Two to Obey

Chapter 5: No Easy Way Out

There's no easy way out.

There's no shortcut home.

There's no easy way out.

Givin' in can't be wrong.

-Robert Tepper, 'No Easy Way Out'

*******

"And give your grandmother my best, dear," the kindly middle-aged Muggle said, handing over a wad of bills and a handful of change. "I do hope she's alright."

"I'm sure she's fine," Thera answered, stuffing the money into her pocket and heaving a sigh. "It's just that I worry about her being all alone while I'm away. She forgets her medication sometimes, and you know how things can happen."

"I surely do," he said sympathetically, shaking his head. "And speaking of things happening, be careful in that old car. There won't be much traffic between here and York at this time of night. If it kicks out on you, you may end up stranded."

Glancing over at the Ferrari - which to the Muggle appeared to be a rusty old clunker - Thera suppressed a smile. "I think I can handle it. Thanks, though."

With a wave, the Muggle got into his car and drove out of the petrol station. Digging the money back out of her pocket, Thera counted up the coins. She ought to have enough.

Easy part over, on to the hard part. The phone booth was at the far edge of the convenience store, barely within the range of the spotlights blazing down upon the pumps. Beyond it was darkness, and a shiver of unease went up Thera's spine. When it came to being sure that the Dark Lord didn't know what she was doing right now, ninety-nine percent didn't seem quite as close to one hundred percent as it had earlier.

Before her nerve left her, Thera picked up the phone and dialed the operator. Within seconds, she'd plugged in the coins and the phone was ringing. It was rather too soon, in her mind. She'd spent the entire drive up here trying to think of something to say before finally deciding that she was going to have to wing it.

Assuming, of course, that he was home.

"Dursleys," a yawning male voice answered. Thera tried. She really did. It was only a waste of coins to mess with Harry's uncle. And it was beneath her. Really beneath her.

"Is this Vernon Dursley?"

"Yes, it is." He cleared his throat away from the phone. "Who's this?"

"We met at King's Cross Station in June. I ran into you, if you'll recall."

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Who are you? How did you get this number? If the boy's been telling you things about us, I just want you to know that they're lies, all lies. We've treated him like a bloody visiting dignitary, I'll have you know. He didn't even need to take that gardening job...we offered him money, but he said he wanted to..."

"Right. Could I speak to him, please?"

"Er...you mean the boy?"

"Yes. Specifically, the skinny one who goes by the name Harry."

"He's not here," he said far too quickly.

"Vernon, peach, if you think we don't have the capability to know everything that goes on in that house, then you're laboring under far too many illusions than are healthy for a man your age. Now winch your ass off of that sofa and put him on the phone."

He made a sound like a mouse being trod on and set the phone down. Thera heard him in the background calling Harry and chuckled to herself. Merlin, it felt good to bully bullies. Voices approached, Vernon urging Harry to tell 'his people' that they hadn't touched a hair on his head, Harry sounding annoyed, asking who it was.

"I don't bloody know. One of your kind. I just know that Dibbledums promised there'd be none of this sort of funny business, and I've half a mind to..."

"What going on here?" Harry spat into the phone. "Who is this?"

"Cathy Vixen," Thera answered. "Tell your uncle if he says another word, I'll feed him to Lucius Malfoy's Man-Eating Scaraptula. Alive. Feet-first, so I can hear him scream."

There was a heavy pause. "Oh, for Merlin's sake," Harry muttered. "Th-"

"Harry," Thera interrupted, her eyes moving nervously to sweep over the darkness beyond the phone booth, "I know this whole cloak-and-dagger thing isn't really your forte, but would you mind not blabbing my name all over the place?"

"Sorry. Listen, I can't talk to you in front of my uncle," he said in a low voice.

"Tell him to leave the room, then. This instant. Or I'll take a letter opener and..."

"Oh, shut up. Honestly." He turned away from the phone then, and she only faintly heard the next thing he said. "She says if you don't leave the room, she'll do a spell that will permanently turn you inside-out." Thera was impressed; it was much better than a letter opener. "Anyway, she sounds pretty serious. Perhaps it would be a good idea if you..." He returned to the phone. "Huh. I've never seen him move that fast. What did you say to him?"

"Nothing," she said breezily. "So they've been treating you alright, then?"

There was a beat of silence before he answered, and when he did, his voice was accusing. "You did something to them, didn't you? They've been acting weird all summer. What is this, some new kind of messed up mind game of yours?"

"What do you mean, acting weird? You mean overly obsequious?"

"I mean offering me seconds at dinner, cleaning up my room while I'm out, doing my laundry, buying me things, chasing me around with food baskets..."

"That's...what overly obsequious means, Harry."

"Yes, then." He sounded - if anything - affronted.

Thera felt like smacking herself on the forehead. Harry had once confided in her that he'd nearly been sorted into Slytherin. She hadn't believed it then and believed it even less now. "And it hasn't occurred to you to take advantage of this at all?"

"I don't want to take advantage of it," he said angrily. "I just want them to leave me alone. So whatever spell you've put on them, take it off, would you?"

"I didn't put a spell on them," Thera explained. "I just threatened them with death."

"Oh, for crying out...why am I not surprised?"

"Hang on," Thera said as a recorded voice told her to put more money in. She did so, realizing that this wasn't going well. "I was trying to do you a favor."

"Don't do me any favors," he said fervently. "Or if you really want to do me a favor, then stay the hell away from me. Why are you even calling me in the first place?"

Feeling suddenly worn out, Thera leaned her head against the side of the booth and closed her eyes. "I have information," she said flatly.

He seemed to cool off a little bit. "Information? What information? For me?"

"For Dumbledore. I need you to pass it on."

"Why are you calling me on the telephone to pass information on to Dumbledore?"

"Because I haven't a better fucking way to do it," she said, a bit piqued at the fact that Dumbledore hadn't figured out a way for her to do it more quickly, more accurately, and with less risk of exposure. The Good Side might have some things over the Bad Side, but both sucked equally at details. "And considering I'm not entirely sure of the security of this particular way, can we just leave personal grudges aside and get it over with?"

"What is it?" he asked anxiously, his voice growing softer. Trying to keep his relatives from overhearing, probably. "Is something going to happen?"

More than he knew. "Just take this down, okay?" Running down the list in her mind, she relayed the information to him, spelling out the words when necessary, unable to stop herself from glancing around the petrol station, half-expecting the Dark Lord to pop out from behind the air pump and skewer her. "Read it back," she said when she finished.

"Yuri Dashkin of Durmstrang Institute is being held at Shirag Castle," he said, his voice brisk and businesslike. "Dumbledore needs to find Vivian Lynes of The Institute...does he mean Professor Wellbourne?"

"I don't know. Does he?"

"Well, last summer, I think she'd just gotten divorced or something. Mrs. Weasley kept referring to her as 'Lynes-or-Wellbourne' whenever she talked about her."

A legitimate smile crept across Thera's face. "So Dumbledore already has her, then?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. Very good. The rest of it, then. Verbatim."

"Verbatim: 'The Dark Lord has the bishtax. He's looking for the ga'hshak and for a way to release the shoggoth, and Professor Wellbourne needs to look at her father's notes on Ektyapos Roth Nagras or the world will end.' Please tell me this is a joke."

"This is a joke."

"You're lying."

"Yes."

He swore - rather creatively. Perhaps she'd rubbed off on him a bit. "What does all of this mean, though? What are all of these things?"

"I don't have enough change to explain it all," Thera said shortly, pumping in the rest of it as the voice recording sounded again. "Just tell Dumbledore. As soon as possible."

"Well, I'm going to be seeing him on Wednesday for Charlie's service..."

"Harry, 'as soon as possible' is not forty-eight hours in the future unless you work for the Ministry. Or did you miss the whole part about the end of the world?"

"But I can't owl him this kind of information. It might get intercepted."

Thera refrained from beating her head against the plexiglass of the phone booth, but just barely. "Don't send him the actual information, idiot. Use your doo-hickey that calls down the forces of Good in a matter of minutes and get this show on the road."

