The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301

Part III - Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Camelot Hotel and Casino was far larger than Harry had thought. It was, in its way, an extraordinary monument to the persistence and popularity of King Arthur in people's imaginations. Unlike Arthur's real castle, which had conformed to classic Roman palace fortresses, on close inspection, the Hotel was a later medieval fantasy, composed of round towers with crenellated tops and an enormous central hall. The inside was something else again.

The air was frigidly refrigerated and his glasses fogged up the moment they entered. Through the mist, he noted that the lobby was populated by perfectly modern attendants and off to the left, he could hear the ka-ching of the slot machines and the excited chatter of the gamblers in the lowest of the three casinos. To the right, an entire mall of shops displayed everything from glittering jewels, to Native American rugs, to designer jeans and swimwear. The central part of the lobby was at least three stories high and was lit by a huge chandelier. Beneath its bright lights, a great round table sat, a duplicate of the one that hung in Glastonbury and was popularly believed to have been Arthur's.

Shaking his head, he followed Patrick and Farah through to the back where a procession of restaurants and bars catered to every appetite, and each was named for some Arthurian figure or place. There was Guinevere's Garden, a bistro whose menu boasted quiches, soups and health salads. There was Lancelot's Lagoon, which oddly, seemed to be an ordinary sports bar full of men drinking and smoking as they watched some American game on the big screen telly. There was the Dragon's Table, which featured a red dragon that looked awfully like a Chinese Fireball and promised authentic Eastern Fusion cuisine. And, naturally, there was The Excalibur, a grille furnished with deep red leather booths, and whose menu featured shepherd's pie, beef Wellington, fish and chips and steaks so large "you need a sword to slice 'em." Harry couldn't help gawking at that. All the same, as they took a seat in The Excalibur, he couldn't help wondering where the Viking room must be. Surely, with Hayden's mania, at least one place must be set aside for his truest obsession.

Harry drank his coffee and ate his shepherd's pie with concentration and he avoided his companions' watching eyes, hoping that they did not notice the faint tremble in his hand. He could not quite control the breath of relief and satisfaction he felt when he had done as this was the first meal he'd eaten in days which did not leave him either nauseous or still hungry.

When the waitress brought the check, Patrick muttered softly, "They'll never reimburse a check like this." Feeling embarrassed because he had not thought about the cost of the meal, Harry fumbled in his boot and drew out the slim case in which he kept his mobile hand-held and his credit card. He seized the check and handed the waitress the card before either of the others could interfere.

"Where did that come from?" Patrick asked in outrage. "I thought you had no identification!"

"It's just a credit card," Harry answered, "not my passport."

"If you had that, why not your passport or other I.D.?" Patrick asked swiftly.

"Well, those were in my jacket pocket," Harry said patiently. "I had them there for airport security and customs and I never put them back." A faint recollection surfaced and he hit the button on his hand-held. The screen winked in and out, but steadied when he said, "Come on!" Then he was sorry it had. There were well over two hundred messages, many from Bones or from Bentley titled simply, "Where are you?" and later ones that said, "Report in NOW!" He passed over those and clicked on the icon that would display the photos he had taken. "There," he said with satisfaction as he held it up for the others to see. The one he wanted most was rather blurred, but it showed clearly enough, two men meeting in a swirling crowd at the very moment of the exchange: Saleh handing over his the briefcase he had gotten on the train in exchange for one from someone Harry recognized as the former Alliance M.P.

"What else do you have in there?" Farah asked, "Knives concealed in the heel, a gun?"

"I never carry a gun," Harry growled.

"You must have used them sometimes," Patrick said. "And besides, how did you expect to stop a terrorist attack when you're unarmed?"

Harry shrugged, not wanting to get into the specifics of how he would deal with Hayden if he ran across him. "For hostage situations, yeah," he responded to the first part, "when you've got no choice because it's the only way to stop them killing an innocent victim. With any luck," he added, "we won't ever get to that point here." He got up and strode out of the restaurant, intending to make a more thorough sweep of the hotel.



Without checking to see that the others were following him, Harry walked out of the side door to the outside and squinted at the jousting field, on which mend in reproduction armor were galloping at each other on horses so large they looked as though they ought to be pulling plows. A small audience cheered as the two horses lumbered into each other and one of the men fell off his mount when the other's lance banged into him. It was, Harry thought, a perfectly dreadful means of fighting. In a real battle, the man who had fallen would have been trampled and neither one of them would have gotten very far before their long lances, which would likely unbalance them, would have been pulled from their grasp. Of course, he thought sardonically, the mounted men would probably have been charging into a bunch of poorly armed peasants, who would be no opposition at all.

He walked around the perimeter and saw that the rear of the hotel was taken up by a large swimming pool, around which many people sat broiling in the sun. An outdoor bar provided refreshments, and many of the patrons held drinks in the most improbable neon shades. A sign pointed toward the entry to the casinos, and he followed that back into the refrigerated precincts of the hotel's best money maker. He walked swiftly through the lowest level and mounted the red carpeted stairs to the second level, where people gathered around roulette wheels squealed in delight and groaned in disappointment each time the tiny metal ball settled into a slot.

"What's the point of this, anyway?" Farah asked.

"Just sussing out the place," Harry answered vaguely.

"People will notice you if you just look," Patrick pointed out. "You don't look like a tourist, you know."

Harry gave him a dirty look and said, "I haven't exactly had time to get a proper disguise, now have I? But if you think it necessary, we can play a game or two."

However, he could not help acknowledging to himself that Patrick was right. He certainly would call attention to himself if he did not try to act just a little more like a tourist or hotel guest. So he strolled more casually up the next set of stairs and he actively considered joining one of the card games that seemed to be the theme of the third floor casino. But a faint sense of unease propelled him on, and as he returned to the lobby, he tried to recall the details on the floor plans he had seen so many days ago. If they did plant explosives, they would be placed where they could do the maximum damage, he thought.

Passing through the lobby once more, they came to a hallway that led to several theaters. The first was presently dark, but a sign in front of it advertised "the tallest, most beautiful dancers in Las Vegas." Another was also dark, and the sign in front of that one advertised a famous comedian. A third promised "A magical experience without comparison!" and showed a picture of a man with film star looks who wore a cape and a appeared to be floating an almost naked woman in the air. Harry kept his amusement to himself. He was pretty sure that not even Hayden would hire an actual wizard to perform a magic act for Muggles.

Farah stopped to stare at the sign and said, "I love magic shows."

Harry looked at her in surprise as he would not have thought a woman with such a prickly attitude would care for that kind of entertainment.

Another passage led to a larger arena. This one had a large stage on which a pair of men were fencing. The sign said in bold black letters, "World Fencing Tournament. Evenings starting at 8 p.m."

The seats made a U around the stage and broad aisles ran diagonally toward the stage, perhaps to let contestants or trainers have access to the stage. At the back on a raised platform, Harry saw with disbelief that a large stone sat and that a long jeweled sword stuck out of the stone. He must have made a sound, for Patrick pointed at the sword and said, "That's the star attraction. The top four at the end of the competition get the right to try to pull the sword out of the stone. A hell of a gimmick, huh?"

The two men on the stage broke off their practice and when they pulled off their masks, a number of the people who had been scattered about watching immediately began taking photographs and calling out questions to grab their attention. Harry's reply to Patrick was converted into a curse as he identified the tall young man with the taffy colored hair and bright blue eyes.

Patrick stared in surprise at the low tone of fury in Potter's voice. Somewhere in the middle of their tour of the hotel, he had stopped wondering whether Potter was actually a terrorist and started worrying just how much trouble he was going to be in. Something about the professional manner in which he had surveyed the place had struck home; and then there was the fact that he'd had photos of Saleh meeting with drug runners and arms importers in all sorts of different places, the final one being only so much icing on the cake.

On the stage, one of the journalists called out a challenge, "Hey! Your Highness! Why don't you pull the sword out of the stone now? Why wait for the final match? We all know you're going to win anyway."

Potter moved toward the stage and Patrick followed, visions of headlines screaming about diplomatic incidents dancing in his head. The Prince, who had been the subject of photos and massive coverage on the gossip pages of the newspapers, grinned at the reporter and said, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

The other man on the stage, whose white hair and lined face did not go with the fit body below, remarked, "You'll have a tough time with that Bulgarian fellow if you don't conserve your energy."

Another voice, this one smooth as silk, and issuing from a handsome man with blond hair gone silver, cut in. "Why not have a try at the sword? I'll even give it to you without your having to win the tournament if you do manage to draw it."

The journalists crowded forward, calling for the Prince to draw the sword, and the young man grinned again, mischievously, and moved toward the platform where the light struck brilliantly through the diamonds and emeralds winking on the sword's hilt. Potter, however, shoved through the crowd and bounded onto the stage with that same startling turn of speed he had displayed when he attacked Allawi. He pushed the Prince's hand away and said sharply, "Don't touch it! It's a trap!"

The crowd surged forward again, cameras aiming to capture this new juicy bit of sensation. Patrick was sure that the Prince's handlers would jump Potter and that the incident his imagination had presented him with was well underway. Astonishingly, the Prince stopped in mid-reach to gape at Potter and the white haired man exclaimed, "Lord Gryffindor! What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for him, of course," Potter said grimly, nodding at the tall handsome man, who, Patrick realized, was the movie star Potter claimed was their real target.

The expression on the Prince's face changed from statement to alarm. All mischief faded and he looked suddenly older and equally as grim as Potter.

