Harry Potter and the Year of Living Stupidly

Chapter Four

In Which it is Revealed Why Dumbledore's Name Starts With 'Dum.'

It seemed as if Hogwarts would never stop talking about the surprising turn of events at the Quidditch game. Harry found himself jeered at in corridors by Slytherins and shunned during mealtimes by his fellow Gryffindors. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs seemed to think he was a dork too. While he seethed at the treatment, he also privately enjoyed it -- at least he was getting attention. But not nearly as much attention as Draco Malfoy and Professor Flitwick. The Daily Prophet sent out a reporter to interview them both and to take photographs of the remarkable mop. The story made the front page, complete with a huge picture of Draco hovering on the mop while Flitwick and Lucius waved below. (Snape had declined to be interviewed, let alone photographed. Lockhart, on the other hand, had somehow managed to sneak into the corner of the picture disguised as a potted plant.)

Now Draco was Hogwarts' latest hero. The blonde Slytherin youth was followed everywhere by a gaggle of admirers -- which at least made him feel a little safer from ambushes. They jostled over who got to sit next to him at mealtimes, sent him notes and candy, and begged him to let them try out his mop. There was a rumor that the Irish Quidditch team intended to trade their Firebolts in for mops. As for Flitwick, he had received several tempting offers to leave Hogwarts for a position as top mop-charmer at Swiftswish, a new firm that was making ready to open.

At the back of all this excitement was Tonks's inquiry to Dumbledore concerning the disappearance of the school brooms. Taking Harry at his word, she put the question before the headmaster discreetly, not naming any names or pointing any fingers. Consequently, it took four meetings before Dumbledore understood what she was trying to tell him.

"Ah, yes, the missing school brooms," said Dumbledore at last, leaning back in his chair with his hands crossed firmly over his beard so that none of it could sneak down his esophagus. "Yes, well, it doesn't really matter. Professor Flitwick's charming all the old cleaning mops, and they're ever so much better, don't you agree? Hogwarts has to move with the times, you know." He chuckled benignly.

Tonks stared back at him, remembering what Sirius had told her the day she arrived. "Don't believe all the glowing myths you've heard about the headmaster," he'd warned. "Dumbledore operates on two factors: astoundingly good luck and the fact that no one really cares what he's doing. But the truth is, if Hogwarts is ever going to outgrow the title of idiot-savant among schools, it's going to have to ditch the old pudding-head first." She realized now that she hadn't believed her cousin, and it was kind of sad to feel the scales falling from her eyes.

"I understand that everything's worked out for the best, sir," she said, wrenching her thoughts back to the present, "but there's principle at stake here. If a student deliberately destroyed Hogwarts' property -- "

"Oh, they do that all the time," Dumbledore interrupted, waving a breezy hand. The gesture wafted a wisp of odor in her direction; his office smelled of mold, bad digestion, weak tea, and dried liquid protein drinks. Tonks couldn't wait to escape. "They're always breaking furniture during classes, singeing the walls, and smashing the crockery. And each other, of course. Why, only yesterday, Madame Pomfrey had to charm Colin Creevey's head back on after Blaise Zabini decapitated him with a potato."*

Tonks frowned. "I didn't hear about that."

"Well, of course not. We hushed it up. Can't have the students going around being afraid of potatoes. They're the only vegetable we serve, after all." He chuckled again. He seemed to think he was rather cute.

"Be that as it may," said Tonks, now almost frantic to get her point across and leave, "be that as it may, sir, accidents in class are a lot different from the deliberate destruction of school property. The rules clearly state -- "

"Oh, bollix to the rules," interrupted Dumbledore, getting up and doing a thoroughly despicable little jig. "Let's not bind ourselves to old customs. My students need a flexible learning environment to keep their minds frisky and elastic."

At least that explains how Harry gets away with all of his shenanigans, Tonks thought to herself. Aloud, she said: "Then you don't plan on doing anything to find out who stole the school brooms?"

"Nope," replied the headmaster, who was now attempting a Fred Astaire routine with a floor lamp. His joints creaked most alarmingly -- it sounded like a dozen people cracking ice between their teeth. "Actually, I never plan anything. I figure, 'Oh, well, everything will work out one way or another,' and it always does. Nice, isn't it?"

"I suppose it works for you." She stood. "Sorry to bother you, then."

"Not at all, not at all." Dumbledore eyed the floor like he was contemplating breakdancing. Tonks hurriedly left.

Safely out in the hall, she gazed out of a window and sighed. A light sprinkle of snow was falling, covering up the bare brown grounds and making everything look prettier than it had since Hagrid's depredations with the lawnmower first began. If a lot of snow fell, she'd have to figure out what to do with it, since the job of groundskeeper hadn't exactly come with an instruction manual. But that wasn't what was bothering her.

