Restitution

"Restitution"

by Paracelsus

Chapter 4: Second Beginnings

Harry cast a resentful glance up at the portrait of Dilys Derwent, where it was displayed in the waiting area of St. Mungo's Hospital. The silver-haired witch in the portrait gave Harry an apologetic smile, as though to say she was only doing her duty. Then she stepped sideways out of the frame and disappeared from view.

Gone to report on me, Harry thought sourly. "Yes, Headmaster, ickle Harry went to St. Mungo's just as you told him to." Just as Pomfrey told me to. Just as Molly told me to. Just as Hermione... what, do they all think I'm too stupid to go to the hospital when I'm hurt? He snorted at the thought.

Not stupid, replied a Hermione-ish voice from the back of his mind. Let's say, stubborn.

Harry cursed the voice as a rotten traitor and stumped up to the information desk. He paused for a moment, took a deep cleansing breath, and modulated his voice into polite tones: the plump blonde witch behind the desk didn't need to hear his bad mood, it wasn't like this was her fault... "Um, hello. I was wondering if, uh, Hippocrates Smethwyck was on duty this morning..." It was the only Healer whose name he could remember.

"Healer Smethwyck?" asked the receptionist, not raising her eyes from the newspaper she was reading. "Yes, he's overseeing the fourth floor, Spell Damage... what is the nature of your injury?"

"Persistent anemia," Harry said briefly. He might have to go into greater detail with the Healer, but he really didn't want to discuss his private life here in the foyer. Surreptitiously he glanced around the room, but there didn't seem to be many people there. Well, that is why I came here on a Sunday morning, after all...

"Fourth floor, then," said the receptionist, and continued reading.

Harry turned from the information desk and headed for the stairs. That went rather better than he'd expected; he hadn't even been asked his name. Maybe he'd be able to see the Healer and leave St. Mungo's without incident...

"Sir!" called the receptionist after him. "Just a moment!" Or maybe not... He sighed silently and turned back as the witch continued, "You can't take your owl with you into the Hospital. You'll have to leave it here at the desk."

He looked quickly at Hedwig, sitting comfortably on his left shoulder, and said, "If you can find a way to get her off me, I'll give you ten Sickles."

The receptionist looked puzzled. "I don't understand. Is it your owl that's ill? Or were you splinched together? Or...?"

"No, she simply refuses to leave me. Ever since I, um, arrived home yesterday..." No details, Potter. Keep it general. "...she's insisted on perching on me. Which made for an interesting time in the shower this morning," he added.

"Oh. Well, can't you just tell her to... to get off you?"

"Gosh," said Harry with dry irony, "why didn't I think of that?' He made a show of addressing Hedwig. "All right, Hedwig, time to get down." Hedwig gave no indication that she'd heard. "C'mon Hedwig, down. Dow-w-nnnn." Hedwig's look said plainly, I don't think so.

Harry tried one more tactic. "Hedwig, my shoulder's going numb..."

Hedwig considered this, then gave a little hop and settled herself on Harry's right shoulder. Harry gave the receptionist an expectant look that was almost innocent.

She twisted her mouth in annoyance. "Just - just don't go near the Dai Llewellyn ward," she finally said. "Some of our patients there are a little leery of anything that might bite them again."

"No problem," smiled Harry, pushing the fringe from his forehead as he turned back to the staircase. Too late he realized that he'd just exposed his scar to the entire waiting room. He didn't run for the stairs - that might draw too much attention - but he walked as fast as his dignity (and the owl on his shoulder) would permit. Evidently he was lucky this time... it didn't seem like anyone had recognized him, he heard no sounds of pursuit.

He found Healer Smethwyck in the Miranda Goshawk ward ("Levitation, Locomotor, and Charms of Movement") on the fourth floor. Smethwyck was very old, completely bald and had what seemed to be ten thousand wrinkles on his face, but he had the air of a man who thoroughly enjoyed his work. He showed no reaction when Harry introduced himself, either because he'd never heard of Harry, or (more likely) was too professional to be overawed by his patients' fame.

