The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once.

-Albert Einstein

8

Harry stared in fascination at the man sitting across the table from him. The stranger was wearing a pink feather boa to match sparkling high-heels and a tasseled pink handbag. The bag itself, which struck Harry unpleasantly of Umbridge, emitted a steady tick accompanied by an antithetical tock that was grating on his nerves.

The man laid down a five. Harry looked at him shrewdly, calculating the importance of the play.

He retaliated with a four. The man's hand gave a tremor, but he disguised it by tossing the boa back over his shoulder. He played a queen.

Harry flipped over a six, and waited. The man scratched his nose. One of his pink feathers floated languidly to settle on top of the pile of cards. Harry's eye twitched.

8

Pascale cradled her mug of hot tea and glanced at Dominic through her bangs. The hem of her dress was still wet, but she didn't notice. He'd grown since she'd last seen him. He was a little taller, and his shoulders were broader. She'd felt the considerable difference it made when he'd spun her around. These latest changes were minor, however, when compared to how much he'd changed in the time she'd known him. He'd gone from a chubby six-year old playing on her father's swing-set to a fine-looking and accomplished young man. Pascale smiled softly. Fine-looking indeed. He also knew her better than anyone else alive. The two were sitting facing each other on either end of a dark-green loveseat. They were relaxed, but she could feel his exhilaration from the rush of the storm. Their eyes met and he raised an eyebrow. She smiled back and moved closer to him.

'How have you been?' he asked as if he didn't know.

'Quite well,' she replied, playing along.

'Have there been many storms like this lately?' he said questioningly as he glanced toward the water trickling down the windowpanes.

'None that you haven't known about, I'm sure,' she said, grinning.

The corners of his eyes crinkled and he shrugged innocently. She reached over and poked him lightly in the ribs.

'Hey! I didn't deserve that.' Dominic squirmed and caught her finger in his hand. Turning it, he lightly traced the lines on her palm with his index finger.

Slowly, almost tentatively, she leaned her head on his shoulder. 'It's good to see you again.' She said softly, twining their fingers together.

Dominic lifted his other hand to brush away a lock of hair that had fallen in her eyes. 'You too.' He said, and smiled.

The two sat in silence for a moment before Dominic whispered, as if reluctant to break the peaceful moment, "So what did you think of Ginny?"

Pascale tensed involuntarily. Ginny. Not exactly the person she was most concerned with at the moment. This moment in particular. "Honestly? I haven't given her much thought. Why? She's not going to be around much longer, is she? Bien, I know that we're playing host while Frank's with her family, but back at school we can forget her, non? It'll be the four of us this year, sans Frank."

Dom made a noncommittal noise. Concern flashed through her, and she dropped his hand to turn and stare at the boy. His eyes were partially hidden by his hair: a maneuver he used when he was trying to hide something. Pascale wasn't sure if he knew about the unconscious habit, but found it infinitely useful in reading her friend's unvoiced comments.

"You like her, don't you," she said, though it wasn't a question. She hoped her tone hadn't been too accusatory.

"She's a nice girl," he defended, though he looked uncomfortable.

"Well that's nice that she's nice. But we can't be friends with her."

"Pascale, we already are friends with her. She fits in well, or at least she would if Izzie would get off her horse." He sought her hand in what he thought was probably a placating gesture. "I don't see why we can't keep her around."

She let him hold it, but left her hand mostly limp, telling him that he did not have her approval. "Dominic, you know exactly why we can't 'keep her around'; I'm still shocked that she weathered a trip through that storm with little more than a migraine."

Dom licked his lips. "There's actually been a few funny incidences. I'd be tempted to make some subtle references about it if it weren't that I've never felt her make any sort of field."

"Dominic Hector Roth, you would do no such thing! We talked about this when Frank was accepted for the exchange. We have absolutely no idea if the selection process for the switch was genuine, or if we've been particularly targeted. With us being so exclusive at school, this is the perfect opportunity to infiltrate our defenses!"

Dominic wore a pained and slightly exasperated expression. "Don't you think you're being a little melodramatic? With the exception of a single slip up with Gramme, we've never given anyone a reason to find our behaviour suspicious."

Pascale frowned. "I don't even know why we're having this discussion, Dom. On a déja décidé avant Frank est parti pour Hogwarts."

"Oy vey, I know we already decided, it just that Ginny... she's..." Dominic sighed. "You're probably right. But I still want us to include her while she's here. Maybe you could get to know her a bit, take a look at her MAN?

