The Source of Magic

What Goes Around Comes Around

Chapter 2 ~ What Goes Around Comes Around

It was nearing midnight, and the Prime Minister was sitting in his office waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, a country with which a special relationship had existed for many years. More like a special curse, thought the Prime Minister. For one thing, the President seemed incapable of grasping the concept of time zones and insisted on calling when the last children's cartoon program was over, which, unfortunately, was around midnight British time. The Prime Minister dreaded these calls. They usually involved the President enthusing about the next country God wanted him to liberate from tyranny and bless with peace and freedom. He would then tell the Prime Minister exactly how many troops he was expected to contribute in the fight for peace. These vexing thoughts were interrupted by a soft coughing sound behind him, which made him freeze like an animal caught in the headlights.

He knew that cough. Damn it, he would rather deal with the moronic President than that bunch of weirdoes.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Minister of Magic,” said a froglike little man in a long silver wig from the small, dirty painting hanging in the far corner of the room.

“Look, really, I'm rather busy,” pleaded the Prime Minister. “The President is about to call on an urgent matter of state and —”

“We shall arrange for him to forget all about it,” said the little man in the painting. “We'll just pop some comics beside his phone. The Minister of Magic is on his way.”

The Prime Minister shook his head in resignation and sat up straight in his chair, squaring his shoulders, straightening his tie, and assumed his dignified, yet nonchalant expression as bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate. A portly man appeared, spinning within the flames. Climbing out, he unconsciously brushed the ash from his long, pin-striped cloak. He was carrying a ridiculous lime-green bowler hat in one hand.

“Prime Minister,” said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with hand outstretched. “We meet again.”

The Prime Minister rose from his chair and shook hands. Then waving towards the visitor's chair, he resumed his seat behind his large oak desk. “I wasn't expecting you … I thought that … err … that picture in the corner said Minister of Magic. Where is he?”

“Sitting before you, Prime Minister,” said Fudge with a slight bow of the head.

“You?” asked the Prime Minister. “But what happened to that other chap, err, Rupert Scavenger, wasn't it? Odd-looking fellow; looked a bit like a lion.”

“Rufus Scrimgeour was his name, Prime Minister. Sad business, very sad business, indeed.”

“Did something happen to him?” asked the Prime Minister warily, suspecting he was in for some bad news.

“Terrible business, tragic: He was murdered at his own desk in his office at the Ministry of Magic,” said Fudge, shaking his head sombrely.

“But, how could such a thing happen? Surely you have adequate security systems in place?” said the Prime Minister, looking about anxiously. “I mean, with this maniac of yours on the loose … he's still on the loose, I suppose? What's his name?”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Prime Minister; and yes, he is still very much on the loose.”

“Unusual name,” said the Prime Minister, uneasily. “I assume he must have been behind the assassination?”

“Yes, that is the unavoidable conclusion,” conceded Fudge fearfully. “What, with the Dark Mark hanging over —”

“The what?” asked the Prime Minister apprehensively. The alarm in Fudge's voice was becoming contagious.

“But, err, we must not jump to hasty conclusions … we must follow due process. As soon as I was appointed Minister of Magic, I instigated a full and far-ranging inquiry.”

“I see. Well, anyway, congratulations, Minister Fudge, on your amazing reversal in political fortunes. If I recall correctly, it was only a year ago that you were sacked. I think you said the whole of your, err, community had been baying for your blood and demanding your resignation. I am most eager to hear how you managed to turn public opinion around so quickly and get yourself re-appointed. One cannot but admire a political resurrection like yours — and perhaps glean some useful tips, eh?”

“To be perfectly frank,” replied Fudge with a sigh, “no one else wanted the job … I mean not after what happened to the previous Minister, if you see what I mean.”

“Yes, quite,” replied the Prime Minister. “You have certainly shown commendable courage in stepping forward in this hour of need. I just hope you, err … well anyway, any progress with the assassination inquiry? I imagine you must be very keen to catch the culprits, before they, err ….”

