Here Be Monsters

The temperature inside the room seems to have dropped several degrees. Conversation around the table stops as I enter. I walk to the head of the table, careful to give no sign that I have noticed.

// My goodness. Unpopular all of a sudden, aren't we? //

To tell the truth, I haven't felt this unpopular since I was fourteen and accidentally spilled the beans to a prefect about the butterbeer cache my friends had put together in preparation for the coming quidditch championship. Still, I school my features and movements into serenity.

Severus, of course, looks angry and agitated. However no one seems to pay any attention. Severus is so often angry that one more fit of muttering is unlikely to attract any notice.

"Have you had any chance to speak with the security goblins at Gringott's, Bill?" I ask.

"Yes," his tone is cold, as is his expression, but he answers briskly, "they are well aware of the danger. However they categorically refuse to coordinate their defense plans with ours."

"That's short sighted of them," Tonks observes, her expression still sour.

"They have little reason to trust wizards," Arthur observes. "The last Goblin Wars came to an end well within the lifetimes of most of the directors. I'm afraid wizards did not acquit themselves honorably in that epoch."

"What about the Auror Office, Kingsley?"

"We are receiving complete cooperation so far. I think that we have a complete defense plan. Other than Gringott's, our main worry is Ollivander's. I would hate to imagine what would happen if the contents of that shop fell into Deatheater hands."

"Has Mr. Ollivander been willing to help?" I ask. The Ollivander family has prized its privacy for several generations.

"To a point. I have to admit, his back rooms have a security system that wouldn't be out of place in the Department of Mysteries."

Which Voldemort breached with almost no trouble.

"I take it that the children are going to be at Grimmauld Place?" I address this to Molly.

"We were discussing that." She is looking at me with a grim expression. I feel the side of my face prickle.

"Yes, Molly? I was assuming that Hermione Granger and your family would be at Headquarters, with Harry at Privet Drive."

"Exactly. We think it's asking too much of Harry for him to stay alone when he is bound to know that an attack is likely."

"But he won't be alone, Molly. Remus and Dobby will be with him." I nod to Remus, who regards me with a haggard expression. "They can keep him company."

And keep him from doing something stupid, like trying to take on a battalion of Deatheaters by himself.

"Still, wouldn't it be better if Harry could be with his friends? I know you said he needs to stay at Privet Drive a while longer, but couldn't we bring him to Headquarters for a few hours?"

"I don't trust Harry at Headquarters, Molly. Hear me out!" I hold up my hand to forestall a half-dozen surprised interjections. "Harry... he has a heart to match any hero that has ever lived. He and his friends make me..." an enormous lump suddenly appears in my throat, "they make me so proud I often feel as if I will burst from delight."

I pause and allow myself to sigh. "But I must confess that over the years he has also exceeded at terrifying me! When I found out that he had dashed off to confront a basilisk by himself three years ago I nearly fainted. When he returned Godric Gryffindor's sword after that little adventure it was all I could do to keep from turning him over my knee and spanking him with the flat of the blade!" To my relief that heartfelt remark is greeted with a ripple of laughter, and even Molly gives a small smile. "I fear very much that if Harry is in London he will find some way to reach Diagon Alley and place himself in the very thick of the battle. And when he has Ron and Hermione with him - well, to be frank, I have found those three possess a synergy that is truly astounding when it comes to finding trouble." Another, stronger, wave of laughter, and this time Molly joins in.

"But couldn't Ron and Hermione go to Privet Drive?" Bill asks suddenly. "Just for the afternoon?"

I pause at that. I have generally discouraged the idea of Harry's friends visiting him at the Dursley's, both for security reasons and to try and minimize the inevitable uproar such visits would entail. But now my patience with the Dursleys is growing very short, and it would certainly be of benefit for Harry to have his friends at hand Saturday afternoon.

"I will consider it," I say at last. "I truthfully will have to think on it, but I will give the idea fair consideration."

Molly frowns, but does not make any other protest.

"Meanwhile," I continue, "I think we had better move very quickly with regard to Sirius' will. I had hoped to put this off until the memorial service, but if the book Tyrrhenius stole from the Sidhe is part of the Black family treasure," I nod to Severus, "it will possibly take some time to find. Arthur, Remus, could one of you drop a copy of Sirius' will by Hermes Reed's office late today or tomorrow morning?"

"I will," Arthur replies. "But do you think there will be any problem with having Sirius..." his voice trails off, but we all understand that he was about to finish the sentence with the words "declared dead."

"I don't believe so, Arthur. The papers I ... had signed ... yesterday included an appropriate declaration."

"What papers?" Molly asks.

Not wanting to admit the trick I played on her middle son, I simply ignore the question. "I think we will try to proceed tomorrow evening."

"Professor," Tonks breaks in softly, "is it really necessary to have a reading? I mean it seems... morbid, and it will probably upset the kids very badly." I can tell by her tight expression that the "kids" aren't the only ones it would upset.

"There is no legal requirement for a full reading," I hasten to assure her. "But we can't legally be about our business until the heir or heirs have been officially notified. It won't take long, Nymphadora, and it's best that we observe all the legal proprieties. Goodness knows, this is an odd enough situation as it is. We don't want to sow any more trouble than we absolutely have to."

I wait for a sniff from Severus, but for once he holds his peace.

A bell rings from the front. I assume it is the twins returning. Molly rises. "I promised I would watch the children so the twins could sit in on the meeting."

"They don't need a babysitter, Mom," Bill says dryly.

"Maybe not, but they do need a guard, what with Deatheaters and You-know-who about."

But it is not the twins who come through the door leading to the front room. Rather, it is an elderly goblin with a very annoyed expression.

"Mr. Kord!" Bill exclaims.

"Mr. Weasley," Kord says in his high, screeching tones, "there you are. I suggest you get moving!" He nods to me and the others in the brisk, rude goblin manner.

"I told the directors I would be in this meeting this afternoon."

"I am aware of that young man! But your brothers and sister probably would appreciate being released from their holding cells!"

Bill jumps to his feet in the midst of loud exclamations. "What...?"

"They were arrested - excuse me, 'taken into protective custody' a few minutes ago. By order of the Minister's Office. Odd, isn't the Senior Secretary a brother of yours as well?"

This bored query falls into shocked silence.

A moment later minor pandemonium erupts. I shout to Tonks and Remus to get back to Harry - orders that are not necessary as Tonks has already apparated and Remus is bolting to his feet even as I finish the sentence. Bill and Molly are shouting at Kord to explain himself, while Arthur is racing around the table and everyone else is generally getting in the way.

"Your brothers, the twins, brought Miss Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, and Mr. Thomas into the bank to make a small withdrawal." Kord says in response to the shouted questions from Bill. "As they were leaving they were accosted by agents of the Office of Magical Law Enforcement. The officers had warrants issued by the Minister's Office to take Ronald Weasley, Virginia Weasley, and Hermione Granger into custody for 'protection from forces known or unknown,' I believe. When Mr. Thomas and the other two Mr. Weasleys objected, they were also arrested."

"Did you know these agents?" I ask.

"Yes, by sight. They are legitimate."

"Kingsley!" I turn to the Auror, fighting down panic. "Get back to the Auror Office and see what you can find out!"

Shacklebolt gives a sharp, affirmative reply and disapparates.

"GIT!" Bill exclaims, kicking a nearby chair and sending it spinning against the wall. "It's Percy, up to his meddling AGAIN!" He begins to storm out of the room but his father catches him by the arm.

"Bill," Arthur says firmly, "try to calm down. Rushing over to the Ministry and exploding will only make matters worse."

"Arthur is right," I say in my calmest voice. "We have to approach this in a rational, orderly manner."

"Ginny and Ron are sitting in cells! I'm not going to sit here and do nothing!"

"I'm not suggesting that you do," I say flatly. "We will proceed to the Ministry immediately. I am just saying that we need keep our wits about us. Now please put up your wand, Bill. Hexing somebody at the Ministry won't help anything!"

