Pelopidas
Chapter one: A Very Strange Stranger
"So Harry thinks he's found the final Horcrux?" Hermione asked in an awed voice.
"Yeah, he said something to me earlier about having a new idea inspired by his last showdown with You-Know-Who," Ron said.
The two of them were pacing around Trafalgar Square, holding hands to keep out the temperamental April breeze as well as to show affection.
"So that would be the diary, the ring, that foul snake, the cup of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw's looking glass we have already. Does Harry have any idea what the sixth Horcrux will be?"
"He hasn't said anything but I think he thinks the same as I do: that it's whatever R.A.B took from the locket that Harry found the night... that Dumbledore died."
"It still hurts to say it out loud, doesn't it?"
"More than I expected it to," Ron mumbled and gripped Hermione's hand a little tighter.
"I know how you feel -- but it's how Harry's coping with all this is really worrying me. I mean, we have each other; Harry has no-one, not really."
"Yeah, since this whole thing started, it's as if he's drifting further and further away from us. I still can't believe he tried to take on that Nagini alone. If we hadn't had shown up, You-Know-Who would have killed him then."
"In Harry's eyes, though, it's his mission and his mission alone. I just wish he'd realise that no matter how special he is, no man is an island."
"Mm," Ron said pensively. "Look, I have to get going, if my mother doesn't see me at least three times a week, she frets."
"Want me to come?"
"No, it's fine, since the last battle I was in, she's been a wreck; I should go alone." He kissed her gently and walked off to disapparate in some back alley or other.
"I thought he'd never leave."
"What?" Hermione cried, jumping at glancing behind. A man stood not two metres behind her.
"Well, he finally left. That's important, I need to speak to you alone."
He was a little under average height, though not enough to be classified as short, and wearing a creased camel trench coat. His anxious, hazy brown eyes gazed up from beneath a fading tweed trilby. The stranger had small hands gloved in leather, which he rubbed and twisted together -- an anxious habit. There was nothing particularly odd about him apart from the fact that Hermione could not, for the life of her, discern his age. He might have been twenty or forty.
"I need to speak with you," he repeated, quietly and urgently.
"Do I know you?" Hermione asked warily.
"No, but I know you, and it's vital that we speak."
"Well, speak," Hermione said, feeling apprehensive and suspicious.
"Not here," he whispered, his eyes scanning the perimeter in a manner that reminded Hermione of a frightened mouse. "Can you meet me at this address?" He offered her a crumpled piece of parchment. Hermione just looked at it.
"Please." He sounded desperate. "Please, Hermione, we don't have much time. Trust me." He reached out his hand and touched her arm softly, appealingly -- Hermione found that for some reason, she did.
She took the paper carefully and the man melted into the wall of moving muggles so seamlessly that she couldn't help but wonder whether he had been but a dream. Interested, Hermione smoothed out the parchment and read the few, hastily scribbled, lines that occupied the centre of the page.
27 Paris Avenue,
London,
10:30pm April 13
Should the 'Nosebleed Nougats' go in front of the 'Shaking Sherbets'? Fred wondered idly as he arranged boxes. Okay, yes, the 'Nosebleed Nougat' was a much better seller but the 'Shaking Sherbets' -- a newly-invented sherbet lemon sweet as a tribute to Dumbledore which caused the eater to shake uncontrollably for half an hour -- really did deserve more attention. He shuffled the boxes indecisively, and, dissatisfied, shuffled them again. Eventually, Fred decided to wait for his twin to return from New York and talk it over with him. George was much better at details and tactics that Fred who had very little concentration with such mundane things.
The bell above the door jangled.
"We're closed!" Fred yelled but there was no second jangle of a person leaving.
"Nice place you have," a voice remarked mildly.
Fred turned around to face a stranger in pale green robes with brown hair and a habit, it seemed, of rubbing his hands together in agitation.
"I said 'we're closed'," Fred told him tersely.
"I know, and I'm very sorry, but I need to speak to you."
"What about?"
"It's-" The man paused. "It is very complicated. I can't tell you here."
"Tell me what?" Fred demanded loudly.
The man looked torn for a second, and then dug into his robes and extracted what looked like a
business card.
"Just come," he said mysteriously and put the card on the shelf. The bell tinkled cheerfully behind him as he left, leaving Fred very much confused. Meet him where? He reached out and picked up the business card; it was crisp white and laminated, though Fred didn't know what lamination was, and the boldly printed words proclaimed:
27 Paris Avenue,
London,
10:30pm April 13
"Miss Chang, could you do that a bit faster?" Mr Saunders barked.
