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.

15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The next morning, Harry was awakened by a raucous voice shouting. The shouter seemed to be about an inch from the edge of Harry's ear. An inch deeper into his head than the ear itself, that is. The shouting itself was insistent, but perversely cheerful for so early in the day.

"Arise, Slugabed! First day of school! Can't have you lolling about in listless indolence all day!"

Coming slowly to wakefulness, Harry realized that the calling must have been going on for some time. It was only the last few exclamations that he had been able to make any sense of. He had perceived the previous calls as mere noise. They had impressed themselves onto his dreams, turning whatever fantasy he had been enjoying into a nightmare. Harry forced his eyes partway open and tried to sit up. He made it about halfway to a sitting position, and settled for propping himself up on his elbows. He fully intended to roundly chastise whoever this loud ruiner of the morning may have been. "Whuuh..." he croaked and fell silent, gathering his strength for another attempt. His blurry vision resolved into the permanent out-of-focus that were the best Harry's eyes could achieve without his glasses. Even in the fuzzy outlines of his uncorrected vision, Harry could tell that his tormentor was Remus Lupin, standing there relaxed and alert, freshly bathed and completely dressed... and smiling. Harry was quite aware that it was possible to get up freakishly early, get ready to meet whatever challenges the day was to offer, and even accomplish good work long before a reasonable person would be considering breakfast. But for Remus to stand there smiling before the room was bright with sunlight was somehow obscene.

"Come on, Harry," Remus grinned, lightly clapping his hands as he bounced on the balls of his feet. "If this were Hogwarts, you'd be at breakfast in the Hall, already. Since we have no Hall, I have taken the liberty of preparing our breakfast today. You can be a little less formal in our kitchen than you could breakfasting with the entire Hogwarts student body, so I let you sleep in a little. But you don't want our morning meal to get cold, so hop up, get something on, and come to table. Sometime today, lad."

With that portion of his mind that was still asleep, Harry envisioned his reply. In a stentorian tone, with the rhythms and motions of a Shakespearean stage performer, Harry would declaim, "This torment is not meet, nor does my resting brain deserve the hellish fires of wakefulness thus imposed upon it in such a manner. Your offer of a repast with which to break our fast is the temptation of a clever fiend - but it is no more than another case of too little, too early." With the portion of his mind that was consciously engaged and able to send instructions to his mouth, he voiced his reply. "Thizz no righ'. Doun desrvit."

Lupin was prepared to be tolerant to a point, but this was becoming ridiculous. Harry was at his absolute worst in the early morning, even after he had enjoyed sufficient sleep for the night. Against the kinds of enemies Harry would be facing, a tendency toward slow awakening and morning bleariness could prove fatal. "Come on, Conqueror of the World, you have work to do and enemies to avoid," Remus scolded. "If Voldemort saw you now, he'd fry you where you lie."

Harry nodded resignedly. It was true. He was intending to challenge the most destructively evil dark wizard of the past few generations, and he would be at a severe disadvantage in that contest if he couldn't even drag himself out of bed. But that thought led to another, and as he sat up and turned to put his feet on the floor, he inquired about it. "Remus... Does Voldemort sleep?"

Remus snorted in combined annoyance and amusement. "I don't know, Harry. I know very little about the man. Let's go ask the expert."

Harry dragged his robe on, leaving his feet bare. The constant irritation of the cold floor on his soles would help keep him from falling back to sleep over breakfast. He walked out to the small table in the kitchen and sat heavily on the bench seat built out from the wall especially for that table. Severus was elsewhere, so Remus didn't linger in the kitchen, but went immediately to find him. Harry scanned the counters, hoping to find the evidence of one of Snape's few vices. Since the potions master was a notoriously early riser, frequently hard at work before dawn, Harry did not really expect to discover what he sought. But despite his pessimism, there on the counter next to the stove stood a pot with the odd straining device still in place over it. Harry dragged himself back out from behind the table and reached out to feel the side of the pot. Warm. He lifted it experimentally. Heavy. He blinked heavily twice and tried to remember what it was he needed. Oh, yes. Cup. Where were they. Probably... he opened a tall cupboard to discover a half-dozen mismatched cups on a shelf. He took one, poured the hot, black liquid from the pot into his cup, and tasted it. "Ow," he said dully as the hot coffee crossed his tongue. Then, with greater focus and a lot more irritation, "Ow," again. He sucked in air to cool his mouth, and his nose wrinkled as the taste of the brew registered for the first time. "Bleaugh," was his succinct summary of the flavor. The brew had probably been made some time ago, and possibly kept warm through the use of a charm. Warming charms tended to allow some of the water content to steam away, and usually let the essence of coffee bean cook, no matter how gently the charms were cast. Harry went to the cold-box and pulled out a bottle of milk, adding a dollop to his cup. As he replaced the milk, he stared at the cold-box, straining to remember.

Charms could do a lot of the work that muggles used household appliances to accomplish. A cold-box was simply charmed to stay cold. There were no compressors, no special gasses, and no interruption of function due to loss of electrical power. Plenty of advantages in that respect. There were also freezer-boxes that could be kept so cold that water would freeze into ice. And the converse was true as well, with warming charms keeping food and beverages hot. A skilled - and practiced - spellcaster could animate almost an entire kitchen, magically automating meal preparation, as Molly Weasley frequently did. It was dangerous to enter the kitchen right before a large family feast at the Weasleys' home - an unsuspecting person could collide with a flying kettle or be beaten with wooden spoons, charmed to continue stirring until ordered to stop.

But Harry had an impression... admittedly, a years-old impression from a time during which he had been only a baby... but a strong impression nonetheless, that his parents had used a refrigerator for their food, and a gas range for their cooking. Why he believed this, he couldn't say. Why he felt it to be significant was easier to explain. If he had simply imposed his impressions of the Dursley house over his memories of his parents' home, substituting the Dursleys' muggle appliances for the charmed items his parents had used, then he actually remembered even less of his earliest life than the precious little he believed he retained. And if he were right... who could have switched the electric and gas appliances for magical ones? This house was the 'place the world forgot,' or so Snape had said, and so it had seemed. Had someone - some witch or wizard - moved in here and used the place during the years Harry had remained unaware of its existence? And if so... was it merely a case of squatters living here, or of enemies trying to gain another advantage over the Boy Who Lived? He would have to bring it up with the adults who were helping him. There was no way he could figure it out on his own... at least not at this time in the morning.

He shuffled back to the bench behind the table, eyes half-closed, and slid his elbows onto the table's surface, supporting his face with his hands, holding his nose directly over the steaming coffee cup. The aroma was powerful, and Harry thought he could feel himself coming awake from the stimulant carried to him by the steam. He tried a few more sips. The taste was not as awful with the addition of milk to the brew, but it still had an old and slightly burnt flavor. Harry decided that it didn't matter that much, since he was only drinking it to help him wake up.

He was about half done with his first cup when Remus bustled back into the kitchen and began uncovering pans which, like the coffee pot, had been charmed to keep their contents warm. He took three plates from the cupboard, but only filled two of them with scrambled eggs, pancakes and sausages. He held onto the sausage pan as Severus Snape walked into the kitchen, his expression betraying his irritation at having been disturbed at whatever he had been doing that morning. "Professor Snape?" Remus called out cheerfully, "will you join us for breakfast?"

Snape looked down his nose at the pans, the filled plates, the empty plate, and the food remaining to be dished out, which just happened to be one more complete serving. Harry was completely surprised when Snape nodded once and said, "Yes, thank you. Since I have been taken away from my work, I might as well stop and enjoy breakfast. I appreciate your effort in preparing it." He sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs at the side of the table and scowled at Harry's coffee cup. "Is the brew to your liking, Mister Potter?" he sneered, clearly aware that it had been warming too long to remain very good.

Harry sighed, frustrated at being so predictable, and admitted, "It's old, it's burnt, and it was probably too strong for my taste when it was first brewed. But it's helping me wake up, so I guess it is to my liking, after all. What were you working on, Professor?"

Snape's upper lip curled very slightly as he said, "A stimulant. For you. In the morning."

Harry pursed his lips and forced himself to bite back any number of sarcastic replies that sprang to mind. He took a breath, using that time to remind himself that he had resolved to try to see things from different perspectives whenever possible. He thought of what Remus had said that morning, and tried to put himself in Snape's position. Would Harry Potter, lying in bed morning after morning, look like a spoiled, lazy, immature boy through Snape's eyes? Probably. Harry knew that Snape had no patience for apologies if they were not accompanied by action intended to remedy the situation which had made the apology necessary, so Harry resolved to work on getting out of bed earlier, and presenting a more coherent face to the world as he did so every day. He met Snape's eyes. "I guess I deserved that. Remus has reminded me of some of the dangers of being a slow riser. I'll work on it. So, what were you working on this morning?"

Snape's face remained completely expressionless as he repeated, "A stimulant. For you. In the morning." Harry gaped wordlessly back at the man for a long moment, but when Remus slid plates of food in front of them, and drew up another of the wooden chairs for himself, Snape relaxed slightly and explained. "Mister Lupin has only recently realized the danger that your morning semi-consciousness presents to all of us: to you, because you are quite vulnerable to an enemy attack in that condition, and to the rest of us because - if you are destroyed by an attack made in force, with a large number of the enemy involved - the werewolf and I would never stand a chance of defeating an army. And, without the threat of you, Voldemort would feel free to attack more openly, Dumbledore would be even more manipulative, and Fudge... I don't even want to think about the havoc he could cause. So, I was attempting to develop a stimulant that could be used with regularity, but without the side effects for which stimulants have long been infamous."

