Chapter 7
"Happy Friday, Mother," Draco called, emphasizing the weekday sufficiently that his mother could not have missed it.
"Yes. Joyful." Narcissa's voice was so dull, her sarcasm was nearly lost, leaving only a dismal mournfulness completely at odds with the vivacious party hostess she had so recently been.
"I suppose we have not received any invitations for social engagement? Especially as regards this weekend?" If the young Malfoy noticed his mother's dismal weariness, he gave so sign.
"Draco..." Narcissa stopped herself before she flew into another fit of rage. The neighbors had barely met them, and already must have heard Narcissa shouting at her son on at least one occasion. Their first week in a small house with no domestic help had been difficult on both of them, and had strained their relationship more severely than Narcissa would have thought possible. She loved her son. She had always loved him, and had helped him as much as she could, and protected him whenever possible. She believed that he loved her, as well, despite his being his father's son in almost every respect. Even Draco's apparent disregard for his father following the arrest was a classic Lucius attitude. Narcissa had seen her husband shrug off the loss of comrades he had known and worked with for years. 'You got caught, or you got killed, so I'm done with you - no help for the captured, no funeral for the deceased,' was the formula, and Narcissa had wondered how anyone could stay loyal to the Deatheater corps when each of them knew that their supreme lord, as well as most of their fellows, would adopt that exact attitude toward any of them who were no longer useful. Narcissa realized that she was woolgathering even as her son stood impatiently waiting for some response. "I have sent discreet notes to several select people. We must proceed discreetly, especially if the contacts we do develop here on the Continent are to prove to be of the highest quality. It will take some time for our plight to be recognized, and even longer for the people we most want to be associated with to decide in our favor. Then there will have to be an appropriate occasion to spark a suitable celebration to which we might be invited. Not too intimate, but not anything quite so open and vulgar as a fund-raiser. We will recover our lives, Draco. But in the meantime, we will not be regularly partying with the French aristocracy."
"Well, we will recover our lives, as you say, and we cannot afford to be ill-prepared," Draco lectured in his haughtiest tone. "Since it is the end of the week - but not yet either of the days on which the working class takes their leisure, perhaps we can avail ourselves of the opportunity to investigate the fashions available in Paris. We are in the home of Haute Couture, and it would be a true shame to allow such resources to be wasted on the unappreciative while we are here."
"Draco... Son... Why do you think we are living here?" Narcissa asked patiently.
"To confound the Ministry," Draco answered huffily.
"No, Son. Why do you think we are living in a tiny house in a muggle neighborhood?"
"I didn't think we'd be able to replace the Manor, and we've hardly had time to look for alternatives," Draco sniffed.
Narcissa took a deep, calming breath. "We... have… no... alternatives. Where we are right now is finer than anything we could legitimately afford. And if it had not been for the generous help of a dear friend, and the understanding of this property's owner, we would not even have this."
"Who was it? Who helped us?"
Narcissa felt awful. Draco had finally expressed some interest in their situation, and the first piece of information he requested was supposed to be confidential. "I'm not at liberty to say."
Draco was clearly scandalized. "Good God, Mother, what have you done?"
"Don't you take that tone with me, young man! You have been pampered and provided for all your life. You have no idea what a real adult person has to do to be able to give you all that you have gotten used to receiving so effortlessly. Believe me, child, there was nothing improper about the way we obtained a place to live." She stopped herself, thinking once again of the neighbors. In Malfoy Manor, she had been such a quiet person. And there, the grounds were so large she could have shouted to the top of her lungs without disturbing anyone. Here, where the neighbors were much closer than 'shouting distance,' she had been raising her voice daily. Very quietly, but with obviously restrained anger, she grated, "I would appreciate an apology."
Draco had not yet gotten used to his new mother. She was similar in so many ways to the woman who had raised him; she wore the same dress size, brushed her hair the same way, had the same immunity from dental problems. But his mother had been smoothly gracious throughout his entire life, while this woman could be shrill as a fishwife. His mother had been able to floo the most wealthy and prestigious people in the world and be greeted personally, and graciously, by name. This woman sent 'discreet notes,' and waited for an 'appropriate occasion' to receive some kind of reply. His mother had always been able to -Do Something- when a crisis loomed. This woman had been thoroughly trampled by her husband's arrest, and seemed helpless to do anything but succumb to drunkenness in the evenings. It had been bad enough that his father was in jail. But having his mother replaced by this ineffectual whiner had made him feel truly abandoned. He looked at her angry face, saw her tense hands and stiff posture, and thought about the economic shock that must have occurred when the Malfoy millions had been snatched away along with his father. She controlled whatever money there was now. But for a woman who had been used to spending more on a party than this little house could possibly have cost to buy outright, he imagined that she was left with few options. If all of her money was needed for living expenses, investment opportunities would not be attractive, or even feasible, and entertainment expenses would be out of the question. Still, the woman would have to be convinced that clothing, at least, was a legitimate living expense, along with decent furnishings and decor. There wasn't much one could do with a little bungalow such as this one, but even if he were fated to remain embarrassed to invite anyone tasteful into his home, he should at least be able to feel decent about showing himself when going out. The first step toward this would have to be re-establishing civil contact. "I'm sorry, Mother. I meant no disrespect." The lines were delivered sincerely, his face free from sneering, his posture erect but humble. Perfect.
Narcissa studied the boy and saw all the well-rehearsed reactions falling into place with the ease of repeated practice. He knew what to do, what to say, and how to present it. It was totally insincere, of course, but at least it was informed with legitimate fear; fear of being left without spending money, fear of being left off the invitations when they finally began to arrive, fear of the public humiliation she could subject him to so easily. "Very well," she finally allowed. "You are young. I will have to keep that in mind. And you really do have no idea what it takes to support two people."
"No, I don't," Draco admitted in a brilliant simulation of humility. "So I will ask. Since we are in France, and so close to Paris, and since I have never seen the wizard community of this country except for the Xenophon course, could the two of us take a trip to the city? Could I have at least one new robe, or at least see the commercial district in which French wizards do their business?"
"No." Narcissa stood resolutely, staring her son down for a long while. "You do not understand, and I realize that it's not particularly fair to you to have to comprehend our situation so quickly, but we are balanced on a very thin edge indeed. No, you cannot have one new robe. For that matter, we cannot even go into the city. I know of nowhere to safely apparate, so for our first journey, we would have to hire transportation, and Draco - we cannot even afford to take a cab to Paris. That is the situation in which we find ourselves. Before your father's arrest, we would have purchased a fleet of vehicles and hired a team of drivers so that each of us would have had a car of our own, and our group would have had a proper escort. Now, we cannot afford to take public transportation from here to Paris. Can you understand that?"
"Yes, Mother," Draco replied stiffly. "May I at least go out and play?"
Narcissa directed a scathing look his way. "Give your mother some credit. I know that you are hardly likely to want to go out and play."
"Pardon me, Mother," Draco said with a contrite look, "but I had something particular in mind. Something that would take me off your hands for a few days, and would cost next to nothing. I would like to go cross-country."
Narcissa rolled her eyes. "You are not flying your broom where a hundred Continental muggles can see you," she scolded.
"No, Mother, I'll leave my broom at home. There's a machine that's very popular here. It's called a 'bicycle.' It has..."
"I know what a bicycle is. And I know what one costs," Narcissa interrupted impatiently.
"Not if I borrow one," Draco smiled.
"And who would lend you a bicycle?"
"The girl I met at the Xenophon practice last week. You remember, I told you all about her."
Narcissa remembered little about last Thursday, but she knew that she had taken a large dose of laudnam a short time before Draco had arrived home. Draco could have told her the world was ending, and she would most likely have decided the story was very nice, and then forgotten all about it. She certainly did not recall anything about her son meeting a girl at the field. At least he hadn't been tearing off every day since to visit her. And now, the girl was going to lend him a bicycle... for a cross country trip... that would take Draco 'a few days'... "Does this girl know anything about contraception?" Narcissa demanded.
