Ten
The Jackal and the Wolf
Gerard Mortimer, senior partner of Mortimer & Mortimer, Ltd., took a moment from his busy day to gaze at the manicured square outside his office. Tremont Street it was called, although it was hardly more than a short alley adjacent to Charing Cross Road, a stone’s throw away from Diagon Alley. Harking from a time when even Muggles traveled mostly on foot or perhaps in horse-drawn carriages, its wide sidewalks were abundantly dotted with shade trees to provide a peaceful promenade. Long the preferred address for wizarding solicitors and high-priced investment bankers, it was protected from Muggle view by a wrought iron archway that displayed nothing more than a dark lair of rusted dustbins.
To witches or wizards, however, the view adjusted itself to the inviting square Mr. Gerard beheld outside his window. As one of the few literary agents catering to the magical community, Mortimer & Mortimer, Fine Purveyors of Magical Tomes, had long held a virtual monopoly on all manner of fictional and biographical material marketed to witches and wizards throughout Britain.
Mr. Gerard’s father had been nicknamed ‘the Bloodhound’ for his unerring ability to find the gems among the stacks of drivel arriving via owl post each day. His particular coup had been to sign the hugely popular Gilderoy Lockhart whose books had gone into numerous printings. Not that they hadn’t long ago suspected the man was a complete charlatan, albeit a very profitable one; but as the elder Mr. Mortimer had often said, “Our firm deals in fictions as well as biographies. As long as we don’t label Lockhart’s books as one or the other, the public is free to make up its own mind.” Such was the marketing genius Mr. Gerard did his daily best to emulate.
At first he had been relieved his father had not lived to see the day the firm’s premier client managed to end his own career by Obliviating himself with a malfunctioning wand. Mr. Gerard paid Lockhart the occasional visit in the Incurable Ward, brightening up the poor man’s dreary existence with a few requests for autographed copies of his books. Lockhart was beside himself with joy at complying and Mr. Gerard had a few more collector’s copies he could sell at a premium. That was the most peculiar thing of all: now that the public had become aware that Lockhart was an outright liar, they continued to buy his books as works of light fiction.
Mr. Gerard had been totally thunderstruck by this phenomenon although he suspected his father’s spirit was chuckling down at him in amusement. It was only when they took on a Muggle-born wizard as one of their newest bookbinders that Mr. Gerard learned of ghostwriters. Not dead souls as in the wizarding world, the young man had been quick to point out, but anonymous writers who sold their services to celebrities and others whose name alone was enough to guarantee a book’s profitability.
“Despite that celebrities themselves are barely able to pen a thank you note to their aunt without the services of three personal assistants,” the young bookbinder had confided under his breath.
Unlike Lockhart in his prime, Muggles did not Obliviate their ghostwriters in return for their services. But only, Mr. Gerard suspected, because they did not know how.
Pacing the elegant rug, he conceded that the restlessness he felt in his legs, the very frisson of excitement, was anticipation. It had been a long time since his firm had discovered a new voice in the wilderness; one who was sure to set the literary world on fire “ at least in wizarding circles. As much as he longed to parlay his find among the Muggle booksellers as well “ they would just categorize it a fantasy fiction, anyway “ he feared his client would insist on pushing the Statute of Secrecy beyond its limits. Best he keep his sights upon the wizarding world “ for now.
A knock on the door caused him to whip around expectantly as an assistant arrived with the mock-up of the book cover for final approval. With a critical eye, Mr. Gerard unfurled the thick parchment and tacked it briefly on the wall before him with a few gentle taps of his wand. Then he backed up a few steps to gauge the impact it would have in a shop window.
The yellow feral eyes were arresting to be sure, drawing the attention of passersby as their breath invariably would catch in their throats. The velvety black of the background was broken by the trajectory of an alabaster moon as it progressed through its phases, only subtly lingering as it reached the full moon at its zenith. Timed to coincide, the pupil of the right eye dissolved into an indistinct moving shape guaranteed to entice the viewer closer. Depicted in a shadowy half-light, the slightly hunched figure walked on two legs but was clearly not the silhouette of an ordinary man. The details were wisely left to the reader’s imagination. There were those who would want to envision the protagonist as a brutal maniac without conscience or remorse. But Mr. Gerard’s experience told him there would be many, mostly women, who would romanticize the demon and endeavor to paint him in a more favorable light. He also knew that both types of readers were necessary to guarantee the success of a book.
With a curt nod of approval, he quickly re-rolled the parchment sample and placed it into the waiting hands of his assistant. “It’s perfect, Marcus,” he intoned with satisfaction. “Please let me know when the first volume comes off the press so I can forward it to my client. I will be drafting him a short note in the meanwhile.”
