His Majesty's Secret Service

Chapter Eleven: Revelations

Our Story So Far: Jorian Peleranel, called Ryan Pelerand, has transferred to Hogwarts under false pretences. As a Slytherin, he befriended Draco Malfoy to help Albus Dumbledore gather information about the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Last time, Ryan observed an Anvasse religious rite, Harry got his cloak back from Draco, and at the beginning of the holiday, Ryan and Draco helped Lucius Malfoy to rescue three Death Eaters from Azkaban. But Hermione, concerned that Draco knows too much, went to visit Albus Dumbledore, who instructed her to bring his pensieve to him....

Hermione gazed intently at the swirling stuff in the bowl. At Dumbledore's encouraging nod, she leaned forward and felt a disorienting pull as she itched and fell into the realm of the Headmaster's collected memories. The scene cleared and settled, and she watched as a darkened Gryffindor common room came into view. She could see a very young boy sitting by a dying fire, his book open on his lap, staring into space with his head thrown back against the stuffed wing of his chair. He looked almost asleep even though his eyes were half open. He had long hair, shining dark auburn in the fire's embers, bright blue eyes, and glasses perched on his very long nose. She realised with a sudden intuition that this had to be the Headmaster as a child. Then she heard noises coming from the tower, and the boy blinked, but did not start. The noise on the stairs coalesced into whispers.

"Are you sure this will work?" one voice asked in a posh accent.

"Course it will," another answered disdainfully. "We can't get him in bed, because he's got some way of protecting himself. Some demmed Elfish way, doubtless. So, we'll get him out on his own, and take him down in the common room." The slightly lower-pitched second voice continued, "You go down and wait. I'll wake him up on Prefect's business. When he comes down...."

"We'll stun him."

"Right." There was no mistaking the glee in either malevolent voice.

The boy wriggled out of his chair as quickly as he could without making noise. He was wearing a long night-shirt, covered in a wool dressing gown, and Hermione thought strangely of the old poem, "A Visit from St. Nick." Young Albus hid behind the chair, well out of view to anyone moving through the common room. She realised he had no wand with him. He looked distinctly nervous, but nevertheless determined.

Another figure entered the common room. He crossed the room quietly, lurking near the portrait hole. Hermione tried to look up the tower stairs, but evidently the pensieve only showed the viewer those details which were originally remembered: the tower was simply a black void off the edge of the memory. Giving up, she approached the shadowy figure as he cautiously took up his post. He had light blond hair, and his nose and eyes proclaimed him a Malfoy, she was absolutely sure. She disliked him automatically. This must be the Jareth Malfoy the Headmaster mentioned. Details falling into place, she went back to the fire and remained close to the youthful spectre of her aged Professor. By this time, Hermione could hear sounds from the stairwell, voices drifting down as the conspirator's message was delivered and, presumably, Ryan accompanied him into the trap.

"Here? Now?" Ryan's voice, sounding very young, preceded him into the room.

"I said so, didn't I, Pelerand?" insisted the young man who came into view now, a shiny prefect's badge gleaming against his dressing gown.

"What would my mother want with me in the middle of the night?" Ryan asked sensibly, now visible against the fire. He looked a year or two younger than the Ryan Hermione knew, but his ears elegantly poked out of his dishevelled hair, curving up into delicate points, and his face looked thinner. He looked thinner in general, almost willowy, and though still decidedly corporeal, he had a quality about him that looked fluid and catlike in its grace. He glanced from one side of the common room to the other, though it looked to Hermione more like the habitual assessing look of a student used to seeing the room full of students. She, Harry, and Ron developed the same reaction to the common room themselves: it was an instinctive gesture many students shared, not a paranoid precaution.

In any case, Ryan's gaze did not seem to perceive either of the two people hiding in nooks throughout the shadowy chamber. He let the prefect lead him through the room to the portrait hole, his mind clearly on preparing himself for his audience with his mother. Hermione noticed that he, like the young Professor Dumbledore, had no wand with him. She at least, had learned that lesson by halfway through her first year, she thought with some self-congratulation. But her moment of superiority gave way almost immediately to concern for Ryan, for she knew they planned to ambush him, and he was unarmed, and so was the only other person in the room on his side, who could do anything, anyway.

As if he had heard her thought, the prefect turned just as he reached the portrait hole. The ancestral Malfoy also rose from his hiding place, wand in hand. Ryan drew in a sharp breath, reaching for his wand, but finding none. From her position standing next to young Albus's chair, she could see his face in the reddish light. His expression, uncomprehending at first, ran through astonishment to mixed fear and anger in a matter of seconds. It was all in his eyes, she thought. His eyes, and the set of his jaw. One hundred years or so had taught him to school his face far better: he betrayed nothing with his eyes anymore, to her knowledge. But, then as now, the determined, set jaw made him look unbearably handsome.

"Looking for this?" the prefect asked, holding up a second wand. Then, not wasting any more time, he and the strange Malfoy spoke the same spell. "Stupefy!" they both chanted intently, and the young Ryan crumpled to the ground with no more argument. Hermione gasped. Part of her realised that whatever danger lay ahead had been resolved years before, but she found herself caught up in the drama, anxious to find out what horrible events were in store for Ryan. "Mobilicorpus," the prefect incanted next, and opened the portrait hole.

"Cheeky bastard," Malfoy spat over the floating Ryan. "Doesn't even belong here with us," he growled.

"Actually thinks he's better than we are," the prefect scowled in agreement. "You've got the room set up, then?"

"Course," Malfoy scoffed. "Fifth floor armoury. Plenty of room to do what we want with him. No one will find him after." Hermione didn't like the sound of that. Nor, apparently did Albus, for he stifled a gasp. Luckily, the two older students were talking and didn't appear to hear him.

"Good. Take him," the Gryffindor ordered. "I'll make sure no one heard us."

Hermione jerked in surprise, then chided herself for forgetting that this was a memory. Everything had already happened, but she was caught up in the suspense. Though she knew both Ryan and Dumbledore would be all right, she couldn't help feeling her heart race sympathetically.

She looked down at the ashy face of the young Albus, who seemed to be holding his breath for fear of discovery, especially after his slip. But evidently the two conspirators felt they were safe in this room, for Jareth Malfoy took over the spell and guided Ryan through the portrait hole, while the prefect climbed the tower stairs to check on the boys' dormitories. Albus didn't move. He bit his lip nervously, waiting for the prefect to return and leave. He finally did, after checking the girls' tower as well. Only then did Albus straighten, stumbling back into the chair as the blood flowed back into calves and feet that had been cramped in his hiding place. He rubbed them impatiently, his mouth twisting in frustration as he stamped his slippers against the floor to bring them back to life. Hissing, he forced himself to stand, to climb the stairs to his dorm room, unaware of Hermione on his heels.

Six curtained beds stood around the tower room, identical in every other way to Hermione's or Harry's and Ron's. The boy Albus moved to the second bed from the left, going to the bedside stand. He drew out his wand and a silver hand mirror--Hermione now recognised it from the cabinet where she'd found the pensieve--and this he passed a hand over. The surface of the mirror was black, not reflective at all. "Pelerand," he said to the mirror. Nothing happened. Albus chewed his lip. "Ryan Pelerand," he repeated. The mirror remained black. Albus shook the mirror menacingly, trying again. "Ryan Pelerand," he said firmly, but then seemed to remember something. "Right--er, Jorian Jorionala," he said, mangling the pronunciation horribly. Still, the mirror did nothing. Sighing, he passed his hand over the mirror a fourth time. "Jareth Malfoy," he told it. The mirror turned bright and glowing, then went red as it showed a chamber bathed in torch light. More suits of armour than Hermione had seen in one place in the castle lined the room. Large displays of weapons decorated the walls or stood in long cases. Malfoy guided Ryan, still unconscious, into the armoury. He directed the listless form to a low case, setting Ryan down on top of the glass.

Albus tore out of the room and up three flights of the tower stairs. Hermione followed, unable to do otherwise. He burst into the dorm room on that level, where five beds were spaced out evenly around the room. "Cygnus!" he cried, going to the first bed and opening the curtains. The inhabitant sighed and turned over. "Cygnus?" he asked the second set of curtains, but the person asleep there also slept too soundly. He skipped the next bed, so Hermione guessed it must have been Ryan's. The sleeper in the fourth bed groaned loudly. "What?" came a sleepy reply, as the bed creaked in response to the boy sitting up.

"Cygnus, it's Ryan. Potter and Malfoy--" Hermione gasped in surprise at Albus's statement. That Prefect was a Potter? An ancestor of Harry's? Other than the black hair and a slight resemblance of physique, he looked nothing like him. But she didn't have time to dwell on it, so intent was she on watching the action.

"Albus?" Cygnus identified the speaker tentatively, opening the curtains as he woke up. "What are you--"

"No time!" Albus insisted. "Look!" He thrust the mirror into Cygnus's hands. "They're in the fifth floor armoury. Do you know how to get there?"

"Yes," Cygnus said, waking. Hermione barely had time to catch a glimpse of his dark hair before he was out of bed and throwing on a dressing gown. "Perseus, Meningus, Geoff!" he called sharply, shaking their shoulders. "Come on, chaps, up!"