On one level, she supposed Dumbledore had a point. The broom caper had done no lasting harm to anyone, not even to Hogwarts' budget, since all the mops had been appropriated for flying. But it seemed an extremely bad precedent to set -- if the culprit got away with stealing brooms this time, what might he or she contemplate next?

A bell rang, interrupting her thoughts. The most recent classes had just let out. Students began to fill the halls. Tonks straightened, thinking she'd better find Harry and tell him Dumbledore's decision -- or lack thereof. The boy hadn't pressed her for an answer, but she knew he was still smarting from the Quidditch loss. She wondered how to phrase it so as not to disappoint him too greatly -- or to make Dumbledore look like a complete ass. No need to disillusion him at this young age.

She located him on the way to Care of Magical Creatures. He'd paused before going outside to wrap his scarf around his neck, but stopped and looked at her expectantly when she approached. "Wotcher, Harry," she greeted, without her usual enthusiasm.

Her tone alerted him. The hopefulness changed to a more guarded expression. "Hi, Tonks," he replied. And waited.

She took a deep breath. "I talked to Dumbledore. About the brooms."

"Yes?" he asked in a clipped, impatient tone of voice.

"Well. . . he doesn't want to, er. . . make an issue out of it," she told him.

"He doesn't." Harry repeated coldly.

Tonks shrugged. "I suppose since the school brooms were so old and rickety anyway. . . the mops really are an improvement. . . I know, Harry. I don't agree with him either, but that's his final judgment."

They stared at one another for a minute. Harry's mouth was pressed into a hard line. "I see," he said at last.

Another awkward pause. "You'd better get to class, Harry. I'm sorry about Dumbledore, but I tried my best."

"I'm sure you did." Harry turned on his heel and stalked off. Tonks sighed -- she seemed to be doing that a lot recently -- and went to check on the weather updates. She really hoped it didn't intend to snow all day.

Harry was damned if he'd go to class after receiving such cruddy news. He sulked off in the opposite direction, kicking spitefully at whatever got in his way -- which, out here, was not much. He did take savage pleasure in stomping down a red currant bush which had somehow survived Hagrid's attacks and was growing innocently near a rock.

Tonks had failed him. Wasn't surprising, really -- people were so damned incompetent. She'd probably been too coy to actually point the finger at Malfoy. And then that rotten Dumbledore going turncoat at the last moment! For heaven's sake, it was only the Slytherins. Would it really be so hard to dock them a couple hundred points or so?

Then again, if Dumbledore was truly pleased that the brooms were gone, perhaps he should confess about the wiener roast and take the credit. Harry thought it over and shook his head. He didn't trust Dumbledore anymore. Maybe the old loon was too lazy to seek out a culprit, but if one stepped forward, he might be happy to punish him.

Which left Harry. . . where? Back to square one it seemed, and no closer to winning back the fame and accolades he so richly deserved. What was going wrong? All of his carefully-laid plans had gone awry. He'd never even gotten to use the skrewt he'd planned on sticking in his own bed after the game and blaming on Draco Malfoy. There had been no point anyway, not with the whole school swarming around Malfoy and drooling over his stupid mop. Probably everyone would have been glad to see me get eaten by a skrewt, Harry thought, shedding bitter tears of self-pity.

In the midst of his misery, he heard a slight buzzing noise. Cutting off in mid-sniffle, Harry glanced around. Had there not been a thin layer of fresh snow on the ground, he might have overlooked the colorful beetle trying to make itself inconspicuous next to a rock. As it was, Harry spied it almost at once and scooped it up an instant later.

"Rita Skeeter!" he exclaimed resentfully. "You're not supposed to be here, especially in this shape!" Harry was actually quite found of Rita. She'd written many lovely articles about him which had garnered a lot of attention, and, truth to tell, he had been quite miffed when Hermione put an end to her snooping.

The beetle jumped out of his hand and transformed in mid-air into the shape of a solid woman in fuchsia robes and jeweled spectacles. "Who's to stop me?" the journalist demanded, touching a hand to the pile of burnished curls on her head to make certain they were still intact. "Little miss perfect has up and gotten herself turned into a cat, last I heard."

"For which you should thank me," grumbled Harry. "And I could still blow your secret if I wanted."

Rita's mouth curled up in a cunning smile. "Ah, but you wouldn't do that, now, would you, Harry? Who'd get your name printed in the Daily Prophet if I were locked up in Azkaban?"

"You're not here to interview me," said Harry sourly. "You're here about that stupid mop of Draco Malfoy's, aren't you?"

