Chimaera of Judgement



CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: Tidying

None of them knew how long they waited in the secret armory. Albus, for his own part, scarcely remembered when Rose had recovered enough breath to find her way over to them, or the precise words when she cried out at the sight of Malkin's corpse.

The first memory he could bring into focus after Jezabel had impaled their fellow student was the bookcase bursting inward and Headmistress Sprout, Professor Longbottom, Professor Finch-Fletchley, Professor Flitwick and - of all people - Mr Urran flooding into the room. It was the sight of the caretaker's well-buffed pate catching the light from the torches that made him snap out of it - what was he doing there? Then Longbottom's hand was in the crook of his arm, pulling him along behind the others, back through the bookcase, the room beyond and into the cold corridor of the dungeons.

Of course, the dungeons. It seemed more than logical to Albus now, but in all the confusion of ropes being Portkeys and fellow students being murderous blackguards he hadn't really given much thought to their location. Ages passed as they ascended several floors, maneuvered around a gargoyle and ascended a staircase to land in the Headmistress's office.

Professors talked at length, which is perhaps what they do best. Caspian did the lion's share of answering their questions, filling in the ugly blanks about the boy who loosed demons on their school, and Jezabel was able to squeak out the few bits he couldn't remember (once she had been fed the antidote end of a Fainting Fancy). Nothing went through to his mind. All he could do was stare at Jezabel, watch her sobbing onto the red, shining surface of the bauble she had confiscated. Once registering that Rose hadn't been choked to death, it was all he could think about : how Jezabel had again borne the brunt of someone's wrath, and in the end had to be the one to put a stop to everything by getting blood on her hands. That struck him as unfair on so many levels he didn't know whether to be outraged, saddened, or both at once.

Finally, one subject came through that he could not block out.

"...and of course, we'll have to announce Malkin's fate to the students," Professor Flitwick was squeaking out, eyes downcast and brow furrowed. "Unpleasant topic, yes, but I think it's only right they-"

"Please, don't," Albus blurted out before he had a chance to think. "That is, er... can't it wait?"

"What's that, Mr Potter?" Longbottom asked. "To what end?"

He fidgeted, staring at his shoes; too many authority figures were watching him intently. "Come on... it's all so horrible, I can't... does it have to be made public knowledge so soon?"

"Afraid so," Sprout said, leaning across her desk and sighing. "A student has been killed - hoisted on self-made petard or not, it's a tragic loss and your peers have every right to know what's happened to him. It would be irresponsible to leave it for later."

"No, it's not that- see, all of us, we can't-"

"I think what Al's trying to say," Rose began, coming to his aid, "is that we don't want everyone throwing blame around and pointing fingers, especially at us. I... I know I've lost so much time so that nothing matches up in my head. It feels... feels like I've gone mad. Incurably mad."

Peele pursed her lips. "There's no stopping the whirlwind of rumours, Weasley. Delaying the inevitable-"

"May be wise," came a voice from the wall. All looked up in time to see a crooked-nosed, white-haired old figure edge into his portrait. "From what I glean, having been, I am ashamed to say, listening in on what may not be an old wizard's business, these four young bodies have been through enough to be going on with this day, and a, er... 'buffer' of sorts may be just the thing."

"Forgive us, Albus," Flitwick said at once, causing Albus to blink in confusion, "but at the cost of withholding information from those whom have a right-"

"What right do they have?" Albus Dumbledore immediately responded, cutting off his former colleague as he stared down at him through half-moon spectacles. "The right to begin gathering a lynch mob as soon as the unwelcome words have left Professor Sprout's lips? Perhaps so, but it will do no real good. Conversely, a day of peace for the impromptu hand of justice and her accomplices will do no real harm."

To Albus's surprise - the younger Albus, that is - their Headmistress began to smile. "Still trying to protect the Potter bloodline, as always."

"Oh, is there a Potter present?" the portrait said glibly, winking down at his namesake. "I hadn't noticed."

