The Ransom of Albus Dumbledore

25. Cnvrt Scrmgr--or CHRISTMAS IN JULY

When Hermione and James got back from the Continent, they found Sirius floating restlessly about the ceiling.

"Sirius!" Hermone cried. She raced across the room to embrace him as he swooped down to her, and, of course, passed right on through. "Oops, I forgot," she mumbled, as she crashed into the wall. She staggered about, rubbing her forehead until the universe righted itself. "But this is wonderful. How did you do on the tests?"

Fine, just fine. Did you get Fleur off?

"Not quite, but we have high hopes."

James high-fived him and crowed, Nice going, bro. I take it you've been to see Lily, and she filled you in.

Yes, and she showed me around my new place. She also told me you're dying for a Quidditch partner.

Well, yes…

Sirius clapped his friend on the back. You're on. I was talking to that big gatekeeper-- what's his name?--Peter? There's this bunch of long-hairs he used to run around with-- a retro band I think-- called The Apostles. Together they drifted to the doorway. He thinks we might be able to get up a couple of sides....

Hermione could hear them laughing and joking outside. It made her feel left out and a bit jealous, what with not being able to share hugs and hand slaps with them. She sighed deeply. I miss Ron--and Harry--so much. So she ambled over to the cupbard, opened a bottle of butterbeer, and downed it in one.

The two ghosts re-entered, and she heard Sirius say, So what's the latest on Voldemort?

James replied, Well, I'm afraid this paranoia against Veelas and other shape-changers is only the start. The Death Eaters will continue to spread fear and discord to divide us until we have leaders who will stand up to them.

The butterbeer was well aged and made Hermione feel warm inside and also a tad feisty. "So let's get rid of Scrimgeour," she chirped.

James frowned at her, but Sirius nodded eagerly. That's a great idea, Hermione--"

But we can't have a coup or assassination, James argued. Those are Voldemort's tactics.

Soooo... Sirius countered, Someone has to convince him to resign voluntarily--or come over to our side.

Dream on, my friend, said James. I worked with the man back in the old days. He's proud as a centaur and stubborn besides. It can't be done.

Yes, it can. At least… Dumbledore thought it could.

"Don't tell me that's on his list too," said Hermione.

Something like.

"And I'm supposed to persuade him? I don't think so. Scrimgour already hates the sight of me."

Listen, Hermione, said Sirius. I can see what Dumbledore's trying to do. There are lots of witches and wizards out there who are still wondering who to trust: the Ministry or the Order. We need a unified front if we're going to win this war.

"You're not kidding, are you?"

It's worth a try.

"Not if it gets me arrested--"

C'mon, you know we've got your back.

"You too, James?"

You know it.

"Well, all right--but what can we do? Any ideas?"

James scratched his head. This kind of thing used to be meat and drink to the Marauders, but I'm damned if I can see how… I mean Scrimmie's a canny sort, and he's got a heart of stone where politics are concerned. I think he'd sell his mother to the workhouse if he thought it would gain him some influence with the voters.

"Workhouse," Hermione muttered, "'… are there no workhouses…?'" Then she snapped her fingers. "I've got it! I think I can do it, gentlewizards, but you'll need to back me to the hilt with spells... and a cast of real ghosts, four to be exact.

What--? asked Sirius.

"I'm going to give Minister Scrimgeour THE DICKENS!"

I don't get it, said Sirius.

Wait a minute, grinned James. I think I know where she's heading. You're thinking of Charles Dickens, aren't you, Hermione, and his "Christmas Carol"?

"Darned right I am," she answered, picking up a quill and a sheaf of parchment, "My school once did a play based on A Christmas Carol. Our dear Minister, who, I admit, looks a bit like Father Christmas, is shortly going to have some very bad dreams--like the heartless scoundrel he is inside--Ebenezer Scrooge."

Eh... Hermione, asked James, glancing over her shoulder, what part did you play?

"No part," she replied. "I wrote the script... and directed."

That figures, murmured Sirius.

~*~

After her friends left, Hermone started writing furiously.

SCENE ONE: Scrimgeour's bedroom. Midnight. The clock chimes twelve times.

Voice (offstage):Minnnisterrrrr…. Crouch enters. Chains, studded with law books, warrants, gavels, locks, keys, and broken wands, are twined about his body)

Scrimgeour(waking): Who's there?