The American journalists started shouting, "Who's he? Who's this Gryffindor guy?" The British ones simply took more photos and one called out, "Did the Queen send you? Or is this an MI-5 operation? And what about the rumors the Prime Minister is appointing you to his cabinet?"

Patrick considered drawing his gun as the shouting group pushed toward the stage again, but he was caught by the expression on the target's face. The handsome movie star looks were frozen in a mask of rage and fear.

"You!" he snarled. "You're supposed to be dead. That Malfoy kid killed you."

Patrick did draw his gun then. Whether the man was a terrorist was an open question; but one thing was certain, innocent men did not react in that fashion.

Potter pushed the Prince back and said, "Lord Burlington, get the Prince and all of these men out of here. Now!"

Things happened quickly then, in the way that they always did when a situation spiraled out of control. Hayden made a gesture and drew a sword and from behind the platform, three more men appeared. Though he was too far away for his sword to have touched them, Hayden thrust the sword forward and a sizzling green light erupted from it. Potter shoved the Prince to the side and down, and where they had been, the stage floor exploded with green fire.

Patrick aimed his gun, but a knot of journalists now stampeded away from the fight, and spoiled his aim. Potter rolled up and drew something from his boot, but it was not a gun. Red light lanced at Hayden, who deflected it with his still burning sword. Potter dragged the Prince up and shouted, "Go!" but the young man shook his head, and flung himself forward to catch Hayden's sword on his own. Potter shouted again, "No!" when the Prince's sword was sliced cleanly in half by the burning one Hayden held.

This time, Patrick took aim carefully, and he made his voice as loud as he was able. "Stop. You are all under arrest." Not one of them paid him any mind, however, and when he squeezed the gun, its report made a shockingly loud crack. Unfortunately, Hayden had moved again, and the bullet struck the stone in which the jeweled sword was buried, striking sparks from the granite surface as it plowed away into the rear wall behind the platform.





The other three men had moved forward, and one of them made a pointing gesture at him, as though he meant to throw a ball, but instead, a bright light flashed at Patrick, knocking the gun out of his hand and him to the floor at the same time. More of the journalists began to run, although one persistent one continued to tape the fight, seemingly oblivious to the danger. He scrambled back to his feet in time to see Hayden strike at the Prince again, this time, not just with the light, but full on, with the point of the sword. Potter was occupied with dodging an attack from one of Hayden's other men, a bald, muscled man who laughed as he made a slashing move with his weapon (whatever it was - some kind of laser thing, he supposed). A purple light grazed past Potter's left arm and a bright burst of blood followed, leaving a fine ruby mist spattered on the stage floor. The third man, who was as tall and bulky as a linebacker, struck at Potter again, and this time Patrick was sure he'd be unable to avoid the poisonous green light as he was turned partly away and he could only have seen the light coming at him from the corner of his eye. Potter, however, simply disappeared and the green light left a crater in the stage floor exactly where he'd been a moment before.

Potter reappeared on the platform behind the stone, in time to see the sword driving at the Prince, and to cry out, but it was the older white haired man who had backed away from the fight at first who now flung himself between the Prince and the burning green point. The sword pierced the old man's heart and Hayden struggled to withdraw it as the Prince wrapped his arms around the dead old man and said, "I'll see you hang for this, Hayden, on Traitor's Gate, just like they did in the old days."

Potter growled something out and Hayden turned to raise his sword back in his direction. Instead of striking at the killer, Potter struck at the jeweled sword. Golden light flared about the sword in waves so bright that Hayden was forced back. He raised the sword again to shoulder height as though he would throw it, but before he could Potter had seized the hilt of the jeweled sword and he drew it out in one smooth motion. Patrick could only gawk at that and at the uncontrolled rage that seemed to have left Hayden speechless. The look on the killer's face as he flung himself at Potter was purely murderous. All his suave, silken manners had been supplanted by the inarticulate roar of a maddened beast.

Patrick had never been more terrified. He had faced down snipers and bombers with less fear than he now felt at seeing Potter draw the thing he had claimed was the trap. In fact, Patrick had assumed that drawing the sword would send the signal to whatever bomb had been planted. The Prince seemed to agree, as he stopped dragging the dead old man away to shout, "No, Harry! You said it was cursed."

Potter stepped back and brought the sword to bear, and the clash of the two swords sent sparks flying again. "But I'm very good at breaking curses," he responded as he threw Hayden back and then rushed at the killer with the graceful speed of a dancer.

Gold light flared from the jeweled sword and Hayden fought back furiously. Patrick thought for sure that the whole place would go up in flames. He scanned the floor for his gun, thinking he ought to have the hotel evacuated, and he was shocked to hear Farah's voice just behind him saying breathlessly, "It's magic. It must be."

* * *

There was no time for thought. Harry knew instinctively that he must finish this fight as quickly as possible. He knew that he would have little chance if the three Death Eaters decided to jump back in and support Hayden. On the thought, he danced aside from Hayden's next thrust as one might avoid a charging bull, but instead of parrying Hayden, he took advantage of Hayden's momentary extension to aim a stunner at MacNair. The Death Eater avoided it, but he backed away, as Harry had hoped.

Hayden had understood his intentions, though. The man had always been quick to respond, nearly as quick as Voldemort, and he called out, "Lestrange! Now's your chance for revenge." Without waiting to see what Lestrange would do, Harry disapparated again and he reappeared just as the green light of the Killing Curse passed through the very place where he had just been. Harry flung a disarming spell at him and had the satisfaction of seeing the man topple backwards and his wand fly out of his hand in the other direction. Harry lifted his sword, not to strike directly at Hayden, but to whip it up in that rope-like spell that would bind the Death Eaters and Hayden and prevent them from disapparating. Hayden dropped to the floor and rolled out off the stage and out of the reach of the spell and he disapparated just as the light closed in on MacNair and Lestrange. The third man had also disapparated, and Harry dropped to his knees, trying to catch his breath, and feeling as old as Time itself at the miserable sound of the Prince weeping over his teacher and protector.

This, Harry knew, was an unqualified disaster. The only thing they could do was to minimize the damage as fast as possible, except that many of the journalists had already rushed out of the theater and would be calling in their reports as fast as they could punch the buttons on their phones. The least he could do was to ensure that no actual confirmation of the actual event was available. He dragged in a breath and summoned their cameras. A hail of them - tiny digital ones, larger video cameras, even mobile phones with cameras very like Harry's own - flew into a pile at his feet. The man who had continued recording the fight to the bitter end cursed loudly, and a herd of stomping feet came stampeding back into the theater.

"You can't do that!" came the various cries. "This is America! You can't take away our property!" This is NEWS!"



Harry shrugged and pointed his wand at the pile. In one second, the entire mass had vanished in a whoosh of flames, which just as quickly disappeared. "Sorry," he said. "I'm afraid this event is classified and confidential. And I have to ask you not to report it on account of national security."

"We can still report what we've seen, even if we haven't got pictures," one of the bolder reporters protested. "Guess those rumors about you being a wizard weren't such a fantasy, after all, Lord Gryffindor."

"I don't go by that title," Harry said angrily. He tried to force down his fury and gain some semblance of control. It would not do to inflame them even worse. "You can, of course, try to send in whatever you like," he said more calmly, "but you know the reports'll have to be pulled if we send you an Official Secrets Act determination - which, I'm giving you now."

"The American papers don't have to follow British censorship rules," the man answered.

Harry looked at Patrick, hoping he would tell them that America had similar provisions. Patrick, however, hesitated and Harry wasn't sure whether that was because American laws were different when it came to publishing security matters or because the man was so shell shocked from the fight that he had lost his usual certainty. A swift response being necessary, Harry fell back on smiling at them all.

"Well, you can print anything you like, I suppose, but ... you'll just have to take the risk that your editors will think you're all mad, or suffering a mass hallucination. You might even get your story into print," he added cheerfully, "right beside the report on the latest alien invasion and just below the one on Elvis having faked his death and his secret retirement home in Albania."

Harry waited a moment to see how his statement would be received. He considered obliviating everyone there. The only problem was that he might want a witness or two when all was said and done. The reporters began to back out muttering about magic and lasers and secret psychic defense programs. Harry ignored them and said softly to the Prince, "I'm awfully sorry for your loss, but I could use your help here." He gestured to MacNair and Lestrange, both of whom were going to be troublesome if they weren't dealt with in the right fashion. The Prince gently laid down Lord Burlington and nodded grimly.

"Have you got your wand?" Harry asked quietly.

"No," the Prince answered. "I don't carry it when I'm going on one of these competitions. You never know when someone's going to try to break into your rooms and make off with your things."

Harry picked up MacNair's wand and said, "I expect this one will do, though it won't be as good as your own."

The Prince took the wand gingerly, as though he thought it might explode in his hand. "I don't like the idea of using a Death Eater's," he muttered.

Patrick had finally collected himself and he climbed onto the stage looking very severe. "I'd like one of those, too," he said. "And I'd like to know how you Brits managed to get make a working hand laser weapon without us knowing and without telling us."

"It's not a laser," Harry replied regretfully.

* * *

Patrick had had enough. "It's a magic wand, I suppose," he said sarcastically. "And you're an elf? Or should I be thinking alien? It's not all that far from here to Area 51." He glared at Potter and tried to ignore the alarm bells ringing at the back of his brain. He had a terrorist incident to explain which had ended up in the death of a member of the British royal family's entourage. He had an escaped murderer, who had disappeared in a pop and no means of explaining why he, an officer of Homeland Security who had been armed had been unable to stop either the murder or the escape. And the lawyer from the ACLU was still there, a witness to it all.

