The Affairs of Wizards

"Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger"

Gildor Inglorion to Frodo, in The Fellowship of The Rings, by JRR Tolkein

Chapter One

Begin at the Beginning

It began the day my cousin Hermione phoned and offered me a job.

This in itself was extraordinary, as (a) Hermione and I weren't exactly close, and (b) strictly speaking, the job wasn't hers to offer.

Confusing? Yes, isn't it. Some background is called for here. Bear with me. I'll try and keep it short.

My father and Hermione's are identical twins. The sort of identical twins even their nearest and dearest have trouble telling apart at times. They finish each other's sentences, adore Chinese food, support Man United, and have the same easygoing, go-with-the-flow approach to life. I can only guess that at some point all this togetherness got a bit too much for them and they succumbed to a need to demonstrate their individuality - by marrying two completely different women. Two completely different women who hated each other on sight.

Hermione's mother, my Aunt Jane, is the brisk, no-nonsense jolly hockeysticks type. She met Uncle Ted while they were both training to be dentists. Having bullied him into marrying her she now devotes her life to running their joint practice with terrifying efficiency. My mother, Eleanor, on the other hand, is an arty-farty New Ager who has been into everything from rebirthing to reiki. Mum gave up full-time work when I was born, and devotes half her time to spending Dad's money on various weird courses and workshops, and the other half on her (not noticeably successful) practice as a "holistic healer".

As I'm sure you can imagine, the first time they met was an utter disaster. Aunt Jane made some sarky comment about alternative medicine and Mum stormed off in a huff. Although things were patched up later for appearances' sake it was downhill from there on, and the start of a thirty-year war to the knife in which each woman used every means at her disposal to demonstrate her superiority. Which is where Hermione and I come in.

If one of them had been able to produce a son and heir to carry on the Granger family name it would have ended there, but fate intervened, and they ended up with one daughter each. From that moment on the two of us were on the front line. Just my luck that Hermione turned out to be a child prodigy who mastered everything from toilet training onwards with consummate ease. By the time she got the scholarship to some mysterious government funded establishment for high flyers I hated her with a passion.

Dad's only contribution was "Never mind, love. At least you got the looks." Which is true, as Hermione was a horse-faced, bushy haired, bucktoothed replica of Aunt Jane, while thanks to Mum's dark good looks I did at least qualify as attractive, if not exactly pretty. Not that that was an awful lot of consolation at the time. I decided, therefore, that if I was going to be the Family Disappointment I might as well work at it. My teenage years were spent skiving off classes, taking various illegal substances and hanging around with the kind of boy I knew would be most likely to piss my mother off big time. Despite all this I still managed to scrape enough A levels to do a degree in Business and Marketing at one of the new Universities. Mum was preparing gloat, as Hermione's schooling didn't seem include any further education at all. Then fate took a hand once more.

Unless you've been living under a rock for the past five years you'll know that the biggest news of the century, if not the millennium, broke the year Hermione and I left school. Yes, that news. Magic was real. Wizards and witches were real. Fairytales were true. When it emerged that a group of them, led by Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter, had, with the aid of our Armed Forces, defeated one of their number with a nasty ambition for Nazi-style world domination, it was enough to push Posh and Becks off the front pages of the world's media for a month. Of course, Hermione turned out to be one of them, didn't she, and not just any old one, either. No, our Hermione was a friend of Harry Potter himself, a leader of the forces of light, a bloody war hero, for God's sake. Game, set and match to Aunt Jane.

In the years that followed I earned myself some brownie points from Mum when I graduated with First Class Honours - after all a First is a First, even if it does come from a former Polytechnic - and promptly lost them all again when I rejected the corporate rat race for acting. After two years at drama school I was ready to show the world exactly what I was made of. Sadly, the world didn't seem that interested.

It had all started off so well, too. Some good theatre work led to a stint with Hull Truck, and this in its turn was followed by a couple of promising TV roles. Then what I thought was going to be the big break - the part of cockney sidekick to an aristocratic detective in a new series that was being widely touted as "the next Morse". It was a disaster. The critics hated it, and the abysmal reviews ensured none of us involved got much in the way of work for a long time afterwards.

By the time of Hermione's phone call I'd been forced to give up my flat in London and move back in with Mum and Dad to save money. My bank was sending regular threatening letters, the Benefits Agency was talking about retraining, and Mum had gone from dropping gentle hints to issuing ultimatums about getting a "proper job". In a nutshell, I was desperate.

When the phone rang that morning, my usual surge of wild hope was quickly dashed when I heard Mum say, "Hermione, dear. How nice of you to call. How are you?" in that falsely bright tone that makes it quite clear you are not in the least bit interested in the reply.

