One night Harry dreamt of a cold dark room.
It was not the same as the stone chamber he had envisioned before. This room had soft earthen walls and floor. Iron rings with wrist and ankle shackles hung were magically fixed to the walls. A shadowy friend pulled Harry by the arm and pointed to the farthest wall, where two slumped forms had been chained up. Harry ran to them, leaving footsteps among the undulating S-shaped tracks sunk into the soft soil, and touched one of the shapes: a boy, lying prone. Harry turned him over- and found himself staring into his own face, ghost-white, lividly bruised and serene as the dead.
Harry woke up in a cold sweat. He yanked back his bed hangings. The dorm was tranquil; the others boys were still asleep. As if called, Tibbles II pattered up the stairs into the room and leaped on Harry's bed, and lay in his lap, purring soothingly.
Harry carried Tibbles to the window. It was drizzling outside, but the grounds were peaceful and still. Overhead, the moon was a watery white scimitar that dimly lit the wet grassy fields, and Hagrid's hut, where Harry knew the bloodhound Fang slept under the table, and Sirius'- Harry's- motorbike leaned against the wall by Hagrid's bed. The Quidditch stadium was damp and empty. There were no evil estranged witches flying on stolen broomsticks over the pitch.
Then movement disturbed the peaceful scene. Harry's window afforded him a view of the road leading from Hogsmeade to the school's gates, and he now saw a figure making his way up the muddy road. The figure moved slowly, limping, weak. Heart beating fast, Harry dug out his Omnioculars and focussed on the figure's face. A Death Eater, come to finish him off? Not this time- Harry saw, astonishingly, that it was Severus Snape limping wearily up the road. He had one arm clutched to his stomach, and pain contorted his face.
Harry was about to run for Dumbledore when he saw someone else coming down the road, but from the school's front doors. Two witches, huddled under an umbrella, hurried to meet Snape on the road. Harry watched as they reached him and took him under the umbrella, which expanded to shelter all three. They turned towards the castle and Harry saw Professor Figg and Perdita Clemens flanking Snape, holding him up. The little group hastened through the rain to the castle and went in through the front doors, and left Harry's sight lines. Harry put down the Omnioculars. What could this mean?
* * * * *
Minerva McGonagall met them in the Entrance Hall. "Come into the Great Hall," she said anxiously, throwing a blanket round Severus Snape's shoulders.
They installed him on a bench at the Ravenclaw table and gave him a mug of hot Butterbeer. He drained it in one gulp and immediately asked for something stronger. Bella Figg filled his mug with Ogden's Old Firewhiskey and asked, "What happened?"
Snape's teeth were chattering. "He c-c-can fly..." he whispered.
The three witches exchanged glances. "What do you mean?" said Perdita.
"Fly!" cried Snape, flailing his arms madly. "Fly! Without brooms, without spells..."
"Wandless magic?" Minerva said, stunned.
Snape nodded. "He's been p-p-practising in the daytime- showed the others- not me-"
"Voldemort's been practising wandless magic," Bella said slowly. "Probably realizes he can't beat Harry Potter in a wizarding duel with wands, so he's making sure he knows how to cheat..."
"Where did the meeting take place?" Minerva asked Snape.
Snape had closed his eyes and was slumped under the blanket. "I don't know where I was."
"London?" Perdita suggested.
"Don't know," repeated Snape, opening his eyes. "It was dark. They were all round me, closing in... suddenly they all leaped into the air and hovered above me... they told me he was getting more and more powerful by the minute, and their attack could come any day now... Suddenly a light appeared behind them and they all vanished into it."
"Was it daylight through the door?" suggested Minerva.
"No... pale light, soft blue light. Like a blue cloud... They simply stepped in and disappeared."
He was shivering. Bella poured him more whiskey. "What else did he say? Why did they torture you?"
"He-" Snape stopped suddenly. He had been tortured because he had had too little information on Albus Dumbledore to give to Voldemort. They had surrounded him and pinned him down, questioned him harshly, and he had told them what he knew: that Dumbledore allowed Potter much more freedom than the other students, that he prized Harry Potter above all the others. But it was not enough to satisfy them.
"This is not information!" Lucius Malfoy had spat. "My wretched son writes that to me every week! What's his real weakness, Snape?"
"I don't know," Snape had pleaded.
"You do," a dusky witch called Emily had purred. "You must know, Snape."
"Yes, Severus, you must," murmured Maldora Lestrange, her beautiful icy eyes threatening.