With that in mind, Mr. Gerard set his quill to parchment and began:
My esteemed sir:
With great pleasure, I am enclosing the first copy off our presses. I cannot thank you enough for bringing the uniqueness of your tale to our attention. As you will see, your words required very little editing; just a twitch here or there to make the story flow more logically. Yours is such a singular voice we are all certain it will reverberate among wizards everywhere.
Please do not concern yourself with your current circumstances. We have opened a Gringotts vault in your name where we have deposited the sum of your advance as well as any royalties that will accumulate according to further sales. As you requested, we will also forward to Gringotts all documents recounting in detail all sums paid to you.
Although new authors customarily embark on personal appearances to promote their works, we believe you are better served to remain a mystery in the reader’s eyes. If allowed, we may bring a small quantity of volumes for your autograph at a later date. Please be reassured that should you decide to grant any interviews, these can easily be routed via wireless communications so only the timbre of your voice is revealed.
We look forward to a long and profitable partnership.
With an elaborate signature in royal blue ink, Mr. Gerard added his name in representation of the firm and applied a quick drying charm before placing the letter aside.
The task complete, he was once again drawn to the scene outside his window. A practiced flourish of his wand released the sash so he could savor the very air of the vibrant city poised to make him an even richer man. To the less discriminating, the sharp smell of acrid car exhaust and smoke would have been off-putting, but to Mr. Gerard the air smelled of success. Why, the Christmas holidays were just around the corner and he would have his newest sensation in Flourish & Blotts’ window display by mid-week. Despite the rheumy eyes behind tiny glasses that gave him the look of a timid mole surveying the world outside its burrow, Mr. Gerard was anything but. After all, it was a known fact that Mr. Gerard’s Patronus assumed the shape of a jackal.
In retrospect, Kingsley Shacklebolt could not say what had made him stop at the small kiosk outside the Ministry’s employee entrance that day. Perhaps it was the aroma of the witch’s legendary scones which combined the bite of crystallized ginger with the subtle spice of ebony gooseberries.
Perhaps, if he was totally honest with himself, it was the feeling of being watched; an invaluable sixth sense to an Auror, particularly one who had witnessed so much in a mere decade’s worth of service. The yellow eyes on the cover were both compelling and unsettling at the same time. A combination that to an Auror always spelled danger. Had it been winter’s first bite of freezing rain that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine that morning? Or was it a feeling of premonition? The book had no title to draw the eye, but was it really necessary? Hadn’t his eye already been mesmerized, curiosity compelling him to shell out his Galleons so he could tear the clear wrapping off and fervently flip to the first page?
The author’s desire for anonymity was evident from the first words that leapt from the page:
There isn’t a single werewolf who will tell you that his enhanced abilities are a curse. That is the view of an outsider, one who has not felt the power course through his veins in time to the elusive music of the moon. It is a melody our unique hearing allows us to appreciate as we are disposed to obey her every wish.
When he reached his office, he instructed his assistant to clear his calendar for the day, no exceptions. By the time he had finished the first handful of pages, he was Flooing Minerva McGonagall and requesting permission to visit. She assured him Remus had classes until after lunch, but that he had a free period at two. Kingsley made arrangements to join her for an early tea in her private garden; she promised she would have Remus join them.
“Surely you don’t think this is my doing?” Remus asked as he looked up from the first explosive passage.
“Is it accurate?” Kingsley probed, not allowing the other man to turn uncomfortably away. “I apologize if these things are too private.”
“It’s my own personal purgatory, Kingsley. I have no desire to share it with the world.”
“Not even if you thought the world might loosen its prejudice if it had a more complete picture?” Kingsley suggested.
“These are hardly the words of one who wishes to promote understanding.”
“Perhaps not, but sometimes a dialog is begun by crude means. It does not make the person any less sincere,” Minerva proposed in a diplomatic manner.
“What I need to know, Remus, is whether these words ring true?” Kingsley implored. “Or could they be the work of a writer who has simply put himself into someone else’s shoes?”
“A gifted author can still make his words ring true,” Remus argued. “That’s what research is all about.”
“True,” Kingsley allowed as he considered Remus’ words. “In your opinion, could someone have penned this tale without speaking with a werewolf?”
“I don’t think so. Others may have felt the need to share their tribulations in such graphic detail with strangers; I have not.”
“Perhaps if you read a little further you might get a better idea of what I’m getting at,” Kingsley urged. “I apologize for putting you on the spot like this.”
“But I’m the only pet werewolf you have on hand, eh?” Remus shot back with a self-deprecating lift to his eyebrow.
“Something like that.” Kingsley chuckled mirthlessly in the face of reality as was often Remus’ habit.
The Headmistress called for some additional sandwiches as she excused herself to deal with the ever-present paperwork. “Do you wish me to see about Serenity, Remus?”
“If you would, Minerva. I left her a stack of papers to mark but I don’t want her to think I’ve abandoned her to her drudgery.”