He succeeded in waking one of the three, but the other two refused to return to consciousness. "Oh, sod it, come on, Dumbledore!" Cygnus cried, dragging the sleepy student along behind them. Hermione thought Cygnus reminded her of someone, but couldn't say who. He was impulsive, like Ron, but that wasn't it. She ran to keep them in sight.

They ran down the steps of the tower, filling the third student in as they went. "The armoury?" said the third, whose name apparently was called Geoffrey. "That's outside the tower. Think what Gulch will do if he catches us."

"Geoff," Cygnus said, pushing open the portrait hole and whispering, "That's not half what Malfoy must intend for Ryan. You know they hate him. And Potter--all that pureblood nonsense. Think what might happen if we don't go!" he hissed urgently.

Albus watched the mirror with deep concentration. "They've got a knife," he reported, unable to keep his voice calm.

"Geoff, come on!" Cygnus urged again. "If nothing else, we can say we're looking for a teacher--it's true enough," he reasoned.

"Yeah, all right," Geoff allowed finally, and they crawled through the portrait hole.

Hermione didn't have time to get through, but it didn't seem to matter. The edges of her vision dissolved as if they were made of smoke. Everything was fading; she could see only her own body--all else was swirling darkness....

And then, the outline of a Hogwarts corridor returned. Hermione saw Cygnus, Albus, and Geoff slide a quill between a closed door and its frame, easing the latch open the way a modern Muggle might use a credit card. They began to open the door, but it creaked.

"Geoff, conjure some oil," Cygnus whispered. In the lighted corridor, Hermione took another look at Cygnus, trying to think who at school he reminded her of. He had black hair, trimmed very neatly, with a deep widow's peak at the top. His nose was neither too long nor too wide, and straight. He wasn't too tall, yet, but he looked like he hadn't quite finished growing. He had the frame of a beater, though it was hard to see how muscular he might be under the dressing gown and night-shirt he wore. She simply couldn't place him, though she felt she knew someone....

"I'm no good at conjuration," Geoff warned, but he pointed his wand at the hinges anyway. "Petrolium!" he hissed at it. The hinges grew black and slick.

"Oil, Bramdon, not tar!" Cygnus admonished in exasperation.

"Sorry," Geoff muttered, but the door no longer signalled their entry as it swung inward silently. Hermione looked beyond the three students into a cavernous hall filled with armour and weapons. Banners with coats of arms, ranging from simple, geometric divisions to complex, elaborately marshalled fields, hung about the room near the vaulted ceiling. They could hear conversation in the large chamber. It reverberated, its nature disguised by the echo in the cathedral-like room.

"They're chanting," Albus said darkly to Cygnus. He held out the mirror. It showed Jareth, his eyes glittering in the light of the single candle which flickered at the other end of the hall. Cygnus looked up at the scene with his own eyes. Jareth raised his arm, and the candle caught the glint of the knife as he brought it down. Hermione covered her ears, anticipating a scream.

It never came. Remembering that she was invisible, she strode down the long room to where Malfoy and the prefect whom Albus had named Potter, stood with a third boy in Gryffindor robes and a prefect's badge. The knife in Jareth's hand had blood on its tip. Ryan lay on a glass case, a bowl levitating under his arm. A stream of blood ran out of a cross-wise cut in the crook of his elbow, a rivulet running down his forearm where Jareth had cut down in a second, lengthwise gash. The third boy held an ancient looking book, out of which he read aloud in a singsong voice.

"Says we're to distil the blood with a drop or two of mermaids' tears, mixed with some clarified extract of Mooncalf dung, stirring only with a clear crystal rod, until the blood runs clear. Damn nuisance," the student then commented, closing the book over his finger to hold the place. "Don't you just put some wherever you want to enhance your senses?"

"No, this is for the divining crystal," Prefect Potter said testily. "Here, Malfoy. Mermaids' tears."

Malfoy dipped a chalice into the bowl of blood, letting it drip down the sides as he brought it over Ryan's unconscious body. He took the phial of tears from Potter and uncorked it, letting it drip slowly into the cup. Then he handed it back to him, and the prefect stopped up the bottle and put it away. They added the clear liquid extract next. "Potter, got a crystal rod?" he asked.

"No. Mullet, where's the rod?" Potter asked the third boy. Mullet set the book down, open, on the case and fished in a bag for his supplies.

On the opposite end of the hall, Cygnus, Albus, and Geoff planned their rescue. "How are we going to get up there?" Geoff asked. "There's three of them, and three of us, but Mullet and Potter are both fifth years, and Malfoy's in sixth form. They know way more counterspells than we do."

"Stay here," Albus said, his vision attracted by a lump he saw lying rumpled on top of another case, outside the flickering candle's range. He crept forward on hands and knees, staying close to the display cases, until he reached the one with the fabric on it. One pat of its silky folds confirmed his suspicion. An invisibility cloak. Silent as the grave, Albus lifted the cloak and scurried back with it to the others.

"Where'd they get this?" Cygnus whispered in amazement.

"Doesn't matter, put it on," Albus said shortly. "We can sneak up there if we move very quietly."

The three boys positioned the cloak around them and vanished. Hermione was reminded of how cramped Harry's cloak was when she, Ron, and Harry were all bunched underneath it, and how difficult it was to move silently when it was impossible to see each other's feet. She wondered absently if this might not be the very same cloak, Harry's legacy from his father. She walked back down to where the boys bled their sacrifice.

"Hey. I think it's working," Malfoy said as he stirred the blood. "What's next?"

"Er..." Mullet consulted the old book. "Place the rod inside a crystal ball--"

"--We haven't got one," Potter said in disgust.

"Brilliant. Didn't you read the spell, first?" Malfoy complained in a whine much like his descendant's.

"Yes, but I thought you--" Mullet began.

"Nevermind," Malfoy interrupted. "Any other uses in there?"

"Amulets.... Oh--here, it says you can put a drop of undiluted blood on the tip of your wand. You can detect magic with that."

"Sod that," Malfoy said. "This whole place is magic. What the hell good is that? Anything else about divining? I'm about to fail bloody Divination and I'm not going to take it over again."

Mullet skimmed the section, turning the faded and chipped pages carefully. "Hang on...it says if you don't have a crystal ball, you can use the rod itself. Just stare very intently through it...." Malfoy began to concentrate on it, but Hermione saw Mullet look up at Potter and snigger. Curious, she sidled around them to read over his shoulder. The book gave no such instruction.

Just then, the body on the glass case groaned. The young Ryan began to wake up, but he was still disoriented from the spell. Potter and Mullet sprang forward to restrain him, but not before Cygnus, Geoff, and Albus all poked their wands out and shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

Mullet's wand flew out of his hand, Mullet himself tumbling backward in a shower of red sparks. A loud clatter echoed through the hall as he landed on a suit of armour. Ryan tried to sit up, but whether from blood loss or disorientation, rolled off the glass table and into the bowl of his own blood. Malfoy shouted in disgust as the blood spattered up at him, the bowl upending to stain the floor. With another groan, Ryan passed out again.

The door at the near end of the hall burst open. "What is going on in here?" demanded a decidedly adult, angry voice.

Cygnus whipped the cloak off and stepped forward. "Professor! Potter, Mullet, and Malfoy here--"

"Silence!" the professor ordered, coming into the room. He was flanked by a Slytherin with a Head Boy badge and a scowling man with a lantern. He took the lantern from the foul-tempered man and surveyed the scene. Conjuring a stretcher, he issued a curt order to the Head Boy. "Take Mr. Pelerand to the infirmary at once, Parkinson," he said, and the Head Boy levitated Ryan onto the stretcher and withdrew, as if happy he didn't have to stay around for the tongue-lashing.

"Mr. Gulch, if you would be so kind as to collect Mr. Mullet," he continued. Gulch picked up Mullet and brought him over to the little group. "Now then," the professor continued. "Mr. Potter, explain this."

Potter took on a tone every bit as oily as Hermione had heard Draco Malfoy use with Snape. As he launched into his "explanation," Hermione had to suppress a feeling of revulsion that this sorry excuse for a Gryffindor shared even so much as a name with Harry.

"Professor Bartholomew," he said smoothly. "Pelerand was raving. I followed him down here, and brought Mullet with me. We were worried he might try to hurt himself, and you see, here, he did do." He pointed to the bowl and the blood.

"Mullet?" Bartholomew asked. Mullet confirmed Potter's story, rather dully.

"And Mr. Malfoy?" Professor Bartholomew asked, turning to the Slytherin sixth year. "Parkinson was alerted to your absence on a bed check."

"I was just coming back to the dungeons, Professor," Malfoy said haughtily, "after a bit of a midnight snack." He smiled charmingly. "I suppose I shouldn't have been out, but it's lucky I was. I heard noise coming from in here, so I came in to see what the matter was. Pelerand was cutting his own arm. These three," he pointed to the younger students, "were encouraging him. They had this book," he continued over a strangled protest from Geoff, "and they were reading about spells using Elf blood. Potter and I were just in time to stop them."

Bartholomew looked over at the three younger men. "And what do you have to say about all this?"

"Well, for one thing, sir, none of that's true," Cygnus said boldly. "Tell him, Dumbledore."

"Mr. Dumbledore?" Bartholomew said coldly.

