CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: UNSUSPECTING
FRIDAY, JULY 12th, 1996 – Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surry, U.K.
"Do you think I should pack bed linens, Vernon?" Petunia Dursley asked as she packed yet another suitcase.
"They said the temporary place is fully furnished and if not to our liking it's walking distance from the shops. The movers will pack the rest and deliver it once our permanent housing is ready."
"But…"
"Sod the bed linens, Petunia! Just the ruddy clothes."
"I still don't understand why we have to move on such short notice and where is this place?"
Vernon had to admit, he had not given his wife much of an explanation. He was only told two days ago and was a bit steamed when he got home. He let out a sigh.
"The plant manager called me into a meeting day before yesterday," Vernon said. "The Company President was there and all that. They made my options quite clear. The Company's got plants both here and abroad and I know if I want to move up, I have to make Plant Manager. Much as I was certain I'd get the posting when Mannings retired … well, he hasn't yet. There's an opening for a plant manager at a new plant they're building overseas. They basically told me it was that job, or I stay a production manager until I retire and I can forget about any raises between now and then aside from cost of living adjustments. My third option was to quit and kiss off a significant part of my pension plan as that part hasn't vested yet. Basically, if we want to get ahead, this is my only choice."
"But overseas Vernon?"
"I was told they speak English there. It's the 'native' tongue."
"Still, so are the Americans but who would want to move there?"
"If we stay here, we're either stuck or I'm looking for work."
"But Vernon, what about the boy?"
"He scampered, Petunia! The ruddy freak ran off the day he got back, ungrateful bastard. Good riddance. We're finally shot of him!"
"That's not what I meant. His types want him here! With us!"
"All the more reason to leave the country while we can! Do you really want the little brat to come back?"
"No. But…"
"But nothing! We haven't seen any of him in weeks and nothing of his lot as well. I say we take advantage of this and we'll be free of him and his freaky kind for good!"
"So what do you know about this place?"
"Aside from what they told me at work, not much. Never heard of it. I was assured they have good relations with Her Majesty's Government and have for hundreds of years. There was an R.A.F. base there during the War. They've got God awful travel restrictions. No tourist visas. No scheduled air service. Basically, once we're there, we're there…"
"And Dudley's school?"
Vernon growled. "If Dudley stays here for school, we won't see him until I get promoted back to Britain. He'd have to stay here, Petunia. Travel restrictions. I was told they have good schools there, better than the Comprehensives here and if he finishes there, he can get one of their passports for travel. His British Passport is of no use unless their government invites him in."
"But you were so looking forward to his finishing Smeltings."
"Petunia, he couldn't even come for the Holidays. I'll be so busy I doubt I'd have time to leave for a few years and you can't travel back on your Passport. That place is really serious about keeping out undesirable elements, unlike our flaming Liberal government. And if he'd stay, where would he spend the Holidays? He can't stand Marge and that Polkiss family is the wrong sort…"
"I'm sorry Vernon," Petunia said softly, "I know how much it meant for you for Dudders to finish from the same school you did."
"Bloody company sends me half 'round the world…" Vernon muttered.
"Half way around the world? Is that where we're going?"
"Sorry Petunia. I really don't know. All I know it's an island somewhere. Couldn't even find it on a map, but as I don't even know where to begin to look… Speak English or not, I just hope it's not some Third World cesspool. Do you think we should have updated our shots?"
"You don't think it's that bad, do you? Surely if we needed shots they would have told you?"
"I have no bloody idea what to think, except as much as our government can sod off about everything, at least this is home! I was almost tempted to tell the boss to bugger off with this promotion, Petunia. Almost. But it's an extra ten thousand a year, far more than any raise I could expect. If I get that plant up and running like no one's business, that's sure to be a feather in my cap going down the road. But these travel restrictions and such? It's weird is all. I only found a handful of references to the place at all, none of which tell me much of anything! Place doesn't even have its own website! No maps, brochures nothing like that online. Only things I found was a reference regarding the R.A.F. during the War and a crackpot conspiracy theory site that thinks maybe that's where the Templar gold got off to. Strange, is all I'm saying, Petunia."
"I think I'm finished packing," Petunia said. "I'll check on Dudders."
"I'll lug this stuff down to the living room. At least whoever these people are have the decency to run us to the airport. I sure as hell wouldn't want to pay for leaving our car there for God knows how many years."
Forty-five minutes later all of the Durlseys packed luggage was in their living room. They were expecting someone from Grunnings and this other country to arrive at any minute. Dudley had only recently stopped complaining about having to leave all his good stuff for the movers and how he needed that stuff.
"Why would you want to sit at a computer all day when there are beaches with topless native girls?" Vernon asked.
That stopped the whining.
"Vernon?"
"No idea. Made it up. But it shut him up."
A knock at the door brought them back to reality. Vernon rose from his chair to answer it.
"Ah Dursely!" a voice boomed. "So you ready to go?"
"Mr. Dawkins," Vernon said. The man was a few steps above him in the Company. "I suppose we are. Such short notice…"
"Round peg, round hole," Dawkins said. "Posting came up! Huge up side and your name topped the list. You know how it works to refuse promotion. But that's neither here nor there. We're certain you'll do a bang up job for us! Right then, this is Mr. Shackelbolt with their Foreign Ministry," Dawkins said introducing a tall, black man of the type Vernon would ordinarily call "Darkie" but for the fact this man's suit probably cost as much as Vernon's car. "And this is Mr. Weasley from their Board of Trade," he added indicating another tall man in his twenties with long, red hair in a ponytail. In Vernon's day there were standards of dress and while the man's suit was impeccable, proper government officials, in Vernon's opinion, did not have long hair. "Right then," Dawkins said, "I'll leave you to it. And Vernon?"
"Yes Mr. Dawkins?"
"Don't screw this up," he said in an almost threatening tone. "Their Head of State sits on the Board of several large Holding Companies if he does not own them outright. One of them owns Grunnings!"
Vernon gulped as Mr. Dawkins left.
"Right then," Kingsley said. "Time waits for no man. We have a car parked out front."
The two men turned and left the house. Vernon frowned as it was obvious he was expected to haul all their luggage to the car. "Dudley," Vernon snapped. "Grab a couple of suitcases!"
