INVITATION TO A FETE,
Being A Night's Gentle Entertainment In Five Acts;
In Which
Little Is What It Appears To Be,
And
Magick Must Conquer Magick.
In A French Field, Long Ago.
To best explain the first unusual happening in Rose Weasley's Hogwarts career, perhaps we should start with a brief historical peek, about 600 years in the past.
It was October in the year 1415. King Henry's army was on a forced march across Europe to fight the French. The English soldiers were exhausted from the long, difficult slog.
They finally located the French at Agincourt, and reconnoitered on the evening of the 24th.
It was not a pretty sight. Encamped and rested, the French had thousands of archers, equipped with very accurate crossbows, and thousands of foot soldiers and mounted knights.
The English had come all this distance only to discover that they were vastly outnumbered — yet they could not avoid the battle to come, unless they proposed to retreat 200 miles to the coast with a massive, well-rested enemy army nipping at their heels.
King Henry counted his strengths. His men were faithful, and good fighters. They were equipped with the new Welsh longbow, which was much faster to shoot than any crossbow, and had more range. His weaknesses: few horsemen, no supply line, no rear camp for relief, and the Welsh crossbow was untested in battle.
Mayhaps, he thought, it is time to call upon my new advisers… albeit they are also untested.
And so, for the first time in his reign, the King summoned conjurers.
The ancient royal magicians, such as Merlin, are only legends today; Muggle history has forgotten all of them. For the record, the magicians at Agincourt were Nimrod of Blackburn and Ichabod of Malton, Slytherins by sorting, who had both completed their Hogwarts education in 1393.
Henry explained the dire state of their situation. "To survive this contest, we must keep the French from advancing, and somehow we must overpower their knights."
"Hmm…," said Nimrod, stroking his beard and looking over the battlefield-to-be. Both armies faced downhill to a low spot in harvested fields. "In that case -- sire, it looks like rain," said Nimrod, glancing to the side at his fellow wizard for any sign of agreement.
"Yes," agreed Ichabod. "And no mere sprinkle. A most generous, driving, soaking rain."
Now, weather manipulation is tricky, and frowned upon today, as it is sure to infuriate one person for every person it pleases. After Agincourt, it wouldn't happen again for another 173 years, until a hapless magician with the Spanish Armada tried to cover their approach to England with a thick fog — and instead sank the whole fleet in an awful storm.
That day in 1415, who could care; desperate times and all that. And so, after a complicated incantation and serious waving of Ichabod's wand, storm clouds began to gather in the western skies at sunset, coming towards the battlefield as surely as if they were drawn by a magnet. It began a half-hour later.
It was a dark and stormy night, and a persistant heavy rain fell on the enemy; no, not the average long sprinkling, but a downpour of raindrops like words in a Bulwer-Lytton pleonasm; wet upon wet, soaked long past soaked, torrentially drowning, engulfing the French camp and tomorrow's battlefield; an ark-building rain, an Oh-God-make-it-stop drenching.
At the first glimmer of dawn, the storm let up, and the relatively dry English initiated the battle of Agincourt with a single volley of arrows.
The well-soaked French responded with assuredness. The front lines began to advance. Between the columns of archers and foot soldiers, 15,000 armoured knights rode forth, carrying long lances dangling the bright colours of their parishes and families. They were a horrific sight -- but not for long.
The English archers, with great accuracy and fast work, easily killed or maimed the lead horses. The angry knights, tossed to the muddy ground, howled revenge! Unfortunately, howl is all they could do; with their heavy armour, the knights couldn't stand up in the deep mud. Those who weren't choked by the muck, buried by their own falling steeds or trampled by the advancing army were shot through at short range by the powerful Welsh longbows.
The unprotected French archers were next to fall, unable to properly shoot because their bowstrings were wet.
The English foot soldiers crossed the mud on the bodies of their enemies. The Battle of Agincourt was a rout.
The two royal conjurers smiled in satisfaction. "Checkmate," said Nimrod.
Autumn, 2017,
in the Headmistress's Quarters, Hogwarts.
Now, we can come forward to the day when Minerva McGonagall received a most unusual owl post about Agincourt.
The note was unsigned. The writer, an alumnus, said he was about to make a donation to the school. He wished to remain nameless, as he was a very private individual.
