The Rules Of Chess

Part Three: Harry Loses It and Plans Form

 
“How do you feel now?” Madame Pomfrey lightly placed her wand tip on Mr. Weasley’s bluish temple. A faint green light glowed from her wand, bathing the walls with a faint radiance.

“Dizzy,” Mr. Weasley admitted, scrunching his face tightly as if it had hurt him.

Madame Pomfrey drew her wand away, looking quite frazzled. “Dizzy? Are you positive?”

Mr. Weasley nodded. Hermione let out a snort—it was quite obvious to see that he was dizzy, judging by his cross-eyes appearance and constantly swaying head.

Professor Dumbledore, after receiving Hermione’s letter, had promptly sent over Madame Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse, to watch over Mr. Weasley. After an hour of peering over books a the two, Hermione wasn’t so sure that Madame Pomfrey was the best candidate. As far as she could see, all Pomfrey did for Mr. Weasley was fuss over him and strain him further.

“Still dizzy? Think slowly now—is it dizziness, or a slight drowsiness? There is a difference,” Madame Pomfrey asked doubtfully, speaking in the tone of one explaining a simple situation to a child.

“I think—“ Hermione chimed in, rising levelly from her perch. “That we have established that Mr. Weasley is dizzy, not drowsy, dizzy, Madam, and there is a difference. Please proceed.”

Looking a bit put off, Madame Pomfrey continued with her treatment, this time fussing over something other than his dizziness.

Hermione settled back down in her chair, and resumed watching them from over the top of her book (light reading, she liked to say, for the summer)

* * * * *

 

Harry awoke to find himself leaning against a wall, no cords or rope binding him. He tried to get up, but found he couldn’t move.

“Full Body Bind,” Harry affirmed, stating the obvious. “Maybe if I had my wand…” He banished that thought, too. He could feel the thin outline of his wand through the side of his shoe, where he kept it with him at all times, but it would do no good now, as he couldn’t move an inch if his life depended on it (Harry gave a cold laugh at the irony of the statement)

Just plain cords and straps would’ve been better, Harry thought bitterly. Then I could at least try to get to my wand.

When all the escape plans running through his mind tired out, Harry switched to thinking of ways that a boy name Theo could be dissected.

That filthy rat. After all I did for him, he turns his back and does this. Harry bared his teeth and savagely imagined Theo’s head being ripped off. A guilty feeling coursed through him as soon as he did. Never resort to enemy ways, he reprimanded himself, forcing his mind off the subject.

Harry didn’t have much forcing to do, as exactly at that moment, a man stepped into the dark flat.

He was tall and slim, though his face was hidden from view with a black mask. In has spindly hand was a wand.

“I believe we have some—er—business to attend to, Harry Potter,” the man said, a slight chuckle surfacing in the malicious voice.

“Tell your Master,” Harry said scathingly, “That I would never put myself to the level where I must attend your business.”

“You’d be disappointed,” the man replied, latching himself onto Harry’s arms and releasing him from the body bind.

Harry wriggled under the man’s iron grip, but that only caused the bone-crushing hold to tighten.

“No use struggling,” the man chided. He began shoving Harry towards a small, shimmering door that had only recently appeared at the end of the room.

Despite the fierceness in which Harry fought back, he couldn’t deny that he was a bit closer to going through that shimmery door with every passing second.

Just inches from the portal, a series of crashes were heard, and the door burst open, lying in splinters on the ground. The man froze, though not loosening his grip on Harry, who strained forward, eagerly waiting for the smoke around the door to clear so he could see who is rescuer was.

A shock of frizzy white hair came into view, followed rapidly by a wrinkled face and a wrinkled hand, which was clutching feebly at a wand.

“Mrs. Figg?” Harry breathed incredulously, feeling his body wither as the man beside him started laughing.

“This is your savior? An old woman?” Harry could feel the man’s arms trembling with mirth.

Mrs. Figg simply regarded Harry for a second with her pale blue eyes, then turned her attention to the laughing Death Eater.

“Good-bye,” she said in a cheery voice, before sending a brilliant flash of red his way.

Harry managed to slip around the Stunned Death Eater before he fell. He then proceeded to profusely thank Mrs. Figg, but was stopped by the urgency on her face.

