Section 4.2 - Introductions
Dunkelzahn
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4.2 Introductions
4.2.1 Returns
The Granger family had spent the few days between Boxing Day and the end of Christmas vacation much as they had the previous year, flitting around the isle in a whirlwind attempt to visit the entire extended family before Hermione had to return to school. The attempt had met with a surprising amount of success, given that prior to the previous year, it had occupied the entirety of the Christmas break.
For some, like Sharon's side of the family which had mostly settled in and around Sheffield, visiting everyone was a simple prospect, but Tony's side had proven a tad more adventurous in their habits, spreading out to the four winds and making for a great deal more travel time.
They had known beforehand that the one uncle who had recently been stationed in Aberdeen for his new job would really push the schedule to the breaking point, which had led Hermione decide to return to the Lair directly rather than returning home with her parents. The bushy-haired girl had been eager to spend time with her long-absent parents, but there was a distinct difference between spending time with them and staring at the back of their heads for ten hours, and the choice had saved her a day-long car ride back to Crawley immediately followed by a day-long train ride right back after only a few hours' sleep.
To that end, Hermione had arranged for Harry to meet her outside a public library in Aberdeen, one of nearly three dozen such locations across the breadth of Scotland he had rattled off a list when she had asked about meeting up. He would bring along his usual self-charging return portkey and take her back to the Lair. She had been hesitant to ask why he was familiar with the location, given the unasked-for commentary on how generous the locals tended to be when feeding pigeons.
Some things even witches were not meant to know.
Now, a day before the Hogwarts Express was due to return the majority of her fellow students to the shores of the Black Lake, Hermione found herself already ensconced in her favorite chair — one of the leather-upholstered ones on the library mezzanine — with her potions book in her lap and a notebook at her side. She had finished reading ahead for potions some fifteen minutes previous, and she now simply sat and allowed herself a moment to rest before she reviewed it again. After her misstep with Professor Snape during the previous term, the bushy-haired bookworm would leave nothing to chance.
In the meantime, however, she was free to simply sit and take in the sights.
Sights such as her often dragon-shaped friend's most recent project, which seemed to involve sculpting a steel copy of a stripped branch cut from one of the local bushes. He seemed to be making a good go of it, though his methods were… unorthodox, to say the least. Hermione watched as Harry heated a portion of his partially finished sculpture with an acetylene torch only shudder as he grabbed the now-glowing metal with his bare hands and sculpted it like modeling clay.
Magic was weird.
When the small boy pinched off a bit of excess material only to absently pop the still-red-hot metal into his mouth and eat it with every sign of enjoyment, she had to turn away. Why couldn't he act like a normal boy and just gross her out by eating library paste or something? At least that would make some kind of sense!
She shook her head in an attempt to dismiss the thought, setting her bushy mane swaying. Best to get back to her studies, she supposed. Even after a year and a half in the magical world, she could only take so much absurdity before needing to take a break.
Much as she loved her friend, Harry Potter made her brain hurt far too often.
4.2.2 Odd requests
The Head of the Wizarding Examination Authority, Madame Griselda Marchbanks, cocked a snowy eyebrow curiously. Before her on the blotter on her writing desk lay a handwritten letter she had just finished reading. While neatly written, the handwriting was obviously that of a schoolboy, a judgement reinforced by the word choice in the text itself, yet the missive was a formal request for audience.
That seemed a rather odd juxtaposition to the elderly witch.
It was often the case among witches, particularly witches who had given birth, that their magic found itself well-used to being directed inward, disproportionately reinforcing their bodies and allowing them to live several decades longer than a similarly powerful wizard. Griselda Marchbanks was both a strong witch and a mother of six, which made her spry condition at the respectable age of two hundred and sixty-eight years only moderately remarkable; though she was likely approaching the end. In the recent decades, she had begun to feel the creeping onset of her mortality as her magic grew more and more strained by keeping her functional.
Of that long life, she had happily spent nearly two and a half centuries in education in one capacity or another. Despite that wealth of experience, the elderly witch could not recall a single time she had received such a letter. Not once!
She had certainly received letters from children before; her numerous grandchildren, admittedly with varying numbers of 'greats' prepended, had ensured that. She had received formal requests for audience before; her station in society made that a normal fact of life. Never had she seen the two combined, receiving a formal request for audience from a child.
It made the letter sitting before her an interesting one, for the novelty if nothing else. That the unusual letter had come from the Boy-Who-Lived was simply another piece of the puzzle. The elderly witch frowned thoughtfully at the parchment before her for a few more moments before shrugging as she came to a decision.
It was a slow time of year, she thought as she reached for a quill and blank parchment. There would be no harm in humoring the boy.
For that matter, even if it turned out to be a pointless meeting, it might be a worthwhile simply for the opportunity to take the measure of the Boy-Who-Lived. He would likely be a prominent figure in the upcoming years, and it would be useful knowledge to have, one way or another.
4.2.3 Livid
"Inconceivable!"
With the winter break over, Tom had returned to Hogwarts, and with his return to campus, he had finally been able to arrange to slip away on his own without arousing suspicion. In an out-of-the-way corner of the labyrinthine castle, he was at last hidden enough to safely vent his spleen over the maddening events of the end of term feast. After the better part of a month during which he was forced by various circumstances to stew in silence, that spleen was in dire need of ventilation.
"That unutterable bastard murdered Charlotte!" Tom hissed, his dainty hands clenched in impotent white-knuckled rage. "How?"
It was a good question, to be honest. Basilisks had their vulnerabilities; Tom knew that as well as anyone. Charlotte was well over a thousand years old, and there was precious little she could not best physically or magically, but her primary weakness — a cock's crow — was both easily obtained and well-known. It was the reason Tom had insisted his old friend operate in secret at first until he had managed to ensure there were none of the pesky birds on the castle grounds.
Potter, though, had not even bothered to use that weakness — hell, he hadn't even known Charlotte was a basilisk! Potter had killed her by main strength, judging from the brutal injury done to the hapless girl. The miniature fiend had… had… Tom's thoughts trailed off into an incoherent sea of rage as he spat out a string of blistering curses sufficient to turn even the saltiest of old sailors green with envy.
Though, admittedly, his sweet soprano robbed the delivery of a certain gravitas.
"That monster!" he spat as his tirade of profanity ran its course. How could anyone kill poor sweet little Charlotte? She hadn't even done anything yet!
Tom hardly thought two measly petrifications counted in the grand scheme of things, and he didn't believe that cockamamie story about her raiding Potter's pantry for a moment. What kind of pantry did the boy have that Charlotte would even fit in it? Even if she had, stealing a little food hardly rated execution! Then that miniature green-eyed murderer just waltzed into the great hall dragging Charlotte's broken corpse behind him like… like some kind of bloody trophy!
Petite knuckles creaked as Tom teared up at the memory.
How dare he!
Worse yet, he was planning to eat the poor girl! He probably already had by now. As soon as he had dared after the end of term feast, Tom had gone to examine the clearing behind the Gamekeeper's hut where the butchery had taken place, and it had been a scene of horror. Blood everywhere, bones separated and stacked in neat piles, Charlotte's skin stretched out to dry over a makeshift frame of freshly cut branches, a neatly arranged pile of processed potions ingredients off to one side, and not an ounce of flesh in evidence.
Seeing what little remained of his oldest friend was heartbreaking.
But that heartbreak did not last, rapidly subliming into anger. Tom was good at anger. The boy who murdered Charlotte might have evaded him to this point, but now he was back at Hogwarts, and he had all the opportunity in the world. It was just a matter of time.
Potter would pay.
Tom chuckled adorably.
Potter would pay dearly.
4.2.4 Arts and crafts
In the glowing heart of the Rayburn, the fire crackled and popped as Harry added more wood, warming the Lair as the winter wind howled outside. His human damsel had retreated into the stacks of the library, pursuing at length some minor point she had come across in her classwork. He wasn't sure what it was, since she hadn't asked him about it, but he certainly didn't remember anything particularly remarkable from his classes.
For her part, Suze busied herself with patiently and methodically carving a bow from a carefully-chosen well-seasoned branch; it was her frequent pauses to warm her fingers that had prompted Harry get up from his work to stoke the fire. Aside from the cold, her latest attempt seemed to be going well to Harry's unpracticed eye, but by the displeased frown on her face, Suze seemed to have found something objectionable about it.
Harry shrugged; Suze knew more than about bows than he probably ever would, so he was sure she knew what she was doing. Best to leave her to it.
Currently in his diminutive human form to take advantage of its highly dexterous hands, the dragon of Hogwarts made his way back to his usual workbench. He had been doing some very finicky work as part of the regard gift he was making for his upcoming meeting with Griselda Marchbanks... well, as part of the latest iteration of the design, anyway. Making the thing had turned into a bit of an adventure.
Without any outside direction on what to give the woman, Harry had been forced to come up with a plan himself, and that plan had seen several revisions. His initial idea had proven impractical, but he'd taken parts of it to try something else… which also hadn't worked, but which had in turn inspired another iteration, which showed some promise. However, promising or not, it required some very simple but extremely repetitive rune work, which had led him to his current task.
Returning to his seat and picking up his chosen tool, a fine needle-file, the currently human-shaped dragon set to work once again, filing a minutely detailed negative of a runic scheme into the narrow end of a piece of steel drill rod. After he was done, a bit of time with the torch and a quench in his fuel oil drum would give him a hard punch suitable for transferring the runic scheme to the surface of the work proper.
The hardening quench also gave his fuel oil a delightful smoky aftertaste, which was a bonus in the young dragon's book.
In any event, Harry hoped this iteration would turn out well; the meeting was just a few days away.
4.2.5 Suspicious characters
"Thank you for your attention today," Gilderoy Lockhart told his class with a broad smile. As half the class sighed dreamily, he continued, "Remember your reading for our next class! We will be covering my adventures in combating the undead, so you will need to be familiar with the first three chapters of Gadding with Ghouls."
When the class gave a general murmur of acknowledgement, the blond dandy dismissed them, and his students began the noisy process of packing up to leave for their next class.
Hogwarts had been back in session for a week, and true to his resolution during the winter break, Gilderoy Lockhart had been on full alert. So far, nothing of interest had caught his attention, just the normal business of teaching and learning, but he kept a casual, if unusually attentive, eye on the children, regardless. Today, however, something had changed.
It seemed that his careful vigilance might already have paid off.
In the back of the class, one of his students, a sixth-year boy, had just passed a note to another of his fellows while trying to be sly about it. Being a teenager, he was naturally not very good at subtlety, and Lockhart's practiced eye had focused on the attempt like a hawk sighting a rabbit.
Now, there was nothing inherently suspect about teenagers passing notes, but context was important. Class had already ended, and passing notes outside of class time was not forbidden. For that matter, it wasn't even frowned-upon. It begged the question of why on earth would one of his students be trying to pass a clandestine note now? There was no need to hide it so assiduously.
When the recipient exaggeratedly glanced about to ensure no one was looking his way before surreptitiously opening the note below the level of his desk to read it, Gilderoy found his interest firmly piqued.
There was something suspicious going on, and given the circumstances, he wasn't going to give it the benefit of the doubt. It might well turn out to be something innocuous, some teenage foible that would prove embarrassing at the worst, but with the person behind the basilisk attacks still on the loose… well, it would bear further investigation.
As the former obliviator kept an unobtrusive watch, much more skillfully than his students' mediocre efforts — his suspicions were all-but confirmed when his student took the time to vanish the note entirely while on his way out.
How irritating.
With the classroom now empty, Lockhart felt it safe to indulge in a thoughtful frown. That vanishing charm had eliminated his most direct means of investigation. It was possible to counter a vanishing charm, but doing so required one of two things: utterly monstrous amounts of power skillfully applied immediately, before the magical traces had a chance to dissipate; or a combination of prior knowledge, preparation, and skillful timing.
Gilderoy entertained no delusions about his own skills, and it was already too late to ask the Headmaster to turn his talents to the issue. Though to be honest, the famous author would have been reluctant to do so in the first place; asking for help wouldn't play nearly as well in his future detective story. He was, however, much more confident in his perfect timing, and he could certainly prepare to take advantage the next time his students tried a similar tack.
He nodded decisively before pasting on his usual winsome smile as he heard the first students of his next class approaching the door. That would be the path to pursue. Gilderoy didn't know whether this particular conspiracy was related to the unknown behind the basilisk, but there was only one way to find out.
Now it was a waiting game.
4.2.6 An impromptu defense
Small.
The scheduled time for the formal audience had come; her guest had arrived in the manor's main receiving hall; and as was her custom, Griselda Marchbanks had employed the viewing mirror hanging on the wall of her parlor to make her first evaluation of her new guest. 'Small' was the first adjective that had sprung to mind on seeing the boy. Despite being well into his second year at Hogwarts, the Boy-Who-Lived looked the part of a boy three years his junior.
