Harry Potter and the Fifth Element

Chapter 78 - Unjust Desserts

The Prophet imposed an unprecedented embargo on Rita's bylined story about Harry Potter in the Chamber of Secrets. The paper's proofs were imbued with a powerful Confundus Charm. Not even the presswizards knew what the lead story and several inside pages recounted. Only Barnabus Cuffe, the Prophet's chief editor, and Rita herself had more than the vaguest idea of the story's explosive contents. In an extraordinary and occasionally tense collaboration, Hermione edited Rita's story, whilst Luna handled typesetting and liaised with the Prophet on production matters.

Ultimately, these elaborate precautions were in vain. Harry's wild ride almost stalled in the starting blocks.

Perhaps the extreme security measures themselves drew unwanted attention, as the cover-up so often gives the game away. Maybe something else was in play. None of Harry's coterie ever determined what happened.

The night before the story was to hit the wizarding alleys, Harry received several frantic omails from Cuffe. Minister Scrimgeour had somehow learnt the outlines of what would appear in tomorrow's Prophet, probably through the same contacts who usually cultivated him. Politely, but insistently, the Minister demanded a command Pensieve performance of Harry's memories supporting Skeeter's latest scoop. Forgoing direct infringement on press freedom, Scrimgeour issued only a "hold until confirmed" request - not the dreaded D-Notice ukase.

A quick huddle with Hermione yielded a verdict. They had to comply. At best, they would convince the Minister. Every viewer of Harry's long Pensieve memory - Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Rita, and Shak - agreed: Harry's battle against the Basilisk, pitting a second year with a sword (and a phoenix) against that twenty-metre monster, was nothing short of amazing.

Harry sped to Shak's second storey office, puffing noticeably when Shak bade him enter. "Something wrong, Harry? You look out of breath."

"Yeah ... it is, and I am," Harry panted. "Slight change of plans. Somehow Scrimgeour found out. We have to owl him my Pensieved memories before he'll let the Prophet publish. He has Cuffe in his back pocket."

Shak snorted. "That's charitable ... just that wimp's bits. Still, this presents a problem. You're too late. As we arranged, I sent my Auror contact your memories maybe forty-five minutes ago. They're in transit, and I doubt anybody can forward them quickly enough...."

"Bollocks! I thought Dim-Lee owls were faster than that," Harry complained.

"True, but my contact's out of pocket for a while," Shak admitted. "Bloody rotten timing, but I can't change it now."

"Out of pocket?" Harry echoed grumpily. "You're sure you trust this person?"

"Absolutely," Shak reaffirmed. After a pause, he told Harry. "It's Tonks - and don't worry; everything's well and securely packaged. She can drop it all she likes. It's just ... she checked in. She's ... well, on a date tonight, and they're going Muggle. They'll be incommunicado most of the evening."

Harry grasped at straws. "Did you make a copy?"

"Can't. After being withdrawn, memories can't be copied," Shak informed him. "A good thing, if you think about it. I can take a fresh one, if you'll wait ten minutes."

"Just one?" Harry asked. "Not the whole set?"

"Shaving everything again to your precise specifications would take too long," Shak shook his head. "Besides, if the one doesn't convince him, the others won't."

"Hell, that's right."

Half an hour later, a fresh recollection of Harry's duel to the death with Salazar Slytherin's Basilisk was winging its way directly to the Minister. Shak knew Scrimgeour's private owl address, so they cut Cuffe out of the loop. Why speak any more to that oily rag...?

Then they waited.

The Prophet needed a go-ahead by two in the morning to finish its press run in time for the morning owls. Harry and Hermione maintained a lonely vigil in the Gryffindor common room. The rest of their House obliviously revised for another week of classes.

At ten minutes to midnight came a tell-tale tapping from the window opposite. Geoffrey Hooper, the seventh year male prefect, opened the window before Harry could react. A large barn owl with distinctive Ministry insignia almost knocked Hooper over. The owl perched on the back of Harry's chair.

All eyes on him, Harry swiftly undid the cylindrical package. The Minister's personal reply came wrapped around Harry's returned memory.

'What is it?' Hermione Legilimenced, all too aware of their housemates' scrutiny.

Harry ripped open the Minister's note. His eyes shot up as he read. Silently, he handed it to Hermione.

Potter:

This absolutely should be published. I had no idea.

Rufus Scrimgeour

Minister for Magic

Hermione threw her arms around Harry, who looked conflicted. 'I know you'll hate the next couple of weeks, but the alternative's worse.'

Taking a deep breath, Harry nodded grimly. 'Let me square this away.'

She released him, and he walked towards his dorm room.

"Whoa, wait a minute...," a voice called. Harry turned. It was Cormac McLaggen. "You can't just leave after that bit. A Ministry owl? What's up? More boom-win stuff?"

"No, but we can't say anything tonight," Hermione answered as frankly as possible. "You'll find out tomorrow."

Tomorrow came soon enough.

Harry rose early, as usual. He decided that, today, he would switch his normal routine. Instead of his physical workout and defence practice, followed by breakfast in the Great Hall, he would eat breakfast first and be done with the Hall before the delivery owls arrived with the morning's Prophet. Technically, he would be before breakfast time, but the Castle elves were most accommodating of early risers.

He was about to leave when Hermione entered the common room, dressed for her workout.

"Where are you going, Harry?" she immediately inquired. "It's a bit early for those robes."

"I'm getting some early rashers and such," Harry confessed. "That way I'll avoid the morning post."

"You can't avoid it for long, you know."

Harry flashed a crooked smile. "I know, but it's one less breakfast disturbed by all this."

"I'll join you," Hermione agreed. Eating in the Great Hall before the crack of dawn wearing Muggle workout togs was no problem.

The inevitable could not be delayed. Word spread fast. By the time Herbology started, the whispers and pointing were too pronounced to be ignored. Professor Sprout ended class five minutes early so Harry could to autograph copies of the Prophet story - one apiece, strictly enforced.

Harry was mobbed at lunch, but with plenty of warning, he took everything, if not exactly in stride, then with stoic resignation. He entered the Great Hall to applause from almost everyone - even some Slytherins. Forget their mascot - the Snakes favoured self-preservation and were equally shaken by rumours of sharing the Castle with one of the same creatures that caused so much carnage in France.

Harry's fellow Gryffindors largely prevented him from being besieged by wizards from other Houses - so they could monopolise him. His lunchtime passed in the midst of a Gryffindor scrum. Harry answered one question after another about discovering, finding, and finally besting an almost twenty-metre Basilisk in a life-or-death struggle in the vast chamber where the D.A. now trained.

Hermione stayed gamely at his side, resisting everyone trying to worm closer to the once-again man of the hour. She listened carefully to the questions, and their Legilimenced conversations kept Harry from bollixing any critical details.

That it matched the frenzy that engulfed Harry after the Minister's Order of Merlin announcement last June became painfully apparent before lunch ended.

Harry was stoically autographing more copies of the Prophet, and explaining Professor Lockhart's injury a second time for latecomers when he heard Seamus exclaim, "Blimey, look at that.... Incoming!"

Before anyone could react, a pair of lacy orange knickers floated in. As if guided by a personalised Location Charm, they landed squarely on the back of Harry's head.

Neither Harry nor Hermione could spot the culprit through the crowd. If anybody saw the culprit, nobody told the unhappy couple.

That incident tempted Harry to resume using his Invisibility Cloak. But Hermione pointed out that he had "asked for it" in deciding that, on the whole, the least bad option was to preempt Thicknesse's political ploy.

Harry carried on. After enduring another evening as the centre of attention in the Gryffindor common room, he slunk off to bed. But even in the privacy of his four-poster, Harry could not entirely escape his enhanced notoriety.

Too wrung out even to change into pyjamas, Harry flopped face-first into the mattress.

"If even half what I've heard is true, you had a most remarkable adventure indeed," chuckled a voice from behind.

Startled, Harry flipped over, and with one motion his wand was out and trained on....

"Forsooth - calm down - it wasn't my Basilisk," spoke Godric Gryffindor. His portrait still hung from the thick bedclothes at the foot of Harry's bed.

Harry was not pleased. "Wha...? How did you know?" Even the Founder's portrait was taking undue interest in his affairs.

"Oh, I was flitting about as I often do, from one portrait to the next ... good taste your McAllister has, by the way. Three of me grace various places in that altogether excessive pile you call home...."

