The surest defense against Evil is extreme individualism, originality of thinking, whimsicality, even-if you will-eccentricity. That is, something that can't be feigned, faked, imitated; something even a seasoned imposter couldn't be happy with.

"What of Draco, Severus?"

Severus stared directly into his Master's eyes. "The boy fled when he realized his magic had abandoned him."

"And Narcissa?"

"I have not seen her. I can only assume she fled with her son."

Voldemort scratched his pale white chin thoughtfully. "I am not usually one to be surprised by even the strangest of events, but this…this has been a shock. Draco Malfoy, a muggle-born, I wonder if she ever informed Lucius."

"I would think not, my Lord."

"Pity we'll never be able to ask him." Severus schooled his features into an expression of mild curiosity and waited for the Dark Lord to explain. "Lucius lost his life at Azkaban."

"That is a pity," Severus commented, lips pressed together in a sly grin.

"Yes, Severus, a pity. He was my second, a confidant. Perhaps there is one in my ranks who can take his place." As he said this, he motioned for Severus to stand and take the place to his right.

"This place," Voldemort motioned to the spot next to his throne, now occupied by Snape. "it should have been yours to begin with. It has always been you in the shadows and you providing the information needed to cripple my enemies. In you, I see much of myself. We are both snakes Severus."

Severus gave a small nod. "It is an honor, my Lord."

dSz

The President of the United States of America was never one to be surprised. In the five years since he'd first taken office, he felt as if he'd seen anything and everything. Being friends with some of the world's most eccentric and powerful people will do that to a person.

So when a young dark-haired man suddenly shot out of his fireplace in the middle of the night, he barely flinched. His wife, on the other hand, did give a small cry and a large group of secret service agents burst into the room, pistols out and aimed at the mysterious youth. The President waved them off, ordering them to holster their weapons.

"Put 'em down boys," he ordered as he flipped the switch on the small lamp next to his bed. The teenager brushed off his long black robes and ran a hand through his messy hair. When he looked up, the President's heart skipped a beat. Apparently there were things in this world that could still surprise him. "Harry Potter," he whispered.

The Secret Service men dropped their arms to their sides, mouths agape. They'd all heard that name. Each man and woman had sat in countless meetings where this boy was talked about in an almost reverent tone. Two of the service men, being wizards themselves, holstered their weapons immediately and had to hold themselves back from shaking the young man's hand.

"I'm sorry for dropping in at such a late hour," Harry stated apologetically, "But…" He was interrupted by a green flare.

Sergeant Owens stepped out of the fireplace and scanned the room, an angry expression on his stoic face. "I'm sorry Mr. President, I tried to explain to Mr. Potter that there are proper channels of communication."

"Not a problem Sergeant Owens," the President replied amiablly before turning to Harry. "If you would make yourself at home in the den, I'll be right there."

As he watched the men move to the next room, a sharp feeling of panic rose up inside his chest. He squashed it down with experience. There was no reason to get excited over a situation that had not yet presented itself. Given the proper amount of thought, every problem has a solution. Albus Dumbledore had told him that and he firmly believed it with all his heart.

"Was that really Harry Potter?" He heard his wife question in a quiet whisper.

"It sure looked like it. Do you want me to ask for his autograph?" His wife smacked him playfully on the arm. "Okay, no autograph then. I suppose I could try and get him together with Chelsea, they are about the same age." He chuckled at his wife's almost hopeful look. "I'm joking. I don't think he's got time to think about girls anyway."

She nodded her head sadly. "Such a strange way to run things, putting all their hopes on such a young man. I don't understand why the British government doesn't step in and do something."

"They can't help, they wouldn't even know where to start. The muggle world and magical world split for them a long time ago and they've never tried to bring them together. I do understand secrecy, like the kind we have here, but their ideas seem so…extreme."

"Well hurry up, don't keep the boy waiting."

"Yes ma'am," he chuckled while pulling a threadbare sweatshirt over his head.

"That's what you're wearing to meet Harry Potter?" She looked at the bright green shirt with disgust.

The President rolled his eyes. "I don't think he's going to care what I'm wearing. I'm not going to a dinner party."

As he stepped into his cozy den, he paused for a moment, temporarily bemused by the sight of the Boy-Who-Lived paging through yesterday's paper and sipping on a Coke. With a little shrug at the ridiculousness of it all, the leader of the free world strode to the other side of the coffee table and sat down in his favorite recliner. Leaning forward, he waited for the young wizard to notice his presence.

"See anything interesting?" He questioned, making the boy jump in surprise.

