Back in The Day

  Harry's 'guy' was none other than Randolph Spudmore, the man who invented the Firebolt. He had been working for Nimbus, had great ideas, but they would not listen. He struck out on his own, struck it rich, and made great big old piles and piles of money.

  And he was miserable. The idea of getting rich was fine. The reality of being rich...

  Sucked.

  He wasn't cut out to be a corporate mogul, not even a magical one. Now, his son, the boy who had always supported his dad's dream, and became the man who navigated the start-up company through all the pitfalls...? That boy was a mogul. And he was welcome to it.

  So, Randolph didn't have to put up with the board room. And he really, really, did not fit in with the 'Research and Development Department.' Sure, they were happy to hear his ideas, and they liked a lot of them. But what they looked like after 'R&D' got through? Well, it could make an old man cry. And he wasn't that old.

  Now she had enjoyed having the money, and spending the money. And he had enjoyed seeing the look on her face every time she asked if something was too expensive, or above their station, and he got to say 'Hang the expense' and 'Damn and Blast anyone who tries to tell us what our station should be!' And she always asked, even though all of the money was hers, as far as he cared. But she knew he loved giving her things, and he loved getting all worked up at snobbish, non-existent people.

  And it had been almost twenty good years, before she had to leave. Twenty damn fine years. Maybe that was one of the things that made him dislike the money. It was no help at all, when the time came. That's the way Blood Curses work. Yet another reason to avoid her side of the family.

  And they never looked for her. And she never looked back. It just wasn't something they thought about.

  It did, however, provide the best laugh they ever had. A few years back, she received the biggest, fanciest letter either of them had ever seen. It was too big for any owl, had to be delivered by courier. Included was a transcript of court proceedings, including, oddly, all conversations in the court that had bearing on the case.

  ***

  It turned out that a distant cousin had been taken to court by The Family. And, it turned out, The Family had not realised how much their stock had declined since the War. Yes, most had stayed clear, but they had certainly provided what was called 'Aid and Comfort.'

  So they walked, haughty, into the Wizengamot Chamber, and asked to speak to an old friend, who turned out to be in Azkhaban. And another close personal friend had 'disappeared.' And the number of cherished acquaintances that were just, plain dead was just, plain ridiculous.

  Still, not a problem. It was always possible to make new friends, given money and influence. That, despite the pitiful job they had done keeping track of the old ones.

  The first two family members that tried making friends sort of half-succeeded. No new friends, but they could catch up with the old friend in Azkhaban while they were awaiting trial.

  The Wizengamot was, by then, well and truly pissed. As a whole. But The Family went ahead with the case.

  The first to testify was the owner of the property that had been taken. He was sad to say that he did not have the papers with him.

  "Not a problem at all," said the Chief Witch presiding. She then addressed a manilla folder propped open on the Bench beside her. "Ministry of Magic File, would you kindly retrieve the ownership papers for the property in question?"

  Red Block Capital Letters printed themselves on the open cover of the folder. There was also a projection in the air over the Chief Witch's head, showing the same message.

  CERTAINLY, YOUR HONOUR. A MOMENT PLEASE.

  The Chief Complainant, who was not the putative owner of the house, noted that quiet conversation was apparently allowed during the wait. He turned to an Officer of the Court standing near him.

  "I say, sir, what is all this foofaraw about?"

  The officer raised an eyebrow, probably because he had never encountered the word ' foofaraw' before, outside of a historical novel. He spoke.

  "May I take it that the gentleman has had no reason to litigate since before the War?"

  "You may," the man said coldly.

  "Lucky you," the officer said, every bit as coldly. "What you have just witnessed is the Ministry of Magic File System, a magical creation that encompasses all records the Ministry collects and retains."

  "Why on earth do they need something to do that? Everything is recorded on paper and parchment already, is it not?"

  "Of a certainty, it is, sir." The officer was beginning to wonder if the old gentleman's style of speech was contagious. He had seen stranger things. "But now, all such files fall under the aegis of M.O.M. File."

  "What file?"

  "A simple acronym, sir. As for why it is needed, reasons abound. M.O.M. File has no connections outside her purpose, so she can not be unduly influenced. She has no needs or desires, so she can not be bribed. She has instantaneous access to all records, be they public sector or private, criminal or civil, as well as the connections between all of those disparate records."