Farah, however, was staring with fascination at the jeweled sword Potter was holding. "How come you were able to draw that sword from the stone?" she asked. "I read that nobody could. Why didn't you let the Prince do it?" Despite the recent violence and the dead body still laid out on the stage, her eyes glowed with excitement. "Is that really King Arthur's sword like they claimed?"

One of the men still trapped inside the shining band of light growled nastily, "Just Potter grandstanding as usual."

Ignoring the remark, Potter replied with the greatest aggravation, "Of course not. It's a lousy fake down to the jewels on the hilt. In fact, it's a prop from a movie Hayden never made."

"But you used it just like the stories say King Arthur did," Farah objected. "It burns with a bright fire and no man can stand before it."

"Oh, Hayden got some wizard to enchant it," Potter replied, "but it's not the real thing by any means."

"Some wizard!" Patrick said loudly. "So you admit there are wizards. You have been keeping us in the dark. What kind of cooperation is this?"

"The kind that saves your bacon for you when you've got everything wrong," Potter retorted.

Patrick recoiled as embarrassment overtook his anger. "You were the one who thought there might be a bomb," he answered.

"I did," Potter admitted. "There might still be one planted," he added thoughtfully. Decisively, he turned back to the Prince and said, "Cover these two for me, would you?"

The Prince pointed the wooden stick - the wand! - at the two men and Potter lifted pointed the sword and said something softly. The red light that had encircled them disappeared and was replaced almost instantly with a coil of rope, which wrapped itself about the two men before they could breathe.

"Thanks," Potter said. He let the sword drop down as though its weight was too great for him and said to the Prince, "I think you ought to go now. Get out of here altogether and take Lord Burlington home."

"I can stay and help," the Prince said grimly. "I want to."

For the first time that day, Patrick actually felt sympathy for Potter. Potter responded with admirable control and courtesy, "I understand that. You were very brave, you know. In fact, you probably saved my life. But I think your Grandmum will have my head if I encourage you to stay."

"There was a time," the Prince commented bitterly, "that someone like me could do something worthwhile, like fight for his country, and not just go through training for show, and then be relegated to putting on a performance for the public and for the gossip papers. Perhaps I ought to give it up and live a normal life like everyone else."

"Not being a prince doesn't guarantee you a quiet normal life," Potter said dryly. "Just look at me."

"But you're a hero," the Prince responded, "look what you've done. I mean, you defeated the Dark Lord when you were younger than I am."

"I did my duty then," Potter replied softly, "as I do now. And so must you." He smiled then, and the sudden light that illuminated his face was the kind that made men find hope in the darkest places. "Here," he said, holding the jeweled sword out to the Prince. "It may be a fake, but I reckon you've got as much a right to it as anybody."

The Prince took the sword and its shining blade lit with fire again as he pointed it at the two bound terrorists. "What do you suppose Arthur would do with them, if he lived in our time and had them to deal with."

For a moment, Patrick thought the Prince would strike them down right there, so fierce was his stare and so unforgiving.

"He would do the same as we do," Potter answered. "See them tried properly, so that justice can be done and the law can be satisfied."

"That's one better than we do," Farah cut in. "He didn't have detention camps, did he?"

"He didn't have terrorists with weapons of mass destruction either," Patrick said loudly.

"Murder is still murder," Potter said, "whether it's one or many. And justice comes for all, now or later."

One of the bound men laughed. "Noble talk as always, Potter, but in the end, we all die and we all rot."

"And you, no doubt, will find out just how rank and rotten you really are, MacNair, when you join Lord Voldemort once more."



If the previous events had made Patrick wish he'd stayed in bed that morning, the next made him wish he could go back there accompanied by an entire bottle of whiskey. Just as he had begun to think the episode was under control, a tall, blonde man in a charcoal gray suit very like Potter's came striding in. He was accompanied by a petite, red-haired woman who was as pretty as the wasp-tongued lawyer next to him and the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. He was jolted out of his instant adoration by the cold fury in the redhead's voice.

"WHO IS THE COMPLETE IDIOT WHO LOCKED HIM UP FOR TEN DAYS?"

She had drawn a wand and he failed to react because he still could not accept the fact that the wooden sticks were really working weapons, and highly dangerous ones at that. He also could not help feeling quite betrayed at the fact that Farah pointed to Patrick. He suspected later that Farah might have guessed what the woman would do or who she was even though such a guess would have to be purely inspired. When the bright light came at him, he simply stared in astonishment, and he was even further astonished when Potter shouted, "NO!" and blocked the light with a golden flare of his own.

Potter launched himself off the stage and Patrick was sure he was going to attack her. He seized her by the arms and shook her just a little, and said, "It's not his fault, really. He didn't know who I was. He's on our side."

"But you look awful!" she responded. "Just look what he's done to you. And you've ruined another shirt. It's got blood all over it."

"Damn the shirt," Potter said. Then, despite the watching gaze of half a dozen other people, he kissed her, briefly, but fiercely. "I'm all right," he said. "Now you're here." His whole face had lightened for one moment, but he added more gravely again, pointing to the two bound terrorists, "And they did it, not Mr. Patrick."

Her gaze iced up again and she lifted her wand once more. "Why've you let them live, after everything they've done?"

"We're not executioners," Potter answered. "D'you want to become like them?"

"They would kill you in an instant, if they had you at their mercy. They nearly did only a month ago. And they would have killed Sirius and they have killed his spirit and split our family."

Potter sighed and said quietly, painfully, "Sirius is stronger than you think; stronger than anyone thinks."

"He won't talk to anyone," she whispered sorrowfully, "He won't come out even to talk to James or Lily. And he won't see me."

"I know," Potter answered. "But we have to keep our heads, you know. We need them alive to testify against Hayden. We need to know what he's planning next." He detached himself from her and turned back to the two bound men. His voice was even colder than hers had been, but utterly calm in a way that was far more menacing than the loudest roar could ever be. "It would be best if you cooperate and tell us where Hayden will go."

The two men glared at Potter with hatred. "We'll never cooperate with you, Potter. You think because Lucius is broken that you can break us too? Lucius was weak, or the Dark Lord would be here now, and we'd be following him instead of his majesty, Eric Hayden."

The blond man interrupted and said coolly, "You may not like us, Mr. MacNair. You may even be a hardened killer. But I doubt even you will like what the world will look like if Hayden gets his wish."

"Who cares what the world looks like?" the one called MacNair sneered. "Hayden might not be the Dark Lord, but at least he's got the right ideas about who belongs in power and who doesn't. At least he's not a filthy blood traitor like you, Bones."

Bones knocked on the hotel room door, thinking he had a few choice things to say to Harry about following procedures. It was Ginny, however, who opened the door, not Harry. He started to call out, but Ginny hushed him, and drew him silently into the lounge area of the suite. The room was decorated in what was supposed to be medieval décor, but it looked more like a French country house than anything that King Arthur might actually have lived in, just as did much of the rest of the hotel.

They had searched the hotel thoroughly after the journalists had been cleared out. Harry was still half-certain that Hayden had been planning on blowing up the hotel, and he had led them all through the most exhaustive search possible. They had found nothing. Unfortunately, their next step had proved fruitless as well. Harry had insisted that they return to the prison to question Saleh, only when the guard had opened his cell to bring him out for questioning, Saleh was dead with not a mark on him. Harry had been furious and the American man, Patrick, had been confounded. It appeared that Saleh had met earlier with his lawyer and no one had talked to him since. Patrick had put out an all points bulletin for the man as well as Hayden and Jones the former MP, but Bones was certain they would never find them. Hayden, he thought, must have been recruiting American wizards as well. The autopsy had yet to be done, but Bones was fairly certain they would find nothing: not poison, not a heart attack, not any cause at all.

"Where is Harry?" Bones asked. "I want to talk to him." He looked about the room, hoping Harry would simply appear and wondering with irritation whether Harry had gone off again without letting him know where or why. "He's sleeping," Ginny hissed softly, "and don't you dare wake him."

"Look," he said, feeling more aggravated than ever. "I've pulled every string I could to get us here so fast without doing blatant magic and I really need to talk to him."

She gave him an admonitory look and peered in the bedroom. Bones glanced in over her head. Harry was sprawled out on his stomach with his face turned to the side. His glasses were still on his nose and his wand was in his hand. Bones started to ask, does he always sleep like that, but Ginny glared at him and drew her own wand. Bones backed off and glared back, but he was glad she had turned away from him again and that she had missed his barely perceptible sigh of relief when she pointed her wand at her sleeping husband instead.

"That's one nasty slash," she muttered as she healed the clotted injury on Harry's left arm. Bruises on his shoulders and back in various stages, from faded yellow to dark blue black, faded beneath the blue light that bathed them and Bones could not help noticing that Harry had lost weight in the month he'd been gone. He was reminded of the thin sixteen year old teenager who'd been all bone and muscle and nerve when they'd hauled him out of the foaming sea thinking he was one of Voldemort's gang. Ginny's mouth formed a tight line as she waved the wand over Harry's head.

"What is it?" Bones asked quietly.

"I'll let Madam Pomfrey look at that," she replied. Her usually merry eyes were cold and angry as she added, "I think his skull was fractured, but it seems to have healed on its own. No wonder he couldn't remember anything."

"Do you think that's why he's sleeping through this?" Bones asked. He eyed the holly wand in Harry's hand and hoped Harry did not wake up too quickly after all.

" 'Course not," Ginny answered. "I put a sleeping charm on him or he'd have driven himself to exhaustion and beyond trying to follow Hayden when he's not fit."

"He won't thank you when he wakes," Bones replied.

She shrugged eloquently. "There was no way he could have found Hayden anyway. Once he disapparated, there was no way of following him."

