Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER NINE. THE TURNCOAT.

They came silently ... wands concealed within their billowing cloaks of deepest black, stealing across the castle lawns ... unseen by human eyes ... unchecked by authority. Now at the gatehouse ... now within the courtyard, and now within the castle itself. They moved as one body, one unit, one silent footfall on the hard stone floors, they seemed to glide, as if suspended upon air.

They cast no shadows in the flickering candlelight.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Sirius, who was just leaving the dormitories after staying up to comfort Harry, stopped dead in his tracks halfway across the Gryffindor Common Room. Something was happening ... he did not know what, but he could sense it within him. Something was happening, something bad.

He heard footsteps behind him ... turned, to be confronted by three cloaked men, each wearing a featureless white mask. Their breathing sounded raspy and laboured.

"What the hell?"

"Sirius Black," said one of them his voice was harsh and grating ... he sounded almost like a snake. "We thought we had killed you. We thought we had disposed of you."

"I don't know what you mean," said Sirius. "My name is Wilmot, Xavier Wilmot. I've never even heard of Sirius Black."

The man chuckled. "I do not believe you for one second," he said. "My name is William Avery. Perhaps you have heard of me?"

"You went to Azkaban. You ... you killed thirty Muggles. December 1979, wasn't it?"

"December the fifteenth, to be precise. And yes ... I spent some time in Azkaban," said Avery. "But now I am a changed man ... and I have come for what is ours."

"What do you want with me?" asked Sirius.

"We do not want you. Although our Master will be most interested to hear of your continued existence. For many years, the Dark Side has sought to reclaim what it has lost. We want our power back, and for that, we need one thing. This is what we are here to collect."

Sirius glanced about the Common Room. The dying embers in the fireplace cast the scene in an orange glow. If he ran quickly, he could make the door before Avery did.

"We need the body of your Godson," hissed Avery, stepping closer to Sirius.

"No."

"Oh yes ... Harry is instrumental to the entire plot. We must have him."

Sirius clenched his fists. "Over my dead body," he said.

"If needs be, yes," chuckled Avery. He had produced his wand and was twirling it round and round in his gloved hand, like a baton. "Harry Potter is the one remaining obstacle to us. With him out of the way ... there can be no further resistance. It will be over, everything you believe in will die with him on the altar. The resurrection is planned for Saturday ... as the sun rises over our Master's fort, it will happen. It will be quite an event. You should see the guest list."

"You're not taking him," snarled Sirius. "I won't allow it."

"Oh won't you?" asked Avery. "We shall see how you feel shortly. Our torturers can be very persuasive indeed. Who knows? It might even be possible for you to perform the sacrifice."

Sirius gritted his teeth ... but before he could speak, someone had struck him hard on the back of the head, and then everything went black.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione, who was feeling very exposed without the familiar silvery reams of Harry's Invisibility Cloak covering her from head to toe, guarding against the attentions of Argus Filch, as she and Draco tiptoed carefully and very silently up the staircase that led to the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower.

"Perhaps we should split," hissed Draco, as he scanned the corridor, making sure all was safe. It was not so much Filch they had to fear ... he was getting old and most of the students could reliably outrun him on a flat stretch. His cat, on the other hand, a mangy beast going by the name of Mrs Norris, was a force to be reckoned with. "I've got four floors to go down before I get to my dorm."

"I thought," Hermione whispered back, "that you were going to be a gentleman, and escort me back to my room."

"I forgot," said Draco. "I'm sorry."

"Well," said Hermione. "I'll forgive you ... on one condition."

"Name it," said Draco.

"I would like a kiss," said Hermione. "Now, take me back to the Common Room."

Slightly elated that they had both managed to sneak out at half past midnight, without the Invisibility Cloak, and without being spotted be Peeves or Filch, they ran up the last few steps to the portrait hole. The Fat Lady was fast asleep.

"Bloody hell," cursed Hermione. "We'll have to wake her," she prodded the painting. The Fat Lady gave a snort, and rolled over, and then she sat up, blinking. Then she caught sight of them staring at her, and pulled the sheets up around her body.

"What do you want?" she asked, in a tone of clear anger.

Before Hermione could reply, another face had risen into view, that of a fat, bearded man with an unruly thatch of brown curly hair atop his head.

"What's going on?" he asked, in a gruff voice.

"Nothing, Godric," said the Fat Lady. "Go back to sleep."

"The password's Diagon Alley," said Hermione. "Let us in, quick!"

"Isn't he a Slytherin?" asked the Fat Lady in a scornful voice.

"Yes, yes, I am ... just let us in," Draco waved plaintively at her. She scowled at him, but nonetheless, opened the door. They both scrambled in, and heard the door click shut behind them.

Draco pinned Hermione against the wall.

"We shouldn't be doing this here," he said. "It's not the done thing."

"I bet you'd like me to be the done thing," smiled Hermione. "Now kiss me, you silly lump."

Draco grinned ... took her in his arms. "You know," he whispered. "I rather like it when you get like this."

"Stop ducking the issue, Draco," whispered Hermione. "And get on with it."

"Okay."

Draco leaned forwards, but as he did so, he felt a hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly. Hermione let out a strangled cry, and Draco turned round. He was staring straight into a masked face. Two other cloaked figures were standing behind him.

"Well, well, well," said the Death Eater. "We are quite the little Casanova, Draco, are we not?"

Draco lashed out with his foot, catching the Death Eater a glancing blow on his shin. The man roared with pain, and momentarily released Draco, who fell to the floor. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the other man was too quick for him, and before he had a chance to run, he had been felled again, landing on his elbow. He screamed in pain.

"Never ... ever, try that again," the Death Eater said.

"I'm armed," said Draco, sounding braver than he felt. How had they got in? What was that slumped shape on the hearth?

"Of course you are, Draco," said the Death Eater. "Do not make the mistake of thinking that we are not aware of that. However, resistance will be futile."

Draco patted his robes ... he could feel the reassuring bulk of his wand in its familiar pocket against his chest. "Give me one good reason why?"

"I'll give you several. One ... your Father will not be pleased with you."

"I don't give a toss what he thinks," said Draco.

The Death Eaters almost looked disappointed. "Come now, Draco," said the first one. "He has spent a long time preparing your birthday present. He wants you to come and see it. That is ... you could say ... why we are here."

Draco snarled. "What's he got me this time?" he asked. "Human sacrifices or something?"

"Hmm ... close. You can even bring your girlfriend with you. I am sure it would be most entertaining for her."

"She is not my ..." began Draco ... before remembering that she was.

"Now are you prepared to come quietly? Or do we have to force you both to obey us?"

Hermione was clinging to Draco ... her face white with fear. "You leave him," she hissed. "He doesn't want to see his Father."

"Sadly, Draco's wishes do not come into it," said the Death Eater. "Now be silent, girl, lest we be forced to punish you severely. Time is short, and we have other business here tonight."

