Two to Obey

Chapter 4: The Art of the Possible

"Politics is the art of the possible."

-Otto von Bismarck

"Politics is war without bloodshed while war is politics with bloodshed."

-Mao Tse-Tung

*******

Ginny didn't know what time it was when Dumbledore finally showed up and the Weasley children dispersed. Fred, George, Bill and Tonks left and she and Ron were ordered to bed. She was worlds beyond tired - as they all were - but knew there wouldn't be any sleep tonight. In silent agreement, they both went to Ron's room.

"Are you okay?" Ginny asked him as she sat down on Harry's bed.

"Yeah, I guess," he said, looking nowhere near okay. He looked as if he were barely reigning himself in from exploding out of anger or pain or whatever else there was.

"What happened?' she asked softly, expecting him to either blow up or ignore the question. He did neither, instead clenching his hands in his lap.

"It was my fault," he said in a low voice.

Ginny stared at him, aghast. "What?"

"I could've gotten away. I should've, but I didn't know they were gonna put up an anti-apparation ward, and it all happened so fast, and..." he trailed off, raising one clenched fist to rub hard against his eyes.

"Ron," she said firmly. "It wasn't your fault."

"It seems to me like it bloody fucking well was!" he shouted.

"How?" she asked, getting up and kneeling in front of him, trying to make eye contact.

He avoided it. "I should've gotten away. They shouldn't have come after me."

"You did everything you could to get away," she said, squeezing his knee through his robes. "And of course they came after you. Wouldn't you have done the same thing?"

"Yeah, but..." He bit his lip hard, tears gathering in his eyes, and seeing Ron like that hurt almost as much as losing Charlie. Ginny crawled up to sit beside him.

"But what?" she asked gently, raising a hand to rub his back.

"I just wanted to do something, you know?" he said, his voice shaky and harsh. "Harry's my best mate. I mean, he's still my best mate, even after..." he waved a vague hand. "And it's so fucking frustrating to stand around not being able to do anything. I just wanted to do something, but I never thought it would end up like this."

"Ron, it's not your fault," Ginny said, a plaintive, desperate note entering her voice.

"Of course not," he said in a dead voice. "It's You-Know-Who's fault, right?"

"Exactly. You're acting like Harry, thinking that things you have no control over are your fault when they couldn't possibly be."

Ron shook his head. "We were all touching the portkey. All of us should've gotten away. It just came out of nowhere, the stunner. I saw him fall, but it was too late."

"You couldn't have done anything," she concluded. "It happened too quickly."

"That doesn't change the fact that he wouldn't have been there if I hadn't..." The anger burst out, anger she hadn't even realized she'd felt until just then.

"Shut up, Ron!" she yelled, standing up. Her brother gaped at her. "This isn't about you! Don't you understand that?! This is about Charlie, and the fact that he's not coming back! He's dead, Ron, and it doesn't fucking matter who should've done what and when they should've done it, because none of that makes him any less fucking dead!"

Ron's surprise lasted for a moment. Then the tears in his eyes began trickling down his face and he buried it in his hands. Ginny looked away, feeling her chin tremble and the telltale burning behind her eyes. Finally, she just gave in, letting it all wash over her. All night, the kids had tried to put up a brave front for their parents, but Ginny doubted that she and Ron were the only ones weeping over Charlie right now.

She remembered meeting him and Bill at King's Cross when they came back from Hogwarts. He had always come to her first, picking her up and tossing her in the air, even when she'd gotten too big for it. She remembered watching one of his Quidditch matches when she was very young, gasping when he went into a dive, convinced that he couldn't pull out of it in time, and then screaming when he caught the snitch, grinning proudly as he waved it around. She remembered when he'd suddenly appeared after her Care of Magical Creatures class third year before the first challenge in the TriWizard Tournament, jogging up and pulling her into a bear hug, smelling like sweat and dragon feed and singed hair.

It seemed unfathomable somehow that all of that could just suddenly be erased, that an entire human being with an entire life's worth of interests and achievements and hugs and goofy grins could just be gone like that. It seemed like there should be more, earthquakes and meteor showers, wailing in the streets. The entire earth should be rising up in righteous anger, not just a handful of people in a vast, shabby townhouse.

It enraged her that all over the world, people were going about their lives, entirely unaware of what had been lost tonight. His death would be reported, shrugged and sighed over, then promptly forgotten. An entire life would be reduced to the memories of family and friends, with no public outcry over how bloody unfair it was, how he hadn't deserved to die, how he certainly hadn't deserved to be forgotten.

Ginny pressed a hand to her forehead. It was all too much, really. It was too much to think about right now, too much to think about ever.

"I'm sorry," she croaked out, belatedly.

"No," Ron said, his voice muffled by his hands. "You're right."

"No. I'd be upset too, if I'd been there. I'd think the same thing. It wouldn't be right, but I'd still think it. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

He wiped his face on his hands. "I just can't believe it. He was right there."

"I know." They lapsed into silence for a moment. "D'you want me to stay in here with you?" she asked, hoping he did, because she didn't think she could stand to be alone.

"If...if you want to," he said, sounding falsely noncommittal in a way that Ginny took to mean that he didn't want to be alone, either. She climbed into Harry's bed and they put out the candles, though neither of them managed to get any sleep.

As soon as the first rays of weak sunlight began filtering through the curtains, they both got up and went down to the kitchen. Despite the hour, it was filled with Order members. When they walked in, Bill sent them a painful attempt at a smile and hugged them.

"Where's Tonks?" Ron asked.

"Where's Dad?" Ginny asked, noticing his absence. Surely he hadn't gone into work.

"I let Tonks have a lie-in. She needed it. Dad's at the Burrow. They sent out a bunch of owls. The replies will all be coming there. It would cause too much attention here."

Despite their current circumstances, Ginny felt a thrill of hope that reawakened her painful longing for the old place. This would all be a little less monstrous if they could weather it at the Burrow. "Are we going back?"

Bill looked over at their mum, sitting at the table looking dazed. "Dunno yet."

"They put all those extra wards up last summer," Ron said, glancing at her. "It's not like it isn't safe." Safe for her, in other words.

"It's not that," Bill said, lowering his voice. "I don't know if mum wants to go back yet."

"How is she?" Ginny asked, leaning in a little bit so her mother wouldn't hear.

"Better than I would've expected, honestly. There's a lot to do. I think that helps."

"Have they told Percy yet?" Ron asked, his jaw clenched.

Bill made a face. "Dad sent him an owl. I don't think he's heard back yet."

"Slimy little git," Ron hissed.

"He's still our brother," Bill said, not sounding particularly happy about that fact.

"He's doing his best to pretend he isn't, though," Ginny said bitterly.

Bill ran a hand down his face. "That's not really important right now. Go sit with mum for a while, will you? I've had all of the coddling I can take."

Ginny and Ron walked up to their mother, who didn't seem to register their presence as she sat staring into a half-full mug of coffee. They shared an uncertain glance over her head. Finally Ron reached out and touched her shoulder. "Mum?"

Molly Weasley came alive suddenly, nearly jumping out of her seat. Ron stepped back, his eyes wide with surprise. "Ron, dear," she said, placing a hand against her chest as if she wanted to make sure her heart was still beating. "I'm so sorry. You surprised me."

"S'okay," Ron said as their mother stepped forward and put her hands on his shoulders.

"I forget how tall you are," she said in a near-whisper. "You've been taller than me since fourth year, but it's still..." their mother broke off into a half-laugh. "I've never been able to get used to these things. In my mind, you're all still babies."

Ron's face went through a series of emotions. "Mum..."

She cupped his chin, smiling a little. "Breakfast. Of course. You must be hungry, after last night. Let me make you up something." Releasing him, she bustled to the stove. "You like your eggs over-easy, right? I forget sometimes who likes what."

"Over-easy's fine, mum," Ron said distractedly as Emmeline Vance stepped forward.

"I'll take care of it, Molly," she said, reaching out a hand.

Her mother cringed away from it as if it were a poisonous snake. "I haven't lost my arms, Emmeline," she said briskly. "I can still make breakfast just fine, thank you."

"Ron," Ginny muttered out of the side of her mouth, "get them out of here. They're not helping. They're just making it worse."

