Sins of the Father

Chapter Eight -- A Call to Arms

Harry woke in the midst of an argument. At first, he did not open his eyes, and the shouting continued unabated.

"I'm allowed to visit my own godson, aren't I? Besides, I thought you said everyone knew?"

"They do know, Sirius, but that doesn't mean you can go waltzing around the school in the middle of the afternoon!"

"But Harry would want to see him, Professor..."

"Yeah, and he's already down here, anyway!"

"I don't think it'll do any harm, Minerva. Not this once."

"Better to seek forgiveness than ask permission, is that it? Honestly, you've both been out of school for nearly twenty years and it's as if you never aged a day past eighteen..."

Harry opened his eyes, then, and for a moment was blinded by the afternoon light.

"He's awake! Oh, Harry, are you all right? We thought you'd been killed!"

He used his left arm to push himself up and groped around on the night-stand for his glasses. A blurry face with bushy brown hair handed them to him, and soon the room was brought into focus. Ron, Hermione, Sirius, Lupin and McGonagall were all crowded around his bed, peering down at him anxiously.

"How do you feel?" asked Sirius.

"My shoulder aches," said Harry, his words slurred somewhat. "And my scar still hurts a little, but...other than that, I'm fine, I think." He lifted his right arm experimentally, wincing a bit but managing to put it through the full range of movement. Then he remembered the reason for his discomfort. "The Death Eaters! What happened? Where are they?"

"They disappeared, shortly after they deposited Professor Snape in the middle of our Quidditch pitch," said McGonagall. "We don't know how they got inside the school wards, nor how they left again so quickly, but we'll sort it out. Miraculously, no one but yourself and Mr. Malfoy was badly injured."

"So it was Snape," said Harry dully. "I can't believe I dislocated my fucking shoulder for him."

"Language, Potter!" McGonnagal snapped.

"At least Malfoy blew out his elbow, too," Ron grunted.

Harry found that he was bursting with questions, each of which seemed incredibly urgent now that he was fully awake. "Has the Ministry gotten here yet? Have the Aurors been sent in? When's Fudge going to announce to everyone that Vodemort is back? I mean, there were hundreds of witnesses, he can't pretend-"

"You'd be amazed at what Minister Fudge can manage, when he puts his mind to it," said Sirius bitterly. "The damn fool is already spreading some crackpot story about a pack of students pulling a prank."

"He can't be serious!" cried Harry, aghast. "Who would even believe something that?"

"For many wizards, Harry, a 'crackpot story' would be preferable to the truth," said Lupin, his face grim. "We'll do the best we can, but it's going to take time and some very careful planning."

"But...but Voldemort was there. In front of the entire school!"

"We can't be certain of that," said McGonagall.

"I heard him! It...it was the same voice..."

"That's true," said Hermione hesitantly. "But you see, very few people have ever heard it before, besides yourself and Professor Dumbledore. And no one seems to have actually seen him there. So really....well, there were only a handful of witnesses, weren't there?"

"And the presence of the voice does not equate the presence of the body," said McGonagall. "As far as the Minister is concerned, all we know for certain is that a large group of wizards dressed in cloaks and masks entered the school grounds by unknown means, delivered one of our staff, cast the Dark Mark into the sky and departed during the resultant confusion."

"Seems like an awful lot to me," Ron muttered.

"You'd think, wouldn't you?" said Sirius darkly.

"Where is Dumbledore?" asked Harry. Though he would never have admitted it, he was hurt that the headmaster wasn't there.

"He's making another announcement," said McGonagall. "Your schoolmates are assembled in the Great Hall, and he is explaining the situation to them as best he can."

There was a rattle of metal rings, and Madam Pomfrey emerged from behind the curtain that surrounded a nearby bed. Harry caught a glimpse of greasy hair and sallow skin before it was pulled closed again. Sirius, who had been sneaking furtive looks in that direction for several minutes, scowled deeply.

"I think you've all be cluttering up my hospital for long enough," said Madam Pomfrey. "My patients need their rest, and they won't get it with so many visitors banging about."

"Of course, Poppy," said McGonagall. "We'll leave you to your work, then."

"Can I go, too? asked Harry. "I feel fine, honest!"

"You suffered a fairly serious injury and lost consciousness for several hours, I don't think that-"

"You let Malfoy go," Harry added, gesturing to the empty beds around him. "And Ron says he hurt his elbow and his shoulder."

Madam Pomfrey sighed, resigned. "Very well, then. But no Quidditch for at least a week."

"That won't be difficult," said McGonagall as Harry swung his legs out from under the covers.

"Why not?" asked Harry.

McGonagall looked surprised at the question. "Because Quidditch has been canceled until further notice, of course."

***

Harry, Ron and Hermione had barely climbed through the portrait hole when Ginny came bounding over to them, her strawberry plaits flying behind her as she leapt over ottoman and ran full-tilt into Harry.

"So, you are all right!" she crowed, crushing him into a fearsome hug. "I was worried Dumbledore just said that to keep us from worrying"

"Er..." said Harry, awkwardly patting her on the back. "Yeah, I'm...I'm well enough, I guess..."

Ginny finally released him, stepping back so she could see him properly. "Well, you look a lot better than you did this afternoon, anyway."

"Did you go to the assembly?" asked Hermione as they walked over to their spot by the fire.

"Yeah, we all did," said Ginny, flopping down onto the battered sofa. The rest of them followed suit, and Harry found himself pressed between Ron and his sister. She repeated the chain of events as Dumbledore had told them, most of which they already knew.

"That's not the interesting bit, though" said Ginny, her voice low and conspiratory. "After he'd explained what happened, he told us there would be some changes to how Hogwarts is run."

"Like what?" asked Ron. "McGonagall already told us there won't be any Quidditch for a while."

"No Quidditch, yeah," said Ginny. "Also no Herbology in the greenhouses, no Care of Magical Creatures out by Hagrid's cabin, and no weekend trips to Hogsmeade."

Harry goggled at her. "You mean..."

"We're not to go outside at all," said Ginny. "He's declared a state of emergency and sent owls to all our parents. Anyone who wants to leave is going to be put on the train to King's Cross tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?!" said Ron. "What kind of warning is that?"

"I've been talking to some of the other fourth-years," Ginny went on. "Three of them have already gotten owls back. This place is going to be deserted, if it keeps up."

"I'll have to write my parents," said Hermione, pulling a quill and parchment from her bag. "I haven't the faintest idea how Dumbledore explained this to the Muggle families, but they'll try and bring me home if I don't convince them otherwise."

"We're not of age, yet," said Ron miserably. "Only Fred and George are. So if Mum wants us back at the Burrow..."

"I wouldn't worry," said Ginny, reaching across Harry to hand him a rolled-up letter. "Errol delivered this right before you got here."

Harry and Hermione leaned in as Ron pulled open the note, reading over his shoulder.

"Fred, George, Ron and Ginny,

Dumbledore's told us everything that happened. Do not leave Hogwarts. Do not board the train tomorrow. Your mother and I will be there shortly.

--Dad"

"They're coming here?" said Ron. "Why would they want to do that? Is the train not safe enough for them or something?"

"I don't think that's it, Ron," said Hermione, though she did not elaborate further.

For a while they stared silently at the fire, listening to it hiss and crackle, watching the logs crumble and settle as they burned. Harry thought of another fire in a distant hearth, half-remembered from his dreams, and of the dim figure that stood before it. He suddenly felt very cold.

"It's all starting again," he said quietly. "The war, I mean. And now it's here, at Hogwarts." He looked round at his friends. "We're going to have to fight."

