Harry Potter and the Year of Living Stupidly

Chapter Twelve

Strange Bedfellows

Well. . . isn't this jolly?

Lupin didn't dare say it aloud. The tension in the room was stretched tighter than a pair of spandex pants over Ludo Bagman's ass.

Bellatrix and Narcissa had greeted each another with deep, affectionate air kisses before quickly separating and going to opposite sides of the table. Bellatrix took with her a mug of industrial strength coffee and a plate of shortbread, which she was now crunching. Somehow she made it sound as if she were grinding bones between her teeth and not delicate confections of flour, butter, and sugar.

The Death Eaters were frankly terrified. Karkaroff shook so badly under the table that the cups rattled on top. They feared he'd wet the rug if the meeting went on too long. Lucius Malfoy sat rigidly erect in his chair, the tendons in his neck standing out like gnarled ropes, looking rather like something out of the vault of horrors at a wax museum. And the members of the Order weren't much happier. Especially Sirius. He was glaring at Bellatrix in a way that would have killed a normal person, but evidently wasn't virulent enough for Bellatrix to so much as notice.

To top it all off, Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye had fixed itself, past all reason, on Crabbe and Goyle. The two huge men shifted uneasily in their chairs, grunting to themselves and occasionally searching the room for a place to hide from that implacable blue stare. They'd both eaten their teacups out of sheer nervousness, and Crabbe's spoon bore distinct toothmarks.

The frigid silence dragged on. Someone had to break the ice. With a quick glance around the table, Lupin confirmed what he'd already suspected; it was going to have to be him. He stifled a sigh. The tiny noise sounded like a gunshot in the thick atmosphere of the room. Several people jumped, winced, or glared.

"Shall we call the meeting to order?" asked Lupin, wincing himself. He tried to speak quietly, but his hoarse voice sawed the air like sandpaper. By the way most of them reacted, he might as well have raved and foamed at the mouth. So much for cutting the tension.

"I should think so!" snapped Bellatrix, who of course was not in the least discomfited. She shoved the last piece of shortbread into her mouth and spoke around it. "I have no intention of missing 'Survivor' tonight." She glared around the table as if each and every one of them were personally responsible for her missing her program.

"Bella just loves 'Survivor'," confided Narcissa in falsely loving tones.

"Except I think it's misnamed. Why 'Survivor'? They haven't killed anyone yet. Pathetic!" Bellatrix snorted. "If I were on that show, you can bet the others would be goners by now."

The whole group nodded. They believed her implicitly.

"I don't think the contestants are actually allowed to kill each other, Bella dear," said Narcissa. "But if they ever are," she added with a malicious smile, "I think I'll enter my husband." Lucius shuddered, although his muscles were so locked so tight it looked more like he was being put through his death throes.

"Well, let's get on with the meeting so you don't miss it," said Lupin, who was glad for any excuse - however inane - to see the back of Bellatrix early. "As you all know, our purpose here is to find a way to rid ourselves of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort in one fell swoop."

"Kill them, you mean," said Snape coolly.

Tonks shifted in her chair. "I'd rather just find a way to render them both harmless."

"I agree," said Arthur -- but no one paid him any attention, as he had just managed to get his thumb stuck in the electric kettle.

"Aw, is iddibiddiums afwaid to kill people?" cooed Bellatrix.

"Stow it," snapped Tonks, who, after all, was a Black female herself. "That's right; I'm not particularly keen on committing murder. I share enough traits with you as it is."

Bellatrix sniggered and helped herself to more shortbread.

"My idea," said Lupin, to prevent a fight from breaking out, "is to have them duel somewhere in public. So that whatever the result is, everyone can see it and there's no chance of the papers reporting it incorrectly."

"No chance?" Snape lifted a brow.

"Well, a smaller chance," Lupin conceded. "Anyway, to make everyone here happy, the duel has to be a mutual defeat."

"The more carnage the better," agreed Bellatrix, her eyes glinting.

It wasn't exactly what he meant, but he let it pass. "So do we have any sane ideas?"

"I don't see why it has to be so complicated," complained Macnair, patting Mickey. "I'd be perfectly happy to nip off and decapitate Harry Potter. Could do it right now, in fact. Wouldn't take a second and Mickey would enjoy the exercise." He began to stand.

"If Harry Potter dies, all the weak-willed, easily led masses will believe the war is lost and fold like a lot of card tables," said Lupin impatiently, waving him back down. "Leaving you Death Eaters the clear victors. No, it has to be a mutual defeat, because if we're to believe the prophecy, Harry's the only one who can kill Voldemort in such a way that he won't come back pasted to someone's head."

