Harry Potter and the Year of Living Stupidly

Chapter Eight

Prelude to Insanity

"Is he there?"

On her knees, Tonks lifted up the trailing hem of the bedcover and peered beneath the bed itself. Two bloodshot eyes glowered back at her. "Yes."

"Remus, come out from under there."

"Sod off!"

Sirius winced. "This is going to be every bit as tricky as I feared."

Tonks sat back on her heels and sighed. "How about a nice, rich cup of Honey dukes' best cocoa?" she suggested. "Remus can never resist the stuff."

"He may not resist it, but I'm not sure it'll improve his mood. Will it, Remus?" he asked in a louder voice.

There was a slightly muffled but clearly unfriendly "No!" in response.

"What will make you feel better, Remmy?" Tonks inquired.

"Everybody dropping dead."

Tonks sighed again. This day was not starting out promisingly.

* * * * *

Actually, the week had not been a happy one. The trouble had begun Monday, the morning Dumbledore was found dead in his bed. Within the course of that day Lupin had been made headmaster, lied to Harry about his parentage, made a deal with the Death Eaters, and learned that Fred and George had shown up and demanded to be reinstated and only Dolores Umbridge could overturn their expulsion.

It had only gone downhill from there.

Tuesday, after many long hours spent searching through the rulebook for a clause that allowed the headmaster to execute annoying students, Lupin was forced to acknowledge defeat. Fred and George had to be granted their hearing. Fortifying himself with a whole arsenal of chocolates from Honeydukes, he sent a missive to Dolores Umbridge, asking her to come and preside over the twins' hearing. It was worded as politely as he could manage, and even so had to undergo several revisions before Tonks would allow him to send it. She pointed out that it simply wasn't cricket to start a letter with 'Dear Toadface' or 'Dear Bitch From Hell' or 'Dear Person Who I Hope Soon Dies a Painful Death and Burns in the Fires of the Abyss.'

He waited two hours for a reply to the first letter, but answer came there none. Gritting his teeth, he dashed off a second message. It was returned cut into the shape of a somehow hostile snowflake. The third he sent, much more tersely worded, finally received a response printed on pink parchment saturated with some cloying perfume that set him to sneezing for hours. Primly she informed him that she'd received his request and was giving it due consideration.

Suspecting that what she really meant was that she'd dropped it in the rubbish bin, he whisked off yet another letter, insisting that it was her duty as former Headmistress of Hogwarts to attend the hearing. Since Tonks was out of the room on other business, he worded this one as he pleased. It was not pretty, but it got results.

The second reply Umbridge sent was drenched with an even fouler perfume than before, the scent of which seemed to creep up his nostrils and declare war on the higher functions of his brain. It was also sealed with a repulsive sticker of a technicolor kitten with a huge, fluffy bow around its neck. Lupin had used gloves to open it -- a wise move, as it was soaked in bubotuber pus -- and, upon reading it, discovered that the only day she'd condescend to come was Friday.

She must have somehow been doing research, because this declaration arrived barely fifteen minutes after Snape had come by to inform him that he'd spoken with the Death Eaters and they'd all agreed to hold the meeting Friday night. Lupin had rubbed his temples, eaten two bars of Honey dukes Double-Dutch Chocolate Supreme, and wrote his final letter to Umbridge, agreeing on Friday.

Ten minutes later, Professors Flitwick and McGonagall came into his office and informed him that the Ministry of Magic wanted to speak to him about Dumbledore's death and his appointment. Would Friday afternoon be all right?

Lupin ate a box of chocolate-covered strawberry creams, washed them down with cocoa, and agreed.

An owl arrived half an hour later bearing a request for an interview with the Daily Prophet. Friday afternoon would be best.

Lupin abandoned the chocolate and switched to whiskey. After half a bottle, he agreed. However, he also shot the next owl that flew into the room, even though it was only carrying a harmless congratulation from Kingsley Shacklebolt about his new position. (Actually, since Kingsley suggested in the letter that they go out and celebrate Friday night, perhaps it was just as well Lupin shot the owl.)

So had passed Tuesday. Wednesday was the day of the full moon, and the hungover and increasingly cranky Lupin spent the morning trying to track down Peter Pettigrew so he could fire him. Or kill him -- there was nothing in the rules as to how vending machine fillers had to be treated. But the rat appeared to have gone to earth yet again. Bitterly disappointed, he used the afternoon to try to change the time of at least one of his appointments.

And again he met with no success. Through some cosmic sense of perversity, everyone in the entire world had already made arrangements for every day but Friday. Umbridge even sent him a Howler -- a peculiar, dull pink, priggish sort of Howler -- for daring to ask. It wailed at him until he smacked it with one of Hagrid's old Monster Book of Monsters that was laying around. Then the book bit him. All in all, it was an awful day. Even the Wolfsbane Potion tasted fouler than usual, and that was quite an accomplishment; Lupin reminded himself to congratulate Snape.

When the full moon rose, Lupin locked himself in his office with a sense of foreboding, but tried to console himself with the thought that the night couldn't possibly be worse than the day had been.