Crouch: Bartemius Crouch--Senior.

Scrimgeour: Oh--Minister Crouch. Hem--you're looking well.

Crouch (frigidly): Considering that I'm dead. I have to talk to you, Rufus.

Scrimgeour: Can you make it snappy? I've got a lot to do tomorrow, and I need my rest.

Crouch: There won't be any tomorrow for you--if you don't mend your ways.

Scrimgeour: What do you mean?

Crouch: You've been a very bad Minister, Rufus.

Scrimgeour: I… no, I'm getting things under control… I mean, it's been a rough go, but we're seeing light at the end of the tunnel now…

Crouch: You can't fool an old spin-doctor like me with that mumbo-jumbo, Rufus. Things are not going well, and that tunnel hasn't seen so much as a Lumos in ages. We all thought when you replaced Fudge that you'd make some real changes. We thought you'd unite British wizard-dom, if not the entire Magicosm, against this juggernaut. But you've just made things worse with your patchwork Spellotape-and-flobber-spit repair jobs.

Scrimgeour: Such as?

Crouch: Promoting 'defensve measures' that wouldn't stop a blind pixie, arresting innocent wizards to make it look like the Ministry is on top of things, raiding the Headmaster's office for no good reason, harassing Harry Potter, putting obstacles in his way....

Scrimgeour: What obstacles?

Crouch: EDUCATIONAL DECREE NUMBER TWENTY-NINE!

Scrimgeour: Oh, that... well… it was Dolores' idea....

Crouch: Dolores Umbridge? Really, Rufus, how could you bring yourself to take the advice of that power-hungry hag?

Scrimgeour: It seemed the only way...

Crouch: You've made an enemy of Potter, you know--and of his friends.

Scrimgeour: But it was for their own good....

Crouch (groaning menacingly.) Enough! (Rattles chains.) I am here to save you, Rufus, from my sorry fate. I am condemned to wander the world in shackles I forged in life and watch my fellow ministers hiding the truth, pitting faction against faction, wasting lives in pointless conflicts, and I am powerless to do anything about it.

Scrimgeour: But Barty, how come you're being punished? You were always good at the ministering business.

Crouch: Business?! Mage-kind should have been my business! I should have ministered to my friends, been kinder to my servants, paid attention to my family--my son--my poor wife--

Scrimgeour: Your son deserved what he got! You said so yourself.

Crouch: (howling and rattling chains) He needed a kinder upbringing. I failed him and all wizard kind by my neglect, my abuse.

Scrimgeour: Your… abuse?

Crouch: I punished him severely for the least little thing. I so wanted him to be perfect… but I was wrong. And you are wrong, Rufus. You too will pay unless you heed this lesson. (Raises his arms, crying in agony, and drops them heavily.)

Scrimgeour (now terrified): Barty, what must I do to avoid your fate?

Crouch: Three spirits will visit you tonight. They will show you the past, the present, and the future. Learn from them, and decide what you must do. Farewelllll, Rufuuuusssss. (He exits.)

~*~

SCENE TWO: The clock strikes one. Sir Patrick Delaney Podmore enters, clanking noisily in armor, head tucked under one arm, leading a headless horse.

Podmore (Clears throat): Patrick Delaney-Podmore here. Ghost of your Magical Past. (Screws his head onto his neck and winks.) Remember me, Scrimmie? The Baron and I used to chase old Helga around the dungeons in your day.

Scrimgeour: I do. You nearly made me fail my Potions OWL...

Podmore: Hmph… still no sense of humor, eh? Well, Scrimmie, we're going for a little ride. (He leaps onto the horse and pulls Scrimgeour up behind him.)

~*~

SCENE THREE: The headmaster's office at Hogwarts. Twelve-year-old Scrimgeour is there, along with Tom Riddle and Headmaster Dippet.

Young Scrimgeour: But I tell you, sir, I didn't do it.

Headmaster Dippet: Young Riddle here swears he saw you sneaking away from the hen coop, acting suspiciously.

A door opens, unnoticed. A tall wizard with long auburn hair and beard enters with a young witch.

Young Scrimgeour (sniveling): Och, but I wasn't, sir. I told you, I heard this awful noise, coming from the caretaker's yard and come to look for Mister Ogg, and there was dead chickens all over the place…

Riddle (impassively): You had blood on your hands, Scrimgeour, don't deny it.

