His Majesty's Secret Service

Chapter Six: Transfusion

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretenses. He was sorted into Slytherin so that he could spy on Draco Malfoy for the race of the Elves, and to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Draco Malfoy convened a terrorist movement among the Slytherin students. Everyone went to Hogsmeade just before Hallowe’en, where Harry met Cho, with disappointing results, and Hermione surprised him and Ron with a visit from Sirius Black. But just as godson and convicted wizard finished their talk, Ron burst in with disturbing news….

Before they reached the cave entrance, Sirius was a large black dog again.

"Ron, what did you see?" Harry asked.

"Hermione and I walked back down the hill, and we saw some green smoke and sparks in the air. At first, I thought someone might have set off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, but then when we got lower, we could see that students were hexing each other. Between the two of us, we spotted a dozen Slytherins, all dueling with students from other houses. Even your Cho Chang, Harry. She was fighting Felicia Avery. I think she was winning," he added quickly, "but it didn’t matter much because that crowd of boys she was with all joined in. I went to get you and Sirius."

They saw Hermione at the bottom of the hill, waving to them madly. "It’s all over," she told them when they reached her at the stile. "They all ran off, into the nearest shops, at the sight of a second cloud . Black, this time, not green. I think Malfoy signalled them," she continued quickly. "He wasn’t fighting anyone. He was watching the entrance to the Three Broomsticks. That’s when the smoke appeared—when the door opened and teachers came out."

"Then what?"

"Professor DuBois and Professor Sinistra rounded up all the students in the street and took them back to Hogwarts."

"And the others?" Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. "Still inside. I expect the professors will get their names from the ones who were attacked."

Disappointed at missing the action, Ron suggested they go up to the castle to find out what was going on. The dog hung back and padded through the slowly filling street, back toward the cave.

 

 

 

"Come on," Malfoy said inside the Homunculus Herbarium. "All clear," he said to Avery, Goyle, Crabbe, and Pelerand.

Ryan looked out the window. A large black dog was walking past. "Be there in just a minute," he said, as if deciding whether or not to purchase a smudgepot for herbs.

"Oh, come on. We have to get back before they come looking for us." Malfoy grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the store.

Ryan made sure he was standing in the middle of the group, even though the dog was generally heading in the opposite direction.

"What’s wrong with you?" Crabbe asked.

"Don’t like dogs, that’s all," Ryan supplied curtly.

"Any special reason, or just give you collywobbles?"

"Yeah, there's a reason," Ryan said truthfully. "I was attacked when I was little."

He left it there. It had actually been a wolf, not a dog, and he had been only about twenty-five, but that was young, for his kind. Still, the experience had left him wary around any canine larger than a pug dog.

Crabbe grunted appreciatively. "That’s all right, then," he assured the other boy. "I hates bats, meself. The way they don’t make no sound. That’s creepy, that is."

 

 

 

Dumbledore addressed the students at dinner that night. "I am most distressed by the conduct and behaviour of some of you this afternoon. Your days in Hogsmeade are privileges, and if you cannot behave yourselves in the village, I shall have no choice but to cancel all planned Hogsmeade trips for all students." He held up a hand to dispel the general groan. "Now, I’m sure that no one wants to be responsible for ruining Hogsmeade for everyone," he continued with a glance over his half-moon glasses that lingered on every table equally. "So I hope that you will bear these consequences in mind should any further….incident occur." He sat and the food appeared on the tables.

"Does that mean they’re ignoring it?" Pansy asked Draco as they filled their plates.

Draco shook his head. "No, some of the others identified a few of ours," he explained. "Dumbledore’s sending a letter home about it. And we’ll be losing points, of course." He snorted. "As if letters home will make any difference."

"What’s planned for Hallowe’en then?" Ryan asked casually.

"Well, it’s a Tuesday, so we can’t do much. We don’t have a lot of time between class and dinner. You’ll see."

 

 

 

 

Hogwarts’ Great Hall appeared decked out as usual Tuesday morning, in preparation for the traditional Hallowe’en feast. But by dinner that evening, several students gave the place a makeover. Instead of being pleasantly filled with giant pumpkins from Hagrid’s pumpkin patch, hanging bats, and dancing skeletons, the hall looked like a haunted house. The jack-o-lanterns were burning with an eerie green fire that engulfed them without consuming them. The enchanted ceiling was occluded by thick stormclouds, threatening rain and lightning. And stretched across the hall, instead of the house banners, was a large, glowing sign which read in bright red lettering, dripping like wet blood, "MUDBLOODS GO HOME! THE TRANSFUSION BEGINS."

A group of Hufflepuff second-years was the first to discover the vandalism. Before they could get any teachers to repair the damage, however, many other students arrived, producing mixed reactions and no end of shocked milling about in the entrance hall.

The teachers lost no time in restoring the hall to its intended state, but by then, there had been too many witnesses. The upperclassmen spoke to each other in hushed tones about the Chamber of Secrets and the attacks on students three years ago, pointing out the similarities and blaming Slytherin for the sentiment—with justification, if not any proof.

From that moment on, various Muggle-born students found themselves the victims of anonymous death threats; jinxed objects in their classrooms, the hallways, and sometimes even their personal possessions; and general torment. Operation Transfusion held meetings in secret every few nights, though sometimes it was only a core group who attended. Ryan made sure he was included in them all. He rarely took the lead in any of the action, but noted their plans and kept a close watch on the Prophet for corresponding trouble in the news. They talked about the little things, but the large attack was only ever mentioned in vague, peripheral ways. "The Event," Malfoy dubbed it enigmatically. Warrington, Bole, Crabbe, and Goyle were assigned to strong-arm Slytherins who were not terrorists and make them afraid to report those who were. The Operation was extremely careful not to be observed when planting any seeds of discontent, and though the teachers tried to discover who was behind the whole thing, no one would tattle.

