"What kind of joke bullshit is this?" - Revy
Later that evening, Harry wrote two letters after calling Johnny.
The first:
Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,
Due to unavoidable circumstances, I am currently stuck in Thailand. The official story is that I was in a shipwreck with a family friend on my mother's side who was also my listed legal guardian, and was picked up by a container ship headed to Thailand.
Due to me no longer having a legal guardian, I am not legally permitted to cross international borders through standard commercial means (airplane, train, commercial ship), and thanks to the current Ambassador to Thailand (who fled the country for insulting the Thai King), I cannot get a portkey or use an international floo to leave the country.
I have contracted a local oceanic courier service to ferry (read: smuggle) me to Hong Kong, but sadly no independent services can get near there thanks to the military exercises around Korea. I am forced to wait until the exercises to wrap up before I can make it there. As I don't know when this will be, I ask for a bit of forgiveness if I am late to arrive to school.
I would also ask that my book list be forwarded to the the Magical British Embassy in Thailand so that I can at least order them and keep up on my studies.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
The Second:
To: Albus Dumbledore
Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards
Sir, my name is Harry Potter. Recently, I was a part of an expedition to find the Lost Kingdom of Yamatai. We found it, but the storms pulled us in and ran our ship aground. Most of the crew made landfall, but few of them survived the locals.
With considerable effort, we were able to discover that the original Sun Queen, Himiko, had not exactly died. I won't go into details in a letter. At any rate, I was able to take ahold of the controls for the ward network on Yamatai, and rework it to repel vessels rather than pull them in as our own ship was. Accordingly, I am now (very much unintentionally) officially the new Sun King of Yamatai.
As a matter of record, I left the storm network in place. If a storm system that had been in place for the last thousand years suddenly disappeared, this would make muggle scientists and explorers very curious, as well as having the effect of weather disruption on a global scale. Therefore I left the system in place to preserve the Statute of Secrecy as well as international ecologies.
Enclosed is the paperwork that Eshan Pembrow (Secretary, essentially the acting British Magical Embassador to Thailand) and I could find for the claiming of a region as a magical protectorate under ICW regulations. If more paperwork is required, please forward it to me through Magical Britain's Thailand embassy. Also, any pertinent questions can be sent there as well.
Hopefully this will be a relatively painless process, but I felt that you should be aware.
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
Sun King of Yamatai
Harry mailed those two off early the next morning before heading off to the Lagoon Company's docks. Harry slid right in, taking over the fueling in order to free Benny up to make sure his communication rig was double checked, even as Revy was hauling a few crates of munitions into the hold. Dutch and Rock were going over the various intercept routes.
Within a few hours, the Lagoon took off, exiting the harbor as Harry sat in the cupola above the bridge, reveling in the simple joy of sea spray and wind. Sighing once the Lagoon settled into a cruising speed, he went below. Sitting on a crate, he began going through the paperwork that Slipshard had sent him from Universal Broom.
Interestingly, the notes had quite a bit of history attached to them. Apparently before the establishment of the Cleansweep Broom Company, most folks in Europe simply built their own. Uncomfortable, ragged things before Cleansweep standardized matters. There was even a note (and list of spells) from the Russian Koldovstoretz School, who were noted to play quidditch on brooms made from entire uprooted trees.
The full list of spells included in the various models that Universal Brooms had created was extensive but, as Harry could see thanks to the collated paperwork, rather haphazardly used. It was little wonder to Harry that the company failed, as the company used no anchors to attach the various charms to, rather just casting the spells directly on the broomsticks. This was in direct opposition to his Firebolt, as the goblin forged iron frame was covered in runes, and the twigs in it's tail were placed in a magically significant manner using an arithmantic equation in support with the runes. The spell decay was clearly in line with what the Weasely twins had told him about the Shooting Star model.
