Thank you all so much for your generous feedback! It feels great to know that you are reading and enjoying this story. I really appreciate your comments. Concerning the various characters' behavior, I hope to make their motivations clear as the story progresses. To that end, I'll be doing my best to continue posting twice per week until the story has been fully posted. The writing itself is complete - but it does take some time to format the raw text for upload… and to try to catch every one of the ever-elusive spelling errors, grammar errors, phrasing errors, etc. Even at a twice-per-week posting schedule it will take a while for the story to unfold. This is a rather lengthy tale.
Enjoy!
Chapter four
Severus Snape was concentrating intently on the operation he was attempting to perform. It was delicate, because he did not intend to waste any part of what he was working on. Carefully, slowly, he made the incisions, then with a single swift motion, peeled the entire skin off of the carcass of the tiny newt over which he was laboring. The skin joined several others in a pile to the side of his working slab. Before the night was out, he would have more than a dozen whole newt skins, as well as cleaned and separated newt hearts, tails and - perhaps most importantly - a dozen pair of newt eyes. Contemptuously, he thought of the wizards who bought entire shipments of newts, only to waste everything but the eyes. And even worse, those clumsy workers who did not harvest the eyes cleanly, and ruined the potency of what they did collect.
He had just picked up a pair of tweezers when a voice rang out, making him jump and nearly drop his newt.
"Hello, Severus! Look who ran into me on the stairs!" Remus Lupin stood in the doorway to the Potions laboratory, his hand casually resting on Harry Potter's shoulder.
"Yes," Snape drawled sarcastically. "What a surprise. The only student remaining in the entire school. I could never have guessed."
"Oh, come on, Severus," Lupin chided. "Harry's agreed to give the Magic Eye a go. Let's try it out, shall we?"
Snape closed his eyes slowly. When he opened them, the irritating intruders were still there. "I had told the boy that he could return for the Eye tomorrow, after his work for Professor Sprout."
"You certainly did. But Harry wasn't very enthusiastic about it at the time, was he?" Snape wondered once again what had happened to Lupin to change the man so. His posture, his voice, and especially his aggressive bonhomme were all completely different to the man Snape had known. Now, standing next to Harry, he looked even more transformed than he had this morning. He almost seemed to have grown larger. In the same insistently enthusiastic tone, the werewolf continued. "And if he was still going to be a big baby about it," Remus paused to send a wink Harry's way, "I would have let him wait. But he wants to try the Eye out. With the Hood, of course."
"The hood?" Snape demanded. "What are you on about?"
"You know," Remus said encouragingly. "When you open the box, it's what the Eye is packed in. Keeps it from getting scratched in transit. The cloth... you know, black, thick, heavy... the Hood!"
"A blinding hood?" Snape asked incredulously. "Mister Lupin... what earthly good could a Magic Eye do whilst covered with a blinding hood?"
"Not all the time," Remus dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand. "But at certain crucial junctures during the day. While the boy... has his pants down, you see."
"What I see," said Snape with a superior air, "Is that neither of you understands the first thing about security. A person is most likely to suffer attack precisely when - as you so delicately put it - his pants are down."
"Harry and I went over this, Severus," Lupin explained with a hint of impatience. "For example, he goes into the bathroom, the Eye checks around, the hood goes on, a little while later the hood comes off, and the Eye checks for enemies again. Easy."
"Meanwhile, I get a clanging interruption of my day every time the Eye gets covered," Snape sniffed. "I - most likely - will not be checking in with the Eye at the exact time Harry needs to relieve himself. So, when he puts the Hood over the Eye, whatever I'm doing gets interrupted by an alarm, informing me that the Eye is temporarily blind."
"I could do it," Remus said simply.
"What?" Snape looked at the werewolf with undisguised suspicion.
"What am I here for, Severus? I'm here to watch Harry. You have work to do. You can still be the authority figure. You can still give Harry his limits and curfews. You can still check in on him in person. But the Eye... that's just an irritant. As you say, an interruption for you."
Snape pressed the bridge of his nose tiredly. "I did not want this duty in the first place. If anything untoward should happen to the boy, I will certainly be blamed for laxity in carrying out my responsibilities. A hood is a dangerous interruption of the surveillance provided by the Eye..."
"Do you like watching young boys, Severus?" Remus' voice was quiet, but filled with menace.
"Certainly not!," Snape denied, his voice shifting register almost like an adolescent boy's.
"Then the hood is all right," Remus persisted.
"Oh, take the hood... take the Eye... Here! Take the whole thing. Put it on him and keep watch. And don't be lazy about it. I'll check to make sure you're keeping proper vigilance. And Potter. Don't forget. You're still due here in my office after your Herbology work tomorrow."
"Yes Sir. Thank you, Professor," Harry forced himself not to grin at the realization that it would be Remus, and not the greasy git, that was keeping an Eye on him.
"Don't thank me, you have no idea what you're in for," Snape threatened absently, but his heart wasn't in it, and Harry and Remus took their leave, both cheerfully waving goodbye.
--- --- ---
About two hours later, Remus entered the Potions laboratory once again. This time, Snape was ready, and watched the werewolf as he made his way to Severus' work table. Lupin sat on one of the tall stools, and the two men shared the quiet for a time; Remus, smiling and relaxed, Severus, sharply suspicious.
Finally, Remus broke the silence. "Thanks for letting me take the Eye, Severus. Harry accepted it pretty well. I think it'll bother him for a while, and after a few days he won't even notice it."
"As opposed to my monitoring the Eye," Snape sneered. "In which case, the boy would be jumping with nerves for the rest of the summer."
Remus smiled gently. "You are a daunting figure, Professor Snape," he said, sketching a respectful bow. "You can hardly blame the students for being somewhat in awe of you." Snape snorted and curled one lip to show what he thought of students' awe. Remus stroked his several-days-old stubble. "And I didn't realize you were gay," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Gay?" Snape repeated with an arched eyebrow and a tone of skepticism.
Remus mocked Snape's voice as it had been earlier in the evening to near perfection. "Certainly not!" He laughed quietly and added, "You might as well have said, 'Hell, Yes, I like to watch young boys!' Professor."
"Really," Snape drawled. "Wolf, there is a perfectly good reason you have never realized that I am a homosexual man. I am not."
"Oh?" Remus challenged. "You chase girls, then?"
"Hardly," Snape replied coldly. "I may well be the most completely asexual man you have ever encountered in your life."
Remus furrowed his brow, and considered Snape closely. "No one is that, Severus. Even people who swear that they are... aren't. That's why we have church men raping little boys. No one is completely asexual. No one."
