A.N.: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! This chapter is for Marli, Beatrix and MuggleCreator! Because you're hard-core Pleiades lovers and you make writing this fanfic worthwhile!

So, this is the aftermath of the Dementors' attack in my version of events!

We've also got a glimpse of moustached George…in tartan… That's just for you, B!


The Eldest of the Pleiades

28


As Maia dropped into the kitchen accompanied by the twins next morning, several people laughed; Ginny giggled; several people shushed each other, and Sirius smirked, flipping open the Daily Prophet.

"You made the front page," he said simply. Maia's face, alongside Harry's, smiled back at her.

"In full colour," Ailith remarked, with a satisfied smile as she eyed the newspaper. Coloured photographs were unusual for the Prophet. Above the full-colour photographs of Harry and Maia, the headline read 'DEMENTOR ATTACK'.

"Oh no," Maia groaned, as the twins laughed richly.

So Cuffe agreed to print, then," George grinned.

"We had words," Ailith smiled gently. Sirius reached out to rub her thigh familiarly, giving it a pat before turning back to the paper.

"Read the article aloud, Sirius," Remus said, frowning slightly.

"'At twenty minutes past nine last evening, the Improper Use of Magic Office received an alert that two Patronuses had been conjured in the Muggle suburb of Little Whinging, Surrey, long-time residence of our nation's beloved hero, Harry Potter.

'More staggering than the power with which the Patronuses were conjured is the reason for which they were deemed necessary. Reports of two Dementors in Little Whinging, attacking Mr Harry Potter, 14, and Miss Maia Black, 15, had Madam Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law-Enforcement, leaving her office late last night to investigate the claim.

'Prior reports from the Prophet's ex-journalist, Rita Skeeter, painted young Mr Potter as an arrogant attention-seeker: Sitting in on his testimony with Madam Bones, this reporter is delighted to report that, far from being thrilled to find himself famous and jumping at any chance to further his own reputation, young Harry Potter is quite the opposite. Polite, well-spoken, with a good head on his shoulders, Mr Potter gives his testimony on what happened last evening, walking home…'" Sirius read out Harry's statement: Ailith praised Harry for his instincts; reported that Harry had told her that Remus had taught him the Patronus Charm in his third year, when Dementors were stationed around Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—"'when asked why the Dementors affected him so badly during that third-year Quidditch match, Mr Potter reluctantly confides that "I…I hear my mum being killed by Voldemort when Dementors get too near me".

'Professor Remus Lupin, now at the forefront of the werewolf-rights movement, taught Mr Potter the Patronus Charm as a precautionary measure during his year-long tenure as, quoting Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, "one of the most beloved professors of Defence Against the Dark Arts Hogwarts has seen these many years".

'When asked, Miss Black, an incredibly pretty girl with a demeanour thrumming with vibrancy and intelligence, said she learned the Patronus Charm after a brush with a Boggart, which had taken the form of a Dementor. Like Mr Potter, the Dementors have a greater effect than usual on Miss Black, who will turn sixteen later this summer. Miss Maia Black is the daughter of Balian de Lusignan, hero to many during the Great Wizarding War, and also granddaughter to Godfrey de Lusignan, the most-beloved Minister for Magic in British history, whose grisly murder during the War brought about Millicent Bagshot's brief tenure as Minister.

'"It was lucky Harry tried the Patronus Charm first; even though it didn't work the first time, it staved off a little of the Dementors' influence; it cleared my mind, so I could focus on producing a Patronus myself," Miss Black says, crumpling a chocolate-wrapper nervously. Many adult wizards struggle with the post-N.E.W.T.-level charm, which requires presence of mind and the ability to focus on a single, blissfully happy memory. Amazing, then, that two teenagers with such tragic histories can surpass even highly-trained Ministry employees in magical Defence skill-levels.

'If readers are shocked by two teenagers' ability to produce fully corporeal Patronuses, I pose the question: Why were they necessary at all?

'A team of wizards from the Auror Department confirmed that Dementors were indeed present in the little alley in Little Whinging; convincing evidence given by Mr Dudley Dursley, Muggle cousin to Harry Potter, also backs up the claim of an attack. But nobody seems able to answer the question; what were Dementors doing there in the first place?