"I doubt that it will come to that," Draco drawled. "She is more interested in the manly arts of competition. And in using her prowess at masculine pursuits to show off for the girls in the stands. She's a brilliant flyer, though, and was quite impressed with my techniques. She suggested the bicycle herself. I'm not even sure she's interested in coming along for the ride."
"And where will you sleep?"
"There is a network of places designed especially for young people who are taking just these sorts of trips. Not hotels, by any stretch of the imagination, but more like the oldest of what we would call 'Inns.' The sport is popular, so the places are usually crowded, and there are plenty of adults working as managers of the places to keep watch over the adolescents in the crowd. It's cheap - and it's safe. And just in case I run into trouble... I'll take my wand. I doubt any muggle knows how to deal with a Petrificus."
"And eat?"
"I'll pack my first day's lunch, then eat at the 'hostiles.' I think I'll try to follow the 'Tour de Force,' a popular muggle race course that runs all through the country."
"And this will cost?"
"It's really, really cheap, Mother. Twenty-five francs should do it - and leave me a franc or two for any emergency I encounter. If I may have twenty-five francs, I'll get healthy exercise, help cement my relationship with the only French witch I have yet met, and you won't have me underfoot until Monday afternoon. What do you say?"
Narcissa had volumes she wanted to say - but she knew that most of it would be useless, and ultimately ignored. "I'll get the money."
Draco took the opportunity to change into standard muggle clothing, and pack a compact sport bag with some clothing. He put together enough food for lunch, stuffed the package into his sport bag, and made a conspicuous presentation of putting his broom away. He kissed his mother, wished her a happy weekend, and left. About a block away from home, he checked his wallet. In addition to the money his mother had given him, he had about two hundred francs and nearly one hundred pounds in addition to the small bag that held several galleons and some sickles. It was over half his pocket money stash, which he kept easily accessible at all times. That stash was only a portion of his emergency money, which he kept well-hidden. It had been a challenge to get his emergency money moved into the new house without his mother noticing, but he had done it, and days like this were the perfect reason why it was important for a boy to have some unaccounted-for cash of his own. Draco had no intention of borrowing a bicycle. He did, however, know several places in Diagon Alley that would be perfectly happy to extend a Malfoy some credit. At some of them, he already had a tab, to which he could add new purchases freely, since, by happy accident, he had paid off his creditors a short time before Lucius was arrested. In wizard London, he could have some fun. The first step was to get to the Chunnel, and buy himself the quickest available transport through it. Once on British soil, he could simply stick out his wand hand, and summon the Knight Bus. This weekend was going to be brilliant.
--- --- ---
Harry wrote his first letter to Neville while having breakfast on Friday morning. So much had happened, and yet there was so little that he could say. He went into some detail about Professor Sprout's resignation. But even with the Professor's own disclaimer, explaining that her resignation was due to disagreements with Dumbledore, Harry felt certain that Neville would blame him for his favorite teacher's departure, anyway. He mentioned the attack that had been made on him by the four flyers, and the magical contamination in the soil afterward, and the efforts of the three adults to clean it all up. He wasn't sure himself if he was using the story to elicit sympathy, but the yarn was a good one, and made a generally sad letter a lot more fun. But the things he was burning to talk about couldn't be mentioned at all. The magic test, Remus' political lecture, Snape's plan of action... there was no way he could bring any of that up, especially in writing that could easily be intercepted. Besides, it wasn't Neville whose opinion he wanted. He wished he could speak to Ron face to face. After today, perhaps there would be a way to arrange that very thing. Remus had seemed to think it possible, so Harry finished his letter, ran to his room to send it on its way with Hedwig, and dashed out toward the greenhouses.
He had brought quill and parchment again, ready for more note taking on any new subject, but to his dismay, Professor Sprout began the day with a review of the previous day's instructions. Harry showed off the notes he had taken, but the Professor merely nodded brusquely and told him, "Those would be exemplary for a class, Mister Potter, but once I am gone, you are going to have to be able to work quickly and anticipate the needs of your vegetable charges. They - for the most part - cannot speak for themselves, so in matters of feeding and watering, especially, you must know what it is you need to do. Put away the notes, start here, where we began yesterday, and tell me the needs of each plant as we progress." Harry stood rooted to the spot, immobilized with fear. "You may begin," Professor Sprout prompted, and Harry started to describe the care of the first plant.
By the time they had worked their way through the first row, from the back of the greenhouse to the front, Professor Sprout looked grim. "You should be glad this job is not graded, Mister Potter," she said. "You would be the first Hogwarts student in quite some time to fail 'summer.' You have me here only until a week from Tuesday. I certainly hope you had no plans for the weekend."
Sheepishly, Harry admitted, "I was hoping I could go visit the Weasleys at their home."
"Go visit?" Professor Sprout was scandalized. "How long were you planning on being gone? When I spoke of plans, I meant flying your broomstick around the quiddich pitch, or having a quiet read in your room. Go visit? Did you think this job came with days off? Did you think you could put in five days a week, or less for a holiday? Haven't you paid attention to a single thing I've said since you've been here? This job is constant, unrelenting, non-stop. The only reason you have had your evenings free is that none of the plants are sick or damaged. If there were an invalid to care for... oh, you'd not be walking into Hogsmeade with Mister Lupin for your evening meals. You'd be begging the house elves to drag you a crust out here, where you would stay until your patient was fit to grow on its own! Go visit." She harumphed and strode back to the beginning of the first row. "We will start over. I will describe the correct way to care for each plant, and you will repeat those instructions to me. No, you can't look at your notes! I know you have it written down, but I want it in that head of yours. I'll tell you, you repeat it. And tonight, if you're smart, you'll read the notes you take today as well as the ones that you took yesterday - yes, the ones that I'm not letting you read right now. Ready? Good. The first plant..."
Harry spent all morning going over what he had learned yesterday. Lunch was short, a matter of sprinting up to the dining hall for a sandwich and juice, efficiently provided by the house elves. He walked back down to the greenhouses with a developing headache, which only got worse as the afternoon's lesson rolled on. He wrote until his hand was sore, then realized he had already forgotten the first example of the day. Professor Sprout dismissed him well after five o'clock, with the stern instruction that his Saturday work would begin promptly at seven the next morning.
Things only got worse as he reached the front door of the castle, only to have Hedwig meet him. Harry was happy to see the bird, and pleased that she had brought a reply to his letter to Neville. He was not happy at all with the contents of Neville's reply.
Harry -
You Bastard. All the good people in the world ought to
simply give up and surrender right now. Voldemort in
full battle frenzy can't do the kind of damage you can do
just by hanging around.
This was not at all good. Especially after what happened to his parents, Neville Longbottom was particularly sensitive to anything having to do with dark magic. He always said 'You Know Who' when referring to the Death Eaters' leader. For Neville to have actually written out the name "Voldemort" told Harry more about how furious Neville must have been than the insult he had used the name for.
I don't know how I will manage it, but I will be at that
school before Tuesday next. And when I am there, I
hope you give me a reason to take further offense.
I'll blow your stinking head off, Potter.
Neville
Well. 'At least he wasn't wishy-washy, or ambiguous,' Harry thought. 'Good for ol' Neville to have finally learned to spit it out and say what he means. Too bad ol' Neville had to learn his lesson by threatening to blow off my head.'
--- --- ---
On the way to dinner, Harry found Remus waiting for him, leaning against a wall. The man grinned when he saw his pack's cub approaching. "What's wrong, Harry? You look miserable."
"Professor Sprout thinks I'm an idiot. After today, I'm not sure she's wrong. Neville thinks I'm a menace. He sent me a letter threatening to blow my head off. 'I hope you give me a reason,' he said."
"There you go," Remus said confidently. "As long as he still needs a reason, then he hasn't already made up his mind to kill you. I'd say you would be justified in maintaining a very optimistic attitude toward your next meeting. Oh... and speaking of next meetings, what have you thought of regarding your trip to the Burrow?"
