Chapter 13

Albus Dumbledore's plans for the upcoming term at Hogwarts were not unfolding as he had hoped they would. The task he had intended to complete first this summer had been finding a professor to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had thought it would be simple enough, and had made arrangements for sorting through the expected crush of applicants for the job. The crush had not come. He had then contacted several promising candidates personally. The promising candidates had not been interested. He recontacted each of them in turn, asking more pointed questions about the choice each had made not to pursue employment at Hogwarts. The answers he received gave him food for thought. By the time he had interviewed the last of his once-promising potential professors, he had received a banquetful of it.

None of the teachers he interviewed were insulting to him, personally. None of them were unaware of Hogwarts' proud history and its importance to the development of young wizards and witches throughout Britain. None seemed to take the slanderous comments of Minister Fudge nor the libelous writings of the Daily Prophet very seriously.

Nevertheless, not one was interested in the job.

Dumbledore was well experienced in the field of diplomacy, and he had been a school headmaster for many years. These experiences had taught him that diplomats and insecure children had a number of things in common, and one of those things was a reluctance to say what they really meant. The children often resorted to saying 'I don't know' when they were hesitant to talk about something which they may have known very well, but which made them uncomfortable. With diplomats, the obfuscation was often much more impenetrable. But because he had needed to understand both children and diplomats, Dumbledore had become a master of reading between the lines, and listening between the statements.

Paying such attention to the candidates he interviewed early that summer, Dumbledore began to worry.

Some of the hesitance he encountered was due to the recent history of the Defense Against the Dark Arts position itself. To many, that position seemed to be a one-year-only kind of job. But it was not simply a lack of job security that bothered the potential professors. More than that, it was the ways in which the most recent Defense teachers had left the position. No one wanted to be fired, or to be forced from the job by a storm of parental protests, or to lose their minds, or to be kidnapped and locked in a trunk. And while some of those fears showed a limited or confused understanding of the actual circumstances under which the previous professors had actually departed, there was enough truth in those vague impressions that the Headmaster could not effectively argue them away. Not that he ever got the chance to argue about... or even discuss... any of them. The candidates did not cite those feelings as reasons, they didn't bring the subjects up as objections, but Dumbledore could tell from the things that his interviewees did say that such negative thoughts had crossed their minds.

And from that point, things became even worse.

Albus could recall a time, not long ago - no more than two or three decades in the past - when anyone with the academic qualifications to do so had competed for the opportunity to teach at Hogwarts. The Headmaster had enjoyed the freedom of choosing from the best practitioners of every magical field, and could make his selections based on how well the expert could teach. His staff had been the envy of the academic world, and rightfully so. McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick, Snape - they were all brilliant, and were able to transfer their enthusiasm and love of their subjects to the students. To be sure, not every student took to every teacher. Snape frightened some students, McGonagall intimidated others... even Sprout could be overwhelming at times. But so far as Dumbledore was concerned, those exceptions were a perfectly acceptable price to pay in exchange for a staff of brilliant, powerful, dedicated, gifted teachers.

But somewhere along the line, the supply of eager applicants began to dry up. The Headmaster was forced to choose those who were willing to accept a teaching position, rather than those he would have most liked to have on his staff. Trelawney was a prime example. A competent enough witch in general, she had made a total of one true prediction before becoming Hogwarts' Professor of Divination. Dumbledore had never put much faith in the efficacy of divination, anyway. But given the choice, he would have liked to have someone on staff who had proven a bit more reliable. He wasn't afforded that choice. Professor Binns was another case in point. After the History Professor had died, his lectures had become even drier and more... well, more lifeless... than they had been when he was living. Dumbledore would have replaced him, or even gone so far as to employ two Professors of Magic History if Binns had insisted on continuing. But it seemed that no one was interested in taking the dead man's place.

Seven or eight years ago, the situation had become even more serious when Albus had been forced to settle for Professor Quirrel as the teacher for Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. Quirrel was an absolute disaster, of course, and Lockhart was little better. The building crisis had spread to yet another Department when the Headmaster had needed to fill the vacancy left by the retirement of the former Care of Magical Creatures professor. When Albus finally realized that there was no one outside of the school who was willing to serve in that capacity, he had been forced to admit how desperate he had become. Rubeus Hagrid was a good man, an exemplary employee, and a kind-hearted person truly gifted with the ability to care for magical creatures. But the half-giant had never had a prayer of being an effective teacher, and his tenure as Professor was as unsatisfying as might have been expected.

And now, with the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship open once again, no one seemed willing to entertain a thought of coming to teach at Hogwarts.

Professor Sprout's resignation had been an unfortunate addition to the burden. But surprisingly, the solution that had presented itself so quickly had allowed him to accomplish two goals with a single action. He hired Professor Sepal to teach Herbology, and automatically gained another window into Voldemort's plans and actions. The simple combination of veritaserum and obliviation was a technique that could have been repeated many times had Professor Sprout not drawn Sepal's attention to his missing memories of that first crucial afternoon. Dumbledore did not regret doing it. He only wished that he could have done it more often. Especially since the Ministry's eagerness to catch the new professor meant that Sepal would inevitably be lost to Hogwarts one way or another. Either he would be arrested, or he would simply refuse to return to the campus in order to avoid being arrested. Either way, his value as a resource was gone.

Which brought up the necessity of finding yet another professor of Herbology to replace Sepal. And once again, as in the case of the Defense Professorship, there were no more applicants to be found.

As he pondered his twin dilemmas of filling two staff posts from a pool of zero candidates, the Headmaster received a curious missive by owl post. A truly immense owl - one of the largest that Dumbledore had ever seen - dropped off a scroll written entirely in Portuguese. It took Albus a while to adjust to the language... he always had trouble with Portuguese since he habitually tried to read it as though it were Spanish. He noted the return address, which was that of the Berimbau Canoe Livery and River-Trekking Supply Company in Sao Paulo, Brazil. After a few false starts with the main text of the message, he gave up and cast legerelingua. The meaning of the scroll's text became clear to him. The story it told was extremely disturbing.

Headmaster Dumbledore;

Monday last, three of your employees, Professor Severus Snape,

Professor Remus Lupin, and Aide Harry Potter, hired one of our

watercraft for a three-day excursion through our local inland

waterways. The craft was due back the day before yesterday,

yet your employees have not returned it to us. Locator charms

have failed to give us any information as to their whereabouts.

Their security deposit is therefore forfeit. However, such

deposit is only intended to cover minor damage to the craft

which may occur during regular operation. Since your employees

have not returned the craft at all, we are billing you for the

remainder of its value. Please remit one hundred thirty galleons

before September first to avoid further legal action.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation,

João Pessoa, Proprietor, Berimbau.

The owl glared at Dumbledore balefully. The Headmaster summoned a house elf and sent him off to find mice and water for the bird. This was a thoughtful offering, but the owl was obviously waiting for a reply, and no amount of rodent bribery would dissuade the creature from getting a reply with which to return to its home. Dumbledore sighed and wrote out a bank draught. At least the company Severus had chosen was in a cosmopolitan place like Sao Paulo. A Gringotts bank draught would be honored there as easily as it would be anywhere in the world where sufficient numbers of wizards did business.

Dumbledore realized immediately that the galleons were a small price to pay for the security of his potions professor. He seriously doubted that any of 'his three employees' had been injured in this escapade. There was almost no chance that Severus would have taken Remus - and certainly not Harry - along with him on a dangerous hunt for potion ingredients in the wilds of Brazil. It could not have been a coincidence that Severus' sudden absence came immediately prior to the arrival of the first of the Ministry inspection teams. So the Headmaster could take heart in his near-certainty of the continued safety of both adults, as well as that of the single most powerful weapon he could bring to bear against Voldemort, Harry Potter. If he filed an official report stating that Snape was missing, and citing the letter from the Berimbau Company as evidence, the Ministry teams would stop asking for interviews with the potions professor. And once this latest difficult patch with the Ministry was worked out - either through the arrest of Aaron Sepal, or by Sepal's thorough disappearance - Severus could return to Hogwarts and resume his duties... both academic and otherwise.

But no matter how the situation had come about, the fact of the matter was that Hogwarts was about to start a new term with three professorships unfilled. And now that Remus Lupin was officially 'missing' along with Snape, it would be impossible to have him stand in as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher until a permanent replacement could be found. This called for immediate action, and Dumbledore began to write out a short letter while the transatlantic owl enjoyed his meal of mice. Once the big bird was gone, carrying away the Gringotts bank draught, Albus summoned another from the owlery, and sent off his missive.

