo Powder in his hand.

What would Lovejoy want so early in the morning? It had to be something of utmost importance for he, Marsh, to be called out of the Department. Had Shacklebolt called an emergency Council meeting? Had Harry bloody Potter made yet another high profile arrest?

Marsh flung the powder into the fire, turning it emerald green. 'Urgent' meant using the Floo to move between offices. He only hoped one of his bright new recruits didn't blow up the Department while he was away. He stepped into the fireplace.

"Lovejoy's office!"

Harry sat, almost horizontal, on the couch, his feet resting on the coffee table in front of him. Sunlight filtered in through the translucent silk curtains. Darker, thicker curtains, more beige than orange, framed the windows and from his vantage point, Harry could see the pulley system that opened and closed them. Opposite him was his pride and joy -- not as some may have thought, his and Ginny's wedding portrait, but the forty-two inch television screen that Harry had recently bought and mounted on the beige wall.

In one hand, Harry held the remote control and was flicking through hundreds of channels, and in the other was a family-size pack of tangy cheese Doritos. Finally, Harry found the channel he wanted -- the one showing the England game. He cursed -- he had missed most of the match and England were a goal down to Slovakia of all teams.

"I hate Dean, you know that?"

Harry reluctantly tore his eyes from the screen to the living room door where Ginny stood, her hands on her hips. Despite it being summer, she was wearing green robes and her favourite golden necklace. Her wand was behind her ear, a habit she had picked up from Luna, and her flaming red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Were they meant to be going out? At that moment, Harry only cared for football, a love he had picked up from Dean a few years ago.

"Yeah..." mumbled Harry, turning back to the television.

Gerrard, England's talisman midfielder, had flitted the ball through to Owen, a short striker, who had turned his marker. Only one defender stood between he and the goal. Harry leaned forward. Owen wrong-footed the last defender, leaving only the goalkeeper in his way. Harry raised his arms expectantly. No! The beaten defender had tackled Owen from behind and brought him down.

"Penalty!" yelled Harry.

"Harry!"

Not taking his eyes off the screen, Harry said, "One minute, honey. That cheating scum's got to get a red!"

The referee, who had been swarmed by England players, pointed to the spot before giving the offending defender a yellow card. Harry spotted some movement from the corner of his eye and instinctively looked. Ginny was now wearing only a lacy bikini, green as her robes. Harry weighed up his options. There was only one winner; he turned back to the television, where Owen had placed the ball on the penalty spot.

"Owen has got to slot this one away," the commentator was saying, "not like the one he hit over the bar for Liverpool at the weekend. The weight of the nation is on his shoulders."

Harry tossed his packet of Doritos aside, a testament to the importance of the penalty. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his hands clasped together as if in prayer, his chin resting on the bridge of his knuckles. Owen took three steps back from the ball and looked up at the goal.

"Come on Owen," mumbled Harry.

"Come on Owen," said the commentator, throwing neutrality to the wind.

Owen ran up and hit the ball straight down the middle. The Slovakian goalkeeper committed to a spectacular dive to his right. The net rippled.

"Yes!" Harry cried.

"Yes!" cried the commentator.

Harry jumped to his feet and punched the air with his fist. He only wished Dean or Ron was with him. His euphoria was short-lived; Ginny had managed to switch off the television.

Harry gaped. "Listen, Gin," he said, looking around for the remote, "I know you don't understand football, but you've got to put the TV back on. If we win this, we've got a foot in the finals."

Ginny merely shook her head. "This is the first day in weeks that we've both got a day off and I'm not letting bloody football ruin it."

"There's only ten minutes left!"

"We've got a table at Il Bordello in five minutes."

"What?" Harry regained his composure. "Err...we can make it in three."

"Not dressed like that," said Ginny, brandishing the remote at him.

Harry glanced down at his clothes. He was wearing a bright red England top populated by crumbs. His boxers were peeking through the hem of the t-shirt. He hid a smile and picked his wand up from the coffee table. A quick Switching Spell later and his 'slob clothes', as Ginny called them, were gone, replaced by an expensive black robe lined with red.

"Happy?"

