Restitution

"Restitution"

by Paracelsus

Chapter 7: The Land of the Long White Cloud

"There you go, Potter," said Millicent Bulstrode as she handed Harry his new passport. "Acceptable anywhere in the Muggle world, Merlin alone knows why."

Harry accepted the passport with a touch of trepidation. After seven years at Hogwarts, he kept only three memories of Millicent Bulstrode, and two of them involved her restraining Hermione by brute force - hardly favorable memories. He'd come that morning to Millicent's office at the Department of International Magical Cooperation as he always did: warily.

But he still preferred dealing with Millicent than with any of the other witches in the Department. Millicent, at least, could be trusted not to fawn, or be smarmy, or treat Harry in any way other than her usual brusque, efficient manner.

And also, there was that third memory...

"Thanks, Bulstrode," he said, flipping the passport open and glancing through it. It was a mark of his acclimatization to the wizarding world that he found it odd that his passport photo didn't move. "I appreciate it, especially on such short notice."

"So where are you off to?" she asked as he pocketed the passport. "Or can you tell me?"

Harry shook his head. "Sorry. Auror business." Which wasn't quite true, since he wasn't an active Auror at the moment, but it had helped expedite his paperwork. "This is more for the sake of being prepared than for anything else."

He bade her farewell and walked quickly out of the Department to the lift. He was tempted to drop in on Arthur Weasley, just to say hello, but decided against it. The sooner he left the Ministry of Magic, the better he'd like it. A few people had done double-takes upon seeing him, but so far no one had approached him... and as long as the Prophet was featuring him on the front page (he winced as he recalled the most recent feature) he wanted to keep it that way.

He was alone in the lift, heading down to the Atrium, when he began to feel a dull pain at the base of his skull. A low throbbing, spreading from his neck to his forehead and rapidly growing more intense. By the time the lift had gone down three levels and arrived in the Atrium, he recognized the pain as an assault by a Legilimens. Someone was trying to probe his mind.

But the lift had been empty... and the Atrium was nearly deserted, the lunchtime rush yet to come. Legilimency required physical proximity, and was helped by eye contact - this couldn't be a Legilimensic attack!

Not quite true, Harry reminded himself. There was one person who could probe your mind without being near you, remember? But it can't be Himself. For one thing, your scar isn't hurting... and for another thing, you killed him.

The pain in his head sharpened - the assault was focusing. Fortunately, Harry's Auror training had included lessons about dealing with Legilimens attacks... while Snape's Occlumency lessons had proven a total failure, he'd learned other techniques. The most important technique: if you can't empty your mind, fill it with nonsense...

He sat down on the floor, drew up his knees and rested his head against them. He closed his eyes and began to silently recite: "Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe..." He quickly discovered that it could be 'sung' to the tune of Greensleeves, and imagined himself bellowing it at the top of his mental lungs.

He'd finished with Jabberwocky and begun a rousing chorus of "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts" when he felt the pain recede. He massaged his temples and tried to muster his strength while he thought... who could be launching psychic attacks without even being in the room with him?

"Potter?"

He opened his eyes quickly. Millicent Bulstrode was leaning over him, a concerned look on her square face. "You okay?" she asked.

Harry managed a smile. "Sorry... a migraine. They come and go, you know how it is." He climbed awkwardly off the floor. "A bit of fresh air and I'll be fine, thanks."

"I'll walk with you. I'm headed that direction anyway." Together they went through the golden grillwork into the long hall with Floo fireplaces lining the walls. The abstract sculpture that had replaced the Fountain of Magical Brethren sprayed them with a fine scented mist as they passed it.

"Well... if you're sure you're okay, I'll leave you here," said Millicent after a moment. "I'm meeting someone for lunch soon... ah, here she is now."

Harry turned to see Pansy Quinnett walking through the Atrium to meet them. She was dressed in the understated elegance that marked the truly wealthy: emerald earrings, impeccably tailored robes parted in front, and a stylish dress that hugged every perfect curve. Her face might still have its flaws (though in fairness, it was less pug-like than in her Hogwarts days), but she'd learned a way to guarantee that no man paid any attention to her face.

"Millicent, hello! I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," she smiled. Her eyes fell on Harry. "And Potter. I wasn't expecting to see you again until Fudge's gala. You haven't changed... not a hair." Said in the pleasantest of tones, it was clearly not a compliment.