The Healer sat Harry down on one of the hospital beds. After rolling back his eyelids, thumping his chest, and performing all the little rituals of medical practice, Smethwyck brought out an odd instrument that looked like a magnifying glass without a lens: a metal hoop attached to a carved bone handle. He peered through the hoop at Harry's head and torso, looking at him from all angles and making little humming noises.

Lastly, Smethwyck stepped over to a bottle-laden shelf and returned with a small vial of thick white fluid. He removed the stopper (revealing it to be a brush applicator) and painted four dabs on Harry's forearm. Then he watched the dabs through the metal hoop as they dried and changed color over the next few minutes.

"Well, Mr. Potter," the Healer finally said, "your blood levels are grounds for concern, no doubt about it. I don't seem to find a specific cause, however. You've no internal haemorrhaging, certainly no external wounds or lacerations, and you aren't suffering from vampirism."

Harry hadn't even considered that last possibility. Unconsciously, he ran his tongue across his upper teeth, checking whether his canines had grown long and pointed overnight.

"Y'know, most people do that when I mention vampirism," said Smethwyck with a chuckle. "Perfectly natural reaction, really."

Harry flushed. "That's not... I wasn't... I mean, you just said I'm not..." He stopped for a moment to collect his poise, then continued, "Well, if I'm not becoming a vampire, and I'm not bleeding anywhere, what is the problem?"

Smethwyck shook his head. "Given the stress your body's been put through recently, we shouldn't be surprised if it responds abnormally. If we can keep your blood levels up, the problem may right itself in a few days. I'll give you another formulation for Blood Replenishing Potion that you can take twice a day, instead of every hour. How are your potion-making skills?"

"Um, middling at best," Harry admitted. His Auror training had included some crash courses in Potions, but they couldn't fully make up for years of Snape's abusive lessons.

"Well, you can always have your local apothecary prepare it for you," the Healer assured him. He took a quill and scrap of parchment from a pocket in his robes and began to write. "We'll wait and see if it helps. If in a week your anemia hasn't improved, we'll arrange to have you admitted here to St. Mungo's for a few days."

Harry nodded agreeably, while privately promising that his anemia would improve. He was not spending a few days at St. Mungo's, he decided - he didn't care if his internal organs were falling out.

"Here you are, Mr. Potter," said Smethwyck as he handed Harry the prescription. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to continue my rounds. The Janus Thickey ward, you know, Long Term Care... I'm following some interesting cases there..."

"Oh yeah, that's right!" Harry exclaimed. "I should check in on Lavender while I'm here. How's she doing today?"

"Miss Brown? Much better than I dared hope last month," replied Smethwyck, as they stepped out of the Goshawk ward into the corridor. "She's in Physical Therapy this morning, I believe, but she should be finished soon. Remarkable how she's recovered," he added, shaking his head in admiration. "When I think back to when she was first admitted here..."

"You were there?" prompted Harry. The Healer had his full attention now... Harry had a personal reason to be interested in this case. "Do you remember what happened that night?"

"Quite well - I was the Healer on Duty at the time. I confess I was completely stymied, couldn't find what was wrong with her. Even now, I still don't know... none of us do. We don't know how she was sent to sleep... nor why she woke up." He stopped in mid-step, lost in thought, and Harry stood patiently by his side. "Most charms of this sort leave a residue which can be detected using the proper instruments. While there are some powerful sleeping charms..."

Harry thought back to his fourth year at Hogwarts... the Triwizard Tournament... Ron, Hermione, Gabrielle and Cho all sleeping soundly, even while underwater and tied hand and foot... Yeah, I'd call that a powerful charm.

"... any of them could have been isolated and countered within hours of Miss Brown's arrival here. In any event, none of them would have lasted this long. The Draught of Living Death might have caused the observed effects, but again, we tested thoroughly for potions and found nothing... nothing whatsoever. We considered possession, transmigration... Healer Ormsby even suggested testing for acute boredom." Smethwyck sighed and started walking again.

"As for how she was awakened," he continued, with a sidelong glance at Harry, "I can't help but feel you'd know more about that than I would."

Harry had to smile. "From all accounts, when Lavender woke up I was busy somewhere else." Understatement of the century, he thought wryly. "I don't quite see how she could have been affected by anything I did."