"I'm trying!" Cho said frantically, her hand a blur as she wrote.
"I need copies of that document by six o'clock," Mr Saunders said.
"I know, I'm doing my best, Sir!"
Mr Saunders let out an incredulous huff and resumed his letter to some foreign businessman or another who was probably as big an ass as he was. Cho longed to stab him with her quill.
"Miss Chang, you are aware that 'The Cleansweep Company' produce more broomsticks world wide than any other company?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And that we do this by employing hardworking, dedicated individuals who are ready to pour every gram of their energy into our organisation?"
"Yes, Sir."
"So I'm sure that you'll understand when I say that I hope not to have to tell you again to pick up the pace."
"Yes, Sir," Cho said through gritted teeth, attempting to ignore her throbbing wrist. She dotted the last full stop. "I've finished, Sir."
"Good." The smug git glanced at his watch and announced magnanimously that Cho could go.
Mumbling her thanks, Cho threw her stuff into her bag and swung her long, black her over her shoulder. A habit she needed to break.
Outside it was already dark, though Cho should have been finishing at five thirty. She inhaled the cold air and pulled her cloak tighter around her. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she jumped.
"I need to talk to you, it's important," said the man who was holding her shoulder. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and looked into her eyes with his nervous, light brown ones.
"Leave me alone," Cho said, afraid.
"Listen! You have no idea how important you are! Please!"
"Go away!" Cho hissed, stepping back and slipping her hand into her pocket.
"I mean no harm," the stranger insisted. He looked as though he was unsure of how to express himself. "I knew that you'd be the hardest to persuade," he said with a weak smile. Cho said nothing but groped for her wand.
"You need not fear me," the stranger implored quietly. "Just meet me here, please!" He held out a pink pamphlet that shook in his hand. Slowly, Cho reached for it -- and as she did the stranger disapparated. Cho held the pamphlet up to the light of the street lamp. In curly red calligraphy were the words:
27 Paris Avenue,
London,
10:30pm April 13
"Draco, I cannot believe that you did not notice Potter coming in until he had been here half an hour," Voldemort said. He didn't shout but sounded almost indifferent. Draco, though, knew far better than to think that this meant lenience -- the Dark Lord just didn't care that he may have to kill one of his servants.
"My Lord, we all protected the entrance faithfully; we-we did not know that Potter had an invisibility cloak. But we know now, he won't get in to Laguarida again." Laguarida: that's what they called the headquarters of the Death Eaters. Spanish for 'The Lair'. It moved, of course, never staying in one place for more than a few days. One day it might be an abandoned apartment, the next an underground cave.
"He better not," Voldemort remarked coolly. He twirled his wand in his hand for awhile while Draco stood in terrified apprehension, but then he slipped it back into his robes. Draco exhaled.
"Do not fail me again."
"No- no, of course not, Sir."
"Send Nott in as you leave," Voldemort said.
"Yes, Master," Draco mumbled, bowing deeply and thankfully leaving. He hurried out and saw two cloaked figures standing there. One was Nott, and Draco informed him that his presence was requested by the Dark Lord. Nott paled but entered calmly enough.
"Rough?" asked the second person, who Draco didn't know; he was probably a new recruit.
"Not to bad. I'm used to it," Draco said with a rueful laugh. "How long ago did you join?"
"Oh, me?" the man asked lightly. "I'm not a Death Eater."
"What?" Draco was stunned to say the least. "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a fearful whisper.
"To see you, of course."
"What? Me? I don't know who you are!"
"No, but I still need to speak to you, I'm afraid." He raised his head a little and gave Draco an apologetic sort of smile. He then slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and pressed it into Draco's hand.
"Come," he said, "if you envision a better future for yourself." He stepped back and seemed to melt into the darkness. Draco glanced down at the envelope and, after a second's internal debate, opened it. There was a single slip of paper adorned with neat, elaborate writing that said,
27 Paris Avenue,
London,
10:30pm April 13
Luna sat under a large oak. Its small leaves were young and tender, so Luna could feel the sun's hesitant warmth shine through them and onto her. She had a sketchbook in her lap and was lightly and deftly drawing a blackbird which dug up worms not three meters away with one, wary eye on its artist. There was a focused, almost frenzied glint in Luna's eye as she strove to capture the creature on paper, a glint quite alien to her usual, dreamy mien. The dull world of people wasn't worth such attention in Luna's eyes.
Without warning, the blackbird took off, flapping madly through the fresh morning air and disappearing from sight. Disappointed, the young artist looked around for possible causes of muse's departure and immediately spotted him. A young man, or he could have been old, Luna wasn't sure, stood awkwardly, quite near to Luna.
