Harry Potter and the Fifth Element

Chapter 21 - Cover Stories

Hermione relented. "All right then, Harry, I have a plan. There will be certain repercussions - but since you're asking me to pull a rabbit out of a hat on short notice, I suppose that can't be helped. Here's what we'll do: This evening, when we're done here, I'll Apparate straight away to Daddy's dental surgery. I go there every Wednesday to help him with late appointments...."

Harry grimaced at the very mention of Hermione's father. Right now, there were very few things in all the world that he was less keen on doing than meeting that man again - even another go with Voldemort might be less unnerving. "Why can't we just use Legilimency?" he proposed.

Hermione saw the question in Harry's eyes and immediately understood that she had not been clear enough. "Because too many Order members can detect it and would become suspicious," she responded.

Then, addressing what she understood to be Harry's primary concern, Hermione added, "No, Harry, HE won't be there. Daddy only keeps late hours on Wednesday nights, so he's not going to be there tonight. For that matter, neither will you. All I'm going to do is wait there for you. I want you to take the back entrance from the Ministry to Muggle London, then catch the Tube...."

"Can I do that?" Harry asked sceptically. "I thought when Fudge raised the security level, it meant that the Muggle entrance was closed off. That's what Mad-Eye told me last week."

"Not any more," replied Hermione with a somewhat superior air. "Fudge lowered the Voldometer to pink yesterday, and the lower security level means that the Muggle London entrance has been reopened. Now I assume you have taken the Tube before...."

"Yes, I know what to do," Harry grumbled, feeling as if she were patronising him.

"Well then, take the Tube to Hyde Park Station, walk to Belgrave Square - there are directional signs - then use your Auror ring to locate me just like we were taught on Tuesday."

"All right...." Harry conceded, still just a touch unsure. "What's the point?"

"I'm getting to that," Hermione continued. She had to keep talking, or else she would lose her nerve. "Whilst you are travelling - and especially as you come near the Square, I want you to drop hints - without being very specific - to whomever is shadowing you from the Order. You need to tell him, whilst play-acting that you are nervous, that you would like a little extra 'privacy.' Make sure your minder is very aware of this request before you start the locating function."

"Okay, I can do that. Is there any particular reason I'm doing this?" Harry asked, now feeling absolutely clueless.

"Yes, Harry," Hermione clipped. "The best cover story is the one with the most truth in it. I want your minder to know that you're planning to meet up with me."

"And I am," affirmed Harry.

"On a date...."

There. She had finally squeezed it out, and she left the potent phrase to hang in the air - a trace of exasperation having leaked into her carefully modulated voice.

"Oh." Harry realized he would not have to play act being nervous. He WAS nervous now - just thinking about the prospect. It was as plain as the scar on his forehead.

Seeing the expression on his face, Hermione frowned. "Look, if you're getting cold feet, I'll just be off then," she offered.

"NO!" Harry yelped, more loudly than was necessary. "I need to do this ... really."

Hermione squeezed her thumb with her other hand until it started to hurt. Repressing the urge to say something else, she continued with her explanation. "My ring will glow and I'll come downstairs. Your keeper will observe you meeting with me, and will know I'm trustworthy. We can go for a walk in the park. Both of our minders will back off. Then you can tell me whatever it is that's on your mind."

Harry considered the idea, nodded, and agreed - what he usually did when presented with one of Hermione's plans.

* * * *

Hermione's plans almost invariably turned out for the best. Following her directions, Harry thought that this plan, as well, seemed to be going off like clockwork. A new Order member - Sylvanius Farrow, a five-year Auror having good familiarity with Muggle London - was minding Harry. This was his first such assignment. Perhaps he was a little bit overly impressed with, even intimidated by, Harry.

Hermione's instructions caused Harry to take unintentional advantage of the notoriety of their supposed relationship amongst members of the Order. Farrow readily agreed to watch the two of them from as discrete a distance as he could safely allow. Hermione, who knew exactly what she was doing, reached a similar modus vivendi with Hestia Jones, who was minding her that night.

Everything went swimmingly. Less than two minutes after performing the Locating Charm, he saw Hermione walking towards him. At first he glimpsed only her silhouette against the blazing shop windows. She appeared so ... so ... feminine. She had let her long auburn hair down, and somehow it seemed less bushy than it normally was. Her clothes were simple, yet there was something different - in an attractive sort of way - about how they fitted her.

Hermione was wearing rather tight Muggle blue jeans with holes in various places that had been patched with bright bits of intentionally mismatched cloth. Her equally snug-fitting, light-coloured T-shirt had some sort of an image on it - darker than the fabric. When she got closer, Harry saw it was the Mona Lisa, with the mysterious letters "L H O O Q" inscribed underneath it.

She was also wearing heels - not excessive ones - but heels nonetheless. He had never seen her do that in public before. But then he had never been out on a date with Hermione in a Muggle area before, or anywhere before, for that matter.

"What's that mean?" Harry asked, pointing to the letters on Hermione's T-shirt.

"Oh..., nothing," she responded. "It's French ... for why she's smiling." As if to emphasize, Hermione gave Harry an enigmatic smile of her own.

Harry nodded. "Okay." While he had expected more of an explanation than that, he accepted it without question.

Hermione sighed, but she said nothing further, merely indicating where they should go. As the two of them walked into the park, Hermione slipped her hand into Harry's, nearly causing him to jump out of his shoes. She shushed him sharply but quietly.

"Harry, if you want privacy, you had better act like you need it."

Putting on the airs of two teenagers on a date, the pair walked the Serpentine. Just as Harry was starting to relax and feel comfortable with the idea that he was really, really holding Hermione's hand - in public no less - she had another shock for him. She pulled his hand, and thus his arm, around behind the small of her back, drawing him much closer. Her final, decisive yank staggered Harry, and he half stumbled into her, clutching her waist to keep from falling. Quickly, she freed her hand, and before he could disentangle himself, he found himself with his arm around her waist and her arm snaked around his shoulders.

Harry's mind went numb. He could hardly believe what was happening. On the one hand, for years he had hoped and dreamed and wished for a moment exactly like this. On the other hand, he kept reminding himself over and over again that this was a cover story - a fantasy of a fantasy - simply a charade to achieve the necessary privacy.

Hermione tried to make small talk, but Harry seemed lost in thought.

"Well, Harry, how did your last session with Mister Kung turn out?"

"Wonderful, just wonderful."

"How was your last meeting with Dumbledore?"

"Wonderful, just wonderful."

"And how is your dear, sweet, beloved friend Voldemort getting along these days?"

"Wonderful, just wonderful."

Harry's befuddlement was coming through loud and clear on the emotional link. At that point, Hermione gave up the idea of carrying on a conversation. Their arms around one another, the two walked along in extremely close and companionable silence.

Slowly - ever so slowly - Harry grew more at ease. He could get used to this.

The two continued their leisurely walk along the Serpentine until they found a relatively secluded park bench near the Royal Artillery Memorial. That they could find peace and quiet in the shadow of a huge stone howitzer seemed odd - but there was no accounting for Muggle taste.

No sooner had they sat down than Hermione asked, "So what is going on?"

She could see a twitch in Harry's face, followed by a shake of his head, as if he were forcing himself out of some other-than-conscious state. After Harry had clawed his way back to reality, and finished reminding himself why he was there in the first place, he started spilling the secrets about which he wanted her perspective. The first was the story of Sirius' Pensieve and what Harry had learned from Sirius's memory of the night of his parents' murders.

Hermione was shocked. She easily understood how having a front-row seat for the deaths of his parents upset Harry. From her own perspective, the mere fact that she fought with her own parents the night of Harry's visit was disconcerting enough. She could not even contemplate witnessing their deaths.

'How,' she wondered.... 'How has Harry been able to hold himself together with all the unspeakable horrors he's experienced?' That he was so strong and gentle (at least with her) after all the terrible things he had been through was one of the things about him that Hermione found most amazing.

Hermione thought it best just to let him talk, since he so rarely overcame his instinctive taciturnity about the many losses he had suffered. He had never liked talking about himself. Hermione kept quiet until Harry told her about seeing his mother's body.

"That's not possible," Hermione interjected.

"It's not only possible, it's what happened. Sirius saw it, and Dumbledore never denied it," Harry responded testily.

