First Report, Verbal, by Senior Auror John Talisker, Continued

  Given to Head Auror Harry Potter & Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt

  ***

  Six Days Ago.

  Wednesday, July 23rd, 2014. Mid-Afternoon

  Azkaban Prison, "The Rocks"

  The North Sea

  ***

  TOP SECRET - DO NOT RELEASE TO M.O.M. FILE!

  (NOTE: Language has been converted to English from Whatever It Is that Talisker Speaks - Demelli).

  "Well, isn't this cozy? Thee and Me make Three! I won't count the lad taking notes in the Gestation Room, because that would throw off my Rhyme Scheme, and I worked terribly hard to come up with something pithy to start our little chat off with. Which... I apparently just sabotaged, all by myself. Oh, well."

  I exchanged glances with Shamir, and said carefully, "We du apol'gize. We dinnae mean to offend..."

  "Offend? Me? My dear boys, you've heard how they speak to me. I assure you that Our Lady of the Perpetual Delusions is the Rule, rather than the Exception. As our Lord Nelson said, 'I could not tread these perilous paths in safety, if I did not keep a saving sense of humor.' If I were not so unthreateningly useful, I would have long ago been relegated to the task of supplementing the growth potential of the Bellis perennis in the meadows of Campania. Which reminds me, I need to secure the door before we proceed. Was it Libra left, Taurus right?"

  I bit my lip, then took the chance. "No Fawksey, j'st th' reverse."

  "Fawksey? Fawksey!" Closing my eyes, I waited for the Axe of Outrage to fall. "I love it! It's practically a thug from a Chandler novel! Do you know Raymond Chandler? He was a Muggle authour, but I just love Muggle bookstores! They have no idea of the value of a Galleon."

  Relieved, I said, "Aye, weel, we dinnae ken what t' call ye, an' ah, fer one, j'st cannae bring myself t' say Fawkesworthy seriously, ye ken?"

  "Oh, please don't apologize. It's not like I love the name. Grandmere won't even speak it aloud."

  "Ah," said Shamir, trying to set the right tone. "She didn't approve of your... father?" I sympathised with our Barracks Boss. It was like trying to have a conversation with one of the more bird-brained Wodehouse characters. Yes, I like Muggle bookstores, too.

  "Oh, I should say not. After eloping with Mummy, draining her Gringott's account, and abandoning her, all enceinte, in Eritrea, of all places, definitely not. But that isn't why she won't speak his name."

  We must have looked puzzled.

  "Well, you know, when you set a Curse on someone's trail...?"

  "Oh, aye!"

  "We understand perfectly."

  "Oh, it's added years to her life, I'm sure. I worry that when that Mandrake Mannikin finally swells up and bursts, she won't have anything left to live for. I suppose I'll have to find her some sort of Nemesis. That will be my next little project!"

  "Yer a good grandchild." I was sincere. It was a very filial attitude, and I wish I had thought of it before my Granda passed.

  "Thank you. As Grandmere says, 'Family is the Root of All Evil, so Be Sure to Get Yours before They Get You.' "

  "She should write a book." Shamir seemed quite earnest. (I know I would buy it). "But I believe we have wandered a bit afield."

  "Oh! Indeed we have. We were speaking of... your lad taking notes, that's it. No problem at all, chaps. I have my notes, no reason you shouldn't have yours. I do think young... George, is it? It's remarkable how many Georges there are in this place. And all seemingly of an age... Ah, well. One of those statistical anomalies that baffle the white-beards. Anyway, young George will be much more comfortable out here in the Hallway. Loitering in the Gestation Chambers is never a good idea, especially not recently."

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  Again. Gestation Chambers?

  "Thank you, Fawksey," Shamir said. " 'George.' "

  There was a chortle from the thin air as the boy scurried out and sidled down a bit toward us. He settled against the wall with the back of a chessboard as a lap desk, and several good-sized scraps of parchment and paper. He crouched over the board without a word.

  "Seen and not heard, eh?" said Fawksey. "Good lad. I never got the hang of that one, myself... I say! Is that meant to be a pencil, youngster?"

  'George' looked down at the nub he was holding. It certainly looked like every other pencil he had seen since arriving on The Rocks.

  "Aye?" he said hesitantly.

  "Ohhh, no, no, no. Can't have that. Cramps in the fingers the least you can expect, and rheumatism down the road. Where did I see...?"

  There was silence for a few moments. There would be, of course. Spells of that nature don't convey extraneous sounds. He could have be conducting a Drum Circle for all we knew.

  "There it is! Let's see. That, that, and that. Maybe a little more of that. And a bit more, I do run on. Set the targeting, no, not right on top of him, you thick blighter, hilarious though that would be. Must remember... There!"

  A quill, a bottle of ink, and a stack of cut parchment appeared beside 'George' on the floor. He goggled, and then almost fearfully ran his fingers over the top sheet, smooth and pristine.

