Take My Hand

Harry jerked back from the connection and landed hard on his elbows.

Tate swung her legs over the counter and regarded him with stark anticipation.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" asked Harry irritably. "Give me a minute." He drew in a steadying breath and passed a hand over his sweating brow. He'd just witnessed one of the most gruesome images he'd ever seen. Tate looked slightly empathetic.

"How long were you in there?" she asked tentatively. Harry collapsed on his back.

"Too long." He took a deep breath, and held it for a moment. He blew air hard between his teeth, as though trying to expel the images he had just seen. "That was, hands down, the most horrible thing I've ever seen in my life."

"Really? I heard you once saw Professor Sprout in nothing but ivy leaves. I don't see how anything else could possibly compare."

Harry looked at her incredulously. "How can you be so easygoing about it? Your best buddy's daddy put the Cruciatus Curse on Cody until his ears bled! I just spent ten minutes wading around in a fecking pond of your blood! Your friend Robert bled on me! Or through me, anyways... Is this funny to you?"

"Well, what the hell do you expect me to do?" she roared furiously. Harry scooted away from her, on his elbows.

"I refuse to spend my life moaning and crying over the past! Yah, bad shit happened, but it always turned out for the best. Cody, Sergei, Bryan...they saved us, single-handedly, on a dirty train. They gave Robert and I four pints of their blood. And yah, it sucks that getting shot was part of that equation, but I will never...never...feel as close with anyone as I do when I'm with them. They're my reason for getting up, Harry. That's my family. So what you saw as horrible and gory...I could only describe as beautiful."

"Please don't start spouting lines of poetry." Harry cracked a grin. For a moment, it seemed Tate was about to return it. However, her brow furrowed, and a look of nervous tension spread across her face.

"Wait...what did you say?"

Harry arched an eyebrow. "I said no poetry, please."

"No...earlier...about my 'best buddy's daddy'. What did you mean by that?"

Harry screwed up his face in disbelief. It took him a moment to remember that Tate had never met Lucius Malfoy before.

"That man...the man that put Cody under the Cruciatius...that was Lucius Malfoy."

Tate's squint of confusion melted into slack jawed shock. "You're fucking kidding me."

"No. That's Draco's dear old dad. You've been hanging out with the spawn of that filth." He shook his head disgustedly.

"Oh shut up, Harry! Draco's been living with Snape for more than a year and a half. He's about as much of a death eater as you are! And let me tell ya, he's paid his penance ten times over with the shit he goes through every day in that stupid Slytherin House of his. I've really had it with your cracks about him - toss another one my way and I'll break your nose."

Harry glared at her furiously and cracked his knuckles in an intimidating fashion. She raised an eyebrow sarcastically, and then melted back into an expression of deep thought.

"So, Lucius Malfoy has seen all of us...and none of us were wearing proper glamours. That can't be good." Tate pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and began chewing nervously.

Harry sat up fully and pulled his knees to his chest. He rested his elbows on either knee. There were still questions, and he began sifting through the mental list he'd made while in the memory.

"What exactly constitutes 'magnetizing' one's self?"

Tate looked up sharply, her eyes confused for a moment. "Huh? Oh, that. Lamnia Tractus. Cast it on anything and it will generate a magnetic field that will draw any sort of metal or electrically charged object directly toward it, so long as said object is in motion." She snorted slightly. "I fucked that one up good and proper. I meant to magnetize a poster on the station wall, but one of those stupid Death Eaters knocked my arm down. Spell hit me in the legs."

Harry winced at the idea. "What about the insider?"

Tate's eyes went dark. "His name was Jacques Lavoisier. He wasn't anything special...not really. He was our operator. Niels is real careful about outside help - they never stay long, maybe a year at the most. And they're always memory charmed when they go. Jacques was around for about eight months before he fucked us over. He tried to break into Niels' desk before he made a break for it. Nothing was missing though, and all the documents came back clean for replication spells. In all likelihood, he might've gotten away with some of them, but...you know, what's done is done."

"Didn't you guys track him?"

Tate shook her head gravely. "No point. Technically, he's nothing to us."

"How do you mean?"

Tate shrugged. "It's hard to explain. Everything we do is prioritized. Jacques doesn't rank high on that list. If, by chance, we run across him, we silence him and that's the end of it."

Harry felt a chill under his skin as he took the meaning of 'silence'.

"Have you ever killed anyone before?"

Tate looked at him calculatingly. "The answer to that question won't make you feel anymore comfortable. You sure you want to know?"

Harry opened and shut his mouth. His thoughts were interrupted as the decon chamber began to rumble.

Tate glanced at her watch. "That'll be Hermione and Ron, then."

Harry squinted at her. "Really? I thought it might be someone else," he said nonchalantly, turning his face up to stare vacantly at the ceiling.

"Oh, shut up."

They spent the next ten minutes sparring against each other with sheathed knives.

The decon door opened slowly, as it always did - but the two people inside nearly climbed over each other to get back into the SIM.

"Wow." Tate grinned as she watched Ron and Hermione speed toward her. "So eager to get into afternoon exercises?" Her smile disappeared as she noticed the state in which Ron and Hermione appeared to be.

Hermione was white-faced, and breathing hard, while Ron simply looked shell-shocked.

"What the bloody hell happened in here?" demanded Hermione. She alternated razor sharp glances between Tate and Harry.

Harry turned a brilliant shade of red and began to stammer. "I...uh - we...? Nothing! I swear! You -"

"Oh, can it, Harry!" interrupted Ron. "She doesn't think you were shacking up with GI Joe over there!"

Tate cracked her knuckles, and glared menacingly at Ron.

"I want to know," spat Hermione, "Exactly why I was just pulled into your memory." She glared at Tate.

"Me too." Ron folded his arms over his chest.

Tate's mouth fell open. "Wha...?" she began, but her vocal cords ceased compliance and her mouth simply opened and closed, like a fish.

"Exactly!" snapped Hermione. "'What' is precisely what I was thinking. I understand that, as a telepath, you and I have the ability to draw others into our memory. I understand that you were probably showing Harry a memory. What I do not understand, is how Ron and I - while enjoying lunch in the kitchen - suddenly found ourselves amidst a bloody shoot-out in a train station."

Ron shuddered slightly. Tate still wore a face of complete and utter shock. After a moment, she spread her hands out in front of her.

"I haven't got a fucking clue."

"I think..." Ron began softly, trailing off. He took a deep breath. "Magic can't always be explained. I don't see the point in wasting time over the how. We need to focus on the who."

"What do you mean 'the who'?" asked Harry, his eyes darting between Ron and Hermione.

Hermione's eyes suddenly lit up. "Oh lord, I hadn't even thought of that, Ron."

"Thought of what?" demanded Harry.

"Of whether or not anyone else saw that memory."

*** *** ***

Ginny watched nervously as Draco pulled on one of the Weasley jumpers. The great 'F' on the front gave away the previous owner. His face was so pale that it nearly matched his hair. When he looked up at her, it appeared as though a violent cyclone was erupting in his deep grey eyes, amidst the pallor of what could have passed for a cadaver.

"So...you are going to your family's house?" she asked slowly, her voice cracking over the word 'family'.

Draco nodded harshly, strands of hair flying around his face. Angrily, he raked a hand through it. It wanted cutting.

"Why?"

Draco pulled on his overcoat and began to fasten the buttons, his hands shaking as though they were frozen. He fumbled and swore. Sighing, Ginny stood and took over, buttoning them all quickly and expertly.

"Because I have to," he said stoically. "I have to find out what my father knows."

"Knows about what?" Ginny asked, keeping her eyes trained on the front of his overcoat. Draco sighed. There was no point in leaving her out of the loop - what he knew involved her brother and her friends.

"Knows about Tate. About where your brother, Harry, and Hermione are."

Ginny pulled back suddenly, as though electrified.

"You know where they are?" she asked, in a choked, breathless voice. Her eyes blazed with sudden anger. "Why haven't you said anything?" she demanded. "We've all been so worried, and here you've known all along -"

"I didn't know until now! Five minutes ago, I was no closer to figuring out where they are than you were."

"I'm not sure I understand," Ginny whispered helplessly. "How is it that you..." Sudden realization dawned on her. "That's what the seizure was...someone linked you..."

Draco nodded, his steely grey eyes burning with fire. "Someone linked me directly into Tate's memories. It definitely wasn't her - I would have felt that. That leaves one of the other three - whoever it was left their own imprint. They're on a ranch, in Wyoming, and alone." Draco squinted for a moment. "They're training for something. Something big." Through all the talks he'd had with Tate during the school year, Draco had eventually deduced what the 'something' was. But he simply didn't have the time to explain it to Ginny - not just yet. Explanations would have to wait. Now was the time for action.

He finished shoving clothes into his rucksack, and tossed it over his back. Ginny stared at him for a moment. She grabbed his arm.

"C'mon," she whispered, "We'll take George and Fred's brooms. I'm sure they'll get over it."

Before Draco could object, she had dragged him down the stairs and out toward the broom shed.

*** *** ***

"All right, guys," began Tate, as Harry, Hermione, and Ron took their seats. She stood in front of the blackboard, notebook in hand. She looked rather lost. The afternoon still weighed on her...it weighed on everyone. But the fact remained that there was simply nothing to be done about the whole incident. They couldn't explain it, they couldn't undo it...and they simply couldn't spare the time to worry about it.

"Um...ok...well, I'm sort of at a loss for what we should do today."

"Free day," Harry suggested weakly.

"You wish." Tate gestured to the blackboard, which was nearly covered in her writing. "Read that."

Her 'students' complied.

Basic Tactical Tracking. Basic Hand to Hand Combat. Basic, Intermediate, Advanced Firearms. Basic Knife Combat. Advanced Wand Combat. Basic Survival (Desert, Mountain, Jungle). Introduction to Aquatic Combat. Sensory Conditioning. Introduction to Situations Tactics. Basic Automobile Skills (4-Wheel Drive Truck; 4-Wheeler; Dirt Bike). Moderate Physical Training.

"This is what we've done so far," Tate explained, once everyone's eyes were on her again.

"Moderate physical training?" Ron looked almost victimized, as he ran a hand through his now chin-length hair. "I'd say that's the understatement of the year!" Tate stared at him in disbelief.

Harry's brow creased, as his eyebrows went straight for his hairline. "That's it?" he asked. "But, we've been here for almost five weeks! How can that be all we've gone over?"

"Actually, Harry, that's a huge amount of training to cram into just thirty two days. You guys are breaking records left and right! The USSOCOM would shit themselves if they knew how well you three are doing! And that's the muggle division of Special Forces!! Forget about the magical division...I'll eat my goddamn shoe if you three aren't immediately brought into top-ranking Auror positions the second you graduate."

Harry was stunned. More than anything in the world, he wanted to be an Auror - to track down the bad guys...to save other people from the fate his own parents had met. He and Tate did not like each other, this much was definitely true...but he had to admit that if anyone knew the structure of Special Forces - magical and muggle alike - it would be her. He allowed himself a small smile, while fireworks spelling the word "Auror" went off inside his head.

"Basically," admitted Tate, "We've fulfilled the entirety of the necessary emergency training program."

