Here Be Monsters

Thursday, 4 July 1996

1041 GMT

After my early morning chat with Severus I find it difficult to sleep. However, I finally drift off before dawn and awake feeling somewhat rested. As is my morning routine these days, I reach for my spectacles first, and then draw out my string of ward beads. What I see causes me to shoot upright in alarm. The three beads that have been glowing the last few days have deepened to a dark red, and two more beads, indicating physical pain and illness, are also giving off a reddish light. Hastily throwing on my robe and working my feet into my slippers (the pair my brother Aberforth gave me last Christmas that look like miniature goats), I hurry to my office and scrawl a quick note. Rousing Fawkes with a jab of my finger - and getting an indignant trill in return - I hastily seal the letter and attach it to his leg.

"Take this to Dobby, Fawkes. Hurry."

The phoenix immediately disappears in a flash of fire. I would use the enchanted cell phone Iris has provided, but if Harry is ill I fear that Dobby will not know how to answer it. I move to my sitting room and signal to the kitchens that I am ready for breakfast. Moments later I am glumly chewing dry toast and remembering how tired Harry looked when we got through with our last session.

Luckily, Fawkes reappears quickly. I hastily retrieve the note, seeing that Dobby has simply scrawled a reply under my own writing.

"Master Albus. Harry Potter is running a fever and is very sick at his tummy. He did not want to take his medicines this morning but Dobby made him. Dobby made him eat too, but he vomited most of it back up. He is very sleepy, and Dobby thinks he will probably be in bed all day."

I hiss through my teeth as I read this. My first instinct is to have Poppy go there immediately and take a look at the situation. But she did warn us that the medicines would make Harry feverish and nauseated, and our healer has a great deal of work to do restocking her infirmary. With great difficulty I put the note aside and refrain from doing anything. Dobby is sensible and capable and he will notify Remus or me if anything drastically wrong occurs. I consider writing a quick note to Lupin and decide against that as well. Remus needs to concentrate on his duties. It will not do anyone any good for him to begin obsessing about Harry's health.

//That is your job after all.//

And good morning to you, Tom.

I manage to get through the rest of my breakfast without looking at the ward beads more than three times. On finishing, I move to my desk and try to concentrate on school business. It isn't easy, but I do get in an hour's work before breaking and fiercely fighting my urge to pull Poppy away from her restocking after all. An extended tour of the grounds helps a little, although the gloomy clouds that threaten an afternoon rain seem a reflection of my mood.

I return to my office to find Iris waiting looking suspiciously at a very large North Sea Eagle perched on the guest perch near Fawkes. "We is having a message, Master Albus," she says slowly, her eyes never leaving the eagle, which is wearing an eagle's usual I-am-smiling-so-leave-before-I-rend-you-asunder expression. I suppose the eagle might well consider Iris the right size for its lunch. I pity the poor bird if it tried any such thing. Iris would have a dozen new feather dusters.

Tied to one of the eagle's legs is a large envelope of a bright blue color decorated with white stars. As I approach he regally extends the leg and allows me to remove the message. Upon opening it loud strains of march music fill the room. It only takes a moment for me to recognize the tune - "Stars and Stripes Forever." It is, of course, the Fourth of July, and Jefferson Begay has decided to answer my query in his inimitable style. As the brassy sounds of Sousa echo through my office the grouchy old Navajo's voice shout's out "Happy Fourth, Albus you @#%!@&*!"

At the expletive Iris leaps and Fawkes hisses in annoyance. Knowing Jeff, however, there is worse to come. And indeed, as the march plays on Jefferson proceeds with a long oration of gossip and greeting - incidentally accepting my offer to give some lectures on wizarding law next school year - every sentence seasoned by creative profanity and lively, generally sexual, metaphors. By the end of his message Iris has turned purple, Fawkes is steaming (literally) and even the eagle is wearing a somewhat abashed expression. Suddenly Jeff's voice drops several levels in volume and the profanity disappears completely, a sure sign that he is speaking of something very serious indeed.

"Albus, I saw Governor Torracco yesterday. He says there are signs that the Legislature may relent with regard to your request for help, at least so far as to send for more facts. I know that isn't very much, but with all the trouble in the Northwest and the Yucatan Torracco is taking a political risk even pushing for further discussion. Also, Anne says she dreamed of you last night. She says to tell you that the kindly ones are gathering around, and that you will feel their whips this day. Remember, however, that they wield their lashes out of love, even if not for you. I know that is a grim way to end, but I'm out of time with this charm. So farewell, Albus, and I hope to have more news soon."

As Jeff's voice fades the letter disappears in a flash of miniature fireworks. I sit silently, pondering Jeff's words. The possibility of movement in the Wizarding State is hopeful, but nothing to count on. It is his last message that intrigues me most. Anne, his wife, is a prophetess. Unlike Sybil Trelawney, her visions are of relatively minor matters - one day in the life on an old friend, for instance. Also unlike Sybil, her visions are regular and highly reliable.

"Iris, would you be so kind as to fetch something from the kitchens for our guest?" I gesture toward the eagle. "A fish would be nice."