She sighed and brushed off the rock she'd been trying to hide against. "You're right, kiddo; that's what I was sent here to do." She sat, her handbag in her lap. "But it's so boring! I mean: 'Boy Flies Father's mop To Quidditch Victory.' Nice title, heart-warming family drama with that sports angle thrown in, but where's the juice? Where's the fire? The insinuations? The smut?"

"Hmm, I know what you mean." Harry rubbed his chin and sat down next to her. "What about 'Quidditch Game Sabotaged So Boy Can Use Illegal Mop'?"

Her ears almost visibly perked. "Honestly?" she asked eagerly, her poison-green pen appearing in her fingers like -- well, like magic.

Harry considered. "Well, not really," he said at last with reluctance. He was dying to get Draco in trouble, but if Rita wrote an article about the missing brooms and it raised public outrage, an inquest might be demanded. There were too many people present at the wiener roast, and Neville, Seamus, and Dean couldn't be depended on to keep their mouths shut. No, Harry could see too many ways in which that scheme could backfire. "It's been a boring year." He sighed.

She sighed too and put her quill away. "You're telling me. With You-Know-Who absent, my career as a cutting-edge journalist is in peril. I'll be relegated to an advice column soon if I can't get my name back out on top." She shuddered.

"I know exactly how you feel," agreed Harry. Here, at least, was a person after his own heart, even down to the fact that she'd happily betray him if she saw cause. They sat silently a while. An idea formed in Harry's mind. "Why didn't you ever do a story on Hagrid's death?"

"Me?" She wrinkled her nose. "Come on! Who wants to read about that the idiot getting himself killed in a stupid accident? He was half-giant anyway. No one cares about them."

"That's true," agreed Harry, who certainly didn't, "but what if it were all a ploy by Voldemort to introduce a spy at Hogwarts?"

She all but salivated as she reached for her quill again. "You think it's possible?"

"Yes," said Harry slowly, "yes, I think Hagrid might have met with foul play." He'd worked this all out. The only witnesses to Hagrid's murder were Ron and Hermione. Hermione was a cat and had been stuffed in his backpack. And by this time, under Harry's patient, screaming tutelage, Ron actually believed Voldemort had killed Hagrid. That meant he was safe from accusation.

Rita was already giving dictation to the Quick-Quotes quill. "And who were the new staff members hired after Hagrid died?" she asked avidly.

"Gilderoy Lockhart is the new caretaker," he replied, "Nymphadora Tonks is the new groundskeeper, and. . . " He paused deliberately. "Lucius Malfoy is a new janitor."

"Aha!" Rita looked as smug as a cat with a bowl of cream. "That's interesting." The quill wrote another couple sentences with great flourish.

"Yes, isn't it?" agreed Harry. "But Ms. Skeeter. . . could you do me a favor?"

"What's that?" Rita asked warily.

"Don't mention my name in the article."

The reporter looked dumbfounded. She knew Harry's taste for glory. "You don't want any credit?"

"Not yet," replied Harry. "I'd like to see how people respond to it first." After the failure of his first schemes, Harry was growing a little more cautious.

Rita, however, was reluctant. Harry's name attached to an article always brought in the readers. "What if it's just a passing remark?" she asked.

"No. Not even a hint. Not yet. If you're straight with me this time around, I'll guarantee you a supply of news."

"Good news?" she asked. "I mean, the kind I like?"

"Dripping with juice," Harry assured her.

She smiled and held out her hand, the three-inch long varnished nails on the ends of her fingers glistening like already-bloodied stilettos. "Deal," she said. They shook, then Rita picked up her bag and stood. "I'll go talk with the staff and see if I can find anything out."

"Don't be surprised if you can't. It's all being covered up." Harry slipped her a wink.

"Hey, you don't have to tell me. I'm a professional." She returned the wink and clacked off, her high heels making noise even over the snow.

Harry stayed where he was and thought. This Rita scheme seemed perfect for getting the ball rolling. If it worked, he could have the entire wizarding world convinced of Voldemort's guilt in under a month. Then the war would be back on again and glory would be his for the taking. But recent experience had taught him to be wary. Events were not going to fall into place simply because he wanted them to. Nothing he'd attempted recently had worked out.

No, that wasn't entirely true. A slow smile spread across Harry's face. Hadn't he gotten away with the murder of Hagrid, clean as a whistle? No one so much as suspected him. And there were so very many people who deserved to die. Draco Malfoy. Snape. Perhaps Tonks, after her failure. And Dumbledore. Oh, yes, definitely Dumbledore. After this afternoon's betrayal, Dumbledore might have topped the list. And didn't they say that the only one Voldemort feared was Dumbledore? All the more reason to get the old ca-ca brain out of the way.