"Yeah," said Ron miserably. "And I can't even cast a decent leg-locker curse, let alone something that'll stop a Death Eater."

"You could learn," said Harry. "It's not as hard as it sounds. And you could learn to defend yourself against real curses, not just the small stuff we cover in class."

"The charms that Figg's been teaching us have been fairly advanced," Hermione protested. "I've been surprised by how practical her lesson plan seems to be."

"Not as practical as the lessons she's been giving me," said Harry, his voice low and somber.

Ginny raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "What do you mean? What lessons?"

Harry considered for a moment. Then, "Meet me here, in the common room, at five thirty on monday morning."

Ron paled. "That early? Bloody hell, why?"

"Because we need to be in front of Figg's office by six," said Harry, "and she'll flay us if we're late."

"What have you and Figg been up to?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowed.

"You'll see," said Harry.

***

It was close to two in the morning when Harry returned to the common room, his cloak over his shoulder and the map in his pocket. He had lain awake for hours, staring at the velvet ceiling of his four-poster and going over all that had happened again and again in his mind. He knew what dreams he would have if he fell asleep, and that night he wasn't interested. He was tired of ominous visions, tired of Voldemort's face as it gloated in the firelight, tired of Wormtail's sniveling, tired of masks and black cloaks and feeling that he was about to die at any moment. And if he couldn't sleep without revisiting these things, then he would not sleep at all.

So he had pulled a dressing gown on over his pajamas and crept quietly out of the boy's dormitory. And now he wrapped himself in his invisibility cloak and softly pushed open the portrait hole, climbing through and then setting off down the Fat Lady's shadowy corridor.

He wasn't certain where he was headed, at first. His movements had the surreal, distant quality of decisions made very late at night, when actions one would normally never take seem perfectly wise and worthwhile. It occurred to him that he had not spoken with Malfoy since their fight two weeks ago, and in the pale, blue moonlight of the empty castle halls this seemed suddenly unfortunate. Having made up with his friends in Gryffindor, Harry was feeling magnanimous.

The password to the Slytherin dungeon had not been changed, and soon Harry was climbing the spiral staircase, facing the heavy wooden door, slipping his penknife through the lock, closing the door behind him.

Shafts of moonlight cut across the room, revealing glimpses of sparse furniture and the large, old-fashioned bed. Malfoy was perched on a windowsill, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, outlined by a halo of light that turned his hair silver and his skin to porcelain. His eyes glinted from the shadows.

"Potter?" he whispered.

"Yeah," said Harry, pulling off the cloak and draping it over a chair. He walked across the room and joined Malfoy on the sill, his back against the window and one knee pulled up such that his chin and folded hands could rest on it.

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy asked.

"Thought you might be up," said Harry.

For some time neither of them spoke, each wrapped in their own thoughts as they watched the moon rise above the forest.

"You were right," said Malfoy quietly, his eyes on the darkened grounds.

Harry turned to him, frowning. "About what?"

"About...about the Dark Lord. He's..." Malfoy closed his eyes, his brows furrowed. "There's nothing in him worth following."

Just worked that out, did you? thought Harry. Aloud he asked, "Why the sudden change in heart?"

"You didn't see what he did...to Professor Snape..." Malfoy's voice was unsteady now, the words catching in his throat. "Much worse than what Bayne did to me. Pomfrey wasn't even sure she'd be able to save his arm..."

"What happened?" Harry asked softly, interested despite himself.

"Carved the Dark Mark right out of him..." Malfoy whispered. "You...you could see the bones..."

"Just like Sirius..." Harry murmured.

"Your godfather?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "Except it was his chest...I've never seen anything so gruesome..."

"No...Neither have I."

Harry shuddered, remembering white ribs and bloody bandages. "But he's going to be all right, isn't he? Snape, that is?"

"I..." Malfoy buried his face against his knees, his arms coming up to cover his head. "I don't know."

"Well, I...I hope he pulls through," said Harry awkwardly.

"I’m not stupid," said Malfoy bitterly, his voice muffled by his knees. "You don’t care about him. Dumbledore doesn't care about him. He hasn't got any family. I’m the only one who gives a flying fuck about him, and if he....if he d-dies..." He hiccoughed, his breathing loud and uneven. "I know that he h-hates you, and that he's always been horrible to you, and you must have h-hated him even more because he was always so n-nice to m-me..." His shoulders were shaking, now, and Harry's chest tightened as he realized Malfoy was crying. "B-But he's always t-taken c-care of me, and I t-thought he might let me s-stay with him n-now that...that..." The words disintegrated into sobs.

Harry reached out a hand, hesitating for a moment before resting it on Malfoy's shoulder. "I'm...I'm really sorry, mate..." he said softly. "Honest, I mean...yeah, he's kind of a git, but I wouldn't want..." Harry swallowed. "I'm sure he'll be fine..."

"B-but what if he isn't?" Malfoy wailed, shuddering with fresh tears. "Everything is s-so awful...and I d-don't have anyone else..."

"That's not true," said Harry softly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You...well, you've got me, right?"

"And w-what good will that d-do me?" Malfoy sobbed. "They t-took my house, Potter....they t-took everything but w-what’s in my trunk, and I don’t h-have anywhere to go, and I thought that maybe P-professor Snape would let me s-stay with him but now-"

"I'm not going to let you end up in some orphanage, if that's what you're worried about," said Harry stoutly. "We've got money enough, between us. We'll rent a flat or something."

"Y-you're just s-saying that..."

"No, I...I'm serious," said Harry. "So long as we're on the same side in all this, I'm...well, I'm not going anywhere, all right? So you've got me, whatever happens with Snape."

Malfoy looked up at him, then. His face was wet and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery as they met with Harry's. With his free hand Harry Accio-ed a box of tissues from the night-stand and offered one to Malfoy, which he took but did not use. He stared at the paper square for several seconds as tears streamed down his cheeks, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

"Living in sin with Harry Potter," Malfoy whispered. "What would Father think?"

And then, with a desperate sob as the only warning, Malfoy fell forward against him and buried his face in Harry's chest, his arms wrapped around Harry's torso and his legs drawn up on the windowsill.

At first Harry was too shocked to do anything, and simply sat with his arms held awkwardly in the air as Malfoy wept against his dressing gown. He had never seen another person cry like this, let alone a boy his own age, and he was at a loss. But he remembered what had seen in the astronomy tower, how Lupin had comforted Sirius...of course the situation was different, but....

"It..it'll be ok..." Harry murmured, slowly lowering his arms until they were across the other boy's shoulder blades. He shifted so that his back was against the stone frame of the window, one foot drawn up next to the glass and the other on the floor. Malfoy smelled like soap and damp wool. Hesitantly, Harry moved one hand so that it cupped the back of his head. Malfoy's hair, though so different in color, felt remarkably like his own. Coarse but soft, sliding easily through his fingers.

Neither of them moved for a very long time. Gradually, Malfoy's weeping subsided; his breathing slowed and evened out, his grip on Harry relaxed, his shoulders ceased their quaking. The heavy warmth of his body was oddly soothing, and Harry drifted in and out of wakefulness, never quite falling asleep but coming very close. When Malfoy shifted against him, it felt distant and removed; the hot breath on Harry's neck was of no consequence, nor were the hands that slipped inside his dressing gown. And when the warm, soft lips of another boy pressed against his own, it was not until several seconds later that he remembered that this was not a dream.

His eyes flew open and he scrambled to his feet, backing several steps away from the windowsill where Malfoy still sat. Harry's dressing gown hung open and he hastily pulled it closed again, trying too late to hide his reaction to what Malfoy had done.

