Harry Potter and the Michaelmas Term

He looked across to Dean, who looked as frightened as he felt. "Together?" Dean nodded. "On the count of three?" Dean nodded again. Harry remembered the last time he'd said something like that to someone. And what had happened.

"Okay then. One ... two ... THREE."

They were in a room which seemed more like a large hall. There were no windows, so perhaps it was underground. There were doors at each end. The room was panelled with wood, and in the middle of one long wall was a fireplace providing some of the little light illuminating the area. By the hearth lay a coiled snake, apparently sleeping, but the entry of the two boys woke it, its head rising up, a tongue flickering out.

"Hush, Nagini. Stay where you are for the moment," said a voice.

Only Harry understood what was said: the words were spoken in Parseltongue. They came from an armchair beside the fire. Harry saw a book being closed and laid down on the floor, then a long figure uncoiled itself from the chair. Harry felt his scar throbbing with pain once more, and did his best to shut out the burning sensation. He needed no distractions now.

"Harry. Dean. I wondered when you'd be dropping in."

The familiar tall, dark robed figure. The familiar thin, high voice.

"Where's Olive? And my parents?" Dean demanded.

Don't rush things, thought Harry.

"All in good time. Well, now, this is a pleasant surprise ... although perhaps not a surprise. I was indeed expecting you." Voldemort paused. "Your parents. Olive. Yes indeed."

The lights went up in the room, and Harry could now see three beds in a slight recess, near the end of the room. Dean turned to them with a cry.

"They are alive and well," said Voldemort, a hint of amusement in his voice. Dean walked over to them, reached down and touched Olive's hand. "They are sleeping," said Voldemort mildly. "When the time comes, I will awaken them, and you can take them away."

Dean turned back. "When the time comes?"

"That is what I said. You can leave, Olive can leave, your parents can leave." A moment's pause. "Harry, of course, stays."

"No way!"

"You don't have much choice in the matter, Dean."

"Anyway, how do I know if they are all right? And what guarantee do I have you'll let us leave?"

"Guarantee?" murmured Voldemort. "None at all. But as to whether they are all right ..." -- he reached to the mantelpiece and took his wand, pointing it at Olive -- "Ennervate."

Olive stirred and groaned, then tried to sit up. Dean sat on the bed beside her. "Are you okay?"

She put her hands up to her face, then: "Yeah, I think so. Where am I, anyway?"

Dean didn't answer directly, but instead said: "Come on, on your feet."

As she stood, she turned, and caught a glimpse of Voldemort standing by the fire. She gave a short scream, and stood, her hand over her mouth, staring at the tall shrouded figure.

Voldemort bowed. "Your servant, madam," he said ironically.

Olive seemed too shocked to answer.

"Okay then, what's the deal?" asked Dean, holding Olive to him.

Voldemort smiled at him. An approximation to a smile. Harry doubted that Voldemort had ever been able to laugh at anything. Perhaps it was a smile of triumph.

"On the table there is a candlestick." Voldemort pointed. "It is also a Portkey. Now, Harry puts his wand down somewhere, steps away from it. I wake your parents, you all grasp the candlestick, and on the magic word you are back in your flat in Muggle London."

"No way."

Voldemort simulated surprise. "No? You are going to take me on perhaps? Duel with me?" He twirled his wand idly, watching Dean, obviously amused.

"You've a new wand," Dean observed, seemingly from nowhere.

Voldemort looked down at it. "Indeed I have. Very inconvenient, losing my old one. But in some ways this is as good. And I am growing into it."

"What's it made from?"

"Why the interest?"

"I'm apprenticed to Ollivander. Wands -- well, I find them interesting."

"Really? Well, you can have the story of this one, if you like. We have time enough." He twirled it between his long thin white fingers again. He looked across at Harry. "You will, of course, be familiar with the Chamber of Secrets?" Harry nodded. "And what now lies there?" Harry nodded again. "And who built the Chamber?"

"Goblins," said Harry.

"Well done, Harry, well done. And you may remember that I have some goblin sympathisers."

Harry noted that Voldemort said ‘have', not ‘had'. Might be worth investigating. If he got out alive, that is.

"And my friends went into the Chamber for me to retrieve parts of that skeleton. Parts that can be useful for certain potions. And the fangs of the beast too. One of those fangs, suitably shaped, forms the core of this wand."