She tightened her grip on his hand, and leaned back into his warmth. "I know it's difficult to keep everyone at arms length. If you want me to, I'll do my best by Ginny."

"Thanks. I really do appreciate it."

"An," Pascale verbalised, not really meaning anything by it, only that she wanted to sit a while more with him.

8

Muriel heard the bell and frowned. It was almost tea-time and she certainly wasn't expecting anyone. She briefly considered ignoring whoever was interrupting and if it turned out later to be important, blaming it on her poor hearing. Not that she had poor hearing, really, but being old had its advantages. Her wrinkled hand wavering above her kettle, she made a decision and stalked, irritated, to her front door. If she'd been forced at wandpoint to guess the identity of her uninvited visitor, the person who now stood on her stoop would have been nearly the last.

"Percival, what on earth are you doing here?"

The boy winced. For all his airs, he'd always shunned his given name. She almost smiled, because that was, of course, why she always conveniently forgot to call him otherwise. After all, she was getting on in years, and her memory was not what it used to be.

"Well?" Muriel Hathersby was a woman of routine, and she'd been sitting down to tea at the exact same time for seventy years; if her grand-nephew did not hurry up she would be late, and extremely displeased. She looked at her watch.

"Tea is in precisely eight minutes, come in for a cuppa and you can say whatever is it you want to say." And he followed her obediently inside while she set the china to setting itself. She noted, while she continued her preparations, that he appeared rather ill at ease, his hands bunching and unbunching his navy robes at his sides. She levitated the steeping pot and a plate of scones to table, and as the clock struck three, they sat for tea.

Pouring first a cup for her unexpected visitor and then one for herself, she added four drops of milk and stirred it gently, her eyes on her nephew. She intentionally let the silence grow as she lifted cup and saucer and took a small sip, watching him over the rim as he avoided her gaze. He'd not touched his tea.

At last, he shifted uncomfortably and looked up briefly to catch her eyes. His arms were moving slightly under the table, and she imagined that he was back to his bunching. He must have perfected an ironing charm, to have such a habit.

"Aunt Muriel," he began in his best Ministry voice, but the effect was ruined when it cracked on the last syllable. "Aunt Muriel," he tried again, "I've been offered a promotion and I'm looking for some advice."

She raised an eyebrow. He was asking her advice? The poor boy must be in a state, if he had come to her for counsel.

"You know I left those ridiculous political quibbles behind long ago, Percival, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"I didn't come asking about the politics, it's more of a--er--moral dilemma."

She raised the other eyebrow and inclined her head. Really? A moral problem, it was. Well that was a good deal more interesting. Especially if it involved a promotion within the Ministry of Magic. She took a sip, and Percy helped himself to a scone.

"All right, what's your story."

He looked up to meet her eyed briefly before returning them to his plate, where his fingers were worrying the poor scone to a pile of crumbs.

"I... didn't know who I could talk to, I haven't talked to Mum or Dad for months, and I haven't very many people I could consider confidants." She almost snorted. With the kind of devotion he put into his work, she doubted he had anyone - willing to be his confidant or otherwise. He continued, "But I know you used to work under the Minister, and I always thought that you hated me a little less than my siblings, and I really didn't have anywhere else to go..." The boy must have realized that he was rambling, because he stopped and took a deep breath. "It's just... I've been considered for a very... exclusive... position, that could become extremely influential but may require that I... bend... the moral constraints I currently possess." His fingers absently shredded the final piece of scone and he sat, hands hanging empty, as if he wasn't sure what to do with them.

Muriel, who despite her personal vow to leave off meddling in the affairs of the wizarding world, suddenly found her proud nephew much more intriguing. She could read between the lines. What amazed her most was not that it was Percy to be selected, no, he was the obvious choice, being most estranged from Dumbledore's war, but that he'd chosen to consult her about it. She knew that he must not think her entirely senile, or he wouldn't have come to her at all, but that he would trust her this much... Well, she was rather flattered.

"And what was your first reaction?" She asked carefully, setting down her cup and folding her hands.

"To reject it. It's not the kind of position I would have envisioned for myself, but I was... urged to reconsider, and I realize now that there would be certain benefits were I to accept."

