Not Quite a Maia

Manwë sat in the beautiful garden off the Hall of Reception where he had welcomed Master Longbottom and Lady Molly. Trailing his fingers through the clear water of the fountain, his brow furrowed in concentration as he strained his senses towards the endless void of Time and Space.

"What dost thou sense, beloved," enquired the soft voice of his wife from the archway to his right.

He replied with a question of his own. "Dost thou not feel it?"

She approached him and took a seat on the edge of the fountain. "I feel naught but thy skin beneath my touch," she informed him, clasping his free hand in her own.

"And yet I tell thee that something is amiss in the Void," he said. "I have suspected it since thy Chosen One departed for the home of the Shipwright. There are forces at work that ought not to be - a Presence..."

He trailed off, frustrated at his inability to perceive what normally came to him easily.

"Presence? Dost thou sense Olórin - perhaps he returns to us?"

"Nay. It is not Olórin - at least, I do not believe it to be him. The very nature of the Presence makes it difficult to perceive clearly. I sense confusion, concern."

He tore his gaze from the tumbling water as she knelt before him, taking his hands in her grasp and kissing them tenderly.

"There is no other it could be but Olórin, my love. No other Wizard travels through Time and Space at present but he, for we have called the only others to our aid."

"Would that it were so, wife. Do not forget the manner in which they were able to carry their staffs of power and other possessions with them," he said enigmatically.

Varda's head rose and she gazed at him curiously. "But we did not call any other to accompany them. Carrying possessions on their journey here was necessary - bringing another being is a different matter entirely. Thou dost not believe another Wizard was caught in their travels through Time and Space, surely - one for whom we had not planned?"

"Let us hope not. For if that be the case, they have been stranded in the Void for many days and will remain so, unless we send them back or allow them entry."

She rose and took a seat next to her husband once again. "We cannot send them back unless they complete their journey here first. To do so would be fatal."

"I am aware of this. Yet we know nothing of this person. We have not vetted them for entry and do not know their character."

"Take heart, my love: it cannot be a person of evil intent, for they would have required too intimate a proximity with Master Longbottom or Lady Molly - a feat unlikely if they slumbered in the safety of their homes now that their own war is over."

Varda paused momentarily, mulling over the identity of the unexpected visitor while her husband continued to trail his fingers through the water.

"The boy is young and has not the aura of one who is wed," continued the beautiful Vala. "I do not believe any errant traveller followed him here...but the daughter of Prewett has a husband."

She trailed off, aghast at the ramifications and her hand flew to her throat in shock. "Alas, that I had not thought to warn her to keep separate chambers for the night!"

Manwë now clasped his wife's hand, in order to comfort her. "It is done now, beloved. There is naught we may do to revoke it while he wanders still in the Void. We must allow him entry. And once he is here, he will not wish to leave lest he take his wife with him - for that is how I would feel."

She attempted a smile as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, echoing her own actions from mere minutes ago.

"Then we have a dilemma, husband. Ought we to send him after her, that he may aid in the Fellowship's protection? The gift of another Wizard may be too tempting to cast aside. Or should we keep him here until her quest is over, lest his concern for her hamper her efforts as Guardian to the Chosen One?"

"Let us first ascertain if he indeed exists where I sense him to be," replied Manwë. "We may evaluate our unexpected guest on his arrival and take proper measure of him at that time."

Rising, he offered his arm to his wife and they entered their halls, heading for the Room of Reception. From there, Manwë called out to the Presence suspended in Time and Space.

And the Valar's surprise was great indeed when the Presence exited the Void at his call - but did not do so in the Halls of Ilmarin.

"Where is he?" asked Varda in some alarm.

"I know not," said her husband, equally concerned. "He should have appeared before us. It is a mystery to me that he does not occupy our Halls, for I have called him to us - and so he must appear! Canst thou explain this mystery?"

Varda's brow creased slightly in reflection. "Nay, beloved. Any being brought to us through the Void from the world of slumber must stand before us before they may continue onwards to Middle Earth."

"And what if they were not caught in slumber when summoned?"

She gasped. "If they did not, and their flesh touched that of our friends' while they were being pulled into dreams - calamity! They would have been pulled through the Void; but although we may free them from it, we have no control over the place of their exit!"

The graceful being began to pace the spacious hall. "If Lady Molly's husband has inadvertently accompanied her, he may be stranded anywhere in Middle Earth - with no idea of where he is or why he has been brought here!"

Manwë's alarm increased at this unfortunate revelation. "But if he is wandering the lands in a time of war - and without his staff - he shall be vulnerable! If anything happens to him, the Lady Molly will be broken. She has already lost a child - to lose her husband would be her undoing!"

"All is not lost, beloved," said his wife, her mind whirring in thought. She halted and turned to face him. "Send for the Windlord. If any can locate our errant guest, it is he. We may pass instructions to Lady Molly's husband through him and give him safe passage to Imladris. There he may wait out the war until he can be reunited with his wife."

The Vala nodded his agreement. "Let it be thus," he declared, leaving the room to call for Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles.

Augusta Longbottom was very upset. After Neville slipped off to bed (surprisingly early), she took a seat in her favourite armchair by the fireplace in the living room, nightly cuppa in hand as she brooded over their earlier clash.

She didn't actually believe the boy was having some sort of unnatural fling with Molly Weasley, for pity's sake, but really! What was all the subterfuge about? Why the necessity for secrets when the war was over? It was highly unnecessary and extremely annoying!

And she knew he was keeping one: it was written all over his face. That little nervous tic that tugged on the apple of his right cheek was more pronounced now, what with the added tension of his scars pulling on it. Not to mention the fact that he hadn't been able to meet her eye since he left for Molly's to degnome the garden earlier that day.

Taking a dainty sip of her favourite brew, she recalled his angry face as he told her he'd be more likely to 'snog' Professor McGonagall than have an encounter with his friend's mother. Perhaps her insinuations had been a little inappropriate; she knew shouldn't have provoked him so, but honestly! If he'd only come clean and told her what the real issue was, she would not have had to resort to such wild accusations. They were, after all, only supposed to provoke him into revealing what was really on his mind.

Unfortunately, her grandson had not received them well and refused to share another word with her for the remainder of the day. Dinner had been a stilted affair, with polite nods of thanks afterwards and a perfunctory goodnight peck on the cheek from him before he retired.