"Jerry has a free hand with that," Harry commented blandly, waiting for the uncharacteristically loquacious portrait's explanation.

"It so happens that from one of my vantage points, I heard some of your staff chatting about an extraordinary story in the Prophet ... yes, I know what the Prophet is ... involving the Proprietor - such a nice title, that - and, of all things, a Basilisk at Hogwarts."

"So I wafted to another of my likenesses, in your quite well-stocked reading room. Sure enough, a copy of the Prophet was duly laid out for any guest that might happen by - a well trained and most hospitable staff you have - and sure enough, headline and the story...."

"Are true," Harry groaned, wanting dearly to go to sleep. "What about you, anyway? If half the things we've learnt about you are true, you've probably done worse."

"Certainly, half the things are true," Godric puffed with pride. "But one thing I've never been credited with is teaching what I gather is now named 'Care of Magical Creatures.' In my day that class was 'Gegælen Orcnéas' in the old language, meaning roughly 'Enchanted Monsters and Beasts.' Nope, that was always Salazar's forté, and after reading about that Basilisk at Hogwarts - I had to ask you. I'd heard rumours, you see...."

"So you want to know what really happened?" Harry cut over the founder of his House.

Godric frowned. "Indeed, but you would not know."

That crossed up Harry. "Well, I was there, wasn't I?"

"Afraid not, dear boy; I was," Godric answered, his eyes flashing. "Whilst your story is undoubtedly fascinating, I'm much more interested in what my dear colleague Sally was really up to."

"Sally?"

"That's what we three called Salazar when angry with him, although - except for me - not to his face," Godric chortled. "That blasted Gryffindor courage, you know."

Harry nearly laughed out loud. "I'll have to remember that one."

"You see, the rest of us, Rowena, Helga, and I, suspected for ages that Lord Slytherin, as he liked to call himself, was up to no good. Not only was he unduly drawn to Black Magic - what is now euphemistically called 'Dark Arts' - he had a disturbing penchant for dangerous beasts. Our first truly major argument concerned precisely that; his misadventure with a Manticore that left several students dead."

Harry was certain that Professor Binns had never taught that in History of Magic. "I thought you fell out because he only wanted pure-bloods to attend Hogwarts," Harry responded.

"Oh, Sally, he had no use for Muggles," Godric agreed. "But he was no pure-blood supremacist - not as you use the term. Remember, those Saxon times were rather chaotic. We wizards were scattered about. Most of the first Hogwarts students were wild talents, either Muggle-born or children of wizards not known to us. We even erroneously admitted an occasional Squib. That led to the Sorting Hat; created to ensure that everyone we took was in fact magical."

"So Salazar Slytherin didn't want to keep Muggle-borns out?" Harry was dumbfounded.

"Quite the opposite," Godric contended. "He didn't respect Muggles, but took magic where he found it. Our biggest row - why he eventually left - was his proposal to remove Muggle-borns permanently from their non-magical parents and immerse them totally in the Wizard community ... to become pure-bloods, as quickly as possible."

Harry blanched. What was worse? However much as disliked Hermione's gold-digging parents, simply seizing their daughter would not be right either.

Godric continued. "He wanted to house Muggle-borns at Hogwarts year round - the Castle was much smaller then. We refused to authorise the additional construction his proposal would have required. I've always suspected that he went ahead anyway, without telling the rest of us. I'd be very interested in someday seeing the chamber where you had your adventure. That would be just like him - to storm out and leave some half-built secret dormitory infested with dangerous beasts."

* * * *

The next day brought more of the same. Harry answered more questions from his Housemates early, but once they began trickling off, he thought things might be improving.

No such luck.

The Gryffindors' satiation left the path clear member of other Houses - who knew Harry less well. They had even more questions.

Professor Slughorn ended Double Potions a quarter hour early and kept Harry behind. As one of the few who had heard about Harry's Basilisk encounter beforehand - Harry told the broad outlines to the Potions master whilst trying to learn about Horcruxes - Slughorn now wanted to know every detail.

The professor was disappointed to learn of the goblins' rendering of the Basilisk. Despite prior protestations, Slughorn was not above a little bribery - or "collaboration," as he called it - when the stakes were less life threatening than the pursuit of Horcruxes.

After more than an hour, Harry managed to escape the Potions master's velvet clutches. He was headed back to Gryffindor tower at a fast trot when he heard a long absent voice call his name. In disbelief, he turned around.

He had heard correctly.

Lumbering towards him, assisted by all-too-familiar self-walking crutches, was Katie Bell.

"Katie! You're back!" Harry exulted - forgetting for a moment all the Basilisk-related folderol. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm recovering," she allowed. "First, I need to thank you, and Hermione, if she's around. My Healers told me that curse would have been fatal if not promptly treated. They still don't know what you did, but it certainly helped."

"Umm ... that wasn't me, that was Hermione - mostly," Harry modestly admitted. For the moment, he'd had quite enough of life debts and people thinking him a hero.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Katie half smirked.

Harry was relieved at Katie's ability to make light of the horror she had suffered. "So, are you ready to resume your captaincy? Is that why you're looking for me?" Unlike Ron, Harry would be quite content to let one of his many responsibilities go.

"That can wait till the next practice," Katie demurred. "I just returned, and met with Professor McGonagall. She asked me to give you this message from Dumbledore...."

She fumbled a bit in her robes whilst leaning on her crutches to stay upright. Harry caught her arm before she started swaying dangerously.

"Thanks, Harry.... Here it is." She handed him a scroll bound with one of the Headmaster's distinctive ribbons. As he released her crutch to accept it, Katie leaned into Harry's personal space.

Slightly breathlessly, she asked him, "Harry, do you think I could see it?"

Harry gulped. Katie had indicated her amorous interest some time ago, but had backed off once Hermione's consciousness was restored.

"...Your memory, I mean" she responded when he did not react. "Silly...."

Harry remained distracted. "Umm ... memory of what?"

"Killing that Basilisk," she clarified. "The Prophet says you had a copy of the memory extracted. I figure my watching it bother you less than answering all my questions. You've surely explained everything a hundred times over already."

Harry's answer was simple - or was it? "I sent it to ... that's brilliant...." His voice trailed off as an idea struck him.

Now Katie was confused. "What's brilliant?"

"You - you're right; I'd much rather watch that memory than question me about it. And you know what? I'll make sure you're first in line.... I've gotta go!"

An oddly excited Harry hurried off, leaving a perplexed Katie behind.

For the first time since the Basilisk story had broken, Harry used his Invisibility Cloak to avoid being stopped in the halls. He intended to be prompt for his meeting with the Headmaster. Harry now had an agenda item for the meeting, so why annoy the old man with tardiness?

Harry did not have to knock. The door to Dumbledore's office opened of its own accord, to the sound of the Headmaster's voice, "Mister Potter, please come in. Right on time, I see. I had feared...."

Harry entered whilst shedding the Cloak.

"So, you are resorting to extraordinary measures to avoid your many admirers," Dumbledore observed, his eyes twinkling only slightly. "I feared as much. Trust me; it would be worse outside these walls. Have you inquired of Mister Creevey - Colin, that is - about your post? I understand it is voluminous ... exceeding even the correspondence following last June's adventure at the Ministry. Fortunately, I understand the reaction this time around to be almost uniformly favourable."

"Well, sir, I reckon that, whilst Death Eaters have supporters, pure Basilisk fans are rather rare," Harry deadpanned.

"True enough, Mister Potter, true enough. As you undoubtedly suspect, I have a reason for summoning you this afternoon."

"I assume so," Harry answered blankly. The Headmaster would say whatever he intended. This time, more than one person's proposals would be discussed.

"I have just returned from an overly long meeting with Minister Scrimgeour; his head of DMLE, Mister Thicknesse; Arthur, who offered interesting insights on French politics; and Waldo Copperfield, counsel to the Wizengamot. We addressed Mister Thicknesse's demand that I testify concerning the purported presence of a Basilisk at Hogwarts. All four gentlemen have had an opportunity to review your memory of your battle with that beast."

"A good thing, I hope," Harry measured his response. "I know it convinced Scrimgeour to let the Prophet publish."

"Minister Scrimgeour," Dumbledore corrected. "One does well not to make rudeness a habit."