To honour Nimrod and Ichabod during the 600th anniversary of their appointment as England's first Ministers of Magic in 1417, he was donating a huge charmed painting of the Battle of Agincourt. It would arrive in a fortnight, on Saturday morning. He trusted it would be hung with appropriate ceremony, although he could not be in attendance himself.
To further mark the occasion, he would also provide a medieval fete for Saturday night. He would arrange for a troubadour, a juggler, minstrals, whole uncased boars to be roasted in the grand fireplace, and a groaning-board of victuals. There would be period costumes for the students and staff who so wished. The Great Hall would resound to the glorious din of an ancient revel!
"Hmm," mused McGonagall. "So much ado about so very little! Our benefactor must be in advertising, or politics."
Morning.
A Street In Hogsmeade.
On the appointed morning, the students were the first to notice the arrival of the painting. That's not surprising, because they were in Hogsmeade, as all self-respecting older students would be on a Saturday morning. Mr. Gorman, a local, picked up a huge, clumsy crate at Hogsmeade Station and loaded it in his farm wagon for delivery. It was easy to notice when it was trundled through town, because the crate was rather…. er, noisy.
That shouldn't have been a surprise either. The donor said the painting had been charmed into action, and it was — a distant panorama of 20,000 shouting soldiers in combat, with the whoosh of arrows, the clanging of swords, the cries of the fallen knights and the neighing of wounded horses.
James Potter, a third-year, emerged from Honeydukes just in time to put the palms of his hands over his ears. As a result, his devoted owl Luna (a Great Snowy Owl, who Eeylops insisted was a grand-niece of Hedwig) came to an alternate landing site, on the next set of shoulders out the door. Said shoulders were under a hand-me-down invisibility cloak, and she shouldn't have seen them, but Luna could, somehow, and treated invisibility with distain.
"Gerroff, you stupid bird, I'm not here!" said Albus, James' 11-year-old brother, who definitely did not belong in Hogsmeade. A two-foot-tall white owl apparently perched on nothing was not the most inconspicuous sight.
"Be nice, Al," chuckled James, who condescended to hold out his wrist for Luna to perch.
Rose Weasley, 11, munching a suger quill, came out to watch with her Potter cousins. She thought whatever was in the noisy crate was terribly funny, and felt sorry for the poor devil it was destined for. They soon overheard what it was, and where it was going, which only made it funnier.
Mid-Day.
At The Gates of Hogwarts.
Professor McGonagall had a problem as soon as the noisy package entered the school grounds. Word about its nature quickly spread. The original plan had been to hang it in the stairwell, but that was full of paintings whose occupants objected to such an all-day, all-night cacophany in their balliwick. Likewise, no house wanted the thing in their common room, despite its historical value.
Certainly, McGonagall could understand their objections. She didn't want it in her quarters, either.
In the end, it was relegated to the unofficial dumping-ground of less-than-desirable artworks — the third floor corridor on the left side, opposite the statue of the humpbacked one-eyed witch.
Late Afternoon.
In A Corridor of the School.
Neville Longbottom, the Herbology professor, was quick to lend earmuffs to the poor devils who would have to attend the ceremonial hanging.
With a handful of patient staff, alumni and Ministry folk present, McGonagall shouted a very brief dedication over the din of battle, then the lot escaped the third floor corridor and retired to her office for tea and cakes.
The hallway resumed its usual state of obscurity. In the painting, amidst the noise and confusion, the painted images of Nimrod and Ichabod continued looking toward the field of battle.
It was well that McGonagall and other celebrants had left the corridor when they did. They would have been startled when the one-eyed witch's hump opened a few minutes later. A small head with a ginger mop and green eyes came halfway out, then retreated. It was two of our usual protaganists, returning from Hogsmeade.
"It sounds like there's a war on in the corridor, James!" observed Albus, quite presciently.
James was the next to peek, and spotted the cause. "All's clear. They've hung that stupid painting here. I guess no one wanted it."
The brothers exited the tunnel, and closed the hump.
"Good lord, that's loud!" said James. "I hope the hump-backed witch can hear us when we need her again."
"What?" asked Al, cupping one ear.
"I SAID, I HOPE THE WITCH... OH, NEVER MIND. LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!"
"W H A T ?"