  "Now, lad, I'm going to warn you."

  George gave the air a wary look, instinctively sliding the bounty closer.

  "I know that brand of ink, and when they say 'Indelible," they mean it! I got a drop on the back of my hand fifteen years ago, and it's still as black as two yards down a Snargaluff Stump!"

  "Aye, sor! Thank'ee, sor!"

  I waited with bated breath, but Fawksey made no objection to the masculine pronoun. So, either they were male, or they were one of those rare people who didn't give a damn what you called them, as long as they knew it meant them.

  I wish there were more of them.

  I asked, "Where did tha' come fr'm?"

  "Well, apparently, when they set this place up, they thought the prisoners were going to be confessing to things, left, right, and center. And there was a law, possibly still is a law, that confessions must be in the prisoner's own hand, and sealed and certified by a member of staff."

  Shamir and I gave each other puzzled looks.

  "Ah. It might edify you to know that the drawer I found these in was rusted almost shut, and they were in a box sealed with Preservation Magic."

  Oh. Yeah, that made sense.

  "Now, we're in business! I hereby call to Order the First Meeting of the Special Committee, (that's two Em's, two Tee's and two E's, lad, just spread them about a bit), for the Reorganisation of the Azkzban Prison System."

  "Also know as 'The Rocks,' " I murmured almost unconsciously, getting a look from Shamir.

  "Hoy! That spells SCRAPS!" 'George' sounded delighted. "An' is't Ess or Zed for 'Reorganisation'?" He caught a look from Shamir as well, hunched down and muttered, "Sorry, Boss."

  "It does?" Fawksey sounded delighted as well. "I mean, of course it does! And it's Ess, lad, always Ess! Well, not always, but in this case, yes, always. We're Britons, lad, not a gaggle of mushy-mouthed Yanks who need a plethora of hard consonants to keep from swallowing their own glottals! Now, raise your left hand and repeat after me!"

  Left hand? I thought, but did it.

  "I Solemnly Swear I Am Up To No Good!"

  (In the briefing tent, Harry started slightly. Ginny tapped his foot again, under cover of their robes).

  Yeah, I know, pretty juvenile. But we did it, even 'George.'

  "Well done! First order of business, we have to get this place quiet. And soon. I have to show results before someone else gets Her ear. And by results, I mean I want her to forget you exist. When some snake slithers up and hisses in her shell-like, 'Ssssay, what about thossse prisssonersss?' I want her to give them the famous Zabini cross-eyed stare down the nose, and say 'Prisoners? Fawksey, (Hah!), what's this about prisoners?' Thereupon, I will be able to say, with a clear conscience, (Double Hah!), 'I believe Snakety McSnake-Face there is referring to the Research Subjects. As My Lady ordered, they are Quiet, Content, and Oblivious to the Outside World.' Whereupon she will most likely shove McSnake-Face up his own ductwork, and return to her projects."

  He paused. "That's the broad outline. George, lad, did you get all that?"

  George raised a black-speckled thumb, and said, "Aye, sor!"

  "Oh, dear. Do try to keep it off your face. Or cultivate an interest in the Art of Tattoo. Whichever. So, chaps, any first thoughts? Overnight Brainstorms?"

  Shamir pulled a scrap of paper out of a much patched pocket. (Another sign of a good Boss. When replacement clothing was reluctantly provided, a Bad Boss would be wearing it that day, with hand-me-downs through his toadies, ending up with rags on the original recipient, if he was lucky. Dead, if he was not).

  He gazed over his notes. "Fawksey, you say we are the only Men's Barracks that has it together?"

  "Check!" (I imagined a SQUEE! sound).

  "Then to keep the whole place quiet, we have to run it under our rules. Which means access. Twenty-four Hour Access, so Head-Breakers can fast-react to back up the Room Bosses. Will it be sufficient if we keep the Public Areas quiet, or do we have to lock down the Bunk Room behavior as well?"

  I spoke up. "Ah think tw'd be suspicious if we had no tuylies or carfuffles. Ez long as th' shindy is shut down quickish..."

  Fawksey audibly Hmmmed. "Quite right. 'Be as you wish to seem.' "

  I grinned. "Grandmere again?"

  "Oh, she said it, right enough, borrowed though it was. But she and Socrates had very different ideas on how and why to apply the aphorism. And Poison. Very different ideas on Poison." There was a moment's silence, as if they were lost in fond remembrance.

  "Still," they went on. "Assuming you and yours can unite the Men's... Barracks, you said? How then to control so many, ah, strong personalities?"

  "Carrots and sticks," said Shamir. "And... it depends."

  "On...?" Fawksey and I said together. I was as in the dark as him.

  "We got a Hel of a surprise from the Harnesses. What else can you tell me about them?"