Ryan sent away to a Muggle sporting goods shop for some archery supplies he would need to open the tunnel under the Whomping Willow. It was tricky, getting the supplies sent to the exchange where the wizarding post office could forward them to him, but necessary. He had no idea when Malfoy needed him to shoot the knot on the tree, but he knew that a regular arrow probably wouldn’t accomplish what Malfoy wanted. The knot had to be pushed with some force. His arrows would slide into the trunk without impacting on it very hard. So Ryan ordered something that would do the job, and waited to be included on the plan.

Then one Sunday in mid-November, before an afternoon match against Gryffindor, Malfoy said, "Coming to watch the match, Ryan?"

"Sure," Ryan said, nodding, not wanting to decline an invitation which might lead to better information.

"Come on," Malfoy said, rising from the table. "Walk with me out to the pitch." Crabbe and Goyle must have had earlier instruction to stay away, for they did not move. Of course, Goyle was staring off into space again, as he had been doing from time to time for some while. Or Malfoy could as easily have decided that Ryan was enough protection to not require their services all the time.

They headed out to the locker rooms by the Quidditch field. "Any idea what you’re doing with your holidays, Pelerand?" Malfoy asked cryptically.

Ryan frowned. "Stay here, most likely. It’s too far to go home for that short a time. Why?"

"Just wondering," Malfoy said. "My father’s keen to meet you—I’ve told him about you. He’s holding a house party over the holiday, for some of our friends—people interested in our cause—and he suggested that I invite you to stay with us for the whole holiday."

"Oh," Ryan said with genuine surprise. "That’s generous of him," he continued. "You’re sure I wouldn’t be in the way?"

Malfoy shrugged. "We’ve got more than enough room. Think about it." He turned back as they reached the locker room entrance. "It could open doors for you, Ryan," he promised earnestly. "Think it over. Let me know."

Ryan thought about it for all of two seconds, but he would wait a couple days to get back to Malfoy and accept the invitation.. It was exactly the opening he and Dumbledore hoped for. As he made his way into the stands, though, his mind was as far from Quidditch as it could be. He was thinking about the first time anyone asked him what he did over their breaks. It was Albus himself who wanted to know about Elves on holiday….

 

 

 

Fourteen-year-old Jorian Peleranel settled himself into his bed and was just setting the wards around it when he heard a timid knock at the dormitory door. Sighing, he lifted the wards with an impatient gesture and answered the summons.

"Albus?" he said, gazing at the eleven-year-old. Albus Dumbledore stood before him in a wool dressing gown, linen nightshirt, and soft slippers, his face lined with doubt.

"May I speak with you privately, Pelerand?"

"Certainly. Come in," he offered, gesturing toward the red curtains of his bed. The other fourth-year boys were down in the common room still. They sat. "What’s troubling you?"

The boy didn’t even try to deny his distress, but responded with his own question by way of preamble. "Ryan, you usually stay for the Christmas holidays, don’t you?"

"Yes. What is it?"

Albus shifted his weight on the bed. "I want to stay, but I don’t think my parents will be happy about it. How did you convince yours—I mean, what reasons can I use?"

"Why do you want to stay?"

Young Albus rubbed his eye absently underneath his spectacles. "Well, it’s not so much wanting to stay—it’s not wanting to leave."

Ryan smiled. "All right. Why don’t you want to leave then?"

Not for the first time, Albus looked a little uncomfortable. "I have an older brother, Aberforth. I don’t much like being home when he’s home, too."

"And he’ll be home over the holiday?"

"Yes. He’s bringing a girl with him, Mother says—I think he wants us all to meet her because he’s going to ask her to marry him. And I’d just be…in the way. Besides, I’d much rather stay here—it’s ever so much more interesting than at home. So I thought, if I had some good reasons to stay here, and told them those…." He peered up at the older student. "Why do you stay?"

Ryan shifted a bit, releasing a half grunt, half laugh of soft air. "Well, for one thing, it’s easier to stay. Too much traveling back and forth."

"Don’t they miss you at Christmas?"

"Albus. I don’t celebrate Christmas. Anvasse aren’t Christian. Solstice is a rather minor festival for us."

"But you go to church every Sunday just like everyone else," he observed.

"Yes, because it’s mandatory attendance; but I sit in the back and read."

"Oh." He absorbed this new fact and then posed another question. "Well, what’s it like, then? Where you’re from? Have you got any brothers?"

"Sort of." Ryan muttered. "I’ve got a number of half-brothers, and one full sister. She’s younger than you are by a good bit."

Albus frowned. "How’s that? Half-brothers?" Then he smiled. "Oh, I see. Your father was married before?"

"No." Ryan said, a bit embarrassed. "Anvasse—don’t marry. Well, not in the sense you mean. My father and my mother declared an alliance between their Houses, in order to produce heirs for each. But they both have other children from other partners. Understand?"

Albus nodded, thought about it, and then said, "No."

"How can I…?" The myriad politics of Elven society confused Ryan himself sometimes, and he wasn’t about to begin discussing sexual intricacies with a first-year. "Here. My father had a…relationship, with a female, years before I was born. They had a child or two—my older half-brothers. But she wasn’t a member of a Ruling House, so their children aren’t eligible to rule. In order to produce a…legitimate…heir, Father had to establish an alliance with the daughter of one of the other Houses. Which he did…and I’m the result. They had two children: the first born is the heir to our father’s House, and the second is the heir to our mother’s."

"How many houses are there?" the boy asked, wholly fascinated and forgetting his original mission.

"Seven Ruling Houses, and a whole lot of minor ones, most of which are related in some way to a Ruling House."

"And which house is yours?"

"The names wouldn’t mean anything to you. But…" he debated telling the boy. "Well, if you must know, I was born into the Second House, we call it. Ours is the house that currently leads the council of the seven."

"So, one day you’ll lead the most important of the Elven houses?"