Malfoy gaped at him with eyes like saucers, clutching at his own gown and breathing hard. "I'm...I'm sorry...I'd thought this was what you wanted..."

"I wanted to make you feel better, you prat, not kiss you!" Harry sputtered.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done it, I..." Malfoy looked away, his cheeks flushed scarlet. "You must think I'm a total pervert."

"I...I don't know, I just..." Harry ran a trembling hand through his fringe, trying desperately to organize his now-chaotic thoughts. "I mean...are you...are you gay...?"

It was a very, very long time before Malfoy answered him. "Would you still want to share a flat if I am?" he asked finally, barely more than whisper.

"Of course," said Harry, surprised at his own certainty. "So long as you don't pull that kind of thing without warning me first. I thought I was going to have a heart attack."

As Malfoy slowly rose to his feet, his dressing gown slid off his shoulders and puddled on the floor. He stood silhouetted against the window, his face masked by darkness, the translucent cotton of his nightshirt revealing his slender frame. "And if I did?" he asked softly.

"Did what?" Harry murmured, his throat dry.

"Warn you," said Malfoy. He took a step forward. They were inches apart, their slippered toes just touching on the floor.

"I..." Harry's brain worked furiously. If the Dursley's could see him, now, standing in his pajamas in another boy's room, considering this kind of proposition, a part of him wanting nothing more than to accept...They would call him a faggot, the only thing worse than a wizard in their minds, and turn him out onto the street.

Harry let go of his dressing gown, allowing it to fall open again. He felt exposed and vulnerable, and it was thrilling. "I'd say you...you should do what you like," he said huskily.

Another step, and Malfoy was pressed against his entire length, their feet parallel and their foreheads bent together. Harry's pulse raced, his thoughts wholly focused on the body beside him and the insistent ache between his legs. He was aware of every movement, ever place that they touched, every shift of fabric and every beat of his own heart. He jumped when Malfoy's hands slipped under his shirt, the feel of skin against skin leaping through him like an electrical current, but he did not pull away.

"Malfoy..." he rasped.

Malfoy tilted his head, his tongue gently parting Harry's lips.

"We shouldn't..." Harry moaned, their mouths still touching as he spoke. "What if someone..."

"They won't," Malfoy whispered. And as a hand slid down beneath the waist of Harry's pajamas, all further protests were forgotten.

***

When he woke the next morning, Harry did not immediately remember where he was. He stared groggily at the emerald canopy above him, wondering vaguely if someone had changed it for a laugh, and would probably have gone back to sleep had he not noticed the hand that rested on his collarbone.

He froze, all sleepiness gone in one horrified instant of realization. He was in Draco Malfoy's bed. Draco Malfoy's arm was draped across his bare chest. Draco Malfoy was snoring gently, the end of his pale, pointed nose less than a handbreadth from Harry's ear. And he was fairly sure that Draco Malfoy was not wearing any pants.

Willing himself not to panic, Harry gently grasped Malfoy's wrist between his fingers and slid out from under the other boy's arm, depositing it it on the pillow before he climbed out of bed as quietly as he could. Relieved to find that he was still in his pajama bottoms, he collected his discarded clothing from the floor, got dressed, and pulled on his cloak. The clock above the mantle, dark wood covered in silver serpents, revealed that it was just past seven.

Harry was too distracted to bother with the map. He rushed down the empty corridors, breaking into a full run when he reached the stairway to Gryffindor tower. At the portrait hole he slowed just long enough to yank his cloak off again and shout the password at the Fat Lady, practically leaping into the common room as she swung aside.

He sunk into the first armchair he saw, and several minutes were spent holding the stitch in his side and trying to catch his breath. As soon as he felt he was capable, he dragged himself to his feet and stumped up to his dormitory, wanting nothing more than to spend the next several hours asleep in his own bed. But when he reached the top of the tower, he found that all four of his roommates were awake and beginning to dress.

"Was wondering where you got off to," said Ron with a sort of tired cheerfulness as he laced up his trainers. "We were just going to go down to breakfast. Figured we should get an early start, see who's getting sent home and all that. We'll wait for you in the common room, all right?"

"Yeah," said Harry. And with little in the way of alternatives left to him, he slipped out of his dressing gown again and started rummaging through his trunk for a pair of jeans.

By the time Harry rejoined them in the common room, many other Gryffindors had dragged themselves out of bed for reasons similar to Ron's. WIth few exceptions, they were waiting from owls from their parents, and many were reluctant to go to breakfast in case the news was bad. "I'd just start crying in front of all those people," whispered Emma Dobbs, who already sounded quite tearful.

However bad Gryffindor Tower had been, the Great Hall was a thousand times worse. Hogwarts was already missing half of its usual student body, and those who remained watched the open windows with fearful anticipation. Only the seventh years, who were nearly all of age and thus no longer bound to their parents' wishes, seemed unconcerned. In a way, Harry was glad to be surrounded by so much misery, as no one questioned the panicked look on his own face.

You just slept with Malfoy, he told himself, part of him unwilling to accept that he had done something so bizarre. You just slept with Malfoy, you just slept with Malfoy, you just -

"Harry!" He blinked and looked up just in time to see Ginny, her clothes a bit rumpled and her hair coming loose from her plaits, take a seat beside him on the bench. "Has there been any post, yet?"

Harry shook his head, grateful for the distraction. "Where've you been?" he asked as she tucked wisps of hair behind her ears.

"Couldn't sleep," she said simply. "Figured I'd get some studying in. Been in the library since five or so."

A few minutes later Hermione joined them, too, clutching a folded copy of the Daily Prophet. "Evening edition," she said by way of explanation before burying her nose inside it.

Harry craned his neck to get a good look at the front page, wondering what had been written about the attack on Hogwarts. But the evening's headline was about a beauty contest in Cornwal, with several smaller pieces about home gardening and a new breed of fancy Crup. He scowled, but before he could ask if she had the right paper Ron poked his shoulder.

"It's the post," he muttered, his eyes on the ceiling.

Everyone looked up as the Great Hall was flooded with owls of every description. Several dozen of them landed on Gryffindor's table, scattering salt cellars and goblets before holding out their legs to terrified-looking students. Some, like Geoffrey Stebbins and Dean Thomas, whooped with triumph at the contents of their letters, tucking into their breakfast now that the threat had passed. But others, like Lavender Brown and Seamus Finnegan, looked as if they might be sick. Further down the table, several first year girls began to cry.

"Don't blame them," Ginny murmured, tearing her toast into small bits but not actually eating it. "They haven't even been here three months, and all this has happened."

"I wrote to them last night," said Seamus, his voice hollow. "I explained everything..."

Dean put down his spoon, looking as if he felt very guilty about his own good fortune. "My parents don't know a thing about You-Know-Who or what Death Eaters are...I'm sure that's the only reason they're not making me go home, too."

Hermione sniffed angrily and threw the Prophet down onto the tabletop. "This rubbish is unbelievable," she snarled, tracing a small square of newsprint with the tip of her wand and shoving the paper toward Harry and Ron. The article, now outlined in red, was only about two inches long and crammed into a distant corner of the classifieds section.

"Due to an unfortunate accident during a sporting event this afternoon, Hogwarts has elected to give parents the opportunity to withdraw their children from the school. Rumors of a more sinister cause for concern are abundant and should be regarded with skepticism."

"That's it?" asked Ron incredulously. "You'd think someone'd gotten their head knocked in by a Bludger, wouldn't you?"

Harry glanced up at the staff table. "Where's Dumbledore?" he asked quickly. Each lull in the conversation gave him time to think about the previous night, something he was keen to avoid.