"Good morning, Mrs. Quinnett," Harry responded with a courteous bow of the head. His own tone subtly suggested he was greeting a middle-aged matron. He saw her eyes narrow ever so slightly, and he smiled in return. Two can play at that game, Pansy.

"Is the Minister going ahead with his plans for a gala, then?" he continued. "I'd've thought that he want to at least postpone any celebration of Voldemort's defeat." Both ladies flinched at the sound of the name; Harry couldn't help feel exasperated that a harmless word could still have such power. "Personally, I intend to wait until we've defeated all his supporters - the ones still out there free - before I celebrate. But that's just me, of course."

"Of course." Quinnett looked like she'd like nothing better than to argue with Harry... but she controlled herself. Perhaps because they were in a public place... perhaps because she wished to retain her air of noblesse oblige - or perhaps because Harry Potter, defeater of the most powerful Dark wizard in generations, wasn't a man with whom one idly picked fights.

She decided on a graceful retreat. "Well, Millicent and I must be going... we've so much to catch up on. Don't work too hard, Potter." She smiled again and, laying a hand on Bulstrode's arm, they Disapparated from the Atrium.

Harry shook his head. Gaah. There's just something about people like Pansy that makes me want to act like they do. I really should control that. There'd been a time when he'd have used the word "Slytherin" instead of "people like Pansy"... but he had to admit not all Slytherins were like that (and not all people like that were Slytherins, for that matter).

Still, he always had to remind himself to be cautious around... people like Pansy. He much preferred being back in the good graces of his friends, with whom he could - finally - be his normal self again.

*

Hermione had made it as clear as it was possible to make: Absolutely no magic aboard the aircraft! "A huge metal cylinder flying seven miles above the North Pole at hundreds of miles per hour... tell me, Ron, what would happen if it should fall? With us inside?" She'd watched him pack his wand in his carry-on bag, then made certain the bag was stowed where he couldn't easily retrieve it. She didn't need to worry about Harry, who'd grown up with Muggles... or with Ginny, who knew enough to be able to pose as one when necessary. But Ron would bear constant supervision.

It was Harry, amazingly enough, who'd thought to bring something to occupy Ron during the flight. He brought it out once the plane was well in the air. "It's called a Chessmaster, Ron. See, first you set it to the level of play you'd like, then you start the game so... the pieces are displayed on this little screen, and you move them with your stylus. You can play white or black. And if you get bored, it's got other features... like, hmm, let's see..."

"Knight's Tour," said Ron, totally enthralled. "You know, where you have to find a path a knight has to take so that it'll land on all sixty-four squares of the board... wow, Harry, this is brilliant!"

"Start with the lowest level and work your way up," Harry suggested. "It'll last longer that way." He settled back in his seat with the satisfied sigh of a crisis averted.

"Nice," Hermione commented. "Did you happen to buy anything else while you were shopping for electronics?"

Harry blinked in surprise. "Reading minds without a license again?" He reached into a pouch on his belt, of the sort favored by hikers. From it he brought out a new portable CD player, which he showed to Hermione with far too casual an air... Before he could react, she leaned over and pushed her hand into the pouch.

"Harry?" she asked suspiciously. "I can't feel any bottom! Did you charm... oh Harry, hasn't Mr. Weasley got enough to do?"

"This is not a Misuse of a Muggle Artifact," Harry insisted. "It's just a simple Carryall Charm. I used to have a satchel charmed like this, but I lost it. This seemed a perfectly good replacement. You'll notice the x-ray machines at the airport didn't notice anything unusual... Anyway, I can keep stuff in here. My money, some spells and potions, a few odds and ends... and my new player, headphones, some CDs..."

"So I see." She withdrew her hand... it held a CD case. "The Brandenburg Concertos?"

"It's, um, chamber music. I, well... I sort of promised Albus I'd try it. He seems to like it..."

"He also likes glow-in-the-dark hats." She handed back the CD while suppressing a smile. Harry might try to deny it, but the similarities between himself and Albus Dumbledore continued to grow. "Ah well, it's not as though the Weird Sisters have made any Muggle recordings."

"Uh huh. So what did you bring in your bag?" He made to open her bag and was astonished when she yanked it hurriedly out of his reach. His eyes widened... then narrowed dangerously. After a moment he said, "Hermione... by any chance, do you have a copy of the Prophet in your bag?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to blink in surprise. "Yes, Harry," she said cautiously

"The one with my picture on the front page, wearing that hideous Goth outfit you Transfigured for me?"

