AUTHOR'S NOTE: A little side-note for the amateur philologists and other curious parties out there. Some of the names in this story have rather less obvious pronunciations than might be expected. Here, for your personal edification, are some of them, with the pronunciations that Snarky and I use.

Zarekael- ZAHR-eh-kale

Ruthvencairn- RIH-vehn-kehrn

Neshdiana- NEHSH-dee-AH-nah

(and for anyone who didn't get it from Peeve's rhyme in "Selkirk") Meli- MEH-lee

This has been a public service announcement, written, directed, produced, and otherwise meddled-with, by Skulker Enterprises. Wombats rule. Shop at Zonko's. Anca chose a reeeeally bad time to go off caffeine!
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Chapter 8: Take Two

PRESENT: LATE AUGUST

Had anyone been around to see it (and of course no one was), that person would have witnessed the arrival of two respectable-looking individuals. They appeared with a crack, as from thin air, in an alleyway not far from Number Four Privet Drive.

The taller of the two wore a well-tailored suit and possessed salt-and-pepper hair, a distinguished-looking goatee, and benevolent blue eyes. His associate was clad in a simple but pretty dress and wore her long chocolate brown hair in curls that might be either natural or iron-induced. Each carried a professional-looking black case and walked with a genteel gait. Though their dress was modern, they might otherwise have stepped out of a novel of manners.

This respectable pair glanced at one another, then, with the lady on the gentleman's arm, proceeded from the alleyway to Number Four, where the gentleman rapped at the door.

When Petunia Dursley opened it and saw them, she looked as though she wanted to slam it in their faces, but the lady gently interposed.

"We're not Jehovah's Witnesses, and we're not selling vacuums," she stated in a low, clear voice. "Nor are we collecting for an orphan's fund. Are you Mrs. Petunia Dursley?"

Petunia hesitated but nodded.

The lady smiled, showing deep dimples in each cheek. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, setting down her case and extending her hand. "My name is Bella Rokesmith, and this gentleman with me is Ivan Gregoriyan. May we have just a moment of your time?"

Something about Miss Rokesmith's charming manner so disarmed Petunia that she agreed and invited both visitors in for tea. Miss Rokesmith apologized profusely for having come at tea-time and offered to come back later, and the final objections in Petunia's mind were overcome. She insisted that they stay for tea, adding that it was really no trouble at all—which, for someone of her efficiency, was quite true.

So it was that Miss Rokesmith and Mr. Gregoriyan found themselves and their cases in the sitting room with Vernon, Dudley, Petunia, and Harry. Vernon, perceiving that these were people to be impressed, put on his best manners and, with ill-concealed nods and glances, informed the boys that they were to do likewise. Mr. Gregoriyan bowed when introduced and murmured a word of thanks to his hostess, but after glancing quizzically several times at both Dudley and Petunia, he fixed his gaze on Harry with an expression of mild awe.

Neither visitor was from Surrey, nor even from England; Miss Rokesmith had a slight Scottish accent, and Mr. Gregoriyan's was an East European that might have been a peculiar combination of Russian with something else. As the conversation progressed, Miss Rokesmith proved to be the more vocal of the two, possibly because English was her first language.

For the first half-hour or so, they engaged merely in small-talk, but at the end of that time, Petunia cleared her throat and smiled. "So what brings the two of you here today, Miss Rokesmith?" she asked.

The lady's countenance became immediately sober. "I won't deceive you, Mrs. Dursley," she replied. "Indeed, I should never wish to. We've come on an errand of grave importance." She produced from somewhere and handed over a letter. "There is no easy way to say this, so I'll simply tell you plainly: Albus Dumbledore has sent us."

Immediately, the atmosphere changed from one of relaxed pleasantry to one of animosity. Both visitors, particularly Mr. Gregoriyan, looked pained.

"And what does he have to say to us?" Vernon demanded harshly, his face starting to go purple.

Sadness shone in Miss Rokesmith's brown eyes. "I know that by now the Ministry will have sent someone to tell you that you're in danger," she told them. "Probably offered protection of some sort?"

No one nodded, but the glances traded by Vernon and Petunia were answer enough—as if their visitors hadn't known the facts of the matter.

