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Significant Digits, Chapter Forty: The Thing with Wings

Significant Digits, Chapter Forty: The Thing with Wings



KARL: You think you are safe here, in your village utopia?  War is upon us!  Hear the sound of drums.  The enemy approaches in scant minutes, and our hourglass flows so quickly... witness the last of the time!  Lords and ladies… I beseech you!  Wake up and attend to your own hour of doom!  Flee!

ERIN:  We hear.  We understand.  But we will not run.  We will not abandon Sontag.

- “The Last Days of Exses O’Bruinan,” by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.




≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 18th, 1999
One day later

Draco’s office in the Tower was in the rear of the complex, where it had been expanded.  He had originally been situated near Material Methods.  It might have been quiet there at the moment, with the goblins all shut up and withdrawn into Curd and Ackle, off doing gobliney things (presumably comparing ear length or bathing in rubies).  But as soon as the dodgy little blokes were back to work, hammering out more absurdly large golden gloves, then that area would become intolerable: unfortunate smells, clamorous noise, and a horde of chest-high half-elves swarming underfoot in the corridor.

Now he was comfortably ensconced next to the new offices of the Vision Verge, instead.  They were almost all wizards and witches, except for the one centaur, and they mostly did quiet things involving lenses and the like.  It was uninteresting work -- what possible use was there for the tiny Protean-Charmed little toggles they were making? -- but also a peaceful little corner of the oft-bustling Tower.

Dearest Mother, he wrote, leaning over the parchment on the desk in front of him.

All is going well -- better than we could have hoped.  There are plans to reorganize the way the Tower operates, now that a new Receiving Room will be built to accommodate the Ten Thousand.  That has meant a second Terminus to be in charge, and a second command structure for it, and now the whole question of who reports to whom has been upended.  The Westphalians are all in a clamour about the new addition, as well, and are arguing that the Americas should also have their own Receiving Room.  If they win, then simple pride will oblige the construction of a fourth Room for the Free States, Nigeria, and any other African states that join.

In fact, I believe that the Tower will become a proxy body for the Confederation, which will soon mean, of course, that it will become subject to votes from that body.  Potter is a soft touch, and he won’t be able to flout the Confederation forever without the excuse of the Independent opposition.  That will be an opportunity for many, including us.  Good fortune floats into our hand like a ripe dirigible plum.

Draco continued in this vein for some length, setting forth his pretended expectations with just enough vagueness to appear plausible.  He laid out a vision of a potential path to power within the Tower -- and more importantly, made sure that this vision was transferable: a blueprint for others to follow, as well.

When he was done, he took a parchment razor and notched the lower-left corner of the first page twice, then folded and sealed the packet.  Draco would send it to his mother, and she’d know it was meant for others to see.  It would be “stolen,” and reinforce his efforts at tempting a few choice individuals into the fold.

There was a loud knock at his office door.

Draco looked up, irritated at the interruption.  He glanced at the big watch on the wall.  He was expecting his “spy” and ally Dolores Umbridge at ten o’clock, but he’d expected to have time to write a genuine dispatch to his mother in addition to the fake one.  They’d built something special over these past years with their Honourable, and he had no intentions of letting it -- or their relationship with each other -- decay.  “Who is it?” he asked, curtly.

“There are some who call me… Tim,” said a voice from the other side of the door.

“Come in, Longbottom,” Draco said, sighing in annoyance.

Neville opened the door, glancing around the room as he stepped inside.  At some point in the years since he and Draco had first boarded the Hogwarts Express, Neville had grown tall and handsome.  He was a bit gawky, but with an obvious strength in his wiry frame.  His eyes were bright and his smile was wide and he was utterly intolerable.

“Harry wanted to know if you had a minute,” Neville said.  He squinted at a statue in the corner -- a beautiful sculpture in gold of a fat-bodied cobra with numerous heads, coils piling up beneath it and a single broad hood loomed behind its heads.

“Fine,” said Draco, checking the wall-watch again.  He dropped the cover over the inkwell built into his desk and cleared the parchments to one side.  He included the fake dispatch among them.  He’d send it later.

Neville jerked a thumb in the direction of the statue.  “That’s new.”

“It’s from Thailand,” said Draco, turning to regard it.  “Not a real beast.  ‘Ananta Shesha,’ a fanciful notion of the Muggles… They say that it holds the entire world on its hood.”

Neville regarded it closely.  There were tiny scales pricked into its surface, and each tiny snake-head wore a delicate crown.  “So he’s trod down by everyone else, despite all his crowns?” he asked, lightly.

Draco ignored the jab for a moment.  He adjusted his robes as he walked around the desk, and he kept his voice mild as he replied, “One day, they say he will uncoil.”

Neville scowled as the Slytherin stepped past him and out into the corridor.  Draco turned to give him a level look, and spoke over his shoulder,  “And then, he’ll be all that’s left.”  Draco smiled coolly.  “Ananta Shesha: ‘that which remains.’ ”

Not his best work… but then, it was only Neville, who spent most of his day wallowing with Muggles and play-fighting with them.

Draco walked briskly down the corridor, past the Verge, and along the hallway squeezed between the Conjuration Conjunction and Extension Establishment, the latter filled with annoyed people snapping at each other irritably.  There had been serious malfunctions in the latest slicebox prototypes.  They were intended for the creation of a second pocket world, which would also be put into orbit out past the sky, but they’d been rupturing instead.  One researcher had nearly been killed by an accidental backlash that had bisected her at the waist.

He turned left, moving past the entrance to Material Methods, and then pushed open the door to the meeting room, striding on inside.  It’s important not just to look like you know what’s going on, but to appear to actually be in command of it, his father had used to say.

There were a few people in the meeting room with Harry.  A couple of aurors, Percy Weasley, and Cedric Diggory.  No Bones and no Mad-Eye… nothing about the Tower or politics or anything foreign.  Probably government...

He considered likely possibilities as quickly as possible as he nodded to those sitting at the table and walked over, past the aurors.

Was this about his mother?  No, they’d leave that alone, no matter what.  They knew better than to get between Draco and his family.  They knew he was a Malfoy above all.

Had one of his minions gotten out of hand?  Draco did an inventory of the likely suspects -- the lowbrow pawns who’d run most of Knockturn Alley.  Gem and his people were in Howard Prison for another three months… Laura Lock and Tallow Enser were still in hiding in Kent and unwilling to come out.  That left Jean-Luc Bigby and Mortimer Kainen.  They’d been kipps by trade six years ago, collecting loans and insurance.  Had they gone back to that and gotten picked up after hexing the wrong person?

Was this more personal?  Had they started getting information from Bellatrix, finally -- penetrating the unfathomable protection of her insanity?

“Hello, Harry,” Draco said, standing behind an empty seat.  He rested his hands on it.  He waited just a fraction of a second before turning to the other two, saying, “Diggory.  Weasley.”  A gentle reminder of the order of things.  “What are we on about this morning?”

“Just the usual, Malfoy,” said Cedric, with his customary badly-disguised air of scorn.  He’d had difficulty accepting the new reality in the Tower: Draco as ally and not defeated enemy.

Draco smiled a knowing smile, and pulled his chair out.  But he didn’t sit down, pausing.

There was something wrong.

Draco didn’t know what it was, but he knew there was something wrong.  He glanced from face to face, again.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt the disquiet in his guts.

What is it?  Is it Mother, after all?  No, Harry would tell me in private first, if that were it.  Was it a misunderstanding -- the uncovering of a “plot” to overthrow Harry, and it’s been misunderstood?

He could see it, now, all of a sudden, as they looked back at him.  It was their expressions.  Harry and Diggory and Weasley all seemed to have their attention somewhere else.  Not as though they weren’t paying attention or anything so obvious -- but rather, it was as though they were distracted by a noise or presence that he couldn’t see.  It was subtle… but then, Draco’s tutor in the social graces, Master DeCampo, had always said that manipulation was the most delicate dance of all.  These were three people struggling with their guilt.  He could see it.

Why do they feel guilty?

“I think --” Draco began, but he could already feel the presence of the aurors close behind him.

A wand jabbed into his back.

Draco smirked, despite the roiling of his stomach.  Did Harry seriously think I’ve never considered the possibility of betrayal?  “There are only three certainties: death, betrayal, and hag’s teeth.”  He’d personally made a portkey to his own office within the Tower.  Portkeys couldn’t take him outside the facility, but they could travel within its bounds -- to a prepared escape cache.

