Harry Potter and the Fifth Element

Chapter 73 - Just An Elf

Professor McGonagall remained tight-lipped all the way to the Gryffindor common room. She clipped, "When everyone's safe," to the obvious question that lingered - spoken or not - on everyone's lips. Between the palpable sense of danger in the Headmaster's initial announcement and mysteriousness of their Head of House's taciturnity, none of the Gryffindors dawdled.

Almost instinctively, Hermione moved to the front of the procession, her wand drawn. Those they encountered saw a younger version of her Head of House, as the two witches walked together, grimly, side by side.

Equally instinctively, Harry protectively brought up the rear, guarding against any attack from that quarter. Ron was with him.

"What do you reckon?" the redhead whispered, his nerves obvious. "Think some bloke finally did in Trelawney?"

"Doubt it," Harry returned with a minimum of words, his attention fixed on the path behind them. "If staff, they probably wouldn't move us. We'd have to kip in the Chamber."

Ron made an unpleasant face. "No thanks. Is there even a loo down there...? So you think a student then?"

"More likely," Harry replied. He briefly walked backwards whilst the end of the line passed the Headmaster's gargoyle - apparently it was only an obstacle to entry, not exit.

The D.A. members entered the broad seventh floor corridor.

Ron shuddered. "A Gryffindor d'you think? Some ickle firstie where he shouldn't be ... with all the Prefects training with the D.A.?"

As if on cue, they met a string of younger Gryffindors and Ravenclaws being escorted to their common rooms by Madams Pince and Pomfrey. They milled about until Professor McGonagall herded the Gryffindors into her group and excused the D.A. Ravenclaws to continue to their own tower. Shak took charge of the rest and led them away.

Nobody seemed missing, nor did McGonagall call a roll.

Harry turned back to Ron. They picked up where they left off. "You mean somebody imitating us? But not as lucky?"

Ron had no answer. They had been exceedingly lucky.

The line moved forward again. In their self-appointed roles as rear guard, Ron and Harry waited as everyone climbed the stairs to Gryffindor common room.

The tension lifted as Harry saw Ron try a gander up Patty Stimpson's robes. He responded by trying to trip Ron.

"Oi! Watch out there!"

"I was."

Whatever had happened, they would learn soon enough.

The returning Gryffindors swarmed into their common room. As soon as the Fat Lady swung shut, Professor McGonagall was besieged with questions.

"...Are we under attack...?"

"...Did someone really do in Professor Trelawney...?"

"...Is the killer still loose inside the Castle...?"

"...Did they kill anybody from Gryffindor...?"

"...Are we in that security mode we practised...?"

"...Can I Floo my mum...?"

Professor McGonagall raised both arms. "Quiet. Quiet! Don't make me silence you with magic, like children."

The clamour abated until Professor McGonagall could hear herself speak. "As the Headmaster stated, a murder has been committed in Hogwarts Castle. A house-elf collecting rubbish to be burnt in the Fiendfyre demonstration was slain by a Killing Curse. Why, we do not know. Nor by whom, since we show no record of any ward crossing during the relevant time period. We are taking necessary precautions."

Hearing Professor McGonagall's information, the roomful of Gryffindors visibly relaxed. Cormac McLaggen voiced relief most of his housemates felt. "So all this fuss? It's not really about anybody being killed? Just a house-elf?"

With Hermione still standing nearby, Professor McGonagall could almost feel the burning anger, her wand twitching, ready to hex the older boy. Before responding to McLaggen, the Deputy Headmistress put one hand heavily on Hermione's shoulder - a not-so-subtle signal to hold her tongue - that the Professor would handle it.

"An elf. That is correct, Mister McLaggen - although we can dispense with the editorialising," she answered icily. "Murder is murder, and the victim was acting in the service of this school."

"How do you know it was a Killing Curse?" Leanne Blyth asked. She, at least, was worried, as befitted her own brush with the curse that hospitalised Katie Bell.

"The body was outwardly uninjured, and we detected no signs of a struggle," McGonagall responded. "I remind everyone that any Unforgiveable Curse is punishable by life imprisonment in Azkaban. No exceptions save Aurors in wartime. Anyone using a Killing Curse on an elf could turn the same spell on any of us. We are all threatened by a killer who remains at large."

"So, whoever did this hasn't been found?" Geoff Hooper, Gryffindor's remaining Seventh Year Prefect, spoke up.

McGonagall nodded. "As I said, the culprit is at large, and we believe resident in the Castle." A visible frisson of fear arose amongst the more anxious students.

"Will everyone's wands be tested for Unforgiveables?" a now reasonably calm Hermione asked from alongside.

"That would be standard procedure, except the culprit did not use his or her wand," Professor McGonagall explained. "The wand in question was thrown down a staircase along with the elf's body. It tests positive, but unfortunately was registered to a student who graduated Hogwarts in 1953."

"1953?" Vicki Frobisher repeated. "What's such an old wand doing at the Castle?"

"I'm not sure I'm supposed to release such details, at least not yet," McGonagall hesitated. After a short pause, whilst she seemed to make up her mind, she continued. "Be that as it may, since most of you are in Mister Potter's and Miss Granger's defence group, you might as well know. You are familiar with the Room of Requirement...."

Almost every member of the three oldest years nodded affirmatively.

"Amongst other uses, that room has served as a dumping ground, if you will, for both Hogwarts students and staff. Over the centuries, it amassed a wide variety of magical rubbish. When the defence group required such an accumulation, the Headmaster seized the opportunity to have the elves tidy up this iteration of the Room. The murdered elf was assisting this clean-up. The wand used to murder it ... er ... him was abandoned, we assume, for unknown reasons several decades ago...."

Professor McGonagall stayed to answer questions, but interest rapidly waned. Once the victim's species was known, the students' overwhelming worry over personal safety melted away - as did the audience. While most did not hold (or at least express) McLaggen's bluntly dismissive attitude towards house-elves, involvement of "just an elf" did rob the event of its prior import.

Everyone was confined to the common room for the rest of the evening. Harry, Hermione, and Ron huddled in a secluded spot by the wall behind the D.A. central station.

"What do you reckon?" Ron asked the others. "I'd wager a Galleon against a Knut that Malfoy could've done it. A death nibbler like him surely knows how to AK something."

"An attribute no doubt shared by most Slytherins his year or higher," Hermione pointed out. "The first question is why anybody would kill an elf cleaning up a rubbish pile?"

"Something in the pile?" Harry guessed.

"Or perhaps the poor elf surprised the culprit doing something dodgy in the Room," Hermione thought out loud.

"You think we could find anything in the Room?" Ron wondered.

"I rather doubt it," Hermione shook her head. "The elves are nothing if not thorough. Anything left in the Room, was almost surely consumed by the Fiendfyre."

"How about ... could it have been one of those ... umm ... you know, Horcrux thingies?" Ron's sentence ended in a whisper.

"Shhhhh!" Hermione hushed anyway. "Doubt it. Dumbledore's not that dumb. Surely, he'd have devoted special attention to the room- wouldn't he...?" Her own concerns were clear.

"Wouldn't hurt to ask, though," Harry pointed out. "That's something that somebody would kill over."

Talk turned to another subject - the note Harry received from (he supposed) Lilithu somebody or other on behalf of the Sisters of the Moon. Harry cast a Muffliato Charm so they could talk without being overheard.

Ron's jaw dropped. Harry's contacts with the Sisters and the seven tonnes of death camp gold were news to him. Those events transpired whilst he was on the outs with the rest of the Trio over Cho Chang.

"You mean you want to give all that gold to some Muggles? What's it, a million Galleons? Just because those snazzy Muggles who sold it to the Blacks got it dodgy from other Muggles?" Ron asked in astonishment. "The goblins must think you're really mental now."

Hermione was beyond fuming. "That's 'Nazi,' not 'snazzy,' and they weren't just dodgy - they killed people to get that gold...."

"Well, so did He-Who-Must-Not...."

"Ron!" Harry admonished harshly.

"...All right, V-V-Voldemort, then," Ron conceded. "But when Harry beat him before, nobody made anybody give back anything - and he killed people, too - and they were wizards."

"Ronald, do you have any idea what the Nazis were?" Hermione asked, pointedly using Ron's full given name.

"Hitler's bunch of German Muggles," Ron promptly answered, looking pleased to know the answer. "They sided with Grindelwald, because of that reading, I reckon. His reading helped them start the Muggle part of the war, and take over most of the Continent - that is until Dumbledore and ... I guess Churchill, stopped them.... But that doesn't involve Harry. He wasn't even born then."

"They killed millions in their camps," Hermione declared, oozing annoyance, her arms tight across her chest.

"V-V-Voldemort would, too, I'm sure - if he had the chance Grindelwald did," Ron countered.

"But he hasn't, not yet," Hermione hissed, her voice starting to rise. "Hitler's Nazis did - and that's the whole point...."

Harry stepped between them to prevent a full-blown row.

"The point is that I inherited that gold. The Nazis stole it from all those people they killed and sold it to Sirius' ancestors," Harry spelled out, firmly but more politely than Hermione. "Because it wasn't theirs to sell, it's not mine to keep."

Even though Ron thought Harry daft - giving away that much gold - the finality in Harry's voice indicated he would not be moved. "Righto, then. Go to it. But putting it in a mine...?"

