The Kidnapping

Chapter Nine

Salisbury's Dinner Guests

The man in the small blue Porsche breathed deeply as he came up to the gate of Connor Salisbury's spacious estate. The gate, and the small stone wall that ran parallel to the road, was the only physical security that the estate had. It was more than it needed, the man in the Porsche knew.

Every time he came up to the gate, he always worried that something would go wrong, and he and his car would end up getting immolated. But no, the gate swung open, as usual, and he drove through and onto the elongated, paved driveway.

And so Lieutenant General George Kaplan, Special Research department, US Army, arrived for his weekly Sunday dinner at Connor Salisbury's; this Sunday happened to be the 30^th of July. Lt. General Kaplan was, despite being close to 50 years old, hale and healthy, the result of both his past military career, and his current intensive personal fitness regimen. His staff uniform - he almost never wore standard "civilian" clothes if he could help it, like most career soldiers - fit well on his sculpted form. Intelligent, perceptive brown eyes looked out from a thin face, framed by salt-and-pepper hair and a chin beard of similar colouration.

The car shuddered for a moment as Kaplan put it in parking mode and twisted the key to turn it off. A moment later, he was out, and slowly closing the driver's side door. He looked around, and spotted in the distance a dark figure on horseback, on a hill that was still within Salisbury's spacious property. One of the wraiths. Even after all these years, he couldn't stand the damned things. Kaplan did not like the wraiths, but he was pretty sure that no one did. Catherine Scott, Salisbury's charming and witty daughter, hated them as well. Salisbury tolerated them, he imagined, but he was pretty sure that the old man didn't care much for them otherwise.

The door to the house opened by itself, as usual. The first couple of times, it had been quite unnerving, even for a man long used to strange things, as Kaplan was. Now he simply strolled through without a second glance.

Some fancy-prancy piano music was playing as he walked into the parlour, the usual before-dinner destination, for drinks and light conversation - dinner was strictly for business. Salisbury was there, with his nose naturally stuck in some sort of book - Oliver Twist from the looks of it - and Catherine was carefully cleaning her wand.

There was, to Kaplan's slight surprise, a young boy - almost a young man - about fifteen years old, he decided. He was reading some other sort of book - wizard textbook, maybe? - and was just starting to fill out. His skin suggested he'd been out in the sun quite a bit recently. Angry green eyes looked up at Kaplan from behind old glasses, and his left hand brushed back some of his unruly black hair. Kaplan noticed a strange lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. Not too interesting otherwise.

Harry watched the uniformed man's eyes glance at him, taking him in, in detail, before moving on to Salisbury. A smile broke out on his face as he stepped towards the old wizard.

Connor Salisbury rose in greeting, a warm smile upon his face. "My old friend," he exclaimed, and the two men shared a brotherly embrace.

"Always good to see you, old man, even if you do listen to this boring crap," said the other, a rather perceptible Southern twang in his voice. Salisbury chuckled and then turned towards Harry.

"Before I let my courtesy slip, may I indulge in introductions? Mr Potter, this is Lewtenant General George Kaplan, from the United States Army," he continued, using the American pronunciation of the term. "George, this is Harry Potter, a student of wizardry from England, and my... houseguest, if you will, for the time being. In a few days' time, he shall be on his way home, provided all goes well."

"Ah... I see," Kaplan said. Harry had a feeling he had some idea of what was going on. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Potter," he said, extending a hand. "Or should I call you Harry?"

Harry got up and shook Kaplan's hand, managing a slight smile. As comfortable as his imprisonment was, it was still just that, and he wasn't about to describe himself as cheerful. "Harry will do," he said. Americans were known for their informality, and he decided it would be wise to play along. If he had his way, then in two days' time he'd never be seeing any of these people again.

"And Catherine, it's a pleasure, dear, as always," Kaplan said, and Catherine got up and treated him to a chaste embrace, the sort reserved for favourite uncles. Harry gathered that Kaplan had known Salisbury for a number of years now by the behaviour of the three other people in the parlour.