"What do you want me to do?" he muttered back. "Yell out 'Fire!'"

Ginny turned to face him. "I don't care what you do. Get Bill to help you if you have to. Just get them out. I'll deal with Mum, okay?"

Ron's face took on the familiar worried yet helpless expression that her brothers had all worn right after she'd returned from first year. "Okay," he said uncertainly.

Even more uncertainly, Ginny approached her mother. "Do you want me to help?" she asked as her mother waved her wand busily around the stove, concocting, cooking and conjuring up every breakfast desire anybody would ever have, ever.

Her mother barely spared her a glance. "Would you mind looking after the bacon?"

"Sure, Mum," she said.

"They're for Fred and George," her mother said. "I imagine they'll be here soon. I'm making up sausages and gravy for you," she added brightly. "I know you like them."

"More than anything," Ginny said, throwing a glance over her shoulder. Whatever Bill and Ron had told the other Order members must have worked. The kitchen was empty.

"I keep giving Ron corned-beef sandwiches," her mother blabbered on. "I forget sometimes that he doesn't like them. He looks so much like Bill at that age, and Bill adored corned beef with mustard. But Ron likes ham. Charlie liked ham, too. It's hard to keep straight. But you were always easy, like the twins. You'll eat anything..."

"They're gone, Mum," Ginny said quietly, glancing at her mother.

Her mother flinched at the statement. "No. No, they're not. Of course they're not."

"The Order members, I mean," Ginny said, touching her mother's shoulder. "I'll make breakfast. Why don't you sit down?"

"I can't sit down. I have to cook breakfast," her mother said, stepping away from her to make up a plate of toast. "Same as I do every morning. I can't just..." she trailed off momentarily, swallowing. "Well, I still have to look after the rest of you, don't I?"

The twins flooed in then, looking pale and rumpled like everyone else. They came over and hugged her sedately, making Ginny suddenly wish they'd give her a twin sandwich, smashing her between them until she couldn't breathe.

"What's all this?" George asked, kissing their mother.

"Expecting the entire Ministry to show up or something?" Fred asked, following suit.

"I just wanted to make sure there was enough," she said defensively. "Ron, Bill, would you set the table? Fred and George, get some pumpkin juice and milk out of the icebox." She turned around to give the usual list of qualifications, pointing her spatula at them threateningly. "And that's all I want you to do, you hear me? No adding things to them, no levitating them over to the table, no pouring them on anybody..."

"Alright already, we get it," Fred said, rolling his eyes.

"You know, the more you treat us like criminals, Mum, the more we're inspired to act like criminals," George added. Molly crossed her arms and glared at him.

"You think she'd have realized that years ago."

"She does give us good ideas sometimes, though."

Ginny fought back a smile, then immediately felt terrible for having to. It shouldn't have been amusing; nothing should be amusing right now. For a moment, it had felt like nothing had happened, and that moment only seemed to make the fact that something had happened even more apparent. The twins seemed to notice the same thing, for they both cleared their throats a little uncomfortably and went off to the icebox.

Her mother turned back to the stove and the kitchen sunk into an awful, heavy silence. Ginny minded her bacon until she heard her mother gasp. She was staring at the eggs she'd been making for Ron, which had passed through over-easy into burned.

"I've ruined them," Molly said in a shaky voice. "Oh, Ronniekins, I'm so sorry."

Ron stared back at her, wide-eyed. "It's okay, Mum. I'll just eat some of the..."

"No," she said, her voice firm as she used her wand to make the eggs disappear. "No, you like your eggs over-easy. I'll make up another batch." Quickly - almost frantically - she set about doing so. "I'll pay attention this time, sweetheart. Don't worry."

Ginny shared a glance with her brothers, but nobody seemed to know what to do. She'd seen her mother build up to anger plenty of times in her life, but she'd never seen it take this long. Ginny had a feeling it was because her Mum was building up to a lot more than simple anger.

Ginny served up the bacon and put the skillet in the sink. The sink, apparently in a bad mood today, spit the skillet back out. The sound of iron on stone was jarringly loud in the heavy silence that had once more descended on the kitchen. Sighing, Ginny walked over to the pick the skillet up. Her mother beat her to it.

And then she threw it at the sink. "I hate this house!" she screamed as the skillet knocked a chunk of porcelain off the corner of the sink. "I hate this horrible, evil, awful fucking house!" Stumbling over to the table, she fell into a chair, sobbing into her hands.

All of them stared at her, owl-eyed. Ginny had never heard her mother go beyond a hearty 'Darn it!' in her entire life. It was well known that cursing in front of Molly Weasley was a good way to get a lecture on proper decorum while being forcefully dragged around by your ear. Hearing her mother drop an f-bomb...scared her, frankly.

Her brothers were all shooting her significant glances, as apparently it was her job to do something. Say something comforting, offer up a hug. Ginny couldn't bring herself to move. She didn't know what to say. She didn't think there was anything to say.

"Mum," Bill finally said tentatively, reaching a hand out to stroke her back. "Do you want us to...I mean is there anything..." he trailed off again, screwing his eyes shut. Is there anything we can do? Besides resurrect Charlie, that is?

"D'you want me to go get Dad?" Ron asked, sounding very young.

"No," their mum said, wiping her face on her apron. Her voice was hoarse, but calm. "Don't bother him. He's busy taking care of all the arrangements. I'm fine. I didn't mean to..." she sighed. "I'm sorry."

It really hit Ginny then how much apologizing her mother had done that morning. Generally, 'I'm sorry' came out harried and snappish: Well, I'm sorry, but I've only got two hands. But her mother wasn't apologizing for her actions, and she wasn't apologizing to them.

Perhaps it was simply because she was a girl, with budding maternal instincts that weren't ready to be put to use yet, but Ginny understood in an abstract sort of way. Her child was dead, and it didn't matter that she couldn't have done anything and it didn't matter that he'd been an adult. It didn't matter how you looked at it. In her mind, she had failed in her most basic role as a mother, to protect her child from harm.

Tears welled up and Ginny clenched her fists to fight them back, not wanting to set everyone off again.

Ron got up and went to the stove, taking one of the skillets off of it, making to bring it over to the table. All of them watched. He stopped when he saw their attention on him. "I just...my eggs. I didn't want them to burn again." A puzzled sort of silence followed this statement. "They're...uh...they're perfect, Mum. See?" He held up the skillet, tipping it so that their mother could view her creation.

At which point the eggs slid out of the skillet onto the floor, landing with a dull splat.

Ron's face stretched into utter horror, as if he'd just dropped a Ming vase.

Her mother made an odd, stifled sort of noise, and Ginny looked over at her. She wore the unmistakable expression of someone trying to fight back laughter and not quite managing it.

"This whole place is cursed, isn't it?" Her Mum's voice was unsteady, and she finished the question with an unconvincing coughing fit.

Ron had turned bright pink. "Oh, Mum. I'm so sorry. I'll...I mean, I like scrambled eggs fine. I'll just have that, and some toast and bacon, and some of those sausages with gravy, and those kippers look really good, and I certainly wouldn't turn down..."

"Anything at all?" Molly asked, her mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile.

"That bacon does smell good," George shrugged with false casualness.

"You mean fucking good," Fred deadpanned.

Lips thinning, her mother reached over and slapped the back of his head. "Don't even get it into your heads that I've given you license to use that sort of language in front of me."

Fred shrugged sheepishly. "It was worth a try."

This time, her mother fought against the smile less valiantly, though the edges quavered a little bit. "I love you all," she said softly, her eyes bright. "I love you all, and I'm so proud of you. Even you two," she said, looking at the twins.

"We're always the addendum," George said, shaking his head.

"How is it that we own our own extremely lucrative - and legal - business, and we're still the black sheep of the family?" Fred asked his mother.

"You're not. If it makes you happy, then I'm glad you're able to do it," a few more tears leaked out, but her Mum ignored them. "I just want you to be happy."

The twins gawked at her, looking awed and more than a little touched.

"Can we talk about my hair while you're still in this mindset?" Bill asked, wide-eyed.

