The Affairs of Wizards

Chapter Four

Toil and Trouble

The Howler was the first sign of trouble.

By unspoken agreement I'd taken on the task of handling the post. The daily ritual of opening it, sorting it and directing it to the right person helped me understand how things worked at Magus. It was also an invaluable source of information in my constant battle to keep one step ahead of Malfoy. Most of the letters arrived by owl and were bought to the office by Ditzy from an unspecified collection point. Nobody ever explained how owls could find the supposedly un-find-able Manor, and after a while I came to accept it as just one of those things about the Wizarding World that defy rational explanation. Muggle post came via Gringotts, which had a satellite office in the City with a PO Box Number available to its clients.

The Howler had been cleverly disguised as an innocuous circular from a Muggle stationery manufacturer. It wasn't until I'd slit it open that I realised it was something more. The thing instantly became hot to the touch, and I dropped it with a cry of pain. The open envelope turned bright red in colour while a magically-amplified voice boomed, "MALFOY, YOU BLOOD TRAITOR!! YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR BETRAYAL - "

There was the sound of running feet behind me, and Malfoy, wand at the ready, shouldered me aside. "Get out of the way!" he shouted over the din. I didn't need telling twice as the thing, still ranting, was beginning to smoke alarmingly. Malfoy pointed his wand at it and yelled, "Petrificus!" The Howler morphed into a stone statue that hit the floor with a tremendous thud. There was a brief silence, as Malfoy and I looked at each other.

"What the hell was that?" I demanded, shaken.

"Howler," he replied curtly, prodding the statue with the tip of his wand. "Pass me that box, please." He levitated the statue into the box with another flick.

"And what in God's name is a Howler?"

"A rather infantile magical way of showing displeasure." A tap of his wand closed the box; another flick and a drop of wax appeared from the tip and sealed it. Malfoy took the large silver signet ring from his right hand, and pressed it into the wax. "Usually harmless."

"Then why -"

"Usually harmless. The nastier ones tend to blow up in your face as a finale. I don't want to take any chances." He slipped the ring back on, stalked across to the mirror over the mantelpiece, and tapped it with his wand. "Treadwell!" The mirror clouded over for moment, then Treadwell appeared. From the scene behind him I guessed he was somewhere in the manufacturing area.

"What is it?"

"Miss Granger has just accidentally opened a Howler. A Howler that was intended for me. A Howler that should not have been there at all." Malfoy sounded dangerously calm. If I were Treadwell I would have been sweating by now. "I thought your people were supposed to be screening all the post."

"We are. I can't imagine how -"

"Can't you?" Malfoy snapped. "Then I suggest you find out. I want a full report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning." With a quick gesture he cut the connection before Treadwell had time to open his mouth and turned to me. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, fine," I replied, confused by this sudden show of concern from the normally unsympathetic Malfoy. Malfoy gave me a sceptical look, hauled the chair out from under the desk, and nodded towards it. I sank into it, and realised I was trembling slightly.

"Coffee is in order, I think," Malfoy declared, conjuring up a tray with two steaming hot mugs on it. I accepted one gratefully. Milk and two sugars - just the way I liked it. I was surprised he'd noticed. "Sorry about that." He sounded as if he meant it, too. He grabbed the other mug, and dropped into a chair opposite me. "Goyle's people screen everything but this one obviously slipped through the net." He chuckled maliciously. "I wouldn't like to be in Treadwell's shoes if Goyle finds out he cocked up." Serves him right, I appended silently.

Better acquaintance with Adrian Treadwell had only served to increase my dislike for him. Difficult Malfoy might be but he at least did me the courtesy of treating me as an equal, and there were times that I actually enjoyed sparring with him. Not so Treadwell, who made it abundantly clear he considered me a lower form of life and that he was only working with me under protest. He had opposed every single change I wanted to make to the admin systems at Magus on security grounds and in the end had been forced to go to Neville and Malfoy to get him to cooperate.

Malfoy and I savoured our coffee in companionable silence for a while. Malfoy, who had been looking thoughtful, finally broke it. "Can I take it there isn't a Muggle equivalent of the Howler? You don't seem the type to be easily shaken."