This truly was a day for firsts, because for once, Albus found he didn't mind carrying around the name of the greatest wizard of the preceding century.

After a few more minutes of furious discussions as to whom would be coaxed into breaking the news to the Malkins, where they would be keeping the body, the fate of the Chimaera itself, what Madam Pomfrey would be able to do for Caspian and when Mr Urran should start trying to scrub the blood off the floor of the spare armory, the office began to empty of all staff. One professor held back, if only for a moment.

"Potter," Longbottom whispered. Albus didn't have time to answer before he felt something soft being foisted upon him. "Well done."

It was, of course, the Cloak. When Albus's head jerked up, agape, the elder merely shook his head, beaming with pride. Then he was gone as well, leaving the remaining three students alone with a sizable hunk of Honeydukes chocolate the headmistress had conjured for them. No one touched it; though they knew it may make them feel better, it didn't feel as if they should be feeling better after the evening they'd underwent.

"Chin up, lad," the portrait of Dumbledore said cheerfully. "You've done admirably."

"I'm not Harry," he said at once. "Don't think you're congratulating your student on another quest completed."

A chuckle - how could he be laughing? "My boy, did I ever say you were? Though if I am permitted, it is interesting the way blood will out."

"And what do you know about it?" he snapped. He was being petulant without cause, but he had to be angry at someone, and this painting that wouldn't keep silent had elected itself. Great wizard or not, where did he get off? "You think it was all a great chess match? That I put Malkin in checkmate, and Jezabel knocked his king over? Never in my life have I been put in a situation like- like... and there were so many ghosts, and I was running for my life, and all the blood-"

"Tut, tut, tut," Dumbledore soothed. "You speak as if I've never found myself in a pickle. Believe me, there have been countless times, given the choice, that I'd have gladly traded my wand and Galleons for a Muggle's keyring and billfold. But the Fates had other plans."

"Then the Fates suck!"

"Watch it, boy," snapped another portrait with a long, greasy curtain of hair. "Inject a dose of respect into those words; you are speaking with a legend." He paused, satisfied with Albus's thunderstruck face, then squinted at Jezabel's half-hidden face. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"No, I'm sorry, but you can't expect me to be so, to- to take it in stride, like I should have been expecting this all along! My Potter birthright! Has everyone been waiting on tenterhooks for me to find some way to stir up a little more glory for my family, is that it? My father-"

"From the moment your father was born, he was - accidentally, on the wizarding world's part - trained to accept loss and disappointment as normal, and tranquility and contentment as treasured gifts that were few and far between. For him, though he could not have expected to be a Dark wizard's target and spent many days crying out to the heavens and cursing his lot, the transition was somewhat eased by such a pitiable upbringing." The old man steepled his fingers, expression no less warm than it had been throughout their entire conversation. "You, meanwhile, have led the fairly standard, bump-free life of a young wizard in an era of peace. Dark Lords and Death Eaters are harrowing tales from History of Magic for you and your generation. Yet here you are, having locked horns with a boy who may very well have grown into the next Voldemort, and your heart beats, your lungs expand and contract, and apparently your nostrils flare in indignation. I'd say you have done well, Potter or no Potter.

"That goes for all of you," he continued, beaming down at both Rose and Jezabel, who for the first time glanced up from the tyet. "Weasley lineage going strong into this millennium, I see."

"Oh, what did I do?" Rose laughed harshly. "Got possessed and nearly let myself be strangled. Probably would have done better to have stayed in bed this morning."

"Nonsense," he admonished. "The final result of one's actions do not always reflect the actions themselves. But in this case, they do. Perhaps your greatest use was as a decoy, which is less than bolstering, I am sure. Ask yourself this: if you had not been there for Mr Malkin to manipulate, for him to divert his attentions between you and the others, would any of you be sitting around, debating whether or not you should eat some of that fine mountain of chocolate down there?" Dumbledore sighed, staring wistfully at the candy. "Ahh, if only I could have but a single corner of it. Alas, I cannot, for I am a bit dead. Perhaps, if I had allowed a certain elder Potter to intervene instead of making so much effort to hide him that I ended up facing Voldemort's forces alone and wandless, I would not have been blown off the mortal coil at such a time - or in such an undignified fashion. A swan dive, I ask you?"