Iris harrumphs by way of showing her disapproval of such an unorthodox messenger, but dutifully disappears in the way of house-elves. I quickly scrawl a reply to Jeff and affix it to the eagle's leg. By the time I am done Iris has returned with the fish - a large trout it appears - which the eagle swallows readily. Regally nodding to us it flaps away through the open window, leaving behind a muttering house elf who nevertheless cannot resist glancing at her duster and looking enviously at its tail feathers.

"What is nasty mouthed man meaning about kind ones whipping, Master Albus?" Iris asks, turning on me with narrowed eyes.

"I'm not sure, Iris," I reply, sitting down behind my desk and folding my hands with my most scholarly air.

"Master Albus is not fooling Iris! Master Albus is not being sure but Master Albus is making good guess!" She shakes the feather duster in my direction to emphasize her annoyance.

"All right. In the ancient world the Greeks believed in beings called Furies. They were female demons with wings and horns who carried whips that they used to punish people for their sins - especially sins against family and loved ones. The Greeks called them the Eumenides, The Kindly Ones, in order to try to - well, butter them up I guess you might say. As far as we know it didn't work."

"That is doing it," Iris cries, advancing on me with her hands planted firmly on her hips, "Master Albus is going back to bed right now!"

"Back to bed? I feel quite well, I assure you Iris."

"Master Albus is not walking around when demon-thingies are flying around looking for him! He is going back under his covers where he is safe!"

"Iris," I say in a placating tone, holding up both hands to ward her off, "the Furies don't actually exist."

"And lots of people are saying nasty Tom isn't existing, either! That is not stopping him from trying to kill good Harry Potter!"

//She's got you there.//

I begin to marshal arguments to calm my agitated housekeeper, but my train of thought, and Iris' tirade, are cut off by a roaring eruption from the fireplace. I come to my feet in surprise. The sound suggests that someone is using the floo network, but the flames are not the normal green of floo transport, but rather a dark and ominous red. A winged shadow dives out of the central fire, looping around the room before settling onto the perch recently vacated by the North Sea Eagle. Except the new visitor hangs upside down by clawed feet.

"How interesting," I remark softly, approaching the bat with a careful tread. I see that it has a rolled-up message tied to one leg with red ribbon, and I have no doubt as to whom it is from.

"AIEEEEE!" I recognize the high pitched sound that erupts from behind me and repress the urge to repeat some of Jeff Begay's colorful verbiage. It is the battle cry of a house elf about to join combat with something disgusting and/or slimy and/or multi-legged that has invaded said elf's tidy premises. I whirl as Iris charges, her feather duster held high like a mace, one long finger thrust forward and glowing with magical energy. Before I can cry a warning a small green lightning bolt crackles from the pointing digit and stings the bat into flight with a small cloud of smoke and the smell of burned fur.

"OUT NASTY THING! OUT! OUT! OUT!" Iris emphasizes her commands with a further flurry of green lightning, leaving scorch marks on the ceiling and cornices. The poor bat whirls drunkenly amidst the bolts, finally diving out the open window.

I rush to the window and find the bat, which must have been superbly trained or else the recipient of charms to make owl breeders die of envy, hiding beneath the window ledge. Making what I hope is a comforting gesture in its direction, I turn and give Iris a stern look.

"What was that about, Iris?"

"Bats are being nasty and evil, Master Albus," she replies calmly, suddenly returned to her controlled self, "they are drinking your blood and giving you diseases. Iris is seeing it on a muggle television program."

"Most of them eat insects, Iris."

"Iris is not wanting to take the chance, Master Albus. What is a bat doing with the way through the ward on Master Albus' fireplace, anyway?"

I would very much like to know the answer to that myself. But I do not let my expression falter.

"That is a messenger bat, Iris. Please get some food for it."

"Insects? Iris is not being eatanter, Master Albus."

"Well, actually I believe that it is a fruit bat from India."

"What is an Indian bat doing in Scotland with the key to the wards on Master Albus' fireplace?" Iris puts her hands on her hips and begins to tap her foot. Her expression looks very familiar. Suddenly I realize it is the same expression I use when students try to peddle plausible explanations for troublemaking. Then the elf's face crinkles in disgust once again. "The nasty thing is leaving a DROPPING on Master Albus' carpet!"

Given that it was trying to avoid being reduced to ashes at the time, I can't blame it for a slight loss of intestinal control. Still it is probably better to mollify my housekeeper. "Very well, Iris. The quicker we feed it and read the message the quicker we can send it away."

Iris sniffs, but finally gives a brief nod. "Iris is bringing fruit. But nasty thing is eating it OUTSIDE!" With a snap of her long fingers she is off to the kitchens.

With great difficulty I manage to coax the bat onto the window ledge, where I detach the rolled up message from its leg. Iris reappears with a bowl of soft fruits, which she places on the ledge for the hungry creature to devour while she stands aside making noises of revulsion.

As I had surmised the message is from Lady Cornelia. I smile as I translate her antique Latin, realizing that she has even retained the form used in Roman letters in the Imperial age.

From Antonia Cornelia Ater, called in her breathing days Cornelia Major, to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, one who yet breathes, greetings. We have dreamed of you of late. Befouled blood rises. Beware its treachery.

Done this fourth day of July, AUC 2336.

Cornelia

AUC. In the Year since the City's Founding. I suppose old habits are hard to break.

"Is being good news Master Albus?" Iris asks, watching as the bat takes off and makes its way across the grounds.