He awoke the next morning to discover that, as a wolf, he'd eaten the rug and chewed halfway through the stone wall of the room and practically into the corridor beyond. His jaw ached like nothing he'd ever felt, or for that matter imagined, before. He spent Thursday holding an ice pack to his face and being nasty to anyone who attempted to commiserate.

Now it was Friday morning and Lupin was crouched under his bed, looking more like the full moon was seconds away rather than a day past.

* * * * *

Sirius knelt down to look his old friend in the face -- although he avoided staring Lupin exactly in the eye for fear of provoking a hostile response. "You can't stay down there all day, Moony," he chided.

"Try me."

"The reporter's coming at four o'clock," Sirius reminded him.

"And the Ministry is scheduled to arrive at five," said Tonks.

"The other teachers want to see you about Dumbledore's funeral -- "

"At six, yes, I know," snarled Lupin, savagely mutilating a dust bunny. "And the bloody Death Eaters are coming at seven. Bloody convenient, isn't it? This is just some grand scheme to drive me mad, I know it." There was a knock on the door. "Go away!" he yelled.

It opened anyway. "Is Daddy all right?" Harry asked, peeping worriedly into the room, one finger hovering uncertainly near his mouth.

Lupin groaned and retreated further under the bed. Harry was yet another one of his problems. Not that the Boy Who Lived was causing trouble -- oh, no, far from it! Ever since he'd swallowed the lie about Lupin being his father, he'd been a disgustingly perfect student. In fact, Lupin was getting complaints from the professors; none of them could stand the eager way Harry waved his hand about in the air whenever a question was asked or the ineffable smugness with which he answered. He'd even taken to bringing apples to his teachers, all polished to a mirror-like shine.

Sirius, who was still amused by this particular fancy of Harry's, tried not to snigger as he replied: "Your daddy's fine. Just a little tired, is all."

"Oh." Harry crept a little further into the room. "He should try eating some especially crispy bacon. It always works for me."

"I don't like bacon," growled Lupin from under the bed.

"Bah?!" For the first time since buying the tale, serious doubt entered Harry's mind. How could his father not like bacon?

Noticing the mistrustful gleam in Harry's eye, Sirius explained: "It's the werewolf thing. Wolves don't eat pigs." *

"Oh." Harry was instantly sympathetic. "Poor Daddy, that's awful." He tried to clamber under the bed, but Tonks, suspecting that close proximity to Harry's moist, wormy body was the last thing Lupin wanted, pulled him back before he got bitten.

"I wouldn't recommend that just now," she said, patting him on the head. (He'd shrunk again.)

"But I want to help," pleaded Harry. Tear welled up in his big green eyes and began to drip down his cheeks.

"That's nice, Harry. You're such a good boy. Isn't Harry a good boy, Remus -- I mean, James?"

"Oh, yes he's bloody brilliant," growled Lupin. Harry, not hearing the hostile overtones, preened.

"Thanks, Da! Can I come to your meeting with the Ministry?"

"No."

Harry looked crushed, but forged ahead. "How about your Daily Prophet interview?"

"No."

Tonks quickly put an arm around Harry as his lips began wobbling. "Give him an hour, Harry. He doesn't mean to hurt your feelings; he's just really been overworked recently. All those meetings with all those teachers, and other things. . . "

Tonks hadn't really expected her words of comfort to work. All she was hoping for, really, was to be able to keep Harry quiet long enough to shove him out the door. But to her astonishment, he straightened up and nodded, quite like he understood her.

"Of course, Tonks, I see. Daddy's very busy right now and doesn't have time for me. That's okay. I'll be back when there are no more people to bother him." He smiled brightly and walked towards the door. Tonks watched him go, slightly concerned.

"Didn't that. . . the way he phrased it, I mean. . . sound a little odd?"

"Eh?" asked Sirius, who was now trying to pull Lupin from under the bed by brute force. "Sorry, I wasn't listening. Could you give me a hand here?"

* * * * *

Outside in the hall, Harry tucked his hands in his pocket and whistled a little ditty about a happy restaurant where they served nothing but pork. He'd written it himself and was certain that one day he'd be very famous for it -- but that particular delusion of Harry's has nothing to do with the story.

He wasn't at all upset by what had happened in Lupin's room because everything had already been filtered through his own peculiar perspective. Especially the bit about how overworked his poor father was.

Yes, Harry had seen them, the other instructors, rushing to Lupin every hour of the day. Bothering him with nonsense and trifles when his time could be more usefully spent buying presents for his little boy and telling him how wonderful he was. Fortunately, the solution was simple.

Those other professors would just have to learn to leave his father alone, Harry decided. And he already had a couple ideas where he might start and what the lessons would be. Smiling vaguely to himself, Harry trundled off down the hall. He had a meeting with Rita Skeeter that he didn't want to miss.

* * * * *

Other people had ideas on how to cheer Lupin up too. Sirius and Tonks had finally gotten him out from under the bed, shaved, washed, and fed, and he was sitting in his office looking over yet more paperwork and sipping tea when Flitwick arrived bearing a large wrapped package. It was so large, in fact, that to Lupin's eyes, it looked as if the parcel walked in on its own.