With a flick of her wand, Minerva levitated a choice selection of items from the tea tray onto a small plate. “A little snack works wonders, I always say.”
An hour later, Remus raised haunted eyes to Kingsley’s inscrutable face. “This is monstrous,” he hissed succinctly, barely suppressing a desire to toss the book high and set an Incarcerous Hex to it while still in mid-air. Only his inherent respect for books in general halted him. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel like I can go any further today.”
“I’m sorry to dump this on your doorstep, Remus. If there was any other way…”
Remus waived the protestations off as inconsequential. “To answer your earlier question: I would think this is a firsthand account. It may have been dictated to another, that I would have no way to determine. But the words clearly come from the gut.”
“A factual tale, then.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. The facts may be accurate, but their inflammatory tone changes everything.”
“You don’t think the frustration he feels with society’s prejudices is palatable?” Kingsley posed.
“These are the words of a bully complaining he is misunderstood, not the words of a reasonable man who rails against injustice.”
“You don’t think it’s just that he lacks your eloquence?”
“Hardly,” Remus scoffed. “Speaking from the heart requires no eloquence, just unwavering self-honesty. This is someone who has deluded himself into a case of righteous anger.”
“Like a criminal who blames society for leading him into a life of crime?”
“Indeed.” Remus pursed his lips in thought before expounding, “A brute with more skill at persuasion than I’ve ever been able to muster, unfortunately.”
“What about his descriptions? Do they strike you as reticent in their starkness?”
“If you mean to suggest: are they the words of someone who abhors violence to the point he wishes to dwell upon it as little as possible? No, this person is so inured to violence that it deserves only a cursory glance.”
“Forgive me for asking this, Remus, and please understand I do not think of you in this way…” Kingsley waited for Remus’ imperceptible nod before venturing, “Are all werewolves this ruthless?” He was not prepared for the candid response he received.
“I have no bloody idea! Pardon the pun. I don’t remember anything that transpires when I’m in an altered state. Even when I was running for my very life, I had to piece the facts together like a jigsaw puzzle. That he doesn’t make that clear to his readers is a gross omission of fact.”
“What if this fiend remembers…” Kingsley considered. “Could he be different?”
“Could it be that since he embraces his alter ego so fervently, he is able to remember?”
“You think it might be possible?” Kingsley gasped.
“Anything is possible. There is so little known about werewolves it’s a joke! But if you were to ask me, I might hedge my bets by suggesting this man is immersed in violence during all phases of the moon.”
“An assassin?”
“Perhaps. A butcher in every meaning of the term.”
“Why does he feel a need to pen his tale then?” Kingsley mused, not expecting the ready answer he received.
“It is his manifesto,” Remus intoned. “Like Hitler’s Mein Kampf.”
It had become required reading in the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures by the time Hermione returned from maternity leave. Granted, they were not a group so easily swayed by an upstart’s words. Most employees had interacted with those they protected enough to have formed their own opinions.
“Take it with a grain of salt,” was the most common expression. Yet Hermione couldn’t help but think that to Remus, it was tantamount to rubbing salt in his wounds.
Seeking a bit of comfort in the midst of her reading assignment, she sought out the most trusted veteran of all: Amos Diggory.
“Lass, don’t give it another thought,” Amos soothed her frayed nerves. “Wouldn’t surprise me if someone was exploiting some poor creature. Making money off the backs of the less fortunate is nothing new.”
“But to think that so many innocents have suffered so…” She stopped as she felt the sting of angry tears.
“A quick death almost seems preferable, doesn’t it?”
She nodded tearfully before she realized her faux pas. “Oh, Amos, please don’t think….Cedric didn’t deserve to die at all!”
“Nor do werewolves deserve to suffer,” Amos intoned quietly. “But Remus would be upset to think you pitied him.”
“How did you know I was thinking of him? Do you two even know one another?”
Amos gave her a small enigmatic smile. “Our paths have crossed once or twice. He’s the best in all of us, Hermione. That he’s a werewolf is no more significant than the color of his hair, when you get down to it.”
“I’ve always thought so, too.” Already Hermione felt heartened by Amos’ benevolent gaze.
“Pain is the way of life, unfortunately. The pain of childbirth…”
“But I wouldn’t write a volume glorifying it!”
“Not even if such realistic depictions would inspire others to be more responsible with unwanted pregnancies?”
“No, it’s much too personal an experience. Let my memories fade.”
“That’s precisely the way Remus would have reacted. Perhaps we should dwell upon the commonality of our experiences and not our differences.”
“Thanks, Amos. You’re a gem.” She leaned over and gave him a quick hug as she got to her feet.
“Remember that next time promotions come around, dear.”
Harry waited until they had walked far enough down the cobbled lane that Teddy’s forlorn face was no longer visible in the window. The boy had not totally understood why he was being excluded from the man-to-man talk when Harry and Remus had excused themselves.
