Two to Obey

Chapter 2: La Maledizione

Dumbledore was leafing through a book when Fox apparated into his office and kicked over a chair. He raised his head at the noise, looking at her over the top of his glasses.

"Fox," he greeted her blandly.

"Tell me you know what you're doing, old man," she said aloud in a low threatening voice, because it wasn't very satisfying to threaten in her head. "Tell me that you're not trying to solve the problem of a pair of mortals holding Guardian power by giving one of them even more Guardian power. Tell me you're not using Harry to screw me."

He sighed, long and heavy. "Please sit. We need to talk."

The sigh took it out of her. The two of them had an odd relationship in any case, at least partially deferential on her part, not just because he was her client, but because he'd been around longer than she had. According to either relationship, her behavior was out of line. Her anger didn't abate in the slightest, but she did right the chair and sit in it. Dumbledore folded his hands and studied her.

"I find myself at a loss as to where I should start," he said.

"The beginning is fine with me," Fox said, her voice neutral.

"The beginning, yes. Grindelwald." He sat back, staring over her head for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "It is the curse of all Guardians to be possessed of nearly god-like powers and yet human failings. In general, we do what we can, or what we must. When we feel we can do no more, that history is passing us by, then it is our duty to pass the torch on to our successor and fade into memory. I'm sure you know quite enough about the destruction Grindelwald wrought on this world. He did not believe his time was over, and the rest of the Guardians disagreed. We disliked the idea of destroying one of our own, but what he was planning...well, that's a discussion for another time. He did not merely give his power to Voldemort because he saw his own end; he did it to preserve his plans. He could not be certain that his Guardian successor would share his philosophies. You see, Grindelwald fell prey to his human failings. So strongly did he believe in his plans that he turned a blind eye to their consequences."

Like any good megalomaniac. "Sir, what does this have to do with..."

"Harry?" He smiled slightly. "Forgive an old man's ramblings. Following the destruction of Grindelwald, The Guardians were understandably wary of his successor. They disagreed with my decision to speed up the process, but Voldemort's threat was growing, and I knew that the world would soon need a counterbalance. Because you did not possess your full powers, the others allowed my actions. Enter Harry Potter."

He took a deep breath and continued. "When I first heard the prophecy, I knew immediately what it would mean. Voldemort must mark his future enemy as his equal, and how else could this prophesied boy be the equal of Lord Voldemort unless the Guardian power was split somehow? I was placed in a bit of a dilemma."

"What to do with the kid," Fox murmured.

"Precisely. I knew Tom Riddle very well. From the first time I saw him, I knew that he was vulnerable to the darker temptations of magic. A great deal of what he has now become was well developed before he even left Hogwarts. But all of it has been warped and amplified by his contact with Grindelwald's power. Now I was faced with an infant with that same power, and in order to protect his life, I was forced to expose him to the same abuse and neglect that forged the young boy who eventually became Voldemort."

"So knowing that," she concluded, not without an edge to her voice, "you tried to balance out the nasty power with a dose of your good wholesome power."

"Not quite. We were not certain how it would work, or if it would work at all, but all of The Guardians agreed that it was a necessary risk. You know the circumstances under which Harry obtained his power from Voldemort. We feared that it would be tainted with the violence and cruelty under which it was bestowed. I still believe this is true. Before I left him with his relatives, I gave Harry a measure of my power in the hopes of protecting him from that. I never intended him to be able to use it, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that he can. Perhaps I did not give him enough and his other power allowed him to access it. At this point, however, I am not certain whether I should give him more, or - indeed - whether he even needs my contribution any longer."

Fox felt her jaw clench at his casual tone. "You can't just go around mixing and matching power inside him until you figure out a combination that suits you. He's not a lab rat. He's...he's..." she spluttered. He's what? A human being? So are the rest of them, and we treat them all like lab rats, too. Why should he be any different?

"Oh, for crying out loud," she groaned, slumping.

Dumbledore's mouth twitched into a smile, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "May I ask you a question, Fox? If you don't mind, that is?"

"That depends on the question," she said, as if she didn't already know what it was.

"You once believed that the loyalty he inspires stemmed from his Guardian power, from his ability to influence the behavior of those around him. Do you still believe that?"

"Obviously not," she answered, scowling. "If that were true, it wouldn't work on me."

"The prophecy said: 'a power the Dark Lord knows not.' If - for the sake of argument - that power weren't any of the other explanations you've put forward, would you at least entertain the possibility that it might be love?"

Fox rolled her eyes. "It just sounds so sappy."

His smile grew. "Love can move mountains. Love is a many splendoured thing."

"All we need is love. Love, love me do." She raised an eyebrow. "Love is a battlefield."

"Ah. How appropriate."

*******

A knock sounded on the door to her dormitory and Hermione tore her gaze away from the window, quickly picking up the book that had been lying flat on her chest.

"Come in," she called.

The door opened and Mauricio's head appeared. "¿Vienes?" There was a lecture tonight on latinate spell phraseology that she should probably be attending. It wasn't required, but then that had never stopped her before.

"No, no me siento bien." Her Spanish was best kept to short, pointed phrases, especially since she wasn't even a very good liar in English.

He looked disappointed. Hermione had a feeling Mauricio liked her a little bit. "Oh, lo siento. ¿Quisieras que tomara las notas para ti?"

She sent him a small smile, trying to look pitiful. "Sí, gracias."

He shook his head, smiling back. "No es nada. Te espero sensación mejor."

"Gracias, Mauricio," Hermione answered automatically, retreating behind her book.

As soon as she heard the door close, she put it back down on her chest and went back to staring out the window at the meandering Euphrates.

She was two weeks into her apprenticeship at the Ancient Magical Languages Institute, and absolutely in love with the place. Any book she wanted could be found in the library. There were five other Apprentices, and they were some of the most intelligent and interesting people she'd ever met, with whom she enjoyed having the most amazing, stimulating conversations late into the night. Some tiny part of her that had been ignored for most of her life felt like she had finally found somewhere that she really belonged.

Unfortunately, the rest of her disagreed.

Well, it didn't really disagree so much as it was...bored. For every reason she loved the apprenticeship, there was an equal and opposite reason that she didn't.

The quiet of the sitting room they all shared was soothing and wonderful at times. At other times, she wanted nothing more than to have Ron burst in and distract her, or have Harry try to sneak past her, or even hear Lavender and Parvati sniping at each other.

Closing her book and tossing it on the floor, Hermione turned over on her stomach, resting her chin on her arms. She hadn't thought about what the Sorting Hat had told her in years, but for the past few days, it had been nagging at her.

You have the intellect for Ravenclaw, but I'm not sure that's the best place to put you.

"But isn't that where the smart kids go?" Hermione had argued in her head, 'smart' being the one positive characteristic about herself that she could cling to at eleven. She wasn't nice or friendly or pretty or funny, but nobody could deny that she was smart.

Generally. But you have a great deal of bravery, also. It would go to waste if I placed you in Ravenclaw. Intelligence will always stay with you, but bravery needs to be encouraged, or it withers away.

"Brave? Since when am I brave?"

You always have been, you just never knew it. Before you leave Hogwarts, you'll see. Your bravery will be far more useful to you than your intelligence.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat had shouted, and Hermione had jumped off the chair, oddly proud of herself. She was brave. The hat had said so, and Hogwarts, A History claimed that the Sorting Hat knew more about a person than they did about themselves.

Then, as the school year shaped up, she began to have doubts about the Sorting Hat's wisdom. She wasn't brave and nobody liked her. She told herself that it didn't matter, that she'd come here to learn magic and if her housemates wanted to run around breaking rules and getting into trouble, then she didn't want to be friends with them anyway.

The first brave thing she'd ever done - on the Hermione Granger scale of bravery, at least - was take the blame for fighting the troll on Halloween first year. Looking back, it was a silly thing to think of as brave, but to her eleven-year-old self, lying to a teacher was pretty much the height of scandalous behavior.

Eventually, she'd found a role to play. She was the brains behind the bravery, the voice of reason, the person who kept Harry and Ron from jetting off into danger without a plan, a moment's hesitation, or any reflection about the consequences of their actions.

And at the Department of Mysteries, she'd fought and been wounded. It was a sort of stamp of approval. Hermione Granger was now officially brave.

So...did she have to choose? Was she going to spend the rest of her life either immersed in books or dodging curses? She loved nothing more than immersing herself in books, she just didn't love doing it every hour of every day. She didn't particularly love dodging curses, but she loved the work behind it. She loved having a mystery to solve, figuring out what was really going on and setting it right. She loved the excitement.

Excitement, not danger. She was cautious by nature, and the three of them weren't exactly kids chasing after magical stones and mysterious voices anymore. Everything was more serious now, life and death. Of course, it had been life and death back then, too; they just hadn't really taken that into account. But people had died, and she'd come face to face with Voldemort, and she'd prefer not to do it again.

