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.

17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Much later, when Harry and Snape returned to the kitchen from their exercise with the stone, Remus was sitting at the kitchen table staring bleakly into space. Snape's voice was firm, but not unkind, as he said, "It's not tonight, Mister Lupin."

Remus never looked up, but his voice carried false cheer as he agreed. "No, not tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night's the full moon."

"Have you your potion?"

"I have three. One for tomorrow, one for October. I'll have a spare after that... but if I need it, we should be able to make some more by then. Or it won't matter.

"Remus?" Harry interrupted shyly. "Maybe I could do something about... you know..." Harry's face became progressively more crimson as the two men both stared hard at him. Now that he had begun, however, it would be more humiliating to simply trail off than to say what was on his mind. "About your lycanthropy," he finished with determination.

Remus smiled and leaned back in the hard kitchen chair, much more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. His eyes, which had been directed unseeingly into the far distance, focused on the boy as he said, "I don't really think that..."

Severus Snape drowned out Remus' gentle demurral with hard sarcasm. "This is no just-bitten fresh victim dreading his first transformation. Mister Lupin has been struggling with his lycanthropy for twice as long as you have been alive. And that condition has informed every stage of his life, from the tragedy of his being bitten as a child, through adolescence into adulthood, and on to maturity. You have no idea what you are suggesting."

"Then I'd like to - suggest - that you let the mature man speak for himself," Harry shot back heatedly. "You know, it's always called the 'Curse' of the werewolf... aren't there dozens of curse-breaking spells? Aren't there wizards who specialize in lifting curses? It seems pretty cold to me that none of that power was ever turned Remus' way."

"Harry..." Remus said sadly, standing and moving to put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "The fact is, quite a lot of that power was turned my way. And maybe future research might eventually find a way to address the particulars of what I have. But the most specialized curse-breakers, using the strongest curse-lifting spells, simply couldn't touch the magic that had transformed me. It was too deep... it was in my blood."

"But none of those people could stop time," Harry countered. "None of them could smash Malfoy's practice room. I'll bet that none of them could cast a spell at all without a wand. So we're dealing with something new. And I think I could do it."

"And just what would you do?" Snape sneered with a nasty edge to his voice. "Would you remove all the vulpine characteristics from the human? I doubt that Mister Lupin would thank you for that. Taking away his sense of scent would be like striking either of us blind."

Remus shrugged with an apologetic look toward Harry. "It's even more than that. My whole sense of self has been moulded by the effects of the Wolf. Hating the beast as much as I do, I wouldn't give up my... family... my feeling for you, Harry, as a perfect example."

"Because Harry is James' son, and James was part of your pack," Snape explained, his tone perfectly neutral, but with a slight emphasis on the word 'pack,' to make sure that Harry understood what kind of 'family' Remus spoke of.

"I don't have to cut him in half," Harry argued back at Snape, then turned to Remus, and much more gently, added, "I could change some things, though. There's no reason for your transformations to be chained to the phases of the moon. Animagi have their animal selves all the time, but they only change when they want to change."

"Have you been struck blind already?" Snape mocked. "Look at the man! His transformation is not a single night's isolated nightmare, but a culmination of an entire month's complex cycle. His blood's tides already respond to the moon's pull, making him nervous and distracted a full day before the moon reaches its critical phase. Observe him two weeks from now - or recall how he appeared two weeks ago - and you will see him at his most rational, most under his own control. If you should attempt to block the crucial - transforming - portion of his monthly cycle, it would be as though you had attempted to place a barrier against the sea tide: its power would likely overwhelm your attempts, but if you should be successful, you would likely instigate disaster in some other area of the system. The kind of magic you propose requires a delicate balancing of the many repercussions each slight change would engender. Your most powerful spells, your 'wild magic' have been elemental in their randomness, as well as their strength."

"And what do you expect?" Harry shouted back. "I discovered this extraordinary ability when I was attacked, by surprise, four against one! And every single experiment you've done with me since has forced the power out of me with the most basic, gut-level motivators! There's been fear, surprise, hatred, anger and exhaustion. Don't even try to deny it!" Snape, who had made no attempt to deny Harry's summary... who, in fact, completely agreed with it, raised his eyebrows and glanced at Remus, who was wincing at the sheer volume of Harry's declamations. Harry noticed none of this. He had been feeling misgivings about this matter for some time, and he was enjoying far too much relief at getting it off his chest to pay any attention to his audience's reactions.

"You made sure I was exhausted, then frightened me with an image of Voldemort, cast by surprise. That's four gut-busters - exhaustion, fear, hatred and shock - all at once. You dropped packing crates on me, you set off the Weasleys' stupid jokes on me, you kept me off balance at every opportunity, even getting me to fly without a broom today! What kind of magic do you THINK I'm going to cast in the face of all that? If every trigger that sets off my wandless magic is tied to fight-or-flight, basic survival, what kind of spells do you think I'm going to come up with? Something subtle? Why? If it's Voldemort, I blast him out of this world. If it's heavy falling things, I push the things away. If it's stupid gits on brooms, I set their brooms on fire. And that's what I've been doing all along. No wonder I can't do anything on purpose! If we want to develop subtlety, it's not just a matter of tuning up my big blasts... it's a matter of tying the magic into higher brain functions. It's a matter of triggering the magic with something with a more subtle content than 'Look Out!' What about love? That's a higher function. And it's a helping, healing, caring function as well! And we don't have to look very far, or make something up, either. There's love right here. And it's real, and it's constant." He reached out to put his hand on Remus' shoulder, in a mirror of the very gesture of comfort Remus had offered him just moments previously. "There's enough love right here to drive a spell, I believe. And there's a clear picture in my mind of what I want to do with the magic I cast. I want to save one of my family from a horrible disease that has plagued him almost all of his life. And I want to do it without depriving him of those skills and abilities he has developed as a way of dealing with his affliction." Harry squeezed Remus' shoulder and looked into his eyes. "I love you, Remus."

Remus wanted to reply, but couldn't quite form the words. He tried to smile reassuringly, but with rising panic, he felt his grin widen further than his mouth should have been able to stretch. When he forced himself to speak, he could feel the saliva dripping from his mouth. "Eych laughhug eyuhtaugh..." he said, his voice a violent-sounding snarl.

Snape had his wand drawn and was moving backward before Remus had fallen onto all fours. "Get back, Potter, he can bite you in two with one snap. I'll stun him, and we can get the wolfsbane potion into him somehow..."

"No!" Harry ordered, placing himself deliberately between Snape and the half-transformed werewolf. "He's nearly helpless. He needs to get himself under control. And for that, he needs our support, not more mindless panic."

Much to Snape's disbelief, Harry appeared to be correct. Lupin was struggling, but not to attack. His conflict was all internal. Remus ran his tongue over his teeth, dragged his forepaws along his sides, and tried to draw his rear feet underneath himself. To Snape, Lupin looked like a dog that had eaten poison. But Harry reached out and grasped Remus' thin shoulders in a strong grip. He forced the wolf to face him. Sensing a potentially disastrous mistake, Snape called out, "Don't stare into his eyes!" but Harry shook his head.

"This isn't a dog, Professor," he called back, unafraid. "This is Remus. Our friend, Remus Lupin. And Remus needs our help. He's struggling with freedom that he has never had before. And with that freedom, Remus will be able to control his shape whenever he wants. But he's Remus, whether he's shaped like a wolf, or like the Remus we knew. He's Remus Lupin, and Remus Lupin is strong and smart and has survived a lot worse than this.

If he had been in his human form, Remus would have laughed out loud. He knew what Harry was doing, and to his intense relief, it actually seemed to be working. He tried it himself. I am Remus Lupin, he thought. He visualized himself as the human who had been Remus Lupin in school, and as he held the many jobs he had passed through all his life. Then he visualized himself in the shape of a wolf... but not the Wolf that was mindless fury incarnate. He tried to picture himself as Remus Lupin the man in wolf form. It was odd, foreign, but not completely impossible to visualize. He was Remus Lupin, alpha wolf - albeit by default - of his tiny pack, and senior wolf to this remarkable cub. He was Remus Lupin who had taught at Hogwarts, the very school he had attended and had loved so many years before. He was Remus Lupin. He concentrated on his own face. He felt his snout growing shorter as he willed it back to something resembling his human features. "Hauahee?" he ventured, embarrassed at the imprecision. The cub understood, though, and stroked his fur as he replied with an encouragement to continue. "Thisss gaunaa takka launga tie..."

"I know it will. It's a big change," Harry said softly. "I'll be here with you. Don't try to do too much all at once. We'll see it through together."

"Hauahee... yaua bwann... yaua bwann... hiur... hiur fucton..." The effort was too great, and Remus stopped trying to speak, frustrated.

"I hear you, Remus," Harry said with a broad, beaming smile. "You're damn right it's a higher function of my brain. It might be the highest function any of us has." Harry looked around at Snape, directing his next comment at the potions master. "And if I can heal a lifelong werewolf with nothing but determination and a lot of love, who knows what I might be able to do... with control... on purpose?"

-

Over the next few days, the staff of the Daily Prophet were furiously busy, but deliriously happy with the ongoing series of personal attacks, perpetrated against one another by Albus Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge, which the Prophet featured ever more prominently in each day's issue until the conflict had escalated to the point at which it rated front-page exposure. On the day of the Front-Page Dumbledore versus Fudge spread, the Prophet photography staff presented their editors with a perfectly matched pair of portraits, ideal for above-the-fold display with one picture on either side of the page. Minister Fudge had been captured in a three-quarters profile, facing left, sternly lecturing the unseen interviewer with a raised index finger and an expression of great solemnity. Headmaster Dumbledore was showcased in a similar partial profile, facing right, his face deeply serious, his brilliant white hair flowing about him as his hands moved to describe a subtle point. The Prophet's headline writers decided on a double headline to compliment the twin pictures. They worked hard to create a layout that made the conflict between the two principals as obvious as possible. When the front page for that day was done, the assembled editors beamed with pride at the compelling composition. The combatants faced each other, their pictures in suitably subtle motion, while between them, the competing headlines blared, "OUR PERIL DENIED," countered with "OUR SAVIOUR LOST."

