Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 7: The Gaming Party

A LATE AFTERNOON TEA was waiting for them in the Gryffindor common room. The coffee tables closest to the hearth had each been set with a steaming silver pot and china cups bearing the Gryffindor lion. It thrashed its paws, roaring silently in the embossed coat of arms. Ron snatched at a plate of biscuits, offering a few to Harry and Hermione. Plunking himself into the closest armchair, he groaned at the pain in his legs and his back where he had cushioned his fall from the Giant Squid´s grasp.

"Ron, are you okay?" The corners of Hermione´s mouth twitched apologetically. "You know, between the Manticores and Merobabs, I´d almost completely forgotten you´re injured." She dropped her bookbag beside the coffee table and perched companionably on his armrest. Her arm slipped down, resting on his shoulder.

"I´m fine." His voice cracked. "Really." He stole a glance at the small fire in the hearth, and then, at Harry. Doesn´t he notice that it´s suddenly really warm in here?

"Goo´," she mumbled, through a mouthful of shortbread. Hermione swallowed hastily. "See you at dinner, then." He watched her slide off the armrest and spring for the portrait hole.

"Hey! Where´re you going?" But she had already climbed out past the Fat Lady.

Ron sighed. "Hmmph. Stupid question." He turned to Harry hopefully. "How about a quick game of Exploding Snap?"

"No, thanks." The corners of Harry´s mouth quivered as if he was trying not to smile. He zipped up his rucksack and took a step toward the door.

"Aw, come on," Ron pleaded. "We´ll up the stakes this time. I´ve got more Chocolate Frogs?"

Harry gave him a full grin this time, but would not be tempted. Glancing at his watch, he shook his head. "Maybe after dinner.I´ve got to change. Quidditch practice in ten minutes. If I´m late, Fred and George´ll string me from the hoops," he said, disappearing through the door.

Ron sank back with a sigh, frowning to himself for a few moments and nibbling absently at another biscuit, as the common room slowly emptied. For a second there, he felt as if he´d lost something when Hermione drew back her arm. Weird. It wasn´t like it was any different from Harry clapping him on the back after Quidditch. Or Dean propping his elbow on his shoulder, counting chess moves.Or Seamus nudging him in Divination. Wasn´t it? It was only Hermione, after all, he chided himself. She´s just one of the guy-

Presently, another voice broke through his thoughts, calling to him from across the common room.

"Yes! You, young sir!" Ron twisted in the chair, glancing round. The other chairs were empty. "You, there, young man!" Ron peered upwards, finally noticing an arm gesticulating wildly from the painting above the fireplace. It belonged to a familiar suit of armour, astride a weary-looking grey pony.

"Oh, Sir Cadogan. It´s you." He sighed, easing back into the chair. "So, uh... what brings you to Gryffindor Tower?" he asked without much interest.

"My good friend, permit me to confess to hearing of your eagerness for a competition. I was, at that moment, tempted to extend an invitation to you to join myself and a few friends in a gentlemen´s game. There is no one who would be more honoured than I, should you accept." The little knight attempted a gallant bow, catching his steel hauberk on the stirrups, very nearly toppling forward onto the grass in the process. Disentangling himself, he bent towards Ron, flipping up his visor with a loud whisper. "What´s more besides, these bounders are French,"-he gave the word a disreputable sound, as if he´d said escaped convicts-"and, I fear, without a fellow countryman on my side, it shall indeed be an unfair match."

A slow smile crept across Ron´s face. Sir Cadoganwould go completely mental at the prospect of a skirmish or fight, but he was a helpful sort. "No, thanks, Sir Cadogan.I´m just... a little preoccupied. My mind was...er, kind of somewhere else just now."

"Ah." Sir Cadogan drew himself up suddenly, his ruddy face full of comprehension. "´Love, all love of other sights controls. And makes one little room an everywhere.´"

Ron sat up defensively. "What makes you think it´s about... that?" He couldn´t bring himself even to think the word, let alone say it.

Sir Cadogan chuckled, holding up a gloved hand. "Stay your sword, my young friend! This stout heart has known many a battle and" -he flipped up his visor, winking at Ron-"just as many a bonnie lass."

