CHAPTER EIGHT

The hard thing about spying for the Order is that our spies don't know what they're looking for. The Order never really tells them what they want other than they want information about the Malfoy's. Of course, there is a vast range of data. And, while you know that the Order wants information that might be helpful in the downfall of Voldemort, the spies in this story don't. They might've had educated guesses – I mean, they obviously know that something will happen so that they and the common people will live happier, more peaceful lives – but they couldn't know how this was to come about. This means that they had to get the silliest bits of information about the Malfoy family, like that Lucius was dropped on his head as child and how much Draco detests fish.

The members of the spy headquarters in the Malfoy province have broken their backs for decades over gathering this information secretly. Several have died in the effort, as you know. Yet there never seems to be enough collected data.

You see, there was a data collector that would come periodically, though no one could actually tell when the bloke would show up. Sometimes he would come two days in a row, other times months after the last time he visited. He was a stern man, as stiff as a stick, with a hawk-like nose that and black eyes, the color of a calm night before a storm, and slick black hair. He had no patience for politeness – or mistakes. For protection against traitors, the members of the spy headquarters weren't allowed to know his name, as he wasn't allowed to know their names, but I'm sure you can guess who this pasty, greasy, and evil looking man is.

Whenever he did show up, a meeting would be held in the kitchen. The only three people that usually weren't allowed into the meetings were Ron, Harry, and Ginny, seeing that they were the youngest ones; but as you know, Harry was in the castle; and Ron and Ginny – well, Ron was nineteen and Ginny was sixteen. Fred and George reminded them daily that they needed to be twenty-one to attend the meetings and be on really important missions. It was a rule that Molly set down firmly when Bill and Charlie became eighteen and started insisting that they be allowed to go on important missions also.

Still, at the cheeky age of sixteen, Ginny was showing more and more of her older twins' qualities. Proof of this would be the fact that she managed to convince Ron to spy on the spies with her.

It was a chilly night, so the floor in front of the kitchen was uncomfortably cold and hard. Ron kept shifting and Ginny hit him quietly, signaling for him to stop; he was making too much noise.

"We're not supposed to be doing this," Ron hissed.

"Oh, hush up. If your bloody lover was here, then you wouldn't be complaining," she whispered back. She wasn't usually that agitated, but it seemed to her brothers that she was goring through her time of the month.

"Don't say that about Harry, Ginny; that's disgusting! And – and I'm not complaining – I'm just saying that – "

"Ronnie, what's the age that you consider a person to be an adult?"

"Huh? I – Eighteen, I guess."

"How old are you, Ronnikins?"

"Nineteen. You know that – "

"So don't you think that you deserve to listen to this meeting?"

"I – "

"Don't worry about it, big bro," she grinned and waved a hand, dismissing Ron's doubt. "You're an adult – you can listen to this meeting."

"What about you? You're only sixteen."

"I'm your special guest."

He rolled his eyes but didn't say anymore.

On the other side of the wooden door, the kitchen had a light blue haze to it from the moonlight, and the spies in it were scattered: Tonks was standing at the windows, as if on guard to make sure that no one was listening at the window sills; Kingsley was standing in the shadows near the kitchen door, his arms crossed. The man, Arthur, and Remus were sitting at the table in the center of the room, while Molly lingered near by uncomfortably. Everyone had a stern and serious face on, even the twins, who were sitting on either side of the kitchen door. Both of them knew that Ginny and Ron were on the other side, but they kept their mouths shut as they listened to the meeting. Frankly, they were proud of their little brother and sister; it seemed that they were finally learning tricks from the twins' trade.

"The spy is inside of the castle as we speak, but we didn't think it would be wise to risk two spies at once," Arthur was saying.

Fred glanced at George and they exchanged knowing looks: their MOTHER didn't think it would be wise to risk two spies at once, seeing that the only able spies were Fred, George, Bill, and Charlie.

"What you're trying to tell me is that you have a spy in there, yet no one is collecting information from him."

"Yes."

"That is the most idiotic, most foolish – " the hawk-like man paused and cleared his throat, bringing his hands together on the table and straightening his back. "Yes, it was smart to take advantage of his position, but what sense does it make to even have him there if no one is getting the information!"

"Listen, we're too concerned for his safety to worry about sending in anyone else in. We – we simply can't. Besides, there haven't been any good opportunities, no events, no nothing – "

"It's not very difficult to send in one of your spies dressed up as a slave."