The bit of Tom Riddle was coming in handy at this point, as Harry already had pen and paper out, noting design failures, prototype expectations, and divergences. He also began designing a brand-new broom. It would likely never be anything near the performance of the Firebolt, but the idea churning in Harry's mind wouldn't let go.
"Harry," Dutch's voice came from up front. Harry rolled up his paperwork and stowed it.
There on the bridge were the four, surrounding a table with a map. "Alright," Dutch began, "thanks to Harry, we have a way to snatch the container without having to endanger ourselves. If that doesn't work, Benny will engage radio jammers while Revy and I board the ship to dump the container into the sea. Harry, have you selected a drop location for the container?"
Harry stepped up to the table looking it over. "Here," he said, pointing to a set of small islands. "Are any of these islands inhabited?"
"Doubtful," Benny said, noting their location. "These islands are almost completely underwater three or four times a year. Only stuff that grows on those islands are shore grass and mangrove trees."
"This one, then," Harry said, pointing to an island. "I'll cast the portkey spell on four rounds for the Gepard while I'm on that island to make the targeting easier. Then I'll set up camp there to wait on word from you guys. I figure I'll just wait for Benny to call my sat phone once the container vanishes, or me to call him if it appears."
"You realize that you'd be on the island all night," Rock noted. "By yourself."
"I'm okay with that," Harry smirked out. "I have supplies. Besides, with as out of the way this spot is, I really don't think anyone's going to bother me."
"If you think you'll be okay, I'll take you at your word," Dutch said, settling the matter.
An hour later, the Lagoon was speeding off, the magically enhanced Gepard in Revy's hand. As promised, four portkey bullets cast of soft lead were already loaded, and the rifle itself was enhanced with a silencing charm.
Sighing happily, Harry looked around. The island was small at perhaps a hundred meters across. A section of bare beach had been roped off to remind Harry not to be there when the container arrived.
Transfiguring a hook to a large mangrove tree, Harry slung up his pack. Fifteen minutes later, he had a small firepit built, fueled with some stored firewood, his camp chair and sun umbrella deployed as he transfigured himself a table out of sand. Fetching a bottle of carbonated water, he sat down and resumed his research.
Late that night, Harry was awoken from his slumber in a hammock by a loud thud. Rolling out, he cast a light spell, revealing a deep green, forty foot shipping container. Smiling, he grabbed his sat phone, dialing Benny.
"Yo!"
"Hey, it's Harry. The container just arrived."
Benny whistled at that. "That was fast. Revy hasn't even come down yet. I'll let them know, and we should be back in the morning."
"Good times. Later, Benny."
The next morning, Harry's ears perked up at the sound of the Lagoon's engines as it slid up to the shoreline. Rock and Revy deftly tied it off to a tree before all four members waded their way to shore. Shaking the water off of their legs, they strode up to where Harry was waiting. Meanwhile, Harry had already let his fire go out, and had packed everything away and let the transfigurations fade out.
"So, this is it. Anyone grab the bolt cutters?" Revy asked.
"No need," Harry replied, walking up to the double doors. There, at the bottom, was a heavy padlock keeping the doors closed. Pulling his sword, Harry swung once, letting the piercing charm cleave the lock in half. He then stepped back, admiring his handiwork before his face fell a little. "Um, does anyone know how to open one of these?"
Dutch chuckled at that before bending down and clearing the latch and then opening the double doors.
Revy peeked her head around the door to peer inside. "Huh. I wonder what's in the boxes."
"Only one way to find out," Benny replied. "Unfortunately, the manifest was never on a digital file, so odds are the actual manifest is still on the ship."
"Everyone stand back," Harry said. Once they'd cleared the doors, Harry began chanting, and the boxes began to hover out.
"Seriously Dutch," Revy muttered from the side, "can we keep him? The plan was fucking amazing, and now this? Please?!"
"Not now, Revy," Dutch rumbled out, smiling at Revy's begging.