James waved his little brother down the hall, and they exited towards the stairwell.
An hour later, one of the alumni calmly returned to the painting, alone and hooded. He spoke a charm, and quickly left the premises. A faint blue halo began to glow around the picture frame.
The picture began to change. Nimrod, at the foreground, waved a signal to the armies. The fighting stopped. Both French and English forces turned, and began walking side-by-side towards the corridor's point of view. The armies, it seems, had a more important mission than battling each other. So did the two magicians.
Thanks to the painter's historical accuracy, Nimrod and Ichabod had only one wand at their disposal, but it was enough. They peered out from the painting, and finding the corridor empty, Ichabod waved his wand at the blue halo, reinforcing it until it glowed brightly.
The armies advanced. The two wizards calmly stepped down from the frame into the third-floor corridor, followed by the first wave of soldiers.
At Sun-set.
The Headmistress's Quarters.
McGonagall was entertaining her remaining guests, mostly Ministry folk. She was telling her story about the eleven-toed wizard when the office door opened. She paused in mid-joke and looked up, only to see Deputy Minister O'Reilly reentering the room.
"Did you forget something, Uther?"
"No, Professor. I couldn't get out."
"There's no password to leave. It should open as soon as you're there."
"Yes, I got that far. But your soldiers were blocking the hallways outside."
"My... soldiers?"
"Well, I assume they're your folk, for the fete; they're dressed for a medieval occasion. I felt it best to seal the passage and return here."
"A good move -- as they are are no soldiers of mine."
A voice spoke from behind her. "Perhaps someone just pulled them out of a hat, then -- as they have me."
McGonagall turned to see who it was. She was met with the green eyes of a tall, bearded man standing on the loft stairs -- the very image of Godric Gryffindor!
She pondered this for a moment, glanded about her bookshelves, then bowed to the stranger.
"Come, old friend, join our little tea circle. Gentlemen, may I introduce -- the Sorting Hat. I'm correct, am I not, Sir Hat?"
"Quite right, Headmistress -- although I'm confunded about my human form! Is this a spell of yours?"
"A spell, perhaps, but not by my hand. Have a seat while we consider these oddities."
McGonagall turned to the portrait of the late Headmaster Dippett near the doorway. "Armando? Pardon me for interrupting your nap. Armando, 'the moon is red.' Please find out what's afoot."
Dusk.
The Gryffindor Tower.
The donated costumes, as fancy as they were, had no pockets. While everyone else had been content to shrug and leave their wands and other pocket items in the dorm, Rose Weasley had stayed behind until she managed to knot the cincture of her blouse tightly around her wand.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, she looked in the mirror, primping her eternally messy hair, and tsk'ing. "It'll have to do," she told herself. ("It'll do fine," answered the mirror.) She adjusted her scarf yet again, and finally tore herself away from the dorm, hastening down the stairs and across the now-empty common room. She'd be the last Gryffindor to arrive at the fete.
The corridor echoed with the faint, distant sounds of the Great Hall. She could hear the lutes and mandola, crowds talking, laughter….
…and clanking of metal? And marching sounds? And shouting, in some odd tongue? What was all that?
Rose came to the end of the corridor at the enchanted stairway. The strange noises sounded very close now. She slowly poked her head through the doorway, keeping herself small and unobtrusive.
There was the source! What appeared to be young men dressed as medieval soldiers were pouring out of the third floor corridor and clomping down the steps. They wore chain mail, and carried pikes, swords and bows -- hardly proper dress for the evening fete. What was this about?
Slowly, quietly, Rose proceeded down the staircase.
The Great Hall.
While Al went for another slice of roast ox, James glanced about the crowd in the Great Hall, wondering where Rose was. That was when James happened to see the girl standing by the entrance.
For James, it was a classic case of 'the face across a crowded room.' She was watching him just as intently as he stared at her. She was pretty in a ordinary way, with piercing eyes and dark hair. Among the colorfully-dressed partygoers, her outfit in white accented in black stood out by its plainness. She looked down for a moment, and he thought she might be blushing. Then she looked up at him again, and actually smiled.
At 13, James was normally befuddled and clumsy at such love-from-afar moments, and would walk away from such a confrontation, but he felt she was different somehow. Familiar, friendly... though he had no idea who she might be. One of those deja-vu moments, perhaps?
