Fifteen rooms were available for rent on the top floor of the Leaky Cauldron, though there looked to be room only for about four. But in the wizarding world, appearances are always deceiving, and for a rather scrappy looking pub, the accommodations were quite nice, particularly if you had the cash to pay for it. Cash was one thing Jenny was certainly not lacking. Her bed was large and comfortable, probably the best in the house, the sheets possibly silk although an atrocious shade of bright purple. None of that allowed her to sleep any better.

Even during the Voldemort years, she'd had no trouble sleeping, but it was damn near close to impossible for her now. She'd trained it out of her system- all those years on stake outs, pulling all nighters, drinking Pepper Up Potions and lots of black coffee. Very few people in her line of business ever got a decent nights sleep. Sleep made one vulnerable.

And now, when all she really wanted was a good night's rest, when she'd insured the Leaky Cauldron's wards would hold up in the unlikely case of attack, the habit of wakefulness kept her from dozing off long into the night. Finally, in desperation, she threw off her covers and stormed over to her large wooden trunk, undoing the heavy metal clasp. She rummaged about, bleary with weariness, and eventually came up with a bag full of potion ingredients. It is a very dangerous thing to attempt to make a Dreamless Sleep potion with only a few of the ingredients neccessary, particularly a lack of liquids. Jenny didn't give a damn. She had once had a friend, who she'd met thirteen years ago, after leaving England, who'd been something of an expert in mixing culinary skills and magic. Jenny had learned enough to manage to whip up a relatively decent potion, although a lot were substitutes. Glancing at the blue vial she'd poured the murky, clumpy potion into, she tilted it back and drained it like a shot. She'd been forced to use an Ashwinder egg in place of Glumbumble treacle, which would mean she'd be in a terribly good mood tomorrow or the sleep might not be so dreamless- couldn't say she was too fond of either idea, Jenny had no reason to feel cheerful and she abhored the lack of control of nightmares. Anyway, it wouldn't kill her- well, it shouldn't.

Either way, it worked. Suddenly feeling her alertness slip and her eyes flicker, she slid under the warm, cozy covers, in the dark not even bothered by the horribly bright purple coloring of the sheets. And then the dreams came- but the Ashwinder egg, which was an ingredient in so many potions, including Love Potions- brought dreams rather than nightmares. Not that she was too fond of those either- hard to wake up from and find them false.

Thank Merlin, these phantasmagoric images were not of her Hogwarts years, or even of the more recent years, almost as painful. Childhood dreams of peace and protection, birthday cakes and her father's soothing, laughing voice. How she missed him, and her mother too. If only...

A familiar gentle buzzing, swift sounds like a swirling hummingbird, filled her ears. Pleasantly familiar, and yet not so. The switching, dodging, rapid little wings of the Golden Snitch. Where was it? What? Something soft and poofy brushed against her ear, and she reached to swat it away, eyes slowly opening to the world, rayed with the light of morning. She felt rejuvenated, but it still felt like she'd slept for five minutes rather than five hours. Weird noises sounding about her made her start and sit up in bed, rubbing her eyes.

"Cheep!" came a noise.

"Whooo," cried another.

Moans and wails came from all over.

A distinctly inhuman voice rang out over all the others, jolting her up and scrambling for her wand. "Oh what a beautiful morning," it warbled, not on any key, much less off one. "Oh what a beautiful day. I've got a beautiful feeling- Squawk!"

Jenny, not able to reach her wand and eyes still slightly closed (an after effect of her potion seemed to be bleariness), settled for a shoe to wack the culprit of the horrendous noise.

A chatter flew up. Finally freeing her senses and fully waking up, Jenny stepped out of bed, hair pressed flat on one side and mussed on the other, and her flannels slightly askew. She shool off her sleepiness, grabbed her wand, and confronted a flock of birds.

She'd expected a few owls. She'd even figured there'd be some unusual birds, from the noises. Jenny had by no means expected this.

She swore, loudly. The parrot, grasping a brown paper package tied with string, immediatly repeated it. It appeared ready to break into song again, so she cast a Silencing Spell on it swiftly and surveyed the scene with growing amusement.

Parliaments of owls lay about. The snow owls seemed to be packed into the bathroom, while barn owls had taken her dresser over entirely. Tiny Scops owls popped out of every drawer, their minute heads popping up and down. Several pecked each other in their flurry of excitement. Great Grays, enormous and dignified (some also exceptionally obese) hooted disdainfully at her, holding huge packages she had never seen before in her life. One of them seemed to have been turned an incredibly hot pink. Recalling that was Angie's daughter's favorite color, Jenny winced, realizing the little girl (the Brat, as Fitz not-so-fondly referred to her as) had stolen her mother's wand again. It had probably been a mistake to leave Cal there in hopes he would live out his days peacefully, Kate might have killed him by now; or, even worse in the cat's mind, shaved him. She reminded herself to write a letter inquiring about her old pet. Jenny had to duck as a Fwooper came swooping toward her head.

She'd never seen so many Fwoopers in her life! One of the lime birds had formed a nest on top of her trunk and seemed prepared to lay eggs. The yellow one who had divebombed her came back for another strike; she stunned it carelessly. They better all have properly reinforced Silencing Charm or there would be hell to pay. The Fwoopers' song was so annoying it drove the listener to insanity. A few Augeries floated about moarnfully, moaning pitifully, but not so loud as to suggest rain. Those were probably from Fitzs' contacts. One or two phoenixes drifted about as well, one quite old and near rebirth, and one, seemingly not even one just reborn but newly born, so excited seemed he with his ability to apparate about. Jenny hoped he wouldn't set the curtains on fire in his repetitive enthusiasm.

She noticed a few Jobberknolls as well, probably from America. The pink Great Gray had a look in its eye suggesting one particularly plump one might be its new meal. Well, she couldn't have a Jobberknoll dying here. There were also the birds recognizable from her Muggle contacts, who she was unwilling to give her cell phone number to, for fear of it ringing night and day, but who could not have owls or other magical birds conspiscously drifting about. From them, there was a group of cleverly auspicious caller pigeons, with notes wrapped about a leg. There were also several tropical looking birds, and the stupid singing parrot. All in all, there had to be well over three hundred and fifty birds- more than in the average post office.