Snape could not imagine continuing this conversation with anyone else. But there was something about the transformed Lupin, something that made Severus believe that Remus might understand what he was told. There was something compelling about the man, now, something Remus had never possessed in his life until this very day, so far as Snape was aware. Still, Lupin had to be reminded who he was dealing with. "Ah," Snape rose to the werewolf's challenge with one of his own. "An expert. Excellent. It is so... rare... to find a man who believes himself to be an expert on sexual matters." Snape paused long enough to let Remus acknowledge the gibe, then continued with a particularly intense stare directly into Remus' eyes. "Since you are such an expert, consider this, and consider it carefully before you deign to reply to it. When most people think of sexual satisfaction - or sexual interest, or sexual arousal, or sex in general - they think about the meat between their legs. This is true of women, of men, of transgendered individuals, and of lycanthropes. One sex or the other, changed or changeling, the response to the sexual impulse drives directly to the crotch. For me, this has never been true. Whenever I think of those sexual things, my thoughts - my feelings, more accurately - are drawn in a completely different direction. And no, I don't mean the brain," he insisted, forestalling an oncoming joke from Lupin. "Although that would be a closer guess than the pudenda. No, when I look for such satisfaction, I find it in power. The more absolute, the more satisfying. As a member of the Order of the Phoenix, you are privileged to know of my double agency. For years, now, I have worked closely with the two most powerful wizards in the known world. Both are, arguably, also the most politically powerful men in existence. The government pales in comparison to either one, and becomes nearly invisible when contrasted to them both together. I have served them, I have supported them, and I have spied upon each of them on behalf of the other. A more average man might liken the sexual satisfaction levels of my life to that of owning a house of prostitution. A boy might believe that such intensity of stimulation could only be achieved by becoming a sex show performer. Look at me, Remus. Every time I sneak off to meet the Dark Lord; every time I return here to report back to the Leader of the Light Side; I am engaging in sexual activity. Every time Voldemort forces a follower to his knees and pronounces the Cruciatus upon him; every time the Headmaster of Hogwarts thwarts official government policy; I am receiving sexual stimulation of the most direct variety. I take no interest in women mud-wrestling, or in men grappling greco-roman style. But put Dumbledore and Voldemort in a pit and let them fire on one another, and - Oh! - That would be heaven. Have I dreamed of raising a power-monger of my own? Have I seen the talent that has passed through these halls and wished that I could mold that ability to my own ends? Oh, yes. Have I wept that the sheer ability of a monster talent like that of Neville Longbottom is wasted in the Potions laboratory? Most assuredly. Have I seen the Boy Who Lived defeat Voldemort and still manage to keep himself from being crushed by Dumbledore and said: That Is My Most Perfect Tool? Oh, God help me, yes. But when I push that boy toward excellence, Mister Potter reacts like the spoiled brat his father was. When I goad him toward self improvement, he reacts as though my efforts were motivated by petty House politics or the yearly House Cup consideration. When I attempt to light a fire under him, Harry Potter pisses on the tinder and douses the flames as effectively as if Noah's Flood had washed over my efforts. I have nearly lost hope that the boy will accomplish anything in life except to face Lord Voldemort and die in the attempt to effect his petty revenge. So we keep him safe, so that he may, eventually, step up and take his turn at being killed. It is so depressing that it hardly bears thinking on." Snape lapsed into silence, but his intense gaze held Lupin's for a long while.
Finally, the werewolf spoke up. He was quite aware that expressing his opinions anywhere on Hogwarts property was dangerous, but he had felt the power of the wards around the Potions class area. He believed that if anyone at the school had an effective privacy spell in place, it would be the Potions Master. "Professor Snape," he began, deliberately avoiding the familiar use of the Potions Master's first name. "I don't think we two are as different as you might have believed. Our aims, at least, might well be nearly identical. And Harry Potter might just be the perfect point at which our ambitions come together."
The two men spoke together long into the night.
--- --- ---
"All I'm saying, Mother," Draco Black - nee Malfoy - said with a long-suffering sigh, "is that there must be some place..."
"There is this house," his mother, Narcissa, snapped.
"Yes. Yes, quite, Mother," Draco said with what he supposed anyone would have to admit was truly aristocratic forbearance. "But you see, we have been here three days, and there has not been a single invitation..."
Narcissa nearly growled. "It will take some time for the Blacks to impress themselves upon the social calendar of an unfamiliar nation."
"But Mother," Draco said with a beaming smile, "if there is any nation on the face of the earth that ought to welcome us as returning heroes, it is this one. We are in France. And we are Malfoys."
"We're Blacks!" Narcissa spat. "And you'd better get used to it."
Draco contemplated his mother carefully. The woman was clearly stressed. Having one's husband on trial for a plethora of capital crimes could well do that to a person, he supposed, but the man was his own father as well. Did this woman have no consideration of how he must feel? "Yes, Mother," he agreed placatingly. "Both sides of my family heritage have always been equally important to me. But please! If we must be 'Blacks' on official papers and for school enrollment and the like, certainly there is no reason to keep our true identity secret from society?"
Narcissa sneered. Draco reminded himself that his mother was indeed a formidable witch, and that she could hurl a curse with greater intensity than even his father, if she had the emotional motivation to do so. Right now, she seemed motivated enough to curse the entire Continent from beneath his feet. Draco resolved to keep her as calm as possible.
Too late.
Narcissa's eyes glittered with ferocity. "You... Twit!" She bellowed, but no curses followed. Draco heaved a great sigh of relief upon noticing that she had not even drawn her wand. But she was far from finished lecturing him. "You think you can go flashing the 'Malfoy' name around? Try it. Idiot! We'll both be extradited as soon as you do. We are being indulged, Draco. We are being allowed to pretend that our presence here is a secret. We are being permitted to maintain the charade that our disguise is effective. All that's keeping us safe right now is that the French hate Cornelius Fudge as much as I do."
Well... this was different. Draco checked his surroundings. Planet Earth, present time, three spatial dimensions... he occupied his own body, and thought with his own mind. Yes, he was all right. It was the rest of the world that had gone to hell. Starting with his own mother, who had never before spoken so harshly to him. Draco had seen his mother rage at his father like this on occasion, but Lucius had always maintained the upper hand. The father had given his son precious few clues as to why this might have been, but his son was smarter than Lucius had ever imagined, and Draco had figured out a lot on his own.
From what he could tell, the Malfoy nuptial agreement was little better than a slave contract. Narcissa would remain beautiful and she would produce a male heir. In return for being a sex object, a baby incubator, and a social trophy, the former Miss Black would get to live on the Malfoy estate, host their exquisite parties, and... most crucially... be on the correct side when Voldemort conquered the world. When she was married, Narcissa had apparently believed that conquest to be imminent. As the years rolled by and the ultimate victory of the Dark Lord seemed further and further away, Narcissa became distant and embittered. Lucius was never concerned. He still had his beautiful trophy wife, and - apparently - absolute power over her. She could complain, but she could never do anything about her situation. So when she did blow up at Lucius, she raged with abandon, in a truly disturbing fury.
But she had never - ever - spoken harshly to Draco.
Draco was many things to Narcissa. He was her work of art, and her compliance with the terms of her marriage contract. He was the perfect son: magically talented, as arrogant as his father, and possessed of a truly exquisite sense of style. Plus, he was beautiful. Ultra-fine platinum hair over perfect features, carried on a body fit enough to make him Seeker on his House quiddich team. She was very happy to have him. And Draco was quite aware of just how she felt, and he took advantage of it every chance he had.
But now, she was being extremely unreasonable.
"Mother, really, is it so much to ask that we attend a few parties? Without a decent social contact, I'll miss the entire Xenophon Season." 'There,' thought Draco with some satisfaction. 'That should bring her around.' Xenophon Coursing was the genteel sport of the upper class. It didn't have the broad appeal or massive fan base of quiddich, but that was to be expected - only the very rich participated in Xenophon. With its flying hedges and mid-air water streams; its fierce competition among the best riders with the finest brooms; its blinding speed and miles-long courses, Xenophon was dangerous, exciting, and exquisitely beautiful to watch. As a quiddich Seeker, Draco had the moves to compete, and mounted on his Nimbus Two Thousand, he might even have a slight edge in maneuverability over the rest of the field, who would most likely be riding Firebolts for their advantage in sheer speed. The Season was an important event for a young aristocrat to be seen participating in, and this year's Season was about to begin. Obviously, he would need an invitation. And only a member of one of the exclusive Xenophon Clubs could issue such an invitation. So attending parties was a necessity.
