The Milking Way – II

A/N: This was the already written part of the chapter posted yesterday on our side. Match and POA chapter 'Grim Defeat' thoroughly changed. This and the next chapter are slightly harsh as compared to the previous ones.

In spite of the absolutely polite humiliation, Draco had already been successful in getting the Gryffindor-Slytherin match pushed forward, with badgers playing against the lions instead of the snakes. It had been irritating to have to change their plans and strategies abruptly, but at the very least they still had a two week period in which to come up with something. Hufflepuff had had to advance their schedule. They weren't scheduled to play till two weeks later against the eagles. Neither team therefore had much of an advantage, all things considered.

The weather was getting increasingly horrible. The Match Day was terrible. The Hufflepuff and Gryffindor players shared weary sighs and shrugs. Opponents they were on the field but it wasn't football (that simply had to be played in torrential rain) but Quidditch that was to be played. With such poor visibility and conditions, one would have hoped that the match would be rescheduled, but such was not their fortune.

It was horrible. The rain pounded the players so badly that the reality of the match had become a bunch of players attempting to fend of bludgers and score, if they were so lucky. A timeout mid-match had Hermione improving Harry's visibility, much to Oliver Wood's glee, but that apart, it was still terrible.

Cedric Diggory looked like he sincerely wished he had glasses. With Hermione's charm, it seemed only Harry could see anything at all. Well, he was a good seeker after all, so he improvised. Harry could search for the snitch. But Harry was also a few thousand times larger than the little golden ball, so Cedric, in a departure from the honourable traditions of a true seeker, took off after his younger opponent.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere in the stands – and it was an atmosphere that made the players extremely jealous, for the stands were covered with rain- and wind-blocking spells and warming charms – was so upbeat that a few unexpected (and unwanted) guests couldn't help but come crash the party. They too wanted some entertainment after all.

Every single one of the one hundred and four Dementors posted at the school had abandoned their positions as the school was engaged in its largest outdoor congregation since the start of the school year. To add to it was the plethora of emotions that ran high. For the primal dark creatures, it was a feast they couldn't miss. It was prey that had walked into their midst and had proceeded to sit down unattended.

Up in the air, the players – barring the seekers, who were now engaged in a race to finish the match – felt the terrible cold and despair that swept over them all. The dark, rotting, torn-cloaked figures were inundating the skies. As one, the two teams decided to abandon the match. These were overwhelming odds. In fact, it was true even against a single Dementor – nobody knew how to drive a Dementor away.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. In the heat of the battle, in the rush of the game, there is very little that seems important as compared to the objective, to the target. A seeker, the player playing alone in a team game, was always the one most likely to be swept under by that rush. Harry and Cedric were in precisely that dimension, mentally. By the time the biting cold, colder than the pounding of the rain and sleet, as the raindrops turned to small icy shards in the vicinity of the Dementors, was finally felt, the Dementors were upon the twain.

Cedric was the first to realise the danger they were in just as he was about to close in and get level with Harry in their pursuit of the snitch. Unlike the younger boy, this was not his first time around a Dementor, which wasn't surprising, considering that his father was the one tasked with making the rules that controlled them as he was the departmental specialist on Dementors. Amos Diggory had warned him about the creatures after a two hour long rant about the idiocy of Fudge and his toady, Umbridge. Amos had gone so far as to call the woman Dementor-born, alluding to her unnatural affinity with the beasts. They were barely fifteen bloody metres from those fiendish things and the stupid Gryffindor – well, much later Cedric did doubt that judgement based on the recent incident – was barrelling right towards them!

"POTTER!" he yelled. "Bloody hell!" he swore, when Harry didn't look back as he stretched out his hand. "MERLIN DAMN IT HARRY! GET BACK FROM THOSE DEMENTORS!"

Unfortunately, by this time, Harry had actually frozen. He was just as aware of the danger he was in as Cedric yelled, but he was paralysed by the shout of the woman begging for his life. He knew now. He knew who the woman was. It was his mum. Voldemort was about to kill her. Just a little bit further, he mentally chanted, just a little bit further and I'll reach her. I'll help her.

Those were his last thoughts as he went a bit too close, no longer in control of his broom. A feel of cold metal pressed against his hand and he automatically grasped it as he fainted, yet again. He lost hold of his Nimbus 2000 completely as he plunged what seemed like a hundred feet.