“Quickly, Harry, we must go. Any moment Voldemort will realize something went wrong when his Death Eater doesn’t return, and he will send reinforcements.” She began fiddling with numerous contraptions on the underside of her billowing black robes before looking up again. “Come on.”

Before Harry had the chance to even protest, she had grabbed his waist and sat him down behind her on a broomstick.

As they crashed through a grimy window, sailing into the velvet sky, Harry turned back and saw a line of men emerging from the shining portal, all shaking their fists angrily at the retreating broomstick, and it’s riders.

“Mrs. Figg—Death Eaters have just come—“ Harry panted, before he was cut off by a sudden streak of green that nipped the edge of his ear. A burning pain spread through his head, so suddenly and intensely that he almost let go of the broom.

Mrs. Figg didn’t turn to see, but her mouth was set in a hard line as she accelerated, urging the broom to go forward. Curses continued to race past them, but she managed to evade most of them, until, gradually, they were out of range.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The worst was over, for now. Only the vast sky and the enormous silence kept them company.

“Mrs. Figg?” Harry ventured tremulously, unsure of himself.

She nodded to show that she had heard.

“Are you a witch?” he blurted out, stupidly. Of course she was a witch; she had burst into a broken down house, Stunned a Death Eater, and flown out the window by a broomstick—what else could she e?

Mrs. Figg showed no sign of exasperation, but promptly answered Harry’s question. “Yes.”

“How did you find me?”

“Dumbledore sent me, soon as he heard the Dursley’s had moved. You know, I was part of the reason that you were kept safe at the Dursley’s—I kept the charms and barriers up all around 4 Privet Drive. It was required that every night I renew them, to keep them active.”

“So that’s what Dumbledore was talking about when he mentioned the protection around the Dursleys?”

Mrs. Figg gave him a confused look. “I suppose. There are quite a few reasons for the protection around the Dursleys. But when you moved so suddenly, without a notice, I had no chance to follow immediately and continue supplying that part of your protection. That’s when Voldemort learned of this, and he took advantage. Heavens, I arrive just in time to stop you from going into that doorway.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Figg,” Harry said, not knowing how to respond.

“I prefer to be addressed as Arabella. Mrs. Figg makes me feel older than I am.”

Harry agreed to it, to be polite, but he couldn’t help wondering exactly how old she was.

“Do you want to know where we are going?” Arabella prodded, turning around to look at Harry’s face.

“Yes,” Harry said honestly, green eyes wide and clear at the sudden load of information he had been given.

“We’re heading to the Burrow—Albus told me to drop you off there before I leave. You will be safe, among so many talented wizards and witches.” Arabella banked left, then began descending jerkily, as if she were scared of crashing.

Pure happiness bubbled over Harry. No more Dursley’s for the rest of the summer, but instead he was spending it at the Weasley’s. What more could he want? He leaned back slightly on the broomstick, bracing himself against he violent jerks that Arabella made as she neared the ground.

Slowly and tentatively, they approached the Burrow.

* * * * *

 

Remus could barely hear himself over the noisy din. All morning, he had been shaking hands with other people in the Order of the Phoenix, and his hands were now red and smelly.

Two witches, both wives of Order members, bustled about serving hot, spicy tea to those who requested it. Several wizards were setting chairs and tables up around the large room.

A shower of sparks flew into the air, fizzing impatiently from the tip of Dumbledore’s wand as the room quieted down and people took their seats. Remus sat down next to Amos Diggory.

Sirius waded through the crowd, pushing until reached Remus. Instead of sitting down, he stood towering over him. Sighing, Remus pulled sharply at his friend’s sleeve.

“Sirius, you know that I don’t like people standing over me like that,” he said in a warning tone.

“Well, yes, I do know, very well, in fact…” Sirius grinned cheekily at Remus, some of the haunted look in his eyes ebbing away as he did so. Remus didn’t push the topic any further; it had been a long time since Sirius had felt truly lighthearted, and the previous hour had been one of those rare moments.

When the room finally settled, Sirius popped out of his chair and ended up on top of it. “The Order will now come to order,” he declared, facing the room while taking a ridiculously exaggerated bow.

Good-natured groans filled the room, causing Sirius to take another bow. He was wearing a pleased sort of look, as if he had accomplished his life’s goal.

Dumbledore was looking at Sirius with amusement. Sirius took a few more bows before sinking low onto his knees in an unmistakable curtsy. At once, the female members of the Order began their critique.