-

The next morning, Albus Dumbledore stepped out of a comfortably wide, tall hearth into a broad, sparsely furnished living room, one wall of which was almost completely glass, giving a spectacular view of a huge yard filled with a riot of robust plant life. The Headmaster had expected to find Pomona Sprout in the room somewhere, but instead he saw only the woman who had answered the floo when he had called to thank Pomona for agreeing to see him, and to say he was about to step through. Rather than robes, or the practical garden aprons Sprout loved so much, this woman was dressed in a muggle-style outfit; a rather severe grey suit with a skirt that reached mid-calf and a matching jacket. Her crisp white blouse was buttoned high on her throat, and the tiny flecks of gold on her earlobes that were her only jewelry did not distract from her businesslike appearance. Albus smiled in his most grandfatherly way and said, "Ah... well... that is... I was expecting to find Pomona Sprout, here... you understand. May I...?"

"I am Madame Sprout's secretary," the woman replied, ignoring the Headmaster's raised eyebrow when she did not provide her own name. "I'll show you through. This way, please."

Dumbledore followed Sprout's secretary through the broad living room, past an expansive dining area, down a wide hallway and into a very traditional mud room, in which several pair of Wellington boots were standing near the doorway. There were also coats and cloaks hung on wooden pegs along both side walls, and a shelf that held a number of sweaters, neatly folded. The secretary opened the door and waved Albus on through. He stepped out into a showplace of a garden, with blooming plants displaying bursts of color in every direction he looked.

And there, grafting a new branch onto a small tree, was Pomona Sprout. Dumbledore heard the door close behind him. The secretary had left the two alone for their meeting. Sprout looked up, wearing a broad, beaming smile. When she saw Albus, she waved and went back to work on the graft. By the time Dumbledore had walked to her side, she had finished her project and turned to greet him with a satisfied sigh. "Hello, Albus. If my guess is right, the fruit I'll harvest from this tree next year will be truly..." She paused, trying to think of a way to describe it. Then she laughed, a relaxed, easy sound, and explained, "Let's just say it will be different from anything you've ever eaten before. And probably better than most. How are you... and why are you visiting so soon?"

"Well... as far as the visiting... I may have miscalculated, just a bit. That is... I didn't mean to interrupt you at work, Pomona. I had thought to pay my visit to your home."

Sprout laughed again, a happy laugh without sarcasm or derision. "This is my home, Albus. And my work, for the most part. What you're looking at right now is my own, personal garden. I've always loved color. I got interested in gardening in the first place because I loved color. At school, there was never time for bright blossoms - we were always starting seeds, starting cuttings... always interested in the bark, in the roots, in the greenery. Here, I've put in my favorites - and they're doing wonderfully well! I had wondered whether I had forgotten how to grow regular flowers for fun. But I have not forgotten, and this garden is the proof of it. The experimental gardens are on the far side of the house, and the arboretum is around the side."

"Ah, yes..." Albus said, looking all around him, but unable to take in all of the personal garden from one viewpoint. "I met your... mmmm..."

"Oh, Amelia?" Pomona finished for him, smiling broadly. "She's wonderful. She leaves me on my own out here - she knows who's in charge of the growing. But as far as doing the rest of the work that this job involves, the research and the record keeping... I couldn't do it without her. She anticipates what I am going to need. I'll reach for a marker, and she'll offer me one. I'll need to check a record or a chart, and she's already pulled it. I think she may be a mind reader." In response to Dumbledore's indulgent smile, she insisted, "No, I really think she may be a naturally gifted telepathic - I don't know. But between the two of us, we have organized this entire place in record time. If I were to disappear from the face of the Earth tomorrow, anyone who knew anything about Herbology would be able to look at my files and tell exactly what I was doing, where I was in each experiment, and what I had planned to do next."

"You sound as though you may have the... hrmm... occasional free hour... ah... of a day," Dumbledore suggested with a curious look.

Sprout returned his look with a wistful smile and shook her head. "All these long years and you never have understood, have you? Herbology offers no careers that can be measured by a time clock. On many days, I wish there were more of me, and I run as hard as I can simply to prevent disasters from becoming worse. Other days, I have time to putter in my garden... and to think. That is part of what I am paid for, you know - thinking."

"That is... ah... what I have come to see you about," Albus ventured hesitantly. "I was hoping you could... hrmm... do some... thinking... for me."

"Let's give it a try, shall we?" Sprout said, leading the way to a cleared area surrounded by thick shrubbery. The ground was paved with stones separated by bands of thick black soil, and there was a table with two broad-seated wooden chairs set casually upon the stones. Pomona offered her guest a chair and settled comfortably into the other. "What's on your mind?"

"As you may be aware," Albus began, with an ironic twist to his lip, "the Ministry has taken a rather intense interest in Aaron Sepal. I have had to make plans for next term beginning without his presence. Therefore, I have once again opened the position of Herbology professor at Hogwarts to qualified applicants." He sat silently for a moment, while Sprout simply watched him, waiting. He blinked slowly and said, "There have been no applicants, qualified or otherwise." If Dumbledore expected a protest, or an expression of surprise, he was disappointed. Pomona continued to watch, waiting for the story to continue. "I was hoping that... you... could... ah... tell me why this might be so."

Sprout looked at the Headmaster with a pitying expression. Quietly, very gently, she asked, "Don't you know why that is?" Dumbledore only looked baffled. Sprout sighed and searched for the words to explain. "Schools get known for many things, Albus. Their academic quality and their specialist teachers are part of that. But schools are also known for their political stances, as well. Hogwarts is a secondary school, not a university, so it won't become well known for its research, or for student activism the way most universities become known. But the parents who send their children are very aware of a school's political bias, and that can often be a very good thing. After the last war, having Albus Dumbledore leading the staff was a guarantee that your school would be the staunchest anti-Voldemort institution available. That was a good thing. People want to feel safe about sending their children to school, and having Hogwarts be dead-set against Voldemort made parents feel safe in sending their children there. But in the intervening years - especially the past five years or so - you have sent another message about what it means to have Albus Dumbledore as head of the staff. Teachers have expectations and desires regarding the places they work, just as parents have them about the places their children attend. The message you have sent to every professional educator in the western world is that Hogwarts is one man's school. And that one man rules it with an iron fist."

Dumbledore's look of dismay sent a stab of regret through Pomona, but when the Headmaster began to sputter a protest, she cut him off immediately.

"And." She waited for the sputtering to dwindle to silence. "That iron-fisted man is not particularly trustworthy."

Outrage replaced dismay on Albus' face. "Now see here..."

"Don't," Sprout interrupted harshly. She held his gaze until his protest was silenced. "You have brought your problem to me," she explained in a hard, dry voice. "And you do have a problem - a bigger one than you may have realized. If you want to solve that problem, you are going to have to deal with it. You cannot blackmail it, or intimidate it, or distract it with an attractive diversion while you entangle it in your schemes." Dumbledore opened his mouth, and something in his manner, something in the arrogance with which he prepared to rise to his own defense, set Sprout's anger off. "Don't you deny any of that!" she spat. "You can argue your motivations with a philosopher, or defend your methods to a judge. That's up to you. But don't bother to draw breath to claim that you don't engage in blackmail, intimidation or misdirection. You do. You may have had good reasons for what you did. You may have been remarkably discreet in what you did for someone in such a publicly visible position as you are. But when you operate like that for years and years, eventually the idea gets out. Not specifically enough, not with enough hard evidence, to convict you in a court of law. Just enough that no one who has any other option will consider coming to work for you. That's your problem, Albus. It's you."

The Headmaster sat in silence for a long time, thinking about what he had been told. Sprout waited patiently for him to go through that process. Finally, he nodded as though coming to a decision. He spread his hands, as if to show that he carried no weapons. He smiled, weakly, acknowledging that he had been stung by what he had heard. "That may be true," he admitted - clearly a difficult admission for him. "And my... very presence... may dissuade some young teacher from coming to Hogwarts to begin a career. But you know me... and you know - and love - our school. I am asking you... as a friend - and as a friend of Hogwarts - will you return to the school and teach one more term, to allow me the time to find a permanent replacement?"