"That's what the letter said." Harry added. "And that's where the goblins come in, I think."

* * * *

Hermione and Harry were furious with Dumbledore. Their meeting with the Headmaster had just ended - and they seethed at his announcement, more like a ukase, that the Minister had flatly refused to consider an Order of Merlin for Dobby.

"Bloody berks, the lot of them," Harry grumbled as they trudged back to the Gryffindor common room. "Maybe we shouldn't go."

Hermione found that foolish. She reminded him that the Second Class decoration she was due to receive would put her into the Wizard Council - membership was a perk of the award.

Harry remained recalcitrant. Whilst arguing with him, Hermione had a thought. "You know, I think now might be the time to respond to Rita's letter...."

"Hell yeah," Harry instantly agreed. "Everyone should know how badly they bollixed everything up...."

"No, Harry, you promised," Hermione explained her idea. "But Rita will publish anything she can get. Nothing in your promise to the Minister precludes our publicising how brave Dobby was that night, and the other elves at Grimmauld. For good measure, we can announce our literacy project for the Château's elves."

After some persuading, Harry finally consented. Hermione's plan was targeted precisely against the Ministry's obstinance over house-elves, without risking a total breach.

They arranged with Rita Skeeter that the Prophet's publication of the story would coincide with the date of the Order of Merlin ceremony.

* * * *

Double Potions. Last year, those words would have been amongst the most stressful in Harry's vocabulary, at least within Hogwarts Castle's metes and bounds.

This year, with Professor Slughorn replacing Professor Snape, the worst part of Double Potions was his fiancée's and best mate's constant sniping over that "Half-Blood Prince" book.

Their gibes continued in full force. Ron now sat by himself, partly due to Hermione's criticism; but equally because of his own egotism. In this class Ron could shine, so he chose to sit front and centre to be the centre of attention. In Potions, Ron was a gunner.

Fashionably late as usual, Professor Slughorn waddled into the dungeon. The Potions master's adjoining office, Harry knew, far exceeded the grubby hole in the wall Snape had favoured. Everyone was already seated when the Professor appeared.

"Good afternoon, students," the fat, fur-clad wizard began. Regarding the stacked rolls of parchment deposited in the large wire tray by his lectern, he added, "If anybody out there hasn't turned in the essay on superoxide dismutase in higher-order transmutative potions, do so now or forever hold your piece."

As Slughorn still chuckled over own attempted wit, Terry Boot bustled forward, all apologies for being late, and deposited his roll atop all the others.

Snape would have taken points. Slughorn shrugged. The professor continued, "Now, to business. Today, you'll get a chance to meld the practical with...."

A loud "Yaaah!" interrupted the lecture, followed by a thud as Boot went sprawling into the table shared by Hufflepuffs Hannah Abbott and Megan Jones.

"Damn you Malfoy!" Boot swore as he picked himself up.

From his usual table at the end of the second row, Draco Malfoy matched Boot glare for glare. The Slytherin sat with one leg ostentatiously slung into the aisle. Boot had obviously tripped over Malfoy's outstretched leg.

"Maybe next time you'll watch where you're going," Malfoy sneered. "Looby." Slowly, he reached down and rubbed his leg where Boot had made contact. The blond boy let his wand slide into his hand so the Ravenclaw could see it.

"Now, now, you two. Let's not have any more of that," Slughorn declared firmly as he moved to regain control of the situation. Snape would have docked plenty of points - from Boot. Slughorn lacked his predecessor's hair-trigger urge to punish.

Whilst (for the moment) no further words passed between the Ravenclaw and the Slytherin, the looks they exchanged meant their encounter was far from finished.

"As I was saying, today we'll put your practical skills to the test with a rather difficult transmutative Potion," Slughorn began again. "We'll - no, you - will brew the Elixir of Evolution ... sometimes also referred to as the Darwin's Draught."

Harry looked blankly at Hermione. He doubted this was in their assigned reading.

As Slughorn described this potion in greater detail, Ron located it in the index of his book. He furiously leafed to the right place and began reading.

After a thorough explanation of the properties and effects of the Elixir, Slughorn asked. "This is the first Polypotion that you've encountered in your N.E.W.T. Potion studies, but certainly not the last. Can anybody tell me what the term 'Polypotion' connotes?"

Ron's hand went up. Several of the Prince's marginal notes on already-studies potions had indicated that they could be improved by converting them to Polypotions.

Hermione also had her hand raised, but to her frustration Ron's front-and-centre position prevailed.

"Ah, yes, Mister Weasley," the professor acknowledged him with a grin. "Very well. Tell us about Polypotions for five points."

"A Polypotion isn't just made from ingredients, like Aconite or some such," Ron answered confidently. "A Polypotion includes at least one other potion, and usually more. This one, here. Darwin's Draught is made with both Everlasting Elixir and an Aging Potion - and other ingredients, of course...."

He received the five points.

Silently, Hermione fumed.

Slughorn waved his wand. The formula for the Elixir of Evolution appeared on the board - or rather three similar, but distinct, formulæ.

One version included cockatrice beak dissolved in a weak alkahest. Another required powdered seacow pelvis bone. The third called for the complete dried skin of a double-ended newt.

"These three variants," Slughorn continued, "correspond to three of the four major accepted examples of evolutionary taxonomy. The fourth - development of invisibility amongst Diricawls - is no longer on the curriculum due to persistent complaints from the Castle's gamekeepers concerning difficulties in keeping track of beasts that can't be seen."

Harry doubted that Hagrid would ever complain of any creature that came under his tender care.

"Now, everyone, take out your wands and hold them high over your heads." Slughorn gazed expectantly at his class.

Harry and Hermione shared other perplexed looks, but did as directed.

"Scintillius!" Slughorn's wand strobed brightly with glowing magic. Momentarily, that glow separated into primary colours - red, blue, and yellow.

"Intrasecto!" Slughorn thrust his wand in the direction of the seated students. Dozens of fine strands of magic, glowing alternately red, blue, and yellow, burst forth, connecting with the tip of each student's wand. Everyone's wandtip strobed in concert, changing colour with the strands joined to Slughorn's wand.

"Electus!" The strands and strobing colours abruptly vanished, leaving each student's wandtip glowing with the final colour that cycled through. Harry's glowed yellow; Hermione's blue.

"Please examine your wands," Slughorn directed. "Record the colour of your tip before it fades. The colours establish which variant of the Elixir of Evolution you are to brew." Slughorn placed his own wand on the lectern. At a silent motion of the professor's hand, it Transfigured into a quill and began scribbling away. "That's a list of all your assignments," he added, "so only brew your variant - if you want credit, that is."

Professor Slughorn clapped his hands. The door to the Potions storeroom swung open, and several rather anxious (unused to appearing before so many wizards) Hogwarts house-elves wheeled out three carts. The first bore a large tankful of silvery Ramora fingerlings. The second cart was a brazier on wheels. Bright orange salamanders scurried about its bed of hot coals. The last cart was a cage containing a number of horned toads.

"Those of you whose wandtips glowed red will brew variant 'a' of the Elixir. If properly prepared, it will grow legs on the fish," Slughorn explained. "If your wandtip glowed yellow, you will brew variant 'b', which should induce the salamanders to sprout scales. Those with the blue wandtips are assigned variant 'c'. Correctly brewed, the horned toads will grow feathers...."

Draco raised his hand, and Slughorn called on him. "Professor, we've no monkeys," he pointed out. "Why not try to turn one of them into one of us? That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

Whilst Malfoy was not nearly as thick with Slughorn as with Shape, neither Harry nor Hermione could ever recall him acting as insolently towards a Slytherin Head of House.

"Mister Malfoy," Slughorn addressed him coldly. "Conducting such experiments on humans has been forbidden for fifty years, since the post-Grindelwald reforms. Surely you know that."

"I'm sorry, sir," Malfoy responded unctuously, exaggerating every word. "I forgot. I suppose the best outcome would be to turn a Mudblood like Boot there into a house-elf. That would be an improv...."

"You bloody pipsqueak!"

Boot and Harry were on their feet in an instant. Terry sent his chair slamming into the table behind with a resounding crash. His wand pointed menacingly at Malfoy as they traded insults. Other wands were out, too. Hermione grabbed Harry's wand arm, hoping to prevent him from anything that, however justified, he might live to regret.

"Ten points from Slytherin, Mister Malfoy," Slughorn ordered, seeking to manage the chaos. "Unless you cease and desist, future punishment will be worse."

The only thing in Malfoy's favour at the moment was that he had not drawn his wand. If others cast first, magically speaking, it would be difficult only to discipline Malfoy.

"Yes, sir," Malfoy seemed to back down - except for the smirk he sent Terry Boot's way.

That momentarily defused the situation, as Boot practically obligated to follow suit. Harry, with no reason to push things further than Malfoy's chosen target, reluctantly stood down as well.

Slughorn's prefatory remarks - about testing procedures, multi-potion brewing, and the origin of Darwin's Draught - were almost concluded when a familiar hand shot up.

"Yes, Miss Granger," the professor recognised her.

"I'm curious why it's called 'Darwin's Draught'," Hermione began. "After all, whichever variant we're brewing, the potion is to change our beasts in a desired way, isn't it?"

"Of course," Slughorn agreed readily. "That's the purpose of the exercise. If the result were merely random change, I couldn't assign marks, for one thing. I don't understand what you're getting at."