How she hated it when they quarrelled!

Sometimes, she rather regretted his growing a backbone. Not that he could help it, of course - he was a Longbottom after all.

Now, as she sat before the fireplace, partaking of her evening ritual (alone), Augusta wondered if she should perhaps owl the Weasley matron first thing in the morning and find out from her what was on her grandson's mind. She was just debating the merits of such a course of action, when the whoosh of a Firecall interrupted her.

"Augusta? Are you alone? Excellent. I need a word if you please."

The crisp Scottish brogue of Hogwart's Deputy Headmistress pulled the elderly witch from her contemplations. "Good heavens, Minerva, you startled me! Is something the matter? Won't you come through and share a cup of tea?"

"That's very kind of you, Augusta, but no. I really can't spare the time."

Well, suit yourself.

"I see," replied Augusta primly. "Well, then, what can I do for you at this time of night?" she asked, deliberately exaggerating the lateness of the hour after the rebuff of her kind invitation.

But Minerva obviously had no time to stroke the ego of an offended party, and she got straight to the point. "Do you have any idea what your grandson could possibly want with the Sword of Gryffindor? Oh, I've given it to him of course - how could I not after he proved himself so worthy of it. He did promise to return it in the morning, but he wouldn't tell me why he needed it despite intensive questioning and I've been rather concerned all afternoon about his intentions. I did call earlier to ask you about it, but you were not at home."

Augusta's teacup clattered onto its matching saucer. "The Sword of Gryffindor?" she asked, almost dizzily. "The Sword of Gryffindor? Gracious, Minerva, why on earth did you give him that without determining his purpose with it? Do you regularly hand out weapons to children?"

Her mind was buzzing with more questions about her devious grandson than ever before and, in her concern, she fairly snapped at the head of her friend as it floated in the green flames.

"I most certainly do not, Augusta, as you are well aware," retorted the visiting witch, irritated. "I assumed that he had your authority - or do you regularly allow him to wander off to do as he pleases? If you can't keep the boy in check, how am I supposed to?"

The frosty reply brought Neville's grandmother back to the conversation at hand. "I apologise, Minerva," she said tiredly. "It's been rather a long day and I've spent most of it trying to get him to tell me whatever's on his mind. I hadn't the faintest idea he'd brought the sword home, let alone why he asked for it in the first place."

"Well, perhaps you should have a chat with him in the morning. I don't think he has anything questionable planned with it - at least I hope not. He's far too sensible a boy to be roaming about the streets swinging it at the first person who annoys him. Nevertheless, I would rest easier knowing his intentions and if you can get more out of him than I could, please be so kind as to let me know that all is well."

Augusta nodded. "I'll call you first thing in the morning after breakfast, Minerva. If I don't know any more by then, then I'm not worthy of the name of Longbottom!"

McGonagall gave a thin smile. "Yes, well, quite. Ahem. You can reach me at the school, then - we're still clearing up the last of the debris from the battle before we can actually start with all the reconstruction. Goodnight, Augusta."

With that, her head vanished and the emerald flames followed suit, leaving the head of the Longbottom family with a lot to think about.

What was the boy up to? Had he discovered the hiding place of some unfortunate Death Eater and was off to give them a richly deserved run-through with the iconic sword (not that she would mind: in fact, she'd be happy to go along and cheer him on)? Was it for some other, less savoury, purpose?

Her hand flew to her chest. Good heavens, he wasn't thinking about doing something stupid, like throwing himself on it? No, surely not! Whatever would he do that for? The war was over. The rest of his life stretched before him to spend however he pleased. He would get a job (preferably as an Auror - she had collected an application form before he joined her for lunch), meet a girl, get married (after she thoroughly vetted his chosen bride - it wouldn't do to have some publicity-hungry, hero-worshipper trying to get a foot over the Longbottom threshold), have fine, sturdy children who were ready to live up to the responsibility of their name, leaving her to die a very happy woman.

Thinking it might be best to get to the bottom of this before breakfast, she grabbed her wand and rose from the comfy armchair, dashing rather nimbly up the hall staircase for one of such advanced years.

Tiptoeing to his room, she held her head to the door, listening for any untoward sounds (such as his scream of agony as he recklessly impaled himself on the glorified knife), but thankfully, all was quiet within.

Perhaps the deed was already over?

Her throat clenched at the thought of the last of the (barely lucid) Longbottoms lying cold on the carpet, having extinguished his life in the difficult aftermath of a war that had robbed him of so many of his friends. She reached a hand out towards the doorknob and watched in detached fascination as it trembled uncontrollably.

Good grief! Get a hold of yourself woman! Shaking her head vigorously, Augusta took a deep breath and chastised herself for her ridiculous flights of fancy. Her grandson would no more kill himself than she would visit that idiot Dawlish in St Mungo's!

Then why did he need the sword? Why all the half-answers to her earlier questions? Were he and Molly Weasley planning something of which she would not approve? But Molly wouldn't dream of such underhanded dealings - surely?

"Right, that's it!" Determined to get answers, she risked her grandson's wrath by turning the doorknob and opening the door itself, thankful she'd had the hinges oiled a few days ago. As the light from the hall spilled into the room, it hit the bed and she saw Neville lying on it, apparently asleep.

Fully clothed.

Clutching a bag?

What the deuce was the boy up to?

Fed up with mysteries, she slipped into the room and walked over to the bed, prodding his shoulder. "Neville? Wake up! I have some questions for you, my lad, and you will answer them before the stroke of midnight or I will see to it that your overgrown cactus finds its way to the deserts of Mexico!"

No reply. Odd: that was one of her favourite threats of the past three years - it never failed to provoke a response.

She shook him again. "Neville Longbottom, wake up this instant!"

Still no answer. His eyelids fluttered and she bent over to yell in his ear, brushing his shaggy hair over his forehead to get better access. First thing tomorrow, she would need to trim the shockingly long locks hanging over his ears, so she could...

Her thought processes froze as, suddenly, she felt her finger tingle violently where it touched his skin. Augusta tried to pull it away but it stuck to him like glue and before she could so much as utter a disapproving remark on his fondness for disgracefully viscous hair gel, she dropped to the floor and her head landed on the side of his bed.

