“You don't seem like the type to want to rely on someone else to be successful,” said Rigel. “The Ministry is crowded with political and social competition. I don't mean to be blunt, but going into the Ministry yourself won't help you make a difference. You should work somewhere your insight can really matter, because it seems like you enjoy finding solutions to problems. You certainly have helped with mine. Be something else, like…a private investigator."
[PwPwPw]
The woman who stepped into my office was a stranger. Waves of brown hair cascaded over one shoulder nearly to her waist, contrasting with the yellow embroidered robes that hugged her figure more tightly than any lover.
The embroidery itself was elegant, but frayed with the look of too many repair charms over too many years. The fuzzy edges of that thread and the robe’s hem matched the smokey quality of her voice when she spoke.
“I’m looking for Weasley Investigations. Am I in the right place?”
I didn’t recognize her in the least. And yet, I knew her all the same.
“What do you want, Tonks?”
Running a hand down one side to rest on her hip, she leaned forward provocatively and asked, “Isn’t it obvious?”
And, well. I suppose it was. Which made my answer even more so: “I won’t take the case.”
“Not even for me?”
“No.”
Tonks pouted, then shifted into the body I’d seen her wear at school. One might have called it more modest, if they didn’t know her as well as I did. She sat on top of my desk and leaned close. In her more familiar, slightly nasal voice, she urged, “It’s the talk of the nation. Being known as the man who found the Rigel Black Child is the sort of reputation that could set you up for life.”
She wasn’t wrong, but… “Rigel is a friend.”
“All the more reason. Better that his friends find him than others who are looking.”
“What good would that do, if I’m handing my findings over to the Auror Corps?”
“Does it look like I came here in my Auror robes?” Tonks asked, her voice briefly dipping back into its first seductive breathiness. “This is strictly off the books. Rigel saved my life, you know.”
I did know. She’d shown me that memory the first time she’d hired me, hoping I’d track down the so-called Death Eaters who helped Voldemort slit her throat. I suppressed a shudder, remembering the outcome there. I’d successfully tracked two of them, but so had the Shrouds, and the vampires had gotten there before I could ask my questions. There was nothing but dead ends left after that.
“It’s been over a month. What do you think I can find that the whole of the Ministry can’t? I’m just one man.”
Tonks conjured a plain folder into one hand and passed it to me. A single piece of parchment was inside. “One of my contacts got a tip. Someone is going to be smuggling a qilin out of the country.”
“A qilin? Out of the country?” That was absurd in itself, but I didn’t see the connection. “What’s that got to do with Rigel?”
“It’s the timing. Take a look.”
A glance over her mysterious parchment indicated that the qilin would be handed off to an unknown party near Paris on…the day of the recently announced Crowning Ceremony.
“Could just be an excuse,” I said. “A lot of people will be traveling for that. Good cover for a clandestine meeting.”
“Could be. But someone capable of smuggling a qilin would have the skills to smuggle RBC out of the country, too. I think this qilin is payment to one of Rigel’s accomplices. Even if not, finding the smuggler could still give you a lead on Rigel himself.”
She was right. I read over the parchment again, but saw no additional clues. Tonks took it from me and slid it back into its folder.
“I can misplace this for forty-eight hours before it makes its way up the chain. My money’s on you finding him first.”
“And by money, you mean…”
She laughed. “Yes, Perce, I’ll pay your fee.”
“And expenses.”
“Does this mean you’re my man?”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
Tonks dipped close until our noses nearly touched, and her features swiftly molded into those she’d worn on her way in.
“In that case, I’m sure I’m in good hands,” she said huskily.
“Goodbye, Tonks.”
A wink. “Just Adora, to you.”
[PwPwPw]
Someone with a more charitable eye might have called the labrynthian building housing London’s smuggled creature market ‘filthy’ and been done with it. I saw no virtue in settling for such half measures. The stains on the ceiling were caked with dragon soot to the point that they were surely as resistant to scourgify as to identification. The floor was an ooze of offal and things more awful, churned by the feet of the unwashed. The grime from above and the dreck from below waged war across the walls, leaving no surface safe.
Because I wasn’t an idiot, I made no mention of a qilin during my search through the place, and I kept well away from MacAvoy, who was undoubtedly the seller. Two hours in, I instead found myself in front of a particular booth covered in Zmeu eyes and Balaur scales.
“Watcha buyin’?” the witch before me demanded.
“Almas hair,” I told her, just as brusquely.
“Yer in the wrong place fer tha’ sort, son.”
“And where might the right place be?” I asked, flashing a pair of knuts between my fingers.
“Oi might be able to direct ye,” she mused, holding out a hand. When I’d dropped the coins in her palm, she continued. “Might be that MacAvoy has what you’re after.”
“I already asked him. He’s clean out.”
“Then yer out o’ luck. Ain’t no one else got materials from that far East this month.”
I frowned. “That does rather put me in a bind. My need is quite urgent, you see.”
