Harry Potter and the Fifth Element

Chapter 76 - French Toast

The knock on the door found the Headmaster catching up on voluminous, mostly routine correspondence. The caller was expected. Albus Dumbledore knew full well who was coming and the purpose of his visit.

The aged wizard sighed audibly, put aside his papers, and stood. He waved his good hand towards the sound and invited, "Enter. It is not locked."

Healer Huxley bustled in, a folder under his arm and a concerned look on his face.

"Parry," Dumbledore greeted, extending the only hand that now mattered. "You said it was urgent...."

"Albus!" The Healer responded, more emotionally than professionally. "Albus." Ignoring the proffered handshake, Parry threw his free hand around the older man's back and pulled the Headmaster into an emotional hug. "I'm so sorry...."

Once released, the Headmaster stepped back and regarded his personal Healer of more than half a century through his half-moon glasses.

"I presume the news is bad, then." His voice held no trace of dread.

"An understatement, I regret, Albus," Hlr. Huxley confirmed with a stiff upper lip. "Your supposition was accurate. The evil poisoning your system is progressive and unstoppable. You must have destroyed a particularly evil Horcrux. Nothing else could account for the development of your condition."

"It had to be done," Dumbledore pronounced. "I would do it again. What is my prognosis?"

Hlr. Huxley answered starkly, "Fourteen months, maybe sixteen at most, and that assumes a treatment regimen I doubt you'd seriously consider. You'd have to surrender your Hogwarts duties at once and you'd be largely bedridden thereafter."

The Headmaster cocked his head. "My life has been long and productive. I see no need to prolong it unnecessarily. When I took that risk, I was prepared for the next great adventure. The alternative, then?"

The Healer's face screwed up in helpless rictus. "With certain palliative Potions, you could sustain five, perhaps six more months maximum as an active wizard. Beyond that, the end would be quick. I cannot guarantee it would be painless." The mental cost of his message was writ large on Parry's face.

"With my history, I fear pain even less than death," Dumbledore remarked, his eye settling upon certain photographs. "I am prepared to begin the treatment you described immediately. A pity, though...."

"No, a tragedy," Hlr. Huxley disagreed.

"Not my death, which is unavoidable in the best of circumstances," the Headmaster corrected. "The pity is I cannot guide Mister Potter to the conclusion of his destiny. He will have to finish things with Tom without me."

"So you plan on telling him," the Healer fished.

"Oh, no, perish the thought," Dumbledore dismissively waved his one good hand. "The boy's capacity for guilt rivals his capacity for good. He would react to my fate as he did to Miss Granger's. As you know, she was injured in the same event. My demise is my own doing, and shall remain that way. I shall inform him by letter delivered after the fact."

"Very well.... Engorgio!" At Hlr. Huxley's spell, an object the size of a chocolate éclair expanded into a valise full of potions. Dumbledore nodded towards a wall cabinet and, with a twitch of Hlr. Huxley's wand, the phials and jars loaded themselves neatly and orderly onto the shelves.

Back at his desk, Dumbledore sighed. "Another pity is the things I promised to do that cannot possibly be completed within my lifetime. As I learned ... far too often ... ancient, entrenched bureaucracies simply do not move that quickly - particularly upon matters of great import."

* * * *

'Blast it, where is she?' Harry stewed. He and Hermione had trained together as usual in the Room earlier that morning. After her hexes put him through his paces on a balance beam, he needed a shower and was ready to leave. She had stayed behind to "finish up" some research.

He wondered what she could possibly be finishing, since they had parted over an hour before. With breakfast nearly over, Hermione was still absent.

Granted, this was Hogwarts. Sure, she had been in the Room of Requirement. Absolutely, she was a superbly capable witch. Certainly, she could have sent him a Patronus or something. But still, what if...?

Harry's personal experience with the Castle's imperfect security generated a cold tug of anxiety whenever Hermione was unaccounted for, which by now she most certainly was. Any more delay, and she would either miss breakfast or - worse - be late for Arithmancy. The latter was unheard of, and the mere thought would send his fiancée into conniptions.

Harry kept his fears to himself whilst chatting with Ron and Ginny about the practice schedule for the so-called "Hogwarts all-stars" selected Quidditch team. With inter-House matches upcoming, arranging additional sessions could get complicated.

"...and next week, because the 'Puffs have added an extra practice - to prep for us, I suppose - I've only been able to schedule Monday late and Friday early, as soon as classes end," Ron rattled on. "Whoa! What's this about? Look at that ... I guess Fleur's got something to say."

Academically related announcements were commonplace as the morning meal wound down. Fleur was not a professor, so the beautiful but lowly intern's (technically an adjunct professor) appearance was a rare sight at the morning podium.

And mostly welcome ... to some, anyway. The boys paid rapt attention.

Ginny groaned audibly. Fleur had a way of bewitching the male population - moreso Ron than Harry - whether intended or not. As to Fleur's intent, Ginny was agnostic.

"Attention, s'il vous plait," the French blonde began, over the buzz of conversation in the Great Hall. "I 'ave an announcement. We 'ave now finalised zee arrangements for zee retours dance at Beauxbatons. On behalf of 'Ogwarts, I 'ave challenged mes former classmates at the Palais to stage an equally ... unique event...."

The hall grew silent.

"Beauxbatons shall 'old eets alliance dance on zee equinox - zee twenty second of Mars ... er ... March. Zee theme ees medieval, zee fourteenth century or zerabouts. To strike a blow for egalité, zees dance weel be pour la choix aux femmes...."

Fleur moved back towards her seat.

"Oh great, another bloody dance," Ron grumbled beside Harry. "Who am I going to ask...?"

After Professor Flitwick stopped by for a few words, Fleur stepped back to the podium. "I am sorry; by zat I meant for zees dance, zee ladies may ask zee gentlemen...."

Ron quipped, "Well, that solves that, I guess...."

Harry felt himself under acute feminine observation. Even Ginny was regarding him pensively. "Dammit, Hermione, where are you?" Harry muttered uncomfortably.

His question barely asked - Harry received a most unexpected answer. From the direction of the Great Hall's entrance, he heard her voice. "Expecto patronum publicus!"

Harry turned to see Hermione's distinctive phoenix Patronus soaring towards him. Instinctively, he braced himself, even though he knew from experience that, physically at least, the impact was minuscule. Indeed, no impact occurred.

Instead, Hermione's brilliantly silver phoenix drew up short - and bowed.

Formalities complete, it delivered its message. "My dear Mister Potter, Miss Hermione Granger formally wishes to inform you that your presence is desired at whatever function Fleur has announced."

Harry's eyes - and those of everyone else in the Hall - turned to the entrance where Hermione stood, having just arrived.

He rose. She strode swiftly towards him, but a higher authority intervened.

"Miss Granger!" Professor Flitwick's high, reedy voice brought her to an abrupt standstill. "It's undoubtedly true that, like the no-public-displays-of-affection rule, the prohibition against using magic in the Great Hall is honoured mostly in the breach, but now you've just gone too far. Let this pass, and we may as well abolish the rule. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Her ears burning, Hermione trundled to her usual seat beside Harry. She was not accustomed to losing House points, with Snape having shown his true colours and departed.

Thus, her attention lagged as Professor Flitwick continued. "Dunston, Frobisher, Buckingham ... and anyone else in my Seventh-Year seminar on magical information transfer.... That is how a properly cast Communications Patronus looks. Save the end. We do not teach the public variant, as it is post-N.E.W.T...."

"Where have you been? I was starting to get concerned...." Harry asked as Hermione slumped into her seat.

"Miss Granger!" Evidently Flitwick was not finished with her.

Flushed with embarrassment, she stood with her head respectfully bowed, as was customary. Flitwick was probably her second favourite teacher.

"Fifteen points to Gryffindor for a remarkable display of magical aptitude."

Her knees buckling in relief, Hermione collapsed into Harry's arms, a broad smile on her face.

"Blimey, Hermione, don't tempt him," Ron hissed from across the table. "Flitwick just mentioned the PDOA rule...."

"Umm ... thanks for heading off any awkward invitations, Hermione," Harry responded, as he helped sort her out. "But where were you?"

She offered a rather tired smile, and wordlessly fished something from her beaded bag.

With an audible "plonk," she plopped a milky white bottle on the table. Grimacing, she told him, "These are those pills from Ginny. You can have them. I tested them thoroughly and they're clean."

Harry deftly scooped up the bottle, like the Seeker he was. It fit in his hand, although not snugly, given its girth.

Harry began reading the label "Magi-Cal. Keeping witches fit and flying, both before and after...." He turned to Ginny on his right, opposite Hermione. She had been pretending not to listen. "Umm ... before and after what?"

"Harry!" Hermione intervened. "You needn't worry. It's nothing that could happen to you." Her finality stopped Harry in his tracks. She could explain menopause to him privately, were Harry so bold as to ask.