“Sirius, your knee isn’t bent enough. Bend it!” Sirius did.

“Head up, just a bit to the side…” Sirius lifted his head and bent it to a funny angle. The room rocked with laughter.

“Point your toe—“

The show was interrupted as another shower of sparks lit the air. Dumbledore had a serious look on his face, and all joking ceased instantly.

Sirius jumped down and sat somberly in his chair, hands cupped over his chin. The old look was in his eyes, and Remus’s heart ached to see it back again.

“This meeting of the Order of the Phoenix has officially begun,” Dumbledore said, rapping his knuckle sharply against the table. A rustle filled the room as everyone began taking off jackets and settling themselves into comfortable positions on the hard-backed chairs.

Dumbledore waited patiently as this was done, speaking only when the noise died away. “As some of you may have noticed, Arabella is not present. This is no cause for commotion—she is simply taking Harry to his new location, with the Weasleys.” HE nodded to a man in the back of the room. Remus craned his neck to look, and the bright red hair on the man’s head immediately tipped him off.

Arthur Weasley gave a cheerful nod, then resumed listening intently to, who had continued talking.

“Recently, several attacks were made on wizarding communities and families by Voldemort. He is gaining power, and still Fudge refuses to shed light on the truth. We must do all we can to keep Voldemort at bay and stop the killings.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the room.

“Through various sources, the target of Voldemort’s next attack is confirmed. We will alert the LeRoy’s at once. They are to find a safe hideout. On the thirtieth, Voldemort is to strike. We will be ready this time—Auror’s and Order members will be stationed around the house.” Dumbledore’s face was slightly sickly in the pale light, yet every occupant looked at him respectfully as he began laying out the plans.

“The LeRoy family is composed of four members—Scott LeRoy, Maggie Leroy, their son, Jordan, and Maggie’s father, Langston. After they are moved to a safer location, we will need to send out four people to assume their roles.” Dumbledore paused, turning the words over in his head before continuing. A couple wizards took advantage of the pause to shout out, “Why the LeRoys? A weaker family there never was! Why would Voldemort go after them?”

Dumbledore chose to ignore them. “People who bear features closely matched to those of the family will be chosen. I think—yes, perhaps Sirius is fit to be Scott-same dark hair, eyes, and build. For Maggie—that’s a bit of a stumper, isn’t it? Astoundingly green eyes, brown hair.” He paused again, skimming slowly over each upturned face, halting on a female witch with frosty blue-green eyes. “That will do,” he said, sounding slightly dubious. “Lorrie Brown. With slight hair-color change, you might pass off as Maggie LeRoy. Jordan will be another issue altogether. Thirteen years old, black hair from his father, green eyes from his mother. We will need to find a willing teenager—preferably fluent in magic—one cannot forget that this is a dangerous mission. Mundungus, you will do well as Langston.”

“Why are we sending the real Jordan into hideout, only to replace him with another child? Wouldn’t we be putting that child in danger?” someone hollered from the back row.

“We need every member of the family to be present that evening, or Voldemort will suspect. Jordan’s parents, if I know them, would never comply with leaving their son alone, and we cannot have them staying at the house and take the risks. The LeRoy’s were never a particularly strong magical family, as most of you already know, and would have virtually no chance of defending themselves. The child we choose must be a powerful wizard-in-training, and he will be surrounded by many adult wizards.” Dumbledore said after length.

“So, in other words,” Sirius spoke up, “I’m part of a decoy type family. Voldemort will think that we are the LeRoy’s, and won’t suspect any foul play.”

“Partly correct, Sirius. I applaud you. The house, on the night of the thirtieth, will be surrounded by Aurors. You four will be in the sitting room, acting out a normal family night. When the Death Eaters arrive, you will be in a position such that you are not defenseless and caught off guard. After the Death Eaters enter the house, the team will follow, and we’ll handle it from there. Of course, you are welcome to help after you finish your part.” Dumbledore wove his long fingers together and set them on top of his desk. “Any suggestions for Jordan?”

Remus twitched. Something about Jordan sounded vaguely familiar. The black hair, the green eyes…Where have I seen that before? The question echoed futilely inside his head. Then it came back, with an answer. Of course. Harry. Who would be more willing, brave, and trustworthy than Harry?