Snape did not know, and he continued to say so, but it took a long time to convince them. Voldemort finally released him, with a warning: he wanted to know Dumbledore's greatest weakness- soon. If Snape didn't have information by the next meeting, Voldemort would be very, very angry.
But he couldn't tell this to the Phoenixes. Voldemort would have him put to death.
"They tortured me because they want me to take a more active part in their nocturnal dealings," he said. "Voldemort needs all the supporters he can rally."
This seemed to satisfy Bella and Perdita- but Minerva McGonagall's eye twitched skeptically. Snape closed his eyes again. At least by staying silent he had a few more weeks to live. He would never give up Dumbledore if he could help it. He would have to avoid the old wizard for the rest of his short life. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered to stay alive at all.
* * * * *
The next morning Professor Snape assigned a complicated Memory Potion to his class of fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. It would be good practice for the O.W.L. exams, Snape said, meaning that Memory Potions would probably be one of the potions required for the O.W.L. Potions practical exam. Only a few pairs managed to complete it successfully, and in the process suddenly remembered where they had left those various belongings they had lost years before.
"Of course, I must have dropped that sock behind the radiator six years ago," Harry said to Ron. "So that's where that went."
"And I've just remembered that Bill stuck his finger in the cake icing on Percy's ninth birthday," Ron said.
Draco Malfoy added too much tripinnate nephrolepis, causing his cauldron to boil over and forcing him to start again. He strode to the back of the class to refill his cauldron with cold water from the marble basin behind Harry and Ron, who were chopping zingiber roots to neutralize the Memory Potion.
"Out of my way, Scarhead," Malfoy muttered, squeezing past them to get to the water basin.
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said, turning to glower at Malfoy; but his knife slipped as he looked away from his work, and he sliced a deep wound across his thumb. Blood gushed painfully all over his cutting board.
Ron jumped back. "Careful, Harry!" He hurried away to get a rag.
Harry pressed on the gash to stem the flow. Then he looked up at Malfoy. The Slytherin was staring at his wounded hand, mesmerized by the pooling blood on the cutting board- and there was a gleam in his eyes that Harry didn't like.
He slowly turned so his bleeding hand was shielded from Malfoy's hungry gaze. The trance was broken. Malfoy looked up suddenly at Harry's face.
For one single moment there was a kind of fear in the pale eyes, and Harry came to understand, in the split second that the fear existed, that Draco Malfoy had no idea that his ancestors were part vampire. His parents must always have known, but they hadn't told their son.
More secrets to keep, Harry thought, and then the fear vanished and Draco was back to his supercilious self.
"Better be careful, Scarhead," he sneered with his customary smirk. "The potion doesn't call for a pint of human blood."
He swaggered away, and Harry had to struggle to restrain himself from asking whether vampire recipes required that ingredient. Revenge will come in time, he thought to himself.
"What was that about?" Ron asked as he returned with a rag to clean off the blood.
Harry hadn't told Ron what he knew. In fact he hadn't told anyone. He didn't feel obliged to share the secret. It had been Niamh Giffard's gift to him and he was free to keep or spread it as he wished.
Ron and Hermione would find out in due time. "Nothing," he said.
* * * * *
May began to loom menacingly before the Hogwarts fifth-years, most of whom felt they hadn't been studying adequately for the O.W.L.'s in June. A special O.W.L. testing team would be dispatched from London to administer the exams. The O.W.L. exams were in fact the fifth-year final exams. Depending on how many courses the student took, he or she could get anywhere from five to twelve O.W.L.'s; the more O.W.L.'s a student passed, the better. Most students took eight or nine subjects in fifth year, but some, like Bill and Percy Weasley, took as many as twelve courses (the seven requisite courses plus five electives).
Hermione was taking ten courses this year (having dropped Muggle Studies and Divination), and no one doubted that she could get all her O.W.L.'s. Harry and Ron were each taking nine courses, and Ron was deeply concerned about getting his O.W.L.'s.
"If we don't get them all, we won't have as good a chance at becoming Aurors," Ron said worriedly.
"I can help you study if you're that frightened," Hermione said, "but I really don't think they'll be too hard."
"That's because you've never had a mark less than one hundred and two percent on any exams," Harry remarked. "Why are you studying so much then?"
Hermione stared at him. "The O.W.L.'s are very important tests! If I don't get all of them it will narrow my range of careers when I sit the N.E.W.T.'s!"
Harry wasn't as apprehensive as Ron. The summer of instruction had taught him that he could understand any topic and memorize any information if he worked hard enough. He may not be as clever as Hermione, but he was equally as determined and felt intelligent on his own terms.