Harry looked down at his slender body. "You mean like losing weight?"

"No," Snape denied with a fierceness that caused both Harry and Remus to look at the man with concern. "I mean emotional impairment: rage, impatience, inability to concentrate, ungrounded fear. I mean nervous impairment: trembling and loss of fine motor control. I mean physical impairment: nausea and headaches, feelings of malaise. Worst of all, I fear your developing the feeling that you can't live without the boost given you by the stimulants that cause all of these unwanted effects. I fear your taking more and more of the substance, staying awake for days on end, becoming more and more bitter, enraged and paranoid. I fear you becoming like Voldemort himself."

Harry could tell when the time had come to change subjects, and he couldn't have asked for a better transition opportunity. "That was one of my questions, actually," he said carefully, watching Snape's face to make sure the man didn't seem angry at the change of focus. "I asked Remus, and he said you might know. Does Voldemort sleep?"

Remus began to eat, and as he did so, he caught Harry's eye, encouraging the boy to do the same. Harry cut a sausage and chewed a piece absently, but his attention was on Snape. The man was deep in thought, his eyes far away, his mind sifting clues and pieces of evidence he had never put together in quite this way before. He seemed to return to the present with an appreciative look at Harry. "For some reason," he said almost apologetically, "I have never thought of that question before. Tom Riddle - before becoming what he is today - certainly slept, and during the last war, Voldemort was almost certainly sleeping for at least some little time each day. Once he was discorporated..." Snape was lost in thought for a while longer. Harry sat staring at him until Remus tapped Harry's arm and indicated that the boy should continue eating breakfast. Snape regained focus once again and said, "The time between the moment he first tried to kill you and the time he was able to bind himself to Professor Quirrel required a constant effort, both of magic and of will, to keep him from dissipating completely. Once he had become a parasite on Quirrel, the Professor could perform all of the 'animal' functions such as eating and sleeping, while Voldemort could remain conscious, thinking and planning all the time - and even taking over the professor's body for such extraordinary pursuits as hunting unicorns. But now that he has regrown a body for himself, magical though it may be, I believe that he would revert to many of the human norms. I am fairly certain that he eats, for example. Although he is so fearful of treachery that he has never taken a bite in front of me. But I believe that he does eat. And if so, it would very likely follow that he sleeps as well. Good question, Mister Potter. Very perceptive."

Harry felt a glow of pride at that praise that was different - but no less powerful - than the feeling he had upon winning a quiddich match by capturing the golden snitch. But there was no time to bask in the glow of praise. "There's one more thing. I know it sounds strange, but... I think it might be related. Were you ever here when... uh... when my parents...?"

Snape's face had gone hard and cold. He nodded to Lupin. "I was," Remus offered.

Harry tried to keep his face neutral, but he worried that some of his desperation would show. "Was that cold-box there? Or was it something else?"

Remus looked confused. He looked at the cold-box, glanced around the kitchen and

frowned. "I believe it was that same cold-box," he said uncertainly.

"Do you know?" Harry demanded. "Or are you guessing?"

Snape smiled. The imperious tone and the specificity of the question heartened him. The boy may be on to something, or he may not. In either case, he was asking questions as a leader would ask them, demanding the information he would need to form an opinion and decide upon a course of action. 'This morning's breakfast may prove to be the turning point in transforming a directionless, rebellious boy into a world leader,' Snape thought with satisfaction. He took a bite of pancake, enjoying it immensely.

Remus thought about Harry's question for a long while before offering the most honest response he could. "When I entered this house, it seemed completely unchanged, as though everything were in exactly the same places they had been the last time I saw it. But now that you pick out one item... I must admit, when I was here last, I was much more concerned with the people in the house than the boards and mortar that made up the structure. I think that there was a cold-box there... I had assumed that it was the same one. But, as you say, I am just guessing. The box could have been moved. Or even replaced, I suppose. Why?"

Harry flushed, knowing that his explanation would sound ridiculous to both men, but also aware that he owed them his honesty. "I remember it differently," he said stiffly, and before either man could protest he continued, "I know I was only a baby, but that cold-box struck me wrong. It's like something in here has been changed. And I wonder who might have changed it."

"Given the strength of the Fidelius on this place, I don't see how anyone could have even found the house, let alone altered it in any way," Remus replied reassuringly. But the three gathered around the breakfast table knew that if anyone had been able to use the house between the time Harry had been taken from there and the time he had returned with his two companions, that there may be significant ramifications for their own occupation of the home. They discussed the possibilities as they finished their breakfasts.

-

Beauxbatons was a very different place from Hogwarts, Draco noticed on his first day of classes there. For one thing, the atmosphere was much less rampantly paranoid. The opening day speeches contained no warnings about forbidden areas of the school, or dangerous terrain surrounding it. And there were working floos all over campus. While most of these were not immediately available to the student body, anyone needing to communicate with family did not need to wait for their message to be delivered at the speed of owl. As he first stepped onto the French campus, Draco felt there was something wrong, something missing. He soon realized that what he was feeling was an absence; what was missing were the powerful wards that surrounded Hogwarts and remained active at all times. Those wards could be felt, however subliminally, as a sort of hum of power that never ceased. That hum had been the background to all of Draco's school experience up to that time. Hogwarts remained, despite the many years since the end of hostilities of the last conflict with Voldemort, a campus in a war zone. Beauxbatons might just as well have never heard of the Dark Lord or his plans for world domination. They were not concerned with security so much as they were with providing a well-rounded experience for each student. They did not fear sudden surprise attacks by Death Eaters so much as they feared that any one of their students should fall behind academically. Draco felt the pressure of this mind set immediately. He had never had trouble in any class at Hogwarts; he had even excelled in some fields. At Beauxbatons, he felt in need of remedial education on his first day. He knew he would have to read ahead in every class text to familiarize himself with concepts that Beauxbatons students had become conversant with in previous years. He was surprised, but took the revelation as a challenge: if the difficulty of studying at Beauxbatons would help him become a more powerful wizard, he was all for it. Let it be difficult. He was confident he could rise to the occasion.

Draco was not living on the campus, so it was completely unremarkable for him to ask to use one of the floos at the end of his first day of classes. A teacher he had not yet met opened one of the staff room doors for him and let him go in alone. The teacher glanced into the room to make sure there weren't any materials lying around that he shouldn't be allowed to see. She satisfied herself that the room was safe, so she left him and went back to her office across the hall.

Draco thanked her politely, waited for her to leave, then sprinkled a pinch of floo powder over the nearly-dead coals in the hearth. "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Diagon Alley, England," he enunciated crisply. After a blur of glimpses through a number of different fireplaces, the floo granted Draco a clear view of the Weasleys' store office. The smiling face of Charlotte appeared and she greeted him with, "Weasley's. How may I..." her face fell. "Oh. It's you."

"Charming as always," Draco drawled. "Are your masters about?"

"My employers," she emphasized, "Fred and George, are... hold on... just a moment, sir, I'll connect you."

Draco scowled at the floo, baffled by her phrasing, but he soon understood. The proprietors must have just returned. They strolled into their office, and Charlotte indicated the call waiting for them as she left to mind the counter. Fred grinned toward the floo and squatted to get a better view of his caller.

"Malfoy, old man," he gushed, clearly excited. "You are a cheeky bastard, aren't you? You place the Ear and then, La-de-da, no word from you for days."

"Just tell me it works," Draco grated, unwilling to be reminded of how he had been kept out of touch by the simple expedient of having no floo at home.

"Works?" George laughed, out of view. "It's like a radio broadcast. Clear, loud, detailed... the thing is..."

"Where did you put it?" Fred finished for his brother.

"The dungeon?" George suggested.

"The attic?"

"Because wherever it is,"

"The bleeder is almost never in there."

"And even when he is in there,"

"It's just to berate his toady."

"So where is it, really?"

"In his throne room," Draco said proudly.

"The bog?" George scowled.

"No, you idiot," Draco spat. "The real throne room. With his actual bloody throne."

Both twins' faces appeared framed by the floo, side by side with equally incredulous expressions. "Where did you attach it?"

Draco smirked at the astounded pair. "Right under the bloody big seat."

Fred turned to George and scolded, "I told you we should have put the Ear into a whoopee cushion, but no. My brother thinks that the Rainbow Beard is the appropriate encapsulator. Which, you will notice, our man didn't even wish to use. And now see, stupid. He put it right under the seat. How perfect..."

"Stop!" Draco hissed. "I'm in public. In Beauxbatons. So please, keep it down, can the profanity, call me Mister Black, if you please, and say as little about... him... as possible. Just tell me what you've heard so far."

"Tough directions, Mister Black," Fred offered with a raised eyebrow. "Can you step through?"

Draco thought about it, sorely tempted. But the difficulty of returning was too great an obstacle. "Can't. We'll need to work something out, though... some way to get me back and forth from your base of operations to my home. Because you now owe me one, brothers. I did my bit, and I want my information in exchange. And I think you might well realize that I have more ability than you originally estimated. Ability that you may wish to call upon again, am I right?"

The twins glanced at each other and nodded in unison. With great solemnity, George opined, "You have earned our respect as a fellow perpetrator of mischief, Mister Black."

"I agree," Fred chimed in. "We need to work out some sort of transportation for you."