She didn't want to become an Auror. On the other hand, she didn't know if she could stand a life in academia. Professor Wellbourne had made it sound so interesting, and it was in a lot of ways. But it wasn't a life. It wasn't enough. Every so often as she listened to one of her professors lecture on about cognates or prepositional philosophies, she felt a surge of impatience. There was a war going on. What was she doing here? Why wasn't she doing something useful?

Speaking of useful, she owed Harry a letter. He hadn't answered her last one - not that she'd really expected him to - but that had never stopped her before. Occasionally, dealing with Harry was like dealing with a toddler. He required constant support no matter how much he claimed that he didn't, or made a show of resenting it. And Merlin forbid she give advice unless it was given in the proper gentle tone of voice at the proper moment in time when he was ready to hear it, or else he'd do the exact opposite of what she said just to be difficult.

She didn't hold it against him, nor did she blame him for it. Harry was Harry and he coped however he had to. Hermione had read enough psychology textbooks to admire the fact that Harry was remarkably functional for an orphan raised in a broom cupboard who had the constant threat of death hanging over his head. Understanding and admiring him didn't make it any easier to handle him.

Sighing, she crawled off the bed and padded over to her desk, getting out some parchment and a quill.

Dear Harry,

I haven't heard back from you, but I hope you're doing okay and surviving your last summer with your relatives. I also hope you've started on Snape's summer homework. Remember that the essay on memory potions has to be six scrolls long and there are a lot of details on ratios and the pros and cons of different ingredients that he'll expect you to discuss at length. I apologize if you haven't heard from Ron yet; he sent me a letter last week and all of the girls here simply fell in love with Pig, who enjoyed the attention so much that he stayed three extra days. I finally had to toss him out the window to get him to deliver my response. Ron is having a blast working for the twins - we'll see how long that lasts - but if you get a chance, you might want to send Ginny a note. Ron says that she's not too happy about being locked up in that place all summer.

You can disregard the reminder in my last letter about signing up for Apparation classes. I signed us both up for the last session; you should be getting an information packet in the next few days. I also signed us up for the Medical Magic course. Don't worry, there won't be any homework or anything. It's very hands-on and sounds fun.

I expect you'll need to talk to Dumbledore about how to get you there and everything, but there's still plenty of time to deal with all of that.

I love the apprenticeship. Everyone is wonderful and I'm learning loads. Miss you and hope to hear from you soon.

Love,

Hermione

She scanned over the letter and laughed a bit to herself. It was terrifically boring, and typical. She had half a mind to add a post-script announcing that she'd won first prize in a wet t-shirt contest or decided to embark on a career in exotic dancing.

An evil little urge overtook Hermione and her hand tightened on the quill. If nothing else, at least she'd know for certain that Harry actually read her letters. Almost immediately, she tossed the idea out. Even if he read it, Harry wouldn't believe it for a second, and she couldn't blame him. Good old Hermione. Solid, dull Hermione.

If she misspelled a word, he'd probably think she'd taken ill.

Hermione rolled up the parchment and walked it up to the owlery, fanning herself against the sweltering heat of eastern Syria in July. It must be the heat causing these urges, she decided. She'd never had them before. She'd never wanted to just grab a guy that she thought might like her - Mauricio, for instance - and just kiss him and see what happened. Perhaps it was just part of growing up, growing into a woman and testing out her femininity. There was a certain power to it, one she secretly liked.

It was okay to flirt a little, to see how the power worked. Hermione couldn't see any harm in it, so long as she didn't take it any further than that. She had a boyfriend, after all, and Hermione was not a person who believed in cheating.

Ron might not be the most romantic boy on the planet, but they shared a history, and a longstanding attraction, and there was a lot of trust and respect there, and every time Hermione found herself analyzing her relationship with Ron, the voice in her head sounded far too much like her mother's. Every so often, she got the sneaking suspicion that she and Ron stayed together because they felt comfortable with one another. She knew he wouldn't rush her to do anything she didn't want to do, sexually. Merlin, she generally knew what he was going to say before the words even came out of his mouth. It was lovely to know someone that well and to be able to trust someone that much, but in all truth - much like the apprenticeship - it was also a little boring. Okay, a lot boring.

Hermione could never imagine being a brainless tramp like Lavender or Parvati, but some part of her wondered if there was something to teenage relationships that they were getting and she wasn't...besides actual sex. Fun, maybe. Adventure. She wanted that, but she wanted the safe version. The risk-free version, which she suspected didn't exist.

"Youth is wasted on the young," she murmured, a wry smile crossing her face. "Well, it's certainly wasted on me."

*******

Ginny was surprised to find the kitchen deserted for Saturday brunch, especially brunch the day before the big battle she wasn't supposed to know about. It seemed suspiciously empty considering Charlie was due to arrive any minute. Only her parents were present.

"Where is everybody?" she asked the room at large, scooping out some eggs and sausage and dousing them both with gravy. Ginny had a terrible weakness for her mother's gravy. She had a feeling one day it was going to catch up with her and bestow her with her mother's shape. "Shouldn't Charlie be here soon?"

"He flooed in a few minutes ago," her father said absently, reading the paper.

Ginny sat down and tucked in. "Where is he? I'd like to say hello."

He shrugged. "Your brothers whisked him away the moment he arrived."

"You mean Ron and the twins?"

"Mm-hmmm. Bill, too."

Ginny choked on a gravy-saturated chunk of sausage. With several whacks on the back from her father and a few gulps of pumpkin juice, she managed to wash it down.

"Better?" he asked her. Ginny nodded.

"They're all here? Somewhere? Together?" she asked frantically.

"I suppose," Molly answered, her face a picture of disapproval. "They'd better not be planning anything foolish, or I'll..." she let the threat trail off, probably because she'd run out of ideas years ago.

"I'm going to go find them," Ginny said, nearly falling off the bench in her haste. It was entirely possible that they were discussing Order business, but the whole thing smelled like a plot. And if she wasn't in on it, then it was a plot against her.

They wouldn't be in any of the common areas; they'd be somewhere secure. That left Ron's room or the attic. Ginny tiptoed up to Ron's door, wishing she had an Extendable Ear. She heard several male voices inside. Bastards.

Clearing her throat, Ginny knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" somebody called from within.

"Professor McGonagall." It was a decent enough likeness.

Low voices commiserated for a moment. "Er...just a second, professor," Ron said.

Ginny took a few steps back and braced herself. The door unlocked and opened a crack, and she threw herself against it. The force knocked Ron to the floor and sent her flying headlong into the twins, who were sitting on Ron's bed.

Digging one sharp elbow into Fred's throat and the other into George's stomach, Ginny pushed herself up to stand. "Family meeting?" she asked casually.

"Get out!" Ron yelled from the floor.

Ginny ignored him, putting her hands on her hips. "What is this about?" she demanded, glaring them down one by one. They all looked away, and she began to worry.

"What is this about?" she asked with a lot less anger and a lot more dread.

"Sit down, Gin," Charlie said quietly, in the direction of the wall.

"What is this about?" she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper. She had a feeling she knew exactly what it was about. Ron's face was purple and the rest of them looked shell-shocked, which could only mean one thing.

"Merlin, Ginny. Bloody vicious of you, that was," Fred croaked, rubbing his throat.

"Sorry," she said in a small voice. "So...you've heard...you know..."

"About you and Malfoy, you mean? Yeah, we know." George crossed his arms and looking angrier than she'd ever seen him. Angrier than when he'd attacked Draco after the Quidditch match and gotten banned. Ginny gulped.

"I think I'm still in denial," Fred said thoughtfully. "I think I'd like to stay here a while."

"You mean 'til he's dead?" George asked, brightening. "'Cause I think that'll be soon."

"Attending his funeral would certainly speed up my recovery."

"No!" Ginny said sharply. "That's not an option. Death, I mean. And you...you all haven't...it makes a lot more sense than you think it does," she finished desperately.

George looked disgusted. "You mean you have a justification for this?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have one." Right. Now she just needed to think of one. Quickly.

"Does it matter?" Fred asked, just as disgusted. "I mean, this is Malfoy we're talking about, right? I didn't hear it wrong? Please, somebody tell me I heard it wrong."

"You didn't," Ron said in a flat voice. He'd scooted backwards to sit against Harry's bed, looking utterly resolute, and Ginny felt something fragile and newly rebuilt between them breaking. Trust, maybe. She supposed his motivations were honorable, but was her relationship with Draco so dangerous that he had to go behind her back to disclose it?

She never would have expected it from him. The others maybe, but not Ron.

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to concentrate. She was on the hot seat, and this was no time to get upset about who told what to whom. It was done.

Now she just had to defend it, and somehow she didn't think 'but I love him' was going to work on this crowd. They were scoundrels, really, all of them.

She smirked. Aside from Ron, she could name about a hundred romantic misdeeds for each of them. If there was ever a time to pull out all the stops, it was now.

"Who are all of you to judge?" she asked them, mixing a bit of affronted maiden with some virtuous little sister and adding a dash of self-righteousness. "You two," she said, pointing at the twins, who started slightly, "when was the last time you casually mentioned the fact that you're friends of Harry Potter in order to shag a girl?"