"But ... but...," Hermione stuttered, "I've read at least three accounts of that night in authoritative wizarding publications - including the definitive History of Magic textbook by Professor Abigail Huckabee. You may not like it, Harry, but your parents' deaths and what followed are historic events taught in every wizarding school in Europe. Every history states that neither of your parents' bodies were recovered, that they were," Hermione's voice wavered, "destroyed in the conflagration...."

Harry blinked rapidly and sucked in a sharp breath. "Well, the books lie, then. Those bloody book writers weren't there! I saw what happened with my own ... er ... with Sirius' own eyes," Harry protested, the inflection in his voice rising an octave in his anguish. Hermione motioned frantically for him not to let their minders hear, but her signals did not register any meaning for Harry.

"Sirius did not let Mum burn, and what's more she...."

He was being too loud.

Finally, Hermione threw her arms around Harry and pushed him down on the bench, pretending to kiss him. She had not wanted to go this far this fast, since Harry was in a serious relationship with someone else. It was admittedly over the top - skirting a line she vowed she would not cross. But this was supposed to be theatre, and she had to remind Harry of his lines.

At first Harry was stiff as a board, his lips pursed tightly against hers, but sooner than she expected, he relaxed, his facial muscles warming and melting into her own. His right arm, which had been lying awkwardly across the small of her back, came to life and slid forward until it gently rested on one of her shoulders. He brought up around his other arm, which had been hanging limply off of the bench. It found its way under her hair and his fingers began tracing slow, seductive circles over the sensitive skin and downy short hairs on the back of her neck.

Harry's touch felt so wonderful, causing electric shivers all along Hermione's spine, and down through her groin, legs, and toes - tingling sensations quite unlike anything that she had ever felt before, even with Viktor.

The next thing she knew, Harry closed his eyes and began trying to kiss her seriously. His warm lips not only met hers, they began actively seeking out more kisses, pushing Hermione toward more openness, more ... more ... passion - something she had given up hope expecting. 'Sweet Matilda, Mother of Merlin,' she thought, her mind awash with surprise, 'I can't just let it happen.'

But for one frozen moment, she did. She could get used to this

With hope, and regret, and desperation, Hermione relaxed and allowed her mind and body to fall deeper into the kiss.... She fell into a living, breathing Harry James Potter, whose strong arms completely entwined her and held her close ... into a Harry whose surprisingly tender mouth was intent upon doing more than magical things with her own....

Utterly intoxicated by her desires and Harry's presence, she gasped, opening her mouth just a bit in an involuntary reaction to Harry's increased ministrations. When his tongue slipped inside her mouth, exploring, loving, caressing ... in that very instant, Hermione felt a bit of heaven on earth... but only for an instant.

Then, as quickly as she started, she stopped. "No. It can't be this way," she declared.

Pushing her hands against his chest, Hermione broke away. She heard herself saying, "No, Harry. Not like this. It's.... It's just not right." But her voice sounded strange to her. It was exogenous and foreign - as if it were coming from someone else, from somewhere outside the hotchpotch of raging emotions that her mind had become.

Surprised but respectful, Harry immediately let go. "But ... Hermione," he protested, "I thought you wanted...."

Hermione sat up. She brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, somewhat exasperated with herself - and, unexplainably, with Harry. "What I want, Harry," she stated firmly, "is not to be the 'other woman.' That's just not me, Harry. I have my morals. It can't be this way. Maybe some other way, but not this way."

Harry's eyes darted about in sudden bewilderment. "I don't understand."

"Be honest, Harry. You already have a girlfriend," she reminded him in a stage whisper. "You have to make up your mind about that first. It could be ... different ... but until you resolve that, anything between us is just a cover story. Do you understand now?"

"Uh.... Yeah." He said mechanically, although he was actually more confused than ever. Embarrassed too. Just when he thought that he knew what she wanted - and that what she wanted was what he wanted - he discovered that she did not want what he thought she wanted at all ... or so he thought.

Still, she did not get off of him, and her lips stayed uncomfortably and tantalisingly close to his. He wanted more than anything to reach up and recapture them with his own.... But he knew it would not happen. "I want you to know," Hermione whispered. "I believe you. No matter what, I'll always believe you, don't you forget that."

"Believe me about what?" Harry asked dumbly, his brain still reeling from hormonal overdrive.

If doing so would not have blown their cover to smithereens, Hermione would have screamed. "I believe you about your parents' bodies," she said very slowly.

"Oh." Harry sounded like a sick owl. "Thanks, Hermione."

Hermione decided she had to take charge of the conversation. The hairpin turns of the last few minutes had caused Harry to lose his bearings. "Apparently someone covered up the recovery of your dad's - and especially your mum's bodies - and rather effectively at that. The question is why. Did you ask Hagrid about it?"

"Oh, bollocks," Harry muttered, "I forgot to when.... Hey! How did you know Hagrid was back?"

'Oh, bollocks,' Hermione silently winced at her own stupidity - that mental compass of hers was not exactly pointing unerringly to True North either. Hermione had her own cover story to maintain. She did not want Harry to know just yet that she had been in secret communication with Hagrid.

Quickly she recovered. Sometimes the best defence was a good offence. "You're not the only one who's in contact with the Hogwarts staff, after all," she huffed aggressively. "I know a little about what's going on, too."

To Hermione's relief, Harry accepted her non-responsive response and backed off, physically as well as mentally. Her tiny indiscretion was soon forgotten altogether when Harry mentioned that his mum had been pregnant at the time of her death.

"I think the reason they hid it is that she was pregnant," Harry mused.

It was Hermione's turn to reflexively raise her voice. "What!?! Pregnant?? You mean you were almost an older brother? Oh, Harry that's horrible. I'm ... I'm so sorry."

"Not half as sorry as I am," Harry muttered.

Hermione knew from her copious and varied reading that the possible magical implications of sibling death - especially in utero - were huge. Hermione started losing the flow of Harry's conversation as she silently ticked off a mental checklist of the likely motivations of those who had concealed this fact.

Harry moved on to discuss Dumbledore's distressed and abrupt reaction when he became aware of what Harry had discovered.

"...So then Dumbledore said he'd have Memory Charmed me if he thought that he could pull it off without hurting me," Harry went on. "All I want to do is pay my respects to my own parents, and he won't let me - not only that, he wouldn't even tell me why. Wouldn't tell me a bloody thing. What do you think...? Is that such a terrible thing to want? Hermione?"

Harry waved his hand in front of Hermione's face. When that drew no response, he fleetingly entertained the thought of kissing her again, since her face was still very much within range. But one embarrassment like that per evening was enough. Discretion being the better part of valour (or of fear).

Harry instead gently pinched her on the nose.

"Oh! Harry, I'm sorry," Hermione apologised. "It's just so unlike Dumbledore to behave that way, at least to you. It must be awfully important to something - probably something dangerous - that Dumbledore immediately hushed it up. I'm not sure what, but I have a couple of good guesses what might be afoot."

Although Harry did not share her opinion about Dumbledore's actions being that much out of character, Hermione's response was precisely what he had hoped for. Her guesses were worth as much as anyone else's documented facts - something that events had demonstrated time and again. It paid to listen to her. Other people had lost dearly when he had not.

"First, it could - probably - have something to do with keeping you safe," Hermione conjectured. "You've told me that the magic that keeps Voldemort and the Death Eaters away from your relatives' house somehow involves your mother's sacrifice of herself to save you. So one possibility is that your mother's corpse was hidden or later destroyed to prevent Voldemort from trying to use it to develop some sort of Dark magic that would counteract your protection."

Harry's eyes went wide. Hermione was brilliant. That could well be it - at least it made sense out of something that had been inexplicable. But she was not done yet.

"Second, from the way Professor McGonagall reacted a while ago, I'm sure we were on the right track about the source of Voldemort's power lying in Necromancy. That's because Necromancy is almost all about dead bodies. Its association with murder and grave robbing is why it's considered an illegal Dark Art. Almost all powerful Necromancy spells require at least part of a corpse to work properly.... I remember at least that much from last summer's reading in the Black family library. So it's also possible that Voldemort would want the bodies of your father, mother and sibling for Merlin knows what awful magical experiment - probably intended to kill you, of course."

