The Heart of Things

Blair landed in London with an unceremonious thud. Kelly had been kind enough to program their destination right in the middle of the Ministry of Magic reception area. Blair, though feeling slightly ill from the trip, noticed she was the only one on the floor; Blythe and Weir were standing upright, looking quite unperturbed by the violent ride. All Blair wanted to do was vomit.

Michael Weir offered her his arm, and Blair took it, though not really using it to stand. Once on her feet, she smoothed her skirt and tried to press her hair into submission, but without result.

"Well, I suppose we should find the Minister," suggested Patricia Blythe, who still looked as if she'd stepped out of the cover of a catalogue.

They approached the witch sitting behind the desk, who appeared to be removing dirt from beneath her fingernails with a paperclip.

"Excuse me," said Michael Weir, "We've been sent by the United States Department of Sorcery, and we need to speak to the Minister, it's urgent."

The witch glanced at him without interest. "You must register your wand, first."

"We're all registered," said Patricia, "Unless you have to re-register every visit."

"Under what names?"

"Patricia Blythe, Michael Weir, and Blair...I'm sorry, dear, I don't know your last name."

Blair felt a blush rising up her neck. Kelly had only said her last name about fifty times during their meeting. Was the woman stupid, or did she just need to assert her seniority to feel important?

"MacLean. Blair MacLean," Blair said firmly.

The witch had begun to open a file cabinet stacked to the brim with parchment. Blair was shocked that they didn't use computers to keep their records-it was so much more efficient. But Blair had to admit that watching the drawer shoot out three pieces of parchment as the front-desk witch said their names was pretty damn cool.

"All right, you're all clear-"

But before she could finish, the Minister of Magic himself had approached and interrupted her.

"You must be the American team they've sent over! We've been expecting you, of course. Welcome to London. I'm Arthur Weasley, Minister of Magic."

They all, in turn, shook hands with the Minister and introduced themselves.

Blair's first impression of Arthur Weasley was good-he had a kind, yet careworn face, and graying orange hair that gave him instant personality.

“Follow me,” he instructed them, walking towards an elevator that reminded Blair of the one at work.

Once they had all boarded the elevator, the Minister immediately got down to business.

“I don’t want any of you to get the wrong idea about Harry,” he said firmly. “He’s a good lad, and he’s got every right to be angry. A lot of bad things have happened to him in his short lifetime.”

Here we go, thought Blair. Here comes the “Everyone-must-love-Harry-Potter-because-he’s-the-world’s-most-adorable-tragic-hero,” speech.

Blair was, however, surprised by the sincerity in the Minister’s voice, as if he actually knew Potter and cared about him.

“However, just because he’s Harry Potter doesn’t mean he can go gallivanting around and exposing the wizarding world to Muggles.”

Blair held back a laugh, not sure if the Minister was kidding or not. But there was a twinkle in his eye.

“That is why you all are so important. I’m pairing you with my team of officials, and they’re just in here…” the elevator opened right into the Minister’s office, where a witch and two wizards sat, apparently waiting for them.

“Ms. Blythe, Ms. MacLean, and Mr. Weir, I’d like to introduce you to our head of International Magical Cooperation, and my son, Percy Weasley.”

Blair could have guessed it was his son-the younger man had the same pumpkin-colored hair.

“Just there is Mariana White, one of our most superb Ambassadors. And our head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Mark Evans.”

They all took turns shaking hands.

“We’ve been trying to devise a course of action, which of you will be working directly with Potter?’

“Me,” said Blair, realizing that the others regarded this to be the “dirty work” of the assignment. While they would be hard at work keeping security tight and solving the mystery of J.K. Rowling, she would be sucking up to Harry Potter, the spoiled brat who cared more about his reputation than international magical security.

“Excellent. I’ve told him you are coming, though I must warn you, he’s in a hostile mood at the moment. I’ve arranged a meeting for you in the Buttered Pig Tavern, in Diagon Alley. I should hope you wouldn’t have any trouble working things out…Harry isn’t blind to reason.”

Well, that’s good news, thought Blair sarcastically.

“Got any pointers for me?” asked Blair, only half-joking.