Albus blanched a bit under the teacher's gaze. "Black's right," he said, timidly at first, but then finding his voice. "I was up late in the common room, reading, and I heard Potter and Malfoy--"

"A Slytherin in the Gryffindor common room?" Bartholomew interrupted. It was only at that moment that Hermione realised the surname Albus had assigned Cygnus: Black. Of course! He did look something like Sirius, though younger, and considerably better groomed than she had last seen the fugitive. But Cygnus had the same hair, if shorter, and the same eyes and nose. She stopped herself from comparing them further to listen to the rest of Albus's account.

"Yes, sir," Albus confirmed. "They came through, and Potter said he would tell Pelerand he was wanted elsewhere in the castle."

"Where were you?"

"I hid, sir, when I heard them coming." He smiled, embarrassed. "Another prefect had already told me I should be in bed, you see. But I was in the common room," he justified, before getting back to his original account. "Well, they came in, talking, and Malfoy hid in the shadows by the portrait hole. Potter must have woken Pelerand, because a little while later they came down. Then--" his eyes flashed with indignation-- "Potter and Malfoy both ambushed Pelerand. Malfoy took him here, while Potter made sure no one had overheard them. When he left as well, I went and got Black and Bramdon. We came down here to try to stop them."

"Why not get a teacher, if that is the truth?" Bartholomew fired back at him. Hermione thought him a fair cross between Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, though she was leaning on the Snapish side.

"Sir," Cygnus took up the narrative. "We didn't think there was time."

"Oh? Why was that?" Batholomew continued to interrogate.

"Well, sir, we were afraid they'd try to hurt him. And they had. When we arrived, Malfoy had cut Ryan's arm open. We--"

"Is this true, Mr. Malfoy?" Bartholomew asked, not looking at him.

"Certainly not, sir," Malfoy said with conviction. "They're his roommates, sir, they'd be able to lure him out like this, not me."

"But they are also his friends," Bartholomew said shrewdly. He considered a moment. "First, you will all assist Mr. Gulch here in cleaning the armoury before going to bed. Consider it the first part of your detentions."

"Detention!" Cygnus cried hotly. "They should be expelled--"

"Mr. Black," Bartholomew said icily. "I am afraid that until I can consult with Mr. Pelerand, it is your word against that of two prefects and a young noblewizard of the highest record of conduct. I am certain, Mr. Black, when you consider your own history at this school, you realise what a precarious position you occupy in your accusations. And you, Mr. Dumbledore, though your family certainly ranks as highly as the Malfoys, are very young to be starting down the rickety path of rule-breaking. I suggest you consider the company you choose to keep." Nostrils flaring, he took a cleansing breath before turning to the caretaker. "Mr. Gulch, I leave them in your charge. Please see them back to their common rooms once you are satisfied with their efforts." He fixed each of them with a stern glare before continuing. "I expect to see all of you in my office to discuss this matter further. I will notify you once I have spoken to Mr. Pelerand himself."

As Bartholomew strode out of the hall, Hermione looked to her right and saw a mature Albus Dumbledore smiling benevolently at her. "So now you know," he said kindly, and put his hand under her elbow. Hermione felt herself rising into the air; the armoury dissolved around her; for a moment, all was blackness, and then she felt as though she had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on her feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore's office. The afternoon sun had dipped beneath his windows, but several lamps glowed cheerily in contrast to the dimness of the chamber in his memories.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, sinking into the chair opposite the Headmaster.

Professor Dumbledore shrugged. "Not all decisions are made fairly," he said sagely, "but often they are made to avoid further conflict. Ryan corroborated my story, as it was plain and simple truth. But, to forestall a report that would have upset the Anvasse council and possibly torn apart our relations with them... Professor Bartholomew issued detentions to everyone save Ryan, and we were all sworn to silence. Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Mullet, you may imagine, were warned with the gravest of threats that further molestation of our Anvasse guests would be punished no matter what the consequences. To my knowledge, it never happened again." He sighed heavily. "Of course, within seventy years, relations were so strained that there was a rift in any event..." He looked up at her sharply. He rose and led her to the door, but to her surprise, came down the stairs with her, speaking broadly as they rode the magical spiral to its lower level.

"But you are not here to discuss history, Miss Granger," he continued with a sparkle in his eyes. "No. You came here to help prevent another mistake borne of ignorance. And in order to follow through on your excellent instincts, I fear I must ask to be excused. Rest assured that I shall do all in my power to save my--our," he corrected himself with a grateful smile, "good friend." They stepped into the hallway. "Good evening," he said cheerily, and turned toward the corridor which led to the owlery. It was only then that Hermione realised he must have written his instructions while she wandered inside the pensieve. She headed back to Gryffindor tower, eager to relate her story to Ron and Harry, and hoping that, as usual, the three of them could sort it all out together.

 

 

Ryan woke to a sunlit room decorated in gold and pink flowered wallpaper. Between the walls and the stuccoed ceiling, he wondered for a moment if he were still dreaming, and for some inexplicable reason was back in the 1970's. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he rejected it: he was awake, and Draco was asleep in the matching twin bed across from him. They were in a guest room at the safehouse, he remembered. Last night, they had been conducted to this room. Their hostess, Mrs. Baddock, apologised that with so many people in the house, they would have to share. But as they shared a dormitory all year long, neither Ryan nor Draco had any objection. Both were so tired and worn from their experience that they pulled their night clothes out of their suitcases and climbed into bed without even noticing the room. Ascribing his disorientation to the residual effects of Azkaban as well, he slipped out of the bed quietly and stretched in the space at the foot of the bed.

Halfway through his kata, he realised that Draco was watching him. He chose to ignore the boy while he finished.

"Do you do that every morning?" Draco asked without preamble when Ryan straightened, going to his suitcase and retrieving his toothbrush.

"Yes," Ryan said casually, "whenever I've got the chance."

Draco grunted his understanding. "It's very...complicated," he commented strangely.

Ryan smiled. "One gets used to it," he explained, and went into the adjoining bathroom.

He waited for Draco while the other showered and dressed. He was tempted to glance through Draco's bag, but decided against it. All too likely it had an anti-tampering charm on it or something, and he didn't really need to look for anything in particular. In truth, he was stalling. Going over the night's events, he had no desire to socialise with the three prisoners he had helped escape, nor the Death Eaters who were housed here to assist their rehabilitation. Too soon, however, Draco emerged and they ventured out in search of breakfast.

As it happened, their charges from the previous night were nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Baddock greeted them cordially and explained that the others were outside, where Draco and Ryan were to join them after eating. She invited them to the dining room, and no sooner had they taken their seats than a stack of chocolate chip pancakes appeared on each of their plates.

"They must be testing the others," Draco commented as he cut up his pancakes. "To see if they're fit to serve. Don't you think?" He looked up at Ryan for confirmation.

"Sounds right," Ryan said, aware that Azkaban must have affected him more than he anticipated: the chocolate chips were doing wonders for his constitution. "I don't know that they will be," he continued, but cut himself off as a third figure stumbled into view.

"Hey," Malcolm Baddock said sleepily as he took a seat. Malcolm, a second year student, had not been included in any of Operation Transfusion, but as he was in Slytherin and his parents were known supporters, both Ryan and Draco had exchanged words with him on occasion.

"I didn't know you'd come home for Easter," Draco said, clumsily covering up his surprise.

"Yeah," Malcolm said, scowling at the eggs, sausage, and toast that appeared on his plate. He looked over at their breakfasts not too subtly. "How come you get that?" he asked petulantly.

Ryan and Draco exchanged a look, silently consulting each other about this unexpected challenge so early in the morning. Ryan's impulse was to offer to switch, as the pancakes really were getting too sweet and the sausage looked much more fortifying, but he knew that it would appear too gallant, too accommodating for his supposedly selfish persona. So he merely shrugged. "We're guests," he said callously, and continued eating.

Malcolm reddened, but proceeded to tuck in, anyway. Ryan ate a few more bites and waited for Draco to finish. They found their way to the back of the house.

In the bright sunlight, the three released Death Eaters were trying wands on targets set up some distance away, with mixed success, under the supervision of Lucius and a few others. One of the robed figures tapped Lucius's arm, and he turned to see them approach.

"Ah," he said in a very businesslike manner. "Feeling better? Good." He gestured for them to join the little band of men and made introductions. "You remember Mulciber, Justin, and Seporah from last night," he confirmed with them first, gesturing vaguely at the three on the range. "And you've met Mr. Baddock. I'd like you to meet Mr. Burke, Draco, and this is Mr. Deeds. And of course, you must be introduced to Wormtail."

The first three men each shook Draco's hand firmly. But the fourth, when he turned, offered a shining hand of silver to grip. He was shorter than the others, with the look of someone who used to be quite portly, but had lost a great deal of weight. His skin was pale and sweaty in the sunlight, and his pale eyes looked watery, and shifted often.

"And this is Ryan Pelerand, gentlemen," Lucius went on. "Ryan's family has a great deal of influence on the continent. And from what Ryan says, they are sympathetic to us."

Ryan fought an urge to knock Wormtail's hand away. The silver looked sinister and almost reeked of dark magic. But instead of opening his mouth to retch from the revulsion he felt, he curled his lips into a supercilious and haughty sneer.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, consciously imitating the attitude Lucius himself used when encountering someone he disliked.

