Harry Potter

[davywavy]

For daegaer, cygny and many others who like this sort of thing.

Although I don't post as much as what I used to, sometimes the enormous house-shaped brain that is Davy Towers still kicks out some creativity from time to time...

With less than a week to go until the next Harry Potter book hits the shelves, excitement is running high.and it is with some trepidation therefore that I can announce that a manuscript has fallen into my hands which, at a cursory glance, appears to be the opening chapters of the long-awaited sixth book of the junior wizard's adventures!

Without further ado, might I present Harry Potter and the Last Request*

Or, perhaps more accurately,


Harry Potter and the Last Request


Adele: Will poor Harry be stuck at the Dursleys' all next summer?
JK Rowling replies -> Not all summer, no. In fact, he has the shortest stay in Privet Drive so far.
J.K. Rowling's World Book Day Chat: March 4, 2004


On a hot day in late July, a teenage boy wandered slowly through the rooms of an empty house in the middle of London. Outside in the square, the summer sun shone brightly, but its rays seemed too weak to penetrate the ancient, cobweb-smeared glass of the long, narrow windows. Moth-eaten tapestries shrouded the walls. A soft powdering of dust lay over everything, stirring briefly into dancing motes when the boy scuffed his trainers across the floor. Distantly the rumble of traffic could be heard from the street.
Harry knew it was reckless of him to have come back to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. After all, his godfather, Sirius Black, was dead. Harry had witnessed the murder with his own eyes, earlier on that summer. And although the Ministry of Magic now seemed, at last, to be taking the return of Lord Voldemort seriously, Harry knew there were Death Eaters at large who had tried to kill him before and wouldn’t hesitate to try again, if they could.
“But I had to get away,” he muttered. “Sirius would understand.”
Things had been more than usually unbearable at Number 4 Privet Drive that summer, coming to a head one morning when an official-looking owl had swooped in over the breakfast table, making Harry’s vast cousin Dudley choke violently on his expensive, high-protein cereal until both his parents had pummelled him hard on the back. Usually Harry would have joined in with gusto, but his attention had been riveted on the letter dropped on his plate. It was from Messrs Scrimshaw and Deedes, solicitors, of Number 101 Diagon Alley, and in dry legal language it begged to inform Mr Harry Potter that he was the sole legatee of their client, the late Sirius Black, Esq. Sirius had bequeathed to Harry in his will the house at Grimmauld Place, and his entire fortune.
Harry remembered staring at the letter in disbelief. What he’d wanted to do was jump on his broomstick there and then and fly down to London in broad daylight. What he actually did was to slip out of the kitchen while both Dursley parents were still ministering to the wheezing Dudley, nip round the corner and borrow twenty pounds from Mrs Figg. Then he made his way to London on the ordinary Muggle train, collected the key (which didn’t look like a key at all, but a twisting silver serpent that wriggled into a knothole in the door) from the solicitors’ office in Diagon Alley, and now here he was.
He knew he was taking a risk in leaving Privet Drive, because Professor Dumbledore had explained to him the previous term that his family home gave him powerful magical protection against the Dark Lord, Voldemort. But as the summer dragged on, Harry had felt more and more as if he was trapped in a prison. The walls of the Dursley household seemed to shut him in – Harry’s dingy little bedroom, with the duvet he’d outgrown and Hedwig hooting fretfully in her cage – the not-too-distant drone of Aunt Petunia hoovering the lounge, while out on the neat gravel drive Uncle Vernon washed his new company car for the umpteenth time – the hulking, bored presence of Dudley – the tidy grid of streets that was Little Whinging – how Harry had longed for the wild moors beyond Hogwarts, or the cheerful chaos of his friend Ron Weasley’s house.
Sirius, Harry reckoned, had left him Grimmauld Place in his will for a reason, and Harry thought he knew what it was. The house was a place to escape to. It was somewhere private and magical where Harry could be on his own and think. After all, Sirius had been held in the wizard prison, Azkaban, for twelve years, so he would have understood better than most people what it was like to feel trapped.
“And besides,” Harry added aloud to himself, as he wandered from room to room, “Sirius said his father had put a lot of wizard defences on this house. And Dumbledore’s the Secret-Keeper. I mean you can’t get much safer than that. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be as well-protected here as stuck in Privet Drive.”
But as he said it, he thought he heard a high, tittering laugh from one of the picture-frames, quickly smothered. Harry gripped his wand tighter. Although the Order of the Phoenix, along with Harry’s friends, had spent months cleaning the house earlier that year, it had been the residence of an ancient family of Dark wizards for centuries, and Harry knew it was likely that traces of evil still lurked in forgotten corners.
