Harry Potter and the Butcher of Hogsmeade

by Yagr of Nar

Harry's schooling gets derailed. Dumbledore's manipulations cause great dissatisfaction among his allies. Lucius Malfoy goes on trial. And Snape is forced to act as a babysitter.

14. Chapter 14

Answering some reviewers' questions:

I haven't taken part in any online Harry Potter discussions. (I actually didn't know there were such things until your reviews let me know about them!) So I like to think that I have come up with the elements of my story all by myself.

But we all know how writers like to fool themselves, don't we?

I have read an awful lot of "theories of magic," from the traditional Western theory (magic is the tool of the Devil), to the wonderfully succinct definition offered by The Drummer in Warren Ellis's comic book, Planetary (from WildStorm): "Magic is the cheat codes for the universe." So the "membrane that runs through everything" theory has probably been fully explored somewhere, by someone. It seemed to make a lot of sense in this context, though.

The "crossed wands" scene was a direct response to a suggestion from the person who encouraged me to write this story in the first place: "Do something with wands to show how Harry is unfamilar with wizarding customs." I know far too well, from experience, that embarrassment is memorable - so I made an embarrassing scene that Harry would be sure to remember.

As for hair - for some reason, Rowling tends to describe every character's hair in some detail, and identify them thereafter by that attribute. There must be some reason for that, don't you think? I guessed that there must be a tradition of specific hairstyles corresponding to various standings in wizard society. "Shock," for an orphan in mourning, for example.

Enough rambling: Chapter 14 awaits!

Chapter 14

Draco looked around himself as soon as the portkey's disturbing action brought him to a new location. Most of his fellow travellers were quite distressed at the extreme disorientation that portkey travel imparted to anyone who used it, and some were actually lying on the ground, helplessly dizzy or painfully sick. Draco had little time to waste on sympathy for his distressed comrades, though. He scanned the room quickly and thoroughly, looking for furniture, air ducts, floor drains, light fixtures... anything that might help conceal his spy device.

He was appalled.

The room was stone. The floor was stone, the ceiling was stone, all four walls were stone. And the single piece of furniture in the room was a throne on a raised dais. And it, too, was made of stone. There was a door. It was made of stone as well, identifiable as a door only because it was not completely closed. There were four torches. They sat in sconces, one on each of the room's four walls.

That was it.

No vents, no drains, no lamps, no tables, no chairs. He had expected some sort of easel, or perhaps a kind of chalkboard, for planning strategic maneuvers. He had hoped there would be some sort of map table, on which blocks representing the forces of the Dark Lord and the forces of the Ministry could be deployed, to give everyone a clear idea of the military nature of the conflict between the establishment and the opposition. Maybe there was some other room in which these things were stored. Maybe Voldemort used a magical display when he described his tactical situation to his lieutenants. Maybe he didn't consider this time of ongoing tension between the sides to be a true war quite yet. Whatever the reason, there was nothing in the room except the throne, the torches, a barely open door and the bare walls. This gave Draco only two options for placing his Extensible Ear.

'Five options!' Draco could imagine exactly how his father's voice would sound, correcting him. 'Torches and Throne are categories of possibilities. There are four torches in the category, Torch. Evaluate each one separately to find the advantages of each one.'

And he would be right, of course. From everything Draco had ever heard about Voldemort, the Dark Lord would be so paranoid about his own seat that the throne could not be considered a viable choice for an Ear. And since Draco had no idea how keen the Dark Lord's sight was - or how much it was boosted by magical abilities - he couldn't really choose the torch that was almost directly in front of the dais. That would give Voldemort an almost direct line of sight to the Ear's hiding place every time he sat in the throne. Not good. But the room was set up in such a way that the torch directly behind the throne was actually much closer to the dais than any of the others. The area behind the throne was small, and - once again, considering the Dark Lord's penchant for paranoia, which probably insured that he allowed few people behind his back - it was probably the least-used area of the entire room. That made the rear torch the perfect choice to hold the Extensible Ear. Draco casually walked away from the group, and pretending to be doing nothing more than putting distance between himself and those people suffering from portkey sickness, he began to move toward the back wall, and the sconce near its center.

He was nearly there when the massive door opened further and a small man with a gleaming artificial hand stormed into the room, stomped his way to the dais, and - carefully avoiding all contact with the throne - faced the crowd and raised his shining hand for attention. The small man waited for the low hum of conversation to subside. When the mere fact of his presence failed to silence the group, he cleared his throat primly and spoke a single word, "Quiet." He seemed a bit shocked when he received both the quiet he had asked for and the attention of the gathered visitors. He searched out Vincent and when he was sure he had identified the boy, he demanded, "What is this?"

Vincent stood proudly, a broad smile on his face. "This is the youth brigade, Mister Pettigrew..."

The little man's face whitened. "Shut Up!" he rasped, stepping forward with both his magical and his normal-looking hands raised in warning. "Have these people been cleared? Have any of these people been invited to join our movement by our leader? No! So, do we use names in front of them?"

"But these are my friends," Crabbe said, baffled. "They are the new recruits..."

"You don't make that decision!" The man huffed. His nose wrinkled and his upper lip lifted off his front teeth in a strangely rodential grimace. "Any one of these people could be a spy. Any one could be an assassin. You don't know! Have they disguised themselves? Have they taken polyjuice? Have they cast glamours on themselves? Are they wearing simple theatrical makeup? You! Don't! Know!" The little man suddenly drew himself up to his full height, lowered his voice and added, "And if you tell me you do know, I'll tell you that you are nowhere near a talented enough wizard to detect the kinds of magic that our leader's enemies will stoop to using against him. They are cowards, they are dishonest, and they can be murderously vicious. Don't tell me you are absolutely sure that none of these people is an imposter. So first - No Names!" He peered around the room, taking in the crowd. It was obvious that something bothered him, but he seemed to be confused about what it was. With a visible start, what he was seeing suddenly registered, and he stared hard at several different individuals. Sounding truly baffled, he asked Crabbe, "Why are you all dressed so inappropriately? Have you no respect?"

One thing that can be said for alcohol is that it gives its users temporary confidence - frequently of the most inappropriate kind. Chas Thrasher had enjoyed several drinks before coming to Crabbe's backyard beer party, and was sufficiently inebriated to stand up to an unknown, upset, adult wizard wearing a magical prosthesis, standing on Voldemort's throne-room dais, haranguing the group. To Chas, speaking up in his own defense wasn't even a difficult choice - not even something he had to think about. For one thing, he wasn't fighting with the puny wizard with the fake hand, he was merely setting the little guy straight. The tiny whiner had somehow gotten the wrong idea, and Chas was about to educate him. Once the little puke realized how wrong he was, he would doubtless thank Chas for taking the trouble to put him right. So Chas stood up and bellowed over the sound of Pettigrew's whinging. "What we have is power, youth, strong bodies, good heath and NO FEAR!" He pumped his fist into the air, drawing a roar of approval from the crowd. "We hate the way things are, and want to change things to the way we want them to be. We're your best hope, your dream come true and your last chance. We are what you want. Now you get to tell us: Are you what WE want?"

To Draco's horror, there was a loud rumble of agreement from the majority of the young people gathered there. Draco could not take the chance of approaching the torch sconce for fear that Pettigrew would notice. So he stood there, trying to keep himself separate from the bulk of the group, so that when the curses started flying, he would be, for the most part, out of their path.

A harsh whisper cut through the room, quiet, but with an intensity that guaranteed its being heard by everyone present. "A good question. Am I what you want?"

Draco looked toward the room's only entrance to see someone... or something... casually sauntering in. The man who had been standing and shouting at them all was on his knees, head bowed in the direction of the newcomer. And despite the fact that such an entrance could only be made by one person, that there was only a single possibility as to the identity of the new arrival, Draco could not believe it. He had imagined the Dark Lord in so many ways - as a giant, wreathed in flames; as a muscular hero with a crowd-pleasing face; as an ancient, radiating wisdom - and this individual was none of those things. He was small, his face horribly slick, as though all of his skin had been burned off. He walked confidently, but as though he were weak, or even crippled. His only display of strength had been his piercing whisper. And then he flicked his wand absently and the heavy stone door behind him crashed shut. He progressed slowly toward the dais, looking over the gathered crowd. As he took the step up to the elevated platform, he nearly stepped on the kneeling Pettigrew. He never seemed to notice. Draco had noticed many things, though. As hard as it was to picture this weird, crippled, scarred little man as the great Dark Lord, his servant clearly took him very seriously. Draco sank quietly to his knees and inclined his face toward the ground, while still allowing himself the freedom to watch the scene unfolding before him. With some relief, he saw that Boyd and Jordan... and yes, even Gregory had followed suit, kneeling with their empty hands in clear view, showing that they posed no threat.

