Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 17: Unexpected Tasks

A HACKING COUGH SHOOK THE UNDERBRUSH as Sirius Black doubled over behind the first line of garden shrubbery. From several feet away, through the boughs of an aging willow, Remus squinted at his friend in the darkness. The windows of the mansion at the top of the sprawling, topiary-strewn lawn shed barely enough light for him to glimpse any more than the blue of his friend´s bloodshot eyes as he strained to stifle his cough.

Remus signalled around the wizened trunk of a great elm back toward Frank Fenchurch and the seven Aurors assigned to the south quadrant. He gestured vaguely at Sirius to indicate where he was going. The silver-haired Fenchurch nodded and raised a finger to his lips before tapping the shoulder of one of the rookies, motioning for him to take Remus´s place at the front line. Making the most of his lupine stealth, Remus hunched over and silently crept the few feet to where his friend crouched on his haunches behind a holly bush, clutching at his stomach.

"Padfoot, are you all right?" Without waiting for a response, he slipped a small thermal flask from his robes and pressed it into Sirius´s hand. Remus watched him take a greedy draught, then pause, swallowing. Sirius slowly turned back toward him with a bemused expression.

"Hot chocolate." Sirius´s voice was a raspy, incredulous whisper. "You go on a stakeout armed with your wand, an Atlantean Invisi-Shield and a hip flask of hot chocolate?" Sirius raised a dark brow and grinned at him weakly. "The years haven´t changed you much, have they, Moony?"

With relief, Remus watched the colour flood back into his friend´s face and he treated him to a wry smirk. "And you were expecting what? Firewhisky? You´re lucky this isn´t my week for Wolfsbane Potion." Remus´s face softened. "And for Merlin´s sake, Padfoot, you should be back at the lodge catching up on your sleep. That cough´s only gotten worse."

"And miss out on a sting?" Sirius replied hoarsely. "Not on your life. This is the first high-level Death Eater gathering Arabella´s gotten wind of in years." His eyes, narrowing, flicked briefly to the tall windows glowing on the side of the building. "And Wormtail´s in there, I know it." Sirius bared his teeth. "I can smell him."

Remus rested a firm hand on his friend´s arm, looking at him sternly. "Sirius, you promised Harry..."

"I promised not to kill Peter," said Sirius, shrugging Remus away. "I said nothing about torturing him within an inch of his life--"

"You know that´s not within our remit, Sirius." The lines deepened in Remus´s forehead. "We´re here to capture them and hand them over to the Ministry for questioning. Once Peter´s in their hands, it only remains for him to be identified for you to be vindicated. Nothing good will come of harming him tonight."

Sirius scowled. "How can you be so lenient? How can you possibly forgive him? After he betrayed us? After he betrayed Lily and J--"

"Damn it, Sirius! I haven´t forgiven him!" hissed Remus. "There are times when I wish we had killed him in the Shrieking Shack when we had the chance! You think that I never wished that I... that the wolf could have--" His voice shook and he looked down at his trembling hands. At length, he threw Sirius an exasperated glance. "But Harry was right. We would have been murderers." Remus sighed. "And it still wouldn´t have brought James and Lily back."

Sirius turned away bitterly, staring at the mansion walls with eyes like blue ice. "Peter should be made to pay for all the lives he´s destroyed." He thrust his dagger into the ground. "Including ours."

"He will be," said Remus resignedly, "just... not by us." He shrugged. "Harry wants nothing but the best for you, you know. He´s got a good heart--and a good head. Like his father." Remus smiled sadly. "He knows that if you murdered Pettigrew you would lose your only chance for exoneration--for freedom and real happiness."

Sirius snorted, glaring blackly at the gnarled roots of an aging willow. "Real happiness?" He gave a low, caustic laugh. "And what hope could an escaped convict have of knowing real happiness?"

Remus paused to examine his friend, the surprisingly hard lines in his face, the bitter set of his jaw. But he felt he could still read Padfoot as well as he had at Hogwarts; underneath all the bitterness and bravado, Remus knew Sirius hadn´t changed much. At least, he hoped he hadn´t.

Changing tack, Remus arched a sandy brow and nodded. "I guess you´re right. There is no happiness for fugitives, of course," he began companionably. "But... just for argument´s sake, supposing there was. I wonder if you´d think it wouldn´t even be worth considering, anyway." He blinked at him innocently. "Not even if it came and bit you on the nose, right? Or, say... scratched behind your ears... had long, dark hair... maybe wore blue robes that matched her eyes... fed you lemon tart?"

"What?"

Sirius looked up from polishing an enchanted arrowhead and twisted round to frown at him. Sirius´s angry mantle slid away, replaced by frank surprise and a look of sudden comprehension that was tantamount to an admission.

"You know very well what I mean, Padfoot," said Remus quietly, fighting back a smile. "I remember now that you once told us about her. In our sixth year after you came back from France, remember? Took about six pints of butterbeer, mind you, but we wheedled it out of you in the end."

Even in the dark, Remus was certain he saw Sirius flush and turn away irritably.

"That was a long time ago," he said flatly.

"Yet you´ve never forgotten."

"And your point is?" growled Sirius, peevishly tossing the hip flask at Remus´s chest. "Look. I know what you´re trying to do, Moony, but this romantic idea you´re cooking up? It won´t work. We were sixteen--just children. She and I... we´re not the same people anymore, don´t you see? And anyway..." He shook his head. "What have I got to offer? Nothing. She´s a high-ranking law enforcement officer, I´m a convicted criminal--"

"But you´re innocent!"

"She doesn´t know that."

Remus straightened his back and crossed his arms. He frowned, studying Sirius. "And you´re... Merlin, you´re not going to tell her, are you?"