Harry stood, wrapping his cloak around him. The snow fell steadily down, catching in his dark hair, and the late afternoon sun flashed off his glasses. He thought about his plans for the future and laughed, and for the first time, the little goat-like noise sounded sinister.

"May I ask why you summoned me back into your presence, darling?" Lucius inquired.

Across the table, Narcissa lifted an eyebrow, but went on buttering a scone with a steady hand. "You're not staying long," she informed him.

"Didn't think so." He sipped tea and wondered what he'd done to rouse her ire this time.

Still, he had to admit it was kind of good to be home, however brief the stay might be. The air smelled much fresher and he didn't have to worry about having some twelve-year-old, crazed by an overabundance of meat and sugar, crashing into him in the hallway. Plus he had his treasured collection of illegally enchanted magical objects nearby and didn't have to lie awake worrying whether Narcissa had melted down his copy of The Wizard of Oz or snapped his golf clubs.

They were drinking their tea and eating scones smothered with jam and clotted cream in the sunroom, a room Lucius had always liked, particularly when it was nice and gloomy outside. The little round table was covered with an embroidered green cloth and spread with silver and fine bone china. The wallpaper was decorated in a cheerful pattern of daisies wrapped with little green adders. There was even a thrush singing outside the window -- apparently it hadn't yet eaten the poisoned seed Narcissa set out for it. Really, it was all quite civilized and cozy.

"I wanted to talk to you about recent events at Hogwarts," answered Narcissa at last, setting down her scone. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Eh?" Lucius was taken aback. "What do you mean, exactly?"

Narcissa polished her mouth with a lacy napkin before she replied. "I mean, what kind of a father are you?" she demanded, staring at him severely.

"Eh?" repeated Lucius, who still couldn't see where the conversation was headed.

Narcissa exhaled slowly through her nose. "Didn't you read the note I sent?"

"You sent it to Kreckor."

"Draco."

"Ah, yes, I meant Draco. So of course I didn't -- hang on; I did. You are referring to the one about Blimpy, right?"

"Yes, dear." Narcissa's mouth thinned further. "The one about Harry Potter."

"And Blimpy."

"Yes, dear." Narcissa's patience was hanging by a thread. "That one."

"What about it?"

"What about it." Narcissa poured herself another cup of tea just to keep her hands occupied. Otherwise she felt they might, of their own accord, reach across the table and tear her husband's ears off. "Did you perhaps not grasp the meaning of the message?"

"Yes, we figured it out." Lucius nodded and spooned raspberry jam onto a scone, unaware of how near danger lurked. "Harry Potter killed Hagrid."

"Exactly. And what does that mean to you?"

Lucius thought it over. "That he has better taste than I suspected?"

"Darling." This time she said the word the right way; Lucius dropped his scone and began trembling. "Do you really think it took six years for Harry to realize that Hagrid was stupid and clumsy and lacking in hygiene? No one's that dense except perhaps for Dumbledore."

"Well, Snape said -- we talked to Snape, you see -- Snape said that Harry was probably trying to gain some sympathy for himself."

Narcissa tapped her chin and considered. "Hmm. That's a possibility. I confess I thought he'd simply snapped from lack of attention, but Snape knows him better. Really I should have married Snape instead of you -- I'd have had to train him to wash his hair, of course."

"Be that as it may, dear," said Lucius, cautiously picking up his scone again, "I don't see why you're upset with me. I'm only doing my job."

"Your job as a custodian is merely a cover," Narcissa reminded him, her gaze going to the feather duster Lucius had tucked jauntily into a back pocket. "You were never meant to take it seriously. Your actual purpose, which you seem to have forgotten, is to get the war started again. That and keep Draco out of danger. And what do you do, hmm?" Lucius tried to explain, but she overrode him. "You make him a target! You put him on a mop and send him out to win a Quidditch game and get his picture plastered all over the Daily Prophet!" She picked up the relevant newspaper from a nearby table and shook it in his face.

Lucius cleared his throat. "With all due respect, darling, it was Snape's idea to charm the mop. And no one thought it would fly so well."

"And then Draco goes and catches the snitch." Narcissa shook her head. "I was so hoping he hadn't inherited your brain."

"Well, the harm's been done, Narcissa my love." Lucius leaned back in the chair with his cup of tea. "And I don't think you need worry about your little boy. He's being escorted all around the school by a throng of admirers. Harry would have to go through them first to get him."

"What I'm worried about is that Harry will be tempted to go through them first," replied Narcissa between clenched teeth. "That Potter boy's a menace. Is Dumbledore really too stupid to see what a threat he's become?"

"He hired me," Lucius reminded her.

"There is that," she sighed.