"Of course there is - and of varying degrees of nastiness, too. Our hate mail doesn't get quite so vocal before it blows you to kingdom come, that's all."

Malfoy laughed. "If you think that one was bad, you should talk to Longbottom. The ones his grandmother used to send him were gruesome."

"Do you get a lot of those things?"

"Enough to make it essential to pay Goyle and his minions to deal with them for me. Switching sides in the midst of a civil war is not guaranteed to make one universally popular and number of my father's former associates are still at large."

Well, that went some way to explaining the heavy security presence at Magus. I should have guessed that Malfoy would be a target, given his history. Then why go to all the trouble of circumventing Treadwell's precautions in order to play a rather puerile practical joke? From what I knew of them, Malfoy Senior's "former associates" were not the kind of people to stop at just sending Howlers. Which meant -

"Then this is a warning?" If we can do this, just think what else we can do ...

Malfoy stiffened, and the mask snapped back into place. "I realise you are as yet unfamiliar with our world, Miss Granger, but don't let your imagination run away with you. It's a Howler, that's all. Simply yet another example of Treadwell's inability to do his job properly." He drained his coffee and stood. "If you are quite recovered, I'll leave you to your work and deliver this to the Goyle contingent. Lervo." He left, the box bobbing along in front of him.

Bugger. For a moment there he seemed almost human.

It wasn't until later that day that it occurred to me to wonder what he'd meant by yet another.

***

"I haven't the faintest idea," Blaise said, the following week. "I know Draco hasn't much time for Treadwell but the man seems perfectly capable of doing his job to me. Draco's like that. Once he takes a dislike to someone - " He left the sentence unfinished but I knew exactly what he meant.

Blaise Zabini was not only good company, he was a valuable source of information about the world I'd landed myself in and the people I was associating with. Within half an hour we had swapped life stories, and were chatting away like old friends. Blaise was as fascinated by the Muggle world as I was by the wizarding one, so we found a lot to talk about over an excellent meal at a little bistro in the wizard quarter of Bath. He was also, I was delighted to discover, an old-fashioned gentleman. He tactfully made it quite clear that we would not be having the "your place or mine" conversation that evening by casually mentioning he would drop me off at home before Apparating to London to prepare for an early meeting. I hadn't realised before that a skilled wizard could Apparate while taking another person along with them. As an experience it was marginally better than Portkeying, which, Blaise assured me, was one step above Floo travel, something even wizards considered truly unpleasant. I was content to take his word for it.

"Whatever it is it can't have been that bad," I mused, "or Malfoy would have used it as ammunition to get Treadwell replaced. Isn't Treadwell's boss an old school friend of his, too?"

"Henchman is a better description," Blaise replied, smiling. "Draco never left the Slytherin common room without Greg and Vince - Vincent Crabbe - flanking him like a pair of bloody bookends. Some wit in Ravenclaw christened them "The Heavy Mob", which says it all, really. Looked as if they didn't have two brain-cells to rub together. It turned out that Crabbe really didn't have two brain-cells to rub together. Goyle, though - well, there was more to Goyle than meets the eye, as my Grandmamma was fond of saying."

"What happened to Crabbe?" Blaise hesitated. "No, don't tell me. This is another one of those Don't Mention the War moments, isn't it?" He looked blank. "Muggle joke. Sorry." There had been quite a few of those moments. Of the four Hogwarts houses, Slytherin had suffered most during the recent conflict. Only a handful of Blaise's housemates, those who had followed Malfoy's example and defected, were still alive to tell the tale. It was obvious he didn't like talking about it much, and I wasn't about to ruin the evening by pushing. I decided it was time the conversation took a different turn, and cast around for a way to change the subject.

"Does Malfoy actually have any friends?"

"Two - myself and Neville Longbottom. We're the only people who won't let him get away with the spoilt brat routine. He respects that."

"You I can understand. You've known him most of his life, you were in the same house at school, and you understand how he thinks. But Neville - well, they're like chalk and cheese."

"It surprises me, too," Blaise admitted. "Especially since Draco was incredibly obnoxious to Longbottom at school. I have to say, though, even his own housemates took the piss out of him. He was such an easy target; practically a Squib -"

"A what?"

