Metaplot and Masterplan

Prologue

In Hogwarts' staffroom, four figures were sitting and glancing out into a glorious sunset. In spite of the summery warmth, they looked huddled, as if suffering from a cold no one else could feel.

"What in the world are we going to do now?" Professor Flitwick asked, clutching his undersized teacup.

Three sets of eyes turned to Professor McGonagall, the secret headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore's designated successor, their designated leader. Alas, Minerva McGonagall did not respond. She did not say much these days. As hard as it was for all of them to comprehend Dumbledore's death, for her it was obviously the hardest. The witch only stared into nothingness, probably not even seeing the golden glow glorifying her wrinkled face and white hair. It was as if she had turned old overnight.

"How long do you think we will last?" Professor Varlerta asked.

"However long we can fake it," Professor Flitwick replied. The intelligence in his little eyes mingled with fear.

"You've got a point here," Professor Lyons, radiant in the sunset, commented. Then, after a long hesitation untypical for the self-confident wizard, he added quietly:

"I've got a plan."

***

In the Slytherin mansion, Lord Voldemort counted his losses. His own blazing inferno had been mirrored back onto him and his Death Eaters by some strange magical coup de force for which not even the Dark Lord himself could account. He had been rescued from the flames by the strangest, perhaps the craziest of all his followers - by Evnissyen Dumbledore himself. Then again, many Death Eaters had not. He had lost ten grown followers and, of course, all the boys recruited to Eliminate Hogwarts castle. While this last loss had been precipitated, it came as a shock to the Dark Lord because the sacrifice of so many potential Death Eaters had brought him no victory: Hogwarts still stood, armed with a new weapon he did not understand.

He had to be careful now. He did not want to blow it again this time. Defeat never looked good; he was endangered to lose the trust of his followers - or worse, their fear of him. The death of so many Death Eaters' sons had also created some resentment among his followers. Before he attacked Hogwarts again, he had to achieve two things: He had to come up with some truly impressive victories against the rest of his opponents, and he had to find out more about this secret weapon. Most of all, he needed a good spy.

Yes, there might be a way to finally bring Dumbledore and his evil-forsaken castle to a fall. Hope germinated again. His white, snake-like face broke into something almost resembling a smile.

"I've got a plan," the Dark Lord hissed to himself.

***

Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Neville were sharing their worries in the only place they were not endangered of being overheard: They were hiding in Dumbledore's old office. No one was using the room now; it seemed no one dared. Everything was just the way the deceased headmaster had left it - his desk, his shelves and chests full of strange magical devices, as well as the gilded platform bearing Fawkes' ashes. The Phoenix had not risen again. Hermione had looked through many books on animal life, trying to find out whether a span of almost a week was a sure sign that Fawkes was dead, but as she could not be sure, they never touched the ashes, but just regarded them as a symbol of their sadness, a symbol of their loss - and of their fears.

"The most important thing is secrecy," Harry admonished them, not for the first time. "We must keep this quiet and tell nobody. As long as nobody knows he is dead, we are relatively safe."

"Safe, indeed!" Ginny snorted. "As safe as we were on the day they attacked us. They knew Dumbledore was here to protect us, and it did not stop them."

"Dumbledore stopped them," Harry insisted.

"They suffered great losses," Hermione agreed. "They won't attack us just for fun."

"I don't care why they will attack us," Ron snapped. "One thing is certain: If Dumbledore could not protect us without losing his life, nobody can. The teachers can't protect us. We can't rely on them. We've got to fend for ourselves now."

"How?" Neville asked simply. "What do you think we could do to protect ourselves and all the others?" With a wide movement of his hand, he included all the teachers and students in the castle, maybe even all the witches and wizards living in the refugee camp in the castle grounds, League members and other people hiding from the Ministry and from Lord Voldemort.

No one had an answer for Neville. Indeed, what could they do? They knew they were nearing adulthood, nearing the age of becoming Auror trainees, curse breakers or other fearless professionals. Still, what could they do to protect themselves and others against the impending attack of Lord Voldemort?

Ron glanced over to Hermione, only to find a faint, mysterious smile on her lips. Meeting her eyes, he raised an eyebrow. What was there to smile about in these days of terror?

Maybe he was mistaken, but it seemed her lips were forming the words: "I've got a plan."

***

Severus Snape and Evnissyen Dumbledore were labelling potion vials down in their peaceful dungeon. They did not speak; conversation was rare among them these days. Ever since Evnissyen had told Snape of the events in the Hogwarts grounds, they did not find much to say to each other. Snape found himself bothered by a faint, but omnipresent feeling of guilt. For some reason he did not understand, the boys' deaths were his fault. And then there was an even stranger feeling still: He was resenting his partner for saving the Dark Lords from the flames.

Of course, the flames would not have killed the Dark Lord, but they would have greatly inconvenienced him. This would have meant more torture for his followers, probably quite a bit of it reserved for his whipping boy, Snape. He had been cursed for the Dark Lord's amusement twice since the defeat, but in the last few days, the Dark Lord appeared to have tired of his pleas for mercy. Snape could labour in peace again.

Maybe there was an opportunity for him in all the misery around him. Due to the loss of Death Eaters, the Dark Lord needed a new supply of people he could rely on. Although Snape had proven less than trustworthy in the past, to say the least, he was far from incompetent for serving the Dark Lord; this much he knew. He might advance higher in their ranks now if he took care; he might be promoted from whipping boy to regular Death Eater, from Death Eater to a leader among them if he took care. There were still some cards left to play for him.

Suddenly, his eyes met Evnissyen's. All feeling of resentment and mistrust left him. The two Death Eaters smiled at each other.

"I've got a plan," both said almost in unison.

***

Standing in the doorway, Lupin took a long look at Sirius, who was crouching on the unmade bed, the tousled hair falling into his eyes. His friend, no, his mate, was looking comatose with boredom. There was little point in making the bed, in combing the hair of prisoners.

Happiness was all very well, but confined to these four walls, to the same bed, the same shower, the same mindless computer games, it was endangered of growing stale. Every day, he took care to keep a little magic alive in their wandless cage, difficult as it seemed. But now he smiled to himself.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Lupin asked Sirius.

"Get out?" There was a sudden light in Sirius' eyes; he sat up. "What do you mean?"

"Guess who I talked to on the phone right now. Guess who's coming over?"

Sirius shrugged. "I suppose you'll tell me any minute now." But in spite of his indifferent air, he made room for Lupin, and when the wizard sat down on the bed next to him, he put his arms around him and murmured into his hair:

"Have you got a plan, Moony?"

***

There was a faceless, nameless being crawling out of the earth. The sun on its face was pain, but so was the coolness of water; so was the darkness. Everything was pain to the mindless being. Trying to remember, however, was the worst pain. It had lain in the earth for eons upon eons, it seemed, and now there were no memories left. Only the hatred, only the thirst for blood was left.

It did not remember how it got here, or whom it hated so much. Its only thought was vengeance. It would find its tormentor and kill it. Whoever its tormentor was, it would drink his blood one day. It did not know what steered it, but that was of no concern to the being.

"I will," it breathed.