Hermione leaned around Harry to address Ginny. "Thanks, Gin, for indulging my paranoia. It's just ... after those chocolates.... I'm glad you let me check, and if you didn't hear before, they're clean - but I suppose you knew that."

Ginny smiled and replied. "Sure, Hermione, no problem. I'd probably do the same, in your position...."

Hermione turned back to Harry for details about what, exactly, she had just invited him to. She had missed Fleur's first announcement. Arriving just in time for the sequel, she had neither looked - nor listened - before she leapt.

Thus, she missed it, along with Harry, Neville and nearly everyone. Once Hermione resumed her conversation with Harry Ginny kept smiling at her. But the smile's character changed. The likes of that smile Ron had seen but once before - in a very Dark room on New Year's Eve.

* * * *

Arms tightly crossed, the Dark Lord paced his balcony in the gathering dusk, stopping to watch Thestrals swooping above the treetops of the dense surrounding forest.

He was thinking, and more clearly than at any time since the Stonehenge debacle. He had concluded that Horcrux reversal was a good idea, despite its unfortunate counter-obligation that he had not yet decided how to discharge.

Now that he was thinking clearly, Voldemort plotted. The Malfoy whelp had exceeded his expectations. He had, on short notice, obtained the Ravenclaw Medal Horcrux and spirited it from Hogwarts, under the overly-large nose of that Muggle-Loving fool.

The boy's other mission was also proceeding, albeit slowly. The Dark Lord accepted a measure of responsibility. He only wanted Potter and that Mudblood separated. From what he knew of Potter, he doubted the boy would be so foolish as to start a family so soon. Should he be so stupid, this Mudblooded hindrance was at least clever. She would handle contraception, even should the boy not.

Since Stonehenge, circumstances had changed. That mission was no longer open-ended. The Dark Lord would set a deadline - a reasonable, but early deadline.

Somehow, Malfoy would meet it. The boy was sufficiently incentivised.

Now Voldemort faced another decision. Was Malfoy ready for front line Death Eater duty? The Dark Lord was of two minds. Events had proven Malfoy's value at Hogwarts, particularly now that Severus was summoned to his service. Remove Malfoy, and his interests within the Castle would surely suffer.

Adrian Pucey, Pansy Parkinson, or Millicent Bullstrode would be willing enough replacements, but their ability was - to be charitable - suspect. Led by any of them, active operations at Hogwarts would probably fail. The Dark Lord had suffered too many failures - and too many fools - recently.

But except for Potter, Hogwarts no longer loomed so large on the Dark Lord's agenda. Voldemort aimed to control the world - or at least Britain - and capable Death Eaters were much more useful. After Stonehenge, and the failure of the Triad alliance of convenience, far fewer of his followers fell into that category. Recovery from that defeat required something spectacular, probably several spectaculars, to obtain the recruits needed to restore his numbers.

He had plans for that.

But Malfoy's contemplated assignment would inevitably end the boy's Hogwarts tenure, barring the off chance that his Death Eaters managed a complete triumph in the interim. After Stonehenge, that off chance was truly remote.

Lord Voldemort ultimately opted for that route with Draco Malfoy. He would determine exactly how effective a Death Eater Lucius' son could be.

Decision made, he strode purposely to the door. A large, magic-resistant deadbolt slid open with a clack. He ordered the Death Eater on guard duty, "Send in Severus Snape."

Elsewhere in the same building, the ex-Hogwarts Potions-master oscillated between being pleased and worried. The Dark Lord's spirits had recently improved and were better than at any time since the Stonehenge fiasco. Lord Voldemort must not have been particularly keen on his Chinese entente and the power sharing such an arrangement portended.

The Dark Lord was not about sharing anything. Certain necessary compromises had caused - how to put this - domestic discord amongst the Dark Lord's most devoted followers.

Snape being Snape, he settled on worry.

He was wise.

He rose at a knock on the door.

"The Master'll see yeh now," Alecto Carrow leered. "Wouldn't keep 'im waiting iffn yeh know what's good fer yeh."

Without further word, Snape slipped on his billowing cloak and left. He would not dignify that grotesque Scots bint with a response. Who did she think she was? He had worked with the Dark Lord since that sorry excuse for a witch was in nappies.

Two quick knocks on the door - then one slow - signalled his presence to the Dark Lord.

Touching the knob, Snape felt the door's wards lift. The Dark Lord allowed him entry.

Snape dropped to his knees and ritually kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. He had no idea what his "Master" wanted. That, he knew, was intentional. The Dark Lord preferred to keep his followers guessing.

"I have a new assignment for you."

"Excellent. How may I serve my Master?"

"As you know, I sequester my operations to ensure that no traitor can threaten my entire organisation," the Dark Lord mused out loud.

"Indeed, my Lord," Snape answered evenly. With Bella at Voldemort's right hand, Snape had been the target of this strategy repeatedly.

"After considerable thought, I will extend your role into another aspect of my operations," he revealed.

"I am most flattered, My Lord," Snape sycophantically uttered.

"I am planning.... Legilimens!"

Without warning, the Dark Lord's psychic powers plumbed Snape's mind. Unless Snape passed this final loyalty test, Voldemort could not trust him with such an important enterprise. The images the Dark Lord captured were reassuring, mostly showing the Potions-master diligently pursuing this or that project. Amongst them, though, was something peculiar - Snape entering a darkened tent with a large book. The walls of the tent were ... red.

Voldemort slowed the cavalcade and examined this discordant memory. He abruptly withdrew from Snape's mind, and the greasy haired wizard slumped to the floor.

"Why were you skulking about my tent that night?" he demanded ominously. "And what book did you sneak into it?"

Snape gasped. "Master.... It was ... all I could do.... The potions ... I thought ... you should know ... their effects...."

"You stole into my tent," Voldemort repeated menacingly. "Why not simply tell me?"

Recovering, Snape regathered his wits. "You summoned me on short notice," he carefully explained. "You were understandably busy, and I inadequate. When I supplied the potions, I hadn't been there five minutes, and I forgot.... I hadn't grasped the circumstances.... When I remembered, you were with the Chinese. Since we were not planning a fight, not immediately..., I thought an annotated book...."

The Dark Lord caught Snape's qualifying language. "Stop right there," he demanded. "What do you mean, a fight? Explain yourself."

Snape tried. "The potions you requested - especially the Fertility Potion - exact a cost...."

"What cost?" Voldemort's focus was as sharp as his Legilimency.

"Under the Fertility Potion, a portion of your magical power is devoted - diverted - to the task at hand ... until it is completed...."

The Dark Lord interrupted again, "I was subpar during that battle because of your potions?!?" he thundered. "CRUCIO!!"

Snape had borne the Dark Lord's Unforgivable numerous times, but never like this. As he writhed in a fire that seemingly burned him from inside out, the small part of him that remained rational was convinced that he had gone too far and was about to die.

He was wrong.

Unexpectedly, the excruciating curse lifted. Voldemort's blazing eyes bore down at Snape's limp form. "How long did your potions have that effect?"

Barely coherent, and barely audible, Snape answered. "It's all there ... in the book...." He pointed feebly towards a nearby shelf and collapsed in exhaustion - awaiting his own death.

With a twist of his wand, Lord Voldemort summoned his copy of Moste Potente Potions. He recognised it as the same book Snape had delivered to his tent, carefully marked, last New Year's Eve. The pain of realisation struck home as he read. Disregarding possible knock-on effects, he had selected the strongest Fertility Potion. It redirected up to a third of the user's magical energy to reproductive success. The effect lasted for twenty-four hours, or until a reproductive act occurred, and then gradually dissipated.

That explained his feebleness during the battle - why Potter could deflect his Killing Curse, leading to....

"Aarrgghh!" the Dark Lord could contain himself no longer. "I failed.... I ... I wasted a seventh of myself! The rejoining was for naught...!"

Wrathfully, he turned his wand on Snape's prostrate form, intent upon doing away with the worse-than-useless scum. But before he uttered the fatal words, it came to him....

The solution, to the extent one existed, to his problems.

He needed to restore Bella, but not so perfectly that her form was superior to himself. And, whatever the reason, he did feel better since the reunion.

He needed to assure the loyalty of two of his most competent followers - one old and one new - and dispose of them if they failed.

He needed absolute assurance that his new interpretation of Abigail Rosen's reading, which had been haunting him for months, could never came to pass.

He needed to spare the life of someone whom, at the moment he reversed his soul split, he intended to kill.

And after Stonehenge, he needed a demonstration to the magical world that he was still Lord Voldemort - the most feared and most powerful Dark wizard of the age.

Most of all, as always, he needed to destroy Harry Potter - so he could finally be done with him.

Instead of casting the Killing Curse on Snape, he uttered, "Ennervate!"

Snape's body twitched. The man groaned.

"Get up," the Dark Lord demanded. "Whilst your stupidity cost me dearly, you will be allowed to redeem yourself."

Snape had not been unconscious - merely utterly spent between Cruciation and fatalism. "How may I serve you?" he rasped robotically whilst staggering to his feet.