Unless... Harry's smile faded as he recalled the night before he'd defeated Voldemort. Unless Ron's fairy-tale idea really worked... Please, no. If Lavender woke up because of my kiss, I'll never hear the end of it. My friends will... Hell, never mind my friends, the Prophet will run the story forever! They'll never let it die! Please, no...

Harry felt his stomach twist into a knot as another possibility occurred to him. If those fairy tales were right, only her True Love's kiss could awaken her. Does the fact she's awake mean she's in love with... Oh please, God, no. Seamus would kill me...

He was vaguely aware that the Healer was bidding him good morning, and he found himself mechanically walking down the corridor to the Physical Therapy room. He was suddenly much less eager to greet Lavender than he'd been just moments before.

As he approached the double doors to the PT room, he saw them open and a hoverchair start to emerge. For a moment Harry froze in place, uncertain how to proceed. But it wasn't Lavender in the chair... it was Draco Malfoy.

He had the pale, peaked look of a man who'd gotten too little sun or exercise. His blond hair, longer and whiter than Harry remembered, was tied back in a braided queue. He looked very much like someone recovering from a long illness... or confinement. But his grey eyes were anything but weak: hard and cold, they swept up to Harry's face. "Potter," he said with an attempt at his usual drawl.

"Malfoy," replied Harry neutrally. "You're looking better."

"'Better.' Better than what, Potter?"

Harry sighed. He'd not met Malfoy since leaving Hogwarts, either socially or professionally - the Aurors kept a file on him as a matter of course, but they had no solid evidence he'd ever become a Death Eater. Harry had long since relegated Malfoy to the category of Former Irritant - but evidently, Malfoy had not reciprocated. He still seemed to hate and despise Harry... and Harry no longer cared.

He stepped to one side to allow Malfoy's hoverchair to pass him. However, Malfoy had other ideas. His chair floated sideways to plant itself in Harry's path again. "I wanted to thank you, Potter," Malfoy continued.

This was unexpected. "Thank me?"

"For liberating me. For allowing me to enjoy the exquisite freedom of this magnificent chair," Malfoy said, gesturing to his hoverchair. "The world is my oyster now, Potter, and it's all thanks to you."

Harry knew he shouldn't respond to this. He knew it, even as he opened his mouth. "If at any time you feel like making sense, Malfoy, I'm sure we'd all appreciate it."

"Why, I thought you knew, Potter." Malfoy's laugh was just a shade too brittle to be believable. "After all, you defeated the Dark Lord - again. You sent my father to prison - again. Which dissolved the spells keeping me in my, shall we say, my private suite. Why, if it weren't for all you've done, I wouldn't be here today talking with you."

Abruptly, the hoverchair jumped upwards so that Malfoy was at eye level with Harry. Hedwig gave a screech and launched herself from Harry's shoulder as Malfoy leaned forward. "I owe you a debt, Potter, and I hate owing you. Rest assured, as soon as the opportunity presents itself, I intend to pay my debt to you in full."

Malfoy nodded regally and continued down the corridor, his hoverchair lowering to its usual height. Unseen by Malfoy, Hedwig glided behind him, following him and making sure he left the building.

Okay, that was bizarre. Harry didn't know what to make of Malfoy's comments. Certainly, he'd heard the rumor that Lucius had kept Draco locked away somewhere - and if that were true, and Harry's actions had released him, then Draco might well feel grateful. But while his words had spoken of gratitude, their underlying tone had a much sharper edge...

Harry found himself wondering if an investigation into Malfoy's current status might be warranted - then he caught himself and smiled briefly. He wasn't an active Auror at the moment... it wasn't his problem. Still, he should probably report the conversation he'd just had.

And it wouldn't hurt to request to see the most recent entries in Malfoy's file... just in case.

Harry turned back to the entrance to the Physical Therapy room. Relax, Harry, he told himself firmly. You've faced Voldemort, dementors, Hungarian Horntails, heliopaths... this is only your friend Lavender.

Yeah, right. Resolutely, he stepped into the large room and closed the doors behind him. He leaned back against the door frame, silently watching for a moment.

