Chapter 17

Mundungus Fletcher eased back in one of the few pieces of furniture that belonged to him, an old armchair with the arm rests worn out and the springs gone. He puffed on his pipe, the morning edition of The Daily Prophet at hand, the date showing that Christmas was not much more than two weeks away. His smiled contentedly, even though his rent was again in arrears, and there was barely any food in his flat. Unless he was able to see a fence about the jewelry he'd lifted the week before in Diagon Alley, he'd be going hungry again. Even worse, there was a very real prospect that he was soon to receive a sound beating later that very day- he had almost no money, but he did have a debt to pay, five galleons a week minimum before even the principal was touched. Clearly some serious thieving was the order of the day.

But the shops would not be open for another thirty minutes or so and he would be unable to steal from anyone until then. Despite his difficulties, Mundungus was feeling rather cheerful as he reached for his paper. All he had to do was wait until next year. His ship would finally come in. All his adult life he'd lived on the periphery, never paycheque-to-paycheque of course, for as a petty criminal he'd never done an honest day's work. But it wasn't that easy being a crook, either. Even worse, he had no speciality - he was a jack-of-all-trades in the underworld. Shoplifting was perhaps his most common activity, but he engaged also in petty fraud, pickpocketing when the opportunity arose, smuggling, and even robbery. But soon the years of struggling would be over.

Mundungus congratulated himself on being sharp, always looking for an angle. And so after he'd observed the inaugural meeting of the Defence Against the Dark Arts Club at the Hog's Head, he'd lingered in Hogsmeade a few days, paying his way by carefully stealing the odd tip left for waiters. His patience was rewarded when a few days later, he overhead a table of Hogwarts professors complaining about Decree Number 24. He filed that little tidbit away, and it wasn't long before he learned that no teams or clubs were being re-formed. There wouldn't even be a tiddlywinks club, let alone Quidditch. No sooner had he heard the news than he was off to Knockturn Alley.

"A 'undred quid, Fletcher?" the beefy man had asked him doubtfully in the dark recesses of The Hanged Man. Mundungus put down his pint and stared up at the money lender's face - more like half a face, for much of it was horribly scarred. Mundungus repressed a shudder, and tried to sound confident.

"I'm good for it, don't you worry!. This one's a sure thing, I tell you. But I've got to get the money quick - in the next couple of hours or so, otherwise the chance will be gone!"

"But a 'undred quid!" said the man again. Handsome (for that was his nickname) cracked his knuckles as he considered the request. He could have lent Mundungus twenty times that, and far more if given a day or two to raise the funds. But Mundungus Fletcher's reputation, even among those who habituated the shady corners of Knockturn Alley, was not very good. If Mundungus failed to repay the loan, the amount was too small to hurt Handsome at all. But for reputation's sake, he'd have to make an example of Mundungus, and that would be expensive. It had never cost him less than five hundred galleons to have someone taken out. But perhaps only a few beatings would be necessary to keep the loan current. And if more extreme measures were called for, Handsome might take care of the defaulter himself - Mundungus was not known to have any powerful friends.

"Alright," said Handsome after some deep thought. "But it'll cost you. The vig on this one's five points."

"Five?" burst out Mundungus in open vexation. "But the top rate's always been three - and that's only for deadbeats. I thought at worst it'd be a couple of points."

"Five," was the lender's monosyllabic reply. 'Five points' meant that each week, every week, until the entire principal was repaid, Mundungus would have to come to The Hanged Man where Handsome held court, and hand over five per cent of the loan - five galleons. The rate was outrageous, even in loan sharking circles. But this way if Mundungus managed to keep the vig current, if only for five months, Handsome would have made his money back, and everything else would be gravy.

Clearly some haggling was called for, thought Mundungus. Handsome listened calmly, sipping his guinness while Mundungus bargained. When the would-be borrower finally finished, Handsome took another drink, and then set his mug on the table.

"Five. And if you don' shut up, it'll be six."

Mundungus thought for a bit about this. Five points - by the time he won his bet he would have paid about seven months' vig - about one hundred and fifty galleons. But the bet was a sure thing, and at the end, he'd be rich.

"Done," said Mundungus, extending his hand to seal the bargain. Handsome stretched out his hand, but only to pick up his guinness.

"Come back in an hour. I'll 'ave your money then." Handsome had enough money with him to make the loan three times over, but best to let Mundungus wait a bit.