"Instead of killing you for your failings, I shall be merciful. Instead, as I said, I have decided to expand your role."

"Yes, my Lord,"

"Albus Dumbledore has lived too long. I want him dead," he declared, ignoring his words' import. "The populace believes that I fear him. After Stonehenge, that must be rectified, or my own position may be in peril."

"You are going to kill...?"

An evil smile spread across Voldemort's face. "No, Draco Malfoy is," he hissed drawing out the name of Snape's protégé. "Should he not, you are to kill them both."

Snape was mortified, but the master actor kept it to himself. "My Lord?" was all he uttered.

"You heard me," the Dark Lord spoke with finality. "You are the only one privy to this fact."

The implication was obvious. Should Voldemort detect any preparations or countermeasures by the Headmaster, Snape would be exposed as a traitor.

"How shall I proceed?"

"Do nothing overt until ordered," Voldemort directed. "You know Hogwarts better than anyone here. When appropriate, you will lead an invasion party. You can have the Carrows, Gibbon, Mulciber, Selwynn, Rowle, and perhaps others. I'll also give you Greyback and Nagini for their more unusual skills. I have made some progress with the Dementors, and I shall try to provide you with some of their services, but do not count on it."

"When, my Lord?" Snape asked. His mind reeled. He was being told to carry out Albus Dumbledore's murder, using his favourite student as the weapon.

"Begin planning immediately," Voldemort commanded. "You will know the date when I tell you. Do not expect much notice."

The interview was over.

Obviously dismissed, Snape stumbled towards the exit. The Dark Lord's voice brought him up short one final time.

"Fail me, Severus, and your end will be even more painful, and even more final." The glare from his Master's burning red slits was terrifyingly intense.

Escaping the Dark Lord's presence, Snape was profoundly conflicted. He had just been tasked with the death of the man to whom he owed his life - and of the spymaster to whom he reported. He was to lead Draco in commission of irredeemable evil. But through Lord Voldemort's rare indiscretion, he had also learnt critical information that Dumbledore had literally pleaded with him to discover.

He could only place himself once again at the Headmaster's mercy.

Once Snape had left, Voldemort turned to the Death Eater standing watch, "Get me Ludo Bagman."

* * * *

Behind schedule, Draco Malfoy was using his wand to fasten the buckles of his never-scuff patent leather shoes - epitomising the term "well-heeled." He paused as a wizard's shadow darkened his door.

"M'boy, this is for you. I apologise for its delay whilst I was ... indisposed." Somewhat awkwardly, his Head of House handed Malfoy an already-opened letter.

Nodding, Draco took it. Without looking, he knew it was from his contractor Caractacus Burke.

"That's all right," Draco mumbled, although it was anything but. Lately he had been proceeding blindly and did not care for that at all.

"I'm pleased that things seem to be improving for you, at least on the home front." With that, the portly professor turned to leave.

"Oh, professor," Malfoy hesitantly called after him. "I want to ... apologise too, for how I behaved in class that day.... I acted like an unthinking Mudblood picking that fight. I got what I deserved. I'm sorry, and it won't happen again."

Horace Slughorn's expression brightened. He never expected an apology from the haughty blond. This Malfoy took after his father. "That's quite all right, Draco. You've been under a lot of pressure with your father's situation. Your Potions work remains excellent, although young Weasley is giving you a run for your money. Apology accepted; think nothing more of it...."

"It's just my mum. She's out of sorts...."

"So I've heard," Slughorn sympathised. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it. Things to do, you know. People to meet...."

Once Slughorn departed, Draco Malfoy smiled as widely as his perpetually sneering face allowed. The cause was the first paragraph of the letter, which purported to summarise the status of the construction at Malfoy Manor: "Financial arrangements for Phase III of the work are complete."

Decoded, that meant that the Dark Lord must be pleased with Draco's latest efforts, since another installment of "Gulbenkian inheritance money" was released - enough to complete reconstruction and to allow Mum to move back home where she belonged.

It was completely encrypted, of course. Since Draco's meeting with the Headmaster, all his correspondence with Burke, in or out of Hogwarts, was censored. His post was diverted through Professor Slughorn, Dumbledore's delegate to review everything.

The code keyed on the list of budget items in each letter. It was cumbersome, but Draco could live with it. Censorship was not why he wanted Slughorn neutralised....

No, that request involved Slughorn's oversight - loose though it was - of peer tutoring for Potions.

Draco finished reading his post whilst walking through the Castle's dungeon-level corridors. He found it on the second page, under "Remove and Replace Overgrown Greenery." Transposing some digits in the columns marked "Budgeted" and "Actual" and....

Shite.

Burke had responded to Draco's request, indicating that Death Eaters would try poisoning Professor Slughorn.

The effort described in the delayed letter had failed. Everyone in the Castle knew that Slughorn had suddenly taken gravely ill. He had recovered, but details of what had transpired were still secret. Rumours, originating with the Gryffindors, were that Slughorn had somehow been poisoned.

That explained something else - his professor's odd demeanour whilst giving him the letter. Slughorn's dominant hand, his wand hand, stayed in his cloak. Plainly, Slughorn knew he had been the target of foul play and was extremely suspicious of those he mistrusted, definitely including Draco Malfoy.

Draco would have no second chance. Slughorn's overweening paranoia rendered another attempt impractical, if not impossible. Critically, that meant Draco's record of "service" as Ginny Weasley's Potions peer tutor could not be expunged with Slughorn still alive.

The die was thus cast.

Draco took a deep breath. It was now very likely would never finish his Hogwarts education, at least under the school's current management. He would obey the Dark Lord's wishes, but beneath his contemptuous exterior, Draco Malfoy was not one to underestimate Hermione Granger.

Yes, the redheaded bint would brew the Draught of Despair to perfection, but Draco did not delude himself. Even the Draught's malign influence, he did not think, would shut down the Mudblood forever. Sooner or later, something would happen that, notwithstanding black potion-induced despair, would spur Granger's suspicions that her precious Potter had been tampered with - and that a potion was the likely culprit. She was clever enough that Draco did not believe that even the best Draught of Despair could keep her at bay forever, once the Weaselette snatched the Great Git.

More plausibly, he hoped that a potioned Potter would find Weasley's undeniable physical charms sufficient, and that the girl could tie the Git up, down, or whatever, before the day of reckoning. Hell, the bint could get herself pregnant for all he cared.

But unless the Mudblood, or Potter, were eliminated - either eventuality being well above his junior Death Eater pay grade - at some point things would unravel, and Weasley's use of a complex Love Potion would out. Even if he Obliviated her (messy, but probably within his capacity, given his unconcern for her future) nobody would believe she could do that without help.

With the peer tutor records intact, everything would point to him - holder of his year's O+ O.W.L. in the subject.

In that eventuality Draco was prepared to flee, but had not yet broached that issue with the Dark Lord's agents. His next letter would. Responding to Burke, he would add a new line item to the budget - "Upgrade Emergency Exits and Ward Escape Spellwork to Code."

But for now, he had to prepare the room for the second brewing cycle that would complete the Draught of Despair.

Ginny Weasley arrived at the hastily called Potions session with her mood almost as dark as Draco's. As her footsteps echoed along the deserted corridor, she muttered, "This is crazy." She had repeated that phrase a dozen times since witnessing that display in the Great Hall. "Why did I think I could do this?"

Why, indeed?

Ginny cracked the door to the unfamiliar dungeon - the Potions classroom was unavailable for some reason - and rolled her eyes at Draco and the elaborate Potions apparatus he had almost completed assembling.

Without even looking up - he was manipulating some tubing into a figure-eight coil with his wand - Malfoy remarked sarcastically, "Glad you could make it."

"More notice would have helped," Ginny tossed back. "Muggle Studies ran over. It took me five minutes to Scourgify all the gunk on my robes after stupid Sally Simpson blew up something called a 'double boiler.' Such a lovely first day of Muggle cooking."

"Why bother with that sad sack subject?" Draco haughtily dismissed the topic. "Magic is far superior in every way to anything those pathetic Muggles could devise."

"I'm not saying you're wrong, but Daddy thinks it's something I should know," Ginny answered defensively. "Besides, it's a soft option. The only homework is reading. Not like all this...." She gestured dejectedly at Draco's complex Potions equipment.

He could guess why the redhead was demoralised. "Oh come on, Reds," he encouraged, whilst giving the talisman a rub. "You're not half bad, now, at this. You have a superb peer tutor," he added with a smirk.

"Oh, screw yourself, Malfoy," Ginny snapped. "What makes you think I can do this? How can I compete with magic the likes of that? It's too bloody soon...."

Not an eyewitness, Draco had heard plenty about Granger's dramatic Great Hall entrance from Cambo and Spott, the Fifth-Years who were his replacements for Crabbe and Goyle. "No matter what she does, she'll always be a Mudblood. You're the Pure-blood - don't forget that, and don't let your Muggle-loving parents convince you otherwise."