Were it not for the faded traces of that notorious scar on his brow, Griselda would have suspected someone was trying to play a trick on her.
The last of the Potters stood in the manor's entry hall fidgeting slightly as he waited as patiently as a young boy could be expected to wait for her elf to announce that she was ready to receive him. He wore formal robes of a somewhat unusual but still quite acceptable cut; though the elderly witch had to wonder at the reserved color palette and simple lines. The boy was far too young to be so stiff, in her considered opinion; youth was the time to live a little with some bright color and loud patterns.
She would probably suggest something in purple, perhaps with orange accents? It would set off his eyes nicely…
No, the matron of the Marchbanks family shook her head to clear such fanciful notions. While he certainly looked the part of the adorable little boy, her visitor was the Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter. He was not one of her grandchildren; though properly the comparison would have had a few 'greats' involved, considering his age. Receiving a guest of such station required a certain level of sobriety; now was not the time to be playing dress-up, no matter how much her grandmotherly fingers itched at the thought.
Aside from his conservative wardrobe, the diminutive Potter carried a small parcel which Griselda strongly suspected to contain his regard gift for her. It was an old custom which was all too often neglected in the rush of modern society, and it was nice to see one of the youngsters paying some regard to the old traditions, even if the choice to wrap the gift was a tad unusual.
The elderly witch nodded approvingly. So far, all signs pointed to her visitor being a fine, upstanding young gentleman. Initial appraisal made; a quick word sent her elf to show the young man to her parlor.
Now she would see if he gave the same impression in person.
When the boy walked through the door and came into view, the answer was immediately clear.
No, no he most certainly did not.
Griselda swallowed reflexively as she attempted to put her thoughts in order. Aside from the addition of a warm and enthusiastically cheerful smile, neither the boy's appearance nor his demeanor had changed. The young Head of the Potter family still gave all indications of being a fine, upstanding young gentleman as he stepped into her parlor.
No… the change was in that general impression.
The elderly witch had been in the business of teaching wizards for significantly longer than most of the population of wizarding Britain had been alive, and she had been Head of the Examination Authority since the time of Queen Victoria. She knew how to evaluate wizards, and the skills she had developed for that purpose over the years had become near-instinctive after so long. She was well-accustomed to seeing past both modesty and braggadocio to get to the heart of things.
It appeared that she had not, however, been able to see past the layer of separation imposed by the viewing mirror. In person, the physically small boy now seemed to fill the room entirely, leaving her almost surprised that she was looking down to meet his eyes.
'Small' was not the word, not by any stretch of the imagination.
The young child had an overwhelming presence to him which the viewing mirror had simply been unable to convey. Griselda was no shrinking violet; she was a strong witch, but she paled in comparison to the likes of that. In all her years, she had felt that sort of presence only a handful of times, and never had it been associated with someone so young.
Albus Dumbledore had given such an impression, that feeling of standing far too close to a giant, but he had only done so during the height of his NEWT examinations when she had managed to persuade him to truly throw his all into things. When he had, he had done things with a wand that she had never seen before, things she had never even imagined were possible. Another lad by the name of Riddle had had a similar feel to him back in the forties, and his performance had been quite nearly as remarkable.
Albus had gone on to become the de facto ruler of wizarding Europe, even if he seemed rather reluctant to throw his weight around, and though Griselda hadn't heard much of Mr. Riddle, she strongly suspected he had gone on to join the Unspeakables, given the unusual knack he had shown for resurrecting obscure magics thought long lost and the fact that he seemed to have dropped out of circulation after graduating.
The key point, though, was that both of those men had been NEWT students, wizards on the verge of adulthood and deliberately pushing themselves to the limits of their ability. They were not prepubescent children simply standing around running through the motions of a formal greeting — not like Mr. Potter was.
It begged the question of exactly what this wizard would go on to become.
Then Madame Marchbanks blinked as she realized her visitor had reached the end of his portion of the greeting and was now awkwardly scrubbing at the shaggy hair on the back of his head as he waited for her response.
It seemed she had lost herself in thought while in front of her guest, how embarrassing!
"Be welcome to my home, Harry of House Potter," the elderly witch completed the ritual greeting. She gestured to the couch across from her own favorite chair, "And please, feel free to sit down."
"Thanks!" the young boy favored her with a brilliant smile before bouncing over to plop down on the couch in the somewhat-rougher-than-strictly-necessary manner of young boys everywhere.
"I see that you are still holding your parcel, Mr. Potter," Griselda said leadingly after a few moments of silence, prompting her visitor to continue with the forms when he seemed to have forgotten it was his turn in the proceedings.
"Oh, yeah!" the young Potter said, looking at the package in his hands as if he had forgotten it was there. His face screwed up in exaggerated concentration as he continued, "Um, Madame Marchbanks, in recognition of our meeting, I would like to offer you this token of my regard." He then reached forward to set the wrapped offering down on the low table between them. "May our meeting be fruitful and our dealings just."
"Um, did I get that right? I've been practicing."
Griselda smiled kindly as she reached forward to take the offered gift from the table. "Quite acceptable, if a tad stilted, young man," she assured him. "I take it you learned from the goblins?"
"Yeah, Mr. Slackhammer taught me," Harry affirmed absently before his eyes opened wide in realization. He asked, in an astonished voice, "How did you know?"
"The 'may our meeting be fruitful and our dealings just' phrasing is one that tends to be used almost exclusively by goblins, in my experience," the witch explained. "Wizards tend to use a great deal more variety in the benediction clause. It tends to be much less businesslike."
"Oh. Um, it was ok for me to use, though, right?" her visitor asked, sounding concerned that he might have messed up.
The Marchbanks matriarch nodded graciously even as she worked at the knot of twine her guest had used to secure the wrapping of the gift. "It was certainly acceptable, Mr. Potter, simply unusual. You have done quite well so far; though, for future reference," she stated as she reached for her wand to cut the wrapping open, "you needn't wrap your regard gift. It tends to make things more awkward than they strictly need to be."
"Oh, sorry! I guess I just assumed after all the gifts at Christmas time," Harry apologized sheepishly before offering, "Would you like some help?"
"No, thank you," she declined, "I've just about…" Then the wrapping fell away, and she was struck dumb as the room was bathed in an eerily beautiful light.
The gift her young visitor had seen fit to bestow on her appeared to be a sculpture of a small tree — similar to those highly cultivated dwarf trees from the Orient, bonsai, she believed they were called — wrought of burnished steel, inlaid with fine gold wires running the length of the trunk and branches, and set in an exquisitely carved and polished wooden base. In place of leaves, the piece sported tiny puffs of fog which glowed gently in an ever-shifting array of colors. The miniature clouds swayed gently in place, presumably with the air currents in the room, separating from their anchor points on the steel branches from time to time to waft away and dissipate in ethereal swirls of fading color.
"Magnificent," Griselda breathed, finally managing to find her voice after nearly a solid minute of awestruck observation. Turning to her guest, who was looking mightily pleased with her reaction, she asked, "Wherever did you find this?"
"I made it," the young Potter said proudly before hurrying to qualify, "Well, Suze made the wood base — she did a real nice job, didn't she? — but I did the steel bits and all the rune-work."
"Rune work?" How had she missed that? The wizarding educator turned back to the marvelous piece of art and gave it a closer examination, soon identifying numerous tiny yet intricately detailed runic inscriptions at the base of each of the colored clouds. She could just make out a hint of gold inlaid into the deepest parts of the markings.
"I see," Griselda mused, examining the fascinating piece in detail. That level of detail and precision… it was the sort of work she saw in masters' theses, and this was coming from a twelve-year-old? It practically begged for further investigation, and the long-term educator found it all too easy to fall back on her habits. "This is a remarkable piece, young man. Might I ask what went into making it?"
"Um, well, I guess it kinda started with Mr. Slackhammer," the boy began. "He told me about the regard gift thing, so I thought about it, and the first thing I thought of was some of the meat from that big snake I killed back at the end of term. It's pretty tasty, and everyone likes to eat, right? But then he said it shouldn't be something you use and then it's not around anymore, 'cause it's supposed to commemorate the visit, so it needs to stick around, and food doesn't do that."
"Solid advice," the elderly witch nodded appreciatively.
The boy nodded in return before continuing, "Well, then I thought of some of my gold coins. They're pretty old, so that's kinda memorable, but Mr. Slackhammer said it probably shouldn't be something like money, 'cause even though I don't mean it like that, people might think it was a bribe, and since I'm here to ask you for something, that'd look bad."
"Also good advice," Griselda approved. "It is always a good idea to mind appearances — saves time and effort in the long run."
"So, then I was kinda stumped for a bit, until I was reading about something else, and I ran across a mention of holography," Harry continued. "When I did, I got thinking, you're supposed to be really big on school and stuff, so maybe you might like a hologram of all the students coming back to campus after break, so I started looking into making one of them, right?"
"Excuse me, Mr. Potter," the elderly witch interjected politely, puzzled, "but I am afraid I am unfamiliar with the term 'hologram'. To what does it refer?"
"Oh, um, well, a hologram is like a picture," her visitor explained, smoothly switching mental gears to provide the requested explanation, "but instead of being flat, it shows a full three-dimensional image, so you can walk around and see it from different sides and stuff. Um, anyway, I thought I could use that process with the film you use for magical pictures to make a moving hologram, 'cause that'd be really neat! Real memorable, like Mr. Slackhammer said the regard gift is supposed to be, since I don't think anyone's done that before."
"No, I do not believe anyone has," Griselda agreed, familiar with the concept of such a display, if not the methodology proposed. "Omnioculars provide a similar effect, as I recall; however, your description of a hologram seems quite a different undertaking. Though more to the point, it also seems a rather different undertaking than this remarkable tree, Mr. Potter."
"Yeah, I know," the boy nodded. "I was getting to that; you see, it turned out I ran into a bunch of problems with it. First thing was the lighting, and it turned out to be really hard to do."
"The lighting?" she prompted, curious. "I'd think lighting would be fairly simple to accomplish, allowing for magic."
Harry grimaced. "Well, the thing is, holograms work based off interference patterns in the reflected light — the film gets exposed to light reflected off the target, then you develop the film and you can shine the same kind of light through the film to make the image visible. The thing is, though, you've gotta use the exact same kind of light — exactly the same color, and it's gotta be single-phase."
"Phase?" Color was straightforward enough, but phase was a property of light she was unfamiliar with.
"Yeah, um…" Harry began, smoothly shifting conversational gears once again. "Well, light acts kinda like a wave a lot of the time — except for those times when it doesn't — and the phase is associated with those times when it does. You see, when you've got a couple of different waves…"
Sensing that she had tripped on a conversational rabbit hole, Griselda quickly withdrew her question, "Never mind, Mr. Potter. I am certain I can look that up on my own time. Please return to your explanation. I believe you were talking about the need for special lighting."
"Oh, yeah, sorry," her young guest apologized, sheepishly scrubbing at the back of his head. "I've been trying not to, but sometimes I still blather on when I get excited about something."
"It is no trouble, Mr. Potter," Griselda assured him kindly. "As an educator, I am always happy to hear such enthusiasm from the youth; however, we only have so much time scheduled for this meeting. If you could return to your explanation?"
"Right! Um, I'll try to remember to send you the title of a good book on modern optics after I get back home, if you want," Harry offered before getting back to his explanation. "Anyway, for a hologram, you need a coherent light source, which means it's all one color and all in the same phase. Usually, people get that by making a neat kind of lamp called a laser, which basically pumps a bunch of energy into some stuff to make it glow, except you pick it so it that it doesn't glow right away. Then you can set up some mirrors so that when the first bit glows, it'll bounce the light back and forth and trigger the rest to glow too, and all the triggered glow will be coherent."
He took a deep breath before continuing, "Anyway, I decided to use runes to make one of them that ran off magic, but it turned out to be a lot harder than I thought it'd be. Turns out, it's easy to push energy into stuff using magic, but it's really hard to keep the stuff your pumping magic into in an excited state so it can do the self-stimulating thing. I think the magic makes the energy transitions easier or something so the usual metastable states aren't metastable anymore even though that doesn't quite fit what you see. Basically, it usually just ends up glowing. Which is really neat, don't get me wrong; but it's not a coherent light source, so it won't work for a hologram."
Griselda had encountered so many unfamiliar concepts in the past few minutes that this meeting was starting to feel more like sitting as a guest for a thesis defense rather than the simple audience she had expected. Though, to be honest, the long-time educator was finding the boy's description of the process of its creation almost as fascinating as the sculpture itself by this point.