Looking down at his small figure with a bemused crease between his childish brow, Teddy remarked, “Don’t I qualify?”
“Not just yet, Spook,” Remus intoned with a barely contained smile.
Only the seriousness of the subject matter at hand kept Harry from chuckling outright. Teddy was such a carbon copy of his father at times that it was a constant source of amusement.
“Hermione came by my office today,” Harry began hesitantly. “The book’s become required reading in her department…She was concerned about you.”
“I take it she wasn’t looking for a bit of literary conversation?” Remus replied as he tried to make light of things.
“She left me this note for you.” Harry held out the small envelope.
Wordlessly, Remus unfolded the creamy parchment, his footsteps slowing as he read.
Dear Remus,
Forgive my stumbling words at a time like this. Any attempts to empathize throughout the years have been woefully inadequate, of that there can be no doubt.
Do not let others hold up a mirror to you that is tainted. Rest assured that those who are fortunate enough to call you friend will never think anything but the best of you “ as you have demonstrated time and time again.
If there’s anything I’ve learned while working in the Department for the Regulation and Control, it is that these kind people are motivated by compassion and an unwavering sense of the injustice that has long been meted out to segments of our population who do not have political clout. Despite being entrusted with the enforcement of archaic laws which seek to delineate who may be considered a being or a beast, everyone here believes that we are all part of the same complex cloth and that labeling is counterproductive.
Like all tempests, this will soon blow itself out. All you have to do is hang on. We are here if you need us in any way.
It was signed by both Hermione and Amos Diggory. Remus felt his heart hitch as he lowered the parchment to his side.
“Please thank Hermione for her kind words,” he entreated Harry through dry lips. “I will Floo her personally as soon as I am able.”
Their quiet footsteps continued along the disused track that has once been an elegant drive leading horse-drawn vehicles up to the gates of the front garden. With all the leaves gone from the trees, the two of them were as wraiths in a wood full of faceless sentinels, protected from the eyes of the world yet finding no inner peace.
In the far distance, they could just see the sloping roof of the caretaker’s cabin situated immediately inside the outer walls to the property. Beyond, the country lane wove among disused meadows surrounding the township of Godric’s Hollow. So close to dusk, there was no smoke drifting up from the cabin’s chimney, but Harry had no doubt Dobby would soon be stoking up the fire when he retired for the night.
The house-elf had not hesitated to claim the small cabin for his own from the start, setting up a pair of small cots to entertain guests in the single whitewashed room. A child’s set of drawers and a miniature table and chairs had followed as the elf learned of the fabulous London flea markets from Tonks.
Much to everyone’s surprise, Hagrid had found instant kinship with Dobby and often stayed in the cabin when he came to visit the family. Remus had shaken his head at the improbable tableau of the half-giant with the tiny elf as they sat companionably under the small overhang, blowing twin plumes of cigar smoke towards the sky. With a few well-placed charms, Remus adjusted the interior dimensions of a broom cupboard to create an additional room with an extra large bed for Hagrid. Fang had instantly taken to flushing every last songbird and squirrel from the adjoining woods while barking happily non-stop. Unlike the Forbidden Forest, no dangerous creatures lurked within the shelter of the estate’s enclosing walls “ not now that the Death Eaters had been dispatched.
“I finished reading the book,” Harry ventured, stealing a look at Remus out of the corner of his eye.
Remus gazed casually at the horizon before returning his focus to the uneven cobbles at his feet. He waited for Harry to continue.
“Thankfully, it wasn’t too long. There’s only so much diatribe a person can take in one sitting.”
“You can imagine how I felt,” Remus replied woodenly.
“I marked the more telling sections if you want to avoid the ordeal of finishing it,” Harry offered helpfully.
“Very considerate. I promised I’d get back to Kingsley if I had any other thoughts.”
They continued in silence for another few yards as the purple sky of evening encroached upon the final brushstrokes of the setting sun. With a slight shiver, Harry zipped his woolen parka closed against the cold of night.
“Have you?” Harry posed.
“Have I what?”
“Have you had any other thoughts? About the book, I mean.”
“Other than running down the soulless degenerate who penned it?”
“Admittedly, my thoughts were dominated by images of a huge bonfire,” Harry allowed in spirit. “But then I remembered the Inquisition.”
“Having a conscience can be a real bugger, don’t you think?” Remus returned sardonically. “Why don’t you read me the sections you marked? Then at least I won’t hear that demonic snarl inside my head.”
“You’re convinced it’s Fenrir Greyback, aren’t you?” Harry posited, recalling vividly the menacing aura of the man he’d encountered briefly at the scene of Dumbledore’s murder.
“Unless you have another suspect…” Remus raised troubled eyes to Harry’s face.