"Lovely thought, but I doubt you can do what she did. I can't even conjure a Patronus for more than a few seconds, let alone make it do tricks like that," she whinged. "Now she's going to a second ball with him...."

"...And with the Potion I suspect you're keeping all too close to yourself even now," he shot a piercing glance towards her sex that seemed to undress her, "he'll spend all his time at the bloody Beauxbatons ball watching you...."

There it was - that ever-so-slight flash of red behind her eyes.

"Yeah, right," Ginny scoffed, "in my dowdy Fourteenth Century floor-length dress...."

"But less dowdy than anyone else," he reminded. "And who are you taking, anyway? No, don't even think about asking me...."

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy," she growled. "You wouldn't want Ron to break your nose again - that was the highlight of my night the last time."

Draco retreated, struggling to damp down his fury at that memory. "No, I mean it, we must plan this. I don't doubt that the potion will work. Who are you taking?"

Ginny tossed her vivid hair. "If you must know, nobody here. I'm signing up to pair with one of those French boys. I do have to be available, don't I?"

Draco relaxed; at least she was taking things seriously. "Nice idea. Couldn't have done better myself. Still, poor Big-bottom will be so disappointed," he insulted her former boyfriend. "That witch's option might yet be a good thing. Anyway, buck up and let's get started."

Ginny rummaged through her rucksack. "I did get plenty of her hair, as you wanted." She dropped a plump Ziploc bag on the tabletop. "She threw out an old pair of shoes the other day. I Tergeoed them and they yielded Merlin knows what." Ginny laid a stoppered phial next to the baggie. "Finally, I was lucky, if you call it that...." With a disgusted look, Ginny dangled a bog-roll-wrapped object by its white string. "The right time of the month."

She looked evilly at Draco. "Here, catch!"

"Not on your bloody life!" Malfoy yelped. Dodging the unmentionable missile, he nearly upset part of his laboriously constructed equipment. "I wouldn't touch that manky Mudblood's blood for all the Galleons in Gringotts."

Still, he levitated it onto the table next to the other raw materials. He knew - and she knew - that it was key. Better feedstock for the Draught of Despair did not exist, particularly for this particular intended use.

Draco got down to business. "We made the base the last time. Now, to keep Granger from using something like that Patronus on you, or anyone...." For the next three-quarters of an hour he put the Gryffindor redhead through her brewing paces, making sure she did everything perfectly.

However, Draco needed more than just perfect potions. He needed a date certain so he could keep dancing on the Dark Lord's tightrope. The exact date was negotiable, but setting one was not.

"So how is the ... other potion coming along?" Draco asked over their bubbling cauldron, feigning insouciance.

"I said ... I need more time." Ginny answered testily. "I'm constantly playing catch up here. You think I like waddling around like I'm constantly on my period?"

Draco grimaced at the mere thought.

"Oh, stuff it, Malfoy.... If you can't handle the truth, shove off."

"It's just... it sounds uncomfortable."

"Well it feels even worse," Ginny bitched. "But I'm doing it. With what I'm facing; it must be the strongest possible."

"That's the spirit," Draco urged, patting the talisman inside his robes. "So have you tested it at all yet?" He peered into the ewer beneath the dripping coil. "Lumos! Excellent ... this is inky black - just like it's supposed to...."

"Great," Ginny responded with a rather forced smile. "Tests ... at a subclinical dose, yes," she revealed. "Seems to have worked. I basically challenged Hermione to do her worst...."

Draco frowned.

"...That's why she was late to the Great Hall. In small doses, at least, I've confirmed that it's quite as undetectable as advertised."

Draco was appalled. "I think it's bloody stupid tipping your hand," he upbraided her.

"You're a bloody poor excuse for a Slytherin," she stropped, not backing down an inch. "That was what one calls a feint. You played Quidditch, not particularly well, I'll grant you...."

"Hey!"

"...Maybe you've heard of them. They're misdirection plays."

"Oh-kay," Draco backed off.

"When it's ready, that's not how I'll give it to him," Ginny hinted. "At least not at first...."

"So when, then?" Draco pressed. That was critical.

"I don't know; I'm scared," Ginny confessed.

"Not much of a Gryffindor, then," Draco matched her earlier jibe. He had suspected as much. He faced the nearly completed Draught of Despair - cover for his hand rubbing the talisman.

That was unnecessary.

"I know," Ginny blurted, sounding rather less miserable. "That's the ticket.... I just figured out how to get this," she pointed at the Draught of Despair, which almost filled the ewer, "where it needs to go. She told me her parents are Muggle tooth healers. She's never liked sweets...."

"So?" Draco responded tensely. He was confused, but definitely interested. He poured some of the evil-looking Draught into a beaker. In its pure form, not infused into anything else, the Draught of Despair was a misty, heavy, and entirely opaque ebony-coloured gas - a miasma in every sense of the word.

"So, you needn't know anything more," she delighted in keeping him guessing. "But Muggle Studies isn't so worthless after all."

"You'll have a week at most," Draco reminded her.

"I won't need a week," Ginny curtly informed him, a sly grin crossing her face as the final penny dropped. "We've a Quidditch match only a couple of days later. Harry always hides out in the Gryffindor locker room after catching the Snitch. He hates triumphal entrances into our after-match parties. He's really shy like that ... adorable."

Draco tried hard not to gag.

* * * *

"Hah!" Ron squawked, batting away his sister's inverted shot on goal. They had always been competitive - being the two youngest of seven siblings ensured that - but their ordinarily good-natured Quidditch rivalry only intensified as Ron became "the King" in goal and Ginny "Magic" as Gryffindor's point Chaser. "Takes more than just tossing from topsy turvy to throw me off, Sis."

"You'll see plenty more where that came from!" Ginny taunted whilst flitting behind the goal mouths. She soared off to Ron's right.

"Come on; look sharp!" Ron bellowed as the Gryffindor Chasers and Beaters were slow regrouping. "Let's show a little.... Aaahh!" A spurt of water drenched the back of his neck. Whilst the winter's snow was receding, an unexpected outdoor shower was still most unwelcome in the chilly late February air.

Ron spun towards his assailant, and raised his hand just in time to catch his co-captain's water bottle. "You insubordinate little...."

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you," Ginny retorted. She had Harry's co-captain's bottle trained on Ron. "This one has more ammo."

Ron knew he was outgunned. "Can I help it if Keeping's more strenuous than Seeking?" he smirked. "And only a captain can call time out."

"Well, I'll call one, then," Harry intervened from the side opposite where he had been lurking. "And if you want strenuous, try holding off Jazzy all practice. Not a dull moment, that.... Thanks," he added as Ginny tossed him his refreshment.

Ginny flashed Harry her most demure smile. "I didn't want a time out," she rejected Ron's original accusation. "Bloody Quaffle's gone off somewhere." Pointing her Firebolt downwards, she moved towards a still snow choked copse of trees and bushes in the general direction where Ron had deflected her last throw. A frustrated Ron and a bemused Harry trailed behind.

"Dammit! That's the third time this practice," Ron complained whilst searching half-heartedly. "We don't have another right now, so we have to find this one...."

"Find what?" came a familiar voice in an unfamiliar locale. Hermione did not frequent Quidditch practices in cold weather, using that time to practise both violin and Healing.

"Well, it's the Goddess Athena herself come down to mix with mere mortals," Ron greeted her. He had been teasing her in this gentle fashion since word had spread that, in addition to her usual seemingly effortless (to all but herself) academic prowess in her N.E.W.T. classes, she had outdone herself in her postponed Healing examination.

Ginny turned away, to hide her jealousy of a girl who seemingly had everything.

"Well, you two will probably be a bit more mortal in the coming weeks," Hermione teased back, refusing to rise to Ron's bait.

"What do I have to do with this?" Harry chimed in, interested in what his fiancée might know.

'Everything, my dear,' Hermione Legilimenced to him - extending her first word luxuriously. She quickly came to the point. "I just learnt from Madam Pomfrey. Katie is out of her coma and conscious. The Healers at St. Mungo's believe she will recover fully, probably before the end of the Term, and maybe in time to finish the season. She may have to repeat Seventh Year for academic reasons...."

Hermione continued, but Ron tuned her out. He was profoundly conflicted. He should be overjoyed to have Katie back. If at one hundred percent, she was far superior to her replacement, Dean Thomas. But the "temporary" position of acting co-captain was Ron's only distinction - thanks to.... Everything returned to bloody Chang, it seemed.

Harry would easily give his up, Ron realised. He had been reluctant to assume the co-captaincy in the first place. But Ron - without his Quidditch position, he was merely plain old Ron.

By the time Ron refocused, the conversation had moved on. Harry and Hermione were discussing the errant Quaffle problem.

"...house-elves are usually responsible for properly magicking Quidditch equipment, since they're not affiliated with any house...."