Voldemort stepped to the front of the dais, directly in front of his throne, and surveyed the standing, gawking crowd once more. He raised his arm, extending his hand, palm down, out at an upward angle, as though making an old-style fascist salute. Some of the boys in the crowd seemed to wake up at this display. It looked as though some of them were preparing to return the salute. But then, the Dark Lord began to lower his arm, his other hand gripping his wand tightly. As Voldemort's hand lowered, those in the crowd still standing began to look alarmed, then frightened. And then they all fell to their knees as one, some pushing upward against the invisible force driving them down, some falling completely onto their sides or bellies. Voldemort kept the pressure up just long enough to make his point - then dropped his hand, releasing the crowd from the force. There was a general sigh of relief, but no one spoke aloud. Voldemort waited to make sure no one would. Then he smiled, a strange, lipless, sharp-toothed grin. And he spoke with the same kind of piercing intensity with which he had whispered. "Welcome," he said in a relatively soothing, kindly tone. It may have been genuinely soothing and kindly sounding if the Dark Lord's voice hadn't sounded like his face looked: as though it had been scarred, burned, stripped raw and left to regrow without medical assistance. "Do any of you not know who I am?" No one raised a hand. Everyone gawked open-mouthed - except for Greg, Boyd, Jordan, and Draco, who kept their faces humbly lowered. "I presume you have come here to learn how to join the Opposition," Voldemort continued, sounding very much like a Professor on the first day of class.

"Death Eaters," Chas called out, trying to make clear exactly which part of the 'Opposition' he intended to become involved with.

Voldemort's wand flicked almost imperceptibly, and Chas fell over backward, his head snapping back with alarming force. "You have not earned the right to speak that name. You have not shown me..." he paused to allow the significance of that pronoun to sink in. "... any reason to think that you might be considered for admission to such a privileged rank. You have not even demonstrated any qualities sufficiently desirable that I would be tempted to admit you to the Opposition at all - as a Death Eater, or as anything else."

To the relief of the people surrounding him, Chas began to stir once again. He struggled to right himself and found that he could only struggle back to a kneeling position by keeping his head beneath a very low ceiling. Apparently, the spell with which Voldemort had forced them all to kneel was still in effect, keeping Chas, at least, from rising at will.

"This organization is based on discipline," Voldemort lectured. "Its tenets are simple, and easy to follow. Among the most important of those tenants is this: wizards are better than muggles. Wizard society is better than muggle society. And wizards' artifacts are better than muggle artifacts. The truth of this is self-evident. And yet, I see you here before me, wearing garments that are not in the least part wizards' garments. How did this occur?"

A dozen voices immediately began to explain variations on the 'Vince called a beer party' story. Voldemort listened for a few seconds, then shouted "Silence!" Everyone immediately quieted. "Do you not 'party' in garments befitting the wizards and witches that you are? You, girl," he pointed directly at Violet Brown. "How did you decide to don that apparel when you dressed today?"

"I dressed to please you, My Lord," she replied demurely, lowering her gaze, then looking back up from beneath her lashes.

"And since you know I would be most pleased by a young witch wearing a young witch's robe, I suppose by 'please me' you mean something else. Did you mean to seduce me, young lady?"

"Whatever My Lord wishes," she murmured, leaning forward and spreading her hands as she knelt.

"Do you know to what lengths my carnal desires run?" Voldemort spat back sarcastically.

"I would love to find out," Violet replied in the deepest, richest tone she could.

"Do you know that my last several partners have not survived their first night with me?" Violet turned completely white and shuddered in place. "Do you still wish to seduce me, girl?"

Trembling, Violet managed to say, "Whatever My Lord wishes."

Voldemort sighed. "That is safe enough, I suppose. I do not wish to slaughter my entire army, nor all of those people who support my army. So I do NOT wish for you to try to seduce me. I wish that you... and all of you... would wear clothing appropriate to your proud heritage as magic users. Wear robes. When you study, when you party, when you fight - wear robes! If you wish to accessorize... wear your school ties." Voldemort smiled, and the effect was more frightening than if he had continued scowling.

"Another thing!" he snapped suddenly. "I am not 'Your Lord.' If you believe me to be, then I commend you on your good taste. But none of you have earned the privilege to address me as such. You may call me 'Sir' until I tell you otherwise." He paced across his dais, back and forth, a few steps at a time, surveying the silent crowd before him. Finally, he stopped and pointed out one individual. "There is one example to be set here. Vincent Crabbe... Stand!"

Vincent shot up faster than it would have been possible to rise without magical assistance.

Voldemort regarded the boy for a long while before saying anything. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with regret. "I sent you out among people of your own age to bring me back recruits. You have shown up with a goodly number of candidates. So I do not, thankfully, have to kill you. However, you knew... even if you did not inform your associates... that you were coming to see me. Coming to see me for a serious, possibly even crucial meeting which might well decide your own future in my organization. And what is it that you have covering your body, boy?"

"These are cargo pants, Mmm... Sir," Vincent was clearly terrified.

"Cargo pants..." Voldemort mused. "A muggle artifact, made for carrying other muggle artifacts, by muggles and for muggles. You wore them here. Have you no respect at all for my organization, my beliefs, or all the work I have done to insure that wizards might one day take their proper place at the head of all of the world's workings?"

"Yes, Sir!" Vincent nearly screamed.

"Yes, you have no respect?"

"No, Sir!" Vincent begged, the tears about to spill from his eyes.

"No, you have no respect?" Voldemort snarled. Vincent was speechless. That was the moment the Dark Lord had been waiting for. "Crucio!"

Draco had seen Cruciatus cast before. His father had cast it, in the Malfoy home, on a wizard with whom he had suffered a dispute. Lucius would most likely have beaten Draco if he had realized that his son had been spying, but the youngster had been clever and had escaped without being detected.

That experience had been very different from this one. In that case, Draco had seen his own father dispensing justice with the unforgivable curse, imposing his own righteous will on a family enemy. Draco had been safely hidden, and had escaped without becoming involved. He had gone back to his room, excited by feelings he could not explain. He had been proud of his father, and contemptuous of the other man. He had hoped that he would learn to wield such power some day. But there had been more to it than that. There had been a thrill in seeing the curse cast, and in watching the other man helplessly writhing, that had given him fuel for fantasies night after night for quite some time. In this claustrophobic stone room, fully exposed, with one of his own friends under the curse, and a truly frightening creature casting it, Draco had a very different set of feelings. He watched Vincent crumple to the ground and writhe, his eyes rolled completely back, showing nothing but white, and Draco was afraid. He had felt many things toward Crabbe in the past few hours, from contempt and disgust to anger and impatience. But seeing him like this, he felt compassion for the boy. Crabbe was stupid. He brought this on himself. And yet, for those very reasons, seeing this display of Cruciatus was like watching someone torture an animal. Crabbe would learn something from this experience. He would learn, mostly, that Voldemort could hurt him very, very badly. But he wouldn't learn anything that was very useful, that would make him a better follower of the Dark Lord, or a better student of magic, or a better person at all. It was all sadly pointless. Draco felt more disgust than ever for the leader of the 'Opposition.'

Which made his next few moments very trying. Voldemort released Vincent from the Cruciatus, and once more scanned the crowd. People shivered in fear as the Dark Lord's gaze passed near to them, and sighed in relief as it moved on. Inspecting the entire group, Voldemort finally looked near the back of the room. He smiled. His gaze locked onto Draco. "Draco Malfoy!" the Dark Lord cried out. "Come here!"

Smoothly, betraying no emotion, Draco rose and walked toward Voldemort. He really had no idea what to do as he drew closer. If he obeyed the instruction exactly, he would have to step onto the dais, putting him on Voldemort's own level. He hesitated before taking that step and saw Voldemort's hands make a tiny, encouraging motion. Draco stepped up and walked to within about a meter of the Dark Lord. Then, just as smoothly as he had risen, he sank to his knees once again. The maneuver put him right next to the throne. Draco knew that such symbolism would not have been allowed to occur by accident. This was a message to him, and to anyone else clever enough to read it.