The same thought struck both Hermione and Draco at the same time. Did they mean Harry?

"I repeat ... for the benefit of those too stupid to have been able to understand ... my previous question," the Death Eater went on, almost spitting the words at them, like a machine gun. "Are you going to come quietly? Or must you be forced?"

"You'll have to fight me first," snapped Draco, scowling his most ferocious scowl.

"Then so be it," said the Death Eater. The other two raised their wands in accordance with his action. "What shall it be? The Imperius Curse ... how about the Cruciatus Curse? Or shall we just stun you?"

Draco slowly drew his wand out of his pocket. "A duel," he said. "You win ... I come quietly ... you lose, you leave this place, and tell my Father you have failed."

"Truly he is his Father's son," said the Death Eater, turning to his comrades. "You have been raised well, Draco. It is a pity it must come to this ... but very well ... a duel it shall be."

"Agreed," said Draco.

The Death Eater bowed, stiffly, and Draco did the same ... neither for an instant taking their eyes off the other's wand.

"Draco?"

"I'll be fine, Hermione," said Draco, in a voice that clearly betrayed what he was really thinking.

The Death Eater raised his wand ... but before Draco could do the same ... the Death Eater had yelled, "Serpensortia!"

Just as it had done all those years ago, at the short lived and ill fated Duelling Club, a snake, long, green, and quite hideously ugly, burst from the end of the wand. It reared up before Draco ... who tried to step back, but found his way blocked by the wall. The snake hissed ... baring its long, pointed, yellow fangs ... and then struck. Draco felt burning pain in his chest ... heard Hermione screaming, and then knew nothing more.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry stirred in bed ... he turned over, twisting his covers around his body. Then he opened one eye.

What was happening ... what had happened to wake him up?

Usually he slept very soundly indeed. He untangled himself from his sheets ... which took a good few seconds, and sat up, groping blindly with his right hand for his glasses.

The last thing he remembered, he had been falling asleep, and Sirius had been with him. Sirius had been there

. Harry's hand made contact with his glasses, and he put them on. He cast his eyes around the darkened dormitory. Neville, Dean and Seamus were still sleeping.

"Guys?"

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep either. He checked his bedside clock, but it seemed to have stopped, the hands pointing to half past midnight.

He threw off the covers, and climbed out of bed, stuffing his feet into his slippers and pulling on his dressing gown.

A scream ... very close by, too. And what a scream. So high and piercing it made a cold shiver sweep up his spine.

Something was badly wrong.

He walked over to the door, and opened it, walked slowly down the stairs to the Common Room. He could hear footsteps crossing the room, and the noise of someone straining to lift something heavy.

There were three men standing in the middle of the Common Room, right by the chairs he and Ron normally used to do homework in. At the sound of his footsteps, they turned in his direction, and Harry saw with a start of horror that one of them was holding Hermione in a tight grip ... his hand across her mouth. Hermione was wide eyed with fear. Harry's eyes travelled upwards, and he saw they were wearing those same, deathly white masks that they had worn when last he had encountered them. Harry's stomach lurched. Death Eaters

Then one of them spoke. "Ah. You make it so easy for us, Harry. I was just about to send somebody up to the dormitory to collect you."

Harry froze. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Mmph mmph mph, Mmmphy!" cried Hermione, struggling in the man's grip. Harry now caught sight of two other bodies lying slumped on the floor. One of them the body of an unidentifiable man, on the hearth by the fire, and the other lying unconscious on the floor by the door. Harry could tell from the shock of silvery blond hair that this was Draco.

Avery shook his head ... almost as though he was tired of explaining this to people. "We want you, Harry. Draco has failed his task. Now our Master is angry, and cries out for your blood."

"Bugger off!"

Avery took a step forwards. Harry was rooted to the spot, like a rabbit caught full on in a headlight beam. "I sense such a fearsome temper," he said. Harry found himself unable to move as Avery stepped right up to him, and ran his hand across his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way. "Our Master will be so pleased to see you. Who knows? He may even let you live. Now, Harry ... are you going to come quietly, or are we going to have to force the issue further?"

Harry struggled free of Avery's grip on his shoulders. "No," he spat. "I'm staying here. You can go and get fucked, as far as I'm concerned!"

"Mmmm ... mooooo, Mmmphy!"

"That was the wrong answer, Harry. I'm sorry, but I rather think we are going to have to knock you out first."

Before Harry could react, or run, or do anything at all, he had been struck hard across the head. He could taste blood in his mouth, and he cried out in pain as he reeled, clutching at one of the armchairs.

"Oh dear ... we didn't much care for that, did we?" asked Avery. Harry could make out his blurred form peering closer. His eyesight seemed to be fading fast, and he collapsed to the floor. Something that felt very much like a steel capped boot kicked him hard in the ribs, winding him.

He could feel Avery's hot, acid breath on his face ... it stank. "How are we enjoying ourselves now ... Harry?" a voice hissed in his ear. Harry tried to cover his face with his arms.

"You should learn some respect," whispered Avery. Harry closed his eyes even tighter, and then his head exploded with pain as the man clouted him hard across the back of the skull. He blacked out.

Avery bent down over the boy's unconscious form. "Take him," he said.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When next Harry awoke, he was lying on what appeared to be a large stone slab, his hands and feet in stirrups ... his pyjamas sweat-stained and smelling of stale vomit.

He was utterly alone. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could make out a rack of what looked like heavy, iron tools. The whole room smelled of dried blood, like a butcher's shop.

He looked up, and then screamed, closing his eyes tight. Suspended in a gibbet hanging above him was a human skeleton.

"Did we scare you, Potter?" a low, drawling voice asked. "I do hope so."

"Excellent work, Malfoy," said a second voice. Harry opened his eyes again. There were two men now standing at the foot of his slab. He recognised one of them as Lucius Malfoy.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice quavering, unnaturally high.

"Simple, my dear child," said Malfoy, stepping forwards, and stroking his head. "We want you to die for us."

Harry tried to struggle, but he was bound too tight.

"I'd sooner die," he said.

Malfoy leaned closer. "Admirable sentiments," he said. "See, Master? Such belief in his pathetic cause ... if such a boy had been my son what wonders I could have achieved. Instead, I am lumbered with a pathetic wretch who even now squalls for his Mother. Such ... is life."

Harry was a little puzzled by this speech, but said nothing.

"Harry, my dear boy. You will be dying for what is right," said Malfoy. "Your sacrifice will defeat the Dark Lord himself ... Voldemort. Even now my men are luring him to this castle."

"Draco told me," said Harry. "I'm not doing your dirty work for you."

"Oh ... but I rather think you will," said Malfoy. "Your friends' lives depend upon it. And besides ... has it not always been your dream to vanquish the world of the menace who took your parents from you?"

Harry spat. "I'm not doing it for you," he said. "I'm doing it for myself."