He blinked a few times. "Eh?" Sirius moved in to a put a cautionary grip on his arm, afraid the slightest provocation might set him off again.

"What's that?" asked Tonks, also casting a worried glance at Lupin.

"Thought you might like to have this for your office," came Flitwick's cheerful, squeaky voice from behind the package. "Anyway, it's tradition. Go on, open it up and have a look."

Lupin noted the shape of the package -- rectangular and very flat -- and paled. "No, thank you. I don't have the wall space."

"A picture?" muttered Sirius, mystified. On the east wall, Phineas Nigellus woke up and took notice.

"Send it away," he advised after a cursory glance at the parcel.

"No! Don't! Let me out!" pleaded a voice behind the brown paper wrapping. Lupin paled further. Tonks looked horrified.

"A portrait?" she asked.

"Of course!" puffed Flitwick. He set his burden down and emerged from behind it, puffing and dabbling at his face. "It's the tradition that the new headmaster receives a portrait of his predecessor to give him support and advice during his time of transition."

Sirius closed his eyes in pain. "So it's a painting of Dumbledore," he groaned. He put a hand on Lupin's shoulder when the werewolf made a move as if to bolt for the safety of the space beneath his desk.

"Yes, indeed!" agreed Flitwick, oblivious to the distress in the room. "Painted by the greatest wizarding portrait artist alive -- Odius Y. Kanyudoonuthin-Wright. Dumbledore commissioned it himself."

"'Odius'?" asked Tonks.

"His parents didn't know how to spell 'Odysseus'," explained Flitwick apologetically.

"What does the 'Y' stand for?"

"Yak."

Lupin shook off Sirius's restraining grasp. "I suppose there's no way to avoid it, so let's take a look at this piece of sh-- "

Tonks and Sirius both hastily coughed loud enough to cover up the last word Lupin said. Lupin strode across the room, took hold of the brown paper, and ripped it off with no ceremony whatsoever.

Behind it sat an image of Dumbledore, very much as they remembered him from life, beaming and waving a friendly hand. "Hello out there!" he called merrily. They all took a moment to wish the artist hadn't opted to portray him in his mauve dressing gown. Phineas Nigellus rolled his eyes and glared.

"Don't you dare hang him up opposite me!" he snapped.

"My, it's interesting being flat," Dumbledore continued, the inane grin never leaving his face. "I feel like a hmm. . . a cookie! Yes, a cookie!"

"Thank you, Professor Flitwick," said Lupin, looking weary. "I'm sure I'll find a place for this lovely picture -- "

"In the rubbish bin," said Sirius to Tonks in an undertone.

" -- And I'm certain his advice will come in handy too."

"The day Remus has his brain replaced with a peanut," Tonks whispered back to Sirius.

"An oatmeal cookie," Dumbledore went on. "I used to love those. So crunchy, and very beneficent towards one's bowels too, if I may say so."

"Our meeting is still on for six o'clock, correct, Headmaster?" Flitwick asked on his way out the door. "The one about. . . " His gaze flicked to the happily gabbling portrait and he coughed into his hand. "The disposal of a certain party's mortal remains?"

"It's at six," nodded Lupin, too tired to make a jape out of the comment. Flitwick nodded, waved to Dumbledore, and left. Lupin slumped.

"If I'm not in a coma by tomorrow, it'll be a miracle," he said morbidly.

"Oooh! I'm sooo detailed!" crooned Dumbledore. He'd pulled up his robe to expose a bony white knee. "Look, he even got my scar in the shape of the London Underground right! How do you suppose he managed that? That Odius Y. is sooo clever!"

"Too bad he didn't paint a muzzle on you while he was at it," mused Sirius. He sighed and began clearing a space on the wall.

"You're not going to hang him up, are you, Great-grandson?" grumbled Phineas.

Sirius shrugged resignedly. "What else is there to do? All the other teachers will come by to see him -- we can't exactly direct them to the broom closet and tell them he's on display in there, now can we? Serves you right anyway, Great-granddad," he added as an afterthought.

"And I have my stuffed bunny too! Hello Tiggly-Wiggly!"

"I'm beginning to feel I could, actually. Hang him up in a closet, I mean." Lupin slouched in his chair and stared tiredly at the portrait, which whooped with joy as Sirius affixed it to the wall.

"Upsi-wupsie!" shrieked Dumbledore, bouncing with excitement.

"He's perkier than I remember him being in life," Tonks mused, rubbing Lupin's extremely tight shoulders.

"Yes. Remind me to put Odius Y. on my hit list."

Sirius chuckled as he straightened Dumbledore's frame. "Are you sure you're not actually Harry's father, Moony? I hear he has a hit list too."

"Don't even go there, Padfoot."

"Hey, you're the one who started that rumor."

"I wish I hadn't. Should have known Harry would embrace the idea like a particularly juicy pork chop. God, I hope I can put up with the little twerp long enough to arrange his, um, removal." He didn't say 'demise' in front of Tonks for fear she'd disapprove of that part of his plans.

