Chapter 17: The Leaky Cauldron
And I wonder when I sing along with you
If everything could ever be this real forever
If anything could ever be this good again
—Foo Fighters, “Everlong”
In a secret fold of the French Riviera, nestled between Marseilles and the Italian border, a rose-colored building rose from a skirt of dancing palms. At its foot sat a white slipper of beach, and though it was a beautiful spot, the neighbors often found themselves looking over it, or around it, and were incapable of holding the place in their minds for long. A few white cupolas of abandoned villas dotted the verdant hills, but aside from these, the enclave had remained untouched by human hand ever since the last brick had been laid at the nearby Cannes.
Untouched, that is, except for the two shadows that darted over the buttery smile of the sands, freewheeling like birds. High above the surf, their twins zipped through the air in gyroscopic formations, their silhouettes cut in shadow against the purple spine of the distant Alps. Their cries, more jeering than birds, echoed over the empty bowl of the sea.
“Faster! Duck! Get a move on, Malfoy, I almost took your ear off!”
“You wish! A skrewt could have dodged that. Put your back into it!”
A hard black ball soared out in a U-curve, its reflection fleeing over the glassy sea. Then it doubled back, speeding for the distant crags of the Maures, only to be diverted in its escape by a hard CRACK of a beater’s bat. It zagged out at an angle, speeding for the second boy, who cut a sharp turn to avoid losing a rib.
The sun sat high in the sky like a jewel in its cushion, and placed shallow, pitch-black shadows under each palm. Sweat glazed the bare back of each boy on broomstick. Half-buried in sand lay an enchanted speaker, which, after several hours of joint work by two third year wizards, had spitefully relented to connect to a muggle music player. A singer whose name only one of the wizards knew exhorted them to hang the deejay.
The bludger wheeled back for another run. The slighter boy drew up on his broomstick, and slicked some sweat-damp hair from his face. It had grown long that summer, and hung in flaxen coils around his neck.
“One more go?”
“If you can take it,” called Theo, flipping his bat casually in his hand.
Draco grinned. “Wouldn’t want to strain your shoulder,” he called back.
“Only thing you’re straining is my patience. Watch your six.”
Draco free-fell a few feet and caught himself, as the bludger soared over his head, rustling his hair.
“Try this one,” shouted Theo, and he gave the ball a shuddering backhand that sounded like gunfire over the open sea. The bludger veered out in a j-shaped curve, twisted by a wicked topspin, and Draco dove into a smooth arc that plunged him close to the face of the sea. The surf raced up at him like a falling brick.
With feet left in his descent, he wrenched himself out of the dive, leveling with the sand, and the bludger plunged into the surf with an explosion of sand and foam.
“Showoff!”
Draco skimmed to a halt, and then hopped off, landing with a splash in the shallows. The water encased his ankles in a welcome chill. “It’s called a Wronski Feint, Nott, and I’ve offered to show you how to do it,” he called smugly.
Theo landed with his own minor detonation of sand. “And I’ve told you, I refuse such skylarking on principle,” he called back haughtily. “It’s a seeker’s move, anyway. All show, no strategy.”
“No strategy? Isn’t your job to sit there and whack the ball at people?”
“Yours is to flit around like a priss for half the game and make one tricky catch,” said Theo, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “You’re an upjumped spectator. Don’t lecture me about tactics, some of us have to play the whole time.”
Draco went to cuff him with the end of his Nimbus, and Theo blocked him with his Starbomber, and they had a brief but passionate swordfight up the beaches, into the drawing-room of the house.
The French doors sat open, and let in a lazy tongue of hot wind. The tongue slid through the white curtains, through a menagerie of linen furniture, and snuck up the white seersucker skirts of the two women balanced delicately on the sofa, whose dark heads and twin glances of undiluted snobbery could have marked them, at a distance, for twins. But one was far older than the other, and when the boys came in, she stood up, and her smile broke through her sneer (while the other’s sneer could have served as the firmament for skyscrapers).
“Don’t you two look wonderful! Would you like some lemonade, darling? It’s so dreadfully hot, and you should drink something, after all that work. No? How about you, Theodore?”
His smile could charm a raging boarhound. “I’d love some, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Draco rolled his eyes. He hopped onto the kitchen counter and snagged a slice of peach from the charcuterie platter the cook had left; Dobby was on vacation in Fiji with some of the other Hogwarts house-elves, so they’d had to borrow Pansy’s cook.
