The Harpsichordist

Chapter 14: I'll Love You Forever

"Hello, mother, father," said Rigel Lestrange.

"My son," said Bellatrix Lestrange, in a horrible parody of a mother's croon. "My darling baby, all grown up! Look, Roddy, look how tall he's become!"

"Bella, stop acting like an idiot."

"Oh, if only I could hug you, darling Rigel. I've missed you. We've both missed you, haven't we, Roddy? When we were locked up, wasn't I always asking, 'I wonder how my baby is?' Wasn't I? Wasn't I, Roddy?"

Rigel Lestrange gazed levelly at the two creatures who had given him his genes. They were thin and gaunt, with faces showing lines from the years spent in Azkaban. Bellatrix Lestrange's expression was rapt and intense, her eyes never leaving Rigel's face. Rodolphus, on the other hand, looked everywhere except at Rigel.

They were his mother and father.

And they had tortured someone else's mother and father into insanity.

Every time Rigel passed Neville Longbottom in the hall, he wondered if the other boy saw only his parents' attackers in Rigel. As the two boys were in different houses and different years, their interactions had been limited, and Rigel rather thought Neville was grateful for that. Rigel had never known, until now, whether or not he resembled his parents. He did--and yet not completely, which was gratifying.

"You wanted to see me?" he said politely.

"Of course!" crooned Bellatrix. "I never thought I could lay eyes on you again, but when I found myself here, and I remembered that my son would have turned eleven this year--such a long separation, wasn't it, Roddy?--I thought, well, why not? And our esteemed Headmaster so kindly agreed to let us visit with you."

Dear Merlin. She was completely insane.

"So, son," boomed Rodolphus, "tell us all about your classes."

"I have Charms, Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, History of Magic, Astronomy, Flying, and Defense Against the Dark Arts," Rigel replied.

"Which is your favorite?" asked Rodolphus.

Rigel studied him for a moment before responding. Rodolphus Lestrange had given his son his nose and eyebrows, but not much else. The ears, perhaps.

"Charms," he answered.

"Really?" asked Bella, who had passed on to him her eyes--minus the insane gleam, he assumed--and chin, and was apparently full of lively interest. "Flitwick teaches that, right?"

"Yes," said Rigel, aware that Flitwick was standing at the back of the room. "He's excellent. And my classmates are very nice."

Actually, they weren't nice at all--they regarded him as some sort of sinister intruder. During his first week, the rest of the first years had all made warding signs at him, scuttling around him in the hallways, and flinching whenever his name was called on the roll.

If only his foster parents had let him take their name. Hewitt. Nice and boring. A suitable name for a Ravenclaw. Rigel Hewitt. Nerdy and memorable. But the Hewitts had insisted that he keep his name--"After all, dear, they won't be around forever, and you'll be there to change the reputation of the name." Such idealism.

"What other classes do you like, son?" said Rodolphus.

"I like Herbology," said Rigel. "And Transfiguration is pretty neat."

"Don't you like Potions? Or Defense?" asked Bellatrix, her voice teetering away from completely insane towards absolutely barking mad.

"Potions is all right," Rigel said, "though we're not learning anything difficult. And I don't really like Defense. All those dark creatures and hexes and stuff."

Bellatrix' face worked horribly to stay smiling. "That's a pity. I always liked Defense Against the Dark Arts."

You mean the Dark Arts, thought Rigel savagely.

"Me, too," said Rodolphus after a rather long moment. He looked extremely uncomfortable.

"And how have you been, Mother, Father?" Rigel asked politely. He heard a small splutter from Flitwick, who turned it into a cough.

"Just fine, darling," enthused Bellatrix, her lips wide in a horrible grin. "Oh, it's so wonderful to see you. So nice to know that you're following in our footsteps," she said, and her black eyes bored into his, "and becoming a proper wizard. Top of your class, are you?"

It was a pathetic attempt at subtlety. "I don't know," said Rigel honestly. "We don't see our cumulative marks until Christmas, and that's five weeks away. And there's a Muggle-born, Mark Evans, who's quite talented. He might be top of the class."

Rodolphus and Bellatrix both looked ready to explode at this.

"A Muggle-born?" asked Rodolphus, trying to conceal his disdain behind a thin veneer of mild interest.