With saccarine mock sympathy, George added, "It must be horrible to be pre-apparational."

"Such an inconvenience."

"And speaking of inconvenience..."

"The location of your residence remains a secret to us."

"Which, I suppose, is on purpose."

"But it makes it very difficult for either of us to apparate there."

"What about Beauxbatons?"

"Would you mind if we picked you up and dropped you off at school?"

The twins, being who they were, could not help but add a taunting tone to their suggestions, but despite that, Draco could see the practicality of them right away. "Beauxbatons will be fine," he answered tersely. "Do you know how to get here?"

"Only by the conventional means," Fred admitted.

"We'll have to go, and memorize a place or two into which we can apparate."

"Then we'll be able to get you back and forth with ease."

"We should be able to get there and back by tomorrow."

"Can you give us a shout at this time tomorrow?"

Draco scowled, but could think of no remedy for having to wait another day. It was frustrating, but there was nothing to be done. "Yes. I will use one of the floos here. I should be able to step through, so long as you will be able to bring me back. I must go." He broke the connection.

"Scarlet Pimpernel?" Fred asked his twin.

"So mysterious... 'I must go,' and the sudden silence," George snickered.

"It doesn't matter. He could pretend to be be The Man in the Iron Mask, and it wouldn't change the fact that he did it. He belled the cat."

"Bugged the Dark Lord," George corrected primly.

"Whatever. Dumbledore has never done that."

"And Fudge never believed there was a Dark Lord to bug."

"Feel like going to France?"

"We'd better. We owe it to the little bastard."

-

Despite all of his worries and apprehension, Neville Longbottom was having a tremendous first day as the Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. There were many reasons for this, but one of the simplest and most effective was the way Professor McGonagall had helped him arrange for his classes. The youngest students appeared earliest in the day, and the classes became progressively more advanced as the day progressed.

Neville delighted in the impression he made on the first years. Most of the students seemed to feel particularly privileged to begin their day being instructed by a young man, rather than some stuffy old professor. Neville put particular emphasis on his instruction that any of the students could ask questions at any time during class, and that he was always available to help anyone who needed assistance. He insisted they call him "Mister Longbottom," rather than "Professor," and by the time he had worked his way through most of the day, he felt he had gone a long way toward establishing a rapport with his students. And though it was only his first day, he found that he liked teaching - liked being able to show others what he found so fascinating about Herbology.

He had just finished teaching his penultimate class of the day, a double fifth-year of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and his confidence was soaring. Most of the students in that class had heard of him the previous year - Professor Sprout had spoken very highly of her star pupil - and few of them were surprised to learn that the amazing Herbologist Neville Longbottom was involved in teaching their class. Many were sad to hear of the departure of Professor Sprout, but Neville allowed them little time to dwell on that during the busy class time he had planned for them.

His last class of the day, he knew, would be the greatest challenge. It was a double consisting of Gryffindors and Slytherins... all sixth years. His classmates for the previous five years might well take exception to receiving instruction from him, his House mates would likely expect some kind of preferential treatment, and many of his greatest rivals and the people at school he least liked - most of whom were Slytherins - would doubtless attempt to sabotage his efforts. He determined that he would keep his successes from the earlier part of the day firmly in mind and not let anyone shake him. He realized what a challenge that was going to be the moment he saw his students approaching, and felt his stomach lurch.

The Gryffindors entered the greenhouse first. Many of them swaggered as though leaving a quiddich match in which their team had been victorious. Neville recognized the look - those people were searching for House points and easy grades. Not all of the Gryffindors were behaving so obviously, but there were enough of them that were that Neville began to fear for the coming conflicts throughout the term. The Slytherins entered after the bulk of the Gryffindors were already inside. They were sullen and most of them looked angry. Where the Gryffindors had swaggered, the Slytherins stalked, glowering at their new teacher. Neville waited for the entire class to gather around the table on which he had set out some plants to use as examples. No one spoke during that entire time. Neville recognized the tension, the House rivalry, and he felt his old enemy, debilitating nervousness, begin to rise. If anyone had said or done anything... anything at all... Neville would likely have been lost. He would have failed to take control of the class, failed to give the impression that he was competent enough to do the job, and there would have been no way he could have taught this bunch anything for the remainder of the term, at least.

But if anyone had really wished him ill, they missed their chance. No one said or did anything except crowd around the table and either smirk or glower, depending on their House affiliation. And Neville had the time to realize that in this particular instance, he was in charge. He didn't have to sit submissively and take abuse, nor did he have to dish abuse out in order to be an effective teacher. He remembered his earlier classes, and he suddenly found the entire House Cup competition completely ridiculous and counterproductive. He was not going to be made a fool of for the sake of some idiotic, divisive game. The House system may well have been started for perfectly good reasons. But now, all it was good for was making students who shared a school, a culture and a grand heritage act as though they were one another's enemies. There would be none of that in his class, Neville decided. And with that, he called the class to order.

"Hello," he began with a friendly smile. "Today..."

"You're not a real teacher," shouted a voice from the back of the crowd.

"Quite right," Neville countered enthusiastically, smile still in place. "However, this is a real class and you can learn quite a bit of real Herbology if you pay attention. In fact, to make sure that you don't confuse me with a tenured professor, I would like you all to call me "Mister Longbottom," rather than "Professor..."

"And why should I call you "Mister" anything, Neville?" Pansy Parkinson sneered from the front row. "You're a student like the rest of us, and Hogwarts owes us an explanation, an apology... and a refund!"

Neville realized that he couldn't keep smiling in the face of such a snotty attack, and he allowed his face to become more serious... but he remained calm. He would not stoop to holding a shouting match with students on his first day of teaching. "You may drop the class if you wish, Miss Parkinson," he told her earnestly, slightly emphasizing the 'Miss' so as to make the point that he, at least, would be using formal address in this class. "But if you want to learn some Herbology, this is the best place you could be. I have a very challenging lesson plan for your class during this term and..."

"You're not listening, Tubby," Gregory Goyle called out. "You have no business planning any lesson plan for us... you're a sixth year just like the rest of us."

"Shut your bloody mouth, Goyle," one of the Gryffindors cried.

Neville's voice was hard as steel as he spoke over the commotion that broke out at that comment. "I will thank you to use speech which is acceptable in public here in my class," he demanded, causing the entire room to stare at him in silence. "That means no crass insults as well as no obscenities. I can and will deduct House points for infractions." Inwardly, he raged at having ruined his resolve to avoid participating in the House Cup system. Outwardly, though, his face only showed his determination to take control of his class. "Now, anyone who wishes to drop this class may leave now - without further disruption. Those who do not leave will be expected to participate in class - which has already begun. We have a lot to do and we're wasting time. The first example I have for you is..."

"You think you can throw me out of a class I had to pass OWLS to get into, you're stupider than you look." Vincent Crabbe pushed his way to the front of the class and glared at Neville, fists clenched at his sides. "You're a sixth-year Hogwarts student. Just like me." Neville noticed that Goyle and several of the other Slytherins were laughing, and a few were rolling their eyes, but Neville didn't believe that the derision was directed at him. As he watched in wonder, he got the idea that the others were laughing at Vincent. And with that realization, he saw a way to make the situation work to his advantage.

"Wrong again, Vince," Neville said casually, and as Crabbe's eyes widened in shock and anger... but before the boy could make any reply... Neville added, "I am a sixth year. But I am not like you."

As Crabbe stood, trying to figure out whether Neville had just insulted himself, the young teacher removed the pots that had been displayed on the table. He replaced them with two large pots, each holding a very small seedling, and a pair of large, full watering cans. "I'll give you a chance to prove me wrong right now, Mister Crabbe," Neville gestured dramatically to the pair of pots. "Choose one."

"For what?" Vincent said, baffled.

"To prove that I'm not cheating!" Neville announced, carnival barker style. "Take your pick, make sure that I haven't set myself up with the superior plant. You do know how to tell which is a superior plant, don't you? I mean, since you're just like me."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can do that... uh... let's see." He cast surreptitious glances all around him, but none of his House mates offered any help. "All right... that one," he said, pointing at one of the pots with what he hoped was confidence.

"Very well," Neville said, pushing Crabbe's choice across the table toward him. "Now, all we're going to do is accelerate these plants' growth. We'll use the simple spells you learned in third year, remember?" Crabbe nodded uncertainly. "The primary motivator will be the same spell we had to use at mid-term in fourth year and to make our final projects develop to maturity in fifth year. Does everyone remember that spell?" There was a dull murmur of 'Uh-huh's around the table. "Does anyone remember the alternate fast-growth spell, accelerimus?" A few hands went up. "What about the root-lengthener?" Two Gryffindor girls held up their hands. Neville looked around the group in shock. "I'm surprised any of you even made it into this class. Anyway. The plants we have here are common Diamondbarks. You remember the Diamondbark from last year, right?" There was another dull chorus of 'Mm-Hmm's. Vincent was scowling at the seedlings in disgust.

"I remember they're bloody sharp," he snapped.

"Language, Mister Crabbe. Last warning," Neville countered sternly.

"Well they are!" Vincent cried. "Try picking one up when its got all those edgy bits all over it. Your hands might well be hamburger if you tried to carry one. And God forbid you'd have to pull one out roots and all."

"That's why we learn to wear gloves when dealing with certain plants," Neville explained patiently. "Diamondbark is one of the prime examples of that. Can anyone tell me why Diamondbark is so sharp?" There was a general shuffling and casting down of eyes throughout the room. One boy dared to meet Neville's eyes. Neville gave him a chance to answer.