"Squib - somebody who's born into a magical family, but hasn't any magic. Longbottom was pretty useless at everything except Herbology. Nobody expected him to turn out to be such a powerful wizard."

"My cousin thinks their friendship stems from the fact that they both lost their parents because of Voldemort." Blaise winced but did not protest.

"She may be right. They certainly spent a lot of time together just after Draco's father died and his mother went missing. Draco reacted very badly, and Neville was the only one who could get through to him at times." He caught my look and held up his hand. "And before you ask, no I don't know what happened to Narcissa. Nobody does. Missing, presumed killed by person or persons unknown, was the official verdict. If you've finished, I'll get the bill."

Oops. I'd obviously put my foot in it good and proper. I hoped this wasn't going to signal the abrupt end to a beautiful friendship. My track record with men was pretty abysmal. I was one of those unfortunates with a tendency to fall for fascinating men who turned out to be liars, or cheats, or both. My last relationship, with the moderately famous actor who'd played the aristocratic detective in the dire TV series that led to the termination of my acting career, had ended in a welter of mutual recrimination when I discovered he'd neglected to tell me he already had a wife and two children. Blaise was the first decent man to have come my way in a long time, and I hoped fervently that my curiosity had not put him off for good. It seemed not, as by the time he dropped me off he had regained his good humour. He told me he'd had a great time, kissed me on the cheek and disappeared, having promised to owl me so we could do it again.

***

It was shortly after that things came to a head with Treadwell.

I was in my office, going over some paperwork in preparation for yet another meeting with the advertising agency, when Treadwell stormed in without knocking.

"I can't sanction this." He slapped a buff folder on the desk, and stood glaring at me with his arms folded.

Calm. Keep calm. I forced myself to finish the note I'd been making on the rambling missive from the head of Parkinson Lawler's un-creative creative team, took my time putting the papers in order, and only then did I turn my attention to Treadwell. "It's polite to knock before entering."

"Oh, so sorry," Treadwell sneered. "I didn't realise that arriving in person to answer your urgent request for a security clearance constitutes an invasion of privacy. Perhaps I should come back later." He turned to go.

I gritted my teeth and counted to ten backwards - slowly. "No problem. What do you want?"

He picked up the buff folder, and thrust it at me. "I can't sanction this. The woman's a Muggle. Too much of a security risk."

I flipped open the folder, which contained the CV and photograph of my preferred candidate for the Secretary/Receptionist job, Elaine Fogworthy. The picture made a face at me, and mouthed, "Somebody got out of bed on the wrong side this morning, didn't they?" I hurriedly closed the folder again, fighting to suppress a smile.

"It may have escaped your attention, Treadwell, but I'm a Muggle."

"In my opinion, one Muggle is too many," Treadwell replied, stiffly. "I am sure you must realise by now that I objected to your appointment. I was overruled. Madness. You people have no ability to protect yourselves against dark magic, and you are prime targets for the people Goyle Global was hired to protect this company and its personnel from. Since you arrived I have had to double the number of patrols."

At double the price. No wonder Malfoy's ever so slightly pissed off. "Elaine Fogworthy is married to a wizard, for God's sake. She's been around for years - long before the bloody Statute of Secrecy was repealed. Your argument might have some validity when it comes to me but not someone who's been an upstanding member of the Wizarding World for the last twenty-five years."

"Nevertheless -" This was Treadwell at his most pompous and overbearing. My patience had finally run out.

"You're not going to change your mind?"

"Hardly."

"Then I shall have to take this further." I stood, grabbed the buff folder, and marched out of the office, a startled Treadwell trailing along in my wake. Neville and Malfoy had offices opposite each other a little way down the corridor. A quick word with Neville, and -

Oh hell. Two seconds later it struck me that I couldn't have a quick word with Neville, because Neville wasn't there. Neville was currently away for a week on the other side of the world checking out some rare Tibetan specimens of gnarlewort (or some such thing) for his growing collection. Which meant I'd have to take this to Malfoy. Who would almost certainly agree with Treadwell. The same thought had obviously occurred to Treadwell, as he favoured me with an unpleasant smirk. Oh well, no going back now. I squared my shoulders and rapped briskly on the door of Malfoy's office.