"No." Sirius yanked the dagger from the ground and slammed it into his holster. "I´m not." He leaned in sternly toward Remus. "Look, if you remember so well, you´d also recall that she refused all of my attempts to see her--"

Remus stared at Sirius in disbelief. "But her sister had just been murdered, you said. She must have had her reasons. She was probably distraught, just as we were on the night that James and--"

"Moony, please." Sirius held up his hands in exasperation and shook his head. "Just... let it go." He gave a resigned sigh. "Anyway, I don´t... I don´t care anymore. I´m over it. And I´m sure Bethany White would no more think of me in that way than... than..."

"Severus."

"Snape?" Sirius´s eyes flashed. "What´s he got to do with anything?"

"Oh, erm... forget it," said Remus innocently, making a hasty move to go. "It´s probably nothing anyway." A strong hand shot out of the shadows to grab his robes.

"Ooooh, no you don´t, Moony," said Sirius, pulling him back to a crouching position. "What do you know?"

A-ha! Remus threw him an arch glance. "I thought you weren´t interested."

Sirius glared back.

"Well... all right," conceded Remus. "Sybil--Trelawney, teaches Divination--Harry must have told you about her," he continued. "She met me in the library yesterday. And it seems that according to Sybil´s Inner Eye, Bethany... may be developing an interest in Snape."

Sirius issued a doubtful little snort and turned away. "Maybe Sybil should have her Inner Eye examined."

"But I wonder... is that so implausible?" pressed Remus philosophically. "I´m just playing the devil´s advocate, Padfoot. There isn´t any other single male her age at the school; they do share the dungeon wing; and I´m sure that women..." Remus paused and furrowed his brow doubtfully. "Okay, I´m really not sure, but... it´s still within the realm of possibility that there could be some women--however misguided and perhaps under Imperius or controlled substances--who might find Severus... er, intriguing, under the right circumstances..." Sneaking a glance, Remus noted that Sirius had blanched. "All I mean to say is that Bethany is a bright, attractive woman. Any other man might--"

"Moony. Enough." Sirius raised his hands, his face an odd mixture of regret and embarrassment. "Not every man can be as lucky as you, all right? And I... I lost my chance a long time ago."

Remus was put out. "So that´s it? The one girl that you ever really..." He shook his head. "You´re seriously just going to give up. Without even speaking to her. Just like that."

"That´s right," snapped Sirius. "Just. Like. That." Peevishly, he pushed off his knees and weaved through the thicket to exchange a few quiet words with Fenchurch and his men.

End of conversation.

Remus Lupin sighed. Even when it came to his own happiness, Sirius could be so annoyingly obstinate.

Remus sat back against the trunk and drained the remainder from the flask.

Then... he crooked his brow.

Just like that, huh?

A devilish grin swept across his cheeks. Hmmph. We´ll see about--

A hand gripped his shoulder and Remus instinctively spun round with his wand, only to have it snatched from his grasp by the hard-nosed Arabella Figg. The ex-Auror´s grey curls peeped out from the folds of her travel cloak and she raised an iron-gloved hand to her lips. From the undergrowth, Remus´s ears detected the soft rustling in the shadows that was the Auror team falling into position, waiting for the signal.

Mrs Figg cocked her head toward the carriageway in the distance where a blond youth scraped across the gravel to a standing position, brushing his robes off with instantly recognisable disdain. Draco Malfoy. Remus´s stomach knotted as the groan of the large front doors of the great house pierced the silence.

**********

Draco was no stranger to the concept of the dinner party. At home, there had often been lavish affairs hosted by his parents, accompaniments to his father´s business dealings with the Ministry. In the early years, Draco had been warned to be as silent as the grave and as invisible as the house-elves who served him his dinner in the stables. Since Draco´s start at Hogwarts, his father´s policy on children at such dinners had changed, and Draco found that he´d graduated from trough-side to table--in the Weapons Gallery, but a table nonetheless. The gallery, adjacent to the main dining room, was a gloomy stone hall filled with ferocious suits of jagged armour and glass cases stacked with eerie fanged headdresses and other European tribal artefacts. Not the most aesthetically pleasing environment for a quiet meal, but Draco found that he could bear his imprisonment better by peering through the keyhole and observing the festivities.

And they were festive. High-backed ebony chairs and slim black candles glimmering in the reflections of tall gilt mirrors between the French doors to the terrace. Poker-faced men with pretty, pinch-nosed wives whose smiles never reached their eyes. And the soft hum of whispers and cold laughter, perfuming gossip that his father and mother devoured in the study long after they thought Draco had gone to bed.

In this manner, Draco had been to his share of dinner parties, many loud and lavish, but nothing as... bizarre as this. For one thing, he had never been the guest of honour.

As he trailed Tom into the Room of the Dead Fellows, a forced hush fell over the assembly as all eyes turned toward Draco. Even the stodgy old men in the dim portraits along the walls--the ones with heads--leaned forward to peer closely at the new recruit. Draco recoiled from the piercing glare of some of those eyes, cold and calculating.

Tom followed his gaze. "The Dead Fellows," he explained. They didn´t look the doting old grandfatherly sort. And apart from the decapitated state of some, there wasn´t anything particularly dead about them. And not in a good way. Draco shivered.

At the round table, Tom gestured toward a chair by the fire. "That´s you, right there," he said amiably. "Please. Have a seat." He nodded at the rest of the robed wizards and witches, who assumed their places around the table. None took a seat at random, but clearly sat in accordance with a seating arrangement manifesting a defined pecking order that started with Tom and ended with Draco.

Only Tom, Lucius and Macnair remained unmasked, and Draco felt the perspiration gather in his palms as the stark silver faces fixed upon him expectantly from the horizon of ominous black. As a first course of green-tinged soup materialised round the table, Draco fidgeted with the hem of the tablecloth and glanced round again, only mildly comforted by the thought that somewhere among them sat Professor Snape. Imagine! he thought wryly. Looking for Snape as the only friendly face! Even a Slytherin couldn´t miss the irony. Draco might have laughed... if he hadn´t been so afraid that it might come out as a petrified squeak.

