Revolution

Chapter 2 -- Trailing the Monster

January settled around Shrewsthorpe as a blanket of bitter white cold. Harry knocked the snow from his boots before stepping into the entryway. The house was quiet; Snape had returned to Hogwarts and Harry was back to being on his own.

Harry put his bag on the floor of the library with a thud in deference to it always seeming to weigh twice as much at the end of the day than it did at the beginning. The extra walk from the train station hearth, where the Floo network had ejected him instead of home, had felt burdensome as well as cold and he would have Apparated if the station hall hadn’t been full of silly Muggles joking about a late Santa. He pulled out his newest Auror-assigned book, which he had picked up at Flourish and Blotts just that afternoon. Accursed Aid, the title read. Behind the title a logo was embossed of a wand with a snake twined around it. Harry flipped immediately to the chapter on wound closing and read until long after he usually went to the dining room for dinner, partially because reading about reconnecting tendons and muscle tissue didn’t leave him very hungry for roast.

Finally, eyes aching, Harry put the book down. He was tempted to go down to the kitchen for a knife to try out the basic skin sealing spell, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to that. Instead, his stomach began to insist on dinner, queasiness and all.

While Harry waited at the table for the food to appear, his eyes strayed to the silver combined salt and pepper mill that was a new addition to the table. Draco Malfoy had sent it to Snape for Christmas and Harry kept eyeing it suspiciously even though Snape insisted it was curse-free and Harry himself couldn’t feel any evil upon it. Harry picked the weighty thing up. Salt came out the top which rotated to grind the pepper out the bottom. It was the kind of gadget his Aunt Petunia would have treasured, which only decreased its appeal for Harry, but he couldn’t credit Draco with being that clever in an attempt to annoy him. But it was working. It was such an odd gift, and Harry entertained the notion that Draco had stolen it from somewhere. As a plate of vegetable-garnished roast appeared, he plunked the grinder back down. Too bad it wasn’t breakable.

During dinner, Penelope’s owl arrived at the window. Harry was very glad to see the bird as it meant she would have news of the two spells Mad-Eye had used on him. After his difficulty handling his sixth-month testing, Harry had returned to his training after the break with a fierceness that surprised even himself, but he really wanted to have a counter to those attacks should the opportunity to demonstrate them come up again.

The letter started with wishes that Harry’s holiday had been joyful and other words only a woman would use in a letter, but it quickly moved on to the spell research in a way that made Harry suspect that she rather enjoyed the task of researching obscure things.

The Alibappa spell was not Middle Eastern but a middle twentieth century spell from the States, hence its appearance as a giant mitten, which was probably a boxing glove shape had you been far enough away to see it properly.

Yeah, Harry thought, it was a little too close to notice that, precisely. He frowned, pride still smarting even if his backside had healed. He honestly suspected Moody of avoiding him since the beginning of the year. Harry had moments where he hoped this was the case.

The Counter is Jabbajabba the letter went on, and below she had carefully drawn in the wand motions with diagrams nicer than most in any of Harry’s books. The motion was a repetitive poking one and it indeed was intended to puncture the giant attacking “glove”.

The Swarm Curse you also described, which had no incantation, doesn’t appear in any books on dueling, defense or war tactics. I did however, hence the delay in replying, find a reference to something similar in a seamstress’ guide from the Middle Ages. There is a spell called the Blue Bottle Charm that could be used to hold pieces of a dress on a dummy for easy sewing without pins. Taken to an extreme, it could be used to pull someone’s clothes and limbs so tightly that they can’t move. Harry hoped she had not been grinning, or worse, laughing as she wrote that. The cancellation is Fliteeficus, but you have to aim it at yourself and to do that you would have to be able to move, presumably. Harry had to agree given the complicated weaving motion of the wand waving diagrammed below.

Harry felt less certain about facing that spell than the other one, even though it wasn’t even a defensive one. But knowing something about them, especially given the spells’ obscurity, made him feel better. He composed a very grateful response and sent it back with her owl.

* * *

The next day, training seemed to drag, probably because Harry had a date that evening. He began to suspect that the clock in the training room was cursed to always display a time a mere five minutes later than the last time one looked at it. Harry stopped glancing at it, just in case.

“We are going to start on tracking spells this afternoon-” Rodgers began.

“Tracking spells?” Kerry Ann blurted. “We didn’t have any readings on those.” She sounded alarmed about being unprepared.

Rodgers frowned at the interruption and said, “We haven’t assigned a reading because we couldn’t find a book fit for your training, unless you wish to limit yourself to only hunting big game in Africa, because there is a most excellent book available on that.”

“Oh,” Kerry Ann uttered, putting her books away and tightly interlocking her hands before her.

“Come up and help me demonstrate if you will, Ms. Kalendula,” Rodgers said. With a sigh Kerry Ann obeyed. Rodgers instructed her to walk back and forth on the floor. “Give me your shoe,” he then said to her. “This is the easiest spell, but you must have one of the shoes that made the tracks.”

He tapped the toe and heel of the red patent leather shoe, back and forth until a pink sparkle like static zapped between the wand and the shiny leather. Then he gave a bouncing flick at the floor. A back and forth set of overlapping prints glowed pink on top of a muddied lighter scuffle of prints. “See the older ones? From previous days probably. Color indicates age, in case you hadn’t grasped that.” He waved the spell away and handed the shoe to Kerry Ann and had to prevent her from putting it back on. “No, you try it.”

“Can you repeat the trail-revealing wand motion again?” Kerry Ann asked.

After many attempts she finally succeeded and each of them were called up in turn until they also managed the spell.

“Good,” Rodgers said, sounding relieved. “Then we can move on to more difficult ones out in the field next week. For now let’s repeat that with someone else’s shoe and trail, perhaps Ms. Kalendula is just highly trackable.”