"Such selfishness, Harry ... and I had so hoped we could be friends," said Malfoy. "There is much we could do together. You, our Master Lord Chaldean here, and myself ... and Draco, of course. Think of the power I could wield. The nations I could destroy. Think of the ultimate glory, the banquets ... the riches and the women."

"What are you after, exactly?" asked Harry. "Caviar and free sex?"

"The world, Harry ... I am offering you the world. Your death will not be in vain."

"I don't think so," said Harry.

"We shall see how you feel about it another day," said Malfoy. "Our offer is so generous ... I feel certain you will accept it. Come, Harry ... I find this dungeon so distasteful ... and we have just finished preparing your ... bedroom."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry was shown into a suite of rooms that was luxuriously furnished. There was an antique fireplace, leather armchairs set around it, a man's heavy travelling cloak slung casually across the back of one of them. There was an old horned gramophone, and some records strewn across the surface of an expensive table by the window. There was a Tiffany lamp on the table. One whole wall was lined with bookcases, filled with heavy and important looking volumes. There was another door at the far end of the room ... his feet tapping on the polished, wooden floor, Harry walked over to the other door, taking care not to step on the beautiful Oriental rug, and opened the door cautiously. In this room ... there was a four poster bed standing in the middle of it, beautiful, damask hangings opening onto a bed that looked too comfortable to be allowed. Yet the whole room seemed somehow familiar to him ... and he wished he could place it.

Harry walked slowly over to the bed, and stroked the covers with his hands. They were made of the finest silk.

He went over to the French windows. Outside was an enormous balcony, affording views of towering mountains. Harry opened the doors, and stepped out onto it. There was a table laid with what looked like dinner for two ... crystal goblets, champagne on ice ... a selection of cold cuts, bowls of fruits and exquisitely prepared salads. There were even solid gold napkin rings. Harry picked up one of the spoons ... it reflected his face like a perfectly polished mirror.

It was evidently quite late in the day, for the sun was starting to sink behind the distant peaks. Harry, feeling quite out of place and very poor in his now ragged pyjamas, walked over to the edge of the balcony, and peered down into a large courtyard. There were several trucks and cars parked there, but no sign of life. Directly ahead of him was a very tall tower, with windows set into it. Harry thought he could just make out a figure standing in one of the windows, but it disappeared before he could tell if it was real or not.

He wandered back inside, wondering vaguely if they had left him some clothes as well. Noticing a door he had not yet tried, he opened it, and found himself, perhaps not surprisingly, in a dressing room. There was a table in the middle with a very expensive looking suit laid out on it, but Harry ignored it, and opened one of the wardrobes.

What finery awaited him. There were long, velvet cloaks of every colour imaginable ... some trimmed with ermine ... others jewel encrusted ... and more ... silk cloaks, even leather ones, full dress robes. Fine shirts and trousers ... row upon row of neatly polished shoes. Harry gasped in awe, and took one of the silk cloaks off its hanger. He draped it around his shoulders, and tied the fastening around his neck. It fitted perfectly. He stepped back to look at himself in the mirror. Very flattering indeed. Was this really all for him?

The pyjamas and cloak combo didn't really seem to work, in his opinion. He removed the cloak, and draped it over the back of a chair. There was a chest of drawers, which he pulled open. Had they thought of everything? Designer underwear, and new silk pyjamas, red, his favourite colour. He selected his attire with more care than he could ever remember having done before ... underwear, socks, just so. Then a pair of jet black trousers, with a shirt and tie to match ... he peeled off his pyjamas, and dressed in his new outfit, then surveyed himself once more in the mirror. He looked like some kind of Mafiosi.

"Very chic," he said to himself. "A cloak is still needed."

He opened the wardrobe door, and pulled out one of the cloaks. Black with gold trim ... it matched perfectly. He slipped his feet into a pair of shoes, combed his hair into place, and then walked back out into the bedroom, fighting the urge to strut.

Someone was sitting on the balcony, admiring the view. Harry walked over to the doors and stepped out.

He coughed. "Hello," he said.

The woman ... whoever it was, stood up ... she was wearing a well fitted dress of midnight blue. She turned round, and Harry gasped in recognition.

It was Hermione.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Draco, a gigantic towel wrapped several times around his waist, feeling much refreshed after his bath, replaced his razor in the little porcelain cup provided for that purpose, and stood back.

"Not bad," he said to himself. A valet handed him a fluffy white towel, and he patted his face dry.

"Will Master Draco be requiring aftershave?" the valet asked.

"No, thanks, it makes my face sting," said Draco, handing him back the towel. "I wouldn't mind seeing Hermione now."

"Alas," said the valet. "Miss Granger is otherwise engaged tonight. Tomorrow maybe ... you shall see her. Now ... your Father requires your presence in the dining room. You are to be presented to his honoured guests."

"I'd rather not be," snarled Draco. "Can't I eat in my room?"

"Your Father forbids it," said the concierge. "There are clothes laid out for you in your chamber. I will return to collect you in half an hour."

He left the room, leaving Draco standing there, slightly confused. He wandered back out into his bedroom ... which was furnished in typical Malfoy distaste, ugly portraits of yet more ancestors ... these with distinctly Arabic looks to their faces, bearing scimitars. Over the fireplace, carved with a skull and bones motif, hung a picture of some battle or other. Unidentifiable men on horseback were charging other unidentifiable men on horseback, and both sides were doing a fairly good job of decapitating the other.

Clothes were indeed set out for him. There was a set of dress robes, amongst the finest Draco had ever seen, made of brushed navy blue suede. He dressed hurriedly in front of the mirror. The robes had a very high collar, which made him look like some kind of vampire. He admired himself in the mirror.

The rays of the setting sun were slanting in through his leaded windows ... he walked over, pushed open the door, and stepped out onto his balcony. So this was what Naxcivan looked like.

Draco had, of course known for many years that his Father controlled vast estates in this region of the world, but he had never visited them before. His first view of the mountains, now glowing blood red as the sun sank beneath the ridge, fair took his breath away. It was stunning ... barren and wild ... yet the most beautiful terrain he could remember.

The balcony overlooked the main courtyard that he and Hermione had been brought in through earlier. Looking down, he could see several vehicles parked there ... including one very large Soviet-era Zil limousine and four Land Rovers. Draco scanned the courtyard. A little way below was another balcony, even larger than his, on which two people were sitting, dining. He couldn't tell who they were, but he wondered vaguely if his Father was trying to break into the hotel business. So ruminating, he went back inside, closing the door gently behind him. A bottle of lime cordial had been placed on a small table. He poured himself a glass, and drank gratefully. Then he wandered over to one of the bookcases.

The bookcases were filled with fairly standard looking volumes of magical lore. They were heavy, thick leather books with titles embossed upon their spines in gold leaf. Draco selected a slim looking volume at random, and pulled it out of the bookcase. If he had been a Muggle, he would have been shocked to see a gold swastika on the front, but as it was, his brain barely noticed it. He opened the book on the first page.