"It's going to get better, Remus," she soothed. "Just get through today -- you can sleep all day tomorrow if you like."

"Tomorrow the Daily Prophet's going to running stories about how I nearly ate one of their reporters," Lupin countered. "Just wait and see."

"One, don't eat the reporter," said Sirius. "Two, if you slip up and do. . . well, just don't read the paper tomorrow."

"And make sure you have a toothbrush handy," suggested Phineas. "Those reporters leave a nasty residue behind."

Lupin managed to laugh. "All right, all right. I'll try to stop being a drama queen. Just wish this hadn't all happened so soon after the full moon. . . so much to do. . . " He sighed, and almost imperceptibly, his tense muscles began to relax.

"Want to catch a quick nap?" asked Tonks, "You could probably use it."

"No, I'll be all right. I have work to do."

"Ah, go on," urged Sirius. "You haven't been getting enough rest recently, and you'll want to be sharp for the interview."

"Well. . . " hedged Lupin, his resolve weakening.

"I wonder if I have to poo?" said the Dumbledore portrait in sudden worry. "I don't think Odius painted a chamberpot for me."

"Eww! No!" they all yelled at him. Sirius dropped a black cloth over the picture and Dumbledore, as obedient as any canary, promptly went to sleep.

"Imbecile," growled Phineas, polishing his fingernails on his cravat. "Can't you 'accidentally' spill something corrosive on his canvas?"

"He's on the wall," Sirius reminded his ancestor.

"I hear Vincent Crabbe is an expert projectile-vomiter. Why don't you invite him over for tea and serve hydrochloric acid?"

"Because I have enough to do for now." Lupin arranged the papers on his desk, selected one, and began to write. "Thanks for the nap idea, but I'd rather get some work out of the way. Besides, now I've the image of Dumbledore on a chamberpot in my head and I'd probably have nightmares."

"Well, you do as you think best, Remus," said Tonks. She'd caught sight of Lucius Malfoy peering through the partially opened doorway. Meeting her gaze, he motioned her to follow him outside. "Come along, Sirius."

"Eh? Wha -- " Tonks drew his attention to Lucius. "Oh, right. I'm no good with papers anyway. But call us if you need us, Moony."

Lupin just nodded, absorbed in his work. Tonks and Sirius slipped outside the room. Sirius raised an eyebrow at Lucius. "What? What's so important, Malfoy?"

Lucius was as close to beaming as he was capable. On him, it looked smug. "We found the little bastard," he told them. "We found Pettigrew."

* * * * *

"I really have to congratulate you, Harry," said Rita. "Not many teenagers have an instinct for news the way you do. Mind you, I did. I ran a school paper while I was here. I knew who had a crush on whom, and I printed it. If anyone so much as whispered a secret at the farthest end of Hogwarts, it was in my pages the next day. Oh, they hated me for it." A fanatical gleam lit her eye. "They cursed me in the halls and called me names -- but they never stopped reading what I wrote. It's my genius, and it will not be stifled." The gleam faded as she smiled almost kindly on Harry. "But compared to you -- you're onto world events, not just mere teenage angst-fests."

"Thanks, Ms. Skeeter." Harry extended his bottle of butterbeer towards her flask of firewhiskey. They clinked, then drank in silence, Harry thinking: if you only knew. As far as Harry was concerned, everything was about his teenaged angst.

They had the disused third floor corridor all to themselves for this appointment. Few cared to come here, long after Fluffy had been packed up and moved away, for a strong odor of ill-groomed canine lingered. Harry didn't find it too bad, however. It reminded him of the times Sirius went out in the rain, forgot he wasn't really a dog, and rolled in something nasty.

"So, Harry," said Rita, dabbing off her lips and looking at him shrewdly, "what next? I have to say that the readers really loved the Hagrid-murdered-by-You-Know-Who article. First time anyone felt any sympathy for the clod. Even had some people asking where his grave was so they could toss a few flowers at it." She waited.

"Hmm?" It took Harry a moment to catch the unspoken question. "Oh, some of the teachers threw his remains into the Forbidden Forest and a pack of giant spiders ate them. Killed about half of the pack, and the rest died later from eating Grawp. It was a good day."

"Hm. Well, I think I'll have to put down 'private burial' in the paper." Rita made a note. "The giant spider thing might upset some people."

Harry snorted. "I'd think they'd be glad -- I know I am! How the Forbidden Forest maintained a stable population of seven and a half billion carnivorous spiders I'll never know."

"Seven and a half billion?"

"Well, I didn't exactly sit and count them," said Harry testily, "as they were trying to eat me at the time. But trust me, it was a lot."

"And to think it was never in the papers," Rita lamented.

"Dumbledore covered it up for Hagrid's sake."

"Ah, yes, Dumbledore. You wouldn't believe how his death issue sold." She shivered deliciously. "I haven't seen numbers like that since the day Honey dukes did that golden ticket thing."

"Glad to hear it," said Harry absently. Ever since Hermione had been turned into a cat, he'd gotten lazy about keeping up with the news, and anyway, he had other things on his mind.