Draco was so certain that he had made an air-tight case for his request that he was completely baffled by his mother's reply. "Do you want to be arrested for International Flight To Avoid Prosecution? You'd be giving Fudge a perfect excuse to hold you in jail until he could find something real to charge you with. If you really must fly, you can practice your coursing on the very grounds at which the Nationals are held. You could go Thursday."
Draco was incensed. Thursdays were the days the course was open to the public. Any rabble with a broom could fly around and pretend they were competing - without the hazards operational, of course. "On an inactive course?" Draco shouted. "What are we, peasants? Are we reduced to going out for public Thursdays? How am I to meet anyone of quality while flitting about with the Thursday gawkers? And what am I to do..."
"You can start by unpacking your things!" Narcissa commanded, her strong, carrying voice easily overriding Draco's petulant shout.
"Bah," Draco spat. "That's house-elf work."
"We. Have. No. House. ELVES!" Narcissa glared at Draco and he wondered what had changed the woman so drastically so quickly. It couldn't possibly be his father's arrest, could it? Narcissa must have lived with the realization that Lucius could be arrested at any time for many years. At no time during any of those years had his mother ever shown Draco an expression like the one she wore now. This glare was worrisome. Not only was it uncompromising, it was downright dangerous. Such a glare implied that, if Draco were to act on his own to take advantage of his rightful privileges as a Malfoy, Narcissa might do something drastic to protect herself. He didn't believe that she would actually kill him. But... confine him? Cast Petrificus Totalis and store him in a crate? Transfigure him into a toad and keep him in a terrarium? Yes... those things and more were in that glare. Immediate appeasement was called for.
"Of course, Mother. I had forgotten. So used to the little buggers getting underfoot, you know. Here, I'll go put some things away. Once we get the house a little more settled, we'll both feel better." 'And we can get about the business of finding some social contacts,' Draco fumed silently. 'This isolation is ridiculous.'
Draco worked hard over the next day and a half to arrange as many of his things as possible. As he did so, he developed a certain appreciation for the amount of sheer labor that was the usual lot of a Malfoy house elf - labor he had taken for granted for years. He immediately resolved that, as soon as it could possibly be arranged, he would have house elves again, and would never, ever, be without them any more. This drudgery was beneath him. And worse, he had no one to kick when it became frustrating.
Keeping busy also helped him steer clear of his mother as she worked to make the house presentable. With no house elves, no servants, and none of the ancient comforts of Malfoy Manor, Narcissa was laboring under tremendous disadvantages - and that did not improve her stormy mood one bit. She did seem satisfied that Draco was working as well, and so the boy kept at it, and a tenuous peace was maintained around the house.
--- --- ---
Narcissa complimented him on his improvisation of a coursing outfit, and actually looked relieved that he was going out as she had suggested. Draco kissed her, assured her that he would both be careful and have fun (an impossible contradiction to the boy, but he wasn't about to tell his mother that) and walked out of the door, broom-twigs proudly held high.
Once out of sight of the front door, Draco let his put-on jauntiness slip away. He really hadn't planned on going to the course. That was simply an excuse to get out of the house. He had intended to wander through his new neighborhood and find some kind of adventure. But he soon learned that what he had always claimed as a flawless sense of direction had really been nothing more than an intimate familiarity with the area surrounding his home. He had not travelled more than three blocks from his new front door before he was lost. Every time he found a landmark and believed himself to be travelling in the direction he had intended, his steps would betray him and he would once again be wandering, baffled by his surroundings. In the end, he decided to go to the Nationals course. He did know how to get there. (He had carefully checked the route on a map that his mother had brought along when they moved into their new home.) And after his frustrating walk, he really did feel like riding again.
At least he had one advantage in wandering around the streets in this improvised getup, he thought sourly. He had no worries that any muggles would take note of him carrying a flying broom around town. Unlike a real Club outfit, which looked quite dashing, his duster and gloves made him look like a chimney sweep, or some other menial cleaning drone. Decent people would simply not notice him at all, and the rabble would avert their eyes. Brilliant. First, he had to suffer a disguise that stripped him of his family name, and now he hid from muggles by posing as scum. He walked to the course with his scowl etched deeply into his features.
Once he arrived at the course, his mood lightened somewhat. It was situated on the edge of town, so that the flying field could extend over the countryside, allowing long straightaways that encouraged the blistering speed the Nationals were famous for. The course was made somewhat more spectator-friendly than the traditional courses of old by having the route switch back on itself several times, passing close to the grandstand more than once, and allowing the crowd at least some view of what was happening in the competition. The entrance, usually locked and warded, was open today. But no one who didn't know where it was would have found it. Like the platform nine and three quarters at which the Hogwarts Express stopped for passengers, the entrance was accessed by walking directly through a very solid-looking hedge, which appeared to be surrounded by a very ordinary-looking chain-link fence. Draco counted the chain-link panels to be sure of his mark, then walked confidently right into the apparent barrier. He appeared on the far side and stood unmoving for a long while, admiring the course before him.
The grass was deep and dark green. The hedges - now safely motionless on the ground - grew in lush profusion. The complex water cannons that created the mid-air streams were idle, but their antique intricacy was beautiful. The grandstands stood proudly, the flagpoles free of pennants with no competition underway. The structure seemed somehow expectant, as though looking forward to the next contest to be held before it. The entire course appeared to be bespelled, as though put to sleep, awaiting the arrival of the next true champion, which would be Draco himself, of course.
That illusion lasted nearly two seconds, after which Draco could see flyers streaking his way on old brooms that would have looked more at home cleaning a kitchen floor than flying over one of the most prestigious courses in the world. The kids piloting the shabby sticks had not even tried to wear proper clothing. One wore muggle jeans, and another was actually wearing a Beauxbatons robe. Both were younger than Draco, and showed their respect for his age by turning and flying off, completely ignoring him. Draco waited for the pair to disappear around a turn, then mounted his Nimbus and kicked off.
No matter where it was, flying was something that was always immediately satisfying. Here, over the beautiful landscape of the Nationals course, it was heavenly. Draco spotted several other flyers, who were probably just learning to handle a broom. They were following the course pattern carefully, none of them taking any chances, all going rather slowly. Draco resolved to keep his distance from all of them, and began buzzing the ground in power dives, charging the motionless hedges only to pull up just before crashing. He circled a pair of the antique water cannons, knowing that if they had been operational, such a maneuver would have been impossible. He was concentrating on his flying so intently that he was taken completely by surprise when someone called out to him - in English.
"Hoy, English boy! Is a Nimbus the best you can do?"
Draco looked to see who had called. She was riding a Firebolt that bore the scars of crashes that - if she had actually ridden through them - must have been extremely painful. Her outfit was not up to appearing in a Club match, but it was authentic, and would have been completely acceptable at any Club-supported practice. Every piece of equipment was very worn, as though this girl were a truly serious rider - serious enough to ride even on a public day. Her long blonde hair streamed out behind her as she effortlessly matched Draco's speed with her Firebolt. Not willing to be outdone in any matter involving sophistication, Draco replied in French. "Why do you call me 'English?' Do I sit my broom like a foreigner?"