"And you..." Harry almost responded by being rude to the Headmaster, but caught himself. He took one for the team. "...need to tell me what happened at your meeting."

The Headmaster smiled. He had good news. "I told them that, compared to your memories, I could offer next to no first-hand information ... that my testimony would be rank hearsay, as all I know about Hogwarts' erstwhile Basilisk derives from what you, and to a lesser extent Miss Granger, have said. As I have studiously avoided viewing your memories, I suggested that they discuss matters with you...."

Harry stiffened. Absolutely the last thing he wanted was questioning under Veritaserum in a very public venue like the Wizengamot.

"...Knowing, of course, that they would decline," he added. "Mister Thicknesse gains no political advantage from providing you still more favourable publicity."

Harry relaxed. "So it's over," he exhaled, "and my idea worked, after all."

"Not quite," Dumbledore cautioned. "I am directed to prepare a report, by the end of the Term, on precautions to prevent any recurrence. Those measures include a suitable public entrance for Salazar's Chamber, testing all students for Parseltongue ability, and the like. Over the summer a Ministry team will inspect the Chamber and ensure that it remains Basilisk-free. The Aurors will provide your Pensieved memory of dispatching the beast to any member of the Wizengamot who wishes to view it. Which leaves you...."

Again Harry tensed. "What do they want from me?"

"Nothing more than you already agreed," the Headmaster breezily reassured. "Spending a portion of your summer in France training with their best Aurors."

"Fine," Harry quickly assented. "That's reasonable. I also like your idea to make a Pensieve available to the Wizengamot. I've has enough of everybody here asking me about what happened. I'd like to arrange something similar at Hogwarts. I have the second copy of my memory - the one I sent ... Minister Scrimgeour...."

"And voilà, common courtesy is not taxing," Dumbledore commented without immediately answering the question. "Which reminds me.... The Minister was not explicit, with Mister Thicknesse present, but I believe his seeing your memory has nudged him back across the line into our camp - notwithstanding the contretemps with Dobby. I would prefer that he stay on our side if at all possible."

"Fine," grunted Harry. "You don't believe me, but I didn't plan that either."

"Very well," the Headmaster responded noncommittally. "Do you have any further questions?"

Dumbledore meant questions about Thickness' retreat, but Harry saw his opening. The original dilemma was solved, but Harry's personal mess remained to be tidied. "Yeah, like I said, I'm still being hounded by everybody about what happened. The way you handled the Wizengamot sounds brilliant. Shak took the memory a second time for the Minister, and he returned it. Can we set up a Pensieve here?"

The Headmaster was briefly silenced. Quizzically, he stared down his half-moon glasses at Harry. "Are matters really that bad, Mister Potter?"

"Worse," Harry maintained. "It's not just the students; it's the staff, too."

"Really?" Dumbledore remarked with a frown, displeased that Hogwarts professors would behave in that fashion. "Should I have a chat with anyone?"

Harry need only second to decline. "No, that would probably just ... well, you know. I'd rather everyone see for themselves...."

Harry's request was unorthodox, but so was his situation. "I am agreeable, but there must, of course, be supervision. Let me see who...."

"The goblins," Harry interjected. "They're back at the Castle, guarding against something that doesn't even exist. They can keep order. It's something useful they can do."

Dumbledore nodded, his good hand stroking his beard. "Yes, I believe that could work. You will instruct them, I assume, to refrain from lethal force."

"I'll make sure they don't hurt anyone," Harry agreed.

"Very well, you may return to your studies," the Headmaster dismissed him.

"There's one more thing...."

Dumbledore sat up straight, wondering what was next.

"That gospel book we found at the Château.... I'm convinced it's not a fake," Harry revealed. "We had another book from the same source checked. It was real - and rare enough that the Muggles tried to arrest Blackie Howe just for having it. What have your Church contacts said about using it to get back that Horcrux?"

The Headmaster had made inquiry; notifying his sources about the possibility of a deal. The Vatican, however, was notoriously slow and discreet - particularly about something as potentially explosive as the reappearance of the Gospel of Truth after so many centuries. Any response awaited precisely this sort of confirmation of authenticity.

The wheels of the godly ground slowly, and Dumbledore had now learnt that his own time was very limited. His medical condition was a closely guarded secret, save for one trusted confidante. That subject could upset almost everything - including the boy before him.

Such a deal could not possibly be completed in his remaining days, but Dumbledore could not tell that to Harry.

"I have initiated matters," the Headmaster wheezed, sounding old and feeling older. "But that ancient organisation is encrusted with bureaucracy. I shall tell them of this development and keep you informed. I shall update you by the end of the Term...."

* * * *

And so, it came to pass that part of the Ceremonial Library was set aside for a public Pensieve (Harry's rather than Dumbledore's) constantly guarded by between two and four goblins, depending on time of day. Creating a true exhibition, the Headmaster contributed the Sword of Gryffindor, Harry's Special Award for Services to the School, the Basilisk fang that had pierced Harry's arm, and the school robes - cleaned, but never mended - that Harry had worn that fateful night.

Over the next few days, almost everyone in the Castle viewed Harry's edited memory of rescuing Ginny from the deadly beast. Not a few, mostly female, were repeat visitors. Harry uncomfortably found himself receiving dreamy witches' looks in classes, in Castle corridors, and even during D.A. meetings.

Quite a few witches were jealous of Ginny. True, she almost died (quite a drawback), and her only role in Harry's memory was inert - lying unconscious on the Chamber's stone floor as the huge King of Serpents crashed about, miraculously not being crushed.

But she was the catalyst. Her abduction inspired Harry to the incredible heights of heroism on display to anybody in the Castle willing to brave the queue.

That was romantic....

Ginny thought so, too. But her part grew old in a hurry. Soon she was almost as sick and tired as Harry of answering questions about everything. Part of her frustration, of course, was constantly telling lies to avoid revealing her possession by the diary.

Even worse, more damaging to her self-esteem, was the unspoken predicate to many questions - what had gone wrong? That is, why had she never been Harry's girlfriend, and why had she lost out to the witch who was?

Ginny had no answer - not that she could state aloud. But at least she had a viable plan to address that problem.

Which was more than the rest of the Castle's distaff population could claim.

* * * *

Another midweek day drew to a close. Harry's waking hours had been filled by an early morning workout with Hermione, then classes, lunch, more classes, homework, a Quidditch practice, and a couple spectacular losses to Ron at Wizard Chess as a nightcap.

He kissed Hermione good night and made his way to the sixth year boys' dormitory. Pulling back the bed curtains to get his toilet kit, he thought he heard, "Ahem," in Godric Gryffindor's voice. A quick glance at the Founder's portrait showed nothing. The frame appeared empty, save possibly one corner of the man's ermine-bedecked robes.

Finding nothing amiss, Harry went about his business.

He slipped into his comfy bed, closed the hangings, and dove between the sheets. Only then did Harry hear a very feminine giggle.

That voice was not Hermione's.

In less than the blink of an eye, Harry's wand was in his hand. "Lumos!" He found himself staring into the bold, chocolaty eyes and long frizzy mane of Romilda Vane. Sitting cross-legged with his bedcovers over only part of her ample legs, she wore a gauzy white nightgown and from all appearances little else. Her apricot brassiere was clearly visible beneath the gown. He was thankful she wore one at all....

"Rommy! What the hell!" Harry burst out. "Imperturbus!"

"Why thank you, Harry, you saved me a spell," Romilda replied saucily.

"Wha - what are you doing in my bed?" he gasped.

"Anything you want, Harry," she answered in an overly sultry voice. Tossing aside her small share of the covers, she leaned forward and started crawling towards him on all fours. "To break the ice, could I get my knickers back?" You see, I've run out.... See?"

Romilda rocked backwards to sit up. Her nightgown rode back, and she flashed Harry right good and proper. Obviously, she was not wearing knickers that matched her bra - or any knickers at all.

Harry was dumbfounded.

"You can even put them back on me ... after we're done...." With that she pounced, sprawling him backwards into his pillow.

Taken by surprise and verging on panic, Harry did the only thing he could. He could feel his wand, the holly one, poking against her thigh. "Petrificus totalus!" he incanted.

Instantly she went rigid. "I'm sorry, Rommy, but you and everyone else know I'm taken. I can't stop your looking, but you can't touch."

"Mobilicorpus!"