'In a Ministry that is rapidly devolving into the pursuit of personal agendas of racist bureaucrats pushing for the tagging of mermaids, culling of vampires, herding up of centaurs and euthanasia of those afflicted by the werewolf-bite, whispers from insiders that the order for the two Dementors to leave Azkaban came from inside Fudge's own office are being taken very seriously.

'And if the Minister sees fit to keep under his employ such persons as potential assassins of our greatest hero, be it on his own career! However, this journalist asks readers to consider this; do your sons and daughters know the Patronus Charm? How would they fare, if, the next time Dementors go rogue, they come for your own children?

'The removal of Dementors from Azkaban has long been a bone of contention between the Wizengamot and Prof. Albus Dumbledore, who sits as Chief Warlock; not since Godfrey de Lusignan's legendary tenure as Minister for Magic has the subject been broached to remove the Dementors from our prison.

'Said Madam Bones in an official statement last evening, "Long has it been thought the Dementors' time at Azkaban is over. I voted to remove them when Godfrey de Lusignan was Minister; and I heartily agree with Professor Dumbledore that the time has come again to reconsider the matter of removing Dementors from Azkaban. A full-scale inquiry into why Dementors attacked Miss Black and Mr Potter has begun, headed by myself personally, and I can only apologise to the two for the terror they experienced, and applaud their bravery and intuition not only in defending themselves against the Dementors, but also in going out of their way to protect Mr Potter's defenceless Muggle cousin".

'Professor Dumbledore, whom I managed to catch briefly at the Ministry last evening, coming out of the Department of Magical Law-Enforcement to sort out Miss Black's and Mr Potter's legal standings after their illegal use of the Patronus Charm, said only, "Considering their bravery and selflessness in protecting Harry's Muggle cousin, I am very proud to call myself their headmaster. Maia and Harry behaved admirably in the face of danger, exhibiting the behaviour I and the rest of the staff at Hogwarts School can only hope to inspire in our students".

'An insider close to both Harry Potter and Maia Black, who wishes to remain anonymous, says that both Mr Potter and Miss Black "acted like their parents' children; they would be incredibly proud!"

'While Madam Bones launches an inquiry into the Dementor attack, we must all be grateful to Professor R. J. Lupin for teaching Mr Potter the Patronus Charm; while Miss Black and Mr Potter await news of any punishment for their reasonable breach of the Statute of Secrecy in the face of a life-threatening emergency, we can only hope whoever is responsible for the assassination-attempt on one of our history's greatest heroes and two innocent bystanders comes clean.

'Hopefully they will find themselves in a nice cell in a Dementor-free Azkaban by the New Year.'"

"I like that," Maia grinned. "'Assassination attempt'."

"You'll have the nation up in arms about the Ministry," Sirius said, grinning lazily at Ailith, looking highly satisfied.

"We all do what we can," Ailith smiled. "Hopefully it will have the desired effect. Cuffe's assured me coverage on this the whole way through the inquiry. Hopefully I'll have more opportunity to uncover Ministry corruption."

"Watergate," Maia said, and Ailith winked.

"I hope Harry doesn't mind us using him as the poster-boy for resistance against the corrupt institution," Sirius said nonchalantly.

"Nah, that's right up Harry's street," George grinned.

"He breaks more rules at Hogwarts than we've ever gotten away with," Fred sighed, looking mildly disgruntled.

"That's because Harry's being noble and heroic while he's breaking them," George intoned sagely. "Nicking magic gems; freeing vain hippogriffs; aiding fugitives with an unnatural fixation on rats; entering underage into a deadly tournament; saving our sister from psychotic diaries…"

"Make light of my possession, thank you," Ginny scowled.

"You're welcome," the twins replied blithely. Ailith glanced up, eyes wide and curious.

"Possession?"