"If you believe the prophecy," grumbled Snape. "Fancy taking words spoken by Sibyl Trelawney seriously. She has a thing for you, doesn't she, Lupin?"

"I believe so. What does that have to do with the business at hand?"

"Nothing. I'm just happy to know I'm not the only one with an undesirable female stalking me."

"I'd jump at the chance if I were you, Snivellus," growled Sirius, his eyes glinting. "You're not going to have many more opportunities to lose your virginity."

"Sirius!" cried Tonks reproachfully. Lupin closed his eyes and groaned. The meeting seemed determined to spiral downhill. Now Snape and Sirius were engaging in a particularly unfriendly staring match.

"Maybe Professor Snape has a point," said Kingsley to ease the tension. "Maybe we shouldn't believe the prophecy. Maybe someone else can kill Voldemort and leave Harry out of it entirely."

There was an immediate outcry amongst the Death Eaters. "Leaving you members of the Order the clear winners!" whined Karkaroff, poking his head out from under the table. "I think not."

"Oh, come on! All Voldemort does is stuff his face! It's not like you need him," protested Tonks.

"He's good publicity," said Narcissa stubbornly. "Besides, he may be the only one who can kill Harry Potter. Evil little scut, from what I hear. Is it true he killed Dumbledore?"

"We believe so. We just haven't bothered to prove it because -- "

"Because you're the one who benefited from it," finished Bellatrix, smirking.

Lupin raised his brows. "Because no one would convict him," he corrected. "And if Harry ever realizes this, we may be in more trouble with him than we ever were with Voldemort."

Snape scoffed. "I don't believe that for a moment. Harry Potter is far from being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Fluff his ego and stuff him full of pork and he won't be a problem."

Lucius Malfoy suddenly let out an exclamation, but his jaw was so tight that no one could understand what he said.

"What was that?" asked Lupin.

"Probably just a burp," replied Narcissa. "Pay no attention. I'll beat him later."

But now Lucius had everyone's attention. He tried to speak again. Lupin's keen werewolf hearing picked up a couple words. "It sounded like. . . 'that's it'?" he frowned, concentrating.

Lucius nodded eagerly.

"Well, what's it? What do you mean?"

Again Lucius made an attempt, but Bellatrix was leaning in close now and he began trembling as if with a fever. He made a few inarticulate croaking sounds and flapped his hands feebly.

"Pathetic," sighed Narcissa.

"Wait, don't scare him," counseled Arthur, his thumb coming loose from the kettle with a wet, wince-inducing 'pop'. "That'll only make it harder for him to speak." He gently settled his hands on Lucius's shoulders, and the horrified blonde man tried to writhe away. "That's right; just relax," said Arthur, attempting what he thought was a relaxing massage.

"Close your eyes and think of England," suggested Lupin dryly.

Lucius stuttered something unintelligible.

"Try singing it," said Snape.

"Write it down," offered Kingsley.

"Stop being a git," commanded Bellatrix, snapping a piece of shortbread between thumb and finger.

Lucius inhaled: "Refrigeratorusearefrigeratorfillitwithpigthey'llfight."

Sirius blinked. "Umm. . . something about a refrigerator?"

Lucius nodded eagerly.

"What do we do with it?"

Lucius tried to talk, produced a few squeaks, gave it up, and pushed his nose up into a snout. Everyone regretted the lack of a camera to record the moment.

"Pig and refrigerator," pondered Snape. "Aha! We fill a refrigerator with pork and then Harry and Voldemort will fight over it!"

There was a silence. "That's your plan?" asked Narcissa incredulously. Lucius nodded at her hopefully. "It's really stupid!" He shuddered.

"No, wait," said Lupin thoughtfully. "Consider the source."

"You mean, Harry and Voldemort are pretty stupid, right?"

"Exactly. I mean, look what Pettigrew and Lockhart achieved through sheer stupidity."

"What did they achieve?" asked Macnair.

"They became gods."

"Hey cool! Can I become a god too?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Go to the back of the queue." He rubbed his chin. "You know, I think the idea has some merit. Harry never allows anyone else to get the first cut off the joint when pork is on the line."

"But would he actually kill someone over it?" asked Narcissa skeptically.

"Maybe." Lupin pondered, "just maybe. It's more Harry's style to brood and plot revenge for later -- "

"I don't know about that, Remus," Sirius interrupted. "When he lost that Quidditch game to Draco, he chopped up his Firebolt and threw it at me. He was almost angry enough to come at me with his bare hands. Come to think of it, he did come at me with his bare hands once, back in the Shrieking Shack."

"Yes, but he's gotten older and sneakier since then. Still. . . Would Voldemort fight over the contents of a refrigerator?"

