Disclaimer: JK Rowling and assorted publishers own Harry Potter.

This is a work of fanfiction: no money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Chapter 24

Harry made his way down to breakfast directly from the Hospital Wing - the girls had evidently gathered up his clothes from Parvati's bed when they'd taken him there (the alternative would have been unthinkable - making his way back to Gryffindor Tower in just a hospital gown). Parvati, Lavender and Hermione were all deep in conversation, but he decided to brave their wrath and get it over with, "Morning all."

It was probably just his imagination, but he was certain that the heating had been turned all the way up in the Great Hall that morning.

Parvati gave his hand a gentle squeeze as he settled into the chair next to her, "Morning, are you OK?"

"Um, yeah. Bad dream..."

"Yes darling, we did notice."

OK, thought Harry, clearly no-one was pretending it hadn't happened.

"I'm really sorry about that - I don't have any control over when I connect, you see..."

Hermione looked up from her animated conversation with Lavender. "Did Madam Pomfrey talk to you?" she enquired.

"Er, about what?" asked Harry, cautiously.

"About sex, Harry," Hermione replied, crisply. Quite how she'd managed to time this clarification to coincide exactly with a momentary lull in all other conversations within the Great Hall was a mystery. But time it she had.

He'd never before noticed just quite how far Hermione's voice could carry.

"Um yeah," he mumbled by way of reply, involuntarily squirming at the recollection.

"She's really good, isn't she?" commented Lavender. "Helpful, I mean. And Hermione's spoken to McGonagall about getting Pomfrey to speak to all the fourth-years and above, by house," she added, enthusiastically.

"Wibble?" ventured Harry, weakly. Surely they weren't going to inflict a repeat performance upon him. With an audience.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall was really impressed with the idea. If it goes well, they might make it a permanent fixture in the curriculum!" Hermione sounded ecstatic.

Terrific, thought Harry, his legacy to future generations would be Madam Pomfrey terrifying them with... well it just didn't bear thinking about. He shuddered at the prospect.

At this point the Twins arrived, whooping with joy at the site of Harry, "Harry!" cried Lee, "I hear you pulled a 30 Pointer!"

"Good on you, mate!" added Fred, slapping Harry's back heartily for good measure.

"What's a 30 Pointer?" asked Hermione, puzzled.

"Oh," elaborated George, "30 points is the standard fine for, well, you know, being caught in, well..." the knowing look that supplemented this explanation contained all the detail anyone could possibly need to deduce exactly which transgression resulted in a fine of 30 House Points. "Right Harry?"

Harry wondered just how quickly he was going to be able to extricate himself from Breakfast from Hell. Because, no doubt about it, this was turning into the genuine article. At least it couldn't get any worse.

And it really was hot in the Great Hall. He wondered if someone would think of opening a window or something.

"Hey Harry," greeted Neville, as he slid in to the vacant spot next to Hermione, "did you stay out all last night or something? 'cos the curtains on your bed were pulled back all night..."

To make the time pass more quickly, Harry decided to lightly bang his forehead on the table, repeatedly. The muffled groans were purely for artistic effect. Parvati ruffled his hair sympathetically.

Harry hadn't been surprised to receive another curt message from Dumbledore, using the same miniature black owl. This time he was to meet the former headmaster at 11. Since it was a Sunday, and there were obviously no lessons, Harry was hoping to learn a bit more, rather than being shoved out as soon as he'd said his bit.

It was the same room that they Apparated into, once Dumbledore had collected Harry from the Portkey point at Azkaban. Sweeping outwards with his sense, there didn't seem to be any other buildings around, and certainly no other people. The fish still floated idly across the pool in the middle, which was about twelve feet in depth, he calculated, as he plunged his sense through the water.

Which made the room very odd. There was absolutely no mundane entrance or exit. You had to Apparate here.

Moody was already there. This didn't surprise Harry in the least - in fact, he wouldn't have been surprised if Moody had decided to live there; at least there was only a slim chance of someone breaking in.

"I see y'brought Potter back, then," the ex-Auror noted, his magic eye scanning Harry whilst his real eye looked at Dumbledore.

"Yes, Alastor," confirmed Dumbledore, although given that he was still holding Harry by the arm, such confirmation seemed redundant, "and I would not be in the least surprised to learn that Harry has some vital information for us this dark day."

"We've all heard of curse scars serving as alarm bells before, Albus," cautioned a distinctly sceptical Moody.