“Don’t I wish,” Kerry Ann muttered when she resumed her seat and leaned over to tie her shoe. To Harry she whispered, “I hear you have a date tonight.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Harry demanded.

Kerry Ann grinned. “Harry, you are highly trackable.”

Up front, Aaron was still tapping his own shoe, waiting for the static spark. Harry whispered, “No, really. Where did you hear that?” He had bad visions of Belinda, or worse Minister Bones, sending out a special newsletter.

Kerry Ann leaned a little closer. “Well, Belinda had her friend Jezzy over to help her pick out an outfit to wear and Jezzy told her sister Jami, and she told her best friend Sarah, whom I happened to run into on Diagon Alley yesterday.”

Harry blinked at that. “Please tell me that the first part of that, at least, isn’t true.”

“Why?” Kerry Ann asked. She chuckled and quickly looked to see if Rodgers had taken note. “You should give up on dating, Harry,” she said with a sad shake of her head.

Harry leaned over to whisper, “I don’t care what she wears.”

“She cares,” Kerry Ann said out of the side of her mouth. “Compliment her on it anyway. At least try to notice.”

Harry frowned; he had just been thinking he would do the opposite, just out of principle. He sighed. Kerry Ann was called up to repeat the spell and when she returned and Harry passed her, he asked, “So, what kind of flowers does Belinda like?”

* * *

Harry waited outside on the street for Belinda to come down. She had shouted from the window for him to wait and he didn’t mind because a very light snow had fallen and for the few minutes before it melted, the world would be a white fairyland. Harry stood, enjoying the windows and lamps glowing on the sparkling pavement up and down the street. Belinda came down a few minutes later, trailing a rich brown cloak that Harry hadn’t seen before.

“Nice cloak,” Harry said, admiring its fuzzy-looking warmth.

Belinda actually blushed. “Thanks. It’s borrowed from a friend.”

Oh, it’s Jezzy’s cloak? Harry came very near to asking, just to see her surprise. But his aversion to gossip and his belief that too much was already circulating, held him back. “It looks warm,” Harry said instead.

“And it matches my outfit,” Belinda added casually, implying that that had been the deciding factor.

“Hopefully this matches your outfit too,” Harry said, holding out a pink rose and congratulating himself for that line.

She was clearly touched. “Thanks,” she said, smiling almost girlishly and holding it closely.

When they began walking, Belinda asked, “So, you really want to go to the Wren’s Den?”

Harry had suggested the place he and Ron had been frequenting of late. Belinda had wanted to go somewhere quiet or stay in for their date, but Harry had nixed that without clearly explaining why. “I like it there,” Harry said, thinking that the noise would cover any lapses he may have. His moments of attracting the Dark Plane were few at the Ministry for some reason, perhaps because of all the powerfully magical individuals that were around all the time, but out in London he felt uncertain about making it through the evening.

Belinda frowned and looked straight ahead as they walked. After the next corner, though, she took Harry’s gloved hand in hers as they walked. The snow had already melted by the time they reached the pub. Harry noticed as they slid into a booth that she was rather overdressed for the place. Harry himself had pulled out slightly nicer clothes than he originally would have. He managed to compliment Belinda on her top as he took her cloak, which had led to another blush.

Their drinks were poured quickly and handed over. It was only a Thursday, so it wasn’t too crowded, which meant that when the door opened and a familiar face appeared, Harry immediately put his drink down with a loud thunk.

“Rita?” Belinda uttered upon seeing the reporter’s smiling face standing beside their table. Her photographer skulked behind her, perhaps hiding.

“Good evening to you as well,” Rita said merrily without skipping a beat. “And you are looking spiffy this fine eventide, Mr. Potter.”

“This is a Muggle place . . . what are you doing here?” Harry asked.

Rita took affront. “We are allowed to be in here, Mr. Ministry, even to be reporters in here. Just have to change the flash to these expensive Muggle things, but it is a small price to pay. Especially since my employer has been screaming in my ear about not getting a nice picture of you two lovebirds.”

Harry, at that moment, was very glad that the pub was loud. He took a deep breath as a chilly, sickly breeze seemed to pass under his clothes. A small dog sitting under a bar stool across from them barked frantically in their direction until shushed, and then it growled instead. The photographer inched around to stand beside Skeeter, as though the tiny thing on a leash might be more dangerous. Harry tried valiantly to level himself and the dog quieted.

Belinda was biting her lips. She said, “I hesitate to suggest that we give her the picture so she’ll go away . . .”

Harry squelched the suspicions that tried to rise in his mind because they would be fatal to his control. Given the number of people who knew where they were, Skeeter wouldn’t have had much trouble finding them. Harry said with no little derision, “Really, Skeeter, aren’t there more important things for you to be reporting on?”

Belinda said, “There are better things to be reporting on,” in a way that implied rather a lot.

Skeeter turned her beady predator eyes on Harry’s date. “Care to give me an exclusive, Ms. Belluna?” she asked hungrily.

Belinda returned the reporter a skilled, patronizing look. With a small laugh in her voice, she said, “There are plenty of upset people who would be happy to talk to you off the record, Ms. Skeeter. I for one don’t care to. You understand of course.”

Her tone and words flipped the power around in an instant. Harry was impressed. He was also curious as heck what was being discussed.

“My priorities,” Skeeter explained patiently, “are not always my employer’s. Trust that I am following up. But I need a picture. Chummy is fine, no need to look like you’ve purchased any small but expensive jewelry.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Harry?” Belinda prompted. Harry unclenched his teeth. He hated being trapped. Some of the other patrons were starting to eye the boxy old camera the wizard photographer was carrying.