"What I'm getting at," Hermione bore in, "is that random change is precisely the core of Darwin's theory. This assignment is directed. These potions shouldn't be named for Darwin; but rather LaMarck, since he championed conscious adaptations...."

A familiar, and quite unwelcome, voice interrupted. "Like wizards care what Muggles think. Consider yourself honoured we named it for any Muggle at all."

"Mister Malfoy, that will be quite enough," Slughorn again strove to restore calm. "Another five points from Slytherin. I'm not playing here."

Turning to Hermione, the professor commented. "Unfortunately, Mister Malfoy was essentially correct. Wizards generally haven't paid much attention to Muggle science, often to our detriment. This is such a time, as I've never heard of that other fellow. The only logic behind the potion's name is Darwin's association with anything involving with evolution."

Finished with Hermione's question, Slughorn declared, "Enough talk. Let's get started." He drew his wand and unlocked the necessary Potions supply cabinets. Then the portly professor waddled back to his office.

This time, a more Snape-like display from Slughorn may have been preferable.

The queue for ingredients commenced orderly enough. Harry, Hermione, and Ron, being near the front, quickly gathered what their instructions called for. They heard a crash whilst setting up their respective stations.

A tray full of potions ingredients hit the ground.

"So Boot, as clumsy as you're stupid, I see?"

"You pushed me, you little Snake bastard!"

"Are you questioning my ancestry, you Mudblooded scum....?"

"Why you....!"

Almost before the rest of the class could to back away, both protagonists had wands drawn.

"Protego!"

"Tarantallegra!"

First round to Malfoy, who easily blocked Boot's jinx.

"Protego reversis!"

"Incarcerous!"

Second round to Boot, as Malfoy found himself tied with ropes from his own spell. Boot, thinking he had the upper hand, unwisely relaxed.

"Amanurensis!"

An evil-smelling, dark-coloured substance shot from Malfoy's wand, thoroughly dousing the Ravenclaw's robes and everything in the vicinity.

"You disgusting son of a witch!" a dripping Boot howled; his face screwing up in fury. "Emballement!"

That D.A. hex conjured ball bearings under Malfoy's feet. Malfoy started slipping and sliding as Boot cancelled Malfoy's spell. Spurning magic, he slammed Malfoy with a hockey-style shoulder check. Malfoy went flying backwards, crashing into the table next to Ron's. It tipped over and sent its contents onto the floor, adding to the burgeoning mess.

After ramming Malfoy, Boot fell victim to his own conjured ball bearings. He promptly fell flat on his face.

His face purple with rage, Malfoy ended Boot's spell and aimed his wand at his downed opponent. Hermione intervened. Her wand slashed through the air. "Impedimenta!"

As usual, she was quicker than her peers - but this time only fractionally. A hail of spellfire ensued, almost all directed at the obnoxious Slytherin, whom almost everyone considered the aggressor.

Hermione's quick timing also proved to be bad timing. Just as Hermione cast, the door to Slughorn's office flew open and the puffing professor rushed back in. He saw her stop Malfoy cold, making him a sitting duck for the fusillade that followed.

"Miss Granger," he yelped, "I'm surprised at you; a Prefect. Ten points from Gryffindor, and two detentions to be served as directed by your Head of House."

Before Hermione could protest her intentions, the Potions master's practiced nose caught a whiff of something exceedingly rancid. Slughorn looked at his feet.

Appalled at the stinking mess in his classroom, he demanded, "What in Merlin's name has been going on here?"

It took a while to sort matters out. The combination of hexes and jinxes (some quite creative) left Malfoy virtually unrecognisable, not to mention incapable of answering Slughorn's questions. Eventually, it became clear that Malfoy was not only the aggressor, but also responsible conjuring the raw sewage that coated the floor and ruined an expensive array of potions ingredients.

The more he learnt of the incident, the more affronted Professor Slughorn became at the behaviour of a member of his own House.

Unlike the others, whose punishments he was content to leave to their respective Heads of House, Malfoy was his responsibility.

Professor Slughorn was ill inclined to be lenient. Malfoy was a better student than this - as indicated by both Snape's notes and the boy's O.W.L.s. His conduct had all the hallmarks of a deliberate challenge to his authority.

Having taught the father - who never received a Slug Club invitation - Slughorn was all too familiar with Malfoy arrogance.

"Draco Malfoy!" he barked. "Fifty more points from Slytherin for starting the fight and using disgusting magic. You also have two weeks detention - with Argus Filch."

To force a Slytherin to do a Squib's bidding was the ultimate punishment in terms of pure-blood esteem. In his prior term as Slytherin Head of House, Slughorn had never had the need to use it.

But this Malfoy differed from any other student he had ever taught.

* * * *

After excessive preparation, Harry was finally on his way to Hogsmeade - on a Saturday other than a scheduled Hogsmeade weekend. Harry he was quite displeased with this excursion, at least the way it turned out.

Invoking the spectre of favouritism, the Headmaster had only reluctantly allowed the outing. But Dumbledore had promised not to interfere with Harry's need to attend to legitimate outside interests. Having foisted the Black Estate on Harry, who had never wanted it to start with; it was the least he could do.

Harry cooperated by trying to schedule as much into the trip as was wizardly possible. He coordinated with not just the goblins (who were inclined to do his bidding), not just Blackie Howe (who was well paid to do his bidding), and not just Jerry McAllister (whose job was to do his bidding) - but also with the Sisters of the Moon.

Then Dumbledore moved the bloody goal hoops.

The Headmaster decided that only Harry could go; Hermione could not. His justification for this belated restriction was that the trip solely involved Harry's interests. Harry dared not contradict Dumbledore by disclosing their big secret. To allow Hermione to go with Harry, the Headmaster had declared with insufferable airiness, risked admixture of business and pleasure altogether beyond the bounds of Hogwarts' rules.

Most insufferably, Dumbledore was one hundred percent correct.

How was the Headmaster's assessment of the situation spot on? The goblins had installed a splixat in the basement of their Hogsmeade headquarters. Amongst other planning with the goblins, Harry and Hermione had arranged for a certain glow worm cavern getaway to be at their disposal.

Dumbledore's decree called a halt to that.

So Harry travelled alone - well, not exactly, since he was with Hogwarts professor (Shak) and a crew of goblins. But he felt alone, without Hermione. With the trip now all business, Harry just wanted it aft of his stabilizers as quickly as possible.

The carriage ride seemed to take forever, but finally reached the former wax museum/costume shop, now given over to goblin use. As Harry arrived, a number of goblins, Glaksosmit and Bladvak amongst them, approached.

To prevent a scene, Harry yelled out "Anyor!" before even alighting from the one-Thestral Hogwarts carriage.

Shak was right behind. "Something's off," he whispered in Harry's ear.

Shak was right to be concerned. Although their crossbows and other armaments remained sheathed, Harry sensed at once that the goblins were on edge. Why became clear as soon as Glaksosmit drew near enough to speak in a normal tone of voice.

"First with the wand-bearer witch should meet you, Request do we," he importuned. "Wait can we and the others."

His entreaty startled Harry. Goblins were not inclined to defer to humans, whether wizards or Muggles. Moreover, Harry's Gobbledygook phrasebook explained that "wand-bearer" referred, albeit somewhat insulting, to a witch or wizard thought particularly powerful. Something, or more properly someone, had thrown this band of goblins for a loop - even within their own headquarters.

Harry sought silent guidance from Shak, but the professor was as equally confounded. Shrugging his shoulders, Harry indicated for Shak to stay put. Harry would sort out the goblins.

The goblins urged Harry inside, holding themselves back. Entering the room, Harry thought it strangely shadowed. At an odd tinkling, Harry's ears perked. The surroundings brightened noticeably as someone rose from a chair in the far corner. "And so I finally meet the remarkable Mister Potter," a throaty woman's voice sounded.

Harry found himself face to face with a bespectacled middle-aged, possibly older, witch with piercing green eyes much like his. There the similarities ended. Her long dark blond/light brown hair (depending on the light) curled at the edges. Mostly it hung her back in two well-defined tresses, one over each shoulder. Intertwined red and gold filigrees held her hair in place.

This witch had dispensed with her heavy winter travelling robes. She wore a solid black dress with gauzy sleeves that revealed her arms. Harry's eyes were drawn - resistance was futile - to her peek-a-boo décolletage, a circular flash of skin below a high, black collar that parted her two tresses. That collar uncannily resembled Hermione's goblin crafted ball gown.

Now was not the time to dwell on Hermione.

The witch before him had a silver charm nestled in her cleavage. It depicted a winged creature - a bat or maybe a bird - grasping a pentacle in its claws. A single, deep purple amethyst crystal hung from the pentacle's base. From top to bottom it measured fifteen centimetres.

Looking immaculately frightful, she offered Harry her hand.

Harry was nonplussed, but some Beauxbatons girls had made similar gestures at the Ball. He reached with his own and took hers.

The witch bobbed a slight curtsey, which resumed the soft metallic resonance. "Enchantée," she uttered as their hands touched.

Harry felt the thrum of strong magic and a distinct sense of being inspected. "Umm ... the same," he mumbled, not looking her in the eye. He readied his Occlumency shields in case she tried Legilimency.

The witch displayed no aggressive intent. As she withdrew her hand, Harry released it. Looking up, he caught the slightest glimpse of what seemed an uncertain appraisal.