Fortunately, further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Sirius and Lupin. Both were looking pretty grim.

"Morning Harry - so tell me about the arm then," Sirius hadn't had an opportunity to follow up their greeting from the first meeting Harry had attended.

"Oh, this?" asked Harry, waving his arm in its fake sling, "It's nothing." Then, at Sirius' disbelieving expression, "I mean, really nothing. It's fake." Realising that there was no point pretending to be an invalid, Harry discarded the sling.

Moody gave Harry an approving look.

"OK," said Sirius, slowly, "and the point is...?"

"Since I became a Mage, there are certain things I can't do," explained Harry, "one of which is fly a broomstick... You know I'm Seeker for Gryffindor, right?"

"And a damned good one, too," confirmed Sirius.

"Well I needed a plausible excuse to present to Alicia - she's captain - for not being able to fly at the moment. So I made up an accident, and they bought it. Well, most of them, anyway. See, only Ron and Hermione know that I'm a Mage..."

Moody snorted in disgust. "Can't that boy hold his tongue?" he asked of no-one in particular.

"Hermione and Ron are like family to me!" asserted Harry, strongly, riled by Moody's implication that either of his best friends might present a security threat. Besides, it was his neck on the line.

"Yes," sighed Moody, wearily, "and look where family ties get you in this business."

Crouch. Harry clenched his jaws to prevent him getting sucked into a deeper argument, and also because the mention of Barty Crouch inevitably led to the Triwizard Cup. The Third Task. Cedric.

Cho.

Sirius spoke up, "I can vouch for Harry's friends, Alastor," he said, mildly, "they're good. But Harry," and his godfather turned to face him, "be careful..."

"I know, I know," said Harry, resignedly. He didn't mind conceding the point to Sirius, but he was damned if he was going to let Moody get one over him.

"...and as far as I can tell," Bill was explaining, "the Subsumatum curse was developed some time around the late sixteenth century, during the rise of Predergast."

"Of course!" exclaimed Lupin, his academic's curiosity piqued, "and that explains so much! The Predergasts prior to Morgana had never been a notable family. Not much power, modest ambition, and then, suddenly, Morgana rose to become one of the most feared witches of the time... And this must be how she got her power."

Kolchan Vesh, a young (by the others' standards) blonde witch was nodding her head. Harry guessed she must be in her mid-30s, and quite attractive. "So the Predergasts developed this curse as a tool to sweep to power. Then why was it forgotten?"

"Well," continued Bill, "it seems that it can be a double-edged sword, Subsumatum. The journal entries I have for Frederick Gryffsen, who was the last of the Predergast line before they were overthrown, shows him suffering from advanced schizophrenia in his later days. I'm guessing that absorbing too many personalities into the one probably created some kind of conflict within... but that's just a guess."

Moody gave an exaggerated sigh, but Harry resisted the urge to turn and glare at him. It was hardly as if Moody had contributed anything constructive to the meeting himself so far.

"So we can see why Vellum used it on Harry," noted Sirius, "since they wanted to weaken him before he faced Voldemort again..."

It was one thing to be spoken of in the third person, as though you weren't there. It was quite another to have your godfather calmly conjecturing a further showdown between yourself and Voldemort as though it was a dentists' appointment.

Sirius was still speaking, "...but Harry's vision," again there was a derisive snort from Moody, "mentioned that they wanted it for the Keys. How would that work?"

"Well," began Harry, before stopping again, self-consciously. Moody was scowling at him once more, which, ironically enough, made Harry even more resolved to explain what he'd witnessed the previous night.

"Do go on, Harry, we're here to listen to you," encouraged Dumbledore, seemingly oblivious to Moody's exaggerated slump in his chair.

"Last night, I had a vision that Beauxbatons had been taken by Voldemort..."

"And indeed it was," confirmed Dumbledore gravely, "but what can you tell us about the role of the Key in all this?"

So Harry explained about the blood sacrifice performed on the witch, and Voldemort casting the Subsumatum curse on her as her body dissolved.

"So how did yer know it was Beauxbatons?" snarled Moody.

"Deduction, mainly," admitted Harry, "the bit about 'Dumbledore's pet giant' had to mean Hagrid, and I knew he was staying at Beauxbatons. Plus the witch was screaming in a language that sounded like French..."

"Sounded like?" persisted Moody.