"I can't," he admitted. "I gave it to Ginny."

"Oh, fuck it all," Thera said, kicking the phone booth hard enough to crack the plexiglass. Giving the thing to her was a good idea, actually. It just threw a big wrench in Thera's plans. "Well, if you can't floo, send him an owl telling him that you have to speak with him urgently - make sure to put that word in capital letters and underline it - and then wait for him to come to you. Either that piece of paper you're holding goes directly from you to Dumbledore, or else the Dark Lord pries it from your cold, dead hand. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he muttered.

Thera felt her jaw tighten. "If this information is handled badly or if my part in all of this is found out, I will be screwed in ways I'd prefer not to imagine. So if you really don't intend to take it that seriously or if you're really that pissed off at me, then by all means, fuck it up as you please. If, on the other hand, you'd actually rather stop all of this..."

"I'm sorry," he moaned. "I don't need a lecture about it, okay? I'll do it."

He probably did need a lecture about it, but she backed off. "That's all I ask."

"Yes, I know," he said, somehow managing to sound very old and very young at the same time. "Everything you told me...you know what it all means, don't you?" he asked, his tone making it a statement rather than a question.

"Not entirely, no," Thera admitted. "I know what the words mean. That's all."

There was a long silence before he spoke again. "What you're doing right now, it isn't dangerous, is it? I mean...they don't know what you're doing, do they?"

"No," she said, hoping it was true. "They'd have been here by now if they knew."

"Just...don't do anything stupid."

It was rather novel, taking safety advice from someone who nearly got himself killed annually. "Erm...you do know who this is, don't you?" she asked, just in case.

"I do," he said dryly. "It's just that it's not like you, to do something like this."

Wasn't it? Honestly, she didn't know anymore, and it scared her a little. Shaking herself, Thera returned to the situation at hand.

"The fact that I would ought to give you an idea of how important this is," she said.

"Okay, then," he said quietly. "Is that all?"

"No." Thera's hand tightened around the phone. Better to get it over with quickly.

"If you have something that tops the end of the world, I'm not sure I want to hear it."

"It's not that. I also wanted to apologize." She'd never been much for sincerity, and her lack of practice showed. She didn't sound as if she meant it at all.

"For what?"

"For what happened last time," Thera said, feeling that going into the details wouldn't be very good salesmanship on her part.

"You mean at Little Hangleton?" He really would make a crappy spy, what with the offhand mentioning of details and all, though it probably didn't matter at this point.

"Yeah," she said, a little awkwardly. "I'm sorry."

The other end of the line was silent. She didn't know if he answered. Her coins had run out, which was probably for the best. If he'd told her to take her apology and shove it, then she could have left it at that. She'd have made her apology, and it would have been rejected. But knowing Harry, he might not have rejected it, and Thera wasn't sure that improved relations between them was a good idea. Improved relations meant responsibility. It meant that she'd have to look out for her own ass and his.

And she had quite enough trouble looking out for her own ass at the moment.

*******

Gautham yawned expansively, stretching his arms over the back of Mrs. Figg's sofa. The sound blocked out the weather forecast on television, which they were watching at minimum volume due to the fact that Mrs. Figg went to bed at eight o'clock and had somehow managed to retain the auditory sensitivity of a bat well into her seventies.

Amina got up from the sofa, going into the kitchen. "Will you get me another cookie, baby?" Gautham asked, his eyes never leaving the television.

"My first name ain't baby. It's Amina...Ms. Nzuzi wa Mbombo if you're nasty." Fox groaned. It was one of those jokes that had long since passed out of funny, soldiered on through overdone and was now so antique that it was required. If Amina hadn't said it, one of them would have, just to keep the balance.

"We've really been together too long," Fox commented.

"And then some," Amina agreed from the kitchen. "It would be nice to watch The Empire Strikes Back with somebody who doesn't cry when the anonymous ewok dies."

Gautham looked upset. "He was just living his happy ewok life, doing his happy ewok thing, and then...BOOM! Dead. And it wasn't even his war, you know?" He shook his head sadly. "It wasn't even his war."

Amina returned with two cookies and handed one of them to Gautham. "It was a midget in a fur suit."

"I know that. It's just the principle of the thing," he said, waving a hand.

There was a knock on the front door. In an instant, they were all up on their feet.

"It's Harry," Gautham said, pulling out the device that relayed live footage from the front porch. "I wonder what he's doing here this time of night?"

"I'll deal with him," Fox said, striding down the front hallway and opening the door.

Harry looked up at her, his eyes wide. "I just got some information."

"Information?" Fox asked, surprised.

He nodded. "I think I need to pass it on," he said meaningfully.

Pulling him inside, Fox took him into the kitchen. Amina and Gautham exchanged overly casual waves with him as he walked past. They wanted to know what was up.

Shutting the kitchen door, Fox sat down at the table. Harry sat across from her.

No reason to beat around the bush. "What happened?"

"Thera called me," he said, staring at the table.

Fox sat back at that, alarmed. "Called you how?"

"On the telephone," he explained, as if she were an idiot. Because Death Eaters called people up on the telephone all the time.

"So what information did Little Miss Hot Knickers have for you?"

Harry glowered at her. "I don't know what it means," he said, pulling a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jeans. "She told me to give it only to Dumbledore."

"Do you want to get him?"

"Yeah," he said, his hand tightening around the piece of paper. "I think it's important."

More to keep up appearances than because she really had to, Fox went into the laundry room to contact Dumbledore, making a face as stray bits of kitty litter crunched under her feet. Harry needs to talk to you.

The answer came slowly over the distance crossed. I'm on my way.

No sooner had the message entered her head than Dumbledore appeared in front of her, clad in his usual Merlin-esque get-up. He did, however, land right in the kitty litter box.

"I've learned to never wear shoes I like when visiting Mrs. Figg," he said, stepping out of it and cleaning himself off with a wave of his hand.

"He's in the kitchen." Fox led the way, retaking her seat across from Harry. Dumbledore sat between them, folding his hands.

"You needed to talk to me, Harry?" he asked pleasantly.

"Thera called me. On the telephone," he added, sending her a glance. "She told me this." He slid the piece of paper to Dumbledore, who read it without changing expression. Fox was curious about its contents, but she wasn't about to ask about it, not when there were this many toes to be stepped on.

"What does it mean?" Harry asked, not sounding like he expected an answer.

"It means that Voldemort is trying to complete Grindelwald's plans."

Fox shared a look with Harry at this vague answer. He was brimming with questions. "But what were Grindelwald's plans?" he finally asked. "I mean, Voldemort doesn't want to bring about the end of the world, he wants to rule it."

"That is correct. He is not precisely trying to end the world. Such a thing isn't possible, even for a Guardian. Even for all of the Guardians put together. On the other hand, the world we inhabit at this moment is not the same world you woke up in this morning. People have died and been born, the sun has risen and set..."

"Somehow I get the feeling that he's thinking in slightly bigger terms," Harry said dryly.

"He is. If thousands of people had suddenly died today, the world would have been greatly changed. If millions had died, it would never be the same as it was."

"So it's not total annihilation, then," Harry said, rubbing his eyes. "Just mass murder."

"It is many things," Dumbledore replied. "And all of them are terrible."

"But you stopped Grindelwald before. How did you do it?"

Dumbledore surveyed him over the top of his glasses. "With a great deal of help."

"Will I need the same sort of help to defeat Voldemort?"

"Honestly, Harry, I don't know."

Crossing his arms, Harry sat back in the chair, every inch the sullen teenager. "You don't know," he said dully. "Well, that's just wonderful. What's the point of all the training, then? For all you know, I just wave my hand and he keels right over."

"I'd say the chances of it going down like that are fairly slim," Fox said.

"The training has been useful, you must admit," Dumbledore pointed out. "Voldemort can no longer get into your mind. And as for the rest of the training...well, not knowing the details of how you're meant to complete the prophecy, don't you feel it's better to be prepared for anything?"