At this, Rose lapsed into silence, grudgingly admitting to herself that it was possible she wasn't merely in the way.

"As I seem to recall," said yet another portrait from nearby, "you once bragged without shame that the end you met was 'spectacular and necessary'?"

"I said no such thing, Phineas," Dumbedore blustered. "Necessary, of course, but in no way-"

"I'm sorry, sir," Jezabel spoke up, voice strained and raspy from crying. Albus lowered his gaze, unable to see those eyes in their current state. "But... what have I to be proud of? I've just k-kill- killed someone. I killed him, I killed him!"

"He killed himself, my gentle Bellerophoness," the portrait soothed. "Do not for a moment allow yourself to believe he would have passed on gently of old age one day in spite of his odious interests. Opprobriously, your elders could not be counted upon to take care of such a matter before it got out of hand, but such has been the case before. Youth shall inherit the world, or, er... some such rot, the exact phrasing escapes me. A crisis arose, and you did not yield, did not hide."

"But I- but I'm-"

"A Muggle-born Slytherin," he finished flatly for her, eyes rolling in an overdramatic manner. "And the daughter of a Death Eater, and a House-switching banshee, and too meek, and too quiet, and a score of other shortcomings that are quite obviously moot because you mastered your fears and reservations and protected those closest to you! Commendation rather than condemnation is in order, young lady!"

"Listen to the man, Miss Skirrow - he's been known to stumble across the truth when it matters most," said an elderly woman with square-framed spectacles. "By the time I'd left that Muggle household of yours, I knew you would grow to be an exemplary witch in due time. Glad to find my insights didn't taper off toward the end of my years."

Her voice caught. "Y-you knew I-"

"Shame about that nasty mis-Sorting," she continued, clucking her tongue. "I'd like to think, were I still alive, I'd have noticed something amiss and put it right - after all, Gryffindor is written all over your face. Plain as day to me, young lady."

Perhaps her tears stemmed the slightest bit from the last painting's comforting, but what she said next was directed at the late Headmaster Dumbledore. "How do you know so much about me? Are my secrets that widely known now?"

The man's two-dimensional shoulders shrugged. "I know what young Albus's father knows. Perhaps you knew another portrait of myself hangs in his abode?" When she didn't answer, he chuckled. "Or not. An old codger's number of replicas can't be of any note to one with so many burdens of her own."

The three of them issued a collective sigh. The man was well known for his keen intuition, of course, and deep within their hearts they knew he was at least partially right. However, coming from a frame on the wall the sentiments held less weight. The world was still a dark place, and felt as if nothing would ever be the same.

"Now then," he continued anyway. "Have a nibble of that chocolate. I daresay all the spells you've been firing and had fired upon you have taken a toll on your reserves. Honeydukes, isn't it?"

o o o

True to the late and former Headmaster's suggestion, there was no formal address over breakfast the next morning. Anyone with a teaspoonful of awareness could tell that all among the staff, as well as the few Gryffindors privy to the previous evening's gruesome happenings, were dragging along personal clouds of gloom everywhere they went. Without details, the few who weren't imitating ostriches had nothing more to go on than an eerie feeling that brought about a slight frown.

Also, a few students did wonder at the disappearance of Caspian Lewis, Professor Dryden and Atticus Malkin. Shouts of spattergroit could be heard anew in the corridors, but a schoolwide announcement from Madam Pomfrey around lunch ("What will it take to educate you children?! One cannot relapse into SPATTERGROIT!") mostly put those to bed, though the mutterings only grew stronger with no alternate explanations of their actual fates.