"Really," the national affairs editor said, "This is too good for the rabble who will end up reading it. It's almost a shame to send it out there to be underappreciated."

"A lot of what we do is too good for the crowd," the entertainment editor shrugged. "But we keep putting it out there. And they keep lining their bird cages with it."

"Don't be vulgar," the society editor sniffed.

"We're journalists," the London City editor snapped. "We're supposed to be vulgar. The readers expect it."

"Streetwise is what they expect," countered Paul Duggin, whose illustrations had appeared on countless editorial pages. "Just because most of them can't tell the difference between practical cleverness and vulgarity is no reason to deny that we should be able to."

"Smart or vulgar, it has to go now, or it doesn't go at all," announced Carl, the production director. The others, all executives with their own offices - except for Duggin, who worked in his own studio away from the newspaper's offices altogether - took the opportunity to look down their noses at the ex-pressman whose responsibilities now included getting each issue of the Prophet completed on time. Their disdain was completely ineffectual. He had the final word. "Come on, any of you that have to sign off on it... give this page an OK. Get your initials into those checkboxes, or we'll have to go with the front page featuring the cute little girl and her sick toad!"

"Ugh," the society editor shuddered, putting her initials onto the page.

"Stuffy broad," the London city editor groused, bumping the society editor out of the way so he could put his mark onto the page. "I liked the girl and toad story. It's got heart... which you wouldn't know anything about."

"Girl with Toad can go on the front of the Community section, the entertainment editor pronounced with authority. It'll lead into the 'Healthy Familiar' column, and make an advertiser happy as well. What's their name... the creature shop in Diagon Alley... they're running an ad in Community today."

"Good to see all you journalists keeping up with the most newsworthy events," Carl chuckled as he collected the properly signed-off copy of the front page.

"Good for your continued employment that we in the newspaper business keep up with our income generators," the entertainment editor shot back, but his only reply was Carl's mocking laughter as the production manager disappeared down the hallway. "Laborer," the entertainment editor sneered after the man, but Carl was gone, and there was no further point in dwelling on his insults.

The national affairs editor clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention back to the meeting in progress. "For tomorrow..."

-

Albus Dumbledore had been interested in seeing what the Daily Prophet would do with his most recent interview, especially since the reporter who had taken his comments had - very pointedly - let it slip that she was going to be interviewing Minister Fudge immediately upon leaving Dumbledore's office. The headmaster sighed as he realized that his first meeting of the morning would be taking place before the newspaper could possibly be delivered. His curiosity would have to wait until after he had seen this very insistent parent who had demanded the Headmaster's first available appointment that day. Albus laughed gently, thinking of it. There had been no reason to deny the man an early meeting - Dumbledore's calendar was really not that full at the moment. But most parents usually expressed a definite preference for appointments much later in the day. Hogwarts was far to the north of where most students made their homes, and as the year began to wane, conditions there seemed harsh to those used to gentler climes. Dawn was later than it was in the south, and the air remained colder throughout the day. The extreme latitude did offer some rewards in return for suffering through its chill autumns and snowy winters. The spring was a riot of color, scent and returning life, and by the time the school year ended in June, days were clear and almost warm. But appointments with parents at the start of the school year were almost always requested for noon or shortly thereafter. In this respect, Colin Creevey's father was quite different than most.

Dumbledore paused for a moment and pictured the Creevey boys. Dennis was a steady lad, competent in his studies, and his brother... The Headmaster scowled, thinking of the last time he had seen Colin. He deliberately tried to recall the boy in a different setting. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and thought of a separate occasion on which he had observed the lad. It was no good. His every impression of Colin Creevey was of the boy holding a camera in front of his face. Dumbledore tried to remember whether anyone had ever said that Colin was a good photographer. He couldn't think of a single instance of Mister Creevey's pictures being praised... but he couldn't recall them being criticized, either. The boy may have some potential or he may not, but at least learning to care for his camera should teach him some responsibility, so the hobby was probably not all bad.

The time for his appointment had arrived, so Albus activated the staircase and stood before his desk, awaiting Colin's and Dennis's father.

He didn't have long to wait. Before the staircase had completely finished its transformation, a large, muscular man with gleaming dark gold hair leapt off of the partially-extended top step and into the Headmaster's office. He was wearing khaki, muggle-style field clothing with multiple pockets in shirt and pants, and neatly-laced military boots. His sleeves were rolled up snugly around his bulging upper arms and the top buttons of his shirt were left open, as though the extra-large garment couldn't quite be pulled closed around the wearer's massive chest. His smile was broad, exposing huge, brilliant-white teeth. As he landed from his leap off of the still-rotating staircase column, he laughed, a loose, carefree sound that filled the office with his voice. "Capital bit of workout equipment you have there!" he said, his voice as huge as his laugh had been. "Like running uphill through a steam turbine!" He laughed again, then held up a hand as though to forestall Dumbledore's criticism. "It nearly had me there at the last," he admitted with a broad grin. "There was no telling what your clever machine might have done had those vanes made it all the way out to the walls. But I took the last sets three at a time, then jumped. Exhilarating, I dare say!" He walked forward with a remarkably light tread for such a big man wearing such heavy boots. He extended a hand toward the Headmaster and, grinning all the while, announced himself. "Creevey. Edmund Creevey. My sons are among the lads here."

"Of course, Mister Creevey," Dumbledore said with exaggerated calm, in an attempt to discourage some of Edmund's exuberance. "Have you had a chance to see either of them, yet, today?"

"No time," boomed Mister Creevey. "But Colin did send me an owl... a number of them, to be honest... regarding one of your Missing Men!"

Smiling indulgently, Dumbledore very quietly responded, "I beg your pardon?"

"You must know what I mean... it's all over the papers!" Laughing explosively at his own joke, Edmund Creevey waited half a second for Dumbledore to respond, then launched into his own explanation. "The boy idolizes one of your potion-ingredient hunters... the young one, a student himself... that Potter fellow. Well, when Potter came up missing, Colin was on to a bit of parchment like a terrier onto a rat, and once he had grabbed an owl, there was my first letter of the year. Basically, he was writing to say, 'Oi, Dad, go get him!' telling me the three from here were lost in the Amazon."

"Ah. Yes. And you are an... explorer?" Dumbledore prompted.

"Photographer!" Mister Creevey announced, as though for the benefit of an audience concealed just behind Dumbledore's office's thick walls, wearing cotton wool in their ears. "Although you could certainly say that those subjects I choose to shoot make themselves scarce enough in the civilized world that my photographic excursions do share many qualities with expeditions of exploration."

"Of course," Dumbledore wheezed. "Your son has shown some... interest... in photography, as well."

"Aaa..." Edmund growled. "He'll get over it. He has no eye for the lens."

"He certainly is... persistent," Dumbledore suggested.

Mister Creevey's face worked for a moment, as though he were trying to rid himself of a persistent bad taste. "The boy gets snapshots well enough," he admitted, "but there's not an ounce of real photography in his whole body." Then Edmund smiled broadly once again, and in his booming voice, he returned to the previous subject. "But your lost fellows! They picked quite a place to drop from sight, wouldn't you say?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I'm not sure that I would," he mused.

"Oh, please, Headmaster!" Edmund thundered. "The Amazon jungle is wider, denser and wetter than those of Africa or India. There are any number of criminal organizations that have chosen to hide within its boundaries, and there are said to be whole tribes of people living in its moist embrace who have never met representatives of the civilized world! If your people are lost in there, they're more lost than they could be anywhere else on Earth!"

"Well, yes, I fully agree," Dumbledore murmured distractedly. "It's just that... I'm not entirely certain that they... did... become lost, ah, in there."

Edmund Creevey stood, head cocked to the side, silently staring at the Headmaster. Dumbledore was frankly so relieved that Creevey had actually shut up that he said nothing that might have started the conversation again. The photographer, confused, slowly started to recount what he knew of the situation. "Your professor, the boy and..." Edmund paused, waiting for help. When none was offered, he shrugged. "... Someone else... went to the Amazon and rented a boat, right?"

Dumbledore shook his head apologetically. "A rental company... with no known history, and no one with whom I am familiar to vouch for them... claims to have lost a boat. They have asked Hogwarts to pay for their lost boat. They say that the three people of whom you speak rented their boat. They would like me to believe that those three people did not return their boat. The difficulty with which I am faced... in this situation... is that I am not certain that they ever had a boat in the first place. Or if they are even, in fact, a rental company."

"Are they really in the Amazon?" Edmund asked heartily, with the air of a man who was playing along with a joke, though he did not get it, and was beginning to think that he never would.

"Their bird came from the Amazon... no real doubt about that... and it seemed eager to return, as well... huge creature... I'm sure it could make the flight. But the whole communication... the request for money, the claim that their property had not been returned... the fact that they did not seem very... concerned... about what had happened to their customers... was hardly confidence-inspiring."

As Dumbledore had spoken, Creevey's grin had returned full-force. "On the bleeding edge of the wilderness, Professor," he pronounced authoritatively, "The professional outfitters can't bother themselves about every tenderfoot that plunges into the bush, no matter how well-informed the newcomer might be regarding his specific interest. I mean, no offense to your potions professor, but the man might have known every herb that grew along the riverbank - but if he wasn't aware of how dangerous the poison-dart frog could be, and happened to find one of the beautiful, interesting creatures and pick it up... well, he wouldn't be returning his rental boat, would he?"

Eyes twinkling mischievously, Dumbledore countered, "One doesn't have to travel all the way to the bleeding edge of nowhere to find opportunists who will lie to get money. Even if Professor Snape has become lost in the jungle, I am not at all convinced that I should reimburse an unknown company for their very possibly imaginary boat."