"But how am I going to top it? I have to keep the momentum going; the public's breathless with anticipation of what's going to happen next. So, kiddo, what have you got for me?"

Harry scratched his chin. "Well, I tried to convince the Headmaster to let me sit in on the meeting with the Ministry, but I'm afraid it's not going to happen."

Rita frowned. "What a shame. I sure there'll be a lot of juicy tidbits to overhear." She brightened. "I know! I'll just go in my beetle form."

"No good," Harry told her. "Professor Snape's doing security for it, and you wouldn't believe the number of traps and protective spells he's setting." Harry nodded to himself as he spoke. Professor Snape was really becoming a bother. Something had to be done about him -- soon.

"Damn," grumbled Rita. "All these precautions. . . How's an honest journalist supposed to find the muck to sling? Well. . . " She pondered. "Well, I can always use the angle that they're being too paranoid. . . have something to hide. Yeah! What if I insinuate that Lupin's the one behind the attacks, not the Dark Lord? After all, he's the one who has benefited the most." She dug eagerly for her quill.

"No!" snapped Harry. Rita froze and stared at him, incredulously. "I mean, it won't go anywhere," he quickly amended. "I mean, a werewolf doing something evil and sneaky? That's just what everyone expects. No one'll be surprised; they'll just nod and say 'of course!' and that'll be the end of it. You'll be out of work in a month."

"Hmm. . . well, I could say he was working for You-Know-Who. You-Know-Who always sells."

"Still not interesting enough." Harry shook his head. "It will grab more attention if the culprit is someone no one expects, like oh. . . " A gleam lit his eyes. "Say, Professor Snape."

Rita scoffed. "That's not going to surprise anyone who's ever seen Professor Snape. Come on, Harry, the man lives in a dungeon and dresses entirely in black."

"Some people think he's just misunderstood," Harry protested. "I heard he had a hard childhood. He was bullied -- "

"Which is, of course, an excuse to become a Death Eater, intimidate the children under his charge, practice dubious personal hygiene, and generally never pass up an opportunity to be nasty to every person he encounters," Rita snorted. "No, forget it. He should just tattoo 'villain' across his forehead and be done with it. Redeeming him -- now that would be a challenge. But accusing him of murdering Dumbledore? Face it, kiddo, a werewolf is more of a surprise."

Harry reluctantly had to concede the point. "Well, how about Professor Flitwick, then?" That's right, Harry remembered, he still owed Flitwick for charming the broom that had allowed Draco to win the Quidditch match.

Rita licked her lips, although her expression remained dubious. "Professor Filius Flitwick? The friendly little guy? No one would believe he'd murder Hagrid."

"Ah, but he is very good at charms," said Harry cunningly. "In fact, who better to enchant the lawnmower that killed Hagrid?"

"It would sell," admitted Rita hungrily. "It would sell very well. But is there even a smidgen of evidence? I can't afford a lawsuit for slander."

"Oh, I think there is," answered Harry easily. Give him a little time and there would be.

"How about this, then? We'll throw a little suspicion on Lupin now -- just to prick the readers' interest," she insisted when Harry looked mutinous. "Then when the big story about Flitwick comes out it'll make Lupin look all the better. We can even run some big soppy sympathy article for werewolves, about how they're always misunderstood -- get the public all worked up over the issue."

"Okay," agreed Harry, who knew the pleasures of martyrdom from personal experience. "That would be ideal!"

"Great!" Rita made a note. "I can have the Lupin thing out tomorrow or Sunday. By when will you have the dirt on Flitwick?"

"Umm. . . it'll probably take me a day or two to find anything. And then I'll have to alert someone and -- "

"The end of next week is probably best," interrupted Rita. "Give the public time to digest the werewolf thing first."

"Right. So how about you come by Wednesday and -- Shhh! What's that?"

Rita lifted her head from her note-taking. "I didn't hear anything."

"Well I did," replied Harry grimly, "and it sounded like giggling."

Rita swept quill and paper into her handbag and shut it with a click. "Giggling?"

"Fred and George," explained Harry. "They're the students I told you about -- the ones who were expelled last year and now want to re-enroll. Morons."

"No story in them, either. Wait! Hang on -- they're the ones who opened that joke shop in Diagon Alley, aren't they?" Rita scowled. "They turned me into a newt!"

Harry stared at her.

"I got better," she explained sheepishly. "It was these Ginger Newt biscuits they were handing out -- I probably should have known something was up, but I do love ginger."

Harry, who was listening for it, heard the next round of giggles. "They're hiding behind that old tapestry there," he told her softly. "The one of Plonkkit the Gluttonous swallowing ten roast turkeys at once." He took another look at the tapestry and shook his head. Every once in a while Harry realized that most wizards had a screw loose. Certainly their choices of events worth immortalizing in art were dubious.

"How much do you think they overheard?" Rita whispered.

That was a more difficult question than she realized. Harry was quite sure the twins might have overheard everything, but whether any of it had penetrated their tiny brains was another issue altogether. "I don't know. They only started giggling recently. They might have heard our plans about Flitwick."