"Yes, Harry," she said contritely.

"Were you perchance planning to share it with Ron and/or Ginny?"

"Yes, Harry," she said in a small voice.

Harry held out a peremptory hand. Hermione hesitated, then extracted the Daily Prophet from her bag and gave it to him. He looked disgustedly at the front page. "I still can't believe you'd dress me in something so... so... aaaagh. Even Dudley's cast-offs looked better on me than that," he grumbled.

"Says you," Hermione murmured.

He rolled the newspaper into a tight cylinder and slid it into his belt pouch, which received it without protest. "How in Merlin's name did Smith get a picture of me that night?" he continued. "I swear the man's worse than Skeeter..."

Hermione let Harry mull over the problem for a few minutes. Eventually he gave up on it, taking out his headphones and plugging them into the CD player. He inserted the Fourth Concerto disc into the player, closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat.

Only after Harry had closed his eyes did Hermione relax her hold on her bag. That had been close.

She slipped her hand into the bag and felt the reassuring crinkle of parchment. She'd received the reply to her owl only that morning - it had arrived from Dorset as she was setting out for Heathrow - but it told her little she didn't already know. Disappointing, but hardly unexpected... this was a field in which even the experts were far from expert.

It's ridiculous. A wild, irresponsible hypothesis. I should just disregard it. Would that I could... but it reconciles too many odd facts. I need hard evidence, one way or the other. And until I find it, I'd prefer not to share this with anyone... Ron would laugh or argue with me, and even Harry would give me that tolerant smile of his. He wouldn't argue... he just wouldn't agree.

But if I'm right... a big 'if,' but if I'm right, this is too important to ignore. I'll just have to see what develops... or possibly, keep anything from developing. For now, I'll simply observe - it's all I can do.

She looked to her left and right. At the window Ginny was experimenting with her seat, making sure it would convert to a bed when the time came. At the window at the opposite end of their row, Ron was engrossed with the electronic chess game. Next to her Harry listened to the genius that was Johann Sebastian Bach. For the moment, at least, no one required her attention.

Reaching into her bag, Hermione brought out a sturdy book whose cover, which read "History of the British Monarchy," was a magical illusion. She opened the book to its true title page, "Advanced Magizoology and Its Uses in Croquet," and settled down to read.

*

Looking back on the trip afterwards, Hermione always felt she should have known. A flawless flight, comfortable and punctual, with no magical incidents by Ron or anyone else... she should have known what that meant. The incident would bide its time until they'd arrived in Auckland, of course.

She was nearly through Customs. No, she had nothing to declare... yes, she was traveling for pleasure... here was the address where she was staying... The Customs officer listened, searched her handbag quickly, and finally nodded. He held her passport under a scanner, waited for the beep, and stamped it with an old-fashioned rubber stamp. He glanced at it again before handing it back to Hermione. "You're cleared... you can collect your baggage at the carousel. Welcome to New Zealand, Mrs. Potter. Enjoy your stay."

Her brain suddenly seemed to have forgotten how to operate her lungs and heart. Which was no surprise, really - it was too busy screaming Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!!

At least her mouth worked normally. She smiled graciously as she received her passport. "Thank you," she said, collected her bag, and passed through Customs. She held off until she'd taken a few steps before she closed her eyes in frustration. What was she going to do now? Thank goodness the others had gone through first... they hadn't seen anything...

"All right, Hermione?" It was Ron, waiting for her to join him as the other passengers milled past them.

"Fine. Everything's fine... where are Harry and Ginny?" she asked quickly.

"Ginny's gone to be with the baggage when it arrives. And Harry wondered if the Ministry kept welcome witches at the airport, like they do at Apparition Points on the Beam. He's having a look around."

"All right then," said Hermione. "Let's join Ginny and gather our bags. Which way?"

"Over this way, Mrs. Potter."

She looked at Ron in horror. His face was bland, his manner unexceptional, and she wasn't fooled for a Hogsmeade minute.

"I couldn't help overhear," he went on. "My word, did someone forget she'd altered her passport the last time we were here? Using magic on an official government document too, mm mm mmmm..." He glanced back reflectively at the Customs officers. "And now it's recorded into their compuker system, so even if we Obliviated those government agents, the new name would still be out there, wouldn't it?"

"Ron, be quiet..." Hermione hissed.