"Oh," Harry mouthed. The sick owl had returned. Sometimes Hermione's ideas could be as unsettling as they were astute. "But why wouldn't Dumbledore tell me that? Why wouldn't he tell me bloody anything at all?"

Hermione leaned back into Harry and put her hand lightly over Harry's mouth to quiet him. "I don't know, Harry," she whispered. "That, I'll have to think about a lot longer. I have a lot of things to think about right now...."

Her hand came off Harry's lips and went to her own forehead. She sighed and her shoulders slumped as she regarded him. She continued, "But I'm just sure that Dumbledore wouldn't do anything that hurtful to you out of whim or spite. He's not that untrustworthy. I don't know what his reasons are, but I'm sure he has a good one if he feels that he can't even tell you about it."

Although Hermione never said so aloud, Harry knew her well enough to understand that the unspoken codicil to her last statement was "...and I'm going to figure out what it is."

Hermione loved solving mysteries as much as Ron loved chess strategy - or Dudley loved the arts of pugilism - or Harry loved her.

'Dammit,' he thought. 'Why can't I make this work?'

Hermione thought that Harry's revelations were over. He had reverted back to his customary brooding. She broke their theatrical embrace and started to stand when Harry spoke up.

"Er.... There's something else that Dumbledore's trying to keep secret."

Hermione sat back down at once. Harry told Hermione about the surreptitious note he had received from Shak, and solo training session that had been hastily scheduled for tomorrow.

"He wants me to train tomorrow morning at the Ministry," Harry related earnestly. "He's set up a special session with somebody - I haven't a clue, who - to teach me."

Hermione was immediately taken aback, but the first thing out of her mouth was surprising because it was about when, rather than what or who. "What time is this session scheduled for?"

"Er.... "Early. It starts at nine. I should be done a little after noon."

Hermione seemed just a tiny bit less nervous after that. "Am I...? Am I invited?" she asked.

"Hardly," Harry replied. "That's the spookiest thing about it. Dumbledore was very clear that not only weren't you invited; but that you weren't even to know about it."

Upon learning this information, Hermione went silent and just let Harry talk. He seemed inordinately apprehensive about the solo session.

Harry had not wanted to upset Hermione, but even in the dim light, he could see that she was fuming. She never liked being left out of any educational opportunity.

But Hermione's slow burn was nothing compared to her reaction when Harry disclosed the subject matter.

"He wants me to learn Lesson 128 - all those deadly curses."

All of the colour drained out of Hermione's face.

"Oh ... no." If he had sounded like a sick owl, she sounded like a sick Niffler. "Please, Harry. Please tell me you're joking."

"I'm not joking," Harry grimly affirmed. "I'd never joke about something like that to you. Why do I have to learn this, Hermione? I don't want to."

"I ... I don't know, Harry," was all she could muster.

It was all a shock to Hermione. She said very little after that. The more Harry talked about it, the more aghast Hermione appeared ... and felt.

"Umm ... why don't I just bow out of the session, then?" Harry suggested in response to Hermione's expression. "I know Shak and the trainers will be upset with me, but if it bothers you this much...."

Harry would rather chance their displeasure than hers.

In an unusually high voice, Hermione squeaked out, "No. Since Kingsley himself delivered the message, the session is obviously very important - more than what we're doing together, even. It's best that you attend...."

She said it, but the reluctance in her voice was more than palpable.

"But Hermione...."

"You should go, Harry ... really...," she reiterated. "I'm sure Dumbledore has his reasons. It's ... I'm just insulted, that's all.... Yes, that's it.... Just because somebody in the Auror Corps thinks I'm too bloody dainty to learn those nasty, macho spells."

Harry gave Hermione a cross-ways glance. Whilst she professed insult about not being invited and seemed to be blaming gender stereotypes for the omission, her body language did not seem to convey insult; nor was she meeting his eyes.

He had accurately assessed her true feelings. That brave front was just that. She was not all right with it all.... Far from it. Her feigned insult was another cover story - a mask to conceal her true feelings. Her protestations were rather stilted and forced, and something in Hermione's voice sounded a little ... off.

Harry was concerned, but tried not to show it. He asked her several times what she thought was going on, but each time she claimed not to have any idea. She answered with terse "I don't knows," and before too long they had fairly well talked the subject out. Harry wished he had the kind of insight into Hermione's emotions that their link gave her about his. First, he had misunderstood her intentions and overreached - and now this....

Sensing that Harry was through, she stood up again, much more stiffly and firmly this time.

"Unless you have any more secrets to reveal, I think I should be going now," she said. "Otherwise our minders will start to talk." Actually, she expected them to talk anyway - that being the "repercussion" she had originally mentioned to Harry.

When they first entered the park, Harry had been weighing whether to tell Hermione about the prophecy as well. Sensing that she was already rather agitated, Harry elected not to. He had burdened her with quite enough for one evening.

To "keep up appearances," Hermione had him walk her all the way back to the building housing her father's surgery. Although not many words passed between them during the return walk, most of the time they held hands. To Harry, Hermione's hand felt distinctly cooler and sweatier than he had remembered it earlier - and he had made an effort to remember everything about it. Harry ascribed it to Hermione's acting. The entire evening had been a one long thespian exercise, and Harry supposed that it must have been draining on her.

When they reached the doorway to Hermione's father's surgery, Harry was uncertain what to do. Before he could react, she abruptly reached up, put one arm around the back of his neck and kissed him squarely on the lips.

Harry was too startled (not to mention gun-shy) by this unexpected development to do anything except let Hermione carry on. After a couple of fleeting, blissful seconds, Hermione broke the kiss, choked out, "Vive la différence," and practically fled inside.

Had Voldemort attacked Harry at that moment, he could have taken him with a Placebus Charm.

Harry wiped his lips against the back of his hand, and stared at it. He was not at all sure exactly how he was supposed to feel - other than topsy-turvy; other than mortified. Could he allow himself to dream again? What had just happened?

Up until now, he had been certain that his earlier imposition upon Hermione had been a catastrophic mistake - much worse than the last time he had tried something along those lines, because this time she was aware of it. Just when he had allowed himself to believe that his most treasured fantasy might become real....

'She really is a superb actress when she wants to be,' Harry told himself. 'Just ask that toad Umbridge.' He, too had been a toad, he thought - one who had just fallen, quite warty head over slimy flippers, for her act. That was all....

Less than an hour ago, had she not pushed him off, questioned his honesty, and sternly reminded him that he already had a girlfriend? If she had really cared about him, surely she would have at least mentioned his birthday tomorrow. Not a word....

But now, Harry was hopelessly confused, his emotions pummelling his brain, his thoughts ranging from blissful possibilities to sheer paranoia. Hermione had countered her earlier push-off with a pull-in. But even if her kiss were just for show, at least he had a pretty good idea that he did not positively repulse her, even after all that had happened. And what was she trying to tell him with this French phrase about differences?

What was different now?

Wishing that he could talk to Bill, Harry wandered aimlessly back to the park, lost in thought. Eventually, he found a secluded place to Apparate back to Mrs. Figgs' house.

Hermione could feel Harry's emotions. He was not the only one feeling confused and mortified. Harry Potter was definitely hazardous to her moral health.

Why now?

Why had he tried to snog her only after he had a bloody girlfriend? Damn that woman, whoever she was. Why could this not have happened when they were first reunited? Then, she had been ready, willing, and able not just to snog, but to shag him senseless. Why not after he had rescued her at the aerodrome? He was not that attached then. Why had he not offered to experiment with the Orgasimos Charm in private?

Just when she was carefully hiding her feelings for Harry, he had to go and try really to kiss her. She had slowly been reconciling herself to the blood money, but now he had threatened another of her bedrock moral values - about monogamy and the sanctity of relationships. Even so, she had almost given in....

She had wanted him so much.

It was shameful enough that she had practically solicited him to throw over his present, nameless girlfriend for her - and she had done it twice, for emphasis. Hermione Granger was not, and never would be, what Ron called a "scarlet woman." But if Harry acted on her suggestion, she knew she would let him have his way with her.

As if it mattered anymore.

A shattering realisation overwhelmed even the prospect that Harry still might harbour romantic interest in her. That only explained Hermione's confusion - not her mortification. The root problem was that Harry's last secret had left her devastated. In the face of Lesson 128, she felt helpless, a feeling that she detested above all others. There was only one reason for him to be taught close-order, forgivable killing curses.