“At least make them put on shirts,” sighed Pansy, leaning over the sofa. “It’s too hot. I can’t stand to sit here and broil while they flounce around naked.”
“Don’t complain, you know I’m fit,” said Theo, stealing another slice. “Anyway, no one’s stopping you.”
Pansy arched an eyebrow of supreme un-impressment. “Yes, and I’m sure you’d say nothing at all.”
He grinned at her. “Well, I didn’t say that.”
“Draco, Theo, try not to spoil your dinner,” Narcissa called. She carried a tray of highball glasses filled with pale gold, studded with crystals of ice. “We’re having artichokes, and I’ve sent Briselda to get some fresh apricots.”
“You needn’t worry, Mrs. Malfoy,” Pansy assured her. “I’ve seen Theo eat a whole roast chicken—”
“That was a moment of weakness, you absolute little rodent—”
“—and still take second helpings at dinner.”
Theo’s hand darted over the sofa and yanked one pigtail. “Some of us are growing boys,” he leered. “When you hit your growth spurt, sometime in the twenty-first century, you’ll understand.”
“Hey!” She reared up and smacked him on the hip. “That’s mean! I’m small-boned!”
“No squabbling,” trilled Narcissa, squeezing Draco’s shoulder as she sidled past. “Theo, Pansy is the perfect size for her age. Pansy, Theo can eat as much as he likes, and we shan’t make fun of him for it. A teenage boy needs all the food he can get his hands on.” She pinched Theo’s cheek, and he grinned widely. Draco blew a raspberry at him behind his mother’s back.
“Will you make them shower, at least?” begged Pansy. She made a production of holding her nose. “They reek of quidditch.”
“That’s the scent of boys becoming men, Pans,” announced Theo. He planted himself in front of her, arms wide. “We’re going to put Draco on the damn team if it kills us. I want everyone at Hogwarts to watch me thrash him.”
“Sod off, Nott!”
“Draco!” Narcissa pinched him, too. “Language! In front of guests!”
“Ow! Sorry, Mother.”
“Boys or men or whatever you are, it stinks,” said Pansy, poking Theo’s stomach.
“Oh, does it?” His grin grew dangerously wide.
“Yes, I — no! Stop!”
Theo collapsed on top of Pansy, who shrieked in horror and thrashed them both off the couch. They went to the floor in a tangle of arms and limbs as Theo attempted to shove Pansy’s face into his armpit while preventing her from biting him.
“Children, please!” tinkled Narcissa. “None of that! Locomotor Theodore.”
With a fluid stroke of her wand, she lifted Theo off of Pansy, and deposited him gently on the settee. “And I really must insist you do shower,” she said, mostly to Draco. “We’ll not stand on occasion at dinner, but there is a lady present, and I simply can’t conscience dining shirtless with a guest.”
“Whatever you like, Mother.” He kissed her cheek, and stealing a last slice of peach, he slung his broom over his shoulder to take upstairs.
“Do you hear that?” said Pansy loudly, sitting up. She pointed at Theo. “There’s a lady present.”
“Merlin, really?” He draped his knee over the armrest, yawning. “I thought it was just the three of us.”
Draco climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The villa had six rooms, so they each had their own, though Pansy and Theo spent so much time in his they could probably claim squatter’s rights. Pansy’s sand-encrusted bathing suit dangled, drying, from his doorknob, and Theo’s broom kit lay open near the dresser, beside Draco’s overflowing trunk and set of quidditch balls.
His mother had asked him if he hadn’t any friends he’d like to invite with them on vacation. He’d thought it was a rather more abstract idea at the time, and suggested them absently, as people of whom she might approve; if he’d known she was serious, he might have invited Harry, Ron, and Hermione, too, but he wasn’t sure how to go about pitching them to his mother. Theo and Pansy were easier to explain. Anyway, Harry was with the Dursleys, Ron was in Egypt, Hermione’s parents didn’t let her travel alone.
Nevertheless, it had been unexpectedly pleasant to have the others around. It had been a much more social summer than he was used to, and he didn’t think the old Black vacation house had seen this much company in years. And his mother clearly adored having multiple children in the house. He had begun to worry about her writing them into the will.