The teachers were used to preparing wave after wave of fifth-years for the O.W.L.'s, and remained calm as their students panicked over every triviality and demanded review lessons of the last five years of study.
"What's gotten into all of you?" Professor McGonagall asked when Lavender and Parvati requested that she review Switching Spells with them. "You're all acting like Miss Granger before a chapter test! And I'll thank you not to tell her I said that."
Not all the teachers were so accomodating. When they tried to beg Professor Figg to go over Blocking Spells again instead of teaching the new lesson, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher lost her temper and threatened to bring in a real banshee if they didn't keep up with her lesson plan. When they persisted, she followed through on her promise, and consequently deafened the entire school, with the banshee's shrill and painful screams ringing in their ears for several hours afterwards.
Most students were dismayed to realize that while they had snoozed away the hours in Professor Binns' History of Magic class, the old ghost had in fact been spouting important information that could conceivably appear on the History exam. This hardly kept the students from their naps, however.
And everyone, Harry and Hermione included, was worried about Potions. The way Professor Snape's hints were spoken, it seemed like the practical exam for the Potions O.W.L. would include brewing potions with the complexity of the elixir of life- and even Lord Voldemort would have had trouble with that.
* * * * *
One fine morning in May, Cornelius Fudge's vegetable patch was blown up while he was weeding the carrots. Fudge escaped with minor injuries, but his pride and tendency for blame delegation were both deeply affected.
So it was that the next morning, still fairly shaken and with nearly all the pomp taken out of him, the Minister of Magic appeared on the doorstep of Hogwarts School and demanded to see Albus Dumbledore.
He travelled in stealth, well disguised, fearing a more fatal attack while in transit. No one expected him, save Niamh Giffard, who quietly warned the Headmaster of the Minister's impending arrival. Therefore when the loud insistent knocking began on his office door, Dumbledore was somewhat better prepared than he ordinarily would have been, not having exchanged two words with the self-important Fudge since they had rancourously parted company eleven months ago.
"Come in," sighed Dumbledore, steeling himself for the explosion.
But Fudge quietly opened the door, let himself in, and shut it after him. There was no blustering, no shouting- nothing, in fact, which normally distinguished Cornelius Fudge from rational men. Dumbledore peered over his half-moon spectacles in consternation as he leaned over the desk.
"Is there something you'd like to discuss, Minister?" he enquired.
"Yes," said Fudge, slumping heavily into a chair. "My personal safety."
"Oh," said Dumbledore, sitting back down, disappointed. He had almost believed that Fudge perhaps about to ask for a report on what the Order of the Phoenix was doing to catch Voldemort. But no, Fudge was still inflated with the love of his position.
Yet he was here, wasn't he? That was a start. "Well," began Dumbledore cautiously. "Have you accepted the fact that Voldemort is once again on the rise?" Finally come round to the side of reason, was what he wanted to say, but held it back.
"Yes, yes," said Fudge. "I concede that a threat has appeared. Now I want to know what you're doing to stop him." Stop him from getting to me, was what he meant, and Dumbledore understood it and was annoyed.
"We're doing everything we can," Dumbledore said flatly. "With little support from the Ministry of Magic, the Order can hardly be expected to instantly-"
Fudge thumped his fist on the desk, eyes flashing. "The only reason I let you keep your bloody Order was because Arabella Figg promised me personally that you were the best of the best!"
"We are!" Dumbledore responded. "But this isn't just any Dark wizard, Cornelius. This is the wizard we've been hunting for years and years, since before you became Minister of Magic. He's escaped our traps for decades, but I believe we are getting closer."
"I don't want to hear you're getting closer!" Fudge thunder. "I want to hear you're closing in! I want to hear you've got him in a box under your desk! I want bloody results, don't you understand!"
At least this heated argument had rejuvenated Fudge's old predictable temper, Dumbledore thought. Fudge's tantrum-born anger was easier to anticipate.
"We are doing everything we can," Dumbledore said quietly, enjoying the cold, controllable rage that seethed secretly within him. "This is a delicate operation, Cornelius, surely you understand that."
"A root canal is a delicate operation! This is a capture!" bellowed Fudge. "Why can't we just swoop in on him and bear him away to a prison cell somewhere?"
"We don't know where he is," Dumbledore said patiently. "We're working on that."
"I hope you are," Fudge snorted.
"And where exactly would this prison cell be located? Certainly not Azkaban."