I turned to go back up the stairs, just as Mum said, her voice now tinged with confusion, "Yes, she is. Hold on and I'll get her for you," and held the phone out to me. I stared at her. What the hell could Hermione possibly want with me?

"Vanessa?" Hermione sounded nervous. "How are you?"

"Fine. You?" As if I cared.

"Oh, busy. You know." Hermione had some kind of high powered job with the Ministry of Magic, the governing body of what was known as "the Wizarding World", to distinguish it from the boring everyday one the rest of us inhabited.

There was an awkward silence. Hermione seemed at a loss as to what to say next, and I was dammed if I was going to make it any easier for her. Eventually, she managed, "You're probably wondering why I've phoned."

"Yes."

"Well ... it's about a job."

"Oh?" And this has what to do with me, exactly?

"Mum mentioned you were looking for a job, and it happens that these friends of mine are looking for someone ..."

The anger that had been building up, finally flared into speech, "Yes, I may be looking for a job, but I fail to see what the hell that has to do with you, or your Mum. I'm not such an abject failure that I'm incapable of getting my own job, thanks very much!"

There was a huffing noise at the other end of the line. "I was only trying to help, but if that's the way you feel about it ... Goodbye."

"Wait!" Righteous indignation was all very well, but if I pissed off Hermione Aunt Jane would make bloody sure that Mum knew exactly what had happened. Let's face it, the last thing I needed right now was to be on the receiving end of one of my mother's temper tantrums. It couldn't hurt to listen, could it? "Look, I'm sorry. You just touched a raw nerve - OK?"

Hermione's voice softened. "I'm sorry, too. Listen, this wasn't my idea. I knew you'd be upset. I just happened to mention this job to Mum, and, well, you know what she's like when she gets an idea in her head."

I snorted. "Pot calling kettle, n'est ce pas? Who was it who nearly caused a riot at Cousin Becky's wedding when she started lecturing the bridegroom's father about the iniquity of the war in Iraq?"

There was a moment's silence, and I cursed myself for going too far. Then Hermione exploded into laughter. "Well, I had had a bit to drink. How was I to know he was a dyed-in-the wool Tory with views that made Maggie Thatcher look positively left wing? Ron thought it was hilarious. Said it served me right."

Ron? Oh, yes, the boyfriend. A brief image of endless legs and red hair flashed through my mind. "Sensible chap. So ..."

"So."

"This job?"

"It's working for some friends of mine from school."

"Witches?."

"Wizards, actually. They've put together a start-up aiming to sell wizard medicines to Mug - non-magical customers. They need someone to handle the marketing and admin, and since both of them were born wizards they're pretty clueless about the non-magical side of things. I know you did marketing as part of your degree, so ..."

"Sounds interesting." I wasn't kidding - it did. Despite revealing itself to the rest of the world the wizarding community still kept very much to itself. Apart from a few well shepherded excursions, nobody got to penetrate the barriers that surrounded the magical world unless they had a very good reason. "OK, I'll go for it. What do I do?"

"Can you send me your CV? I'll pass it on, and if they're interested I'll let you know."

"Fine. Do you have email?" I remembered reading somewhere that electronic equipment didn't function too well around high concentrations of magic.

"Yes, no problem." Hermione reeled off her Ministry of Magic email address and phone number. "I'll be in touch."

As I put down the phone, I found myself wondering briefly exactly what I'd let myself in for.

***

Hermione phoned back two days later.

"They're definitely interested. They said they'd contact you direct about an interview. Apparently they're seeing a few people next week."

"OK." So far, so good. "It would help if you could tell me a bit more about the whole thing, so I'm not going into it blind."

"I don't know an awful lot myself. What do you want to know, exactly?"

"For a start it would be helpful to know who "they" are."

"Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy."

"Draco Malfoy? What kind of a name is that, for God's sake? I mean, Neville Longbottom I can just about get my head round, sounds Lancashire -"

"It is."

" - but what kind of a parent calls a kid Draco? Do you mean to tell me all wizards are rampant sadists who want to scar their kids for life?" The response was an outburst of hysterical laughter that seemed as if it would never stop. "Mind letting me in on the joke?"

Hermione was making an obvious effort to pull herself together. "I'm sorry, it's just - it's - I'm afraid it's a bit complicated. Listen, I've got a meeting in ten minutes, so I can't really talk now. I'll send you an email later, alright?"

It was at that moment a rather disgruntled owl fell down the chimney, and landed on the living room rug in a cloud of soot.

"Bloody hell!"

"What?"

"There's an owl in our living room."

"That was quick. Neville only just phoned."