Again he twirled it idly in his fingers.

"A basilisk fang core?" asked Dean.

"Indeed so."

"That would be quite something. And the wood?"

"The wood? Ah, yes. Yew."

"Known for growing near graveyards."

"Yes, indeed, Harry," said Voldemort, as if bestowing marks on a bright student, or, perhaps, back at Hogwarts awarding House points.. "And I don't really need to ask you which particular graveyard now, do I?"

"Little Hangleton, perhaps?"

"How astute." Again the twirl with the fingers. "So, all in all, very suitable for me, don't you think? It's rather a powerful wand. Well, it should be, considering what its made of. One of a kind, you might say." Another twirl of the wand.

There was a moment's silence. Harry noticed how Olive, although clinging desperately to Dean, was keeping her composure. Perhaps to a Muggle Voldemort wasn't as terrifying -- but then, she did know his reputation and what he'd done. And his very appearance was enough to frighten anyone, wizard or Muggle. Another part of his mind wondered why he was letting his thoughts wander like this -- he needed to concentrate on getting of here alive. Although how he was to do that, together with Dean, Olive and Dean's parents, was beyond him at the moment.

"Well, now we have had our chat, pleasant though it might have been," said Voldemort, "now to business. Harry, lay your wand down on that table over there, step away from it, and the others are free to go."

"Don't do it," said Dean sharply, in a tone of voice Harry had never heard him use before.

"Oh?" said Voldemort. He smiled again -- a rictus grin. "You have some other idea perhaps?"

"Don't lay down your wand, Harry," repeated Dean.

Voldemort's wand swung round to Dean and Olive. "You may regret saying that. I do expect to be obeyed. And those who do not obey me can expect to be punished as a result."

Harry noticed Dean's wand rising a little, and heard him mutter something.

Voldemort sneered. "You think perhaps you might duel with me? A Muggle born such as you -- take on Lord Voldemort?"

Dean said nothing.

"I'll put my wand down," said Harry.

"No!" from Dean.

"I think you need teaching a lesson, Master Thomas. You and that Muggle girlfriend of yours. Step aside, girl!"

Where had Harry heard those words before?

Dean held her tighter. "We're going nowhere."

"Really?" Now the wand was raised higher, pointing at the couple. "I said you would regret this. Something then for the two of you -- CRUCIO!"

There was a crackling sound. But Dean and Olive remained on their feet. Instead it was Voldemort himself who collapsed on the ground with a high pitched screech. He fell full length, writhing on the floor, his wand clattering across the floorboards. Deftly, Dean reached down and seized it. Nagini the snake reared up.

"Harry," Dean shouted. "Here. The Portkey."

Whilst Harry seized the candlestick, Dean leaned over his parents: "Ennervate!"

They both stirred and blinked, half sitting up. "What?" mumbled his father.

"The candlestick, Harry!"

Ignoring the hissing serpent, and the screams of Voldemort, Harry rushed over to the others.

"Mum, Dad -- don't argue - just hold the candlestick! Hold it!" said Dean desperately.

With five hands on the candlestick, Dean looked at Harry, who murmured "Portus."

"Nothing happened. "I might have guessed," said Dean bitterly.

"Keep holding, everyone."

Harry concentrated his mind. Page 236 of the book. How to Make a Portkey. The page swam in front of him. Now then ...

"Hurry!" Dean urged.

He touched the candlestick with his wand and murmured. They fell onto the marble floor in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic.

It was evening now: almost everyone had gone home, and the lights in the atrium were dimmer than usual. But at the sight and sound of five bodies sprawling across the floor, everyone's heads turned. Harry heard running feet, saw the security wizards, their wands at the ready.

"Harry!" he heard a voice shout.

He recognised her -- Melissa, from the Aurors' department. He reached for the candlestick and held it out to her.

"Portkey," he gasped. "Escaped from Voldemort."

"Again??"

He summoned up a smile. "Yeah. Again. But you'll need to be quick to get any leads."

"Right." She turned to the security guards. "Tom, Peter -- guard these people with your lives. There'll be someone along in a minute to look after them. Until then -- they're your responsibility."

"Right, miss."