"We haven't done that for weeks, I'll have you know," Fred said defensively.

George looked surprised. "Has it been that long?"

"How do think Harry would feel about that?" Ginny asked. They winced collectively.

"Gin, that doesn't change the bloody fact that..." Ron began.

"And don't even make me disclose the details behind the scam you two ran on Katie, Angelina and Alicia your entire last year at Hogwarts," Ginny said in a low voice.

"Scam?" George asked, all innocence. "What do you mean?"

"The girl's just talking crazy now," Fred assured his brothers.

"Well, there are two of you and three of them, yet all three were dating one of you..."

Fred went pale. "They figured that out?"

"We bought you a broom, and this is how you repay us?" George asked mournfully.

"And you," she said, turning on Bill, who clenched his jaw, "what about when you liked Amy Pershing and you sweet-talked her tubby best friend for months to try to get close to her, and the tubby girl actually liked you? The minute Amy noticed you existed, you forgot all about her. You never even talked to her again, did you?"

Bill shifted uncomfortably. "I never led her on or anything. We were just friends."

Ginny crossed her arms. "Oh, really? What was her name, then?"

Her older brother looked vaguely ill. "I don't remember," he mumbled.

"Mabel Tresham," she said in her most appalled tone of voice. "You used to call her 'Meatball' behind her back."

"How do you know about that?" Bill asked, looking suspicious.

"Her cousin's my dorm mate," Ginny said shortly. "And as for you, Charlie..."

His eyes went wide and he held out his hands in supplication. "Hey, listen. I've never even met this kid. He might be a bloody saint for all I know."

"He's a cowardly, bullying little fink," George said without much force.

"With greasy hair and a shit-eating grin and little rodent eyes," Fred added.

"He's in the spell," Ron said, his eyes on her, almost apologetic. "Conveniently, they got together. Then he conveniently gave her Tom Riddle's diary."

"He what?!" several of her brothers said at once.

"He was trying to help, Ron," she said. "He was trying to stop them."

Ron's face twisted into an ugly, angry mask. "At least, that's what he said."

"Hang on," Charlie interrupted. "Tom Riddle's diary? Chamber of Secrets diary?"

"He gave it to me so they couldn't use it," Ginny said impatiently.

"Hello?" Ron asked the ceiling. "And then they did!"

"He didn't know that," she bit out. "He didn't know they'd..."

"How could he not know?" Bill asked, his eyes narrowed. "They had it for years. Did he really think it wouldn't occur to them to do something to make it work again?"

"Wait a second," Fred said, holding up a hand. "Ginny, are you saying that Draco Malfoy handed you Tom Riddle's diary and you just said 'thanks' and took it back?"

"I figured..." Ginny took a deep breath, trying to keep control of the situation. "We figured - the both of us - that it was better off with me than with his father."

George nodded. "I see. Forgive me, dear sister, but how fucking stupid are you?"

"I'm not." Ginny felt tears threatening. "We didn't know what was going to happen."

"Why don't we talk about what actually did happen?" Ron said, remarkably pale in the midst of his red-faced brethren. "I didn't do this because I don't like your boyfriend, Gin. This isn't about him being a jerk. He's fucking killed people, for Merlin's sake."

Ginny deflated. It was true. She couldn't deny it. She hated it, that it was there, that it was him. It made her feel as if someone had kicked her in the stomach to even think about it, so she generally didn't. He hadn't wanted to, but he hadn't technically been forced to, and yet he hadn't had a choice...and it was impossible to explain.

"So...our sister's dating the murderous son of a Death Eater?" Bill asked carefully.

She couldn't imagine killing somebody and then just going about her life as if nothing had happened, and yet...Draco hadn't quite done that, had he? He hadn't been unaffected. She remembered him in the Room of Requirement after his initiation, standing in front of the fire with his shoulders hunched as if he couldn't quite get warm enough, pulling away when she tried to touch him, turning on her like a wounded animal. What if she hadn't told him that she loved him then? What would have happened to him?

"He is a Death Eater," Ron answered.

Once upon a time, she'd written in a stupid diary, and even if they'd never said the words aloud, none of her brothers could quite understand why. Unspoken, the questions had expressed themselves in puzzled looks and shared glances. Why didn't she get suspicious? Why didn't she tell anybody? She's gullible. She trusts too easily.

"Is she rebelling or something?" Charlie asked. "It seems like it's going a bit too far. In my day, girls dated a Quidditch player or changed their hair color. And I can't believe I just used the phrase 'in my day.' Where's my cane?"

She could see the looks passing between them again: shock, puzzlement, anger. Ginny let out a frustrated breath. They wouldn't understand. They held too many preconceptions about her, too many about Draco Malfoy, and - when it came down to it - too many about love in general. They'd see it as delusional, immature, foolish. She'd trusted before, and it had nearly destroyed her, and that was all they saw.

"I can't imagine Draco Malfoy killing somebody," Fred said, shaking his head.

"Not unless the guy wasn't looking," George qualified.

"Uh huh," Fred said, his mouth quirking. "Definitely from behind."

But she'd trusted again, and it had made a difference. Not just to Draco, but to her, too. She still could trust, and that meant more to her than she could possibly tell them.

At least not in the two-syllable words they could understand.

"Draco's not gay," Ginny said, a smile spreading across her face. "I know that for sure."

There was a short moment of silence before gagging sounds issued and faces were covered by pillows. Were all men mentally twelve, or just the ones related to her?

"Oh, grow up," she growled at them. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"We would have preferred later!" Charlie shouted through a pillow.

"We would have preferred not with Draco Malfoy!" George choked.

"The images are in my head now," Fred cried. "Get them out! Get them OUT!"

"I think I would have rather just lived in blissful ignorance," Bill said without raising his head from its current position between his knees. "Blissful, blissful ignorance."

"D'you see now?" Ron said, not looking at her. "D'you see why I did this?"

"It's a potion, or a mind-control spell," Fred said, his eyes wild. "That's the only way Ginny would...you know...with that pointy-faced poofter. Let's kill him."

"He didn't force me!" Ginny said loudly, her control on her temper slipping a bit. "I did it of my own volition, of sound mind and body and it was fantastic, I'll have you know!"

Had any of them been listening, she would never have added the last part, but after 'I did it...' all of them plugged their ears and began humming loudly.

When they finally caught on to the fact that she'd stopped speaking, they ceased, eyeing her warily, as if she might start describing the act in graphic detail. "What happened...well, it's...you know...happened," Charlie said distastefully. "The question is: what do we do about it?"

"You stay out of my life, that's what you do," Ginny hissed.

"We can't do that, Gin," Bill said as gently as he could. "I mean, this is serious."

A sudden horrible thought hit her. "You're not going to tell Mum and Dad, are you?"

"Right. That'll be a cheery conversation," Fred scoffed. "'Hey, Mum and Dad, guess what? Your daughter's shagging Lucius Malfoy's spawn.'"

"Should we bury them or go for cremation?" George asked darkly.

"We're not going to tell them," Charlie sighed. "We can handle this ourselves."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Ron said, a worrisome glint in his eye.

"Not with violence," Bill said firmly. Ron pouted and the twins protested, but he held up a hand. "I'm going to arrange for a meeting with him."

"With Draco?" Ginny asked, not liking the sound of it. "What sort of meeting?"

"Just to talk, I promise."

"What, no beat-down?" Fred asked, disappointed.

"Well, that depends on how the talk goes, but either way, the rest of you aren't going to be there." Another protest arose from all of them - including Ginny, and this time, Bill had to yell for them to shut up. "First of all, each of you has pretty strong feelings about this kid - good or bad," he added, glancing at her. "I, however, have never even met him, so I'm the most objective option we have aside from Charlie, and he has to go back to Romania on Monday. There's no way the kid is going to come to a meeting on the request of anybody named Weasley. I'm going to have to use some subterfuge, and I won't be able to do it if the rest of you are running around making trouble."

"Subterfuge?" Charlie asked. "What are you going to do, kidnap him?"

"No. I know the witch in charge of his accounts at Gringott's, and she owes me a favor. These rich people come in all the time to go over their portfolios and investments. I'll have her arrange a meeting with him and then put him in a room with me."

"She must owe you one big favor," Fred commented.

"You're going to have Malfoy alone in a soundproofed Gringott's room and you're not going to let us be there?" Ron asked, appalled.

Ginny chewed her lip, mulling over Bill's proposition. Now that the cat was out of the proverbial bag with Draco, she should probably thank her lucky stars that they weren't all parading in front of Malfoy Manor with pitchforks, or worse. Bill was just as quick to anger as the rest of them, but at least he didn't have a longstanding personal hatred for Draco, and he seemed reassuringly calm about the situation.

Still, it was a shitty thing to pull on Draco. Regardless of what her brothers believed, he hadn't done anything wrong - at least in regards to her - and he didn't deserve this.