"Not especially, Iris."

"How is the bat coming through the wards, Master Albus?"

"I don't know, Iris. I suspect, however, that someone is sending a message that they are not to be underestimated."

"Harry Potter is not doing well, is he?"

"How did you know, Iris?" I turn to her in surprise.

She smiles sadly and pats my hand. "Master Albus has been worrying the ward beads all morning."

I look down in surprise and see that she is right. Feeling somewhat abashed I stuff the beads back into my pocket. To cover my embarrassment I give a harrumph and make a show of fussing with my sleeves.

"I will be gone from Hogwarts this afternoon, Iris. Please have Minerva meet me at the main entrance Iris. We will walk past the wards and apparate."

"Oh, that is being right. Master Albus is needing to go to the Wheesey-Wheesey's."

"Pardon?"

"The double Wheesey's."

By that she means the Weasley twins. It is almost time for the Order to gather at their joke shop to plan its defense for the grand opening.

"Iris is doing. Oh, and Master Albus?"

"Yes Iris?"

"Do not be worrying too much about Harry Potter. He is having Dobby to take care of him now. Dobby is being very, very good house elf. Iris is not telling him that, of course, or he is getting swelled head. And he is also having the Good Wolf to guard him."

"The Good Wolf? You mean Remus Lupin, I suppose?"

"Yes, Master Albus. The House Elves are calling him the Good Wolf. He is being stronger than he knows."

"Is there anything you miss, Iris?"

"Not much, Master Albus. Not much."

Thursday, 4 July 1996

1152 GMT

We arrive in the middle of chaos.

Or, considering who owns the premises, perhaps it is better to say that we arrive into an expected situation of atmospheric excitement.

For the sake of our activities today the twins have lowered the anti-apparation wards that are part of the standard security in wizarding business establishments. We have agreed to make our entry point the upper floor of the building, which has been turned into an office. At the moment, however, it is filled with Glowsnakes, Roaring Roses, Whirling Whippersnaps, and a dozen other examples of small-scale fireworks.

"My goodness!" Minerva looks around with her most pedantic frown. I, meanwhile, cannot help but grin. This is exactly how I imagined the twins' shop would appear.

"It appears that the display is emanating from that doorway, Minerva," I say, pointing to an open door in the eastern corner of the room, "let us investigate."

The door lets onto a flight of steep stairs leading down to a largish storage room. Through a spacious doorway to the left I see what I assume to be the front of the shop. Another doorway across the room is open to reveal a flight of stairs heading downward. The room itself is packed floor to ceiling with brightly colored and labeled boxes, bags, crates, and cartons.

The fireworks are spinning outward from near the door to the front shop. I see in one amused glance what has happened. A hapless Mundungus Fletcher is cowering under the glare of Molly Weasley. At his side, resting on a crate, is his pipe where he doubtless left it to set alight something or other, touching off a chain reaction. George Weasley (or is it Fred, although I never let them know I never could quite tell them apart) is using his wand to quell the worst of the eruptions, while Fred (or is it George?) is relieving Dung of several small boxes and bags that seem to have found their way into his pockets. Both of the twins are obviously struggling not to burst into laughter as their Mother's tirade accelerates.

"I HAVE NEVER SEEN SUCH LACK OF COMMON DECENCY, SUCH DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR, SUCH, SUCH....NINCOMPOOPNESS IN MY ENTIRE LIFE! MUNDUNGESS FLETCHER..."

"To be fair Molly," I interrupt, more to save the twins from breaking into laughter than to rescue Dung from yet another well-deserved scolding, "I don't think "nincompoopness" is actually a word."

The Weasley matriarch whirls and fixes me with a look of annoyance. I give her my harmless-eccentric-old-schoolteacher smile. It usually serves to annoy but disarm. In this particular instance, however, it fails completely. Molly stalks toward me like a lioness. "Albus, we have a lot to discuss."

//Meet Fury number one.//

Oh dear.

"I know we do Molly. And we will discuss it."

"Now, Albus."

"Today, Molly. Before I leave. I promise."

For a moment I think she is going to insist that we launch into a set of painful topics immediately. However before we can go further a very unexpected figure pops through the door to the front shop.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Ginny Weasley says loudly. Her voice does not sound surprised, nor particularly pleased.

"Hello, Sir!" Dean Thomas appears behind her, a bright smile on his face.

"Miss Weasley, Mr. Thomas, it is good to see you." And very unexpected. I had thought the Weasley children and sundry would be at the Burrow or, in the case of those in the inner circle, at Grimmauld Place. Their presence here may well make things...difficult.

//Sins catching up with us, are they?//

"Professor Dumbledore." That comes from behind me. I turn to see Ron Weasley standing at the top of the steps leading to the basement. His expression is blank.

"Mr. Weasley."

He nods, and then shoots a momentary glance of annoyance over my shoulder in the direction of Dean Thomas. Aha, so his protective streak is not confined to Harry.

"We have finished with the Fotzbangers, George," Dean says easily. "Do you want us to start on the Bulging Violets?"

"Sure, I'll show you where!" George claps Dean on the shoulder and they stroll back through the door. As they turn Molly gazes after them for a long moment, and to my surprise she gives Dean Thomas a look of dislike very much like Ron's. Obviously there are depths to Weasley family politics beyond my ken.