"He's right dear," Molly intercedes pleadingly. "Try to calm down! We don't need you arrested as well."

"That is a sentiment with which the Bank wholeheartedly concurs," says Kord dryly.

Bill grumbles but I can see that his good sense is beginning to overcome his anger. With a final angry flourish he sheaths his wand and gives me a brusque nod.

"Very well," I say slowly, ignoring my own racing heart and the sharp ache in my chest, "Bill and I will go immediately to the Ministry and try to sort all this out with the arresting officers. Arthur," I pause and take a deep breath, "go and see if you can talk to Percy."

To his credit, Arthur makes no sound of protest, although his eyes wince very slightly.

"I wouldn't ask," I explain quickly, "but you are the only one besides myself who might get into the inner offices without undue delay. I think it would be best if I went directly to where Ron and Ginny and the others are being held."

"I will go with you," Molly says, taking his hand. He seems about to protest, but one look at his wife's eyes causes the objection to die in his throat.

With a glance to be sure that Bill is prepared, I apparate to the Ministry. Bill appears behind me a second later, and we hurry across the atrium to the flights of stairs leading down to the holding cells and the older courtrooms. I hurry down the steps, making sure to maintain my dignity. On such errands to the Ministry, it is very important to move quickly without appearing to move quickly. Such is only one of the many silly aspects of politics.

I hear shouting as soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs. The tones quickly separate into recognizable voices as we move along the corridor toward the holding cells. One of them sounds very harried indeed. Another is that of Amelia Bones, head of Magical Law Enforcement. The third is deep and resonant, filled with contempt and honeyed with the drawling tones of the American South.

We enter the holding area through a large iron door, finding ourselves in a square room. A door in the opposite wall of the chamber lets onto the holding area proper. A square table occupies the center of the room, and a large desk sits against the right wall. A corridor of some kind opens into the room just beside the desk. The three speakers are standing around the table, glaring at each other. The current speaker is a tall man with short blond hair. He is standing with his fists resting, knuckles down, on the table while he looms over a harried functionary clutching a sheaf of parchment.

"And are you fully aware," the blond man asks, his voice with its Southern accent loud but controlled, "that you're about to land yourself in the middle of the worst diplomatic incident in twenty years?"

"Mr. Rand, we had no way of knowing...."

"Bullshit! You had every way of knowing that you were about to barge in on an ambassadorial reception! And I still don't have an answer as to who ordered this fiasco!"

"And I have been trying to discover the same thing, Richardson!" Bones interjects coldly. "Where are the detention orders?"

"Madam Bones, as I've been trying to say, these are the detention orders!"

"Unsigned detention orders? Since when does this office execute unsigned arrest orders?" Amelia's cheeks are reddening at an alarming rate.

"Hell of a way to run a railroad, if you ask me!" The American crosses his arms and frowns, ignoring puzzled looks from both Bones and Richardson.

"It is indeed," I say in my coldest tone, striding into the room with Bill at my side, "and it is even a worse way to run a legal establishment. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Matthew Rand, Aesculapius Foundation," the man extends his hand but keeps his gaze pinned on the hapless Richardson, "pleased to meet you. I take it you are here about some students?"

"Yes. And you?"

"This shit-for-brains sent his thugs to drag off two of my interns from an ambassadorial reception at our headquarters."

Interns? "Who, if I might ask?"

"Pardon?" The American had turned his full attention back to Richardson. "Oh, Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom. They are interning with us over the summer."

"Are they?"

Coincidence? I am too old to believe in coincidence.

"Yes." Rand smiles then and shrugs. "To be honest we hired them mostly for the good press. Heroes and all you know. The kids get experience and money, their families get them out of their hair over the summer, and we get PR. Everybody's happy."

Well, that does make a lot of sense. Aesculapius Foundation? Oh yes, a medical charity I believe.

"And might I remind you that our officers were attacked!" Richardson proclaims in a scratchy voice.

"And might I remind you that those were war staves the guards were carrying? Your so-called officers barely escaped being turned into glowing piles of something greasy."

"Illegal weapons sir! Clearly against international conventions!"

"Oh my! Jealous because ours are bigger than yours?"

I honestly think that Richardson is going to burst an artery. Luckily Amelia intervenes. "The question is what to do about the people you have in custody!"

"Yes indeed," I hurry to agree. "I take it Mr. Longbottom and Ms. Lovegood are not among them?"

"You bet your sweet life they're not," Rand snarls.

"So that leaves Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr. Thomas, and the three Mr. Weasleys," I say.

"Well," Richardson says, "Team Gamma has not yet returned."

"From where?" I allow my eyes to narrow slightly. Richardson obviously notices, as he goes very pale.

"Surrey," he mumbles.

I feel my hands begin to clench and forcibly cause them to relax. Even as I do, a familiar and welcome voice sounds from a small corridor that opens into the room just next to the unmanned desk.

"Tonks!" Bill, who has been mercifully subdued throughout our exchange, calls out in an almost merry tone as the young Auror enters, herding two legal officers before her with the tip of her wand. Both of them are covered from head to toe with pink and green blotches. The one on the right is limping badly, and the woman on the left is still trying to put out a smoldering fire in her long hair.

"Auror Tonks!" Amelia cries in a scolding voice, "did you have to use this amount of force?"

"Oh, it wasn't me," she replies, chuckling.

"Madam Bones!" the woman with the burning hair blurts out, "we need to have a Tracking Party dispatched to Surrey. There's an insane house-elf on the loose!"

"Oh, I don't know," Bill observes smiling, "Dobby seems pretty competent to me."

"Indeed." Amelia frowns in my direction. "One of your protections?"

"In a manner of speaking. I apologize, but I'm sure Dobby did not expect legal officers to come blundering around without warning or due process."

"I wouldn't have, either." Amelia turns back to Richardson. "Now, about these unsigned orders."

"They came from the Minister's Office with the official seal, Madam Bones."

"Why was I not notified immediately?"

"You were in conference with the Aurors about war-planning."

Amelia shoots me a glance full of import. I incline my head a half-inch to show I have received the message. Someone timed the arrival of the detention orders very precisely.

"Well," Amelia says, turning a withering glare on the well-wilted Richardson, "since the orders were not signed, this is all doubtless a mistake."

"You are right, Madam Bones, this is all a terrible mistake!" Percy Weasley exclaims from the stairs behind us. He limps into the chamber, followed closely by his parents. Ignoring Bill, who is standing with his arms crossed, face expressionless, Percy moves forward to extend his hand to Rand and me.

"I am glad to hear that, Mr. Weasley," Rand says calmly, his face neutral.

"As am I, Percy," I agree. I carefully keep my features calm, displaying none of the shock I feel at Percy's appearance. He is still wearing the same robes he wore yesterday, except they are now uncharacteristically rumpled and stained. His hair his disheveled, his skin flushed and almost feverish in appearance. As I look into his eyes I see that the pupils are large, nearly obliterating the irises. His hand trembles slightly in my grasp.

"Yes, a most dreadful mistake," Percy continues, just on this edge of blithering. "Minister Fudge sent some instructions from St. Mungo's and they were misconstrued. He is of course most concerned about the health and well being of our young heroes. Never meant for this to happen. No. Never." He smiles and for some reason I am reminded of a clown I once saw while visiting the Wizarding State. It was at a muggle entertainment called a rodeo, and the clown's job was to distract an angry bull while the creature's real enemy, its rider, slipped away. The clown wore that same desperately cheery smile, only painted on.

Who are you protecting Percy? Who is sneaking over the fence while you turn flips under our noses?

Molly is crying silently behind her middle son, while Arthur stands with his hand on her shoulder. On his face is a look that mixes anger, bitterness, pity, and, most of all, love and self-recrimination. I wonder what words passed between Percy and his parents in the upper levels of the Ministry and I feel yet another weight of sadness settle around my heart.