"Or improperly magicking them," Harry added, recalling an incident from second year.

"So you don't think the 'Puffs have gone Slytherin on us and are sabotaging our practice Quaffles?" Ginny interjected.

"I doubt it," Hermione dismissed the idea. "Although, since they're only practice Quaffles, we might be able to add a magical overlay ourselves, but I'd talk to the elves first."

"Since when do you know all about Quidditch?" Ginny asked sceptically. "It's not really your thing, you know."

"I didn't claim it was," Hermione responded, sounding a little hurt. "But I do know the elves better than anyone." Turning to Ron, she invited, "If I can borrow a couple of sets of practice Quaffles, I'll try having their magic tweaked so they stop going missing. Maybe it can be done before the next Gryffindor practice."

* * * *

Ron was mildly aggravated as he browsed the Hogwarts library's unfamiliar depths. "Where's that stupid Quidditch section?" he muttered. "Hermione said it was back here, and she's never wrong about stuff like that...."

"Aha!" He spotted the likeness of an old-fashioned snidget on the spine of a tome one row over, opposite a broad alcove.

Making a beeline for his objective, Ron ignored the alcove itself.

"Why hello, Ronald." The voice stopped the redhead in his tracks. "What brings you by this way?"

"Umm ... hi, Luna," Ron answered tentatively. "Hermione told me the advanced Quidditch section was over here, and I needed some books for my class...."

"Why, of course it is," Luna replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That was in your assignment when Harry was missing."

Ron gave her a well-you've-caught-me smile. She was spot on. "Yeah, but I never actually entered the stacks," he admitted. "I had that sphere do all the fetching. I never went further into the library than the card catalogue."

"Speaking of spheres," Luna effortlessly moved the conversation, "since you're here, you can explain exactly what type spells you want cast on these Quaffles - Hermione mentioned something about retrieval problems."

Ron noticed something at the table other than Luna. A half-dozen Gryffindor practice Quaffles were lined up along the table's left side. On her side, Luna was ensconced in a nest built of technical Quidditch-related books.

"But I thought.... Hermione said that the elves.... Hey, you're not even in Gryffindor!" Ron spluttered. Everything about Luna seemed to confuse him.

Luna stifled a laugh. She beckoned him to the chair beside her, saying delphically, "Relax, Ronald, and all shall be revealed."

Only Luna routinely used Ron's full given name. Intrigued, he pivoted the proffered chair and sat on it backwards, with the wooden back separating them. "Okay, this has to be good," he commented. "I'm ready, I guess."

"But still you're not relaxed," Luna observed - correctly. She casually placed one hand atop of Ron's chair, where it brushed his exposed left forearm.

For a moment, Ron seemed transfixed; then he jolted backwards. "Whoa, Luna, what was that?" he asked, gawking.

Luna's silver-grey eyes widened more than usual. Unblinkingly, she apologised - sort of. "I'm sorry, Ronald. Hasn't Harry or Hermione mentioned that I'm an Empath?"

Ron's eyes momentarily went nearly as large as Luna's. "Nope, they sure didn't," he uttered uncomprehendingly. "What's that?"

His open-ended question drew an open-ended answer. "A number of things," she responded mysteriously. "Most significantly, I'm a vessel for emotions. I can feel yours, and vice versa I can allow you to feel mine. It's called empathy."

"That's why ... why you knew I wasn't, well, relaxed," Ron deduced, as he struggled with what had just happened.

Luna could no longer help herself and had to giggle. "Well, that was quite obvious without being an Empath. But yes, I did try to relax you so you wouldn't be so guarded. Everything's easily explained. The elves wouldn't apply special charms to Quidditch equipment for any specific house - they saw it as violating their neutrality. Hermione asked if I wanted to try some new magic. Since you wanted it done, I said of course...."

"Luna?" Ron truncated her Quidditch-related explanation. While asking the question, he had gradually tuned out her explanation - instead pondering other, infinitely more profound recollections. "You said you could feel my emotions.... What am I feeling now?"

Luna responded in her usual dreamy fashion. "I'm sorry, but empathy doesn't work that way. I'd have to touch you, and after the way you reacted the last time...."

"Umm ... I was startled, that's all," Ron answered slowly. "But I'm ... er ... not ... I won't react that way again...." The same arm she had touched earlier flopped off the chair back towards her.

"You mean?"

"Yeah, you can do it again if you like, now that I know what to expect."

Luna did. After a few seconds' analysis, she hesitantly diagnosed, "I ... you.... I sense ... gratitude...." Her face gradually flowered into a smile. "But these Quaffles - please it's nothing, it was just...."

"You rescued me ... that night, didn't you?" he inquired, although pretty sure of the answer.

"Why, yes, of course," Luna allowed, feeling both flattered and self-conscious. "I'm sure Harry, Hermione, and the rest told you all about what we did at Stonehenge. We were ... glad to do it ... really ... all of us." Flushed to the ears with embarrassment, Luna removed her hand.

Ron immediately missed the sensation.

"They told me what they did, yeah," Ron shrugged. "They didn't say much about what you did - only generalities. I don't think they know. I think you ... umm ... empathicated me that night, or whatever...."

Luna chose her words carefully. "Er ... well, because of extenuating circumstances...." Ron was quite correct. She had indeed been circumspect in what she had told the others about rescuing Ron.

"I'm not upset," Ron tried putting her at ease. "Far from it. After all that ... horror.... I'd never felt so, well, dead. I was lost. Then you did that - whatever. That's when I finally felt hope...."

For once, their usual roles reversed. Ron had a - dare it be called - dreamy expression and inflexion. Luna was dumbstruck. Again he moved his arm forward, inviting her touch.

Luna chose to avoid it, fearful that her own special power might betray too much, too soon.

"You saved me," Ron blurted out. He fell quiet, and Luna likewise kept her peace. Soon enough Ron filled the silence. "You know, I never thanked you for that.... So, I guess I'm a git."

He turned and faced her almost formally. "Thanks for that, Luna. You, all of them.... You're not even in my House. And you ... I think you did that more than once...."

Ron was trying to reach through the jumble of his potion-addled memory of that New Year's from Hell, but it was no use. The pieces would not come together. He could recall only feelings, not events - not a bad thing given what he had been through. Although he could not put a finger on anything specific, not everything that night had been uniformly horrible.

Luna filled the silence. "The empathy ... it's not something I can turn on or off on command," she tried explaining herself. "You were ... well, not exactly clothed...." She blushed furiously again, causing Ron to follow suit. "To survive, I had to carry you and stay hidden under Harry's cloak. It was rather ... er ... cozy. Then, so you'd be safe, I hid you away in a motorbike's sidecar. Fitting you in that was ... umm ... a challenge of its own - but I did what was required...."

Ron took a deep breath. "Luna, thanks again," he declared. He regarded her as if seeing something entirely new and unexpected. "You know? All that time I spent with ... she-who-must-not-be-named.... She ... umm ... never did anything for me nearly as...." Ron fumbled for the right word. "...vital to me...."

Ron was rather ambiguous - his context and language did not quite jibe - but it occurred to Luna that Hermione might just be right (not unusual). Having been traumatised, Ron might not be ready to think along romantic lines without encouragement.

"You're more than welcome, Ronald," she responded even more distractedly than usual. "I guess that the Ravenclaw scuttlebutt about you is accurate."

Ron looked lost. He did not follow, nor had she expected he would. "Er ... what exactly are your housemates saying about me?" He wanted to know.

"That you're not about to be tripping the light fantastic with our fallen angel, Miss Chang, at the Beauxbatons dance," Luna let on.

Ron purpled at being reminded of his quondam girlfriend. "Bloody Hell, no way!" he almost exploded, ignoring the risk of Madame Pince expelling him from the library for rowdiness. "I think Dumbledore's going senile just letting her stay on, but the one absolute condition for that was that she stays damn well out of my way."

"We thought as much," Luna intoned whilst playing lazily with a strand of her flaxen hair. "Somebody else, then, for sure ... probably some Gryffindor...." She trailed off, having framed neither a question nor a declaration.

"Nah," Ron tossed off casually. "Lavender Brown asked, but after what happened, I'm not ready - at least for a while.... I might not even go. I don't speak French."

"That's too bad...."

"Not really," Ron talked across her. "Hermione speaks it fluently, and Harry speaks some."

"That's not what I meant," Luna persisted. "I meant sorry for me. I sort of thought, if you didn't have other plans ... I mean ... you might like to go with me...."

"Huh?" Ron blinked. "You're asking me to the dance? Like on a date?"

"Only if you want to," Luna demurred. "It is ladies' choice, though...."

Pause. Another silence - this one unusually tense, at least for Luna.

"Yeah, I think I'd like that," Ron finally said thoughtfully. "I think I might like that a lot...."

* * * *

"Urrgh! This is so frustrating!" Hermione carped. Her latest effort was as unsatisfactory as her previous half-dozen. Scowling at a full-length mirror, she saw an ungainly chimæra with the legs, left side, and left wing of a brilliantly scarlet phoenix. But the rest remained in Hermione's familiar human form.