Harry opened the bed curtains and thankfully saw nobody. He floated her outside, and ended his spells, dumping her on the floor. Before Romilda could react, Harry ducked behind his hangings and fortified them - sealing himself in by giving the curtains the strongest Sticking Charm he knew.

There.

He had successfully defused a potentially messy situation with minimal fuss and bother. Tomorrow, Hedwig would visit the would-be groupie, returning her missing knickers - and delivering a note promising that, provided she kept her distance, he would not tell Hermione.

Harry would keep that promise - just as not long before when his Household Magic partner for the Muggle bake-off, Padma Patil, informed him forthrightly that, should he want, she would do "anything in the Kama Sutra" with him. He had, of course, declined, and the sensible Ravenclaw readily agreed to a "forget I ever said that" resolution.

Telling Hermione about such incidents - when they amounted to nothing - seemed needlessly cruel. She had more than enough to be going on with, being inextricably enmeshed in his complex life. Driving her paranoid about his affections seemed ... just wrong.

* * * *

After the Vane incident, things passed for normal for a couple of days, until Professor McGonagall button-holed Harry at lunch. She stiffly told him that he "had visitors."

Harry had two free periods before double Defence Against the Dark Arts. He intended to work on his Charms project. His Tunneling Charms were improving, but too slowly.

Who could possibly want to see him, now? And how had they....

It had to be....

"Goblins?" Harry asked his Head of House.

"No. Dropouts."

"What...? Umm ... you mean Fred and George?"

"None other."

So much for Charms. "Where are they?"

McGonagall sniffed. "Like everyone else, they seem interested in your encounter with Slytherin's Basilisk. I had them escorted to the Ceremonial Library."

Harry arrived to find the Twins thoroughly immersed in the Pensieve. They had probably bribed their way to the front of the queue with products from their shop. A couple of younger students behind them had all-too-obviously sampled Canary Creams. Others were passing time playing Reusable Hangman, and one young witch was Burbling - blowing randomly coloured bubbles that burst with quite off-colour remarks. The only upperclassman present, Hufflepuff Dristine O'Connell, distractedly leafed through one of the Twins' "adult" catalogues.

The goblin guards looked furious. They were supposed to preserve order. The Twins' mission in life seemed to be preserving disorder. Once again they succeeded.

Dristine looked up and smiled as Harry entered. "Oh, hello, Harry.... Come to see your own memory?"

"Nope," Harry replied. Gesturing at the Twins lemon-yellow pantsed backsides, he smirked. "I'm here for those berks. Supposedly they're here to see me."

"Seeing you they most certainly are," she smirked, tossing her shoulder length brown hair. "Since they could be a while.... Tell me, how do you think I'd look in this?"

She turned the catalogue towards him, but before Harry caught a gander at whatever outlandish (this was the Twins, after all) lingerie had caught her eye, a loud "WHOOP!" announced that the Twins were finished.

Two ginger-haired heads erupted from the Pensieve.

"Merlin's bits and Morgana's tits!" George sputtered. "I was going to take the mickey out of dear Ronald for being a wimp, but not now - even if I still had both ears."

"Little Ginevra ought to thank...." Fred spotted Harry staring. They wore matching bright yellow robes trimmed in red fox fur. "Harry! Our most esteemed partner...." He signaled George.

"More esteemed than ever."

The two steered Harry towards a deserted part of the library.

"If any more esteemed, you'd be named Minister for Magic by acclamation."

"Even if you'd make us free our house-elves."

"We'd have to own house-elves before we could free them."

"Right. That could be arranged."

They reached the same library stacks where Harry had nearly hexed Cormac McLaggen not too long ago.

"Fred, George ... to what do I owe the honour of your...."

"Honour?" Fred mocked-cried. "It's all ours...."

George echoed. "My dear Harry; the honour's all ours...."

"Unless you've kept your head under a rock since the Prophet ran dear Rita's story...."

"Whatever you did to turn her, by the way - good work."

Fred withdrew a velveteen drawstring bag from his robes. It resembled what wealthy wizards used to carry their Galleons, only larger.

Seeing it, Harry asked, "What's this about?"

"Why business, of course," Fred turned serious. "What do you think of this?" He produced a plastic object, maybe ten centimetres long, and handed it to Harry.

It was a human figurine, apparently made from Muggle plastic. Some rudimentary charm made its right arm swing wildly when poked in the stomach.

"This is a fail," Harry commented sullenly, as he handed it back. "Try again."

Fred made no move to take it back. "Look more closely," he urged.

Harry did. From black traced glasses, to green paint daubed eyes, to a floppy silver "sword" injection moulded to the right hand, the figurine was a crude facsimile of Harry in the Chamber of Secrets.

"No!" Harry exclaimed, loud enough to turn heads in the queue on the opposite side of the library. "This is tacky. I won't have anything to do with it."

George threw up a bog standard Privacy Charm. "Excellent," he agreed affably. "I expected you'd say that."

"What?" Harry spluttered. "You don't understand. Don't sell this - full stop. It's tacky. It's cheap. It's degrading. Mostly you have good ideas, but this isn't. You're my partners, and you can't sell my likeness without my permission.... I refuse."

Confronted with Harry's torrent of criticism, the Twins' expressions remained steadfastly neutral as they waited patiently for him to finish.

"Just how I thought he'd react," Fred commented. "We can make him feel, if not think."

"Bloody brilliant rant, if I do say so myself," George observed.

"Pushed precisely the right buttons," Fred continued.

Still incensed, Harry simply gawked.

"Couldn't have hoped for a better response," George kept on. "My ear is still ringing." That might have been literally true. George sported a bright blue version of WWW's trademark Extendable Ears customised for single ear use.

"What are you on about?" Harry growled in frustration. "Can't you two take no for an answer?"

"Probably not," Fred allowed. "But we haven't asked for anything, yet."

"Only because I didn't give you the chance," Harry groaned, weary of their banter.

George took the kitsch action figure from Harry. "Should we be merciful?" he asked Fred.

"I think so," Fred replied. "This has gone on long enough."

"Damn right it has," Harry grumbled.

"You see," George began, affecting a preposterously faked professorial air, "we bought this a couple of hours ago from a Diagon Alley street vendor, perhaps thirty paces from our shop...."

"Cost us all of two Sickles," Fred added.

"Two Sickles rather well spent, I'd say," George went on. "We have nothing to do with this." Turning the figurine upside down, he ostentatiously examined one of its feet. "Made in Indonesia," George recited.

Harry's eyes flashed angrier than before. "You mean they're selling this ... this rubbish ... supposedly of me? On the street? Now? Without my permission?"

"Yes, yes, yes, and it sure looks that way. Let's face it, there's a market for you right now," Fred replied. "That's business. Where there's demand, there'll be supply."

"Not if my bleeding lawyers have anything to say about it, there won't!" Harry proclaimed in a voice that tested the privacy spell. "First thing when I leave here, I'll send Hedwig with a message for Blackie Howe to put a stop to this nonsense."

"You do that, Harry," George encouraged, hopeful that any competition would become enmeshed in litigation. "But before you go, may we show you our ideas for a complete line of - dare I say it, classy - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets merchandise."

"We haven't completed the spellwork, because for accuracy we needed some guidance from your memory," Fred pointed out. "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes only sells first class products."

"Quality could be our fourth 'W'," George declared proudly.

"Quality doesn't start with a 'W'," Harry pointed out.

"Well, it should."

For a half hour the Twins discussed various ideas for "Harry Potter products" with the extremely reluctant namesake (and possessor of his right of publicity). Many proposals were shot down. Harry did consent, grudgingly, to what the entrepreneurs promised would be a much "classier" model of him, crafted from the same magical material as Wizard Chess figures. It would only be marketed in a set including a Basilisk and a phoenix - not sold separately.

Harry also assented - after the Twins showed him another pirated version they had bought - to a poster depicting his dispatch of the serpent with the Sword of Gryffindor. He vetoed their first portrayal, however.

"I didn't ride bloody Fawkes," Harry protested. "I was below, not above that thing. This makes me look like Saint whazits ... umm ... George, I think ... killing some stupid dragon. Who did this anyway...?"

"We commissioned the drawing from Dean Thomas," Fred revealed. "Ginny said he could sketch, and for once she was right."