"Tell these people what has been happening to your father!" Voldemort commanded, and took a step backward to allow everyone in the room a clear view of the young Malfoy kneeling next to the throne.

"My father was arrested and put on trial for supporting the doctrine of wizard superiority," Draco announced. "He faces death at the hands of the Ministry for killing those who fought against us, who denied the natural superiority of wizards, and who strove to keep us from taking control of our world. He has had his property - my home - seized by the Ministry in their greed to take what is ours and apply it to their own muggle-loving programs and policies."

"And you, boy? Where have you been?"

"In hiding, Sir, to avoid Ministry persecution."

"And where have you hidden?"

Draco's mind raced. He concentrated on showing no reaction. "Thank you for trusting me not to answer, Sir," he said humbly. "But as we both know, neither of us can be sure which of these people is a Ministry spy."

Voldemort grinned, staring at the young Malfoy. Then a single, harsh "Ha!" escaped his lips. Draco feared for his life. But then another "Ha!" and another, and then a string of them followed. Then, the Dark Lord was laughing, sounding genuinely amused. Draco relaxed, striving to keep from showing how relieved he was.

"Very good, boy. It is thinking like that which keeps our people alive! Now, do any of you have any questions of me?"

Someone on the far side of the room asked about the Dark Mark. Voldemort glared at the boy and began scolding him for wanting a badge of office before he had earned the right to join the organization. Draco checked everywhere he could see. The audience's eyes were focused on Voldemort. The Dark Lord was focused on the boy he was scolding. Pettigrew was still kneeling, facing away from Draco. It was now or never. Draco reached into his robe pocket, and through an opening there into his muggle pants pocket. He drew forth the Weasleys' device. Under cover of spreading his arms to keep his balance while in the unfamiliar kneeling position, he put one hand beneath the stone throne and pressed the Ear up against the bottom of the seat.

The Ear deployed much like a piece of chewing gum - it was soft and sticky, and would adhere to almost any surface if it were simply pressed there. Unlike the old Extensible Ears, which actually extended through space to allow a person's natural ear a more convenient place from which to eavesdrop, this model transmitted any vibration magically to a receiver in the Weasleys' warehouse office. The throne was low, wide and heavy. The wad of gum stuck to the bottom of it would hardly be noticeable, especially as Draco pressed it hard enough to squash the malleable surface as flat as possible. He withdrew his hand from beneath the throne, made a few more balance-maintaining gestures and returned to kneeling motionlessly on the dais. He was not called upon to speak, and since most people's questions were either very stupid, or involved things that Draco had been taught years since by his father, the time seemed to stretch interminably. But finally, the Dark Lord was willing to let them all go. He cast a spell on another ugly old piece of rope, which he told them would make this portkey work in reverse - sending them back to where they had started from, in this case, Vincent's back yard. He gave them some standard warnings against discussing any of this with outsiders, and reminded them that the penalty for betraying the Opposition was death. No one present doubted him. Then he flicked his wand at the huge stone door, which opened silently for him, and he left the room. Pettigrew was on his feet immediately.

"Move, you sluggards!" He commanded. "You need to be out of this room and back to your regular places in your lives - now!"

Everyone took hold of the rope except Crabbe, who waited until he was sure no one was left out. Then he grabbed the end of the rope and the group vanished from the throne room.

-

Albus Dumbledore walked slowly through the castle's front entrance and took his time about making his way to the stairway to his office. He had been expecting someone to arrive at the castle to meet with him, and had presumed that she would be waiting by the front door, or sitting on one of the benches within sight of the entrance. Since that was not the case, he guessed that the woman was late, which could be a bad sign for several reasons. It might indicate that she was not in the habit of being punctual, which would be bad for class scheduling if she were to become employed by the school. Or, it could indicate that - as the Ministry's chosen replacement for the missing Professor Snape - she felt that she was too important to be held to appointments, and too powerful to be disciplined for missing them. Dumbledore sighed. Last year had been a trial, and if Pennyroyal Routhe was anything like Dolores Umbridge, this year was starting out in the same way.

So it was that the Headmaster was quite surprised to turn into the corridor which led to his office stairway and see his applicant waiting at the foot of the stairs for him. She was not late, but rather, must have been quite early in order to have gotten across the grounds and into the castle before he left the greenhouses. This small fact brought a large amount of relief to the Headmaster. Perhaps this year would not be plagued by as much Ministry interference as he had feared, after all.

To avoid startling the woman, Albus cleared his throat, and began welcoming her to Hogwarts as soon as he entered the corridor in which she stood. She turned toward him with a bright smile, clutching an accordion folder filled with papers to her chest, while a leather case, apparently also full, stood by her feet. She shifted the accordion folder to free her right hand, and reached out to shake Dumbledore's. The Headmaster murmured the password, and the column behind the gargoyle began to turn, gradually revealing the staircase.

Pennyroyal Routhe watched the display with delight. As the bottom step was finally placed into position right in front of her feet, she turned her sparkling gaze back to Dumbledore. "That is wonderful!" she gushed. "This whole castle is wonderful! The way it just appears before you as you approach, the beautiful lawn, the sounds of the animals down the hill, the lovely forest all around... and now this! Wonderful."

Dumbledore smiled politely at the praise. "You... ahhhh... didn't... study at Hogwarts... did you?"

"Oh, no Dear," Madame Routhe confided, reaching out her hand to rest it on the Headmaster's forearm. "I was at so many schools, none of them could claim me. My family always said they were Gypsies." She laughed out loud until she realized that Dumbledore was not joining in, but merely looking confused. "They weren't, of course. That is, they weren't descended from Romany. There were no actual Kings in Disguise in my family tree - we just travelled as though there were!" She laughed once again, and this time Dumbledore joined with a weak chuckle, quickly returning to his indulgent smile. "Well, you know where I haven't been," Madame Routhe continued merrily. "You'll want to know where I have... let's see. I was in America for a long time. Salem, of course. And Southern California. We called it 'Hollyweird' so routinely, I imagined that most of the world knew the school by that, rather than its formal name. But America... everything's so new, so utilitarian. It's like they didn't want to have any fun building a wizard school. Salem had a 'Colonial' theme... with me being English, guess who got picked on as a 'Tory' all the time... but California. Oh! Flat walls, square corners, off-white everything. As boring as it could be! I was in France for a while. Beauxbatons for my fifth year. And that was pretty, but... all kind of nose-in-the-air, you know. All sort of 'This way, Girls, we're better than all of those English people.' All the time knowing that I was English and that I had learned their language to study at their school, while they were nearly helpless in mine... Well! I can tell you I didn't appreciate their attitude in the least. But this... this is wonderful!"

Madame Routhe paused for a breath, and Dumbledore took the opportunity to invite her up to his office. She thanked him, fumbled with her file folder and her case, got them all under control after a bit of juggling, and set off up the stairs at a measured, determined pace. When they reached the office, the candy dish floated over toward the guest, and the Headmaster offered, "Sherbet lemon?" Madame Routhe inspected the dish from several angles, put down her case and took two.

"Wonderful. This is how a magical office should be, Professor. Floating candy. There are a number of schools that could use a bit of your attitude."

"I can assure you... our classes are... definitely not... dishes of floating candies, Madame Routhe. I expect our students to attain the highest levels of academic achievement. And the man whose... recently vacated... place you are applying to take... was one of the best practitioners of the art of potion making... in the world." Dumbledore fixed her with a piercing stare. "His classes are already... quite advanced. You are familiar with Professor Snape?"

Madame Routhe returned a beaming smile. In a tone almost joyful, she explained, "Of course I know Professor Snape's work, Professor. Not the man, but his work. And his work is truly exquisite. You were fortunate to have had him. And, if I understand correctly, he may not have truly expired in that... what was it?... tropical exploration disaster. You may be fortunate to have him once again. But for now, you need to find someone to teach your students. And if Professor Snape is unable to do so, you need to take someone who is available. And I'm sure you would prefer someone who is enthusiastic. And I would love the chance to teach your students Potions, Professor. I truly would."

"Well, then," Dumbledore replied, in a businesslike tone, "perhaps you could tell me what experience your time at the Ministry has allowed you... in the field of Potions, that is."