"It's okay with me," she said, as if they cared one whit about her approval, which they didn't. "But it's only fair that he should know what he's walking into."

"If he knew what he was walking into," Ron said, "he wouldn't come. And how are you going to send him a message telling him what the meeting's about without blowing the cover on you two to his father?"

Ginny glared at him. "Well, you can't use Gringott's to trick him into coming. What if he's angry about it? He's still a client, and a rich one, too. He could get you fired, Bill."

"Do you want to go out with somebody who would do that, Gin?" he asked pointedly.

Damn. She was on thin enough ice with the whole Death Eater and murderer issue. "What if you don't like him?" she asked carefully.

Bill looked tired. "Ginny, I'm not going to lie to you. This is not a friendly get-to-know-my-sister's-boyfriend meeting. He's guilty until proven innocent as far as I'm concerned, and I plan on making it very clear that if he ever wants to come within fifty feet of you again, he's going to have to convince me that he's the greatest thing since Merlin. If he doesn't do that, then you two are through. And I mean actually through, not just sneakier about meeting up with each other, because if this doesn't work and we get the slightest indication that you two are still together, then we will tell Mum and Dad. Understood?"

Ginny seethed, resenting the superior tone in his voice, resenting Ron for being a blabbermouth, resenting all of them for trying to run her life all the time. And yet - much like she resented being locked up in Grimmauld Place all summer - there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Forcing her mouth into a smile, she nodded.

"Then I propose we forget about this whole thing for the rest of the weekend," Bill said, visibly relieved. "Let's...talk about something else, shall we?"

"So," Charlie said, clapping him on the back. "Hoping Tonks has a boy, are you?"

*******

Following breakfast on Sunday morning, Bellatrix snatched Thera's arm. "Come on," she said, dragging her down to the dungeon level. "I want to show you something."

"I've already seen the dungeons, Mummy," she said, eyeing the cells as they passed. She reached a hand into her pocket, grabbing her wand.

"You haven't seen this, though," the older woman said, sending her an anticipatory smile.

They took a sharp turn down a stairway that Thera hadn't seen before. It led into a cave-like tunnel chiseled out of the bedrock beneath the castle. Here and there, torches lit the way and Thera began to get uneasy. She didn't like the idea of going anywhere alone with Bellatrix, especially to a place where frantic screams for help couldn't be heard by the outside world. They descended another staircase roughly hewn out of the rock, and emerged into a huge sort of arena that put the one in Malfoy Manor to shame.

Rows of seats surrounded an oval space in the center. They had section numbers and seat numbers and small cushions for the Death Eaters to sit on. They must be hundreds of feet underground, but enough torches burned that the enormous cavern was bright as day. They approached the central area and Thera noticed that the first three rows of seats were gilded and throne-like with armrests, padded backs and intricately carved designs representing the Dark Mark.

"We just finished it yesterday. Breathtaking, isn't it?" Bellatrix trilled, spinning around a few times. She threw her head back and laughed while Thera mentally shrugged. Sure, it was an upgrade, but what had been the point of dragging her down here to see it?

"It's pretty neat," she finally answered, wondering if they actually expected to recruit enough Death Eaters to fill it up.

Bellatrix tutted her. "Neat? That's all you can say?" Holding out her arms, she raised her chin and chest as if addressing an audience. "Can't you picture it? Can't you feel their eyes on you? This room is going to be the scene of our greatest triumphs." Slowly, she lowered her arms and tilted her head. "Imagine all of them out there cheering you on. Frightened of you and yet wanting you at the same time." Her voice became softer, almost wistful. "In my time, they couldn't get enough of me. I raised an eyebrow or spoke a word and they would kill each other in order to be the first to do my bidding."

Thera fought back a yawn. She'd heard it all before. Her mother had bloody well shoved it down her throat for fifteen years. 'When I was your age men would line up just to have the honor of licking my toes' and so much other revised history. Thera renewed her personal vow to grow old and wrinkled gracefully, without forcing poor innocent young girls to feign interest in tales of her imagined exploits prior to growing old and wrinkled.

Or - in Bellatrix's case - emaciated and certifiable.

"Soon," the woman said, turning to face her, "it will be your turn."

Thera smiled and nodded. Oh, I'd say it already is, Mummy.

"The question is: are you ready for it?"

"If the Dark Lord says I am," Thera answered smoothly, "then I am."

"Oh, but he doesn't. Not yet. Not until I say so." Bellatrix approached her slowly, like a predator. Thera braced herself. Unbalanced, hiding-in-cupboards Bellatrix was predictable. Methodical sadist Bellatrix was not. "You should have been ours all this time, mine and your father's. It's unfortunate that it didn't work out that way." Bellatrix stopped short of touching her and Thera focused entirely on the woman in front of her.

"I see him in you. Not just in your features, but in you," Bellatrix said, something almost human flashing behind her eyes before it died a quick death. "And me, too. I had a great deal to do with your creation. Reina may have popped you out, but you're mine, really."

Thera couldn't have looked away if she tried. Dream Dad had said the same thing, which made her reevaluate a few things. Her mind reeled. There was more than one spell and Bellatrix had stepped in to finish, to make her the right sort of girl.

But what sort of girl? Reina's opportunistic maneater? Bellatrix's sadistic nymphomaniac? Daddy's little serial killer? Once more, Thera wondered if any aspect of her personality was her own contribution, and couldn't find a definite answer.

"You have all of the tools, Thera. I wonder if you know how to use them." Bellatrix relaxed and grinned at her. "You're cute as a button when you make that face." She reached up a hand to pinch Thera's cheek and it was promptly batted down.

Thera did it without even thinking. Only when she saw Bellatrix's fist bearing down on her did she realize it was a fake-out.

There wasn't time to duck completely, and Bellatrix's fist made painful contact with her left eye. Stars exploded and Thera hit the floor flat like a sack of potatoes.

She stood up as quickly as she could, everything swaying sickeningly, expecting a follow-up attack, but Bellatrix allowed her to stand, watching with a raised eyebrow.

"I've got twenty-five years, twenty pounds and at least six inches on you," Bellatrix said smugly. "Do you really think you can get out of this room in one piece?"

"I guess we'll see," Thera said noncommittally, turning her head slightly to make up for her lost peripheral vision.

Bellatrix laughed, employing an overly casual attitude as she circled. Thera held her arms loose at her sides, her eye following the woman, moving her feet as little as possible, keeping her defenses up on high alert.

"The exit's behind you," Bellatrix said. "Go on. Make a dash for it. Make it fun."

Thera knew she could beat her to the door. She would also bet a million galleons that it was another trap. The door would probably slice her in half or something, not that it mattered. She wasn't dumb enough to turn her back on Bellatrix LeStrange.

"We'll be sporting about it," Bellatrix offered, undoing her robes and dropping them into a dramatic pile next to her, leaving her in a red silk blouse with no bra, a pair of thin black tights and dragonhide flats. Thera wondered if someone was hiding in a corner under an invisibility cloak, filming for the next Death Eater porno night.

"No wands, no tricks," Bellatrix said, holding her hands out. "Just you and me. And the only way you're getting out that door is through me. Subdue me and you're free. Fail, and..." she smiled. "Let's just say that I wouldn't want to be you if you fail."

Thera absorbed that, her bullshit meter jumping off the scale. Uh huh. A fair fight. The first in Slytherin history. Figuring she had nothing to lose, Thera whipped out her wand and stupefied Bellatrix. Only...she didn't. The spell didn't come out.

Bellatrix giggled. "Merlin, you're predictable. This is a protected area, dear. You can't do magic unless you're authorized, and you're not authorized yet."

Well, then. Thera took a mental step back and sized up the situation. Bellatrix was larger than she was, but slower. Unfortunately, she was also a much better fighter. Thera had been educated in the 'hit them where it hurts and run' school of combat, which was only really useful when there was somewhere to run.

She didn't have time to formulate a perfect plan, but then an imperfect plan implemented immediately and violently often worked just as well as a perfect plan.

Thera took off her stupid Mary Janes, then made a show of removing her cardigan, leaving her in only a plaid skirt and a short-sleeved blouse. She threw the cardigan at Bellatrix's head and then tackled her. Both of them went crashing to the floor.

Bellatrix flailed her arms around as Thera began pounding her face through the cardigan, feeling a vicious leap of satisfaction every time her fist made contact. She was only able to get in a few punches before Bellatrix managed to throw her off, but they felt good.

Both of them stood slowly, Bellatrix wiping the blood from her split lip on Thera's cardigan. She appeared disappointingly unscathed. "Stupid move," Bellatrix said, spitting on the ground. "You should have choked me."

Thera's hands curled back into fists. "Next time, I will."

Bellatrix chuckled. "Aw, does ickle Thera not like mean old Mummy?"

"All teenage girls dislike their mothers."

The older woman snorted. "I still dislike mine, the judgmental old hag."