Lavender Brown was in the center of the room, taking small baby-steps across a cushioned mat. At the end of the mat stood Seamus Finnegan, nodding in encouragement, arms spread ready to catch Lavender if she stumbled. At the far end of the room a green-clad Healer stood motionless, her wand trained on Lavender.

Seamus spotted Harry at the door and gave him a grin and a salute. Lavender turned her head to see who'd entered, and her face broke into a delighted smile. "Harry!" she called, and turned and began walking towards him, still taking those tiny steps. Harry started to step forward, but she waved him back and continued her slow, painful approach.

"I may not be fast," she gasped as she finally reached Harry, "but by the Light I will get there!" She put her arms around Harry's neck and hung there as she let her legs collapse beneath her. Harry was astonished to discover that she weighed almost nothing, less than a pound.

Lavender grinned at Harry's surprised look. "Wingardium Leviosa," she explained, as Seamus and the Healer came forward with a hoverchair. "Healer Fairhaven levitates me almost off the floor, so my leg muscles don't have to bear my full weight. A little more weight every day..."

"A very little," the Healer reminded her, as she used her wand to deposit Lavender in the chair. "It's not just your musculature that we have to strengthen, my dear. Your heart and circulatory system, too... they aren't used to having you vertical after so long abed."

"And I have a vested interest in that heart," added Seamus with a smile for Lavender. Lavender twisted in her chair and smiled warmly back.

Seeing this, Harry felt such a rush of relief that he realized he'd been tense all along and hadn't known it. Seamus had been dating Lavender on-and-off since their fourth year at Hogwarts, after all... he'd probably been her most frequent visitor during her stay at St. Mungo's... it would've been awful if Harry'd mucked things up between them... Anyway, I'm glad to see they're sharing smiles, he told himself, relaxing.

"So," he said, searching for a topic that didn't sound too lame as they moved into the corridor. "So... how are you enjoying being released from Slumberland?" Oi, that was cheesy, Potter. Just be yourself for five minutes, if you can.

Lavender laughed. "I'm loving it! Everything seems so big and new! I'm especially loving seeing things again... you know, using my eyes. That's what I missed most when I was asleep, I think."

"Um, Lavender... let's see, how to put this... Lavender, you were asleep. You can't miss things when you're not there to miss them."

He received an arch look from Lavender and a tut tut from the Healer. "Sleeping people often exist on the threshold of consciousness," Fairhaven explained crisply. "They are 'there to miss things,' as you put it. Even Muggles know this... they talk of accident victims from London recovering in a York hospital - and waking up with a Yorkshire accent."

"Oh," said Harry. They entered the Thickey ward, where Seamus maneuvered Lavender's chair to the side of her bed. "So, um. How much do you remember, then?"

"Bits and pieces," replied Lavender vaguely, as Fairhaven levitated her out of the chair and into bed. "I hate this part," she added sotto voce. "This bed knows exactly where to pinch me now, I'm sure of it."

"Well, if you're good," said the Healer indulgently, "I'll let you sit in the chair all tomorrow morning." She and Seamus left the bedside to stow the hoverchair, leaving Harry and Lavender alone for the moment.

"'Bits and pieces'," Harry repeated. He was reluctant to bring up a painful subject, but if Lavender didn't know, she had to be told... "Lavender, has anyone talked to you since you've woken, about... um, about..."

"About Mum and Dad?" she finished softly. Her eyes dulled a bit and her face lost expression. "Oh yes, the Healers were very gentle about it, they waited a day before they told me... but I already knew. People would discuss it over me while I was asleep." She met Harry's eyes and slowly asked, "Harry, were you the one who found my folks that night?"

Lavender wasn't normally this direct. Harry respected her for it, and strove to match her tone. "One of a team. It was almost my first field case as a full Auror. We arrived too late to save them, Lavender. I'm sorry..."

"But you found me, didn't you? And brought me here?"

"That was me, yes. Not that I was much help there, either. I didn't know how to wake you up..."

"Didn't you?" An impish smile returned to Lavender's face. Casually, she brought her hand to her chin and traced her lips with a fingertip. Harry froze in panic.