"In our second year," Hermione spoke up, Crookshanks purring in her lap, "Ginny's first, the Chamber of Secrets opened at Hogwarts." Ginny looked rather uncomfortable. "The Prophet never reported on it, but Hagrid was arrested by Fudge for it, without any evidence; Hagrid spent months in Azkaban. When, all the time, it was really You-Know-Who…" Ron came into his own, taking over the story for Hermione, who had spent most of her second-year in the hospital-wing, Petrified or covered in fur. Ailith was fascinated about the Ministry cover-up; the arrest without evidence of Hagrid the gamekeeper; the confirmation that Acromantula had a colony inside the Forbidden Forest; how Hermione had brewed Polyjuice Potion in the first term of her second-year; figuring out Moaning Myrtle had been the basilisk's only fatality during the first opening of the Chamber; Dobby's interference and revelations; how Harry suspected Lucius Malfoy had slipped the diary amongst Ginny's books after a fistfight with Arthur in Flourish & Blotts. She was especially curious about the diary, as was Mad-Eye, who stumped in, relieved by Hestia from duty in Little Whinging. He grilled Ginny about the diary, how it worked; what she'd felt; until Mrs Weasley came downstairs, ready to relieve Kingsley on guard-duty, and scolded Mad-Eye for dredging up Ginny's worst memories.

Fred and George eyed Mad-Eye lovingly as he took the brunt of Mrs Weasley's anger for rattling Ginny's cage, "a nice change," George sighed, though Mrs Weasley clipped him round the ear for mentioning the diary in the first place.

"It's good information, Molly," Ailith said, frowning thoughtfully. "I wonder…"

"What?" Mrs Weasley frowned.

"Well, if I could get this into the Prophet, and spin it that Fudge arrested Hagrid but let Malfoy go free after Harry accused him of planting the diary… We could even get Dobby to testify in front of the Wizengamot…"

"Dobby'd probably have loads of stuff on the Malfoys," Ron said eagerly, with a huge swallow; he was working on his second plate of breakfast. "Mind you, you'd have a hell of a job trying to get it out of him without him trying to punish himself every five minutes."

"He just needs a little practice," Hermione said. "He'll stop trying to punish himself when he remembers he's not enslaved to the Malfoys anymore."

"Enslaved to the Malfoys," Fred said, with an ugly look. "Can't think of anything worse."

George frowned thoughtfully. "Actually, I can—"

"Stockings," he and Fred said at the same time, with an identical nod.

"In other words, a fate worse than death," George sighed, and the girls laugh.

"Oh! And if the Ministry tries to charge Harry with anything, you should definitely get a statement from Dobby on the sugared-violet pudding he levitated in Privet Drive three years ago," Maia said, glancing at Ailith. "Harry told me about it; the Ministry gave Harry a warning for it."

"I'll definitely do that," Ailith nodded, hastily scribbling in a notebook. "Actually, I'd better be off. Barnabas wants something for the Evening Prophet. Maia, let me know if you get any letters…" from Daily Prophet readers, went unsaid, but Maia knew what she meant; she wanted to hear the public's reaction to the article and Sirius' broadcast.

They only had the Prophet already because Ailith had brought over a copy fresh from the press; as the usual time for post-deliveries arrived, owls started fluttering down to the basement-kitchen window, a considerable horde of them. Most days, Sirius received a lot of post from Radio Rock listeners, but today, the considerable number of owls increased by half; letters addressed to 'Niecey', her usual requests for recipe-cards, found her, but today, letters addressed in variations of her name—Miss Maia Black; Miss Black; Miss M Black; Maia B; M. Black; Maia Black—found her.

"Someone's popular this morning," Mrs Weasley said, handing Maia another three letters relieved from unfamiliar owls. "Perhaps you should set up a post-box at the post-office in Diagon Alley to stop all these owls dropping into the square, it's getting ridiculous."

"Oh, don't worry; none of the Muggles around here have noticed," Sirius said, waving a hand idly, as he smirked at one of his own letters. "A request for more ABBA and Mozart's 'Horn Concerto #3 Finale'. Do you have that, Maia?"

"Upstairs," Maia nodded.

"Maia, if you want to get to the Witch Weekly office before Professor McGonagall gets here," Mrs Weasley called, over the general clamour of breakfast-time and the arrival of the post-owls, "you'd better go now."

"Be careful," Sirius said sternly, glancing up.

"Don't worry, Sirius," George smiled sincerely. "We'll look after Mai."