"Come!" I opened the door, and stuck my head round it.

"Got a second?"

Malfoy looked up from a thick leather-bound book he was studying. "If I must. What - ah, Treadwell. Not another demarcation dispute, Miss Granger?"

"I'm afraid so." I quickly outlined the situation. Malfoy listened calmly, and then enquired, "In your view, is this woman the best candidate for the job?"

"Yes," I said, firmly.

Malfoy leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, looking for all the world like a blonde version of Spock from Star Trek. "You have thirty seconds to convince me."

"One - she's a Muggle, and since you will be bringing Muggle customers here, you need a Muggle as first point of contact. Sweet as Ditzy is, you can't really rely on someone who looks like a refugee from Return of the Jedi to deal with Muggle guests. You want to sell to them, not freak them out. Two - Elaine's familiar with the Wizarding World. She's been married to a local healer for twenty-five years, and she used to act as his receptionist before he retired. She also has two teenage sons at Hogwarts. Three - she's computer literate. She's been working in the local library part-time since her husband gave up his practice, and she's trained herself to use a computer. Even most Muggle-born witches are useless with computers since they don't have much to do with them past the age of eleven. Finally - she's my choice for the position."

There was a short, tense silence, while Malfoy absorbed my speech. Treadwell and I glared at each other. After what seemed an eternity, Malfoy spoke. "Very well, Miss Granger, you have my authority to employ this woman."

At first Treadwell looked as dumbstruck as I felt. Then he drew himself up, blustering, "The terms of our contract clearly state that I have complete authority over matters pertaining to the security of this facility and its personnel. If you are going to renegotiate your relationship with us I shall have to take this to Goyle."

"Oh, I don't think you want to do that." Malfoy's tone was mild but the gleam in his eye spelt danger. Only someone as obtuse as Treadwell could have missed it. "If you do, I shall be forced to have a quiet word with Goyle about various highly inconvenient breaches of security that have taken place since the commencement of your tenure as Site Manager. I don't think I have to spell out to you his likely reaction." Treadwell turned bright scarlet, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and left, banging the door behind him. I turned to Malfoy.

"Thank you."

Malfoy had already returned to his book. He waved a dismissive hand. "You needn't bother to thank me. I used exactly the same argument against employing you in the first place."

"But you changed your mind. Why?"

"You were the best candidate for the job." I must have looked unconvinced, as he added, with a faint smile, "As I am sure Zabini has no doubt told you we Slytherins are nothing if not pragmatic."

"What did you mean about security breaches? It's more than just a stray Howler, isn't it?"

Malfoy glared at me. "That, Miss Granger, is none of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me - " He gestured towards the book.

I beat a hasty retreat, and returned to my office, still puzzling over the enigma that was Draco Malfoy - and not just Malfoy. If I read his riposte to Treadwell aright my Howler was not an isolated incident. There had been other "breaches of security", and Treadwell had failed to find out what was causing them, much less put a stop to it.

I was tired of being kept in the dark. I decided it was time to do something about it.

***

The Red Lion is the only pub in Avebury. It's a nice looking place with indifferent food and lousy service but has the great advantage of being somewhere none of the Magus crowd would be seen dead in. Avebury attracts hordes of Muggle would-be magicians during the summer, and magical folk keep well clear for fear of being mobbed by crowds of adoring Druids, Wiccans and other New Age fellow-travellers.

Pinning Neville down and persuading him to take time out to go to the Red Lion for lunch was difficult but in the end I managed by dint of sheer persistence. Neville, although slightly taken aback by my choice of venue, was too polite to back out once he'd agreed to come. We agreed to meet outside the pub, as he had a staff meeting with the Herbology Team that morning, and when he appeared I was glad to see that he'd swapped his wizard robes for a t-shirt and jeans in order to blend in.

"You must be the only wizard I know who owns Muggle clothes," I told him. "Even the Muggle-borns at Magus won't wear anything but wizard robes."