"Salt?" The boy said hesitantly.

"That's part of it," Neville nodded. "The Diamondbark pulls minerals out of the soil that many plants would find poisonous. It excretes crystals of these minerals on its surface. The plant is very useful in certain cases of very poor soil, like land that has been reclaimed from the sea, or fields that have been purposely salted to prevent crops from growing. As you know, Mister Crabbe - since you did take… and pass… Herbology last term - the Diamondbark has certain qualities that must be kept in mind when using spells upon it. Oh, but you are aware of all of those things. You're a sixth year... just like me, right? Are you ready, Mister Crabbe?"

Vince looked back to the class for support, but the Gryffindors were all staring stonily at him, and his own House mates were beginning to chant. "Do it… Do it… Doo it... Doo it... Dooo it... Dooo it..."

Neville rapped his knuckles hard on the table. "Don't distract him, now. Let Mister Crabbe have all the concentration he can bring to bear. Begin!"

Despairingly, Vince waved his wand at the seedling before him and began to recite the only growth spell he could remember. He was pretty sure it wasn't the fast-growth spell, and he couldn't ever remember being shown the 'accelerimus' or whatever it was. Still, his own magic did seem to be having an effect. He thought he saw the lower leaves of his seedling widening, and he was almost certain that the plant was taller. He glanced over at Neville's seedling, only to see that it hadn't changed in the least. He was winning! He looked up to meet Neville's eyes. And saw that Neville wasn't casting any spells at all.

"I think that's enough of a head start, don't you, Mister Crabbe? Would everyone else please step back?"

Possibly remembering the disasters that had befallen Neville in other classes, especially Potions, the rest of the class did step back, quickly and as far as they could. Neville took a deep breath, let half of it out, hefted his watering can into position and began to allow a trickle of water to spill into his plant's pot. His other hand pointed his wand at his seedling as Neville began to murmur a spell.

The rest of the class blinked as light reflected into their eyes from the crystals suddenly sprouting all over Neville's seedling. The top of the plant had risen higher than the teacher's head when the rumbling began. Suddenly, a thick root burst from the bottom of Neville's seedling's pot and rapidly extended toward the ground. Boring through a crack in the flooring, it forced its way into the earth beneath the greenhouse and began sending nutrients up to the plant above. Its pot burst as the plant grew too large to be contained in even such a capacitous planter, but rather than the spray of soil the students had expected, there were only falling shards of pottery - the plant had absorbed all of the organic and mineral content of the soil, literally eating the dirt in which it had grown. Vincent stopped trying to cast any spells and gaped at the instant giant that had appeared before him. Neville had not stopped casting magic, sending subtle signals through his wand and into the plant before him from the moment it had begun to respond to his first spell. Many of those signals were expressed in the next moment, when branches began to thrust outward from the trunk of the Diamondbark. The rest of the students were very glad Neville had told them to step back, since crystal-covered branches now occupied the space in which many of them had been standing. Two particularly thick branches sprouted to either side of Vince, and extended themselves past him, twining around one another once they had grown far enough to make a kind of snare. Vincent felt the pressure begin to build as the branches grew thicker, squeezing him between them.

"You've killed me!" Vincent yelled. "These damned crystals will cut me to ribbons!"

Neville murmured a final word, and the explosive growth of the Diamondbark slowed, then stopped altogether. Neville shook his head sadly. "Not on those branches, Mister Crabbe. If you would care to look before you scream, you will see that there are no crystals on the branches that are currently holding you. Oh, and since you ignored my warning, please note that one point will be deducted from Slytherin for the use of foul language in class."

Several of the Gryffindors laughed. Two boys slapped each other's palms.

"Enough of that," Neville commanded with a scowl. "There will be one point taken from Gryffindor as well, for bad sportsmanship. This is a class. I expect you all to learn, and I will be testing your knowledge. Now, can anyone tell me how we might get rid of this plant?" A number of hands went up, Slytherins as well as Gryffindors.

"Without killing Mister Crabbe in the process." The hands went back down.

"Very well, our first lesson will concern disposing of unwanted overgrowth. And we will still have to cover the material I had intended to present today, so we will begin the term nearly a day behind. We will be doing extra homework to make up for the lost time." Groans broke out throughout the room, but to Neville, that was a good sign. It meant that those people who were complaining about extra homework were no longer planning to drop the class in protest against his teaching. "The first spell is a little tricky..."

When class was over and the students had left, Neville looked at the hole in the greenhouse floor. That would have to be repaired immediately. Such an opening was the very kind of thing that a creeping creeping charlie would take advantage of. But before he got out the tools, Neville sat and allowed himself to go limp and tremble all over for several minutes. It had been tough, but he had gotten through his first day.

-

About the same time that Neville was welcoming his sixth year students into the greenhouses, a group of younger Gryffindors were making their way down to the dungeons, wondering what their new Potions professor would be like.

Colin Creevey was the first of one group descending the stairs. When he saw the classful of Hufflepuffs climbing toward him, leaving the Potions classrooms, he was shocked at the looks on their faces. He stopped walking so quickly that several of his classmates bumped into him from behind. As the tangle of colliding students blocked the stairway, there were a number of grumbled complaints and growled imprecations directed at Colin, the loudest of which was, 'You're a menace, Creevey,' offered up by a large boy who had just missed making the quiddich team as a beater that year. But all of the complainers fell silent as they caught sight of the Hufflepuffs on the stairs.

"What is it?" "What's she like?" and "What did you do?" were among the questions the curious Gryffindors flung at the departing Hufflepuffs. Most of the previous class simply shook their heads. One boy paused long enough to reply, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Go on, see for yourself," before continuing to climb, wearing a very strange expression.

Colin walked to the classroom door and stopped in his tracks before he entered, convinced that he was in the wrong place. Those following him anticipated his sudden halt, so instead of plowing directly into his back, several aimed stiff punches into his shoulders, and one - the almost-beater - gave him a powerful shove, slamming an open palm directly between Colin's shoulderblades. But once the angry Gryffindors had caught sight of what lay beyond the classroom door, their abuses stopped as quickly as did their forward progress. The assembled children gawked, they stared, they tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind.

The classroom had been rearranged. The students entered near the back row of desks. The Professor stood next to a lectern which had been placed adjacent to a large desk near the far side of the room. The workbenches and cauldron heaters were all off to the far right. But while the new arrangement of desks and workbenches may have been slightly unexpected, that was not what held the class motionless near the entrance.

The entire atmosphere of the potions class had been transformed.

The ceilings in that classroom had always been very high, but no one had ever spent much time looking at them. For all the years that these students had attended Hogwarts, the potions class ceilings had been lost to view in the shadowy gloom that seemed to pervade the room - which had seemed appropriate, given that the potions class was held in a dungeon.

Now the ceilings - and the entire height of the walls - were quite clearly visible. Along the left side of the class, the top half of the wall held a series of wide windows, which let in so much light that dust motes could be seen dancing in the beams, and glare was - for perhaps the first time ever - an impediment to taking notes in potions class. There was also a distinct whiff of fresh air within the classroom, and a slight but unmistakable feeling of motion in the air - a breeze was coursing through the room.

The Professor waved to the students. "Come on in, Dears. Everyone take your seats. There's no need to audit the class from out in the hall, there's plenty of room for everyone."

Borne forward by the pressure of the crowd, and gaping at the details that had been added to the classroom since the last time he had seen it, Colin walked all the way to the front row and sat almost immediately in front of the teacher. He still hadn't looked at her by the time she had called the class to order. He was too busy cataloging the odd additions to what had been the most dour place on the entire Hogwarts campus. There were vases holding fresh flowers, with crocheted doilies lying beneath them. There was a comfortably padded chair sitting behind the Professor's desk. And there was a poster on the wall, its figures barely animated at all, featuring a triumphant looking girl holding aloft a clear bottle containing a brilliant green liquid, the sparkling of which constituted the greatest motion in the entire composition. Behind the girl was a smiling woman, not unlike the new Potions Professor. The caption read, "You CAN Do It!" in broad, friendly, orange letters.

Colin was suddenly aware that the Professor was addressing him directly. "...Seating chart," she told him enthusiastically. "I intend to know all of your names by the end of the week. But I am new here, and so, I'll need all the help I can get. A seating chart is the fastest way for me to learn who you are. Let's begin with you, young man."

Professor Routhe was not speaking a foreign language, and the concept of a seating chart was hardly new to kids who had spent the majority of their lives in school. Colin was perfectly aware that all he was required to do was state his name, and possibly help by offering correct spelling, then sit quietly while each other student did the same. He couldn't do it. Waving his hand at the windows on the high walls, he stammered, "What... How?"

To the students' amazement, Professor Routhe did not scold Colin. She did not skewer him with sarcasm or make fun of his weak, incomplete questions. Instead, she smiled and addressed the entire class. "You must be wondering about our new windows. I'm sure we can all figure this out. Where have you seen windows like these before?" The class was silent. "Very clever," Professor Routhe praised. "You are listening to my questions very carefully. That will help you all through this class, especially with examinations. Let me rephrase: Where have you seen an effect such as is presented by those windows?"

A boy near the back row raised his hand. At a nod from the Professor, he answered, his voice cracking with the nervousness of being the first to speak up. "The Great Hall?"