"Dad?"
"Do it boy!" Vernon said picking up as many as he could carry.
Dudley grumbled as he picked up a couple of large suit cases and followed his father out to the car. A year ago he would have grumbled about his Cousin not being there, but that was last year. He did wonder what happened to Harry. Parked out front was a large, fancy car which would be sure to turn the heads of their nosey neighbors. The boot was open and waiting, but no one was waiting to help. The two men were talking to the driver of a large lorry which had parked behind the car. Vernon was tempted to demand help, but he had been told not to antagonize these people. Grumbling, he began to stuff a suitcase into the boot. While it was large, he doubted it could hold all their luggage. After about twenty minutes of hauling luggage, to Vernon's surprise somehow it all fit, although only just barely.
"Right then," the younger man said, "all set?"
Vernon nodded as the man opened the door to the limo. Vernon climbed in followed by his wife and son and sat in the back seat facing forward.
"Wicked," Dudley commented looking at the interior of the car. The other two men took seats on a bench along either side of the car.
"Could I offer you or your wife a libation?" the man from the Foreign Office asked. "Scotch? Champagne perhaps?"
"Scotch," Vernon said. His wife indicated she was not interested. Dudley was disappointed that all he was allowed was a Coke as the car pulled away from Number Four.
The Dursleys never looked back. They never saw their furnishings floating into the back of the Lorry or noticed that it was but minutes behind them leaving behind a house barren of any evidence of occupancy. The Lorry turned the opposite direction from that of the Limo. Its destination was not an airport, but a containership terminal, for the back was in fact a small container for overseas shipment. Four hours later, the container containing the Durselys worldly possessions was lifted off the trailer and placed upon a stack to await its ship.
A week later, a small container ship made up to the quay. It would hardly catch anyone's notice aside from the workers at the port. This ship was a regular, arriving about once a month without cargo and loading up with as many containers of cargo it could carry. The worker had no idea where it came from when it arrived or where it went when it set sail. Its name was the Windward Island and its stern said "Panama". The Panamanian flag flew from a jackstaff at the stern, but that meant little. There were many ships under that flag that had never even been to Panama. It was a popular flag of convenience of the time with the world's merchant marine fleets, although Liberia was still popular as well. The truth was the neither the Windward Island, its crew, nor its owners had ever been anywhere near the Central American country. A little over a week after the Dursley's container arrived, the Windward Island was loaded, slipped its moorings and stood out to sea. Four days after setting sail from England, the Windward Island would make port and all of the containers were off loaded. Most were loaded immediately onto lorries or railcars for shipment to their final destinations. But as the Dursleys' container did not yet have a destination, it was moved to the storage yard while outbound containers were loaded onto the Windward Island.
"This isn't the way to Heathrow," Vernon complained. He knew they were heading west, away from that busy airport.
"We're not going to Heathrow," the dark skinned man from the Foreign Office of this mysterious country said. "Our airplane is at a more remote facility. My country takes its security very seriously and we prefer a field where we can control the security on the ground. As you may have been told, there is no scheduled air service. Best way to control immigration and prevent unwanted elements from entering really. All air transport is controlled by our government including who may embark."
"And the reason for this?" Vernon asked.
"We have the highest life expectancy in Europe. Our per capita income is easily twice that of Great Britain, a stable economy and a huge trade surplus. Such things attract unwanted immigration and unsavory elements. There are other reasons dating back centuries. We do not like unwanted and uninvited guests."
"You people take Pounds?" Vernon asked, not knowing what else to ask.
"It is our currency," the man replied.
"Oh?"
"Our country was once part of England, or at least it was under the English Crown. We gained our independence in the thirteenth century."
"Rebels?" Vernon almost seethed.
"Not hardly," the man replied. "Our Duke at the time performed services to the Realm that your King found of value. To be honest, were it not for our Duke, your King John might well have lost his head. The reward for saving the monarchy was our independence from it. We are an island nation, so it's not like the Crown really could have done much had we actually forced the issue. England would not be a major sea power for several hundred years and their attentions were to the East in Europe and, at that time, the Levant. We have remained loyal allies. Our last Duke was a fighter pilot in your R.A.F., fought in the Battle of Britain, North Africa, Sicily and Italy. Eighteen air-to-air victories during the Second World War, I believe. Knighted by George VI himself. One might argue we were the first true nation in the Commonwealth and our Duke is technically under your Queen, although we do not answer to your Parliament or Prime Minister, except through our respective diplomats."
"Island nation?" Vernon asked. "The Channel Islands?"
"No sir," the man replied. "The Duchy of Charenwell is to the southwest of the British Isles."
"There's nothing to the southwest," Dudley said. "Just the Atlantic!"
"As I said, we take our security most seriously," the man replied. "You will not find our islands on any map, yet mariners know to steer clear."
"I find that hard to believe," Vernon said.
The man shrugged. "And yet, until recently you never heard of Charenwell, have you?"
Vernon shook his head. "And how big is this country no one has heard of or can find?"
"Let's see," the man said. "Population wise, we are larger than Monaco. In terms of landmass, we are more than three times the size of Luxembourg and the land area currently under development is also larger than that country. We are just under a third the size of Belgium. The climate is comparable to southern Spain, although we do get more rainfall. It has been known to snow there, but that's a rare event."
"A country so isolated," Vernon grumbled, "do you even had electricity?"
"And toilets that flush," the other man said. "Of course we have electricity. Rather hard to build your plant without it, don't you think?" the other man asked.
"I can assure you that despite our apparent isolation, we enjoy a standard of living at least as high as what you are accustomed to," the dark skinned man said. "Although, if you golf, we only have about three courses in the country. We're building more, but they won't be ready until next year."
"Only three?"
"We only have a population of a little over forty-thousand," the dark skinned man said. "Our population density is lower than Britain. It's about twelve people per square mile for the country as a whole and three times that in the land that has been developed."
"Two thirds of your land is undeveloped?" Vernon asked in shock. "Why?"
"No need," the man shrugged.
"What about private courses? Surely there are clubs?"
"The Queen's estate has its own course," the man said. "Playing there is by personal invitation of the Royal Family only. The Duke has his own course with similar restrictions. So far as I know, the current Duke does not play."