For some reason, she took particular delight in Pansy. There was something about having a girl around the house, he supposed, that created a feeling of instinctive allegiance and understanding between them, and she had delighted in taking Pansy shopping at the local markets. They gossiped and drank coffee (that Pansy wasn’t supposed to have) and chatted about whatever the hell women did in pairs, and Narcissa spent unholy quantities of Draco’s inheritance on fine silks and trinkets and bottles of wine for Pansy’s parents, with whom she had exchanged almost a dozen letters before Pansy was allowed to come.
On the other hand, Sibelius Nott hadn’t so much as replied to her owl. Theo had simply turned up on the doorstep of Malfoy Manor three days later, unannounced carrying two trunks and a broomstick and asking where to hang his hat.
On his desk, Ulysses had deposited a fresh batch of post. Draco fed him the last bit of peach, and unfolded the first letter. The address read:
Draco Malfoy
The Summer House (sic)
‘Somewhere in France’
(???)
He smiled.
Dear Draco,
Okay, I think I got all the songs you requested on this one. It’s a bit hard to get to the library to burn them, so this might be the last one before school starts. In return, could you check if you have “The Decline of Pagan Magic,” by Bathilda Bagshot? It’s obscure, but it’s the last volume of her work and I can’t find it.
_What did you put down for classes this year? It was an absolute nightmare to choose. I wanted to take Arithmancy and Divination but they happen at the same time & McGonagall says they’re basically the same subject anyway, one’s just more technical than the other. I chose the technical one, naturally, but perhaps they’ll let us sit for O.W.L.s in both even if we didn’t take the class? What do you think? Also I couldn’t decide whether to take Muggle Studies or not, because even though I don’t suppose I’d learn anything new, I’m fascinated to know what they teach. So many adult wizards are awfully ignorant about so much of the muggle world, I’m almost afraid that it’s misinformation! _
Anyway, I ended up with Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures. Harry and Ron are taking COMC, because Hagrid’s teaching it this year, and Divination, because Percy says it’s an easy O. I badgered them to take Runes (please say you’re taking it!) but they won’t do it. You know how they are.
I hope it’s lovely down there in France. Don’t forget the History of Magic essay! See you in a week!
Love,
Hermione
P.S. Percy made Head Boy. I’m not surprised. Ron doesn’t seem too happy about it, though.
The letter came with a cassette, its tracklist scrawled in Hermione’s looping hand. He pocketed it and went to shower, making a mental note to ask his mother if they still had that first-edition of the Complete Works of Bathilda Bagshot.
When he came downstairs, the sun hovered low on the sea, and the French doors pointed arrow-like to a rosy-colored porch, where the table held a minor fleet of bowls and glasses, and the flickering standards of four candles rose high over the rims. Theo and Pansy sat with Narcissa — Theo had conceded to put on a linen shirt — talking in unobtrusive murmurs that were lost under the rush of the waves.
He sat down and dropped his napkin into his lap. “You’ll have to pardon me. I fell asleep.”
Narcissa tucked a wet strand of hair above his ear, absently. “You need a haircut, turtledove,” she murmured. “Before you go back, perhaps? If we can coax Dobby to do it, that is.”
Her tone was rueful and slightly teasing; she had relinquished the family servant with grace, but he got the distinct feeling she could not really understand why he had done it, and still saw it as a gesture of youthful rebellion, rather than the right thing to do.
“Did you see the Prophet?” demanded Pansy, never one to mince words.
He reached for the decanter of pumpkin juice. “Not this morning. Ulysses was busy.”
“You really ought to see the Prophet.”
He lifted his eyebrow. She opened her mouth, but fell silent, blushing.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Parkinson?”
“No, I — well, not personally, no—”
“Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban,” said Theo casually, spearing a head of artichoke.
There was a clatter and an intake of breath. Narcissa had dropped her knife.
“Don’t mind me, darlings, I’m just clumsy,” she cooed, waving away their stares. “Keep talking. I’ll go get another.” Tossing her napkin on the table, she rose and set off for the kitchens in one fluid movement, her skirts swishing like a peacock’s tail.
Draco watched her go, worrying his lip.
He hadn’t heard his uncle’s name more than twice in his lifetime. There were some things that they didn’t say to each other. That included certain histories and certain names.
Nevertheless, there were stories. Supposedly he’d been a Gryffindor. Supposedly, he’d run away from home at fifteen, and in the course of his escape hexed Uncle Regulus so badly he couldn’t walk for a month. Supposedly, to hear Narcissa tell it, he’d broken Great-Aunt Walburga’s heart clean in two.