Pomona looked at him. Then looked away. She met his eyes and tried to speak. She had no words, but she chuckled lightly as she searched for them. She took a deep breath, let it out. Laughed shortly. Met his eyes again. And laughed longer. She tried to say a word, but the word would not form. She was laughing, and could not stop. Helplessly, she struggled to say something, but the struggle itself was funny now, and she laughed harder. She closed her eyes, thought of something she would have liked to say, and laughed even harder. She held her sides, laughing. She wiped her eyes, fought for breath, said, "Alb..." and dissolved into gales of mirth. The garden rang with her voice. She could not look at the Headmaster at all, but still she continued to laugh. She hurt. She wished she could stop, but it was impossible. It wasn't the words Albus had used. It wasn't his expression or his posture or his tone that was so unbearably ridiculous. It was simply that he had come here and had asked her to teach one more term, while he searched for a replacement. And he was still here. And she had not been able to form the words to communicate a simple negative response because the whole situation was so unbearably hilarious. She wanted to tell him no, and have it over and done with. She wanted to send him away with the knowledge that she was not going to work for him, or with him, or alongside him, ever again. She began to wish for some relief from the fit of hilarity in which she was caught. And still she laughed.

Amelia appeared at Dumbledore's elbow. Face impassive, she offered to show him the way out.

"Oh, well... ah... we... that is... we were still talking..."

Sprout waved him away. She still couldn't look at him. Nor could she express her thanks to her secretary. She would have to remedy that later. For now, it would be enough if Albus would simply leave. She gasped for breath and forced out a word, "Please." She fought for another gasp of air and managed to nearly whisper, "Go." Then she thought of what Albus had asked and she was unable to say any more.

Amelia escorted Dumbledore back into the house and to the floo.

"May I make a call before I go?" Albus asked politely. Amelia nodded once, a single curt movement. The Headmaster sprinkled a pinch of floo powder and spoke clearly into the resulting sparkle, "Alastor Moody."

A swift conversation led to an invitation. Albus thanked the secretary for her help, and stepped through the floo into the home of retired auror Mad-Eye Moody.

-

Draco Malfoy felt horrible. He sat in his room, listening to the muted sounds of Wednesday morning traffic outside his window, concentrating on how horrible he felt. There were perfectly good reasons for him to feel horrible, he needed to make no excuses to anyone for feeling horrible, anyone in his position would feel horrible. So he sat scowling, meticulously reviewing those things which contributed to his horrible feeling.

First of all was France. Not the country itself, nor its people or its language or its famous cuisine, but the simple fact that he had to be here rather than at home, calling himself Black rather than Malfoy and staying as inconspicuous as possible rather than enjoying his freedom. His father was in jail, his fortune was lost to him and he would most likely never again see the interior of the great manor house he had always presumed he would inherit one day.

'And on top of all of this,' Malfoy grumbled to himself, 'Potter shows up.' Potter's fame as the Boy Who Lived was disgusting enough. Having Hogwarts cater to that fame was worse. Having all of Europe singing his praises after the TriWizard Tournament was even worse than that. But an invasion of his own home by Potter was a personal insult. Unfortunately, the adults who had welcomed Potter were his own mother and his own Head of House. Draco particularly felt the sting of having Snape chauffeuring Potter around. Draco may be forced to continue his education at Beauxbatons, but he had not even seen the school yet, and in his own mind, he was still very much a Slytherin of Hogwarts, and Potter was a target for Slytherin scorn, most expertly directed by the Slytherin Head of House, Draco's family friend, Severus Snape.

Draco thought of the previous day's events and fumed. Potter sitting there conversing with Narcissa as though the two were old chums. Snape holding Potter tightly and apparating away. Harry holding out his hand with a cheery greeting. And then the threat of Potter joining the local Club! Draco could only be thankful that there were at least three Clubs closer to where Potter would be living than the one near to the Blacks' new French home.

Or were there? Despite having Snape and Potter right in front of him in his own home, all Draco knew was that neither of those two were planning on returning to Hogwarts next term. So where were they living? If anyone were actually planning to fight against Voldemort, it might be prudent to base oneself outside of Britain, if only to have a secure place to which to retreat. But he had not been given that information. In fact, his family-friend Head-of-House had given him less, had included him less, had shown less trust in him, than the pair of Weasleys had done. That hurt.

Draco stood and stalked out of his room, grabbing his muggle-style jacket. Striding purposefully through the living room, he called out, "Mother! I'm going out!" Hearing a vague murmur in response, and not caring at all what Narcissa might have been saying, he snatched open the door and stomped through, slamming it behind him.

As satisfying as his stomping and slamming had been, once outside, Draco was at as much of a loss for what to do as he had been while lying in his room. He had some money, since he never allowed himself to be without a small quantity of francs and pounds and galleons at any time since his last mad dash to England. But the operative word there was 'small,' and even had he combined all three of the currencies he held, he would not have enough to do any satisfying shopping. He could walk into the downtown section of the muggle town to which his neighborhood was connected. He could order a coffee in one of the many variations of 'pub' that the French supported. There were cafés with sidewalk tables, casual restaurants that served breakfast all day, markets which put out chairs and tiny tables to allow their shoppers to rest... and every one of these establishments served coffee. Purchasing some varieties of the beverage allowed one to demand that an emptied cup be refilled at no extra charge. So long as one was not abrasive or obnoxious, a cup would be refilled quite routinely three or four times before the waiter would even inquire whether there were anything else the customer wanted. Draco had found that in the time it took him to sip his way through four cups of coffee, he could observe entire dramas acted out by the people near his table. Intellectual and political discussions, lovers fighting, and friends exaggerating their own accomplishments to one another were the kinds of entertainment that were going on constantly. And now that he had learned what to look for, Draco noticed a surprising number of clandestine transactions involving a wad of folded bills traded for a tiny package, performed with a kind of sleight of hand that was intended to keep observers from noticing. Obviously, Draco thought smugly, the sleight of hand does not work when there is a careful, perceptive observer on hand. When he had first seen such exchanges taking place, he had postulated a wide range of explanations for them; the people were spies, selling secrets, or they were a blackmailer and his victim, exchanging incriminating evidence for cash. When it finally dawned on him what was occurring, it was very disappointing. These were people who were selling and buying drugs. The high price and the small quantity of product should have tipped him off, but he really didn't feel bad about missing the clues. Drugs were still such a muggle activity that Draco didn't have the frame of reference to recognize it. He thought that both Crabbe and Goyle had taken drugs of some sort in the past... but with intellects such as theirs, who could tell whether they were stoned or just being normally stupid?

Draco smiled to himself thinking of some of the dumber things Vincent had done. But as aloof as he tried to keep himself, he soon had to admit that he really missed his friends, his classmates, his fellow Slytherins... even as stupid as some of them were. He decided that he needed some sort of contact with them, even if he had no time to escape to England just then. A Floo call would have to do. But where? He checked his clothing, decided that he could pass for a wealthy wizard dressed casually to mix amongst the muggles... which he was, after all... and thought he might get away with going to the Club and using the floo there.

When he stepped through the hedge, he glanced over the course and stopped dead in his tracks. The course was on. And riders were flying it.

He stared hungrily as water hazards sent geysers rocketing skyward. Hedges leapt from the ground and twisted to thwart the flyers' attempts to avoid striking them. Trees thrashed their branches - nothing like the Whomping Willow back home, but there was only one Willow, and there were dozens of these trees, all along the out of bounds lines, threatening to unseat any flyer who dared skirt the edges of the course. And riders did dare. They took curves at speeds that forced their brooms to the far outsides, where they darted between thrashing branches. They flew directly at the spinning hedges, leading the spin only slightly, passing the flying obstacle so closely that only a moment's delay or an instant's anticipation would result in their being hit. They circled the moving geysers and dashed past the swirling waterspouts closely enough to collect water on their riding gear. It was beautiful. It was hypnotic. It was spellbinding. And so Draco stood there, spellbound, as a large, beefy man stepped through the hedge and ran directly into his back.