"Bloody royals," Vernon grumbled. The two men obviously chose to ignore him.
"So," Petunia said, "where will we be living?"
"Ultimately in Jamestown," the man answered. "It's a new town under construction where the Grunnings plant will be located, among other things. But it will be a few months before anything is available there. For now, you'll have a flat in Pottersport, our capitol. It's about twenty or thirty miles from Jamestown."
"There's nothing closer?" Vernon grumbled.
"Not unless you would prefer to live in a tent," the man said.
"A new town?" Vernon then noted. "Under construction you say? Why?"
"It will be where certain manufacturing plants will be located," the man from the Board of Trade said. "While we have a huge trade surplus, we are a net importer of manufactured goods. That is a discrepancy our Duke wishes to correct. We will have to import raw materials, though."
"No mines?"
"No. And our laws prohibit mining or any other activities deemed deleterious to the environment."
"Bloody environmentalists!" Vernon growled. Again the statement was ignored.
"So what's this Pottersport like?" Petunia asked. While she was probably less thrilled with this adventure, she felt need to diffuse an intensifying situation.
"It's our oldest city," the dark skinned man said. "Most of it dates to before the seventeenth century. It's the home of our fishing fleet and a few of our other industries and has probably the best shopping in the country. Port of Darby has more shopping – that's our main merchant port, about two hundred miles away by rail or road – but Pottersport has the best. You'll have a permit to keep your car…"
"I need a permit for the car?" Vernon said.
"As you do in Britain. But Pottersport dates from the tenth century and was never designed for cars."
"Then why not level it and build it so it can…"
"And destroy our heritage?" the man asked in shock.
"Bloody historic preservation," Vernon grumbled, "valuable land left useless 'cause some dead sod who might have met a Royal once lived there…"
The remainder of the two hour drive was similar. It was clear that Vernon Dursley's ideas would leave the world an industrial waste dump, aside from where he lived of course. They eventually turned into a small airfield that clearly had no passenger facilities.
"What's this bloody dump," Vernon groused.
"The airfield," the dark skinned man said.
"You expect us to fly out of here?"
"No Dursley," the man snarked, "we expect you to flap your arms and fly south for the winter! This is a remote and relatively unknown airfield and it is where the plane is waiting. Security is important to us and Heathrow is not considered secure by our standards. Now shut your gob or your Company can expect a report that you are uncooperative and not the best fit for plant manager. I'm sure there are all sorts of openings for a sacked production manager in this economy."
Vernon paled. His boss was clear that failure was not an option that would lead to any career opportunities at Grunnings not involving brooms and sweeping.
The car stopped in front of a single story building that looked like it might be an office of some sort. As soon as the car stopped, the boot was open and someone was unloading the luggage, much to Vernon's delight as he, Petunia and Dudley stepped out of the car. They were led into the building into what looked like a waiting room of some sort. Seated in the room was a man who was probably a few years younger than Vernon and certainly several stone lighter, a woman and three children, two girls and a boy who appeared to range in age from about six to about ten, but one could never tell that from looking with any precision.
"Ah there you are," the man sitting rose to his feet. "You must be that Dursley chap! Andre Wilson the Third, Gunnings, Armaments Division. So you're to be the plant manager?"
"Er-yes…" Vernon began.
"You were in drilling equipment, yes? Hardware or industrial?"
"Both," Vernon said. "I was mostly in wood, metal and stone bits for construction although we also made stuff for British Petroleum."
"Yes, well munitions are different, but that's why you have production managers, eh? Manufacture is manufacture, my boss once said. Been on the munitions side since Cambridge. Fascinating stuff."
"Munitions?"
"Surely you were told what the new plant will make?"
"Er…"
"With their cheap electrical power, efficient transport and a state of the art plant to reduce manpower needs to a bare minimum, should be able to cut unit cost substantially, eh? True, have to import raw materials, but we do that here anyway."
"Munitions?"
"You did know Grunnings began in munitions during the First War?"
Vernon shook his head.
"Been our bread and butter. Economy goes up and down, but someone's always shooting at someone else. That's what we make. Our plant near Manchester is decades out of date and too bloody expensive to maintain or upgrade and then these chappies come along… Bloody brilliant."
"Er… what kind of munitions?"
"Army stuff. Navy has its own suppliers. Standard NATO: 9 millimeter pistol, 7.62 and 5.56 millimeter rifle, cartridge linkages, some heavier stuff for tanks and artillery, although it's just the bursting rounds for the big guns. Someone else does the powder charges. Loads of fun! Then again, blowing things up on purpose is always fun!"
"Er…"
"Not much different that your drills really. Raw materials in. People, process and production. Product out. The details we leave to the engineers, eh?"
"I suppose."
"The higher ups think if we can realize the production cost savings they think we can, we could really cut into the Krauts' market share!"
"That is something," Vernon said. He had to admit, he knew nothing about munitions except they could explode. But the man was right. As plant manager, his job was to keep things coming in one end and out the other as quickly and for the least cost possible. In that regard, it was no different than drills. "What do we know about the plant?"
"Been to the site, I have," Mr. Wilson said. "It was a couple weeks ago when we were in negotiations. It was just a field then about a mile or so off the existing roads. But I am reliably informed the access road is done and foundation has been poured. They're laying the rail spur as well. Our plant's substation's being erected and they've already begun on another power plant for the area. They say we'll have a chemical plant as a neighbor that'll supply us with powder and explosives. That'll cut shipment costs to nothing. Find it hard to believe, but they say we should be able to start production as early as January or February, although where we'll find labor is another question. It's not like there's a bunch of unemployed looking for work."
"I was told the labor issue's been sorted," Vernon began.
"Might well be," Mr. Wilson said. "These Charenwell types make the Krauts look inefficient and lazy! They said they'll have a city built by the end of the fall. Not finished, mind you, but housing, shops, schools and everything!"
"You must be kidding?"
"Am I? Bloody Arab emirs seem to build cities in the middle of nowhere overnight. Then again, they've got more money than sense. This your family?" Mr. Wilson asked looking at Petunia and Dudley.
Vernon nodded. "My wife Petunia and son Dudley."
"Pleasure! And this is my wife Renee, daughters Deirdre and Tammy and son Andre the Fourth."