Down in the stands, the school gasped as one as Cedric dived in after Harry, and grabbed the younger seeker by the collar and barrelled straight to the ground. They both dropped into the mud, the older boy with much more dignity, even though he struggled to control the broom with one hand as he lugged Harry with the other. The two teams were already landing around them and the Gryffindors gathered around, thanking Cedric profusely.

Cedric, on that day, had lost the match, but he had won many fans as a sportsman.

"LEAVE MY MUM ALONE!"

To the people gathered around what had been christened 'Harry's Bed', this was the most startling and odd sentence that heralded Harry's return to wakefulness from the yearly attempts- during-Quidditch-match-to-kill-Harry ritual.

Harry himself had sat up in simmering rage as his last coherent thoughts asserted themselves as he regained consciousness.

Hermione, eyes bloodshot, and sopping wet, was the first to reach him from around the Quidditch team. "Harry?" she called, as she laid a hand on his shaking shoulders. "What-what are you talking about?" She received no answer from her best friend, who had gone extremely taut and tense. She kept rubbing circles on his back as her mother did when she had had a nightmare.

Someone passed Harry his glasses as he calmed down and took in his surroundings. The involuntary grimace at seeing his surroundings told everyone that a modicum of normalcy had returned. Looking at his friends and teammates in turn, he asked slowly, "What happened?"

"You fell off," said Fred. "Must've been – what – fifty feet?"

"More like a hundred," his brother answered grimly.

"We thought you'd died," said Alicia, who was shaking. Hermione made a small, squeaky noise at that proclamation.

"And?" he asked.

"Well, if you are going to ask about Quidditch, we won. The snitch was frozen to your hand. You had a cold metal burn, so Madam Pomfrey had to cut it off to re-grow the skin around it," Wood answered solemnly. He was proud of his seeker for holding on, but he was honest enough to accept that it was an accidental win.

There was something still wrong about the whole matter. He looked to Hermione silently asking her what the matter was with just an interrogative look in his eyes.

"Diggory caught you," she replied with a slight hiccough. Sometimes she hated Quidditch as much as Voldemort.

"Oh."

On one hand, he was thoroughly grateful to Diggory. The bloke had shown great sportsmanship with what he did, and he had saved his life. But that meant a wrinkle. He was now indebted to Diggory. He wasn't sure whether the debts were magical in some way and there was something specific to be done to repay them, considering that he was not quite experienced with the being in debt part. There was also the dearth of any real literature about such matters. He needed someone trustworthy to ask about the matter discreetly.

"I must thank him. A hospital bed is infinitely more comfortable than becoming a Harry-pancake."

Someone snorted and Hermione swatted him with an irritated huff as the tension in the room broke in response to the slight attempt at black humour.

Dumbledore had rushed onto the pitch, apparently, just as Harry was falling and had driven the creatures away with some 'silvery stuff', as Hermione recounted it. The Headmaster, she told him, was also supremely incensed by the presence of the Dementors. That wasn't new. Dumbledore had expressed his disapproval about the posting through his tone during the welcoming speech. It was also obvious that he had been found wanting against the combined might of the Ministry, for he had probably gone in with the 'Hogwarts-is-my-dominion' thing he sometimes pulled.

To Harry's utter disappointment, he had lost his faithful broomstick, the Nimbus 2000, to the insane Whomping Willow. It was something that he had got because of his own skills, so he prized it the most of almost all his belongings, on par with Hagrid's gift of the photo album and his invisibility cloak.

A little while after the team had been driven away by the Dragon Lady, Professor Lupin came in to check up on him just as Hermione breached the subject she was swapping thoughts with herself over.

"Harry, what were you saying about your mum?"

Harry slumped slightly. "Remember I asked you who screamed on the train? Turns out I still remember that Halloween night. First I hear my mum crying because dad is already dead. Then she pleads with Voldemort to spare me. The scream is as she steps between me and the curse. That is what I hear when the Dementors come close."

His friends looked at him in sympathy. Remus shared a look of empathy with his almost nephew. They were his family as well.

"Dumbledore is very angry," he reported. "He has been unable to convince the Minister that they are a danger hitherto, and even now, Fudge is adamant."

"Why is the Headmaster appealing to him? There is a much better way!" Harry challenged.

"Oh?"