The girl laughed out loud. "Ugh! Your accent is atrocious. You sound like an Algerian rent-boy."
Draco continued in French. "Not everyone from Algiers is a rent-boy."
"No," the Firebolt-rider agreed. "Only those who speak with your accent. But I know you are English. You are Draco Malfoy!"
Draco's heart pounded. He couldn't breathe. His hands became sweaty on the broomstick. It was one thing to demand that his mother find a way for him to enjoy the privileges of being a Malfoy. It was quite another to be caught by surprise while riding his broom on a public day at the course. "Who told you?" he demanded, switching back to English in his panic.
The girl laughed again. "You do not have enough self-confidence, Draco Malfoy. No girl who has seen anyone so impressive will soon forget him. I would hope that you would remember me, too, yes?"
Draco was completely flummoxed. An experienced competition broom-rider? He would not have forgotten her if he had met her while flying. But who could she be? "Oh... ah... um..." he fumbled.
"I understand," she said, saving him from his awkward stuttering. "When I was at your school with Madame Maxime, I was overshadowed. You would recognize the girl... my classmate... who competed for the Tri-Wizard Cup, against your exquisite Cedric Diggory."
Draco was stumped again. As soon as 'Tri-Wizard' had come out of the girl's mouth, he had thought of a half-dozen insults to apply to Harry Potter. But it was not Potter of which the girl was thinking. He really shouldn't have been surprised. It was no secret that most of the girls at Hogwarts had found Diggory appealing, so it was only natural that the French visitors had as well. "Oh, well, Cedric... you know..." He fell silent, trying to think of whether this girl knew that Diggory was dead - and whether he was supposed to know.
The girl saved him again. "It was a great loss," she said sadly. "Every girl... and, I imagine, every woman in attendance felt the tragedy deep in her... in her... what do you call it?"
Draco flushed scarlet. What should he say? 'Vagina' was too clinical. Would she even understand 'pussy?' Or would she be offended by 'cunt' or 'twat?'
"...Heart! That is it. In her heart. My condolences on the loss of your countryman," the girl said, but the look in her eyes told Draco that she had deliberately been playing with him. He decided that he liked this girl.
"Well, you know, Cedric wasn't exactly..." Draco forced himself to shut up once again. Had he forgotten everything he knew about talking to girls? If she fancied Cedric, it wouldn't do to go speaking ill of him. And it wasn't like he would be anyone's rival, now that he was dead.
"You don't have to be great friends to feel the loss when a companion dies," the girl said, saving Draco from embarrassment once again. "Believe me, I know."
Draco's ears perked up at that. A mysterious tragedy? He wanted to know more. "What do you say we land and get something for lunch. I'd be interested to see what you're riding. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
The girl smiled and nodded, but then called out, "Let's do some flying first. I have barely started my workout today!" She goaded her Firebolt into a burst of acceleration, and dashed down the straightaway, her toes dangling mere inches from the grass.
Draco leaned forward in pursuit and the mysterious flyer dragged him around the course for more than an hour, always a few broomstick lengths ahead of her pursuer. They flew under tree branches, in tight turns around the flagpoles, and through slaloms between the course boundary markers. By the time they landed, Draco was breathless, his eyes glittering with excitement.
"You're brilliant!" He exclaimed as he dug his heels into the grass, letting his broomstick twist its way from beneath him and into an upright position by his side. "Do you play for the local Club?"
"Club." the girl stated with flat contempt.
"I'm sorry," Draco offered, hoping for some explanation of her reaction.
"As am I," she said. "I am not a member of the Club, I will never be a member of the Club. But yes, I do RIDE for them - please, Draco, don't say 'play' around a competition rider. You'll be in a fight faster than you know. I ride for them because I am fast, and accurate, and have a good feel for the hazards... I am, as you say, 'brilliant.' So I am allowed to mount my broom for their greater glory. So long as I am off the grounds as soon as I have collected the trophy - and turned it over to my Club sponsors. So, I do not care for them, personally. But I love to ride, so..." She shrugged. Draco could have watched that particular motion over and over again. The girl was slender, but with enough curves that a shrug made many wonderful things happen.
At the same time, Draco was quite annoyed. He had met an attractive girl who was also a brilliant rider, and she was socially unacceptable. This was precisely what he had not wanted. She said she was not a Club member and never would be. That was pretty strong. What kind of family did she come from? Common laborer? Squib-muggle couple? He shuddered. Just his luck to be discovered by a mudblood his first day out.
"So, why are you in France, Draco Malfoy?" She asked, unaware of his misgivings.
"It's rather secret," he said quietly. "Undercover stuff. Really can't talk about it."
"That is ridiculous," she replied immediately. "Why would anyone choose you for anything secret? You stand out like a beautiful portrait in a gallery of poorly taken snapshots."
Draco was very flattered. He knew he was a good looking young man, but the girl's simile had been particularly pleasant to hear. "It can't help to have someone shouting my name," he cautioned. "If you must use my last name, call me Draco Black."
The girl laughed. "You are the most... not-black person I have ever seen. Draco Albino would be more close, yes?"
"But I am going by Draco Black," he insisted.
"If you wish," she conceded with another shrug that made Draco's pupils dilate and his heart rate increase. "But there are at least eleven other girls at Beauxbatons who know that you are Draco Malfoy."
"In that respect, you all have the advantage of me. Who are you?"
The girl leaned back and fixed him with a calculating stare. "It's about time," she scolded. "I thought you were going to let me call you by name all day without asking for mine. I am Artemis. Artemis Themyscira."
Draco clenched his teeth to hold back his automatic response, which would have been, "Oh. A nobody." For that was truly what this young woman was. As skilled a rider as she may have been, she was not anywhere near his social level. 'Themyscira?' Greek? And not one of the important Greek families, either. A nobody. What a pity. Still, he had suggested lunch. It would only be polite to make good on his offer. "Do you want to get something to eat?"
His delivery must have given him away. Artemis studied him for a moment, then crisply reported, "I weighed in at just over fifty-two kilos today. I can afford to gain or lose only one kilo either way. I had better stick to my training diet. Today, lettuce with vinegar. Precisely measured amounts. Have a good day, Draco Black. Welcome to France." She kicked off and was gone before Draco could say a word.
The young Mister 'Black' walked home feeling alternately elated and bitter. He had met a beautiful woman, who was also a great flyer. But she was a nobody, essentially a jockey for the local Club, her sponsor. He had enjoyed a fantastic couple of hours of flying over a beautiful field - half of it with a girl who flew that course in competition. But contact with the Club on a social level was still far out of his reach. Artemis had not seemed to care that he was a Malfoy - she certainly did not seem ready to make any effort to turn him in to the authorities. But who knew how many people she might speak with, and to whom she might mention his name. The difficult decision remained. Should he tell his mother he had been recognized? If he did, she might be furious. But if he did not - and both he and Narcissa were arrested - who knew what she might do? He would have to tell her. Damn. And this had started out to be such a good day.
When Draco let himself in through his new home's front door, he saw some signs that gave him hope that the coming admission would not go quite so horribly as he feared. The living room furniture had been arranged, and the boxes in which the delicate items had been packed were gone. Looking through the open archway into the dining area, he could see that a great deal of progress had been made in there, as well. Perhaps Narcissa would be feeling good enough about having a well-ordered home in which to relax that her reaction to his news might be non-violent. Draco fervently hoped so.