Finally, the last of the cardboard boxes settled onto the sand, and Revy instantly snapped out a knife and began opening one. Only to stop, saying, "What the fuck is this, a shipment from the Johnson Smith catalog?" Peering inside, the other four saw a box full of whoopee cushions, joy buzzers, and blackface soap.
Frowning, Harry flicked his wand several times, forcing all of the boxes open at once. Sure enough, X-Ray glasses, fake vomit, and so on seemed to fill the various boxes. Harry began digging, finally picking one up to dump it out.
There, atop the pile, lay a large plastic bag with some sort of white powder inside. "Cocaine or heroin," Rock commented, kneeling down to pick up the bag. "Feels like a full kilogram."
Within minutes, the rest of the boxes were cleared out. The haul: seventeen kilograms of cocaine, four kilograms of heroin, a kilogram bag full of baggies of different pills, thirty hand grenades, seventeen pounds of C-4 and forty blasting caps.
"Okay, now this is more what I was expecting," Revy laughed out as Harry used more magic to shovel all of the joke items back into the shipping container before closing it up. "So, what do we do with all this stuff?"
"We could leave the container here," Dutch answered. "That is, unless you have a need for a forty foot container full of joke crap. As for the rest, I think we can make use of the explosives. The cocaine and the pills... Pretty sure we can unload that somewhere."
Harry nodded at that before turning back to the container. Tapping his wand, he shrank down the shipping container before slipping it into his bag. "I know a pair of pranksters who would love this stuff," Harry replied to the questioning looks. "Does cocaine have any medical uses?"
"It does," Dutch admitted as they all worked to place the haul into canvas bags. "Topical pain relief is one of them. There's some talk of using it in certain delicate surgeries, but nothing definitive in the journals."
"Huh. I wonder if Gurimurra would have a use for some of it," Harry said aloud as he transfigured a ramp from the beach to the deck of the Lagoon.
"Damn it, you mean you could've done that when we pulled up?" Revy demanded. "We didn't have to get our fucking feet wet?"
"Could've. But I figured you guys would have a ramp of your own," Harry admitted.
Several hours later, the Lagoon cruised back into harbor, even as Benny was leaving a message for Johnny that the job was done. Harry made for Gurimurra's clinic once Revy told him that she'd be talking to some people about the pills.
Gurimurra was absolutely tickled to have a kilogram each of nearly uncut cocaine and heroin for her practice. She promptly began teach Harry about some potions that used it as an ingredient, as well as how to use it nonmagically. As it so happened, refined heroin could be used in several potions involving magical nerve surgery, and refined cocaine was a storage time extender (by a factor of ten) for nearly every potion in existence.
On Friday, Dutch and Benny left in the Lagoon to meet with a contact in Cambodia over the rest of the cocaine and heroin. Revy stayed in Roanapur to wait for the testing results from the pills, while Rock stayed to finish the paperwork.
That afternoon, Harry finally had an appointment with a therapist.
"Mister Potter, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Hazel Moore," the man said, leading Harry into a somewhat spartan office with a desk, a couple of comfortable chairs, and a few filing cabinets. The man himself was a bit portly, of medium height with a few streaks of white in his black hair.
"Glad to be here, sir," Harry said, sitting in one of the indicated chairs.
"Now, what I generally do is work with people with battle trauma," Hazel began. "Shellshock, combat fatigue, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I'm sort of okay with other branches of mental difficulties, but these are my specialties."
"Stands to reason," Harry replied, nodding slightly.
"So what we'll do here is develop a base of information that applies to you," Hazel continued. "This will allow us to determine if we're a good fit. Trust me," he continued at Harry's look of confusion, "mental health is a notoriously personal route to travel. If you're not comfortable with your therapist, you won't get very far in getting your issues resolved. With me so far?"
"I think so," Harry said, considering this.
"Excellent. Now, Dutch tells me that you had some problems on a recent trip. Should we start with that?"
"Alright. It all started when we were pulled aground by a magical storm..."