Minerva goes over to chat with Molly and I decide to follow George and Dean into the front of the shop, wearing my "enraptured child" expression (in truth it isn't too difficult to put on). The displays in the spacious showroom are tastefully and artfully conceived to show off both the colorful and enticing packages and the moving images illustrating the jokes' effects. I hope the twins have had sense enough to install appropriate safeguards to keep curious youngsters from simply setting off the devices in the store. However, judging from Dung's misadventure, I would say that the first few weeks of business will be quite lively before the twins' learn all the practical ins and outs of their new business.

Bill Weasley is leaning easily against one of the counters, arms crossed, watching amusedly as Ginny supervises George and Dean stacking boxes of Bulging Violets into a miniature mountain. Catching sight of me he straightens and nods. I stroll over to him and wave in the direction of the growing display.

"Your sister has a natural talent of marketing, Bill. I am sure the twins would be glad to have her here, if she decides to follow that line."

"Oh, I doubt the three of them would make it under one roof for very long, Professor. Not in business, that is. Entirely different approaches and all that. I can see her doing better at Gringott's."

"True. I doubt she would find goblins very intimidating."

"I wouldn't go as far as that. Even after some pretty hairy curse-breaking assignments some of the older directors can still make me shake in my boots." Bill grins however, and I have a hard time thinking that he shakes very hard or very long. "Why don't we take a walk, Professor? Dad will be along shortly and the other members of the Order should be coming along in ones and twos."

I almost demur, but reconsider. Now that Voldemort has returned much of the reason for keeping the Order per se secret is gone, so I need not be so concerned about being seen in public with certain individuals. And besides, if push comes to shove I can always let it be known that I am simply trying to persuade the twins to return and complete their Hogwarts education.

The effect of Voldemort's return is immediately evident as we step out into Diagon Alley. The twins have, by means I'm not sure I want to know, managed to secure a prime location near Gringott's. Normally this part of the thoroughfare would be bustling in the early afternoon. Instead it is nearly deserted. As Bill and I stroll only a few shoppers are evident, and even many of them move quickly and almost furtively, as if expecting Deatheaters to jump out of the shadows at any second.

"This is very depressing," I say quietly.

"Yes. I don't remember the First War very well. Was it like this?" Bill looks around with a sober expression.

"Parts of it."

Reaching the mouth of Knockturn Alley we find much more activity. In contrast to the main street, the shops along that squalid lane appear to be bustling. "Someone is turning a profit," Bill remarks bitterly.

"Someone always does," I say with a genuine sigh.

"I suppose it's to be expected. Evil to ward off evil. You see it all the time in the curse-breaking business."

"Yes."

We make a wide loop, walking in silence.

"How is your family holding up, Bill?" I ask after a few minutes of quiet strolling.

"Not well," he says flatly. "The twins are doing the best, what with the shop and all. But they won't listen to reason or caution - not that they ever have. Dad's worn to the bone with the Order and the problems at the Ministry. Mum's a walking nerve. Ron and Ginny - well, they haven't said much since getting home. Oh they talk readily enough, even joke. But they don't talk about ... major events, if you know what I mean. At least not with us. I know the owls have been flying overtime, though."

"To Privet Drive, I assume."

"Naturally. But to Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, too. And also to Hermione Granger, who's here today, by the way. It seems like the whole lot of them are drawing inward. It's almost like they don't trust the rest of us."

//Now I wonder why that would be?//

Good afternoon, Tom.

"Speaking of trust, I noticed that Ron seemed to be rather upset with Mr. Thomas. I was under the impression the two of them got along rather well."

"Oh, they do. It isn't anything against Dean personally. It's just that he happens to be dating Ginny."

"Oh, big brother protectiveness?" I've seen that all too often in my years as a teacher and headmaster.

"Yes, but of a special kind. Ginny is very precious to all of us, Headmaster, being the only girl and the youngest. As the next in age, I think Ron feels a special responsibility."

"So, no one is good enough for Ginny, is that it?" Poor girl. With six older brothers she'll be lucky to ever get married at all.

Bill chuckles. "As far as Ron goes, you mean? Not exactly. It's more like only one boy is good enough for Ginny."

"Only one? I don't suppose said boy would happen to have dark hair, green eyes, and a pronounced fondness for quidditich?" I am proud that I allow only a slight fondness to creep into my voice.

"Why how ever did you guess? You have it. As far as Ronniekins is concerned Harry Potter is the only male creature worthy of our Ginny." Bill shakes his head, his long hair waving like the mane of a giant fox.

"If you don't mind me saying though, Bill, I noticed that Molly also seemed somewhat - peeved - at Dean."

"Mum is peeved at about everything these days. But you're right, she doesn't care for that situation much. You see, Mum's an empire builder." He smiles fondly. "Her empire is, of course, the Weasley family. The grand plan is constantly changing, but the latest version, which I believe dates from last summer although I can't be sure, calls for Ronniekins to marry Hermione Granger and Ginny to marry Harry. The first grandchildren from the couples are to arrive in 2000 and 2001 respectively."

I smile fondly. That sounds exactly like Molly. "So Mr. Thomas has inconsiderately butted in on the plan."

"That's right. Were it anyone other than Harry he was displacing, I think Mum would take it in stride. But she tends to be a little jealous where he is concerned."