Melissa disappeared with the candlestick. Harry looked around at the others. Mr and Mrs Thomas were picking themselves up from the floor, gazing around them in blank amazement. Olive had finally yielded to tears; she was sitting sobbing on the cold marble floor with Dean's protective arm around her.

What exactly had happened back there? The reaction was beginning to set in now, and he wasn't sure if his legs would support him. Nevertheless, he raised himself up, and stood swaying like a new born calf. The two guards watched him protectively, and he realised he was still clutching his wand tight in his hand. With an apologetic smile, he tucked it away, and went and knelt down next to Olive.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

She sniffed and nodded, Dean's handkerchief pressed to her face. The two of them seemed pre-occupied with each other, and Harry turned to Dean's parents, both of whom were looking at him blankly.

"Harry?" asked Mr Thomas.

"That's right."

Mr Thomas looked around him. "Where are we?"

"Er -- the Ministry of Magic."

His eyes widened. "How did we get here?"

"Long story."

Mrs Thomas was gazing at him fearfully, then she looked down at Dean and Olive, stooped down, and knelt to put her arms round both of them.

More running feet. Another Auror -- Harry recognised his face but couldn't remember his name.

"Everyone okay?" he gasped, as he skidded to a standstill.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"You Know Who?" he asked cautiously.

"That's right."

"Ah," and he grasped his wand and looked around as if he expected Voldemort to appear any moment.

Now the place seemed chaotic, with people appearing from anywhere and everywhere, but with no clear idea of what to do. Then with a feeling of relief, Harry caught a glimpse of Mr Weasley heading towards them, pushing his way through the crowd until he reached the small group at the centre of the hubbub.

"Harry. Dean. Come on, let's get out of this madhouse."

One of the guards turned to Mr Weasley and said stolidly: "We've been told to guard them."

"Well," said Mr Weasley testily, "come with us, if you must."

By now, a great circle of people had gathered round, and they parted only reluctantly as Mr Weasley ploughed a path through them. They drew back, however, as Harry and the others followed. Harry could hear whisperings and muttering, but fortunately they were soon clear.

"Thank Merlin we're clear of that bear garden," muttered Mr Weasley. "Now, save your story until we're in my office. Okay?"

Mr Weasley led the way, with Harry by his shoulder. Dean and Olive were close behind, then the still bewildered Thomases, with the rear being brought up by the guards.

It was odd, Harry thought. I don't feel anything, really. The only thing that did hang over him now was the thought of all the story telling that had come, the explanations yet again. But, he thought, this time I can leave all of it to Dean.

Mr Weasley shunted them all into his office. The two guards wanted to come in too, but Mr Weasley snarled at them and told them to guard the door if they had nothing better to do. Then he sat everyone down.

"I'm Arthur Weasley, by the way," he said to the Thomases. "You're Muggles, aren't you?"

Mr Thomas nodded, and Harry groaned inside. Not now, Arthur! came ringing into his mind.

"We met at the railway station," Mr Weasley reminded him.

"Yeah, of course."

Mr Weasley turned to Olive.

"You all right, dear?"

Olive raised a tear stained face. "I'll be okay. Just give me a minute or two."

"That's fine," and he patted her on the shoulder. "Dean?"

Dean nodded at him. Mr Weasley looked across to Harry, who looked back. There was an unspoken question there, and Harry just gave him his best attempt at a smile.

"Where were we?" asked Mr Thomas, still bewildered. "And there was someone -- something -- on the floor screaming. What was that all about?"

"You were kidnapped," said Dean softly.

"What?"

"Did someone come with a message from me?"

"Yeah, that's right. A boy from your school. Theo, his name was. Said he had a message. And we were talking to him -- he was about to give us your message - and that's the last I remember, until we woke up in that place."

"Mum?"

Mrs Thomas nodded. "Just like your Dad said."

"Who was that bloke -- that thing -- on the floor?"

"He calls himself Lord Voldemort," said Harry grimly.

"Lord ...? That bloke who's after you?"

"That's the one."

"It was -- You Know Who?" asked Mr Weasley. Harry nodded. Mr Weasley was about to say something else, when the door from the Minister's office burst open.

"Arthur?"