Thera perked up, smelling blood in the water. "I'll bet she's just awful," she said sympathetically. "I mean, there's Narcissa, all lovely and perfect with her rich, handsome husband and her mansions. Her name didn't get dragged through the mud after the last war. She never brought shame on the family with a public trial and a life sentence at Azkaban. I'll bet your mum just rubs that in your face every time..."

"That's not going to work," Bellatrix hissed, taking a step forward that Thera matched with a step backward. "Not with me." But her face was coloring - even on the side that hadn't been punched - and Thera had a feeling it was working just fine.

"Of course not," Thera said dismissively. "I never thought it would. Besides, I'm sure you were much more of a daddy's girl. I'm sure if he were alive right now, he'd be proud of all you've accomplished. I think my dad would be proud of me, don't you?"

"Why?" Bellatrix growled, approaching her. "You haven't done anything yet."

Thera kept moving backward, leading the woman in a curve so that she wouldn't run into the front row of seats. "Perhaps. I like to think I would've been a daddy's girl, if he'd lived. I've so much more in common with him than I did with Reina."

"That remains to be seen." Bellatrix's eyes were wide and glittering. It was possible that they were glittering with madness, but Thera was banking on it being something else.

"She never deserved him," Thera continued in a conversational tone, opening the trap a little further. "She never really understood him the way that you did. Did she?"

"She was a worthless piece of trash and he hated her," Bellatrix said flatly. Thera's heart pounded. She'd pushed Lucius into attacking her, and it had been just as easy as this, but Lucius had a sane person's barriers against losing it completely. Bellatrix didn't.

"Well, why wouldn't he?" Thera asked, wide-eyed. "She couldn't give him what he wanted, not like you could. It's funny," she said, laughing a little, getting ready to lay the nice, juicy piece of bait in the trap, "the only thing you couldn't give him and the only thing she could give him just happened to be the one thing he wanted most...me."

Had Bellatrix LeStrange not been...well, Bellatrix LeStrange, Thera almost would have felt pity for her just then. For one split second, it was visible that the jab hit, and stuck, and hurt. If Thera hadn't been ready for the assault, her nose would have found itself in a completely new and unflattering position on her face.

Luckily, she was ready and she was faster and she was not currently blind with rage, and Thera managed to sidestep the punch and trip Bellatrix. Quickly, she pounced, digging her knee into a nice, soft kidney and yanking both wrists up until they met at the neckline of Bellatrix's blouse.

"Say 'uncle,'" Thera spat, pushing up a little farther. She might not be blind with rage, but she wasn't devoid of it either.

Bellatrix's chest heaved with shallow breaths that began tripping over one another. It took Thera a moment to realize the woman was laughing.

Thera didn't know how much strength it took to simultaneously dislocate both of someone's shoulders, and was rather curious to find out. With a sharp jerk, she pushed up again, disappointed when there was no telltale 'pop.'

"Say 'uncle!' Say it!" Thera roared.

"Uncle," Bellatrix said hoarsely, still sounding amused.

Thera didn't let go as she glanced up at the door through which entered the chamber. It was open. How surprisingly trustworthy of you, Bellatrix.

Her eyes went back to her captive...or the back of her captive's head, to be precise. "Things are going to change around here. This is my house now."

"No, it's his house."

"Well, yes, it's the Dark Lord's house," Thera allowed, "but after him, it's mine."

"Not the Dark Lord, Therakins," Bellatrix said in a weird sing-songy voice. "It's your father's house. It's Atreus' house."

"Bella, you fucking nutcase," Thera sighed. "He's dead. Long-past-smelling-bad dead. Kaput. I could do a whole Monty Python sketch about it if you want me to."

"Dead, alive - it doesn't matter. This is still his house."

Out of nowhere, Thera got the sort of skin-crawling, shuddery chills that make you turn and look over your shoulder. There was nothing there, but the chill stayed. Aside from the library, which she only raced into to grab a book and then raced out again as quickly as possible, Thera felt perfectly at home in Shirag Castle. Her issue with the library was at least understandable, since that's where she'd met up with Dream Dad, and whether or not he was a dream was a question she didn't want to pursue at the moment.

At no time during her stay at Shirag Castle had she ever felt this sort of...she didn't even know what it was. Hate? Forboding? Evil? It wasn't necessarily any of those things, but it wasn't necessarily not them either. Every particle of air in the room seemed to be suffused with it. Had a ghostly voice suddenly told her to 'Get out,' horror-movie style, she would have been on the next plane to anywhere the fuck but here.

Actually, that wasn't true. More likely, she'd wet herself and then curl up into a tiny blubbering ball of terror and pray for whatever it was to go away. She was almost ready to do that anyway, and nothing had even happened yet.

Or at least, she didn't think anything had happened. And in that instant, cool rationalism returned and weighed in. Castelar, the air is not evil. This isn't L.A. Pull yourself together, for Merlin's sake. You're embarrassing us.

Slowly, Thera looked around the room, still jumpy. "This is my house," she said softly, half-expecting some invisible force to leap up and punish her for the blasphemy, but nothing happened. The creepy-crawly feeling intensified, though.

"Oh, enough of this shit," she muttered, letting go of Bellatrix, grabbing her wand and sprinting up the stairs, the open door beckoning her with the promise of safety and sanity.

She was nearly there when she heard Bellatrix speak. "She did well, my dear."

Thera stopped so abruptly she almost tripped up a step. Spinning around, she saw Bellatrix watching her, an insane smile on her face.

Thera's eyes darted around the room, but the two of them were alone.

"Oh, don't worry," Bellatrix said, still watching her, though Thera didn't think Bellatrix was actually seeing her, if that made any sense. "She'll be ready. When the time comes, Atreus, she'll be ready. I'll make sure of that."

Wildly, Thera glanced behind her, but there was nobody there, either. Bloody fucking woman thinks I'm my father. It was...well, it wasn't a compliment.

Figuring she might as well play along, Thera deepened her voice. "Uh, how?"

Bellatrix shook her head. "Thera, honestly. You don't even sound like him. And he certainly doesn't find you amusing." Before her words had even ended, the bad feeling rose to fever pitch and Thera spun back around, using her hands to push herself up the stairs faster, her breath coming in near-sobs, fearing some invisible hand was going to grab her at any second. She cleared the door but didn't stop, running up through the dungeons, through the castle, through the side door and out to the carriage house.

Collapsing into a panting heap next to her lovely red darling with its lovely black leather interior, Thera recalled Bellatrix's words during her panicked flight.

"Calm down, Atreus. She'll be back. It's not like she has any choice."

*******

Harry supposed it was only a matter of time until he managed to get caught trying to sneak out of the house. He hadn't quite expected it to happen so spectacularly.

Sunday morning, he made it to the front door just fine. Unfortunately, there was somebody preparing to ring the bell, and he ran right into them.

Well, her. Mrs. Polkiss, to be precise.

She let out a little scream and stumbled backwards. The heel of her shoe caught on the step and she would have taken a nasty spill if it hadn't been for Harry's world famous Seeker instincts. He caught her arm and hauled her back onto the porch.

And...kind of...right into him. As in smashed up against him.

Harry let her go and stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets, feeling his face color in horror and a few other things. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Polkiss. Are you okay?"

She thought about it for a second, her hand over her heart. "Yes, I think so."

"I...didn't see you," Harry said lamely. She was dressed very nicely in slacks and a silk blouse, probably on her way to church.

"Obviously not," she said, still catching her breath as she brushed off her clothes.

"No. Yeah. So...sorry again."

She sent him a half-smile. "It's okay, Harry. I surprised you once. Now we're even."

Harry relaxed a little and smiled back. "Are you here to speak to my aunt?"

Right on cue, Aunt Petunia appeared at the door, a nervous smile on her face. "Oh, there you are, Harry. Don't you want any breakfast? I've made pancakes with chocolate chips. You like chocolate chips, don't you? Come in and have some. Hello, Zdonka." The last two words were chilly and emphasized in a way that made Harry glance at Mrs. Polkiss. He got the feeling his aunt had just insulted her, but he wasn't sure why he thought that. For her part, Mrs. Polkiss seemed unaffected, a bland smile on her face.

"Petunia," she said politely. "How are things with you?"

His aunt flashed a false smile. "Lovely. And you?"

"I can't complain. I apologize for interrupting your breakfast."

"It's no bother." His aunt turned to him, keeping her eyes on her neighbor. "Harry, why don't you go have some pancakes while I talk to Mrs. Polkiss."

"I'm really not hungry, thanks," Harry protested as Aunt Petunia nudged him towards the kitchen.

"I'm here to speak to Harry, actually," Mrs. Polkiss said. His aunt froze, confused.

"Harry? Why would you want to talk to Harry?"

"I was hoping he'd agree to..."

"Petunia, who's at the door?" his uncle asked, waddling through the kitchen door. He spotted Mrs. Polkiss and his face split into a vague semblance of a neighborly smile. "Oh! Well, hullo there, Zedinka. Fancy a spot of coffee?"

It occurred to Harry that they were butchering her name, and he got the nasty suspicion that they were doing it on purpose. This was hardly the first time he'd been embarrassed by the mere fact that he was related to these people. He sincerely hoped it was the last.