"If you didn't mean for this to happen, Perce," Bill grinds out between clenched teeth, "then why don't you have this gentleman open the cells and let them all OUT!"

"Yes, of course!" Percy exclaims brightly, as if Bill has just come up with a brilliantly original idea. "Richardson, let them out at once!"

"But sir, we..."

"You heard the man, Richardson!" Amelia snaps. "Now do it before this embarrassment gets any worse."

"Speaking of which, I had better get back to my headquarters and try to smooth things over with the ambassador." Rand pulls himself to his full height and points his finger directly at Richardson's chest, like a wand poised for the killing curse. "You should know, however, that the Ambassador is not a forgiving man, Mr. Richardson. You will be hearing more of this. You can be sure of it!" With that curt warning he whirls, his ornate dress robes billowing behind him in streams of green, blue, red, and silver as he mounts the stairs.

Richardson walks over to the desk, all but pushing the polka-dotted officers to one side. He extracts a large key ring from one drawer and motions for us to follow as he unlocks the large door leading to the holding area. We pass through another small anteroom and down a corridor with doors on either side. Small grills set into the doors reveal that most of the chambers are empty. But a familiar voice bellows from one of the chambers as we reach the mid-point of our grim stroll, "Oy, when do we get fed! Or are you just going to let us starve down to skeletons!"

"Fred!" Molly cries.

"It's George, Mother," he says, stepping out into Molly's hug as Richardson opens the door, "honestly woman, can't you tell your own children apart?" He is grinning however, and so is Fred. Their expressions are cocky, but unless I am badly fooled, there is more than a trace of relief behind their bravado.

"The rest are this way," Richardson says, pointing with his thumb.

"We wondered where you took them," George spits, his smile vanishing. "We tried to reason with the gits, but..."

"But you made fools of yourselves, as usual." Percy's voice is tired, but it holds its old condescension.

Oh Percy, Percy. Why must you work so hard to cause yourself pain?

//Hmmm, just like our Severus, isn't he? Give him twenty years and you could bring him to Hogwarts to teach the dear students about bitterness and injustice.//

I'm so stunned at that observation that I momentarily pause in the middle of the corridor, blinking like an owl and probably looking rather ridiculous. Everyone else, however, is too fascinated by the developing confrontation between brothers to pay attention to me.

"Made fools of ourselves, did we?" George stalks forward, his fists clenched. "At least we had to work at it. Unlike a certain person who strongly resembles a pet poodle and that's in his BEST moments. Tell me, who takes you for your walks now that Fudge is in St. Mungo's?"

Percy takes in a shuddering breath, but his father steps forward to place himself between the two angry brothers. "George, calm down! Percy's here to help!"

"WHAT! YOU'RE TAKING HIS SIDE AFTER HE HAD US THROWN INTO CELLS!"

"I didn't!" Percy says earnestly. "I didn't know about it until just now!"

The silence is so thick with tension it feels as if lightning bolts might blaze in the corridor at any moment. I am frantically examining strategies for defusing the situation while making sure that I maintain my calm, detached facade. Ah yes! "I doubt that Ron or Ginny would appreciate being left in a cell while you two settle your differences," I say softly but loud enough for everyone to hear.

George blushes furiously and unclenches his fists. Percy blinks several times and looks away.

Richardson takes advantage of the opportunity thus presented to hurry down the corridor. I move after him, leaving the others to follow. Up ahead I can hear muffled thuds, as if someone is knocking on the inside of one of the heavy doors.

The jailer pauses at another door and quickly opens it, allowing Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley to spill forth into Molly's waiting arms. The thuds are coming from just up ahead. Richardson moves to that door and turns key in the lock, opening the door just as Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas make their latest charge with their makeshift battering ram - a rail they have managed to unscrew from one of the cots. Flinging dignity to the winds, we scatter as the two teens barrel through the midst of us and straight into the cell across the corridor, whose door is standing open. A loud crashing sound informs us of the end of this particular misadventure.

"Bloody Hell!" That's Ron's voice, sounding no worse for wear. The answering groan from Dean Thomas isn't as encouraging, but when the two of them limp into sight they don't seem to be sporting any critical hurts. Molly embraces both of them, her jealousy of Dean forgotten in the moment of crisis.

"Ron, are you OK?" Percy asks, coming forward.

"Fat lot you care!" Ron replies bitterly, giving his brother a cold stare.

"Ron," Molly intercedes, "it wasn't Percy's fault. He's trying to help."

I can see Ron doesn't believe this. For that matter, I don't really believe it either. Nevertheless he nods and says softly, "I'm OK, Percy." Looking at his father he says in a louder voice, "Now can we go?"

"That is a fine idea!" I exclaim.

"Just a minute!" Hermione Granger comes forward and stands in front of Percy. "I want an explanation!"

"It was a misunderstanding, Miss Granger," Percy says wearily.

"I believe the law entitles us to a more complete accounting, Mr. Weasley."

Oh no.

"Professor Dumbledore can explain it all, I'm sure. If you will excuse me..." he turns to go.

"Just a moment!" Hermione reaches out and grasps his elbow.

Percy whirls sharply, shoving her back. "NO!" he snarls. The force of his arm sends Hermione reeling against the wall, where she stands petrified in shock.

Percy's expression changes from anger to surprise to something that might have been akin to remorse. It might have been, but the expression has no chance to form as Ron's fist cracks hard against his mouth and nose. He stumbles back, losing his balance as his feet become entangled with each other, and crashes backwards. Ron, his lips drawn back in a grimace of rage, darts forward and lands a powerful kick in his brother's abdomen. He draws back his foot for another blow but Bill seizes his by the forearms and hauls him back.

Amelia, who has not spoken a word during our journey into this sad place, now shows the determination and vigor that have enabled her climb to the heights of law enforcement. "This way everyone!" she orders briskly, pushing Bill ahead still carrying his brother, "We will send help for Mr. Weasley from the upper floors."

Most of our group, still shocked at the sudden burst of violence, moves forward obediently like sheep. Molly drops to her knees at Percy's side, and Amelia wisely makes no move to stop her. Arthur also goes to help his son.

We hurry out of the holding area and through the antechamber, back up the stairs into the main floor of the Ministry. Amelia stops at the security desk, quickly scribbles a note, folds it into an airplane, and sails it off. She then catches my eye and motions upwards, to where her offices are located. I nod.

"Bill," I say, "why don't you take Ron, Ginny, and Dean back to the Burrow? I'm sure Fred and George need to return to the shop as well."

"Bloody right!" George (or is it Fred?) exclaims. "Grand opening in less than two days and we don't even have the effing cash registers set up yet!"

Amelia and I make our way quickly to the lift area, barely dodging two young racing past with a stretcher floating between them.

"Impressive response time." I say dryly.

"We try."

We ride up and walk to her office in silence. I sense that Amelia wants to speak desperately, but is forcibly restraining herself. Finally, as soon as the door is closed, she lets out a long sigh.

"Whew! I'm sorry to have you come all the way up here Albus, but there aren't very many places in the Ministry I feel safe talking anymore. I can vouch for the privacy wards on this office though. I put them up myself and don't let anyone else touch them."

"Excellent policy. Do you believe that Percy is innocent in this affair?"

"Innocent is always a relative term at the Ministry, Albus, you know that. It's become more so over the past year. But in answer to your question, I really don't know about Weasley. I would like to think that he wouldn't actively connive to have his own family imprisoned. But who knows?"

"I would like to think that too Amelia. But like you, I can't be sure."

The foul blood arises. Beware its treachery.

Cornelia's letter seems to have been most timely.

"I am sure," I say slowly, "that he is speaking the truth when he says that this affair originated with Fudge. It has all the earmarks."

"Yes," Amelia replies. "It is clumsy, idiotic, and tainted with paranoia. I am a little surprised he would move so quickly after such a public humiliation, however. I would have thought him too cowardly."