“Just try to be patient with him. He’s still trying to get over the deaths of quite a few loved ones that occurred during Voldemort’s defeat,” -the Minister looked proud of himself for having said the name out loud- “and is hard at work training as an Auror. We all warned him he’d have a mental breakdown if he kept it up, but there you are.”

Blair raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. If the Minister expected her to baby Potter in the slightest, he had another thing coming. Blair could think of at least a dozen things she’d rather be doing at the moment, paperwork included. She had Potter to thank for this lovely side trip to London, and all when she could be enjoying spring at home.

“When am I supposed to meet him?” asked Blair, crossing her arms over her chest.

“This evening, at seven-thirty. I thought it would be good to work this out as soon as possible, so we could get down to the real problem.”

“And what is the real problem?” asked Patricia, clearly unhappy at being left out of the conversation.

“Why, the leak of course, Ms. Blythe. The person who breached security and involved Muggles must be caught, and punished.”

“If you don’t mind,” Blair cut in, before anyone else could start on a new subject, “I’d really like to get to my room. I’m feeling a bit ill from the trip over, and could use a nap before I meet with Potter.”

At the moment, she didn’t really care if she was being rude. Her head was hurting to badly for her to think clearly.

“Of course, of course, Ms. MacLean,” said the Minister understandingly, though Patricia Blythe threw her a dirty look. “I’ve reserved rooms for all three of you in the Leaky Cauldron. Do you know your way to Diagon Alley, or should I arrange for a guide?”

“No, I’ve stayed at the Leaky Cauldron before, but thank you,” said Blair, with a weak smile. “I appreciate your courtesy. Should I meet back with you any time soon?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d like to receive an owl detailing your meeting with Harry, and then meet with all of you for lunch tomorrow. We can see where we are then, and then plan how to continue.”

“All right. Until tomorrow, then.”

The Minister nodded. Blair let herself out of his office, thinking it was probably considered rude to apparate inside. But just as soon as she had entered the hall, she had left it, reappearing beside the Leaky Cauldron fireplace.

“’Allo!” greeted the bartender wiping glasses behind the counter. “What can I get for ya?”

Blair gave an obligatory smile. “My name is Blair MacLean, I’m checking in.”

“Ah, you’re the lass on the Potter case, eh? Be good to our boy, will ya?”

Blair was getting quite frustrated with the requests to be nice to Potter by now. But she gave another, though smaller, smile.

“Of course.”

He walked over to a rack of keys, each one completely unique. He reached for an old-fashioned one made of tarnished silver, and handed it to her.

“Room 18. Enjoy your stay.”

It wasn’t until she entered her room and removed her coat that she realized she had left her suitcase in Kelly’s office. Placing her briefcase on the dresser, she took her wand out of her lapel pocket and conjured it, noticing that it took a bit longer than normal with her headache.

After she had changed out of her suit, she removed her portable cauldron from her suitcase, along with the ingredients for a Painkiller Potion. It was simple to concoct, really, but her aching head made her feel as if she were confunded. Taking a little more time than was normally necessary, Blair managed to brew the potion with out burning herself, and felt the instant ebbing of her headache as she swallowed a cupful of the clear blue liquid.

Realizing she wasn’t as tired as she had felt with the headache, she decided to do some sightseeing while she was in Diagon Alley. In her previous visits, there hadn’t been nearly enough time to explore the town, and since it was supposed to be ideal for shopping, she had always regretted it. There was a similar area in New York City where wizards could congregate, but it didn’t have nearly the charm the Diagon Alley did.

Besides, the old-fashioned lifestyle of British witches and wizards fascinated her. In the States, the magical community had eagerly welcomed the computer into the workplace, since records had been nearly impossible to keep up with by hand. But they somehow managed it here, and Blair admired them for it.

Blair stepped out into the brisk March air with a grin on her face. The town was buzzing with life, properly dressed witches and wizards crowding the streets. I haven’t worn a robe since school, thought Blair with a sigh. Just as this went through her mind, she spotted a shop, with a sign hanging above the door that read Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.
Blair couldn’t help but take a peek inside.

A sign hanging in midair by the door advertised a half-off sale on all “spangled, self-ironing, beautifying, slimming, fattening, lengthening, temperature-adjusting, and plain” robes.