"Your luggage has been loaded," the dark skinned man said. "Best if we board. This way."
He led them out the far side of the building onto the tarmac of the airfield. There was only one plane to be seen. In Vernon's opinion it looked small, uncomfortable and very, very old. He had never seen a real plane that sat on the runway with its tail dragging on a tiny wheel. Painted on the side was a blue and red bullseye and the letters RDCAF was painted on the tail just above a number. Vernon was not about to believe that this relic could fly. A man stood up from under the wing looking like a pilot of some sort.
"My word!" Mr. Wilson exclaimed. "I've only seen one of these in a museum."
"Where it belongs," Vernon grumbled.
The "Pilot" walked towards them.
"Lockheed Hudson?" Mr. Wilson asked.
"Indeed it is," the "Pilot" said. "A Mark VI, transport configured."
"Explains the lack of the ventral turret," Mr. Wilson said.
"You know your aircraft," the "Pilot" replied. He eyed Vernon's wary expression. "This one came of the line in '42 and the RAF got it through lend-lease. I can assure you it's in perfect flying condition and has the latest avionics…"
"What's that?" Vernon asked.
"Communications and navigation equipment. No need for a radio operator/navigator and as we are not about to be bombing anything, no bombardier."
"This is a bomber?"
"Light bomber," the pilot said. "They were also used to hunt U-Boats."
"And you expect us to fly in that?" Vernon protested.
"There were not enough on the manifest to justify sending one of the Dakota's," the Pilot said.
"Dakotas?"
"Douglas DC-3," Mr. Wilson said. "You have those as well?"
The "Pilot" nodded. "Our last Duke was in the R.A.F. during the War. His father allowed them to build a base for training because it was well beyond the range of any mischief the Luftwaffe could drum up, assuming they could even find it. After the War, our last Duke collected examples of every type of aircraft that had called the base a home. There was a squadron of these beauties that searched the sea approaches for U-Boats there, so we have a few."
"What else?" Mr. Wilson asked.
"It was a training base for Lancasters and American made Douglas Bostons and Dakotas, as well as a basic flight training base so there's Tiger Moths as well. We have the squadron of Spits that provided (fortunately unnecessary) fighter patrols. They also trained Mosquito and later Typhoon pilots, so we have some of those as well."
"And they're in flying condition?" Mr. Wilson asked.
"Unless they're in for maintenance. Dakotas and Spitfires aside, we have the most of each type flying in the world today."
"Bloody brilliant!" Mr. Wilson said. "How do you get the parts?"
"If we need a part, we can make it. One of our fab shop blokes says we could probably build these planes, as long as no one needed it within a year or two. Although I don't think we can forge the engine blocks," the pilot shrugged.
"Right then," he continued, "weather's supposed to be perfect. Flight time is around four and a half hours. There are no frills or beverage service and our loo in the back is as bare bones as you can get. If you need a drink, there's bottled water and juice in the trunk as you board. The plane is not pressurized so we'll be flying at about four thousand feet. Any higher and it gets a bit chilly. It should be a smooth ride, but if you lunch decides to take a walk, please use the bags in the pockets in front of your seats. I have never bent and airplane and have no intention of doing so today. In the event that something like that happens over water, that's probably all she wrote. So let's board."
"Can my son and I ride up front?" Mr. Wilson asked.
"Cockpit only has room for one really," the "Pilot" said.
"No," Mr. Wilson said pointing at the nose of the plane, "up front!"
"Ah! Well, it's pretty basic there."
"That's okay. Always wanted to ride in the nose of a bomber!"
Vernon knew he would regret this.
Vernon and Dudley found themselves seated as far forward in the plane as possible in seats that were both very narrow (for them) and not particularly comfortable. What was worse, in Vernon's estimation, is the Pilot told them that they were not to leave their seats until the plane landed. Due to their "size" the weight shift might have "unfortunate" consequences. Vernon thought of saying something to the cheeky bastard, but he had already been assured it was this plane or the dole and he did want to wake up in the morning somewhere on terra firma. To his amazement, this contraptions engines actually worked, the propellers actually spun and when the engines revved up, the plane actually moved. They reached the runway and the plane actually moved quite quickly and was soon actually flying!
It was a smooth flight, and yet the worst flight of his life. Most of it was over water with no land in sight and when they finally crossed over land, clearly descending, there was no sign of "civilization" aside from a flash of road, until seemingly seconds before the wheels touched down.
RAF Pottersport was built before the Second World War when the RAF saw a need to expand to counter the growing German Luftwaffe. Despite its name, and while it abutted the north boundary of West Farm, it was a good twelve miles from Pottersport. The sea coast was four miles to the west, a little over three to the north and just over twenty to the south from the respective boundaries of the base itself. It had three runways. The southernmost one was just a few hundred yards north of the north edge of west farm and ran east to west. The other two were at angels to it, creating a perfect triangle. The hangers, workshops, barracks and other buildings were built along the western leg of the triangle of runways and towards the main highway further to the west.
The nearest town was actually Charlestown just to the south and beyond its western most boundary along the main railroad and highway that linked Pottersport to the Port of Darby about one hundred and twenty miles due east as the bird flew, but over two hundred by road or rail. Then Duke Charlus offered the site to His Majesty's government "for the duration of the current crisis plus two years" and it became a safe base to train pilots. It was also an ideal location for maritime reconnaissance and, in addition to the Hudsons flying out of the base, flying boats were based both at Pottersport and the Port of Darby. When the base reverted to the Duke, it became his son's hobby. The former R.A.F. fighter ace collected aircraft and kept them flying, usually with himself at the controls. Since his death, his foundation continued to keep both the base and its planes in good repair.
Vernon knew nothing about that and even if he did, he could probably care less. Vernon finally staggered off the Hudson onto the tarmac. There were far more buildings here than at the field in Britain and more old planes. What he did not see was a proper terminal. There was an office building with a tower and a sign proclaiming "R.A.F. Pottersport – Home of The Royal Duchy of Charenwell Air Force." Looking at planes that had been obsolete as warplanes since before Vernon was born, he snorted. Still, there seemed to be people about their business. He followed the others into the building and out the other side where he saw what looked like a brand new bus being loaded with their luggage and probably the Wilson's luggage as well. At least there was something new in this ruddy place, he thought.