"Don't you want to be on the top, darling?" said Bellatrix. "Don't you want to be better than everyone else? You should really study hard, you know. Don't let any nast--any other students get ahead of you."

"I do study, mother," said Rigel. "I'm doing just as well as I want." If they were going for thinly veiled subtlety, Rigel could handle that.

Her eyes flashed, then settled. "Of course, my dear," she said, with that sickly sweetness back in her voice. "I'm sure that you're doing your best, no matter what scores you receive."

That was calculated to annoy, and it did. But he let it pass. Silence permeated the room again.

Dumbledore coughed once, and Rigel heard a crunching noise that was probably a lemon drop between the Headmaster's teeth. "So tell me about your friends, son," said Rodolphus.

"They're nice."

"Who are they?" asked Bellatrix. Behind her motherly interest was an obvious desire for Rigel to become a proper little Death Eater, with only purebloods for friends.

"Oh, just the usual people," said Rigel with a shrug. "Other first-years--there's a fifth-year prefect who's shown me around." To the inside of a locked broom cupboard.

"Just make sure they deserve your friendship, son," said Rodolphus. "You don't want to go mixing around with the wrong sort."

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I think, Rigel," he said gently, "that you ought to return to your dormitory."

"But, Dumbledore, we've just started getting to know him!" protested Bellatrix. "My own son, my darling, away from me for so long... don't we have the right to see our own child--"

"My apologies, Mrs. Lestrange," said Dumbledore politely, coming to stand next to Rigel, "but he is a student, and there is homework awaiting him."

"And you are criminals," said Rigel, no longer able to contain his disgust and hatred, "and have no rights to me whatsoever."

The change was instantaneous. Bellatrix screamed and scrabbled at her robes as though searching for a wand; Rodolphus lept towards Rigel with his hands outstretched, as though to throttle him, but was tossed backwards by the shimmering barrier. He thudded against the wall and struggled to get up again.

"Filthy, unworthy brat!" spat Bellatrix. "How dare you be so ungrateful!"

"You nasty little beast," Rodolphus hissed, his fingers twitching around his waist where his wand would normally be kept. "You belong to us, you've got our blood inside you."

"You've given me your faces and bodies, but my brain is my own," Rigel retorted. "I'm not you." Ever since he'd sat down at the Ravenclaw table on September 1 and his fellow students had almost climbed over each other to stay away from him, anger and resentment had begun to nag at him, and all that suddenly clawed its way to the surface. "I'm not you," he repeated, "and I never will be! You didn't raise me, you didn't make me--you have no claim to me, none at all. I'm not going to be like you!"

"You will be!" cried Bellatrix. "You'll be ours, you have no idea--the Dark Lord already owns you--"

"I think the interview is over, Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange," said Dumbledore firmly. "Good day to you." He pulled Rigel out of the room, and Flitwick moved in to secure the wards again.

Rigel could hear the two Death Eaters screaming and cursing even through the re-warded door, and found that he was breathing hard. He didn't belong to them, dammit! He was his own person, with his own life ahead of him. He liked Charms and Herbology best of his subjects, he had a crush on Hufflepuff Marjorie Brown, whose older sister was in Gryffindor, and he supported the Puddlemere United Quidditch team. He was Rigel, just Rigel.

"Rigel?" said Professor Dumbledore gently.

Thankfully, Dumbledore hadn't addressed him as "Mr. Lestrange." Every time a teacher had to address him as such, he could see clearly how much pain the name caused. "Yes, Professor?" Rigel said.

Dumbledore looked extremely concerned. "Are you all right?"

Rigel opened his mouth to say, "I'm fine, thank you very much," but couldn't lie to those sharp blue eyes. He closed his mouth and shook his head.

Flitwick clucked his tongue sympathetically. "You're right," he squeaked to Rigel. "You're absolutely right."

"About what, Professor?" Rigel found he had to blink rather hard to see clearly.

"My dear boy, you are not them. You're a completely different person. It's simply a relationship you can't help. Just because they were dark wizards doesn't mean you have to be one." He reached up and patted Rigel on the shoulder. His hands were warm and friendly, just like his eyes.