She was unconscious.

Augusta landed inelegantly in a prickly briar patch. Grateful that no one was around to witness her less than auspicious entry to...wherever she was, she pulled herself free from the irritating plants and brushed herself off.

What the deuce had happened? And where was her grandson?

Her eyes scanned the immediate surroundings. It appeared she was in some sort of valley, with snow-capped mountains rising up on either side. A river flowed through it further down the slope.

Good heavens! Had she been port-keyed to the Lake District? By her grandson's forehead? And where was the devious child?

Taking cautious steps to descend the slope, she arrived at the bottom and tried to spot any sign of her errant charge.

"Neville? Neville? Where are you, boy?!"

There was no reply.

How very irritating! What the devil was he up to, skipping off to the Lake District in the middle of the night?

Except that it wasn't the middle of the night - it was the middle of the day. The sun shone weakly in the sky and a crisp Winter's breeze ruffled at her tightly pinned bun as it made its way up the valley.

It was all very odd.

How was it possible to go from one place to another instantaneously, only to arrive at a completely different hour of the day? Had she been port-keyed to Australia?? What the devil did her grandson want there? The place was full of spiders, snakes and people of very questionable taste (anyone who could wax lyrical about the virtue of a highly suspicious Muggle vegetable spread was, in her opinion, touched in the head).

Well she would not stand here gaping like an idiot while her only grandchild decided to go walkabout in the bush with a group of people who were barely able to speak the Queen's English (the fact that the Queen herself was a Muggle did not bother her a bit). She would find him and drag him back home by the scruff of his alarmingly hirsute neck (she might trim his hair first) and he would jolly well explain to her the reasons behind this idiotic jaunt.

Australia, indeed!

Spotting a paved road on the western banks of the river, Augusta crossed the rocky terrain until her feet met it, then turned south. She had no idea where Neville might have went, but it seemed as good a place to start as any. Perhaps she would encounter some of the natives and could ask them where the Australian Ministry of Magic was to be found. An organised search party ought to be more effective in locating her grandson than a single woman alone. Marching briskly down the road, she hoped that any travellers she met were of the magical variety. It wouldn't do to alarm some poor, unsuspecting Muggle with questions of Ministries of Magic or International Portkeys!

The wind blew chill down the valley again and she shivered. Thank goodness she hadn't changed out of her day wear before having her tea - it wouldn't do to be caught in the middle of nowhere in her nightgown! But that didn't address the issue of the cold...

She studied the grassy verges along the road and saw they were littered with rocks, probably having loosened from the mountains during previous spring thaws.

Yes - they would do nicely!

Pointing her wand, she transfigured a medium sized one into a replica of her favourite green winter coat and put it on. Ah, much better. Still, something wasn't right. The wind stirred her hair again.

Of course! She needed her hat.

Another handy rock was soon reshaped in the form of her beloved hat, stuffed vulture and all. She pulled it down over her head, feeling much more like her old self.

All she needed now, was to locate her missing grandchild and get him back to England as soon as possible.

But the hours passed slowly as she trudged along the road and she became increasingly tired. Not surprising really, she should have been in bed hours ago, and would have been too, if her wayward ward hadn't decided to take a trip to the other side of the world and drag her along with him.

Augusta set her jaw firmly. Neville would have a lot of explaining to do when she got her hands on him! What on earth had he been thinking? This was all very out of character for the boy - he was usually so obedient. If he was going through some sort of delayed adolescent rebellion, she would hex his ears off!

Annoyed at the thought of having to deal with teenaged temper tantrums at her age, she began to devise methods of dealing with children from the ages of thirteen to nineteen, which helped to while away the long hours of walking. Her favourite method involved locking them up in a Dementor-free Azkaban during this difficult period, with a strict regime of theoretical and practical schoolwork (they would never become valuable members of society without a good education) and only weekend visits from relatives to imbue upon them the merit of proper behaviour.

What a terribly good idea! Perhaps she should recommend it to Shacklebolt on her return? As the Acting Minister of Magic, he would have the authority to put the wheels into motion, so to speak.

Feeling very pleased with herself, she carried on her way. But her fatigue was becoming more difficult to ignore and a huge yawn ripped through her before she decided it was perhaps time to take some rest.

But where?

The valley seemed to stretch out before her with no end in sight. With no sign of even a remote hillside dwelling, she had little hope of finding a warm bed for a few hours.

At least, not a warm bed inside a house. She could always transfigure another rock or - better still, a large boulder. Leaving the road, she moved towards the slopes and scanned the mountainside. Where there were mountains, there were usually caves: if she could find one, taking her rest there would be preferable to camping on the side of the road.

She walked along the side of the mountain for almost half an hour before spotting one a little way up that didn't involve too much climbing. It was about twenty feet above her and the slope leading up to it did not present too much of a problem for her tired joints as she clambered up it. Reaching her goal, the elderly witch held her wand before her and cast aLumos charm before entering the dark cavern. It was about twenty five feet wide and thirty feet long with no exit other than the one she had entered through and was, thankfully, empty of wildlife. Several decent-sized boulders were simply begging for a change of career and Augusta thought she really ought to oblige them. Soon, the largest boulder was transfigured into a comfortable Queen-sized bed with feather pillows and woolly blankets. Removing her coat and hat and placing them on the bedpost, she cast a quick Muggle-Repelling charm on the cave entrance and slipped gratefully between the sheets for forty winks.

Three hours later, Augusta Longbottom was pulled out of a very pleasant dream (about Neville being named Head of the Auror Department) by the sound of stomping boots.

Several sets of stomping boots.

At first, the elderly witch was a little disorientated and called out to her grandson to 'stop making that infernal racket', but when the noise continued despite her complaint she quickly roused from her confusion and rose from the comfort of her bed.

Ah, the cave. Yes, well, better be getting on with the job at hand. There was an errant grandson to find!

She got up, rubbed at her aching hips and donned her coat and hat. Returning the bed to its former occupation as a lump of rock and removing the charm at the entrance, she cautiously made her way towards it to see who on earth was making all the noise. Her eyes caught the source of it immediately: there were at least forty people marching down the paved road in the same direction she'd been heading. They were clothed in very odd dark garments and wielding - were those spears? Good heavens! The racket they made came from their clumpy boots banging on the road at each step. Several of them were arguing; hissing and spitting at each other in a very unseemly manner, until one of their leaders doubled back and clobbered them with the edge of his...shield?