Chuckling a little, she pulled him towards her, kissing his cheeks, then smashing him into a hug. Bill hugged back, wearing that pained sort of expression boys tended to get when they thought they were too old to be hugged, but couldn't bring themselves to say so.

"I still hate you hair," she admitted, pulling away. "I can't help it." She got up, surveying the status of things on the stove. "I think we can still manage a decent breakfast. Let's eat and then go to the Burrow. I can't stand this place anymore."

Even her brothers got up off of their lazy asses to help serve breakfast.

*******

"Why didn't you just have me do it?" Fox asked Dumbledore, slightly annoyed at the fact that the opportunity to rain hellfire down on Death Eaters had been stolen from her. "I could have gotten the Weasley boy out. Frankly, I needed a good fight just then."

He glanced at her. "I would have sent you, if I'd believed you could have gotten in."

"What, Shirag Castle? I've gotten onto the grounds before."

"You would have gotten no further," Dumbledore said, with a tone of finality.

Fox raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"The Heir's Throne. Voldemort has it now. You could not have gained entrance. I was not even able to gain entrance. Blood magic...the list is short, but there do exist things against which even we are powerless."

Fox crossed her arms and sighed, settling in for a long description of whatever the hell they were up against now. "Fine, I'll bite. What's the Heir's Throne?"

"Salazar Slytherin's version of an inheritance. Voldemort does not have full Guardian powers, and even if he did, he still could not gain access to Harry Potter when he is in his aunt's house. The Heir's Throne works in a similar way. It protects the Slytherin holdings from outsiders. Voldemort and his followers can enter; nobody else can."

"But Shirag Castle isn't Slytherin property."

"It's Voldemort's property. The Throne still protects it. Believe me, Fox. I tried."

Fox blew out a long breath, raising her eyes to the ceiling. "So he's untouchable. Doesn't that pose a problem for Harry's big day in the sun?"

"Not at all," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling, "since Harry can also get in."

"What?! How?"

"Voldemort used his blood to regenerate. They share blood, therefore the Throne will allow him entrance."

Fox raised an eyebrow. "If that's true, then doesn't it follow that Voldemort can come after Harry, even when he's under his aunt's roof?"

"I said they worked similarly; I did not say they worked in the same way. Harry's blood protects him. None who wish him harm can enter his relatives' home."

"...save those who already live there," Fox interjected.

He ignored her. "As shown by the numerous instances of fratricide in Slytherin family history, the Throne does not provide that particular form of protection for its owner. Those who share blood with Voldemort may enter as easily as those who bear his mark."

"I take it Voldemort is unaware of this little detail?"

"He is," Dumbledore said smirking a little.

"Well, at least Harry will have the element of surprise on his side."

"He doesn't know about yesterday's battle yet," Dumbledore said, a falsely innocent look on his face. "I was hoping you'd be able to pay him a visit."

Like she wanted the job. While trying to think of a way out of it, something occurred to her. If Harry had Guardian power coming out of his ears, how was it that his aunt and uncle were ever capable of treating him like crap in the first place? Despite Fox's freakish behavior as a child, nobody had ever mocked her about it, or even called her on it. One of the earliest manifestations of Guardian power was directing other people towards their better instincts.

She'd done it without thought, hoping for the best the way any child would and being capable of making it happen the way any Guardian would. Obviously, she knew how to control it now, but...why hadn't Harry been able to do the same thing?

"You've been restraining him, too, haven't you? Nobody could have mistreated him - at least not for long - unless you did something to render him powerless. So what was it?"

To his credit, Dumbledore at least didn't play dumb. "I did what was necessary. It is regrettable in retrospect, but these things often are. His aunt and uncle had a severe distaste for magic. There were several close calls, especially when he was young. I had to offer them some means of protection so that he could remain under their roof."

Fox smiled thinly. "So you bribed them."

Dumbledore glanced at her. "Think of them as you please, but no matter how despicable the Dursleys' behavior has been, they have still kept the boy alive and safe these past fifteen years, and they still deserved to be protected from him. Even with all of my safeguards, he managed to sneak in a good amount of accidental magic."

"Well, we might be getting some more out of him. He's going to be mighty pissed off when he hears about the battle. He's going to want to be a part of what's going on."

"He most certainly will," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Unfortunately, that is not his provenance in this war. I will arrange for an escort if he'd like to attend the service on Wednesday, but it is best for all if he remains where he is until his birthday."

"I'll let you deliver that part of the message," Fox said tartly. Then she froze. "This war? What do you mean, THIS war?!"

"The end of each war only sows the seeds of the next one," Dumbledore said, an odd expression on his face. "Though in this case, I do hope I'm wrong."

Fox glanced at him. He knew more than he was telling her, but considering the next war might very well be of her own creation, she let it go. "So do I."

*******

Draco had seen Thera drunk before. Drunk at eight-thirty in the morning was a new development. He supposed it had only been a matter of time.

"You know, there is a certain point when the party has to end, sad as it is," he said, stretching out on her bed.

"I decided to have my own private after-party," she said, joining him. She was still wearing the clothes she'd had on the day before, now rumpled and smelly.

"Apparently," he said, raising an eyebrow as he watched her spill a good portion of the bourbon down her shirt on the way to her mouth while trying to drink lying down. "Only alcoholics drink alone, you know. Especially at eight-thirty on a Monday morning."

"When did I ever claim not to be an alcoholic?"

"Point taken. Sorry I didn't make it by last night. Considering the number of passed out Death Eaters I had to step over on my way up here, it must have been quite the shindig."

"Dunno, really," she shrugged. "I went out driving. Only caught the tail end. Learned something useful, though."

"Oh? What?"

"There was a redheaded guy who also showed up late because he'd been on guard duty."

Draco snapped to attention. "Guard duty? Guarding what?"

"A person. I gathered that much. I acted like I knew what he was talking about." She smirked a little. "I told him I'd visit him while he's on duty this afternoon."

"Wait a second," Draco said. "I thought you said none of the men would come near you because they think you're with me."

"Oh, right. I told them we've decided to date other people. See what's out there."

"Oh," Draco said, scratching his head. "Well, that explains why Pansy owled me a pair of her knickers this morning."

"I also told them you weren't man enough to satisfy me any longer," she said, grinning.

"YOU TOLD THEM WHAT?!" Draco roared.

"Oh, calm the fuck down," she pooh-poohed. "Think about who we're dealing with here. If the Death Eater boys think the self-proclaimed King of Cock isn't enough to keep me happy, they'll be bloody well lining up to prove their manhood or whatever sad little super-competitive instinct it is that throws you all back several links on the evolutionary chain whenever there's a readily available snatch in the vicinity."

"So your new plan is to fuck information out of the flock?" Actually, it was a good idea, if one had the stomach for it. The Death Eaters loved nothing more than bragging about their exploits to a willing listener, especially if the listener had breasts.

"I like to think of it as playing to my strengths," she said, studying the bottle.

"So when are you supposed to meet this guy?" Draco asked.

"This afternoon. He's on duty until six."

Speaking of redheads...Draco coughed delicately. "There was a prisoner..."

"Yeah," she interrupted him. "There was." More bourbon spilled down her shirt.

"Who was it?"

"One of your girlfriend's brothers," she said, tearing a strip off of the label and dropping it on the floor. "Charlie." Thera turned bleary eyes to him. "Do you know him?"

He didn't, aside from seeing him unconscious the day before. "He's dead, I gather."

"Last I saw."

Draco glanced at her. "Did you...?"

"No." New rivulets of bourbon trickled down her shirt, and Draco clenched his jaw.

"Once you start pouring it all over yourself, it's really time to stop," he said, getting up to wrestle the bottle from her.

"Fuck you. I already have more mums than I need," she said, making a try for the bottle.

Holding it out of reach, Draco watched with amusement as she fell off the bed on the second try. Whipping out her wand, she pointed it at him. "I dare you to laugh."

Draco put the bottle down and backed away. "Just trying to keep your head in the game."

"My whole fucking body is in the game at this point," she said, standing slowly, wand still aimed. "What I do to keep it there is none of your business."

"Fair enough," he said, slightly surprised. It hadn't occurred to him that she might have actually had a reason for getting drunk. Generally, she didn't need one. "Do you know what you're doing with all of this?" he asked carefully.