"Yeah, she's got armed-escorts from now on," Fred added.

"You just want to see that tasty chef at Witch Weekly who leans over the puddings in low-cut robes," Ginny said, rolling her eyes.

"Maybe not," Fred said.

"We might sign up for consideration in the Witch Weekly Most Charming Smile competition," George said, and at the same instant, both twins pulled the goofiest grimaces they could come up with, making everyone laugh. Ailith had given Maia the names of several contacts at Witch Weekly, including her friend in the Advertisements office; Apparating to Diagon Alley, Maia didn't notice the kerfuffle until they stepped into the open-plan office in Witch Weekly headquarters. Several reporters came up to her, asking questions; they all recognised her instantly from her photograph in the Prophet, wanting their own inside scoop. "Actually, I was hoping to be pointed to Belladonna Draper's office in Advertising."

"What are you advertising, Maia?" one witch asked eagerly.

"Show 'em," George said in an undertone, giving her a slight nudge, giving her an encouraging wink. Flushing, with all eyes on her, Maia pulled out a copy she had made of her poster; the beanstalk foliage now contained a lilac sunburst cut-out, bearing the words, in gold-edged rose-coloured ink, 'Look Out for Corresponding Limited-Edition Cosmetics from Pleiades Inc. Coming Soon!' It took fifteen minutes, twelve advance orders and the poster being circulated around the open-plan offices before Maia was directed to Belladonna Draper, head of advertising in Witch Weekly, to hand over the poster, with its attached baby-blue order-form.

"Cosmetics," Ms Draper said, glancing up from the poster as she handed Maia a letter to confirm they'd received the advertisement.

"I've been experimenting with inventing my own cosmetics," Maia said confidently. "If I was to produce them for the market, I've been creating packaging that would be aimed toward teenagers and young-professionals. "The colours I used in the fairytale illustrations inspired a special set of lip-products and nail-lacquers."

"Oh, that's marvellous!" Ms Draper grinned. "You know, you should really talk to the features journalists, it'd be worth your while to have an article on your company in Witch Weekly, especially with your target-clientele."

"Ailith said when I've got all my prototypes made up, we could photograph them and she'd talk to one of your colleagues about doing a feature," Maia said, smiling. Seizing on an idea, she wondered aloud, "Would it be worth my while bringing a basketful of free samples for everyone to test out?"

"To this office?" Ms Draper laughed, grinning. "Absolutely. If you've got a gorgeous red lipstick, drop it straight at my desk!"

"I will," she beamed. Ms Draper chuckled, assuring Maia that her advertisement would first appear in next week's issue.

Maia knew putting her things in Witch Weekly would be a very smart move to promote her fairytales. The response she had already had for her recipe-cards over Radio Rock was staggering, and as they left the Witch Weekly office, Maia chatted with George about his proposal that he photograph her cooking for a full cookbook.

She and the twins—who had been chatting with one of the features journalists about several of their products—slipped out of the busy, atmospheric office to head off to the printer's. Having organised all of the specifics for her fairytales beforehand, Maia dropped off the copies of her manuscripts to the publisher; she watched them go into production, fascinated, wishing she could stay and watch.

Illustrated with her favourite watercolours from each fairytale, the dust-jackets of thick paper covered hardback covers bound in cotton dyed to match the same hue as the ribbon she had used to keep each fairytale neat, the primary colour she had chosen to build the watercolour themes from; the front cover was embossed with a tiny specific symbol relating to each fairytale, the title and her name featured on the spine, and on the lower-back of the book, the Pleiades Inc. symbol was embossed, in either gold, copper or silver; each of the pages were printed on very high-quality, satin-finish paper.

"And…we have your order," the printer, with whom Maia was getting to be on very good terms with, smiled at the twins, leading them to the dispatch-depot in the back of the mill. The printer found the twins' order of the remaining commissions Maia had done for their love-potions and several other product packaging. With a promise to return with another order very soon, Maia wondered if the three of them were the publisher's favourite customers, because of the money they'd spent there; they still had to design and print the labels and packaging for the First Aid kits.