That night, Hermione fell to sleep cursing Dumbledore, the Order, and everyone associated with Harry's (and her) training.

* * * *

Harry's birthday began, as always, right after midnight. He was expecting an owl from Ron and Ginny, and once again was not disappointed. At one minute after midnight, a large great-grey overseas post owl swooped into Harry's room bearing two packages. Harry opened the gift from Ron first. Ron had gotten him a pair of pre-recorded Omnioculars.

Ron's accompanying note said that the Omnioculars contained the highlights of the Hogwarts team's first two victories in the Elsinore all-EU Quidditch Tournament. Intrigued, Harry paused to watch a little of it. About three-quarters of the clips showed Ron making one spectacular save after another. Whatever else Ron might be right now, his development into a superb Keeper was undeniable.

Ginny got Harry a new wristwatch, something he had needed for almost two years. Harry's Muggle wristwatch - one of the few things his relatives had ever gotten him - had been a casualty of the Second Task in the Triwizard Tournament. The new watch was magical. It did more than tell time, according to the tiny book full of even tinier print that came with it. The watch had an alarm, a stopwatch, and could even keep Harry' schedule.

The watch was also compatible with the big clock at the Burrow, although Ginny's note told Harry not to expect that connection to be made any time soon. Even if Molly Weasley had not been furious at Harry, the Weasley clock had a maximum capacity of ten hands. After the seven Weasley children and two Weasley parents there was only one opening. Bill's imminent engagement to Fleur Delacour had preempted that final space.

Harry stopped reading the watch manual when another owl zoomed in. Harry thought it might be from Hagrid, or even from Neville, but it turned out to be a gift from somebody Harry had never heard of - some Sally Crowninshield. There was no return address on the post. Like Harry's "Santa Claus letters," the gift was addressed simply to "Harry Potter, Living with Muggles, England." The gift was a rather nice Gryffindor scarf.

Whilst dealing with this unexpected gift, Harry heard squawking behind him. From over his shoulder, he saw four more owls jostling each other for position, with a little scops definitely getting the worst of it. Every time it got pushed off its perch, it would squawk and fly about in search of another place to land. But every time it found a spot, another owl would arrive and push it away again.

What were all these owls doing here?

Feverishly Harry worked to relieve the owls of their loads, but the more he tried, the behinder he got. Two owls seemed to arrive for every one Harry unburdened. Other than a birthday cake from Hagrid (his real gift had been all of the work he had done to get the GKN ready), none of these additional owls were from people Harry knew. There seemed to be dozens of people like Sally Crowninshield.

Despairing of getting all of these unfamiliar owls to exit through the false ventilation system in the Dursleys' rooftop - particularly since outgoing owls were colliding with incoming ones - Harry flung open the sash to let escape several of the owls he was done with. More owls promptly entered through that route. Apparently some owls were less intelligent than others and had been unable to find the concealed avian entrance to Harry's house....

Only a half an hour had passed since midnight, yet Harry was getting desperate. His room - rarely neat to start with - was now awash in unopened birthday presents, owls, owl droppings, feathers, and bits of owl treats. Too late did Harry notice that one of the owls had found the partially used bag of owl treats that Harry kept for Hedwig on a shelf in his wardrobe. In a flash, the bag was ripped open, spilling its contents everywhere and creating a feeding frenzy among the score or more of otherwise bored owls waiting to make their deliveries. Fortunately Harry had the presence of mind to cast a Silencio Charm over the frantic birds.

Harry was also getting increasingly uncomfortable. He thought, 'If all of these witches and wizards' (it seemed like three quarters of the gifts were from witches) 'can find me like this, what is there to stop anyone from sending me something dangerous?'

He also needed some sleep. He had his special training - rather unpleasant training at that - later that day. He had to review the material on his Aural Pensieve.

Something had to be done, but what?

Finally, knee-deep in owls, Harry decided he had no choice but to call for reinforcements. He poked his wand out his window and fired off a shower of red sparks - the lowest level distress call that he had been taught. In almost no time, two of his minders appeared at his window, mounted comfortably on their brooms.

"What's gone dodgy?" Elphias Doge's rasping voice asked after he dropped his Invisibility Cloak so Harry could identify him. It was a rhetorical question. Once Doge - or his companion, Theophila Ascot, got close enough to see clearly through Harry's window, Harry's problem was obvious. They almost doubled over in laughter at the sight of the frantic birthday boy, whom they both thought should have been better prepared.

Truth be told, shortly after learning of that night's assignment, Ascot had come to the far more senior Doge to discuss what to do if precisely this situation should present itself.

"Help," Harry panted. "I swear, it seems like I'm getting a present from every witch in England ... and half of the wizards too. I can't even keep up with them, much less check what's inside. Also, what if somebody sent me a bomb?"

"We'll take care of it," Doge said calmingly. With a swish and a flick, he Transfigured all of the presents that were piled haphazardly on Harry's bed into marbles. He then summoned the marbles into a red velveteen sack that he drew from an inner robe pocket.

Doge instructed, "Theo, kindly dismount into the boy's room and tend to the owls. Harry, you need to send Dumbledore a note on your communicator. Tell him what's going on, and he'll adjust the wards to confund the owls and have them deliver their mail to Hogwarts for the remainder of the day. I'll take this accumulation of what's already here to Mrs. Figgs' for review and safekeeping."

Harry did not particularly care for that idea, because he had yet to receive anything from Hermione - or at least was unaware of it (for during the last few minutes he had been tossing presents on the bed without bothering to see who sent them). Still, with no better idea for interrupting the storm of owls, Harry nodded his assent.

Theo Ascot dismounted in the windowsill, and almost took a header when she encountered an unseen chair that had Harry's Invisibility Cloak draped over it. Ascot was no Tonks, however. Instead of falling, the Auror-in-training did a slow-motion flip and ended up sitting in the invisible chair.

Whilst Harry scratched out his note to Dumbledore, Ascot cast a Knot Untying Charm on the room. All of the waiting owls dropped their respective loads (and Harry's trainers came untied as well). The consequences were not quite as Ascot had expected. After the owl treats had been exhausted, the post owls had been impatiently waiting their turn under less-than-comfortable conditions. With their obligations suddenly and simultaneously discharged, they rose as one and flew for the open window. Harry's earlier Silencing Charm had only affected the owls there at the time (all of which were long gone), and an awful din resulted as the newly-unburdened owls testily fought with one another for their freedom.

"Oh, bloody Hell," Ascot complained. "Couldn't well get any worse, could it?"

"I don't know about that," Harry replied. "After all, you're talking to Harry Potter. 'Worse' seems to be my middle name."

Harry was all too right. He cringed when he heard the pounding of approaching footsteps. It was never a good thing to wake up Uncle Vernon in the middle of the night - and especially not a good thing to awaken him with loud bird calls. The door flew open and Uncle Vernon burst in, roaring threats at Harry, and waving a large leather belt.

"BOY, I'LL TAN YOUR HIDE FOR THIS!! HOW MANY BLOODY OWLS ARE THERE DEFILING MY ... MY...? My, my my...."

The bizarre scene unfolding before him drew Uncle Vernon up short. Harry was seated at his desk, upon which a strange device beeped and flashed as a page of Harry's handwriting suddenly vanished. In front of him, an unknown witch in dark blue robes sat on what seemed to be an invisible chair. She had her wand out and pointed lazily at him. Various wrapped packages were strewn across the floor. A pile of large feathers lay near the window, and the room reeked worse than the guano-specked old dock from which Uncle Vernon had taken his family to the Hut on the Rocks almost exactly five years before.

"How do you do," said Ascot, with the largest false smile she could muster. "I'm Theophila Ascot, Ravenclaw, Class of 1994 - here to help Harry with his birthday presents. The pleasure's all mine." She held out towards Uncle Vernon a dainty hand with an unusual signet ring on it.

As she spoke, two more heavily laden owls entered the room.

All of the bravado drained out of Harry's Uncle. "It certainly is," he muttered at the young witch, as he beat a hasty retreat. "I don't even want to know." Uncle Vernon shut the door, but he snapped at Harry. "Just make sure you clean up before leaving your room, boy."

"Is he always like that?" Ascot asked Harry with a shudder.