Thera gave him a look. "I'm familiar with the process, Draco."

"That's not what I asked."

"I know." After taking one last swig, she put the bottle down on the bedside table. "You're going to be late for your tutoring session," she said, crawling into bed.

"How on earth are you supposed to pass on whatever he tells you?" Draco asked.

"Stop by tonight. Tell Wellbourne tomorrow," her voice said from under the covers.

"I can't. I don't see Wellbourne again until Thursday, and tonight, the parents are hosting one of their trademark boring dinner parties tonight. Perhaps I can stop by tomorrow morning if you're relatively sober..."

"We really need a better way to do this."

"Well, you're the one with all the time on your hands. Do some research."

"Fine. Whaddever. Go the fuck away an' lemme sleep."

Feeling strangely as if he needed to shower again, Draco flooed to Hogwarts.

*******

The last person Balder Astragand desired to see early on a Monday morning was Ezekiel Crouch. Older brother to Barty, the crotchety patriarch had made his political career in the grand era of greased palms in between Grindelwald's defeat and the return of Voldemort. The head of the British Wizarding Council by rite of seniority, the man threw his weight around as often as humanly possible, and Balder found himself doubting the intelligence of his magical brethren, that they kept re-electing the windbag.

Crouch also happened to have spearheaded a movement in the Council to hold a vote of no confidence in the Minister. The special commission put in charge of investigating the events of the past year regarding Voldemort's return - and his uncle's culpability in the matter - was largely made up of people loyal to Crouch. From the look on the aging politico's face, Balder could guess at the news.

"Sorry, old boy," Crouch said, not sounding sorry at all. "The vote's set to take place tomorrow."

Balder swore under his breath. His position had required him to submit any requested information to the commission, but he hadn't felt good about it. In fact, it made him feel partially responsible for it. He'd practically done the commission's work for them.

"It won't pass," Balder said flatly, even though every source he had seemed convinced that it would. There weren't many elements of the population that still supported his uncle, and those who did tended to be rich with questionable loyalty.

As much as he disliked it, these benefactors probably had ties to the Death Eaters, and he had a feeling they were in favor of keeping his uncle in charge specifically because the man was incompetent. The same people had a great deal of influence in the Council.

Apparently not enough, however. He supposed he should be comforted by the fact that money couldn't buy everything in politics, but he couldn't. Not when he was going to have to face his Aunt Bernadette with this news.

The media would rip them apart. His uncle deserved it, but Aunt Bernadette didn't. The only thing she'd done wrong was marry an idiot.

Ezekiel Crouch looked amused. "It only took so long to come to a vote because we wanted to be absolutely certain that it would pass. Surely you don't think I'd be here in your office telling you about it if I didn't have all my crups in a row."

There was a particular strain of fanaticism that ran through the Crouch family. Barty Senior had had it; Ezekiel did, too. Ninety percent of Cornelius Fudge's private election contributions had come from former suspected Death Eaters, and there was nothing a Crouch hated more than a Death Eater who had managed to escape justice.

And he had to give Crouch that much. He was on the take, no doubt about it. But he wasn't on the take from the Death Eaters, at least.

"So you take the vote and toss him out. Who's there to replace him?"

Ezekiel Crouch lifted a shoulder. "Dumbledore and Amelia Bones' names will come up. Both will refuse. Either way, we need someone who's up to the task."

"Ignoring the fact, of course, that changing leadership in the middle of a war is a blatant message to the other side that the Ministry's in shambles," Balder pointed out.

"You can't call it a change in leadership," Ezekiel said with a dry smile, "when no leadership's been displayed. The vote is intended to give us someone who can lead. We've all been through this before. It's going to get worse before it gets better. Do you honestly believe your uncle's up to the task of waging war against You-Know-Who?"

"Cornelius Fudge doesn't lead squat," Balder said shortly. "You know that as well as I do. The Minister greets foreign emissaries and shakes hands and kisses babies. The rest of us do the real work, and we'll do the same thing regardless of who's in charge."

"It's a matter of image, old boy. He dropped the ball. The Council would be remiss in its duties if we didn't hold him accountable for such an appalling lapse in judgment."

"I see," Balder said stiffly. "Instead, he should have believed the words of teenager, without a scrap of physical evidence. Is that what you want in a Minister?"

"It isn't the Council's place to name a new Minister, merely to judge whether or not the current Minister has performed his duties correctly."

Balder crossed his arms. "And to put forward a list of candidates for the next Minister once the former Minister is trotted out on a stage and sacrificed to the cause of political expediency."

Crouch raised an eyebrow. "Rather dramatic of you, old boy."

"Suffice it to say that I really don't need this right now."

"Yes, I heard about the Weasley boy. Unfortunate, that. Arthur's a good man."

"At least it wasn't one of ours," Balder sighed. "I take it this will be all over the paper tomorrow. So now, instead of doing my job trying to actually defeat the dark wizard my uncle's charged with ignoring, I'll have to spend my morning writing a press statement."

"You might want to put that on hold," Crouch said casually, "until after you've received your advance copy of the commission's report."

It was like a punch in the stomach. "You're releasing the commission report? To the public? Tomorrow?" All of the information he'd turned over to the commission had been heavily abrogated to protect national security, but...his uncle throwing the word 'Mudblood' around in cabinet meetings was hardly a matter of national security. The Minister's pureblood pride was widely known - it was part of the reason he'd gotten elected in the first place - but certain offhand statements and meetings with individuals who were slightly more virulent than his uncle would not play well in The Daily Prophet.

It seemed harsh, decidedly outside the realm of polite politics. Balder sat back, amazed at the entirety of the situation, amazed that he hadn't realized what Ezekiel Crouch's motivations were a long time ago. He wasn't looking for a new leader as Minister. He was looking for a new puppet. A puppet who answered to him. If the vote succeeded, the Wizard's Council would be dissolved so that new elections could be held. Ezekiel Crouch, for better or worse, could very well have the entire government under his sway.

"It will be quite hard for Minister Fudge to convince the public that forces sympathetic to You-Know-Who's cause haven't infiltrated the highest levels of the Ministry," Crouch said lightly, his gaze piercing.

"Yes," Balder said, fighting to keep his voice even. "How convenient for you."

Crouch sent him a beatific smile. "I've been involved in politics long enough to know that opportunity never knocks. But if you open the door at the right time, however," he said, rising, "you may catch it before it manages to flee." Rather characteristically, before Balder could draw another breath, Ezekiel Crouch was gone.

*******

When Harry knocked on the Polkiss' door at five minutes to seven the next morning, it was opened by a harried Mrs. Polkiss, clad in a rugby shirt and jeans, holding a spatula.

"Harry, come in," she said. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

He hadn't, but then he never really did. Even at Hogwarts, he generally stuck with toast. "Yes," he lied.

"Would you like some coffee at least? Everybody seems to be running..." she turned to the stairs and raised her voice, "...FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE THIS MORNING!"

"Uh...sure," he mumbled.

She settled him into a chair with a cup of coffee. Harry listened to the sounds of frantic morning rituals upstairs - water running, feet walking quickly, doors opening and closing - as he watched Mrs. Polkiss fuss with the scrambled eggs, poke at some slices of ham and flip tomato slices over. A few minutes later, the kitchen door opened and Mr. Polkiss walked in, tying his tie. He was a slight, dark man who had always struck Harry as rather morose. He looked as if smiling were an alien activity to him.

Mrs. Polkiss got out a plate and began dishing up breakfast as Mr. Polkiss poured coffee into a thermos. "Don't bother," he said when he saw what she was doing. "I'm late."

"You still need to eat," she said stoutly.

Screwing the lid on his thermos, Mr. Polkiss said something in another language. Mrs. Polkiss shot something back, gesturing at the stove with her spatula. Mr. Polkiss said something exasperatedly, walking out of the kitchen without ever once glancing at Harry. "Piers!" he yelled upstairs. "I'm leaving now!" A few seconds later, running footsteps thundered down the stairs and the front door slammed.

Calmly, Mrs. Polkiss walked over and scraped the eggs into the rubbish bin. "How would you like ham and tomato sandwiches for lunch?" she asked, squatting down and digging into a cupboard, pulling out some plastic containers.