"Well, no, not really." Ryan blushed. "By the time I’m head of my house, it won’t be Council Leader anymore. They take turns. But it’s one reason I’m here, to learn human magic—to understand the way the outside communities function. Because some day I’ll be responsible for working with them."

"That’s why you take Muggle Studies, too, isn’t it?"

Ryan nodded. Albus seemed delighted, and his eyes twinkled merrily. This kind of discovery clearly pleased the boy more than any other activity. No wonder he preferred the hallowed halls of learning, the library filled with books, and the labs where he could tinker to his heart’s content, to his home.

"Ruling House…does that make you a prince?" He asked suddenly.

Ryan winced. "Sort of. But, do me a favor: don’t let on to anyone else, all right?"

"Oh, I see." Albus nodded, seeming much more mature than his eleven years. "You don’t want anyone to know you’re important?"

"Not really, no."

"Could I…" he paused and thought. "Could I tell my parents? When I write them?" Ryan smiled. So they were back to the original problem. "It might make a difference to them, that even foreign royalty stay here over the holidays, and that there are older students."

Ryan thought of his mother’s request before the year started, to look out for the young wizard, but not to make it too obvious and hurt the boy’s pride. Albus may not know it, but Mrs. Eleanora Dumbledore of Hampstead and the Anvasse princess Tireliana were acquaintances. "It might, at that," he told the boy. "Go on to bed, now; you can send them an owl in the morning. There’s still a week or two left to sign up before the end of term."

He escorted the boy to the door. They exchanged goodnights and Ryan climbed back into bed, setting his wards for the second time that night….

 

 

 

Sitting in the cold Quidditch stands between Emma and Crabbe, Ryan also wondered what Draco Malfoy had told his father. He worried a little that the older man might not believe his son’s friend to be a legitimate student, but it was a chance he would have to take. He could still back out if Snape’s situation changed, or if Dumbledore thought it would be an incredibly bad idea. Thinking of which, he devised another trip to Dumbledore’s office for himself.

Next morning, Ryan took his sword and, instead of his customary dungeon, he went up into the entrance hall, into the alcove where the first years awaited Sorting every year. He deliberately left the door open, so he was sure to get caught. He began his stretch and then his workout, wondering how long it would take for someone to come along and discover him. He couldn’t have asked for a better candidate than Peeves.

The poltergeist came speeding along the corridor humming to himself. When he saw Ryan wielding the sword in a complex pattern of parries, cuts, and thrusts, he cried out, "Ooh! You is breaking rules, you is." And then he screeched in a sing-song voice,

"Pelerand is a right young git,

A handsome fellow with a rapier wit,

But swords in school

are against the rules,

so Pelerand will get caught with it!"

By this time, as Ryan expected, Peeves’ yelling attracted the attention of the nearest teacher. Teachers, more accurately. Professor Snape climbed the stairs from his office, sweeping into the entrance hall alcove with his sneer fully on display. Ryan took it as a good sign; for some reason, he enjoyed nettling the unpleasant potions master. Unfortunately, Peeves had also alerted Professor McGonagall, whose pinched mouth showed even worse disapproval than Snape.

"Hand it over," Snape said in a strangled voice, clearly forcing himself to stay calm before the Deputy Headmistress. Ryan shrugged, and twisted the weapon to extend the grip toward Professor Snape. When the black-haired teacher snatched the sword away, Ryan turned away to fetch the sheath.

"Stay right there," Professor McGonagall ordered.

Ryan ignored her and stood up slowly, fixing his eyes on Snape. "Don’t you want the sheath?" he asked, as if anyone would be insane to walk around with a naked blade. He held the sheath out to the head of his house. Snape, looking perturbed, fumbled the thin leather over the slim blade. As it snapped in place against the hilt, both teachers said in unison, "Dumbledore."

"Are you wearing slippers, Pelerand?" Snape asked in disbelief as they trooped up the stairs to the Headmaster’s turret.

It took Ryan a moment to answer. He’d been wearing them whenever possible since his detention; no one had taken exception before. "Yes," he answered finally, seeing that Snape was deadly serious. "I don’t have any outdoor classes today, Professor," he continued, trying to mitigate the situation.

"So you thought, ‘Why bother?’" Snape asked in an oily, falsely understanding way.

"Something like that," Ryan answered cautiously. He glanced at Professor McGonagall, who unlike their last trip to Dumbledore, was furiously silent. If her lips were pressed together any further, they would have merged. "Is…is that a problem?"

"Problem?!" Snape hissed vehemently. "Certainly not. Why should flouting school rules and dress codes be a problem?"

Ryan stifled a laugh. "I’m not wearing boots, Professor. It’s not the end of the world."

"Combined with running around armed to the teeth, it very well might be," quipped Snape.

They reached the gargoyle statue and Snape bit out the password, as if the words "Fizzing whizbee" offended him every bit as much as Ryan’s indoor slippers. They mounted the moving stairway and rode up to the top of the tower.

 

 

 

"In many respects," Snape told Dumbledore, "Pelerand is an excellent student. I’m sure you’d agree, Minerva. But his flagrant disregard for the multiple warnings he has received…his inability to adapt to the standards of conduct we uphold here…It pains me to lose a good potions student, but I recommend you approve my request to expel him."

Dumbledore looked down at Ryan benevolently. It was all both men could do not to break up in helpless laughter at the look on each other’s faces. "Severus," he said slowly, "I find that a little extreme, even for you. What exactly has the boy done to deserve expulsion?"

Snape drew a steadying breath before continuing. But to his surprise, Professor McGonagall spoke up first. "He’s a disruption. Surely you don’t think, Albus, that the harassment of all those students is something our children would devise on their own? Look at his record. It’s no surprise that he was asked to leave Durmstrang, or Nordskolr. And using a weapon on school property—really, Albus, can we let that kind of thing happen, especially now, with the way things are?"