Then Arbuthnot took in the scene. For a moment he looked utterly bewildered, and Harry took a wry amusement at the sight of the usually so smooth and assured Arbuthnot taken so much aback. Then the mask of the experienced politician slipped over Arbuthnot's face as he looked around at the gathering of people. Harry could see him working out how best to play this one, then: "Perhaps you'd all like to come through to my office?"

It was not a request. They stood up and followed Arbuthnot, who waved his wand at the fireplace with a mutter of ‘Incendio!', then with further flicks of his wand summoned up two sofas and three armchairs.

He waved at them. Mr and Mrs Thomas looked very reluctant, having just seen them conjured up out of thin air.

"They're quite harmless," Arbuthnot re-assured them.

Still looking distinctly uncertain, the Thomases sat down. Arbuthnot waved Dean and Olive to the other sofa, and looked towards Harry. Harry could feel the man reading his face, and thinking what to do next.

"Don't know about you lot," said Arbuthnot unexpectedly, "but I'm going to have a drink. Arthur?"

"Whisky, please."

A glass appeared on the table in front of him.

"Mr Thomas?"

"Yeah -- please."

A second glass.

Tea for Mrs Thomas. A glass of water for Olive. Arbuthnot looked at the two boys. "You've probably deserved a whisky if you want one."

Dean looked at Harry, who nodded slightly. Two more glasses appeared.

"Oh, and one for me," said Arbuthnot. He sat down. "Cheers."

Everyone took a sip of their drinks. Harry wasn't quite sure whether Dean's eyes had watered at the taste of the whiskey. He treated his very cautiously.

"Right then," said Arbuthnot. He looked at Dean first. "Remind me who you are."

"Er -- Dean Thomas, sir. Gryffindor seventh year. Mate of Harry's."

"Right. And these are your parents?"

"Yes, sir."

"They're Muggles?"

"Yes, sir."

"So am I," announced Olive.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dean's girlfriend," she said defiantly.

A small smile appeared around Arbuthnot's mouth. "You know, you three are setting a record. Several records. Not only are you among the very few Muggles who have ever set foot in the Ministry, but you're certainly the first to set foot in this office. Many of my predecessors will be scandalised," and he waved his hand at the portraits around the wall.

Mrs Thomas looked at the pictures. "They're moving."

"Yes, indeed," said Arbuthnot.

Now Harry looked closer, he could see that wizards were flitting in and out of portraits, no doubt spreading the gossip around the Ministry. He couldn't see a portrait of Fudge: perhaps you had to be dead before your portrait got put on the wall, and much though he disliked the man, he didn't wish that on him just yet.

"Nigel," whispered one portrait, "are some of these people really Muggles?"

Nigel? Was that really Arbuthnot's first name?

"Yes, indeed, Jeptha," said Arbuthnot cheerfully. "But will you reserve judgment until you've heard the full story?"

"I suppose so," said the portrait doubtfully. But as the wizard in the picture sank back into his chair, Harry distinctly heard him whisper: "Extraordinary goings on!"

"Right," said Arbuthnot, looking across to Harry, "tell us what happened this time."

Relating the events of yet another encounter with Voldemort was the last thing in the world Harry wanted to do. He felt very weary, tired of the whole business. Instead, he looked across to Dean. "It was Dean who did it all this time. He can tell you better than I can."

"Dean?" asked Arbuthnot more gently.

"Sir?"

"Can you tell us what happened?"

Dean threw an appealing glance across to Harry, who kept his face stony.

"Yeah," he said eventually, "I'll give you the story."

He took a gulp of his whisky, which was a bad idea: he spluttered, and reached for Olive's glass of water. It took him a few seconds to recover, then: "It started when I got an owl this morning ..."

Had it only been that morning, Harry wondered? He supposed so. It seemed very late now, and he was exhausted. He listened to Dean's story with half an ear.

More interesting than Dean's story was watching Arbuthnot. The Minister nodded encouragingly from time to time, and seemed happy for Dean to tell the story at his own pace. And Dean slid over one or two points. Arbuthnot, with his politician's antennae, noticed. Not that there was much outward reaction, but Harry could see the expression in his eyes as his mind weighed each word.

Dean eventually wound down. There were quite a few loopholes and gaps in his story, and it had been a bit rambling at times, but it was basically right. He hadn't lied about anything.