"You are still striving for dominance, however unconsciously. You cannot succeed by overpowering Fawkes' spirit with the force of your own will," observed the Headmaster from his seat behind his desk. "I reiterate: this transformation is a negotiation, not a competition. You find this is particularly difficult, as you are so adept at prevailing in your usual manner."

"But my usual manner is what I'm best at," Hermione protested.

"Precisely," Dumbledore pounced, his eyes twinkling.

"Precisely what?" she countered. Then she, too, pounced. "Precisely what you're doing with - or should I say to - Harry?"

Dumbledore recoiled. "I assure you, Miss Granger, I design and intend both of your sessions to be of maximum benefit."

"Benefit to whom?" Hermione asked aggressively. "I know about your sessions with Harry. It's mostly using your Pensieve to go over bits of Tom Riddle's pre-Voldemort years. You're not teaching him anything. You're not training him to use his ... umm ... special gifts. I want to know - is something going on that you're still not telling us?"

She had been composing that speech ever since Harry told her of his last session involving some meeting between Morfin Gaunt and Voldemort. Hermione stood glaring at the Headmaster, her hands firmly on her hips - or, more accurately, one wing-tip brushing a haunch.

Dumbledore sensed, correctly, that her outburst was a proxy for Harry's sentiments. "Miss Granger, I am an old man, and unfortunately, aging apace." He showed his withered and burnt hand. "I can only teach Mister Potter what I know. I have no experience with powers of his nature...."

"You could teach him how to duel," she insisted. "Play to his strengths for once. He says you're an awesome dueller. He saw you at the Ministry...."

Dumbledore sighed and slowly shook his head. "Sound and fury signifying relatively little, I am afraid. My duelling on that occasion was not particularly stellar. Do not forget, I failed to prevent Tom from attacking Mister Potter. I did not end his possession - he did. Regrettably, I have only deteriorated further since then."

"Then tactics ... strategy?" Hermione demanded. "If you can't do, then teach. All these memories ... what's the point?"

"They inform Mister Potter of his adversary's nature," Dumbledore replied more forcefully. "Yes, he needs the training you advocate. I have done my best to provide it. I have engaged the best, and most trustworthy, instructors available - Sefu Kung, Alastor, Kingsley, even Miss Tonks. I shall tell you a closely held secret; if and how you divulge it to Mister Potter is within your discretion...."

"Another secret," Hermione said flatly. "You promised...."

"I did, but events rendered this one irrelevant," the Headmaster explained. "At one time, indeed most of last year, I had despaired and entertained the possibility that Mister Potter would become a sacrificial lamb...."

"NO!" Hermione howled. "I won't permit that, no more than I'd let you try turning him Dark."

"Agreed ... one hundred percent," Dumbledore placated the furious young witch. "That was before Mister Potter's powers began maturing - before he destroyed what I believe was a Horcrux he carried behind his scar. As you know, Voldemort's Horcruxes provide him functional immortality. I did not, and despite considerable additional research, still do not know how to remove a Horcrux from anything living without killing the host. I feared that Mister ... make that Harry, would have to die to fulfill the prophecy."

Hermione went from furious to downcast. "I can't truthfully say I never considered the same horrible possibility ... but you swear you don't believe it anymore?"

"An Unbreakable Vow if you wish," Dumbledore confirmed.

"No, that's not necessary ... this time," she declined. "I guess Harry saved himself with his power - doing what none of us could."

The Headmaster smiled. "Not for the last time, I am sure. Likewise, you may well save yourself, once you master this transition."

Having said her piece, Hermione allowed the conversation to drift from Harry. "But I hardly feel anything," she huffed, waving her single wing. "You tell me to touch its ... his soul. I can't seem to find it. I'm wondering if anything's there."

Dumbledore regarded her sagely. "He is there, I assure you. You would not be alive today were that not the case.... I would...."

The Headmaster's prematurely ended another soliloquy on the peculiar nature of the phoenix transformation. A spindly silver device on a side table by the window chattered to life.

Hermione silently ended her halfway phoenix transformation as Dumbledore listened to the clicks, clacks, and clanks with great interest. Before Hermione's natural curiosity resurfaced, he remarked. "It appears I am receiving a most important message."

"I should call it a night, then," Hermione offered and reached for her rucksack. "Anything must be more important than my rather inept efforts."

Dumbledore halted her with a hand signal. Only the chattering device could be heard until he intoned, "Not yet. This mode of communication is understood by only a select few wizards. I believe this message may be of concern to you."

Hermione sat down, as did the Headmaster, and they waited for the message to finish. When the device fell silent, Dumbledore hastened to it. Commenting, "I have a reader," he unrolled some shiny metal foil wrapped around the device and removed it with a carefully cast Severing Charm.

"Please wait. I shall return very soon," Dumbledore requested. He stepped through the door leading to his private chamber.

Upon re-entry, the Headmaster looked pale, gaunt, and grave. Hermione expected him to announce that someone she knew had died.

She was mistaken. The news - at least what Dumbledore told her - was good.

The message came, directly or indirectly, from a spy amongst the Death Eaters. Hermione knew not to ask who, how, or why. The Headmaster trusted the information, and that was good enough for her, at least for the moment.

"It seems that Tom confronted the same uncertainty we did in respect of the optimal number of Horcruxes ... presuming such a thing exists," Dumbledore revealed. "My source states that he chose the higher number, and set his bedrock Cleaving Spell for seven slices - that is seven individual Horcruxes and an eighth piece for Tom himself."

It was Greek to Hermione. "Bedrock spell? I'm afraid I don't understand...."

"Thank you again, Miss Granger," Dumbledore replied unexpectedly. "You refrained from involving yourself in very Dark magic. 'Bedrock cleaving' refers to fundamental magical incantations required by any attempt at multiple Horcruxes. They ensure that each Horcrux contains an approximately equal portion of the caster's - in this case Tom Riddle's - soul."

Hermione was, as always, a quick study. "Otherwise, the first Horcrux would be half of a soul; the second, a quarter; the third, an eighth; and so on," she deduced.

"Correct," the Headmaster confirmed. "I presume you also know that this number was what Mister Potter could not learn from Professor Slughorn."

"Your correspondent knows it, then?" Hermione asked with growing excitement. "That's great news...."

From Dumbledore's reaction, the news seemed less favourable.

"Nothing more than a deduction through negative implication," the Headmaster explained. "The circumstances provide strong guarantees of accuracy. Apparently, Tom recently concluded that he set the initial bedrock number too high. The key fact is that he recently reversed one of his Horcruxes and reunited it with what remains of his soul...."

Hermione goggled. "He can do that?"

"Evidently," Dumbledore answered dryly. "The message states that it was done - not how. I do not know, nor care to know, such magic."

"So, of the seven Horcruxes Voldemort made, he's rejoined one, Harry's destroyed two - the diary and the one in him - and you've destroyed the one in the ring," Hermione ticked off. "That leaves three more...."

"Your logic seems ineluctable," the Headmaster agreed. "Please feel free to tell Mister Potter what we have discussed, but preferably no one else."

Despite remaining stymied with her phoenix transformation, Hermione left that session with Dumbledore reasonably upbeat. The number of Horcruxes left to be destroyed was at last known.

Still, she fretted. Something major had gone unsaid. Something else in that message disturbed Headmaster Dumbledore greatly, but not anything he intended to reveal.

* * * *

Eight Death Eaters huddled in a forest clearing - unsure where they were, let alone what they were to do.

"Where the hell are we?" an earlier arrival asked the most recent newcomer.

"You think I know?" the newcomer spat. "Do I look like Snape?"

"I asked that old bat where we were going, but he claimed not to know - that the Master was keeping secrets," a third chimed in. "Still, truth and Snape have only passing acquaintance...."

"When he gave me my Portkey, he told me it was a highest order secret," a thoroughly disgruntled witch interjected. "Said to bring my best broom, and I'd find out when the Dark Lord was good and ready to tell us."

"When will he get here, then?" queried the original speaker. "He's late. That's unlike him."

Another black-robed, masked wizard abruptly whooshed into being and landed with a thud.

"Yaxley!" the others exclaimed. "You too? Where's Snape?"

"Yup, me too," Sulla Yaxley answered haughtily. "And forget Snape. I'm running this part of the operation...."

That announcement instantly gained everyone's full attention. Most had assumed that Snape would lead.

"... I suppose that's news to you all," Yaxley continued gruffly.

"Hell, our location would be news to us," came a snide reply.

"Hmmm," Yaxley pondered. "The Dark Lord is taking extraordinary security measures. I didn't know whom I'd be commanding, or the nature of the mission, and you don't know where you've been sent.... Anyway, look sharp. Time for a roll call...."

He withdrew an envelope from his robes, extracted one of several sheets of parchment, and began reading.

"Carrow, Amycus?"