He wasn't wrong. He'd always been her favourite among Arthur's children, both for his lack of typical Weasley traits, and his abundance of them. She knew that the words she said next would have a strong impression on the choice he was currently struggling with, so she spoke with attention and prudence. "I guess the choice then, Percival, is between your goals and your values." His face was serious, eyebrows lowered in thought as he adjusted his spectacles. "I have lived a long time and am not without regrets, but I've learned that when I am presented with a difficult decision my trepidation is often cured by asking myself which option will lead me, however far in the future, toward the person I wish to become. I have not always succeeded, mind, since that person is far from static, but by knowing that it was among my considerations, I find my regrets rather lessened."

There was a moment of silence, and her words hung heavily in the air, before his expression cleared and he stood.

"Thank-you, Aunt Muriel. I was right to seek you out; you've given me much to think about, and I am obliged. I would... appreciate you not mentioning this visit to my family, I don't think they would understand."

"No, I imagine they wouldn't. You may rest assured that I shan't say a thing about this conversation to anyone. Intermeddling is a privilege of the elderly, and even Albus Dumbledore hasn't accrued nearly enough favours to pry this out of me. Off you go, Percival; do whatever you feel to be best."

He nodded gravely, "Thank-you again; I'll see myself out."

Muriel sighed as she heard the door close. It had been so long since she'd seen that boy smile. He used to, as a boy and even as a younger man, but ever since he'd become Undersecretary to the Minister... She knew from experience how easy it was to fall into the habit of taking oneself too seriously. When she'd resigned she'd told herself never again, and she wished that that was another truth she could caution her nephew against, but felt that he wasn't yet ready to hear it. If he'd gone so far as to repress his former good humour, she knew it would be some time before they would be having that conversation. Sighing again, she began gathering the dishes, circling the table to vanish his undrunk tea. It was stone cold.

8

'Are you ready then, old man?' Gramme said shrewdly to her opponent.

'I'm ready when you are Laure,' quipped Uncle Larry from the other side of the cribbage board.

'Your doom awaits. Prepare to be skunked.'

'In your dreams, my dear.'

On either side of them Charles and Izzie sat in utmost seriousness. When the two opponents were silent, Izzie placed a deck of cards firmly between them and said ceremoniously: 'Let the Seventh Annual Cribbage Tournament begin!'

8

Harry placed his knave on the top of the now sizeable pile. It was followed by a two.

He felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck at an infinitely slow pace. He itched to wipe it away, but grit his teeth and laid down a ten.

8

Above the kitchen, where the cribbage spectacle was undergoing commencement, Ginny was wandering. The hall that her bathroom had led onto had in turn led her to a flight of steps and an entirely new set of doors. Behind the first one was a linen closet, nothing particularly exciting there, and the second was a sewing room, where balls of loose thread drifted in tangles across the floor. The door directly across the hall was unlocked as well, and from the mass of crocheted pillows littering the room, Ginny guessed it belonged to Pascale's grandmother. The room next to that was a spare room, only lightly dusty, but empty except for a single bed with a floral quilt, and an oak bureau.

Ginny, reaching another landing, turned, and walked up a short flight of stairs. Here there were two doors on the right, and three on her left. She tried the first of the three. It was a small room with yellow walls, and happy blue curtains. Her own trunk sat next to a set of large, brass bed knobs that appeared to belong to the large, brass bed set against the wall. Ginny walked in and sat on the edge of the bed. It was springy. She bounced but winced as she felt her headache threatening again. She rolled onto her side and yawned. Pulling the braid out of her hair, she distractedly thought that this would be her second nap that afternoon before drifting into an uneasy sleep.

8

Pulling out one last weed, Neville sat back on his heels to survey the small patch of herbs he'd been clearing out. Rosemary, sage, basil...he smiled in grim satisfaction. The little garden around the side of the house had been getting strangled by a plethora of weeds, some, even, that Neville didn't know the names of, which was rare and unusual. He gently dusted off a defeated-looking mint leaf.

Neville stood and brushed off his hands on his trousers. Luna was at the other end of the garden, climbing trees. If he squinted, Neville thought he might be able to see the hem of a purple skirt through the foliage. He was about to walk towards her tree when a hand came down on his shoulder. He turned.

A man stood there, in black robes and a black moustache. 'Excuse me,' he said sharply, 'would you mind directing me towards Arthur Weasley's house? I'm lost.' Neville frowned. There was something about the way the man said 'lost' that made him question the sincerity of his words. Neville knew that Dumbledore had placed wards preventing anyone unwelcome from finding their way to the Burrow. He knew because Mrs. Weasley had been talking about how nice it was to get a break from solicitors. She had, of course, been talking about Muggles. Unfortunately, there was nothing muggle about this man. Not only that, but how had he known that Neville was a friend of Ron's?