"Anyway, after I figured out that one, I also figured out the magic film stuff doesn't hold anywhere close to the amount of detail you need for a hologram, either, and by then I realized I didn't have near enough time to get the hologram idea working for our meeting," the young Potter sighed disappointedly before continuing. "So, then I thought about what else I could try, and I had that neat glowy rune thing I'd just made when I was trying to make a laser, and I thought, 'Christmas trees are really neat looking, and they need neat glowy things, maybe I could use the runes to make one of those!', but then I remembered the gift was supposed to last a long time, so I couldn't use a real tree, 'cause it'd die eventually, and then I thought about making one, and I've got loads of steel around the Lair…"
The Lair, huh? Griselda, listening closely to her guest's rambling explanation, chuckled inwardly at his term for what she supposed was his home. It was exactly the sort of name she would expect a pre-teen boy to come up with if given free rein to choose. In fact, thinking back on it, the elderly witch could have sworn one of her grandsons had named a treehouse precisely that.
"…and then I figured out that all those little needle-leaf thingies are really, really annoying to try to make outta steel, so I decided to make a simpler sort of tree, and I went out to find a neat-looking branch, and I squished some steel into about the same shape as it was. I was gonna make it bigger, but I realized I was kinda running out of time, so I figured it'd have to do, and then I put the runes on, and then Suze offered to carve a base for it, and there you go!" he gestured to the stunning, ethereal tree sculpture.
The Head of the Wizarding Examination authority knew it wasn't the main focus of the meeting, but she couldn't quite resist inquiring further. It was all too easy to fall into the role of a mastery committee member after so very many years in the business, and unlike the discussion of lasers and holograms, runes were something she knew well enough to comment on.
"How on earth did you carve so many runes so quickly? In iron no less!" Griselda asked. Having reviewed many runes projects before, she would have expected him to have spent months on just that portion of the sculpture based on the usual way of such things. This sounded like he'd managed to throw the entire thing together in the course of a week or two — including all the missteps. "And for that matter, how did you make iron work as a rune substrate at all? It generally resists magic flow, as I recall."
"Um, well, I figured, since it was a really simple set, I'd just make a punch with the rune-set on it," Harry explained. "You cut the inverted form of the runes into a piece of tool steel, harden it, and then you can apply the whole thing with a tap from a hammer!"
"I see," she nodded. She had heard of many attempts to speed up the application of runes, and that seemed reasonable — in fact, she vaguely recalled several papers written by others who had tried a similar embossing approach — but this was the first time she had heard of one being successful. It certainly fit the novelty criterion for a mastery, not to mention managing to work with the material involved. Speaking of which, "And the iron?"
Harry smiled proudly as he explained, "You know, the only bits of the thing that strictly have to move magic are the runes, so I just put some gold leaf between the punch and the steel. It basically inlaid the runes with gold, and it's dead easy to do!"
"That is quite impressive, Mr. Potter," the long-time examiner said appreciatively, and it was impressive, to be sure. A cheap and simple way to apply runes without compromising their effectiveness? That was the sort of breakthrough that turned heads! It was also the sort of thing for which advanced degrees were awarded. "Did you run into any problems along the way?"
"Well, there were a couple," the last Potter admitted. "For one, the lights were really dim at first, but I figured it was 'cause of the steel keeping them from absorbing much magic, so I tried adding the gold wire inlays as a sort of receiving antenna, right?" He gestured to the delicate lines of gold running along the length of the steel branches, which Griselda only then noticed intersected with each of the runic clusters she had examined earlier. "I figured they'd conduct more magic into the runes, and I think they did, since everything got a lot brighter, though it still flickers a lot — I think it's the amount of magic in the room that causes that bit. Before I added the wires, though, you could only just barely see the lights in the dark."
"After that," he continued, "the only other problem is the runes are producing all different colors now. I designed the runic system to light up red, just straight red, and even with air, rather than the single gas I was planning to use, it ought to come out to one uniform color since air is really well-mixed. It shouldn't be changing all the time."
"Do you have any ideas on what might be causing it?" she asked. So far, her guest had shown remarkable academic versatility and admirable curiosity, but Griselda felt the need to see how he would respond to new challenges.
"I think it might be 'cause of the differences in depth with the punch and the thickness of the gold leaf — maybe something to do with how the gold stuck to the iron, too. The runes are pretty sensitive to size. I've got some ideas, but it'd take a while to check."
"Understandable," she nodded at the response. It was a workable set of hypotheses. "And what do you make of the drifting mists?"
"Oh, that's actually what the runes were designed to do!" the young Potter answered brightly. "They're supposed to pump energy into a volume of 'stuff' in front of them, and here the 'stuff' is just air, and then that makes the air glow. Most of the time, it fades really fast — that's the big problem for making it into a laser, right? — so the air doesn't move much before it stops glowing, and the glowy cloud bit stays put, but every once in a while, you get states that take longer to decay. That's what I'd been aiming for originally, since you need it for the laser thing, and it was all supposed to be that way, but it didn't work that way all the time — when that happens, the air glows for a while even as it travels away from the runes, just a lot dimmer, since it's the same amount of energy released over a longer period. The color variation's a lot harder to explain."
"A fascinating account, Mr. Potter," the matriarch of the Marchbanks family complimented her guest, who practically preened under the praise, "and an eminently memorable regard gift, as well. Though, loath as I am to stifle your creativity in the future, I feel the need to point out that such gifts need not be quite so remarkably unique in the future. You needn't develop entirely new magic simply to commemorate a visit."
"So, I messed up?" the boy seemed to deflate.
"Not precisely," Griselda hurried to reassure him. "You simply overdid things. During a particularly busy season, someone of your stature might engage in multiple visits such as this in a single day; there simply would not be enough time to do as much as you have done for this. In the future, a small piece of sculpture — even another iteration of this tree — an interesting painting, perhaps even a poem would be more than sufficient."
"Oh, okay!" and just like that, the young Potter was back to his normal cheer.
"That said, I strongly encourage you to continue such pursuits as this in the future," she said, gesturing to the tree. "The description you have given of your creative process, written up properly, would easily serve as the backbone of a mastery project in runes. I would be most remiss were I not to encourage such talent."
"Really?" her guest asked.
"Such experimentation is the soul of academic inquiry," Griselda assured him, "and I firmly encourage you to pursue it whenever possible."
"Okay!" the young man said with a firm nod, a thoughtful look already on his face. "I'll do that."
"See that you do," she nodded in return before looking up at the timepiece on the wall.
Oh, dear!
"Alas, it seems that my curiosity has eaten up most of our meeting time, Mr. Potter," the elderly witch said apologetically, "so I fear we may have to rush through what was supposed to be the meat of our discussion here. Your letter mentioned a request?"
"Oh, yeah! Sorry, I almost forgot," Harry apologized in turn. "Um, anyway, Mr. Slackhammer told me you're the head of the Wizarding Examination Authority, so you oversee the NEWTs and stuff, right?"
"That is correct, Mr. Potter," she confirmed.
"Well, my friend, Abigail, she's in her seventh year, and she's been really worried about not learning what she needs to in Defense, since Mr. Lockhart doesn't seem to be teaching much."
"How so?" Griselda asked intently, her attention immediately captured at the implication that one of those responsible for teaching the youth of wizarding Britain was not living up to his responsibilities.
"Well, as near as we can tell, he's teaching the same stuff to all seven years' classes, and since her other classes are really big on reviewing for the exams, she figures he's probably not teaching everything he should," the young Potter explained. "Anyway, I've been helping her study, but I figure it'd be real helpful to get a copy of what she's supposed to know for the test — like different topics and stuff she's supposed to be able to do for it. Umm, what's the word?"
"A syllabus, you mean?" Griselda offered.
"Yeah, that's it!"
"That is easily provided," she offered. "I will have my staff send you one immediately after our meeting."
"Thanks, Madame Marchbanks!"
"Mr. Potter," she began, "might I ask your opinion of Mr. Lockhart's instruction?"
The boy frowned thoughtfully as he considered the question. "Well, he's got all those books and stuff about things he's supposed to have done, so I guess he's probably pretty good at Defense, but the classes never seem to teach much. I figure he's probably just not very good at teaching. Mostly I study on my own, anyway, so I never really paid much attention after I figured that out."
"I see," she said. "Well, I thank you for your insight, Mr. Potter. And I thank you for your wonderful gift as well!" she gestured to the tree still softly glowing on her table. "I look forward to seeing how you grow in the future."
"Thanks for meeting with me, Madame Marchbanks!" her guest replied before catching himself. "Ah, and 'I wish you peace and prosperity until we meet again'."
"Until then," Griselda nodded in acknowledgement of the traditional goblin take on the wizarding farewell.
With that, her elf appeared to show Mr. Potter back to the travel room where the wards were configured to allow magical travel.
4.2.7 Good intentions
Griselda Marchbanks settled back in her chair as her boisterous young visitor disappeared through her parlor door, her eyes returning to the hypnotically beautiful spectacle of the steel tree she had been gifted. It truly was a remarkable piece of work.
Oh, the fit and finish left quite a bit to be desired. Now that she looked more closely, it was easy enough to see tool marks and fingerprints marring the surface finish. The gold inlays were sloppily done and uneven, and, now that she knew the runes had been made with a punch, it was easy to pick out stray indentations where he'd had the tool misaligned with the uneven surface of the branch. The piece, while beautiful when viewed from a distance, was certainly no masterwork of fabrication.
The design of the runic system, the ingenuity displayed, and the deep understanding of the concepts involved, however... those were what made it a masterwork of rune-craft.
From the moment she had felt the boy's presence in person, the elderly witch had suspected that Harry Potter would go on to do great things, to become one of those great wizards in the same vein as Dumbledore.
After her conversation with him, she was certain.
Dumbledore had been a scholar, prone to pulling out the most arcane and involved bits of magical knowledge and executing them to perfection, and Riddle had been remarkable in his penchant for bringing half-forgotten magics back to life and reawakening dead legends, but it seemed the young Potter leaned towards making entirely new wonders out of whole cloth.
Quite frankly, of the three, she rather preferred the young Potter's creative take on things. While curating knowledge and preserving the past were noble pursuits to be sure, Griselda had always leaned towards building towards a greater future rather than resting on the laurels of the past. It was why she had spent her entire adult life in education, tending to those who would build that future.
She smiled and indulged in a quiet chuckle. It seemed the world was in for interesting times during her twilight years, if Mr. Potter was any indication of things to come. Then her expression sobered.
As she rose to walk to her writing desk, Griselda considered what else she had learned in her recent conversation, beyond the impromptu pseudo-master's defense. After jotting down a quick note instructing her secretary to send a copy of the NEWT syllabus to Harry Potter as he had requested, the Head of the Wizarding Examination Authority turned her thoughts to the troubling business with the Hogwarts Defense professor.
Gilderoy Lockhart had seemed a stunningly qualified instructor when he had applied for the job, but according to Mr. Potter's testimony, and that of at least one seventh-year student as relayed by Mr. Potter, that assessment of the man's qualifications may have been made in error. She sighed.
Unfortunately, such conflicts were not uncommon. The ability to learn and the ability to teach were not always coincident. All too often, a spectacularly talented individual proved to be an abysmal teacher for any number of reasons. If Mr. Potter's account was accurate, it seemed that Mr. Lockhart might well be one of those unfortunates.
What was she to do about it?
Griselda frowned thoughtfully, closing her eyes as she considered the situation. It was much too far into the school year to consider terminating the famous author's contract; there would be no time to arrange a effective replacement. Not to mention, until test results came back, there would be no quantifiable way justify his removal, and it would be imprudent to embarrass such an influential figure without ironclad proof. If the widely-popular hero decided to take offense, then he might well raise enough of a stink to fatally damage any recruitment efforts. Few would want to replace the man if it meant being hounded by his shrill fan base.
That said, it would not do to let the current state of things stand unchanged, either, she thought with a sigh. Not if the children's education was suffering as much as her guest had implied.
Perhaps she could arrange something more discreet.
Griselda frowned in thought. She had been around for a very long time, and she had contacts in almost every wizarding walk of life, including a more than a few former aurors. In fact, come to think of it, several of those were former or current instructors as well.
Perhaps she could prevail upon one or two to step out of retirement for a time and provide some subtle assistance to the beleaguered Defense professor... just a bit of advice on topics to cover and teaching methods?
Griselda smiled, pleased at the thought. Yes, that seemed to be the way to go, she thought with a decisive nod.
Now, who to approach?
4.2.8 Inadequate facilities
"Hi there!"
It had been barely two weeks since his discussion with Foundry Specialist Flame-Eye, and an otherwise unremarkable weekend found Hogwarts' resident dragon cheerfully greeting a serious-looking goblin who had shown up on the lip of his Lair.