However, those who weren't in fifth or seventh year still had the results of their final exams to fret over, so the majority of the castle's population laid aside their suspicions in favour of pacing furiously and hoping they wouldn't find displeased parents berating their academic performance upon their return; somehow, the teachers' proclamations that the results did not come out for weeks afterward were of no aid. Yet no answer came, and especially the fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins couldn't stave off the niggling doubts. Were the ghosts still attacking, even without their tsar on premises? Was the real perpetrator still at large? It made a wizard wonder...

o o o

Those with the knowledge to soothe their classmates' fears were not very forthcoming. In fact, they weren't even speaking to each other. Watching a peer die in front of you, no matter how little you cared for him, leaves a lasting impression. No amount of Honeydukes chocolate or reassuring words would erase the sight of a rusted old blade sticking through Malkin's chest, and it was going to be a while before it stopped haunting their dreams. Without being able to sleep or eat, three students who'd survived the encounter spent that day blundering around in a sullen fog, wondering if a Memory Charm was in order. It had to be better than living with the visions of death.

That evening was an uncomfortable affair in the Gryffindor fifth-year boys' dormitory. One bed was conspicuously empty, Albus could scarcely look at anyone, and Macmillan and Logan, having warmed to Albus a bit more over the past year, insisted on knowing why. Eventually, Wayne - thinking it was somehow partly his fault they had landed where they had - muttered something about having unequivocally blown one of his O.W.L.s and drew his curtains. Unsatisfied, Ryan turned on Albus.

"I don't buy that for a moment," he told him under his breath as Logan left to wash up. "Something's afoot in Gryffindor Tower."

"Paranoid, Macmillan?" Albus snorted. "The way you prance about, you must have laid your O.W.L. anxieties to rest."

"Figure there's no use biting my fingers down to nubs when I won't know jack until Summer. And I appreciate your attempted segue, Alberta, but let's have a drop of truth." He shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning against Albus's bedpost. "Wayne says you practically wrung his hand with gratitude when he told you about some secret room that can zip you off anywhere you want to go - which would be brilliant if genuine, mind you. That have anything to do with your disposition?"

"Ryan-"

A would-be careless grin couldn't disguise his suspicions. "Didn't land yourselves into the middle of the lake or something, did you? Could see that, er, dampening your spirits."

Again, Albus had to resist grinning at him. "The comedy stylings of Mr Ryan Macmillan, ladies and gents."

"It was Dryden, wasn't it?" he pushed in low tones. "He's been the one pulling the ghosts' strings, and you and Lewis caught him at it? Oh, that's rich, that is!"

"Yes and no," he replied grudgingly. "But... you would have been there in the thick of it, wouldn't you? If you'd been the one loitering in the hallway when we were on our way into Hell's mouth. If Rose and Jezabel had been in danger and you'd known of it, you'd have lent your wand."

The impish look that teemed with curiosity ebbed from Ryan's features. "Rose and the Skirrow girl? Wait... did Dryden have both of them chained up? But I thought Wayne said-"

"Wayne isn't big on discretion, I see," Albus said slightly louder than he meant to - and heard the accused's breath halt for a moment through his curtains.

"Who, then?" he asked. "Wayne told us Dryden was in the hospital wing, so unless-"

"Better you don't know, I think. Someone needs a full night's rest around here."

Ryan hesitated, then bent yet lower. "You've probably been wondering why I apologised to you."

It took him a moment to recall what in Merlin's name the boy was on about, but when he did, his brow knit. "Right... ages ago, before Jezabel tried to skive off indefinitely. I had wondered, but with everything that's-"

"Maybe you remember just before I did?" he went on. "We had Care of Magical Creatures that day, and you seemed not to enjoy the invisible steeds as much as the rest of us."

"Thestrals," Albus grunted, lip curling.

"The Slytherins were deriving an obscene amount of joy from your pain. Some of our own classmates - who shall remain nameless - were among the jeering. For whatever reason, watching them blurt a lot of the nasty thoughts that were passing through my own head made me realise that... perhaps there are times when trading insults is just insulting."

"Deep thinking, there."