"No!" said Fudge, horrified. "Great heavens no! Not even the Hit Wizards we placed there would be able to contain the fiend."
Dumbledore refrained from reminding Fudge that it was he, Fudge, who had once had such overpowering faith in the easily swayed Dementors. Instead he asked, "Then where? Once we track down Voldemort-"
"I like the confidence in that statement," interjected Fudge.
"-then where will we place him?" Dumbledore went on, ignoring the interruption.
"I plan to have him put to death," Fudge replied immediately.
"How? You surely have not forgotten what happened the last time he was hit with a Killing Curse."
Fudge paused. "Oh- yes, that's right." Dumbledore waited, trying not to smile at the Minister's discomfiture. "I- er- well- hmm," said Fudge, looking stymied. "Well- couldn't you somehow, I don't know, duel him to the death? Like you did with Grindelwald?"
Dumbledore stiffened. "You know I don't like to speak of that particular encounter."
"I know, I know, but you did defeat him, after all..." Fudge misjudged his opponent. Flattery, especially when conveyed in so unsubtle a vehicle, rarely managed to throw Dumbledore off track, as it did to the Minister himself.
"I highly doubt the same technique would work on Voldemort, whose exploration of immortality treatments has been extensive," Dumbledore said. "And I have not duelled in many years."
"Perhaps that's your problem," Fudge said triumphantly. "You're too old!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You haven't enough young blood in your organization, Dumbledore," Fudge explained as if it were all quite reasonable. Dumbledore stared at him. "You must be more dynamic, more active! You should be out there looking instead of cloistering yourself in this little office all the time."
"In case you have forgotten, Cornelius," Dumbledore said icily, "I am still headmaster of this institution, and I have a responsibility to my students."
"Yes, you do," said Fudge, leaning forward intently. Dumbledore watched him levelly, but began to worry. "Don't think I haven't heard about what's been happening here at Hogwarts, Dumbledore."
The Headmaster felt a slight tremor of anxiety, but did not let it show. "What's been happening here?" he echoed.
"Don't play at that, Dumbledore. I've heard all about the tricks that frighten the children. I get angry letters nearly every week from parents whose children have written home of the going-ons here."
"These parents wouldn't happen to be influenced by Lucius Malfoy, would they?" Dumbledore guessed.
Fudge frowned. "Don't change the subject. You don't seem to be able to manage two tasks at once, Dumbledore. Must I make you choose between Hogwarts and the Order?"
"No," Dumbledore said firmly. He was humiliated to be getting upbraided by Cornelius Fudge, of all people. "My progress is gradual but constant, Cornelius. I am slowly succeeding."
"Success-" began Fudge.
"Is measured by the final outcome," Dumbledore finished impatiently. "I know, Cornelius. What do you want from me then, a personal guarantee that the end products of my undertakings will be favourable?"
"Yes!" said Fudge. "Firstly, I want Hogwarts' O.W.L. scores to top Beauxbatons' and Durmstrang's."
"Our students have been consistent achievers for many years."
"Then make it continue. If you want to keep the headship of Hogwarts, do not let this year's- events- affect the students' performance on the O.W.L.'s. And secondly, I want You-Know-Who's head on a pike."
Dumbledore's nose crinkled in distaste, both of the gruesome expression and of Fudge's use of the fear-inspiring alias of Voldemort. Fudge did not notice. "I want him ruined, Dumbledore, completely and utterly defeated, so that he can never come back! For the good of the world at large," he added; but Dumbledore noticed the quaver in the Minister's voice.
Am I the only wizard in the world not afraid of Voldemort? he wondered in astonishment. Aloud he said calmly, "If this is what the Ministry wishes, then I will do my best to help, Cornelius."
He managed to usher the Minister of Magic out of his office without being coerced into making unrealistic promises. Then he came back to his desk and dropped wearily into his chair, and laid a hand on his wrinkled brow.
Fawkes the phoenix flitted down from atop a bookcase and perched on Dumbledore's arm. The old wizard stroked the firebird's sleek head and thought again, with much shame, of how close he had come to losing his school and his Order to the pompous, capricious Fudge, so easily persuaded of opinions that could not possibly be his.
Dumbledore was no fool, certainly. He had seen from a mile away the malicious influence of Lucius Malfoy behind Fudge's harsh words- more intangible evidence of Voldemort's plotting, even if no physical evidence existed. Poor, pretentious Fudge, thought Dumbledore, pitying the wizard perhaps doomed to forever be a figurehead, a puppet of those whose motives were most driven by personal ambition.