Not much more than an hour later Mundungus had rushed to the book run by the goblin four doors down from The Hanged Man, struggling to control his excitement as he bargained with the old proprietor Balzad about the odds of there being no Quidditch Cup awarded at Hogwarts. He'd hoped for five hundred to one, but he'd been happy enough to get odds of three hundred. And when it was announced that there'd be no Quidditch cup at Hogwarts, he'd come back to collect thirty thousand galleons. Invested in Gringott's stock, the safest stock in the wizarding world, his return, even with the low rate paid by Gringott's, would be still be over one thousand galleons a year - he was a made man.

But that was in the future. Right now Mundungus was sitting in his flat, the Daily Prophet the only entertainment he could afford. He put down his pipe and reached for his morning coffee, and then began to eye the front page, where the following headline greeted him:

"UMBRIDGE RELENTS

High Inquisitor Delores Umbridge (the article began) has issued a new decree, reversing Decree Number twenty-four.

'The children responded very well to my earlier decree, ' said Umbridge to this reporter. 'I have noticed a marked increase in the attention everyone has been paying to their studies, and I feel it is only right to reward them by allowing them once again to enjoy their clubs and games, including of course Quidditch. But no new clubs will be permitted over and above those that existed at the start of term. I will draw the line there."

The article continued on somewhat, but Mundungus read none of it, for the paper had slipped from his hand, and he'd dropped his coffee on himself. He leaped up with a yell of pain and anguish. Handsome would be expecting another five galleons by nightfall. Mundungus did not have even five knuts to his name. But maybe he could get the bet cancelled - if he reached Balzad before the goblin heard the news from Hogwarts, perhaps he could get at least part of his money back. He quickly threw on a change of clothes, and dashed out of his flat, down the stairs and into the sharp morning cold.

The students had learned of the reversal of Decree twenty-four a couple of days before the Daily Prophet and its readers. But nonetheless it was nice to see the news reported in the morning's paper, thought Hermione, as she looked at the front page while nibbling toast and having another coffee. She read the article aloud to her friends.

"That's what the twit ought to have done in the first place," observed George. "No need to ban the old clubs - just any new ones. Instead, she went too far, and was forced to retreat. Now she looks like an idiot."

"Typical Ministry nonsense," said Ron. "That's what dad's always on about. Always one extreme or another - never the sensible thing. Remember what dad said before start of term - the Ministry's busy denying Voldemort's back. Once they're forced to admit he's here, they'll go too far the other way, and everyone will be a suspect."

Suddenly Hermione interrupted them with a gasp of surprise.

"Listen up everyone - let me read this to you - it's another article about Umbridge!"

'Fire at Umbridge Residence

The housekeeper at the home of Delores Umbridge (the article began) was surprised Friday when she came downstairs to find the kitchen in flames. It was only with difficulty that Ministry officials got the fire under control and saved the home from destruction. The kitchen was badly damaged. Umbridge was not at home at the time. No injuries were reported.'

"That's great!" said Fred. "But too bad it didn't burn out of control." Others at the table echoed the thought.

At the head table, McGonagall managed a credible expression of sympathy, and turning to Umbridge, asked whether there had been a lot of damage.

"No, thank you," the High Inquisitor replied. "Just as the article said, only the kitchen. I was really rather lucky not to have lost the entire house."

"Odd," said Professor Flitwick. "Very odd that your housekeeper couldn't put the fire out. Was she a squib?"

"No. She's a witch. But an unemployed one now, of course," replied Umbridge. "Fancy her being unable to perform basic emergency magic." The other professors all nodded sympathetically. But Umbridge knew that there was nothing wrong with her housekeeper's magic. The fire had been unusually persistent, and Umbridge could not have contained the blaze had she been home. Aurors had been needed to get the fire under control, and the investigation was still continuing. The fire had not started with a spill of some kind or a coal popping out of the fire - nothing like that. It was arson - a vicious attack on Umbridge's property, and as soon as Umbridge had heard the news, she knew who had started the blaze.

After Umbridge's meeting with the nasty goblin creatures she had been rather panicked. But after a calming draught and a long think, she had been able to put things in perspective. She was Delores Umbridge, professor and High Inquisitor, well-placed in the Ministry with important friends. At who was Balzad? A nasty goblin - hardly more than a chimp with magical powers, who was not even allowed to possess a wand outside of his own home. She had laughed at her foolishness - how stupid to be frightened by a pair of ugly monkeys. And so she had chosen to ignore Balzad's warning, and had left Decree Number Twenty-Four in place.