Two to Obey

Chapter 9: Truth Will Out

Human blunders usually do more to shape history than human wickedness.

--A.J.P. Taylor, The Origins of the Second World War

*******

Draco took a deep breath and let it out before walking into his father's office. It wasn't really possible to avoid Lucius in Malfoy Manor, but Draco had done his best. "You wanted to see me?" he asked, sitting down in his usual chair, keeping his voice carefully neutral. His father handed him the parchment he'd been reading.

"Head Boy," Lucius said, picking up the badge and studying it. Draco couldn't help but feel a warm little spurt of pride at how it glistened in the sun. He had to restrain himself from snatching it out of his father's hand. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

Draco waited for the backhanded part of the compliment, but Lucius chose another tack.

"I imagine your mother will want me to buy you something. What would you like?"

And for the first time in his life, Draco couldn't really think of anything. He'd gotten another new broom for his birthday, he'd already chosen his new wardrobe for school, and he was far too old for Gobstones. If he thought hard enough, he could surely come up with something, but he didn't really feel like putting forward the effort.

Which is to say that he wanted quite a few things. Unfortunately, they were all intangible and were all well beyond his father's procurement abilities. Like - for instance - a way the fuck out of the fucking spell that was wreaking havoc on his fucking life, forcing him to go running around like a fucking moron hiding Extendable Ears all over the house.

That would be nice. Too bad asking for it would mean spending the rest of his summer holiday in the dungeons, and that only if Lucius was in a good mood.

"I suppose I could use some new Quidditch gloves," Draco said finally.

His father raised an eyebrow. "That's all?"

"My schoolbag's getting a bit ratty," he added.

Lucius stared at him for a moment in that way that made Draco feel like an insect on a pin. It took a lot not to fidget under that stare. Red often claimed that he had a 'Lucius Face,' but Draco didn't really think he did. He hadn't killed enough people to have that look down yet. "Very well," he murmured, handing over the badge. Draco curled his fingers around it covetously.

"Is that all, father?" he asked apprehensively.

"Not quite," Lucius said, still pinning him down with that stare. "Head Boy is a position of leadership. I'm sure the Dark Lord will be very pleased with your accomplishment. He will also expect a great deal more from you."

Ah, yes. Draco was only surprised the Dark Lord hadn't figured out a way for him to use his position as Quidditch Captain in order to further the cause. It was probably only a matter of time. "Yes, father."

"I doubt it will surprise you to learn that Miss Granger is Head Girl."

"No, father, it doesn't," Draco said miserably. Here it came. It was worse than the backhanded compliment. It was the delayed backhanded compliment, when Lucius waited until he wasn't expecting it anymore.

"Somehow without the benefit of expensive tutors, she still manages to outscore you."

"She won't this year, father. I promise," Draco said, though neither of them was fooled. She'd managed to get higher marks than him after spending most of a term petrified in the Hospital Wing. The Mudblood could probably meet her untimely demise tomorrow and still beat him. He wouldn't put it past her.

"See that she doesn't," his father replied, dismissing him, thankfully willing to go along with the charade for one last year.

Draco was furious, and as he always did when he was furious, he sought out Thera.

She opened the door to her room, her hair in sexy disarray - she'd employed the conditioner he'd bought her, to great effect - with a lovely red silk kimono wrapped haphazardly around her. "Give me a minute," she said, shutting the door, leaving him to seethe in the hallway, his mind on his father.

"I'd like to see you try to outscore the Mudblood, you sodding fuck," he muttered.

Thera's door opened and a man stepped out carrying his robes, shoes and trousers. He sent Draco a terrified attempt at a smile and beat a hasty, stiff-legged retreat.

"It'll only be sore for a day or two," Thera called after him.

"Who was that?" Draco asked as he flopped onto her bed.

"Jarvis. He's one of the dungeon guards," she said as she poured them both a drink. "I've got another one trapped in my web of seduction, too. I figured they might come in handy. Actually, they already have," she said, undoing the handcuffs from the bed frame.

"How so?"

"Don't ever eat the liverwurst here."

"Why not?"

"Well you see, a Man-Eating Scaraptula can only consume so much flesh so often, and the Dark Lord hates waste, so..."

Draco put down his drink, wincing. "I'm sorry I asked."

Thera cackled. "Don't tell Snape, though. He loves the liverwurst."

"I bet that's why his breath always...oh, never mind. I'd rather not think about it."

"Speaking of Snape, I have some interesting news."

"Oh, Merlin. Are you fucking him, too? Is that where you got the kimono?"

Thera eyed him over the top of her glass. "I didn't have to fuck him to get it." She performed a little twirl. "I can see why you'd think so, though. It just screams 'kept woman,' doesn't it? No, I got it as part of my new wardrobe to entertain the foreign dignitaries. He claims that the entertainment duties wouldn't extend quite that far, but I think he's still hoping," she shrugged. "In any case, Snape has a new gig running around polyjuiced, impersonating Patrick O'Riordan. Also, you owe me fifty galleons. He confirmed O'Riordan's personal habits."

Draco was surprised. "So he doesn't bugger little boys?"

"Nope. Fifty galleons."

"I'll be checking that information with Snape first, if you don't mind."

"Feel free. It's true."

"Why's he sneaking around as O'Riordan, for Merlin's sake?"

"O'Riordan's in charge of the visit. I think Snape might also be trying to head them all off at the pass. I'm kind of unclear on the details. In any case, I'm setting up the house for the expected guests and bugging it for Dumbledore."

Draco looked over at her, raising an eyebrow. "I thought Dumbledore kicked you out."

She hummed a little, twirling some more, probably a little drunk. "He did. Then he found out that the Dark Lord's pals were coming into town and realized that the only two people with access to their rooms were the Dark Lord and me, and the Dark Lord likes Dumbledore even less than I do."

"What'd you get for it?"

"Direct access to you and Harry at Hogwarts, which I'll have before I do a bloody thing."

"Potter again," he said, making a face. "What the hell is it with you and him?"

She laughed. "You mean with me and my ticket out of here? I'm highly in favor of his continued existence, for one thing."

He studied her for a moment, utterly disgusted. "No, I don't think that's it. I think he's ensnared you with his 'poor me' act. People who help out Harry Potter have an unfortunate tendency to wind up dead, you know."

"Draco," Thera said patiently, "Having used hundreds of different variations of the 'poor me' act over the years, I think it's safe to say that I'm immune to its effects."

"If you say so," he sneered.

"Uh-oh," she said, wide-eyed. "Draco's in a mood. I'd better watch out."

"I'm not in a mood," he snapped.

"Come on, you can tell me," she purred, going instantaneously seductive. She rather had that talent. The kimono helped. She sauntered over and straddled him, leaning her forehead down to touch his. She wasn't probably drunk. She was definitely drunk. "What's wrong in pampered rich boy land?"

"Fuck off," he said coldly.

"Couldn't get your hair perfect this morning?" she cooed with false sympathy. "New broom needs repairing? The girls in Knockturn Alley won't change a galleon anymore?"

Because it was less distasteful than backhanding her across the room, Draco picked her up off his lap, tossed her on the bed, stood up and crossed his arms, glaring at her.

"Let's get one thing straight here," he hissed. It was pointless to give Thera a lecture when she was drunk, but it would make him feel better. "I'm sure from your perspective, my life is charmed and glorious. Well, here's a news story for you, Thera. It isn't. This spell is our mutual prison, and I'll admit that it sucks a lot more for you than it does for me. But guess what? If the Dark Lord kicks it, you're free as a little birdie, whereas I will merely return back to the slightly larger prison that I've inhabited since the day I was born, and I'm just now realizing I'll inhabit until the day I die. You want to talk about a charmed life? You got to spend fifteen years away from all of this shit," he said, waving a hand to encompass the room. "I didn't. So once more with feeling, FUCK OFF."

"Alrighty then," she said, yawning and lounging back on the bed.

Throwing up his hands, he gave up, turning to leave.

Thera heaved a long, loud sigh. "Oh, stop, you big sulker. You don't owe them anything, all right? I'm not the only one who could be free as a bird if Harry wins."

"Easy for you to say," he shot back. "Your parents already shat all over the family legacy. Then they died. You have nothing to destroy and nobody to answer to. I do."

She sat up on the edge of the bed, swinging her feet. "Isn't the point of taking down Lucius so that you can get your revenge and then do whatever the fuck you want to do?"

Draco ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I don't know if it's worth taking down Lucius," he said heavily.

"Getting cold feet, are you? I'll bet he wasn't so indecisive when he sold you out."

Walking back over, he rejoined her on the bed. "What if he didn't have a choice?"

"What does it matter?" she shrugged. "He still did it. We don't have a choice about what we do. That doesn't mean we aren't going to be held responsible for any of it. Besides, if he was at all conflicted about tossing you over, don't you think he'd have put an ounce of effort into trying to stop the spell by now?"

Not having an answer for that, Draco stared at his hands clenched in his lap, feeling strangely hollow. Thera scooted over a few inches and rested her head on his shoulder. In terms of Slytherin comfort, she was dangerously close to touchy-feely, but he didn't say anything.

"If there's any justice in the world," she mused, "Lucius will go down at least as messily as Reina did."

"Did you hate her, too?" he asked, leaning his head on top of hers.

"I don't know. I don't even think she knew about the spell. As for everything else...well, in her own fucked up way, she thought she was preparing me for life. Or at least that's the excuse she kept shoving down my throat."

Draco smiled wryly. It was Lucius' favorite line. "This is for your own good."

"Yeah, well neither of them ever had a really clear understanding of the concept of 'good.'" She pulled away, pouring herself another drink, back to business. "So do you want me to call off the dogs on Lucius?"

"I don't know," he said, passing a hand over his eyes. "I'll let you know."

"Either I hang him or I don't," she warned him. "Once I start, you can't back out."

"I know that," he said, standing up. "Just hold off until I tell you, okay?"

Thera shook her head at him. "He doesn't deserve you."

It was - without a doubt - the nicest thing she'd ever said to him, and Draco felt them drawing close to the touchy-feely line again. Reaching up a hand, he rearranged a few strands of her hair until it looked perfect. "Unforgivable slut," he said fondly.

"Ass-kissing ponce," she said. But she put up with the fussing for an uncharacteristically long time before shooing him away.

*******

On Harry's birthday - also his last day in Little Whinging - he was still reeling from Fox's first training session, so when she yanked him out of bed at 4:30 for the second morning in a row, his first thought was that he honestly didn't think he could get out of bed. With a great deal of heaving and groaning, he did manage to get upright.

As promised, she'd gone easy on him. They'd only jogged for a little bit, then done a very scaled down version of the previous days' calisthenics, which Fox claimed would help with the soreness. He was back in Privet Drive before 5:30, and used the extra time to indulge in a long, luxurious bath to soak his overused muscles.

He packed up his trunk, chuckling a little to himself as he remembered Mrs. Polkiss - Zdenka - marveling over it the day before. She'd been a great fan of his broom and spent a good twenty minutes amusing herself with his practice snitch, but his Quidditch magazines were the real hit, not only because the pictures moved, but because they were usually action shots of exciting plays from different matches.

"Oh, my lord," she'd whispered, watching as the Seeker for the Holyfield Harpies made a spectacular catch by throwing herself off of her broom at the snitch, catching it just before crashing into the ground, going into a roll and standing up shakily, waving the snitch at the crowd. "That woman's insane. Have you ever done that?"

"Er...not on purpose," he'd said.

He'd promised to stop by to say goodbye before he left, and found himself passing her house, walking into downtown. He'd never really felt at home in Little Whinging, nor had he particularly liked it, nor did he have any truly good memories of it. And yet he couldn't quite believe that this was the last time he'd ever see it.

Zdenka met him in a near-frenzy of excitement. "You have to see!" she cried, grabbing his hand and dragging him to the backyard. "Look! Look! Our first tomato!"

It wasn't quite a tomato yet, but it was the beginning of one. "Congratulations."

"Congratulations to both of us," she said, grinning at him. "We've created life."

Harry laughed. "What should we name it?"

"Oooh, good question. I don't know. Any suggestions?"