“Sure,” He uttered, thinking that getting rid of Skeeter by any means was absolutely essential to his regaining calm inside himself. He hated giving in though. Belinda stood and moved to Harry’s side of the booth and took his hand in hers.

“Ah, that’s nice,” Skeeter purred, making Harry shoot the reporter a dark look. “Oh, you don’t want that face in the Crystal Ball on the Street section, do you?” Skeeter asked, still patronizing. Harry straightened his face and the photo was taken quickly. Skeeter disappeared after a little whisper to Belinda and a little wave at Harry. The others in the pub looked at the two of them in curiosity before returning to their own conversations.

“What’d she say?” Harry asked.

“Nothing.”

“Really?” Harry was still feeling annoyed and it came out in his tone.

Belinda pulled her drink over to their side of the table and swigged the remains of it. “She was just proving how much she knew.”

“Knew about what?” Harry asked.

Belinda gave him a sideways glance and then shrugged. “Minister Bones is going to appoint Fudge as Head of the Department of Mysteries.”

Harry nearly spit out his beer. “Oh, that can’t be a good idea. Why?”

“Because he still has a lot of friends and they’re making things difficult. Making politics out of issues that shouldn’t be so laden, so she’s throwing them a bone. The position does need to be filled.”

Harry considered getting up for fresh ales because he planning on finishing his quickly. “I can’t bear Fudge,” Harry grumbled into his mug.

“He’s not my favorite either,” Belinda admitted. “But how much damage can he do at the Department of Mysteries? No one ever knows what they’re doing.”

“Worse!” Harry uttered. “They could screw up and no could trace it to them. But he’ll be in good company with Ogden . . . he doesn’t like me either.”

Harry fetched a second for himself and Belinda lifted hers to clink their mugs. “You don’t think Fudge likes you?”

Harry drank a few sips while he thought about that. “No, I don’t think so. I think he’s afraid I’ll go into politics.”

“Are you?”

“I’d like not to,” Harry insisted, repulsively imagining turning into Fudge. The air felt oily, so he thought quickly about something else.

Much later, Belinda said, “Do you want another before last call or to go back to my place?”

Harry pulled out his watch. “I have field work tomorrow afternoon, so I shouldn’t have another.”

“My place?” Belinda asked.

Harry thought about being in a quiet place where any lapses in his emotional control may reveal to her that something was very disturbingly, ominously wrong. “Um, no, I think I have to get going.”

Out on the street as Harry walked her home, she said, “I don’t think you like me as much as I like you.” She sounded sad.

“It isn’t that,” Harry insisted, feeling immediately on the edge again, which angered him, which made it worse. He felt for the wand in his pocket, just in case, although he had no idea what spell he might use. “I just have too much going on right now.”

“That’s going to be true for a long time,” she pointed out pragmatically.

“I hope not,” Harry immediately returned. If his weakness toward attracting evil things went on much longer, well . . . He cut that thought off.

They stopped on the pavement before her flat. The street was empty and quiet. “Harry,” she began in a tone that caught his attention completely. “I know you’re not a virgin because-”

“What?!” Harry blurted.

“Well, during Rothschild’s trial, you had to answer . . .”

Harry rubbed his forehead and stared at the wet pavement. As well as they connected on some things, like Harry’s background and Ministry dealings, he was repeatedly reminded that they did not connect at all in other areas. Some prideful part of him was nudging him not let this pass and to prove himself, darn it.

Belinda, hands on hips, spoke into the silence, “This isn’t the you-are-actually-a-dark-wizard thing, is it?”

“I don’t know,” Harry uttered. He could feel himself closing her off and resisted it. Lots of replies came to mind, including accepting the invitation up to her flat. All of them had the potential to create even more misunderstanding. Harry took her by the hand. “It’s too hard to explain.”

“You are so hard to get through to,” she commented.

“I don’t mean to be. Look, you know once you start to talk about something, it makes it much harder.” Harry uttered this without much forethought. Her resulting expression was rather dubious. “But it does,” Harry insisted. He gestured with his arm at her building. “If I accepted your invitation up now, what would you think?” Her expression shifted to one more thoughtful.

She didn’t answer that. She said, “You’re very moody.”

Harry dropped his arms. “You haven’t yet seen me really wound up, either.” A car passed on the road. “I have to get up and do three hours of readings before my field work to make up for tonight. Severus wasn’t happy with my review testing score so I’m on a serious reading schedule. And I have to be alert out in the field.”

“You aren’t supposed to be put at risk when you’re out,” Belinda countered in an argumentative tone.

“So they say. Evil is attracted to me though,” he soberly stated, thinking that in the right context it would be a confession. “I always have to watch out.”

“Well, good night.” She turned to go to her door.

“Belinda,” Harry called in a soft tone. She turned slowly back, head tilted. Harry stepped over and gave her a nice kiss. When he pulled back she had a very different expression.

“All right then. Good night,” she repeated, melancholy, but not angry now.

* * *

“Harry,” Shacklebolt greeted him the next morning, “you are with me today.”

“Oh,” Harry uttered, his shoulders falling. “I thought I was with Tonks.”

“She got called away,” the tall black man explained as he tossed a coat over his broad shoulders. “Ready?”

Harry buried his disappointment. After last night he had found himself looking forward to his shadowing the gregarious female Auror much more than previously. Probably a bad thing, given that any more-than-professional affection he still felt for Tonks was out of line.

Shacklebolt cleared his desk off and put all of his quills into a holder that snapped like a beak to hold them firmly. His desk was the only neat one in the entire office. “We’ll just be on patrol, unless something comes up. From what I hear, having you as a shadow is a good way of avoiding a boring shift.” He gave Harry a teasing smile full of white teeth as Harry pieced that together.