"I guess," Harry said miserably.

"This information affects more than just you, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Get some sleep. We'll discuss it in more detail after Charlie's service, when all of the parties involved can be present for it. You'll understand everything then."

"Okay," Harry said, standing as Dumbledore apparated away. Fox held up an arm to stop him as they approached he closed kitchen door. Flinging it open, she stepped back to allow Gautham and Amina to spill into the kitchen.

"Hear anything useful?" she asked casually.

"I was just coming in to get another cookie," Gautham lied badly, lifting himself up.

"Yeah. Cookie," Amina lied even worse.

After sending them a glare, Fox walked Harry to the door. Then she sauntered back into the living room and turned off the television, placing her hands on her hips.

"What was that about?"

"Cookies" Gautham said innocently, holding one up. "They're really good."

"Spy at a door and you're responsible for the information revealed within."

"What information?" Amina asked under her breath. "There wasn't any."

"If you want to know what's going on, I'll tell you," Fox offered. "Just know before you say 'yes' that the minute you do, you're as involved in it as I am."

"We're not stupid," Gautham said defensively. "We know that there's a lot more to this than what we've been told."

"No job is this easy," Amina agreed.

"I just want you to consider what you're getting yourselves involved with here."

"Is it more exciting than daytime talk shows?" Amina asked.

"Yes."

"Then we're in," Gautham said through the rest of his cookie. "Now move aside, would you? Countdown is on."

*******

"Cornelius Fudge to see you, sir," a house elf squeaked.

Draco looked over at his father. Lucius folded his paper and set it down on the breakfast table, smiling. "Yes, of course. Show him in." The house elf disappeared.

"Father?" Draco asked, wondering if he'd have to leave the room.

"Stay, Draco," his father said, smoothing a hand down his hair. It shone like a beacon in the morning sunlight, making Draco bite his lip to keep from asking if Lucius had been behind the unexplained disappearance of his bottle of Slick 'n Shine, which had been missing for over twenty-four hours. "This will be a good opportunity for you to learn how to handle an abject boot-licking gracefully."

"Just don't let him drool on the carpet, dear," his mother said, taking one last sip of tea and rising from the table. "Mother and father are coming for lunch."

Draco brightened. A visit from the grandparents meant presents. As their only grandchild - or the only one whose existence they recognized, at least - he could, quite literally, do no wrong. Anything he said was either wildly amusing or impressively intelligent, anything he wanted should be given to him as quickly as possible, and any disagreement on the part of his mother or father was dismissed as bad parenting.

"How lovely," Lucius drawled, his smile disappearing. "It's really too bad I have to..."

"I checked your schedule this morning before I invited them," Narcissa said coolly. "So don't even think of making up some excuse to get out of it."

His father raised his eyebrows in pure innocence. "I love nothing more than spending time with your parents, darling. You know that."

Giving him one last withering look, Narcissa left the room.

"And the day started out so well," his father sighed. Draco glanced at him. There wasn't necessarily bad blood between Lucius and his grandparents. There was simply a firm belief on the part of his grandparents that nothing and nobody was good enough for their daughter and grandson, Lucius included.

Cornelius Fudge entered the room, his bowler hat twisted in his hands, a frantic look on his face. "The Wizengamot's rejected the appeal."

"Pity, that," his father said evenly, taking a sip of coffee.

"The vote's going to go foreward!" the Soon-to-be-Ex-Minister said desperately. "You don't want this any more than I do. We have to do something."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "And what, exactly, do you propose we do?"

"Anything!" Fudge said, waving his arms around. "The report's already been released, so that damage is done. I haven't even looked at the Daily Prophet this morning. I don't think I could bear it. But you can't let them vote me out, Lucius."

"Cornelius, I'm afraid that there are limits to my power. If the Wizard's Council wants you out, there's no way for me to stop it."

"But..." Fudge spluttered. "You can't mean to tell me that you want one of Ezekiel Crouch's men as Minister."

"That depends," his father said thoughtfully.

Fudge's eyebrows drew together. "Depends on what, Lucius? You're in that report too, you know. You're not going to come out of this looking any better than I am."

A thin, cold smile crossed his father's face. "I beg to differ, Cornelius. There's no mention of me whatsoever in the commission's report. I made sure of that."

Draco watched with interest as Cornelius Fudge's face went pale and understanding dawned. "You did this, didn't you?" he asked in a whisper.

"I did nothing, Cornelius. I merely let events take their course."

"Everything I did for you...and now you're just leaving me to twist in the wind?"

"What do I have to gain by helping you?" his father asked, leaning an elbow on the table, twirling a strand of hair idly. "Very little, it seems to me, and I would be doing it at great risk to my own interests."

From pale white, Fudge's face colored bright pink with fury. "Interests we no longer share, is that it? How long have you and Crouch been planning this little maneuver? Who do you think you're going to be able to find who's willing to do the kinds of things I've done for you, who's willing to look the other way as much as I have?"

Lucius chuckled. "Don't blame me because you didn't see this coming, Cornelius. The very nature of a political alliance is transient and mutually beneficial. Considering the public detests you and the Wizard's Council is about to throw you out of office, how is any further alliance with you beneficial to me, especially when there are plenty of other candidates who would serve my interests far better than you can?"

"You can't do this," Fudge hissed. "You may have kept your name out of the commission report, but I know the truth. You think you're the only one who's looking out for your own interests? You think you're the only one who knows how to watch his back? The things I know about you, the things I have on you...I could ruin you."

Lucius rose from the table, pinning Cornelius Fudge with a glare that Draco recognized all too well. If Fudge had known what that glare meant, he'd have disapparated as quickly as he could get his wand out of his pocket. Draco gulped, but didn't look away. He couldn't; it was like watching a horrible accident unfolding in slow motion.

"It would be very unwise of you to threaten me, Cornelius," his father said in a low voice.

"I'm not a fool," Fudge said, fearful yet defiant, taking his wand out. "Five minutes after I get home, there'll be copies of everything I have. If something happens to me..."

Draco gripped the table as his father smiled coldly. "You must be a fool, or you never would have told me that. And you'd have made copies of everything a long time ago."

Apparently not quite getting the fact that he'd just signed his own death warrant, Fudge simply goggled at Lucius, his wand loose in his hand. It was, Draco realized, a very bad time for Fudge to figure out that his father's 'I was put under Imperius and forced to do the Dark Lord's bidding against my will' story wasn't true. "You wouldn't..."

Picking up his wand from the table, Lucius casually disarmed the Minister. "Look on the bright side, Cornelius. You won't have to face the humiliation of a no-confidence vote."

Eyes wide with terror, Fudge turned and tried to run from the room. His father stunned him before he'd even taken a step. Putting his wand back down on the table, Lucius turned to Draco. "What tutoring sessions do you have today?"

Looking away from Fudge's crumpled body, Draco cleared his throat. "Charms and Transfiguration," he said, his mouth dry.

"Cancel them and then meet me at Shirag Castle. Bellatrix and Rodolphus will find out everything he knows within the hour."

Nodding, Draco stood. He'd planned to make a trip to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes before his first session, to pick up the extendable ears while there was little danger of Weasleys being in the store. He probably still could, if he hurried.

Lucius disapparated with the Minister and Draco quickly sent owls to his tutors before apparating to Diagon Alley. As he'd expected, the joke shop was Weasley-free, manned only by Lee Jordan, highly-biased-ex-Quidditch-announcer extraordinaire.

"I need some extendable ears," Draco said shortly. "The whole lot."

Jordan crossed his arms, unmoving. "What makes you think I'd sell you something you can use to spy on our side?" he sneered.

Throwing down his entire bag of money, Draco matched Jordan's stance. "Because that ought to pay your rent for several months," he snapped. "And unless you all have quarters in Malfoy Manor, it'd be one hell of a trick to spy on you, wouldn't it?"

Jordan remained unmoved. "You could use 'em to spy on Gryffindor Tower."