"No," replied Harry in a low voice. "Most of the time, he's worse. Until this year, he probably would have hit me with that belt, or tried to...." Harry smirked as he appreciated the value of Uncle Vernon now knowing that Harry could perform magic out of school. That fat bastard would never beat him again.

The message to Dumbledore must have been received and acted upon quite rapidly, as only three more owl stragglers had to be dealt with. None of them was from anyone Harry knew, and he was somewhat disappointed. He was not at all sure why Hermione had impetuously kissed him and then ran away a few hours earlier. He was hoping that her present for him might provide a clue. Did he have half a chance? Now her gift for him was either diverted to Hogwarts or buried at Mrs. Figg's house amongst a pile of unrequested and unwanted presents from strangers.

Harry tried the A Priori Charm Snape had showed him. It worked - like a charm. With his room restored to normal, Harry's two minders retreated to their unknown posts, visibly impressed by his advanced magic. Harry went through his Occlumency exercises, swallowed hard, and tuned his Aural Pensieve once again to Lesson 128. Sleep would not be restful this night.

That was an understatement. Just as he had the first time he encountered Lesson 128, Harry woke up troubled. He now knew - twice over - dozens of nasty ways to kill people, and he considered most of them worse than the Killing Curse. At least Avada Kedavra killed instantaneously. Some of these curses killed slowly - and all of them killed painfully. Harry could not understand why they were not banned as well. He guessed that it must be their relative lack of potency. All of them were blockable, and most worked only at uncomfortably close quarters.

Harry, feeling quite Hermione-ish, had developed a hypothesis - little more than an educated guess, really - about why these curses were being taught to him. First, because they were less potent, these curses were more easily performed, and thus more within his capacity. Second, none of these curses was emotion-based. He had trouble generating the malice necessary to perform Cruciatus properly and doubted his ability ever to form the specific intent to kill necessary to accomplish Avada Kedavra.

The Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange, had essentially said as much in the Ministry of Magic shortly after she had killed Harry's godfather - and as a Death Eater, this was one subject about which she was undoubtedly an authority. Harry had enough trouble trying to figure out ways to counteract Hermione's spells, and she was his friend. How in Merlin's name could he ever deal with Death Eaters, much less Voldemort himself?

Harry was not fancying his go with Lesson 128. He would be by alone, and the subject matter was unsettling. He robotically went through his morning routine. That changed abruptly after he and his cousin finished their morning run. Harry had not said much, but that was no longer a problem with Dudley. Dudley was deep into his own boxing training and had put on his game face early.

As Harry left the shower, clad only in a towel, Dudley knocked the wind out of him by slamming something colorful into Harry's midsection.

"Happy birthday, bloke," Dudley smiled.

Harry staggered under the unexpected blow. He briefly considered hexing his massive cousin before comprehending what Dudley had said. It was quite unexpected. He had never gotten any present from Dudley before.

Harry opened it and smiled gratefully. It was a solid black heavy-duty karate uniform. "Thanks Dudders," Harry wheezed out, still slightly winded from Dudley's forceful means of delivery. "You didn't have to do that."

"But I wanted to," Dudley responded. "I hope it's useful. I hate useless gifts. I couldn't think of anything else you needed - not that I could get, anyways. But I can tell you like karate better than boxing, so I thought you could use some real training clothing. I've noticed that you've been going over there in just your regular street clothes."

Harry refrained from correcting his cousin. Dudley did not have the slightest idea what Harry did in Lao Kung's studio. Very little of it qualified as karate. Still, it was the thought that counted, and Dudley had been more perceptive than Harry supposed. "I did need something exactly like this," Harry replied not altogether truthfully. "Thank you very much. I'll wear it the next time I go to the gym."

Dudley's consideration left Harry feeling somewhat happier as he departed for Mrs. Figg's. The unexpected kindness took a little of the edge off Harry's feelings about his assignment over the next several hours. He hoped the rest of his magical friends would put as much thought into their presents - if he could ever find them. That thought made Harry scowl a little. He wondered who on earth had been responsible for all the gifts he had received (and was probably still receiving) from total strangers.

Harry knew that he would have a different escort because Bill was in France, but had no idea whom. He was a little surprised to find Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror in charge of his entire training program, waiting for him.

Whilst Harry liked and trusted Shak, seeing him sharpened his suspicions. That such a high-ranked Auror had come to collect him only emphasized the unusual, important - and dangerous - nature of this special training session. The spells in Lesson 128 were desperate magic for desperate circumstances. If he ever had to use one of these on Voldemort, the best Harry thought he could hope for is that neither of them would live to tell about it.

They Flooed to the Aurors' fireplaces at the Ministry. Shak deliberately chivvied Harry, walking very quickly. Harry almost had to trot to keep up with the taller man. The forced-march pace was successful in keeping distractions to a minimum, thereby avoiding the need to Disillusion Harry. By the time that others in the hallway figured out that the famous Harry Potter was in their midst, he was usually well past them.

After only a couple of turns through the corridors, it was obvious to Harry that Shak was not taking him to the Auror situation room - or anywhere in the Auror Candidate School. They reached the main set of lifts at Level Two. Catching a lift was ordinarily crowded business during the morning arrival rush, but two lifts were departing just as they arrived. When they clattered off, there was a brief moment when the two where alone. Shak was silent, but Harry could contain his curiosity no longer.

"Where are we going?" he asked the dark-skinned Auror captain.

"You'll know when we get there," was the enigmatic response.

Harry pressed. "Seriously, Shak, I'd really like to know where this particular lesson is going to happen."

"This is very serious business," Shak hissed. "Stop asking questions. You'll be there soon enough."

Harry opened his mouth to offer a familiar protest against being kept in the dark, but never uttered it because another of the shiny brass lifts came banging into view. It was already three-quarters filled with typically-bored witches and wizards on their way to work at various Ministry offices. A buzz of conversation started when Harry got on.

"Hey! That's Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter? Really?"

"Congratulations, Harry."

"Thanks, Harry."

"Happy Birthday, Harry."

People were patting him on the back, shaking his hands or simply reaching over others to touch him. Harry was very uncomfortable, although he smiled wanly and tried to engage in proper small talk. With the distraction, Harry forgot to check what button Shak pushed.

The lift descended, shuddering and rattling all the while. The front grille clanged open and shut. People got on and off, as did numerous origami, paper-airplane interdepartmental memoranda. Harry shrank into a corner behind Shak's formidable form. He was jammed next to a woman holding a wristwatch, not that much different than Harry's new watch, except that whenever the alarm went off it shot out multi-coloured jets. Some of the jets struck Harry's robes, but they were not painful, leaving only faint coloured splash patterned marks. Fortunately she got off at Level Seven, leaving in the direction of the Ludicrous Patents Office.

As they reached the Atrium on the Eighth level, everybody else got off, some muttering farewells to Harry. Harry kept waiting for Shak to move for the door as well, but nothing happened. Gradually Harry realised that they were about to descend even further. He could hardly believe it. They were going to the....

The lift shuddered to a halt. Its disembodied cool feminine voice spoke, "Level Nine, Department of Mysteries." Harry felt his own body shudder involuntarily, and it was not due to an aftershock from the rickety lift.

As Shak made his way down the bare-walled corridor, Harry burst forth, even more insistent than before. "I need to know what is going on, Shak. Why are we here?"

"All in good time, Harry," came Shak's clipped reply. He moved swiftly towards the plain black door at the far end of the corridor.

Harry had had enough. He reached out and grabbed the older wizard by the sleeve of his robe. "Sorry, Shak, but the best time is right now - before I go through that door. I want to know exactly what is going on."

Shak's eyes flashed as he jerked his arm away from the importuning, and impertinent, teenager. He started to say something angry, but thought better of it. He paused, gathered his thoughts, and only measured words emerged.

"Potter, you have great potential as an Auror. Your magic is more than sufficiently powerful, even now, and you have a first-rate intellect. However, you lack a disciplined temperament. To be an Auror, or to be a proper member of the Order, you have to be willing follow orders without questioning them - even when you know that you are not being given full information. Youthful power and skill are not everything. Stealth and secrecy have saved my life more than once. If this is what you truly want to do, as you've told me it is, you have to accept that need-to-know limitations come with the territory. More importantly, you have to trust your superior officers. That's just the way it is."