"So...we're...done?" asked Ron, slightly confused. Hermione looked aghast at the thought.

"Only if you want to be."

Hermione exhaled in relief. Both Harry and Ron glared at her. Tate quickly curbed her smile.

"We're uh...we're off the books now. You guys have completed your assigned program. Does anyone have any particular problems or questions concerning any of the training courses?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"What now?" asked Ron.

Tate shrugged. "Well, we'll continue to practice these skills in the mornings. Umm...I was sort of wondering...is there anything anyone would like to learn about?"

"How do you mean?" asked Harry, rather warily. Tate resisted rolling her eyes.

"Use you imagination, dude," she said flippantly. "You guys have been reading field manuals for the past five weeks. You've seen the pictures on the walls. Does any of that stuff...interest you guys?"

Ron's face suddenly brightened. "Can you tattoo us?" Harry looked up excitedly.

Tate burst out laughing. "Actually, yes. I can."

She wrote the word "Tattoos" on the board. "Any idea of what you guys would like to be inked with?"

Harry and Ron nodded vigorously.

"What about piloting skills?" inquired Hermione.

Tate nodded. "We can definitely do that. We won't be able to take out any of the jets until I get clearance from Niels...which we won't get...but our virtual reality piloting program is excellent." She added "piloting" beneath "Tattoos". Suddenly, everyone seemed to be flooded with ideas. Before long, Tate had to erase the previously learned skills to make room for the new interests.

"Can we learn to skydive?" asked Harry, a slight nervous tension creasing his eyes.

Tate winced sympathetically. "That's a negative, Ghost Rider. That's one of the few things we can't do without proper supervision and assistance. However, I solemnly swear that, once all this madness is done with...before y'all return to your lives in England...that we'll go skydiving at least once. You guys will have to tandem jump, but it'll be skydiving all the same."

"Tandem jump?" Ron raised an eyebrow.

"Yah," nodded Tate, "You have to log in a certain number of tandem jumps before you can jump solo. Tandem means that you're...you know, strapped to an experienced diver." Tate stepped back momentarily to muse over the board.

Tattoos. Piloting. SCUBA. Lockpicking/Breaching Tools (Muggle-Style). Languages (Hermione had, of course, suggested this one). Combat Automobile Skills (Truck; 4-Wheeler; Dirt Bike). Kung Fu (Ron's suggestion).

"Might I throw a few out there?" asked Tate, turning to look at her three companions. Hermione nodded vigorously, while Harry and Ron looked a little hesitant.

"Ok," she tested, "How about night moves?"

"Sounds kinky," quipped Ron. He and Harry dissolved into laughter. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Actually, it's exactly what it sounds like. How to move in the night...or the darkness...whichever really." Tate quickly realized that Hermione was the only one listening. She moved closer to Hermione's desk, and dropped her voice.

"I can teach you how to move in the dark as if you were invisible. How to conceal yourself from everything around you, without the aid of an invisibility cloak, potion, or spell. You'll never have to worry about Filch's fucking cat again."

By this point, Ron and Harry were staring at Tate, rapt with attention. She afforded each one a glare.

"I thought that might get your attention!" she snapped. "That was a joke, by the way. We can fool humans - we can't fool animals unless we take specific steps to do so. But, either way, shall I add that to the board?" To clamored assents, she did.

After the addition of Night Moves, Advanced Sniper Training, and Basic Explosives, the room fell silent.

"What else is there?" asked Ron, still keen to learn more (possibly for the first time in his life).

Tate shrugged. "Lots more. Probably nothing you want to learn, though."

Hermione giggled. "Now, you know that's not true, T."

Tate raised an eyebrow at the nickname, and cracked a small, forced smile.

"Throw out a few more ideas?" suggested Harry.

Tate bit her lip thoughtfully. "I swear guys, I've been doing all this so long that I often forget exactly how to categorize what I know...you know? It's just a part of me." Hermione shot a knowing glare in her direction.

"Oh fine," relented Tate, "There is one thing I've purposefully left out, because I really don't think y'all will need it. Most of your battling will be done with magic. Plus...no offense, but I'm not sure y'all could really take it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "We've come this far, haven't we? Out with it!"

Tate sighed. "It's to do with hardening one's mind. Intense, and I mean really intense physical exercises designed to significantly heighten your tolerance of pain." Tate watched as the faces before her drained of color.

"Of course, we do not have to do this!" she said quickly, waving her arms. "It's something reserved for those who may fall into unfavorable positions. However, the likelihood of that happening with you is pretty low."

"How's that?" asked Harry, clearly unconvinced.

"You guys don't do what I do."

"For fucks sake, we know that, Tate!" Ron pounded a fist on his desk to illustrate his point. "Stop reiterating that! We all know that you do 'top secret, dangerous spy work'! That point is pretty much moot, and has been since the beginning! From what you really haven't been telling us, we all know that we're about to get involved in something big and dangerous and scary. If there is anything you can teach us to face this, beyond what you've done already, then fucking get to it, all right?"

Tate stared at Ron for a long moment. A rosy blush touched her ears, but she quickly replaced it with a look that very clearly said 'if you say so'. The first scratch of chalk on the board drew a horrific shriek.

Torture Training. Torture Simulation. Extreme Pain Management.

"All right, that's enough," Ron said quickly. "We saw it. Take it off the board!"

They all burst out laughing. With one quick sweep of the eraser, the terrifying words were gone.

"I think we've got quite enough on our plates, as is," Hermione said matter-of-factly, her eyes on the board. She looked extremely pained. "If only we knew how long we were actually going to be here...then we could easily devise a way to fit all these things into a training schedule."

Ron and Harry turned their gazes to Tate who immediately backed up a pace, raising her hands up.

"Don't look at me! I've got no clue. They said a 'couple of weeks'. That's all I know."

"Well, it's certainly been that, hasn't it?" muttered Ron. Hermione, still pained at the inability to properly schedule the new ideas, began scribbling furiously in her notebook.

"What'll we start with first, then?" asked Harry, hoping to deter Hermione from her scheduling. Before long, she'd be color-coding it. Harry shuddered at the thought.

"How about the tattoos?" Tate encircled the word.

Harry's shuddering progressed to nervous tremors.

"What...now?" he asked, trying to squelch the terror out of his voice. "Shouldn't we start with something less time-consuming?" His eyes flicked to Ron, and then to Hermione. Ron's face was bright and excited at the prospect - Hermione's face, however, mirrored his.

Tate shook her head mischievously. "No better time than the present. Code 9973 Sierra-6!"

The classroom melted into a thick smear of metaphysical paint against the walls. Harry felt excitement and terror course through his veins as his desk faded, and was replaced with a wooden bench. Tate remained still as objects began materializing around her. Harry blinked twice, and the shift was nearly complete. The space was significantly smaller than the classroom setting. He, Hermione, and Ron were still seated next to each other. Tate stood next to a long, padded table - the environment around her had changed considerably. The back wall was lined with white cabinets and countertops, complete with a sink. To Tate's right was a metallic rack that held several strange-looking tools, plus a rolling chair (and the aforementioned table). On her left, an incredibly strange, padded chair had been nailed into the ground. Faint music began to play. Harry jumped as a clipboard materialized directly onto his lap. He looked to Hermione, but she was busy reading the form attached to her own clipboard. She glanced up amusedly.

"Cute, Tate. Very cute." Hermione smirked at Tate, nodding toward her clipboard.

Tate grinned widely. "I try."

Harry looked down at his form.

'I, ___________, understand that getting a tattoo involves sharp needles. I, __________, promise not to sue my tattoo artist, nor any of her co-workers. I enter into this artist-subject bond with a willing, sound mind, and uncontrollable excitement. I trust my tattoo artist implicitly, and am honored to allow her to stick me repeatedly with a needle. I have seen all equipment and facilities and have judged them to be clean and sterile. I, __________, solemnly swear that I will take no legal action against tattoo artist, even if she sticks me in the eye with needle and laughs. She won't, of course, but even if she should, I will take no legal action! Ever!

SIGNATURE: _______________ DATE:__________'

Harry chuckled, and signed his form. Once that last shimmer had ceased passing over the new environment, Tate went straight for the nearest cabinet. Harry could hear the crinkling of plastic, as she piled objects onto the counter.

"Whose first?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"Me!" shouted Ron. His voice betrayed a tiny tremor, but he held his chin high. Without looking up, Tate waved an arm towards the chair. Ron leapt to his feet and bounded the short distance. An iron railing barricaded the tattoo area from the bench area. Ron sidled his way through the small break in the bar. He was wide-eyed and grinning when Tate finally turned away from the counter. She straddled the small rolling chair.

"Know what you want?" she asked, her hands clamped against the top of the chair. Ron looked confused for a moment. He hazarded a glance at the strange looking chair, and grew even more confused. Tate sighed, and rested her chin against her hands.

"Anyone know what they want?"

Her query was met with silence.

"I've always wanted a golden snitch!" offered Harry.

Hermione made a face. "Now that's just tacky!"

Harry shrugged, and sent a grin in her direction.

"Wait a minute!" crowed Ron, holding his hands up for silence. "I know what everyone wants."

"Oh, this ought to be good," said Hermione sarcastically. Ron ignored her.

"Harry'll be wanting a portrait of himself chasing the snitch!"

Harry snorted with laughter.

"It'll cover his entire back of course," Ron went on, "And Hermione'll be wanting a stack of books and an eagle feather on her bottom."

"Ron!"

"And I want the word 'Lady-killer'..." Ron paused as he whipped off his shirt. "Right here!" He pointed to his chest. Tate dropped her forehead on top of her hands. Harry was nearly hysterical with laughter, while Hermione was steaming over the comment concerning her bottom. Hermione stood up purposefully, and marched right through the iron bars.

"Hey, hey!" snapped Tate. "You're contaminating the area!" She grabbed a can of Lysol from the countertop and sprayed it at Hermione. "Bad cat! No!"

"The contamination was just leaving," Hermione hissed, as she grabbed Ron by the scruff of his neck. She bodily shoved him toward Harry. Harry and Ron stared in mute shock as their modest Hermione peeled off her shirt, snatched the can of Lysol from Tate, and disinfected the chair. She furrowed her brow for a moment, trying to figure out exactly how the chair worked. It looked like a work of modern art gone horribly wrong. It ran along an elliptical frame, and various pads were hooked all over it, though none of them touched each other. Tate rolled over to her, and tapped the half-moon shaped pad at the very top of the frame.

"Head goes there. This chair is for people getting back artwork. It's backwards, that's why it looks so weird."

Hermione nodded, and easily situated herself in the chair.

"I want the word 'Hope'. I want it written in Sanskrit, and I want it right here." Hermione brought her left hand around her body to tap her right shoulder blade. Tate rolled her chair closer to Hermione, and placed a finger just below her hand.

"Right here?"

"Yes."

Tate rolled her chair around to look in Hermione's face. She watched her expectantly for a minute.