"He can, but he's never seen a Basilisk," Harry complained. "You've seen it. It's nothing like a dragon. Basilisks don't have wings or legs. They're more like giant cobras with that hood and all. Saint George, I'm not."

"Charlie would say you're a damn sight better," George cracked a smile. "I might have the bloke's name, but according to big brother, Mister Saint G simply had good church publicists."

"What?" Harry asked open-mouthed.

"To hear Charlie tell it, George our patron fellow was canonised just for doing in an immature Welsh Green," Fred broke in. "That Horntail you fought in the Triwizard was ten times more dangerous. To it, Saint George would have been crunchy and good tasting with ketchup."

"Well, whatever," Harry ended the tangent. "All that happened in the Chamber was the thing lunged at me, and I made a lucky strike - so no dragon-Basilisk."

"If you say so, Harry."

Harry was much more forthcoming with the accessories. To the oohs and ahs of the lucky few happening to be in the queue, Harry removed the Sword of Gryffindor from the wall above the Pensieve and let Fred and George examine it. They promised only to make replicas in three-quarters size, with a Permanent Dulling Charm on the blade.

George had in mind an even smaller joke version with a blade that, like one of their Twins' fake wands, would morph into a limp miniature Basilisk.

Ah, yes, the Basilisk. For that, the Twins had great plans - fangs, hats, masks, models, quills, even - Fred suggested - a faux Basilisk-skin toilet seat.

Fred may or may not have been serious.

Although he vetoed the last, Harry generally could hardly care less. The Twins could take whatever liberties they chose with the King of Serpents. Basilisks were nothing to be trifled with, but the blind, primal terror engulfing the magical world since the Beauxbatons attack was too much. If the Twins' humour could lift the current atmosphere of unreasoning fear - great.

Turning Basilisks into laughing stocks might do the trick.

Fawkes was different. The Twins promised respectful depictions of the Headmaster's departed (as far as they knew) phoenix.

One final matter had to be resolved.

"I don't want anything calling attention to Ginny," Harry demanded. "She's suffered enough over this."

"Wouldn't hear of it," George quickly agreed. "She might hex off my other ear."

"C'mon, Harry," Fred added. "She's our own sister. We play pranks, but nothing that would really hurt her - that we reserve for Malfoy...."

"Okay," Harry relented. "What about Tom Riddle? He's also in the memory. You haven't said anything about Voldemort."

"Umm ... we're probably pushing it with U-No-Poo," Fred allowed. "We don't mind fighting him ourselves...."

"Especially with Ministry private tenders coming our way," George interjected.

"...But it's bad for business if the public thinks our shop could be attacked at any moment," Fred explained. "Can't be scaring off customers. Bad puns are one thing, screwing with somebody's actual likeness...? Hell, that's what wound you up, Harry."

"But that didn't stop you two from coming here to ask," Harry observed.

"You might get mad and sic solicitors on us," George acknowledged. "But you wouldn't try to blow up our shop - it's your investment, too."

"Besides, what could be scarier than Voldemort's solicitors?" Fred added. "Think of what they might demand in royalties."

Harry gave in. "Your call," he shrugged.

* * * *

Several days later, Harry stayed to help Hagrid corral an escaped Pooka. By the time he and the other volunteers had finally caught the piebald, goat-headed pony, Harry was quite late for lunch.

Jogging back to the Castle, he saw Hermione and Ginny sitting together on a stone bench in the same walled garden where Rita Skeeter spied on Hagrid during the Yule Ball. Harry considered interrupting, but hunger won out, so he continued inside.

Besides, why not let them complete whatever they were discussing?

Hermione laughed at something Ginny said.

That was nice, Harry thought as he hurried by.

Ginny had been distant from Hermione for months, since Hermione had declined to help her with Potions - so Hermione could spend more time with him. The incident in the Quidditch clubhouse, when Ginny had put him in the Hospital Wing, had done nothing to mend things.

Ditto his not inviting Ginny to the Château for Christmas - even for a visit. That was wholly his fault, but knowing Ginny, she probably suspected that Hermione had influenced that decision.

Maybe those two were mending things now.

He would let them.

Halfway through lunch, Harry was explaining differences between Basilisks and dragons to Dean and Seamus when Hermione wandered into the Great Hall, immersed in some magazine.

Spotting Harry, Hermione strode over, stuffing the magazine in her beaded bag. Harry budged up to make room, and she plopped down beside him.

"What's up?"

"Discussing magical creatures with this lot," Harry answered.

"You finally caught that Pooka, then?" Hermione remarked easily. "I waited for a while, but I was getting cold." She addressed her plate, "Cheese salad."

A jumble of lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, pieces of mature cheddar, and cottage cheese appeared.

"Blimey," Dean remarked, "she's not living like a fighting cock, is she? That's rabbit food."

"Well, I happen to like 'rabbit food'," Hermione retorted. She turned to her meal, and ignored her two housemates.

Harry knew enough to say nothing, even if her choice was rather spare. For a dentist's daughter, Hermione could put away her victuals. She almost always had meat, even if usually white - not the red he and most wizards preferred.

Seamus importuned Harry, "Well I hope she'll let you visit our bake-off station. Dean and I - we're doing Tex-Mex, and our baby back ribs, well, they'll be to die for."

Hermione refused to rise to the bait. "Harry can eat whatever he wants at the bake-off ... as long as he exercises it off with me...."

"Whoo-ee, Harry!" Dean burst out. "That's a date - sounds like."

"Dean...! Oh, my...." Hermione realised she should have been more precise.

Not that she was averse to concept, but she generally did make those preferences public.

Harry rescued her - sort of. "Piss off, you berks," he growled, although grinning as he said it. He, too, found his fiancée's rare faux pas amusing.

The two wizards, still laughing, cleared out.

Harry changed the subject. "So what were you and Ginny talking about earlier?"

Hermione did not miss a trick. "What? Did you see us? Why didn't you come over? It was no secret."

"I was too hungry to wait," Harry admitted. "Besides, you two looked cozy. I didn't want to interrupt."

"She wanted advice," Hermione mentioned.

Harry's eyebrows shot up.

"No, nothing like that," she leered back. "Get your mind out of the gutter. It was about food."

"Food?"

"Yes, food ... and I suppose that may be a reason for my lunch today."

"You'll have to explain that," Harry prompted. "Ginny eats like a Weasley, you know that."

"Well she doing something different for the bake-off," Hermione revealed with a touch of superiority seeping into her voice. "Ginny asked for my help. Knowing my parents are both dentists, she thought, correctly, that I might know some ... lighter ... fare she could prepare."

Pleased at their evident reconciliation, Harry was intrigued. "So what did Hermione the Muggle dentists' daughter suggest?"

"Why, Japanese, of course," she answered. "It's the healthiest cuisine in the world. That's why they live longer than anybody else. I gave Ginny lots of suggestions."

"Like what?"

Hermione warmed to the subject. "Sushi, sashimi with wasabi, tofu, onigiri, edamame, green tea, miso soup, pork tempura, maybe some others. And of course, mochi for dessert. It was a long conversation. She took notes."

"Umm ... sushi? That's like raw fish, innit?" Harry asked. Sushi was one item on Hermione's list he recognized.

"That's right, Harry," Hermione confirmed, pleased that Harry was at least conversant with the topic.

Her pleasure was short lived.

His nose crinkled with an expression that recalled the savoury flavour of Polyjuice Potion seasoned with Slytherin. "Eew, sorry but it's nothing I fancy eating. What about the rest?"

Hermione painstakingly described each item. "Sashimi is more raw seafood, mostly fish, with a spicy sauce - so you probably wouldn't like that either. Tofu is bean curd mixed with congealed soy milk and chopped into cubes. Onigiri is flavoured rice wrapped and cooked in seaweed. Edamame are unripe soybeans boiled in sea water...."

And so on.

"...I'm sure you'll like mochi. It's fruit-flavoured rice cake, dusted with powdered sugar. It can be stuffed with ice cream."

Harry, who loved listening to Hermione prattle on about anything and everything, patiently waited for her to finish.

When she did, he disappointed her. "That sounds good, but the rest of it, no thanks. I'll stick with keema and curry."

She sighed - this sigh one she inherited from her parents. As dentists they often struggled with their patients' unhealthy eating habits ... and wizards were worse than Muggles. "So that's what you and Padma are planning?"