“If I may,” he said loudly. Conversations were halted and row upon row of eyes were turned towards him. He swallowed nervously. Dumbledore nodded benevolently down at him from the slightly raised table he was sitting at. “Harry Potter. He would pass off as Jordan like milk holds similarities to cream. Black hair, green eyes. We all know that Harry is fifteen, but he’s small—slim, with a light build. He could pass off as thirteen. A few eye-correcting charms, and his glasses wouldn’t be needed—a few concealing charms, and his scar would be hidden. I am almost positive when I say that Harry will be glad to help the cause.”

“That will do nicely, Remus. You are to fly to St. Ottery Catchpole and intercept Arabella. She will be coming back from the Burrow. The two of you turn back and provide Harry with the details of our discussion tonight. Make sure he understands the risks of taking up this job. The Order is now dismissed.” With a casual wave of his hand, Dumbledore left the raised platform.

Remus got up so abruptly that his chair teetered precariously on its two back legs, said his hasty good-byes, and mounted a broom that was sitting forlornly in the corner. Without glancing back, he zoomed out of the house and into the sky.

 

* * * * *

 

Harry watched with bated breath as the ground rushed closer. Arabella struggled to bring the broom down evenly, but it wobbled and bucked unsteadily under her bony hand. Harry closed his eyes, and, seconds later, felt the ground connect harshly with his foot. Arabella gave an ‘oof’ of surprise and tumbled gently off the broom. Harry helped her up and guided her to the burrow, one hand under her elbow, as she was still shaky from the ride.

He stopped in front of the door, raised a fist hesitantly, and knocked, loudly, three times.

Mrs. Weasley answered the door. She stared at Harry in bewilderment before she let out a shrill scream.

“Harry!” Without a trace of self-restrain, Mrs. Weasley flung herself at Harry, squeezing him tightly. Through the gap in Mrs. Weasley’s arm, Harry could see the rest of the Weasley’s assemble at the door, awaiting their turn to greet him.

When Mrs. Weasley finally released Harry from the embrace, the Weasley children hurried over. Harry could barely speak, sandwiched as he was in a flurry of red hair and long limbs. He could feel a hand slap his back. Another dug itself into his head. A shout of ‘Oy, Harry! You’re back!” came from his right side. Someone poked his eye (Harry hoped it was an accident, and not an honest attempt to blind him).

The next few hours passed by in a blur. Arabella left after cordially greeting Mrs. Weasley. Ron led Harry, who had no belongings to carry due to present circumstances, to his blazing orange room. The room hurt his already throbbing eye.

After unpacking, Harry was dragged downstairs by two very ecstatic twins, who pinned his arms behind his back and frog-marched him into the living room while humming ‘Here Comes the Bride’.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley had baked up a storm; there were numerous pies and cakes, pitchers of pumpkin juice, platters of sandwiches (not corned-beef, Ron noted happily) and bowls heaped with mashed potatoes, salads, and chicken. Harry offered to say grace before they ate, so they bowed their heads and Harry gave thanks for the food.

A rushed, “Amen” followed the brief prayer. Harry, who hadn’t had a proper meal all summer, had his plate piled to the top before anyone could so much as bat an eye. After steadily working his way through two helpings, he shoved his plate away and patted his stomach, as if congratulating it on a meal well eaten. It gurgled in response.

He was seated between Ron and Fred, who were immersed in a salad eating competition (Ginny made sure of that, so her brother’s wouldn’t get ‘fat’). George egged them on and dished them more salad when they finished their platefuls.

When the salad competition ended (Ron won, much to Charlie’s dismay—he had bet 5 Knuts on Fred), the dishes were brought to the sink and the table was put away in a corner. Ginny and Mrs. Weasley stayed in the kitchen, tidying up, while the boys trooped into the next room. Talk turned, unsurprisingly, to Quidditch.

“If I get enough O.W.L.s, Dad reckons he’d buy me a Nimbus 2000. Imagine that, me, sailing across the sky, with a Nimbus 2000…with Malfoy chasing angrily at my tail, of course, not able to catch up…then he’d fall through the clouds and land on the ground and splat all over the place…and I would be flying circles over him, laughing…” Ron said dreamily, oblivious to anything around him.

Harry laughed, bringing Ron out of his reveries with a light punch on the arm. “By the way, where is your Dad? I don’t remember seeing him at supper.”