Ron grinned, despite himself. It was amusing, the thought of this stocky little knight, with the receding hairline and bushy blond moustache, sweeping damsels in distress into the sunset on his dappled grey pony.

Ron lied. "No, it´s not that. I was in a fight earlier today. The bruises still hurt, that´s all." Ron even shifted in his seat, wincing for effect.

"A brawl, you say?" The raised eyebrows on Sir Cadogan´sface belied his interest, now piqued. Here was a noble youth, a valiant fighter. "Doubtless, I am not too hasty in assuming the blackguard was no match for the likes of you, young sir, and that he now covers the portion of that sorry field with his lifeless corpse!"

"Well,... er... no." Ron rolled his eyes. "Actually, Professor Snape caught us fighting and sent us off to the infirmary, the great bat."

Appalled, Sir Cadogan punched the air emphatically. "The knave! The scurvy braggart! Such a man can have no honour! For it is only such a man who denies another the vindication of his honour!"

Ron was really starting to warm up to Sir Cadogannow. "Well, you´re right. Snape is a slimy bastard. Um... but I suppose," he reflected, "when you think about it, fighting is against school rules." Merlin, that sounded just like her.

Sir Cadogan eyed Ron quietly for a moment.

"I swear it is not your wound that gives you pain at this moment," he said gravely.

"What do you mean?"

"Another wound, my young friend, the wound in your heart, a deeper and bloodier wound inflicted by a woman."

Ron cursed himself for flinching at that. But he recovered quickly. "Be serious. You think a girl could upset me? Me?! Ha!" Even as Ron spoke them, the words rung hollow.

But if he noticed, Sir Cadogan proved too much of a gentleman to remark on it. "Ah, well." The knight´s rusty pauldron gave a loud squeak as he shrugged. "Then perhaps you would nonetheless care to join us for that gentlemen´s game?" Before Ron could respond, his thick brows rose, perking up like puppies´ ears. "Hark! I daresay I hear the tread of their Spanish jennets approaching. Quick, young friend, are you in funds?"

"What?"

"Have you any sovereigns?" whispered Sir Cadoganurgently. "I´m afraid I only have my faithful mare left to wager."

Ron replied with a sheepish grin. The Weasleys were as poor as the Malfoys were rich. His father, Arthur Weasley, worked for the Ministry of Magic as the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, but having had seven children, the family budget was more than stretched.

He shook his head. "I´d be the last person to ask for a loan, Sir Cadogan. I hope you don´t lose your horse, but I can barely afford a round of butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks," he sighed. "Sorry."

"No matter, friend. No matter."Sir Cadogan straightened up proudly, adjusting his fraying mail and battered armour. He jutted out his chin. "I shall face the French alone. My heart is light, for at least I can be assured of your loyalty and support."

As he spoke, four tall soldiers, clad in red military regalia, clip-clopped into the picture frame astride gleaming thoroughbreds.Their crimson baldrics, embroidered with a golden fleur de lis, stood out starkly against the bleak country landscape. Spying Sir Cadogan, each held out his wide, plumed hat, in a courteous bow.

"Good evening, Sir Cadogan," said the youngest, smiling pleasantly through a light brown moustache. Ron noticed his even, careful pronunciation and the slight French lilt. Despite his youth, Ron presumed him to be the leader. Of the other three, one was a great bear of a man with auburn hair tumbling about his ruddy face and a hearty gleam in his eye. Now, he looks like he might enjoy more than a few rounds at the Three Broomsticks. Straddling the next horse was another with a more slender countenance and shorter dark hair going prematurely grey. He sat serenely, with the air of a Muggle priest-or even Professor Lupin, but the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he greeted Sir Cadogan was too reminiscent of Fred and George. Well that rules out the Church. And the last of the gentlemen was as dignified in bearing as he was economic with words. He smiled pleasantly, fingering his black moustache, but said nothing.

Following a chorus of salutations, the boisterous voice of the ruddy, redheaded soldier acknowledged Ron first.

"And may I ask who you are, Monsieur?"

Ron stood awkwardly and bowed. "Ron Weasley,... sir." Something in the soldier´s ostentatious baritone made him feel the need for formality.