"O.K." Tate rolled her chair toward the counter, and began sterilizing her hands. She reached into a drawer and laid several medically packaged tools on the counter. Harry and Ron watched Hermione with admiration. Ron flinched as Tate snapped one of her surgical gloves. Tate rolled back to Hermione, equipped with a small razor, and an alcohol swab. Ron raised an eyebrow as Tate shaved Hermione's shoulder blade.

"Problems with back hair, 'Mione?"

"Stuff it, Ron," mumbled Hermione, pressing herself tightly against the chair.

"Hey, don't you need a stencil, or something?" asked Harry. "Some sort of picture to stick on her back and trace over?"

"No," Tate answered curtly. "What's the fun in that?"

Harry screwed up his face in disbelief.

"I'll make you a deal, Harry. After I'm done, you can go look up the correct Sanskrit form of 'hope', and then we'll compare."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Ron put a hand on his shoulder. Tate returned her attention to the array of sterile needles encased in plastic packaging. There were several mechanical clicks, as Tate assembled the tattoo machine. Lastly, she arranged plastic cups of ink and water on counter.

Hermione began to perspire when Tate dropped the foot-operated power switch next to her chair and reached for the tattoo gun. Hermione pressed her face into the chair - it was probably better if she didn't watch the preparation. A mechanical buzzing filled her ears, and she broke out in a freezing cold sweat. Beads of perspiration coated her upper lip, and her stomach seemed to turn over in an effort to quash the butterflies. The buzzing ceased, and Hermione heard and felt the approach of Tate.

"Can I surprise you with something?" Tate asked, gingerly.

"Fine, so long as it's not a penguin," Hermione muttered, into the chair. "I trust you."

"I would hope so, considering you're about to let me stick you with a needle."

"Oh, get on with it before I change my mind!"

The mechanical buzz started up again. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, and wrapped her arms tightly around the chair. She felt Tate's gloved hand come down on her back, followed swiftly by an intense stinging sensation. Hermione winced. It felt like Crookshanks was digging on her back. After a few moments, the buzzing ceased, and Tate wiped Hermione's back with a paper towel. Hermione looked around in confusion.

"Have to stop every few seconds to get more ink," Tate explained, as she dipped the needle in a plastic cup.

And so the cycle began. Buzz, scratch, stop, wipe, dip, repeat. Hermione relaxed considerably - the buzzing of the tattoo machine became almost soothing. It sounded quite like a dentist's drill. Hermione thought dreamily of her parents, as the minutes ticked by. Twenty minutes...thirty...forty...

"O.K.," Tate said, exchanging the tattoo gun for a spray bottle. "You're done." She sprayed a cleaning solution onto Hermione's back, and wiped the excess blood and ink off. She handed Hermione a mirror, and pointed toward the full-length mirror on the left wall. Hermione leapt out of the chair and bounded to the mirror. She faced away from it, and angled the hand-held mirror so she could see her new tattoo.

As requested, the Sanskrit translation for 'hope' was inked on her back. Below that, however, a single word was written in calligraphy.

"Iris?" asked Hermione, turning to look at Tate. "Why Iris?"

Tate barely looked up from her ritualistic cleaning. "Iris is Latin for rainbow."

"Yes, I know that, Tate. Why is it on my back."

"Because Iridium is derived from the word 'iris'."

A slow smile spread across Hermione's face. Her codename.

"Alright, now beat it, missy!" Tate waved the Lysol can at Hermione. "You're contaminating my space! Whose next?" Both girls looked toward the bench. Harry and Ron were dead asleep. Harry's head rested on Ron's shoulder.

"Oh, that is priceless," quipped Tate. She sprayed the Lysol in their direction. Ron snored. "Well, wake their asses up," she sighed. "Find out what they want, and send me the next victim." She turned her attention to the equipment.

Hermione gently woke her two friends, and they held an informal discussion.

Four hours later, just as the sun was setting, the tired three emerged from the SIM. Tate had remained behind to clean up. She joined them at the house shortly after dark.

Harry and Ron had decided to stick with the Sanskrit idea. Harry sported the Sanskrit word for 'family' on his left pectoral. Ron opted for a tattoo on his back, just below the nape of his neck. His Sanskrit tattoo meant 'in motion' - and he'd flat out refused to explain his choice to anyone.

Harry's codename, Krypton, was derived from the Greek word 'krytos' (meaning 'hidden'). In conjunction with Hermione, Harry allowed Tate to ink 'krytos' just below his Sanskrit design. Unfortunately, Ron's codename (Cobalt) was derived from the German word 'kobold' (a nasty, rabid creature of the magical realm).

Ron threw a fit, and demanded to have his codename changed (which, of course, Tate refused to do). Eventually, Hermione managed to placate him. Instead of the word 'kobold', Ron sported a dark blue disc, threaded with silver lines. Blue for obvious reasons...silver lines to represent magnetism.

Ron fought the urge to scratch at it. He sighed in exhaustion and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. He narrowed his eyes and surveyed the pile of DVDs spread across the floor. None of the titles were familiar to him - but then again, why would they be? It had become a ritual of sorts to sit down and watch a movie in the evenings, after the enforced hour of reading. Ron rather enjoyed them. At the moment, Tate and Harry were completely entranced with the Nintendo 64. Harry was losing.

"No fair!" he shouted. "You snuck up on me!"

"Spoils of war, man!" Tate laughed pointedly, just as Harry's character blew her to bits with a well-placed land mine. "Shit! Spoke too soon."

"I am the King of James Bond!" Harry crowed excitedly.

"Oh, pipe down!" snapped Hermione, her face buried in a book. "Put that stupid game away, and let's watch a movie."

"Hermione, we've watched all of them!" sighed Harry exasperatedly, gesturing toward the impossibly small DVD shelf against the wall. Tate snorted in laughter, while Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Did you not notice the drawers?" asked Hermione, her tone mockingly light. Harry colored deeply, and opened up a large, mahogany drawer, only to be met with at least seventy brightly colored boxes. Harry scanned them quickly.

"Ron, you want to choose?" he asked. "You never have a say, do you? Want one now?" Ron shrugged, dragged himself out of his chair and joined Harry on the floor. He scanned the titles curiously.

"Is Babe a naughty movie?" Ron asked. His eyes danced with mischief.

"No," answered Tate, "It's about a talking pig."

Ron cringed. "Bloody, teasing title..." he muttered, returning his attention to the drawer. "The Shining?"

Tate looked horrified. "You're fucking crazy! Four of us are locked up together in the middle of nowhere, and you want to watch a movie about cabin fever? VETO!"

"What the bloody Christ are you on about?" countered Harry, shooting Tate a look of disbelief. "Have you no taste for art? The Shining is amazing!"

"Oh yah," snapped Tate, "This coming from the guy who wanted to watch Weekend at Bernie's over Caddyshack."

"Golf is stupid," retorted Harry.

"You are stupid."

And so it went on. Ron would suggest a title, only to have either Harry or Tate reject it and then fight with each other about it. They barely looked up when Hermione slammed her book down and stomped up the stairs. The movie struggle continued on for a good twenty minutes, ending only when Tate abruptly stood up. She declared that a movie was no longer an option due to impending lights out. And then she called Harry a cock, and disappeared into the kitchen.

The minutes ticked away, and the hour hand of the clock hung just above 9 PM. The house was relatively quiet, with the exception of Ron and Harry who kept screaming at each other over the merciless game of chess in the living room. It was a non-magical chessboard, and Ron had resorted to cramming Harry's taken chess pieces into his mouth, and spitting them across the floor.

Tate sat with her feet upon the kitchen table, scribbling in her notebook.

A loud SMACK issued from the center of the table, and Tate jumped slightly. Hermione stood at the head of the table, eyes blazing down on her. She was absolutely furious.

Slowly, Tate kicked her feet off the table and lowered her chair onto the ground. She raised an eyebrow questioningly at Hermione, but Hermione kept her murderous glare without so much as a blink. Tate lowered her eyes to the table.

There it was. The Surveillance folder, in all its glory. Tate had gone to great lengths to hide the folder from Hermione, Harry, and Ron. It was one of the first things she'd done since arriving at the ranch. Hermione couldn't help but feel a small sense of pride at Tate's dumbfounded expression.

"Whoa..."

"You know, Tate, for someone so well schooled in the arts of secrecy and stealth, you really have no common sense."

"Well, we all have our drawbacks," Tate whispered, still staring in obvious shock at the discovered folder.

"I didn't read any of them," Hermione said sniffily. "But I intend to. However, I'd like an explanation. Tate nodded, wordlessly, for a few seconds.

"Yah, ok. But not here." As if to back up her suggestion, Ron swore viciously from the other room. Hermione began to protest, but Tate swept past her.

"Hey," Hermione began, but Tate was already gone. Shaking her head, she swept the folder into her shoulder bag. If Tate wanted privacy, that could be arranged. In exchange for some serious answers. Hermione made a quick excuse to Ron and Harry, who barely looked up from their game, and exited out the front door.

*** *** ***

Ginny was frozen to her broom. Quite literally.

Shortly following her departure from the Burrow, in the company of Draco Malfoy, the black sky over the United Kingdom had begun to spit fat flakes of snow. She was wet, freezing, and solidly iced to her broomstick. Yet they flew on.

She couldn't remember exactly how long they'd been flying, but it had begun to seem like days. Weeks, even. She did not dare to try and reshift her weight, for fear of unseating her broomstick or, god forbid, losing her guide. Draco's speed was not impossible to follow, but if she lost her momentum for even a moment, her chances of spotting him in the awful weather were not in her favor.

She recalled a movie shown during her Muggle Studies Class, during the "Entertainment" segment of the class. It depicted muggles in space. At one point, they had maneuvered their ship into "light speed", and the window of their spaceship had immediately changed from a black, starlit sky to a thousand white lines hurtling past. That was an accurate description of the sky now. Except that the stars had become snowflakes. And each white line traced an unforgivable cold slash down the sides of her face and body.

Thank god she'd had the forethought to wear her father's safety goggles (primarily used for when he tinkered with "Eckeltricity". In fact, there was a sign above them threatening death to the unfortunate Weasley that happened to touch them).

And then, finally, Draco began to descend.

Ginny was careful to stay a few paces behind him - if he came to a sudden stop, she didn't want to be at fault for crashing into him.

After a few moments, treetops became visible. Ginny hazarded a split second gaze at her descent angle. Unfortunately, all she could see where trees, and further dark shapes which, more than likely, were also trees.

Draco's trajectory curved upward, following the marked ascent in tree height. It was a moment before Ginny realized that the trees were growing taller because she and Draco were flying up the side of a hill.

And then, quite suddenly, the trees disappeared and gave way to a wide, open space. Ginny could not see what lay ahead, nor did she attempt. The chances of crashing were far too high at this point. She simply followed Draco's flight, inch for inch, until he set his broom upon land.

She landed softly beside him, her body shaking uncontrollably with the cold. Draco put an awkward hand on her shoulder. Despite her frozen face, Ginny smiled. She knew he was attempting to comfort her, but clearly he'd had no practice of such a simple art. She drew her head up to peer at Draco, but was rendered speechless by the spectacular view behind him.

They were standing perhaps fifty feet away from the most magnificent house Ginny had ever seen. Granted, they had a very sideways view of it, but it was breathtaking from any angle. Ginny's mouth hung open, even as Draco seized her elbow and began marching her toward the mansion.