Draco turned and apologized quickly. He asked the man whether he had been hurt, and apologized again. As the two of them walked toward the Clubhouse, Draco kept up his patter - alternately apologizing and rhapsodizing about how beautifully the riders were taking the course that day - until the man was laughing out loud and begging him to stop. He assured the boy that he was fine, that he had done much the same himself on occasion, stopping to watch rather than prudently stepping out of the way, and commended him on his excellent manners - and on his good command of French, since it was clear that the boy was a foreigner. Draco smiled and admitted that he was visiting from the English Club, and had yet to fly the course. By that time, they were at the Clubhouse entrance, and they passed by the desk clerks, talking like old friends. As they parted, Draco was satisfied that he had drawn no attention whatsoever, and he walked confidently to the floo, unchallenged.

As he picked up a pinch of Floo powder, Draco thought of his last call from here. He really didn't want to floo Goyle again, so Vincent it was. He sprinkled the powder while pronouncing "Vincent Crabbe, England," very crisply. There was a blur of locations shuffling through the connection in the hearth before him, then Vincent's living room, with the boy himself lounging in a chair, looking bored.

"Draco," Vincent cried, leaping up and dashing to the very front of his fireplace. "Can you come on through?"

Draco was sorely tempted, but he knew how difficult his situation would become if he did so. There would be no one to answer his return call here at the Club - and no one who would recognize him if anyone did respond to him simply shouting for attention. Getting back to the vicinity of his home would prove very difficult, and he had limited time. "No. Can't do it. How have you been?"

A grin split Vince's face. "This has been the greatest time of my life," he gushed. Remember how... Oh, no, you didn't... unless you heard from..."

Draco swiftly lost patience with Vince's muttering. "What are you on about, man?" he demanded fiercely, but quietly enough that he wouldn't draw attention to himself there in the Club.

"I've met..." Vince looked around his own living room, then tried to peer into the Club beyond Draco. "... The Big Man," he whispered with awe. "Snape took me. That is, he took me once, and I had a chat, and then a few days ago... well, more than a week, really... God, over two, I think... actually it was..."

"Hssst," Draco interrupted, drawing a surprised look from Crabbe. "Tell me... what... happened. Then we'll sort out when it was. Right?"

"Oh. Yeah. Well, Snape took me again. To see him. The Big Man. But this time... God, Draco, can't you come through? This is, like, secret stuff, you know? I can't just be..."

"Maybe tomorrow," Draco cut him off. "Just spit it out. I'm alone. For now. The quicker you talk, the safer we'll be."

"Right," Crabbe agreed uncertainly. "The Big Man gave me a portkey. I'm supposed to get the guys... you know, Greg, and you, and Chas and Boyd and Jordan and whoever else... really, as many more whoever elses as possible... and we're supposed to portkey. To see him. 'Cause, like, he doesn't have, you know, any way to get in touch with the young guys... like us, I mean... the young guys that have the interest, but don't have... uh... any way to contact the Organization. Except for this. For me. I have a portkey." Vince grinned with beaming pride of possession.

Draco was depressed. He had held on to the hope that Gregory was merely talking through his ass as he tended to do most of the time, but here was the living evidence of all of Greg's fears, grinning out through the floo. Vincent Crabbe was to be the gatherer and the organizer of the next generation of Death Eaters. Which posed a major problem for Voldemort, in Draco's mind. He tested his theory. "Vince? When are you supposed to use that portkey?"

Vincent's beaming grin turned to a confused frown. "Well... I'm supposed to get the guys. I have to do that. And then, when we're all together, I... uh... use the portkey."

Draco sighed. His estimation had been exactly correct. "Vince. What day are you supposed to use it? At what time? It won't be very useful if you all show up and the Big Man is gone on holiday, will it? And what if you show up and he's asleep, or in the middle of dinner, or shagging someone? All you're going to do then is piss him off, right?"

Vince looked terrified. "He said... when he gave me the portkey, you know, he said... what he said was... that... I should get the guys together..." Recollection flooded into Vince's expression. Triumphantly, he announced, "I should get as many guys together as possible. But you, Draco... you are the one he most wants to see. If I could get you, I could leave everyone else behind. Because the Big Man really wants you most of all... and Harry Potter. The two of you together, if possible."

Draco had been feeling a little better. Voldemort must have realized how hopeless Crabbe would be at anything requiring thought, so he gave the boy a portkey and set him out to wait for Draco to happen along. Then Vincent said the name. The name of the hated, home-invading, mother-befriending, Head of House stealing Boy Who Lived. Voldemort wanted him? Voldemort? Potter's lifelong enemy? What had happened to the world? Why was everything so insane? Why could Draco not turn in any direction that did not put Harry Potter's face directly in front of him? A cold anger seeped through him. Smiling pleasantly, he asked once again, using a slightly different tack this time, "Vince? Did the Big Man say anything about... oh... whether he expected school to have started when you were to do this portkey thing?"

"He said... as soon as possible. If I found you, I guess I could... Hey, Draco! Why don't you just come through now, and I'll touch the 'key off and we'll go and..."

Draco wasn't prepared for that. It could only be a disaster. If he were going to meet Voldemort, he wanted to be dressed properly, and he wanted to make sure to have the Weasleys' Ear with him. And if his plan with the ear were to function, there would have to be a lot of extra bodies at the meeting to provide maximum distraction - and even then, he wondered if he would have the courage to place a spy device in the Dark Lord's own headquarters. Then he wondered - would the portkey take them to Voldemort's own lair, or would it transport them to somewhere else? Somewhere unidentifiable and untraceable? He realized that he would have to improvise from the moment he met Crabbe through the time he returned to the relative safety of the Continent. He spoke over Crabbe's babbling. "Look. It's not like I'm on vacation. Ministry problems, you know?"

Vince was astounded. "Draco... have you been committing crimes?"

"These days," Draco responded bitterly, "being a Malfoy is a crime. So I'm hiding out."

"Wow," Crabbe exclaimed, looking behind Draco into the elegance of the Club. "Is that your hideout?"

"No, it's not my hideout," Draco snarled. "I don't dare floo from my hideout. I don't even have a floo at my hideout, I'd be caught for sure. Speaking of which, I have to cut this connection. I don't want anyone to happen by our conversation while monitoring the network."

"But wait!" Vince called, panic in his voice. "When are we going to do the... portkey thing?"

Draco was tempted to say, 'after school starts,' and just forget about Crabbe altogether. But there were too many emotions pulling at him. Voldemort had pissed him off to an extreme degree by leaving Lucius to rot in jail and face possible execution. And then Goyle, and now Crabbe, had angered him further by being stupider than he remembered them being. Draco could hardly believe that he had spent over five years of his life hanging around with those two as friends. And even if he had been their leader... what else could he have been? They were idiots. And as he had feared, Voldemort was willing to settle for the likes of them as the new breed of Death Eater. That made Draco even angrier. A little deeper, there was a different set of feelings, not quite so anger-driven, that were just as powerful. Draco wanted to help Snape. He wanted to prove something to his Head of House, wanted to demonstrate that he could deliver the difficult piece of work when it was most necessary. And he wanted to show that he could do that with style. If the Weasley Ear would help the Snape project make progress... even if it did involve Harry Potter... Draco would place the device for the twins, and make sure Snape learned how it had been done. There was another feeling, as well. Something so vague and mysterious that Draco could not quite identify it yet. But the feeling held an overtone of promise, of hope. Although he had never quite examined this feeling while living with his father, Draco had never held much optimism regarding his future... or anyone's future... following the lead of Lord Voldemort. If Draco could do something that divorced him from that career path, that severed his ties with the Death Eater Organization... if he could do something that would help destroy the leader of that organization once and for all... then he would have the possibility of a future untainted by the Dark Mark and the many ugly trappings of the Dark Lord's service. He would have the opportunity to start over as a free man. He didn't have those words to say to himself, he didn't really quite realize what that deeper, vaguer feeling was. But it was very insistent. And so, instead of putting Crabbe off, he asked him, "Is there a time in the next few days when you'll be getting together with the boys? Just to hang out and the like?"

"I dunno," Vince shrugged with embarrassment. "Like, Greg hasn't wanted to talk all that much lately. Last time I flooed Chas, he called me a git and broke the connection. Boyd's all right, but he never does leave home much. And Jordan... well, you know what it's like to talk to Jordan. You say what you have to, he nods and you're done."

"Do you think you could get Greg and Boyd and Jordan over to your house for a beer or a game of two-on-two quiddich or something this weekend? Let's forget Chas for a while," Draco allowed charitably.

"I don't know, Draco. They haven't been very friendly..."