Not to mention the one, highly irregular bird who had awoken her. Her mouth dropped slightly open at the sight of it. She'd only seen one in the San Diego Menagerie. They were so rare, she'd never thought to see one so close. Completely round, it looked so like a living emulation of its namesake that she just momentarily gazed at it in starstruck awe. It watched her warily with its glistening eyes, so like rubies, then playfully zipped about, its wings rotating and humming. To her eyes, it moved even faster than a snitch, no matter how well the magical ball could be designed. Boy, what James Potter would have done for a chance to try his skills against a Snidget!

Ignoring the others momentarily, she moved towards it, her blue orbs catching on the black envelope it carried. She rolled her eyes, unable to refrain from the childish gesture. Of course, who else but Doyle Fitzgerald was both bold enough and foolish enough to use the prized Golden Snidget, with penalties in some nations as high as death or lifelong imprisonment for its capture or injury, to send his bloody mail! The idiot. She hoped he hadn't gotten it illegally, but knowing him, that hope was unfounded.

She reached for the envelope, but the Snidget neatly darted out of her grasp. She could already tell, there was no way she could catch the bird. Even for James, this woul dhave taken a while- and while she had hotshot reflexes, she was no Seeker. Oh, Doyle'd find this very funny. Make her work for her letter. She had several choice words for him right now, but some part of her thought it as amusing as he certainly did. Well, if Harry was anything like his father, he could probably get it. Yeah, right, she thought to herself. Oh hello Harry, I'm your godmother, can you come over and catch a pesky little bird for me? That would go over wonderfully. Charlie Weasley was a Seeker, a brilliant one, she'd bet, but he'd gone off on some damned fool escapade, from what she'd gathered. Shaping up to be worthy of the old Order, he and his brothers were.

She squinted at the bird. It had probably been trained to not leave, once it found her- Fitz would have insured it at least wouldn't go flying wildly, and it wouldn't have even come this far if it wasn't well-behaved. It wouldn't be going anywhere, then. Fine, it would wait. She marched over and headed straight to the scroll sent by Angela Scott, carried by the pink owl.

It turned out to be a very long upbraiding from Angie for leaving her in charge, telling her she should have chosen Fitz, even though he'd have killed her, or even Roger ('on second thought, not Roger'), rather than leaving poor Angie. People wanted confirmation that S.A.L.A.M.A.D.E.R.'s current acting head and one of its co-founders hadn't just up and died, and that this wasn't some sort of cover-up on Angie's part in an attempt to ursurp power. (Single mom Angie, usurper of power? Please.)

Jenny, sighing, flicked her wand and cast a spell in Old English, hoping she'd gotten the words right. This archaic spell, supposedly, was one of Merlin's own inventions, and she'd never tried it before.

Owls hooted in displeasure as their letters bopped their way into the air, ripping themselves open, while packages, some of them enormous, floated jerkily up as well, their strings peeling off. The objects drifted about cheerily in a circle, bobbing alternately up and down as if on a merry-go-round while moving forward at the same time. Jenny stood in the center of the ring, scanning the passing items and muttering to herself. The letters had unfolded and were moving at a rythmic enough place that she could read their sender. The Snidget watched the whole affair with fascination, but never ceasing in its movement.

A letter, with some nice daisies tied to it, had the name Drew in his worried scrawl at the bottom. He was a good guy, Fitz probably'd called him and mentioned England (hopefully not Voldemort, Drew's witch fiancee had been part of the American Hit Squad sent to help who had been decimated by Voldemort's forces over sixteen years ago. The Seattle cop would insist on coming with an awful lot of guns and FBI agents with no clue what they were up against.) Drew had sort of a brotherly nature to him, although it hurt him a bit to work with her or any witch because they tended to remind him of the woman he'd loved. Drew, she would answer. People in her organization tended to have past tragedy. It was basically the equivalent of a volunteer firefighter squad for magical disasters, except they covered themselves up from both worlds. Few people had the inspiration, unless they wanted revenge or to prevent the same from happening to others, to do so with only the pay that basically fell into their laps. (For the more talented ones, that happened a lot).

"Er, the merpeople," she moaned, noting several letters, brought by owls, with names looking distinctly mermadish. Beryl, Pearl, Ophelia, Amphitrite, Triton, Neptune- all from Greek waters, with terrifyingly good voices, amazing looks, and commonly, just as amazingly large egos. Roger could handle them.

She couldn't even understand it when some of the names passing by she recognized as vampire allies. Then she realized one was a request to go on a date (ignore), one a serious plea for help from a friend (get in touch with agents in Romania), and the rest were Fitzs' team and her friends jibing her about going back to England after she'd sworn not to. (also ignore, but save to read later and laugh about).

The parrot and a few tropical birds with it were from all parts of South America, and her friends there. There were a few joshing remarks about sending her the parrot to deliver a letter, knowing it would drive her crazy. Clearly, they had not yet received word about her return to England, and had no idea that their letters would arrive at the same time as the rest. In her note to Angie, she'd forward the letter- along with the parrot- and have her answer him. Who knew, maybe Katie would actually like the singing bird.

The carrier pigeons were likewise just usual reports, from those few who knew of wizardry in the CIA, a couple Mounties, and the like. Nothing outstanding. The Jobberknells were much of the same, and carried several letters from a clearly harried Roger, a tear-stained one from his weepy wife, Miranda, and one from Dean, that oblivious kid she'd talked to on the phone, eagerly asking for a desription of 'that freaky snake Lord guy' since he wanted to design a video game. Bah.

Most of the packages seemed to be her own stuff- an enormous lot she'd accumulated over the years. She eyed it with dismay. Roger seemed to have seized his chance to clear out her werehouse. Drifting letters, in addition to the others, confirmed that several clever witches and wizards had managed to stop the larger percent of things from getting through, over Ireland or the Atlantic, depending. These letters informed her that he'd attempted to send a few cars, brooms, books, clothes, a few of the enormous treasures she'd recovered over the years and kept, and other huge things, some carried by hired deliverers by way of strapping them between broomsticks and slapping invisibility spells on them, others by flocks of the delivery birds. Jenny wished, for the millionth time, that S.A.L.A.M.A.N.D.E.R. wasn't volunteer, and that she could fire the guy.

Gifts had been delivered as well, from modern gadgets to a minute, antique sculpture. She actually laughed. Attempts to bribe her, still. Hadn't they learned any better by now? She'd send those back, of course.