He jumped at the sound of a loud, tinny peal. Although there was no need to call for silence, Tom tapped his goblet imperiously and smiled with bright, very even white teeth. They looked sharp.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Good evening and welcome to you all. And in particular, a warm welcome to those of you who have travelled such a great distance for this caucus." Tom gave a reverent nod to a handful of guests to Draco´s right.

"As you know, the Dark Lord´s domestic and foreign allegiances have solidified over the past few weeks, and the time shall soon come when Salazar Slytherin´s vision of Power to the Pure shall be forged into reality. In anticipation of the arrival of our allies, the Sweepers have already begun to make their mark on the countryside, purging both magical and Muggle towns of our enemies. But we must not grow complacent with these small efforts," said Tom. "The hour of our single most important strike will soon be upon us, and we must be prepared. The strategic stronghold of Hogwarts Castle shall be our first target. And Albus Dumbledore will fall." Tom punctuated this last sentence with a smile close to a maniacal sneer. Draco blinked. For a moment, the young speaker´s eyes flashed garnet in the shadows.

"Already," Tom continued, "a spy has been securely established to raise and mobilise forces to enable access at Lord Voldemort´s signal. And tonight I have the pleasure of introducing one of a select few who may also be instrumental in this regard.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "tonight it is my pleasure to introduce our newest recruit and the youngest person ever to be short-listed for membership in the Dark Circle. I give you... Draco Malfoy." Lucius led a weak smattering of applause that died abruptly as Tom raised his hand. "Young Malfoy´s brief Initiation will take place over the next few weeks, during which time you will have the opportunity to evaluate Mr Malfoy and his suitability for entrance into the Circle..."

The rest of Tom´s words passed over Draco in a thick, shapeless cloud. His stomach began to sink. Foreign allegiances? Sweepers? Spies and mobilising forces? Draco hadn´t known what to expect in joining the Dark Circle, but nothing he could have imagined had prepared him for this. For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy felt that he was in over his head. He had enough trouble getting those brainless plonkers Crabbe and Goyle out of bed. How was he supposed to help mobilise forces? What forces? Against whom? Dumbledore? There was no love lost between Draco and the daft old Headmaster, but the notion was ridiculous. Why would the Dark Lord feel threatened by a barmy old codger who wore robes embroidered with pastries and candied gumdrops?...

When Draco finally surfaced from these thoughts, Tom had resumed his seat. To his left, amongst the higher ranking members, Draco glimpsed a diminutive balding man with watery eyes and a weighty-looking silver hand. Draco gave an involuntary shudder and wrinkled his nose. Was he too poor to use realistic prosthetics from St Mungo´s? Tom leaned toward the mouse-like man and spoke in low whispers.

"Wormtail," said Tom, "is the evening´s sport ready?"

"Yes, my Lo--" Tom´s hand clamped over the man´s mouth. Above his fingers, the Wormtail´s eyes bulged, darting nervously from Tom to Draco and back again. Tom released his grip, leaving a livid pink handprint on the quivering man´s pasty face, and drew away slowly with a warning finger pointed between his eyes.

"They... they´re bound and tied in the cellar, Mast--Tom," he sputtered. "Yeats and Ely will bring them up whenever you wish to begin."

"Very good, Wormtail." Tom sat back with a satisfied smirk. "Our guests are looking forward to testing the youngblood this evening." He steepled his fingers and winked at Draco.

Draco´s heart pounded furiously in his ears and he glanced quickly away, looking into his soup bowl. He wondered irrationally what that old bat Trelawney would see in the dregs of his dish. Never in his lifetime had Draco imagined that he would wish he could be back in that stuffy, incense-infused fortune-teller´s rat hole. Until now. He peered edgily at Tom.

The young man stood and glanced slowly round at the Death Eaters. He passed a hand over his face.

"Unmask," he ordered.

One by one, the black-robed figures around the table reached up to draw away their masks. Draco noticed a few familiar faces in the flickering shadows, though none he would have characterised as comforting. Crabbe´s and Goyle´s slack-jawed fathers, and others he´d seen once or twice through the keyhole in his father´s study, including the scrawny Walter Nott, a senior minister in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, and the bearded behemoth Ibrahim Avery, Vice President of Firebolt International and the chairman of the Avery Foundation for the Protection of Endangered Magical Creatures. As their eyes scanned towards him, Draco shifted his gaze nervously, and finally, through the blood-red wicks of the candelabra across the table, he spied the hawkish poker face of Professor Snape. Draco dropped his guard enough to give his Head of House a stiff little nod of recognition which Snape coldly returned. So much for moral support, Draco thought bitterly. On the other side of the table, the esteemed guests all possessed the distinctly chiselled Slavic features Draco had come to associate with Durmstrang. He couldn´t help but stare. They stood out clearly now that he could see the faces of these pale, dark-eyed men and women who peered round with hollow eyes and hungry expressions, and yet, made no moves to touch their soup.

But strangest of all was the last man to remain masked. There was something... oddly familiar about him. He sat beside Draco, his dark eyes fixed forward, and he held his chin defiantly, petulantly refusing to participate in the proceedings. Draco looked him curiously up and down, suddenly recognising him as the man who had come forward earlier to accuse him of having a heretical curriculum. Of all the bloody--

"I said, unmask." Tom glared pointedly at the man and tapped his wand threateningly against his palm. Draco grinned in satisfaction. Perhaps he would like Tom, after all.

All eyes fell on the recalcitrant Death Eater, and Draco watched as he slowly returned Tom´s glare. But the black eyes filled suddenly with something Draco recognised well.

Fear.

Reluctantly, the long, thin fingers of one hand moved to pry off the mask when a loud crash from the main door stilled the guests.