Betraying nothing; she turned to one side and twirled two of her fingers. From them emerged a green, glowing phosphorescent cloud. When it dissipated, a polished wooden table and two beige-cushioned chairs occupied previously empty space. She sat on one side of the table, and bade Harry to take the other chair.

When she sat, the chiming returned. Harry noticed that the gold filigrees in her hair were actually gold chains. They ended in a half dozen highly stylised golden discs with runic red inlays - shaped in the phases of the moon. They hung freely, so whenever the witch moved they gently collided, producing the harmonious effect.

"I am Lilithu Mandelbrot, Imperatrix of the Sisters of the Moon," she introduced herself. "I understand that you wish to redeem the Shoahgelt. Your choice is most admirable ... and wise."

"And I'm Harry...."

"I already said I know of you," she cut him off. "Now, about the gold; I assume you've read my note?" The witch languidly lifted a fingertip. Another bit of green glowing smoke emerged. She conjured herself a cup of tea.

Harry had not been treated so curtly since Potions with Snape. He appreciated why the goblins wanted to get shot of Lilithu as quickly as possible.

"Yeah, I read it," he answered warily. "You want all seven tonnes of the gold moved to the bottom of some mine, although your note didn't say exactly where. You didn't want it melted down; instead you want the German markings intact."

"Yes, I did so instruct," Lilithu nodded, sipping her tea. "I have continued to ponder the question of where. I have decided upon Bäckenalm, a range in southern Bavaria near the Geiselstein. I know of an abandoned mine some two kilometres east-north east of a Muggle hiker's road, on the north side of the ridge...."

She stopped, set down her tea, and regarded Harry sharply through her black-edged (squarish, not round) glasses. Baffled, Harry returned her gaze.

"Why aren't you writing things down?" Lilithu asked archly. "Do you really expect just to commit it to memory?"

"Er.... Oh," Harry flinched at the criticism. "Okay." But he had no quill or other writing implement and realised that he did not know how to conjure one.

Lilithu seemed ill-inclined to offer assistance. She did nothing save taking another sip of tea, eying him with practiced apathy.

"Umm ... let me get a goblin to take notes." Harry quickly rose and left the room. Outside, he was not surprised to encounter Shak, Glaksosmit and several goblins lurking just on the door's far side. Understandably, they tried to monitor what was happening - the goblins had custody of the gold. Equally understandably, they wanted as little to do with Lilithu Mandelbrot as possible.

They scrambled backwards as Harry entered, silently pleading that he not reveal their presence. Harry nodded and walked by, gesturing for them to follow him.

They did, into a nearby room.

"How are things going?" Shak asked.

"I'll be right chuffed when this is over," Harry sighed, not really answering. He turned to the goblins.

"I need one of you to assist by taking notes," Harry asked without preamble. "She's giving detailed instructions about what to do with the gold, and I need to get this right. Since most of this falls to you, I'd like one of you to do it.... Sorry."

"At your command are we," affirmed Glaksosmit. "Do it, should I, as at the bank most senior am I."

Bladvak was also willing to act as scrivener, but Harry chose Glaksosmit. He would know if anything being proposed would pose insuperable problems for Gringotts.

Returning, Harry found that Lilithu had Transfigured her chair into a more comfortable chaise lounge. Her tea finished, she was smoking a favoured cigarette through a long ivory holder. She blew a smoke ring over her head. It joined a half-dozen others, circling and shaped like phases of the moon - like the bangles hanging from her hair.

Those bangles tinkled merrily as she sat up straight. "I'm pleased to see you return with one of your leathery friends. You are wise.... Back to business, then?" She casually tossed the cigarette holder and its still lit contents over her shoulder. They vanished before hitting the floor.

"Yeah," Harry grunted. Like the goblins, he was quite ready to see the back of her.

"As I was saying, two klicks east northeast of the end of the Geiselstein Muggle road...." The goblin's writing instrument, an ebony shaft familiar to Harry from the reading of Sirius' will, scratched away on a piece of parchment. "Just on the north side of Bäckenalm ridge - the nearest town of any size is Buching - is a Muggle lead mine abandoned for almost two hundred years. When I indicate that all is in readiness, the gold is to be delivered to the mine's lower level. I warn you to be careful. My sources say not only is this part of the mine flooded, but the water is thoroughly contaminated with lead, arsenic, and cadmium salts."

Even Glaksosmit flinched.

"Why there?" Harry asked. "Look, we're doing you a big favour here...."

"A favour indeed," Lilithu spoke crisply as she glared at Harry. Her glasses, or perhaps her eyes, seemed to darken.

Green sparks crackled betwixt her fingertips, reminding Harry of his own displays. Pleasant or no, this witch was not to be trifled with.

"The Shoah victims shall be redeemed," she declared. "You proved your worth by stepping forward; however, the matter is out of your hands. Your cooperation is useful and desired, but in any event the Shoahgelt shall be returned."

Glaksosmit had edged forward throughout the witch's declaration. "Threats make you?" he interjected in goblin cadence.

"I keep promises," Lilithu responded, idly examining her own fingers. "I do not make threats - as both Eichmann and Mengele discovered to their sorrow." As those two names, neither recognizable to Harry, passed the woman's lips, her fingernails morphed into shiny metal blades. Lazily she scraped these miniature bayonets across the table. Their razor-sharp edges drew little wooden curlicues from the surface.

"Back to you and the gold," she continued her monologue as her fingernails gradually reverted to normal. "I have chosen that Circe-forsaken location because for a half century, Muggles have searched almost every other plausible place. It shall appear that the Nazis cached the gold, rather than selling it to the black-hearted Blacks. This way raises fewer questions, I assure you."

"Oh, okay," Harry damped down any confrontation. When she deigned to explain her plan, it made sense. Tonnes of missing gold would attract many official and unofficial treasure seekers.

"With the method resolved, timing is the next issue," the witch went on. "We are not yet ready. The Muggles who sold the gold are dead ... such a pity.... We shall create the necessary documentation so that this ruse appears plausible to the Muggles. We are as bound by the Secrecy Statute as are you. Once these preparations are complete, we shall make contact with trustworthy Muggles. We have previously collaborated with them on similar matters, although not on this scale."

"Okay," Harry agreed. "When will it be...?"

Glaksosmit tugged the sleeve of Harry's robes, indicating a desire to speak confidentially.

"One minute," Harry told Lilithu. Ignoring her displeasure, he followed the goblin out the same doorway as before.

"Karpasinat!" Glaksosmit incanted the goblin cloaking charm, ensuring privacy from the powerful witch. "Impratraxis, obey you shall we, however, a poor impression has made she. Reluctance may there be, amongst particularly splixatisii ... builders of splixii that is ... as present is a poisoning danger. That attend you strongly recommend, do I."

Harry sought clarification. "You want me to go to Bavaria with the gold?"

"As between us, option only has Impratraxis. To obey is my role," Glaksosmit clarified. "To increase the likelihood of success - without friction - would your presence."

"You mean if I go, things would proceed more smoothly?" Harry translated.

"Correct, Impratraxis."

"Then I'll go," Harry decided.

The caucus broke up, and Harry returned to face Lilithu. She was surprised, but not resistant to the request.

"It's a lot of gold," she agreed. "That's why I'm here. If your goblin friends think your presence ensures we're not stealing it, we've no problem. For us, Shoahgelt is a sacred trust...." Her voice trailed off in thought. "Very well. Expect it to take two days. The concealment magicks are somewhat complicated."

With miracles like Sidealong Apparition, and Portkeys, Harry had not expected to be away from Hogwarts overnight.

"Please make it a weekend," Harry told the witch. "Dumbledore won't like it...."

"It's not Dumbledore's decision," Lilithu brusquely dismissed that concern. "I shall arrange a suitable weekend and deal with him - personally."

The thought of this imperious witch going toe-to-toe with the peremptory Headmaster amused Harry. He smiled for the first time during the meeting. Dumbledore's recent edict still galled him. "Can I bring Hermione?"

Lilithu returned a knowing smile. "Ah, yes, the girl. My niece has mentioned her - a formidable witch, I am told.... But no Seer, pity." She paused, thinking, then rose from the chaise, her golden adornments making their usual melody. "If everything goes smoothly, we shall accede to your request for female accompaniment."

"Umm.... Where would we stay?" Harry asked one last question.

"The Sisters will provide accommodations suitable for the occasion," she declared. "Neither you nor Witch Granger will be disappointed. I believe we are in agreement. If you - you or the Gringotts staff - need to contact me, my niece Daphne can relay messages."

"All right," Harry continued more or less by instinct. "Anything else?"

"Yes, your reward," Lilithu intoned. "Do you trust that one?" she gestured towards Glaksosmit.

Harry did not hesitate. "I do."

"Very well." Theatrically, she put her hands together. Within seconds, she entered a self-induced trance. Her green eyes shone phosphorescence similar to her previous magic. When she spoke, it was in low monotone, quite unlike her usual voice - and quite like Professor Trelawney's when she predicted Pettigrew's escape during Harry's third year.

"MORTAL DANGER AGAIN APPROACHES. YOUR OWN COUNSEL MUST YOU KEEP. THOSE WHO WATCH ARE WATCHED. THOSE WHO KNOW ARE KNOWN. DEATH AWAITS THE ENDANGERED SHOULD THE DANGER BE REVEALED. ONLY A JOINED ONE MAY JOIN YOU. NO MORE."