'Discourses on Inherent Magical Racial Superiority,' it read. It was by somebody called Rene Beauchamp, and someone had very carefully written a date above the name in black ink; 17th March 1950.

Draco turned the page. It seemed innocuous stuff, but as he read further into the text, he began to feel sick ...

'The point I made earlier on the false convictions of our kind under the orders of the Ministry in 1942 and 1943, is well illustrated by the case of Salazar Malfoy, a fellow of the Magical Society of Great Britain, who was condemned to Azkaban for murdering three half-blood families, and subsequently executed by hanging on June 21st 1945. Malfoy ...'

Draco turned over hurriedly.

'... shows us merely that half-blood families are the very worst of the polluted races, and must be destroyed at all costs. When we consider the actions of the Muggle Hitler, as we surely must, for he ...'

He turned over again.

'... death is too good for them. Such vile merchants would drive the Wizard race extinct within two generations. For all our sakes, the use of the killing curse, Avada Kedavra, must be legalized immediately ...'

Draco flung the book to the floor ... it was pure, distilled hatred. It shook him to his core. Was that what his Father wanted for him? Was that his objective? Why else would a volume composed of such pestilential filth have been left in his room?

"I have to get out of here," he breathed. He walked over to the door, and tried the handle. As he expected, the valet had locked him in. He tried banging on the door, but there was no answer.

He turned round ... the entire room had suddenly taken on a disgusting, tainted quality. The walls seemed to be looming even higher, even closer than before. Panicking, he ran over to the other door, pushed it open, and stepped out onto the balcony, breathing heavily as fresh air washed into his lungs. Fighting the urge to retch, he walked over to the edge.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Black, wake up!"

Avery kicked the man's sleeping form in the ribs. He was curled up in the corner of a tiny cell, sleeping on a pile of straw. The only furniture was a small, upright wooden chair, which looked most uncomfortable.

"I said up!"

Avery kicked again.

Sirius opened one eye. "What the hell?" he moaned. "It feels like a fleet of trucks just ran over my head."

"Yes, it will do," said Avery. "We would get you some painkillers, but being truly sadistic bastards, we simply cannot be bothered. Now get up. Your presence is required."

Sirius got to his feet. "What do you want with me?" he asked. "I'm nothing ... I'm a complete nobody."

Avery shook his head. "Au contraire," he said. "You are something, and you are, most certainly a somebody. Indeed, you are somebody very important to us. We have some old friends whom I am sure you would be very interested to meet. They are just about to start their dinner now. Would you care to join them?"

"I'd sooner die," growled Sirius.

"Yes ... our Master told us you might," said Avery. "Nevertheless, the invitation has been most cordially extended to you. It would be most unseemly of you to think to turn it down. After all ... it might be the last meal you'll get for days. It might be the last meal you'll get ever."

Sirius snarled, but said nothing.

"I take it we have a deal."

"I'll need hot water and a shave," said Sirius. "Then clean clothes."

"Out of the question. There is no time for delay. Do not be alarmed, Black ... our Master deems this to be treated as a very, ah, informal occasion. He is not expecting you to be dressed up in your finery."

"Very well," said Sirius. "But I attend under duress."

"Really? That makes no difference," said Avery. "Not in the great scheme of things, anyway. Follow me, if you please?"

Sirius was led out of his cell, and along the corridor outside ... his mind was frantically ticking over, trying to memorise as much detail as it could. If it came to it, he might just have to fight his way out of here. They turned left, then right, then left again. A tall, hulking giant of a man stood in the corridor in front of them, holding open a heavy, iron barred door, beyond which was a staircase. Sirius followed Avery up the staircase, and they emerged in an enormous hall, bedecked with tapestries, paintings of suspicious looking men. There was a stained glass window overhead, with the rays of the setting sun pouring through it, casting the entire scene in a symphony of coloured lights.

Avery led Sirius to another door, opened it, and ushered him in. This room was a lot smaller. There was an enormous table set right in the centre, with chairs all the way round, every one of them unoccupied. Avery indicated which chair was to be his, and Sirius sat down in it. It was a vast, throne like chair with huge arms carved into the shapes of eagles, and luxurious red cushions to sit on

Avery turned away, muttered something, and a second later a roaring fire was blazing. Sirius noted with slight alarm that the room was windowless ... the only light came from the candelabra.

"The others will be along shortly," said Avery. He wrapped his cloak around himself, and swept from the room.

Sirius tapped his hands on the table impatiently. It was already laid ... fine crystal goblets, cutlery that appeared to be hewn from solid silver. There was no sign of any food however, though it suddenly struck him that he really was very hungry indeed.

Somewhere, a gong sounded, and the huge double doors were once again thrust open.

Three men walked in, all clad identically in black cloaks, though none of them were wearing masks.

"Ah, Sirius Black joins us," said one of them. "It is so nice to meet you at last, Sirius. I do hope your journey here was acceptable."

"Cut the crap," snapped Sirius, angrily. "What have you done with Harry?"

"Harry is even now being looked after to the best of our capabilities," said the man who had spoken. "Now my dear sir ... do allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Lucius Malfoy ... you probably have already heard of me. This is our dear Lord and mentor, Artemis Chaldean, and this is the head of my little operation out here, Achmed Al Tamimi."

"I am honoured," said Sirius, the tone of his voice betraying the fact that he did not mean what he said.

The other men took seats opposite him. Malfoy removed his cloak ... he was wearing very stiff, formal dress robes underneath it. A minion scurried forwards to remove their cloaks. Chaldean, wearing an expression of cold, calculating nastiness, sat down, his arms folded.

"So, Sirius Black," he said. "I am so glad we meet at last."

"I take it you're a Death Eater too?" asked Sirius, scornfully.

"A Death Eater. Dear sir, not I," said Chaldean, suppressing a smile. "I would have nothing to do with that strange sect. Neither would any of us here."

Al Tamimi and Malfoy were both shaking their heads. "Such activities are the bane of our society, don't you agree, Sirius?"

"Who was that ..." Sirius began, but Malfoy waved him to silence.

"All will be revealed in due course," he said, smiling at Sirius. "In the meantime, won't you partake of some wine with us?"

He clapped his hands, and the goblets filled themselves almost up to the brim. Sirius picked his glass up warily, and sniffed it ... it did appear to be wine.

"A perfectly acceptable little vintage," said Malfoy, smiling mysteriously again. "Grown on my own vineyards. I own several, in Italy and Australia, and there is even one here. You wouldn't think it possible to grow good vines in these harsh lands, would you?"

Sirius, who still had no idea where he was, shook his head. "Indeed not," he said.

"I am so glad we agree," said Malfoy. "It makes conversation so much easier when all are in agreement."

"Forgive me," began Sirius. "But I am still a trifle bewildered as to ..."