Blair had never seen so many different types of fabric. There was cotton and silk, burlap and leather. And each of them had their own set of features. Some boasted that they never needed to be washed, while others claimed to repel curses.

Blair couldn’t resist trying on a midnight blue robe of crushed velvet, which promised to beautify whoever was wearing it. Once in the dressing room, it wasn’t hard to notice the changes the robes made. Blair’s curls were smoother and downright shimmery; the chap was gone from her lips, and her eyelashes had grown longer and darker. Her eyes seemed brighter, and her freckles complimented her features rather than clashing with them. The changes didn’t stop at her face-her breasts were evidently larger, her shoulders narrower, and even her feet an unobtrusive size 7.

“Wow,” Blair said softly. She rarely had time to make herself look nice, and thought it was probably a lost cause anyway. She had no idea that magic could change someone’s appearance so drastically.

Part of her longed to buy it. Part of her mind had already wandered to the thought of seducing Potter into submission, and this robe would give her the confidence and the equipment to achieve it. It was be so much easier than trying to reason with him.

Then she mentally slapped herself. I am NOT a mindless twit who sleeps around as a means to an end.

Within five minutes, the robe was back on the rack and she was walking out the door, unable to believe she had actually considered such a thing. My God, what have I become? Thought Blair, trying her best to laugh it off. Working in government has corrupted me.

But another shop had caught her eye, banishing her embarrassing thoughts. Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes.

Weasley wasn’t that common of a name. Did the Minister of Magic own a joke shop?

She pushed the door to the shop open, stepping inside and jumping with fright at the sound of a foghorn. She glance at her feet and saw she had stepped on a large green button, clearly intended to scare first-time customers out of their wits.

She heard a chuckle from the man behind the counter, and found that her suspicions were confirmed-if the orange hair on the man’s head was any clue, he was definitely another son of the Minister of Magic.

“You Weasley?” she asked him.

“One of them. Sorry about the horn. Can I help you? You sound like you’re from out of town.”

One of them? How many children did Arthur Weasley have?

“Just from across the pond,” answered Blair, glancing around at the colorful array of merchandise. “I just met Arthur Weasley today, and the name caught my eye. You must be a relation.”

“Arthur Weasley’s my father. Fred Weasley, at your service.”

Blair reached out to shake his hand. “Blair MacLean.”

“You’re the girl they’ve sent to deal with Harry! Welcome to London!”

Dammit, was there anyone in England who didn’t know who she was?

“Um…thanks.”

“Oy, Fred, is that a young lady I hear? Is she worth coming out for?” A voice yelled from the back.

“I’ll say, twin. Come have a look.”

Blair blushed. Clearly, strangers did not intimidate these young men.

“I feel like she’s family already,” said Fred, to an identical boy who had emerged from the stock room. “She’s the lass they sent to harass our young Mr. Potter.”

“Splendid!” said the second twin, reaching out to shake her hand. “George Weasley.”

“Blair.” Blair wasn’t quite sure what to say next.

“I told Harry. I told him they’d send the law after him if he went ballistic on the Ministry,” said George. She had a feeling that if they weren’t wearing different shirts, she’d forget who was who as soon as they moved.

“Well, I’m not exactly…I’m just…here to reason with him. I don’t actually get to arrest anyone.”

“Damn,” said Fred. “I wanted to try out our Metal Melter on the holding cell.”

Blair couldn’t help but laugh. She liked the twins already.

“So, how many children does Arthur Weasley actually have?” she asked, curious.

“Seven. Our littlest brother is best friends with your charge.” Despite their mismatched shirts, she’d already confused them.

“Potter, you mean? Interesting.” She glanced at her watch. “Damn, it’s already seven. Could you boys direct me to the Buttered Pig Tavern? I have to meet him in half an hour.”

“Sure. Just keep going that way,” he (she thought it might have been Fred) jerked his thumb to the left, “It’s number 105, on this side of the street.”

“Thanks,” said Blair.

“Wait, here, take a toffee. Our treat.” Yes, she was sure that was George, she could see now that there was a slight difference in the shapes of their faces.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting it, though wary of accepting food from the owners of a joke shop. Never take candy from strangers, she thought with a smile.

She pocketed the toffee and left the shop, heading in the direction Fred had indicated. She could use a stiff drink about now.