"That it won't happen," Harry said with disgust. "Professor Sprout chewed me out for thinking I got days off, then told me to be in at seven tomorrow morning, and to expect the same for Sunday."
Remus shrugged. "Maybe we could drop by one evening."
"You don't know Mrs. Weasley," Harry said. "We won't be able to 'drop by' without having dinner, which is always a long, loud, big deal of a production at their house. And then I'd have to tell her all about my summer job, and what I was planning for next term... by the time I got to say anything to Ron, we'd already be late for returning. You can't 'drop by' the Burrow in the evening. And I'll be at work all day."
"All right," Remus replied, refusing to be discouraged. "If we can't bring you to your friend, we'll bring your friend to you. It's never a lot of fun hanging around with the old folks, and I know Ron can't apparate, yet, so why don't we ask Fred and George Weasley to bring Ron by the castle?"
"The twins?" Harry yelped with a stab of fear. If Neville showed up and Harry was fooling around with those jokers, he would be in a duel as soon as Neville saw who was visiting. Not that Neville had ever had any bad feeling for the twins in particular. It was just the circumstances: Professor Sprout resigning, Harry taking Neville's summer job... to be discovered in the company of the most famous practical jokers in recent history would be in poor taste, so far as Neville was concerned. Or maybe not. But Harry wasn't sure he was willing to risk it.
"Yes, the twins," Remus insisted. "It's their school too. And Ron's their brother - why shouldn't they be allowed to pay a visit... especially when they'll be chaperoned by none other than me. I believe I am competent to maintain order even when faced with a major challenge such as the Weasley twins. And the best part is, Professor Snape and I... which means, perforce, you too... are off on another Malfoy hunt tonight. I thought we might visit the quaint neighborhood of Diagon Alley. It being Friday night, with school out for summer, the Wizard Wheezes shop should be open late, and you will have a chance to put your request to the brothers Weasley in person. And since Draco Malfoy is such an avid quiddich player, we should spend some time staking out Quality Quiddich Supplies, don't you think?"
Harry could find nothing at all wrong with the plan, so after a quick dinner, Remus and Harry descended into the dungeons to collect Snape, and begin their Diagon Alley adventure.
--- --- ---
The floo at the Thrashers' home flared blue, and the bruised face of Gregory Goyle looked around the living room from the hearth. No one was there, so he called, softly at first, then more insistently as he received no response. "Chaz... Chaz, man, be home, will you. Chaz! Anybody. Mrs. Thrasher? Are you in? Mister Thrasher...? CHAZ!"
Chaz Thrasher wandered lazily into his living room, scratching his belly beneath a white t-shirt and holding a bottle of stout in his free hand. "Bloody Hell, Gregory," he yawned. "If my old Da was home, he'd of pitched a brick at ye' for yowlin' like 'at. What's going... Whoa! Look at your face! Who did you in, mate?" Seeing Gregory's swollen cheek had awakened the young Thrasher a bit. He even put his bottle down to get close to the floo to check Goyle's face more closely. "That's no little shiner, man, that's like... somebody tried to break your cheekbone." He laughed at the image of someone actually trying to score a broken cheek in a fistfight. The more likely outcome would be broken fingers, unless the attacker had used a weapon, or if he was really into the martial arts. "Come on, spit it out - who tagged you?"
"Shut up, mouth," Goyle snarled. "I'm trying to tell you - it's why I called. You might want to do some traveling for the rest of the summer, cause he knows where you live too, you git!"
Chaz was worried, now. He usually kept a mental checklist of people he had done something evil to, but it was showing all blanks now - except for his brother, who still had not called in the favor he had done by apparating Chaz and the boys to Hogwarts... and the little bastard that had burned up his broom. Chaz wondered if that might be the culprit. He didn't think so, though. The miniscule git had thrown around a lot of magic, but he was 'way too small to fight Goyle and leave a mark. So had Boz taken exception to something Greg had done? The only way to determine that was to ask. "Huh?"
Gregory was nearly purple with enraged frustration. "The fist that nearly knocked my cheekbone down my throat belonged to Professor Snape!"
As Greg watched impatiently, Chaz tried to process what he had been told. Professor Snape. Potions teacher. Head of House. Enthusiastic rooter for the Slytherin quiddich team. Harasser of Gryffindors. Supposedly part of Voldemort's closest brain trust. "Nah!" he said with finality.
"Yah!" Gregory mocked back at him. "And he's on the warpath. Said we blew a half-dozen basic rules for pulling a raid. Said that the school robes were particularly stupid. Said we should have had masks at least, if not full disguises - and that we should have stolen the brooms. Said that we owed our continued freedom to the simple fact that all four brooms burnt to ash and blew away. Nothing to trace. And anyone with half a brain would have thought that our faces were our disguises - polyjuice, or rubber masks or something - so that we four innocents would get in trouble and the real culprits would go free. Also, while he was beating me up, he very calmly described how many mistakes we made in our attacks. How many stupid spells we cast. How many opportunities we wasted for using our brooms more aggressively. Worst of all, he said that my potential future with... you know... the big guy..." Greg glanced around Thrasher's living room again, looking for anyone who might have been listening. "He said my future there is in grave jeopardy. I mean, anyone else says 'grave jeopardy,' and I figure they're a clueless ponce trying to talk pretty. But Snape... when Snape says 'grave jeopardy,' it's like... like he's used to saying things like that. And meaning them, as well. Anyway, I know he's twigged to who all of you guys are, because he never once asked me anything about you. It was like... 'OK, Greg, here's yours,' and not word one about 'Who was that with you.' Nothing. He knows, mate. And he's severely displeased."
Chaz picked up his bottle very slowly and drained it in one long, methodical chug. He tossed the bottle back over his shoulder and shook his head miserably. "I got nowhere to go, man. I've no money, anyway, so the best I could do if I did run would be to sleep on the beach or something. My old Da is waiting for an excuse to boot me out of the house the way he did Boz before me. He's been particularly unforgiving about some altercations I was involved in first day back from school. So if I spend some days away from home, I might as well not bother to return. I'm totally screwed over. Only thing to do is stay drunk enough it won't hurt so bad."
"Too late, Mister Thrasher," a silken voice purred from the shadows. Chaz spun completely around but failed to find the source of the interruption. "Here," the arrogant drawl sounded from just behind Thrasher's left ear. He turned, raising his hands into a defensive position, and his own discarded stout bottle shattered across his face. "Get off the floo, Mister Goyle." The command was quiet, but backed with steel. Gregory's face had disappeared from the hearth by the time the word 'off' had been uttered. Something slammed into Thrasher's solar plexus, and he fought for breath even as he gave up the attempt to remain standing. "Now, Chaz," Snape lectured in his most condescending classroom manner. "When you outweigh your opponent by half, and you are on a broom, with the advantage in both height and momentum, how should you apply your good fortune to give your victim the beating of his life? Let us examine this. You, for example, are on the ground, unable to breathe. I have the advantage of height. Let me illustrate how this might be employed." Several dull thuds sounded throughout the living room before Chaz lost consciousness. "Oh, no, you don't," Snape murmured gently, as he drew his wand and revived the boy. "Ah, there you are," he said, staring directly into Thrasher's just-reopened eyes. "There is so much more to tell you." For Snape, the scream of terror that echoed through the house was almost worth the trouble of having had to go there to hear it.
--- --- ---
Remus and Harry walked along Diagon Alley in the early-evening cool, lights in almost every shop twinkling invitingly as crowds strolled casually, window shopping or simply enjoying each other's company. Snape had apparated away separately again, and Harry was wondering if that wasn't going to prove to be a problem. "Isn't Snape supposed to be my guard?" Harry asked Remus. "And you're the backup, right?"