"Oh, there is just so much!" Madame Ruth enthused, gazing into the air as though to check a list. "I routinely make headache remedies, and tummy soothers... the Ministry generates a lot of call for those, and I don't mean with the Cafeteria food. Our workers are frequently under a great deal of stress. So there are calming potions, to allow our staff to wind down after a hard day - and sleeping potions for those nights when the work follows people home and won't leave them alone to get their rest. And alertness potions to keep workers on their toes... especially when the number of hours worked in a day becomes burdensome. And... I'm sure I can tell you this, you'll understand... there is always a call for a potion to remedy the ill effects of too much drinking. The night before, that is! Never on duty, but... well, there's nothing more deleterious to one's work performance than a hangover, is there, Professor?"

Dumbledore's indulgent smile had faded long before Madame Routhe's recitation had finished. "These... particular brews... all fall into the category that we in academe refer to as... ahhh... 'medicine chest' potions. I am sure they are helpful and necessary. But... surely you have experience in more... hmmm... challenging recipes?"

"Professor," Madame Routhe said reproachfully. "If you have ever seen an entire Department infected with influenza, I am sure you will agree that there could be no more valuable potion than one that relieves symptoms while inhibiting contagion."

Dumbledore was beginning to look a bit worried. "Yes, I understand. But... I also know that the Ministry has some very... stringent requirements... for some of the potions they use. For example: have you ever brewed polyjuice?"

Madame Routhe looked scandalized. "That's illegal!"

"It is," the Headmaster replied carefully, "unless it is for the use of an auror performing a Ministry-sanctioned undercover investigation. I know that the Ministry has used polyjuice in a number of very... demanding... situations. Have you brewed the potion?"

"Hardly," Madame Routhe replied stiffly. "If... or, that is... whenever a potion of that sort is required, it is made in absolute secrecy. I would guess that the auror who is to use it would most likely brew it himself, so as to be the only person who knows of its existence."

Dumbledore looked very stern as he persisted in his questioning. "How about veritaserum?"

"Professor!" Madame Routhe gasped. "Are you trying to shock me? Veritaserum is an extremely tightly controlled substance. Every vial of it must be kept in double-locked cabinets, strictly numbered and used only with a special Ministerial order."

"Nonetheless, Madame Routhe, despite the strict controls placed on its use, veritaserum is frequently used by aurors specially trained in the interrogation techniques that include it. And, less frequently, in obtaining certain testimony in a court of law. It is the Ministry, after all, which issues the orders for its use, and so... as a Ministry potions expert... have you brewed veritaserum?"

Madame Routhe looked a bit put out by this line of questioning. "You seem to know a lot about Ministry potions, Professor, and since you do, I would guess that you are perfectly aware that your own Professor Snape has, over the past five years or more, essentially cornered the market for veritaserum brewing on behalf of the Ministry. Professor Snape has put even such illustrious individuals as Mister Dinwiddie and Doktor Gephardt essentially out of business so far as British Ministry purchases of veritaserum is concerned. He has created such an intense niche market within our government, in fact, that no Ministry potions makers have made so much as a single vial of veritaserum for our own government's use for... as I said... at least the past five years."

Dumbledore let the subject of Professor Snape drop immediately. "Perhaps you are experienced with some of the rarer brews, then. Have you made a lineage potion?"

"Ha!" Madame Routhe's laugh was a startled bark. "That's rare, all right. I doubt that the lineage potion has been used as admissible evidence for... well, for anything... in over two hundred years. As I'm sure you know, since you're quizzing me about it, the person who is going to use the lineage potion has to be involved in the brewing process. There is the donation of certain... bodily fluids... and the more input the subject has into the making of the potion, the more revealing it will be. But few of us test for blue-bloodedness very often, any more. And no, I have not brewed the potion for myself, so... no. I haven't ever made one."

"I need to know that my students are being instructed by someone with the proper knowledge and experience," Dumbledore said gravely. "And as I have said, our potions program is rather advanced, even in the early years. For example, before they complete their O.W.L.s, our students will have learned to brew a potion that regresses aging. It is usually tested on amphibians. If the... frog, for example... can be regressed to its tadpole state, then the potion is considered a success. That is powerful magic to be put into a vial, Madame Routhe."

The Ministry potion maker relaxed and smiled once again. "I know how to make that one, Professor. I have passed my O.W.L.s - and my N.E.W.T.s - and I have been to university." She patted the heavy files she had brought with her. "I have all of the documentation concerning my education and the results of my tests right here, and the potion you are asking after was included in my own pre-O.W.L. studies, as well. But seriously, what is the real use of such a brew? The Ministry knows perfectly well that the "Youth" potion is most often requested in a very dilute form by vain witches who want their skin to remain smooth. You can do a lot more harm than good by using it that way, and so the Ministry has made it easy for all of us to deny such requests by forbidding us from making it. And really, if we are talking practical utility, your students will get a lot more use out of a good, simple headache remedy than they will out of a frog-to-tadpole concoction, or any of the dizzyingly complex recipes for potions whose only use is as tasteless jokes. The Ton-Tongue potion is very difficult to make - and even trickier to hide in candy, where it is usually concealed by the pranksters who fancy it. But what good is it? It's not even funny after you've seen it once. And potions that turn one's hair blue, or cause the poor victim to sprout horns or grow fangs, no matter how temporarily... all of that is just meanness. Even the more traditional of the 'difficult' potions - things like invisibility or levitation... Professor, if a Ministry official really needed to fly, he could use a broomstick. And invisibility is simply unethical. Who needs to be invisible? Criminals and spies are the only ones I can think of off the top of my head. But when your baby is sick, you're going to need a stomach ache remedy. When your co-worker has a cold, you're going to need something to help you keep from getting it. When your friend breaks his arm blocking a bludger in a quiddich match, a good, strong pain-killer is worth all the blue-hair potions in the world. So if you insist, I can teach the children how to brew difficult, dangerous, nearly useless potions. But I would like to give them something to take with them through life, to make those lives better."

Dumbledore was clearly disappointed. "I appreciate the sentiment, Madame Routhe," he said with an air of finality. "And I thank you for your interest. I would... as you may expect... like to make sure that I have the chance to interview every applicant. Thank you for coming."

"Call me Penny," Madame Routhe beamed. "It's short for Pennyroyal. I think you'll have plenty of opportunity to use it." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at that, but offered no comment. Pennyroyal tilted her head to the side and smiled even more broadly. "Professor, there are only two weeks until your term begins. Unless you hire someone else today, no one who is currently employed will be able to give their employer two weeks' notice and still be able to start work here on your first day of classes. And there is some preparation required before class begins, so whoever you hire will need to be here in less than two weeks. Much less, in order to get everything ready for the students to arrive. From the questions you're asking, I can tell you wouldn't consider hiring someone who is not currently employed..." She looked expectantly at him, waiting for some confirmation. Dumbledore looked back calmly, giving nothing away. Madame Routhe sighed. "I hate for it to come to this, but I suppose it must. Professor, if you don't have a Potions professor in place by the week before classes begin, the Ministry will appoint me to the position, by the authority they hold." She looked away for a moment and laughed self-depreciatingly. "I don't make these kinds of decisions. This is just what my supervisor told me. I like my job at the Ministry. I fully intend to go back to it once my teaching here is over. But... you don't have anyone, do you? Do you?" She looked imploringly at the Headmaster, who shifted uncomfortably, but made no reply. "I would really much rather have you hire me than have the Ministry put me here. I want to get along with all of the staff... and with you. And with all of the students, of course. I look forward to seeing them, especially the youngest ones. They're so cute at that age! But... But if I get appointed to the position by the Ministry... it will appear as though I were put here by force. I don't imagine that it will be very easy for the other professors to like me. You do understand... don't you?"

Dumbledore stood silently for quite some time. He hummed a bit. Cleared his throat several times, and finally said, "Madame Routhe... Penny... you put me in a difficult position. I do not... appreciate... being dictated to. However... if the Ministry has the confidence in you... sufficient to make you the appointee on behalf of the Ministry's... obligation... to insure proper staffing of this school... then, I say that perhaps I should give you an opportunity to... prove yourself. I won't suggest that it will be easy. But, if you are willing... Welcome aboard, Professor Routhe. That is... Penny. Come. Let me show you your classrooms."

"Oh, good," Pennyroyal gushed. "I hope they have good north light. A bright, sunny, open area always puts children in the mood to learn, don't you think?"