"True enough," Bones commented. "It's just too bad," he added, "that Bentley took us off Hayden last month. He still doesn't appreciate how much damage that one can do all be himself or with just a few followers."

"I expect he'll put you right back on him," Ginny said tartly, "when he hears about all this. Even if he doesn't want to listen to Harry or if he thinks Harry is after him now for personal reasons, trying to murder one of the Princes is bound to make Hayden top of the list all over again."

* * *

I drifted through the end of the school year feeling as though my final days at Hogwarts were lived in a kind of limbo. I existed in a netherworld, a shadowy reflection of the real world where other students studied and worried and prepared for exams that mattered. As for me, the activities were a kind of penance, to be endured until I exited into the Muggle world to live in permanent exile. I went to class or skived off and nothing at all mattered. The first of June came and NEWTs with it. For more than a month I had had no further contact with James or Lily, although I had seen Lily once from afar. She had returned, but had not sought to speak to me and I could not nerve myself up to speak to her, not even to cast myself at her feet and beg her forgiveness for my horrid behavior. Our last embrace was reserved for a corner of my mind; not to be thought of; to be locked away in a kind of shrine, a glimpse of a paradise that might have been.

Although we had had no Defense Against the Dark Arts classes after Professor Snape had died, I still found the NEWT exam in the subject quite easy. This was a testament, I supposed, to the excellence of Dad's instruction. Some of my classmates would whisper that the praise the examiner gave me was due to Harry Potter being my father, and I left the dinner table that evening feeling as though my limbo was my own private hell. The feeling of being damned increased when I found out how some of my other classmates interpreted my performance.

"You know the real reason he had so little trouble with the Dark Arts," said a voice behind me.

I whirled around and saw that Paul Parkinson and his friend Avery were behind me. They stopped dead, and I was surprised at the expressions on their faces, fearful, yet almost excited. I drew my wand, thinking they were going to attack and that they intended to pay me back for Narcissus Malfoy's death. They eyed my wand warily but did not draw theirs. We stared at each other silently. I could not think of a single thing to say that would not spark a fight and I could not understand what they were waiting for. I would not, however, be the first to attack. I had sworn to myself that I would never use magic again after leaving Hogwarts, and while there, I would only defend myself at direst need.

"Is it true?" Avery asked.

I stared at him without reply, not at all sure what this was about, and I was astonished when he flinched and ducked his head in a strange kind of obeisance.

Parkinson licked his lips and added, "Narcissus said it was. He told us who you really are." He stared at me in a strange blend of awe and fear and I felt the hair on my neck rise and the fist intimations of horror.

"You're the Dark Lord's son - his only heir," he whispered. "That's why Potter hasn't spoken to you all these weeks."

I shook my head, trying to pretend that this hadn't happened. I felt frozen, incapable of thought or movement. The torchlight in the dungeon hallway flickered, throwing up gigantic shadows, shadows that threatened to overwhelm me.

Avery took a step forward. "He killed my father, you know, just like he killed yours."

"No," I said, though what I was denying, I wasn't sure: my very identity I suppose.

"He did," Avery insisted. "I was only a year old, you know. Lucius Malfoy told me all about it. My father went with Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle to find Potter after they learned he'd survived killing the Dark Lord after all. They thought they could bring him back, the Dark Lord, if only they could kill Potter. Potter killed him," he said, "just like the Dark Lord. He knows how to block the Killing Curse and he won't share it with anyone else. He used it to kill my father, just like he killed yours."

I took a step back and turned away as once again all that emotion I had felt upon learning my true identity roiled through me once more: denial, anger, terror. But those feelings were small beside those that Parkinson's next words evoked.

"We reckon you should be the new Dark Lord," Parkinson said. "You're his true heir. We should have all guessed. All these years, you sailed through classes so easily. You knew the most advanced magic before you walked in the door here. We'll swear to follow you. The others, they're old now, and they've forgotten who they are, following that Hayden guy who thinks he can be king." I took a single step away, intending now to pitch myself off the highest tower I could reach, but I could not help swinging back around at his next words.

"We'll swear our loyalty to you, Lord," Parkinson said.

The shadow behind him had resolved into a solid form. Dressed in black from head to toe, black jacket, black jeans, black boots, black sweater, black hair - jet black, and always untidy. Only his eyes were green as glass and as colder than I could ever imagine. Green, I thought, is the color of death. His eyes were the color of the Curse itself and they were aimed at me. He did not even have to draw his wand. His eyes alone could kill.

"Well, Sirius?" he asked far more gently than I might have expected.

I raised my wand and he closed his eyes, as though the sight of the wand was more than he could bear. Perhaps, I thought, he expects me to do the same as my father before him. Perhaps he expects me to kill him. If he did, though, he made no move to defend himself, just as he had made none that other time as well. I thought truly, this is how it feels when your heart breaks in two. It's not a pain exactly. More like the knowledge that no matter how evenly it beats time, the sound, forever after, is empty, hollow, devoid of music and joy. The loss of that music, the love I had always rested in, was harder than any other loss could be, and I did the only thing I could think of that could equal the power of that loss. I snapped my wand in two, right there in front of them all. But I had eyes only for HIM.

"I am no Dark Lord," I said. "I am no one's lord and I will never be a wizard nor do magic again."



His eyes snapped open and he stared at my broken wand and at me, though at first he said nothing at all. I fancied I could see a hundred thoughts and feelings all reflected in that clear green gaze, each passing swiftly like sunlight and shadow over still waters. I don't know what he saw in my own eyes: more than I wished; everything I would have hidden. Extraordinarily, he smiled and his voice held a peculiar timbre, a husky edge of something like regret as he said, "You didn't have to go so far as to break your wand, Sirius. I'd have believed you whatever your answer was."

"Would you have?" I asked shakily, defiantly. "How d'you know I wouldn't have lied? How d'you know I haven't got another one stashed away and ready to take this one's place?"

He sighed and his gaze clouded up again. "Whatever you are, whatever you choose to become, Sirius, the one thing you're not is a liar."

Not like you, I almost said, and I might as well have said it aloud, for it seemed he understood the thought though it remained unspoken. Apologetically, sadly, he added, "I did think it was one of my better ideas, having that wand made for you." He held out his hand and I dropped the broken wand in it. I thought I would run then and never stop running but I delayed a moment drawn by the look on his face and the curious, almost bird-like tip of his head as he examined the two pieces. "The feather's still whole," he muttered. "I wonder," he added, and quickly, without so much as a warning, he tossed the two pieces into the air and drew his own wand. I watched in fascination as a golden light flared from his wand and enveloped the broken parts of my own. A sound seemed to emanate from his wand, or perhaps it was from mine? The sound was soft, a low, lovely trill very like the sound a phoenix makes. It was not, as I said, a very loud sound, yet it crept inside my heart and lodged there, filling up the hollow that grief and fear and self-hatred had eaten away. I saw, without comprehension, that the two pieces of the wand had fused back into one and when he caught the wand and casually banished the shadows from the dark dungeon hallway with a single fluid wave I wished that the two halves of my heart could so easily be made whole once more.

He held out the wand to me and said very seriously, "You never know when you might need your wand, even at Muggle university."

I gawped at him but did not dare reach out for it, not yet.

He continued to hold it out and I saw in his eyes everything that I had always seen there: love, affection, understanding, the promise of safety, of absolute loyalty. "Your Mum's been wanting to talk to you, you know. You don't want to keep her waiting any longer as she's bound to fuss even more than usual."

Feeling as though I had crossed some great abyss, I reached out and took my wand. He heaved a great sigh of relief and said very softly, "I was hoping, I was sure you'd find it in you to forgive me, Sirius, for keeping the truth from you that way."

I opened my mouth but I couldn't seem to find the words at first to answer, though I had said many of them, in so many ways and in so many voices in my head during the long, lonely nights of that terrible month. At last, I said, "I think I understand why you didn't tell me. I just don't understand why you made me - the son of the Dark Lord, your mortal enemy - your own."

For a moment, I thought Dad would refuse to answer. I even thought he might be offended or that he still, deep down, suspected me. I suppose it was because I had lived with those thoughts for so many nights, dark thoughts in which I could almost see the innate darkness hidden inside me, that I attributed those thoughts to him. When he answered, his expression was as I had seen it in the Pensieve, defiant, almost angry.

"You were just a baby, Sirius, an innocent baby. You looked at me with my godfather's eyes and I knew I could never permit anyone to harm you."

His own eyes took on a faraway expression. He was remembering, I guessed the moment he had faced them all.

"I wasn't sure, you see, but I suspected at least some of them would have tried to kill you simply out of fear of what you might become." His green eyes took on fire and he added, "I wasn't having that. And I wasn't going to let them send you off to some orphanage or to some other relative who might deny you or ..." He looked at me and said finally, simply, "I know what it's like to have to live with a family that doesn't love you. I know what it's like to grow up knowing your parents are dead and you're only given a place to sleep and food out of sufferance, out of fear of what the neighbors will say. I saw myself in you, Sirius, the moment I took you out of the cupboard under the stairs and I could never have allowed them to do to you what they did to me."

I didn't know what to say to that, and though I looked away as I spoke, I felt that dark abyss that had hollowed my heart begin to lighten. "It's just hard, you know, to think I'm HIS, the Dark Lord's. I'm terrified to think that he is a part of me, somehow, that his evil is a part of me."



Dad laid his hand on my shoulder and I was surprised as I met his eyes again that I was actually a bit taller now than he was. "I don't believe anyone is born evil," he said, "and if any are, or could be," he added firmly, "I know that you were not. I know you. I've watched you grow. Believe me, it's true."