When a letter signed 'Dmitri' flashed by, she flipped, snatching it from the air. Dmitri Dolohov, that is, an extremly elderly Russian who served as a sometime contact. He'd by the uncle of the Antonin Dolohov whom all the Order hated so passionately for taking away two of their finest, among his other crimes. She scanned it with dismay, not noticing the bopping chain begin to speed up and the letters and presents start to tear themselves apart.

Guineviere Philips,
Hope this finds you in good health. Need help, immediately. Tatiana has been taken from Siberia. Personal attendance preferable, if possible. Please, I beg you.
- Dmitri

Her heart tore over the last lines of the simple, quick letter. The old man, weak handed, had probably dictated the letter, but the name signed was clearly his. Tatiana was his granddaughter, who was slightly...off mentally, along with being a sensationally powerful witch. Personal attendance wasn't possible, though, she had new, or rather, old responsibilities here...and as much as she hated to admit it, she couldn't trust him. It could easily be a lure to get her out of England. The old man had proved trustworthy int he past, but Russian family loyalty bonds, particularly among wizards, prove terribly strong. She'd call Fitz- but he changed his number each week, she wouldn't have it till she read his letter.

She looked up, glancing around for the golden bird, and was horrified by what met her gaze. One of her letters was happily ripping itself apart, her books seemed to be attempting to eat each other, and a statue of the witch Athena was bashing into the Cauldron of Dian, and both seemed determined to smash the Pensieve into bits as it was caught between them. The petals of her daisies were peeling off one by one, as if playing the 'loves me, loves me not' game with themselves. The Fwoopers had decided this game looked fun, and were trying to snatch papers out of the ever rapider floating circle in order to rip them to shreds. Her silk bathrobe was trying to swallow her favorite jeans jacket, and her leather pants were dueling a pair of tee shirts. The more dignified birds looked on with horror, an Augery screeched as the pink Great Grey, missing the Jobberknell, bit its tail; in short, the room, already disastrous, had fallen into a state of utter and complete chaos. If she ever met Merlin in the afterlife, Jenny decided she'd give him a piece of her mind for sticking this spell into his book on magical theory. Until then, she'd settle for murdering Fiitz, particularly since the Snidget seemed to be taunting the other birds, drawing them into the fray.

Angered slightly, she lifted her wand and performed the flicking motion that ended all Old English spells. Had it not worked, Jenny might not have needed the Fwooper song to go mad, particularly since the part of her mind still under the influence of the previous night's potion was singing along with the scarlet parrot to some happy-go-lucky song she didn't recognize. Luckily, it did. Everything fell to the floor, and the birds, sheepish, stopped moving. Except, of course, the Snidget.

Jenny glared at the window intensely and gestured with her hand, as all impatient wizarding children learn to do. It flew open. She raised her wand, still acting childishly, and sent up a bang like a gun, a favorite trick of most eight-year olds "borrowing" an elder's wand. "Shoo!" she ordered, trying desperately to shake her pleasant mood and the side of her mind laughing hysterically. That, she knew, wasn't just the potion- that was her younger self, which she did not need invading her mind right now. To succeed, she'd needed to gain some level of ruthlessness, a tendency of relentlesness, which she balanced out with every other part of her character. Being back in England could not allow her to lose that edge. "Be gone!"

In a great flurry, the fumbling flock fled, packing through the window and struggling to escape all at once. When, after several minutes, only two birds remained- the Snidget and the parrot- and neither showed any intention of leaving. She slumped to the floor, still tired, exasperated, and now realizing she'd have to hire owls to deliver the messages she needed to. All her friends would be wondering why she didn't respond.

On second thought, she glanced at the unbudging parrot, squawking away contently. She'd send him with all her letters to Angie, and she could distribute the rest. The golden bird suddenly darted about her head, tempting her. Its red eyes were bright and not half so innocent as she'd expected. Fitz's influence, she was sure.

"Ugh," she groaned, rubbing her forehead. She'd kill that man, she'd kill him. He couldn't just send letters the normal way, no matter how important. She eyed the devilish Snidget. She wished she could just curse it, or cage it, but she was back in England now. The last thing she needed was some Ministry bozo, swooping down on her, suprised she wasn't dead and accusing her of animal cruelty, while the papers wrote their suspicions of how the most recent inmate of Azkaban had helped Black escape. No, she couldn't curse it, there were magical ways of monitoring injury done to endangered beasts- she'd been through that obstacle with the whole yeti disaster.

But, it could be caught, if she was careful and didn't squeeze too tightly. That didn't really harm it- particularly if it was done right. And hey, she'd never been half bad at any position in Quidditch. A gleam alit in her eye, the gleam of battle. She stood nonchalantly, allowing the Snidget to attempt to taunt her again and move closer. Sidling carefully toward it, she took one stealthy step and sprang into the air with all her speed and strength, her brilliant duelist reflexes straining to reach it. For a moment, she thought...

She landed poorly, grasping air, half on the bed, half falling off it. The Snidget made a funny noise. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn it was cackling.

"Thought you were supposed to be peace-loving," she remarked, rubbing her head where it hit the bedpost. She drew her wand. "Accio," she rapped out, but the bird was fast enough to dodge the summoning charm, repeatedly, and other things, namely, her trunk, came flying towards her in its place. Jenny dropped to the floor as it crashed into the wall and shot a death glare at the birdie.

How was it, she marveled, that she could best yeti, hordes of bloodthirsty (read: evil) vampire hordes, Death Eaters by the dozen, and even dodge the Weasley twin's falling water pellet from the doorway; yet find herself humiliated by first a house elf, in front of those same twins, and now, worst of all, by a stupid little bird sent by her half-crazy, on again, off again boyfriend? Ah, the mysteries of life. Jenny stood, fire in her eyes. That was it. Mission or not, she was getting Charlie Weasley. A Seeker for the Snidget. Fitting. James would be terribly jealous.

Switching clothes to one of the more stylish, navy blue robes that had just arrived among her clothes, she brushed her hair carelessly, turned to give the Snidget the same sort of warning look she would give a small child, and rushed out the door, grabbing a bag full of Galleons (also just arrived). Anyone who tried to rob her would be in for a hell of a lot more than he bargained for, so she didn't worry about it.

Jenny swooped into the bar five seconds later at exactly quarter to ten, and froze at the sight that met her there.