Rigel smiled at him gratefully.

"If you ever feel the need to talk, Rigel," said Dumbledore softly, "my office is open for you. The password this year is 'Canary Cream.' Feel free to simply walk in."

Rigel nodded. He couldn't quite speak, but Dumbledore seemed to understand.

* * *

Albus went with Rigel to Flitwick's office and stayed long enough to see the boy ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a mug of hot chocolate and some good conversation. That done, he made his way down the stairs to Severus' office. On his way in, he encountered Terry Boot, who looked as though he'd been scrubbing out frog entrails with his fingernails.

"Evening, Headmaster," the boy said, shuffling past.

"Detention, Mr. Boot?" asked Albus, smiling.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I melted a cauldron today, so Snape--"

"Professor Snape, Mr. Boot."

"Yes, him--had me scrubbing out the first-years' cauldrons by hand. I had to scrape out some of the frog entrails with my fingernails."

"Ahh," said Albus sympathetically.

"G'night," mumbled Terry Boot. He sloped off, clearly destined for a bath and bed.

Albus entered the Potions classroom and went through it to Severus' office. Severus was marking essays, his nose splattered with red ink.

"News?" Albus asked. He twiddled his wand and conjured up a tea tray. It landed on the desk, balancing precariously on top of several stacks of essays.

"Mr. Malfoy is in the Hospital Wing with a severe case of Elvish stomach flu," said Severus without preamble. "He apparently caught it while visiting his mother over the past week." He scribbled something at the top of an essay, looking vindictive.

"I see."

"Madam Pomfrey is, of course, treating this the best way she knows how."

"With a large basin?" Albus poured himself a mug of tea and added milk.

Severus' lips twitched. He reached for the next essay, glanced through it with a raised eyebrow, scowled, then crossed the whole thing out, writing "T" on the top. "Mint tea, and a large basin."

"When will he--er--experience a recovery?" Albus asked, adding a third sugar cube to his cup of tea.

"In two or three days."

"Ideal. Any other news?"

Severus set down his marking, took the cup of tea Albus handed him, then leaned back in his chair, one hand behind his head and his feet on the desk. A bit of mud from the bottom of his boots fell off and splattered onto what looked like Hermione Granger's essay. He explained in detail about his infiltration of Malfoy Manor, the arrival of Lord Voldemort, and the vague hints of a plan.

"Yes, that sounds right," said Albus when he'd finished. "The Lestranges just had a visitation with Rigel."

"Oh?" said Severus, staring up at the ceiling. "I imagine that was enjoyable. With an absolute madwoman and a bumbling idiot trying to be suave."

"Rodolphus asked about Rigel's classes; Bellatrix acted motherly and told him to 'study hard' so he could 'follow in their footsteps' and be a 'proper' wizard."

Severus sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He let his chair fall back with a thud.

"I suppose the Dark Lord--"

"Voldemort," insisted Albus.

Severus flinched, but continued. "--expects Rigel will obey his biological parents. Is there any chance of that?" He sounded as anxious as he ever got.

Albus smiled reassuringly. "I don't believe so, Severus. The boy appeared quite uninterested in them. I think he's rather ashamed of having them as parents. I cannot blame him."

"So he won't do whatever it is they want him to do--release them, open the gates--something to assist this grand scheme. Undoubtedly word will get back to the Dark Lord--"

"Voldemort."

"--and he'll switch to another plan, which he again will not tell me of."

"This is becoming extremely problematic," said Albus, nibbling on a small cake. "We need more information. Have you lost his trust?"

"I know Lucius suspects me." Severus sounded very worried. "I think it's only a matter of time before he has enough of You-Know-Who's--"

"Voldemort's."

Severus sighed. "--of his ear to make him suspect me as well." Severus took a large gulp of tea, picked up a biscuit, and ate it whole. "I had to tell...him...about Wendy, and about our--er--encounter."

"How did he respond?"

"He seemed eager for me to tell him it was merely a fling, nothing important. I think if he knew how much--how much she means to me," Severus' voice wavered slightly, "he would have Draco assassinate her in class first thing. Lucius would, too."

"Does Draco know the Unforgivables, Severus? Is there a chance of such an assassination attempt?"