"But – "

"By the end of this meeting, someone will go. Anyone. It can even be you, for all I care – as long as the information is collected. It makes no sense to have a spy there if no one is receiving his information," he repeated.

"Listen: since it makes no sense to have the spy there, we were thinking that you won't object to rescuing him – "

"No!" He cleared his throat. "No. You may not under any circumstances."

A heavy, rather confused silence fell over the kitchen and drifted outside to Ginny and Ron.

Arthur paused to assemble his wits. "We've been listening to the gossip on the streets. The rumors are that our spy's position's importance in the castle has quadrupled. He's more important than he even described to the last spy that went to him. We're worried about him. According to our analyzer, the chances that he'll be realized as a spy have risen along with his importance. Really, we just want him out of the castle."

"That's not your decision to make."

"But – "

"I won't repeat myself. That issue is closed."

There was a heavy silence. Molly seemed like she wanted to say something, but decided against it at the last minute; the twins shared looks; Ron, his hopes having skyrocketed at the prospect of his friend being rescued, now plummeted to the ground.

"Now that I believe we're clear on that topic," the data collector continued, "it's time for you to pick the one who will go to the castle to receive the data."

(Just to satisfy your own curiosity – if you have any at all – the reason the data collector doesn't want Harry to leave the castle is because, well, if the marriage is successful, then Draco won't be able to have any children. The Malfoy's rule will abruptly come to an end. The province will be thrown into chaos without leaders – at least, until Voldemort could find a replacement. That would be one less evil province Lord for the Order to worry about. But I won't focus on this fact too much, else I'll stray away from the real plot at hand. But now, perhaps you have just a taste of how immensely important Harry suddenly is. He's no longer a pawn of Draco's, but a factor deciding the ultimate future of the province as well.)

Tonks muttered that she would go to get the information. She wanted to make sure that Harry was okay.

"No. Someone might remember you from the ball," Kingsley said in his deep tenor. "I will."

"Are you kidding me? They would see you like a boulder in the middle of an open field!" Fred said before he could stop himself, but the point was already made.

"Molly," Arthur looked at his wife, who stiffened instantly.

"No, I will not – "

"At least let – er – one of our older sons go," Arthur said carefully, nervously glancing at the hawk-like man; he was always afraid of slipping someone's name by.

"Tonight," the man snapped his reminder. The older sons – Bill and Charlie, of course – were across the province, receiving the head quarter's direct orders. They were most likely to be the same as always: receive information on the Malfoy's.

"Mum, I can do it!" George frowned. "It's not like I'm incompetent or anything."

This was met with silence.

"The last time one of you went on a mission, you not only got the wrong source of information, but you killed three chickens and left a grown man with temporary amnesia,
Remus said hesitantly, unwilling to insult the boys but needing to have the point made.

"That was his fault!" they both pointed at their brother.

"Neither of you are responsible enough. Wasn't there a younger son?" The data collector glanced around the room.

"Yeah, but he's only nineteen – "

"So?"

"Well, the age that we have them start missions is twenty one," Molly explained.

"I feel that nineteen is a perfect age. Is he responsible?"

"We don't know – he's never really been on a mission before…" Arthur said.

"He's always been great with getting the water," Tonks offered.

"Remember, he also found Harry." Kingsley was speaking of when Heero was wrongfully arrested by the royal guard. Ron was the one to find that he had been captured and ordered to the castle as a slave.

"Oh, that's true – "

"Perfect. Where is he?"

Ron's heart must've painfully stopped for a full three seconds as someone said that he should be in his room. Fred knocked on the door lightly with his foot as a warning, but it wasn't needed: both Ginny and Ron had scrambled away, down the hall, and into their respective rooms by then.

"What? No!" Molly put her hands on her hips and glared at the startled data collector before he could leave the kitchen. "I refuse to let you take my son – "

"I'm afraid you have no choice."

"Pardon me?" Everyone except the data collector knew that these were trademark warning words of Molly's.

"Hold on," Tonks said quickly, stepping in for the data collector. She walked over to Molly and leaned forward, whispering, "Molly, if you don't let one of them go…" Tonks sighed. "I mean, we don't know what'll happen to Harry! We don't know what's going on! When we send one of them, we'll know more, and that puts all of us in a better position. The sooner we're in a better position, the sooner we can get him out of there!"

Well, what Tonks said held truth, and eventually they were able to break down Molly's stubborn walls, with a lot of gentle pushing and carefully removing blocks, one by one. That is, the rest of her team was able to. The data collector couldn't quite say he cared about a mother's woes and, as everyone was reassuring Molly, he was marching down the hall and to Ron's room.