"Funny how some people think I'm the one who can't behave around Muggles," Ron continued with an air of injured innocence. "They're reckoned to be pretty clever people, too..."

Desperate moments call for desperate measures. Hermione grabbed his elbows and spun him to face her. "Ron, do you remember what Harry told you at Christchurch Hospital? Let me remind you: 'One word to Ginny and you are so dead...'" She seized his shirt collar, the personification of Wrath, and pulled his head down to the level of her own. "To which let me add this: one word to Harry and you'll pray you were dead! Do you hear me, Ronald Weasley?"

"Okay, okay! Crikey, it was just a bit of fun..." Ron yanked his collar out of her hands and stood upright. "I thought I was traveling with my friends, not my mum..."

Arriving at the baggage carousel, they found Ginny and Harry busily collecting their bags. "The Ministry does keep an information room here at the airport, for folks like us who fly here instead of Beaming. They can give us Apparition coordinates for our B&B."

Ron spent a minute pulling his bags in a circle around him - he obviously thought suitcase wheels were a particularly clever Muggle innovation. Then at Harry's direction, they crossed the corridor to a spot on the wall between two pillars. It looked perfectly plain from a distance, but as they came near the word "Information" appeared in large letters on the wall over their heads.

"Think of platform nine and three-quarters," Harry said. He casually leaned against the wall, as though to brace himself, then passed through and disappeared. Ron, Hermione and Ginny quickly followed.

They found themselves in a comfortable room with rattan chairs and low tables. One wall was floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with travel guides, brochures, and assorted books by local authors. Behind a table sat a pretty young woman, black-haired and golden-skinned - Hermione would have taken her for a sixth-year, if they'd been at Hogwarts. She was just taking a sip of coffee as they entered. "Oh!" she exclaimed, as she hurriedly set down her cup and wiped her mouth. "Sorry, I'm still not quite awake..."

"That's all right," Hermione assured her - she had to remember that, by local time, it was still early in the morning. "We just need some directions, and perhaps some help..."

The girl nodded as she stood and walked around the table. "No problem," she said as she offered her hand to Hermione. "My name's Ngaire." (She pronounced it "NYE-ree.") "Welcome to New Zealand. Good flight from London?"

"Thanks," replied Hermione, taking her hand. "Yes, very smooth..."

"Is it that obvious we're from London?" Ginny asked.

Ngaire smiled. "Well, there's the timing of course - you did arrive on BritAir's daily, eh? - but there's also the way you talk. You don't drawl like Canucks or Yanks, and you're not quite as nasal as Strines."

Ron grinned back. "So we must be Poms. And since we're snotty Poms, we get a handshake, am I right?" He laughed as Ngaire smiled more broadly. "So how would you've greeted us if we weren't snotty Poms?"

"Hum. Well... since you ask..." Ngaire positioned herself in front of Ron. "We really need a chorus for this, but I'll have to do." She took a breath and said "Haere mai," with a cadenced lilt, as though speaking lyrics that were normally sung. "Haere mai, haere mai. Haere mai ra e te manuhiri tuarangi e."

She placed a hand on each of Ron's shoulders and concluded, "Haere mai ki Aotearoa." With these words she stood on tiptoe and firmly pressed her nose against Ron's. After a moment she stepped back and smiled at Ron.

Ron, in his turn, looked dazed and rather pleased. He reached up and tentatively touched his nose. "Uh..."

"That's called a hongi," Ngaire told him. Her smile included the other three as she continued, "It's one way Maori say hello. It does have its advantages over shaking hands, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah, definitely," said Ron. He looked like he would have cheerfully accepted another hongi from her... or two, or three... Ginny forestalled him by stepping forward to Ngaire. "Like this?" she asked, extending her arms.

"Like that," approved Ngaire, who proceeded to press noses with Ginny, then Hermione. Lastly she approached Harry, who had hung back slightly. She hesitated, as though sensing he might not welcome the gesture, but Harry gave a reassuring nod. "Kia ora, cuz," she said, and with her hands on Harry's shoulders - and Harry's hands, daringly, on her waist - she pressed her nose to his.

It seemed to Hermione that this hongi was lasting approximately twice as long as the others combined. Before she could tactfully remark on this, however, Ngaire had stepped back from Harry. "So... welcome to Godzone," she told them cheerfully. "Now you were saying you needed directions...?"

"Yes, we need directions to the Rose Cottage - it's a B&B in Thorndon," said Hermione.