"And that's exactly where I can help you out," Mister Creevey announced with all the sincere believability of a snake-oil salesman. "My next expedition is scheduled to roll out in only a few days. And, by chance, the Amazon is our destination. You can give me the address of this supposed boat house, and I could make some inquiries as to the last known location of your employee, your student and their friend. It's quite likely we could run across them while we're traversing the back country. Now, while my photographs are usually displayed in galleries on my return home from each expedition, and while some commercial concerns will license an image or two for use on clothing or personal accessory items, my major return from my journeys comes from the books I publish featuring the photographs taken on each trip. I believe it would add a certain amount of human interest to my next book if it were called, 'In Search of Snape,' or something of that nature; and if you would add a small forward to the book describing your worry over the missing people and how you were so relieved to find a way to send a team of competent searchers into the bush looking for them. It would all tie together nicely if you would agree to become a sponsor as well, so that we could honestly say that we were in South America on behalf of Hogwarts and Albus Dumbledore, and that we were the official search party assigned to the Amazon area. You know, for when we have to question people who wouldn't be willing to talk otherwise."

Dumbledore seemed to awaken from a light doze as Edmund finished his speech. "Mister Creevey... we are a school. We have barely enough funds to pay our staff... and one of them is a ghost. Even if we stood to make a small fortune by our association with your venture... we haven't the money to give you anything now. However, I will be willing to do this for you. If you do, in fact, find Professor Snape and his companions, I will be more than happy to write your forward, and to cooperate with you in arranging the content of the volume to... ah... match the 'Search' oriented title in which you are interested."

Edmund Creevey was clearly disappointed, but the man could tell when a potential sponsor was not going to be forthcoming with funds. "Can't say fairer than that!" he boomed. "Can you give me those blighters' address, so that I might check out the whole boat story?"

Dumbledore smiled, nodded, and wrote the information on a scrap of parchment. When the explorer left, the Headmaster took a deep breath and enjoyed the silence for a long moment.

-

Fred and George had waited as long as they could stand, but without any communication at all from Harry or his adult cohorts, the twins knew they needed to seek help while there was still time to make plans to resist the attack scheduled for this Halloween. Early in the morning - before the first classes of the day had begun - the Weasleys presented themselves at the office of the Head of their House, Minerva McGonagall. The door was open, so the two young men placed themselves in the doorway, standing at an awkward sort of attention, waiting to be noticed. Professor McGonagall was writing something on a sheet of parchment small enough to lie flat on her desk, without curling itself into the familiar scroll shape most large parchments assumed automatically. The professor's tall, conical, black hat was sitting on her desk just to the side of her parchment, rather than on one of the many shelves that lined the wall. That placement was an indication that she was planning to leave her office very soon. The twins were glad that they had showed up as early as they had, since - once they had decided to seek out help - they could barely wait to tell someone what they had learned.

From the moment she saw the twins standing in her doorway, McGonagall was suspicious. The inveterate pranksters had earned such a reputation for themselves that no one could have blamed the Gryffindor Head of House for being cautious, although her long pause between the time she saw Fred and George and her first words to them bordered on being rude. She didn't care. She was only being prudent by checking for traps, triggers for practical jokes and mischievous devices from the moment she knew the Weasleys were present. "Boys," she said crisply. "What brings you back to Hogwarts?"

The twins appeared to be too embarrassed to actually enter the office. They stood together on the threshold like actors trapped in a tiny proscenium. "Professor."

"Madame."

"Head of our House."

"It's good to see you, Professor."

McGonagall didn't have the patience for the Weasleys' usual routine. She interrupted, anticipating their habitual banter. "Yes, and I suppose this is a lovely robe I'm wearing, and the day is beautiful outside, and I'm quite sure I wish your family just as much health and happiness as you wish mine. Now. What is it that you want, gentlemen?"

"We have come to present ourselves..."

"Humbly"

"...to request an appointment to see the Headmaster."

The corners of McGonagall's mouth turned downward as she studied the pair, trying to figure out where the punchline would be coming from. The twins didn't seem to be concealing anything behind them, though the way they were blocking the doorway was suspicious. Neither of them had a hand in a pocket, and neither one carried any bags nor boxes that might conceal prank engines. "And why didn't you simply send an owl?"

"Well... we're Gryffindors."

"And you are our Head of House."

"And this is the way it's done."

"Properly done, that is..."

"To request an appointment of the Headmaster."

"And besides... this is important."

"Is it?" McGonagall said. "Then I suppose you had better come in here and tell me all about it. And be succinct. I don't have much time."

"Yes, Ma'm," the twins replied in unison.

It was at that moment that Minerva began to believe that the Weasleys might be serious. The twins had requested appointments with the Headmaster on other occasions - always as part of some complex prank or other. But in those cases, the boys had never been willing to share the details of their concerns with her. That they came in to the office in such a docile manner, sat down and waited for permission to speak was evidence of something extraordinary in the works. "Go on," she prompted.

"Uh... Yes, Ma'm. I... I hope you might recall one of our earliest products, Professor. A rather cumbersome jape known as the 'Extensible Ear'."

"I certainly do," Professor McGonagall sniffed. "Great untidy pink protuberance growing from the side of your head. Grotesque." And yet, for all her disdain, McGonagall could not keep the corners of her mouth from twitching upward at the memory of catching Fred with his Ear fully extended.

"Ah... yes. Um, the thing is... we improved it."

"Made it a fully remote unit."

"The whole thing looks to be no more than a wad of gum."

"You could place it anywhere... anywhere gum would stick, anyway..."

"And once placed, it broadcasts whatever it hears to a remote receiver."

"Which could be miles away."

"So we managed to get the ear stuck on a Death Eater..."

McGonagall's interruption was swift, her warning stern. "That is a very serious accusation, boys."

"I doubt the person we picked is going to be whining about false accusations."

"He went to a meeting with Voldemort."

"And we heard the whole thing."

Minerva stared coldly at her visitors. Very quietly, in a deliberately measured delivery, she told them, "For all your school-time pranks, I do not believe that either of you has ever seen the Headmaster truly angry. Had you ever done so, I think you would have reconsidered requesting this meeting. The one subject that the Headmaster does not tolerate joking about is... that man. I should let you go in to see Professor Dumbledore, just to teach the two of you a lesson." She sat silently, breathing hard, eyes glinting fiercely. Then with shocking volume, she shouted at the twins, "But I don't wish to be responsible for your deaths!"

Fred and George looked at one another, both becoming very worried. They had foreseen a number of difficulties, but neither had thought they would be flatly disbelieved, even before presenting their story to Dumbledore. "Please. Professor. There may be some way that we got fooled... that our victim turned the tables on us... but I don't think so. And if Professor Dumbledore hears our story, I think he'll be able to tell right away that what we have to say is true. I mean... I know it's us, and we're jokers and proud of it... but this is really serious. And we don't have much time."

'Finally,' McGonagall thought with a measure of relief. Once the jokers reached the point in their plot at which they introduced an element of panic and started forcing their victims to rush around carelessly, the prank would be revealed. And here was the push for quick action, right on time. McGonagall was a little disappointed. This setup was a bit predictable for such advanced tricksters as the Weasleys. "And how much time don't we have?"

"Til the end of October."

McGonagall was confused. She had expected to hear that tonight or tomorrow was the crucial day. Had Headmaster Dumbledore fallen for the gag - and had the bogus plot been of sufficient complexity - such a short reaction time would have guaranteed a great deal of comical dashing about, getting in one another's way and casting of incorrect spells. But the end of October? "That's a month," she pointed out.

"Only a month, yes."

"Hardly time to gear up an entire country for war."

Minerva felt sick. They weren't joking. Whatever foolish prank had gotten them into this, it was a joke no longer, and the twins really needed help. She thought of the last war, of the deaths and other casualties that Voldemort and his followers had inflicted on her country, her family and friends. "I'll take you in to see the Headmaster personally," she promised. "I want to be there when you tell him about this. And if you're lying, I'll turn you into garden slugs and sprinkle the salt onto you myself!"

Since Minerva McGonagall was perhaps the finest transfigurer in the world, this was no idle threat. But the twins were undaunted as they rose to follow her out of her office.

-

Only a few minutes later, in Albus Dumbledore's office, the discussion had come to a standstill. The twins had related what they had heard about the upcoming attack very quickly. They had described the sound of Voldemort's voice and the rumbling responses of the gathered Death Eaters. But Dumbledore wanted to know who had been bugged with the Extensible Ear device. And the Weasleys weren't telling.

"We're merely protecting our sources," Fred explained for the fourth time in a row.

"You are not... newspapermen," Dumbledore countered wearily.

"But we are businessmen," George replied with irritation.

"Who deal with dark wizards," McGonagall concluded with a sour expression.

"I wouldn't call spying on them dealing with them," Fred shot back fiercely.

"But that's exactly the point," Dumbledore's calm voice intervened. "We need as much information as possible. If you could tell us the name of even one Death Eater, we would have another advantage... miniscule as it might be."

George glared at the Headmaster. "Has it ever occurred to you, Professor Dumbledore, that you may not be the only one to have spies and double agents within that organization?" The Headmaster raised his eyebrows, innocently miming 'Who, me?' George ignored his posing. "I'm not even sure we're the only ones to have them. It would be too stupid if the whole damn bunch of 'em were nothing but spies... but I'll bet there are more moles and plants in the group than we know about. Truly, I wish I could tell you I heard your agent's voice among the crowd. But I couldn't identify any individuals - other than Voldemort himself. The rest were just a rumble of agreement with whatever their leader said."

"I hope you understand the... difficulty of using traitors... to do the work of trustworthy individuals," Dumbledore said, his disapproval of the twins' practice quite obvious. "The danger of a double-cross is always... quite real."

"I think we have protected ourselves."

"But what about your agent?" Albus pleaded. "It would be tragic to reach the point of fighting with the Death Eaters, only to... incapacitate... or even kill... someone who could have helped us."