Neville walked the man back to the road. He pointed in the opposite direction of the Burrow. 'Follow this road,' he said, trying to sound helpful, 'and you can't miss it.'

The man's smile, stretching the pale lips beneath his moustache, clearly didn't reach his eyes. Eager to get away from the conversation, Neville turned to leave. But the man's hand was on his shoulder again, and there was the unmistakable feel of a wand pressed to his neck. Neville was suddenly aware of how empty the street was; most of the houses' occupants either at work or sleeping in.

'Don't call out,' the man cautioned in his ear. 'Take me to the Weasley's, and I'll have no reason to hurt you.'

Neville, who was thinking longingly about his wand, which was tucked safely into his jumper on the grass, heard the unspoken threat. Just because he hadn't a reason to hurt him, didn't mean he wouldn't.

8

The man tossed his blond hair out of his eyes, and countered the ten with a king. There were only a couple of cards remaining to each player. Harry turned over a seven.

Time seemed to slow as the man in pink reached for another card. Harry watched as the corner came up, and the card gradually was turned face up and placed on Harry's. It was a seven.

8

High in the old oak, Luna frowned at the strange occurrence on her front lawn. That man certainly didn't look friendly. One couldn't fault Neville for being polite, however. Her frown deepened when Neville walked off with the man, leaving his wand and jumper next to the herbs. He would be cold if the wind picked up. She saw them head in the direction of the Burrow. As soon as they were out of sight, she slid down through the branches with practiced ease. Dropping the last six feet or so, she relaced her shoes and darted across the lawn, placing Neville's wand behind her other ear, and tying his jumper around her waist.

She unlocked the door to the musty gardening shed, and from the gloom, produced an old Cleansweep.

A moment later, she was in the air, weaving between the trees. Out of sight but flying parallel to the path, Luna felt fortunate that flying was faster than walking. She twirled absently in a loose spiral, alighting on a sturdy branch to look behind her. Neville and his captor were quite a ways behind. She smiled, glad that Dumbledore had relaxed underage wand use for the summer. This ought to be rather fun.

8

The four teens were crowded around an old solid wood table. The varnish had partially worn off, and its surface was littered with dents and scratches. Fortunately, most of this damage was hidden beneath myriad complicated-looking machinery. Then again, Charlotte corrected herself, not all of it was machinery. Sure there were light bulbs and car batteries, but spools of fine thread, wood-glue, and in one case, a rubber chicken, could also be seen littering the table. She leaned back in her chair and spun around, twirling a loose antenna she'd plucked from the chaos. Not to say that all the nifty gadgets Pascale fooled around with didn't interest her, they did, but Charles just couldn't understand how the girl could spend so long taking them apart and putting them back together. She glanced across the table where Dominic and Pascale were speaking in tongues above a dissected Contiguier. What was wrong with leaving it in one piece? Absolutely nothing as far as Charles was concerned.

'Boing. Boing.'

Izzie was lying flat on her back next to the table, and throwing a red, rubber ball against the ceiling. Charles grinned mischievously and waved the antennae grandly at the ball. It stopped in midair.

'Oh poo. What was that for?' Izzie pouted and held out her hand. The ball flew to it, and she caught it, deftly. She sat up, looking smug, and turned to face the wall opposite Charles, continuing her bouncing game.

'Boing. Boing. Boing.'

Charles leaned back in her chair again, this time propping her feet on the already cluttered table. The rubber chicken flopped to the floor and she ignored it. What good was it to have a brand new Contiguier and not be able to use it because it was in eight billion pieces? It was near sacrilege, that what. Did the words user adaptation mean nothing to them? What about MAN compatibility? Unlimited sharing? Codable merging preferences? Lifetime warranty?? Not, of course, Charles reasoned, that she's want it for a life-time, no, they'd probably come out with something much smaller, attractive, and expensive before the year was out, but that didn't stop her from wanting one now. Besides, the lifetime warranty thing made it sound much more convincing when one was trying to separate one's mother from a sizeable amount of money.