Baddock began asking Draco questions about life at Hogwarts. Draco answered as if Christmas was far from the first time he'd conversed with Baddock. At Ryan's politely lost expression, Lucius filled in the missing information.

"Aristotle and I were at school together," he explained to Ryan convivially. "He's practically Draco's uncle."

Ryan was about to comment when one of the others directed a remark to him.

"Lucius has mentioned you in connection to his son," Deeds commented as they shook hands. "Transfer students are very rare, are they not?" he asked with palpable suspicion.

"Ryan's case is rather special, Fergus," Lucius answered casually. "He's the sort we want, I assure you," he continued with an impatient wave of his hand. "Draco identified him himself," Lucius went on, deflecting the conversation back onto his son.

For another few minutes they talked to Draco, centring their attention on him, but Ryan noticed Wormtail and Lucius move away from the group and watch the three wizards aiming curses at their targets. They spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones, their lips barely moving, their postures closed off from the others. Without moving or turning toward them, Ryan tuned out the praises of Baddock, Burke, and Deeds to eavesdrop.

"Will they be ready?" Wormtail asked, sounding vaguely nervous.

Lucius glanced over Wormtail's shoulder before answering. "Seporah has survived the best. She is the most focused. Justin...possibly. She'll help him, certainly. It's still very soon." It was difficult to tell, from the distance, and Ryan couldn't see his face, but his tone was tinged with regret or sadness.

"And Mulciber?" Wormtail pressed.

Lucius shook his head. "I don't think so. He's got a few spells, but nowhere near the range he had before. He was too far gone before the Dark Mark burned." Again, Ryan thought he heard the undertone of loss in Lucius's voice.

Wormtail sighed. "Damn. I hoped, with that intelligence from Black, that a little obsession would clear their minds for them, counteract the Dementors. But if he'd truly gone insane...." Ryan had a flash of inspiration, remembering the way Lucius treated the Lestranges the previous night. He understood the nature of the delay, the reason the Death Eaters waited so long to remove their people from Azkaban. But their plan seemed to have backfired--or at least, it did not produce the hoped for results. And a useless Death Eater could only mean one thing....

"He's controllable," Lucius clarified. "He's still committed. He'll do as we tell him. But he may not be...reliable on his own. He'll have to be supervised."

"Perhaps. Our lord has many uses for willing servants." Wormtail smiled viciously, cruelly. Lucius nodded once, curtly, in comprehension, and they returned to the group.

Ryan returned his attention to Burke just in time to answer a question about the places he'd travelled.

"All over," Ryan said with a shrug. "The Netherlands, of course, and all over the continent. Russia, Egypt, South Africa. I was in Australia two years ago on a holiday. Japan." He affected to bite his lip while thinking. "But...I prefer England," he concluded, intimating a little prejudice as a way of endearing himself.

The adults laughed indulgently, and Lucius clapped Draco on one shoulder paternally. "We should get back to the Manor to prepare," he told the assembly. Though neither Draco nor Ryan knew precisely what he meant, the others seemed to understand. "Ari, You'll be responsible for bringing them in time?" he asked Baddock pointedly.

"Yes, of course," Baddock said with some bluster. "Wednesday, then? Or earlier?"

"Wednesday should be fine," Lucius assessed after a moment, during which Ryan was certain he was calculating the health and well-being of their charges. How much better could an extra day or two make the former inmates? Lucius turned again to Wormtail. "You know where to find me, if His orders change."

Wormtail simply nodded. Lucius bowed to them all ever so slightly. Ryan and Draco emulated him, and they walked back around to the front of the house. The magical car was parked in front, and the chauffeur was just closing the boot on their luggage.

"Take them back to the Manor," Lucius ordered the chauffeur with no other acknowledgement of the man's existence. He smiled, somewhat benevolently, at the two young men. "I suggest you get a little more rest over the next few days. And practice. I've left a book in the library for you: the spells are marked. You'll need them. Draco, tell your mother I'll be home in a few hours. I've preparations to make for Wednesday night."

He waited until they climbed inside to Apparate.

Ryan pretended to nap on the way home. The Manor must have been clear on the opposite side of England, from the length of the journey. But he wanted the time to think. So Wormtail must be the Pettigrew Albus mentioned, and he was the Death Eaters' source of information for everything from the tunnel under the Shrieking Shack to the theory that a strong obsession could negate the effects of Dementors. What powers did the ominous silver hand have? It was superbly strong; he could tell that Wormtail was handling him gingerly when he gripped to shake hands. Limbs could not be replaced so easily, he knew. Not even by Anvasse magic. It made him uneasy. And what did they plan for Mulciber, if he couldn't regain enough cognisance to be trusted? Something was planned for Wednesday--something for which they wanted as full a complement of brethren as possible. It wasn't everyone, he knew that much. Many of their Transfusion recruits had no knowledge of the meeting over this holiday. Wednesday... he mused. It would be 3^rd April. No important conjunctions that he knew of. What ritual was so important? Or was there a more mundane explanation?

The car slowed, rocking them to a stop. Ryan opened his eyes to Draco watching him with an odd smile.

"Still tired?" Draco asked in a friendly tone.

Ryan shrugged. "Not so much now. You?" He knew Draco had napped at least part of the way; he could tell from the boy's even breathing.

"It's better now that we're away from those creatures," Draco admitted with uncharacteristic candour. They clambered out of the car and up the stairs to the front door of Malfoy Manor.

 

 

 

Draco suggested a ride around the grounds later that day, after glancing at the spells Lucius picked out and promising to practice them. Lucius still had not returned, and the boy clearly wished to find distraction to ease his nervous energy. Ryan agreed, but was aware as they walked to the stables that Draco was watching him, much as he had during his morning kata.

"What?" he asked casually, hiding a little worry. What did Draco suspect?

"Nothing," Draco said with a shake of his head. But he flushed a little and looked away after that.

When they rode a little distance into the woods on the western side of the grounds, Ryan sensed it again.

"Draco?" he asked again, feeling strangely discomfited under the blond's appraising stare. "Have I sprouted horns or something?" He tried to sound light, leaving unvoiced his real fear, 'or ears?'

Draco's eyes flicked forward to his horse. He seemed a little embarrassed. "No," he said, somewhat derisively.

"Well, then, what is it?" Ryan demanded, confused by Draco's sudden attentiveness.

The junior Death Eater sighed. "It's just.... You're always so capable. Even Father's noticed." His tone darkened, changing from admiration to a bit of resentment. "He says I could do worse than emulate you."

"Oh." Ryan said, careful to mask the sympathy he felt. He wondered whether Lucius put undue pressure on the boy, suspected it was so, but was unprepared for Draco's admission of weakness.

"He's right, isn't he?" Draco asked. "I should be more like you."

Ryan shrugged, riding in silence for a moment. "Why?" he asked finally, unable to tell Draco what he wanted to say about Lucius.

"Well, our backgrounds...and the cause...and the family honour...all of it." Draco's tone, like his reasoning, was vague and half-formed. It seemed to Ryan that he wanted validation, wanted Ryan to reassure him that he was a credit to the Malfoy name, or else to impart some secret that would make it easy to please his father once and for all. But Ryan had no idea how to talk to him without putting himself even higher in Draco's estimation, even more inaccessible, or worse yet, putting himself in danger of discovery. How could he discount over a century's experience and still offer it to a teenager? He went the other way, making himself indignant.

"Hey, listen, if you think I'm going to screw up to make you look good," he began.

"No," Draco cut him off. "That's not what I mean...." He blushed again, investigating the trees and the park around them. "I just thought...maybe you could show me something to impress my father...like that routine you do in the mornings. Something to show him I'm not...." He trailed off, embarrassed to reveal any more family secrets.

Ryan instinctively understood. Families such as the Malfoys never spoke to outsiders about shortcomings. Had he been Crabbe, or Goyle, or even Pansy, back when they dated, Draco could never have let his guard down so low. But because in Ryan he sensed kindred, confessions were permissible, if extremely difficult.

"I thought you handled Azkaban very well," he offered, truthfully expressing his assessment of Draco among the Dementors. "Your father seemed pleased to me," he said. They turned their horses to circle back. They kept the ride short, as Draco rarely rode at all and Ryan had not been on horseback for over eight months. Already, he could feel the lack of exercise through his calves and hips.

"Yeah, but...I was only doing what he asked. You take charge. You initiate." Draco glared at him sullenly. "Everyone likes you."

Ryan said nothing. Birds chattered to one another in the woods around them, but he waited for Draco to find words to express what he really wanted from him.

Draco reined in and brought his horse to a stop. "How do you do it?" he asked, exasperated.

'I'm ten times your age,' Ryan thought. 'I've learned to get on with people.' He said nothing.

"Pansy...she latched on to me from the start," Draco said, as if explaining away her attraction. "When you're rich, pureblood, and in Slytherin, the options are limited. When she put her claws into Greg...." He shrugged. "Good riddance. I barely noticed." He paused.

"Why is that?" Ryan supplied, sensing his role as the straight man now to Draco's monologue.

Draco shrugged again. "I guess I had more important things to think about," he commented cryptically. He flicked the reins and moved forward again. They rode back in silence.

