Two to Obey

Chapter 7: Friends and Family

Looking pleased with himself, Draco strode into the carriage house with his hands behind his back while Thera was finishing up repairs on the air vents she'd broken.

"I have a present for you," he announced.

"You're rich, so it better be good," she said, starting the car, turning the air conditioning to high and placing her hands over the vents to make sure they still worked.

"You'll thank me for it, believe me." With a flourish, he revealed two large vials.

Thera glanced at them. "Are those from the Weasleys' joke shop?"

"No," he said impatiently. "This is conditioner," he said, holding up the vial in his left hand. "Your hair is rather fine, but there's a great deal of it. This will give you body and lift without making you look like someone just hit you with a zapping hex."

She grunted, turning the car off.

"This," he said, ignoring her and holding up the vial in his right hand, "is to be applied after you've showered while your hair is still wet, but only every other day. It will give you control without making your hair into the lank, drooping mess that graces Professor Snape's head. Try them out. You won't even recognize your hair."

She took the vials. "One of my goals in life has always been to have good hair."

"Sarcasm, sarcasm. You know as well as I do that when you put an ounce of effort into your appearance, men can't resist you."

"Men can't resist me anyway."

"I resisted you, didn't I?"

"Only because I respected your wishes and backed off. And I know you may find this hard to believe, but there are women walking around on this planet whose opinion of themselves is not wholly contingent upon how fuckable men find them."

"Yes, there are," he said solemnly. "Ugly women."

Thera curled her hands into fists in order to keep from wrapping them around his neck.

"In any case," she said, "we have to figure out what to do about Dashkin."

"Who?"

"The prisoner. The one who's translating all of that eschaton stuff for the Dark Lord. I don't suppose the Order has any plans for rescuing him."

"No. They can't even get into the castle. That's what Wellbourne said, at least. It's far too well-guarded, what with the protection of the Heir's Throne and all."

"Since when is my bloody castle on Slytherin land?" Thera asked.

"It belongs to the Dark Lord for all intents and purposes. He's the heir. It's covered."

She swore. "We'll have to get him out."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Right. And how do you plan to do that, exactly?"

"Sneak him out somehow," she said, more to herself than him, her mind working.

"I think they might notice he's missing."

"Well, of course they will. But at least he won't be helping bring about the end of the world any longer. I don't even have to do it. I can put Erskine under imperius..."

"Who's Erskine?"

"The guy I'm fucking, who guards him," she answered shortly. "After Dashkin's away, I'll take the curse off and obliviate Erskine." She winced. "They'll suspect him first, though, won't they? And I don't know if he's told anybody about us or not."

"Thera, give it up. It's not possible."

"The other guard," Thera said, smirking to herself. "Erskine will be off duty. What's more, he'll be with me - I'll set it up that way - so both of us will have an alibi. You just have to make sure someone's there to collect Dashkin. He doesn't have a wand..."

"No," Draco said firmly. "The Dark Lord will know someone on the inside planned it, and regardless of any alibi you have, your name will be on the list of suspects."

"It's on the list anyway," she snapped. "Besides, they won't have any proof."

"He's the Dark Lord, not the Wizengamot!" Draco yelled, waving his arms. "He doesn't give a shit about proof! When the hell did I become the voice of reason in all of this?!"

Thera sagged against the car, burying her face in her hands. He was right, and when Draco was right and she was wrong, it was time for a serious mental inventory. Not that long ago - fuck, a few days ago - she'd at least known what she could do. She'd at least had the comfort of a plan. Now even that was gone, along with all of her certainty about herself: that she'd think things through, that she'd never risk anything if the reward wasn't worth it, that she was her own best ally.

That she'd get through this without fucking it up completely.

She wasn't much for trusting other people, but she'd always, always trusted herself. And now she didn't, and it scared the living shit out of her.

"Dashkin's a lost cause then," she said, dropping her hands.

"Oh, bloody fuck. You're not going to lose it again, are you?"

"No," she said, sneering the word in the direction of her feet.

"Are you sure? Because you've got that look on your face, like you're deciding whether or not we should slit our wrists or hang ourselves, and aside from the fact that I'd prefer to have no part in your little suicide fantasies, the entire concept is so melodramatic."

Her lips twitched a little. "Goodbye, cruel world."

"Exactly. It's so silly and overwrought and needy, as if everyone will miss some fool's sad, sorry, whiny ass when he's gone, instead of thanking their lucky stars that they're finally rid of him, the bloody moping party pooper."

"You've made your point," she said dryly. "Besides, I wasn't trying to..."

"Drag my unwilling body along on your self-pity quest? It seems to me like you were."

Thera looked up finally. "I'm sorry. Not that you didn't need to be shaken up a little."

"You should be sorry. And I didn't, thanks."

"I figured you'd shit your pants, poncy little git that you are. You impressed me."

"Something I aspire to highly," he drawled. Generally, a line like that would spawn one of five hundred different avenues of insult, but Draco left it alone. Recognizing that, Thera shared a look with him. Other people might yammer on about feelings and fault; they didn't really need to. Apology accepted and forgiveness granted in the space of two seconds. Slytherins respected nuanced communication.

"So I've been doing a little research on my Ministry angle," Thera said.

He raised an eyebrow. "What sort of research?"

"Balder Astragand. Thirty-six, nephew of the recently departed Cornelius Fudge. The youngest cabinet member in a hundred years, charged expressly with the duty of bringing down the Dark Lord. Currently single and unattached, though until recently was believed to be involved with our very own Professor Wellbourne. Illegitimate, and his mother's a bit of a kook. Witch Weekly is more informative than you might think. Interestingly enough, his signature's on my arrest warrant."

"Kinky. What are you going to do, ask him to meet you in a dark alley somewhere?"

Thera glared at him. "Give me a little credit. He'd never go on something like that. He'd send the Aurors, or his assistant. And his assistant's gay. I'm not about to cut off that angle. No, I'm going to have to be a bit sneakier about it than that."

"A bit? You know, the more I talk to you recently, the more you sound like a Gryffindor with plans for world domination, and I can't decide whether it's hilarious or terrifying."

"Draco, the only thing you've contributed to the cause of you and I surviving this entire situation is a case of extendable ears. So I think you can just shut the fuck up."

"I am working on the spell, you know. Would you rather do that?" He laughed. "Oh, wait. You can't. You couldn't arithmance your way out of a paper bag."

"What? That doesn't even make any sense."

"To you? Probably not. You wouldn't even be able to analyze the angles."

"If I'm ever trapped in a paper bag, I'll remember to mourn my ignorance of arithmancy, that I'm forced to use my uneducated hands in order to rip it open and escape."

He held a hand up. "I'm contributing something you can't contribute, is all I'm saying."

"Yes, you are. You haven't risked a bloody thing to do it, is all I'm saying."

He rolled his eyes. "And you have, blah, blah, blah. Are you going to whine about it?"

"No. I just think that it's about time you started pulling your weight around here. You have a part in this plan. Don't worry. It's easy. It's not arithmancy or anything."

"What is it?" he asked suspiciously.

Thera hesitated. "Let me tell you the whole plan first."

Draco ran a hand down his face. "All right."

"Basically, I'm going to arrange a meeting between Balder Astragand and Professor Wellbourne. Then I'm going to polyjuice myself into her and meet with him."

He looked unimpressed. "Where are you going to get polyjuice potion?"

"Snape's been keeping a garden here, things he probably can't grow at Hogwarts. I wondered if he wasn't keeping the nastier elements of his potions store here, too. So I moaned and groaned about a hangover this morning at breakfast until Bellatrix finally told me the charm to unlock the potions cabinet. And guess what's in there?"

"Why would Snape put polyjuice in the Dark Lord's hands when he's working for the other side?"

"The Dark Lord probably asked for it. I don't know. In any case, I'm only missing one ingredient - Wellbourne's hair."

He nodded, looking away, his features tightening. "And you need me to get it for you."

Thera watched him. "That, and I need you to take the note I write, charm my handwriting to look like hers and owl it to him from Hogwarts."

"How on earth is he supposed to send a response? It'll go to her, you realize."

"I'm going to ask him not to send one. I'll say something vague about not wanting the Order to know that I'm in contact with him. I'll imply urgency. It doesn't matter how bad their breakup was, or that she's his ex. He's a law enforcement type. I'm fairly sure he'll come. And if he doesn't, I spend an hour in a seedy pub for nothing."

"At least you'll feel right at home. But suppose he does deign to show up for this vague and urgent meeting. What are you going to do? Tell him who you really are? What can you possibly say to him that won't have him hauling you off to Azkaban?"

"I'll just have to make it clear that hauling me off would be a stupid move on his part, considering the sort of information I can provide. He doesn't strike me as stupid. And I think he'll be rather interested in hearing about the spell. Relationship or not, I don't think Wellbourne clued him in on that little piece of the Dark Lord's strategy."

"Probably not," he said slowly, silver eyes narrowed in speculation. "She's not unsympathetic, you know. It might be worth it to just include her in the plan."

She looked at him. "The plan that involves me giving information to the Ministry that the Order hasn't seen fit to reveal to them? Somehow, I don't think she'd go for that."

"You're right," he admitted. "It's not worth the risk. I'd just...I'd rather not..."

"Rather not what?" Thera asked, bracing herself. If Draco put an ounce of thought into it, he'd realize that he really had no incentive for helping her.

He was silent for a moment, running his hand idly through his hair the way he always did when he was frustrated. "We could find a way for you and I to communicate when I'm at Hogwarts, you know. You could still pass on information and you wouldn't have to go on a polyjuiced meeting with the Ministry official who signed your bloody arrest warrant, not to mention dozens of other sneaky meetings, assuming he even accepted your offer."

He'd put an ounce of thought into it. "That's true."

"But that method wouldn't gain you any points with anyone, would it?" he asked dryly.

It was hard not to play it off, redirect the conversation, distract him or employ any of her numerous persuasive tactics. When it came right down to it, she was asking him to help her, and he had no reason to do it, and whether he agreed to do it or not told her a great deal about the future of their partnership. "No, it wouldn't," she said finally.

He looked away. "Why bother with the polyjuice? Why not just write him the note and show up as yourself?"

Thera shrugged. "If I look like somebody he knows, he's far less likely to look at me and immediately think 'criminal.' It'll make him more sympathetic. And it gives me the opportunity to abort the mission if I have to, without him knowing who I am."

He nodded slightly, looking back at her. "If this works, I don't want any mention of me to the Ministry. I'd like to still have my inheritance after all this is over."

"Inheritance?" she asked, surprised. "So Lucius is still fair game, then?"

"Lucius," he said softly, his eyes glittering, "is your main target."

Thera bit her lip, wondering if he'd really thought that through. If Lucius was arrested, there was no way Draco would come through it unscathed. The scandal would affect the entire family; the Malfoy name would be mud in the British magical world.

"Draco," she said carefully, "don't get me wrong. I'm all for going after your father. But...are you entirely certain you want me to?"

"I know what'll happen," he said briskly. "The media will have a field day, my mother will be shunned by all of her acquaintances and probably have to be sedated for a month or two, and everybody will think that I'm also a Death Eater - which won't take much, considering that pretty much everybody thinks that already. However, I haven't a dark mark and the Ministry hasn't a shred of evidence to impugn my character, so with a few well-placed comments, I'll come off looking brave and tragic. And since the Ministry can't touch a sickle of the Malfoy fortune - my father was rather more intelligent than yours in that regard - I'll still be fantastically wealthy." He smirked. "If there's one thing I've learned from hearing the Malfoy history over and over again, it's that wealthy, well-connected families can survive any scandal. The family name managed to weather the nausea-inducing trial of Pluvio the Perverted; in time it'll weather this, too."