Draco didn’t understand someone like that. What a selfish sod he must have been, to reject a family so large and glorious. What an ungrateful wretch, to have the good luck to grow up with a father, and spit on the name he gave him. Draco quelled a sudden urge to hit something.
“Real classy, Teddy,” sneered Pansy.
“What was I supposed to say? You brought it up.” Theo ripped a leaf from his artichoke with a vehemence that suggested guilt. “He’s a mass murderer, and a family disgrace. I didn’t think there would be any warm feelings still involved.”
“He’s her cousin!”
“Yeah? Daph’s mine, but if she bagged a dozen muggles and denounced her family name, I’d — actually, never mind, I’d probably propose.”
Pansy held up her hand, as if she could not bear to look at him. “I only brought it up,” she said to Draco, “because I know Potter is an associate of yours, and I imagined he would be concerned.” She sniffed. “Naturally I don’t care, but everyone knows Black was involved in the Potter murders, so I’d be quite nervous, if I were him.”
“Surely you don’t think he’d go after Potter.”
“I don’t know what he’d do. But I wouldn’t rule anything out,” she said idly. She stole a sip of Narcissa’s wine glass. “If he could betray his family and his friends, I don’t see why he’d have any scruples about going after children. He’s clearly got no moral code whatsoever.”
“I’m sure Draco is grateful for your comfort, in this stressful time,” said Theo flatly.
“Well? It’s the truth!” She turned to Draco. “You should tell Potter to be on his guard. It’s no use to pretend that everything’s safe and hunky-dory. That’ll get him killed.”
“He’s Harry Potter, Pans. He’ll be fine.” He gestured at Draco with his glass. “Besides, doesn’t Dumbledore keep an eye on him?”
“Maybe. He lives with muggles,” said Draco, frowning. “I don’t know if he even gets the Prophet.”
Theo gave a discreet, delicate shudder. “I think I’d prefer Azkaban,” he said. “Truly. But at least Black won’t find him. Who would go looking for Harry Potter in some hovel of muggles?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “They live in houses, Nott.”
“Oh, all right.” He wrinkled his nose. “Like you’d know.”
Narcissa returned with a new knife and a bowl of apricots. “I brought dessert,” she said brightly. “I thought we could take these down to the beach, and have an evening swim before we turn in. I’ve been longing to get in that water all evening.” Seeing their expressions, she looked around expectantly. “I’m sorry. Have I interrupted something?”
“No,” said Draco brusquely. He flashed a glance at Pansy, who got the message and nodded. “A swim sounds perfect, Mother.”
Narcissa hadn’t had an episode since they came to the summer house. Draco had been taking pains to keep her in a good temper, and so far, he had reason to feel hopeful. He had tossed around the idea of floating a Healer again, once the summer was over — but she hadn’t taken well to it before, and he worried about setting her off.
A few minutes later, dinner ended, and the dishware floated itself dutifully back into the house. They wandered down to the surf, and spent the last hour of daylight bathing in the warm tides, and Narcissa used her wand to create horses made of seawater that jumped and galloped around them, peppering them with splash. The moon bloomed full and fat over the villa, like the white bulb of a lily.
Though he didn’t remember walking back to the house, when Draco woke up, he was tucked securely in his bed, and under his window, the dawn tide was rushing in to erase four tracks of footprints on the beach.
Dear Potter,
I hope this finds you well. Please find attached a copy of yesterday’s Daily Prophet. Acquaint yourself with its contents, if you haven’t already. I don’t know if they deliver subscriptions to muggle households, but redundancy is a lesser sin than oversight. Watch out for yourself — I shall be most put out if you get yourself killed.
Granger has decided we are taking Ancient Runes. I wish I had some say in the matter but the fact is you and Weasley have abandoned her in this, knowing fully well that if she does not have a class partner we will never hear the end of it. I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I am making here for group cohesion. I am, contrary to certain past assertions, a selfless team player.
Write back soon. Nolite te mugglandes carborundorum.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
Dear Malfoy,
Thanks for the Prophet, but I’ve already seen it. Were you worried about me? That’s awfully sweet of you.