"I see no reason why he would not. He is a Death Eater, in everything except the Mark. A Junior Death Eater, if you will."

Albus sighed heavily. "Do you think Wendy is in any actual danger?"

Severus ran a hand through his hair again as he thought, and Albus noticed that it looked significantly less greasy than before. "No," Severus said finally. "The Dark Lord--"

"Voldemort."

"Why do you do that, Albus?" Severus burst out.

"Because fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. Saying Voldemort's name will not make him materialize out of thin air, or call him into your mind to possess you," said Albus calmly.

"I can't exactly go around thinking of him as--as--" Severus' voice dropped to a whisper. Albus perked his ears up. "--Voldemort," he breathed, and Albus beamed, "without having him knowing it. I feel perfectly comfortable saying it to you, but if I start to think of him as that, he'll see it in my mind very easily. The identity of the person you are facing is an extremely difficult thing to mask."

Albus let it go. "Is Wendy in any danger?" he repeated.

"I don't think so," Severus said, though he sounded uncertain. "The Dark Lord said she was unimportant. He appears to be placing all his faith on the Death Eaters inside the school."

Albus sighed heavily again and unwrapped a lemon drop. "Were you able at least to learn when this proposed plan will go into action?"

"Not before Christmas, for sure," said Severus thoughtfully. "No, thank you," he said, as Albus offered him the plate of candies. "He told Draco to gradually tone down his prominence, which is another reason why Wendy is probably safe. Attacking her in class would draw quite a lot of attention. I don't imagine he can change his image successfully before Christmas." He took a sip of his tea. "And losing Rigel's support will certainly delay things. Messages will need to be sent back and forth between Draco and his father."

"Draco cannot be allowed to see any of the imprisoned Death Eaters," warned Albus.

"Of course not," said Severus. "Why can't we move them elsewhere? Lock them up someplace secret, and let Draco think that they're still in the dungeons? If we could move them away from Hogwarts without anyone knowing?"

Albus crunched his candy thoughtfully. "Azkaban is lost, of course. I suppose we could turn them over to the centaurs," he mused.

Severus snorted. "You'd have no Death Eaters to worry about anymore, that's for sure."

"But we would lose any hope of liaison with the centaurs." Albus chose another lemon drop.

Severus harrumphed into his cup of tea.

Albus raised an eyebrow at him.

"Nothing," Severus said innocently.

"Someplace secret," murmured Albus, crunching into the new candy.

"Unplottable, ideally," added Severus, the teacup over his mouth as he drained it. "And hard to get into. With only one access to the outside world, and that completely controllable."

"Underground?"

Severus snorted and set down the teacup, picking up a new stack of essays and searching for his marking quill, which had disappeared under the lemon drop wrappers. "It's all very well to dream. They'll have to stay in the dungeons, guarded night and day." He shuffled some papers. "Can't we get some trolls? We're never going to find another prison."

But Albus smiled benignly. "Yes, we are," he said. "And they're going to be furious when they learn what it is, and who built it."

Severus' jaw dropped. "You're not suggesting..." he began.

Albus nodded. The shell-shocked look on Severus' face was priceless.

"Well, Potter will be glad to be involved, at any rate," Severus said snidely.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy stared at the floor of the Rear Small Drawing Room, lost in thought.

He was very glad to be out of Azkaban. Even with fewer dementors, and with his fellow Death Eaters lurking around, it still was a prison, cold and uncomfortable. With winter drawing in every week, Lucius wanted to be at his own home, with his own servants and his own fireplaces. He was particularly desirous of gaining access to his library. Seeing his son occasionally was pleasant as well.

But Draco--Draco had become a problem. The boy was far too eager to please and, although he had inherited his father's cruel streak, had not inherited his father's discretion. The number of owls Dumbledore had sent--Dear Mr. Malfoy, Please remind your son that duelling is not permitted at Hogwarts, particularly not in the corridors, and particularly not with first-years. Lucius shook his head in dismay.

The boy was too arrogant. Arrogance was a virtue, yes, but only when tempered with discretion into a casual disdain that reminded others they were not good enough. It didn't do to be arrogant in the fashion that put you above others: that was mere snobbery, a useless social trait. Arrogance was only useful if it made lesser folk remember their places.

