Disclaimer: I borrowed without asking, I have no permission.
A/N: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
The next instalment, rewritten again and again and again and again. I solemnly swear to do my best to have the rest of this up before next Friday.
Fit the Fifth: New Kids on the Block
"I don't get it. It worked fine when we tried it on Ginny."
"Yeah, but she's got red hair already hasn't she?"
In the living room of number ten, Grimmuald Place, Fred and George Weasley sat gazing sadly at the small pink squirrel on the table in front of them.
"Guess it's back to the drawing board," said Fred glumly. "Thanks anyway, Tonks."
The squirrel gave them a look of deep rodent sympathy and wrinkled its nose. Its hair at once became a deep mahogany.
In an armchair at the far side of the living room, Dumbledore watched, amused, from beneath heavily lidded eyes. His attention was equally divided between the experiments of the Weasley twins and the whispered argument going on between their brother and Hermione Granger in a quiet corner by the dresser.
"We can at least ask him if Harry's getting our letters!"
"Hermione, he'd have told us if he wasn't. Leave it be."
"How can you say that? He's your best friend, Ron!"
"Look , don't start that again, alright? Mum reckons Dumbledore'll let him come to ours for his birthday. Give him time."
"But it's not right for him to bottle all this up. Look what happened last year!"
"Well go on then! You ask him if you're so keen."
Dumbledore saw her rise and begin to make her way towards him. However, as she passed the door it swung open and she almost collided with the man who entered. There was a flurry of motion, and suddenly Hermione froze. Alastor Moody's wand was at her throat.
"There are no Death Eaters in here, Alastor," said Dumbledore sternly.
Moody didn't even look embarrassed as he slowly lowered his wand and watched Hermione walk quickly back to join Ron. The ex-auror then made his way towards Dumbledore's chair and began without préamble.
"We've picked up Shreik's trail again at last. Seems he was responsible for a break-in in Essex yesterday morning."
"Yesterday morning? Why didn't hear of this sooner, Alastor?" asked Dumbledore.
Moody grimaced. "Well, it wasn't quite the move we were expecting. Target was a Muggle house."
"A Muggle house?" Dumbledore frowned as he considered this. " Do you know what's been taken?"
"Not yet," spat Moody in evident annoyance. "The Muggles were away last night and haven't even discovered the break-in yet." It was clear from his tone that he considered this hindrance a deliberate personal affront.
Dumbledore's face betrayed nothing. "You have them under surveillance?"
The other man nodded. "Shacklebolt's 'casually observing' them at the moment." Here Moody paused. "I want your permission to have him arrest them," he said suddenly.
"No, Alastor. They've done nothing."
"They plan to join You Know Who. They've made there choice, now lets bring them down before they do damage to better people."
"They're hardly more than children, Alastor; playing at war. There's still a chance they'll choose differently when it comes to it."
Moody ground his teeth but nodded agreement. He slumped down in the chair opposite the headmaster's and took a long draught from his hipflask. "Well, they seem incompetent at any rate. Not likely to cause too much damage so long as we have them in our sights."
Albus smiled lightly and rose to leave. "Send word as soon as you know what Edmund and his friends have taken," he instructed.
"You'll know as soon as I do."
Dumbledore made his way across the room to the door. Pausing by the table he whispered quietly "I think perhaps ground mandrake leaves may be the key." Then he left, passing Molly Weasley in the corridor with an innocent smile.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
In a parlour some miles west of Essex, three young wizards and a witch waited in tense silence. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the window to shut out the sun, and the attention of all four was focussed on the one source of light in the dimness of the room. It came from the tip of Jolian Drodry's wand as he knelt on the floor, reading from a large book and muttering under his breath.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
At the far side of the room from the others, Eddie paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, watching his cousin's progress. At each sweep he tapped the candlesticks on either end of the mantle, and then the small copper box that held the floo powder.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The others made no complaint. They were used to it. As far as they were concerned, this was a good day for Eddie. At least he hadn't started on the silverware. Finally, Jolian sat back and sighed.
"It's no use," he said. "It would take weeks. The Muggle way is the only practical course."
Barely visible in the darkness, Eddie's face contorted into a grimace. The witch, Helga, inhaled sharply through her teeth.
"Muggles are inferior!" she snapped automatically.
"What are you saying, John?" asked Eddie in his soft, refined voice. "We use magic. That's the whole point. It's how we win. It's why we win."
"Look," said Jolian, levelly. "This thing," he gesticulated towards the small black box on the table beside him, "is Muggle-made. We'll be using it in a Muggle house. It works well enough on their own power source. There's no point mucking around with spells when the thing already works."