Ginny shook her head to clear her thoughts. They approached the house from the side. Ginny raised an eyebrow as Draco led her toward an impressive, but quite solid, brick wall, adorned with climbing plants. Without releasing his grip on Ginny, Draco withdrew his wand and tapped it against the wall twice.

"Purity is godliness," he said strongly. The climbing vines began to pull and scurry away from the source of his wand tap, and a black door materialized. Draco shook his head in disgust, and opened the door. He stepped through quickly, yanking Ginny behind him.

Ginny squinted, as bright lights assailed her eyes. Before her vision had even begun to clear, she heard the shouts of a high-pitched voice.

"Master Malfoy has returned!"

Ginny's nerves hit the breaking point, and her vision focused immediately. However, instead of seeing a furious Lucius Malfoy in front of her, she saw several grinning house elves. She was in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor.

"Yes, I'm back," Draco said gently, "But only for a bit. Is Lucius here?" Ginny felt a great swell of pity as the house elves winced at the very mention of the elder Malfoy's name. The tallest house elf appointed himself speaker of the group.

"No sir, young master Malfoy. The great master Malfoy is leaving just an hour before young master Malfoy is arriving."

Ginny allowed herself a great exhalation of relief.

"And my mother?"

"Lady Malfoy is leaving with great master Malfoy."

"The house elves and the ghosts are the only ones in the house?"

"Yes, young master Malfoy."

Draco smiled. "How is everyone getting on then?"

In response to Draco's congenial question, the house elves seemed to quiver in fear. "Great master Malfoy is -"

"No," cut in Draco, "I don't care how Lucius is. How are you all getting on?"

Six pairs of tennis ball shaped eyes began to tear up. "We is fine, young master Malfoy." Ginny felt her eyes water, looking at the miserable, desperate faces.

"Is this all of you?" Draco asked. The house elves nodded vigorously. Draco frowned, and furrowed his brow.

"Where is Minnie?"

His query was met with silence, and downcast stares.

"What happened to Minnie?" he asked, more forcefully.

"Target practice, sir," whispered one of the smaller females.

"Jesus."

Draco ran a hand through his hair, disgustedly. He took a deep breath. Then he sat down on the ground, and began pulling off his shoes. Ginny stared down at him, in complete befuddlement.

"Take your socks off," he ordered. Ginny opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off with a hissed "Just do it!" Ginny sat down beside him, and began removing her shoes. Draco pulled off both of his socks, and then faced the house elves.

"I'd like to make an arrangement with all of you." His tone was very business oriented. The house elves looked on curiously. "Can you keep Lucius and my mother away from the house?" Six pairs of eyes widened.

"Oh no, sir, we cannot be keeping the master and his lady away from the house! We is bound to the Malfoy family, we can't be using magic against the masters!"

Draco smirked. "What if you weren't bound to the Malfoy family?" Ginny hadn't thought it possible, but the house elves managed to widen their eyes even further. She felt a sense of longing and elation penetrate the misery of the cold kitchen.

"I can promise all of you new positions in the Hogwarts School kitchen," Draco went on, "You will be treated very respectably there."

"Where...where Dobby went, sir?"

"Yes," Ginny cut in, "He's very happy there. I've seen him many times."

Draco held up his socks. "No more target practice, no more beatings...you'll be treated well. All I ask for in return is your help."

He tossed a sock to the house elf in front. The tiny creature stared at the sock wonderingly, then cradled it to his chest and danced around in joy. Draco smiled, and tossed the other sock. He grabbed Ginny's proffered socks, and distributed those among the house elves, as well as his scarf and one of his gloves.

"No one will be coming into this house, young master Malfoy! No one will be coming in!"

"Thank you," said Draco. His tone regained its business-like edge. "But you only need to keep away Lucius and my mother. Let anyone else pass. Once I leave, I suggest that all of you depart for Hogwarts. Tell Dumbledore that you are all under the protection of Draco Malfoy, and are to be employed immediately."

The house elves joyously agreed, and scattered through various corridors.

"Thank you!" Ginny called after them. Draco grabbed her hand, and pulled her from the kitchen.

"Who was Minnie?" she asked tentatively, trying to match his steps. Draco's face darkened.

"Minnie was my personal attendant, if you will. She damn near raised me."

Ginny was silent - she knew Draco wouldn't want her pity. Instead, she concentrated on her surroundings. They passed through an elaborate entryway, complete with marble staircases and massive, ebony gargoyles guarding the doors. Ginny felt a cold shiver at the base of her spine. There was no beauty in this house. Not all the riches in the world could make up for the evil people that lived in it. Draco took a sharp, right turn.

She clung tight to his hand as he led her down a dimly lit hallway. The rich carpet completely absorbed the sounds of their footfalls. Ginny tried to ignore the rather disturbing paintings that lined the walls. Each one was more and more terrifying - if she'd never gotten to know Draco before, she'd have been fully convinced that his entire family line hailed directly from vampires and other horrific creatures of the Dark. A particular frightening painting of a bone white man with amethyst purple eyes leered at her as she passed. Ginny cringed, and fought to keep up with Draco's quickstep.

"Home already, are you?" hissed a portrait of man holding his own head.

"Fuck off," snapped Draco. "I have a pocket full of matches and no remorse." He received no more greetings, nor comments. Ginny squinted as a doorway came into view against the shadowy darkness of the seemingly never-ending corridor. Golden light peeked out from the edges of two huge mahogany doors. Her stomach was roiling with terror, and she very nearly lost her balance as Draco viciously kicked open the doors. Pleasant, golden light flooded her vision, and Ginny had to blink several times before she could see properly.

They stood in the doorway of an office. The walls were inlaid with what appeared to be thin veins of gold and silver threaded throughout the rich oak. The room was considerably large - twice the size of the living room in the Burrow, at the very least. The room was dominated by two structures - a large, oak table (seating twelve) on the right side of the room, and a huge, imposing desk against the left wall. Between the desk and the table was an equally magnificent fireplace. Green and silver tapestries adorned each wall. Strangely enough, there were no windows, though the room should have been situated at the edge of the house. The smell of expensive cigar smoke hung in the air, as if they had just come upon the place of a very recent meeting.

"Where are we, Draco?" Ginny asked uncertainly, her eyes still roving over the desk, and the bookcase behind it. When Draco did not answer, she turned to look at him. She nearly bit clear through her lip.

Draco's mouth was open in shock. His eyes bore a horror that seemed to stretch into the far-reaching corners of his face. Ginny felt an intense wave of fear pulsate from his hand, still gripped tightly around hers. Dark waves of warning flooded over her as she followed his gaze.

At the far edge of the oak table was a large board, covered in pictures. It nearly resembled a chalkboard, though its style was ostentatiously rich. She wrenched her hand from Draco's bone-crushing grip, and approached the board. The smell of cigar smoke grew stronger, and Ginny glanced briefly at the table. It was littered with recently emptied ashtrays. This further confirmed her suspicions that she and Draco had arrived at the tail end of a very important meeting.

Draco skirted his way around the opposite edge. He reached the head of the table first, and ruthlessly kicked the leather chair out of the way. Ginny lightly sidestepped the flying chair, and came to join Draco. At the very top of the board were several lines, written in brilliant green, bold-faced letters.

'ALL SUBJECTS BELIEVED TO HAVE SUPERIOR COMBAT SKILLS. ALL LIVING SUBJECTS, INDIVIDUALLY, SHOULD BE VIEWED AS ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. DO NOT APPROACH ALONE.'

Just below the disturbing lines were ten photographs, arranged in pairs. One head shot and one full body shot per person, for a total of five people. All were black and white, none in motion. The two photographs at the center of the board were stamped in red with the letters "K.I.A.". A placard with bold-faced, fancy handwriting was pinned beneath each person's photographs. Ginny scanned the placard at the far right of the board first.

NAME: Sergei A. Chernyshev

SEX: Male

AGE: 21

HEIGHT: 5'10

NATURAL SKIN/HAIR/EYE COLOR: White/Black/Blue

CHARACTERISTIC ABILITIES: Supreme aquatic capability/adaptability; can sustain for 15 full minutes without oxygen

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Black Sanskrit tattoo (balance) on left shoulder; black kanji symbol (justice) on left wrist; black kanji symbol (enlightened) in center of back; black bar code on left bicep; colored bear tattoo on left calf; black alchemical symbol (mercury) on right bicep; tattoo of "The Archway", painted by Flamel, on back; six inch scar on right arm; multiple knife wounds to torso and right leg; multiple gunshot wounds to torso; right arm; and right leg.

Ginny didn't bother finishing the rest of 'Sergei's' biography, once she got past the Sanskrit tattoo notation. Christ, she didn't even have to think about it. Her eyes darted to the far left of the board.

NAME: 'T'. Full name unknown.

SEX: Female

AGE: 16

HEIGHT: 6'1

NATURAL SKIN/HAIR/EYE COLOR: White/Brown/Brown

FORMIDABLE ABILITIES: Telepathy, telekinesis, probable pyrokinesis.

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Black Sanskrit tattoo (balance) on left shoulder; black elvish (friend) tattoo on left hip; black kanji symbol (enlightened) in center of back; black kanji symbol (justice) on left wrist; black fairy outline on small of back; colored gecko on left foot; black bar code on ankle; black alchemical symbol (mercury) on right thigh; multiple scars on hands; multiple gunshot scars on both legs; 9 inch vertical scar on left leg; diagonal scar across left palm; lateral, purple line across left bicep; multiple knife scars on torso; sickle shaped scar behind right ear.

Ginny scanned Tate's photograph, briefly. Her eyes dropped below the portraits and biographies.

Dozens of color photographs were arranged around an enlarged picture. Ginny furrowed her brow, as she focused her attentions onto the dominating picture. It was definitely an aerial view of something...somewhere. It was mostly green geography, save for a few brown and grey anomalies and obvious blue water references. Ginny reached for her wand.

"Protraxi."

Silver words appeared on the central photograph. Draco blew air out through his teeth, and afforded Ginny a grateful stare as she moved closer to the board. She read the words aloud.

"Cabin. Main Bridge. Skid-pad. Playground."

But there was something else. Draco felt it, pulsing, at the base of his spine. He dropped to his knees and crawled beneath the table.

"Draco?!"

He ignored Ginny. There it was...whatever was calling to him...near the fourth chair, on the left side of the table. A neatly bound folder, glowing silver with Ginny's revealing charm. As he crawled toward it, he could make out the silvery words.

'INFORMATION COMPILED BY J.L.'

He grasped the edge of it, and rolled out from beneath the table, knocking several chairs over in his wake. Draco leapt to his feet, though his bones felt like gelatin. Shaking, he managed to unwind the twine that bound the folder together and pry it's edge open.

Ginny appeared at his side.

"Fuck me all to hell." Even Fred and George would have flinched at their younger sister's language. But she had good reason.

Staring up at her, locked into a photograph, were Hermione, Harry, and Ron. And behind their picture, a detailed battle plan.

*** *** ***

Tate and Hermione stepped through the decon door into the SIM.