Shak's calm but firm dressing down chastened Harry. He lowered his eyes and shuffled his feet. Finally he said, "I'm sorry ... sir.... It won't.... I'll try not to let it happen again."

"Too right," replied Shak. "Besides, I haven't the faintest idea what goes on behind that door. My assignment was to deliver you here by...."

Shak checked his own watch. Harry was slightly self-conscious. He was out of the habit and had forgotten to wear the watch Ginny had just given him.

"...Eight-thirty." Shak took out his wand and with the butt end trapped out what Harry presumed was some sort of code on the door.

Nothing happened for a couple of seconds. Then the door started to ripple. Presently, a large eye, and then an equally large ear, emerged from the blank blackness of the door. Shak put an arm around Harry's shoulder and gently manœuvred him into the eye's line of sight. He boomed out,

"KINGSLEY SHAKLEBOLT WITH HARRY POTTER FOR MISTER POTTER'S SCHEDULED EIGHT-THIRTY APPOINTMENT."

The eye stared at the two of them for a few more seconds. Noiselessly, the door opened inwards.

Responding to the light pressure of Shak's fingertips between his shoulder blades, Harry hesitantly entered the room. He drew in a quick breath through his mouth as the memories flooded back. Cold blue candlelight.... The vertiginous sensation of rotation.... Hermione clutching his arm.... Harry knew exactly where he was. He took in the round, circular, black-painted room with the many doors opening off of it. He could see his reflection on the polished marble floor. This time, however, the room was neither deserted nor dimly lit.

There were five people - four wizards and a witch - waiting to greet him. From behind him, Harry heard Shak's voice. "I commend Mister Potter into your experienced hands. Good luck, Potter. I will be back to collect you at half past noon." The outer door leading back to the corridor clicked shut as Shak departed.

Harry examined the room again. Although painted flat black, it was brilliantly lit from recessed lighting around the edges of the ceiling. Several of the dozen or so identical handle-less doors were open, revealing equally well-lit offices or corridors. There was no trace of his prior visit. Hermione's flaming X's had long since vanished from the doors, and all of the damage seemed fully repaired.

Harry recognised two of the wizards from his interrogation before the Board of Inquiry, but in their own element, the Unspeakables were - just different. They were uniformly dressed in robes both well-tailored and expensive. The robes were solid black, as were their patent-leather shoes. Starched white collars and cuffs peeked out of their robes, and they each sported polished dragon-hide wand holsters. Only the colour of the lacquer pins that they wore on their robes distinguished them, Harry presumed by rank.

Their movements were calm and deliberate. Their voices were monotonous and understated, with just a touch of fear-inducing malice. Their expressions were expressionless, and their eyes concealed behind dark sunglasses. They regarded Harry as a research psychologist regards a laboratory rat - as a subject to be trained. Very nervously, Harry waited for someone to do something.

"I'm Smith."

"I'm Jones."

"I know, sirs," replied Harry.

"I'm Smithson."

"I'm Johnson."

"And I'm Jackson," finished the witch.

"My ... my pleasure," responded Harry noncommittally. He was under no illusions that any of the Unspeakables who were going to be his instructors for the morning had revealed his or her real name.

Another awkward silence developed, which Harry filled, "Well.... I'm here to learn three dozen nasty ways to kill people.... I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible, so can we get started?"

The one calling himself Mr. Smith responded blandly, his voice smooth yet with an unmistakable lack of human emotion, his face also reflecting nothingness, as an expressionless mask, "Mister Potter, you may disregard whatever cover story you received."

Harry was stunned. Did Smith mean what Harry thought he had just said? "Wha ... what do you mean by cover story?" he asked warily.

Smith answered cooly, "I wouldn't be so glib if I were you. It's inappropriate here, nor does it become you. A cover story is a plausible, but false, explanation for something - in your case, Mister Potter, an explanation for why you are truly here this morning."

"You...? You...? You mean that I, I'm not learning ... a bunch of killing curses?" Harry stammered.

"Whatever you were told is inoperative," Jones said, as if Dumbledore's explanation were simply data to be overwritten. "Now, this way please."

Harry was reeling. Numbly he followed Smith and Jones, who were walking side by side, in tandem, their arms unmoving. They went through a door and up a set of wide stairs, as the other instructors brought up the rear in similar formation. At the top of the stairs was a corridor at right angles. After a very short distance, they passed by a series of internal windows that overlooked a large, two-storey room. What Harry saw snapped him back to reality - at least to what passed for reality as it existed within the Department of Mysteries.

"The Brain Room!" he exclaimed.

"The what, Mister Potter?" one of the wizards behind him asked. The four male Unspeakables sounded so much alike, that Harry could not tell who had spoken.

"Those ... those brains in the giant tank down there. We saw them when the Death Eaters were here.... One of them attacked Ron ... er, one of my friends. He hasn't been quite right ever since."

The wizard directly behind him, Johnson, clipped, "Yes, Mister Potter, we are quite aware that one of your followers somehow managed to trigger one of the primary security functions on Intelligence Unit Six. We understand that went on for about twenty minutes, so he received quite a substantial dose. There was a great deal of damage generally, as well...."

"Intelligence unit? Security function? Substantial dose?" Harry spluttered. "What in bloody Hell goes on down here?"

Jones had stopped, and was eyeing Harry. "Sorry, we cannot tell you that. If we did, we would have to Obliviate you, and that would not be a good thing to happen, would it, Mister Potter?"

"But Ron's my best friend ... or at least he was." Harry replied more seriously. "Can't you at least tell me what happened to him, and if he's going to be all right."

"That much we can do," said Smithson, "but only in general terms. You see, we have various security functions that protect our intelligence units. Your friend ... Ron was it...? He somehow came into direct physical contact with Unit Six, apparently after he had been on the receiving end of some curse that adversely affected his judgment. It could have been worse, he could have received the Mentanarus Curse from Unit One."

"What's the Mentanarus Curse?" Harry asked.

"It's what we call a 'mind-fuck,'" the witch, Jackson, said bluntly. Harry was taken aback by the curse word, given the other Unspeakables' almost robotic mannerisms up until this point. She seemed somehow, different, than the others. Perhaps, Harry thought, female Unspeakables played different roles than the males.

Jackson continued, "It causes raving insanity followed by catatonia. Anyway, your friend didn't get that, thank Merlin. His physical contact activated the primary defense of Unit Six. I can't tell you how, but that function penetrates and takes over the intruder's central nervous system. It incapacitates the intruder by sending out random disturbing images that, because the target's nervous system is being controlled, seem very real. Very effective - and rather nasty, if I do say so."

Harry grimaced, remembering the persistent scars that the brain left on Ron's arms, legs and scalp. That must be what she calls 'penetration,' Harry thought. "How long will Ron be affected?" Harry asked, very concerned now.

"That is impossible to say, Mister Potter," interjected Smith, who was making subtle motions telling the others to move along. "Chief Warlock Dumbledore knows what happened, but the spells weren't designed to be reversible. Your friend will be affected as long as he thinks the images are real and probably for some time after that, at least subconsciously. In many wizards, the effects are permanent. In practice, however, they tend to go away once the victim suffers some other, equally traumatic, event in real life. Now, let's get moving or else we won't have enough time."

Harry was still thinking mostly about Ron, but he allowed Smith to guide him. Soon they joined the others in a large, windowless room about eight metres square. All the walls and the floor were thickly padded. There were occasional magical burn marks in the padding. Two of the walls had low benches in front of them. Johnson and Smithson had lowered a collapsible table from another wall and were stocking it with a variety of potions and poultices.

Seeing all this, Harry gulped. 'My own padded cell,' he thought. "Can somebody please tell me what is going on?" he asked.

Smith took charge. "At this point, yes, Mister Potter. It is my understanding that you recently had a conversation with Chief Warlock Dumbledore in which you expressed concern that your will could be overcome by Unforgivable Curses. Is that correct?"

"Umm.... Yes," Harry admitted.

Smith continued. "And you told the Chief Warlock that you would prefer committing suicide to being forced to perform certain acts?"

The ghastly image of Voldemort compelling him to rape Hermione popped into his mind's eye view. After some hesitation, Harry answered in the affirmative once again. Harry was now very uncomfortable about the Unspeakables' cross-examination over this subject. He really did not care to tell anyone specifically what acts had made him feel that way.