If Draco didn't learn to calm his eagerness, he would certainly be dead before the age of eighteen. Once the boy turned seventeen, Lucius was sure that the Dark Lord would no longer be as indulgent, as gentle, with him. Either Draco would learn the hard way, as a crumple of blood and piss and snot surrounded by jeering Death Eaters, or he'd miraculously begin to observe his father's demeanor and imitate. Monkeys could imitate--Muggles could imitate. Why could Draco Malfoy not imitate his father? Why did he have to be such an insult to the Malfoy name?

It bothered him.

So he stared at the floor.

And as Lucius stared at the floor, his frown deepened.

There was mud on the unfinished pine planks--the extremely valuable pine planks that had been imported from Norway and carefully treated with Anti-Rot and Anti-Slip charms. The Anti-Stain charms found in the rest of the house were not necessary here, because any torture that occurred in the Rear Small Drawing Room was fleeting, unlikely to result in emissions from the victim.

If mud wasn't cleaned up soon, it might leave a stain. Lucius started to summon a house-elf, then remembered there weren't any left. Would he have to clean it up himself? What a disgusting concept.

For that matter, how did the mud get there? The garden path was paved with crushed seashells brought in from the Mediterranean every summer, spelled not to track inside. The only way the mud could have gotten into the room was on someone's shoes.

Lucius glanced at the fireplace, which was now nothing but cold ashes. He thought of the dead rabbit thrown onto it earlier, and remembered Severus' claim that he'd found it on the garden path.

Lucius' frown turned into a cold smile. Severus used to pay much more attention to details.

* * *

"Balfoy's back." Hermione had a cold, and her ears were steaming as she served herself porridge at breakfast. Harry thought she looked a bit like a hairball on fire, but he wasn't going to mention it.

"I don't see him," Ron said as he craned his neck to look around at the Slytherin table

"Doe, he's ub in the Hosbital Wig," she said. "Elvish stomach flu," she added, when Harry raised his eyebrows enquiringly at her. "Says he caught it from his modder. I saw hib while I was getting sub Pepper-Up this bornding."

Harry couldn't resist a snicker. Elvish stomach flu!

"Don'd you feel even the least bit sorry for hib?" she demanded, then sniffed loudly and chunkily. "Vomiting day and night?"

"No," said Harry and Ron together, then Harry added, "Why, do you?"

"Erm--a bit," she confessed.

"Really?" he said seriously. "After all his father's done--"

"He's dot his fodder!" she exclaimed. She pulled a large plaid handkerchief from her pocket and blew noisily.

"Acts like it, the pompous git," said Ron.

"But he's not a Death Eater," she said.

"Not yet," said Harry darkly.

Ron picked up a piece of toast and crammed it whole into his mouth. "Betty wulb sunsit urns sivnton," he said, spattering crumbs all over the table.

Hermione looked revolted.

Ron swallowed. "I bet he will be as soon as he turns seventeen," he repeated.

Hermione harrumphed. "Well, I for one think it's dreadful that his father's training him to follow in his footsteps. The worst my parents could do is send me to dental school."

Harry had never thought of that, and realized it was true. He thought of the Dursleys--as much as he hated them, the worst they could have done would be to keep him from the magical world. But to be raised with the expectation of becoming killer? "Yeah, okay," he said grudgingly, and felt a reluctant pang of sympathy. "But he's still mean, and he's still responsible for Luke's death."

Ron looked at Hermione as if to say, Get out of that one, then attacked another piece of bacon.

"I know," she said thoughtfully. "I doe he's resbosible. Id's just..." She paused, frowning, and blew her nose again before continuing. "It's just that as much as I dislike him, and as much as his father is, well, evil, and that he's an arrogant git who thinks that being pureblood is the only important thing there is--I feel sorry for him. For not having any choice in his life. No say in his career. That's all."

Harry's pang of sympathy for Malfoy had come and gone, so he just grunted to this. Glancing over at Hermione, he saw that her eyes were fixed on Slytherin table, towards Crabbe.

"His cronies must be glad," Harry said. "They seemed a little lost without him."

"Yeah," said Ron, "I bet they had trouble getting from one room to another without having Malfoy to follow."