"Sorry, sir. Didn't notice you there."

"Rough night?"

Harry sighed. "Not the worst but not the best, sir."

"Well Mr. Potter, what brings you here at such a late hour?" He steepled his fingers and waited for the young man to reply.

"I need help," Harry blurted out stupidly and then shook his head. "Sorry, that didn't come out right. You've already given enough help with the soldiers and the scientists, but we've got muggle-borns and children and people who can't fight and we need somewhere to send them before the Dark Lord attacks Hogwarts."

The President leaned back in his La-Z-Boy and rubbed a caloused hand over his mouth. It seemed too soon for these things. Just a year ago he had been bowling with Dumbledore, discussing politics and world conflicts. Albus had been full of life, as usual, giving no hint of the perilous position the wizarding world now found itself in.

He reached over and pressed a large red button on the phone on the end table. It was the speed-dial for his personal assistant. After a few rings, a sleepy voice answered. "Can I help you sir?"

"Sorry for waking you Miss Adams, but I need your assistance in my den. Can you pick up Ted and Martin on your way?"

There was a moment's pause. "Of course sir. I'll get right on that."

The President turned back to Harry. "I understand that you're having trouble, but you need to understand that in order to bring your people to the United States, they've got to have refugee status, which means they need to apply for refugee status."

"But won't that take time."

"Yes," he nodded. "But if they can get here, then they're considered asylum seekers and they'll have one year to complete the required paperwork."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Then I just need to find a way to get them here. But they'll also need places to stay and food and…"

The President held a hand up. "Let's think all of this through. You're sure that Voldemort will attack Hogwarts." Harry nodded.

"He's already taken a lot of the muggle-borns. No one knows where and with the Ministry destroyed, there's no one to go out looking. I don't know what to do, sir. I'm no Minister of Magic. I don't know what decisions to make or what needs to be done. I need help." He gave the man a pleading look.

"Then I'll do my best to help in any way I can. There are a lot of wizarding charity groups here that can help these people once they get here. We'll take care of them while you work on getting rid of this Voldemort character. You're not alone, Harry. I've got a fairly large military force at my command and I will send them where they're needed."

It was then that Harry noticed the man's hand travel to his pocket, where a wooden stick was poking out. "Is that a wand?" He questioned brazenly.

The President nodded, blushing slightly. "I don't know why I still carry it around. Not much use now."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You're a wizard!"

"A muggle-born," the older man explained, his eyes hardening.

DSz

Kingsley's tired eyes scanned the darkness. A sound to his right caught his attention immediately and he instinctually went for his wand, only to discover it was no longer in his pocket. He reached out to grab whatever or whoever was making the noise, but pulled back only air.

"Who's there?"

"Mon dieu!" A deep voiced exclaimed. "You have awoken finally!"

"Yes," Kinglsey replied, his voice harsh sounding and faint. "Where am I?"

"Le camp," the voice stated, "The place for those like me, but not those like you."

"Like me?"

"Oui, you are a British auror. I am but a lowly muggle-born, no better than dirt to these wizards. But you…you are like them."

Kingsley shook his head. "Not like them…never like them." He began to fall and immediately hands reached out through the darkness to hold him steady.

"Please sir, sit and rest." Kingsley did as he was told.

"Where is this place?"

The thin, pale man shrugged underneath his too large brown robes. Kingsley was disturbed by the man's gaunt appearance and shaved head. A strange black mark rested on the man's pale shoulder, but Kingsley could not make it out.

"What is that?" He questioned, pointing at the blurry mark.

"Mon nombre," the man spat. "The number I was branded with. It's how they keep track of one such as me."

"The camp is out there?"

The man shook his head. "No, we are in it. This cage," he motioned to the air around them. "Is where I have lived for months. You cannot see it, it is too dark here."

"Months?!" Kingsley exclaimed. "How is that possible? Why hasn't anyone come looking? How many people are here?"

"It is hard to tell," he answered with a shrug. "They bring more in every day, but none ever leave. The children, they take away and the old ones, they kill. Some, like me, they keep in the cages."

"But someone must know this is here, someone must know you people are missing!"

The man shook his head sadly. "No one knows. No one is coming. This place…une mort solitaire."

"What?"

"A lonely death," the pale man translated softly. "Now get some sleep my friend. You are awake and surely they know this, tomorrow they will come and you will need your strength."

Kingsley swallowed hard. "Who will come?"

"The Death Eaters and the Dementors," the man replied in a pitiful tone. He rubbed his hands across his arms. "The Dementors are worse, I think. They bring such cold, one feels they will never be warm again."