It was not the same as the stone chamber he had envisioned before. This room had soft earthen walls and floor. Iron rings with wrist and ankle shackles hung were magically fixed to the walls. A shadowy friend pulled Harry by the arm and pointed to the farthest wall, where two slumped forms had been chained up. Harry ran to them, leaving footsteps among the undulating S-shaped tracks sunk into the soft soil, and touched one of the shapes: a boy, lying prone. Harry turned him over- and found himself staring into his own face, ghost-white, lividly bruised and serene as the dead.
Harry woke up in a cold sweat. He yanked back his bed hangings. The dorm was tranquil; the others boys were still asleep. As if called, Tibbles II pattered up the stairs into the room and leaped on Harry's bed, and lay in his lap, purring soothingly.
Harry carried Tibbles to the window. It was drizzling outside, but the grounds were peaceful and still. Overhead, the moon was a watery white scimitar that dimly lit the wet grassy fields, and Hagrid's hut, where Harry knew the bloodhound Fang slept under the table, and Sirius'- Harry's- motorbike leaned against the wall by Hagrid's bed. The Quidditch stadium was damp and empty. There were no evil estranged witches flying on stolen broomsticks over the pitch.
Then movement disturbed the peaceful scene. Harry's window afforded him a view of the road leading from Hogsmeade to the school's gates, and he now saw a figure making his way up the muddy road. The figure moved slowly, limping, weak. Heart beating fast, Harry dug out his Omnioculars and focussed on the figure's face. A Death Eater, come to finish him off? Not this time- Harry saw, astonishingly, that it was Severus Snape limping wearily up the road. He had one arm clutched to his stomach, and pain contorted his face.
Harry was about to run for Dumbledore when he saw someone else coming down the road, but from the school's front doors. Two witches, huddled under an umbrella, hurried to meet Snape on the road. Harry watched as they reached him and took him under the umbrella, which expanded to shelter all three. They turned towards the castle and Harry saw Professor Figg and Perdita Clemens flanking Snape, holding him up. The little group hastened through the rain to the castle and went in through the front doors, and left Harry's sight lines. Harry put down the Omnioculars. What could this mean?
* * * * *
Minerva McGonagall met them in the Entrance Hall. "Come into the Great Hall," she said anxiously, throwing a blanket round Severus Snape's shoulders.
They installed him on a bench at the Ravenclaw table and gave him a mug of hot Butterbeer. He drained it in one gulp and immediately asked for something stronger. Bella Figg filled his mug with Ogden's Old Firewhiskey and asked, "What happened?"
Snape's teeth were chattering. "He c-c-can fly..." he whispered.
The three witches exchanged glances. "What do you mean?" said Perdita.
"Fly!" cried Snape, flailing his arms madly. "Fly! Without brooms, without spells..."
"Wandless magic?" Minerva said, stunned.
Snape nodded. "He's been p-p-practising in the daytime- showed the others- not me-"
"Voldemort's been practising wandless magic," Bella said slowly. "Probably realizes he can't beat Harry Potter in a wizarding duel with wands, so he's making sure he knows how to cheat..."
"Where did the meeting take place?" Minerva asked Snape.
Snape had closed his eyes and was slumped under the blanket. "I don't know where I was."
"London?" Perdita suggested.
"Don't know," repeated Snape, opening his eyes. "It was dark. They were all round me, closing in... suddenly they all leaped into the air and hovered above me... they told me he was getting more and more powerful by the minute, and their attack could come any day now... Suddenly a light appeared behind them and they all vanished into it."
"Was it daylight through the door?" suggested Minerva.
"No... pale light, soft blue light. Like a blue cloud... They simply stepped in and disappeared."
He was shivering. Bella poured him more whiskey. "What else did he say? Why did they torture you?"
"He-" Snape stopped suddenly. He had been tortured because he had had too little information on Albus Dumbledore to give to Voldemort. They had surrounded him and pinned him down, questioned him harshly, and he had told them what he knew: that Dumbledore allowed Potter much more freedom than the other students, that he prized Harry Potter above all the others. But it was not enough to satisfy them.
"This is not information!" Lucius Malfoy had spat. "My wretched son writes that to me every week! What's his real weakness, Snape?"
"I don't know," Snape had pleaded.
"You do," a dusky witch called Emily had purred. "You must know, Snape."
"Yes, Severus, you must," murmured Maldora Lestrange, her beautiful icy eyes threatening.