But that had to wait; she was due for an exam with Professor McGonagall this morning, and then they all had another class at Madam Primpernelle's.


Halfway through her exam with Professor McGonagall, the study door burst open. Maia jumped, then laughed. George stood in the doorway, wearing a strip of tartan around his hips, and nothing else besides an incredibly handsome auburn granddad moustache, the kind of which Tsar Nicholas, Kaiser Wilhelm and King George would have been proud!

"Professor—!"

"I'm in the middle of an examination, Mr Weasley," Professor McGonagall admonished severely.

"Well, never mind that!" George waved a hand impatiently. "Do you know how to tie a kilt?"

"No I do not know how to put on a kilt!" Professor McGonagall blanched indignantly.

"What, not even when you were a bonny wee lass?" George asked, surprised.

"Mr Weasley, please remove yourself from this classroom before I help you," Professor McGonagall threatened.

"Oh, alright, fine. I was just looking for a little Gaelic culture, that's all. Far be it from me to interrupt the secret workings of a pre-O.W.L. Transfiguration examination," George sighed, much affronted.

"Careful, George," Maia grinned, eyeing the length of tartan around his hips. "You're one snagged thread away from wearing a ribbon and a birthday-tag." They both shot Professor McGonagall a mischievous grin, who pursed her lips. George grinned at Maia.

"When is your birthday?" he asked.

"Soon," Maia smirked.

"I'll save it, then."

Maia winked. "By the way, glorious moustache!" George clapped a hand to his face, feeling his moustache.

"I'd wondered why my nose felt ticklish," he said thoughtfully.

"I know I always regret asking," Professor McGonagall said, with a long-suffering sigh. "But what are you doing, Mr Weasley?"

"Well, see, we were searching for Mowgli in the Indian jungle, in our Colonial finest," George explained, indicating the moustache, "then the Doctor arrived in his TARDIS to take us to Woodstock, when we kind of got lost in fourteenth-century Scotland. We're going to war against Edward the Longshanks."

"I'd lose the moustache," Maia remarked. "It's not historically accurate."

"No. Luckily we've sorted out that we're Amy Pond's Scottish twin-brothers, otherwise she would've let the Scots string us up by our entrails—especially since Phineas Nigellus keeps trying to teach Opal the Entrail-Expelling Curse. Hey!" While he had been talking, Maia had reached into her bag for her camera, and snapped a photograph of George in his finest.

"I couldn't resist," she smiled. "That's going in the Christmas cards!"

"George!" came a shout from Fred, out of sight.

"What?"

"Hurry up! We're leaving! Gandalf's going to show us a thing or two about fireworks!" Fred shouted. Gazing from Professor McGonagall to Maia, George flashed a grin so suddenly Professor McGonagall jumped. He swept them a bow, saying, "Carry on," as he closed the door after him.

"Oh, that should be interesting," Professor McGonagall sighed, glancing at the door as if expecting the worst.

"Very," Maia said, smiling. "They've just finished another batch of Wildfire Whiz-Bangs… You probably don't want to know…"

"One more year," Professor McGonagall sighed. "Come on, back to your exam."

Whilst Professor McGonagall marked the written portion of Maia's exam, Maia read in her textbook; there had been no sounds of fireworks exploding; in fact, it seemed…unnaturally quiet. Professor McGonagall handed Maia her written exam back with a rare smile; an Outstanding. She had commented all the way through Maia's incredibly long, intricate essay, why she had received the O, and they spent a few minutes talking about the practical portion of the exam. Then, as the carriage-clock on the mantelpiece ticked nearly noon, Professor McGonagall made her way out of Number Twelve, and Maia made her way to the kitchen for lunch.

Opal was giggling with Sirius; Hermione had Crookshanks in her lap, her nose in a book on elf-magic; Ron was shovelling sandwiches; and both Cedric and Neville being out, visiting family, Mrs Weasley off for a cup of tea with her Auntie Muriel, the kitchen was relatively quiet. Except for the giggles; and the sound of Opal laughing was exquisite. Conspicuous by their absence were the twins, though that didn't last very long.

Fred, ashen-faced, cheeks hollow, appeared at the foot of the stairs, scanning faces. Sirius, strangely perceptive to people's moods, snapped his head up, frowning. "Fred, what's wrong?"