He pushed open the study door, telling himself not to be so pathetic. After all, he reasoned, he had his wand with him, the wand that had already overcome Voldemort’s power once before. “And what’s more,” he thought, “with any luck I’ve got through most of my OWLs, and can start studying to be an Auror. And after that, I’ll be more or expected to go out and face the forces of evil, it’ll be my job…”
Still, there had been something rather unpleasant and not quite sane about that laugh. Even though it was July outside, Harry shivered as he stepped into the room.
“Hi there, Harry,” a voice said, quite near his ear.
Harry spun round with a yelp, wand at the ready. There was nobody there.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” the voice went on, cheerfully. “You don’t look that much older, I must say. Perhaps I should find that worrying. No, actually I don’t see why I should.”
A ghost? One of Voldemort’s servants? Someone wearing an Invisibility Cloak?
“Who’s that? Harry demanded.
He levelled his wand at the place the voice had seemed to come from. “Show yourself! Er … Apparate!”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” said the voice, and for the first time, Harry realised that it had a very familiar ring to it. He lowered his wand again, frowning. “Sirius?” he said in disbelief.
“Over here! In the painting.”
Blinking, Harry crossed to a picture on the wall and looked at it more closely. It showed a square within a foreign-looking city. The buildings were all very tall and old, with wrought-iron balconies and dusty shutters closed against the bright sunshine. Massive colonnades shaded a cool mosaic floor, where café tables were set out away from the sun. Harry’s godfather sat wearing dark glasses and a new leather jacket and drinking a beer. He waved.
“Sirius!” Harry exclaimed joyfully.
“About time too,” said Sirius. He knocked back the rest of his beer and signalled the waiter for another. “I’ve been skulking around as Snuffles ever since the spell was unlocked. Thought you’d never get here. I’d been asleep in that picture with all the wolfhounds by the fire, you know. They don’t mind me, and nobody ever bothers to count them. But if my mother finds out I’m around, there’ll be hell to pay. You haven’t uncovered the old bat, I hope?”
Mrs Black’s portrait hung in the hall, and Harry knew from experience that it would shriek non-stop at anyone stupid enough to pull back its curtain.
“No!” He shook his head vigorously. “No way. Course not.” He gazed wonderingly into the picture. “Oh, wow. Sirius. This is so brilliant. I can’t believe you’ve been in here all the time. I’ve really missed you.” Something in what his godfather’s painting had just said nagged at his brain. “Hold on a minute, though,” he added, “what do you mean, ‘the spell was unlocked’?”
“The key, you idiot,” said Sirius good-naturedly.
Harry took the snake-like key out of his pocket and looked at it. “I got this from Scrimshaw and Deedes,” he said. “It opens the front door.”
Sirius ran an exasperated hand through his black hair. “Yes, I know that,” he said. “I gave it to them when I wrote my will. But it also unlocks the spell I had put on my picture. Don’t you see? Unless that spell was unlocked, I wouldn’t wake up; unless someone used that key, the spell wouldn’t unlock the picture; the only person who could get to that key was you; and the only way you could have got that key was if I was –“
“Dead,” said Harry. “Yes, I see. I mean, yes, you are.” He looked the key again, then back at Sirius. There was a pause. “Er, I’m sorry,” said Harry. “About you being dead, I mean.” He felt weird saying it, as if it wasn’t true.
“Don’t worry,” Sirius said. “It’s not me, you know – well, what I mean is, it was me, but this isn’t me – I mean I don’t feel dead, if you see what I mean.” He looked anxious. “Did I die – you know –“
“Bravely?” said Harry. Sirius nodded. “Too right you did. You were a hero, Sirius. You saved my life.”
“Did I take out lots of Death Eaters?”
“Yeah, loads,” Harry assured him, “they were going down left right and centre.”
“Excellent!” said Sirius happily. “Couldn’t have asked for more.” He looked hopefully at Harry. “Er, you wouldn’t – would you much mind telling me a bit more about what happened?”
“Course not,” Harry said, and realised, to his surprise, that it was true. As he related the events at the Ministry of Magic and watched Sirius’s reactions (“Bella Lestrange! I might have known it, she’s a nasty piece of work!” “I wondered how long it would be before the Malfoys showed their true colours,” and finally, as Harry recounted the battle with Dumbledore, “Ha! Didn’t we always say, Harry, he’s the only wizard Voldemort ever feared?”) Harry found that for the first time he was able to talk about the horrible events at the end of the last summer without feeling as if his insides were being twisted out of shape. Particularly as Sirius was so obviously chuffed with the spectacularly heroic death he had made. “It would have been better if I’d taken out Voldemort, of course,” he said regretfully, “but, let’s face it, that was never going to happen – not after your father didn’t pull it off, I mean, Harry. Still, all the same, it sounds as if I made a pretty good showing, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah. Like I said. You were amazing.”
“A bit more use than old Snivellus, I bet! Ha!”
“Never mind about that,” said Harry. He felt he didn’t want to be drawn into old enmities, even by a picture. “When did you have the painting done?”
“Couple of months ago. I got bored. Came up with this fantastic idea, but couldn’t see how I could ever put it into practice, what with being practically under house arrest the whole time.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed eagerly. “I felt like that at the Dursleys.”
