Harry Potter and the Weapon of Mass Destruction

Daylight had just peeped through the branches hanging outside his bedroom window when a knock awoke a sleeping Draco Malfoy, royally pissing him off. At first, it began as a soft tap without confidence that grew into an impatient and steady rapping, then finally built into forceful pounds that rattled the door in its hinges. Draco covered his head with his black damask comforter in a futile effort to ignore the banging, but the persistence of the knocker was fast exceeding his threshold for patience. Finally, when stuffing his silky pillow against his ears didn't work, he gave up, threw the comforter down and hurled the pillow at the door. It shot through the air and hit the heavy oak with a dull thud. The sound was enough to interrupt the pounding.

"What?" Draco yelled.

A timid, muffled voice spoke from the other side. "A letter for Master Malfoy, sir. From Master's school. It is seeming urgent, sir."

Propped up on his elbows, Draco lay for a moment gathering his senses, squinting at rays of sunlight that flickered between tree leaves and into his eyes. He grumbled as he flung off his sheets, stood up and crossed the vast space between his bed and the bedroom door. He didn't even bother to pull on his robe, exposing his bare chest while his silk pajama bottoms ruffled freely in the breeze. He had been having a good dream, damnit, and in his opinion - which was the only one that mattered in his bedroom - there was nothing from Hogwarts that could be so urgent that it justified waking him before noon.

Draco grasped the glittering silver knob and wrenched open the wooden door, revealing a small, withered creature whose large violet eyes went wide and whose head immediately bowed with embarrassment at the sight of Draco's bare torso.

Draco rolled his eyes as he took in the sight of the pathetic, cowering house elf that kneeled on one knee before him. Its pale skin was a dirty shade of green-gray, as if badly in need of a good dusting, and covering half of his body was a page of The Daily Prophet wrapped around his waist like a bath towel. Tiny brown hairs speckled his large, floppy green ears, now tinged a bashful red at the tips, that hung toward the floor. In both hands, as if it were an invaluable gift on a silver platter being presented to a king, he held the envelope addressed to Draco Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, 21st Bedroom on the Left, East Wing.

Draco was not impressed. "What time is it?" he asked as he rubbed his eyes.

The house elf's lips trembled. "It is being 7:42 am, sir."

Draco paused mid-rub and peeked over his hand at the elf. "If these are my O.W.L. scores, so help you-" he begun before he was cut off by an unexpected yawn. As it passed, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Well," he said, "what does it say?"

"Oh!" the elf yelped, scrambling to his feet, holding his newspaper in place with one hand. "Begging your pardon, sir, but Meeps is never looking into Master's letters! Not ever! Meeps never knows what Meeps might see, sir, and Meeps isn't wanting to get into trouble, so Meeps is never looking, sir."

Draco yawned again. Normally, he would have slapped an elf's pointy nose right off for such a long explanation, but he was simply too tired. It was just too early. "Yes," he said, "but now I want you to read it to me, you pitiful waste of matter. What's it say?"

"Sir," Meeps said, his eyes wide. "Begging your pardon again, sir, but Meeps isn't knowing how to read. Meeps is trying, sir. That's why Meeps is dressing in words, sir. Meeps is wanting to learn to read, sir. Meeps is having a whole collection of words underneath-"

Draco cut him off as he snatched the envelope out of the elf's hand. Meeps let out a startled cry and flinched. Realizing he was unharmed, he warily resumed his position on one knobby knee in front of Draco as the blonde boy opened the envelope and read the letter.

Since Meeps eyes were cast downwards, he didn't catch the brief slackening of Draco's face, the silent gasp, the widened eyes or then the furrowed eyebrows of anger that darkened the boy's expression. When Meeps looked up at his master for his next order, the expressions were already gone, replaced by the familiar, unsettling countenance of indifference that so reminded the elf of the elder Malfoy. Meeps shuddered.

"Wake my mother," Draco said. "Tell her I'll be by to speak with her within the hour."

"But Madame Malfoy already is wake, sir," Meeps said, "Meeps cannot wake her if she is already being awake already."

Draco closed his eyes, too tired to put much consideration into why his mother was already awake at this ungodly hour, and restrained himself from punting the elf down the dim corridor. "Then just tell her I need to speak with her."

Meeps nodded and stood, bowing repeatedly. Draco opened his eyes and was about to go back into his room before he stopped, staring at the creature as he began to back away from the door and start on his errands. As Meeps turned away, Draco reached out and grabbed the page of newspaper off its waist. Meeps froze in mid step, one foot still an inch from the ground. Reddening with shame, he looked over his shoulder at Draco who had already turned to go back into his room.

"Thought I saw an advert for some broom supplies." Draco crumpled the paper in his hand with a smirk as he stared at the devastated elf. "You know how fastidious I am about my coupon clipping," he said, chuckling as he returned to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Draco dropped the paper onto the floor as walked to his bathroom for a quick shower. Ten minutes later he emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist and headed toward the closet. He swung open the large oak door and a large, crystal chandelier flickered to life, illuminating several rows of clothing as he walked inside the spacious chamber that was slightly larger than the Slytherin common room. Passing his formal wear on the right and a vast selection of shoes on his left, he walked toward the center of the chamber toward a brown leather couch, on top of which Orno, his own house elf, had lain a pair of delicately creased khaki pants and a chocolate-brown crew shirt. Draco examined them with affection. Orno had always been his favorite elf, if for no other reason than because the thing had taste, and damnit if he didn't know what clothes always made Draco look best. Draco had tried to convince his father to let him take Orno to Hogwarts, but his father flatly refused, claiming that no one would see clothes beneath his robes anyway. That didn't stop Draco from making Orno design a wizard photo that showed a picture of Draco tailored in an outfit that changed on a daily basis, a handy little thing that had won Draco the Slytherin House's "Best Dressed Slytherin" superlative for the fifth year running.

Draco walked to his boudoir, where he dropped his towel on the floor, put on his clothes and admired himself in the half-circle of tall mirrors surrounding him. His dark shirt was a handsome compliment to his lightly tanned skin, which was noticeably toned from his summer Quidditch training. His gray eyes were striking against his darker complexion and were complimented by his pale blond hair streaked with strands that, although it was only three weeks into summer holiday, had already been bleached white by the sun. He flashed a winning smile, and at that moment it became physically impossible for him to look hotter. In fact, this was probably as good as it got. With a strut, Draco left his closet, picking up the pair of sandals that Orno had selected on his way, and began his journey toward the South Wing.

It was never an easy walk from the center of the Manor to any of the wings of the house, not since his father had decided four years ago to "remodel" the halls. Although they were already dark and winding narrow stone passages, he cast an incantation that enchanted them to shift every thirty days, forming a new maze that posed an impossible challenge to those that attempted to pass through. It was a stupid idea, really, especially as guests knew better than to leave the guest wing of the manor unaccompanied. It instead inconvenienced the permanent inhabitants, delaying everyone from getting anywhere in the house and causing the temporary loss of house elves trapped within it. It was simply impossible to get through the West Wing, where his father resided, without a map. So difficult, in fact, that last time Draco had attempted to tackle the puzzle, he was thoroughly lost for more than three hours before he was found by his father's house elf, who possessed the only map key.

His mother's path was much easier, and it only took him twenty minutes to navigate his way to the grand entrance of the South Wing, although the overpowering scent of his mother's perfume wafting through the corridor made him want to retreat through the maze again. He breathed through his mouth as headed down the long hallway and up the broad staircase that led to his mother's bedroom. His mother's own house elf, Naddy, stood at the top, looking down her long, pointy nose at a panting Draco as he reached the last stair.

"Master Draco," she called in a grating nasal voice, and he flinched at the sound. Her voice had the harsh garbled sound of crow's squawk, and the painful effect of fingernails scraping a blackboard. He was grateful for the fact that she didn't speak to him all that often, but he didn't know how his mother could stand it. "This way," Naddy said as she turned and led Draco to his mother's chamber.

When they finally approached the powder room, they still had to go about half the length of a Quidditch pitch to get to the other end, where they found Madame Malfoy seated on a large black satin ottoman, facing enormous floor-to-ceiling mirrors that curved in a half circle in front of her. Fluttering around her on the spotless snow-white carpet were more than a dozen house elves dressed in tailored white pillowcases (his mother refused to have the "filthy beasts skittering about in tattered linens in her chamber"). One was combing her long hair, ten elves had each taken one digit on either a hand or foot and were painting her finger and toenails, another was applying her make up and yet another was giving her a shoulder massage. One elf glistened with sweat as she heaved an enormous black feather up and down to cool Narcissa. It was needless as the manor was enchanted to keep itself temperate at all times, not to mention the feather could be charmed to fan on its own, but his mother nevertheless insisted that it be done manually. All of them made excessive bows while they did their work. The quiet murmur of habitual compliments covered up the sound of Naddy and Draco's entrance, and only when Naddy's voice pierced the drone did his mother notice their presence.

"Young Master Malfoy has arrived, Madame Malfoy." She made a dramatic sweep of her head, turning her pointed nose toward the vaulted ceiling and making a curtsy so low that she nearly ended up sitting cross-legged on the carpet. With effort, the old elf stood and swaggered back the way she came with a strut full of snobbish arrogance, no doubt acquired from working for his mother. It was probably the reason his mother liked her most; snobbish arrogance was a quality that she prided above all else.

"Yes?" Narcissa said without bothering to take her eyes off of the reflection of elves in the mirrors as she responded to him. Her voice sounded mildly annoyed at him for interrupting her morning prime.

Draco moved toward a chaise in front of the window and sat, gazing at the broad expanse of the Malfoy grounds outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Jade colored panes that formed a large "M" in the center of the glass gave the grass an even deeper shade of green, and he compared the two shades as he sat. "Any news?" he asked.

"Have you heard any news?" she asked as she observed an elf dip a silver comb into her platinum-blond hair.

"No."

"Then what makes you think I've heard any?"

"Your bad poker face and the tiny smidge of evasiveness in your voice," he replied. Of course she was lying, not to Draco's surprise. She was close enough to the Death Eaters that she had likely known of some escape plan since the day they were captured. "So, what's the latest?"

His mother didn't answer, but not for no reason. One elf, who had been lingering around the makeup counter, had just dropped a facial pad in the dish of face powder. It splashed upwards, covering her and the countertop in fine, white dust. She looked as if she was wearing a mask; every inch of her face was white, from one formerly green pointy ear to the other. The only color left on her face was in her stunned, blinking eyes that stood out like enormous green discs against her dusty skin.

Draco would have laughed at the mishap if he hadn't seen the expression - or rather, the lack thereof - on his mother's face. With a fierce gaze, she pulled her wand from her white robe and made a lazy sweep of her arm. The elf could only stare wide-eyed as she spoke in a bored, drawling voice.

"Pennaverus."

A shot of black shot out of her wand, striking the elf in the center of her face and planting a black feather duster where her nose used to be. The elf gasped, lost her balance, caught herself on the counter and lifted her head up to the mirror. Her eyes went wide with horror and she let out a whimper while the other elves lowered their heads and continued with their tasks in silence. "Clean it," said Narcissa, and the elf turned back to the mess and began sweeping it away with her face, sneezing with each stroke.

Draco watched the elf continue to clean and sneeze, blowing up more powder out of the dish and across the counter. "You never answered my question," he said above the pitiful achoos of the elf.

"Yes, I did," she said, now admiring the paint job on the nails of her long fingers. "You didn't like the answer you received."

"Mmm. Perceptive," Draco said. "And using the old 'Silent Response' trick? Clever."

"Would you rather have had me say 'You can't know because I say so?'"

"Because the difference is so clear," he said, fingering the dangling frill that hung from the chaise. "So what are they planning to do?"

"I think you're intelligent enough to know the answer to that."

"Yes, thanks, but it's more the 'how' that I'm looking for, Mother."

"They will do what they'll do by whatever means they deem necessary, of course."

"That's a bit vague."

"Yes, isn't it."

Draco looked up and blinked, then refocused on the frill, hoping that his mother hadn't stopped looking at her reflection just then to catch his look of surprise. She hadn't, he assumed, after daring a brief second glace that captured her still admiring her nails. He remained silent in the chair, waiting until she spoke once more.

It was only when she rose ten minutes later and strolled to the colored window panes glimmering behind Draco that he looked at her again. The bright summer sunlight silhouetted her tall, thin body, and twinkled in her pale hair that cascaded down her shoulders and back and curved ever so slightly at the ends, as perfect as a Queen's. The sunlight behind her made it hard to see her face as she turned her back to it and faced Draco, shrouding her face in darkness and surrounding it with a bright white haze. Her eyes stood out as the only visible feature, and he gazed into them, almost mesmerized, as she spoke.

"He is preparing to rise again, Draco," she said as casually as if she was remarking on the weather. "He has gathered his army and is nearly ready for the oncoming battle."

His mother hadn't so much as glanced at him since he had entered the room, but now her gaze was as piercing as the one she had given the powdered elf. He stared into it until he was startled by the sound of the house elves sudden bustle to leave the room, clamoring to exit through a small door no taller than the counter it stood beside. He turned to watch two of them support the elf with the feather duster nose out the tiny door; she could barely balance herself as she sneezed several times in quick succession, dazing herself as she hit her head once on the door frame, and wobbled out of the room.

When the last elf had shut the door behind her, his mother waited a couple of moments before she spoke again. Her voice was soft, but carried a serious undertone that made him strain to catch every word.

"The Dark Lord has many friends," she said, still holding Draco's frozen stare, "but he also has many enemies. Many of them are at your academy now, attempting to plot his defeat. They can't win, of course, but that does not mean their efforts should not be stopped."

She paused, and her gaze dropped to Draco's pant pocket. "I understand you received a letter just this morning, from Hogwarts."

Draco said nothing. He reached into his pocket, retrieved the letter and handed it to his mother. Narcissa took it and glanced over it quickly, her expressionless face never faltering as she finished.

"The Dark Lord asks for your assistance, Draco," she said as she handed the letter back to him. "He asked for you personally. That is a great honor, for you, for our family. Don't you agree?"

Draco did his best to hide the smile hidden behind his own cool expression. He knew the time would someday come when he would be asked to play a part in the legacy of the Death Eaters and the order of the Dark Mark, and now it had finally arrived. He had dreamed of becoming a Death Eater himself ever since he had caught a glimpse of his father's Dark Mark as a small child. He knew his father had once been the close associate of Tom Riddle, and Draco had always hoped that he would one day take on a prized position of the same merit and honor. He had even had toyed with the farfetched but not totally improbable possibility of succeeding Voldemort himself as Dark Lord, controlling all those with the Dark Mark. He was young enough, he was cunning enough, and he was willing to do what it took to succeed. Whatever it took.

"You do accept his request?" his mother said, interrupting his visions of world domination. It was less a question than a demand.

Now Draco gave a small smile, similar to that of his father's, and nodded. "Of course I accept. There could be no greater honor than to assist the Dark Lord in anyway I can."

His mother smiled back. It was not the smile of a proud mother, but one of a person who never expects surprises - because no one would dare - and was already prepared for their next step.

"Excellent," she said.

***

"Ron. Ro-on. Ron!" Ginny clapped once, loudly, from Ron's bedroom doorframe. "Ron!"

"Mmrph." Ron rolled over in his bed, still half asleep.

"Wake up."

"Nn-uhn."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Ron, wake up."

"Uuughhhnn..." Ron moaned, rolling over. "Whahzit?"

"It's 8am."

Ron opened his eyes and looked at his sister. For reasons past his comprehension, she was wide-awake, already dressed in frayed jean shorts and a tank shirt. It was obvious that she had just emerged from her morning shower: her still-wet hair hung in dark ribbons of red around her freckled face and down her bare shoulders, and her eyelashes, which, along with her eyebrows, always turned a golden strawberry-blonde in the summer, were splayed in several damp clusters around her eyelid, framing her brown eyes.

Ron shook his head at her and wiped his half-closed eyes. "I guess you've never noticed that it's 8am once everyday," he said. "There's also a 8pm. Why don't you come back then?"

"Because I'm here now." Ginny walked toward Ron's bed waving a piece of paper in the air. "We've got post."

Ron grunted and flopped back down, covering his head with his pillow. "Also not a miraculous event," he mumbled. "I got post just last week."

"Not counting Quidditch Today and my Bewitching Boudoir catalog that you keep stealing-"

"Is it the Bewitching Boudoir catalog?" came Ron's muffled voice.

"No."

Ron mumbled something unintelligible.

Ginny grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Ron, this is important," she urged. "You know we never really get post unless it's from Hogwarts."

Ron lifted the pillow from his head just enough to peek a look at his sister. "Is it from Hogwarts?"

"Yes!"

Ron rolled back over and propped himself into a half-sitting position against his headboard. His sheet slid down below his freckled torso as he turned toward his sister, his curiosity piqued. "So what's it say?"

Ginny sat down on the bed. The look in her eye told him that it was serious. "You're not going to like it."

Ron grew a little concerned. "What is it? Is it about Mom and Dad?"

"No," Ginny said. "They're fine..."

Ron eyes grew big. "Is it Harry?"

Ginny frowned and looked a little sad as she shook her head at her brother. Ron had been sending letters to Harry all summer, but they had all gone unanswered. Hermione had written Ron and Ginny, saying that she had also written to Harry, but she, too, had received the same non-response to her letters. They all knew Harry was fine, but Ron grew a little more hurt every day that went by without a response from his best friend.

Then Ron's eyes grew their largest yet. "O.W.L.s?" he asked gravely.

"No, no, it's not that. It's...well...don't get mad at me."

Now Ron was not only concerned but apprehensive as well, almost enough to not want to know what was in the letter at all. Wishing he had stayed asleep, he dared to find out. "What's it say?"

Ginny took in a deep breath. "We have to go back to Hogwarts for the summer."

Ron chuckled, staring at Ginny for the punchline. When none came, he snatched the paper out of her hands and read it silently. He stayed silent for nearly five minutes while Ginny remained on the edge of his bed and watched. Her head resting on her hands, she balanced her elbows on her knees and patiently observed her brother's eyes widen and narrow as his mind took in the contents of the letter. Then he let it drop out of his hands as if it were a disgusting, contaminated thing; an abomination on his summer holiday. It fell into his lap and he stared at it for a moment before he turned his eyes back to his sister. In sad recognition of the end of his summer as he knew it, he allowed a moment of silence, then gave a deep sigh.

"So, what," he asked, not bothering to hide the indignation in his voice. "You think everyone's coming back?"

"I don't know about everyone," Ginny said. She took the letter from Ron's lap and read a part aloud. "'Those involved in the events of the end of last term are asked to return for their own safety.' I think that means you, me, Harry, Hermione, Neville and Luna."

"Ohhh," Ron groaned. "Not Luna. I think she's got a thing for me."

Ginny cast him a sideways glance. "I think you're a cocky prat."

"And I think you shouldn't be in such close proximity if you're going to say things like that," Ron replied as he pushed her off the bed and onto the floor.

Ginny recovered and stood, hands on her hips and jaw dropped in mock shock. "I'm telling," she claimed, feigning as much seriousness as possible, but Ron sensed the masked laugh and rolled over.

"You do that, keeping in mind I'm the only other person here, and I did it."

"Revenge is mine. Note my raised eyebrow."

Ron turned back over and glanced at her face. "That's barely level two. And admit it - you haven't rolled off a bed in a long time. You loved it."

Ginny looked up as she thought for a moment. "February," she said.

"What?"

"February. Ernie MacMillan. We rolled off his bed, but I suppose that was under different circumstances than what you meant, so it doesn't count."

Ron stared for a moment, then pointed at the door. "Get out."

Ginny gave Ron the sweetest smile she possessed and innocently batted her eyelashes. Ginevra Weasley was not the "Weasley kid sister" of days of yore, and Ron had known this since the beginning of her fourth year when an unofficial poll taken at the middle of second term even verified the popular opinion that Ginny was indeed one of the hottest girls in Gryffindor, but it still made Ron gag - and Ginny smile - whenever she reminded him of the obvious. "Want me to make you some breakfast?"

"You tell me you dated Ernie MacMillan, then ask me if I'd like to eat?" Ron groaned, making a face as he closed his eyes. "I'll pass, thanks. Loss of appetite."

Ginny chuckled as she left, closing the door behind her, and walked downstairs to kitchen. She headed for the cupboard and pulled out the box of Bernie Bott's Triks cereal (Spoonfuls of Flavorful Fun!), in which the fruit shapes were not always fruit flavors. Since she'd been a kid, it was and continued to remain her favorite cereal as eating it always made for an interesting breakfast. Her family wouldn't touch it, and although she occasionally swallowed a gravy or turnip shape, she usually ended up with the usual berry flavors.

She poured a glass of orange juice (a chaser in case of a bad combo), sat down at the long kitchen table in front of her cereal bowl, and poured her milk. Scooping up a lemon and grape shape, she took a bite: squash and turnip. Making a face, she swallowed hard, gagged and grabbed her juice. The glass had barely touched her lips at the moment when she could have sworn she felt eyes watching her, and she suddenly had the unsettling feeling that she was not alone.

She spun around in her seat and faced the family room. No one was there. She looked around the kitchen, but saw no one. She stood up and peeked out the window - nothing. Looked through the kitchen doorframe that led into the hall. Empty.

Ginny shook her head. She was just being paranoid. Probably because of the letter, she thought. Of course no one was here. She took in another spoonful -cherry and lime - and nearly retched. Tomato and lima beans. Ugh, she thought. This is not my morn-

Creak.

Ginny stopped chewing. She looked up and into the hall. It was still empty.

"Ron?" she called, but got nothing but silence in response. She craned her neck a little for a better look. Just an old, rickety house making old, rickety noises, Ginny tried, fighting back a sense of unease. Probably a gnome if anythi-

Creak. Thud.

Ginny dropped her spoon. Someone was here. A burglar? No, no one would rob this house: too unsightly, and in broad daylight? Which could mean only one thing - a Death Eater. Or maybe Voldemort himself. Wasn't that why they were going back to Hogwarts in the first place, to get to safety? Only they were too late. Voldemort got to them first.

Her wand in her bedroom, Ginny raced to the drawer for the, biggest, sharpest knife she could find. She grabbed it and crept, heart pounding against her ribs, into the hallway.

There was no one there. They had already gone upstairs.

Ginny ran.

"Ron!" She screamed as she ran all the way up the three flights to his room. When she reached the landing, she flung open her brother's bedroom door, revealing Ron out of bed, half-dressed and white-faced, and staring at someone standing in front of him. The stranger turned around, and Ginny nearly dropped the knife in surprise.

"Hello, Ginny," Percy said, spreading his arms wide. "I'm home."

Ginny stood immobile in the doorway. It was Percy; from the bright red Weasley hair to his long sleeved button shirt in the middle of summer.

Yet seeing him was unsettling. There was something different about him for certain, but she couldn't say what. It was more than his pallor in the middle of summer, and more than the blue circles that hung beneath his eyes. A fleeting image of Percy losing his mind in the same manner as Mr. Crouch fluttered through her mind, followed by a vision of his son, who had turned Death Eater.

"You haven't seen me in ages and still I get no hug?" Percy asked. He caught sight of the weapon in her hand. "Actually, I guess you should put down the knife first."

"No," Ron said coolly to Ginny, "don't." He looked Percy in the eyes. "I've asked you once already, Percy. What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I live here, Ron."

"No, you don't." Ron replied without an ounce of warmth. "Not anymore."

"I wasn't aware that you were the one who had signed the mortgage papers," Percy replied almost casually. "Speaking of, where are Mother and Father?"

"Why?" Ron folded him arms. "Wanna try to get Dad sacked again? Or maybe you'd just like to see Mum cry one more time?"

Percy hesitated, and genuine regret passed across his face. "I never meant...it was never my intention to upset anyone. I was doing my job, what was required-"

"Oh, shut up, Percy!" Ron spat. "You knew the truth. You knew Voldemort had returned long before this year." Percy gasped at Ron's use of Voldemort's name, and Ron smiled inwardly at his personal moment of superiority. "He'd attacked Ginny, for Merlin's sake! But instead of trying to help, you tried to make us all look like idiots. You called Harry a crazy liar!"

"I know. And that's why I came." Percy turned toward Ginny, seeking the sympathy he was certainly not going to receive from his brother. His eyes were wide and sincere as they plead for her to understand. "I need to apologize. To everyone."

"Apology not accepted," Ron said.

"Ron!" Percy started, exasperated, then he took a breath. "Ron, we were scared. We were all scared and we were trying to hold the country together as best as possible. If we had told people what was going on, there would have been panic, mass hysteria-"

"If people had known," Ron growled, "maybe we could have stopped him sooner from gaining more power. Maybe no one would have died."

Percy blinked and frowned, taken aback. "Who died?"

Ron and Ginny looked at each other. They'd forgotten that not everyone knew about Sirius, even though his life had been such a part of theirs for the past four years. Almost no one knew about his whereabouts, and least of all his connection to the Order. But now that he was dead, it didn't much matter anymore, did it?

"Sirius Black," Ron admitted.

Percy stared perplexed, first at Ron, then toward Ginny, then back to Ron again for a long moment before he spoke again.

"I'm...sorry."

"Why are you here, Percy?"

"Ron, I told you-"

"I know what you told me because I was standing right here when you said it," he clipped. "Why - are - you - here?"

"I want to help the Order."

There was a long silence as Ron and Ginny eyed their brother. Then Ron let out a heartless laugh, smiling through grit teeth. "Oh, that's great. Really, that's really funny."

"If I am even remotely a cause for You-Know-Who's-"

"Vol-de-mort," Ron said, accenting each syllable. "If you want to fight him, you should at least know his name."

Percy ignored him. "If I am at all responsible in any way for helping bring him back to power, then I want to help the Order stop him."

"Well," Ron smiled and shrugged. "That's not up to us."

"Of course it's not," Percy said, frustration finally beginning to edge into his voice. "So, again, where are Mother and Father and the Order?"

Ron smirked. He was not about to tell Percy anything, and Percy was an enormous git if he thought otherwise, so of course Ron's jaw dropped to the floor when Ginny spoke.

"They're at Hogwarts."

Ron turned toward Ginny in disbelief.

"Ah," Percy said, relaxing. A small smile formed on his lips. "Well, when are they returning?"

"Don't know," Ron said forcefully, still holding Ginny's gaze.

"But we're going there tomorrow," Ginny said, ignoring Ron's accusatory glare. Her eyes warned him to keep his mouth shut. "You can come with us."

Ron eyes practically popped out of his head. Percy's smile grew wider.

"Great! What time do we leave?"

"Noon," she replied. "By Floo to Diagon Alley, then plane to Hogwarts at 6."

Percy let out a great exhale and smiled. "Thanks, Ginny," he said. "It will mean so much to me to be able to apologize to them in person." He picked up two bags that rested beside his legs and made his way to the door. "I guess I'll just put my stuff in my room for now." He nodded toward Ron and smiled at Ginny before he left the room and walked down to the second floor. Neither Ginny nor Ron spoke until they heard his door close and had checked the stairwell to make sure he was gone, then they shut Ron's door.

Ron spun on his sister. "What was that?" Ron hissed.

"Oh, think Ron!" she whispered back. "He can be watched more closely at Hogwarts! There's Dumbledore and a dozen Aurors that can monitor his every move, every owl, everything. If he's-" she broke off, not wanting to admit the worry that had nagged at her since first seeing Percy.

Ron said it for her. "If he's a Death Eater-"

"-up to anything," Ginny continued, hoping she was right, "we'll know it."

Ron raised an eyebrow and frowned for a moment while he considered the idea. With the secret already out and no other alternatives, he acquiesced. "Fine, I guess," he said finally. "This is going to make for one uncomfortable plane trip."

Ginny nodded. "Not it."

"Not what?"

"Not the person that has to sit next to Percy on the flight."

Ron shook his head and folded his arms. "You can't call 'Not It' here. You have to be in sight of the plane."

"Since when?"

"Since the beginning of 'Not It'."

"You made that up."

"I might have," Ron replied as he headed back to his bed, sitting on the edge. "I also might murder Percy with my bare hands if I sit next to him on the plane, subsequently distracting the pilots and bringing the whole thing crashing down on a mountain top where we'll be stranded, grow long, scary beards, fight bears of extraordinary size and have to resort to cannibalism to survive. And the young are the first to go, so, really, it's for your own good to give it up."

"You know," Ginny said, smirking, "I think we'll be using this plane flight to discuss your obvious chemical imbalance. Right now I believe I have a bowl of soggy cereal to throw away, then I'm packing." She opened the door as she turned back toward Ron. "Sure you don't want anything?"

Ron stretched, then ruffled his hair as he scanned his floor. "You just want me to cook, don't you?" He found a t-shirt beside his bed, threw it on and headed after Ginny as she left his room. "No luck with the Triks this morning?"

"You are correct, sir, on both counts," she replied as Ron closed his door and followed her sister down the stairs. "Bacon and eggs? I'll scramble."

***

In the early hours of the uncomfortably humid morning at number four Privet drive, a small window hung wide open in a bedroom facing the street. The first rays of the days sunlight filled the small room with a deep orange glow, illuminating a discarded bedsheet lying in a small heap on the floor, and shining on the face of Harry Potter while he rolled onto his back, sweat-soaked in an undershirt and shorts, half-asleep in his bed.

He was dreaming he was standing between the dark stone halls of the Department of Mysteries...he heard Sirius scream...he ran through the stone corridors toward the tall stone doorway of a spacious chamber...Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius fought in the center...jets of light flew from their outstretched wands as they ducked and weaved in front of the black velvet curtain that hung in front of the stone archway...a beam of light hit Sirius squarely in the chest...Sirius tilted backward...the curtain flapped vigorously as he passed through, then fell still...Harry rushed to the arch...he leapt into the space on the other side...he was plummeting through a black void...a deafening screech of disembodied screams howled in his ears as he plunged through the darkness...a throbbing ache started in his scar and a loud pounding began in his head...he heard Sirius call his name...he called back, but the echoing shrieks and thunderous pounding in his head overpowered his voice...Sirius called again, louder, but over the screams and the pounding noise, Harry could barely hear what he said.

"I said now!" it sounded like.

"What?" Harry yelled back, confused.

"UP!" his uncle's voice bellowed over loud pounds on Harry's bedroom door. "Now! You're late!"

Harry's eyes flew open, and he shot up in his bed, drenched in cold sweat and gasping for air. Frantically, he rolled to his side and blindly reached for his glasses on the nightstand with shaking hands.

"Do you hear me, boy?" his uncle yelled through the door.

"Yeah," Harry replied in a croaked voice. He put on his glasses and glanced at his alarm clock. The red numbers boldly glared back at him. 8:22 AM, they read clearly. He had overslept.

"Down stairs in two minutes!" his uncle yelled once more before his booming footsteps could be heard stomping through the hall and down the stairs.

Harry's pounding heart threatened to crack his ribs as his brain reeled from the nightmare. He took off his glasses and pressed his palms against his eyes, and pulled them away surprised to find his face not just wet with sweat, but tears as well. He angrily rubbed his eyes with his hands. He never told the Dursleys what happened last at school, and they never asked, which was fine with him - he wasn't planning to share anyway - but he would not let the Dursleys see him cry. "You prat," he muttered to himself. "It was just a nightmare, a really stupid nightmare, and nothing more."

Wiping every trace of tears away, Harry put his glasses back on, stood up and pushed sweat-soaked strands of hair off his forehead. He grabbed a old pair of fraying jean shorts and one of Dudley's old t-shirts from his closet, and hurriedly changed clothes while he scanned the room for his shoes. The tip of one peeked out from under his bed. He grasped it and as he glanced around the room for the other, he caught a glimpse of a gaunt and tired face in the small closet mirror. Stunned, he walked toward the reflection for a closer look.

Although he usually burnt rather than tanned as a rule, he imagined he could achieve a landslide win in the contest for Palest Boy In All of England this summer as he looked into the mirror. Besides the mild sunburn on his nose gained from performing the most grueling of yard chores and the few red pubescent pimples scattered across his forehead, the shadowy hue around his eyes provided for the only color on his otherwise pale face. Large blue circles darkened the puffy bags beneath his red eyes, bearing him a striking resemblance to a loser of a fistfight. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, which, he mused, was partially true; he couldn't remember having gotten a decent night's sleep since he had returned for the summer over a month ago. Every muscle in his body ached for a good night's rest and a dose of the sleeping potion he had received at the end of the fourth year. He had a vague memory the ingredients in Potions but discarded the idea of brewing it himself; the Dursleys lived far away from any store even remotely curious-looking, and definitely any that sold powdered root of asphodel.

Harry shook his head to push his disturbing complexion out of mind. He nudged a lump beneath his discarded bed sheet, uncovering the location of his other shoe. He put it on and, without an attempt to flatten his naturally unruly hair, he opened the bedroom door and headed down the stairs to the kitchen, where the Dursleys were no doubt dreading his arrival, and the feeling was mutual. It seemed living at Privet Drive this summer was harder than any other summer before. The problem wasn't just living with the Dursleys: after the Sirius's death a month ago, he was just frustrated with everything.

The problem was that he felt so depressed, his apathy prevented him from really caring about anything. Half of the time, he just wanted to be alone. The Dursleys, who ignored him most of the time anyway, seemed to be fine with that decision and didn't notice that Harry spent entire days in his room, that he'd lost weight or that he looked pale and tired, despite the fact that he only came out of his room to do chores and eat every once in a while. The extent of his contact with the outside world were the clipped letters he had written to the Order every three days, which usually consisted of just six words: "I'm fine. Keep me posted. Harry." He hadn't even written anything to Ron and Hermione, though they had written faithfully to him. He just found that he didn't have much of anything to say in reply.

There were other times, though, that when he was alone he'd want to be with people, even if that meant the Dursleys. He had long since disowned the Dursleys as "family", but now that he'd lost Sirius, he felt truly orphaned for the first time. But the second he'd step out of his room for company, he'd instantly regret it and the cycle would begin again.

Harry mulled over this on his way to the kitchen, but stopped outside the kitchen door, shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. Harry knew why Dumbledore was for keeping him restrained to the house, but he hadn't stepped foot outside of his yard all summer. The cabin fever wasn't helping his maddening mental block for a plan, and instead he constantly felt just seconds away from snapping. He sensed an anger continuously pumping through his body nowadays, and the rage that flowed beneath his skin was always on the verge of coming to the surface. At this point, he felt he was either going to magic himself out, turn Dudley into cow, murder his uncle or go insane, all of which would - one way or another - probably prevent him from going back to Hogwarts and rescuing his godfather.

"Just be nice. Be nice," he muttered under his breath in front of the door. "Think of Sirius. Come on..." And, with a slightly shaky hand and dreading the doubled amount of chores he'd have to do and the angry screaming he'd hear when he stepped inside, Harry opened his eyes, slowly pushed open the kitchen door and passed through.

He walked into the smell of steaming strips of bacon, juicy sausages, fluffy pancakes and french toast, scrambled eggs, and sizzling potato slices that wafted from overflowing plates on the table. Aunt Petunia fluttered about the Dursley males, who looked nearly identical from their too-snug matching navy-blue suits to the parts in their greased hair to the sweat that glistened on their rotund pink faces. Dudley, who now resembled an overstuffed, uber-muscular action figurine, rolled his sleeves above his broad forearms and loosened his tie around his thick neck. He issued Harry a fleeting glance as he prepared to shovel in another forkful of food into his mouth. Uncle Vernon was reading the Times when Harry entered, but put it down to glower at him as Harry reached for an empty plate.

"You're late," he said.

Harry gave a careless shrug and said nothing as he added a piece of toast to his plate.

"You are not supposed to be late," his uncle barked. The hairs of his thick mustache quivered on every syllable. "You are supposed to be down here at 8 o'clock sharp. You are supposed to be doing your chores at 8:15, but instead, you're sitting here. Late."

Looking at his plate, Harry rolled his eyes and made a noncommittal noise in his throat. Then, remembering his oath to himself from outside the kitchen, Harry took a deep breath as he dipped his knife into the butter and spread it onto his toast. "Fine," Harry said, summoning the strength to force an apology through his clenched teeth. "I'm sor-."

"Quite right, you're sorry," his uncle interrupted, and Harry brought up his gaze to glare at Uncle Vernon. "A lazy, sorry excuse for everything is what you are. Look at your cousin - that's an example of a proper young man."

Just then, Dudley gave a huge, resounding belch. Harry grimaced internally as Aunt Petunia proudly beamed and clapped excitedly as she walked to her only son. She patted him on the back.

"My precious little boy," she said, practically bowing to the teenager whose enormous thighs spilled over the seat of his chair. "More french toast, Duddykins?"

Dudley nodded. "Need my carbs," he said through a mouth full of food, and he squeezed up an enormous muscle on his massive right arm. Aunt Petunia squealed and piled eight more pancakes onto his plate. Dudley shot Harry a smug smile. Dudley's interest in Harry's affairs always perked up whenever Harry was being criticized, and he observed the developing argument intently as if it were a movie, absentmindedly stuffing forkfuls of food into his mouth as it continued.

"Whatever," Harry said, disgusted, as he tried to retrieve his appetite and took a small bite of his piece of toast.

"And he's got a summer job," added Uncle Vernon.

"You wouldn't let me apply for a summer job!"

"And a right lot of good that would have done you! Employers look for people that have a sense of promptness and responsibility, which you have proven your lack of this morning."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I think we've established that I was late, don't you?"

Uncle Vernon's face flushed. "And we'll keep establishing that point until you get it through that thick skull of yours! So long as you live in this house, you'll obey the house rules!"

"Well, trust me," Harry shot back, "If there were anywhere else in the world where I could live, I'd be there."

"Don't you get mouthy with me, boy!" Uncle Vernon growled, spitting flecks of food across the table. Harry wiped them off his forehead. "I don't care what that Dummybore says! This is still my house, and I can kick you out of it so fast it will make your head spin!"

"Oh, I'm sure you would," Harry replied with a smug smile. "I'm also sure that once my friends found out - you know, the ones you met at the end of last term - they would be here in an instant making your head spin...literally." He twirled his finger in the air for added effect. "As a matter of fact, they're expecting a letter tomorrow. I can put that bit in if you'd like?"

Dudley choked, Aunt Petunia dropped her spatula, and Uncle Vernon quickly went pale, then an even more violent shade of beet red as the kitchen became quite quiet, and Harry tried hard not to giggle as he picked up his toast again. He had just taken a bite when Aunt Petunia's piercing scream shattered the silence.

Harry spun around. A large tawny owl sat perched on the windowsill over the kitchen sink in front of his aunt, a small white envelope in its claws. Ignoring the high-pitched squeals from his Aunt and cousin and Uncle Vernon's yells about ruddy owls, Harry sprang out of his seat and grabbed the letter. As soon as it was in his hands, the owl hooted once, spread its large wings and soared into the warm morning sunlight and out of sight.

Harry stared at the envelope addressed to him in the familiar green ink. It was too early for his term letter, and his O.W.L. results weren't due for two more weeks. Why would Hogwarts be sending him a letter now? Maybe it was a letter from the Order, addressed to him like a Hogwarts letter in case Death Eaters intercepted it. Had something happened? Had Voldemort returned? Without another second's delay, he ripped the envelope open, tearing a bit of letter inside in his hurry, and fervently read as if it might self-destruct before he was done.

Dear Mr. Potter,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you have thus far enjoyed your summer holiday.

I would first like to extend my thanks for obeying Headmaster Dumbledore's directions so succinctly and remaining at your family's residence at what was a very difficult time for you, but we had hoped you would understand the gravity of the situation that is at hand, and you have shown that you do.

That being said, on behalf of the Headmaster I am writing to inform you of his decision that you stay at Hogwarts for the remainder of the summer holiday. I do not believe it necessary to explain why, but that it is suffice to say that those involved in the events of the past term have been asked to return for their own safety.

We expect that you understand the nature under which we pose this request. If your family wishes otherwise, please immediately reply by owl and I will make arrangements to speak with them to further explain our reasoning, though I expect they will understand the necessity behind our appeal.

We will expect your arrival at Hogwarts in two days time. We have taken precautions that make it safe enough for you to use Muggle transportation to get to London, where you may purchase your materials for the year. From there, you will use wizard transportation to continue the journey to Hogwarts. However, as the Hogwarts Express does not run during the summer months, you will use an alternate mode of transport. The directions are enclosed, as well as your list of required books and supplies for 6th year students.

If you have any troubles, please do not hesitate to owl us immediately.

Yours sincerely,

Professor M. McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

CC:

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster

Harry's body went numb for a moment. His mouth fell open, and he nearly dropped the letter.

He was going back to Hogwarts for the summer? He looked over the letter again in disbelief. A wave of lightheadedness came over him and he gripped the paper harder, crinkling the edges, and urgently skimmed it again, as though the words might have changed. As he finished it a second time, panic gripped him around his chest. No, he thought frantically. They'll just ask me how I am and smile and pretend like nothing happened and I can't deal with that. I just want to be alone! I can't go-

"Let me see that," Uncle Vernon boomed as he snatched the letter out of Harry's hands. His eyes skimmed the page, and when he finished, he looked at Harry, and his pink face held such an expression of sneering satisfaction it piqued his Aunt and cousin's interest enough to come and peek at the letter as well.

"So, they're sending you back to school for the summer," he said with a grin. He looked as though he'd just heard that Christmas had come early. " Had a little trouble last year, did you? Just not bright enough to make the grade? Now you need a bit of extra help this year to pass your classes?"

"You're going to summer school?" Dudley cried. In a fit of boisterous laughter that nearly drowned out his father's voice, he dramatically fell to the floor, threatening to pop several shirt buttons as he rolled, howling, on the kitchen tiles.

The sight of his enormous cousin squealing on the ground like an overgrown, dressed up pig would be enough to send anyone into fits of laughter, but Harry's shock held him frozen and silent. While his aunt sneered and his uncle continued his rant, Harry ignored their every word and let them assume he was an idiot - they already thought as much anyway. He couldn't believe it: this was what he had hoped for the past 6 years, and now that it had finally happened, he didn't want to go. He couldn't go. The Dursleys didn't even know what happened last year, and he was barely able to keep his sanity from cracking around them. How would he be able to keep from losing it around the people who knew Sirius and were there when he...

"Why wait until tomorrow? " Uncle Vernon continued, and Harry's selective hearing brought him back to his surreal reality. "I'll even take you to London myself today - the sooner you're on you're way the better. After all, Dummydore knows best, doesn't he? And we can't go disappointing him." At this, Uncle Vernon couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh. "A good man, that Doodledoor. We'll send you right back to school, won't we Petunia, dear?"

Aunt Petunia nodded in response. She looked happy enough to cry, and seemed to be stifling a laugh that Harry imagined would rival Dudley's if let out.

"That's that, then," his uncle said. A haughty look of triumph had settled on his face, and Uncle Vernon leaned back and adjusted his jacket. "Be packed in an half an hour, boy. I'm dropping you off before work. No sense in you being here longer than you need to."

Harry stood and began a sullen walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "And don't forget that ruddy owl!" his uncle called after him as he reached his bedroom door.

As soon as he got to his room and closed his door, Harry flopped onto his back on his bed. He lay there for a few moments, staring blankly at the ceiling, letting it all sink in. He had fought the urge to cry all the way up the stairs, but now that he was behind his bedroom door, a tightness seized his throat, squeezing around his Adam's apple, and he could feel the hot saltwater sting his eyes. He felt wo tears trickle down his cheeks and drop onto the pillow under his head.

No, he thought to himself as frustration began to take over. He wiped the tear tracks from his face. He was tired of it. He was tired of crying, he was tired of being sad, and most of all he was tired of thinking about Sirius. He didn't even genuinely believe that Sirius was dead, just trapped behind that curtain.

But, his mind, playing the devil's advocate, thought cruelly, it's been more than a month. If he isn't dead, why hasn't he come back yet? Doesn't he have any idea how much it's hurting me?

Well, then, his mind deduced, Sirius wouldn't let me feel this way and not even make an attempt to contact me. He must be dead.

Harry's anger went deeper. Then he should've fought better, he thought. Harder. He should've asked for help. He should've stayed home and never have gone to the ministry in the first place. He should've known about the mysterious curtain. And what about everyone else? What were they doing? Why wasn't Lupin down there, instead of bothering with Neville and me? And what about the other members of the Order? They'd finished their fights - why didn't they help Sirius with his?

Or maybe Sirius wanted to die. Harry gripped his bed sheet tightly in his fists. Maybe he'd had enough of being a fugitive blamed for the death of his best friends. Maybe he was tired of being a prisoner in his own home, tired of being mistrusted, of having his name dragged through mud, of being incapacitated and helpless when his friends were fighting. He probably saw death as his only escape from his miserable life.

Well, how selfish could he be! Did he think about what this would do to me? To anyone? It was so unfair, and Harry wanted to hate Sirius so much, but found he couldn't: the sadness and longing he felt for his godfather overpowered it. He wanted to be mad, but loved his godfather too much. And it was infuriating.

But it was my fault anyway, wasn't it? I was the one who blew off the occlumency training. If I hadn't, Sirius might still be here today, so hadn't I really brought this all upon myself? And if the thought crossed my mind, it certainly must have crossed the mind of everyone in the Order. They'll probably all blame me the second he arrived at Hogwarts. He envisioned them lined up on the Hogwarts grounds, their accusing eyes glaring at Harry as he stepped off the plane...

That's it, he thought stubbornly as he sat up, I'm not going. They can't make me.

He stood, walked straight to his desk and took out his quill, ink and parchment from the drawers. Then, when he had smoothed the parchment out in front of him, he began to ponder the excuses he could use. 'Was in a tragic skiing accident and broke my leg-' No... '-both my legs.' No, scrap that... 'I'm in a full body cast and can't move. Here's hoping there's wheelchair access on the train...' Oh, but how did I write the letter? Okay... 'We're all sick with a bout of stomach flu - too ill to go anywhere without vomiting all over the place. Most sincere apologies...' Hmm... 'Ah, bugger. I'm locked in the cupboard again. Too bad I can't use magic to get myself out, eh? Helplessly yours...'

Absorbed in his thoughts, Harry failed to notice a small brown owl perch itself on his windowsill. It wasn't until an envelope dropped from its mouth and onto the floor that Harry looked up just in time to see the owl click its beak once, then launch itself into the air and fly away.

Harry stood and reached for the envelope, and was surprised to see that it was another letter from Hogwarts. Maybe they've changed their mind, he thought half-heartedly as he opened the envelope and began to read the letter. He soon realized he couldn't have been further from the truth; he could almost see Professor McGonagall's disapproving face and hear the annoyed click of her tongue as he quickly read the short letter.

P.S.:

Mr. Potter,

I should hope that you would not attempt to make up excuses to avoid staying at Hogwarts for the summer. However, if you are legitimately ill, injured or otherwise incapacitated, please send word, and a representative will stop by your house tomorrow afternoon to ensure that you are physically able to make the journey.

Thank you again for your cooperation, and we will see you in two days time.

Yours,

Professor M. McGonagall

Harry stared at the letter and was silent for a full minute before he finally stood up and opened Hedwig's cage. She hopped out and onto his arm, and he led her to the window. "Head out to Hogwarts," he said flatly. "I'll see you at there in a couple of days." Hedwig hooted softly, spread her wings and soared gracefully out of the open window into the sky. Harry watched her until he couldn't tell her from the hovering white clouds, then turned around, pulled his trunk out from under his bed, and began to pack.

***

Percy closed his door behind him, set down his things, then turned around, letting out a sigh as he took in his old bedroom. It looked smaller than he thought it would, and he didn't think that was possible. Other than that, everything was just as Percy had left it - neat, orderly, everything in its place. He could thank his sentimental mother for that; he probably could have left for fifty years and this room would have never changed. The awards in their frames still hung on the plain off-white walls, his old prefect pin still sat poised in its box on his dresser, framed pictures of an ex-girlfriend, Penelope, and him on his nightstand. It was strange, being in here. Everything belonged to some other person, one from another time and place. He leaned back against the door, folded his arms and waited for his own sentimental feelings, his dear fondness for those things he'd loved and valued so much, to come. He waited and waited, and if there were an award for Most Patient Waiter, he would have won it. He stood for a full five minutes before he realized the feeling wasn't coming.

He took a few steps toward his dresser and lifted the Hogwarts prefect pin from its black satin box, eying it closely. I was clear it had suffered months of neglect, and had gathered a fine coat of dust. He held the pin tight between his fingers, rubbed the dust off onto his shirt, then opened its clasp and fastened it over his chest. He looked into the mirror atop the dresser, and shook his head. Such a little object to represent so little power, he thought as he took off the pin and put it back inside the box. Those with real power need not wear a symbol on their chest. He stared at it for a minute more, laughed to himself, then closed the lid of the box and walked to his desk beneath the window.

Percy sat in the hard wooden chair, letting memories of many long nights of summer study and frustrated attempts at ignoring the noises of his numerous siblings run through his mind, then removed a bottle of ink and a piece of parchment from his drawer. He was about to pick up his quill when his hand froze in midair, and Percy's eyes looked down at the blank sheet in front of him. He stared at it blankly, as if contemplating what to write, until his head snapped up to his hand. It had been about to pick up a quill from a cup on the desk, but now it jerked violently and uncontrollably, as if it were fighting with itself over which way to move.

Then, as quickly as the moment came, it passed. His hand ceased to shake, and Percy smiled. He'd fought for control and had won. It was common to lose control every once in a while: he'd just have to make sure it didn't happen in front of anyone in the Order. He picked up the quill and gazed upward as if in thought, gently brushing his cheek with the feather. Then dipped the quill in the ink and started to write, in his neatest penmanship, a brief letter. It was only three lines, but when he had finished, he stared at it a long time before he rolled it up and slipped it in his briefcase. He'd send it once he'd arrived at Hogwarts.

After carefully replacing the supplies, Percy stood at his desk and stretched toward the ceiling, then went to his bed and lied down. It'd been a long time since he'd slept, and even longer since he'd slept well, and so within seconds of closing his eyes, Percy drifted into a long and deep sleep. He slept all afternoon, waking only when Ginny roused him to bring him dinner, and he didn't wake again until the following morning when Ginny knocked once more; it was time to leave for London.

By the time he had showered and gotten downstairs, Ron and Ginny had already dressed, eaten their breakfast and were ready to go. They stood by the fireplace, speaking in hushed voices, and stopped talking as he joined them. Ginny smiled brightly.

"Morning!" she said with a little too much enthusiasm. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead," Percy replied.

"Good! We've got to get going," she said, pulling a folded note from her khaki shorts and waving it in the air. "Hermione owled us this morning. She got a letter, too, and she's hoping to meet us at Flourish and Blott's at 2." She glanced at her watch. "It's already past noon and we've got to get loads of shopping done before we meet her and leave for the airport."

"Did she say anything about Harry?" Ron asked.

Ginny thumbed open the parchment in her hand. "Just that she sent him an owl, but she expects he's already on his way there."

"And we should be getting on as well," Percy said. He pointed at Ron and Ginny's trunks on the floor in front of the fireplace. "Are you going to shrink this stuff so we can go?"

"We can't yet," she said, pre-empting his scoff with a roll of her eyes and interrupting him before he could even begin. "The underage decrees, Percy. No magic outside of the Hogwarts grounds, remember? Can you shrink them for us?"

"Oh, right!" Percy said, grinning, and he reached out to ruffle Ron's hair. "Not quite a big boy just yet, huh, Ronnykins?"

Ron ducked out of his reach before Percy could touch his head, and returned the gesture with a glare. "Just shrink the cases already so we can go."

Percy smirked, pulled out his wand and pointed it at the trunks. "Contractus."

An orange mist left the tip of Percy's wand and covered the trunks in its haze while the cases rattled and squeaked on the floor. Within seconds, they had shriveled smaller than tiny pebbles. Ginny stooped, picked them up, and put them in her small shoulder bag. "Thanks," she said as she glanced around the room. "I think that's everything,"

"Good," Ron said, his voice rough with agitation. He grabbed a handful of floo powder from the flowerpot atop the mantel and threw it into the fireplace. The dark area lit up as blue flames exploded in the shaft. Ron stepped in first. "Diagon Alley," he yelled, and disappeared.

Percy rolled his eyes at the empty fireplace. "He's still the same old Ron, doomed to perpetual immaturity, I'm afraid."

"Ah, you've just gotta get to know him," Ginny replied sarcastically. She looked at Percy. "You next."

"Ladies first."

"As I said, you next."

Percy forced a small smile. "Clever," he said with mock sincerity. "What will you cunning sense of humor come up with next?"

Ginny didn't answer the question. She stared at her brother hard instead, and her brown eyes turned very serious. "What are you doing here, Percy?"

Percy sighed. "Do I have to go through this with you, too? I've already told you both. You don't believe me?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"I believe that much is obvious."

Ginny searched Percy's blank face, as if looking for the truth to be written in tiny print right on his forehead. "Yeah," she said finally as she walked forward and into the flickering flames and turned to face him. She stared at him for a long moment, then yelled "Diagon Alley" and disappeared.

Percy continued to stare into the empty fireplace for a couple seconds, then burst into a strange, soulless fit of laughter as he stepped into the fire. The sound that echoed through the fireplace sounded like the hearty-yet-empty guffaws of one that knew to laugh at a joke, but didn't know why the joke was funny. Through his emotionless chuckles, he nearly choked on the ashes, and only just managed to sputter his destination before he vanished.

***