"Much better," said Ginny, smiling now. "Let's go."

Harry sighed in defeat. There were always the game highlights on 'Match of the Day'. He summoned the car keys and followed Ginny out of the living room, through the narrow corridor and into the hall. All along the corridor were small, unmoving portraits of those he refused to forget. His parents. Sirius. Dumbledore. Mad-Eye. Hedwig. Dobby. Fred. Remus. Tonks. People always felt uncomfortable walking down the corridor, but neither he nor Ginny cared. If they didn't remember their loved ones, who would?

The door opened on to a paved drive. Opposite their semi-detached home was a hall of residence belonging to the local London University. Harry's fame meant they could never live in a wizarding area. At least, not until he retired.

He shielded his eyes from the sun and glanced up and down the small road. None of the neighbours were around -- judging by the number of empty drives, they had decided to make use of the sunshine.

"They're good about privacy," said Ginny as Harry locked the front door behind him.

"What?"

"The restaurant," said Ginny, rolling her eyes, "they said they're good at making sure you're not disturbed. Not that they need to do anything with weather like this -- everyone'll be at the beach, hopefully."

"Hopefully."

Harry unlocked his car, a silver Ford Mondeo, and got into the driver's seat, while Ginny jumped in the passenger's side.

"I really don't understand why we need all these precautions," said Ginny. "Most of the Death Eaters are locked up in Azkaban now; I'm sure we can take off the Anti-Apparition wards at least."

"Yes,most of them are in Azkaban. Once I'm sure all of them are locked up, I'll have Bill bring the wards down." Harry smiled, making sure Ginny had locked her door all the while. "Until then, this is our only Apparition point. Constant vigilance!"

"And I thought Mad-Eye was paranoid..."

"Great man, Mad-Eye; best Auror the Department ever saw."

"Kingsley would say otherwise."

"Well, Kingsley needs to get himself out of my arse and see the light of day once in a while."

Ginny giggled. "And they say I'm the snarky one."

When he was sure the car was secure and there were no Muggles watching, he placed the keys in the glove compartment, took Ginny's hand and Apparated away.

A split second later, he and Ginny appeared, hand in hand, in one of the side-streets in the village of Hogsmeade. The cobbled street was utterly deserted; all that could be heard were birds chirping and a faint buzz of noise, probably from the Three Broomsticks. Almost subconsciously, Harry scanned the road for any suspicious activity, as well as possible avenues of escape if wizarding transportation was cut off.

"I'm quite sure You-Know-Who isn't two doors down," said Ginny, tugging lightly at his arm.

"You do realise he's not going to rise from the dead and kill you for using his real name, don't you?"

Ginny ignored him and opened the door. It was Harry's turn to roll his eyes as he followed her in. As soon as he stepped through the wooden doors, he wished he hadn't.

The establishment itself was nice enough. It wasn't so small that they were better off in their own living room, but not so large that they would be waiting hours for their food. The décor, too, was almost exactly what Harry liked -- the restaurant had employed a successful red and white colour scheme. No, what he hated was the fact that it was almost full with diners, most of whom were now glancing at him in a manner that they probably hoped was surreptitious.

"So much for privacy," mumbled Harry as a wide-eyed House Elf approached them.

"Begging your pardon, sir," squeaked the House-elf, bowing low, "but Drulm is wondering whether you is Harry Potter, sir."

"Yes I am."

The House Elf's eyes were now so wide Harry would not have been surprised if they equalled the palm of his hand in size.

"Is you wanting the window table still, sir?"

"Err, yeah."

"This way, sir and miss."

The House Elf led them with an air of pride that had Ginny red with laughter. Harry may have joined her if almost every eye in the restaurant wasn't following them to their surprisingly welcoming red table for two; it was already laid out, menus and all. Harry sat beside a window that looked over another cobbled street.

"Thanks, Drulm." The poor House Elf looked as though he would die from happiness.

"Harry Potter is too kind and too great, sir!" Drulm bowed so low his long nose touched the white carpet and all Harry could see was the few wispy grey hairs that populated the top of his head.