He thought about it for a moment. "How about Neville? He's a friend of mine who's very talented with plants. It seems like it would be good luck."

"Neville, then," she said, beaming proudly at her almost-tomato. Then she sighed. "Oh, I can't eat it now. It has a name."

"Well, you can't let it rot. Plus, you have to eat it so you can tell me how good they are."

She glanced at him. "How am I to do that, exactly?"

He knew some Muggleborns just communicated with their parents via owl, but most sent an owl to a depot or something that then delivered the letter in the Muggle post. Their parents could also send a letter to the same depot, which would then deliver it to the student via owl post. "There are ways. I'll have to ask my friend Hermione."

"I would like for you to keep in touch," she said with a half-smile. "I sincerely doubt your life is intended to be boring, Harry Potter."

"Isn't that supposed to be a curse or something? 'May you live in interesting times'?"

"Curses often turn out to be blessings in the end," she said thoughtfully, squeezing his shoulder. "I know you can't stay long. Let me get you your present."

"You didn't have to..." He gave up, since she had already started inside, so all he could do was follow her. She handed him a small, neatly wrapped box. Still protesting a little bit, he opened it to reveal a necklace with a silver medallion on it.

"It's a medal of St. Michael the Archangel," she explained.

"Oh," he said, smiling at her. "Thanks a lot."

She gave him a narrow-eyed look. "You have no idea who he is, do you?"

"Erm...no," he confessed.

"Paganism and witchcraft," she sighed. "He led the forces of heaven in their triumph over the forces of hell. I thought it seemed appropriate."

"Well, at least he won."

"Yes, and I expect you to follow his example. Happy Birthday, Harry."

"Thanks." He put it on, feeling the rather comfortable weight of the medal against his chest. "So will you pray for me?" he asked lightly.

"Of course I will."

A tense, uncomfortable silence descended, as if neither one of them were really certain what else to say. Finally, she cleared her throat. "So I suppose..."

It wasn't just hormones that made him do it. It was also that any sort of goodbye they were going to have was going to be a disappointment without it. And it was also that frankly, it was now or never - and probably now and never again.

So he leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't a passionate kiss. No tongues got involved. Aside from his hand lightly on her arm, they weren't even touching. It only lasted for about five seconds, but in those five seconds, she did kiss him back.

Just for the record.

They pulled apart simultaneously, smiling at each other. Then she put a hand over her mouth and started giggling like a schoolgirl. It was such a ridiculous reaction that it set him off, and before long, they were both laughing like a pair of crazy people.

"I suppose," she gasped as she wiped tears from her eyes, "we both had to get that out of our systems, didn't we? Oh, dear. I think that's a thousand Hail Marys right there."

"Was it worth it?"

"Once? Yes. But never again."

"I know," he said, smiling at her a bit sheepishly. "I had to try, you understand."

"I understand. You're a teenage boy. And I am very flattered."

"If we'd done that yesterday," he said, snickering, "it would have been illegal."

"Don't remind me," she groaned. "I already feel like a dirty old woman."

"You're not a dirty old woman. I'm the one who kissed you."

"Yes, but I'm the one who should have slapped you for trying."

"A firm 'No, thank you' would've sufficed."

Laughing, she pulled him into a fierce hug. "Take care of yourself, Harry."

"I will. You, too."

And that was that. Pulling out of the hug, he opened the front door and left. And then he walked all the way back to Privet Drive with a strange look on his face, trying to keep from grinning and not quite achieving it.

His farewell to the Dursleys was a great deal more disappointing. Uncle Vernon was at work and Dudley was out of the house, probably with his friends. As the time approached for him to floo to the Burrow, Harry took one look around his room, then wandered downstairs and got into his cupboard for old time's sake.

Shutting the door, he sat down on his old pallet. His head touched the ceiling now, and it was a tight squeeze, since they'd stripped the sheets off and piled boxes inside. Of course, there had often been boxes inside when he'd been in there, but he'd been a lot smaller then. Much as Ron and Hermione thought it was borderline child abuse, he hadn't really minded the cupboard - well, aside from the times they locked him in - because it had been his. It had been the only thing he'd owned besides his glasses that Dudley hadn't owned first. And it was cozy in its own way, almost womb-like. When the Dursleys had moved him to the bedroom upstairs, he'd lain awake the first few nights, feeling exposed and vulnerable without the protective walls of his little cupboard.

His aunt's face appeared in the crack of the doorway, scowling at him. "What are you doing in there?"

"Reliving my childhood," he said mildly. "I'm leaving in a few minutes."

"Are any of them coming to pick you up?" she asked warily.

"No, I'm using the fireplace. They'll shut it off as soon as I go, so don't worry."

"Good." She turned to go.

"Aunt Petunia?" She turned back around, squinting at him sitting in the darkness. "I'm not coming back or anything. I mean...this is my last year and I'm seventeen, so..."

The corners of her mouth pinched. "I see."

He expected her to say something else. 'Good riddance' or 'Don't let the door hit you on the way out' or something. But she didn't. She just kept watching him with her characteristic look of disapproval and the silence stretched longer and longer.

"Did you want to take along some food?" she asked, looking uncomfortable, apparently recalling the 'Treat Harry like a God or else we'll kill you all' dictum.

"No, thank you, "he said, sagging a little.

"Okay, then." Her head disappeared and her shoes tapped down the hallway. He didn't move, just sat in his cupboard staring after her, getting progressively angrier. He probably should have said something snide to her. Hell, he could have said anything he wanted to her, told her off for sixteen years of misery. But he wasn't angry at her.

He was angry at himself, because even though he'd known from the time he could walk that his relatives detested him and figured out soon afterwards that nothing he did or said would ever make them not detest him, some tiny part of him still longed for a kind word, a tiny kernel of acceptance, or at least something other than outright disdain.

He'd never get it, and if Hermione were here, she'd launch into a big long speech about how it wasn't his failing, it was theirs. He knew that, but old habits die hard.

He needed to get out of this cupboard before he chased after her and apologized for something that wasn't his fault or some other stupid shit. It was hard to leave, though. All summer he'd been clinging to the fact that this was his last summer here like a lifeline. His time with the Dursleys was finally, finally over. And yet here he was, almost missing the place. Well, almost.

He didn't want to come back. He just wanted some sort of closure, some sense that he'd lived here and wasn't just a guest checking out of a motel room or something.

Reaching into his schoolbag, he pulled out a perma-ink quill. Crouching over so his head wouldn't bang into the ceiling, he used his shirt to wipe off the doorjamb. Then he wrote in big block letters:

HARRY POTTER WAS HERE

"Closure," Harry said quietly, smiling at his work, the mark he'd made on Number Four. He'd like to see their faces when they found it. And he'd very much like to see them try to get it off. Unfortunately, he had more important things to do. Picking up his schoolbag and his trunk, he flooed to the Burrow for his seventeenth birthday party.

*******

The Weasleys, as a group, were terrible at surprises. They weren't a quiet bunch, and they weren't exactly known for their ability to keep a secret unless it was vitally important. And yet they'd all been hiding behind the furniture in the den for a good ten minutes, waiting to surprise Harry for his birthday.

Of course, he knew he was getting a party. He got one every year, and Ginny had a feeling that eleven people jumping out from behind furniture at Harry was more likely to scare the living daylights out of him than give him a pleasant surprise. But her mother had insisted that they give Harry a jolly welcome, so here they all were, crouching and whispering and giggling in anticipation, getting cramps in their joints.

"He's late," Ron complained into the top of her head from their spot behind the recliner.

"He's leaving forever," Hermione said, squirming a little. "Give him some time."

"He hates that place. Why would he want to stay there any longer than necessary?"

"It's not always that easy, Ron."

"What, so right now they're all hugging and sobbing on each other, promising to write?"

"Could you be any more insensitive?" Hermione hissed. "For better or worse, he did grow up in that place, you know. If it takes him five extra minutes to leave..."

Ginny shushed them, more to shut them up in general than to shut them up in order to preserve the element of surprise.

"Oh, no. I really need to pee," Tonks said mournfully from behind the sofa.

"Go pee, then," Bill told her. "I don't know why you're here anyway. It'll take the combined effort of all of us to get you standing up again."

"Well, I wanted to be part of the surprise and...oh, sod it. Help me up, will you?" Random grunts emitted from behind the sofa, where both of the twins pulled on Tonks' arms while Bill seemed to be pushing from behind. Tonks thanked them and took off as quickly as she could waddle.

The fireplace flared to life just as Tonks cleared the stairs, and they all went silent.

Ginny heard Harry heave his trunk out of the fireplace and set it down. "Hello?"

At which point, everybody jumped out at him. His reaction was rather as Ginny could have predicted - he yelped, stumbled backwards and sat down hard on his trunk. His eyes were wide and he had his wand out, even though she hadn't seen him go for it.

"Don't shoot!" Fred yelled in a high pitched voice, throwing his hands up over his face.

Finally recognizing them all, Harry lowered his wand and laughed a little bit. "Sorry."

"Little jumpy there, aren't you?" George asked, coming around the sofa to engulf him in a back-slapping man hug. "Wonder why that is?"

"Too much coffee at breakfast," Harry grinned, taking his turn with everybody.

"You're a man now, you realize," Bill said seriously, holding Harry by the shoulders. "And that's why, following all of the kiddie cake and candles, we're taking you out and getting you completely and utterly pissed."

"And then we're going to take pictures and send them to Witch Weekly," Ron said.

"Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor indeed," Fred sniffed.

"Everybody knows that I'm Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor," George said.

Fred punched him on the arm. "Don't you mean we?"

George looked down his nose at him. "I'm far better looking. Everybody says so."

"You lot are not getting him drunk," her mother said, smothering poor Harry in a patented Molly Weasley bear hug. "He had better be standing on his own two feet when he walks in that door later, or I'll have your heads, all of you."

"Don't worry, Molly. I'll keep them in line," Remus offered.

"He doesn't need a chaperone," Fred said, scowling.

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to buy the drinks or not?"

As a unit, her four brothers turned to look at Remus. "He makes a good argument there," Bill admitted.

"Drinks for all of us?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Drinks for all of you," he assured him.

"Remus?" Harry's voice sounded from her father's neck. "What are you doing here?"

"It's your birthday," he shrugged. "Where else would I be?"

"On your honeymoon." Harry finally appeared, looking floored.

"I had my honeymoon," Remus said, smiling. "And now I'm back."

"Only three days? And Professor Wellbourne didn't kill you?" Harry asked, agog.

"We didn't mean to go away for long. There's a war on. And we always meant to come back for your birthday," the Professor said, looking confused. "Why wouldn't we?"

The look on Harry's face said quite clearly that he couldn't see why they would.

"It's your seventeenth birthday," Remus said, clapping him on the shoulder, then pulling him into a hug. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Harry looked positively awestruck. Ginny wondered what it must be like for him to leave the Dursleys and walk into this. Awestruck probably covered it.

They moved on to the standard Weasley fare - picnic and presents. There were never any food fights and nobody ever got thrown in the pond during a Harry party; Ginny had a feeling that despite years of friendship, the Weasley kids were all still on just a little bit better behavior around Harry than they were around each other.

Of course, that could all change tonight. Over Easter holidays, Ron had returned from his own party completely unconscious. Bill and the twins - who hadn't been much better off themselves - had had to carry him up the stairs. He'd been wearing completely different clothes from the ones he'd worn when they'd left, a pair of knickers on his head and had sported a black eye that nobody seemed able to explain without laughing hysterically.

Her mother had been livid. And that had been Ron. She treated Harry like a fine piece of china. Merlin help them if they brought him back in that state.

Harry did a good deal better than she had on her birthday. Defense books and Quidditch accessories, mostly, though Fred and George had taken one of the pictures from his interview in Witch Weekly and blown it up into a full-length cut out. Conversation revolved mainly around her father's campaign for Minister, which didn't involve much, considering nobody seemed anxious to fund his campaign.

"How much do you need?" Harry asked.

"Well, they say Amos Diggory's got five million galleons behind him," her father said, laughing a little, "so...about five million galleons."

"He's got five million galleons?" her mother asked, aghast. "No wonder he's on the wireless every other minute promising to lower our taxes."