“This is a mistake, Potter,” he said.  He considered the appropriate bon mot to leave in his wake, and fixed Harry’s eyes with his own.  Harry looked conflicted, his face uncertain.  Uncommitted.  Ultimately, not enough will to carry this out.  Draco felt more confidence at the thought.  This might actually be a good thing.

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder from behind, from someone unseen.

“Egeustimentis,” he heard.




≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

After the necessary adjustments, they all sat down together.  The Master took Harry’s usual seat.  They began to discuss what seemed to be the next step.

“Trying to ambush Mad-Eye,” said Draco, shaking his head.  “It sounds almost like a… like something that is untrue by its very nature.”

“A contradiction in terms?” suggested Cedric.

“A paradox?” offered Harry.

Draco nodded at Harry.  “A paradox.  Like burning water.  Or a lucky elf.”  He shook his head.  “ ‘An ambushed Moody.’  Impossible.”

“Well, we’ve hit critical mass, I think,” said Harry.  “We have enough people to do it, but not so many people that we’ve been found out.  Most of the aurors on shift yesterday and during the night, and everyone on shift today -- and now Draco.  If we act now, we might even keep it from getting messy.”  He looked hopefully over at the Master.

“Yes,” Meldh said, nodding gently.  “The changes I have made are not… subtle.  The Lethe Touch takes centuries to master, but even my skill is not enough to disguise such a change in, ah, priorities, shall we say?”

Draco nodded in agreement, as well.  “I knew something was different when I walked into the meeting.  And there’s no sense in wasting an asset that might help the Master later.  You’re right, we should act immediately.”

Harry leaned forward, using one hand to brush the end of his ponytail back over his shoulder.  “Is there any risk the Lethe Touch will wear off?” he asked Meldh.  “If it has a time limit, we should make sure to set up a schedule -- maybe a system to keep an eye on each other.” He paused, thoughtfully, and wagged a finger at his Master.  “If we’re going to help you, you’re going to need to start telling us things about what you want and your assets.”

Meldh raised an eyebrow.  He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table in front of him.  He had a mild look on his face -- amused curiosity, as though he were looking at children.  “Oh?”

“Are you fishing for information, Harry?” asked Cedric, frowning suspiciously.

“Well, yes,” said Harry, contemplatively.  “It’s interesting.  I suppose I’d always assumed that mind magic like Imperius would come with an underlying change in personality and methodology.  Maybe I’ve been making comparisons to Muggle techniques that don’t serve -- things like brainwashing.  Instead, it’s more like Muggle politics than anything else… the dark side of rationality, where ideas don’t have inherent value, but only matter as… as... “ He made a gesture.  “As soldiers.  In politics, whether or not an idea or theory reflects reality is less important than whether it helps or hurts my team.”

Meldh’s face darkened.  He rose from his seat, slowly.  “How can you speak this way?  How have you defeated the Touch?”

Harry shook his head.  “It’s not what you think.  I serve you above all else, Master Meldh.  But you didn’t lobotomize me.  I’m capable of introspection -- I can recognize that the change to my priorities wasn’t predicated on rational assessment of the situation.”  He grinned, good-naturedly.  “More knowledge is better, even about yourself.  You’d be amazed how many times I’ve had to talk about this --”

“Lecture about this,” Cedric put in, sighing.

“-- but it’s true,” Harry continued, unperturbed. “There’s no danger to knowing how your own mind works, including all of the biases that damage your ability to make rational decisions.  We’re incredibly biased towards acting according to your instructions, Master, and it wouldn’t serve you to pretend that’s not so.”

“It would be less creepy, Harry, if you would just make your peace with it,” said Draco, frowning.  “Accept that this is the way it is, and don’t overthink it.”

“No, no,” said Harry, quickly.  “That’s just it!  You’re conflating the idea of resisting the change in our minds with the idea of understanding it.”

“This is not useful,” said Meldh, quietly.  He’d become mild again, apparently accepting Harry’s explanation, and lowered himself back into his seat.  “We will finish planning, so that we eliminate all threats.  Then we will take the time to prepare our moves for the future… what pieces we keep and what pieces we sacrifice.  We will adjust our strategy, so we can move towards my chosen endgame -- not your madness of healing Muggles and throwing things into the sky.  Magic must have its end.”

Harry looked momentarily flummoxed, opening and closing his mouth a few times.  Draco smirked, watching.  Eventually, Harry found words again, frowning.  “Yes, sir.”  His frown became surprise, as though he’d intended to say something else.

Draco turned his attention back to the Master.  “Moody is due to come in today at some point for an intrusion attempt, since it’s an even-numbered day.  I suggest we prepare a fake repeater in the clinic, and ask him for help.”

“There have been a few people who have been unhappy with their rejuvenation who have tried to convince us to do the process again,” Cedric explained.  “It’s against policy, since it’s too time-consuming and it takes time away from others.  If a healer is rejuvenating someone for the second or third time, that means there’s someone else in actual need of rejuvenation who has to wait in suspension.  We had three French wizards who caused a problem about this, a couple of years ago, and backed up the queue so badly that several people came very near to dying.  We keep a sharp eye on répéteurs ever since.”

“Moody has prepared for this sort of thing,” said Harry.  “I know for a fact.  One of his jobs is to be paranoid about everyone.”  He stabbed a finger onto the surface of the table.  “Even me.”  He turned to Draco.  “One level won’t be enough.  We need levels and levels if we want to have any hope, here.”




≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Alastor Moody was waiting until just before midnight.  People got sloppy at night -- forgot to check their corners, lost track of everyone in the room, and other laxness.  He hadn’t done a night intrusion on the Tower in months.  By that time, they’d be wondering if he’d already managed to get in… they’d start double-checking the patients already in the clinic and verifying the identity of everyone in the halls.  Added to their fatigue, it might be the edge he needed to get to Harry and “assassinate” him.

He smiled to himself as he checked the Glenwallace Traps on the doorframes of his house.  This was going to be a fun one.

It helped that he was in a good body.  A tall and healthy man with a dark complexion and brown eyes -- nondescript but usefully vital.  There was a lot to be said for the usefulness of sheer physical health when it came to break-ins, although the stealth value of a small child or an obese man wasn’t to be shunned.

A small bell rang twice, and Moody frowned.  Owl in the hutch.  He checked the front door and the windows, and then went to the hutch.  It was carrying nothing but parchment, so he opened the swivel-door barrier and let the owl through, and plucked the message free.

REPEATER IN THE CLINIC.  WE NEED A QUIET REMOVAL AND TO MAKE SURE THIS DOESN’T HAPPEN AGAIN.  APPLY PERSUASION.

It was signed by Malfoy.

A trick?  A trap?  Alastor knew where at least 75% of Malfoy’s little gang were, and they were almost all neutralized.  Assuming he could be wrong by as much as a fifth, and that Malfoy might have gotten leverage over some of the mid-level aurors -- maybe a Terminus on duty -- or maybe Malfoy himself had been suborned by a larger operation or a powerful individual, maybe the Three.  Or just an attempt to curry favor.  Or rather, more subtle: an attempt to appear as though he were currying favor, so as to be taking an obvious hopeless action in a safe way while putting forth another plan.

Might also be the Chinese or Americans, making a try now that they had their foot in the door.  He wouldn’t put it past that lousy little Hig, who was all helpful and sweet now that the Westphalians had what they wanted.

It was also just barely possible that there was no ulterior motive to the situation or message.  He chuckled out loud at the thought.

Alastor snatched some leaves of parchment from the writing desk near the hutch and wrote three terse messages in his crooked and crabbed hand, ordering a change in the shift commanders at the RCP and the Ministry, and sending a further letter to a cold-drop.  Unlikely Malfoy or anyone else could have sway enough to manage every single shift commander.  He sealed them with a hasty Verification Charm to match his wand, and sent them on their way.

He checked the Glenwallace Traps again, and the other Dark Detectors while he was at it.  Then Alastor pulled on his gear and checked it over.  He studied his appearance in the glass for a long moment, but he looked safely ordinary.

The safest way would be to Apparate to the Ministry and then take a secure Floo, but they’d be expecting that and it would, ironically, make him more identifiable.  No, as so often, the best way was the more direct and fastest.  A Safety Stick.




≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

It had looked wrong, right from the start.

Alastor walked into the clinic from the Receiving Room to find a repeater, all right -- someone with the unblemished skin and youth of the rejuvenated.  He was arguing in the middle of the clinic with a healer, who was calmly trying to redirect the repeater back into a cubicle.

But there were also seven aurors.