Lavender burst out laughing. "Honestly, Harry, the look on your face...! It was a very sweet gesture, though. Thank you." She lowered her voice and grew unwontedly serious. "And you did everything it was possible to do for my folks, so don't you start flogging yourself for no good reason. I mean it." She reached out and laid her hand on his forearm. "You always do that, you know."

Harry didn't reply. Lavender nodded and continued, "As for the rest, well... I promise not to say anything if you don't. Deal?"

"Deal," said Harry quickly as Seamus rejoined them. "What's a deal?" the latter asked.

"Harry and I have agreed that he's not taking me out to dinner," Lavender replied smoothly.

"I should hope not," laughed Seamus. "You're not nearly ready to face the world, Lav. And not so publicly, to be sure..."

Harry was amused at how Seamus managed to make Lav sound almost like love. He wondered if Lavender had noticed yet... Then the rest of Seamus's meaning sank in. "'Publicly'?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, like you said in your interview..." Seamus began.

"Half a mo... what interview?" Harry asked, his alarm growing with his suspicions. "I haven't given any interviews. You know how much I hate reporters... Why else would I come to my own funeral and stand up there talking to everyone? It was no fun, but it was a hell of a lot easier than an interview! That was the whole point!"

Seamus and Lavender exchanged glances. "We thought it seemed out of character," Lavender commented.

"Mean to say, you've always hated publicity. And then to talk to Smith of all people..." Seamus reached to the table beside the bed and produced the Sunday Prophet. "Maybe you should read for yourself, mate..."

Harry took the newspaper as though it were about to bite his hand, and opened it to the front page. Banner headlines screamed, "THE BOY STILL LIVES! Lost Hero Returns To Greet His Supporters!"

"'Defeater of Darkness'?? That's worse than 'The Boy Who Lived'!" Harry said indignantly. "And I was talking to the whole audience, dammit - Smith just happened to be there! He makes it sound like he got an exclusive!"

Seamus shrugged. "If he was the only reporter there, Harry, I'd say he did get an exclusive..."

"Anyway, that's not the article we were talking about," said Lavender. "Read further down..."

Harry looked down the page. There was a second article on the front page, a sidebar to the main story: "Will Wizardkind's Hero Finally Learn To Enjoy Life?"

"That... wart," Harry growled. "That festering pustule." It was all he could do to keep from ripping the newspaper to shreds. Harry couldn't recall the last time he'd been so angry. "I should have blasted him in the D.A. I swear I'll strangle him. With his own intestines! I'll feed his tongue to the thestrals! I'll..."

"Er, Harry?" interrupted Lavender timidly. She sounded scared, and (Harry realized) for good reason - he'd been growing steadily louder in his imprecations. He closed his eyes, breathed through his nose two or three times, and tried to calm himself.

"Sorry," he finally said. "I should've learned a long time ago not to pay any attention to anything in the Prophet. Smith can't be as bad as Skeeter, after all."

"Well, no... but you see why I was joking about dinner, earlier." Lavender took the newspaper back from Harry. "Anyway, it'll blow over in a few days, won't it? It always does."

"And it's not as though you're being mobbed on the streets by hordes of fangirls, right?" added Seamus.

"No, of course not..." Harry began, then stopped. The information desk... the receptionist... she'd been reading the Prophet when he came in! Had she seen his scar after all? How many people had she told? How many people would be waiting for him when he tried to leave? And he couldn't even Apparate out, thanks to St. Mungo's wards...

Harry found himself recalling with longing a time, just a few days earlier, when he'd been a critically-injured amnesiac invalid. At least then, his greatest worry was the quality of the hospital food.

*

Do they even know the image they're projecting? Margaret Pohuhu asked herself bemusedly. Was it done a-purpose? I mean, did they actually sit down and say, "Let's build offices for the civil service, and let's call it the Beehive, and let's make it look like a giant beehive!" Were they intending to evoke the image of mindless worker drones?

Someone must be having a good laugh.

She'd flown up from Christchurch to Wellington early that morning, then ridden the bus from the airport to the Parliament Grounds. Now Margaret stood outside the Beehive, holding her coat closed against the chill wind as she gazed up at its tiers of glass windows... wondering for perhaps the fiftieth time whether she was spending enormous effort on a fool's errand.