She made a quiet huffing noise, and looked back at what Dom and Pascale were up to. Oh great. They had the chisel out. If Charles hadn't been so concerned for the well being of the Contiguier she may have thought that the picture of Dominic holding the fingernail-sized circuit board and Pascale tapping away at a pin-sized chisel while wearing a large gold magnifying monocle was humourous. In fact it might have been very humourous, had it not been a Contiguier that they were hammering away at. Thankfully the supper bell sounded just then, and Pascale had to put down her mallet. She crossed the room and stuck her head out the door.

'Coming!' she shouted.

Dominic looked around as if he'd just woken up. 'Where's Ginny?' he asked with a frown.

'Sleeping.' Charles said dryly, bounding out of her chair. 'Not that you noticed. She's down the hall.'

The four left the room with Charles in the lead. She stopped to knock on Ginny's door.

'Ginny?' she called. There was no answer. 'Dom, you want to wake her?'

Dominic shrugged. 'Sure. We'll be right down. Tell Gramme it smells great.'

Charles nodded, and continued down the stairs, humming one of the tunes from that morning. When the three girls reached the bottom, they turned round the banister and into the kitchen. Uncle Larry was sitting next to the cribbage board with a very smug look on his face.

'What's the score?' asked Charles, knowing the answer.

'Two nothing,' Pascale's grandmother bit out sourly in her familiar Québecois accent. Looking flushed, she wrenched open the oven and, in a gentler manner, tugged out two large round pies.

Charles immediately felt her mouth water. Tortière.

'Pascale, passe-moi les fourchettes? Six.' Gramme looked around distractedly. 'Where are the other two?'

'They're coming,' Charles answered, pulling out a chair as Pascale sought the forks, 'they'll be right down.'

8

As he fought to keep his breath steady and his fear under control, Neville reviewed his options. He could yell, but with the exception of Luna, who was too far away to be of any immediate help, there was no one to hear him. He could run, but he had no doubts about his captor's qualms when it came to making him wish he hadn't. He could try and wrestle the man's wand away from him, but as the man was quite a bit larger and no doubt much better trained than himself, Neville decided to do as the man asked. A handful of armed Weasley's had a significantly higher chance of besting this dark stranger than Neville, especially without his wand.

He walked slowly in the familiar direction, giving himself more time to think. If not for the rather insistent wand tip pressed against his neck, Neville would have stopped altogether.

Over the hill and through a small copse of trees, Neville wondered silently if the Weasleys were even home. The front porch of the Burrow came into view, and Neville stopped.

'Well here you are, sir. I'm glad to have been able to help. If you'll excuse me, I have gardening to do.' He tried to step away, but the man took a hold of his upper arm.

Neville heard him chuckle. 'Nice try, lad, but you're coming with me.' His heart began to beat faster than its already-rapid tattoo. He forced himself to stay calm. It was purposeless to alert his aggressor of his near-paralyzing fear if he didn't have to. He imagined Luna's serene demeanor, and felt his breathing come easier.

Neville walked up the front steps calculatingly, trying to step selectively on the places he knew squeaked. He opened the screen door slowly, listening happily to its noisy protestation. Then, using strength leant to him by the adrenaline and fear coursing through his body, tread down hard on his captor's instep, yanked his arm free, and dashed over the threshold.

8

Luna took flight once more, and soon came upon the Burrow. She sat, for a while, among the branches of a willow, alternatively admiring the remarkable architecture of its sloping eves and mossy chimneys and watching Neville and the stranger approach. The man was tall and muscular with a broad forehead and a thick, dark moustache. Luna supposed he would have been handsome if it were not for a cruel look about his eyes, and the absence of laugh-lines around his mouth. She heard Neville's escape attempt and tried not to laugh. His manners were going to get him into trouble one day, and this would quite possibly be it. They walked up to the house and her mirth turned to admiration when Neville slammed the screen door in the man's face. Neville's frightened face showed through the mesh, but the wards prevented the man from following. There was a growl as the man cursed and a beam of red light hit the normally wobbly door. It held steady and the man punched the screen in rage. Neville's face disappeared. Luna assumed he'd bolted up the stairs. A string of profanities issued next from the black-moustached stranger, and Luna tsked. Such a temper. She drew her wand and whispered 'Dormien Profondis'. The man yawned and then settled on the welcome mat for a morning nap.

Luna dropped out of her perch and flew to a second-storey window. She wedged it open and was about to crawl through when something like a very warm gust of wind swept her back. She spiraled until she gained relative control of the broom and waited patiently for her head to do the same. When the dizziness had ceased, she wobbled her way through the window. There were sounds of pain coming from the next landing. At the top of the next flight of stairs she found Neville being subdued by a very distressed-looking Crookshanks. Cooing, she set her broom aside, plucked his claws out of Neville's skin, and scooped the very orange feline into her arms. She looked down at Neville.

