Chapter Fifteen: The Tour Guide

It was a small, dark, room with walls of bare stone. From somewhere behind him, Milo could hear an irregular drip... drip-drip... ... ... drip... drip-drip-drip that was wreaking havoc on his concentration. A single light, simultaneously too bright to be comfortable and too dim to illuminate the room, hung above him, flickering occasionally. Milo himself sat in an uncomfortable, nondescript chair behind a simple metal table across from Bones, Shacklebolt, Peasegood, and a couple of unknown mooks.

It was the sort of room that governments throughout time and across dimensions have, somewhere, but rarely show to school tour groups. This one was labelled 'Interview Room H.'

"What do you know about the escaped fugitive, Sirius Black?" Amelia Bones asked him. The two witches that had followed Shacklebolt into the compartment earlier stood by the door with unreadable expressions on their faces. Shacklebolt himself, however, was conspicuously absent. Drip... drip...

Milo shrugged. "That his cousin, Ridiculous Black, is way more fun at parties." Drip... dripdrip-drip-DRIP... drip.

"He's lying," said Arnold Peasegood, the Obliviator. Drip... ... drip... Milo hadn't seen either of these two since he'd sold them his flawed Amulets of Protection.

"Yes, I know he's lying," Bones snapped. "Anyone can tell he's lying." She turned back to Milo. "This will be much easier if you just tell us what you know. It's for your own safety."

"I know I've never been told anything was 'for my own safety' by an authority figure who was completely on the up-and-up," Milo said. Drip-drip... DRIP. "And I know that the Amulets you two are wearing—"

"Brinks, Wu," Bones snapped. "Leave." If the two witches were surprised by the order, they didn't show it. They filed out without a word. She aimed her wand at the closed door. "Colloportus," she muttered, then put the wand away again.

"Things are really falling apart around here, aren't they?" Milo asked. Drip... DRIP-drip. "People escaping from Azkaban left, right, and centre, Hogwarts governors being murdered in their homes, supposedly memory-wiped Muggles being a little too persistent..."

"How do you know about that?" Peasegood snapped. He glanced at Bones, who cocked an eyebrow. "The situation is completely under control," he said, loosening his tie slightly. "A handful of Obliviated Muggles seemed to have relapsed last year. It's happened before."

"We'll discuss this later," Bones said firmly, before looking back at Milo. "What's this about our amulets?"

"They're flawed," Milo explained. "You-Know-Who will be able to Imperius you even if you're wearing them. I'm sorry. I'll give you a... partial refund. Say, fifteen percent?"

"Ridiculous," Peasegood said. "Every amulet has been thoroughly tested against all manner of threats, up to and including the Imperius Curse. They've performed flawlessly."

Bones narrowed her eyes. Drip-drop-drip-drip... ... ... DRIP. "The real question," she said slowly, "is what your vested interest is in having us remove them."

"What?" Milo hadn't seen this coming at all. "No, I was just trying to warn—"

"Is it so that Sirius Black and his followers will be able to seize control of the Ministry?" Bones pressed.

"That's ridiculous. You people don't even get feats, much less Leadership. There's no way he could have followers—"

"Did you facilitate Sirius's escape from Azkaban?"

"I barely even knew Azkaban existed until—" Milo cut himself off before he could say 'until Sirius told me.' "Until the story of Sirius's escape broke."

"What do you know about the disappearance of Gilderoy Lockhart?"

Drip... drip...

"Clocktart? What's he got to do with this?"

"Did Sirius Black kill Lockhart?"

Drip... drip...

"No!"

DRIP.

Everybody froze for a second, and Milo realized he'd made a mistake.

"And what makes you so sure?" Bones asked slowly. "What do you know, Milo?"

"I misspoke," Milo rushed. "I thought you said 'Do you know if Sirius Black killed Lockhart,' and I said, 'No,' as in, 'No, I don't know—'"

"Stop stalling!" Bones slammed her fist down on the table, leaving a small dent in the cheap metal. "We know you can do things no-one else can. Nobody's ever broken out of Azkaban—just like how nobody's ever blocked an Unforgivable Curse before, much less Charmed a piece of cheap jewelry to do it for them."