Dumbledore simply smiled and led the way down the stairs.

-

The first day of the term that would begin sixth year for Ron and Hermione still felt like summer in the south of England. While English summers have few truly hot days, the morning on which the Weasleys were to make their way to the station to meet the Hogwarts Express was still warm, and gave Ron a feeling that he should stay in bed and relax for a while before starting the harried rush to the train that began every school year. Molly put a stop to that idea right away, and - much earlier than he would have liked - Ron was dressed and dragging his trunk downstairs to where his parents waited to drive him and Ginny to the depot.

Everything was in order much more quickly than had been the case in years past. Molly kept looking around nervously, convinced that she had forgotten some of her children. But Percy was working at the Ministry, Fred and George were in business for themselves, and Bill and Charlie had both been overseas pursuing their own careers for years. On this day, there were only Ron and Ginny to pack off to school, and the orderliness and practicality of shepherding only two children disoriented Mrs. Weasley. She took her discomfort out on Arthur by taking issue with his insistence on using a muggle artifact - an automobile - to transport them all to the station. She worried that the car would run out of fuel, that the traffic would be too heavy, and a dozen other things besides.

Arthur, for his part, was melancholy. At least Ron still had two years of school to go. Once Arthur's youngest son had graduated Hogwarts, there would be no way for the man to deny his advancing age. Even his baby, Ginny, was undeniably an adolescent, who had grown into a very attractive young lady. She looked quite a bit like her mother had looked at her age, and Arthur wondered when he had given up his fantasy that his daughter, at least, was still a tiny child, and had admitted to himself that she - and all of his sons - were either growing up... or already grown. It had been very recently, he knew. And that had been long after Ginny herself had started thinking that she was very much an adult. Arthur knew that his daughter had suffered some experiences that had cruelly and criminally given her a glimpse of the worst parts of adult thought. The episode with Tom Riddle's diary had been horrible, and had made Arthur wish that, when the Order of the Phoenix defeated Voldemort, Arthur would be granted a few hours to punish the so-called 'Dark Lord' for what he had done to help destroy Ginny's innocence. But despite all of her adventures, Ginny was still a very good girl, who had managed to remain mentally balanced with a solid, strong helping of common sense. With a sigh, Arthur ushered his family to the car. Three, besides himself. Wife, son, daughter. The full compliment of many families, but for him, a gathering that was almost lonely. He was used to the chaotic bustle of a family of nine, but he knew that - except for special gatherings like holidays or reunions - the nine-member Weasley family would hardly ever all be together again.

Fred and George still visited. They had kept their habit of sharing dinners with the family nearly every Sunday for quite some time. But his oldest sons were so far away, and visited so infrequently, that they were practically strangers to him now. He saw the mature men they had become and he wondered who they were now, how they lived their lives, what they really thought or felt about anything. Arthur could see the way his wife looked at Bill whenever he visited, and how she stared at his pierced ear and the generous amount of leather in his wardrobe. Arthur knew Molly worried that Bill was homosexual, but he also knew that he could never discuss it with her. His most tangential comments about Bill's appearance had brought swift and irritated changes of subject from Molly in every case. But he also knew that his wife's fierce love for all of their children would overcome whatever revelations Bill might choose to make to his mother. At least Bill was a pleasant, personable conversationalist, always engaging and entertaining throughout every visit. Charlie always seemed to be thinking about something far away whenever he came home, and he never confided to anyone in the family what those things might be. His mother would prod him, asking questions, alternately begging and bullying information from him. And Charlie didn't actually fight against that process - it didn't seem as though he were trying to keep terrible secrets from them all. But though he would answer Molly, and explain what he had been doing at work, where he had been living - even what he had eaten for breakfast, in some cases - he didn't give anyone the impression that he was really sharing any of his life with them. His attitude seemed to be that he used to live with his family, and now he lived somewhere else. And the life that was being lived far away from the family was Charlie's own, and no one else's business. The worst, though, was Percy. Arthur worked in the same building as his son. They lived - for wizards - relatively close to one another. They missed running into one another by mere seconds several times every day as their paths crossed at work. But Arthur almost never saw Percy. And he got the feeling that Percy preferred it that way. It was a heartache every time he thought about it...

"Arthur? Arthur, are you going to start the car, or wait for it to work itself?" Molly, already worried about being late (although by Arthur's reckoning, they were nearly an hour early) stared at her husband in irritation.

Arthur realized that he had been sitting in the driver's seat lost in thought, but he didn't want to admit as much. He smiled at his wife with warm gratitude "Oh. That's right. I have to start the thing, don't I? Molly, you ought to be the one working in the Muggle Artifacts office. You're always so good with these things. Maybe I could stay home and try cooking."

Molly shuddered in horror at the thought of what her husband would do with a stove. "Just drive the car, Arthur. Our children need an education."

Much to Arthur's amazement, there was a parking space near to the station entrance, and it was suitably easy to pull in to. The rest of the family, not familiar with the motorist's constant struggle to find that valuable commodity, 'a good parking place,' hardly appreciated either finding the place nor his skill in fitting his car into it. Molly, at least, was actually irritated when Arthur sat in triumph once he had pulled neatly in to the curb. He held the wheel tightly and beamed around him, admiring his car's proximity to his family's destination, the neat fit of his car within the available space, and the way several other cars cruised slowly past, their drivers glaring at him for taking the space they had wanted for themselves.

"Arthur? What is wrong with you, today?" Molly demanded. "Turn this machine off and let's get the children to the platform."

As Mister Weasley had feared, the family arrived at the station almost exactly an hour prior to their train's departure. This gave the Weasleys plenty of time to choose just when they would pass through the hidden portal that took them to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and Arthur took the opportunity to observe muggle life in action. He was staring hard at a man purchasing a newspaper from a vending machine when his wife punched him on the shoulder.

"They're not circus freaks, Arthur," she whispered furiously.

Arthur looked back at her in shock, too baffled to make any reply.

"You haven't paid admission, or given them anything to make their lives any better," Molly scolded, "so don't stand and gawk at them as though they were museum displays, or... or animals in a zoo. They're not here for your entertainment, they're just... just magically impaired!"

Mister Weasley's face set into a stony scowl. "Let's go to the platform," he said stiffly, "where we can discuss this."

Molly was ready to argue, but the children - recognizing their father's anger - had already started toward the plain brick wall through which they would pass to reach the platform for the Hogwarts Express. Mrs. Weasley hurried after them, not wanting her children out of her sight in such a potentially dangerous place as the train station.

Once the four Weasleys had made the passage through the wall, and were all standing on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, Arthur turned to his wife and addressed her in a grating, labored voice that revealed how uncomfortable Mister Weasley was whenever he was angry. "Molly, I have spent my entire professional career studying those people. My office is concerned with their works, exclusively. True, our charter is to prevent wizards and witches from misusing muggle artifacts. Which is good. With all of the power we already possess, we hardly need to go bringing some muggle things, like guns, into our society and doing damage with them. But quite opposite from viewing those people as... what did you say? As zoo animals... I find that I have the greatest respect for them. That's right, respect. Because they are magically impaired. That is a beautiful way to put it, Molly. They are magically impaired. And like a blind man learning to listen - and thus giving the sighted people around him the impression that his hearing has improved to 'compensate' for his lost sight - the muggles have made ingenious things to solve problems differently from the way we would. Not to 'compensate' for the lack of magic, but to live their lives as fully and richly as they possibly can..."

Molly Weasley had been glaring at her husband, angry that one of their rare arguments was ruining the occasion that they were really here for: seeing their children off to a new school term. Arthur had expected the glare, and the hard, determined stance his wife assumed whenever she was challenged. But he was surprised to see her gaze shift away from him, her eyes focus somewhere far behind him, and her expression completely change. He turned to look over his shoulder and immediately understood what Molly's outburst in the muggle portion of the station had been all about. He had gotten the message wrong, and he would have to do something... once the kids were on their way... to let his wife know that he understood what had caused her upset. Arthur stopped speaking, turned around, and slipped his arm around his wife's waist. He managed a smile and waved cheerfully to the new arrivals on the platform, the Grangers.

Molly felt her husband's tension ebb as he held her. That told her, more accurately than anything he could have said, that he finally understood what their disagreement had been about. But men were such plodding, literal-minded creatures, she would have to allow him to apologize with a day of shopping followed by a nice dinner and perhaps a play, since they were in London already. And maybe even something more. Possibly after the show, they could go somewhere cozy and romantic for drinks and then apparate directly back to their own bedroom. Arthur could go fetch the ridiculous automobile tomorrow. There could be some advantages to having the children gone off to school after all.