"And I know," Miss Rokesmith continued, not acknowledging the exchange, "that that offer probably holds little appeal, for several reasons." She offered Vernon a tiny smile. "Mr. Dursley, I understand that you are an exemplary seller of drills. To go into hiding, you would have to give that up." Her smile now warmed Dudley. "Young Mr. Dursley, you attend a fine school that will make you into a fine man—and I see it has already started its work. Why should you wish to leave such an opportunity, the making of your future?" She looked last to a very thoughtful Petunia. "And for you, Mrs. Dursley, who are obviously so content here—the wife of a successful husband, the mother of a promising son, and the maker of a happy home—it would be just as hard for you to leave as for your husband or son."

Miss Rokesmith looked at each Dursley in turn, her smile going rueful. "And, given that your experience with magical folk has been rather limited and, I daresay, not generally pleasant, it's all the more understandable that you would hesitate to place yourselves in the hands of such strange and suspect folk." She spoke this indictment against herself and her people without a trace of irony, sarcasm, or bitterness, instead making it sound like a simple statement of fact.

The effect of her words on the Dursleys was remarkable. Vernon was nodding his agreement, Dudley was smiling as if for the first time in his life someone understood him, and Petunia looked distant and reflective.

"But you're here to ask us to go into hiding, aren't you?" she asked sadly after a moment of silence.

Miss Rokesmith looked shocked. "No, indeed!" she replied. "Knowing what we know—what I've just said—it would be a cruelty for us to ask such a thing!"

"But we do believe we've found a solution," Mr. Gregoriyan interposed quietly.

All eyes fixed on the gentleman.

"Mr. Gregoriyan and his business associate are jewelers," Miss Rokesmith explained. "They've devised a way for you to stay at home and yet be able to escape should You-Know-Who ever come knocking."

"An escape involving…jewelry," Vernon said, flatly unconvinced. "And how, exactly, does that work?"

Mr. Gregoriyan opened his case, which sat between his chair and Dudley's, and produced a tray of men's rings and watches. "Using a complex process of chemical and other treatments," he stated, "my associate and I were able to turn these ordinary items into portkeys."

His explanation elicited three blank stares. "Into what?" Dudley asked.

Mr. Gregoriyan looked to his British companion, who smiled. "Portkeys," she repeated. "Are you familiar with Star Trek?" At their confused nods, she continued, "Think of it as a site-to-site transporter. When you activate it, it'll take you from wherever you are to a safe place."

"The portkeys are voice-activated," Mr. Gregoriyan added. "We've brought with us a variety of men's and women's styles, in hopes of finding something to match your personalities and inclinations."

While he spoke, Miss Rokesmith produced a similar tray from her case, this one holding women's rings and pendants. Petunia's eye immediately fixed on one in particular.

"What about Dudley?" the Muggle lady asked absently, her gaze riveted on the flashy diamond ring.

"He may wish to choose from the men's fashions," Mr. Gregoriyan replied. "Or if he finds nothing to his liking there, I have some other styles suited to teenage boys that he may look at also."

Vernon scowled from the jewelry to the people who had brought it, but Petunia and Dudley looked over it with interest, the former obviously having more on her mind than a new accessory. Mr. Gregoriyan, noticing the ring that had drawn her attention, lifted it from its place with a flourish that drew all light in the room to it, then sent the light dancing away again in a dazzling spectacle.

"A three-karat diamond," he told her with the air of a practiced merchant, "flanked by solitaires, with a solid gold band. The perfect right-hand ring for the fashionable woman, easily explained as a loving gift from a doting husband."

With those words, he charmed Petunia as thoroughly as Miss Rokesmith had done with her smile. Even Vernon seemed a bit mollified…but then his countenance darkened with suspicion.

"And just how much would such a 'loving gift' cost me?" he asked, turning a baleful eye on the jeweler.

Mr. Gregoriyan looked him squarely in the eye. "Nothing," he answered. "It is our gift to you—"

"Codswallop!" Vernon spat. "You expect me to believe that claptrap? There's always a catch with you people—always a price! Maybe it'll cost us nothing now, but you or that conjurer you work for will demand an accounting later on!"

Mr. Gregoriyan, who had never appeared to be anything but a gentle and genuine elderly man, blinked in surprise at the strength and suddenness of Vernon's venom. Before he could say anything in his defense, however, Miss Rokesmith leapt verbally to the rescue.

