Azkaban Prison, "The Rocks"
The North Sea
The Strike Team advanced under a Muffliato, quickly, but not running. Octāvus was between Proudfoot and Kyinté, who were demonstrating useful battle spells as they kept scanning up, out, and about. Not knowing enough to doubt his own ability, Octāvus was picking them up amazingly quickly. If he had a problem, it was putting too much raw power behind the Castings. His third attempt at a Diffindo actually put a chip in the pillar that was his target. The magickal material immediately began to self-repair, but Harry thought Proudfoot was impressed. Kyinté was demonstrating a simple Shield Spell, when Octāvus put one hand up, fingers spread, and closed it into a fist. Everyone froze, Nienna crouching to cover their back trail.
Freyja Bless John Talisker and his compulsive need to bring out the best in anyone, Harry thought. He's going to be one of the all-time greats in Scottish Quidditch. Providing he lives that long. Three on One, and on an antique broom, at that.
Speaking soft, but not whispering, Octāvus said, "End o' this 'all opens inta th' gallery around th'..." He paused to get the unfamiliar word right. "...A-trium. Stairwell 'ead in middle, loike. Nobuddy gon' down it. All t' rummagin' is on this level, so far." He held up his right hand, fingers and thumb spread as if he were about to catch something the size of a cricket ball. He raised the central three fingers on his other hand and placed them so the eight digits made a rough circle. "Monitoring rooms. Fust three t'left ain't used, don' even hev access runes on 'em. Fust four on right, goin' widdershins, are for Women's an' Barracks Three on lower level, then Two and One on Upper. Fawksey says that One is t' Master Control, loike." He gave a stark grin for a moment. "Not that levels means squat 'ereabouts. All th' Locked and Blocked Doors opened inta the same Great 'all. It 'pears t' be a Trainin' Room, er such. Wand Ranges an' Obstacle Courses, and all manner of clutter and wrack. Don' look much used, eider. They'm playing Hide 'n Seek wif th' Reds. An' playin' for keeps."
Harry and Kingsley had moved up for the quite thorough, if unorthodox, briefing.
"We'll get 'em some help right away," Harry said. "Quick question. Why did it all go Brooms Up early?"
"Dunno fer sure, loike. I 'eard somethin' was going on in th' Women's Barracks, but I was told off t' meet you lot 'fore I found out more." He gave a proud smile. "I've th' most time in Solitary of eny of th' 'Georges'!"
"Good man," said Harry softly, and clapped him on the shoulder. He continued in the same voice, even though the Muffliato was still in effect. "Once we've secured the Atrium, I want the, Hah! ...Gentler Sex to form a detachment to determine the Status of the Women's Barracks, and assist if necessary. Demelza in charge, Dara, Illusions where you think they will help. Use your judgment. First thing we will do is drop the Magick Suppression on that Barracks, but be careful anyway. Tell you what. Cast a personal effect Muffliato, and if it drops unexpectedly, then, again, use your judgment." Harry nodded to Proudfoot as Team Leader. He and Kingsley dropped back to their positions.
***
Harry wanted to say, "Well, that was anticlimactic." But he was too canny to Tempt the Trickster. He settled for heading for the Barracks One Monitoring Room. The women had decamped as soon as it was clear there would be no hard-fought skirmish, Octāvus leading them. He would send Harry's party another 'George' when possible. Nienna was teaching him how to do a Muffliato as they vanished into another hall.
Every Room they passed as they circled the central open area was most thoroughly locked, responsive to neither Alohomora nor Liberare. Not even Portaberto or Dunamis would affect the Runes and Seals embossed on the panels. Just as well on those last two Spells, as both have a distinctive, and forceful, sound signature.
Harry arrived at the door, to find Ron casting a sceptical eye on a A4-sized sheaf of thick linen paper, ingloriously sellotaped to the door. It was on ornately embossed letterhead, with each upper corner bearing a Wand, Point Down superimposed over a Fleur-de-Lis. To the left of the wand was a raised, lower-case Eff, with an upper case of the same on the right. Centered on the top edge was an escroll bearing the words, Quod maledicet, maledicet. That, in particular, was what Ron was giving the fish-eye.
"Harry, does that say what I think it says?"
Harry grinned. "Should have kept Hermione with us. What do you think it says?"
" 'That Which Will Curse, Will Curse?' " Ron looked sideways at his best friend.
"That's pretty much it," Harry admitted. "Maybe the word, 'Hex' would be closer. But maybe not." He studied Ron for a moment. "I think Hermione is a good influence on you. Latin is not something I would expect you to be familiar with."
"Pure self-defense," Ron said absently. "She drops into Latin when she's getting to the end of her tether, and sometimes I can head her off with a epigram from Pliny, or some such. By the time she has explained that I have gotten the deeper meaning entirely backwards, but bless me for trying..." He shrugged. "When we first started seeing each other, I thought every bit of Latin was the beginning of a spell."
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Harry regarded him, eyes wide. "That's no way to live," he said, aghast.
They returned their attention to the letter. The front page was adorned in large, flowing script.
His Lordship,
the Honorable Viscount Blaise de Zabini
Ron scoffed. "Viscount de Zabini? Has Blaise gone mental? Ginny must have hit him once too often with her Bat-Bogey hex."