Young Scrimgeour: Well…I did pick one up…. It was still moving…. Thought I might be able to help….(He starts to cry.)

The tall wizard, Albus Dumbledore, approaches the headmaster's desk.

Dumbledore: I hope we're not too late for the hearing, Headmaster.

Dippet: Not at all, Albus. As you know the charges are grave. The grossest sadism... and in such times... with this monster loose...

Dumbledore: Perhaps Miss McGonagall here can throw some light on the subject.

Dippet: Ah, our worthy prefect. What have you to say, Miss McGonagall?

Minerva (approaching the desk, her head high): I heard the noise too, Headmaster, from a window, and I saw Scrimgeour here cross the courtyard towards Mr. Oggs' digs, so I don't think he could have done it himself….

Riddle (nervously) Rubbish, McGonagall, you're always taking up for these bleeding Jocks--"

Minerva (looking him up and down): I deal fairly with everyone, Tom, whether they're my countrymen or no, which is more than I can say for you!

Dippet: Now, now, boys and girls. I believe a prefect's word is sufficient to the case. You are sure, are you, Miss McGonagall, that it was this boy, Rufus, whom you saw both times?

Minerva: How could I not? He's from my own clan, Headmaster, and wearing the Scrimgeour tartan. Besides, he was still limping from that drubbing we gave Slytherin in the final yesterday. I heartily doubt he could have wreaked the kind of destruction we saw in the yard….

Fade to black with spotlight on Scrimgeour and Podmore.

Podmore: So Dumbledore found a student to testify in your favor. Saved your neck, didn't he?

Scrimgeour: Yes, I had forgotten about that….

~*~

SCENE FOUR: Two a.m. Scrimgeour's bedroom. Millicent Bagnold enters, rosy-cheeked for a ghost, in bright green robes and a crown of holly and berries.

Millicent (blowing the covers off the bed): Remember me, Scrimmie? I'm your Spirit of Magic Present.

Scrimgeour (clutching his robes, shivering): M-Millie Bagnold, my eminent predecessor. You taught me everything I know about Ministry politics.

Millicent: Hold it there, son. I never taught you to torment innocent young folks and embarrass their families just so you could hold onto your job.

Scrimgeour: What do you mean?

Millicent: I'll show you… (She takes him by the hand and leads him off into a soft silver mist.)

~*~

SCENE FIVE: Two adjacent prison cells in Azkaban. In one, a raggedly clad young man, Stan Shunpike, droops on his seat, a cold slab of stone. There is a leak in the ceiling, and a puddle on the floor in front of him. Two shadows swoop by. Dementors. The young man shudders and groans. A second person, in the other cell, sits up abruptly, yawns and stretches. He is well-garbed in a tasseled woolen robe; there is a pillow on his stone slab, and a fur-lined coverlet slips to the floor as he stands up.

Lucius Malfoy (adjusting his wrap): Damn, that itches. I'll have to tell Narcissa to bring Angora next time. Oh, Shunpike, what's the matter this time?

Stan Shunpike (shivering): D-d-don't they bother you at all, your worship?

Lucius (Studyng his fingernails idly): Who? The Dementors? I find them rather delightful actually.

Stan: Reelly?

Lucius: No, of course not, you twit. They're quite disgusting with all that sucking and gulping. But at least they don't want my happy memories.

Stan: Why is that, sir?

Lucius: These particular Dementors are the lowest of the low, the dregs of Dementor-dom, so to speak. They only relish--erm--uncomplicated thoughts.

Stan: How come is that, sir?

Lucius: It's simple. All the smart ones have gone off to join the Dark Lord. And soon, I will be doing the same.

Stan (Hugging himself against the cold): Wh-what?

Lucius (Waving a small scroll at Stan): My darling wife tells me that, at last, I'm to be freed.

Stan: How'd she know that?

Lucius: Connections, my dear boy. Narcissa has 'em in spades. (He rubs his hands.) Oh, there's nothing like the Blacks for money--influence--power. Even our beloved Minister of Magic caves under that kind of pressure.

Stan: Oh. Wisht I had some o' that stuff.

Lucius: You could, you know.

Stan (rises hopefully and crosses to the bars that separate their cells.): How?

Lucius: Join us!

Stan: Who?

Lucius (whispering): You know who--the ones I've been telling you about. The Dark Lord's army.