An explosion shattered the thick oak doors with a blinding fog of smoke and splinters. A piercing scream shook the room as men poured in from every door, every corner. It was as if the panels of the walls had burst and given way to tides of plain-robed militia with shields at their sides and wands raised, yelling for everyone not to move. Eyes wide, Draco glanced round in confusion. Who the...? Could it be... the Ministry? Through the main door clinked the heavy scales of body armour as an angry thud of boots--whether legion or few, he couldn´t say--pounded the wooden floor. They were surrounded. All was chaos. The frenzied scrambling of the guests, the screeching of chairs thrown back, the clang of silver and fine bone china sliding to the floor as the tablecloth came away, and the strangled gasps of Death Eaters rushing vainly for the doors and tripping headlong over those who had already slipped in lukewarm puddles of pea soup.

The man beside Draco had vanished, as had Tom and Wormtail. Draco squinted, unable to find his father in the haze. In the smoky air hung the faint glimmerings of hasty Disapparation. Across the room, a shadowy silhouette paused in the melee and raised a wand at Draco. He gasped and made a quick grab for his own wand which had dropped clumsily to the floor. Draco dove under the table to fumble after it when a firm hand grabbed the neck of his robes.

"Quickly! Take this!" There was barely time to identify the voice as a large vial was pressed into his hand.

A familiar tension seized him by the waist and he plunged into darkness and through a whirlwind of colour before finally hearing the shattering of glass tumblers and the crack of his shoulder against cold stone. Draco winced.

As he opened his eyes, a blurry, black-robed mass stooped to tug him from the floor.

"Trust you to go from one ignominious position to another," spat the acid voice.

But the sting of the tone did little to camouflage the flash of relief on Professor Snape´s sallow face as he steered Draco from the midnight gloom of the Potions classroom to the Hospital Wing.

**********

Ron hated the infirmary. Hated its coldness. Its smells. The fact that everyone there was sick. The only thing remotely pleasant was the prospect of chunks of Honeyduke´s best chocolate, but you only got that if you were particularly ill and Madam Pomfrey didn´t have recourse to more potent and less tasty treatment samples from St Mungo´s. Still, Ron wasn´t going to argue against any trip to the Hospital Wing that got him out of early morning Divination. Ron had yawned and flipped a Knut with Harry to see which of them would volunteer to take Neville to the infirmary and he had won.

Pacing through the corridors and up several moving staircases to the small minaret in the shadow of the North Tower, Ron snuck a sideways glance at Neville. The boy gave him a weak smile and shrugged philosophically. There didn´t seem to be much wrong with Neville--not more than usual these days, anyway--apart from the hand embedded with small shards of the Memory Crystal he had broken. It had been only the second time the Gryffindors had ever heard Trelawney scream. Serves her right, really, thought Ron. Everyone knows Neville´s a jinx on two legs. But for a fragile-looking waif of a thing, Trelawney had quite a pair of lungs. And there was nothing misty about her when she used them.

"AAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!! Longbottom!" she screeched, causing several of the Gryffindors to spill their tea. "I knew it! I knew it!" The professor clapped a melodramatic palm to her forehead. "I should have heeded my Inner Eye--but no! I thought I could give you the benefit of the doubt. But I see that you cannot even be trusted to walk three paces without breaking the most expensive Seer´s equipment at this school! Do you have any idea how rare these Memory Crystals are?" she wailed petulantly. "Do you?" Trelawney fell to her knees and snatched at the larger pieces scattered across the wooden floor planks. She sighed wistfully. "And Madam Hooch and Professor van der Witte were to assist me in a faculty demonstration today..."

When she finally calmed down--sinking onto a pouf and pushing her thick lenses back along the bridge of her nose--she waved them both away to the Hospital Wing and slammed the trap door on Neville´s feeble apologies.

Now, ahead of them, the three statues guarding the clinical corridor outside the infirmary cast dreary shadows on the ivory limestone walls, even in the pale morning light. As Ron and Neville approached the Hospital Wing´s towering double-doors, all was quiet except for the fading footsteps of a blond boy treading down the opposite stairs.

"Wasn´t that Malfoy?" asked Neville, peering at the stairwell.

"Looks like," sighed Ron disinterestedly.

"His arm was in a sling," mused Neville. "Wonder what´s happened to him."

"Hmmph. Dunno." Ron gave an insouciant shrug and arched a wry brow. "Slytherin secret handshake, perhaps?" He nudged open the infirmary door. "Come on, let´s find Madam Pomfrey for that hand. At least you´re not bleeding much."

As they crossed the threshold, they nearly collided with Eamon Mulroney who was just ducking out. The Hufflepuff nodded at them, smiling weakly at Ron before disappearing off toward the stairs. Inside, the infirmary was nearly deserted except for Eloise Midgeon who seemed to have underestimated the effects of a particularly potent teeth-whitening spell. Neville and Ron shielded their eyes from the glare as they passed Gengis Bole who sat on a nearby table, tearing off a last bit of bandage with his teeth. Padding it onto his wrist, Bole glowered at the Gryffindors, looking as if he might spit. But hearing the sound of the Madam Pomfrey´s voice nearby, he seemed to think better of it and settled for a spiteful sneer before slouching away into the corridor.

The boys stalked past a few empty beds to the mediwitch´s office. Although the door hung slightly ajar, Ron raised a hand to knock. But Neville brushed it aside and put a finger to his lips. From within, a familiar silken drawl echoed faintly into the ward.

"...Are you quite sure?" asked Professor Snape. "That is... most unusual."

"Well, it´s certainly not every day you see results like this without the aid of some of St Mungo´s best coagulants," said Madam Pomfrey, "--and even then, the wounds wouldn´t have disappeared that rapidly without--"

"Without leaving a scar, yes, I agree," said Snape.

"And you´ve not... come across a potion that might produce these results, Severus?"

