Here Be Monsters

Monday, 1 July 1996

0832 GMT

I walk to Hagrid's hut through a warm early morning drizzle, filled with misgivings about the upcoming days. The meeting in France will determine much that will happen in the early phase of the war, and I have a sensation in the pit of my stomach that says we have already waited too long to begin our plans.

Besides, I have spent the night reviewing the implications of yesterday's visitation and message. While on the surface it seems highly positive, there are deep and complicated issues that may well make me regret what I am about to do.

Hagrid is waiting for me in front of his hut. He had wanted to dress in his finery for the upcoming meeting with Madam Maxime, but I have persuaded him to stick to his worn but serviceable ordinary clothes. For one thing he looks much less ridiculous. For another they are more appropriate for our first stop.

"Top o' the mornin, Professor Dumbledore sir," he says cheerily, "are you ready to be goin'?"

"Certainly Hagrid," I smile and pat him on his oversized bicep. He winces slightly and I draw my hand away, remembering that his dealings with his brother Grawp tend to leave him in a rather battered state nowadays.

"How will we be travelin', if yer don't mind me askin', Professor?"

I reach into an inner pocket of my robes and draw out an elaborately carved stone, the contents of the package I received yesterday. "By portkey Hagrid."

"That's for our first stop?" he looks at it suspiciously. Hagrid vehemently registered his objections to this plan when I informed him yesterday evening. He looks like he is still not quite reconciled.

"Yes it is. Now please place your hand on it."

Hagrid grumbles something under his breath but does as I ask. I smile to reassure him - and myself - and utter "Portus."

The familiar grabbing sensation in my abdomen is quickly followed by the sound of water - waves breaking on rocks. The air smells heavily of salt and earth. We have landed on the Cornish coast, in a large but apparently abandoned graveyard. Many of the headstones are overturned, and the grounds are covered with weeds. Set at regular intervals nearby are large mausoleums, their carvings defaced by decades of wind, rain, and moss.

"Not a very invitin' place, is it?" Hagrid mutters, looking around sharply.

I have to agree. Not just the graveyard but this whole stretch of coastline seems to be abandoned. The nearby road is in poor repair, and there are no sounds but those of birds and waves. Trees crowd into the graveyard at one end, their dark boughs creating a shaded lane. Motioning for Hagrid to follow, I make for the natural archway created by their branches.

As soon as we enter the shadows I sense the creature waiting. I stop while it lumbers forward, its wings half spread, arms raised to reveal gleaming talons. The Hellwing superficially resembles a gargoyle such as that which guards my office at Hogwarts. But it is not a creature of stone, but rather of muscle and tendon and hide and scale, seeming to combine some of the worst features of bird and bat and reptile. Its eyes glow redly in the dark; its head is dominated by a grotesque half-beak, half-muzzle filled with teeth. Judging by the broken fangs and tattered right ear, it is the same Hellwing that perched on my windowsill yesterday to deliver the portkey. It sniffs at me and smiles a horrid grin.

Raising one talon the monster points back along the path and growls "They are waiting." Its voice resembles the sound of rusty hinges forced to move after a long rest.

"Thank you. This way Hagrid." I move forward briskly, wanting to get Hagrid away from the creature before he gets ideas about wanting one for the Hogwarts menagerie.

The path bends and twists its way through the woods, bringing us only a relatively short distance through several hairpin turns. Rounding on such switchback we find ourselves in front of another mausoleum, this one three times larger than any of the others and carved out of some type of reddish stone. Another Hellwing is squatting next to the dark entrance. It also gives us a toothy grin, but makes no move to block our path. I continue forward, carefully holding my wand at ready.

The inside of the structure is pitch black and smells of mold and decay. Summoning a light from the end of my wand, I walk between two rows of stone sarcophagi, their lids cracked and splintered with any carvings long obliterated. At the end of the building a steep staircase leads down. With a warning to Hagrid to watch his head and our backs, I move slowly down the steps.

We spiral into the earth for quite a way before coming to a level stone corridor. At the end of the hall is a heavy metal door standing open. The space beyond is lit with flickering torchlight.