Finished, Lilithu Mandelbrot dropped heavily onto the chaise. She landed somewhat sideways, and Harry noticed how her rear neckline plunged even more markedly than her décolletage. Her bangles had barely stopped resonating when she shook her head forcefully and emerged from the trance.

Harry gawked. "You ... you can predict whenever you want?"

Lilithu stood. Imperiously, she answered, "The Sisters are Seers. I could not lead them were I not. I assume I provided you with something."

Harry's next comment slipped out, unbidden, "You don't know?"

"Of course not," she spat as if gravely insulted. "True Sight is not conscious. True Seers are never privy the Sight's revelations. Good day, sir," she addressed Harry. "And to you as well," she acknowledged the goblin as an afterthought.

The meeting over, she transformed into a huge owl and flew off - with nary a sound beyond a farewell clink from her golden bangles.

"Wand bearer," Glaksosmit grumbled as she departed.

Harry, preoccupied with the Seer's prophecy, did not fully catch the comment. "What was that?" he asked.

"Er ... arrogant seems she," the goblin rephrased.

"Arrogant doesn't begin to capture it," Harry agreed. "She makes Lockhart seem modest, and Snape seem civil. I'm glad Hermione wasn't here. She wouldn't have liked her."

A grimace-like expression, the goblin equivalent of a smile, crossed Glaksosmit's face. "Wise is Impratraxis."

"Don't know about that," Harry demurred, as Hermione's absence was most emphatically not his doing. "Maybe I was dumb to want her to come to Bavaria. But what about...?" Harry stopped himself. Given the terms of this latest prophecy (if indeed it were such), it should not be discussed lightly.

The goblin looked to Harry, awaiting his command.

Harry sighed. "Anyway, who's next?"

"Your choice," Glaksosmit deferred, "the barrister Howe or the employee McAllister."

"Might as well be Howe," Harry shrugged. "Keeping him waiting costs me Galleons."

"As command you," Bladvak murmured. He left and quickly returned with the D'Israeli Braddock partner in tow.

"Good to see you again, Harry," the barrister brightly glad-handed his underaged client. "Your professor just confirmed what my sources tell me - that you've put the Ministry even deeper in your debt. However you did it, congratulations on Merlin number two, and the next time you see George, please give him my congratulations, as well."

Good lawyers remember all of their clients.

That the Battle of Stonehenge had brought Harry and his friends another round of Orders of Merlin was most emphatically not public knowledge. The Ministry wanted neither the public nor the Death Eaters to appreciate just how close matters had come to disaster.

Blackie Howe obviously had excellent Ministry contacts. Harry could only hope his Muggle sources were equally useful.

They sat down. "So the book Hermione gave you, what have you learnt? Is it real?"

"Truthfully, it's so bloody real, I was almost arrested." Howe revealed, cheerfully enough.

"What?"

"I took the book to the same Muggle contact I'd used for the Wilberforce purchase," Howe recounted. "A week later, he rang up saying he needed to meet in person - that it was important. I agreed, and bloody hell, found two detectives from the Yard waiting for me. They accused me of trafficking in stolen antiquities."

"Oh, Merlin, I had no idea," Harry interjected remorsefully.

"Not your fault," Howe continued. "The Muggles were almost as confused. They had no idea I was a wizard, so I continued the charade - to draw them out. That book is a major religious text written by Basil somebody or other in the Second Century A.D. It was later suppressed as heretical. Nobody's seen an actual copy since then, and what's known is from hostile descriptions. The Muggles, understandably, wondered how I obtained it."

"What did you tell them?" Harry inquired. He had not expected an old book Hermione had randomly chosen from some crypt he had never seen could cause so much trouble.

"Why, nothing, of course," Howe answered smoothly. "All we needed to know was that those Muggles wouldn't have gone to such trouble over a fake. Then I Stunned the three of them. Your book's back in my office safe."

"But isn't the Ministry upset?" Harry asked, concerned over unexpected fallout. This was supposed to be a routine research assignment for his lawyer. "It's bad enough to Stun Muggles, but from New Scotland Yard?"

"Compared to the stunt you and Dumbledore pulled at Chequers over the summer, I doubt it," Howe reminded Harry. "Seriously, initially it was a bit of a bother with the Improper Use of Magic Office, but once they confirmed that I acted on your behalf, they were quite content to let bygones be bygones."

"Glad to hear it," Harry said with relief.

"All in a day's work, Harry," Howe grinned. "From the Muggles' reaction, I have every reason to believe that the text you provided was authentic. Do you need anything further?"

"Can't say right now," Harry told him. "I don't see anymore legal problems. I need to talk to Dumbledore."

"Very well, should I prepare a final bill on the matter?"

"Yes."

Gerry McAllister arrived hard on the heels of the Magic Circle solicitor.

"How are things at the Château?" Harry greeted warmly.

"About what you'd expect," he informed Harry. "What I can control is as it should be. What I can't, isn't."

"Please be more specific," Harry pressed.

"The wards are revised as you directed," McAllister specified. "The alarm overlay was removed and replaced with the charms we discussed. If either Malfoy or Lestrange cross the barrier, we'll both be notified immediately."

Harry suddenly felt embarrassed. He had done nothing with the silent alarm garnets he had requested precisely to receive that notice.

"Excellent," Harry praised. "Now I'm on the spot. I still need to get the garnets mounted."

"That would be helpful," McAllister concurred. "If we're building a trap, we'd best be able to spring it."

Oblique criticism, but criticism nonetheless. McAllister did not dwell, quickly moving to another issue. "I've tried to keep it baited."

"Keep what baited."

"Our trap."

"Oh, that. What did you do?" Harry had to ask.

"I animated a mannequin charmed to look like Emma," he whispered. "It gets up, watches Muggle television all day, and once a week goes for groceries. It's not much, but it's enough to fool the Death Eaters who stop by occasionally to check on her."

Harry did not catch on immediately. "What's the point?"

"It baits our trap," McAllister explained. "It maintains the status quo. I don't want them suspecting any changes to that back door in the wards. They need to think they still have their hostage to fortune."

Mulling it over, Harry shot the Château panjandrum a sly smile. "Good thinking." He asked after another aspect of the plan. "How's the staff escape plan coming?"

"The staff's been informed. Pamphlets have been distributed. Routes are marked - including emergency signalling if ordinary magic fails. Everything's close enough that I think it's time you have this...."

McAllister reached inside his robes and withdrew a rolled up parchment tied with a black and silver Château Blackwalls ribbon.

Harry took the document. "What's this?"

"An enchanted map of the Château and its grounds," McAllister was pleased to tell Harry. "All Proprietors have one. I would have given it to you in December, but with the new emergency plan, I held back to add the goblins' new tunnel. You might need to find that some day."

"I hope not," Harry replied, but with his history, it was preferable to err on the safe side. "How do I turn it off?"

"It doesn't need any incantation," Jerry responded. "As a security measure, in case of loss or theft, it simply stops working outside the Château's grounds."

Pocketing the map, Harry remembered how a disguised Death Eater once relieved him of the Marauders' Map. "All right. I see the value of that. As for the goblin tunnel, have you practiced any escapes?"

"Would like to," McAllister answered forthrightly, "but I haven't scheduled any drills yet because I'm not sure how to coordinate with the goblin side...."

"No time like the present to suss that out," Harry declared. Striding to the door, he found several goblins, including Bladvak, engaged in some game of chance. "I need a progress report on the splixat at Château Blackwalls," Harry announced.

"Immediately," Bladvak answered. He took two running steps and converted to his boulder form whilst in midair. He rolled through the corridor and down the stairwell at the far end.

Harry returned. McAllister instinctively rose, but Harry gestured for him to stay seated. "We'll have an answer quite shortly, I'm sure," Harry told him as he sat back down. "How's the loyalty programme proceeding?"

"It's been announced," McAllister reported. "I offered six months severance pay, no questions asked, for anyone uncomfortable with taking renewed vows. I've had three takers so far, and the grace period has another week to go."

"Ima Hogg?"

"Not amongst those, but I doubt she'll last," McAllister answered with a twinkle in his eye. He did not much like that witch. "She's hardly enthusiastic about house-elf literacy. I doubt many elves will hit their progress points. I expect she'll be eligible for the sack before the Hogwarts term ends."

Harry grimaced and shook his head. "Too bad, I'd much rather the elves learn their ABCs than have to sack anyone. But if so.... What about outright emancipation?"

McAllister shook his head, sounding dissatisfied. "Dobby reports we've had four sign ups - all by more junior elves. That's good in that they'll be better fighters, but unfortunate because their example doesn't hold nearly the sway as would more senior elves' throwing in. Dobby says he's heard shouting ... umm ... vocal disagreements over the proposal in the elves' quarters."

Harry sighed cheerlessly. Hermione would be disappointed by the low response rate. "Well, it's a start. Tell Dobby, first, thanks from me for doing this; and second, I want him to start training the volunteers. Battle-ready elves are part of our trap, if any Death Eaters are foolish enough to use that back door they made you install."

"I could always close it, if you'd rather," McAllister offered. "The worst they can do now is have a go at killing me."

"No, let's leave it and move forward," Harry told him. "The Proprietor is now a Gryffindor."