She glanced again at the bit of parchment in her hand. It had arrived under her door the morning after her last phone conversation with the Ministry of Magic (she managed not to roll her eyes at the phrase). In a flowing handwritten script, it gave detailed instructions for today's trip - starting with the mandate that she bring the parchment itself with her.

Parchment in hand, Margaret entered the old, stately Government House, passed through its reception area, turned left and headed through the connecting walkway for the ugly-modern Beehive - and as the letter promised, nobody stopped or questioned her, or even seemed to notice her. She entered the Beehive, walked to the lifts, and rode one to the fourth floor. She wandered the hallways looking for the right room, but after twenty minutes she still hadn't found it.

She paused in the middle of one corridor, frowned in frustration, and re-read the parchment. "The Ministry of Magic is located in office #457, between two post-Modernist paintings," it said. Well, here were the two paintings, side by side, with no space between them for an office or anything else...

She looked up again just in time to see the two paintings slide left and right, and a door suddenly spring into existence between them. A handsome brass plaque on the door read, "Ministry of Magic. Welcome, visitor." Tentatively, Margaret reached out her hand for the doorknob - she half-expected it to dissolve under her fingertips, but it felt comfortingly cool and solid. Emboldened, she grasped the knob and opened the door.

It was like jumping back in time from the Twenty-First Century to the Eighteenth.

The door led not to a room, but to a broad flight of steps leading down. The walls and the steps were of closely-set stone blocks; there was a tapestry hung halfway down the flight. The whole thing had an archaic look... an older world hidden within her own. (Margaret had envisioned burning torches in wall sconces, but the light came from clusters of crystalline spheres on the ceiling, each with a tiny bright spark at its center.)

At the bottom of the stairs was a larger room: a waiting room, it seemed, with leatherbound chairs and low tables littered with magazines. The wainscoted walls were decorated with art, some pakeha, some Maori. At the far end of the room, in front of another door, was a large desk; an attractive middle-aged woman - obviously a receptionist - sat behind it. The desk also held the only modern-looking item in the room: a telephone.

Margaret approached the desk. "Good morning. I believe I've an appointment with Cassiopeia Tucker...? I'm Margaret Pohuhu."

The receptionist's eyes had widened a bit when Margaret had given the name of the Minister of Magic, but she quickly smiled. "Yes, Dr. Pohuhu," she said, glancing at the appointment book before her, "I'll tell the Minister you're here, if you'd care to wait..." She rose and left the room through the door behind her.

I wonder why she didn't use the phone? Margaret wondered idly. After a moment's waiting she began to wander the room, looking at the art on the walls. There was a portrait of an old man in an outlandish pointed hat, so cunningly painted that Margaret almost felt he was turning his head to watch her as she walked past...

There were several items of taonga, Maori art treasures, on display. Each display case bore a label thanking the appropriate iwi or hapu for their loan of the artifacts. Here, for instance, there was a collection of mere, the short stone clubs that the Maori had used as weapons; these were carved from greenstone, and by their condition seemed to be very old and well-used...

Margaret paused and looked more closely at one of the mere. The translucent stone almost seemed to be shot through with a faint golden light... she put her fingers on the glass of the display case, and felt the tiniest of tingles as she passed her hand over that particular mere. Odd...

Next to the mere was a carved wooden lattice, worn with age. It showed dozens of figures, plants and animals and people, evidently scenes from a story... wait a minute. Are those two people riding - brooms?!

"They're playing Quidditch," came a pleasant voice from behind her. Margaret turned to see a man and a woman standing in the doorway. The woman was a slender blonde pakeha; the man was a stocky Maori with close-cropped hair. Both wore floor-length robes, hers black, his a deep burgundy.

"That one's the earliest known representation of a Quidditch game on the Pacific Rim," the woman continued. "Took some doing to get it loaned to us, away from curious eyes."

"Quidditch." Margaret tried saying the word. It felt peculiar on her tongue.

"A magical game. Mmm, like a cross between football and the Americans' basketball - played while flying on broomsticks fifty feet in the air." The woman smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Lucilla Fairbourn, I head the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures. This is Rewa Otimi... Minister Tucker was called away to deal with a crisis, we hope you don't mind..."