He didn't speak again until they reached the stables. As they tethered the horses and left them for the house-elves to tend, Draco drew breath. "You know what I think it is? I think you know when to be quiet, and just listen. Most people don't." He let the comment sit there for a moment, then changed the subject abruptly. "So, what's your girlfriend like?"

It was an unexpected question and one Ryan had not prepared to answer. "Mal?" He frowned, his voice rising a little. He had no idea what to say without making it clear that theirs was no school yard relationship.

Draco mistook his pause. "She is real, though, isn't she?" he said with a wry smile. "I was beginning to wonder. You almost never write to her."

"I generally wait until I'm alone," Ryan said dryly.

"I just figured with all those girls," Draco went on, ignoring him, "that it'd be a convenient excuse." He fixed on a point over Ryan's shoulder. "That is, if you wanted them to leave you alone."

Ryan stared at Draco for a moment before comprehension struck him--or at least he thought so. "Draco...are you trying to ask me...if I'm gay?"

Draco turned bright red, but he blustered a refusal. "NO!... No...I.... I mean--well, are you?" he asked finally.

Ryan laughed. "No. 'Fraid not." He wondered whether Draco's question might be a mask--an invitation for him to ask in return. He really didn't care to know. It was none of his business if Draco wanted to explore. "Were you worried about it for some reason?" he asked instead, carefully choosing words that would drive the topic away.

"No...no, of course not," Draco said with bravado. "I just wondered. Forget I said anything."

"Okay," Ryan said, making no effort to disguise his relief. He was oddly reminded of a similar conversation he'd had with his young half-brother, when Nelian asked for advice about approaching a male friend of Ryan's. He couldn't tell whether Draco was really relieved, or hiding a disappointment, but he certainly wasn't going to pursue it further. "Shall we go back?" he asked. Draco agreed readily enough, so Ryan assumed he was just as happy to drop the whole matter.

 

 

 

Lucius was still not back when they returned, nor was he at supper a few hours later. Monday morning, however, he was already at breakfast when Ryan and Draco wandered down. Lucius sat in his customary chair at the head of the table, immersed in the Daily Prophet. A quill scribbled on a pad next to him every so often. He looked up when they took their seats, but said nothing. Narcissa came in and they kissed briefly, looking impossibly domestic.

"Who arrives today?" she asked with mild interest as she dished up her food.

Lucius answered without really looking up from the paper. "Avery, Naigle, Nott, and Crabbe."

Narcissa seemed to take this information in stride. "You'll be using the east gardens?" she asked, but it sounded more like a confirmation. "I've had the grounds elves clearing it up for your use." Lucius simply grunted. Her focus changed to the two younger men.

"All prepared for the O.W.L.s?" she asked pleasantly.

"More than prepared," Draco assured her with a groan. "I'm sick of them, already."

"And you, Ryan?" She smiled indulgently at him, maternally, but with a glint in her eye suggestive of Potiphar's wife.

"I'm pretty confident," Ryan admitted smugly, ignoring her leer. He concentrated instead on keeping his persona in check, though he was just as happy the exams didn't really matter to him in the slightest, beyond passing to stay in Draco's class.

Lucius sighed, folded the paper, and rose. "I've some work to attend," he announced. "Draco, if you're so certain that your revision for the O.W.L.s is adequate, you can show me whether you've learned--"

Before he could finish his sentence or the others could rise from the table, a silver salver with a message appeared at Lucius's place. As Lucius picked it up and broke the seal (black, Ryan noticed, but he couldn't catch the shape), they heard a small commotion outside in the foyer.

Parchment in hand, Lucius left to investigate. The look he shot Narcissa clearly communicated a protective streak, as if to say that he would handle everything and to keep the boys out of the way. Ryan watched him exit, remarking to himself that it was easy to see why Draco could be intimidated by the immense capability of his father. Lucius valued control, of the self and one's environment, but Draco had not yet mastered those skills. It was a huge expectation for a teen to live up to, and no wonder it daunted him.

A few seconds later, Lucius came back in. Little about his manner had changed, but to an eye practised at observing human behaviour, he looked slightly agitated.

"Everything's all right," he said first to Narcissa. "I have to go. We should be back in an hour or two." He smiled coldly. "They've found him."

That seemed enough explanation for Narcissa. "Go," she said, receiving a rough kiss before he turned on his heel, shouting for a house-elf in his haste.

When he returned, a couple hours later as he predicted, he was in the company of a number of Death Eaters, including Wormtail. They held a suspiciously man-sized bundle which they brought through the service entrance. Draco, who with Ryan was in the sitting room, watched them wrestle the bundle down the narrow staircase.

"Come on!" Draco said immediately, setting down his book. "We can find out what's happening."

Ryan agreed without hesitation. It was risky, to sneak down to the dungeons to spy, but it was after all what he was there to do. If Draco wanted to help him, well, the boy knew the bowels of the manor better than Ryan did, and could presumably keep them from detection.

They descended the steep stairwell into the wine cellar. Draco listened for a moment at a particular cask, then pulled it aside to reveal a passageway to the dungeons. They sneaked through the dripping, damp earthen halls, lit only dimly by torch light, until they heard voices. Draco gestured to the left and they clambered into an adjacent cell.

"Did you think you'd escape our lord's justice, Igor?" They heard one of the men ask.

"I...I do not know what you mean," answered a deep voice with a heavy, East European accent.

"Of course not, Igor. You planned to return to us all along, didn't you?" the first voice said.

"There...there is no point in resisting our master," the deeply accented voice said without conviction.

"Correct." Draco's breath caught at the sound of his father's voice. "Trent, Snape prepared several potions for us to use even if he couldn't join us when we needed them. I believe there should be a batch of polyjuice just waiting for a final ingredient."

Ryan pulled Draco further into the shadows as the Death Eater passed them on his errand.

"If there is no point resisting, Igor, where exactly did you think you could run?" Lucius said in an icily calm voice as the interrogation started.

"I was not running!" Igor insisted, though his protestation was wholly unconvincing.

"Draco," Ryan whispered. "We should go back upstairs." He suspected the scene would grow far worse. He only hoped Lucius would not decide they should be present, and send someone looking for them.

"I want to hear," Draco insisted. "It must be Karkaroff--don't you want to see what they do to him?"

"Yes, but if they look for us..." Ryan said as quietly as he could.

They didn't get a chance to leave, though, because they heard more footsteps coming toward them. Trent returned with the potions, but as he passed their hiding place, Draco and Ryan could see others with him. Burke had arrived, as had Baddock with Mulciber. Ryan frowned at this change of plans, and waited to find out what it meant.

"Ah, good. Mulciber, you remember our old friend, Karkaroff?" They heard Lucius say.

"How could I forget the traitor who named so many of us in order to go free?" Mulciber's reedy, unbalanced voice drifted into their cell with a cackle. "Crucio!" he shouted without warning.

Karkaroff screamed. Ryan watched Draco, who bit his lips impatiently.

"Mulciber!" a high, thin voice called. "That's no way to treat a guest." Ryan guessed this was Wormtail, though he had never heard Trent speak that he recalled. The screaming ceased.

"We will learn everything we wish to know, Igor," Lucius said coldly. "But all in time. For now, we have a certain use in mind for you." He fell silent.

For a moment, there was no noise in the cell with the prisoner. Then they heard him begin to beg for mercy, whimper, and cry out. Ryan and Draco could only imagine what was happening when they heard him scream in pain.

"Into the potion," Lucius said distinctly. They heard a small "plop" and then a fizzing noise like soda.

"Now, then, Menelaus," Wormtail said, "are you ready to serve your master?"

"It is my greatest honour," Mulciber said with rapt conviction.

"Excellent. See, Igor, how easy it is to know what is right?" Wormtail continued. They heard the sound of metal thudding against skin. A second later, there was the dull sound and accompanying grunt of someone landing on damp earth. "Menelaus, we have a particular mission for you. You must drink this potion and Apparate to this location." A faint crunching sound of parchment echoed through the dungeon. "We want you to create as much havoc as possible--especially against the targets you will find there. Our operatives in the Ministry will meet you to help you escape."

Ryan could hear the falsehood in Wormtail's voice, but Mulciber, mad as he was, did not detect it. On the other hand, Ryan reasoned, he had added intelligence from hearing Wormtail's conversation with Lucius at the Baddock house. He could have laid odds that Mulciber would never survive this mission, especially looking like Karkaroff. For he was certain the potion they referred to was the polyjuice Trent had fetched.

Draco listened, an expression of delight on his face, like a child who has discovered where his parents are hiding his birthday presents. Ryan fought an irrational urge to clamp the boy's mouth shut, so afraid was he for a moment that Draco would reveal their presence. But the young wizard also seemed to realise that now was not the time to pop out of hiding, and remained silent. They heard Mulciber drink; heard Wormtail say, "Now go, quickly;" then watched as two people walked by. One was Mr. Burke, and the other was tall and thin, with short white hair and a curled goatee that did not entirely hide his rather weak chin.

"Now, then, Igor," Lucius took up the narrative. "In the next hour, the entire wizarding world will know you for the traitor you are. You will be seen wantonly destroying Mudbloods in broad daylight, on a busy street frequented by half-breeds as well as wizards, all the while shouting your loyalty to the Dark Lord. Sadly, you won't survive the encounter with the Ministry officials. And since they will believe you dead, no one will look for you."