Ryan grimaced, standing straighter as he brushed a stray lock of hair from his eyes. "They took the words right out of my mouth, over and over, and a block of wood could tell you weren't enjoying it. I'd always assumed, given the way you fired back without hesitation, that our razor-edged banter was heightening our preparedness - as I told you then. Yeah, watching you take their ridicule sent my mind back to our detentions in the Forbidden Forest, and the things you said to me there."

Albus, again, had to think. "What did I-"

"You called me out on it - that what, to myself, was merely a game felt like agonising torture to you. Which spoke highly of my witticisms, but less so of me as a wizard. And then, listening to the Slytherins... well, it doesn't always take a prophecy."

Staring up at what he'd once viewed as a sort of rival, Albus could understand and appreciate the effort this took. Ryan was doing his best to sound uninvested and conversational to offset the meaning of his words, but it wasn't working all that well. There was a question that stood out more than how grateful he was that his bunkmate had had such a change of heart, however, and it had to be given voice.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"I want you to see that you can trust me," he said stubbornly. "With anything. Just because I used to take the mickey for sport doesn't mean I'd betray you in hopes of a laugh. You, your extended family and the ex-Slytherin are in on this. You owe me the truth; I helped you go find her once."

Albus snickered at the memory of a feigned interest in gillyweed and a gaseous discharge. "You did. And I promise, you'll get all the lovely details soon enough, but suffice it to say everyone from our House is safe. Cor, even Dryden's safe, more or less. Now, please, I'd like to pretend to be asleep for as long as possible or I'll be dead on my feet in the morning." It was even harder to sleep with the burns on his arm tinging, but he kept that to himself.

Ryan nodded to himself, rose, and called over his shoulder, "Might take a bit of valerian root - should have some in your kit. But I don't need to tell the next president of Future Potioneers of England that, now, do I?"

These words were scarcely out of his mouth when the door opened and Logan said, "Hey Ryan, your mum asked me to hand this off to you."

Ryan snatched the small scroll of paper and glanced down it, sighing. "Damn. She must have finally heard I could only half-Transfigure my doorknob into a dormouse; still had a bit of a roundish head."

"Your mum's in the castle?" Albus asked, glad to no longer be discussing either Malkin's death or his own performance in Potions.

"Always is," he laughed. "We've been suffering through classes with her every Tuesday and Wednesday this year, dunce cap, how could you have missed it?"

"Every Tues- wait, you're having me on. Your mother is Professor Abbott?!"

Both Ryan and Logan frowned at him, and Ryan said, "Albie, you continue to find new and exciting ways to make sheet rock come off learned."

o o o

Sleep avoided Albus as if he'd caught the Black Death. Every moment his eyes were closed, flashes of blood rolling down the front of green-and-silver-decked robes replaced what he'd normally have been seeing. There came a point where he simply had to get out.

A quick walk in his father's cloak later found him up the West Tower, in the Owlery. It was a spot no student frequented - indeed, if Albus were to hazard a guess, this might have only been his third or fourth visit. It may have had something to do with the stale smell of droppings and dead rat coming from the straw floor, but the wind whistling through the many open windows aided in keeping the worst of it from lingering. To his mild disappointment, all but a handful of the school owls and students' pets were gone, down in the forest hunting for their meals. A quick search revealed Dobby was among the absent.

"Yes - dreadfully lonely place, this."

Albus whipped around, wand raised. "Wh... what?"

"Sorry, my dear lad," Sir Nicholas chortled merrily, hands raised. "I in no way meant to give you a fright - although, one might offer that such unmalicious intentions makes me quite a poor spectre."

"Sorry." He pocketed his wand, rubbing the back of his head with the other hand. "What are you doing up here?"

"Looking for you, if you'll believe. Or if not, then perhaps I'm avoiding Peeves - he's been more of a handful than I care to endure of late. Something about being robbed of his ability to threaten the students on his own terms... I think it's convinced him he must redouble his efforts."

"Great," Albus laughed. "Something to look forward to next term. So you weren't looking for me at all, then?"