We enter to find ourselves in a vaulted circular chamber. More sarcophagi line the walls all around. Across the circle from where we have entered stands a chair of the same reddish stone as the exterior walls of the mausoleum. Sitting in it, her posture regal, her expression cold, is a strikingly beautiful woman in a dark crimson dress. Her skin is so pale as to be almost albino. Her hair is dark is night itself. And her eyes are pitch black laced with shifting red shadows.

"Welcome, Headmaster Dumbledore," she offers in a voice whose timber is deep and layered, like some superficially tranquil but incredibly treacherous moor.

"Thank you, Lady Cornelia," I say softly, coming forward to the center of the room with Hagrid at my heels. "I was pleased that you agreed to speak with me."

"But not pleased to actually be in my presence, I would wager." She smiles just enough to show the sharp edges of her teeth.

//The woman is most perceptive.// Tom's voice is its usual sour self.

If you can call her a woman.

Perhaps it is better to say Cornelia Ater was once a woman, although that was long ages ago. No one knows exactly how old she is, and some say even she has forgotten. What is known is that she came into Britain with the armies of the Roman Emperor Claudius, and that she had already existed for centuries even then. Some say her ultimate origins lay with the Etruscans, or the Scythians. Others argue for Greece or Crete. Wherever she was born, she has not lived, in the usually accepted since, for more than two millenia. Her power is vast, perhaps surpassed only by Tom Riddle's and my own. Her knowledge of dark secrets is unguessable.

And she is as blackhearted and treacherous as a demon from the pits of Hell.

//Set a demon to catch a demon.//

It wouldn't be the worst thing I've ever done.

//No. It would not at that.//

"I will not pretend that I favor you or your beliefs, Lady Cornelia," I admit. "But we do find ourselves sharing common interests."

"Or at least possibly sharing them."

I see movement in the shadows to either side. Hagrid makes a warning noise but I hold up my hand to let him know that I perceive the other presences. Cornelia's vile mates, I have no doubt.

"Your letter indicated agreement."

"My letter said that I agreed we should discuss the situation." She smiles, showing her fangs this time. "But I still find it odd that Albus Dumbledore would want to ally himself with a ragged pack of vampires."

"False modesty ill becomes you, Lady Ater," I say slowly, laying one hand on Hagrid's arm as I feel him tensing beside me, "you have never been known as a friend or admirer of me or Hogwarts."

She laughs at that, a sound like a harp being tortured. One of her mates, a brutish looking thing with gnarled muscles and a quick, loping step comes to her side and whispers something with a feral smile. Cornelia laughs again. "Barac agrees. He reminds me that there are those among us who remember when your precious school was only a field where Pictish shamans danced naked on nights of the full moon."

"Only fools equate age with worth or youth with vulgarity," I say softly, "and you have never been a fool. Besides, a thousand years is a worthy time even as you measure it."

"Well said. Please do sit." She gestures and two of her consorts bring forth stone benches that they place near where we stand. Although the benches must weigh hundreds of pounds a piece, the vampires handle them as lightly as pillows. Nodding to Hagrid, I sit on the one nearest Cornelia's throne. Grumbling and unhappy, he sinks down on the other.

"I must say, it has been a long time since we spoke, Dumbledore. And I certainly find your conversation more pleasing than that of the self-styled Dark Lord, or that foul thing that came to us today from the Ministry."

I concentrate hard to keep myself from tensing. It is very important that I conceal my reactions from the hyperalert senses of these creatures.

"The Ministry indicated they would send a representative. He has arrived?" My mind screams to speak of Riddle and the contacts he has had with them, but I refuse to indulge the temptation.

"Yes, but we refuse to deal with such as he." Cornelia's lip curls in disgust.

Who could they have sent that even she would find foul?

//I can think of several possibilities.//

"Nevertheless, it is important that we all work together in this crisis," I say choosing my words carefully, "or else we shall find ourselves dominated and destroyed one at a time."

Two of the male vampires burst into speech, using different languages neither of which I understand. Cornelia listens with the bemused and tolerant smile of a parent with precocious but difficult children.

"My consorts ask what we have to gain from working with the Ministry? After all, it is they who force us to live in the shadows and exist on the blood of animals! Why should we not join the Dark Lord, who promises to give us back the night?"

"Voldemort," I say, pronouncing the name loudly and deliberately, "is not known for keeping his promises."