Draco rolled his eyes and blew out his breath with impatience. "Vince, think! You can offer them a party. You can tell them about the portkey... Hell, man! With the 'key, you could tell them that Voldemort himself ordered them to come to you and travel by 'key. Do you think they would want to go on record as saying 'no' to that? All you have to do is figure out when your chance is. When you have some time without family crowding around poking in their noses. When's that? Saturday? Sunday?"

"No, Draco. My best chance for that would be, like, in the morning on Friday. My dad'll be at work, Ma'll be shopping, probably. Everybody else away, you know? Friday. About ten o'clock."

Draco nodded appreciatively, trying to bolster Vincent's confidence as much as he could. "All right, then. That's the way you do it. You have the portkey, so you're the one in charge. You choose the time, you choose the place to gather - not too public, we don't want everyone staring - and then you floo everyone and tell them when to be and where to be. That's what Vold..." Draco caught himself, looked around the room - which was fortunately completely deserted - then turned back to Vince with a laugh. "That is... I mean, that's what the Big Man wants you to do. Take charge, whip those whelps into line. So. You get together about ten on Friday. I'll do my best to join you. If I'm not there in a reasonable amount of time..." Draco saw the confusion in Vince's eyes, and knew he could not be so vague with his advice. "If I'm not there by half-past ten, you go ahead with everyone you do have. Oh, yeah... did anyone mention how the bunch of you are going to get back after your portkey adventure?"

Crabbe looked down. He obviously hadn't thought that far ahead. "No..."

Draco wondered about that. Would the Dark Lord simply sweep all of his volunteers off to some kind of boot camp? Would they all immediately become soldiers? Was the next war really so close at hand? He decided to take out a slender insurance policy for himself. He would let the Weasleys know that he was going to plant the Ear before he left. That way, if he did not return, someone would know, and would be able to notify Snape, who could tell his mother. With a shock, Draco realized that there was no one else who would ever need to know. "All right, then. It's the Big Man's plan, let him figure it out. I'll do my best to see you at ten on Friday, right? Good. See you then." He broke the connection and casually walked back off of the Club grounds.

-

In the house in Godric's Hollow, Harry was confused. "Charms?" he asked plaintively, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

Snape merely uttered a voiceless, "Pah!" and turned away in disgust.

Remus was more conciliatory. "Of course you must continue to study charms," he said gently. "What is the most often used category of spells in all of wizard life? Transfiguration? I think not. While a true master of the art... I think of Professor McGonagall as a perfect example... while a master can indeed make almost anything out of almost anything else, most of us use things that are what they are as they are when we find them. We make our cloth from fibers, our food from plants and animals, our furniture from wood, our durable goods from metal. And the very fact that there are still viable industries involved in mining, forestry, farming and weaving shows that, despite the tremendous potential inherent in transfiguration, most wizards don't use it nearly as much as it could be used. Potions? I should think that five years at Hogwarts will have given you sufficient exposure to the magic-using world for you to know that most wizards buy the potions they need. Few brew them, and a very precious few brew them well enough to be considered masters of the art."

Harry, still surprised at learning that he would be expected to continue studying the Hogwarts curriculum, even though he would not be returning to the school at the beginning of term, began to make some point by stating, "Professor Snape..." Whatever his argument was to have been, however, it was never given voice. Remus immediately cut Harry off with an enthusiastic agreement.

"Yes, exactly. Professor Snape is one of those precious few who can make potions of all sorts, and who does exactly that for everyone from the school to the government. You have been privileged to study with a master. But we don't have the equipment nor the ingredients here to allow you to continue with that study. You have been doing quite well with him on your History lessons, however, so those will continue. As will your study of protocol, diplomacy, government systems, legal precedents..."

"That's lots more than sixth years study!" Harry wailed.

"And woefully inadequate for someone who will soon be the most powerful individual in the nation," Snape snapped back. "You will be a hero, Mister Potter. Not a sport hero who merely has to win, nor a combat hero who can gracefully fade away once the enemy has been dispatched. You will be a hero with a mighty stature. People will bring their problems to you. You will be asked to decide the fate of people's lives. The more knowledge... and, if at all possible, the more wisdom... you can force into your brain between now and the time you face Voldemort in combat, the better for you - and for the rest of the world, who will come to depend on you. But despite the specialized knowledge which I will attempt to put into your mind, you must continue to study the mundane, the commonplace... the charms... and all the sixth-year standards that go with them. No one gets to be king without finishing his basic education. You don't want the population turning against you because you have failed to master the basics of Hogwarts-level learning. You will continue to study as much of what Mister Lupin and I can show you of a standard sixth-year curriculum." Snape's pronouncement was a command that allowed no room for equivocation.

Harry wasn't about to simply accept it in silence, though. "What about the kind of magic that we practiced at the Weasley warehouse? And at Malfoy's old place?"

"Your wild magic seems to be a natural part of you, Harry," Remus said with gentle encouragement. "I believe we made a mistake in trying to bring the biggest, strongest, most catastrophic spells out of that reservoir you have within you right away, without working up to them gradually. I may be proven wrong about this, and it might turn out that your wild magic really is... wild. That whatever you use that power for has to be triggered by a kind of self-preservation instinct. But I don't really believe that is the case. I have a series of small tests set up that involve really small tasks. The trick is that they are tasks for which you do not know any standard spell. You'll have to improvise. And in so doing, I hope you'll learn to tap into your power directly, without the standard crutches of spells and wands and proper hand motions. If that training is successful, you will be able to use magic more directly than any other wizard has been able to do in centuries - since the time of the first great codification of spells, at any rate."

"And we're going to do this, and keep studying law and government... AND put me through a whole series of sixth year classes?" Harry asked suspiciously.

Remus smiled and spread his hands, indicating the whole house and the beautiful, but unpopulated, surrounding area. "What else do you have to do?"

-

Albus Dumbledore stepped through the floo and into the cramped, dark living room of Alastor Moody. And immediately into a restraining field. "Alastor..." he said reproachfully, but the retired auror paid no attention. His magic eye whirled as it cataloged all of the miniscule things that made Albus who he was. After a long moment, the restraining field came down and Mad-Eye Moody stepped up to Dumbledore, extending a hand.

"Welcome to my home, Headmaster. It's good to see you again," he said solemnly, shaking Albus' hand.

"Well... thank you, Alastor. It's not as though we have been parted for years, though..."

"At our age, and with all that we've been through," Moody grated, his naturally harsh voice grinding even harder as he struggled to emphasize his point, "we never know when our next parting is going to be our last."

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "That's true of everyone equally, Alastor. Even the young and innocent have no way of knowing when tragedy will strike them."

"Ah!" Moody barked, holding up a finger to point out the Headmaster's error. "But they aren't aware of it, yet. Only we old, scarred veterans know that truth. I'm just glad to see that your many enemies haven't managed to kill you, so far."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "It is always so reassuring to speak with you, Alastor."

"Come, have a seat and talk for a while," Moody said glumly, walking toward his own favorite chair, his artificial leg sounding a hollow thud with every step. "And try to take some reassurance from this. I think I know why you're here, and of course the answer is yes, I'll be glad to help you." He settled onto his armchair, with his prosthesis stretched out in front of him. "But I have been speaking to some old friends who still work in law enforcement. I know, there are few enough of them," he put a hand up to stop Dumbledore's protest. It was well known that most aurors currently serving thought Moody was at least slightly insane. "But there are a few, and those that remain are mature officers, with their ears in the right places. And what they have heard is this: the Ministry knows about your Professor difficulties. Now I presume you would like me to take over Defense Against the Dark Arts. You should know that if I do, I intend to teach a real Defense class, with practical spells and practice at using them. And I think you're resourceful enough to find some gardener somewhere to take over your greenhouses. But what are you going to do with Snape out of the picture?"

Albus sat silently, digesting what he had just heard. If Moody could get this complete a picture third hand, what must the Ministry know?

"They're sending an 'applicant,' is what the Ministry is going to do," Moody growled. "Not as bad as Umbridge, I don't suspect, but with the same set of directions. You have anybody that you can hire before they put their plant in?"

Albus did not, and suspected Moody was quite aware of that. "Let's talk about Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said cheerfully.