How well I know. And how much I am dreading the interview I have promised.

"Has anyone bothered to ask Miss Weasley what she thinks of all this?"

Bill grins. "Good question. I don't think so, and it's about to drive her mad!"

I pause. I almost don't ask, but we are on the subject, and it is very important. "What about Percy."

Bill's face falls immediately. "Git," he mumbles. "He still maintains the Ministry was perfectly correct in its attitude. Ever since Fudge went into St. Mungo's we have heard nothing from him, which is a blessing."

So much for family togetherness.

We arrive back at the shop to find that Arthur has still not appeared. I decide to take the opportunity to indulge my curiosity. Leaving Bill upstairs I tramp down to the basement, which turns out to be much larger than I expected. Large pallets stacked with cartons and crates fill the space. On one side Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley are counting cartons, or rather Ron is calling off numbers while Miss Granger ticks them off with her quill. I notice that they seem to be alternating between arguing and finding excuses to stand much closer to each other than is strictly necessary for such a job. Across the room Kingsley Shacklebolt is methodically running his wand along the wall, muttering the charms that allow him to check the status of the wards the Order has been methodically building in to reinforce the store's standard security.

I walk over to Kingley and wait while he finishes his task. It is difficult work requiring great concentration and to be interrupted in the midst of the task is...annoying, to say the least. After a few moments he puts down his wand and smiles a greeting.

"Hello Professor. It looks like the basement is in good condition."

"I'm glad of that Kingsley. But to be honest it isn't the basement I'm worried about so much as the upper floors."

"I know. But it's standard practice to start with the lowest floors." He gestures with his wand and a complex pattern of interweaving lights appears on the wall, denoting the pattern and state of the wards. "Evangeline did a very good job."

A small sound like a cough draws my attention around to Hermione Granger, now standing alone in front of a partially unloaded palate. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ron disappearing up the stairs carrying a pair of bundles. Motioning for Kingsley to continue, I walk over to Hermione, smiling with genuine affection. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Professor Dumbledore, I know we have only been away from Hogwarts a few days, but," she chews her lower lip anxiously, and then presses ahead, "I was wondering...." she falls silent.

"Yes?"

"I've spoken with Harry by phone a couple of times and, well, I know Harry would be furious if he knew I was talking to you, and I don't think Ron would be happy either, but..."

I walk slowly over to the nearby crates and sit on a low stack, motioning for her to do likewise. "You can depend on my discretion, Hermione."

"Harry really isn't doing very well, is he?" She wrings her hands anxiously.

"No," I answer slowly, "Harry is not doing very well, Miss Granger. Sirius Black's death has been a severe blow."

"He needs to get out of there!" She looks at me pleadingly. "We left him there after Cedric died and...." she blanches slightly and looks down at the floor.

Yes, I left him there after Cedric Diggory was killed. Instead of bringing him to a place where his friends could have comforted him and helped him deal with the trauma of Voldemort's return, I left him locked up to descend into rage and bitter frustration.

"A terrible mistake Miss Granger, one for which I take full responsibility. I should have listened when you, all of you, tried to persuade me to let him come to Grimmauld Place, or at least to find some secure way of giving him real news. All I can say is that I was moved by a genuine, if misguided, wish to keep Harry safe."

Hermione looks up and nods tentatively. "We will get him out soon, won't we? I promised we would!" Her expression is still pleading, but her voice becomes almost fierce as she finishes speaking.

"Yes, we will have him out very soon." I smile my broadest smile of comfort at her.

"Good," she sighs softly. "I'm so worried! Harry...I'm afraid he's....cracked."

"Cracked?" As always when speaking of harm coming to Harry, a spike of fear shoots through my stomach.

"Harry...I don't know quite how to say it...he's...."

"Go ahead Miss Granger. As I said, you can rely on my discretion."

"Well Harry's... Harry's kind of like a diamond."

//Oh wonderful. Another insipid metaphor. Now the man is going to go around mooning about his precious diamond!//

Shut up Tom.

"How do you mean, Hermione?" I reach out and let my hand rest on her shoulder, lightly.

"Harry is so very strong and hard and bright, just like a diamond, but inside he has these...weak spots ... and I don't mean that as a criticism at all. And if somebody hits him just right he cracks, right along those weak spots, just like a diamond." She continues to wring her hands frantically.

"And what spot weak spot is he cracked along now?"

"Living with the Dursleys all those years...they kept telling lies about him to everybody... his teachers, his neighbors, his schoolmates. Even if he tried to tell anybody the truth they wouldn't believe him. Now this whole year he's been trying to tell the truth and he's been disbelieved and ridiculed and persecuted and punished! It's like having a chisel hammered down right on one of his weakest points."

I withdraw my hand and fold it with my other hand in my lap. We sit silently for a few moments, she stewing in worry and embarrassment, I in worry and guilt. Finally I ask "What do you suggest we do, Miss Granger?"

She looks up, surprised. "I don't know, Professor. I thought, well..."

Poor child. Even after everything, she still hopes I have all the answers.

"First we will have him out of Privet Drive. Soon. I promise!" I rise and give her shoulder a pat of reassurance.

She smiles at me, a great weight evidently lifted from her mind. That is my purpose in life. Or at least, one of my purposes.

