Shah Mata

Prologue

The door slid open. The Slytherin looked up, his intense concentration shattered. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"I could ask you the same question. All alone, at the bottom of the train... You couldn't be further from your friends." The voice was amused as its user lounged against the doorframe, peering across at the piece of parchment the Slytherin held. "What's that?"

"Nothing -"

"Give it here." The newcomer darted forward and snatched the notice from his stilled fingers. The parchment fluttered as it flew through the air. Sharp, dark eyes ravaged the script. "You shouldn't have this out, here, even if you are alone."

"Sorry... It doesn't mean anything, honest. It's nothing. Give it back, please."

"Pathetic." No longer amused, the tone was full of contempt and derision. The parchment was shaken through the air carelessly. "Look at you, begging. It's no wonder it would be so easy to..."

"What are you going to do?" The Slytherin eyed the wand suddenly drawn and pointing at his head. "Please - it really doesn't mean anything bad - I didn't mean to do anything wrong -"

A cruel smile appeared. "But you did. I think you'll be letting me take charge of this particular missive."

"I don't understand." Confusion was indeed evident on the Slytherin's face. "You're..."

"I know what I am." A shadow enveloped the Slytherin, who stared at his attacker in fear. "Believe me, I know exactly what I am."

The boy on the seat attempted to look like he wasn't scared.

"Pathetic." The smile was softer this time but no less malicious.

The Slytherin had heard about the sort of power those like the one before him wielded and knew he didn't want to encounter it firsthand. He closed his eyes and waited for death, pain and direction. His fear gave the illusion of recession in the dark.

The Slytherin was right about two out of three, at least.

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Chapter One

Hermione frowned. It was not so much what she was hearing as what she wasn't: dire warnings. What did that mean? The danger was hardly past.

She glanced to her left. Harry didn't react. Hermione wondered if he noticed anything that was happening: the Sorting Ceremony had begun, the song ended, but Harry hadn't even looked at the dais in the Great Hall; instead, his dark head was bowed, and he was studying a clean golden plate with the kind of intensity brought on by such deep thoughts that he couldn't see what lay in front of him. Hermione sent a worried glance across the table at Ron - who was too busy trying not to laugh with Seamus at a first-year who had a petrified expression on her face as she tried on the Hat.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Ron chortled. Hermione pursed her lips and gave him a quelling look. He pretended ignorance of his offence as they all clapped.

Most of them clapped. Hermione touched Harry lightly on the arm; he flinched. She stared at him in surprise as he blinked his confusion away and put his hands together a couple of times before letting them fall back to his lap. The forced smile he had worn as he was applauding made him appear even more cheerless when it faded.

They trudged up to Gryffindor Tower after the Sorting, weary from the train ride and overeating. Hermione nudged Ron with an elbow, jerking her head towards the still-morose Harry, and giving Ron a questioning look. Ron, however, didn't know the meaning of 'subtle', and it took her several tries to get her point across.

"Oi, mate, d'you eat something nasty?" asked Ron. "I'm sure Madam Pomfrey has cure for stomach aches on hand tonight - we could go see her..." Ron trailed off. Harry looked like he didn't know if he were going to laugh or cry.

"No, Ron, I'm fine."

"Because you're looking a bit peaky..."

"I'm just tired." He gave them a brief smile. "Sometimes I really wish we had elevators up to the common room," he added to Hermione.

She shook her head at him in amusement. "So lazy."

"Says she who doesn't even play Quidditch," Ron confided to Harry over her head.

Hermione huffed. "I exercise! And I would hardly call sitting around on your bottom in midair strenuous, Ronald!"

"Then how come we're so fit, Hermione?" Harry returned, perking up a bit.

"It's just all these stairs," she sniffed.

"So what do you do for exercise, then?"

"I walk up all these stairs. I have a lot more classes than you, you know."

"By that logic, you should be fittest out the lot of us, then. Come on - I'll race you the rest of the way."

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn't dumb enough to race Harry - the boy was much, much faster than she was. "There's no running in the corridors, Harry. You should know that by now. I would have to dock points off of both of us if we did that. And as senior students, it's our job to set examples for -"

A large, freckled hand clamped over her mouth and chin. "Sorry, Hermione, but it seemed the easiest way to make you stop," Ron said behind her.

She tried to wiggle free, but Ron simply put his other arm around her waist and hoisted her off the ground. There ensued a lot of muffled comments: "Put me down!"; "Help me, Harry!"; and "This is hardly dignified." The one benefit (all right, she admitted to herself, there were two benefits to being carried by Ron) to the situation was that Harry couldn't stop laughing. At the very least, they had managed to cheer him up for a little while.