"And I need the Apparition coordinates for the Ministry of Magic in Wellington proper," added Harry. Turning to the others, he said, "I want to go there directly, introduce myself, get a feel for how they're doing. I'll come back to our rooms when I'm done. It shouldn't take long."

Ngaire looked at him sharply, her smile replaced by a puzzled look. "There won't be anyone at the Ministry this early," she said after a moment.

"I'll wait," Harry replied simply.

*

Rewa Otimi was used to being among the first to arrive at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If nothing else, it set a good example to his staff... and it was amazing how much work he could get done before he was distracted by interoffice memos, administrative requests, and all the other necessary evils of bureaucracy.

But there was a slip of parchment waiting on his desk when he entered his office, from the Minister herself. He read it and frowned. To call a meeting so early in the day... it never boded well. He wondered what was so urgent that it required his presence, and Fairbourn's presence, first thing in the morning.

He went to the conference room as requested. Minister Tucker and Lucilla Fairbourn were already seated, talking to a newcomer: a bespectacled young man who had the weary eyes of a just-arrived traveler.

Ah, that explains it, Otimi told himself. Important visitor just flown in, probably from London... wants to meet with us before collapsing. Discreetly he noted details about the visitor: his health (probably poor, judging from his complexion), his attitude (quiet and attentive, but that might simply be fatigue), and his accoutrements (mostly in that belt pouch, but Otimi felt sure his right forearm wore a wand holster under his sleeve... and there was an odd bulge under his left cuff, a bracelet perhaps).

"Rewa Otimi," said Tucker, "may I introduce you to Harry Potter. He's an Auror with the UK Ministry of Magic."

"On leave," amended Potter as he rose to offer his hand.

"I'm pleased to meet you," Otimi said after a moment. "I'm not certain I'm as pleased with the implications of your arrival. Minister, may I ask...?"

"I requested some assistance from the UK Aurors, seeing we haven't any of our own," Tucker said calmly. "I confess I wasn't expecting them to actually send a representative... Lucilla was here when he arrived, fortunately, and she called me at home. But now that Mr. Potter is here, perhaps you can make use of his expertise."

"The Minister's made it clear I'm here in a purely advisory role," injected Potter smoothly. "If you can find a use for me, I'm here to be used. If not," he grinned, "I'm on vacation anyway, aren't I?"

Otimi felt his resentment ebb slightly. The visitor wasn't taking over the investigation, at any rate. He acknowledged Otimi's authority, and had done so disarmingly - Otimi doubted whether the Minister had said anything to him at all. And after all (he grudgingly admitted), this Potter might have some useful suggestions.

He seated himself at the table. "We've had a string of murders over the last fortnight, mostly in the Christchurch area. No Muggles were involved, thankfully, but that was the only break we got, at least at first. There seemed no common motive, and the deaths were unexplainable - not even the Killing Curse could kill so cleanly.

"There's been a fourth murder this week. The victim was a dragon keeper by the name of Roark Haldane. Cause of death was the same as the others... our prime suspect was one of the very few who had access to him, she'd met with him just days before... and his death now provides us with the motive. It was a revenge killing: the suspect held Haldane responsible for the death of her father."

Otimi looked at the others in the room and saw that the news had come as a shock to them. "Roark's dead?" asked Fairbourn in alarm. "Oh, no..."

Might as well deliver all the news at once, he decided. "The suspect was brought into custody yesterday evening and is now awaiting arraignment," he concluded. "Margaret Pohuhu, twenty-eight. She's in cells here at the Ministry."

Minister Tucker opened her mouth to say something, but Potter spoke first. "Did the other murder victims have links to the father as well?" he asked in a mild tone.

It was a straightforward question, almost an obvious question, and Otimi should have felt no reluctance in answering it. "Not that we've yet found."

"So the suspect's 'motive' doesn't apply to all the deaths... only to the most recent, this Haldane." Potter nodded as if filing away the information, then asked, "You said the deaths were unexplainable. What did you mean?"

"Most killing charms leave residual traces that can be detected using the proper spells," said Otimi for the benefit of Tucker and Fairbourn - a British Auror could be expected to know this already. "Even Avada Kedavra leaves such a residue, if you know how to look. But in these cases, there was no such residue."

"From which you conclude that no such spells were used?"

"Precisely. So I considered the use of magic not designed to kill. The suspect claims she's only recently come into her magical powers, and that they're focused exclusively on healing. I've seen nothing to contradict this," he added in fairness. "But healing magic can kill as well."