But the rest of her feelings were not so easily dealt with. She had seen the Grangers entering the platform - Hermione striding forward with complete confidence, her parents looking rather awestruck, as they frequently did around magical places and situations - at the very moment Arthur had been going on and on about 'those people.' It was the most awkward situation Molly could have foreseen, and surely enough it had come to pass. Fortunately, Arthur had realized who was approaching and had shut up quickly. So there was one potential embarrassment avoided. But although Molly smiled and waved, she could not be said to be happy about meeting the Grangers again. She could sense her son nearby, and was peripherally aware that he seemed to have grown several inches. All that had actually happened was that Ron had drawn himself up to his full height - not strutting as a boy might do while trying to catch a girl's attention, but standing with the kind of confident pride a boy had who knew the girl's attention was already his. Molly focused on that approaching girl for a moment. Hermione was bright, cheerful, and a very respectable young lady... the very kind of girl Molly would like if Hermione weren't sinking her claws into Ron. Molly was convinced that her son could do better if he would only apply himself to the task. Hermione was kind of a lumpy potato of a girl, her nose too big, her eyes uneven, her hair such a dreary brown. And as smart as she undoubtably was, she did tend to be bossy and to come off as a know it all. But those disadvantages could be overlooked easily enough. Some of the finest women in witch history had been plain, and every mother needed to be authoritarian on occasion - Molly herself had to admit to resorting to the use of sheer force of personality to keep her unruly children in line in certain rare instances.

What could not be so easily overlooked were the pair of people walking behind Hermione. Molly tried to see them as good people with professional careers who had somehow adjusted to the fact of their daughter having powers they never believed possible - and belonging to a society they never would have believed existed. But she couldn't.

They were muggles.

Molly had never said this to Ron. She had never given in to her urge to shout at him, to look into his eyes and demand of him - with all of the girls at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - why, Son, why could you not have found someone of our own kind?

Oh, Hermione had magic of her own, that was certain. But her success at school was all due - as she had said herself - to 'books and cleverness.' She studied. She practiced. She paid attention in class. She worked hard at developing her magic. And so, at school she passed her tests with flying colors and received grades that the scions of the most traditional wizard families could only envy.

But as Molly watched the little family group approaching her own across the platform, as she saw her son's future mother in law and father in law smiling and waving, she saw a girl who was a foreigner, desperately trying to fit into an alien world, and two adults with whom she would never have a really comfortable conversation. There would always be a 'translation' step after any statement. They may as well hire an interpreter to help provide both sides with the basic assumptions that were necessary for either couple to understand what the other was talking about.

Molly was not prejudiced. She did not hate muggles, nor needlessly belittle them. She had never called anyone a 'mudblood.' She gone through her entire life without following any of the traditional wizarding social-practice forms. She believed that the arrogance which drove the modern followers of such traditions was born of fear and insecurity. And worse, the fanaticism that arose from the worship of the old ways and the ancient bloodlines led to atrocities such as Voldemort's. That nonsense was contemptible, and she was proud to stand with her husband and Albus Dumbledore in direct opposition to the Tom Riddles and Lucius Malfoys of this world.

But her son was going to marry a muggle-born girl, and Molly did not relish the prospect of struggling to communicate with her in-laws to be.

She had brought the subject up to Arthur after the last time Hermione had visited the Burrow. Arthur had laughed! He had said that Hermione was Ron's first serious affair, but that he didn't believe that the romance would end in marriage. Molly had fired question after question back at him. They were all rhetorical, so there was no need to waste time waiting for him to try to reply. And that was a good thing, too. There were no answers to these questions that fit his ridiculous view of the situation! 'So why was the girl staying at our home?' 'Why was Ron spending the night in the Grangers' muggle house?' 'Why were the kids spending their entire summer break together, or planning to be together, or writing to each other about how wonderful it had been to be together?' 'Didn't he remember their own courtship, how young they had been... how passionate they had been?' Arthur had merely sighed and pointed out that the children had been well-chaperoned and no harm had been done. Molly had been furious, and they had both gone to bed angry that night - a practice that Molly and Arthur both tried to avoid.

Of course, Molly knew that Arthur was interested in the Grangers for no better reason than that they were muggles. He wanted to talk about telephones and automobiles, power chisels and blendmasters, and all the cluttered claptrap of lives lived without the benefit of any magic at all.

And as she had known would happen, here went Arthur once again, extending his hand to Mister Granger, and asking about something called a selfown even before the greetings had all been exchanged.

Molly was saying hello to Mrs. Granger when something registered on her parental radar - something strange enough that she had to turn away from her just-begun conversation to look at it more directly. Hermione had gone straight toward Ron, as Molly had expected. Mrs. Weasley had hoped that the children's public show of affection would not be sufficiently prurient to require parental intervention. But what had happened was even more shocking. Hermione had hugged Ron briefly - a squeeze of a second or less - and had immediately pulled away from the boy to greet Ginny! Molly turned toward the children, only to find Hermione directly in front of her, stepping up to deliver a warm, affectionate hug... a hug, Molly couldn't help but notice, of significantly longer duration than the quick squeeze she had allowed Ron. Arthur was next in line, and he, too, received an enthusiastic, loving embrace.

This left Ron gaping in disbelief. Realizing that something might be expected of him, he turned to Hermione's parents. "Uh... Hi," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. His greeting was returned with warm smiles. Ron wasn't quite sure what had happened, but he was nowhere near as confident, or as cocky, as he had been moments before.

Hermione chattered away happily, catching the adult Weasleys up on her plans for the coming term - and drawing some irritated glances from Ginny and Ron as she described the organization she had applied to her studies even before school had begun. Molly was certainly impressed with one thing: Hermione had her entire schedule worked out, along with her strategy for getting from one class to the next on time, despite the frequently long and difficult walks between rooms. She had also arranged for some empty periods between classes, to allow her to complete an assignment given in the previous class before going on to the next one. She had already read part of each class' textbook, as well, and sounded almost apologetic as she explained that with such a high volume of recommended summer reading, she hadn't had time to finish them all. Ron and Ginny, by contrast, knew what subjects they were to be taking, but had no idea what hours of which days those classes would be held. And while Molly had made sure each of her children had completed the minimum 'recommended reading' for the summer, she was quite aware that neither had read anything above that minimum, nor had they opened any of their textbooks.

Hermione was happily describing her extensive owl-posts with the school over the summer, apparently oblivious to the glares coming from the younger Weasleys, when she recalled something tangential to class scheduling, and interrupted her story to announce, "Oh, that's another strange thing. Neville's working in the Herbology Department. He's apparently been there all alone for the past few weeks, keeping the collection of plants healthy without any teachers' assistance whatsoever. He's apparently doing great. And Harry is gone, I have no idea where."

"Do you think he'll be joining you on the train today, then?" Molly inquired sweetly.

Hermione got no chance to answer. Ginny's face twisted into a fierce snarl as she spat, "Harry." Her voice carried a bitterness beyond her years as she grated, "If he does join us today, I know what I'll say to him first. Thanks for the letters, Harry. Thanks for coming back to visit us more than once. Thanks for staying in touch."

Ron gaped at his little sister, truly shocked at her vehemence. "God, Ginn, you think maybe you came on too strong last time he came by? You think you might have scared him off?"

Ginny tossed her hair back with a quick shake of her head. Haughtily, her voice icy, she insisted, "I expressed an interest." Her expression contorted into a mask of fury once again as she glared directly into her brother's eyes and snarled, "Which he threw back into my face." She turned her back on her brother and smiled sweetly at the Grangers, who were striving to pretend they had not noticed the exchange.

Molly encouraged Hermione to talk about the coming term some more, since that would prolong the time during which she would not have to search for a topic of conversation to share with Mrs. Granger. Hermione gladly complied, describing how each of her classes would contribute to her studies for passing her N.E.W.T.s. But both families had arrived at the platform early, and soon enough, Ginny asked Hermione about some of the other students at Hogwarts, Arthur took the opportunity to inquire about selfowns again - a subject about which Mister Granger was eager to expound - and the two adult women were facing one another directly. Molly had no idea what to say, and she was shocked at how the other woman began their conversation.