"Now that Malfoy's back, we ought to keep an eye on them," Harry said, struck by a thought. "If they've turned dark--"

Hermione rounded on them. "You two are so--so--prejudiced!"

"What?" said Ron.

"Just because someone's in Slytherin doesn't automatically make them evil!"

"Yes it does," said Harry. "Name me one non-evil Slytherin."

"Professor Snape."

"He's still a git," said Ron.

"But he's not evil," Hermione insisted. "He's on our side," she whispered, because the table was starting to fill up as the clock moved around to eight-thirty.

"He's a professor, he doesn't count," said Ron. "Harry's right--all the Slytherins are evil."

"Blaise." Hermione said the name smugly.

Harry had never heard the name. "Who?"

"Blaise Zabini."

"Who's that?"

Hermione looked triumphant, and jerked her head over at the Slytherin table. "See that guy with the curly black hair, sitting by the end?"

Harry looked. "I've never noticed him before," he confessed.

"Exactly," Hermione said. "He's not one of Malfoy's friends; he hasn't done anything at all. I've watched him in Potions--he keeps his head down and does his work."

"All right, all right," Harry said. "So not every Slytherin is evil. But those three," he said, jerking his head towards Crabbe, "they've never been anything but mean and nasty."

Hermione made a noise of dissent.

Harry peered at her. She looked distant, and he was struck by a sudden knowledge, a flash of images that told him vaguely that she wasn't being completely forthright. "There's something you're not telling us," he said flatly.

"What?" she said, suddenly flustered. "What makes you say--I'd never--"

"Huh?" said Ron. "What are you on about, Harry?" He looked closely at Hermione, who was quite flushed. "You haven't been keeping--Have you?" Then he looked at Harry. "How do you know?"

"I think it's a side effect of the Occlumency," Harry said, still looking intently at Hermione, who avoided his eyes. "You're hiding something, aren't you? I can tell, I'm not sure how, but I can tell."

"I'm not--"

"Hermione," said Ron. "Spit it out."

Her face reflected an internal struggle of conscience. "Oh, all right," she said at last, "but don't blame me if it's confusing--it doesn't make sense to me, either." She lowered her voice and explained how Crabbe had approached her in the library to tell her about the Amorousness Additive and its subsequent botch-up.

"Figures, doesn't it?" said Ron when she'd finished. "Only Malfoy would do something like that."

"That creep," said Harry angrily. "We ought to tell Dumbledore."

"I suspect he already knows," said Hermione. "Snape," she mouthed at them.

"But he always sticks up for Malfoy in class, what makes you think--" began Ron.

"Oh, Ron," she said, "of course he has to stick up for Malfoy in class. Can you imagine what would happen if Malfoy's father became suspicious of his loyalties?"

"But what about Crabbe?" asked Harry, before Ron could argue back. "Why did he tell you?"

"I don't know," Hermione said. "I think he was just about to tell me something important when Ron found me."

Ron looked slightly pink. "He looked like he was threatening you to me."

"I think he doesn't want to be discovered," whispered Hermione. "I mean, if he's not planning on being a Death Eater, then it's going to be pretty dangerous for him in the Slytherin common room if everyone knows it, won't it? I know not all of them are ... well, evil... but lots of their fathers are."

"Next thing you know, she's going to start the S.P.O.S.--Society for the Protection of Slytherins," Ron said to Harry, mouth twitching. "I reckon Crabbe can take care of himself."

"Ron, I'm not going to start another society, I just--" Hermione began, but she was cut off by the arrival of the post. Her copy of the Daily Prophet arrived, and, with a disapproving noise to Ron and Harry, she disappeared behind it.

Harry, glad to drop the subject, awkwardly started talking about the Quidditch practice that evening. Ron felt that they ought to run several practice matches and thought perhaps the Hufflepuff team would help; Harry felt that the Beaters needed the most practice and they ought to ask Madam Hooch if they could borrow two extra Bludgers.

"This is interesting," Hermione's voice said.

"What?" Ron asked.

"In the Society column--"

"Rubbish," muttered Ron.

Hermione ignored him. "In the Society column," she persisted, "it has the 'best-dressed witches of the year' listing. Number one is some witch in London, never heard of her. But number two--'Narcissa Malfoy.'"