Ron set her down on the next landing, and before releasing her, he muttered into her ear, "Can't get upper-body strength like that from climbing stairs."

Pretending she wasn't at all breathless because he had leaned so close, Hermione snapped, "I'm going to get you for that, Ronald Weasley!"

"What are you going to do? Hit me with your bookbag? But that won't hurt anyway - no upper-body strength." Ron smirked cheekily.

"No. I'm going to learn to fly, just so I can - well, not carry you up the stairs, that just isn't practical, you're far too tall - I'll think of something!" she promised.

Ron gaped at her. For that matter, Harry was staring at her in a rather surprised manner, too. "But you hate flying!" Ron exclaimed.

She lifted her chin proudly and sniffed, "I'm sure I can develop a tolerance for it. And if upper-body strength is the problem - I suppose I'll just have to aim for a spot as a Beater, won't I?"

Harry looked at Ron, raising his eyebrows. "Now you've done it."

"Me? You started this. If you hadn't got her going, I never would have had to make her shut up, so -"

"Boys, boys," she chided. "Fight later. Right now, it's time to go and get a good night's rest - so I can start learning to fly, bright and early tomorrow morning."

Leaving two suitably dumbstruck boys on the stairs, Hermione headed for the common room, feeling rather pleased with herself. It was nice to make them worry over her for a change. Hearing fast footsteps behind her, she called out, "No running in the corridors, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley! That's your last warning." Thoughts of ominous counsels could not have been further from her mind.

*

The next evening found her far from so complacent.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir?"

"Come in, Hermione, come in and have a seat." She walked nervously into the headmaster's office. This room had never made her feel comfortable; the back of her neck prickled, and she told herself that she wasn't being watched by any means that weren't supposed to be there. The wizards and witches snoozed around the walls. If she glanced across fast enough, sometimes she would catch them cracking an eyelid, peeking at her, and then quickly rearranging their faces to mimic repose.

"I was actually wondering if, er, if I could talk to the Sorting Hat? Would that be all right? Not necessarily now, I can come back later, of course, I know you must be very busy since it's the first day of term -"

He smiled softly. "That would be quite all right." He stood up from behind his desk, moving over to a cabinet. "Not many students ask to talk to the Hat again, Hermione. Few Hogwarts students have doubted their Sorting so far as to try it on again."

"Oh, I don't doubt my Sorting, Professor Dumbledore - I'm just worried that it didn't give us a warning like it did last year. One glance at Harry is all I need to remind me that the danger's nowhere near passed."

Dumbledore took down the Hat smoothly, but he was frowning as he turned to her. "Then perhaps I should speak with you before the Hat does. Sit down, please." He gestured to the chair across from his desk, and Hermione hurried into it as he placed the Hat to one side, sitting down again himself. "Are you seriously considering doing what the Hat asked last year?"

"Well, yes - it would be good to get some inter-house unity," she replied, feeling worried. Dumbledore nodded neutrally, not agreeing, but not denying her point. "But I would need help, people from the other houses, just to get started..."

"It would be a lot of work."

She nodded eagerly. "Yes, professor, but I'm willing to try."

"Good, good," he mused. "I'm willing to allow you to try and even to help you out in some small ways - but remember, Miss Granger, true unity cannot be forced, bought, or learnt; it must come from within."

Hermione eyed the Hat, understanding the Headmaster's meaning. "I'll go then, shall I?"

"I think that would be for the best."

She felt his wise gaze upon her as she crossed the office, so Hermione paused at the door, looking back. "Was there something else, Headmaster?"

He seemed to sigh silently. "No, Miss Granger - nothing." Her mind full of her project, she took him at his word and hurried back to Gryffindor Tower, drawing a blank scroll from her store and beginning to list off every OWL-level or higher Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin she knew. House unity would take a lot of work - but Hermione had plans.

*

Tracey Davis, Slytherin, sat at the breakfast table and quite openly sent her sneering, slightly pinched gaze winging around the Great Hall. It was not like anyone would take any notice of what she was doing. Not yet, anyway. Tracey was looking for a boy.

Not just any boy; there were requirements, naturally. He had to not be bad-looking. Not necessarily good-looking, just...at least average, if not better. A six on a scale of ten. Preferably an eight or a seven - any higher he would likely to be too arrogant to even consider her proposition. She had evidence enough of that particular syndrome easy to hand - a single glance down the table sufficed. And a troll-boy just would not work at all.