While she was brooding, Lucius took the opportunity to gaze around the sunroom. Something seemed to be missing, although it took a while for him to put a finger on it. Then he realized: they had been sitting here eating for almost half an hour and Lord Voldemort hadn't appeared, salivating, to demand his share. "I say, what have you done with the Dark Lord?" he asked his wife.

"Come along and I'll show you," she replied, pushing away from the table.

She led him, as he'd expected, into the kitchen. There was Lord Voldemort, standing almost exactly in the middle of the room with his jaw hanging slack and a thin, silvery strand of saliva dangling from his mouth. Lucius started and flinched back into the doorway before he realized that Voldemort was taking no notice of his presence whatsoever. "Did you put a spell on him?" he asked, coming forward to peer more closely at the Dark Lord.

"Only in a matter of speaking." Narcissa gestured to the wall. Here a change had been made. Instead of one well-stocked white refrigerator, there were now two, standing at a distance of about four feet from one another. Lucius blinked at the refrigerators and then frowned at Voldemort.

"I'm not sure I understand."

She sighed. "It's pretty pathetic. Did you ever hear the old story about the donkey and the two bales of hay?"

He nodded. "The donkey starved to death because it couldn't decide which bale to eat first." He looked at Voldemort again. "I always thought it was a rather stupid fable, but now that I see it in practice. . . I still think it's stupid. Do you really mean he won't move from that spot?"

"As long as the contents of the refrigerators are basically the same, yes." She gave the Dark Lord a little nudge with her elbow and he didn't so much as blink. "It doesn't solve our problem. He's unsightly and he's in the way. But at least this cuts down on our grocery bills."

"Do you think he'll starve to death?" asked Lucius hopefully.

"I have no intention of letting that happen. If he dies, he'll probably just glue himself to the back of someone's head again and the nonsense will start all over. This is just a stopgap solution until you get the war started again."

"Do you trust me to get the war started again?"

"No. That's why I've dispatched Peter Pettigrew to Hogwarts."

Lucius's mouth fell open. "But he's a complete ass!"

"I know, dear. I'm hoping he'll annoy someone so badly that they'll kill him. That might snap Lord V. here out of his apathy, since he has a soft spot for the little rat."

"The less said about which, the better."

"For once, we agree. But do try to make sure Pettigrew manages to be annoying enough to warrant him getting murdered."

"I don't think there's going to be a problem. In fact, if I have to spend too much time with Wormtail, I might kill him myself," scowled Lucius.

"Fine. Just make certain you're not caught. You don't want to end up in Azkaban again, do you?"

"Why not? All the dementors are dead. I hear it's virtually a spa resort these days. Three gourmet meals a day, hot springs, and they're even giving out massages."

"Book us a room for February," said Narcissa.

Peter Pettigrew hiked up his pants as he stared at the castle. The last time he had visited Hogwarts was as a rat, and he carried fond memories of the smell of students' unwashed socks and the taste of the stale candy and crisps they left to molder around their dorms. But this time he'd enter it as a man of importance -- the vending-machine filler. Hogwarts didn't actually have vending machines, but as Narcissa had pointed out in her letter to Dumbledore, all other modern schools did. Ever eager to keep up with the times, Dumbledore had hired Pettigrew on the spot. Presumably, the vending machines would follow. Until then, he had nothing to do, a fact which suited Peter just fine, being inherently lazy.

"Guess I'd better find me a place to crash," he said aloud. He liked the words -- they sounded rather cool. To him at least. Glancing at the sky, he noticed it was starting to get dark already. Peter hoped he hadn't missed dinner. He hated skipping meals; made his bowels go irregular.

Hefting his lumpy knapsack to his shoulder, he headed towards the castle in a kind of hasty waddle. Peter wasn't built for speed. He opened the doors to the great hall just as most of the students were belching to make room for dessert. No one noticed his entrance, which made him feel rather unloved. Peter's forlorn gaze traversed the four long tables set up for the students before settling on the table at the back reserved for staff. He brightened as he recognized two familiar faces. Oh, how nice! He'd have friends at Hogwarts after all!

Neither Lupin nor Sirius noticed the small balding fat man wending his unwieldy way towards them. Sirius (whose pants today were so tight and shiny you could see your reflection in his ass) was trying to explain Nine Inch Nails to Lupin, who was either having difficulty with the concept or just being perverse. It was Tonks who looked up from her second cup of coffee, frowned and asked: "Is that a friend of yours, Remus?"

Lupin looked, did a double-take, gasped, and looked again, his lips firming into a hard line. Sirius, naturally enough, looked as well. He dropped his fork with a clatter and stood, his mouth and eyes going wide with indignation. "What's he doing here?" he demanded in a harsh voice. Peter waved cheerfully towards the pair with a glistening, silvery hand and continued advancing.