He found his mother standing in the kitchen, staring hopelessly at her extensive collection of fine-quality cookware, all gleaming clean and ready to be used. Narcissa had served meals - or rather served as the hostess at meals - for everyone from entertainers to government officials to old-money aristocracy. So far as Draco knew, she had never actually cooked a meal in her life - or at least the last twelve years of it that he could remember. There were always house elves, servants, caterers... a plethora of little people who took care of all of the fiddling around with fire under foodstuffs. Draco had never cooked anything, either, so to him, all of the gleaming kitchen utensils were shiny enigmas.
"What would you like for dinner tonight?" Narcissa asked absently, removing a broad frying pan from its hanger high on the wall near the stove. She gripped the insulated handle of the utensil as if it were a tennis racquet, and took several slow practice swings above the burners.
"I don't know," Draco replied with forced good humor, staring at his mother in confusion. "What do we have?"
"Have...?" Narcissa had not looked at Draco once since he had returned. She waved the frying pan back and forth in front of her face, watching her reflection in the wide, shining frying surface.
"Pans won't cook anything if we don't put something in them. What's on the shelf?" His easy bantering tone totally belied the panic that was building within the boy. His mother had apparently gone completely mental, and without her, he was all alone in a foreign country, supposedly in hiding, without a single clue as to what he could do if Narcissa were actually insane.
"I knew that," Narcissa said sadly, putting the pan down on the edge of a counter, where it teetered, about to fall off. "At one time..." She turned toward her son and began to cry, great wracking sobs. "What happened to me, Draco? When did my life turn to shit?"
Totally shaken, Draco did what he usually avoided. He told the truth as he saw it. "I believe that would be when Voldemort dropped the ball and failed to take over the..." Draco fell silent momentarily, wondering how much to failure to attribute to the Dark Lord. Voldemort had certainly failed to take over the world. But for that matter, he had failed to take over the UK, the country, or even a small city block. "When he failed to take over… well, anything, actually."
Narcissa, tears still streaming down her face, stopped sobbing with disturbing suddenness and turned a sentimental, motherly smile on her son. The combination was so incongruous that Draco was horrified. "Voldemort," Narcissa said in a reminiscing tone. "Do you have any idea what an asshole he is?"
Draco had many stock answers to this and other, similar, comments. But in the past, he had only heard such statements from children, mostly those afraid of how difficult or dangerous life in the Dark Lord's service might be. To hear his mother ask, so casually and so full of the certainty born of long experience, if her son knew what an asshole Voldemort was... he had no idea how to respond. He stared as his mother's eyes grew unfocused once again and she began to sway slightly where she stood, as though listening to music only she could hear.
Draco considered himself a sophisticated young wizard. He knew how to read a wine list, and if he had been at his real home in England, could even show a visitor where the absinthe was kept. He had learned his magic well, despite a tendency toward laziness. And his innate sense of style insured that he nearly always looked good enough to be accepted in high society.
But Draco had nearly no knowledge of muggle vices. His cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, were somewhat more knowledgeable in that area. They could recognize marijuana, and had both sniffed cocaine before they were thirteen years old. But neither Draco, nor any of his friends, knew anything about laudanum, and none of them had ever suspected that Narcissa had been taking it, off and on, for many years. Standing in the kitchen, feeling frightened and alone, Draco suspected that his mother was drunk. He wondered if he should make coffee, and whether that would help his mother to sober up, or simply make her sick. In fact, the level of opiates in Narcissa's system made sleep - and the unearthly dreams that laudanum brought - the only recourse for her. But she was not yet ready to surrender to slumber just yet. And so she stood, and swayed, and stared into space, only aware that her son was present when he spoke to her.
Draco gave up on the idea of making coffee, thinking that dinner might be what his mother really needed. She had been trying to make something, had asked what he wanted. Desperately, he tried to remember what was available. "Mother. I'm going to go down the street to that place where we got the muggle-style Chinese take-away our first night here. I'll get us something to eat. Why don't you just relax. Sit down and rest until I get back?"
Narcissa laughed quietly, her voice deep and honey-rich. "You have no muggle money, sonny," she sang, mostly to herself. Draco was near panicking, but she paid him no mind. "You're not hungry anyway, I can tell. You don't have to feed me. All I need is a good, long sleep. A good, long sleep with dreams. Good night..." she giggled, covering her mouth girlishly. "...sweet prince. I'm going to shuffle this mortal coil off to bed. Have fun... son." Laughing low in her throat, she turned and slowly walked to her room, swaying her hips in an exaggerated seductive movement. At the door, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder, meeting Draco's eyes through her lowered lashes. "You were always cuter than Lucius, from the day you were born," she purred. "And my, my... did you ever grow up fine." She held his eyes for another long moment, then disappeared into her bedroom, quietly closing the door with a soft 'click.'
Draco stood for a long time, unmoving, his mouth wide open, his eyes unblinking, staring in shock.
--- --- ---
Usually, when Gregory Goyle spoke through the floo, he sat leaning forward, face close to the flames. It was easy to tell when he had been on the floo for a long time, because his face became hot and flushed. But when Chaz Thrasher told him his bit of news, Gregory sat back on his heels, astounded at how - sometimes - things simply fell into one's lap.
Greg had been calling his list of friends, filling them in on the Vince Crabbe story, and recruiting help for his plan to thwart Vincent's ultimate triumph over them all. Vincent had met with Voldemort, and had been tasked with convincing the Boy Who Lived to join with the Death Eaters in their efforts to conquer Britain. A ridiculous assignment, on the face of it, until Crabbe explained that he was authorized to offer Harry Potter tremendous power in return for siding with the Dark Lord. If Crabbe succeeded, he would outrank every other follower Voldemort led. And since all of Goyle's friends were planning on becoming Death Eaters - and all of them were quite aware of just how dim Vincent Crabbe actually was - this possibility was a major concern.
Confronting Crabbe was completely out of the question. Ideally, Goyle and his friends would thwart Vince's plan without his ever knowing about it. This had two major advantages. First, while he remained ignorant, Vincent would continue to supply Goyle with details of his progress toward recruiting Potter. Second, if he knew nothing about Goyle's program to sabotage his efforts, he could tell Voldemort nothing in that regard. If the Dark Lord suspected that his potential followers were actually working to prevent his instructions from being carried out, the consequences could be painful - or fatal.
So the focus had to shift to Harry Potter himself. Before speaking with Chaz, Gregory had believed that merely finding their target would be the most difficult part of the operation. By contrast, Greg believed that Vincent had probably been given pretty specific instructions on how to locate and approach Potter. Considering Crabbe's inability to improvise in difficult situations, those instructions must have been very detailed, indeed. And if Greg and his saboteurs were to wait until the start of the next school term in order to find the Boy Who Lived, Vince could well have completed his assignment, Potter would be a Death Eater before school resumed in the fall, and the whole plan would come to nothing.