…

Ron had mixed feelings:

He didn't want to be on the mission: even though this was finally his chance to prove himself worthy of being on important missions and not collecting water from a river, he was scared out of his wits. But really, how do you say no to a face like the data collector's?

Yet, he did want to be on the mission: how could he not want to be? This was his chance to finally see Harry after – how long? Months now, really, even though it felt like years. Gods know, they would finally be able to talk to each other. Sure, there was the mission, but Ron was anxious to actually talk to Harry – you know, man to man; friend to friend; and not just spy to spy.

Still, no matter how badly Ron wanted to see Harry, the fact remained that he was seriously about to piss in his pants.

The castle was crawling with shadows and guards ready to jump out and stab Ron through his heart with their rapiers or spears. Every time there was a flash of movement, Ron's pulse nearly died on him. Every time there was some sort of echo, Ron imagined it was the last sound he would ever hear. The air was thin. There was a foul taste in his mouth. His feet were lead.

You can only imagine Ron's reaction when he heard, "What're you doing?"

He spun around, his heart thumping madly. He glanced around quickly, but merely saw a girl – perhaps his own age – with the most bushy hair he'd ever seen.

She was a royal. That was the second thing he noticed about her. Her clothing wasn't fancy, but it definitely wasn't peasant or slave robes either. He glanced around. There were no servants, no guards, and she didn't have a weapon.

She stepped closer and repeated, "What are you doing?"

"Er – I'm just – well, going to my – um – "

"Cabins? You're going in the wrong direction."

"No – not cabins, no – um – I mean to say – "

"Yes?" she prompted, slightly impatient.

"I mean to say… I was going to my working facilities."

"Why?"

"Simply because – er – I wanted to get used to my surroundings. I'm new here, you see."

"Yes, I realized. Where do you work?"

"The kitchens," he said instantly.

Her eyes narrowed. The third thing he noticed about her was that she was abnormally suspicious. Sure, if you meet someone in the halls you might be curious, but this was ridiculous.

"I see." She looked like she was itching to continue the interrogation.

"Could you point me in the correct direction, please?"

She did so, still eyeing him, and quickly welcoming him to the castle. He thanked her and started to walk away, glancing over his shoulder, only to see her still standing there and staring after him. As soon as he turned the corner, he ran as fast as his feet would carry him.

…

Ron hadn't merely told the girl that he was going to the kitchens as an excuse to get away from her; he really did need to go there. That's where he was ordered to go by the greasy man.

His heart still racing from the earlier encounter, Ron was in a tight cupboard, scrunched up and staring into darkness, trying not to fret over the millions of spiders he could practically feel crawling over him. Most of them were figments of his imagination, really, but try telling that to him. He shuddered as one of them brushed over his hand.

According to the greasy data collector, a man would eventually open the cupboard door that had a fleshy scar on the surface and, once he saw Ron, yell over his shoulder that he needed to make a delivery. "What kind?" would be the answer back, which would be Ron's cue to say he needed to collect information. The man would yell something about – was it strawberry deserts? – in reply. He would close the door, and later – no telling how much later – someone else would arrive and ask who Ron needed to see.

He would say that he needed to see the spy, and he would be promptly taken to wherever Harry was.

Yes, it was as easy as that. While comforting him before he left, Remus assured him it would be once he got inside of the kitchens. The most dangerous part was actually getting into and out of the castle, and wandering through the halls – Gods, Ron could definitely confirm that.

Just as Ron was starting to wonder just how long he would have to wait until he could see Harry, the door suddenly opened. Ron's heartbeat started to thump against his ribs so harshly that he felt his head moving with the pulse. The white light blinded Ron and he grimaced. He squinted through the glare. There was a tiny man standing in front of the cupboard, blocking out only part of the sticky and messy kitchen. He didn't seem surprised by Ron at all. Ron's heartbeat started to slow down.

"I have to make a delivery," the man yelled over his shoulder in a squeaky voice.

"Okay, what kind?" a rough voice shot back. The man looked at Ron expectantly.

"I need to get information!" Ron hissed.

"Blueberry deserts." Ah – it was blueberry, not strawberry.

"All right!" came the reply. The man looked back at Ron and eyed him blankly.

Ron glanced around nervously.

The man shrugged and closed the door, silencing Ron from the outside world once more and leaving him with his only companions: the spiders and darkness.