-

On Thursday morning, Lucius Malfoy sat in the courtroom, watching the arguments unfold that would decide the fate of his life. He was extremely bored. He still looked proud, aloof, haughty and quite regal. He had a lifetime of training to help him accomplish that. But he took little interest in the proceedings unfolding before him. The real decisions had already been made, and while Lucius knew he was guilty of every charge brought against him - and many more similar crimes as well - he also knew that the outcome of his trial had more to do with the Ministry seizing his holdings than it did with seeking justice for his actions.

The Malfoy family legal team was still functioning - since Lucius had made a special arrangement to make sure they would be paid with funds that the Ministry could not get their hands on. But however hard the firm might have fought for his legal rights, their efforts were doomed from the start. Lucius could hear the inevitable outcome of the trial from the tone of each barrister's presentation, even without paying attention to their words.

Lucius' representatives were arguing with heat. They pointed out how poorly the gathering and handling of evidence had been done. They brought out every failure of the aurors to follow proper procedure, and they thoroughly mocked the paperwork that had been filed by the Ministry's law-enforcement arm throughout the Malfoy case. They hammered away at the conflict of interest aspects of the accusation, pointing out the tremendous value of Lucius' cash and property holdings, which provided such a clear temptation to the Ministry. They reminded the court of how closely Lucius had worked with the Ministry over the years, and how supportive he had been of official policy. They demanded that the court consider whether that was a likely position in which one would expect to find a dangerous rebel. They cited Lucius' clean criminal record.

The prosecution, by contrast, were cold. They argued slowly, patiently, methodically. They piled evidence bit by bit into a mountain of incrimination. They were unemotional, with no histrionics. They were the glacier that would cover his defense team's volcano.

As serious as this proceeding was to Lucius' future... to his very life... he could not help thinking of the team of prosecutors in a cartoonish fashion. They were particularly susceptible to such lampooning, since their appearances matched their cold-blooded presentation so well. The primary prosecutor was like a crocodile, long-bodied, supple and lean with gleaming teeth; while his supporting team were extremely toad-like, with bulging eyes, wide mouths and soft, fat chins. The entire group were dull and slow, but unquestionably predatory... and they were doubtless going to win. Lucius sat silently, watching the court grind through its tedious procedure. If he ever escaped State custody again, he would kill the entire prosecution team. But first, they would suffer Cruciatus for a length of time to match the period during which he was forced to listen to their dull arguments.

-

Every day that week, Draco Malfoy had taken a long walk around the town nearest his home. He had made certain to come home exhibiting a cheerful demeanor, and had brought humorous observations with him, talking about some muggle or other and the situations into which the non-magical people of the world could place themselves. As he had hoped, Narcissa found this to be a very positive sign that he was adjusting to their new life here on the Continent. She encouraged his explorations, and asked very perceptive questions about the stories he told. By Thursday, Draco was fairly certain that his mother was happy with him. So at dinner Thursday evening, smiling as he described his day's excursion, he felt confident enough to suggest, "I'm tired of the muggle town. Tomorrow, I'd like to go and explore a wizard community."

Narcissa looked skeptical. "And where are you going to find one?"

Draco shrugged. "Paris. I know how to get to the theatre... and some of the shops... but tomorrow, I'd like to just wander around, get a feel for the places that are more like the muggle coffee houses. The small, the quaint... you know - cheap."

His humor did what no amount of whining could have done - Narcissa smiled and returned her attention to her food. "If you think you can stand it," she said, then turned a piercing gaze back onto her son. Draco thought he would be forbidden to go out at all, but his mother merely asked, "Do you plan to be back for dinner?"

"I'd rather not," he admitted, grateful that she had given him a chance to look uncomfortable without raising her suspicions. "Friday night, not long before school term resumes... I would guess there would be some people my age looking for an evening's fun. I'd like to see if I could join them."

Narcissa thought about it for a while. It had been good to have Draco home every evening for several reasons. First of all, she didn't have to worry about him if he were right here where she could see him. But also, with her son in the house every night, she had not been tempted to return to the laudanum - or even to drink more than a glass of wine with dinner. If she were home all day - and all night - knowing that he would be gone... Then she gave herself a mental shake, angry at what she was doing. She was not going to make her own son into a sort of babysitter for her. Her temptations, her problems, were not his. She could - and would - take care of herself. "Well, I hope you find something interesting," she told Draco with a sympathetic smile. "It may be pretty hard to find anything fun going on without knowing anyone to give you a clue as to where to look."

Draco smiled in return, both relieved and worried at having the freedom to go through with his plan. "Don't worry," he said in a good imitation of calm confidence. "I have a feeling I'll find some activity out there somewhere."

The next morning, Draco dressed in his muggle-style casual clothes, but folded his finest robe and carefully placed it into a bag. He made sure that he was very visible around the house all morning, looking relaxed and conversing easily with his mother, so it would not look as though he were sneaking away once the time had come for him to leave. A little after nine o'clock, he grabbed his bag, called goodbye, and dashed out the door. His next stop was the Club, where he ducked into a restroom to put his robe on over his muggle wear. He stuffed the bag into the trash and inspected himself in the mirror.

"Not bad, young man," a hollow voice echoed back from the tiles. A wispy, mostly transparent face appeared in the mirror, gazing back at Draco with approval.

The young Malfoy was not about to let himself be charmed by a mirror. With as much authority as he could put into his voice, he demanded, "Do you compliment everyone, or can you offer constructive criticism as well?"

The mirror-face looked offended. "I hardly ever even appear to anyone," he sniffed, "Let alone hand out gratuitous compliments. I made a special effort in your case because your robe is quite an elegant garment. It sets off your hair."

"Yes," Draco drawled sarcastically. "Black is such a great color."

"Not for everyone," the mirror corrected him. "Those who cast too much of their own shadows already hardly need extra ones wrapped around them. On you, it's good. As for constructive criticism... knock the dust from your shoes. Whenever a toe shows from beneath your hem, it spoils the effect."

Draco did a double take on his own footwear, realized that the mirror was right, looked up to thank him, and noticed the face was gone. He buffed his shoes with a disposable towel, checked his inner pocket to make sure the Extensible Ear was still there, and steeled himself for his first real act of espionage. Satisfied that his hands weren't trembling with his nervousness, he walked out of the bathroom and toward the fireplace.

"Some plain and simple jewelry wouldn't hurt..." the wispy voice echoed through the room as Draco left.

A sprinkle of floo powder later, Draco was looking at Vincent Crabbe. Crabbe was grinning broadly, looking quite well chuffed with himself. "Coming to join the party, Malfoy?" he bellowed heartily at the floo.

"You don't need to announce it to the whole town," Draco replied angrily. "I'm trying to be discreet, here."

"Oh, right. Hiding out and all," Vince bellowed again, oblivious to Draco's caution.

"Step back. Out of the way. I'm coming through," Malfoy ordered in disgust, which was compounded when he saw that Crabbe did not obey right away, but actually seemed to be considering his options, as though he might decide to step through into the Club, or reach into the floo as Draco was in transition and try to misdirect him. Draco did not like the look of Crabbe thinking. It was too much a mockery of that most human of activities. But Vince did move, after a significant pause, and Draco disappeared from the Club and stepped into Crabbe's parents' living room. Once there, he glanced behind himself reflexively. The Club could no longer be seen through the Crabbes' hearth. Draco would have to get home some other way. As he turned back, part of the reason for Vincent's uncontrolled vocal volume was exposed. Crabbe pressed a cold can of Guinness into Draco's hand, then leaned back and took a long drink from his own.

Draco stared at the can in disbelief. "Vincent? Vince, lad? You home, Vince?"

"Right here," Crabbe replied with a self-satisfied sigh.

"You're going to see the Big Man... and you're getting drunk?"

Vincent leaned close and spoke very quietly. "Voldemort... be... damned. This is the best party of the whole year! I thought it would have been just Greg and a couple of the guys. But Pansy is here... and Violet... and what's her name? You know... with the tits?"

Draco glared furiously. "You have people here whose names you do not know?"

"No, I know her," Vincent said, flapping his hand through the air as though trying to wave away a bad smell. "She's in Potions... and History... and double Herbol..." as he spoke, Crabbe's attention had wandered away from Draco. His gaze settled on the door that led deeper into the house. "Hey! Why don't we go 'n' see everyone?"

Knowing that any properly sarcastic response would be wasted on his only audience, Draco simply sneered, "Yes. Let's," and followed Crabbe through the house. As they passed through the kitchen, Draco put his Guinness down on a counter. As he had feared, the gathering was being held outside, in the back yard, near enough to neighbors' homes that conversations could easily be overheard. Draco hoped that Vincent, at least, as the keeper of the portkey, would know enough to keep his voice down.