Besides fifth year and more advanced Muggle Studies, Harry's Domestic Magic classmates were amongst the few allowed to participate in the annual no-magic-allowed bake off.

Harry brightened. "Yup. Our plan is for a lamb curry - she's choosing the precise flavourings - keema samosa, that's minced beef-filled dough, and mango flavored milk shakes. I do the Muggle cooking; I've lots of experience. She knows the right spices."

With mock gravity, Hermione remarked, "Okay, as long as she's bringing no other spices to the table."

To her surprise Harry blushed to his ears. "Umm ... we've had that out. I told her no - I'm spoken for...."

"What?" Hermione squeaked. "Padma? Ravenclaw Padma?"

"It's crazy," Harry admitted. "It's not just her. It's almost all of them. I just keep saying no."

Hermione was incensed, but essentially helpless. "Well, I would never...." For once, words failed her.

"I know you wouldn't," Harry tried comforting her. "But the rest ... they're not you ... which ...." Harry's voice trailed off leaving the thought uncompleted.

"Which what?" Hermione fretted.

Harry gave her a serious look. "Which ... which is why Padma and the rest don't have a chance."

Harry received a bone-crunching hug in the middle of the Great Hall. "Merlin, I do love you. Go cook Padma's spices, then."

Harry kissed the top of head. "At least we'll beat Ginny," he smirked.

Hermione stuck out her tongue at him, "Not if I can help it." She tried finishing her cheese platter, chewed for a while, but could not bear ignoring him, even though he had insulted her gustatory preferences. "Anyway, as I was saying, talking with Ginny about healthier foods made me feel guilty, and I just...."

Suddenly her eyes went wide. Abruptly she switched to Legilimenced telepathy.

'I forgot. The o-post brought the new Samson's Option - plain brown wrapper and all....' She was digging in her handbag and after some fumbling retrieved the publication Harry had seen her perusing earlier.

Harry had appreciated her prior Samson's Option picks. Like the evanescent knickers.... Yes, especially those....

She flipped pages until coming to a folded corner. 'Here - how do you think I'd look in that?" Keeping the catalogue literally under the table, she passed it to him.

Harry's could not believe the outfit Hermione selected. The knickers were black, lacy, sported a matching ebony fringe - and they were crotchless.

That was not what drew his attention. The matching teddy was practically transparent, save a couple oddly cock-eyed fastenings towards the bottom. A solid black elastic strap held it together. The strap curved upwards to fasten at the back. It continued in front and circled perfectly around both breasts.

Covering each areola was a magical equivalent pastie, emerald green, in the shape of an iris - his iris.

The combined effect closely resembled Harry's eyes and, using a little imagination, his glasses. The fringed black knickers added....

Merlin! What would they think of next? The effect was entirely intentional, as the caption for the outfit was, "Your boy can really live - and so can you."

'No, Hermione,' he forcefully Legilimenced. 'I want to make love with you, not with me.'

'That can be arranged,' Hermione quickly countered. 'That was a joke, by the way.'

'I hope so. Keep the catalogue. If you find anything that really interests you, let me know and I'll order it,' Harry offered.

Hermione switched to normal communication. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must complete my rounds."

"Rounds? Rounds about what?" Harry asked. This sounded like Hermione's latest recent personal frolic and detour.

"Politics," Hermione told him. "I'm trying to meet with every Muggle-born in the Castle."

"Why?" Harry inquired. "I was raised Muggle-born. You know that. Why not talk to me about this 'politics' thing."

"Okay, there's an election coming up," she explained. "We're not old enough to vote, but people like Colin's and Dean's parents are, as are some of the Seventh Years. I'm trying to get everyone to vote for New Labour. I have forms for applying for postal votes - only for those I think are favourable, of course. I haven't talked to you because, frankly, I think that the Dursleys are a lost cause."

* * * *

Draco Malfoy's evening had been frustrating. Whilst he considered himself the best of his year - and maybe more - in Potions, in Charms he was little better than average. He was now struggling with a most intricate set of Locating and Mapping Charms. His substantial ego had taken a substantive beating.

The fiasco began shortly after delivery - a series of provocations and accidents was almost disastrous. Professor McGonagall tested the magical defences of the final piece of his puzzle before he had a chance. Failure would surely have landed him in Azkaban.

Failure was not an option. The Dark Lord, or whoever cast the security spellwork, had met the challenge.

Then, for weeks, to calibrate the Charms, Draco had to spend all too much of his all-too-limited free time skulking in pursuit of various targets. Other, broader ways to accomplish these aims existed, but he could not master the necessary magic. Not trusting his own abilities, Draco fell back on the simpler, one-by-one approach.

Not that he needed, or wanted, the entire Castle. Hufflepuffs, save Susan Bones, were irrelevant, and precious few Ravenclaws merited his attention. Slytherins were easy enough, since he shared the dormitory and common room.

But Gryffindors were both critical and difficult. Fortunately, he shared several classes with Potter, his Mudblood, and his sidekick - and he tutored the Weaselette in Potions. But others, especially in lower years, were a challenge. More than once he was accurately accused of stalking his targets. Relying on his legendary arrogance, Draco managed to convince his quarry otherwise.

"You wish, Creevey," Malfoy sneered in the crowded corridor. "Your insignificance is exceeded only by your ineptitude."

"Get out of my way, pathetic wog stray," Malfoy ridiculed Jazzy upon being challenged. "So you might catch a Snitch. Still, Potter shouldn't let you off your short leash. It could be dangerous ... for you."

The staff posed even more daunting obstacles. Those teaching his classes were not problems, nor was Pomfrey, but the rest proved difficult. Three weeks were necessary for enough proximity to add the Headmaster to the collection. Worse, Malfoy could not shake the feeling that Dumbledore sensed that something was amiss.

Malfoy persevered, and eventually collected everybody he considered worth collecting.

Finally, it was time to test the finished product. Success would mean that he possessed all the kit needed for the first, and undoubtedly easier, of the two tasks the Dark Lord had assigned him.

Accomplish both and his reward would be great - not only the rest of the Gulbenkian funds, but also Malfoy Manor and other Malfoy properties completely repaired, rendered unplottable, and protected by a Fidelius Charm cast by the Dark Lord himself.

Here goes....

"Only power and those too weak to seek it," Malfoy incanted.

He watched the blueprints of Malfoy Manor begin twisting about, collapsing and then unfolding in an entirely new pattern. As the parchment finished its transformation, Draco Malfoy's face broke into an evil grin. Before him was a map of Hogwarts Castle - with the locations of everyone he wanted to keep tabs on - with one exception.

Since receiving the Paneruditius Parchment from Caractacus Burke, Malfoy had not been invited to the Headmaster's office. He had no opportunity to map that tower.

Dumbledore was nowhere to be found in the rest of the Castle, so Malfoy assumed he was in his quarters atop the Castle's tallest tower. The omission was worrisome, but unavoidable.

On the plus side, Malfoy had accessed the Room of Requirement. As expected, it was packed with persons of interest. Today was Friday, and Potter's Defence Association was meeting. Checking attendance, he scowled at Daphne Greengrass' dot. Malfoy had suspected that she had joined the enemy. Now he had confirmation.

Another evil grin spread across his face. When the Dark Lord triumphed, Malfoy vowed that Greengrass would pay for her apostasy to the ideals of Salazar Slytherin - and for rejecting his advances. With Voldemort ascendant, Greengrass would survive only by submitting to him in every way that Pansy Parkinson ever did, and then some.

"Darkness managed," Draco gleefully directed. The parchment returned to its prior, innocuous state.

He was ready. Step one required only the coup de grâce - for the Weaselette to manage her hostile takeover of Harry Potter.

* * * *

During a visit to what remained of Bellatrix Lestrange, and her nurse, the Dark Lord learnt that the Death Eaters he had summoned had arrived. The Master swept into the anteroom where his two followers, still in their travelling cloaks, immediately dropped to their knees. They ritually demonstrated fealty by kissing the hem of Voldemort's robe.

"Rise, Ludo," the Dark Lord bade the older of the two. "Have you adjusted the schedule to conform to my wishes?"

"Yes, my Lord," the Ministry's Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports reported. "As directed, I arranged for the six June date. We made it appear as a favour to the Hogwarts side - a delay to push matters beyond the school's O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s."