"Bloody hell," said Rita crossly. "All right; do you suppose they'd keep their mouths shut in return for a write-up about their rotten joke shop?"

This was safer ground. Harry shook his head. "You can't trust those two."

Rita glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes to see the tapestry had oh-so-subtly moved a few inches to closer. "Not too keen, are they?"

"Thicker than creamed house elf," Harry agreed. "But they do have big mouth." He frowned. For once he was at a complete loss for what to do for once. It would be so like Fred and George to have accurately overheard their conversation and to remember every word out of sheer perversity.

Rita seemed to be suffering from the same dilemma. "Perhaps a direct confrontation would be best," she suggested.

Harry shrugged. "We can give it a try," he said in an I'm-quite-sure-this-is-not-going-to-work tone before raising his voice. "Fred! George! We know you're there! You can come out now."

The tapestry abruptly stopped moving, although its fraying edge still trembled. There was the suggestion of movement behind it.

"You're not fooling anyone," said Rita, tapping her fingernails impatiently against the clasp of her handbag.

There was muffled mumbling, then a quick: "Shh! Don't tell!" before the tapestry went silent again.

Harry and Rita looked at each other. They rolled their eyes. "All right." Harry stood. "Gee, it's nice to be able to talk to you in private like this, Ms. Skeeter," he said in a theatrically loud voice as he backed idly across the room. The giggling behind the tapestry resumed.

Rita played along. "Yes, it is, Harry," she agreed heartily. "We can talk about secret things that no one else is supposed to overhear."

"That's right," nodded Harry, wandering past the tapestry of Plonkkit the Gluttonous and ever-so-accidentally catching its edge on his wand. "Nothing like being alone together." Turning swiftly about, he tore the fraying tapestry from the wall. Fred and George stood revealed, utterly astonished and trying, unsuccessfully, to hide themselves behind each other.

"Hello, Fred. Hello, George." Harry regarded each twin in turn.

Fred attempted a stupendously idiotic grin of nonchalance. "Oh, hi, Harry. Didn't know you were there."

"And you didn't know we were here," added George, trying to be helpful.

"Yes I did, actually," Harry told them. They wilted.

Rita rose from the dusty bench and put her hands on her hips. "What are you doing here, boys?"

"Looking for some old Fluffy poop," answered Fred.

"We use it in our snackboxes," explained George.

"You didn't happen to see any, did you?" asked Fred.

Rita tapped a foot. "You're going to have to do better than that, boys."

Harry nudged her. "I suspect it's the truth."

Rita thought about that for a moment. She gagged and whipped out her quill and began writing furiously. "I don't usually waste my time with public safety messages," she muttered, "but this time I'll make an exception."

Harry let her get on with her scribbling as he turned to face the twins. "All right, so you came here looking for -- " he glanced sidelong at Rita and amended the word he'd intended to use. " -- Ingredients. But you hid behind the tapestry instead. Why?"

"Well, we saw you with Ms. Skeeter there," answered Fred, his mouth stretching into a smirk despite his best efforts. George sniggered obscenely. "And well, we didn't want to interrupt your date -- "

"Date?" repeated Harry blankly. He slowly turned and looked at the stocky figure, thickly varnished curls, and red-painted talons that made up Rita Skeeter. She in turn regarded his smelly striped polo shirt, his green eyes goggling behind thick-rimmed glasses, and his lank scrawny body. They both turned away, grimacing.

"They cannot be that stupid," Rita muttered.

"I am not dating Ms. Skeeter," growled Harry.

"Of course you are -- what else would you be doing here?" queried Fred. "This is where I brought Angelina to make out. I showed her the big patch of dried dog slobber."

"No wonder she broke up with you after less than a week." Harry recovered from his disgust. "Look, we're not here on a date -- "

"Whatever you say, Harry," replied George with over-studied innocence.

Again Harry paused. Disabusing the twins of their ill-conceived notion would probably be more trouble than it was worth. And if they went around the school saying he was dating Rita Skeeter, no one would believe anything else they said. "So, what did you overhear?" he asked, changing tactics.

"Nothing," said George.

"Nothing at all," said Fred.

"Well, there was something about Lupin -- "

"And Snape -- "

"And Flitwick -- "

"But we have no idea what it was."

"None at all."

Rita tapped her quill against her lips. "Perhaps we should kill them."

Harry had had that thought as well, but he suspected the twins would be as easy to kill as a pair of giant, thick-skinned, slow-witted but unbelievably lucky cockroaches. "Dolores Umbridge is coming by for their hearing today. She'll raise a stink if they go missing."

"We could just blame it on You-Know-Who," suggested Rita.

"Ludo Bagman?" asked Fred brightly.

Harry stared at him. "Whot?"

"Well, she said You-Know-Who and I guessed she meant Ludo Bagman. Everyone knows him."

"Fred," said Harry patiently, "Rita and I are deciding whether you're going to live or not. It has nothing to do with you. Just shut up and let us decide."