"I think so..." confirmed Harry, cautiously, remembering being completely baffled by Dudley's homework in this regard

"BUT YOU DON'T KNOW, DO YOU LADDIE?" Moody, for some inexplicable reason, seemed furious. He turned on Dumbledore, "What, Albus, is the point of listening to the boy's daydreams if he can't even observe properly? It could all be conjecture..."

"But for the fact, Alastor," interrupted Dumbledore, his whole demeanour exuding patience, "that everything Harry has said tallies with our own intelligence of the situation in France."

"Blood magic," said Kolchan, softly, nodding her head once more, "yes, that would make sense." She looked at Bill, "they're using captives as Strem vessels, to avoid Voldemort being harmed by the power in the Key, aren't they?"

Bill looked at Kolchan in amazement, "Of course! Why didn't I think of this?"

Mundungus Fletcher, a thin, wiry wizard who constantly moved in sudden, sharp bursts, sought clarification, "Strem?"

Kolchan explained, "Josef Strem was a late nineteenth century wizard who came up with the idea of using a third person as an energy reservoir when performing complicated transference incantations. The idea," she noted sourly, "was that if anything went wrong in the process, they'd die, rather than you."

Harry wondered, optimistically, if Snape had ever considered pursuing a career as a Strem vessel. He'd be willing to write a glowing reference for the Potions Master if he ever needed one.

"So how is Beauxbatons now?" asked Harry.

"No-one knows," replied Dumbledore, "all communication has been severed, so the only word we've had was a brief message from Olympe. I would expect, if Hagrid has managed to escape, that the survivors will take one of two options - they will either attempt to seek sanctuary with the giants," at this suggestion, Mundungus flinched backwards in his chair in shock, "or they will make their way to Hogwarts."

"They'd be mad to throw their lot in with the giants," opined Mundungus, seemingly having recovered from his shock at the concept.

"I'm not sure I agree," countered Lupin, "but I would imagine that most of the survivors would take that view. I recommend that we advise Hogwarts to stand ready to receive whatever survivors there may be."

"So how long before this goes public?" asked Monica Tiller, a thin, frail witch who seemed almost as old as Dumbledore, but without the sparkling vitality.

Fletcher scowled, "With Fudge as minister, I doubt it will even make the Prophet. You know the routine; first off," he tapped a finger to make the point, "he'll deny it point blank. Next," the animated man tapped a second finger, "he'll write it off as a hoax, a sick joke in poor taste.

"Then," the third finger was tapped, "he'll explain that since Voldemort is busy waging war in mainland Europe we have nothing to worry about..."

The others nodded their heads silently.

"So what's his plan?" asked Sirius.

"I would imagine," answered Dumbledore, "that he's setting out to rebuild his power base, and impose his... extreme view of wizarding society upon the rest of us. Only the Pureblood shall survive would be his motto, I suspect."

"So what's his next move?" persisted Sirius.

"I'm guessing that he's going to want to consolidate his base in Beauxbatons, assimilate as much power as he can from the Key, whilst the Death Eaters raise havoc," suggested Arabella Figg, with a weary sigh.

"He picked a good base," noted Lupin, "a nice chateau in the Loire Valley. Good wine, reasonable scenery..." then, seeing the disapproving looks from his colleagues faces, he added, "What? Just because he's evil doesn't mean he's completely without a sense for the aesthetic..."

"Whatever..." sighed Sirius, dismissively.

"It'll probably take a while before he's managed to drain the Key," noted Harry.

"And why is that?" asked Monica. Her tone was not sharp, nor lazy. She was almost devoid of any spark of life whatsoever, and Harry wondered, somewhat morbidly, how long she had left.

"The Key. It's power is vast," explained Harry, shaking his head as he tried to come up with a way to get its scale across. "I mean, I've sensed the one at Hogwarts, and I'd guess the Beauxbatons Key would be similar. Huge..."

"And he's going to need a steady supply of sacrificial victims to complete the transfer, isn't he?" observed Bill, shrewdly.

"Which means," deduced Mundungus, "that we still have time..."

Dumbledore sighed, "I'm not sure it means anything of the kind, I'm afraid, Mundungus. I expect this to be a war fought on many fronts, and even though Voldemort may be preoccupied by his obsession with personal power, his Death Eaters will be given fresh confidence by so bold a hand as played last night. We may find we have our work cut out simply trying to maintain the status quo." The venerable wizard looked impossibly tired.