What in Merlin's name was going on? Were they on their way to some sort of bizarre local festival?

Perhaps she should follow at a discreet distance until she could determine the nature of the odd-looking company?

It seemed like a sensible idea, so Augusta allowed a full thirty minutes to pass, that they may make it further down the road before she made her own way down the mountain to follow them.

Which gave her plenty of time to wonder what she should do about breakfast. She had no food with her and was only able to conjure liquids, meaning she had little choice but to sip at a steaming mug of bouillon in place of a hot bowl of slightly salted porridge. Disgraceful! Drinking soup for breakfast might be all the rave on some far-flung corner of the Continent, but it just wasn't British enough for Augusta Longbottom!

Tired of the bland liquid, she vanished the remnants and decided to make her way out of her impromptu sleeping chamber. Unfortunately for the wizened witch, the consumption of a healthy amount of fluid had triggered in her the urgent need to evacuate her bladder of the previous night's Earl Grey.

Botheration! Not a blasted loo in sight, of course, which meant she'd have to do the necessary in some dark corner like a filthy vagrant. When she got her hands on that boy...

Grumbling in annoyance, she walked to the rear of the cave and surveyed the gloomy corners distastefully. Not in a million years was she lifting her skirt to hover over some unseen pest on the cave floor that was just waiting for the opportunity to take a chunk out of a desperate old woman's nethers.

Pointing her wand at the nearest boulder, she transfigured a throne - an actual one - lined with red velvet and boasting a gleaming silver bowl cut delicately into the seat. There, that was much better! Removing her hat and coat, and lifting her woolly green dress, she daintily pulled down her smalls and lowered herself onto the impressive commode like an Egyptian goddess, placing her arms on the rests in the manner of a ruling monarch as she graciously allowed nature to take its course. The Muggle house of Windsor would kill for a loo of such grandeur.

It was as she was spending a Knut (or rather a bagful of Galleons), that a noise from the cave entrance disturbed her. Gracious! Was she to be caught in flagrante - with her knickers around her ankles while she peed for England - in this remote hovel? Thank goodness she'd had the sense to put a Muggle-repelling charm on the cave entrance...

Good heavens! Augusta almost suffered heart failure when she remembered that she'd removed the charm not minutes before. She made a wild grab for her coat and removed her wand, but was not fast enough to stop the inevitable...

"I 'eard somefink I tell ya! Came from in 'ere, it did."

Two dark shapes moved into the cave as the witch sat frozen to her seat.

"What's yer on about? I can't hear nuffink. Yer been drinking too much o' that grog again? Greedy filth!"

Augusta didn't dare so much as breathe and sat squeezing her bits together to prevent telltale splashes from alerting them to her presence. She was fully capable of ridding herself of the unfortunate duo, but was rather reluctant to face them in such a...delicate...state. They hadn't come near the gloomy rear of the cave yet, anyway. Perhaps they would give up and leave, sparing an old woman her blushes? For their sake, they had better...

"I ain't touched yore stinkin' grog! An orc needs ta keep 'is head clear when he's out on Wizard's business, or don't ya remember what 'appened ta Garbak when 'ol Saruman caught him souced on it an' asleep at 'is post?"

Wizard's business? The witch listened intently, keen to learn more. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that the two idiots intruding on her own...business...were not the sort of individuals she'd invite round for a cup of tea: nevertheless, if they had knowledge of a wizard in this uncivilised backwater, she'd tolerate their intrusion a minute longer before she made them regret their untimely appearance. Perhaps the wizard would at least be able to assist her in finding her missing grandchild?

"Garbak was an idiot - on'y good fink 'e ever did was get 'imself fed ta the Wargs. Jus' like you an' yer stupid airs - d'ya really fink the Wizard's goin' ta care if yer plays up to 'im? 'E won't care a bit, 'cos 'e don't take no notice of scum unless they grates on 'is nerves! E'd on'y laugh at yore sorry attempts ta impress 'im - before he chucked ya inta the wolf-pit as well!"

She frowned. Perhaps this wizard wasn't such a good idea at all. Deciding that enough was enough, Augusta silently picked herself up from her throne and was in the act of pulling up her smalls, when a loud sniff made her pause.

"I smell chicken."

Oh dear, the bouillon!

"That's not chicken, ya bleedin' fool. That's fish, that is."

Fish? She flushed. How dare he! Augusta Longbottom was an absolute stickler for personal hygiene, and anyone who said otherwise was a liar!

"'Ello, 'ello! What's this then?"

She froze, knickers halfway up her knees and raised her head. Oh, botheration.

The figures must have had excellent hearing, for despite the cautious climb from her seat they had obviously heard her and crept closer.

They were gawking at her in absolute astonishment, and although the light did not reach entirely to her corner of the cave, it was still enough to give her the very first glimpse of what were, surely, the ugliest Australians she had ever seen in her life. Short, squat and dark, they had uneven features, crooked yellow teeth and beady black eyes which were fixed on her hungrily.

"Well I'll be Elved! It's a stinkin' female!" The tallest took a step forward as she yanked up her smalls and gripped her wand tightly by her side.

"No need ter dress up on my account - yer not gonna need them fings to pass ma lips!"

Oh. Good. Grief. Was the disgusting cretin propositioning her?

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, annoyed at having been caught despite going into (a rather useless) stealth mode.

The shorter one moved closer as well and she didn't know what was worse: the acrid smell of the loo behind or the putrid stench of the people ahead.

"No need fer yer ta beg - we'll take it anyway it comes." He licked his lips lasciviously and, completely mistaking his intentions, she pulled herself straight and gave them her best Longbottom glare.

"If you imagine for one second that I would dream of bestowing my affections on such sorry excuses for men, then you are very sadly mistaken!" she announced shrilly, making them wince.

They moved closer still and she aimed her wand at them.

"Men? The old bat finks we're Men, Fragat!" The 'men' looked at each other and burst into howls of raucous laughter that rebounded on the cave walls and out into the daylight.

Old bat? How very dare they!