Sirius nodded in sympathy. “Well,” he said, “at first I thought, forget it, we’ve all got more important things to think about right now. Order of the Phoenix and all that. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was such a …” he smiled ruefully … “such a good idea. And finally, I thought, well, why not entrust the idea to a picture of me, and then if anything happen, I can always pass it on to you. Sort of like a legacy. Or a last request,” Sirius added thoughtfully. “Like … if I died, would you promise to carry it through?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Harry. “You know I would, Sirius. Is it something to do with Voldemort?”
Sirius looked a bit shifty.
“Er, well, not exactly,” he admitted.
There was a pause. The waiter arrived with another beer for Sirius. He drank, and wiped the froth from round his mouth.
“Well?” said Harry.
Sirius took off his dark glasses and fixed Harry with his eyes. “Harry,” he said, “take a look round this picture. Do you know where it is? The place, I mean?”
Harry looked at the painting. The city buildings looked foreign, dusty and hot. Parasols over the café tables advertised Cinzano. “I dunno …” The Dursleys had never taken him on holiday, in case he started enjoying himself. “Italy? The South of France?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Not bad,” he allowed. “Italy. To be precise, the city of Turin. The major industrial wizarding capital of Northern Italy. Some of the top racing brooms in the world are made just down the road from here.”
“Yeah?” said Harry, with interest. “Cenerentolas? Nine Thousand Series?”
“That’s right. Every week,” Sirius went on, “an armed convoy leaves the Cenerentola broom works on the outskirts of the city, carrying a large amount of currency, but never less than one million Galleons.”
“Wow,” said Harry, impressed. The prize for the Triwizard Tournament had been one thousand Galleons, which had seemed like a fortune at the time. Harry couldn’t imagine what a million Galleons must look like. “Must be a big target for thieves and things.”
“Yeah,” Sirius agreed, nodding meaningfully.
Harry felt puzzled.
“Well, that’s the plan, Harry!” Sirius said. “We rob the convoy, of course!”
“Rob it?”
“Yup,” Sirius said proudly. “Rob it. Knock it off. Biggest wizard theft of the century.”
Harry felt as if he could hardly believe his ears. He stared at his godfather’s beaming picture.
“You’re barking!”
“Bow, wow,” quipped Sirius.
“Barking mad,” said Harry irascibly. “We can’t rob an armed convoy!”
“Of course you can! I’ve worked out all the details. They’re all in here.” Sirius tapped his head. “In two hours, you would be over the border and into Switzerland. In less than three hours, the Galleons would be safe in the vaults of the Banco di Gringotti. Nothing can go wrong. It’s a brilliant plan. It would be criminal not to go ahead with it.”
Harry thought about this. “No it wouldn’t,” he said.
Sirius looked hurt. “You promised,” he pointed out. “Just now! You said you’d do it.”
“But that was before I knew what you wanted to do!”
Sirius took a drink of beer. “Surely, Harry,” he suggested, in pained tones, “you wouldn’t betray your promise to a dead man?”
Harry frowned. Put that way, he realised, it did sound mean-spirited – even dishonourable. Somewhere he felt there was something wrong with his godfather’s reasoning, but he just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He stared incredulously at Sirius. “But – robbery? That’s against the wizarding law! Surely you can’t be serious?”
“I am Sirius,” chortled Sirius, “and don’t call me Shirley! Get it? Don’t call me Shirley! Ha! Ha! I’ve been waiting nearly sixteen years to make that joke.”
“Very funny,” said Harry sourly.
“Well, crikey, I’m only trying to cheer you up,” said Sirius. “Honest, to look at us both, you’d think you were the dead one here. Harry! Harry! Just think of it! What a memorial to the Marauders! A city in chaos! A million Galleons spirited out under the noses of the Italian wizarding police through the only hex-free route in the city! Harry, you have to do it! It is a work of genius!” Sirius leaned forward in the frame. “Do it for me, Harry,” he entreated.
Harry shook his head.
Sirius sighed heavily.
“How things change in your family,” he lamented. “James would have been up for it, straight off, no question.”
“That’s not fair,” said Harry crossly. “Anyway, things were different when my Dad was at Hogwarts. You had more freedom to do mad things. It’s different now. Voldemort’s on the loose again and gaining power … loads of people are dead, er, including you … the Ministry of Magic is clamping down … I’ve got my OWL results coming out in a week or so …” Harry’s voice trailed off feebly. Sirius was looking at him imploringly with his big doggy eyes. “And anyhow,” said Harry determinedly, “even if we did try to do a robbery, none of us have got the money. Even this house, Grimmauld Place, is being kept in trust for me until after I leave school – I know, ‘cos I checked with your lawyers. And we’d need fast brooms, backup, spell ingredients, some sort of getaway …”
Sirius nodded. “Yes, I thought of that,” he said. “You’ll have to get someone to bankroll the job for you. Someone with a lot of money, influence, and no moral rectitude whatsoever.” He grinned at Harry. “Fortunately, however,” he remarked, “I know just the man.”