“Actually, the terms of reference for the inquiry are not so much concerned with catching anyone; they are more aimed at discovering the weakness in our security systems that allowed the assailants to get to the Minister. My number one priority is to reinforce the personal security of the Minister of Magic — and other Ministry staff as well, of course.”

“Quite understandable, Minister, but you must be equally determined to apprehend the murderers and make them pay for this heinous crime. Surely you intend to use the full powers of your law-enforcement agencies and rally your … err, people, to battle and defeat this, err, what's-his-name and his gang. I mean, one cannot simply allow criminal thugs like these to get away with … well, murder.”

Fudge blushed and cleared his throat several times before replying. “Unfortunately, it is not quite that simple, Prime Minister. These thugs, as you call them, are very powerful, and they are gaining in strength daily. My predecessor set out to confront them. He waged war on them and attempted to defeat them —”

“Here, here!” interjected the Prime Minister enthusiastically (an automatic reflex from many years in the debating chamber).

“I have to tell you, Prime Minister, that he did not succeed in crushing them, and he, err —”

“Paid the ultimate price?” prompted the Prime Minister, c*****g an eyebrow questioningly.

“Quite. So, I have decided to take a somewhat different approach. I intend to use the Ministry's security services more prudently.”

“To protect yourself?” suggested the Prime Minister with a cynical smile.

“And the Ministry generally: its employees and critical infrastructure. After all, I would be most remiss, in the discharge of my duties as Minister, if I failed to ensure the continuance of good governance and order.”

“Quite proper,” said the Prime Minister wryly. “And what do you plan to do about these thugs who seem determined to take over?”

“Thugs? I prefer not to use such a crude term, Prime Minister. Many of these people are from very good families — from our aristocracy, in fact. Many are people of means.”

“Well-heeled, upper-crust types, are they? Sound just like those beastly Conservatives,” said the Prime Minister distastefully.

“In any case,” continued Fudge, “it is by no means certain that their intention is to take over, as you put it. I prefer to think of them as a ginger group with a legitimate ideology and a set of philosophical beliefs which, while never universally endorsed, have historically always had some currency in our world. Not everyone shares their views, but it is my considered opinion that the Ministry of Magic, as the administrative body of the Wizarding community, must remain impartial, above such philosophic spats, and not take sides.

“But you, yourself, told me just a year ago that this what's-his-name and his followers were responsible for all the mayhem. The Brockdale Bridge collapse; the hurricanes in the West Country, which I recall you said were not hurricanes at all, but caused by rampaging giants,” said the Prime Minister, as he rose from his chair and began striding back and forth. “And the reports of hurricanes have continued, so presumably these giants are still at large. And we've had more mysterious murders — He-who-done-it again, no doubt? How can you talk about philosophic spats and ideological beliefs? These people are terrorists! They must be stamped out!”

Fudge sighed helplessly. “If only it was that simple, Prime Minister. But, they cannot be stamped out; they are far too powerful. What I am attempting to do is to reach a détente with them.”

“What?” exploded the Prime Minister. “They murdered the head of your government, and you're just going to roll over and let them walk all over you? Are you sure your name isn't Neville Chamberlain?”

Fudge blushed again, and lowered his eyes as he attempted to justify himself. “Prime Minister, these people cannot be defeated. I have sent emissaries to see if we can reach some kind of, err … truce, with You-Know-Who.”

“Who?”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Prime Minister. It is another name by which he is known.”

The Prime Minister shook his head in despair. Had he known what awaited him at Number 10 Downing Street, he would probably have remained on the backbenches. This was like some kind of surrealistic nightmare from which he was unable to awaken.

“And then there are those blasted misdemeanours of this You-Know-Who brute, draining all the hope and happiness out of people — and not just your people either, but mine as well — voters! They must still be breeding because there is still a lot of mist about. If you don't get rid of them before the general election, I'll go down in the worst landslide in electoral history!”

“As I said, Prime Minister, I am attempting to contain the havoc. I am hoping that if You-Know-Who and his supporters are left in peace by both the Ministry and others who oppose them, they will cease to behave in such violent, anti-social ways. Live and let live, that is how I am branding my new policy.”