Neville grinned. "I'm more interested in convenience than making a fashion statement. These," he gestured at his jeans, "are so much more comfortable for grubbing around in the garden."

"They were originally work clothes before they became a fashion item. I blame Elvis."

"Who?"

I spent the next ten minutes explaining the Presley phenomenon to someone who might as well have come from outer space for all he knew of contemporary Muggle culture. I'd come across this before with Blaise. Even those with Muggle-born friends had very little knowledge of the world their mates had inhabited prior to receiving the Hogwarts invitation. Muggle-born wizards and witches tended to keep quiet about home life in an attempt to blend in. By the time I'd finished, we were seated and waiting for our meal. It was Neville who put a stop to the inconsequential chatter.

"Now, Vanessa, are you going to tell me what's on your mind?"

"Was I really that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been dealing with Draco and his Slytherins for the last three years. Oh, it was very nicely done, very charming, and I'm flattered - but next time why don't you just come right out with it?" He put on an exaggerated cod-Northern accent. "Eh up, lass, Ah'm a Northern lad, tha' knows, and we laik plain speaking."

"OK boss, point taken."

I recounted my conversations with Treadwell and Malfoy, adding, "If I am at risk, surely it's best to be upfront with me? Forewarned is forearmed."

Neville sighed. "I told Draco we should have told you right at the beginning. Bloody Slytherins always have to make everything so complicated. The answer to your question is - yes, there is more to it than one Howler. To cut a long story short, there have been a number of incidents - some minor vandalism in the warehouse, potions ingredients tampered with, rare plants poisoned and equipment stolen from the lab. This has been going on for approximately six months, about the same length of time since Adrian Treadwell took over from my old friend Seamus Finnigan as Site Manager, which is why Draco has it in for him. Adrian and his team have thrown everything they've got at it but they're still nowhere near finding the culprit."

"Who has to be an insider, right?"

"Precisely. Which is rather worrying, to put it mildly. Draco and I have made a pretty impressive list of enemies between us over the years, which is why we employed Goyle and his lot to screen everyone we've taken on."

"No wonder Treadwell's on edge."

Neville took a thoughtful sip of his Marston's Pedigree. "Not just Adrian. Draco's like a cat on hot bricks. I don't blame him. At least I don't have to worry about being a target for both sides."

"I take it you mean there are people out there on the winning side who are gunning for Malfoy, as well as his father's old friends?"

"Not exactly a wonderful position to be in, poor sod."

I nodded, my mind on my own predicament. It was very difficult to assess just how worried I should be when I knew so little about what was likely to happen to me. The Muggle press, probably because it had been leaned on by the present government, tended to downplay the nastier side of the magical world. Hermione had gone into more detail about the darkest magic; the sort used to overcome the will of another person, cause unendurable pain, and, ultimately, kill. Avada Kedavra - the Killing Curse. I shivered. Then I thought of Beth, and David, and the Twin Towers. Was the danger I faced really so different? For David it was just another day that had turned out to be his last. The Wizarding World didn't have a monopoly on sudden death.

Bollocks to it. This was miles better than sitting around waiting in vain for the phone to ring. Neville was looking at me with concern. I smiled, to reassure him.

"Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. I don't frighten that easily."

"You certainly don't," he agreed with a grin.

Light dawned. "The spider test! That was you, wasn't it? I thought it was Malfoy who dreamed up that one."

"Yes, it was me. To survive in our world you need to be quick thinking and not easily scared. Hermione said you could look after yourself, and she was right."

"Well thank you, I'm sure. Remind me never to trust you again."

Neville's expression turned serious. "I hope you will trust me. Tell me if you run into anything that worries you. Promise?"

"Promise."

As I drove back to the Manor I made a mental note to self. Never again underestimate Neville Longbottom.

***

Malfoy and I were in the meeting with the advertising agency when the alarm went off.

Pansy Parkinson made my shit list at our first meeting. By our fifth she was right at the top of it, along with my old headmistress and the director who turned me down for the part of Helena in the Dream after three call-backs. Pansy cast aspersions on everything from my looks to my dress sense to my qualifications to my ability to do the job without ever actually saying anything directly. It was a virtuoso performance in underhand nastiness.