Remus laughed. He took a deep breath, enjoying the aromas of restaurants and treat shops all along the Alley, as he listened to the generally happy sounds of the crowd that was out tonight. He looked at Harry with pride. The boy was growing well. James would have been proud. But he did have a flair for the melodramatic. "Guardian, perhaps, but you're not in prison. No one has been set to 'stand guard' over you, Harry. Dumbledore called Snape your 'lifeguard,' and referred to him being your primary guardian during the summer months. But I am more your guardian than he could ever be. You are my best friend's son, and..." Remus glanced around quickly, and immediately determined that no one was paying them any particular attention. "How much do you know about wolves, Harry?"
The boy was taken aback by the question. He was embarrassed to discuss wolves, or lycanthopy, in front of Remus. It seemed impolite... almost indecent. "Uhhh... not much," he admitted.
"Then I'll explain some of how this works sometime. What I can tell you is that - since you were James' son, you are my blood relative, more strongly linked to me than most human siblings. I am your guardian, no matter what the law, or the Headmaster, or human traditions say about it. Sirius was your godfather. But more importantly, since he was a dog in his animagus form, he may have had some of the blood-deep feeling for that responsibility that I feel myself, even though I was never given a formal, human title to link myself to you. You are my pack, Harry. And even if Severus hates the... form I assume... he realizes that much at least, I believe. He knows there is no more dedicated person in the world when it comes to your safety than am I."
"That's great, Remus," Harry said with his eyes shining. "Thanks." But even as he spoke, he wondered: would a man so dedicated to his safety want him to fight Voldemort, Fudge, and Dumbledore... in a row? Was he really that confident that Harry would prevail, or did he have an ulterior motive? Harry had to have someone to talk to! And Ron - strategic, chess-playing Ron - would be the perfect sounding board. "Hey, Remus... there it is! I never believed those two jokers would actually be able to get something so serious as their own business off the ground. But they proved me wrong. Good for them!" The building was modest, but the sign: 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' was anything but. Large, gaudy, and very slightly animated. The zoning laws covering Diagon Alley prohibited the sign the twins had wanted to install, and Harry had to admit that was, overall, a good thing. Any sign that literally reached out and grabbed customers was too pushy even for a shop specializing in practical jokes. And the proposed modification that would have spat sticky goo at anyone who failed to patronize the place seemed wrong even to Harry.
The shop was lit up brightly and filled with shoppers. Remus and Harry squeezed in, grateful that some room had been made by a couple coming out, carrying a bag filled with something that squirmed disturbingly.
"Hey, Harry," one of the twins called from behind the counter. "I have to talk with you. I'll be just a minute."
But one minute turned to several, and then a few more, and when Harry heard his name called again, it was only to apologize for being held up for 'just a little while longer.' It was fun browsing through the shelves, and reading the frankly hilarious descriptions of what each joke item was designed to do - in that respect, Fred and George had done well for themselves. But it would have been a lot more fun if the store weren't so crowded, and if he could have had either one of the owners' attention for a little while.
"Harry," Remus interrupted as he was reading the instructions for Instant Rainbow Beard Spray. "Will you be all right if I go across the street for a moment? I have never been much of a dresser, and most of my clothes... well..." he trailed off modestly. Actually, Harry thought that Remus had looked better in his scruffy muggle-style clothes than in anything else he had ever worn. But the robes he had on now were a perfect example of his usual attire: threadbare, out of style and certainly not tailored to his form.
"Right," Harry said with a smile. "Go ahead. Fred and George are here - and what could happen in a crowd this size?"
At that, Remus looked as though he was going to forget the whole thing and simply stay by Harry's side all night, but the boy insisted, "I've been looking out for myself for a while, now, you know. I do have some skills, right?"
Remus smiled and nodded. "You certainly do." And he was off, promising to be back quickly.
Fred was at Harry's elbow in less than a second after Remus cleared the doorway. "I thought he'd never leave," Fred said easily, guiding Harry by the simple expedient of pushing him through the crowd. "Come into my office." The two of them pushed their way behind the counter and into a small room filled with a desk, filing cabinets and sheaves of parchment.
"Whoa, you're serious businessmen," Harry teased, but Fred was taking no offense at the observation.
"That is absolutely correct. Serious as in all permits secured, serious as in all taxes paid, serious as in - this is the important one - profit-making. This is not just a job for me..."
"...And me," George chimed in suddenly, closing the door behind him.
"It's an investment, a career, and our fortune in years to come," Fred finished with a flourish, proudly indicating all of the surrounding accouterments of a business career, from business calendars to ledgers to schedules for purchases of materials and delivery of finished goods.
"Brilliant," Harry beamed. "But... who's minding the store?"
"Charlotte."
"Part-time help."
"But good with customers."
"Think of it - we have an employee, now."
"Who actually works hard, and hasn't stolen the till - yet."
"We weren't doing much actual selling tonight, anyway."
"Most people were just shopping."
"Or looking to shoplift."
"But we have spells against that."
"Not to mention Charlotte."
"Who might whip out her wand and curse a shoplifter..."
"Or use one of our own products..."
"She's a brilliant prankster, herself..."
"And give some slimy thief a full-body hotfoot..."
"Or even worse!"
Harry marvelled once again at how listening to the twins was like hearing a strange kind of stereo. They had different-sounding voices; Harry thought it was easier to tell them apart by sound than by sight. But the way their statements intertwined to make an almost musical composition out of their speech - especially when they were excited - made it hard to separate the two distinctive voices from the whole of the fabric the two of them wove.
"Heard you were working at Hogwarts," Fred said thoughtfully.
"Heard you had Snape watching over you," George chimed in.
"So how did you dump him?"
"And what's Remus doing following you around?"
Harry held up his hands to ask for a respite from questions during which he could actually respond. "He's not dumped. He just went to do something. We're supposed to meet up again on the Alley. Remus is my..." Harry blushed bright red. "My bodyguard this summer." As expected, both twins laughed hard at this news. "It's not as stupid as it sounds. I got attacked by four guys on brooms. Snape and Remus came to chase them away, but... ummm..." Harry was tongue-tied with embarrassment once again. "I guess I scared them off myself."
Fred was looking pretty skeptical about that. "Scared off four guys? What did you do?"
"That's what I have to talk to Ron about," Harry blurted, and realized that he had just guaranteed that he would have to tell the entire story to these two - especially if he wanted their help in getting Ron out to Hogwarts. Conscious of the limited time they might have before Remus returned - or before Snape showed up - Harry filled the twins in quickly. He told them about his nonsense-word spells, his empty-hand magic shield, the wild magic that had spilled out from the fight, and the incendio that had caught four brooms on fire and completely destroyed them. Without going into detail, he told them about taking a magic-power test, and how he had blown a hole in the wall, and into the rock behind it. He didn't want to go into all the political ramifications, so he only said that Snape and Remus had suggested that - instead of merely killing Voldemort - that Harry should kill the Dark Lord AND take over his entire organization. "I've got to talk to Ron about this. I need a friend to share it with. And since I can't get away from Hogwarts - I have to work every day, including weekends - I hoped I could get you guys to apparate Ron out to the school some evening to meet me. I'd really appreciate it."
Fred and George were looking very intently at Harry. Neither one said anything for a long moment, then George put his hand on Harry's forearm and spoke very seriously, for a change. "Harry, listen to me. We don't have much time, I know, so just listen. Ron is the very last person in the world you want to talk about this with." George saw Harry's eyes go wide, and he shook his head, gripping Harry's arm more firmly. "I'm absolutely serious. First: there's a little bit of Percy in Ron. He'd be insulted to hear it, but... think about it. Who thought the worst of you during the whole 'Goblet of Fire' fiasco? That's Ron in a nutshell. Easygoing bloke most times, but he has a stick up his arse when it comes down to anything important. Who thought you were going to raise Voldemort's ghost when you started speaking Parseltongue in your second year? Speaking with snakes is a useful skill, Harry. I never had anything but respect for it. But Ron? If you tell him you're planning to take over the Death Eaters, he will not see the public-service aspects of your ambition. Like as not, he'll want to fight you, thinking you've become evil."
"Have you become evil, Harry?" Fred asked, completely deadpan.
There was a moment of silence, then all three young men broke up into helpless laughter.