The Headmaster sighed. "Mr. Pelerand, did you intend to harm anyone with your sword?"

"No, sir," Ryan answered truthfully. He behaved with perfect contrition, gazing up at the Headmaster like an angel. All he needed was the halo.

"And have you, in your time at Hogwarts this year, ever drawn your weapon with the intent of malice?"

"No, sir," Ryan said, very happy that he had threatened Trent with the pommel only.

"And do you have an explanation for your…unusual interpretation of the school dress code?"

"Yes, sir." He waited for a nod from Albus to explain. "After my detention, my good boots needed extensive repair. I had to wait for the Hogsmeade weekend to take them to the cobbler. I haven’t got them back yet. And my second pair of boots are nowhere near as comfortable, sir. So, I’ve been wearing these inside—that is, on days when I’m not going outside." He flexed one foot. "They’ve still got a sturdy sole, though. I didn’t think anyone would care." He shrugged slightly, hoping neither Snape nor McGonagall would notice the spark of communication that passed between the white-haired old wizard and himself.

Albus grinned. "Well, that’s that explained. Now, about this sword. I’ll have to confiscate it, I’m afraid. It is against school policy to keep any weapons not expressly required for spellwork. I trust we will not need to cover this ground again?"

"No, sir," Ryan said with a polite shake of his head.

"Severus? Minerva?"

Snape scowled. "What about the students who are being harassed?"

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore smiled. "Perhaps, I should ask the boy privately about that. Would you excuse us?" He motioned, and the door opened. Smiling over both professors’ protests, Dumbledore ushered them out. When he was sure the stairwell had carried them far enough down that they could not reverse themselves, he shut the door and regarded his friend again.

"That was rather obvious, don’t you think?" he asked with a gleam in his eye.

"Ah, but I’m willing to squeal," Ryan assured him, and continued in a childish voice. "I promise, Mr. Headmaster, sir, I’ll tell you all about what’s happening in Slytherin. I’ll be good, sir, and then you won’t have to expel me." He grinned.

Dumbledore laughed. "Is that how you used to avoid detentions from Bartholomew?"

"Who says I avoided them?" Ryan looked back at the door, and got to laughing. "But honestly, Albus, could your Snape take himself more seriously?"

"He’s under some pressure," Dumbledore said kindly, and Ryan sobered.

"Right. How are things going on that front?"

Albus shrugged. "He’s received no direct instructions. All his orders are coming through other channels, and they don’t amount to much. He’s quite frustrated. But you came here to tell me about what’s happening. Something big, I trust, not just this Operation Transfusion? Though, I wouldn’t mind hearing about that, whatever you know."

Ryan nodded. "First of all, as you guessed, it’s absolutely their work. I also saw the letter to the editor in the Prophet, calling for a new order. It was unsigned, of course, but clearly whomever wrote it also has knowledge that students are being harassed because of their birthrights. So, their parents are at least condoning their actions, if not directing them."

"Yes." He sighed. "I hoped we could avoid such unpleasantness here again."

"It takes time, Albus. It’s a fight you may never win, only forestall. But," he said, warming to his topic, "there’s more going on. As you said, they’re planning something big. Probably not until after the holidays, I’d bet; this is all just a build-up. They know terrorist tactics, Albus. All these threats, the harmless annoyances, they culminate to something. Malfoy asked me to be prepared to trigger the knot on the Whomping Willow."

"So, Peter told them about the tunnel, did he?"

"If you say so," Ryan said, not catching the reference. "Leads to a shack in the village—is that right?"

"Yes." Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. He could tell Ryan was bursting to ask about that development, but stayed focused on the report first.

"Well, I think they plan to use it as a hideout of some kind. Anyway, that’s why I could let you have the sword, but I’ll need to keep the bow."

"I see." The Headmaster gestured. "There’s something else, or you wouldn’t have risked getting sent up here."

"Yes. Malfoy’s invited me to his family manse for the holiday. Said his father wants to meet me. Apparently, they’re trying to recruit. I plan to accept, of course. I haven’t yet, though. Wanted you to know."

"Really?" Albus stroked his beard. "Curious. Severus said Lucius would be hosting a get-together. I didn’t realize he’d be inviting the younger set. Makes sense, though." He sighed heavily. "Yes, well, it should be interesting to see what they tell you. But do be careful." He smirked. "After all, when a fifteen-year-old witch can figure you out…."

"Oh, no," Ryan groaned. "Don’t tell me—Miss Granger?"

"In a roundabout way. She sicced Sirius Black on me to ask about you. He felt damn foolish, too, let me tell you. Fortunately, I didn’t have to pretend be stern with him, unlike some operatives I could mention. I simply gave him my word that you are not a dark wizard."

Ryan shook his head as if to clear it. "Wait—I don’t understand. Back up. How could she know Sirius Black? Last I heard he was still a fugitive."

Dumbledore began to explain.

 

 

 

Downstairs, Snape paced the corridor while McGonagall tapped her foot on the floor and her wand against her folded arms impatiently.

"What is taking him so long?" Snape hissed. "It’s not that hard to get information out of a student, even one as cagey as Pelerand."

Professor McGonagall bit her tongue over the notion of Snape implying that a student was disagreeable. Meanwhile, he did have a point. The bell would ring soon for the first class, and Pelerand had either be ready to attend it, or packing his bags by then.

"I’m going back up," she announced. "Fizzing Whizbee," she said quickly, and the gargoyle opened to reveal the stairs. "Coming, Severus?"

Professor Snape curled his lip. "No. I’ve made my recommendation. If the Headmaster chooses to ignore my warnings, I won’t waste any more time on him." He stalked off down the stairs back toward his office.