Malfoy snapped his fingers. "Of course!" he roared, as though remembering something he had been meaning to say. "You will be wanting to know where you are. Well ... this is Naxcivan ... a backwater region of the Caucasian country of Azerbaijan. You are privileged to be here, Sirius ... until just four years ago, this whole area was closed to Westerners. After the fall of the Soviet bloc, I invested heavily in property in the region ... including this rather fine old castle, which once, long ago, belonged to my family. Previously, it was sequestered by the state. I have merely brought it back under our control. It is fine, don't you think?"

"I haven't seen much of it," said Sirius, sipping his wine.

"Well, trust me, it is a fine building," said Malfoy. "This little dining room is just one of many. Of course, if we were having a banquet, we would be using the Great Hall. However, tonight things are to be more informal than that. I like a more intimate dinner myself."

The doors were opened again, and another, smaller figure walked in, and took a seat next to Sirius. Sirius turned to see whom it was, and with a shock, saw it was Draco.

"Good evening, Father," said Draco. He turned to Chaldean, and said stiffly. "Master, I am honoured once again."

"Indeed you are, boy," said Chaldean. "Tell me, Draco ... you have met our guest, Sirius Black, have you not?"

Draco turned, and his jaw dropped a mile. "I had ... I had no idea that was who he was," he said.

"You should be honoured, Draco," said Malfoy. "Few have had the privilege of dining with the man who caused the vanquishing of our hated enemies."

Draco looked first to his Father, and then to Sirius. Sirius could tell from the expression on his face that the boy was undergoing some massive internal struggle ... fortunately the other men in the room had failed to notice this.

"Indeed," said Draco, after a moment's awkward silence had passed. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Mr. Black," Sirius could have sworn Draco winked at him at this point.

"I have a surprise for all of you tonight," said Malfoy. "But first, we should eat."

He clapped his hands again, and the plates were filled with food. Fish, smothered in sauce, new potatoes and crisp, aromatic vegetables.

"Trout from our own fisheries," said Malfoy. "Potatoes from our gardens. As you see my friends, Al Tamimi does an admirable job in keeping us self sufficient. Did you know?" he went on, as the assembled company took up cutlery and began to dine. "He can run this entire operation without supplies or help from the outside world, with a skeleton staff, for four whole weeks. There are enough dried stores in the cellars to keep us in food for three years, and as for the wine stocks ... well, Al Tamimi becomes more practiced with time, and has now acquired a fine eye for a vintage."

"You flatter me, Master," said Al Tamimi.

"You do noble work, and let nobody forget it," said Malfoy. "Of course, were it up to me I would spend more time here ... such is the beauty of the place. Indeed, we have arranged an excursion into the mountains for tomorrow. I trust you will join us, Sirius?"

"I'd be honoured," scowled Sirius. Draco grinned surreptitiously.

"Superb ... I trust the accommodation is to your liking?" asked Malfoy.

"A little draughty," said Sirius. "Tell me ... where are you keeping Harry?"

"Harry ... I believe is being accommodated in the guest bedrooms. Do not worry, Sirius ... he is being cared for well. We take care of our merchandise. But let us not be concerned with him. You must tell me if there is anything wrong with your sleeping quarters. We shall of course, move you immediately."

Draco sipped a little of the wine, and very nearly choked. Malfoy smiled indulgently.

"You will, of course, forgive my son," he said. "I have spent a fortune on etiquette lessons for him, but still he fails to take it in. Doubtless matters will be improved once he has left adolescence."

Draco would have liked to have grabbed his Father around the throat, and squeezed until the man died ...but he thought better of it.

Somewhere else in the castle, a gong sounded. Malfoy rose to his feet. "You will, of course, excuse me, gentlemen," he said. "Our final guest has just arrived. Clearly he is running late."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Ron, Fred and George had spent their second consecutive day in their tower prison, watching the comings and goings down below in the courtyard. They had been woken early by the call of the muezzin, which seemed to bring about fifty people out of the castle to pray in the courtyard. After they had finished ... a convoy of about ten trucks had arrived, and their contents unloaded. Throughout the day, the helicopter had been buzzing around the castle like some enormous insect.

By now, all three boys had decided that the food was safe to eat ... partly out of hunger, and partly, as George so eloquently put it. "If we're going to be virgin sacrifices, it won't do them any good to poison us, will it?"

Neither Fred nor Ron had been able to come up with a convincing argument to that ... besides, they had already eaten most of the food by the time George made his point.

"Incidentally," said Fred. "How can you be so sure they're thinking of sacrificing us?"

George pondered this question for a minute. "Because of the clothes, and the rather top-notch treatment. Prisoners never get treated this well," he said. New robes had been brought up for them that morning, and their other ones taken away, which was a good thing, as they were all three starting to get a bit iffy.

"Wonder what they're saying at home," said George.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, we got hijacked and kidnapped," said George. "That kind of thing does tend to raise eyebrows. Even with the Daily Prophet involved."

"Mum must be going spare," said Fred.

"I'm worried about Ginny," said Ron.

"Right," said Fred.

"We're probably lead story on the ten o'clock news," said George. "They're probably printing 'Free the Weasley 3' T-shirts. We'll all get souvenir mugs afterwards ... and soon they'll start letting us see publishers."

"How do you mean, publishers?" asked Ron.

"Publishers are going to want to offer us six figure sums for the exclusive rights to our autobiographies, which we shall of course, be writing upon our release. I'm calling mine 'Banged Up' ... and I'm going to hold out for seven hundred and fifty grand."

"Barking," said Ron.

"Yeah ... you've never written so much as an essay in your entire life," said Fred.

"That's not strictly true," said George. When he was ten, he had written a nine page epic about a wizard who was also a famous dinosaur hunter. He had never shown it to any of his brothers.

"What'll you call yours, Ron?"

"I want to go home."

"That's a very eloquent title," said Fred. "I don't believe I have ever heard it put so succinctly."

"No," said Ron. "I really do mean ... I want to go home."

"Me too," said George. "Me too."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When Malfoy returned to the dining room, another, slightly taller man was following behind him. This man walked with a definite limp, his breath seemed to come agonizingly slowly. He struck Sirius as a man upon his last legs. Malfoy bade him sit at the end of the table.

"Our guest favours us," said Malfoy, taking his seat. The other man did not remove the hood of his cloak.

"I shall not be eating," he said, in a voice that could have split rocks. "But please ... feel free to continue."

The others took up their knives and forks once more, and continued with their repast. Chaldean was looking at the new visitor with interest.

"Surely you jest, Malfoy," he said. "Do you not reveal the identity of this honoured guest to us?"

"I reveal my identity only when the time is right," said the stranger. "But believe me, Chaldean ... when the time is right, you will know who I am."

"I am flattered, sir," said Chaldean. "You know my name."

"I know you well of old," said the stranger. "We have not seen each other for many years ... and that makes a great sadness arise within me, for once, Chaldean, I valued your friendship."

