A month had passed since the battle in Hogwarts. Harry had been elated for a fortnight and then began to feel restless. Ron was in America at a Wu-Tang concert. Percy Weasley suggested that Harry do some work experience at the Ministry of Magic. Harry already had the beginnings of a dynamite career set up for September and certainly didn’t need to improve his CV but Percy went ahead and arranged a week at the ministry anyway and now Harry felt obligated. Also, Hermione was already working there and she said she needed “someone to go to lunch with”.
Harry prodded the door and tried various things with his wand. It didn’t move. Six years of magical education, funded by what means he had never thought to ask, had not taught him everything there was to know about doors. Harry waved his temporary magical security swipe card unsurely in front of the door. Nothing happened. He tried shoving it between the door and the door frame and running it up and down. Still nothing happened.
Harry stood back to think and rearrange his boxers, these being the baggy ones that wouldn’t quit going up his ass crack, especially on warm days like this.
No sooner had he started rummaging down there than letters started to appear on the door as if a befonted hammer were smashing them there, punching through the black paint to reveal pale wood behind. Splinters of cheap pine ricocheted off Harry’s glasses.
So read the words. Harry had no idea what they meant. He didn’t have long to look at them either because pretty soon the door was tottering backwards and forwards, creaking and then beginning to fall towards Harry who ducked and rolled out of the way before it crashed on the tile floor.
Through the dust Harry perceived a uniformed clerk with a desk and a pot plant. The behaviour of the door was clearly of no surprise to the clerk for he did not raise his eyes from his copy of Hitler’s Willing Executioners.
He gave Harry some forms to fill in and said, “The thesis is that antisemitism was deeply embedded in German identity. It is a controversial idea.”
“Do you mean about the door? I’m sorry,” said Harry with wide-eyed ignorance.
The clerk frowned and directed Harry to a waiting area. He told him that the sort of waiting he should do was waiting for a Magical Safety In The Workplace Induction and that later he should return to this place to do waiting for his Magical Fire Safety Induction.
For both of these Harry was inducted by Raymond, a kindly old man who had been inducting people since he was sixteen. It was fair to say that Raymond knew better than most that inductions could be very dull and early in his career he realised that he could stop his inductees becoming too bored by making jokes. Raymond had worked hard on these jokes and over the decades his inductions had become something in the order of a well-crafted comedy routine.
Harry was powerless in the face of these jokes. He felt that he was coming across as a humourless twat because he wasn’t joking back. It was a profoundly stressful morning.
After the inductions Raymond gave Harry a magical photo ID card and said that he would escort Harry to his magical workstation. Harry felt suddenly excited, he was about to find out what went on in this most mysterious department in the Department of Mysteries.
Raymond led Harry down a passageway of grand polystyrene panelling, magically coated to look like tropical hardwood. High mullionedly mullioned windows offered glimpses of strange lights and eruptions.
Harry’s heart was pounding as Raymond bent to fondle one of the polystyrene panels. Raymond fondled with his eyes half-closed and made murmurs of subdued ecstasy. Harry marvelled at the strange wonderful magic of the old man.
After a time the panel fell away to reveal a dark cupboard-like space behind. Raymond felt around in the cupboard and retrieved from the gloom a brand new Montblanc pen in a luxury display box. Removing the pen from the box with a paper serviette, Raymond instructed Harry to touch the pen in order to be transported to his workstation.
This was it, thought Harry, now experiencing near uncontainable feversish exhilaration at what he might be about to discover. Gulping, Harry seized the Montblanc pen, felt that familiar yoinking sensation and the heat of a thousand suns as he burrowed through the fabric of space before emerging into the bleak light of a car park on an industrial estate.
Harry did all the usual blinking and looking around before he noticed a sign next to him that said in large letters “DoM” and in smaller letters “Building 18, eLyssian Fields Business Park”. Ahead of him was a single-storey office building.
Inside a receptionist witch ignored Harry’s Hugh Grant-style bashful greetings and bumblings and told him to go to desk 31, pointing to a set of doors to her right.
“Shouldn’t this building be disguised? You know, so muggles can’t see it,” said Harry.
The receptionist shrugged, “What’s there to disguise?”
Through the doors there were rows and rows of typewriters, witches and wizards busy at each of them. Harry found desk 31 and noticed immediately that it had no chair. The desk was entirely bare except for a typewriter and Bunsen burner. Harry bent over the desk and looked at the typewriter. Immediately, it began to produce text of its own accord:
Welcome to MagicosoftDOS
M:>MagicsoftDOS version 1.3.2. All rights reserved 1982
M:>MagicsoftDOS version 1.3.2. All rights reserved 1982
M:>MagicsoftDOS version 1.3.2. All rights reserved 1982
M:>MagicsoftDOS version 1.3.2. All rights reserved 1982
Indexing... MAJ MAg Looking for volume...
AUto MAJ BAT 18_9_9_44
TAXo MAJ BAT 18_9_8_31
EX GOD 34_2_21_1
Looking for M:>drive...