And he had to have good lineage. If not, he was not worth the trouble of even ranking. Family trees skimmed past the edges of her thoughts, discarded out-of-hand or momentarily considered. And he had to have a certain daring and wit - Tracey was not keen on using a dull boy. He would most likely mess up anything she asked him to do, and a cautious lad, although he would probably be good for the discreetness and...delicacy of the situation, would just be no fun at all.

So that just ruled out the Hufflepuffs altogether. A big black cross landed next to about thirty names; Tracey was not contemplating anyone younger than fifth year. Younger boys did not know what they were doing, so it was easier to use an older fellow rather than train a new one, despite them having very definite mindsets about this sort of thing. Tracey waved the thought away - she could convince them.

"I said: are you done with the eggs?" Daphne Greengrass snapped. Tracey meekly passed them over with a mumbled apology. Daphne huffed in disgust and turned back to gossiping with Millicent.

"So, Draco told Pansy that he thinks Potter will get Quidditch Captain, even though he's not the oldest on the team. And Pansy said that..."

Come to think of it, a Quidditch player might provide the right tool. They already had popularity on their side, which would be a definite bonus - people used to such power handled it better. But they would also be pillars of inter-house rivalry. Her eyes darted over to the Gryffindor table, landing on Harry Potter himself and then being drawn to a flash of red hair. Brave, showed a semblance of intelligence if rumours could be trusted, and he certainly had the bloodlines...but was Ron Weasley cute? She could not tell from here, and she had never considered looking before.

"Probably," Tracey muttered to herself, then became aware that the other two girls were staring at her. "Sorry? I missed that," she apologised nervously.

"Well, lucky for that, because Gryffindor are not going to win the House Cup this year," Millicent snapped. "There's no probably about it, Tracey."

"Oh... I was thinking about Snape's Potions class...wondering if we're with the Slytherins? I mean, the Gryffindors?" Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Don't know and don't care," said Daphne, sipping on her pumpkin juice. "I don't take Potions."

Millicent agreed but mentioned that Pansy probably knew, since she did. "Where is she this morning, anyway? And what happened to your timetable, Tracey? It should say on there."

"I think I lost it," Tracey said vaguely.

"Typical. It's only the first day. Come on, we'll go see Snape and get you a new copy."

*

Tracey's first move when she landed in Slytherin was to make herself invisible. She was not a half-blood or anything - her credentials were as good as Draco's, for crying out loud - but she hadn't had much self-confidence. In later years, she found she enjoyed the peace, being on the edge of all the intrigue. She could take it or leave it as she pleased. Now her invisibility made it possible to slip away from Pansy's clique without anyone batting an eye. Or even noticing. Again.

Weasley had apparently dropped Potions, so Tracey went looking for him during midmorning break. She needed to obtain a closer analysis before making any sort of move. Ah, there he was, mucking about with three other Gryffindors. She managed to put a name to one face - Neville Longbottom - and repressed an amused snot. Longbottom definitely had not made it on to the short list. He had only been on the long list because no one could possibly deny he was a pure-blood. But for what she wanted... No, clumsy, inept Longbottom did not suit Tracey's ideas at all.

Feeling like a spy, Tracy paused in the shadow of the archway leading outside, narrowing her focus to Weasley. After quick judgment, she supposed he was cute. The freckles could be called charming, at a stretch. The red hair was hideous, but there was nothing to be done about that, and he at least seemed to have maintained it to an acceptable level. Big hands, big feet, lanky form; he was passable at Quidditch, a member of the Gryffindor team - that definitely had its appeal. By all accounts, he was hopeless with the ladies: Hermione Granger, it was often speculated, had been after him for years with little or no success. Tracey suspected she could remedy that, however. She wished there were another Slytherin who she could ask for a second opinion about Weasley's looks. She did not want to mess this up: she would only be able to do this once.

Him being a Gryffindor was a slight drawback from the obvious angle, but from another it could be an advantage. The rivalry was already there, solid; she could exploit it. It would make him fiery and passionate. Malfoy hated him. Yes, that could work out very well. If it did not get her socially slaughtered. Or literally so. She never could quite tell where the limit was with the Slytherins, if there even was one.

With that carefully in mind, Tracey Davis stepped out the shadows and sauntered across the yard, intent on speaking to her first Gryffindor ever.

*

Hermione shook Harry off after Potions and headed for members of the most placid of the houses during midmorning break: Hufflepuffs. Hufflepuffs, surely, would feel less rivalry than her own house. The problem was that she had already ruled so many out: Ernie would promote her cause at the top of his lungs; Hannah would be too mousy about it (how the girl had ever become a prefect, Hermione had no idea); Justin would, most probably, want to do nothing of the sort - after second year, he tended to stay out of schoolyard politics. She was running out of Hufflepuffs. Her mind flicked back to the DA list - who did she know that she had not ruled out?