"They'll all say you're deluding yourself," I answered bitterly. "They know. You heard Parkinson and Avery. You heard Lucius Malfoy. Pretty soon, everyone will know."

We had progressed upwards from the dungeons and fortunately Parkinson and Avery had turned and fled the moment I had broken my wand. At the Great Hall, a brilliant panorama of stars sparkled in the vault above. Other students passed by on their way into dinner chatting cheerfully about exams. Lionel Wood waved and called out, "Hey, Sirius! I heard you taught the examiners a thing or two in the Defense practical." Lionel's voice was just as friendly as ever and I realized that neither James nor Lily had told him about my real parentage. It was then that I felt as though I had traveled back out of that cursed realm to which I had in my imagination been condemned and I looked at Dad for the first time since that evil day without the bitter grief of an outcast.

Hardly daring to speak, I followed Dad up to the Headmaster's office. The door to the office opened as we arrived though neither of us knocked. In the center of the office, a round table had been set and Mum and James and Lily were there. Mum stood quickly and I saw that she was also dressed in Muggle style clothing instead of robes, but I had no time to think about why neither she nor Dad were wearing wizards robes at Hogwarts.

"Don't yell at him," Dad said instantly. His hand rested on my shoulder protectively, possessively, and his attitude was once again defiant.

"I wasn't going to," Mum said calmly. She looked from Dad to me and back again and smiled, just a small quirk of the lips really. Then she sobered and said, "I knew this day would come the very day you took him out of the cupboard. I made my decision then and I haven't changed it since." She came up to me and hugged me and kissed me on the cheek and scolded me after all, "How could you think we wouldn't want you?"

"He was afraid," James said.

Mum spun around and glared at him and Dad frowned, preparing, I guess to say something sharp.

"I still am," I answered. I wasn't going to bother lying as I knew quite well that James, of all of them, being the greatest realist, probably understood me the best.

"Who wouldn't be?" James answered back, stilling all criticism. The others probably thought he was showing unusual depths of sensitivity, that he understood I had taken deep wounds to my very heart and soul. I, however, understood perfectly that he was speaking pragmatically of the fact that I had nearly been murdered and that so long as I continued to live among wizard-kind I would be in danger from time to time from men like Hayden, who would kill me simply to prevent the possibility that I might have inherited the Dark Lord's powers and that I might, one day, choose to challenge them. I understood as well that James had never once wavered in his belief in me. He had let me alone knowing that I would have to come to terms with myself before I could come to terms with everyone else.

Only Lily said nothing. Mum waved her wand and the plates on the table filled with all my favorite foods. Almost I could fancy that we were back at home, completely safe; almost, I could fancy that those hideous events had never occurred and those more hideous truths had never been revealed as we sat at the table and ate together as a family. I knew, though, that nothing would be as it was. I watched Dad surreptitiously from time to time simply because Mum was already doing so. Whenever he looked at one of us, her gaze would fly to his face and fasten on the faint shadows beneath his eyes and on the pallor of his normally fine complexion. I noted that he seemed thinner than he had been and that despite his attempts to chat normally he would fall silent from time to time or seem to forget the thread of the sentence he had started. I had my answer when I asked whether he would be at Hogwarts for the remainder of the term.

"No," Dad said. "I won't." He didn't elaborate at first, he just jabbed his fork at his trifle quite savagely, and I thought I understood.

"You're going after him, Hayden," I said.

"No, he's not," Mum cut in quickly.

I ignored her and went on, "I'm going with you. You don't have to go after him alone."

""You're not going after him," Mum insisted loudly. "Not right now. You can't."

Dad glared at her, which only raised her ire further. "You're in no shape to do this and you know how Bentley and the Muggles will react if you disobey orders now."

"I'm fine," Dad said shortly.

"You had a concussion," Mum hissed. "And even if you were fine, you can't afford to make any waves the way things are. You'll play right into Hayden's hands, going after him now. Even Hermione agrees you need to stay out of trouble for a few weeks after he nearly killed the Prince. Please, Harry," she added, "at least wait until you're all healed up."

I was trying to work out how Dad had got a concussion when I was sure that the only injury he'd had was from his own sword. James and Lily kept looking from Dad to Mum, just as I did.

"I suppose I'll have to," Dad growled, "but I don't have to like it. I don't have to like it that Bentley blames me for doing exactly the job he assigned me. I can't help it if he thinks I deliberately went after Hayden against his orders when it was by following them that I happened on Hayden's plot to kill the Prince." He gave up eating and threw his fork down with some violence. "And I don't have to like it that Ernie insists I ought to keep working for them when we could go after Hayden and take him out ourselves now, before he does anything worse. We've been letting the Muggles blackmail us into doing as they want for way too long and look where it's gotten us. They think they can order even the Minister of Magic about. This is Fudge's fault for not recognizing that the Muggles never really wanted to tell the world we wizards existed. It's his fault and the Ministry's for being too cowardly to stand up for us when he should have."

I gawped at Dad and a peculiar feeling stole over me: pity. Dad, I thought, had been trapped somehow in a cage barred in his own fame and duty. He had, I saw, been manipulated by those without principles into using his rare talents to shore up their power. They had set him to chase after evil, after the Dark Lord, after the Death Eaters, and after Hayden, making it seem as though the purpose was the protection of the innocent while all along they simply wanted to maintain the status quo.

"I can help," I said again. "I think I've got a right to, all things considered."

Some of the anger drained away and in the dark green gaze shadows of some nightmare dimmed the blaze or rage. "I did tell you," he answered, "there would come a time when your oath will be tested. It's not yet," he added slowly, "and I hope it may never come to be."

* * *

The atmosphere in the conference room was tainted by the almost sulfurous scent of anxiety. The men in the room were, of course, used to unpleasant news, even disastrous news; but the contents of the television report they were viewing spelled trouble of the worst sort. The Prime Minister might weather it without an actual no confidence vote. The others, however, must be seeing the requests for their resignations flashing before their eyes. Bones avoided the others' grim looks and occupied himself with wondering whether he could even get another job.

The first reports of the fiasco in Las Vegas had mostly been distributed in American scandal sheets. Just as Harry had predicted, almost none of the reputable papers had printed more than vague reports of the events at the Camelot Hotel. Unfortunately, the British papers had not been so fearful. The same papers that had printed the Locherman leaks about Harry and wizards had leapt on the new story with delight. Bold headlines had announced the near murder of the Prince and the death of Lord Burlington. The articles had all mentioned Harry's presence at the scene and a few had resurrected the rumors of wizardry and worse. Even this would not have been so bad and might have been minimized if it weren't for the enterprising efforts of an American commentary show. The report had begun with the host's dramatic announcement that the Royals were "at it again."

"Let's face it, folks, years of interbreeding have left these guys with huge egos and small intelligence. To top it off, all they have to do all day is find ways to spend their enormous fortunes in high society activities like polo, steeple chasing and fencing. What would the Prince do if he had to hold down a real job like the rest of us?"

And that had been only the beginning. There had been interviews of eyewitnesses, none of whom had accurately described the fight. Then, worst of all, they had shown snippets of the British articles with the Locherman leaks. A clip of the Parliament Opening Day ceremonies was shown, and there, for all the world, were Harry and Lord Burlington riding side by side and in Harry's arms every viewer could see the Sword of Gryffindor with its golden lion and great ruby, a thing without price.

But the piece de resistance had been a statement by Hayden. The host had gone to great lengths to explain that he had received the tape of Hayden's interview in the mail and that he did not endorse any point of view. Then he had played the tape.

"Most people fail to understand how the governments of the world have been deceiving them for years upon years," Hayden began. "And why? Why in order to keep the people from demanding their real share.

"I have been accused of heinous things," Hayden continued. "And why? Why has the British government gone out of its way to persecute me and jail me without cause? The truth is, they fear me. They fear me because I alone am willing to tell the people of Britain the truth about how their society is being destroyed by outside terrorist influences. And for this, I am branded a terrorist. For this, I am accused of tax evasion. I am accused of all sorts of things. The real truth they don't want told is that the family that sits in power in Britain has no right to be there. These so called royals have almost no blood connection with the real royal family of Britain. They pretend to be without power - but that's a lie. There is nothing that occurs in Britain that the so-called Royal family doesn't engineer. Parliament, which people think is their elected body, is the mere instrument of the fraudulent family's will. The Prime Minister is their stooge. And they operate around the world in secret using agents like Harry Potter to enforce their will.

"They bury their Potters inside supposed security agencies like MI-5 the better to maintain their monstrous control and to hound down men like me, who dare to speak the truth.

"Let it be known, that the people will tire of this oppression. The people will reject the cabal that plots to steal even more of their freedoms and to turn them into willing slaves all in the name of tolerance and acceptance of the very philosophies and people which are inherently inimical to the British and Western way of life.

"America has given me a second home. For this, I thank her, and I pray that the good people of this country will see that the day will come where their freedoms are also endangered by those same hatreds which the so-called royals manipulate to their own advantage."

The host had gone on to close the program by saying, "You gotta wonder whether this guy is crazy or a voice crying in the wilderness. Folks, you can judge for yourselves. All I know is, I'd hate to have this secret agent Potter - and what do you suppose his number is double O thirteen? - I'd hate to have someone like him tracking me down for the rest of my life."

There was a horrified silence after that part of the tape. Then the head of Six said heavily, "Damn. We've just lost one of our best men. How could Potter have screwed up so badly?"