A full hour passed of Harry detailing the journey through Yamatai, with Hazel asking for clarifications at most points. Finally, Hazel asked, "It seems like you have a pretty good handle on your experience there. What's the biggest thing bothering you about all of that?"
Harry paused for a moment. "I think that the fact that I'm not terribly bothered about how many people I killed is what's bothering me the most. I mean, shouldn't I be bothered about having killed so many guys? You know, regardless that they were trying to kill me."
"Hmm. That would be a fairly normal response," Hazel admitted. "But it's known that everyone processes experiences differently. How you would react would be vastly different than how, say, Revy would. You showed mercy when you could, and took lives when you couldn't really get around it.
"But," Hazel continued, "your reaction tells me that this isn't the first life-or-death situation that you've been in. Perhaps if you filled me in on the high points?"
"You're right," Harry admitted. "That starts in my first year at school. I was eleven, and..."
Thirty minutes later, Hazel had plenty of notes once Harry had finished covering the various base details of his adventures at Hogwarts. "Harry, I have to say that this is a rather extreme set of examples. And given my general lack of information on a lot of the background in that, I can't draw too many definitive conclusions apart from a lot of the staff at Hogwarts needing to be fired for incompetence and gross negligence. However, I can say that you and I wouldn't be a good fit."
"How do you mean?"
Hazel sighed, scratching at his chin. "What you have isn't a combat fatigue or PTSD issue. Unless I'm way off base, I'm going to have to say that your issues begin with your childhood, and go forward from there. Given the little stresses in your voice combined with the pauses you make at certain points, you being in school and away from your relatives almost makes up for the life-or-death struggles, in your eyes, anyways.
"So I'm going to have to recommend you to another therapist," Hazel admitted. "You require a somewhat more generalized therapist, someone whose mind can flit rapidly from one subject to another. To that end, I'd like to refer you to Sam Hawthorne."
"Alright," Harry slowly said, "And what does this Hawthorne do?"
"Mostly a mechanic and electrician, Hawthorne is a bit of a Renaissance Man. He has at least a base skill in nearly every discipline, and is know to have helped treat people with a wide array of exotic, complex psychological issue. Be warned that he won't be sitting down with you like this. He's a man who likes to multitask, and has the closest thing to a photographic memory that I've ever heard of. Odds are quite likely that he'll be hearing you out while rebuilding a transmission, and still be able to quote your entire conversation word for word. On the fly analysis is what he excels at, and not a lot of people can handle that level of mental jarring."
"I see. I can understand where you're coming from, "Harry admitted, "and I'd really like the reference."
That evening on his small apartment balcony, Harry called Dobby to get an update. Thankfully, Benny had hooked him, up with a cassette recorder that he could clip to his phone, as Dobby began babbling away about having finally gotten ahold of a magical reconstruction firm that would listen to him, as opposed to one that kept trying to 'improve' the Village Manor.
Also was the news that there were three properties in the Evans estate. Dobby had been to each of them, and all had been properly cared for by the Evans Trust. Dobby agreed to send photographs of all of them, as well as their interiors.
Dobby then went into how Sirius was doing. According to the Seaside Villa's house elves, the man's nightmares were easing up in frequency, and he was finally beginning to put on weight as well as get some color to his flesh. However, Azkaban had broken several habits, and the elves had to regularly remind Sirius to bathe.
Dobby finally ran out of things to babble at Harry about, so Harry filled Dobby in on what was happening with him. The bare bones version of Yamatai, and how he was stuck in Thailand until most likely late September.
The next day, Harry finally left his apartment at noon, having spent the morning in his bag's potion lab. Rock had left him a message that a steamer trunk had been delivered to the office, so he was heading that way.
Blinking, he saw a short, busty, tan blonde woman running past him down the street before ducking down an alley. A few seconds later, three men in Hawaiian shirts and sports blazers ran down the street, completely missing the alley. Shaking his head, Harry kept heading towards the office.