The Potions Master sighed thoughtfully. "I know of many fast-acting healing potions and elixirs, but none that closes the wound quite so quickly and thoroughly as you´ve described in Mulroney´s case--without a trace--and certainly not without the use of a Concealment Charm for scarring. Could it be some kind of benign genetic anomaly, perhaps?"

"I´ll verify his medical history with his family," said Madam Pomfrey, "but I don´t recall seeing anything extraordinary in his chart."

"The boy is doing well otherwise?"

"He was given replacement pints of blood straight away and he still comes in for daily blood pressure checks. Initially, he experienced bouts of fatigue," said the matron, "which is to be expected, after all, considering what he must have been through. His diet and exercise regimen are being carefully regulated, but the poor thing... his fatigue seems to have increased, rather than decreased, these past few days. The symptoms of anaemia appear to be firmly entrenched, despite the stabilisation of his red blood cell output. And I just..." She sighed. "I don´t understand why."

"I think it best that we keep this to ourselves for the moment," said Snape suddenly. "Is anyone else aware of this?"

"Only Albus..." she replied. "Oh! And Hagrid. He dropped by one evening to return a book of Eamon´s, left by one of the Manticore cages..."

Snape spat something barely audible, and probably rather impolite, about morons and Manticores that made Madam Pomfrey gasp. At which point Ron cleared his throat and knocked loudly.

The door swung open. The mediwitch gasped again at the sight of Neville´s hand. Snape scowled at the Gryffindors and made his excuses to Madam Pomfrey, swishing blackly from the infirmary with one last parting sneer at the boys.

The matron led Neville to an examination carrel and drew the curtains, asking Ron to wait in the hall while she cleaned and dressed the boy´s wounds. The conversation the boys had overheard gave Ron much to mull over, and he hardly noticed as Madam Pomfrey ushered him over to the bench outside in between the looming figures of Hippocrates and Paracelsus.

Mulroney really hadn´t been in top form since they´d pulled him from the Forest. Just the other day in Herbology Ernie MacMillan had said that Mulroney had become uncharacteristically reclusive. MacMillan had even complained about having to make several excuses for Eamon to ward off the steady trickle of girls that kept "just popping by" the Hufflepuff Common Room to check on his welfare.

"At least they bring food," said Ernie. "And thank Merlin none of us have to feed his Manticore for him." He gingerly repotted a Carnivenus Fly Trap, taking care to yank his hand away before its thorny jaws snapped shut. "Altruism only goes so far when it hits up against self-preservation."

In the stillness outside the infirmary, Ron hunched forward with his chin in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees, struggling to remember something Ginny had mentioned in passing just yesterday at dinner... what was it? Something about... Mulroney? Manticores? What?... Ron frowned. He hated losing things in his short term memory. At the Burrow, it only reinforced everyone´s impression that he was lazy or forgetful, and at Hogwarts, he felt it made him look unintelligent, slow and tongue-tied. Especially in front of Hermione... Ron felt his cheeks growing warm with embarrassment. He sat up and cleared his throat. Well, at least he hadn´t said any of that out loud--

"Bonjour! Salut! Sa-lut, monsieur!"

Ron jumped at the tiny voice. He tightened his grip on the bench and nervously scanned up and down the empty corridor. Who the--?

"Monsieur? `Allo! Ici, ici!..." cried the voice. And then, "Grimaud, aide-moi s´il te plait--"

"Qu´il est bête!" muttered another voice. "Planchet! Il est anglais, donc il faut parler anglais. You must speak Eeenglish. Observe..." There was a small cough. "Erm, excuse me, sir! `Allo! `Allo, yes, we are `ere! Over `ere, yes."

Ron rose warily from the bench and, crossing the hall, approached a painting of a copse of poplars and a small stream by a wood. Two ponies lapped casually at the water, wetting their front hooves in the soft current. Beside them, two rather short young men about Percy´s age beckoned to him, gesticulating excitedly.

"It worked, Grimaud, he´s coming!" the blond one said cheerfully.

"Planchet, be quiet." Ron´s nose stopped inches from the canvas as he recognised two of the servants accompanying the French cavaliers he´d met the day Sir Cadogan decided to impart some "man-to-man" advice to him in the Gryffindor Common Room. (Ron still flushed with embarrassment to think of it.) He knew Planchet immediately by his blond youthful looks and the quiet, stern-looking one with the dark brown hair was Grimaud.

"Are you..." Ron cleared his throat again. "Are you talking to me?"

"Ouai," said Planchet with a little Gallic shrug. "´Ooo else?"

"Our masters `ave asked us to find you," began Grimaud reluctantly, as if he found the very act of speaking uncomfortable.

"Me?" Ron glanced quickly round the empty hall and leaned forward. "Erm... what for?"

"My master Monsieur Athos believes zat you can `elp zem find `oo zey are looking for."

Ron looked doubtfully from one to the other and furrowed his ginger brows. "Who?"

Startled, Grimaud spun round. From somewhere behind the two lackeys came the sound of whinnying horses in the distance, swiftly approaching.

Planchet tugged the two ponies by the reins. "Vite! Grimaud! Les espions du cardinal!"

Grimaud hoisted himself into his saddle and turned to Ron. "The Cardinal´s spies. Zey are looking for us and our masters. We must go," he said. "But, monsieur, look for ze fleur de lis--"

"The what?" Frustrated, Ron gave his head an awkward scratch. "I´m sorry, I don´t speak French."

Grimaud looked pained. The thundering of hooves drew closer through the wood. "Aide-moi, Planchet! Help me," he said breathlessly, grabbing the other´s reins.

The two lackeys put their heads together, and after a frantic little conference punctuated by much gesturing, the blond boy looked at Ron and said, "Look for ze... comment-dit?... it is called `ze flower of ze lily.´ It is ze symbol of ze royal `ouse of France, branded on murderers `oo--"

"Who what?" Ron shook his head in frustration.