  "Sounds like a bloody invasion of privacy. And worse than that, a potential tyrant!"

  The officer shrugged. "She has no ambitions, so she has no wish to rule."

  "She?!"

  "M.O.M. File," the officer shrugged. "Seems rude to call her 'it.' Not that she cares."

  The old man puffed up, cheeks turning a choleric red. Then he stopped suddenly, as one taken by a terrible thought.

  "Ah..., when you say 'all' records, do you mean, 'All Records'?"

  "Yes."

  "Births?"

  "Yes."

  "Deaths?"

  "Yes."

  "Sales of property?"

  "Yes, if a government fee was required."

  "Weddings?"

  "Yes."

  "Wills?"

  The man's questions had gotten slightly louder with each question, but not that loud. His choler had faded to a pale white with an undertone of green. The Chief Witch gave the pair a curious glance.

  The officer was hanging onto his patience like a trooper, but, really.

  "Sir, I do not know how I can be more clear. All is ALL. If a paper has been signed that requires government attention, intervention, collection or distribution of revenue, custodianship, or public monitoring, then M.O.M. File has it!" He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Frankly, the only thing I don't know is what is taking her so long."

  The Chief Witch heard that as well. "That is odd, isn't it Bailiff? Not like her at all."

  Seconds later, the red block lettering began appearing again.

  MAY I HAVE A PRIVATE WORD WITH THE COURT?

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Why, certainly." The overhead projection vanished, and the Chief Witch turned the folder so only she could read it. After a few moments, she pulled one end of a roll of parchment out from under her work space, and began making notes. Lots of notes. The top edge of the roll crept across the polished surface until it slipped into a hollow that seemed purpose-designed to roll it up into a scroll.

  The old man's old-fashioned collar suddenly seemed tight. He started toward the bench, but was arrested by a firm hand on his shoulder.

  "I would not do that, were I you, sir." The Bailiff spoke to the man quietly, but his gaze was fixed on the Chief Witch.

  "Ah. She seems busy. We... we will just go... and come back later." The man tried to slide out from under the gripping hand, but it seemed to hold him in place, like an adult would hold a small child, with no effort whatsoever.

  Up behind the bench, the inside points of the Chief Witch's eyebrows came down and together, like the wings of a white raven swooping in for the kill.

  "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear." The Bailiff sounded sad. "Not a good sign."

  The Chief Witch said, tightly, "That will do for now. Back to Open Court."

  The projection reappeared. AS YOU WISH, YOUR HONOUR.

  "Cyrus Ignatius Greengrass, approach the Bench."

  For a mad moment, he wished to deny his identity. The Bailiff released his shoulder, giving him the gentlest of pushes toward the Bench.

  Cyrus stiffened. He was a Greengrass, by The Dark Lord, and worthy of consideration! He could turn and leave, but chose to stand his ground. Let this Mudblood looking Hedge Witch see how a Pure-Blood Wizard behaved!

  (Besides, she was looking right at him).

  There was a long silence. Cyrus decided to go on the attack.

  "Madam," he said haughtily. "We have..."

  The Bailiff appeared at his elbow. "You," he said, not at all patiently. "...will address the Court as 'Your Honour.' "

  Cyrus stuttered a bit. "Of..., Of course. Your Honour, The Family has decided to drop this matter. We..., (he almost choked on the word), apologize for wasting the court's time." From behind him, he could feel The Family's shock and outrage focused like a knife between his shoulder blades.

  He went on. "As tempers cool, we are sure this can all be settled, inter familia."

  The eyebrows grew even closer, and more fierce. She glanced at the Bailiff.

  "Your Honour," he said, in the air of someone who has to confess somebody else's sins. "The plaintiffs have not... engaged with the Justice System since before the war."

  The brows relaxed slightly. She gave Cyrus a considering glance, then looked back to the Bailiff. "I foresee further need for the gentleman to be... counseled, shall we say? I would take take it as a favor, Bailiff, if you would remain at his side, to disabuse him of any further..." She looked odd for a moment, then turned to the folder on her desk. "I honestly can't find a word better than 'ignorance.' "

  The Bailiff said, soothingly, "I understand, Your Honour. Please consider it as done."