"That's the next item on my tick list, sir," McAllister shifted gears. "Redecoration of the Château and its grounds reflecting that fact is well underway."

"What fact?"

"That for the first time in Merlin knows how long the Proprietor is a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin," McAllister told him proudly. "The place needed renovating anyway. The furnishings and utilities are mostly a century old - the Floos can't handle more than six at a time. But I'm also replacing all specifically Slytherin accoutrements with colours and items that'll make you feel more at home. I've started with the Proprietor's Suite." McAllister could not help smiling as he delivered this news.

"That's excellent," Harry thanked him, "but could it be too much change, too quickly?"

"Aye, it's change, but it's another test of staff loyalty," McAllister informed his boss. "The elves you honoured rescued the contents of your godfather's room at the Grimmauld house, and one of your friend's comments tipped me off to an excellent estate sale...."

"Who did that?" Harry asked, expecting it was Hermione.

"Mister Longbottom mentioned a ground-up renovation of Longbottom Castle, and that most of its current contents were set for auction," McAllister proudly divulged. "I obtained an excellent likeness of Godric Gryffindor for your suite, large enough to do it justice, even in your preferred combined form. Now, about the...."

Several thumps interrupted the next line of inquiry. Two grey boulders bounced into the room. One was Bladvak. The other goblin Harry did not know. The unknown goblin went directly from boulder form to prostrate before Harry.

"Anyor," Harry sighed.

The goblin sprung to his feet.

"My apologies, Impratraxis, for incomplete being the splixat." If goblins whinged, they would sound like this one.

"I'm not displeased," Harry soothed. Perhaps, because he knew Bladvak better than other goblins, he had been too sharp in his criticism. "The Château's preparations are hardly complete. I'm simply interested in where things stand. But first, what's your name."

"Nokfar, am I," the goblin answered. "Completed is all tunnelling and entrance work, as well as splixat frame. From the wards benefitted have we ...."

McAllister stiffened beside Harry. The Proprietor asked, "What about the wards?"

"More than two of your metres below ground extend do not they," Nokfar reported. "Truly deep digging did not require the splixat. Another of your weeks, take did not it."

Both men relaxed, as no other serious ward problem had presented itself.

"And you will add goblin wards to the splixat?" Harry asked a question to which the only answer could be "yes."

"Absolutely," Nokfar promised.

"So what's left to do?" Harry continued questioning.

"Item of critical path is gamblad - the membrane," Nokfar continued his report. "Unusual for many wizards to pass through is it - raised are security issues. Necessary is not only the spellwork, but also secure location."

Harry asked deliberately gently, "Well, Nokfar, when will things be operational?"

Nokfar grimaced. "In two weeks, gamblad am promised I. Two days for installation required. By then of learning where may go entering wizards hopeful, am I."

"That should work," Harry decided. Fortunately, the Death Eaters were hardly ready to mount an attack in that time frame.

* * * *

It felt almost like third year. Harry returned to the Castle at suppertime. He slipped largely unnoticed into the Great Hall, and made a beeline for Ron. Harry was almost upon the redhead before realising that Ron had company.

Ron's sister sat to his left, and they were deep in conversation. She had a quill and a serviette, which meant that they were diagramming Quidditch plays - plays for Ron to run on his simulator - his Christmas gift from Harry.

Christmas seemed so long ago.

Harry also saw Ginny wearing a certain scarf....

Harry slid into the vacant seat on Ron's near side before either Weasley noticed.

"Harry!" Ron blurted. "Check this out. Ginny wants you to be an obstruction for our Bull's Horns Attack Formation. If you dive from the left, that lets our right-hand Chaser circle back for an easy goal...."

They talked easily about various Quidditch strategies as Harry tucked into an old reliable - bangers and mash.

Harry was on his second goblet of pumpkin juice before talk turned to other topics, such as his Hogsmeade business trip.

"So what did you and your goblin mates cook up?" Ron asked casually.

"An escape portal connecting with the Château's sub-basement," Harry told them as he dug into his robes. He had a less-than-pleasant chore.

"Oh, I wish I could have seen it," Ginny sighed dreamily. "The pictures make it seem almost as big as Hogwarts."

"Not at all," Harry carried on, unstopping a brownish glass bottle. "It's just storage down there, except for some Muggle books that almost nobody...."

"No, silly, not the sub-basement; I meant the whole Château," Ginny squealed. "Mum grounded me, and I've never seen it."

"Me needer," Ron agreed through a mouthful of mash. "Bud den you woudda nod hab da rescue me." He reached for his own goblet.

"Frankly, I'd be right chuffed to leave the rescue business once and for all," Harry commented as he shook the bottle. "The portal makes it easier...." He went quiet as a large white pill, the size of an old ten-pee coin, popped out, unexpectedly followed by a second. The second bounced off Harry's hand as he closed it about the first. The loose pill hit the edge of his plate, and bounded off.

"Blast it!"

Wham!

With Seeker's reflexes, Harry's free trapped the escaping pill against the table.

Ginny prattled about the reputed wonders of Château Blackwalls. "The gardens are supposed to be like a færieland in the.... Eek! What was that?"

"Bloody, runaway pill," Harry grunted. He lifted his hand.

It was smashed into five pieces.

"That's some pill," Ron observed. "At least to swallow. You should have seen...."

"You need calcium supplements?" Ginny broke in.

"Madam Pomfrey ordered me," Harry shrugged. Making a face, he left the shattered tablet for the elves and grabbed his pumpkin juice to wash down the other.

"Yuck, Pomfrey's pills are nasty," Ginny declared, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Unless you fancy munching chalk."

"Story of my life, I guess." Harry grumbled, as he prepared to down the large pill.

"Try one of mine," Ginny invited. "They're flavoured." She handed him a beige, egg-shaped tablet from a white phial with a blue label and took one herself.

Harry gawked a bit. "You take these? You haven't been reboned lately."

"No, thank Merlin," Ginny returned. "But Mum swears by them - girl stuff."

Harry popped it. "Tastes loads better, but still chews like chalk."

"Then swallow; don't chew.... Take it; they're all the same dose," Ginny tossed him the entire phial. "I can get more at Madam Puddifoot's."

That origin almost caused Harry to return it. But Hermione plopped down across the table, and mere pills were forgotten.

"How was your meeting with the head Sister?" she casually enquired.

"Probably best that you weren't there," Harry told her. "She was quite full of herself."

"Who's this?" Ginny asked, having no idea what the two were discussing.

"Harry had to meet with the...," Hermione paused before continuing, "the leader of the Sisters of the Moon."

That news provoked a strong reaction from Ginny. "Harry! Eeew! That's ... well, let's just say, she'd probably rather meet Hermione - but you'd rather she not. I need to start that Potions paper...."

Ginny departed before Hermione could retort.

Presently, a contingent of Seventh Years - Geoff Hooper, Cormac McLaggen, and Ken Towler - commandeered some nearby seats and commenced a sarcastic discussion of the feminine attributes (or purported lack thereof) of certain seventh year girls. They were particularly derogatory towards the departed Hufflepuff, Eloise Midgen.

Harry scowled. 'Rendezvous in the Room in thirty minutes?' He Legilimenced Hermione, who was bridling at the newcomers, whilst whispering the same message in Ron's ear. Both nodded.

Harry slipped into the Room five minutes early, but not early enough to beat Hermione. She was double-checking her Runes homework. "So what happened?" she asked.

"Wait till Ron gets here," Harry slowed her down. "I'd rather tell the story once. But she was a nightmare.... Bossier than...."

"Yes, Harry?"

"Umm ... well, worse than you've ever been, that's for sure," he said nervously.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

A quarter hour later, Ron was still nowhere in sight. Harry and Hermione had exhausted their supply of small talk.

"Well, do you want to ... well, you know, snog?" He queried hopefully.

"What if Ron walks in?" Hermione fretted.

"What if he doesn't?" Harry parried. "It's been a while - maybe he was waylaid by some Quidditch argument."

Harry detected movement out of the corner of his eye. Wand instantly in hand, he whipped his head around and saw - a Gryffindor-red privacy curtain that had not existed the moment before.

"Well, this is the Room of Requirement," Hermione reminded him. "Would you like the first go...?"

They disappeared behind the curtain. For a few minutes only the rustle of clothing and sharpened breathing could be heard.

"Oh, Harry ... right there...!" Ensconced behind the curtain, the pair were just starting to get serious when....

"Oi, you two! Sorry I'm late."

"So much for number thirty-six," Hermione grumbled.

"Wha ... you keep count?"

"Not now," she hissed, putting Harry off.

"What's your excuse?" Hermione called out testily, as she readjusted her clothing to make herself presentable. "Quidditch, I suppose?"

"Better," Ron chortled.

"This has got to be good," Harry commented. He finished dressing first and stepped around the screen. "So what happened? Did you find a new girlfriend or something?"

"Nah, mate, I've been scared straight, at least for now," Ron answered jauntily. "I ran into Seamus whilst leaving the common room. He told me that Malfoy was serving a detention cleaning the ground floor suits of armour without magic. So thought I'd supervise a bit. You know, 'Hey, Malfoy, you missed a spot'."

"Damn, I wish I'd seen that," Harry remarked jovially.

"Harry, that's not nice," Hermione chided gently as she, too, exited the privacy curtain. It promptly disappeared, taking their comfy little loveseat with it.