The horrible steel chair Milo sat in was committing war crimes on his lower back. "I didn't fare too well against the Dementor you sent to the Hogwarts Express—real nice, by the way, turning one of those things loose on a train full of children—so I don't see how I could have walked into Azkaban and broken Black out." He raised his hands up above the table's surface to stretch in an attempt to work out the kinks in his back.

"Incarcerous!" Bones shouted.

Milo hadn't even seen Bones draw her wand, but thick ropes shot out of it, pinning Milo against the wall. He was uncomfortably reminded of the time, only a few days ago, when Bellatrix had him in a similar position.

"Boccob Uncaring!" Milo cursed, fighting against the ropes. "I was just trying to stretch!"

"We've tried to be polite so far," Bones said. "But you must realize we can get the truth out of you, one way or another, don't you?"

Milo struggled slightly, but it was to no avail. "I'm shrugging right now," he said. "I know you can't tell, on account of all the freaking ropes, but that was a shrug. If you could make me, you would have already."

"Peasegood," Bones said, keeping her wand pointed straight at Milo, "get the Veritaserum."

"Oh, right," Milo said. "That." The Ministry had used it on him back in First Year, when they'd tried to prove he wasn't human or something. As if his bonus feat wasn't proof enough of his humanity. "Last time you used that on me, everything I said was dismissed from evidence as delusional," he reminded them. "What makes you think this time will be any different? I can't give testimony. I'm insane. I think I'm from another world, remember?"

From somewhere under the table, Peasegood produced a tiny vial of a clear, colourless liquid.

"Wait," Bones said. She made a sharp, horizontal slash with her wand. "Diffindo." Milo's Amulet of Protection from Good fell from his neck as the silver links of its chain were severed.

"That was brand new!" Milo complained.

"You understand we can use magic to force you to drink this if you resist, correct?" Bones said.

"I would nod if I could move my neck," Milo said. "I'll drink."

"Good. Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Veritaserum was completely tasteless, which would be a perfect opportunity for a pun if (drip-DRIP… drip) Milo wasn't so distracted by the thrice-cursed dripping noise.

"Let's start off with some test questions, shall we?" Peasegood said. "What is your name?"

"Milo Amastacia-Liadon."

"How old are you?"

"Uh…" Milo said. "I'm not entirely certain. I died, and that complicates the issue. Next question?"

Peasegood blinked. "You're dead?"

The great thing about Common (English, as they called it here) is that it's probably the worst language ever devised. It allows anyone with a slippery enough mind and apprentice-knowledge of grammar to get past all kinds of magical truth-telling effects.

In this case: take the phrase 'you're dead.' Peasegood likely intended the contraction 'you're' to mean 'you are.' But, technically, Milo had no way of knowing for sure that Peasegood didn't mean 'you were.' At minimum, he had plausible deniability. The truthful answer to the first interpretation was 'no,' but for the second, equally correct interpretation…

"Dead as THAC0, yeah." Just because Milo had to tell the truth didn't mean he wasn't allowed to mess with his captors. Besides, right this moment, Mordy was probably out there somewhere organizing a rescue for him. The Familiar could find him from anywhere within a mile, and it wouldn't take a genius to figure out that he was being held by the Ministry somewhere. On the other hand, Milo couldn't feel anything from his bond with the rat, but that just meant that he was simply still on his way. Hopefully.

"Peasegood, check his pulse," Bones ordered. "I can't even remember how many times I told Fudge we ought to have this place consecrated against the undead. But he always claims it would offend our 'metabolically-impaired cousins.'"

Peasegood placed two fingers on Milo's neck for twenty seconds. "He's lying."

"Impossible," Bones said. "Nobody his age can lie under the effects of Veritaserum. It's unheard of."

"Like being able to casually block Unforgivable Curses?" Milo added helpfully. "So far I'm three for three against them."

Bones glanced at Peasegood uncertainly. Milo got the feeling that she wasn't used to uncertainty. He was also starting to get the feeling that not everything with Bones was quite hot it seemed.

"You claim that you died," Peasegood said, stepping in after Bones' hesitation. "How did this come about?"

"Well, you asked me about my age, and I—"

"I would advise against further facetiousness, boy."