"That's fine," Harry said, glancing at the rubbish bin, then back at her.

"I apologize," she said as she loaded up the containers and put them in the refrigerator. "It's always a bit mad around here on Monday mornings."

"It's okay," he answered, staring into his untouched cup of coffee.

"Well," she said brightly as she kicked the refrigerator door shut. "Ready to get started?"

Nodding, Harry stood. She stuffed her hair under a sunhat and picked up a basket full of gardening tools next to the back door. He followed her out into the yard to the rectangle of turned-up earth in the corner.

"I bought you a pair of gloves," she said, handing them to him. "You'll need them."

She rummaged around in the basket to locate her own, also pulling out a few packets of seeds, two trowels, measuring tape and what appeared to be a hand-drawn blueprint.

"I mapped it all out," she said almost apologetically. "I did all of this reading about where certain things need to be planted, and what sort of vegetables can be planted next to other vegetables, and all of that. The delay in planting caused me to put far more thought into it than it really deserved."

Harry leaned over a bit to survey the blueprint she held up. Their shoulders brushed slightly and a sudden awkwardness overcame him. "Where do you want to start?"

"Tomatoes," she said, pointing to the front corner of the garden. "It's already getting late to plant them and they need the most work." Harry nodded, stepping away from her quickly. They got to work, planting the seeds and putting together a trellis so the plants could grow properly.

It was hot work, but Harry kept his brain far from his dream the night before and very far from what had happened afterwards. They talked little as they finished up the tomatoes and moved on to plant the cabbage. Harry couldn't imagine why anyone would desire to grow cabbage. His disgust must have shown on his face.

"You don't have to eat it, you just have to plant it," she said with a touch of sauciness.

Harry sent her a smile as they got down to work. They didn't speak again until they were finished and had to decide whether there was enough time to move on to the carrots.

"I don't mind staying for a while," he offered, toying with the twine they'd been using to rope off different sections.

Mrs. Polkiss patted him on the arm. She did that quite a lot - touched him casually. He wasn't really used to it, but he liked it, though he couldn't decide whether it was meant to be flirtatious or not. "I'm no task master. If you have plans, just say so."

"I don't," he shrugged, because it was true.

"You're far too polite," she said as they got back to work. "I think even if you did have plans, you wouldn't say anything."

"I never have plans," he answered, wiping his forehead on the back of his arm.

"Yes, you go to boarding school, don't you? It must be hard to keep up with your friends here when you're away for most of the year."

If he'd had any friends in Little Whinging, it probably would be. "I have school friends."

"Where do you go again?"

"Saint..." Harry felt a flash of panic as his mind went blank on the name of the place. "Er...Saint...Brutus'," he finished, relieved. That had been close.

"Catholic?" she asked with false casualness.

Harry repressed a smile. "Sorry, no."

"Pity," she murmured. The wind shifted, and he could smell her. She was as sweaty as he was, but underneath it was something slightly foreign and musky. Harry stabbed his trowel into the ground with more force than necessary.

"I've never heard of St. Brutus'," she said conversationally. "Where is it, exactly?"

"Scotland." It was probably best to stay as close to the facts as possible.

"Well, that would probably explain it. Why did you choose to go there?" She apparently didn't know that it was supposed to be a reform school for boys. He was rather surprised at this; he'd assumed that his delinquent status was common knowledge.

Harry yanked his trowel out of the ground. "My dad went there."

"Oh," she said neutrally. He could feel her looking at him, but didn't look back. It had never really occurred to him before that twenty years ago, his parents had walked down the same halls at Hogwarts that he walked down every day. They'd crawled through the same portrait-hole and sat in the same common room in front of the same fireplace. His dad might've even slept in the same room.

It seemed strange, somehow. He'd had a connection to them all along, and he'd never even really thought about it before. No wonder Hogwarts always felt like home. He longed for it suddenly, every drafty, ancient, unpredictable inch of it. Harry's hatred for Little Whinging was largely associational; he'd never actively detested the physical environment of it before. The cookie-cutter houses and neatly-trimmed lawns had always been too familiar for him to survey them with a critical eye, but he suddenly did, and he hated it. It was soulless and small-minded and he couldn't wait to get the fuck out.

He shoved his anger into his gardening, and they worked on silently until lunch. She put too much mustard on his sandwich, but Harry ate it anyway, as quickly as he could. He wanted to be away from this house and this garden and this woman.

The cool library suddenly held great appeal. Plus, it was ridiculous of him to be lusting after a bored, unappreciated suburban housewife. Even if watching her casually brush crumbs from her shirt evoked familiar feelings in him that weren't shy about informing him exactly how long it had been since he'd touched actual female flesh.

A very recognizable face appeared in the kitchen window. Fox surveyed the situation, raised an eyebrow, then disappeared from sight. Harry choked on his sandwich.

Mrs. Polkiss leapt up and began hitting him hard between the shoulder blades. Coughing, Harry waved her off, rinsing down the food with some water.

"I'm okay," he said in a croaky, wheezy, post-choking voice.

"You teenage boys are all the same," she sighed, sitting back down and pinning him down with a Molly Weasley glare. "You want the food in your stomach so badly, you don't bother chewing it."

Unable to put forward a response without coughing, Harry simply nodded. Still unable to speak normally, he unwittingly found himself leaving the Polkiss household clutching the remains of his sandwich in a baggie along with two other whole ones, with a firm parting statement from Mrs. Polkiss that he was far too skinny and needed to eat more.

"Oh, yeah. She definitely wants me," Harry sighed, clutching his baggie full of sandwiches like a child walking off to his first day of school. He didn't turn around, too afraid she might be watching from the front door to make sure he made it down the street safely by himself. And that would kill the small particles of ego he still retained.

"So," Fox said, stepping out from behind a lamppost. "How's Mrs. Robinson?"

"Mrs. Polkiss," Harry muttered, stepping around her and continuing down the street. "The Robinsons live over on Pinecrest."

She fell into step beside him. "And apparently I've been around long enough that my references to pop culture are completely out of sync with today's youth."

"Huh?"

"It's a movie, Harry. Older woman seduces innocent young boy..."

"I'm not a boy," he spat, spinning around abruptly and heading the other direction.

"My apologies," she said, catching up with him. "Young man."

"Do you have something to say, or are you just really, really bored?" Harry asked, tossing the sandwiches into a convenient sewer and fixing her with a glare.

"I have news for you, Mr. Big Bad Grown Up Adult Man. Do you think you can manage to hear it and handle it like an actual adult, or are you just going to use it to fan the flames of your adolescent disaffection?"

She didn't sound as if it were good news, and Harry's stomach dropped out. It was so easy to forget about the wizarding world here, what was happening, who was in danger.

It was so easy to get wrapped up in himself. Harry swallowed. "What news?"

"We attacked the Death Eaters' dark creature compound yesterday," she said, her eyes focused forward. "Dumbledore's people and a bunch of Aurors."

He stopped at that, his mouth dry. "What happened?"

She looked past him, down Privet Drive. "Well, I doubt the dark creatures will be a factor in any of Voldemort's future attacks. In that way, the attack was successful." Her eyes shifted back to him. "But we lost Charlie Weasley."

Harry expected the news to hit him hard, but it didn't. It merely glanced off. He'd barely known Charlie, and what he'd known had largely come from Ron's stories. It hit him then. Not because it was Charlie, but because it was Ron's brother.

"Oh," Harry said faintly, looking down at the sidewalk, scuffing the toe of his shoe against a weed growing in the crack. The chasm between him and Ron seemed to grow even wider. Hedwig sat in her cage back in his room; the least he could do was send him a note. But he honestly didn't know what to say. It occurred to Harry just then that having borne the brunt of sympathy for most of his magical life, he hadn't the first clue how to give it back. The usual sentiments brought no comfort. Frankly, for all he knew, Ron didn't even want his comfort. The thought depressed Harry like none other.

Ron had talked Fred and George into stealing their dad's car just to rescue him the summer after first year. He'd gotten him through every other miserable summer at the Dursleys since then. He'd believed him without question about Voldemort's return, believed him without question when he'd said that Sirius was in danger at the Department of Mysteries. And now, when Ron really needed him - well, if he did at all - Harry had nothing to give back. Maybe he never had in the first place.