"We can question you as long as it takes," a third voice said, relishing the prospect.

"I'll tell you anything you wish to know," Karkaroff reasoned, his voice quavering.

"Oh, Igor, Igor, Igor," the third voice said with false warmth. "That takes all the fun out of it."

The dungeon hallway burst alive in white light. Karkaroff screamed.

"Draco," Ryan whispered urgently, "we should leave, now." He slowly unfolded himself from the shadows, waiting for the next break in light bursts.

"I want to--"

"Draco, trust me, this is not good. If they wanted us here, we'd have been invited."

"But--"

Someone fired another spell in the next room. Karkaroff screamed again. The smell of cordite and burning flesh hit their nostrils and Draco turned faintly green. "I think you're right," he said shortly, and they retreated upstairs.

They made it up the steps and outside, Ryan ordering Draco to take deep breaths. Once the fresh air filled Draco's lungs, he fought off the urge to vomit. Ryan held his shoulders, a staying hand against Draco's forehead, just in case, his own breathing a little deeper than usual.

"How well do you know him?" Draco asked Ryan finally.

"Know who?" Ryan said, frowning.

"Karkaroff. You said he was Headmaster while you were at Durmstrang. How well do you know him?"

"Not too well," Ryan covered, remembering in a rush the story he and Dumbledore concocted about his past. "He was already Headmaster, so I only saw him when I was in serious trouble. Shifty git," he said uncharitably. "I always suspected there was something wrong with him." He felt his heart skip as he realised the possible implications to his cover story, but reasoned that they would hardly bother to question Karkaroff about former students.

Draco grinned. "Father asked me a lot of questions about him last year. He ran away from the school when he felt the Dark Mark burn, Father said. They've been looking for him ever since."

"Well, they certainly found him," Ryan said. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Draco nodded gratefully, but then sobered again. "Do you think they'll really kill Mulciber? Or will they help him escape, and make it look like he's dead?"

Ryan shrugged. He couldn't tell Draco what he'd overheard at the safehouse. "Mulciber still seems pretty insane to me," he assessed truthfully. "I don't know how many missions like that they could expect him to perform."

"But--he's as loyal as you or me," Draco argued.

"Yes, but he's also a weak link," Ryan said coldly. "They'll kill him, I bet." He allowed his prediction to sound bloodthirsty. "They've got better servants to help out, anyway," he offered, indicating themselves to mitigate Draco's scowl.

It worked. "I guess you're right," Draco allowed. They agreed to go back indoors before they were missed. If questioned, they could say they had been walking in the garden.

 

 

 

Several hours later, Lucius, Trent, Baddock, and a few others emerged from the dungeons. More Death Eaters had arrived in the meantime, and Lucius invited them all into the drawing room after dinner (at a hastily expanded dining table) for a drink to toast their success. Evidently, the capture of Karkaroff changed all their plans, since more people were there than Lucius indicated at breakfast.

Ryan had taken advantage of the few hours that afternoon, before too many others arrived, to arm himself with his dagger and make ready to escape if necessary. He assured himself that his background would be far from Lucius's mind while questioning Karkaroff, but he dared not assume. He knew better than to try to get to Karkaroff's cell to include the prisoner in his fabrication. He simply had no choice but to wait, and hope.

Some of the Death Eaters clutched copies of the Evening Prophet, which boasted a full-page photo of the slaughter on Cairn Alley. They passed the article around for everyone to read.

"Ministry Officials arrived too late to save ten half-blood wizards on Cairn Alley this morning," the article read, "but were able to put an end to the destruction caused by Igor Karkaroff, lately Headmaster of Durmstrang. Karkaroff, who has been missing since June, 1995. Mr. Karkaroff appeared suddenly on the street and began blasting wizards around him, according to witnesses who survived the attack. 'Karkaroff proved highly resourceful,' said Ministry responder Harmon Ness in an interview after the scene. 'He kept Disapparating and Apparating to avoid being hit by spells. We finally had to concentrate our efforts.'

"Witnesses report that he was extolling the virtues of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during the entire attack, promising death and destruction for all those who sympathise with Muggle-born wizards. Through the heroic efforts of the Ministry, he was subdued, but was, unfortunately, killed before Ministry officials could apprehend him. Mr. Ness of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and members of his team suffered only minor injury, and were released within hours by St. Mungo's staff.

"Igor Karkaroff was suspected of Death Eater activity during He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's rise to power, but was cleared of charges after interrogation by the Ministry. He returned to his native Estonia, and several years later was named Headmaster of Durmstrang school. Karkaroff officiated last year's Triwizard Tournament, held at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but disappeared shortly after that event's tragic final task. He had not been seen or heard from since, until today.

"In the absence of an extradition agreement for Mr. Karkaroff, Prophet reporters asked the Department for International Magical Co-operation whether the Euro-Russian Ministry might hold Britain accountable for Karkaroff's death. We were told only by the Acting Head of Department's secretary, Mr. Percival Weasley, that Acting Head Zifron would issue a statement tomorrow."

"Most of you realise that it was not, of course, Igor himself in Cairn Alley today," Lucius announced triumphantly, "but one of our own who served an important, vital role in our plans to reassert our cause. Raise your glasses, my friends, to our noble, fallen companion: Menelaus Mulciber."

They chorused the dead Death Eater's name with reverence, tossing back their drinks as if he had been lost in a glorious battle, rather than sent on a kamikaze mission.

"However, we have cause to celebrate," Lucius went on. "As you know, we are gathering here in the next few days to conduct a ritual of the utmost importance to our lord and his ultimate goal. Wednesday is the first night of an historic double full moon, a celestial condition necessary for our efforts, and we have procured the final ingredient for that ceremony. And it was accompanied by none other than the traitor, Igor Karkaroff."

The men emitted a ragged cheer.

"Igor provides us, in fact, with two essential parts of our formula," Lucius continued, and several of the men laughed. "In addition to information which I am sure he will be...happy to provide." More laughter. "Please, enjoy my hospitality tonight, and we will prepare for our master's arrival tomorrow."

They broke apart into small groups, drinking and talking like any cocktail party. Draco and Ryan spotted Vincent Crabbe and Malcolm Avery, who joined them. Lucius turned up among them shortly afterward and asked Draco to step out with him briefly.

"What's that about?" Crabbe asked when father and son left the room.

"Probably wants to have a chat, is all," Ryan said glibly, though he wondered. He knew Lucius had every right to talk to his own son, but he assumed the timing had more purpose than just to offer advice or talk from the shoulder. He suspected Lucius wanted to recap everything Draco had observed about Karkaroff during the boy's fourth year, or perhaps show him his progress on the spells he told him to learn. And since they hadn't really had a chance to catch up alone, he suspected Lucius also wanted Draco to report more fully on his activities since his last visit home.

Draco returned about an hour later. Ryan glanced at the clock, seeing that it grew very late indeed. It was nearing midnight and there was no sign of anyone retiring soon.

The Naigles, Notts, and a woman by the name of Crisp all arrived just as Draco came back. Emma, Stelmaria, and Theo joined the group of student Death Eaters.

"Where's your father?" Ryan asked Draco conversationally.

The pale teen shrugged. "He went downstairs again," Draco said, filling the others in quickly as to the good news about the captured traitor. "He wanted to check something, I think."

Ryan thought Draco seemed anxious. He kept glancing at the parlour door as if expecting Lucius back any moment. "Emma, Stelmaria, would either of you like a drink?" Ryan offered gallantly.

"Ooh--yes," Emma giggled. "Um...a Bloody Mary?" she ordered eagerly. Stelmaria asked for a Cabernet.

Ryan went around the rest of the circle as well, taking orders. "Draco, care to help me?" he asked pointedly.

Draco nodded gratefully. "Of course," he agreed, and the two moved away from the little group.

"Something wrong?" Ryan said quietly as they crossed to the bar.

"I'm...not sure," Draco answered.

"What is it?" Ryan frowned at him. He lined up glasses and began to fix the drinks.

Draco caught his lip between his teeth, worrying it. "I think...." He shrugged. "It's probably nothing." He dismissed his misgivings with a wrinkled nose and shaking head.

"What's nothing?" Ryan pressed, trying to sound light, but with a growing dread.

"Well...I didn't tell you because I didn't think anything of it at the time, but Father seemed to find it signifi--"

"Draco, what is it?" Ryan insisted, not needing to hide his exasperation.

"I'm not sure," Draco repeated. "It kind of depends. What exactly are the Seven Houses?"

Ryan's fingers slipped on the glass as he poured Vincent's drink, but he caught himself before spilling. "Where did you hear that name?" he asked with practised calm, though he could feel his heart begin to race. How much time did he have before Lucius figured it out?

"Granger said something about them--in relation to you--that night when I lost the cloak," he explained. "I figured it was some Swedish thing she was on about. I didn't even really remember it until Father asked me tonight."

"What did he ask?" Ryan tried to make it sound a reasonable question. He glanced over at the parlour windows, trying to look casual about it, but exploring avenues to escape if necessary.

"Just the usual," Draco said. "Whether I'd heard anything useful, whether anyone had said something that could be valuable information, so on. He sometimes helps me remember with spells."

Under other circumstances, Ryan would have probed more deeply into the intricacies of Lucius's spellwork, but a sense of danger propelled him back to the central topic.