"Would you care for some whiskey, George?" Salisbury asked. "Catherine, some wine? And Mr Potter, if you desire, I could provide you with something to drink, even, if I may be so bold, an alcoholic beverage."

"Jack Daniels, of course, Connor," Kaplan said. Catherine agreed to some Gewürztraminer.

"Erm... no thanks," Harry said. He was pretty certain that his first taste of a genuine alcohol should happen under better circumstances. Like maybe a big birthday bash for Ron or Hermione or something.

"Of course," Salisbury said. He snapped his fingers, and immediately some bottles and glasses came floating out of various cupboards. The bottles unscrewed themselves and poured their contents into the glasses (matching the right glass for the rightdrink). Once finished, the bottles screwed themselves up again and floated back to their places, while the glasses floated to their respective drinkers. Salisbury had a sherry, while Catherine had her glass of red wine, and Kaplan had his whiskey.

"So I assume you're a wizarding student, Harry?" Kaplan asked.

"Yes, er...Mr Kaplan," Harry said, a little nonplussed. Catherine and Salisbury hadn't felt much need to talk to him, and the wraiths were almost never inside, which was just as well. It was suddenly strange to have someone here who was curious about him.

"Please, call me George," Kaplan said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Reporters call me Mr Kaplan, and I don't like talking to reporters. So, since you're from England, I guess that means you go to Hogwarts?"

Harry had to admit he was a little surprised at this question. "But, you aren't a wizard yourself, are you?" He asked. Kaplan certainly didn't look the part, dressed as he was in a military uniform.

Kaplan chuckled, but Harry caught the melancholy undertone in his laugh. "No, no, I'm a... what's the word again? Muggle, that's it. Through and through. As you can see, though, I've a little familiarity with the magical world. Hogwarts it is, isn't it, Harry?"

"Yes, it is," Harry replied.

"Excuse me," Salisbury said, standing. "I believe there may be something I need to attend to." He quietly left. There was a brief moment of silence, and both Harry and Kaplan looked a little confused at the elder man's sudden departure.

"Father gets some sort of telepathic messages from the wraiths," Catherine said. "They keep an eye on things, and if they notice anything unusual, they will send for him."

"As long as it isn't a rabbit caught in some chain-link fence along the property line," Kaplan said derisively. "Poor thing would probably die of fright if one of those... things got within fifty feet." His tone turned sour at mention of the wraiths.

"They're not universally popular," Catherine remarked, deadpan. She brightened a little with a sudden thought. "Uncle, you might be pleased to know that they've proved quite resistant to ordinary magic."

Kaplan looked quite intrigued. "Really?" And then he paused. "Is this a safe topic of conversation with...?"

"It's okay," Catherine said. "Potter was there. You saw how the wraiths handled the Death Eaters, and they did pretty well, didn't they, Potter?"

Harry's eyes flashed with anger. "Yes, they did. They weren't even stopped by the Killing Curse."

Catherine smiled. "As far as I can tell, they're not really alive to begin with." She shivered. "I have never liked them."

Harry sat there for a second, thinking fast. How could these two people put up with the wraiths if they couldn't stand them? He wondered if he had an opening. "Then why do you help them?" he asked.

"Nice try," Catherine said with a touch of amusement in her voice. Then her tone grew sharp "If you think you can convince me to stop helping Father, think again. I owe him too much to not carry out his plans to fruition."

Harry felt a rush of excitement. Even if he couldn't convince her to help him, maybe he could learn something interesting by baiting her.

Kaplan smiled again, though there was a twist of something else in it. It was almost a grimace.

"Tell me something, Harry, how many wizards do you know who actually think highly of Mug - excuse me, Salisbury prefers the term 'Mundanes.'"

There was an awkward silence. Harry looked at Kaplan defiantly. "I would say not very many," he admitted. "But that's because they don't know much about them. What about... about Mundanes? Would they think much of wizards?"

"Hard to say, since you've kept yourselves as deeply secret as you could," Kaplan said. "But the evidence we have is that they used to hold them in high esteem. Until somewhere along the line that esteem became fear."

"And we haven't had occasion to fear Muggles?" Harry countered.