"There's no need for such accusations, Mr. Dursley," she said, her tone frosting a bit. "We've come to you honestly and openly, out of concern for your safety, not for our pocketbooks. If money were the issue, we'd have brought you plain rings made of aluminum. As it is, though, we're trying to meet you halfway—"

"We never asked you here!" Vernon roared, surging to his feet and upsetting the teapot. It fell to the floor, unnoticed, and poured out its contents in peace. As the man of the house leapt upward, the other persons belonging to it shrank back to cringe in his wake. The two visitors didn't flinch, one because he was, of necessity, virtually unshakable, the other because her own ire was beginning to pique.

"None of us asked you to come into our lives," Vernon continued. "Not you, not Dingeldorf, not any of your kind—not even Harry asked for any of it, and he is one of you! How dare you come under our roof and impose on my wife's hospitality—"

"Vernon, please," Petunia interrupted, sounding anxious and even a touch desperate. "They can't help us if we turn up dead!"

"What makes you think they'll help us even if we don't?" her husband thundered back. "How do you know this isn't all a scam?"

"Vernon—"

"Quiet, woman!" He then launched into an impassioned speech that made no sense at all but which demonstrated that he had spent years resenting the magical world and everything pertaining to it. This served little direct purpose other than to provoke Miss Rokesmith, whose eyes blazed while she sank her teeth into her tongue, but it also provided cover for something else that happened.

Near the end of his father's tirade, Dudley, who'd had a good view of the rings still in Mr. Gregoriyan's case, deftly slipped his hand into the case and swiped one—a silver ring with an intricate rendering of a phoenix rising from flames. Only Harry saw this—or so he at first thought.

Dudley looked up casually, only to lock eyes with the suddenly very intent Mr. Gregoriyan.

"Put it on your finger," the jeweler said softly, and Harry started; all trace of Russian was gone from the old-looking man's accent, giving way to an accent he knew well and associated with only one person in the world.

Dudley, who knew neither Russian accents nor this one well enough to notice what was really only a slight alteration, did as he was told, his eyes wide.

"Now repeat after me," the jeweler ordered. "'Smeltings'."

"Smeltings," Dudley whispered.

"That is now the password," Mr. Gregoriyan told him. "If ever your life is in danger, that will activate the ring. Never take it off."

Unfortunately, their conversation had attracted the notice of Vernon, who swooped down on the jeweler—or Potions apprentice, as the case might be—with renewed vengeance. "What are you saying to him!" he all but screamed.

Mr. Gregoriyan looked sadly at him. "I merely asked him where he attends school," he answered quietly, "then warned him not to be forthcoming with such information, as the Dark Lord might try to obtain it."

"He's trying to help, Uncle Vernon," Harry protested, and that ended all argument. If Harry Potter was for it, Vernon Dursley, on principle, must be against it.

"Get out of my house and never come here again!" Vernon bellowed, slapping the jewelry trays into their carrying cases and pointing toward the door.

"Vernon!" Petunia pleaded, but she shrank away when he actually raised a hand to her.

"Stay out of it, woman!" he roared.

Miss Rokesmith seemed on the verge of angry tears as she packed her case, but still she held her silence. Mr. Gregoriyan, however, became even more desperate than Petunia was.

"You know this is real, Mrs. Dursley," he called urgently as Vernon pushed and Miss Rokesmith pulled him toward the door. "Your family was targeted before—don't let Hyacinth's death be in vain! You must take warning from it!"

This last cry ended with Vernon slamming the door in his face. The indisputable man of the house then returned to the mess he had made of his family, plainly in the mood to shout some more and thoroughly suspicious on top of it.

"And just what in bloody hell was that old sod talking about just now, Petunia?" he asked dangerously.

She blanched, but she dared not refuse to answer. "My sister…Hyacinth," she replied shakily.

"The one who died in a car crash?" Vernon snapped.

She nodded hesitantly.

"The same way my parents died in a car crash?" Harry asked coolly.

His aunt nodded again, then burst into near-hysterical tears. "She was—horribly mutilated," she sobbed. "With a skull floating in the air above her. All we knew was a wizard killed her!"

"Why the hell didn't you ever tell me!" Vernon demanded.