Would Susan Bones perhaps be suitable? The girl knew something of politics, she was not hesitant to speak up, and she had proved at the meeting in the Hog's Head the previous school year that she could find a structured way of settling a situation, by quizzing Harry on his factual skills rather than on the events of the previous summer.

By the same method Hermione eliminated Ravenclaws, since they were also a fairly neutral house by reputation, and winnowed the possibilities down to Terry Boot. Terry was more outspoken than Hermione would have preferred, but she knew Anthony and Michael were well wrapped up in the inter-house rivalries, and she did not know either of the other boys in her year well. Being friends almost exclusively with Harry and Ron had rather curtailed her list of options.

Tied up in her own mind, half looking for Susan, she smacked into the literal object of her thoughts.

"Steady on," said Terry as he turned. "How's it going, Hermione?"

"Not too bad. Potions was 'fun'," she said sarcastically. "Snape's in an excellent mood today - he only docked, oh, about forty points from Gryffindor in the first ten minutes. Have you got him today?"

"Nah, not 'til Thursday, but knowing Snape's bad moods he won't keep it in the classroom. Thanks for the warning." Terry sounded amused. He lowered his voice, even though the only people within hearing distance were Anthony and Michael. "Is the DA happening again this year?"

"I haven't talked to Harry about it. You're interested in participating again?"

"Of course. We need all the practice we can get, good teacher or not. Actually, we just had her, and she seems all right. She let us keep our wands out, at least."

Hermione bit back a smile. "So Tonks is good?"

"If you don't mind her tripping over the corner of the blackboard stand. She's one up on Lockhart or Umbridge at least," Anthony chimed in. "Though next year we better have Lupin-quality, or I'm going to have something to say about it."

"Yeah, he's been the best one," Michael agreed, nodding. "But we'll see how this one pans out. Hermione, you might appreciate a Lockhart, but personally I'm hoping for a NEWT teacher that doesn't require me to remember his or her favourite colour. Did Lockhart ever get that line of hair products, do you know?"

"You Ravenclaws and your brilliant memories," growled Hermione as the three boys cracked up. "You weren't even in that class, Michael! Anyway," she said, ignoring the others, "could I speak to you for a minute, Terry?"

"Ooh, she's going ask him what his favourite colour is," Anthony stage-whispered to Michael, who went off into gales of laughter once more, as Terry and Hermione moved a little away.

"What is it?" asked Terry, worried by her pensive expression.

"I was thinking... Did you happen to pay attention to the Sorting Hat's song this year?"

"Yeah - no grave warnings or anything like that. A lot of people are figuring that the main danger's past, now that all those Death Eaters were caught." Terry then seemed to remember that Hermione had been at the scene. "Are you going to tell me off for saying that?" he continued warily. "Because that's not what I think - it's just what I've heard."

"What do you think, Terry?" Hermione asked coolly.

"I think that's not true. I've seen Potter - at the station on the first, at breakfast today. He doesn't look good, to be frank. This isn't over. It's not going to be over for a while. And, I have to tell you, we want the DA back," he said frankly. "I'm not ashamed to admit I'm scared. I'm Muggle-born, like you - these times are going to be bad for us."

"I was thinking that maybe some of us should do something about what the Sorting Hat said last year, try to unite the houses or do something towards that ultimate goal," Hermione told him, a bit more shrilly and speedily that she would have liked. "I mean, not necessarily you, but if you know someone who would -"

"I'll do it. I'd be honoured to do it," Terry broke in. "But Slytherin's going to be the tripping stone."

"I know. I thought - the Ravenclaws have a bit more to do with them -"

"So you want me to take them on?" Terry looked very sceptical - as a Muggle-born, he might.

"Not exactly. I thought you might have more of an idea who was not so...attached to Malfoy's crowd."

"Well, there's Theodore Nott, but he's a bit of a loner, I think, more than not liking Malfoy."

Hermione sighed, nodding. "It might be an idea. I'm going to go talk to Susan. I think she might -" The bell rang overhead, drowning out the rest of her sentence.

"Or not," Terry said with a bit of a grin. "I'm off to Transfiguration. You?"

"Charms." One down, two to go. Who was she going to use to make an inroad to Slytherin?

*

Having executed an artful entrance with absolutely no one watching, Tracey strolled brazenly across the cobblestones, hoping that she would remain unnoticed and knowing there was absolutely no way that was going to occur.