With everyone in costume, he couldn't tell what house she was in. Some girls wore the long gowns of court ladies; she was in the leggings, thigh-length blouse and floppy beehive hat of pages and castle folk.
He was about to approach her when the commotion started.
A horde of men, dressed like medieval soldiers, poured through the doors at the far end of the Great Hall, shouting — and waving armament. If this was part of the fete, it was a little too scary for most! The crowd turned, almost in a panic, fleeing towards James. Despite his curiosity about the soldiers, for once James decided to go with the flow, but he was not fast enough. Like several others, he stumbled, and fell to the floor as the mob soared past him. He felt a terrible jab on his right leg.
"I'll help you," said a calm voice behind him.
It was the girl in white, offering a hand.
"Thanks," James mumbled. He managed to stand; she propped him up with one shoulder, and they headed forward with the surging crowd, but edging towards the side walls. While the mob reached the rear of the Great Hall, and circled about at the center in confusion, James and the girl quietly slipped into the anteroom and shut the door.
At The Stairs.
The last of the soldiers left the stairwell. Rose descended to the third floor and listened at the archway. It was quiet at the moment. Curious as always, she walked down the corridor.
Behind her, the music stopped and the laughter turned to sounds of panic. Now she was sure something was wrong. Danger was afoot.
Then, she heard more voices ahead of her. Too late to turn back! She ran forward to the next deep doorway recess. Her heart racing, she hid in the shadows, pressing herself against the cold stone wall. "This can't be happening, this can't be happening," she was muttering to herself, as another long line of soldiers thundered toward her position and past her down the corridor to the stairwell.
As she watched the hall, the door behind Rose silently opened.
A bloody arm, cloaked in black, reached out towards her head…and seized her by her collar.
"Oh!" gasped a startled Rose, as she was dragged into the darkness behind the door.
The Headmistress's Quarter's.
"Minerva, shouldn't you be down there, finding out what's going on, and solving this problem?" asked a Ministry man, sampling a glass of Chateau Marivaux 1929.
"I assue you, I am very much aware and involved. In war or chess, the battle is fought from behind the lines, and that is best. The moment the hand moving the pieces has nowheres left to go, the game is up. As you know, gentlemen, there are enchanted paintings throughout the school, and many are duplicated. The occupants can quickly move between paintings, especially their dual portraits, sharing information with others, and keeping me well-informed as to happenings. I am receiving whispered reports, and know that nearly everyone at Hogwarts is surrounded and disarmed tonight —wandless, thanks to pocketless costumes. Thank heavens for small favours, but several of my students and faculty have not been captured or cornered, and a few wands are at hand. As long as they are free to move of their own accord, I have powerful pieces; the game goes on, and a win is possible."
"But can you move these pieces?"
"No, Minister, I can't. They will move on their own, but I trust they will do well. Like the wise King Henry, we must look to our magicians. Pardon me a moment… yes, Armando?"
The late Armando Dippet did something he had not done before. He leaned forward in living form out of his portrait, to whisper in McGonagall's ear.
"Very good. Please thank Violet for her report, and keep me informed. Gentlemen, I've just been updated. Madam Pomfrey is at her post, unfettered. Our Charms teacher has gone to seal the Library and other essential facilities. In the Great Hall, young James Potter and a girl have eluded cornering. That is good news. But, Potter is limping; so I think he'll remain a pawn, and the lady will be King's knight to protect him. His cousin Rose Weasley, though, is in position to be our Queen for this game. If she has inherited the spunk of her parents, she should be getting involved very shortly on a second front. At the moment, she is behind enemy lines… but armed with a wand. The game goes well."
Outside the Great Hall, At Night.
The girl propped open a low window in the anteroom, and helped James to clamber out. They fled, stumbling, down a flight of stairs to the shelter of the trees.
"How can you see where we're going?" he asked. "It's pitch black!"
"Don't worry. I have good night vision. We shan't be in danger here. How's your leg?"
"I can hardly wait for Madam Pomfrey to do her thing. I don't think my ankle's broken, but it's aching something awful when I take a step."
Then, she hushed him as soldiers poured out from a doorway by the Great Hall entrance and began searching the grounds.