"Okay," agreed Fred. Harry turned back to Rita.

"Some of the other students probably saw me heading this way," he said. "That means if Fred and George turn up dead -- "

"They'll award you a medal, right?" Rita was eyeing the twins distastefully. They'd gotten down on all fours and were crawling about the floor, pretending to be dogs.

"Well, they should," said Harry, "but then again, they might not. Headmaster Lupin's specifically told everyone to stay out of trouble, and a lot of Slytherins don't like me anyway."

"We could poison them," suggested Rita. "That way we could leave before it kicked in. Surely they're dumb enough to eat anything you offer them."

"Yeah, but I doubt there's a poison in existence that hasn't already passed through their guts." He watched Fred and George sniff each others' butts and chortle. "No, killing them would be an all-day task and you still couldn't be sure you'd succeed. We're going to have try another solution."

"Fine." Rita drew her wand. "Stand back, Harry."

He did. The twins looked up in mild interest as she approached. They stared with apparent fascination at the tip of her wand as she shook it at them. Rita smiled evilly. "Obliviate!" she shouted. Magical energy poured from the tip of her wand, surrounded the twins. They fell over.

"Wow! I feel so wicked!" exclaimed Fred.

"Yeah," agreed George. "Fabulous! Like a big old doughnut without its center."

Rita tucked her wand away. "That should do it," she said smugly.

But Harry wasn't so sure. He looked down at the twins, who were now laying on their backs waving their arms and making beep noises. "What do you remember?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Fred.

"Nothing at all," added George.

"Except for something about Lupin -- "

"And Snape -- "

"And Flitwick -- "

"And Dolores Umbridge too, come to think of it."

"But nothing else."

"No, nothing."

Harry shook his head. "I'm afraid their skulls are too thick for the Memory Charm to work."

Rita threw down her wand and stamped. "So what are we going to do?"

Harry shrugged. "If you can't beat 'em, bribe 'em. Looks like we're going to have to offer them a job."

"Whot?!"

* * * * *

Sirius was, at the moment, a very happy man -- except for being dead, of course. But even that seemed like a minor inconvenience compared to the thought of finally being able to exact his long-overdue revenge on Peter Pettigrew. His hand shook on his wand as he followed Lucius Malfoy down drafty corridors and he had to almost forcibly restrain himself from yelling "Whoopee!" in a embarrassingly loud voice.

Instead he asked, calmly enough: "Are you quite sure Pettigrew's down here?"

"Yes, Black," said Lucius in the exasperated tones of a man who has repeated the same information far too many times over the past quarter hour, "as I've already told you, Mr. Pettigrew is hiding -- or something -- in a disused lavatory in the basement."

"'Or something'?" queried Tonks. She was not nearly so ebullient as her cousin and lagged a few paces behind, glancing about warily.

"Yes. We're, er, not quite certain Mr. Pettigrew is aware of his peril." Lucius coughed into his hand.

Tonks frowned. "I don't quite understand."

Lucius coughed some more. "He was discovered taking a bubble bath and talking to a small yellow rubber duck," he explained, looking pained. "When he was told that Mr. Lupin had been made Headmaster and was looking for him, his response was -- Wait; see if I can get it just right -- 'Cor, blimey, 'oo'd 'ave thought old Moony would become such a ruddy bigshot?' And then he sniveled affectionately."

"He sniveled?"

"Affectionately. And dabbed his eyes with his washcloth. This is all via report," Lucius hastened to inform them. "I didn't witness it myself."

"So he's clueless," said Sirius, "who cares? Let's kill him anyway."

Recognizing the manic gleam in her cousin's eye, Tonks put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Who found him?" she asked.

Lucius suffered yet another fit of hacking. "Gilderoy Lockhart, actually," he said when it was over. "Apparently, the small yellow rubber duck is his."

Sirius laughed. Tonks looked at him worriedly -- it was not the laugh of a sane man. "And who's keeping watch on him now?" she asked.

"Lockhart's there, still trying to rescue -- " he put his hand to his mouth.

"Don't cough again," Tonks warned him.

Lucius took his hand away. "Mr. Quackie," he said primly. "Professor Snape's guarding the door, and I think it's safe to say he's not a happy man."

Sirius laughed again. It was even crazier than before. Looking at him, Tonks thought that if that was the way he'd behaved when the authorities had apprehended him fifteen years ago, she couldn't really blame them for throwing him into Azkaban without a trial. He was virtually drunk with murderous delight.

"I can't wait," he murmured in a drunken little singsong.

Well, she couldn't put off the bad news forever. "Sirius," she said, jogging his arm.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus on her. ". . . yeah?"

"Remember your. . . condition? You can't kill him. You can't kill anyone."

She watched the words sink in. His jaw sagged and his knuckles tightened to a bone white. He looked as if he might keel over at any second.

"I'm sorry -- "

"CRAP!" Sirius punched the wall, without much effect. "CRAP! CRAP! CRAP!"

"Don't speak all in capitals," she said wearily. "We've had enough trouble weaning Harry off the habit."