"Oh," Thera said, blinking. "Okay, then. So you're in?"

"Yes. I'll have the hair for you Thursday evening. Speaking of hair, use those potions; you'll thank me." He glanced at his watch. "I should go. I've a meeting at Gringott's to sign something or initial something or whatever they've called me in for this time."

"Poor baby. I guess even rich people occasionally have to work."

"Only until I hire a secretary to sign things for me."

*******

"Colors?" Vivian asked faintly, sending Remus a desperate glance. He shrugged in response and Vivian turned back to his mother, valiantly fighting off the sensation of drowning. "We weren't really going to do much, ceremony-wise..."

"Small and intimate. I understand, dear," Thelma Lupin said, patting her hand. "Still, those standing up with you will need some guidance about what to wear, and you'll need flowers, too. Nothing extravagant, it's just...well, you don't want to use the same ones."

"The same flowers?" She wasn't sure when she'd lost control of the discussion. She wasn't entirely sure she'd ever had control of the discussion.

Her future mother-in-law chuckled. "No, no. The same colors. As your first wedding."

"Ah." Well, that made sense. Vivian tried to remember what colors she'd used in her first wedding and couldn't, precisely. David's mother had taken care of it all.

"What were they, then?"

David's sister and cousin had served as bridesmaids. They'd worn pastels of some sort, the same hideous bridesmaid outfits as any other wedding. "Lavender?" she guessed. "It was either lavender or some sort of pink. Or peach. It might have been peach."

"You were there, weren't you?" Remus asked, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

She scowled at him. "Of course I was. It just all happened so fast. We flooed to the Ministry, signed all the forms, flooed to his parents house, had a big dinner, got rip-roaring drunk, passed out, woke up, got married and went back to California. All I remember is what I wore, because my robes had awful puffy sleeves and a big bow right on my butt. I can't believe I ever wore that thing in public. On purpose."

Remus' eyes widened. "You're not going to wear it again, are you?"

"Merlin, no. I hocked it years ago."

"You sold your wedding dress?" Thelma asked, horrified.

"Well, it's not as if I was ever going to wear it again," Vivian said, trying to understand exactly why Remus' mother was looking at her as if she'd just murdered somebody.

Thelma seemed to put quite an effort into letting that go. "What were you planning on wearing this time?" she asked, obviously trying to get them back on track.

"I'm sure I'll find something," Vivian said, standing. "We should get going," she added quickly, to stymie any offer by her future mother-in-law to take her out shopping. After reaching a certain age and body-fat percentage, shopping excursions often ended in tears, and she'd rather not sob about her penchant for fried food in front of Remus' mother.

"Come back for dinner, then," Thelma said, an anxious frown crossing her face. "We haven't much time to plan..."

"We're not Charles and Diana, Mum," Remus said, stepping forward to kiss his mother on the cheek. "It'll just be us and a few friends. Relax."

"And the family, of course. I just want you to have a nice wedding, something you can look back on and remember for the rest of your life, that's all."

Remus regarded his mother blankly. "Hang on. Family? You mean your side?"

"Well, of course," Thelma said, puzzled. "I wasn't going to leave them out of it."

"They're Muggles, Mum. Everybody else there will be magical."

"We'll just let all of your friends know not to do any magic in front of them," she said, squeezing his arm. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Remus smiled back weakly. "Right. Fine."

Vivian managed to keep her laughter under control while they flooed back to Grimmauld Place. As soon as she stepped into the kitchen, she gave over. "Oh, you're so in for it. I thought I had it bad. You're going to have to rein in the Weasley twins."

Remus sank into the chair next to her, looking shell-shocked. "We're going to have the Ministry breaking down the door within ten minutes, aren't we? What in the name of Merlin was she thinking?" He dropped his head into his hands.

"What did your parents do when they got married?"

"My dad doesn't have much family, so they just did it in a church, Muggle-style. This is going to be a bloody disaster. Half the bloody ceremony involves magic."

And that triggered her mind into action. "Well, I'm sure there must be some precedent. Muggleborns do occasionally marry purebloods, after all. Some sort of modification to an illusionment charm or something. Make a trip to Flourish and Blotts; I'm sure they have something about mixed marriage wedding ceremonies."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "What is all of this 'me' stuff? What about 'we'?"

"We do not have to get measured for wedding robes in full view of everybody in Madame Malkin's while she calls out the numbers to her assistant at the top of her voice. I do. It's apparently also my duty to pretend like I know the different between one flower and the next and to choose colors when I couldn't care less and I'm sure within the next forty-eight hours I'll be putting all of my education to work trying to figure out seating arrangements. Honey, sweetheart, love of my life...this is your problem."

"Fair enough," he said dully. "I'm afraid I don't know my own mother any more. When did she grow fangs and sharp claws and get a degree in wedding etiquette? What happened to the lovely, wonderful, sweet woman I grew up with?"

"This is years of pent-up frustration being released," Vivian explained. "Her only child is finally making his way to the altar. Cut her some slack. Just don't - please, please, please don't - let her take me shopping for wedding robes."

"Why not?" he asked. "I mean, I'd think that would be sort of fun...er, wouldn't it?"

"I hate wrestling my flabby old ass into ill-tailored clothes in fitting rooms," she groused. "I don't need company while I'm doing it."

He sighed. "I'm going to hear about this for the next two weeks, aren't I?"

"Oh, sod off. How about you wear those dragon-skin trousers?"

"Hey, I looked good in those trousers. My problems are all from the neck up."

"What a coincidence. Mine are all between my hairline and my ankles."

With a wolfish grin, he sauntered over. "You have a gorgeous hairline, and gorgeous ankles, and I'll have you know that I deeply adore your flabby old ass."

She slapped him on the arm. "Keep talking like that and you'll never see it again."

Leaning down, he kissed her on the lips. "Your ass is perfect. I nearly weep at the beauty of it. I'm surprised that artists and sculptors don't follow you whereever you go, begging for the opportunity to capture the way the sun dapples it in the morning..."

"Overcompensation," she said, kissing him back. "I like overcompensation."

Pulling her out of the chair, he snuck a hand under her shirt and nuzzled her neck. "It's not overcompensation. It's worship. I am your slave. What is it about wedding talk that makes me so horny?"

"Maybe underneath it all, you're a thirtysomething single woman."

"Give me about ten seconds and I'll prove you wrong on that."

"Remus," she said, pulling away and putting on a serious face. "I was thinking maybe we ought to hold off on sex until our wedding night. To make it meaningful."

His jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

She couldn't keep it up. "I wish you could see your face right now," she laughed.

He frowned. "That was uncalled for. He's eager to please you and you tease him? Next time he might decide it's not worth the effort. He's very sensitive about these things."

"I guess I'll have to make it up to him, then," she said, chastened.

"I think you will," he said, his somber tone ruined by the fact that he was pulling her towards the stairs with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old with a new toy.

"I actually do have a favor to ask you," she said, tripping to keep up with him.

"Ask me afterwards," he panted as they started up the last flight. "I'm more agreeable."

*******

Hermione recognized the Dean's shy, retiring secretary the moment she walked into the lecture hall and stiffened unconsciously. The last time such a thing had happened, it had been to inform her of Charlie Weasley's death, to make arrangements for her departure.

Stop it, she scolded herself. Don't jump to conclusions. You don't even know if she's here for you, and even if she is...

"Er...Miss Granger?" Professor Al-Hindi called out in accented English.

Hermione gulped. Conclusions would be jumped to, mind willing or not.

Standing, she gathered her things together, trying to steel herself even as her insides turned to mush. The other apprentices sent her sympathetic looks, knowing as she did that this couldn't possibly be good. If nothing else, she'd managed to inform a few learned individuals from other countries about the threat posed by Voldemort.

For what it was worth.

It might not be someone she barely knew this time. Hating herself a bit for it, Hermione nevertheless hoped that it was, in fact, someone she barely knew. If it were Ron or Harry, or even one of the members of the D.A., she didn't think she could bear it.

The club had been her idea, after all, hadn't it? Perhaps, in time, they all would have chosen to fight, or been forced to. She hadn't made anyone join. And yet she bore the responsibility for it, all the same. Fate might have taken them, but she'd taken them first.

They were dark thoughts, frustrating and pointless, really. Harry-like thoughts, but she couldn't help but have them, and she suspected Harry couldn't, either. At least she might blame her own decisions. His mere existence drew blame, at least in his mind.

The secretary knocked on the door to the Dean's office and Hermione paused, squeezing her eyes shut. She had only a few moments before whatever news she was about to hear was spoken, and she intended to hold on to them as fiercely as humanly possible.

As of right now, at least to her, they were all still alive.

"Come in," the Dean called out in Arabic. Hermione sighed as the nagging wound of intellectual failure reopened. She could converse easily in the solid, rational Germanic languages, and could survive with the Romantic ones. She had a distinct talent for the flagship ancient magical languages - Aramaic, Ratha, ancient Egyptian - but modern Arabic eluded her. She could learn the vocabulary and grammar structure all she wanted, but the innate poetry of the language, the intricate rhythm and turn of phrase were lost on her. Frankly, she hadn't the imagination to aspire to fluency in Arabic.

The Dean was not alone, nor was he playing host to Dumbledore, as he had been the last time she'd been in his office. Instead, his guest was a dark, slightly-built man of advancing years who turned to greet her with a handshake. Definitely a Brit.

"Hermione Granger?" he asked.

Shaking his hand, she nodded, eyeing the Dean questioningly. "Yes, sir."

"Tyrone Flingleton," the man said, reclaiming his hand and waving to the seat next to him. "Won't you sit, please?"

Uneasily, she did. "Have you everything you require, Mr. Flingleton?" the Dean asked.

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you," the man said dismissively. Bowing slightly, the Dean exited, leaving her alone with...whoever on earth this person was.

"Sir?" Hermione asked, wondering what all of this was about.

"Miss Granger," he said in response, leaning down to pull a thick dossier out of his briefcase. "Have you ever considered a career with the Ministry?"

Hermione blinked. "Well...yes," she said slowly. "Quite a few of them, in fact." And they all sounded either tedious beyond comprehension or potentially life-threatening.

Laying a hand on her dossier, Flingleton leaned forward. "There aren't many satisfying job opportunities out there for someone like you, are there?"

He seemed to anticipate a negative answer, so she gave it, honestly. "No, there aren't."

"Tell me, Miss Granger. Why did you come here?"

"To learn," she said simply. What other answer was there?

He nodded. "To gain knowledge. A noble aspiration, to be sure. And yet it isn't quite what you expected, is it? Not quite as fulfilling as you'd hoped?"

As accurate as his description was, Hermione felt almost as if she were speaking treason, considering they were sitting in the Dean's office. "No, it isn't," she said quietly.

"The program challenges your intellect, but it does little to spark your curiosity."

"Very little," Hermione conceded in a small voice.

"And it completely neglects your taste for adventure."

"I didn't come here for adventure," she said lamely.

He chuckled. "I certainly hope not, because there isn't any to be had."

Hermione sent him a wan smile. "I don't really think I want adventure."

Sitting back in his chair, Flingleton tucked his hands underneath his chin and studied her. "Are you entirely sure of that?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, but she found herself hesitating. Adventure wasn't the same thing as danger, really. And every moment she spent here truly thinking about her future only made it seem increasingly boring.