*

The Governor of Azkaban was unusually urbane for a Dementor, but in the short time since his latest prisoner had arrived, he was already starting to dread the peremptory rap on his office door which meant that, yet again, his hankering for a quiet life was to be rudely thrust aside.
“Mr Malfoy, sir,” the guard announced unnecessarily, as a tall, pale-haired man swept in, his arrowed prison robes billowing in his wake in what the Governor felt vaguely to be an inappropriately regal manner.
The Governor indicated a chair with a half-hearted wave of his scaly hand.
“Mr Governor,” Malfoy began, without waiting to be invited to speak, “I wish to make a complaint.”
The Governor nodded wearily; he had assumed as much.
“In this country,” went on Malfoy, “I had always supposed – call me old-fashioned if you will – but I had always supposed it to be an inviolate rule that an Englishman’s home is his castle. And for the duration that Azkaban is to serve as my home, I expect those selfsame standards to apply. The walls and wards of Azkaban are not only there to keep people in, Governor. They are also there to keep people out. It is,” said Malfoy, warming to his subject, “a sad indictment of the slipshod standards of management and general moral decline of this country when a supposedly top-security prison can be breached with an ease that poses questions not only about the safety of its inmates, but also about their long-term health and,” he added ominously, “regularity.”
The Governor made a noise that might have been “Yes, yes.”
“Earlier today,” Malfoy pursued, “I was disturbed by a man in my toilet.”
The Governor was startled.
“Your toilet?” he echoed. Lucius Malfoy, he remembered, had upon his arrival at Azkaban secured the privileges of a large private bathroom complete with baronial hearth. Money, he supposed, had changed hands. He struggled to collect his thoughts. “Er … do you mean like Moaning Myrtle?” he ventured. “Because although, naturally, we take all reasonable steps to have the prison exorcised regularly –“
“It was not a ghost, Mr Governor,” said Malfoy impatiently. “Do you imagine I am incapable of recognising a ghost?”
The Governor made soothing noises.
“I was performing my ablutions in the normal way when I was interrupted by the apparition of a man’s head in the fireplace. Clearly the internal Floo network had been breached. One had hoped that Azkaban was immune to juvenile hacking of this kind, but clearly that is not the case. The shock to my system was, as you may imagine, considerable.”
“Indeed, indeed,” the Governor murmured. He looked hopefully across at Malfoy, who seemed to be waiting for something further. “I am very sorry, Mr Malfoy,” he offered. “You have my sincere undertaking that I shall do my utmost to ensure that it does not happen again.”
Malfoy made a slight, mollified nod. He rose to his feet.
“Oh, and ah … Mr Malfoy?”
“Yes?”
“Did you … by any chance … happen to … recognise … the man who so rudely interrupted you?”
Malfoy gave the Governor a level stare.
“I have never seen him before in my life,” he declared.
The Azkaban guards kept a respectful distance from Malfoy as he stalked out of the Governor’s office and down the corridor towards his own cell. A small figure appeared from the shadows and trotted obsequiously after him; it was Kreacher, an elderly house-elf who had been rounded up in the Ministry’s recent bag of Death Eaters and their accomplices along with Malfoy himself. The elf had recently lost the only master to whom he had recognised a genuine blood tie, and now seemed to regard Lucius Malfoy as a worthy substitute; Malfoy for his part accepted the house-elf’s fealty without question or even a great deal of interest. Not turning or slowing his pace, he spoke to the elf as he strode down the corridor, Kreacher bowing and scuttling to keep up.
“Kreacher,” said Malfoy, “I want Harry Potter given a good going-over.”
“Yes, Mr Malfoy.”
“Get the word out to Camp Draco.”
“Yes, Mr Malfoy.”
“I don’t want him killed,” Malfoy said firmly, “well, obviously I do ultimately want him killed, because it is the will of the Dark Lord, but for now I just want him given a good going-over.”
“Kreacher understands what you mean, Mr Malfoy.”
“Do you, Kreacher.”
Malfoy turned to enter his cell and paused. The house elf was still hovering at his elbow – clutching a bundle of papers, he noticed.
“Yes, Kreacher. What is it?”
“The Daily Prophet, Mr Malfoy, and the Quibbler. And I’ve got you a copy of Witch Weekly as well.”
Malfoy’s pale eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “For why, Kreacher, for why?”
“There’s a picture of him in it, Mr Malfoy, sir.”
Malfoy reached reverently and took the proffered journal from the smarming elf. On the cover, a full-colour wizard photograph of Lord Voldemort glared out at readers through fiery red eyes. “HE’S BACK!” screamed the headline.
“Why, thank you, Kreacher,” said Malfoy, genuinely gratified.
He pushed open the cell door. The hundreds of photographs of Lord Voldemort that covered the stone walls inside blinked distastefully at the sudden light. Kreacher cleared his throat, grinning and shifting from one foot to the other.
“Kreacher sometimes wonders, Mr Malfoy,” he said, “whether one day you’re going to crown your career by doing a job … you know … on His place, sir.”
The Voldemorts all looked scandalised. Malfoy stared, his mood suddenly arctic. “There is more to life than petty thieving and plundering, Kreacher,” he said coldly.
He slammed the door abruptly in Kreacher’s face and turned into the cell, leafing idly through the Daily Prophet as he did so. Suddenly he stopped, drawing a sharp breath. His expression grew rigid. He turned back a page or two and read once more, with growing fury, the headline that had caught his eye:

ITALIAN BROOM-MAKERS WIN CHINESE CONTRACT
MILLION-GALLEON DEAL

“Kreacher!” shouted Mr Malfoy.
He threw down the Daily Prophet, wheeled to the door of his cell and flung it open. “KREACHER!” he yelled again, looking from left to right down the corridor.
But the house-elf was nowhere to be seen.

*

“I can always take it to the Americans,” murmured Harry sleepily. “People who recognise young talent and give it a chance.”
The hammering noise that had roused him began again. He reached an arm from his sleeping bag and fumbled for his glasses. Then he looked at his watch. It was half-past nine in the morning, the sun was streaming through the windows, and Harry was lying in a makeshift bed in Bill Weasley’s flat over the Portobello Road. From her cage on the dressing table Hedwig regarded him with a yellow, unblinking stare. The hammering stopped. Then it started again.
“Yes, all right, all right,” mumbled Harry, swinging his feet out of bed. A note on the table caught his eye.

Harry,
Fleur and I have gone down to the market to track down a book on Substitutiary Locomotion Charms that Dad thinks may have fallen into Muggle hands. Make yourself at home, bread and coffee in fridge. Back later,

Bill

Harry shook his head. The hammering at the door was growing insistent. It sounded as if someone was pounding on the timber panels with huge fists. He stumbled across the room, tripping over Bill’s Egyptian tomb souvenirs and Fleur’s discarded lingerie, inconveniently distracting to his fifteen-year-old-mind. “OK, OK, keep your hair on. I’m coming.”
BANG!
With a flash of green fire the door flew off its hinges and smashed to the floor. Framed in the smoky doorway stood three figures. Too late, Harry recognised Camp Draco, son and right-hand man of Lucius Malfoy, flanked by the usual duo of heavies, Crabbe and Goyle. He looked wildly about for his wand – where had he put it down last night?
“My father’s not very happy with you, Potter,” Camp Draco announced.
Crabbe and Goyle snickered approvingly, while their hands slowly curled into massive, club-like fists.
“Listen, Camp Draco,” began Harry, “I can explain …”
“Nothing personal, you understand,” Camp Draco added insincerely.
Harry backed away – where was his wand? – as the three intruders moved forwards over the threshold and into the room, Camp Draco looking round as he did so with his usual air of faint distaste. Harry took another step or so back. His hand brushed the edge of a table behind him. He attempted a winning smile.
“You wouldn’t hit a fellow wearing glasses, now would you?” he said.
“You’re right,” said Camp Draco. “Take ‘em off.”
Harry half-turned, raising his hand to his glasses as if to remove them. Glancing over his shoulder, he felt a surge of relief. There lay his wand, as he’d thought, on the table directly behind him. He snatched it up, whipping round. Pointing at Camp Draco, he yelled “Expelliarmus!” Sparks shot from the wand. Camp Draco was blasted clean off his feet and flew across the room to thud into a large toy Blood-sucking Bugbear that Bill had won for Fleur at a fair. It came jerkily to life, growling and moving its fur-fabric paws to clamp round Camp Draco’s throat.
“Aaaargh!” choked Camp Draco, struggling wildly. “Get it off me!”
Crabbe and Goyle looked stupidly from Camp Draco to Harry, then back.
“Not both of you!” wheezed Camp Draco. “Crabbe … here … you help me … Goyle, you see to Potter.”
Goyle turned back. Meanwhile Harry had taken the opportunity to nip round the other side of the table, putting it between himself and Goyle. He grinned, levelling his wand. “Think again, gorilla features.”
With a maddened roar Goyle launched his huge frame bodily at the table. It smashed into Harry, catching him full in the stomach. Harry tottered back with a gasp of pain … he staggered … his foot skidded on a small scarab under the table … he clutched at the table, lost his balance and crashed to the floor … his glasses were askew … his wand had slipped from his fingers …
Dazed, Harry hauled himself up on an elbow and shoved his glasses straight again on his nose. His wand was lying about four feet to his right, near a large pile of Fleur’s high-heeled shoes. He reached out …
… A loaf-sized foot came down in front of his nose and planted itself solidly on the wand. Harry looked up. Then he wished he hadn’t. Leering down at him from what seemed like a great height was the ugly face of Goyle. Harry’s eyes flicked uselessly to the wand protruding from under Goyle’s vast foot. He looked up again. Goyle grinned. Harry felt his body grow tense. He tried to edge backward. Goyle drew back his massive fist like a steam hammer raising itself to strike.
“All right, that’s enough.”
Slowly Goyle turned his head. Camp Draco crossed the room, rubbing at the pink marks on his neck where the Bugbear had tried to throttle him. In his other head he held a piece of parchment. Behind him, Harry could see a grey prison owl perched importantly on the wreckage of the Bugbear.
“Looks like you’re in luck, Potter,” said Camp Draco, and there was no mistaking the disappointment in his voice. “My father’s changed his mind. He’s very worried about the balance of payments. You’re to go ahead with the job after all.”