Stan (shrinking back): No! Not them. Them's the ones as got me put here in the firs' place.

Lucius: You mean you're already a member? Roll up your cuffs. Oh, never mind, you haven't got any. (Reaches through the bars and grabs Stan's right arm.) But I don't see the Dark Mark on you.

Stan (Pulls his arm away, appalled): That's 'cuz I ain't got one.

Lucius: Then how can you--

Stan: I ain't no member of your bleedin' army. Them Ministry blokes jus' fink I am.

Lucius: Surely even they couldn't be that stupid.

Stan: I don' know anyfink 'bout that, but what it was, I 'ad a Jolly Roger tattoo from a box o' Crinky Stars--

Lucius: How's that?

Stan: Crinky Stars, m' fav'rit Muggle cereal. it's got a surprise in ev'ry box. Anyway, I wetted the tattoo and put it on my arm. Looked real nice, it did. An' the Aurors thought it was You-Know-Who's mark. But now it's wore off an' they still won't believe me. But I ain' no Dead Beater.

Lucius: That's Death Eater, young man.

Stan: Whatever. An' now me mum can't make ends meet wiv me losin' me job an' all, an' she can't 'old 'er 'ead up on market day no more, on account she's that ashamed…

Fade to black with spotlight on Scrimgeour and Millicent.

Scrimgeour: Did that really happen?

Millicent: This is live action, Rufus, not a re-run. We're right here at Azkaban. Can't you feel that North Sea breeze? And the scent of despair?

Scrimgeour: Aye, I remember it....

~*~

SCENE SIX: Scrimgeour's bedroom. The Bloody Baron enters. He says nothing, but beckons Scrimgeour to follow him into the mist, which is now a dark gray.

~*~

SCENE SEVEN: Post-apocalyptic London with buildings demolished, bodies strewn about. Smoldering fires are everywhere. People stagger about, searching the ruins.

Mrs. Blott: Oh Gad, my Bobby, where is he? I been searching the Alley all day.

Madame Malkin: Courage, Mrs. Blott, at least you know your children are safe up at the school.

Mrs. Blott: No, they're not, Madame Malkin. I took them out--after Dumbledore's died. Now, we've got werewolves running amok, giants bashing everybody, and those hex-mines the Death-Eaters have laid down. And my husband didn't come home last night. I don't know how much longer we'll last without him.

Dung Fletcher (stumbling out of the smoke): Me cauldrons, anybody seen me cauldrons?

Madame Malkin (gently): Sit down here, Dung. Nobody'll be wanting to buy a cauldron just now.

Mrs. Blott: Why didn't the Minstry warn us?

Dung: It's Scrimgeour, he just wouldn't let 'Arry Potter get on wiv it… do 'is job.

Madame Malkin: What do you mean, Dung?

Dung: It's plain as the nose on all our faces, innit? 'Arry was s'posed to hunt Voldemort down, and destroy the blighter. Dumbledore 'ad 'im all prime ter do it too. Bu' Scrimgeour 'ad to 'ave 'is bit of glory, so 'ee confiscated 'Arry's wand an' locked 'im an' all 'is frens up in 'Ogwarts. Said it was fer their own good.

Madame Malkin: No!

Mrs. Blott: (Crying) Curse you, Rufus Scrimgeour!

Dung: Don' matter 'ow loud you scream, Miz Blott. Death Eaters strafed the Ministry this morning.' Ever' last man-jack of ‘em wiped out…

Fade to black with spotlight on Scrimgeour and the Bloody Baron.

Scrimgeour: Please tell me this doesn't have to happen.

The Baron shakes his head and disappears.

~*~

Hermione had been up all night, writing. Now it was three in the afternoon. She showed the finished script to Sirius. "Thanks for getting Headmaster Dippet to visit," she said, suppressing a yawn. "He remembered that hearing word for word. Will it work, do you think?"

Sirius skimmed the pages. What if Scrimgeour doesn't say his lines? Or does he get a script too?

"He doesn't have that much to say, actually. But if he really goes off, the cast will just have to improvise."

Or I could "Imperio" him...

"Oh no, Sirius, I want him awake and aware of everything."

That's all right. If I know our Scrimmie, these responses are right in character.

"So who've we got for actors?"