"Because I knew what you'd say!" she screamed back at him. "And what good would it do to tell you? All it would do is make you angrier and more suspicious, and we've all had quite enough of that, I'm sure!"

"How dare you!"

Petunia opened her mouth, came up speechless, then closed it again, whirled, and fled from the room. They heard her run up the stairs, and a few seconds later, the door to her and Vernon's room slammed forcefully enough to rattle the windows on the ground floor.

Vernon turned away from the place in which his wife had last stood and found both boys staring at him from paled faces.

"What?"

Harry swallowed. "Shall I clean up the tea things now or later?" he stammered, almost innocently.

Vernon glowered at him in hateful silence. Harry traded uneasy looks with Dudley, then cleared his throat. "I'll, um, just…come back later, then."

At his uncle's deepened scowl, Harry swallowed, then ducked out of the room, his cousin close behind him.

The two emissaries arrived in Dumbledore's office two hours later than expected, but when the headmaster opened his mouth to inquire, Zarekael quelled him with a look. "Don't ask," he advised darkly.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, but he acquiesced, instead opening the two logs and setting up each with their Dicto-Quills.

It was fortunate that the headmaster intended a simultaneous report on this occasion, for at the outset, at least, Meli had her tongue clamped firmly between her teeth, and she apparently had no intention of prying her jaw apart to talk. Zarekael, it seemed, would have to report for both of them.

He gave a precise, succinct report up to the point of his and Meli's rapid withdrawal from the Dursley residence, and there he stopped short.

Dumbledore paused to read over what had been said, then looked expectantly at the two operatives. "So far, there is nothing to account for a two-hour delay," he observed. "I find it highly unlikely that you became lost in the forest on your way back."

Zarekael winced. "You really don't want to know," he told the headmaster.

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow and his countenance turned grave, a painful reminder to both operatives that Zarekael's trustworthiness, at least, was still in question. "I'm afraid I have to know," he countered firmly.

Before Zarekael could make any reply, Meli overcame her sudden case of lockjaw and spouted it out: "It would seem that Petunia Dursley's not the only nosy neighbor on the street," she growled. "Someone—of course they wouldn't say who—heard Vernon Dursley bellowing his bloody lungs out and called in a domestic disturbance report. We hadn't made it past the front garden before we were surrounded by peelers!"

"There were two of them," Zarekael put in, shaking his head in exasperation. "I wouldn't say we were surrounded."

"Blocked, then," Meli amended, forging right on ahead unhindered. "They were most certainly in our way, and bloody disagreeable on top of it! They stopped us for questioning—as if we'd done something wrong!" She reached up and grabbed hold of Zarekael's head, which was still masked by the face of Ivan Gregoriyan. "I ask you: Could you possibly associate such dashing good looks with the Dark Side?"

If she saw Dumbledore's smirk, she gave no indication—unless, of course, it was her provocation to go on.

"So some unpleasant words were spoken on both sides, and somewhere in there Dursley poked his head out of the front door to see what all the row was about—"

"Was it absolutely necessary," Zarekael interrupted long-sufferingly, "to call Vernon Dursley a dunce-headed piss-bathing arse-sniffing overgrown marmoset with delusions of godhood?"

Meli crossed her arms and scowled at him. "Yes."

"Then to tell the police officer that he's nothing more than a glorified wombat with a badge?"

"It needed to be said," she answered stubbornly.

Dumbledore rubbed at his brow as if to ward off a headache. "Oh, dear."

"We had to obliviate them to avoid arrest!" Zarekael sputtered.

Meli set her jaw. "I stand by what I said," she replied coldly. "If he had half the brains God gave to catsup, he'd have better sense than to gamble his family's lives like this, all on account of his bloody-minded pride. Maybe I was a bit…cruder than you would have been in conveying that point, but everything I said is true."

"Even about the marmoset?" Dumbledore queried, the twinkle at last resurfacing in his eye.

Meli faltered a bit. "Well…maybe not the marmoset bit," she at last admitted. "But the peeler really did look like a wombat—I'm not retracting that!" She nodded forcefully as if, having proven her point, she had come, seen, and conquered.

Silence reigned for a long moment while both Zarekael and Dumbledore fought back grins. When he had mastery of his countenance, the headmaster cleared his throat.