Compared to Pansy even Treadwell seemed like sweetness and light but I was in a difficult situation. Pansy made it clear she was not just friends with Malfoy but very good friends. Magus gossip and the wizarding tabloids had her picked out as the future Madam Malfoy but that was mainly because she was one of the few eligible females of the right age from the old wizarding families. It was hard to tell what her chances were. Malfoy's attitude to her seemed to consist of contempt mingled with amusement under a polite veneer. I was pretty sure he didn't love her and I suspected he didn't even like her but that wouldn't necessarily stop him from marrying her. It was a thorny political problem, especially in the light of what I wanted to do.

Parkinson Lawler, Pansy's agency, might have been red-hot when it came to wowing the consumers of the Wizarding World but they hadn't a clue when it came to reaching the Muggle buying public. They couldn't even come up with an acceptable name for the product. Everything they suggested was along the lines of somebody's something something, or something of something if they were feeling particularly daring. I'd blown a wodge of my not over-generous budget on employing a market research company to conduct focus groups on Parkinson Lawler's latest suggestion. The results were deeply uninspiring. Half the participants thought the proposed name sounded like some exotic type of mental illness, and none of them would be persuaded to buy it on the strength of the name alone. If Parkinson Lawler had anything to do with it, Magus' first product would end up as a commercial disaster on a par with the Ford Edsel. I wasn't about to let that happen.

However, even I had to admit they had done a professional job of persuading the Wizarding World's normally conservative investors to put money into Magus. A lot of this was down to Pansy, who had an extensive network of contacts among the people with the money. I couldn't afford to alienate someone who had so much clout with our shareholders.

After much thought, I'd come up with what I thought was an acceptable compromise. I would turn the Muggle side of the campaign over to a Muggle ad agency, leaving Parkinson Lawler to handle the publicity on the wizarding side of the fence. I'd already selected and briefed an agency from among three recommended by a friend who'd done the same course at university and worked in marketing for one of the cosmetics giants. Now I had to get agreement to my proposal. I'd run it past Neville, who was broadly supportive but made it clear the final decision lay with Malfoy.

I was none too sure how Malfoy would react. Word at Magus was that he was fiercely loyal to "The Redeemed Slytherins", as the small group who'd supported him through the War jokingly called themselves, and Pansy was one of this clique. For this reason, I'd decided not to approach him privately before the meeting. That smacked too much of trying to get at him behind his friend's back. I would fight it out in the meeting, and let the result of the focus groups speak for themselves. Even wizards knew what statistics were, and I'd backed the figures up with some of the particularly telling quotes from participants.

I was nervous as hell as I made my presentation but the actress in me reminded me that a little stage fright was no bad thing; it kept you on your toes. As the presentation unrolled it dawned on Pansy what I was up to, and her eyes narrowed. I could see her marshalling counter-arguments as clearly as if she'd spoken out loud. Malfoy leaned back in his chair, expressionless, giving no sign of what he was thinking. To my right, Augustus Baldock, the head of Parkinson Lawler's creative team, appeared to be asleep. The man was so laid back he was practically horizontal. At that moment I wished fervently for some of whatever he was on. As I finished, and invited questions, I could see a nasty smile on Pansy's face. She obviously thought she'd spotted something she could use against me.

"Thank you, Vanessa, that was very interesting. I entirely agree with you. It appears we have some re-thinking to do."

Damn. I hadn't expected that. What was she up to?

"Thank you Pansy. Since you agree with me that we need a fresh approach, I'm sure you'll also agree that, while Parkinson Lawler has done a sterling job, a Muggle agency should handle the product launch."

"Oh, certainly." Augustus and I," she nudged Baldock, who jumped and looked blearily around, "will put a brief together by the end of the week." Baldock, who obviously didn't have a clue what was going on, just smiled dreamily. "Won't we, Augustus?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Pans."

"I don't think you understand," I said carefully. "My proposal was that Magus would employ a Muggle agency direct, and the two agencies would work side by side."