There was not any reason for there to be seven aurors.  That was far too many.  The three on shift here would have been sufficient, and an additional one from the Receiving Room would have been an abundance of caution.  Sending four aurors in as reinforcement for a minor difficulty like this wasn’t just a waste of resources: it would actually cause the very problem that they tried to avoid when repeaters showed up.  Repeaters needed to be soothed, reassured, and sent on their way without a fuss.

Protocol was well-known.  More than that, it was just common sense.  And these weren’t new aurors to the Tower, either, he noticed.  They were old hands; people with experience, and no known ties to any other power that he knew.  But here they were, where they shouldn’t be, all standing in bunches.

Time to address the likelihood that this was a Malfoy trap for him (or a trap by someone else).

Alastor backed out of the clinic and turned to the auror standing farther down the corridor, the one he’d just passed.  “Pirrip!”

The idiot turned.  “Sir?”  He’d just cleared Alastor mere moments ago, exchanging passwords.

“Go tell Harry that there’s something very suspicious with the repeater in the clinic.  Then come back at speed.  Bring another hand with you -- someone with battle experience,” Alastor barked, sharply.  He waited just long enough to see Pirrip on the jump, then turned and strode back into the clinic.

But scarcely was he inside before he heard a scream.  He whirled to see that Pirrip hadn’t even made it out of sight down the corridor -- the young auror was down, thrashing on the ground.  Gutclench Curse or something similar.

Almost without thinking, Alastor sidestepped to the right, and without a pause charged into motion, out of the clinic.  Behind him, he could hear voices shouting and spells being cast.  Not all focused on him -- whatever this was, he still had allies.  He barely thought about his reactions as he raised the purplish light of Azarian Fire behind him, throwing himself to the side once he was clear of the doorway to the clinic.  The Fire erupted behind him with a rush of smoke, and he took the opportunity to crouch low and lean back around the doorway, snatching at the goblin-silver door just to one side.  A spray of Bertram Bolts sizzled through the air over his head as he hauled at the door, and it smoothly slid into place.

He needed to get to Harry.  Alastor took off at a dead run.

He didn’t pause over Pirrip, not even breaking stride as he sprinted down the corridor over the lad.  He spared a look to his right as he went past the entrance, but he could already see that the Receiving Room aurors had sent two of their number to assist him (traitors to stab him in the back?  No, Madagascar and Nimue hated each other, that hate was more reliable than most things) and so he could rely on the alert being raised.

Down past the Advancement Agency, still sprinting, plucking a potion from his belt with his free hand and dropping it behind him, Alastor cursed.  Whoever was behind this was causing chaos, but how could they think they’d win?  That they’d get control of the Tower -- they didn’t even know what the Tower really was, or what happened here.  Did they think to learn the “special webs” that made “Tower Transfiguration” possible here?  Had they figured out the Stone… were they just trying to steal that?  Alastor hoped that Harry had his wits about him, and that he’d put on one of the decoy gloves as soon as he was threatened.  The decoys each had a fragment of an ancient and ruined cup embedded in their palm, where the Stone went in the real glove -- if anything was stolen, let it be one of them.

But it was much worse than he thought.  Charging around the corner, taking the turn at a momentary crouch, wand raised, he saw that they’d already gotten to Harry oh Merlin oh no --

Harry was on the ground, and a knife was buried in his chest.  Blood was spreading around him.

-- check behind, nothing, run forward, call for help, two bringing up the rear to watch your back --

There was so much blood already, was the boy already dead?  His shoes were wrong.  He had to be saved, he had to be saved, there was no one who could take his place, not really.

-- move to the side, wand up, there’s someone Disillusioned, see the shimmer, no bother with removal, wide-angle attack, get down --

He dropped into a crouch again and raised his wand to Vom Tag, reaching out with his mind.  He focused his will into the necessary shape and pushed away from him the thought of a grandmother’s eyes and sparkling blue lights.  It was devilishly tricky to aim, but he just needed to get it out there and he felt with relief the rush of arctic wind as it swept in a torrent away from his fingers, ripe with cold.

He brought up more Azarian Fire in front of him almost in the same breath, but never took his eye off the corridor.  The blur of distortion that was his enemy made a movement, redirecting his attack.  A skillful turn.  Foolish to do it so well, they revealed too much about their style.  Possibly meant to tempt him into overconfidence.

-- no time for this, no time no time, use the arch you can make it secret again later like the last time --

Alastor whipped three rapid-fire curses at his opponent, buying a half-second to reach into his robes.  He felt the metal ring in its pocket, and snatched it free.  Lunging to the side, he snapped his wand forward, shouting a curse powerful enough that his own ears ached from the pressure of its passage.

And he hurled a metal ring at his enemy, urging it to work.  He needed it to work.  He needed it to save Harry.

The Arch of Ulak Unconquered, the most perfect prison ever devised, swelled impossibly as it sailed through the air.  Within moments it had ceased to be a thing of physical reality, and had become a force of nature, transforming from a slender metal ring into a burnished hoop the size of a man.

Alastor’s foe was fast: he had time to try two full spells as the Arch flew at him.  Both spells, a rush of wind and a blaze of fire, were swallowed by the Arch so thoroughly that they might never have existed.  The Arch was a thing unyielding and unknowable -- the last sanction of Alastor Moody, the reserve he retained against any betrayal.

And then the Arch dropped down, encircling the enemy, and then the enemy was gone.  There was only the empty metal hoop of the Arch resting on the stone, and Alastor brandishing his wand, and the aurors on his heels running in lockstep, and a dying Harry Potter-Evans-Verres.  Whose shoes were wrong.

Whose shoes were wrong.

Trap.

There was only a moment between the realization and unconsciousness, but that moment was long enough for Alastor to understand.  A fake Harry meant a fake enemy, already in control of the Stone.  That meant a fake attack.  That meant a set-up in the clinic, assisted by the Receiving Room.  That meant no one raised the alarm.  That meant everyone was in on it.

Constant vigila




≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

After Moody was theirs, the two aurors took away Kraeme’s body, still transfigured into the shape of Harry.  On Meldh’s instructions, they put it in the clinic for the moment, until arrangements could be made.  The Arch was more difficult.  Moody himself had to whisper arcane words to it before he could lift it, releasing Cedric from a prison so complete that the Head Auror had not even been aware of the passage of time.

Everyone took a moment to recover.

But only a moment.

“Now, then,” said Meldh, turning to Harry.  The Tower was blinking away tears, but with awkward shakes of his head that suggested he wasn’t aware of it.  “I believe now is an excellent time to visit a certain black box.   There is a threat we need to address… and I think on a more permanent basis than you are willing to do.”

Harry felt an ache within himself, but no conflict within his will.  The new arrangement of his mind carried him forward, as inexorably as a satellite sailing through space, and he nodded readily.

It was time to visit Voldemort.

Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Compresence of Opposites

Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Compresence of Opposites



In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  The same was in the beginning with God.  All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.  In him was life; and the life was the light of men.  And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

- John 1:1-5

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
The end came without notice or noise.

Auror Kwannon came in, waved Auror Kraeme over, and murmured something.  Kraeme nodded and left, and Kwannon took up position behind Harry in the meeting room.  He gave her a nod, but it didn’t merit comment -- it could be as simple as a bathroom break, and it happened all the time, and he trusted Kwannon just as much as Kraeme.

Harry went on with his meeting, talking with Luna and Umbridge about the next steps for the sfaironaut program.  Frustratingly, the biggest problem seemed to be conflict between their two sfaironauts, Basil Horton and Ron Weasley.  They were refusing to work together.  Luna wanted to sack them both from the program and find someone new; Umbridge was determinedly defending Horton, and thought only Weasley should be grounded.

After twenty minutes, they hadn’t reached a consensus.  “I’ll decide about this next week, after speaking to both of them,” Harry said, sighing.  He folded up the parchments in front of him, and swept them to one side.

“All right, Harry,” said Umbridge sweetly, turning to look at Luna with an obvious look of triumph.  She looked back at Harry as she got up from the table.  “You’ll see, once you speak to them.  The difference is striking -- a gawky boy versus an experienced man.”

“A lot of experience,” said Luna, cryptically, as she too stood up.  Umbridge blushed.  Harry sighed.

“Thank you,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’re due in the clinic?” Luna asked, as Umbridge left with a flounce.

“Not for an hour,” Harry said.  He leaned back in his chair.  “I’m going to do some reading, I think.  It’s been --”

“Mr. Potter?” came a voice at the door.  It was Kraeme, back again.