"Well, I really hate the Boy-Who-Lived thing, but in this case, I think it is necessary to flex those muscles. I wonder what The Daily Prophet will report when it finds out that the Dementors, placed near Hogwarts to protect the school from the Potters' betrayer, almost kissed the last Potter before Black got to him, doing the job for the felon instead."

Remus pondered over it. Ron had a grin as he realised that this was a way to put the Ministry in a soup. Hermione pursed her lips in faint disapproval as did Neville. As Harry said, being the Boy-Who-Lived was not something to bandy about, but the Ministry needed to have a fire lit under it. That idea had merit.

"How do you intend to give Dumbledore an alibi? He will be Fudge's first suspect."

Harry hadn't thought of that. "I just wish there was some way to show them what happened so that they could have those moving photographs," he groused morosely.

Remus perked up at that. "There is a way, Harry! We can have someone show them their memories of the incident sent anonymously!"

"You can show remove real memories?" Hermione asked as she beat her friends to the punch.

Remus could almost picture her cackling evilly as she rubbed her hands and muttered, "Knowledge! Give me knowledge!" He smiled and nodded. "There are ways."

"Well, it has to be a student whose memories have to be taken. Plus, I don't know, maybe Malfoy could be coaxed to give a snide quote about scarhead falling off his broom and it being a pity that Diggory caught him."

"I know whom you should contact!" exclaimed Ron. "Mum always complains about that hag, Skeeter!"

"Right you are," Neville agreed. "She always likes to sensationalise news. This might just work."

"Don't tell the Headmaster, Professor," Harry suggested. "Let's give him plausible deniability."

Remus nodded with a wry expression. Not only did he intend to give Dumbledore plausible deniability, but also to every other professor. Marauders never lost their skills.

"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Longbottom, Ms. Granger, please return to the Gryffindor Tower. It is nearing curfew."

The three nodded. Hermione deposited the remains of the broom in a bag on Harry's bedside table sadly before they left.

"Thanks. I needed to talk to you."

"The debt to Diggory," Remus surmised correctly. "I don't know much myself, but I have written to Sirius. I expect he will reply soon enough. On that note, I think I will pass your thanks to Mr. Diggory?"

"Of course, Professor," Harry replied gratefully.

"Please Harry. I told you that you should call me Moony in private."

"It's a bit difficult to break the habit sir."

Remus chuckled as he left.

Sure enough Sirius answered immediately. There was a bit of ranting in general about the Dementors, and with him having them as constant companions for over twelve years, Sirius could be forgiven for being scared.

The more pertinent matter of the debt incurred by Harry was not as much of an issue as he was worried it would be. Sirius told them that since most of these things were split second incidences and more often than not matters of chance, there was no indentured debt. If they were, he pointed out, it could be abused. For example, if a Malfoy or a Lestrange was owed the debt, if the debt was magically binding, they could, in theory, have Harry submit to Voldemort.

A debt was more a question of honour and of the one indebted helping the one he owed the debt to as soon as he could, and to remember the debt before attempting anything or supporting anything that would hurt the one owed. All the same, it was considered polite to acknowledge such a debt publicly, which Harry duly did on the Monday after the match, just after breakfast.

Cedric promptly accepted it – to not do so would mean he was implying that Harry was not that important, a social faux pas – before telling him something voluntarily. Well, such volunteering was something only a Hufflepuff would have done. A Gryffindor's pride would never let him speak about a problem. A Slytherin would ensure that the thing he or she wanted done was not actually one thing, but at least a series of things, one leading to the other, with the debtor having no choice but to comply out of honour. A Ravenclaw would ponder and balance one instance where they would require against the other before speaking out.

"Dad had told me this would happen – not that you would fall; that the Dementors would eventually attack the school. He has been opposing the move right from the outset, but Minister Fudge has this toady, Umbridge. She was the one pushing for this posting of Dementors instead of Aurors."

Umbridge; there was that name. Harry was sure he had read it before in some unsavoury circumstance. Not a Death Eater, but he was sure she was no better. He would have to refer his notes. Deciding to release a little bit of information, after only asking – not making Cedric promise it; just asking – for secrecy, Harry said, "I will see what I can do."

"Of course," Cedric replied patronisingly. Excellent; selective underestimation was a good thing. Now was the time for a little indignation.