"Ginny?" Hermione asked, nudging her with an elbow.

"Huh?"

"Bill wants to talk to us," she whispered. Ginny groaned inwardly. Oh, right. The discussion with the trio about her safety and blah-dee-blah. "Do you know what this is about?" Hermione asked as they walked off to the treehouse.

"It's about Draco," Ginny said glumly. "Bill will explain it all, I'm sure."

As Bill lectured the trio on the finer points of making sure Ginny doesn't fall into the evil hands of You-Know-Who, she couldn't help but feel a surge of anger. She was always the useless one, and it was the world's most annoying position to inhabit, because she couldn't do anything. She was like a bland princess in a fairy tale that had to be protected and saved all the time because she didn't have the ability to protect herself.

Why was she even in the D.A.? They'd never let her fight. She was just a mindless object that both sides were trying to get, to hold onto. How utterly fucking empowering. She might as well just take a nice long nap until the war was over.

Or at least until Bill finished lecturing. They stood and began filing out. Ginny stood to follow, but Ron held her back. "Hang on a second."

"What?" she asked, imagining a whole new set of Ron rules in place for her behavior come start of term.

"I just...let's just talk for a second, okay?"

"What is it?" she repeated, sitting down on the sofa.

Ron clasped his hands together, his jaw working back and forth, obviously deep in thought. "First of all, I am actually trying to not blow the top of my head off about this whole Malfoy thing. I think I've been pretty calm about it lately."

"Yes, you have," Ginny admitted. She'd largely chalked it up to denial, but okay.

"I saw you two together, and all. Do you love him?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

If he'd asked the question in a confrontational way, she'd have told him to sod off and stomped out of the treehouse, but he didn't. He just sounded legitimately curious.

And that was a lot more credit than Ron had given her since...well, ever. If he was willing to accept her choices enough to at least not disagree with this one without explanation, then she supposed she owed him a decent explanation.

"Because he's smart and funny, and in his own way he's noble, really."

"Noble?" Ron asked sarcastically.

"I know he's been a jerk to you all for years, but he hasn't been since we got together, has he?" Ron glanced at her, but kept silent. "That's because I asked him not to. And he did it because I asked him to. He'd do that for me, and I know he'd do a lot more than that, without being asked. He already has."

Ron nodded briefly, still facing forward, his features hard. "How?"

Ginny played with her hands in her lap. "In Little Hangleton, I was up in the bedroom, and he just walked in. He was with one of the Death Eaters, the one who'd been guarding the door. He was still playing the part. He told me to turn around, so I did. Then he killed the Death Eater."

"Is this supposed to be convincing me of his nobility? Because it isn't."

"If the Death Eaters were holding Hermione somewhere and you didn't know if she was okay or not, what would you do to get to her?" Ginny asked pointedly.

Ron's face twitched. "He killed that Death Eater to cover himself, Gin."

"Yeah, and he only had to because he came up there in the first place," she said, "and he only came up there to make sure I was okay. And he had me turn around, Ron."

"So you wouldn't see it," he mumbled, his eyes staring out the window of the treehouse.

"I'm not asking you to sympathize or anything," she said evenly. "Or even to understand. I just don't want you to hate me for it."

"I don't hate you," he sighed. "I'd never hate you, Gin. And I know you get all pissed off about all of us being overprotective of you, but it's up to us to keep you safe, and it's especially up to me. I want you to be happy, but I just can't see how Malfoy could ever make you happy in the long run."

"Ron, I'm sixteen," she said in a pained voice. "We're not planning our lives yet."

"I know that. I just don't understand why it has to be Malfoy."

"We can't choose who we love," Ginny said, resting her chin in her hands. "If we could, I'd fall in love with Harry and Mum would die from joy and the entire family would throw garlands of flowers at us on our wedding day and we'd all live happily ever after."

"So Harry's out, then?"

Ginny rolled her eyes over to him. "Ron."

He held up his hands. "I'm just saying that he's available."

"Ro-on!"

"Okay, okay," he said, smiling good-naturedly. "I actually wanted to ask you about something else, too." His smile faded and he sent her a sidelong glance. "Are you still serious about what we talked about before, about remembering all that stuff?"

Oh, right. The Chamber of Secrets. Ginny bit her lip. "I guess so. I mean, I should. It's not like we're making tons of progress with the spell or researching the eschaton and who knows? Maybe something that happened could help or at least put us on the right track or something and..." With effort, she shut her mouth to cut off the babbling.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Ron said quietly. "I just wondered."

"No, no. I do want to." Merlin knows they wouldn't let her do anything else to help out. It was just that it scared her. A lot. More than she liked to admit to herself.

"Okay," he said. "We're going to have to talk to Mum and Dad first, though."

"I know," she said, feeling the familiar weight pressing down on her. She didn't want to have another one of these talks with her parents and drag up everything again.

"Hey!" a voice called up to the treehouse from below. "Come on, Ron. It's time to take Harry out. Are you coming or not?"

Ron stood and pulled her up, giving her a hug. "It'll be okay," he whispered to her, and Ginny squeezed him tightly. She wasn't entirely sure she believed him, but she knew Ron, and she knew he'd move heaven and earth to make sure it was.

They climbed down the ladder to rejoin what was left of the party, which contained her mother, her, and the party boys. "Hope you ate a lot," George was saying to Harry as they walked up. "You'll want a full stomach for what we're about to do to you."

"You will not try to do to him what you tried to do to Ron," her mother warned.

"What? You mean buy him a prostitute?" Fred asked innocently.

"No prostitutes!" her mother yelled, going red in the face.

"It'll be tame, Molly," Remus assured her. "I promise. Just a jolly good clean time."

Her mother seemed slightly pacified, though she still insisted on another five minutes of hugging Harry and inventing new things the men weren't allowed to do to him. Harry, for his part, looked increasingly worried with every idea she presented.

They finally managed to extricate him from Molly Weasley's grip of maternal fretting and walked off down the pathway towards the Muggle pub in town.

"Well," her mother sighed. "Here we are, dear. Get used to it."

"Get used to what?" Ginny asked.

"Cleaning up after them and then lying awake all night hoping they'll make it home alive," her mother said, using her wand to guide a load of dirty dishes into the kitchen.

Ginny surveyed the dirty plates and leftover food. "I think I'd rather be a boy," she grumbled, trudging over to help out.

*******

"So what would you like first, Harry?" Remus asked as their motley crew gathered around a corner of the bar, much to the amusement of the gathered patrons. He had a feeling that weeknights at the local pub generally didn't involve six boisterous strangers walking in, four of them redheads.

"Be nice to me," Harry said, only half-joking.

"He wants a shot of scotch," Fred said with the air of an expert.

"No, he wants a bottle of scotch," George corrected him.

"Oh, dear," Harry said, looking ill.

"We'll start off with one shot and see what happens," Bill said wisely, wrapping an arm around his brothers as they bellied up to the bar.

"Just drink whatever they give you," Ron advised him. "You'll feel like shit tomorrow, but then it'll be over. And they'll probably feel like shit, too, so there's your revenge."

"I'll get you a glass of water," Remus muttered, joining the elder Weasleys at the bar.

The trip to the bar yielded two shots each, and Remus returned feeling decidedly out of his element, sporting a glass of water for Harry, and one for himself. He had serious doubts about being able to apparate home after Harry's birthday celebration.

"I'd like to go first, if you all don't mind," Remus said.

"You're paying," Bill grinned.

Remus chuckled. "Well, Harry, I'm not your father, nor am I a particularly good stand-in. So all I can give you are the words he gave me on my own seventeenth birthday." Clearing his throat, he raised his glass. "Voldemort may kill you, but this shot won't, so let's all stop wasting our time and just drink the bloody thing already."

There was a beat of silence. Finally, Harry's face stretched into a smile. "Hear, hear," he said softly, clinking glasses with Remus. He downed the shot, then slammed the glass on the table, grimacing. The rest of them followed suit.

"So by right of age, I'm next," Bill said, raising his glass. "Not to add to the morbidity of the night, but...there's nothing so terrible as losing a brother," he said, his voice going a bit hoarse. "But a brother you love is never really lost. And there's nothing so wonderful as gaining a brother." He put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Though you lack the red hair, Harry, you're a Weasley at heart, and we'll be proud to claim you for as long as you'll see fit to have us." Harry gawked at him. "So, to not make this toast last all night," Bill finished, "to Charlie, the brother we'll never lose, and to Harry, the brother we're glad we found."

They all clinked their glasses together and downed their shots, wincing and swearing.

Feeling rather done in by the shots, Remus ordered up a round of ales. "You realize, Harry," Ron said as he sipped the foam off of the top, "you're not a real Weasley until you've learned The Song."

"The song?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"This occasion does need The Song," Fred said, nodding.

"Wouldn't be an occasion without it," George agreed.

"Do we really have to do this in public?" Bill asked mournfully.

"The Song was made to be sung in public," Ron answered. "That's what you told me."

"Well, yes," Bill said. "But that's only because we were trying to make you sing it alone and make an ass out of yourself."

"But Harry doesn't know The Song," Ron said.

"What song?" Harry asked, growing annoyed.

"All right. I'll do it," Bill said grudgingly. "I'm not dropping my trousers, though."

"But that's part of the choreography," George argued.

"We'll get thrown out of the pub," Bill argued back.

"What?" Harry asked, looking intrigued. "Why? What are you talking about?"

"Fine, then," Fred said diplomatically. "Song, but no choreography."

"Can I lead?" Ron asked, looking excited.

"Go nuts," Bill sighed.

"Okay, then," Ron said. "One, two, three..."

And they sang:

"We're Weasley men,

We've got freckles everywhere,

And heads that are full of bright red hair.

We've even got red hair down there.

'Cause we're Weasley, Weasley men!"

Remus glanced over at Harry, who could barely contain his amusement. The entire pub had turned to look at them. Remus hoped that The Song didn't make any magical references. The last thing they needed was the Ministry crashing Harry's birthday.

"We're Weasley men,

And we've got enormous cocks."

Harry choked on his ale.

"Each one stretches out ten city blocks.

And underneath is a pair of solid rocks,

Yes, we're Weasley, Weasley men!"

"We're Weasley men,

The ladies love us one and all,

In a bed or a cupboard or up against a wall.

No arse is too fat and no breast is too small

For the Weasley, Weasley men!"

"Last verse, men. Make it count!" George yelled.

"We're Weasley men,

Manly men straight to the core.

We belch and fart and drool and brag and snore.

So tell us, ladies, who could ask for more

Than the Weasley, Weasley men!"

They finished up with a lot of hooting and back-slapping and grunting. Harry was laughing weakly into his ale, his face red with embarrassment.

"Now it's your turn, mate," Ron said, throwing an arm around him.

"I don't think I could top that performance," Harry demurred.

"You should see it with the choreography," Fred said, nudging him.

Some time later, after Bill had gone home to go look after the über-pregnant Tonks, Fred and George had moved off to play a game of darts and Ron had fallen asleep at the bar, Harry turned bleary eyes to Remus. "Thanks," he said, a bit slurry.

"You're welcome, Harry."

"Di' my dad really say tha' t'you on your birthday?"

Remus smiled. "He said it a lot, actually. That's how your dad was."

"Guess they wouldna had me if he wasn't," Harry said thoughtfully. "Thassa sobering thought, innit?" Then he giggled. "Sobering. I could use some, I think."

"Come on, let's get you back," Remus said, flagging down the bartender to pay the bill.

Harry chose that opportunity to slide off the barstool onto the floor. Stooping down, Remus wrestled him upright once more. "Oh, no," Harry said, looking worried. "Mizzes Weasley's gonna kill me."

"No, she's going to kill me," Remus assured him. "Fred, George!" he called over to them. "Can you get Ron home?"

"Nah, we'll just leave him there and pick him up in the morning," Fred said.

"Mum would have murdered us by morning," George pointed out.

"Aha! See, you're the smart one. I'm the good looking one."

"I'm both," George said. "Help me tie his shoelaces together so he doesn't escape."