"So, you told your father everything you overheard..." he prompted.

"Of course. I didn't even realise what I'd heard until he cast Hypnopense on me. But Granger clearly said that the Pelerand family was in one of the Seven Houses. She said it was outside of wizarding society, though, so like I said, I thought that was just some random Swedish dynasty or something."

"But your father said otherwise?" Ryan concluded. 'Tell me, Draco,' he thought. 'Come on, spill it...just tell your friend....'

"No," Draco shook his head. "He just looked sort of queer, and told me to go back to the party. He said he had to talk to Karkaroff again." They piled the glasses on a small tray to take back with them. "So, any idea what that's about?" Draco continued.

Ryan pursed his lips. Yes, he knew exactly what it was about. The phrase triggered something in Lucius's memory--Lucius the historian, Lucius the wizarding author--and even now, he was asking Karkaroff all those questions about his students that Ryan prayed would never matter. Ryan could swear in no less than 200 languages. "I wouldn't worry about it," he told the boy with a self-deprecating smile.

"Are you sure? I mean, I know you've said your family's important, but--"

"No," Ryan assured him, falsely dismissive. "It's nothing to concern you." He wondered how he could manage to slip out, and whether he could get away.

There was no opportunity, however he tried to work himself to the door. So it didn't surprise him when, a few minutes later, Lucius laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Ryan!" He said convivially. "Excuse us, won't you, gentlemen, ladies? There's someone I particularly want Ryan to meet. Would you accompany me?"

"Certainly, sir," Ryan supplied with equal amiability, while in his head he expressed his extreme doubt in Slovenian, Moravian, Mermish, and Centauri. There was no sense revealing himself before necessary, and he had no chance in a room filled with Death Eaters, in any event. He followed Lucius, comforted by the weight of the wand in his pocket, and his knife hilt against his back.

 

 

 

Lucius led him out of the drawing room and down the inlaid floors of the main hall. Ryan had to fight his instinct not to break there, while they were alone, but he aborted the idea instantly when he heard and felt two Death Eaters fall in to flank them behind. They descended the stairwell off the kitchen, into the wine cellar. Lucius moved the cask. Into the dungeons they processed, as Ryan concentrated on breathing evenly, wondering how he could survive this encounter with another Malfoy.

"Nervous?" Lucius asked paternally.

Ryan smiled insouciantly, using the persona for what he thought might be the last time. If anything could save him, perhaps his attitude would convince Lucius to discount the facts. "Because you're taking me to my old Headmaster?" he fired back. "Should I be?"

Lucius laughed politely. "When did you see Karkaroff last?"

Ryan shrugged, noting Lucius's cool demeanour. "At the end of...no, sorry, when he left with the delegation for the Triwizard Tournament," Ryan reasoned, covering his mistake with what he hoped a natural progression of thought. 'Calm down,' he told himself. 'Think! Keep thinking, keep cool. There's time, you can buy time....'

Lucius hummed a response, but said nothing more. They turned down the corridor to the cell where Igor Karkaroff lay.

He was barely recognisable from the doppelganger who walked past Ryan and Draco that afternoon. Mulciber's disguise was still a whole man, the distinguished hair unclotted with dried blood, and the robes he wore were not torn or mired. The real Karkaroff lay on the damp ground, his robes muddy, soiled, and ripped, his arms cradling a head that had been battered. His robe sleeves had slipped to his elbows, and the arms themselves were burned where he had tried to ward off the torture of that afternoon's spell work. His breath rattled in his chest, a sign, Ryan thought, of internal fractures.

Lucius unlocked the cell with his wand and swung the door open. He stepped inside and kicked Karkaroff awake.

"Igor!" he shouted, his jovial tone juxtaposed improbably with his vicious actions. "You have a visitor," he continued over Karkaroff's protests, gesturing with his wand to jerk the man into a sitting position. As he looked up and his head left the shelter of his arms, Ryan saw that the tip of his nose was missing, and unbandaged. It had dried in a black, sticky mess, leaving slits for nostrils that were open, bloody trails. With a sick insight, Ryan realised what they used to complete the polyjuice potion. From the awkward angle of his limbs, Ryan saw that the man's leg was broken, too. He added to his litany in Hawaiian, Mende, and Thai, but outwardly, he shifted his weight to one foot and crossed his arms defiantly, as if happy to see his old professor in such straits.

Karkaroff squinted painfully, unable to open his eyes completely because of the beating and burns. Ryan barely had time to be intrigued that these wizards still resorted to physical violence alongside magical torture, before Lucius circled back to him.

"See?" he continued baiting Karkaroff, and Ryan guessed, Ryan as well. He beckoned Ryan to come forward. Ryan took a small step toward the prisoner, but wary of being trapped, refrained from entering the cell completely. He hoped Lucius would interpret his hesitation as revulsion, but he couldn't afford to care.

"Don't tell me you don't remember your former student?" Lucius demanded with mock surprise. "Ryan, come a little closer, so the...Headmaster," he stressed the word disdainfully, "can remember you."

One of the two men behind Ryan pushed him inside. He stumbled and pretended to fall, seizing the one chance he could think of to save himself. He pitched forward to his knees, landing a short distance before Karkaroff. As he righted himself, he tried to catch Karkaroff's eyes, to give him a signal, any kind of communication, in the hope that Karkaroff might play along.

But Karkaroff was too absorbed in his own fear and pain and misfortune. He met Ryan's eyes, but no spark of recognition registered. He didn't even seem to notice Ryan's wilful attempts. Ryan's every minute expression, flicking his eyes up to Lucius beside him, then back at Karkaroff, his eyebrows speaking words he could not form, seemed to plead, 'Say yes. Just say yes!' But Karkaroff failed to understand.

"I do not know him," he said softly.

"No?" Lucius asked again. "Ryan Pelerand? Your disciplinary problem?"

Karkaroff coughed, and a trickle of blood escaped his mouth. It dribbled into his nearly white, curled goatee. "I have never seen this boy before," he volunteered more firmly.

A muscle twitched in Lucius's jaw, and he seemed satisfied. "Possibly that is because you have never met," he said, and snapped his fingers.

The two men seized Ryan by either arm. From the meaty size of his hands, the one on Ryan's right was Crabbe's father. The other must have been Baddock, as Goyle had not arrived yet.

"He's lying," Ryan immediately protested.

"Why would he lie, when he knows what that would mean?" Lucius countered lazily. "But if you wish me to confirm..." Lucius pointed his wand at Karkaroff and incanted the Hypnopense spell.

Karkaroff's face went slack and his eyes glazed. Lucius instructed him to think of his last three years at Durmstrang, whether any students transferred from Nordskolr, and received a negative answer. Then he asked about students who were constantly in trouble, and Ryan was not among them. Lastly, he asked for Ryan by name or face, and again, Karkaroff denied his existence. After each answer, Lucius shot a knowing look at Ryan, who grew paler by the second. He added Punjabi, Manticorish, and Japanese to his string of profanities.

"Well, unless his memory has been modified," Lucius countered, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice, "one of you is most certainly lying. And I don't think it's Igor, do you? Tell me, Pelerand," Lucius continued, as if in a school room, "what are the Seven Houses?"

Swahili, French, Atlantisian. Breathe. Ryan tried to forestall discovery one more time. It was possible he could still bluff his way out. He shrugged one shoulder to look like he was thinking. "I think it may have something to do with my family's history," he said, sounding confused. "But I don't understand why Professor Kar--"

"I knew I had heard the Pelerand name before," Lucius said, cutting off his protest about not being recognised. "I recalled seeing one of your ancestors named in a history of wizard/goblin conflicts of the eighteenth century. And I knew that the Pelerands were at Hogwarts, a long time ago." He shook his head, his tone growing bitter. "It simply never occurred to me that documents of the time took for granted names that were known not to be true wizarding families. It was only when Draco mentioned the Seven Houses that I remembered." He gestured and the other two wizards yanked Ryan to his feet. Karkaroff sat, forgotten, barely even watching the scene playing itself before him.

"Years, ago, one of my colleagues wrote a book on wizarding relations with other races. Anvasse history is far from my field of study, but he asked me to present it to a publishing firm in my holdings. I still have a copy in my library. Shall I educate you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but flicked his wand. A book materialised in mid-air, hovering at eye level. The gold lettering on the spine read, Shadows in the Hill: Truth, Legends, and History. Ryan adopted his disdainful pose again, as if indulging Lucius's fantasy out of politeness mixed with boredom. With another wave of his wand, Lucius fluttered the pages to the reference. He recited:

"'Though the intricacies of Anvasse society are too numerous to list, indeed, one could spend a lifetime denoting the myriad relationships imaginable, the Seven Ruling Houses clearly constitute the cultural centre of Anvasse life. These Seven Houses, more loosely defined as clans comprising several families of close bloodlines, share the responsibility for leading the smaller, younger houses of less noble blood. The Houses are, in order of their inception: Galador, Sorolor, Tenalon, Nerolon, Celenor, Valanor, and Lorelon.'"

He looked up into Ryan's face, hoping to see a hint that he was getting somewhere. Ryan returned a patient, inquisitive expression, as if he were waiting to find out where Lucius was going. "This is the interesting part," Lucius commented, and went back to quoting.