“Yes?” Harry asked, glancing over.  He’d been planning to go chat with Professor Quirrell, bringing the captive-in-a-box some more books on tape.  He’d been able to make more time for that lately.  It was good to have those sorts of conversations again -- ones where he didn’t have to hold back or go slowly -- and he’d be irritated if some nonsense emergency got in the way of that today.  It was always some prankster students hoping for his favour, or a small-time warlord testing the Tower’s defenses.

“You’re needed in Material Methods, sir.  One of the goblins showed up, finally, and he wants to speak to you about what’s been happening with them,” said Kraeme.  She looked mildly concerned, which was unusual.

“Fine,” said Harry.  “I’ll be glad to know what’s going on in Ackle, that we’ve gotten to this point.  I don’t need a group of angry and sullen Beings… we already have the centaurs for that.”

“Good luck, Harry,” Luna said, heading out the door ahead of him.  “Try to get them back… we need them.”

“Of course, Luna,” Harry said, parting ways with her.  He walked down the hall.

As he rounded the corner, though, he was surprised to find a stranger standing there, flanked by several healers from the clinic and six or seven aurors.  Umbridge was also standing next to the man, smiling.

“Wha --” said Harry, but the man had already darted forward.  Harry jerked back, instinctively.  Almost as quickly, he shoved one hand into the opposite sleeve to snatch out his wand.  But the man’s hand was fast, and it touched his wrist, and it was too late.

“Egeustimentis,” said the man.


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Harry Potter-Evans-Verres existed.  This was true.  And there was more of him, elsewhere and here.  So much of his being was held back from him, excluded into another place, even as the entirety of his mind was laid out before him and subject to the careful touch of his enemy.

He watched, and felt nothing but idle curiosity.

Harry’s mind was laid out in front of him.  It shifted from shape to shape in the way of something in a dream, somehow without ever changing while at the same time being in constant flux.  He could see hormonal drives, deep impulses, passing memories, flighty sensations, and everything else that made up his cognition, but that knowledge was far from him.  He could even see a rigidity that stiffened its way through parts of his mind, a visible Unbreakable Vow that kept his thoughts from ever taking certain shapes… but that sight meant nothing to him.  Harry was a speck, a fragment, a mote of consciousness.

A man was there -- the man who had touched Harry.  His enemy.  Harry knew that, somewhere and somehow far away.  But it didn’t matter.  With the flicker of self left to him, Harry observed.

“Hello there, Mr. Potter.  You look older than the last time I was able to watch you,” said the man.  He was of middling height and uncertain ethnicity, with dark skin but an Asian cast to his features.  He wore robes of extraordinary simplicity and extraordinary quality.  His hair was thinning on top.  His eyes were brown, and calm.

“I am Meldh,” the man said.  “Or so you can call me.  It is an old word of my youth.”

Harry absorbed this information, and felt it pass through his consciousness, out into the larger part of his mind, where it met with a shiver of doubt.  Only a sliver of Harry was aware, though, and it had no room for such complexities as reaction or speech.

“You are safe, Mr. Potter.  I am not going to kill you.  When we are done, you will be changed, but you will be alive.  Do not try to resist.  There is no method available to you that would allow you to resist the Lethe Touch.  Your Occlumency is a child’s toy, more suitable for games than protection.  Nor would it be well for the world for you to try to resist… believe me when I say that it is for the good of that world that I act,” said Meldh.  “Magic must perish, if life is to survive.  This is the legacy of Atlantis.  This is the legacy of the Prince of Enchanters, Merlin.  For years beyond counting, I and others have preserved that legacy.  We have moved our pieces as we could, and watched magic fade.”

Meldh stepped out through Harry’s mind, shifting gently to shoulder his way past rippling curtains of curds that reeked of whiteness.  “You are unpredictable and strange, Mr. Potter, so I have left you little of your wakefulness.  Who knows what unconventional preparations you might have laid up in your mind, hidden away from our scrying in your Mirror-bound Tower?  I take no risks.  For now, though, this means we cannot have a conversation.  I apologize for that.”

He slid his fingers into a white ripple, and parted it.  He looked curiously at the parting.  “So many unusual ideas... “  He smiled.  “Here we are.  Ah, ah, ah... prophecies are at work?  ‘Only by seeking the scorpion and the archer, locked beyond return, shall the crux succeed.  By this path shall death be defeated for the banished father.’  And what does that… ah, I see.”

Meldh plucked at a grey burr, and lifted it up for inspection.  It drew a tangle of its fellows along, like a springy mat of thorns.  Meldh examined the section of burrs.  His face changed from curiosity to surprise, as though he’d understood something.

“A clever use of the Spirit Stone, if you have deduced the answer correctly.  I admit that this is… clever.  Genius, even, considering the way in which you obtained the Stone from our pawn.”  He shook his head, chuckling.  “It is fortunate indeed that I came here, if this was your plan.  ‘Defeat death’...?  What would such an event look like?  If you spent even a moment thinking of alternate outcomes or possible interpretations, you would turn away in horror and take your own life.  You decided your preferred meaning, and seized it.”  A pause, as he plucked at nearby bristles and burrs, contemplatively.  “Your guilt drives you to these lengths, not your good sense.”

Meldh dropped the vinegar-smelling lights in his hands, allowing them to settle back into a glowing three-dimensional web that rippled with pulses of energy.  There had been no transition from fibrous thorn-tangle to web of lights, and somehow both were still true.  Meldh traced a handful of the web’s strands, an acid tang accompanying every pulse of light under his careful fingers, until he reached a bright node.

“Other prophecies… a boy fated to bring down a great house, but that is no matter.  This Lawrence boy might just as well fulfill his part by causing the destruction of some noble manor, rather than any great shift in your little political game.  Your attempts to change his attitude were a waste of time.

“Ah, here here here…” Meldh said, snatching at a bony protuberance, pulling at it until it stretched like yellowed taffy.  It distended from the great knobby mass of bone, and it seemed to impart meaning to the wizard as he worked it with his fingers.

Harry watched from some other place, both here and there.  His world was constrained to the moment, as though he were a brute animal.  It was shallow and wonderful.

“Yes,” he said, “you are the child who will ‘tear apart the very stars in heaven.’  And if that is indeed you, then you will also ‘rend asunder the fires of the sky’ or ‘tear open the eyes of heaven’ and other such phrasings.  A nexus of prophecy, all surely referring to one child and one decision.  Unmistakable, even to Nell’s toppled queen, Dumbledore.

“I suppose you can’t be blamed.  You have done your best, your very best, with what you had and what you knew.  You are master of the world -- or at least, you could be master, with a flick of your wrist to bring your opponents into mate.  Or near enough to make no matter,” Meldh paused for a moment.  “Few enough have ever been able to make that boast.  Perhaps only Merlin.  But your goals have been misguided, even foolish, and you have not made the most of your opportunities.  For years now, you have had access to some of the deepest lore.  But you have wasted your time on frivolities -- ‘lifeboats from Earth,’ honestly?”

The wizard shook his head, chuckling.  He walked to a new place along the outside of the bony mass, and touched a polished knob that stuck out prominently.  “Combining the Muggle and magical is not a new thing, despite your arrogance.  What has it given you, besides trinkets up high in the air?  Let us see.”

He pushed the knob aside and scooped his hand into the surface of the bone, distending it as he forced his fingers deeper inside.  He drew out a thick handful of whiteish bone, sculpted out in a column by his careful but insistent hand.

“What is this?”  He examined the thoughts.  “Some mawkish combination of old philosophy and new ‘science’ and something Merlin once said?  Well, all that is…”

There was a heavy pause, a pause as weighty as iron, as Meldh’s voice died.  He looked stunned by what he’d found.  He took a step back, and then he threw up his hands, his face reddening, snapping, “You realized this, and you discarded the idea?!”

Harry, a mote of pleasant consciousness, observed this anger with distant interest.  He could see changes in the whispering rattle of long serrated teeth moving in the immense jaw that now represented his mind;  Meldh held one long incisor, but others were moving in a swirl up and down, revealing in some unimaginable fashion that a part of Harry was upset.  The mote that was Harry saw himself struggling mightily, and finding no purchase.

“You even believe that you want to keep everyone alive, and I could have credited your good intentions.  But you do not even seem to understand the contradiction in the fact that you’re willing to sacrifice human lives out of fear of some insanity that will happen in --” Meldh paused and swiped at the large incisor’s surface, scrutinizing it.  “-- a ‘googol’ of years.  It’s stupidity of the highest order, and it shows why you are such a threat.”