The furious Longbottom matriarch strode the few remaining steps toward them with her face blazing, surprising them so much that they retreated nearer the cave entrance. The light streaming in from it gave her a better view - they were most definitely not men (Australian or otherwise).

But whatever they were, they would not be daunted by the sight of one little old lady for long. With surprising speed, the filthy creatures blocked the entrance, thinking she was making a dash for it, and pointed long, ugly spears at her.

"If yer finks we'd ever touch a female of Men in that way, yore as stupid as a day old Uruk-hai!" sneered the as yet unnamed one. "All we wants ta do is rip yore flesh off an' eat it!"

Oh, really? Augusta was incensed.

Which was never a good thing for anyone in her immediate vicinity.

"Is that so?" she barked furiously, raising her wand.

"What's yer gonna do wiv that little stick then, eh? Smack us on the 'ead?"

More laughter.

"Course, it might not be worth our while eating ya," announced the one called Fragat. "Even a starvin' orc won't chew on leather!"

Enough was enough. The angry witch jabbed her wand at the smaller one and, with a most effective Banishing charm, sent him flying backwards out the cave entrance, over the incline and down into the valley below.

Rounding on the remaining (open-mouthed) intruder, she cried "Locomotor Mortis," and the stunned orc's leg slammed together, making it impossible for him to move.

She Banished his spear (much to his dismay) and circled him like a predator, staying just out of reach of his flapping arms.

"So, you think it's amusing to intrude into a lady's chamber, do you?" demanded the angry witch, jabbing her wand at him again.

His hair fell out, and he let forth a screech of horror, trying to make a mad grab for his tumbling locks.

"Well? Have you lost your tongue? Is it normal in this corner of the world for ladies to be harassed by - what did you call yourself? - orcs?"

"I'll 'ave yore 'ead on a spear for this!" yelled the orc.

Augusta rolled her eyes. "And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?"

The orc took a violent swing at her, causing him to lose his balance as he overreached and he hit the ground with a dull thud.

"Really, you'll have to do better than that!" She watched with mild interest as he pulled himself across the floor of the cave towards her and debated whether to tolerate his pathetic attempts for a few seconds more.

Well, it wasn't worth the effort, really.

Another wave of her wand and the orc howled, pulling his fingers away from their desperate grasp towards her ankle and nursing long, red marks with his slavering tongue.

"That was a Stinging hex," said the ageing witch in a voice of authority that would make any Hogwarts' professor proud. "If you don't start answering my questions, you useless baggage, I will cover every inch of your skin I lay my eyes on in them. Do you understand?"

"I'll strip the meat of yer bones and cook it in Warg fat, when I gets my 'ands on yer!" screamed the orc.

Oh for goodness' sake. Was the creature a raving idiot? Another flick of her wand, another scream of pain.

"Not the wisest of answers, my good fellow."

She took a seat on a jutting rock and studied the hideous creature. He whimpered in pain as he clutched his wounded hand to his chest and eyed her murderously. Gracious - how could she ever have mistaken him for an Australian? Australians had rather lovely teeth (in her experience).

"Now, here is how things will work: I will ask a question which you will answer politely. If I am displeased with the result..."

The formidable woman spared a quick glance at her fingernails to draw out the tension. Was that a ragged nail on her thumb? Her monthly manicure at Madam Charlotte's Not For Harlots Beauty Boutique (where only the elite gained entry) was disgracefully overdue - although Lottie would hardly blame her: she had been far too busy fighting the incompetent nincompoops that the ranks of the Death Eaters had boasted to worry about her beauty regime, after all.

"...then you will leave me little choice but to hit you with a Crispy Skin hex. Do we understand each other?"

The orc was obviously not enamoured with the possibility of resembling a roast chicken, for his eyes widened at the threat. But the fight had not left him yet.

"It'll take more'n a little ol' lady ta scare a Wizard's orc," he growled harshly. "Don't yer know that we orcs ain't afraid of nuffink?"

A flick of her wand and every loose stone in the cave was skipping its merry way towards the prisoner before rising into the air and raining down on his head.

He cried like a baby.

"You, no doubt, are the exception to the rule. So, let us get started. First of all, where am I?"

"Yore in trouble, that's where yer are!"

Perhaps the creature was having trouble with his hearing? Augusta aimed her wand and the orc's ears began to wiggle and twitch uncontrollably.

"Aaargh! Stop it! Stop it, ya evil ol' hag!"

Hag?

A more vicious jab of her wand in his direction and soon the screaming orc was covered in large, ugly hives.

"It appears to me that your manners are severely lacking, young man," she said primly. "I am a visitor to your lands and as such expect to be treated courteously. I am not accustomed to being addressed in such a disgracefully rude manner, nor will I tolerate it much longer. And for your information, I am not a hag, I am a witch."

She rose from her seat and put a stop to his frenzied flailing with a quick Incarcerous. Another quick wave and the whimpering orc was hanging upside down in mid-air, his flapping ears making him look like a furious bat.

"So, let us try that again, shall we? Where am I?"

"A Witch? Yore a Witch? There's no such fing as a Witch, on'y Wizards - any fool can tell yer that! Lemme go! Put me down!"

"Of course I'm a witch, you blethering idiot. I have bested you several times with the aid of my wand, so please excuse me if I beg to differ - or would you care for another demonstration?"

This sent the wriggling mass of itchy hives that was her captive into a frenzy. "No, no - I believes ya!"

"Good. Now: where am I?"

"Yore in the Wizard's Vale, o' course - where else would yer be?" cried the orc, desperately trying to free an arm so he could scratch at...well, any part of his body, really.

Wizard's Vale? She'd never heard of that, which was surprising: such a distinctive name would draw the interest of Wizarding tourists from all over Britain.

"And where is this 'Wizard's Vale', young...oh, what is your name? I can't possibly keep referring to you as 'young man' when you very clearly are no such thing."

The orc looked taken aback by her question - and then very worried.

She tapped her foot impatiently.

Her captive broke out in a sweat.

Oh, for goodness' sake!

"Well, what is it? Has the Kneazle caught your tongue?"

A gurgle of fear emitted from his mouth as he eyed her wand. Tired of waiting for an answer, she pointed it smack between the snivelling creature's eyes and he shuddered in terror before squeaking: "What d'ya want first?"