"Neither is the Ministry." Cornelia observes flatly.

"I am." I look her in the eye trying with all my might to convey a sense of my good faith.

Cornelia stares back. For a long moment we maintain eye contact, not so much in a duel as in a wary salutation. By unspoken consent, we both shift our gaze at the same time.

"You are known for keeping your word," Cornelia acknowledges, "at least once it is wrung from you and by your own lights."

//Your reputation precedes you.//

"Which is still better than Voldemort," I reply slowly. "And besides, many of your kind allied with him in his last war. What did it gain them?"

"Little," she says, "but neither did those who stood aside gain."

"Then ally with the victorious side, and reap the benefits."

More bursts of conversation. This time it continues for quite a few moments. Eventually Cornelia holds up her hand sharply, bringing silence.

"What you say certainly has merit," she acknowledges. "However, the fact remains that many of our kind find the Dark Lord a more natural friend. They say that he understands us and our needs. And that he has partaken of our magics."

//It's hard to argue with that.//

So it is.

But then Cornelia herself surprises me. Folding her hands, she leans forward and regards me with an intense scrutiny, as if seeing me for the first time. "But you also have used our magic, haven't you, Dumbledore the Great?"

I stare at her, puzzled. Behind me Hagrid makes a startled and offended grunt.

Cornelia rises slowly from her chair and moves forward. As she pushes against the arms of her throne I see that the fingernails of her hands are in fact more like talons. Coming up with a sweeping movement she pauses only inches from my face. Her breathing makes a slightly irregular hissing sound, as if it is a habit rather than a need. The smell of her breath is like the sweet odor of a decaying corpse. She cocks her head and inhales through her long nose, evidently savoring an aroma I cannot detect.

"Yes," she says softly, "yes, you have used our magic. Long ago, as mortals would understand it, but only an instant away to us. The traces of it cling to you still. Gladius Amorae," her pronunciation is odd to my ear, for she her Latin is not that of the medieval cloister or the Wizarding World but of Caesar's court, "the Sword of Love."

I keep my face calm but my heart is racing. The charm she has detected is the one I placed on Harry fourteen years ago, the one his dreadful Aunt sealed by accepting him, the one that keeps him safe at Privet Drive. "I did not know that was your magic."

"But of course it is!" She leans even closer and I almost gag at the smell. "All things of the Blood belong to us - by nature if not by invention. And that spell is most certainly of the Blood. In fact its original, and much better, name was Mural Sanguisis, Wall of Blood."

I had known that. I had not, however, thought of its implications in this context.

"Oh yes," Cornelia continues, sniffing the air again, "whose blood was it?" She closes her eyes for a moment, then chuckles softly. "Mother's blood! Some of the most powerful of all!" Her tongue darts obscenely against her lips. "And the sweetest."

Hagrid gives a strangled yell and leaps to his feet. "You filthy great bat! How dare yer talk about Professor Dumbledore that way. He would never do somethin' like that!"

Pangs of remorse, love, and guilt flood me all at once.

Hagrid, you are too good for this wicked world.

"It's all right Hagrid," I say softly, turning to him. "Calm down."

He glares red-faced at Cornelia, who simply looks back with an expression of amusement. After a couple of more explosive growls, he settles back onto the bench.

Cornelia smiles almost sweetly. "Still, I would have to say that the Dark Lord, so called, has more experience of Blood magics than you, Dumbledore. Yes, and of deeper ones as well."

I think of Voldemort rising resurrected in a graveyard by a ritual in part powered by Harry's blood. But that brings the image of Harry, helpless and tied to a tombstone. Harry...

Harry almost died.

Swallowing hard I push the image aside.

I brace myself to take a major gamble. What I am about to say is a venture into dangerous and difficult territory. "That is true. But he has little understanding of Death, and that also falls within your purview, does it not, Lady Cornelia?"

She looks at me in surprise, then throws back her head and laughs loudly, a weird cackle that causes my spine to vibrate in discomfort. "Say rather Undeath, Professor. Still, Death is something we pride ourselves on studying. Why say you that Riddle does not understand it?

No longer "Dark Lord." I may be making progress.

"He fears it," I reply flatly. "He fears it more than any other thing. His entire existence is devoted to escaping it. How can a man who so fears Death understand you?"