Milo struggled briefly against the ropes once more. "That was supposed to be another shrug. Fine, have it your way. You-Know-Who offed me in the Chamber of Secrets last year."

"Pretend, for a moment, that we don't know who," Peasegood said. "Don't think you're the first to use the phrase 'you-know-who' under Veritaserum to imply a deceased Dark Wizard as cover for another. A Dark Wizard, by the way, who has been deceased for a decade now."

Milo rolled his eyes. He still had that amount of control, at least. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But you knew that already."

Peasegood glanced at Bones, now sharing her uncertainty.

"You can drop the act," Milo said. "We both know you two aren't calling the shots in this conversation."

Amelia Bones simply shrugged in response, but Peasegood's expression went completely blank, almost as if he'd been switched off. "How did you survive, boy?"

"I was brought back to life by magic," Milo said.

"Impossible," Bones said. "I am closer than anyone to immortality. You must have used some form of trick. A patsy, perhaps, controlled from afar with the Imperius Curse and disguised as you through means of Polyjuice."

"You lived in my head for the better part of a year," Milo said. He didn't often get the chance to really tick off the campaign's BBEG, and he decided he'd make the most of it while he could. "You know I'm not like other wizards; I can do things you've only dreamed of. Death is really no obstacle for me."

"Bellatrix tells me that you don't feel pain," Bones said in a low voice. "She says the Cruciatus Curse has no impact on you."

"You saw that firsthand last year," Milo said. He really wished he could shrug, it would make the whole 'nonchalant in the face of danger' act much more convincing. And fun. "Veritaserum makes me tell the truth, but it doesn't make me answer you. You won't get any useful information out of me. There's not a lot you can actually do to me short of killing me," Milo said, "so why don't we get this over with?" His best bet, as far as he could tell, was annoying Riddle—who he was now completely certain was controlling Bones and Peasegood—to the point where he slipped up and revealed something.

"Ah," Bones said, "But I don't need to kill you."

Milo frowned. He wasn't sure where this was going, but he didn't like it. She reached into her robes and pulled out a very large, very still, brown-and-white rat.

"Mordy," Milo whispered despite himself. "He's not—"

"Dead? No. Only Stunned—for now. Which is how he will remain, unless you answer my questions."

Milo swallowed. He doubted he could swing a deus ex machina for his Familiar, and even if he could, he wasn't sure it was possible. It was another gray area in the rules—dead Familiars could be replaced, but it wasn't clear if they could be brought back to life. No-one cared about them enough to find out. They weren't important. And even if they could be, the loss of a Familiar incurred massive XP damage on the animal's master, and Milo had lost enough levels for one day.

Beyond that, though, Mordenkainen was his Familiar, dammit. His responsibility—and his friend.

Drip… drip… … drip…

"What do you want to know?" Milo asked.

"Where does Harry Potter live when he's not at Hogwarts?"

Milo sighed. When it came down to it, he was just so tired. He'd already had his psyche steamrolled by the Dementor; all he wanted now was to go eat some more chocolate and maybe have a nap. He didn't want to have to pick between his Familiar and Harry. He had no spells, no plans, no Amulet of Protection from Evil/Good/Law/Chaos/Megalomaniacal Evil Wizards, and no-one who knew where he was. His hopes of rescue were dashed with the reveal that the possessed Ministry goons had taken his rat, too.

At the end of the day, he didn't really have any option. If he didn't tell Voldemort, then Mordy would die—and, in all likelihood, so would Milo. If he did spill the beans on Harry's summer home, then Harry would certainly die, while Milo and Mordy would almost certainly die.

"A conversation I had with my sister the other day got me thinking about resource allocation. You know, how X amount of money can buy one of Y or twenty of Z and whatnot. In my adventures, before I came to this world, my companions and I once encountered an isolated tribe eking it out in the ruins of a lost city; the descendants of an expedition sent to gather a rare form of privet shrub for perfume. It was terrible perfume—the smell of Number Four Privet Drives my sister crazy. They could barely scavenge enough food to survive, and almost every night one of them was picked off by a nearby band of troglodytes, or robbed by kobolds. They had no magic, barely any shelter, and practically no weapons—but the thing that really stood out to me was the socks. The majority of them went barefoot."