"But why give yourself such trouble, Vanessa?" Pansy trilled. "After all, you've so much else to do." And you're finding it so hard to cope, her tone implied. "Why not let us handle it for you? Don't you think that's the best way, Draco?"

We both turned to Malfoy, waiting for his decision. Before he had time to open his mouth, all hell broke lose. A wailing klaxon started up, and a booming voice announced, "EMERGENCY!! GRADE ONE INCIDENT IN POTIONS LAB ONE!! ALL AVAILABLE STAFF REPORT TO POTIONS LAB ONE!!" Malfoy swore comprehensively, and disappeared with a crack.

"Ditzy!" I yelled, and she appeared instantly. I pointed at Pansy and Baldock. "Coffee for two, please." She vanished. "Wait here," I told Pansy, who had risen from her seat. "I'll be back in a minute."

I tore down the corridor, out of a side door, and across the yard to the old stable block, cursing the man who invented spike heels. By the time I arrived outside the manufacturing area red-robed wizards were popping out of thin air all over the place. The huge double doors were thrown open and livid blue smoke billowed out. The potions staff, eyes watering and coughing fit to burst, were being assisted out by Goyle staff in special protective gear. The others began to form a cordon to keep the rest of us at a safe distance. A little way away Malfoy was haranguing Treadwell, who stood, arms folded, waiting stoically for him to run out of steam. Blue robed healers carrying first aid kits began to appear, and those most badly affected were taken aside for treatment. The rest stood huddled together miserably. Malfoy, having finished with Treadwell, stalked over to them. I followed, sensing trouble. Where the hell was Neville? Surely he'd heard the alarm?

"Which of you spotty incompetents is responsible for this fiasco?" Malfoy demanded, glaring a the cowering potions assistants. "Whoever it was is going to wish fervently he or she had never been born when I have finished with them."

"Malfoy. That's enough!" I threw all the command that five years of voice training could give into those three words. It bought him up short, glaring at me. He turned, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me aside, hissing furiously, "And what business is it of yours?"

"As a member of the management team of this company it is entirely my business if you bully the staff. You don't know what happened, and if you treat them like that you'll never find out."

"Vanessa's right, Draco. Lay off." Neville's voice came from behind us and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks. I did not relish handling a furious Malfoy alone. "Wait until we find out what went wrong and then you can start tearing people limb from limb."

"Have it your way, Longbottom," Malfoy snapped, glaring viciously at me. He was about to walk away, when Jocasta Wellbeloved broke away from the cowed group of potions staff, and approached us. She was obviously scared stiff but determined to speak.

"Excuse me, Mr Malfoy - "

Malfoy opened his mouth to administer a sharp rebuff but was pulled up short by Neville's warning look. "What is it, Miss Wellbeloved?"

Jocasta gestured towards the still smoking potions lab. "It wasn't an accident."

"What to you mean?" Malfoy demanded angrily. "What else could it be?"

Jocasta, however, stood her ground. "It wasn't an accident. It couldn't have been."

"Your reason for believing that?"

Jocasta was on secure ground now, and her confidence grew. "It was a chain - every single cauldron in the lab blew. This potion is very stable, and the chances of that happening accidentally are astronomical. It wasn't an accident."

Malfoy, Neville and I looked at each other. Sabotage - the word hung, unspoken, in the air between us.

"Treadwell!" Malfoy yelled across the bedlam, and Treadwell marched over to us, obviously expecting another lecture. "Miss Wellbeloved has a theory about the probable cause of the incident. Miss Wellbeloved, you will assist Mr Treadwell and his team in their investigation." They both nodded, and turned to go. Malfoy stopped Jocasta. "Oh, and Miss Wellbeloved - please keep this to yourself." He favoured her with his most charming smile. Jocasta turned pink.

"Of course, Mr Malfoy," she replied, barely above a whisper, and scuttled off after Treadwell.

"Come! We have business to finish," Malfoy barked at me. Neville smiled encouragingly, and I hurried off after Malfoy. You've blown it, girl. After the way I'd faced him down, he'd never support me. I started mentally composing my resignation letter.

When we reached the conference room Pansy was all concern. "What was it, Draco? What happened?"