A slightly drunken group of young men, one or two women among them as well, were swaying back and forth, filled with excitement and youthful enthusiasm. All in navy blue robes with two crossed golden bulrushes, they were singing raccously. Apparently, they were celebrating their victory of the previous night's Quidditch match, maybe even advancing. It was summer, so of course the League Cup would be going on- the small, not incredibly prestigious tournament between the teams of Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales.. From those teams, almost all would go on to play for their country in the European Cup when it began again, and maybe, if they were good enough, the best players, sometimes even the whole time, would move on for the World Cup. She blinked. Of course the Leaky Cauldron was the popular spot for such celebrations. But a team of youthful Quidditch players showing up just when she needed a Seeker? Finally, the fates were on her side, even in this most minor of things.

"Beat back those Bludgers, boys," they roared in unison, "and chuck that Quaffle here. Don't let 'em hit our man, boys, and he'll catch that Snitch, no fear!"

"Will you shut up already?" roared a man trying to read the newspaper and have a cup of tea.

The young men went on singing with no recognition of him. "Fly like roaring thunder, men, for the glory of the dear old sport! For there ain't nothing, men, no nothing men like the GAME. FROM… QUEER.. .DITCH… MARSH!" they bellowed, then taking a deep breath and going into the next verse. "Oh, beat back those Bludgers boys, and chuck that Quaffle here!"

A group of younger men and one girl, probably second string, and not singing were clustered around one of their own, who looked incredibly, incredibly, drunk. The team had probably been gathered here since late last night, particularly judging from the ear plugs in Tom's ears as he beamed a gap-toothed smile at her from behind the bar.

She studied the team, trying to guess which would be the Seeker. Jenny paused, not even able to recognize the team. All the men ever in her life, from Dumbledore, to James, to Fred and George, would berate her for that. She knew they were one of the English teams (Fitz's obsession with the Kestrels, most of whom had played for Ireland in the cup, insured she remembered those teams). He'd kill her, of course, if he knew she was even planning on talking to the Seeker of a rival team.

Her eyes landed on the petite girl, slim in frame with lithe fingers, and an dark, Bludger shaped bruise on her left cheek. She was lifted onto the shoulders of a burly bloke in his midtwenties, probably a Beater, who was singing louder than any. Beaters gunned for the other team's Seeker, and Jenny felt certain that was her. Unfortunately, she appeared completely wasted. Useless, with her reflexes slowed, and besides, she'd never be able to pull her away from that lot.

Her blue eyes, rather steely at the moment, flicked towards second string. Most of them seemed relatively sober. She could only hope the guy slumped on the bar was not the reserve Seeker. With her brisk, military pace, Jenny reached the spot where their bar stools circled. For so early in the morning, the scene they were presenting was as if it were late at night. The singing players kept swaying, some of the athletes at the stools whooped; glasses were drained and guzzled, sandwiches wolfed down- the only girl of the six second stringers appeared not to be drinking at all, but rather exalting in a strawberry ice cream cone. The althlete gave the thumbs up to a tiny girl eating a vanilla cone whose mother walked in, surveyed the scene, and promptly returned to Diagon Alley. Customers, regulars here for their breakfast, looked excessively annoyed.

She tapped the girl, a fresh-faced young woman probably only a few years out of school, on the shoulder. Startled, the girl, likely a Chaser or Keeper from her Quaffle-shaped hair clip, whirled about. Second stringers in Quidditch usually were incredibly good, rookies who got playing time in a good percent of the games and were the future of the league.

"Hey," said Jenny, in a friendly manner. "Congratulations on your win."

"Thanks!" said the girl enthusiastically. "Did you see it?"

"Wish I had," Jenny said quickly. "Family obligations. Hey, do you think you could point out your reserve Seeker to me?"

"How come?" the girl asked suspiciously. A good thing, these days, to have a suspicious mind. Still, an annoyance.

Jenny eased into a flustered role. "Oh, my friend thought it would be funny to send me one of those little Scops owls, and the dratted thing won't give the letter up. It's very fast, and about Snitch sized, and when I saw your team here, I thought maybe one of your Seekers could help me. I can pay," she offered.

The girl glanced over at the first string Seeker and pulled a face. "Can tell why you're asking for our reserve. My friends can be a bit over enthusiastic in their debauchery. Hey, Jimmy!" she said, beckoning a friend over.

A sandy haired young man, possibly nearing twenty and sitting beside the slumped one, turned, his face harried. He had slightly big ears, was slightly gangly with a goofy grin, but the elements combined to give him a cute look. He spun around on the stool. "What? I'm sort of -" his hand shot out and stopped his friend from grabbing the proferred shot of vodka- "occupied."

"This woman wondered if you could catch a birdie for her. One of those bloody Scops."

"Oh, really?" said Jimmy, bemused. "People always send my mum those things. How I got started as a Seeker, actually.." He trailed off as his friend managed to grab the glass and drain it. Quickly, he pulled it away from him. "Man, you've had enough. C'mon, buddy, pull yourself together," he urged.

"Not so hard on him, Jim," the girl scolded.

Jenny studied the drunk boy. His dark hair fell into his face, and his eyes were extremely red. He started to say something, but it was so slurred it coul not be made out. "You should get him a Sobering Potion, or at least a Pepper-Up."

"They make sobering potions?" Jim asked, incredulous, almost letting his buddy slip to the floor.

"Well, not stores, but doesn't anyone know how to make them anymore?" Jenny asked, equally incredulous. "I suppose you could find one on Knockturn, but you don't want to head down there. Get him some coffee, at least."

Jimmy looked at her blankly. "Isn't that some Muggle drink?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Wizards drink it, too, Jim, get on top of things."

Jenny sighed. "Look, I'll whip something up for him, he clearly needs it." Much more than the singing squad, the guy was practically passed out. In the Muggle world, he wouldn't even be of drinking age- he looked what, nineteen?. "On top of that, I'll give you five Galleons if you just catch my bird, all right?"

Jimmy now studied her nervously, with caution. Anyone willing to offer that just to catch a bird was mad, and who knew what she'd put in that potion.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she sighed, and reached into her robe pocket. Both Jimmy and the young woman tensed, expecting her to draw her wand. Instead, she just pulled out credentials and handed them to the youth.

He read it, mildly impressed. "You're an Auror? But this says your Irish, you don't sound Irish."

"I spent some time there, and got credited there," she told him impatiently as he handed it back to her. "Bring your friend. I've got a room rented upstairs." She trotted up again, waiting for him to follow. He hesitated a moment, flicked his wand and sent his friend floating, then ran up after her.