"Forgive me," he said. "I have disturbed you."
"You have," Luna agreed and turned back to her drawing; she was already bored of him and didn't stop to ponder as to why he was in her garden.
"May I speak with you?" the man asked tentatively. Luna nodded absently and faced him. He was wearing black leather and here was a lot of gel in his hair; he might have been intimidating if it weren't for the fact that he was obviously very intimidated by the rest of the world. He sat down next to Luna who merely gazed at him expectantly for a few moments.
"It is difficult to explain," he began. Luna made no attempt to help him. "I need for you to meet me somewhere."
"Oh."
"I will make things clear to you there," he said and handed her a note. It was on lined paper and written, in block capitals, with a biro.
"You will come?" the stranger asked anxiously. Luna nodded to thin air and read the note.
27 Paris Avenue,
London
10:30pm April 13
"You looked stressed, Perce," Liz yawned, stretching backwards on her chair like a cat as if to demonstrate her own, stress-free, state. Her colleague glanced irritably up at her.
"Yes, I am stressed," he said shortly, and continued to read the letter which was in his hand.
"What is that thing?" Liz asked.
"Letter from the Minister of Magic for France," Percy muttered. "And it's not good. The French are getting quite irritated by Scrimgeour's attitude of trying to deal with the You-Know-Who mess by himself and neglecting to work together with foreign wizarding communities. The entire world is a little frustrated with Britain at the moment, I'm afraid."
"Shouldn't that be Scrimgeour's problem, though?"
"Well, yes," Percy agreed, sounding harassed. "But he's to important to read letters, so he makes me read and summarise them for him. And then I have to reply to all the people who have a bone to pick with our country. So I get all the crap and the Minister is blissfully unaware of the foreign discontent."
"Glad I'm not you," Liz grinned and Percy gave her a grudging smile in return. She stood up and pulled on her coat.
"Well, I'm off," she told Percy.
"All right for some!" he grumbled. She laughed insouciantly and departed. Percy continued to read the strongly worded letter -- which was in bloody French, for crying out loud -- with trepidation. Of course, having worked with Mr Crouch had made it necessary to learn many languages, but French was not his strongest one. Italian, he was fluent in, and Japanese had been easy enough to pick up, too, but French for some reason was a difficulty.
There was a soft, barely audible, knock on the door which dragged Percy out of his thoughts.
"Come in," Percy said loudly.
In entered a man: he was wearing a sort of business suit that one would expect to see in the Muggle world, and he possessed a twitchy, nervous manner. His medium brown hair was combed back neatly and his features were perfectly ordinary. It was his kind of people who made up crowds, worked along side everyone and sat next to you on the bus or train. He was the kind that made up the nameless, faceless multitude.
"Can I help you?" Percy asked stiffly.
"You can, yes. I need to speak with you in private."
"Oh," Percy said suspiciously. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
"There's no-one here now."
"There might be," the stranger said quietly, glancing around as if he was sure that everyone in the building had their ears pressed against the walls. He took what looked like a memo out of his pocket, fumbled with it nervously and placed it in front of Percy.
"Come if you would," he murmured, then left. The door clicked softly at his exodus.
Bemused, Percy glanced at the memo. Typed out was a date and address.
27 Paris Avenue,
London,
10:30pm April 13
"Bill, darling," Fleur sighed. "Really, there eez no need for you to come to zis."
"I want to come!" he insisted.
"But eet eez my friend's birthday party, and you do not know 'er."
"Yes, but still," Bill continued with patience. "We're a couple and we should do things together." He smoothed down his dress robes, glanced instinctively up at the mirror, and then looked away, repulsed.
"Bill," Fleur started soothingly, but he cut her off.
"Let's go then!"
Fleur shook her head but didn't know how to dissuade him.
They disapparated, reappearing on the porch of a Victorian style house. Fleur knocked.
"Fleur, hi! How are you doing?" a woman shrieked, and threw her arms around Fleur.
"I am fine, Eli. And you?"
"Oh, just peachy. But, my, my, Fleur, who's your friend?" Her small, dark eyes took in Bill, running across his face and picking out every last imperfection there, or that's how Bill felt anyway.
"Zees eez Bill. You know? My 'usband?" Fleur took his hand in hers.
"Oh, this is Bill," Eli said. "I've been dying to meet you." She let out an airy titter and began to lead them into the house. "You've been busy, though, I suppose?"
"Yeah," Bill said, his mind oddly numb. He was usually good at small talk, chit chat, meaningless blather. He was a confident people person usually, but now he could think of nothing to say. There was a beat of awkward silence.