"Haven't the faintest," Hermione muttered darkly, still glowering at the Prophet. "I suspect he's buried under a mountain of owls, wherever he is."

Harry watched her read for several minutes, bouncing his knees and drumming his fingers on the table top. Then he had an idea. As subtlety as he could manage, Harry pulled the Marauder's Map out of his pocket and unfolded it under the table. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he whispered, tapping it with his wand. Within moments the familiar halls of Hogwarts had been traced in spidery black ink and populated by miniscule dots. Most of these were congregated in the Great Hall, but further inspection revealed that Dumbledore was in the hospital wing, standing near a dot tabled "Severus Snape."

As were Mundungus Fletcher, Arabella Figg, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Arthur and Molly Weasley and Alastor Moody.

"What's Moody doing here?" Harry murmured. After having spent most of the past school year locked in the bottom of a trunk, Harry would have expected him to be reluctant to return to Hogwarts. He was trying to think of a way to show the map to his friends without attracting too much attention when the hall became suddenly quiet. He followed everyone's gaze and saw that Professor McGonagall had stood, her thin lips pressed into a bloodless line.

"Those of you who are returning home will gather here with your belongings at eleven o' clock this morning," she said once the hall had quieted, her voice suspiciously tremulous. "The train to King's Cross is scheduled to depart at a quarter past noon. The headmaster and I will accompany you to the station in Hogsmeade to ensure your safety."

Harry glanced at his watch; it was nearly eight. With only three hours left to sort out their trunks and say goodbye to their friends, the departing students were eager to finish breakfast and return to their own houses. Within a ten minutes the hall was mostly empty. When Dean and Seamus finished their eggs and left for their room, Fred and George slid down from further along the table.

"Any word from Dad?" asked Fred.

"Something like that," said Harry. Now enclosed by a knot of Weasleys and one Granger, he pulled out the map once again and lay it out on the table.

"Mad-eye? Here?" Fred scratched his head, frowning. "He's not replacing Figg, is he? He's supposed to be retired..."

"And how come Mum and Dad haven't told us they're here already?" asked Ron.

"And why are they all visiting Snape?" said George, making a face.

Hermione regarded them all, her lips pursed and her arms folded across her chest. "Well, isn't it obvious?" she said impatiently.

"No," said the Weasleys in unison.

Hermione tsked and leaned further in, dropping her voice even lower. "Well, Snape's been spying for Dumbledore, hasn't he?" she said. "And he's been out of contact for months. That's why Sirius went looking for him, isn't it? He must have been trying to find out something very important about...about You-Know-Who, and that wand everyone keeps talking about."

"I don't get what this has to do with Moody or my mum," said Ron.

"Well, don't you see?" said Hermione. "Minister Fudge won't even admit that You-Know-Who is back, let alone actually do something to stop him regaining his old strength. There are some in the Ministry, like Mr. Weasley, who're trying to do what needs to get done but...well, it's not really enough, is it? So if all of Dumbledore's supporters and allies are gathering here at Hogwarts, the place where he's strongest, then Snape must have had some very bad news."

"Why do you say that?" asked Harry.

"Because...well, I think Dumbledore's decided to take matters into his own hands."

"By doing what?"

"By using Hogwarts as a sort of base camp," said Hermione. She swallowed hard before continuing. "For....for the war."

***

The Gryffindor common room was much emptier than Harry would have expected. Nearly a third of the house would be boarding the train to King's Cross that afternoon, and those who weren't were busy helping their less fortunate friends pack their trunks.

The portrait hole opened and Ron and Ginny clambered through, looking put out.

"Any luck?" Harry asked as the Fat Lady swung back into place.

"Not so much," Ron grumbled. "The door's locked, and when we tried to knock the sign out front told us off."

"I think it was channeling Mum," said Ginny wryly. She disappeared into a girls' dormitory, saying she wanted to help her friends pack.

Ron lingered a bit longer, but eventually Dean jogged down and asked if they could help Seamus look for the rest of his Exploding Snap set. Ron was glad for the distraction, but Harry mumbled some excuse about not sleeping very well and opted to stay downstairs. When his friends were gone, he moved to a chair hidden away in a corner by the windows, his back to the room and the Marauder's Map open on his lap.

For a while he had watched the tiny figures in the hospital wing, wondering what was being said as they crowded around Snape's bed, or paced back and forth, or went to fetch Madam Pomfrey from her office. Several students hovered outside the doorway for some time before being chased away by whatever was written on the sign. Eventually, though he found his eyes wandering over to the Slytherin dungeon, and to the dot that sat alone in his dormitory while the rest of his house buzzed with activity.

Harry at a complete loss. His romantic fantasies had never been anything like this; they had usually ended with Cho Chang beaming at him as he held the Quidditch Cup over his head, and none had involved Draco Malfoy crying all over him. In fact, none had involved Malfoy at all. At least, not until the night he had found Lupin and Sirius together. After that, many things that had not previously occurred to him had suddenly become quite possible.

But never in a million years had he ever thought that it would happen...

It had happened, though, and now Harry was bursting with the need to talk about it; to confess and to be reassured that he wasn't a perverted freak of nature for what he'd done. But who could he possibly confide in? Not any of his friends, of course. They would never talk to him again if they knew. Nor any of the adults, for Sirius would be furious that he was friends with a Malfoy in the first place, and Lupin would probably just turn around and blab to his boyfriend. The Weasleys would be horrified, and of course Dumbledore was completely out of the question.

And besides, even if he could find someone, certainly they would disapprove of wasting time with such frivolous concerns. They were about to go to war, and Harry was agonizing over something as trivial as snogging another boy. This is so bizarre, he thought, rubbing his temples. He felt like he was watching another person's life from the outside, for surely he would never do something so incredibly stupid.

What he needed was an impartial third party; someone who would understand what he was going through, but wouldn't ask too many questions nor make his life any more difficult than it already was. For a moment, he was almost envious of Ginny and her magical diary. That was exactly what he needed. Without the added complication of being possessed by Voldemort, of course.

Harry watched as Professor McGonagall made her way up to the hospital wing, remained briefly at Snape's bedside and then left with Figg and Fletcher in tow.

Then it hit him. The map. If Malfoy had used it to talk to the Marauders, surely he, Harry, could do so as well? He pulled his wand out of his robes and Accioed a quill and ink from his bag upstairs, hoping the others would be too busy to notice them flying down the stairway. He caught them out of the air and watched the map for a moment longer; when no one came down to see who had Summoned writing supplies, Harry cleared the map with a tap from his wand and the words, "Mischief managed."

Feeling a bit silly, Harry dipped his quill in the ink and wrote "Hello" on the yellowing parchment. Just as it had been with Riddle's diary, the words shortly disappeared.

A response scrawled across the page in loopy, careless script. "Mister Prongs returns your greetings, and asks what your business may be with him and his associates."

Harry's heart felt like it might leap straight out of his chest. For this first time in his life, he was talking to his father. A charmed copy of the teenager his father had once been, yes, but still...

"My name's Harry," he wrote quickly. "I was looking for some advice."

"Mister Padfoot assures you that he would be happy to offer his services as an advisor, provided you aren't a long-nosed greasy-haired Slytherin named Snivellus Snape." This handwriting was quite familiar, though far less tidy and made difficult to read by the fact that he did not always bother to go back and cross his letters.

Harry laughed a bit, despite himself. "No, I'm in Gryffindor, like you."

"Mister Moony is glad to hear it, and asks what your trouble might be." This was written in the same neat script Harry remembered from Lupin's letters.