"And second?" Harry wondered.
"Second?"
"You said, 'First:' then made a point about Ron. So: Second?"
"Right. Second... why haven't you written my sister a letter, you cad?"
"Right. She checks the post every day, and intercepts every owl that comes near our house."
"All she wants is a letter from you."
"And a visit, if you could manage."
"And some kind of token of your esteem."
"A present, you know, something nice..."
"Something pretty..."
"Something romantic."
Harry's jaw had dropped near to his chest at this exchange. "What, Ginny?"
"What's the matter?" Fred taunted. "Don't you like..."
"What is it with people asking me that?" Harry drowned out the ending of the increasingly familiar inquiry.
"Maybe 'people' are noticing things that 'you' aren't."
"And she's not a bad kid... for a sister."
"Look, Harry, there's a deal to be made here, and for once in our mercenary careers, it won't involve the exchange of funds."
"You do not - repeat - do not need to involve Ronald in this escapade of yours."
"But us... that is two different stories."
"We can help you."
"In ways you probably haven't bothered imagining, yet."
"Sounds like you could find a use for the New Improved Extensible Ear."
"Sounds like you could use a place to practice some of your heavier-than-usual-duty magic."
"A lot of what we make is practically military-grade anyway."
"From smoke bombs to full-body hotfeetses."
"And our warehouse contains our lab."
"Which has to be particularly explosion-proof."
"And even the warehouse part has to be able to withstand the accidental ignition of some of our more boisterous products."
"Broach the subject to your adult pals as though it were all your idea. You can show off your developing leadership skills by talking us into helping you."
"So let's get you back out into the crowd before either of them gets back."
"Besides, we have a store to mind."
Harry went back to browsing the shelves as Fred and George attached themselves to undecided customers who both soon had a bagful of Wheezes, and smiles on their faces. Within minutes, Remus returned, and was in the store not a moment too soon, for as the werewolf was showing Harry what he had purchased, Snape stalked into the shop, disdain for the entire field of practical joking etched into his features.
Harry beckoned both men close to him. "While I was shopping here, I had an idea. Fred and George are very resourceful individuals. And they happen to have a heavily-armored warehouse..."
With exaggerated casualness, Draco Malfoy strolled past the window of the Weasleys' shop. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. He had been correct. The man who had just left the haberdashery had been looney, loopy Lupin, Gryffindor werewolf and disgraced ex-teacher. He felt a little disgusted to see the man in conference with Potter. But when he recognized the third participant in the conversation, he was so shocked, he stopped and stared through the glass, unmindful of appearing to be an immature, practical-joke obsessed child. Snape was talking with the two of them, and not sneering nor scolding, but apparently... could it be? ... agreeing with them both! Draco had spent the entire evening on the Alley without finding any friends. He had spotted the werewolf, who was easy enough to avoid, and had followed him across the street to make sure of who it was, only to find him with Potter. Two pukes and no friends - a miserable showing for a Friday night. But to see his own Head of House, his own Professor Snape, talking with the pukes as though they were planning something together... it made no sense. It was more upsetting than if he had gone through the entire evening without seeing anyone he recognized. He would have liked to spend a few moments with Snape, but now... Draco backed slowly away from the window, then turned and lost himself in the crowd.
--- --- ---
Harry's next day started out as brutally difficult as his last one. Review of the previous day's instructions were interspersed with flashbacks to Thursday's lessons. Professor Sprout kept at it with grim determination, but Harry could tell she was not very optimistic about the future health of the Hogwarts plant collection. Since some of the specimens were rare, and many were quite expensive, lack of confidence in the summer caretaker was a practical concern as well as a compassionate one. Harry didn't want to fail any more than Professor Sprout wanted to see her living specimens killed by neglect, so he tried as hard as he could to cram as much information into his head as possible. And, he wrote everything down. If nothing else, this exercise was making him an exponentially better note taker. His parchments were starting to look as orderly as Hermione's notes. But the quick, sure knowledge he would need could not be forced into his head in less than two weeks, and he was ready to admit defeat in the face of overwhelming difficulty. He would offer to switch with Neville, go back to the Dursleys'... anything he was asked to do, so long as he didn't have to destroy the entire Hogwarts' Herbology Department.
By lunchtime, Professor Sprout had little else she wanted to say to Harry beyond, "Go. Eat. Take a full hour, please. I need the time."
Harry heard the greenhouse door open, and looked around, expecting to see Remus coming to meet him for the midday meal. Instead, the door slammed quickly enough to prevent the escape of a creeping creeping charlie behind the tense, glowering form of Neville Longbottom.
"Potter." The semi-civil greeting was not merely forced, but sounded as though it had been dragged from Neville's mouth with tongs. Harry had no idea what to say. He stood there, hurt and embarrassed, wondering if there was anything that might show Neville that they could still be friends. As he remained quiet and motionless, it was Professor Sprout who broke the silence.
"Neville. I hardly think that is a proper salutation for this summer's guardian of the green."
Neville's eyes flashed. "Guardian of the green? He's a menace. He's been here a week, and already he's had fights on the grounds, magically contaminated our soil, and driven you to resign!"
Professor Sprout's next question was very quiet, but backed with undeniable intensity. "What did you say?" At the sound of it, Neville looked at her in shock.
"I said he's a menace."
"After that," the professor clarified, and calmly waited for Neville's answer.
Neville's face showed undaunted determination. "I said that with all the things he's done, all the trouble he's caused, and everything he doesn't know, that he drove you to resign. You're leaving Hogwarts a week after next Tuesday. And I, for one, am bitterly disappointed about it. You're the best teacher I have ever had. And if I excel in one subject - and I know I do - then it is because you were able to teach me that subject so well that I was able to excel."
"I see I have taught you less well in the subject of human affairs, however," Professor Sprout observed wryly. "Mister Longbottom, I expected some such drivel from Mister Potter, simply because I do not believe he knows me as well as you do. And, I expected him to feel guilty because his employment coincided with my decision to resign this teaching post. However, I did not expect you to believe for one moment that any student - no matter how abyssimally poor - could 'drive' me to quit. A poor performance may have 'driven' me to try harder. I believe that has been true many times through the years in which I taught. A careless or destructive child may have 'driven' me to find a punishment that was appropriate to the offense. I believe I have had some success in making some children reassess their own behavior, and its effect upon others - whether those others were plants or people. I believe that being 'driven' in those ways is a factor in my success as an instructor. But no one under my instruction or in my employ has ever 'driven' me to quit a job. Why did you presume that Mister Potter had done so?"
"He started work, and the very next day you quit. It was hard to think anything else," Neville said, much more defensively than he had been a moment ago.
"I see," Professor Sprout sniffed. Simultaneity. Otherwise known as Co-Incidence. Purely specious reasoning on your part, Mister Longbottom. I expect better of you. I would hope the improvement begins immediately."
With real confusion in his eyes, Neville asked, "Why did you quit, Professor?"
"A rather personal question," Professor Sprout cautioned, then immediately relented. "But if anyone deserves an explanation, that person would be you, Neville. Particularly in these rather exceptional circumstances. Mister Potter, you were going to lunch? Neville, please come into my office."
Both boys' 'Yes, M'am' sounded nearly in unison. As they passed each other, Harry got a quizzical look from Neville, which was a far cry from the fury with which he had entered the greenhouse. Professor Sprout's face remained absolutely neutral. Harry left for lunch, and met Remus about halfway back to the castle.
"How is Neville?" Remus asked gently.
"I don't really know," Harry said. "I thought he was really angry, but..." Harry shrugged, looking very uncomfortable. "Professor Sprout is talking with him."
"Good," Remus replied heartily. "Listen, Harry... the idea you had... you remember, last night. I think it will work out fine - if we can get started very soon. Do you feel up to... trying something out tonight?"