"He is. I have no doubt someone spurred him on."

"Who? Deatheaters?"

"No, although they would doubtless laugh long and hard had he succeeded. This idea, I believe was pushed on him by someone close to him."

"But who has access to him? He has been in St. Mungo's for the last few days."

"So has Dolores Umbridge."

Amelia lets out a string of most unladylike words. I sit calmly until her entertaining tirade is finished.

"I have to say," I remark calmly but flatly, "that my views on how to deal with those two have begun to harden. I will definitely need to visit Madam Umbridge in the future. I think we should move the complaints against her onto the top of the Wizengamot's schedule."

"Done. I'll also have St. Mungo's move her into one of their secure rooms. That way she won't be having any more discussions with Fudge in the near future. We can justify it, I'm sure, on grounds of her mental condition."

"As for Fudge, I begin to see the wisdom of a no-confidence vote, even if it does cause disruption. Better healthy chaos than unhealthy stupidity."

"Yes." She smiles coldly. But then her smile falters and she looks worriedly down at her

hands. "There is something else Albus. Something that does definitely involve Percy Weasley."

"I was afraid of that." I wait patiently, absently rubbing one aching shoulder.

"When I heard about the arrest of the young Weasleys and Mr. Thomas, I had my staff do a thorough check of our records for any paper trail."

"Thus discovering that the detention orders had not been signed." I surmise.

"Yes, but I found something else. It seems that several of our older records have been requisitioned by the Minister's office under Mr. Weasley's signature. And it's definitely his signature, I've checked it against known samples and run the standard anti-forgery charms."

"What are the records?" I keep my voice even, but Amelia is alarmed, and that disturbs me deeply. Amelia is not one to become upset without good reason.

"Books of law from the Wyrd War period."

"Most curious. What could Percy want with thirteen hundred year old law books?" I have an inkling, but I hope desperately that I am wrong.

"The books he took deal with the Thrall Decrees," Amelia says flatly.

//Oh my, things just keep getting better and better!//

Tom always did have a succinct way of putting things.

Friday, 5 July, 1996

1021 GMT

After a sleepless night spent in conversation with Professor Binns, I face the dawn weary and worried. Iris fusses and fumes, supplying an endless flow of hot chocolate and lemon drops.

The dawn brings the arrival of van Derdecken in his flying schooner, a black-painted affair with fluorescing sails that he anchors to the Astronomy Tower. He politely requests shore leave for his crew, which is made up entirely of ghosts. He explains that many of them have old friends among the Hogwarts spirits, and that it has been a relatively long time since they have visited Britain in any case. Permission being granted, the halls of the school are soon rocking with sea-chanties and bawdy laughter.

Around nine thirty a solemn gray owl arrives from the firm of Graves, Garman, and Reed. The parchment informs me that the senior partner, Hermes Reed, has surveyed the will of Sirius Black and, provided that certain curious matters (such as what happened to the body) can be cleared up, he is ready to move forward immediately. I hastily scribble a reply, telling him that by all means we will provide answers to his questions and we will proceed tonight at his offices if it is convenient.

Van Derdecken and the Countess join me for brunch. My hopes for a relaxing meal are shattered by the energetic Dutchman, who has brought a sheaf of proposals from the Continent, including missives from several groups who could not attend at Beauxbatons. We spend a couple of busy hours writing replies and preparing the outline for a standardized communication system to be based on that used by the Order. Having agreed to meet again through the afternoon, the Captain hurries off to make sure all is in order aboard his ship (I gather his second mate is newly dead, newly recruited, and not yet fully trusted), and I request the Countess to take a turn around the gardens with me.

"Your staff is delightful," she says, "and I could spend a year just exploring the castle. Durmstrang is much smaller."

I observe her carefully. She is certainly poised and controlled - but then so was her father. She also has something else of her father's - a hint of ice-cold steel beneath her smile. "So I have heard, although I understand your grounds are quite extensive."

"That is true. Extensive and largely undeveloped. I have to admit I find both Hogwarts and Beauxbatons a bit ... over-refined and constricting. Only that area yonder reminds me of home." She points one long finger in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

"It is filled with centaurs and unicorns, and we have highly reliable reports of an acromantula colony. I hope your grounds aren't that wild!"

"Certainly! Not around the immediate vicinity of the Castle, of course, but we encourage all sorts of wildlife in the further regions. It makes for interesting study. Also, as our curriculum is more extensive than yours, we require certain...supplies... you do not." The steel in her smile is quite evident this time.

I take a deep breath. I have been dealing with Tom for far too long, and have forgotten how unlike him Grindelwald was. Where Tom is a cauldron of boiling hate and anger, always on the verge of explosion, his spiritual predecessor was a dark glacier, whom I never heard raise his voice. Taunts that will drive Tom into wild, and ill advised, furies would only elicit a bored look from Grindelwald. "I understand you teach the Dark Arts."

"Not I personally, Headmaster. They are part of our curriculum, however." She looks at me with a guarded expression.

"Do you approve?"

"My goodness what a loaded question! I am the acting headmistress, you know!" She gives what seems to be a genuine laugh.

"I apologize. However, you must understand that we here at Hogwarts are very sensitive on the subject of the Dark Arts."

"Yes. I understand why you would be. And, between you and me, no I do not approve. Unfortunately, the school's trustees have pronounced views on the subject and do not invite nor appreciate discussion." She reaches out and gently caresses a flower. "Nor do they tolerate dissent on the pureblood issue, before you ask. It sometimes makes recruiting faculty the very devil! I even had several sharp disagreements this past year with regard to some of our guest lecturers."

That could of course be a lie, but my instincts tell me she is being truthful. Besides, it would be easy enough to verify. Still, that in itself is not enough to allay my suspicions. My now awakened memories of nearly sixty years ago are flooding back, and I recall that her father, unlike Voldemort, or for that matter his muggle contemporary, Hitler, had little interest in racial purity. With the logical coldness of a muggle machine, Grindelwald would use and discard whomever he felt might help his rise to power.

// Oh, so he's the one that taught you that! //

"I understand that Erkki Mahalan lectured at Durmstrang for a term." I'm careful to keep my voice neutral. "The Mahalan family doesn't attend Durmstrang, do they?"

"No. They go to the Finnish school. I can't pronounce its name."

Neither can I, so I search for a way to move the conversation forward. Fortunately the Countess spares me the need.

"Actually Dr. Mahalan was one of my main problems. He is an excellent lecturer, but I'm afraid one of the students asked his opinion of our pureblood policy. His answer was not well received by the board."

"Really?" I take a seat on a strategically placed flat rock and motion for her to do the same. "What did he say?"

"Something along the lines of how if we really wanted to know the value and effects of pure blood our next guest lecturer should be a muggle geneticist, or even better a dog breeder."

"I am sure many of the students were quite upset at that suggestion."

"Quite. He then pointed out that their are almost no pure lines left in the Western Hemisphere and there has been no dimunition in the per capita birth of magically active children nor in their measurable magical ability."

"For that matter," I observe, "there are relatively few pure lines anywhere in the world. Were it not for intermarriage with muggles wizards could not survive as a group."

"He said that too. One of our more conservative students tried to curse Dr. Mahalan on the spot. He got turned into a pink guinea pig for his trouble."

"Pink? Dr. Mahalan must have a vicious sense of humor."

"Actually, Erkki himself is quite the sweetheart. I doubt he's ever raised his wand in anger. His assistants, however, are fiercely protective. I suppose in his profession they have to be."

"Yes." Dealing with mentally ill witches and wizards would definitely not be the safest of occupations. "I am thinking of having Dr. Mahalan come and give some lectures at Hogwarts."

"Really? And all this time I was thinking you were pumping me because you are afraid Harry Potter is going crazy." The smile she gives this time is colder than the arctic.

"And why would you think that?" I try to stay calm, but I'm afraid the catch in my voice gives me away.