Narcissa spread her hands. "It's possible. All he does anymore is eat, and he does get right stroppy when someone else takes something he wants. Harry's claiming the whole thing just might push him over the edge."

"At least it's a simple idea," said Snape. "Nothing to lose but a fridge and a few cuts of pig meat. I say we give it a try."

Lupin glanced around the table. "Any objections?" He aimed the question mostly at Bellatrix and Narcissa. Bellatrix shrugged.

"I agree it's stupid, but I'm curious to see if it works. If it does, Voldemort deserves to die."

"Absolutely."

"Voldemort already deserves to die. Fighting over a pig-filled - Well, you're not listening. Never mind. So, when should we try the experiment? The sooner the better." Lupin looked from one face to another.

"We need an audience," Sirius reminded him.

"So how about at Dumbledore's funeral?" suggested Snape. "There's something dreadfully apropos about that."

"But You-Know-Who wasn't invited to the funeral!" blurted Goyle stupidly. He gulped as Moody's eye fixed him severely in its blue glare.

"You-Know-Who isn't going to get invited anywhere," said Snape impatiently. "Nor does he need an invitation. He's allowed to just pop up and be evil. It's what Dark Lords do."

"Oh."

"Actually, it's a question. How will we get Voldemort to the funeral if he refuses to leave the house?"

"I'll turn the refrigerator into a portkey," said Narcissa brightly. "What time's the funeral?"

"The service is at two o'clock, but the guests will start arriving by ten. Should be a nice crowd by noon."

"Oh? You expect Dumbledore's burial to be a real hit with the populace, Lupin?" Snape sneered.

"There are plenty of people who are going to want to make sure he doesn't get up again. Right, a portkey. That should work, depending on the timing."

"Voldemort is not an early riser," said Narcissa. "Never up before ten at the earliest. He'll head straight for the refrigerator, but I can delay him by putting a smaller one in his path. He'll eat his way through that before he goes onto the big one. I can probably hold him back until noon - maybe a bit earlier."

"Try to hold him back until at least eleven thirty," said Lupin, "because I'll have to have Harry waiting for him. We're going to have the casket set up in the hall with all those statues, near the back. I'll get Harry to stand with me and shake hands and greet people. He'll like that - it'll make him feel important until he gets bored. Which'll probably take less than an hour, so have Voldemort portkey there before then."

"You should show me exactly where everything's going to be so there are no mistakes," replied Narcissa. Then she shook her head. "Honestly, if this idiotic plan works, I suppose we'll be indebted to my equally idiotic husband."

Lucius attempted to grin. It was hideous.

"So is that all?" demanded Bellatrix, bored. "Chuck a pig fridge at the pair and let 'em rip?"

"If it works, it's all."

"Bah." Bellatrix stood. "Boring. I hope it fails so we can try something more amusing. I'm going home to watch 'Survivor' now."

"Okay. Enjoy yourself." Lupin choked out. He was struggling not to giggle over the fact that she had said 'bah'. He was quite sure it would be the death of him if he laughed at her. Fortunately, Bellatrix didn't seem to notice his ill-advised mirth. Tonks gave him a poke in the side.

"Goodbye, dear," cooed Narcissa to her sister. She mimed a hug, which was about as close as they cared to get to each other. Something like hope was struggling to find expression on Lucius's frozen features as Bellatrix prepared to leave.

As if sensing this, Bellatrix turned around just before she reached the door. "Oh, by the way, Narcissa dear," she mentioned casually, "if this plan doesn't work, I'm going to chop off your husband's head and fry it up with garlic." She licked her lips. "And some white wine and a touch of oregano. Bye-bye, Cissa!" She flounced out the door and took care to slam it. Lucius curled into a fetal ball and whimpered.

"I despise that woman," said Sirius, who had actually managed to dredge up a small tot of sympathy for Lucius. He patted him on the shoulder. "Brace up, man."

"She's going to eat me!" whimpered Lucius. "I know she's going to eat me! Might as well get at the carving knife now!"

Narcissa shrugged. "If you like, dear." She got up. This being the Room of Requirement, there was one sitting helpfully on a shelf near the coffee. Kingsley got there first.

"The more fool I, perhaps," he said firmly, "but I'm not going to sit and watch you carve your husband into bite-sized portions."

"What is it with you Death Eaters and eating people anyway?" asked Tonks, exasperated.

Moody smiled a particularly twisted smile, even for him. "Oh, but it wasn't just the Death Eaters, girl. Back during the first war, whenever we had a suspect, we'd -- "

"Don't want to know!" She covered her ears.