Remus wisely decided that it was none of his business and helped Harry to the door. The pub wasn't far from the Burrow, but he had a feeling it was going to take them a good long time to get back. "You know wha', Remus?" Harry said, concentrating intently on putting one foot in front of the other. "You'd've made a really good dad."

"I think our current situation rather indicates that I wouldn't have," Remus dryly.

"This? Well you din't do this," Harry said. "I diddit t'myself. I jus' meant in general and alla stuff you did an' stuff, even though you dinnent have to. An' comin' back for my birthday, too...it was like...a dad would do that, y'know? He could'an' all, but he would've. But I's glad you did. S'like...s'almost the same, y'know?"

Even if he'd had an answer to that, Remus didn't think he could've spoken just then. So he pulled Harry in a bit tighter, and the drunk boy's head fell onto his shoulder and stayed there. Harry probably didn't know what he was saying and probably wouldn't remember saying it in the morning, but Remus would remember. And that was enough.

*******

"Everybody have their numbing charms on?" Healer Finney asked the Medical Magic class cheerfully. She was a plump elderly woman with apple cheeks, twinkling eyes and a sadistic streak a mile wide. The class mumbled in response. "Hope you do, or your partner won't be happy with you. Now pick up your scalpels and give 'em a good slice. Fleshy part of the arm, avoid the artery if you don't want to make a mess!"

Harry picked up the scalpel and gulped. "I can't do this," he told her seriously.

"It's numb," Hermione reminded him, poking her forearm. "You won't hurt me."

"I know. I just happen to have firm beliefs about cutting girls up with knives."

Annoyed, she took the scalpel out of his hand and did it for him. "Men are such babies."

"I didn't sign on for this," Harry mumbled, eyeing the bleeding cut with distaste.

"Yes, you did. Now fix it up, will you? It's not rocket science."

Picking up his wand, Harry stopped the bleeding, then put on a disinfecting charm.

"How are you two doing?" Healer Finney asked them, making rounds.

"Fine," they answered.

"Remember to heal it from the inside out," she chirped, patting Harry on the shoulder. "You don't want to give your pretty girlfriend a nasty scar, now, do you?"

"She's not..." Harry started. He was interrupted by a shout from across the room. Anthony Goldstein was watching in horror as a fountain of blood shot out rhythmically from the hack job that Terry Boot had just done on his arm.

"Oops!" Healer Finney said, chuckling. "We've got a spurter!"

"If I ever have a horrible enough injury that I end up in St. Mungo's," Harry said as he healed up the wound, "please promise me you won't let her be my Healer."

"Don't worry. She's a teaching Healer."

Harry finished her up nicely, and Hermione took her turn. She had to admit it did rather go against basic human instinct to take something sharp and cut somebody who wasn't actively attacking you with intent to kill.

"I think I'm actually glad Ron didn't want to do this," Harry said as she worked. "If somebody's going to be in charge of taking care of one of my bleeding wounds, I'm glad it's the smartest person in our year."

"Sure you don't want to switch with Anthony and Terry?"

"Yes," he said firmly as he watched Anthony get his revenge by carving his initials into Terry's arm. Healer Finney laughed and praised his creativity.

They moved on to healing broken bones. Harry nudged her halfway through the presentation. "If the practical begins with her handing us all hammers, I'm out of here."

Hermione stifled a giggle. In the end, though, Healer Finney let them use bone-breaking hexes, encouraging them to start small. "Don't go breaking each others' legs! Not until next class, at least!"

"So how's life at the Burrow?" Hermione asked, wincing and squeezing her eyes shut as she sent a hex at Harry's left index finger, shuddering as she heard the bones snap.

"Fine," Harry said. "Eurgh," he added as he got a look at his mangled finger.

"I'll be quick," she assured him.

"I'd prefer it if you were accurate," he said with a lopsided grin.

"I will be," she said casually, getting to work. "After all, we can't have Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor walking around with a crooked finger, can we?"

He scowled at her. "I'm going to buy every copy of that magazine and burn it. If I have to see my own stupid face one more time, I'll lose my lunch."

"It's only going to get worse, Harry." She smiled up at him. "The rest of the world has found out what a great guy you are, and now they all want a piece of you for themselves."

"Yeah, I just...I came off sounding like a right prat, didn't I?"

"I didn't think so. You just sounded like you. There," she said proudly, displaying his newly-healed finger, "good as new."

"Thanks," he said. "Yolanda retained final editing privileges, so I imagine I came off sounding exactly the way she wanted me to. She took out all mention of you guys."

"It's probably best to keep us out of it. You don't need a repeat of the Tri-Wizard Tournament mess. They'd probably paint us as embroiled in a wild ménage-à-trois."

Harry's eyes bugged out. "Hermione!"

She shrugged. "Journalists have wild imaginations. We know that. Remember the love triangle between you, me and Viktor Krum?"

"We're friends," Harry muttered. "Why on earth can't people understand that?"

"Because people are stupid."

"This is never going to go away, is it?" he asked mournfully. "I took Ginny to the Valentine's Day Dance and now they've found out about it and all the gossip rags think we're an item. In Apparation Class, everyone thought we were together, and I'm sure tomorrow they'll have invented a cat fight between the two of you over who gets to bear my firstborn child or something, and...urrrrrggghh!"

He finished off his diatribe by sinking his face into his hands. "You can't worry about it, Harry," she said gently. "They'll say whatever they're going to say. You can't let it bother you." Reaching over, she pried his hands from his head.

"Don't do that," he said, a bit sulkily. "They'll think we're getting married."

Hermione laughed and hauled him up as Healer Finney dismissed the class. There was an Order Meeting at Number Twelve tonight, the first meeting for both of them. "Sod the papers, Harry. Think about all the exciting stuff that's happening. Tonight's our first meeting, and we've both got our apparation licenses. The world is our oyster."

For all of the age limits and laws surrounding it, apparating had turned out to be almost disappointingly easy. You imagined a place, desired yourself there, flicked your wand, and...there you were. The training class had been ninety percent lecture - legal details and tips on how not to splinch yourself - and about ten percent practical application. To get their licenses, they'd had to apparate to the other side of the room, apparate to collect a ribbon from one of the trainers stationed at a location on a map, then apparate back to the classroom and give the ribbon to the bored gentleman overseeing the test.

"Your license isn't valid until your birthday," Harry reminded her, bumping shoulders. "You can't do it legally yet. How long will it take you to floo to Headquarters?"

Hermione scowled at him. "A fine law. I'm liable to forget how to do it by then."

"You? Forget something? That'll be a first."

They joined up with Anthony and Terry while waiting for a lift. "So are we going to keep on with the D.A. this year, Harry?" Terry asked as they stepped inside.

"Yeah. I'd like to expand it, actually. Most of you are ready to teach on your own."

Hermione looked over at him. She hadn't heard about this.

"Awww, no more battles?" Anthony asked, looking disappointed.

"We have to do some more battles," Terry said. "I still owe Smith a good curse or two."

"We will," Harry assured them. "But we should be bringing in some of the younger kids if we can. And if we split up into two or three groups, we can match schedules easier."

"I'm all for that," Terry said with a glint in his eye. "I'm going out for Ravenclaw Seeker this year. Maybe I'll give you a run for your money."

"We'll see," Harry said, smirking.

"Congratulations on Head Girl," Anthony said, yanking Hermione out of her oh-the-boys-are-talking-about-Quidditch-again trance.

"Thanks," she said.

"Bet Ron likes the fact that you get your own room," Terry said, elbowing Anthony. They all laughed while Hermione ground her teeth together and did her best to ignore them. "So when's the Seventh Year Shindig?" he asked as they stepped off the lifts.

She hesitated, glancing at Harry. "I don't think there's going to be one this year."

"Oh, come on," Anthony groaned. "It's tradition."

"There's a war on," she reminded them, wondering why everyone seemed determined to force her to be the bad guy in every situation. "It's not safe."

"With Malfoy as Head Boy? You're probably right," Terry said sourly.

Harry's head snapped to him. "Malfoy's Head Boy?"

"Yeah." Anthony's voice took on a hard edge. "Makes you wonder how much his father had to pay for it."

"Tradition, Hermione," Terry said, sending her a pleading look.

"We'll see," she said tightly, dragging Harry away. He remained silent until they reached the kitchen at Headquarters, which was thankfully empty. They were early.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asked, standing stiffly by the fireplace.

Hermione avoided his eyes as she sat down. "I figured you'd find out soon enough."

"No, you chickened out and didn't want to tell me," he said.

She didn't want to look over at him, and regretted it when she did. Somewhere inside Harry was a very deep hole, dug over the years by every day he'd spent with his relatives, and his achievements in life and on the Quidditch pitch could only fill it up so far, especially when being denied prefect and now Head Boy after everything he'd done was like putting a big sign in front of Harry's face saying, "You Aren't Good Enough." They both knew why he hadn't gotten them. He had bigger responsibilities.

Harry understood that, she supposed. And he could understand it for the rest of his life, and it probably wouldn't make it hurt any less. Especially since it was Malfoy.

So yes, she'd chickened out. "I'm sorry," she said. "You're right. I should've told you. I just..." She didn't bother to finish the sentence. I just didn't want to be the one to tell you. I just couldn't stand seeing that look on your face.

"It doesn't matter," he mumbled, shrugging, looking at the floor.

"It does matter," she said, standing up, wrapping him in a hug. "I'm sorry."

"Nobody died, Hermione," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I'll be okay."

"I know," she said, pulling back, smiling at him sadly. Rising on her tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek. "I just wish you could see yourself the way that we see you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I hotter?" he asked.

"Harry," she said warningly.

"Indulge me here. Am I beefcake material? A living Adonis?"

"If you want loving odes to your physique, I suggest you seek out one of your fangirls, and I'm never going to try to have a serious conversation with you ever again in my life."

He gave her one of his irresistibly self-effacing smiles. "Sorry. I ruined your moment."

"Damn right you did," she said, pulling away from him. He pulled her back.

"I apologize. You were being sincere and I ruined it and I'm a jerk. Forgive me?"

"I'll always forgive you, Harry," she said exasperatedly.

"See?" he asked, a warm smile crossing his lips. "That's why you're my conscience."

"They'll be here soon," she said primly, stepping away. "We should start setting up."

"Yeah, I can do that now, can't I?" he mused, looking around the room. "I own this." He grabbed her arm. "Let's have the Seventh Year Shindig. Is it really tradition?"

"In general, yes," she sighed. "The week before classes start, all the seventh years get together and get sloshed. But with the war and everything..."

"Yeah, that's why we need it," he retorted. "It's only going to get worse, and...anyway, Amina and Gautham managed to make Hogwarts impenetrable, and I'm sure they're bored to tears right now. Wherever we have it, they can make it safe for everyone."

She wavered. "I don't know, Harry."

"If I'm the problem, then I'd rather you had it and I didn't come."

"It's not that," she said weakly, because it actually was that.

"I can talk to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron. He'd probably let us hold it there. And like I said, Amina and Gautham would oversee the wards and everything."

She bit her lip. "It would still be a target, Harry."

"You mean I'd still be a target. The Death Eaters couldn't get in, though," he shrugged.

"I don't know," she said, still worried.

His jaw clenched. "Everything we give up just adds to what Voldemort has."

Hermione studied him for a moment. "What do you mean?"

"That's how evil works. It takes and takes. It's sneaky about it at first. You don't even notice it. But then it's wormed its way into your life and it just keeps taking and taking until you don't have anything left to defend anymore because it's taken everything."

She reached out and touched his arm, shocked. "Harry..."

He stiffened slighly, drawing away. "Someone has to draw a line somewhere. At some point, somebody has to refuse to bow to him. And it might as well be me, and it might as well be now." He finally looked up at her and Hermione flinched a little bit. At times, the power in Harry scared her. It seemed so detached from what she knew of him and yet at the same time so essential to him that the cognitive dissonance threatened to split her head in two. If his power had that effect on an innocent bystander when under control, she couldn't even bear to imagine what it could do when he finally unleashed it. And he would have to unleash it at some point. She knew that much.

Somebody did have to draw a line, and it might as well be Harry. The fact that he'd chosen to draw it at the annual seventh year meet-and-get-pissed-together had less to do with what it was than the timing of it. He was seventeen now. He was ready to end it.