"Well... yes, and no."

"Come again?"

Nick paused, drifting over to a window and looking out over the grounds with his hands clasped behind his back. "I'm... an old ghost, Young Potter. Not that it has much bearing on my vim and vigor, but I've been drifting about these hallowed halls for quite some time. Most of my emotions consist of joy, anger, irritation, sadness, and pride, and even these are somewhat watered-down by an ever-present boredom. Only once since my untimely demise by clumsy beheading - a rare instant in your father's second year - can I truly recall feeling the sensation I've been coping with for the past several months: fear."

"Mmm." Albus leaned his elbows against the next sill over, glancing sidelong at his House ghost. "I guessed you'd have been just as scared as we've been. They were threatening to exorcise you and your mates."

"More than that, my boy, more than that. Yes, it would have been awful to have all four House manifestations wiped out by one cocky young Turk with no regard for the well-being of his peers." He paused, sighed, and turned mistier-than-usual eyes toward his young companion. "But far worse to hang on as an instrument of evil, with no will of your own, no say in the matter, helping to spread misery and mayhem. No, if you hadn't put a stop to his scheme, I would have gladly let Mr Fane destroy what's left of our souls."

"What? But, no, that's- that's crazy, you can't really mean you'd willingly-"

"Yes, I can, and I'll tell you right now that my comrades-in-translucency wholeheartedly agree. That's no way to live your afterlife; better to move on. But I would like to sincerely thank you and your friends for your part in stopping the insanity. For the sake of us and the innocent students, I'm glad you stuck your nose in."

Albus nodded meekly, unable to find a ready response to that. "All right. But... why are you just approaching me?"

"Because one of you is snoring quietly," he sighed, "another is lingering out on the grounds where I cannot reach, and still another is in the prefects' bath, where only Myrtle has the gall to snoop uninvited."

With a laugh, Albus turned and leaned back against the window. "Well, tell the others they're more than welcome. I'm just glad they hadn't already destroyed you before we sorted it - that would have felt like an awfully hollow victory."

"Merlin forbid," Nick laughed, waving a hand as he levitated toward the centre of the room. "I'll leave you to your thoughts."

"Nick?" The spirit paused halfway through the floor, and Albus shrugged. "I'm... glad I stuck my nose in, too."

Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington beamed up at him, adjusted his ruffled collar, and sank out of sight.

o o o

"How's tricks?"

Albus didn't bother to turn around at Rose's words, continuing his slow walk toward the Great Hall and the noonday meal it promised. Whether or not he would be able to touch a bite was off the point. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Yes, because it would be unusual for us to bump into each other at the school we attend," she said snarkily. "Come on, give us a smile."

He shook his head, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "What have we got to smile about? None of us can stand the sight of each other because the last sight we all saw was Malkin."

"Maybe it was, but... it was his own bloody fault. If I hadn't been possessed by one of his ghosts at the time, robbed of all control, I might feel a tad sorrier. The toerag had it coming." Nevertheless, the sigh that followed was shaky. "And aside from that, moping around and replaying it on my mental Omnioculars has lost its charm by now. Life goes on."

"And so do we," he finished for her. "Forgive me if I'm not over it at the snap of your fingers."

"You don't have to be. I just think it's mad to dwell and shut everything else out."

There was a certain kind of sense to what she was saying, but Albus wasn't as ready as his cousin to brush aside recent trauma and bask in the sunshine. Atticus Malkin was the second person ever to expire in front of him - second within the span of a year, yet - and the circumstances were about the worst on the list of sticky ends to witness. He took a quick glance at Rose, at the fading ugly bruises along her neck, and turned resolutely away.

"I'm not really hungry," Albus found himself saying. "Think I'll go out for a bit of air."

"Sounds good to me, too."

He gritted his teeth. "You sure you don't have something better to do?"

"Not a thing."

Rolling his eyes as he pushed open the huge double-doors to the grounds, Albus wondered just what it would take to rid himself of a red-haired pest for an hour or two. As it happened, however, the twosome would not only remain so, but grow in size.