"Odd things are going on here tonight," she whispered. "With your injury, and no wand, it might be better for us to head deeper into the woods while the professors sort it out. I'm sure they will." They retreated from the lights of the school.
James didn't argue. "I'd prefer straggling toward the infirmary to get fixed, but I see your point. By the way, I'm James Potter. Sorry, I don't remember seeing you before. Are you from here?"
"Oh… yes, very much so."
"What house and year are you?"
She was silent for a moment. "Does it matter, James ? Just imagine -- if I were to turn out to be a seventh-year Slytherin, would that be a bother to you?"
He pondered that. "If you don't want to say, I guess that's all right. I won't run away."
"Won't run away?" She laughed. "Easy for you to say, under the circumstances! Oh, not to worry; I'll help you towards the hospital wing, once you're rested and the soldiers have passed by. There's nothing more we can do at the moment."
"Quite true, I'm afraid," said a voice from the dark, startling both of them.
"Who's there?" ventured James, uselessly reaching for his absent wand.
A tall, distinguished, bearded figure in ancient garb strode forward. His eyes were on the school, and a hand rested on the haft of his sword. "Halloo! Rest easy, Mr. Potter, it's only me."
James recognized him right off, but couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Sir Nick??"
"In the flesh -- and why I'm in the flesh, I don't know."
"You've come alive again?"
"Good philosophical question, that! Am I more alive than I was this morning, or am I simply more solid? My head is most firmly attached, if that says anything. Whatever! Luckily, I wasn't passing through masonry at the time. Strange happenings, indeed. M'lady, I don't believe we've met. I'm Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. And you are...?"
"Hello, Sir Nick. Call me Blanche."
"A fine old French name," said the non-headless non-ghost. "My Norman grandmother was a Blanche."
She smiled. "I hadn't planned my evening this way, but — circumstances came up. So, I put on the motley. I was just arriving at the fete at the last minute, when the trouble broke out. I saw James getting trampled in the panic, and thought I'd help him out of there — and there we are. How did all those soldiers get onto the school grounds?"
"Oddly enough, Miss Blanche, they did not cross the grounds. While apparition is impossible, they seem to be originating from within the school."
A Darkened Room.
"Let go of me!" said Rose, wrestling with the arm of the stranger in the dark room.
She fell when she was released, but dragged herself upright with her back to a wall. "Don't try anything, whoever you are!" she said. "I've got a wand!"
"Oh, spare me, Weasley," said a familiar voice.
"Professor Flint? Is that you?"
"Yes," replied the one-time Slytherin Quidditch captain, now Charms teacher. "Sorry to mistake you for someone really dangerous. Now maybe you could, at least, tell me where we are?"
"Let's find out," said Rose. "Lumos maxima." Her wand tip glowed brightly, bathing the room in blue-white. "I know this place; it's the Arithmancy classroom."
Flint, for once, was not unappreciative. "Five points to Gryffindor for that." He held his head with both hands. "My wand was skived in a hallway struggle, and I've been unable to summon it. I dashed in here half-blind."
"Half-blind?" Rose brought her wand closer to him, and saw the cause. "Professor! Your head must be gashed on top! You're bleeding all over yourself." She untied her scarf and began to wipe the blood from his forehead and eyes.
"Yes. We'll need to have Madam Pomfrey tend that when we can. Was anyone following you?"
"No. They don't know I'm here."
"Good. Let's try to get above this floor level as soon as possible, then head towards the hospital by the back stair. And whatever you do, don't surrender your wand!"
The Headmistress's Quarters.
McGonagall perked up, listening to another whispered message, and smiled. "Ah! Thank you, Armando."
"More good news, I hope?" asked the hat, sampling a sweet biscuit.
"Yes. Marcus Flint is on the move again, accompanied by Rose Weasley. Injured and alone, he was a pawn of questionable value. Mended, he and she can form a most powerful alliance — if they don't hex each other first."
The Hospital Wing.
Madam Pomfrey made short shrift of Flint's injury, sealing his scalp wound with a potion of phoenix tears and aloe. "That will take effect in a few minutes, Marcus. Rest here, and I'll check it one more time before you leave."
"Thank you, Poppy. Glad you're here tonight."
"I got Minerva's 'moon is red' alert, and stayed at my post, wand at hand. It came too late for most faculty, I hear. They've all wrapped themselves in these silly costumes, and gone off wandless."