“I don’t mean to attract trouble,” Harry said.

Shacklebolt patted him on the arm as he passed on the way out the door. “Saves us the effort of looking for it,” he pointed out happily.

Harry rolled his eyes and followed him out of the office. They Disapparated from the corridor so as to be less disruptive to others working quietly at their desks. As their arrival echoed off the walls of the alleyway, Harry yet again wished he could do that in silence. Snape had explained some techniques, such as consciously unpacking yourself slowly, but it had only made a small difference in the sound and it made Splinching much more likely, so Harry didn’t usually attempt it.

They walked along the back alleys and small streets of London for a time. Shacklebolt sometimes stopped and talked to people, but much less often than Tonks. An hour into this, they were interrupted by a slate message. Shacklebolt read it and responded by drawing a circle around it.

“Ah, we have an assignment. What did I tell you?”

“What is it?” Harry asked eagerly when they arrived back at the Ministry.

Shacklebolt didn’t reply right away. He handed Harry a broom out of the cupboard at the end of the corridor. “Good gloves?” he asked and nodded in satisfaction at Harry’s newest pair from Hagrid.

“What’s the assignment?” Harry asked again, hoping he wasn’t being too difficult.

“Errant pet,” Shacklebolt explained, deflating Harry’s excitement considerably. “Come,” he said, leading the way to the lift with his long stride. “We have to take the Floo.”

They arrived in a small stone cottage. The hearth had been allowed to go cold, Harry noticed and breakfast was only half eaten on the rough-hewn wooden table.

Outside there was an argument going on. A short round man with a long auburn beard was arguing with a ginger woman of identical shape and clothing but with the addition of an apron. A cloud of mist rose from their mouths as the shouted. Shacklebolt led the way over the crunching snow.

“You the Aurors?” the woman demanded in a rough accent. The man eyed Shacklebolt suspiciously.

“Indeed we are, madam,” Shacklebolt responded with aplomb and bowed slightly with his hat off.

“Hmf,” the woman huffed grudgingly. “Didna want no one’s ‘elp, ya know. That ruddy daughter a’ mine should keep her long nose bludy well out . . . uh this anyhoo.”

The man frowned more as he looked up at Shacklebolt. “Didna know there were any Moors in the Ministry,” he muttered.

Harry stepped forward, but not quite beside the Auror. He now understood Shacklebolt’s overly gracious introduction; he had been trying to head off exactly this. Anger boiled up in Harry at the bearded wizard’s sour expression. Harry couldn’t afford the anger though. It would be disastrous. As he struggled with himself, Shacklebolt went on, sounding unaffected, “You have a loose pet, we are to understand?”

“Aye,” the woman responded and pointed at a monstrous stake, the size of a tall ship’s anchor, pulled up from the mossy earth. The cottage and adjoining lands was situated in a picturesque cliff-bordered area open to the ocean.

“Where did it head, do you think?” Shacklebolt asked.

“Iceland, no doubt,” the woman said, picking her teeth with her pinky nail. “Is’ mating season, it is and ‘e knows it. We’ve kept him light on food, we ‘as so ‘e ‘asn’t the strength to make it, I’m sure. Las’ year ‘e turned around on his own. Came right home.” The man snorted and she amended to say, “Eventually. Stopped fer a snack, I believe. Can’t blame ‘im fer that, can ya?”

Shacklebolt shook his head and looked out over the ocean. “What got away?” Harry asked, almost afraid of asking.

Shacklebolt angled his head down to reply, “A Welsh Green.”

Harry’s gaped before asking, “They’re not allowed to keep dragons are they?”

“Grandfather clause to when the rule was made three hundred years ago. A few families still keep them,” Shacklebolt explained. At Harry’s widened eyes, he said gamely, “Ready for a little dragon hunting?”

Harry, his anger completely forgotten, said, “Yes sir.”

Shacklebolt gave him a grin. “My partner and I will fetch your dragon, if possible,” he announced in that gallant way, while putting a hand around Harry’s shoulder. For the first time, their attention fell on Harry and just as quickly, his scar. “See you in a few hours, I think,” Shacklebolt said. He hovered his broom and with a nod at Harry, who quickly did the same, took off out over the open ocean.

White mist obscured all but the immediate vicinity and collected as freezing dew on their cloaks and hair. Harry glanced back at the receding shore and shouted over the wind, “Are we really going to catch up to a dragon that’s flying full speed?”

Shacklebolt flew close in, so their knees pressed together. As long as they each steered a little into the other, it was easy to maintain that easier talking distance. “A wild one, not a chance. This is a sedentary, very elderly, underfed dragon. I think we can out-fly it.”

Harry shrugged, preferring a flight out over the white capping waves to an endless walk in the alleyways. The Ministry-issue Cleansweep Eleven would indeed do a pretty good clip, making Harry suspect that its safety spells had been tampered with by one of the others in their department. Harry wondered if he could have the same done to his borrowed Cleansweep; he liked the hair-trigger responsiveness of this broom that resulted from its not caring if you knocked yourself off of it with an unwise sudden maneuver.

Within half an hour, they could see something in the misty distance. If it wasn’t a dragon, it was something awfully strange. Shacklebolt again flew in close. “This is the plan. It should still have its collar and chain attached, which is heavy and is probably slowing it down as well. I want you to fly out in front and distract it while I get hold of it to turn it around.”

“I’m flying out in front?” Harry asked in confirmation, thinking of the fire-breathing feature most dragons were equipped with.

“Yes,” Shacklebolt confirmed with another white-toothed grin. “Piece of cake, Harry.”

“You’re going to owe me a piece of cake,” Harry muttered when Shacklebolt broke away and sped up again.