The assembly paused in silent contemplation of these words, until Moody suddenly turned on Harry, "So Laddie, no-one else knows you had a vision last night, right?"

"Well... I kind of have these screaming fits when it happens," started Harry, apologetically, "so I woke up the people in the dorm..." He fervently hoped that no-one present would pick up on the careful use of the phrase 'the dorm'.

"Ah yes, that would be, let me see, Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, Mr Thomas and... Mr Finnegan," surmised Dumbledore, helpfully. "All most trustworthy, I can assure you Alastor."

Harry knew he looked guilty. Which was unfortunate, since he was at that moment the subject of intense scrutiny by the best Auror the Ministry had ever had. "Anyone else?" asked Moody, the barest hint of a threat evident in his tone.

"hulgalhuieisjksk," mumbled Harry, hoping that the matter would drop.

"What was that?" persisted Moody. "Who else knew that you had this vision?"

"Hermione, Parvati, Lavender," listed Harry, quietly, face burning.

"But what were the girls doing in your dorm?" asked Lupin, incredulously, before turning mildly pink himself with a delicate, "Ah..."

"They weren't actually in the boys' dorm..." continued Harry, morosely.

Sirius was puzzled, "Then how come you woke them up... Oh!" he exclaimed, eyes widened in realisation, before his face split into a wicked grin.

"Thirty points, Mr Potter?" asked Dumbledore mildly, amusement sparkling in his blue eyes.

"Yes, thirty points," admitted Harry, face burning, staring fixedly at the fascinating goldfish.

"Well, Harry!" complimented Sirius, "Unfortunate timing, though..."

Tell me about it, thought Harry, before pleading, "Couldn't we just drop it?"

"Oh no you don't, boy!" snarled Moody. Harry cheerfully hated him now.

"We have to be sure," the bitter ex-Auror persisted, "that these girls are trustworthy. We have to maintain whatever advantage we might have over Voldemort, and the last thing we need is for a group of gossiping schoolgirls telling the world about your visions..."

"They're not gossiping sch..." started Harry, before he noticed Lupin looking at him with raised eyebrows. Lupin had of course taught them all in their third year. "Well, OK," he decided to defend them from a fresh stance, "they might, perhaps, be thought of as the gossiping type," Lupin's eyebrows looked as though they might be attempting to march across his scalp to the back of his neck, "but I haven't told them anything about what I saw..."

"Excellent," surmised Moody.

"...yet." finished Harry, locking stares with Moody.

"And you're not going to," confirmed Sirius, fixing Harry with an intense stare of his own. "Are you?"

Once again, Harry was willing to defer to Sirius where he wouldn't to Moody, "No, I won't," he agreed, although he didn't say that he only meant he wouldn't tell Lavender and Parvati. Lupin was right about those two.

It struck him that perhaps Sirius realised how much Moody was antagonising him, and was deliberately offering him face-saving climb-downs. Sirius as placating negotiator - Snape would have a heart attack.

As Harry recounted the day's events to Ron and Hermione that evening, he suddenly slapped his hand to his forehead, "Guys! If the First Key was here at Hogwarts, and Voldemort found the Second at Beauxbatons..."

Hermione's eyes had widened in realisation, "Then the Third Key is at..."

"Durmstrang!" Harry and Hermione chorused.

Ron blinked, "How do you know for sure?"

"Well I don't," admitted Harry, "but, it just feels... right, somehow. Actually, I wonder if Lucas knows..."

"Maybe you should talk to him about it," suggested Hermione.

"Don't be daft!" exclaimed Ron, bravely ignoring Hermione's death-stare, "Harry can't pop over to Azkaban for a cup of tea with Lucas... He's sort of allergic to Dementors, in case you'd forgotten." He turned to Harry, "No offence, mate."

"Actually, it's not a bad idea," Harry observed, carefully, "well, apart from the Dementors bit. It'd be good to see Lucas, and I get the impression he doesn't get too many visitors."

"Anyway," asserted Hermione, taking back control of the situation, "the important thing is this; we've got to get Harry to the Third Key before Voldemort gets there."

"Easier said than done," noted Harry.

"Especially if it's at Durmstrang," Ron pointed out, "the place practically breeds Death Eaters - Vicky'll probably gift wrap it for him," he added sourly.

"His name's Viktor," corrected Hermione, icily, before returning a volley of her own with, "and, if I remember correctly, it wasn't me who asked for his autograph, was it?"