But just to hurry things along – as in, put this section of the story into fast forward:

Hours later: another man came back. He roused Ron from a fitful sleep. The man started to lecture Ron aimlessly. Ron went along with the act. He was a new slave learning the rules. He was taken through the halls. Upstairs. To a tower. No trouble along the way; only curious glances. The man fished out a key. Opened the door. Told Ron to wait in the room. The door closed. Ron was locked inside.

And now, at a normal pace:

Ron glanced around the room. His jaw practically dropped.

Sure, walking through the castle, he was able to get a taste of the riches and splendors the royals dwelled in daily. But this room – it was really something! He walked around, touching the silks and the shiny wooden furniture. He looked out of the closed glass window. The view was just as amazing. Hell, from way up here he could even see an edge of the forest in the distance!

This was Harry's room? Ron smirked. It seemed Harry wasn't having too many problems here in the castle.

He glanced into the closet. It was lined with dresses of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Did Harry really have to wear those things? Ron screwed up his face and closed the closet doors shut with a snap.

It was disgusting that Harry had to wear dresses, and he was sure that Harry would agree, but both knew that it was necessary for the future of the citizens of the province.

He dove for the shadows before he even consciously acknowledged that he'd heard voices outside of the door. One of them – one of them was Harry's, he was sure of it! He heard the door being unlocked, saw the doorknob twisting.

"No, I don't need any help – yeah, I'm sure. Good night."

The door closed firmly behind Harry. He sighed and crossed the room, muttering to himself incoherently. He opened the window and gazed out of it for a moment.

Ron was almost frozen with shock.

Harry… was wearing a dress.

Yeah, okay, cue the sarcastic comments, the rolling of the eyes, and whatnot, but really! The sight shocked Ron, even though it was to be expected. It took a while before he could make the connection that he was supposed to say something. Rather awkwardly, almost shyly, and definitely uncomfortably, he said with a small smile, "Hello, Harry."

Harry must've had a heart attack.

"Ron! What – how – ?" Harry stared around the room, as if expecting some more of his comrades to pop out of the shadows.

"You have a sucky welcoming committee."

"That's because I didn't know you were coming! Jeez, I – " Harry almost wanted to hug Ron, but he didn't think that would go over too well, considering… "Er… I should change."

Ron nodded in agreement uncomfortably. Harry pulled his stash of men's slave clothing from underneath the bed and, with help from Ron, he managed to get the finicky dress off of him. Back in his most comfortable element, he was more at ease. They lit the candles, letting Ron better admire the room in the light.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked once they sat down on the bed.

"I'm on a mission!" Ron grinned. "I have to get information from you."

"Seriously? I can't believe Molly let you – "

"I know! I mean, mum didn't have a choice, really, since the data collector said I had to go – "

"Didn't she fight?"

"Of course! But the others managed to calm her down. Can you believe it, Harry? No more fetching water – "

"Or walking half across the province to get bread."

"We're real spies now!" Ron whispered, an extremely-close-to-crazy gleam of excitement in his eyes.

Harry grinned. "Yeah. Now we can – " he stopped. He was going to say, 'Now we can help kill the Malfoy's,' but for some reason that seemed… wrong. "Now we can help the Order," he said instead. "I mean, really help them."

"Yeah, I know. And Ginny can do those chores now," he smirked. "So, where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"The information."

"…Oh, shit."

"What?" Ron looked at him blankly for a moment before realization dawned on him. "Oh, Gods – Harry, please tell me you have the information."

Harry shook his head and said defensively, "I haven't had a chance to get it. I mean, I was going to read Draco's journal tonight, but he wouldn't let me stay in his room. He's… er…" he swallowed and blushed, remembering how Draco had tugged Blaise along towards his room. "He's busy." His mind started to wander, and he realized that the two of them must've been well into it by then. He couldn't help but feel slightly jealous – not in that way, he told himself, but rather that Draco would just get rid of him just so that he could be with Blaise.

Ron raised an eyebrow and nodded, his wide eyes staring at Harry. "So… no information?"

"No. Not for now, anyway. I mean…" Harry pushed himself off of the bed. "I mean, I can get the information! I'll do it as soon as possible! Tomorrow morning, in fact. When do you go?"

"Preferably by the end of tonight," Ron replied. "But I can stay an extra day. I'm sure everyone will understand."

"Okay. I'll get it as soon as possible."

"I wish you were coming with me."

"Me too." Harry groaned and fell back onto the bed. "It's not as bad as you'd think, though."

"Well, yeah – I can see that." Ron grinned. "Look at those – " he pointed to the candle holders. "Are those real?"