"Why would I think Harry Potter is going crazy or why would I think you are afraid he's going crazy? It comes down to the same answer I suppose. I take the Daily Prophet so I can keep up on my English. I know that much of what it was saying this past year was because of politics, but where there is smoke as the saying goes. Besides, considering the boy's history it would be amazing if he wasn't going mad. Believe me, I know."

I am at a loss for how to answer. I need her cooperation desperately, not only for the sake of our budding international cooperation, but also for the budding crisis I sense coming with Harry. But my trust in her is far from solid.

"I also read poetry to practice my English," the Countess continues, slipping back into a pleasant demeanor. "My favorite was always Milton."

"Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?" I venture.

"No," she laughs, "although my father might well have thought that. My favorite is 'Abash'd the Devil stood and felt how awful goodness is.'"

"An unusual line, to be sure," I say softly.

"Yes, the idea of goodness being awful fascinated me greatly when I was young. I was so disappointed to find out the word had a different meaning in Milton's time."

"But do you still think that goodness can be awful?"

"Oh certainly. Take you for instance. I grew up hating you with all the power in my being."

I close my eyes briefly at that. It is only to be expected, of course. Just as Harry's rage is only to be expected, just as Molly's wrath is only to be expected, just as the Order's mistrust is only to be expected. Nevertheless, it hurts like a dagger wound.

"I know. I killed your father."

"Oh, I don't blame you for that!" Elizaveta waves the subject away as if it is a negligible trifle. "He was a terribly dangerous man and besides, he richly deserved what he got. No, I hated you for letting my wretch of a mother live."

I can only stare at her for a moment. I remember her mother well. She was a dark, bitter woman, broken in body and shredded in soul.

"For a long time," Elizaveta continues, "I thought that 'awful goodness' must mean that goodness is inept. To kill Grindelwald and leave her behind - what foolishness!"

"It seemed to me," I say softly, "that she had suffered mightily already."

"Yes she had. Probably worse than I can imagine."

"Then you wish I had killed her out of mercy?"

"Not at all. I wish you had killed her because she was an evil, conniving, vicious creature whose absence would have made the world a much better place." Her voice is calm, but her lips twist as if in pain.

"She was to be punished then, because of what Grindelwald had made her?"

"Ah, just as I thought!" She stares at the nearby flowers for a long moment, then looks back to me. "You are in the grip of a common delusion."

"I seem to be in the grip of many such," I say dryly.

"The idea that all victims resent their pain is widespread but completely false. Many revel in their suffering. They seek it out and draw strength from it. They learn to turn their pain into power."

"I am aware of that," I say so quietly I wonder for a moment if she heard me.

"I wonder if you are? My mother was a small darkness who fed on the greater darkness of my father. But when the great dark was gone, the small dark continued, and had quite enough strength to spread pain and despair in its own right."

"Who am I to judge all that come under my hand, who shall live and who shall die?"

"Who are you not to? Perhaps you abandoned your responsibility sixty years ago. Perhaps that is why goodness is awful, because it calls the good to take up such burdens."

RIIING. RIIIIING. RIIIIIIIIIING.

Oh Harry. If I didn't love you already this would certainly lodge you in my heart.

Elizaveta certainly appears startled. I don't attempt an explanation, but just hold up one finger and extract the phone from the interior pocket of my robes.

"Hello, Harry."

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore." His voice sounds tired and strained.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad." The lie is immediately revealed as I hear a spasm of wet coughing.

"You need to rest, Harry."

"Dobby says the same thing. He keeps making me drink warm milk and lie down."

"Dobby is very wise, Harry."

"It doesn't matter." His voice drops and is so full of sorrow that I want to cry.

"Of course it matters, Harry!"

"Yeah. You can't let your weapon get rusty, can you?" Anger and bitterness now join the sorrow. I can't blame him.

"Harry..."

"I'm going to the twins' opening on Saturday."

"That isn't a good idea, Harry. You know that it will be a prime target for attack."

"That's why I'm going. I want to do this and get it over with."

I close my eyes as I feel icy fingers wrap around my heart. "Harry, I know how you feel ...."

"NO YOU DON'T!" His voice is hitching now, and I know that he is using all his willpower once again not to cry. "DON'T YOU EVER SAY THAT YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL! DID YOU HAVE A SCAR ON YOUR FOREHEAD! DID YOU LIVE IN THAT DAMNED CUPBOARD!"

"Harry," I say in my sternest voice (well, the sternest I can bear to use with Harry at any rate), "do me the courtesy of speaking in a civil tone. I believe I have explained these matters to you."

"Yeah," he hisses bitterly, "you told me about your precious plan."

"Harry," I allow my voice to soften with regret, "You know that I would never have allowed you to suffer as you have if I could have seen any other way to keep you safe."

Silence. I feel a sick feeling settle into me stomach.

// Face it. Your precious prince hates you. //

"I'm going to go to the twins' opening," he repeats at last.

"No, Harry, I can't allow you to get into the midst of a pitched battle like that."

"Why not? You said yourself it's what I'm for." Bitterness again.

The sickness in my stomach grows worse.

"I said no such thing, Harry."

"I'm a weapon," he persists. "I'm no good unless you use me!"

"You aren't a weapon!" I am speaking sternly once more. "You are Harry Potter, a young man with friends who love you, teachers who think highly of you, and a very bright future indeed. That you have a heavy burden of destiny changes none of that. None!"

"But..."

"You are not ready, Harry," I try to be as gentle and sympathetic as I can, considering that my chest is hurting and my stomach churning. "A wise warrior does not rush into battle without thinking."

"Have you been talking to Hermione?" His voice is full of suspicion.

"Yes, I have spoken with Miss Granger," I say carefully.

"I knew it! So you've decided to lock me away so my 'saving people thing' won't get somebody else killed." He sounds half ready to weep and half ready to strike someone.

"I don't know what you mean, Harry." What in the world is he talking about?

There is another period of uncomfortable silence. I hear heavy wet breathing on the other end, and I know that Harry isn't nearly as well as he is pretending.

"I got an owl from some solicitor," he says sullenly, "about Sirius' will. Are you going to let me go to the reading?"

"Of course, if you wish. It isn't required." To be honest, I'm not sure about the wisdom of having him present.

"I want to. Sirius named me." I feel a wave of fear wash down my spine. Harry's voice is utterly calm and bitterly cold. I imagine his brilliant green eyes, grown sharp as razors cut out of pure emerald.

"Very well, Harry. I will see you this evening. Make sure you rest."

"Yeah."

"Is Dobby treating you well?" I know the answer, but I want to keep talking to Harry just a little longer.

"Yeah. He's getting blankets ready now." Suddenly there is another fit of coughing. When it's finished I here him call, with his head turned from the phone, "Dobby, not that silly koala thing!"

"Goodbye, Harry."

"Yeah. Bye, Professor."

// So much for buying him pajamas to match the koala blanket. //

I wasn't thinking of doing that.

// Yes, you were. //

No, I wasn't.

// Were too. //

Was not.

// Were too. //

Was not.

// Were too. //

Was no....All right, I was.

I fold the phone and put it back inside my robes. I had strayed several yards away from the Countess to speak with Harry in privacy, so I walk slowly back to where she was sitting. I find her bent over the flowerbeds.

"Countess, I..."

"Professor Dumbledore," she says, straightening her back and brushing herself off briskly, "we could go on like this all day and we have much to do. I sense you want something from me. Please ask."

Relieved by her adoption of a businesslike manner, I comply. After hearing my request she looks, to say the least, surprised.

"That would be an unexpected development indeed. But it would pose many difficulties for everyone involved." Her face, however, is thoughtful.

"I am aware of that. However, it might well be our only option if things play out as I fear they will."

"So you are a Seer now?" She smiles and her tone is light rather than sarcastic.

"No, merely very old. I have seen enough of the world to predict how some things will develop, or not develop."