"'Family representatives in the Council takes turns as its head, an office which long tradition still terms their High King.'" He ran his finger down, skipping ahead. Ryan's pulse rang in his ears. An idea formed in the back of his head.... But Lucius began reading again. "'At the time of writing, the Anvasse have absented themselves from formal wizarding relations for close to sixty years, and are believed gone from the world. However, our last records of the Council indicate that its leadership at the time of separation was in the hands of the Second House, currently led by the Peleranel family, often referred to as "Pelerand" in wizard relations.'"

He paused to regard Ryan's reactions again. Ryan played dumb, hoping against hope that his bluff might work.

"So, you're saying my family name sounds suspiciously like these...Anv...Anvasse things?" he asked, mispronouncing his own language.

Lucius's eyes glittered with cold fire. He snapped the book shut. "Next you will protest that your family must be descended from the Anvasse, but you aren't actually one of them," he announced, correctly guessing Ryan's next move. "But you know as well as I that Elves don't marry outside their own kind. So let us try again, Mr. Pelerand. Did you think you could deceive us indefinitely?"

Ryan set his jaw. Lucius knew. Through the glamour disguising his appearance, despite the explanations and the carefully crafted persona, thanks to Karkaroff's denial, and because of Draco's--Hermione's, poor girl--information, Lucius knew. He might not have remembered his friend's book without the clues, but it was pointless to deny it now. And yet, he couldn't give up...there was yet another possibility. He sighed and looked petulant, as if defeated.

"It was worth a try," he admitted, but quickly added protests as the two Death Eaters seized his arms again. "That's not what I mean!" he said hastily, holding up his palms to stave off any assault. "I mean...Pelerand's not my name." He tried to look abashed. "I've been lying--but not the way you think," he added, his voice rising a little in distress. "I...I'm not rich. Or powerful. My family...I don't have any, anymore. I made up the Pelerand name because I wanted people to think...." He smiled his lopsided smile. "Look, this is just a mistake. I needed a way into Hogwarts--into this organisation. I am a pureblood, really." Once he worked out the details of his story, he babbled on until Lucius silenced him with a word.

Lucius gazed deep into Ryan's eyes, eyes which Ryan made slightly shifty, but not so untrustworthy as to make Lucius think he was still lying.

"A foolish choice," Lucius said slowly. "You should have done better research. So you were never at Durmstrang, is that it?"

Ryan nodded vigorously. "Exactly. So...there's no way he'd recognise me. Look, this is all just a mistake."

"Yes, so you said before. However, that does not discount the fact that you have deceived us, and tried to play me for a fool." He came very close to Ryan's face. " If you are telling the truth, now, which I doubt." He scrutinised Ryan again, his eyes narrowing as he sized him up. "Either way, I cannot afford to take any chances." He paced the damp little cell while the other Death Eaters held their charge in place. "There is a way to find out, of course. I'm afraid I'll have to detain you until then. Call it your initiation."

Ryan laughed. He couldn't help it. "You know, Draco wondered if we'd be initiated. I don't suppose you'll lock him in the dungeon," he said, feeling waves of shock pass over him now that he had bought himself some time.

Lucius did not appear amused. He plunged his hand into Ryan's robe pocket and pulled out the spy's wand, inspecting it lightly. Then, levelling his own wand at Ryan, he intoned with perfect clarity. "Crucio."

Pain seared through him, cutting his chuckle midstream. The Death Eaters let go and he crumpled immediately, his breath coming in gasping pants as he fought the curse. Every muscle in his body cramped simultaneously, contracting as if trying to compress themselves into the tiniest space possible. It was a thousand times worse than broken bones, deep cuts, even the pain of being stabbed in the knee once. There was no use comparing it to other occasions when he'd been under it--the curse was simply the most excruciating experience ever. Each application was even worse than the preceding one, pain so maddening it was death to endure it, and death would have been a welcome relief compared to it. His eyes clamped shut of their own accord, but the visions against his lids burned in red and purple and white spots from the onslaught.

Ryan bit his tongue trying not to scream. He had no plan not to scream--he couldn't think beyond forcing himself to breathe through the pain--but he simply didn't want to give Lucius the satisfaction. But the unanticipated bite weakened him, and once his jaw unclenched in surprise, the sound ripped forth. Lucius lifted the spell.

"That's for insolence," Lucius said glibly. At his order, the guards picked Ryan back up and frog-marched him to the next cell over. The same cell where he and Draco had eavesdropped that morning. It was still just as empty, but it seemed much smaller when he couldn't leave. The walls down here were rough-hewn rock, windowless, damp, and cold.

"Make our guest uncomfortable," Lucius said angrily, and Crabbe and Baddock went to work while Lucius watched. A punch to the stomach, even harder than the one George landed during their detention, brought him low enough to grab the back of his robes. They tore them off indelicately, without regard for the fabric, leaving him to shiver in the damp with nothing but breeches and boots.

"Well, well," Crabbe the elder said. "What have we here?" He kneed Ryan before he could straighten up and reached across the man's back, confiscating the dagger. He handed it back to Lucius, who inspected it for a moment, but simply nodded at his thugs. This, apparently, was the signal they awaited. As a team, they were not entirely effective, but they made up for it in brute strength.

Ryan resisted his impulse to fight back for a moment, retaining enough composure to wonder if it would damage his hastily crafted new cover story. But by the time Crabbe moved in for a third punch, he had had enough. He fought back.

First, he bent over as if winded, waiting for Baddock to close in. At the right moment, he swung his elbow up and out, catching Baddock in a most sensitive area. Next he flowed into one of his studied and carefully practised kata, meeting Crabbe and using the man's own weight against him. But of course, there was still Lucius.

"Impedimenta," Lucius aimed the spell almost languidly, before Ryan could cross the threshold. Ryan's legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the stone floor with a dull thud, smacking his hands on the stone floor. Crabbe and Baddock exacted their revenge tidily, taking advantage of Ryan's inability to rise. He warded off much of their assault, but he was at too great a disadvantage to protect himself completely. They battered him about his head and torso, bashed his knees and arms, and knocked the wind from his lungs with vicious kicks to his stomach and kidneys. Ryan felt a rib crack before they were done.

"That should do," Lucius called them off after a few minutes. "After all, there is a very slim chance he is in fact simply a foolish boy with delusions of grandeur." He locked the cell with his wand, conjured a chair outside the cell doors and sat, then levelled his wand at Ryan again. "But somehow, I don't think so." He held up the dagger in his left hand. "Few wizards actually consider any type of protection other than their wands. It's inelegant to use brute force, don't you think?" He admired the workmanship of the knife hilt. "But this is a superior weapon. I'd venture to say it was not created by Muggles." He addressed his companions, ignoring the fact that he had just insulted them. "Fetch Ollivander and bring him down here. And find Snape--we'll need him to finish up the veritaserum as soon as he arrives." He sighed, turning back to Ryan. "We've but to wait for the potions master, and then we will know the truth, either way."

He sat in silence for a moment, his wand trained on Ryan. He was smart, Ryan thought bitterly. If Lucius had gone upstairs, Ryan could chance a little wandless magic to free himself and get away. But with an armed guard...he might escape the cell, but the dungeon? And even then, the careful infiltration he'd worked so hard to create would be over. Ryan was almost as certain as Lucius that there was no way out, without losing his cover, his life, or both, but there was still a chance. A slight one, no doubt, but a chance. If he could convince them his second story were true--if Dumbledore's faith in Snape was justified--there was still a chance he could salvage the mission.

"I've heard that Elven blood is more powerful than wizard," Lucius said speculatively. "How fortunate it would be, if in addition to a hunted traitor, we could offer the Dark Lord an Elf, as well." He smiled, and the sight of it sent a chill down Ryan's spine that had nothing to do with his bare chest in the cold room.

"An Elf?" he scoffed, covering his shiver with an outburst of scepticism. "Look at me: I'm not an Elf," he argued, allowing some of his anger to come through, justified by the beating he'd just received.

"So you say," Lucius countered. "But of course, if you were, you'd be using a disguise spell. Though your pathetic attempts at defence do belie age or experience," he mused, and Ryan saw that he was trying to get a reaction, trying to make Ryan tip his hand. Ryan concentrated on the pain in his rib, using it to block out Lucius's baiting. "Patience, Ryan," he said in an unctuous tone. "If you're telling the truth, we'll know soon enough. You must admit you're playing a dangerous game. And really," he grinned cruelly, "it's not half so unpleasant as what some of us have been through. I'm much more forgiving than the Dark Lord, after all. Besides," he sniffed appraisingly, "you should have known we would challenge your background eventually. I can understand lying to secure a position, but once we accepted you into our circle, why didn't you come to me and admit the truth?" Lucius laid out in perfect logic the holes in Ryan's explanation. His eyes grew cold, and his tone slightly sarcastic. "After everything I have done, this is how you repay me?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and Ryan sensed that he was playing a role to match Ryan's story, but that he did not believe him for a moment. "No, no," he concluded. "I'm sure you are learning a valuable lesson."

Ryan reminded himself to hang on, to continue playing the angry young man from the (now) wrong side of the tracks. He glared at Lucius, adopting the expression of a child who has been caught, rather than a man in fear for his life. 'Please,' he prayed, all the while, 'Please let there still be a chance.'