Mercifully, Smith did not ask.

"Under the Chief Warlock's orders, you are here to learn very secret, very new, experimental magic," Smith stated. "The breakthrough occurred only days before the Death Eater attack, and some here still think that is no coincidence. We have developed magic that largely neutralises the Cruciatus Curse."

Harry's jaw dropped. He felt astonishment, relief, and gratitude towards the old man rush through him in equal parts. Smith kept talking.

"I trust that I do not have to remind you that this development is highly confidential - for your eyes only. The number of people outside of these walls that know about this is fewer than the fingers on your hands. Do you understand why?"

"Er ... no," Harry answered honestly.

Smith's ordinarily stony expression became stonier than ever. "Even the Aurors, who are most likely to suffer from Cruciatus have not been informed. You are being told because Voldemort has already shown his inclination to torture you personally with that curse. The Chief Warlock believes, and I agree, that the element of surprise provided by your mastery of this new magic could help you escape death or even bring about Voldemort's downfall - but to maintain that element of surprise, you cannot tell anyone, and I do mean anyone, about it. Have I made myself clear?"

"Absolutely," Harry said. If there was anything that his encounters with Death Eaters and Voldemort had taught him, it was the value of surprise - planned or otherwise. Harry also felt rather guilty for having willfully disobeyed Dumbledore's instructions not to discuss this lesson with anyone. Now, Harry also understood part of Dumbledore's reticence. There was value to a good cover story.

"We are not playing around here, Mister Potter," Smith warned. "This is as real as it gets. For the purpose of the evaluation and training that you will receive from us, do you consent to the use of Unforgivables against your person?"

"I-I do," Harry affirmed.

"Does everyone else in this room similarly consent?" Smith asked. He received murmuring affirmative responses. Smith noiselessly flicked his wand, and blue light shot out towards each person. "Very well, binding magical contracts. Shall we begin?"

Harry nodded and, with an effortless wrist flick of his own, had his wand in his hand.

"You may put that away, Mister Potter," said Smithson. "This is purely wandless magic."

Harry appeared confused, so Smith intervened. "Have you ever seen Tom Riddle perform Cruciatus against an armed person?"

Once he got over his surprise at hearing Voldemort referred to so matter-of-factly by his given name, Harry thought of the times that Voldemort had used Cruciatus against him, against other adversaries, and even against his own Death Eaters. He could not think of a single time that Voldemort had used that curse during the course of an actual duel. "No," Harry admitted.

"The Chief Warlock has informed me that you have been making excellent progress with wandless magic," Smith stated. "Is he correct?"

Harry thought, and supposed the Lao Kung must be providing Dumbledore with updates on his magical progress. "I'd like to believe he is," Harry replied, with some degree of pride.

Harry and his instructors then turned to the business at hand, Smith doing most of the lecturing.

"The incantation associated with the new spell is simple - the one word 'Suturc,' he began. The spell itself is known by the same name. You cast this spell, as I said, wandlessly, with the palms and fingers of ones hands curved towards one another. Can you demonstrate that hand position?"

Harry cupped his hands in imitation of what Smith had described. Whilst his first effort was close, Jackson undertook to mould his hands into precisely the correct position.

Smith continued, "The necessary degree of curvature increases as the hands came closer together. Thus, someone who finds himself," Smith leered cynically at Jackson, "or herself, suspended in chains, and spread-eagled against a wall, need only bend his,"

"Or her," Jackson smoothly broke in.

"Or her," Smith echoed, "fingers slightly to accomplish the magic. Conversely, a person with his ... or her ... hands were bound tightly together behind the back may still cast the spell just by cupping his ... or her ... hands."

There was a pause as the Unspeakables each inspected Harry, making sure he could demonstrate the proper hand gesture from various positions. When they were satisfied, Smith continued with his lecture.

"In keeping with its surreptitious nature, this spell is soundless as well as wandless. Suturc need only be thought, not spoken. The key to success is strong inward concentration, concentration that focusses upon the brain itself. The spell specifically protects the brain - which is the seat of both magic and intelligence - from the effects of magically induced pain. The rest of the central nervous system is left unprotected, and deliberately so. Thus, the user of this spell will continue to twitch, writhe, scream, and even soil himself" (he waited for Jackson to interrupt him again, but she did not) "just as if under the full influence of Cruciatus. Suturc preserves only the faculties for conscious thought and magic, thus allowing the user to plan an escape or a counterattack."

Quite disturbing practical demonstrations followed. Jones put Johnson under Cruciatus for a full five minutes. He seemed in such terrible agony that Harry could barely watch. But the moment Jones released the spell; Johnson sprinted away, showing none of the usual aftereffects of Cruciatus. Smithson then did the same to Smith, but tossed a wand on the padded floor in front of him. The moment Smithson released the spell; Smith grabbed the wand and dropped him with a well-aimed Stunner. Harry watched wide-eyed. He had been under Cruciatus enough to know that when the spell was removed, his entire body was numb and merely standing was a chore - let alone running or casting a drop-dead accurate spell. Harry shivered as he thought about the white-hot pain....

"Mister Potter!"

Someone had called his name. He snapped out of his thoughts and turned in that direction - only to see four rather annoyed wizards and an equally put-out witch staring balefully at him.

Smith spoke forcefully, "We're not here Cruciating each other for our health, you know. It is now your turn. I hope that you have been paying attention."

Harry swallowed hard, grimaced, and stepped to the center of the room. Smith gave him a pep talk and some advice. Jones chimed in with some additional observations. Harry readied himself, cupping his hands approximately six inches apart, and concentrating....

"Crucio."

The pain was awful. Harry felt like he was being roasted alive, like his fingernails and toenails were being torn out of his body, like red hot objects were being inserted up his.... He lost control of his bodily functions. He could almost smell himself burning....

"Finite."

Harry was lying on the floor panting. With great effort he brought himself to his hands and knees. He looked up and saw his five instructors consulting. He knew that he had failed and failed miserably. Two of the instructors left the room at a jog.

Smith addressed Harry, "Mister Potter, that was my fault. I was just too strong for a first attempt. I apologise."

"Wh-What are you going to do now?" Harry croaked out.

"I'm going to have Mister Johnson cast the spell next. He is the least powerful of us. And until you learn the ropes a little better, we're only going to cast the spell through a pane of magically tempered glass, which will dampen it down still further," Smith explained.

Harry was not pleased. He hardly needed to be reminded of the basis for his original fear of the Cruciatus Curse. "How am I going to learn, then?" he growled from all fours. "I don't expect that Voldemort or any Death Eater is going to go easy on me. They haven't before."

Smith replied in his eerily even voice, "Well, we are going to take it slow whether you like it or not, Mister Potter. You are just learning, and you seem to have developed some other defenses that we're not sure about at this moment."

Harry was puzzled - he thought his brain was not back to normal either. He struggled to his feet, felt a bit dizzy, swayed, and glanced down at the floor. Harry saw that the part of the mat where he had been lying on was scorched. That observation brought him to his senses, and he breathed the telltale acrid smell of ozone once again. "What did I do?" Harry asked.

"After about thirty seconds, you started to glow. Then we smelled the mat you were lying on start to smoulder. The glow grew brighter, and the air around you started to crackle. That is when I ended the spell," Smith recounted in a clinical fashion.

Harry was adamant about continuing. He scourgified himself as he waited for everyone to return so the lesson could recommence. Smith magically restored the padding. Johnson and Jackson returned, levitating a large pane of smoky glass between them.

"Salvage..." Jackson told Harry. "It comes from the largest chunk that was recovered after your Situation Room 'accident.' We asked for it because we thought it might come in handy.... We just didn't know how soon."

Another witch and wizard dressed in Unspeakables' robes slipped in silently and began setting up additional equipment on the fold-up table. They had tried to be unobtrusive, but Harry noticed them.

"What are they on about?" he asked.

"They have been instructed to create some additional precautions, just in case what I described to you happens again," Smith explained with just a touch of edge to his voice.

Harry was curious, but doubted they would tell him what those were. His habitual annoyance at being kept in the dark surfaced, and he briefly contemplated using Legilimency to find out. He thought better of it though, since Legilimency was certain to be detected in a roomful of highly trained Unspeakables. "Alright, let's have another go," Harry said implacably. "I have to learn this."