Jenny held the door open, allowing him to walk inside. His eyes widened as he took in the feather covered room, filled with shredded and unshredded letters and all sorts of packages.

Before the parrot could begin to sing, Jenny fired a Stunner at it. Good, the whole unnatural inner happiness thing had worn off. "Ignore that,"she said calmly. She followed his startled, amazed eyes. "Can you catch it?"

"T-t-that's not an owl," he stammered, stunned.

"Right. But it's kind of every Seeker's dream, isn't it? A real challenge, with a mind that can think for itself? The whole original deal? So...Can you catch it?"

"Where'd you get it?" he asked, almost trance like, as his blue gray eyes followed the bird. With his loss of concentration, his friend tumbled to the floor with a groan.

"Rich boss who likes to show off when he sends me letters. It's an important business letter," she lied, though the letter probably was quite important, Fitz rarely wrote letters.

"Uh-huh."

She put her hands on her hips, and looked him square in the eye iintimidatingly. "Are you suggesting you don't believe me?"

"No, ma'am," he responded at once. "Ah, that sobreity drink-"

"I'll handle it," she said tartly. "Can you catch it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Proceed, then," Jenny responded, smiling. "Don't worry about disturbing the furniture."

"Pity I don't have a broomstick on hand," the boy mumbled. Grabbing a chair, he moved it to the center of the room, watching her pull out some sort of package. "Hey, what's that?"

"Water," she answered calmly. "I'm going to tranfigure it into coffee, then enhance the coffee magically. Sobering Potions, they're incredibly effective." She pulled a face. "Worst things you've ever tasted, and you don't even want to know what they're made of. A friend of mine who used to be a Hit Wizard for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had to make them for his brother for a few weeks after he had a bloody breakup with his longtime girlfriend. Poor chap, couldn't taste a thing for weeks. Believe me, your buddy will much appreciate this over that."

"Sound experienced," he commented, right before he jumped off the chair vainly attempting to grab the Snidget. To its dismay, his jump proved sufficient enough for him to yank out several of the vain bird's tail feathers. It squawked indignantly at him.

"Yeah, a friend thought'd be funny to slip me a cup when I was absolutely sober. Hey, careful you don't hurt it. It's probably worth two of me," she informed him, stirring the recently changed coffee with motions with her wand above it.

From the position he'd landed, face down on the floor, he gasped, "Encouraging, that. Suppose that makes it worth ten of me?"

"Possibly twelve," she considered cheerfully. "I'd have to know your yearly income."

He scrambled up onto the bed, almost pinning the Snidget agianst the wall. With several bounces, Jimmy, who was probably quite good at his job, propelled himself against the room and landing on a table, almost knocking over a priceless Chinese talisman Jenny had spent ten months locating. From the table, he dropped into a reflexive roll and came up behind the now low- flying bird, which tilted and twisted and shot. He sprinted in circles, leaping and diving after the fast little pest. He scrambled after it, pushing over eveything in his path. The Snidget, bred with a centuries old fear of fast, skinny men, usually on broomsticks, who wanted to catch it, suddenly seemed rather terrified. Its fear slowed its reaction time, and once in a while the reserve Seeker's hands would brush its coat.

It swiveled its wings in fast little roations, dodging, and for a moment, lost its pursuer. It had scrambled into the pocket of the unconcious, mumbling Quidditch player who looked, even in sleep, terribly devastated. The sharp eyes of the second latest addition to the team, however, located it in no time flat, noticing the practically invisible tip of its long beak poking out of the pocket. Realizing it had trapped itself, the Snidget struggled its way out of the cloth as the young man advanced rapidly on it. It was going to get away!

He leaped forward, taking completely off the ground arms outstretched, and managed to grasp the struggling, feathery ball gently in them, never feeling so satisfied in his life. For one moment, he experienced the sensation of being utterly horizontal and held up by nothing. Then gravity came into play, and still clutching the birdie, he fell plop on top of his pal, who awoke with a groan, clutching his head.

Jenny, having completed the coffee and taken the opportunity to jot down notes for her former subordinates on a napkin, rushed over, beaming. "You did it, kid, you did it! You must be something in the air."

"Actually," he said, scratching his head embaressedly with one hand as he offered the Golden Snidget with the other, "I'm not that swell in the air. Quick with my hands, slow on a broomstick. But my friends have been helping me- particularly him," Jimmy added, indicating his friend.

"Speak of the devil," she said, resisting the impulse to tear open the letter. She performed a swift Summoning charm, and the coffee mug zipped to her hand, not spilling a drop. She crouched down, bringing it to the half-awake boy's lips.

"May not be too pleased with us for doing this," Jim commented, as his friend swallowed slowly.

"Oh? Wanted to forget something, did he?"

"Better believe it," Jimmy said fervently.

"Girl trouble? Played poorly?" Jenny suggested, feeling it was something worse.

"No," said Jim nervously, bending down and continuing in a whisper. "Word came in at the end of the game late last night, a phoenix brought a letter for him, it'd been trying to locate him all day, that his parents had been...attacked the night, or early morning, rather, before. But we were in Northern Ireland, playing the Bats, which is a huge deal, and our schedule had been switched around, so the Ministry thought we were here, scrimaging. Idiot Ministry, should have just checked with the the Department of Magical Games and Sports instead of Law Enforcement. Hit Wizards were apparently looking for him all over the place, utter disaster...anyways, thank heavens Dumbledore sent that phoenix, even though it took even the bird a while to find Oliver. The news of the attack hadn't reached Ireland yet...ah, it was a bad way. Then Oliver rushed off, didn't come back for a while. When he returned, he was a wreck. His mum...You-Know-Who got her, and his dad...well, that tore poor Oliver up worst of all. He babbled something when he rushed in, said he didn't even recognize his own son, then hit the bottle and hasn't stopped since. We didn't know quite what to do, and as you can see, none of the older chaps are quite enough aware of what's going on to help at the moment." He sounded a bit bitter, and more than a little afraid, particularly as he whispered the appellation of the dreaded Dark wizard.

Jenny had stiffened, studying the awakening boy with considerable interest. Indeed, shortly before their arguement had began, her relative had, with infuriating calm, sent Fawkes out to try to find the unreachable son of the first of the attacked. "This is the Wood kid?"

"You heard, I guess," Jim said, sounding genuinely sorry for him.

"I'm a friend of the Weasley family."