  Cyrus turned to the man, about to snarl, when he noticed motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see more than a few of The Family rising from their seats, and making their way to the doors.

  He also saw men and women in sober-looking robes, two at each set of now-closed doors, with wands in hand, and a certain look about them.

  The first to reach one of the portals was Great-Uncle Georg. Cyrus winced inwardly. Please, please, anyone else.

  There was some sort of Silencing Magic around the doors, probably to keep the court free of distractions. Therefore he could only see Georg's tirade start and quickly escalate. Cyrus actually groaned aloud. By the Dark Lord, who let him bring that damn riding crop? He carried the damn thing as a swagger stick. The children were terrified of him, and he found it impossible to keep staff.

  The whip went up, Uncle Georg went down, and a young woman, who must be stronger than she appeared, attached herself to his collar and started dragging him toward what appeared to be the only open door in the room. A young man Apparated in to take her place.

  The floors seem nicely polished, Cyrus thought irrelevantly. He turned back to face the Court.

  The Chief Witch gave him a moment, looking down at her notes. She glanced at the folder. "Nice work on the guards."

  The folder seemed to suffuse with a pale pink colour. AS ALWAYS, AT YOUR SERVICE, YOUR HONOUR.

  Turning back to Cyrus, she said, "Item the First: Concerning your request to 'drop this matter.' Denied."

  The Bailiff spoke softly, but Cyrus had no trouble hearing him.

  "The only person or persons that can agree for charges to be dropped are the defendant, or defendants, and that only with a surety bond, payable in advance, of one year's income from everyone listed as a plaintiff. Said bond to be held for five years, at interest, with all interest going to the defendant. Supposed to prevent frivolous retaliation." He paused. "Oh, and malicious prosecution."

  The Bailiff glanced over at the smarter members of The Family who had returned to their seats and shut up. Sadly, not a majority.

  "No idea why you put down so many co-plaintiffs."

  Cyrus restrained his grimace. The idea had been to drive the Malfoys into bankruptcy, with multiple claims for damages.

  The Chief Witch spoke again, "Item the Second: Concerning your request to settle this inter familia. Denied."

  This time the Chief Witch had to explain, as the Bailiff did not have the necessary information.

  She sighed. "Inter familia negotiation has already been attempted, and has obviously failed, as your presence in this court attests. An Open Duel challenge was issued and properly registered with the Ministry Department for Dueling Regulation. The acceptance of such a challenge is a binding agreement between parties to settle the matter in favor of the winner. Failure to accept the Challenge in the allotted time is not an admission of loss, but does require the parties to appear before the proper authorities, who will decide the case based on its merits, and upon the information provided by Ministry of Magic File.

  "As with all properly registered Duels, an Observer was sent to record the outcome of the Duel, or, in this case, Duels, and to ensure no Dark Magic or Lethal Attacks were used."

  She looked to the folder. "Were any used?"

  The reply read, TWO OF THE CHALLENGED USED MINOR BLACK MAGIC, TO NO AVAIL. AS THE CHALLENGER DECLINED TO PRESS CHARGES, THE OFFENDERS WERE ARRESTED, COUNSELED, AND RELEASED ON THEIR OWN RECOGNISANCE.

  Cyrus bristled. No one had mentioned that. What kind of idiots...?

  The Bailiff leaned in again, almost whispering, "Once someone accepts defeat, they have no further rights to challenge. Did any one...?"

  The Chief Witch asked, "What injuries?"

  AMONG THE CHALLENGED, MULTIPLE SMALL WOUNDS, BRUISES AND SUCH. ONLY THREE WOUNDS THAT COULD BE CLASSIFIED AS SERIOUS, NONE OF WHICH WERE LIFE-THREATENING. THE CHALLENGER HAD PERSONNEL AND TRANSPORT FROM ST. MUNGO'S ON SITE. TRANSPORT WAS NOT NEEDED.

  "And the Challenger?"

  UPON BEING INTERVIEWED POST-DUELS, THE CHALLENGER ADMITTED TO HAVING STUBBED HIS PINKY TOE ON A DROPPED MAIN-GAUCHE. IT DID NOT AFFECT HIS PERFORMANCE.

