Tuesday, July 29th, 2014. 06:05 AM.

  Azkaban Prison, "The Rocks"

  The North Sea

  "...and it is Good Scots' Whiskey, you stubborn old bas..."

  "SILICA!" Harry interrupted automatically, then felt stupid. Neither Hagrid nor any of the pups were participating in this operation.

  Hannah, Daniel, and, yes, even John, were looking at him, Hannah with mild amusement, Daniel and John with a certain amount of concern.

  "That... rock formation," Hary said, gesturing vaguely outward. "It reminded me of... St. Peter's... in... Rome?" He trailed off lamely.

  "Mistake a parakeet for the Snitch again, Harry?" John asked. His voice was still weak, but much better than it had been.

  "That happened once!" Harry spoke hotly, then dropped into a mutter. "And I still think you had something to do with it."

  "And as for you, lad," John drew Daniel's confused attention back to him. "Like ah'd trust a Sassenach's taste in Whisky..."

  "Oh?" Daniel rallied. "So you are choosing to lie there and savor the exquisite bouquet of Skele-Grow, rather than take a chance on one's palette for distilled island whiskeys?"

  "Islay, is't?" A flicker of interest passed over the older man's face. "Hard to go wrong with an Islay. But if eny body c'd..."

  "Enough!" Hannah's voice was firm and no-nonsense. "I diagnose a very small deficit of Iodine in the patient, and prescribe a dram of whatever is in that damn flask. Repeat as necessary."

  Despite her facetious words, her tone brooked no back-talk. The two men averted their eyes, mumbling, "Yes, ma'am."

  Harry grinned. "Beware, Students of Hogwarts! The Iron Matron Cometh!"

  Hannah smiled back. "Thank you, Harry. That was very sweet."

  Despite his taciturn lack of comment on the quality of the libation, John looked much better for the tot of whiskey. Daniel quirked a smile, then looked at Harry.

  "How do you know John? Surely his crime must have been before your time."

  "That will have to wait." Harry regarded the prone man. He was wincing occasionally, as Hannah's gentle hands urged bones back into place, to reconnect and fuse.

  "Talisker, are you up to a short report?"

  "Talisker? John Talisker?" Daniel blurted. "Wait. One knows that name..."

  "Report be damned," growled John. "Where's m'damned brum? Bloody thing saved m'life..."

  Harry interrupted. "Your 'damned brum' is probably already in the hands of my broom guy, being lavished with love and attention."

  "Damn yer damned 'broo-oo-m guy'! Th' lass is delicate, y'can't let just eny eedjit..."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Randall Spudmore," Harry said smugly. John pulled up short.

  He backed up and tried again. "Spudmore retired. Y' din't hand her off t' th' boy's ham-fisted trekkies, ere wha'ev'r they're callit...?"

  Harry shook his head, smiling. "Randall himself, Himself. Small shop, word of mouth only, repairs and customs."

  A slightly avaricious light flickered in John's eyes. "Randall's makin' Customs agin?" Then he schooled his expression back to imperturbability. "Aye, weel. That'll do. T'will be Ol' Home Week fer th' auld gairl, her bein' a Spudmore herself."

  "By the Gnawed Bones of Freyja's Boar, will you tell One what is GOING ON?"

  The very un-Weston-like shout made both men start, and Hannah scowl.

  "Setting bones, Daniel!" she said through clenched teeth.

  "Sorry!" he said contritely. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. One is just so confused..."

  Harry looked contrite as well. "My fault, Daniel. I guess we're not in that much of a hurry. Uh. Are we in that much of a hurry, John?"

  "Eh." John shrugged, and winced. "Ah reckon none too many has died tha' was'nae deed when ah left."

  "How reassuring," said Hannah dryly, not looking up from her work. "Can you feel your toes now?"

  "Aye, lass. Hurt like buggery, but they're there, right enow."

  Harry went on. "Well, it seems odd to introduce you to someone you've known for years. Be that as it may, this stoic fellow is John Talisker. He is a dead cert to Captain the Scottish National Quidditch Team once this assignment wraps up."

  John scowled at Harry, but said nothing.

  Harry noticed, and backtracked. "His original assignment, I mean to say. Which is getting the Azkaban Quidditch Program up and running, by working undercover. I've no idea what we're facing now."

  "Gie us a bit," growled John. "Ah'm far founert raht this minnit."

  Daniel looked a bit baffled. "Why undercover?"

  "We've always got undercover operatives in Azkzban. It's not the safest posting, but very crucial information can be had, especially with short-timers cycling in and out. Some, we believe, are doing it on purpose, running Dark Magic rings or criminal syndicates from inside."

  "Ah," said Daniel. "That goes a long way toward explaining a certain hidey-hole full of Galleons one noticed."

  John perked up. "Y'know where Bate's stash is?"

  "Aye." Daniel spoke in an excruciatingly bad Hibernian accent. "An' had this'un knowit y' were a supergrass, un moight ha' sharrit dh'fhiosrachadh!"

  John dropped back into a scowl. "Y' knowit ye murthered tha' puir word, d' ye nae?"

  "At any rate," Harry interrupted the squabble. "John has been at it much longer than most. He was the man who came up with the idea to fight off the Dementors by setting up sport leagues."

  "Why not the guards?" Daniel asked. He flushed at the looks Harry and John gave him. "Stupid question. Carry on."

  "We had to have someone that was respected enough, in at least one Barracks, that the program would not become another prerogative of the Bosses. Once John's area of influence was up and going, it became clear that none of the gen-pop would tolerate the leagues being messed around. Then the other Barracks could be added on."

  Daniel's face was lit with awe. He looked at John. "You spent years in there, just to set this up?"

  John looked a bit abashed. "T'was nae that bad. D'ye ever note how mooch time ah spent in th' Solitary?"

  "A lot," Daniel admitted, "But that's going to happen if one inserts oneself in every fight that comes..." He trailed off.

  Harry's tone was positively cheerful. "Where do you think we're going to enter? Solitary is on Time Locks, no way to observe the inmate unless they push the Panic Button. When an undercover agent is locked in, he can set the meal locker to Vanish the rations after it seals from the other side. Then it unlocks at the next meal time, rinse and repeat."

  "Ah fly oot t' th' barrier on a stealthed brum, go through th' dedicated aperture, and land on th' submerged seamount. I feel aroun' 'til I find th' Portkey chained t' th' rock, do th' spell, an' I'm back at the Safe House, right as rain."

  Daniel sat speechless on the rocks, beside the still prone man. Wordlessly, he held the flask up to toast John and drank. He handed the flask to Harry, who solemnly did the same, and handed it to Hannah.

  She took a token sip, then picked up one of John's hands and carefully wrapped it around the flask. She smiled at him.

  "Healer's Orders," she said softly. The hard lines of the Scotsman face relaxed a tiny bit.

  He raised the flask a hair, quivering a bit with the effort.

  " 'ere’s to us," he said. 'They’s none like us." Then his face darkened slightly. "And if they were, they’re all deed." He took a healthy swallow, and glared around defiantly.

  Harry said, softly, "Talisker. Report."