Merlin, she hoped he was ready to end it.

Hermione looked down at their hands, intertwined. As usual, his nails were bitten to the nub, and it struck again her as it had struck her many times in the past few months. The fate of the world lay in the calloused, nail-bitten hands of a shy boy with messy hair and glasses, who wielded a power within him that flummoxed even Dumbledore.

"All right, then," she said softly.

It was worth it. If nothing else, it was worth it to see his face light up like that. "They won't come," he said. "And if they do, I'll be ready for them."

"We'll be ready for them," Hermione scolded him, squeezing his hand.

He sent her a sly look. "Only if you can keep up with me."

*******

It was the first full meeting of the Order of the Phoenix since the membership had expanded, and the kitchen at Grimmauld Place was standing room only - and that didn't count Hagrid, who didn't attend meetings, since he couldn't fit in the kitchen in the first place. Severus sat. Glares worked just as well on former students as they did on current ones. Cho Chang had nearly fallen over herself in her haste to surrender her seat.

Dumbledore welcomed the new members, introducing each in turn. Severus found it difficult to refrain from sneering at Potter's name. Of course, he found it difficult to refrain from sneering at Potter in general.

"Severus," the Headmaster said, turning to him. "I know you haven't much time. Would you like to go first?"

"If there aren't any matters of greater urgency, yes." His eyes scanned the group. Nobody spoke up, so he continued. "The Dark Lord has invited quite a list of foreign dignitaries to visit Shirag Castle next week. They're at least moderately supportive of his cause, and he's planning to spy on them and use whatever he can to blackmail them into supporting his actions in the future. We plan to disrupt his plans, by getting to them before he does. Malfoy and Castelar have already managed to set up surveillance. I gave the devices to Castelar so we can listen in on the guest rooms. She's agreed to set them up...provided certain demands are met."

"So that's why Malfoy bought all those Extendable Ears," Lee Jordan said thoughtfully.

"He'll probably still use them to spy on us," one of the twins said, glaring at him.

"Just give him time," the other twin added, adding to the glaring.

"What demands?" Minerva asked, sending them a quelling look.

One reaped what one sowed. "Direct contact with Potter and Malfoy at Hogwarts."

"We already talked about this," Kingsley said, shaking his head. "We agreed it was too dangerous for her to..."

"Me?" Potter interrupted. "Why me?"

Severus gritted his teeth. "Because if she overhears any plans in Shirag Castle, chances are that they'll be plans involving your imminent demise, Potter."

"Yeah, right," Ron Weasley snorted. "She's planning to use it to trap you, Harry."

"Shut up, Ron," Granger said shortly. "Why did you think it was too dangerous, sir?"

And now the lunatics were officially running the asylum. "Because if the Dark Lord found out that she had contact with his mortal enemy, he could use her to set a trap for him," Severus explained with as little asperity as possible. "She couldn't stop it. She likely wouldn't even know about it, and Potter wouldn't know it was a trap."

"You can't let her do this, then," Molly said, her face pale, her eyes fixed worriedly on Potter. "We can't take that kind of risk."

"It's not worth it," Arthur agreed.

"Why wouldn't I know it was a trap?" Potter asked.

"Your scar wouldn't alert you if you were speaking with an individual under Voldemort's control over a communications device," Dumbledore said gently.

"Yeah, but..." Potter trailed off, rubbing his scar absentmindedly. "I would know, though. I've seen her when he's in control. You can tell. She goes...funny."

"How would you know?" one of the twins asked, looking at Potter strangely.

"Little Hangleton," Granger said quickly, shooting Ron Weasley a look. "That's how."

Apparently Granger was aware of Potter's relationship with Thera Castelar, and apparently this relationship had not been made common knowledge, which showed a remarkably uncharacteristic level of discretion on the part of the trio. Severus himself had not said a word about it to anyone, and presumably neither had Dumbledore.

"Yeah, but it's not like Harry hung around her before that or anything," the other twin said. "It's not like he'd have anything to compare it to."

"I knew she was in the spell," Potter said, lying convincingly enough. "I paid attention to what she did and how she acted. I can tell the difference. Trust me."

They didn't quite seem to accept this, but Bill Weasley stepped in before they could pursue the topic further. "It doesn't matter anyway," he said dismissively. "Our communications devices just transmit voices. You wouldn't be able to see her to tell if she's under You-Know-Who's control or not."

"There are plenty of magical communications devices that can transmit images, as well as sound," Vivian said. "We don't use them because they're not really necessary for our purposes, and in order for the image quality to be good enough for you to be able to tell if the person you're speaking to is the person you're actually supposed to be speaking to, you need something far more cumbersome than our devices. You'd need something this size, at least," she said, holding up her tea saucer. "And even that's pretty small."

"They're easy enough to make," Lupin added. "James and Sirius had a pair of mirrors they used to use all the time in class. They had them charmed so that their voices could only be heard by each other, and that they were the only two people who could use them. The mirrors didn't even look like mirrors to anybody watching. I've no idea where they've gotten to, but I'm sure they'd be easily recreated..." He trailed off as Potter jumped up from the table and raced out of the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Tonks asked from her chair next to the door.

"I'll be right back," Potter called back, already running up the stairs.

"I knew those two were up to something," Minerva said, scowling. "I know those mirrors. They look like a sheaf of parchment. I never could prove it, but I knew."

"So that's what they looked like?" Vivian asked, with a look of dawning understanding. "Wow. That's really brilliant."

"Whose side are you on, exactly?" Molly asked, standing up and shooting Minerva, Lupin and Vivian the evil eye. "Brilliant, shmilliant. Do you honestly want to let that...that murderess anywhere near Harry?"

Lupin held up his hands. "I'm just saying that it's theoretically possible. I didn't mean to imply that I thought it was a good idea."

"Of course it's not a good idea!" Molly said shrilly. "She's a..."

"She's on our side, Molly," Vivian said, her jaw hardening. "She translated the spell."

"She also warned us about the eschaton," Severus added.

"The what-a-ton?" Angelina Johnson asked, goggling at him. He supposed the details of that hadn't quite made the rounds of the Order yet.

"The end of the world," he said sourly. "The Dark Lord's planning it. Perhaps I should make up a pamphlet with the details for those not in the know."

"Severus," Albus said, quiet but firm.

Thundering footsteps preceded the arrival of the savior of the wizarding world, out of breath and clutching a sheaf of parchment, which he threw on the table. "There," he panted triumphantly. "I found it in Sirius' room. It's one of the mirrors he and my dad used. I've got the other one in my trunk. He gave it to me..." Potter sighed. "Anyway, that ought to work, right? This is what we need." He shook himself.

"I mean, it is what we need," Potter said with a tone of absolute certainty. "I know it is."

Severus rolled his eyes. Nobody noticed. They were all too busy engaging in a classic inter-Order argument. He had told Dumbledore many times that while democracy was a nice idea in theory, it didn't work well in practice. The reason that the Death Eaters generally had the upper hand on them was because they didn't have to waste time indulging in this sort of ridiculous back-and-forth. There was a chain of command and you followed it, or you ended up as a Man-Eating Scaraptula snack.

But Dumbledore would insist on hearing opinions.

"Well, it's my choice isn't it?" Potter finally said over the din. "I'm a full Order member just like anyone else now, and I agree to the contingencies. We'll need another mirror, and they'll have to be recalibrated or whatever, because right now they're set up for me and Sirius."

"Albus," Molly said, appealing to him.

"Harry is correct," Dumbledore said mildly. "It is his choice."

That decision made, everyone turned to arguing about how to make another mirror, and how to make the mirrors work properly. After an unbearably long time, it was decided that in order to set up the mirrors to the correct individuals, they would need something belonging to those individuals.

"Oh, great. Like any of us have anything of Malfoy's," Katie Bell said.

The Weasley boys had a short, vehement argument in whispers that ended with Ron promptly excusing himself and flooing away. He reappeared a few moments later with a slip of parchment. "Malfoy wrote it," he explained, tossing it on the table.

"Really?" Cho Chang asked, reaching for it. "What does it say?"

One of the twins slapped her hand away. "Sod off, Nosy Nellie."

"We still need something of Thera Castelar's," Vivian said. "Anybody?"

With a sense of impending doom, Severus reached into his bag and pulled out the magazine, throwing it on the table.

"Interior Decorator Monthly?" Arthur asked blankly.

"The new guest rooms have to be decorated. She asked for my opinion," he answered through clenched teeth. "She bought the magazine. Technically, it belongs to her."

"She asked for your opinion? On what? Which shade of black to use?" Mundungus Fletcher contributed, must to his own amusement.

"I haven't much time," Severus said scathingly. "Shall we attempt to accomplish something with this meeting or would we all like to look at swatches together?"

Vivian and Minerva set about copying and recalibrating the mirror. Potter flooed out to collect his own from the Burrow, and the rest of the Order fell into idle chatter.

By the time they finished, he barely had time to apparate to O'Riordan's flat to check on him and change his clothes before he had to be at Shirag Castle to meet with Lucius about scheduling. "Severus?" Vivian asked as he stood to exit.

"What?" he snarled. He was late enough already.

"I'm not an expert or anything, but I'd go with the jungle motif if I were you," she said, tossing Castelar's magazine at him.

*******

When Thera slogged into breakfast the next morning, Bellatrix was reading Witch Weekly and laughing hysterically. Sinking into a seat, Thera poured herself some coffee, dosing it heavily with anti-hangover potion.

"You have to read this," Bellatrix said, wiping her eyes and sliding the magazine to her.

Harry Potter's face looked up at her, smiling a bit uncomfortably. Meet Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor, the headline proclaimed. Learn about the life and times of Harry Potter. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Thera muttered. "He doesn't even have a job."

Of course, that didn't stop her from flipping to the article.

The Secret Harry Potter

We all grew up knowing the story of the Boy Who Lived, but who is Harry Potter? Samantha Meadowes took on the task of interviewing the British Magical world's youngest hero:

SM: So how does it feel to be Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor?

HP: Strange, I guess. I don't really think of myself as a bachelor.

SM: Why, are you dating somebody?

HP: No. It just seems like it should be somebody older, shouldn't it?

SM: Well, you've accomplished quite a lot for someone your age.

HP: Okay.

SM: Don't you think you have?

HP: Yeah, maybe. I don't know.

SM: You're awfully modest, aren't you?

HP: Am I? I don't...that is to say that I'm not trying to be or anything. It's just that a lot of it was luck, you see.

SM: Was it?

HP: Sure. I mean, plenty of witches and wizards have faced off against [You-Know-Who], and they haven't lived through it. I have, but it wasn't because I did something or knew something that anybody else who's faced him didn't do or didn't know. I just...I got lucky, that's all.

SM: Well, you're a very lucky man, then.

HP: I seem to be.

SM: You were the youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a hundred years, right?

HP: When I was a first year, I was. I'm not anymore.

SM: Obviously. But you've still got an extraordinary record, haven't you?

HP: Yeah. Well, I like Quidditch a lot.

SM: So you're really not dating anybody?

HP: No, I'm not.

SM: Really?

HP: Yes, really. Are you out of questions or something?

SM: No, don't worry. What sort of qualities do you look for in a girl?

HP: Qualities? I don't know. I've never really thought about it.

SM: Do you like smart girls, or sporty girls or girly girls, or what?

HP: I like them all, I guess.

SM: How about blonde journalists with glasses who can put their feet behind their head?

HP: What?

SM: Like me, for example.

HP: I think I have to go now.

Thera snickered. Poor Harry. Hopefully he'd been able to make it out of the room alive. The interview was followed by a series of photos - Harry in his Quidditch uniform, posing on his broom, Harry with his wand out in a badass pose, looking like he was trying not to laugh and lastly, Harry looking rather tasty in a pair of seriously well-tailored dress robes with an expression of annoyance on his face.

She stuffed the magazine into one of her pockets with the intention of torturing Draco with it later and headed up to the third floor to check out which rooms were habitable. Aside from something that snarled at her from under the bed in one of the corner rooms, they were clean. Seriously out of fashion, but clean. Ugh. Paisley? Why?