“Oh, he’s at some meeting with Dumbledore,” Ron answered, scratching a throbbing mosquito bite that happened to be on the tip of his nose. Harry thought he looked rather like Pinocchio, a Muggle fairy-tale character. He didn’t bother saying this to Ron, who he knew wouldn’t understand. “Did you hear about that absolutely amazing match with—“

“What happened when he disappeared?” Harry interrupted, recalling the distraught letter Ron had sent.

“We really don’t know. He just disappeared, then turned up at Hermione’s house. He doesn’t remember anything, and no spells or potions will break through the Memory Charm placed on him. But he’s okay, only a few minor bruises and scratches, so we’re not worried.” Despite saying all this in a light tone, Harry noticed that Ron’s mouth had tightened and his ears had turned pink. Deciding not to strain more details from Ron, Harry changed the subject.

“So what happened at the match?”

The result was instantaneous—Ron’s eyes lit up, and he was off, describing each and every minuscule, but astounding, as he put it, move played by the Chudley Cannons.

“And so the Seeker goes into this Wronski-Feint thing…”

“Boys! Time to hustle up to bed,” Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen before pushing open the door and standing ardently before them, wiping her wet hands on a dishtowel.

Reluctantly, Ron stopped talking about the match to trudge up the stairs, Harry close behind. He could hear Fred and George’s heavy footsteps following him, and an echo or two that sounded like Ginny’s light feet.

At the top of the stairwell, the Weasley’s separated into their individual rooms. Harry followed Ron to the doorway directly in front of them, which was easily spotted due to its bright orange color.

“I’m not sleepy yet, are you?” Ron shut the door swiftly and fell headfirst into his bed, sending bits of fluff into the air as he did so.

“I guess not,” Harry said, standing awkwardly next to the door, unsure of what to do.

“Have a seat. I’ll bring out the chess board.” Ron bent over, pulling a heavy brown trunk from under his bed, and began rummaging through it. Various wizarding contraptions flew out, and Harry was forced to do a silly duck-and-weave dance to avoid the flying articles.

“Chess?”

“Yeah. Playing always helps me sleep better. Besides, you could always use a few pointers from the master,” Ron said dramatically, loftily holding up a worn wizard chessboard.

“What master? Where?” Harry joked, snorting as Ron drew up his chest and puffed his cheeks out, in a surprisingly realistic impression of Percy. “Better not let Percy catch you doing that.”

Ron shrugged as he set up the board and put the chess pieces into their corresponding squares. “Do we play a game, or do you want a lesson?”

“Play a game. I can hold my own against you any day,” Harry said confidently, blocking out the jeers coming from his own chessmen.

Half an hour later, Harry admitted defeat as Ron’s knight cornered his king. “Maybe I should take a lesson,” he confessed weakly, allowing himself a sheepish smile.

Ron hooted while resetting the chessmen. “Then I shall teach you, you hopeless nut, for ten Sickles a session.” He stuck his chin out as far as it would go, and looked down at Harry from over his nose.

“Agreed, wise master. I shall be your humble apprentice.” Harry played along, bowing his head and feigning admiration for Ron.

“Good. We shall begin, shall we?”

“We shall,” Harry repeated, pretending to take notes as Ron enumerated the advantages and uses of each chessman.

They had not gone far into the lesson before an urgent voice was calling Harry from downstairs. A foreboding air blanketed the Burrow.

Exchanging grimaces, both boys scrambled to put away the chessboard.

When Harry entered the living room and saw a haggard Arabella and Remus anticipating his arrival, he felt a douse of icy water slip down his stomach. It reminded him of his fourth year—when he heard his name being called for the Triwizard Tournament. He remembered the shock, dread, and fear that had overcome him, weaving into a single nightmarish tapestry. The same tapestry had come together when he was staring into Cedric’s emotionless face—the same tapestry when he witnessed Voldemort’s rebirth—all the same.

“Harry? Harry?” It was Remus. Harry silently scolded himself and fixed every ounce of attention he could muster into what his former instructor was saying.

The minutes ticked by sluggishly. Remus’s words began blending seamlessly together. Harry didn’t bother lifting his head when it lolled over to the side, very nearly missing a protruding bookcase. Warm sleepiness washed over him in waves. It was all he could do not to fall over and curl up in slumber. Here and there, he caught snatches of what Remus was saying, and pieced them together blindly until he knew what was going on. They were expecting him to play a fake Jordan, because he was too weak to defend himself. The same case occurred in his parents. They were expecting him to face Death Eaters, risk his life. They, being the Order of the Phoenix Sirius had told him about the year before. They, they, they. Only they, no him.