"Hello, Mr. Potter, I am Machinist Stoutknife, from the Logistics Corps," the goblin introduced himself. "Foundry Specialist Flame-Eye arranged for me to tutor you in my craft."
"Oh, yeah, I've been expecting you! Thanks for coming so quickly," Harry thanked the goblin. "Come on in, and I'll show you to the workshop." The dragon turned, gingerly avoiding his comparatively diminutive visitor in the process, and walked deeper into the Lair. "If you'll come this way?"
As the mismatched pair made their way deeper into the steadily growing cave system that was Harry's Lair, Stoutknife spoke, "Flame-Eye mentioned that you have certain machining facilities that you wished to devote to the project you had discussed. In addition to tutoring you, he has asked me to evaluate their suitability."
Harry nodded his great scaly head. "That's right. He had mentioned that your resources are pretty tight right now with all the upgrades, so I volunteered this one, since it's my project as much as yours. It's a big CNC lathe and mill combination I got to do some precision engraving on a rune project I was working on." He paused apprehensively for a moment at the reminder, "Um, Flame-Eye's not still angry at me for that, is he?"
"No, Mr. Potter, while I can understand the Foundry Specialist's frustration, I believe he has recovered his equilibrium," the machinist replied. "Nor do I believe he was truly as angry as you seem to believe. The machine is yours to use as you see fit, and while engraving is an underutilization of the machine you have described, it is still within its design parameters."
"Then why did he seem so angry?" Harry asked as they approached the well-lit opening to his workshop.
Stoutknife was silent for a moment as he attempted to formulate his response. "Perhaps the best explanation I can give is that, as you mentioned, resources have long been quite scarce among the Brethren, thus proper allocation is critically important."
"Okay…" the dragon prompted as they rounded the corner and came in sight of the machine in question.
Stoutknife was silent for a long moment as he rounded the corner and caught sight of the machine in question. "I can understand his frustration indeed," the goblin breathed before continuing in a louder voice. "A machine such as this is capable of tasks much more demanding than engraving. For your purposes, you had nothing else for it to do, so it was not a waste from your perspective. From Flame-Eye's perspective, or mine for that matter, we are used to always having more work than the machinery can handle, so the idea of tying up such a machine doing things that a much lesser machine could handle seems almost criminally wasteful."
"Sorry about that, then," the young dragon seemed to shrink in on himself. "I didn't mean to mess up that badly."
"Fear not, Mr. Potter," the machinist assured him, "I will be pleased to instruct you on how best to utilize your equipment in the shop alongside the other techniques. Now," he clapped his clawed hands together briskly, "Let us begin! Why don't we fire up this beauty and get started?"
"Right!" Harry agreed enthusiastically. "Just got to go start up my welder!"
With that, the last Potter whirled his massive bulk with terrifying swiftness and set off back down the hall from whence they had come, leaving Stoutknife to look after him, puzzled.
Soon, the quiet of the Lair was broken by the loud chattering growl of a diesel engine, and his host reappeared.
"There, now we'll have enough power to run the CNC!"
The goblin in the room frowned. "Am I to understand that you are running this setup off a diesel welder?"
Harry nodded. "It's got a supplementary power takeoff so it can serve as a generator, too."
"I see," Stoutknife said, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. "That was the one next to the entrance?"
Harry nodded.
"That will not provide anywhere near enough power to actually push this equipment through its paces," the machinist judged. "Nor will it let you run any of your manual machinery while the CNC is working. There simply isn't enough power."
His host cocked a scaly eyebrow curiously, "Really? I got it working fine before."
"For engraving, possibly," Stoutknife allowed. "I assume the workpiece was light?"
The dragon nodded.
"Anything large enough to take full advantage of this machine will be a much greater draw on the power system," he explained. "Deep cuts to make injection molds will be particularly draining. Not to mention a full machine shop will have many machines running at once, both automated and manual. This setup will not work as you wish it to."
"Well, what should we do?" Harry asked, concerned.
"You will either need to arrange for more power at this facility, or we will need to move the equipment elsewhere, Mr. Potter," the machinist explained.
"Well, I kinda don't want to move this stuff too far from the Lair. How much power do we need?" the dragon asked, looking around speculatively. "If I can figure out how to tie it in properly, I could get another of the welder generators."
Stoutknife shook his head. "You would need at least a dozen, or a substantial tie into the electrical grid."
"Huh," Harry grunted, a thoughtful frown on his massive face.
As his host gave the situation some thought, Stoutknife occupied himself with examining the facilities the Great Wyrm of Hogwarts had managed to assemble. It was a fair spread. There was, of course, the behemoth CNC that dominated the room, and there was the collection of ancillary equipment that was in many cases still halfway wrapped in its packing material; presumably the recent order Flame-Eye had mentioned. However, Stoutknife was pleasantly surprised to see a fair collection of well used hand tools as well.
The machinist picked up a small needle file, brushing off the steel filings as he did so before picking up another piece that had been next to it on the bench. It was a cylindrical tool steel blank, filed into shape and then hardened in the shop, judging by the discoloration near the filed end. The boy had made a custom marking die, decent work, too. He looked at a few of the work pieces nearby, including a number of scraps of artfully shaped steel, looking like bare branches or possibly antlers, some even inlaid with gold foil or wire.
Flame-Eye had given no indication the boy was interested in the more artistic side of the craft, but it would be some time before the shop would really be ready for proper use; perhaps this would be something to teach in the meantime. His musings were interrupted by the dragon in the room.
"Um, I think I'm going to need to check with Mr. Slackhammer on what my options are for the workshop," Harry said. "Is there anything we can work on in the meantime? I mean, the equipment will sort of work, right?"
"It will work well enough to teach, yes," Stoutknife agreed. "Though we will not be able to properly demonstrate. We could also unpack and set up one of the manual machines, though that would likely occupy this lesson in full. However, looking at some of your other work," he gestured to the bench next to him. "Perhaps there is something more I could teach you in the meantime."
The young dragon, who had begun to frown at the delay, perked up curiously at the suggestion. "What did you have in mind, Mr. Stoutknife?"
"I see you have been doing some rather intricate decorative metalwork here using hand tools," the goblin began. "How would you like to further those skills?"
"You mean my rune carving?" Harry asked. "I guess that was pretty neat; what would we be making next?"
"Such skills have any number of applications, but I had thought to instruct you in one of my own hobbies, one which brings together a wide variety of skills."
A scaly brow rose in question.
"How would you like to learn to make jewelry, Mr. Potter?"
4.2.9 Snowy landscapes
The forested slopes of the Italian Alps, drenched in bright late-morning sunlight glinting off the white blanket of winter snow, spread out before him as Frank sipped at his morning coffee. He had just finished canvassing the small magical village of Ghesio, near what the non-magical world recognized as the Swiss border, and the private eye was catching some breakfast before he moved on. To that end, he'd stopped by the only business even loosely resembling a restaurant in the entire town, the town bakery, which in addition to baking the bread that fed the entire population, sported two café tables by the front window.
He had to admit, the food was good, but it paled in comparison to the view.
A small hamlet of perhaps twenty buildings built of the native grey gneiss and perched on a steep hillside, Ghesio was considered an uninhabited and unremarkable ruin on the non-magical side of things. Even on the wizarding side of things it was about as remote and basic as towns got, one of those remote retreats where people moved to when they wanted to get away from it all.
Aside from the usual concealment wards, the buildings were almost entirely non-magical in construction; the population was small enough that the inhabitants hadn't bothered with an expanded space to hide the town. It was easier to simply hide behind a basic illusion and aversion wards despite being only a few hundred yards of steep alpine ridge away from the closest part of the Italian road system. The remote location — on the magical side of things, anyway — was accessible only through a single common floo connection. Ghesio was about as close as the magical world got to the hinterlands, short of living as a completely isolated hermit, anyway.
In hindsight, Frank wished he'd moved here with Betty right after school. Between the single approach by magical transportation and the small population in which strangers stood out like a sore thumb, her kidnapping likely never would have taken place, and they'd probably have been happily working on their second child by now.
It would have been more than worth the hassle of growing his own food and dealing with the local wildlife... which brought him to the reason for his visit.
The tiny village boasted only two claims to fame: the wonderful alpine scenery and the fact that it served as the setting for Gilderoy Lockhart's Holidays with Hags. The book recounted the tale of a hag which had taken up residence in the surrounding woods and lured off several of the village children, eating them before it had finally been dispatched, purportedly by Lockhart.
The existence of the man-eating spirit that normally masqueraded as an exceptionally ugly woman had been easy enough for Frank to verify; the monster had left more than enough evidence behind. Several of the locals had been willing to tell the story of the event, and one had even led him to view the burned-out ruins of the rude hut the hag had built out in the woods. The grand tour had concluded with a solemn visit to the empty graves of the lost children.
It was a tragic story which warranted retelling on its own merits, but the tour had also brought him in contact with every local witness to the story; close enough contact that he could get in a good feel for the situation, which was rather critical for Frank's investigation.
Mental magics were a wooly sort of field, highly subjective and more of an artistic performance than well-documented procedure. Detection methods were no different, tending to rely heavily on the caster's subjective interpretation, and according to the books Frank had learned from, every caster did things differently. As such, the entire field tended to sit rather poorly with the private investigator. That sort of irreducible subjectivity made pinning down a solid chain of evidence an absolute nightmare.
Still, as with most of the skills he had developed over the years, this one too had been necessary to learn for the job. Without the spells, he'd never have had an inkling of the extent of Betty's mental shackles, and that failing would have seen both him and Betty dead years ago in an ill-advised rescue attempt. Now, those same skills had proven their worth once more.
If Frank were to describe the returns from his diagnostic spells, he would say it was like running a finger over a smooth surface and feeling for seams, places where something had been changed and then put back in not quite the right place. A normal mind which had not been subjected to any sort of mental manipulation was like a plate-glass window, smooth and unbroken.
These witnesses were more like a cracked tile, two different glass-smooth surfaces almost but not quite perfectly aligned, the minute difference in elevation invisible but clearly felt by the fingertips. The changes were small, localized, and almost perfectly blended into the surroundings.
They were a far cry from the utter mess that had been made of Betty's mind, which felt more like chunks of broken concrete bound together with baling wire.
Frank was far from an expert. He had no way to determine the true story of what had transpired here from the traces he sensed, and his abilities with mental magics began and ended with detecting the evidence of their use. However, he could confirm that they had been used here, and he could confirm that magics leaving almost identical traces had been used on witnesses at every other location appearing in Lockhart's novels.
Additionally, he could confidently hypothesize that whoever had been responsible for tampering with these witnesses had been orders of magnitude more skilled than the butchers who had worked over his fiancée... which fit rather well with the Lockhart hypothesis, given his public history with the obliviators.
That said, the evidence was circumstantial at best.
Frank had no way to know what those magics were or who had cast them. It might have been Lockhart using memory charms to conceal some wrongdoing of his, but it could just as well have been him casting cheering charms to help the community get back on its feet. For that matter, it might not have been Lockhart at all. Mental charms were hardly unusual in the magical world; though the consistency across all the locations was a strong argument against that hypothesis.
Of course, given what he'd started with, even circumstantial evidence was more than he'd really expected, and the situation revealed was one dubious enough that his employer ought to be pleased. Consistent signs of mental manipulation at the site of every one of his exploits seemed decidedly suspicious to Frank, but it was far from strong enough to hold up in court. At least, it was far from strong enough to hold up in a court that hadn't decided the verdict beforehand. Those were still a distinct danger in wizarding Britain, if a much less common one than they were even ten years ago.
The results were less than satisfying to his professional pride, but Frank had to admit, it was probably the best he could hope to get.
Finishing off his coffee and taking one last lingering look at the glorious view, Frank stood, leaving a few coins to pay for his meal on the table, the owners were still busy with their morning baking. He then set out for the local floo connection, a covered firepit in the central piazza barely twenty yards from where he had been eating. On the way, he waved back absently to a few of the friendly locals he'd met over the past few days.
He had a report to write and an anonymous tip to forward to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Frank nodded to himself as he picked his way across the snow-covered stone of the town square. The evidence wasn't enough on its own, but if there was something fishy going on, Frank figured it might be a useful lead for the official investigator-types. And…
Green fire flashed signaling the first leg of his trip back to London, and a few moments later Frank sighed as he came to a stop at the next town.
...and as much as he disliked the circumstances, a DMLE investigation into Lockhart would fit well with his client's intentions.
At least he'd earned his dirty money this time... and it had brought him about ten steps closer to his endgame with Betty's situation.