Kaplan snorted. "Give me a break, Potter," he retorted sarcastically, standing. "The medieval and Renaissance witch trials were like jokes to real witches and wizards. Only innocent, unsuspecting Mundanes were killed - burned to death or drowned! These days, real witches and wizards don't hesitate to perform Memory Charms, or worse, on any Mundanes that start nosing about or who see anything they shouldn't have. I hear that there was an unexplained disappearance in Little Hangleton in England last summer. Some old man who in his youth was associated with a set of unexplainable murders there after the war."

Harry felt a chill. The old man who came out of Voldemort's wand...

"Salisbury has elucidated me on the wizarding world's long history, this past century, of quietly manipulating Mundanes as if they were cattle," Kaplan said, his voice fierce. "And let me assure you that I have two personal anecdotes related to the matter. Connor and Catherine are the only magical people I have ever met, save two others, who have treated people like me as their equals. Connor, Catherine, your own headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and -" With that, his voice cracked, and he sat down again, falling silent. He downed the rest of his whiskey, and Harry noticed he looked rather distraught.

"That went well," Catherine muttered.

"I see that the conversation has just begun to get interesting," Salisbury's voice said, and the three of them started and looked up. He was at the entrance of the parlour, a wry smile on his face.

"It turns out that the local authorities have set up a ring of observers outside the property. They are doing quite a clever job of concealing themselves, but the wraiths can smell the living far too well to be fooled by such trickery."

Harry absorbed that with a sinking feeling. Even if he hadn't been forced to reveal his Invisibility Cloak, the fact that the wraiths could tell he was there nonetheless would have quickly ruined any escape attempt. Unless, of course, he got hold of his broom. He felt a thrill of excitement in his stomach. It would be a simple matter of finding it.

"I imagine Albus Dumbledore has quietly told the Department of Magical Affairs everything he knows of my involvement in bringing Mr Potter here," Salisbury said. "It is of no matter. They will not interfere, and fear not, George, you and your car are quite safe. Now, since we seem to be getting along so well, perhaps supper is in order? I have a lasagne finishing up in the oven, and I would be most distressed if it were to burn."

= = = = =

Harry had to admit the meal was really quite good. Salisbury had apparently spent most of the day preparing it: a rich, freshly-prepared cream of broccoli soup, Greek salad, the lasagne, and chocolate mousse. The three adults had wine with their supper. Salisbury had offered Harry some, it being a Sunday and all, but he decided it was best to stick with water and, with dessert, some tea.

"Didn't think Father could cook, did you?" Catherine asked him, her tone conciliatory.

"No, I have to say I didn't," Harry admitted. She smiled.

"How do you think we ate when I was growing up?" she asked rhetorically, and headed into the kitchen with a stack full of dishes.

= = = = =

Lewtenant General George Kaplan had left an hour before, after Catherine had gone out and put a Disillusionment Charm on his car to keep the wrong people - Dumbledore and anyone with him, Harry reckoned - from paying any attention to it. Harry was back in the bedroom he had been assigned to, and he sat in a chair, looking out the window.

Somewhere out there was Professor Dumbledore. But how could Harry communicate with him? If they could work something out...

But Harry didn't want to leave before getting back his wand and his Invisibility Cloak. He was also concerned about setting Hedwig free - but how to do that when she was just... frozen like that? He didn't know how to undo the stasis charm, either. He'd already decided that all he needed to take with him were his wand, Cloak, Gringotts key (which was in his robe, of course), and Firebolt. If he had to leave everything else behind, then he would easily get by - his inheritance would see to that.

Harry felt a mounting surge of excitement. Tomorrow, he turned fifteen. And the day after, Connor Salisbury was going into town, supposedly to meet with both Dumbledore and Voldemort. If he could somehow knock Catherine Scott out, he could try to get into the forbidden rooms. One of them, he was sure, held his wand, broom, and Cloak. With the wand, he could keep Catherine out cold long enough to make good his escape.

Then he started, and put his head out the window. Had he just seen -? He peered anxiously down at the ground... There! A brief flicker of starlight reflected off a tiny, moving object. A rat with a silvery paw was slowly making its way along the side of the house.