He got aboard the bus and took a seat by the window. The others boarded as well but there were no other passengers, which meant the bus was mostly empty as its doors closed and it began to move. As they rode down what had to be the main road of the former airbase, Vernon saw a bright pink sports car speed by in the opposite direction. At least one thing was the same, he thought. There are idiot drivers here as well.
Harry pulled the brand new and very pink sports car to a stop in a space in front of a building that said Flight Operations and had a tall tower. While he had heard about this old base some time ago, this was his first chance to see it given how busy he had been with various projects and with getting used to his rather odd new life. This car fit into the latter category of endeavors. Today was Dora's birthday and he had heard she had been seen in the huge garage at the Manor practically drooling over the sports cars. So he bought her a present. He felt that black, British Racing Green and red were not Dora colors, so he bought one that matched her hair – or at least that matched the hair he remembered from before they bonded. He had picked it up in Pottersport and decided to see more of West Farm and the signs led him up the coast road, past beach houses and ocean vistas and eventually he wound up here. Eager to see more, he got out of "Dora's" pink convertible and entered the building.
"Milord!" a man said. He had been seated behind a counter and jumped up into something like attention when Harry entered. "We – er – weren't expecting…"
"Please, it's just Harry," Harry replied. "Heard about this place and was in the area so I decide to pop buy Mr. – er…"
"Jennings, Sir," the man replied. "Collin Jennings, Base Commander."
"Base Commander?"
"Well, I supervise keeping things here up to snuff, so they call me that. Been doing it for close to thirty years."
"I thought this base was closed."
"It is, sort of. After the War Duke Charles used it for his collection."
"Collection?"
"Yes Sir…"
"It's just Harry. You say Sir and I start looking for a professor intent on putting me in detention."
"Sorry – er – Harry. The former Duke liked old warplanes, so he collected them. Specifically, he collected planes that had been based here over the War years. He made sure they were in flying condition and saw that each of the old girls got to stretch her wings regular like and were maintained in proper order. He loved the old girls, he did."
"Girls?"
"Planes."
"Oh."
Mr. Jennings then gave Harry a history of the base, including the years following the War to the present. The planes were maintained by elves and volunteers from all over the country who loved to tinker and there was a cadre of pilots to fly them. In some ways, Mr. Jennings thought aloud, they were as much a symbol of the Country as anything and the folks on the ground always got a kick when one of them flew over even though that was hardly an uncommon occurrence.
"So what do I have?" Harry asked after a while.
"One squadron each – that's eight planes – of Avro Lancasters, Douglas Bostons and Douglas Dakotas. We can usually put up six. Likewise squadrons of twelve Spitfires, Hawker Typhoons and De Havilland Tiger Moth basic trainers. Ten are operable at any one time. Then there's three Mosquitoes and three Hudsons - usually two are available."
"Okay, and what are they?"
"The Lancasters were heavy bombers. They carried the largest bomb load in the European Theater during the War. The Bostons were light bombers we got from the Americans. The Dakotas were transport planes used for just about everything including dropping paratroops. The Spirfires were fighters. Typhoons where fighter-bombers used to bust up tanks, trains and whatever else they could find. The Mosquitoes could do just about everything, although our variants were reconnaissance aircraft. The Hudsons were also bombers, but ours were used to hunt submarines and were designed to convert into transport aircraft. Finally, the Tiger Moths are two seat trainers the R.A.F. used to teach people to fly."
"Quite an array," Harry said. "That's a lot of planes, isn't it? Sixty-six all told?"
Mr. Jennings nodded. "There are airplane museums with more planes, but we probably have the most of each type anywhere. Certainly the most of any of them that can still take to the sky."
"Think I could have a look?"
"Why not? They belong to you after all."
Harry spent the next hour or so checking out his "Air Force." He looked over one of each of the planes, sat in the cockpits, and checked out the rest of the interior. He was surprised at how cramped all of them seemed. While this did not surprise him in the smaller planes, he was amazed that the larger ones were so tight. There was an amazing amount of ducking, crawling and crouching, even in the seemingly huge Lancaster bomber. Mr. Jennings remarked that these were not passenger planes built with an eye towards comfort, but planes built with payload and fuel taking priority over creature comforts. Their mission was to carry as much as they could as far as they could to do their mission. Arguably the roomiest aircraft was the tiny Tiger Moth, which was not saying much.
"So, would you like to take one up?" Mr. Jennings asked.
Harry had never been in a plane before so of course he wanted to go for a ride. But he looked at his watch. "I'd love to, but if I'm not back home soon, my girls are going to kill me. One of them is having her birthday today and they'd probably have it in for me if I was late. I was on my way back from picking up her present when I stopped by."
"What'd you get her?"
"Want to see?" Harry asked.
"Sure."
He led the man out of the operations building and pointed to the pink car.
The man chuckled. "Nice car."
"Definitely her color," Harry added. "It's a surprise gift. So, if I came round tomorrow maybe?"
"Tomorrow or any day except Sunday is fine, Harry." It had taken Harry fifteen times to get the man to call him that. Harry, however, refused to call the man anything but Mr. Jennings. It just did not seem right to him for some reason.
"I'll try for tomorrow then," he said getting back into the pink car.
The bus drove into Pottersport and Petunia seemed thrilled at the sight. It reminded her of post cards from places on the Continent that had been as they had been for centuries. The main road they were on was wide enough for modern vehicles, but the side streets were narrow. Small cars could drive them, but only one way. The houses on the edge of town looked like back home, with gardens on small lots and two floors, but as they passed by a large park, the buildings on the other side were much older. They were all four stories tall and quite attractive from the outside and they were told most had stood for hundreds of years. Soon, as they neared the center of the town, after passing a large church (which set Vernon off as it was a Catholic church and Vernon could not stand Papists, the fact that the number of people he did not despise could be counted on one hand never having crossed his mind) the ground floors were now shops and restaurants and the sidewalks seemed to have a fair few people going about their shopping. When they crossed High Street, they could see a majestic castle dominating the town along a ridge. High Street itself was lined with shops of all descriptions, but none that Petunia could recognize by name. Dudley was already complaining that his favorite eatery, which was supposedly all over the world, was quite absent.