Harry groaned and put his hands over his face. His 'idea' - actually the Weasley twins' suggestion that he could use their warehouse to practice combat magic - would involve a lot of effort, and quite a bit of time. And tonight, he had a lot of studying to do if he were to avoid appearing to be an idiot in the greenhouses tomorrow. How he could possibly make peace with Neville, study his work notes and learn magical warfare all in the same day was a mystery to him.
"I have a lot to do," Harry offered weakly, but Remus wasn't taking any of that.
"You certainly do," the werewolf agreed heartily. "And if you accomplish it all, you might well become the most important figure in all of British wizard history. Nothing to sneeze at, there, but quite a lot to learn, and practice, and prepare for. So: tonight?" His bantering tone would have suggested mere friendly teasing to an observer, but Harry felt the seriousness of it deep in his belly.
"Yeah. Tonight," he agreed with a sigh.
About halfway through a sumptuous meal worthy of a full hour's lunchtime, Harry felt a shock of nervous tension run through him as he looked up to see Neville Longbottom standing at the dining hall door. Harry could feel his body reacting more quickly than his mind, making preparations to argue, to fight, or even to run away. Remus recognized the signs immediately. "Relax, Harry. Nobody's going to eat you," Remus said, trying to break the escalation of reactions that was pushing Harry closer to readiness for combat.
"I'm not sure about that," Harry replied with as much calm as he could force into his voice.
But when Neville approached the table and sat carefully on Remus' side, opposite Harry, he no longer looked furious, but rather, curious. He sat in silence for a moment, studying the boy opposite him. "My teacher recommended that I apologize to you, Harry," he finally said, looking across the table through narrowed eyes. "And I suppose I will, if I can get some things straight."
Harry noticed several things all at once. First, Neville had called him by his first name again, which was a tremendous relief. But as soon as he had done so, Harry could see that Remus looked worried. And Harry could not ignore the feeling, something like panic, that began swelling in his own chest. Harry wanted to end his fight with Neville, but he suddenly realized that he would rather Dumbledore not see that happen. And from the look of him, Remus didn't want Dumbledore to see - or hear - any reconciliation, either. Neville still sounded testy, and looked to be on edge. Perfect. That was as much as Harry was willing to allow the Headmaster to observe. Quickly, he interrupted what Neville was about to say. "How did you travel to Hogwarts, Neville?" He asked, deliberately keeping a nervous, uncertain quaver in his voice.
"Knight Bus," Neville shrugged. "Uncomfortable, but... what else was I going to do?" He began to speak again, trying to get back to his original topic, but Harry interrupted once more.
"Can we talk outside? I think we... uh... need to see the grounds. Oh, and Remus has to keep an eye on me. But outside, he can let us have a bit of distance, so there's some privacy. Right?"
The man nodded, and Neville stood, looking Harry over as though checking him for traps. The three Gryffindors walked to the front entrance, and the boys went a bit beyond before Neville stopped and faced Harry squarely. "We're outside, then, right? Is this outside enough for you?"
"Uhhh... let's walk," Harry suggested, ushering Neville toward the lawn, and in the direction of the Hogsmeade path beyond.
Fortunately, Neville seemed content to stroll, and their path was taking them directly to the boundaries of Hogwarts property. Neville checked Harry over suspiciously as they progressed, but he couldn't find anything specifically objectionable. "First thing," he said brusquely. "How did you get this Herbology job for the summer?"
"Fair question," Harry allowed. "I'll tell you for certain that I didn't ask for it. I went to Dumbledore and asked if I could stay and study over the summer. Just my regular subjects, that's all I was interested in. But really, I wasn't interested in studying - I just wanted to stay here. I didn't care if I had nothing to do, if I had homework for the entire term break, or if they'd simply locked me in the dungeon. I even suggested that last one, and not as a joke, either. I was desperate." With a surge of hope, Harry saw that Neville was following his story. He was listening, and apparently interested. "My muggle relatives are rather horrible. I can take being confined to a cupboard - I lived under the stairs until I first came to Hogwarts. I can take being locked in a room - my uncle put bars on a window and deadbolts on a door to lock me in one summer. But I wanted to be able to come back to class once, out of six years, when I was not three-quarters covered in bruises. My aunt is my blood relative. She only tells me how horrible I am, how magic is wrong, wizards are evil, I'm a freak... all of that. My uncle shows me how he feels with his fists. And he encourages his son to do the same. It's illegal for me to defend myself with magic, and they're all a lot bigger than me, so... I wanted to have one summer when I wasn't being beaten from the time I arrived home until the time I left on the Hogwarts Express, that's all."
Neville nodded slowly. He'd gotten the gist of Harry's history over the past five years, so having it all laid out so clearly wasn't nearly as much of a surprise as it might have been. "So... you asked for asylum. But how did you get the job?"
"I... Here," Harry said, stepping off of the school grounds onto the Hogsmeade path.
"I thought you wanted to see the grounds," Neville challenged suspiciously.
"I wanted some privacy," Harry replied with heat. "The Headmaster's been listening in on everyone."
Neville hesitantly stepped onto the path, then kept strolling along casually, looking over his shoulder to confirm that Remus was following in the distance. "Professor Sprout said something..." he mused.
"She said as little as possible," Harry interrupted urgently. "Snape's office is a lot more secure than the greenhouses, and Snape won't even talk about anything important in the dungeons, anymore." Harry could see Neville's skepticism, and knew he would have to convince Longbottom of his own sincerity, or suffer for it later. "Dumbledore has been... I'll tell you how I got assigned to your job and let you decide." Neville seemed satisfied with that suggestion, so Harry went on. "I went to Dumbledore. I told him I was desperate to stay away from my aunt and uncle. He told me there was no provision for allowing a student to remain at school over the summer. He said I would be in Filch's way, and that I'd even be in danger if I got caught in the castle when Filch was adjusting the moving staircases. So I got angry. I threatened to get a summer job in Diagon Alley."
"Where's the threat?" Neville said sarcastically. "Lots of kids get summer jobs."
"Lots of kids don't have complex blood magic protections against Deatheater attacks," Harry snapped back. "Apparently, if I'm not close enough to my aunt when I'm away from school, I'm vulnerable to being found and killed. And if I am close enough to my aunt, blood magic keeps locator spells from working on me, and gives me some kind of shield." Harry saw Neville's look of disbelief and hurried to explain. "I know - it sounds stupid. But that's what I've been told by every staff member at Hogwarts who would talk to me about it for the past five years. McGonagall believes it, and so does Hagrid, and Remus said that it would make sense... and it's the only decent reason I can think of for having to stay with the Dursleys for most of my life. Anyway, I got pissed off, and threatened to get a summer job. That's when Dumbledore told me that if I tried to stay away from the Dursleys, he would put an escort of dementors on me to force me to go home and stay there."
"Dementors?" Neville protested. "Dumbledore hates them as much as you do. Why would he say that? And why would you believe it?"
"Because Dumbledore believes the prophesy we found in the Ministry of Magic last term. He says I'm his weapon against Voldemort, and that he doesn't relinquish his weapons. Oh, by the way: The prophesy is ambiguous. I might not be the right one. So, if I fight Voldemort and get killed, then the prophesy means that you get to kill the Dark Lord. So don't think Dumbledore's not watching you as closely as he's watching me."
"All right," Neville said with a bit more uncertainty than he had displayed moments previously. "So you can't stay at the school, and you can't have a summer job. So why are you at the school with a summer job?"
"Because I was angry, and Dumbledore was worried that once I got home, the dementors would leave and I would run away. So he told me he was going to give me a babysitter. And that my babysitter would be Snape."
"Ouch," Neville said with genuine sympathy.
"So if Snape was going to have to watch me, I would have to be where he could do the job without inconvenience. Or..." Harry blushed as he thought of Snape's reaction to this particular summer assignment. "... At least, with as little inconvenience as possible. Dumbledore said I couldn't stay here if I didn't work, and the only job was the one you were supposed to have. So he gave me your job."
Neville thought about this for a while, then said, "So... you got my job because you threatened to run away." He was clearly displeased.