Harry shook his head glumly. “Not really, but I don’t really know…”
“You think I might have encountered others during my undercover assignment?” Remus supplied as he sensed Harry’s discomfort.
“Something like that.”
“There are a few possibilities, but no one who I can confirm is still alive--”
“”while Greyback is in Azkaban,” Harry finished for him. “The Daily Prophet featured him being hauled off in chains, practically foaming at the mouth.”
“Can you imagine what type of monster he becomes with the full moon?” Remus observed so quietly Harry had to strain to hear.
“One that bears no resemblance to you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Harry. I wish the rest of the world thought the same.”
“No one associates you with Greyback, Remus. That’s all--”
“”a figment of my overactive imagination?” Remus cut across him sharply. “I owe the pathetic state of my existence to him!”
“Actually, I was going to say it was all a great big pile of bunk,” Harry reprimanded softly. “But, Remus, unless you’re swearing vendetta, let it go. And I suspect Tonks might take offense at your description of your married life as pathetic.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Remus conceded in a hollow tone.
They climbed the two steps leading onto the shadowy porch of the cabin. Sitting themselves on overturned crates, Remus sent a spark towards the metal lantern hanging from the rafters. As the worn stones were bathed in warm amber, the twinkling stars in the night sky made their earthly troubles seem less overpowering.
Instead of digging gloves out of his pockets, Remus’ hand emerged clasping the neck of a small bottle of Irish whiskey. “Can’t have a man-to-man talk without some sustenance,” he remarked with a hint of the Marauder’s grin. “It’s one of Padfoot’s bylaws.”
Harry did not question the reference to a man dead for close to a decade; Remus often spoke as if he’d just had a conversation with Sirius. Likely, the man’s guardian star was shining down upon them even as they spoke if Harry recalled anything from his Astronomy lessons.
Taking a small swallow to clear the cobwebs from his throat, Harry found the first passage he had marked.
Not everyone has the fortitude to survive a transformation into our ranks. Is it the mark of a lesser being who succumbs to death rather than embrace his new existence? I do not seek to pass judgment upon others; I’ve had enough of that heaped upon my own back, more than enough to have shattered a lesser man.
To be a werewolf is to experience a pain so profound that it sears the breath from our very lungs, leaving us weak from oxygen as the power in our limbs is increased tenfold. The moon’s gentle caress becomes the merciless rapier of transformation as we are remade. What is life without pain? All childbirth requires it; even the rebirth which we experience with each lunar cycle.
Harry stopped for a moment to catch his breath, stealing a look at Remus’ implacable expression before pressing on to another section.
What does life hold for those like me? Not the narrow horizons society wishes to impose. One faction promises us incarceration for the sake of our own well-being as it tightens the yoke with the hand it holds behind its back. Be the vanguard to wipe out oppression, the opposition offers us. Vague promises, both reeking equally of betrayal. Hollow dreams that will be twisted in such a way that werewolves are excluded once again.
No one to offer an olive branch, a chance to coexist as magical beings all. Heresy? To think of werewolf rights is to hitch one’s wagon to the mercurial whims of Beelzebub himself. But at the heart of lies, one finally finds the kernel of truth. They fear us. They fear what they make no effort to understand, what they cannot subjugate, what they cannot break. It is our strength as much as our Achilles’ heel.
Remus’ lips were pressed tightly together, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he willed the primal scream building in this throat to chain itself in the dungeon once more. The shadows of unacknowledged demons flitted soundlessly across sightless eyes.
Yet Harry forced himself to read on. Only the conclusion remained.
But the answer is clear: we do not need the others. We are an army onto ourselves. What does it matter that we make worthless treaties with conflicting forces? Both plan to leave us broken in the middle, the vicious shield that brings their enemies to their knees in submission.
The power is in our hands; we have but to use it to our own ends. In a world that does not want us, that is not to say we don’t want the world. If others will not share, then they leave us no choice but to wrench our due from their lifeless hands.
Join ranks with us if you dare, for we are the future. We are man’s next step in their evolutionary journey. Despite the perfidy surrounding us on all sides, we will endure while others perish.
Harry closed the volume firmly once he had finished, his voice fading into the silent woods like a cluster of insubstantial bats. Next to him, Remus sat hunched forward, staring off into the darkening horizon. There was no doubt he had heard every syllable, weighed it and considered it, and it had been a far from pleasant experience. Harry could feel the vortex of Remus’ roiling thoughts as he waited for some reaction.
Whatever he was expecting, it didn’t come. With a weary sigh, Remus simply rose to his feet and waited for Harry to follow him down the steps. They hiked the familiar track back to the distant glow of the house windows. No need to light wand tips to act as kindly will-o’-the-wisps to guide them home.
A sudden break in the cloudbank shrouding a tentative moon cast a sinister glow on trees in their path. Even Remus, who treated the night with natural insouciance, was momentarily caught short.