"Our agent," George insisted, his voice hard, "wants no special treatment. Our agent may - just possibly - have an opportunity, under very particular circumstances, to kill Voldemort. Those circumstances will only arise if our agent is treated exactly the way any Death Eater combatant would be treated. Including being attacked at full force, without mercy. So our agent has made it perfectly clear... no special treatment."

Dumbledore studied each of the twins for a moment, then very calmly stated, "You're using a woman."

"What?" the twins demanded in unison.

"No pronouns," Dumbledore murmured. "Had you been using a man, you would have said 'he.' Instead, to keep from giving away a clue to your agent's identity, you exposed her sex by refusing to refer to it. Intelligence and... counter-intelligence... require a great deal of... well, intelligence. I won't fault your intentions, but I do rather think you may be in over your... erm... heads... in this. Especially if your 'agent' has been using sex to influence your opinion of her. I daresay that this entire... ah... auditory programme which you have reported to me may well have been a... complete hoax."

The twins stared at the Headmaster for a long moment, their anger growing steadily. They looked at one another, and both nodded almost imperceptibly. "Fine," Fred said. "We told you. That's as much as we can do here. Thank you for your time."

"There is... one more thing... you could do," Dumbledore suggested. Once he was certain that the twins were not simply going to stalk out of his office immediately, he continued. "You could leave your ear-receiver with me. You two have a business to run. You can't possibly monitor your device constantly."

"And you have a school to run. And a career as a media star to develop. You look good in the newspapers, Headmaster. I'm sure everyone loves you. But we have a pending patent to protect. As well as an agent to shield. And you have a decision to make: are you going to take some action to help protect our country this Halloween, or are you going to let the Death Eaters enjoy their revel, and then..."

"What was that?" Dumbledore's voice and eyes were sharp and focused. The weak old man was gone, a determined warrior standing in his place.

"Revel. The day before Halloween. The Death Eaters are all getting together and celebrating their impending takeover of the world the next day. Though how they'll manage to actually do anything the next day, I have no idea. From the sound of it, the party should create some pretty powerful hangovers."

"A Death Eater revel is no drunken schoolboy's party," Dumbldore snapped. "It will likely involve the torture and murder of several innocents. Where is this revel to be held?"

"Wherever they get together. From what I understand, the Death Eaters themselves don't know where it is. They apparate toward some homing signal sent out by Voldemort. If you could tune in to that signal, then you'd know where to go. Until the signal goes out, no one knows."

"Then it is more crucial than ever that I know who your agent is." Dumbledore's demand was fierce, his eyes flashing, his hands working as though he could grab the Weasleys' spy and drag her out of thin air. "I might be able to follow her, or apparate with her, or at least have some idea of where this damned murderous revel is to take place."

"No special treatment," George said flatly. "And, you know, we might just be horny young men whose heads have been turned by a pretty liar."

"Get ready, Headmaster," Fred added. "That's the important thing. Whatever they do beforehand, on Halloween they'll attack. And they sound like they mean it, this time. Unless we've been fooled by a programmed hoax."

The twins had put their bravest faces on, but for a moment it appeared as though Dumbledore would curse them into submission and draw their secrets out by any means necessary. They tensed, waiting for the spell that would bind them, knock them senseless, or rob them of their self control. The moment passed. Dumbledore looked even older and more weary than he had previously, and the twins could clearly see that, compared to the man who had presided over their own school days, this Dumbldore had suffered from the additional years and the many disappointments that had come with them. The Headmaster composed himself, accepting the minor defeat of not learning who the Weasleys' agent was in return for the advantage they had given him with the warning of the Halloween attack. "Thank you both," he said simply. "I will do my best. I trust that you will do yours, as well."

The twins took the spiral staircase, leaving Professor McGonagall behind with the Headmaster. Halfway down, Fred remembered to breathe. George began to make a taunting comment about that, and realized that he had been holding his breath as well. By the time they had reached the corridor at the foot of the stairs, both were laughing.

-

As the Weasley Twins left the Hogwarts grounds, Hermione Granger was already heading toward her second class of the day. She would have a long walk, even if the moving staircases did not send her on a circuitous detour (as had happened twice last week). So she was concentrating on moving quickly and not paying much attention to who else was sharing the corridor. As a result, she was quite surprised by an insistent voice immediately next to her. "You were one of his friends. I'd think you'd be interested."

Hermione turned to see the earnest face of Euan Ambercrombie staring hopefully at her as he hurried to keep pace with her rush through the hallways. Hermione stopped and Euan nearly ran into her, so eager was he to thrust a pamphlet into her hands. Hermione read the headline of the pamphlet and suppressed a groan. In bold print, the cover of the folded leaflet read: "WE MUST FIND THE BOY WHO LIVED!"

Hermione cleared her throat and gently but firmly explained to Euan, "I - am - a friend of Harry's. But who is this 'We' who have to find him?"

Euan looked scandalized that Hermione would question the headline without even reading the rest of the handout first. "You... me... everyone," he exclaimed fervently. "You've seen the papers... Fudge is right! Harry was our hope to defeat You-Know-Who, and now more than ever we have to find him!"

"Pardon me," Hermione countered coldly. "Is this the same Fudge that insisted that Harry was mentally deficient? The same one who swore that 'You-Know-Who' could never possibly return... until he was practically bowled over by Voldemort himself?" Euan hissed at the mention of the Dark Lord's name, which drove Hermione into an even steeper rage. "What? Do you think He Who Must Not Be Considered Rationally is going to appear before me in a puff of smoke? Do you think he's that powerful?"

"He could be," Euan insisted stiffly.

"Then how can you be willing to send Harry - who's a boy no older than you are, by the way - to face him in a duel to the death?"

"Th... there were prophesies," Euan stammered defensively. "Harry is powerful. He has what it takes to defeat... Him. That's why Harry lived and Voldemort had to go without a body for so many years. Harry has protection."

"And you have no idea in what form that 'protection' comes, do you?" Hermione scoffed. "Harry is a student just like you... even less advantaged than you, because you at least knew there was such a thing a magic before you came to Hogwarts. Harry didn't. He was raised among muggles who told him that magic absolutely did not exist. Harry has some strengths... he's a great quiddich seeker, for one thing. But he also has weaknesses - a lot of them. He wasn't very good in Potions; he's hopeless at Arithmancy; and when we were in History of Magic together, he would ask me what I thought about the lectures, and then on the tests he would quote whatever I had told him as directly as he could remember it! He's all right at Charms, he's adequate - barely - at Transfiguration... What part of this picture makes Harry look like a super powerful wizard? He's good under some kinds of pressure: quiddich pressure, tri-wizard tournament pressure... but have you ever seen him take a test? I've sat in class right next to him and tried to concentrate as he squirmed and grumbled and practically tore his hair out."

"Never mind," Euan said with disgust. "I thought you were his friend."

"I am his friend, you moron!" Hermione snarled, slapping at Euan's hand and sending pamphlets flying across the floor. "A lot better friend than you with your petitions to bring Harry back so he can fight the Dark Lord for you. Did it ever occur to you that Harry might have gone somewhere other than Hogwarts on purpose? Maybe because he was sick and tired of having people try to run his life for him?"

Euan brightened considerably. "Do you know where he's gone, then?"

"I wouldn't tell you if I did!" Hermione snapped and stalked away, still holding one of the folded sheets Euan had handed her. As soon as she had put some distance between herself and the boy, and was convinced that Ambercrombie had stayed behind to pick up his fliers, Hermione glanced over her copy, once again feeling irritation at the headline, but feeling considerably worse as she read through the content of the rest of the handout.

Among other things, Ambercrombie's pamphlet advocated a general student strike on the part of all Gryffindors, with members of other Houses welcome to join if they shared sufficient fellow-feeling with the Gryffindor cause. Hermione could see that, at the very least, this was a disastrous approach to take. The pamphlet's own text ranted that the return of "He Who Must Not Be Named" was a nationwide catastrophe that threatened every person, magical or muggle, in the United Kingdom... and ultimately, the world. So why should Gryffindors be uniquely concerned over the potential solution to the world's problem? And how was Euan Ambercrombie authorized to extend an invitation to anyone else on behalf of Gryffindor? And worst of all (Hermione giggled in spite of her irritation) How could anyone rail on for an entire page about someone Who Must Not Be Named? It was ludicrous. All of the 'You Know Whos' scattered throughout the text made Euan - or whoever had written this - appear to have no idea of who it was that frightened him so badly. More to the point, it seemed dishonest. The ambiguous identification of the villain made it far too easy for the author to disavow his own assertions. If things turned out unexpectedly, the writer could always say, "Oh, no. I didn't mean Voldemort. I meant that other Fellow Who Must Not Be Named."

Hermione was still giggling as she approached the doorway to her next class. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were talking near the classroom door, and as Hermione approached, they regarded her with scorn. "You think it's funny?" Lavender challenged before Hermione had even realized the two girls were there.

Hermione looked up, confused, then held up her pamphlet for the others to see. "You mean this?"

"Yes, this," Parvati replied with dramatic disapproval directed toward Hermione, while proudly displaying her own copy of the flier.

"I thought you were close to Harry," Lavender said with a superior air. "I suppose this is how you show your loyalty; by tittering at others' efforts to help your friend."

Hermione shook her head impatiently. "Oh, cut it, Lavender. Euan tried to give me the same crap, and it's not going to work from you either. Look at this thing!" She demanded, waving the tract in the air in front of Lavender's nose. "It's a clumsy piece of writing. The writer wails that Harry may be dead. Then he insists that we have to find him - presumably alive. But, he admits that he has no idea where to start looking for Harry, and his recommendations are all nonsense. How will Gryffindor students going on strike help anything?"

"Maybe by making our high and mighty teachers realize that there's a serious problem that we have to take care of," Parvati said, reaching out and snatching Hermione's pamphlet away before it struck Lavender's face.