Potter looked doubtful. "Curses and Dark magic are entirely different from Light magic..."

"Not necessarily." Otimi felt a brief glow of satisfaction: he would be able to explain something fundamental, something this oh-so-expert Auror would need to understand if he were to be of any help. "We don't look on magic the same way you might. To us, most magic can't be cleanly sorted into 'Dark' or 'Light'. It's simply there. Your use of it determines whether it's good or bad. There's karakia, the incantations of magic... and there's makutu, what you'd call Dark magic. But the skills for one are the skills for the other - the only difference between them is the caster's intent."

Potter spent a moment digesting this. "So you're saying," he said slowly, "a person who could heal could use the same power to kill? Reverse the body's metabolism, make the heart stop instead of beat...?"

"And do so without leaving the residues typical of curses. Exactly."

"Then," said Potter diffidently, "your evidence for how the murders were done... is the lack of evidence for how the murders were done?"

Otimi stiffened. Potter's tone hadn't been sarcastic or critical - yet each time he asked a question in that mild voice, Otimi had been made aware of the flaws in his case. More to the point, so had Minister Tucker.

"I know of no other way to explain the absence of curse residuum," he said woodenly.

"'When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,'" Potter quoted. "I agree with the principle, but only if we're sure that we have, in fact, eliminated the impossible. I mean, it would seriously weaken the case against the suspect if another way were found to kill so tracelessly... wouldn't you say?"

The man had a point. Otimi swallowed his retort and replied, "I would. I'll look into it."

"As will I." Potter pensively tapped his fingers on the table, then asked, "Will you permit me to interview Ms. Pohuhu?"

Under normal circumstances, Otimi would have said no. Potter had been both polite and reasonable, however... and he'd made some good points. Moreover, Otimi wasn't completely certain the Minister wouldn't overrule him if he did say no...

"Of course... right now, if you'd like," he said. "We have a private interview room you can use. I'll provide you with her dossier first, so you can review it."

"Thank you," said Potter. "Also, when were you planning to search her residence?"

Otimi had to smile. Give Potter credit, his thinking was along the right lines. "I thought I'd send someone to do that this morning... say, after your interview. If you'd like to accompany them?"

"Do you really think you'll find anything in her flat, Rewa?" Fairbourn asked.

Otimi shook his head, but it was Potter who said what both were thinking. "If we don't find anything, that neither proves nor disproves her guilt. But if we find something, it may do one or the other... depending on what we find."

*

As they walked downstairs to the lower levels of the Ministry of Magic, an aide ran up to Otimi with the dossier on Margaret Pohuhu. Otimi murmured a few words, sent the aide away, and handed the dossier to Potter. Potter accepted it gravely, held it for a moment, then said, "Mr. Otimi, I think you ought to know... Dr. Pohuhu and I have met before." He gestured towards himself as he continued, "I was her patient in Christchurch Hospital a couple of weeks ago - about the same time she began to develop her healing powers."

"Indeed," said Otimi neutrally.

"Yes. You see, your Minister Tucker gave no names in her letter to Madam Bones. I'd never heard the name of your suspect until you said it, just a few minutes ago. But..."

He caught Otimi's eye and held it. "But now we know I know your suspect. It may not be important - I'm neither on-duty nor officially on this case. I just wanted to assure you: this doesn't affect my impartiality in any way. I'm not here to either fix her guilt or prove her innocence. I'm here to help you find a murderer."

"Nicely said. And thank you for letting me know of your history with Dr. Pohuhu." Inwardly, Otimi wondered if the man were as impartial as he claimed to be. So far, all the points he'd raised tended to absolve Pohuhu. Still, his manner remained professional - and by admitting he knew Pohuhu, he'd taken the ethical high ground.

Otimi showed Potter into a small windowless room, containing a table and two chairs. "I'll leave you here," he said. "The prisoner will be here in a minute or two... I'll give you privacy now."

Potter thanked him and began to study Pohuhu's dossier. Otimi left the interview room... only to go into a tiny cubicle next to it. The two rooms shared a stone wall - which had been enchanted to be transparent from his side, while still an opaque stone wall from the interview room. It was better than the trick mirrors used in Muggle interrogation rooms: any pane of glass might be a window, but no one suspected a solid wall.