With this in mind, Goyle had chosen his accomplices carefully. He wanted people who could fight. If it came down to that, Potter's head on a stick would be some kind of victory, and might please the Dark Lord nearly as much as having the twit join the program. So good fighters who wouldn't be afraid to take the chance of getting away with murder were required. He would prefer to employ people who hated Harry Potter. That was really no problem, since the big-headed Gryffindor also had a big mouth, and had offended almost everyone at least once. Hell, even his friends spent half their time arguing with him. But the more intense the hatred, the better. He also wanted people who could keep their mouths shut, no matter what they had to hide. If it were murder, the stakes were life and death. He had no intention of going to Azkaban for this, nor of facing execution. So he needed people who could do the job and then neither squeal - few of his friends were squealers, so he felt confident about that - nor brag. There was the hard part. Killing someone was a natural goad toward braggadocio; killing a Gryffindor would be considered a particularly jaunty feather in any Slytherin's cap; and killing the famous, self-important, Dumbledore-coddled Boy Who Lived would inspire most people Goyle knew and liked to shout the accomplishment from the rooftops. Equally important, the group had to keep quiet even if they merely scuttled Crabbe's little plan. Gregory had no desire to infuriate the most dangerous wizard in the world, and if one of Goyle's group let Vincent know that they had frustrated his attempts, the stakes would be cruciatus at the least - and possibly mutilation and/or death to boot. Even if the Dark Lord's punishment was not immediately carried out by a Death Eater hit squad, Greg could forget about his plan to be on Voldemort's side when the Dark wizard took the current government down - and that was a party Goyle did not intend to miss. There was a third possibility, with a very slim chance of success - but if Gregory could pull it off, he would be sitting prettier than Crabbe now planned to be. And this strategy demanded secrecy as much or more than did the first two. If Greg could convince Potter to join the Death Eaters with Goyle as his sponsor, rather than Vincent - then it would be Goyle who led the new generation of the Dark Army, and Crabbe would be the one taking orders from him. This was the most delicate, and easily disrupted, of the plans. Especially since Greg would have to count on his father to make the connection to Voldemort when Harry Potter was ready to be delivered.
So the group he chose would have to be small, discreet, powerful, able to react quickly, think on their feet and follow his lead. Chaz Thrasher and Boyd Reimuth were good weapons to have along, since both were physically tough and magically dangerous. And he believed that both could keep a secret. Jordan Lurker would be the last of the group, mostly because Jordan was the least talkative individual Goyle had ever seen. A long conversation with Jordan might include two or three words on his part for every hundred spoken to him. He didn't miss much, whether in class or in the common room, but what he learned, he kept to himself. That made him a natural for this kind of operation.
So Greg had flicked some Floo Powder and captured the interest of Boyd and Jordan. Then he contacted Chaz.
Thrasher nearly laughed out loud when Goyle laid out his problem. "Potter?" Chaz chortled. "He's at school!"
Gregory patiently explained again. "I know he goes to our school, you dunce. You can't miss him. The thing is, we've got to get him before Vince does - and that means this summer."
"Pardon me for breaking the news to you, Greg... But if you want Potter this summer, Hogwarts is where you must go." In response to Goyle's baffled look, Thrasher went on. "I was talking to Violet, who was talking to Millie, who had been talking to that Parkinson cunt, who had been to a formal tea with her mother at the Longbottom place."
"Wait, wait, wait," Goyle raised his hands and shook his head, demanding a break. "First off, how is it you were talking to Violet?"
Chaz looked at him pityingly. "I was trying to get laid, wasn't I? And she didn't show that much interest in the prospect, did she?"
"I don't know. Did she?" Greg shot back, resenting being sneered at by Chaz.
"If she had, would I be sitting here talking to you?" Chaz blurted out in anger. "The point is that the Longbottom boy was sloping around the edges of the ladies' tea, and he was all pissed off because Harry Potter had got his summer job spreading bullshit on the Hogwarts flowers for Sprout."
"Now, hold on," Greg said more calmly, trying to take charge of the conversation once more. "This information is, what? Fourth hand?"
Chaz' ironic smile was nearly as irritating to Greg as his sneering had been. "Fourth hand... through girls. I'm not sure you've noticed, Gregory, but girls are different from you and I. For a perfect example: you are calling me because Vincent Crabbe presents a palpable danger to the remainder of our young lives. Girls call each other and talk about tea parties just because they're bloody tea parties, and parties and the like are how girls get their part of the world's business done. I don't pretend to understand it, but I have seen it in action, and I can swear to the truth. If Violet says Millie says Pansy says Neville was pissed because Harry bleeding Potter is spreading bullshit at Hogwarts, my money is on Potter and the bullshit to be in the same place at the same time."
Greg was thunderstruck. "He's ... like ... staying there?"
"Summer job, sport. Work every day, sleep every night. Right at our familiar old alma mater. Outdoor work, too, so he won't be inside the walls all the time. Out to the garden every morning, back from the garden every night. Outside - or, at most in a greenhouse - all bloody day long."
A sudden thought hit Gregory like a punch. If bloody Chaz knew this... not to mention all those girls... then Voldemort must have had it in mind when he told Vince to recruit Potter. He probably told Crabbe to go to the campus and start to work on the boy. And that meant... "Chaz, Vince is going to beat us to him. We've got to go to Hogwarts. Tomorrow." Chaz nodded his consent with a vicious smile. Of the plans they had discussed, Thrasher clearly favored the one that would hurt Potter the most. Greg had a big problem in logistics, though. "How can we get there? The train doesn't run, except twice a year. Can you get a car?"
"No," Chaz said, wrinkling his nose at the thought. "Last time I... uh... borrowed my mum's car, it came back with... some significant damage." He briefly related the story, which seemed funny now that the punishments resulting from the escapade were over. Both boys were in a better mood after laughing about it for a while. "What I can do," Chaz suggested hesitantly, "is ask my brother."
"You've got a brother? What, was he in school?"
"Naw," Chaz admitted. "Dropped out near end of second term. Not that it made any difference - he would have been expelled anyway. Cursed a teacher, broke a bunch of stuff. Filch hates him. Gave me Hell from the moment I stepped on to school grounds because of him."
"Sounds like he had the Slytherin touch," Greg said proudly.
"Yah, 'cept that he was sorted into Hufflepuff," Chaz admitted bashfully. "My old Da was furious about it - threatened to tear the Sorting Hat a new head-hole, but... what're you gonna do? Less than two years and" He snapped his fingers. "He's outta there."
"Does he use magic?" Greg asked skeptically.
"Oh, yeah. Not that anyone notices most of the time. He works for a muggle organization. Collects late loan payments and that kind of thing. Says he meets a lot of gamblers in his line of work."
"And he has a car?" Greg prompted.
"Oh, Hell, no, mate. He apparates!"
"Reliably?" Greg had no desire to be the victim of a botched apparation. Every year, Hogwarts gave a safety seminar about the dangers of unauthorized apparation. The pictures of bodies with feet where their heads should be, or with their right and left halves separated by several meters, had made a strong impression on him.
"He hasn't had a car these past two years, already," Chaz boasted. "Doesn't slow him down any. He's always at the job, wherever that happens to be. And if his mates at work ask how he got there, he tells 'em 'I walked.' That twists their little minds. None of 'em can figure out how he does it. But he does. Reliably."
"There's four of us with you, me, Boyd and Jordan," Greg warned.
"So he makes it two trips. Shouldn't be that tough."
"Can he do it tomorrow?"
"I said I'd ask," Chaz said, irritated. "He might tell me to bugger off. Hell, he might hit me for presuming. Or, he might do it. Maybe tomorrow. I can ask him tonight.