Instead, Vincent pulled the kitchen door open and announced to the entire back yard - and most of the neighborhood, "Look who has graced us with his presence! My man Malfoy has returned from exile! And what an exile! I saw the place he's staying, and it has a separate floo room that's bigger than my entire house!"

Draco pushed his way past his host while telling him, "Shut up, you git. That was a public floo." He gave an ironic bow to the crowd, and as he straightened, he stared. He couldn't believe his eyes. He was almost the only one at the gathering wearing a robe. Gregory Goyle was in rather shabby muggle attire. Chas Thrasher was in a sweatshirt and bicycle shorts, athletic shoes flopping untied about his feet. Violet wore jeans. They were nicely cut, with a trim blouse over them, but... they were jeans! The other girls wore dresses, which might be considered more conservative by muggle standards, but which were hardly the sort of traditional wizarding wardrobe that Draco had simply presumed anyone would automatically wear to meet the most vehemently pure-blood chauvinistic wizard leader in the entire world. Among the entire gathering, only Boyd and Jordan had worn robes, and both of those were plain black school garments. The school robes were properly unadorned and they were certainly not gaudy, but neither were they particularly fine or formal, either. About half of those in attendance held cans of Guinness. Draco had absolutely no idea what to say to any of them.

"Hello, Draco," Pansy Parkenson called cattily as he straightened from his bow. "How have you been?" Violet giggled next to Pansy, in response to some private joke.

Over a year ago, Draco had joked that Pansy's voice had a certain quality to it that always reminded him to check his wallet. She had lost none of that particular attribute over the intervening months. Draco smiled mysteriously and replied, "It's been rough. I've had to keep a low profile." Seeing only incomprehension on the faces surrounding him, Draco tried giving them a clue. "Don't want to end up like my father, you know."

"Why not?" Violet teased. From the look on her face, she was ready to deliver a prime witticism, which began, "I think..."

Her attempt at humor was drowned out by the booming voice of Chas Thrasher. "He's in gaol, you cunt! Boy 'ere don' wanna be like his old Da, 'cause they're gunna kill 'im! Insensitive bitch." He glowered at Violet as he gulped more Guinness.

Draco could see few ways of salvaging this situation, and as he scanned the party once more, a terrible suspicion began to form in his mind. "Vince? You do have the portkey, don't you?"

"Huh?" Vince's attention had been absorbed by staring at one of the girls. It took a moment for Draco's question to register, but when it did, Vincent smirked and hooked his thumb toward the back of the crowd. "It's here, all right. Greg's giving it a look-over. Go and check it out, Malfoy. It's a real piece of work." He turned back to his ogling.

"Right," Draco murmured disgustedly. He worked his way through the laughing, drinking crowd to where Goyle held the device that was supposed to be able to transport them all to Voldemort. The thing would have been unremarkable lying by the side of the road. In Gregory's hands, it was frankly ugly - a length of coarse rope, rough all over and frayed at the ends. The whole thing wasn't very long, meaning that if the entire party was to get a grip on it, they would all be standing very closely together when they did so. Not surprisingly, Draco found that Boyd and Jordan had gathered around Greg to check out the portkey. Draco considered having just the four of them trigger the thing and go into Voldemort's presence in some kind of respectable condition. None of the four were drunk, Draco, Boyd and Jordan wore robes, and Goyle was at least dressed all in black, in worn slacks and a jacket that gave the appearance that he had at least tried to dress formally, showing some respect for their host. But even as he thought that - and saw the same thought mirrored in each of the other boys' faces - he knew that his best chance of planting a spy device would come with the distraction provided by a crowd of loud, obnoxious, improperly-attired drunks. Boyd had seen Draco's face as he approached, however, and he made sure to stand close as Malfoy got a close up look at the portkey, so he was able to explain the situation very quietly.

"This is Vincent's show all the way," Boyd murmured. "From what he says, anyway. He claims his instructions were that he was to be the last one to touch the key, once everyone else had grabbed on securely. The portkey is spelled to recognize him, so it's Vince's signature that sets the thing off. Won't work for anyone else... I don't think."

"So why didn't it zap him back to the Big Man when he tried to carry it home?" Draco sneered.

"There have to be at least three other people attached before it can work," Boyd grinned, a malicious gleam in his eye.

"And there are three of you," Draco pointed out reasonably. Greg, Boyd and Jordan gripped the rope tightly. "And if all the thing needs is three to hold on, and one more to make it go..." Draco's hand shot forward and gripped the rope, waiting for the shock of a portkey activation. Nothing happened. "Right. It was worth a shot." Draco's voice held real disappointment, which was mirrored in the faces of the three boys around him. Malfoy could see the surreptitious glances the others flashed out at the crowd, and the looks of disgust which resulted from what they saw. "Hey, Greg. Why's everyone dressed... umm..."

"Like shite?" Greg answered lightly. "It was Vince's bloody skill with organization at work. He wanted the maximum number of people here, so he called a party. He promised free beer and talked a lot of bollocks about a 'special announcement' that had to do with the Big Man. Problem was, he gave most of these morons the idea that this would be, like, a quick drink of a Friday morning, and that he would hand out a flyer or something. Like this was the place to come to learn when and where the real meeting was going to be held. The three of us figured we'd better be prepared, but the rest of this bunch... they didn't think at all. We're only lucky we didn't draw a bunch of crashers, or that Tim didn't bring his muggle girlfriend, or that nobody dragged along their little brothers or some shite like that. I mean... it's a bloody disaster as it is. But we're lucky for all that it could have been a lot worse."

"Right," Draco agreed, contempt for the whole arrangement clear on his face. "If it's Vince that's necessary to work this thing, let's get him. No sense in wasting any more time here." Draco searched the crowd for Crabbe, and found him standing on the top step of his back porch, trying to get his eyes high enough to look down Violet Brown's blouse. "Hey, Vince! Let's get going, shall we?" Draco bellowed over the crowd noise.

To Draco's horror, the crowd began to rumble impatiently the moment he made his suggestion. Chas Thrasher started a chant of "The Big Man... The Big Man..." which was taken up by several others. Vince tried to direct the unruly bunch by shouting directions, but when he saw no one was listening, he strode to where Greg stood, reached out and took a powerful grip on the rough surface of the rope. Greg leapt back from the thing, nearly dropping it to the ground.

"Let go of it, you idiot!" Goyle spat. "You're supposed to be last."

With a shrug, Vince tossed the portkey to Greg, who held it up for everyone to see. "Grab on!" he shouted, and the crowd surged toward a common center, everyone reaching out for a handhold. Draco made sure his own grip was firm, and looked up to meet the eyes of Jordan Lurker. Jordan's mouth was barely curving at the very corner, but Draco could tell that the quiet boy found the entire scene extremely amusing. Jordan raised his eyebrows and dropped them quickly, a swift signal to let Draco know that he did find the situation very funny.

With everyone pressed tightly together, arms straining to reach the portkey, fingers gripping desperately to the rough surface, Vincent shouted out, "Ready!" and reached out to grab the frayed end of the teleportation device. The entire party disappeared.

-

Neville Longbottom labored proudly in the Hogwarts greenhouses, happy to be left alone for hours at a time to accomplish all that he had in mind. The extended absence of Professor Sepal meant that Neville had to take initiative in order to get anything done, and Neville had risen to the occasion brilliantly, organizing the living specimens on each bench in exactly the way he had imagined they should be, and adding certain improvements that he had long considered necessary, such as a lower workbench next to the regular one, which would give the shorter students a more ergonomically correct work surface.

As he surveyed the lush greenery around him, he compared the state of the plants to his memory of how they had looked when Professor Sepal had been hired. He was pleased to note that - just as he had thought would be the case - the collection looked as though it had been given a good pruning all over. The plants looked younger and fresher, which was actually the case, since Neville had regrown every one. And yet, they were exactly the same in all of the important ways - since he had regrown most of them from cuttings, they were genetically the same, and were in a sense the same actual individuals. But they had been improved. As opposed to most prunings, which cut away the newest growth, Neville had managed to cut away the older portion, leaving the young, vigorous, healthy part. And he had brought it all there to the greenhouses, where it was thriving all around him.