"Harry didn't screw up," Bones flared up. He was through with pretending to be subservient to them. he was the Head of his own department and Harry was his man, not theirs. "You all made the mistake of thinking Hayden was toothless when Harry warned you he wasn't."

"You've got it wrong," Bentley interjected. "We had other men on Hayden. I wanted Harry to go off and do something else, something routine and safer for a bit. I reckon he's tired, Bones. I reckon he's almost at the end of his days as a security officer. He's lasted as an active field agent longer than most, but I know, I can see the signs of fatigue are there. I'm pulling him off active duty altogether and he can go down to the Compound and take a re-training course for the next six weeks. If he gets through that all right, then maybe we can field him again. And by that time, this scandal will have blown over for the next."

"I don't disagree," the Prime Minister said. "If we can salvage him, he's the best we've got. But we're going to have to ask him to do some damage control here or we're all going to be out and the Opposition will be in and they'll leave us more vulnerable than we were a year ago."

"Damage control!" Bones exclaimed. "What the devil do you mean? You think he can whip out his wand and erase everything that already happened?"

"Of course not," the Prime Minister said patiently. His tone was that of a schoolmarm reprimanding her dumbest student. "He can go on the telly and straighten things out. A nice controlled interview with a safe and friendly host ought to do."

Bones could only stare, thoroughly appalled, as Bentley agreed. "Not a bad idea. Just make sure you use an American host, so no one can claim we are controlling our press. One of those pretty women on the morning shows ought to do nicely."

* * *

Hermione sighed and fought the urge to throw a tantrum. The American film crew had already arrived at Harry's house and the lady from the morning show who had come to interview Harry was glancing at her watch with barely disguised impatience. If they failed to start filming shortly, the segment would miss being screened live in the U.S., which was hours earlier than Britain.





"I'll just go see if he's ready," Hermione said calmly. All those years of calming first years down as a prefect and then Head Girl as well as mothering four children had taught her that displaying her own nerves would merely exacerbate the other person's incipient hysteria.

"What are you again?" the woman asked. Her blond hair was perfectly and artistically arranged in silken layers and her blue eyes were highlighted by a good deal more make-up than one realized from watching her on the screen. Her perky screen personality, however, must be a matter of practice; or perhaps the situation was straining her natural cheeriness. Hermione could not help feeling, though, that the woman's chief thought as she stared at her for an answer was that Hermione's hair must be the bushiest she'd ever seen.

"I'm with the government," Hermione said patiently.

"You're here to see he doesn't say the wrong things," was the reply.

Hermione raised her eyebrows and said loftily, "Harry will tell you the truth. It's why you're allowed to do this."

Without waiting to see the woman's disbelief reflected in her kitten-like eyes, Hermione walked through the hall and into the kitchen where Harry was sitting, a half-drunk cup of coffee in front of him, and most of his breakfast still on his plate. Faint shadows under his eyes and brackets of tension about his mouth spoke of sleeplessness and distress. It had been a long time since she had seen him looking like that and Hermione wondered whether the entire plan might be a real disaster - one that would play right into the enemy's hands.

"Come on," she said briskly, "you'd better shave quickly and put on a fresh shirt. That woman is having kittens out there thinking you won't show up and she'll miss her promised exclusive. They've already announced the interview ten minutes ago."

In fact, Hermione had watched the opening of the show on the telly in the front lounge, which thankfully for once was actually operating. She supposed Harry must have made a few hasty alterations to the protections so that the magic in other areas of the house was more thoroughly blocked off.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, she was sure. He had that stubborn look that said he was about to tell everyone off no matter that he'd be the one to pay. Quickly, she said, "Just think of it as being like the time you gave Rita Skeeter that interview for the Quibbler. It's your chance to tell the real story and turn the tables on them."

"Yeah," Harry said sardonically. "I wish it was that easy. This is more like me being Fudge's mouthpiece. oh, I know," he added, cutting off her disagreement, "it's for the good of the Service and all. But what it's really about is preserving the Prime Minister's job, and the minister of magic isn't it?" He grimaced unhappily and then stood with that sudden fluid grace he never seemed to lose. "I suppose I'd better do something. After all, the alternative is to end up with the Opposition back and they'll probably re-appoint Locherman and start outlawing all wizardry."

"We need to start now," the American reporter hissed to Hermione. Her irritated expression changed in an instant, however, as Harry strode into the front lounge and apologized quite nicely for the delay. His jet black hair was a bit damp, but it stuck up as rebelliously as ever, and he had thrown on an old Weasley sweater, a green one with a golden lion snoozing away on the front. The reporter's blue eyes widened slightly, and she looked utterly charmed as she put her small hand with its polished nails into Harry's outstretched one.

"Do you have some place a bit more cozy than this room?" the reporter asked. "To film the interview in," she added. "We want to show you in the best light possible."

Hermione could not help wondering whether the woman meant the best camera light or whether she was under someone's orders to make this interview as friendly as possible. The lightning glance Harry gave the woman told Hermione that he had had the exact same thought. He led the reporter into the library and gestured courteously for her to take a seat on the plump red couch. The cameraman began to film almost immediately, panning across the comfortable room, taking in the mellow wooden shelves that were lined with leather bound books, the huge fireplace with its marble mantel, and the two cats snoozing atop the shelves. Harry settled himself in one of the comfortable dark red leather chairs and waited quite calmly for the reporter to begin. His expression was quite pleasant, but utterly inscrutable and Hermione thought he must have forced himself to put aside whatever the anxieties were that had left him looking tense and sleep deprived in order to nerve himself up for one of the things he hated most: public examination.





"Yesterday," the reporter began smoothly, "a shocking story was aired on one of our competitor's news programs. The story accused the British government of conducting unauthorized intelligence operations on American soil and contained an interview with film star Eric Hayden asserting that the British royal family were persecuting him without foundation. He also claimed that the gentleman we are about to interview, Harry Potter, is both an intelligence agent for the British agency known as MI-5 and an agent of the royal family in their persecution of Mr. Hayden."

The extra large computer screen, which the cameraman had set up to show the interview as it took place, switched from a shot of the reporter's face to a shot of Hayden standing in front of the Camelot Hotel. The reporter continued, "Numerous witnesses claim to have seen a fierce fight in which Mr. Potter, whose British title is Lord Gryffindor, attacked Hayden with an antique sword on display at the World Fencing Championship."

The reporter turned to Harry and asked, "Lord Gryffindor, are you, in fact, an intelligence agent for MI-5?"

"I don't go by that title," Harry answered. To most eyes, he must have looked perfectly serene, but to Hermione, he seemed just a bit irritated at the emphasis the reporter placed on the title. Hermione knew that Harry had never entirely believed he was descended from Godric Gryffindor. He also had little interest in titles in general - if anything, they were apt to remind him of Voldemort, who had insisted on being called Lord; and anything that Voldemort did was something Harry would avoid.

"Mr. Potter, then," the reporter said. She seemed almost disappointed, though Hermione could not tell whether it was because she was enchanted with aristocracy as many Americans are or because his refusal to use a title undercut the story that Harry was a tool of the royals.

"Harry," Harry said in his most polite voice.

Wicked, Hermione thought, that's what he is. She wondered when he had figured out that he had the ability to charm women other than his wife. Sure enough, the woman's blue eyes widened again, and her smile warmed as she asked again, "You do work for British Intelligence, don't you, Harry?"

Harry shrugged, an infinitesimal shrug, as if to say, no use denying it now. "Yeah," he answered laconically.

"I'm surprised you admit it."

Harry shrugged again, more obviously, and added the words he'd left out, "No point in denying it, is there? My identity has been published one time too many."

"And it's true you were conducting an unauthorized operation here in America?" the reporter asked.

Hermione would have liked to pull on the woman's silken hair. She reminded Hermione too much of Rita Skeeter, despite the fact that she would never remotely reach Rita Skeeter's depths in search of a sensational story.

"Not exactly," Harry replied.

"But you were involved in a fight with Eric Hayden at the Camelot Hotel. Was that a separate assignment? Were you working directly for the Royal family?"

"No, it was not a separate assignment," Harry said firmly. He took a barely perceptible breath and then explained quite smoothly, so that Hermione could see this must be what he had planned to say after they had told him he had to give the interview.

"I work, you see, for Security Services, which is the equivalent of your FBI or Homeland Security, but my main assignment is to the Anti-Terror Task Force, which is comprised of officers from MI-5, MI-6, Special Branch, and Scotland Yard. My main job is to investigate and track potential terrorist threats and to be involved in preventive actions, where necessary."

"That's quite impressive." The reporter looked suitably wide-eyed, but she struck as quickly as any snake in the grass. "But if that is your job, then why did you attack a film star like Eric Hayden and why were you riding right in front of the Queen's carriage at the Opening Day ceremonies last fall?"







"I did not attack Hayden," Harry answered. "I was trying to prevent him from murdering the Prince. I had followed another man, a known terrorist agent from Europe to America, and I discovered that he was dealing with the Anglo-Aryan Alliance, a terrorist group of which Hayden is the head. My investigation led me to the hotel where Hayden was sponsoring the fencing competition and where the Prince was competing. I arrived, quite by luck really, just in time to interrupt Hayden's trap. Unfortunately, he had several other men with him and Lord Burlington, the Prince's fencing tutor, was killed." Harry paused and the calm on his face broke a little as he continued, "Hayden murdered Burlington when Burlington got in his way. … He was a nice man, Lord Burlington and Hayden murdered him for no good reason at all."

The anger and disgust showed through clearly, prompting the reporter to ask, "And you had nothing to do with it? You didn't provoke Hayden? You haven't been following Hayden, trying to arrest him for years?"