A few minutes later, Rock let him in, showing him to the honest-to-goodness, early twentieth century steamer trunk sitting upright in the corner.
Harry smiled at it. "Looks like Green Tooth Johnny came through. Now to see how well he actually paid me."
Rock sat down, a small smile on his face. "I'll admit that the job was one of the easiest heist jobs we've ever done. Having access to a magical without too many reservations is pretty nice."
"Hm? Oh, sure. Benny doesn't use his magic much does he?" Harry asked, examining the catches and locks on the trunk.
"No, he prefers to use his technical skills," Rock admitted. "But I really couldn't say why he uses so little magic. I know that I would."
"True," Harry agreed, working at one of the stuck latches, "but I grew up without magic, and you were denied it." Harry finally got the latch cleared, and begin prying at the second one. "So no wonder you would, and I do."
"A good point," Rock admitted.
Harry finally got the final latch cleared (and noted the traces of corrosion on the latches) before transfiguring a prybar out of an ashtray after vanishing the cigarette butts. Slamming the prybar into the base of the lock, Harry simply sheared off the entire assembly, allowing half of it to swing freely from the other.
"Lose patience?" Rock asked, amusement lacing his voice.
"Yup. There's corrosion on the latches, so I figured that the lock would be worse."
Harry dragged the trunk open, the hinges harshly grinding in the quiet of the office. Rock couldn't hold his curiosity, and ended up peeking over the back of the couch.
On the right hand side, where suits and dresses usually hung, were robes and other clothing made of visibly unusual materials. On the left were drawers labeled in what Rock could see was Burmese.
Frowning, Harry held up his hands, focusing his magic like Lara had coached him on. A small pulse of energy formed and flashed, encompassing the trunk in gray as each drawer limned an object within in shades of yellow, red, and blue.
"What was that?" Rock asked, suddenly breathless.
"Magical pulse," Harry explained, lowering his hands as the colors faded. "My friend Lara uses this to find Items of Interest, and professional curse breakers use something similar to find traps and such."
"Interesting. So what's in there?"
Harry pulled out a pack of sticky notes, used the pulse again, and started noting drawers with colors. "Yellow means interesting stuff, red means dangerous stuff, and blue means stable stuff."
"I don't understand," Rock admitted.
"Basically, Yellow stuff is of interest to me, red stuff is probably cursed or broken, and blue stuff is active but not dangerous."
Harry pulled out a drawer marked Yellow and peered inside even as Rock had gotten up and was peering over his shoulder. There, on a bed of black velvet, lay a choker necklace of dark purple silk, it's cameo latch carved into a woman on her knees. Pulling it out by the velvet, Harry noticed a small booklet on the bottom of the drawer. Harry rested the choker atop the trunk, and then pulled out the booklet.
"Hm. Says here that this is a 'Necklace of Submission'. Anyone who wears this will submit to whomever it's keyed to. A drop of blood on the back of the cameo will key it."
"That doesn't sound legal," Rock muttered, looking at the choker carefully.
"Probably isn't," Harry admitted, shrugging. "I'll admit that it's an interesting piece, and probably worth more than the six grand my percentage would have been. And it's only one piece out of about thirty."
A little more than an hour later, Harry had twenty-three 'safe' pieces laid out on a folding table, seven 'probably cursed' pieces on a separate table, and fourteen blank runekeep stones waiting to be engraved.
The phone rang, and Rock went to answer it as Harry began writing down on his latest list:
14: Find out how to identify enchanted items without having to pay for the service
Rock came back, saying, "That was Revy. Apparently she was drinking with Eda, and some idiots tried shooting up the Ripoff Church. She wants me to meet her at the Yellow Flag after six."
"Need a hand?"
"Probably not," Rock replied, fishing out the car keys, "but I appreciate the offer. Odds are good that she and Eda are going to be drunk and need a ride."