"And I am Monsieur Po-"

But the introductions were interrupted by two young lads on ponies, riding unceremoniously into the frame. "Monsieur! Monsieur! We have seen her, Monsieur!"

"Planchet, what is the meaning of this?" the young soldier asked. "Speak clearly. Whom have you seen? Where?"

"Lady Winter, Monsieur. Here, in this castle."

Ron watched with confusion as the leader blanched and then grew red again. "She lives, Planchet?! Are you certain of it?"

The lackey nodded. "Ben oui, Monsieur. We both saw her, Grimaud and I." Behind him, Grimaud wagged his head in support.

"Morbleu!"The taciturn soldier swung round to their leader. "I should not be surprised, old friend. The lady has shown she has more lives than a cat."

"A pox on it!" he cried. "That is no lady! She is a sorceress, a vampire or the devil himself! Quick, to the camp! We must find her before her next mission succeeds where her first failed." Then, turning to Sir Cadoganand Ron, as if suddenly remembering they were there, his gloved hand touched the brim of his hat in salute. "Our apologies, gentlemen, but chance calls us to do our duty to the King."

"A mission!" boomed Sir Cadogan. "Ah, come let me assist you, gentlemen! Together we shall find this devil for the slaying or die in the attempt!" Sir Cadogan wrenched at the sword in his scabbard, which appeared to be stuck. As he tugged on the hilt, the little knight´s visor clanged shut. He slid on a mud patch, sprawling backwards onto the grass.

The four solders and their lackeys glanced at one another and then doubtfully at Sir Cadogan. The quieterof the four smiled into their hats while the ruddy-faced cavalier winked jovially at Ron.

"We thank you for your wishes, Monsieur," said the leader, grinning. "For the moment, our presence is required at the encampment, but should we ever have need for noble heart and steely sinew, we shall waste no time in calling upon you! En avant!"

And quicker than Ron could say "Quidditch", they had sped off on their steeds, disappearing through the left of the gilded frame with the two lackeys, Grimaud and Planchet, galloping in pursuit.

**********

Most students, even a few in Slytherin, shivered in the dungeons. The corridors were cold and musty with a whistling, bone-chilling draught, even throughout the summer. But it wasn´t the temperature that sent most Hogwarts students quivering at the thought of those dank quarters. It was the prospect of seeing Professor Snape. For most, a summons from Snape seemed only slightly less deadly than passing under the scaffold. And Merlin knew the odds were little better. But that was most students. Particularly those like that cowardly Longbottom (What was with him today?) who trembled weakly at a glance from the Potions Master. Even Gryffindor´s legacy, Potter, and his sidekicks Granger and Weasel had often enough failed to conceal their trepidation when served up a detention.

Draco was convinced he was different. He was a Malfoy. The heir to a Dark dynasty so old that its roots traced back to Cain. Draco drew himself up straight upon reaching Snape´s office door and paused, struggling to regulate his breathing. He had never been afraid of Snape, in fact, had always been in his good graces... until today. But why? Normally a fight with a Gryffindor was cause for praise-particularly one against a Mudblood-loving Weasley. But Snape had been incensed. The thought of being the first Slytherin to lose favour with their Head of House filled Draco with a stomach-tightening anxiety.

For all his arrogance, next to his father´s, the approbation Draco sought most from a role model was Snape´s. The Head of Slytherin certainly didn´t have the looks of a Malfoy, but he had power, didn´t he? Draco knew from his father that Snapewas in the Dark Lord´s inner circle, which one day he too would join, if he proved himself.

And he would, he told himself firmly. Rapping on the door, he listened, hearing, at first, only the quickened pounding of his pulse against his temples.

"Come in."

The frosty voice sounded positively arctic, once behind the heavy door. From his gnarled oak desk, without once looking up, Professor Snapeindicated a hard wooden chair in front of the empty hearth.

"Be seated."

It was not an invitation; it was an order.

Draco sat promptly, the smirk on his pale face and his customary insouciance strangely absent. He couldn´t expel me. Not just for that, he thought,... could he? Besides, that Muggle-loving sod was asking for it.

Draco shifted nervously as Snaperaised his head and leaned back, bony fingers joined to form a steeple. His coal-black eyes examined him through narrowed lids.