Draco sighed. "Why on earth would I buy a case of extendable ears just so I can hear: 'So what did you do today?' 'Well, I bravely got out of bed, then courageously ate breakfast. After that I fearlessly went to class, then daringly ate lunch. Following my intrepid attendance of afternoon classes, I boldly attended dinner and am now engaged in heroically doing my homework. How about you?' I already know that Lavender Brown's a tart and that Parvati Patil's an even bigger tart and that Potter wears teddy bear pants. What other intriguing nuggets of information could I possibly hope to learn?"

"I'll sell you one case," Jordan conceded.

The money was enough for ten times that many, but Draco didn't have time to haggle. "Fine," he said, "on the condition that I was never here, they was never sold to me, you never saw me, and there must have been some sort of inventory mishap about that case."

Jordan nodded and summoned the case, his dreadlocks bobbing. Draco had no doubt the kid was lying, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Reducing the case so he could fit it in his pocket, he hurried out of the store, down the street and into Knockturn Alley to check on the progress of his other little project.

In a small, dingy building halfway down the alley, Draco climbed up to the third floor and knocked on a door. Eventually, it was opened by a yawning hippie with a drooping goatee and a hungover look about him.

"Malfoy, man," the guy said, a slow, sleepy smile crossing his face as he opened the door wider. "Hey, c'mon in. Didn't know you were coming by, or I would've cleaned up."

"Is it finished yet?" Draco asked, eyeing the boxes of half-finished Chinese take away, the impressive pipe collection and the empty potions vials cluttering up the flat, which consisted of a chair, an easel, an unused kitchenette and a filthy, sagging sofa.

The hippie shook his head. "No, man. Not yet. Can't rush this kinda thing."

Draco gritted his teeth. "It's a copy, Jake."

"It's a copy of a masterpiece. F'you wanna half-assed job, man, I can finish it this afternoon, but if you want a stroke-by-stroke copy, it's gonna take a while."

"Will it be done by next week?"

Scratching his greasy head, Jake looked pained. "Dunno, man."

Draco fixed him with a glare. "I misspoke. It will be done by next week, Jake."

"Alright, alright, alright, whatever," Jake said, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes.

"Let me see it."

"Sure, sure." Stumbling over to the easel, Jake took off the canvas covering the painting.

The light in the flat was good, and Draco nodded his head in approval. For all of his potions addictions and aversions to hygiene, Jake was - as promised - one hell of a magical copy artist. The painting was about two-thirds done, but Draco's studied eye took in the exacting reproduction of brushstroke and pigment. When the painting was finished, it would be almost impossible to differentiate from DaVinci's original.

"I'll be back in a week," he said, turning to go.

"Oh, hey, I could use another installment to tide me over..."

Draco spun around. "The agreement was half on commission, half on completion."

"Yeah, man," Jake said, hanging his head, "it's just I'm not really so good at the whole money management thing and my rent's due and...yeah."

"If I give you a thousand now, it's only seventy-five hundred upon completion."

Watching Jake do the math on that was mildly entertaining, especially when he drew invisible numbers in the air. "So I lose fifteen hundred, then," he figured.

"Yes."

The fact that Jake had to think about the offer before rejecting it told Draco a lot about how hard up the man was for more potion. "No deal," he said finally.

"Then - once more - I'll see you in a week." Walking down to the street, Draco apparated to Shirag Castle. Lucius was waiting for him in the entrance hall.

"They'll be done soon."

Draco looked at his father. "And then?"

"And then," Lucius said, combing his fingers through his hair, "Cornelius Fudge will decide that he simply cannot abide the humiliation of being removed from office."

*******

The morning of Charlie's memorial service, Ginny woke up before the sun had even fully hinted at its intentions in the eastern sky. She left the house, walking down through the weeds at the edge of the lake to the place where she'd finished every interrupted night's sleep the summer after her first year, shivering in the darkness until the sun rising over the cattails on the other side of the pond turned the water into molten gold.

A new beginning, she thought, closing her eyes and breathing in the crisp pre-dawn air. The sky lightened by degrees and Ginny watched the renewal of the earth in action.

Pulling up a reedy stalk of grass beside her, Ginny pressed it between the heels of her hands, wrapping her fingers around and blowing into the hole between her thumbs. Whenever her father did it, a high, trumpeting sound came out - a fairy call. She'd never really mastered the art, and her attempt came out low and rude, reflecting more of the effect of lips on skin than of air causing a reed to vibrate. Fred and George had always referred to it as a fairy fart. Chuckling a little, she set the stalk aside.

Crawling forward on her knees, she sank her hands into the cold water, surprising a frog who leapt to a neighboring lilypad, eyeing her uncertainly. Sinking her hands into the soft mud, Ginny watched as the water eddied, the disturbed dirt particles swirling to the surface in miniature tornadoes before sinking slowly back down.

How had she ever survived without this? How had she ever survived the drafty stone hallways of Hogwarts or the decrepit gray hauteur of Grimmauld Place when the joy that had never touched those places was right here, to be squelched between her fingers?

Funny how all of the boys she'd loved - healthily or unhealthily - were incapable of enjoying this the way that she could. Tom had never been quite real enough to do such a thing. Harry had been too real; even small comforts like this were no comfort to him, and thus pointless. And the very idea of Draco willingly touching mud was laughable.

A small, poignant memory came to her. Fred and George holding out a plate with a fantastically-decorated mud pie, encouraging her to eat it. Snatching the plate out of their hands, Charlie dumped the mud pie into the pond, yelling at the twins, scooping her up. Ginny didn't know how old she'd been, but she'd been big enough to wrap her legs around his waist and lock her ankles together. "Why didn't you want me to eat it?" she'd asked. "Let me give you a very important piece of advice," Charlie had said, leaning forward a little so that she could crawl onto his back. It wasn't quite as exciting as riding on his shoulders, when the ground looked very far away, but it was still fun...so long as she didn't tighten her arms around his neck so much that he grew annoyed and put her down. "Never, ever eat anything the twins give you."

Pulling two handfuls of mud up, Ginny tossed them into the center, watching them both land with loud plops, laughing and crying at the same time.

Washing her hands clean in the pond, Ginny watched as the sun rose and lights began to shine through the windows in The Burrow. Before the lights moved downstairs, she stood and made her way back to the house. There were memorial services and speeches and meaningful acts yet to be undertaken on Charlie's behalf, but there was also something aside from that. Something personal. Everyone else could say goodbye to Charlie in whatever organized fashion they needed to. Ginny already had.

*******

Though the seating was cramped and the room was packed with family members, friends and Order members, Hermione thought it rather fitting that Charlie Weasley's memorial service took place in the living room of The Burrow. Hermione had always found the Muggle tradition of impersonal churches and funeral homes distasteful. There shouldn't be some minister spouting biblical passages, or some address to go to, just...this.

She sat through the service with Harry on one side and Ron on the other, clutching her hand tightly. It was a truly beautiful service, with Arthur Weasley thanking them all for coming, one of Charlie's fellow dragon handlers giving a eulogy and Bill getting up to sort of reminisce, telling stories that alternately made the Weasleys laugh and cry.

Dumbledore got up next, though Hermione didn't realize it until he started speaking. She immediately felt guilty, since she'd spent the latter portion of Bill's speech feeling guilty about the fact that she hadn't told her parents she'd be back in Britain. She hadn't meant any harm by it, she just wouldn't have time to see them before she went back, and she didn't want to tell them she was nearby when she couldn't stop by to visit. All the same, it saddened her a bit. As much as she loved them and as much as they loved her, there was a distinct distance between them. There were just too many things she couldn't tell them about, not just because they were Muggles, but because they were her parents.

The fact that she was in Britain to attend the funeral of one of Ron's brothers who'd been killed in a war waged by wizards against Muggles and Muggleborns was one of them.

A big one. A big guilty one. If something happened to her - and there was certainly the possibility of that happening - they wouldn't even understand why.