Picking up her noteboard, Hermione disappears among the pallets, checking off items on her inventory as she moves. I walk back to Kingsley, who is finishing up his check of the wards near the stairs.

"Excellent!" Kingsley exclaims when a large rosette blossoms against the wall in bright pastel orange. "The basement should be secure once the anti-apparation wards are back up!"

"Let us hope," I say, "we can't spare anyone to guard it." To be truthful I'm not very worried. Apparating into an unknown and relatively small underground space is an extremely risky tactic, and the wards we have in place should be quite sufficient to

render the basement secure.

Our conversation is cut short by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The first person to appear is Nymphadora Tonks. She looks extremely odd, and at first I only recognize her by her general figure and her bubblegum pink hair. For a moment I try to determine what sort of modification she has made to her features, and then I realize with a start that she has not modified them at all, it is only her expression that is different. For the first time since her sixth year at Hogwarts, I am seeing Tonks with a look of anger and frustration on her face.

Coming after her is a surprising figure. Remus Lupin trudges down the steps as if bearing an immense load. His shoulders droop, his face is pale and slack with fatigue. All trace of the energy the werewolf had shown at Arabella's yesterday is gone, and he appears once again sunk into depression and passivity.

"I made him come," Tonks whispers to me as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, "I know you don't plan for him to help on Saturday, but he hasn't said more than sentence fragments all day and Mad-Eye is sick of having him underfoot. I was hoping you could talk to him."

I suppress a surge of annoyance. With everything else I have to worry about, asking me to be a werewolf's therapist is a bit much. Instead I just give a brisk motion of my head to show I have heard.

Remus does not bother to speak to either Kingsley or me. He just raises his hand in greeting and looks around with a distinct lack of interest. Then he cocks his head and sniffs. He truly must be exhausted for such a canine behavior to become evident this far from the full moon.

"How is young, Mr. Potter?" Kingsley asks easily.

Alarm explodes in my mind. Unfortunately, I am slow to turn my attention from Remus' distressing appearance. Perhaps, despite my night's rest, I am still fatigued.

"Puking his guts out, poor kid. At least his wounds from the attack haven't reopened. But when I checked on him a while ago he was almost dizzy with fever."

I am already wincing when the sharp shriek echoes across the basement. "HARRY WAS ATTACKED?" Hermione comes tearing around a stack of crates, horrified. "WHAT HAPPENED?!"

Startled out of his trance, Remus catches her before she can barrel into us like a charging tigress. "It's all right Hermione. Harry is safe!"

"SAFE! HE WAS ATTACKED! HE'S SICK! WHY IS HE STILL IN THAT PLACE?"

"Harry is being taken care of, Miss Granger," I say, softly but sternly. "This is a matter of his security."

"SECURITY! THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID LAST SUMMER! HASN'T ANYBODY LEARNED ANYTHING!" Breaking away from Remus she races past us and up the stairs, sobbing.

With a curse Tonks bounds after her, leaving me with Remus and an apologetic Kingsley. Waving off Kingsley's apologies, I ascend the stairs slowly, a sense of dread settling in my stomach.

//Now you know what a student feels like summoned to your office.//

Yes, I suppose I do at that.

Entering the back room of the shop, I find what I was dreading. Everyone is crowded into the space, probably in response to the yells coming up the stairs from the basement. Hermione is in the middle of the room, crying on the shoulder of a very uncomfortable looking Ron Weasley, who is trying awkwardly to comfort her. More to the point, Molly Weasley is standing near the top of the stairs, her arms folded.

"Albus, I would like a word with you." She whirls and walks away, evidently taking my ascent for granted. Her voice is soft and entirely reasonable.

I follow her, completely puzzled. I had expected a firestorm. Instead, she sounds quite calm. Then I see Bill's face. He looks as if he is watching an irritated dragon. Looking over at the twins, I see that their eyes have expanded to occupy most of their faces.

"Would upstairs be agreeable, Albus?" Molly calls over her shoulder. Bill swallows hard and I swear that Fred (or is it George?) actually jumps.

Evidently a soft-voiced Molly is a very, very bad sign indeed. Smiling beneficently in all directions, I ascend the steps into the office space, by now quite free of fireworks. Molly motions to a small conversation area near one of the windows, and we sit comfortably.

"What is this I heard about Harry being attacked, Albus?" Her voice is still soft, but now I see her hands. They are clenched together so tightly that she has driven the nail of one forefinger into the skin of her hand. A small blossom of blood trickles down unnoticed.

As quickly and forthrightly as I can manage, I relate the story of the dog and its attack on Harry. When I tell of finding Harry covered in blood her hands spasm and the nail of her forefinger breaks, further scratching her skin. But when I tell of my decision to leave Dobby in charge she relaxes slightly, and even smiles a little as I repeat what Tonks and I heard as we left the Dursleys' house.

"A dog that resembles Sirius in his animagus form? That is not likely to be a coincidence."

"I agree, Molly. But we are doing the best we can."

"Why, EXACTLY, does Harry have to stay with those muggles, Albus? Please, no mumbling about vague protections. Why didn't you bring him to us immediately? For that matter, why didn't you let him come to us last year?"

With a sigh I confess the full story of my actions on the night of Halloween, 1981. She listens with a bright blush growing on her face.