"Yeah, good. You do that. I'll call Reimuth and Lurker and tell 'em to get ready for a possible journey... possibly tomorrow."
--- --- ---
The next morning dawned bright and clear. Of course, none of the conspirators saw that, since they had all slept in. But by mid-morning, Chaz had given the signal that his brother was available, and an hour or so past noon, the four would-be Death Eaters gathered at the Thrasher home.
Unlike Goyle's house, or Reimuth's, or Lurker's, the Thrashers' residence had that amazing modern convenience, a garage. As was true of most garages, this one was not home to the family's cars, but served as a storage shed, tool box and occasional work area. It was also a brilliant location from which to apparate, since it hid the apparating wizard from sight, and helped muffle the sound. The conspirators gathered there.
Each of the four had brought his broom, since if it came to a fight, air superiority would be a huge advantage. They all had their wands, as well. And they had worn their school robes, so that if they were spotted on campus, they would not look out of place. Goyle surveyed his group with approval. Big guys. Tough guys. Guys who could throw a curse as well as a punch. He was proud of this bunch, and he thought that they were proud to be doing this together. Once they joined the Dark Lord, they would be doing things like this all the time. But for now, this was a perfect warm-up, a perfect appetizer for what was to come.
The garage suddenly shook as the door connecting it to the house was flung open hard. The door hit the garage wall with a sharp report and rebounded to slam itself shut. By that time, the last arrival had moved through the doorway and into the small circle of conspirators. Boz Thrasher had arrived.
One of the reasons Greg had chosen Chaz was that the boy was two meters tall and weighed about one hundred fifteen kilos, most of it solid muscle. Next to his brother, Chaz was a pipsqueak. Boz was big, just slightly shorter and very slightly less hairy than the Hogwarts game keeper, Rubeus Hagrid. He wore a canvas workshirt, sleeves rolled above the elbows, and cotton twill workpants. Both garments were stained with grease. His hair was long, tangled and filthy. Beard covered most of his face, leaving a small mask of skin visible around his eyes.
"Well?" Boz roared. "I thought you wanned me to do summat for ye!"
"Yes, we did," Gregory spoke up, trying to establish that he was the leader of this expedition. "I wanted you to apparate us to Hogwarts."
"Bollocks!" Boz bellowed. "I'll not gae t'thet plaece ivver igin! Take ye t'Hogsmeade, thass's close as I'll gae."
"Right, then. Hogsmeade. We'll take brooms from there," Greg agreed pleasantly.
"Whar, ye flie roun' tha quiddich pitch o' yarn?" Boz sneered.
"Maybe, if there's time," Greg said offhandedly.
Too late, Chaz added, "Boz is particularly fond of association football."
"Fitbah!" Boz hollered, raising both fists into the air. "Gawd's honest fitbah, no yer nancy flittin' about on brooms, searchin' fer snitch. Fitbah!"
"Do you play?" Greg asked pleasantly, trying to draw some sort of camaraderie from the man.
"Boz plays Rugby," Chaz explained.
"Ruggerrrr..." Boz nearly purred. "Awrigh, then," he bellowed, his brief pause for quiet reflection clearly over. "Two at' time. Step up!" He grabbed Chaz and Greg simultaneously, each boy caught in a bone-crushing single-armed hug. "Hogsmeade!" He thundered, then apparated. Boyd and Jordan looked at each other and shook their heads. This was not quite what they had expected.
Once Chaz and Greg were on the ground outside of Hogsmeade, and Boz had disappeared again, on his way back to the Thrasher's garage to collect Reimuth and Lurker, Greg turned to Chaz with a disbelieving expression and demanded, "Where in hell did he live after he dropped out of school? The bleeding Hebrides? Mordred's Ghost, Chaz, I can barely understand him. And that whole 'Fitbah!' thing - the man's mental!"
Chaz shrugged. "He thinks the same about us and quiddich. It's all what you're used to, I guess. Actually, my old Da talks pretty much the same way that Boz does. I never thought about it, much."
Right then, a sharp crack announced the reappearance of their apparator, with the remaining two conspirators being crushed in his powerful grip. He dropped them both and they stumbled forward, trying to avoid falling on their faces. The four conspirators gathered together and checked to make sure they all still had their brooms and wands.
Greg turned to Boz and sketched a loose salute. "Thanks, mate. We'll get this done and be back soon. You going to wait?"
"I'll be inna Three Broomsticks," Boz growled. "And I'll take ya back home when I'm damn good and ready. There's just one thing I want all four of you to know... You owe me." As he had spoken, Boz's accent had become more and more like standard Hogwarts English. The last three words might have been delivered from a class lectern. As he continued, his words were perfectly clear enough that each one of the four boys before him understood every one. "Lissen, then. If I need a galleon, you'll be giving me one. If I need summat fetched from down Looton, one of you'll hump onto your broomstick and go get it for me. If my willie dries out, the lot of you'll queue up for the opportunity to put some spit on it."
Boyd and Jordan were looking particularly unwilling to go along with the plan as laid out by Boz. Greg worried that they'd mount their brooms and fly off if he didn't salvage something from this situation. "Why don't we just say we're friends," Goyle suggested. "And friends do for friends, right?"
Boz turned on him with an expression of horrified disbelief. "You're nae friends o' mine!" he yelled, outraged. "You're pathetic wankers couldn't get yerselves to where ye were s'posed tae be! I saved yer wanky arsses, and dint e'en charge ye a sickle fer th' job. Nor did ye offer, mind ye! And now, ye have the choice of sayin' - 'Yes, we owe you, Boz' - and gettin' yer instant trip back home sometime tonight, or makin' some bullshite argument and havin' tae get yerselves back home on yer nancy brooms! Ye want to be home sometime this month, then by Gawd, you owe me. Yer gonna give me some shite, ye'll be bustin' broomsticks over land fer the next three weeks!"
For Greg, this was a disaster. Not just for the obvious reason - that the man who was supposed to apparate them home was completely mental - but also because he knew that somehow, he had to come out of this whole thing as the leader of the group. Screwing up his courage, he smiled at the bellowing madman. "Boz, I know you don't believe me, but the fact is... I really do want to be your friend. Someday, once you've learned to trust me. And so I'm telling you. I owe you. This is my operation, I asked Chaz to have you help us. I owe you. And I really appreciate what you've done for us, today."
"Ye appreciate nawt," Boz scoffed, but at least a little more quietly than he had been bellowing. "I'll tell you this. You all - all of you - owe me. I'll remember each and every one of you, and I will expect to be repaid when I call in the debt. But you, mister 'my operation.' You really owe me. I will be seeing you when this day is over."
The big man turned and stomped off toward the Hogsmeade village limits. He turned and called over his shoulder, "Three Broomsticks. Give me time to have a drink or four. But don't bloody take all day!"
Greg surveyed his team. He gave a particular nod of thanks to Chaz. "Well," he said encouragingly. "That went well. Let's go get Potter."
As the group mounted brooms, Greg cautioned them, "Don't kick off high. We want to start low and stay low. Toes to the ground low. Stay under any branches we can fit beneath. Heavy cover, boys, we don't want interference before we get started!"
Flying that way made the trip from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts seem even faster than it was, and as the boys were all natural daredevils on their brooms, the trip was taken at maximum speed. The group flashed beneath a wide oak, and each of the riders was whipped with leaves, which ripped off and scattered in their wake. "Whoooo!" Reimuth shouted in exhilaration. Greg hissed at him and dropped back until his shoulder was practically touching Boyd's.