That made it an occasion well worth a celebratory coffee, in Frank's estimation.
4.2.1 Returns
The Granger family had spent the few days between Boxing Day and the end of Christmas vacation much as they had the previous year, flitting around the isle in a whirlwind attempt to visit the entire extended family before Hermione had to return to school. The attempt had met with a surprising amount of success, given that prior to the previous year, it had occupied the entirety of the Christmas break.
For some, like Sharon's side of the family which had mostly settled in and around Sheffield, visiting everyone was a simple prospect, but Tony's side had proven a tad more adventurous in their habits, spreading out to the four winds and making for a great deal more travel time.
They had known beforehand that the one uncle who had recently been stationed in Aberdeen for his new job would really push the schedule to the breaking point, which had led Hermione decide to return to the Lair directly rather than returning home with her parents. The bushy-haired girl had been eager to spend time with her long-absent parents, but there was a distinct difference between spending time with them and staring at the back of their heads for ten hours, and the choice had saved her a day-long car ride back to Crawley immediately followed by a day-long train ride right back after only a few hours' sleep.
To that end, Hermione had arranged for Harry to meet her outside a public library in Aberdeen, one of nearly three dozen such locations across the breadth of Scotland he had rattled off a list when she had asked about meeting up. He would bring along his usual self-charging return portkey and take her back to the Lair. She had been hesitant to ask why he was familiar with the location, given the unasked-for commentary on how generous the locals tended to be when feeding pigeons.
Some things even witches were not meant to know.
Now, a day before the Hogwarts Express was due to return the majority of her fellow students to the shores of the Black Lake, Hermione found herself already ensconced in her favorite chair — one of the leather-upholstered ones on the library mezzanine — with her potions book in her lap and a notebook at her side. She had finished reading ahead for potions some fifteen minutes previous, and she now simply sat and allowed herself a moment to rest before she reviewed it again. After her misstep with Professor Snape during the previous term, the bushy-haired bookworm would leave nothing to chance.
In the meantime, however, she was free to simply sit and take in the sights.
Sights such as her often dragon-shaped friend's most recent project, which seemed to involve sculpting a steel copy of a stripped branch cut from one of the local bushes. He seemed to be making a good go of it, though his methods were… unorthodox, to say the least. Hermione watched as Harry heated a portion of his partially finished sculpture with an acetylene torch only shudder as he grabbed the now-glowing metal with his bare hands and sculpted it like modeling clay.
Magic was weird.
When the small boy pinched off a bit of excess material only to absently pop the still-red-hot metal into his mouth and eat it with every sign of enjoyment, she had to turn away. Why couldn't he act like a normal boy and just gross her out by eating library paste or something? At least that would make some kind of sense!
She shook her head in an attempt to dismiss the thought, setting her bushy mane swaying. Best to get back to her studies, she supposed. Even after a year and a half in the magical world, she could only take so much absurdity before needing to take a break.
Much as she loved her friend, Harry Potter made her brain hurt far too often.
4.2.2 Odd requests
The Head of the Wizarding Examination Authority, Madame Griselda Marchbanks, cocked a snowy eyebrow curiously. Before her on the blotter on her writing desk lay a handwritten letter she had just finished reading. While neatly written, the handwriting was obviously that of a schoolboy, a judgement reinforced by the word choice in the text itself, yet the missive was a formal request for audience.
That seemed a rather odd juxtaposition to the elderly witch.
It was often the case among witches, particularly witches who had given birth, that their magic found itself well-used to being directed inward, disproportionately reinforcing their bodies and allowing them to live several decades longer than a similarly powerful wizard. Griselda Marchbanks was both a strong witch and a mother of six, which made her spry condition at the respectable age of two hundred and sixty-eight years only moderately remarkable; though she was likely approaching the end. In the recent decades, she had begun to feel the creeping onset of her mortality as her magic grew more and more strained by keeping her functional.
Of that long life, she had happily spent nearly two and a half centuries in education in one capacity or another. Despite that wealth of experience, the elderly witch could not recall a single time she had received such a letter. Not once!
She had certainly received letters from children before; her numerous grandchildren, admittedly with varying numbers of 'greats' prepended, had ensured that. She had received formal requests for audience before; her station in society made that a normal fact of life. Never had she seen the two combined, receiving a formal request for audience from a child.
It made the letter sitting before her an interesting one, for the novelty if nothing else. That the unusual letter had come from the Boy-Who-Lived was simply another piece of the puzzle. The elderly witch frowned thoughtfully at the parchment before her for a few more moments before shrugging as she came to a decision.
It was a slow time of year, she thought as she reached for a quill and blank parchment. There would be no harm in humoring the boy.
For that matter, even if it turned out to be a pointless meeting, it might be a worthwhile simply for the opportunity to take the measure of the Boy-Who-Lived. He would likely be a prominent figure in the upcoming years, and it would be useful knowledge to have, one way or another.
4.2.3 Livid
"Inconceivable!"
With the winter break over, Tom had returned to Hogwarts, and with his return to campus, he had finally been able to arrange to slip away on his own without arousing suspicion. In an out-of-the-way corner of the labyrinthine castle, he was at last hidden enough to safely vent his spleen over the maddening events of the end of term feast. After the better part of a month during which he was forced by various circumstances to stew in silence, that spleen was in dire need of ventilation.
"That unutterable bastard murdered Charlotte!" Tom hissed, his dainty hands clenched in impotent white-knuckled rage. "How?"
It was a good question, to be honest. Basilisks had their vulnerabilities; Tom knew that as well as anyone. Charlotte was well over a thousand years old, and there was precious little she could not best physically or magically, but her primary weakness — a cock's crow — was both easily obtained and well-known. It was the reason Tom had insisted his old friend operate in secret at first until he had managed to ensure there were none of the pesky birds on the castle grounds.
Potter, though, had not even bothered to use that weakness — hell, he hadn't even known Charlotte was a basilisk! Potter had killed her by main strength, judging from the brutal injury done to the hapless girl. The miniature fiend had… had… Tom's thoughts trailed off into an incoherent sea of rage as he spat out a string of blistering curses sufficient to turn even the saltiest of old sailors green with envy.
Though, admittedly, his sweet soprano robbed the delivery of a certain gravitas.
"That monster!" he spat as his tirade of profanity ran its course. How could anyone kill poor sweet little Charlotte? She hadn't even done anything yet!
Tom hardly thought two measly petrifications counted in the grand scheme of things, and he didn't believe that cockamamie story about her raiding Potter's pantry for a moment. What kind of pantry did the boy have that Charlotte would even fit in it? Even if she had, stealing a little food hardly rated execution! Then that miniature green-eyed murderer just waltzed into the great hall dragging Charlotte's broken corpse behind him like… like some kind of bloody trophy!
Petite knuckles creaked as Tom teared up at the memory.
How dare he!
Worse yet, he was planning to eat the poor girl! He probably already had by now. As soon as he had dared after the end of term feast, Tom had gone to examine the clearing behind the Gamekeeper's hut where the butchery had taken place, and it had been a scene of horror. Blood everywhere, bones separated and stacked in neat piles, Charlotte's skin stretched out to dry over a makeshift frame of freshly cut branches, a neatly arranged pile of processed potions ingredients off to one side, and not an ounce of flesh in evidence.
Seeing what little remained of his oldest friend was heartbreaking.
But that heartbreak did not last, rapidly subliming into anger. Tom was good at anger. The boy who murdered Charlotte might have evaded him to this point, but now he was back at Hogwarts, and he had all the opportunity in the world. It was just a matter of time.
Potter would pay.
Tom chuckled adorably.
Potter would pay dearly.
4.2.4 Arts and crafts
In the glowing heart of the Rayburn, the fire crackled and popped as Harry added more wood, warming the Lair as the winter wind howled outside. His human damsel had retreated into the stacks of the library, pursuing at length some minor point she had come across in her classwork. He wasn't sure what it was, since she hadn't asked him about it, but he certainly didn't remember anything particularly remarkable from his classes.
For her part, Suze busied herself with patiently and methodically carving a bow from a carefully-chosen well-seasoned branch; it was her frequent pauses to warm her fingers that had prompted Harry get up from his work to stoke the fire. Aside from the cold, her latest attempt seemed to be going well to Harry's unpracticed eye, but by the displeased frown on her face, Suze seemed to have found something objectionable about it.
Harry shrugged; Suze knew more than about bows than he probably ever would, so he was sure she knew what she was doing. Best to leave her to it.
Currently in his diminutive human form to take advantage of its highly dexterous hands, the dragon of Hogwarts made his way back to his usual workbench. He had been doing some very finicky work as part of the regard gift he was making for his upcoming meeting with Griselda Marchbanks... well, as part of the latest iteration of the design, anyway. Making the thing had turned into a bit of an adventure.
Without any outside direction on what to give the woman, Harry had been forced to come up with a plan himself, and that plan had seen several revisions. His initial idea had proven impractical, but he'd taken parts of it to try something else… which also hadn't worked, but which had in turn inspired another iteration, which showed some promise. However, promising or not, it required some very simple but extremely repetitive rune work, which had led him to his current task.
Returning to his seat and picking up his chosen tool, a fine needle-file, the currently human-shaped dragon set to work once again, filing a minutely detailed negative of a runic scheme into the narrow end of a piece of steel drill rod. After he was done, a bit of time with the torch and a quench in his fuel oil drum would give him a hard punch suitable for transferring the runic scheme to the surface of the work proper.
The hardening quench also gave his fuel oil a delightful smoky aftertaste, which was a bonus in the young dragon's book.
In any event, Harry hoped this iteration would turn out well; the meeting was just a few days away.
4.2.5 Suspicious characters
"Thank you for your attention today," Gilderoy Lockhart told his class with a broad smile. As half the class sighed dreamily, he continued, "Remember your reading for our next class! We will be covering my adventures in combating the undead, so you will need to be familiar with the first three chapters of Gadding with Ghouls."
When the class gave a general murmur of acknowledgement, the blond dandy dismissed them, and his students began the noisy process of packing up to leave for their next class.
Hogwarts had been back in session for a week, and true to his resolution during the winter break, Gilderoy Lockhart had been on full alert. So far, nothing of interest had caught his attention, just the normal business of teaching and learning, but he kept a casual, if unusually attentive, eye on the children, regardless. Today, however, something had changed.
It seemed that his careful vigilance might already have paid off.
In the back of the class, one of his students, a sixth-year boy, had just passed a note to another of his fellows while trying to be sly about it. Being a teenager, he was naturally not very good at subtlety, and Lockhart's practiced eye had focused on the attempt like a hawk sighting a rabbit.
Now, there was nothing inherently suspect about teenagers passing notes, but context was important. Class had already ended, and passing notes outside of class time was not forbidden. For that matter, it wasn't even frowned-upon. It begged the question of why on earth would one of his students be trying to pass a clandestine note now? There was no need to hide it so assiduously.
When the recipient exaggeratedly glanced about to ensure no one was looking his way before surreptitiously opening the note below the level of his desk to read it, Gilderoy found his interest firmly piqued.
There was something suspicious going on, and given the circumstances, he wasn't going to give it the benefit of the doubt. It might well turn out to be something innocuous, some teenage foible that would prove embarrassing at the worst, but with the person behind the basilisk attacks still on the loose… well, it would bear further investigation.
As the former obliviator kept an unobtrusive watch, much more skillfully than his students' mediocre efforts — his suspicions were all-but confirmed when his student took the time to vanish the note entirely while on his way out.
How irritating.
With the classroom now empty, Lockhart felt it safe to indulge in a thoughtful frown. That vanishing charm had eliminated his most direct means of investigation. It was possible to counter a vanishing charm, but doing so required one of two things: utterly monstrous amounts of power skillfully applied immediately, before the magical traces had a chance to dissipate; or a combination of prior knowledge, preparation, and skillful timing.
Gilderoy entertained no delusions about his own skills, and it was already too late to ask the Headmaster to turn his talents to the issue. Though to be honest, the famous author would have been reluctant to do so in the first place; asking for help wouldn't play nearly as well in his future detective story. He was, however, much more confident in his perfect timing, and he could certainly prepare to take advantage the next time his students tried a similar tack.
He nodded decisively before pasting on his usual winsome smile as he heard the first students of his next class approaching the door. That would be the path to pursue. Gilderoy didn't know whether this particular conspiracy was related to the unknown behind the basilisk, but there was only one way to find out.
Now it was a waiting game.
4.2.6 An impromptu defense
Small.
The scheduled time for the formal audience had come; her guest had arrived in the manor's main receiving hall; and as was her custom, Griselda Marchbanks had employed the viewing mirror hanging on the wall of her parlor to make her first evaluation of her new guest. 'Small' was the first adjective that had sprung to mind on seeing the boy. Despite being well into his second year at Hogwarts, the Boy-Who-Lived looked the part of a boy three years his junior.