"Well, I can say with enough surety that the Minister will listen. After all, I know that someone who pointed him in the direction of the Crouches."

Cedric's eyes widened; he did understand what was being implied. He then smiled. "Well, Umbridge is worse than a Death Eater."

Harry nodded. "Just be prepared for some drama, Cedric. Gryffindors can be good at it, surprisingly."

"Better than Slytherins are, Harry?"

"I cannot comment on that."

Cedric snorted. "You can really be a conniving jerk."

Harry simply laughed and took his leave. Dolores Umbridge was the wonderful, wonderful target, the chink in the armour and his opportunity to get more than just a foot inside the door.

That day onwards, Harry was constantly being looked out for by not only his year-mates but also several of the older Gryffindors and quite a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. It was fuelled not only by the accident, but also the whispers that it was he who had found out about the Crouches. He had been right. Cedric Diggory might not have been a gossipmonger but he would have never been able to not let slip something of that sort when it affected the hierarchy within the Ministry – the pecking order as it were – and where his father stood in the order. The downside was anyone who supported the Crouches or the Death Eaters would target him; not much considering that it was what happened anyway.

Tuesday saw the news about the Quidditch game almost-tragedy leaked to the press. There wasn't much emphasis on Harry's accident, but Skeeter had waxed eloquent about the failure that was the governmental policy for security support to Hogwarts. Remus revealed only several months later, that it was Lee Jordan who had provided the memories. As the commentator, he was most attuned to the positions of all fourteen players.

The real surprise was the identity of the source for Rita Skeeter. Sirius was chomping at the bit to get to do something – anything. So between them, the two Marauders had disguised his voice as that of a female, and the Grim Animagus had met the Beetle under a hooded cloak. If she accused any of the Professors when it came up, everyone could honestly say that it wasn't them.

Plausible deniability, thought Remus as he smirked. Teaching your betters the business, are you?

The Ministry was inundated with Howlers but the Minister remained adamant. Rita had then gone snooping of her own volition – and this time nobody knew about it, truly – and had unearthed the accident as well. It wasn't Malfoy, but a well-fed Goyle who performed the services of maligning Potter and his exaggerated Quidditch prowess. Everything went swimmingly as per plan on that front.

Rita became a person of interest for Harry. If she could swoop undetected, it could potentially be a risk. It was necessary to have something to hold over her. He was in no position to buy her out.

Dolores Umbridge was a nasty piece of work. Within the week after the game itself, that fact was self-evident, so far as Harry could see. And she was also either clever or ruthless or both, in which case she was both a priority target to eliminate from within the Minister's inner circle, as well as a very dangerous person.

The woman had carefully covered her tracks wherever she went and whatever she did, but somehow, somehow just after she reached a higher position, anyone who opposed her was destroyed. And that wasn't restricted to political destruction, it seemed. She had accomplished everything including character assassination, actual assassination and a plethora of seemingly insignificant laws and riders to bills that would target a person or a group of people quite effectively.

It was no wonder, therefore, that the woman would climb the political ladder as quickly as she did. Starting at the lowly (for a halfblood with very great pureblood backing from the Selwyn family) position of a senior clerk in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, she had climbed up to the post of the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister within a decade and half.

The most he could find was actually in the Know Your Ministry booklet that Fudge had started as a PR initiative. The man was good for something at least. In it he found something that it seemed she had jealously protected – the chronology of her ascent. If she was anything like the image he was building in his mind, then she must have given the Minister a dogged fight to not include it, and had to have wrenched something from him in return when he wouldn't budge.

From there on, it was quite a bit easier to find out what she had done – if at all; he couldn't just go about accusing people close to the Minister of anything just out of the blue – and it seemed obvious that she was a woman who would hold a grudge and who would pursue her vendetta. Whatever happened though was always part of a case that ended in a dead end. So she either had more political will backing her than seemed visible, or she was more cunning than she appeared. The alternative was that she was cruel, ruthless and excellent at seeming to keep her hands clean.

Still it was not enough to have any sort of a showdown with her. There really wasn't enough data. There would come a point where they would butt heads, and Harry knew he would likely have to beat a strategic retreat. It was not until late on the eighteenth that he realised that he could have a source if he wanted to use it. And this source, he knew, would be overlooked by everyone.

These games of the powers behind the thrones were dangerous. And they were enjoyable.