Not found...
Not found...
Not found...
Not found...
ERROR
L&oking f`w M@>...
Not found...
Not found...
Not found...
Not found...
Not found...
Not found...
Not found_
Then it stopped. Harry tried pressing a the H key. The typewriter creaked a little but no H appeared. Fuck, thought Harry. He looked around pathetically for someone to help him, still leaning on his desk without a chair. Fuck.
Yellow flames burst from the Bunsen burner and a red-haired human head the size of a scotch egg squeezed itself up the tube and into view.
“Percy!”
“Hallo, Harry. Thought I’d see how you’re getting on.”
“Er, alright. I’ve broken my typewriter.”
“Oh don’t worry, just call IT services. Listen, I’m a bit busy what with the Pope and everything but I thought I’d see how you’re getting on.”
“Yeah...”
“Very busy actually. Trying to come up with a new education bill. Root and branch reform. It’s very difficult of course, we’re all Old Hogwartians so most of us can barely count! Transfiguration and potions are all good fun of course but no good for the business of government. I know you don’t like hearing people criticise old Dumbledore, Harry, but I must say it was his mania for practical magical education that has left us with a generation that is very nearly illiterate and entirely innumerate. And that’s just the civil servants! It’s as if he thought that we were all in training to go off and be sorcerers living in caves in the hills, staring gloomily into cauldrons. That may will have been the way it was in his day but we need different skills in the modern wizarding world.
“We’ve had to get some muggle politicos in and keep them under memory charms. The results from our first consultation have been very interesting. Vincent Cable was able to draw our attention to the spectacular wealth inequality in wizard society. You know there are perfectly viable residential properties lying vacant on Knockturn Alley – that’s why the place is such a dive. We’re thinking of proposing a property tax so that for the first time there’s a charge on the use-value of property. In the mean time we’re issuing management orders on those properties. Affordable homes. It’s a sea change in wizarding politics, Harry. And the power of taxation, Harry, its a magic beyond anything I’ve seen before! You must be very excited to be working down there in Magical Tax Inquiries.”
“What?”
“Don’t thank me yet though – I knew you’d like it! Of course, that wealth tax thing isn’t quite in my remit. As far as the education thing goes, it’s not only the curriculum of the school Harry but the funding. You know, and I hate to be so critical of Dumbledore again, but he really alienated the donors. Hogwarts is run entirely thanks to donations from wealthy wizarding families – the Malfoys and so on. I’m afraid to say that Dumbledore did nothing but treat them with contempt, so money that should have gone on teaching went on new armchairs for the Slytherin common room. It’s ridiculous. The school’s practically, in fact, very nearly bankrupt. So we either appease the donors with some radical pure-blood only type entrance standards or we nationalise the school. But that would mean massive wizarding tax hikes and I don’t know if the rest of the ministry would wear it. Of course, it all depends on what happens with the Pope this afternoon.”
“Right...”
“I’ve been speaking to your friend Hermione – very interesting ideas she has! What was it she said... I remember! Wholesale sacio-demacrotic reform, if not full Seychellism. It’s a very exciting time, Harry! Anyway, glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself. I’ve enjoyed chatting with you but, as I say, I’m very busy so I don’t have much time but, you know, if you need anything or anything then... you know. Anyway, best be off!”
Percy’s head retreated down the tube. Harry had no idea what Percy was talking about and suspected that Percy didn’t either.
He looked at his typewriter. The text from before was gone and had been replaced:
NO SIGNAL INPUT_
Christ, muttered Harry. But he didn’t have time to dwell on this – white smoke was billowing from the Bunsen burner. The smoke coalesced into another miniature male human head, this time an old gaunt one wearing a red zucchetto.
“Harry Potter, His Eminence the Bishop of Rome requests ah that you meet him in the ah Ministry of Magic at your earliest ah convenience.”
“Who?” asked Harry, looking stern and channelling a portion of the anger that he was feeling towards his typewriter.
“The ah Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, ah Primate of Italy...” replied the old man fervently before Harry interrupted.
“OK, and who should I ask for?”
“The ah Pope.”
“Right. Thank you.”
The man’s head nodded and then burst into smoke that drifted over to the woman working at the desk next to Harry causing her to splutter and cough.
“Sorry,” said Harry but she wafted away his apology and kept typing.
He massaged his brow and marvelled that the world is even more confusing than his previous estimation of how confusing it is, which was that it is remarkably confusing.
Fierce blue flames rose from the Bunsen burner and Harry watched them resignedly, expecting to be invited to supper with the androids.
Up popped Hermione’s head.
“Hi, Harry. You look exhausted.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” said Harry, smiling.
“Right, well where shall we do lunch then?” asked Hermione brightly.
“Do? Oh shit, sorry, I’ve got to see Pope or something. Maybe we could go afterwards. I’ll be back in London for that anyway...”
“You’re doing what? The Pope?” said Hermione, and Harry was disappointed to see that she was looking really fucking annoyed, “Why Harry?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know who Pope is.”