"That's me."

"Byrd?"

"Over here."

"Fitzwarlock?"

"Here."

"Gibbon?"

"Same."

"Rastaban?"

"Present."

"Mulciber?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Paxman?"

"Here."

"Rowle?"

"Yo."

Yaxley reached into his envelope and extracted another sheet - bearing an intact black wax seal. "Well, we're all present and accounted for. Everyone learns at the same time what we're to do. My orders were not to read this until I had you all together...."

Silence fell as Yaxley read. Even an overcast sky could not conceal the Death Eater's widening eyes.

"Merlin's bloody bits," the unit's commander muttered when finished. "The Dark Lord himself is involved in this raid. He really wants a splash with this one...."

"Where is our Master?" Paxman spoke up.

"I doubt we'll see him - and we don't want to, because that would mean that we've screwed this up...."

That quieted everyone.

"Okay, listen up. To answer your first question, it seems we're in France; in something the Muggles call the Peygros Forest. Beyond that ridge, maybe a kilometre away, is Beauxbatons. We have a half an hour to walk to the top - no magic."

"Then we wait...."

Yaxley turned the envelope upside down. A Galleon dropped out.

"This Galleon has a Protean Charm. It'll signal me when the Beauxbatons wards are sabotaged. Then we fly. We should find a Quidditch match in progress...."

"So we attack the Frenchie students? Just like that?" Rowle asked, not looking terribly happy.

"Eventually, yes. But only when this coin shows the attack signal," Yaxley answered. "We're to attack the players and the crowd. Students, staff, anybody. Unforgivables are allowed, but we're the sideshow - one big feint."

Murmurs of disbelief arose. Yaxley knew no such indiscipline would have occurred in the good old days... or even before that damned Scottish explosion. His Lord's hold on his followers was showing signs of strain.

"The Dark Lord is the main event," Yaxley snapped, determined to maintain discipline. "We keep the crowd pinned down on the pitch until the Master's signal - green sparks - from the direction of Beauxbatons palace. Then, we stampede the crowd towards the sparks. We continue until ... well, it doesn't say exactly, but the Dark Lord's orders are that we'll know it when we see it.... But not to look too closely."

"Wow, must be something big," the witch, Fitzwarlock, goggled.

"After what's happened, we need a big score," Yaxley concurred. "Anyway, one more restriction - no Dark Marks...."

More grumbling.

"That's because the Dark Lord's Dark Mark is our signal to break off, scatter, and use these Portkeys to get back to Britain," Yaxley barked. "No screw ups."

Yaxley pulled out a small box, ended his Shrinking Charm, and opened it.

"Leave 'em all wrapped up until you're ready to use," he cautioned. "The Master has gone to great lengths to ensure our success. You don't want to face his wrath by cocking up everything with a prematurely activated return Portkey."

"Any questions?"

"What'll the Dark Lord be doing?" Rowle spoke up.

"The Dark Lord keeps his own confidences," Yaxley stonewalled. He wondered if Rowle would last much longer in service. "I know only that he has trusted servants with him and plans something that requires his personal attention and skills."

"Any other questions?"

Nobody made a sound. Neither Yaxley's tone nor expression was inviting. One by one, the nine Death Eaters selected Portkeys from Yaxley's box, Rowle receiving a fierce glare with his. Then, single file, they followed a narrow, but distinct, trail to the spine of the ridge that overlooked the Palais de Beauxbatons.

In the distance, the distinctive U-shaped palace glistened, its magic evident despite cloudy weather. To the left, meaning north, was the school's Quidditch pitch. It was too far to tell what was going on, but the stands looked full.

"All right, there's the first signal," Yaxley announced, looking at the Galleon. "Disillusion yourselves. Fly into the bottom of the low clouds, end the charm, and regroup directly over Beauxbatons...."

Perhaps ten minutes later, the nine Death Eaters were in place, clustered about ten metres inside the base of the cloud cover. They had a hazy glimpse of the scenery below.

Their pre-attack nerves were tangible. Stonehenge had been a disaster. This attack was to prove to the wizarding world that the Death Eaters remained a powerful force to be reckoned with. "All right, listen up," Yaxley growled. "See that fogbank - I'll bet that's him, maybe with some Dementors. Standard ambush; surround and attack formation. I'll take the spot closest to the school. When I get the signal, I'll vacate that position and fly straight to the opposite side. That's your cue to break ranks and let them flee back towards the school ... and the Dark Lord...."

It felt like the old times - anticipation and exhilaration with a frisson of fear. Yaxley lived for days like this.

In a few minutes, the attack signal came. "All right, masks on! Let's go!" Yaxley cried as he pointed his broomstick almost straight down.

* * * *

Fourth-year Beauxbatons student Appoline Deschutes was cheering the Aquitaine-Ile de France samedi Quidditch match with friend and fellow Aquitaine house member Candice LeMelle. Their first inkling of something amiss was a green magical streak striking their House's Seeker. He fell some fifty metres to the Pitch - stone, cold dead.

Shrieks and yells arose all about them. More spells, some deadly, some not, streaked into the crowd. Explosions detonated. Parts of the Quidditch grandstands collapsed. Other sections burst into flame.

To prevent teams from hexing one another - one serious incident had threatened litigation - Beauxbatons Quidditch players were banned from carrying wands during matches. The players were sitting ducks, and several died in the attack's opening salvo. The rest scattered, some fleeing towards the Palace, others swooping to their teams' benches searching futilely for their team's trainers, who kept their wands during the contest, but the trainers had fled.

Heedless of their own safety, staff members bounded into the Pitch, voices magically enhanced, commanding shocked and frightened students to hide under the stands or use Excavating Charms to dig holes. Somebody even took to the air on an abandoned broom - the Hogwarts liaison - an upperclassman whispered. Whoever it was took out one of the Death Eaters before herself being cursed.

Several of the staff, including Madame Maxime, returned fire, hurling curses at marauding Death Eaters. But the attackers' brooms were too nimble. None of the defenders' curses hit home.

The attack seemed to go on forever and to come from everywhere. Appoline and Candice, their robes torn and dirty after jumping through a hole blasted in the stands, lay trembling in the mud.

A seventh year from Normandie/Bretagne House shouted, "Venez, venez!" The pair ran to several upperclassmen digging traversed trenches towards the school. Spellfire crashing constantly about them, the terrified pair huddled as low in the muddy earthworks as possible.

Finally, adults started yelling, "Courez!! Fuyez!!"

All around Appoline and Candice, fellow students and even some staff began racing pell-mell to the Palais. The two girls pelted blindly in the same general direction. Goaded by exploding spellfire behind them, everyone ran faster and faster. Anyone losing balance risked a trampling.

Suddenly, the crowd ahead stopped, their sprint for safety coming to a screeching halt. Unable to stop, the two girls skidded into the rear of the immobile mass. Those behind them were in the same predicament. They shoved into Appoline and Candice, and everyone feared being crushed.

Desperate just to breathe, the pair clawed their way forward and upward. Struggling against everyone else, they popped over the top of someone who had ceased moving. They gasped the precious, life-giving air.

"Mon dieu!" Candice gasped. "Voyez ça."

It was the last thing she ever did.

"Non! Candice, non!" Appoline screamed as she dove into the mass of people after catching a fleeting glimpse of the monster's backside. "C'est un Basilic!!"

* * * *

Ron enjoyed his birthday. It fell on a weekend this year. That meant no classes. Instead, he could celebrate with one of his favourite things - Quidditch. That morning he scrimmaged for three hours with his "Hogwarts Picked Nine" squad. Ron held no illusions that this team could beat a professional all-star team featuring Viktor Krum at Seeker, he intended to put up a good fight. The Head of Department of Magical Games and Sports himself had told Ron at one of Slughorn's parties that the Ministry would be enlarging the Hogwarts stands to accommodate an overflow crowd.

The afternoon had been something of a non-stop birthday party, with just Harry, Hermione, and at times little sister Ginny.

Probably best of all, Ron expected a more private birthday celebration that evening with Luna. Since Luna asked him to the Beauxbatons ball, he started viewing the Ravenclaw fifth year in an entirely different light.

"Blimey, Harry, thanks," Ron grinned whilst lounging in a common room chair. "Season passes to the Cannons...."

For Harry, getting Ron a gift was a tightrope walk - too little, and he risked devaluing what Ron's friendship meant to him; too much, and Ron's innate abhorrence of "charity" would kick in....

He had worked the balancing act to perfection.

"Good seats, too," Harry indicated. "Centre-field, top box, third row - a pair of them.... But you'll have to concoct excuses to get away during the Term."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Ron groaned. "We're cooped up more than ever. I wonder how long this one's gonna last...."

Ron was complaining about the Grade Three shelter in place the Headmaster had declared. It thwarted their plan for a "trio party" in the Room of Requirement. Although Grade Three was the lowest security, it kept students in their common rooms. Ron fretted because his rendezvous with Luna meant leaving the Gryffindor common room.