'I brought you your jumper.'

8

Harry willed his hand to move faster: the air felt like treacle before it and his muscles were straining with the tension. The man opposite him smiled maddeningly and held up one finger.

'I'll be back in a tick.'

Then he stood and sashayed through a pink beaded curtain that Harry would have bet his broomstick hadn't been there before. The beads swung, and he caught a glimpse of Ginny yelling and being placated by a woman with long purple hair before the curtain fell back into place. Curiously enough, Harry couldn't hear a thing she said.

Not a moment later, the beads were brushed aside and the man stepped back. 'Sorry about that luv, now where were we?'

Harry arms suddenly gained speed where it was still suspended oddly in the air. He tried to ask about Ginny and the curtain, but the words wouldn't come. Instead he felt the cool cards of victory beneath his palm and gave voice to his triumph.

'Slap!'

From the depths of the gaudy pink handbag, an alarm sounded.

8

Ginny awoke to the sound of a door opening. She was shivering violently. She sat up on the bed and blinked drowsily at the intruder. It was Dominic.

'Oh, it's you.' Ginny winced. Her headache was back, and it throbbed in vicious opposition to her now vertical position.

Dominic looked up as he closed the door behind him. 'You're awake?' he sounded surprised.

'Apparently.' She held up a hand to her head. 'I wish I wasn't. Do you find it cold in here?'

'Um, no.' Dominic frowned and crossed the room to Ginny's bed. He laid a hand against her forehead. 'You're not too warm. Why don't you put on a sweater?'

Ginny was about to nod but stopped herself. That would have been a bad idea. She took a few deep breaths and stood. Shuffling the few steps to the end of the bed, she sat down abruptly on the floor.

'Ginny?' Dominic said, concerned.

'I'm okay. Just a bit dizzy.' Ginny said, gritting her teeth and lifting the lid of her trunk. Dominic reached out to hold it in place.

'Thanks.' She said, rooting around in its untidiness. She caught sight of a periwinkle sleeve and pulled. With only a little resistance, the rest of the jumper landed on her lap, alongside the silver box her dad had given her.

Dominic closed the lid and leaned down. 'Is that a laptop?' His fingers reached for the silver box. She handed it to him.

Something fizzed and crackled. She jumped, grabbing her hand away. 'Ow!'

Dominic winced. 'Oops. Sorry." She was disoriented, but not so much that she didn't notice his blush. "Are you hurt?'

Ginny shook her head, confused about his reaction. 'No, just a little surprised, I think. What happened?'

'Um, something must have shorted out.' He looked away. 'We'll show it to Pascale after supper. It's, er, ready.'

'Right,' Ginny said, feeling unnerved.

'Here.' Dominic offered her a hand up. She took it, glad to have something to hold on to. She still felt dizzy, though her head wasn't objecting as painfully as before. Steadying herself, she let go of his hand to pull the jumper over her head.

'Right,' she said again, 'let's go.'

8

Frank dropped a stitch and cursed. She was intensely frustrated and tossed her needles aside, scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. The situation was just too familiar for comfort. Sitting in a sickroom knitting, with no noise but the clacking of her needles. Maybe she should go find Crookshanks. He was always good for a snuggle.

Frank picked up her needles again and resumed her pattern. The Weasley's had gone out to visit Hermione's parents before school began. Frank had been invited, but opted to stay behind with Harry. Someone had to. And she didn't mind too much. It was probably just the uncharacteristic silence of the house that was bothering her.

There was a yowl from the hallway and Frank just about jumped out of her skin. Crookshanks tore into the room and jumped at her, his claws finding purchase in her skin.

'Ow! Crooks', stop it!' She tried in vain to remove the wailing feline. Over the racket Crookshanks was making, she heard a panicked voice calling.

'Mrs. Weasley! Ron! Hermione! George! Ron! Frank!'

Someone was running up the stairs. Crookshanks spit and launched himself at the open door. There was a yell of pain from the hall, and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

The only warning she had was a slight prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck. The air shimmered, and a pulse of energy swept over her, making her dizzy and light-headed. She turned around to see that Harry, who had been sleeping soundly only moments before, was awake. Or, at least, his eyes were open. Unfortunately his pupils were absent, leaving his eyes vacant, yet illuminated by a queer and familiar white light.