"I was reading the Daily Prophet this morning..."

Molly shook her head quickly, not quite believing her ears. "You get the Prophet?"

"Well..." Mrs. Granger said with a grin, looking toward her daughter. "Technically, Hermione gets the paper. She subscribed... when was it? Some time ago, anyway. I love the moving pictures, although the writing tends to be a bit... strident, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh... yes..." Molly replied distractedly. Mrs. Granger was being quite charitable in her assessment of the newspaper's tone. Saying the Prophet was 'a bit strident' was like saying an apparating elephant was 'a little noisy.' But for a muggle household to subscribe to the Prophet... "How do you...?" Molly tried to ask delicately, and realized that she had merely left a vague question hanging. Mrs. Granger picked up the thread of her inquiry right away, though.

"By owl post, of all things," she laughed. "Every morning, like clockwork."

"With all of Hermione's school correspondence, you must have quite a number of owls around your house every day."

Mrs. Granger actually blushed. "We do, and I hope it hasn't caused any... you know... problems. I suppose your husband might have heard if there had been any complaints. Because he works on... um... non-magical difficulties. Doesn't he?"

"Misuse of... non-magical... artifacts, actually," Mrs. Weasley corrected automatically.

"Oh. Well. The thing is, we do have some retired people in our neighborhood, and they feed the local birds with feeders and seed blocks and by scattering bread crumbs. They all keep bird baths filled in their yards. Some of them have gotten quite good at spotting the regular birds, and identifying each one, and they are all very interested in any unexpected bird that flies by. So this summer, when all of these different owls started arriving - they never seem to see them while the birds are carrying parcels or letters, only after they have delivered - so far. But there were all these owls, all different varieties, all out in daylight... it's driven our neighborhood bird-watchers a little bit crazy. They can't explain it, so they have their binoculars out, and their field guides to common British birds, and they're trying to figure out what has caused such an upheaval in the lives of the owl population. I feel a little bit guilty for getting them all worked up like that, when the whole answer is nothing but the regular owl post, but... I can't very well tell them about it, can I?"

"No. No, you certainly can't. But I'm sorry, I interrupted what you were about to say. You were reading in the Prophet this morning...?"

"Yes. Your Minister Fudge has come under quite a bit of an attack - by our children's schoolmaster. Albus Dumbledore was quoted, quite extensively, being very critical of Minister Fudge on a number of topics. All of which sounded very well-founded. But then again, there was no rebuttal. Nor was there any attempt at leavening the tone of the report on the part of the writer. In fact, the text surrounding the quotes seemed to be calculated to be as inflammatory as possible."

"I'm sorry I missed it. We were in such a rush to leave this morning, I didn't even look through the newspaper."

"Oh. Here, then." Mrs. Granger reached into her large handbag and drew out that morning's copy of the Prophet, already turned back to the article featuring Dumbledore. It was consigned to the back pages, but Molly was quite aware of the recurring strategies used by the Prophet, and could guess that this story had been broken on the back pages so that it could work its way forward in successive days' editions with increasingly vehement quotes from both sides until it was furious enough to splash across the front page with some lurid headline implying an ongoing war between the Headmaster and the Minister. "Since this concerned the school, we wanted to discuss it with Hermione on the way to the station. Last year, there was some problem with Ministry interference in the school. I wanted to make sure Hermione would keep us informed if anything like that happened again."

Molly's face darkened as she recalled the various indignities that had been inflicted upon Hogwarts in the Ministry's name during the past school year. "There certainly were. And it's a very good idea for you to keep a sharp lookout for more of the same. In fact, the parents need to be united to prevent such things from happening in the first place. We should keep in touch during the year... so that we would be ready to speak up as a united group of parents whenever it became necessary."

Mrs. Granger smiled. "I'd like that. I'm not sure quite how we should get word to one another. We could always write... but the way your husband is asking about cell phones, I'll bet we'll have an even quicker means of communication soon."

-

Ron and Hermione boarded the train early, chose a compartment, then roamed the length of the train looking for people they knew. They ran across Crabbe and Goyle, who snarled in a half-hearted way and passed by without saying anything. Apparently, without Malfoy, they were too disorganized to be insulting, let alone any sort of threat.

Many of the people they had known best would not be on this train. Oliver Wood had graduated, as had many of the popular Gryffindors of the class two years ahead of their own, and Neville was already at school. By the time the train was ready to leave, there had been no sign of Harry, nor of Draco Malfoy. Ron and Hermione returned to their compartment, while Ginny went off to find some of her friends, leaving the other two alone.

Almost as soon as the compartment door clicked shut behind Ginny, Ron was reaching out toward Hermione. She turned a neat pirouette and placed her handbag on the rack above their seats. Ron positioned himself so that if Hermione were to take a step away from the rack, she would walk directly into his arms. She stood unmoving.

"Hermione, aren't you going to give me a proper hello kiss?" There was hurt in Ron's voice.

"Ron, we are on the train." Hermione's voice was completely neutral.

"Yes, the train. The Hogwarts Express, on which, even as we speak, boyfriends and girlfriends are giving each other proper hello kisses somewhere in every single car, most of them with audiences much larger than the zero we currently enjoy."

Hermione regarded him with a stern look. "I am not your toy, Ron."

"But you are my girl."

"I don't like that possessive."

"Huh?" Ron had not expected any kind of argument. To have his grammar called into question was completely baffling.

"Your girlfriend. Your girl. Yours. I don't like that. I'm mine. We had fun this summer..."

Ron's face went blank, his voice became cold. "Well, I'll be damned."

"No, you won't," Hermione responded primly. "We didn't do anything bad..."

"That's what I'm talking about," Ron growled. "I slept at your house, inches away from you - except for the damned wall between our rooms. And I'm thinking, 'Be patient, she loves you, be gentle, go slow.' I was an idiot, wasn't I? You never had any intention of having sex with me at all, did you?"

"If you could hear yourself now, you'd know why..."

"What was it, then? 'We had fun this summer.' Listen to your own self! We DID have fun this summer. And at the end of last school year. And for years before that, when we were... when I wasn't trying to fool myself that I had a girlfriend. You liked me. I know that. I thought you loved me. So what was it?"

Hermione sighed, a long-suffering, tired sound. "Ron, did you do the recommended reading?"

Ron's mouth worked for a while, trying to find a word to form. His eyebrows drew close together, his eyes squinted. But try as he might, he could not quite make the jump from having a breakup argument with the girl he loved to answering questions from that girl about a school assignment that was optional, in any case. "What?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "The Hogwarts Recommended Reading List for Students Entering Sixth Year. Did you read it?"

"I read the minimum. Mom made me..." Ron clamped his mouth shut, but realized that he had been too late, and had revealed too much.

"Yes. Your mother made you. You read the minimum because it was easier to do that than it was to fight your mother. Do you remember me telling you what I had done when I got home for summer, the very first thing after I said hello to my parents? I started reading the first book on the list. And why did I do that?"

"Because you're a glutton for punishment," Ron muttered disgustedly.

"No, Ron," Hermione insisted earnestly. "Because I'm not! I didn't want to lose the rhythm of studying, or forget how to take notes or how to review. I didn't want to lay around doing nothing and then try to tackle the list after I had already lost time. And when I came to visit, and asked you what you had read, what did you tell me?"

Ron's mouth was set in a hard line. "I believe I told you I had read 'Quiddich Today.' So what, you're breaking up with me because you don't like the way I do optional homework?"

"No," Hermione replied gently. "I am breaking up with you because you don't pay any attention at all to what excites me. I come to your house excited about what I have read, and you're all dismissive, like 'That's old 'Mione, always with her nose in a book.' What about the ideas and the knowledge and the real, practical power I get out of reading those books? Or don't even think about that. What about the simple fact that I am excited about it?

"I - your girlfriend.

"Am - the situation presented to you when you see me.

"Excited - you ought to understand that one well enough, it's what you wanted me to be.

"About Reading - that refers to all those books I always have my nose in.

"'Your - Girlfriend - Is - Excited.' That ought to turn on some kind of light in your head. But you never took the next little step. You never asked yourself... or me... or your mother's antique crystal ball... what on Earth it was that had made Your Girlfriend Excited. When I told you directly, you dismissed it as ridiculous. It's frustrating, Ron. I came to your house to share, and to talk about ideas. And you didn't want to. You came to my house and I wanted to show you my books. Not because I wanted you to admire the paper and the binding, but because of the ideas in them. And you couldn't wait to brush them away and kiss me and take me out to entertainments and for food. We ate, we saw movies, we rode a roller coaster. All fun things. But while we were doing all of that, what did we talk about? Nothing on the Recommended Reading list, that's for sure."