Despite all of her efforts to the contrary, Harry and Ron had rubbed off on her a bit.

"No, I suppose I'm not," she admitted.

"I didn't think so. You've been to the Department of Mysteries, I hear."

Thrown a little by the change in subject, Hermione nodded.

"That department is overseen by the Unspeakables - those who seek to understand the very nature of magic. I imagine you already know that, though, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've tracked your progress for a very long time, Miss Granger. Few as we are, we Unspeakables must still recruit sparingly. It takes a certain sort of mind to do the work that we do. Such minds are rare. Yours, I believe, is one of them."

Hermione held her breath, alternately frightened and elated at the prospect. "You'd like me to be an Unspeakable?"

"I'd like it very much." He leaned forward again. "Miss Granger, I'm not offering you a job. I'm offering you an opportunity. The life I am proposing to you is one I believe will suit you well. If," he qualified, "you pass the test."

"Test?" This was news. "What test do you mean, sir?"

"It's not an examination, though I'm sure you'd do astoundingly well on it if it were. Your test, Miss Granger, is this." He held out a slip of parchment.

Warily, Hermione took it, expecting some sort of complex riddle or unbreakable code. Instead, she found three numbers written: 6, 8, 3.

Standing, Flingleton shoved her dossier back into his briefcase. "You have until the end of Christmas holiday, nearly six months. The day before your return to Hogwarts in January, I'll come for your answer."

"My answer to what, exactly?" she asked, already puzzling over the numbers.

"To what the numbers mean," he said briskly. "Assuming you pass the test and the required Ministry background checks and security clearances, you will be an Unspeakable upon your graduation from Hogwarts. I don't think we have to worry too much about your N.E.W.T. scores," he said, smiling at her indulgently.

Hermione honestly didn't even know what to make of it all. "So...that's it?"

"That is it," Flingleton said, nodding to the slip of parchment in her hand. "I have a great deal of faith in your abilities, Miss Granger. Like I said, it takes a certain sort of mind..."

"Er...thank you, sir," she said belatedly, rising.

He tipped his head. "It is my pleasure. Until January, then."

He turned to leave, and Hermione's brain was torn as to whether or not she should say anything. In the end, she decided it was better to be rude and certain than polite and scammed. "Excuse me, sir, but how do I know you are who you say you are?" As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she felt like crawling underneath the Dean's desk.

Flingleton turned back, looking amused. "Miss Granger, we would not be interested in you in the first place if you were the sort of person who would consider an offer such as this without first verifying its authenticity." He raised an eyebrow. "And mine."

He left, and Hermione sank back into her chair, wondering if she wanted the job at all. What sort of legitimate establishment gave you three numbers and made your job offer contingent upon figuring out what they meant? On the other hand...she couldn't say that she wasn't tempted. Unspeakables studied things that were well beyond the scope of normal academia. Not so far off the scope as to rank a story in The Quibbler, but...mystical, almost. In any case, she supposed it didn't really matter. When handed an intellectual challenge like this, she was incapable of turning it down.

Assuming, of course, that Mr. Flingleton's story checked out. Heading off to the owlery, she posted a letter to Dumbledore and another to the Ministry's Human and Non-Human Resources Department before returning to her lecture.

*******

Draco frowned as the goblin turned left instead of right. "Are you sure we're going the right way? I think Melissa's office is..."

"Your meeting is in Room 4. Room 4 is down this hallway," the goblin said sourly.

"Er...right." Perhaps they were meeting with someone else. Perhaps her office was actually down this hallway. Draco couldn't see a real reason to care.

The goblin led him to a conference room. Draco recognized it immediately. Whenever his father had come down to sign highly important confidential documents, they'd always come to this room. His father had described the security to him once or twice: removed from surveillance or of any sort of Ministry detection, etcetera, etcetera. At the time, Draco had been far more interested in the cushy leather chairs, which had wheels on the bottom and spun all the way around.

"Sit please," the goblin said.

"Exactly what is this all..." The door slammed shut. Growling a little, Draco threw himself into one of the chairs. Then - for old time's sake - he rolled the chair away from the table, braced his foot on the ground and gave himself a good spin, pulling his feet up and throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, trying to make himself dizzy.

The door opened and he threw his hands out to grip the table, stopping himself.

"I can see that you're obviously the very embodiment of evil." Draco blinked at the red-haired man who sat down across from him. He had a ponytail and an earring made out of a dragon fang and apparently existed under the notion that it was still 1990.

"You're not Melissa," Draco said intelligently.

"No. I'm not Marie, either, who's the witch in charge of your accounts."

Like it mattered. "Who are you, then?"

"Bill Weasley," the man answered, leaning back in his chair and crossing one foot across the other knee. He was wearing faux dragon-skin ankle boots. Draco was halfway into a sneer of distaste when the name registered.

He cleared his throat. "Weasley?"

Smiling nastily, the man tipped his head. A squirmy sort of unease arose in Draco's stomach, but he ignored it. He was probably just filling in for Mary or something, though why anybody would let a Weasley work in a bank with all of that temptation defied logic.

"So why am I here?" he asked in his most bored tone, folding his hands on the table.

"I'd like to have a little chat with you, if you don't mind."

"About what?"

"About my sister."

The squirming sensation multiplied exponentially. Draco slapped a look of mixed confusion and disdain on his face. "You have a sister? Poor girl."

Bill Weasley's eyes flashed in a way that said quite clearly that he'd enjoy nothing more than leaping over the table and strangling the life out of him. It was the same look the Weasel got it every time they crossed paths. Draco wondered briefly if his cease-fire with Red's brother extended to all of her brothers. In the end, it didn't matter. Even this fashion victim wasn't dumb enough to murder a Malfoy right in the middle of Gringott's.

"Don't bother playing innocent. Ron told us everything, and Ginny confirmed it herself. Let's not waste each others' time."

Only the Weasel would make it his moral duty to ensure that nobody had sex just because he couldn't. And then next time Draco saw Red, he was going to do...something.

He'd hash out the details later.

"Alright, then," Draco said mildly. "You're here to beat me to a pulp in belated defense of your sister's honor? Is that it?"

"No. I'm here to try to grasp exactly what my sister sees in you, and to figure out if you're fit to lick the soles of her shoes. So far, I'd have to say I'm still lost on the first part and leaning towards a decisive 'no' on the second."

Draco stood. "Well, I'm not exactly in the habit of jumping through hoops to prove myself worthy of anything ever, so if you'll excuse me..." He walked over to the door.

"She won't have anything else to do with you unless you convince me otherwise," the redhead stated plainly as his hand touched the knob.

Draco turned slowly, amused. "Do you honestly believe that?"

Bill Weasley laughed shortly. "That you can convince me otherwise? Not really."

"No," Draco said impatiently, "that you can tell her what to do. Having come to know the girl rather well, I'd say that if you told her to stay away from me, she'd ignore you. Even if I treated her like dog shit, she'd continue her relationship with me, just to prove that she was right. I can't claim to have much experience with sisters, but I imagine if I had one, I'd at least manage to figure out that much about her personality."

Red's eldest brother stood so quickly that Draco didn't have time to move before he was pinned between tall, badly dressed Weasley and impenetrable wall.

"I've known her since she was born," the man said through gritted teeth.

"How touching," Draco gritted back. "Have you noticed lately that she's potty-trained?"

"You really are a slimy little pissant, aren't you?"

Draco smirked. "I could give a flying fuck what you think of me, Weasley. But your dear, darling sister? She loves me. That's quite a kicker, isn't it?"

It was far too satisfying to watch the man's face suffuse with color. Merlin bless the Weasley genes that made them all so insultingly easy to wind up.

And then, to his surprise, Bill Weasley backed off. His face still pink, he sat down calmly in the chair and took a deep breath. "Do you love her, too?"

Draco rolled his eyes. He'd never signed up for this shit. "Listen, Weasley. Unlike - well, to be kind, let's just say a certain percentage of your family - your sister's not a moron. She knows what she's doing, as do I. Nobody has any ulterior motives aside from those inherent in your average teenager. So cut her some slack and lay off the overprotective routine. She doesn't appreciate it, and the more you all keep it up, the more she lies to you, so you tell me how bloody useful you think it is."

Red's brother was silent for a long moment, studying his cringe-worthy faux dragon-hide not-quite-Beatle-boots. "You never answered the question," he said finally.

"You mean the question that's none of your business? No, I didn't. And I won't."

Bill Weasley smiled thinly. "Fair enough." By degrees, his smile fell and he looked up at Draco with a completely different demeanor. No longer combative, he now seemed...analytical, Draco supposed. Or as analytical as Weasleys could get.

"How on earth did this ever happen?" Bill asked.

Draco bounced between truth and lie for a moment, before settling on Red's own words. They summed up the situation rather aptly. "I don't know. It just did."

A crooked smile crossed her brother's face. "Strangely enough, I understand."

Praying that he wouldn't go into details, Draco suddenly happened upon a spectacular idea. Not only would it win him points with Red's brother - he didn't particularly care, but she did, and so on and so forth - but it would also allow him to cut out a few middle men and flaunt his most valuable asset: the contents of his wallet. "Do you have a moment to accompany me on an errand?"

Bill Weasley looked at him, surprised. "Where?"

"Just a few blocks. Your sister's birthday is in a few days. My next stop was to pick up the gift I'd arranged for her. Perhaps I could entrust you to keep it and deliver it to her?"

Draco felt an odd sense of disorientation. Why on earth was he pulling out the prim-and-proper cotillion English grammatical structure for someone who couldn't appreciate it?

For a brief moment, her brother looked panicked. "Merlin, it is, isn't it? I completely forgot, with the baby and everything. Damn. I'll have to stop by Flourish and Blotts."

"Gift certificate?" Draco asked, feeling a twinge of sympathy. He'd gotten his mother the same thing for every single holiday every year since he could walk. It was a gift certificate for her favorite fashion designer and not a bookstore, but it was all the same thing, really.

Bill Weasley rolled his eyes and lifted his hands. "She hates anything else I get her."

"Ugh, I know." Once, Draco had bought his mother a weekend spa trip. It had been sniffed at. Apparently, the spa let anybody come, even Mudbloods. He had never again attempted to be creative or strayed from the path to maternal happiness and gratitude paved by the tried and true gift certificate.

"So where are we going?"

"Knockturn Alley," Draco said casually. "You'll see when we get there. And if it's not finished, you may get the honor of watching me murder a drug-addled hippie."

"I can see why Ron hates you so much," Bill said thoughtfully as they dodged summer shoppers. Draco hummed in agreement. Poor jealous Weasel.

"Here," he said, leading Red's brother up to Jake's apartment. The man made disgusted noises about the smell and the general cleanliness of the building, as if the bloody shack he'd grown up in had been any better.

Draco knocked on the door. A few moments later, it was opened by a manic, red-eyed Jake. "Hey, come on in, man. I just finished it like twelve hours ago, worked straight through, you know. Twenty, thirty hours at a stretch. But it's completely dry now. Ready to go, as promised. Want some eggs? I made extra."

Both Draco and his companion demurred the plate of gummy scrambled eggs Jake offered. "Are you sure?" the hippie asked, waggling the plate as if that would make his creation more appetizing. "I put cheese in 'em, man. They're fucking great."

"No, thank you," Draco said firmly, gesturing to the portrait in the corner. "Bring it into the light, please."