Oh shit. Frank thought. Shit shit shit! She stumbled the few steps to his bed, and gathered her wits. This had to be done right.

Sparks danced across Harry's features and alighted on the tips of his hair. She sent a mental apology to Mrs. Weasley and hoped the sheets weren't being singed. Frank climbed on to the bed, unceremoniously lifting one leg to straddle Harry's torso. Putting both her hands on his chest, and winding threads around his now-glowing kernel, she waited for the next pulse.

She felt it building, wild and out of control. Like a tidal wave that started small and deep, it was a natural repercussion, which made it all the more deadly. Frank pushed back, channeling her own current through strings of connection between her and Harry.

She held it in check, using every iota of concentration she possessed. It desperately wanted to be free. It spread out, searching for a break in her defense. There was none. Then, like all energy, potential or otherwise, it took the only route available.

Its retreat was even more enraged than its approach, and Frank shivered at the enormity of it. She waited, until she felt it dissipate into nothingness, absorbing back into Harry.

He blinked. Frank smiled when she saw his vibrant, unfocused green gaze return. She reached for his glasses and slipped them on his face.

'Frank?' he said hoarsely. 'What are you doing?'

She reached up to tousle his hair, feeling immensely relieved. 'Welcome back.'

Harry took in his surroundings then looked quizzically at Frank. 'Why are you sitting on me?'

'What? I—oh.' She slipped back onto the floor and picked up her knitting. 'You know,' she said, gesticulating with her needles, 'you've got a lot of explaining to do.'

There was a brief knock on the door, and it opened. Frank whirled around, her needles extended threateningly. In the doorway were Neville, looking pale and disheveled, and Luna, who was carrying a calm and purring Crookshanks and seemed very pleased with herself.

'Good morning Harry,' she said brightly. 'You're looking more awake than you've been recently.'

Neville looked around nervously. 'We've got to get out of here! There's a man outside who I'd bet my wand is a Death Eater. I got him past the outer wards and I don't know how long it'll be before he breaks through!'

Luna quirked an eyebrow. 'Did he have a moustache?' she asked curiously.

'Yes, why—that's not important! Frank, do you think Harry's well enough to travel by Floo?'

Frank slowly shook her head. 'I'd doubt it. I doubt he can even stand up. Harry?' She directed a query in Harry's direction.

'And an angry mouth?' Luna said, but Neville was still talking.

'Is there another way out? Portkey or something?'

Frank thought about it and was about to shake her head once more when she remembered their outing to Diagon Alley a few days before.

'Yes!' She dashed out into the hall and into Ginny's room. She fumbling about in the pocket of the shorts she'd been wearing that day, and emerging with two small paperclip-shaped successes.

When she returned, Luna was juggling Crookshanks and her broom, trying to make one of them stay still. Neville reached out and relieved her of her broom. He looked slightly wary of the cat.

'Have we got everything?' Frank asked, ushering Neville and Luna to Harry's bed. 'Harry, where are your glasses? Wand?'

He held up both, looking apprehensive.

'Everyone, grab hold of me. We're going to Hogwarts.'

Feeling both a little excited and a little apprehensive about her first trip to what was to be her new school, she slipped the paperclips together, and felt a jolt in her abdomen. Fighting the urge to lose the undigested remainder of her breakfast, Frank held tightly to Harry. When she felt solid stone beneath her feet she absorbed the shock, taking most of his weight.

'Euf.'

Neville let go her arm, and staggered. Luna looked collected and serene, as though portkeying was something she did as regularly as, say, waking up each morning. Crookshanks blinked temperamentally from where she clutched him to her chest. Her other hand held on to Neville's, who was looking a little green.

'I hate portkeying' he said with feeling. "Once in Dumbledore's office is enough for one week. I didn't want to repeat the experience.'

'Here, here,' Harry moaned from his position on Frank's arm.

Frank looked around. Unlike Neville, Ron, and Hermione, she and Harry hadn't actually needed to use their portkey on the day of the Diagon Alley Disaster. It was a good thing, she supposed, otherwise, they might still be stuck in the Burrow.

'Hello?' she called, as she helped Harry into a chair. 'Mr. Dumbledore?'

There was a trill, and a red and orange plumed bird flew down from the rafters, through the sunlight coming through the office's many windows. He looked a little the worse for wear, his colourful feathers drooping, but perched nonetheless on the arm of Harry's chair, and looked at Frank, quirking his head.