"I´m sorry," panted Grimaud, waving at his colleague, "zere is no time. Vas-y, Planchet! Vas-y! Go! Find Monsieur D´Artagnan!" Planchet sped off across the shallow neck of the stream and vanished into the thicket. Grimaud took one last look at Ron. "Be very careful. And beware ze bearer of zis flower, monsieur. Eet is ze mark of death."

Ron´s eyes widened as the first black-masked rider emerged further down the brook. The rider spotted Grimaud and unsheathed his rapier with a sharp, steely scraping that echoed through the glen.

"Run!" hissed Ron, waving Grimaud along.

"Until we meet again, monsieur," muttered the little Frenchman, simultaneously bowing and spurring his pony across the stream.

Seconds later the horsemen in pursuit, all clad in black and brandishing shiny sabres, flew across the frame and plunged into the dense foliage. I hope they get away, thought Ron. He found his own heart pounding furiously in his chest as he stepped away from the portrait and--

"What are you doing?"

Ron whirled round, startled to find Neville standing behind him, holding up his bandaged hand.

"I... I was... There were these..." Ron´s mind reeled. He was what? Talking to two crazed Frenchmen warning him about... a flower? It sounded preposterous, even to him. "Erm... nothing, Neville. Just... waiting for you." He smiled weakly.

Neville´s eyes drifted from Ron to the portrait. He peered at Ron dubiously, but said nothing.

"Come on," said Ron, glancing at the clock behind Paracelsus. "Or we´ll be late for Potions."

**********

In the Great Hall, Bethany kept a close eye on Snape. The Potions Master made a hash of Death Eater discretion with his frequent surreptitious glances at Clarimonde van der Witte at the far end of the staff table. Could he be more obvious? The Muggle Studies instructor had hardly touched her food and the goblet beside her plate remained full. Clarimonde´s face took on an odd, closed expression as her eyes drifted to the Gryffindor table. She seemed no more aware of Snape´s attentions than the open-mouthed stares of some of the less discreet sixth- and seventh-year boys.

Over the rim of her wine goblet, Bethany´s eyes swept across the faces at the staff table and the others in the Great Hall. Not surprisingly, nearly every male, cast either wistful or lascivious glances in Clarimonde´s direction. Except for the Potter boy who seemed preoccupied by someone else. Bethany followed Harry´s gaze to the blonde transfer student from Beauxbatons and felt a little pang of sympathy for a pretty red-haired fourth year at the Gryffindor table as the creeping shadow of comprehension and disappointment darkened her face. Poor Miss Weasley.

But petty adolescent entanglements no more held Bethany´s interest now than they had fifteen years ago. The compromises Bethany had made in the search for her sister´s killer had put an end to that happy innocence. Years later, her dealings with the Dark Lord and his followers further changed her perspective. There were no silly adolescent games. Oh, there were games, to be sure. His games. Where the stakes were much higher and payment was always demanded of the players. Players who were always free to come to the table. But no one ever left without discharging his debts--those were His rules. Now, it was Snape´s turn to pay. And Bethany would collect.

The scraping of oak against stone turned her attention back to the Potions Master, who had risen and was pushing away from the table, a stray lock of raven-black hair escaping from behind one ear. Snape nodded at Dumbledore before darting one last glance at Clarimonde. What could the Evil Vicar want with her? Bethany frowned. Okay, apart from the obvious. He was a man, of course. But Bethany hadn´t believed Remus Lupin´s quip about Snape being an incorrigible rake. Surely he´d been joking. Snape just doesn´t seem the type to--

These tangential speculations came to an abrupt halt as Snape´s gaze shifted, suddenly holding hers. He paused and narrowed his eyes. Then his lip curled alarmingly into a half-smile. Bethany felt the flames rush to her cheeks and she barely succeeded in resisting the childish reflex of covering them with her hands. With a curt nod, he disappeared ahead of the billowing cloud of his black robes, leaving her feeling sheepish. Again.

The Headmaster refilled her water goblet and she smiled mechanically at Dumbledore´s twinkling gaze, all the while thinking, I´ll get you in the end, Snape. All in good time.

"Bethany!" The Headmaster´s warm voice sought her attention as he offered her a selection of truffles that had materialised beside the elegant silver coffee pot. "Do have one of these, they are delightful!"

Ruffled as she was, Bethany noted the truffles were of the finest Valrhona, in various shapes that hinted at their fillings. The magical chocolate connoisseur´s answer to Bertie Bott´s Every Flavour Beans. Bethany had begun to politely refuse when her eye found a pudgy lemon truffle nestled in the assortment. Unthinkingly her fingers closed upon it (it squeaked in surprise) and popped it into her mouth. A tangy warmth coursed through her body and her shoulders, always tense, suddenly relaxed. And there was another feeling, too, one she had long forgotten. Innocence. She gave a small, contented sigh and met Dumbledore´s eyes, blue and twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Severus is quite partial to the citrus as well," he remarked casually, helping himself to a pink rhubarb truffle. Suddenly serious, Dumbledore turned and met her gaze. "I´ve been meaning to thank you for volunteering to undertake moderation of the Society with Professor van der Witte."

"Oh!" Bethany blinked at him in mild surprise, darting a quick glance at Clarimonde. "Erm, you´re welcome."

"It really is very kind of you, considering how weighty the revised Dark Arts curriculum is this year," he said. "However, I was hoping I might ask a favour of you as well."

"A favour?" She put down her goblet. "How can I--"

"I would be honoured," Dumbledore interjected pointedly, "if you would humour an old man and join me in my office for a cup of tea. Just a tisane, or perhaps something a little stronger, if you prefer?"

"Um... I... a tisane would be lovely," she said. "Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore rose and bade the rest of the staff goodnight, leaving Professors Flitwick and Sprout discussing Merobab adolescent regression ("I say, couldn´t you simply do an Anti-Tantrum Hex? Finite Argumentate, Solomon Isaacs, something like that?"), and Sybil Trelawney peering deeply into Clarimonde´s startled eyes ("OH! My dear," she clutched dramatically at the new professor´s bloodless wrist. "I see dire, dire things in store for us this year! Death! I tell you it is such a curse to have the Sight as I do, and not be believed...").