When they were just three hundred yards behind, Shacklebolt gestured in a throwing motion for Harry to go on ahead. Harry did so, cloak bounding and snapping as he sped up to pass the monster. It didn’t pay as much attention to Harry as he expected. In fact it was so intent on looking far ahead that Harry had to shout and wave his arm to get its rummy eyes to angle up at him.

Its eyes narrowed and its chest expanded. Harry pulled up hard as a burst of flame came roaring his way, sizzling away the mist. He ended up just above the dragon’s snaking neck where its wings sprouted. Raising its head had slowed it considerably, forcing Harry to brake. Shacklebolt was moving; he had the chain end hooked over his broom and was making a broad turn to the left. Harry watched the slack in the chain disappear and suddenly the dragon was flying to the left as well, easily steered by its long neck. It snorted and tried to hit Shacklebolt with a burst of flame, but it mostly just let out a trail of smoke and made a hiccupping noise.

“Come on, you. Can’t have you wandering aimlessly, eating sheep until you fall asleep like last time.” Shacklebolt urged his broom forward, but the dragon resisted and snapped its head like a whip, forcing the Auror’s broom up and the chain to slip off. The dragon made a turn back west again, but the pumping of its wings was slower and it was loosing altitude now as well as speed.

Shacklebolt made another dive for the chain and Harry dodged close to the dragon’s head to distract it again, believing that it was out of methane. It wasn’t. A burst of flame came rolling out and Harry was too close this time. He dodged and ducked under his cloak, which ignited. Again the dragon was tugged around by its chain and Shacklebolt shouted something that Harry had to guess at. “I’m fine!” Harry shouted back, even though he was still trying to use a freezing charm on his flaming cloak. He dove for the water and hovered just above the chop. Icy sea water splashed his legs, but it put out his cloak and sleeve quickly enough.

Harry, after a quick check that his broom tail wasn’t smoldering, rushed to catch up to Shacklebolt who still dragged at the dragon’s chain in the direction of home. The dragon flared again but the chain was just long enough to allow its master to be out of reach.

“You all right there?” Shacklebolt asked in real concern when Harry caught up to just feet away.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry insisted. He couldn’t feel any pain anywhere, but the iciness of his wet clothes was going to be a problem. “I’ll catch up; I have to dry off.”

“You’ll stay here with me,” Shacklebolt countered, glancing back at their charge. “We’re not going that fast. Try a heating spell or two.”

Harry tried about ten of them over the next few minutes before deciding that he was dry enough. They landed a half hour later and between Shacklebolt and the owners, they cemented the dragon’s stake back into place. Harry, to hide his half-burned cloak, waited near the cottage while the Auror straightened out the paperwork with the witch and wizard. A few sheep stood at the very far side of a pen beside him, eyes wide and forlorn, presumably at the dragon’s return. The dragon for his part curled up on the snowy ground, rested his head on his rump, and closed his eyes. Shacklebolt made the witch sign a few more parchments under her husband’s signature and then they were off.

Harry could smell the charcoal of his clothes as soon as they arrived back at the Ministry. The sleeve, the tailor could replace, but the cloak that Snape had given him the Christmas before last was done for. Harry bundled it up and put it in his backpack. He was sitting beside Shacklebolt’s desk, waiting while the Auror filled out reports, when Tonks came in decked out in all black, Muggle clothing with a ring in her eyebrow. She sniffed and came over, immediately noticing Harry’s sleeve.

“You tangle with a dragon, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry replied levelly.

“What, Control of Magical Creatures didn’t take that call?” Tonks asked in confusion.

Shacklebolt replied without looking up or slowing his writing. “Said they couldn’t get to it until the afternoon. And three years ago when they were called out there, the owners started a fight with them and Aurors were called out anyway. Rodgers thought it would be a decent training assignment.”

Tonks lifted Harry’s hand, which made his stomach turn strangely at the feel of her soft fingers. “Not burned?” she asked, examining both sides of his arm.

“No,” Harry assured her.

“That’s good. Simplifies the paperwork.” She took a seat at her desk. Her hair changed from green to its normal pink as she dug through the piles looking for something.

While Shacklebolt wrote out a report, Harry watched Tonks bend over another on her desk. By the time Shacklebolt’s prod came to get moving again, Harry had no idea how much time had passed. He really shouldn’t do that, he decided.

* * *

Sunday, Harry owled Belinda, asking if she wished to go to the Broken Candlestick on Diagon Alley for brunch. He felt he should try to make up for their previous date and he did want to see her; it was a raw ache without much reason behind it, but he found he couldn’t deny it.

They met at the little restaurant, which was tucked away above Madam Malkin’s with a creaky, hammered metal door onto the street. A goblin ran the place but it was immediately apparent why he didn’t work at Gringott's. After claiming to have no free tables, he spotted Harry and with startled eyes led them to one for four, beside the window even.

“The Minister doesn’t even get such service,” Belinda teased. She was all smiles and looked almost cute in a thigh-high boots and a thick, high-collared jumper that almost matched her auburn hair. Harry had worn the cardigan she had given him, hoping to assuage her further.

They chatted easily through servings of quiche. Harry was calm this morning and felt better than he had in weeks. If he could feel like this all the time, his whole life would be in order. His unusual calm was disturbed by a voice nearby saying, “Oh . . . Potter.”

Harry turned and found that Malfoy and Parkinson had just been seated behind them. Pansy was saying, “We’ll have to find a new place for brunch, dear . . . the riffraff are taking the good tables at this place.”

Draco didn’t add to this, just continued to appear stern. Belinda looked ready to snap back with something unladylike, but Harry, still holding a well of good will toward Draco from his rescue, found himself smiling instead. “Good morning,” Harry said amiably, which made Pansy’s face go sourly mystified.