The technique of starting small bore much fruit. After a couple of painful missteps, Harry fought off the weakened Cruciatus Curse successfully with the Suturc Countercurse. Success brought about increased confidence on Harry's part, which in turn contributed to stronger defensive magic and greater success. Eventually, Harry resisted everyone's curse in succession, and continued to resist successfully once the pane of magically tempered glass was removed.

There were a couple of setbacks, but Harry's instructors were learning as well. If he was indeed in pain, the tips of his fingers started to clutch as he lost control of them. If he was successful, the tips of his fingers remained steady as he maintained the wandless magic. The instructors were careful to end the spell quickly once determining that they had overcome Harry's resistance. The eerie glow, heat, and crackling sounds did not recur - much to the relief of everyone in the room, except for the two latecomers who had hoped to witness the phenomenon.

The remaining time passed quickly. Harry was ultimately able to resist every instructor's spell, and he could do it in any of a variety of positions - not just hands free, but hands tied in front and behind and even whilst chained to the wall.

Harry was being unshackled after that experiment, and Smith was explaining the final exercise, which was to teach resistance to the curses of two wizards striking from different directions. At that point, Harry noticed something glow green inside of Smith's tunic (they had all long since shed their all-too-formal robes). Smith raised his hand and touched his ear. Some kind of listening device appeared at the precise location of the touch.

"Mister Potter," Smith called out quietly but firmly, "it seems there has been a change of plans on your end. Captain Shacklebolt will not be able to make your rendezvous. Rather, you will be met at the outer door by a Mister Weasley and a Ms. Tonks."

Harry was not sure whether he should be pleased or not. He always enjoyed having Tonks around, since she was relatively close to his age and made the outrageous seem routine. He was not sure exactly what he should say to Arthur Weasley, though. Harry had not seen him or Molly since before Molly's memorable Howler.

* * * *

It might have been her own anxiety, or it may have been her ability to channel Harry's emotions, but whatever it was, Hermione awoke that morning in a state of nervous unease. She had hoped that her anticipation of Harry's supposedly secret training session would be worse than its reality.

She was utterly and absolutely wrong.

The intensity of Harry's pain, fear, and shock as it flowed through the link she shared with him was almost physical.

"Oh my stars! What are they doing to him?" At one point Hermione had trouble just standing. "So this is what human sacrifice feels like," she muttered to herself.

The first time was the worst, but for several hours, she suffered along with Harry's recurrent bouts of intense physical pain, usually followed by even longer surges of complete emotional desensitisation. She could not even conceive of the training methods that the Aurors must have been using - to draw that kind of emotional response despite Harry's two separate nights of preparation for this exercise.

By the end of it all, Hermione was actually wondering how much longer Harry had left to live. She left home that day more determined than ever to succeed with her own cover story.

* * * *

Harry's nervousness about what to say to Mr. Weasley promptly vanished when he left the Department of Mysteries. Not just one Mr. Weasley was there to greet him - but two - Fred and George Weasley. However, the two inveterate pranksters were not their usually uproarious selves. They were so tense and sombre that Harry asked them questions (which they answered correctly) designed to determine their true identities. Harry had no need to ask Tonks any questions, because her pig snout demonstration immediately removed all doubts about her bona fides.

"Sorry, Harry, there's been a change in plans," George told him.

"A big change in plans," Fred added.

Tonks then explained. "There's been some Death Eater activity today, so Dumbledore wants us to take you to a safe house temporarily."

Harry's stomach churned. "Is everyone all right," he asked urgently.

"Everyone's fine," George hastened to add. "This happens every time that bloody fool Fudge lowers the Voldometer, though."

"That dunce didn't count on the Death Eaters reading the Prophet too," spat Fred. "They wait for an announcement of the decreased alert status, and then they strike."

"Somewhere, a village is missing its idiot," George commented.

Harry's face paled again.

"But they haven't struck yet, and we have all your friends under watch," Tonks reassured him. "All of them.... Yes, especially the ladies.... Trust me, we're ready. We're here to take you to a safe house."

"The safest," Fred chimed in.

"Oh shut up," George replied.

Tonks, as the senior Order member of the three, explained the plan.

"The four of us, with Harry Disillusioned, will slip out of an unmarked Ministry side door that opens onto Diagon Alley. I know where that is. We will go to the Twins' shop. Harry and I will Floo from there to a back room at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. At the same time Fred and George will remain behind to stage a diversion to distract any Death Eaters in the area."

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked.

Still acting grim, the Twins declined to divulge what they had in mind. "Can't tell you that," refused George.

"But I guarantee you it will be big enough to make tomorrow's Prophet, so you'll see it then," Fred promised.

"We've been practicing for something like this," George added.

Tonks continued, "Once we reach the Three Broomsticks, Harry and I will be met by additional members of the Order. I'm not sure how many. From there, you will be escorted to Honeydukes."

"But what if somebody sees me who shouldn't?" Harry asked.

"I wouldn't worry about that too much," Tonks reassured him. "When Hogwarts isn't in session, Hogsmeade rolls up its pavements."

Harry's eyes got bigger. He was not sure if he believed her.

Seeing Harry's expression, Tonks backed up. "I mean that figuratively, not magically, Harry. Hogsmeade this time of year is so deserted that there's little likelihood that the short trip between the Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes could be dangerous."

"Okay," replied Harry, feeling a little embarrassed. "What then?"

Tonks laid out the rest of the escape plan. "I don't know if you know this, Harry," she said with an air of secrecy, "but in the basement of Honeydukes, there's a trapdoor. The trapdoor opens into a secret underground passage that leads into Hogwarts Castle...."

Harry grinned just a bit despite the grim situation. He thought Fred and George (who were responsible for Harry knowing about the tunnel in the first place) would burst out laughing, but their worried faces had not relaxed.

"...You will take the tunnel whilst the rest of us stand guard. The tunnel runs for somewhat less than a mile and ends on third floor of the Castle. From there, you are to go straight to Dumbledore's office."

From behind Tonks' back, Fred and George winked at Harry, although their sombre expressions remained.

The plan itself went off without a hitch. Tonks Disillusioned Harry before they called for a lift. Nobody noticed him as they rose to the top level of the Ministry and exited through the little used side door.

Remaining graver than Harry had ever seen them, Fred and George bade Tonks and Harry farewell in the back room of their store - which they had closed for the occasion despite what appeared to be a huge and noisy crowd gathered outside. Things had to be serious for them to give up so much potential patronage.

Just as he and Tonks were Flooing to Hogsmeade, Harry heard a muffled boom that he assumed meant the beginning of the Twins' diversionary event.

At the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta met Harry and Tonks with none of her customary good cheer. She offered them - and an equally businesslike Hagrid - Butterbeer. Hagrid uncharacteristically refused it, silently underscoring the worrisome state of affairs.

Madam Rosmerta was disappointed when Harry also refused. He had sworn off drinking after the dinner at Hermione's, and was serious enough about this promise he had made to himself that he extended it even to Butterbeer.

The three of them crept out of the otherwise empty pub into Hogsmeade's equally deserted main street, which was quite festooned with Ministry warning posters. Almost entirely blocked from view by the Disillusionment Charm and Hagrid's massive girth, Harry made his way as unobtrusively as possible to Honeydukes.

Probably by prearrangement, the lights were on at Honeydukes, but the front door was locked and a "closed" sign hung from the doorknob. Tonks produced a key, and the three of them slipped inside. Their stealthy passage was interrupted when Tonks tripped over a box of Ice Mice and fell into several buckets that the proprietors used to measure bulk candy. The Ice Mice squeaked plaintively, and the buckets clanged loudly as they rolled around the floor. Plainly furious with herself, Tonks swore loudly.

She regained her composure, and moments later opened the door behind the counter that led to the basement. The basement stairs were pitch black. Tonks illuminated her wand and told Harry to enter the basement first. He did so, but just as he reached the bottom stair step, Tonks inexplicably extinguished her wand. For a brief moment, Harry stood there, quite confused, in the dark. He was flicking out his own wand when bright lights suddenly illuminated the room.

A large chorus of voices called out:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY!"

- 50 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch21 cover stories.doc 04/23/05