Meldh swept his hand forward, seeming to let release his anger at the same time that he released the enormous tooth in his hand, letting it slide from his grip and settle back into its rattling place.  He sighed.  “The implications of this… even beyond the practical benefits… ah, but you know so little, ultimately.  An idiot genius, placing his pieces on the board with a fool’s luck.  And how much corruption here, spreading through you like a rot!  Tom Riddle within you and Tom Riddle without you, and you becoming more like both.”

He shook his head, and placed his hands on his hips, looking down at the gobbets of thick fat that hung in the air all around him.  “It is good that I came, though I was afraid.  Not only will I stop you from your foolishness, you provide me here with new knowledge a thousandfold beyond what I ever could have hoped.  I can find no metaphor from the game of kings… suffice to say that your mad insight will raise me beyond where even centuries of effort has brought me.”

The fraction of Harry that was awake, the mild observer, saw motion within itself.  A planned uprising of mental discipline -- the buried power of years of practice at introspection and systematic thought.  He couldn’t touch it, and knew it not, but he could observe it.

He had been a creature of the mind for so long.  Heuristics and biases, Occlumency and Vows.  He was not ancient and was not powerful, but he was a creature of the mind.  He was the master of his mind, and no one else.

That distant mind swelled in shudders, setting the constellation of grease into a rhythm.  It pulsed and built to a crescendo, striving mightily to take possession of itself.  A powerful tremble ran through his entire mind.

Harry and Meldh observed, calmly.

His mind subsided.  It became quiet.  It conceded.

“First,” Meldh said, reaching out to guide two droplets of fat into each other, “we must make some changes.  Your Unbreakable Vow might have saved us all before now -- it is truly unbreakable, even for me -- and we must be grateful for Tom Riddle’s foresight, but it will be all the better when you are wholly mine, instead.”

Harry Potter-Evans-Verres observed his master, and felt nothing but idle curiosity.

Significant Digits, Bonus: Draco

Significant Digits, Bonus: Draco


Pursuant to an agreement, I grant and confirm to Armand Malfoi the Vale of Haxburn Downs, with the Manor of Haxburn, and the Chapel of Haxburn, &c of the gift of Osmundus Æþelindus, Earl of Haxburn.  I commend it to the Use of the selfsame Armand Malfoi with all good thanks for his Service for he has ever been a True Friend and Loyal Servant of my House, and I know it shall ever be So, and I do charge Armand Malfoi with the good maintenance and safekeep of the Treasury of the South West with all my Trust.

-  Grant of Lord-Enchanter Assurence de Chute, two years before his untimely death



≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England
February 12th, 1997
A year ago

“Put the samovar on,” Draco said, gesturing at the tapered silver device and glancing at Gregory.  Three domovoi were visiting that evening, and they tended to be particular about such niceties.  It was probably part of their unrelenting feelings of inferiority towards the British, as though Merlin’s heirs were to blame for their position on top of the Confederation or their legacy of powerful magic.  The Russians always wanted to be treated with every little courtesy, and bristled at any perceived slight.

Not that Draco would have it any other way.  It was an easy lever to use, and required nothing of him but a bit of forethought.  Everyone should be so pliable.

Gregory Goyle obliged, twisting one of the handles of the samovar.  The device was an elegant piece, with two stylized dragon’s heads protruding from the top.  It began to heat itself with a quiet hiss.  “What’s the plan?”

“You bring them in, and then go and tag their brooms.  The Thunderer has been spreading gold around, looking for ways to co-opt the Honourable.  I want to know who’s been helpful enough to be the point person for his emissaries,” said Draco.  “Once you’ve done that -- and check out their people, see if there’s any opportunities there -- then you’ll join us and play the heavy.”

Draco paused, then spoke to the air, curtly.  “Dobby.”

Barely a breath passed before the elf appeared, stepping out from behind a curtain.  It was rude to apparate into the middle of a room, of course… proper house elf etiquette required a furtive entrance.  The bedraggled little creature’s bony face was pained with anxiety.  “Master?”

“Pack for a journey.  Mother and I, both.  Cold weather.  Riding, formal blacks, formal greens, and lounging,” Draco commanded.  “I’ll want to be ready to go by the time my meeting tonight is concluded.”  He turned away, gesturing dismissively.

“Yes, Master,” said Dobby, eyes wide.  He gently stepped back behind the curtain.

“Will Carrow be here for the meeting?” Gregory asked, looking uncomfortable.

“Yes,” said Draco, giving Gregory a direct and cold look.  What of it?, his face said.

“Fine,” said Gregory.  Nothing more.  He busied himself with arranging the furniture appropriately.  He removed the two light wooden chairs from the room, levitating them out and replacing them with heavier armchairs.  There were five of these: two set in close pairs and one separate, near the fire.  Draco would take the single chair, of course, and allow the visitors to choose their own seats.

How the Russians arranged themselves would be valuable information.  If two sat and one stood nearby, it would show that they were choosing solidarity in some respect -- usually indicating nervousness or conscious opposition.  If all three sat immediately, it would show comfort and ease, suggesting Draco could easily advance the relationship by taking the domovoi into his confidence that very evening.  If there was hesitation, the process and order in which they sat could be observed: who was the leader, who deferred to others, and so on.

Poor little domovoi, coming to Malfoy Manor.

They were necessary for the future, though -- not just entertainment.  Draco had a significant power base in Britain and many admirers abroad -- the international subscriptions to Unbreakable Honour were almost equal to the domestic numbers -- but he’d never be a credible player on the world stage until he had some firmer connections with some of the globe’s more reliable leaders.  Voters were all well and good, but if you wanted iron in the glove, you needed some of the better sort on your side.  You needed some tyrants.

There was a creak in the hallway outside, and Draco froze.  Gregory snatched his wand up, his face hard.

“It’s I,” came the smooth voice of Amycus Carrow, “your Uncle Amycus.”

“Come,” said Draco.

The door opened, and Amycus Carrow entered.  Tall and gaunt, the spymaster of the Honourable and old ally of the Malfoys was wearing black robes with shiny buttons, fastened tight up to his chin.  The dark shadow of some scraggly whiskers were visible on his upper lip, and his hair was clipped very short.

“Draco, my boy,” said Carrow.  “So good to see you.”  His eyes flickered over the length of Draco’s body, the way they always did -- a possessive and lingering look.  “Nacreous liver,” he murmured, bizarrely and almost inaudibly.  He seemed almost hungry.

“Hullo, Mr. Carrow,” said Gregory, just a touch too loudly.  He put a smile on his face as a shield.

Carrow started slightly, as though he hadn’t realized Gregory was there, and swiveled his head to glance at the other man.  “Gregory,” he said in acknowledgment.

As usual, Draco was forced to admire the performance of Mad-Eye Moody.  It wasn’t simply the perfection of the acting, although that was so masterful that not even Amycus Carrow’s nieces suspected the subterfuge (it helped that they were never permitted to spend much time with him, or to ever be alone with him: the uneasy parent’s usual precaution against an “acrohandula”).  No, the true magnificence of the performance was that Draco knew -- he knew -- that Moody was putting on this perfect imitation of Carrow at the same time as he played the part of Draco’s spymaster while also watching out for Harry Potter’s interests and remaining constantly vigilant of immediate threats.  It was the virtuoso exhibition of a masterful fanatic.

“Was your excursion useful, Amycus?” Draco asked.

Moody -- no, it was impossible to think of him as anything other than Amycus Carrow -- Carrow pursed his lips.  “Yes… I think so.  You are the only one who can credibly promise such gifts to the Thai.  They won’t step out ahead of China, for fear of being left alone in the cold, but they will drag their feet as much as they may.  The Ten Thousand are never quick on the stick, but I don’t believe we need to worry about them joining the ranks of our enemies, any time soon.”

The dragons’ heads on top of the samovar opened their mouths, hissing twin streams of steam.  Their eyes glowed a dull red.

Draco walked to one of the room’s tall windows, and stood there for a moment, looking out at the night.  He could see one of the towers of The Declaration of Intent, and it was a sharp reminder of the importance of the stewardship of assets.

“We will give them nothing they can use -- ideas of promise, but no application.  Dead ends,” said Draco.  “A taste of power, but nothing to tip our hand or upset the balance in the Ten Thousand.”

“They aren’t fools, my boy,” said Carrow.  “They won’t be so easily misled.  If a bitch will bear no pups, you don’t just cut its throat… you also give your elf a lesson with the knife.”