"Code 1743 Whiskey 12." The walls shimmered, and Hermione found herself standing in a pub. She was used to the SIM at this point, but still managed a small smile at the sight of holographic patrons walking about. Tate walked briskly over to a long table and sat down. Hermione followed her over. There weren't any chairs, just a long bench, and Hermione settled herself upon it and drew out the folder.

"How did you find that?" Tate asked point blank.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It was painfully obvious to anyone who pays attention to detail."

Tate raised an eyebrow. "Naturally. So, while you were looking over Robert's extensive collection of porn," she raised her voice at the word porn, "You noticed a variation between the lesbian chocolate-sauce wrestling match and the dancing, naked nuns?"

Hermione let the porn accusation slide. For the moment.

"You transfigured it into a gratuitous sex scene in a Roman bathhouse!" Hermione raised her eyebrows pointedly, as though it should've been an obvious glaring mistake.

"Yah? So?"

"Well, I guess you failed to notice that one of the women was the spitting image of Blaise Zabini."

"Oh..."

"And the Prefect Bathrooms are modeled after the Roman Bathhouses. And one of the men was very obviously Marlon Brando. Post Apocalypse Now."

"I thought it was funny," mumbled Tate.

"Quite," smirked Hermione, "I suppose it's a fitting punishment, for someone as awful as Blaise."

Tate tossed her head in agreement. Hermione flipped open the massive folder and pulled the U.K. subfolder from it. She opened it quickly, and grabbed a small section of files. Tate watched her carefully - Hermione had obviously been through the folder already, and separated the files accordingly.

"Explain these," Hermione said forcefully, spreading the files onto the table. Tate passed a hand over her forehead, and gently squeezed the bridge of her nose. She inhaled deeply, almost reassuringly. Without bothering to read the labels, she began to talk.

"I think it would be obvious why you have a folder," she said quietly, "As a telepath, it's pretty much standard."

"I gathered as much," interrupted Hermione, "I'm not really curious at all about my file." Tate nodded softly, and seized the meager pile of folders. She rested them on the edge of the table, and went in order.

"Parvati and Padma Patil." She placed their matching files onto the table and pushed them toward Hermione. "Suspected Seers." Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"Well that just figures!" she said huffily. Tate bit back a smile.

"Sybill Trelawney. Confirmed Seer, however slightly unreliable." As Tate listed off names, she tossed the files into the growing pile on the table.

"Draco Malfoy. Social outcast due to refusal of lineage. Highly endangered, and confirmed empathic capabilities. Tops out at number four on Voldemort's 'High Value Target' List."

"That can't be a technical name..." Hermione whispered, nearly to herself. Tate smiled sadly, before nodding solemnly. There was an actual copy of said list - Niels had it filed away under Accounting. She flipped through the next six files.

"You don't know any of these people. Want me to go over them?"

Hermione just stared at her, disapprovingly.

"Alright, fine! Don't get touchy!" Tate threw the anonymous files onto the pile.

"Ginny Weasley. At age eleven, she was given a diary containing the preserved memory of Tom Riddle, which," she said, waving a hand, "You already knew."

Hermione nodded. Tate opened Ginny's folder to the very back and trailed briefly over the supplement.

"The complicated spell interwoven into the diary required that parts of his soul be poured into hers. In return for his soul, Riddle took pieces of her life essence - not to be confused with her soul. Upon destruction of the diary, her life essence was restored, but the pieces of Riddle's soul remained. Ginny Weasley retains the ability to speak and read Parseltongue. Now...this is kind of confusing." Tate set the files down on the table, and looked Hermione in the eye. "There's no way to alter a person's genotype - that's set in stone. But...Riddle left a kind of fingerprint on her. If someone took a blood sample, they'd find that Ginny Weasley is O positive, with the DNA of a typical witch. But, accelerated nervous system and unique DNA aside, Ginny has all the characteristics of a telepath."

Hermione's jaw clenched. "That's impossible," she countered.

"Nothing is impossible. Anyways, it's not unheard of." Tate tossed Ginny's file on the table. "There is one other active, recorded case."

"Of course there is," Hermione said, lowering her head onto her hands. "Harry."

"Guess you don't need to hear about his file then." Tate tossed Harry's file on top of Ginny's.

"This is all just too odd...too coincidental..." muttered Hermione, as she rocked her head in her arms.

"Not really," retorted Tate, "It's a small world. Especially for people like us." Hermione nodded into her elbows.

"Ronald Weasley. Suspected empath."

Hermione's head came up like a rocket.

"What? Are you sure?"

Tate dropped the professional voice. "Dude, I'm not the person you really need to be asking...it's not my job to track these people down. But if you want to know whether or not I think its true, then yes. Niels keeps track of all these people. I believe it if he does. And he clearly does." Tate flipped open Ron's file and handed it to Hermione.

Hermione accepted it, and quickly flipped open the folder. She found herself staring at an in-depth biography of Ron, complete with a picture. Ron's name...his date of birth...his sex...and there it was. Next to the bold-faced word 'rank'...Empath.

"Wow," she said breathlessly, "He'll be quite pleased." Tate raised an eyebrow.

"Why's that?"

Hermione shrugged. "Ron always feels a bit left out. Mind you, he never says so...but I know he does. It would've crushed him to find out that both Harry and I are telepaths, and he was just..."

"A normal person?"

"Well...yes."

Tate nodded, her eyes pensive. She lit a cigarette, and rested her hand on her forehead.

Hermione eyed her curiously. "Did you still fancy him?"

Tate snorted, and continued to stare at the table, blowing smoke rings at a particularly large knothole.

"If I remember correctly," she said suddenly, "This SIM actually provides a steady supply of Guinness." She leapt up from the table, leaving a cloud of smoke in her wake. Hermione frowned at the departure, and continued to do so as Tate returned with two pints. She slammed one in front of Hermione.

"I hate Guinness." Hermione made a face at the tall glass.

"I know," quipped Tate, "It's amber ale. That's in your file too." She smirked sarcastically. Hermione rolled her eyes, and took a tentative sip.

"Not bad." She raised her glass. "Cheers."

*** *** ***

Draco slammed his hand in the center of the folder and sent it flying. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, and began to dig in his pockets. Ginny, who hadn't moved during the course of his outburst, raised an eyebrow as Draco brought a small, black box from the pocket of his trousers. Curiously, she watched as he flipped open the top to reveal a small pad, covered in buttons. She drew closer - each button had a letter...some had numbers. She vaguely remembered seeing something like it at Hermione's home once.

"Is that a keyboard...uh, telephone?"

Draco shook his head, not taking his eyes from the curious object he held. He began to press buttons furiously. His eyes flicked toward her briefly.

"I'm not really sure what it is," he said honestly. "Tate gave it to me, before she left." He squinted, almost nostalgically. "It was weird - she sent me a note and we met up in the usual place."

Ginny nodded, even though Draco wasn't looking at her. She well recalled Draco's little room.

"It was the night of the Astronomy Tower attack," continued Draco, "That happened later, of course. A few hours later, at least. Anyways...I don't know if you knew this, but her cousin sent her a tattoo kit for Christmas, and I'd been at her to give me one. So, eventually...that evening...she did."

Ginny almost scoffed - she'd seen the tattoo on his wrist a number of occasions, though he always seemed to notice at the last second and redrew his sleeve. She wasn't surprised at all to hear that Tate had inked it. However, she did find herself slightly surprised when Draco admitted to giving Tate one as well - she'd never seen Draco as the artistic type. Her face did not break as Draco continued smoothly.

"You did notice that she's tattooed all over the place?"

Ginny shook her head in sarcastic innocence, as Draco's eyes briefly captured her face. Draco cracked a smile.

"Right, well, she has one on her right thigh that she shares with her teammates." Draco inclined his head toward the pictures on the board. "The tattoos are enchanted with a complicated communication charm. If one of them activates the charm, every teammate will experience a signal in their respective tattoos."

"That's like the Dark Mark, in a way, isn't it?" Ginny broke in. "When Voldemort touches his dark mark, all the death eaters must apparate to his side."

Draco nodded. "I think the idea is the same. However, the dark mark burns, and the death eaters face serious consequences if they do not answer the call. The communication system that Special Team Halide employs is much more innocent. It's borderline dark magic because it's an alteration of the body - however, because of who they are, they get away with it."

"How is it that you 'get away with it', then?"

Draco smirked. "That's where we start to pass into very slight illegal workings. Tate wrote up this huge consent form, about how she deemed the casting of the charm necessary for safety reasons concerning the both of us. I signed it, and we both kept a copy."

Ginny just stared at Draco, wondering if he was planning to make a point in the near future. He had still failed to connect the black box, the tattoo, and the load of bollocks he'd just dumped on her.

"Anyways, she embedded my tattoo with the same charm, as well as the tattoo I gave her. We altered the charm slightly though. Since neither of us have any simple means of communication, we use these little gadgets." He nodded to the black box, upon which he was still tapping away furiously. "She has an identical device. Through these, we can send messages to each other. Upon receipt of a message, the charm is activated."

"Have you sent or received any messages from her since she left?"

"No," he said empathically. "It's strictly for emergency only." He clenched his jaw, and pressed 'SEND'. Ginny heard a faint beep.

"There. It's done."

*** *** ***

"And so, then he says, 'You're fraternizing with the enemy!'" Hermione covered her mouth as she cracked up, recalling the eve of her Fourth Year Yule Ball.

Tate laughed out loud, and dropped her head against her forearm, shoulders shaking in laughter aftershocks. After moment, she pulled her head upright, a huge grin still plastered on her face.

"Man...you and Ron...I'd never have figured! Well, I guess I could see it...if you're going on that whole 'opposites attract' tangent. How long did you last?"

Hermione shrugged lightly. "Maybe two weeks? We barely even kissed. There was always something to stop it - he'd start a fight, or I'd start a fight...it was one dead end after another." She tipped her head back and finished off her third pint. She stood up, plucked Tate's empty pint from her hand, and made her way behind the bar for a refill.

"That's bloody priceless!" giggled Tate, slapping a hand over her forehead. "The constant bickering...poor Gryffindor! That must've been three weeks of Hell!"

"Oh, no more than usual," Hermione assured her. "We're always on about something, aren't we? Ron is just so much fun to fight with. Even if he knows he's wrong, he'll still put up a damned good argument, misguided as it may be." She returned to the table with two brimming glasses.

"I've no doubt," said Tate, "He's as stubborn as...well...you. I suppose the analogy I'm really looking for is a brick wall." Hermione dipped her fingers in her pint and flecked the liquid toward Tate.

"Hey!" she shrieked, wiping ale out of her eyes. "That's my trick!"

"Well, it wouldn't seem so anymore, would it?" Hermione responded brightly. She sighed suddenly, in a nearly reminiscent fashion. "It's been so long since I've had a real bit of 'girl chat' with anyone. Feels nice to just give it up for a bit, doesn't it?"

Tate grinned wryly. "I guess."

"Ah, that's right," giggled Hermione, straightening herself up and taking on a dramatic voice. "I'm talking to the tomboy to end all tomboys. Feel up to a bit of girly chat, do you?"