"Then why is it just Gryffindors going on strike? The flier says that this situation is everyone's problem."

"Because our House is the family we can count on, and Harry is in our House," Lavender shot back, her upper lip curled contemptuously. "You just don't want to miss a lesson, Hermione. The rest of us realize that Hogwarts - especially Gryffindor House - stands for something more important than earning grades and getting ready to pass our N.E.W.T.S. We have to take responsibility, and be involved in our society if we expect to be the leaders of our world when we graduate from this school."

For Hermione, hearing Lavender Brown deliver a speech in commencement-day style about today's students being the Leaders Of Tomorrow was nearly too surreal. Hermione was almost struck speechless, but her anger overcame her amazement. "So you skip some classes hoping that somehow, this will force your school's administration to search for a boy who could be practically anywhere in the world? Who at Hogwarts should be involved in trying to locate a lost boy, anyway? Do we have someone whose vision might pierce the veil hiding secret knowledge from the rest of us?" With a wicked grin, Hermione brought up Lavender and Parvati's favorite teacher. "Doesn't Professor Trelawney have something to tell us about this?" She gave the two girls time to scowl and sneer and then an extra moment to stew in frustration before she went on with mock sympathy, "No? It's not surprising. Expecting our teachers to find someone who may be deliberately hiding is unreasonable. And it could be worse. As much as I hate to even think this, Harry might be dead. Who among us, student or teacher, could find him then? Wouldn't a missing person search be more effective if it were undertaken by the aurors? Wouldn't it be more practical, more efficient, to ask professionals to do what they are already experts at doing? What is the Hogwarts staff going to do, divide up the globe and send everyone out to cover an area?"

"We know Harry's in the Amazon," Parvati sneered, making her points in a singsong taunt. "We know he travelled by river. We know he had a teacher with him. We know he was looking for potions ingredients. All of that was in the newspaper, if you'd only look."

"It was only in the newspaper," Hermione said hotly. "because Fudge said so in an interview. And all Fudge cared about in that interview was making Headmaster Dumbledore look bad."

"Minister Fudge," Lavender corrected, adding the honorific with sarcastic sweetness. "And he got his information from the aurors. So if you say aurors are so good at finding missing persons, it sounds like Minister Fudge made a good start to me."

"Girls," the professor's voice carried enough warning that both the prospective strikers and their opponent dropped their argument immediately and walked into class, still glaring coldly at one another.

-

At the end of the day's class schedule, Euan Ambercrombie met with his chief lieutenants in the strike plan, Lavender Brown and Natalie McDonald. The three gathered in the main hallway near the front entrance, the mad bustle of traffic rushing past affording them nearly as much privacy as if they had met somewhere alone. None of the three had good news.

"Oh, people are angry," Natalie admitted grumpily. "And they all want someone else to do something about what's happened. But when I suggest that maybe they should take some action, they're all, 'No, I'm scared. I don't want to be identified. I don't want to get labeled a troublemaker. I don't want anything going into my permanent record.' Cowards. I think If I had suggested that they put on hoods and go vandalize something anonymously, I would have had more takers. But asking people to stand up and be counted? Useless. I thought we were Gryffindors. What's the point of being one of 'The Brave' if you don't have the guts to speak your own mind in public?"

"I thought I might get some of Potter's friends to stand with us and help convince the rest of the House to participate," Lavender reported, making sure her companions understood how she had used strategy to plan her approaches to people rather than simply trying to gather participants at random. "But the Weasley boy stared at me as though I were speaking swahili, and that Granger witch..." Natalie and Euan both laughed, hearing the implied insult in Lavender's pronunciation of the perfectly proper descriptive term.

Lavender continued her lament, confident that she had the attention of - and would soon have the respect and admiration of - both the others. 'It's only a matter of time before they realize that I'm the brains of the organization,' Lavender thought. 'And if this strike is successful, our group will be the one that the school looks to first for political action.' Lavender thought that being a radical could be quite romantic, and a great deal of fun. But to get to be the premier political force on campus, she needed a successful opening demonstration. A student strike would be perfect. Hermione Granger was not helping Lavender's cause in the least.

"Granger was dead set against me from the beginning. She used foul language, and was quite insulting."

"We'll all be using foul language," Euan warned. "And it's guaranteed that we'll be insulting enough as we're using it. We're not going to be able to take a strong stand and retain the delicacy of polite society as we take it. Anyway, maybe tonight will be our first opportunity. At dinner, when everyone is gathered together, we can stand up - the three of us and whoever else you've gotten to commit to joining - and make our demands heard. Maybe we can shame the rest of the House into participating. Who said they were willing to join us?"

"Parvati," Lavender said with a shrug.

"And her sister?" Euan pressed.

"Not yet," Lavender admitted, not willing to describe how Padma had left for class without comment when Lavender and Parvati had asked her to participate.

"Too bad," Euan said deflatedly. "It would have really helped to have someone from one of the other Houses stand with us. Did either of you find anyone from another House interested?"

Before either of the girls could answer, a loud shout interrupted the discussion. Euan rolled his eyes as he realized that it was Crabbe and Goyle approaching at a fast walk, and that Vincent was trumpeting his contempt at them as the pair approached.

"Oi, Gryffs! You blokes going on strike? Good job for that, mates, you can't get out of class soon enough for me! Just think of how pleasant those double classes will be with only a single House attending!"

Euan stood calmly, letting Crabbe's venom wash past without letting it affect him. "I know you're not concerned about this," he said. "You would probably be happy if You Know Who returned, Slytherin."

Crabbe's visage turned from mocking to threatening in an instant. "You calling me a Death Eater, Gryffindor?"

"Pffft." Euan's contempt was evident in everything from his posture to his dismissive tone. "They wouldn't have you. The Death Eaters prize strength and competence, evil as they are. In a real dark wizard society, you'd be the first to go."

"What do you know about it, Ambercrombie," Crabbe shouted, balling his hands into fists. "It just so happens that I Ooofff..."

Vincent bent nearly double, bowing at the waist as though taking a particularly theatrical bow on the stage. Goyle stepped forward a half step, glaring directly into Euan's eyes as he slid something up into his right sleeve. "It just so happens," Greg growled with a dangerous intensity, "that not everyone is as dumb as they appear to be. Just remember, Ambercrombie, that playing stupid is an effective way to put your opponents off guard. Which begs a question: Are you trying to put me off my guard, Ambercrombie?"

"No need to do it," Euan said, meeting Greg's stare directly. "And no interest in it anyway. You're no more important than Crabbe is, Goyle. In fact, you're just like him. The two of you are a pair of thugs, without a thought to share between you since Malfoy's been gone."

"Just keep thinking that, Ambercrombie," Goyle sneered. "Come on, Vince. We've got somewhere to be."

Vincent straightened from his deep bow still trying to catch his breath. He was so shocked at whatever Goyle had done to him that he forgot to cast his trademark threatening look at the Gryffindors as he left. Goyle led him away without a backward glance.

"What do you think you were doing?" Natalie demanded, gently cuffing Euan on the shoulder. "Either one of those guys is twice your size. And you're right... they are thugs. We're trying to get something done today, get some support for our strike. Why do you need a pair of hooligans on your arse?"

Euan was still staring at the place where Crabbe and Goyle had disappeared from view. His face held a faint smile, and his eyes were far away. He ignored the punch to the shoulder and told Natalie, "I think it's this whole political thing. It's making these pamphlets and working to get people involved. I really do feel like I can stand up for myself, now. I'm not afraid of them, either one or both together. All they can do is hit me. But I'm part of something bigger than either of them - or both of them put together!"

"Our movement won't be any bigger at all if we don't get moving," Lavender interrupted Euan's musing with a stern practicality. "If we're going to stand up at dinner, we'll need someone else to join us or we'll be nothing more than four individuals, easily cut out of the herd of obedient students and sent off to where we won't raise any fuss. If we split up and each take a location, we could rally some support. I could take the library..."

"No time," Euan said, sounding far too much like a group leader for Lavender's liking. "We need to coordinate, and most importantly, to be able to call off any overt action if we don't have enough people participating. Let's go to the Common Room and get everybody there involved. If they don't go along with us, we need to rethink our strategy."

Natalie agreed immediately, and Lavender, seeing no real alternative, followed along behind the two of them. 'Can't they see the obvious?' she thought bitterly. This is my group, my rebellion, my opportunity. It was in the cards I scryed last night - it showed clearly in my tea leaves this morning!' But since Lavender had not proven herself by bringing in the support the fledgling rebellion needed for a successful student strike, she had no choice but to bide her time and assert herself later.

-

At dinner, the Gryffindor table was divided. The half closest to the staff table held the potential strikers. The other half was occupied by those who had decided not to join the student protest. But all of the Gryffindors, whether they intended to participate in the demonstration or not, were in for a surprise as Headmaster Dumbledore stood up before the food was served and addressed the students.

"I understand that many of you here tonight are concerned about the recent disappearance of one of our students and one of our staff members. So am I. I know that many of you believe that Hogwarts should be involved in finding our missing friends and, if necessary, helping them out of any difficulties into which they may have fallen. So do I. I know that many of you feel that the steps we take toward that goal should be instituted immediately... if not sooner. So do I. Therefore, it gives me great pleasure to announce the Great Hogwarts Expedition To Find Our Student Potter and Our Professor Snape... or, as it will certainly be referred to by popular insistence, GHETFOSPAOPS!"

If the Headmaster had expected applause, he was disappointed. Three tablesfull of students looked toward the staff table in puzzlement. The Gryffindors closest to the staff sat glowering, casting suspicious glances toward Dumbledore, trying to figure out how they were being tricked. The rest of the Gryffindors seemed relieved for the most part, with a few stifling their laughter at the dissatisfied scowls of their Housemates.