"Are you willing to stand before the Dark Lord and plead worthiness while steeping yourself in idiot Muggle practices?" sneered Helga.
"Are you willing to see somebody else bring the boy to him first?" countered Jolian.
"What I don't get is why we don't just grab him," growled Søren, the only one who had not yet spoken. Broad and muscular, Søren was never one to grapple with the intricacies of any situation. Jolian rolled his eyes and began tidying away his books. It was Eddie who answered the question.
"Do you think so little of the abilities of the Dark Lord, brother? If it were as simple as just grabbing him then He would have finished him off long ago! The Dark Lord is greater than you can ever know!" Eddie's face had taken on the reverent sheen he always wore when speaking of Lord Voldemort. "He has overlooked nothing! That we might be worthy to join Him…"
Søren was not, Jolian reflected, a deep intellectual philosopher. He liked violence, and abhorred Muggles, noble qualities in Drodry's eyes, but his education had lacked, perhaps, a certain subtlety of manners. It was for this reason that the Dane's next question came as no surprise to him.
"If he's so clever, why hasn't he thought of this"
Eddie flinched and wavered. It took him a moment to frame his reply, but when he spoke his tone was level and convincing.
"The Dark Lord is pure of Muggle contamination," he said at last. "It is only the lowly like us who think of such methods as these. Besides, he has greater things to think about than the Potter boy."
This was enough to silence Søren, and they returned their attention to the collection of artefacts surrounding Jolian on the floor.
"So, how does it work then?" asked Helga. Her name, in fact, was not Helga at all. When they had met her she had been introduced as Sophia, but Eddie had called her Helga, and words Eddie used tended to stick. That's why they were all here, wasn't it?
"We took this from a Muggle house yesterday," Jolian told the others casually. "They call it a 'projector'. It's a crude and ridiculous method of showing each other their crude and ridiculous photographs. Watch."
He flicked a switch on the battery pack that he had connected to the projector. The ammetre wobbled as the background magic in the house interfered with the power, but the projector came slowly to life. Jolian made some minor adjustments, and it began to emit a bright light. A picture of a Muggle family on holiday appeared on the wall by the door. The others sniggered as they saw the crude additions Jolian had made to the picture with his quill. He switched the projector off again and the image disappeared.
"So how does it work?" repeated Helga. Drodry shrugged. He knew better than to go into detail on Muggle methods in present company. Since boyhood it had amused Jolian to use their own artefacts against them - redesigned, of course, with magical improvements. However, many of his friends barely tolerated the means he used to his ends, and so he explained in the shortest terms he could manage.
"Basically, whatever's here," he pointed to the tray of slides, "ends up over there" he gesticulated to the wall.
"And how will that help us?"
"I've integrated a switching charm," he explained. "Watch this!"
He pointed the projector at a crystal vase which stood on the sideboard. Then he removed the slide tray from the projector and moved to stand in front of the light source himself. Bending down he switched back on the power. The shutter clicked and a bright light filled the room. When it died away, the vase stood where Jolian had been. On the dresser, Jolian rose to his feet and did a little dance of victory looking down upon them all.
Helga looked deeply unimpressed. Eddie looked dubious. Søren was looking at the vase in confusion.
"All that effort just to apparate?" asked Helga in disgust.
"Not apparate," said Jolian impatiently. "Switch! Apparation won't work where Potter is, but this lets us use switching magic instead. And over long, long distances. We won't need to use apparition magic, do you see? All the wards in the world won't make a difference if we use a switching spell! I'm sure of it."
Helga looked unconvinced but Eddie broke across her as she opened her mouth to argue.
"Show me how it works, John."
"It's simple." Jolian promised. "Plug it in, set it up, flip the switch. All you need is direct line of sight. And a target, of course."
"There's a dresser beside the bed. You can see it from the window." Søren offered.
"We'll do it tonight," said Eddie with a grin.
By nine o'clock, Minerva McGonagall had already been up and in a foul mood for several hours. Her sleep had been fitful, the pain in her back waking her every few hours. She had risen early, but a long walk and several discretely cast charms hadn't helped. Now she was back in the house and the pain had dulled to a constant ache which she could tell had settled in for the long haul.
Trying to push the pain to the back of her mind, Minerva sat back in the wooden-backed kitchen chair and turned her attention to the pile of paperwork in front of her. Hogwarts had been without its headmaster for months, and his replacement - 'usurper', Minerva thought spitefully- had made a mockery of the systems of administration which had been in place for years. McGonagall was already behind on her paperwork thanks to the attack, and then there were the exams to be corrected and the letters to be sent out. To top it all off the ministry was dragging its feet on the matter of the educational decrees. All in all, the Hogwarts paperwork for the last academic year had become an beauracratic Gordian knot. With a weary sigh, she set about trying to untangle it. After all, she had the time.