Mrs. Polkiss took it in stride. "No thank you, Vernon. I'm on my way to mass. I only stopped by for a moment to talk to Harry."

If his aunt's reaction was comical, his uncle's was even better. Vernon actually took a step back. "Harry?" he asked, bewildered. "Why would you want to talk to Harry?"

Dudley's fat face appeared in the doorway. He took in the scene, decided it looked like Harry was about to catch it for something and smiled nastily.

Mrs. Polkiss was taken aback for a moment, the look on her face suggesting they were all mad, and Harry couldn't really blame her. Then she recovered herself. "Well, as I was telling Petunia, I hoped that Harry would agree to help me plant my vegetable garden."

There was utter silence in the hallway. Finally, Mrs. Polkiss cleared her throat. "It's getting late in the year, and I'm in a bit of a hurry to finish it. You see, I'd hoped to finish it this spring, but..."

"Oh, yes, your mother. We were terribly sorry to hear about her," his aunt murmured sympathetically. Harry looked over at her, then at Mrs. Polkiss.

He was expecting a reaction; he didn't get one. She simply sent Aunt Petunia a thin smile and thanked her and Harry stumbled into a distasteful realization. Mrs. Polkiss reminded him a lot of Thera.

She didn't look at all like her, but she had the same thick wall of impassivity and the same manner of looking at people, as if she knew exactly what they meant regardless of what words they used. Mrs. Polkiss knew very well that Piers was a bullying little shit, and she knew how Harry fit into that, and her presence here was directly related to that.

How, he didn't know. But he didn't think he'd have to wait long to find out.

Mrs. Polkiss turned to look at him. "I'd pay you, of course. It would only be for a few weeks, but I'm sure you'd like some spending money of your own." One side of her mouth lifted. "If you have a girlfriend, she'll want you to take her out, after all."

Harry had a sudden urge to crawl into his old broom cupboard. Dear Merlin, she pitied him. The dumbest part of it was that the last thing he needed more of was money.

"Spending money?!" Uncle Vernon said sharply, breaking off into forced laughter. "Oh, the boy doesn't have to work for that." He turned to Harry, his smile tightening. "Why didn't you just say you were short on cash? Here," he said, pulling out his wallet, "here's fifty pounds. That ought to keep you for a while, eh?" He thrust the note at Harry.

Considering his uncle had often threatened to charge him rent, Harry couldn't help but see the humor in the situation. Nevertheless, he didn't touch the money. Something was changing here, something very important in his relationship with his aunt and uncle. In a few weeks, he wouldn't need them anymore.

He had no reason to accept Mrs. Polkiss' offer, but he found himself considering it.

"I could use something to do during the day," he said carefully. And a little physical activity might actually do him some good. It was one thing to be a scrawny eleven-year-old. He'd really rather not be a scrawny seventeen-year-old.

"Do?" his aunt nearly shrieked, quickly covering with a smile. "Why, there's plenty to do right here. All those computer games we have. You've barely even played them." Actually, he'd never played them, because they were Dudley's.

An enraged gasp from the kitchen door reflected Dudley's feelings on the matter. Uncle Vernon smiled and kicked the door shut on his son's face.

And at that point Harry's decision was made. The deciding factor was that it would piss off the Dursleys, and - if their behavior so far this summer was any indication - they wouldn't do anything about it. It was a petty revenge and he wasn't very proud of it, but it still felt good.

"I'll start tomorrow," he said firmly. "What time do you want me there?"

Mrs. Polkiss glanced around the room. "I need to get going. Harry? Why don't you walk with me and we'll discuss the details?"

Harry nodded, following her out as his relatives looked on silently. "So...tomorrow?"

"Well, you seem to be an early riser," she said. "Up and running out the front door at eight thirty on a Sunday morning. Can you come at seven o'clock? The earlier we start, the cooler it will be."

"Sure, fine," Harry said, nodding a little bit, feeling uncomfortably as if they should be making small talk and uncertain what to say. "It's a nice day."

And he could have slapped himself right then. He wasn't a bumbling virgin anymore and she was well old enough to be his mother and she was married and it wasn't even as if they were flirting or anything, and it began to dawn on Harry that he'd just agreed to spend the next two weeks with this woman. Oh, fuck. What have I done?

"Yes, it is," she said distractedly.

Harry decided that cutting and running was probably the best thing he could do at the moment. "Well, then. Seven o'clock. I'll be there. Enjoy...uh...church."

He turned to go, but stopped when she touched his arm.

"Aren't you going to ask how much?" she asked, looking amused in a frighteningly Thera-esque way.

"How much what?"

"How much I'm going to pay you," she said, her mouth stretching into a full-fledged smile. It was the first time he'd ever seen her do that, and the effect was charming. There wasn't a great deal of romance in the Sunday morning sunshine of Privet Drive, but when she smiled, she really was a lovely woman.

"Oh," Harry said, shaking his head. "How much, then?"

"Well, I figured four hours a day, five days a week, so...two hundred for two weeks?"

What came over him, he didn't know. It wasn't as if he needed the money. "Two fifty."

She looked at him shrewdly. "Two fifteen."

Harry smiled. "Two fifty."

She crossed her arms. "Two twenty and since when do Brits know how to bargain?"

His smile grew. "Two twenty-five and lunch."

"Deal," she said, holding out her hand. Harry shook it, then looked at her and got the impression that he'd just been had.

Visions of bologna sandwiches danced in his head. Perhaps he should have been more specific about the definition of 'lunch.' Well, he'd never been very good at wiliness.

"Seven o'clock then," she said sternly. "Don't be late."

"I won't." They both turned to go in their separate directions, but Harry turned around almost immediately. "Mrs. Polkiss?"

She glanced at her watch as she turned, obviously worried about being late. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry about what happened." Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. "At the house," he explained. "With the Dursleys."

Mrs. Polkiss looked away, then looked back at him, the now characteristic half-smile on her face. "It's a difficult name for some people to pronounce, even after fifteen years."

Harry nodded, getting the point. "What is it, really?"

Her smile grew slightly and she dropped her eyes, an almost girlish movement. "Zdenka. Assuming it isn't too difficult to pronounce, you might as well call me that if we're going to be spending the next two weeks digging in the mud together."

A very specific image involving Mrs. Polkiss and mud sprang up in his mind. With difficulty, he shoved it into a closet to be taken out and examined at length some other time. "Zdenka," he said.

"Not bad," she said mildly. "For an English-speaker." Then she turned and walked away and more or less against his will, Harry watched her and admired the view. Then he sank down on the curb. Somewhere in the vast collection of psychology books that Hermione owned and thought he didn't know about that she tried to use on occasion to analyze him, there was probably a description of this particular psychosis. Something about how after a girl cheated on a guy, dumped him and then - literally - tortured and humiliated him, the guy's first reaction was to find a girl who reminded him of her in some way and...what? Exact revenge? Try to recreate the situation and have it work out?

He didn't know. He did know, however, that the next time he went to the library, he was going to make a detour into the Psychology section. He also knew that across the street Gautham was trying and failing to hide behind a waist-high shrub. Resigned to his ever-watched fate and rather sick of the people following him being really bad at hiding it, Harry finally got up and walked across the street. They might as well get some breakfast.

*******

Draco was in a terrible mood, and the longer it took him to track Thera down, the worse it got. She wasn't in the castle, or on the back lawn or near the stream running across the northwest corner of the grounds. As the carriage house came into view, he felt like smacking himself on the forehead. When it came to hideouts, Thera was uncreative.

He found her sitting cross-legged next to the Ferrari, scratching her head absently as she studied Making It Work For You: A Magical Guide to Muggle Machinery.

"We need to talk," he said, his tone dire as he walked inside.

Thera yelped, dropped her book, and pointed her wand at him. "Oh, it's you," she said, relaxing, putting her wand away. "You scared the shit out of me."

She looked fairly rough, even by Thera's standards. Her clothes were in disarray, her hair looked like she'd just finished a vigorous shag and her left eye was blue and puffy.

"I certainly hope the other person looks worse," he commented.

"I wish I could say she does," Thera said, looking down at herself, then finger-combing her hair in a way that made Draco cringe and imagine the creation of hundreds of new split-ends. "Unfortunately, it wouldn't be true."

"She?" Draco asked, picking up on that and suddenly interested. "She who?"

"Bellatrix," she said dully.

His jaw dropped. "Aunt Bella? You got in a fight with Aunt Bella and you're still alive?" Thera had claimed on several occasions that she knew what she was doing when it came to ass-kicking, but Draco hadn't really believed her until now.

"Well, I'm not the bloody ghost of Thera, if that's what you're asking," she snapped.

"Why did it have to be Aunt Bella?" Draco sighed. "I can't even fantasize about it now."

Thera gave him an odd look. "Speaking of ghosts..."

"What?" Draco finally prompted. "And come here, would you? That thing is bloody revolting," he said, indicating the eye that currently resembled a discolored puffskein.

