Yuletide Blessing in Disguise

The Informant

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded his head in time with the throbbing rhythms of the earsplitting dance music. He chuckled when Dawlish massaged his temples, ordered up another fizzy water from the bartender, and tipped a vial of pain potion into it. Then Dawlish chugged it down in one swallow and let out a belch.

"You alright there, John?" Shacklebolt shouted to be heard over the music.

"No!" Dawlish snapped back. "I'm sick of staking out this bloody nightclub watching Gorhammer's flunkies conduct 'business'."

"Gorhammer's got to show up some time. Supposedly he drops in once a month to make sure operations are running smoothly."

Dawlish snorted, and the two Aurors fell silent again, peering through the dancing throng of posh looking Goblins and wizards, all dressed to the nines. They kept watch while the "flunkies" took gold and wrote down names in ledgers and every so often handing gold out to winners or surreptitiously passing envelopes—ostensibly containing drugs—to their clients.

Shacklebolt spotted a heavyset Goblin in a tuxedo strolling around the edge of the dancefloor and surrounded by an entourage of giggling female Goblins in sparkling evening gowns. He nudged Dawlish when he saw the Goblin making a beeline for the table of unlicensed bookies and drugs-dealers.

"That could be him right there."

"About bloody time!"

"Right then," said Shacklebolt, rising from his barstool, "Try and keep your cool. We don't want that lot doing a bunk."

Dawlish clambered to his feet, grumbling about "looking like a penguin" as he tugged the tight collar and bow tie, and adjusted the cummerbund of his tuxedo.

The pair of Aurors casually sidled around the edge of the crowd and approached the table. Several of the Goblins narrowed their eyes, hands hovering near their waistcoats, no doubt ready to pull guns if necessary.

"And what can we do for you gentlemen tonight?" asked one of the Goblin money-takers, "A wager on next week's quidditch match? ...or something to make your evening a bit more enjoyable?"

"I was hoping for a meeting with Mr. Gorhammer," said Shacklebolt smoothly.

"Mr. Gorhammer is a very busy man," growled the Goblin. "What's this all about?"

"Ludo Bagman."

The Goblin glanced worriedly at his boss who gave him a slight nod in return.

"Very well, Mr. Gorhammer will see you now—wait for him in the private booth over there and he'll be with you shortly."

Dawlish and Shacklebolt made their way to the entrance of the booth, which was hidden behind a purple and gold velvet curtain. They both took seats on one side of a highly polished mahogany table and Dawlish tugged at his collar again. The sound of the music was muffled by the curtain, except for the thunderous boom of the pulsing beats.

Moments later the heavyset Goblin pushed the curtain aside and let it fall again before sitting on the other side of the table.

"So, you want to know about Ludo Bagman," said the Goblin boss warily, "Discussing other clients is generally bad for business. Why should I make an exception for you?"

"Because the D.M.L.E. is conducting an investigation into Ludo Bagman and his possible ties to one of the syndicates," Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows, "and we would hate to bring the National Inquiry Unit into this."

Morag Gorhammer narrowed his eyes and studied Shacklebolt and Dawlish for a moment.

"Very well," he said cagily, "What is it you want to know?"