"Yeah, yeah. You gotta see it finished up," Jake said as he moved with surprising alacrity to set up the easel and move the painting to the center of the room. "Perfect to the brushstroke, man. I swear. Voilà!" He stood back from the portrait at the exact same moment that Draco and Bill took a step forward.

Leaning down to study the canvas, Draco smiled to himself. Shitty cook or not, Jake wasn't lying. It was a perfect recreation of Leonardo DaVinci's portrait of Ginevra de Benci.

"That's Ginevra," Red's brother breathed. "My mother always loved DaVinci's paintings. She saw this one in a museum when she was young. She has a miniature of it, but I've never seen it full-size. It's beautiful. Ginny's named after her, you know."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, I figured. Jake, wrap it up." Nodding, the aging hippie wrapped the portrait in canvas, then thick brown paper. "Would you mind hanging on to it for a few days and presenting it to her on her birthday?" he asked Bill Weasley casually. "Discreetly, of course," he added.

"I've half a mind to claim it's from me," the redhead said, eyeing the painting covetously.

Draco smiled coldly. "I left a tender note on the back. I don't recommend claiming you wrote it, unless you want your sister to avoid being in a room alone with you."

"I will lay off completely about you and Ginny," Bill Weasley said fervently, "if you agree to consult on every gift I have to buy for a woman for the rest of my life."

"How many women?" Draco asked, narrowing his eyes. He did like buying things.

"Just three: my mother, Ginny and Tonks."

Draco raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Tonks?" How much did you have to hate your child to name her something like that?

"It's her last name. Believe it or not, her first name's worse." Bill Weasley's brow furrowed. "She's your cousin, actually. Her mother's Andromeda Black."

"Oh, right. The disowned side of the family," Draco said.

"Yes, I'm sure they cry about it regularly."

Draco coughed delicately. "One of the largest estates known to man? They should."

Red's brother looked at him, alarmed. "She never quite put it that way."

"And the world wonders why we don't marry for love. Judge it against a few hundred billion galleons and you'll marry a toad if that's what Grandmother desires."

"That's the problem right there," Jake said, shaking his head. "You have that much money and you're a slave to it, man."

"How true," Draco said smoothly. "How about I free you from the tiresome yoke of material slavery by not paying you the second installment?"

"Hey, I never said that, man. I was just bein' theoretical."

Draco sent him a Lucius-brand smile. "So you're a capitalist after all."

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a bag full of galleons and dropped it on the empty potions crates that served as a coffee table. "That's a hundred extra."

Jake beamed, practically slavering over the gold. "Thanks, man."

"I always reward good work." Taking the painting, they left the flat.

"Now I'm going to look like an asshole, getting her a gift certificate," Bill sighed.

Draco thought for a moment. "She needs jewelry."

"Well, of course she does. And as soon as I'm a billionaire several times over, I'll buy her whatever her heart desires."

"Nothing over-the-top. Frankly, considering the fact that she spends most of her life in a Hogwarts uniform and dresses like a homeless tomboy the rest of the time, anything expensive would look ridiculous on her anyway. Perhaps a tasteful pendant."

"Does 'tasteful' mean the same thing to you as it does to me?" Bill asked.

Definitely not. "She'd appreciate something personal more than something expensive," he said, proud of his diplomacy. Too bad Red wasn't here to witness this.

"I suppose I could get something engraved with her initials..."

Draco fought it back valiantly. It was none of his business what Red's stupid, ill-dressed brother bought for her birthday. On the other hand, he had plenty of connections and Merlin knew she needed some jewelry that outclassed a hemp bracelet.

"Come with me," he sighed, spinning on his heel. He couldn't help it. He honestly couldn't. Surprised, Red's brother followed him over to Spengle and Schein's Jewelry Boutique. The place literally reeked of bargain basement prices, but Draco drew himself up and approached one of the salesmen. "I'm Draco Malfoy. I need a pendant."

The salesman gazed at him for a moment with wide eyes before snapping to attention like a soldier. "Right away, Mr. Malfoy. What would you like? Something magical? Gold or silver? We've just gotten in a shipment of magicked freshwater pearls..."

"What's your budget?" Draco asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Thirty galleons," the Weasley returned. Draco gawked at him. "There are a lot of us to buy for," the redhead mumbled. "One does have to budget."

"...they endow your lady with an attractive glow..." the salesman continued.

Somehow, he managed to get the words out of his mouth. "I'd like something simple. Gold plated." Draco felt as if he were about to vomit.

The salesman looked stricken. "Er...plated, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco couldn't breathe. His chest felt as if it was clamped in a vise. He couldn't do it. It would literally kill him. "Just kidding. Twenty-four karat. I'd like the pendant engraved. Some filigree would be nice, but nothing too fussy." As soon as he said it, his lungs opened up, allowing air in once again as his heartbeat returned to normal.

"Right away, sir," the salesman said, visibly relieved. He whipped out a selection of delicate chains and plain pendants. Glancing at them, Draco picked out a respectable combination and instructed the salesman on how he wanted the initials prepared.

"I said thirty galleons, not three hundred," Bill Weasley hissed at him.

"I'll cover the rest," Draco said, feeling martyred. "I can't let you give her crap."

Red's brother glanced at him. "Is this love or ego?"

"Ego," Draco said flatly.

Bill Weasley didn't bother to hide his grin. "Right."

*******

Even as a mature adult, it was still possible to learn new things, Remus reflected. Such as: never encourage your future wife to ask you for a favor immediately after sex. Before the blood returned to a man's brain, he may find himself agreeing to all kinds of things he never would have agreed to otherwise.

In fact, he might find himself where Remus was at the moment, standing in the lobby of the Happy Hills Hospice.

Vivian flooed in behind him and they walked up to the reception desk. "We're here to see Rachel Wellbourne," she said. "I'm her daughter, Vivian."

"And he is?" the receptionist asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"My fiancé, Remus Lupin."

"Is he going to visit, or stay in the waiting room?"

Every other time they'd come, he had remained in the waiting room, so it surprised him a bit when Vivian said, "He's going to visit."

"Wands, please," the receptionist said briskly, tapping her own wand against a dented metal canister, which rattled a bit before spitting out two name tags for them. They handed over their wands, which were tagged and catalogued. "To your right."

"I know," Vivian muttered under her breath. Remus glanced over at her.

"Are you sure you want me to come in with you?" he asked tentatively.

She sent him a sidelong glance. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"Vivian," he said, taking hold of her hand, halting her march down the hallway. "You obviously want me to come in with you, so I'll come. Just don't..." he trailed off. After her parents had been attacked, she'd visited the Hospice weekly. Every healer had told her that the damage to her mother was irreparable, but she'd kept coming, as Remus supposed anyone would. Information like that didn't register immediately.

He'd accompanied her, paging through magazines in the waiting room while she visited with her mother - as much as anyone could visit with a vegetable, at least - and she'd always been an inconsolable mess afterwards. All he could see coming out of this visit was a very upset fiancée, and as much as he respected the fact that she deserved to handle her mother however she wanted to, he really hated this entire idea.

"Just don't what?" she asked wearily.

Looking down at her, he really didn't have the heart to criticize. Vivian was well aware of how frustrating and thankless this visit was going to be. Leaning down, he kissed her briefly on the lips. "Nothing."

"I know it's stupid," she said, looking up at him. "It's like giving news to a blank wall, but I can't just go off and get married without telling her and letting her meet you."

He squeezed her hand. "Okay, then."

She sent him a thankful smile and led him on, stopping at a partially open door three quarters of the way down the hallway. Her mother was sitting in a chair facing the window, wrapped in a silk robe with her white hair pulled back into a neat bun.

He'd seen plenty of pictures of Vivian's mother. In all of them, she looked like an older version of her daughter: same hair color, same cheekbones, same body type. The woman sitting in front of him bore little resemblance to the woman in those pictures. It wasn't even gray hair and stooped shoulders and the thin, fragile bones of age that ruined the illusion. It was the utterly blank look on her face.

Taking a deep breath, Vivian entered the room. "Hi, Mum. It's Vivian. I've come to visit, and I've brought someone for you to meet." Pulling out a chair, she sat next to her mother, taking her hand and holding it between her own.

Remus supposed this was his cue. There wasn't another chair in the room so he stood behind Vivian. "Mum this is Remus. Remus, this is my mother."

"It lovely to meet you, Mrs. Wellbourne," he said uncomfortably. Aside from breathing and blinking occasionally, Vivian's mother didn't move, not that he expected her to. She just kept staring out the window, expressionless.

"We're getting married in a few weeks," Vivian said, patting her mother's hand. "Isn't that nice? We dated at Hogwarts, actually. I told you about him, but you never got the chance to meet him. Anyway, it's going to be a lovely ceremony." She laughed a little. "We've certainly waited long enough to have it."

Remus squeezed her shoulder.

"We haven't really hashed out all the details yet, or I'd tell you about them. Everything's a bit rushed, obviously. It would be nice to have you to help. You were always so organized, not like me at all. Or Daddy. Especially Daddy."

"And now I'm babbling," she sighed, placing her mother's hand back in her lap and kissing her on the cheek. "I just wanted to tell you. I love you, Mum."

Standing up, she walked out of the room so quickly that Remus had to trot to keep up with her. "You were right," she said. "This was fucking pointless."

Remus gritted his teeth and remained silent. This was exactly the reason he hadn't wanted her to come. There was no such thing as a good visit, a satisfactory end, closure, or anything good coming out of it.

He flooed in behind her, and by the time he arrived in Grimmauld Place, she was halfway up the stairs. "Vivian!" he called after her. She didn't pause, or even slow down. Swearing under his breath, he raced up the stairs, finally managing to catch her as she was about to slam the bathroom door shut. He got a shoe in before she could.

"Just give me a minute, will you?" she asked from the other side of the door. "This isn't going to be pretty."

"I don't care if it's pretty of not," he said, wedging a shoulder through the door. "Don't lock yourself in the bathroom, for Merlin's sake."

She stepped away from the door and he stumbled inside. Backing up, she sat on the toilet, face blotchy, eyes red, nose running. Pulling some tissues out, she began mopping herself up. "It's my own fault. I don't know what I thinking."

"It's your wedding. It's a big step, and you want them to be there. It's not a crime to be sad because they can't."

She laughed hoarsely. "That's the worst thing. She could be there. We could put her in a chair and she could stare at nothing and drool, just like she's been doing for the past twenty years. Most of the time, it's just like she'd dead. But she isn't, really. She's still breathing. There's still a big empty plot next to my father in the family cemetery. I can't pretend she's dead when she's not. I wish she was, though," she said in a low voice, staring at the wadded-up tissues in her lap. "She didn't deserve this."

"Nobody deserves it," Remus said, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, peeling her hands apart and wrapping them in his own. "But they'd want you to be happy, Vivian."

"Teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts," she said, making a face. "They'd be about as thrilled about that as when I told them I was going to be an Auror."

"You've spent more than enough of your life being what they wanted you to be."

"True enough," she said, pulling her hands back. She clenched them in her lap, looking guilty. "I only became an Auror to piss them off," she said in a small voice. "I knew they'd hate it, and I was so angry with them about not getting Head Girl after doing everything they'd told me to do and...I sort of went into full-scale rebellion."

He looked at her. "Was I part of that?"

"You were at first," she admitted. "Before I got on the train seventh year, I basically told them that they were both full of shit and that I was going to do whatever I wanted to do and if they didn't like it, then too bad, sneer, sneer, sneer, attitude."

Remus could see where this was going. "Vivian, you were seventeen."

