Chapter Text
MI6 Headquarters, London
19 June 1996
1:18 AM
The murmur of conversation in the briefing auditorium came to an abrupt halt as M swept through the door, Moneypenny close behind. The assemblage of agents, analysts, and boffins had all worked under her long enough to know that with Q Division’s security breached and multiple deaths rumored, her tolerance for tomfoolery would be at a minimum. “What are you doing here, Mallory?”
This was directed at the Intelligence and Security Committee liaison, who placidly smiled and replied, “Good evening to you too, M. I was in the area when the alert came through and offered to lend a hand.”
“Very well. What do we know so far?”
Mallory nodded at a technician standing near an unobtrusive podium, who punched several buttons. In response, the screen dominating the front of the room lit up with a dazzling array of images.
“The intruders appear to have gained access to Q Division through Major Boothroyd’s old office,” Mallory began, one of the images expanding enough to be identified as a video from a security camera in the main Q Division workshop. Although there was no sound, Q and 007 could be seen bickering over a couple of service pistols while one of the boffins tinkered with what appeared to be a set of bagpipes. The timestamp read 18 JUNE 1996 11:05:45.
Suddenly, a door along the far wall opened just enough for two indistinct figures to ease themselves out from behind it. Something flashed green inside the room, and two more figures burst through the door. As the first two intruders stumbled to the floor, 007 snatched up one of the pistols to cover the group.
“007 then called for the intruders to halt and surrender, which they disregarded,” Mallory continued dryly, as the video rolled on. The second pair of intruders each pointed what appeared to be wooden sticks at a growing crowd of MI6 personnel.
“At this point, two of the intruders activated some sort of energy weapon-” two more green flashes lit up the screen, as 007 dodged and one of the boffins slumped to the floor. “ - and were responded to in kind.” Onscreen, a burst of flame from the bagpipes immolated one intruder while 007 fired several shots into the other’s torso. “The other two promptly surrendered.”
“Have we identified them yet?”
“Partially, although it’s proving surprisingly tricky. The one 007 shot is a complete John Doe – no identification, no fingerprint hits, even his clothing appears to be handmade.” The security video disappeared, replaced with a collage of autopsy photos of a bald white man with an unpleasant looking expression.
“It’s quite the ensemble,” interjected Q. “Shirt, trousers, a hooded robe like he’s bloody Friar Tuck, all in what seems to be a black silk nobody recognizes offhand.”
M frowned. “No armor? Weapons? Other equipment?”
“Just this queer silver mask,” Mallory highlighted the leering skull covered in serpentine curlicues on the screen. “Along with that stick. Actually all four of them were carrying something similar, and our next body was dressed nearly identically, down to the ghastly tattoo.”
Another set of autopsy photos spread across the screen, this time of a man with dark hair, a pale, twisted face, and significant burn damage. One image of the inner left arm revealed an inky outline of a skull with a snake coming from its mouth. A photo flew over from the John Doe collage to show that the two men indeed had the same body art.
“Antonin Dolohov,” announced Mallory, “as you can see took the brunt of the fireburst from the bagpipe weapon. Fingerprints were on file with Immigration Service as belonging to a refugee claiming asylum from the Soviet Union back in the late 1950s. He seems to have dropped right off the grid after that – no job history, tax records, nothing until this January when he was reported to have been part of a mass prison break.”
It seemed impossible for M to frown any harder, but somehow she managed it. “What about prison records?”
“There’s no mention of Dolohov anywhere in the files of His Majesty’s Prison Service. Even the breakout announcement seems to have come directly from the Prime Minister’s office – we’re crosschecking the other escapees, but haven’t hit anything yet.”
“The Prime Minister’s office? This had better not turn into another of Urquhart’s political games,” M huffed. Reviewing her notes for a moment, she asked, “What about the intruders who surrendered?”
In response, Dolohov’s pictures on the screen were replaced with that of an unconscious teen-aged girl, her red hair splayed over a hospital bed clearly located in the MI6 medical centre.
“The other two intruders are both adolescents.” Mallory said quietly. “This girl and a young man. She gave her name as Ginny Weasley and her home address as The Burrow in Ottery-St.-Catchpole, before fainting, apparently from shock. She was taken down to Medical, where they found a broken ankle and minor injuries possibly indicating a fight. She regained consciousness briefly while her ankle was being treated, but she kept trying to escape and had to be sedated to keep her from compounding the break.”
A satellite image of a unassuming rural town added itself to the screen. “We’ve located a village called Ottery-St.-Catchpole in Devon, but there’s no estates in the area registered as ‘The Burrow’. Miss Weasley, if that’s her real name, has no other records either locally or nationally – birth certificate, schooling, pediatric visits, all coming up blank.”
“I suppose the young man is a ghost, too?” M sighed.