"If you pop my eye out, I'll make sure we end up even," she warned him.

"This isn't exactly complex curse reversal, Thera."

She stepped forward warily. "We need to talk about some things."

"Yeah. That's why I came here." Draco paused as he raised his wand. "Is it...?"

"Don't worry. They can't hear us in here," she said, waving a hand.

He nodded. They'd become pros at surveillance detection charms in the past few weeks.

"My father mentioned Rookwood this morning at breakfast," he said heavily as he healed her up. "According to the official Ministry report, he was dead before they got there."

"So I guess killing him seems kind of stupid in retrospect, doesn't it?"

"I had to kill him. He would have talked," Draco said tightly.

"You didn't have to kill him," Thera argued. "You didn't even have to go up there."

At that point, everything he'd been holding in since his father's casual comment at breakfast exploded. "Of course I did! She's our last bloody chance at getting out of this! Did you think I was going to take someone's word for whether or not it was gone?!"

"Yeah, that's exactly why you went up there, right? To see whether or not your father was lying to you? That's fucking bullshit, Draco. You went up there to see if your little princess was okay, and in the process, you might have screwed over both of us."

"Me?" he laughed. "I'm the one who's screwing us both over? What about you fucking Potter? What category does that fall under, exactly?"

"It doesn't, because I'm not stupid enough to let it. You see, nobody's suspicious of that, because I didn't do anything as fucking boneheaded as you did."

Draco longed to continue the argument, to paint it out to be her fault, to do anything that involved arguing over the details of the situation and ignoring the harsh realities. But he couldn't, because he could feel the walls closing in, and they needed a plan.

"It doesn't matter, alright? We need to think here. Between the two of us, we ought to be able to come up with something."

Thera backed up against the Ferrari, crossing her arms and bowing her head, apparently thinking. "I'm not so sure we can, Draco," she said to the floor. "There's too much about this that we don't know." Slowly, she raised her head, her hair still in disarray, her newly-healed eye slightly pink. "Has your father said anything to you about a test?"

Draco frowned. "No. What sort of test?"

"Kicking Bellatrix's ass - she made it out like it was a test. There's a whole new amphitheater built under Shirag Castle now. She said my wand wouldn't work there unless I won. Your father hasn't said anything about this?"

He shook his head. "I didn't even know about the new amphitheater."

"Well, it's there, and it's pretentious as all get-out. Dark Marks all over everything, cushy chairs for the bigwigs."

"Death Eaters aren't exactly renowned for their subtlety. So you're implying that one of these days I'm going to be enjoying a little test of my own?"

"It makes sense. In other words, we should probably start worrying if you don't."

"Why? They've always been more suspicious of you, anyway."

"Yeah, they have," she said, looking down at her hands, picking at her nails in a way that made Draco grit his teeth. "How much do you think they really know?"

"Considering we're functioning under the assumption that they know nothing? Nothing."

Thera made an odd face. "What if we assumed that they knew everything?"

"They obviously don't, or we'd be in a smaller room right now, chained to the wall."

She turned to look at him, her face and voice devoid of emotion. "Or maybe they do, and they haven't locked us up because it doesn't matter."

"Not a chance," Draco said. "They wouldn't let us give information to the other side."

"That's assuming we have any useful information to give, which we don't. Maybe they are letting us, because they know that. Maybe they're giving us enough rope to hang ourselves."

"You're just a little ray of sunshine today, aren't you?" Draco sneered.

"Oh, blow me," she said heatedly. "Don't you think it's odd that your girlfriend escaped - your girlfriend, who happens to be the key to the Dark Lord's immortality - and nobody seems all that worried about it? Nobody even got punished for it! Don't you think..."

"No, I don't," he cut her off sharply. "Because for all we know, the Dark Lord had a sodding festival of punishment that we never even heard about."

He fully expected another round from Thera, but he didn't get it. Instead, she hunched her shoulders and looked away. Something was missing from her, he realized. Something was off. Thera didn't usually get this angry this quickly.

Draco tried, and found he had no patience for this. "What, did you and Aunt Bella exchange a bit more than blows? Are you confused about your sexuality or something?"

Thera rolled her eyes over to him. "No."

He waved his hands around. "Then what is it?"

She studied him for a moment. "Take your trousers off."

"For Merlin's sake, Thera, I'm not sleeping with you," he said to the room in general.

"I'm not trying to sleep with you. Men just listen better with their trousers off."

Draco gaped at her as she sat cross-legged on the ground.

She indicated the dirt around her. "Plus, it's dirty."

Because it was hot and he didn't want to get his trousers dirty and he did want to sit down, Draco finally took off his trousers, folded them, placed them on the spotless trunk of the Ferrari and sat down beside her.

"So, what is it?" he asked, annoyed.

Thera leaned her elbows on her knees, steepled her fingers and rested her chin on top of them, her face preoccupied. "I think we're screwed. For real this time."

Draco put his face in his hands. "How enlightening."

She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "We talked about the possibility of there being other spells besides the big one, but I think it's a reality. And I think there are a lot of them, and I don't think there's enough time to even find out what they all are, much less counteract them."

"That would be kind of the definition of screwed," Draco admitted. Suspicion and doubt followed quickly. "Where did you get all of this information, anyway?"

She mumbled something, drawing little designs in the dirt with her finger.

"Didn't quite catch that."

Thera blew out a long breath and looked at him. "My father."

Draco blinked. "You mean the one who's dead?"

"Yeah," she said, going back to drawing.

"I see," he answered, trying not to laugh. "How, exactly?"

"Dream."

"Huh. Wow. We're really screwed then, aren't we?"

"Oh, just get it over with, Draco."

He did, laughing until tears ran down his face and his stomach hurt. "So let me get this straight," he finally managed to say. "Both of us are hopelessly fucked because your dead father told you so..." a giggle broke through. "In...a dream?"

"That's not the only reason," she said defensively. "Just now when Bellatrix and I were fighting, she started talking to him like he was there."

Draco tried for a serious face and failed miserably. "Well, that just changes everything then, if Aunt Bella talks to him. Because we all know she's extremely sane..."

"Fuck off. It's not so weird an idea. There are lots of ghosts. Maybe he's one of them."

"Yes, he just happens to be a ghost even though none of the hundreds of people who tramp through this castle every day have ever seen him."

"Maybe he's hiding."

"Even if he is, what does it matter? Ghosts can't hijack your dreams, Thera."

"I know. Perhaps I already knew about the other spells but I'd forgotten and I dreamed about it so my subconscious could remind me."

"Or maybe you just had a dream - as people tend to do - and it didn't mean anything."

Thera shook her head. "Bellatrix mentioned the other spells, too."

Draco grinned. "To you or to the ghost of your dad?"

"Be serious," she said scowling. "You don't have to believe the whole ghost dream thing, but that doesn't change the fact that there are obviously other spells."

"I'm not saying there aren't," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying that a dream you had and the antics of a crazy woman aren't exactly proof."

"Fair enough," she said. "But we're better off operating under the assumption that they know everything than we are thinking they haven't a clue."

"I think you're being paranoid," Draco said, leaning against the Ferrari.

"Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me," she said, joining him. "What are our chances of kidnapping your father, giving him Veritaserum, asking him about the other spells and then obliviating him?"

"Please tell me you're joking."

"I'm incapable of joking right now, Draco. Believe me."

"Thera," he said patiently. "We are not going to assault my father."

"Well, we have to do something. We need to get useful information and then we need to make sure it gets to the right ears. We need to bloody well start acting like the spies we're supposed to be, sneak around with nifty weapons chasing after microfiche."

Draco sat up, an idea forming. "We need surveillance."

"Well, it's not lethal dental floss, but it would be nice. Unfortunately, all of those anti-surveillance spells that we know, they know, also."

He smiled. "But anti-surveillance spells only disarm surveillance charms."

She raised her eyebrows. "So you want to steal a surveillance van from Scotland Yard?"

"Of course not. Muggle electronics won't work in there. But an Extendable Ear will. And they won't be able to detect it with anti-surveillance charms, either."

"Brilliant. What the bloody hell is an Extendable Ear?"

"A product of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes." Draco leaned his head back against the car and sighed. "Apparently the little wankers are good for something."

*******

"Are you sure you're okay to do this?" Vivian asked for what she hoped was the last time, once more hoping for a different answer.

"For the last bloody time, Vivian, I'm fine," Remus growled. He actually looked nothing even remotely close to fine. He looked like the victim of a wasting disease, the same way he did before every full moon. He certainly didn't look ready for battle.

The entire Order was standing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place awaiting the go-ahead. The adults were subdued, murmuring in low voices, going over last-minute issues. The younger set was abuzz with excitement. The Weasley twins were regaling Ron with a story of some sort. She couldn't hear the words, but the boy's face was the color of old oatmeal, and Vivian winced inwardly. She didn't like seeing her students taking part in something like this. He wasn't alone, either. A dreadlocked boy and a group of girls - including Katie Bell - were listening in, just as fearful. They were all new Order members, roughly the same age she and Remus had been when they'd gone on their first assignments. From twenty years down the road, they looked far too young.

