A/N: Rapid fire updates! Some more unlikely alliances. Who the hell can you trust these days, I mean seriously...


Chapter XXVI

And Whose Army?

[Hogwarts | February 1995]


Harry Potter is creeping down a long desolate hallway under cover of his treasured cloak of invisibility, careful not to place his feet too loudly upon the flagstone. In his arms are a stack of books just lifted from the library's restricted section, and he's approaching a blank stretch of wall that, upon his arrival, slowly transforms before his bespectacled green eyes to reveal an ornate set of double doors. He pushes through them and is greeted, once inside the cavernous room, by a rather sizable group of students. Harry thunks the books down on a table and rolls up his sleeves.

"Who's ready to get to work?" He says boisterously. The students follow suit, removing their wands from their bags and pockets, and rolling up their sleeves, tying their hair back, and some even performing a stretch or two to get the muscles warmed up.

"What're we learnin' today, 'arry?" Seamus Finnegan asks.

"Thought we'd go over some basic attacks. Nothing too violent, of course, but we're not going to be able to get by on merely self defense."

"Harry, I thought we said we weren't going to…" Hermione chimes in, but is cut off by Ron.

"No, Harry's right. Can't have a strong defense without a good offense." Ron says.

"We're not talking about Quidditch, Ron. We're talking about…" Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes.

"Hermione, do you want to get killed?" Ron snaps in an uncharacteristically serious manner. Hermione's eyes widen. She shakes her head. "Then we need to know as much as we can. Deadly curses or not. Go on, Harry. What've you got?"

"Um…yeah. Right. So we'll start with this one, I guess. Everyone ready your wands and repeat after me…"


Harry's packing everything up at the end of the weekly "Dumbledore's Army" meeting, his forehead warm, his eyes heavy with stress and exhaustion. Ron comes over to him and claps him on the back.

"Good job today, mate." He says, poking a wad of Droobles gum into his mouth and chewing it noisily.

"Thanks." Harry says. "So Ron, I've been thinking… You've spent some time one-on-one with Professor Spektor. I know Hermione doesn't trust her as far as she can throw her, but what do you think?"

"I think she's totally nuts." Ron says. "Not that it's a bad thing, of course. I mean, they call Mad-Eye "Mad-Eye" for a reason…and he's one of the best Aurors that's ever lived. But Professor Spektor's…I dunno…" He pauses, chewing sloppily. "Why?"

"I think we need more help if we're gonna advance any further. Do you think…I dunno, maybe this is stupid, but…do you think she'd help us? I mean, she knows a lot. And she's part of the Order…"

"Hermione will never go for it." Ron says. "Plus, like everyone is practically terrified of her. I think she's got a worse reputation than Snape, and that's saying something."

"Yeah, fair point. Also, she's not too keen on Dumbledore." Harry muses. She also might be working for You-Know-Who, he thinks, although he still doubts the likelihood of that. She's strange, she's worrisome, she's totally creepy, and possibly a serial killer, but also incredibly gifted with magic.

"I could ask her, I guess." Ron shrugs. "Feel it out."

"Yeah. Would you? Let me know what she says." Harry says. He's nervous about the idea, and fairly certain that it's one of the dumbest he's ever had, but who knows? "Just don't tell her it's called Dumbledore's Army."


Although Ron had worked up an entire speech, and a method of presentation designed to persuade Professor Spektor to come teach an underground class of combat magic, he never had the opportunity to use it. Instead, the next week, as the three of them crept quietly down the corridor to the Room of Requirement, Professor Spektor stumbled upon them, quite literally. Rounding a corner, the tall, skeletal woman in the long black robes walks directly into Harry Potter, the two falling hard on the cold stone floor. Professor Spektor lights her wand with a quick lumos and sighs loudly when it illuminates the trio.

"Just tell me what you're up to already." She groans exasperatedly, standing up and brushing herself off. She offers a hand to Harry, which he accepts, his warm hand chilled by her cold clammy skin. She plucks something off the ground and points her wand out it, without saying a word. Then, quite delicately, she sets Harry's mended glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He didn't even realize they'd flown off.

"We're on our way to a secret meeting of students to practice combat." Ron says without hesitation. Hermione slaps a hasty hand over his mouth.

"Secret meeting." Professor Spektor raises an eyebrow, folds her arms across her chest. "I quite like those."

"We actually have been meaning to ask you if…possibly…since you're the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher…if you'd maybe come by some time and teach us some stuff…" Harry says awkwardly. Hermione, already using her hands to restrain Ron, regards Harry with shock.

"Well, seeing as I'm not actually allowed to teach you anything in class, I don't see why not." She says simply. "Where's this secret meeting at then?"

"The Room of Requirement." Ron says, disengaging from Hermione.

"Ah." Professor Spektor says, her lips curling into a small smile. "Glad someone's making use of it."

"You know it?" Harry says, oddly surprised.

"Of course. Although I used it for less…noble…purposes during my time here…" She says, trailing off as she starts to walk away down the corridor. "C'mon now, you'll be late." The three hesitate, then walk quickly to catch up with her. That was easy. Not much persuading necessary. She seemed eager, actually, to help. Perhaps the restrictions placed on her curriculum are getting to her, that she's acutely aware of how unprepared her students are for what awaits them outside the castle, in the very near future.

Spektor's surprised by the invitation, but extremely delighted. What better way to get back at Dumbledore than to illicitly teach his students. What better way to make sure that the death eaters get what's coming than to personally prepare these kids to anticipate each of their moves and defend themselves accordingly. Nobody's gonna expect these kids to know anything. And she's gonna see to it that they know as much as they can.