"I know," she said, pulling more tissues out. "And I got over it soon enough. I mean, I'd already signed up to be an Auror, so I couldn't back out of that, but I really liked you. I wasn't just using you to get back at them. And my grand plan to not care about classes and grades lasted about a day," she snorted.

"Ravenclaw to the core," Remus said, smiling a little.

"Apparently," she said, rolling her eyes. "And of course, they sent me owl after owl, trying to talk to me, asking me to be reasonable, telling me to think about my future. I never wrote back. At first it was because I was so angry with them, but afterwards it was...I couldn't bring myself to admit that I'd been wrong."

He really couldn't see how anything good could come out of Vivian reliving seventh year, but there wasn't much he could say about it that he hadn't already said before.

"Ninety-nine percent of the time, I'm perfectly okay about it," she said, giving a halfhearted shrug. "It was so long ago. It's pointless to beat myself up about it anymore, really. I can't go back and change anything. They died and I never bothered to make it right because I was a prissy spoiled teenager who'd experienced her first ever disappointment in life and decided to take it out on them. I just...I wish more than anything that I'd answered one of their owls and told them I hadn't meant it."

"They knew you loved them," Remus said firmly.

"I hope they did," she said. "I don't know. I don't even know if it's even important anymore. Sometimes I think it's worse that I'm sitting here a week and a half away from getting everything I could ever possibly want in life, and I don't really deserve it."

"Why on earth wouldn't you deserve it?"

"I never should have been an Auror. I signed up to piss off my parents and couldn't get out of it when I had second thoughts. There's no reason that I should alive today in place of any of the others. I didn't survive because I was smarter or a better dueler than the rest of them, Remus. I survived out of sheer fucking luck. Tell me that's fair."

And that was pretty much enough for him. When Vivian started descending into the 'I don't even deserve to be alive' pit of despair, she needed to be stopped before she got drunk and decided that she needed to tell everyone she knew how much she loved them via owl-post. Sliding off the edge of the tub, he knelt in front of her and pulled her against him. "I can't," he said honestly. "But I'm glad it happened this way."

She wrapped her arms around him tightly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he said, stroking her hair.

"It's all bullshit, you know," she said into his shoulder. "'I've lived without you, I could live without you again' and all of that. It's a big fat lie. I'd be a mess without you."

It was hard to think about and even harder to admit, but he supposed that under the circumstances, they both owed this much to each other. "So would I," he said honestly.

Pulling back a little, she pressed her forehead against his. "I'm so worried that something will happen to you."

"I worry, too, Vivian. We all do."

Her eyes bored into him. "As soon as we're married, I'm going after David."

Swearing, Remus pushed her away. "Not this shit again."

Resting her elbows on her knees, Vivian rested her chin in her hands. "I don't think I have much of a choice this time."

"You always have a choice," Remus announced. "It's a choice between him being your problem and him being not your problem. Personally, I'm all for the latter."

"But according to Yuri Dashkin, Voldemort has already managed to procure the beast. And it stands to reason that the beast is a dark creature, which means that even if it's not David, he most likely knows who it is."

Remus opened his mouth automatically to argue with her, then shut it. With everything else to think about, they hadn't spent much time hashing out the possible identity of the beast - largely because...well, most of the dark creatures were in Azkaban and they hadn't any way of finding those who had managed to escape.

And frankly, Remus knew very well that so long as David walked the earth, Vivian would never be completely convinced of her own safety or his. It was hard to argue with her when he half agreed with her. "Fine," he conceded. "But you have to promise me two things."

"What?" she asked warily.

"We go after him together. No funny business, no stunning anyone and running off on your own, no wacky heroic gestures. Okay?"

She nodded. "What's the other thing?"

"I don't want to hear another sodding word about David until after the honeymoon."

"Fair enough," she agreed, pulling him into a kiss.

*******

Balder swallowed his bite of roast beef, took a sizable gulp of watery ale and wiped his mouth with his napkin before sitting back against the threadbare cushions of the booth, crossing his arms and pinning Vivian down with a death glare. "Is this a joke?"

"Honestly. Who would make a joke this stupid?" Vivian asked, rolling her eyes.

"Well, you always did have a warped sense of humor. I thought perhaps after the whole Magda debacle and the current shitstorm I'm caught in regarding my uncle's suicide, this was some sort of ill-conceived attempt on your part to cheer me up."

"I'm not even going to ask what sort of relationship the two of you shared with this Magda, but in any case - no, I'm not joking. I'm not Professor Wellbourne."

Balder closed his eyes briefly, hoping that when he opened them again, this situation might have somehow returned to normal. It didn't. "So who are you, then?"

"We'll get to that in a minute," the woman said, waving her hand. "First off...

"You're obviously a Hogwarts student, considering you just referred to her as 'Professor.' Are you even old enough to be drinking that?" he asked, gesturing to the third vodka tonic the girl was slurping down like a glass of water.

"Going to arrest me?" she purred with a sly flirtatious look in her eye that clashed dramatically with Vivian's face.

"Listen," he said, folding up his napkin and tossing it on the table. "You're obviously a smart little thing with your polyjuice and your sneaky owls, but I'm a very busy man and I really don't have time to indulge a silly alcoholic pre-teen."

"I'm Thera Castelar," she said, gesturing to the waitress for another drink. "And I'm a silly alcoholic teen, thank you."

Balder stared at the woman sitting across from him. He believed the polyjuice story, largely because Vivian would never slouch like that. The rest was harder to swallow.

"Known Death Eater and wanted criminal Thera Castelar?" he asked, disbelievingly.

"No, the other Thera Castelar," she said sarcastically. "The sweet, innocent one who likes puppies and kitties and wants to be Sporty Spice when she grows up."

This, Balder decided, was far too interesting to pass up. "All right, then," he said, recrossing his arms. "Prove it to me."

"How do you expect me to do that?"

"You're the one who called me here. I imagine it's up to you to think of something."

She made a teenagerish face. "Thera Electra Melisande Hyacinth Valmontaire Castelar, born November 3, 1980 to Reina Gisele Micheline Ponselle Laurent Valmontaire Castelar and Atreus Erasmus Nicholas Ferdinand Theodopolis Castelar. One year ago last Thursday a pair of Death Eaters with bad teeth did in my mother. I was later found in a shack by Aurors, which was a set up by the Death Eaters. I went to Hogwarts, did poorly, rejoined the Dark Lord...anything else you want to know?"

She rattled off the facts quickly enough, but she hadn't said anything that couldn't be found in her Ministry file. Balder decided to switch tactics. If nothing else, he'd have his proof when the potion wore off.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"To make a deal," she said, accepting her drink from the waitress.

Balder raised an eyebrow. "What sort of deal?"

Instead of answering, she knocked back a good portion of her vodka tonic, then cocked her head at him. "How much do you know about the spell?"

"What spell?"

She nodded, as if he'd confirmed something for her. "So you know shit, then."

Balder held onto his patience. "What spell are you talking about?"

"The one that involves five children. The one the Dark Lord began years ago. The one he's frighteningly close to completing any day now. That one."

A nasty creepy-crawly sensation arose at the back of his neck. Taking a sip of ale, Balder kept his calm. "What's this rubbish?"

She smirked at him. "Professor Wellbourne didn't tell you about it? That's odd, considering she's been working on it for almost a year now."

His patience fled and the creepy-crawly sensation took over. Balder wasn't surprised that Dumbledore was keeping things from him. He supposed he shouldn't even be surprised that Vivian had been keeping things from him, assuming that what a smart-ass polyjuiced teenage fugitive had told him was actually true. And yet it made sense. Dumbledore wouldn't have brought Vivian back without a reason, and she wouldn't have come unless she was needed, and what else could Dumbledore need her for if not for her knowledge of spell and counter-spell creation? He'd been blind to her motivations for coming back.

He'd been blind to her motivations for largely the same reason that he'd left his grieving aunt and loads of work when Vivian owled him out of the blue and asked him to meet her in a Muggle tavern: because where she was concerned, he was a complete idiot.

Brushing the thoughts away, Balder clenched his jaw. "You're lying. You're just trying to cause trouble, to ruin any sort of trust between Dumbledore and the Ministry."

"What trust?"

He chose to ignore that. "Tell me about this spell."

"Prior to his initial defeat at the hands of brave toddler Harry Potter, the Dark Lord managed to initiate four defenseless infants into his service. I happen to be one of them."

"I thought you said there were five children," he interrupted.

"Keep your knickers on. I'm getting there." Taking another sip of her drink, she launched back into the story. "The fifth child was a bit of a different matter. She didn't have to be initiated until a bit later, and she was, right on schedule."

"How?"

She shook her head. "No details until we have an agreement. So following his return, the Dark Lord set about continuing on with the spell. There's a second stage, you see. Each child has to be reinitiated. I was halfway around the world at the time. Why else do you think he bothered to drag me back here?"

"He can use the spell to find you halfway across the world?" he asked skeptically.

"He can use the spell to find us anywhere," she answered flatly. "So I went first, the rest followed suit, and now he completely controls four of the five children."

"How completely?"

She fixed him with an unblinking stare. "Completely."

How convenient. "That's an interesting twist on the 'I was under imperius' defense."

"Ask Professor Wellbourne if you don't believe me," she said pointedly.

"What does this spell even do?" Balder practically sneered. "Why is he doing it?"

"Because it gets him more power, dumb ass," she sneered back. "Are we talking about the same Dark Lord?"

"To you, he's the Dark Lord," he said coldly. "To me, he's Voldemort."

"Call him fucking Clarence if you want to," she said, exasperated. "Are you paying attention to a bloody word I'm saying? Are you getting the merest spark of a clue as to why I might be here? Do I have to spell it out in fucking semaphore?"

Balder remembered Reina Valmontaire from Hogwarts. For the first time since this inane conversation began, he could believe he was talking to her daughter. "You want out."

She leaned down slowly until her forehead made firm contact with the table. Then she lifted it a few inches and let it drop. "What part of 'he controls us completely' did you not understand? I can want out until the Dark Lord's hair grows back. It's not going to happen."

"Oh, right. You want to make a deal."

Sitting back, she gave him a consummately weary look. "Yes, I want to make a deal. Are we all on the same page now?"

She really was a tedious individual. "Information for a reduced sentence."

"No, information for dropping the charges completely."

"That's not how these things work."

Her eyes widened. "It isn't? Wow. No wonder you don't know anything."

He scowled at her. "I haven't the authority to drop any charges against you. Only the Wizengamot does. If you want to make a deal, the deal has to be authorized by them. And it will only be authorized if you're in Ministry custody. If, however, you could provide me with information that directly led to the defeat of Lord Voldemort, I could most certainly arrange for a reduced sentence for you."

"I could give you all of the information I have and it still wouldn't help the Ministry defeat the Dark Lord." Realization dawned on her face, causing her jaw to drop. "Holy Merlin. You don't even know about the prophecy, do you?"

Balder was rapidly approaching the end of his rope. "What prophecy?" he bit out.

"The one that..." an alarm on her watch went off. "Hang on. The potion's about to wear off. Be back in a tick." She trotted off to the loo and Balder put his head in his hands.

"Why am I still here?" he asked himself. If he'd a brain in his head, he'd have either arrested her or laughed in her face and left by now. And yet he'd done neither, and he couldn't quite figure out why. He was fairly certain that she was who she claimed to be, but that didn't mean that she wasn't still feeding him a pack of lies. Hell, she could very well be here on Voldemort's orders, to mess with his head.

