A/N: Shorter bit this time, but I wanted to hold onto it until I'd gotten at least partway done with the chapter after it, just to make sure all was as it should be. The confusion mounts in this segment, but a lot of this junk will be explained in the next part, which I'm hoping to get out by Saturday. Yes, the title is from a Cher song; so shoot me. ^_^ Anyhoozle...er...read on, I suppose.

Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

Breath clouding his vision in a frosty blur, Harry gaped at the spectacle before him.

Dull grey light washed over rolling Irish meadows, stiff with frost and still faintly green despite the frozen winter. And covering these meadows, stretching from horizon to horizon in every direction, was the strangest, loveliest, and most bizarre assemblage of people Harry had ever seen.

Milling through the flickering orange light of a thousand winking campfires was what had to be the largest assortment of magical creatures on the face of the planet. Only a few of them had Harry ever seen before, and there were several that he wasn't willing to even hazard a guess at. Banshees, dryads, swamp sprites, imps, Cornish pixies, poltergeists, unicorns, phoenixes, and what looked suspiciously like a gaggle of tipsy naiads were just a few of the creatures all wandering in seemingly aimless paths, babbling excitedly in their many strange tongues and using extremely colorful sign language when words failed.

A number of humans were dotted throughout this melee, all dark-skinned and black-haired and dressed in brilliant colors. They alone seemed to be moving with some sort of purpose, calling to one another in a language that sounded vaguely familiar.

"Gypsies," Harry muttered to himself, shivering. He had no idea why all these people would be gathered on a frozen Irish field in the middle of a gloomy afternoon, and at the moment he didn't care--he had a sudden, terrible feeling that he was needed back at the castle, and he had no idea how to get there.

"Aye, lad, there'll be time enough for that later," said Conn, apparently reading his thoughts. "Sure, they'll hang on fer a spell wi'out ye. It's to Hogwarts this crew'll be headin', if ever they manage t'get their heads on straight."

Harry stared at him. He'd had a nasty suspicion that some sort of complication was going to pop up, but this was just too much.

"H-have you all gone mad?!" he croaked, shaking his head and glancing out at the tumultuous throng. Conn looked at him quizzically. "VOLDEMORT'S up there, don't you understand? He's up at Hogwarts with a whole army of zombies and God knows what else besides, and I don't reckon even Dumbledore would stand a chance against them, let alone a load of Muggles!" He shook his head again, wishing he could just give up on the whole thing.

The leprechaun was still surveying him keenly. "Lad, ye really don't know what ye're a-talkin' aboot, do ye?" He chucked at Harry's blank stare. "Faith, young Potter, we've known a' that fer sight longer'n you have!"

Harry stopped short. "What?" he said, now fully floored. "But, how?"

Conn chuckled darkly. "Sure, lad, ye're not the only one who's been dabblin' in the work o' Silversleeves. Somebody was playin' wit' it fer months, an' taking no trouble t'hide it, either. As fer the Old Scratch showin' up at Hogwarts--well, where else'd he go?"

Harry gaped at him, his brain working furiously. He didn't know how on earth Lockhart could ever, in a million years, pull off something as complicated as Silversleeves' procedure for bringing back the dead, but it was just his luck that the blockhead would finally do something right--and then a very nasty thought struck him.

Lupin had said the Silversleeves spell was illegal for a very good reason; that, once you had figured out the spell, bringing back the dead was easy as anything, but bringing back the right dead was nearly impossible. Surely Lockhart wouldn't know this, which meant that in all likelihood there was some other...thing...sitting inside Voldemort's hideously reanimated corpse. It could be anybody from Grindelwald to that Viking lunatic with the unpronounceable name who blew up half of Stonehenge in the 800's, and whoever it was, they would have the full power of Lord Voldemort at their command.

"Crikey," he muttered, sudden despair washing over him--Voldemort was bad enough in all conscience, but some even worse thing with all of Voldemort's power would be ten million times worse.

He turned to Conn, having it in mind to spill his guts before giving up completely, but found the leprechaun deeply absorbed in a large square of parchment, his lips moving as he read. A huge tawny owl--nearly as big as Conn himself--sat waiting on a boulder nearby.

The leprechaun's face cracked into an extremely evil grin, and he let out an earsplitting whistle that rang out over all the din of the field.

"Creatures and Gypsies!" he cried, his voice astonishingly louder than his size would seem to permit. The entire assemblage looked up at him, a universal expression of impious hope on their faces.

Conn's grin became, if possible, even eviler. He paused for an effective moment, and then,

"We have been Called," he said, sweeping a stately bow.

For a moment there was utter silence, which was broken by a singular loud whoop that sounded through the gloom like a fire siren, followed by the fearful murmuring babble of a crowd possessed. As if some invisible cord had snapped, the aimless wandering melded into swift, decisive military action in the merest fraction of a second.

Harry stared (something he was doing quite a lot of lately.) He had absolutely no idea what being Called meant, but obviously everybody else did. The speed with which they organized themselves was staggering; within two minutes, the fires were doused and covered, and every sign of the vast press's presence was packed up and gone.