Cornelia looks at me intently, the red whirls in her eyes growing bright. I brace myself, ready to raise an Occlumens shield against any attempt to penetrate my mind. But after a moment she turns and walks back to her throne.

"You would not give us back the night." It is a statement, not a question. She seats herself and waits for my comment.

"No," I acknowledge, "I would not. But I would work for better understanding between your kind and mine and.." I say as she begins a dismissive smirk, "I would let you continue to exist."

There is a general rustling and hissing from all directions. Some of her mates shout comments in various fell languages, none of which I quite understand.

"You say that Voldemort would not?"

"No," I say flatly. "You are too powerful. He does not allow anyone to threaten him over the long run, even if only in potential."

//Thus the need to protect your little scar-headed treasure.//

Precisely.

"So you are motivated by our good?" The question is put in a perfectly normal tone - or as normal as Cornelia's voice gets. "You are not motivated by the fact that we are not affected by the powers of the ones you call Dementors?"

"That is an important consideration," I admit.

Indeed, that is one major reason Minerva and I were so happy to see Cornelia's agreement to meet and discuss these matters. Voldemort has held the advantage of initiative for nearly a year - largely due to Fudge's incompetence. If we can bring the vampire covens onto our side, it will strike a major blow to his base of support. It will also go far to neutralize the advantage he has by his alliance with the Dementors.

"And," I continue slowly, deciding that I will dare one more throw of the dice, "we knew that you bear little love for the Dementors yourself, Lady Cornelia."

She cocks her head sideways, seeming to stare through the veils of time and darkness. I decided long ago that one of the sources of the Undead's ability to discomfit is their habit of remaining stone still for long moments, often not even bothering to breath. So she sits, a statue carved in ivory and draped in red robes.

"It is true," she says softly and at last. "I have known them of old."

She turns her gaze back to me, her expression an inscrutable mask. "So, is there any other reason you come to me? Despite what is often said, I am not the Queen of the Undead in these isles. I am only one elder among many."

"I am aware of that fact," I say evenly. "But you are the most respected of all the elders. All factions heed your advice. If you decide to ally with our cause, many of the rest will come as well."

"Perhaps not as many as you think. Those who long to rule the night once more are very powerful. And they will take their followers to Voldemort regardless of what I say."

"But maybe not all," I persist.

"Perhaps not," she says softly, almost musingly. After a moment the swirls in her eyes brighten again. "My consorts and I must discuss this. You will wait with the filthy thing the Ministry dared to send us. Aelric!"

I blond vampire with a long braided beard steps forward and motions us to follow. He leads us down a long corridor that would be completely dark were it not for the light I summon from my wand. Aelric, of course, needs no light. Turning right we descend a short flight of moss-covered stairs to enter another torchlit area, this one also a stone corridor. There is a door in the righthand wall.

As Aelric moves to open the door I slip my hand into my sleeve and pull out a string of amber beads. The beads are tuned to the wards around #4 Privet Drive, and I make sure I check them several times daily. Three of them are glowing brightly, and my heart sinks.

Depression, weariness, and grief.

At least the beads that would burn were Harry in danger of physically harming himself, or being physically harmed, are dark.

The vampire swings the heavy door open, looking with naked contempt at whoever it is sitting inside. "Farcod!" he growls, and spits.

That at least I recognize. An Old English curse. Who is it that the Undead abhor so?

For the life of me, I would never have guessed it was Percy Weasley.

He is sitting at a long wooden table that takes up most of the room. The table is old and battered, stained from centuries of use. He has a pile of folders and scrolls arranged neatly in front of him, and is sitting ramrod straight, staring into space with the intensity of a mystic. When he sees us enter, he scrambles to his feet and offers his hand.

"Hmmff," Hagrid observes as the door swings closed behind us. Giving Percy's hand a withering look, he ostentatiously turns away and strides to the other end of the table (being Hagrid it takes him all of two full steps). Percy turns to me.

I approach him slowly, making sure I have my amiable schoolmaster expression firmly in place. His face, so like Arthur's yet so unlike, is set in formal, impassive lines. His hair is neatly combed. His suit is neatly pressed. He looks....

//pompous.//

Yes, indeed, he looks unbearably pompous.