Yet if what she'd told him was actually true, it made a lot of sense. Dumbledore knew things about Voldemort's activities that the Ministry didn't. The spell, this prophecy...Dumbledore had been fighting his own war all along, deliberately withholding information from him. Or from his uncle. Perhaps the old headmaster simply hadn't trusted Uncle Cornelius to get the job done. He certainly wouldn't be the only citizen who felt that way. And this girl seemed to know quite a bit about not only Voldemort's plans, but also how much Dumbledore knew about those plans.

And Balder was very interested in learning more about that.

"Is this proof enough?" she sighed. A small dark-haired girl slid into the bench across from him, wearing the same clothes Vivian had been wearing earlier, which explained why Vivian had been clad in a skirt and cardigan set prominently featuring daisies.

"Oh, for the love of Merlin," Balder groaned. "You're ten."

"I'm sixteen, dickhead. But thanks for casually destroying my fragile self-esteem."

"I'm leaving now." Grabbing his briefcase, he threw some Muggle money on the table.

"That's not enough," she said, nodding at the pile.

"You can pay for the rest," he snapped. "This was your idea, after all."

"Alright, then." Her voice was a little unsteady and her gaze was directed at her empty vodka tonic glass as she reached out a hand to fiddle with it. "Go."

Oh, no. He wasn't going to fall for that. "I'm going." Right. He was going. This was the most ridiculous luncheon of his entire life, and he was leaving now. By all rights, he should be hauling her into the Ministry first, though. She was a criminal, for crying out loud. And just because she looked very young and forlorn - and it was an act anyway, of course it was - that didn't mean he should cut her any slack. She was dangerous. Just because she didn't look dangerous didn't mean that she wasn't. The stories he'd heard...

Well, in all fairness, they hadn't exactly come from trustworthy sources.

Throwing down his briefcase, he sat back down on the bench and pinned her with his angriest glare. "Spill it," he hissed at her.

She shook her head. "Not without an agreement. Information for amnesty." She looked up at him. "Face it, Balder. Your job's meaningless unless you have a source within the Death Eaters, an insider who only gives information to you."

"And what guarantee do I have that the information only does come to me?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Dumbledore doesn't have anything to offer me. Why would I bother?"

He looked at her, his mind working. "I can't give you anything in writing," he said slowly. "I'll list you as an anonymous source for the sake of our continued well-being. When the war is over, I'll present my information to the Wizengamot, naming you as the anonymous source. That's the best I can do."

"Give the information to your assistant, also. Just in case anything happens to you."

Balder raised an eyebrow. "You trust my assistant?"

"No, but if you get me caught, you lose the best source you'll ever have. I trust that."

He nodded, holding his hand out. "Agreed, then. Wizard's promise."

Looking amused, she shook it. "Witch's promise." Reaching into her pocket, she pulled something out and tossed it on the table. It was his wand. Snatching it up, he stuffed it into his own pocket and glowered at her.

She shrugged. "You can't blame a girl for watching her back."

"Touch my wand again and the agreement's off."

"I'll never touch your wand again," she said, smiling sweetly, "unless you ask me to."

"Don't hold your breath."

Her smile only grew. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

*******

Having been given the opportunity to see him again before school started, the idea of Draco had become like a toothache to Ginny - painful, ceaseless, unrelenting. She couldn't ignore it, and she couldn't make it go away. It kept her awake night after night.

It was pitiful of her. She realized that. She had no intention of admitting to Draco exactly how much she'd missed him in the weeks since their brief encounter on the train, and how much she'd worried about him. He had painted his summer in boring tones: tutoring sessions and pureblood soirées, but he'd made no mention of his father or Voldemort or Death Eater activities, and losing Charlie made everybody in her life seem suddenly very vulnerable. Draco may not be in danger of dying, but he was certainly in danger of a great many other terrible things, and that was why - despite her best intentions - she lost all sense of decorum and practically tackled him as he stepped out of the fireplace into Professor Wellbourne's office.

Her senses were knocked awry. The feel of his shoulders under her fingers, his hair against her cheek, his hard chest and stomach against hers, his strong hand at the small of her back holding her against him while the other one braced against the fireplace - it was all so familiar and so poignant that Professor Wellbourne's polite throat-clearing progressed into a coughing fit before it registered. Reluctantly, Ginny loosened her arms and legs and let him go.

Draco pushed her away from him, an angry glint in his eye. "Nice to see you, too," he said coldly. "I had a chat with your brother the other day."

Ginny's eyes widened, imagining the possibilities. "Ron?"

"Bill."

Oh, dear. In the wake of the battle and Charlie's death, she'd forgotten all about that. Pressing her hands against her chest, Ginny gazed up at him apologetically. "Ron told them," she explained. "I didn't have any way to warn you."

"Don't worry. We worked it out." Stepping around her, he greeted Professor Wellbourne. "And I imagine you've been informed about our relationship, also?" he asked her. "The most well-known secret relationship in history?"

"Draco," Ginny said desperately, turning around. Ignoring her, he began unpacking his bag, laying out his quills and parchment neatly on the table Professor Wellbourne had wedged into her office for them to work on. "It wasn't my fault. I tried..."

"In vain, it seems," he said, sitting down. "Red, I'm not angry with you, if that's what you're worked up about. I'm angry at the bloody situation. I'm angry at the fact that on top of the end of the world, I have to deal with your twelve potentially violent brothers."

"Well, if you're angry at the situation, why are you taking it out on me?" she asked.

"Because you're part of the situation," he said, as if this should be obvious.

Stiffly she said down across from him. "Fine, then. Let me know when you're finished sulking, will you? Because I've missed you and I'd like to have a decent conversation."

He raised an eyebrow. "Sulking? Is that what I'm doing? Has my father shown up on your doorstep recently, demanding that you explain your intentions towards me?"

"Don't be a jerk," she hissed. "It's different."

"I see. So in your family, Muggleborns and Purebloods and Half-bloods are all on equal footing, but because you weren't born with a rod of wisdom - if you'll excuse my indelicacy," he said, nodding to Professor Wellbourne, who nodded back, looking highly amused, "you're apparently far too flighty and susceptible to the vapors to be trusted to make one single bloody decision for yourself."

Ginny laughed. "A Malfoy lecturing a Weasley on gender politics? That's rich. Are you telling me that your Mum and Dad share Death Eater duties fifty-fifty?"

Slowly, he rose from the table, sneering at her. "Red, don't even presume to know," he said in his most dangerous voice, "the first bloody thing about..." A meow sounded from Professor Wellbourne's lap, where Vendetta had set up camp. Draco's face shifted from stormy to rapturous with astonishing speed.

"I hear my kitty," he said in a sing-song voice, deliberately not looking at Vendetta's actual location. "Where's my beautiful kitty? Are you in here?" he asked, opening up his schoolbag and peering inside. "No, no kitty in here. Are you perhaps under here?" He lifted a stack of parchments and frowned at the kitty-less space under them. "Where could my precious, lovely..." Thankfully, Vendetta leapt out of Professor Wellbourne's lap up onto the table and meowed before it could go on any longer.

Draco turned, his face lighting up. "There's my kitty!" Upon being scooped up in his arms, Vendetta closed his eyes, purring in ecstasy.

"Bloody cat gets a warmer reception than I do," Ginny grumbled.

"What a smart kitty you are, hiding from Daddy like that," Draco cooed. "Did you miss Daddy? I think you did. Has Red been treating you okay? Has she been paying you lots and lots of attention and giving you high-protein foods to make your fur shiny?"

He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. "Er..." Ginny said. "He eats cat food."

Draco scowled at her. "Dry cat food?"

"I mix wet and dry. He likes it fine."

"Oh, that won't do at all," he said, fussing with Vendetta's fur. "That rubbish won't give him the vitamins he needs to live a long, happy life. And it won't make him the prettiest kitty he can possibly be, will it?" Vendetta let out a half-purr, half-meow, stretching luxuriously. "See?" he said to Ginny. "He agrees. I'll put in an order of suitable food and have it delivered to you tomorrow."

"I think I want to break up," Ginny said, not necessarily kidding.

"Oooh, Mummy's angry," Draco said to the cat, chuckling a little bit. "You love me more, and she doesn't like that. I'll have to make it up to her."

"Put. My. Cat. Down," Ginny gritted out.

With one last scratch behind the ears, Draco did so, stepping forward and pulling her against him in a quick, firm kiss. "I missed you," he whispered.

"And at long last, you show it," she whispered back, not entirely ready to let him off the hook yet. "You only love me for my cat, don't you?"

"Hardly. Vendetta has his charms, but he sheds like the dickens."

Smiling, Ginny took out her wand and cleaned off his robes. He smiled back, squeezing her arms and finally looking legitimately happy to see her and his silver eyes were warm and she was getting rather warm, and Professor Wellbourne cleared her throat again. The spell broken, they both took a step back. Draco returned to organizing his quills and Ginny pulled the book she'd been working on out of her schoolbag.

"Right, then," the Professor said. "As heartwarming and...mildly disturbing as that was, we're all here to work, and from now on, there'll be none of that. This isn't the Astronomy Tower, understood?"

Draco and Ginny mumbled their assent and settled in to work. It was distracting to be sitting across the table from Draco after they'd been apart for so long. It was really hard to keep from trying any funny business under the table, like sliding her foot up his leg...

Ginny shifted in her seat and forced herself to focus.

"When using the Bergdorf-Halter method for the deconstruction of complex spells, it is necessary to take into account that the secondary indices are unstable; to produce a stable deconstruction for the secondary indices, it is necessary to employ the Fourth Corollary to Benhabib's Theory of Random Environmental Interference in Spellwork..."

He was right there. Draco. She could smell him. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch him and it would be like all of the nights she'd spent alone in her big, empty bed restlessly shifting from her side to her back to her side again, trying to not be horny so she could fall asleep had never happened.

Ginny shook herself. There had been a part of the spell that Draco was working on for which they'd talked about possibly using the Bergdorf-Halter method. Reaching over, she picked up his notes and paged through them until she found the correct set of matrixes. Draco had already applied it, his neat calculations covering the pages.

"Are we using Bergdorf-Halter for another part of the spell, or am I behind?" she asked.

"We were going to try it against the part involving the magical objects," Draco said, standing up and digging through a pile next to Professor Wellbourne until he found it. "Here. I doubt it'll work, but it's worth a try."

Ginny took the sheaf of parchments from him. Their fingers brushed lightly, and it was like being electrocuted, Muggle-style. She couldn't take it any longer.

"I need to use the loo," she said, standing up.

"So do I," Draco said quickly.

"Do I look stupid to you?" Professor Wellbourne asked, not looking up from her notes.

Sighing, Ginny trudged down the hall to the loo - alone. Running the water as cold as she could, she splashed her face with it. Not being able to see Draco at all had been bad. Being three feet away from him and unable to touch him was even worse.

She walked back to the classroom so Draco could leave. Laying out the parchments Draco had given her, Ginny inked her quill and took a deep breath.

"This isn't going to work, is it?" Professor Wellbourne asked.

Ginny set her quill down and slumped over the parchment. "I don't know."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm sympathetic to your plight. But all the same, I'm rather fond of my job, too. You're not my daughter, so it's hardly my place to lecture you about any of this. But you are my student, and while your romantic life is none of my business and I don't think it's my duty to rat you out to your parents, I'd really prefer it if there were nothing for me to tell your parents at all. I trust them with my life, and they trust me with not only their lives, but their children's lives, also. I'm not going to lie to their faces."