From here he watched as Margaret Pohuhu, in prison robes, was brought into the interview room by a female M.L.E. agent. Pohuhu took one of the seats without looking from the floor. "I'll be right outside the door," the agent told Potter as she left. Potter nodded without speaking: his eyes were fixed on Pohuhu.

When he spoke, his words seemed inconsequential. "You never told me your name was Margaret," he said gently.

Pohuhu's eyes came up quickly and widened as she recognized him. She started to say something, but Potter continued, "For the record, my name is Harry Potter, and I'm a law enforcement agent on special assignment here in New Zealand." His tone, though brisk, remained gentle. "How are you holding up, doctor?"

She took a moment to reply. When she spoke, she tried to match Potter's businesslike tone, as though taking her cue from him. "I'll do better when I'm out of here. Do you know what I've been arrested for? Killing someone I've only met once!"

He nodded. "Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning." His gaze was suddenly at odds with his gentle voice: it had turned sharp, penetrating, as though Potter were trying to look inside Pohuhu as she spoke. Otimi had seen a similar gaze only a couple of times in his career... he drew a quick breath as he realized what it implied.

The door to the observation cubicle opened and his aide stepped inside. "Here's the other dossier you asked for, captain," he said, handing Otimi a thick file of parchment. "You were right, we did have some files on him. International section."

"Thanks, Randy," said Otimi. "Now I want you to spread the word. Nobody is to tell our visitor anything but the plain, unvarnished truth. The agent I find lying to Potter will regret ever joining this department."

The aide looked surprised. "Right, I'll tell everyone - but why?"

Because this Pommie Auror looks like he might possibly be a Legilimens - and I don't want to find out the hard way. Otimi considered saying this, but decided not to spread panic amongst his staff. "Because I want every courtesy extended to him," he told the aide in dismissal.

Potter and Pohuhu were still talking on the other side of the wall... she was telling him about meeting Haldane at the Awamotu dragon reserve. "He seemed friendly enough," she said. "If anything, he was concerned that I might be upset. He was my father's friend, and I think... I think he might have been mine... if he hadn't..."

Her voice broke; her eyes grew teary. Potter reached out his hand in a comforting gesture, though he was careful not to touch her - police interviews followed a rigid protocol. She wiped her eyes and looked at him gratefully.

Otimi watched for another moment, then hefted the fat dossier labeled "Potter, Harry James" in his hand - how could so young a man have accumulated such an extensive personal history? - and opened it curiously.

By the time he was done reading the dossier, Otimi could only marvel that it wasn't thicker. And this is the man who's volunteered to help us in a murder investigation?! He's faced more Dark threats than this country's seen in two hundred years!

The interview had ended; the female agent had come to take Pohuhu back to her cell. "Hang on, Opaleyes," Potter told her very softly, and she nodded and smiled. She left the interview room with a confident air she'd not had upon entering.

Potter lingered in the room after the others lad left. "Thank you for giving us privacy," he said to the empty room, with only a trace of irony.

Otimi sighed, left the observation cubicle, and joined Potter. "I don't apologize for it," he said evenly.

"If I'd been you, I'd've listened too," Potter conceded. "So... may I have a few minutes to go back to my B&B and freshen up? Then I can come back here, or I can Apparate directly to the doctor's flat if you can give me the coordinates."

"Why don't you come back here? We can meet and talk about your impressions of the good doctor before we continue to Christchurch." At Potter's questioning look, Otimi nodded. "Yes, I said 'we.' I've decided I'll be working on this case myself."

*

The Rose Cottage was a pleasant manse, built at the turn of the last century, with extensive gardens and a welcome air of tranquility. It now served as a bed and breakfast, most notable for its clientele: the Cottage catered to travelers within the wizarding world. Mild Muggle Repelling Charms around the grounds maintained the guests' privacy.

The current landlord, Mr. Li, was an émigré from Hong Kong: when that city left British hands, he'd come to New Zealand and begun life anew in Thorndon. He greeted Harry when he Apparated into the entrance parlor. "Your companions had warned me of your late arrival," he told Harry, "so I set aside some breakfast for you. Would you care to see your room first?"

Once in his room, Harry splashed some cold water in his face - he was tempted to take an Invigoration Draught but decided against it - and quickly changed out of his travel clothes. Leaving his room, Harry followed the smell of food into the dining room. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were still there, consuming scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

Ron spotted Harry and waved him over to their corner table. "So tell us the news," he said, piling more eggs onto his own plate before passing the bowl to Hay.