I noticed the letter tied to its leg. "I take it this is my invitation to interview?"

"Yes. You'll have to - oh, of course, you wouldn't have any Owl Treats, would you? You do have a cat, though."

"Yeees," I was by now thoroughly confused.

"Give it some cat biscuits. Oh Merlin, I'm going to be late. Talk to you soon. 'Bye."

I looked at the owl, and the owl looked at me. It was a handsome bird - an eagle owl, I was to find out later. Its encounter with our chimney had done nothing for its temper, and it thrust the leg with the letter tied to it towards me in a manner that said as clearly as if it could speak, Get on with it, will you?

I untied the letter, and it looked at me expectantly. Realising what Hermione had meant, I dashed into the kitchen and fetched a handful of cat munchies. I offered these to the owl, which looked at them suspiciously, before consuming them with an air of, That the best you can do?

"Snotty little bugger," I muttered, and the owl shot me a death glare. I studied the letter, grinning when I noticed the address

Miss Vanessa Granger

The Living Room

14 Bulmershe Drive

Reading

Berkshire

"Believe in accuracy, your lot, don't they?" I said to the owl, which ruffled its feathers. I broke the elaborate wax seal, and scanned the letter.

Dear Miss Granger,

I would like to invite you to attend an interview for the position of Marketing and Administration Manager at 3.30 pm on Monday, 10^th May. Please indicate your acceptance on the attached form, and sign the enclosed non-disclosure agreement. Further information will be owled to you upon receipt.

Yours sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

Joint Managing Director

Magus Healthcare Ltd

The non-disclosure agreement proved that someone in this setup at least had access to advice about non-magical business practice. I flipped through it - all pretty standard. Signing both forms, I fetched an envelope from Dad's desk, stuffed the papers into it, and held it out to the owl.

"Take it you know where you're going?" The bird grabbed the letter, ruffled its feathers at me again, and took off up the chimney, dislodging another shower of soot.

Sighing, I went to fetch the vacuum cleaner.

***

While waiting for Hermione to get back to me, I decided to do a bit of research. I had two key bits of information - the name of the company, and the names of its two directors. It was a start, anyway.

Yes, the Ministry of Magic had overall responsibility for everything pertaining to the Wizarding World, including company registration and taxation, but this enterprise, I reasoned, was a little different. If Magus was going to be earning sterling I couldn't see the Inland Revenue passing up the chance to get its hands on a share of the profits. Ergo, Magus Healthcare Ltd was probably registered at Companies House.

I was right.

****

Magus Healthcare had been registered eighteen months previously. Registered Office - Malfoy Manor, near Avebury, Wiltshire. Directors - Neville Algernon Longbottom and Draco Lucius Malfoy. Company Secretary - Blaise Alessandro Zabini. Nature of business - Manufacture and retailing of herbal medicines. And that's as pretty much far as you get without paying for the information. It was time to beg a favour. I dug out my address book and called Beth.

My degree was a sandwich course. That is to say, it was four years long instead of the usual three, and students spent the extra year working in the real world, allegedly putting theory into practice. What this really meant was we were cheap labour for one of the University's sponsors. I'd spent that year in the research department of A Certain Large Management Consultancy, churning out a daily précis of the business news and company profiles. I wasn't complaining. I did at least get paid for it, and like most students I was chronically short of funds. Beth was my boss, and in my (admittedly biased) opinion, a damn good one. After I left we kept in touch, and I've done the occasional bit of freelance research for her.

Middle managers like Beth spend their lives in meetings, so I was startled when, instead of the voicemail, I was answered by her familiar Yankee drawl.

"Beth Kochanski."

"Hi, it's Vanessa."

"Hi kid, how're you doing?"

"Looking for a job."

"That bad, huh? 'Fraid I haven't got anything at the moment. Business is not good. Budgets are tight."

"It isn't that, Beth. I want to ask you a favour."

"Fire away."

"I've got an interview next week, and I need some information."

"Now that I can do. What do you need?"

Briefly, I explained. Beth was suitably impressed.

"Wow, aren't we moving in exalted circles. Do you know how many major league players are dying to get an in to the Wizarding World? Forget China - that's where its at these days."

"Yeah, well, personally I'd rather be spear carrying for the RSC. At least I'd be acting."

"Go with the flow, honey. Who knows where you'll be in a year's time? Not many of us regular folks get to consort with wizards. Enjoy it while it lasts."

Enjoy it while it lasts. I wouldn't have taken that sort of thing from anyone else. Beth was different. Nobody knew the truth of that statement more than she did. She'd only been married six moths when her husband, a dealer with a big City brokerage firm, went to New York for a business meeting at the World Trade Centre. Like many others who were in the Twin Towers on 11 September 2001 he never came back. One of the reasons I admired Beth so much was the way she'd got through it all, and refused to let it dominate her life. Suddenly, my own problems seemed pretty insignificant.