When Dean finished, Arbuthnot regarded him carefully. "Fascinating," he said softly. "Fascinating. Well done, Dean." Dean looked highly embarrassed: if it wasn't for the poor light and Dean's complexion, he could have sworn his friend was blushing.

"Yeah, well," muttered Dean, staring down at his glass.

"So how many school rules have you broken today?" Dean looked startled. This was the last response he had been expecting. "Don't worry," Arbuthnot smiled. "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will overlook them -- this time." His gaze shifted. "And Harry! Another unauthorised Portkey!" Harry looked him straight back in the eye and raised an eyebrow. He got a faint smile in return. "Not a trick you can use too often," Arbuthnot went on.

"I know," murmured Harry.

"Well, now," said Arbuthnot more briskly, "the question arises -- what do we do now?" Harry and Dean looked at him. "There is the problem of Olive and your parents," Arbuthnot said delicately.

Dean suddenly sat up, realising what Arbuthnot was hinting. "You're not going to Obliviate them?"

For a moment, the politician's mask slipped again, and Arbuthnot looked highly embarrassed. "Well ..."

Dean glared at him, obviously incensed by the thought.

"It might be an idea for their sakes," Arbuthnot said cautiously.

Harry felt this was a rationalisation: Arbuthnot was not so much concerned for their welfare as for their silence.

Dean turned to his parents. "Mum? Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

Dean waved a hand towards the Minister. "He wants to modify your memories. So when you get home, you'll just wake up in bed as if nothing happened, and you won't remember anything about all of this."

Mr Thomas was startled. "Can you do that?"

Dean nodded. Mr Thomas looked uncertainly at his wife.

"I'm not sure if I want that," she said.

Arbuthnot was on the defensive. "Mr and Mrs Thomas - the decision is yours. Look, Dean, it might be an idea if you take Olive and your parents next door, and explain things to them."

Dean ignored him. "You've a choice," he said to his Mum and Dad, "you either let them wipe it from your mind, or you never, ever tell anyone -- anyone at all -- about any of this."

His parents stared at him, then his mother said softly: "I think we'd better do what the gentleman suggests, Dean, and talk this over next door."

"Okay," said Dean, slightly sulky.

The four of them stood up; Mr Weasley walked across the room and opened the door to his office, brightening the lights in the room. When they were inside, Mr Weasley closed the door and came back to his seat.

"Well, Arthur?"

"An interesting tale. And he left out the most interesting part of all."

"Oh?"

"Why did -- You Know Who's -- curse backfire like that. Harry?"

"No idea," he confessed.

"Well, we can ask Dean later," said Arbuthnot. "What do we tell the Prophet?"

"We can't hold much back. Not after that appearance in the atrium like that. Everyone saw what happened. And all the portraits have heard the story too."

Arbuthnot grimaced. "Perhaps we should have used your office."

"Too late now. No, we give it straight. When they've finished in there, I'll draft something, and with any luck it'll make the morning edition."

"Would you, Arthur? That would be very kind." Arbuthnot's gaze switched back to Harry. "There is something else."

"Yes, Minister?"

"Who abducted Dean's parents and his girlfriend? Dean didn't say."

Harry hesitated, but Arbuthnot was as sensitive to silences as he was to words. He knew Harry knew. Reluctantly, Harry said: "Theo Nott."

"Nott?" Arbuthnot looked puzzled. "But he's locked away ..."

"The son," explained Mr Weasley.

Arbuthnot's face cleared. "Ah. He's not at Hogwarts, is he?"

Harry nodded, again reluctantly. "Slytherin. Seventh year."

"Hmm. Slytherin seventh year. I think we know some other people from there. Did he have help, do you know?"

This time Harry could answer honestly: "I've no idea. But Nott has been hanging round us -- in the Defence Group, and so on. We all felt it a bit odd, but ..." Harry shrugged.

"Something else for you, Arthur. I think you need to get onto your hot line to Dumbledore."

Mr Weasley sighed. "I'll do that now." He got up and went to the main door, and closed it quietly behind him.

Harry looked at Arbuthnot, who was gazing into the fire. Arbuthnot had aged visibly over the last few months: the sleeked down black hair was showing touches of grey at the temples now, the lines on the face seemed deeper -- unless it was the shadows of the firelight.

"What now, Harry?" Arbuthnot asked suddenly.