“Surprisingly, not completely.” A set of standard MI6 mug shots appeared on the screen, featuring a teenage boy with messy black hair, bright green eyes behind unfashionable glasses, and a surly expression. “Harry J. Potter, born 31 July 1980. He initially claimed to live here in London, though he wouldn’t provide an exact address. When I pointed out his accent was from Surrey, he admitted to residing at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging. That property is owned by a Vernon Dursley, whom we were able to contact by telephone - ”
An image of Dursley’s driving license flashed onscreen, while a recorded phone conversation began to play.
“What’s the ruddy idea, ringing up decent folks in the middle of the ruddy night?”
“London Metropolitan Police, sir, is this the Dursley residence?”
“Er, yes, Vernon Dursley speaking. What can I do for the Met this fine evening?”
“Could you please confirm this as the primary residence of Mr. Harry Potter?”
“Potter? What’s the freak done now? Never mind, just tell him we’re not paying tuppence to bail him out of whatever trouble he’s in now.”
“We’re just trying to confirm his address, sir.”
“The ungrateful brat sleeps under our roof when he’s not off at that freak school or cavorting with his freak friends, yes. If you want to know anything more I suggest talking to them!”
“I believe that will suffice, sir, have a pleasant evening.”
The click of the call ending echoed throughout the room. “Charming fellow,” said 007. M shot him an unamused look.
“Yes, well,” Mallory continued, “with this information we were able to come up with some records from a primary school called St. Grogory’s in Greater Whinging, where Potter attended until 1991. His records show mediocre grades and some disciplinary problems, with an enrollment at a nearby secondary school that was canceled in August of ‘91 without explanation.”
“And of course,” interrupted M, the words freak school echoing in her mind, “no information about what he’s been doing since then.”
“He’s obviously been at an educational institution of some sort, he and Miss Weasley are both wearing school uniforms.” Mallory replied. “He let slip that it’s in Scotland, but aside from that he’s remarkably tight-lipped.”
“Counter-interrogation training, do you think?”
“Possible, but he didn’t seem to be using the standard techniques. My guess is he’s just used to lying to authority figures.” Mallory hesitated for a moment, then continued, “He also seemed more scared of me than would be usual for the circumstances.”
M scoffed. “In his situation I’d be bloody scared too. Did he say anything else useful?”
“Mallory said he claimed he got into the Major’s office through a secret passage in the fireplace,” answered Q. “I’ve had a team tearing it out, but they haven’t found anything yet.”
“We’ve also had a look at those devices the adult intruders used before they were . . . dispatched,” he continued, as photographs of four slim, wooden objects appeared on the screen. “On initial examination they just seem to be carved sticks, no joins or obvious control mechanisms.” The pictures turned ghostly. “X-rays show them to be hollow, but don’t reveal anything electronic or mechanical. Finally we used a saw to cut one open, but the only thing inside was a bit of old feather.”
“How absurd. Where is the boy now?”
“Handcuffed to a chair next to Miss Weasley’s bed down in Medical. He seemed quite distraught about her condition, and there are rules about putting minors in the holding cells.” Mallory shrugged. “This way we can keep an eye on both of them at once.”
“Perhaps I’d better have a chat with him myself. What about the man who was hit by the energy weapon?”
“Dr. Ward Michaels – he was a codebreaker in Informatics, cross-trained to Q Division to work on some optical projects. Deceased, I’m afraid – whatever causes that green flash, it kills without leaving a mark.”
“Figuring that out is your top priority, Q, after we’re sure the labs are secure.” M ordered. “Bill, find Michaels’ next of kin and arrange for the usual honors. The rest of you keep digging into Potter, Weasley, and Dolohov’s backgrounds. Somebody, somewhere, must know of them.” As the crowd began to disperse, she called out, “Mallory, Bond, a moment.”
The two men obediently lingered until the room was empty, except for the four of them. As they set off down the hall, M passed Moneypenny her sheaf of notes before addressing them again. “Theories, gentlemen?”
“A record scrubbing like that is too clean to be accidental,” mused Bond. “Whatever this is, there’s a lot of people involved.”
“Not SPECTRE, surely?”
“They’re usually subtler than this, and what would be the objective?”
“Training?” Mallory suggested, “When you mentioned the Prime Minister, M, it reminded me of another odd thing Potter said – he claimed he couldn’t answer my questions about his schooling because of something called the Statute of Secrecy.”
M stopped walking and gave Mallory a piercing look. “Not the Official Secrets Act?”
Bond frowned. “You think the PM is running an off-the-books training facility for teenagers in Scotland?”
“I wouldn’t have put it in so many words, but something along those lines, perhaps. What were you thinking?”
“A cult.” Bond said firmly. His experiences on the island of San Monique had been on his mind since viewing the skull mask. “Did anyone check to see if the children had tattoos similar to the adults?”
“No, they didn’t,” said M sharply, “which is why we need to ask Potter some more questions. Miss Weasley, too, if she’s awake. Mallory, I want you in the observation area.”
“What makes you think you can get anything else from Potter?”