"I…have to take Georgie to St Mungo's," he said, his voice so quiet and shaky, he sounded like a stranger.

"What's happened?" Sirius asked urgently, displacing Opal from his lap to stride around the table over to Fred. Fred didn't seem able to speak, too upset. Eyes wide, he blinked them several times, focusing on Sirius' face.

"I messed up the concentration," he mumbled.

"On what?" Sirius asked. Maia's breath caught, flinging herself from the table, upsetting her chair in her haste to throw herself up the stairs. He got the concentration wrong?! On what? One wrong dosage on some of their products, George could… He was sitting on the stairs, incredibly pale, trembling, tears coursing silently down pale cheeks, wearing an odd set of gloves on his shaking hands.

Not gloves. As Maia approached, breath escaped her in a horrified gasp, sinking onto the stair beside George. Something had burned away the skin and flesh, almost to the bone, up to his wrists. "Georgie!" George ducked his head, fresh tears coursing silently down his sodden cheeks. Trying not to look at George's mutilated hands, Maia hugged her arm around his broad shoulders, gently wiping the tears from his cheeks, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek to calm him.

"Let me see," Sirius said solemnly, frowning as he squatted in front of George; he hissed in a breath at the sight of George's hands.

"It was the soap," Fred said shakily, his voice cracking, glancing at Maia.

"What did you put in it, acid?" Maia asked, as George bit back a cry of pain as Sirius carefully turned his hands over.

"Get him straight to St Mungo's," Sirius said, glancing at Fred. "You know where it is?" Fred nodded.

"Went there…loads when we were l-little," George sniffed hoarsely.

"Make sure they give him dittany," Sirius said, "and plenty of it." Maia helped George to his feet; Fred supported him out the door, and they both Disapparated.

"Will he be alright?" Maia asked uncertainly, glancing at Sirius.

"Oh, the Healers at St Mungo's deal with that kind of stuff all the time," Sirius said, locking the door behind the twins. "He'll be back out within the hour. They only keep you overnight for the really serious stuff."

Maia frowned thoughtfully. "Do witches go to St Mungo's to give birth?"

"No! Well, I suppose some do, it it's an exceptional case," Sirius said thoughtfully. "But St Mungo's does train the nation's midwives. God, I used to love St Mungo's midwives. Their fitted little uniform-dresses, and frisky little caps! The cape they'd wear when flying…" Sirius shivered, flashing a grin.

"You'd like Call the Midwife," Maia said. "A book made into a television-programme about midwives in the East End in the 1950s. It's got Miranda in it!"

"Oh, Miranda!" Sirius chuckled. Everyone in the house loved watching Miranda.

"I'll lend you the book," Maia said, sighing, as she glanced back at the door.

"Don't you have plans this afternoon?" Sirius asked.

"Another course at Madam Primpernelle's," Maia nodded, biting her lip. "It's the last one, and it's a late one; we don't finish until seven."

"I'll have your beds turned down before you're due back," Sirius smirked.

Hours later, she said goodbye to Sirius while he was in a break from broadcasting, and promised she wouldn't get into trouble on her way to Diagon Alley. "They listen to Radio Rock at Madam Primpernelle's… Will you play these for me?"

She handed Sirius a scrap of parchment with a list of songs and musicians on it. "Course I will. I'd do anything for you, poppet, you know that."

Maia smiled softly, reaching down to hug Sirius where he sat, sprawled languorously, clicking on records with his toe, sipping a beer. "I love you," she said softly. Sirius squeezed her, keeping her in a comfortable hug, stroking her hair down her back.

"I love you too, poppet," he smiled warmly, releasing her.

"I've, um…got more things for you," Maia smiled; it was the first time she'd told Sirius how much he meant to her. Three tiny words were so powerful.

"Presents?" Sirius asked eagerly, his face lighting up around his sunglasses.

"Of sorts," Maia smiled, producing a list of suggestions for new features to include in his broadcasts. "I thought of the first one when Ginny was wailing over her Potions homework."

"Good shout," Sirius smiled, nodding approvingly. "Oh, I like this one. With a badge and a flag to whoever we pick?"