"I have no idea," replied Lupin in a cold, measured tone of voice, "but I hope to God this doesn't mean Dumbledore has hired him in some capacity."

"Who is it?" asked Tonks.

"Peter Pettigrew," answered Peter cheerfully, having come close enough to hear. Beaming, he offered his silvery hand to shake. He smelled like an afternoon spent in the dentist's chair. "I'm an old school friend of Remus and Sirius 'ere."

Tonks stared at Peter's hand and then at Sirius's face, which promised instant death if she shook it. She did not shake it. "Uh, hi, Peter. Is this the Peter I think it is?"

"Yes. And you are not our friend, Peter!" Sirius growled. His gray eyes were as frigid as chips of ice.

"You lost all claims to friendship the day you decided to betray James and Lily to Lord Voldemort. How dare you approach us like this?" Lupin stared at Peter the way a man studies a cockroach he intends to squish a moment later.

Peter withdrew his hand. His brow creased as he mulled Sirius and Lupin's words over in his head. Finally he nodded. "Right, I can see why you're upset about that," he said agreeably.

"You can see -- ?!" began Sirius incredulously. Peter nodded again.

"It was a bit lousy of me; I realize that now. But it's in the past, right? Forgive and forget, eh?" He drew up a chair and slapped his hands together. "Now what's for eats in this establishment?"

Sirius stood, his mouth flapping helplessly, like a landed fish's. Inarticulate sounds of rage emerged from his throat. Even Lupin was incapable of maintaining his calm entirely in the face of Peter's friendly blandness. "Forgive and forget James and Lily's deaths?" he asked incredulously. "It was 'a bit lousy' of you?"

Peter shrugged, piling his plate high with steak and kidney pie, ham, boiled potatoes, and fried chicken. "Eh, well, Voldee-mort asked me to do it. Seemed a nice enough bloke at the time. Guess I really should 'ave thought it through a little better." He stuffed ham in his mouth and regarded Lupin and Sirius with earnest, watery blue eyes. Lupin choked. Sirius let out a strangled scream.

Tonks cleared her throat as she pounded Lupin on the back. "I think you should leave," she said once she had attracted Peter's attention.

The fat man's face fell. "Why?" he asked, lower lip quivering, "I only just got 'ere."

"Mr. Pettigrew, you're a Death Eater and a traitor. Hogwarts is no place for you," she said firmly.

"But Mr. Dumbledore 'ired me!" Peter whined.

Sirius abruptly found his voice. "I knew it!" he snarled. "What did I tell you? Dumbledore actually went and hired this miserable little scut!"

"That was actually me who said that, Sirius," wheezed Lupin, but the dark-haired man wasn't paying attention. He glared at Peter venomously.

"You should thank every demon in Hell that I'm dead, Peter. Otherwise I'd kill you on the spot and be damned to the consequences."

Peter thought about it as he masticated a mouthful of pie. "All right; fair enough," he said, swallowing. He stood and unbuttoned his shirt.

"What are you doing, Peter?" asked Lupin, revolted, as more and more pasty plump chest was revealed.

"Makin' it easy for you, like," said Peter affably. He tapped a spot on his breastbone, right where a few sickly pale hairs sprouted from the flesh. "Go on, take your best shot. Fair's fair an' all."

The sight of Peter's chest hairs had temporarily knocked any desire for revenge out of Lupin. He turned aside, grimacing. Sirius, on the other hand, looked furious. "So that's it, then?" he demanded, "we're supposed to -- what? Thump you one? And then everything's forgiven?"

"Well, it would be nice and friendly of you," said Peter, beaming up at him with a childlike expression of trust.

"Button up your shirt, Wormtail," Sirius spat. "I don't want to see your tits. And I don't want to thump you one -- I want to kill you. Understand the difference?"

Peter's lower lip went back to wobbling. "That's awfully 'ostile, Padfoot," he whimpered.

"Don't call me by that name!" Sirius hollered. People stopped eating all around the great hall to stare at him. Seeing that it was just Sirius, many of them shrugged and went back to eating. Sirius shouted a lot, often just to hear his own voice echo in the hall. "We are not friends! I hate you, Pettigrew, hate you! You're a liar, a coward, a traitor, and a murderer. There's not a room in Hell foul enough to contain your fetid little soul. You're despicable. I could gladly see you torn apart and fed to rabid weasels -- would do the tearing myself if I could. If I learned you were burning in eternal torment while devils stuck pitchforks into your puffy, unpleasant body, I'd weep for joy. I'd throw the biggest party I've ever thrown in my existence, and that, my dear traitor, is a big party. Is any of this penetrating your thick, stupid skull?!!!!"