Snape did not know, and he continued to say so, but it took a long time to convince them. Voldemort finally released him, with a warning: he wanted to know Dumbledore's greatest weakness- soon. If Snape didn't have information by the next meeting, Voldemort would be very, very angry.
But he couldn't tell this to the Phoenixes. Voldemort would have him put to death.
"They tortured me because they want me to take a more active part in their nocturnal dealings," he said. "Voldemort needs all the supporters he can rally."
This seemed to satisfy Bella and Perdita- but Minerva McGonagall's eye twitched skeptically. Snape closed his eyes again. At least by staying silent he had a few more weeks to live. He would never give up Dumbledore if he could help it. He would have to avoid the old wizard for the rest of his short life. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered to stay alive at all.
* * * * *
The next morning Professor Snape assigned a complicated Memory Potion to his class of fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. It would be good practice for the O.W.L. exams, Snape said, meaning that Memory Potions would probably be one of the potions required for the O.W.L. Potions practical exam. Only a few pairs managed to complete it successfully, and in the process suddenly remembered where they had left those various belongings they had lost years before.
"Of course, I must have dropped that sock behind the radiator six years ago," Harry said to Ron. "So that's where that went."
"And I've just remembered that Bill stuck his finger in the cake icing on Percy's ninth birthday," Ron said.
Draco Malfoy added too much tripinnate nephrolepis, causing his cauldron to boil over and forcing him to start again. He strode to the back of the class to refill his cauldron with cold water from the marble basin behind Harry and Ron, who were chopping zingiber roots to neutralize the Memory Potion.
"Out of my way, Scarhead," Malfoy muttered, squeezing past them to get to the water basin.
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said, turning to glower at Malfoy; but his knife slipped as he looked away from his work, and he sliced a deep wound across his thumb. Blood gushed painfully all over his cutting board.
Ron jumped back. "Careful, Harry!" He hurried away to get a rag.
Harry pressed on the gash to stem the flow. Then he looked up at Malfoy. The Slytherin was staring at his wounded hand, mesmerized by the pooling blood on the cutting board- and there was a gleam in his eyes that Harry didn't like.
He slowly turned so his bleeding hand was shielded from Malfoy's hungry gaze. The trance was broken. Malfoy looked up suddenly at Harry's face.
For one single moment there was a kind of fear in the pale eyes, and Harry came to understand, in the split second that the fear existed, that Draco Malfoy had no idea that his ancestors were part vampire. His parents must always have known, but they hadn't told their son.
More secrets to keep, Harry thought, and then the fear vanished and Draco was back to his supercilious self.
"Better be careful, Scarhead," he sneered with his customary smirk. "The potion doesn't call for a pint of human blood."
He swaggered away, and Harry had to struggle to restrain himself from asking whether vampire recipes required that ingredient. Revenge will come in time, he thought to himself.
"What was that about?" Ron asked as he returned with a rag to clean off the blood.
Harry hadn't told Ron what he knew. In fact he hadn't told anyone. He didn't feel obliged to share the secret. It had been Niamh Giffard's gift to him and he was free to keep or spread it as he wished.
Ron and Hermione would find out in due time. "Nothing," he said.
* * * * *
May began to loom menacingly before the Hogwarts fifth-years, most of whom felt they hadn't been studying adequately for the O.W.L.'s in June. A special O.W.L. testing team would be dispatched from London to administer the exams. The O.W.L. exams were in fact the fifth-year final exams. Depending on how many courses the student took, he or she could get anywhere from five to twelve O.W.L.'s; the more O.W.L.'s a student passed, the better. Most students took eight or nine subjects in fifth year, but some, like Bill and Percy Weasley, took as many as twelve courses (the seven requisite courses plus five electives).
Hermione was taking ten courses this year (having dropped Muggle Studies and Divination), and no one doubted that she could get all her O.W.L.'s. Harry and Ron were each taking nine courses, and Ron was deeply concerned about getting his O.W.L.'s.
"If we don't get them all, we won't have as good a chance at becoming Aurors," Ron said worriedly.
"I can help you study if you're that frightened," Hermione said, "but I really don't think they'll be too hard."
"That's because you've never had a mark less than one hundred and two percent on any exams," Harry remarked. "Why are you studying so much then?"
Hermione stared at him. "The O.W.L.'s are very important tests! If I don't get all of them it will narrow my range of careers when I sit the N.E.W.T.'s!"
Harry wasn't as apprehensive as Ron. The summer of instruction had taught him that he could understand any topic and memorize any information if he worked hard enough. He may not be as clever as Hermione, but he was equally as determined and felt intelligent on his own terms.