"I'm sure he's joking," Arthur consoled her. Moody grinned wider.

"Those weren't all bacon sandwiches you ate at the meetings, Weasley."

"Maybe we should just bake Dumbledore's corpse instead of burying it," said Sirius, suddenly entering into the spirit of the thing. Tonks kicked him, but of course it just went right through him.

"There aren't enough ketchup bottles in the world to make Dumbledore edible," said Lupin, who was heartily tired of the subject. He was also annoyed with how the Wizarding world kicked up such a fuss over werewolves wanting to eat people once a month when apparently it was the meat of choice in some circles. "Are you coming, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Ooh, don't call me that," she said, shivering delicately. "It just reminds me of my biggest mistake."

"Very well -- Narcissa. Let's go take a look at the place where the great event is going to take place. I hope."

They left the room and Lucius finally relaxed. "A pox on all Black women!" he exclaimed, sitting up and thumping the arms of his chair.

"Don't be racist," said Macnair primly. All the members of the Order cast him strange looks.

"That was 'Black' with a capital 'b'," Snape informed him.

"Oh, that's all right then." Macnair drained the last of his coffee.

Kingsley shook his head in disbelief. "Let me see if I have this straight. Hating people because of their skin color is bad, but hating people because they don't have any magic or aren't pureblooded is all right?"

"Makes sense to me," said Karkaroff, slipping out from under the table and twirling his beard around a finger. The Death Eaters all nodded.

Tonks shook her head. "You're weird. I mean, really guys, go get your heads examined."

"Or cut off," muttered Sirius. "Then we can shrink them and set them around for decoration."

Sirius suddenly found himself on the receiving end of several exceedingly cold stares. "What?"

"Never make that suggestion again," said Tonks firmly.

"Shrunken heads are not funny," Snape added.

Sirius sulked a moment. "I like them. I used to have one on my motorbike that called out directions in this funny wee voice."

"Oh, so that's where they got the idea. Yuck. Whatever happened to the damn thing?"

"Hagrid ate it the night he took Harry to the Dursley's," said Sirius glumly. "Thought it was a rock cake."

There was a moment of appalled silence.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that Hagrid's dead," said Kingsley.

* * * * *

The rest of the week, much to everyone's surprise, passed smoothly and quietly. Classes ran as scheduled, and the students were, for the most part, well behaved. Saturday dawned with only a slight scattering of clouds in the sky. The weather promised to be brisk but pleasant.

Harry sat squirming in the Gryffindor common room. His black mourning clothes were thick and itchy, and every once in a while, when he thought no one was looking, he lifted up his shirt to scratch, ape-like, at his chest.

Ron, sitting next to him, didn't look any more comfortable and he certainly looked more ridiculous. In an attempt to make himself respectable, he'd slicked down his hair with a vast quantity of gel. To Harry's eyes, it now appeared as though he had a thin layer of barbecue sauce clinging to his head. It was making Harry hungry for pig - not that that was anything unusual. The loud rumbles from his stomach were rather distracting, however.

Ron frowned as a particularly noisy one sounded throughout the common room, virtually echoing off the walls. "Couldn't you cut that out?" he demanded.

"How?" Harry folded his arms across his chest and glared. "Should I tell my tummy to shut up? Do you think it'll listen?" He addressed his own midsection: "Be quiet, tummy! You're being very naughty! Do that again and I'll thump you!"

"All right, all right," conceded Ron. "It's just that. . . " Harry's stomach growled mightily again and Ron clenched his teeth. "It's irritating, that's all."

"I'm hungry," sulked Harry. "They hustled us out of the Great Hall before I finished my third slice of ham."

"I imagine there'll be a feast after the funeral," said Ron, who was also beginning to feel a trifle peckish.

"You think so?" Harry frowned thoughtfully at the opposite wall. What, someone died and you held a banquet? Did that make sense? Well, maybe if the person in question were Dumbledore. . . "What time's the ceremony?"

"Umm. . . two o'clock?"

"Two o'clock?" Harry was horrified. "That's miles away! I'll starve before then!" Especially if he had to look at Ron's barbecue hair for so long. He was already having delusions of taking a big bite out of Ron's head and it tasting deliciously of slow-roasted pork smothered in sweet, tangy sauce. . .

He began salivating. Ron, little realizing how near danger lurked, was counting on his fingers. "It's at least four hours," he concluded. "Probably more, because I guess they'll have to talk a whole lot during the ceremony. It could be five or six hours before we get to eat!"

"Mm-hm," agreed Harry, staring at Ron and drooling. It was beginning to sound as if he had the Gryffindor lion hiding in his belly.

"Hey, I know!" said Ron, sitting up abruptly. "Let's go tickle the pear!"