A small smirk flickered across M’s face. “I’ll just treat him like I’m debriefing you, 007.”
***
Harry Potter woke from a fitful sleep with a start. Blinking away a half-remembered dream about two witches – they might have been Draco Malfoy’s mother Narcissa and the recently escaped Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange – trying to remember where in London they had visited their Black family relatives, he took stock of his surroundings, hopeful that some of his recent experiences had also been dreams.
Unfortunately, he was still handcuffed to a chair in what seemed like a perfectly Muggle hospital room, Ginny unconscious in the bed beside him with one ankle in a bright white cast. She had been limping and leaning on him, Harry recalled, as they got separated from their friends in the Department of Mysteries. They had ducked into a room that turned out to be empty except for a fireplace lit with green fire, a Floo connection already in place. With two Death Eaters close behind them there was no choice but to try the connection, which whisked them away before Harry could even decide what destination to call.
What that destination actually was, Harry was still trying to work out. The office the Floo had delivered them to appeared, at first glace, like it might have been anywhere in the Ministry of Magic. It had been stacked with books and folders and mysterious implements in such a mess that Harry only realized on second glance that the office was full of paper instead of parchment and had several computers rather like Dudley’s stacked on the desk and shelves.
There had been no time to linger, however, and while they had tried to sneak out the room’s only normal door the Death Eaters had caught up with them again. Harry and Ginny had fallen through the door only to be rescued by what were presumably Muggles, and the way one had casually shot one of the Death Eaters with an ordinary pistol suggested to Harry that they were either criminals or some sort of police. The latter turned out to be more likely, as Ginny was promptly whisked away on a stretcher while Harry had his picture, fingerprints, and wand taken, and soon found himself in a plain room being questioned by a man who looked uncomfortably like Voldemort, except that he still had both his hair and his nose.
“Harry?” Pulled from his brooding, Harry saw that Ginny had finally started to stir. “What’s happened, and where are -” Her frantic questions were cut short as she tried to sit up, only to discover that she, too, was handcuffed to the furniture.
“I’m not sure, it might be some sort of police station. Whoever they are, they’re almost certainly Muggles.”
“Muggles?” Ginny repeated, eyes widening. “But we came through the Floo, didn’t we?” Harry shrugged. “What about the Death Eaters?”
“Dead, I think,” Harry said with a grimace, “I know I saw one of them get shot - with a firearm, you know, and you don’t just shrug that off.”
Ginny paled at this, and was just on the verge of saying something else when someone knocked briskly at the door and let themselves in.
He was tall, with dark hair and piercing blue-grey eyes that swept over Harry and Ginny as if he expected them to instantly attack him. When they didn’t, he smiled and said, “Ah, Miss Weasley, it’s good to see you up and about.”
“Who are you?” Harry suddenly realized that this was the man who he had seen gun down one of the Death Eaters.
“My name is Bond - James Bond,” he said, “and I’m here to show Mr. Potter to his next appointment. Now that Miss Weasley is awake, I’m sure she’s invited as well.” He reached into a nearby closet and pulled out a bundle of tubes and straps that unfolded into a wheelchair. Moments later Harry found himself pushing Ginny in the chair, out of the room and down the hall with Bond firmly directing them from behind.
The three of them soon arrived back at the plain chamber Harry had been interrogated in. Happily the Voldemort look-alike was nowhere to be seen, his place taken by a woman with short, graying hair and a no-nonsense attitude.
While they settled themselves in the seats across from her, she set aside the paperwork she had been reading and fixed her eyes on both of them in turn. “Mr. Harry Potter, of Little Whinging, Surrey,” she began, pausing for a nod before continuing, “and Ms. Ginny Weasley of Ottery-St.-Catchpole, Devon.” Another nod. “Do you know where you are right now?”
Glancing at each other, Ginny shook her head while Harry carefully answered, “It seems to be a police station, ma’am. Maybe the Met?”
“You are,” the woman replied, “in the headquarters of the British Secret Service.” At this news Harry felt his stomach sink. “Yesterday evening you were caught in one of our most secure areas, in the company of two prison escapees, one of whom murdered one of our researchers.” Ginny’s already pale face was starting to resemble one of Hogwart’s ghosts.
“You don’t think we’re with the Death - ?”
“Gin – the Statute.” Harry hissed. Ginny went “eep” and stopped talking.
The woman’s eyes shone with triumph. “Ah, this Statue of Secrecy, you mean?” It took everything Harry had in him not to nod. “You wouldn’t know who I am,” continued the woman, “but you may call me M. And as I am head of the Service and in charge of everyone in this building, I am read into everything covered by the Official Secrets Act.” She regarded them sternly. “That means that anything I do not already know about, I am authorized to hear.”
Ginny looked at Harry, who shrugged. Harry looked at Ginny, who bit her lip for a moment, then said, “So you know about magic then, ma’am?”
From the look on M’s face, Harry could tell that she did not.