Draco looked between Harry and Belinda and said, “Currying favor with the Ministry as usual, Potter?”

Still smiling, Harry retorted, “I don’t need to curry favor with the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s lips curled with a tinge of disgust. “No. I don’t suppose you do, Mr. Potter.” After a pause, his eyes narrowed and his voice dropped. “Would it be unrealistic to hope that you have added some desperately needed competence to that miserable place?”

Belinda’s eyes flashed and she drew herself up as though ready to counterattack. Harry took her hand to forestall her. He said, “You suddenly taking an interest in the welfare of the common witch and wizard, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Hardly,” Draco huffed with a snort. In an even lower voice he said, “Just hearing things.” He studied Harry very closely for a long pause. “But of course the Ministry is ignorant as always.” He turned away, seeming honestly disturbed.

Harry again gestured for Belinda to stay her anger. They paid and departed as soon as their tea was gone.

“I never liked the Malfoys,” Belinda grumbled through clenched teeth on the way down the stairs to the street. The stairs were illuminated only wanly by the dirty light coming in the small panes of bottle glass in the door at the bottom. Belinda bounded quickly down the steps despite this and was out into the cloudy morning. “The Ministry is supposed to bend to their purposes and theirs alone, I suppose,” she went on sarcastically.

“He was just baiting us,” Harry pointed out, fascinated by a truly angry Belinda. “Why give him the satisfaction?”

“Oh . . .” she grumbled as she walked quickly down the alley, away from the Leaky Cauldron. “He gets me going,” she growled. “Death Eater father and all.”

Harry stopped before Fortescue's, thinking that a hot cocoa sounded good. Belinda turned when she noticed he was missing and stalked back, shoulders hunched, cloak crooked and off one shoulder.

“He isn’t the only one,” Harry pointed out.

Belinda zeroed in on Harry finally from her inward focus. “Hmf. What . . . you think his father shouldn’t be in Azkaban?”

Harry laughed, “You know how many times Lucius has tried to kill me? If I thought he should be out of Azkaban it would only be to give him a wand and stand him up on a dueling platform so I can get even for a few things.”

“You’re serious . . . aren’t you?” she asked.

Harry was suddenly conscious of the wand in his pocket. “Completely serious,” he assured her. “I’d love a chance to go at him again. He loved Voldemort. Loved hurting people.”

“So, hurting him back sounds good?” Belinda asked warily.

Calm still, Harry said, “Only in a fair fight.” He didn’t expect her to understand, so it failed to bother him that she clearly didn’t. He ordered two hot cocoas when the children in long coats ahead of them moved away from the window.

“People don’t understand how hard it is to govern witches and wizards,” Belinda muttered but built in force as she went along. “Balancing between illegal magic detection and promoting magical activities. We spend three years preparing an expansion of Diagon Alley and all people can complain about is that they can’t buy a flying carpet. We fund a new wing at St. Mungo’s and all we hear is that witches aren’t allowed to brew toxic Nacissinium-laced beauty cream.”

Harry handed her a cocoa, hoping to quiet her diatribe. She sipped the chocolate milk and sighed, which made Harry follow suit. He was used to railing against the Ministry and felt uncomfortable with her spirited defense of it.

“Do you know what Draco was referring to when he said he was hearing things?” Harry asked.

Belinda stared off into the distant rooftops and then shrugged. “Could be anything. I thought you said he was baiting us.”

“I think he was serious about that part,” Harry said, replaying Draco’s expression; this time certain Draco was concerned about something. Harry tried unsuccessfully to imagine dropping him an owl to ask.

“Well,” Belinda said when they reached the end of the alley. “I have to bail on you this time . . . there is a ribbon cutting at the expansion of the Museum of Magical Mining Apparati in Lopwell that I have to attend with the Minister.”

“On a Sunday, eh?” Harry confirmed.

Belinda shrugged. “It’s going to be a busy week, too. Come down and see me at lunch, okay?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

“Of course,” Harry replied.

* * *

Seven of them gathered in the morning light outside Shoreditch. Munz and Blackpool, the senior apprentices had joined in their lesson partly for a refresher and partly to help teach. An airplane flew overhead, buzzing annoyingly as only a Muggle device could. Rodgers watched it go by and waited for silence before beginning. “I suppose we can’t give all the Muggles broomsticks to help the peace, can we?” he uttered. Beginning, he said, “This is a good day for tracking practice with the fresh snow since it masks tracks unpredictably. We’ll only have it for a few hours, so let’s get started.

He explained the new spells. One for showing all tracks in an area. When he used it the ground was blank. One for finding tracks by time up to a week or more old, depending upon the power of the spell and whether it had rained. Yet another for illuminating one distinct set based on a single print of the trail. This last spell was the hardest and involved a very long incantation and careful concentration. Only Augustus Munz, Harry and Kerry Ann managed that spell once each and couldn’t repeat it, to their frustration. They were each called upon to practice the spells after the others jostled around creating confusing trails for that person to investigate.

Harry had a hard time squashing his frustration over the one spell and had to step back from the others and make himself not care about anything. Even so the snow shifted ominously as though picked up by a countering wind. Rodgers looked around with a lowered brow when this happened, clearly alarmed.

“Hm,” he said, stalking in a circle with this wand out. “This should be a secured place . . . we use it all the time.”

Harry stared at his water stained leather boots and pretended to be thinking of other things. Kerry Ann and Aaron were whispering gossip about Fudge’s new appointment, announced that morning, including Percy’s lack of fashion sense. Vineet was watching Rodgers circle. Munz and Blackpool were off to the side chatting. No one was looking at Harry, who was feeling uneasy with how quickly his control had slipped that time. He had been doing well, he had thought, and perhaps had grown less vigilant. He swallowed and forced a normal expression onto his face before lifting his head and facing their trainer, who had just given up finding the disturbance.