Harry briefly recounted the details of his visit to the Ministry of Magic. "Basically, I did 'the Harry Show' for them," he finished wearily. "I was polite, I was knowledgeable, I was impartial - I went out of my way to be the ideal Auror." He made a face and took a large swallow of tomato juice. "But I will say this, Mr. Otimi has cut me no slack. It's kind of nice, actually, to be working in a country that's never heard of The Boy Who Lived."

"I wouldn't bet on that, Harry," remarked Ginny. "There might be a few people here who heard about You-Know-Who, even if he did spend most of his time in Europe. You might not be immediately recognizable, but that doesn't mean nobody knows your name."

He shrugged and continued, "At any rate, the case against Dr. Pohuhu assumes there's no other way these people could have died except by a Dark use of her healing magic. So we need to show there is another way - some curse, some spell, something that could kill quickly, without leaving visible marks... or magical residues. I mean, to hear Otimi tell it, this was cleaner even than Avada Kedavra."

"Mmm, that won't be easy," Hermione commented. "Virtually any curse that affects the physical body will leave its mark there. Almost the only ones that don't leave a trace are the mental curses, like Obliviation and Imperius." She looked thoughtful. "I'll have to do some research. I'll ask Mr. Li if he has any references."

"Or," added Ron, "his wife Berenger. She told me she teaches part-time at the local School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, what's it called... Furry something... I can't pronounce it, but ask her."

Hermione nodded and turned back to Harry, who had finished his small glass of juice and was munching on a piece of toast, ignoring the eggs, bacon, and other food on the table. "And your plans for the day?" she asked.

"Soon as I'm done here, I'm heading back to the Ministry. We're Apparating to Dr. Pohuhu's flat in Christchurch to have a look around... not that I expect to find anything, but we might." He swallowed his toast and wiped his fingers on his napkin. "Problem is, Otimi has to at least have doubts about her guilt before he'll really look for the true murderer... well, I'll see what I can do."

"One of us is going with you," Hermione assured him.

Harry waved it aside. "Not necessary. You all need your sleep, we're jet-lagged something awful. Besides, this won't take me long..."

"One of us is going with you," Hermione repeated more firmly.

"I managed to go to the Ministry of Magic all by myself, didn't I?" Harry asked in annoyance.

"Going to the Ministry is one thing. Going out in the field is quite another." He started to object and she raised her voice slightly. "I don't want to keep repeating this discussion, Harry. If there's no danger, you can't object to having one of us by you. If there is danger, you'll need one of us by you. Either way, you aren't going alone."

"Hermione," began Harry hotly, but she raised her voice further: "When was the last time you took your Blood Replenishing Potion?"

"Bloody hell, Harry," injected Ron, "are you still taking that stuff?"

Harry ignored him. "This morning," he told Hermione curtly.

"'This morning' as in this morning... or 'this morning' as in we'd just left Los Angeles?"

Without replying, Harry reached into his belt pouch and brought out a glass vial. Still glaring angrily at Hermione, he uncorked it and took a large swallow. "There. Satisfied?" he asked loudly.

"Yes. Because one of us is going with you," Hermione shot back.

"Blast and damn!" he exploded. "Are you telling me I need a keeper now? That I can't be trusted to take care of myself?" Harry was standing now, leaning on the table and shouting at Hermione. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm fine! You're acting like I'm at death's door or something!"

"At death's door?!" Hermione was on her feet as well, shouting back furiously. "At death's door?! You've gone through death's door and back, Harry! Don't you dare yell at me for only trying to make sure it's closed behind you!"

It had gone very quiet in the dining room. The other guests at the inn tried to pretend there was no shouting match at the corner table. Ron and Ginny sat in embarrassed agony as Harry and Hermione faced one another, standing with hands on the table, leaning inwards. Neither one seemed prepared to yield an inch.

The stalemate seemed to stretch on for hours... but in reality, it only lasted a second or two. Then Hermione silently mouthed the word please.

Harry closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again without making a sound. Abruptly, he broke eye contact with Hermione and turned away from the table. It was obvious he was seething, but trying to control his anger. His gaze fell on Ron. "We need to talk about keeping confidences," he said coldly. "Later."

He looked to the other side of the table at Ginny, the only one who'd not participated in the argument. "All right, then," he all but snarled, "if you're coming with me, let's be off." Turning on his heel, he strode from the dining room, not bothering to see if anyone followed.