"There are many things I could say about Charlie Weasley," Dumbledore began, "though I feel that my predecessors have spoken about him far more eloquently than I could possibly hope to do. As his former headmaster, I am only truly qualified to speak about three things. His academic performance was, understandably, heavily favored towards Care of Magical Creatures." Several in the room chuckled. "As for his athletic prowess, I believe his Quidditch record speaks for itself." Hermione glanced at Ron to see him smiling faintly. "The last about which I may speak is his character, and as for that, I could speak for hours without doing the man himself any justice."

"Luckily, I am among those who understand this fact, that no words can hope to convey the nature of a person. Charlie is beyond words, beyond description. What we hold of him in our hearts and memories - that is the real truth."

Dumbledore bowed his head for a moment and Ron squeezed her hand harder. Hermione looked away, feeling suddenly ashamed. She hadn't known Charlie, and couldn't help but feel a bit thankful for that fact. If it had been Ron...

Hermione caught sight of a stray red head standing in the crowded doorway. Percy.

Dumbledore began speaking again and she snapped her head back around, hoping he'd leave before the service broke up. Nobody needed an inter-Weasley brawl to finish off the afternoon. "It is easy to view this war abstractly, as one force against another, as a clash of ideals. It is not. Charlie did not die for a cause. He died because those he loved were threatened, and he chose to fight against that threat. In that choice, he will never be alone, and he will never be forgotten."

Harry shifted a little bit and Hermione shot him a glance. He was staring into space - a frequent Harry activity - looking pinched and worried. Reaching over, she took his hand, giving it a squeeze. Snapping out of his thoughts, he sent her a distracted smile.

Dumbledore said something profound in closing, but Hermione missed it. Holding on to both of her boys stirred up too much emotion in her. Harry had begun changing long ago, becoming more serious, keeping more and more of his thoughts to himself. And Ron...she'd seen it the moment she walked in. There was a harshness to him now, a wariness. She didn't mind them both growing up - in fact, she'd practically prayed for it during the whole 'you told McGonagall about Harry's mysterious broom' tiff during third year - but they weren't really growing up, they were just hardening themselves.

People began standing up. Glancing at the doorway, Hermione saw that Percy had disappeared. There was a royal feast in the kitchen, and groups of people made their way in to see what Mrs. Weasley had served up for them.

Ginny walked past them quickly. "Where are you going?" Ron asked.

She jumped. Every once in a while, Hermione got the impression that Ginny was used to other people not paying attention to what she was doing. "I need some air. It's stifling."

"We'll come out with you," Ron said, letting go of her hand and standing.

Ginny blinked at him, her mouth opening to respond, but Harry cut her off. "Dumbledore wanted to talk to us."

Hermione looked at him. "Us who?"

"All of us."

Ginny sighed impatiently. "Where? I'll meet you..."

"Your mother suggested the treehouse," Dumbledore said, walking up behind her. "It is probably the only place where we'll find any privacy."

Ron looked a bit thrown, but nodded. "Well, let's go, then."

They weaved through the crowd and out the front door. Once they got outside, Ginny fell back to walk beside her. "You saw him, too, didn't you?"

"Who?"

Ginny dropped her voice. "Percy."

"Is that who you were going after?"

The other girl nodded. "I don't even know what I intended to say. I mean, I'm still angry with him for everything he said to Dad before he left, and the way he's acted since, but...I don't know," she said, shrugging. "He came here, didn't he? And he's still my brother, and no matter how big a git he's been, I still love him. I think he owes us all an apology, but I don't want to cut him out of my life just because he acted like an idiot."

Hermione shot her a sidelong glance. "That's very mature of you."

Ginny snorted. "Well, it would have to be one hell of an apology. Lots of groveling. You get this a lot, don't you?"

"What?"

"People confiding in you. You're just so levelheaded and trustworthy."

Hermione sagged a little. "Levelheaded and trustworthy. How sexy."

"If you want sexy, I have this shirt that's so tight on me it's indecent. Your bosom's bigger than mine; if you wore it, I think we'd have to stick a legal disclaimer on your forehead to keep you from being sent to Azkaban for the damage you may inflict."

For a brief moment, Hermione imagined wearing such a shirt. Then she figured it would only ever be worn in complete privacy, like every other sexy article of clothing she owned that had only been seen by herself and her mirror.

"I'll think about it," she said noncommittally.

*******

Harry wasn't entirely certain what to do with himself. Thera's phone call, his discussion with Dumbledore, the Dursley's recent behavior and the nighttime visit from his future self were all churning around inside him, along with his conversation with Mrs. Polkiss the previous morning. He'd put off telling her he'd have to take a day off until they were almost finished with lunch, not because he was worried about her reaction, but because he'd been trying to think up a plausible excuse for it.

Finally, he'd settled on the blandest thing he could think of. "I won't be able to come tomorrow. I have a doctor's appointment. I can make it up on Saturday, if you want."

Mrs. Polkiss had merely raised her eyebrows. "I hope it's unrelated to gardening."

"I'm sorry?"

"The doctor's appointment. I haven't gone and herniated one of your disks, have I?"

"No, no," Harry had said quickly. "It's just a check up."

"Then I'll pray your good health," she'd answered.

And since then, he'd been a bit torn about the matter. On the one hand, it seemed fairly impersonal, the way some people prayed for world peace or whatever. On the other hand, it made him feel a bit tingly, that Mrs. Polkiss was thinking about him.

Of course, she'd be thinking about him in terms of praying for him, and the praying was taking place in a larger idea of religion that had quite a few negative things to say about extramarital affairs. I must be really bored. And horny. And the fact that she's old enough to be my mother brings up quite a few issues that are best left unexplored...

Dumbledore began climbing up the ladder to the treehouse and they all averted their eyes. It was a rather ridiculous situation to begin with, and though there were quite a few rumors about what Dumbledore wore under his robes, none of them actually had any interest in finding out the truth.

"Ah! You're already here," Dumbledore said from inside the treehouse as Harry climbed up, followed by Ron. It was surprisingly well-appointed for a treehouse, even a magical treehouse. Several long, cushy sofas ran along the walls and a fire crackled merrily in the far corner. In another corner, a partially-open door revealed a loo. In the middle of the room, large pillows were spread around a low table that currently held a selection of goodies that had apparently been swiped from the kitchen by Remus and Professor Wellbourne, who were already seated on two of the pillows. Remus grinned and stood, stepping around the table to engulf him in a hug.

"How's your summer going?" he asked as Harry sat beside him.

"Fine," Harry responded, eyeing Professor Wellbourne, who watched him worriedly.

"I haven't apologized to you yet, have I?" she said, biting her lip.

"It's okay," Harry mumbled, looking away. It sounded too much like Thera's apology, and the fact that she'd hung up right after, without giving him the chance to answer.

She acted as if she was about to say something else, but Dumbledore cut her off.

"I apologize for the short notice to everyone, and for rushing things along, but we've much to discuss and little time in which to discuss it. Harry, if you would."

Looking back, Harry saw every eye in the house focused on him questioningly. Well, except for Dumbledore's, since he knew the story already. "I got some information."

"What?" Hermione asked. "How? From whom?"

Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded slightly. "From Thera."

Ron's eyes went wide. "You mean that Slytherin chick?"

Harry sighed. "She called me on the telephone the other night out of the blue and told me this." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the piece of paper and repeated the message she'd given him. Outside of everyone confirming his belief that Vivian Lynes was Professor Wellbourne by openly staring at her, nobody else seemed to understand the rest of the message except for Dumbledore and Professor Wellbourne.

"What does that mean?" Ron asked.

"I'm wondering the same thing," Remus said slowly, watching Professor Wellbourne as she held out a shaky hand to Harry.

"May I see that, please?" she asked in a surprisingly calm voice.

After another nod from Dumbledore, Harry relinquished the slip of paper. Professor Wellbourne read through it a few times, then set it down in her lap, paling.

"Professor?" Hermione asked tentatively.

The older woman picked up the slip of paper once more, as if making sure she'd read it correctly, then set it down again. "He's going to immanentize the eschaton."