"And are you ever mistaken?"

"Oh yes, frequently and sometimes badly."

"Well, let us hope that this is one of the times. But I will give serious consideration to your request."

"I am afraid I must press for an answer within a few hours. Time is extraordinarily precious, and a crisis might break at any moment." I try to convey as much urgency as I can without outright pleading.

"I understand. Now, I believe we have to get back to work."

"Indeed. I am afraid I must be a rude host and ask you to walk back to the castle alone. I have some quick business to which I must attend."

"With van Derdecken," her eyes sparkle coldly, "yes you do indeed."

I find the Dutch wizard deep in conversation with the Bloody Baron. They have hit on some mutual acquaintances and evidently are trading humorous stories, as both of them are laughing so loud the paintings are grimacing and covering their ears. Pulling van Derdecken aside, I quickly explain the situation and make my request. Given the Dutchman's blunt nature, it goes surprisingly quickly. He, like Elizaveta, promises to think about the situation.

I have never been quite sure if there is a God beyond the sky or not. But I find myself praying fervently as I wait for the nearest stairway to finish rearranging itself.

Friday, 5 July, 1996

1623 GMT

The rest of the afternoon proceeds very slowly. We - van Derdecken, the Countess, Minerva whom I have asked to join us for the afternoon, and myself - have the irksome task of managing an already mounting river of correspondance from any number of wizarding groups, schools, and governments who were not represented at Beauxbatons or were at the conference and want to continue the discussion. The task is made a little easier, if more annoying, by the fact that most of them ask the same questions, and so it is just a matter of waiting while the translation quills do their work, grinding out our stock replies in several languages. It is made infinitely more difficult due to the fact that Minerva and the Countess have come developed an instant and deep antipathy approaching that which exists between Harry and Severus.

The two of them really are a study in fire and ice, what with Minerva's high temper and Elizaveta's glacial disdain. To wit:

Minerva: "Must you take so long over all these Slavic language translations Countess? Do I need to transfigure one of these cushions into a clock so we can stay on time?"

Elizaveta: "No dear, you need to find a translation quill that knows the difference between Bulgarian and Ukrainian grammar. Honestly who enchanted the thing, a Russian?"

Minerva: "This dratted Slavic quill is picking up lazy habits from you Countess. It absolutely refuses to start on the Romanian translation."

Elizaveta (rolling her eyes): "That's because Romanian isn't a Slavic language dear. There is a reason the place is called ROME-ania you know."

And on and on and on.

After some three hours, we decide that we have answered all the pressing correspondance for the day - and that we must call a truce lest hexes start flying. I ask Minerva to attend on me in my library in about an hour and retreat gladly into the comfort of my office, where Iris is waiting fretfully.

"Mr. Albus MUST be getting to bed! He is not sleeping all night because of dry old ghost!"

"I requested Professor Binns' advice, Iris," I answer wearily.

"Well, Iris is giving advice now. Mr. Albus must sleep. Is will reading tonight and Wheezy-Wheezy's tomorrow!"

Excellent point. I am likely to face a pitched battle in less than twenty-four hours and I haven't slept now in more than thirty-six. It all seems just a little much to ask from a one hundred and forty-six year old school teacher.

// More than you are asking of a fifteen year old boy? //

Thank you, Tom. You do sometimes put things in perspective.

"Tell you what Iris, I won't go to bed but I will relax. Why don't you bring my slippers to the library? Oh, and bring that bottle I brought back from Richard O'Dell's."

"Iris is doing. Master Albus is promising he will try to rest?"

"Oh, I will try, Iris."

And I will most surely fail.

Friday, July 5, 1996

1623 GMT

I make myself comfortable in my favorite chair and prop my feet, clad in the goat slippers from Aberforth, up on a colorful ottoman. At my elbow is a bottle of whiskey I bought from Richard before leaving his establishment the night of our meeting in Northern Ireland. It is deep gold in color, and if you look carefully you can see tiny sparkles in its depths. This is whiskey distilled by the Sidhe, and it is powerful indeed. There are legends of mortals sleeping for centuries after drinking it unwittingly. I rather doubt the legends are true, or at least I doubt that the whiskey alone was responsible for the poor mortals' mishaps, but still I pour and cut the drink with great care. I drink it carefully, allowing it to trickle down my throat feeling like liquified sunlight.

I really don't want to do this. I really want to take Iris' advice, to go to my bedroom and burrow under the covers, allowing sleep to take me for the next three hours or so. But as always, it is not given to me to act as I wish, only as I must. Looking around carefully to make sure that Iris is not still standing silently at hand as she sometimes does, I reach down beside the chair where I have hidden a particular object from her sight. Had she seen it, she doubtless would have flown into yet another tizzy, and that is something that I'm not sure I can deal with at the moment.

// Feelings hurt, are they? //

Yes, they are. It is ridiculous really. Albus Dumbledore has his feelings hurt because a student yelled at him.

// Well, now you know what Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger felt like all year long. Your precious diamond has sharp edges, Albus. //

So he does, Tom.

As I pull the object out of its hiding place, I suddenly feel a surge of anger. Not rage, not the annoyance of a teacher, but a kind of sad anger tinged with disappointment. I really had expected better from Harry. Soon somebody needs to have a stern talk with that boy about how he is hurting the people who love him! He has every right to be hurt and angry, but these horrible tantrums aren't helping anything!

With that thought, a plop the Sorting Hat on my head and close my eyes.

"Hello, Albus. My, oh my you have a lot on your mind. Let's see now, hmmm, oh dear - sorry about Mr. Potter, but teenagers can be like that."

"I have rarely had this problem with my teenage students before."

"That is because before you were dealing with them as the Headmaster and Greatest Wizard in the World. They were afraid of you. If you would ask their parents how they behave at home you might be in for a shock."

"I suppose I might at that. It is very painful, though."

"Of course it is. It is the monster called Love digging its claws in. But there is a bright side. At least this is evidence that Harry is not afraid of you any longer."

"I'm not sure that's entirely a good thing."

"Albus, there you go again! Every time your love starts to come forth you manipulate it back into its cage. You've done that to the point that the most common things cause you to go into an emotional crisis."

"Such as?"

"Such as a hormonal teenage boy is outraged by something his elders say, convinced that said elders do not and never can understand him, and proceeds to alternate between sulking and losing his temper. I'll grant you the circumstances are stressful and extraordinary, and, as you are thinking, Mr. Potter has a right to be severely upset. Still, the occurrence itself is hardly unusual. I daresay your friend Arthur Weasley would find it rather pedestrian. And yet you are ready to fly into small pieces over it!"

// Delightful! If only Lucius Malfoy could see you now! //

"And for the last time," the Hat breaks in, "STOP THAT! I told you it makes my seams hurt."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be. Now, what do you want to talk about? I sense it isn't Mr. Potter, exactly, that has prompted our little chat. Not that I mind. I'm hung up on the first verse of my Welcoming Song and I need a break."

I take another sip of the Sidhe whiskey and let its warmth brace me before answering. "I want to talk about Remus Lupin."

The Hat does not seem at all surprised. "Remus Lupin, interesting case that!"

The sound of horns fills my head. The upper melody is sweet but mournful, only occasionally showing signs of swift, happy movement. But below, deep in the lower registers, there is rumbling as if of a storm. Suddenly the deep tones expand, filling my head, drowning out the melody in an unbridled roar of power. Then they subside again and the melody returns, tentative and ragged at first, then stronger, until the balance is established once again.

"I assume that was Remus at Sorting?"

"Yes indeed. As I say, very interesting case. What can I help you with?"

"Remus has been having great difficulty ever since Sirius' death. To be honest I find much of his behavior odd and frustrating. Particularly with regard to Harry."

"Odd? In what way?"