"I'll play it along as I go," assented Tate, nodding slightly into her pint. Hermione giggled lightly, and cocked her head to one side.

"Honestly Tate, one would think you'd never had any dealings with anyone beyond your little team before! You spent two months at Hogwarts! Can't you shed this little screen you keep up?"

Tate shrugged, her eyes trained on the table. "I'll thank you not to go after the screen. I quite like it, actually." She stuck her tongue out at Hermione.

"Bollocks," retorted Hermione, "It's killing you. Harry and Ron may not notice - they're too busy with their own issues. But I do. Just bloody lose it - it's baggage you don't need." Tate raised her eyes toward Hermione in a slight bout of shock.

Hermione, however, wasn't finished.

"Really, Tate, you think I don't notice? In case you've forgotten, we are both telepaths and I am well attuned to your internal functioning. You're a goddamned robot and it's because no one will listen to you! And you...stupid you, you think no one wants to!"

"You're drunk," Tate said quietly.

"So are you!" roared Hermione, slamming her pint onto the table. There was a frothing expulsion of foam from the top of her tankard. Hermione stared at the spilled liquid, momentarily frozen - she very rarely became physically demonstrative when inebriated. This was something entirely new.

Tate, thankfully, broke the uncomfortable silence when she collapsed onto the table in laughter. Hermione soon joined her, but abruptly stopped when Tate lit another cigarette.

"Can't you stop that?" she demanded impatiently, waving a hand through the blue tinged smoke.

"No." Tate said matter-of-factly. "Can't you stop staring at Harry the way you do?"

Hermione ignored the warm flush that spread through her cheeks. "Of course I can't. I love him. That's quite a different thing."

Tate inhaled deeply. "No it's not." She blew the smoke out in a thick cloud toward the ceiling. "You're in love with Harry. I'm in love with smoking."

Hermione snorted. "No, you're not. You're in love with a forgotten era, T." Tate jerked visibly at the mention of her old nickname. "You're in love with the past and your idea of what should be. You are addicted to smoking. There is a significant difference." Tate took a deep drag of her cigarette, and then planted a dramatic smooch on the filter. Hermione, sensing Tate's discomfort, laughed and changed the subject.

"Give it up Tate!" she crowed. "I know for a fact you fancied Ron! The whole dormitory did! Why can't you admit that?" Tate rolled her eyes dramatically.

"I know, I know! Lavender gave me hell about it for the longest time. Back when she was speaking to me, anyways. Apparently Gryffindors take it rather hard when one of their own appears naked in the library. Harry got to stand among the gods!! Do I get a 'thank you' for his brief brush with ethereal deities? NO! I get the silent treatment!"

Hermione snorted into her pint with laughter.

"Well, he must have been quite embarrassed! Honestly, Tate, imagine his shame! He finally gets to stand among the gods, and someone stole all of his clothes!"

"He didn't seem to care! You saw the statue - remember his smile?"

Hermione nodded, through her laughter. Tate's expression became curious.

"What's it like having a boyfriend?"

Hermione stopped laughing immediately, and shot Tate a look of disbelief. Of all things she had expected to hear from Tate, that question was at the very end of the list.

"Well...I guess it all depends on the boy," she said tentatively, thinking back upon Viktor and Ron. "But, all in all, it's not bad. I'm quite happy with Harry. Happier than I've ever been in my life."

Hermione's expression grew dead serious as her eyes grazed the table and lit upon the stack of files. She averted her gaze immediately.

"You know," she began, in what she hoped was a light tone, "Harry and Ron are going to need to see their files." Tate placed her feet on the table and leaned her chair back. She drew deep on her cigarette, and then nodded to Hermione.

"Of course they will," she agreed, "But not until Niels shows up. He's the one best to explain it to them." Her facial expression didn't change throughout the delivery. Hermione knew that she intended to hide the files from the people they described until the situation was out of her hands.

This was completely unacceptable.

"You can't do that. They need to know these things."

"It's not up to me, Hermione," Tate said, in a maddeningly professional tone. "It's up to Niels."

Hermione was suddenly aware of a strong, hot panic building in her spine.

"It's out of my hands."

That was all it took. Something snapped. Hermione viciously kicked the table and Tate toppled straight over backwards. There was a sharp crack as her head connected with the stone floor, but Hermione paid no mind as she scooped up the files and tore toward the door. The mechanical doors opened swiftly. Hermione leapt inside and began to pray. She watched, through a haze of pain and sickness, as Tate's body reappeared on the opposite side of the table. Her eyes were burning with fury. Hermione furiously smacked the side of the lift as the decon doors whined, and began to close at a sickeningly slow pace.

Tate was thirty feet away...twenty...fifteen...ten...two...

Hermione jumped back as the dull thud of Tate's body bounced harmlessly off the closed decon doors.

Seconds later, Hermione was tearing across the snow-covered ground, the files gripped tightly under her arm. Snow was falling again, in delicate white flecks. It might have been beautiful.

The snow on the ground was powdery and thick. Hermione's thighs were burning and screaming for rest as she tirelessly trudged toward salvation.

The house was in sight when Hermione heard the roar of a snowmobile behind her. She forced her burning legs to move faster.

The sound grew louder, and it wasn't long before a massive black shape wheeled around her and stopped directly in her path. Tate leapt off of it and faced Hermione.

"Give me that, Hermione. You don't know what you're doing." Tate held out a hand. Hermione tightened her grip on the folders.

"You deceitful bitch, I know exactly what I'm doing! Get out of my way!"

Tate held her ground, menacingly.

Another hot flash of panic jolted through Hermione's nerves with the force of a freight train. Without much thought, she lifted her leg and brought it down on Tate's kneecap with lightening speed. There was a loud snap, and Tate went down to one knee. Her deep, guttural gasp was unnatural and loud enough to be heard even over the wind.

Hermione darted past her and, for a moment, she was home free.

Something caught the back of her jacket, and she gasped for breath as the collar cut into her throat. She threw up an arm to defend herself, and papers went flying everywhere. A powerful fist slammed solidly into her breastbone and she saw sparks, fizzes, and then nothing else.

*** *** ***

BANG!

Ron and Harry jumped in surprise, as the front door swung open. Without thought, both leapt to their feet and trained the wands upon the door. Tate appeared, looking pale and disheveled. Hermione's backside was present - thrown over Tate's shoulder. With her free hand, Tate tossed two wet, ragged looking folders toward the two shocked boys.

"You'd better look over those," she said quietly, before fighting her way over to the couch and depositing Hermione upon it.

"Why are you limping?" asked Ron.

"I'm not limping!" she snapped. Tate gestured toward Hermione. "She's fine - just stunned." Harry made to move toward Hermione, but Tate wheeled around furiously.

"She's fucking fine! Read that file NOW!" Tate wobbled a bit, grimacing. "It's what she wants you to do."

Harry tossed a disgusted glance at the file - he didn't give a shite about whatever was in there. But his glance was long enough to read the name.

He reached for the file bearing the label 'Harry Potter'. Ron did the same with the file bearing his own name.

Tate summarized what had transpired between herself and Hermione. Harry and Ron were shocked, and more than a bit confused.

"I don't understand!" Harry argued desperately. "Hermione would never attack anyone! Why would she attack you?"

"Because she felt panic," Tate replied.

Ron snorted. "Bollocks. Hermione never panics unless it's Exam Week."

Harry stared at Tate, at Hermione, then back again. Tate avoided his eyes.

"She felt your panic, didn't she?" Harry's bright green eyes were shining. Tate nodded sharply, once. "Why on earth would you panic?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm still human, Harry," she spat acidly, "I'm very good at hiding emotions, but that doesn't mean I don't feel them anymore. Hermione's getting in tune with her power...it's like..."

Hermione stirred, and Harry placed a comforting hand on her forehead. Tate flailed for meaningful words.

"It's like when someone discovers alcohol. They take a tiny shot, and that makes them feel something. But then they realize that there is more, and they drink a bottle. She's reaching out more, harder, and she's getting a lot more than she can handle right now." Tate gritted her teeth and shifted her weight.

"I panicked because I don't know how to handle any of this. This whole...stupid teacher thing is not my fucking forte, and it's really starting to get to me!" She glanced down at the damp files on the table. "I'm not prepared to explain anything in those to you, so don't bother asking."

Harry snorted derisively. "I'm going to ask anyways."

"Me too," muttered Ron, not taking his eyes off his own, open folder. Tate clapped her hands over her eyes, and rocked back and forth.

"Read the supplements in the back," she murmured through her hands. Abruptly, she turned away, and stretched her leg. There was a loud cracking of joints, and she sighed in relief.

"I know you've got questions, but seriously...I can't answer them." Hermione stirred on the couch. Tate shot her a furious look and took off with a slight limp. As she passed the couch, she leaned over and waved her middle finger about in Hermione's sleeping face. Harry squelched a laugh. For that split second, Tate looked sixteen. The split second extended into a full six seconds as Tate stomped up the stairs, purposefully kicking the rail with her good leg and disappearing into the office.

SLAM!

"Jesus," whispered Ron, "What's her problem?" Harry shot him a sarcastic look.

"Being a full time man when one is lacking all necessary tools is likely a stressful job." Ron laughed, but it was hollow. He was soon completely engrossed in his file. A few moments passed. Suddenly, there was a furious howl from upstairs, a bout of colorful swearing, all followed up by the sound of something shattering.

"Goddamn that temper," Harry said quietly. Ron shot him an incredulous look.

"What temper?"

Harry had no reply.

*** *** ***

As soon as Tate had slammed the study door, her carefully constructed world of deception came crashing down around her.

She'd known that she and Hermione would eventually have to face something dark. That was always part of the plan - hell, she'd known that since she was six. She'd even known Hermione's name then - and had been kept up to date on her life. Upon meeting Harry and Ron, she'd known that they would play some role in the events leading up to...well, the event. Granted, her impromptu leadership of the small group was a surprise - however, she threw herself into the role wholeheartedly, and the results were...pleasing.

Oh hang it, they were beyond pleasing. They were incredible. The three were built for joint combat.

All of these things were easily predictable, even if some had been unexpected.

Unfortunately, Tate had never considered the possibility of forging emotional relationships with them. In the interest of being professional, she'd never planned on making friendships with anyone, be it during her tenure at Hogwarts, or her brief stint as a teacher. Truth be told, she'd never wanted any emotional bonds to anyone outside of her family and her team.

Now, she had emotional ties to the situation. She had emotional ties to Hogwarts.

"Jesus..." she murmured, placing her hands against the door in defeat, "Nice job fucking up the operation, T." At least they didn't refer to her by that preferred nickname. Not too often, anyways. She rested her head against the cool wood of the doorframe, her mind tossing in thought.

When she arrived at Hogwarts, she had a very simple mission to complete. Befriend Hermione Granger. Establish herself as a non-threatening, likable student. Blend in.

As if in sheer defiance to her previous objectives, the base of her spine began to vibrate. Tate's eyes opened wide, and she whirled around and slammed her back against the doorframe.

The vibrations continued. Blindly, Tate brought her left hand around to press against the source.

The newly inked green and silver dragon tattoo on the small of her back refused to quiet. She clenched her fists until her nails drew blood.