"That sounds good. When are we going to announce the competition-winner?" Maia asked.

"I thought on Friday," Sirius said. "After my Very Foolish Thing and the Top Ten countdown."

"I'll finish the wireless tonight for the first-place winner," Maia said. "Your record's nearly finished."

"Oh!" Sirius' chair nearly toppled backwards; he righted it with a yelp, almost sloshing his Butterbeer everywhere, and was laughing when he clicked his microphone on.

"And we're back; that was 'Love You More' by The Pierces, a gorgeous Muggle duo," Sirius said, and he smiled when Maia waved, excusing herself. Kreacher locked the front-door after her, making sure she had her little bag, her diamond-weave basket for completed products, and several snacks for her and the twins to enjoy during their "beauty school", as Ginny called it.

She stopped by the Daily Prophet office, slinking over to Ailith's desk to avoid questions from her colleagues, and smiled as she perched on Ailith's desk, which was stacked with files of notes, heavy tomes stuffed with sticky-notes and scrolls; her wall-divider was a collage of photographs, a calendar, magazine cuttings, articles, letters and memos. A line of cameras was arranged along the back of the desk.

"This is a surprise," Ailith smiled; somewhere, a wireless was playing Aerosmith. Radio Rock had infiltrated the Prophet.

"I haven't missed the evening-edition?" Maia asked.

"We go to print in two hours," Ailith said, checking her watch.

"Good," Maia smiled, producing a packet of letters. "I made copies of the really good ones. They're in extremes; either they believe me and want a full inquest into Fudge's administration, or I'm a hateful fear-monger. Someone asked whether Harry and I were going out."

Ailith laughed gently. "Don't worry, I won't deny you're going out, that'll just encourage people. Anyway, this seems to be on a par with my research, anyway." She indicated the letters. "I had a note from Belladonna Draper earlier." Ailith beamed. "You submitted your advertisement."

"I made a final edit to the poster and gave it to Witch Weekly," Maia nodded.

"She said she'd wait 'til you approached her with your cosmetics and pocket-wirelesses, then she'd get Thomasina in features to do an article on Pleiades Inc.," Ailith beamed. "Maia, that's wonderful!"

"Well, it's thanks to you," Maia said shyly. Over her shoulder, Ailith called gently, "Olly, turn it up!" Sirius' voice sounded from the wireless: "…Niecey's come up with some ideas to keep you all entertained—and educated! Thanks to Gin throwing a tantrum over a Potions essay, Radio Rock is henceforth going to initiate 'Homework Helper'. All of you at Hogwarts, and you poor sods being home-schooled by your parents, send in your queries over homework assignments, and we'll try our best to help on-air, with expertise from professors, Aurors, Unspeakables, future prefects and myself, of course. It's about time I put my ten Outstanding N.E.W.T.s to good use!" Sirius laughed at himself.

"So, send in your questions, and we'll help make the affliction of summer-assignments a little less painful." Ailith smiled at her. "Also, we're going to do 'Desert Island Records', a feature, every day; we want you to write in and tell us your top five songs or pieces of music you couldn't live without, and why, and I'll play them. The records can be Muggle, Wizard or a combination. The only stipulation is that they have to be good. Whoever I pick will have their songs played, and they'll receive a Radio Rock badge and brand-spanking-new flag to decorate their room with. Which brings me to a final notice before I treat you to a little Fleetwood Mac: on Friday, we'll be announcing the winner of our t-shirt competition. The top-two runners-up will receive the full Radio Rock merchandise kit, while the grand winner will receive a limited-edition customised Radio Rock patented pocket-wireless from Pleiades Inc. Keep an eye out for the pocket-wirelesses in the future, or bombard us with letters requesting they be put into mass production rather than commission."

"I hope you're paying him a commission," Ailith said in an undertone, smiling at Maia.

"My food's worth more than gold," Maia smirked, "and it's thanks to that and some Rejuvenation Drafts that he's so unrecognisable."