"We need you more than we need any more dark creatures imprisoned at Azkaban," she said, striving to keep her voice light. On the upside, all of the werewolves in the compound would be in roughly the same shape as Remus when the Order arrived. On the downside, she didn't care a whit about the sodding werewolves at the compound. She cared about Remus, and he looked like he could barely hold a wand at the moment.

There were a great many things she hated about Remus' lycanthropy: the premature gray in his hair, the scars all over him, the toll it took out of him to change every month. But most of all, she hated the tiny ways in which he denied it existed, like now.

Dumbledore flooed in before Remus could answer. "I've just been informed that the perimeter is secure. The Aurors are apparating to the compound now."

"Be careful," Remus said, kissing her quickly on the lips.

"I will if you will," she said, squeezing his hand. They stood apart and apparated.

The Aurors and the Order were split into rough thirds. One group for the vampires, one for the werewolves and one for the other assorted dark creatures - including, apparently, leprechauns. Vivian, naturally, was in the group assigned to take care of the vampires.

Their apparation points had been designated well away from each other, so after Vivian arrived, she met up with the rest of her team at the foot of the pathway leading through the vampire living quarters. Rows of low, windowless cottages lined the pathway, some with personal embellishments: flowers, garden gnomes, a basketball hoop or two. There were quite a few gay pride flags. Vivian wondered if Anne Rice wasn't on to something.

At the end of the path was a far more elaborate structure - almost castle-like - with turrets and arches and probably a flying buttress or two, but no windows. Gee, I wonder which one belongs to David?

There was a remarkable absence of hue and cry to meet their arrival. Dumbledore had warned them that there may still be internal alarms and wards guarding the various living quarters even after the perimeter wards had been deactivated, but there didn't seem to be any. Cautiously, Vivian and the rest of her team made their way up the pathway to the first set of cottages. Largely due to politics, there was an Auror in charge of each group. Hers was a spry middle-aged woman named McCall.

"Take the first two cottages, three people each," the woman said, gesturing at the individuals chosen to go. "The rest of us hold until they get back."

The two groups kicked in the doors of the cottages and disappeared inside. There was silence as they all waited to see what would happen. A light breeze blew, and Vivian shivered even though it was sunny and warm. Come on out, David.

Sounds of a scuffle arose from the cottage on their right, and a moment later a high-pitched shriek issued from within, so loud that Vivian wasn't alone in covering her ears.

The alarm was cut off quickly, but Vivian had a feeling the damage had been done.

"Alright, everyone," McCall said, her voice loud but calm. "We're about to get company. Spread out down the pathway and hit them fast when they come out. That sun is our best ally right now."

Before she even finished the sentence, doors began opening and they all dashed down the pathway. Vampires emerged in response to the alarm, but they were newly-awakened, dazed and blinded by the bright sunlight. Most of them were stunned before they stepped over the threshold of their cottages and portkeyed to Azkaban. As far as battles went, it was fairly pitiful, and Vivian gritted her teeth in frustration. McCall ordered them to begin searching the cottages to pick up any vampires hiding within and Vivian felt her best chance slipping away from her. With the Order's apparation wards up, David couldn't escape that way, but there were plenty of other ways to escape.

She watched the castle at the end of the pathway, her eyes alert for any signs of movement, though she doubted there would be any. He knew there was an attack; he'd know she was here. The plan had been designed to draw him out, but the attack had worked too well. David wasn't going to come after her. Which meant she was going to have to go after him. "Hey, McCall," she yelled over her shoulder, afraid to look away from the castle.

The older woman came up next to her. "That's me. Sorry, I don't know your name."

"Wellbourne," Vivian said, holding out a hand that was shaken firmly.

"Ah, yes. The bait." Vivian glanced at McCall, who was smirking as she tucked a strand of graying blonde hair behind her ear. "What did you need?"

"I'll take the castle."

"Fine by me," McCall shrugged. "How many do you want?"

Vivian thought about it. "I'll need a few for cleanup. Give me five minutes."

"Alone?"

She nodded. "I'm going to go be active bait."

"Sorry, but no. In twenty-four years, I've never been reprimanded and I'm too close to my pension to think about starting now."

"I've got a portkey. It's all taken care of. I just need him to portkey with."

"Nice thought. Unfortunately, one of his underlings will probably get you first."

Dragging her eyes away from the castle, Vivian turned to look at her leader. "No, they'd take me straight to him. He's their leader. He's also my ex-husband."

"Oh," McCall said in dawning understanding as she squinted at the castle. "And here I thought mine was a right piece of shit for stiffing me on child support."

Vivian shook her head. "Bastard."

"And a half," McCall agreed. "Just for the record, I'm ordering you to go into that cabin over there," she said, pointing, "to see what's taking those three idiots so long. And now I'm going to turn around and not notice you're gone for exactly five minutes."

"Thanks," she said, smiling a little as her leader headed back to the main group.

"If you killed, I don't know you," McCall shot back. "And make him suffer, will you?"

Taking a deep breath, Vivian made her way up to the windowless castle. Wand out, she pushed open the heavy door. She expected the interior to be pitch black, but it wasn't. Candlelight bathed the entryway in a way that made the blood-red walls appear especially heinous.

"And he used to wonder why I never let him help me decorate," she muttered, padding across the black tile floor, shuddering at the silly faux-gothic candelabras on the walls.

The entryway opened up into a large circular room in the same decorative motif, with several doors and staircases leading away from it. Vivian's impatience won out. She'd come too far and waited too long to kill David to waste time on this shit.

"You know I'm here, David," she said loudly. "Just come out, will you?"

"Sorry, darling," his disembodied voice said. Vivian jumped slightly. It seemed to be coming from...well, everywhere. "You're going to have to find me."

"I'm not going to find you. It's just me and my wand, you big baby. Come down here."

"Not a chance. You see, unlike you, I'm not stupid enough to walk into an obvious trap."

It galled her not to do it, because she really wanted to find him, and she really wanted to kill him. But it wasn't worth it to look for him. It takes a trap to know a trap.

"Well, I'm not coming after you, so I guess we're at a bit of an impasse."

His chuckles echoed across the chamber. "Giving up so easily, are you?"

"I'm not doing this with you, David. Stop being a coward. Come down here and face me, or else I'm leaving."

In fourteen years of marriage, they'd had more than their share of stupid fights. Who hogged the covers, whose turn it was to take out the trash, whose fault it was that the fight had started in the first place and whose fault it was that the fight continued. Vivian felt that sitting in a circular room decorated like a bordello arguing with David's disembodied voice took the cake.

"Leaving isn't a possibility any longer, I'm afraid."

Vivian watched the door through which she'd entered the circular chamber swing shut and rubbed a hand down her face. It would be beyond stupid to try and find him. She probably wouldn't make it ten steps without a dozen vampires attacking her or the floor opening up under her feet or some other overdramatic nonsense.

"Merlin, David. Aren't you tired of this? I know I am."

"I'm immortal, darling. I have a bit more patience with these things than you do."

"Wow, a whole year of immortality," she said sarcastically. "You must be, like, a completely different person." Suddenly her head swam and her nostrils burned.

Airborne potion - it had to be. The sneaky bastard was trying to gas her. "Just go to sleep, Vivian. You're far less tiresome when your mouth isn't flapping all the time."

Vivian grabbed the portkey as her head swam again. "You can't get out of here, David."

"I can go wherever I damn well please, Vivian. It's a little security measure I installed when I had this place built. You see, this castle is no longer in the compound."

Her hand tightened around the portkey as a black wave passed in front of her eyes. She had to get out, and she had to get out now. But David would be lost. Who knows how they'd be able to find him again? Or even if they could?

Of course, staying here wasn't going to help anything. "Azkaban," Vivian whispered, feeling the familiar tug as the portkey transported her to the designated cell.

She arrived in the corner of the cell, Balder and six Aurors facing her with sharpened stakes. Vivian slumped against the wall, not caring what sort of slime covered it.

"Vivian?" Balder asked, his hands on her shoulders. "Where's David? What happened?"

"It didn't work," she said flatly, chock full of impotent anger. It was supposed to end today. It was supposed to fucking end, and it hadn't. And he was still out there and now they didn't even fucking know where he was anymore.

And the fucking Sword of Damocles - Davidcles - continued to hang over her head.

"Yes, I kind of figured that," Balder said. "But what about the battle?"

"It was a piece of cake," she yawned. "I think I need some Pepper-Up Potion."

Balder looked attractively puzzled. "Piece of cake? That's not what we heard."

Vivian frowned. "Well, I don't know about the other dark creatures, but the vampires barely even put up a fight."

"I'm not talking about the dark creatures, Vivian," he said slowly. "I'm talking about the Death Eaters."

And just like that, she snapped awake. "Death Eaters? What Death Eaters?"

Balder looked grim. "The ones that arrived at the compound a few minutes ago."