"I don't suppose I could go to The Burrow," Harry said, not even making it into a question, knowing even as he said it that it wasn't going to happen.

There was a pause before Fox spoke. "Mrs. Weasley worries about you, as much as she does about her own children. I don't think she needs more any more worries just now. I imagine there'll be a memorial service of some sort. You'll be able to see them then."

Harry looked up. "Really?"

"Just for the day," Fox said firmly.

"Right," Harry said, resenting the bitterness in his voice and yet unable to stop it from coming through. "Then I come back."

Fox looked at him, then reached out and grabbed his shoulder. A moment later, she shoved him back. Harry flailed, expecting to make hard contact with the street, and instead made slightly more soft contact with a bench. Glancing around, he realized that she'd apparated them to the park a few blocks away.

"Way to use magic in front of Muggles," he said, angered at her behavior.

She smiled tightly. "More magic than you think. Nobody saw a damn thing and nobody will." She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, looking down her nose at him. Even before he'd known what she was, he'd been able to sense the power in her, but it had been disconnected and confusing, like holding a handful of pieces to a huge puzzle, unable to decipher the picture it was supposed to ultimately reveal. When she brought it out full force, as she did right now, when the picture revealed itself, it took a lot not to simply gape in awe at the full image of Guardian power.

All things considered, it was a bloody good intimidation tactic.

It kind of surprised him when her voice came out sounding normal, instead of as some god-like, inhuman roar. "You've been given power that no mortal was ever intended to have. It shouldn't have happened, but it did, and sometimes that's just how the cookie crumbles." Harry narrowed his eyes at her. He'd expected something a bit deeper.

"Everything I've taught you in the past year is dedicated to the singular goal of helping you control and use that power to fulfill the prophecy. Whatever juvenile resentment you have against the rules you're forced to live under, weigh it against this."

Moving too quickly for him to respond, Fox leaned forward and grasped his chin in an unyielding grip. "You will end this war, Harry. But you can't do it now. You know it as well as I do. There has been death, and the future will only bring more. What I have to teach you cannot be rushed. The more you rush, the more you set yourself back."

"You've said all this before," Harry said.

"Yes, I have. But you haven't ever listened before."

With a great deal of effort, Harry managed to free his chin from her fingers. "Give me something to listen to, and I'll listen," he said, with more than a little desperation.

The veil fell across her again, and Fox was reduced back to...well, Fox. "What do you want? Some vintage Knute Rockne speech? I'm not a motivational speaker."

"Why?" Harry asked, standing up, his anger overtaking him. "Why me?"

"Why not you?" Fox shot back. "For that matter, why me? Do you think I was born and decided to be a Guardian?" She heaved a sigh. "There is no 'why,' Harry."

Harry's head fell forward, the children's laughter around him loud in his ears. The burden that lay upon his shoulders suddenly weighed him down until he couldn't stand it.

"How, then?" he asked, not looking up. How do you bear it?

Her eyes bored hard into his. "You have to trust me, Harry," she said softly. "I can't change your destiny. Nobody can. But every second of my existence from now until you're finally ready to battle Voldemort will be dedicated to ensuring your victory."

Harry wasn't sure where the question came from, or why. "So I win, then. Will there be anyone left alive besides me to enjoy it?"

"If you win, there will be. Your strength comes from those who love you. You know that. It always has. And their strength comes from you." Her eyes prompted him.

"So the stronger I am, the stronger they are," Harry concluded.

Fox's mouth twisted into a smile. "There are destinies and fates in this world that have nothing to do with prophecies. There are those we are bound to for no other reason than choice, and that bond can be as strong as any other, possibly stronger."

Harry looked away, the reality of the situation filtering through. "I don't know what to say to him," he said bleakly.

Though he avoided her eyes, he could feel Fox looking at him. "Ron doesn't need a sonnet, Harry. He needs to know that his best friend gives a shit about him."

"Of course I do," Harry said automatically.

"That's nice. Does he know that?"

*******

Something nipped Vivian on the ear. "Yeek!" she yelled, sitting straight up in bed and slapping at the offender. Her hands made contact with feathers. It was an owl. A really pissed off owl, at this point. "Sorry," she yawned. The barn owl glared at her.

"You frightened me," she said with a touch of asperity. The owl still eyed her warily as she untied the parchment from his leg. "I mean, who the hell writes this early?" Unrolling the parchment, she read it. Then she read it again. It was a notice from Gringott's that her account had just been credited for one thousand galleons. "Okay," she said. "Why?" The owl gave her a look that said quite plainly, 'Who cares, lady? Just take it,' and flew out the window. Finally, Vivian gathered that it was probably her salary for tutoring Draco Malfoy. The same Draco Malfoy she was supposed to meet with this morning. Vivian glanced at the clock and swore. In about ten minutes.

"Oh, damn," she moaned, falling back on the bed to indulge in a few silent, petulant moments of really not wanting to have to get up and do this first thing Monday morning. Vivian shot a resentful look over at Remus' snoring form. If it weren't the full moon tonight, she'd wake him up to share in her misery. As it was, she climbed out of bed and halfheartedly hurried through her morning routine, leaving Remus a note.

She was still fifteen minutes late flooing into her office. Half-wondering if Draco Malfoy was even still waiting for her, she opened the door. He was standing across the hall, arms crossed, staring off into space. Vivian apologized, inviting him in.

He waved off her apologies with his usual imperiousness, the sort that made it hard to believe that he was a teenager. "You all had a long day yesterday, I imagine."

It was easy to forget sometimes who he was and what side he was on. Just like the other times he'd been in her office, he reminded her strongly of James Potter in school. If she were still a teenager, she'd have written him off as an arrogant prick and gone out of her way to steer clear of him, as she had with James. But war made people grow up, and she'd spent too many years teaching to not recognize habitual cockiness for what it was.

"Yes, we did," she said briskly, digging through the case she'd brought from Number Twelve with the scads of notes and books she'd collected relating to the spell.

"I imagine it was a bit of a blow," he said.

Vivian's eyes snapped up. He was studying his nails, appearing far too bored to be believable. He was pumping her for information. "Charlie Weasley, you mean?"

"Yes, Professor." His eyes rose, skipped over her face and slid off to the side.

"Yes, it was," she said slowly. "Do you know what happened to him?"

Silver eyes met hers, complete with raised eyebrow. "Not in detail, no."

Vivian nodded, turning back to rummaging through her unforgivably disorganized notes. She couldn't help but feel relieved that he hadn't been a part of it. She remembered performing the counterspell that allowed him to keep his own will in the presence of Voldemort, the blank look on his face when she'd asked him if he could kill somebody without Voldemort forcing him to. It still chilled her a bit to recall his response.

It's nothing generations of Malfoys haven't already done, Professor.

Even if there'd been no spell, Draco Malfoy would have been a Death Eater. Vivian knew that, but the guilt still tore at her. Her own father had had a hand in this, after all. The same one who'd pulled her onto his lap and pointed at funny symbols, telling her about what they meant, how to pronounce them, his face lighting up when she recognized one she'd seen before. There was also a good deal of sympathy there; as much as anyone, she understood the weight of parental expectations. In all honesty, if she'd made Head Girl, she'd have drowned in them, immersing herself in academia the way her parents had, her involvement in the war limited to lectures and historical comparisons. Like them, she would have never seen the reality of the war coming until it ran her over.

Vivian cleared her throat, brushing the thoughts aside.

"These are the preliminary Arithmantic matrixes we've drawn up dealing with the parts of the spell you're probably interested in," she said, sliding a stack of parchment at him.

He glanced at them briefly. "These all deal with the initial blood ceremony."

"That's where the mortality connection was forged."

"We can't die unless he does," Draco said, sitting back and running a hand through his hair as he perused the top parchment in more detail. "Or so I've been told."

"It's true as far as I can tell. He also..." Vivian trailed off, looking at him. "Have your parents bought you many growing spells?"

He glanced at her. "Why do you ask?"

"This isn't a matter of pride, Mr. Malfoy. This has to do with the spell. Lying to me will only make it harder for me to help you accomplish what you hope to with your work."