The Grade Three put Ron on edge for another reason. He did not know why it was imposed, but Harry and Hermione had. The Ministry needed to finish the communications changeover aborted by the New Years Death Eater attacks. With the old system removed but the new one unfinished, Minister Scrimgeour had been forced to run a jerry-rigged, stopgap system through Hogwarts, where installation was complete.

That arrangement suited neither the Ministry nor the Headmaster.

The Ministry's second go at finishing installation was today. Unlike the last time, which left the Ministry within a hairsbreadth of disaster, the installation crew was now heavily guarded. Squads of Aurors stood on alert at strategic spots throughout the country. The Ministry even accepted a "fraternal" offer of "reinforcements" from the French Ministry - several Auror squads and Groupe d'Intervention special forces. To free up additional resources, the Ministry requested that all who could tighten their own security.

Hogwarts responded with a Grade Three shelter in place. As Gryffindor security liaison, Harry was informed of both what was happening and why. A mere defrocked (by request) Prefect, Ron had known nothing. His ignorance was yet another reminder that, however much Harry and Hermione called them a trio, one trio member was definitely more junior.

Ron shook off pangs of jealousy as Hermione offered her present. She had used cloud wrapping - sky blue paper with constantly changing cloud patterns. Ron barely noticed the paper in his haste to discover the contents. "Wow, Hermione! A Paracelsus-Level Potions Kit! That has just about every ingredient I could conceivably need."

"It has an automatic restocking agreement with Scarpin's Potions for All Purposes. You'll need to activate that. They advertised a two-day owl-post turnaround...."

Ron regarded her questioningly, "But why, Hermione? I know your opinion of me and the Prince. This isn't some sort of trick...."

"Ron," Harry started to intervene.

"No, Ron, consider this a peace offering," Hermione defended herself. "I've decided to stop criticising you about that. Go ahead and use the Prince whenever you want - your choice. I'm not going to aggravate myself or you over that any longer."

Ginny waited patiently to give Ron her present. When she rose, her robes briefly fell part way open. Harry could not help but notice her much shorter dress than Hermione's more conservative taste allowed.

He shook his head violently. Fortunately everyone's attention was on Ginny and Ron. He should not think such thoughts about her. This was nothing like those episodes before Christmas, thank Merlin - but he realised he had been unusually aware of her presence all morning, even during Quidditch practice. He needed to be careful....

Ginny had just given Ron a cologne set, including a bottle that emitted an overpoweringly sugary scent reminding Hermione of a Muggle bakery running full tilt, when the school alarms went off. A blaring announcement declared that, effective immediately, the Grade Three shelter in place was elevated to the same imminent attack alert imposed during the hoaxed September Death Eater attack on Harry and Hermione.

Everyone scrambled.

Fortunately - especially for Harry - he was now infinitely better prepared for his security liaison role. He leapt for the Gryffindor Central Station, and had a map of the Castle available almost before he finished barking out initial assignments.

"Hooper! You and ... umm ... McLaggen, here's your moment, I guess. Are you up for it?"

Katie Bell, the other Seventh-Year prefect, was still at St. Mungo's.

"You got it!" McLaggen piped up, petty animosities shelved in the heat of the moment.

"Take all the D.A. members in your year and defend the west battlements, where we're most vulnerable...."

The seventh years moved out immediately.

"Hermione and Neville, take the sixth years, and ... Ginny and Rodney, take your fifth years with them. Spread out along the south parapets and link up with the Ravenclaws."

Hermione pecked Harry quickly on the cheek and headed for the portrait hole where eighteen other Gryffindors were assembling.

"Ron, Colin, hold up!" Harry waited until they halted, then turned to those remaining behind.

"I want every other Gryffindor with D.A. stationed at the windows of our tower. If attacked, show those bastards what you've learnt. Jazzy, since nobody else has actually fought Death Eaters, you're in charge."

Soon only Harry, Ron, Colin, and a pack of frightened first and second years remained. "Ron, I want you and Colin manning this thing," he gestured towards the Central Station. "If attacked, I want all you firsties and seconds under your beds," Harry ordered. "There's a silver patch at the base of each headboard. Tap it three times with your wand. That activates a combination Protego and Concealment Charm that will keep you safe."

Finished issuing orders, Harry strode to the base of the dormitory stairs. "Ron, can you come up here a minute?" he asked. Ron followed Harry up the stairs.

"What are you going to do?" the redhead inquired.

"What I do best," Harry hefted his Valkyrie from underneath his bed. "My assignment is to fly coverage. This is the best combat broom in the Castle, no contest, and you know Hermione's no flier."

"I am, though," Ron replied defensively.

"I know," Harry agreed. He stepped forward and put his hand on the taller boy's shoulder, drawing him closer.

"Ron, if we're really attacked, I want you with me. Colin can handle the inside stuff, but short of that I want you directing our strategy."

"Thanks, Harry," Ron nodded. He went for his Firebolt. "Might be tough keeping up with you, if what Hermione said about that thing is true...."

"Oh, it's true," Harry smiled. Then he brandished his wand and incanted, "Accio Hermione's broom!"

Within seconds, Hermione's Valkyrie soared into Harry's hand. "That I can even hold this means it's in what's called 'maintenance mode'...." Harry gave Ron an extremely brief lesson a Valkyrie's workings.

An hour passed. Harry rode circuit after circuit over the Castle, staying just within the wards. With Hogwarts' wards in full defensive configuration, accidental contact would not be a good thing. Shak and Professor Vector likewise rode lookout in bright midday March sunshine.

Harry upped the Valkyrie's Iffendus glass to maximum power. He was determined to spot any Death Eaters before they found him.

Harry was apprehensive when Shak truncated his pass and joined him. "Harry, I just heard from Dumbledore on my Order shoulder amulet. Go to his office. He has news."

Nodding assent, Harry pointed towards the Castle. He flew the Valkyrie directly through the Headmaster's tower window ... and was stunned to find both Hermione and Arthur Weasley waiting - along with an extremely concerned Dumbledore.

"It must be bad," Harry commented grimly as he dismounting.

"Unfortunately, Harry, you're spot on," Mr. Weasley replied tersely. "Have a seat, please."

"Death Eaters attacked today," Dumbledore began without his usual circumlocutions, "a most successful attack - upon Beauxbatons."

"Oh, Merlin," Hermione moaned. Instinctively she moved to perch herself on the arm of Harry's chair.

Harry set his jaw. "How bad was it?"

Mr. Weasley flicked his wand. Harry's chair widened a bit and Hermione slid down next to him. "Bad enough to dispense with the usual school rules for now."

"The fatality count we have received is fifty-nine students, eight staff, along with the school's gamekeeper, chief caretaker, and at least a half-dozen elves," the Headmaster recounted. "Others were injured - the Headmistress, Madame Maxime, amongst them. Fearing possible reprise, I placed the Castle on full alert. With the Ministry fully mobilised, I believe any threat of imminent attack on Hogwarts has passed."

"What happened?"

"Details are sketchy, but it appears that Death Eaters somehow breached Beauxbatons' wards during a Quidditch match," Dumbledore explained sadly. "Most casualties, however, were caused by a Basilisk. As such creatures are only controlled by Parseltongue; we strongly suspect that Voldemort himself led the attack."

"That's horrible," cried Hermione. "But why call us here to specially to learn of it?"

"It's going to create an international incident, I'm afraid," Mr. Weasley told her. "Rumours are already rife that this assault was retribution for your recent defeat of the Death Eaters at Stonehenge...."

"I understand from Miss Delacour that you, Mister Potter, have an invitation of sorts to train with French Aurors this summer," Dumbledore addressed Harry. "After your speech in Reims, your reputation...."

The Headmaster's implication was, for once, rather plain. "You want me to commit to that," Harry glumly cut the old man off.

It was not a question.

"As Head of the department responsible for international relations, I'm formally requesting that you do so," Mr. Weasley pronounced. "Casualties of this magnitude will inevitably encourage the defeatist element - those who would cut us loose. We'd like you to support our French alliance."

Harry nodded. "Then I'd best talk to Fleur."

"Unfortunately, that is not possible - at least at the moment," the Headmaster sadly shook his head. "Miss Delacour resigned her position here upon learning of her alma mater's calamity. She will be assuming the suddenly vacant Charms position. She asked me to relay your decision directly to a Colonel Dassault."

Harry turned to Hermione. "What do you think?"

"That's rather sudden, but I understand why," she began.

"I am certain the French Ministry will make whatever arrangements you require," Dumbledore hastened to add.

"How long would my training last?" Harry asked.

"Again, I am sure that the French will be flexible. I was planning to ask you two to substitute for me at the June Pacific Magical Gathering. If willing, you could commence immediately thereafter," then the Headmaster played his trump card. "In that case, I see no reason for you to stay with the Dursleys at all this summer.

"I'll do it," Harry instantly agreed.

55

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 7/18/2010