F.Y.I., I’m not with the Dursleys any more. I accidentally blew up my aunt using magic (long story). I took the Knight Bus out of Surrey and now I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron. I didn’t mean to use underage magic, but she was talking about my parents and… anyway, Hermione’s already chewed me out for it, but the Minister of Magic wants to see me tomorrow, and I know it’s not going to be good.
I hope I’m not expelled, but if I am, tell Hagrid I’m sorry.
Iyay on’tday eakspay atinlay.
Love,
Harry
Dear Potter,
What do you mean, you “blew up” your aunt? Is she dead? Why is the Minister of Magic coming to see you personally? Are you looking at a murder charge? Never mind, don’t answer that in writing.
I’m coming, and I’m bringing a solicitor. Don’t say a word to anyone from the Ministry until I get there.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
Mummy,
_Gone to Diagon Alley for the day to get school supplies &c. Will return by sundown if not earlier. _
All my love,
Draco
Draco stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron armed with a nice suit, a wand he couldn’t use, and the scariest-looking solicitor he could find in his father’s rolodex.
(The solicitor wore a magenta suit under a lemon-yellow robe, and smiled like a man who had just made a killing selling subprime mortgages on his own soul. He had four gold teeth and as many hairs. His name was Gatz.)
“Potter, we’ve come to rescue you,” Draco announced.
Harry, who was sitting on his bed in an outsize U2 t-shirt and muggle jeans, blinked and said, “Um. Hello.”
They’d put him in a cheery single overlooking the Alley, with a plush twin bed and a set of shiny caramel oak furniture. Hedwig hooted in greeting from a cage atop the wardrobe. Harry’s single trunk sat lonely and half-unpacked in the corner.
Draco said, “This is Gatz. Gatz, this is Harry Potter.”
“Hello,” said Gatz.
He smiled.
Harry shuddered.
“Hello,” he said politely, because Harry never met something ugly he couldn’t be nice to.
“We’re here to mount your defense,” Draco informed him. “What are the charges?”
“Underage use of magic,” said Harry, “and running away from home, I think? It’s not exactly clear. Also, hullo, Draco. Good summer?”
Draco nodded. “Quite. We went to Mummy’s house on the Riviera.”
“That’s nice. Ron’s just got back from Egypt. Did you hear about the money?”
“No. Did they find a galleon between the couch cushions?”
“Nah. Better than,” said Harry eagerly. “His dad won the lotto. Seven thousand galleons!”
“Oh,” said Draco.
He cleared his throat. Gatz inspected the room, whistling through his teeth.
“Which is a lot of money,” said Harry.
“Ah,” said Draco. “Yes, of course. How wonderful. May they use it in good health.”
He traded a discerning grimace with Gatz.
Harry snickered. “You’re ruddy posh,” he accused. “How much does your family even have, anyway? Could you just… I don’t know, buy the Ministry, and get me out of this stuff?”
“That’s one idea.” He ran a few sums in his head, squinting. “I suppose… no, it’d be a terrible investment. The thing bleeds money, it’d be a nightmare to privatize.”
“I was joking,” said Harry, staring. “Are you not… are you not joking? I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
A banging came at the door. Without waiting for an answer, it shot open, and Hermione flew in, her face tanned and freckled from the summer sun, clothes disheveled from haste.
“Harry, don’t you dare say a word without a lawyer present, it’s highly illegal to even question y— oh, hello, Draco!”
Draco suppressed a smile. “Granger.”
“Well, come here, then,” she ordered, and bustled over, hauling him into a bone-splitting hug.
He buried his smile in her hair. By the time she let go, he had mastered himself again.
“And you, too,” she added to Harry, hugging him. “But quickly, because we’ve got work to do. I bought a book on criminal law at Flourish and Blott’s, and I don’t know if they have public defenders in the wizarding world, but if not, you still have a clear right—”
Gatz cleared his throat. She rounded on him, and then startled, as if seeing him for the first time.
“Who are you?”
“Hieronymous Gatz,” he purred. “Attorney at law.”
He smiled.
Hermione’s eyes went very wide.
“Right,” she said belatedly. She turned to Draco. “He’s yours?”
“Technically, Potter’s.”
“Oh, lovely,” she said. She paused. “And he’s good?”
“Some have said so,” purred Gatz. She cleared her throat.
“Well, then,” she said, as the air went out of her like a punctured zeppelin. “I suppose you don’t really need me for anything, do you?”