"G'het-FOS-Pay-Ops," Dumbledore enunciated clearly into the silence. "Ghetfospaops... it rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Well, the expedition itself is already rolling out of the country and straight toward the mighty Amazonian jungle in Brazil, South America. It is led by the world-famous traveller, explorer and wildlife photographer Edmund Creevey, whose sons Colin and Dennis both attend our school. You may be familiar with Edmund Creevey's last book, 'In the Land of the Tiger.' No? Let me assure you that the tome was quite thick, filled with photographs of extremely interesting animals, and... most importantly... it took over three quarters of a year to shoot, during which time Mister Creevey constantly honed his skills in jungle exploration. That was not the first time the Creevey party had explored wild areas, either. His group has travelled the trackless desert and the frozen polar regions for previous projects, as well as having done extensive work in heavy forests throughout the world. He and his crew are now among the very most experienced wilderness explorers in all of the United Kingdom - magical or muggle. They will be following the very latest evidence to seek out our missing student and Professor and return them to us."

There was scattered applause from around the room, but only a tense silence from most of the Gryffindor table. Those who had been ready to walk out on strike sat sullenly, unconvinced by Dumbledore's apparent optimism, while those who had not been willing to participate in the protest watched the others warily.

"He's trying to take it away from us," Lavender Brown whispered, beckoning Euan and Natalie to huddle with her.

"No... I think we won," Euan said cautiously.

"The threat was enough," agreed Natalie. "We were sufficiently determined that the Headmaster had to act to prevent our disrupting classes."

"No!" Lavender wailed, still trying to remain unheard by those at the staff table. She could see her dream of becoming a romantic, heroic, rebel leader vanishing as the other students around her began to accept Dumbledore's proposal. "If we're going to stand for something, uh... if we're going to make an impression... I mean, if we're going to take a position and hold on to it, firmly, without wavering in the face of distractions..."

Lavender spent so much time whispering to her co-conspirators that she missed her chance to speak out for everyone to hear. It was Victoria Frobisher who stood up from her place next to Natalie and asked the first question of the Headmaster. "I know you say he has books published, Professor. But is this Creevey really any good?"

"Hey!" Colin shouted from the far end of the table. "That's my father you're talking about!" Colin's anger was exacerbated by the fact that he had been no more aware of his own father's participation in this expedition than had any of the other students.

He was echoed by his brother Dennis, who insisted, "Too right he's good! He's the best!" Dennis sounded more hurt than angry. He wondered why his father hadn't given him some clue that he was going to be involved.

The Gryffindor table erupted in mutterings and shouts as the other three Houses' students looked on with amusement. The Headmaster let the noisy rhubarb continue for a short while, but when Colin Creevey stood up, fists clenched, looking ready for a fight, Dumbledore called the assemblage to order again. "Listen," he ordered, and the noise in the Hall faded to a minimal rumbling. "Mister Creevey is good. And you don't have to enjoy his books... or even appreciate his photography... to understand that one thing he is exceptionally good at... is finding his way through nearly impassibly dense jungle... and locating his subjects in their own natural habitat... where they have every advantage in avoiding him. The fact that Mister Creevey was able to locate... and obtain photographs of... hundreds of animals in the dense jungles of India is ample evidence that he should be able to... ahhh... penetrate the Amazon in order to search for... those people... we seek."

Before the Headmaster could call for an end to questions, Hermione Granger stood. Without sounding accusatory or snide, she asked, clearly and simply, "Isn't it true that Harry Potter and Professor Snape might not be in the Amazon at all?" She immediately sat down again, leaving the focus on her question rather than on herself.

Professor Dumbledore looked out at Hermione with a small smile playing around his lips. He sighed before he spoke, and he looked tired as he stood behind the staff table, but his voice was rich and reassuring. "Of course it is possible that they are elsewhere. It is my hope that they are on their way here at this very moment. I would be pleased and relieved to see them both walk into the Great Hall right now. But we are searching the whole world for two individuals. No needle could ever be so well concealed in the largest known haystack. We will begin our search at the place where our evidence indicates they were most likely to have been most recently, so far as we know. Don't forget, I have my own resources to put to work as well." He raised a hand to vaguely indicate the general area of his head. "So, one way or another, I believe we will find both Mister Potter and Professor Snape. My hope is that we will find them quickly - uninjured, and in good health. Now. We have delayed our evening repast for far too long. Enjoy!" He gestured, and food appeared, hot and aromatic, on serving platters distributed among all the tables. The Headmaster sat and began to serve himself, and as he did, he began a quiet conversation with Professor McGonagall. No one could reasonably accuse Dumbledore of ignoring the students, but the Headmaster never made eye contact with any of the Gryffindors for the remainder of the meal.

-

With Draco safely at school, Narcissa drew the elegant wooden box from beneath her bed, placed it carefully on the neatly made covers, closed her eyes and took several long, slow, deep breaths. When she opened her eyes once again, she was ready to face her situation directly. The box she contemplated was beautiful, originally a gift to her grandmother from some long-dead relative. The surface was covered with thin strips of wood carefully inlaid to create swirling patterns that played off the wood grain as much as the shapes of the carved pieces. The colors were subtly varied from piece to piece, creating the illusion of pictures that seemed to recall something just beyond memory, but which never quite resolved into definite representations of anything identifiable. The box had never belonged to her father; Narcissa had inherited it directly on her grandmother's death. When she had received it, she had placed it on a shelf, admiring its beauty, but paying little attention to such a simple, beautiful artifact. She was more concerned with other things - especially the Black family fortune and how that wealth was to be divided. But her grandmother had known Narcissa more thoroughly than the girl had realized. When the young Miss Black had finally worked the subtle combination of sliding strips that opened the box, she had found a letter addressed to her - along with a small vial containing a substance with which she was completely unfamiliar... but which she would come to know very well in the following years. Thus it was that the powerful matriarch of the Black family posthumously introduced Narcissa to laudanum, and to a craving that would remain with her for the rest of her life.

Her grandmother's letter had contained a number of wild-sounding predictions, most of which had since come true. It had included scathing descriptions of many of her close relatives, most of which Narcissa now agreed with. And it had included an emotional paean to laudanum, which Narcissa had come to understand after she had experienced the drug's effects for herself. The letter laid out clear differences between users of the drug and addicts to it. There was a strong warning that weak personalities could be destroyed through use of the substance in the vial, and an equally strong endorsement of the drug's therapeutic effects, as well as a vivid description of the escape that the substance could provide - the respite it could grant one from the hellish situations the Black family were particularly gifted at creating for themselves. There were also valuable clues as to how further laudanum could be obtained, and how to tell a well-prepared sample from a poor one. Narcissa had availed herself of her grandmother's recommendations regarding connections for a few years, but eventually she had met Severus Snape, and had never again trusted anyone else to obtain the drug for her.

Her mind drifted as she stood there, letting her eyes slowly lose focus, lulled by the hypnotic patterns within the delicate inlay of the box. Snape. She called him Severus, because she knew it made him uncomfortable, yet she was sure that he would never voice any objections over it to her. But despite the familiar address she used so casually, she always thought of him as Snape. She believed that he probably thought of himself the same way. His odd, difficult life had nearly erased that part of him that would have responded to his given name, leaving an individual that was a potent distillation of intense perfectionism and impatient contempt for anyone who was not as driven and as rigorously demanding as was he. There were some notable exceptions to this rule. He seemed to care for Draco, even to love the boy in his own sharp, unforgiving way. And he had always given her the impression that he had wanted something from her - something that was not sex and had nothing to do with money. That refreshingly unexpected combination had intrigued Narcissa - and puzzled her - for years. The closest she had come to understanding it was during those times that Snape had appeared to be trying to make Lucius jealous. In those situations, Snape would engineer situations in which Lucius could see how deeply Draco respected his potions professor. Lucius never betrayed any reaction to those demonstrations, and yet Narcissa was certain that Snape enjoyed staging them for the anguish he believed Lucius suffered as a result. Snape would also make a point of displaying his secure friendship with - and deep understanding of - Narcissa. There was never anything sexual implied in these little vignettes, but that very lack of carnal content made them all the more damning. It was as though Snape were showing that Lucius was ignorant of the real personalities and the actual lives of his wife and son. And, of course, Snape had been right. Lucius had dedicated himself to a pursuit of power that was as doomed as it was mad. He had ignored or abused his family, creating a home that was as cold as any of those produced by the worst of the Black family's cruel unions. And now, he sat imprisoned, awaiting only an official pronouncement to send him to his death. And where was the great Dark Lord during all of this? He was certainly not offering any practical assistance, nor any hope of any to come. Narcissa hoped she never saw him or heard his name again.

But how did she feel about Lucius? Now that she was free of him, although under rather horrible circumstances, would she want him back if he were released from prison? Would she be happy if he were to join her here in her French hideaway? If, by some miracle, the Court set her husband free, would she return to being Mrs. Malfoy? She felt the pull of the contents of the box as she thought about that. She felt the welling urge to immerse herself in the warm comfort, the painless relaxation, the hallucinatory contemplative torpor of the laudanum. She deliberately let herself feel the desire, the craving. Then, just as deliberately, she forced herself to focus and to understand that... for today at least... she would not be indulging that desire. She had abstained from using the drug for many days by this time, and had indulged herself with only a tiny amount on each of several days prior to that. She was ready to lock it away once again.

She drew her wand and picked up the box, stuffing it unceremoniously under her arm to free one hand to open the bedroom closet. Hanging on the back wall of the closet was an empty picture frame which seemed old, beaten up and not worth the effort to steal. It clearly held no art, and did not even have a backing board or a glass cover that might hold any value. However, as with much of Narcissa's possessions, there was much more to this item than the readily apparent. In this case what met the eye was four bits of wood and some glue. But this frame was charmed with a spell very similar to that which could be used to create a bag of holding. The frame was, in effect, a wall safe, and only someone who knew the precise magical combination could open it to add or retrieve items. Despite its very effective disguise, it was also charmed with a sophisticated guarding spell which would be triggered any time the frame was handled improperly. Anyone attempting to carry it away without casting the correct identifying spells would be struck with a Petrificus Totalis. The thief who attempted to burglarize the frame would rue the day he tried to steal from Narcissa Malfoy. WIth such a system in place, Narcissa was quite confident regarding the safety of her possessions.