“What the bloody he--” he gasped as he feverishly cast a Homenum Revelio spell. There was no one. Not even a nocturnal animal to be flushed away as their soundless steps inched closer.
Just as abruptly, Harry doubled up with laughter. “A deep-seated fear of wood you didn’t tell me about?” he wheezed with a grin. “Perhaps a childhood encounter with a rabid bowtruckle that left you traumatized?”
Catching on almost immediately, Remus chuckled weakly in relief. “You mean that’s just Hagrid's woodpile? Looks completely different in the moonlight.”
“Even in a Muggle horror movie, we would need a lightning bolt to shear down and animate it to life,” Harry observed with a snigger. “Looks like he’s been getting more supplies together since the last time I checked. No wonder we didn’t recognize the contours.”
“What sort of project does he have in mind?” Remus posed as he circled warily around. “All I know for sure is he’s being very secretive.”
“Too many little ears everywhere, if you know what I mean,” Harry breathed. Then extracting a promise that Remus would keep the information to himself, Harry detailed Hagrid’s plans in a bare whisper.
“A tree house?” Remus was clearly not expecting this.
“Don’t say anything to Spook or Rabbit,” Harry cautioned. “Hagrid wants it to be a surprise for the spring. He was concerned Tonks might think it too dangerous.”
“Perhaps Fleur will, but not Tonks,” Remus asserted with a wry chuckle. “You’re more likely to find her climbing up right behind them.”
“I’ll tell Hagrid to make it extra sturdy then.”
“I can just see them,” Remus mused with a crooked grin. “Sitting with crossed legs in a circle as they make elaborate plans for conquest. The perfect embodiment of the Lost Boys; Phoebe as the youngest Tinker Bell on record.”
Harry stopped himself from asking additional questions as the reference to Peter Pan sank in. Of course. How many times had Ginny been roped into playing Tiger Lily so she and Spook could go skulking around the wooded grounds? It was eerie how well that boy could sneak up on just about anyone. Not that his own lame attempts at impersonating Captain Hook had met with much success, Harry allowed; not even after Remus devised a spell to transfigure his wand into a large hook. Ginny was right: he was better suited to the role of d’Artagnan in such an outfit. Tonks had practically laughed herself into a puddle when his stab at Hook’s villainous “ yet comical “ swagger had reminded her of a mincing transvestite.
Remus had taken pity on his humiliation at that point and offered the large plumed hat to any other of the adult birthday guests who were assembled on the back lawn. Instinctively, everyone’s eyes settled on Snape where he stood absently sipping from his mug. Harry had only to squint his eyes to envision white lace adorning the sleeves just peeking out from the man’s black frock coat. With the addition of the hat, the illusion would be perfect.
“Don’t even consider it,” Snape drawled dangerously without turning his head. “I don’t do cheap theatrics for children’s parties. There are professionals you can hire for that sort of thing. Surely you’re aware of that, Lupin?”
“But would they have your inimitable style?” Tonks had crooned.
“Perhaps not,” Snape allowed as he pursed his thin lips to convey that flattery would not work. “But the answer is still no.”
Really, if he just channeled all his disdain and sarcasm into the role, he would be superb, Harry couldn’t help but think. Not that he was brave enough to suggest it to a man already fingering his wand.
“What if it were your daughter?” Remus persisted in a jovial tone. “Could you turn her down so easily?”
“Thankfully, we will never know, will we?” Snape returned sharply. Then lowering his voice to a menacing whisper, he hissed, “Or perhaps I would just buy her a red capuchin and invite you over, Lupin. How would that be?”
Totally unfazed, Remus had thrown his head back in irreverent laughter as he mockingly saluted Snape for the well-placed barb. Snape did his best to hide his self-satisfied smirk as he took a long swallow of the pirate’s grog billowing dangerously about his features.
Their arrival at the gate to the front garden brought Harry back to the present. He could tell that the plans for the tree house had put Remus in better spirits as well.
Barely stopping to leave his coat in the Mud Room, Remus swept his two children into his arms and settled them on the sofa before the roaring fire. While Tonks implored them to drink their cocoa so they could go to bed, Remus regaled them with fantastical tales of the giant bowtruckle he and Harry had defeated in valiant combat.
Although the month of December had barely begun, Diagon Alley was awash in an orgy of Yuletide decorations. Even on a dingy day when the icy wind alone would keep shoppers at bay, Kingsley was always heartened by strings of artificial faerie lights dispelling the afternoon gloom. Not that it made his errand any less ponderous, he considered inwardly, but at least it reminded him that happier times were now the norm rather than the exception.