"Neither is Malfoy," Harry resisted.

"Anyway, great fun, that," Ron reiterated. "Sorry about losing track of time. Colin's got some photos, I think. Maybe Luna can post them on that Onion of hers."

"I hope she doesn't," Hermione tried throwing cold water on Ron's idea. "Nothing to be gained by humiliating him."

"But it's Malfoy!" Ron protested.

"Doesn't matter," Hermione snipped. Turning to Harry, she encouraged a change of subject. "Ron's here, so what happened at this meeting I couldn't attend?"

Harry told them everything. It was like old times between the Trio. True, Ron got a bit jealous at the two of them travelling to Bavaria together, but he essentially shared his sister's attitude towards the Sisters of the Moon. Molly Weasley had used the Sisters as bogeymen with Ginny to frighten her onto the straight and narrow, just like she had used - irony of ironies - succubi for the same reason with Ron.

In any event, Ron had no interest in visiting an abandoned, badly polluted Muggle lead mine in the wilds of southern Bavaria, wherever that was. He pronounced himself content to mind the fort, so to speak.

Then Harry dropped the bombshell - a new piece of prophecy.

"Bloody Hell!" Ron exclaimed when Harry had finished reading Glaksosmit's notes. "You mean she does it whenever she wants?"

"Only when she has something to say, Ron," Hermione intervened. "Great Seers have that ability; Cassandra reputedly did, and Nostradamus, too. Only the middling ones like Trelawney can't control it and flop about where anybody might overhear."

"Forget that," Harry tried to move things along. "What do you think it means?"

"That you'll be in mortal danger again," Ron pronounced.

"Like I need another prophecy for that," Harry grumbled. "What do you make of the rest of it?"

"Dunno," offered Ron. "That you can't tell people, that's for sure. Except you'll still tell us, right? We're your best mates - the joined ones, I reckon." He pulled a chocolate biscuit from somewhere inside his robes and took a bite.

Harry really wanted to hear from Hermione. She had a different take. "Ron, I don't know about that.... You, maybe, but I don't know about me."

"What? Of course I'll tell you," Harry protested. "You're the one - no offence, Ron - who helps me figure out this kind of stuff."

"None taken," Ron interjected, as he chewed. "I'd say the same thing."

"No, Harry," Hermione insisted. "Think about the words. What if I'm this 'watcher,' or this person who 'knows?' It's vague enough, I could be."

"That's Dumbledore, innit?" Ron offered.

Harry ignored him. "But you've always talked down Divination, Hermione. Woolly, I think you called it. Nothing but guesswork...."

"That's because Trelawney, and even Firenze..., what they do is codswallop. But the Sisters of the Moon are different. Remember what you saw in the Pensieve? About Abigail Rosen and her reading for Tom Riddle? She was just a new Sister initiate. That Lilithu may be a bitch on wheels, but I think she's the real article."

"So you don't want me to tell you when mortal danger next comes my way?" Harry asked, still incredulous.

"What about me? I know stuff, too." Ron started to protest.

"Not like she does, especially after everything she did this summer," Harry pointed out.

"He does have a point...."

"Alright, I admit it," Ron gave in. "I'd rather you be able to tell me - that way I get to go with you, according to that."

"Now, Ron, don't get too far ahead of yourself," Hermione cautioned. She was not about to be left behind. "'Joined' can mean more than one thing, and Harry and I...."

"But you said so yourself, not a minute ago...."

"What I mean," Hermione reiterated, modulating herself to stay calm, "is that Harry must be very careful whom he tells. You're right that it could very well be - most likely probably is - Dumbledore. But everything depends on context. Like all prophecies, this one's vague and may be read different ways. Whenever this 'mortal danger' rears its ugly head, you need to sit down and figure out who's in danger...."

"That's easy. Voldemort's after me," Harry responded morbidly.

"True, but it might not be direct," Hermione pointed out. "After all, Ron was in mortal danger not long ago...."

"I'll say," Ron agreed. "And I still have scratch marks to prove it."

"...And I nearly died before that," she continued. "So it could be anyone close to you...."

"If it's Uncle Vernon, I think I'll tell everyone," Harry joked.

"If you didn't, I would," Hermione agreed. At some point she had to share what she had learnt about Harry's uncle, but nothing about that awful Muggle was high on her agenda.

"If it's Malfoy, I'm going on WWN," Ron joked in the same vein. "About the only person we can safely rule out would be Dumbledore."

"Actually, he's at least as likely as I to be the known knower or watched watcher," Hermione contradicted.

"I meant the one in mortal danger," Ron bit back. "Probably hasn't been there or done that since he finished off Grindelwald."

"You just have to be careful, Harry," Hermione reminded.

"What else is new?"

"What I mean is you may not be able to tell me," Hermione insisted. "You might have to figure it out your...." She grimaced at how awful that sounded and did not finish.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Well you have to admit, mate, she's got a point."

"I admit it," Harry said testily. "It's just that...."

"What did the goblins say?" Hermione interposed a question

She successfully changed the subject.

They spent the next half hour - until the impending curfew - discussing changes at the Château (Ron wanted to see it, a welcome indicator of reduced jealousy) and Mr. Howe's Muggle misadventure. The Muggle archive was also news to Ron, who started understanding just how much he had missed whilst his dalliance with Cho sundered him from his mates.

Like Harry, once Ron grasped the possibility of trading the so-called Gospel of Truth for a Horcrux fortuitously in the Church's possession, he favoured the deal. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you don't believe a word of it, so why care at all?"

"Because I believe that truth should triumph over lies, just as good should triumph over evil," she declared stoutly. "I just don't need fictitious hellfire and damnation to scare me into acting on my beliefs."

Even though he opposed her in this particular argument, Harry was never prouder of his fiancée than at that moment.

* * * *

The room was silent save for a quill scratching across parchment and the rustle of turning pages. The girl was studying.

Charms, Transfiguration, Runes - even Defence, she studied. It provided an activity, but more than that, it gave her purpose. It gave her hope. It connected her however tenuously to the rest of the world.

Even if only book learning.

Books were all she had, and she felt lucky to have them.

The return of her books was a sign - she might have something to look forward to besides imminent death.

Cho Chang had lived with the threat of imminent death ever since awakening in this room weeks ago - exactly how long was uncertain, since day and night had lost their meaning. All she knew, from her bodily rhythm, was that no more than a month had passed.

In all this time, she had seen exactly two visitors.

One was a Ministry interrogator.

The other was Professor Flitwick, her Head of House. He returned her books. He also informed her how close a thing her survival had been, at several junctures.

The goblins would happily have butchered her on the Stonehenge battlefield. Of all people, Hermione Granger had interceded on her behalf.

Before another day's time, the Minister of Magic would have just as happily consigned her to the Dementors straightaway. Albus Dumbledore had scotched that idea. His reforms required a trial before anyone could be kissed or sent to Azkaban.

The last elephant in the room was whether she would be tried as a Death Eater accomplice - for attempted murder of Ronald Weasley, and perhaps more.

Then Professor Flitwick handed back her seventh year spellbooks. The opposite possibility was her release. Everything depended on whether the mind-controlling effects of her now-destroyed tattoo were considered the equivalent of the Imperius Curse.

That question required study and consultation. The Ministry lacked the necessary expertise in this form of ancient Chinese domestic magic. Immigrant wizards could help, but after the New Years incident, the Ministry was wary (if not absolutely paranoid) of Triad infiltration.

Thus, she had to wait. And whilst she waited, she studied - and had ever since Professor Flitwick's visit.

On this day - or night - several soft popping noises interrupted her monotony. Ordinarily nothing in the cell made noise, save her. Cho tensed. From two prior episodes, she knew what to expect.

The cell's vanishing door reappeared. Almost immediately it opened.

What news would she receive? Would she be on trial for her life?

Cho tottered to her feet. The Healers had reversed most of the physical changes caused by her near-miss succubus metamorphosis, but her toes had gone missing permanently.

Two sharply contrasting wizards entered - the tall, richly bearded Headmaster, followed by the diminutive, part-goblin Professor Flitwick. The sight of her Head of House let Cho to breathe again.

Seeing Cho hobble, Dumbledore bade her be seated. "Please ... not on our account. We are here because we have news...."

As if that were not obvious.

"...Upon full consideration, the Ministry has concluded, first, that you acted under compulsion. That establishes an absence of scienter for your actions. Second, it has further been determined that, with the source of your magical compulsion destroyed, you are not a recidivism threat."

Cho shook with relief. "They ... they believed me then? I couldn't even prove ... that it existed...."

"The evidence was ample," the Headmaster continued. "The Ministry could corroborate certain aspects of your story by review of Muggle sources of ... ahem ... information. Upon additional magical confirmation, Rufus himself halted the prosecution."

Cho was shocked. The Ministry was notorious for ignoring Muggle culture. But an unpleasant conversation from months before sprung to her mind. "Who? Who knew ... Granger?"

"Initially," Professor Flitwick confirmed. "She learnt of your Muggle 'activities,' so to speak, apparently through computaters. The crucial confirmation, however, was in our House," Flitwick revealed. "A critical record of your tattoo was captured by Luna Lovegood in a Pocket Pensieve."

Cho was shocked that Lovegood cared about such things, yet alone had cached such a memory. She wasn't ... that way? Or maybe, being Looney, she was.