Two blocks past High Street with theaters lining each side of their road, the bus stopped. They got off and had to load their luggage onto trolleys that somehow appeared. The Wilsons were getting off as well. While Vernon and Dudley grumbled, it was clear the Wilsons seemed to be loving all of this nonsense. The two government blokes then led them up a narrow side street as they pushed their trolleys laden with luggage, never wondering how it was so smooth given the side street had old, brick pavers. Two blocks in, the procession halted and they were told the four story building on their left was their new home for now. There was a large entryway that led into a courtyard which the building surrounded on all sides. They were shown to a door in the courtyard that opened onto a flight of stairs leading up. The Dursleys and Wilsons had flats on the top floor, which were considered the best. Not that it mattered to Vernon as he groused about the lack of any lifts and the fact that he and Dudley would have to haul all the luggage up three flights of stairs.
The flat had a very large main living area with a real fireplace, a nice sized dining room and a kitchen with "normal" and modern appliances. There was a small laundry room and pantry off the kitchen. Then a hall on the courtyard side of the flat led off at a right angle to the living area to the two bedrooms and single bath. Aside from bedrooms, the place was probably larger than what the Dursleys had lived in back in Britain. The bedrooms were no smaller than the two largest in their old home, but Vernon complained about there only being two.
"I'm sorry," one of the government types said, "we were under the impression that you and your wife shared the same bedroom."
"We had four!"
"You do understand, lodgings will be available in Jamestown in due course," the man said. "This flat was available now. It's not like we have a lot of vacant properties to offer at the current time."
"Vernon, it's not that bad," Petunia said.
"Fine!"
Once the luggage was hauled up to the flat, one of the government men offered to take Petunia to the market to purchase food. She dragged Dudley along as she needed his help carrying the shopping back to their flat. Once they had left, Vernon was alone and collapsed into a chair in the living room near a television that was both newer and larger than the one he had left behind that morning, not that he cared one bit.
Vernon turned on the television and started flipping through the channels. Many of them he recognized; channels that were available on his cable at home including the BBC. There were, however, at least three local channels and he watched Charenwell One Newshour.
If the news was any source, so far as this country was concerned the rest of the world might not exist. The lead story was the construction south of "West Farm" on the coast and the newsies interviewed some workers and what was probably a supervisor with scenes of tall buildings beginning to rise in the background. One would think construction was a huge, once in a lifetime even. Particularly because there seemed to be a plea for the sightseers to keep the road clear for vehicles and not to venture into the construction zones for their own safety. This was followed by so-and-so's garden party in some such place and a fair bit about farming and some boat returning from three months in the South Atlantic with a record catch of some kind of fish. The weather was just as boring. Sports listed some scores, but none of the football teams Vernon followed. Some team called the Wasps beat another called the Cannons 380 to 10, but Vernon did not catch the sport and figured the piece was included because it was some kind of record thrashing.
Finally, the Royal Family arrived at their estates on South Farm this afternoon for their annual Summer Holiday. There to greet them as per custom was our Lord Mayor Lupin. We are told that Price Charles was with Her Majesty along with his sons, but that Princess Diana was not. No word has been given for her absence, but given rumors of an impending divorce from abroad, it is not surprising. The young Princes were on hand with his father.
As per custom, the Duke was not in attendance for the Queen's arrival. In fact, it would have been extremely noteworthy had he been there. Accounts are our recently returned sovereign is still settling into his duties both has head of his Estates and as our Head of State, but he apparently found time to shop this morning in Pottersport and apparently picked up a shocking pink sports car for one of his Girl's birthdays. We do not know which of his lovely ladies is celebrating nor when.
The Queen is expected to attend the elevation of Lady Black to her new station as Countess of Darby this Sunday at Government House and to bestow knighthoods upon Lady Black, Lord Longbottom and perhaps one other for services to the Crown last month. Government House has published the official guest list of his Highness our Duke and it would seem he is settling in as there are far more he has invited to this event than for his own coronation. Then again, the Lord Mayor continues to maintain that the coronation was a surprise to our Duke.
"The young man has an aversion to airs and accolades," a man said whom Vernon assumed was the Lord Mayor. "Had he known in advance, he probably would have scampered off somewhere until we all got tired and went home."
"Bloody rubbish!" Vernon growled changing channels just as file footage of the Duke from his coronation popped onto the screen. A part of him wondered if the idiot driving that disgusting pink car was the Duke of this bloody place. If it was, then it goes to show why Royals are such a drain. The Queen's family seemed to make it a point to embarrass her and the Country. She was the only one worth a farthing and even she could be a pain about things. Be better off shot of them all, Vernon thought, except that would make Britain very ordinary, which was unacceptable.
It then dawned on him that he had no idea where he was supposed to work or how to get there. The Wilsons were in a flat on the other side of the landing hand he seemed to know, but there was no way the new plant manager was going to stoop to asking a subordinate for such information.
FRIDAY, JULY 12th 1996 – Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging Surry, U.K. (shortly after nightfall.)
It had taken Albus Dumbledore two whole days following the fiasco at Gringotts just to repair the damage. Well, he thought, "repair" was hardly an appropriate term. The damage remained just as glaring as it had been two days ago. What he had spent the last two days doing was preventing the absolute collapse of the Wizarding World, at least as he saw it. That boy had in less than an hour destroyed what it had taken decades, if not a century to build. It was not irreparably destroyed, but it would take a long time for Dumbledore to return to where he was but a few days ago. The only good news, if there was any, was that Voldemort had taken arguably even a bigger hit and unlike Dumbledore was in no place or condition to even begin to recover.
That being said, Dumbledore needed answers! How could the boy have come into his inheritances? He had never left the Dursleys according to reports from his people and the devices that monitored the boy had not indicated any change, even when Dumbledore finally returned from Gringotts. He had waited for the boy for over twelve hours and the boy had never emerged. So far as Dumbledore knew, there was no other way in or out of the bank. Finally, knowing he had a lot more to do than stake out a door for a truant, he got hold of Hestia Jones, a reliable Order member, who relieved him so he could get back to Hogwarts to begin to undo some of the damage that the boy had done. The first thing he did was check the monitoring devices. They all seemed to be in working order, all but one. Only the device monitoring the wards on Privet Drive appeared to be indicating that something happened. It was clear from the device the wards were failing, which should not be possible if he was still getting normal readings on the others. Still, the wards were failing. Only one thing could cause that.