The noxious scent of diesel fumes assaulted his nostrils as he exited the Leaky Cauldron. Somehow Muggle London always seemed dingy and grey after the riotous cheer of the wizarding world. The elegant Georgian fronts of the offices lining Tremont Street lay peaceful beneath a fresh blanket of snow, the brick sidewalks studiously plowed but devoid of life nonetheless. It was only as Kingsley mounted the wide stone steps leading up to the premises of Mortimer & Mortimer that it hit him: the holly wreath adorning the shiny black door was the only concession to the holidays within sight.
Knowing he was expected, he stepped into a tall receiving area with deep carpeting that seemed to swallow his boots and muffle all sounds from the outdoors. The walls were adorned with autographed covers of the past decade’s most popular books, a testament to the agency’s acumen in choosing their clients. Kingsley ignored the images of Gilderoy Lockhart which followed him from frame to frame as if desperate for an encouraging word from one of their fans. In the place of honor stood a golden easel with the fiery eyes staring defiantly at him, daring him to assault the curtain of anonymity.
“Mister Shacklebolt, it’s truly a pleasure,” oozed a smallish man dressed impeccably in charcoal grey pinstripes. “Gerard Mortimer at your service. I can only imagine what important inquiries must have drawn you away from your desk at the Ministry today.”
After a wordless handshake, Kingsley allowed himself to be ushered into a sumptuous office with dark furnishings which looked as if no one ever sullied their polished surfaces with mundane paperwork. Refusing to be intimidated, Kingsley leaned back into the deep confines of a leather chair and crossed his long legs before him. Having brushed off an assistant’s offer of tea or perhaps something stronger to keep out the cold, he waited for Mr. Gerard to assume his position behind the desk.
Breaking with custom, however, Mr. Gerard simply rested his manicured hands on the back of the desk chair and remained standing. Locking eyes with the dark skinned Auror, he ventured, “Surely a busy man like yourself didn’t come by for a social visit. Your demeanor suggests you have something on your mind.”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Mortimer,” Kingsley rumbled. “You know very well why I’m here.”
“To parlay an opening chapter to a very engaging autobiography?” Mr. Gerard suggested artfully. “Even a rough outline will suffice, we have many assist--”
“Enough!” Kingsley’s voice was no more than a whisper, but it reverberated against the paneled walls. “Your semblance of respectability can’t hide the fact that you’re harboring a criminal.”
“Really, Mr. Shacklebolt! You’re welcome to search the premises if you like. Call an entire squad to comb the area, as the expression goes.”
“You know exactly what I mean. That book…that abomination…was hardly penned by an imaginative widower living on a pension.”
“No, it would not be selling so well if it had. It was a rare stroke of luck to sign the genuine article to our client list, but he insisted on anonymity.”
“So the book would suggest. No author, no title.”
“Just a cover,” Mr. Gerard affirmed. “A bit of marketing genius by one of my rising stars in the distribution office.”
“Who is the author? I’m here as the official arm of the Minister for Magic himself,” Kingsley intoned solemnly. “The request comes directly from him.”
“So that explains the Head Auror being sent out to do a bit of legwork.” Mr. Gerard chuckled lowly. Looking at Kingsley directly, he added, “I’ve never met the man.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that!” Kingsley raised his eyebrows to convey his skepticism.
“Believe whatever you like. The man you seek is locked away in Azkaban. What he chooses to pen in his ample free time is really no concern of yours.”
“He speaks of raising an army.”
“An army of like-minded individuals. He may dream of repopulating the world with werewolves, but I doubt the guards would allow the penitents access to his cell block. Not that anyone is likely to seek him out.”
“Come now, readers often seek out authors; be they inspiring or controversial, it matters not. Surely you’ve organized enough book signings to know that,” Kingsley urged expertly.
“So that cretin at Flourish & Blotts would have you believe, no doubt!” Mr. Gerard scoffed.
“I won’t deny I made a slight detour there. You wouldn’t begrudge me a bit of holiday shopping, would you? After all, your firm was very careful to time the book’s release to coincide with the Yuletide season, wasn’t it?”
“Surely the Auror Department doesn’t want to suggest there’s anything untoward about a literary agent finding a niche for a unique client.” Mr. Gerard smiled in a decidedly feral manner.
“No interviews, either?” Kingsley provoked. “Those are pretty standard in the case of a book that’s been selling steadily. The public must be hungering for more.”
“Let them clamor. My client prefers to remain in the shadows, mysterious and aloof. Such were the terms of his contract.”
“A contract you’re unlikely to let me see,” Kingsley prodded.
“I’m under no obligation to do so, as you are well aware, Mr. Shacklebolt. Your authority exists only when a crime has been committed.”
“Peddling Lockhart’s misrepresentations should qualify.”
“Perhaps, but my father was unaware of the man’s duplicity when he signed him on. Another victim of Lockhart's dazzling smile, one might say. The volumes have since been labeled as fiction; therefore, they are free to depart from reality in whatever way they please.”