"His mother styles herself 'Contessa.' No idea where or when that came in. It seems like something the vain damnpeacock would have crowed about in school."
"Yeah," said Ron, then gave Harry a quizzical glance. "Damnpeacock? One word?" He shook it off and pulled out his Willow and Unicorn Hair wand. "Well, speaking of 'damn,' damned if I'm touching the thing. Wingardium Leviosa!"
A spell he will never forget, thought Harry. The sheaf rose, tugging at the tape until it peeled loose. Ron slid the cover page around to the back until they could see the next sheet.
This writing was merely a clear cursive.
My Lordship,
As instructed, I made another attempt to access the Monitoring Rooms, with, alas, no success. Thanks to Mortecae Johnson, they are well and truly buggered for good. If you will pardon the crudeness of the phrase, that is. The only possibility I see is if you could send for one of your suborned Aurors, who could use his badge to reset the spellwork on the doors to their default. Athelstane Savage, perhaps, or even that fellow who always smells of owl droppings. What is his name? Dawlitch or some such?
I realise this puts you in somewhat of an impasse, since the cowardly inmates can ambush your brave Fedelissimi, and then retreat just inside their Barracks, where your superior magick can not affect them. Your plan of concentrating and overwhelming one Barracks at a time is inspired, and I was pleased to be able to point out the weakest and least numerous for you. Of course, I am not a martial man by any stretch of the imagination. But anyone can see how desperate that lower level Men's Barracks must be, if they have to put someone like that puny American Muggle in the center of the line.
My Lord, I fear the Young Mistress is becoming upset. I tried to take her mind off her troubles by consigning the Young Master to her care. I bless the good fortune that he was one of the few pulled from that Den of Harpies, before the needs of battle led you to strategically withdraw and concentrate your forces elsewhere.
The effort at refocusing her mind was eminently successful. Admittedly, she runs the gamut of wanting to comfort him, wanting to curse him, and wanting to kick him. I managed to divert her from cursing and kicking. In his unconscious state, neither would bestow any benefit, for him or for her.
Much the same could be said for the comforting, but in that case, I believe it is Young Master Sabini's rather... outre appearance that deters her. That, and preserving the current state of her favorite traveling frock.
My Lord, I have determined to err on the side of caution, and will evacuate your progeny by means of a Portkey I inadvertently packed in my luggage. It takes us to a spot more convenient than the rally point in Caernarfon. As you noted, I always have my bolt holes.
Your foresight in assigning the tribesmen has already proved useful. They have improvised a sort of stretcher out of bits of furniture. They call it a 'travois' and it is used to facilitate the movement of awkward weights. I conjured wheels for the end, (that would otherwise drag), and they found them a useful innovation. Between myself and the tribesmen it should move along quite expeditiously. They are remarkably strong for their size.
The young Mistress is becoming quite insistent, so we must take our leave. I assure you that your progeny are quite safe with me, and will be delighted to greet you at the Manse upon your return. I am:
Your Obedient Servant,
Jonathan Aman ffolkes-Fawkesworthy
Post-Script: I will endeavor to convince the Young Master to remain in seclusion until such time as his appearance, ah, moderates. I fear the Contessa might react poorly, especially after the incident at the World Cup. Perhaps La Strega could ameliorate the situation?
Yours,
J.A. f.-F.
***
"John was right to trust the fellow," Harry said. "He just gave us more intel in one innocuous scatter-brained letter than we've gathered in weeks of investigation." He pulled out his Auror Badge and touched it to the Central Rune of the Ritual Circle blazoned on the door.
Langarm had donned his Magic-Proof Dueling Gauntlets, and was re-reading the first page. He had paled, not with fear, but with rage. The pages shook slightly. Kingsley looked on, sympathy written on his face.
"Savage," Cerberus said through clenched teeth. "Dawlish, I can understand. He's always been an oily little git. But I liked Savage. I thought of him as a mentor, a role model. I admired him, tried to emulate him. I thought he was a rebel. And he was always so sympathetic, so encouraging whenever I was..."
Cerberus sighed, and deflated. A flush came to his cheeks. "...whenever I was about to do something really stupid."
He looked to Harry, who was most likely to know. "Where is he?"
Harry frowned as the door opened. "Outside, waiting to assault. Under Ewan Ward, so he won't put a toe wrong until he can get clear."
Kingsley cleared his throat. "Harry?"
"Yes, Boss?"
'This the only station you need?"
Harry nodded.
"You and Ron seal yourselves in and do what you have to do. Give us five minutes. The rest of us will work our way to the warehouse door and intercept Savage. Gods know what harm he could do in here."
Harry and Ron nodded, and entered the Room.
Kingsley caught Proudfoot's eye. "You're in charge. I'm not suited for a Team Lead anymore."
Proudfoot said nothing, which meant he agreed on all counts.
Langarm spoke up. "Proudfoot, I know you don't..."
Proudfoot held up a hand, meeting the smaller man's gaze. "You're point." Then to the Minister for Magic. "Down or out?"
Kingsley straightened. "Down if you can. Out if you must. He's not worth a life."
Proudfoot looked back at Langarm. Cerberus nodded once.
Who knows? Maybe they can be taught.