"Thanks Beth. I owe you one."

"You're welcome, I'm sure. Buy me a drink sometime."

"I will. 'Bye."

I hung up, and wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Beth's reaction to my news had me thinking. Perhaps this job could be the start of something very interesting indeed.

***

It didn't take Beth all that long to come up with the goods. Her email arrived ten minutes after I'd finished my coffee.

Vanessa,

There is shedloads out there on your guys, and I mean shedloads. I've picked out two or three of the most relevant background articles. Nothing on Magus Healthcare. Sorry.

Beth

This was followed a couple of hours later by an email from Hermione.

Dear Vanessa,

Attached are some notes about Neville, Draco, and their company. I'm afraid the stuff on the company is a bit scanty, as I don't really know much myself. Hope it helps.

Phone me once you've had your interview and tell me how you got on.

Good luck,

H

By the time I'd finished wading through it all I had a pretty clear picture of Messrs Longbottom and Malfoy. These two weren't just any old wizards. If I got the job I would be working for a couple of decorated war heros - Order of Merlin, First Class, no less; the highest accolade the Wizarding World can bestow on one of its own. Suppose I should have known, really. Hermione being who she was her friends were highly likely to have been in the thick of it. As for Magus Healthcare - the company had yet to make its appearance on anyone's radar, and Hermione's notes told me only what I already knew. I sat back and took stock.

Neville Longbottom - Age 27. Unmarried. From a solid respectable wizarding family going back umpteen generations. Comfortably off rather than filthy rich. Parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, permanently hospitalised with serious mental health problems following torture by Lord Whatever-his-name-was' followers. Bought up by grandmother. Attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, same House (House! my God, how Enid Blyton) as Harry Potter. Close friend of the latter. Decorated for single-handed capture of Bellatrix Lestrange, very important nasty who'd tortured his parents into madness. Joined the Aurors, the Wizarding World's elite police force, at the end of the War. Left two years ago to set up Magus in partnership with -

Draco Malfoy - Also aged 27 and unmarried. Family worth millions, part of the nearest thing the wizarding world has to aristocracy, and like its non-magical counterpart up to its eyes in dark secrets. From my reading, the dysfunctional Malfoys made our own dear Royal Family look positively normal by comparison. Also attended Hogwarts, but was in Slytherin House, where nearly all of the most dangerous dark wizards started their careers. Father key supporter of Lord Thing, (no-one seemed to have the guts to mention this guy's actual name, even though he'd been dead for several years), died in mysterious circumstances. Switched sides shortly after, and was decorated for saving Harry Potter's life during the War. At the end of the War dropped out of sight. Refuses to this day to talk about why he threw in his lot with Potter and Dumbledore, much to the chagrin of various members of the press. A gentleman of leisure notable for nothing more startling than being voted Witch Weekly's "most eligible bachelor" three times running. Until, that is, the surprise announcement of the creation of -

Magus Healthcare Ltd. About which I knew nothing. Zero, Zilch, Zip, Nada, as Beth was fond of saying. So there it was.

As if on cue, there was an impatient tap on the window. The owl was back. I slid open the window, and it stuck its leg out. A matchbox-sized package was tied to it. I fetched the scissors and relieved the owl of its burden. It promptly took off with a rustle of feathers which made it quite clear that it had absolutely no hope of decent hospitality in this dump and preferred to be on its way as quickly as possible.

"What the hell is this?" I muttered to myself. It didn't look large enough to hold anything of significance. As I turned it over, it began to glow, and I dropped it, startled. The thing continued to glow, and began to expand in size. By the time the glow faded it was the size of an A4 envelope. The wizard equivalent of the zip file, obviously. I picked it up, and tore it open. Inside was a thick glossy brochure, a map, and a large triangular gold coin.

Putting the map and the coin aside, I opened the brochure, noticing briefly that the pictures on the front were moving. This was nothing new to me. We'd been getting moving Christmas cards from Hermione for years. I was soon deep in the contents.

***

It seemed like hours later that I put the brochure down, and wandered out through the French windows to sit on the patio, my mind still whirling with disconnected thoughts and ideas. Three words came immediately to mind - licence, print and money.

Magus Healthcare was preparing to launch its first product in six months' time. That product was nothing less than the Holy Grail that medical researchers had been looking for since long before Fleming discovered penicillin, something that would make a significant dent in the profits of the world's pharmaceutical companies -

A cure for the common cold.

***