"Fucking Christ!" A floodgate opened in her vocal cords, and she swore colorfully enough to send any sailor within an eight-block radius running home.

She leapt away from the door and promptly tripped over a stack of wayward books. Her swearing became even more profane, as she scrambled toward the desk on her elbows. She gripped the edge of the rolling chair, flung it away, and flipped onto her back. It took her a few moments of blind reaching to finally locate the small, rectangular device that was duct taped to the backside of the desk.

She wrenched it free, clutched it to her chest, and sat up sharply. Her forehead crashed against the solid wood of the desk, sending her right back down to the floor. Ignoring the stabbing pain in her head, Tate rolled out from under the desk. She continued rolling until she reached the center of the room. Sitting up like a rocket, she flipped open the device, and tapped several buttons on the tiny computer. Seconds later, a white sheet issued from the top. Carefully, she tore the paper away from its' source.

She paused to wipe a small stream of blood out of her eye, and began to read.

It didn't take her long to finish the relay.

She seized a delicate-looking vase from the bookshelf, and sent it crashing into the wall.

*** *** ***

Before long, Harry and Ron found themselves in front of the study door.

"Should we knock?" Ron looked distinctly nervous.

Harry shook his head, and opened the door. The room was dark, save for two candles. Tate was lying on her back in the center of the room, staring at the ceiling. The light from the hallway spilled over her, and she cringed painfully. Harry and Ron stood there helplessly, unsure how to proceed.

"One at a time..." she pleaded, realizing that resistance was futile. They had to ask...even if she didn't have answers. They had to try. Harry and Ron looked to each other. An unspoken agreement passed, and Harry patted Ron on the shoulder, and headed back downstairs. He turned to watch Ron's fiery red hair disappear into the dark room. Ron deserved to go first. He always seemed to be in the shadows. And now there was something that set him apart. Finally. Harry breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and trudged back down to the living room.

Ron settled himself, cross-legged, on the floor. He positioned himself next to Tate's left shoulder, and she shot him a contemptuous glare. There was a soft crackle...probably the candles.

"Well, don't keep me waiting!" she sang out, in a tone that dripped with sarcasm.

"What happened to your eye?" asked Ron. The desk had caused Tate a great deal of grief. Her left eye was purple and swelling. Blood trickled from her eyebrow. In the flickering candlelight, she looked remarkably insane. Ron abandoned courtesies. It was clear that she wouldn't be acknowledging them.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Tate smiled maniacally, and Ron instinctively scooted back a few inches.

"Yes, I suppose there is no point in holding back now, is there? Ginny's got a file."

Ron's eyes widened. "She's an empath, too?"

Tate shook her head in wide swings, like a petulant child. "Same boat Harry's in, actually. Her dealings with Riddle imparted the same sort of deal."

"How in the hell would you know about the Chamber of Secrets and all that?" Ron's voice was not accusatory, but truly questioning.

"It's all in her file. Just like your discovery is detailed. Remus Lupin identified you as an Empath in your third year. No one ever told you because, due to his 'medical' condition, Lupin isn't considered to be a credible source."

Ron stared at her, in complete shock. Her eyes were wide and glassy - glittering black ice, encased in a tangible layer of unrest. She was frightened...and as much as it killed him to admit it...if she was scared, he was terrified. Something crackled, and he shifted nervously. No, wait...something had been crackling since he'd come in. It was then that Ron noticed the crumpled piece of paper clutched in Tate's left hand.

"I suppose you'll be wondering what this is, won't you!?" she cried shrilly. Her arm rocketed up and waved the paper about in his face.

"Take it! Go on!"

Ron snatched it away from her, very unnerved by her uncharacteristic demeanor. He had never even imagined her capable of such behavior before. He shot her a quick look of disapproval, before smoothing out the paper and reading it.

Tate -

Surprise.

I bear rather unpleasant news. You are in very serious danger. They know. I saw it with my own eyes. In fact, this letter comes to you directly from my father's house. This is no guess, no estimation - I have nothing but hard evidence as persuasion. They have pictures, biographies, maps. Leave the ranch, and do it now, as soon as you read this. One day soon, I'll tell you the entire, amazing story of my brilliant infiltration.

I'm sure you're wondering how it is that I was struck by the sudden idea to see what my sick bastard of a father was up to...Someone linked me...I don't know who...but whoever it was has been inside your memories, so I can only guess it was Granger, although the memories came to me in a jumbled manner...very un-Granger like. I'm not an idiot - I know Ron and Harry are with you, even though everyone else seems to think they're holed up in Singapore. I caught a brief flash of my father in the implants (cor, doesn't that sound awful? I swear I haven't had any surgical enhancements as of late). Ergo, I had to make sure. I've been bunking up at the Burrow for the past several weeks (yes, it's been Hell). I received the link there. If at all possible, do try to clue me up.

PS: I owe you twelve galleons.

Ron stared at the letter. There was no signature, but somehow he knew that Draco Malfoy had sent it. He marveled slightly at the irritatingly perfect penmanship (not knowing, of course, that it had come from a tiny printing device), if only to ignore the lead weight that had just dropped into his stomach. His eyes briefly fell upon a strange, electronic device a few inches from Tate's left hip. She snatched it quickly, and stuffed it into her pocket.

"They're coming."

"Who?" asked Ron, knowing full well what the answer would be. He didn't even know why he'd even spoken...perhaps to reassure himself that he was, in fact, still alive and capable of basic human functioning. Tate seemed to recognize this and chose not to answer.

"What are we going to do?"

Tate flicked her eyes toward him. "Help me up. I'm having trouble moving." Ron offered her his hand, and she took it, hauling herself into a sitting position. Gently, she took the telegram from his free hand. It promptly burst into flame.

"This is bad," she said softly, "This is really, really bad." Ron placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder. She shook him off and leapt to her feet.

Ron watched her nervously as she surveyed the room in a calculating manner, pacing as she did so. Her eyes glazed, and she moved her mouth slightly. Abruptly, she shook her head.

"Nope, no choice." She began nodding, pacing circles instead of lines now.

"What?" Ron watched her with increasing confusion.

"You." Tate glanced at Ron as though she had only just met him. "Move. Over against the wall."

"What? Why?" Ron stared at her in confusion as she crossed the room and seized the edge of the bookcase.

"Tate, what the fuck?!" cried Ron, scooting away madly as Tate sent the massive bookcase toppling over. The crash was so dramatic that Ron expected the entire floor to give way.

Thankfully, it didn't. Ron vaguely heard Harry shout from downstairs. Through the haze of thick, nearly opaque dust, Ron could make out Tate flattened against the wall. He waved a hand through it, got to his feet and stumbled to her side.

"What are you doing?" he spat, choking on a mouthful of dust.

"Secondary protocol," she answered, fiddling with the dial of a safe that was built directly into the wall. Ron heard pounding footsteps on the stairs. Harry was screaming his name.

"Obfirmo." Ron was shocked to hear the words leave his own mouth. He was even further shocked to see his wand out.

The handle of the door glowed brightly, and not a moment too soon. Harry was on the other side of it, beating against it and shouting. Tate was still turning the dial this way and that, and at high speed, but she was staring at Ron in confusion. She arched an eyebrow.

Ron shrugged. "You know him. He'd flip. Get on with your secondary promofall, or whatever it is, and we'll explain it to him after." An appreciative half-smile graced her mouth, and she returned her attention to the dial.

Ron looked worriedly toward the door - he could hear Harry casting repeated Alohamora charms, shot through with bouts of profanity dirty enough to make sailors weep.

"Got it!" hissed Tate, through gritted teeth. She yanked her hand from the dial, as a bolt of blue electricity shot out and sizzled along her arm. A tiny pop issued from the safe, followed by a soft ticking. Ron cocked his head curiously, waiting for some sort of magic red button to pop out, with a sign that said 'Push me!' and then everything would be fine. He didn't get to see the red button however, because Tate threw an arm across his chest and sent him flying to the ground. She came down on top of him and threw her arms over her head, shielding them both.

Ron couldn't see bloody anything through the veil of hair that fell over his face. He opened his eyes wide, and craned his neck around, trying to find an optimal point of view.

"Shut your eyes!"

His body boldly betrayed his mind's wish to see what was going on. His eyes shut tight.

At that precise moment, the room was flooded with light so bright that it pierced his lids. He squeezed them shut tighter, but the white monster still forced its way in, clamoring under his locked lids and searing his retinas. He turned his face into Tate's neck to block the invasion. Even when he pressed his eyes against solid flesh, the light still managed to burn him.

And then it was over. The room assumed the same dim consistency it had been not a second earlier.

Ron was suddenly very aware of his surroundings. He lay on his back, his face pressed into Tate's collarbone. He exhaled in relief, and felt the reverberation of Tate's shiver against his own body. There was a flat thud of a hand against the floor as she lifted herself up. Ron shakily accepted the hand she offered him. He blinked several times, though his eyes still burned with the receding pain. Tate was reaching into the safe, and Ron skipped back several steps, suddenly very afraid of what was to come out of there.

He was dumbstruck when she pulled out a large, rectangular metal object. A smaller, square-shaped object was linked to the top of larger, with a coiled cord. Tate set it the entire contraption onto the desk, and touched a button. A silver stick shot out of the box and opened into a rather large silver dish, which angled itself curiously toward the window. The dish coughed several times, and strained toward the window. Tate frowned momentarily. Ron winced as she put her fist through the window. The dish seemed to sigh in relief, and ceased it's coughing.

"Better?" asked Tate.

The dish nodded. "Sorry about your hand," it whispered.

Ron's mouth fell open. "Did that dish just talk to you?" Ron took a quick step back as the dish turned toward him.

Tate flung up a hand to silence Ron. She snapped her fingers, and the dish returned itself toward the window (though Ron could've sworn it had winked at him). Tate tapped a small pad with numbered buttons a few times, seized the receiver (the smaller square-shaped object) and held it an inch or so away from her mouth. There was a bit of static, and then a large click from the box. Tate spoke quickly, pressing a button on the side of receiver.

"This is I.D. Platinum, group Halide. Request relay to I.D. Palladium." She released the button.

Great, thought Ron. Now she was bloody talking to herself. Ron regarded her with an air of cautious worry. She squinted slightly. The box shuddered and buzzed angrily twice.

"Well, wake his ass up then. I don't have all day!" She tapped a foot. The box clicked again.

"This is I.D. Palladium!"

Ron jumped a foot in the air as a voice began speaking directly out of the box. A stream of disconnected words began flowing in short, static bursts. Furious didn't even begin to describe the tone of voice this man was using against her. Tate dropped her arm exhaustively, and rolled her eyes toward Ron. She brought the receiver up to her lips and screamed as loud as she could. Ron clapped his hands over his ears, and the man's terrifying voice died away immediately.

Calmly, Tate began to speak. Her voice was clear, but urgent.

"Code Blue. I repeat, we have an immediate code blue. Over."

"Roger. Sitrep," came the voice from the box. The fury was gone, and everything seemed to change over to staunchly professional. Tate pressed the receiver button in, and opened her mouth to speak.