"SO," she yells, reverting to form, "YOU DECIDED TO SACRIFICE A CHILD FOR YOUR PRECIOUS PLAN?"

"Molly," I say, raising my hands defensively, "I decided to do exactly the opposite. Try to remember what it was like. Voldemort was gone, but only temporarily - although I grant I was one of the few to believe that. It was not at all clear that the Ministry would be able to impose order, in fact it looked likely that we would enter some new kind of civil war. I had to decide what to do with Harry. The fidelius charm had failed, which meant there had to be a traitor in the Potters' closest circle. I didn't have time to sort that out with all of Wizarding Britain possibly on the edge of anarchy. Meanwhile I knew that even the oldest and strongest wards would likely fall if the dark forces tried long and hard enough. I might point out that even Hogwarts itself has been shown to be vulnerable on numerous occasions."

"I know that!" Molly mutters.

"I did what I thought best for everyone. Including Harry."

"And who are you, old bachelor that you are, to decide what is best for any child?" She is speaking softly again, a bad sign.

"Molly, I have made many mistakes in my life. Perhaps this was the worst of them. But I genuinely thought I was doing the best thing." I pause, a sour feeling gripping my stomach.

//Go ahead. You've got your sword out, now fall on it.//

"But I will admit," I say slowly, "that I knew life at Privet Drive would be very hard for Harry. I knew that he would suffer there. But I thought, and it was a foolish thought indeed, that over time Petunia at least could overcome her irrational hatred of magic. I thought she might be able to accept him and treat him well, especially since she had a child of her own almost exactly the same age. As you say, nothing but a stupid old bachelor's fantasy."

"Bachelors aren't the only ones to have silly fantasies, Albus." This sudden shift catches me off-guard. I look up in surprise so see Molly looking at me with compassion in her eyes. "When it comes to family and loved ones, we all tend to let our hopes overcome our judgment." Sorrow suddenly twists her visage and I know she is thinking of Percy.

I remain silent, not trusting myself to speak. Molly gets up and walks to the window, staring out.

"What did you say to him, Albus? Why has Harry made out a will?"

//On second thought, give her the sword and let her behead you.//

What should I say? Isn't it Harry's right to decide who knows the contents of the prophecy? I have already told Alastor, should I now let Molly in on this awful secret?

Molly turns and looks at me, her face still clouded with pain. Molly and the others have risked life and limb and sanity to guard the prophecy. Do they not have a right to know? Have there not been too many secrets?

But the thing that decides me is that Harry needs the help and support of all the Order. And to help him they must know what it is he faces. To guard him they must finally understand the threat that confronts him. To save him they must know the forces that are trying to bring about his death.

"This is the business of the Order, Molly," I say slowly. "It is up to Harry to decide if his friends will know or not, at least for now."

Molly frowns, but she does not make any sign of dissent.

"The prophecy... the prophecy tells us exactly how powerful the connection between Harry and Voldemort is. You already know that the connection is powerful in its positive aspect, by which I mean the aspect that allows Voldemort to touch Harry's mind and vice versa. But the connection is even stronger in its negative aspect. So strong that, in the end, it will cause itself to be sundered."

"You are babbling, Albus!" Molly snaps.

So I am. I am trying desperately to avoid saying what must be said.

"The words of the prophecy are: Either must kill the other, for neither can live while the other survives." My mouth tastes like excrement.

Molly's eyes widen slowly. "In other words Harry is doomed to die at the Dark Lord's hand, unless he finds a way to kill the Dark Lord first."

"Yes."

I see her hand approaching, and I could block it easily. Even in the middle of my second century I am quite capable of defending myself against Molly Weasley, if I wish. But I do not wish.

CRACK! Pain explodes along the side of my head and jaw. My spectacles fly rattling into a far corner of the room.

I make no move to rise or move. Dimly I hear Molly flee the room, sobbing. I simply sit, letting my jaw hurt and tears of pain roll from my right eye. Finally I brush the tears away, relishing the sting of pain my hand causes.

After many minutes I hear someone coming up the stairway. The unknown person enters the office and treads to the corner before approaching me.

"You had better use some of this balm, Albus," Arthur says in a weary voice, "else you will have one Hell of a black eye."

I accept the proffered jar and apply the healing balm mechanically. Arthur hands me my spectacles, which I find to be fixable with a simple repair charm.

"Is it true, what you told Molly?" Arthur looks as weary as he sounds. He, like Lupin, seems to be aging rapidly as these horrible days unfold.

"Yes. I am so sorry, Arthur."

"If it is the truth, then it is best that the Order understand. But did you have to tell Harry, Albus? Can't the poor child have any peace?" His voice is pleading, but not angry.

"Not telling Harry cost him his godfather. By trying to protect Harry I have hurt him more than..." My throat constricts around a huge lump and I fall silent.

Finally I regain control of my voice. "Thank you for your letter, Arthur. I will speak to Ron, of course. And I will consider what you have said about Harry, when I have time."

"When you have time?" Arthur looks at me sadly. "You are out of time now, Albus. Do you think Harry isn't thinking every minute he is locked up there in Privet Drive? Teenage boys think all the time, Albus," he smiles grimly, "despite all appearances to the contrary."

"Why are the children here, Arthur?"