"Maybe it is a bad idea," Ginny said, feeling ashamed of herself. She just wanted an opportunity to see Draco. She didn't want to rip apart the Order in the process.

She heard Professor Wellbourne get out of her chair and move around the extra table, sitting down in the chair Draco had recently vacated. Ginny glanced up at her. "I hate to say it," the Professor said sympathetically, "but being a teenager sucks."

"So it gets better?" Ginny asked hopefully.

"Much better," Professor Wellbourne said, taking off her reading glasses and setting them down. "My parents were overprotective too, you know."

Like her parents were the only problem. "Did you have six older brothers to back them up?"

"No, I didn't," the older woman said, smiling a little. "There's no doubt about it. Only children get away with a lot more."

And then some. Ginny snorted. "I think Ron's plotting to fail so he can stay back another year and make sure I don't get into any trouble."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Professor Wellbourne said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "He loves you a lot. All of your brothers do. So do your parents."

"I know," Ginny said quietly. "And I know they just want the best for me. I feel like an ingrate when I get mad about it. I mean, Harry spent most of his childhood in a cupboard, with nobody who cared whether he had a good day at school or what sort of grades he got. Hermione's parents barely even understand the magical world, and Draco...he talks about his parents like he talks about his professors. He has all these tutors and his parents only notice what he's up to if his grades aren't up to snuff or he gets a detention. Every month, his Mum sends him a big box of sweets and he doesn't even like sweets." She paused. "Compared to that, my parents are saints."

"Well, nobody's parents are saints," Professor Wellbourne said reasonably. "They're not perfect, they're just..." Her eyebrows furrowed. "A cupboard? Are you serious?"

Ginny nodded solemnly. Harry might be able to make light of it. She couldn't.

"That's barbaric," Professor Wellbourne said, sounding scandalized. "I know Remus said Harry's relatives didn't like him much, but a cupboard? That's just abusive."

"He's not there anymore," Ginny explained. "They've given him a proper bedroom."

"And Dumbledore wouldn't let Remus adopt him because he thought Harry was better off with those people, who locked him in a cupboard?!" the Professor reeled.

"Remus wanted to adopt him?" Ginny asked. This was news.

"Well, of course he did. Who else was left? A cupboard? Those animals."

"My thoughts exactly," Ginny said, glancing at the door unconsciously.

"I think he'll be a while," Professor Wellbourne said dismissively. "On the other hand," she added after a moment's thought, "under the circumstances, perhaps he won't."

"Oh," Ginny said, imagining Draco down the hall in the loo...alright, she couldn't help it. She giggled, feeling a strange sisterhood with Professor Wellbourne. Her roommates at Hogwarts were largely teases, negotiating how far they'd let a boy go with how much they felt he deserved it, and none of the boys had deserved to go under the knickers yet. Hermione was a virgin and Ginny would rather die than talk about sex with her Mum.

For her part, Professor Wellbourne covered her mouth, horrified. "Ginny, I'm so sorry. Every once in a while I forget that I'm teaching British teenagers and not sexually adventurous California twenty-somethings."

"It's okay," Ginny said, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"No, it's not okay," Professor Wellbourne said severely. "It's heinous and disgusting. I'd have lost my breakfast if a professor had ever said something like that to me."

"Well, if Professor McGonagall ever did, I probably would."

"Minerva's always been a bit...proper," Professor Wellbourne said, coughing.

"Proper? I certainly hope so," Ginny shuddered. "That's not a pleasant image."

Professor Wellbourne put a hand over her mouth, unsuccesfully trying to cover up laughter. "Proper as the day is long," she said loyally.

"Sorry," Ginny said to her sheaf of parchments as she began randomly shuffling them about. "I just...I don't really have anyone to talk to about things like this."

"I suppose you don't, do you?" Professor Wellbourne sighed, wincing a little bit. "It's just...it's really not my place, Ginny."

"I know."

"You could always talk to your brothers," the Professor suggested. She couldn't even finish the sentence without laughing.

"Even if I did," Ginny said, joining in the laughter, "they'd just give me the book."

"The book?"

"The Weasley men have a book." She could barely speak any longer. "With sex tips. It's been around for years. They pass it down from brother to brother, adding comments about what works and what doesn't. If you could read their comments, you'd die."

"I guess they all need to learn somehow," Professor Wellbourne allowed.

They shared a glance, laughing some more. Finally, Ginny took a deep breath and asked the question she'd been wanting to ask all along. "How do you...get through it?"

"Get through what?" the Professor asked, looking confused.

"You know. When you can't...be together."

"Oh." Professor Wellbourne tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, obviously uncomfortable. "Ummm...you just have to...use your imagination."

"My imagination?" Ginny asked, disappointed. "My imagination's kind of the problem."

"Yes. That's why you have to use it."

"You mean like...?" Ginny couldn't find a way to finish the sentence in a euphemism.

"We should really get back to work," the Professor said primly, slipping her reading glasses back on and standing up.

Ginny gawked at her. So was that how it worked? Draco's arrival interrupted her thoughts, and she forced her eyes to the parchments in front of her. Due to the circumstances of her upbringing, she understood a lot more about the male side of the sexual picture than she did about the female. Her only role models for how women behaved in a relationship were her mother and the bubbleheaded bimbos in her brothers' sordid stories, and not particularly wanting to be her mother quite yet, she'd largely been modeling herself after the bubbleheaded bimbos.

This was urgent. This was a literal relationship emergency. The recipes and 'Hunk of the Week' stories of Witch Weekly were no help at all in this arena. She needed facts, without all of the silly romanticism. She needed a subscription to Playwitch Magazine.

*******

"Relax, Harry," Remus urged him. "Just remember: she's the one trying to convince you to hire her, not the other way around."

Harry sucked down the remainder of his second Coke and fidgeted around in his seat. He didn't want to meet with Yolanda Kurtz. And he certainly didn't want to be sitting in what passed for the fanciest restaurant in Little Whinging - Chez Marcel - when said prospective publicist was already fifteen minutes late.

A thin, hard-featured blonde with the air of a woman far too busy to waste time with food walked in, and Harry knew without being told that this was Yolanda. She wore a raspberry colored business suit, perfectly matching heels and a great deal of eye makeup.

"Ah, there she is," Remus said, standing to greet her.

She spotted him and came over, exchanging perfunctory cheek-kisses with him, so that she kissed air rather than actual person. Harry detested her immediately.

"Forgive my tardiness," she practically ordered them, sitting down. "One of my Quidditch players got caught with a fourteen-year-old. Private practice sessions, my ass. Water with lemon," she said to the tuxedoed waiter as he approached, handing him her menu. "And a glass of your best Chardonnay, unless even your best tastes like rat piss out here in the middle of bloody nowhere. If you've something that resembles a Caesar salad, I'll take that for lunch, unless the lettuce is wilted. If it is, don't bother."

Suppressing laughter, Remus ordered the duckling. Harry got something he couldn't pronounce that sounded like the French version of a ham and cheese sandwich.

Yolanda's ice blue eyes bore into him across the table. "The firm's paying for this, you know. Get an entrée."

Harry restrained himself from pointing out the hypocrisy of that demand to Miss Chardonnay and Caesar Salad. "Just pretend like she doesn't exist," he mumbled to the waiter as he handed his menu over.

Folding her napkin on her lap, Yolanda made a slow and disgusted inventory of the restaurant. "I think it might've been worth a little danger to be able to meet up in London. Out here, the Muggle water's probably half sewage."

Remus - who had been just about to take a sip of his water - blanched and set the glass down, clearing his throat. "So...about Harry."

Still looking put out, she got down to business. "I imagine you're unfamiliar with the process, so this is how it works. You pay me a monthly commission and ten percent of what you earn for the jobs I line up for you. In return, I restore you to your rightful place as saint and savior of the British magical world, boy-hero and defender of all that is good and right. I have one sole, singular rule for all of my clients. Break it, and we're finished, and you'll be dealing with a lesser publicist who isn't willing to suck the editor of The Daily Prophet's dick in order to keep your reputation squeaky clean."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, taking all of that in. He wanted to believe that fellatio wasn't actually part of her job description and couldn't, quite. "What's the rule?"

"If you fuck up, I'm the first person you talk to without fail, and I'm the only person you tell about it unless I arrange for a press conference. If I hear a rumor that you're failing Charms and find out later that it's true and you didn't tell me, we're finished."

Looking at the woman, Harry suddenly understood the exact meaning of the phrase 'ball-buster.' He'd thought in his innocence that Mrs. Weasley was one, ruling over a passel of boys with an iron fist. Then he'd met Fox and thought she was one, ruling over him and pretty much all creation with an iron fist. But those two women had something that Yolanda Kurtz lacked: humanity.

He had a feeling if he brought up the word, she'd immediately argue that such a concept didn't exist, and win. And then she'd barbeque him alive for kicks.

"So that's how it works," she said, taking a sip of the Chardonnay the waiter brought and making a face. "Ugh. It's like alcoholic sugar strained through someone's dirty underwear. Aftertaste of sweaty balls." Harry choked on his drink. "Anyway, I'll have a contract drawn up and owled over for your review."

"Owl it to me, if you don't mind," Remus said. "I'd like to look over it first."

Yolanda raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to sneak in anything underhanded."

"I didn't say you were going to," he answered pleasantly. "I'd just like to have Harry's solicitors give it a read-through before I talk to Harry about it."

Harry blinked at him. Since when did he have solicitors?

She steepled her fingers, resting her chin on top of them. "And exactly what authority do you wield that grants you the privilege of handling Harry's contracts?"

His old professor's friendly expression clouded over. "I'm not going to let him..."

"Remus," Harry interrupted, "would you please look over the contract for me?" Suppressing a smile, Remus nodded and Harry turned to Yolanda. "Is that good enough for you, or do I need to jot something down on my napkin and sign it?"

"Hardly," she scoffed. "If I dealt in handshakes and verbal promises, I'd be up to my eyeballs in lawsuits, living with my parents and scooping ice cream at Florian Fortescue's for scale. Put it in writing on actual parchment, sign it and owl it to my office."

"But I thought we were friends," Remus said, wide-eyed. It was the sort of joke that could only be lost on someone like Yolanda Kurtz.

"We haven't spoken in twenty years," she said coldly. "Would you like me to arrange for Harry's representation based upon a napkin contract, or take Witch Weekly's word that they'll allow me to have final oversight on any of his interviews?"

Remus coughed. "Er...no, of course not."

Their food arrived. After taking two bites of the salad and declaring it chewy, Yolanda gave Harry an uncomfortably thorough once-over. "You've got the unlikely hero look down fairly well," she said. "The glasses help. And the skinniness. Don't start lifting weights or anything. We'll get you cleaned up a bit. There's a difference between adorably ruffled hair and a disaster, just like there's a difference between a down-to-earth, unassuming wardrobe and one that looks like all of your clothing was donated to you by a charity run by fat people." It was so close to the mark that Harry had to stifle a laugh. Throwing down a wad of money, she stood to leave. "I'll expect your owl, then, shall I?" Without waiting for an answer, she breezed out of the restaurant.

Harry let out a long breath. "Why do I feel like I've just made a pact with Satan?"

Remus chuckled. "She's the only person I've ever met with no people skills whatsoever. At least Severus is largely unlikable on purpose. I don't think she even has to try."

"Exactly why is she such a great choice again?"

"She's the best," Remus said simply. "She'll keep the press off your back. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes," Harry said to his plate. "I just don't see why she's the only one who can do it."