He pushed aside his sleepiness and stood up. “What?” he demanded, voice cracking with exertion. “What?”

“I know it seems like a big challenge, Harry, but we really need you. You won’t be in any danger—Sirius, Mundungus, and Lorrie will be with you, as well as a large team of Aurors—and Dumbledore doesn’t expect the Dark Lord to be there personally—it’s just a small killing raid, like he’s been doing for the past few months, and I expect that he doesn’t concern himself with matters like that,” Remus amended hurriedly.

Why are they doing this to me? Don’t they know what I’m feeling right now? Why would Dumbledore ever agree to do something like this? Harry put his head between his elbows, aggravated. Beside him, he felt Ron lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“What about it, Harry?” Remus asked again, a note of pleading laced thickly through his voice.

Harry was silent, pure horror coursing through his veins. More Death Eaters, more death—risk of facing Voldemort again—Visions of the old graveyard dulled his vision, his throat seemed to be constricting, cutting off air flow—

“Harry very well has a right to refuse,” Mrs. Weasley said stoutly, watching Harry with distress. She looked like a wildcat, ready to pounce if provoked.

“No, it’s okay, Mrs. Weasley. If Remus wants to go around hatching plans that include me being killed by Death Eaters, he can. And if the whole bloody order wants to be bloody stupid enough to agree on it, that’s fine with me too. No one needs to consider me, or what I think about everything,” Harry said through clenched teeth, voice laden with sarcasm. His body trembled as he unintentionally leaned forward, fists clenched.

“No, Harry, you’re taking it wrong—Please, I didn’t mean—“

“I’m taking it wrong? I’m not the one running around asking people who are already traumatized to go, sit in a bloody house, and wait for a group of Death Eaters to appear and scare them shitless,” Harry shouted in response to Remus’s apology. His throat quivered and his eyes were radiating so much fury and loathing that the room seemed to quake. He didn’t notice that Mrs. Weasley was looking scandalized at the sudden onslaught of inappropriate words. He didn’t notice that Arabella was standing there. He didn’t notice Ron’s sympathetic looks. He didn’t notice anything but his rage and his desire to beat Remus down with it.

In the back of his mind, he knew that it wasn’t Remus’s fault—knew it wasn’t really anyone’s fault that he was blowing up like this. But he didn’t care about rationality at this particular moment. He was throwing a fit, acting like a stereotypical spoiled brat, but he continued, ranting on until he tired himself out and slumped against a couch, fatigue luring him into the black depths of sleep.

“That went well,” Remus said halfheartedly into the ringing silence.

Mrs. Weasley glanced at him frantically, hurrying to the couch to magic a few pillows under Harry’s head.

 

* * * * *

 

“Did it go smoothly, Remus?” Dumbledore asked pleasantly, looking up from a fresh stack of letters to welcome the former Professor into his office.

“I’m afraid not.” Remus suddenly looked very old as he ran a hand through his graying hair. “He kept going on and on about how inconsiderate I was—threw a whole temper tantrum—wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of St. Ottery heard. I doubt he’ll agree to do it.”

“I surmised as much,” Dumbledore said, bowing his head to hide whatever emotions were playing across his face.

“Then why did you send me? And if you don’t mind me asking, why can’t we use some other boy with black hair? One without such a…tragic past?” Remus was unprepared for the answer, when it came.

“I approved of Harry being chosen because I thought it for the best. When time comes, and you know by now it will, Remus, Harry must face Voldemort a final time. That includes hordes of Death Eaters. To get him…” Dumbledore groped for a word. “Acquainted to masses of Death Eaters now, while he’s relatively safe, will prove beneficial in the long run.”

“You’re doing this just to get him used to Death Eaters? Why would anyone want to get used to them?”

“And to see how the Aurors handle them. If he meets up with them in the future, he won’t panic and lose his head. Many a great witch or wizard have fallen due to inexperience.”

“I get it now,” Remus said carefully, sorting out the rush of thoughts swimming around in his head.

“You catch on quickly.” There was not a hint of acid in Dumbledore’s voice.