"Y'see there, lad," said Conn, crossing his arms and taking a puff at his pipe. "I reckon we'll stand a chance. Ye'd best be gettin' on home now; it'd give 'em a right shock if we arrived before ye." And before Harry could say that he had absolutely no idea how to do that, leprechaun, host, and caravan vanished, leaving him quite alone on the gloomy heath.

"Great," he muttered dejectedly, shivering in the chill, dark wind. He flopped heavily onto a boulder, only to leap up again a moment later at the outraged screech that split the sudden silence like nails on a blackboard. He whirled around, tumbling onto the crunchy grass, and found that he wasn't completely alone after all--the tawny owl sat on the boulder as well, looking ruffled and distinctly disgruntled at having been sat on. Its round golden eyes flashed unpleasantly.

"Er, sorry," Harry said, wondering if things could possibly get any worse.

The owl let out a low hoot, flapping into the air and coming straight for Harry's head. He ducked, hoping it wasn't about to tear his eyes out, but it sailed over him and landed in the grass beyond, still hooting softly.

Harry turned, and found the bird pecking at a cream-colored square of paper. Conn must have dropped his letter, whatever it was, in his haste to make tracks for Hogwarts, and the owl was now fairly accosting it.

Feeling vaguely that he might as well read it, Harry worried it from the bird's grasp and unfolded it. Inside, he was somehow not startled to find Doors's strong, wandering script, scratching a hasty note.

Everyone,

The jig is up--grab the booty and run for the hills. Something's come up, and you're all needed a bit sooner than expected. Don't ask for now--you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you. Just be on your guard when you get near the castle; things aren't pleasant up here, and I'd hate for anything to happen to you lot on my account. Trust me, this is going to be FUN, and should well cover any debts I might have left over the summer.

Yours in very great haste,

Lorna Doors

P.S. Harry, I sincerely hope you're reading this--if Conn's got it when he shows up, I'll eat him. As soon as you've finished this letter, fold it up, stick it in your pocket, and then click your heels together three time and say "Death to Moldywarts." That ought to get you back here, but if not--well, find a broom, you're in for a long flight home.

Lorna

By now Harry was so bewildered that he scarcely registered anything the slightly soggy epistle said. Quite apart from the fact that this whole host had apparently been on its way before things went to hell, it appeared that whatever they knew about Lockhart and the Silversleeves potion, they hadn't bothered sharing that information with his aunt. As for the bit about debts--how could Doors have accumulated any debts over the summer? She'd been dead, for crying out loud....

Harry shook his head, not wanting to fathom the unfathomable workings of Doors's mind. He reread her postscript, feeling that if he tried it and it failed (something he didn't doubt, knowing his luck today), at least he'd only look like an idiot in front of the owl.

"Well, here goes," he said to the bird, folding up the letter. Squinting his eyes shut, he did as Doors had instructed, feeling that it would be just his luck to land smack on Malfoy when he got back.

The moment he'd finished his last 'Death to Moldywarts', he felt a sudden jerking behind his navel as though he'd just grabbed a Portkey. The world around him dissolved into the swirl of melded rainbow he had come to associate with the Neverstone. For a moment he felt he was going to be sick, as his perception of up and down vanished and he tumbled head over feet into the brilliant abyss.

He plunged through something solid, landing with a rather loud expletive on a table, which promptly collapsed under the force of the impact. Wincing, he scarcely had time to rub his head before Ron and Hermione were all over him like a cheap suit, brushing off his robes and gibbering unintelligably.

Harry felt to make sure the Neverstone was still safe, then did his best to calm his two incoherent cohorts.

"You guys," he said fervently, wiping his forehead on his sleeve and stuffing the Neverstone back in his pocket. "DON'T ASK. Trust me, you'll find out sooner than you want to." And without further explanation (but with an audible groan) he hauled himself from the collapsed table and staggered back down to the Great Hall.

The scene he found inside wasn't much different than it had been when he left--the Dursleys and Lockhart had been subdued, but the general air of panic hadn't been alleviated one whit by Lockhart's 'revelation.'

His eyes quickly found the Marauders, who were standing off to the side of the room, deep in whispered conversation and generally ignored by the rest of the press. He also caught sight of Malfoy, who seemed to be utterly ignoring his father and mother (both of whom were shooting withering glares at any and all offending Lockharts) and searching urgently for something. He felt a slight pang of unease as he realized that Dudley was doing exactly the same thing, and glanced worriedly at Hermione.

However, he definitely had more pressing matters on his mind, and so Harry, with Ron and Hermione in tow, hurried across the carpet to where the Marauders stood huddled. He noticed with passing amusement the dark bruise already forming on Sirius's cheek--apparently Mr. Chang hadn't been overly pleased by his efforts to 'comfort' Mrs. Chang.

The three of them looked up as Harry approached, all of them appearing expectant. Harry, clutching a stitch at his side, tried not to collapse.

"Oh, you guys," he gasped, leaning against wall. "You guys, we are in BIG trouble."

Lupin, looking alarmed, caught him by the shoulders to keep him from keeling over. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "Did you use the Neverstone?"