"Shut it, moron!" he ordered. "They'll hear us up the castle you keep that shite up." He forced his broom back toward the front of the group, able to gain ground only very slowly since their speed was already so close to top velocity for the relatively cheap models they were all riding. He seemed to have made his point, though, and the riders flew in grim silence all the way to the Hogwarts grounds.
As they drew close enough to see the castle walls, Greg gave them a hand sign and they turned off the path, directly away from the Forbidden Forest. Keeping to as much cover as they could find, they flew a long curving route around the school, skirting the actual school property to minimize the chance of triggering any alarms until they had a view of the greenhouses. They slowed until they were barely drifting through a stand of trees, watching for any movement around the Herbology department. This was the part that Goyle had been dreading. His troops were hyped up from their ride, and ready for action. Who knew how long they might have to drift around like this, waiting to spot their target?
"There he is!" Reimuth hissed, leaning forward to grip his broomstick, ready for an immediate charge.
"Not yet!" Greg whispered back. "Let's see where he goes."
All four riders settled to the ground, still straddling their brooms, ready to kick off in an instant. And there, walking away from one of the greenhouses, pushing a heavy wheelbarrow heaped with soil, was Potter, totally oblivious. The four riders watched the Boy Who Lived trundle the clumsy-looking barrow for more than one hundred meters, leaving the greenhouse area behind. Then Greg spotted what had to be his eventual destination. There was a mound of loose soil that appeared to have been made by dumping many barrow-loads one after the other. Potter was apparently on his way to add another barrow-load to the pile. Greg whispered "Around," and waved to his team. They kicked off gently and drifted through cover until they were behind the mound. Then they dismounted and surrounded the end of the path where Potter would have to go to dump his load.
Harry was not particularly happy with this assignment. He was certain that there was some magical way to animate the wheelbarrows so that they would perform this task on their own. Why else would the pile have been placed so far away? He couldn't imagine Professor Sprout actually walking all this distance herself to pile up soil that would, ultimately, only have to be carted back to the greenhouses again. But since he did not know the spell that would make the barrows work independently, he pushed the heavy thing along, forcing it to remain upright when its natural tendency was to turn sideways and spill its contents where they did not belong.
This stupid job had to be a test, Harry thought, which made him feel even worse. If his first test was to see whether he could push dirt around, there would certainly be a lot more equally stupid and boring jobs to work through before he was allowed to do anything substantial. He was grousing to himself so vehemently that he didn't notice the four people surrounding him until he practically pushed his wheelbarrow onto Gregory Goyle's foot. He stopped just before he actually ran the boy down, and dropped the wheelbarrow's handles, letting it thump onto its back legs, sending a small avalanche of soil pouring over the side. He stared around him at the four grim faces, noticing that three of them already held wands at the ready. Goyle, empty handed, spoke first.
"We know what you're up to Potter, and frankly, I had thought better of you. Of all the people you could have chosen to conspire with, Vincent Crabbe is about the worst choice you could have made."
"Crabbe?" Harry said, baffled.
"Oh, look at him playing innocent," Goyle mocked, while his cronies chuckled menacingly. "Yeah, Crabbe, and Crabbe's little plan. You'd like the power, wouldn't you, you greedy git." Greg pointed at the Magic Eye that was currently hovering listlessly near Harry. "That flying ball over your shoulder - that's from him, isn't it?"
Harry concentrated on Goyle. He was clearly the instigator of this, the others just along for the ride. "The ball's just something... for the job here," Harry improvised, hoping that Goyle had never seen one of the magic baby monitors in use. To distract him, he went for the quickest insult he could think of. "Have you spoken with Malfoy about this? I don't think he'd be very happy having his toady taking independent initiative."
"Malfoy!" Goyle spat. "Is he in on this? I thought the bleeder was on vacation! What did he offer you?"
"I haven't seen him," Harry said with mock sweetness. "I only mentioned him because he's your boss."
Thrasher, Reimuth and Lurker all chuckled again, but this time, it was Greg who was the butt of the joke. That would not do at all. Goyle knew he had to reestablish his leadership over the group, but he was distracted. Harry had said that Malfoy was his 'boss.' Did that mean Potter had already joined forces with Voldemort? Had Malfoy beaten both Crabbe and Goyle to the punch, and brought the Boy Who Lived into the Dark Lord's service, gaining praise and promotion for his efforts? Was Draco already Head Boy of the Junior Death Eaters? Had they mounted this expedition too late? Greg had to know. "All right, Potter," he growled contemptuously. "Have you already joined? Did you get the Mark? And was it Draco that brought you in?"
"Joined what?" Harry demanded, becoming really annoyed. This was clearly a preposterous joke, something so dumb that only a blockhead like Goyle could have come up with it. It wouldn't have been such a big deal, except that if wasting time on these idiots made him appear too slow to be trusted with a wheelbarrow, his already-strained relations with Professor Sprout would be made even worse.
"Joined what?" Goyle mocked. "You don't think I know what you've been offered? Are you going to pretend you wouldn't want to be the Duke of Dorchester?"
"Slag off, Goyle," Harry said, gripping the wheelbarrow handles once again. "I have a job. If you've got nothing better to do than follow me around, you can watch me dump dirt." Harry pushed the barrow forward, as Goyle stood boldly athwart his progress, grinning. He waited to see which way Harry would turn to try to go around him, ready to move into the boy's way once again. Instead, Harry plowed straight ahead, ramming the front edge of the barrow into Goyle's shins. Filled as it was with dirt, the barrow had quite a bit of inertia, and since Goyle didn't budge from the spot he was standing, all of that energy was transferred to the points of contact between barrow-edge and Goyle. Dirt shifted forward at the sudden stop, cascading over Goyle's robes.
"Ow! You bastard!" Greg bellowed in pain. "You think Voldemort's going to protect you, you're in for a surprise!"
Harry was so shocked to hear Goyle's suggestion that Voldemort might be considered his protector, he dropped the wheelbarrow handles and stood unmoving as Gregory drew his wand. "What!?!" he cried in befuddlement as four wands leveled at his chest.
"There's only one way you'll live long enough to join the Dark Lord, Potter. And that's if you're with me when you do it. I can get you there just as sure as Crabbe and Malfoy, and the rewards will be just as great. The only difference is that you're going with me, and you're going now."
"Join... Voldemort..." Harry said slowly, disbelief giving way to rage. "To become... what was it? ... Duke of Dorchester? Goyle, did it ever occur to you that if I were - ever - going to join a group of desperate, murderous, cowardly lunatics dedicated to conquering the world, that I would want to be the one who got to be King of the World? What would I want with Dorchester? Why even bother being Duke of it if I have to obey someone else? Listen, Goyle, since you're too stupid to understand that I would never in my life join Voldemort - or that, if I had the chance, I would kill him - then maybe you'll understand this: I am not going to be anyone's toad, as you seem so eager to be. If I were going to conquer the world, I would do it for me. Now get away from here and let me do my work."
Gregory could spot a cheap dodge when he heard one. Potter was holding out. He had probably been promised some special prize that Malfoy claimed only he could bestow. "Liar!" Goyle bellowed, and sent a curse flying from his wand directly at Harry's heart.