The boy, it seemed, was gone.
Still, that had to wait. An attempt to call the Wizengamot into ermergency session was in order. The call went out to all members and he needed sixty-five percent of the votes to respond to compel a session. The Will reading had raised questions. But he knew it was much ado about nothing. He had problems with legalities before, such as the incarceration of Sirius Black without trial and the sealing of the Potter Will. Both were patently illegal, as was his taking not only guardianship over Harry Potter, but the proxy to the Potter seat and votes on the Wizengamot. Being Chief Warlock had its advantages. What was illegal when he did it, would be perfectly legal the next day when the Wizengamot either passed a law to such effect at his request or ratified what he had done, where to make it legal for anyone was problematic. If sixty-five percent of the votes were in the country and healthy enough to attend a session, there would be a quorum and the nice thing about the Potter proxy was Dumbledore held proxy over the largest unencumbered and unconditioned number of votes in the legislature.
As had been his practice and certain of success thanks to the Potter Proxy, he made the call. But the vote availability fell far below the required sixty-five percent needed to force an emergency session. His firecall to Wizengamot services shocked him. The Potter votes were no longer his! The magic recognized Potter as having his full rights and no piece of paper could overrule the magic (for he had not made a law that said otherwise.) Along with the Potter votes, the Bones and Longbottom votes were also held (as in there was a voting member alive to vote them) yet unavailable. That block alone was forty-seven percent of all the votes, meaning their unavailability precluded there ever being a quorum unless one of the houses sent someone to take their seat. Politically, the Wizengamot could not longer legislate!
And that meant he could not make his withdrawals from the Potter vaults legal, which meant the Goblins would break him and by extension the Order unless he came up with nearly two million Galleons very quickly. Any source of funds that did not require him to invade his accounts was needed. There were properties of little value to him or the Order, and he promptly placed them for sale. This included every bondable girl under his magical guardianship. It would not be much. They were not worth much. But every Galleon helped.
Learning that the boy was more than just the heir to the largest fortune in magical Britain, but was in fact the heir to the Dukedom of Charenwell was a shock. It explained why the Potters had been a thorn in his side for close to eighty years. Most witches and wizards in Britain had probably never heard of Charenwell. Dumbledore had. To many, it was a legend used in magical fairy tales. But to Dumbledore, as de facto ruler of Magical Britain, he knew it was real. His attempts to find it (well, to have others find it) had all ended in failure. When he was advised that the last Duke had died, he also learned that the magical children of that realm usually attended school in Britain.
Dumbledore believed that this Charenwell was rightfully part of magical Britain, yet it seemed to have evaded rule from Britain for centuries. He could not allow that to stand lest others get the idea that they could separate. He tried to force them to open at least to him by selling their daughters, not knowing that the acting head of government lacked the authority to respond. Now, his actions had the Ministry breathing down his neck as well as they could find no way not to try to honor the demand for 100,000 Galleons per woman he had sold under highly questionable (in fact quite illegal) circumstances. The total bill of 4.2 million represented over half of the Ministry's annual revenue.
And with the Wizengamot paralyzed, the Ministry was in no position to legislate its way out of the mess Dumbledore had caused. It could not even raise new taxes. Dumbledore knew the new burden would fall hardest on the Purebloods as all the Ministry had left was the power to enforce laws and impose fines. For ages, many laws had went unenforced and it was mostly the Pureblood elites who lived in violation. They would begin to pay, and they would be as stymied as Dumbledore by the absent votes. That is, unless Dumbledore could find a way to get the votes back, or at least enough of them to undo the real damage that damnable boy had done on one afternoon.
There was one place left for answers: Privet Drive. His monitors suggested the boy was there, but the ward monitor suggested otherwise. Still, Petunia Dursley was there. Her sister was the boy's mother. She might know something. She might know where the boy was, how he got there, how he fooled the Order members who were on guard. And, as the sister to the woman who, had she not died that night almost fifteen years ago was to become a Duchess, perhaps she knew about that as well. Perhaps that was the source of her unjustifiable loathing for her nephew.
He arrived in front of the otherwise non descript two story suburban home well after the sun had set and pulled out what looked like a very elegant cigar lighter. It had been, once. But Dumbledore had made several magical adjustments to the device one of which was particularly useful at the moment. He flicked the lighter and the nearest street lamp when dark. He did this over and over until the street was as dark as it could be, illuminated only by the lights in the windows of the homes. While it was tempting to make a thorough job of it, it was unnecessary as the street was dark enough that no one would notice him and doing so would be noticed by the Muggle residents.
In addition to darkening the street, his little display would also call the guard on duty who was to protect and monitor "The-Boy-Who-Lived." Tonight, that guard was Remus Lupin. He used other Order members, including a Squib named Arabella Figg to monitor the boy during daylight. He needed trained Aurors to do so at night. Remus had been an Auror, as was his alternate partner Nymphadora Tonks who was currently on "Bereavement Leave" from the Auror Corps, making her the other ideal candidate for this job.
There were other reasons why he selected these two. Last year, he had used a wizard named Mundegus Fletcher for the task. That had proven a mistake. The man was loyal to Dumbledore, but felt no such loyalty to the kid and when the kid seemed safe, was not above abandoning his watch to pursue his less than legal business opportunities. This had almost cost the boy his life. Had Remus not taught him the Patronus Charm during Third Year, the dementors that a rogue Ministry Employee had released against the boy might well have killed him and his Muggle cousin. He needed the guard to be people fiercely protective of the lad.
But he also needed to keep the two he picked in line. Both were the fierce protectors he needed. Remus was because of his relationship with the boy's parents. Why Tonks was was anyone's guess, but she was. It was a perfect assignment for the both of them because it kept them active in the Order but out of any assignments where he was uncertain of their total reliability. Dumbledore was a master at the mind art of legilimancy, which in its passive form could detect "surface" thoughts and emotions or deception. His two chosen guards had a natural defense. Dumbledore could detect practitioners of the art of Occlumency and these two had no such skill. But their minds were a complete blank to him. He knew that in Remus's case, this was due to the man's lycanthropy. He did not know how Tonks had a similar talent, although being born with it was not unheard of. Because he could not sense their thoughts and emotions, he could not truly trust them. But he could trust them to keep Harry safe.