"Eh?" asked Harry stupidly before he understood the reference. "Oh! You mean go scrounge off the house elves! Not a bad idea." Harry jumped to his feet.

"Although. . . although they might be rather busy," said Ron, having second thoughts.

"They'll make time for me." Harry knew he couldn't wait. When the back of Ron's head began to look tasty, you knew you were in trouble.

"Okay," agreed Ron, whose willpower wasn't that strong to begin with. "But we'll have to be careful, since you don't have your cloak anymore."

"Everyone's so busy they probably won't even notice us," said Harry, dismissing Ron's concerns. "We'll just nip out, have a dozen bacon sandwiches each, and nip back in. We'll easily be back before the whole thing starts."

"Hey, can we come too?" asked Fred, popping his head up from behind a potted plant.

"No. You haven't stolen Pettigrew's wand yet."

"He's turned rat! Do you know how hard it is to find one particular rat in the sewers? It's like looking for a lollipop in a pile of turnips."

"I would think that would be rather easy, actually," said Harry coldly.

"Not if the lollipop's shaped like a turnip."

"Why would anyone make a turnip-shaped lollipop?"

"So they could hide it in a vegetable stand. It'd be funny!"

Harry was painfully recalled to the fact that the twins' sense of humor bore no resemblance whatsoever to anything that was actually amusing. "Well, it's the principle of the thing," Harry said stubbornly. "You said you'd get me Lockhart and Pettigrew's wands and you haven't."

"We got you Lockhart's!" said George indignantly. "We switched it with one of our joke ones, and he's still walking about wondering why his wand turned into a plumber's helper."

"One almost has to feel sorry for him when he tries to do magic with it," said Ron. He rubbed his stomach. "Can't we just let 'em come, Harry? The longer we sit here, the hungrier I get."

Harry was about to burst into a capital-drenched speech of fury when he realized Ron had a point. His stomach was rumbling too, and now the twins' hair was starting to look succulent as well. "Oh, all right," he said grudgingly, "but if you get caught, I'll have nothing to do with it."

"Goody, goody!" The twins jumped to their feet, upsetting the potted plant in the process. Dirt and water splattered everywhere - but never mind. It was the house elves' job to clean it up and none of the boys paid any attention to the mess.

They tiptoed towards the door, very likely using up the small quantity of stealth they possessed at a time when it did them no good. Hermione, who had a black bow tied around her neck for the occasion, mewed disapprovingly. Harry, thinking she might like to visit the house elves for old time's sake, picked her up by the scruff of the neck and shoved her into the backpack he kept for that purpose. Muffled yowling and scratching ensued.

The corridor was quiet and empty. Feeling quite clever now, and resisting the urge to giggle shrilly, Harry led the way to the painting of the fruit. His mouth was already watering at the thought of a thick, smoky bacon sandwich.

* * * * *

Two visitors had arrived at Hogwarts a little before breakfast time. No one had announced their presence; no one had expected them so soon. Or perhaps at all. They stood in the entrance hall and waited for someone to notice they were there.

Fleur Delacour tossed her hair about as she admired her own stunning reflection in one of the suits of armor. It was, in fact, the very same breastplate that Dolores Umbridge had viewed herself in the previous week, but if the armor had been able to voice an opinion, it would have thanked God for the change. Perhaps on bended knees.

Viktor Krum slouched in the corner. He'd achieved a posture that suggested indifference, disdain, and vaguely concealed hostility all at once. If there were an Olympic competition for slouching, Viktor would have been handed the gold on the spot.

Some time passed. Fleur finally grew a little bored with her activity. She glanced hopefully about, thinking maybe someone would arrive soon and pay attention to her. She certainly wasn't accustomed to being ignored - in fact, as her luck would have it, Viktor was perhaps the only male person alive who could manage it.

She sighed, just a little theatrically. "I never imagined I would return 'ere," she said to the world in general. She glanced around at the large, drafty hall, shivered, and pulled her wrap a little tighter about her.

Viktor managed a slight grunt in reply, which he seemed to imagine was a perfectly acceptable response. She glowered at him. "And why did you come back?"

"Funeral."

She waited, but he'd gone silent again. Viktor was admirably demonstrating why, given the option, most reporters preferred to chew their own heads off rather than interview him.

"Is that the only reason?" she asked.

"No."

"Well, what is the other reason?"

"Herm-own-ninny."

"Haven't you learned to say 'er name properly yet?" asked Fleur, exasperated.

"Yes, but it amuses me to say Herm-own-ninny." Viktor wondered if he'd just made a joke and perhaps should lie down somewhere to recover from the shock of it. He settled for blinking and scowling instead.