"Neville, for God's sake... I don't know what Professor Sprout told you, but I hope she gave you some clue so you don't think I'm jerking you around. I got your job because Dumbledore is acting crazy. Even Snape acts like he's afraid of him. When Dumbledore told me I would be taking your job, he was sadistic about it, like punishing both of us was fun for him. He was talking like it served us both right to get screwed over - you for being arrogant, thinking you had the job; and me for thinking I could demand sanctuary here. Something else... I don't think he wants us to be friends." Neville's snort of derision worried Harry. This was the crux of the discussion. Whether or not he could come to some understanding with Longbottom depended on this more than on any other point. "I think it has to do with the prophesy. If I don't kill Voldemort, you do. I mean... I took Trelawney's class... I don't think much of prophesies in general, whether they're from tea leaves or bloody celestial phenomena. But it's Dumbledore we're talking about, and he believes in this one, and so he thinks one of us is going to get rid of his enemy for him. I have the most obvious mark, right on my face, so he thinks I'm the best choice to use first. But I could fail, in which case, he'd still believe the prophesy - he'd just think he chose the wrong weapon. So he'll send you in against Voldemort, and he doesn't want you distracted by wondering what happened to me. So he doesn't want us friendly with one another."
Harry wondered whether he had made any sense at all. Despite Snape's prediction that he would 'lead people' some day, Harry knew perfectly well that he wasn't good at explaining what he meant when a situation was complicated. And Neville's face had gone disturbingly blank. "Harry," Longbottom said distantly, his eyes focused far away. "If Professor Sprout had not spoken with me... and been bloody cryptic and difficult to understand... I think I would have..." He didn't speak for a long while. The two boys walked along the Hogsmeade path in silence, Harry practically holding his breath. Neville suddenly stopped walking, glanced all around them, and then looked Harry straight in the eye. "Professor Sprout agrees with you. She tried to warn me, but she couldn't say anything right out. Now, I think I understand. We're going to have to keep fighting, so that anyone can see we're on the outs with each other. But we are also going to have to devise a way to get me into those greenhouses - and get you out of them - so that we don't lose our entire collection of plants."
Harry's grin was infectious. Neville found himself smiling as well. "First off, none of that being cheerful bollocks. We're pissed at each other, right?" Harry nodded and assumed a snarling game face more vicious than the one he wore for quiddich matches. "Uh... don't overdo it, mate, you'll tip our hand. I have an idea. It will involve me coming to visit Professor Sprout every day until she leaves. I'll play the weeping student losing his favorite teacher. You'll be the angry git who's irritated by everything I do. Right?"
"Git?" Harry scowled.
"I'll treat you like one. I want you to get used to hearing it. The plan is, I take cuttings from every plant I touch. I take them home, get them into soil, and accelerate their growth until I'm sure they're viable, follow me?" Harry nodded, already visualizing various disasters that could disrupt even this portion of the scheme. "Right. Then, the day after Professor Sprout leaves, the plants in the greenhouses - the ones I have viable cuttings from - start to die."
"The day after? Neville..."
"We don't have a lot of time, Potter. The plants start to die. You floo me, or owl me, or whatever, and say you have a disaster. I refuse to help as long as you're the greenhouse boy, and I get in touch with Dumbledore. I tear him a new hole for using such an incompetent, and offer to save his arse... or at least to save him a lot of money... by bringing in replacement plants from my private collection."
"Are you sure you don't hate me, Neville?"
"Everyone is going to think I do," Longbottom replied with a bit too much relish. "I make a deal. I serve the rest of the term break in Herbology in return for replacing the plants the school needs. Dumbledore can do what he wants with you. He might even make you be my helper. Which will give us plenty of opportunity to show how poorly we get on together."
"So you'll be the saviour, and I'll be the goat."
Neville met Harry's eyes with a sympathetic look. "It will have to look that way, Harry. But Professor Sprout told me you've really been trying, and that you've made great progress. It's just that... well, you don't have the Herbology touch. And you haven't been concentrating on the subject for several years, as I have. So I'll be publicly furious with you. And if it looks like I'm enjoying myself doing it... it's all for show, mate." He extended his hand, and Harry shook it with a curious feeling of formality, as though the two boys were cementing a business proposition. Agreeing to be enemies for the sake of their friendship. It felt very odd. "There's one more thing, Harry. Did you really set four broomsticks on fire with one Incendio?"
Harry laughed, and told the story of his encounter with the four Slytherins. Neville paid particular attention to the part of the story that took place before the actual fight, and once the tale was finished, he asked about what Goyle had said. "I don't understand," Harry said honestly. "It was like he was out to kill me, but Malfoy or somebody might offer me some sort of payoff on behalf of Voldemort."
"Which you would..."
"Shove back in their stinking faces," Harry spat. He turned thoughtful. "Neville. We have to be able to get together like this - off school grounds, I mean - so we can plan. I don't know what Goyle or Crabbe or Malfoy are going to do next, and I don't know if they're going to be coming after you, as well. And with Dumbledore acting insane, and Professor Sprout leaving... I think we need to be able to get together, compare notes, and... be able to count on each other."
Neville thought about that for a moment. "Right. We'll work it out. Now, let's go back to Herbology. You do some more chores, I get a cutting or two, and we look like we're going to tear each other's throats out at a moment's notice, right?" Harry nodded. "Somehow," Neville grinned, "I think Professor Sprout will understand what we're up to."
The rest of the afternoon was brutal. Harry cleaned up after Professor Sprout's pruning, while Neville made nasty comments about how little the summer help understood what he was doing, and Professor Sprout pretended not to notice the snarling antagonism between the two boys. Harry mixed ingredients for fertilizer, including some fresh manure from Hagrid's paddocks, which Neville suggested should best be mixed by hand. Professor Sprout considered the merits of that suggestion for a while before handing Harry a shovel with which to do the work. Late in the day, Harry had more dirt to carry, as the professor and her star pupil sat lounging and talking. Harry hoped that Neville had used the opportunity to collect his cuttings.
When the day was over, and Harry trudged toward the castle for a bath and change of clothes, he was met halfway to the entrance by a relaxed, smiling Remus. "Ready for some serious 'Malfoy hunting' tonight, Harry?" the man teased gently.
Harry only groaned.
"Get washed and changed in a hurry. Professor Snape wants to leave school grounds in less than half an hour."
"Remus. Dirt is heavy. Water is heavy. Dirt soaked with water is heavy. Water full of dirt is heavy. I have carried all of those things in the past hour. I won't mention what is smelly, what is thorny, what harbors biting insects, and what brings out a rash wherever it touches skin. But I have carried all of those today, as well. I feel like sinking to the bottom of the tub and staying there until morning. By the way, I start work at seven tomorrow, too."
"Good," Remus enthused unrepentantly. "In a real emergency, you will never look nor feel your best. The best practice you can have for the really hard times is hunting for Malfoys when you're sick and tired. And you're not even sick. Besides, we're giving you a chance to wash and change - because it would be a hardship on Professor Snape and me if you were not allowed to wash. So hurry up. There's lots to do tonight!" Remus leaned against the castle's entryway and left Harry to go get ready by himself.
The Fat Lady was pleased to see the sedate pace at which Harry climbed the stairs, until she saw the condition the boy was in. Then she was concerned. And when he drew close enough, she wrinkled her nose and held her goblet in front of her face. "Oh... Dear!" she exclaimed as Harry looked wearily up at her. "What on Earth...?"
"Oblivious," Harry sighed heavily, and dragged himself through the portrait hole and up the stairs toward the baths.
In considerably less than half an hour, he was back out and down the stairs, dressed in muggle style jeans and a t-shirt, with a zipper-front, hooded sweatshirt for warmth, and his best athletic shoes for traction. A bath had made him feel better, but he was still tired and muscles all over his body still ached. He met his two escorts at the foot of the stairs. Snape turned toward the front door before Harry was off the stairway. "Come on," he urged sourly, striding away. Remus and Harry struggled to catch up, and Harry had to trot in order to keep pace. The three did not head to the Hogsmeade path this time. They took a long route around the castle toward an edge of the Forbidden Forest. Remus knew that just off school grounds in that direction was a ward-free area that Snape used as an apparation point. Harry was merely confused.