Hermione gasped and Remus swore under his breath. Harry, Ron and Ginny shared a confused glance. "He's going to what-amentize the what?" Ron asked.

"Armageddon," Hermione whispered.

"More or less," Professor Wellbourne murmured, dazed.

"Am I only here to ask what on earth everyone's talking about?" Ron asked, annoyed.

"The end of the world," Harry explained, finding an odd humor in it. Once the initial impact faded, the very idea seemed rather like the plot of a bad action-adventure movie.

"He's not after the end of the world," Ginny said with such certainty that everyone looked at her. She noted the looks with obvious discomfort. "What? It's true, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," Professor Wellbourne said. "That is to say that the eschaton isn't the end of the world, not really. You see, in the Manichaeist view of the world, there are two equal and opposite forces at work. One is good and one is evil. There's a balance; a constant war that neither can win. Other offshoots of this philosophy have believed that ultimately, one must prevail. It's not possible to achieve total victory, of course, because both good and evil are ingrained concepts; it's impossible for one to destroy the other one completely. It is, however, possible to strike a blow large enough to put it out of commission for a while."

"And that's what the eschaton is," Hermione explained.

"Right," Ron said slowly, "but isn't that what You-Know-Who's been planning to do this entire time? Why is this such big news?"

"Because it's one thing for a dark wizard to gain power over a limited space over time. It's another thing for that dark wizard to suddenly have the world at his disposal, with all opposition destroyed," Remus said.

"But what does it mean, to 'immanentize' it?" Ginny asked.

Professor Wellbourne looked a little ill. "Bringing it about requires an enormous release of power. According to legend, mass death is the general method of preference."

There was silence at that, followed by Ron swearing under his breath. "What do you mean, 'according to legend'?" Hermione asked. "Surely it hasn't been done before."

"That's a matter for debate," Professor Wellbourne said, looking anxious. "The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and the great flood are mythologized, but there is ample physical and magical evidence that such a destructive event did occur, and that its catalyst was...well, what's written on this piece of paper, actually."

"What is written on the paper?" Ginny asked.

"The ingredients for immanentizing the eschaton," the Professor explained, "or at least I think so. This isn't really my area of expertise, but it reads like a formula. The beast, the shoggoth, and the...well, I guess you'd call it a battlefield."

"Armageddon," Hermione said again. "The site of the final battle."

Ron's jaw clenched. "Once more, speaking for the rest of us: Huh?"

"It's all open to interpretation, really," Professor Wellbourne said, her brow furrowed.

Reading over her shoulder, Remus recited, "He already has the bishtax."

"The beast," she explained. "Like the biblical beast. Harbinger of the end and all that."

"Marked?" Hermione asked, her elbows resting on her knees, her chin sitting atop her fisted hands, a look of concentration on her face.

"I would assume so, if Voldemort already has him," the Professor said. "A Dark Mark would be understandable. The beast acts as the agent of evil."

"What are the other things, though?" Harry asked. "What's a shoggoth?"

"A gelatinous, shape-shifting demon that reproduces through fission and is impossible to destroy," Hermione parroted, in her 'I'm directly quoting a reliable source' voice.

"Though they're listed in the Encyclopedia of Demons, they aren't precisely demons," Professor Wellbourne corrected, smiling a little. "They're bound by the same rules for the most part, so they're often lumped in with them, but they're..." her smile fell. "Well, nobody's entirely sure. There's a bunch of mumbo-jumbo mythology about them, but..."

"They were created by The Guardians," Dumbledore said gravely, "at the beginning, when - to put it mildly - The Guardians were still working out a few kinks in the system. They were created to serve, to be mindless and act upon command. They ended up learning, developing consciousness. And then they managed to destroy all twelve Guardians in one fell swoop. They are the only being capable of killing a Guardian."

Harry felt as if his head had been stuffed too full; there was just too much to think about.

"So is that what he's planning to do, then?" Ginny asked carefully. "Kill off all of The Guardians and...what then? Rule in their place?"

"He's assuming he'll defeat Harry," Remus said. "He'll have the power, but he won't be a Guardian. The other Guardians will be destroyed. It'll be short-lived victory, though, won't it? A new batch of Guardians will just be created to replace them."

"And then he'll sic the shoggoth on them," Ron said bluntly.

"How can he control it, though?" Ginny asked, looking at Professor Wellbourne. "You said shoggoths have to follow the same rules as demons. Is that how?"

"I know they're invoked in the same way, but beyond that..." the Professor shrugged.

"Well, obviously he has some idea how to control the thing, or he wouldn't be planning on finding one," Ron said.

"Invoking one," Hermione corrected him.

"No," he said, turning to her, "the message said he's planning on finding one."

"Right," Hermione said dryly, "because shoggoths just hang out under rocks."

And suddenly, all of the confused thoughts in Harry's head snapped into focus. "He doesn't have to invoke one, because there's already one around somewhere, isn't there?" he asked Dumbledore. The Headmaster raised his eyebrows and nodded.

*******

Vivian looked back and forth between Harry and Dumbledore, trying to simultaneously process that statement and maintain some amount of dignity while sitting in a kiddie-chair in the Weasley treehouse. She really shouldn't have worn a skirt today.

"Around where?" Ginny Weasley asked, glancing wide-eyed around the treehouse.

Harry looked grim. "You used one to kill Grindelwald," he said to Dumbledore. "He tried to immanenize the eschaton before, with World War II and all that, mass death."

Once more, the Headmaster simply nodded, looking rather pleased at Harry's deduction. "It was the only way. Grindelwald had amassed legions; even the remaining Guardians put together couldn't have stopped him at that point."

"But how did you keep the shoggoth from killing you, too?" Vivian asked.

"Like demons, it is possible to contain a shoggoth. Once it was invoked, I laid a trap for Grindelwald and he walked right into it. I never quite felt that I deserved the Order of Merlin for it, but the fifty thousand galleons came in quite handy."

"So the shoggoth is still contained somewhere, then," Hermione said. "Where?"

"Underneath The Pentagon," Dumbledore said, straight-faced.

Ginny looked confused. "I know you have to use a pentagram to invoke a demon and a pentagon to contain one, but which pentagon is it under?"

Dumbledore smiled a bit. "The largest one in the world."

Remus gaped at him. "You mean The Pentagon? Outside Washington, D.C.?"

The Headmaster nodded earnestly and Hermione let out a little laugh. "Yes, he's in a cage right between the Ark of the Covenant and a Martian space craft."

"You invoked a shoggoth, found a way to contain it, then left the Americans in charge of it?" Remus asked, horrified.

"At the time - in the midst of World War II, that is - they were the only ones with the means to build it. The magical and physical requirements needed to contain the shoggoth meant that it would be impossible to hide the structure from Muggles. And we had to have the ability to contain it before we could even begin to imagine invoking it." Dumbledore waved a hand. "So we passed it off on the Americans."

"You mean the blundering Americans," Remus sighed. "How are we all not dead yet?"

"Oh, I wouldn't discount American blundering," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "At the time, they were well on their way to blundering across the Pacific, and shortly after completing The Pentagon, they managed to blunder their way into Berlin. Again."

"They've managed to keep it contained so far," Vivian pointed out halfheartedly.

"That's not what I'm worried about," Remus said, glancing at her. "I'm more concerned with what's standing between Voldemort and releasing this monstrosity."

"That is what puzzles me," Dumbledore said, frowning. "So far as I know, as the individual who invoked the shoggoth, I am the only one who has the ability to free it."

"What about banishing it?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"That, I'm afraid, isn't an option."

"Why not?"

"Once invoked, a shoggoth can be banished. It is difficult, but possible. Unfortunately, it is not possible once it has been contained. The method of containment binds it to this world irrevocably."

There was another long silence before Ginny spoke tentatively. "You don't suppose...I mean, you said that you weren't sure how You-Know-Who planned on freeing the thing, so...you don't suppose he's just planning on invoking another one, do you?"