"Professor, I-"

"Silence!" hissed Snape.

Not a good start.

Snape continued in a low voice, all the more frightening for its softness. "Your... antics of this afternoon, Mr. Malfoy, may have been of the sort to amuse you and your little friends for the past four years. And, as you know, I am not one to object to the harassment of that blasted Potter and his retinue of Gryffindor fools. However, I am informed that, as you are coming of age, your suitability for... pursuits beyond this school is to be evaluated carefully. It would seem that the time has come to test your discipline and... your loyalties."

The hand on the Potions Master´s desk fingered a scroll, doubly embossed with black wax seals branded with a dagger, that Draco recognised immediately from his own family crest, alongside the black Death Eater skull. The other hand tipped open a small jade box and flung a spray of silvery green powder at the fireplace, which erupted with a cold, greenish yellow flame.

"Lucius Malfoy," spat Snape. "Per the instructions received, I have summoned your son."

With a tiny pop, the haughty, pointed face of Lucius Malfoy, rendered a ghoulish green by the flames, appeared in the hearth.

"Severus." The disembodied head nodded a brief acknowledgment at Snape before turning imperiously to Draco. "Well, boy, I hadn´t expected this to occur quite so soon, but with... matters escalating as they are, you and other pure-bloods of your generation will be called upon to serve in our ranks. But only after a probationary period in which your loyalty to the fold will be weighed to determine if you are... worthy."

Malfoy´s cold eyes regarded his son. For his part, Draco was hardly aware of the surprise that stole onto his face.

"Probation?"

His father´s voice was stern and contained more than a note of impatience. "Boy, I am at liberty to discuss neither the details of your trial period, nor the tests that will be required of you. But I expect you to return home in a fortnight when the first of the rites will take place. Once you have completed your apprenticeship, you may take up the position of power destined for your name."

"Yes, Father." Draco´s face hardened.

"Good. Professor Snape will provide you with the necessary details when appropriate. Severus?"

Snape gave a perfunctory nod in assent.

"In that case, good day." His eyes rested for a moment on Draco, narrowing irritably as if he had spotted a metal stud missing from his favourite cudgel. "Do not disappoint me, Draco."

Lucius Malfoy´s smug countenance vanished as abruptly as the flames, leaving Snape´soffice even colder than before the brief interview.

Draco´s eyes remained fixed on the empty space. Joining the Dark Lord´s ranks was the defining rite of passage for all Dark wizarding families. Rather than merely hearing of the glorious victories of Voldemort´s army at the dinner table, he would actually be able to partake in them. In the real world, and not this molly-coddling Mudblood-loving shelter, as he had often heard his father refer to Hogwarts.

"Draco." He started at the sound of the professor´s voice. Snape eyed him gravely. "I suppose you are familiar with the consequences of the initiation."

Of course. In the estimation of his father and Voldemort, he would have earned his place in the world, his power. And he´d finally get the better of that prat Potter, he added to himself. To Snape, he merely nodded.

A cloud flickered across the Potions Master´s face and Draco noticed that he was regarding him with an inscrutable, unfamiliar expression. He looked almost... concerned.

Draco blinked, but the professor´s countenance had turned impassive. Snape rose, a tall, imposing shadow, and he followed suit. Draco paused for a moment, thinking that his head of house might have something to add. But Snape merely shook his hand in a grave, business-like gesture, far different from the style of rebuke he had expected upon entering a few moments before. "As your father said, I shall pass on any instructions as they are received."

Snape opened the door and faced him again, staring hard into his face. "Your father proposes a commitment not to be taken lightly, Mr. Malfoy."

"Oh, I know, sir," he said.

The Potions Master frowned. "Yes. Perhaps you do," he said, his tone, however, suggesting that Draco probably didn´t. "Nevertheless...certainty is a luxury often one step away from a blinding arrogance." He stepped back formally, terminating the interview.

"Should you have any questions regarding your... responsibilities... or the initial rites, you may call on me."

"Thank you, sir."

The old self-satisfied smirk was back. But only for a moment. Draco turned and began the long walk up from the dungeons, his head whirling with so many thoughts that his mind dismissed the barely audible click of another door closing.

To Be Continued...