Putting down the parchments, he pinned her with a nearly Dumbledore-esque stare that would have made her fidget in her seat if he hadn't been her student. "Seven," he said.

"Starting when?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice neutral.

"Second year."

Vivian bit her lip to keep from swearing. Three or more growing spells in less than five years carried the risk of deforming the spine. If he'd undergone seven in the same amount of time, it was a miracle he could walk upright.

"By people who knew what they were doing," he added, with a slight sneer.

Spreading her hands out on the desk, Vivian directed her gaze to them. "So without them, you'd be...what? Four or five inches shorter?"

"Something like that."

"And yet your parents are both quite tall," Vivian said, looking up.

He flinched almost too quickly for her to see, and for a moment she could imagine him at twelve or thirteen, frustrated and ashamed, willing himself to grow. "Yes, they are."

"Odd. So were Thera Castelar's. Of course, she never got any growing spells."

His eyes flickered briefly to hers before settling on the parchments in front of him. "Balance," he said emotionlessly. "According to the spell, at least."

He had a quick mind; she had to give him that. "Well, that's my theory. In the years after the first blood ceremony, Crabbe and Goyle sort of siphoned off your physical strength. In return, you and Miss Castelar siphoned off their intelligence, the better to serve the spell, I imagine."

"Not exactly a fair trade from their point of view."

"In a way it is. The supposed immortality that you all enjoy because of the spell is really just a shared life force. If one of you sustains a mortal injury, you'll just draw from that force in order to survive. Should you find yourself in a situation where great strength is required, you'll have access to it. The same goes for Crabbe and Goyle, should they ever find themselves in need of intelligence or occlumency."

The boy's eyes met hers, wide and innocent. "Occlumency? What do you mean?"

"If Snape can't read you and Miss Castelar, fine. Certain people he can't read. If Dumbledore can't read you, then I know something's up. And considering the teenagers wielding this power, I can only assume it has something to do with the spell."

He fiddled around with the parchments in front of him a little. "My father can't read me. Thera said her mother couldn't. The Dark Lord can't read either of us."

"That actually makes sense," Vivian said slowly, realizing just how deeply the connection between the four children ran. She'd initially believed that it ran only through Voldemort, but the more she learned, the more she realized that it wasn't true.

"How so, Professor?"

"For the same reason Crabbe and Goyle are huge and you and Miss Castelar are intelligent: because of the spell. The originator of it was out of commission for fourteen years. Without Voldemort around to guide your development, the four of you learned how to use your connection to each other, even if you didn't even realize you were doing it. With Voldemort's continuing absence, you managed to make your minds inaccessible to even him. He may have cast the spell, but the fact that he has not been able to control your interaction for so long weakens his ability to control you."

Draco Malfoy's hands clenched around the parchments he'd picked up during the course of her speech. "Can we keep it?" he asked eagerly. "Can we outfox him or something?"

Vivian sent him a level look. "If you want to find out how to avoid passing on into the great oblivion when he does, if you want to learn more about what you four children share outside of him, and if you want to find out what you can do to weaken him, you're holding all of the possible answers in your hands right now."

"Well, I suppose someone ought to look out for us," he said, a little defensively.

Flipping to the marker she'd placed in the book she'd started two nights before, Vivian sent him a quelling look. "My job is to undo the entire spell. If you're wondering why I haven't progressed to the part where I counteract your possible death should Voldemort be defeated, that's why." Pulling out the collection of parchments containing Thera Castelar's translation of the spell, she tossed them on the table. Unbound, they were about two inches thick.

Malfoy's eyes widened.

"Putting it into a workable matrix," Vivian said with a tight smile, "took me four months. The iterative reaction surveys took another two. Since then, I've been applying higher level analytical methods to it. It's all trial and error, and with all of the different analytical methods available, I could spend the rest of my life working on it and never manage to create a counterspell."

"I see."

"What you're dealing with is only a small part of the spell, and you're only trying to analyze one specific aspect of it," she said, nodding at the parchments in front of him. "I'd be surprised if you manage to do anything with it by the end of the summer."

His eyes focused hard on the parchments, as if willing them to reveal their secrets. "Well, I suppose I'd better get started, then," he said mildly.

*******

As she turned the corner of the third floor corridor of the East Wing, Thera broke into character. She could do it in her bloody sleep. The guard looked up and grinned. She really wished he didn't have red hair, but spies can't be choosers.

"Merlin, I'm glad to see you. It's bloody boring up here."

She sent him a dirty smile, trailing a finger down his arm. "Slow day?"

He shrugged, his eyes focused on her mostly unbuttoned blouse. "Same as always."

"Same? How?" she asked lightly, trailing her finger back up his arm.

"We take the books in and he goes to work," he said distractedly.

"Of course. What book is he on now?" Her finger traced patterns on his chest.

"Don't know, actually. They all have the same kind of titles. Ancient Spells of the Fertile Crescent or Ancient Magic of the Babylonians. All that rot."

Thera stilled briefly. The spell, maybe? But why would they need to research the spell anyway? Didn't they already pretty much know all there was to know about it?

There are other spells, her father's voice spoke in her head.

"They said it was important," he said proudly.

Well, of course they had. That didn't mean it was true.

"And it is," Thera said, sliding her fingers down his belly. It was flat, but not toned. He was more thin and wiry than anything else, but on the whole, not unattractive.

The guard puffed up importantly. "That's why they entrusted me with it."

"Well, of course," she purred, her fingers moving lower. Subtlety wasn't worth the effort with this guy. "Something so important can only be entrusted to someone competent." His eyes fluttered closed as she stroked him. "Someone loyal," she said, giving him a squeeze. "Someone worthy," she breathed, looking up at him, feeling an echo of the old triumph. Hook, line and sinker inside a minute. I haven't lost my touch.

He backed her up against the opposite wall. There were a few awkward seconds as she fumbled with his robes and trousers and he clumsily unbuttoned her blouse.

"Is it well-protected at least? The door, I mean," she said.

"Nothing fancy," he said, sneaking a hand under her skirt, smiling when he found no knickers. "What more do we need with an outside guard?" he shrugged.

His hands moved down to lift her. So that's how it's going to be, she thought with a familiar sort of detachment. The sex was unpleasant and thankfully brief. When he finished, Thera took out her wand and whispered a Stupefy so he couldn't hear it.

Doing up her blouse, she unlocked the door. It was as easy as he'd said it would be.

Inside, a middle-aged man with a Van Dyke beard looked up from his seat at the desk, setting his quill down. Thera lifted a finger to her lips. Wide-eyed, the man nodded.

Once she was certain there were no surveillance charms, Thera put her wand away.

"What's your name?"

"Dashkin," he said in a thick accent. "Yuri Dashkin. From the Durmstrang Institute."

She nodded. "Why are you here?"

He gestured towards the books. "To translate."

"To translate what, exactly?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"We don't have time to go into that," Thera said impatiently. The guard wouldn't be waking up anytime soon, but somebody could come down the hallway at any moment and she'd rather not have to try to brazen her way out of something like this.

He turned back to his work. "This is a trick."

A well-thought-out argument might have changed his mind, but Thera didn't have time for it. So she grabbed him by the front of his robes, hauling him out of his seat.

"I'm one of the five children in the progeny spell, and it's kind of fucking my life up beyond all recognition, so for understandable reasons, I'm doing my best to stop it."

He stared at her, paling. "Which child?"

"The left hand," she said, letting him go, oddly sure of what information he needed.

"Does he have the others?" he asked anxiously. "Does he have the head?"

The fifth child. "No. He has the rest, but he wasn't able to get her."

"He must not," he said. "I hope you realize how important this is."

"Believe me. I do. What have you been doing for him?"

"The next step," he said, looking at the books in front of him.

"And that would be?" Thera prompted him.

"I can never remember the word in English." He looked up at her. "Götterdämmerung."

Thera stared at him. "He's going to put on a Wagnerian opera?"

"No, no," he said, annoyed. "The twilight of the Gods. The ultimate battle."

She felt her jaw drop. "You mean Armageddon? You mean the end of the world? The fucking end of the fucking world?"