Were it not for the faded traces of that notorious scar on his brow, Griselda would have suspected someone was trying to play a trick on her.
The last of the Potters stood in the manor's entry hall fidgeting slightly as he waited as patiently as a young boy could be expected to wait for her elf to announce that she was ready to receive him. He wore formal robes of a somewhat unusual but still quite acceptable cut; though the elderly witch had to wonder at the reserved color palette and simple lines. The boy was far too young to be so stiff, in her considered opinion; youth was the time to live a little with some bright color and loud patterns.
She would probably suggest something in purple, perhaps with orange accents? It would set off his eyes nicely…
No, the matron of the Marchbanks family shook her head to clear such fanciful notions. While he certainly looked the part of the adorable little boy, her visitor was the Head of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter. He was not one of her grandchildren; though properly the comparison would have had a few 'greats' involved, considering his age. Receiving a guest of such station required a certain level of sobriety; now was not the time to be playing dress-up, no matter how much her grandmotherly fingers itched at the thought.
Aside from his conservative wardrobe, the diminutive Potter carried a small parcel which Griselda strongly suspected to contain his regard gift for her. It was an old custom which was all too often neglected in the rush of modern society, and it was nice to see one of the youngsters paying some regard to the old traditions, even if the choice to wrap the gift was a tad unusual.
The elderly witch nodded approvingly. So far, all signs pointed to her visitor being a fine, upstanding young gentleman. Initial appraisal made; a quick word sent her elf to show the young man to her parlor.
Now she would see if he gave the same impression in person.
When the boy walked through the door and came into view, the answer was immediately clear.
No, no he most certainly did not.
Griselda swallowed reflexively as she attempted to put her thoughts in order. Aside from the addition of a warm and enthusiastically cheerful smile, neither the boy's appearance nor his demeanor had changed. The young Head of the Potter family still gave all indications of being a fine, upstanding young gentleman as he stepped into her parlor.
No… the change was in that general impression.
The elderly witch had been in the business of teaching wizards for significantly longer than most of the population of wizarding Britain had been alive, and she had been Head of the Examination Authority since the time of Queen Victoria. She knew how to evaluate wizards, and the skills she had developed for that purpose over the years had become near-instinctive after so long. She was well-accustomed to seeing past both modesty and braggadocio to get to the heart of things.
It appeared that she had not, however, been able to see past the layer of separation imposed by the viewing mirror. In person, the physically small boy now seemed to fill the room entirely, leaving her almost surprised that she was looking down to meet his eyes.
'Small' was not the word, not by any stretch of the imagination.
The young child had an overwhelming presence to him which the viewing mirror had simply been unable to convey. Griselda was no shrinking violet; she was a strong witch, but she paled in comparison to the likes of that. In all her years, she had felt that sort of presence only a handful of times, and never had it been associated with someone so young.
Albus Dumbledore had given such an impression, that feeling of standing far too close to a giant, but he had only done so during the height of his NEWT examinations when she had managed to persuade him to truly throw his all into things. When he had, he had done things with a wand that she had never seen before, things she had never even imagined were possible. Another lad by the name of Riddle had had a similar feel to him back in the forties, and his performance had been quite nearly as remarkable.
Albus had gone on to become the de facto ruler of wizarding Europe, even if he seemed rather reluctant to throw his weight around, and though Griselda hadn't heard much of Mr. Riddle, she strongly suspected he had gone on to join the Unspeakables, given the unusual knack he had shown for resurrecting obscure magics thought long lost and the fact that he seemed to have dropped out of circulation after graduating.
The key point, though, was that both of those men had been NEWT students, wizards on the verge of adulthood and deliberately pushing themselves to the limits of their ability. They were not prepubescent children simply standing around running through the motions of a formal greeting — not like Mr. Potter was.
It begged the question of exactly what this wizard would go on to become.
Then Madame Marchbanks blinked as she realized her visitor had reached the end of his portion of the greeting and was now awkwardly scrubbing at the shaggy hair on the back of his head as he waited for her response.
It seemed she had lost herself in thought while in front of her guest, how embarrassing!
"Be welcome to my home, Harry of House Potter," the elderly witch completed the ritual greeting. She gestured to the couch across from her own favorite chair, "And please, feel free to sit down."
"Thanks!" the young boy favored her with a brilliant smile before bouncing over to plop down on the couch in the somewhat-rougher-than-strictly-necessary manner of young boys everywhere.
"I see that you are still holding your parcel, Mr. Potter," Griselda said leadingly after a few moments of silence, prompting her visitor to continue with the forms when he seemed to have forgotten it was his turn in the proceedings.
"Oh, yeah!" the young Potter said, looking at the package in his hands as if he had forgotten it was there. His face screwed up in exaggerated concentration as he continued, "Um, Madame Marchbanks, in recognition of our meeting, I would like to offer you this token of my regard." He then reached forward to set the wrapped offering down on the low table between them. "May our meeting be fruitful and our dealings just."
"Um, did I get that right? I've been practicing."
Griselda smiled kindly as she reached forward to take the offered gift from the table. "Quite acceptable, if a tad stilted, young man," she assured him. "I take it you learned from the goblins?"
"Yeah, Mr. Slackhammer taught me," Harry affirmed absently before his eyes opened wide in realization. He asked, in an astonished voice, "How did you know?"
"The 'may our meeting be fruitful and our dealings just' phrasing is one that tends to be used almost exclusively by goblins, in my experience," the witch explained. "Wizards tend to use a great deal more variety in the benediction clause. It tends to be much less businesslike."
"Oh. Um, it was ok for me to use, though, right?" her visitor asked, sounding concerned that he might have messed up.
The Marchbanks matriarch nodded graciously even as she worked at the knot of twine her guest had used to secure the wrapping of the gift. "It was certainly acceptable, Mr. Potter, simply unusual. You have done quite well so far; though, for future reference," she stated as she reached for her wand to cut the wrapping open, "you needn't wrap your regard gift. It tends to make things more awkward than they strictly need to be."
"Oh, sorry! I guess I just assumed after all the gifts at Christmas time," Harry apologized sheepishly before offering, "Would you like some help?"
"No, thank you," she declined, "I've just about…" Then the wrapping fell away, and she was struck dumb as the room was bathed in an eerily beautiful light.
The gift her young visitor had seen fit to bestow on her appeared to be a sculpture of a small tree — similar to those highly cultivated dwarf trees from the Orient, bonsai, she believed they were called — wrought of burnished steel, inlaid with fine gold wires running the length of the trunk and branches, and set in an exquisitely carved and polished wooden base. In place of leaves, the piece sported tiny puffs of fog which glowed gently in an ever-shifting array of colors. The miniature clouds swayed gently in place, presumably with the air currents in the room, separating from their anchor points on the steel branches from time to time to waft away and dissipate in ethereal swirls of fading color.
"Magnificent," Griselda breathed, finally managing to find her voice after nearly a solid minute of awestruck observation. Turning to her guest, who was looking mightily pleased with her reaction, she asked, "Wherever did you find this?"
"I made it," the young Potter said proudly before hurrying to qualify, "Well, Suze made the wood base — she did a real nice job, didn't she? — but I did the steel bits and all the rune-work."
"Rune work?" How had she missed that? The wizarding educator turned back to the marvelous piece of art and gave it a closer examination, soon identifying numerous tiny yet intricately detailed runic inscriptions at the base of each of the colored clouds. She could just make out a hint of gold inlaid into the deepest parts of the markings.
"I see," Griselda mused, examining the fascinating piece in detail. That level of detail and precision… it was the sort of work she saw in masters' theses, and this was coming from a twelve-year-old? It practically begged for further investigation, and the long-term educator found it all too easy to fall back on her habits. "This is a remarkable piece, young man. Might I ask what went into making it?"
"Um, well, I guess it kinda started with Mr. Slackhammer," the boy began. "He told me about the regard gift thing, so I thought about it, and the first thing I thought of was some of the meat from that big snake I killed back at the end of term. It's pretty tasty, and everyone likes to eat, right? But then he said it shouldn't be something you use and then it's not around anymore, 'cause it's supposed to commemorate the visit, so it needs to stick around, and food doesn't do that."
"Solid advice," the elderly witch nodded appreciatively.
The boy nodded in return before continuing, "Well, then I thought of some of my gold coins. They're pretty old, so that's kinda memorable, but Mr. Slackhammer said it probably shouldn't be something like money, 'cause even though I don't mean it like that, people might think it was a bribe, and since I'm here to ask you for something, that'd look bad."
"Also good advice," Griselda approved. "It is always a good idea to mind appearances — saves time and effort in the long run."
"So, then I was kinda stumped for a bit, until I was reading about something else, and I ran across a mention of holography," Harry continued. "When I did, I got thinking, you're supposed to be really big on school and stuff, so maybe you might like a hologram of all the students coming back to campus after break, so I started looking into making one of them, right?"
"Excuse me, Mr. Potter," the elderly witch interjected politely, puzzled, "but I am afraid I am unfamiliar with the term 'hologram'. To what does it refer?"
"Oh, um, well, a hologram is like a picture," her visitor explained, smoothly switching mental gears to provide the requested explanation, "but instead of being flat, it shows a full three-dimensional image, so you can walk around and see it from different sides and stuff. Um, anyway, I thought I could use that process with the film you use for magical pictures to make a moving hologram, 'cause that'd be really neat! Real memorable, like Mr. Slackhammer said the regard gift is supposed to be, since I don't think anyone's done that before."
"No, I do not believe anyone has," Griselda agreed, familiar with the concept of such a display, if not the methodology proposed. "Omnioculars provide a similar effect, as I recall; however, your description of a hologram seems quite a different undertaking. Though more to the point, it also seems a rather different undertaking than this remarkable tree, Mr. Potter."
"Yeah, I know," the boy nodded. "I was getting to that; you see, it turned out I ran into a bunch of problems with it. First thing was the lighting, and it turned out to be really hard to do."
"The lighting?" she prompted, curious. "I'd think lighting would be fairly simple to accomplish, allowing for magic."
Harry grimaced. "Well, the thing is, holograms work based off interference patterns in the reflected light — the film gets exposed to light reflected off the target, then you develop the film and you can shine the same kind of light through the film to make the image visible. The thing is, though, you've gotta use the exact same kind of light — exactly the same color, and it's gotta be single-phase."
"Phase?" Color was straightforward enough, but phase was a property of light she was unfamiliar with.
"Yeah, um…" Harry began, smoothly shifting conversational gears once again. "Well, light acts kinda like a wave a lot of the time — except for those times when it doesn't — and the phase is associated with those times when it does. You see, when you've got a couple of different waves…"
Sensing that she had tripped on a conversational rabbit hole, Griselda quickly withdrew her question, "Never mind, Mr. Potter. I am certain I can look that up on my own time. Please return to your explanation. I believe you were talking about the need for special lighting."
"Oh, yeah, sorry," her young guest apologized, sheepishly scrubbing at the back of his head. "I've been trying not to, but sometimes I still blather on when I get excited about something."
"It is no trouble, Mr. Potter," Griselda assured him kindly. "As an educator, I am always happy to hear such enthusiasm from the youth; however, we only have so much time scheduled for this meeting. If you could return to your explanation?"
"Right! Um, I'll try to remember to send you the title of a good book on modern optics after I get back home, if you want," Harry offered before getting back to his explanation. "Anyway, for a hologram, you need a coherent light source, which means it's all one color and all in the same phase. Usually, people get that by making a neat kind of lamp called a laser, which basically pumps a bunch of energy into some stuff to make it glow, except you pick it so it that it doesn't glow right away. Then you can set up some mirrors so that when the first bit glows, it'll bounce the light back and forth and trigger the rest to glow too, and all the triggered glow will be coherent."
He took a deep breath before continuing, "Anyway, I decided to use runes to make one of them that ran off magic, but it turned out to be a lot harder than I thought it'd be. Turns out, it's easy to push energy into stuff using magic, but it's really hard to keep the stuff your pumping magic into in an excited state so it can do the self-stimulating thing. I think the magic makes the energy transitions easier or something so the usual metastable states aren't metastable anymore even though that doesn't quite fit what you see. Basically, it usually just ends up glowing. Which is really neat, don't get me wrong; but it's not a coherent light source, so it won't work for a hologram."
Griselda had encountered so many unfamiliar concepts in the past few minutes that this meeting was starting to feel more like sitting as a guest for a thesis defense rather than the simple audience she had expected. Though, to be honest, the long-time educator was finding the boy's description of the process of its creation almost as fascinating as the sculpture itself by this point.