Professor McGonagall stepped back on the revolving stairwell and crossed her arms. The stairs spiraled up on their own and she heard the stone wall slide shut softly behind her. As she rode up the steps, she reached up and gently massaged some of the tension out of her neck. She rarely agreed with Severus, but in this student’s case…his record, his flip manner: everything about him suggested trouble. And with the Dark Lord back among the living, it would do no one any good to have a troublemaker of his magnitude fomenting discord.

As she approached the top of the stairs, however, she heard the most unexpected noise coming from the Headmaster’s office. It was…laughter? Two people: one unmistakably Albus, with his slightly wheezing chuckle that worked its way into a belly-shaking howl; the other a low, sensuous rumble which ended in a pleasant sigh. It wasn’t a young man’s laugh at all, but a confident, mature laugh, a self-assured sound: comfortable, appreciative, and, yes, even sexy. Yet the boy hadn’t left Albus’s office. Was someone else there, without her knowing? Impossible. Not meaning to eavesdrop, but unsure of whether to interrupt, she listened for a moment.

"You mean to say she asked him to come here just to find out about me, because she thought it would protect Harry? All because she couldn’t find out anything more than the Seven Houses?"

"It’s true, Ryan. Oh, she’s a powerful enemy. You’d no idea when you took this on, had you?" Albus said, the laughter apparent in his voice even through the solid oak door. That was quite enough for Minerva McGonagall. She flung the door open on the scene.

"Just what has he taken on, Albus?" she demanded.

The men turned their heads at the same time. McGonagall met their amazed, guilty expressions with a glare so penetrating neither could speak. Her right hand grasped her wand in a reflexive pre-dueling stance, as if ready to attack at the first sign that the student had somehow confunded the Headmaster. Unlikely, perhaps, but her protective streak for both Albus and the school was in full swing. Yet the look on both faces suggested that of a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar. Watching her—poised to strike, impatiently awaiting any sort of explanation—they did something she never expected: they began laughing.

"Albus!" she snapped after the shock of seeing him giggle had passed. "I demand to know what is going on here!"

"Quite….quite right, Minerva…." Dumbledore managed between fits of laughter. "You may as well….come in. Is Severus out there, too?"

"No," McGonagall said, recovering her composure and shutting the door behind her. "I came to find out what was taking so long. The first class will begin soon. But instead of disciplining this young man, I find….I don’t know what I find. Albus? Please explain."

The two sobered visibly, and Albus nodded permissively to Ryan. Ryan stood to surrender his chair. "Perhaps I should introduce myself properly, Professor. I am Jorian Jorianele Melianele Peleranel, scion of the House of Sorolor, heir to that House by birthright from His Highness, Jorian Melianele of the same, and by compact of Her Highness, Tireliana of the House of Nerolon. At your service." He bowed low and offered his hand.

The transfiguration professor placed her hand lightly on top of Ryan’s, but began to wobble a bit at the knees. Ryan guided her into his empty chair. "An Anvasse?" she asked faintly.

"Yes, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "And one of the last to attend Hogwarts. Ryan went to school here three years ahead of me."

This was too much for Professor McGonagall. Fortunately, she revived before Dumbledore could even fish out his wand, much less mutter, "Ennervate."

"Let me get this straight," she said slowly. "You are actually older than Albus?"

"Yes," Ryan said with a sheepish smile. "But according to my grandfather, I’m still very young."

"But…the Anvasse withdrew from human contact, almost a century ago," McGonagall protested. "Muggle advancements—the changes in magical laws—magical creatures—wands—" she continued incoherently.

"Ryan is one of the few Anvasse who still travels among human society," Albus explained gently. "He gathers intelligence for the Council to use howsoever they deem appropriate."

"We are not completely gone, do you see," Ryan expanded. "The Council has adopted a policy of observation. There are a few of us who actually enjoy the company of humans, and we bring back what we learn. It may be that a day will come when the Anvasse decide to return. Until then, we like to keep in touch." He favoured her with a lop-sided grin.

"I contacted the Council over the summer, Minerva," Albus said. "I hoped they might take an official position on the return of Voldemort. Instead, they sent me Ryan."

"I convinced Albus that the only way to force the Council to make a decision was to gather up to date information about the state of affairs in the wizarding world. To do that, I posed as a student. It’s working, too. The Slytherins have included me in their plans, and I’m about to mingle in the parents’ society, as well."

McGonagall listened with equal parts alarm, fascination, and awe. "I—But I—I don’t understand," she managed finally. "Severus—"

"Severus is experiencing some difficulties, Minerva, as you know. In the meantime, Ryan has provided us with a fresh face to infiltrate their circles. He is in a unique position to gain access to the information these students are given by their parents."

"But—Albus, why didn’t you tell any of us?"

"That’s my recommendation," Ryan jumped in to save face. "I felt the illusion would be better—that is, the ‘cover’ would be deeper—the less people there were who knew the truth. Only Albus and I—and Professor Binns—remember that I ever went here."

Albus started. "Heavens! I’d forgotten all about Binns."

"It’s all right—I visited him after the first day and explained, but made him promise to keep it to himself."

"Hm," said Minerva, and both men were glad to see that she seemed to be getting her spirit back. "And am I to understand that you arranged this meeting so that you could report to the Headmaster?" Ryan nodded. "Well, so now we know why you’ve been such a troublemaker, Mr. Pelerand. But what on earth were you two talking about when I came back upstairs?"

Laughing again, Albus lost no time praising their prize student, Hermione Granger.

 

 

 

At that moment, however, Hermione Granger wasn’t pleased at all with Sirius’s hastily scrawled note:

Hermione,

I spoke to Dumbledore. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you kids again, but he had another mission for me, semi-urgent. Anyway, I did ask him about your mystery man, but all he said was, ‘Ryan Pelerand is no more a dark wizard than you or I, Sirius.’ Hope that will satisfy you.

Tell Harry I’ll try to catch his next Quidditch match, if I can. Do let me know if anything really important turns up.