When Drulm left, Ginny burst into a fresh wave of infectious laughter. Soon they were both shaking with silent laughter, and Harry could feel more eyes turning towards them. Finally, Ginny hid behind her menu and the laughter died away.

Harry did a quick sweep of the restaurant. As he had guessed, all eyes were on him -- all except one couple. They were sat in the far corner of the room staring, almost pointedly, away from Harry and Ginny's table. The man was wearing a worn black cloak that did little to hide his huge size. The cloak suggested that he would not be able to afford the extortionate restaurant prices aimed at well-to-do Ministry families. In stark contrast, the extraordinarily busty woman was wearing a low-cut red robe that hugged her slim figure. Ron would have gone mad for her, before he fell for Hermione. The man said something to the woman. Instantly, she looked over at Harry, almost suggestively.

Harry looked away and decided to watch out for the couple, if they were indeed a couple. While he was no longer in as much danger as he had been in the two or three years following Voldemort's death, there were still plenty of wizards who would love to see him dead.

"What are you having, then?" said Ginny, still peering at her menu.

"Dunno, found anything good?"

"Says here their lasagne's the best in Britain."

"Let's see if there's any truth in that, then," said Harry, putting his menu on the golden platter. Almost instantly, it disappeared and a white, flower embroidered plate appeared in a frame created by the knife, fork and spoon. Slightly to the right, a goblet appeared, almost identical in pattern to the plate. Harry lowered his head so he could see his reflection in the plate. Resisting the urge to flatten his messy fringe, he said, "Meat lasagne and Butterbeer, please." Ginny ordered the same.

They had agreed many years ago that they would never order starters -- they were a waste of time and money. That and Harry's small appetite meant he could never finish the main course otherwise. The time he had committed to his career meant he had skipped more than his fair share of meals.

"That House Elf looks exactly like the team's new one," said Ginny.

"I still don't understand why a Quidditch team needs a House Elf."

"Who else is going to clean up after us?"

"You're a team of women! We're meant to be the slobby, dirty ones, remember?"

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? Oh! Before I forget, Andromeda wants us to babysit Teddy for her this weekend."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't get why she doesn't just let him move in with us and be done with it. He's six now, isn't he? Just about old enough to be taught some Muggle stuff..."

Ginny sighed. "We've been through this, Harry. One, Andromeda's his grandma, you're just his godfather-"

"He's Lupin's son," said Harry firmly, "which makes him my son, too. And Dromeda was Sirius' favourite cousin -- you know I'd be more than happy for her to move in as well..."

"Second," said Ginny, a little more sympathetically, "we both work eighty-hour weeks. This is your first day off in months. How on earth can we raise Teddy if we're not even in the house?"

"I can quit if I have to; it's not like we need the money..."

Ginny snorted. "Come on, Harry, we both know you won't be able to stand being away from the office for more than a few days. Especially not now you're so close to making Head. Last but not least, you're not going to corrupt that poor child with that horrible television!"

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I just feel like I haven't done enough for him -- I'm meant to be his godfather, for God's sake! You'd think that I of all people would be with him rather than selfishly spending day and night at the office, you know?"

Ginny reached out and took his hand in hers, stroking it as she did so. He loved it when she did that -- it soothed him. "Look at me, Harry." He looked up and met her bright brown eyes. "You're a fantastic godfather. None of my brothers saw or loved their godfathers anywhere near as much as Teddy sees and loves you."

"What about your godfather?"

"Haven't I told you?" said Ginny, a little surprised. "My uncle Gideon was meant to be my godfather...he died before I was born."

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Potter, sir, but can I have a word?"

Harry gritted his teeth as he reluctantly turned away from Ginny, who tutted irritably and pulled her hands away. A young witch with jet black hair and half-moon glasses stood by the table, blocking the suspicious couple from view. She held a quill and parchment ready in her trembling hands.

"I'm sorry," said Harry monotonously, "but I don't give interviews outside of work."

"This is about your recent capture of Amycus Carrow."

"Listen, Miss...?"

"Miller, Jane Miller, sir. From the Daily Prophet."

"Listen, Miss. Miller. I'm under vows of secrecy, as you should well know. When Head Auror Robards deems the time right, he'll call a press conference. I'll answer your questions then."