"Didn't you like kissing me?"

At that, Hermione did step forward, and put her arms loosely around him. She met his eyes directly, and with a gentle smile, she did kiss him... a delicate, sisterly peck. "Ron. I loved kissing you. But we're not really very well suited to each other. Even this argument is a disaster. It's like we're speaking two different languages. Look, I'm going to roam about the train for a while, see if I can find any of the people I'll be sharing classes with. I'll come back for my trunk when we get there, all right? I mean... I'm not expecting you to look after my things. I just meant that I'll be back later. A lot later. I... should go, now. But Ron, you are right about one thing. I do love you. It's... You're... You'll be a lot happier as someone else's boyfriend." She gave him a warm squeeze and stepped past him quickly, clicking open the compartment door and disappearing down the aisle in an instant.

Ron stood unmoving for a long while. She loved him. She was frustrated. She had fun. She should go now. Right. It made no sense. It should have made him furious. Instead, he was only numb. He sat alone in his compartment. It was several miles later that he began to cry, tears rolling down his face as he sat silently, staring unseeing out of the window.

-

Ron and Hermione did not see each other when the train stopped. Ron had pulled his trunk down and dragged it into a completely different car before disembarking. He chose a coach populated by a number of younger students and rode in silence as the others chattered around him.

During the sorting ceremony, Ron looked around for Harry, and soon gave up that search. Harry had missed nearly all of every sorting except for his own during their first year. But Neville had been at Hogwarts all along. He should have been somewhere in the throng. Still, after searching the entire crowd, Ron had not spotted him.

Once the sorting had been completed and the House members were all seated at their separate tables, Dumbledore stood behind his place at the head table, McGonagall sat at her place to the Headmaster's right hand, and the rest of the staff filed in. Flitwick and Trelawney entered together, laughing together at something. Madame Hooch and Madame Pomfrey came into the hall intently discussing something or other, concentrating so hard on whatever it was that they didn't even acknowledge the gathered students before them. Even Professor Binns made an appearance, floating through the hall, and right through the table itself, drawing oohs and ahhs from the first years. Binns could not be bothered to stay for anything as mortal in nature as a feast, however, and he drifted through the far wall and was gone. Ron was watching for Snape, still afraid of the man, even though there were no Potions classes on Ron's schedule for that entire year. But no Snape arrived. Instead, a loud clunking announced the lumbering approach of Mad-Eye Moody. There was a rumble of apprehension throughout the room at his appearance. He sat at a place where no plate nor glass had been set. Those who remembered his last tenure at Hogwarts realized that such a place setting only made sense for a man who would consume nothing that he hadn't prepared himself. Mad-Eye was followed by an unfamiliar woman, and then by Neville Longbottom, who sat at the head table looking out at his fellow students with a sort of dazed smile. All of the staff was present, but there was still no sign of Snape.

Lee Jordan leaned over to Colin Creevey and loudly whispered, "God help us all. Neville Longbottom is teaching potions this year!"

Colin's head snapped up, his eyes wide, staring at the staff table. The boy on the other side of Colin tapped insistently on his shoulder. "What is it?"

"Longbottom is teaching Potions!"

The whisper travelled quickly around the table, and was picked up by whisperers at other tables. Soon the entire hall was hissing with the news: "Neville Longbottom is teaching Potions!"

Suddenly, a fifth-year Hufflepuff, Ian Whitcolm, leapt from his table, screaming. He began to dash toward the tall double doors at the end of the hall.

Standing behind the head table, Dumbledore spoke only one word. "Stop!"

Albus Dumbledore was world-famous as a powerful wizard. But there was an even greater power within him than that of his magic. He had the power of leadership, a natural sense of command. At the Headmaster's single word, all of the whispering in the room ceased instantly. Ian Whitcolm stood as though surrounded by guards, looking fearfully back at the head table.

Dumbledore raised his head so that he was looking down his long nose at the cowering boy. He wasted no words, simply announcing in a questioning tone, "Mister Whitcolm?"

"I don't want to die!" the terrified boy cried.

This drew comments and laughter from various parts of the room. A sweeping look from the Headmaster extinguished the sounds of derision. In a kindly voice, Dumbledore assured the boy, "Nor do I wish to allow that to happen to you." Whitcolm stood frozen, lower lip trembling. "Sit Down, Mister Whitcolm," the Headmaster commanded, and Ian trudged back to his seat with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man returning to death row after a frustrated escape attempt. Dumbledore scanned the room once again, assuring himself of the silence of the assembled students before continuing. "For the benefit of the first year students, I will be introducing the entire Hogwarts staff. For the benefit of everyone, I will begin by introducing members of the faculty who are new... or who are returning to us after an absence. First of all, I would like to introduce our newest... and by far our youngest... staff member, our Professor of Herbology, Neville Longbottom!"

A relieved sigh issued from the entire student body, along with some groans from those angry at having been fooled into believing that Longbottom was going to teach Potions. Ian Whitcolm broke down into combined tears and laughter, his relief was so great. Then there was silence which lasted long enough for Neville to become quite red faced from embarrassment before someone at the Gryffindor table remembered his manners and began to applaud. There followed a rousing round of applause from most of the room, and a barely polite tapping of palms from the Slytherin table, before the next introduction.

When Dumbledore presented Pennyroyal Routhe, she stood and beamed at the crowd. "Hello, dears," she gushed. "I will be taking over your Potions curriculum, and I trust we will all have a great deal of fun and learn a great many useful techniques that will serve you all well throughout your lives. I have taken the liberty of making sure your Potions classes are more well-lit this year than ever before - I believe everyone will benefit from that. And I would like to assure all of you that whenever you need help with anything, that you may always feel free to come visit me in my office."

She sat down amid a stunned silence. 'Great deal of fun?' 'Feel free to come visit?' These couldn't possibly be the statements of a Potions Professor, could they? And by what means had she 'taken the liberty' of making Potions classes more well lit? The dungeons of Hogwarts were dark by their very nature. Even the flames used to heat the cauldrons gave out less light in that environment than they would anywhere else. What could this strange woman possibly mean? Once again, there was a long - and this time, very confused - silence before someone clapped his hands and began a round of applause.

Dumbledore introduced Mad-Eye Moody next. The scarred man stood, his artificial leg scraping the ground more loudly than did his chair as he pushed it back to rise. His magical eye spun wildly in its socket, and his already scowling face took on an expression of grim challenge. "So!" He bellowed, and every student in the room - even those who thought they had been prepared for it - jumped. "I suppose you believe you're all safe... that you live in a safe world, that you go to a safe school. I suppose you have heard your parents... or your grandparents... tell you that the last war solved all of our problems, and that it's all over." He stood glaring at the gathered students, searching for strength and finding only weakness. He stayed silent for a long moment. When he next spoke, his voice shook the room. "It is not over! The evil of dark wizardry is stronger now than it has been in years! And you are all vulnerable to it!" He leaned forward, reaching out and clutching one hand closed as though to grab dark wizardry and display it all to them. With quiet intensity, he said, "I will provide you with the tools you will need to survive these threats. In your other classes, you will be studying for a grade. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, you will be studying to save your lives... and your very souls." He sat, leaving a shaken student body gaping at him. There was a bare pattering of applause. Moody himself hardly seemed to take any notice of it.

The feast following the rest of the introductions was as spectacular as any Hogwarts feast, but Ron ate little and tasted none of it. He left the hall as soon as he could, and climbed to Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady had taken pity on the children returning from a long summer - and on the first years, none of whom would have been familiar with the need for passwords to get into their own bedrooms - and she had chosen a relatively simple word for this term's first password. "Disappearance" was the word. Ron thought it appropriate. It certainly fit his mood.

He couldn't stand the sight of the common room, nor the thought that Hermione would soon be there, so he went up to his own room immediately. It felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Harry hadn't shown himself yet, and Neville had taken other quarters. No one else had come upstairs, yet, so Ron had the room to himself. He felt as though he were in a cell. He looked out of the window at the dark grounds surrounding Hogwarts, and felt the chill in the air. Summer was over.