"I suppose," Dumbledore said heavily, "that it's about as likely a possibility as him setting free the shoggoth already in existence."

"Which means," Harry said, "that we really don't know what he's planning to do."

"Wait a second," Ron interjected, looking excited. "So what if You-Know-Who imblementizes the thingy-whatsit and turns the world evil? There are two sides. Can't we just do the good version of it and turn everything back?"

"You mean kill off the remaining people left alive on earth after the first eschaton?" Hermione asked sarcastically.

"Well, why would we have to? It can't be the same process for both the good side and the evil side. There's got to be a good alternative, a counterbalance or whatever."

Vivian tried hard not to smile. "Yes, there is. It involves millions of people gathering together to hold hands and sing Good Morning Starshine."

The children all looked at her blankly. "Before their time," Remus muttered to her.

Vivian cleared her throat. "There's no equal and opposite reaction to immanentizing the eschaton and there's no 'good' counterbalance."

Ron scowled. "Why not? That doesn't seem right."

"Because the good side doesn't seek world domination. Unlike the other side, we have a strategically unfortunate set of moral standards to uphold," Remus said.

The children were all starting to look hopeless and a bit shell-shocked. Vivian decided to turn the discussion a bit. "But where does Ektyapos Roth Nagras fit into all of this?"

They didn't look quite as blank as they had about the Hair reference, but nobody had any ideas, either.

"Umm...who is he, anyway?" Ginny asked.

"He's just the creator of the spell," Remus said dismissively. "What would he have to do with the eschaton or the shoggoth?"

"Well, why does Voldemort feel the need to do it anyway?" Vivian asked. "Why is he working on completing the spell and doing all of this on top of it? There has to be some connection between the two. I realize that Grindelwald must have been working on immanentizing the eschaton, using the Muggles to do most of it. World War II was pretty much a study in how to efficiently kill millions of people, but..." Vivian trailed off as something occurred to her that should have occurred to her a long time ago.

"But what?" Remus prompted her.

"Ektyapos Roth Nagras must have completed the spell," she said. "There's no information about it, but he must have, otherwise Voldemort wouldn't be working this hard to complete it himself, without knowing for sure what he'd gain by doing it. He must have completed it, and there must be a record of it somewhere. I think what Voldemort's doing is recreating that. I think all of this is tied in with the spell."

Remus shook his head. "We don't know that for sure, and we certainly can't do much if we assume that what you're saying is true. So far as we know, Grindelwald never had anything to do with the spell while trying to immanentize the eschaton."

"So on top of everything else, we have to stop the spell," Ron shrugged. "That's what we've been trying to do anyway, isn't it?"

"We're trying to," Remus said. "But...I'm not so sure completing the spell has anything to do with immanentizing the eschaton."

"It could," Vivian said. "Grindelwald may not have tried to use the spell, but he did fail at immanentizing the eschaton. Perhaps Voldemort believes that the spell itself will help him succeed where Grindelwald failed."

"My brain hurts," Ginny said, rubbing her temples.

"Mine, too," Ron agreed. "And I think I'm going to have really weird dreams tonight."

"I'll research shoggoths," Hermione offered, "and the eschaton, but I'm not sure there'll be much useful information to be found at the library."

"I'll send you anything I think might be helpful," Vivian promised. "And I'll dig through my father's notes and see if I can find anything on Ektyapos Roth Nagras." She was not looking forward to it in the least.

"We could help you, I guess," Ginny said, nodding to her brother. "It's not like we've got much else to do."

"Speak for yourself," Ron scoffed, "I work in the twins' store."

She rolled her eyes. "And that's so much more important than saving the world."

"I need the money," Ron said defensively.

"For what? You don't pay rent and you won't ever need to if the world ends."

Ron blushed furiously. "For...things," he said, surreptitiously glancing at Hermione.

"And I'll just sit around waiting for the axe to fall, as usual," Harry said with a thin smile.

"He could help us too, couldn't he?" Ginny asked Dumbledore.

Harry looked at Dumbledore hopefully. The Headmaster turned to Vivian. "When are your tutoring sessions?"

Ah, yes. Malfoy. It was probably a good idea to keep these groups separated. "Monday and Thurday, in the morning."

"And I work in the mornings," Harry said. "So we could come in the afternoons."

Dumbledore looked tentative. "It would require flooing from your relatives' house, like you did today. Someone would have to activate the floo, come collect you, then take you to Hogwarts and deactivate it. Would your aunt and uncle accept that?"

For a split second, Harry looked downtrodden, but then he developed a definite glint in his eye. He might have even smirked a little. "Oh, they will. Believe me."

*******

Remus watched as the children got up, chatting with each other as they walked back to the Burrow. Hermione and Ginny had their heads together, discussing something private and girlish, apparently. Harry and Ron talked about their respective jobs.

"So she's your neighbor?" Ron asked.

"Yeah," Harry answered, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Ron sent him a penetrating look, his face breaking out into a grin. "She's hot, isn't she?"

"What?!" Harry yelped. "How did you...I mean, it's not important. It's none of your business." He was drowning quickly. "Of course she isn't. What are you implying?"

"You and older women," Ron said, shaking his head. "Just try not to get sent to prison over this one, will you?"

"I'm not going to..." Harry began, appalled. Then he glanced back at Remus and Vivian and dropped his voice.

"He's not really like James or Lily, is he?" Vivian observed.

"He's a little bit like both, I guess."

"You know who he reminds me of the most?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Who?"

"You."

"Me?" Remus laughed.

"Well, you at that age, at least. He's not a crotchety old man yet."

"I was nothing like Harry when I was seventeen," Remus said fervently.

"Not in the grand destiny sense, you weren't, but...the way he acts with kids his own age, like he's not entirely there, like part of him is somewhere else, thinking about something more important. You were like that, too. And he has the same sort of...I don't know what you'd call it. It's like he's still kind of in awe that his friends actually like him."

It saddened him a little bit, to think of Harry like that. There was a tentativeness about him that Remus recognized well enough. It was the half-paranoid notion that one day they would all come to their senses and wonder, 'Why am I hanging out with this guy?'

The mood inside the house was subdued. People talked in small groups, taking turns at expressing their condolences to the Weasleys. The children had staked out one corner of the kitchen, looking a dazed and self-contained. Their parents mingled with the company, Arthur tired and numb, Molly in a constant state of tearfulness.

"I suppose this is what it's for, isn't it?" she asked as Remus leaned down to hug her, "to get it all out. I don't think I'll be able to produce tears for a week after this."

"He was loved by a lot of people," Remus said, shaking Arthur's hand.

"Yes, his friends from Rumania all made the trip," Arthur said, smiling shakily.

"It was a beautiful service," Vivian said, hugging Molly.

They mingled, Remus checking his watch and keeping a casual eye on Harry, who was immersed in Weasley children. "Are you going to talk to him?" Vivian asked.

"I'm supposed to take him back at 2:30," Remus said, ignoring the question.

"You can't dodge it much longer," she said sternly. "He's going to be seventeen soon."

"I know," he said noncommittally.

"And you know how much he appreciates information being withheld from him."

"I know," he snapped, trying to cover it up with a sip of punch.

Vivian looked contrite. "This isn't a picnic for you. I realize that. And I'm not going to pretend like I understand what it's like for you to talk to him about James and Lily and what's waiting for him on his birthday, but he really does need this, Remus."

The guilt trip was a lot harder to handle than the harping. There were just so many things wrong with him handling the situation. It should have been James and Lily. Barring that, it should have been Sirius, or Dumbledore. It never, ever should have been him.

"I should probably go get him now," he mumbled, setting down his cup of punch on an end table, "to give him time to say goodbye to everybody."

While not ungracious, Harry was obviously unhappy about having to leave, but he came along as ordered. At precisely 2:30, Remus placed a floo-call to his cousin Damien in the Department of Magical Transportation. Though not a member of the Order, Damien sympathized...at least enough to open and close floos without putting it in the log.