Draco thought of Dobby, and smirked.  “If an elf is left so poorly trained, then there’s no one to blame but yourself.”  He reversed Carrow's metaphor, making it more to his liking:  “We will throw a treat to our foreign friends.  The Thais, the Russians, those Americans… old allies and new, they’ll learn the potential power of joining us.  We have people within the Tower and in the Department of Mysteries to assist.”

“Such as Umbridge won’t get you what we need,” said Carrow, stroking his chin.

“Stolen secrets won’t be the sole bait.  There will also be simple advancements harvested from the Muggles.  There is remarkable power in these techniques… power that will astonish even you, Amycus,” said Draco, turning to the side and regarding Carrow again.  “The principles of Mendel can reshape the flesh of beasts in a fashion more safe and more stable than even the feats of the fabled sarkamancers of the Eleusinian Mysteries.  You think it is an accident that Loony Lovegood is meddling with Devil’s Snare?  The methods behind her madness are a coin for us, too.”  He snapped his fingers.  “And we will also buy trust with deceit.  Already and at this very moment, I am acting to set up a rival to the Honourable -- a rival that will conspicuously fail, and in the process cost our erstwhile allies any investment they might make.”

“Your lovely mother... she's off selecting your chosen fools,” said Amycus, nodding slowly.

“Taking a meeting -- she is considerably enthused about the project.  I believe it amuses her to hand-craft a rival.  Traps made of people are an elegant thing.”

“I would have been able to assist in this, had I known ahead of time, my boy.”  Carrow folded his hands in front of himself, tilting his head slightly to the side.  His right eye twitched.  “A mistake.”

Draco’s expression became cold, and his eyes narrowed.

Carrow stared back, unblinking.

There was a long pause.  Then Draco drew a breath, and spoke with cold care.  “You presume too much, Carrow.”

Gregory stood up a little straighter, and squared his shoulders; a subtle and appreciated signal.

Draco turned to face Carrow, and brought his palms together in front of himself.  He drew them apart across his chest, and as they parted, his father’s cane appeared in the gap, growing as Draco spread his hands, until the Lord Malfoy could grasp the snake-headed silver handle and bring the other end down to the floorboards with a sharp crack.  

Draco raised his voice, beginning loudly, all thunder and lightning  “I am Draco Malfoy, and I… I...”

His voice trailed off.  Draco lowered his gaze.  He fell silent.  He let his shoulders slump slightly, as though the wind had been taken from his sails.  He stood like that, and held it.  Waited.

“Lord Malfoy?” asked Gregory, hesitantly.

“No,” said Draco.

Gregory drew a sharp breath.

Draco raised his eyes again, glancing at Gregory.  “No,” he said again.  “This is too important.  It is too important for grandstanding.”

Then he met Carrow’s eyes with a steady gaze, and his voice was quiet.  “No speeches, no grandeur, no orders.  I tell you here tonight, Amycus Carrow, that this is the sticking point for a hundred generations of wizardkind.  If we fail, then the world will be a darker and sadder place.”  Draco thought of a silver light he’d once seen… a pure glow that had overturned so many lies with its very existence, filling him with such an argent awe that it changed his world in a heartbeat.  He imagined that light gone forever, and let that sorrow fill his voice.  “If we fail -- if we let one trick slip by or fall short by an ounce of wit, then our world will become a Muggle-made thing of immortal monsters.  We are confronting an existential threat: a looming power that might not only end us, but end everything we hold dear.”

He shook his head.  “So no threats and no foolishness.  If you don’t have the mettle to hold to your place and do your part, even when it harms your pride, well -- go, and may your chains sit lightly upon you.”  He raised his cane -- a mere symbol and a powerless prop, but wasn’t persuasion the mightiest thing of all? -- and he pointed it at Carrow.  “But if you have honour, and you’re with us… then you are with us, and you will heed your place.”

Apophasis.

Before he’d even finished speaking, Carrow had fallen to one knee.  “I can offer nothing but my apology and my fealty, Lord Malfoy.”

Gregory looked as satisfied as the kneazle that caught the cracklebit.  He crossed his arms, and a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth.  He looked a foot taller.  He looked like faith fulfilled.  

“Master,” said Dobby, emerging from behind a different curtain.  “Your visitors are here.”

“Let them in,” said Draco, without taking his gaze off of Carrow.  Dobby disappeared back behind the curtain once more.  Draco lowered his cane.  “Goyle, go meet them.”

Goyle left, his face revealing barely-disguised triumph.  The story of this moment would travel.  Draco smiled.

Carrow and Draco were alone.  There was only the quiet hiss of steam, rising dangerously from twin dragon heads, to keep them company.

“Bah,” said Carrow, rising off of his knee and standing up again.  He snatched out his wand and as he waggled it, almost too fast to follow, the warm crackle of wards settled on around them.  Privacy screens, above and beyond the ones that already layered the Manor.

Draco didn’t say anything -- didn’t rub it in.  There was no need.

“Try that again, Malfoy,” he said, glowering, “and you will get a rather different reaction.  Goyle will be spreading the story of how you lost an ear, instead.”

Draco watched him coolly.  “And damage everything we’ve been building?  You have more discipline than that.”

“Maybe.  But also too much discipline to be afraid to upset the applecart, if need be,” replied Carrow.

“Before you do, be quite certain it’s worth it.  One only gets one chance at ruining plans like these.”

“Plans like these?  Your mother is setting up some small circle of idiots to take a fall, sucking some Cappadocian money with them as they go, eh?  Helping build up the Honourable to draw in all the enemy?” said Carrow.  He stabbed a finger at Draco.  “Or is it a cover for your own efforts to set up an independent base of power?”

“I’m not above a fall-back plan, Mad-eye,” said Draco, “because I am not an idiot.  If something happens to Harry, or he goes too far, or anything else… well, I don’t intend to wager everything on one game of pitch-and-toss.  But my fall-back lies in the Honourable: they are my ‘independent’ base of power, if need be, not some momentary troop of patsies.  That is why the Honourable are loyal to me, personally.  Harry knows that.  You know that.  And you both understand it, too, I think.”  He fixed Carrow with a harsh look.  “Don’t pretend to purity.  I know you have your own private plans.”

Not that he knew, really, but there could not be a safer assumption.

“There’s a difference between preparation and betrayal,” said Carrow, in a most un-Carrow-like growl.  “Which are you at, I wonder?”

“Continue to wonder,” pronounced Draco, curtly.

“Aye,” said Carrow, slowly.  “Well.  You may believe you can bludger Potter in the back, if you get the opportunity.  And maybe you’re right.  He’s clever, but soft.  He trusts you.  But I don’t.”  Carrow gave Draco a hard stare, and his very face was a reminder of his capacity for subterfuge.  “But be careful thinking you can play a deeper game than me, boy.  Many have tried... and gotten no deeper than six feet.”

“Lord Draco Malfoy,” said Gregory, opening the door across the room, “of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, Britain’s last and best defender of the honour of wizardkind and the fate of magic.”

Draco turned to regard the door, cane in hand, and his face slid into a courteous smile of welcome.  Three men with hard faces but indifferent grooming stepped into the room ahead of Gregory.  They had the weighty air of importance.  One of them wore a brooch of emeralds-and-alicorn, while another openly carried an old wand of the Slavic style, two feet long and bladed.  They all wore the red woollen cloaks of Russian domovoi: the decision-makers of one of the great peoples in the wizarding world, no less magisterial than the Wizengamot.  These were men who had held lives in their hands, who had scrutinized their subjects down to the curve of their soul, who had begun and ended wars as they saw fit.

Now they were come to Malfoy Manor.

Carrow and Goyle walked over to stand beside Draco.  Draco’s smile broadened.

“Please, gentlemen,” he said.  “Sit wherever you like.”

Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Ineluctable Modality of the Visible

Significant Digits, Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Ineluctable Modality of the Visible


“What stories do you mean, and what fault do you find in them?”

“The fault one ought to find first and foremost, especially if the falsehood isn’t well told.”

“For example?”

“When a story gives a bad image of what the gods and heroes are like, the way a painter does whose picture is not at all like the things he’s trying to paint.”

“You’re right to object to that.  But what sort of story in particular do you have in mind?”

“First, telling the greatest falsehood about the most important things doesn’t make a fine story -- I mean Hesiod telling us about how Uranus behaved, how Cronus punished him for it, and how he was in turn punished by his own son.  Even if that were true, it should be passed over in silence, not told to foolish young people.  And if, for some reason, it has to be told, only a very few people -- pledged to secrecy and after sacrificing not just a pig but something great and scarce -- should hear it, so that their number is kept as small as possible.”

“Yes.  Such stories are hard to deal with.”