Chaldean stopped, a forkful of trout halfway to his mouth. "I await the revelation with interest," he said, his voice oozing not nearly as much confidence as it had moments earlier.

"Naturally," said the stranger. "It will be very interesting for you. Malfoy, upon what are we supping tonight?"

"This is fish ... trout from my private fishery, and the legumes are taken from my best gardens," said Malfoy.

The stranger sighed. "Once ... I would have joined you," he said. "However, I am forbidden fish on the orders of my personal physician."

"It is a great pity, sir," said Chaldean. "You are missing an excellent catch."

"May I interrupt?" asked Sirius. Malfoy and Chaldean swivelled their heads to look at him. So did the stranger.

"Proceed," said Malfoy. "All are equal at my table, and may speak freely if they wish to."

"Indeed," said Sirius, who was feeling frankly outclassed amongst men of such advanced vocabulary, and was secretly longing for a thesaurus. "From where ... where do you come from, sir? I can't place your accent."

The stranger sighed. "Would that I knew," he said. "I can never be sure anymore. Oh, I was born in England, but I have travelled widely in my lifetime, putting down roots wherever the fancy has taken me, so I hardly consider myself a native of that nation. Recently, I have been living in Eastern Europe ... something of a sobering experience for me. You, I believe, are Sirius Black."

Sirius saw no point in arguing the point ... evidently he was amongst Dark Wizards ... and would perhaps be valued ... even spared if they still assumed him guilty.

"That is my name, sir," he said.

"I am pleased to finally meet you," said the stranger. "My ... my dearest friend, my ally, and the one who has helped me through these last few painful years. He knew you well of old, and he has told me a lot about you."

"Might I know his name?"

"You might do," said the stranger. "I, however, am not bound to reveal his identity to anyone. He accompanied me on my journey here today, and I understand he will be fed and accommodated in private quarters?"

Malfoy nodded. "My men are seeing to his happiness at this time," he said. "I understand you requested a room next to his."

The stranger nodded. "My needs are few and far between," he rasped. "There are, however, times when I consider it necessary to keep him at close quarters. Quite often I am troubled during my slumbers."

"I understand completely," said Malfoy. "You are to be sleeping in our most luxurious suite. Your every wish can be fulfilled by my staff."

"You please me, Malfoy," said the stranger. "I understand you are planning a surprise for us?"

Malfoy nodded. "Saturday is Draco's birthday," he said. "He will be sixteen, will you not?"

Draco nodded meekly. "Yes, Father," he said.

"You are coming of age, young Draco," said the stranger. "I understand you are to be initiated into our band of brothers."

Draco shivered ... he, of course, had no idea whom his Father's other guest was ...but the tone of his voice, the set of his shoulders, told him that this man was a force to be reckoned with ... a force to be obeyed if you valued life or limb. He knew one thing however, initiation sounded bad. It was something he wanted to avoid if at all possible.

Sirius finished eating, and set down his knife and fork.

"More wine, Sirius?" asked Malfoy.

"I'm fine ... I'm okay," said Sirius. "Thank you all the same."

Al Tamimi was smacking his lips noisily. "A most delicious feast, Master," he said.

"It was adequate," said Malfoy. "Shall we partake of dessert?"

"I am replete," said Chaldean.

"To indulge further would be an extravagance," repeated Draco, who was now shivering so violently that Sirius worried the boy might be close to collapse ... though, to his surprise, he found he was shivering too. An air of menacing cold seemed to have filled the entire room, despite the blazing log fire, which did not seem to be giving out any heat whatsoever.

"I thought as much," said Malfoy. "That means, gentlemen, that we may now proceed to the conclusion of our evening, and an announcement I have been meaning to make for some time."

"We are in awe," said Chaldean.

"Exactly," said Malfoy. "Chaldean, you have been a great friend to me ... a respected Master, a mentor to me. I have valued knowing you more than words can possibly express ..."

Chaldean appeared to be swelling with pride.

"You showed me the right path when I abandoned that which I had hated fighting for ... and I am forever thankful to you for placing me on the path away from Voldemort and his hated Death Eaters."

Sirius was staring at him open mouthed. Since when had Malfoy 'abandoned' Voldemort? Hadn't those men who had brought him here been Death Eaters? It was thoroughly confusing. Chaldean, however, was smiling broadly. "Nobody appreciates more than I, Malfoy, the personal sacrifice that you have had to make. I am only thankful that I have been able to know you, and to, as you said, guide you."

"Quite," said Malfoy. "However, Master, all good things must come to an end."

Chaldean stopped in mid grin. "I'm sorry, Malfoy?"

The stranger now stood up, and slowly removed his cloak. The man standing there had narrow, red, snakelike eyes, slit nostrils, gaunt, stretched features. There was no question who he was.

"Artemis," said Voldemort. "We meet once more. I see the years have not weathered you as they have me."

Chaldean was frozen, rooted to the spot. His eyes fixed on the man standing in front of him.

Malfoy smiled. "You see ... Artemis ... it was the classic double bluff. Lord Voldemort wanted, after all, for all those who had fled his yoke to be returned for punishment. What better man than I ... one of his most loyal Death Eaters, to make contact with you? I spun you a story, concocted by Lord Voldemort of course, about how I had seen the light ... how I had realised that Lord Voldemort's ways were the wrong ways. You ... foolish simpleton that you are, took me at my word."

"You unspeakable swine!" gasped Chaldean.

"Maybe," said Malfoy. "However ... this unspeakable swine seems to have won the day, unless I am very much mistaken, which I assure you, Artemis, I am not. It has taken many years, and it has been hard to accomplish, pretending to spy for one side whilst actually spying for the other. But finally I am able to deliver the turncoat to his former master."

"Turncoat! If anybody here is a turncoat, it's you!"

"Your foul temper will get you nowhere, Artemis," said Malfoy. "So I suggest you remain silent."

Voldemort surveyed Chaldean without pity. "I once knew you as a friend," he said. "You must surely have realised how mighty my vengeance must be."

"You are a madman. I left because ... because I had no choice. If I am to go to my grave, then so be it ... but I go knowing that I made the right decision," hissed Chaldean, his eyes filled with fury. Al Tamimi, Sirius, and Draco were cowering in their chairs ... none of them had ever come face to face with the Dark Lord before.

"But you are not to go to your grave," said Malfoy. "Unbelievable as it may seem, you are still to serve a purpose to me."

He clapped his hands, and instantly, the double doors swung open, revealing four masked Death Eaters standing there.

"Remove Chaldean. Place him in the cell where we were keeping Black, and have Black moved to Chaldean's suite. Ensure he is guarded constantly."

Chaldean screamed as the Death Eaters placed their hands upon his shoulders, and began to haul him from the room. It was a pitiful, sickening scream, that shook the watchers to the core.

"You bastard, Malfoy! You unspeakable traitor! We had a deal! We had a deal!"

The doors closed behind them. Chaldean's screams of pure, unadulterated terror faded.