"Um, Weasley?" she interjected tentatively. The four boys were chatting loudly and failed to notice the dark brunette. "Weasley!" she practically shouted to get his attention. The four glanced at her in surprise that rapidly descended into derision.

"What's up, Slytherin - lost?" Weasley cackled.

"Actually, could I speak with you alone for a moment?" Tracey replied smoothly. "Just a quick word?"

"One syllable or two?" asked one of the boys Tracey did not recognise. She ignored him, tilting her head back to meet Weasley's eyes.

"No chance," said the other unknown in a thick Irish accent. "Your little friends are most likely hiding 'round the corner to jinx poor, unsuspecting Ron, right?"

Tracey forced herself not to glare at him. "Actually, it's official prefect business and Pansy sent me to send word, all right? Now, come on, Weasley! We don't even have to leave the courtyard."

The tall boy sighed exaggeratedly. "The trials of office!" he lamented. "No, Pansy can come tell me herself, then, if you're not meant to even know."

Tracey steeled herself, wincing inwardly, and drew her wand from her pocket. Before it even cleared the material, she had four pointed at her. Ever so slowly, she continued the motion, and handed it handle-first to Longbottom. "Insurance," she said, offhand. "Oh, and I'm not stupid enough to hex him in the middle of a pack of Gryffindors. The odds of me ending up as a Malfoy-esque slug are too good for that." She grabbed Weasley around his bicep and hauled him away from his friends.

"Look, there's no prefect business. But I do need to talk to you, so could you please listen? Honestly, I'm in a spot of trouble and there isn't anyone else I can talk to about it."

"Go on," growled Weasley, eyeing her with great suspicion. She did, in a rush.

"Slytherin house is too far under Malfoy's influence and if something isn't done quick-smart we're all going have to become Death Eaters and I don't want to have to do that so would you please help me divide the house?" She paused, drinking in some cool air, then fired up again. "Because I can't do it since no one ever takes any notice of me and it has to be a pure-blood boy because Slytherin is always held by one, but it can't be a Slytherin boy because they're all tangled up in Malfoy's plots, so please, please say you'll do it because I don't know where else to go and I'm desperate."

"How do you expect me to make a difference in Slytherin? And, for that matter, why should I help you? I don't even know who you are," Weasley snapped caustically the moment she stopped again.

Tracey hurried to compose herself. "I'm Tracey Davis," she told him proudly. "I'm in your year. And I expect you to help because aren't you Gryffindors all up in arms for the greater good, saving the world from You-Know-Who and that sort of thing? Won't saving half a generation of Death Eaters make a bit of an impact on that?"

"Straight for the jugular, aren't you? How do I know this isn't some bizarre trick?"

"I left my wand with Gryffindors," Tracey snarled before catching herself. More calmly, she finished, "What more do you need to make me prove I'm for real?"

"Oh, I don't know...a re-Sorting?"

"I'd still be a Slytherin," she informed him stiffly. "Pick something else."

"'Pick something else?' All right. You have to be nice to me."

"When haven't I been? I just laugh at Pansy's jokes; I don't make any of my own. I don't even laugh very hard - she's not funny, and neither is Malfoy. Want any more information? I've just given you enough information to socially murder me. I've given you information that could lead to several people being put in Azkaban. And you're just standing there, sneering down at me like I'm some sort of deranged Flobberworm. You think I would even think about saying any of this to you if I wasn't for real?" Oddly, Tracey was beginning to feel like she might cry if this conversation was prolonged much further. This was her future hanging in the balance. Either Weasley said yes - or he went back to his friends, told them all about it, set the rumour train in motion, and Tracey possibly ended up very dead.

"Please say you'll do it," she begged softly, curbing her snide tones.

Weasley was still frowning at her. "What's in it for me?"

"Saving innocent - OK, maybe not innocent, not all of them - lives? What do you want? Perks? That is such a Slytherin question, Weasley."

"Why do you care what happens to your housemates?"

"Not all Slytherins are selfish," she sniffed. "That's a common misconception."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"I'm not selfish. I care because I know how I feel - my choices are I follow Malfoy or I end up unable to follow - or lead - anyone. And these people are my friends. Don't you like helping your friends?"

Weasley was now staring at her in a different way, as though she had suddenly announced she was actually a Hufflepuff and ripped off green clothing to reveal yellow. In a way, she supposed she had.

The bell went. Weasley glanced at the others before nodding briefly. "I'll talk about this more with you later, Davis. I want to know exactly what this is going to involve." She watched him walk back before hurrying off to class. Only when she arrived did she realise Longbottom still had her wand.

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