The Prime Minister, who had resumed his seat, was staring at Fudge, shaking his head in silent disbelief.

Fudge, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, rose quickly to his feet. Muttering something about sending some owls somewhere, he hurriedly shook the Prime Minister's hand. He then clapped the ridiculous lime-green bowler hat on his head, threw some powder into the fireplace, and stepped into the emerald flames, vanishing with a whooshing sound.

The Prime Minister stared into the empty fireplace, still shaking his head. He suspected he would be dreaming about fat, quivering, pin-striped jellyfish wearing lime-green bowler hats tonight … rather than moronic monkeys choking on pretzels.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

Harry was lying on his bed after dinner, wondering anxiously when Professor McGonagall would come. The Dursleys had made no comment about his birthday — either they didn't know or they didn't care. All Harry wanted was to see the last of them. He was packed and ready, and impatient to leave Privet Drive. Harry heard a knock, so he darted out of his room and positioned himself at the top of the stairs, which offered a clear view of the front door. He was just in time to see Dudley opening the door and finding a grey tabby staring up at him. Before he could slam the door shut, the cat shot through his legs and into the house. Dudley plodded after it, followed by his parents. They were all screaming murderous threats at the cat which led them a merry chase. Harry came downstairs laughing. When he entered the lounge, he found the Dursleys cautiously circling the cat, which was now sitting comfortably on Uncle Vernon's armchair, glaring up at them disdainfully. None of them seemed at all eager to pick it up for fear of being clawed. When Harry entered the room Uncle Vernon turned on him. “You, boy, what are you grinning at? Get that mangy stray out of here, and be quick about it!”

But Harry made no move towards the cat, which was instantly replaced by a very stern-looking witch in emerald robes, glaring disapprovingly at the Dursleys, who stood frozen in terror. “Good evening,” she said coldly to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. “I have come to take Harry away. Potter, please pack all of your belongings. You will not be returning to this house again — ever.”

Harry's heart leapt with joy at her words as he dashed from the lounge and bounded up the stairs three at a time. Never again would he have to live here with his horrible aunt and uncle — and his horrible cousin, Dudley. A long, lonely, miserable chapter in his life was finally drawing to a close, and despite all the uncertainties about the future, he somehow felt hopeful. Leaving the Dursleys was like a passage from childhood to adulthood. Harry grabbed Hedwig's empty cage — she was out hunting, but she would find him — and dragged his trunk down the stairs.

When he re-entered the lounge, Professor McGonagall was glaring harshly at the Dursleys. Aunt Petunia's face was chalk-white and Uncle Vernon's was a sickly purple colour. Evidently they had been on the receiving end of a serious dressing-down. Spotting Harry, Professor McGonagall rose from her chair and brushed off her robes, as if she were banishing something rather unpleasant. She strode imperiously past the Dursleys without as much as a word of farewell. In the hallway, she waved her wand at the trunk and cage. They disappeared; Harry guessed she had sent them on ahead to the Burrow.

“You will accompany me using Side-Along-Apparation, Potter. Please grasp my arm firmly,” she said. Harry took the proffered arm. He caught sight of his aunt, uncle, and cousin Dudley staring through the lounge doorway; their faces were a mixture of disapproval, fear, and fascination. Harry just had time to give them one last defiant grin before everything went black and he was pressed so hard it was difficult to breathe.

When the unpleasant feeling finally passed, Harry found himself standing in a country lane just beyond the fence of the Burrow. Professor McGonagall stopped outside the gate — obviously the Burrow was well-warded. She aimed her wand at the front-door, producing a loud knocking noise. Mrs Weasley emerged from the house and hurried up the path towards them, beaming happily. “Minerva, Harry, darling, there you are!” She touched the gate with her wand, and it sprang open. As soon as Harry was through the gate, she seized him in a bone-crushing embrace. “Harry, you're all skin and bone, you poor boy! Those Muggles cannot have been feeding you properly. But I'll soon put that to rights. Now, Minerva, will you come in for a cuppa?”