"Oh, the twins? He talks about them all the time, them and little Harry Potter, and a load of girls; he was furious the twins wouldn't even talk to recruiters. Oliver loves talking about the time they won the school's Quidditch cup, he's always talking about strategies and stuff, dreamed of putting the whole team back together in the professional arena. He's incredible. Poor guy, he's such a nice bloke," Jimmy mumbled.

Jenny studied the boy intently. He had straight dark hair cropped short but not very, of nice brown shading, and was of medium height, even possibly tall. A stocky, dependable build and ruggedly good features gave him possibly good looks; whatever air he carried when he was in his right senses determined whether he was average or handsome. His eyes were pale brown, and slowly widening and seeming more alive each second. A sad cloud hung about him at the moment, and he struck her as the type to be very focused. She'd seen driven men before; he was one of them, and considering his occupation, he was probably driven by his sport. He was neither jovial nor bleak, and could have been deemed average, which she would have been likely to do; had he not, at that moment, blinked, gaining a sharpness in his eyes, and reached his hands up, grasping the cup himself, swallowing the rest of it completely of his own free will, though it probably tasted terrible

Oliver sat all the way up, gagged a bit, and rubbed the enhanced coffee off the side of his mouth. "That-" he said definitively, looking at the mug, "was absolutely the worst thing I've ever tasted."

"Alternative sounded worse," Jimmy told him, rather uncomfortable with his friend, who was his teammate but not incredibly close buddy.

"Worse than that?" He shook his head in disbelief. He glanced about confusedly from Jenny to Jim. "I've had some of Madam Pomfrey's most wretched inventions, and I canna say any of them topped that." He had a very pleasant Scottish accent, with a bit of a snap to it, even now. "Don't suppose I just got hit by a Bludger?"

"No."

"Pity. Who's this?"

"An Auror named- oh, blast it, it was something Phillipe wasn't it?"

"Jenny Philips," she corrected automatically, eyes scanning the Keeper as she stood.

He studied her curiously. "What's the squirmy thing she's holding?"

"Golden Snidget. I caught it," Jimmy added, rather proudly.

"A Snidget? No! Seriously? A- a real Snidget?"

Jenny opened her hands, allowing its little head to poke through.

Oliver fell back a bit, hand going to his head as he squinted, still a bit off. "Where did you get one of those? I mean, it isn't exactly like you can buy one at Magical Menagerie!"

"If you know where to look," Jenny said with a shrug. Of course, she didn't know where to look, but Fitz certainly did. Hopefully, he hadn't bought it on the black market.

"What was the name again?" he demanded.

"Jenny Philips."

"You checked out Quidditch through the Ages twenty-five years ago!" he jabbered. "Same handwriting as added in notes under Parkin's Pincer and Reverse Pass, very helpful to-"

"You know all this how?" she demanded, staring at him with an expression suggested he was mad.

"Spent the better part of two years memorizing it before I became Captain," he said matter-of-factly, incredibly quickly. "They came out with a new edition and got rid of the old one, which was covered in notes. I spent a long time figuring out whose handwriting was which, but it was very insightful, once I'd looked up and determined what position they played- course, hard to do when Fred kept setting my book on fire because he was too young to be ont he team yet and mad about it, but-"

She stopped his ramble. "Got it, I got it!" she said, feeling awful for him. His pain was all too obvious on his rather open face, and clearly he was clinging to the one thing that could distract him. "Fred Weasley, you mean?" she said, giving him more material.

"Yeah, he was on my team, very good Beater, probably best the school ever had, him and his brother George, started up a joke shop, the idiots, Wigtown gave them offers and I was trying to talk Puddlemere into it, but they made some joke about not wanting to be butchers and..." he ranted, on his feet and pacing a bit like a tiger in a cage. "Wait a second, how do you know them?"

"I used to baby-sit Bill and Charlie."

"No kidding! Bill's the older one, right? Charlie's great, but Harry- Potter, that is- he's even better, I'm sure." Wood's face was rather red.

"I should be getting back downstairs," Jimmy said quietly, looking at Wood with a mixture of pity and relief, that he wasn't in his place. "Oliver, do..."

"What?" said Wood, head snapping that way.

"Well, where are you going to go?"

The younger boy deflated entirely. He couldn't exactly go back to his house, and St. Mungo's, with the discussion that his father might have to be moved to the permanent ward and the acute knowledge that his mother was dead was what had sent him stumbling to the pub and his teammates in the first place. "Er..."

"Did I mention the Weasleys were attacked?" Jenny interrupted, as she tossed Jimmy a small bag that made tinkling noises.

"WHAT?" Wood roared, not meaning to grow so loud. "Them, too? What the- are they all right?"

"Bill was in a bad way, and Fred was a bit hurt, but they're both fine now," Jenny said, her compassion and genuity showing through her words. "Same night as your parents, we were in St. Mungo's, last I heard, Bill was still there. But if you didn't see him there, they might have pulled him out by now. It's possible he healed enough, those Weasleys are a hardy bunch."

"Yeah, they are," said Wood, whose eyes were conspiscously red and swollen.

Jimmy had examined the bag. "Ms. Philips, this is way too much!"

She waved him off. "I've got enough of it, kid. Keep it, buy a new broomstick, or whatever you want." She paused. "Just one thing. Tell me- your name, is it short for James?"

"Yeah," he answered, not seeing her point.

Jenny smiled slightly at him, a bit wistfully. "Well, do what it is you like, kid. Good look playing."

"Thanks. Oliver, see you soon."

Oliver nodded, head ducked. He rubbed his face a bit, then glanced up, looking awkward. "Listen, you think I could see Fred and George? I've been - well, meaning to write them, but, er-"

"Oliver," she began.

"Wood," he corrected automatically, finding it too strange for an adult to call him Oliver. Even Dumbledore had called him Wood, even Madam Hooch. His classmates and teammates called him Oliver.

"Sure, kid, Wood it is. Listen, you were team captain, right?"

"Absolutely," he said eagerly.

"So, strategies and stuff are your forte?"

Wood wasn't exactly modest. "I even designed some new plays, managed to put together the best team Hogwarts had seen in a few good years- can't say the weather was very accommodating to those plans all the time-"

"And you play Keeper?"

"How'd you-"

"Fred and George."

"Right, them. But-"

"Any good in school?"

"What?" he sputtered. "What does school have to do with anything?"

"Just how did you do in your classes?" she asked, eyeing him critcically.

"What are you on about?" he asked in complete confusion.