“A shame.”
I tapped my chin, sighed. “Normally I wouldn’t ask anything of the sort, but it really is crucial that I acquire that hair. Obviously, no one here would ever reveal their own clients, but if you happened to remember anyone who bought from MacAvoy in the past week who didn’t also patronize your goods, I’d be much obliged.”
The silver sickles that briefly appeared in my hand were convincing enough, and the witch quietly confided a list of names and descriptions, just like the other three sellers I’d approached.
There were a smattering of Dark Nobility, who I could safely disregard; if any SOW member had contact with Rigel, they would have long since reported it to Lord Riddle and I wouldn’t be here. I likewise ignored the names and sometimes impossibly vague descriptions of lower class customers. Those could never afford an entire qilin carcass, let alone a live specimen. This time, though, one name stood out:
“Lestrange. The younger one. ‘e bought sommat worth a heap ‘o gold. Might well have been some of your Almas bits in the bunch.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” I said, handing her an additional sickle. “And discreet.” Another one. I hated to part with the coin, but it pays to have a reputation of rewarding good information. In the unhappy chance that a future case brings me back to this dismal place, I wouldn’t want to wade through this filth for nothing.
[PwPwPw]
One very thorough shower later, I made my way to Hippogriff’s Grotto, a smoke-filled pub just two expansion charms shy of being ‘cozy.’ Forcing through the press to a back table, I shouldered between two men and shoved an unoccupied chair aside to squeeze onto a bench beside the wizard I’d come to see.
Gustang Hornby wore blue floral print robes open over a patched linen shirt, and he nodded as I set a frothy mug in front of him before sipping from my own.
“Weasley,” was the extent of his greeting, his attention returning immediately to his pipe.
I left him to it. Hornby had been a useful source on a few other cases, and I knew not to rush him. As a freelance photographer, he worked with journalists of every stripe, from Skeeter at the Daily Prophet and Thorpe at Witch Weekly, to Archibald at TheScreech and Thornmallow’s infamous Solstice Disclosures. His nose for a profitable scoop was second to none. He was my best bet for news on Lestrange.
Eventually, pipe depleted, Hornby turned to me. Cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Heard something interesting about the Lestrange boy. Figured you’d be the one to know if there’s anything in it.”
“You mean his supposed ‘rendezvous’ with the Potter Heiress? They met, but only talked for five minutes, tops. Just gave her a bag. Not worth sensationalizing, even if it’d put the smoke up both their parents. Two potion kids passing recipes back and forth isn’t going to sell a page five blurb, much less a headline. Don’t know how you heard about it, but whoever’s worried about romance between those two is barking up the wrong tree.”
Interesting. If Lestrange met with Harriett Potter of all people for a handoff, then Tonks might actually be on the right trail. Potter was the third leg of the RBC fiasco, though she’d caught far less of the public eye than Rigel or Arcturus. So Lestrange buys a qilin and gives it to Potter… how would she then get it to Rigel’s mysterious smuggler? It’d happen somewhere deniable, most likely a location near her apartment in the lower alleys. I’d need to poke around.
Aloud I said, “Good to know. That means I can probably wrap this up quick. But my source wasn’t even clear on when the two met, or where. Care to point me in the right direction?”
Hornby scoffed. “Hope they’re actually paying you for this, Weasley. Your investigating isn’t half bad, for an amateur. You sure you want to keep chasing dead stories? I could put in a word for you with someone.”
“It pays the rent,” I said. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with what I’ve got for now.”
“Suit yourself. It was two days past, afternoon at the Hog’s Head.”
“I’ll have a quick word with Aberforth, then. Appreciate the time, Hornby.”
“Weasley,” he returned, beginning to refill his pipe while I started to push through the crowd toward the exit.
[PwPwPw]
Even after staking out Potter’s apartment for thirty-six hours, I hadn’t seen any suspicious meetings. The Hurst boy visited her place enough to raise eyebrows, but that’s not what I was being paid for on this case. The Crowning Ceremony started in just a few hours, meaning I’d missed my chance to catch the smuggler. It was time to question Harriett. Thus, I was approaching 8 Dogwood Lane with a modest gift basket from my mother. She’d jumped at the chance to put one together when I’d mentioned I might be visiting the Potters on business. Sure, she thought I’d be seeing the Head Auror at Potter Place, but if the gift got to the family just the same, there was no harm done.
I climbed the stairs and raised my fist to knock, when from inside I heard muffled voices cut off by the distinct sound of an outbound portkey activating. Silence followed, even after I knocked on the door.
I’d just missed the smuggler by seconds! And unexpectedly, Potter had taken the portkey to Paris as well. She was even more directly involved than I’d thought. I had a lot of questions for her, now.
Cursing Tonks in my mind, I headed to the nearest public floo to return to my office. What was I going to do with Mum’s gift basket now? And how in Godric’s name would I get to France?