Ludo Bagman stopped speaking, hoping for some scrap of information that might explain his Master's insistence on a postponement until shortly after the new moon. None was forthcoming. The Dark Lord simply ordered, "Follow me," and led them to a larger, equally poorly lit, room.

"You have done well," Lord Voldemort pronounced without preface. "Now introduce me to my man on the inside."

Hearing himself referenced, the other Death Eater, who had kept silent throughout, hesitantly stepped forward. Mocking a World Cup announcement, Bagman introduced, "My Lord, I give you Mervyn Troy."

"Present yourself," the Dark Lord ordered.

Troy shoved up his left sleeve revealing the Dark Mark. "I am sworn to obey you, My Lord. Please enlighten me concerning your wishes."

"Have you been amply rewarded?" Voldemort inquired.

"I have. I thank you my Lord. I am now part owner of the Kenmare Kestrels," Troy revealed. "I shall earn my keep however my Lord sees fit."

"You will have the opportunity," Voldemort responded knowingly. "Perform successfully and I will see that you become majority owner."

"You have but to command me," Troy replied immediately.

"Did you Imperius him?" the Dark Lord asked.

"Indeed, I have," Troy confirmed. "I ordered him to do as you directed."

"His reaction?"

"He is weak. The curse is barely noticeable - as you thought it might be," Troy reported with satisfaction. "His submission is complete. He responds as if there were no spell. To confirm he was Imperiused, I tried it a second time and it failed, indicating the persistence of the original curse."

"The Imperius Curse so behaves when the subject must do what is already desired," the Dark Lord recited lazily. "You performed it properly. Have there been any other effects?"

"Since I cursed him, he seems distracted and depressed. His play has suffered, and our coach has disciplined him," Troy continued. "There have been a couple of off-pitch incidents with ... I suppose ... Quidditch groupies. Those have been hushed up, but the team is concerned. He never behaved that way before, despite ample opportunity...."

The Dark Lord walked away whilst Troy kept speaking. He stared out the window in a calculating way, observing nothing in particular.

"We cannot have that," Voldemort abruptly declared. "You will end the curse. Nothing can attract undue attention. His play is but a means to an end, but his reputation must remain unsullied if my plan is to succeed. I shall address this myself."

"Immediately, my Lord, it will be done," Troy readily agreed. To curse him like that had left him doubting those instructions. "Should I tend to this now?"

"Not yet," the Dark Lord refused to dismiss him. "Will you be positioned to curse him again should I require?"

"Yes," Troy answered. "I see him at every team practice, several times a week."

"Excellent. His reaction to your curse betrays his weakness. His feelings are unmistakable. In due time you will be instructed how I wish to exploit them. Until then, you are to lay low and do nothing to attract attention."

Troy bowed. "It will be done, my Lord." He was unsure if he was being dismissed.

"Now about the match," the Dark Lord changed the subject. "I have something for you." Unsheathing his wand, he pointed if at the open door. "Accio broom!"

Momentarily, a Firebolt soared into the room, halting before Lord Voldemort. Except for peripherals like team trim, it was identical to the broom Troy rode in competition.

"This is your mount for the Hogwarts match," the Master ordered. "It is specially charmed. Pay attention. Scindus!" With a loud crack the broom's handle splintered. The tip fell away, leaving a lopsided, but jagged and razor-sharp remnant.

"A priori." The broom's pieces flew back into place and seamlessly knitted themselves together. "This will be your personal contribution to the match," the Dark Lord hissed.

"Yes, my Lord," Troy instantly agreed. "How does my Master wish me to use it?"

"During the Hogwarts match, you will use this spell and run the opposing Keeper through," Lord Voldemort ordered. "Make it appear an unfortunate accident - a defect in construction. The precise timing and circumstances are at your discretion."

Troy gulped. He had played Quidditch his entire adult life. He fancied himself something of a student of the game. He could not recall such a gory incident in the entire history of the sport - save perhaps the mid-match Killarney dragon attack in 1499. "Yes, my Lord."

Ludo Bagman said nothing, but looked queasy. Mayhem at the match would require a feigned investigation.

"Make no mistake. Succeed and you shall be rewarded." The Dark Lord stopped, scowled at nothing in particular, and reached to a nearby shelf. He extricated a small box, carved from solid onyx. His wandless hand gesture conjured a long pair of tweezers.

"The accident can be your excuse to retire as a player," he continued whilst busying himself. "That should do it."

Without explaining his actions, Voldemort levitated the box to a nearby tabletop. With a mumbled Unlocking Charm, he slid the top aside. He carefully dipped the tweezers inside and extracted a black, scaly, wiggling ... something.

"But should you fail...." The Dark Lord dangled the squirming creature at Troy's eye level. "Behold a Tartaran Flobberworm. These require some testing, and I assure you, you do not wish to join that experiment. One of these curled about your brainstem for the rest of your life is not something you would find desirable. You could not even put yourself out of your misery."

* * * *

Hogwarts offered Harry and Hermione relatively few opportunities for carnal decadence. Ordinarily their breakfasts were well earned. Haunted by the prophecy, driven by it, they adhered rigorously to a strenuous morning regimen of training in the Room of Requirement.

But this morning - the day after May Day - was a rare exception.

By mutual consent, they slept in. Given the prior day's long journey into night, they could hardly have done otherwise.

Magic, indeed the entire Wizarding World, had little to do with it.

Hermione spent May Day itself in a state of very nervous anticipation. Although all indications were favourable, in such matters she remained a confirmed pessimist. Everything had gone pear-shaped before. Backing a party that had never held the majority in ones lifetime (not counting en ventre sa mère), made sceptical detachment more than a luxury; it was a necessity.

Extremely clever girls tended towards political idealism, and Hermione Granger was no exception. The more aware she appreciated her parents' - especially her father's - ceaselessly striving lifestyle, the more repulsed she became.

This drift from her parents' materialism only accelerated once Hermione went to Hogwarts.

Events of the past summer made her political estrangement irreparable. Hermione learnt that her father had used his chairmanship of the Dental Advisory Group to solicit millions in bribes. That position came courtesy of the Iron Lady.

Thus, election night found Hermione on pins and needles. She commandeered the Gryffindor D.A. Central Station - the only reliable Internet connection available.

Afraid of a nasty reaction to yet another loss, she asked Harry for privacy, and requested the same from the rest of her House.

Harry obliged. He had no more love for Muggle politics than the wizarding variety. The current P.M. had tried to arrest him at their only meeting. Also, the Dursleys were Tories. Those were two good reasons to hope they lost. More importantly, he preferred not having to comfort a distraught Hermione.

Not that night.

Neither her separation nor her anxieties lasted long. The tone was set early, by a Tory loss in Birmingham Edgbaston, and the projected swing to Labour predicted a landslide. Within two hours of the polls closing, Labour was up by more than one hundred seats, with the Tories mired in single digits. Ecstatic, she fetched Harry to watch the rest with her.

They witnessed an electoral wipeout. Deep Tory blue constituencies - Hove, Harrow, and Hastings; Worcester and Crawley - went Labour red that night. Only lack of personal vindication kept the night from being perfect. Regrettably, but probably inevitably, the Cities of London and Westminster and the Surrey boroughs (Harry did not know the Dursleys' precise constituency) remained in Conservative hands.

Hermione stayed glued to the results until after two in the morning, when the ultimate Tory humiliation, Michael Portillo losing his seat in Enfield, was confirmed. Even then, she was far too keyed up to sleep.

Some very late night rule breaking ensued. The Marauders' Map showed Filch awake and engaged in some project in the seventh floor main corridor. That ruled out the Room. After more false starts, the two again ended up in the Divination classroom where, aided by stout Silencing Charms, they expended Hermione's excess energy atop a pile of pouffes and cushions.

They finally made it to their Gryffindor dormitory beds sometime past three in the morning.

* * * *

"Wake up, mate!" Ron was shouting. "You'll miss brekkie."

"Don't care," Harry moaned as he burrowed under his pillow. "Would rather sleep than eat. I'll make it up at the bake-off this afternoon."

"Not if I eat it all first," Ron threatened.

"It's cheating to eat your own," Harry groaned.

"Who says I'm gonna?" Ron grumbled.

"Not me. Now let me sleep."

Luckily Hagrid cancelled upper level Care of Magical Creatures classes for the day. With fair weather predicted - sunny with a high in the mid teens - the non-magical bake-off would take place on the Castle's front lawn at the base of the hill. This location was far enough the Castle that only simple wards were needed to protect the Muggle equipment.