The teachers were used to preparing wave after wave of fifth-years for the O.W.L.'s, and remained calm as their students panicked over every triviality and demanded review lessons of the last five years of study.
"What's gotten into all of you?" Professor McGonagall asked when Lavender and Parvati requested that she review Switching Spells with them. "You're all acting like Miss Granger before a chapter test! And I'll thank you not to tell her I said that."
Not all the teachers were so accomodating. When they tried to beg Professor Figg to go over Blocking Spells again instead of teaching the new lesson, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher lost her temper and threatened to bring in a real banshee if they didn't keep up with her lesson plan. When they persisted, she followed through on her promise, and consequently deafened the entire school, with the banshee's shrill and painful screams ringing in their ears for several hours afterwards.
Most students were dismayed to realize that while they had snoozed away the hours in Professor Binns' History of Magic class, the old ghost had in fact been spouting important information that could conceivably appear on the History exam. This hardly kept the students from their naps, however.
And everyone, Harry and Hermione included, was worried about Potions. The way Professor Snape's hints were spoken, it seemed like the practical exam for the Potions O.W.L. would include brewing potions with the complexity of the elixir of life- and even Lord Voldemort would have had trouble with that.
* * * * *
One fine morning in May, Cornelius Fudge's vegetable patch was blown up while he was weeding the carrots. Fudge escaped with minor injuries, but his pride and tendency for blame delegation were both deeply affected.
So it was that the next morning, still fairly shaken and with nearly all the pomp taken out of him, the Minister of Magic appeared on the doorstep of Hogwarts School and demanded to see Albus Dumbledore.
He travelled in stealth, well disguised, fearing a more fatal attack while in transit. No one expected him, save Niamh Giffard, who quietly warned the Headmaster of the Minister's impending arrival. Therefore when the loud insistent knocking began on his office door, Dumbledore was somewhat better prepared than he ordinarily would have been, not having exchanged two words with the self-important Fudge since they had rancourously parted company eleven months ago.
"Come in," sighed Dumbledore, steeling himself for the explosion.
But Fudge quietly opened the door, let himself in, and shut it after him. There was no blustering, no shouting- nothing, in fact, which normally distinguished Cornelius Fudge from rational men. Dumbledore peered over his half-moon spectacles in consternation as he leaned over the desk.
"Is there something you'd like to discuss, Minister?" he enquired.
"Yes," said Fudge, slumping heavily into a chair. "My personal safety."
"Oh," said Dumbledore, sitting back down, disappointed. He had almost believed that Fudge perhaps about to ask for a report on what the Order of the Phoenix was doing to catch Voldemort. But no, Fudge was still inflated with the love of his position.
Yet he was here, wasn't he? That was a start. "Well," began Dumbledore cautiously. "Have you accepted the fact that Voldemort is once again on the rise?" Finally come round to the side of reason, was what he wanted to say, but held it back.
"Yes, yes," said Fudge. "I concede that a threat has appeared. Now I want to know what you're doing to stop him." Stop him from getting to me, was what he meant, and Dumbledore understood it and was annoyed.
"We're doing everything we can," Dumbledore said flatly. "With little support from the Ministry of Magic, the Order can hardly be expected to instantly-"
Fudge thumped his fist on the desk, eyes flashing. "The only reason I let you keep your bloody Order was because Arabella Figg promised me personally that you were the best of the best!"
"We are!" Dumbledore responded. "But this isn't just any Dark wizard, Cornelius. This is the wizard we've been hunting for years and years, since before you became Minister of Magic. He's escaped our traps for decades, but I believe we are getting closer."
"I don't want to hear you're getting closer!" Fudge thunder. "I want to hear you're closing in! I want to hear you've got him in a box under your desk! I want bloody results, don't you understand!"
At least this heated argument had rejuvenated Fudge's old predictable temper, Dumbledore thought. Fudge's tantrum-born anger was easier to anticipate.
"We are doing everything we can," Dumbledore said quietly, enjoying the cold, controllable rage that seethed secretly within him. "This is a delicate operation, Cornelius, surely you understand that."
"A root canal is a delicate operation! This is a capture!" bellowed Fudge. "Why can't we just swoop in on him and bear him away to a prison cell somewhere?"
"We don't know where he is," Dumbledore said patiently. "We're working on that."
"I hope you are," Fudge snorted.
"And where exactly would this prison cell be located? Certainly not Azkaban."