Except that his eyes are wide and bulging slightly, and I note a mild sweat on his brow. He resembles a man with some kind of fever. When I take his hand he flinches ever so slightly.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," he begins in his usual manner, "it is so good to see you."

"And you Percy," I say brightly, bringing my free hand up to rest on his shoulder, inadvertently causing another twitch, "I hope it turns out better than the last time."

Percy blushes a deep crimson. The last time he was serving as Fudge's eager secretary in a visit to Hogwarts designed to get Harry expelled. Instead it resulted in several people lying stunned on the floor of my office and me fleeing in concealment. However, despite his blush he does not deign to pursue the matter. Instead, he turns and gestures to the scrolls and files.

"I have brought detailed records for our discussions here and at Beauxbatons," he says. "But the vampires appear not to be very trusting of the Ministry." A slight flush again. He has noticed that it is not only the Ministry, but him personally.

"You are going to be the Ministry's representative at Beauxbatons?" It is a silly question, since the answer is obvious, but I want to hear the catastrophe confirmed for myself.

"Yes. I was appointed two days ago and have been preparing ever since!"

//Why don't we just declare war on all the other Wizarding governments of the world and get it over with?//

Tom may have a point. What idiot appointed Percy to this mission? And was it malice or simple stupidity? I refrain from asking immediately. There will be plenty of time to obtain the information later.

"Affairs at the Ministry are quite busy, I presume."

"Oh my yes!" Percy gives a strange little laugh and flutters his hands nervously. "Total bedlam! But we have things under control. Oh yes we do!" He seems to be staring into space as he is saying the last, speaking more to himself than me.

//This boy needs to be in St. Mungo's with Lockheart.//

"Minister Fudge has been most energetic! New programs and initiatives are springing up right and left! The people who are petitioning for no confidence are totally out of line, totally!" Yes, he is too bright and too brittle. Percy is being held together with chains forged from denial.

//Our Ministry's finest.//

"And Undersecretary Umbridge, is she well? She left us under such hasty circumstances." Of course I would be hasty too if Peeves were chasing me with a sock full of chalk in one hand and Minerva's walking stick in the other.

"Dolores Umbridge is on recuperative leave. The Minister thinks it best to re-assign her to less stressful duties. I believe he is going to offer her the a post as the envoy to Paraguay."

"I have no doubt she will receive the offer with the enthusiasm it deserves," I say, carefully keeping my facial muscles under control.

"Oh, that reminds me," Percy reaches for a scroll and hands it to me, "this is from the Department of Magical Sports and Games. They have denied your petition to lift Harry Potter's Quidditch ban."

"Is that so?" I ask, taking the scroll and passing it to Hagrid unread. I am not surprised to be denied on the first attempt. "It does seem such an extreme punishment, don't you think?"

"It isn't my place to judge," Percy says primly. Is there just a trace of a smirk around his lips, just a hint of Fudge's unbearable condescension? "The Department feels that, although High Inquisitor Umbridge may have been harsh, she acted entirely within her authority."

Considering that her authority was essentially unlimited it would have been hard to do anything else.

"Well," I say mildly with one of the shrugs I have carefully perfected over the years, "we will just have to continue the conversation."

"As you like," Percy says, finally taking a seat, "but I think you will find that the Department is unlikely to alter its opinion."

I regard him for a moment as he ostentatiously shuffles his papers about. Then I sit in one of the chairs (heavy and as old and scarred as the table) near him.

"Tell me Percy, what do you think of Voldemort's return?"

Percy winces at the name and gives a little jump. He looks at me with just a trace of anxiety in his expression. "It is, of course, a matter of grave concern. Yes, we must see to the public safety. The Ministry is initiating many programs to that effect, as I have said."

"Yes, I know," I smile at him as I used to when he was a prefect what seems like an eternity ago. "But what do you think of the Ministry's stance for the previous year?"

"The Ministry's stance?" He blinks, looking like an actor in a play that has veered off script.

"Yes. The denial that Voldemort had returned."

"Oh well," he smiles something I suppose he thinks is benevolent and comforting, when in fact it is the most annoying expression I have seen in many a day, including Severus' sneers, "that was only a responsible and cautious policy. We could scarcely panic the public with no evidence."