Peter chewed on a finger, his wet eyes watering more than ever. "So you're mad at me, then, Padfoot?"

Sirius screamed and tried to strangle Peter. Unfortunately, solid though he appeared, his hands didn't have any effect on the fat man. "Remus, kill him!" Sirius demanded, abandoning the attempt and swinging round on Lupin.

Lupin shook his head. He'd had time to recover his composure -- besides, there were too many people watching. "Sirius, I'm a werewolf. If I murder someone in broad daylight, the Ministry will only be too happy to use it as an excuse to have me put down like a mad dog. And I'm not that eager to join you in the afterlife."

"Tonks?" Sirius pleaded.

"I -- I just can't. Sorry Sirius." She looked distastefully at the plump man, who was drowning his sorrows through eating. "I don't like him and he deserves punishment, but I just can't murder someone at the dinner table."

"Fine." Sirius kicked over his chair and stalked out. "Do it later, then."

Tonks sighed and picked at her dessert. "I think he's serious."

"Of course he's Sirius," said Peter brightly.

Night closed in gloomily. In Lupin's room, the malaise was rather thicker than elsewhere, as Sirius Black trudged back and forth with his hands clasped behind him like it was his sworn duty to wear a track in the rug before sunrise.

"I am not going to allow it," he said for what might have been the six hundredth time. "It's going to have to go."

Lupin, who was sitting on the bed with his hands folded loosely in his lap, looked up and sighed. "I hear you, Sirius."

"Good. What are we going to do about it?"

"Well, for God's sake at least start referring to Wormtail as 'he', Sirius. 'It' is just too disturbing. And I don't know what we're going to do about him. Kill him, I suppose."

Tonks shook herself awake and leaned forward in the armchair. "You don't really mean that, do you, Remus?"

"We would have killed him years ago if Harry had let us," said Lupin darkly.

"Should have just gone ahead and done it anyway," muttered Sirius, kicking at a stack of books, "but I had a soft spot for Harry. Didn't realize what a miserable little berk he is. You should have, Remus. You'd spent the entire year teaching him."

Lupin spread his hands helplessly. "He hadn't fully fledged yet, Padfoot. Anyway, I was trying to make allowances for him. I knew what a rotten life he must have led with those Dursleys. I thought he might improve with a bit of guidance."

"Figured wrong, Moony." Sirius made his turn and began pacing the other way. "But Harry won't get in the way this time. The only question is, how are we going to do it?"

"Why don't you just go to the authorities?" asked Tonks.

"What authorities?" demanded Sirius crossly. "Dumbledore? Very funny. How about he Ministry of Magic? Think they'll listen to a dead ex-convict and a werewolf?"

"They might listen to me," said Tonks.

"It's a possibility, Sirius," Lupin murmured, rubbing his chin.

Sirius thought it over. "The Ministry thinks Peter is dead. If we tell them otherwise, they'll come storming here in a grand investigation, and Peter'll turn into a rat and hide. Don't underestimate Peter, cousin. He's a whiny, smelly, pasty-butted, despicable little capitulator, but when it comes to saving his own hide, he's a genius."

"I still think you should go to the authorities," returned Tonks, not backing down. "In fact, I think you're going to have to. You can't kill him, I'm not going to kill him -- unless he tries to hurt someone -- and what Remus said at dinner is true; he wouldn't get away with it."

"Unless he did it carefully." Sirius stopped in his pacing to stare meaningfully at Lupin. Lupin's head drooped and he looked pale, tired, and sickly.

"I need a hug," he said.

"Oh, drop the act, Remus! Will you do it or not?"

Lupin scowled. "I'd love to. But I'm not going to get myself executed over Peter. Talk about humiliating."

"Being dead's not that bad," Sirius cajoled.

"Then why are you so eager for Peter to die?" Lupin wanted to know.

"You have a point," admitted Sirius thoughtfully. "There have to be worse punishments than death." He thought a bit longer and grimaced. "Like spending a lot of time with Peter Pettigrew. Honestly, I can't think of much worse than that."

"Why were you friends with him at school?" Tonks asked.

"Pity," replied Lupin. "That and he was excellent at worming his way out of punishment. He'd start blubbering and most teachers lost their taste for docking House points on the spot."

"Should have tipped us off right there," growled Sirius, and went back to pacing.

Tonks groaned and rolled her shoulders. "Well, this is fascinating guys, but I think I'm going to turn in soon. Just hasn't been my day, what with the meeting with Dumbledore, and then all the snow. . . "

"What were you meeting with Dumbledore about?" asked Lupin. "Surely he's satisfied with your performance thus far?"