"He cares deeply for Harry. So much so that he was not afraid to roar at me a couple of days ago. Yet, he's deeply reluctant to approach Harry himself. He's afraid to. He can hardly be dragged away from the vicinity of Privet Drive, yet the thought of taking a familial responsibility for Harry seems to fill him with depression. He is mourning Sirius, of course. I had thought that he and Harry could take comfort in one another. Yet Remus will hardly hear of it."

"That is most puzzling." I have the impression that if the Hat had possessed a head, it would be scratching it.

"And most distressing. Harry is in great danger. I have learned just within the last day that he is in greater danger than I had thought. I will need Remus to stay very close to Harry if we are to keep him safe."

"And you hope I can help find a way to resolve his conflicted feelings?"

"Yes."

The Hat is silent for a moment. When it answers, it is strangely tentative. "I am not sure. It has been a long time since Remus put me on."

"Granted. But I am baffled and any help is better than none."

"True. Please close your eyes and concentrate on Remus. Try to let your memories of him, particularly your recent memories, flow smoothly over the surface of your mind."

I comply. Being long skilled in Legilemency and Occlumency, it is not a particularly hard exercise. It is, however, distressing, and I find myself longing for another sip of whiskey.

"Very well," the Hat says at last. "It actually looks rather clear cut."

I resist the urge to reply sarcastically, then remember that the Hat has already read the thought.

"I have indeed," it says dryly. "But I forgive you."

"Thank you. Now what is wrong with Remus?"

"He has a problem peculiar to Gryffindors. His courage has betrayed him."

His courage? I find it hard to consider Remus a coward.

"I did not say his courage had left him," the Hat interjects, "but that it had betrayed him."

"What do you mean?" I take another drink. I feel that I am going to need it.

"You yourself have said that there are many types of courage."

"I have."

"Sometimes, a kind of courage that will save a person in one kind of danger will doom them in another. This is a lesson Mr. Potter learned this year."

"Yes. So you would say Harry's courage betrayed him?"

"Well, more precisely it was made to betray him. But the case of Remus Lupin is more complex. You see, Remus' courage consisted of the ability to accept that which could not be changed."

"Being a werewolf." I say with dawning realization.

"Yes, he was able to accept the fact that he was a werewolf and nothing would alter that. Later, he had to accept the death of the Potters, and the guilt of Sirius - or his apparent guilt."

"And then the anti-werewolf legislation..." I say.

"And now the death of Sirius. Yes, all these things he is able to face because of his kind of courage. But now, now with Harry, he faces a different problem."

"Yes," I drum my fingers against the chair, "he now has a crisis that does not call for him to accept, but to ACT!"

"Precisely. For the first time in a long time, perhaps the first time in his life, Remus faces a major decision where his experience, his strength, his courage, all point him to do what he knows in his heart is the wrong thing."

"To turn his back on Harry and walk away." I say quietly.

"The way he would probably put it is 'Deal with it and move on' but you are essentially correct. Of course he can't do that, so he is paralyzed between a heart screaming to him to act and experience that tells him all he can do is have the courage to accept and let the world be as it will."

I nod slowly. "Yes, I can see how that would work."

"Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I really have to get back to my Welcome Song. And would you all kindly do me the courtesy of LISTENING TO ME this year?"

I return the Hat to its place on the shelf in my office then spend the next half-hour or so in my library, pondering. Just how am I going to deal with this Remus situation? And dealt with it must be, and soon. Events have dictated that.

I am so caught up in my thoughts that I miss the chimes at the gargoyle. One moment I am alone, the next I look up and see Minerva accompanied by a rather annoyed looking Iris.

"Professor Minerva is being here to talk with you, Master Albus," Iris says. "I am telling her that you are resting, but she is saying you are calling her." She narrows her eyes and gives me a glare that accuses me of deception.

"Oh, yes. Well, Minerva needs to relax as well, you see. I thought she might like a drink of this excellent Sidhe whiskey."

Iris is not fooled for a moment of course, but she dutifully nods and turns to Minerva. "Sitting down, Professor Minerva! Iris is fetching you slippers!"

"Oh no, that is...." but Iris is already vanished.

"Have a drink, Minerva." I carefully pour and cut another shot of the whiskey.

"I don't mind if I do, Albus. That woman is about to ..."

I never find out what the Countess is about to do because Iris appears at that moment, bearing a pair of house slippers.

"Taking off your shoes, Professor." Iris accepts the shoes Minerva proffers and slips the new footwear on over her stockings. She then bows in my direction, smiles slyly, and vanishes.

I wonder for a moment what that smirk was about, but only for a moment. I catch sight of the slippers she has brought for Minerva, and I suppress a groan. From the back of my closet she has fished out the very slippers Minerva gave me five years ago - the tartan plaid ones. I don't object to the plaid, in fact I rather like it. I object to the fact that when you click the heels together they play a very loud, very out of tune bagpipe rendition of "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies." Minerva of course, being addicted to bagpipe music both in tune and out proceeds to click the heels together - three times in succession.

The final strains of the third rendition fade just as I am beginning to have sympathy with the Black family tradition of beheading house-elves. At least it seems to have lightened Minerva's mood, though, for she is able to look at me with a tight smile. "I hope that we don't have yet another major crisis to discuss Albus. I think we have quite enough to handle as it is!"

"I wish," I say slowly, "that I could fulfill those hopes, Minerva."

She frowns. "Another crisis? At least tell me it's not about Harry this time!"

"Alas, Minerva," I say in a weak attempt at humor, "I am compelled to speak the truth!"

She puts her glass down and runs her hand over her suddenly gray features. "What has he done?"

"Harry? He has done nothing."

"What has somebody done to him?"

"Nothing."

"Then who is about to do something to him? Voldemort?" She takes a deep breath and straightens as if squaring her shoulders for a confrontation.

"No. The Ministry."

"Almost as bad. What is it this time?"

I quickly relate my talk with Amelia.

"Why would Percy want thirteen hundred year old books? And what were the Thrall Decrees? And what does this have to do with Harry?"

"A great deal, I'm afraid." I manage a weak smile. "How is your knowledge of that period?"

"History of Magic is not my field," she says flatly.

"A fair answer. I had to have a long conversation with Professor Binns myself to get at the pertinent details."

Minerva sniffs. "It must have taken all night."

"Yes it did." I ignore her surprised look and continue. "During that time Northern Britain was dominated, as far as the magical world goes, by two loose groups of wizards who were constantly in conflict with each other. The actual reasons for their struggle were extremely complex, but at the root everything came down to a set of apparently conflicting prophecies. Or, as they put it, there was a shadow on the Wyrd. Hence why they are called the Wyrd Wars."

"Yes," Minerva says with the tone of one who is having trouble keeping her patience.

"It became apparent that certain people were central to the prophecies. In order to further their war aims, on of the groups propagated the Thrall Decrees, stating that such individuals were thralls, that is slaves, of the Wyrd, and as such no longer persons in a true sense. The other side rapidly followed suit."

Minerva taps her fingers against the arm of her chair and gives a long-suffering look. "Very interesting Albus. But that was a thousand years before the Ministry was even formed. What has it got to do with anything?"

"Because the Decrees are the root of a long legal tradition not much known today. It is called 'Prophetic Forfeiture'"

Now she suddenly seems interested. "You mean this has something to do with the prophecy?"

"It does. You see, under prophetic forfeiture a person named or indicated in a true prophecy can be declared a 'vessel' of that prophecy. That declaration strips the person of all rights. They become, in effect, legally nothing more than a weapon."

// My, it seems young Mr. Potter is quite insightful after all, isn't he? //

Shut up, Tom.

"I have never heard of anything like that!"

"It has not been invoked in almost two hundred years. But those missing volumes tell a big tale."

"You think Fudge and Percy are up to something?"

"And perhaps Umbridge as well, depending on how far back into Fudge's good graces she's managed to worm during his stay in the hospital. There is only one use for those books, to build a careful case. The more recent data is probably available in the Minister's private reference collection. But those books in Amelia's office are probably the only source on the original Thrall decrees to be had in the Ministry building."