"I..." Harry paused for a moment. What was his trouble? Was it just that he'd spent the night with Malfoy, or was that just a part of what he was so worried about? "I think I might be gay," he finished hastily, before he could change his mind.

"Mister Wormtail regrets that he will not be of much help in this matter, and suggest that you consult with Misters Moony and Padfoot in his absence."

Good, thought Harry. He wasn't interested in any advice that Peter Pettigrew had to give.

"That's not quite what I expected, admittedly," wrote James. "Wormtail's right, this is more Moony and Padfoot's area."

"I'd like your advice, too," Harry wrote hastily, not wanting his Father to stop replying. "I'm really not sure about the being gay thing"

"Well, I'd think it would be fairly straightforward," wrote Sirius. "Do you fancy boys?"

"Not really," wrote Harry, thinking of his crush on Cho Chang. He hadn't felt that way about Malfoy at all.

"That's usually a pretty good indicator," wrote Sirius. "No boy fancying means a life of perfectly normal heterosexual intercourse, assuming you're not too ugly to get a girl in the sack. Congratulations."

"But..." Harry hesitated, then, "But I did kind of snog one last night. A boy, I mean. At least I think I did."

"Pardon me if this seems a foolish question," wrote James, "but how can you not be sure if you snogged someone or not?"

"You weren't drunk, were you?" wrote Sirius.

"Well, he did most of the snogging," wrote Harry. "I just sort of went along with it, I guess."

"Did you enjoy it?" asked Remus, his script somehow conveying a quiet tone.

Harry flushed, realizing that this was what he'd avoided thinking about all morning. It was one thing to mess around with your former nemesis, and quite another to derive any pleasure from it. And as he remembered how it felt to be touched in that way by someone other than himself, to share a bed with another warm body and to drift off to sleep as fingers traced the contours of his chest...

"Yeah," he wrote. "I think I did."

"Gay as a maypole," wrote Sirius.

"Now, Padfoot, be fair," wrote Remus. "There are a lot of factors that need to be considered..."

But what those factors were, Harry never discovered. For Hermione chose that moment to tap him on the shoulder, making him jump halfway out of the chair. Harry cleared the map as quickly as he could, but not before Hermione caught a glimpse of what he'd been doing.

"Who were you writing to?" she asked, peering at the now-blank parchment.

"Just...just chatting with my dad," said Harry evasively.

Hermione's brows shot up toward her hairline. "I'm sorry if this seems insensitive, Harry, but...how were you managing that?"

"It's the Marauder's Map," said Harry. "If you write on it, my Dad and Sirius and Lupin answer back."

"Like the diary?" asked Hermione, and edge of worry to her voice.

"Well, yeah, but without being totally evil," said Harry. He wished she would go back upstairs so he could finish his conversation, but instead she gazed at the map with a thoughtful expression. Finally he said, "Is there something you wanted?"

"What? Oh, yes!" she said. "Lavender wants to know if you still have the copy of Death Omens that you borrowed."

He did, in his trunk upstairs. Reluctantly he refolded the map and went to fetch Lavender's book as Hermione followed behind. "We should probably be checking that periodically," she said as they neared the top of the tower. "If I'm right about what Dumbledore's planning, we'll be getting quite a few more visitors."

When they opened the door to his dormitory, Harry immediately felt very stupid for having spent so much time feeling sorry for himself in the common room. Seamus was sitting on the floor in front of his half-packed trunk, surrounded by halfheartedly-sorted piles of his possessions as he stared morosely at his wand.

"I dunno what I'm going too do," he said. "I won't be able to use this after I leave Hogwarts. Mum says she'll try and get me placed in the Dublin Vocational School for Young Healers, but I probably won't be able to start until after the holidays."

"It's a bum deal, mate," said Dean, stacking Seamus' books in the bottom of the trunk. "Maybe she'll let you come back once she's calmed down a bit, eh? Seen that we haven't all died horribly by Christmas."

"She won't calm down until she's got You-Know-Who's head on a platter," said Seamus miserably.

"So she believes Dumbledore, then?" said Ron, who was perched on the end of his bed. "That he's back?"

"Yeah, she does," said Seamus. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

"I don't understand why he would attack Hogwarts in the first place," said Hermione, taking a seat next to Ron. "Everyone knows that Dumbledore is the only person he's afraid of."

"Because he wants something we have," said Harry quietly. Everyone turned to look at him, as if they hadn't noticed he was there until he spoke.

"What, you?" said Dean, looking skeptical but interested.

A well-timed glare from Hermione reminded Harry that this wasn't the place for discussing such matters. "Er, yes," he said lamely. "Just a theory."

Dean chuckled indulgently at this, then returned to helping Seamus with this things. By then it was past ten thirty, and and when they had finished checking under the bed for loose socks they levitated the trunk and went down the the common room. Once they had gone, Ron and Hermione turned to Harry.

"What were you really going to say before?" asked Hermione.

"The wand," said Harry.

"You think it's here, at Hogwarts?" asked Hermione.

"Well, why wouldn't it be?" said Harry. "If that's what Voldemort is after, and if you're right and Dumbledore's turning the school into a fortress, this is probably the safest place for it."

"But how would You-Know-Who have found out it was here?"

"Because Snape told him, of course," Ron muttered. "He's just pretending to be on our side, really he's itching to get back into You-Know-Who's inner circle."

"Don't be stupid," Hermione snapped. "We've talked about this a dozen times. If Dumbledore trusts Snape, so should we."

"How come You-Know-Who didn't just kill him, then?" said Ron. "He's not exactly known for being merciful, is he?"

"Voldemort didn't kill Sirius, either," said Harry softly.

Ron's mouth snapped shut at that, and he stared miserably at too-short trousers while Harry walked over to his trunk and dug out Lavender's book.

"Suppose we should go see them off," Ron mumbled, and he and Hermione slid off his bed. The three of them gazed forlornly at Seamus' empty bed-stand, heaved a collective sigh, then left to join the rest of the school in the Great Hall.

***

In the bustle of activity that now dominated Hogwarts' corridors, there was no opportunity to further consult the map. And so Harry, Hermione and Ron were taken completely by surprise when they descended the stairs to the entrance hall only to find Minister Fudge and Professor McGonagall screaming at each other in front of half the school.

Fred and George were standing a few steps down on either side of Lee Jordan, who was levitating his trunk ahead of them. His eyes never leaving Fudge's round face -- which, at this point, was beet red with fury -- Harry came up behind the twins and asked, "What's going on?"

"He wants to see Dumbledore, and McGonagall's telling him off," whispered Fred.

"Seems he isn't much interested in waiting for our illustrious headmaster to finish escorting the homeward bounders to Hogsmeade," added George.

"I'd rather be thought of as a refugee, thanks," said Lee gloomily.

"McGonagall has politely suggested that the minister's disregard for such precautions suggests a misallocation of priorities," Fred continued. "And I believe he's taken offense."

"And as if that weren't enough for an afternoon's gossip," said George, "there's the matter of the pair of Dementors he's brought along with him."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. "Sirus," he breathed. "If they find him..." He remembered skeletal hands, a scabbed and featureless face, breath that was like a death rattle as it leaned towards his face, and he shuddered.

"They won't," said Hermione firmly, though she looked just as unsettled as he felt. "Dumbledore would never let that happen."

"Quiet," Ron hissed, "I can't hear what they're saying."

"I have half a mind to put this institution under Ministry control, if I don't shut it down entirely!" Fudge was shouting, his lime green bowler hat askew. "Whatever Dumbledore may think he is not above the law, and his behavior will not go unaddressed! Harboring criminals! Cooking up fantastic stories about Death Eaters attacking a Quidditch game, sending alarming owls to Muggle families in blatant defiance of the International Statute of Secrecy--!"