He was so happy with his results that he frequently worked through lunch, and since his grandmother had finally given him permission to move to the castle for the remainder of the summer, he often worked until well past dinnertime. The house elves had come to expect him wandering into the kitchen around nine o'clock each night, asking for some light fare - a sandwich, at most. And they had learned that if they expected him to take any breakfast, they would have to essentially ambush him, appearing before him as he hurried out of the castle near dawn, offering him something compact that he could carry with him and munch as he walked. And they cleverly made those breakfast items small enough that Neville would finish them by the time he arrived in the Herbology Department, because once the boy had entered one of the greenhouses, any food he was carrying would be put aside and forgotten. As a result of the hard work and light diet, Neville was losing weight, and was stronger and healthier than he had ever been.

Albus Dumbledore approached the Herbology Department on Friday morning a little after ten o'clock. He had planned his arrival for a time when Neville would be already busy and comfortably at work. Not at the very beginning of the day when the boy would be still deciding what to work on; but not late enough in the day that Neville would already be tired and dirty, or when he might be trying to finish up the day's work and might be frustrated at not having been able to accomplish all that he had set out to do. The Headmaster thus intended to catch Neville at his most confident and secure, when he would be most open and communicative. Keeping his knowledge of how easily intimidated Neville could be firmly in mind, Dumbledore opened the greenhouse door gently and entered the building smiling.

Neville spun in shock as he heard the booming of the greenhouse door being flung open. With horror, he saw Dumbledore bearing down upon him, teeth bared and a knowing look in his eye. Neville realized that he was gripping his trowel as though it were a fighting knife. Realizing how little defense such a weapon would give him against the awesome power of the Headmaster, he attempted to toss the tool on to the table with a casual flip. The trowel smashed into a pot and shattered it. taking a step backward and feeling the work bench at his back, Neville tried to force his voice to be light and carefree. It came out in a tinny squeak, "Hello, Sir."

Striving to keep his voice light and his manner friendly, Dumbledore asked, "Are you making good progress today, Mister Longbottom?"

Hearing what could only be bitter accusation in the Headmaster's voice, Neville stumbled all over himself trying to point out how much good he was doing. He displayed the healthy new growth of the Thintwicket, and the gleaming pods of the Fireseed. He showed off all of the plants he could point out from where he stood, then ran down, having run out of visible evidence of his own good work, but afraid to move to find more examples.

With a gentle tone of praise, Dumbledore picked up the conversation when Neville fell silent. "And I understand that... ah... after Professor Sepal's... run of bad luck in his first few days on the job, that... hrmm... you... brought all of these plants from your own home for the school to use."

'He knows!' a voice screamed inside Neville's head. 'He knows what you did!' Aloud, Neville humbly said, "It was the least I could do, Sir."

With a broad smile and an expansive gesture that took in the entire Department, Dumbledore countered, "No, Mister Longbottom, it was hardly the least you could do."

'Here it comes,' Neville thought miserably, trembling. 'Here's the punishment for interfering, for misappropriating school property. He'll turn me into a toad.' In his panicked thoughts, Neville had a fleeting vision of Dumbledore turning Trevor into a boy, and having boy-Trevor carry toad-Neville around in his pocket. He wanted to confess, to beg forgiveness, to plea for mercy. But try as he might, he couldn't make a sound.

Dumbledore looked around the greenhouse appreciatively and said, "No, Neville, it was quite a big thing you did... and quite a wonderful job you have been doing since your return here this summer. In fact, it puts me in mind of a recommendation Professor Sprout made just before she left. Do you know what she told me I should do?" He turned back to Neville and winked. Neville could only shake his head in response. With a conspiratorial smile, Dumbledore leaned closer to Neville and quietly told him, "She said that I should have you teach Herbology classes next term."

Neville simply continued to shake his head, gawking wordlessly at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore nodded with a reassuring smile and said, "You have always been modest, Mister Longbottom. And while it is easy to spot the fault in arrogance, there is a point at which modesty becomes an impediment to one's proper progress in life. Let me give you an example." He stepped around the motionless Neville to reach for the broad, green leaves of one of the pots behind the boy. Neville immediately spun around, grabbed the Headmaster's hand and pulled it away from the leaf.

"That's Bristleleaf, Sir. It looks smooth, but there are millions of tiny hairlike thorns covering the entire surface of every leaf. Touching one will leave hundreds of the things in your skin... and even if you didn't get a single one to stick, the toxin that covers each thorn would cause a nasty irritation. It can be very uncomfortable."

"And the plant requires..." Dumbledore prompted gently.

"Indirect sun, moderate temperatures, light watering. It grows slowly, so it takes years to outgrow a pot if the plant is potted correctly in the first place. But it's susceptible to fungus infections. You really have to watch out for those."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You see, Mister Longbottom? What you know about plants is not only academically accurate, it is very practical as well. If someone had told you this morning that you would save the Headmaster's skin by wrestling him away from a dangerous plant..." He glanced down at his wrist, still in Neville's grip, and the boy released him immediately. "... you probably would not have believed the prediction. But, as you see, it came true. And I believe that something else should come true today, as well. It seems that our new Professor Sepal will be unable to join us for the start of term this year. I will admit that I was worried... until I recalled Professor Sprout's fine recommendation. Mister Longbottom, I would greatly appreciate it if you would agree to teach Herbology during this coming term."

Neville's eyes grew wide, his mouth grew dry, and his stomach began twisting of its own accord. Dumbledore was asking a lot, but it was the perfect opportunity. He wanted to be an Herbologist. He wanted to teach. He could do both this year. A few questions remained, however. "Where...?" he croaked, fighting for words now that he was no longer lecturing about plants.

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "Professor Sepal will most likely be out of touch for the remainder of the term. You will not be able to count on his assistance at all. I'm sorry."

"How...?" Neville wheezed.

"I am sure you recall the lessons from your own experience - most likely better than any other student in the entire school. And I am sure that Professor Sprout would be willing to let you borrow her old lesson plans. You can floo her. I have spoken with her and she is most successful in her new endeavors. But since you were her personal choice of successor... I think she might be willing to lend you a bit of help."

"When...?" Neville squeaked, quite overwhelmed.

"I admit, your own studies would suffer if you tried to force an entire year's worth of studying into the same terms during which you were teaching several classes. I would suggest that you choose one subject for private study for each of the two terms of the coming year. You could have one of our professors help you with your work after classes are out for the day. If this works out, you can continue to work toward your N.E.W.T.s as you work for the school."

Neville faced the Headmaster, hardly believing what he had heard. He wasn't to be punished, but promoted. Dumbledore's criticism had turned to praise, his suspicious inquiries into commendations. Neville was not quite sure how it had happened, but the threat of being prosecuted for theft of school property had turned into an even more intimidating threat of having to teach his fellow students. He imagined the Slytherins mocking him, the Ravenclaws catching his every misstatement, and the outrage the first time he had to discipline a fellow Gryffindor. The whole prospect was terrifying. "I don't know what to say, Sir."

"Then say, 'Yes,' Mister Longbottom."

"How..." Neville began, and his mind went totally blank. For the life of him, he could not remember what he had been about to ask. Dumbledore seemed to have been expecting his question, however.

"How much? A very practical question, and very typical of a professor, since those of us who toil in academe are hardly compensated in a fashion appropriate to our real worth. Shall we say, double what Hogwarts is paying you for your summer work, subject to review for a possible raise at term's end?"

Neville nodded, managed to stammer, "Th... Thank you, Sir," and shake Dumbledore's hand.

The Headmaster congratulated the new Professor Longbottom, wished him luck and reminded him that he had only two weeks to prepare his class plans for the fall term. Then he let himself out of the greenhouse and went to deal with a far more troubling problem.

The Ministry had sent Hogwarts a potions professor to take the place of the missing Professor Snape. The Headmaster was not familiar with Pennyroyal Routhe, and that was what troubled him. He knew all of the most skilled potions makers in the country - and most of the best in the entire world. That he was a stranger to Madame Routhe was a bad sign. He sighed and began the long walk up to the castle.

Neville stood for a long time in shock. Then, he began to work again, very slowly, as though moving underwater. He cleaned up the shards of the pot he had broken with his trowel, then turned back to the work that Dumbledore had interrupted. A few minutes later, no one was close enough to the greenhouse to hear his shout of celebration.