Miller's shoulders sagged. She mumbled her dejected thanks and left.

"You're way too nice to those pests," muttered Ginny.

"We all make a living in different ways."

"I mean, the sports writers at the Daily Prophet are absolutely fantastic."

"It does help that the Sports Editor's a feminist," said Harry with a smirk.

"Excuse me, Mr. Potter." Harry bit his lip to stop himself snarling with anger. His anger melted when he realised that the speaker was a ten year-old child with blonde hair and angelic features. Harry looked up and pin-pointed her family -- a mother, father and older brother, all blonde.

"Yes?"

"Can you sign this for me, please?"

She held out a black and white photograph of Harry, taken the day after he had defeated Voldemort. It was the only photograph he willingly posed for, and only did so because the original batch was auctioned off to raise money for those affected by the war.

He shared a look with Ginny then said, "Sure." He took the photo and a quill from her. "What's your name?"

"Penelope."

"To Penelope," said Harry, reading aloud as he wrote. "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Yours, Harry."

"What's that mean?" asked Penelope, handling the photograph as if it were her baby sister.

"That's for you to work out," said Harry, smiling.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Potter." Penelope curtsied before skipping over to her table happily.

"Way too nice," said Ginny, rolling her eyes. "And when the hell is this food going to come?"

"Erm, Miss. Weasley?"

Penelope's brother, probably spurred on by his sister's success had come over. Ginny's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I've been Mrs. Potter for a year now," she snapped.

"Err, sorry," he said. "But could you sign this photo for me, please?"

Ginny exchanged an exasperated look with Harry, who gave her an encouraging nod. "Alright," she mumbled, "just this once."

Ginny took a photo and quill from the boy, who could not keep his eyes off her, specifically her breasts. Harry tapped the boy's wrist and discreetly motioned for him to keep his eyes on Ginny's face. The boy jumped and his face went almost as red as the walls.

Harry, satisfied, turned his gaze to the photo Ginny had just lazily scribbled her signature on. This one was in colour. A team of seven women were flying triumphantly across a Quidditch field, one of whom was holding a cup aloft. The words 'Holyhead Harpies' appeared in neon pink at the top of the photo.

"Thanks, Mrs. Potter!" said the boy breathlessly, and went back to his family's table.

"One more interruption and I will resort to violence," snapped Ginny.

As if deliberately looking to annoy Ginny, the busty woman with the low-cut red dress came over.

Before she spoke, Ginny said, "We're trying to enjoy a private meal here. Go away."

Harry was torn between surprise and bemusement. Surprise won out when the women replied with, "No, I won't go away. I only came for an autograph." She leaned into him so her breasts were practically under his nose. He held his breath, unable to handle the nauseous perfume. "Care to sign?"

"Right, that's it, you filthy whore!" The scraping of her chair told Harry that Ginny had stood up. He, however, was too busy backing away from the impossibly large breasts.

"Is there a problem here?"

The women backed away from him, the breasts with her. As his vision returned, he saw that her burly partner had come over. He looked like he was in his late thirties. While his small eyes seemed menacing, the lack of cuts and bruises told Harry he was not a fighter.

"He called me a filthy whore!" cried the woman.

"You dirty liar!" spat Ginny.

"Did you call my sister a filthy whore, boy?"

Harry stood his ground calmly. He had seen the type before -- all talk, no skill to back it up. "Judging by her actions, it's the only conclusion I can draw."

The burly man rolled up his sleeves. Harry swept his eyes across the restaurant. He did not want to break furniture -- broken furniture meant the owner would start thinking about his insurance, and when he did, he would place the blame on the wealthier of the two to make sure his losses were recouped. And that meant Harry.

"Let's resolve this outside, shall we?" said Harry. "Ginny, save our table." Ginny looked ready to argue so Harry muttered, "don't worry, I've got it covered."

The man and woman filed out, one after the other with Harry following. The other customers shrank away from them, whispering behind their hands once all three had passed.