"They mean to use the decrees to seize Harry?"

"Absolutely. They think that once they have him under their control they will have the key to defeating Voldemort. Then they can rescue themselves from ruin by claiming the credit."

"And what do they think we will be doing?" she asks coldly.

"They expect that while attention is diverted they will be able to deal with us quietly." I suddenly feel very tired.

"And Harry?" she asks.

"I'm sure that Percy has convinced himself he means Harry no real harm. As for Fudge and the others, I suspect they would be delighted for Harry to die a hero's death they can use as a symbol for their own ends." My mouth tastes bad, but I've already had quite enough of the whiskey for one sitting.

"Surely they don't think the public will let them get away with seizing Harry!"

"They will call it something else, Minerva - security precautions, perhaps? And besides, when has the public ever been a friend to Harry? Oh, it's fine as long as he's winning tournaments or slaying basilisks. But the minute he mentioned Voldemort's name they turned on him like a pack of frightened dogs." I feel very old, and an unaccustomed bitterness laces my voice. "If they think it will save them from the Dark Lord, the public will hand Harry over to the Ministry in an instant. They will, however, turn out for the funeral and cry many a tear once Voldemort is safely gone."

"And the Wizengamot? Would they sit still for this outrage?"

"Would you have believed before this year, Minerva, that the Wizengamot would have sat still for someone like Dolores Umbridge in control of Hogwarts?" I look her squarely in the eye, not in confrontation, but in sadness.

"No," she says, "no, Albus, I would not."

"To answer your question more fairly, I believe that a properly acting Wizengamot would certainly overturn the prophetic forfeiture precedents. At least I hope it would. Despite what Miss Granger thinks, we have learned some things over the centuries. At least, I hope we have."

"However," I continue, "with Harry under their control the Ministry might feel themselves in a position to try and compromise the Wizengamot once again. And although I would like to believe they would not succeed, I am not about to wager Harry's safety, or the future of the Wizarding World, on that belief."

"So what are we to do, Albus?"

I sigh heavily. "We are to do what many have been urging and I have hoped to avoid. We are going to bring down Fudge's Ministry."

"And risk political chaos in a critical stage of the war?" The question is clearly rhetorical.

"This war will not have any non-critical stages. And I do not think we have a choice. However, the process of a no-confidence vote is supervised by the Wizengamot."

"Which means," Minerva says dryly, "that we have the same problem. If Fudge seizes Harry, he might feel strong enough to attempt subversion of the law."

"Exactly. Which means, quite simply, that we cannot let him have Harry."

"Then, unless you propose armed resistance, I take it that you intend to hide Harry."

"Not precisely. Hiding him would be too risky. I think we will have to remove him beyond the Ministry's authority until we can remove Fudge from power."

"Beyond... you mean outside of Britain?" Minerva looks shocked.

"Precisely. Someplace where he would be well-guarded and still in friendly hands and accessible to us, of course."

"Of course," she replies sarcastically. "Beauxbatons?"

"No. Madam Maxime would be more than willing, but the Bureau de Magie is riven with factions, some of whom are sympathetic to Voldemort. The Director of the Bureau is a weak man, and might well cave in to pressure from the Ministry."

"The Dutch Ministry?"

"A strong possibility. I think they would help if asked, but the Ministry could conceivably put enormous pressure on them. For that matter, there is no Wizarding government in Western Europe not connected to the Ministry by hundreds of legal and economic ties."

Minerva purses her lips in distaste. "The Wizarding State then? The Ministry is hardly in a position to threaten them."

"That would be ideal in many ways," I allow. "We could maintain ready access to Harry, and Area 51 would find threats from the Ministry ... amusing."

"But?"

"But," I continue, "the political situation is still unclear." That is an understatement. Politics in Area 51, the governing complex of the Wizarding State in the American Desert Southwest, is treacherous at the best of times, much less during an international crisis. "There are many elements in the Wizarding State who regard us with little favor."

"I am well aware of that." Minerva says primly.

I manage to keep a straight face. A decade ago Minerva spent a year teaching at the Salem Witches' Institute. She returned back-arched and spitting all the way across the Atlantic.

"Nevertheless," she continues, "surely if you made this a humanitarian request, they would not refuse."

"They have done so before," I remind her.

She frowns, then nods. During the height of the First War, the Wizarding State closed its borders to refugees, stating that Voldemort's rise was, in the words of the late, unlamented Governor Hathorne, "an internal political dispute."

"Who then?"

"I still have hopes for the Wizarding State. However, in the event that fails I intend to ask Countess Elizaveta to give Harry shelter at Durmstrang."

In her surprise Minerva clicks her heels together and we have to sit through another round of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

"Durmstrang? But..."

"But it is surely the last thing many people would expect, including I expect many of the trustees of Durmstrang."

"And how do you plan to cope with them?"

"We won't tell them." I say lightly.

I think Minerva is going to choke. "So you are willing to trust...."

"Grindelwald's daughter, yes."

"To keep Harry's identity hidden from her own trustees?"

"You must admit, Minerva," I say softly, "that hiding things from trustees is something that is not strange to us."

"Why are you willing to trust her?"

"A good question. Because she has acted in good faith so far. She has given me no reason not to trust her. Because if we wish everyone to put aside their differences and come together against Voldemort we must follow our own advice. And because I may have no choice."

I can tell she does not like the idea at all. That is very fair, because I don't either.

"If we have to remove Harry from Britain, how will we do it? Surely the Ministry will be ready for such a move."

"They will. If the Wizarding State decides to help us, I will ask them to send one of their Star Chariots. Otherwise, we will have to ask for help from another new friend."

"Van Derdecken?"

"Yes. The Dutch Ministry has granted him diplomatic status, so his ship has the protection of a diplomatic vessel. I don't think the Ministry is foolish enough to openly breach all diplomatic protocol. It would turn all of the Wizarding World against them."

"And we must be ready." Minerva says.

"Yes, and move as fast as we can to remove Fudge in the meantime."

"Work very fast, Albus. Work very fast."

Friday, July 5, 1996

1820 GMT

I am about to depart for the reading of Sirius' will when the chimes of the Gargoyle announce the Countess Elizaveta. She regards my dress robes with a quizzical twist of her head, but I do not deign to give an explanation.

"Countess," I say, "I am afraid that I have little time."

"I do not require much. I have spoken with van Derdecken. We are both willing to help you, and young Mr. Potter."

"Thank you, Countess." I pause, wanting to say what is coming next without sounding false. "I am grateful that what is in the past does not cloud the present."

"But it does, Professor." She smiles then, a smile that seems to be of genuine happiness. "You recall when I said I was fascinated by the idea of goodness being awful?"

"Yes."

"Well, I has struck me that one of the most awful aspects of goodness is how effective a weapon of revenge it can be." Her smile grows wider.

"Revenge. I am afraid I don't follow you."

"Imagine that someone has wronged you - badly. What would be the most effective revenge? Killing? Hardly, that simply removes them from the arena of action. Formal justice? Highly unreliable. But goodness? Ah, there is an exquisite revenge. Particularly if by one's goodness you provide the enemy with life or health or comfort. Then they must live forever knowing that their very being is dependent upon one who hates them. What a horrible sense of weakness and worthlessness that must bring!"

"A fascinating psychological thesis Countess, but I still don't follow."

"Why, it is simply this. I am going to help you not because I think Voldemort must be defeated, although he must be. I am not going to help you because I feel sympathy for Mr. Potter, although I do. I am going to help you, Professor, because I have never forgiven you, and I never will. I hate you. And because I hate you, I will give my very life to save your beloved Mr. Potter if I have to. And I hope that you remain in a living Hell because of it."

I am, for one of the very few times in my life, utterly speechless.

"Well, you stand abashed, Professor," she says calmly, "do you feel how awful goodness is?"