“Yeah, you’re sort of useless,” said Harry good-naturedly. “I mean, you’re only my best friend. What would I want you around for?”
“Oh, stop it.” She pinked, but she was pleased, Draco could tell. “I mean you’re well taken care of, and everything.”
“Seems like it. I’m sort of nervous,” he added, picking at the blanket, “since I didn’t mean to do it, but the Ministry didn’t seem too understanding about it in the letter I got—”
Draco snorted. “That’s all posturing,” he assured him. “Pure rot. Don’t worry, Gatz will take care of that.”
“Do you have the letter?” Gatz inquired, with a lizard-like wetting of his lips.
Harry handed it over, and the solicitor scuttled into the corner, running over the text with his monocle.
Hermione leaned over to speak in Draco’s ear. “I don’t know where to find wizarding attorneys,” she whispered. “Where did you get him?”
Draco shrugged. “He came recommended,” he said, “from certain people who ought to know.”
“Eugh.”
“That’s the idea, yes.”
The fireplace gave an auspicious crackle, and the flames leapt up, fading from red to green. All four of them stood at attention as a figure emerged from the grate, brushing ashes from his cloak.
It was Sibelius Nott.
“You’re not the Minister of Magic,” said Draco.
Nott’s lip curled like a shorn sliver of wood.
“Well observed, young Malfoy,” he sneered. “And you are not Harry Potter.”
“Nope,” called Harry. He raised his hand. “That’s me.”
Nott glowered down his nose. He did not bear much resemblance to his son, in Draco’s opinion; his hair was thin and snowy where Theo’s was lush brown, his jowls loose where Theo’s were knife-sharp, his shoulders narrow beside Theo’s broad beater’s back. He walked with a hunch in his spine that age and poor posture had conspired to inflict, and it shrank his already not-indomitable height to well below that of most men in his station. He wore a gray pinstripe suit, and a badge on his cloak proclaimed him a member of the Wizengamot.
“Lord Runcorn sends his regrets,” he said silkily. “Business prevents him from joining you for this most important matter, though he hopes to demonstrate his respect for its severity by sending a treasured lieutenant in his place.”
“Was that your word, ‘treasured,’ or his?” said Harry cheerfully.
Nott made a sound like a hydraulic pump going out.
“Your levity is laudable, Mister Potter,” he said crisply. “It will serve you well. Needless to say, you have caused quite a deal of concern at the Ministry. Because of your… exceptional circumstances, we have postponed expulsion proceedings, as would normally take place—”
“Hang on,” cried Hermione. “You can’t expel him without a hearing, that’s rubbish—”
Draco gripped her elbow and pinned her to the spot, partly to stop her from leaping at Nott, and partly to beg for silence.
“Rubbish, indeed,” agreed Gatz. He emerged from the shadows of the room. Nott jumped.
“Lord,” he said, eyes roving over the yellow cloak. “I suppose you’re his solicitor?”
“Quite. Are we to take this as a formal recitation of charges,” inquired Gatz in gravelly tones, “or are you merely informing my client of the proceeding steps? I, for one, have yet to hear a formal claim against him.”
Nott sniffed, pursing his lips dourly. “Harry Potter has been charged with underage magic,” he said. “An announcement of charges was delivered—”
Gatz ripped the letter in half. Harry made a surprised noise, but not a disapproving one.
“This?” he said. “Codswallop. Bollocks. Dreck.”
“That — that is a formal charge of criminal activity! It carries the full force of Ministry—”
“Delivered without context to an underage wizard,” purred Gatz, “without his legal guardian present. Or did you also serve notice to the boy’s custodian?”
“His custodian is a muggle.”
“Oh, yes? So not only has Mister Potter not been served lawful notice,” murmured Gatz, ripping the letter into quarters, “but the Ministry stands in violation of the Custodial Rights Act of 1968, Section Four, subsection C—”
“Harry Potter is not a muggle-born!”
“Subsection C of which,” Gatz continued, blithely, “states that all muggle-born wizards, or underage wizards in the custody of muggles, may expect criminal charges levied against them to be delivered by hand by a Board-approved executor of justice, see footnote, who will explain said charges to the muggle custodian, and answer any questions—”
“He is a criminal,” said Nott coldly.
Draco decided he did not like Theo’s father.
“In point of fact,” drawled Gatz, “at this moment, the only criminal in the room is the Ministry, having attempted to initiate proceedings against my client without due process. Now, as an extremely litigious man, my client’s first instinct is naturally to file suit—”
Harry nodded somberly.