That spot was too close to his hut for Hagrid's liking, and not because he disliked the food.

The half-giant always ate his fill. But the same might be said for many of the creatures for his upper level classes - if given the chance. The enticing odours might attract their unwanted attention. He locked them away for the duration.

The cancellation meant that Harry, Hermione and several classmates had no classes until after lunch.

At lunch, Hermione jubilantly informed Harry that New Labour would win over 450 seats - a crushing majority.

After Double Potions, Harry went with Padma to organise their curry extravaganza - to prepare about twenty kilos of rice, various meats, and of course intricate spices.

Hermione had no qualifying class (either Muggle Studies or an upper level "domestic" class), so she could only be a "guest judge." That meant eating the food, which suited her perfectly. Her afternoon Healing lesson ended at five, just in time for the bnake-off's start.

Hermione enjoyed the same status as everyone not entered in the bake-off - almost all of the Slytherins, the Castle staff, and the Hogsmeade merchants who underwrote the expenses of the competition. Whilst the Snakes did not sully themselves with Muggle means, they had no compunction against partaking of the delicious results.

The rules were simple. Contestants could prepare anything they liked, as long as: (1) they used no magic, and (2) the courses were not on the regular Hogwarts menu (too much potential for cheating). In practice, that excluded most traditional English offerings, and the bake-off became a carnival of epicurean delights from around the world.

Hermione encountered that carnival as the vernal sun's slanting rays, shining through the Forbidden Forest's boughs of budding leaves, dappled the newly greening fields that sloped from the Castle towards the lake.

Competitors arrayed beneath red and white candy-striped pavilions were already dishing out their wares. Pungent wood smoke from numerous cooking fires drifted up and away.

"Oi, Hermione, come try some of our barbecued baby back ribs!" Seamus Finnigan called to her. "We've also four-alarm chili."

"Your tender palate would be better served by our boeuf bourguignon," Titania Prod urged. "Or perhaps some nice, cool vichyssoise?"

Ron - all the Weasleys took Muggle Studies - wanted her to sample his fried chicken, cheesy grits, collard greens and black-eyed peas.

Her friend Su Li and her housemate Sabrina Fawcett sought to tempt Hermione with loads of Chinese dishes garnished with cashew, broccoli, and water chestnut.

Hermione also needed to save room for dessert. Justin Finch-Fletchley had let slip in Potions that his planned Kiwi pavlova confection would be almost a metre high. But Justin had a direct competitor, Ann Derek of Ravenclaw, who promised a "full Savoy Truffle menu" of desserts.

Happily, Hermione dipped in and out of the queues in front of the student tables. Most of all she was looking for.... "Harry, there you are!"

Indeed he was, wearing a white apron already sporting green and yellow curry stains. He was the front man, Hermione noted wryly. Padma stayed back, tending the numerous pots and saucepans, whilst Harry's celebrity attracted crowds.

That arrangement suited Hermione just fine. Better that than the undue proximity she observed between Mandy Brocklehurst and Stephen Cornfoot in the adjacent booth. Closer than peas and carrots, indeed.

"Go ahead and load me up," she told him when she reached the fore of probably the longest queue.

"What do you want?" he asked. "We've got rogan josh, keema mutter, tandoori chicken, and gobi masala, if you're going veggie."

"Well, what's best?"

"I recommend the lamb."

"Then I'll start with that."

Hermione visited several others who hailed her. She carried her heaping plate to picnic tables that had been conjured for the occasion. The injunction against resort to magic extended only to food, and no further.

She spotted Luna and Neville and slid into the bench across from them.

They chattered happily about the D.A., her coping with Harry's various moods, Luna's Internet adventures with the Onion, and yesterday's Muggle elections, of which Neville was totally ignorant.

Gradually the lines thinned and the tables grew more crowded. Many younger witches and wizards turned the event into a true spring picnic - sitting on the grass eating from conjured picnic blankets.

"Oh my, that doesn't look good," Luna remarked. She and Neville faced the pavilions. Hermione looked the other way, towards the Castle.

"Looks good enough to me," Neville chuckled. "Almost enough to make me to feel sorry for her - but not quite."

Properly waiting until she finished chewing the last meat from one of Seamus' ribs, Hermione wanted to know, "Who are you talking about?"

"Ginny, the littlest Weasley, isn't very popular right now," Neville replied in an overly self-satisfied tone. "Nobody's even looked at whatever she's offering in ten minutes, let alone sampled any."

Hermione whirled around. Sure enough, Ginny stood completely alone in the second farthest left booth. Her partner for the event, Demelza Robbins, had suffered a Potions accident and was still recuperating. Ginny was on her own.

She stood staring into the distance with a painfully faked smile plastered to her face. In front of her were numerous trays of nicely arranged, but practically untouched, items.

"What's she serving anyway?" Neville asked nobody in particular. He had not ventured anywhere near his ex-girlfriend.

"Japanese, I think," Luna commented. "I'm not much of a fan of raw fish, and seaweed - unless it's boiled thoroughly in fresh water, that's a magnet for Nargles."

"Japanese?" Neville responded sceptically. "I had that once, with Gram. We couldn't stand it. Not only don't they cook the fish, but it comes with yucky white jelly that doesn't taste like anything. Gram liked the wine, though...."

Hermione had heard enough. "Oh dear, what have I done?" she squeaked. Leaving her half-eaten plate behind, she made a bee-line for the redhead's deserted pavilion.

"Oh, Ginny, I'm sorry! You must be mortified!" Hermione exclaimed when within shouting distance. "I guess nobody here likes Japanese."

Ginny must have walled herself off mentally, because she did not immediately respond.

When finally focussing on Hermione's regretful approach, Ginny almost burst into tears. "Oh, gods, Hermione, I've never been this embarrassed. I'm going to finish last for sure."

"That'll be on merit," a sneering Draco Malfoy sauntered by. He had obviously overheard their conversation. "I can't believe even Muggles stomach that garbage."

At that scathing critique, Ginny did burst into tears.

"I'll have you know, that the Japanese have the longest average life span of any people on earth!" Hermione almost yelled at the pure-blood supremacist.

"Spare me!" he replied theatrically. "All I know about Muggle Japs is that they kill themselves a lot. Looking at that dross, I know why." Laughing, he moved off leaving the pair of Gryffindors spluttering.

"This is horrible," Ginny wailed.

"No, it's not," Hermione sternly disagreed. "It's just ... an acquired taste."

"That nobody's acquired," Ginny bawled. "You see what they eat. It's not this."

Hermione set her jaw. "Well you won't finish last if I can help it. Fill me up a plate."

"Umm ... what do you want?" Ginny sniffed, trying to regain control of her emotions.

"I don't care," the older girl declared. "It all looks good. I'll be back for seconds - with some friends."

Ginny loaded up Hermione's plate with rice cakes and tofu cubes galore. "These are the appetisers. You can come back for the sushi and sashimi," she said.

Hermione did just that. Unfortunately, she failed to entice her friends, save the Creevey brothers, into sampling the subtle joys of Japanese cuisine - at least Ginny's, which inexplicably omitted the tempura and teriyaki she had recommended.

Ron told her that, with so much better food available, he would not waste valuable stomach space. To her dismay, Harry outright refused to have anything to do with raw fish and boiled beans.

Hermione stalked away from her fiancé in a huff.

Feeling guilty that her ideas had caused Ginny public humiliation, she managed to down four full plates of the girl's cooking.

It was to no avail. Ginny did finish last - measured both by quantity consumed and number of "judges" served.

Back in the common room once the event was over, Hermione had words with both Harry and Ron about their lack of support for Ginny's efforts. Hermione was more Catholic than the Pope. Blaming herself for suggesting Japanese food, Hermione's lingering upset seemed to exceed even Ginny's.

In any event, the exchange of harsh words changed nobody's mind. Giving up the fight, Hermione abruptly went to bed in a bad mood and feeling vaguely sick to her stomach.

She hoped that Harry would regret the argument and send someone to ask after her. Harry was sweet that way. He never let unpleasantness between them simmer overnight.

This time, she was disappointed.

She fell asleep nursing her discontent and wondering whether something in all that Japanese food might have disagreed with her even more than her friends had earlier.

52

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 1/7/2014