"Oh, I used it all right," said Harry, still panting. "And what I saw is going to make things eight million times worse. This whole horde of magical creatures left Ireland bound for Hogwarts--they think they're going to fight Voldemort, only I'm not sure it even is Voldemort, if what you said was true about the whole Silversleeves thing, and if Lockhart screwed things up as bad as I think he did, we're in a way deeper dung pile than we thought we were. And we've only got about two hours before everything gets even worse." He leaned against the wall again, exhausted, and left the adults to deal with that as they would.

Ron and Hermione were goggling at him--they'd been scared enough when he just up and disappeared out of Trelawney's room, and this news certainly wasn't comforting. Neither wanted to think about what was out there if not Voldemort, and they both looked helplessly to the Marauders.

Lupin and Sirius glanced at one another, and to Harry's surprise neither of them seemed surprised, but Doors's eyes flicked to the ceiling.

"Uh, Harry, honey, I think you made a slight miscalculation in that horde's ETA," she said, her voice unmistakably amused.

Harry's gaze followed his aunt's unwillingly, and what he saw was almost more than he could handle.

High above the enchanted ceiling, opening smack in the middle of the bruise-black sky, was an extremely familiar-looking swirling rainbow portal. It had to stretch at least forty feet across and seventy in the air, breaking the torrent of blackness into a confused, tumbling chaos, and out of it were pouring what had to be hundreds upon thousands of flying magical creatures--pegusi, Cornish pixies, fairies, banshees, weird little creatures riding on what looked suspiciously like gigantic chickens, and a lot more Harry hadn't seen on the Irish moors. But it wasn't at these that he gaped.

Soaring amid this bizarre host were a load of some of the weirdest things Harry had yet seen, though their strangeness stemmed largely from their outlandish incongruity--sprinkling the airborne melee like a flock of demented birds were at least ninety winged, extremely colorful Winnebagos, weaving in and out of the throng as though it were no more than highway traffic, and Harry realized with a mental slap that these must be what the Gypsies were riding in.

By now the rest of the Hall had noticed this bizarre aerial phenomena, and the panic that had started to quiet down flared out again in full force. Millicent Bulstrode, who had been clinging to Crabbe ever since this whole mess began, let out an astonishingly high squeal and fainted dead away, and even Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy left off their whispering to gawk in unflattering disbelief. Aunt Petunia's death grip on Snape slackened a bit as her eyes widened, but Snape himself seemed to be struck dumb with horror.

The entire assembly stared for a moment, the wreckage of the arbor still smoking and sizzling and the carpet soaked and soggy, until the silence grew so uncomfortably stifling that it just had to be broken. And broken it was, by the thick Irish brogue of Mrs. Finnigan.

"Faith, Lorna, ye little shite, what're ye doin' bringin' that lot in tae t'is mess?"

The throng turned on Doors in unison, gazing at her with a rapt, almost nauseating expectancy.

"Er," she said eloquently.

Sirius and Lupin alone looked nonplussed--clearly they had known just what their small compatriot was up to, and they stood on either side of her now, though Harry had a feeling it was more to see how she was planning on getting herself out of this one than for moral support. Sirius in particular was looking wickedly gleeful, and Doors planted a none-too-accidental stomp on his foot before speaking again.

"Thanks a lot, Shivon," she said, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes back to the heavens. "Look, we needed help, didn't we? I'm sure you remember just how lethal those damn things can be, and....well....I figured we could use some...reinforcements."

Her tone was light, and her voice did its work well on the crowd, but Harry noticed she was visibly pale. The flood above them was continuing unabated, and he knew that any minute now there would be some kind of retaliation from the zombies, which likely wasn't going to help the situation any.

CRASH

"Boy, that was quick," he muttered, pitching forward onto his hands and knees. The entire Hall shook, raining bits of dust and mortar. Many people shrieked, what little confidence they had once again shattered, but the Marauders, still looking not at all surprised, bolted into the entrance hall as quick as ever they could (which wasn't very, given the crowd they had to fight through.) Harry, too exhausted to follow, collapsed onto the carpet and waited to see what fresh hell those three would cook up next.

By the sound of things, it was going to be a doozy--a furious scuffle could be heard through the open doors, accompanied by much cursing and slamming. Nobody but Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed to have taken any notice of the trio's departure, but the three of them waited, tense with fear, to see what was going on out there.

CRASH

There came a second bone-jarring thud, echoing through the Hall and sending the crowds skittering. Aunt Petunia wailed something about horrible monsters, but for some reason the pounding didn't frighten Harry. He listened for a moment, head coked to one side, to the Marauders cursing and struggling in the entrance hall, and suddenly he understood--Voldemort's zombies weren't retaliating at all.

Something very big was outside, knocking to get in.

Doors's debt was about to be settled after all.

A/N: Bit less of a cliffhanger than last time, though I'm still being a little mean--whatever, it's my lame attempt at keeping people interested in this opus until I can drag it to the climax. Just a little side note: this damned thing is 152 pages long, and I've still got five more chapters. (Oi.)

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