“Thank you, Molly, but I have too much to do at Hogwarts. I don't know how I'll ever be ready by September the first.” Then turning to Harry, she said sternly, “Potter, you are to stay here until you return to Hogwarts. The Burrow is very well protected; you will be safe here. Unless you receive specific permission from either Mr or Mrs Weasley, you are to remain within the boundaries of the Burrow. Is that perfectly clear?”

Harry was incensed that he was still being treated like a child after all he had been through. He had no intention of asking anyone's permission when he decided it was time to leave The Burrow, and he was not planning on returning to Hogwarts either. He had his own path to follow, and it wasn't as if it were something he had chosen — fate had chosen it for him. But still, he wasn't about to defy the formidable Professor McGonagall to her face, so he mumbled “Yes,” and was relieved to see her twist around and disappear.

Mrs Weasley led the way up the path to the front door. “We've all been waiting for you, Harry, dear; we have a little surprise in store for you.”

Before Harry could respond, Hermione burst through the front door and launched herself at him, throwing her arms around him. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she cried, thrusting a present into his hands.

When Hermione released him, Ron grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside the house and into the lounge where the table was covered in cakes and other birthday treats from Mrs Weasley's kitchen. Harry saw Ginny sitting on the couch out of the corner of his eye; her cheeks were red, and she looked confused and uncertain. It took a great deal of effort not to look at her, but he had to be strong for her sake, he told himself. The monster he had been trying to subdue for the past month had just broken free of its shackles and was on the rampage.

“Happy birthday, mate,” said Ron, awkwardly shaking Harry's hand while he gave him a gift, but Harry hardly heard him. He mumbled thanks to Ron and Hermione for their gifts and something about all the party food, but his mind was engaged elsewhere.

“You can thank Mrs Weasley and Ginny for the food,” said Hermione, looking at Harry pointedly. “And Ginny did all the decorations herself.”

Harry hadn't even noticed the decorations; his whole attention had been fixed on Ginny from the moment he entered the room — even though he was looking everywhere but in her direction.

Finally Ginny spoke. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, walking up to him hesitantly and giving him what was intended to be a brief hug.

But the moment she was in his arms, Harry lost the plot entirely. All his good intentions dissolved; he just could not let her go. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled her familiar scent, hugging her tightly. It was only the sound of heavy footsteps, and someone clearing their throat loudly and pointedly behind him that broke the spell. He released Ginny and looked up. Mr Weasley was looking down at him in a very peculiar way. But he recovered himself, and wished Harry a happy birthday and welcomed him to the Burrow before rejoining his wife in the kitchen, leaving the young people to get on with their celebrations.

Turning towards the couch, Harry noticed Ron looking at him in a distinctly unfriendly way. Here we go again, he thought, as Ron finally turned away and switched on the old wooden wireless set. Harry sat on the couch between Ginny and Hermione, his emotions in complete turmoil. He needed time to regroup, to sort things out in his head, but for the moment, sitting on the couch next to Ginny, all he could do was savour the wonderful feeling of being close to her again.

“When did you get here?” he asked Hermione, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Just this morning,” she replied. “I spent three weeks in Tuscany with my parents — it was really interesting and the countryside is incredibly beautiful.” While Hermione was talking, Harry turned towards Ginny. She met his gaze with an intensity that took his breath away. While their eyes were locked, she reached for his hand. Harry smiled and took a deep breath, gently squeezing her hand in his; it felt so good. All his resolutions of the past month had evaporated in less than a minute. It's my birthday today, he told himself; tomorrow I'll beat myself over the head for being so feeble-minded and wishy-washy.

Hermione was still talking, but Harry hadn't caught much of it. “Err, what?” he asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Have you been getting the Daily Prophet?” she asked him for the third time.

“No, I thought I'd give myself a break from all the bad news for a while. Why? Has anything serious happened?”

“Then you don't know?” asked Ron, who was sitting in a chair on the other side of the table, strategically positioned near the food.