"Frankly, Remus, I'm not sure he remembers who I am -- "

"And unlike you, Dumbledore hasn't actually had a chance to sample her performance," cut in Sirius, still pacing.

Tonks shot Sirius a nasty look before resuming: "It was about the school brooms. Harry suspects that someone may have destroyed them deliberately so Draco could charm that mop."

"Harry?" Sirius stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowing. "Ha. Harry's probably still furious that he lost and looking for an excuse to reverse the outcome of the game. Don't go to any trouble for Harry's sake, Tonks."

"Well he had a point." Tonks yawned. "Students shouldn't be allowed to break anything that takes their fancy. But it doesn't matter anyway. Dumbledore's not going to do anything about it."

Lupin chuckled. "Bet that irritated Harry."

"Yeah. He was upset, all right."

"I bet he was." Sirius scowled at the wall. "Personally, I wouldn't be surprised if Harry destroyed the brooms. Just because he knew Dumbledore wouldn't punish him."

"But then why would he want me to go to Dumbledore?" asked Tonks.

Sirius and Lupin exchanged a grin. "Hoping that he could pin his crime on Draco Malfoy," said Sirius. "Dumbledore will always take the word of a Gryffindor over a Slytherin -- a fact James, Remus, and I often exploited during our wanton youth."

"And Peter," Tonks reminded him.

"Yes, yes," grumbled Sirius, unhappy again. "Right; we still haven't figured out what to do about Peter."

"Go to the authorities," repeated Tonks, "They'll do something."

"They'll do something stupid," Sirius corrected, "and Peter will get away again. No, this time he's going to pay. It's irritating enough that he's out-lived me and James -- I'm not going to let him hang around until Remus kicks the bucket too."

"I have no intention of doing so, Padfoot," said Lupin.

"So what do you think we should do, Moony?"

"Sleep on it," Lupin suggested. "We all had a shock this evening and we're not thinking clearly. That's dangerous. If we're not careful, someone will eventually suggest breaking out the firewhiskey and we'll get utterly sloshed and end up wandering through the corridors ready to do something ridiculous at the slightest provocation."

"How am I supposed to sleep knowing Peter Pettigrew is loose in this castle?" Sirius demanded.

"You've slept in a room with Peter Pettigrew before."

"Yes, but that was before he became a traitor."

"He was still a leech."

"You liked Peter."

"I put up with Peter. It was James who liked having Peter along, so he could kiss his ass every time he won a Quidditch game."

"Don't bad-talk James!"

"I'm not. It's simply the truth."

"Guys. . . weren't we going to go to bed?"

"That's right; we were."

"But I can't sleep with Peter in the castle."

"You've slept with Peter in the castle before. . . "

"That sounded really bad, Remus."

"I didn't mean it like that! Ugh!"

"Guys. . . shouldn't we just go to bed?"

"How can I go to bed after Sirius said something so disgusting?"

"I can't sleep with Peter in the castle."

"All right," sighed Tonks. "In that case, I have an idea."

They broke out the firewhiskey.

Harry snuck out of the Gryffindor common room with the air of a seasoned professional. This time he didn't take Ron or bother to stuff Hermione into a backpack, even though she was conveniently sleeping on one of the overstuffed armchairs. She let out a happy mew as he passed; she was probably dreaming of the old days when she had hands and could knit astoundingly ugly hats for the house elves to pick up and inadvertently free themselves with. (Never let it be said Hermione didn't possess the typical wizard sadistic streak. She just concealed it better than most.) No, this was something Harry had to do alone.

Outside in the corridor, Harry peered out from under the edge of his Invisibility Cloak. All seemed quiet and still, but he knew from years of experience how quickly a teacher could sneak up if one wasn't careful. A cold draft was seeping up from the floor, and Harry shivered, his thoughts going, for a longing moment, back to his warm bed and the comfortable slippers he had stupidly left lying beneath it. He considered turning back -- but no; he was brave. He had known this wasn't going to be easy when he first started out. Resolutely, he turned up the collar of his pajamas and faced the darkness.

It was time to hunt some Dumbledore.

* How to decapitate a fellow student with a potato: First, take a nice, mealy potato -- Yukon Golds are best -- and slice it into thin slices crosswise. Deep-fry these slices in peanut oil until they are a dark gold or light brown in color. Select a sturdy-looking slice and enlarge it with an Engorgement Charm. For easier handling, you may want to attach it to a three-foot length of wood. Now file the edges sharp. Voila! You now have a weapon capable of decapitating your fellow student.**

** The author would like to remind her readers that she is not responsible for students who are decapitated using the method described above. Anyway, an axe does the job much quicker.