Things are starting to become clearer. Thankfully Snape has been keeping his distance, still greeting her in passing of course, but not stoping to talk, not even coming within arm's length of her. V's spare time has now been taken up with preparing for and teaching these underground lessons to this group of students Harry Potter's amassed, and quite frankly, she finds it incredibly validating. All of these kids are here, on their free time as well, wanting to learn, eager to soak up whatever tidbit of knowledge she imparts about healing, or focusing your energy, or breathing while casting a complex curse. And they're all improving steadily, although naturally Harry is leaps and bounds ahead of the others. That Hermione though, she's unbelievably reluctant to learn, and when she does take V's instruction, it is begrudgingly. Ah well. Some weird personal vendetta that Spektor doesn't have a thought to spare on.

And when she's not teaching kids how to attack people, she's been spending more and more time in London. Part of this time is complying with Albus Dumbledore's special assignment (although she certainly doesn't give him the full report he asks for), and the rest is spent in London's various libraries, both magical and muggle, researching as much as she can on the Embassy. If she's going to carry out her plan, she needs to understand the construction and layout of the place, the people who work there, the hierarchy of command, etc. She's had some luck, but not much, and it's becoming evident that her best chance at getting the information she needs is to personally ask an Embassy employee. But who? She's wanted, and she's being watched. But there is one devil she knows, and she knows exactly where to find him.


The tenement building is even more run down than it was the first (and last) time she was there, if that's even possible. There's a layer of grime upon the brickwork that must be almost a foot thick, and most of the windows are either broken or boarded up. The front doors open easily and the entryway is cast in an oddly warm glow. A group of hunched and ragged people huddle in the corner by the stairwell, one of them sparking a lighter, bursting into bright flame in the stilted dust-choked air. V approaches them, hoping to slip down the stairs without notice, when a hand reaches out and grabs her own. She jerks it back quickly, almost inadvertently slapping the man nearest her.

"Where ye think yer goin?" A pair of glassy eyes peers up at her. Less a threat than a remark of genuine concern.

"Does Mr…Uh…" Shit, she doesn't remember his name. "Does that fellow still live down there? The older one, wears a white suit…"

"Yer looking for 'im?" Another says, eyebrows disappearing into the ratty mop atop his head.

"So that's a yes, I take it." She says, and tries to continue, but another hand reaches out to hold her back.

"Are you one of those ghostbusters?" A woman's voice cackles. She's regarding V's elegant yet shabby (although not by their standards) appearance with a look of disdain.

"Ghost hunters. Summa them come by time to time. And stupid kids lookin for a good scare."

"Ghost?" V narrows her eyes. They nod solemnly. There's a crack and a shuffle in the basement hallway and the man with the lighter almost drops it.

"He's coming." The woman whispers, clambering up to her swollen feet, wrenching a shawl around her shoulders. She scuttles across the entryway to a pair of doors, and the rest follow her as quickly as they can, leaving V standing quite alone at the top of the stairs down to the basement. She senses movement, and soon there's the cool slip of leather soles on dirty cement. Someone's climbing the stairs. Slowly, the figure of the six-fingered gentleman comes into view. He doesn't look up, and brushes past V as though she were a statue, the tails of his white tuxedo jacket trailing like a ghostly wisp.

"Where do you think you're going?" V says, without turning to look at him.

"Excuse me?" He quips, and, startled, turns to face her.

"I said," She turns around, drawing her wand. "Where do you think you're _going_?"

"Out. What's it to you then? Do I know you?" He screws up his face, prodding and poking around in that ancient brain of his, trying to drudge up some sort of name, connection, anything.

"Just barely. Which is good, because that means it will be much less upsetting to watch you die." V aims her wand at his heart. Maybe a bit over dramatic (although, consider who she's been hanging out with of late) but a flicker of recollection crosses his mind, and he raises his hands. Before he can cast anything, V flicks her wand and the small man is suddenly bound by thick ropes that creak as he struggles against them.

"See I told you you'd go mad." He spits.

"I'm not mad." She says, taking a step towards him. "Just a little upset." He laughs nervously, testing his limbs against the restraints. "You have two options here, as I see it. Option one, I kill you." She takes another step towards him, her heels clicking on the grimy tile. "Option two, you help me." Now that the man with the lighter has retreated to a more secure corner, it is very dim, save for the glow of the streetlights trickling in through the cracked windows in the entryway.

"Help you with what?" He sputters, the color draining from his face. The ropes, already too tight, constrict a tad more.

"That's none of your concern, for the moment at least." She says, with a sinister smile. "So what'll it be?" V presses the tip of her wand against the old devil's temple.

"Please. Please don't. I'll…I'll help you. But only if there's something in it for me."

"You're not in an optimal position to bargain, are you Sir?" She spits.

"Please. I need to clear my name." He blurts, a hint of panic in his voice that he is, to his frustration, unable to conceal.

"Funny. That's just what I needed your help with. So do I." She says, withdrawing her wand. "Well, destroying my records, which is like the same thing, I suppose. Obliterating your existence…"

"How do you plan to do it?" He squeaks. Are they ropes? Or are they snakes?

"That's also what I need your help with. I need inside information." She says. "Have we got a deal then?" The pudgy old man, sweating and straining against the bindings, nods his head vigorously.

"Yes yes yes we've got a deal. Now untie me, if you will!" He says. She complies, and he extends his hand to formalize the proceedings; the shake seals the deal. "You seem…different somehow. Did you end up marrying that human boy?" He inquires, brushing off his pristine white suit, now rumpled and creased.

"Hah. Yes. And then I got locked away in prison for fifty-some-odd years." She laughs. "Serves me right, I suppose."

"Come, let's have a drink. I think we have a lot to talk about." He says, oddly amiable, as he waves her towards the stairwell he had just ascended. She follows him down into the depths of the basement, and through the red door at the end of the hall.