"Very good," Professor Routhe beamed. "The ceiling of the Great Hall is just like the patches of wall behind the window frames. I added the framing to give the effect a more comfortable appearance. But what you are seeing is the sky as it is outside right now. Later in the year, when light begins to fail earlier in the day, I may alter the charm to have our windows represent the sky as it would have been several hours before your class begins, thereby giving us plenty of illumination. Now, as we were about to start on our seating chart..." She turned back to Colin.

Still amazed at the classroom's transformation, Colin still did not offer his name, but blurted another question instead. "But... the air... there's a breeze. How...?"

Professor Routhe still did not scold him, but her expression became much more stern. "That, young man, is magic a bit more advanced than the simple windows. We may have time to investigate it by term's end... if we can get started with the material we have to cover. So: Your name, please?"

A dictaquill lifted itself above a sheet of parchment on the Professor's desk, and as Colin spoke his name, the tip moved smoothly. Professor Routhe did not question spelling nor pronunciation, but moved on to the next student immediately. Within minutes, the seating chart was complete and the dictaquill lay itself quietly on the desk.

"I have noticed," Professor Routhe began, and the entire classroom rustled with the sound of students settling in to listen to their first Potions lecture of the year. The rustling repeated itself, only louder and sharper, almost immediately as each student sat bolt upright in shock at hearing what their new Professor said next. "... that every class I have seen today is different. Each class has held students of different ages, who have been sorted into different Houses, and who have different interests. As you may imagine, I have a number of things I intend to teach you this term. But it would be helpful for me... and for the development of our relationship... to know what it is you expect to gain from your Potions education. Please tell me: What do you want to learn from me during this term in our Potions class?"

The students gawked, gaped and searched for words again. To hear such a question - here, in Potions class - was as strange and shocking as seeing windows in the dungeon. Even more so in many ways, because as the children thought about it, it wasn't just Snape who would be unlikely to ask them for their expectations of a class... it was the entire Hogwarts faculty. Who could imagine dusty old Professor Binns asking anything of a student? Or McGonagall? Even the comparatively lighthearted Professor Flitwick had a lesson plan cast in iron or carved in stone somewhere, and would no more deviate from it than he would teach an illegal charm or unforgivable curse. Students with older siblings... and even parents... who had gone through the Flitwick course years ago had compared their own experiences and had satisfied themselves thoroughly that the Charms professor was invariable in his presentation. Hogwarts had always been like that. Most of the students had the impression that the school had been the same when Dumbledore had been a student. And here was a professor - a potions professor - asking them what they expected to gain from their class. Apart from an involuntary 'Huh?' forced from the gathered student body, the class was struck speechless.

Professor Routhe allowed them to remain frozen in silence for a long moment, then she laughed gently, a bright, tinkling sound of pleasant mirth. "Oh, come on, now, Dears," she chided gently. "You know I'm not going to teach you to make assassination poisons... although many of the ingredients we will be working with are somewhat dangerous and need to be handled with care. You know I'm not going to teach you..." She recalled her interview with Dumbledore and laughed again. "I won't teach you to make anything illegal, like veritaserum. And you should know that the single most requested potion of all - the Love Potion - is, for the most part, a fable. And those brews that have any potency at all create such deleterious effects on both the victim and the perpetrator - the taker and the maker, that is - that they are generally considered to be poisons, and are rightly banned in most civilized countries. So don't think I'm taking orders up here. I simply want to know what you had in mind when you signed up for potions class." She walked behind her desk and glanced at the chart. "Mister... Creevey? How about you?"

Feeling ridiculous with the eyes of the entire class on him, Colin stammered out, "I... uh... well, I thought that... uh... I would learn... you know... to make... potions." Colin shut his eyes and hung his head as the entire class erupted into laughter.

"What is so funny about that?"

The class' laughter subsided immediately. The Professor was showing a much sterner expression. Perhaps this was the beginning of the 'real' class... seating chart time and idle question period finally being over. Professor Routhe scanned the room and asked of everyone in general, "Did any of you take this class NOT expecting to learn how to make potions?"

There was a general uncomfortable shifting around the room, but one boy actually raised his hand. With a glance at the chart, Professor Routhe asked, "Are you telling me, Mister... Thompson... that you signed up for Potions without the expectation of learning how to make any of them?"

"My parents made me sign up, Professor. I'm awful at Potions. I did poorly last year... I was really miserable for most of the class. I wanted to take something else, but my Mom... she said I had to pass Potions if I was going to be a proper wizard. So I signed up."

"And you were accepted," Professor Routhe said with an emphatic nod.

"What?"

"You were accepted. This is not a first-year class, I am sure you are aware."

The Thompson boy was baffled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Professor Routhe said seriously, pinning the boy with a direct stare, "That after first year, professors must accept - or reject - each student's application for further classes based on that student's "Four P's." That is, Past Performance and Perceived Potential. In fact, any professor can deem any student unacceptable for any class that professor is required to teach. You were accepted into this class - not merely despite - but because of your efforts of last term. Ergo, you were not nearly as hopeless in Potions as you seem to feel you were."

There was a buzz throughout the classroom. Another class may have taken this news differently, but these were Gryffindors, and they were sitting in a potions class. It had to be spoken sooner or later, and very quickly, in the midst of the buzz, it was: "You mean that Professor Snape could have barred Neville Longbottom from Potions class - at any time?"

Professor Routhe was a little confused. Wasn't Longbottom teaching Herbology now? She did know her academic policy, however. At least, she knew the way it was followed in most schools throughout the world. She had to presume that Hogwarts would follow the same general rules. "After first year, Professor Snape - as Hogwarts' sole Potions professor - could have ended anyone's Potions career with a single bit of parchment. Of course, in the case that anyone thought a professor was being unfair, there could be an appeal to the Headmaster, but in most cases..."

The group shout drawn by the sheer surprise of this news from the entire class drowned out the rest of her statement: "Why?"

Professor Routhe scanned the faces that stared at her with apparently genuine shock. This was not simply a case of adolescent hijinks - these children were truly baffled at Professor Snape's tolerance of a student - surprisingly, one who was apparently quite gifted in areas other than Potions. "I presume you are asking why your Professor Snape would allow a particular student to continue in his programme despite what many of you would consider shortcomings in that student. Well. To that I can only say that the Professor must have seen something in that student - some competence, some talent, some potential - of which the rest of you remain unaware. And you must keep in mind that your Professor Snape is not only a brilliant and masterful potions maker - many of his brews have been used by the Ministry, recognized as the best of their kind, for example - but he is also a teacher with a widespread reputation for dedication, as well as for excellence. I believe that he simply felt too responsible to this school to bar a student from a class if he felt there was any hope for that student to improve. Professor Snape is an exemplary educator."

"Don't you mean... 'was,' Professor?" asked a girl in the second row.

Professor Routhe smiled conspiratorially at her class and said, "No, I don't think so. When last seen, the Professor was exploring the jungles of South America, searching for rare ingredients to use in his brews. The search for the finest potion ingredients is difficult, and it can be dangerous. But Professor Snape has delved into the wilderness in such searches many times previously, and I believe that he will yet be found emerging from the bush triumphantly bearing the very finest source materials from which he will brew more of his exemplary potions."

The members of the class weren't sure if this was good news or not. To most of them, Snape had always been a Slytherin chauvinist; a Gryffindor-hating, unfair, sarcastic, sadistic tormentor. The revelation that he had also allowed Neville Longbottom to continue taking Potions classes when he could have easily rid himself of the boy had upset their notions of the man, however. And what was even more difficult to picture, the new Professor seemed to think that Snape was some kind of adventure hero! Before the confusion had left the students' faces, Professor Routhe changed the subject in order to get on with the class. This introduction had already taken too much time.

"We will return to the matter of what you expect from this class. I suggest that each of you think about the subject before we meet again. I have already outlined a number of things that I will not be teaching you. Now, let's review some of the things that I will be covering in class. Potions is, perhaps more than any other discipline in the Hogwarts curriculum, a practical, useful body of knowledge. I fully expect that you will brew any number of the potions you learn to make this term at home. You might begin to brew some of them as soon as next summer, during between-term break. But once you have graduated from Hogwarts, these brews will doubtless become a regular, valuable part of your magical repertoire."

Professor Routhe pursed her lips as she saw the entire class drop its jaws in collective shock. This was becoming annoying! What had Professor Snape been teaching these children if the simple statement that they might actually use their potions knowledge could surprise them so thoroughly? She cleared her throat and continued, trying to ignore the wide eyes and round mouths that stared at her from throughout the room.

"Many of the potions we will be covering are referred to as 'Medicine Chest' brews. They are simple, and most are rather easy to make - once you know how. But their utility is quite disproportional to the effort involved in creating them. Potions to combat stomach upset, headache and sleeplessness are some of the simplest brews known. However, I have learned that your class has not covered any of them. We will be dealing with these brews first this year."