"The Headmaster will speak with you when the last departing student has safely boarded the Hogwarts Express," said McGonagall, her tone icy. "As I have already told you, Minister, you may wait for him in his office if you wish, but I shall have to insist that your companions remain outside on the grounds."

"You have no authority to tell me what I may or may not do for the sake of my own security!" Fudge bellowed. "I refuse to remain inside this school without a bare minimum of protection when there's a convicted murderer on the loose!"

"Then you can turn right around and go back to London!" McGonagall shouted. Wisps of black hair had come loose from her bun, lending her a somewhat crazed look. "I will not allow you to endanger my students for the sake of your peace of mind!"

Fudge's face went from scarlet to purple, and he had just opened his mouth for another retort when there was a low groan of hinges behind him. The large wooden doors of the main entryway swung apart to reveal Albus Dumbledore, his expression calm but steely as slipped his wand inside his robes and stepped through the doorway.

"Ah, Minister," he said lightly as the doors closed behind him. "I take it Professor McGonagall has explained the situation?"

For a moment, Fudge seemed to be at a loss for words. "Well....yes, of course," he sputtered, straightening his hat. "But you see..."

"I'm afraid we have a train to catch," Dumbledore continued. Next to Fudge, he seemed exceptionally tall and serene. "Professor Flitwick will escort you to my office. I shall return to join you within the hour, if there are no complications."

"B-but....but the Dementors...!" Fudge protested weakly, quailing under Dumbledore's cool gaze.

"I'm afraid I've had to send them away," said Dumbledore. "You may engage their services once again when you have left the school grounds. Now, if you'll excuse me." With a polite smile and a small nod, Dumbledore swept past the Minister of Magic and entered the Great Hall.

***

There was little ceremony to their schoolmates' departure. Dumbledore briefly addressed the assembled students, but Harry did not really hear him; he was watching Ginny as she and another fourth year comforted one of their friends, offering tissues as she wept into her sleeve. When Dumbledore finished speaking, he walked to the front of the hall and stood, wand out, beside the doors. As McGonagall read their names from a list, students lined up down the center of the room with their belongings. There was little talk, and aside from the rustling protests of various pets the hall was eerily silent.

Harry, Hermione and Ron watched solemnly as the line filed past. McGonagall followed close behind, and when the last of them had left the entrance hall she magicked the doors closed. The remaining students left in fits and starts.

"We've got to find a way to hear what Fudge and Dumbledore are saying," said Harry in an undertone as they ascended the stairs. "If the minister's going to try and do something to Sirius, I want to know about it now."

"Are you mad?" said Ron. "I don't care how much Dumbledore likes you, he'll expel you in a second if he finds out you're spying on him!" He turned to Hermione. "Tell him he's being an idiot!"

"Actually, I think he's right," said Hermione. She was walking very fast, and they had to jog a little to catch up. "We can't afford to be left in the dark anymore. The question is, how do we gain access to his office? There must be a hundred enchantments protecting it, there's no way we'd ever get through."

"I know the password," said Harry. "We could listen at the door."

"Too risky," said Hermione dismissively. "What if someone came up the stairs behind us? No, we're going to have to do it remotely."

"How're you planning to manage that?" asked Ron. "You just said there's no way-"

"Oh, there's a way all right," said Hermione. "It's just a matter of how..." She stopped short in the middle of a corridor and looked over at Harry. "Do you have any photographs of your father when he was our age?" she asked, as several annoyed-looking Ravenclaws edged around them.

This was the last thing Harry would have expected, and it took him a moment to switch tracks and nod. "But why-?"

"Go get it," she said, "and meet me in the library. Bring the map, too."

By the time Harry found her and Ron in the library, at a table in the corner beneath a painting of an old-fashioned printing press. Hermione had surrounded herself with an enormous pile of books, most of them lying open in front of her as she scratched notes on a sheet of parchment. "I'm not quite ready for you, yet," she said without looking up.

Harry moved a copy of Specialty Charms for the Artist off of a chair and sat. "What's she up to?" he asked Ron.

"Haven't the faintest," said Ron, looking bewildered.

Several minutes passed as Hermione flipped through a book as large as her torso, muttering scraps of spells under her breath and scribbling notes so fast that her face was splattered with ink. "All right," she said finally, lowering her quill. "Hand me the map and the photograph."

"You're not going to wreck them, are you?" asked Harry, looking down at the wizarding photo in his hands. It was a shot of James as a teenager about Harry's age, grinning lopsidedly as he reclined under a beech tree near the lake. He looked as Harry imagined his brother might have; they had the same jaw, the same mouth, the same pale skin and jet black hair, which stuck up in the back in exactly the same way. The difference was mostly in their eyes; James' round and hazel, Harry's almond-shaped and brilliantly green.

"They'll be fine," said Hermione, a bit less severely. Harry handed them over, then, and she lay them side-by-side on the table between all the books. She pulled her wand out of her robes.

"What're you going to do?" asked Ron, watching her.

"Professor Flitwick told me that all magical objects imbued with a personality are constructed using similar charms," she said as she consulted her notes. "Wizarding portraits aren't all that different from this map, in terms of spellwork, and neither are photographs, though the spell and resultant behavior are far less sophisticated. You'll notice that a photo will repeat the same pattern of behavior over and over again, whereas a portrait can handle complex conversation and behave appropriately in a variety of situations."

"So can the map," said Harry, recalling the conversation he'd had a few hours before.

"Exactly," said Hermione. "Only, because it lacks a visual element the two are incompatible."

Ron made a frustrated sound. "Then what are we-?"

"Not now," said Hermione as she raised her wand. "I need to concentrate." Murmuring an incantation too quietly for Harry to make it out, she touched her wand to the surface of the map. When she raised it, a string of golden light trailed from the tip, and this she gently pulled until it was long enough to reach the photograph. Once the two were connected, the light brightened and twisted in the air, forming the outline of a face with glasses and untidy hair.

She then turned to the wall beside them. Another spell and a complicated flick of her wand produced a glowing blue web that crisscrossed the stones, all of which passed through the painting before continuing on elsewhere. It was alive with beads of white light that darted in every direction. Her brow knit with concentration, Hermione touched her wand to the wispy face and carefully guided it toward the wall. As soon as it made contact with the blue web of spells it flared and then condensed into a bead just like the others, though it was gold instead of white.

Exhaling as if she had been holding her breath the entire time, Hermione lowered her arms and collapsed into her chair. The web vanished.

Harry picked the photograph up off the table. The beech tree swayed gently in the perpetual breeze, but his father was nowhere to be seen. "What did you do?" he asked, his eyes back on Hermione.

Still out of breath, Hermione gestured vaguely at the painting. Ron was already staring at it with his mouth hanging open, and the reason for this was immediately obvious. There was now a figure standing next to the printing press, examining it with mild interest. Though retaining the texture of the rest of the canvas, he had the washed-out look of an old photograph.

"Dad?" Harry whispered, taking a step closer.

James Potter turned to see who had spoken, pushing his glasses up his nose with the first two fingers of his right hand. "Sorry, mate," he said mildly. "I think you've got the wrong bloke."

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered.

Having recovered sufficiently, Hermione turned to the painting and said, "James? I wonder if you could do us a favor?"

"Anything for a pretty girl such as yourself," said James, grinning.

"See if you can find your way to the headmaster's office. I think I've managed to hack my way into the secure portrait web, but there may be a few barriers still in place. Come back and let us know whether or not you can manage it."