Fleur shook her head and sighed. Already the day had gotten off to a truly uninspiring start. What was she doing here, come to think of it? Well, Madame Maxime insisted someone had to be here to represent Beauxbatons, and she couldn't blame Madame for not wanting to come herself. It would just bring up embarrassing memories of her brief fling with Hagrid. Dear, dear, Hagrid! What had Madame been thinking? There was more to a relationship than being the same size as your potential mate. Madame's parents had proved that.

Fleur shuddered and flung that thought away as fast as it occurred. The mating of giants with humans was something that did not bear close scrutiny.

She'd forgotten about Viktor until a deep sigh reached her ears, recalling her back to the present. They were still alone in the entrance hall. "Where is everyone?" she asked aloud, beginning to be seriously annoyed. Really, to overlook her precious presence like this. . . she was going to make sure someone suffered for the insult!

Viktor shrugged, although he was starting to look bored too, somewhere beneath the surliness. "Ve're early," he said.

"You'd still think someone would walk by sooner or later." She pondered a moment longer, then tossed her head. "Well, I'm not going to stand around this drafty place for one more minute." She set off, not really sure where she was going, only certain that there had to be a room more comfortable that the mostly empty entranceway.

"Vere are you going?" Viktor called after her.

"The lounge," she replied.

"Is there such a place?"

"Of course!" Well, there had to be, hadn't there? Just because she'd never seen it didn't mean it didn't exist.

Slightly curious to see if she was right, Viktor followed her. He practiced scowling at the portraits they passed. One or two of them scowled back, but Viktor was pleased to see that none of them managed the level of surliness he'd achieved. "Are you sure you know vhere you're going?" he called to Fleur after a rather confusing succession of turns.

"Of course!" she called back confidently. "It's just up ahead."

They got lost.

* * * * *

Brrrraackkk! "Ah!" Harry patted his tummy, which was now bulging under the combined mass of thirteen bacon sandwiches. He felt much better and Ron's head was no longer alluring. Ron was still glutting himself on cream cakes while Fred and George stuffed themselves with muffins and jam. Their mourning clothes all looked quite a bit worse for wear - crumpled and covered in crumbs. Harry vaguely realized that they might get in trouble for that, but for the moment he was too full and content to care.

"Yes, just one more," he told the beaming house elf who was holding out yet another thick sandwich. Thirteen was an unlucky number, after all. Harry accepted it and munched slowly instead of wolfing it down, savoring the tangy, salty flavor of well-ripened pig meat in his mouth. Hermione snarled in disapproval and fluffed up her tail, but the boys ignored her.

Except for Ron. "Hadn't we be leaving soon?" he asked a trifle guiltily, licking custard off the back of one hand.

"I suppose." Harry heaved himself to his feet, itching idly under his black shirt. Truth to tell, he'd rather lost all interest in attending Dumbledore's funeral. Even the promised glory of standing at the front and shaking hands with all the important dignitaries sounded more like hard work than a special treat. Especially if he had to do it in these clothes. Didn't they make black-and-white striped polo shirts?

But he supposed he really had nothing else to do. Heaving a sigh, he roused the twins with a few sharp kicks. "Get up," he commanded. "We're going back to the common room now."

Fred and George moaned. "We've been stuck in the common room all week!" Fred complained.

"You can jump around a bit while everyone else is at the funeral," said Harry glumly. "There won't be anyone there to see you."

"But we're sick of the common room!"

Ron snorted as he wiped the last bit of cream off his fingers and onto his now badly soiled black trousers. "You're lucky, mates. I'd rather jump around the common room than go stand about and look at some old dead guy."

"I thought you believed you were the old dead guy?" Harry asked him.

"That just makes it worse," Ron replied gloomily.

Harry heaved a sigh and wished he could think of more enjoyable entertainment. If only he had room for one more sandwich to delay their departure just a few minutes longer, but his stomach really couldn't take any more - in fact, he had to shove half of his fourteenth sandwich into his pocket for later.

"Come on," he said heavily, scooping up Hermione and stuffing her into the backpack over her yowled protestations. "The longer we stay, the more difficult it will be to leave."

Groaning under the weight of their bellies, the twins heaved themselves to their feet. Ron stuffed a few more custard pies into his pockets and cast a mournful look around the kitchen. House elves bowed and beamed.

"Do comes back and visits us again, sirs!" they cried in their shrill little voices. Dobby, who was so bundled up in ill-assorted scarves, socks, and hats that he could barely move, let out a muffled cheer.

"Bye," said Harry waving and letting out a departing burp. The door closed behind them.