"Not at all," said Margaret politely, shaking hands. "These things happen." She followed the two back through the door and into a corridor of offices. She saw more people dressed in long robes, looking at her curiously - then ducked as an origami paper bird flew through the air over their heads.

"Interdepartmental memo," laughed Fairbourn. She seemed to be a cheerful sort, whereas Otimi was more reserved - downright taciturn in fact, having not said anything yet. Neither of them seemed to give the origami bird more than a passing thought.

They write notes on paper, fold them into birds, and make them fly through the air by magic. And that's perfectly routine to them. Margaret began to feel seriously out of her depth. "Why not just use e-mail?" she asked, trying to sound intelligent.

"We haven't any," Fairbourn explained at length, as though sensing her guest's unease. "No computers, no phones, no intercoms. Electronics are unreliable around magic. The only phone in the entire Ministry is back in the reception area, and that's only so Muggles can call us when necessary." She ushered them into a small conference room and closed the door behind them.

"So... I understand you have some questions about your father's work," said Fairbourn once they'd been seated. "Rawiri Pohuhu. I have his Ministry file here: Worked for Magical Creatures - years ago, before I became head - as a full-time dragon keeper. Mmm, we have some photos, if you'd like to see them." She pulled some photographs from the file and handed them to Margaret.

Margaret gasped when she saw the first photo. It showed a tall, handsome man, dressed in outdoor leathers and holding a large pearl-grey sphere. This was her father - it matched her childhood memories of him, as well as the pictures her mother'd kept in their house - but this photo showed him moving, smiling, laughing with someone off-camera. He was a graceful man, she decided, and a good man... which she already knew, but to see him like this...

"Magic camera, I suppose," she attempted to joke, but it came out as a whisper. "Oh, Dad..."

"You seem surprised, Dr. Pohuhu," said Otimi, speaking for the first time. "You've not seen wizard photographs before?"

Margaret shook her head. "I didn't know wizards even existed until recently. I don't understand why I've never heard of any of this. Why hasn't anybody heard about...?"

"The last one's easy. Wizards and witches are required by law to keep themselves secret. It's been that way for centuries. Why?" he anticipated her next question. "Fear of persecution, fear of exploitation..." He shrugged.

"As for why you yourself haven't heard of us," Fairbourn broke in, "that would've been your mother's decision. We keep birth records for wizards and witches, you see, and according to them you're a Squib. Non-magical child of magical parents," she added, seeing Margaret's confusion. "I'd imagine that, with your father's death and you showing no signs of magical talent, your mother thought it'd be easiest to not discuss magic with you."

Non-magical child of magical parents... "Was my mother a witch?"

"Not that we know. So you see, when you first contacted the Ministry, it took us rather by surprise." Fairbourn smiled. "You say you've started showing signs of magic, eh?"

Margaret nodded. "I... I seem to have developed a... a gift for healing. My hands are, well... my hands are sensitive. When I lay my hands on someone, I'm able to cure their illnesses, heal their injuries. My grandmother is helping me discover just what I can do."

"We'd like to help you, too. Magical talents need to be carefully taught, and you're starting rather late. I think a visit to our school for witchcraft and wizardry would benefit you - I can arrange it if you'd like." She considered for a moment. "Term's about to end, there'll be two weeks for winter break - that would be a good time. Shall I write the Headmaster?"

"Th-thank you," said Margaret gratefully. "That's more than I expected... I only came today to learn more about my father and what he did... where he worked, who he worked with..."

"I'm sure we can do better than that," said Fairbourn. "We can arrange for you to visit the dragon reserve where he worked, and meet some of his old co-workers. Would you like that?" She scribbled on a half-sheet of parchment, oblivious to Otimi's frown, then slid the parchment across the table to Margaret.

"I would," Margaret said regretfully, "but there's only so much time I can take away from my job. I'm an intern at Christchurch Hospital, and my schedule..."