Except Remus did not respond to the subtle summons. A quick, silent spell confirmed that the man was nowhere to be found. This did not bode well, whatever it meant. It could mean the enemy had made a move. The boy was safe behind his wards, for now, but… He approached Number 4 with caution.
There were lights on in the house. The ground floor was lit, although shades were drawn so he could not see inside. He could hear the Muggle Telly was on and could see a shadow move as if someone was moving about. There was also a light on in an upstairs window, one which he knew was now the bedroom of Harry Potter and a shadow suggested the boy was up as well. This made no sense! The wards, while still up, were failing and that could only be happening if the boy had not been there long enough to recharge them. His presence would have held the wards at full strength. But they were nowhere near that now.
Dumbledore rang the door … several times. No one answered. The door was locked, but this was no problem for the wizard. With his wand, he unlocked the door, and made sure that if there were any unseen dead bolts on the other side, they were unlocked as well. He cautiously pushed the door open. Instead of lights, the space beyond was dark. He stepped in cautiously and closed the door behind him before turning on a light and raising his wand. But the switch did not seem to work. He cast various charms. There was some kind of different ward based magic at work. It was not his doing. Moreover, no one seemed to be here. His wand lit up and he saw the ground floor was empty. There was no furniture, no carpets. The window shades were magic, not real. The cabinets in the kitchen were open and cupboards bare. Even those Muggle light bulb things were gone. It did not take an extreme intellect to know the boy was gone as well, but he was curious as to how it appeared otherwise from the outside.
In the boy's bedroom (which was also empty) he found the only movable object remaining in the house. There in the center of the floor was a brick. But the brick practically pulsed runic magic. Over the next several minutes, Dumbledore performed a series of complicated detection charms. The brick controlled the illusion he saw from outside. There was also a strong compulsion charm keyed to the former residents that seemed to have made sure the boy's disappearance would never be reported to anyone Muggle or magical. But to Dumbledore's horror, the brick also was mimicking all of the charms he had placed on the boy. No, that was not right. These were the charms and they had been transferred to the brick. The magic in the brick powered the charms and therefore the detection devices in his office.
Only two other people knew about those charms: Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall. It was obvious which had betrayed him. What stunned him was not so much the betrayal as that was the cost of doing business in this Machiavellian game. No, it was the fact he never saw it coming. She retired right after the Will reading. It had already been approved by the Board of Governors and her pension already paid off in a lump sum. She had said nothing to him about retiring when the term ended and he left for the Continent to conduct research into the man called Voldemort. He returned just in time for the Will reading. It had all happened in the two and a half weeks in between.
Practically her final words to him was that he never stood a chance; the boy was holding all of the cards. In the space of an hour, the boy had rendered the magical government crippled. With the missing votes it now seemed he controlled, they could not pass laws to protect themselves from the second phase of the attack. The government was financially crippled, or would be once the Goblins took action to enforce the reparation payments. At the same time, Voldmort saw over ninety percent of his finances vanish. Dumbledore had suffered a massive blow politically and was being pilloried in the press as the cause of everything. He too, and by extension the Order, was also in comparative financial ruin. This was not the rash act of a vindictive child, but a calculated attack designed to do the most damage with the least amount of risk to the attacker. It was obvious there was a new player in Dumbledore's game. This player played for keeps.
A/N: RELATIONSHIP SCORECARD:
If you didn't read the Intro, you missed that. This is so you can keep up with who's with who and how. Due to some confusion, I'm going to list the Consorts first once their order is established. (Remember, Luna, Alicia and Angelina all bonded after their House already had Concubines.)
Key:
Names in Italics = OCGr – Gryffindor, Hu – Hufflepuff, Ra – Ravenclaw, Sl – Slytherin. SG – St. George's School, PE – Prince Edward School, SA – St. Andrew's, SP – St. Patrick's, SD – St. David's.(Number indicates last year completed. No number means they finished all seven years.)
P = pregnant.
Harry James Potter, age 15.1. Hermione Jane (Granger) Potter, age 16 (Gr-5); CONSORT (POTTER).
2. Luna Celeste (Lovegood) Black, age 15 (Ra-4); CONSORT (BLACK).
3. Dora (Tonks) Black-Potter, age 21 (Hu); CONCUBINE (BLACK).
4. Minerva Grace (McGonagall) Potter-Black, age 68 (Gr); CONCUBINE (POTTER).P
5. Mallory Michelle (Grant) Black Potter, age 39 (Hu); CONCUBINE (BLACK).P
6. Daphne Renee (Greengrass) Black-Potter, age 16 (Sl-5); CONCUBINE (BLACK).
7. Astoria Lynn (Greengrass) Potter-Black, age 14 (Sl-3); CONCUBINE (POTTER).
8. Ginevra Molly Weasley, age 14 (Gr-4); CONCUBINE (BLACK).
Bill Weasley, age 25.
Fleur Patrice (Delacour) Weasley, age 19; CONSORT (BILL WEASLEY).
Neville Algicyrus Longbottom, age 15.
1. Susan Marie (Bones) Longbottom, age 16 (Hu-5); CONSORT (NEVILLE).
2. Amber Selma (Harker) Longbottom, age 33 (Sl-5); CONCUBINE (LONGBOTTOM).P
Fred Weasley, age 18.
1 Alicia May Spinet, age 18 (Gr). CONSORT (FRED).
2. Verity Nicole (Smith) Weasley, age 21 (SG-5). CONCUBINE (FRED).
3. Danielle Louise (Carter) Weasley, age 20 (SG-5). CONCUBINE (FRED).
George Weasley, age 18.
1 Angelina Olivia (Johnson) Weasley, age 18 (Gr). CONSORT (GEORGE).
2 Shelly Ann (Parker) Weasley, age 22 (SD). CONCUBINE (GEORGE).
3. Ellen Suzanne (North) Weasley, age 20 (PE). CONCUBINE (GEORGE).