The new Professor plowed on, giving her students an overview of the coming term. This first day of teaching had been quite baffling. When Madame Routhe had applied to Hogwarts for the Potions Professorship, she had been mostly concerned with how difficult it would be to follow in the footsteps of the prestigious Professor Snape. She had been certain that the students would have protested at the outrage of anyone daring to take the great man's place, and that they would have been boiling over with questions about him - especially about when he could be expected to return. Instead, she had been peppered with questions about the window illusions and had been met with frank disbelief when she had announced that her Potions classes would cover simple, basic, commonly-used potions. She wondered if, perhaps, Severus Snape could have been unpopular as a teacher. But she dismissed the idea immediately. It was hardly likely that such a great man would have been an unpopular professor. What was much more reasonable was that she was facing a gathering of young people and observing the resilience of youth first-hand in quite some time. It was truly amazing - and inspiring - to see how quickly a group of young people could adjust to a tragedy such as the loss of a teacher of Professor Snape's caliber. She reminded herself once again that she had been given quite a standard to meet by the now-missing Professor. She was quite glad to have met the students who would, ultimately, be the judges of whether she measured up or not. All in all, it had been a very interesting first day on the job.

-

It being the first day of the new term, no one at Hogwarts, student nor staff, had enjoyed such leisure during the morning hours as would have allowed their perusal of a newspaper. But once classes for the day had been held, many regular readers turned to the pages of their Daily Prophets. And at Hogwarts, one particular article was soon the focus of attention throughout the school, and quickly became the subject for many discussions.

The article in question was on the back pages of the front section. It was not so far back in the newspaper as Albus Dumbledore's interview had been placed only the previous day, but still far enough from the front that a casual flip through the pages might miss it. The article's accompanying photograph featured Minister Cornelius Fudge, apparently accepting a compliment with a smile and depreciating wave of one hand. He was dressed, as was his wont, in what appeared (to those with any experience at all in the muggle world) to be a bizzare adaptation of muggle-style formal wear, complete with bowler hat. The outfit's tailoring, which attempted to combine elements of several widely diverse eras of muggle fashion, gave the impression - not of a synthesis of those styles - but of the designer having had no real idea of what he was trying to create. That the colors were garish and disturbingly mismatched only made the ensemble more unattractive. All in all, most people thought the Minister would look better in formal robes than wearing the clothing in which he usually appeared.

Nonetheless, despite his odd mode of dress, the Minister had been quite successful over a number of years at holding the highest office in the British wizarding government. Thus, whenever Cornelius Fudge spoke, people tended to listen. And those who disagreed with the Minister usually kept their objections to themselves... or held a great deal of political power of their own.

The students at Hogwarts did not hold much political clout, except as the 'generation of leaders of the future' that their elders were always citing in political speeches. However, after reading that day's interview with Minister Fudge, those politically punchless people did not keep their opinions to themselves - and almost universally, those opinions were in direct opposition to the Minister's own.

Hermione Granger sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the Gryffindor common room, her feet tucked under her, her newspaper open like a folding screen separating her from the rest of the room. In a single smooth motion, she closed the paper and let it fold over on itself, as she quietly fumed, "How dare he..." To her surprise, several students in the common room knew exactly what she was referring to, and several comments were offered up, such as: "Yeah, like he knows anything about running a school," and "What about where he said we're all in danger so long as we remain at Hogwarts?"

Had the editorial staff of the Daily Prophet been privvy to this scene of shared outrage, they would have been gratified. This was exactly the kind of emotional involvement their series was supposed to engender. The series had only had two interviews so far, but the Prophet reporters had already obtained more material from which to craft further articles, and the next step would be to ask Headmaster Dumbledore for his reaction to Fudge's comments. The escalation of rhetoric was nearly inevitable, so the building of tension and reader excitement would be nearly automatic. Within a few days, a good, old-fashioned front page shouting match between the leader of the British wizarding government and the Headmaster of Britain's most prestigious wizarding school would practically produce itself.

Of course, the statements made by the Minister were in direct response to those made by the Headmaster which had been published the previous day. Fudge had not remained in his position of power by ignoring threats, and he certainly never allowed a direct attack to go unchallenged. But while such verbal fencing was common in political life, arguments of this sort among the denizens of academe were always carried out with a great deal more subtlety and a great deal more understatement.

So the Minister's assertion that "the man can barely keep his school staffed," actually gained Dumbledore a great deal of sympathy among those whose jobs included keeping a school filled with enough teachers to meet student needs. And the Minister's rant about Dumbledore hiring a Death Eater engendered support for the Headmaster among most Human Resource workers throughout wizarding Britain. Most of those who had attended Hogwarts, or who had children enrolled at Hogwarts, or both, tended to feel a loyalty to their school. And Fudge's criticism of Dumbledore seemed to most of those people to be an attack on the school, and by extension, on its graduates. By and large, they were not pleased.

By the time Hermione Granger had flung down her paper in disgust, the Minister's advisors had already seen the results of polls that told them the Minister's tone had been counterproductive. They immediately began working on writing the responses Fudge would give during the next round of questioning by reporters. They knew one thing for certain: if they were aware of the most recent swings of public opinion, then so was Albus Dumbledore. And once the Headmaster realized how sharply public support had swung away from the Minister regarding this particular confrontation, Dumbledore would certainly be making further public statements critical of Fudge. There was damage to control, but the Minister's staff had always been good at such assignments. They would work just as hard to contain any harm that might come from this situation, as well.

-

One place in which the Daily Prophet was far from anyone's mind was Beauxbatons Academe. Draco Malfoy was already suffering a nagging headache from having to speak a foreign language all day for the second day in a row, but he had found one class in which he was already a standout pupil: Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Defense was taught rather differently at Beauxbatons than it was at Hogwarts. For one thing, there had been one Defense teacher holding the job for an uninterrupted twelve years. As a result, Defense was approached at Beauxbatons neither as a theoretical all-lecture class, as it had been under Dolores Umbridge at Hogwarts, nor as an entertaining introduction to various monsters and their habits, as Remus Lupin had taught it, nor as a desperate exercise in paranoia, as it had been under Alastor Moody. Rather, the Beauxbatons philosophy of Defense, as expounded by its Professor, Artois Riposte, concerned itself primarily with dueling. And Draco Malfoy was better at dueling than most of the rest of the students at the Academe.

But despite his success during the first two meetings of his Defense class, Draco felt that something important was missing from the lessons... from the atmosphere of the entire class, and the attitude of its instructor. It was puzzling more than worrying, but Draco felt that he had established enough of a rapport with Professor Riposte to be able to wait until all the other students had left at the end of class and ask some questions privately.

The Professor smiled as he saw Draco approaching alone. in an attempt at relieving some of the linguistic pressure on the boy, Riposte switched to speaking English... although it was an English so heavily accented, Draco wished the Professor had continued in French. "Ah, Mister Black, the English boy! How well you performed on the swift-draw competition. You have a keen sense of timing as well, no? What can I tell for you this day?"

Draco gave the Professor his most winning smile and adopted his 'humble and uncertain' posture. If he was going to learn anything from Riposte, arrogance could not be allowed to color his expression. "I'm not sure, Professor. Beauxbatons is just so different from my previous school. At Hogwarts, there was a lot more... security."

"You mean... wards, protective spells?" Professor Riposte asked with a shrug.

"Those... and a huge no-apparition zone throughout the castle and around the grounds. And there's not a single working floo on the entire campus. I understand that the staff doesn't want strangers barging in, but if you're at Hogwarts, you can't get in touch with anyone except through owl post."

"I believe what you see is simply a matter of style," Professor Riposte said dismissively. "There, you are supposed to be... ah... hole-up for study. Not out of school being distracted. Here, we feel that the cities, the social life, the entertainments... even the muggle world... are all important parts of a well-rounded education. You should know what's out there to appreciate what you learn in here, eh?"

Draco put on his 'innocent and uncomfortably embarrassed' face. The next exchange would tell him what he wanted to know. "Well... the thing is... before I left England, the news was that Voldemort was active once again. And with Voldemort planning... who knows what: attacks, plagues, curses, whatever... I thought that maybe Beauxbatons would be adopting further security measures. And maybe Defense would cover more combat spells."

Professor Riposte scowled, looked blank, thought a moment, then suddenly brightened. "Oh, of course. Wholledehmorr. The Butcher of Hogsmeade. The French sent some fighters to aid in your struggle against him, did you know?"

It was Draco's turn to offer a blank stare. "Uh... surely... the struggle against Voldemort was a global effort..."

Professor Riposte tilted his head to one side, considering. "Eh... there were certainly allies sent to aid the English from many European countries. And there were spies said to be operating for both sides throughout the continent. But so far as a truly global threat, I would not consider Wholledehmorr in the same class as several other dark wizards, each of which was active after the English conflict was resolved. M'rowae, from central Africa; Adéde, from the Gold Coast; Kin, from China... these were truly evil men, whose defeat required unprecedented global cooperation. In a way, the English struggle provided an example, a template for alliances that crossed traditional political borders. What was disappointing to me in each case was that the English themselves did not become involved. Then again, sometimes it has seemed that there is some higher power keeping the dark wizards from becoming too powerful. Two cases especially stand out in this respect: that of Salvatore Balneado, who rose to power in South America, only to be killed by muggle gangsters through a fluke involving mistaken identity, and Balneado himself being out alone in the deep forest; and Maluk Gependian, who became involved in muggle politics, and who was blown to pieces when his headquarters was bombed by disaffected former supporters. Who knows if anyone could have defeated them in a war? We were only fortunate that we never had to find out."