Moving her wand in a precise pattern, she cast the spell that unlocked the frame. A dim blue glow indicated that her personal safety deposit box was open.

The glow illuminated the interior, which was quite spacious, and could be expanded even further with a simple spell. Narcissa selected a place near the back of the current boundary of the holding area and gently placed the box inside. She then added a charm to the spot on which the box sat, using a spell that functioned as a sort of time lock. She named a date many months in the future. Once the spell was cast, she would not be able to remove the box from the frame of holding until that date had passed. She closed the holding area before she had a chance to regret her action, arranged the hangers so that her clothes hid the frame, and shut the closet door firmly. It was done. She may need to use the drug some time in the future, but she would not use it today or tomorrow or any time for several months. And by that time, the craving that was already making her stomach clench and her palms sweat would have passed, and the dreams of laudanum would once again be distant memories.

At times such as these, Narcissa knew that being busy with the mundane tasks of normal life was the best antidote to obsessing over the absence of the drug. She tied her hair back with a scarf, selected a pair of sunglasses and took some money from the drawer in the nightstand next to her bed. She chose to bring both francs and galleons, not knowing exactly where she would go in this oddly mixed neighborhood where witches, wizards and muggles lived in such close contact with one another. She had a vague idea that she would go shopping. But she didn't want to go out in search of clothes or jewelry or anything major like furniture. She thought it would be fun to shop for groceries, bring some food home and cook something fresh for tonight's dinner. There were small markets close by, each of which specialized in a single food item - a vegetable stand, a butcher, a bakery - and she decided that it was about time that she took advantage of the friendly atmosphere of those places to allow herself to meet some of her neighbors - and maybe even learn how witches recognized one another amidst the press of muggles all around this place. She walked out of her front door, locking it with a flick of her wand without even thinking of what she was doing. An instant later, she caught herself, glanced around to make sure there were no muggles watching, placed her wand decisively into her handbag and began the walk to the local grocery.

Within a few steps, she was already feeling more confident and more cheerful. She looked at the neighborhood that she had not taken the time to appreciate previously, and she found that it was really quite pretty, a very appealing collection of homes. The air carried the scent of herbs, both from the gardens in nearby yards and from someone's cooking. The fall atmosphere was crisp, cool and invigorating. She smiled, feeling herself relax all over. This was going to be fun.

Narcissa had wondered how she would manage to stay in any of the local markets long enough to meet anyone without looking suspicious. She needn't have worried. The first shop she entered, the greengrocer's, was huge, and quite crowded. Despite the chaos and the hearty hum of conversations all over the shop, the proprietor called out, "Bonjour, Madame!" immediately on Narcissa's entry. She answered with her own quiet, "Bonjour," and heard several patrons laugh. Her first impression was that the laughter was in response to the contrast between the proprietor's hearty greeting and her own demure reply. She knew that such an impression made no sense, that the people crowding the shop were involved in conversations of their own, and that few of them would have been interested in her at all. But, despite her own logic, she felt as though she were back in school, mystified at the existing culture in this strange place, and nervous over being laughed at. She knew that her hypersensitivity must have been caused by the relative harshness of sobriety contrasting with the soothing numbness of her time spent under the influence of laudanum. But there would be no escape for her back into the dull torpor of the drug. She concentrated on her movements, forcing herself to remain loose and graceful, even as her initial reaction was to tense up defensively. She began to walk through the first aisle of the shop, between wooden racks on the walls holding bunches of herbs, opposite heavy wooden tables topped with shallow boxes of vegetables over large mounds of root crops and gourds stacked beneath. The place smelled fresh and clean with a combination of vegetable scents that recalled the aroma of a rich soup. There was no further laughter from the other customers and no one was staring at her, so Narcissa once again relaxed and began to inspect the items offered for sale.

Narcissa had allowed her mind to wander even as her languid pace took her wandering through the store. She was listening to the soothing sounds of friendly conversation and idly watching the customers, when a voice immediately behind her made her jump. She turned quickly, too surprised to force herself to remain nonchalant, only to see an old woman standing there, her shopping bag partly filled with potatoes and bitter greens.

"Ah. It is you," the old woman said with satisfaction, in English, a smug smile on her face.

Narcissa's heart pounded. Who would know to address her in English first, except someone who had been sent from the UK to track her down? It hardly mattered whether the agent represented the government or the Dark Lord. Either group finding her now could spell disaster. The woman with the bag of potatoes and greens seemed an unlikely assassin, however, so Narcissa needed to know where this stranger's accomplices were hiding. The only way to determine that was to give them a chance to reveal themselves through their actions. Narcissa returned the woman's smug smile with an ironic grin of her own. "Is it?" she teased, waiting for someone else in the store to begin to move toward her, block the doorway or draw a wand.

"Yes. You have become my neighbor," the old woman beamed, skin crinkling at the corners of her eyes as she smiled more warmly. "Less than ten houses away. What is it? Seven? No. Eight houses. You come out your front door and turn to the left. Then count the house next to you as one. Mine will be eight as you count. The one like terra cotta."

The last comment was hardly any help. In Narcissa's new neighborhood, all of the houses were nearly the same color, and the heavy use of tile and masonry gave them all a look 'like terra cotta.' French houses tended to face inward, their front doors small, most without front windows at all. Many of the larger houses were constructed around a central courtyard, open to the sky. The majority of the smaller ones - such as Narcissa's - featured a small, walled back yard instead of a court. The Blacks' new home was actually uncommonly inviting, with its large number of windows and prominent front door. But most of the houses on her street showed a nearly solid wall to the public. This gave the builders ample room to display tile work on the surface of the house that faced the street. But Narcissa hardly cared about her new neighbor's pride in her home's tile. Instead, she was filled with relief as she realized that no accomplices were moving into position, no attackers were approaching. She had not been recognized as a fugitive after all. Instead, she had been recognized as a neighbor and, perhaps, a potential friend. "I wish I could say that I know the home of which you speak," Narcissa replied with a rather stiff formality calculated to make her English easier to understand for a non-native speaker. "But I have not ventured out from my own door very often since moving to my new home."

"I understand your reluctance," the old woman said with a sly look. "And I may be able to help you in that respect." She reached into the handbag that had remained mostly concealed by her shopping bag and drew a very elegant wand, only far enough for Narcissa to recognize it for what it was, then allowing it to drop back into her bag as soon as she was certain that Narcissa had seen it and understood its implications. "We are a very mixed neighborhood, but that does not mean that it is a bad place to live... only that we must be discreet." Narcissa's new neighbor watched for a reaction to her revelation, and was pleased to see that the younger woman obviously had many questions - but that she was disciplined enough to refrain from asking any of them here. The old woman seemed to be waiting for something else as well, but when it was not forthcoming, she shrugged and continued, "I am Eugenie DeMolay."

"Narcissa Black," Narcissa replied automatically, before the significance of the other woman's name struck her. Narcissa's eyes widened and she reflexively stepped back in order to get a full view of the other woman. Eugenie DeMolay was the matriarch of one of the most socially powerful families on the Continent. What on Earth was she doing shopping for her own food at the neighborhood green grocer's? Narcissa had not yet decided whether or not to challenge her neighbor's declaration - or whether to ask if she merely shared a common name with the famous socialite, when Eugenie's reply shocked her into silence.

"Oh... You have divorced, then?"

Narcissa felt cold all over. Once again, she checked the room, still finding no evidence of thugs poised to attack. Could the accomplices be wearing invisibility cloaks? She fluttered her eyelids, flicking her gaze from side to side, looking for subtle hints of odd refractions or shadows out of place that might give away the wearers of invisibility cloaks. Nothing. The woman opposite her had dropped her wand into her bag and had made no move to retrieve it. She was obviously planning no magical attack. What could possibly be going on? Narcissa was worried. But she reasoned that if this woman were really Eugenie DeMolay, and if she were ignorant of the circumstances that had led Narcissa to take up residence here, she may not be prejudiced against Narcissa, and may even be inclined to be an ally. Knowing that she could use any friend she could find, Narcissa replied, "Not... exactly. We should talk. The story is more complicated than I could tell quickly."

"Of course," Eugenie said, even more smoothly than Narcissa had spoken, and quickly enough to keep the younger woman from extending an invitation of her own. "Come to my house. If I may impose upon you, perhaps you can help me by carrying one of the heavier items I had wanted to purchase here. We can have coffee and spend some time together. Have you appointments to meet this afternoon?"

"I would like to be home when my son returns from school," Narcissa said thoughtfully. Then she shook her head and laughed at her own caution. "But he is rather mature... I hardly need to watch his every move. I would love to come to your house. And I will be glad to carry something for you."

"Thank you. My age has slowed me," Madame DeMolay said, glancing around the room at the people Narcissa presumed must be muggles. "and one cannot exactly levitate great squashes along the street, can one?"

-

The DeMolay home was quite surprising in its expansiveness, given that the front of the house was hardly more impressive than Narcissa's own. Eugenie led them through a narrow entryway, into a broad living room and from there into an informal dining room that was almost an indoor patio, where chairs of twisted wire supporting delicate round pads sat around a circular cafe table on a stone floor. Wide sliding glass doors led out to the roofless center court and spilled plenty of bright, cheering illumination into the dining area. Madame DeMolay pulled out her wand and levitated her purchases, sending them on toward the kitchen with a swift flick. Just when Narcissa was wondering whether Eugenie lived in and managed this house all alone, a faint voice drifted toward them from what must have been the kitchen. "Madame?"

Without raising her voice, Madame DeMolay asked for coffee for two, and settled comfortably onto one of the cafe chairs, waving Narcissa to a seat opposite.