"I have arrested him," Harry replied. "I arrested him six, almost seven years ago, for masterminding a terrorist attack on the Metro mall in London. Hayden escaped from prison last summer and he resumed his terrorist activities at once. I reckon he's murdered or ordered the murder of at least six men and women in the last year and I believe he was planning a major attack when we interrupted him the other day."

"These are grave accusations," the reporter said gravely.

Hermione had the feeling, however, that she was rather excited by the whole interview. The woman had expected to dislike Harry, she had expected, very likely, to get some kind of vague, bland, government-style speeches. Instead, she had gotten Harry, who, no matter how meek and retiring he tried to appear, could never be bland and boring. No doubt, Hermione thought cynically, the Prime Minister had had an inkling of how Harry would appear on camera. Unlike the other heads, the Prime Minister had raised the use of television and news announcements and interviews to a fine art and he must have understood that Harry's purity of character and youthfulness would shine through, so that the audience would believe him and like him no matter how hard and how unpalatable his message might be.

"It's the truth," Harry replied, "and I won't sugarcoat it simply to make people feel better."

"But," the reporter protested with a thrill in her large kitten eyes, "Eric Hayden is a famous film star. A leading actor. Why on earth would someone like him be involved in terrorist activities, in murder? What can he gain from all this?"

"He's mental," Harry answered. He leaned forward just a little and continued vehemently, "He is a good actor, you know. He's so good he makes the most lunatic statements sound plausible. Who doesn't hate paying taxes? So he cleverly says he's been persecuted unjustly and it's all really about how he hasn't paid taxes. But that's a lie. He hasn't paid taxes because he claims his official residence is in Germany or the U.S. And he disguises his operations through all kinds of innocent commercial fronts like that hotel and casino. But none of that tells you how really crazy he is. He really believes he ought to be King of England and that he's descended from some Sixth Century Saxon named Hengist. He wants to "purify" the British populace of everyone who isn't descended only from the Saxons, even though practically nobody exists who is because that's over fifteen hundred years ago, before the Norman Conquest." Harry's tone was disgusted, derisive. "He lives in a fantasy world where he's some kind of medieval king, but he doesn't mind using any weapon, or any means to inflict terror and suffering on anyone who doesn't fit into his pure Aryan profile."

"You do seem to have a personal vendetta against him," the reporter commented.

Hermione began to wonder whether the reporter, who was supposed to have been so tame and sweet, wasn't following some agenda of her own.

Harry had started to reply, but the reporter cut him off. "I believe you feel quite strongly about all this," she said, "But I wonder what you'll say when you've heard from a few of our other sources."

The screen switched from the reporter's face to her co-anchor in the U.S. "This is a fascinating story, and we have with us Mr. Anthony Jefferson who works at the federal prison in Nevada. Mr. Jefferson has an interesting story to tell about Mr. Potter. A very interesting story indeed."











The screen switched to a uniformed man, who explained that he was the warden of the federal prison where a group of suspected terrorists from the Las Vegas riots had been detained. "We had a heck of a time sorting out who was really a terrorist and who was just a hanger-on at the mosque where the incident started. This fellow," Jefferson pointed to Harry's face, which was showing again in a corner of the screen, and which looked utterly inscrutable once more, "was one of the ones brought in. He wouldn't tell us his name and he pretended he had amnesia, didn't know who he was. Well, we had these line ups, and one of the other prisoners, a known terrorist and drug runner, said he knew Potter, only he wouldn't say his name. Potter denied knowing who he was. Well, the long and the short of it is, Potter was in our facility with the other detainees for over ten days and never told anyone who he was or that he worked for the Brits. On the last day, the fellow that said he knew Potter tried to escape, attacked one of our guards, and then he and Potter get into a ruckus, and it's only after that that Potter finally identifies himself."

"I understand you have a video of this incident," the co-anchor said. "But it's not the end of the story, is it, Mr. Jefferson?"

"No, it's not," Jefferson added. "See, after Potter identified himself and went off with the Homeland Security guy who was running the detainee program, the fellow Potter had a fight with, Allawai, is found dead in his cell, just dead, and the autopsy shows no cause of death at all. The guy just up and died. Makes you wonder about all those accusations they made about Potter being some sorcerer."

Instead of returning to Harry for comment as their host had promised, the screen now showed the inside of a prison and the tape began to run. Afterwards, Hermione thought they must not have even previewed the tape, although it was surely as sensational as anything they'd ever shown. The tape was simply a security video. It was grainy and poor; yet even through its poor quality, the desperate nature of the place showed through. The long cafeteria tables, lined on either side with men in washed out blue, were a sad mockery of the house tables at which they'd sat for meals at Hogwarts. At one of the tables, half the men wore bright orange, not blue, as if to set them apart, to label them on sight as dangerous. Almost immediately, a man in orange brought his food tray smashing down on a guard's head and seized his gun. It was scary, shocking, and his threats were full of raw violence, not perfectly parsed as those in a movie might be. She should have expected it, of course, knowing Harry, but still his sudden leap onto the table came as a surprise. Though Harry sat right there in the same room, she could still feel her heart accelerate when he stalked deliberately down the table on the screen and demanded that the villain turn over the gun. She shot a quick glance at him, and on turning back, she saw that Harry had looked even worse in the tape than he had that morning. The bright orange prison suit did nothing for the pallor of his complexion, which faded from merely pale to colorless when the prisoner, Allawi, said his name. The audience, she supposed, would find his mention of Voldemort puzzling, but frightening nevertheless, for it was clear that Allawi was frightened by it even though he was the one pointing the gun at Harry. She did not bother to suppress a gasp when Harry leapt at Allawi and the gun went off, or to conceal her sigh of relief when he came up on top with the gun at Allawi's head.

The reporter gaped at Harry in disbelief, but Harry was not looking at her. He was focused on the screen where the tape had stopped a new face had taken its place. The co-anchor spoke again, addressing the new man as Joseph Patrick..

"Mr. Patrick, I understand you are the officer from Homeland Security who was in charge of the Las Vegas detainees and that you were the one who uncovered Mr. Potter's unauthorized operation. You were also at the incident at the Camelot. Can you tell us just when you realized that one of your detainees was actually a British agent in disguise, and how it happened that the prisoner we just saw ended up dead under your supervision?"

"In the first place," Patrick said, "I need to correct the record. Homeland Security has never stated that Mr. Potter's actions here were unauthorized. The fact is the United States and Britain have long-standing cooperation treaties with regard to combating terrorism. Second, I want to point out that your accusations are way out of line. Mr. Potter actually saved that guard's life, if you were watching, and he had nothing to do with the death of the terrorist Saleh Allawi as he was at the Camelot in a joint operation with me when Allawi died."

"A joint operation?" the co-anchor asked faintly.

"Certainly," Patrick answered. Unlike Harry, he was dressed in a conservative suit. He wore a red and blue striped tie and a small American flag was pinned to one of his lapels.

"You're saying that you were at the Camelot for a Homeland Security operation?" the co-anchor asked. He looked a bit discomposed and Hermione supposed he was seeing his expose of the government agency falling apart.

"Exactly," Patrick replied. "Potter and I went there to conduct a search of the premises as we had information that a possible terrorist attack would occur there. When Allawi, that's the man who attacked the guard, was arrested at the Las Vegas riots, he had a briefcase on him which contained architects' plans of the hotel. It's quite common for terrorists planning an attack to acquire plans of a place they're going to attack and we assumed that's what they were for. I will confess that I didn't believe Hayden would blow up his own hotel, but we went there anyway and of course, you know the rest."

The woman reporter jumped in on her co-anchor and said, "Perhaps you could tell us a bit more, Mr. Patrick. Is it true that Harry actually attacked Eric Hayden? Is it true that he used magic, that he has sorcerous powers, and that you only cooperated with him because the Royal family insisted?"

Harry gave the woman a look of disgust and when the screen shifted back to Patrick, she looked at Harry and whispered almost soundlessly, "You do see we're making you look better by letting you answer these accusations than if we just gave you softball questions?"

"Baloney," Patrick said forcefully. You can't tell me you really believe the British are using magicians for intelligence agents. And trust me, I'm a cowboy from Wyoming. The closest contact I'll ever have to the Royal family was in the few minutes where Eric Hayden tried to murder that party boy prince."

"Party boy's a bit harsh," Harry interjected.

"That you, Harry?" Patrick asked. "I don't suppose you guys have managed to track where Hayden went? We've been trying to get the guy who aired that tape of him to tell us how he got it, but he claims he got in the mail."

"We've been looking for him and that M.P., Jones, since the incident went down," Harry answered.

Hermione nearly laughed as both reporters looked entirely taken aback. Clearly they had not expected the two men to start having a conversation without them. The woman, however, must be much smarter than her co-anchor, for she mouthed into her wire, "Let them go. This is unbelievable footage. I bet we've got everyone in the world watching us now."

"Anyway," Harry continued, "Interpol got a few reports of sightings on him and we're pretty sure he's in Europe again. We think he got out of the U.S. through Mexico and then flew from there to Berlin. But listen, Joe," he added, "do me a favor and keep after any of Allawi's connections and any of Hayden's connections there in the U.S. I think he's got more up his sleeve than we've seen yet."

"Oh, I wouldn't be surprised," Patrick said. "We found out he's had contacts with some of our homegrown hate groups. Looks like he wants to recruit them into his organization." He shook his head. "Who knew that a guy like that could be so bad. All that elegant star power, and the killer smile. I used to like his movies."

"He can smile all he wants," Harry answered, "but he's a villain through and through."