"Harry, if you don't like her and don't want to hire her, we'll find somebody else. You won't be hurting my feelings or anything. Frankly, I don't like her, either."

He thought it over as he finished his sandwich. "Well, I don't suppose I really have to like her, so long as she does her job," he said finally, still not happy with the situation.

"Is that your final decision?" Remus asked, smiling a little.

"Yes," Harry said glumly. "This is going to be a real circus, isn't it? I don't suppose I can just skive off my last year at Hogwarts and flee the country, can I?"

Remus took a moment before answering. "You have responsibilities, Harry. They're not pleasant ones, I'll grant you that. But they're there all the same. This entire mess is going to come to a head very soon, and you'll need to be prepared."

"I know." He really didn't want to go into it all right now. "Are you finished?" Nodding, Remus stood and followed him out of the restaurant. "You don't have to walk me home," Harry said, a bit annoyed. "I think I can manage to find it."

"I actually had some news for you," Remus said.

"Good or bad?" he asked warily.

That elicited a smile. "Good. Very good, in fact. Professor Wellbourne and I are getting married Saturday after next. It's not going to be a big shindig or anything, but we'll be having a reception of sorts afterwards. I thought you might like to come. The Weasleys will be there, and a good portion of the Order."

Harry stopped, grinning at this new side of Remus. He'd never seen him look so happy. "Congratulations. That's wonderful. I'd love to come."

Remus positively beamed. "Happy to be getting out of Little Whinging for a while?"

"It's not just that. I'm happy for you, for both of you. I just thought..."

"No, the earth hasn't shifted on its axis. Werewolves are still forbidden to marry. To make a long story short, it's not necessarily a legally binding ceremony."

"Oh, because werewolves are..." he searched for the word..."impotent, right?"

Remus made an odd face. "Sterile, actually."

Of course, because impotent meant the actual equipment didn't function. Harry flushed with embarrassment.

"Shooting blanks is...still shooting, after all," Remus said, visibly fighting back laughter.

Harry mumbled an apology. Remus walked him up to the doorstep, pausing a moment before hugging him tightly. "I'm very glad you're going to be there."

"I wouldn't miss it," Harry said, hugging him back awkwardly.

As if sensing his awkwardness, Remus stepped out of the hug quickly. His hands remained on Harry's shoulders for a moment before they dropped to his sides. "You're a good man, Harry Potter. Your parents would be very proud of you. I certainly am."

Sirius stood between them, both of them far too conscious of his memory to make any moves that might go against it. They were already on dangerous ground.

"You're a good man, too, Remus Lupin," Harry said, cuffing his old professor on the shoulder. It felt a bit like a cop-out, but he wasn't much for physical contact, and he'd never instigated a hug in his entire life. "And I haven't really thanked you properly before, but I should. All this stuff with Sirius' will and my parents' wills and Dragon Lady back there. Thank you for doing all of that for me."

"What can I say?" Remus shrugged. "I adore legal documents."

"You sound like Professor Wellbourne. You two were meant for one another."

"Undoubtedly. We plan to spend our honeymoon resolving the Ministry's budget crisis."

Harry grinned. "Yes, well. Just remember to return her by the start of term."

"I'll see what I can do," Remus answered, chuckling, turning to leave.

"Professor?" Harry called after him.

Remus turned, looking amused. "Harry, I've already told you that you don't have to..."

"You're still the best Defense Against the Dark Arts professor we ever had," Harry interrupted.

His former professor's face stretched into a grin at least as large as the one he'd worn while disclosing his upcoming marriage to Harry. "Truly?"

"Truly," Harry said firmly.

"Don't tell Professor Wellbourne that. She's still in charge of your grades."

"I won't. Not until after the N.E.W.T.s, at least."

"Good plan," Remus said, waving one last time before heading down the driveway. Turning, Harry walked into Number Four. His aunt was perched on the edge of a chair in the living room wearing an apron with a sweeper in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other, engrossed in the one talk show she believed transcended all housework.

Trudging upstairs, Harry walked automatically to his room, but paused at the doorway. He needed to take an inventory, and that inventory necessitated a mirror.

Thirty seconds later, with the bathroom door locked, his shirt off and a pensive look on his face, Harry judged himself seriously lacking. Once upon a time, Thera had declared him lithe. 'It's not like you're muscular, but it's not like you're entirely without muscles, either,' she'd said. 'You have muscles that serve a specific purpose, not a pack a pectorals that you can clench alternatively to the rhythm of Ride of the Valkyries.'

He hadn't entirely understood what she'd meant at the time, but sort of did now. No matter how hard he tried, his pectorals clenched to no rhythm, though it was possible that that was because he was extremely rhythm handicapped.

Okay, it wasn't. It was because he really didn't have any pectorals to speak of. It rankled that an offhand comment from Yolanda Kurtz about his skinniness had forced him into this position, but it had, and perhaps it was overdue.

There was no romanticizing the matter, no litheness or wiriness to be justified. The unfortunate fact was that he didn't look remotely close to seventeen, and that was just from the waist-up. That wasn't even taking into account his chicken legs.

Was he really supposed to face up to a man's destiny looking like this? His secret weapon was making Voldemort laugh himself to death?

Pulling his shirt over his head, he strode back to his room, shutting the door and kicking off his jeans. Placing his feet together and holding himself up at arm's length, he did a push-up. Then his feet slid out from under him and he collapsed onto the floor.

Hardwood floors and sock did not mix. Peeling them off and tossing them aside, Harry resumed his position and managed fifteen decent push-ups before his arms gave out. Rolling over onto his back, panting, he felt like the world's biggest weakling.

Scooting himself across the floor, he hooked his feet underneath the desk and put his hands behind his head, trying to remember pointers from Aunt Petunia's exercise videos. Not able to think of any, he jumped right in. He finally stopped not because his abdominal muscles were tired, but because his tailbone was screaming in agony from being ground into the floor.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Harry decided that he couldn't do this on his own. He needed a trainer. Hell, he needed an entire Rocky movie. And as soon as he could lift himself off the floor, he'd go find Fox and get it.

*******

An unnaturally beautiful Hispanic woman met them in The Cardinal's entryway.

"Fox," the walking wet dream said, nodding to her, pronouncing it 'Fucks,' the way most non-native English speakers did. Fox returned the nod.

"Severus," the woman purred, taking a step forward to shake his head. For his part, Snape looked mildly frightened by the female attention. "Follow me, please," she said pleasantly, leading them into a side hallway and through unending sets of corridors. Aside from the occasional, "Hot tamale!" and "Mamasita!" from the ogling portraits, their journey was silent. Eventually, the woman held open a door.

"He's just finishing up his morning swim," she said, gesturing for them to enter.

From the climate-controlled interior of the house, they entered the hot, humid pool area, surrounded on all sides by thick vegetation. The pathway eventually revealed an Olympic-sized swimming pool with a jacuzzi bubbling merrily off to the left.

"Life outside the law pays well," Severus commented.

"If it didn't, there wouldn't be any criminals," Fox said, searching the pool and spotting The Cardinal freestyling his way towards them in a full cap, goggles and Speedo get-up.

They sat down on a pair of lounge chairs as he approached. After touching the wall, he immediately ripped off his goggles and looked to his right. Following his eyes, Fox noticed a gigantic stopwatch on the wall. Apparently pleased with his time, The Cardinal hoisted himself out of the pool, peeling off his cap and shaking out his hair. Out of nowhere, a voluptuous blonde secretary appeared and wrapped a towel around him.

"You shaved two hundredths of a second off your time," she said proudly.

"And it's all thanks to that full body massage you gave me," The Cardinal responded.

"Very well, indeed," Severus murmured.

"Fox!" The Cardinal called out, beaming at her. "Been a while, hasn't it? Everyone missed you at the Christmas party. Did you have a good time in Jamaica?"

"Yes, sir," she said, recalling the feel of hot young buttocks underneath her hands.

"Severus," he said, a mischievous smile crossing his face. "Good to see you again."

Fox looked over to find her companion looking pale and openly gawking at The Cardinal. "Aberforth?" he asked faintly.

"None other," The Cardinal said, sitting down beside her. "Water, please." A split second later, the door opened, revealing a breathtaking Asian woman bearing a tray with a chilled bottle of water. Bowing, she presented it to him. "Would you two like anything?" Fox shook her head, as did Severus, though the look on his face stated quite plainly that if possible, he would very much like the Asian woman.

Noting the look, The Cardinal grinned as the secretary retreated. "A word of advice, old friend. Don't bother. They're all lesbians."

"Really?" Fox asked, glancing at the door.

The Cardinal hummed as he took a healthy gulp of water. "I've found," he panted, putting the bottle down on the ground, "that it keeps things running more smoothly."

"I should probably tell Gautham about that," she said.

"And ruin my fun?" The Cardinal asked, flashing her big puppy-dog eyes.

Dragging his gaze away from the departed secretary, Severus cleared his throat. "Forgive me, Aberforth, but how on earth is it possible that you're The Cardinal?"

"Well," The Cardinal said, running a hand through his short gray hair, "suffice it to say that I'm neither the original Cardinal, nor the only one in operation right now."

Fox stared at him. "I'm sorry?"

"He's Dumbledore's brother Aberforth," Severus explained. "During the first war against the Dark Lord, he fought with the Order. Then...well, then he disappeared."

"I had to do something," The Cardinal shrugged. "My big brother was a Guardian who'd defeated Grindelwald. I couldn't compete with that. So after the whole misunderstanding with the goat, I figured it was time to leave Britain. Luckily enough, I happened upon The Cardinal's organization. Eventually, The Cardinal himself came to talk to me. The whole thing had gotten far too big for him to handle alone. So whenever we got a new client, I handled the operation, presenting myself as The Cardinal. Now there are four of us, handling different aspects of the organization."

"So you're not the real Cardinal?" Fox asked carefully. Misunderstanding with the goat?

"In all truth, there isn't a real Cardinal. There never was. The organization was initially a committee of like-minded individuals who called themselves 'The Cardinal.' People began thinking it was an actual person, so they hired an actor who ponced around for a while. Eventually, as operations grew, they saw the value in having someone oversee them, as The Cardinal. Operations grew more, and here we are right now."

"Openly running Stanford," Fox mumbled.

The Cardinal smiled at her fondly. "Among other things. The UN, the EU, NATO, OPEC, the BCS, the BBC, Planned Parenthood, the Red Cross, The Catholic Church..."

"Merlin, Aberforth," Severus breathed, looking even paler, and frankly overwhelmed. "Who on earth was on that committee?"

"A few that you would expect to be there, and a great many that you wouldn't," The Cardinal answered with a beatific smile. "Rumors of Guardians, rumors of The Cardinal...these have proved to be true. How many others might also be true?"

Fox cut her eyes to him. "So the Rothschilds are actually running the planet?"

"Not alone, they aren't," The Cardinal scoffed. Then his demeanor abruptly shifted into brisk and businesslike. "So, Severus, about the deal you proposed."

The Professor sat up. "Yes, sir?"

"We have no use for family jewels and minor ancient artifacts," The Cardinal said. "Voldemort needs outside help to immanentize the eschaton. Help from abroad. Help he already has lined up, for the most part. Grindelwald managed to kill over fifty million before he went down, and even that wasn't enough. Voldemort plans to do in three times that many in half the amount of time. I'll cut off all of his avenues in exchange for one simple task."

"What is it?" Snape asked hoarsely.

The Cardinal smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Severus, old friend, I want you to make a potion for me."