Harry was startled. "What do you mean?"

Arbuthnot switched his gaze from the fire to Harry. Harry could see how tired he looked. "Voldemort. When will we be rid of him?"

This was an extremely awkward question for Harry. He knew too that Arbuthnot would pick up on any equivocation on his part. "I wish I knew, Minister."

Arbuthnot made a sudden abrupt movement with his hand. "For heaven's sake, Harry, stop calling me that."

Harry was startled. "What then?"

"You could always try my first name."

Harry considered that. "You know, I don't think I could that, to be honest. And," -- he was being mischievous now -- "I thought you'd like the sound of being called ‘Minister'."

"It was good at first, I'll admit that. But now ..." he gazed at the fire once more "... there are times when I'd like to give it all back to Fudge."

"Never!" said Harry firmly. "You're doing a good job. Fudge was useless! Worse than useless."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence. But it does seem we're getting nowhere."

"You forget it's me he's after," Harry said dryly.

"I'm sorry. Yes, I'd forgotten that." Arbuthnot looked across at him. "What's it like?"

"You don't want to know," said Harry.

"Fair enough."

Arbuthnot was about to say something else, but they were interrupted as the door opened again to reveal Mr Weasley and Professor Dumbledore. Arbuthnot leapt to his feet, the appearance of fatigue dispelled.

"Albus!" he cried.

"Minister." Dumbledore looked across to Harry. "I'm pleased you're safe and well." There was the mildest of reproaches in his voice.

"I really am sorry for sneaking off like that, Professor," said Harry awkwardly.

"In a good cause, no doubt, but we were concerned about you. Very concerned."

"Has Arthur given you details of what's been going on?" asked Arbuthnot.

"The outline. The details I can find out later. But I gather there is another important matter you wish to see me about."

"Yes. Look, take a seat." Arbuthnot looked across to Harry. "You'd better tell him."

Harry didn't relish being the bringer of bad tidings, but he knew he had to do it. "Dean's parents and girlfriend were abducted yesterday. That's why we went off like that, you see. We think it was almost certainly Theo Nott who was responsible for taking them."

Dumbledore suddenly looked a good deal more careworn. "Theo Nott. Ah."

"Whilst we appreciate that he is still a student at Hogwarts," Arbuthnot said delicately, "he also is of age."

"What you're saying, Minister, is that he is also subject to the jurisdiction of the Ministry." Arbuthnot nodded. "I can't say I like it, but I take your point. Now, Harry?"

"Sir?"

"Just Theo Nott?"

Harry hesitated, then: "As far as I know, Professor."

Dumbledore looked across to Arbuthnot. "I shall institute a full investigation of all of this. You need have no fear of that."

Arbuthnot nodded. "As I thought you would."

"Not a witch hunt, Minister, although I suppose that is not a very appropriate phrase for us to use. You and I are aware who the likely candidates are, but I will not accept guilt by association. Whatever the truth, I shall do my utmost to uncover it."

Arbuthnot nodded again. "Fair enough."

Dumbledore looked across to Harry. "What is the evidence against Theo Nott?"

"Someone calling himself Theo visited Olive's home and took her away. Oh, and left a note for Dean, which he still has. He also visited the Thomases. The description certainly fits. You could check the handwriting. And no doubt show them a picture -- ask if it is the right Theo."

"Given all of that, it hardly seems worth his while trying to deny it," murmured Dumbledore. "Very well, enquiries will be made. I shall make it my business to find out who was involved." His voice was suddenly very grim. "Now, where is Master Thomas?"

But as Dumbledore spoke, the door from Mr Weasley's office opened, and Dean and the others came back. Arbuthnot waved them to a seat.

"By the way," he said to the Thomas parents, "this is Professor Dumbledore, Dean's Headmaster."

The Thomases looked completely bewildered at the sight of Dumbledore. This exotic figure, with white beard and hair nearly to his waist, decked out in glittering robes - a Headmaster? In the Muggle world, headmasters were boring figures in dark suits.

"How do you do," said Dumbledore gently. "Dean is a fine student."

"We hope he works hard for you," said Mrs Thomas in a slightly uncertain voice.

"He works very well, and is making excellent progress."

The two parents looked at Dean, who looked at his hands. "Yeah, well ..." he mumbled.