Casting one last curious glance at Sybil and Clarimonde, she followed the Headmaster through the staff exit and through a door that she could have sworn wasn´t there before, sandwiched between a self-replenishing wine rack and a painting of three peasants snoring under a bright yellow-orange haystack. Stepping forward, she felt a light gust of cool wind and blinked to find herself staring at the elegant book-lined walls of Dumbledore´s circular office.

Dumbledore´s eyes crinkled at the corners at her bemused expression.

"A little shortcut Headmaster Zatsenuff installed during his tenure," he explained. "The climb from the Great Hall to his chambers was always too long for him following the traditional after-dinner port that was the custom at the time." The Headmaster strode across the room to a tray in front of the hearth ablaze with crackling logs. "I rarely use it myself," he said. "But it does come in rather handy when one wants to be on time for dessert." Dumbledore winked.

The headmasters and -mistresses on the walls cracked their eyes open, inspecting Bethany through pince-nezes or wire-rimmed spectacles, before settling back in their frames to snooze in their armchairs. Dumbledore beckoned for her to sit down in one of the leather wing-backed chairs by the fire opposite his own by the tiny tea table and tray. She noticed that the tray, too, was laden with biscuits, petit fours and a pair of gold-rimmed cups and saucers bearing the Hogwarts insignia. A long tail of dazzling orange and red swished from the gilded stand by the door, as Dumbledore´s phoenix swooped across the room and fluttered to rest above them on the mantelpiece.

"Good evening, Fawkes," said the Headmaster, pouring the tisane.

The phoenix blinked at her placidly. "How beautiful," she said aloud, forgetting herself for a moment.

Dumbledore´s beard twitched merrily as he passed her a steaming cup infused with hints of rosehip and cinnamon.

"Forgive me for not asking before," said Dumbledore, "but I trust that your accommodations are in order?" It was a polite, but not casual, question.

"Thank you, sir. I feel quite at home there already. At the Intelligence Council, we were used to working in small windowless spaces; the quarters you´ve given me are more than a breath of fresh air"--as she spoke, she realised what a strange characterisation that was for a dungeon--"and they´re perfectly placed." She half-smiled. "I´ve never believed in living too far away from work." Or a target.

"I´m very glad to hear it," said the Headmaster. "Home made curry treacle shortbread?" He held out a plate of gooey bulbous biscuits.

Bethany smiled. She bit into one and immediately pinched her lips together, casting her eyes about for a place to spit out, only to discover that her front teeth were glued shut. Behind her napkin, she managed to pry her jaws free. Glancing up, she found the Headmaster eyeing her with a mixture of concern and amusement.

Bethany cleared her throat and fished for something polite to say. "Did you... make these yourself, sir?"

"Oh, no," said the Headmaster. "I´m far too incompetent in the kitchen to come up with anything edible. This is one of Hagrid´s trademark recipes."

Bethany nodded politely and pointed to the bookshelves on the far wall. "What a fabulous collection of magical military reading you´ve amassed, sir," she mumbled, taking advantage of the distraction to pick the sticky remains of the biscuit from her teeth as the Headmaster happily explained the provenance of each military volume on his shelf.

Camouflaging the rest of her biscuit in her napkin, she waited patiently for him to finish, watching his eyes dance as he spoke. With the twitching of his beard and the spectacles perched on the end of his nose, she was delighted to discover the resemblance between the Headmaster and her Muggle grandfather, the Marquis de Gonneville, who had always taken more of an interest in people and books than the vestiges of his title.

"... was a gift from the Atlantean Archdruid... but that wasn´t why I asked you here," said Dumbledore at last.

"Erm... no, sir," she said. "You said that you had a favour to ask of me?"

Dumbledore resumed his seat and paused, regarding her in silence for a moment, as if weighing his next words. "I understand from Cornelius Fudge that your contributions at the International Wizards´ Intelligence Council did not stop at counter-intelligence, and that you have... something of a golden gauntlet when it comes to potions and other controlled magical substances."

Bethany laughed. "I think `golden gauntlet´ might be overstating it a bit," she said. "Actually, potions-making was a pastime I picked up at home. My father was a mediwizard who dabbled in alchemy and potions-making on the side."

"Ah!" said Dumbledore.

"I used to help him in the lab and it became a hobby for most of my childhood. It eventually led me to the Intelligence Council."

"So, you´ve had experience with potions research?" Dumbledore´s silvery brows rose hopefully.

"Yes." Bethany nodded. "I spent a few summers researching controlled magical substances with my father at the local wizarding bureau of investigations. When I left Beauxbatons, the Intelligence Council needed research staff to uncover a counterfeit potions ring in western France, so Madame Maxime put my name forward because of my knowledge of the terrain. And it didn´t hurt that my family had certain political connections..."

"Yes, I knew your father." The Headmaster delicately passed a hand over his cup and watched it refill. "We served together in the war against Grindelwald."

Bethany smiled gratefully at Dumbledore, recognising how modest a comment that was, coming from the man who had himself defeated the Dark wizard in 1945.

"...in different divisions, of course," the Headmaster was saying. "But our paths crossed occasionally. He was a great man. Truly kind. A real gentleman. And very sharp." Dumbledore´s blue eyes lit suddenly from behind the crescent lenses. "Does Graeme still fence?--No pun intended, I assure you," he said with a chuckle. "I seem to recall that he always had a special fondness for the sport. It was one of the hobbies he kept up in the encampments--"

"My father is dead."