Five wizards were waiting for Harry outside. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Harry measured the men up. Any five men had a ringleader, two enthusiastic followers and two reluctant followers. Take the ringleader and the keen sidekicks out of the equation and it was game over. That was one of the first lessons Harry had learnt in the Academy. There's no such thing as a five-on-one.

Rule one, be on your feet and ready.

Rule two, use your environment.

Harry drew his wand and counted on the five men hesitating. His fame was good for ensuring him an extra three seconds in any given duel. Even the steeliest of men lost their cool when faced with the Chosen One.

Rule three, the Ringleader may not be the fastest, the strongest, or the smartest looking, but he is always the first one to move.

As expected, the burly man from the restaurant stepped forward a pace and the others fell behind him in an arrowhead formation. So the enthusiastic followers were the ones directly behind the ringleader.

Rule four, never back off.

Harry took a step forward of his own but did not adopt a duelling stance. This always put wizards off their stride, especially the arrogant ones who had spent years perfecting their own.

The burly wizard hesitated once more, but Harry did not strike. It was up to the ringleader to make the first move or Harry would have to answer to Robards.

Rule five, assess and evaluate.

The burly wizard was not going to prove a problem, that much was evident. Skilled duellers never hesitated more than once. They were out of the blocks with a powerful curse. He wasn't a killer, either -- assassins didn't do confrontations. The first Harry would see of them, they'd be illuminated by the Killing Curse. No, Harry put the man in the 'average Joe' category. His inventory would be limited, his movement minimal at best. He would begin with a Bludgeoning Hex. That was Harry's best guess.

And Harry was right.

The burly wizard had made a grave error -- he had shot a spell Harry was expecting.

Harry waited for the last minute, when the curse was within arm's reach, when the burly wizard thought he'd won. At that precise moment, Harry raised a shield then muttered, "Lumos Maxima!"

The burly wizard, blinded by the light, was taken down by his own deflected curse. Harry stunned him as he fell.

Rule six, safety first.

"Expecto Patronum!" cried Harry, thinking of his and Ginny's wedding just under a year ago.

Prongs rode out, large and impressive as ever. He charged at the next two, who were not nearly as large as the ringleader, but certainly weren't small either. Their eyes were wide with fear as Prongs hurtled towards them, antlers down. Harry smiled and stunned them in quick succession.

Then it was over, because the last two guys Apparated away. The last two always do.

Rule seven, identify fallen assailants.

Harry reluctantly banished Prongs and approached the unconscious form of the ringleader. He picked up the man's wand. Eleven inches. Beech. Probably dragon heartstring. A thug's wand.

Harry put his hand into the man's cloak pocket and emerged with a handful of Muggle passports. Each was from a different country, each had a different name for the same man. Intrigued, Harry raised the man's arm, searching for his license to Apparate. The tiny black 'A' tattoo was missing from his wrist, however.

"Auror Potter!"

Harry dropped the man's arm and turned around. Ron had appeared, dressed in his red Auror apparel, flanked by Marcus Savage and Anthony Williamson, both reliable men.

"Ginny call you?" asked Harry.

Ron nodded. "What's the situation?" He approached the ringleader while Savage and Williamson took an enthusiastic follower each.

"An ambush. Five on one. This one's the ringleader." Harry nudged the burly man's unconscious body with his foot.

"The two cowardly ones fled, then?" he said, smiling grimly.

"It was all standard. Their objective wasn't death, however. They were amateur and very sloppy. This one fired a Bludgeoning Hex. The other two didn't even manage a spell. Our primary objective is to find out who the hell these guys are. I found false Muggle passports but no Apparition license. I want all three of their names within the hour."

"Savage," called Ron, examining each passport. "Are you taking all of this down?"

"Yes, sir!"

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Savage, the taller of the two Aurors, had a Quick Quotes Quill scribbling furiously at a floating piece of parchment.

"I want the IMC to check these passports out," continued Harry. "I want to know when this guy travelled, where he travelled from and which airports he used. I want some of the MT guys to find the two cowards that got away, as well as checking the last time this guy travelled by Floo, broom, Portkey, everything." Harry moved on to the other two. "Ditto with these idiots. I want the ringleader hauled in for questioning and the other two used as leverage. If there's no tie, chuck them into a Ministry cell."