"Beg pardon?"

"I said 'what d'ya want first'? Ta know where the Wizard's Vale is, or ta know me name? If I gives ya the wrong answer, yer might boil me eyes or somefink!"

Rolling her own in disgust, she asked for his name first.

"Grodek."

What sort of a name was that?

"Gracious, what on earth was your unfortunate mother thinking? Is your name some sort of revenge for giving her a difficult labour?"

Grodek gave her a sneer, but his current position made it look more like a jolly smile and she shuddered in repulsion.

"Orcs ain't got no mother! We was made in the pits of Orthanc."

Yes, well, that certainly explained a lot. No mother, no manners and no knowledge of soap, by the smell of things.

"And what is this 'Orthanc'? Is that where we are now?"

Another jolly smile.

"Yore at the foot of the Last Mountain. Another few leagues ta the south and there's where ye'll find me 'ome. Tha's where ol' Saruman lives, up in 'is Tower."

Augusta favoured Grodek with a frown, and he flinched. How far was a league, exactly? Did the stupid creature have no concept of the metric system?

"How far on foot is that, precisely?" she asked.

"Fer an orc, three 'ours: fer an ol' woman? A week!"

"Tut, tut, my good fellow. I thought we had already discussed the manner in which this conversation was to be held?"

Grodek's eyes bulged as she dragged her wand across his throat.

"Don't kill me! I'm too young ter die!"

"Kill you? When you're unarmed and all trussed up like a Christmas turkey? I'm not some merciless barbarian, you know!" she declared in outrage.

The orc emitted a strangled sigh of relief, his fetid breath wafting up her flaring nostrils like the unpleasant odour of Neville's dirty socks. Stepping back in disgust, she questioned him again.

"What country is this 'Orthanc' in? Australia?"

A look of confusion crossed Grodek's face. "Never 'eard of no Orstrayleeya. It's nearer Rohan than anywhere's else."

"Rohan? I've never heard of that. Which part of the world is it in - the Southern Hemisphere? Perhaps off Indonesia?"

"I dunno no Indoneesya or anywhere else yer fink it might be!"

The irate witch huffed in annoyance. Obviously, the education system of the land was suffering from a shortage of Geography teachers.

"We are still on the planet Earth though, I presume" she drawled sarcastically, looking at the suspended orc as if he was the stupidest thing she'd ever seen (and he was).

"Wassa planet?"

Had he actually asked what a planet was? Augusta was rapidly losing patience with the ignoramus and her annoyance must have been glaringly apparent, for the orc barked a more satisfactory answer before she could hex him again.

"This is Middle Earth! Yore in Middle Earth!"

Middle Earth? What, like Spain? Or further down - Greece perhaps? Couldn't be Egypt - too far south to be at the middle of the Earth.

But Grodek must have been feeling chatty, for he elaborated without the need for further verbal instruction (a simple lift of her eyebrow had been sufficient).

"Yer must know Middle Earth if yore a Witch, surely? Big place, lotsa stinkin' Elves, stinkin' Men and stinkin' 'orses?"

Not to mention stinking orcs.

"Don't be ridiculous. There aren't that many house-elves, and men don't stink - well, not all of them; not to mention the fact that horses are not exactly a prolific or popular mode of transport nowadays, even with Muggles."

"Wassa Muggol?"

Now, this orc may not be of Wizarding stock, that much was plain to see. But he must belong to some far-flung branch of magical creatures - his very appearance dictated it. So why would he not know what a Muggle was?

"A Muggle is a non-magical person, you idiot," she said disdainfully. "You should at least be aware of that if you work for a wizard - he must have told you what our kind call them."

"Yore kind? Why, yer talks like there's a Wizard round ev'ry corner. There's on'y an 'andful of 'em in all Middle Earth, four at most, now that the Grey one's dead. Well, five if yer counts the Dark Lord: he's the greatest of the lot. Ev'n 'ol Saruman's got ter answer ter 'im."

A very unpleasant chill coursed its way through the witch's body when he said 'Dark Lord'. She took a dangerous step closer to the squirming orc.

"What do you mean - 'Dark Lord'. There is no Dark Lord, he was killed by Harry Potter last week."

"What's yer talkin about? The Dark Lord Sauron's not dead! And 'oo the bleedin' 'eck is 'arry Potta?" scoffed Grodek.

"Harry Potter is the Chosen One. A seventeen year old boy who destroyed He Who Must Not Be Named with a simple spell."

"Who's not ta be named? What spell?"

It was all very confusing. No matter where on the planet she was, anyone associated with the Wizarding World must have heard of Harry Potter and be aware of the end of He Who Must Not Be Named's reign of terror in Wizarding Britain.

Brow creased in irritation, Augusta regarded the dangling orc. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never heard of Vo...Vo..."

She was having difficulty saying the name.

It simply wouldn't do! If her seventeen-year-old grandson could say the name of a dead despot, surely she should be able to manage it? Was she not the head of one of the oldest families in Wizarding Britain? Did she not have a duty to live up to the proud heritage of her husband's ancestors?

"'Oo's Vo-Vo?"

Grodek was still trying to free a hand to scratch himself and she watched him irately.

"Voldemort!" she barked, annoyed that he had almost spotted her weakness. "Lord Voldemort. You must know him? Murderer of children, slayer of families and general no-good megalomaniac of the western world?"

"This is the West an' I've never 'eard of 'im." He'd managed to wriggle a finger free and was currently scratching his hip with it furiously. Augusta conjured more ropes around him and Grodek yelled in fury.

"What do you mean - you've never heard of him? He was the most powerful Dark Lord in a century! He cut a swathe of terror across half the Wizarding World and almost destroyed a way of life sacred to Wizardkind! Do you honestly expect me to believe that you've never heard of him?"

"I told ya I'd never 'eard of 'im, didn't I? The on'y Dark Lord hereabouts is the Dark Lord Sauron and yer don't wanna go messing wiv 'im! Don't yer know we're at war?"

War? In Australia? Good heavens!

"I'll admit to having been slightly out of touch with current affairs abroad, my good fellow; but I think that, even on the run from a horde of Death Eaters, I would have heard about another war! This Sauron chap can't be all that bad if I've never heard of him."