Malfoy turned to Voldemort. "Master ... my work is done," he said, stooping to one knee. Voldemort stepped out from behind the table, and the other three watched him walk over to where Malfoy was kneeling, taking every step as though it were to be the last one he ever took. He placed his hand upon Malfoy's head.

"You have done well," he said. "You will be honoured beyond your wildest dreams."

"Thank you, Master."

Malfoy got to his feet again. It almost looked as though tears of happiness were pouring down his face. "I have waited long for this moment, Master," he said.

"And I too," said Voldemort.

"I am humbled and honoured to be able to present to you, my son."

Voldemort turned. Draco stood, rooted to the spot. He felt paralysed under the man's gaze, terrified. A mere month ago he would have killed to be in his position, but now he could think of nothing more disgusting, nothing more horrible than to be touched by Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was offering Draco his hand. Draco looked to his Father, who was smiling at him, a look of such joy upon his face as Draco had never seen before. Draco, without thinking, reached out, and shook the proffered hand.

"It is well," said Voldemort. "The ancient blood of the Malfoy clan flows through your veins, and on Saturday, your birthday ... you become a true member of your family ... and I ... I hand on the torch to a new generation. You are the first Draco, and the first of many. Soon ... very soon, we shall be great again."

He let go of Draco's hand. Draco stared at it. Livid, red weals had appeared on the skin where Voldemort had touched him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The balmy night air was thick with exotic scents, wafted past them on a gentle breeze. The whirring sounds of crickets and cicadas could be heard, and the moon had just risen, casting the scene in an ethereal glow. It was the kind of night Hermione had always dreamed about. She smiled at Harry over the top of her champagne glass. Harry smiled back.

"Did I say you looked wonderful?" he asked, after a moment's silence had passed between them.

Hermione nodded. "There are more like this in my wardrobe," she said, fingering the shoulder straps of her blue dress. "Aren't they lovely?"

Harry nodded.

"You know ... you look, very nice yourself," said Hermione.

Harry blushed scarlet. "Well," he said. "It's, just something I threw on."

"Evidently," said Hermione. "Black and gold suits you, by the way. It brings out the colour of your eyes."

Harry grinned. "Are you sure that isn't the champagne talking?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "Very probably," she said. "We're in danger of turning into teenaged drunkards, and that, Harry, would be a very bad thing indeed."

"A very bad thing," said Harry, who was feeling kind of light headed.

"You seem ... better, today," said Hermione.

"Don't think I am," said Harry. "I've been kicked around, taken to some god-forsaken country I've never heard of. And I seem to be a prisoner."

"Well, so do I," said Hermione. "But can't we be happy? It's been a perfect evening, and I don't want to spoil it by moping around."

"Okay," said Harry.

"I know you've had a lot of sadness, and so forth," Hermione went on. "So I appreciate it if you don't feel the same way I do ... but I ..."

"Hermione ... I said okay," said Harry. "You're right ... it has been perfect, and I don't want to spoil it either."

"That's ... very sweet of you," said Hermione, looking frankly surprised at him. "I would have thought you would have wanted ... you know."

"I don't want to talk about it," said Harry. "Let me savour the moment ... besides, you really don't want me crying all over you again."

Hermione smiled.

"There's one thing," said Harry. "It has been perfect and all ... and I'm glad I'm here with you ... but there's still one thing missing. Us?"

Hermione shook her head. "Oh, Harry, I was afraid we'd get onto this," she said. "This doesn't change a thing. You are a friend ... you are probably my best friend, but I don't want anything more than that."

"I see," said Harry, standing up abruptly.

"No ... I'm sorry if you thought," said Hermione. "It's just. I don't know how to put it to you. I don't want that ..."

Harry leant closer. "I wasn't storming off, Hermione," he said. "Relax. Let's look at the stars. I like looking at the stars."

Hermione rose from the table, and followed him over to the edge of the balcony. Harry leant over the edge, and peered down into the courtyard below.

"I thought you wanted to look at the stars," said Hermione.

"And smell the climbing roses," said Harry. "Look ... they're rather nice, aren't they?"

Hermione looked down. There was an enormous climbing rose covering the entire side of the building below them, dotted with deep red, fragrant flowers.

"Isn't that something?"

"It's lovely," she said.

"I'd get you one," said Harry. "But I left my pocket knife at Hogwarts."

"I'll pretend I've got one then," said Hermione. "And it is even more beautiful than I thought."

Harry smiled.

"What's that constellation then?" asked Hermione.

Harry followed the direction of her point. "I don't know," he said. "I've never seen that one before ... I've never seen the sky this clear before. We must be miles from any towns."

Hermione nodded. "I know that one is the little bear," she said. "Ursa Minor."

"You mean the saucepan?" asked Harry. "That's my favourite."

"Why's that?"

"It's the only one I can identify," said Harry. "That and Orion. He's easy to spot because of the three stars in a row. I think that's it there ... except it's hard to tell with all these other stars getting in the way."

"I never thought there could be so many of them," said Hermione. "Look up there!"

A shooting star flashed briefly across the sky, leaving a pure white trail, then it faded, and was gone.

"Did you make a wish?" she asked.

Harry nodded. "I'm not telling, though," he said.

"I bet I know what it was," said Hermione.

Harry shook his head. "It wasn't the obvious one," he said. "I've been wishing that all my life, and it hasn't happened ... yet."

"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I didn't mean to bring it up."

Harry shrugged. "It has a tendency to slip into the conversation whenever I'm around," he said. "If I were you, I wouldn't worry about it. It's just one of those things."

"That's very ... very nicely put," said Hermione. She caught Harry's yawn. "You tired?"

Harry nodded. "Long day," he said.

"Perhaps you should make tracks back to your room," said Hermione. "I'll see you in the morning."

"No need," said Harry, looking slightly quizzical. "I'm already there."

Hermione gave him a funny look. "Harry ... this is my room."

"I think you'll find ... " began Harry.

"But there's only one bed," said Hermione, raising her eyebrows.

"I'll go on the floor ... or on one of those sofas," said Harry. "I'll ... I'll be okay."

"Then I'll feel guilty," said Hermione. "Why don't I sleep on the sofa? You need a good night's sleep after the last couple of days."

"Then that wouldn't be very chivalrous of me, would it?" said Harry. "Besides, I really don't mind."

"Why don't we both sleep on sofas?" said Hermione.

"That kind of defeats the whole object of having a bed in the first place," said Harry. He looked thoughtful for a brief second. "I suppose ... if you wanted, we could, well ..."

"Share it?"

But Harry did not reply to her. His face had gone white ... quite drained of all its usual colour and vitality. "Harry?" she asked, stepping nearer to him, her face filled with concern. "Harry ... are you okay?"

Harry clutched at his forehead. It felt as though his head was splitting in two, so intense was the pain. He could barely enounce the words. "My scar."

