"Then let us have at it, my young counselor," Merlin said, smiling a little frighteningly. "Lead on."

        "So," James said as he led Merlin down out of the portrait hole, "do you think we'll win?"

        "Mr. Potter," Merlin said breezily, stepping out onto the landing and placing his fists on his hips, "you won the moment I decided to join you."

        "Is that the famous Merlin pride talking?" James asked tentatively.

        "Like I said," Merlin replied, turning to follow James with his long, slow stride, "nine-tenths of magic happens in the mind. The last tenth, Mr. Potter, is pure and unadulterated bluster. Take note of that and you'll do very well."

After the bright, misty morning, the day progressed into a hazy stillness of unseasonable warmth. Headmistress McGonagall had insisted that classes continue, even during the tour of Martin J. Prescott and his entourage, but in spite of her order, dozens of students had gathered in the courtyard to witness the arrival of the Muggle reporter's crew. Near the front of the group, James and Harry stood side by side. Only a few feet away, Tabitha Corsica and her Slytherin compatriots were looking decidedly bright-eyed and eager. On the top of the main steps, Headmistress McGonagall was flanked by Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant. Martin Prescott, on the lowest step, glanced at his watch.

        "Are you sure they can get their vehicles in through the way you described, Miss Sacarhina?" he said, glancing up to where she stood, squinting in the sunlight. "They will be driving vehicles with wheels, as I've said. You know. Wheels. There aren't any magical mud bogs or bridges with trolls living under them or anything, are there?"

        Sacarhina was about to answer when the sound of automobile engines became audible in the near distance. Prescott jumped and spun on the spot, craning to catch a glimpse of his crew. James, standing near the front of the crowd of students with his dad, thought Headmistress McGonagall was handling herself pretty well, considering everything. She merely pressed her lips tightly together as the huge vehicles rumbled into the courtyard. There were two of them, and James recognized them as the sort of enormous off-road trucks Zane called 'Landrovers'. The first one ground to a halt directly in front of the steps. All four doors popped open and men began to emerge, blinking in the hazy sunlight and carrying large leather bags covered in thick pockets. Prescott scampered down among the men, calling them by name, pointing and yelling directions.

        "I want lights and reflectors on the left side of the steps, angled toward the doors. That's where I'll do my final commentary and conduct interviews. Eddie, you have the chairs? No? All right, that's fine, we'll stand. Sitting might seem too, you know, established, anyway. We want to keep the feeling of exposé alive the whole time. Which cameras do you have, Vince? I want the thirty-five-millimeter handycam on everything. Double film the whole shoot with it, got it? We'll edit the footage in here and there for that hidden camera feel. Perfect. Where's Greta with the makeup?"

        The crew completely ignored the assembly of students and the Headmistress and Ministry officials on the steps. All around the trucks was the well-oiled bustle of men assembling cameras, attaching electrical cords to lights, stringing microphones onto long poles, and saying "Test," and "Check," into smaller microphones meant to be clipped to Prescott's shirt. James noticed a few individuals moving among the group that didn't seem preoccupied with the technical preparations. They were dressed rather better and seemed curious about the castle and the grounds. One of them, an old, balding, friendly-looking man in a light grey suit, ambled up the stairs toward the Headmistress.

        "Quite the fuss, isn't it?" he proclaimed, glancing back toward the trucks. He bowed slightly toward the Headmistress. "Randolph Finney, detective, British Special Police. Not quite retired, but close enough not to matter. Mr. Prescott may have mentioned me? He made rather a big deal of my being here, it seems. Between you and me, I suspect he'd hoped for someone a bit more, er, inspiring, if you take my meaning. So this is some sort of… school, I understand?"

        "Indeed it is, Mr. Finney," Sacarhina said, stretching out her hand. "My name is Brenda Sacarhina, head of the Department of Ambassadorial Relations for the Ministry of Magic. Today is going to be a very interesting day for you, I suspect."

"Ministry of Magic. How perfectly quaint," Finney said, shaking Sacarhina's hand rather distantly. His gaze hadn't strayed from the Headmistress. "And who might you be, Madam?"

        "This is--," Sacarhina replied, but McGonagall, long accustomed to overriding unwelcome noises, spoke easily over her.

        "Minerva McGonagall, Mr. Finney. Pleased to meet you. I am Headmistress of this school."

        "Charmed, charmed!" Finney said, taking McGonagall's hand reverently and bowing again. "Headmistress McGonagall, I am delighted to meet you."

        "Please, do call me Minerva," McGonagall said, and James saw just the slightest pained look pass over her face.

        "Indeed. And call me Randolph, I insist." Finney smiled at the Headmistress for several seconds, then cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. He turned on the spot, taking in the castle and grounds. "I'd never known there was a school in this area, to tell you the truth. Especially one as magnificent as this. Why, it should be on the register of historic places and no mistake, Minerva. What do you call it?"

        Sacarhina began to answer, but nothing came out. She made a tiny noise, coughed a little, and then covered her mouth daintily with one hand, a look of mild puzzlement on her face.

        "Hogwarts, Randolph," McGonagall answered, smiling carefully. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

        "You don't say?" Finney replied, glancing at her. "How wonderfully whimsical."

        "We like to think so."

        "Detective Finney!" Prescott suddenly called, trotting up the steps, his face covered in pancake makeup and tissue paper stuffed into the collar of his shirt. "I see you've already met the Headmistress. Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant are here to conduct the tour, of course. The Headmistress is just along for, er, color, as it were."

        "And she performs her role quite well, doesn't she?" Finney said, turning back to McGonagall with a grin. James saw that the Headmistress was refraining rather heroically from rolling her eyes.

        "You have met Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant, then?" Prescott plowed on, moving between Finney and McGonagall. "Miss Sacarhina, perhaps you will tell Detective Finney a bit of what it is you do here?"