"Ready to go back?" his cousin asked, his head misty and out of focus.

"Yes. Two of us."

"You're both ready to go?"

"Yes."

"Open for one minute, cuz. Is that enough time?"

"Plenty. Thanks."

"No problem."

Damien's head disappeared and Harry turned to him, puzzled. "You're coming, too?"

"Yes. I have a few things to talk about with you, if you don't mind." After a moment, Harry shrugged. Remus let a few seconds pass before sending him through, following a few seconds later. Harry's aunt had been vacuuming the living room when they flooed in. She jumped back with a little shriek.

"Sorry for frightening you," Remus said, smiling apologetically.

"I...it's..." her face stretched into a horrible imitation of a smile. "It's perfectly alright."

"Let's go for a walk," Harry suggested, eyeing his aunt warily.

Remus agreed, and they strode down the walk to the street. Harry took a right and Remus followed him. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"Well, you'll be turning seventeen soon," Remus began.

"Not soon enough," Harry said with a small smile.

"No, I guess not," Remus agreed. "It's just that there are certain things you'll have to deal with once your birthday comes along."

"Like what?"

"For one thing, Number Twelve will be legally yours."

"Oh," Harry said tonelessly.

"You can do whatever you want with it, you know," Remus said, trying to be gentle about it. "You can allow the Order to continue using it as Headquarters, or you can sell it or go at it with a sledgehammer, if that's what you feel like doing."

Harry looked a bit anxious. "I don't even know..."

"Listen," Remus said, stopping and placing a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to make any decisions about anything right now. You have plenty of time to think about it. I'm just trying to prepare you for everything, okay?"

Looking no less relieved, Harry nodded. "What else?"

Remus took a deep breath. "You'll also be getting the rest of your parents' estate. Your father's solicitors have been keeping it all in trust for you, but you'll gain ownership of your family's properties, and there's a good deal of money coming to you."

"Just what I need," Harry said caustically, "more money."

"Again, you can do whatever you want with it. Blow it all on a wild weekend in Vegas if that's your desire. You don't have to look at it as a burden."

That brought a slight smile. "What's the property, though?" Harry asked.

"Your parent's land in Godric's Hollow, your grandparents' home outside Nottingham and their vacation house on the French Riviera."

The smile broke into a full, disbelieving grin. "I'm about to own a vacation house?"

Remus smiled nostalgically. "A very nice one. We had a lot of good times at that house. Your father proposed to your mother there, you know."

Harry winced. "I don't think I want to know what they were doing there together."

Considering the timing, it was entirely possible that they'd been conceiving Harry, not that he was about to tell him that. Remus wasn't sure Harry needed to know that his parents' wedding date preceded his birth by about six months.

"Anyway, there'll be a lot of papers to sign, and legal stuff. If you'd like to visit the properties and take a look at them, I'd be happy to go with you."

Harry hunched his shoulders a little bit. "I'll have to think about it. Is that all?"

Remus braced himself. There really was no way to make it any less painful, so he just decided to plow through. "No, it isn't. There's also...first of all, you have to understand that when your parents died, there wasn't really anybody left to...to handle it all. I suppose Sirius might've if things had turned out differently, but I honestly didn't have the money to do anything and...well, to be blunt about it, there wasn't anything left."

"Okay," Harry said, clearly not understanding.

"I mean, obviously they're memorialized. Their names are on all of the monuments to those who fell in the first war, but I know Sirius wanted to do something more about them, something more personal. I deferred it until now, because I thought you should be able to make the decision, and I thought you might want to include Sirius."

Harry looked away, his throat working. "So they were never buried or anything?"

Remus clenched his fists. "No. There...there wasn't anything to bury."

"I see," Harry said thickly. "And there wasn't with Sirius either."

"No. I just thought you might like to do something for them. I thought it might be nice for you to have that." Remus cut himself off. I thought you might like a few slabs of cold marble to replace your dead godfather and the parents you never knew. Feel better?

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "It was stupid of me to bring it up. You have far too much to think about right now. I just didn't want you to have to find out later that...that nothing had been done. I thought you'd rather know beforehand."

"Yeah. Thanks," Harry said in that hoarse voice that men get when they're trying not to cry and losing the battle. Remus kept his eyes respectfully turned away.

"Aside from that," he said lamely, "there's just your adoring public."

"My what?" Harry laughed unconvincingly.

"People have been writing you fan letters since you were a baby. For obvious reasons, Dumbledore intercepted them. He's got about a dozen bags full, all addressed to you."

Harry snorted. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not. You don't have to read them all, but you might want to prepare yourself for the fact that once you turn seventeen, they won't be going through Dumbledore any longer. They'll be coming directly to you."

"Should make breakfast interesting," he said with a sigh.

"There'll be lots of interview requests, too. You might want to get a publicist."

Harry blinked at him. "A publicist?"

"Being underage, you haven't had the ability to consent to an interview without Dumbledore's approval, and he turned them all down until the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and considering how that turned out, he's been refusing them all since then."

"But I gave an interview for The Quibbler," Harry reminded him.

"Yes, you did. But only because Dumbledore gave the okay."

"Who on earth would want to interview me?" Harry asked, looking disoriented. "I mean, I understand why people would want to figure out what happened with Voldemort and all, but even that's just The Daily Prophet, isn't it?"

"Harry," Remus said, "you've gotten interview requests from all of the major magical papers in Moscow, Jakarta, Beijing, Los Angeles, New York, and just about every place in between. Might I repeat my suggestion that you get a publicist?"

"Okay," Harry said, taken aback. "Er...what does a publicist do, exactly?"

"They keep you from making as ass of yourself in public, and if you do make an ass of yourself in public, they create a reasonable explanation and a sympathetic backstory."

Harry made a face. "But that's ridiculous. I don't want that."

"I realize that. On the other hand, Witch Weekly is planning to rank you number one on their list of 'Top Ten Sexiest Wizards,' so..."

A shyly flattered smile took over his face. "Me? Really?"

"Yes, you. And if you're interested in doing something like that, you're going to need a professional on your side to make sure they don't step over the line with you."

"Step over the line how?"

"By asking you detailed questions about your personal life, for one."

"Oh," Harry said, getting it. "How does one go about getting a publicist anyway? I can't imagine it's like flagging down the Knight Bus."

Remus hesitated. "Vivian - Professor Wellbourne - does have an old schoolmate who does it. She's not necessarily evil, but I think she might have had her soul removed by a dementor at some point. Of course, that's kind of what you want in a publicist."

"Is it?"

"This is a person whose job is to swallow all sense of moral repugnance and make even the most reprehensible scumbucket on the planet look like a saint. She will lie, cheat, steal and possibly kill to make sure you look good in the papers."

"I'm not sure I want all of that," Harry said uncomfortably.

"You may need all of that," Remus said bluntly. "There's been kind of a free-for-all on you in the past few years, and it'll only get worse once you come of age. I'm not saying it will be pleasant - it won't be pleasant either way - but at least with Yolanda, you'll have someone who's very good at fighting fire with fire."

"So that's her name? Yolanda?"

"Yes. I'll set up an appointment with her, if you'd like."

Harry looked worried. "Will you come, too?"

"Of course. If you want me to," he said quickly.

"If you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind."

A few seconds passed in awkward silence before Harry rocked back on his heels, a twisted smile on his face. "I wonder if Voldemort has a publicist?"

"If he does," Remus said definitively, "it's probably Yolanda."

The smile twisted a bit more. "Then won't this be a conflict of interest?"

"Not to her."

Harry's face shifted into abstract thoughtfulness, Lily's expression on James' face. Remus looked away. "I have a lot to think about, I guess," Harry said.

"Yes, you do. I'm sorry to put it all on you at once, I just...I thought it might be easier this way." Easier for me, at least.

He received a slow nod. "Thanks for warning me."

"It's not as dire as all that. You'll be able to make all of the decisions for yourself now."

"Yeah," Harry said, looking up, squinting into the midday sun. "I guess I will, won't I?"