"Is it hurting you again?" cried Hermione, hopping from foot to foot in agitation. "No ... sorry, that's a silly question! Um ... help. Harry, what can I do?"

Harry clutched at her shoulder. "Need a chair," he breathed. "... be okay."

Hermione put her arm gently around him, and was shocked to realise he was absolutely freezing cold. Slowly, with Harry taking faltering, unsteady steps, she helped him inside, and laid him down on the bed. He sank gratefully into the covers.

"Thanks," he whispered.

"Is it getting better?" asked Hermione, peering anxiously over him.

Harry nodded. "It's fading now," he said.

"Will you be all right?" she asked.

"I'll be fine in a minute," said Harry. "I'm sorry ... I ruined your evening."

Hermione gave a wry chuckle, which she realised too late he could have interpreted as mocking. "Don't fret about it," she said, tenderly. "It's nothing."

Harry, however, had a nasty feeling that it was something ... something big.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Dumbledore closed the office door, and walked over to the fireside, where two people were sitting in large armchairs. One of them was Professor McGonagall, the other; Doctor Jones, who was blowing her nose into a large gingham handkerchief.

"Is there no news?" asked Professor McGonagall. "Nothing at all?"

Dumbledore shook his head gravely. "Nothing beyond the note that we found," he said. "The Ministry have taken it away for analysis, but I think it is only too obvious what we are dealing with here."

"What?"

"I fear, Minerva, that Voldemort has finally made his move on us. I knew we should have acted sooner," said Dumbledore, apparently not noticing Doctor Jones and Professor McGonagall flinching at the mention of the name. "The Fat Lady remembers only that three men came to her late in the night, at midnight, and gave the correct password."

"Then the rules should be changed, surely," said Doctor Jones.

"The Fat Lady has indeed been removed from her post," said Dumbledore. "I think it wiser in the meantime that the entrance is guarded by somebody who can actually recognise who should be coming and going, and who should not."

"But why did they take Sirius?" she asked. Professor McGonagall snorted, and looked away, an expression of the utmost disgust stretched across her features. She had still not forgiven Sirius for the hot water bottle incident.

"We may never know," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps he is part of the scheme ... perhaps he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, the fact remains that three of our students are missing, and the parents have had to be informed. The Grangers are arriving here tonight. I have had no reply from the Malfoys or the Dursleys. This does not surprise me in the slightest."

"What about the students?" asked Professor McGonagall. "What can we do about them?"

"For the time being, nothing," said Dumbledore. "As I said, the note can tell us little, there was only one word on it; Naxcivan ... I can think of no meaning or sense to the word."

Doctor Jones looked up. "It's a place," she said. "In the Caucasus mountains, near Turkey, a region of Azerbaijan, I think."

"How do you know?" asked Professor McGonagall, sounding suspicious.

"I worked with dragons," said Doctor Jones. "The Caucasian Black ... it's a very dangerous breed, and it lives in that area, though its numbers are limited."

Professor McGonagall still appeared to be regarding her with suspicion.

"Fascination as elementary draconian biology evidently is," said Dumbledore, breaking the silence between the two women. "It will not help us solve our current problem."

But Professor McGonagall suddenly looked as though a burst of inspiration had unexpectedly struck her. "Wait," she said. "Caucasian Blacks. Gwyneth, were they not the types used by Dragon Riders?"

"Yes ... of course," said Doctor Jones. "I see where you're coming from, Minerva ... you could have a point."

"What would the Dragon Riders have to do with this?" asked Dumbledore.

"Caucasian Blacks come from Naxcivan, right?" said Professor McGonagall. "So, suddenly three students and a teacher have gone missing ... and our one clue is a dropped piece of paper with this name scrawled upon it."

"You are theorising that Harry, and the others, have been taken by Dragon Riders," said Dumbledore. "You'll excuse me, Minerva, but doesn't it seem just a tad far fetched?"

"Maybe so," said Professor McGonagall. "But can you come up with a better theory? Albus ... three, six students are missing, another is lying in a hospital bed at St. Mungo's, in peril for her life, all in connection with Dark activity. Surely it cannot be coincidence ..."

Dumbledore was shaking his head. "I regret to say I fear it must be," he said. "You both appear to be taking mere threads of evidence, and trying to piece them together ... you are building the house from the roof down, as it were. I must admit that the Weasley children have very probably fallen victim to Dark magic ... after all, the Mark was seen in the vicinity ... as for the absurd theory that they have somehow been kidnapped by Dragon Riders ..."

"Dragon Riders worked for Voldemort, did they not?" asked Doctor Jones.

"I believe they had links to the Silver Serpent cult, yes," said Dumbledore. "But the Dragon Riders were suppressed after Voldemort's downfall. Their dragons were released back into the wild, they were imprisoned ..."

"But couldn't they have reformed?" asked Doctor Jones. "Naxcivan is a secretive region, few Westerners were ever allowed in during the Communist days. The terrain is rocky, arid and mountainous ... it would surely not be difficult for them to have started some sort of operation in the area."

"Possibly," said Dumbledore. "However, it all remains idle speculation. I suggest we sleep on the problem."

"That's your solution to everything," hissed Professor McGonagall. "Meanwhile lives are in mortal peril ... the students are afraid for their safety, and we stand to lose all our credibility, especially yours, if it is leaked that we cannot even set up proper magical wards to guard our pupils. You must look as though you are doing something ..."

Dumbledore seemed to be staring off into space.

"Are you listening to a word I have been saying?"

Dumbledore seemed to jump back into reality. "The Grangers have arrived," he said. "I should greet them ... Minerva, Gwyneth ... I shall have to leave you. Wish me luck."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The dragons flew on into the night, soaring high above the fortress. From here the tiny lighted windows appeared as fairy lights on a Christmas tree, and the Riders looked down upon their domain, still goading their charges higher into the night sky. The beating of their vast, leathery wings was regular as their heartbeats.

They glided on the updraft over the mountaintops, dotted here and there with the lights of Muggle villages and isolated farmsteads. For the Riders, the sensation was akin to one of intense pleasure, perched precariously atop their steeds with naught but a thin whip to control the mighty beasts. Caucasian Blacks could be tamed ... but it took vast effort. The two specimens flying tonight were the result of years of cumulative training down in the more secretive, isolated valleys.

Now they came swooping out of the sky. The Riders had their orders, and they would carry them out. Below them was a small house, built of rough stone, with a corrugated iron roof ...the home and livelihood of a family. There was a chicken coop in the yard, which was piled high with rusting junk, cars and tractors ... neither lasted long in the harsh climate, so far from civilization.

At a gentle, whispered command, the dragons opened their mouths ... long, forked tongues licking at the air, beady eyes alert and staring.

The front of the house exploded under the pressure of the jet of fire. The dragons passed overhead, their wings fanning the flames. The Riders could hear screams of terror, but they did not look back. Their work was done, and they flew their charges back up into the sky.

Behind them, the orange glow lit up the darkened land.