He smiled grimly. "Not necessarily. The battle, the reckoning."

"Followed by the end of the fucking world!" He seemed disturbingly calm about this.

Dashkin waved a hand. "It isn't quite like that. Ancient texts are often metaphorical."

"Oh, so it's just the metaphorical end of the world," Thera said sarcastically.

"It must not come to that," he said, standing. "No matter what the cost, he must not be allowed to complete the spell. What he is planning...it is terrible."

"So what else is new? I need details."

He glanced at the door. "We will need time for that."

Time she didn't have right now. As much as she wanted to find out what was going on with the whole end of the world thing, she didn't dare stay in the room any longer.

Yuri Dashkin held up a sheet of paper covered in cramped, spidery handwriting. "You have contact with Dumbledore?" Thera nodded, because it was true...in a roundabout way. "You must tell him right away to find Vivian Lynes at the Institute. I worked with her father. He knew far more about this than I do, and she has his notes."

It was probably better not to write something like this down. "Dumbledore. Vivian Lynes. Institute. Father's notes on the apocalypse," Thera repeated.

"Tell her that the Dark Lord already has the bishtax."

"Bishtax. The beast," Thera whispered. "Why do I know what that word means?"

"You're the left hand. You were created with this language."

"Oh. Wait a second, you mean the beast, 666 and all that?"

He gave her a harassed look. "Metaphorical," he reminded her, pointing at a word in his notes. "It is spelled like this." Thera looked at it, hoping she was committing it to memory. "Tell her that the Dark Lord is looking for the ga'hshak and for a way to release the shoggoth. Tell her to look at the notes on Ektyapos Roth Nagras."

She knew the meaning of the first word, the way she knew the meaning of any other word in this language - by associations and mental pictures - and like the meaning of any other word in this bloody language, it didn't have just one, and it didn't translate well into English. Battlefield was the closest she could get, only it was more than that, a place steeped in violence and bloodshed. The second word completely eluded translation. Horror, evil, destruction, and very bad things in general was all she could get.

"The translation isn't important," he sighed. "The message is. Will you remember this?"

"When the motivation is to avoid total annihilation, yes. I'll be back as soon as I can," she said tightly, opening the door to peek out into the hallway. Aside from her stupefied prey, it was empty. Sneaking out into the hallway, she stood over him, feeling the sudden desire to give him a kick in the teeth. It hadn't just been bad sex. It had been unforgivably bad sex. Merlin, didn't guys ever give each other pointers?

She curled up next to him, taking out her wand. "Ennervate."

He blinked his eyes open, glancing around in confusion. "What happened?"

"The earth moved," Thera said, managing to keep a straight face.

"We..." His face stretched into a grin. "Really? I must've fallen asleep after."

"Directly after," she said with a hint of a pout.

He blushed a little. "Sorry about that."

"It's understandable, I suppose," she said, standing up. "After all of your hard work."

"True," he replied, joining her. "I get off at six o'clock, if you want to meet up."

"I can't," Thera said sorrowfully. "I have...things to do."

"Oh. Right." He gave her a tentative leer. "Well, some other time, then."

She forced her face into a sultry smile. "I can't wait. What was your name again?" She hadn't realized until just then that she didn't know what it was.

"Erskine." Well, she wouldn't be yelling that one out in the throes of fake ecstasy.

Thera pulled him down into a nice, long kiss. He wasn't a bad kisser, considering. There might be hope for him yet. "Don't forget about me," she whispered, pulling back.

"I won't," he said, looking a bit dazed.

She strode away, her mind racing. Sure, she had information, but who the hell was she supposed to give it to? And how?

The owls and floos were all tracked, so those were out. If she could talk to Draco, they'd be okay. He had more freedom than she did, but Lucius had made it rather clear that she was persona non grata at Malfoy Manor, and they were hosting a party tonight, so there wasn't any way she'd be allowed near the place.

Vivian Lynes, Institute, Notes, Apocalypse, bishtax...

Thera could always just tell him tomorrow, but he didn't have another lesson with Professor Wellbourne until Thursday, and that was the soonest he'd be able to pass the message on without risking a lot. And the more she thought about it, the less she could think about waiting.

...ga'hshak, shoggoth, Ekyapos Roth Nagras, Erskine...

She might be recognized if she went out in the magical world. She knew plenty of simple aging spells, having used them to sneak into bars the world over, but she'd never tried anything more drastic to change her appearance, and wasn't really aching to experiment on her own face with appearance-changing charms. She needed her face.

The car was a possibility. She couldn't drive to Hogwarts, though. Aside from the fact that she didn't even know its exact location, disappearing in her car for eight or nine hours probably wouldn't go unnoticed. Muggle communication seemed like the best option for secrecy, and the easiest way to do that was by phone. She could easily drive to a petrol station, relieve a nice Muggle of his pocket change and call somebody.

Well, she'd need a phone number, though. That's kind of how it worked. Hogwarts probably didn't have one. Suddenly, her head snapped up. It was summertime. All the little kiddies were on vacation. A Muggleborn student would have a phone. Granger.

Thera chewed on her lip. The phone number wouldn't be under her name, though. It would be under her parents' names - which Thera didn't know - and it was a safe bet that there were more than a few Grangers around. Since she didn't know where the girl lived, narrowing the candidates down would take a good long while. Too long.

Vernon and Petunia Dursley of Little Whinging, Surrey. Thera heaved a sigh. Right. Harry would just love that. He'd probably just hang up on her. She couldn't blame him.

Tossing the idea out, Thera explored other possibilities. Only after she'd spent a good five minutes debating the pros and cons sky-writing did she give in.

"This isn't going to be pleasant," she muttered to herself as she changed direction, heading out to the carriage house.

*******

In over forty years of marriage, Bunny Fudge had never managed to fall asleep before her husband came to bed. In recent years, the hours spent in late-night cabinet meetings or cocktails with high-powered legislators and campaign contributors had made this practice difficult to maintain, but she had kept it up less by choice than by habit.

But on that night, long after her late lunch with Balder, when he'd filled her in on the latest political quagmire, Bunny was neither asleep, nor even in bed pretending to be. She had been waiting for Cornelius to come home, sitting in their well-appointed parlor, sipping sherry and listening acutely for his arrival.

Hearing the apparation crack in the front hallway, she rose and patted her hair, smoothing out her dressing grown as she went. He'd be upset. Vague, warm memories rose of their life before all of this, when Cornelius had run his father's hat manufacturing business. Simpler times, those. Long before ambition's siren song had led her husband into an ill-suited career in politics.

Even then, suspicions had echoed in her head. He had little power or family or money to commend him. Why did they want Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic?

At the time, she'd remained silent. She'd eaten the doctrine for pureblood female behavior for breakfast, lunch and dinner since birth. And when other individuals ate potatoes or shepherd's pie, she ate her own opinions. It was the way things worked.

Or - more specifically - the way things had worked. Times had changed, and Cornelius' foolishness had led their entire family into disgrace. Her love for him and her deeply bred training told her to bear this new load silently. Everything else in her desired more than anything to walk out into that hallway and make him wish he'd never been born.

Rather shamefully, her ire disappeared when she saw him. Cornelius did look awful. Hat in hand, he looked up at her entrance, a lost, terrified look about him.

The desire to comfort him was balanced by the desire to be angry with him. "I spoke to Balder earlier," she said, keeping her voice neutral.

"I'm going to take it before the Wizengamot," he said automatically, as if he'd practiced the sentence a hundred times - and maybe he had. "They have the power to block it."

Bunny drew her dressing robe tighter around her. "Will they?"

Twisting his bowler hat in his hands, he looked up at her. "Probably not."

She felt herself sag, wishing there was something convenient nearby to lean against. There wasn't. With great difficulty, she filtered out anything that might carry an accusation, an 'I told you so' element. It wouldn't do any good at this point.

"What are we going to do?"

An odd look passed over his face, something harsh that made him seem like more of a stranger to her than he ever had before. "Don't worry, Bunny. It'll be okay. It'll...it'll all be over soon, one way or another."

Feeling as if the breath had been stolen from her chest, Bernadette could only watch as he walked up the stairs slowly, head down. What on earth was that supposed to mean?