“Know what? Has someone been killed?” Harry asked warily, wondering if it was anyone he knew.

“Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister of Magic,” said Hermione.

“What? But, he must have been really well protected everywhere he went.”

“He was killed at the Ministry of Magic,” said Ginny, “a couple of weeks ago, right in his own office. Dad's been saying for ages that the Ministry has been compromised and there are Death Eaters in high places. There was no break-in; it was an inside job. They fired the Dark Mark over the Ministry just to make sure everyone knew who did it — except, of course, Fudge hushed it up.”

“Fudge?” asked Harry. “What's he got to do with it?”

“Well, after Scrimgeour got it,” said Ron, quickly swallowing a mouthful of cake, “obviously no one wanted to be Minister of Magic — it was a death warrant — no one except Fudge, that is. He was the only candidate, so now the great git is Minister of Magic again.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Harry. “Not that pompous i***t Fudge, again. I'm with Voldemort on this one. I hope he gets him soon.”

“Harry! How can you say such a terrible thing — even about Fudge,” scolded Hermione. “Anyway, Fudge may not be as much of an i***t as people think, at least not when it comes to looking after his own interests.”

“How do you mean?” asked Harry, brushing fingers with Ginny as he took a slice of cake from her.

“Well,” said Hermione, “Scrimgeour really gave the Death Eaters a hard time. The Auror division had carte blanche to use whatever methods they wanted; he wasn't bothered about legal niceties, he was utterly ruthless. Considering Voldemort has been out in the open for the past twelve months, you have to admit that Scrimgeour was pretty successful in keeping a lid on Death Eater activity, even if there were a few attacks.”

“So Voldemort knocked him off?”

“Right,” replied Hermione, “and he couldn't have wished for a better replacement.”

“Why?”

“Fudge has decided to treat Voldemort and the Death Eaters like a bunch of errant boy scouts. He has classified them as a political group who are perfectly entitled to their pure-blood ideology.”

“What?” exclaimed Harry, gobsmacked. “Does Fudge think it's OK for them to go around killing Muggle-borns and Squibs and anyone who opposes their ideas?”

Hermione shook her head. “He claims that if Voldemort and his supporters are left alone, they will be happy to have tea parties and sit around and talk about how pure their blood is and not bother any one. He claims the only reason they have been attacking people is because Scrimgeour attacked them in the first place.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief.

“Live and let live is his new motto,” said Ginny. “And as a good-will gesture, he has freed all the Death Eaters who were caught in the raid at the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic last year.”

“What?” demanded Harry, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fudge let Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them out of Azkaban? How the hell can he justify that?”

“He claims they were provoked by Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix,” said Ginny scathingly. “He's trying to make the Order into the big bad bogey that has been provoking the Death Eaters to misbehave — it's all too absurd; it would be laughable if it weren't so serious. The Order of the Phoenix has been declared an illegal organisation, while Voldemort is free to carry on recruiting more Death Eaters and gaining strength until he's ready to make his move — and take over.”

“It sounds like he's already taken over,” said Harry despondently. “I mean, Fudge has to be working for Voldemort; it's either that or he's under the Imperius Curse — maybe he even helped to get rid of Scrimgeour.”

“No, I don't think so,” said Hermione. “I think he just desperately wanted to be Minister of Magic again. Having tasted power, he's become addicted to it. After he got tossed out a year ago, there seemed no way he would ever be in a position of responsibility again, let alone Minister of Magic. But when no one else would take the job, he saw his chance — and grabbed it. We all know he's neither brave nor courageous. He wouldn't have taken the job unless he had a survival plan. He's not as stupid as people think — he's actually been quite cunning. By appeasing Voldemort, he's become an asset to him. The Death Eaters have no reason to get rid of him for the moment.”

“So why has Fudge turned the Auror division into a personal bodyguard then?” asked Ron. “All they do now is guard him and his cronies.”

“Because he's paranoid,” replied Hermione. “Remember how he was convinced that Dumbledore was after his job? And Voldemort is not the most rational of men — nor someone whose actions are remotely predictable. He could turn on Fudge at any time for no reason. Then there's the Order of the Phoenix; Fudge is probably afraid of them as well.”