“Your current client is hardly a gormless egotist,” Kingsley countered. “His words clearly convey that.”
“No one’s ever been endangered by ink on paper alone “ except perhaps the ignorant.” Mr. Gerard chuckled at his own joke. Seating himself in the oversized chair behind the desk, he steepled his hands carefully before raising his eyes.
Pressing his advantage, Kingsley posed, “If your client is the ‘genuine article’ as you claim, don’t you find it unsettling when he insinuates of dark plots and convoluted loyalties?”
“Paranoia. Hardly an unexpected phenomenon within the forbidding walls of Azkaban.” Looking at Kingsley over the rims of his narrow glasses, Mr. Gerard added in an artful whisper, “The ambient temperature inside is so frigid that one is constantly on the lookout for dementors “ even today.”
“So I’ve been told,” Kingsley rejoined with a dark scowl. “But Aurors have official reasons to travel there, regardless of how odious a task… What could possibly draw a man of letters like yourself?”
“One hears rumors. A turn of phrase here or there. With as much owl traffic as they allow, descriptive phrases from within are bound to escape.”
“See to it that’s the only thing that escapes.” Despite his even tone, Kingsley’s dark eyes burned ominously.
“Mr. Shacklebolt, please. I’m hardly a black marketeer sneaking off to meet his clients in Knockturn Alley.”
But I just bet you have a lackey who would, Kingsley noted inwardly.
Suddenly eager to appease, Mr. Gerard offered with strained humility, “If an escapee were to show up here, I quite assure you he would be turned over to Magical Law Enforcement immediately. That is not the way this firm does business.”
A reputation to maintain among the neighboring firms, Kingsley amended. Yet he still remained silent. It was an interrogation technique that had yet to fail him, although he’d been unable to train others to maintain the necessary stillness.
“What would you have of me?” Mr. Gerard proffered.
“Other than the contract?”
“I would lose any credibility among my clients.”
“How about the truth for once?” Kingsley shot back.
Much to his surprise, Mr. Gerard threw back his head and emitted a high-pitched laugh. “What ever would I want with truth?” At Kingsley’s steady look, he expounded, “If you came here looking for truth, then perhaps I should refer you to my textbook division. Steady income and all that, but not very exciting. Sold it to a relation over a decade ago.”
“We all have our own versions of the truth,” Kingsley avowed. “That’s the first paradox an Auror must master: the fluidity of the truth.”
Mr. Gerard gave him a sharp, appraising look before he returned, “I deal in entertainment, my good man. The truth or reality or plausibility of it is irrelevant. Be it the housewife who seeks an illicit romance with a swash-buckler or a studious armchair type who imagines himself an intrepid explorer, they’re seeking to escape reality. No one wants to be faced with their true limitations.”
“Still you have to admit, this new book of yours is selling a rather edgy daydream, don’t you think?” Kingsley commented.
“A bit of harmless danger in a time of peace,” Mr. Gerard clarified. “Such a phenomenon is nothing new. Humanity is rebellious to the core, always seeking what it doesn’t have at hand.”
“You’re deluding yourself, Mortimer,” Kingsley intimated darkly. “You dangle a carrot before a madman who won’t think twice of simply taking your arm off. His excuse will be that it’s more expedient that way.”
“Sounds like you know my client better than I do.”
“Let’s just say I’m better acquainted with darkness. Familiar enough to recognize it when it wraps itself in a fancy package.”
“My client is already serving time for his errors. So I would ask you, Mr. Shacklebolt, why are you so intent on pursuing a man who has already owned up to his guilt?”
“I believe he may hold the key to other more insidious crimes. Infractions committed by others who have been able to escape prosecution.”
“I was under the impression the Great Wizarding War was over. Big dedication ceremony to commemorate the heroes and all that. You showed quite a different side of yourself.” Mr. Gerard waited patiently for his barb to hit home.
“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents, some of which don’t get much of a workout in my line of work.”
“It would be unethical for me to suggest to my client that he incriminate himself further.”
“So now you’re a lawyer as well?” Kingsley volleyed back. “Many talents indeed…”
“There’s at least a dozen within this very square. Should I put one on retainer on behalf of my client?”
“That’s not necessary at this juncture,” Kingsley maintained evenly. “Let me just put it this way, Mr. Mortimer: if your client decides to capitalize on his popularity as a modern day Quasimodo, I would like to arrange for the interviewer to pose some very specific questions.”
“Leading questions?”
“Aren’t they all? I promise you, your readers will only find his answers that much more compelling.”
“I’ll bear your words in mind,” Mr. Gerard acquiesced, his beady eyes glowing with new possibilities.
Once again, Kingsley declined the offer of a brandy as he took his leave. Despite the grime of the city, the bracing winter air was like a restorative to his lungs.