"So Dudley, at least, has a ring," he observed, returning to the meat of the matter.

Meli started. "He does?" she asked in evident surprise. "I missed that somewhere."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I believe you were rather occupied with grinding your teeth at that point," he said sardonically. "Yes, Dudley slipped a ring from Zarekael's case, apparently thinking it a clever trick. That trick may very well save his life."

Zarekael nodded soberly. "Unfortunately, Petunia is still without one," he stated. "And I believe her to be interested in having one."

"I think that highly likely," Dumbledore replied gravely. "It was she who found Hyacinth, and unless I'm much mistaken, Petunia has no wish to meet the same fate."

Meli furrowed her brow. "Who is Hyacinth?" she asked. "Both of you have mentioned her now."

"Hyacinth was the youngest Evans sister," Dumbledore answered. "She was murdered and mutilated as part of a Death Eater initiation near the beginning of Lily's seventh year here." He shook his head somberly. "I believe that may have been when Petunia decided to wash her hands once and for all of the wizarding world—she didn't realize that no Muggle, no matter what their ties to magical folk, is truly safe from Voldemort."

"She realizes it now," Zarekael told him quietly. "She was thinking even before she saw the rings."

"And now she'll die anyway because her rotter of a husband won't allow her protection," Meli said bitterly.

Dumbledore was silent a moment, then slowly shook his head. "Not necessarily," he countered.

Either Zarekael had been thinking along similar lines or he caught on faster than Meli did. "Her wedding ring," he murmured.

The headmaster nodded. "Her wedding ring."

"There are only two problems with that," Meli interposed cautiously. "First, how do we get it away from her in the first place, and secondly, how do we tell her how to activate it?"

"The first problem is the most easily solved, I think," Dumbledore replied. "There is, in the kitchens here, an unusually resourceful house elf who I believe would accept the job."

"As for telling her how to set and use the password," Zarekael added, "it's a relatively simple thing to knock at the door when her husband is away, return it, and give her proper instructions."

Dumbledore looked hawkishly at Meli. "That mission may very well go to you," he informed her. "Unless, of course, you don't think yourself up to the task?"

She smirked. "I can handle Petunia," she countered. "It's her husband I have issues with."

"And what pseudonym will you be using on that occasion?" Dumbledore asked. "Rose Maylie? Lucie Manette?"

"I'll go for someone with more personality, thanks," she growled. "And, just to throw you, someone not from Dickens. Possibly Amy Eshton."

Dumbledore gave her a half-smile, then looked to the Potions apprentice. "I don't think I dare send Tippy for a week or so; Vernon Dursley is apt to be suspicious if his wife's ring disappears too soon after this."

Zarekael nodded. "I agree."

"How long will it take you and Severus to treat it?" Dumbledore asked.

Zarekael considered. "Six to eight weeks," he replied after a moment. "It would take less time if we had made the ring ourselves, but under the circumstances there's really no choice."

"Very true, unfortunately," the headmaster sighed. "I'll speak with Tippy this evening and send him for the ring as soon as possible."

The younger man nodded. "I'll inform Severus."

Meli, meanwhile, had fallen silent to ponder. When Petunia's death had been inarguable and a foregone conclusion, she had felt little but anger and despair. Now, though, when there was a sudden ray of hope, she felt instead an impatient, gnawing anxiety.

It was suddenly all too horribly clear to her that a great deal could happen in six to eight weeks.

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: I recently went back over the reviews for this story and noticed there were a couple that I had neglected to acknowledge in their places—very sorry! However, I intend to rectify that now.

Omaha Werewolf- Ah, yes, I wondered what you'd think of Lupin. As for the wand bit, Snarky and I are operating on the hypothesis that werewolves are solitary and territorial individuals who don't much care for one another's company. Since the core of Rasa's wand is not from the esteemed Professor Lupin, it doesn't like him and tried to get away from him. If he had been in his canine form, he would probably have returned the sentiment.

Cinammon- I apologize for not making it as clear as I could have hoped, but Rasa's "plucky sidekick-slash-valet" is the handsome and gracious Alfred, who in future chapters will demonstrate that he is indeed as sure-handed at burying bodies as at scrubbing toilets—although, regrettably, we couldn't figure out a way to have him bury a body in a scrubbed toilet without departing a little too far from the plot.

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