Fairbourn held up a hand. "The Ministry of Magic has more influence than you might expect. I see no difficulty in persuading your employers that you should be permitted an 'educational sabbatical'... especially if it will help your patients once you've returned." She stood and added, "I'll take care of it this week. For now, I'd like you to keep us posted on any developments that may arise - any new talents you uncover. We greatly appreciate your coming to see us today..."

Guided by these none-too-subtle hints, Margaret rose and exited the room with Fairbourn. She contrived to keep one of the moving photographs of Rawiri Pohuhu in her hand as she left the Ministry.

*

After seeing Margaret off, Fairbourn returned to the conference room. Otimi was still there, and another person had joined them: elderly, with steel-grey hair and a pinched expression. "Opinions?" she demanded as soon as Fairbourn closed the door.

"She seems to be just what she says she is," answered Fairbourn, "a late-bloomer who's only learned about her magical heritage and want to know more." She turned to Otimi and added, "And yes, I'm well aware that if she's the one your agents are looking for, she'd take pains to look this way too."

"We don't suspect her more than anyone else," said Otimi. "But the fact remains that she was in the right place at the right time. We have to consider her a possibility."

"'Right place'? She happens to live in Christchurch! How many other wizards and witches live in Christchurch? Why aren't they suspects, eh?"

"Indeed," said the elderly witch. "Surely, Rewa, the murderer might have Apparated to Christchurch from anywhere in the country. I don't see why Cantabs should be more logical suspects."

"We haven't yet discovered any common thread linking the murder victims, Minister Tucker. In cases where there is no common thread, where the murders are random, there's no reason for them to be clustered in a single place. In this case, if there is a common denominator, a motive of some sort, the fact that the murders all took place in Christchurch suggests the murderer is likewise in Christchurch."

"'Suggests'," Tucker noted. "Not 'proves'."

"We must start somewhere, Minister."

"I'm not criticizing your investigation, Rewa. You're doing good work. Certainly the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has greatly improved since you took it over. I'm simply concerned that you might be jumping too quickly at this new line of inquiry."

"I think this Dr. Pohuhu has more magical power than she lets on," replied Otimi after a moment. "You noticed she spotted the true greenstone in the reception room."

"Yes," agreed Fairbourn. "That surprised me, too. I thought she'd only been developing healing magic...?"

"Which is why she merits closer scrutiny." Otimi leaned forward in his chair, raising three fingers one at a time. "Motive, means, opportunity: the classic 'three-legged stool' of crime investigation. Motive in this case remains to be found. Opportunity? She was in the vicinity of each of the three victims at the times of their murders. Means?" He looked at Minister Tucker. "I've given you summaries of the autopsies. We hadn't been able to account for them - until now. Recall, the only difference between karakia and makutu is..."

"Intent," finished Tucker thoughtfully. "The skills are the same." She sat still for a moment longer, then declared, "Continue your investigations, Mr. Otimi, and give special attention to Ms. Pohuhu. As of now, we haven't enough information to make any judgment. Let's rectify that."

Otimi nodded and stood. "And if we do turn up more on the good doctor, there's one thing in our favor." He gestured to Fairbourn. "I was a bit put off when Lucilla offered the invitation - but on thinking it over, it might not be a bad idea if Pohuhu's put someplace she can't easily leave. Keep her close without actually putting her in gaol."

"Very well," said Minister Tucker in dismissal. But she remained seated in the room after Fairbourn and Otimi left, reflecting on all she'd just learned.

Margaret Pohuhu? Mahina Wanui's granddaughter? A murderess? I don't believe it. She simply could not have done it. But I can't order my chief of Magical Law Enforcement to ignore her - mustn't interfere in a police investigation, particularly when murder's involved...

Well, whoever our murderer may be, they're clearly a Dark wizard of great power. The D.M.L.E. isn't geared for that sort of quarry - that's Auror's work. And we haven't needed Aurors in New Zealand since the defeat of Grindelwald. We've lost that specialty.

A grim smile grew on Tucker's face. No reflection on Rewa's competence... but it might be prudent to consult with professional Aurors on this case. British Aurors would be best... an owl to Cornelius Fudge - no, not Fudge, he's a total spinner - an owl to, what's her name, Stones? No, Bones - Amelia Bones. She might be able to advise us... we could certainly use whatever help she can offer.