"What? Are they real gold, you mean? Yeah. There's enough gold in this castle to take care of all of the poverty in all of the provinces, I'm betting."

"If I were you, I'd try to find a way to smuggle those things out of here. Do you know how much those are worth?"

"Yeah, I could guess."

"I would love to live in a place like this."

"Nah. You would go crazy if you stayed here. First off, there's this guy that's a complete jerk – "

"You mean Malfoy's son?"

"No, I mean his royal slave or servant or whatever the hell he is. There're times when I just want to strangle the guy, you know?"

"Is he a wimp?"

"A bit, I guess. He looks it, anyway. And then there's this girl."

"Is she cute?"

Harry shrugged. He'd never really thought of Hermione as 'cute.' "Maybe. I guess. She's just really strong, you know?"

"Like Pansy Parkinson, you mean."

Harry couldn't help himself but laugh. "How do you know about that?"

"Are you kidding? Everyone knows about Parkinson and her – er – preferences."

"She isn't really a lesbian, you know. Draco just said she was so that he wouldn't have to marry her."

"Really? Man, I was convinced it was true. It's kind of disappointing that she isn't."

"And Hermione isn't like that, either. I just mean she's the type that's independent and might piss you off a bit."

"Oh." Ron seemed even more disappointed. "Hermione, was it? Weird name."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, it is. I think she's foreign – from a province far, far away."

"How's Malfoy's son?"

"Draco? He's got a royal stick stuck up his ass 24/7, he's bloody annoying, conceited, snobby, needs to be hit over the head… To keep it short, Ron, he's an asshole."

"I'm not surprised."

"You would hate it here."

"I'm starting to think I would."

Harry watched Ron for a moment. He was staring at the lined rug on the floor, a frown lining his forehead where a few strands of red hair were. He was deep in thought.

"You didn't have any trouble getting here, did you?"

"Now that you mention it…" he sighed and looked up. "I got caught. Not by a guard," he added hastily when he saw panic spread across his friend's face. "No. It was by some royal girl."

"Oh yeah? It might've been one of the family royals, or maybe even Parkinson."

"Nah, she wasn't ugly. She had really bushy, brown hair, though."

Harry faltered. "Hermione? You saw Hermione?"

"The girl you were telling me about?"

"Yeah! You said she had bushy brown hair?"

"Yeah. And dark brown eyes."

"She's the only one I can think of that fits that description. But – that's not possible. If you were in here, you couldn't have seen her going to her chambers just now…"

"She saw me a long time ago. Hours ago."

"Oh," Harry frowned. "You'll have to be careful. If she sees you a second time and gets suspicious, she'll definitely alert someone – "

"Harry," Ron stood up off of the bed.

"Huh? What is it?" Harry watched Ron carefully. "Are you okay – ?"

"Harry, let's get out of here."

"What?"

"Yeah! Let's go! I mean, I was just thinking, you don't belong here! You belong back at the headquarters."

"You're… kidding, right?" Harry knew that Ron wasn't, but he figured that after he asked such a question, Ron might've come to his senses. But he didn't:

"Does it look like I am? Come on, we can leave – now! It might be kind of hard to do it, but we can at least try."

"What about the mission?"

"To hell with the mission. Hell, to hell with the Order!"

"No, I can't. We can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because we've got an obligation and a responsibility!"

"You never gave a damn about responsibilities before."

"Ron?"

"What?"

"My responsibilities before were getting bread for dinner. Of course I didn't give a damn! But things have changed. What I'm doing here is important and can affect the people of this province. It's the same with you!"

"What's wrong with you, mate? The Harry I know would've jumped up at the chance. What? Has wearing a few ribbons and frills made you different?"

Harry glared at Ron, picked up a pillow, and whacked him across the face with it. Of course, no matter how shocked Ron was at first, he had to defend himself – so he grabbed the other pillow and hit Harry back, as hard as he could. At first, it was a real fight (with pillows), but, as is expected, the fight ended with fits of laughter (I mean, really: have you ever had a pillow fight where you didn't laugh?) As silly as it sounds, that's the way it happened – and, frankly, neither wanted to fight when they hadn't seen each other in such a long time

"But no, really," Ron grinned after they both heaved truces. "Why won't you leave?"

Harry smirked and rolled over on the now thoroughly rumpled sheets. "I've got a purpose here, Ron."

"Eh. You've got a purpose back in the headquarters, too."

Harry gave that some thought, but didn't say anything else on the subject. Eventually, Ron began to update Harry on what had happened at headquarters while he was gone before they called it a night.