"No evidence?" I want to allow heat into my voice but I keep it mild.

"What do yer mean, no bleedin' evidence!" Hagrid's voice is anything but mild. Percy almost leaps to the ceiling. "Ya oughtta be ashamed a' yerself Percy Weasley! Harry Potter was warnin' ya since the end a' the tournament!"

"Well," Percy smooths down the front of his shirt and gives a silly grin, "we can't go basing policy on the word of a boy like that, can we?"

"What the blazes does that mean!" Hagrid comes to his feet and roars. I swear the door actually rattles. "Harry is the bravest, truest soul what ever walked through Hogwarts! And any that says otherwise is a stinkin' foulmouth' liar!"

"I didn't say he wasn't brave," Percy gulps and goes pale. "But he does have a history of flamboyant behavior!"

"Such as?" I say softly, reaching up to pat Hagrid's bicep and urge him back into his chair.

"Why, in the tournament! He went out of his way to save that girl when there was no need! Clear attention seeking! The boy can't stand to be out of the limelight for ten minutes!" Percy tries to sound scornful, but it is pitifully obvious that he is repeating his charges by rote.

"Behavior for which you gave him full points, as I recall," I say softly.

Percy's eyes bulge like he's been slapped. "Very well then!" He huffs. "What about in his second year when he ran off to face that basilisk in the face of all reason and common sense!"

"To save your sister," I say evenly.

Percy goes as red as a strawberry.

"Like I said," he continues in a choked voice, "I admit he is brave. But his judgment can't be relied on. The poor boy is obviously unbalanced. Given his childhood with those muggles, we can't expect anything else."

//He has a point there.//

Be quiet.

"And these dreams and visions he has, with all that about a scar hurting, really!" Percy is calming down now and breathing deeply.

"Those visions saved your father," I remind him.

He glares at me and I see true anger then.

"I did not say I wasn't grateful!"

"Ya coulda fooled yer family," Hagrid says, "not visitin' and all."

"There were political considerations!" Percy slaps the table with the flat of his hand and grimaces. Undoubtedly there will be some blisters on his palm from that one.

"And what he pulled at the Ministry," Percy continues. "I mean, he did get one man killed, after all!"

"THAT is enough!" My voice is louder than I intended, but I manage to keep it even. Percy looks at me in surprise.

"Ron and Ginny recovered quite well," I continue in a normal tone.

"Oh." For the first time he looks distinctly guilty. Guilty and concerned. "What were they doing there, anyway? You see how Potter...."

"I said that was enough."

He bites his sentence off.

"It's called friendship, Percy." I inform him. "They wanted to help Harry rescue Sirius Black."

"Sirius Black!" Percy begins. "That's another issue!"

"It is indeed, one we will not open now." I use my stern headmaster voice for that. It works well. Percy presses his lips together and falls silent.

"How is Ron?" Percy asks finally.

"As I said, he recovered completely."

Silence.

"Your family loves you Percy," I say steadily, trying to convey the truth of it, "they love you and miss you."

He closes his eyes. For a moment, just a moment, I think I have broken through.

"Why don't they LISTEN then?" he asks bitterly.

"Listen to what, Percy?"

"Listen to how much trouble Potter causes! Listen to how much damage my father is doing to his career! Listen to how dangerous it is to get involved with ....." He trails off.

"With Dumbledore?" I finish for him.

He hangs his head.

Percy. You are indeed a Gryffindor. A brave and committed heart. But committed to a cause that is totally, utterly wrong.

"Sometimes Percy," I say, "rules must be broken for the greater good."

"I am sure every rulebreaker says that," Percy replies bitterly. "I am sure Harry Potter says that every time he drags my little brother and sister into danger, into situations where they might get killed!"

"Harry did not drag them anywhere," I say wearily. "They went of their own accord."

"That is what is so dangerous about him!" Percy hisses. "He makes people follow him like that!"

"He makes people, Percy?"

Percy nods vigorously. "Yes. He's driven Ron mad. He's got his hooks into his mind! Ron will do anything for Potter! It isn't right! Ron should listen to me! I'm his brother! Potter's just...just... somebody he met on a train!"

Suddenly I feel so very, very tired.

What can I say? Can I give the obvious answer, that Ron loves Harry? For the implication then would be that he loves Harry more than he loves his own brother. And the problem is that he probably does.