Sirius

"I’ll bet he didn’t even ask about the Seven Houses," said Hermione to Harry and Ron when they came in from Quidditch practice on the afternoon of Sirius’ owl. "I’ll bet he didn’t really believe me," she continued. "We’ll just have to do this the hard way, then."

"What do you mean, we?" Ron asked.

"If Professor Dumbledore says he’s all right, Hermione, I don’t think we ought to worry about it anymore," Harry said softly. "After all, you yourself said to let them take care of it."

"Yeah," agreed Ron, and mimicked her warning to Harry. "It’s our jobs just to get through school, isn’t it?"

"But how does he know? There’s still something not right about that, Harry. How does Professor Dumbledore know he’s not a dark wizard?" She bit her lip. "It’s the Seven Houses. I know that’s the key to it all. Perhaps…."

Harry and Ron rolled their eyes. Hogwarts’ history, werewolves, house-elves, and now the Seven Houses business—it was always one obsession or another with Hermione.

She asked Professor Binns, who insisted, without saying anything else, that the Seven Houses had nothing to do with wizarding history. She looked for any mention of them in the library, and found nothing. It wasn’t long, though, before she had too much homework to pay it much thought. Promising herself to look into it over the holidays, she reapplied herself to Charms and Ancient Runes.

 

 

 

"Excellent." Draco looked really pleased when Ryan accepted. "I’ll write Father and tell him to expect us both." He surveyed Ryan with an appraising look. "You do have at least one or two sets of regular robes with you, and dress robes?"

"Erm…Well, to be honest, I didn’t bring any dress robes, but I do have something besides the day wear for school. I’ll go to Gladrag’s before we leave."

"Good." Draco said with a nod. They walked toward their classroom, ignoring the cries of a Hufflepuff whose bag had been booby-trapped. Her books were flapping about her head, refusing to settle down.

"What does your father do, anyway?" Ryan asked as they ducked a flying book.

"Well, he’s very important at the Ministry," Draco said. He didn’t notice that Ryan flicked his wand behind his back, and the books dropped to the floor just as a teacher arrived on the scene. "Not that he works for the Ministry," Draco added hastily, "but he’s on all sorts of committees there, and he serves on Gringott’s Board of Governors, the Wizarding Utility Board, and the British chapter of the Wizarding Wireless Network, and some other places where our family holds an interest. And of course, he owns a lot of businesses, including a publishing house. He’s written a couple books, too. History, mostly, I think." Draco wrinkled his nose. "What about yours?"

"Oh, a lot of the same," Ryan said archly. "He’s a…well, a magistrate, I suppose you’d call it. Between that and running the family’s estates, he’s pretty occupied."

"Where exactly are you from, anyway?"

"Originally, or most recently?" Ryan shot back, the old, evasive persona sliding into place effortlessly.

 

 

 

Now that Professor McGonagall was in on Ryan’s secret, Transfiguration wasn’t nearly so much of a chore. Although she did a credible acting job, pretending still not to like or trust him, she didn’t worry about grading his assignments or watching his work too closely. Which was all to the good for Ryan, for the term trucked steadily toward the holidays, and they were given loads of homework to prepare for the O.W.L.s.

Operation Transfusion held its last meeting of the term on a blustery Wednesday night before the last Hogsmeade week-end. At it, they agreed that all Operation activity would be suspended after the holidays until the Event. Malfoy and Avery wanted the Mudblood students to think themselves safe once more.

"It will make them careless," Avery said. "It will make our jobs easier. The Event will happen toward the end of January. Everything should be in place by then. How many of you will be at the Malfoy’s party?" A dozen or so hands raised. "Good. We’ll be able to talk more freely there."

The meeting broke up. Draco, Crabbe, and Ryan got up to go to their dormitories, when they realized that Goyle wasn’t with them.

"I thought he was sitting behind you," Draco said to Crabbe.

"He was," Crabbe assured him. "But then he left. I thought he was going to the bathroom, but he never came back."

Shrugging, the three went up to their room and found Goyle in bed already. He stuffed something under a pillow hastily as they came in.

"’Lo," he said. "I had some work to finish up, so I came up here. Too hard to concentrate with the meeting on."

"That may be the longest sentence I’ve ever heard from you, Goyle," Draco said in a matter-of-fact tone. "What have you been doing lately? Taking a correspondence course on grammar?"

Goyle laughed unappreciatively. "Just hard to keep up, you know, with everything. Lots of work to do."

"Yes, of course, we all know how hard it is for you to keep up," Draco said coldly. "Ryan, you’d better get something smaller than that trunk to drag home with you."

 

 

 

Ryan found a small suitcase to hold his dress robes, a few sets of casual clothing, and his essentials for the trip to Malfoy Manor. He had no sword anymore, and no room for the bow, so he had to content himself with a dagger which he could conceal more easily. They took the Hogwarts Express to King’s Cross, sharing the compartment alternately with Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy and Emma. Ryan let Draco talk, gathering information about Lucius Malfoy and preparing himself for the challenge of fooling him. If Draco could be believed, it would be difficult, to say the least. Draco had nothing but praise for his father.

When they reached the station, they shrugged into their cloaks and left the platform. They were met by the chauffeur, who led them outside, where Draco’s father’s car waited to take them home.

"Father only keeps it because of the cargo capacity," Draco explained, dripping with superiority as the chauffeur loaded the bags into the spacious boot. "Even if I could Apparate, it’s difficult to bring luggage along, and they still haven’t legalized carpets."

The car pulled away from the station and glided through the evening traffic effortlessly. They bypassed a traffic circle by driving right through it, but no one seemed to notice, except the fountain in the centre, which jumped out of their way. Soon they were following the highway out of town and then, suddenly, the car shot forward in a flash. Then it slowed down almost as sharply and coasted to a smooth stop in front of a huge edifice of white marble.