CRASH!

Ron whirled around in terror as the door hinges shattered. Tate dropped the receiver in fear, and the voice from the box grew so loud that the desk vibrated.

Harry stood in the doorframe, Hermione next to him. Both had their wands pointed straight ahead. Tate relaxed, and Ron's shoulders sagged.

"Oh, thank God..." Ron breathed quietly. Hermione moved forward quickly and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Ron sank into her, and Harry appeared on his other side, to steady him. Both could sense the intensity of the situation. Tate seized the swinging receiver and spoke into it, quelling the worried voice.

"The enemy is aware of our operation." Harry's eyes grew wide, and Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth. "No need to confirm. I wouldn't have received notice unless the transmission was genuine. Over."

"Roger." There was a heavy sigh, wreathed in static. "I suppose it was eventually inevitable. Over."

"Roger. That's really depressing. Judging from the aforementioned warning, we're facing full threat. I...we require assistance. Request orders. Over."

"Roger. Hold your position. Immediate action is required on your part. Shut down SIMTRAN. Destroy all points of entry within a six-mile radius. Pack the seeds. Prepare for a full team arrival by Apparition Pad. Over."

"Wilco," replied Tate.

"Roger. We're on our way, Platinum, estimated time of arrival at T minus three hundred hours. Over and out." The box clicked again, and fell silent. Hermione, Harry, and Ron stared at Tate, as she tossed the box back into the safe and slammed it shut, spinning the dial hard.

"C'mon guys. We've got a lot of work to do."

*** *** ***

Ginny watched Draco carefully, from across the room. He hadn't spoken a word since he'd sent the transmission to Tate. He just kept staring at the board, the folder, and his father's desk.

"Well..." Ginny began, desperately needing the sound of a human voice, "While we're here, I suppose you could gather the things you left behind?"

Draco snorted derisively. "I don't want anything from this place," he spat, lip curled in disgust. His expression became thoughtful. "Except perhaps a few of my clothes." He turned his eyes to the ceiling, deep in thought. "No, I take that back. I want all of my clothes. I had a much sharper sense of style when I could afford designer."

Ginny laughed sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at Draco's jumper (Draco had been quick to proclaim that the large, golden 'F' stood for "fox", instead of Fred).

"I'd like my inheritance, too," Draco added hastily, "That bastard owes me something, considering I tolerated him for fifteen years."

Ginny nodded absently, her eyes roving over the beautiful items on Malfoy's shelves. She briefly considered stuffing a breathtaking ebony music box in her pocket. She decided against it when Draco eyed her knowingly.

"Once Tate gets my message, she'll raise the alarms."

"I would hope so," Ginny murmured, admiring a sterling silver picture frame. Draco shot her a sarcastic sneer.

"She will," he assured her, "And once she does, U.N.M. intelligence officials are going to swarm this place, and every other suspected death eater home in England." Ginny looked up, still nodding absently, as she began to catch onto his drift. There was a faint gleam of mischief in his silver eyes - and it was growing steadily brighter by the second.

"Why the U.N.M.?" Ginny asked. "Shouldn't the Ministry of Magic be dealing with it?"

Draco shook his head. "It's an international issue now. Trust me, the U.N.M. is going to pounce on this - they'll have a solid connection between a British death eater and one of their high-ranking operatives. They're probably soiling themselves with glee as we speak."

"Your father is going to be in a lot of trouble," Ginny said, matter-of-factly.

"Trouble? He's fucked!" Draco gestured pointedly to the board, to the folder. "This is solid proof of his death eater activity."

"High treason," whispered Ginny. Draco nodded harshly, his eyes burning holes of hatred into his father's desk. Ginny began to feel increasingly nervous.

"How long do you think?" she asked tentatively, wondering if she wanted to hear the answer. Who knew if Draco's method of contacting Tate was foolproof? What if she never got the message, and Lucius Malfoy returned home to find the entry way guarded by house elves? What if Lucius got past the house elves, and found a Weasley and his estranged son poking around through his office? She shuddered to think of the possibilities.

"For life, no doubt," Draco answered quickly, "That is, assuming he doesn't get the death penalty...definitely life in Azkaban."

"No, no," Ginny cut in, shaking her head. "How long do you think it'll take Tate to...raise the alarms or whatever you said?"

"Oh, she'll do it immediately."

Ginny felt a sense of comfort from the conviction in Draco's voice.

"The second she gets the message, I imagine." He smiled wistfully. "Actually, she'll probably break something first, but then she'll do it."

Ginny laughed. The action seemed appropriate.

Draco thought for a moment. "I give it twenty minutes before the U.N.M. is breaking down this door." The mischievous gleam in his eye seemed to spread onto his facial features. He ceased leaning against the wall, and cut a quick path to Lucius's desk.

"Whoops!" he shrieked sarcastically, as he deliberately knocked a picture of Narcissa off the desk. Ginny jumped at the sudden clatter, and wrung her hands together, nervously. Draco settled himself comfortably into his father's lavish chair. Ginny watched as Draco began performing unlocking charms on his father's desk.

"What are you doing?" she asked, as he opened the first drawer and removed several rolls of parchment.

"Sticking it to the man," he muttered, as he sifted through the documents.

"What?" asked Ginny, raising her eyebrows.

Draco smiled, but did not take his eyes off the parchment. "I'm fucking over my father," he said, almost gleefully. Ginny watched him, in slight confusion.

"Aha!" exclaimed Draco, seizing a non-descript looking scroll and waving it about. He quickly unrolled the parchment, which was, surprisingly, rather short.

"Lucius's will," he explained, reading over it quickly. "Cheap bastard is leaving everything to T.M.R., Inc." Ginny made a face.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. So much for subtlety." She sighed heavily. "Couldn't he have at least tried to hide the fact that he's leaving his estate to...V-Voldemort?" She nearly choked getting the word out, and Draco looked up sharply. Then he smiled.

"No. He's leaving everything to me." He plucked a magnificent looking quill from the drawer - a peacock plume, tipped in sterling silver. He regarded the quill with utmost disgust. "Bloody pansy," he muttered, before altering his father's last will and testament. Ginny refrained from voicing her concerns regarding forgery.

Draco seemed to sense this. "Don't worry about it," he said dismissively, "Lucius always had high hopes that I would...'see the error of my ways', so to speak, and return home, ready to get that tacky dark mark and sign my life over to a hideous creature with red eyes, no fashion sense, and a pesky god complex." Ginny chuckled quietly, as Draco scratched away at the parchment. "I was banished from the house, and written out of the will, but I certainly wasn't disowned as a Malfoy, per se. Therefore, I still retain certain...rights, if you will, concerning my presence in the house, and my ability to handle my father's personal possessions. If I'd truly been severed from the family, we wouldn't have gotten past the front gate, let alone into the actual house, and I certainly wouldn't be able to touch anything in this desk." He snorted derisively. "Idiotic bastard really thought I was coming back..."

He finished writing, re-rolled the parchment, and placed it back in the desk. "Happy birthday to me..." he sang absently, as he opened another desk drawer, "Ooohh...what have we here?"

Curiously, Ginny moved closer to peer over his shoulder. She nearly choked on her own tongue.

The desk drawer was filled with promissory notes, all bearing the Gringotts seal. The number on the first note read, "10,000 galleons". In all her life, she'd never seen more than forty galleons together at one time.

"Give me your rucksack."

"Oh, Draco," protested Ginny, "I don't think we should -"

"Should what?" Draco interrupted. "I think we're perfectly entitled to stealing. I mean, let's look at this logically. We've already committed several crimes. Breaking and entering, tampering with legal documents -"

"You mean forging legal documents!" Ginny interjected.

"What, me? A forger??" Draco seemed almost affronted. "As a Malfoy, I'm perfectly entitled to alter any legal documents bearing the Malfoy seal." Ginny shot him a look of disbelief, at which point he mockingly clapped a hand over his heart.

"Technically, it's not forging. That'll never hold up in court." Draco began stuffing notes into his pockets. "And let's be perfectly honest - exactly what is my father going to say in his defense?" Draco pulled a face of utmost horror, and dropped his voice into a disturbingly accurate imitation of his father. "This is nonsense! I never intended to leave my estate to my firstborn son and heir! I'm putting the entire Malfoy fortune into the Save Our Dark Lord fund! Mmmm, death tastes good!"

Ginny burst out laughing - her stressed nerves began to calm slightly. Draco looked at her expectantly. Sighing in mock protest, Ginny removed her rucksack from her shoulders, and handed it to Draco.

"Excellent, love, excellent," murmured Draco in gratitude, as he began cramming the assorted notes and bags of galleons into the rucksack. When he'd emptied the drawer, Ginny's rucksack was stuffed nearly to the brim. He closed the drawer, and relocked the desk.

He had barely returned his wand to his pocket, when the echoing noise of splintering wood ripped through the room. Ginny screamed in terror, and hit the floor. Draco, however, propped his feet on the desk, and crossed his arms behind his head.

Ginny, realizing that she was, in fact, alive, removed her arms from around her head. Draco was watching her, almost lazily, rocking back and forth in the comfortable chair.

"Like clockwork." He smiled nostalgically. "She may be crude, unfeminine, and in violation of at least three hundred Malfoy codes of honor...but she's more reliable than the Viagramus charm."

Ginny tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a squeak.

"And meaner than a goddamned blast-ended skrewt when she wants to be," he continued. The sounds of pounding footsteps and shouting drew closer, but he ignored it. "I hope, for my father's sake, that he runs into her very soon."

Ginny struggled to her feet, valiantly reassuring herself that the terrifying noises from outside the study belonged to government officials - not death eaters. Despite her best efforts, her knees buckled and she nearly became reacquainted with the plush carpet. However, through a flash of movement, she found herself nestled in Draco's lap, his arms protectively around her waist.

"It will be all right," he whispered comfortingly, just as the door was blasted apart in a flash of blue light.

Figures, dressed head to toe in black, poured into the room. Each carried a wand in one hand, and an odd metal contraption in the other. All of these were pointed directly at Draco and Ginny. The first man to enter cut a swift path to the front of the desk.

"This location is now under the jurisdiction of the United Nations of Magic! Surrender your wands, weapons, and place both hands in the air!"

Ginny sagged in both terror and relief, as the U.N.M. agents swarmed through the room.

"I most certainly will not!" snapped Draco, glaring at the speaker. "What took you so long?"

"Put your hands in the air and stand up slowly! Don't make me say it again!"

Ginny complied quickly - nearly leaping out of the chair and reaching for the sky. Draco, however, stood languidly, placing his hands on his hips in obvious fury.

"I want you to know," Draco snapped angrily, "That I shall be speaking to your superior about the manners of his baser employers. It's truly appalling."

"Oh, for fucks sake, stun this idiot!" muttered the leader. An agent on his left promptly stunned Draco, and he crumpled to the ground. Ginny screamed and made to reach for him. She quickly rethought this decision when she noticed that every wand in the room was trained on her.

The leader's eyes went from Ginny, to Draco, and finally to the table and board.

"Bingo."

The speaker lifted his wrist to his mouth.

"House is secured. Get Intel in here, ASAP."

*** *** ***