- Plato, The Republic  II.377e-378a


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)
May 17th, 1999
The same day

“Well, that was a waste of two hours,” drawled Draco, as he walked into the Pairing Partnership.  He closed the door behind him, and the Lovegood Leaf rustled.  “I suppose I never really considered just how tedious it would be to watch a gaggle of Muggles for any length of time.”  He shook his head, and swept one hand along his hair, smoothing it.

“Didn’t enjoy the movie?” asked Harry, turning in his seat away from the computer screen.  Auror Kraeme, nearby, kept a close eye on Draco.  She was leaning with her back against a large metal cabinet, arms folded -- but eyes sharp.

“You should call them something different, too.  ‘Movie’... it just emphasizes how primitive the entire thing is, compared to a real play.”  He affected his high-pitched Muggle Voice: “ ‘Wow, look, they’re moving just like real people would, if only we had taste enough to go watch an actual troupe of performers!’ ”

“They used to be called ‘talkies,’ ” Harry said, wryly.  “So it could be worse.  But ticket sales at the movie theatre go up every week, so I’m not sure that everyone agrees with you.”

“It’s the thing to do, like eating at Siegfried’s.  People are sheep, and right now you’ve set out some new paddocks.  That doesn’t mean there will be any long-term success.  Grindelwald was a fanatic for painting, they say, but it’s not as though Hungary is full of painters today.  After Grindelwald was locked up in Nurmengard, most of the artists went back to sculpting.  If you want people to become actually interested, not just intrigued by the novelty, then you need to make movies about things that they care about.  Not Muggles with guns,” Draco said.  He pulled a chair over next to the EEG machine, where Harry was sitting in front of the attached computer.

“I am not going to start a production company,” said Harry, shaking his head.  But he froze in the middle of the gesture and frowned.  “Well, actually, I guess there’s no reason why we couldn’t do that.  They could begin with adaptations of some famous wizard plays, and cast some of the same actors, probably.”

“Ah yes, one more industry dominated from first to last by Harry Potter,” said Draco.  “No, I don’t think you’ll be doing that.  It will hardly help generate an appearance of real success if you look to be propping up your Muggle ventures like that.  No, I think we need to decentralize a little.”

Harry laughed.  “Malfoy Productions?”

Draco glanced over at the auror by the wall, within earshot, wordlessly.  Harry followed the glance, then looked back at Draco with a smile.  “A Vow of secrecy, don’t worry.”

The Lord Malfoy nodded, and went on.  “Well, I was thinking of a joint venture with some Americans, actually.  It wouldn’t be difficult to start up a similar movies theatre in Tidewater.  There’s an old Westphalian ally with deep pockets, Littlebrook Strongbound, who might like to get ahead of your bosom friend Hig on something.  Too much gold and control slipping through his fingers… and I think he senses the leash slipping around the Council’s neck.”

“You’ll need visible capital to start something like that,” said Harry,  “since Malfoys have typically been invested rather heavily in flying castles, which are not known for their liquidity.  And the finance sector hasn’t been your friend over the past few years.”  Traditional private usury was almost extinct in Britain, along with the corresponding interest rates.  “Too many people are paying attention.”

“Yes,” said Draco.  “A visible success to explain the new money, and I’ll whisper in a few confidential ears that it’s really Cappadocian gold -- payment for steering things their way, here.”

“I was thinking Amycus Carrow as a source, actually,” said Harry.  “If you’d taken control of some of his assets, it would be a tidier explanation.”

“The Carrow sisters might not appreciate the news that I’ve taken control of some of their uncle’s properties and loans, Harry,” said Draco, raising an eyebrow.  “They’ve already been through rather a lot.”

It was subtle and quiet, but those words were question and concern and accusation, all at once.  It wasn’t like Harry to forget about innocent bystanders -- and whatever their ideology, the Carrow sisters were certainly innocent of anything that might merit dragging them through any more ugliness.

“You’re right, of course,” said Harry, shaking his head.  He rubbed his forehead, sighing.  “I’m distracted -- not at my optimum self today.”

“Mm,” Draco said, in noncommital acknowledgment.  “Anyway, if the Cappadocian plan doesn’t seem enough, add another layer for the clever folk: have Moody ‘investigate’ the possibility that I’ve co-opted one of the Tower arithmancers, and that the windfall is actually your money.  You’ve already been working on building up their mystique for years, so rumors of a rogue arithmancer would help with that, as well.”

“All right,” Harry agreed.  He sounded unsettled.

“Have you been sleeping enough, Harry?” asked Draco.  “Or have you been spending half your time in the clinic tending to mermaids with mumps and Squibs with splinters, and the other half in here, scanning people’s brains as they cast Goat Into Goblet?”

“Why would anyone need a spell to… no, never mind,” said Harry, rolling his eyes.  “Yes, I’ve been getting plenty of sleep.  There’s just been a lot to keep track of.  Managing the Tower and Britain -- and well, the world -- just keeps getting more complicated, especially without Hermione around.”  Draco pursed his lips, and Harry rushed on.  “It’s been good to rely on you, of course… but uniting the Treaties hasn’t actually simplified the situation.”

“And you keep finding new projects,” Draco said, agreeably.  “Like ancient discoveries one of your Unspeakable or Tower minions brought back to you.”

Harry looked surprised.  “How did...”  He followed Draco’s gaze to a nearby table, where a box of Macadam’s Easy-Apply Melters was still out, and made a face.  “Maybe I am tired,” he muttered.

“The only reason you’d need repair strips would be if you were trying to fix something you couldn’t transfigure,” said Draco, smiling.  “And that’s a short list.  Something we can use?”

“A book about Merlin,” said Harry.  “It’s given me some ideas, but nothing I can use -- unless I decide I’d really enjoy the entropic heat death of the universe.”

Draco didn’t ask.  “Then maybe give it a rest.  Honestly, you should probably take a vacation.  You have the government and the Confederation and Tower research and all of your little side projects, like the stupid movies and the sfaironauts and your theory of magic research. And you’ve been at this pace for… well, since we met.  You can’t keep it up forever; you’re only a Ravenclaw.”

“Maybe I just need some smarter Slytherins to help,” said Harry.  “Whatever happened to Vincent Crabbe?”

“Still trying to get something working in Knockturn Alley,” Draco admitted.  “He’s never really forgiven me, and I rather think he’d like to be a power of his own.  He backed a chandler’s, but unfortunately I understand that investment’s gone pear-shaped recently.”  It was an elegant retort and reminder of Draco’s subtlety, but Draco didn’t gloat, and allowed himself only the slightest smirk.  “Anyway, just think of taking a few days off.  Leave government to that gawky frump of a Weasley, the world to Bones, and everything else to Moody and me.  Catch up on your reading.”

“Eventually I’m going to take an entire year off… I’ll go to Japan and spend my days having fun in the lab,” said Harry.  “But not yet.  Things are still delicate.  I’ll be fine.”

“I have a feeling this ‘eventually’ is scheduled sometime after everyone in the world has become free and immortal, there’s a city on the Moon, and you’ve been able to take a quick little jaunt to Atlantis to pick up Dumbledore from outside of Time,” said Draco.  His voice was gentler than his words.

“We’re one minute from midnight, Draco,” said Harry, firmly.  “Muggles have had the capability to destroy the world for generations, now, and it’s only by the grace of Petrov it hasn’t happened yet.  I’m not going to introduce wizards to science and then take a vacation at the most delicate point.  It’s too dangerous.  Look at Edgar Erasmus and how we’ve had to juggle people like him, to keep everyone safe.”  He shook his head.  “Merlin tried to shut down the forward march of knowledge, since he thought that magical power was spreading too quickly and too easily.  I don’t think he was right about the solution, but that doesn’t mean he was wrong about the problem.  We have to keep tight control over things for right now.  It’s too dangerous for everyone, otherwise.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Elsewhere in the Tower
The same day

Healer Owen Wilifred frowned.  There was something very strange going on, here.

He glanced down at the patient, who was lying unconscious, immobile, and safely stunned.  An older man of indeterminate ethnicity -- Asia or India or someplace.  Clearly never rejuvenated, and no external symptoms.  But when Owen moved his wand lower on the patient’s abdomen, he kept seeing the same thing: absolutely perfect internal organs, without a single flaw or oddity.