*

A few days later, Lucius Malfoy was permitted out of prison for an afternoon to visit the dentist. Naturally there was no way that Mr Malfoy would ever have allowed a Muggle dentist within actual reach of his teeth, so instead, he and Mr Granger made up a foursome at cards with their offspring, Hermione and Camp Draco, while Camp Draco outlined the scheme for the robbery from his notes.
“Potter’s plan has everything going for it,” he conceded. “There’s an international Quidditch match in Turin that weekend, England versus Italy, which means that the city will be full of England supporters. Potter’s mob should fit right in.”
“Ah,” said Lucius Malfoy. His pale hand hovered thoughtfully over his remaining cards. The Queens of Spades in Mr Granger’s hand let out a tiny shriek.
“Not the king!”
Mr Malfoy smiled slightly. He drew out the eight of spades and laid it, with careful deliberation, face up on the table. The Queen of Spades stuck her tongue out Mr Granger as he glumly took the trick.
Hermione looked disapproving.
“I think you ought at least to have a routine de-scaling while you’re here, Mr Malfoy.”
“Malfoys all have perfect teeth,” Mr Malfoy said smoothly. “Veela genes. Another game, Mr Granger? Same stakes?”
Hermione’s father nodded unhappily.
“Deal the cards, Camp Draco.”
Camp Draco took the pack from his father and riffled it expertly, showing his perfect Malfoy teeth at Hermione in a brief, triumphant grin.
“There’s only one snag,” Mr Malfoy went on. “In order to get out of Turin, we need an expert on hexing. Someone to look after the technical side. Camp Draco, who’s the top hexing man in this country?”
Camp Draco opened his mouth. He looked at his father. “I, er …” he said doubtfully.
“The greatest authority on hexing in recent times,” Hermione told them both, “was Professor Phineas Nigellus, head of Slytherin House and sometime headmaster of Hogwarts. His researches are universally acknowledged to be the most brilliant and groundbreaking work of their day, and although he always refused to teach classes below NEWT level, his lecture notes on the subject are still recognised as the classic texts.”
“Really,” said Mr Malfoy in a tone of faint boredom. “What a veritable mine of information your little Mudblood friend is, Camp Draco, to be sure.”
Hermione gazed at him defiantly. “I expect to take straight ‘O’s in all my OWLs,” she said, “unlike some people.”
“All of them! Really?”
Hermione faltered.
“Maybe only an ‘E’ in Defence against the Dark Arts, it’s my worst subject.”
To her fury Mr Malfoy looked amused. “I see. So you have an Achilles heel, my dear. How mortifying that must be for you.”
“Yes, but Father,” put in Camp Draco. “We can’t use Phineas Nigellus, he’s dead. I remember that bit from History of Magic.”
Hermione made a satisfied face at Mr Malfoy, who sighed. “Yes, I will admit, it is sometimes a trial to be reminded that one has sired an idiot son. Camp Draco, how many times must I tell you, death is not necessarily an obstacle when it comes to enlisting allies. As a former Headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Nigellus will undoubtedly have his portrait hung in the Headmaster’s study, and I know of at least one other in existence. He was some kind of relative of your mother’s, I believe. There’s a likeness in the old Black House at Grimmauld Place, and since Potter owns it now, that is undoubtedly a more convenient state of affairs for our purposes than if you were to be required to break into Albus Dumbledore’s inner sanctum.”
“Suppose so,” said Camp Draco sulkily. “But anyway, how do you know the Professor will join us? Maybe he’s not bent.”
“Camp Draco, everyone’s bent. Tell Potter to keep his eyes open. Letters, whips, chains, Madame Ashtarte’s Self-Tightening Underwear, there must be something around.”
“That’s right,” said Hermione. “I mean, come on, let’s face it, he was in Slytherin. How normal can he be?”