But that was for later.

For now, the question was, "What happens next?"

Smiling; his eyes twinkling for the first time since the conversation began, the Headmaster slipped his unburnt hand into his robes. "I believe this belongs to you."

"My wand!" Cho exclaimed, clutching it to her breast. "I never thought I'd see it again. Where did you find it?"

"I do not know whom to credit," Dumbledore replied. "It was discovered in a search of your house following your parents' flight to China. The Ministry confiscated it, expecting it to contain evidence against you, but nothing incriminating turned up. With the decision not to prosecute, they had no basis for keeping it."

"Does that mean I'm free to go?" Cho asked hesitantly.

"If you wish, yes," the Headmaster confirmed. "You are of age, and your parents' actions abdicated any authority over you...."

"That was my father," Cho corrected. "My mother? It's just ... well, the traditional Chinese way for women."

"In any event," Dumbledore harrumphed, "by fleeing the country they have forfeited their parental rights. But I wish to make clear; you are also free to stay, that is, to continue matriculating at Hogwarts. Now, I regret, I must really be going. Filius has the details."

Dumbledore bowed slightly, turned, and was gone.

Cho looked to Professor Flitwick. Even seated she was a head taller than her Head of House. She bubbled, "I can't believe this is happening. I can really stay and graduate?"

"Yes, and I hope you will," he answered immediately.

"I shall," Cho instantly decided. "I've nowhere else to go, anyway."

"Excellent," Flitwick accepted her decision. "I anticipated as much. I took the liberty of scheduling an appointment for you with Poppy later this morning."

"Whatever for?" the girl asked.

"An orthotic consultation," Flitwick revealed with a hint of a smile. "With proper magical orthoses, you should be able to walk, if not normally, at least well enough to get by."

She looked at him oddly. "You knew?"

"I hoped," he replied. "I expected the Ministry to throw in. They didn't want the publicity, and between the probable witness list and the likelihood of acquittal, I thought Rufus, and even Thicknesse, would take the easy way out."

"Witness list?" Cho seemed puzzled. She had given little thought to defending herself.

"Any defender with bottle would have called both Mister Potter and Miss Granger to testify on your behalf," Flitwick remarked. "He Who Must Not Be Named and your father, well, their plan was thwarted more by luck than by design. The Ministry does not wish having that dwelt upon. Your trial would have done just that."

Cho nodded, understanding that her freedom was due as much to her inconvenience as to her innocence. "The Headmaster said you had 'details' for me?"

Flitwick drew himself up. "Not many. You are on probation, of course."

Cho bowed her head. "I understand."

"Criminal probation; not Hogwarts probation, mind you."

Cho nodded her head.

"You have, of course, some make-up work...."

"I've been studying."

"...I thought you would. And no Quidditch or other extracurricular activities."

She sighed. "That will sink our Cup chances. But if that's what it takes...."

"It's not vindictive. The major restriction is for you to have nothing to do with Ronald Weasley...."

"Of course."

"...Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger. The extracurricular ban is a way of enforcing that. Now in respect of Miss Lovegood...."

* * * *

This moment was worth all those long days of humiliation. He must have mucked out three-quarters of the moat. Filch made him scrub the floor of Slughorn's classroom on his hands and knees - with a toothbrush. He had polished every suit of armour on the Ground Floor by hand and in public, enduring hoots from everyone - even members of his own House.

That bloody Squib even set him against the Weasley memorial bog, with no better luck than anyone else.

For tonight's detention, Draco Malfoy's task was to shine every trophy in the trophy case, again with no magic, of course. He had two third-year companions, a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw. They had brawled the other day after Care of Magical Creatures, and Hagrid had consigned them to Filch.

Trophy shining was a punishment reserved for younger, immature students. But so was detention with Filch. For that reason Draco had deliberately acted immaturely - first provoking that duel with Terry Boot, and then employing a Fertilising Charm he had picked up at Oceanix.

To make this night possible, Draco had needed to disgust his own Head of House. Only a sufficiently revolted Professor Slughorn would decide to take him down a peg by ordering detentions with Filch.

Then he had bitched and moaned enough that Filch - amongst his other degrading assignments - assigned him the juvenile task of trophy polishing.

Access to that trophy cabinet was essential. His wellbeing - perhaps his life - depended on it.

He could not afford another cock-up like that a couple of weeks ago in the Room of Requirement - a cock-up that transformed a triumph into a near disaster.

With the not overly competent assistance of Caractacus Burke, he had struggled for much too long to repair a derelict Vanishing Cabinet located in the Room's rubbish bin configuration. He had discovered the thing fortuitously at the end of the previous year. After Umbridge disappeared, he had been in dire need of someplace to dispose incriminating Inquisitorial Squad paraphernalia. The Room had provided that iteration.

Amidst piles of flotsam and jetsam, had been a broken down ebony wood cabinet topped by an off-centre peak. It bore a distinctive gilt snake-like pattern inlaid with greenish mother-of-pearl.

How distinctive?

Distinctive enough that he recalled the same pattern on a similar piece of furniture last seen in Borgin & Burke's over three years earlier.

In his first meeting after hiring Burke to rebuild Malfoy Manor, he had mentioned this tidbit to him. Burke had made this news known in Death Eater circles. Within a week he received an edict from the Dark Lord that he and Burke were to mend it.

Shortly before the Christmas holiday, after several months of futility, Draco had managed to restore the cabinet's transmit function, at least for small animals. The receiver function stubbornly refused to operate until just a few weeks ago.

He had chosen an auspicious evening. Potter was conducting another of his Defence Club lessons. Those were no longer held in the Room, so if Draco could finish his business in the meantime; he would not encounter any nosy Gryffindors.

Everything began swimmingly. Finally, he had solved the receipt problem. The fix was replacing some frayed wand core material that edged the door frame. Almost immediately, he had received an unfamiliar object, a Parseltongue Translator. It contained new orders from the Dark Lord. He also received a shiny gold medallion bearing a half-dozen ancient runes edged with lapis lazuli.

Draco had never read runes particularly well.

That triumph led, even Draco admitted, to recklessness. Engrossed in the workings of the Parseltongue Translator, he had not noticed until too late a team of house-elves entering the Room.

He was trapped. This crew had chosen this of all nights to tidy up the Room's unholy mess. Hiding behind the cabinet, Draco hoped that the elves found too much rubbish to cart away in one trip.

He was almost right.

Almost was not nearly good enough.

The last elf, working considerably more slowly than the rest, latched onto his precious cabinet.

Draco had no choice but the Killing Curse. He pulled it off because: (1) the laggard elf was alone, (2) Draco had enough aptitude with the Curse to work it using a stray wand someone had abandoned, and (3) the Room was off the Castle's spell detection grid - a factoid he had gleaned from tracking down Potter's illicit group the year before.

It was just a bloody elf, but he had no time to waste. The other elves would surely return any minute to complete their job. Draco shrank the cabinet to pocket size. He dragged the dead elf's body to the nearest stairwell and tossed it over the side. Then he beat a hasty retreat to the Slytherin common room.

Ensconced in his Imperturbed bedchamber, Draco nearly lost his eardrums to Parseltongue before mastering the Translator.

The Dark Lord's instructions were crystal clear....

...Which was why Draco found himself in detention with Filch, charged (along with two third years not worthy of his attention) with polishing trophies without using magic.

"I'll handle the top two rows," Draco informed the pair as soon as Filch departed. "You midgets can take the rest. You stay out of my way, and I'll not bother you - understood?"

Neither of the third years, least of all the junior Hufflepuff, was inclined to dispute the orders of a much more capable son of a convicted Death Eater.

One by one Draco polished the trophies until they shone like new.

The fourth trophy was the important one - the Ravenclaw Medal.

"Unh, unh, unh...."

Grunting rhythmically, as if polishing with all his might, Draco produced an almost identical version of the Medal from inside his waistband. He continued his charade whilst slipping the real Ravenclaw Medal into the same hiding place.

Then he resumed polishing for real.

The faked copy deviated from the original in one small respect. The original Ravenclaw Medal bore the name of that Mudblood bint - undoubtedly she was the Medal's current recipient. The Dark Lord's copy had no name on it.

That minor detail was soon forgotten. Draco's excitement grew over the next hour and a half. He had successfully managed the switch. He merely had to finish the remainder of the detention without incident.

Mission accomplished.

Back in the Slytherin dungeon, Draco was grimly triumphant. He had completed the latest of the Dark Lord's orders. He had stolen the Ravenclaw Medal.

Now he had to get it to his Master.

Easier said than done.

His instructions were simple - use the Vanishing Cabinet to send the thing to Burke at his shop.

But the cabinet was quite large. He had kept it shrunken ever since removing it from the Room of Requirement. It could not operate in that shrunken state.

He would have to resize the cabinet. But when? But where? With something that large, hiding it at full size would be extremely difficult.

He also had to test it first. It absolutely had to work properly after spending weeks in a shrunken state. The Dark Lord badly wanted the Ravenclaw Medal. Draco could not risk the sort of limbo that engulfed Moose Montague last year.

Not if Draco wanted to keep living.

Fulfilling the next part of the Dark Lord's instructions would require considerable thought and discretion.

Perhaps it would be best to have Burke ask Lord Voldemort himself.

58

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 6/23/2013