"Because they will not have much chance to get out this summer, I'm thinking. I had hoped Harry could come to us at the Burrow. But it is likely none of us will be there. Am I right?"

"I hope that we may yet have time. I hope that Harry can still come to you at the Burrow. But if the war begins in earnest, everyone will be needed at Grimmauld Place."

"Sirius' house will not be a very good place for any of them to be. It especially won't be a very good place for Harry."

"No. Has Molly told anyone else?"

"About the prophecy? Only me."

I rise slowly, the tingling on my signaling that the healing balm is accomplishing its task. "I think we had better send the children away Arthur. Then summon all the other members of the Order. Everyone needs to know this. Oh, but leave Alastor guarding Harry. I will tell him later." No need to reveal that Alastor already understands the situation.

"Even Snape?"

I sigh. "Yes, Severus has a right to know as well."

"Are you sure? If he is discovered..."

"Severus can shield his mind better than most of us. And the more he knows of the truth, the better he can help us in Voldemort's inner circle."

"Very well. I will call for you when everyone has arrived."

"And departed. Remember, it is up to Harry to decide what his friends know."

"Yes, Albus."

Arthur departs, leaving me to prepare for the revelation to come. In all too short a time, he comes to tell me that everyone is ready.

They are gathered in the back room of the store. Arthur tells me wryly that the twins objected most strenuously at being ejected from their own premises. But Molly will not consent to their joining the Order, and I do not think now is the time to press the issue. Minerva has transfigured several crates into a table and chairs, so we can all sit. They stare at me expectantly, except for Severus whose sneer is firmly in place.

"I have decided," I say softly, "that it is time for all of you to know the contents of the prophecy you have been guarding so fervently."

They continue to watch me expectantly.

"It is, as I am sure you are not surprised to learn, about Harry. It says," I catch Molly's eye - she is watching me coldly, "It says that Harry must kill Voldemort else," I swallow hard, "Voldemort will kill him first. In any case, one of them must kill the other."

Tonks sags backward as if someone has struck her very hard. Minerva and Kingsley both look frozen in shock. Severus' eyes widen and his mouth twitches. Lupin leaps to his feet, his face a mask of horror, his jaws working but no sound coming out. Dung begins to utter an unbroken string of epithets that would make Jeff Begay proud. Arabella looks as if she has been seized by an asthma attack.

Only Bill, bless him, finds his voice. "But Professor Dumbledore that just can't be. It can't! There has to be some way to free Harry!"

"This isn't a curse Bill. You can't break it. I wish we could."

"But there must be some way around the prophecy! Some way to confound it or evade it or... something!" He suddenly looks very, very young. The confidant curse-breaker is gone, and suddenly he is a young student again, pleading with the all wise Dumbledore to find an answer.

"I'm sorry Bill. You can't evade a true prophecy. That's what makes it a true prophecy."

"But," he refuses to give up, "you always say it's our choices that are important. But now you are saying that Harry doesn't have any choice at all! That he never has!"

//Ah, caught in one of our lies, are we?//

"I'm sorry Bill."

"So much for what's right and what's easy!" Bill has flushed red, his rage every bit a match for Molly's, "I guess you should have said what's foreseen and what isn't!"

And then Lupin howls. I don't mean he cries. I don't mean he yells. I don't mean he screams. I mean he howls, the full-bodied yodel of a heart-rent wolf. We all stop, staring as he collapses, his face buried in his arms, his whole body convulsed with grief.

The table bursts into motion as Molly rushes to comfort the distraught Lupin, Minerva and Arabella suddenly burst into animated conversation, and Severus leaps up.

I make my escape into the front of the shop. I lean hard against one of the display cases, trying to catch my breath.

"Are you well, Headmaster?" Severus has followed me and now stands in the center of one broad aisle, as out of place in the joke shop as a hippogriff in a puffskein's nest.

"I will be fine, Severus. I hope that this revelation helps you understand some things."

He regards me with his dark eyes shining. "No Headmaster. In fact, I am even more puzzled than before."

"Prophecy puzzles everyone, Severus."

"That is not what I mean, Headmaster. I am puzzled by your attitude, as I understand you have known this about Potter for quite some time."

"All of his life, Severus." I am really too tired for this.

"Then, as I say, your attitude and behavior is all the more difficult for me to understand."

"In what way, Severus?"

"Potter is a weapon, nothing more. The prophecy makes this clear. I fail to see why all of this emotional turmoil over an instrumentality."

I close my eyes. That thing in my chest is stirring again, with a fierce desire to dig its claws very hard into this bitter, ruined child who has somehow found his way into a man's body.

"I have heard it many times Severus. He is only a tool. Do not keep expending energy and worry about him. Use him for his purpose, and then discard him."

"Excellent advice, Headmaster. I did not realize that others saw Potter's nature so clearly."

I manage a vague smile. "They weren't talking about Harry, Severus. They were talking about you."

Snape's jaws come together sharply.

"I told you, Severus. You and Harry are alike in very many ways. Meditate on this before you ever mention discarding anyone."

"I did not mean..."

"Yes you did, Severus. Kindly do not mean it again."

"I..."

"EVER, Severus."

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Good. Now let's get back to the meeting. We have a joke shop to protect."

A/N: The story of how Alastor Moody knows about the Prophecy can be found in "Daddy's Favorite."