*

But in the end Professor Nigellus’s shipping tastes were not hard to uncover. An afternoon’s research in the Black family library turned up a privately printed volume entitled Memoirs, which told them far, far more than they felt they had needed to know. For the first time Harry and Ron realised where the Fat Lady had been during her occasional absences from the door to the Griffindor common room.
“I can’t believe they made him Headmaster,” Hermione said disapprovingly.
Camp Draco, however, was more sanguine.
“What a stroke of luck. We’ve got loads of paintings of fat birds up at the Manor. Nobody ever looks at them. Come on, Potter, you can help me shift one down to London.”
When they unveiled the picture of the ample nymph they had selected, the Professor’s eyes gleamed from out of his portrait. Quickly Harry and Camp Draco outlined the part they had in store for him to play in Turin.
“Are they … big, those Italian women?” Phineas Nigellus wanted to know.
“Enormous,” Camp Draco assured him.
“I like ‘em big,” said the Professor.
Harry and Ron thought of the appallingly candid Memoirs and nodded in numb unison. The Professor tugged speculatively at his beard. Over her generous pink shoulder the nymph caught his eye and winked at him.
“I’ll do it,” he decided.
A few days later, Harry held a meeting in the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Round the big table sat everyone who would be involved in the robbery, plus Hermione, who was taking the minutes. Ron had ordered in a keg of Butterbeer, and an atmosphere of pleasurable anticipation prevailed.
“All right, “ said Harry, when he had called the meeting to order. “Gentlemen, we are about to do a job in Italy. Before we get down to the particulars, I would like to introduce you to each other.”
He gestured to the gangly red-haired teenager seated to his left.
“First, Ron Weasley, who will be in charge of transport. Ron will be my second-in-command, so if anything happens to me, Ron, you’ll be taking over.”
Ron swallowed hard and nodded.
“Next to him we have Camp Draco, whose father Lucius Malfoy is providing the funds for the operation. I think you all know Mr Malfoy.” Ron looked mutinous. “Now I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but if the job is going to be a success, I think we’ve all got to bear in mind what the Sorting Hat said at the start of last year, and work together. Is that clear?” Harry looked round the table. “I said, is that clear?”
There were reluctant murmurs of “yeah,” and “okay.” Camp Draco leaned back, smirking, in his chair.
“Right. Next, the getaway. Let me introduce the lads who’ll be doing the flying. Fred, George and Lee.” The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan rose to their feet and bowed.
“Hello, chaps,” Fred Weasley said brightly.
Ron made a wordless moaning noise.
“All right, Ron, that’ll do,” said Harry. “Just be nice to them. Remember, these three chinless wonders are going to get you out of Turin faster than anything on a broomstick.”
Ron stared at Harry as if he thought he had gone mad. “In one piece?” he demanded.
“Yeah, well, we’re working on that,” Lee Jordan admitted.
Ron groaned and sunk his head between his arms. Then abruptly he looked up again. “Hold on,” he said to Lee, “what’s with this ‘we’? You’re never working for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes! The last I heard you were going for interviews as a Quidditch reporter!”
“Freelance, mate,” Lee Jordan said happily. “I’m in R & D.”
“That’s all we needed,” muttered Ron.
Harry cleared his throat. “Moving swiftly on,” he said, “we come to Professor Phineas Nigellus. The Professor is in charge of all matters relating to the hexing of the anticipated pursuit. So I don’t want any of you putting him down because he’s a man of reading. I know he’s got some funny habits, but make him feel at home.”
Everyone’s eyes went to the square of canvas propped up at the end of the table, which was blank. Dastardly cackles, delighted squeals and the meaty slapping noise of a fat woman being enthusiastically spanked could be heard from somewhere beyond the scope of the frame. Nobody spoke for a moment or two, and then Harry went on, “He’s very important to the operation. And finally, a quick introduction to the man who’ll be driving the Knight Bus, Stan Shunpike.”
“Now you really are kidding,” said Ron in a hollow voice.
Six pairs of eyes swivelled at the pimply youth in bus conductor’s robes who occupied the last remaining chair. He started slightly at the mention of his name, then looked round with a mildly vacuous expression. His jaw rotated in a slow chewing motion.
“Okay,” Harry remarked. “Right, well, I think that concludes the introductions. But, like I say, it’s not going to be easy. And the only way we can make it work is if, from now on, we all work as a team.” He looked round the table. “And that,” he added, “means everyone doing what I tell them.”
“You’re starting to sound just like Percy,” said Fred.