Grodek gave an ugly cackle of laughter. "Can't be all that bad? Where've ya been 'iding yoreself? Wiv the stinkin' 'alflings? The Dark Lord Sauron 'as armies of orcs an' Uruks tearin' through the lands of the West as we speak! 'E's goin' ta destroy the Men that's stupid enough ta fight 'im and burn their villages: 'e's got spies ev'rywhere an' Nazgûl that spread fear wherev'r they goes. An' when 'e's got his body back, e'll rule Middle Earth like a king! An' my master, Saruman, will be standin' by 'is side like a prince!"

Augusta paved the length of the cave in frustration as her mind whirled. She'd had no idea there was another powerful dark wizard - and certainly not one as dangerous as the raving lunatic before her would have her believe. Surely the Daily Prophet would have reported on such a thing, despite the troubles in their own country? But then, He Who Must...Voldemort's...spies had controlled the press for most of the last year and he would hardly have enjoyed sharing the limelight with a potential rival - even one on the other side of the world.

But the disturbing news of an Australian Voldemort only increased her confusion at her grandson's presence here. After all the boy had been through, popping off into another war zone should have been the last thing on his mind.

Unless it was his intention to get involved.

Impossible! After all he'd been through this past year, all the rebelling, the training, the fighting - all the friends he had lost. He wouldn't!

"Do you have any idea what your grandson could possibly want with the Sword of Gryffindor?"

Minerva's question popped into her head as she fought to dismiss the ridiculous notion of Neville toddling off to another conflict and she gasped in horror. Was this why he wanted it? To take a jaunt into foreign lands and take a stab (literally) at ridding the locals of their own spot of bother?

It made no sense. Her grandson was not Harry Potter. Noble though he was, Neville Longbottom was not exactly the sort of boy to go gallivanting into danger only days after surviving the worst Wizarding battle in over a century; that was more his father's style - when he'd been able for it.

But Neville was more like his father now than he'd been three years ago. No more the shy, reticent child that used to drive her to distraction with his preference of plants over a possible career in law enforcement, oh no. Ever since the summer after his fifth year at Hogwarts there had been a blaze of energy about him; a newfound confidence that made her heart surge in the hope he would finally join the ranks of the Aurors and help rid the world of its lurking evils. His performance on the battlefield at Hogwarts had only compounded these hopes. Defying the worst wizard to ever draw breath and assisting the Potter boy in his downfall by ridding him of that awful snake had proven once and for all that he was his father's son.

Was that not what she had always wanted?

Augusta frowned. Living with the harsh reality of his parents' incurable condition had affected him deeply, but it had never controlled who Neville was. She remembered the quiet child he'd always been: sweet, obedient and considerate, if alarmingly Squib-like. But war had changed all that: now, he was confident, assertive, more comfortable with his magical identity - and far stronger than she'd ever thought he could be. He had grown up and life had made a soldier of him. A leader.

And now, bolstered by the victory at Hogwarts, he had recklessly taken it upon himself to trot off to pastures new - armed with little more than a wand and a sword - to go all 'Dumbledore' on the resident Grindelwald!

That had to be it! Suddenly his secretive manner of the day before and McGonagall's late night call made perfect sense. Neville had somehow found out about this lunatic Sauron and had been planning his little busman's holiday to Australia to finish the blighter off! Had the boy lost his marbles? What in the name of Merlin did he think he was playing at, placing the future of the Longbottom line in such jeopardy when its future ought now to be secured?

She would kill him herself!

Once she found him, of course.

But how to do that? By the sound of things, she was in a place where, once again, war raged. Wizards (what there were of them) allied themselves against Muggles and (for some strange reason) house-elves, and another Dark Lord was trying to rule over them all.

How very inconvenient.

How would she find the impetuous child here? Where would he go?

Where his help was needed, of course!

Spinning around to face the dangling orc, she hit him with a swift Liberacorpus and the unfortunate creature hit the ground head first. Grodek rolled dazedly on the cave floor and she walked over to him, placing her foot on his chest to still his motion.

"Now then, you disgraceful mutant, you are going to tell me how to get to the nearest town that is fighting against this Dark Lord of yours."

Grodek's eyes crossed as he focussed on her wand, dangling inches from his face.

"Why would I wanna do that?" he grunted. "Ain't nuffink in Rohan but stinkin' Men...and their stinkin' 'orses."

War had apparently been declared on the native equines too.

She lowered her wand further until it hovered directly over his face, making him flinch violently.

"Because I am hardly likely to visit your master for afternoon tea when it is painfully apparent what a scoundrel he is. You will tell me where I must go and show me the best path to take to avoid Orthanc or I will boil your eyes - while they're still in your head."

The wand emitted a small puff of white steam in support of her threat, sending Grodek into full begging mode.

"Aagh! No...don't! I'll do anyfink, jus' like yer asks - jus' don't hurt me again!"

Pathetic.

Sneering in disgust at the grovelling orc, the elderly witch Vanished his bonds and removed the Twitchy Ears hex.

She left the hives as they were and the unhappy orc glared at her malevolently while he scratched furiously at his skin, his ragged nails ripping at flesh in an effort to find relief.

Donning her coat and hat (the precariously positioned vulture almost made Grodek's eyes pop out his head), she marched towards her captive.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I don't have all day to dawdle in this cave - show me the way to Rohan."

Augusta indicated the exit with a nod of her head, but just as Grodek made a move to approach it, she stuck her wand in his cheek. "And don't even think of trying to give me the slip, or I'll make certain you beg for the safety of those wolf-pits you so admire."

Satisfied with his answering shudder, she prodded him forward with her wand and together they exited the dark little cave into the mid-afternoon sunshine.

Which was when they discovered they were not alone.

Botheration!

A group of perhaps six orcs, possibly fellow scouts of her captive or the rag-tag remnants of the party which had disappeared down the road earlier, were clustered in the valley below, growling and yelling over the prize they had discovered.

Fragat's body.

Two of them started to fight, hissing and snarling at each other like a pair of angry Lestranges and she curled her lip in disgust as the others started ripping into the corpse of their fallen comrade. Soon, Fragat's insides became his outsides and Augusta watched in horrified fascination as one of the orcs tried to strangle another with a length of intestine for attempting to steal his meal.