"Wormtail," Harry breathed as he sat back down, hoping that he hadn't been seen by the cunning little Animagus. What was he doing here? Who else had Voldemort brought with him? How had he managed to get past the patrolling wraiths? For that matter, how had he managed to come up with the nerve to make the attempt?

There were two answers for that, of course: Firstly, Wormtail was a Gryffindor, and as cowardly as he was it meant that he must have demonstrated some sort of courage from time to time. Secondly, he was taking orders from Voldemort, and he would certainly be more afraid of what Voldemort would do to him than what the wraiths would. But what was he up to? Perhaps trying to get into the house? Harry wondered if he should tell his captors about Wormtail. He didn't want a Death Eater running around nearby unless he had his wand with him. He had to admit, giving himself a look-over, that he probably wouldn't be able to fight Wormtail sans wand.

No, he decided, best not to tell Catherine or Salisbury anything. If Wormtail surprised them and Harry managed to get hold of a wand, then he could deal with him then.

= = = = =

Pettigrew had finished circling the house, and he cursed silently - no open windows on the first floor. Or at least, none without bug screens. Salisbury probably wasn't expecting that anyone would have come sneaking through those creatures all the way to the house, but apparently he didn't like getting visited by the biting insects that seemed to be all over the place. Sensible enough, Pettigrew thought, but it was damned inconvenient.

The master hadn't explicitly told him to get into the house, but he had intimated that if he could manage it, it would be a good idea. Pettigrew didn't think it was safe enough to revert to his human form so he could use his wand to investigate the magic that was safeguarding the house. It had been risky enough trying to get onto the property, with the other wizards who had taken up sentry, and those things patrolling it on horseback.

He didn't like to think what Voldemort might do if he returned to the safe house with nothing but bad news, but getting caught or killed by the old man or the guards would probably be worse. Pettigrew was more confident in his ability to get in, grab the boy, and get out when his master was keeping the old man busy. As long as he could Stun that woman, then Harry would present no problems by himself, especially since, he was certain, they would have taken his wand away.

Pettigrew began scurrying away from the house. Once he was outside the property line, he could safely transform and Apparate back to New York and the safe house. If it had been possible for a rat to smile, he would have: a tight, wolfish smile at that. He had a plan now, and not even Dumbledore would be able to stop him.

= = = = =

George Kaplan's blue Porsche sped northwards down I-61, the temporary Disillusionment charm having worn off not too long ago. He shifted gears and changed lanes; the engine purred as his car responded smoothly. He smiled tautly. His car was the only possession he cared much for: his apartment in Bethesda was just somewhere to live in. Once, he had had a home in Fredericksburg, but that was another life...

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself. "This Potter boy's bringing out some bad memories."

He'd long known that Connor Salisbury was up to something, and whatever it was, it would probably not qualify as moral. But Connor Salisbury was one of Kaplan's few friends, now. He'd be damned if he didn't help the old man if he asked for it. He already had, in fact, and Kaplan had made the requisite arrangements with the right people to get Salisbury what he wanted: soldiers.

While Kaplan knew there wasn't much, ordinarily, that Mundanes could do to harm wizards and witches, he knew that there was one thing in America's arsenal that frightened the magical world. Salisbury and his magical contacts were working on developing some new technologies, and they were apparently near completion, but he had yet to let Kaplan in on what they were supposed to do. Maybe he would now, now that things were about to come to a head.

"It's going to hit the fan, all right," Kaplan said, tuning the dial to the local rock station, and smiling when the Rolling Stones came on.

"Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name," Mick Jagger's recorded voice sang, and Kaplan had to grin at the irony. Connor Salisbury would fit the role of the character Mick was singing about. Yes, he would fit it to a tee. And here Kaplan was, making his own deal with the devil. But he had long grown used to doing what he thought was necessary even if in ordinary times it wasn't right. These, he hardly needed to remind himself, were not ordinary times.

The Porsche drove along in the deepening night towards the suburbs of Washington, D.C.