When they had crossed the boundary, leaving Hogwarts property, Snape turned and glared at Harry. "Does Neville Longbottom know?"
Harry had expected some question of this sort - he hadn't expected it to come so soon, though. Marshalling his feelings to keep from being intimidated by Snape's accusatory manner, he replied as calmly as he could. "Neville Longbottom is learning. He has realized that Dumbledore is acting strangely. He and I agreed to work together to get him back in the greenhouses before summer is over. And to keep up the appearance that our argument is continuing. That's all... so far."
Snape's disdainful expression did not change much... but he was pleased, and Harry could tell that the professor approved of his answer. Harry hoped that both Snape and Remus would approve of his plan to recruit Neville to their cause as soon as possible, but he didn't risk pushing his luck just then.
"You have made remarkable progress, Mister Potter," Snape said with a raised eyebrow. "I was unable to effectively listen in upon your meeting with Mister Longbottom, and I suspect that our Headmaster also remains uninformed as to the content of your discussion. Well done."
It came as a surprise to him, but Harry felt his chest swell with pride at the praise. Then he felt strong arms around him, and the sickening falling sensation of apparation. He blinked and looked around. He, Snape and Remus stood in a large, stone building. About half of the floor space was covered with boxes, piled in stacks which reached halfway to the ceiling. Harry was disoriented, and also puzzled. He knew that, in order to safely apparate to a place, the wizard doing the apparation had to have been there previously. "How did you...?"
"I arranged to meet one of the twins this afternoon," Snape explained with hardly a hint of a sneer. "He brought me here and made certain I was sufficiently familiar with the layout that I could return easily. That is also when I learned the correct time to show up. Saturday is, apparently, a busy day for the..." Snape cleared his throat before forcing himself to say, "...Wizard Wheezes shop. One of the Weasleys will be here to greet us on his dinner break, then we will be on our own for... oh. Mister Weasley. Good evening."
"Professor Snape," one of the twins called heartily from the office door far across the building from where Harry stood. "Glad you could make it." By his voice, Harry thought it was George. But he was frustrated to realize that without the other twin to contrast with, he couldn't be sure.
"Please don't inconvenience yourself any further on our behalf," Snape said with a graciousness that astounded Harry. "I appreciate that you have given up a good deal of your dinner hour to be here to greet us. Thank you."
"No inconvenience at all, Sir," the twin replied with a grin. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to see the lad here put through some of his paces... or exercises, or what have you."
"I doubt that we'll have much that would prove to be entertaining on the first night. The first lesson we have to learn is how we are to practice what has been, up to this time, impracticable."
"Why don't we start with drawing out a space for you to use?" Weasley suggested. "Will you be needing the test room tonight, or just a wide-open space?"
"I'm not sure," Snape studied Harry as though some marking on him would reveal the level of magic that he might be able to conjure forth this evening. "Why don't we begin with open space?"
"Easily done. This early in the season, our storage space is nearly empty. We'll release new jokes and tricks starting with the return to school in September, then build up to a peak for Christmas, then let the stock sell back down to coast through summer. There's plenty of open space now. Here, Harry. Set yourself up near this stack of boxes. Cast spells that way and you have meters of emptiness before you."
Harry waited for the redhead to turn and start to leave before calling, "Oh, George?" He was rewarded by the twin turning and waiting for his question. 'I thought it was George… I must have guessed right,' Harry congratulated himself, as he pointed toward the boxes arrayed behind him and wondered, "Is any of this stuff explosive?"
"What, that stuff?" George laughed dismissively. "That stuff is just... it's a bunch of old... you know, it's.... yes. Yes, it is. All of it. Very delicate and violently explosive. Have fun!"
Over the next forty-five minutes, Harry vainly tried to recall what 'fun' was like, as both Snape and Remus tried to coax wild magic from him. He tried remembering what the four-broom attack had been like, concentrating on the danger, and trying to remember his reaction to it. Nothing. He tried imagining that he was being attacked and trying to make up a spell to counterattack with. Nothing. He even tried repelling minor curses thrown at him by both men. He turned his wand the way he had last Tuesday, and shouted 'Repellimus!' repeatedly. Every time, the curse got through, and had to be dispelled by one of the adults. Harry got leg-locked, petrified, confusticated, and put to sleep. He got sick of hearing 'Finite Incantatum.' After the 'Repellimus' test, he tried improvising, shouting 'No!' or 'Back!' and waving his wand around like a toddler playing at fencing. Useless. He was bent over to rest his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, wet with sweat, and in pain from the after-effects of a just-released leg lock when he heard Remus shout, "Harry!"
He didn't even have time to turn around. From the corner of his eye, he saw the stack of boxes falling, and knew they would land right where he stood. There was no time to move, and trying to cover his head with his hands would be a last, useless gesture before he was crushed. But he could not have described his situation in those terms at that moment. Complex, logical statements like 'no time to move,' did not cross his mind. Impressions and images did. In a flash he felt, rather than thought, 'Big - fall - crush,' and his empty left hand flew up in what seemed a futile effort to order the falling boxes to stop.
Which is exactly what they did.
They did not stop instantly, or remain motionless. It was not as though a film had stuck on a single frame. The boxes twisted and slipped on one another, seeking another path to answer gravity's summons. the middle of the toppled pile bulged, as though it were going to defy Harry's impertinent order and fall on him anyway. But slowly, the stack reversed its collapse, curving delicately upward, each box placing itself more or less squarely on the box below it, regaining stability for the pile, returning the upset crates to a secure position. As the last container settled back into place, Harry let his knees collapse beneath him, and sat hard on the stone floor, his head down, his right hand toying with his unused wand. Remus and Snape were immediately kneeling to either side of him, urging him to think.
"What did you do?"
"How did it feel?"
"Was there sensation in your left hand?"
"Did your wand react to the spell as you cast it?"
But Harry's mind was blank. He had no answers, except for this: 'I had to do it.'
And there it was. Necessary Magic. Harry couldn't remember if he coined the phrase on the spot, if he came up with it that night, or if he had heard it somewhere else. But that was what it was, and that was how he called it from then on: Necessary Magic. Like making the glass in the Snake House at the zoo disappear, freeing the friendly python and trapping the horrible Dudley: Necessary Magic. Like blowing up his Aunt Marge, when she began drunkenly insulting his parents so vehemently that his only other choice would have been to kill her: Necessary Magic. Like the way he had somehow called to Fawkes the phoenix and drew forth the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat when he was trapped in the Chamber of Secrets: Necessary Magic. He tried to explain it to the adults, but Snape only became more and more frustrated at his ramblings, and Remus began to look worried.
"He needs to stop for the night, Severus," the werewolf said. "He needs to go home, go to bed and get a fresh start for tomorrow. He's done well."
"I suppose he has," Snape said, obviously dissatisfied. "Mister Weasley. Your help is deeply appreciated."
George walked out from behind the stack of boxes, carrying the long, metal tile-ripper with which he had upset the stack of crates. "Stellar job, Harry," he enthused, showing a thumbs-up sign. "You got the whole stack. Let me know if you're free for next warehousing season. You'd be a winner! You didn't even blow up any of them."
"And what if I had, you moron? You were standing right behind them!"
"Oh, Harry, do you really think I'd put myself in danger that way? This entire set of cartons holds nothing but our new, never-before-marketed HeliuWhirlies. Not only could you not have blown them up, if it had looked as though you were even close to getting squashed, I would have hit the whole stack with the triggering spell, and my problem for the rest of the night would have been prying them back down off the ceiling.
Sitting on the cold, stone floor, Harry began to laugh. It was not until his next meeting with the Weasley twins that the phrase 'Un-Necessary Magic' occurred to him, but as soon as he mentioned it to the twin who had toppled the stack of boxes, it became a favorite in-joke between him and George Weasley.