Harry turned around so he was facing Ron. "Basically, I want to know why they were here, what they wanted to achieve, and most importantly of all, who sent them. When I get into my office tomorrow afternoon, there better be a nice report waiting there for me. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, my beautiful wife and the best lasagne in the country are both waiting for me."

Savage and Williamson nodded and jumped into action, searching the sidekicks thoroughly. Ron smirked and, as Harry walked by him, muttered, "Hermione's putting on a little dinner tonight at eight."

"We'll be there," said Harry, patting Ron on the back.

With that, he retreated back into the restaurant, hoping that Hermione's dinner did not get in the way of the football highlights.

Marsh found Lovejoy sitting back at his table, stroking that black cat he had always hated, the shadow from the velvet curtains making his face difficult to see.

"You called?" said Marsh.

"Sit."

Marsh took one of the armchairs opposite Lovejoy.

"What's wrong?" tried Marsh.

"The Minister has informed me that he will announce his resignation to the Council in two days time. In a week, he will announce it to the nation. In light of Potter's capture of Carrow, no other can hope to match his popularity."

"I've looked into this," said Marsh. "Reliable sources have informed me that Potter has absolutely no Ministerial ambitions. He is far more content to work towards becoming the Head of the Auror Department."

The cat purred.

"But will he be able to overcome the inevitable wave of support from the public? When he is approached by the Wizengamot, will he say no?"

"With all due respect, I believe he will."

"And who then is next in line?"

"Surely you would be," said Marsh, raising an eyebrow.

"It would be a direct contest between Robards and I. Do you honestly believe that Potter would keep out of that? If Robards became Minister, who then would head the Aurors?"

"I see where you're coming from. Potter will, when asked, endorse his superior. What do you suggest? The veil?"

"We must move our pieces more quickly. My sources have informed me that Potter overcame the men we hired with ease, as expected. He will launch a full investigation but ultimately find that the true perpetrators are a clan of Vampires from Hungary. He will be suspicious by about noon. That's when I want the Muggles murdered."

Marsh breathed in sharply. "Tomorrow? There's no way I can hire someone by then."

"You don't need to."

Marsh shifted uneasily in his seat. "I dunno, Tim..."

"Head of the Department of Mysteries," murmured Lovejoy. "Have you forgotten how you got the job already?"

"No, but murder..."

"Do you not remember our little gap year after Hogwarts?"

Marsh shuddered. He was poor and desperate to travel the world with Lovejoy. In his desperation, he had killed for money. "That was different..."

"Murder is murder in the eyes of the law," said Lovejoy coldly. He moved into the light so Marsh could see his electric blue eyes.

Marsh sighed. So it was blackmail, was it? "Fine. I hope you don't forget this when you're deciding on Wizengamot seats a few years down the line."

"Don't worry, I won't. So I want three AKs, a pause, then one miss. The target is still the King's Cross area. Potter will lead the investigation -- Muggle killings are his thing. He'll be meticulous, no doubt about it. You'll leave behind a few things that identify you as a Ministry wizard. He'll try and account for every Ministry wizard from the Minister down. There'll be two names missing from his list, but he'll hesitate. That gives us enough time to get the veil ready.

"He'll come to me first -- he'll only go to your department as a last resort. I'll spin him a tale then lead him to the veil room. The rest will be history."

Marsh frowned. He hated Potter as much as most of his department -- after all, he had a monopoly on any Ministry glory. The Department worked day and night on new inventions; Potter uses them once and catches Dark wizards. The press swarm him. No mention is given to the Department. But killing him?

"I will snap into action and order the veil to be destroyed. The Wizengamot will love me -- Potter'll be the second ancient family heir to die at its hands. The public will love me -- it will be like Crouch locking up the Lestranges all over again, but better. I'll even orchestrate a public funeral and give his wife a windfall in compensation. Then, on a wave of goodwill, I will trounce Robards in the Wizengamot vote and enter office."

Lovejoy leaned back again, the shadow once again covering his face.

"And best of all, it will be Potter's own talent that kills him. He'll finally join his godfather."