"I do assume that, sooner or later, you will get to the point," Bones said. "If you do not, your rat will die. Taking, as I understand it, much of your power with it."

"I'm getting there," Milo said. "You were, what, fifty or sixty when you lost your body?"

"Sixty-six," Bones said. "A problem that has since been remedied."

"Sure, sure. Now, for this next bit of the story, I need to make a couple of educated guesses. I don't know much about your world and its history, see. But I know that, back in Myra (City of Light! City of Magic!), an average person bought six pairs of socks every year. You can thank the incredible number of skill ranks I've thrown into various Knowledge skills over the years for that fact. They weren't stockpiling them, though; those socks were just to replace their losses."

"You're stalling, now."

"I'm not. You can believe me, because I'm under Veritaserum, that I'm getting to your answer. Just bear with me for a moment. I'm assuming, because people are so much richer, that people here get more socks than the Azelan peasants did. You strike me like a rich kid, so I'm going to take a wild guess and say you could get replacements for the ones you lost Under a Staircase whenever you wanted with a Little Whinging, and as such you went through somewhere around ten pairs of socks a year. That's six hundred and sixty pairs of socks before you were en-tome-ed, pardon the pun, in that diary."

Drip… drip…

"You have twenty seconds before I kill your rat."

"There were only a hundred and twenty-three people in the tribe when I saw them. I bet they would take better care of their socks than you do, because they wouldn't be able to replace their losses. They wouldn't lose them at night, they wouldn't throw them out because they were too lazy to darn them. I bet they could get a solid year out of a single pair of socks, and they'd get a lot more enjoyment out of them than you did. They'd be among their most treasured possessions. Six hundred and sixty pairs of socks could keep that entire tribe's feet warm for five years. I'm sure there's places like that in your world, too."

"Five… Four… Three…."

" You're interested in finding Harry Potter. I understand that. But Harry Potter's my friend. You've been in my head long enough that you know that I don't let anything happen to my friends. I take precautions to protect them. I've made a series of bolt-holes for my friends to hide in the summers, if need be. One such hiding place is one hundred and seven miles due south of Hogwarts concealed beneath an oak tree that's been split by lightning. If I were you, I would look there first for Harry Potter in the summer. Here's my point: if your mother had had the common decency to simply strangle you when you were first born, and the socks you wasted in life were given to the needy, that's twelve-hundred combined foot-years of warmth added to the world. I know where I'm going when I die," Milo said. "I've seen it. Remember, I'm under the effects of Veritaserum, so you can believe that I believe what I'm about to say is one hundred percent true, you are a gods-damn waste of socks, Riddle. But it's a moot point, because I'll end you well before then. If you want to live to see that summer, you may as well just kill me again. Now let my rat go."

Everything Milo said was technically true. He'd even said precisely where Harry lived between school years. And if he were Voldemort, he would look under random trees and in forests to find Harry, because completely wasting his time would be better for the world than trying to succeed on his objectives. Were Milo Voldemort, he'd also very likely drown himself.

Amelia Bones' eyes twitched. She pointed her wand at Mordenkainen, and began to speak. "I think not. Avada Ke—"

The door behind her opened quickly, flooding the room with light. A tall, ancient man wearing horribly-clashing purple and magenta robes stood in the doorway, his white beard almost reaching his waist. A dozen or so witches and wizards of various description peered into the room curiously.

"And here we have the famous third lower janitorial closet, considered enormously significant among janitorial historians due to its—oh, pardon me," the man said, peering over his half-moon spectacles. "This isn't the third lower janitorial closet at all. In fact, unless I am quite mistaken, these are the long-unused Department of Magical Law Enforcement interrogation cells. Not to be re-opened except in times of war. Clearly, there has been some misunderstanding."

"Dumbledore?" Milo choked out. He could hardly believe it. No, scratch that—when it came to Dumbledore, he could believe anything.

"In fact, a number of mistakes seem to have been made," Dumbledore said, looking at his little visitor's badge. "Not the least that I am, in fact, not a tour guide. Do forgive me, it's a mistake anyone could have made. Much like accidentally, and, I'm afraid, quite illegally, interrogating a minor without just cause or due process."