  The Chief Witch frowned. "Are Main-Gauche even allowed under the Codice Magico del Duello? That was the system he chose, correct?"

  THEIR USE IS SUPPOSED TO BE AGREED ON BEFORE-HAND, BUT THE CHALLENGER CHOSE NOT TO DISALLOW IT.

  "Were any of the defeated duelists stupid enough to be listed as plaintiffs?"

  ONLY TWENTY-THREE, YOU HONOUR.

  "Only twenty-three? Out of how many...? Never mind, pull up the whole report."

  The report appeared on the projection as well, set up in tabular form. Lines kept adding until the projection was almost in the Chief Witch's hair. The lines then started scrolling up as more appeared at the bottom.

  The Duels were listed by Date, Time Stamp, then Name, and had columns for Duration, Spells Attempted/Connected-Challenged and Attempted/Connected-Challenger, The Duels Won column was, so far, completely empty, Duels Lost, completely full. The average Duration of the Duels was, frankly, embarrassing. Worst of all, the final, and widest column was for the Observer's, (of course), observations. The phrase, 'Ran Like a Scared Little Girl' appeared with depressing frequency.

  The very last entry was a welcome change. The Duration caught Cyrus' eye first. Almost an hour. Attempted/Connected-Challenged were respectably high, and Attempted/Connected-Challenger was the lowest he had seen, though still higher than his opponent. And the result was the only mark in the Draw column. The Observer's note read, 'Hard-fought, well fought. Duellists agreed to a draw, and went off to the pub for a drink.'

  Cyrus was almost smiling, until he reached the part about the pub. Frowning, he looked back at the name, which he had not yet noted...

  Daphne...?

  The bailiff had noticed where he was looking. "Yes, she's still got standing, but she's not on the list." He smiled slightly, to himself. "Ironic, what? The only 'Little Girl' that fought did not, in fact, run. The Observer may have to find a new Turn of Phrase."

  The tabulature changed back to text. OF THE TWENTY-THREE, EIGHTEEN ARE IN CHAMBERS TODAY. TWELVE OF THOSE ARE BELOW STAIRS BEING PROCESSED FOR ONE INFRACTION OR ANOTHER. I WILL ADD THIS CHARGE TO THEIR DOCKETS. OF THE SIX REMAINING IN THE GALLERY, ONE WAS RELEASED ON HIS OWN RECOGNISANCE AFTER USING BLACK MAGIC.

  The Chief Witch closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She said, apparently to herself, "Ignorance I said, and ignorance it is."

  Raising her voice, she continued, "Sort out the five and take them downstairs for processing. Send Bailiffs after the five that didn't show up. And the last...," She sighed and shook her head, "Send him straight out to Azkhaban to await arraignment on Performance of Black Magic charges."

  Cyrus gaped. That could get the Death Penalty!

  Five men were being led to the stairs. One was being frog-marched to a door behind the Bench, still attempting to struggle. The man caught Cyrus' eye.

  "CYRUS!" he screamed. "Cyrus, don't let them...!"

  And the door closed.

  My idiot brother, Cyrus thought dully. THAT'S what kind of idiot...

  "Mr. Greengrass?"

  He started, and looked up. "Yes, Your Honour?" he said automatically.

  "The Death Penalty is not on the table. Not at this level."

  Cyrus discovered he hadn't been breathing. "Thank you, Your Honour."

  "Don't thank me. A lot of things changed for the better after the War." She looked back down at her notes. "But a lot didn't."

  She looked at the folder again. "Ministry of Magic File, take note."

  STANDING BY.

  "What degree of consanguinity is represented by this plaintiff list?"

  THE MOST DISTANT FROM THE DEFENDANT IS A THIRD COUSIN.

  'Very well. Full Audit, to the 5th Degree. Identify all..." Her upper lip wrinkled at the word she was about to use. "...victims of this... conspiracy. Verify by Veritaserum."

  Dazed as he was, Cyrus still objected. "We will refuse..."

  "Sir?" came the Bailiff's soft, polite, despised voice. "Only defendants are allowed to refuse..."