"So?" said Harry.

"Listen to this," she continued, her voice still excited, "'Mrs. Malfoy was seen at Florean Fortescue's in Diagon Alley only yesterday, wearing a splendid set of silk robes in icy blue, trimmed with silver piping,' blah, blah, blah."

"Er, Hermione--why do we care what Mrs. Malfoy was wearing?"

"We don't care what she's wearing," said Hermione with a don't-you-see-Ron sort of voice, "--if she was seen in Diagon Alley yesterday, there's no way Malfoy could have caught Elvish stomach flu from her. He's on his first day. It has an incubation period of only a few hours, so he must have caught it yesterday."

"So?" said Harry again.

"So," said Hermione triumphantly, "what was Mrs. Malfoy doing in Diagon Alley if she was sick with Elvish stomach flu? You can't go more than five feet from a toilet when you've got that. It's strange, isn't it?"

"I suppose," said Ron, though he gave Harry a look that said he really didn't think it was that interesting.

Just then, Ginny walked up. "Hey, Harry," she said.

"Hi," all three of them said.

"We need to practice tonight," Ginny said.

"Yeah, I know," said Harry. "Ron wants to run some practice matches with the Hufflepuffs--"

"What?" Ginny asked.

"Ron wants to--"

"What does Ron have to do with practicing?"

Harry stared at her. "He's on the team--he's our Keeper, remember?"

Ginny looked confused for a moment, then laughed. "No, I mean our piece."

"Oh," said Harry, with sudden realization. "I was talking about Quidditch."

"I know," she said. "But the concert's less than a month away."

"You two doing a duet?" Ron asked slyly.

"I'm accompanying her aria," Harry explained. "Wendy assigned us to work together."

"She says he's the best harpsichordist in the school," said Ginny.

Harry went rather red. "After practice all right?" he asked Ginny, while Ron sniggered.

Ginny nodded and, with a cheery wave, left to sit with her friends.

"Aren't those practice rooms--er--cosy?" Ron said, smirking.

"Hermione, can I borrow that paper?" Harry asked.

Hermione was immersed in the International pages. "Hm? What?" she said, blinking up at them.

"Or, better yet, will you thwap Ron on the head for me?" he asked.

"What?" she said, obviously not having followed the conversation.

"Never mind," said Harry resignedly, while Ron roared with laughter.

"Hey, Harry, you've got an owl," Ron said, when he'd stopped laughing. "Wonder why it was late?"

"Oh, thanks." Harry took the letter Ron was holding out to him.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Please meet me in my office at your earliest convenience. There is a matter of utmost urgency only you can deal with. The password is "Canary Cream."

Albus Dumbledore

"I have to go and see Dumbledore," Harry said, bemused.

"What?" exclaimed Ron and Hermione together.

"What's it say?" asked Ron. Harry passed it over. Ron read it quickly, then passed it over to Hermione, who frowned at it.

"I wonder what he means--something only you can do?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Ron. "He needs Harry to look into You-Know-Who's mind."

"Dumbledore can do that himself," said Harry. "Remember, he's a Legilimens."

"Oh, right," said Ron, looking put out.

"And, besides, that's extremely dangerous," said Hermione, "so Harry wouldn't even do it if Dumbledore asked, would you, Harry?"

Harry thought about this for a moment. Would he? He desperately wanted to feel like he was doing more to help in the fight. Would he take risks like that? If Dumbledore asked him to drop into Voldemort's mind, would he? Sirius would do--would have done--whatever Dumbledore asked, though...

"No, I wouldn't," Harry said finally. "Maybe he's finally going to explain what's been going on lately," he added bitterly. "One professor dead, one traumatized, and we still have Wendy here--why hasn't she gone back to the States? It'd be safer there."

"No, it wouldn't," said Hermione. "The Death Eaters know about her already; I'm sure she's still a target. She's safest here."

"I suppose," said Ron. "Why, though? Doesn't she have stuff to do? --Where are you going?" he asked Harry, who had abandoned his eggs and was collecting his bag.

"I ought to go and see Dumbledore," Harry said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "Matter of urgency, he said. Tell Flitwick if I'm late, all right?"

* * *