Harry set his glass down, walked to the pool’s edge, and slipped his overheated body into the cool water with a contented sigh.
This was very nice.
Perhaps making Cyprus his temporary base wasn’t such a bad idea…
But he knew he couldn’t relax forever.
Time was marching on.
≤○≥
Harry stood disillusioned on a Turkish mountainside, gazing down at the poppy fields below.
Most of the fields he had passed in recent weeks lay bare, their winter harvest long since collected and sold to the government as part of a UN-backed effort to curb the drug trade.
Those crops were processed into medical-grade morphine to address the world’s legitimate shortage.
These fields, however, were different.
Tucked away in a remote mountain province, hidden from prying eyes, they were in the middle of an illegal summer harvest.
Harry uncorked a vial of carefully measured Ageing Potion—purchased in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar—and downed it in one gulp.
The taste was revolting.
He shook his head in disgust as the effects took hold.
His body stretched, filling out until he appeared to be a man in his mid-twenties.
The disguise would last roughly six hours.
He canceled the Disillusionment Charm and walked down the path toward the solitary concrete building near the fields.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of chemicals.
Concrete floors, concrete walls, and a corrugated metal roof.
Old machinery lined the edges, metal barrels were stacked in one corner, and in the center three men crouched around a barrel heated over an open fire, sieving a chalky sludge.
“Hello,” Harry called in the limited Turkish he had picked up over the past few weeks.
Voldemort had absorbed many languages in his pursuit of obscure magic, but Turkish had not been one of them.
“Hello, friend,” replied the oldest of the three—the clear leader.
He had the hardened look of a man who had seen everything.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to buy.”
“Buy?”
“Yes.”
“The goods?”
The man shook his head, palms open.
“I’m sorry, friend. I already have a buyer.”
“Would you consider a higher price?”
“No.”
“Double your usual rate.”
The man paused, studying Harry closely.
Through Legilimency, Harry sensed the swirl of greed and the desperate longing for what such money could do for the man’s family, warring with his reluctance to damage his existing business relationship.
“I can buy from you every year for the next three years.”
The man was silent for a long moment.
“How much do you want?” he finally asked.
Yes!
Harry did a mental victory dance while keeping his expression neutral.
“How many acres do you cultivate?”
“Five.”
“So, roughly three to five kilos?”
“I have four kilos ready now. Another one by tomorrow.”
“And your normal price?”
“Normally we sell for 1,750 lira per kilo. So double would be 3,500.”
Harry smiled inwardly, reading the man’s mental calculations.
“I know the market price, sir. I can offer 2,500 lira per kilo.”
The man grinned, fully slipping into haggling mode.
He threw a heavy arm around Harry’s shoulder.
“My friend, you know I’m taking a big risk selling to you. I can’t go lower than 3,250.”
“I understand risks,” Harry replied, pulling out a thick wad of bills.
“2,750 right now for the four kilos, and I’ll return tomorrow for the last one.”
“Ah, you drive a hard bargain!” The man patted Harry’s shoulder firmly.
“You go up, I go down—that’s how it works, yes? Let’s meet in the middle. Three thousand lira per kilo. Fair for both?”
Harry smiled and extended his hand.
“Agreed.”
≤○≥
Harry was completely soaked.
Rain hammered down in relentless torrents, completely indifferent to the precious cargo strapped to his back, carefully wrapped in multiple layers of plastic.
The night was pitch black under thick clouds.
He could barely see two feet in front of him.
The only silver lining, he reflected grimly, was that if he couldn’t see anything, neither could any Muggle on the British coast looking out to sea.
He was approaching the border wards now.
He could feel their faint magical hum brushing against his skin as he flew forward through the gale.
The wind made progress incredibly difficult.
There.
He sensed the first ward—the wizard detection line.
Focusing intently on the space just ahead, he apparated with a sharp crack.
The pressure of the ward shifted from front to back, immediately replaced by the next barrier: the anti-apparition ward.
Harry pressed on, feeling the magic intensify as he passed through each layer and then fade behind him.
The final ward—a key-in portkey barrier, likely meant for authorized international travel—offered little resistance as he flew straight through it.
He was back in British airspace, drenched to the bone, but now beneath distinctly English rain.
He hoped it would be drier up in Scotland as he vanished once more with a loud crack.
≤○≥
It turned out to be considerably more pleasant in Scotland.
After dozens of apparitions, Harry arrived in the Outer Hebrides to a brisk, choppy wind but no rain.
The lack of rain, however, meant the biting cold set in quickly.
He had to cast several warming charms just to keep his teeth from chattering.
He flew low over the rugged islands until he found exactly what he was looking for: a small, steep, uninhabited rock jutting out of the sea.
He landed beside a sheer cliff face and got straight to work.
“Defodio!”
The Gouging Charm tore into the stone, carving a deep indentation.
Harry kept the spell steady, slowly hollowing out a proper passageway and two decent-sized chambers within the cliff.