Malfoy Manor was originally built as a castle, but had been magically and mundanely added to and renovated many times in its life. The Louis XIV façade which Ryan now faced jutted out from the original bailey. Though it was dark out, he could see that the manor sprawled over into extensive acreage and woods, with a number of outbuildings.

Draco led Ryan up the wide stone steps to the door. The chauffeur pulled the car around to the back for the house-elves to unload. As they approached, the door swung open and Narcissa Malfoy welcomed them inside.

"Draco!" she said affectionately, bestowing her son a warm hug. "And you must be Ryan," she continued effortlessly, offering her hand. She was thin, and a more yellowish blonde than her husband and her son, and her smile changed her attractive, but slightly cold face into a vital and beautiful one.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Ryan said, bowing over her fingers slightly, but at least remembering not to bring them to his lips. "Thank you for allowing me to visit."

Narcissa laughed lightly. "But of course. Goodness, Draco, you never said he was so formal. Or so handsome." She laughed again, and Ryan tactfully ignored the implied flirtation in her eyes.

A house-elf popped into existence and unclasped Draco’s cloak for him. Ryan undid his oak leaf clasp and the house-elf took their cloaks away.

"Heddy!" Narcissa called and an aging house-elf appeared in the foyer.

"Mistress?" she asked.

"Show Mr. Pelerand to his rooms." She addressed him again. "I’m sure you want to freshen up before dinner?"

"Yes, thank you," Ryan said reservedly. Mrs. Malfoy nodded her understanding and Ryan followed the house-elf’s beckoning, "Right this way, sir," through the spacious hall and up the grand staircase.

The second floor landing led to the library directly ahead, and two shorter stairways leading to wings which stretched out on either side. Heddy led Ryan to the left and down a number of doorways until a door opened on their right. "Here you are, sir," she piped. "Mistress gave you a view of the grounds, sir. Bath is to your left there. Is everything to the Pelerand's liking, sir?"

"Yes, thank you. This will be fine." Ryan walked through the well-appointed room to a set of French doors looking out over the back of the house. Beyond the little balcony, he could see a small courtyard, presumably off the dining hall, and a large field beyond, muddy and snow-flecked at the moment, but featuring goalposts for Quidditch.

Inside the room, a fire crackled in the small grate along the right wall. His bag was waiting for him on a chest at the foot of a comfortable-looking, if narrow, sleigh bed of carved cherry. The bath, when he examined it, was small but utilitarian. He came back out and changed from his traveling robes into a set of soft hunter green ones made of heavy silk. He switched over his wand and concealed the dagger on a belt underneath the robes—he wasn’t about to go unarmed when he wasn’t sure how seriously Lucius Malfoy honored traditions of hospitality. An insult, perhaps, but one that might save his life. With a final look in the mirror to check his disguise and that the knife was well hidden under the robes, he called for Heddy to conduct him back downstairs.

Draco and his mother were in the front parlor, a Victorian effusion of tasteful lined wallpaper and Queen Anne furniture.

"Everything all right with the room? Good. Lucius should be home very shortly and we can eat. Draco was just telling me that you fence?"

Whatever else one might say about the Malfoys, Ryan thought, Narcissa was an excellent hostess. She possessed a poise and an easy way of making conversation that would have rivaled any Muggle politician’s wife. He could easily recognize the qualities that Lucius either understood or cultivated in his choice of spouse.

They chatted for only a few minutes when the mantle clock changed from "traveling" to "home" with a muted chime. Narcissa rose smoothly and asked Ryan to excuse her. Draco smiled at Ryan.

"Nervous?" he asked.

"A bit," Ryan said truthfully. "You’ve painted quite a picture of your father."

Draco’s smile broadened. "My father’s quite a man." They both stood up at the sound of Draco’s parents’ footsteps.

Lucius Malfoy was about what Ryan expected, which was both good and bad. He was not quite the same height as Ryan, though taller than Draco by about a head. His pointed chin and fair hair resembled Draco’s greatly, though he wasn’t as handsome as Jareth Malfoy had been in his day. He had the same grey eyes as Draco, but Jareth’s astute expression. Within five seconds, Ryan was sure, Lucius assessed Ryan’s breeding and intelligence, and approved. His face, however, betrayed nothing. He took his first impression of Ryan completely in stride.

"So finally we meet you, Ryan," he said with a charming smile. "I’ve never known Draco to go on so positively about a classmate," he said.

"It’s very good of you to say so, sir," Ryan said, finding it not difficult at all to defer to the man, despite his younger age. Lucius seemed utterly in control of himself, his surroundings, and his family. They shook hands and matched each other’s firm grip. Again, it impressed Lucius, but he hid it well.

"Welcome home, Draco," Lucius said to his son, putting a hand on Draco’s shoulder lightly. "Pleasant train ride?"

Draco shrugged. "It was all right. May we eat now? I’m starved."

Lucius smiled thinly. "Of course," he said after a moment. Draco looked down a bit awkwardly, but Lucius simply glanced at his wife. "Narcissa?"

"Dinner is ready whenever we are, Lucius. Shall we go in?"

As they took their seats at the elegant table, Lucius offered them wine with dinner.

"Lucius, I don’t think…." Narcissa began.

"Nonsense. They’re both old enough for a drink with dinner, aren’t you, boys?"

Draco smiled broadly, but Ryan simply nodded. "Quite old enough, thank you."

A look passed between Draco and Lucius as a servant filled their glasses. Ryan couldn’t tell for sure what it meant, but he had a feeling Mr. Malfoy wished his son would keep a tighter rein on his emotions. It reminded Ryan of his own lessons on behaviour in polite society.

Conversation went smoothly enough through the salad course, since most of the focus was on Draco. But as the fish arrived, so did a gentle, but meticulous, third degree.

"Now, Draco wasn’t too clear in his letters," Lucius said breezily. "Where exactly were you at school before Hogwarts?"