"Anyway, after I figured out that one, I also figured out the magic film stuff doesn't hold anywhere close to the amount of detail you need for a hologram, either, and by then I realized I didn't have near enough time to get the hologram idea working for our meeting," the young Potter sighed disappointedly before continuing. "So, then I thought about what else I could try, and I had that neat glowy rune thing I'd just made when I was trying to make a laser, and I thought, 'Christmas trees are really neat looking, and they need neat glowy things, maybe I could use the runes to make one of those!', but then I remembered the gift was supposed to last a long time, so I couldn't use a real tree, 'cause it'd die eventually, and then I thought about making one, and I've got loads of steel around the Lair…"
The Lair, huh? Griselda, listening closely to her guest's rambling explanation, chuckled inwardly at his term for what she supposed was his home. It was exactly the sort of name she would expect a pre-teen boy to come up with if given free rein to choose. In fact, thinking back on it, the elderly witch could have sworn one of her grandsons had named a treehouse precisely that.
"…and then I figured out that all those little needle-leaf thingies are really, really annoying to try to make outta steel, so I decided to make a simpler sort of tree, and I went out to find a neat-looking branch, and I squished some steel into about the same shape as it was. I was gonna make it bigger, but I realized I was kinda running out of time, so I figured it'd have to do, and then I put the runes on, and then Suze offered to carve a base for it, and there you go!" he gestured to the stunning, ethereal tree sculpture.
The Head of the Wizarding Examination authority knew it wasn't the main focus of the meeting, but she couldn't quite resist inquiring further. It was all too easy to fall into the role of a mastery committee member after so very many years in the business, and unlike the discussion of lasers and holograms, runes were something she knew well enough to comment on.
"How on earth did you carve so many runes so quickly? In iron no less!" Griselda asked. Having reviewed many runes projects before, she would have expected him to have spent months on just that portion of the sculpture based on the usual way of such things. This sounded like he'd managed to throw the entire thing together in the course of a week or two — including all the missteps. "And for that matter, how did you make iron work as a rune substrate at all? It generally resists magic flow, as I recall."
"Um, well, I figured, since it was a really simple set, I'd just make a punch with the rune-set on it," Harry explained. "You cut the inverted form of the runes into a piece of tool steel, harden it, and then you can apply the whole thing with a tap from a hammer!"
"I see," she nodded. She had heard of many attempts to speed up the application of runes, and that seemed reasonable — in fact, she vaguely recalled several papers written by others who had tried a similar embossing approach — but this was the first time she had heard of one being successful. It certainly fit the novelty criterion for a mastery, not to mention managing to work with the material involved. Speaking of which, "And the iron?"
Harry smiled proudly as he explained, "You know, the only bits of the thing that strictly have to move magic are the runes, so I just put some gold leaf between the punch and the steel. It basically inlaid the runes with gold, and it's dead easy to do!"
"That is quite impressive, Mr. Potter," the long-time examiner said appreciatively, and it was impressive, to be sure. A cheap and simple way to apply runes without compromising their effectiveness? That was the sort of breakthrough that turned heads! It was also the sort of thing for which advanced degrees were awarded. "Did you run into any problems along the way?"
"Well, there were a couple," the last Potter admitted. "For one, the lights were really dim at first, but I figured it was 'cause of the steel keeping them from absorbing much magic, so I tried adding the gold wire inlays as a sort of receiving antenna, right?" He gestured to the delicate lines of gold running along the length of the steel branches, which Griselda only then noticed intersected with each of the runic clusters she had examined earlier. "I figured they'd conduct more magic into the runes, and I think they did, since everything got a lot brighter, though it still flickers a lot — I think it's the amount of magic in the room that causes that bit. Before I added the wires, though, you could only just barely see the lights in the dark."
"After that," he continued, "the only other problem is the runes are producing all different colors now. I designed the runic system to light up red, just straight red, and even with air, rather than the single gas I was planning to use, it ought to come out to one uniform color since air is really well-mixed. It shouldn't be changing all the time."
"Do you have any ideas on what might be causing it?" she asked. So far, her guest had shown remarkable academic versatility and admirable curiosity, but Griselda felt the need to see how he would respond to new challenges.
"I think it might be 'cause of the differences in depth with the punch and the thickness of the gold leaf — maybe something to do with how the gold stuck to the iron, too. The runes are pretty sensitive to size. I've got some ideas, but it'd take a while to check."
"Understandable," she nodded at the response. It was a workable set of hypotheses. "And what do you make of the drifting mists?"
"Oh, that's actually what the runes were designed to do!" the young Potter answered brightly. "They're supposed to pump energy into a volume of 'stuff' in front of them, and here the 'stuff' is just air, and then that makes the air glow. Most of the time, it fades really fast — that's the big problem for making it into a laser, right? — so the air doesn't move much before it stops glowing, and the glowy cloud bit stays put, but every once in a while, you get states that take longer to decay. That's what I'd been aiming for originally, since you need it for the laser thing, and it was all supposed to be that way, but it didn't work that way all the time — when that happens, the air glows for a while even as it travels away from the runes, just a lot dimmer, since it's the same amount of energy released over a longer period. The color variation's a lot harder to explain."
"A fascinating account, Mr. Potter," the matriarch of the Marchbanks family complimented her guest, who practically preened under the praise, "and an eminently memorable regard gift, as well. Though, loath as I am to stifle your creativity in the future, I feel the need to point out that such gifts need not be quite so remarkably unique in the future. You needn't develop entirely new magic simply to commemorate a visit."
"So, I messed up?" the boy seemed to deflate.
"Not precisely," Griselda hurried to reassure him. "You simply overdid things. During a particularly busy season, someone of your stature might engage in multiple visits such as this in a single day; there simply would not be enough time to do as much as you have done for this. In the future, a small piece of sculpture — even another iteration of this tree — an interesting painting, perhaps even a poem would be more than sufficient."
"Oh, okay!" and just like that, the young Potter was back to his normal cheer.
"That said, I strongly encourage you to continue such pursuits as this in the future," she said, gesturing to the tree. "The description you have given of your creative process, written up properly, would easily serve as the backbone of a mastery project in runes. I would be most remiss were I not to encourage such talent."
"Really?" her guest asked.
"Such experimentation is the soul of academic inquiry," Griselda assured him, "and I firmly encourage you to pursue it whenever possible."
"Okay!" the young man said with a firm nod, a thoughtful look already on his face. "I'll do that."
"See that you do," she nodded in return before looking up at the timepiece on the wall.
Oh, dear!
"Alas, it seems that my curiosity has eaten up most of our meeting time, Mr. Potter," the elderly witch said apologetically, "so I fear we may have to rush through what was supposed to be the meat of our discussion here. Your letter mentioned a request?"
"Oh, yeah! Sorry, I almost forgot," Harry apologized in turn. "Um, anyway, Mr. Slackhammer told me you're the head of the Wizarding Examination Authority, so you oversee the NEWTs and stuff, right?"
"That is correct, Mr. Potter," she confirmed.
"Well, my friend, Abigail, she's in her seventh year, and she's been really worried about not learning what she needs to in Defense, since Mr. Lockhart doesn't seem to be teaching much."
"How so?" Griselda asked intently, her attention immediately captured at the implication that one of those responsible for teaching the youth of wizarding Britain was not living up to his responsibilities.
"Well, as near as we can tell, he's teaching the same stuff to all seven years' classes, and since her other classes are really big on reviewing for the exams, she figures he's probably not teaching everything he should," the young Potter explained. "Anyway, I've been helping her study, but I figure it'd be real helpful to get a copy of what she's supposed to know for the test — like different topics and stuff she's supposed to be able to do for it. Umm, what's the word?"
"A syllabus, you mean?" Griselda offered.
"Yeah, that's it!"
"That is easily provided," she offered. "I will have my staff send you one immediately after our meeting."
"Thanks, Madame Marchbanks!"
"Mr. Potter," she began, "might I ask your opinion of Mr. Lockhart's instruction?"
The boy frowned thoughtfully as he considered the question. "Well, he's got all those books and stuff about things he's supposed to have done, so I guess he's probably pretty good at Defense, but the classes never seem to teach much. I figure he's probably just not very good at teaching. Mostly I study on my own, anyway, so I never really paid much attention after I figured that out."
"I see," she said. "Well, I thank you for your insight, Mr. Potter. And I thank you for your wonderful gift as well!" she gestured to the tree still softly glowing on her table. "I look forward to seeing how you grow in the future."
"Thanks for meeting with me, Madame Marchbanks!" her guest replied before catching himself. "Ah, and 'I wish you peace and prosperity until we meet again'."
"Until then," Griselda nodded in acknowledgement of the traditional goblin take on the wizarding farewell.
With that, her elf appeared to show Mr. Potter back to the travel room where the wards were configured to allow magical travel.
4.2.7 Good intentions
Griselda Marchbanks settled back in her chair as her boisterous young visitor disappeared through her parlor door, her eyes returning to the hypnotically beautiful spectacle of the steel tree she had been gifted. It truly was a remarkable piece of work.
Oh, the fit and finish left quite a bit to be desired. Now that she looked more closely, it was easy enough to see tool marks and fingerprints marring the surface finish. The gold inlays were sloppily done and uneven, and, now that she knew the runes had been made with a punch, it was easy to pick out stray indentations where he'd had the tool misaligned with the uneven surface of the branch. The piece, while beautiful when viewed from a distance, was certainly no masterwork of fabrication.
The design of the runic system, the ingenuity displayed, and the deep understanding of the concepts involved, however... those were what made it a masterwork of rune-craft.
From the moment she had felt the boy's presence in person, the elderly witch had suspected that Harry Potter would go on to do great things, to become one of those great wizards in the same vein as Dumbledore.
After her conversation with him, she was certain.
Dumbledore had been a scholar, prone to pulling out the most arcane and involved bits of magical knowledge and executing them to perfection, and Riddle had been remarkable in his penchant for bringing half-forgotten magics back to life and reawakening dead legends, but it seemed the young Potter leaned towards making entirely new wonders out of whole cloth.
Quite frankly, of the three, she rather preferred the young Potter's creative take on things. While curating knowledge and preserving the past were noble pursuits to be sure, Griselda had always leaned towards building towards a greater future rather than resting on the laurels of the past. It was why she had spent her entire adult life in education, tending to those who would build that future.
She smiled and indulged in a quiet chuckle. It seemed the world was in for interesting times during her twilight years, if Mr. Potter was any indication of things to come. Then her expression sobered.
As she rose to walk to her writing desk, Griselda considered what else she had learned in her recent conversation, beyond the impromptu pseudo-master's defense. After jotting down a quick note instructing her secretary to send a copy of the NEWT syllabus to Harry Potter as he had requested, the Head of the Wizarding Examination Authority turned her thoughts to the troubling business with the Hogwarts Defense professor.
Gilderoy Lockhart had seemed a stunningly qualified instructor when he had applied for the job, but according to Mr. Potter's testimony, and that of at least one seventh-year student as relayed by Mr. Potter, that assessment of the man's qualifications may have been made in error. She sighed.
Unfortunately, such conflicts were not uncommon. The ability to learn and the ability to teach were not always coincident. All too often, a spectacularly talented individual proved to be an abysmal teacher for any number of reasons. If Mr. Potter's account was accurate, it seemed that Mr. Lockhart might well be one of those unfortunates.
What was she to do about it?
Griselda frowned thoughtfully, closing her eyes as she considered the situation. It was much too far into the school year to consider terminating the famous author's contract; there would be no time to arrange a effective replacement. Not to mention, until test results came back, there would be no quantifiable way justify his removal, and it would be imprudent to embarrass such an influential figure without ironclad proof. If the widely-popular hero decided to take offense, then he might well raise enough of a stink to fatally damage any recruitment efforts. Few would want to replace the man if it meant being hounded by his shrill fan base.
That said, it would not do to let the current state of things stand unchanged, either, she thought with a sigh. Not if the children's education was suffering as much as her guest had implied.
Perhaps she could arrange something more discreet.
Griselda frowned in thought. She had been around for a very long time, and she had contacts in almost every wizarding walk of life, including a more than a few former aurors. In fact, come to think of it, several of those were former or current instructors as well.
Perhaps she could prevail upon one or two to step out of retirement for a time and provide some subtle assistance to the beleaguered Defense professor... just a bit of advice on topics to cover and teaching methods?
Griselda smiled, pleased at the thought. Yes, that seemed to be the way to go, she thought with a decisive nod.
Now, who to approach?
4.2.8 Inadequate facilities
"Hi there!"
It had been barely two weeks since his discussion with Foundry Specialist Flame-Eye, and an otherwise unremarkable weekend found Hogwarts' resident dragon cheerfully greeting a serious-looking goblin who had shown up on the lip of his Lair.