"Sure thing, love," said James. He winked, flashed another handsome smile and then disappeared past the frame of the painting.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Harry once James was out of sight. "Why doesn't he ask who you are, or what's happened to him? He's acting like it's perfectly normal to find yourself in a painting being stared at by total strangers."

Hermione looked taken aback. "Well...I mean, he's not really James Potter, is he?" she said hesitantly, glancing at Ron for support. Ron, however, was too busy gaping at the painting to be of much use. "He's just a magical copy of the person James Potter used to be, isn't he? And not even an especially good copy, from what I've seen."

It was good enough to comment on my lovelife, thought Harry, though of course he did not mention this. Instead, he asked, "So he can enter any portrait inside the school?"

"I think so," said Hermione. "I had to dodge a few traps, but I think I managed to get through without anyone noticing."

By then, Ron had had sufficient time to move from shock to indignation, and said, "You know, I think he was flirting with you!."

Harry suspected that Ron was right, though he wasn't sure whether to be impressed or disturbed. He was about to say something to this effect when James reappeared in front of the printing press, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Had to take a detour through Cadogan's meadow," he said, "but after that it was easy enough."

"Did any of the other heads see you?" asked Hermione anxiously.

James shook his head. "Glenda Gobbert's portrait has a gigantic urn in the background, so I hid behind that. Dumbledore seems to be out at the moment, but there's a man in a bowler hat sitting in front of his desk who looks fit to murder."

"Wait a minute," said Ron, "the 'heads?' Whose heads are we talking about?"

"The old headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts," said Harry, his eyes still on James. "They've all got portraits in Dumbledore's office."

"Honestly, Ron, if you'd just read Hogwarts, A History," said Hermione, exasperated. She turned once again to the painting. "If you could do us just one other favor, James? Go and wait for Dumbledore to get back. We want to know everything he says to Minister Fudge -- to the man in the hat -- so stay hidden until they're finished talking and then come back and meet us here, all right?"

"Spying on the Minister of Magic, is it?" James chuckled. "That's a new one." He tossed off a mock salute, winked at Hermione again and then sauntered away behind the frame.

"Why does your teenage dad keep have to keep showing off for my girlfriend?" Ron moaned, shooting accusatory looks at Harry between rubbing his temples.

"So what do we do now?" asked Harry, ignoring him.

Hermione selected a book from her pile, found her place, and said, "We wait."

***

Autumn leaves rustled beneath scales like iron mail, the dry and withered undergrowth parting before an arrow-shaped head. The air was rich with the scent of humans, pulsing with the warmth of their blood and ringing with the nonsense babble of their voices. One voice alone would cut through the din, clear and sharp as crystal, ready to offer guidance. But it had not yet awakened.

Soon, soon....

***

Harry jerked awake. His face was covered in cold sweat and he mopped at it angrily, hoping that no one had seen. He didn't want to be pitied by his friends just because he kept having odd dreams.

But it wasn't the dream that had awoken him. James was standing in front of the printing press again, and was banging two half-assembled books together in an effort to get their attention. Hermione put down her book and poked Ron, who had also fallen asleep, in the shoulder.

"What happened?" she asked eagerly, moving her chair closer to the painting. "What did they say?"

"There was quite a lot of shouting," said James, "and I couldn't follow everything they were talking about, but I think I got the gist of it. That Fudge must be a real nutter, thinking that You-Know-Who isn't behind all this. Who else could it be?"

"I think you've got the measure of Fudge," said Ron, apparently having forgiven James for the winking.

"Either way, the gist of it is this: Fudge is absolutely livid that Dumbledore won't hand over some bloke named Black -- one of Padfoot's nastier relatives, I can only assume -- and wanted to call his Dementors and have them take care of the job right there and then. But Dumbledore won't have any of it -- he says Black is staying right where he is, that he won't allow Dementors anywhere near his school, and that really, Fudge should know better than to trust them now that You-Know-Who is back again." James frowned a bit. "And see, that's the bit that confuses me. Back? Back from where, Brighton Beach?"

"What else did they say?" Hermione prompted.

"Well, Fudge wasn't keen on all this talk about You-Know-Who. He said Dumbledore was alarming the WIzarding World for his own benefit, and that he knew perfectly well that Dumbledore was backing Arthur Weasley's team of Aurors at the Ministry. Fudge seemed to think that Dumbledore's choice in help was somewhat lacking, if you know what I mean. He says he can't understand why Dumbledore would trust a werewolf to guard confiscated magical artifacts, or why he felt the need to transport both the collection and its keeper here to Hogwarts. He said the only decision Dumbledore had made that was even remotely reasonable was hiring Arabella Figg to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts." James paused, looking thoughtful. "See, that I wouldn't have expected. Why would Figg waste her time around here?"

"What do you mean?" asked Harry. "And how do you know about Figg?"

"Well, there's a war going on, isn't there?" said James. "My mates and I have always wanted to be Aurors, and Figg's one of the most famous in the Corps, right next to Alastor Moody. I just can't believe she'd put her career on the back burner long enough to teach a load of snotty teenagers."

"Was there anything else?" asked Hermione.

"Fudge was right pissed, by then," said James. "Said he was going to have the school governors remove Dumbledore from office, send the Dementors to search the school and execute Black on the spot, have the werewolf tossed out on his arse -- poor bloke, you know, werewolves really do get handed the short end of the stick -- and shut down that Weasley fellow's raids for good."

"And then what happened?" asked Ron, leaning forward.

James smiled wickedly. "Dumbledore chucked him out."

"What?" Hermione gasped.

"He said he'd tried to play nice with the Ministry but that there's only so far he can go, and now he's through. His friends at the Ministry will leave without a fuss, the parents of the kids who're still at Hogwarts will be told what's going on, and his staff'll keep to themselves. He'll deal with You-Know-Who his own way, and Fudge can fuck right off."

"No!" Hermione gasped.

"Well, those aren't the words he used exactly, but it all boils down to the same thing, doesn't it?" said James.

"And what's that?" asked Ron, glancing back and forth between them.

"It means Hogwarts is succeeding," said Hermione, her eyes wide. "Doesn't it?"

"Right you are, love," said James cheerfully.

"Where's Fudge?" asked Harry.

"Most of the way to the Entrance Hall by now," said James. "If you run, you might still catch him."

Harry leapt to his feet. "Come on, if we use the Charms corridor we might make it," he said. He picked up the map and the empty photograph. "Can I take these?"

"The spell will hold as long as they don't leave the school," said Hermione. She turned to James. "Stay hidden, and meet us here tomorrow night at eight o' clock."

Ron helped her repack her bag, but Harry lingered in front of the painting, his fingers brushing against the gilt frame. He didn't want to leave so quickly...there were so many questions he wanted to ask...

"Come on!" Hermione hissed, her hand on his forearm. With a last, longing look at James, Harry allowed her to drag him out of the library.

***

Whereas earlier that day the Entrance Hall had been full of activity, providing a considerable audience for all that transpired, it was nearly deserted when Harry, Ron and Hermione came pounding down the stairs. The remaining students had long since returned to their common rooms, and the hall was now empty but for a small party who stood facing the doors. They were hatless, and so quite easy to recognize from behind.

"Dad?" said Ron uncertainly, hovering at the foot of the stairs. "Mum?"

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley turned their heads, as did Moody, Sirius, Lupin, Figg and Dumbledore. Though they were dressed in their usual robes, each wore a burgundy sash across their chests on which the Hogwarts crest had been embroidered in gold. All but Moody smiled in greeting, but everyone looked very grim.

"You shouldn't be here right now, dears," said Mrs. Weasley, breaking off from the group and giving her son and his friends each a quick hug in turn. "Why don't you wait for us upstairs, all right?"