She was about to comment on their disgraceful lack of respect for the dead (and their shocking table manners) when, suddenly, another flat-nosed creature popped over the incline that led to the cave. The orc's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in glee as he yelled out to the rowdy diners in the valley below, alerting them all to her presence and making them very happy at the prospect of a second course. Four of them abandoned Fragat's disembowelled corpse and made a bee-line for the incline.

This untimely call to arms instilled a new-found defiance in the recently subservient Grodek: he ducked out from under the wand and twisted his torso towards her, using the momentum to swing his arms into her face. But she side-stepped his mutiny and, with a swift Petrificus Totalus, he fell frozen to the ground like a lump of wood.

The ugly creature who had discovered her ill-timed exit was quite taken aback when Grodek fainted like a maiden at the sight of his rescue party (especially when the helpless little old lady resolutely stood her ground), but he quickly overcame his shock and aimed his spear at her, growling menacingly as he ran at full speed to pierce her belly with it.

The witch rolled her eyes and struck him with the same Banishing charm that had proved so effective with the recently departed (and partly digested) Fragat. Soon, he was flying over the incline and into the valley below not five feet from his fallen comrade.

"I'll deal with you later," she snapped at the frozen form of Grodek and marched towards the edge of the incline.

The bloodthirsty orcs had ground to an astonished halt at the base of the incline and were tracking their airborne colleague with wide eyes. Up, up, up he soared, across the valley (screaming all the way) until gravity finally dictated that he really ought to be going down, down, down and he smashed onto the road below where he moved no more. They swivelled their heads collectively back to the top of the incline to see what unnatural phenomena had caused their friend's untimely demise and it was with much disbelief that they spied the little (but very irate) old lady with the monstrous millinery glowering at them in disapproval.

"Get 'er!" yelled one of the angry natives, refusing to believe his friend had met his death at her hands. Snapping out of their fugue, the orcs initiated a full-on assault of the incline as Augusta tutted in annoyance.

She really did not have time for this. There was a deluded teenager out there somewhere who was simply begging for a round telling off and she was just the woman to give it to him - and these infernal creatures would be most unwise to try and stop her. What a terrible nuisance for Grodek to have brought his friends; although it was something she should have expected if they were only a few hours from the dark wizard's home. If war was raging through Australia, then Saruman would want to keep a very close eye on his borders.

Deciding that Grodek's friends were no more likely to be sympathetic to her cause than he was, she trained her wand on them and before they knew what had hit them, they too were flying across the valley. The two diners by the feast that was Fragat had, by this time, paused in their afternoon snack and watched in fascinated horror as, for the first time in history, it rained orcs.

"Let that be a lesson to you!" Augusta called out. "This is no way to treat tourists!"

Two enraged snarls echoed across the valley as the remaining duo made a dash for this strange new enemy.

Good grief! Did the imbeciles not know when they had been bested?

Apparently not: they were rushing up the mountainside towards the very put-out grandmother, waving their swords and screaming obscenities.

"Jus' stay where yer are, my pretty. Ol' Raguk 'ere's on 'is way ter taste yer sweet flesh!"

Before 'ol' Raguk' knew what had happened, he found himself being clobbered repeatedly by loose rocks scattered across the incline. His dropped his sword as he crouched with his hands over his head in protection and his yells of shocked fury filled the air. The remaining orc roared in anger and doubled his efforts to reach her, using some of the most truly appalling language she had ever heard in her life.

"Don't be so rude!" Augusta cried in affront, as she listened to what he had planned for her (magically supported) bosom and hit him with a Tongue-Tying curse to prevent any further impertinence.

"Manners maketh the man you know!" called the matriarch, very pleased with the blissful silence her spell had produced.

Hmm. But did they maketh the orc? No time to dwell on that now...

The confused creature was attempting to peel his tongue away from the back of his mouth, with little success. Realising that he didn't need to talk to fight, he launched another assault on the woman and lunged towards her.

"Don't you ever give up?" snapped Augusta, highly irritated at the creature's stubbornness. She cast a Tarantallegra and watched in deep satisfaction as the dancing orc stumbled and jerked furiously along the rocky path before losing his footing and crashing to the ground below, legs twitching violently all the way.

"There. That's much better!" declared the witch, turning to the still-frozen Grodek and levitating him towards her. "Now, my good fellow, it's very much time that you and I were on our way. I can't spend all day dawdling on the side of a mountain playing with the locals when there's an errant grandchild to find, you know."

Within five minutes, she had reached the bottom of the incline with her captive and she surveyed the destruction she had caused to her enemies. Including the half-eaten Fragat, six lifeless bodies now littered the valley, a seventh (very unhappy) chap was being stoned into oblivion by the very ground he used tread on without a care in the world, while the eighth was entertaining her with what was, surely, the worst excuse for a Highland Fling she had ever come across.

Well, what could she expect? If he hadn't grown up knowing the advantage of a decent bowl of porridge or the stirring call of the bagpipes, the fool was hardly likely to be able to tell the difference between a Dashing White Sergeant and a Wizard's Waltz.

Which was just as well, really. The very last thing she could stomach at the moment was a kilt-clad orc trying to impress her with the size of his sporran.

The twitching dancer was still attempting to reach the now-level witch to slice her with his sword before she reached the road, so with a final glare of derision, Augusta pointed her wand at him and it emitted a hot stream of boiling tar. Agonised gurgles filled the air as the traumatised orc abandoned his goal and made a very jerky dash for the flowing river in the distance, clouds of putrid black smoke streaming behind him all the way.

Now then. Rohan.

Releasing Grodek from the Petrificus Totalus, the formidable matriarch marched him at wandpoint towards the road, giving him ample time to cast a very alarmed gaze over his unfortunate comrades before turning south.

"Take a good look," she said, as they passed the broken bodies of the scouting party. "For I shall see to it that you have a taste of their misfortune if there's any more trouble from you."

Grodek glanced at the old woman, with her fierce expression, woolly dress, green overcoat and what was (probably) the last idiot that tried to defy her wobbling from her hat - and he knew that she would deliver on her threat.

Grunting what passed for agreement, he led the witch down the road in the direction of Orthanc, all the while cursing the stroke of misfortune that had led to his clapping eyes on this Wicked Witch of the West.

Next to her, Saruman was a bumbling novice.