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Chapter 18 - A Holly, Jolly Christmas

Harry had plans to spend some time at his home in Hogsmeade. After giving Hermione a going-away kiss that made her quiver and made any other girls within view sigh quietly, he apparated straight to his sitting room.

"Dobby," he called, and the elf appeared before he finished saying the word. "My friend, we have a lot of work to do, but we're going to have a nice, happy Christmas this year. Did those documents come from Gringott's today?"

"Yes, Master Harry, I left them on your desk."

"Excellent. Come, Dobby, we have a lot of planning to do." Harry used his magic to pull a tall stool close to the desk, so that the elf could survey the documents at an equal level.

***

For the first time in a long time, the holidays brought widespread good news. Every day the students were away from school, there was a new story of the triumph of good in the Daily Prophet, and sometimes even on the Wizarding Wireless.

Fortunately enough, there were no Death Eater attacks on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. But then the news started coming in. It was as if someone were giving holiday presents to every witch and wizard in Britain.



The Daily Prophet

Dateline, December 26th
Rumspigot Family Business Sued For Patent Infringement
Orig Trademark Owned By Gideon Prewett, Weasleys May Get Settlement



Dateline, December 27th
Funeral Parlour Caught Dumping Bodies In The Woods
More Trouble For Malfoys



Dateline, December 28th
Contract On Fenrir Greyback
Anonymous Donor Offers 50,000 Galleons, Dead Or Alive.



Dateline, December 29th
Undersecretary Umbridge Arrested
Charged With Torturing Students, Attempted Use Of Unforgivable



Dateline, December 30th
Sidney Avery, Caractacus Nott Found Dead
Was It A Suicide Pact?



Each day the papers came out with more good news, Harry nodded quietly to himself. He didn't smile; nor did he frown. He just got on with planning the next one. His solicitor, Cyril Thynne, was happy to have the extra money over the holidays.

The real surprise was Dobby who, as it turned out, made an excellent coordinator. He tracked and reported the times and activities of aurors, the ministry, the goblins, and some other less-than-savory characters who were best left in the shadows. People like Mundungus Fletcher, who had their uses, but definitely did not bear close scrutiny.

Harry still didn't know where Colter came from, though he suspected the older elf belonged to a well-to-do family. Even though older and therefore senior to Dobby, Colter brought much information and intelligence to the table when it came to tracking the minions of the Dark Lord. Harry suspected that, although house elves are bound to keep their masters' secrets, that Colter was probably skirting the line at tracking Death Eaters.

The rest of the wizarding world was happier than it had been in quite some time. The Weasleys were all home for Christmas holiday except Percy; but Percy even sent an animated, singing greeting card to Ginny. It didn't seem like much, but the family took it as the half-hearted peace offering that it was meant to be. The news of their imminent windfall from the Rumspigot family meant that the family would soon move from poverty to upper middle-class.

***

The old locus was nearly forgotten by man. The abbey that had once stood in that dolorous place, built during the time of the druids, had long ago crumbled, leaving only part of the stone living quarters. Only one room of the manse remained standing, though it wasn't standing very well. The high portal windows held no glass or coverings, and were open to the elements -- and to the birds. Grey light struggled to show through the open window-openings of this mostly-ruined and very old manse; showing the collected detritus of hundreds of years of storms and animals. The forest had almost reclaimed this little piece of man's work. Almost, but not quite.

The slender, crooked form of the most powerful Dark Lord in many centuries sat uncomfortably on a crude wooden throne, in a dimly-lit stone hall. The 'throne' was a carved wooden seat, as if one of the celebrant chairs behind the altar in the old abbey had been hit with a reparo -- which was exactly what it was.

One familiar with the old legends would have expected the man's voice to be deep, rumbling, commanding, even booming. One would expect a voice suited for command, that could engender immediate compliance. Instead, the voice had ahigh pitch; thin, reedy, and somewhat sibilant. He spoke: "Bella! Come here."

Bellatrix Lestrange moved immediately to kneel at the foot of her master, bowing until her forehead touched the cold stone floor. "Yes, my lord."

Voldemort said, "Do not try my patience, woman. You know what I want."

"My lord, I went to their house, and used the scrying artifact you gave me. It was as you suspected; Avery and Nott did not commit suicide." She licked her lips. "They were struck down, by that old auror, Moody."

"Good. Since you know who it was, I presume you brought him back with you?"

Bellatrix cowered. "He is in hiding, my lord. We have not found him yet."

"Crucio!" The incredible power of Voldemort poured into the most foul torture curse known to wizard-kind. A cruel smirk played on his thin, bloodless lips as he watched her suffer, heard her screams.

***

At the very north-eastern tip of the long, narrow Loch Laidon, there are some very pretty rolling hills. Green almost the whole year round, it was far enough off the beaten path to satisfy a paranoid old retired auror like Alastor Moody.

