Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
by Mad Maudlin

15. In which everything is over except that which is not.

Everything else is, of course, a matter of public record—or as public as super secret societies ever get. Except perhaps the look on O'Guin's face when, expecting to see Weasley and I in chains, he instead saw Potter and Granger hauling Kidd into detention. Oh, and the fact that I broke his nose and two of my knuckles greeting him. But that's not particularly important.

With a bit help from an Obliviator, I was finally able to give coherent testimony against Kidd and O'Guin: she had been feeding me invoices for Dies' shipments, but I discovered that she was hiding others that on cursory examination looked identical—invoices for shipments of Draught of Heaven, though of course I didn't realize it at the time. Kidd became terribly agitated when she found out I was duplicating her secret stash and passing the copies to O'Guin, and we rowed, and then she disappeared; I was going to tell O'Guin that I suspected her death was faked when he ever so politely attacked me. A few rounds with a Legilimens (Potter, unfortunately) and several excessive doses of truth potion eventually satisfied all takers to the nature of reality, and Kidd and O'Guin were spirited away, never to be heard from again, I dearly hope.

In fact, just about everything seemed to come out all right in the end. I was liberated from Ministry custody by the Confederation in order to testify. They, grudgingly, agreed to fulfill their end of my original bargain with O'Guin; I expect any time now the British Ministry will be issuing me a full written apology on bended knee. Weasley had an extended stay in St. Mungo's while they sorted out what was making him cough up blood every hour on the hour, by when he was released we spent a solid week shagging like rabbits in his parent's attic before you S.J.F. types came and fetched us to New York to interrogate us again for God only knows what reason. I daresay we've had something like a happy ending. I'm still sending a hex to the Stiffles, though. It's the principle of the thing.

Draco D. Malfoy

The tall, gray-haired man in the tan robes tossed the manuscript onto the table. "I have to say, Mr. Malfoy, you have a way with words."

"Thank you, Agent Dawson," said Draco Malfoy, sitting across from him.

Dawson stood and began to walk slowly around the small room. "You'll be gratified to know that Miss Kidd is going to be extradited to the United States shortly, to face charges of conspiracy, trafficking, fraud and failure to register as an Animagus."

"And O'Guin?" Malfoy asked.

"Agent O'Guin's case has been dealt with internally," Dawson said. "Unfortunately, further investigation of the potion ring and—what did you call him? 'Basil?'—that investigation has been handed over to the Americans for the foreseeable future. However, I don't believe you're in any further danger."

Malfoy snorted softly. "Comforting."

"Which leaves just one or two outstanding matters to deal with."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Dawson leaned over the table and pushed the manuscript towards Malfoy. "It's a very stirring story you tell, Mr. Malfoy."

"I try my best."

"Very detailed, also."

"You did ask for complete descriptions."

"We didn't ask for them in narrative format."

"I felt it was the most logical way to expose the progression of events."

Dawson smiled a bit. "I'm sure," he said slowly, never taking his eyes from Malfoy, "that you're aware that your story and Agent Weasley's don't exactly match up?"

"No, actually, I wasn't."

"They diverge rather considerably in a few respects, actually."

Without batting an eye, Malfoy said, "Well, that's his lookout, isn't it?"

Dawson sighed. "Mr. Malfoy, you are a highly intelligent, highly motivated man. I like you. And I don't like having to tell you that the Ministry of Magic has declined to cancel the warrants for your arrest."

Malfoy moved for the first time during the entire interview, a subtle twitch that betrayed only a hint of emotion. "And why precisely is that?"

"Because," Dawson said, "after one agent of the S.J.F. spent three days sending their entire law enforcement department on a wild goose-chase and another assaulted several of their Aurors and smuggled a wanted criminal into the country, they're not feeling particularly kind towards the Confederation."

Malfoy nodded slowly. "I see."

"I'm sorry, for what it's worth."

"Which is very little."

Dawson came around the side of the table and leaned against it, arms crossed. "What do you intend to do now?"

"Now?" Malfoy snorted. "I suppose I shall return to my glamorous exile and my business interests here in America. Why?"

"Because there are...options."

One pale eyebrow rose nearly to Malfoy's hairline. "Options?"

"Sodalitas Johannum Factotorum," Dawson said. "Do you know what it means? 'The Brotherhood of the Jack-of-all-Trades.'"

"How charming."

Dawson began to pace again. "We seek out witches and wizards with...let's say 'unique' sets of skills. The training period can be rather lengthy, but the job itself is rewarding. And if you happened to, say, wander into Britain on assignment from time to time, the Ministry of Magic there couldn't touch you."

"If I were to join, you mean."

"If you join."

"And if I don't?"

"Well, I don't pretend to know what the life of an expat business mogul looks like, but I suppose it has its own rewards."

Malfoy was silent for several moments, then said with carefully calculated inflection, "One would think the S.J.F might be looking for someone a bit more...predictable."

"You mean someone a bit more like Agent Weasley?" Dawson smiled. "Ron is an exemplary agent, but it takes all kinds to make a super-secret society work. You might've noticed that neither of you would've survived this fiasco without the help of other."

Malfoy fell silent again for a moment, then said softly, "I'll consider it."

"That's all I ask. You can return to your room now."

Malfoy left the interrogation room and wended his way through the maze-like corridors of the ICW building; He got lost twice, but eventually located again the small suite of rooms he'd been given for the duration of his interrogation. A highly agitated Weasley nearly bowled him over as he entered.

"Did they buy it? Did they say anything?"

"Of course they bought it," Malfoy snapped. "They expect me to lie, they probably think I was embellishing the story for my own perverse gratification. Which I did, but only at the end. And just a bit."

Weasley sighed. "Thank god...wait. What happened, then?"

"Nothing happened."

"You look like you've got a pickle up your arse. What happened?"

Malfoy collapsed on the small, worn couch and shut his eyes. "The warrants are still standing."

"Oh, fucking hell..."

"And I've been offered a job."

Weasley went white and frozen; after a moment of silence, Malfoy opened one eye curiously. "That's," Weasley stammered. "That's...er...here?"

"No, Weasley, in Guinea Bissou."


"Apparently I have a 'unique set of skills.'"

Weasley stared in several different directions, looking completely frazzled, and finally sat down lightly on the couch next to Malfoy. "Are you going to accept it?" he asked nervously.

"Maybe," Malfoy said, and when Weasley's breath hitched he smiled. "But there are other matters to see to before I decide."

"Like what?"

"For starters, you could investigate the alleged pickle in my arse."

Weasley blinked, then smiled. "You're a fucking lunatic," he said affectionately, and pounced.