"Nothing major," Malfoy assured her with affected unconcern. "One of the brats got a bit careless. Potions teaching at Hogwarts has definitely gone downhill since Snape's time."

"Dear Professor Snape," Pansy breathed, all exaggerated melancholy. "Such a loss."

"Quite so." Malfoy's tone was dry, and it was obvious he knew exactly how much Pansy regretted Snape's death. "Now where were we? Ah, yes." He paused for a moment, and I waited for the blow to fall. "Miss Granger has the ultimate responsibility for marketing our products, and it therefore seems entirely sensible to me that both advertising agencies should report directly to her." He turned to me. "I take it we're finished here? Good day, Pansy." He swept out, leaving an astonished silence in his wake.

If the look on Pansy's face was anything to go by Avada Kedavra was the least of my worries.

***

At six o'clock that evening, Neville, Malfoy and I were in the main office trying to assess the extent of the damage. It was a pretty costly business, and it would be a couple of weeks before we were back to full production. Treadwell walked in while we were debating the possible effect on potion staff morale of cancelling all leave until further notice in order to make up for lost production.

"We've pinpointed the cause. Miss Wellbeloved was right, it wasn't an accident. Whoever started that chain knew exactly what they were doing."

Malfoy held up a hand. "Just a moment, Treadwell. Miss Granger, if you would excuse us -"

"I'm staying," I told him. "I know all about the other incidents. This concerns me as much as anyone else."

Malfoy directed a death glare at Neville, who met it calmly. "Don't look at me like that, Draco. You said it was on a need to know basis. She needed to know."

"Oh, very well," Malfoy sighed irritably. "Go on, Treadwell."

"There's not a lot else to say," Treadwell replied, handing Malfoy a scroll sealed with the Goyle portcullis. "It's all in my report. Deliberate sabotage."

"Any indication of who it might be?" I asked. Treadwell shrugged.

"Any one of the potions staff had the knowledge but then so do dozens of other people who visit the manufacturing area daily. There is only one member of the staff who is completely in the clear, and that's you."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"It isn't. The only reason you're not a suspect is that you wouldn't know how."

"This has gone on long enough," Malfoy declared. "I want a meeting with Goyle as soon as possible. Arrange it."

"As the client, you are quite within your rights," Treadwell started to argue, "but I don't -" He stopped, as Ditzy popped into existence, holding a letter.

"Master Malfoy, this is being delivered for you just now."

Malfoy reached out a hand for the letter but Treadwell stopped him. "Wait! Don't be a fool, Malfoy, it could be booby trapped." He pointed to the table. "Put it down there." Ditzy looked at Malfoy, who nodded, and she obediently placed the letter on the table. Treadwell waved his wand over it several times, muttering spells. Eventually, he nodded. "It's clean."

Malfoy broke the seal, and opened the letter. He scanned it, and threw it on the table. "It's rubbish." I picked it up.

"No it isn't. It's Shakespeare."

"It's what?" Treadwell had come to look over my shoulder.

"Shakespeare." They all continued to look blank. "Greatest playwright who ever walked this earth. These lines are from a play of his called Macbeth -

Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,

And thrice again, to make up nine.

It's part of a scene where three witches are casting spells."

"There is only one person I can think of who would send me such a missive," Malfoy said thoughtfully, "and that is our saboteur. However, that rules out the usual suspects. None of the Death Eaters still at large would admit to knowing the name of a Muggle playwright, much less having read one."

"And why this play and those lines?" Neville asked. "Can you think of any reason, Vanessa? You know the play."

I quickly ran through the plot of Macbeth in my head. "No, nothing. Well, it does have three witches in it, and in one scene they make a potion, that's all."

"Rather a tenuous connection," Treadwell commented, dismissively.

"Adrian," Neville said, slowly, "how many of these incidents have there been altogether - not counting today's?"

"Six," Malfoy said promptly. "I think I see where you're going with this, Longbottom."

I picked up the letter again. "Thrice to thine, thrice to mine - "

" - And thrice again to make up nine," Neville finished. "Whoever sent this is using it to tell us they've upped the ante, and what's more they're not finished with us yet."

He was right - our troubles were only just beginning.

***

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