An owl winged itself to Ailith's desk, and she'd caught it and opened the letter before the owl had turned gracefully and soared out of the window again. As Ailith grabbed her bag, Maia felt their chat was over. "Amelia," Ailith breathed, glancing at Maia, as she smiled and tucked the cookbook into her bag. "Are you headed home?"

Maia shook her head, following Ailith out past the receptionist. "Madam Primpernelle's."

"Another class? I'm surprised the twins aren't with you," Ailith said.

"I think they might still be at St Mungo's," Maia said anxiously. Ailith glanced around, eyes wide.

"The twins?"

"One of their experiments," Maia said, shrugging slightly. "I'm sure George is fine." Ailith nodded, held the door open, and Maia waved, departing for Madam Primpernelle's as Ailith took several steps in the opposite direction before Disapparating. Relief washed over Maia as she glanced toward Madam Primpernelle's and spotted two tall, well-built redheads sauntering over from Florean Fortescue's, both of them slurping at large, melting ice-creams. And then annoyance prickled.

"Please tell me you've not been strutting around Diagon Alley for the last hour and a half unfettered!" she scowled, striding up to the twins.

"In our defence, we didn't just stick to Diagon Alley. We hit the Crescent, checked out the old amphitheatre, and looked up some of the properties up for rent," Fred said, licking his ice-cream.

"And I don't have my girl-gettin' jeans on, so I wasn't strutting," George added. Maia frowned, annoyed and a little upset; they hadn't even had the decency to drop in at Number Twelve and tell everyone that George was okay. She gave him a glare as he slurped his ice-cream, his hands completely fine.

"Your hands were healed okay, then," she said coolly.

"Oh, yeah! Healed 'em in about a minute!"

"Gorgeous assistant-Healer on the ward!"

"Sold a tonne of stuff to kids in the paediatric ward—"

"Poor kids; hospital's grim enough without the Healers trying to make it like a prison," Fred sighed, and George nodded.

"We recommended they look you up to redecorate," he smiled.

"Course, after the first Wildfire Whiz-Bang went off, we were none too politely recommended to leave—"

"So we came here. Needed to pick some things up at the apothecary—"

"Couple books on Healing from Flourish & Blotts my new friend recommended are worth investing in—" Maia turned on her heel and walked into Madam Primpernelle's, too annoyed to listen to their banter.

Only small quarters, late hours and good music helped alleviate Maia's annoyance with the twins—that, and George had resorted to year-five methods when she wouldn't talk to him, passing her a note on a scrap of parchment, gazing imploringly at her with puppy-dog eyes until she'd written a reply.

An entire afternoon and a good part of the evening was spent in Madam Primpernelle's, grinding pigment; mixing potions; learning how to distil the scent of a slice of treacle tart, a jar of honey, a tuberose flower, into a glutinous clear liquid; perfecting charms to turn a liquid into a powder on application; special-effects like shimmer, concealing, healing potions in toners, primers, foundations, creams, makeup-removers. Maia stumbled onto Diagon Alley a little after seven o'clock into brilliant sunshine, dazed and exhausted, bone-tired; she and George leaned on each other as they struggled to put one foot in front of the other, while Fred giggled dazedly. Their baskets loaded with products for them to tweak and fiddle with, they made their way to Number Twelve without pausing at the Sunflower, their usual post-lesson haunt. They were starving. And, bless him, Kreacher had dinner on the table ready for when they walked through the door. Though Maia was so tired she could barely lift her fork; Sirius, allowing Kreacher to put on four consecutive records so he could eat with everyone else, chuckled, taking her fork from her, and picked up a spoon, scooping up a mouthful, which he teased her with, making choo-choo noises like a train.

"Come on, poppet, you used to love the train when you were a baby," he cooed playfully. "Or what about Uncle Padfoot's flying motorcycle?" He gave a low rumbling roar, teasing her with the spoon.

When Maia had eaten—refusing Sirius' help—she collapsed in the twins' bedroom for a nap, with orders for Sirius to send Opal in an hour to wake them.


A.N.: What thinks you? I know I'd be pretty pissed off with the boys for just sauntering around Diagon Alley (and not buying me an ice-cream, either!) without making sure people knew George was okay! I think George getting hurt is probably the only time Fred would ever be scared and quiet. Ever.