The diagnosis convivium seemed to be working correctly; when Owen placed his wand on his own stomach, the spell suite produced a vivid mental image of his intestines gently shifting.  There was a familiar series of benign nodules along the outside of his colon, and his duodenum looked just as oddly lumpy as usual.  But when Owen returned the wand to the patient and focused the diagnosis convivium back on him, there was not a single cyst, scar, or other irregularity.  And no matter where he looked, it was the same.  The patient’s body was as perfect as the illustrations of a medical textbook, and that was simply strange… especially since he was complaining of general aches and pains.  They didn’t appear to have any irregularities at all, much less a condition that would cause any suffering.

Owen considered the possibilities.  It was conceivable that the patient just happened to be a bizarrely perfect specimen who had never had any sort of trauma, despite what appeared to be at least six decades of life.  That was very unlikely, though.  It was also possible that the man -- Mr. Khan, by his intake parchment -- had been seriously hurt and had received magical healing to most of his body.  But that usually left traces; skele-grow, for example, left bones with a distinctive (if harmless) spiral pattern of nonlamellar and lamellar.

The most likely explanation that occurred to Owen, though, was also the most alarming one: that the patient had been one of the first wizards to receive rejuvenation.  If that were the case, it might explain the fact that his appearance was still middle-aged.  In the earliest days of the Tower, Owen had heard that they’d sometimes omitted the cosmetic restoration.  If the patient had been one of the first to be rejuvenated, it might also explain why they didn’t have any treatment records for him.  Many of those early records had been lost in some sort of fire, years ago.

It was also possible that Mr. Khan had been rejuvenated more recently, and had been granted special exemption from the cosmetic restoration.  That was very rare, however, and it wouldn’t explain the lack of a Tower record for the procedure.

At this point, Owen really couldn’t go any further without waking up the patient and eliminating some of these possibilities.  He was beginning to be worried about time, though.  The clock said that he had only about fifty minutes before Harry’s next pass through the clinic.  The Tower enchantments required Harry’s express touch before any healing transfiguration would become permanent, so if Owen didn’t get this solved and the healing done quickly, he’d be stuck with Mr. Khan until the next scheduled pass -- three more hours.

Did he need an auror when he woke up the patient?  Probably not.  Mr. Khan wasn’t important or powerful enough to have any sort of file, and he didn’t have his wand, like every patient.  Plus, Owen wasn’t a bigot or anything, but he hadn’t been able to help noticing that Mr. Khan’s wand was so battered-looking that it must be second-hand (or even third-hand).

Still, protocol was protocol.  The security at the Tower was incredibly complex, considering the difficulties of admitting and treating powerful strangers from all over the world, but it wasn’t infallible.

Owen stuck his head out of the screened-off examination cubicle, pushing aside the curtain.  He called down the hall, “Wake-up here, need an auror!”

A bored-looking auror came striding on down past the rows of cubicles, nodding.  “Anything I need to know?”

“He’s a bit funny in his guts.  I think he might have been an earlier rejuvenation -- back before the Tower moved to this facility.  I’ve heard about them… you were here then, right?” said Owen, handing over the sparse file that they’d started on Mr. Khan in the Receiving Room.

“No,” said Auror Madagascar.  “I was stationed somewhere else, then.  But I heard the same thing.”  He flipped open the file, but it had virtually no information beyond a few uninteresting personal details like place of origin (the Vedic Kingdom, though he was admitted via the Godric’s Hollow pole), number of siblings (seven, all deceased), and the like.  Madagascar shrugged.  “Wake him up.”

Owen did so, after making sure a privacy spell was on and that Madagascar had raised the basic safety wards.  That was just standard -- some people didn’t react well to waking up from the stunning effect of the Safety Stick or Safety Poles.  A majority awoke as calmly though they were waking from a nap, but some people become disoriented and alarmed.

The patient opened his eyes, gently, and blinked a moment.  He tilted his head and took in the healer and the auror, then glanced around.  A flicker of some expression passed over his face -- not the usual fear or uncertainty or pain, but instead a shadow of apprehension.  But it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Am I all right?” Mr. Khan asked.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a long sigh.

Owen smiled.  “You’re fine, Mr. Khan.  You’re in the John Snow Center for Medicine.  In the Tower.  My name is Wilifred Owen.  I’m a healer here.  This is Harry Madagascar -- he works here with me.  We wanted to ask you a few questions, but if you need a moment to get oriented, take your time.”

The patient sat up, nodding.  “May I stand up?  Is that all right?” he asked, mildly.

“No, sorry,” said Owen.  “It might make you dizzy.  Just give it a minute.”  He stepped back next to Madagascar, but the auror waved him to the side.  Clear line of fire, thought Owen, and restrained the temptation to roll his eyes.

Mr. Khan shifted where he lay on the cot, moving carefully.  He was wearing very simple brown robes, worn through in spots with use.

“You told the healer you’d been feeling pains?” asked Owen.

“Yes,” said Mr. Khan.  He turned to look at Owen, and then at Madagascar, and then jerked his head downward, sharply, cringing.  He reached to his chest with one hand, and grimaced.  “Again.”

Owen frowned, shaking his head.  “I don’t know what could be causing that... “  He stepped forward again, lifting his wand.  Behind him, he heard Madagascar move to one side -- finding a good angle for a clear view.  “Tell me, have you been here before, sir?”  Owen set his wand on Mr. Khan’s chest, and stared at the blank white wall of the cubicle as he focused on the view of the patient’s organs afforded by the convivium.  Everything looked pristine.

Mr. Khan murmured something, quietly.  Owen lowered his head a little.  “Pardon?”  The patient reached up and gently touched Owen’s elbow, and repeated himself in a whisper.

“I said, Egeustimentis.”

And Owen went away for a while, and he and Mr. Khan were alone for a time in some narrow space.  It seemed like hours, though it was only seconds.

While they were there, Mr. Khan made some changes to the way Owen thought about things.  Owen distantly observed the process, and found it interesting.  It was as though Mr. Khan were simultaneously very large and very small, peering down from a great height at Owen’s mind -- even as he moved within it.  Owen’s mind, Owen noted, was a ceaselessly sliding mass of a thousand thousand thin layers of slippery jelly, undulating and quivering as they slithered into and over each other.  Simultaneously, it was an intricate tracery of vinegar-smelling lights that touched each other and flared bright and faded.  And it was a stabbing prickery of needles stabbing in and out of dark shapes that quietly sighed.  And Owen’s mind was other things as well, as need be.

Mr. Khan moved things and explained to Owen that he needed Owen to be a slightly different sort of person.  Not very different, but different enough to help Mr. Khan.  After it had all been explained, it made sense.  They spoke for a long while.  All the while that they spoke, Mr. Khan was moving jelly/lights/needles/switches/teeth.  And at the end of this time, Owen had been both persuaded and altered, and he wasn’t sure where the persuasion had ended and alteration had begun, or if there was even a division between the two, or if there was even a difference.

Owen agreed it was probably best that Mr. Khan set up a way for him to forget about the whole thing.  Mr. Khan set up a pressure in Owen’s mind, waiting to be released by a command word -- thoughts and impulses forced out of place and bent into tension, ready to spring out along a chosen path.  He would leave only the one pressure, Mr. Khan explained, because he didn’t want to hurt Owen.  When Mr. Khan triggered the release of that pressure, Owen’s mind would snap back into place along that chosen path… and Owen would forget that he’d ever treated Mr. Khan, helped Mr. Khan, and even that he’d ever known this Mr. Khan existed.  By that time, everything would be all over.

Everything would be all right, Mr. Khan said.  They’d sort everything out.

And then

“Wilifred, you all right?” asked Madagascar.

Owen turned around.  “Sure.  Just can’t figure this out.”  He shrugged, and turned away from the patient.  “Mr. Khan, just relax for a moment.  Let me get another healer to consult.  We have some excellent people on staff here at the Tower, and we’ll do what it takes to sort everything out.”


≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡
Begin by asking students to consider how a rumor might spread among a population. Suppose on Day 1 a single person tells someone else a rumor, and suppose that on every subsequent day, each person who knows the rumor tells exactly one other person the rumor. Have students ponder, discuss and answer questions like: “How many days until 50 people have heard the rumor? 100 people? The whole school? The whole country?”

In the situation with the rumor, the number of people who have heard the rumor doubles every day; this is because, each day, every person who knows the rumor tells it to a new person. In other words, there is a 100 percent transmission rate: 100 percent of those who know the rumor spread it to someone else. A transmission rate this high means that the number of people who know the rumor will grow very quickly. In fact, in this simplified exponential model, one person could spread the rumor to the entire population of the United States in less than a month!

- Patrick Honner, “Exponential Outbreaks: The Mathematics of Epidemics."