The words sounded curt. Tense. But on seeing the genuine sorrow flood into Dumbledore´s eyes, she hurried to smooth over the brusque reply, continuing in a softer tone. "He died... fifteen years ago." Ironically, by the sword, she thought sadly. Bloody pride. She sipped her tea for strength, to wash away the acrid tang of bitterness and regret.

"I´m very sorry to hear that." Dumbledore sighed and sank back sadly against his chair. "Graeme was a good man. One of our best."

Bethany nodded, staring quietly into the fire, lost in long-forgotten reminiscences. "Aside from alchemy and potions-making, my father was keen to have me learn the art of fencing," she continued, half-smiling. She could still remember the makeshift practice room he had constructed above their gatehouse. "Papa had learned from the best, as his father before him. Papa wanted me to learn, too. It was one of the few traditions he wanted to preserve, I think." Bethany paused, almost unaware of her eyes beginning to brim. "But the war against Grindelwald had taken its toll on our family´s resources and the only instructor Papa could afford for me was himself." She gazed unseeingly into her cup. "After his death, for a time I tried fencing at school just as a distraction, but it only made me think of him more. And... I guess I found more solace in potions-making."

"Yes," came Dumbledore´s soothing voice. "Many often use academia as a refuge from the world. Or as an anaesthetic." The Headmaster´s eyes twinkled. "But for some, it is a place to start." The creases around his eyes deepened and his beard twitched as another thought seemed to occur to him. "Or start again."

Bethany´s eyes blinked clear. She had almost forgotten where she was, and she had certainly spoken more freely than she had intended. The blood flew to her cheeks as she realised how close she had come to recounting the painful incident on the Norman Cliffs that forced her to join the Intelligence Council and eventually precipitated her first meeting with the Tom and the Dark Lord´s Circle...

Her head felt light--not a wholly unpleasant sensation, but she was beyond her comfort zone now. And she felt acutely the nagging feeling of all incompetent spies after unwittingly betraying too much information. The urge to clap a hand over her mouth was overwhelming. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and his next words rendered her momentarily speechless.

"Well, I hope then that you won´t mind assisting Professor Snape with certain test trials and research on a certain Verivue Elixir?"

Snape? Bethany´s head snapped up in surprise.

Oblivious to her stunned expression, the Headmaster continued. "Severus has accomplished more than any of us could have ever expected. However, certain recent events have made completion of his research an imperative. And, competent as Severus is, I fear that the urgency of matters behoves him to have at least another pair of hands to assist him."

Him.

Bethany blinked stupidly. This was the opportunity she couldn´t have dared hope for. So why wasn´t she jumping at it? If Dumbledore had taken her hesitation for doubt, he wouldn´t have been far off the mark. Damn her suspicious nature for second-guessing everything. She was certain the Dark Lord would have urged her to do it in a second, to take advantage of Dumbledore, this trusting old man. It was too easy. After this task, she would earn the Dark Lord´s help in avenging her sister´s death. It was perfect. Wasn´t it?

"Well... I--"

"Of course," the Headmaster hurried on, as if to ride over an anticipated protest, "you will no doubt be busy in the coming weeks with planning and, er... execution"--she blinked wide at the word, but the Headmaster didn´t seem to notice--"of your lesson plan and the Society´s activities. And, much as I respect Severus, I am aware that he can be, shall we say... a challenge to work with."

"Sir," she began, "I am very flattered, but--"

"Your contribution to this effort would be of greater value than you know." His eyes quietly pleaded. "I knew a great man who told me once that the art of potions-making is not mutually exclusive to defending against the Dark Arts."

Papa. So that was his trump card.

Yet, still registering surprise at the suggestion, Bethany couldn´t help but think perhaps the Headmaster really was too naïve--far too trusting for his own good.

But so much the better for me and the mission... right? she thought, with much less certainty than she felt. And why was that? It annoyed her to think that she might be feeling even a modicum of apprehension because of Snape. It was ridiculous. She wasn´t afraid. Yet here was the Headmaster, practically offering Severus Snape´s head to her on a silver platter, as well as full access to all his progress notes. And she was... prevaricating. She felt once again as if she were in the Forest with Tom. Think of Claire. Do this for her. Again, that familiar nagging uncertainty, like she was standing on a precipice.

The Headmaster´s eyes continued twinkling and his beard twitched encouragingly. "And if Severus misbehaves, feel free to let me know." He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "We´ll give him a suitable detention."

She managed to effect a light laugh. "Well, in that case, I accept." More seriously, she added, "Of course, I would be happy to help in any way possible." Bethany then manufactured what she hoped to be a generous smile. Pure saccharine.

"Excellent!" The Headmaster smiled back, a clever little gleam in his eye. "Perhaps you and Severus can make the arrangements tomorrow. I myself will speak to him in the morning."

Bethany nodded stiffly and pursed her lips. Only after a moment was she aware that she had been wringing her hands in her lap.

Dumbledore paused, his crinkly blue eyes blinking at her expectantly. "Is there... something else?"

Suddenly the image of Tom in the wood, her alarm at the sight of the Mulroney boy in the dirt, and her pact with the Dark Lord--all these thoughts surged through her, welling forth in a great tsunami of doubt that paused, dangling, at the edge of her tongue.

With Herculean effort, she shook her head. "No, sir."

Dumbledore eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled. "The staff and I would like you to feel welcome here at Hogwarts, Bethany. If you should ever need anything--want for materials, or have anything to discuss--you need only ask for help to be given. I am always here."

"Thank you." Her own voice sounded small and choked.

Ask and ye shall receive. She´d heard that familiar litany before. If only all her missions could be this easy. On the other hand... Was there a catch?

These minnows of doubts swam circles in her befuddled brain as Dumbledore followed her out the oak doors to the spiral staircase.

"Goodnight, Bethany. Sweet dreams," he said, closing the door gently behind her.

Oh, how long it´s been since I´ve had those.

Arching a stony brow, she let out a long, weary sigh, and made her way toward the dungeons.