“Honestly. I know it’s not your fault and everything, but between your muggle upbringing and wizarding secondary education you’ve contrived to know nothing about anything.”
“Thank you,” said Harry.
Hermione explained to Harry who the Pope is.
“OK, he’s a sort of muggle king then?”
“Um, yeeees... No,” said Hermione, “Anyway, the point is, the Pope is responsible for choosing the Minister of Magic.”
“Oh right,” said Harry, feigning understanding.
“ ‘Oh right’...?” Hermione said, now looking dangerously cross, “Don’t you think it’s ridiculous?”
“I guess so...”
“Well it is ridiculous! A disgrace. And it’s one of the first priorities for reform, in my view...”
This was followed by a dilation on the weaknesses of the magical constitution and the need in the wizarding community for a strong secular voice in the absence of Dumbledore. All this was peppered with a variety of disparaging references to “the Pope of Rome”.
Harry was too worn out by the morning’s activity to apparate back to the Ministry of Magic for his date with the Pope so he took The Daye Bus. The Daye Bus is in some ways similar to the other great wizarding bus, The Knight Bus, but it stays more or less on the roads, doesn’t teleport and rarely goes faster than 45 miles an hour. For someone who had spent the last year engaged full time in guerrilla warfare and espionage, Harry’s first experience of work had taken a surprising toll and he slept most of the way.
When Harry arrived back at the ministry he was told that the Pope would see him in the minister’s rooms on the seventh floor, the top floor. Harry went up in the lift and made his way through an antechamber where thronged cardinals dressed in all their cardinalia waited in vestibular relegation and eyed Harry jealously.
Harry knocked on the door to the minister’s office and entered to find the Pope established at the minister’s desk and yelling down a diplomatic telephone.
“A hundred thousand galleons? I won’t pay it.”
With a flourish of the papal left hand, the Pope acknowledged Harry and indicated that he should shut the door and could help himself to newspapers and bagels.
“Uh huh, well you may say sodomite, Charles, but I say cocksucker... No, no, he’s a cocksucker... Tell him I won’t pay... Tell him sixty thousand and not a knut more...”
Harry sat down and ate a bit of smoked salmon. As the Pope continued to talk on the phone he caught Harry’s gaze and rolled his eyes as if to communicate the exasperating nature and regrettable necessity of temporal commerce and telephone calls in general.
“Uh huh, well we’ll see... OK, bye.”
The Pope replaced the receiver and leant back in his chair like a tycoon.
“Harry Potter,” he said, shaking his head and then drumming his fingers on his robed chest. “Vermouth? Vodka? Sherry?”
“Er, OK. Yes please. Er... Vermouth.”
“Bon,” said the Pope, springing alacritiously from his chair and making his way to a large drinks cabinet. “I’ve been very much looking forward to seeing you, Harry. I suppose you know why I’m here?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
The Pope walked over to Harry and handed him his drink. He gestured to the scar on Harry’s forehead, “May I?”
“Um, OK,” said Harry.
He stood up and the Pope stroked his scar. The papal jowls wobbled as the Pope closed his eyes and made Latin mutterings. With two fingers on the scar, he forced Harry’s head backwards. He ripped away Harry’s glasses and looked hard into Harry’s eyes. Finally, he let go, handed Harry back his glasses and did one of those two-fingered blessings that Popes do.
“Molto bene!” he said, now embracing Harry, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Harry.
“Sorry about that. Had to be sure.
“Self-exorcism, Harry, I suppose that is how we must understand it. Very impressive. And that poor man you killed, you would not extend to him the benefit of these gifts of yours?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No, you’re right. Not your gifts, really – the Lord’s, granted according to His divine will.
“Well, back to the business of the day. Who do we choose, Harry? Who should be the next Secretary of State for Magical Affairs?”
“You’re including me in this decision?” For a moment, despite his mean understanding of what was going on, Harry experienced excitement in the ignoble thought that the Pope was proposing that he, Harry, could become Minister.
“Apparently there’s some youngsters in the ministry with expensive, not to say dangerous, ideas. We need somebody to keep them at bay...”
A buzzer sounded on the Pope’s desk. The Pope scowled and pressed a button.
“What is it, Claire? I thought I said no interruptions... Oh! Oh, why didn’t you say? No, let him in, of course.
“Excellente!”
The door opened and Lucius Malfoy sashayed in.
“Lenny,” he said, his arms outstretched and his face wearing a warm smile.
“Lucy,” said the Pope, taking Lucius into a cuddle.
“Harry, this is the newly anointed Archbishop of Hogsmeade, Lucius Malfoy. Have you met before?”
Were Harry more of a total gimp, he would have said that this took the archiepiscopal piss. Instead, he drew his wand and shot two curses: one to kill Lucius and the other to stun the Pope. Both found their mark.
Harry felt, for the first time all day, that he was in his element. He knew exactly what to do. He defenestrated the body of the pontiff and then dove after it.