“But, with certain assurances, I might persuade him to turn the other cheek.”
Gatz smiled. Nott stepped back.
Draco elbowed Hermione, and nodded, as if to say: You see?
“As I was going to say,” Nott said, in the tones of someone wishing dearly to do the murder act on the nearest human being, “the Ministry has elected not to press charges against Mister Potter. I come on behalf of the Minister’s office, not the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As suggested,” he added, nastily, “by the fact that you are talking to me, and not an Auror.”
“My client is very glad to hear it.”
“Yeah, he is,” Harry put in. “But, er — sorry — what, exactly, are you doing here? If not tell me I’m expelled?” He paused, and added, “I mean — if they just wanted to tell me I’m not kicked out — not to be rude or anything, but this could have been an owl.”
Nott drew out the chair, twitched up his trousers, and sat at Harry’s desk. “Well put,” he said crisply. “To wit: you have been recently aware, of course, of the escape of the scurrilous convict, Sirius Black.”
Harry pressed his lips together. Draco knew and feared that expression. It usually meant Gryffindor was about to lose House points.
“I am. I am also,” said Harry, “recently aware of the term scurrilous.”
“Mister Potter, you must be aware that the Ministry will soon apprehend this criminal. And when it does, Lord Runcorn intends to bring him to justice using the fullest extent of the law.”
Harry looked at Gatz. Gatz shrugged.
“Uh,” said Harry. “Sure.”
“Prior administrations,” said Nott haughtily, “have languished on their laurels, while convicts, thieves, and scum run rampant in the wizarding world. Lord Runcorn will not tolerate this. It is a new day at the Ministry. Quite a new day, indeed. And to show that we are all prepared to put old political battles behind us, Lord Runcorn has personally seen fit to offer you a full Auror guard, until such a time as Black is returned to captivity,” he hesitated, “or dispatched.”
Draco startled. “A full Auror guard?” he repeated. “Do you even know that Black is coming for Potter?”
Nott ignored him. He watched Harry with a distant, almost pleasant expression on his face. “This is in addition to the new security imposed at Hogwarts, of course,” he added. “Unlike Cornelius Fudge, Lord Runcorn will not stand by while children’s lives are threatened. The crises of the past two years are long gone. He has sworn to lay waste to any man, woman, or beast that would lay a finger on Britain’s most precious resource.”
“What security?” said Hermione sharply.
“Dementors,” said Nott, without looking at her.
Draco’s breath caught. Harry and Hermione simply stared at Nott, uncomprehending.
“Wizarding security creatures, Mister Potter,” he elaborated. “Quite rigorous, I assure you. None have ever eluded them permanently. Nevertheless, Lord Runcorn would be more than glad to staff you with additional protection.”
“That… doesn’t seem necessary,” said Harry uneasily. He glanced at Draco, who shook his head.
Nott rose from his seat. “As you wish,” he said delicately. “Lord Runcorn’s offer stands, should you ever feel… less secure.”
Abruptly, he smiled. It was a small, oily expression. “But then again, we expect Black’s capture to be swift.” He extended his hand.
Harry frowned. He didn’t shake it. There was a long, awkward pause.
Draco blurted, “Did Professor Dumbledore consent to dementors on Hogwarts grounds?”
Nott smiled wider. “Professor Dumbledore has been informed of the Minister’s decision.”
“So, no,” said Hermione shrewdly.
“Professor Dumbledore understands the prerogative of the Minister to make important decisions regarding the wellbeing of children,” said Nott tonelessly. Hermione bristled again, and Draco tightened his grip on her elbow.
Nott made to leave, but paused. His hand flexed on the doorknob.
Without turning, he said: “How is my son?”
Draco realized, belatedly, that this was addressed to him.
“He is… well.” He tried to think of what Theo would want him to say. “He seems to be enjoying France.”
“Good.” A beat passed. “I expect that he will remain with you until the beginning of term.”
It wasn’t clear whether this was a statement, an order, or a question.
“I suppose so,” said Draco slowly, answering all three.
Nott nodded. “Give my regards to your mother,” he said softly. He left.
In the lull after the door closed, Harry flopped back onto the bed. He blew out a long, relieved breath.
“I don’t like that man at all,” announced Hermione. “I’m not sure I like the idea of him working for the Minister. ‘Treasured’ or otherwise.”