Sirius showed her a list. I polled just about every ghost I knew--at the castle, all the pubs, everywhere. I think Sir Nick could play Malfoy, Dumbledore, and Dung Fletcher--

"That's quite a range."

He's up for it. Used to do Shakespeare with a troupe of dead Scandinavians. I understand his Hamlet always brought the house down.

Hermione studied the list. "The Gray Lady can be Professor McGonagall, and--whoa--you actually got Helga Hufflepuff?"

Yep, but she only wants a small part.

"All right," said Hermione. "She can be Madame Malkin." Then she flushed and murmured, "Helga Hufflepuff, in my play. Oh, I'm so flattered!"

Sirius was still reading the script. And she and the Bloody Baron can be Dementors in this Azkaban scene.

"But isn't she rather--erm--substantial for a Dementor? What about the Gray Lady?"

Best not go there, Hermione. It seems there's bad blood between her and the Baron.

"Oh."

He breezed on, still leafing through the script. I'm pretty good with accents, so I'll play Stan and young Scrimmie. And James can be--ook--Riddle. Say, by the by, he extracted Barty Crouch from those Dementors who swallowed him whole. I bet, if James asks him, old Barty'll play himself out of gratitude. And how about Lily for Mrs. Blott?

"Great," she beamed. "Give them their copies, and tell them our one and only rehearsal is tonight."

Sirius grinned. They're all quick studies, so that should be no problem at all. And by the way, James asked if he can be the one to say, "Quiet on the set!"

~*~

In the wee, small hours of two mornings later, Hermione's place was jumping. The ruse had worked quite well, in spite of the fact that Scrimeour almost had a heart attack when the first ghost appeared. After the last scene played out and Scrimgeour Apparated to the Ministry, having promised the Bloody Baron that he would repeal Educational Decree Number Twenty-Nine immediately, write a full pardon for Stan Shunpike, and try to stop the one for Malfoy, Sirius had invited everyone back to the temple for a cast party. He picked up all kinds of entertainment along the way, including a pair of bagpipers, Lester Mor and Evan Mor MacCrimmon of Skye, Kirlie Duke, lead guitarist for the Weird Sisters, who'd O.D.ed just a few hours before on Billiwig venom, and at least half of that musical saw orchestra Sir Nick had booked for his Death-Day party. James and Lily arrived shortly after with an array of dessicated and decayed foodstuffs they picked up from the local tip, which everyone, except Hermione, oohed and ahhed over. Sir Patrick brought the rest of the Headless Hunt and, of all people, Reginald, the Death of Poets.

Found him composing terza rima under a bush, Podmore drawled to Hermione. I told him the whole story. He was with child to meet the lovely playwright.

Hermione accepted Reg's gushing congratulations, and a little ode he had composed in her honor. She was, in fact, only a little miffed that her ghost friends had done all this without her permission. She had been waiting on tenterhooks to hear how the play had gone, and listened to their reports, in a glow of triumph.

Sirius was fairly shouting over the din of music and conversation. He was so high on the moment, he could barely get the words out for laughing. ...and James here flubs his cue... hee-hee... so Helena--you know--the Gray Lady--charges right in with her next line--you know--snorg--"I deal fairly with everyone, Tom." Brrr--just like McGonagall, cold and final, you know? And he gives her a glare that would have been like--ha, ha--lethal, if he had really been--heeheehahahoohoo--Riddle.

Everyone laughed with him, and Lily kissed James tenderly.

What's that for, he asked.

Does there have to be a reason?

He looked at her.

She shrugged her shoulders. Well, all right, it's for staying in character even when you forgot your line--but even more for agreeing to play a character that I know you abhor.

He returned her affection with an even longer kiss. The show must go on, he said simply.

Just then, there was sudden strong, howling wind ouside, the curtains flapped crazily, broke free of their tacking, and flew out into the night. In walked a huge black figure, carrying a crescent-shaped scythe, like a moon hovering in the party haze. It threw back its low-hanging hood, and exposed a grinning skull face.

The music stopped abruptly. Everyone froze. Kirlie Duke snapped a guitar string. Lord Death strode in slow motion to the center of the room. Pairs of dancers glided out of his way.

Sirius let out a hoot. Oh, look who it is! Hey, everybody, I want you to meet--

James stopped him with a hand. We've all met him, mate, except--.

Sirius ignored the hand and floated through clumps of carousers, past the make-shift band, and over the buffet table. Sorry we didn't think to invite you, mate. I thought you'd be--you know--occupied.

"It has been a rather trying day--and night," said Death with no trace of emotion.

Come to check up on our Reg, have you? It's past his bedtime, I expect.

"No... I've come to find out why you are all, in one way or another--" his head swiveled neatly, three hundred sixty degrees, on its neck joint--"OUT OF BOUNDS."

We're not--I mean--we're adults here, aren't we? I mean, we can do what we want, and you did give me permission--

"I gave YOU permission, you and the Potters, to help this young person," he pointed at Hermione, "an opportunity to help her headmaster. And now I find that, behind my back, you've invited every Tom, Dick, and Helena to join in the--what do you call it?--THE ACTION."

Well...I...

"What I want to know is how did they get past the gates?"

What gates do you mean?

"THE PEARLY GATES."

Oh, well, I made friends with this bloke, Pete, the gatekeeper, and we got up this friendly game of Quidditch. Bets were laid--and he lost--so he owed me a favor.

"Pete? You don't mean--you can't mean SAINT PETER."

Yeah, I think that is his full name.

Death removed his head, knocked it a few times to clear out the ear holes, and replaced it on the cervical vertabrae. "I CAN'T BELIEVE what I'm hearing." He pointed his scythe at one after another of the ghosts. "OUT! OUT, ALL OF YOU! Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, Helena Ravenclaw, back to your castle! Podmore, get your scruffy little band back to whatever pub it is you're haunting these days. Brothers MacCrimmon, how dare you abandon your sacred trust, the school at Borreraig and your oath to Clan Macleod! For the rest of you, back to whatever part of the Beyond you're assigned to. You'd better be off now! THIS PARTY IS OVER!"

The ghosts drifted out of the temple in small groups, whispering urgently, until Death was left facing Sirius, Lily, and James, with Hermione cowering behind them.

"I should punish you all--SEVERELY," Death hissed.

It's really my fault, said Sirius. I should never have--

"SILENCE!" Death pointed his scythe at them, and the three ghosts wafted away--like smoke in the wind.

Hermione gasped. "Where did they go? You haven't--erm--obliterated them, have you?"

"No, they are on their way back to their places in the firmament--WHERE THEY WILL STAY FROM NOW ON!"

Hermione was appalled. She was all alone now. "I--but what will I do--I mean--the Headmaster--he'll be doomed."

"And tell me why the LIVING should care so much about the DEAD," Death spat. "You should get on with your own LIFE, Missy. it's what people DO, after all. They regret their LOSS for a bit, then they go on."

"I can't--"

"Yes, yes, you all say that," continued Death, sounding aggrieved, "but you can--you really can live without him, you know."

Hermione felt suddenly angry, even in the face of Death. She rose out of her curl of fear and shouted. "Of course I can live without him. He taught me a great many things I can use to 'get on with it' as you say. But you forget that he's imprisoned in his tomb by those terrible--creepy--things. He's being punished unfairly for an innocent mistake my friend Harry made."

Death sucked on his teeth "There are lots worse punishments than being haunted by Inferi--"

"Oh, yes, I know, Judas iscariot being chewed up in the teeth of Satan and Sisyphus's rock and Tantalus and Prometheus's liver being eaten out for all eternity and all that hellfire and brimstone. I know all about those!"

"Anglican, are we?" Death commiserated gently.

"No, Catholic. and Irish."

"That explains it. Well, you see--"

"No, you see. Albus Dumbledore was the finest wizard I ever knew. He doesn't deserve this!"

"But you only knew him--what--about five years?"

"Six."

"But you know he lived a great deal longer than that. Almost two hundred years. Quite enough time to have done many things deserving of retribution."

"No, no--he couldn't--"

Death nodded slowly. "You will have to trust me when I say that he did."

Hermione's felt a great lump in her throat. She had failed. This person--who was ageless and very likely omniscient--was telling her that the one mage in the world she trusted the most, after Ron --and Harry, had done something so awful in his life that the immortals would let him go on being punished for it forever. But it didn't matter to her, whatever he had done. He had obviously atoned for it long since in his care for his students, his staff, his friends, the Order, the entire Magicosm. How could she convince Death to help her, or at least, to not hinder her in her fight to save him.

"What about Voldemort?" called a voice from across the room. It was Reginald, the Death of Poets, who had been sitting quietly behind a potted plant, observing the pair.

Death sighed. "Oh, it's you. What about him, Reg?"

Reginald's voice quavered, but only a little. "I heard you tell Sirius that you hate that the Dark Lord's been able to usurp a part of your power--that he was able to keep from dying when he was supposed to."

Another voice penetrated Hermione's gloom. This one was laced with sarcasm, but also a trifle slurred. I bet that must stick in your craw, Skull-Face. She looked past Death's shoulder. It was Kirlie Duke, the recently deceased Sister, who was hovering over their makeshift stage, still fiddling with his broken guitar string,

Death turned to him. "IT DOES NOT."

No, of course not, sniffed Kirlie, floating up to him.

"Duke, you're just chuffed because I had to break your hourglass. I'm sorry about that, but it's my job. Your sand ran out. It was your time to GO."

Reg interrupted, his voice steadier now. "You haven't answered the question. Does it bother you that Voldemort is still around?"

"Albus Dumbledore's punishment can in no way affect that scoundrel's triumph or defeat. And why are you no longer speaking in couplets?"

Reg sidled across to stand next to Hermione, who was looking from him to Kirlie, goggling."This is more important," he said. He took Hermione's hand and gave it an impulsive little pat, then dropped it as if he'd just realized that what he was doing was against some law or other.

But Hermione thought it a rather sweet gesture, whatever Sirius thought of him. It bucked her up a bit, and she found her voice. "I think the Headmaster's suffering can affect Voldemort, sir. As a student, he was obsessed with Hogwarts. He even applied to be a teacher there."

"So?"

"So, I think he's going to invade the school and take it over at some point in his revolution."

Makes sense, said Kirlie. And don't you think he'll want to visit his old enemy's tomb--to gloat, at the very least?

"It would be like him," Death admitted. "But how do you know so much about it?"

Kirlie put up a hand, showing index and middle finger entwined. Aberforth Dumbledore and me, we're--like--that close. No, really, me and the band used to hang out at his pub. I never held it against his brother that he had to expell me from Hogwarts. I mean, he did tell me I ought to pursue my true calling, and it all worked out for the best, didn't it? I even cut him a deal on our appearance at the Yule Ball--for old times, you know. Went to his funeral and everything. Sat with Abbie. Visited him afterwards--to hoist a pint in his bro's name. He told me about the voice in the tomb. Kirlie sniffed and rubbed his nose.

"Yes, that's an important point," said Hermione. "Aberforth told me about it too. Don't you think, Voldemort, with his knowledge of Legilimency, will be able to read Dumbledore's thoughts when he visits his tomb, at least as easily as his brother did?"

"What's that to me?" said Death. "So Lord Moldything will know that Dumbledore's in trouble. Just one more reason to gloat, as you say."

Hermione thought the scenario through and presented her case. "No, that's not true. We know that somehow Voldemort managed to conjure water from the River Styx into that bowl in the cave. If he figures out that that water, can be used to bind souls, which he's likely to after he figures out what happened to the Headmaster, he could keep all the dead people in the world from ever crossing over. Wouldn't that, along with his Horcruxes, in a way, make him more powerful than you, Mister Death?"

Death took a step backwards. "That son of a succubus--he wouldn't, he couldn't--" He pointed a bone finger at Hermione. "All right, Missy, I can't touch him, but maybe you can."

"I just want to save the Headmaster," Hermione said softly. "Then--maybe--Harry and Ron and I can find a way to destroy the Dark Lord."

"But I can't let Sirius help you anymore. He's got to learn a lesson."

"Erm--I understand, but could you--maybe--" She looked at Kirlie and Reg. "I mean, if they're willing--"

"Ask me anything, fair lady," said Reg.

"What about your responsibilities, Reg?" Death muttered.

"There are no poets due to hand in their pens for another six months," Reg replied.

And, man, I so do not want to Pass Over yet, Kirlie sighed, brushing a strand of hair off his nose.

"That's not surprising, with what's waiting for you," Death retorted. "All right. How many tasks are left?"

Hermione thought she knew, but walked over to the place she had seen Sirius with the list to make sure. "Just two," she confirmed.

"Good," said Death, as he turned on his heel. "That shouldn't take you but a few days." He vanished abruptly.

Right, Hermione thought. And the wedding is next Monday.