“Potter, you next,” Rodgers said and for one missed heart beat, Harry thought their trainer had discovered that he was the source of the wayward magic.

Harry stepped over, turned his back and listened as the others scuffled about creating a visually misleading set of prints. Harry’s feet grew cold as he waited and he had to stomp them to get them warm. Finally, Rodgers gestured that he could turn around. Harry faced the trampled ground with its red starting flag. His fellows stood off to the side, looking distinctly pleased with themselves. Further contemplation of the snowy tracks, some melted clear to the grass, did not yield any clues to their sly smiles.

Harry stepped carefully around to the marker and used his eyes only at first to try and track who had placed the flag before retreating. Everyone’s boots were equally worn, it appeared, although differing in size, but the trails went over each other repeatedly. Harry waved a general track illumination spell and the whole ground lit up in one color, the tracks were too close in time to allow them to be distinguished. Harry crouched and lowered his wand and touched one of the prints and then incanted the spell he couldn’t manage to repeat earlier. It took three tries and a nearly empty-minded focus on the magic, which wasn’t easy over Aaron’s and Babs Blackpool’s heckling. The trail of nondescript prints illuminated pink as though an invisible person were rewalking them. The ghostly footprints went left, in a circle, then right and then just stopped, somewhere near the middle.

With a tilted head Harry considered this. He hadn’t heard anyone Apparate. “Did someone carry someone else?” Harry asked. Aaron was grinning fully now and the others seemed genuinely curious if he were going to work this out.

“No,” Rodgers replied.

Harry stood and walked to where the end of the trail was slowly fading to plain white. He was about fifteen feet from the potential trailmakers. They hadn’t made the exercise this hard for any of the others, but Harry was certainly game for equaling their cleverness. Harry studied the last prints he knew were left by his target; they didn’t have any distinct characteristics he could use to physically identify them. Harry dropped his glove between the prints so he wouldn’t lose track of them when the spell finished fading and looked down the line of his fellow apprentices, none of whom appeared the least bit bored with waiting while he struggled.

Harry could go down the line and test each person’s boots to see which caused these tracks. That would take time and be a bit awkward with each having to stand around one-footed in their socks as they had for Aaron, who had been determined to use the one spell he always got right. Aaron in fact held out one booted foot. “Want to check?” he offered. Harry resisted Legilimizing him, but at least he now knew that tack wasn’t going to work. But why wouldn’t it work? Harry wondered, and realized that he didn’t know enough about these spells. Spell theory did help, Harry realized, even though it usually filled up his evenings with mind numbing readings.

What if the spell tracked a person and their boots as a unit? Harry considered, not just a particular pair of boots. Harry lifted his glove out of the way and tried to see what the closest next set of prints was. One set, in a line with the others but offset, seemed a good possibility. Harry repeated the single trail spell again and, possibly due to his rising determination, got it to work the first time. The next trail illuminated, leading to Vineet.

“Oh, you figured it out,” Aaron said in disappointment.

Harry put his icy glove back on as he stood up. “That’s enough for today, I think,” Rodgers was saying. He glanced up flatly at Harry, who couldn’t read if his trainer were glad or not that Harry had worked out their trick.

Vineet, after trading his boots back with Aaron, came over and intoned, “You are difficult to fool.”

Harry turned off to the side with him as the others began Apparating away. “I’ve been fooled before,” Harry assured him. The surrounding buildings looked empty still but presumably their owners would be coming home from work although the barrier spells on this plot of land would continue to hold and continue to obscure the Muggles’ view of them standing there.

“Are you by chance having another party soon?” Vineet asked.

Harry put his wand away and waved goodbye to Kerry Ann when she waved before disappearing. “Hadn’t thought about it.” He shrugged. “I’ll let you know if I do.”

Vineet crossed his arms, apparently to ward off the cold. “I would be appreciating an invitation. You have most interesting friends.”

“Yep,” Harry replied as he thought about the incoming Apparition area at the end of the corridor in preparation for sending himself to it. “And I don’t see them enough, so I should plan something soon . . . the month is going fast.”

* * *

The next day they waited in the workout room, training long overdue to start. Aaron put his leg up on the desk before him--nearly folding himself in half to do it, and sighed at the ceiling in boredom.

Kerry Ann said, “So, Harry, nice picture of you in Witch Weekly’s latest issue. So, it’s official?”

“What’s official?” Harry asked carefully.

“You’re dating Ms. Belluna.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Kerry Ann shook her head. “I’m glad all guys, even the most sought after, are as clueless as the kappa slappas I end up with.”

Harry was actually insulted. But he gave the cause of the sometimes uncertain state of his and Belinda’s dating some thought before composing a response. Maybe he was the one more at fault for that, but it was hard to tell. He always looked forward to seeing her but at the end of the date it seemed all mixed up. Maybe if she didn’t push so much to understand everything, Harry considered.

“Harry?” Kerry Ann prompted. When Harry turned a level gaze on her, she said, “Come on, I didn’t mean that personally. I was bucking myself up with that thought, not bringing you down. Or that wasn’t what I meant to do. You two make a cute couple. And her parents like you I hear.”

At Harry’s dark, narrow look, Aaron bust out laughing. Aaron’s feet hit the floor with a slap as he straightened up in his desk, unable to laugh in his overly-lounging position. “Bloody, no relationship could survive that kind of scrutiny. None of mine could, anyway.” He stood and said, “What IS up?” before going to the door.

