An Unprecedented (and unlikely) Visit
All things considered it was a remarkably sedate apartment, though with an astounding view of New York City's Central Park, certainly one more worth living than dying for, that saw Lord James Charlus Potter ringing it's doorbell one summer afternoon.
It was inconspicuous only in that it was in no way out of place among the rest of the apartments in the building, any of which would have required a great number of golden galleons to acquire, actually a rather large vault full of them, if he was not mistaken.
He was not.
When the door was opened, by the owner himself; the Potter family were immediately welcomed into the private retreat of one of the most mysterious characters ever to straddle the Statute of Secrecy in all the centuries it had been in existence. His charming roguish face looked not a day older than when he was busy saving their lives a decade before.
The social niceties of "Call me Illya" and "Call me James", introducing Lily and the children, and so forth were exchanged, and the host retired to serve drinks. In wizarding Britain, a house elf would have likely filled that task.
Certainly the place was all that would be expected of a home in this building, and in this city. Soothing pastel colors on the walls, a high quality rug, acquired somewhere on the Silk Road, which would not need exorbitant care, over a finished wood floor, retro furniture harking back to a design age long past in the mundane world, and far ahead of the magical one.
Quiet music played from hidden speakers in every room, tunes popular in the mundane world several decades before, in unusual, intriguing, but subtle arrangements, strictly instrumental.
Two unusual documents were displayed on one living room wall, instead of the tasteful artworks of different kinds, found on the others. James perused them both, and drew in a shocked breath.
Both were the floridly overdone overly large (and over the top) types of documents some government bureaus love to produce around the world.
On the left, was a document purporting to commission one Illya Kuryakin in her Imperial Russian Majesty's Navy with the rank and dignity of "GeneralAdmiral" if he read the Cyrillic correctly; signed by one Tattiana I Romanova, Czarina of Russia (in exile).
Beside it was the equally florid document proclaiming, in English this time, Illya Kuryakin as Rear Admiral in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. That one bore the appropriate seals and signature, suitably done so as to proclaim it was, in fact, hand signed, by Elizabeth II, Queen.
Beneath the two, and centered, was displayed a shadowbox containing an extremely eclectic collections of medals and decorations. Quite colorful and carefully placed in an arrangement to coordinate their bright colors, which otherwise might have clashed as garishly as someone, of unlamented memory and best forgotten, had worn as his wizard robes. James was sure he saw an almost Slytherin green Order of the Thistle, peeking out from among the throng.
A different wall held an enlarged photograph of a beautiful building cantilevered over a natural waterfall, lighted at night, among trees bedecked with autumn colored leaves. The shot was made uphill from below the waterfall. It qualified as a work of art in its own right, even if it was produced by photography. Wizard photography. The water was constantly falling down the rocks and now and then a leaf did also.
Cocktails were made available for the adults and butterbeer was served in cocktail glasses for Harry, and his younger sisters.
"So, you came to beard the lion in his den?" was the opening sally of the host to his guests.
"Actually," replied James, pausing for a sip of his cocktail, "it's more an investigation of 'what Illya Kuryakin does when he goes home at night', since the worthy head of MI5 was so frustrated as actually to put that into writing. Of course, we also needed to express our thanks in person, for all of your actions which have benefited our family over the past decade."
He delicately left unsaid 'not the least of which is all our lives'.
The blond haired Agent was an unsolved Japanese puzzle box to many. His expertise in wizarding as well as mundane clandestine work had extended through several mundane life times.
From his solo career under the nom de guerre of 'Simon Templar', aka 'The Saint'.
On through service in Popski's Private Army in WW II, upon whose exploits the TV series 'The Rat Patrol' had been based, suitably toned down so as to be believed. Having a couple of wizards in the tightly knit group had nothing to do with the unbelievable exploits, nothing to do, of course.
After acquiring advanced degrees, at both the Sorbonne and Cambridge, he had moved to North America.
Eventually into working with Napoleon Solo in tandem, for the good of the world through the U.N.C.L.E., where he was still technically employed.
Of course that was when not loaned out for exploits such as being "Agent 009.75" in the British Secret Service.
Illya simply shrugged and smiled that maddening, enigmatic smile. After all, it was 'what Illya Kuryakin did'.
Finally the background music, which never seemed to end, penetrated Lily's brain, as she recognized the tunes, but not the arrangements, being played.
"Where did you get that wonderful music, Illya?" asked Lily.
"I keep hearing tunes I know, but I've never hear these arrangements, or even this combination of instruments. If I'm not mistaken, the lead is often an oboe, and sometimes a cor anglais."
The smirk on Illya's face widened. "You know of the actor, David McCallum?"
After the adults nodded he went on, "Some call him 'My brother from a Scottish mother'. He is a friend of mine, we keep crossing paths and being mistaken for each other. Anyway he studied music at the Royal Academy first, before deciding to become an actor, and so he was persuaded to put these songs together, and record them. I rather like his style, and the fact these haven't been 'played to death' on the radio and TV."
" James," he said, smoothly changing the subject, "I noticed you looked rather strangely at the Russian appointment document. The rightful heiress to the throne is Maria Vladimirovna, but she has proclaimed she will rule under the name on the document, just as your Prince Albert came to the English throne as George VI, or as the Popes each choose the name they bear in that office."
"Not that I ever expect to see her to be crowned, nor do I expect to command a Russian Fleet. That is more in line with what the Americans refer to as a 'Kentucky Colonel', an honor and a title with nothing behind it, really. It might as well make me a Admiral in the Swiss Navy."
"But it does put me in good company. I know you English consider him a rogue, as you do all the successful colonial rebels, but John Paul Jones, after giving you English a black eye or two, finally got his Admiral's rank in the Russian Navy, and from a Czarina, at that."
"Well you could always lead the Fleet mutiny that starts the next Russian Revolution, that brings Putin down, and put her on the throne," Lily interjected, shocking both her husband and her host. "She certainly could not be a worse ruler than that KGB-minded megalomaniac."