After the noisy dustbin incident at his home, and his subsequent kidnapping and incarceration in the bottom of a trunk for some nine months, Moody had quietly set about finding new digs. Posing as amuggle with forged passport and a glamour spell, he bought three acres of land at the tip of the loch. Making use of the expensive but super-secret services of goblins, he had caused there to be built a small, but comfortable, home.

But he didn't stop there. Mad-Eye Moody had many enemies, alive and dead, and was experienced enough to know that just because someone was dead didn't mean they couldn't get at you. So he warded his home. And warded it, and warded it, until it became the second most secure place in all of Britain. Starting with the Fidelius charm, he then made it unplottable, and then set up a layering of hundreds of independent wards that would have made a curse-breaker cry. Moody himself had to cast eleven spells at careful intervals and provide three drops of his blood before he could get into his own home.

He took great pains to ensure no one knew where his home was. He kept ownership of the old house, but was never there. Here, in the countryside of Scotland, he was able to relax his guard a little, and fall into the habits of the retired old man that he was.

At 86 years, Moody wasn't the oldest auror still around -- given the long lives wizards were wont to live -- but he was certainly the most notorious. Most field aurors moved to more tame ministry pursuits after a reasonable length of time; like one of the many licensing desks. Usually in their early forties. But not him. Anyone suggesting such a change on his part would be on the receiving end of a gruff, curt refusal. He joined the aurors to be an auror, he'd tell them. Not to sit around on his arse pushing forms.

So he kept chasing and catching the bad guys. Nobody could remember any other auror who stayed in the field for over fifty years. They'd finally had to trick him into retirement, at the age of 78. He had put many a good, young auror to shame by simply never stopping. Even though no one could expect aurors to try to match his record, and no one denigrated the others for it, the younger aurors had all been greatly intimidated by his record, and by his presence.

And that was just fine with Moody. He wasn't antisocial, just asocial. From avery early age, he'd kept himself to himself. Men found him frightening, women found him enigmatic, and little children saw through the crust and thought him wonderful -- mostly because he talked to them as equals and took them seriously when other adults dismissed them.

Which was why he was so flummoxed when someone knocked on his front door. Waving his wand and grumbling, the old wizard cast a small charm that misdirected the sounds he made. Not taking any chances, he spoke, "Who is it?"

"Harry Potter."

"Balls," swore Moody mildly.

"No thanks, I have plenty," came the reply.

Moody came up short, and then laughed. "Alright, you young jackanapes, you're a Clever Dick, come on in on your own, if ye can." The last 'n'sound was barely out of his mouth when there stood Harry in his vestibule. Bold as brass, dry as two bones despite the heavy, sloppy snow that had been falling all morning. "Ye've got--" and he stopped, seeing the look in Harry. Thinking better of the lecturing approach, he swung his head to indicate that his visitor should follow. "Was just 'avin' a nice brandy. You wouldn't want any of that now, would ye?"

"Actually," Harry said, "I brought you a gift. Call it a housewarming present." He brought a wrapped bottle out from beneath his robe, handing it to Moody. It was Napoleon, and was so old that the label was almost unreadable.

"Merlin..." Moody whispered, reverent at last. Here was something he could respect. "Well, I'll just get us a couple glasses then, shall I?" He stumped about looking for another brandy glass and they made their way into the comfortable drawing room.

***

An hour later, Harry was finishing up his tale. "So you see, it's been me giving the Death Eaters grief. But they think it's you doing it. I have no idea where they got that idea, but I figured I owed you a fair warning."

Moody stared into his fire, his snifter forgotten for the moment at his side. "Aye," he finally said. "Aye, I can see how they'd think so. I gave 'em a good run for their trouble back the last time they misbehaved. But jest how d'ye figure you owe me anything?"

Harry said, "That's easy. The things Iam doing are the reason they're after you."

"That's as may be, but they don't know how or where to find me."

"I found you."

Moody remembered his snifter, picking it up and draining it in a single swallow. "Aye, you did. How?"

"Scrying," Harry said simply.

Moody started as if to stand in alarm, then slumped back into his armchair. Several emotions chased each other across his face; from scorn, to surprise, to fear, to curiosity, and all over again.

Harry watched for a moment, then laughed. "Mister Moody, I'm not a demon. I just learned a new skill."

"Just learned a new skill, eh?" replied Moody. "Just learned, on your own, a skill that takes years to learn."

"Why? No," waving the older man to relax. "No, I don't mean why it bothers you. I mean, why does it take so long to learn? The concept is quite simple, the books are quite clear on it, and it requires no more special talent than any kitchen cleaning skill we have. So, why?"

Moody was silent, rubbing his chin and then taking a sip of brandy.

"I'll tell you why," Harry said. "Because our crooked Ministry and pusillanimous Wizengamot tell everyone it's hard. And they tell people that because they don't want people doing it. After all, if I can scry, I can see what they're up to, eh?"

Moody started at that, and then laughed in a loud guffaw. "By thunder, you're a plucky one! Ha!"

The two lonely men, one young and one old, spent the evening in companionable conversation.