With the door open a raised voice could be heard. The four of them were in the corridor in an instant, Aaron with his wand out. He put it away again when it was clearly just an argument between Ministry staff. Inside the Auror group office Tonks and Percy Weasley were having a face-off in the middle of the desks, but over what, was unclear. Rogan, near the door mumbled, “Fudge’s been in that office three days and already he’s making a power grab.”

Arthur Weasley, their Department head, wove between them all and stopped between the two red-faced combatants. “All right now, calm down.”

Percy turned his nasal argument on Mr. Weasley instead. “I have come for the artifact.”

“Do you have a req-?” Mr. Weasley began.

“YES. I have the proper requisition forms,” Percy stated, stamping his foot even. “SHE, has them. They have disappeared for the moment, but I doubt it was permanent. In any event, they were copies.”

“Tonks,” Mr. Weasley prompted, holding his hand out.

Tonks pulled a set of parchments out of her shirt. Mr. Weasley didn’t even look at them, just handed them back to Percy. “I’m sure you are aware that we are not finished with it.”

“You have admitted to failing to determine its function or spell origin. THAT is what the Department of Mysteries does,” Percy stated annoyingly, as though talking to an errant child rather his own father.

Harry had to give Mr. Weasley boundless credit for not only failing to deck Percy, but failing to rise to anger at all. Harry previously would have thought him a bit soft in the spine, but since his own struggles with anger and negative emotion, he felt awed instead. Mr. Weasley merely frowned lightly and glanced down at some parchments on the nearest desk.

More calmly, Percy said, “You cannot hold it back. Our paperwork is in order.”

“Tonks,” Mr. Weasley said calmly. “Give him what he came for.”

Tonks tossed her arms at her sides, fists balled. “Arthur . . .”

“Ms. Tonks,” Mr. Weasley said, more sternly.

Tonks moved around to the other side of the nearest row of cubicles and dug around. From the door the apprentices couldn’t see what she was doing and it was too crowded to move into the room for a better view.

“Here,” Tonks muttered. “I’ll put it in a box-” she started to say, but a quick crash of breaking pottery interrupted her. Percy gasped and turned fully red again. Tonk’s eyes and hair were visible over the top of the cubicle when she straightened up. Her pink eyebrows were nearly in her pink hair. “I didn’t mean to . . . “

Percy looked about as ready to kill as Harry had ever seen him. Mr. Weasley said, “Well, give him the pieces.”

Shacklebolt and Rodgers moved to help Tonks clean up by hand, resisting using a spell for some reason. A covered box was handed over to Percy, who tugged it away and shoved it under his arm, making the contents rattle and probably break farther. With that he stalked out, knocking a path out the door with his boney shoulders.

Tonks approached Mr. Weasley and said pleadingly, “Honestly, Arthur, I didn’t mean to . . .”

Mr. Weasley held up his hand to forestall her. “We weren’t going to see it again anyway.” He turned to go. “Back to work, everyone.”

“What was that?” Kerry Ann asked. No one replied. The four of them shared a mutual shrug and returned to the workout room as the office returned to order. Rodgers came in soon after and went through their morning with even more cursory attitude than usual.

At lunch, Harry wandered into the office to find Tonks. He had been worrying about her goof up through the morning and wanted to at least try to cheer her up. She was working at her desk, head bent far over the memo she was reading. The room was empty otherwise.

“Hey, Tonks,” Harry said.

She didn’t lift her head. “Harry,” she said, sounding glum.

Harry reached out and brushed the shoulder of her robe to get her to look up. As he stepped farther forward his foot bumped something. She brought her eyes up; they contained a complex mixture of things. “It’s all right, Harry,” she said dismissively.

Harry bent down and found what his foot had encountered. It was a broken piece of orange ceramic as might come from a cheap jug.

“We didn’t get it all,” Tonks said upon seeing it and then held out her hand for it.

Harry didn’t hand it over. It felt stranger than its innocent appearance let on. It felt unexpectedly sharp against his skin, or perhaps charged as though with electricity. Tonks put her hand down.

“Are you feeling something from that, Harry?” she asked, sounding intrigued.

“Doesn’t feel normal,” Harry said, holding it out. “I don’t know what it feels like. What is it?”

“We’re not sure. Something someone doesn’t want us to have. We only had a broken piece of it anyway. Discarded unwisely. Something the Department of Mysteries thinks is too dangerous for us to have. What does it feel like to you, Harry? You gave it a good scope there.”

“It feels electrically charged. Like when you put a battery to your tongue.”

“A what to your what?” Tonks asked, thoroughly amused.

“It feels like it is shocking me, just a little. You don’t feel that?” Harry asked.

She shook her head and slipped the piece into her desk drawer. “Didn’t mean to break it, but it worked out in the end,” she said with small satisfaction.

“Most things do,” Harry ventured.

She gave him a sideways look. “Aren’t you supposed to be in training?”

“It’s lunch,” Harry pointed out.

“Is it?” she asked in surprise.

* * *

At home, Harry found Snape’s owl, Franklin, at the window. He took the letter and gave the bird a toss into the chilly darkness to help it get going again. The letter was short and written hurriedly.

Harry,

This weekend will be the first chance that I can possibly get away. I assume you are behaving yourself and keeping to your studies--certainly no one here seems to be. Minerva asks after you--perhaps you could send her an owl. Lovely photo of you in Witch Weekly, by the way, you can thank Minerva for showing it around.

Harry cringed and sat at the table. He remained there, looking over the letter in the dim flicker from the hearth. As much as he wished to not disappoint Snape by letting him discover how bad things had become with him and controlling the Dark Plane, Harry half wished Snape had at least asked, or suspected, or something. But at least he was coming home soon. Just thinking that made Harry feel a bit better.