*

“It’s a good thing Mr Malfoy is loaded,” Ron Weasley remarked. “This must be costing him a packet.”
It was a couple of weeks later, and the gang had moved their operations down to Ottery St Catchpole to rehearse their hexes and stunt flying, prior to the big job. So far it was proving to be an expensive exercise. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan had already written off several practice brooms – deliberately, Harry suspected – and now they were meant to be testing a new spell which was supposed to remove the magical locks from the doors of the armoured security van. Knowing the twins’ propensity for downright dangerous practical jokes, Harry and Ron had retreated to a safe distance beyond the fence of the Weasleys’ paddock. A hundred yards across the turf stood a small, isolated van.
Ron nudged Harry, and repeated what he had said.
“M’mm – h’mm,” Harry agreed vaguely, watching the Two-Way Mirror he held in one hand.
At the far side of the paddock could be seen the much smaller and more distant figure of Fred Weasley speaking into his own Two-Way Mirror, while Lee Jordan consulted a large pocket-watch and counted down, waving his wand like a conductor’s baton. George Weasley stood ready to set off the charge.
“Five!” Harry called out.
Fred Weasley grinned and gave him a thumbs-up from the Two-Way Mirror.
“Four!”
“Three!”
“Two!”
“I just hope they take it seriously this time,” muttered Ron under his breath.
“One!”
There was a blinding flash and a boom like a clap of thunder. Harry and Ron were bowled clean off their feet. An enormous plume of electric blue smoke rolled a hundred feet in the air … deep echoes of the explosion rang our from the hillsides all around them … cogs and bits of twisted metal began to patter down from the sky like hailstones …
Slowly, Harry and Ron staggered upright with soot-caked faces and surveyed the wreckage in the paddock. A wide, gaping crater was smoking in the middle of the field, while at the edge, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan whooped and high-fived one another.
“Maybe purple smoke instead of blue next time,” they heard Fred Weasley saying.
“And possibly a sort of rotten haddocky smell,” Lee Jordan suggested.
“Definitely,” said George, pulling out a notebook.
“I’ve had about enough of this,” Ron said to Harry grimly.
He stuck his blackened quill behind one ear and marched out across the field. His brothers and their friend watched with friendly interest as he approached.
“Well, well,” George greeted him. “Tsk, tsk, dear oh dear, looks to me like you weren’t using one of our patent Portable Blast-Resistant Charms.” He turned to the other two. “Tell you what, guys, what say we do him a deal, seeing as he’s family? Three Sickles and a Knut for …”
George broke off in amazement as Ron snatched the Blast-Resistant Charm out of his hand, threw it to the ground and jumped up and down on it.
“You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” he howled.

Continued in next entry...



^{*An estimated 99.74553% of this post was written by sister, who is very clever but still leaves it to me to put the html metatags in.}

Comments

[mooncadet.livejournal.com]

thank you! that just killed an hour at work and i loved it - you and your sister's creative juices are much admired! im going to send it to my mum!

[daegaer.livejournal.com]

“Are they … big, those Italian women?” Phineas Nigellus wanted to know.
“Enormous,” Camp Draco assured him.
“I like ‘em big,” said the Professor.

Now, look. I was drinking a nice cup of tea while reading this. I no longer have my nice cup of tea, but my computer screen does, dammit!

Camp Draco! Hee!

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

How does one go about pimpin' to the HP fanfic people? It's not really something I know about.

[daegaer.livejournal.com]

Hmm. I've been looking for HP fic announcement communities, but most of my HP-loving flist don't seem to have such things in their info. Most of the HP communities seem to be discussion, news or pairing-specialised. So maybe you could put it up on some archives like Skyhawke or Fiction Alley. You could also try an LJ community like notsoyoungadult.

Hopefully some people on my flist will come over to read it too.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Ta!

[derien.livejournal.com]

This is much better than J.K. Rowling! (Unless of course your sister IS J.K. Rowling, in which case it's a shame she doesn't publish stuff like this.;))

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Sister is possessed of a huge brain, the lucky swine.