"Hello, Mr. Potter, I am Machinist Stoutknife, from the Logistics Corps," the goblin introduced himself. "Foundry Specialist Flame-Eye arranged for me to tutor you in my craft."
"Oh, yeah, I've been expecting you! Thanks for coming so quickly," Harry thanked the goblin. "Come on in, and I'll show you to the workshop." The dragon turned, gingerly avoiding his comparatively diminutive visitor in the process, and walked deeper into the Lair. "If you'll come this way?"
As the mismatched pair made their way deeper into the steadily growing cave system that was Harry's Lair, Stoutknife spoke, "Flame-Eye mentioned that you have certain machining facilities that you wished to devote to the project you had discussed. In addition to tutoring you, he has asked me to evaluate their suitability."
Harry nodded his great scaly head. "That's right. He had mentioned that your resources are pretty tight right now with all the upgrades, so I volunteered this one, since it's my project as much as yours. It's a big CNC lathe and mill combination I got to do some precision engraving on a rune project I was working on." He paused apprehensively for a moment at the reminder, "Um, Flame-Eye's not still angry at me for that, is he?"
"No, Mr. Potter, while I can understand the Foundry Specialist's frustration, I believe he has recovered his equilibrium," the machinist replied. "Nor do I believe he was truly as angry as you seem to believe. The machine is yours to use as you see fit, and while engraving is an underutilization of the machine you have described, it is still within its design parameters."
"Then why did he seem so angry?" Harry asked as they approached the well-lit opening to his workshop.
Stoutknife was silent for a moment as he attempted to formulate his response. "Perhaps the best explanation I can give is that, as you mentioned, resources have long been quite scarce among the Brethren, thus proper allocation is critically important."
"Okay…" the dragon prompted as they rounded the corner and came in sight of the machine in question.
Stoutknife was silent for a long moment as he rounded the corner and caught sight of the machine in question. "I can understand his frustration indeed," the goblin breathed before continuing in a louder voice. "A machine such as this is capable of tasks much more demanding than engraving. For your purposes, you had nothing else for it to do, so it was not a waste from your perspective. From Flame-Eye's perspective, or mine for that matter, we are used to always having more work than the machinery can handle, so the idea of tying up such a machine doing things that a much lesser machine could handle seems almost criminally wasteful."
"Sorry about that, then," the young dragon seemed to shrink in on himself. "I didn't mean to mess up that badly."
"Fear not, Mr. Potter," the machinist assured him, "I will be pleased to instruct you on how best to utilize your equipment in the shop alongside the other techniques. Now," he clapped his clawed hands together briskly, "Let us begin! Why don't we fire up this beauty and get started?"
"Right!" Harry agreed enthusiastically. "Just got to go start up my welder!"
With that, the last Potter whirled his massive bulk with terrifying swiftness and set off back down the hall from whence they had come, leaving Stoutknife to look after him, puzzled.
Soon, the quiet of the Lair was broken by the loud chattering growl of a diesel engine, and his host reappeared.
"There, now we'll have enough power to run the CNC!"
The goblin in the room frowned. "Am I to understand that you are running this setup off a diesel welder?"
Harry nodded. "It's got a supplementary power takeoff so it can serve as a generator, too."
"I see," Stoutknife said, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. "That was the one next to the entrance?"
Harry nodded.
"That will not provide anywhere near enough power to actually push this equipment through its paces," the machinist judged. "Nor will it let you run any of your manual machinery while the CNC is working. There simply isn't enough power."
His host cocked a scaly eyebrow curiously, "Really? I got it working fine before."
"For engraving, possibly," Stoutknife allowed. "I assume the workpiece was light?"
The dragon nodded.
"Anything large enough to take full advantage of this machine will be a much greater draw on the power system," he explained. "Deep cuts to make injection molds will be particularly draining. Not to mention a full machine shop will have many machines running at once, both automated and manual. This setup will not work as you wish it to."
"Well, what should we do?" Harry asked, concerned.
"You will either need to arrange for more power at this facility, or we will need to move the equipment elsewhere, Mr. Potter," the machinist explained.
"Well, I kinda don't want to move this stuff too far from the Lair. How much power do we need?" the dragon asked, looking around speculatively. "If I can figure out how to tie it in properly, I could get another of the welder generators."
Stoutknife shook his head. "You would need at least a dozen, or a substantial tie into the electrical grid."
"Huh," Harry grunted, a thoughtful frown on his massive face.
As his host gave the situation some thought, Stoutknife occupied himself with examining the facilities the Great Wyrm of Hogwarts had managed to assemble. It was a fair spread. There was, of course, the behemoth CNC that dominated the room, and there was the collection of ancillary equipment that was in many cases still halfway wrapped in its packing material; presumably the recent order Flame-Eye had mentioned. However, Stoutknife was pleasantly surprised to see a fair collection of well used hand tools as well.
The machinist picked up a small needle file, brushing off the steel filings as he did so before picking up another piece that had been next to it on the bench. It was a cylindrical tool steel blank, filed into shape and then hardened in the shop, judging by the discoloration near the filed end. The boy had made a custom marking die, decent work, too. He looked at a few of the work pieces nearby, including a number of scraps of artfully shaped steel, looking like bare branches or possibly antlers, some even inlaid with gold foil or wire.
Flame-Eye had given no indication the boy was interested in the more artistic side of the craft, but it would be some time before the shop would really be ready for proper use; perhaps this would be something to teach in the meantime. His musings were interrupted by the dragon in the room.
"Um, I think I'm going to need to check with Mr. Slackhammer on what my options are for the workshop," Harry said. "Is there anything we can work on in the meantime? I mean, the equipment will sort of work, right?"
"It will work well enough to teach, yes," Stoutknife agreed. "Though we will not be able to properly demonstrate. We could also unpack and set up one of the manual machines, though that would likely occupy this lesson in full. However, looking at some of your other work," he gestured to the bench next to him. "Perhaps there is something more I could teach you in the meantime."
The young dragon, who had begun to frown at the delay, perked up curiously at the suggestion. "What did you have in mind, Mr. Stoutknife?"
"I see you have been doing some rather intricate decorative metalwork here using hand tools," the goblin began. "How would you like to further those skills?"
"You mean my rune carving?" Harry asked. "I guess that was pretty neat; what would we be making next?"
"Such skills have any number of applications, but I had thought to instruct you in one of my own hobbies, one which brings together a wide variety of skills."
A scaly brow rose in question.
"How would you like to learn to make jewelry, Mr. Potter?"
4.2.9 Snowy landscapes
The forested slopes of the Italian Alps, drenched in bright late-morning sunlight glinting off the white blanket of winter snow, spread out before him as Frank sipped at his morning coffee. He had just finished canvassing the small magical village of Ghesio, near what the non-magical world recognized as the Swiss border, and the private eye was catching some breakfast before he moved on. To that end, he'd stopped by the only business even loosely resembling a restaurant in the entire town, the town bakery, which in addition to baking the bread that fed the entire population, sported two café tables by the front window.
He had to admit, the food was good, but it paled in comparison to the view.
A small hamlet of perhaps twenty buildings built of the native grey gneiss and perched on a steep hillside, Ghesio was considered an uninhabited and unremarkable ruin on the non-magical side of things. Even on the wizarding side of things it was about as remote and basic as towns got, one of those remote retreats where people moved to when they wanted to get away from it all.
Aside from the usual concealment wards, the buildings were almost entirely non-magical in construction; the population was small enough that the inhabitants hadn't bothered with an expanded space to hide the town. It was easier to simply hide behind a basic illusion and aversion wards despite being only a few hundred yards of steep alpine ridge away from the closest part of the Italian road system. The remote location — on the magical side of things, anyway — was accessible only through a single common floo connection. Ghesio was about as close as the magical world got to the hinterlands, short of living as a completely isolated hermit, anyway.
In hindsight, Frank wished he'd moved here with Betty right after school. Between the single approach by magical transportation and the small population in which strangers stood out like a sore thumb, her kidnapping likely never would have taken place, and they'd probably have been happily working on their second child by now.
It would have been more than worth the hassle of growing his own food and dealing with the local wildlife... which brought him to the reason for his visit.
The tiny village boasted only two claims to fame: the wonderful alpine scenery and the fact that it served as the setting for Gilderoy Lockhart's Holidays with Hags. The book recounted the tale of a hag which had taken up residence in the surrounding woods and lured off several of the village children, eating them before it had finally been dispatched, purportedly by Lockhart.
The existence of the man-eating spirit that normally masqueraded as an exceptionally ugly woman had been easy enough for Frank to verify; the monster had left more than enough evidence behind. Several of the locals had been willing to tell the story of the event, and one had even led him to view the burned-out ruins of the rude hut the hag had built out in the woods. The grand tour had concluded with a solemn visit to the empty graves of the lost children.
It was a tragic story which warranted retelling on its own merits, but the tour had also brought him in contact with every local witness to the story; close enough contact that he could get in a good feel for the situation, which was rather critical for Frank's investigation.
Mental magics were a wooly sort of field, highly subjective and more of an artistic performance than well-documented procedure. Detection methods were no different, tending to rely heavily on the caster's subjective interpretation, and according to the books Frank had learned from, every caster did things differently. As such, the entire field tended to sit rather poorly with the private investigator. That sort of irreducible subjectivity made pinning down a solid chain of evidence an absolute nightmare.
Still, as with most of the skills he had developed over the years, this one too had been necessary to learn for the job. Without the spells, he'd never have had an inkling of the extent of Betty's mental shackles, and that failing would have seen both him and Betty dead years ago in an ill-advised rescue attempt. Now, those same skills had proven their worth once more.
If Frank were to describe the returns from his diagnostic spells, he would say it was like running a finger over a smooth surface and feeling for seams, places where something had been changed and then put back in not quite the right place. A normal mind which had not been subjected to any sort of mental manipulation was like a plate-glass window, smooth and unbroken.
These witnesses were more like a cracked tile, two different glass-smooth surfaces almost but not quite perfectly aligned, the minute difference in elevation invisible but clearly felt by the fingertips. The changes were small, localized, and almost perfectly blended into the surroundings.
They were a far cry from the utter mess that had been made of Betty's mind, which felt more like chunks of broken concrete bound together with baling wire.
Frank was far from an expert. He had no way to determine the true story of what had transpired here from the traces he sensed, and his abilities with mental magics began and ended with detecting the evidence of their use. However, he could confirm that they had been used here, and he could confirm that magics leaving almost identical traces had been used on witnesses at every other location appearing in Lockhart's novels.
Additionally, he could confidently hypothesize that whoever had been responsible for tampering with these witnesses had been orders of magnitude more skilled than the butchers who had worked over his fiancée... which fit rather well with the Lockhart hypothesis, given his public history with the obliviators.
That said, the evidence was circumstantial at best.
Frank had no way to know what those magics were or who had cast them. It might have been Lockhart using memory charms to conceal some wrongdoing of his, but it could just as well have been him casting cheering charms to help the community get back on its feet. For that matter, it might not have been Lockhart at all. Mental charms were hardly unusual in the magical world; though the consistency across all the locations was a strong argument against that hypothesis.
Of course, given what he'd started with, even circumstantial evidence was more than he'd really expected, and the situation revealed was one dubious enough that his employer ought to be pleased. Consistent signs of mental manipulation at the site of every one of his exploits seemed decidedly suspicious to Frank, but it was far from strong enough to hold up in court. At least, it was far from strong enough to hold up in a court that hadn't decided the verdict beforehand. Those were still a distinct danger in wizarding Britain, if a much less common one than they were even ten years ago.
The results were less than satisfying to his professional pride, but Frank had to admit, it was probably the best he could hope to get.
Finishing off his coffee and taking one last lingering look at the glorious view, Frank stood, leaving a few coins to pay for his meal on the table, the owners were still busy with their morning baking. He then set out for the local floo connection, a covered firepit in the central piazza barely twenty yards from where he had been eating. On the way, he waved back absently to a few of the friendly locals he'd met over the past few days.
He had a report to write and an anonymous tip to forward to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Frank nodded to himself as he picked his way across the snow-covered stone of the town square. The evidence wasn't enough on its own, but if there was something fishy going on, Frank figured it might be a useful lead for the official investigator-types. And…
Green fire flashed signaling the first leg of his trip back to London, and a few moments later Frank sighed as he came to a stop at the next town.
...and as much as he disliked the circumstances, a DMLE investigation into Lockhart would fit well with his client's intentions.
At least he'd earned his dirty money this time... and it had brought him about ten steps closer to his endgame with Betty's situation.
That made it an occasion well worth a celebratory coffee, in Frank's estimation.
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