"If you could just answer-"

"Er, well, I was decent, though my teachers weren't too fond of me 'cause I usually spent more time at practice than doing homework, 'cept McGonagell, who knew enough to give me a break- great woman, her- and I got decent O.W.L.s?" he suggested, wondering exactly what this unknown woman was after.

"Best subject?"

"Transfiguration, obviously, with McGonagell-"

"Transfiguration?" she repeated, sounding slightly strangled, and looking at him oddly. "Did she give you a break or-"

"No, I think I was actually pretty good at it," he remarked, having never really bothered to actually think about his classes much, having achieved his goal of becoming a Quidditch player.

"And your strategies, did they work?"

He considered that; his own strategies tended to be a bunch of slightly overcomplicated- well, not nonsense, but stuff, he guessed, thinking of all his squiggly drawings and models of the field; which wasn't really so much the source of their success as practice. Finally, he answered honestly. "Sometimes?" he shrugged.

That did it, but she had to ask one thing more, althoguh she hated to. In this, she could not make a mistake. "If you had the chance to kill the people who attacked your parents, would you?"

Wood glowered. "What sort of question is that?"

She tossed her head. "When you're an Auror, it's the sort of question that it's important to know the answer to about coworkers."

His mind thinking, Coworkers?, he seriously debated the issue, still taken aback from the sudden switch from questions about his school days to this. "I, I don't know. I want to- I want to a lot- but I donno...do you mean in self defense or...not?"

"Either."

"Well, if I had to, maybe...But I don't think I could, even..." He'd gone from being in a relatively improving mood, if a confused one, to in a state of tumultous anguish.

"Good answer," she told him. "Look, I've got to read a letter, and then I think I should tell you a story. I have a notion about you, that I think should be followed up on. Look, how'd you like to room with Fred and George?"

He stared at her. "You serious?"

The old response she and her friends had learned to never, ever use, in front of Sirius or not. The joke was no use here, of course. "Completely. Their house was totalled, too, remember, and while they may be nuts..."

"Better them than the team," he said without hesitation. "I left my duffle in Ireland, so I've got absolutely nothing- not with the house gone- "

"They probably don't either, and just haven't realized it yet. You're a target, anyways, you ought to know. They wanted you, not just your parents."

"Me?" Wood croaked. "I mean, Mum's an Auro- was an Auror, I can understand that, but I'm a nobody, I'm just a second string-"

"Not for long, I hear you're good," she interupted. "You're not a nobody, you're of the last branch of the Woods, who are an old Gryffindor family. You're a friend, the former captain, of Harry Potter- I'm sure you understand the agenda there. There are plenty of reasons they could find to eliminate you. You'll have to insure your safety. I'll explain more in a minute." The Snidget squeaked, and she realized she might be gripping it too tightly. She thrust it toward him. "Here, hold this."

"Do you realize how valuable this bird is?" Wood said, voice mounting. "Like the early games, the originals to play the version of Quidditch we have today-"

"Yep," she answered. "And my contact finds it amusing to use it to deliver my mail. Charming. Give me a sec, I need to read what was so important he bothered to send a Snidget."

She tore open the black envelope, pulling out a creased piece of parchment written in Fitz's careless scrawl.

Jenny-

Look, I really am sorry about that friend of yours. Sorry if I was a bit short with you- oh, blast it, I'm not good at this. Ah, I managed to stop some of the stuff from Roger. I'm keeping the Jag, if you were damned fool enough to leave that beautiful machine in his incompetent care. Sorry in advance if the bird gives you trouble. It's sort of become part of the team in the past month or so, while you've been lazing in the lovely Venice and every other part of Italy. We picked it off up some idiot trying to sell it, proved to be a bit of a handful. I'm sick of writing in code, and who, besides us, would be foolish enough to try to stop a mail-Snidget, unless he wanted to risk harming the precious and find the entire population of Europe swooping down on him, which that Dark Lord of yours certainly does not. Send it back, it'll be safe on its own.
Down to business- this information may prove extremely important- your Voldemort chappie is trying to recruit vampires. He's getting a lot in from Romania and the like, and Jenny, this isn't my sort. This is the type that feeds- you know. Even the regular sort's tempted. Some of these are quite old- if they feed on human blood long enough, you'll recall, it can extend their lifespan- but still spry and apparently youthful. You do not want to tangle with these gentleman. All indications suggest they're heading your way, if they come, so will we. Not letting you handle this alone- you say a damn word of protest, and I can't haven't quite come up with an adequate threat, but I'll do something, anyways.
UnSeelie court rebellion going on, may hold us up till the Seelie court has got it under control. How is it wizards still don't know about these fools? Tuatha de Danaan, my ass, these buggers are annoying. Don't worry, no talk of reinstating the tithe yet. No Tam Lin disasters on my watch, thanks. A few of the spirit bards thought'd be funny to conjour some wraiths- mind the key difference between ghosts and wraiths. Have had some very unpleasant times sending them back; Taliesin and his crew have been reprimanded. Reminds me, I owe you a life debt or something for making Angie head 'stead of me. She's spitting mad, naturally, but I'd have stormed over there and demanded you return and take the job back; she'll just do it. On the plus side, I may also be able to talk her into assasinating Roger.
Don't know if this will interest you, but my old headmistress at Fionafein died; she was a decent lady. You remember old Dougal, the man who helped us when we were after the Cauldron of Dian, who was a bit off his rocker? Well, he's just been officially been made head of dear Fionafein Symposium of Sorcery. Ah, I know it's just a wee bit of a school, but it's older than yours, my gal, so there. Anyway, she took me when Dippet wouldn't, and it feels like I've got a debt I never paid the woman. Can't say I like the feeling- you know how I am with debts. Not quite sure what I can do about it now. You know, I've wondered- if my aunt had waited a month, I would have ended up at that school of yours, once Dumbledore took over. We talked about this before, a long time back, but it's been playing on my mind as of late, even before you went back there. I would have been two years ahead of you- eh, I shouldn't be going on about this. Haven't quite decided whether I'll send this letter or not. Might, just for the heck of it, and because you need to get the info anyways and I'd rather not take the time to rewrite it.
Look, I know everything's muddled up between us. We aren't just friends, but we aren't anything else, either. Particularly with that old, er, mate of yours dying. I know we've tried to work it out before, and that if we try again...eh, I'm probably not going to send this, anyways, so I might as well just put it on paper. I don't have anymore idea than you do of where my feelings stand now. But I am sick to death with not being able to talk straight with you anymore, 'specially with you getting so uppity and not practicing sword lessons anymore. Yes, I know, you've got that funny expression between bemusement and fury on your face; please drop it, it's driving me mad just picturing it. You're a very exasperating girl, Jen. Crazy as hell, too. We're the same, you and I, and that's the dangerous bit of it, we're too much alike, you've said it before- we'll kill each other if we stay together in the same place too long. Just say friends again, c'mon, junevile as you may think it. Call me, latest number's 715 (yes, just that, I've got it rigged, bloke owes me a favor, not to mention a hundred some Galleons). Call me, if you've got time. And if you need help, we've got your back, we're just across the pond. Hey, you know what? Think this is the closest I've ever come to writing a love letter- don't misinterpret that, just pointing out a fact.
Shoot, I've digressed. First, whatever you do, do not let yourself fall into the hands of the enemy. You've accumulated knowledge that would be deadly in Voldemort's hands, even the simplest of secrets. Fair warning, not only vamps are being recruited. Dementors, giants, men as you know, but I've heard, despite pureblood malcontent, that he is making advances to the goblins, trying to incite a revolution. Sure, he probably plans to just enslave them in the end, but it's dangerous now. Send envoys to their leaders while you can; get an inside man in Gringotts. He's after trolls, as well- and Jen, in Albania, I'm sure he's seen the rare big ones. That's a headache we don't need. Thank Maeve, he knows the merpeople and centaurs are hopeless, but he's not above killing unicorns- I've already heard bad stories from the Germanic states. He's got quite the following there.
One last thing- what does the Perilous Gard mean to you? We caught a Dark-supporting fellow, made him talk. I won't tell you how, but it's not methods you would have approved of. Those were the only word we could get him to say- 'the Perilous Gard, in the Perilous Gard,' his answer to each of our questions. I think- oh, blast it all. Shoot, gotta dash, give me a ring,
D. F.