At the end of a short hallway at the back of the house were a pair of double doors that led to the room that Thera had been avoiding thus far - the master bedroom. Well, she really couldn't put it off much longer. With a great deal of apprehension, Thera opened the doors and took a few steps into the room. The house elves had been in here to clean up, but nobody else had, and it felt like it - empty and uninhabited. The large, canopied bed was made, the lush coverlet unwrinkled. The furniture was polished to a shine and there wasn't a speck of dust to be found, but there were also no personal items at all. It was hard to imagine her parents in here. All traces of them seemed to have been removed.

Not that that was a bad thing, considering.

The cupboard in the corner rattled, and Thera nearly jumped out of her skin. Something had obviously set up shop in there. Knowing this house, it could be anything, so she avoided it. Her eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on a set of glass doors on the far end that led to a large balcony. Thera knew which one it was - it was the on the back of the castle right above the flagstone terrace.

No matter how many times we dropped you off the balcony, you always lived.

Thera shivered against her will. She could almost see it, too. The spiral pattern of the stones getting bigger and bigger until...

"Stop it," she told herself. Assuming it had even really happened, she would have been far too young to remember something like that. All the same, she still couldn't bring herself to go anywhere near those glass doors.

"Whose room was this?" Draco's voice sounded from the doorway.

"My parents'. Welcome to the ostensible scene of my conception."

He gazed around, unimpressed. "I expected at least a mirror on the ceiling."

"Well, they hated each other," Thera shrugged. "Reina said he used to put a pillow over her face so it would be easier to pretend she was somebody else."

"Why didn't he just do it from behind like everyone else trapped in a loveless marriage?"

"I think he did it then, too. Just in case he got a glimpse."

"How touching. It's a shame they're dead. I bet they were a real hit at dinner parties."

"Considering how many men Reina dumped by loudly discussing their sexual shortcomings in public, I'd say they probably were."

The cupboard in the corner rattled again. "You've got a boggart," Draco pointed out.

"Well, get rid of it, then."

"Why should I? It's your house."

"Yes, and I let you loiter around here to your heart's content without complaining or making you do anything. Now I'm making you do something. Get rid of it."

He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Just admit that you don't know how to handle it."

"I know how to handle it...theoretically, at least."

"Well, here's your real-life application," he said, waving his wand and opening the door to the cupboard. A hand emerged, then a foot, then a dark head.

Thera seized up. Not real, not real, not real, she told herself as her father straightened up and smiled at her pleasantly, a sword in his hand. "I've told you before not to act like your mother, Thera," he said in that same deep voice, approaching her.

"This is easy," Draco coached. "He's not real. Imagine him in a bunny costume, point your wand at him and shout Riddikulus."

Thera followed his instructions, putting her father in a pink bunny suit with overlarge ears and a cotton-ball tail. Unfortunately, he still carried the sword and the same bloodthirsty look on his face, and neither of them were laughing.

"Imagine that the sword's a gigantic carrot," Draco said desperately as her father drew closer and closer. Thera did, and the sword turned into a gigantic carrot, and it didn't make any bloody difference. Quickly growing frantic, Thera did the first thing that came to her mind. She grabbed Draco and shoved him in front of her.

Her father in a bunny suit went through a strange transformation, finally turning into...

Thera's jaw dropped. Hermione Granger?

"You only got ten N.E.W.T.s?" the Gryffindor sneered. "What are you, an idiot? I got twenty!" Throwing her head back, she let out a long, derisive laugh.

"That's your worst fear?" Thera asked disbelievingly. "You've got to be kidding me."

Draco ignored her, his concentration focused on the evilly stylized Gryffindor mocking him. "Riddikulus!" he shouted. Granger grew a set of front teeth worthy of a beaver and began chattering and sucking on them comically. Draco gave a half-hearted chuckle, but Thera couldn't bring herself to laugh. It was just too pitiful.

Granger morphed suddenly into Harry Potter, looking a lot smugger than Thera had ever seen him. "Lose to me again, did you?" Harry-the-boggart asked snidely, shaking his head in disgust. "You can't even beat a filthy, worthless little half-blood like me."

Draco didn't laugh, but Thera did - for all the wrong reasons, provided - and the boggart stumbled. "Riddikulus!" Draco shouted, his face pale and drawn with concentration, and Harry's trousers dropped. His feet became entangled in them and he fell down, but that wasn't the funny part. Even the teddy bear boxers weren't the funny part. The funny part was that instead of his actual equipment, Harry sported a non-package, like a Ken doll. Laughing with glee, Draco kicked him over onto his back.

"Take that, you dickless wonder," he said, sending spell after spell at the wriggling eunuch until finally he popped out of existence.

Staring into the empty cupboard, Draco slowly put his wand away. "Tell a single soul about this and I will ruin your entire life, Castelar. Are we clear on that?"

"If I told anybody, I couldn't use it to blackmail you," she said, still giggling.

He turned to face her. "I can't stop you from using it to blackmail me. I mean, I haven't breathed a word about your little phobia, but if you want to play dirty..."

"Reel it in, Malfoy. I was joking."

"Well that was easy," he said, sounding a bit disappointed. "I was kind of looking forward to dangling you off of the balcony to elicit your vow of silence."

"Sorry to disappoint," Thera said, glancing over at the balcony and shivering a little bit.

"So I see you're still worked up about your father," he sighed, shaking his head. "He's dead, Thera. You really need to stop creating drama for yourself."

"I know he's dead," she snapped. "And I'm not about to take shit about my boggart from a kid whose greatest fear is a pair of Gryffindors."

His eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm not scared of them."

"Yes, I know. It's all about your fear of failure and whatnot, but it comes embodied in a pair of Gryffindors. At least my boggart takes the form of a legitimate menace."

"You know, I could still dangle you off the balcony just for the hell of it."

"You could try," Thera said softly, a clear threat in her voice.

"Trouble in paradise?" They both turned to find Patrick O'Riordan striding into the room. Snape still walked like Snape. He was going to have to work on that. A second later, the smallest owl she'd ever seen tapped on the window.

"Why don't we all just have a party in here, then," Thera said, stomping over to let the owl in. It flew around the room, twittering madly. She finally managed to chase it down and remove the parchment from its leg. "Well, how's that? It's not even for me."

She handed the scroll to Draco, who looked surprised. "Why'd it come here?"

"Must be school correspondence," Snape said. "Students travel during the summer holidays. Notices come to your present location instead of your home."

"I haven't any treats, owl," Thera said as it hopped up onto her shoulder, obviously pleased with itself. "Unless you'd like some pocket lint, you'll have to sod off."

"Don't worry, it's used to doing without," Draco said flatly. "That's Weasley's owl."

She looked at him. "Why is Weasley writing you letters?"

"He isn't. Granger is. It's about the Seventh Year Shindig. I forgot all about it, which is to say that I thought that holding a class-wide event in the middle of a war with the Dark Lord's greatest enemy in attendance might not be the most intelligent idea."

"Surely she isn't serious?" Snape asked.

"Seems to be," Draco said, making a face. "Merlin forbid I enjoy getting Head Boy for five bloody minutes without her stepping in to ruin it. Does anybody have a quill?"

He wrote out a quick response and gave it to the owl, who was so overcome with excitement that they finally had to throw it out the window and slam it shut.

"What'd you say?" Thera asked, curious.

"Well she went on and on about how The Cardinal's people were going to help make it safe for everybody and so on and you know how Granger's incapable of getting to the point. In any case, I told her that it was a grand idea and I looked forward to seeing what she has planned, because my only plan is to not lift a bloody finger."

"So all of the seventh years are going to be in one place at one time, and the Death Eaters are likely to know that place and time?" Snape asked.

"That pretty much sums it up," Draco said.

"Why didn't you just say no?" Thera asked.

"Because they'll attack. They've got to," Snape murmured. "With a passel of important people coming to visit, the Dark Lord will want a nice, big show of force. In other words, it's the opportunity of a lifetime."

"It's the risk of a lifetime," Thera said, rounding on him. "Who's to say they won't be able to just waltz in and slaughter everybody inside?"

"Because I know The Cardinal's people," Snape said shortly. "The Death Eaters won't be able to get in, but they won't know that. They'll keep trying. And we have enough time to plan plenty of escape routes to get everybody out, if necessary. We can fight them from inside the wards, and they can't fight back. It's the opportunity of a lifetime. We could decimate the Death Eaters with this. Good show, Malfoy."

The praise was offhand, but a brief smile crossed Draco's face nonetheless.

Thera sank down on the bed. "I still don't like this. How can Dumbledore allow..."

"He can't do anything," Draco shrugged. "It's not a school-sanctioned event. Granger was only writing to check on dates; it's obviously already planned. So it can be a great big bloodbath, or the Good Side can use it as an opportunity to fuck the Bad Side up."

She ran a hand down her face. "Well, at least make sure Crabbe and Goyle aren't there. Merlin knows we don't need that."

"They're at Culinary Camp until the day before start of term," Draco smirked.

"It may yet get vetoed," Snape said, holding a hand up. "It may not be school sanctioned, but if Dumbledore thinks it's a bad idea, he can make sure it doesn't happen."

"They can't be stupid enough to pass this up," Draco said disbelievingly.

"I make no promises regarding the stupidity of the Good Side," Snape returned frigidly.

"Well, then," Thera said, looking up at him. "What did you think of the Provençal look?"

"It's a little fussy for the Evil set," Snape said. "I liked the Asian-inspired design."

"I did, too," she admitted. "But then I thought, 'foreign dignitaries coming to England.' Who comes to England for Asian décor? Maybe we could do a hunting lodge theme."

"Miss Castelar," he said condescendingly, "England has contributed many wonderful things to world culture. Traditional interior decorating motifs isn't one of them."

"I guess you're right," she sighed. "I just imagined deer heads up on the walls with the bugs hidden inside. It seemed very Bond-like."

"Deer heads?" Draco chimed in, looking appalled. "Please tell me you're kidding. If you want to go English, do oak and brocade, for Merlin's sake. I mean...deer heads?"

"It's better than paisley, isn't it?" she snapped at him.

"I'll grant that there aren't many things more heinous than paisley," Draco allowed, "but stuffed deer heads are most definitely one of those things."

"In any case, you asked for my opinion, and my opinion is that you should go with the Asian style," Snape said in a bored voice. "Simplicity is its own art form."

"Fine, fine," she said, giving up. "Asian, fine. Whatever."

"Well, if there aren't any more pressing decorating matters, Dumbeldore has approved your request," Snape said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two mirrors, handing one to each of them. They were about the size of a paperback book.

"Bit obvious, don't you think?" Thera asked, looking it over.

"They only appear as mirrors to you. To everyone else, they're a sheaf of parchment. Communication is completely safe - only the two individuals talking to each other can hear or see the other person. And now that I've delivered, Miss Castelar, I believe it's time you got to work holding up your side of the bargain."

"It'll take me a few days," she said. "I'm still not all clear on the architectural spells."

"Just so long as you have them all in place by the time the guests arrive."

"Trust me, okay?" she groused. "I'll get it done."

"See that you do," he said stiffly. There was a long silence as they all stared at each other. Then Snape nodded to them and swept out of the room.

"I love when he can't think of a good parting line," Draco said, smirking.

*******

Fox stood over Harry for a few moments, watching him sleep. It was a deep, innocent sleep, a child's sleep. His comforter was tangled around his legs. He must have tossed and turned a lot during the night, but in the darkness of pre-dawn, he lay on his side, quiet and peaceful, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life.

She leaned down so that her mouth was inches from his ear. "Wake up!" she yelled.

Harry flew into a frenzy of movement, his hand grabbing his wand off of the nightstand before he backed protectively up against the wall next to the bed, blinking at her.

"Your reflexes are improving," she said.

"Dammit, Fox," he sighed, lowering his wand. "Don't I get a break at the Burrow?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you were actually serious about this. Go back to sleep, then. But don't come whining to me about how skinny and out of shape you are when..."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he grumbled. "Lay off. I just wasn't expecting you."

"Get dressed. I'll meet you downstairs."