"Very foolish. I was alerted, and went about my duty when they caught me."
"We're safe here. I've put a charm on the hospital doorway so no one will see it if they don't know it's there."
"Well, my pains are nearly gone. I won't bother you while you check your other patients."
Rose chuckled. "Shame, isn't it, that Professor Lockhart wasn't here. He'd have fixed you up right off, wouldn't he!"
Flint was amused. "You know him, do you! Gilderoy Lockhart, the man and the legend! His charms were nonsense, Weasley, and his knowledge of Latin was abysmal -- as your parents might recall."
"Yes. They both love to tell Lockhart stories. I learnt all his useless charms, just for fun."
"Oh? Are you trying for extra credit? Fine then, let's test you. Tell me, what did he say that removed Harry Potter's arm bones that time?"
"Um... oh! Yes," laughed Rose. "Bracchiam emendo."
"Do you see any problems with that?"
"Amendo, amendare would have been correct. I think Emendo's more like 'I'm fixing something by taking away what's wrong.'"
"You amaze me! Five points. He made a bad choice of verb, and Potter's bones went away. Such crude mistakes keep St. Mungo's in business. Bracchias resarire would have repaired several broken bones straightaway. What about despatching Malfoy's snake in dueling practise? Do you remember his blunder?"
"I forget his word for snake... but he said ascendere instead of incendere. So the snake flew up in the air, instead of burning. I think even my father caught that one, and his Latin wasn't much."
"Right again! -- alarte ascendere -- pointless. Professor Snape used a simpler Vipera evanesca, of course, and it was gone in a flash. And there's another one in the transcript of Potter's visit to the Chamber of Secrets. How did he try to blank their memories?"
"Umm… oh, and he said it like it's in English… oh yes, Obliviate. Should have been Obli...ummm.. Obliviscere, or something. It's one of those odd-ending verbs."
"Another five-pointer, Weasley! Obliviate works, but erratically. And I hear he spoke a gem in Dark Arts... when he tried to correct his blunder with the pixies?"
"Yes! More English. Pesky pixie pester-no-me. What a complete fraud."
Flint's attitude turned. "That's Professor Fraud, if you please. Twenty points from Gryffindor for insubordination."
"I see you're well again, Professor! I've lost all the points I just won??"
"I see your math is excellent, too — and your sarcasm."
"After I got you here, and everything?"
Flint had a moment to think over the evening's events, and he wavered again. "Oh, okay, Weasley. Keep your precious points, but don't be telling the Potter twits where they came from."
"Labiae meae ...um... well, anyhow, my lips are sealed," said Rose, who in truth couldn't wait to crow about it to Albus and James. "So, who was it who took your wand?"
"Two men in dusty robes," related Flint. "They had only one wand, and were very lacking as magicians. The best they could do was to brain me from behind to stay me. What did this mob of attackers look like to you? How were they dressed?"
"Like medieval soldiers," said Rose. "Lots of them."
"Of course!" he exclaimed. "That's where they came from! Another ten points for being observant. Now, we may be able to do away with them after all."
"Uh... Professor, could you explain all this to me? Where did all these mobs of people come from?"
"The Agincourt painting, obviously, from an enemy of Hogwarts. It's one very spectacular spell."
"And what does this spell do?"
"By observation, I'd say that tonight, Weasley, some fool cast a spell that's gone far beyond what he wanted it to do. All the sentient beings in this castle, born or created, have taken the form of living human beings. I saw the Bloody Baron alive again; Peeves and the house-elves were in human form, and the figures from the paintings are walking about the school grounds, enjoying their freedom. I would imagine even some sentient beasts on the grounds seem to be people, which would account for the huge number. If that was intended by the spell, then they're all here just to distract us. But the medieval soldiers -- yes! That's why this was done tonight!"
"Why tonight?" asked Rose.
"Because it couldn't be done until that painting of the battle of Agincourt was mounted in the building. Don't you see it, Weasley? That's where the mob of soldiers comes from. This is dark magic at work! They've evaded our apparition shield. We brought this army into the school ourselves! They're here to catch us wandless and cause some havoc -- disrupt the grounds, then seize vital individuals, do us harm… or worse."
"Or worse? You could have bled to death! What could be worse?"