"Isn't that Jezzy over there, by the lake?"

Rose wasn't wrong; sitting on the grass several strides away from Dumbedore's white tomb was Jezabel, staring down into her hands with her back to them. She was close enough to gaze over the lake but not so near as to risk falling in. One or two other students were casting furtive looks in her direction, taken aback that the usually solitary creature was out of doors on a beautiful summer day. Albus also found himself curious at this change in behavioural habits. He led the way over.

"Hey there, Jezabel. Mind some company?"

"Yes," she said in a bland tone of voice. "But I don't suppose that would keep you away, would it?"

He couldn't resist a smile; was she joking with them? "No."

"Then sit."

As they did so, Rose asked, "What's that you've got there?"

"The envelope," she whispered, turning it over in her hands. The tiny letters still spelled out "J.E.S." in green, and it was still sealed. "I've been pondering its contents."

"We might cut to the chase and open it."

Miraculously, her humour seemed to continue. "Ahh, but that would involve logic, now, wouldn't it?" She sighed, looking down at her Mary Janes. "You know, I almost lost these... when Malkin took them. If you'd found a way to cut me loose without activating the Portkey and we'd never found-"

"Yeah," said Albus. "Those and your wand. I rather think the wand's more important."

A strained laugh. "Shows what you know. This wand was given to me with my free education; I didn't even pick it out at a wand shop, they just issued it to me. Although, being a witch or wizard's primary tool I of course have grown quite attached, don't misunderstand. But these shoes..."

It was impossible not to smile at her sentimentality. "That'd make Mum glow with pride, it would."

"I don't know if I do want to know what's in it," she went on as if never having remarked about her shoes. "What if it's the final details of how I came to be conceived, in grim and grisly detail? What if it's some- some ghastly task my late mother has set me? I could be commissioned to kill your father once and for all, make up for what she and Voldemort could never accomplish!"

"And I assume once you receive marching orders, you'll carry them out straightaway?" Rose asked with a snort. "Come on, even if you are supposed to snuff the great Harry Potter, how's a ruddy piece of parchment going to make you do it?"

Albus's throat contracted. In their not-so-distant past, being tapped on the nose had sent her into a coma. Then there was the more recent conundrum of spectral possession; all three of them had fallen victim to that. Rose meant well, but her comments came off chilling rather than calming - pieces of parchment could do just that and more in the wizarding world, and they both knew it.

"Just do it," Rose insisted when she saw both his and Jezabel's expressions mirrored each other. "Ripping off a bandage, yeah? Best do it all at once so the pain doesn't last as long. And you never know; it could be the deed to your premises, or the password to open up your safe in Gringotts, or something else of equal mediocrity."

Jezabel glanced at Albus, corners of her mouth turning down. For the sake of Rose and his own curiosity, he forced himself to appear to agree with his relation's mindset. In truth, he was afraid the letter would blow up in their faces, or age them thirty years instantly, or turn them into a three-headed beast, but they were at Hogwarts; if something hurt them publicly in the middle of the grounds, at least one student enjoying the day would rush inside and alert a teacher. Atop that, Hagrid was sitting on the steps of his cabin, throwing birdseed to what may or may not have been normal birds. Though his magic was spotty and less than Ministry-approved, he could at least send up a flare to bring help rushing their way in seconds. Better here than anywhere.

"Go on," he told her. "Might be nothing at all."

Hands shaking with anticipation, Jezabel's long, thin index finger found its way under the corner of the envelope's lip and slid across, breaking the official Ministry seal. Slowly, she pulled out the parchment and shook it open-

And it immediately began to glow blue. The light wasted little time flowing from the page up Jezabel's arms, finally lighting up her long, tangled hair like a Tannenbaum before fading way, leaving her expression distinctly taken aback.

"Jez?" Albus asked. "What's wrong?"

"We..." A quick swallow as she glanced between the two of them. "We have to get out of Hogwarts."

END Chapter Fifty-One

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