A minute later, Harry stumbled out the front door of the Burrow in the same monstrous pair of shorts, overlarge t-shirt and beat-up trainers he wore every morning. Fox understood the concept of wearing clothes one didn't care about when working out, but one of these days, those shorts were going to fall right off of him.

He was actually making progress - more than she'd expected, considering he'd only been at it for a few weeks. His strength was coming along fine, but his endurance still stank. He couldn't run more than a mile or so without collapsing into a half-dead heap.

"Actually, I'm glad I saw you," Harry said as he stretched out. "I was wondering if Amina and Gautham are really bored."

"Out of their minds. They don't like the new environment too much."

"New environment?" he asked.

"When you move, so do we. We've got a little cabin just over the hill. Actually 'cabin' is pushing it. 'Abandoned stable' would be more accurate."

"Why are you there? Why don't you just stay at the Burrow?"

"Because occasionally there are minor attempts to give you something that resembles a normal life, Harry. Your bodyguards staying out of sight is one of them."

"Oh," Harry said, pushing his glasses up. "Okay. Well, anyway, there's this tradition with the seventh years at Hogwarts that everybody gets together, and..."

Fox held up a hand. "I know. Dumbledore already talked to us. It's covered."

He blinked at her. "Really?"

"Everybody will be there. Seventh years, Order members and yours truly. If the Death Eaters attack, they'll quickly wish they hadn't."

Harry's eyes widened. "Hang on. Are you telling me that you're planning on using the Seventh Year Shindig as a trap for the Death Eaters?"

"Yes. Personally, I can't wait. It's about time we got this show on the road."

"No," he said, scowling. "You can't do that. Something might happen. We just won't have it this year."

Fox put her hands on his shoulders. "Harry, there'll be portkeys to get everybody out if necessary. The entire Order will be there and the place will be impossible to break into. It's an opportunity to take out a whole bunch of Death Eaters at one time."

He shifted a little. "What do you mean, take out?"

"Arrest, if possible. Kill, if necessary," she said bluntly. There was no point in sugar-coating it. "We'll be attacking them from behind the wards. They'll be sitting ducks."

"Are you sure?"

"The Shindig is going to be at the Leaky Cauldron. There are two entrances: one from Diagon Alley - which the Ministry's got locked up too tight for the Death Eaters to get into in the first place - and one from the Muggle street - which we'll have set up so that we can trap them. They won't be able to get into the Leaky Cauldron itself. If everything goes as planned, it'll be one hell of a victory for us."

"And if it doesn't?" Harry asked apprehensively.

"Either they don't show up at all or else they show up and we can't contain them, in which case we abort and escape. Don't worry, Harry. It'll be fine."

"I know," he said, scratching his head. "It's just..."

"Enough, Potter. Stop stalling and give me fifty pushups."

"I can't even do fifty pushups. You know that."

"Then I guess we're going to be here for a while, aren't we?"

*******

"Why are you doing your hair?" Remus asked suspiciously.

Vivian caught his eye in the mirror. "I'm brushing my hair, not doing it."

"You just seem awfully put-together for a casual dinner with an old friend."

"Jealousy," she said coolly, "does not become you, Remus."

"Jealous?" he laughed. "Who's jealous? I'm not jealous. Of Balder? Ha ha ha."

She turned around to face him. "I owe him this much, don't you think? It's dinner. In a public place, I might add. I'm not going to shag him on the table or anything, because..." slapping a shocked look on her face, she held up her right hand. "What's this? Dear Merlin, I think it's a wedding ring. How on earth did that get there?"

He made a face. "I trust you. I don't trust him."

"Well, that makes two of us," she said, stepping forward to kiss him on the cheek.

He responded with a kiss on the forehead. Then his eyes narrowed. "You know, you never said you didn't want to shag him on a table, just that you wouldn't do it."

Vivian gave him a look. "If this is a sneaky way to try to get me to have sex with you before I leave, it isn't working. And you're going to make me late."

Remus' eyes slid away guiltily. "Well, he knows you. He doesn't expect you to be on time, anyway."

"I'll see you at the Leaky Cauldron," she said, kissing him briefly on the lips.

"Is it really necessary to wear a skirt?" he asked as she walked away. Vivian ignored him as she went outside and apparated to the club to meet Balder. In all truth, she was about as thrilled about this dinner date as Remus was. Still, she wouldn't be married in any degree of legality if it weren't for Balder, so she'd pretty much had to come.

He was waiting for her at the table with a bottle of wine open, looking sleek and businesslike and very, very attractive. She wasn't swayed, but she wasn't blind, either. He didn't smile at her as she approached, instead fixing her with a stony glare. A flutter of unease went through her. There were a great many things that Balder had a right to be angry with her about if he ever found out about them. She had a feeling he just had.

"Lovely ring," he said with a distinct chill in his voice. "Who's the lucky guy?"

She thought about lying to him, but there probably wasn't any point. "Remus, actually."

He closed his eyes briefly. "Well, that's just bloody wonderful. You should have told me. I'd have sent over a bag of kibble."

"Don't, Balder," she said in a low voice. She was fair game. Remus wasn't.

"So I take it he learned about his non-werewolf status," he said, frowning.

"We figured we'd strike while the iron was hot."

"In five seconds I could have it nullified, you realize."

"I know you could," she said, staring into her wine glass. "Would you?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Doesn't seem to be much point, does there?"

His other hand was on the table. Vivian reached across and squeezed it. "Thank you."

He squeezed back briefly before pulled his back. "Don't thank me yet. I had a rather enlightening conversation with one of your former students recently. It seems marriages and interspecies escapades aren't the only things you've been hiding from me."

And she knew. He didn't even need to say who it was. Vivian couldn't say how she knew, but she did. "I'm sorry, Balder. I couldn't have told you."

"Oh, right. The vow of secrecy. Honorable of you to protect it. You can't imagine how humiliating it was to sit in a Muggle pub with a teenage girl who knew more about the activities of the Dark Lord over the past year than the Ministry official specifically assigned to rid the world of his presence."

"Dumbledore knew it all, too," Vivian said in a guilty voice.

"Yes, she informed me of that."

Vivian lifted her hands up to rub at her temples. "It never occurred to me that she'd go to the Ministry. I don't think it occurred to any of us. I guess it should have."

"She had it right. Dumbledore doesn't have anything to offer her."

She nodded a little. "So she made a deal. Can't say I blame her. What did she tell you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Everything. The prophecy, the spell, the eschaton..."

"Fucking fabulous," Vivian sighed. "How soon until it's all over the papers, then?"

"I'm not going to publicize it," he said in a tight voice. "In fact, aside from my assistant, I'm the only person in the Ministry who knows about any of it, and I intend to keep it that way. But this ends now. All of this bullshitting around keeping me in the dark ends right this second. Because if I have to find out something about what Dumbledore's up to from her, I will rectify your husband's non-werewolf status immediately. Are we clear?"

Dazed, Vivian could only nod. He'd done something wonderful for her and Remus, and she supposed in his mind, he'd gotten royally screwed in return. She hadn't had anything to do with Dumbledore's decision to leave Balder out of the loop, but she doubted he particularly cared at this point. "I'll talk to Dumbledore about it," she heard herself say. "I'm sure we can work something out. I should go."

"We haven't eaten yet," he said tonelessly.

"I'm not really hungry right now," she said, standing up. She flooed directly to Room Number Five at the Leaky Cauldron, where the Order was holed up. Dumbledore was standing in the corner talking to Moody, and a strange buzzing started up at the back of Vivian's head. It took her a second to identify it as rage.

"Sir," she interrupted them. "Can I have a word with you, please?" Her voice was clipped, but not rude. Moody took one look at her and backed away. "I've just met with Balder Astragand."

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore said, having the gall to look amused. "I don't suppose he was very happy with you."

"No, he wasn't," she bit out. "And he threatened to..."

"Vivian," he said seriously, laying a hand on her shoulder. "He won't do it. Trust me."

"How can I, when..." She took a deep calming breath and let it out. "What was the point in keeping everything from him anyway? He could've been helping us."

"Yes, well," Dumbledore sighed. "Things developed more slowly than I planned. I initially believed Miss Castelar would come up with the idea on her own. When she didn't, I had to step in and give her a bit of a nudge. She's more loyal than I realized."

Vivian gawked at him. "Huh?"

He gave her a sad, wizened smile. "I apologize. Sometimes I get ahead of myself."

"Wait. You wanted her to go to the Ministry?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

"Because," he said grimly, "Before this war is over, I may end up doing a great many things that will not endear me to the Ministry or to the Wizengamot. Things that are regrettable, yet necessary. After the war, those who work for me in secret might find that their association with me won't benefit their cause very much. So I've been trying to find ways to gain them a bit more...security, if you will."

"So you planned all of this?" she asked, astonished.

Dumbledore leaned toward her, his eyes twinkling. "Don't tell anybody," he said conspiratorially, "but I'm far sneakier than I look."

*******

The Seventh Year Shindig was in full swing. All of the members of the D.A. were on high alert, or were supposed to be on high alert. Everyone was slightly giddy at the prospect of starting their last year of school, and most people hadn't seen each other for months. The Leaky Cauldron buzzed with conversation, and Harry couldn't help but smile a little to himself. With Hogsmeade weekends canceled, it had been a long time since everyone had been able to relax and just hang out with each other.

Hermione was the belle of the ball, and Harry could tell she was enjoying it. Not a minute went by that somebody didn't come up and congratulate her on making Head Girl. She was currently debating with Ron about the upcoming Ministerial elections.

"Of course, there have been attacks almost weekly against prominent Muggleborns, but has the Daily Prophet put it on the front page?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "No. They stick it in a little paragraph on page ten, right above the rune crossword."

"Dad's planning to put out a message on the wireless network about it," Ron chimed in. "I heard him planning it out with Remus. It's all about what the Ministry doesn't want you to know, and how we all need to forget about blood distinctions and fight the fight that's really important and all that. It's a really good ad."

"Since when does your father's campaign have the money for an ad?" Hermione asked.

"Since he got a three million galleon contribution," Ron said, grinning happily.

Hermione's jaw dropped. "Three million galleons? Are you kidding me?"

"Dad couldn't believe it," Ron said. "I mean, three million galleons just out of nowhere?"

Harry smiled into his troll juice cocktail. Hermione's eyes flickered to him briefly, but she didn't say anything. "That gives him a really good shot. I mean, a lot of it's just getting your name out there, and what you stand for."

"You're telling me," Ron snorted. "Mum was all wary about it because she thought he was a joke candidate, but with three million galleons behind him..." A dreamy smile crossed his face. "Ron Weasley, son of the Minister of Magic. It'd be nice."

"Don't get your hopes up too high, Ron," Hermione said, biting her lip.

"I know he won't win," Ron shrugged. "But still, it'd be nice."

A very, very devious thought entered Harry's mind, even more devious than anonymous campaign contributions. If one was going to be forced to be famous, Harry felt, one might as well use it to one's advantage. Standing up, he excused himself and went to the loo, where he pulled out his direct communications link with Yolanda.

She answered immediately. "Yeah?" There was a lot of background noise.

"It's Harry. Am I interrupting?"

"No, it's my nephew's birthday. I could use an excuse to get out of here. So what happened? Fistfight? Improper magic on a Muggle? What?"

"Nothing happened," he said quickly. "I want a statement released immediately to the Daily Prophet."

"Oh, fuck. You've killed somebody, haven't you?"

"No," he said firmly. "I want to endorse Arthur Weasley for Minister of Magic."

There was a long pause before she answered. "I think I would have preferred it if you'd killed somebody."

"Just do it, will you?" he asked, annoyed.

She heaved a sigh. "Listen, there's the lovey-love defender of the weak and powerless angle, but don't take it too far, okay? You don't want to get mixed up in politics, Harry."

"I'm not getting mixed up in politics. I'm endorsing a candidate."

"Britain's least funded, least popular, least likely-to-win candidate. Brilliant move."

"He won't be any of those things if Harry Potter endorses him."