Ryan smiled, surprised it took them this long to start probing his false past. "I was at Nordskolr in Sweden until my third year, and Durmstrang after that."

"Then you studied under Professor Karkaroff?" Lucius pounced quickly, biting out the name.

"He was Headmaster, yes," Ryan said guardedly. "But he wasn’t teaching. And all last term he was in Britain for the Tri-Wizard Tournament," he added, watching carefully for Lucius’ reaction to that and thanking Albus for Karkaroff’s dossier.

Lucius was good, no question. Again, the eyes were the only possible betrayal of the man’s feelings about Karkaroff, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, or the connections between the two. And even then, it was impossible to scrutinize the flicker which passed through them and melted away instantly.

"And what did you think of him?" Lucius asked with a meaningful sidelong glance at Draco.

Ryan made a show of thinking before answering. "I think he was afraid to teach us too much. He didn’t like any kind of trouble visiting—from inside or out. And he didn’t want anything to interfere with Krum."

Lucius seemed satisfied with the answer, but frowned. "Three schools in five years…. Forgive me for asking, but why all the moving around?"

"Six years, actually, sir—I had to repeat my second term at Durmstrang because the curricula were too different. But to answer you, it was largely my family’s decision. My father didn’t approve of Nordskolr’s program and thought Durmstrang would be more…disciplined." He dribbled butter on his forkful of fish and ate.

"Normally, I would agree," Lucius sighed. "But why Hogwarts?"

Ryan swallowed. "Well, Karkaroff’s disappeared, and the new Headmaster and I…." He sipped his wine. "If Karkaroff was leery of trouble, then Guttmacher’s positively obsessed about it. Can’t stand any deviation from the course schedule, if you take my meaning."

"Ah," Lucius said with a knowing smile. "No sense of humour?"

"Exactly. My grades have always been good, but I can’t say my record is spotless. First thing Guttmacher did was try to weed out all the potential ‘problem children.’ I was invited not to return." He shrugged elegantly. "Dumbledore owed my family a favour, so I got in. Simple as that."

Draco, who was already on his second glass of wine, gaped at his classmate. "How come you never told this to any of us?" He said with a whine.

Ryan shrugged again, turning up the charm another notch. "Hogwarts is full of overly inquisitive wizards. Besides, the rumours were much more amusing."

Overall, the Malfoys were excellent dinner companions. Under other circumstances, Ryan thought as the meal was cleared away, he might have been tempted to befriend Lucius. During the main course, his host spoke to them a little about the Ministry and various issues which were in need of resolution there. Apart from his snobbery, Ryan thought, Lucius had a level head and a shrewd mind. He was the kind of Slytherin Ryan expected, recalling his ancestor, Jareth, who also managed to pull success out of nearly any situation.

As they rose from the table, Lucius invited Ryan to the library. Draco, his cheeks flushed from a third glass of wine (after which Narcissa refused to allow him any more), wanted to come, too, but Narcissa deftly asked him to accompany her and try on the new robes she bought him for the house party.

Lucius led Ryan back up the stairs and into the room off the second floor landing. A fire illuminated them in warm light which faded to shadows against the high walls lined with books. A matched set of wing chairs sat before the fire. Two high banks of windows on either side, covered by heavy velvet drapes, told Ryan that this room was in one of the original castle towers.

"Scotch?" Lucius asked mildly, helping himself to a draft from a decanter on a small table, set by one of the chairs.

Ryan chanced a look in Lucius’ eye before answering. They held challenge, a test of some kind. But whether accepting or declining the invitation was the correct answer, Ryan couldn’t be sure. "What else did Draco tell you about me?" he asked quietly, stalling.

He was answered with a cold smile. "He told me you preferred the sound of the Hog’s Head to the Three Broomsticks. There’s more to your story about Durmstrang than you let on, isn’t there?"

Ryan grinned. "Yes. But I wasn’t lying, either, sir. My grades have always been high."

"That’s all right, you don’t have to make excuses to me. From what Draco’s said, you’re receptive, yet cautious. That’s a good combination. You’ve lived a little bit, despite school. And you clearly know what you’re about. I like that." He spilled amber liquid into a second glass without asking. "I’ve heard of the Pelerand family, through my research. Very good stock, certainly, though they all but disappeared for a long time." He let the question hang in the air for a minute, but Ryan didn’t answer. Letting it go for the moment, Lucius continued as if he had been lost in thought. "Yes. Oh, I worried a bit when Draco first mentioned you, but it’s good for him to have someone else about—of the same calibre, I mean. Hardly anyone at that school has any sense of bloodline. And with Dumbledore as Headmaster…." He sighed and took a seat. "I thought about letting him go to Durmstrang, as a matter of fact—though now…." A shadow passed over his face, or else it was a trick of the firelight. He held out the tumbler to Ryan, who took it. Challenge offered; challenge accepted.

Lucius watched him take his first drink. Ryan swirled it first, sniffing, then took a careful sip. He exhaled slowly as the alcohol evaporated on his tongue and he swallowed. "Glen Morangie," he observed. "Twelve year old?"

"Fifteen," Lucius said, even more impressed. "That’s quite an educated palate for one so young," he said.

"Well, like I said, my record’s not spotless. But mostly it’s from being at parties with my father and his friends." He sat in the opposite chair.

"Yes," Lucius said softly, and Ryan could tell that this dignified, self-controlled man believed him. He believed it because he’d been there, himself, at his own father’s functions, sipping scotch and making deals from an early age. The Malfoy’s obviously guarded their family wealth and were careful how they spent it in order to retain their aristocratic way of life. Lucius was no exception: he had an empire to protect, and protect it he did. Watching him in the low light from the fire, sipping scotch after a long day of politicking, Ryan thought he understood Lucius Malfoy. He thought he knew how to endear himself and gain access to what Dumbledore needed. And maybe, he thought, just maybe, he could get through the holidays without giving himself away.