She read it quickly, aware of Wood's intent eyes watching her. It was Fitz, all right, though in a rather wild mood at the time, and a serious one, as he rarely called her by her name, rather 'love' or 'darling' as he did to every girl, slightly mockingly of both the adressee and himself. She was a bit worried about his sign off- it was too abrupt, too fast, the writing was rushed. Something had interrupted him in his writings. She'd have to pass the word on to the Order. Perilous Gard- Gard was a castle- the castle perilous? She'd never heard of it.

She was startled by Fitz mentioning Fionafein Symposium of Sorcery, which he loved but rarely discussed. It was a small school in Ireland, tracing back to medieval times, even older than Hogwarts. It had been founded by the long-lived Queen Maeve, who had been instructed by Morgana Le Fay and in turn instructed the four founders of Hogwarts. Fionafein was a lovely, hidden castle, very prestigous, its teachings very ancient- even slightly dangerous. It took ten students a year, no more. Fitz had been nine when he was bitten, long down for canidacy to Hogwarts. He would have been the same year as Gideon Prewett, as Frank Longbottom, and, knowing him, he would have shared a house with one of the two. Dippet, then headmaster, had informed his parents that there was no possibility of him attending, same as he would have done for Remus. Fitz, a Muggle born whose paternal family had a tendency to derive, along the way, into family branches of wizards, had an aunt who was a witch, and who had been infuriated. She had seen to his acceptance into the reclusive Fionafein and paid for his pricey education. Fitz kept most of his past private, but he'd slowly revealed it to Jenny. That wasn't important now, though. He'd been through a anguish filled stage around the same time as the war, and Fionafein's students had stayed out of the war altogether, on either side.

The information about the vampires and the Perilous Gard might well prove invaluable. The rest, about the bards and the Tuatha de Danaan, were just his report on some of the ancient, powerful dangers that lurked in Ireland, letting her know he'd been keeping as busy as she. Until Voldemort was gone, she couldn't really worry about such things. He was right, though- Voldemort could not gain her knowledge of such matters.

"I need to make a call," she told Wood. "Oh, and you can let the Snidget out the window."

He gaped at her, disbelieving she would let such a Quidditch-related treasure go.

"It's all right, the bird knows its way home," she assured him, pulling out her phone and dialing. She lifted it to her ear.

Response was immediate. "Excellent, Francis, tell me you know how to kill this thing!"

"Fitz?" she asked worridly.

"Oh, Jen. Uh, lovely you've called." His voice was strained, pauses in between. She could here, in the background, the clash of steel on steel.

"Are you sword-fighting?" she gasped at him, causing Wood to give her a worried look. Fitz was excellent, the ancient art had been part of his school curriculum, but still, an occurence of this was not overly common, even in their line of work.

"Er, no." The swipe of a blade could be heard, followed by what sounded like him rolling on the ground, and a blade striking rock. "Well, perhaps, but-"

"What are you-"

"Don't ask, please don't ask. Look, Jen, lovely you've called, bet I'll see you sooner than you think, send any information to Angie, I heard about Dmitri, don't sweat it, gotta go, unless you want to wait on hold, which isn't very you-"

"I'll let you go."

"Thank you, merciful heavens! Bye, love- Oh, shoot, I'd forgotten! My contact in Scotland Yard-"

"You have a contact in Scotland Yard?"

"Yes- ouch! One sec." There was a brief pause, a loud clatter, and he returned, rather out of breath. "See, he says he needs Obliviators over there, stat, but he doesn't want them erasing his- see, his sister's a witch and he's not technically supposed to know or be involved in our world- he says there's a huge problem, needs help right away, huge problem, and since you're there..."

"Sure, Fitz," said Jenny, trying not to roll her eyes. With Fitz and his contacts, there was always some huge problem, tending to be of apocalyptical proportions- at least, to them.

"Thanks, Jenny. Owe ya one," he said, in his lilting voice. "Oh, drat, it's coming back- and it's brought a friend. Really got to go." The phone went dead in her ears as he clicked off.

"Productive conversation," she said dryly. She looked up at Wood, resolving to take him to Grimmauld Place once she'd explained things- Moody would let him in- grab somebody like Remus to go with her, and head off to see what the fuss was at Scotland Yard. Jenny looked nervously at Wood, unsure how to start. How to say this? Well, how had Moody said it to them, so long ago, right after they'd all vowed never to use an Unforgivable. "Well, kid, let me put this simply...You've been selected as the newest recruit of the Order of the Phoenix..."