"CRAP! CRAP! CRA -- well, you're just going to have to do it." Sirius nodded and began smiling again.

"No." Tonks put her hands on her hips. "I did not join the Order because I had a yen to become a murderer. I'll bring him to justice, but I will not strike him dead."

"Nymphadora, sweetie, death is too good for Pettigrew," Sirius explained patiently.

"Then why not let him live?"

Sirius's eyes glazed over as he tried to work out this piece of logic. Lucius sighed impatiently. "I'll kill him. Or maybe Snape would fancy the task. Probably would after an hour of listening to those two morons debate ownership of Mr. Quackles."

"Quackie," Sirius corrected.

"Don't go there, Sirius," said Tonks.

"What? He said 'Quackie' just a moment ago and now it's 'Quackles.' He's the one confusing the issue, not me."

Tonks was really, really not interested in arguing the question. "Look, I'm not going to allow anyone to murder Pettigrew. We'll take him in for a proper trial."

Lucius sniffed. "We're Death Eaters. We don't do proper trials."

"Well, I'm a member of the Order and we do. Besides, it's the only way to clear Sirius's name."

"I'm dead," Sirius informed her. "I don't care."

"That clears that up then," said Lucius, cheerfully rubbing his hands together. "And here's Snape." They'd reached the end of the corridor. The smell of hot water and soap leaked through the cracks of an ill-fitting door, along with the sound of a pair of angry, albeit rather muffled, voices. Before the door stood Snape, looking deeply pained.

"Took you long enough, Malfoy!" snarled the Potions Master as he spotted the approaching trio. "If I have to listen to this inane argument much longer -- "

"It's clearly Mr. Quackie!" came Lockart's voice. "Look, he's got a blotch of purple ink across his bottom. I was trying to sign his bum and it smeared."

Lucius, Snape, Sirius and Tonks all looked at one another.

"Told you it was Mr. Quackie," said Sirius.

Because he was dead, no one bothered trying to throttle him. "Sorry it took so long, Severus," said Lucius. "They were in a meeting with Lupin."

"Yes," said Tonks, looking at her watch, "and I'd like to get back to him before he has to meet with the reporter. He hasn't been in a good mood recently."

"'Is name hain't Mr. Quackie!" Peter shouted, "it's Doodles. Doodles Duck. An' you just left 'im lyin' about. Finders keepers, says I."

"Mr. Quackie!"

"Doodles!"

"Mr. Quackie!"

"Doodles!"

"So, can we get on with it?" asked Snape impatiently.

"Oh yes, please!" said Sirius, bouncing up and down. Tonks frowned at him.

"We're not going to kill him."

"We're not?" demanded Snape, annoyed.

"Ignore her," Sirius told him. "She's just being a goody two-shoes. You have my permission to kill him."

"Thank you, Black," said Snape dryly. "Might I remind you, Ms. Tonks, that Pettigrew is officially dead anyway. No one is going to notice his change in status if we kill him."

"That still doesn't make it right." She folded her arms. "Besides, Lockhart's here too. He might tell on you."

"So we'll kill him as well," Snape almost smiled, but managed to master the impulse.

"No! Certainly not!" Tonks stamped a foot.

"I'm sure we can make it look like an accident," cajoled Sirius.

"That's not the point! I can't -- what's that racket?" For the lavatory has suddenly erupted in a series of shouts, scuffles, and crashing noises, as of things shattering on a hard tiled floor.

"Sounds like it has erupted into violence," drawled Lucius. "Perhaps they'll save us the bother of killing them by doing it themselves."

"No!" wailed Sirius, tearing at his hair. "Not good!"

Lucius glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because I want to watch! I want suffering and bloodshed and pain!" He raced towards the door. Before anyone could attempt to hold him back -- which likely would have proved futile anyway -- there was a sudden burst of rainbow-colored light from around the seam. A humming sound grew in their ears, quickly reaching an almost unbearable pitch. They staggered, clapping hands over their ears, to no avail. The noise continued to ring in their heads.

Just as abruptly it stopped. The light faded, leaving the corridor looking exceptionally dark and gray. The foursome pushed themselves to their feet, glancing at one another fearfully.

"What was that?" whispered Tonks.

"Some kind of spell." Lucius ran a shaking hand through his long blonde tresses. "But I have no idea which one."

"Nor do I," admitted Snape.

"It went right through me." Sirius shivered and gazed towards the lavatory. "Are they still there?"

It was awfully quiet behind the door.

"I guess we'd better take a look." Lucius waited for someone else to step forward and offer to check. It took almost a minute before Tonks sighed.

"All right," she said, putting her hand on the knob. It tingled under her hand and she flinched, but nothing else happened. Ever so cautiously, she turned it and peeked inside. She let out a gasp.

"Oh, my Lord!" she whispered.

"What? What is it?" Sirius demanded, but his cousin made no reply, seemingly dumbstruck. Impatiently pushing past her, Sirius put a hand on the door and wrenched it wide open. Light flooded the corridor.

What they beheld in the lavatory staggered them all.

* This is, in fact, true. The Three Little Pigs? Utter rot.