"Harry, I hate to burst your adorably innocent little bubble of optimism, but yeah, he will. You see...how can I explain this? Nobody wants to buy naughty lingerie from Albus Dumbledore. It's just not his racket. And nobody wants to buy a Minister candidate from you. They want to love you and worship you and build shrines to you. They don't actually give a rat's ass what you think. Sorry and all, but that's how it is."

"Right," he said. "Anyway, press statement. Daily Prophet. Tomorrow."

"If that's what you want," she gave in. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Would you like me to sign something to that effect?"

"Actually, now that I think about it? Yes," she snapped.

Harry rolled his eyes and shut off the device. Neville and Parvati had joined Ron and Hermione at the table. Neville was barely recognizable. Last summer, he'd returned to school more fit and tan than when he'd left. This summer, he'd achieved a deep bronze that could only have come from months of daily sun exposure, and had muscles. Real muscles. The kind of muscles that Harry could only dream of having.

"Whatever you ate this summer, can I have some?" Harry asked.

Neville grinned, his teeth impossibly white against his skin. "Yeah, I got really dark, didn't I? As an early birthday present, my Uncle Algie enrolled me in a field course on Magical Plants of the Amazon for six weeks. It was amazing. I learned so much."

"Mmmm. So much," Parvati sighed, gazing at him with ill-concealed lust.

Neville shifted away from her a tad, looking nervous.

"Does anybody know who the new girl is?" Ron asked. "She's hot as anything."

"Ron!" Hermione said sharply, slapping his arm.

"Well, it...it's nothing against you or anything," he spluttered. "She just is."

"Do you mean the blonde over there talking to Millicent Bulstrode?" Neville asked.

"Yeah."

Harry looked over and did a double take. Wow. Ron was right. Whoever she was, she was perfectly welcome at Hogwarts, as far as he was concerned.

"The blonde girl with the gigantic boobs?" Hermione continued.

"Yeah," Harry breathed, admiring the way they stretched against her sweater.

"She's Pansy Parkinson," Hermione said with relish.

The boys all recoiled. "No, that can't be Pansy Parkinson," Ron argued weakly.

"Afraid so," she said gleefully. "She had Merlin knows how much work done over the summer. It's all fake. But don't stop panting after her on my account."

"But it just can't be Pansy Parkinson," Harry said, somehow unable to match up her personality to the girl he was seeing. Then she threw back her head and laughed a high-pitched, shrieking laugh. He cringed. "Okay, yeah. That's her."

His mind skipped from Pansy Parkinson to Slytherin to Death Eaters to the spot where it had remained most of the night. He could only leave it for a few minutes before his mind dragged him right back. He simply couldn't relax. Glancing around, he leaned in and lowered his voice. "Everybody has their portkeys, right?" he asked.

Their faces hardened with resolve and they nodded.

"Good," he said harshly. "Let's just hope we don't have to use them."

*******

"This is pointless," Avery groaned as they donned on their Death Eater regalia. "Battling our way into the Leaky Cauldron to do in a bunch of kids?"

"We won't need to battle our way in," Lucius said, smiling coldly as he pulled his mask on. "Potter will come to us."

"Why would he do that?" Crabbe senior asked.

"Because he's Potter, that's why," Lucius answered distastefully. "And because we're not going directly to the Leaky Cauldron. We're going through Diagon Alley first to pick up some prisoners. With enough persuasion, I'm sure we can convince Mr. Potter to come out peacefully. And if he doesn't, we kill them all. It's a win-win situation."

A wave of excitement spread through the inner circle. Bellatrix clapped her hands gleefully. "It's just like the old days. No more sneaking around taking out one Mudblood at a time. The Dark Lord does love us, doesn't he?"

Lucius ignored her, making sure his hair was securely braided and hidden under his mask. If all went well, it would be the last hurrah for him. Potter captured, Potter dead, mission accomplished, and he could hand the reigns off to his son. No more sneaking around in a hair-destroying mask. No more dealing with morons and psychopaths.

Perhaps he'd take Narcissa on a trip. Tuscany, maybe...

"Time to go," he announced.

*******

Balder didn't know how long he sat at the table with his head in his hands after Vivian had left. He felt utterly drained. The waiter approached tentatively, asking if he was ready to order, but Balder could only stare at the man stupidly. When his Ministry badge crackled to life, emitting the three-tone indication of an incoming call, however, Balder snapped to life. Removing the badge from his robes, he saw that it was from Claudius Brimbleton, the head of Ministry Security.

"Astragand," he said shortly.

"Sir, there's been a breach in the wards at Diagon Alley," Claudius said, sounding out of breath. "We believe there's an attack in progress. No reports from the scene yet."

He felt his heard thud once, as if trying to leap out of his chest. "How could there be an attack?" he hissed. "We just changed all of the ward modifications last week." It had been a necessary precaution. If - as Thera Castelar had claimed - the Death Eaters had interrogated his uncle, they would surely have found out about all of the new security measures on the Ministry, Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. Balder had immediately put through a directive calling for Ministry Security to change all of the ward settings, so that the Death Eaters couldn't just waltz right in.

"No, sir. We didn't," Claudius replied.

He stared at the badge in his hand, trying to convince himself that he hadn't just heard that. "I sent through a directive," he said slowly and clearly.

"Yes, sir. But I couldn't put the directive into action until the Minister approved it, and seeing as how we don't have a Minister at the moment, I was just waiting until after the elections, sir."

Rubbing a hand down his face, Balder swore loudly, drawing the attention of several patrons. He didn't really give a shit. Frustration didn't get much worse than this. His job was largely like that of Sisyphus. He expended a great deal of energy pushing his heavy rock up a steep slope only to have the force of bureaucracy roll it back down the hill, crushing him in the process.

It was his own fault, really. He knew as well as anybody that when it came to the Ministry, standard operating procedure and incompetence always managed to find a way to triumph over common fucking sense.

"Call Auror Headquarters," Balder said through teeth gritted together so tightly he thought his head would split open. "Have them send over everybody they have immediately. Put the entire Ministry on high alert and turn on the attack wards. After the Aurors disapparate, nobody leaves or enters that building until you hear back from me."

"Yes, sir."

"Do everything I just said now. Do not wait for the election results to come through. Do not wait until after the swearing-in ceremony. Do it as soon as you hang up with me, Brimbleton, or I will not only fire you, I will rip off your testicles and shove them down your fucking throat. Understand?"

Tremulously, he answered, "Yes, sir."

Balder pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, fighting off the urge to scream and destroy things. Throwing some money on the table, he pulled out his wand and apparated to Diagon Alley.

*******

Draco stood at the corner of the bar at The Leaky Cauldron, nursing a firewhiskey and watching the trio. He'd watched them before. He'd watched them for years. He could tell when Potter was worked up about something. He could tell if they were in a fight. He could tell if they were planning something. They did little to hide these things.

Though he'd been drinking, he wasn't drunk. He honestly didn't know what he was. Something kept slithering around inside him, something he couldn't name and couldn't seem to do away with, and it made him feel shaky and uncertain.

He'd been raised to look out for himself before anybody else. Unfortunately, he'd also been raised to place the family reputation above all else. And the whole issue with his father...if Draco were to be completely honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he didn't know what to do about that. It was not in his nature to be forgiving, but it was also not in his nature to act against his father, and he'd been doing a bang-up job of that so far.

In any case, he supposed it didn't matter. All of that could be dealt with in time. At present, what he needed to do was talk to Potter.

Placing his empty glass on the bar, he sauntered around it, nodding to acquaintances. Potter glanced up and Draco caught his eye, gesturing with his head to the back of the bar, to the door that led to the entrance to Diagon Alley.

He didn't look back to see if Potter had gotten the message as he slipped out the back door of the pub. Unsurprisingly, Potter followed soon afterwards, stepping quickly through the door, closing it soundlessly behind him.

"What is it, Malfoy?" he asked, impatient.

"I had some updates for you, but if you're going to be a dick about it..." he stepped around the kid.

"I'm not," Potter said, almost apologetically, blocking his way back into the pub. "Sorry. It's just...it's sort of habit, I guess. What is it?"

"We got the mirrors. So now that Thera's back with Dumbledore, she'll be bugging all of the guest rooms. If she sees or hears anything outside of the surveillance, she'll be contacting you. That's all."

Potter nodded, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean, back with Dumbledore?"

"After he kicked her out," Draco said, seeing the confusion deepen. Apparently nobody had told him about that little bit of treachery. "He wasn't happy with her contacting you about the eschaton, so he sent Snape to tell her that Dumbledore was dropping her. He thought it was too much of a risk to put her in direct contact with anyone."

"Yeah, he said that," Potter murmured. "He didn't say he'd dropped her, though."

"Guess they don't tell you everything," Draco sneered.

"How did he drop her, though? I don't understand."

"They had a deal. She gave him information, he saved her ass when all of this was over. Then, after she'd given him a year's worth of information, he told her it was too dangerous to continue, and that he couldn't help her out anyway. He dropped her."

Potter stared at him. "Dumbledore?"

"Not as saintly as he seems, is he?" Draco smirked. "He only took her back because nobody else could get into the guest rooms to plant the bugs."

The kid didn't seem to be getting the concept. "Dumbledore did this?"

"Yes," Draco said exasperatedly. "That's what I just said." It occurred to him that he held a knife, and that he had just stabbed Potter with it. He couldn't stop himself from twisting it. "Suffice it to say she didn't take it well, considering she's spent the past year risking her ass on behalf of the good side. I've never seen her like that. She tried to drive the Ferrari off a cliff with both of us inside. If I hadn't stopped her, she would have."

"Fucking Merlin," Potter said faintly, swallowing. "I didn't...I didn't know that."

"Gee, I wonder why they didn't tell you," Draco said in a mocking voice. "It kind of makes you wonder what else they're not telling you, doesn't it?"

Potter's face tightened at that. "Well, it all worked out fine, didn't it? She's back."

"Of course she is," Draco said. "Where the hell else is she going to go? She still doesn't have any sort of promise from Dumbledore that he'll lift a fucking finger to help her when this is all over, but beggars can't be choosers, eh?"

"Right," he said dryly. "Well, I'm sure she got something for coming back. She wouldn't have done it out of the goodness of her heart."

And that was about all he could take from Mr. Moral Superiority. Grabbing Potter by the front of his robes, Draco slammed him into the wall next to the door. "Nobody would even know about the eschaton if she hadn't found out about it," he said, amazed at the calmness of his voice. "And you have no idea what kind of shit she had to do to get that information, Potter. You have no idea what you're talking about." Letting him go, Draco took a step back. "You're such a big fucking hero," he said sarcastically. "Well, guess what? The two of us have done more to take down the Dark Lord in the past few weeks than you've done since he came back, so I think you can just shut the fuck up."

Potter's face went through a series of emotions. He bit his lip and didn't answer.

"You know what she got for joining back up with Dumbledore?" Draco asked flatly. "That mirror. And the only reason she got it was so that she could warn you if something was about to happen, you ungrateful piece of shit."

He had always possessed a keen ability to hone in on Potter's weak spots, to hit him where it hurt. In all fairness, Potter possessed the same keen ability when it came to him. It was an intimacy of hatred, the kind that could only be found between enemies.

And he couldn't help but find it a bit funny that his most effective weapon at the moment was Thera. Something told him she wouldn't be pleased to know about this.

"I didn't know about any of that," Potter admitted quietly, his jaw clenched.

"Well, now you do."

"I'll...I'll talk to her."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you do that," he muttered, turning to go inside. Then he paused, looking back at Potter. "Oh, but before you do, you might want to know one more thing." Potter eyed him as if he weren't sure he wanted to know anything else, but remained silent. "When she told you she was fucking around on you when you two were together at Hogwarts," Draco continued, "she was lying."

He fully enjoyed Potter's reaction to that statement before turning back to go inside. His hand touched the knob just as the door swung open. He jumped out of the way, face to face with an irate Hermione Granger.

"Harry, what are you doing?" she scolded, striding over and putting a no-nonsense grip on Potter's shoulder. "You know the wards are only good for the Leaky Cauldron. It's not safe out here."

"Nobody can get into Diagon Alley, Granger. And anyway, we were just going in," Draco said, turning to do just that.

Granger began to make an angry retort, but never got to do it. The world exploded.