"No!" said Fudge, horrified. "Great heavens no! Not even the Hit Wizards we placed there would be able to contain the fiend."
Dumbledore refrained from reminding Fudge that it was he, Fudge, who had once had such overpowering faith in the easily swayed Dementors. Instead he asked, "Then where? Once we track down Voldemort-"
"I like the confidence in that statement," interjected Fudge.
"-then where will we place him?" Dumbledore went on, ignoring the interruption.
"I plan to have him put to death," Fudge replied immediately.
"How? You surely have not forgotten what happened the last time he was hit with a Killing Curse."
Fudge paused. "Oh- yes, that's right." Dumbledore waited, trying not to smile at the Minister's discomfiture. "I- er- well- hmm," said Fudge, looking stymied. "Well- couldn't you somehow, I don't know, duel him to the death? Like you did with Grindelwald?"
Dumbledore stiffened. "You know I don't like to speak of that particular encounter."
"I know, I know, but you did defeat him, after all..." Fudge misjudged his opponent. Flattery, especially when conveyed in so unsubtle a vehicle, rarely managed to throw Dumbledore off track, as it did to the Minister himself.
"I highly doubt the same technique would work on Voldemort, whose exploration of immortality treatments has been extensive," Dumbledore said. "And I have not duelled in many years."
"Perhaps that's your problem," Fudge said triumphantly. "You're too old!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You haven't enough young blood in your organization, Dumbledore," Fudge explained as if it were all quite reasonable. Dumbledore stared at him. "You must be more dynamic, more active! You should be out there looking instead of cloistering yourself in this little office all the time."
"In case you have forgotten, Cornelius," Dumbledore said icily, "I am still headmaster of this institution, and I have a responsibility to my students."
"Yes, you do," said Fudge, leaning forward intently. Dumbledore watched him levelly, but began to worry. "Don't think I haven't heard about what's been happening here at Hogwarts, Dumbledore."
The Headmaster felt a slight tremor of anxiety, but did not let it show. "What's been happening here?" he echoed.
"Don't play at that, Dumbledore. I've heard all about the tricks that frighten the children. I get angry letters nearly every week from parents whose children have written home of the going-ons here."
"These parents wouldn't happen to be influenced by Lucius Malfoy, would they?" Dumbledore guessed.
Fudge frowned. "Don't change the subject. You don't seem to be able to manage two tasks at once, Dumbledore. Must I make you choose between Hogwarts and the Order?"
"No," Dumbledore said firmly. He was humiliated to be getting upbraided by Cornelius Fudge, of all people. "My progress is gradual but constant, Cornelius. I am slowly succeeding."
"Success-" began Fudge.
"Is measured by the final outcome," Dumbledore finished impatiently. "I know, Cornelius. What do you want from me then, a personal guarantee that the end products of my undertakings will be favourable?"
"Yes!" said Fudge. "Firstly, I want Hogwarts' O.W.L. scores to top Beauxbatons' and Durmstrang's."
"Our students have been consistent achievers for many years."
"Then make it continue. If you want to keep the headship of Hogwarts, do not let this year's- events- affect the students' performance on the O.W.L.'s. And secondly, I want You-Know-Who's head on a pike."
Dumbledore's nose crinkled in distaste, both of the gruesome expression and of Fudge's use of the fear-inspiring alias of Voldemort. Fudge did not notice. "I want him ruined, Dumbledore, completely and utterly defeated, so that he can never come back! For the good of the world at large," he added; but Dumbledore noticed the quaver in the Minister's voice.
Am I the only wizard in the world not afraid of Voldemort? he wondered in astonishment. Aloud he said calmly, "If this is what the Ministry wishes, then I will do my best to help, Cornelius."
He managed to usher the Minister of Magic out of his office without being coerced into making unrealistic promises. Then he came back to his desk and dropped wearily into his chair, and laid a hand on his wrinkled brow.
Fawkes the phoenix flitted down from atop a bookcase and perched on Dumbledore's arm. The old wizard stroked the firebird's sleek head and thought again, with much shame, of how close he had come to losing his school and his Order to the pompous, capricious Fudge, so easily persuaded of opinions that could not possibly be his.
Dumbledore was no fool, certainly. He had seen from a mile away the malicious influence of Lucius Malfoy behind Fudge's harsh words- more intangible evidence of Voldemort's plotting, even if no physical evidence existed. Poor, pretentious Fudge, thought Dumbledore, pitying the wizard perhaps doomed to forever be a figurehead, a puppet of those whose motives were most driven by personal ambition.