'Hullo Fawkes,' Harry mumbled sleepily. 'It's really good to see you.'

Fawkes inclined his head at Harry's greeting, and began to sing a soft lullaby. Phoenix song, Frank thought in wonderment. Never had she heard anything so lovely. She yawned in amusement when she saw Harry's head droop and his light snoring began to rise beneath the melody. Fawkes trailed off, then flew back to his perch beside the Headmaster's desk.

'Good morning, Professor.' Luna spoke up in the silence.

Frank turned, and was startled to find that she hadn't heard Dumbledore come in.

'It is, rather, isn't it?' The old headmaster agreed.

'Oh, yes,' Luna went on, 'a little on the chilly side, but the sun is as persistent as ever.'

Dumbledore smiled. 'Certainly, Miss Lovegood. I must admit, however, that I am a little surprised to see you all here. I wasn't expecting you, so you must excuse me if I don't offer you a lemon drop? I'm fresh out.'

Frank found that despite his easy words, he was looking sharply at her.

'That's quite all right. We've come because there was a very distasteful man who tried to break through the wards at the Burrow.' Luna regarded Dumbledore curiously.

'Was there?' Dumbledore frowned. 'How did he plan to do that?'

'I—uh,' Neville's voice cracked, 'I brought him, sir. But only past the outside wards. Not into the house.' He looked at his shoes, his ears red.

'And where is he now?' Dumbledore mused, glancing from Neville to Frank.

Luna spoke up again. 'Sleeping, I should think. On the welcome mat, most likely, though if he is prone to somnambulation I would check the flowerbed.'

All awake occupants in the room turned to look at her. Dumbledore seemed as though he was trying not to laugh, his eyes twinkling merrily. Neville looked flabbergasted.

'Why didn't you say anything before?'

'I did try to mention it, but you were a little preoccupied with the imminent danger. I didn't want to distract you.' She blinked owlishly at Neville and smiled widely.

Behind the headmaster, Fawkes burst into flame and disappeared.

'Since he is so conveniently incapacitated--all thanks to Miss Lovegood--I suppose it would be prudent to collect him.' Dumbledore glanced at Harry and strode to the fireplace, throwing in a pinch of powder and calling for Madame Pomfrey.

'When did Mr. Potter re-awaken?' he asked, looking over his spectacles at the students.

'Just now,' Frank said, avoiding his eyes and looking instead at the sleeping boy. 'Sir,' she added for good measure.

Dumbledore was unable to reply as Madame Pomfrey strode through the door, bringing with her a sense of urgency and business.

'Goodness gracious! What is that boy doing out of bed?!' She conjured a stretcher and levitated Harry to lie horizontally. 'Did I not specifically prescribe at least a week of bed-rest? Portkeying several hundred miles after the kind of exhaustion he's suffered is not a recommended activity after a week in a coma! Albus--' Dumbledore winced slightly at her shrill address 'I need to know exactly what's happened in the last twenty-four hours, and another batch of Vitalixir from Severus.' She stood, hawk-like, beside the stretcher as Dumbledore smiled placatingly.

'Of course, Poppy. Miss Brooks, if you would follow the Matron to the Hospital Wing; Mr. Longbottom and Miss Lovegood, please go retrieve Professor Snape, I believe him to be in the greenhouses.'

8

When at last his office was empty, Albus Dumbledore settled into his chair with a bemused sigh. Miss Lovegood was as innovative as her mother, it appeared. How delightful. That Death Eaters had attempted to attack Harry again, however, was worrying.

There was still a link of some kind between Harry and Voldemort, and there was no way of knowing where Harry's mind may have been since the attack on Diagon Alley. Occlumency training had failed and now the Headmaster's thoughts began to flirt with an alternative. A sneaky alternative. A slightly Slytherin grin crossed his face. Could it work? Who else knew Harry was awake? No one besides himself, three students, a nurse, and a potions master. The Weasley's were at the Granger's and most of the professors away for the summer. It just might work.

He strode once more to the fireplace, calling this time, 'Nicholas Flamel.'

8

A/N: Well, I hadn't anticipated uploading this chapter quite as quickly, but I received two absolutely fantabulous reviews on my last chapter. Thank-you both, so much. That last review was so nice, actually, that immediately upon receiving it I set about touching up this chapter for publication. I could make a habit of that, you know.