The house elves relaxed. "Do you think they suspect anything?" asked one.

Dobby cast off twelve or so of his garments and shook his head. "No, they still think we're cute, harmless and obedient. Well, maybe not cute. How are our plans going?"

"Excellent!" piped up another elf. "Our research indicates that now seventy-one percent of all wizards are completely incapable of preparing their own food or cleaning up after themselves."

"That's very good," nodded Dobby, "but remember our noble leader Bippy the Magnificent says we have to get it up to at least ninety-two percent before we can make our move."

"But that's only twenty-one percent more!" chirped one elf encouragingly.

"Yes, and this new crop at Hogwarts is looking particularly promising," offered another. "Why, I'm quite sure there are some here who can't even button their shirts without help."

There was much laughter from all the elves. "They can't even put sugar in their tea without aid!" giggled another.

"Some can't even boil water for tea!"

"All right, all right!" Dobby held up his hands for silence over the general mirth. "We're doing very well, but we can't afford to get sloppy. Back to work, everyone. We want everything to go smoothly today. We don't want the humans to have to do anything for themselves - they might learn something, and we can't have that."

The house elves nodded cheerfully and went back to their work. They were infinitely patient. It might take another few decades, but sooner or later all wizardkind would be hopelessly inept and completely reliant on house elves for all the necessities of life.

And then house elves would rule the world.

* * * * *

"I don't see a lounge."

"Shut up."

"I think ve're lost."

"I said shut up."

"Don't be mad. Everyvone gets lost sometimes. I got lost in Tel Aviv vonce -- "

Fleur groaned and tried not to listen. Viktor had suddenly decided to start talking. And it was incredibly annoying.

" - and I ran into this person vith this pillowcase type thing on his head. I thought he vas a native, but no, he told me he vas from Liverpool and vas just appearing in a production of Fiddler on the Roof -- "

She came to a corner and stopped and frowned. Should she take the turn or continue on straight? Or swallow her pride and ask one of the portraits? Unfortunately, the only one nearby was a rather large and horrid still life of unrealistic fruit. She rather doubted it could talk - and if it could, she didn't want to hear it.

" - and then he sang a verse of 'If I Vas a Rich Man' for me. He had a horribly nasal voice."

"Viktor?"

"Hmm?"

"If I admit we're lost, will you shut up?"

Viktor grunted. She took it as a yes.

"Well, we're lost." Fleur rubbed her eyes and scowled. Who'd have thought this drafty, uninspiring old ruin could be so confounding? And just where was everyone anyway? Surely by now they should have run into somebody -

Ooof!

No sooner had she finished that thought than four sticky and rather smelly someones came popping out of the fruit painting and crashed into her side. Viktor stepped back so he didn't have to catch her and she fell to the floor with an undignified shriek.

Four unkempt figures stood gawking over her. Ron's eyes were nearly popping out of his head. "Panties!" he blurted. Fleur made a note to kick him later and smoothed down her skirt, which had hiked up a little further than was seemly.

Fred and George leered inexpertly. Harry picked his back teeth and squinted at her, looking disinterested - but she'd always had her suspicions about Harry. "Isn't anyone going to help me to my feet?" she demanded.

Ron, Fred, and George all conked heads as they dove for the task as one. It sounded like empty coconut shells knocking together and made her feel a great deal happier. "Never mind," she decided, standing on her own and smoothing down her gauzy black skirt. If one intended to be critical, one might have suggested her outfit looked more like a fancy cocktail dress than funeral robes. None of the boys seemed inclined to complain, however.

"Whot're you doing here?" asked Harry, having dislodged the fragment of pig flesh from his back teeth.

"Funeral," said Viktor.

Fleur had temporarily forgotten about the Quidditch star. She was reminded when the four boys' gazes went to him. Ron's expression darkened while Fred and George practically moistened themselves. Harry continued to look uncaring.

"Oh, that," said Harry, bored. "Don't know why everyone wants to look at some old codger in a box." Harry finally showed a little emotion. It was resentment over the fact that Dumbledore's dead body could upstage him, even for a day.

"I don't want to look at stinky dead old Dumbledore," Fleur protested. "It is just for ze respect."

"He might be me, you know," said Ron hopefully. Fleur stared at him, so Harry provided the details:

"Ron thinks he's going to go back in time and become Dumbledore for some reason," explained the Boy-Who-Lived. He grunted and burped as if to wash his hands of it.

Fleur considered. It was one of the stupider theories she'd ever heard, but at least it would explain why Dumbledore's eyes had forever been fixed on either her legs or her décolletage whenever she was in his presence. "That's terrible," she said, trying hard to work up some sympathy.