"Should you be discussing this on TV?" the reporter cut in again, finally. "I thought all your operations were shrouded in secrecy?"

"They generally are," Patrick answered dryly, "for obvious reasons. We're only giving these interviews because the nonsense that's been aired and the disinformation are so awful we felt we had a responsibility to the people to set the record straight."

"Well, this has been illuminating," the co-anchor said. His tone of voice left open the question of what had been illuminated precisely, but it also had a note of finality in it so that Hermione could see why Harry must have thought the interview was concluded. He had stopped paying attention to the woman and had turned his head to look in the direction of the kitchen. He sat poised, alert, listening, as though he heard something that no one else could see. He rose and went out of the library and through the hall to the kitchen and he failed to notice that the reporter had followed behind him, signaling one of the cameramen to follow with a handheld. Hermione followed behind them all as Harry slipped out the kitchen door into the spacious gardens in the back. She thought of drawing her wand but she knew she must not. She started to tell the reporter the interview was over but her attention was distracted by the cry of a small red haired child perched on a branch of one of the tall trees that shaded the garden.

"Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry! Look where Crookshanks has got to!"

It was Hermione's own six year old daughter, Perdita, her youngest, who clung precariously to her perch, and in the high branches above, she could see Crookshanks' amber eyes peering out through the foliage.

"Come down," Harry called. "Your Mum'll be sad if you fall and hurt yourself."

"But I can't, Uncle Harry," Perdita called down. "See, Crookshanks is stuck and I have to get him down." She reached out and pulled herself to the next branch, but, naturally, it being in the nature of trees and children that children would fall out of them, Perdita missed her grip and fell. Hermione actually drew her wand to stop her daughter's fall, but Harry caught her quite handily. Hastily, Hermione looked at the reporter and her camera man to see if they had noticed, but their attention was all on Harry, who had set his niece on the ground and was scolding her, but not troubling to keep the laughter out of his face and voice.

A peremptory meow sounded from her fat old cat, and Hermione could not help but be embarrassed that Crookshanks had stuck his elderly face in and made a mess of things. Harry was not bothered at all by the mess. He looked up and said with exasperation and amusement, "All right you lazy cat. I suppose I'll just have to get you down then."

He swung up onto the fattest branch and then climbed upward until he had reached the shakiest branches. Perdita laughed and called out, "Hurry up, Uncle Harry. Nana will catch us, if we're not careful."

In the high branches, Crookshanks had made up his mind. He lumbered back down, using Harry as his first landing. Being a rather large cat, and grown fat with age, Crookshanks' weight was considerable, and it unbalanced Harry so that he slipped and started to fall. He broke through several branches and could be heard to swear as he fell, but he managed to catch hold of the strongest, lowest branch, slowing his descent sufficiently so that he landed gracefully on the ground on two feet as though he'd been a gymnast dismounting from the parallel bars.

It being the way of things that children who get into mischief do get caught, Molly would show up, huffing and puffing, and Perdita hid behind Harry, laughing merrily. Fortunately, Molly's tantrum at her grand-daughter was interrupted. "Don't scold, Molly," Harry said laughing. "It was all Crookshanks' fault, really." He reached down and picked up Perdita and said, "I don't know about you, but I could use a cup of cocoa after that adventure." The sun shed a glow of brightness about them, the tall, young man and the small, girl with the long cascades of coppery waves, and Hermione could almost feel the tingle of magic that emanated from them.

Harry strode back into the kitchen and the reporter retreated as he went, purposefully, Hermione thought, so that he would not realize they were still filming him. She had no clue what they would do with the footage, but she thought that if anything could undo the damaging accusations against Harry, letting the world see that side of him, laughing and vulnerable, must be more effective than any explanations or denials. Sometimes, she thought, fortune could be kind.

It should have been the end, but it was not. They had barely entered the kitchen and set up the kettle (Harry using matches to light the stove rather than his wand) when an unexpected, shrill sound came. It was not the kettle boiling, but the phone. Harry stopped smiling and made a gesture, as though to wave away the sound. He would have left it unanswered, except that one of the news crew had picked it up and was handing it to Harry, who had no choice then but to take it.

"Hullo," Harry said.

At any other time, the conversation would have remained private as Harry's answers were limited to monosyllables, and revealed little. He had forgot, though, that he still had the tiny wireless microphone clipped onto his sweater, and the voice on the other side came through on the screen, as shocking and unexpected as that in any play.

"You can't escape me, Boy, you know that," the voice said smoothly. It was a rich voice, and a pleasant one. "I know where you are, I'm watching you. Just as I told you this morning, you've interfered with me for the last time. You got lucky when you survived the Dark Lord. I know what he did wrong and I promise you, I won't make the same mistakes he did."

"Oh?" Harry said. That was all, just the one word, a breath of a question, but it was enough to set off a barrage of fury. The newsman did nothing to lower the sound or try to cut out the curse words, perhaps because he too, was so astonished by them. Harry simply walked the few steps from the hall into the front lounge. He listened almost without expression and only the faintly visible tightening of his jaw muscles and the darkening of the bright green eyes revealed his horror and rage. He reached into a drawer in the small table on which the telephone base stood and pulled out a small object to which was a attached a long, thin wire. He attached the object to the speaker of the phone and plugged the other end of the wire into the computer, which sat on a desk in the corner. The computer's screen lit up and Harry hit a couple of keys. A program came up, one which Hermione recognized from her training with the Security Services, a tracking program.

"You can see where opposing me has gotten you, Boy. The world knows you for what you are, the Queen's executioner, that's what you are. Only don't think they'll support you anymore. They've already thrown you to the vultures, haven't they Boy? You're being pilloried in the press, on the telly. But that's just the beginning. I won't offer you the chance I gave you this morning again, Boy. You could have joined me. You could have stood high in my circle. I would have overlooked all of the trouble you've given me until now because I am generous. I give people a chance. But you rejected it, and you will suffer the consequences. I know who your children are and what they look like. I know who your wife is and what she looks like. Next week, or next month, one of them will die."

"I see," Harry said. He had gone pale again, but his eyes were focused on the screen.



"You will die, too, Potter," Hayden added, "but not before I've taken everything you care about. Not before you are desolate and you know how foolish you were to oppose me." The line disconnected then but still Harry said nothing. He watched the screen and made a small sound of satisfaction. The call he made was from his mobile instead of the house phone. He hit a single button, speed dial, and said only, "He's in Munich right now, but I expect he'll be gone again before you get there. I'm sending you the tape now."

The reporter, whose blue eyes no longer held any malice, said shakily, "That was him, Eric Hayden?"

Harry gawped at her as she composed herself and asked him, "How does it feel to know you're being stalked by a terrorist, Mr. Potter? Do you consider it part of the price you pay to protect your country?"

Hermione prayed that Harry would keep his composure. For just one moment, she was sure he was going to hex the woman. His lips had thinned down to a taut line and the fingers on his right hand twitched slightly, like the twitch of a cat's tail just before it attacks. Yet his voice was low and calm when he spoke, rueful almost. "I told you, he's mental."

* * *

In London, the Prime Minister breathed out a huge sigh and said, "It's perfect. We're saved, aren't we? No one'll be listening to the Opposition now when the world has just heard the villain threaten our golden boy. That American reporter was brilliant, keeping the camera going when he climbed the tree and hugged the little girl, and picking up the phone conversation. Brilliant!"

Bones felt a rare fury possess him. "You think having Harry be flayed in front of the world and then having his family and his life threatened is perfect?" He flung around and stared at Bentley, "You're not going to send him down to the Compound for re-training still, are you?"

"No need for histrionics, Bones," Masters said soothingly. "We all admire the lad."

"Oh, he's as brave as they come," Bentley agreed. "But he wouldn't be in this mess, and we wouldn't have had this mess to clean up if he'd followed procedures and reported in. You were mad enough about yourself a few day ago."

"He gave us a reasonable explanation," Bones said quietly. "Even you admit that he wouldn't have had time to report in without losing Allawi's trail."

"Later, then," Bentley said. "In any case, it doesn't matter right now whether he really had time or not. It's perception among the rest of the men. And they all think he bollixed things up because he went haring off on his own and failed to call in. We have to keep discipline in the Services, Bones, and no one is above the chain of command, not even Harry." Bentley met Bones' angry gaze squarely and added, "I still think it's the best thing all around. It gets Harry away in a secure place. We don't need the investigation further hampered by having to keep bodyguards on Harry at all times. The Compound is secure and six weeks re-training will give him a chance to rest and get his nerves under control."

"His nerves?" the Prime Minister said. "He's got nerve, all right. I can't imagine staying calm like that while someone was threatening my family. I expect the Queen could be persuaded to give him an honor of some kind when that maniac's been arrested again." As if he had read Bones' mind, the Prime Minister added, "We were lucky, weren't we, that that American man denied the rumors about magic so convincingly. We really wouldn't want that to come out now, after all our labors at keeping it secret, would we?"

Bones swallowed and glared at him and wondered whether the Statute of Secrecy had been the greatest mistake wizards had ever made. They were now locked into an untenable position: the Muggles did not believe in magic, but were certain that if it did exist, it must be evil; and the Prime Minister could hold its revelation over their heads forever with the implied threat that wizardry could easily be outlawed and wizards independent no more if they now failed to cooperate with him.

LINKS:

Go to... Heksie's weblog" JK Rowling offical site Offical Harry Potter site Mugglenet Sohara von Selienta's Page Harry Potter Fan Fiction.com Yahoo GeoCities Yahoo! Shopping Yahoo! Travel

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws