"Where on earth are those two? Scrimgeour could well be held up at the Ministry, if matters are as dire as you say, Griselda dear. But what is Moody doing these days that would make him so late? I can't imagine Pirri wants to hold dinner much longer." Gran was giving a little dinner at Pendle Hall--her, Neville, Great-Uncle Algie and Great-Aunt Enid, Neville's godparents Mad-Eye Moody and Griselda Marchbanks, Great-Gran Callidora on her annual visit from Paris, and Great-Uncle Rufus (Minister for Magic Scrimgeour to the rest of the Wizarding World)--for Neville's seventeenth birthday. Gran glared yet again at the clock on the mantle, and then into the drawing room fireplace, as if trying to will the minister into Floo-calling and apologizing for being late.
As Gran paced about the drawing room, wearing black-green robes and a matching wreath of Augurey feathers, Neville was hyperconscious of his brand-new robes (dark red, with bands of gold braid at the cuffs and high collar). He wanted to tug at the close-fitting collar, but knew that Gran would see and object to this.
Someone hammered on the front door. For a moment no one moved--last week's attempted abduction on the Hogsmeade High Street was still on everyone's mind. Neville, realizing that as of today he was the man of the house, grasped his wand, rose from his chair, and advanced on the door. He was grateful when Great-Uncle Algie followed him.
"Only one person at the door," hissed Algie as he peered through a crack in the window curtains.
"W-who is it?"
"Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic and your great-uncle."
"What would my parents have named me if I'd been a girl?"
"Rosemary." Neville whipped up his wand to undo the Locking charms, repeating the gesture and incantation when the first attempt failed. After some more fiddling, the door swung open.
The lights in the hallway never did anyone any favours. The minister, commonly described as "leonine," looked more like a starved and petulant barn cat. He apparently hadn't shaved for several days, and in just the few weeks since Neville had last seen Scrimgeour, at Dumbledore's funeral, his tawny hair had become heavily streaked with white.
Gran strode across the sitting room. "Rufus--a pleasure to see you," she said, ignoring that Scrimgeour wore a crumpled Muggle-style suit instead of the traditional dress robes worn by her guests. "Moody didn't come with you?"
"Evening, Augusta, Callidora, Enid, Griselda. Actually, that's part of why I'm so late tonight." The scowl on Scrimgeour's face deepened. "Moody turned up dead at the Ministry this morning."
The assembled company gasped. "Is that why today's hearing was canceled?" queried Professor Marchbanks. "No one would tell us anything."
Scrimgeour shrugged. "I guess so; the house elves preparing the chambers for the day found him in Courtroom 5. Right now the theory is that he was killed elsewhere and dumped at the Ministry--every bone in his body was broken. Someone'd carved 'Blood Traitor' into his chest--and spelled it 'T-R-A-Y-T-O-R'. They'd stuck his magic eye in his mouth and his wooden leg--well," he broke off, with a glance at the ladies seated on the divan.
"Any idea who did this?" asked Algie. "I assume it was--well, You-Know-Who or his people?"
Scrimgeour shook his head. "That's what 'Blood Traitor' would suggest. We've been trying to trace Moody's recent activities, but the old bastard knew how to cover his tracks. And just the week before--we'd asked the Prophet to keep this quiet, a lousy idea--there was another breakout from Azkaban. It can't be that damn difficult these days, when the Dementors are everywhere but Azkaban," he snarled. With a glance at Neville, he continued, "Those who got out this time include Lucius Malfoy, Fenrir Greyback, and the Lestrange brothers."
Gran stepped forward. "Well, at least we're all accounted for. We'll need a good meal if we're to face up to these things." She turned to the doorway leading to the dining room. "Pirri? Mr Moody won't be joining us for dinner after all; please reset the table for seven. We'll sit down in ten minutes." She turned back to her guests. "Rufus, would you like a quick drink before--oh good, you found the Firewhisky. Dinner should be good; we've got a piece of salmon that came out of the Tay just this afternoon, and Neville's garden is producing excellent peas this year..."
After the savoury Augusta nodded, and in response the female guests rose from the table and followed their hostess into the drawing room. Scrimgeour turned to Uncle Algie. "Join the ladies--Neville and I need to talk alone." Algie promptly obeyed the minister's order, closing the dining room doors behind him.
A bottle of port and two glasses floated from Pirri's pantry off of the dining room to the table. Neville poured himself a small drink; he hadn't yet developed a taste for something at once so strong and sweet, but Gran was one for the traditional ways. He hesitated before passing the bottle to Scrimgeour, who had barely touched his food and drunk the wine as fast as Pirri could refill his glass. "Some port?" Neville offered.
"Over on the sideboard--is that Firewhisky?" Neville hopped up, delivered the decanter to Scrimgeour, and poured him a small drink. "Leave the bottle." Neville returned to his seat. His dread of confrontation stung as he looked at the minister.
"We've already recovered Moody's will; he left everything he had to you. I don't think there's much, other than the house in Edinburgh. The Ministry has to go through his estate, to look for Dark items or Ministry property, but I can't see the old sod keeping anything like that. We should turn over everything to you within two weeks, certainly by the end of August."
"Thank you." It seemed a hollow thing to say under the circumstances, but other words failed. Neville took a cautious sip of the port, and struggled to sort out what he knew of the man who had posed as Moody during his fourth year at Hogwarts--the Daily Prophet had suppressed the story and Neville had only overheard scraps of gossip at Hogwarts and St Mungo's. And as Neville hadn't seen much of the real Moody since he was eight or so, the two men's biographies blurred.
Scrimgeour emptied his glass in one gulp and poured himself some more. He picked up the glass, but instead of drinking, gazed across the red-and-gold fumes at Neville. "I expect you're wondering why I showed up tonight, when I haven't been by to see you in years."
The apparent non sequitur floored Neville. "That's okay, I know you've been busy at the Ministry, and before that in the Auror Depart--"
"Hah!" Scrimgeour tossed down the glassful of whisky, and poured himself another. "Moody and I--well, the son-of-a-bitch and I never talked--but I'm pretty sure he also was torn up over what happened to your parents."
Neville remembered the trip to St Mungo's earlier that day. It had been one of those days, when his parents didn't have the energy, or more likely the mental focus, to do more than stare into space. Of course he had sat down, and talked to them about his summer, Trevor's latest escape, and the first edition of Theatrum Botanicum Algie and Enid had given him for his birthday. But on days like this the lack of response was heartbreaking. And Moody and Scrimgeour had known his parents in their prime, before...
"See, over the years Alice and Frank didn't get better, and the Healers stopped being hopeful, and you looked more and more like Alice everytime I saw you. And your grandmother--not that she didn't do the right thing by taking you in, but she never was very friendly to Alice and her people, so it became easier to just...stay away." He punctuated this by quickly swallowing the contents of his glass. For possibly the first time in a decade Scrimgeour did not look as if he was about to blast a hole in the literal or metaphorical object blocking his way.
"I forgive you," Neville wanted to say, but the words seemed strangely inadequate before the years of family history. Instead he rose from his chair, poured his great-uncle another glassful of Firewhisky, and returned to his seat.
The minister pulled himself back into his habitual lion-about-to-pounce attitude. "Tell me--how well do you know Harry Potter?"
"Not very well. We're both in Gryffindor House, but he mostly pals around with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger."
"Yet last month you turned up at the tower while the Death Eaters were invading Hogwarts. And the year before that you were part of the group that went into the Department of Mysteries?"
"I...wanted to do the right thing?"
"More and more like your mother every time I see you." Neville looked down at his wineglass. "Tell me--and don't play coy, I don't have the time--what do you know about a secret society that met at Hogwarts the year before last--that would be your fifth year--called either the Defence Association or Dumbledore's Army?"
Neville's head snapped up. "Where did you hear that?"
"Got a rise out of you, did it? Dolores Umbridge--oh, I agree with you, she's a thoroughly poisonous woman; I'd transfer her to the Centaur Liaison Office if the Ministry's personnel regulations weren't such a hassle--well, she told me. I gather it started as a study group, working on what she wasn't teaching you in Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Neville could only nod agreement.
"Well, that explains how you kids held your own at the Ministry. But the point is that DADA instruction has been so damn spotty for the last several decades--Professor Marchbanks tells me she gets NEWT candidates who are hard-pressed to cast a corporeal Patronus!--something like this Dumbledore's Army has got to be the best way to get your peers up to speed in what they need to know to protect themselves. So when you return to Hogwarts in September--I'll talk to McGonagall and the Board of Governors about reopening the school--I want you to restart and lead this group."
"Me? Are you sure I'm the right person for the job?"
"You do know why Sprout refers so many students to you for help with Herbology?"
"Because I'm good at it?"
"Knowing a subject and knowing how to teach it are two different things. She told me she's never known anyone with such a knack for teaching the subject, helping others to learn. It must be a family thing--when your mother realized she was pregnant with you, Ministry regulations wouldn't let her go into the field. She didn't want to sit on her--rear--during a war, so she transferred to Auror Training, where she was one of the best instructors I've ever known. And your grandfather Brutus--does Augusta ever tell you about him?"
"No."
Scrimgeour reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket and extracted a gold pocket watch on a chain. "In 1982 my brother--your grandfather--captained the English team to victory over Turkey in the World Cup. The very next day the entire team chipped in to buy him this." He handed the watch across the table to Neville. "Damn shame Brutus didn't live to see this day--I expect he'd have given you this himself. Happy birthday."
"Thank you!" Neville ran his fingers over the watch's round case, the links of the chain, the gold fob--shaped like a tiny beater's bat.
"So as I said, when you return to Hogwarts, I want you to restart Dumbledore's Army."
"Even with Harry Potter there at school?"
"Especially with Potter there at school." Scrimgeour winked at his great-nephew, with the first hint of a smile that evening. "I want you to report directly to me. The Ministry's got some specially trained ospreys for extra-secure communications, I'll have one delegated to you. And you'll have on-site support from the DADA teacher"--the smile vanished from his face--"I'd asked Moody to take the job, but the son-of-a-bitch went and got himself killed.
"I'll have Dawlish take the job; just this morning we realized that the old bastard was under the Imperius Curse. Dammit, you don't go on to the second year of Auror training if you don't have good resistance to Imperius. I want him out of the Auror Department while we investigate. And speaking of the Ministry"--Scrimgeour rose from his chair--"I've got to go back tonight; the place was in an uproar when I left, and I'd wager my wand it's not under control yet."
"Won't you at least stay for coffee?" Neville also rose from his chair.
"Wish I could, but they need me back at the office. Remember what I said about you and Dumbledore's Army," he appended as the two of them left the dining room to join the other guests in the drawing room. "If Potter gives you any grief, tell him it was my order that you lead the group."
As Great-Uncle Rufus explained to Gran and the others why he couldn't stay, Neville looked again at his grandfather's watch and thought about the mission--really, the only applicable word--he had just been given. His head reeled at the idea of taking leadership, but he couldn't deny that the plan to restart the DA had excited him. Again he fingered the little gold fob--perhaps a jeweler could replace it with his fake Galleon for communicating with the DA?