Lunchtime rolled round and still she had only scratched the surface. The letters for next year were ready to be sent, and her first and second years' papers were marked and graded. There were some clashes with the fifth year timetable which she would need to sort out with Professor Vector and she hadn't even begun to tackle the pile of pink parchment left by that odious woman (her temper would allow her call her nothing else.)
The ache in her back had redoubled its efforts and was launching an attack on her head. With a growl of frustration she shoved back her chair and stormed towards the door to the back garden.
"Oh dear," came a gentle voice from the direction of the fireplace. "Is it really that bad?"
Turning around Minerva was unsurprised to see Albus Dumbledore's tall frame unfolding from the hearth. She frowned blackly as she returned to the table and picked a sheet at random from Umbridge's pile of notes.
"Paid to Argus Filch the sum of 20 galleons for necessary school maintainance. Signed D J Umbridge, Headmistress, High Inquisitor and Chief Undersecretary to the Minister, " she read aloud. "No date! No details! No system! They're all like that!"
"May I?" Dumbledore asked, reaching out a hand and taking the parchment from his deputy. He scrutinised it for a moment, then bent it in half. He folded the parchment into a perfect chrysanthemum which he then tossed into the low-burning fire where it was promptly incinerated. "Problem solved." He reached for another piece of parchment.
McGonagall rolled her eyes in exasperation and batted his hand away. "You just get on with saving the world and leave the paperwork to me," she said.
Dumbledore opened his arms theatrically and lowered his head in acquiescence. "As you wish. The Incendio system has long been a favourite filing method of mine, however."
"I know it has," Minerva replied, smiling despite herself. "Why do you think I don't let you deal with the minutiae anymore?" She took her seat again opposite him, trying hard not to allow her discomfort to show.
Dumbledore pulled a small vial from his robes. "By the way, I stopped by Hogwarts earlier today and Poppy asked me how you were. I mentioned you'd had some discomfort, and she asked me to pass this along." He handed her the potion.
McGonagall regarded it for a moment, then unstoppered it and took a sip. A feeling of warmth spread along her spine and across her shoulders, and the ache receded. It was replaced by a deep feeling of gratitude. "Thank you" she murmured sincerely.
Dumbledore smiled and waved it aside. "It was Poppy, not I. How do you feel?"
"Like an old woman," McGonagall admitted ruefully. "But the pain is gone."
Dumbledore chuckled. "You should be careful in what company you throw around these terms, Professor McGonagall. Some of us are twice your age!"
"Only until I turn eighty," she pointed out.
"You'll never catch me up though," he teased.
"Well every year I get older, you insist on doing the same. Damned unsportsmanlike I'd call it," sniffed Minerva disapprovingly.
Dumbledore beamed, deeply relieved to see his friend so much like her usual caustic self. "Grow as old as you like, my dear," he smiled impulsively, "but don't ever change." His hand covered hers where it lay on the table.
Perhaps it was the relief of familiar comfort in the midst of a time of cruel choices which made Dumbledore do what he did next. Minerva was leaning toward him, smiling. She was so close that he could see the little creases at the edges of her eyes deepen. Instinctively he leaned in to close the gap. McGonagall's eyes widened in shock behind the frames of her glasses, but she did not pull away. Time dragged as Dumbledore leaned closer, not entirely sure what he thought he was doing. He felt her breath warm against his lips. His nose brushed against hers.
CRASH!
Minerva pulled back with a cry and spun to face the window. There was nothing to be seen, but something had let fall several feathers on the window sill.
It took Albus a beat to collect himself, then he strode towards the window and flung it open. There was a sense of motion, the sound of flapping wings, and a cool breeze ruffled his beard. A bird, invisible save for its shadow, came to rest on the tabletop. Reaching out his hand Dumbledore pulled a small roll of parchment from the owl's unseen leg. The letter became visible as he moved it away from the table.
"From Alastor," he explained.
"He disillusioned an owl?" asked Minerva in disbelief.
"So it would appear. He is nothing if not diligent."
McGonagall looked as though she had more to say on the matter, but forbore out of respect for Dumbledore. The headmaster quickly scanned the note and frowned. "How very curious," he muttered.
"What is?" asked McGonagall, not really expecting a response. She didn't get one.
"I must deal with this now. I shall call back again later." And with that, he was gone.