"But... with Voldemort active again... he was said to be dead. If he's back, he has most likely learned a lot from his last defeat." Draco was surprised to find himself arguing this at all. He had merely wanted to ask for some help in studying some combat spells. But Professor Riposte's attitude was a personal affront. Draco's own father sat in jail waiting to be condemned for his association with Voldemort. If his father had not been arrested, Draco himself would have been introduced to Voldemort's service some time this year. Draco's entire experience with school had been colored by the paranoid atmosphere engendered by the widespread fear of 'He Who Must Not Be Named.' And now this... glorified fencing coach... had the temerity to assert that The Dark Lord Voldemort was some kind of piker? 'Bah!' Draco thought furiously, straining to keep his anger off of his face. 'Voldemort had returned to corporeal form after being completely disembodied. Let's see Riposte do that!'

Meanwhile, the Beauxbatons Defense Professor was nodding sagely. In a calming voice, he reassured Draco, "Many dark wizards take advantage of circumstances to allow their foes to pronounce them dead. There are several advantages to this. The first is that - if you are considered to be dead - your foes will no longer pursue you. The second is that - once you return to active aggression against the established authorities - your friends will believe that you cannot be killed, and your enemies will be afraid that you will return each time they do kill you. If Wholledehmorr was 'said to be' dead, then no doubt it is the same old story. As far as learning... seriously evil wizards are among the best at learning spells... and usually among the worst at learning from their own mistakes. I doubt that it will be much more difficult to defeat The Butcher of Hogsmeade now than it was the first time. Do not fear, young Mister Black."

"It's not... I'm not afraid. I just want to do something. To help my home country."

"A duelist such as yourself will always be welcome in any struggle such as the one your own nation may face against her old foe. Practice, Mister Black. That is always the key."

Draco thanked the Professor for his time and left quickly. It was time to get back in touch with the Weasley Twins. A duelist may be important sometimes, in some isolated battle, but a single good spy could make the difference between victory and defeat for an entire war. And he had accomplished a respectable bit of espionage when he placed the Ear in Voldemort's throne room. It was time to find out what the rest of the Weasleys' plot consisted of.

-

Draco reached the floo with time to spare. He took a moment to catch his breath after hurrying across campus. He straightened his robe. He checked his hair. All the while, he looked for anyone in the surrounding area that might be taking an interest in what he was doing. He saw no one. He tossed a pinch of Floo Powder onto the embers at the bottom of the hearth and clearly spoke the name of the Weasleys' business in Diagon Alley.

Fred was monitoring the floo, waiting for Draco's call. He grinned when he saw the blonde boy's face materialize in the glow of the modest fire that burned constantly in the office hearth, making business calls quick and easy at any time. "Young Mister Black!" Fred enthused. "Top of the afternoon to you. Capital to see your face once again."

Draco scowled through the proscenium of the fireplace. "Why do you talk like that when I call?" he snapped. "You don't speak that way under any other circumstances of which I am aware. Is it a business thing? Do you answer your floo in character as a stuffy English shopkeeper?"

Fred laughed out loud. "Hardly, Draco. But you're French, now. I have to remind you of your roots in some fashion, don't I?"

Draco's temper flared just long enough for him to spit, "I'm as English as..." before he realized that Fred was having far too much fun goading him. He bit off the remainder of his reply and asked, "Have you learned an apparation point here?"

"Several," Fred bragged. "Since we were in the country anyway, George and I decided to visit Paris... well, we apparated there first, since the Parisian points were the ones we knew..."

"Can you get me back here?" Draco growled.

Fred sniffed, turning his nose up, acting much more offended at having his story cut short than could possibly have been the case. "Oh, yes. Come on through, we'll get you back home in a half an hour or less." Fred indicated a safe path through the clutter of boxes and books that constantly piled up in the Weasleys' office despite frequent straightenings, less frequent cleanings, and the Herculean efforts toward organization of the office mess put forth on a regular basis by Charlotte. With a dubious glance at the narrow aisle remaining between the piles of parchments and products-in-progress, Draco stepped into the fireplace at Beauxbatons and through the one in the Weasleys' office. In an instant, he had taken a single step from France all the way to England. He glared at Fred and demanded, "You do have a point to which to apparate at Beauxbatons?"

Fred pressed his lips together with a hurt look. "I would have told you all about it, but..."

"Fine," Draco interrupted, and turned to break the floo connection to his new school. He turned immediately back to face Fred and with a triumphant smile, gloated, "Now, it's my turn. First, what have you gotten from the Ear?"

Fred looked sheepish. Draco was surprised at how out of place the expression looked on the redhead's face. With a start, Draco realized that, in his own way, the lifelong joker Fred was as arrogant as any Death Eater. Neither of the Weasley twins admitted to faults, failings or shortcomings very easily. But it was very obvious an apology of some sort was on the way now.

"A whole bunch of nothing, really," Fred admitted. "We have a simple recording mirror charmed to remember anything louder than a pin drop, and repeat it on command. We're getting sound... mostly vague thumps from other rooms. And then there's..." Fred squinted at Draco, trying to remember everything the boy had said about his visit to the Dark Lord's throne room. "You saw him, right? When you were there. He spoke to you, didn't he?" Draco replied with a single curt nod. "Well, then... Is he an invalid? I mean, does he ride a wheel chair, or... or get carried around or something?"

Draco was puzzled by the question. "No. No, he strode into the room, stood there waving his arms about, even cast a spell. No, he's not... um... an invalid. Why?"

Fred looked frustrated and confused. He vainly tried to find words to express what he had heard. "Because he talks like one," he blurted. "'Peter, pick that up;' 'Pettigrew, hand me this;' 'Wormtail, wipe my arse;' I mean... it's like he can't do the simplest thing for himself."

Draco was impatient. Having seen the groveling Peter Pettigrew at the youth meeting in the Dark Lord's throneroom, he could imagine Voldemort ordering the toady about just to keep the sycophant from constantly asking what he could do to serve. "Yes, I get it. But once the doofus has picked the thing up and handed it over and wiped the Lord's arse... what do they talk about?"

Fred shrugged, looking miserable. "Mostly what an unrelieved cockup the toady is. I'm sorry, Draco. I mean... I'm really sorry. I thought we'd all be heroes using this thing. It looks like a good idea gone sour, though."

"Bullshite," Draco snapped. "We've already found out one big clue. The Death Eaters don't hold daily meetings. Nor weekly ones. In fact, no one gets in to see the boss very often at all, from the sound of it. So think about it. If he makes plans, he's making them by himself. He's sure not holding conferences. And he keeps his ideas so close to his chest, he doesn't even boast about them to his toad. I thought all budding world-dominators talked about their plans. Not this guy. So we're learning, even though we're not hearing much."

Despite himself, Fred Weasley was impressed. For as long as Fred had known him, Draco Malfoy had been a veritable poster child for underachievement. The boy had enjoyed a powerful family, tremendous wealth, a good deal of magical talent - and he had used all of that to make himself a whining pain in the arse. This Draco, who saw the intelligence value inherent in a lack of information, who dismissed the obvious noise of all the chattering at the toady and sought out the salient bits of useful knowledge that might be gleaned from listening between the lines... this was a new and definitely improved Malfoy model. Perhaps living through some hard times had awakened something strong and intelligent within the boy. Still, the office was hardly the place to be carrying on extended discussions about Voldemort. "Look, Draco, if we're going to be carrying on with this, we really should seek out someplace more private."

"Good thing," Malfoy retorted sarcastically. "I did want to get out of sight of Dumbledore's little 'Malfoy hunters.' If he's even still using them, I really don't know."

"Right. Hold on a bit..." Fred opened the office door and called out "George?"

"Not a good time," came the immediate reply. Draco saw Fred's shocked reaction and moved to where he could look through the doorway into the shop beyond. Though he had been ready to say any number of cruel things about jokers who ran a joke shop, even Draco was speechless as he saw the size of the crowd gathered around the shelves.

"What is it?" Draco asked in a kind of awe.

"I believe..." Fred murmured, as though daydreaming. Then, "No, it can't be... Wait. It is. My God, Draco, that's Dick Starkers. Those people... in our shop... That's the Fudgecicles. And their entire stage crew, from makeup man to prop boy!"

"There are a lot of them..." Draco said dubiously.

"There ARE a lot of them... and that crowd out there's the lot of them. Look! That's 'Wee' Willie Nelbert. He really is the prop boy!"

Draco was no longer looking into the shop, but staring at Fred with a kind of morbid fascination. "How do you know, Fred? I mean, that could be anybody..."

"How do I know?" Fred asked in disbelief. "I've seen the last dozen Fudgecicles' shows. I've watched these people, I've read the credits... I've seen Molly Fulton leaving the theatre. She's costumes," he added, still staring. "Oh, shit. Oh, Hell. Oh... Draco, I've got to..."

"No," Draco stated coldly. "It's my turn now."

"Draco, I... these people..."

"I bugged Voldemort's bloody throne. You owe me." Draco's pale eyes bored into Fred's.

"Right. Let me... let me tell George..."

Draco reached out and gripped Fred's arm. He wasn't about to let Weasley walk into the next room. He knew that if Fred got involved with this particular group of customers, not only would Draco miss out on learning what he had come here to find out, he would also lose his ride home. The two stood, staring at one another. They might have come to blows but for Charlotte. The counter person leaned through the partly open door and quietly reported, "George and I have them taken care of. They're fine. They're buying, and they're buying a lot. They'll be back, you'll see them next time. Take your guest and get out of here. And don't forget to take him home. Soon. You've already spent a lot of time in the office. Then get your arse back here and take care of any other customers that happen by, all right?" She turned a sarcastic smile Draco's way. "Hello."

Draco made a mock bow. "Good day."

Fred looked as though he were about to cry. "Our warehouse, then," he said with a sigh. A loud bang signalled their apparition.