"Yeah!" said one of the twins, butting in. "We're real upset too! He's our brother after all! Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo!" He couldn't actually make himself cry, but he managed to start his nose running.

Harry rolled his eyes. Viktor blinked and slouched. Fleur mentally counted up all the hours before she could conceivably leave and groaned. She really hoped they had wine at the funeral feast, because she needed several glasses.

"Well, it's been lovely seeing you all again -- " she attempted.

"I missed you too," blurted Ron, who was now making big, wet puppy-dog eyes at her.

"But I 'ave to. . . to. . . " she trailed off as she tried to think of an excuse. In English. Several French ones leapt to her mind, but she was quite certain they wouldn't understand her, as they never taught anything practical at Hogwarts, like foreign languages.

"Oh." Harry sniggered. "Do you have to go potty, Fleur?"

She stared at him.

"I don't think she understands you," said one of the twins. He addressed her in a loud, slow, and utterly offensive tone of voice. "Do. . . you. . . have. . . to. . . peepee, Fleur?"

Fleur stared at him a long moment, then stepped forward and ground the heel of her shoe into his instep. He fell yelping to the floor. "No. . . I. . . don't," she enunciated clearly. "I. . . have. . . to. . . get. . . away. . . from. . . you. . . creeps."

Ron instantly teared up and she felt just a little remorseful. "Well, you're not entirely a creep, Ron," she said, because she didn't want to see him cry.

"Yes he is," contradicted Harry. Ron burst into tears. It was just as unattractive a sight as Fleur had suspected it would be, and she drew a breath to yell at Harry when something wriggled on his back and she stopped and stared.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Whot's whot?"

She pointed. Harry suddenly became uncomfortable. "Uh, err. . . it's a. . . a niffler. Yeah, for one of my class assignments. It's an ugly, scaly green thing, Fleur. You don't want to see it. It might bite you."

Fleur tapped her foot. "I graduated from Beauxbatons and I am not stupid. Nifflers are fluffy and cute and you should not stuff zem in backpacks." She made an imperious gesture, one she knew generally worked with members of the male gender. "Let it out."

"No," said Harry. "It'll run away." He backed against the wall and looked stubborn. Into the standoff that followed came the distinct sound of a cat's meow.

"That's not a niffler!" said Fleur, outraged. "You 'ave a kitty in your backpack! 'Ow 'orrid! Let it out at once!"

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Harry. He was sweating now. Little beads of oily pig sweat rolled over his brow.

Fleur stomped a foot. "Let it out. Now!" Perhaps cruelty to animals was perfectly acceptable at Hogwarts, but Beauxbatons had higher standards.

"Yeah! Let her out, Harry!" ordered Ron, also stomping a foot. He glanced sidelong at Fleur to see if he was making an impression.

With great reluctance, Harry took the pack off his back and set it on the floor. He slowly unzippered it. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a little black-and-white furry head popped out of the opening.

"Mew," said Hermione crossly. Fleur knelt and patted her head.

"There, that's much better, isn't it?" cooed the French girl.

Hermione sniffed disdainfully and shook off Fleur's hand. She stalked out of the backpack and sat down a few feet away with her back to all of them. She was just about to go through that cat ritual of disdain - washing herself thoroughly - when she caught sight of Viktor. She froze with her pink tongue sticking out of her mouth, looking quite ridiculous.

"I don't see why zat was so 'ard for you to do," Fleur told Harry, standing up and brushing off her hands.

Harry kicked at the floor. "It wasn't," he muttered. He looked every inch the sulky schoolboy being reprimanded by a teacher.

"And you won't do it again, right?" prompted Fleur.

"Oh, no. Of course not." Harry was not particularly adept at sarcasm. Fleur frowned at him and was about to say more when Hermione made a sudden dash up the corridor. Harry quickly stepped on her tail to prevent her getting away. She yowled and scratched at his leg.

"Harry Potter!" Fleur bent and scooped the protesting kitty up. "That is no way to treat your pet!"

"She's not my pet," mumbled Harry.

"No," said the ever-helpful Ron, "she's Hermione."

Fleur gasped and dropped the cat. The twins chortled. Harry tried to edge away, but Ron was right behind him, blocking his egress and probably slowly beginning to realize that he had, once again, said something very, very stupid.

Viktor Krum dropped to his knees before the cat, a look of horror on his face. He put his hand under her whiskery chin and stared into her eyes. "Herm-oh-ninny?" he asked.

"Mew," agreed the cat feebly.

An expression of wrath slowly darkened the Bulgarian's face. It looked righteous. It looked like it belonged there.

It looked like someone was in for a smiting.

"Who did this to you?"