The Imperiused Bones stared at Dumbledore completely disbelievingly for a moment before rallying.

"No visitors!" she snapped. "How did you even get in here? The door was locked!"

"Yes, I did quite wonder about that," Dumbledore said, giving Milo a quick wink. He turned back to his tour group. "The third lower janitorial closet hasn't been locked since—can anyone tell me?"

"Since the Goblin Uprisings of 1743," Milo called out, choosing to fully embrace the surreal. "When they were used as a last refuge by Ministry staff in an attempt to escape the reprisals."

"Bravo!" Dumbledore said. "Two points for Gryff—oh, excuse me. I'm not a professor anymore, either. I'll have to write Minerva after this tour—" he gasped quite authentically, looking at the tour group as if it was his first time seeing it. "Dear me, things do seem to be going wrong today!" he exclaimed. "This isn't a tour group; it's the entire assembled Wizengamot!"

"Everybody out!" Peasegood shouted, snapping out of his neutral, switched-off expression. "This is a restricted area!"

"Indeed it is, young man," Dumbledore said. "Would you believe, however, that this badge"—he pointed at his visitor's badge—"says that I'm the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, incidentally the highest court in the land—speaking metaphorically, of course, not geographically—and that, therefore, in legal matters, I rather outrank you? Believe me, I'm quite as surprised as you are! I'm sure they'll sort all this out sooner or later, but in the meantime, I'm going to have to suspend this illegal interrogation and bring this child to where he belongs. All in favour?" Dumbledore glanced back at the Wizengamot, most of whom nervously raised their hands, clearly feeling out of their depth. "Very well, motion passed." Dumbledore flicked his wand casually, and the ropes holding Milo to the wall were severed.

Bones looked like she was trying very hard not to murder everyone in sight—which, now that Dumbledore was in the room, Milo doubted she would be capable of, Dark Lord-possession or no. At the very least, with the door now open, she couldn't guarantee that there would be no witnesses.

"Let's go, Milo," Dumbledore said, holding out his free hand.

"Wait," Milo said. First, he grabbed his broken Amulet and stuffed it in a pocket. Then he held out his hand to Amelia Bones. He could hear her teeth grinding from where he was standing as she grudgingly shoved Mordy into Milo's hands.

"Get out," she hissed, her knuckles clenched to white.

Milo practically skipped out through the doorway with Dumbledore.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked when they were alone.

"A little bird told me," Dumbledore said. "Or, more accurately, a little bird carrying a letter from an informant I have in the Ministry. I shouldn't go into further detail, the Ministry is maze-like."

Milo frowned. "Maze-like?"

"Yes, in that it is like maze."

It is… like maze? Milo stared at Dumbledore blankly. "I think you're missing a word that sentence."

"Maize as in corn."

"Oh. That… explains absolutely nothing."

Dumbledore sighed. "American corn grows in ears."

The copper piece dropped. "You're saying the walls have ears," he said, feeling a little silly.

"Naturally. Are you all right?" Dumbledore asked seriously.

"I think so," Milo said. "Bones and Peasegood are being Imperius'd by You-Know-Who, though." Milo frowned at his broken Amulet. "And so might I be, for that matter. My memories might not be my own at this point. Make sure I cast a Protection spell on myself when I next prepare my spells."

"Alas," Dumbledore said, "for I have been sacked, and can't go with you to Hogwarts. But I can ask Minerva to do so."

"That'll work," Milo said. "We don't want a repeat of what happened last year."

"If I may ask," Dumbledore said, "what did happen last year? For, I must confess, I believed you to be dead. Wait, no, do not answer me. It is the nadir of manners to ask personal questions of one under the effects of Veritaserum. We can discuss this matter later."

"How did you know they drugged me?" Milo asked.

"I do not mean to boast, but one does not get to be the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards by collecting bottle caps, Milo. Though I did, I must say, have a modest collection in my office at Hogwarts. I wonder what Severus has done with it."

"Fair enough," Milo said. "Can we finally go to Hogwarts now? I feel like this campaign is already half over."

"Of course," Dumbledore said. "Take my hand."