They appeared outside the building and Fred hurried to the door. "Come on, I have to get back."

"Not before you tell me what the Hell is going on between you, Snape, Lupin and Potter," Draco snarled. "And I want to see your setup for listening to the Ear. There's no way your damn comedy troupe comes before your obligation to me."

Once they were inside the building, Fred calmed down considerably. "Right. Though I do wish George were here for the telling part. I wonder if you'll believe me."

"Make it easy on yourself: tell me the truth."

"Right. Well, basically..." Fred searched for a place to start. Finally, he thought of a previous conversation with Draco. "Do you remember when I asked you who the most powerful magic user in your class was? At the time, I insisted that Hermione Granger was the one. Remember?" Draco nodded. "I was wrong. I was 'way wrong. You were right. But I don't think you have any idea how right you were." Draco scowled and grunted impatiently. "Harry Potter is the most powerful wizard at your old school... he's the most powerful wizard in England... I think he may be the most powerful in the world. So, what Snape, Lupin, George and I have in mind is for Harry Potter to kill Voldemort, defeat Dumbledore, and take Fudge's place at the head of the government."

Draco stared at Fred for a long moment. He began to speak, then thought better of it several times. He took a deep breath, fixed Fred directly with his gaze, and very quietly, but with great intensity, said, "You... stupid... fuck. You want to lie to me? Make up something that respects my intelligence. Potter? All right, he would go after Voldemort. I can see that. Who knows? With the combined might of Snape and all of you others behind him, he might even win. He might kill the Dark Lord and live to tell the tale. But Dumbledore? Why bother? All he cares about is defeating Voldemort. If you do that for him, he'll be too busy kissing your feet to fight you. And for Merlin's sake, Fudge? What is Potter going to do, run against him in an election? Do you really think that a boy - even the Boy Who Lived - is going to get any votes when there's an experienced incumbent on the ballot running against him? You make no sense, Weasley."

"And you're missing the point, Draco," Fred countered heatedly. "Of course Dumbledore hates Voldemort. But do you think he doesn't have any ambition of his own? Hell, he's already the head of the only school for wizards and witches in Britain, he's a big wheel with the Wizengamut, and he's been going after Fudge in the newspapers like a politician on the campaign trail. You think the Ministership is far from his mind? I think he's fancied himself the leader of the Free World since the last war with Voldemort. And he's got a pretty good claim to the title, too. But he's a manipulative old meddler, far too used to getting his own way behind the scenes to risk letting him have any real political power to back up his schemes. And Fudge! Is he blind, is he stupid, or is he just a bloody traitor? Any way you look at him, he's a menace! Once Harry Potter presents the world with Voldemort's head on a stick, I don't think we'll have to wait for elections - he'll be the new Minister by general acclaim... especially if there's no Dumbledore around trying to take credit for the victory. So yes: Harry Potter will go up against Voldemort. And he will have the 'combined might' of Snape and all of the rest of us - including you, Malfoy. You've proven that you can do a damn sight of good for us, and you'd be stupid to turn down partnership with us... with me, and George, and Snape... and yes, with Lupin and Potter, too. Because we're not stopping with Voldemort. We're giving Dumbledore a big sendoff, and then taking Fudge out of government forever. And when the rest of the world sees what we've done... you know what? They're going to want in on it. They're going to make alliances, and ask advice, and arrange for favors, and pretty soon, Malfoy, Harry Potter The Boy Who Bloody Well Lived is going to - in effect, and for all practical purposes - rule the world."

Draco searched Fred's face, finding only earnest conviction there. It wasn't like looking at the grovelling Peter Pettigrew. It was more like looking at his own father's face, when Lucius would give one of his 'how the world should be' lectures. Whatever the percentage concentration of bullshite in Fred's monologue, Weasley himself believed it, that was certain. Draco paused, thought a bit and chose another tack. "Fred? Have you ever heard of M'rowae, or Adéde or Kin, from China... or Salvatore Balneado or Maluk Gependian?"

Fred gaped at Draco, growing paler as Malfoy recited his list of names. "Gods above, Malfoy! Is one Dark Lord not enough for you? You need a half-dozen of them?"

"You've heard of them," Draco accused. "Where?"

"Research," Fred said, shaking his head at the obviousness of the answer.

"Not school research?" Draco persisted.

Fred laughed. "Oh, Hell, no. Research for the company. For Halloween products, mostly. Look, muggles have had certain Halloween traditions that look like fun, so far as dressing up goes. They pick some world leaders that were particularly bloodthirsty, and they dress up like them. The Roman emperors are always popular, as well as Attila the Hun, and Genghis Khan. The Americans dress up as their own presidents. There was one guy with a long nose that's been a popular mask for a long time. So every year, George and I look up particularly nasty examples of dark wizards. It never did us much good, though. People around here... Hell, most people in Britain - our main customer base, you know - they don't know anything about the rest of the world's dark wizards. Which is a shame, really. The levels of power... the sheer numbers of spells the other dark wizards threw around were truly astounding. These guys were unbelievable."

"And yet," Draco said thoughtfully, "knowing all about how much power dark wizards can unleash, you're still willing to send Harry Potter up against Lord Voldemort."

Absolute conviction shone from Fred's face. "No question about it."

"Right..." Draco said absently. "Let's go see your Ear receiver."

-

Lucius Malfoy had not seen the Prophet that day any more than had his son. Not that Lucius had ever felt anything but contempt for the daily paper's sensationalistic interpretation of the wizarding world's news, but even if he had been an avid fan of the publication, he would not have spent any time reading it on that particular morning. The first item of business before the United Kingdom's High Court for Wizarding Affairs that morning was the People vs. Lucius Malfoy, and Lucius had met with his lawyers from dawn until they were all called to appear before the judges.

Lucius knew better than to make any comment of his own during the proceedings. He allowed his team of representatives to make his case for him, and whatever thoughts and feelings may have crossed his mind, he did not allow any of those to show in his face or posture. Instead, he sat regally, looking down his long, thin nose at all of the little people who were so concerned about his affairs.

By the end of the session, Lucius could barely contain his fury, and once the court was adjourned and the defendant was allowed to reconvene his legal team in the conference area supplied by the court for that purpose, he was exercising extreme restraint simply to avoid shouting. He would not allow himself to bellow at his barrister nor his solicitors, since he knew that - against the law, professional ethics and common decency - his every word was being monitored by his jailers and fed to the prosecutors. But he did need to satisfy himself regarding some questions, and so, as calmly as he possibly could - and giving as little away to the unseen listeners as possible - he addressed his representatives.

"What..." he forced himself to delete several explitives before continuing. "... are you doing in there?"

The barrister, who had represented Lucius' father, and had worked as a young man for Lucius' grandfather, replied equally calmly. "We are keeping you alive, sir."

Malfoy's face began to redden, and feeling the flush, he forced himself toward calm once again. "We are delayed again. We will not be returning to court tomorrow, nor, as I understand it, the next day either."

The old barrister sighed. "Quite right, sir. And the reason for this is that the prosecution has behaved abusively. Once again, today, they submitted evidence of which we had not been properly informed, as is required by law. The State, with such a weak case against you, are trying to throw things at us by surprise, and the usual reason for doing so is that the evidence thus submitted is tainted. Their witnesses may be untrustworthy, and their statements may even be false. Their physical evidence may not actually show what the State claims it to show. Solid evidence will not suffer if both sides are aware of its existence. Weak evidence is often brought in at the last minute, often accompanied by the claim that it was newly discovered and immediately hustled into court. Those claims are usually nonsense. The State is trying to overcome your genuine protestations of innocence, essentially by using cheap trickery. The only way an innocent man such as yourself can defend himself from such baseless attacks is to know what the State intends to present as evidence, and then prepare to show the court that such submissions do not prove that you have committed any crime. When the State presents surprise witnesses, when they introduce surprise exhibits, even when they offer pictures or graphs or descriptions that we have never before seen, then we have not had the opportunity to..."

Lucius waved the old man to silence. "Yes, yes, yes... rights of the defendant, on and on and on. I know the rationale. But the State has done this same thing over and over again in this trial. Can you not show the courts that, by their very behavior, the prosecution has shown its case to be non-existent? Can you not have the judge throw this whole set of charges out by showing how improperly the State has acted?"

"The judge... for some reason... as you saw today, in fact, is hesitant to dismiss any charges against you. He has... for some reason... even refrained from reprimanding, or even warning, the prosecutors. The best I could do today was to gain a delay in order to allow us all to review the exhibit the State wishes to introduce, and to obtain our own experts to testify regarding its meaning."

Staring darkly into the far distance, Lucius muttered, "This is taking forever."

Looking at his client sympathetically, the barrister replied, "It must seem so. Given the pace of the State's presentation, and the fact that our own side must be told, then allowing for the rebuttal period, the deliberation portion of these proceedings will not likely commence until Halloween, if that soon." 'And that will be that much longer for you to live,' he added to himself. 'This court has already decided. If I can't get a new trial for you when this one is lost, you'll be executed before Christmas.'

To the barrister's astonishment, Lucius Malfoy suddenly grabbed his left arm and doubled over, apparently in agony. "Sir..." the old man prompted. "Sir, should I call a doctor?"

"Do Not," Lucius spat, looking up from his cramped position, eyes blazing. "I don't want anyone near me. Get me to my cell. I was afraid of this. I will have to ride it out."