The solicitor folded his hands and planted himself, politely but obtrusively, in Draco’s line of sight.
“Thank you, Gatz,” Draco said crisply, handing him a folded check. “Give that to my accountant, he’ll see to everything.”
He bobbed a dramatic bow. “Many thanks, Lord Malfoy,” he croaked. “Always a pleasure to serve.”
“Yes, indeed. Do me a favor — the next time Potter calls for you, just do whatever needs to be done, and I’ll settle it with you after, all right?”
“Of course, Lord Malfoy. Mister Potter.” He gave another deep bow to Harry, and then one to Hermione — from pure politeness, it seemed — and scuttled out the door.
Harry pried his head up from the bed. “I’d say thanks,” he said, “but I’m going to check out what my nightmares look like tonight, first, and get back to you. Merlin.”
Hermione said, “Dementors,” and frowned. “I know that word. I’ve read it somewhere. They’re Dark creatures, aren’t they?”
Draco grimaced. “They’re horrible,” he said. “They guard Azkaban. They’re… I can’t describe them, but if you saw a picture, you’d get the idea. They… eat souls.”
Hermione and Harry stared at him.
“Not really, though,” she said, after a moment.
“Yes, really. I’m not using a metaphor, that’s what they do.”
“But there’s no such thing as a soul,” said Hermione, with all the confidence of someone who had conferenced with God and achieved mutual agreement on this fact. “That’s unproven. It’s spiritual dogma, not scientific fact.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you’re right, but that’s what they do. They call it the Dementor’s Kiss. Leaves you all… empty. Like a lobotomy.” He swallowed, thinking of faceless shrouds creeping around the quidditch pitch, and shut his mind against the image.
Harry rolled upright, tousling his hair. “Have you seen it?” he said curiously.
“Merlin, no. Do I look like the type who’s in and out of Azkaban?”
He shrugged — which was fair, since Harry barely knew what Azkaban was. “I only asked because you seemed to know.”
Draco shifted his stance. “You learn about these things,” he said shortly, “when your father does time.”
“Your father…?”
“Until I was five. After he got out, he had… stories.” He sniffed amusedly. “Not ones I was supposed to overhear, I imagine, but there you are.”
“So you didn’t have hardly any time with him at all,” Hermione said softly. “I mean, you’d have been… five to eight, that’s what, three years?”
He looked at the ceiling.
“Three and a half,” he said stiffly. “Now, if you two inquisitors wouldn’t mind, I’d like to change the subject. Potter, you’re an orphan. Why don’t we talk about your dead mum?”
Hermione made a scandalized noise, but Harry cracked a grin. “Can’t, I don’t know anything about her,” he said. “Except that nobody’ll shut up about her sodding eyes. If you want to hear a million synonyms for ‘green,’ I’m your man, though.”
“Absolutely not. I’d much rather get out of this dismal room and go shopping,” said Draco. He actually thought the room was rather cozy, but to maintain appearances he made a habit of calling any room ‘dismal’ that didn’t have a footman in it. “That solicitor only cleared out about half my summer allowance, and while Diagon Alley’s no Savile Row, I’m sure you two cash-poor rabble can find a way to part me with my hard-earned galleons before the day is out.”
“Hard-earned?” said Hermione indignantly.
“Cash-poor?” Harry laughed. “My parents left me a fortune, mate. I’m rich, probably.”
Draco smirked.
“Granger,” he said, “Look out that window and choose a shop.”
“Why?” she said suspiciously.
“Do it, would you?”
She went to the window. “Quality Quidditch Supplies,” she read doubtfully. “That’s the first one I saw.”
“Right. Good. Potter, get your shoes. We’re getting you a birthday present. Granger, thank you for your cooperation, you’re a dream to work with, as always.”
“What, new quidditch supplies?” said Harry excitedly. He scrambled out of bed. “That’s corking — thanks, Malfoy!”
“I have concerns about this,” fretted Hermione. “Tell me you’re not about to do something dramatic, like buy out the store.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I’d have to buy all the cheap things, too and that would be a horrendous waste.”
“Are you trying to make some sort of point?” she asked, exasperated.
“Naturally. The point, Granger,” he drawled, examining his fingernails, “is that someone needs to teach you both the difference between ‘rich, probably’ and ‘rich, definitely.’”
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