Harry shook his head. “Just the kind of news I wanted to hear on my birthday. I can't imagine anything worse.”

“Well, here it comes then,” said Ron. “Fudge created a new position — Deputy Minister of Magic — and guess who got it? That toffee-nosed git, Percy. He's now Fudge's right-hand man. His first job was to purge the Ministry of anyone not personally loyal to Fudge; and guess who he fired first? Dad!”

“Bastard!” spat Harry. “Err, how's your father managing without a job — is he, you know, OK for money,” he asked softly. “You know, I could —”

“You needn't worry,” said Ginny, squeezing his hand. “Fred and George are doing really well with their joke shop. They put a whole pile of gold in Mum and Dad's vault at Gringotts. And Dad is now working full time for an illegal organisation,” she said with a grin.

“Percy fired Tonks, too. The git has his own personal Auror guard,” said Ron, contemptuously. “But I don't think it's Death Eaters or the Order he's worried about, I reckon it's Fred and George.”

Mrs Weasley, who had just come into the lounge, gasped at Ron's words. She looked like she was about to start crying as she usually did at the mention of Percy's name. After a sniffle or two, she hurried them all off to bed.

Harry was again in the twins' old room. His trunk and Hedwig's empty cage were already there. Climbing into bed, he reflected on everything that had happened today. The news about Fudge was really depressing. But as he lay in bed, it was not Fudge that occupied his mind, but the memory of Ginny's hand in his and the wonderful feeling of just sitting next to her. He knew he had totally broken all his resolutions about keeping his distance from her. But it didn't matter what happened at the Burrow, he told himself, because Voldemort would never know about it. And anyway, he was planning to leave soon, on his own — so there was no harm in him and Ginny being together a little longer, was there?

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

The following morning, Harry walked down to the pond with Ron and Hermione after breakfast. They sat under a large shady tree and Harry told them about Fawkes' midnight visit and showed them the message from Dumbledore.

“It's kind of spooky getting a message from someone who's dead,” said Ron with a shudder. “How do you reckon Fawkes knew when to deliver it?”

“What I'm more interested in knowing is how Dumbledore knew he'd be dead by Harry's birthday,” said Hermione, thoughtfully. “I mean it's only a month since….”

“You don't suppose he could still be alive … somehow?” suggested Ron hopefully.

Harry shook his head, then he told them about the visit from Jason and everything he'd said. “After Dumbledore's message and the stuff about someone coming to help me get rid of Voldemort, it was pretty bloody disappointing,” said Harry bitterly as he ripped up some grass. “He really does not look the part at all.”

Ron shared Harry's view about Jason. “Typical pathetic Ravenclaw, if you ask me — just like Michael Corner, Terry Boot, and Anthony Goldstein. They're all very well when it comes to swotting stuff up in the library, but bloody useless when the crunch comes.”

Hermione snorted. “Ron, you are even more prejudiced than Harry! I, for one, would be very interested to meet Jason and hear what he has to say — if he doesn't mind, that is. I think you should meet him, too, and judge him on his merits — rather than the house he was in at school twenty years ago, you house bigot!”

Before Ron could retaliate and start a slanging match with Hermione, which would have probably ended up in one of their full-on fights, Harry jumped in. “I just don't understand why Dumbledore thought this Trolove character could help me, but then the last time Dumbledore saw him was twenty years ago. Maybe he's gone all soft with all the weird stuff he's been doing. And he left without telling me anything about this prophecy that my mum is supposed to have given. If he does show up again, I'm going to find out what it was all about before he manages to find Snape and get himself killed.”

“Yes, it would be very interesting to find out about your mother's prophecy — not that I have much faith in that sort of thing,” said Hermione. “Harry, I really think you ought to give him a fair chance. Perhaps you're biased against him because he was your mother's boyfriend. You're acting a bit like a disapproving older brother,” she said with a smirk, looking pointedly at Ron.