"Where's Fudge?" asked Harry, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What're you waiting for?"

"The Minister has taken his leave," said Dumbledore evenly. "I've been forced to take matters into my own hands, so to speak, and now we await the rest of our number."

Before Harry could answer, there was a loud knock on the castle doors. Mrs. Weasley jumped at the sound and started herding them back up the stairs, her eyes on the entryway. "Quickly, now," she said with false levity.

"I want to know what's going on!" Harry protested, dodging her outstretched arms.

"Let them stay, Molly," said Dumbledore. He raised his wand. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger...please keep to one side. We will shortly be hard pressed for standing room."

As they retreated to midway down the stairs, Dumbledore twitched the tip of his wand, and the doors swung slowly apart.

Assembled just beyond the doorway were nearly a hundred witches and wizards, some passingly familiar and others immediately recognizable, all just as still and solemn as they stood in the gathering darkness as those who greeted them in the hall. At the front of the crowd stood Bill and Charlie Weasley, the former of which stepped forward and addressed Dumbledore.

"I am William Arthur Weasley," he said, his long red hair gleaming in what was left of the afternoon sunlight. "I pledge my loyalty to you, to Hogwarts Castle, and to the defense of all who dwell within."

"I accept your pledge," said Dumbledore quietly. "May the wisdom of the founders guide us all." With a flick of his wand he conjured a sash identical to the one he wore, and guided it through the air so that it settled across Bill's chest. Bill nodded, his eyes lowered, and continued on into the Great Hall.

Harry watched in awe as this small ceremony was repeated for every new arrival, many of which Harry knew in name if not in person. There was Bastian Perkins, who worked with Mr. Weasley at the Ministry, and Florian Fortescue, who had long ago treated Harry to ice creams while helping him write essays on the history of magic; many appeared to be the parents and relatives of students at the school. When Hermione had talked of succession in the library, he hadn't pictured anything like this.

When the last of the arriving wizards had exchanged greetings with Dumbledore, the latter turned once again to face Harry. "I'm afraid this is where we must part, for the time being," he said. "I must explain all that has happened to our allies, and you must join the rest of your house in Gryffindor Tower. Professor McGonagall will be waiting for you."

"But...but I want to stay here," said Harry lamely. "I want to find out what's happening..."

"It can't hurt, can it?" asked Sirius. "He has a right, after all he's gone though..."

"You know perfectly well, Black, that only those who have taken the pledge can hear what Dumbledore has to say," Figg spat, regarding Sirius with obvious loathing.

"Then let him take it!" said Sirius, pulling himself to his full height so that he could glare down his nose at her. "He'd do it in a heartbeat, wouldn't you, Harry?"

"Of course I would," said Harry.

"Me, too!" said Ron, eagerly eyeing Dumbledore's sash.

"And me," said Hermione.

"You're not of age," said Figg dismissively. "It's not for you to decide."

"We'll take care of everything," said Mrs. Weasley kindly. "Don't worry yourselves about it."

Harry looked pleadingly at Dumbledore, but the headmaster shook his head. "I'm sorry, Harry," he said.

Harry watched as the adults turned their backs on the stairway and disappeared inside the Great Hall, the doors closing behind them with a thud that echoed off the stone walls.

Ron reached out for Hermione's hand, and she offered it with a weary sigh. "Come on," he murmured. "May as well do what he says."

Harry followed them back to Gryffindor tower, aching with a sudden loneliness as he watched their clasped hands sway to the rhythm of their steps. Not a word was spoken until they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, and then it was only a mumbled password.

"It's about time you got here," snapped McGonagall as they climbed through the portrait hole. The other Gryffindors had already gathered in the common room and once Harry, Ron and Hermione had found room next to Ginny and the twins, McGonagall straightened her rectangular spectacles and addressed them all. "The headmaster wants you all to stay within the tower until tomorrow morning," she said briskly. "Hogwarts will play host to a large number of visitors for the time being, and it's best that you all are kept out of the way while they settle in. I ask that in the weeks to come you make a special effort to accommodate our guests, and respect their desire for privacy in regards to their work here at the school."

After McGonagall had retired to her own rooms, the Gryffindors dove immediately into speculation. A few of them had caught glimpses of the approaching crowd through the tower windows, and rough guesses as to how many of them there were could be made, but none except Harry, Hermione and Ron seemed to know any more than that.

Harry nudged Ginny with his elbow and jerked his head toward the stairs to the boys' dormitories. She nodded and turned to pass the message on to her brothers. Harry pushed himself to his feet and nonchalantly made his way up to his room. Ron, Ginny, Fred, George and Hermione followed him a few minutes apart from each other, and soon they were all sitting in a circle on the floor.

"We were in the Great Hall when they got here," said Harry simply. He related everything that had happened, who he had seen and what had been said, with Ron and Hermione offering small details where there was a gap in his memory. When he had finished, Fred and George exchanged a worried look.

"Mum must be beside herself," said George.

"Rough waters from here on in," Fred agreed.

"Why's that?" asked Ron. "She didn't seem so bad when we saw her."

"It's the shock, I expect," said George.

"See, if Dad's here at Hogwarts," said Fred, his expression grave, "it means he's out of a job. If the Ministry hasn't already sacked him, they definitely will now that he's joined Dumbledore's little army."

"But...well, if we're all here at the school," said Ginny, pale beneath her freckles, "then we don't have to worry about the usual expenses, right? Food and floo powder and the like. Dumbledore will take care of all that, won't he?"

"And the Burrow's been in the family for ages," said Ron. "We don't have any debts, right? So the Goblins can't take it away from us."

"Yeah, we're safe as houses for now," said George. "But once this is all over with..."

Ginny moaned and dropped her head into her hands. "So we win the war, we lose our livelihood. That's just fantastic."

The six of them sat in glum silence for a while after that. Then, quite suddenly, Fred stood up.

"I'm going down to the kitchens," he announced. "If I'm going to waste away in poverty, I may as well stuff myself while I still have the chance."

"Right you are," said George, popping up beside him. "We'll see you kids later, all right?"

When they had gone, Harry dragged himself to his feet as well. "I think I'll turn in," he said dully. "Don't forget about tomorrow morning, all right?"

"Five-thirty, isn't it?" asked Hermione.

"Yep."

"And you still won't tell us what this is all about?" asked Ginny, stifling a yawn.

"Nope."

"Suit yourself," said Ginny. She and Hermione left for their own rooms, leaving Harry and Ron alone together for the first time in weeks.

"All right, Harry?" asked Ron. "About your dad...and everything?"

"Yeah, 'm fine," said Harry, willing it to be true.

"Well...good night, then, I guess," said Ron awkwardly.

Harry was still awake when Neville and Dean returned from the common room a half-hour later, though he pretended not to be. He was certain that as soon as he fell asleep he would dream, and that whatever he dreamed would be as awful as it was transient, dissolving as soon as he woke and leaving only its core of malice behind.

But he could only hold out for so long.

***

It was torment to be among so many bodies -- mere feet away from their soft, warm flesh -- without being able to strike out at any of them. She had waited, aching with a lust for blood, hidden beneath their homes as they went about their lives. Unaware. Unguarded. Unprepared for what was to come.

And then, finally, as the evening cooled and her prey ceased their wanderings, He gave his permission.

How sweet they would be, burst like ripe fruit between her powerful jaws, their screams shivering through her as she gorged.

Her belly slid silently over polished wood; her tongue flickered out to taste the night air. It did not matter which of them she took. She had only to leave enough for the others to find.

Something small, she thought. She loved the way the small ones wriggled.

***