"Well, so many excuses had been made, we began to wonder whether you existed at all," she laughed lightly again; it was a laugh that Bill had already began to hate. "We all thought you must have been figment of our Fleur's overactive imagination -- or she was hiding you from us!" Tinkling, tinkling, maddening laugh, but Bill couldn't help but see the seriousness in her eyes. Her mind was already thinking, "no wonder Fleur didn't want to let us see him, the poor, poor girl!" It was all his imagination, of course, but... Fleur squeezed his hand to show she understood. Bill felt suddenly and unreasonably furious with her. What did she know? How could she understand how he felt? Her face hadn't been torn into a thousand gashes!
"I'll get us something to drink," he mumbled and stalked off. Fleur watched him go, head bent, as it so often was nowadays, and snapping irrationally at anyone who struck up a conversation with him. Fleur sighed and played with her wedding ring absent-mindedly. She'd been married ten months but it had felt like ten years, as each week Bill slipped further and further away from her and the rest of the world. He spent a lot of time alone, he completely ignored Fleur's efforts to cook him a tasty meal, look nice for him, buy him gifts, or absolutely anything else. She couldn't help worrying about him and, though she felt awful about it, she was steadily falling out of love with him. The idea of spending the rest of her life with him made her feel as though she was spinning into a black hole of gloom.
"You look very glum," a man to her right said quietly. Like everyone else, he wore dress robes, and, unlike anyone else, he looked as nervous as a park squirrel about to dart up a tree.
"You could say zat," Fleur muttered.
"It is a shame that anyone should have to feel despair. You agree?"
"Er, yes, I suppose," Fleur said, confused.
"Good, because I need a word with you."
"Excuse me?"
"This is far more important than you could imagine," he whispered fervently. Fleur regarded him as though he were insane. "Look, you don't have to believe me now, just come to this place when it says." He was holding a post-it note. Not knowing quite why, Fleur took it off him. It was written in soft pencil.
27 Paris Avenue,
London
10:30pm April 13
Oliver hovered between posts for less than a moment and a microsecond later he had lunged, snatched up his scarlet prize and thrown it at Cole, one of the chasers of his team. It all happened in a blur of exhilaration; Oliver hardly knew what was happening half the time, instinct just took over.
"Nice save, Wood!" Freyda, the seeker, yelled. But Wood was far too focused on the game to notice, nor would he have cared if he had heard her. It was all about the game. Not long later, the opposing team recaptured the quaffle and it sped towards a hoop again. Like a flash, Oliver knocked it back.
Then, suddenly, Freyda tore downwards from the air, like a falcon stooping for its prey. The world stopped for her as she plummeted with breathtaking yet perfectly controlled speed and a moan of anguish was heard from the other seeker when Freyda held up a small, golden snitch in her hand, flapping futilely.
A scream of triumph rose from the crowd and Wood started; he'd forgotten they were there. Cole and Katrina and Joshua gave each other high fives, and Kerry and Dominic, the beaters zoomed towards Freyda in a group hug. Oliver, too, whooped and joined in with his team mates to celebrate.
"Good game, wasn't it, Ol?" Freyda said happily as they landed, still looking high on adrenaline.
"Oh, yeah, great!" Oliver enthused. They all walked towards the changing rooms, chatting about mistakes, great moves and near misses. Oliver pulled off his Puddlemere United robes and pulled on his ordinary ones.
"I don't think I can face the crowd today, I'll go around the back," he told the others.
"Okay, I'll see you at next practice," Freyda said, grinning and showing ten thousand bright white teeth. She threw her arms around him and -- did she try to pinch his butt?
"Right, next practice," Oliver echoed and left.
"Good game," said a small voice. Oliver groaned inwardly. There usually weren't any fans at the side entrance, but occasionally one would be, and he couldn't just ignore them.
"Thanks," Oliver said to the voice's owner.
"An autograph, perhaps?" the man asked tentatively.
"Sure." Oliver held out his hand for the autograph book being held. The man passed him a page to sign.
"Hey, this one's already written on," Oliver exclaimed, looking up. The man had vanished. Oliver looked back down at the page.
27 Paris Avenue,
London
10:30pm April 13
In a small, darkened room, two men sat opposite each other. Tension like static electricity filled the room, as the two men gazed at each other uncomfortably.
"You are sure they will came, Mr Wesley?" one asked. He was about fifty years of age, with sleek black hair and reddish skin.
"Quite sure, Mr Harvey," the other replied. His age was to difficult to attest. His hair and skin tone both medium. His complete normality bordered on unnerving.
"Very good, Mr Wesley."