"And a modest one," said Dumbledore in a tone of amusement.

Arbuthnot coughed ostentatiously, breaking into the conversation, and looked expectantly at Dean.

"We've talked it over," said Dean rather defiantly, "and they're prepared to be sworn to silence."

"As you wish," said Arbuthnot, although Harry could tell he was more than a little disappointed. The Minister leaned forward in his chair and addressed the Muggles. "What you have seen and heard today must not go beyond this group. You may talk to Dean and Harry about this, and us of course, but no one else. I must ask for your word on this."

The Thomases and Olive nodded. "We'll tell no one," said Mr Thomas quietly. "We promise you that. Dean's been telling us a lot of stuff. We don't want to get him into any trouble. You can rely on us."

"Fair enough."

Harry leaned forward in his chair. "Mr and Mrs Thomas, Olive. I'm sorry for what happened to you. It happened because Dean is a friend of mine, and the person who kidnapped you wanted to get at me. That's why you've had to put up with all of this."

Mr Thomas looked at him. "Well, as far as we can see, you're a good lad. We can't say that we wanted to be involved like this. But that's the way it goes sometimes."

Harry was relieved they'd taken it so well. "Thanks."

"There is one thing, Dean," said Mr Weasley suddenly. "You told your story very well, but there's one thing that's puzzling us all. How come Voldemort got hit with his own curse?"

Dean looked embarrassed. "Well, you see, it's something of a trade secret, so to speak. You know I'm apprenticed to Ollivander?" Mr Weasley nodded. "Well, at the end of last holidays I'd done the Apparating course, and passed, and things were quiet, and one afternoon we got talking. He was pleased with me cos I'd just made some wands for him, and they worked really well.

"When You Know Who was talking to us, I noticed his wand -- it was new - and asked him what it was. He told us all about it. I've got it here."

Dean pulled it out of his pocket and the wand fell with a clatter on the table. Instinctively Mr Weasley drew back, as if the wand still held the power of its owner.

"It's an interesting one -- I'm going to take it back to Mr Ollivander to look at it. We might be able to find out who made it.

"Anyway, he showed me this charm. If you know how, you can charm someone's wand so the next curse or hex is fired back, so to speak, at the person who sent it. You can only really do it if you know a lot about wands. So as we were standing there I thought, well, the next time You Know Who uses his wand, it's bound to be for a curse of some sort. So I tried to get at him, to niggle him, make him angry. I told Harry not to put his wand down. And Olive was clinging to me. I guessed he might try the Cruciatus curse, and if it was aimed at two of us he'd have to make it extra strong. So I charmed his wand and did what I could to annoy him. It worked. He threw this really powerful curse at me, and it backfired onto him.

"I knew we wouldn't have long, though. Then the Portkey didn't work. But I knew Harry knew how to make one, so ..." Dean shrugged. "That's it."

There was a long silence.

"Brilliant," breathed Arbuthnot.

"Good Gryffindor thinking," remarked Mr Weasley, with a sidelong glance at his boss.

"Ollivander has a worthy apprentice," said Dumbledore.

So that's how he did it, thought Harry. He'd been trying to work out what had happened all evening, but there had been so much else going on that he hadn't been able to give that much thought to it.

Dean looked down at his hands, then picked up the wand from the table and started scrutinising it. He was obviously embarrassed by the attention.

"I'd like to keep it, if I may," he said softly.

"Of course." Arbuthnot looked at Dean's parents. "You have a very talented son."

They seemed almost as embarrassed as Dean. Arbuthnot obviously realised this, because he came back briskly: "Well, it's getting late. Are those two guards still outside your office, Arthur?" Mr Weasley nodded. "Good. We'll get them to take our guests home. We've still got to work on that statement for the Prophet."

Everyone began to stir. Dumbledore turned to Dean and Harry. "I'm afraid that although I realise you'd prefer to be with your parents this evening, I will need you back at Hogwarts."

The two boys nodded. Dean turned to his parents and to Olive to say goodbye, then watched as Mr Weasley led them away.

"Keep well, you two," Arbuthnot said quietly.

"Thank you, sir," they chorused.

They followed Dumbledore back into Mr Weasley's office, where he pointed his wand at the fire and murmured: "Incendio!" He reached up for the Floo powder on the mantelpiece.