"And me Percy," I ask, "do I drive people mad?"

"Yes," he hisses. "You drove the Minister to distraction! You never respected him, never accorded him the deference his position was due!"

Hagrid growls at that. I suspect he is remembering an unjust stay in Azkaban at Fudge's insistence.

"I suppose you have specific examples in mind?"

"Yes! The way you humiliated him in front of the Wizengamot this past August when all he was doing was trying to enforce the law!"

"He was trying," I say heavily, "to punish Harry for defending himself against a pair of Dementors."

"There you see!" Percy nearly crows in triumph. "Like I say, Potter is dangerous! Dementors! Who else gets attacked by Dementors over summer break?"

//This boy definitely needs to be in the bed next to Lockheart.//

The door opens.

Aelric beckons us from the doorway. "The Lady has reached a decision." He shoots Percy a look of pure contempt and then turns, evidently meaning for us to follow.

We move back through the corridors into the circular room. As Percy enters there is general hissing along with a couple of soft cries of "Farcod!".

Cornelia motions us to the stone benches in the center of the chamber. She looks at us coldly, then waves a taloned hand as if to brush aside her last doubts.

"Riddle understands us better than you do," she says flatly, "and always will. Riddle offers us the night. He promises to free us from the degradation and squalor wizards have forced on us."

Then she sighs. It seems a sigh of genuine regret.

"But that cannot be. If he were to conquer you he would turn his eyes to the rest of the Wizarding World, he would not rest until his scepter ruled over all magic."

I nod.

"And then he would pursue the ultimate foolishness. He would turn on the muggles." She laughs then, but there is no mirth there, not even dark mirth. It is a laugh of bitterness and memory. "He would bring back the fires and stakes, the mobs to hunt us through the streets in the night, the stalkers to expose our lairs in the day. He would sit on his dark throne and attempt to bend all muggles to his whim, and he would bring it all back, the time before we went into hiding, the time before we managed to finally make them believe we were myths."

Her voice is as bitter as Wormwood.

"Fool of fools! A wizard ruling the world? Wizards ruling the muggles? Already in Salazar's time it was impossible. Already there were too many of them. And then they lived in thatched huts and huddled together against the dark, believing that thunder was a message from the gods! Now Riddle would make war on six thousand million of them, in an age when they have long developed arts and wonders of their own!"

"I said that wizards forced us to live here in squalor. The sad truth is we would have to live here if there was not a single wizard in the British Isles. In this time of photographs and microscopes, flamethrowers and nuclear weapons, what chance would a few Undead have if we were exposed?"

"I will go with you Dumbledore. Not because I trust you. Not because I hate the Dementors. Not because we long for a rapport with your kind. But because Riddle must be silenced before he brings destruction on us all."

She rises with the air of a judge having pronounced sentence. I come to my feet as well. My companions follow suit.

"Now, if you would care to join me," she says with one of her feral smiles, "we can all travel together."

She turns to go down a corridor behind her throne. She pauses and motions for me to walk beside her. Two of her mates fall in behind us. Hagrid and Percy bring up the rear.

"I do wish," she says quietly as we make our way down the corridor, once again lit only be wandlight as the vampires need no illumination, "that they had not sent that creature."

"Percy?" I ask softly. "Why do you despise him so? I heard some of you call him Farcod - wicked."

"And so he is," she says firmly. "He has betrayed his Blood. He reeks of the treachery."

"Does he?" I ask, half in wonder and half in horror.

"Oh yes. His blood cries out in his veins in anguish. We hear it, for all things of the Blood are ours."

"So they are," I say softly.

"His presence is an affront! The air around him is curdled with his foulness! The treachery to his Blood reeks in our nostrils like carrion smells in yours."

"Oh dear." I can think of nothing else to say.

"In a more enlightened time we would have opened his veins and released his blood from its misery. Alas that we have fallen to such a corrupt state!"

I glance backwards over my shoulder. Percy is holding his wand high. In the circle of light it casts, his bulging eyes glitter eerily. He does not seem to walk so much as to jerk along, starting and jumping at every sound. His red hair once seemed to me like fire. Now it seems darker.

Like blood.

I turn and continue walking into the darkness.