"They might have taken any of us with them, back into the painting -- possibly a portal to another charmed painting somewhere, at a place where the dark forces would have more time to deal with us in their own unique way. I'd imagine your cousins, being sons of the man who defeated Lord Voldemort, might be sought for amusement."
"Revenge?"
"Perhaps. Or to build the reputation of a new Dark Lord."
"I see. What if we destroy the painting?"
"Yes, that would be a good start -- if we could only get to it! At the least, it would prevent more soldiers from arriving. However, if their generals know anything about defence, they've protected their line of supply. That advancing army's probably blocking all the third-floor hallways near the painting."
Rose's eyes suddenly gleamed. "There's one passageway they don't know about. And I can get you there -- but on condition."
"Oh, I can only imagine your conditions, Weasley. What would it cost? An O in Charms? You'd score that anyway. A thousand points? The house cup? What implausible demand do you have in mind?"
"It's not that bad -- but hey, I wish I had thought of those other demands! I can explain on the way."
"Then let's see Madam Pomfrey and get out of here. We have to end this travesty."
The Headmistress's Quarters.
"Yes! Parry and thrust!" said McGonagall. "Marcus the Pawn has reached his last rank, and become Queen's Knight! Now he and the Queen slip past Black's massed forces and into position. The tide of battle turns!"
Beside A Corridor Of The School.
Amid the din and confusion in the third floor corridor, the witch's hump opened just a bit.
A tall, slightly balding head with a healing wound peered out. "There it is!" said Flint in a low voice.
"I told you I'd get you here," said Rose proudly.
In front of the huge picture frame was a large blue halo of light. On the canvas, an endless army of painted soldiers was lined up to pass through the halo. One by one, they emerged as very human soldiers, able to injure and do mayhem. Not far back in line, artillery men were rolling several cannons toward the halo. Off to one side in the image, two wizards stood, armed with wands, observing.
Nowhere in the painting did Flint see any Hogwartian prisoners. He pulled the opening shut to talk it over.
"Well, you have the wand, Weasley, so have a go. A good localised fire ought to do it -- then you won't bring the walls crashing down around us as well."
"Do I just make up a charm?"
"How do you think good charms were discovered? Half the problem in teaching young wizards is their own insecurity. You seem to know your Latin."
"Um... how about calling it art? Artem sound right?"
"Ars, artis, arti, artem ...right. Just concentrate it on that one painting. Blast away."
Rose opened the hump just enough to put her wand out. "Ahem... Artem incendere!"
A bolt of golden light roared from her wand toward the opposite wall. The painting and halo exploded in a roaring, bluish blaze. Nimrod and Ichabod spotted Rose, and began to emerge on the run, wands raised -- then they also disappeared in the blue flames. One of their wands clattered to the floor of the corridor.
The human soldiers also spotted her. They hardly had time to turn toward Rose's voice and raise a crossbow before they were consumed in deadly magical fire.
"Cool!" said Rose.
"Yes, cool," said Flint drily.
The smoke slowly wafted away through the clerestory windows. Flint entered the corridor. "I hate to admit it, but I wasn't expecting the humanised soldiers to also incinerate with the painting. I thought we'd have to take them on, one at a time. An interesting development! If we're lucky, that's happening throughout the school -- in which case, you may have wiped out the entire invading army with that one command, Weasley."
"It won't harm the house-elves, or others who became humans, will it?"
"No, it won't, because they don't come from this painting. However, with the source of the spell gone, they should revert to their normal form. I imagine inert subjects, such as the paintings, will change first, as they have the least life in them. Then the Baron and other ghosts, then Peeves, and the elves and other beings last. Well done."
"Thanks for that," smiled Rose, finally leaving the safety of the tunnel entrance. "I couldn't have done it without your help." She reached for the fallen wand. "This would be yours, Professor."
He nodded. "How did you know that?"
"Just now, they both had wands. In the real battle, only Nimrod had one."
"Clever of them. I've been unable to summon my wand because the magicians had taken it into the painting, transfiguring it. If it wasn't re-emerging at the moment of destruction, it would have been burned with the painting."
"Just remember our agreement," she said. "Or should I say, forget our agreement?"
"Whatever. Quite interesting, these tunnels. I suppose the Potters know how to find them?"
"Yep."
"Humph. I can't believe I owe you credit for saving the day -- but, fair's fair. One hundred points to Gryffindor, as agreed."
"Thanks again! Oh... you're not backing out of the rest of our agreement, are you?"
"No," he sighed. "Have a go at that, too, Weasley. I would suppose the English wording is to forget the most recent hour. Let me warn you -- If I wake up in the hospital wing, and can remember who put me there, you're doomed, you know!"
"Done. Good night, Professor. Horam proximam obliviscere!" said Rose, waving her wand toward Flint. He wobbled as the force of the spell hit him. In an instant, the professor's memory of encountering Rose and traversing the tunnels was lost. Then, before Flint could gather his senses, Rose sealed the hidden opening and escaped, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.
A few minutes later, Flint was explaining to Pomfrey that he remembered nothing -- a concussion, perhaps. But he must have burned the painting himself; who else could have?
Pomfrey might have answered that for him; she knew he had a brilliant young assistant tonight. She decided it was wise to let it pass.
The Headmistress's Quarters.
With the news, the guests from the Ministry of Magic grinned with great satisfaction.
"Checkmate," said McGonagall.
In a Scottish Wood.
James was startled. "Sir Nicholas! You're disappearing! I'm starting to see through you!"
"Well! That must mean the spell, or whatever, has been vanquished. And about time, too. I was no sooner reconnected to my head than I started to get hungry, and I haven't been hungry in 400 years. Or was it 500? No matter. Rather odd sensation after all this time. I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast, James. And good night, Blanche."
"Yes, I suppose it's time. I should be going as well," said the girl.
"Going?" asked James -- but then the implication hit him, and it was painfully sad. "Why, you're not a student at all, are you? You're one of the illusions! You're a… a painting, or an elf, or something."
She nodded. "And my name's not Blanche, of course. You'll see me again, James . Just not this way. I've really enjoyed this evening! Never fear, we'll still get along."
"But...where will you be? Who..."
"I'll be close by; I always have been," she said. "And while I've had this form, I've been experiencing wonderful new feelings, just as Sir Nick has. Interesting sensation! You're quite a charmer to a young girl, you know. We only had two hours, but I can honestly say I started to feel like I wanted to remain in this form!"
He smiled, lost for the proper words. "Uuh... yeah. I guess I sorta... felt... something for you, too."
"That will fade away, of course, since it's all about illusions. Wouldn't be proper when we're all back to normal. Still, I want you to know it's been fun, and you're fun."
"Y..you too," stammered James , stumbling to his feet despite the pain.
"Bye for now, handsome. Take care; sweet dreams. And see to it that you and Albus stay out of trouble, please?" She touched a hand to his face, kissed him, and started toward the door.
"But... I still don't know who you are!" protested James
"You don't really want me transfiguring in front of you. Oh, I suppose you're thinking it will bother you forever if you don't find out who I am. On the other hand, it might bother you forever if you did know!"
She continued leaving... but, then she stopped, looked over her shoulder and smiled. He would always fondly remember that smile.
"Oh, all right," she said. "Perhaps a hint or two. When I came to the fete, I was looking for you. I was attentive to you right off, James, because we've already had plenty of time to get to know one another. To tell the truth, you've trusted me with your most personal thoughts."
"What?!" said James, looking at the girl quizzically. Her figure was beginning to waver and fade.
"After this evening, I see you in a new light, and it explains a lot of things! Purely a scientific interest in human nature, you understand; nothing purient. I'm always proper with this curiosity -- fortunately, as I'm a girl who gets to spend an occasional night in a handsome lad's bedroom!"
His eyes widened. "Then... you're --"
"Bye, James." She waved a hand, now very whitish. "It's late -- I really must fly."
Notes: Minus magic and the sloping terrain, the battle of Agincourt is described fairly accurately, and the rainstorm was a significant factor that day. The scene of the "face across the crowded room" is based on the painting Florentine Fete by the masterful Maxfield Parrish. McGonagall's general alarm to the paintings ("the moon is red") was the swan song for a real-life clash of armies, best left forgotten. The overwritten "dark and stormy night" paragraph was first posted in a Nov. 2005 challenge at Writing Original story material is the property of the fanfic author; other material of Rowling et al. falls under the usual disclaimer.