Puzzled by some of the apparent contradictions in her hostess' situation, not wishing to be rude, but almost unaware that she was speaking aloud, Narcissa asked, "How...?"

Madame DeMolay waved a hand airily, as though to dispel Narcissa's discomfort. "My children are themselves old," she explained with a laugh. "Their children are finding... or have already found... spouses, and homes, and careers of their own. I have great-grandchildren! Though they are both only infants, thank God. What am I to do, keep a manor-house where the traffic is like the streets of Paris? I did that for my children... for their schooling, for their introduction to society, for their establishment of themselves as young adults. Ugh! The parties - how I hated them!"

Narcissa was shocked. She immediately protested, "But... your parties... were magnificent!"

Eugenie smiled warmly. "You are remembering what your mother must have told you. My parties - those I held for myself, long years past - were rather... I believe that 'magnificent' may be going too far. But they were certainly elegant, and my guests were almost always fascinating. But that was a generation ago. Or more, depending on what you consider a generation to be. The parties for my children... they were an obligation I quickly tired of. I was expected to do so much, to live up to so many legends of the past, that once my obligations were over, I left that kind of society as quickly as I could and moved here. And I found that I quite enjoy the life of a small-town great-grandmother. Many of my neighbors think they know who I once was... but they are not really aware of the extent to which my life was so very different. But I had asked of your life, first. You must not allow me to prattle on about myself. Why are you 'Black' once again?"

Narcissa watched the smiling old woman, baffled, wondering if she really did pose some kind of threat. "How do you know...?"

It seemed as though Narcissa was not going to be allowed to ask a complete question that day. Madame DeMolay answered as if she had been waiting for this exact inquiry. "I knew your mother, of course," she explained. With a sly smile she added, "I'll bet you don't remember the first time you met me." Narcissa could only shake her head. So far as she was aware, she had never met Madame DeMolay. "You were too small to understand who I was. But I remember you liked the way I said your name. The French 'R' is different from the English, no? So: Narcissa. You laughed to hear me say it. And many years later I heard of your wedding. How could I not? The Malfoy fortune is legendary even here."

This was not quite enough to satisfy Narcissa's curiosity. "But... in the store, when you said, 'it is you,' I thought you meant only that you recognized me as your new neighbor. How did you know that I was the girl you met so many years before?"

"One of the advantages to being a small-town great-grandmother - and the elder of our area - is the privilege of being... what do you say?... a busybody. When I saw you arrive, I suspected. It was a small matter to make certain. There are always published pictures of society women. But few society women are as attractive as are you, Narcissa. There were plenty of photographs, many quite recent, for me to use to confirm your identity. And, Narcissa... your friend who visited so regularly when you first moved here? I believe I know what appearance he was attempting to project. But he does not look at all like a priest. The style of robe he wears is somewhat similar to a priest's cassock, I will admit. But no practicing Catholic would be misled."

Narcissa swallowed hard. She had been well and truly discovered, not merely by someone who guessed at her identity, but by someone who knew her maiden name and her blood relatives. She had few choices. She could explain her situation and plead with Madame DeMolay to keep her secret, or she could draw her wand and attempt to kill everyone who lived in this house... that is, if the DeMolay home was not equipped with the kind of charms that would prevent such a thing from occurring. Perhaps her expectations were unduly pessimistic due to having being married to Lucius for so long, but Narcissa could not imagine a house belonging to such a prominent person that was not so ensorcelled as to protect its primary resident, at least. And who knew what kinds of defenses Eugenie herself kept on or near her person. No, Narcissa thought, she would have to attempt to make an ally of this woman. And if necessary, kill her when she was away from home and presumably more vulnerable. Her first priority had to be to establish a stronger personal connection with Madame DeMolay. And that would have to begin with more information. "Are you a practicing Catholic yourself?"

Eugenie sighed, and delayed her answer to wait for the coffee to be served. As soon as the server entered the room, Narcissa knew what one portion of the home's security system consisted of. The woman who carried in the tray was nearly two meters tall, and broad shouldered. She was not beefy at all - this was no steroid-enhanced body builder. But her muscles were more clearly defined than most women's, and she moved with a lightness incongruous for her size. Her long blonde hair was woven into a single braid, and her eyes were a brilliant blue. She wore pants, athletic shoes and a woven short-sleeved shirt. She looked like a fitness instructor. Madame DeMolay watched Narcissa stare for a moment, then softly commented, "Jutta is Swedish. By birth as well as extraction. Her French is excellent, however... as is her English," the last comment delivered as a mock warning. Eugenie watched approvingly as the tall blonde poured two coffees and set the cups delicately onto saucers which she placed silently in front of each of the seated women. "She's really quite useful. All she requires is the occasional beating."

As the server returned to a standing position that was nearly as rigid as a military attention, Narcissa wondered, "... who could ever deliver one?"

"Jutta?" Eugenie prompted, lifting her cup close to her face to smell the brew.

"Madame runs her home quite efficiently," Jutta responded instantly. It was the same voice as had drifted out from the kitchen earlier. A light, soft soprano that had made Narcissa imagine a petite girl in a theatrical-costume French maid's uniform. As frail as that voice sounded, there was no doubt about the strength in Jutta's body. And yet the Swede's unquestioning loyalty testified to Madame DeMolay's strength of personality. Narcissa was certain that if Eugenie DeMolay considered it necessary, the frail-looking woman of the house could and would deliver whatever punishment she decreed, to Jutta or to anyone else she felt deserved it.

Eugenie nodded and Jutta strode silently from the room. Narcissa met Madame DeMolay's eyes and waited. The older woman smiled once again before saying anything, and Narcissa found herself enjoying the warm feeling conveyed by that simple expression. For most of her life - and for the last twenty years in particular - smiles among Narcissa's associates had carried almost anything but warmth. There were the challenging smiles given by someone with a political advantage to wield. There were the sarcastic smiles offered in place of congratulations or encouragement. There were the false smiles to be pasted on when facing opponents. There were the cruel smiles her husband showed her when they were alone, smiles that could make her shudder with anticipation... or dread. But Eugenie's smiles reached her eyes, illuminated her face and radiated relaxation and good humor. "I am not a practicing Catholic as you might think of one," Madame DeMolay admitted. "I pray to the Virgin. And I believe that She has interceded for me. But if the Church were to know who I am... specifically, if they realized that I routinely practice magic… they would not want me. So my worship is of a very private nature. I make no donations to the Church in my own name, although some anonymous offerings have made their way into the local cathedral's coffers from my hand. I do not attend regular services, though I do go when I can, at different times of day, on different days of the week, to minimize my chances of being recognized. And so as to prevent friendly, well-meaning people from becoming interested in me, engaging me in conversation, and learning too much about me for either of our own good. But the Church... or, I suppose I could say, my own faith in its teachings… has offered me some comfort, especially during the difficult time following my husband's death. But your own husband - you no longer use his name. What happened?"

"Lucius has fallen into some difficulty involving our government," Narcissa said carefully. "If you went to the trouble of finding recent pictures of me, I believe you must know what sort of difficulty that is. What you may not know is that my house, all of my possessions, and all of my money were seized because of the case against Lucius. I could only imagine that the next seizures would be of myself and my son. I escaped the country with Draco, a case of clothing for each of us and the money in my pocket. With the assistance of my friend - the one who is too obviously not a priest - I was able to obtain that house just down the street and to enroll my son in school. Frankly, I am quite disturbed that you were able to identify me so quickly. I fear that spies may be searching for me. And for Draco. I do not want them to find either of us."

"Ah. The politics of the rich. When I was a girl there was a saying here about government: 'The poor complain that they have no voice... and the rich complain that they have no heads.' It is different for you when you have wealth to seize, enh? You will be pursued. So I am surprised to find you here in France."

"I hardly wished to stay in England," Narcissa said sourly.

"No, no, of course not," Madame DeMolay laughed. "But are we so far away, here? Even for muggles, our nations are now neighbors. A tunnel under the Channel, the fast boats and aeroplanes above... and our people have always had apparation. Many English witches know several apparation points in France. And a great number of French... for all their pretending to be so disdainful of travel amongst our neighbors... know a variety of apparation points in England. When you come to France to hide from the English, it is as though a child had run away from home, only to settle on the next block of houses over from her own."

"It has served me well," Narcissa replied coolly. She was not fond of being scolded, even in such a lighthearted and friendly manner as this. "Besides, I had few options and no time. I am grateful for the help I received."

"Yes. Of course," Madame DeMolay replied sympathetically. "But now that you are here, and safe, you do have time, yes?" She waited for Narcissa's suspicious nod. "With that time, you need to find a new... onh... direction? Is that right? I mean, for a lady such as yourself, you would not say that you need a 'job,' or even a 'career,' would you? It is not a 'situation' for which you search. You need a new life!"

Narcissa had no idea what to say to this. She stared at the woman opposite her, who sat beaming as though her own life were carefree and filled with joy. Narcissa forced her own face to remain expressionless, placid. 'What is all of this?' she wondered again. Had she already been manipulated into a situation from which she would be unable to escape? She doubted that. Though she found it difficult to believe, her own usually accurate sense of danger suggested that there was no threat to her here. And yet... 'a new life.' There was quite a lot implied by such a statement. Was Eugenie a kind of missionary to the wizarding community, prostletizing her own private brand of Catholicism to magic users? Or was her agenda political, or something else altogether? "I'm not quite sure what I really do need," Narcissa said cautiously. "Despite my background, I have been robbed of my wealth. I may need a 'job' to provide me with enough income to survive. I have many skills, but putting them to use is dependent upon social position. Mine has been destroyed. I may need a 'career' to prevent me from sitting at home until I go mad. If the government of Minister Fudge decides there is something to be gained from finding me, I may have to achieve an anonymity well beyond using my maiden name and living in France. I may need a 'situation' into which I may disappear from public view - possibly for years to come."

"Then we are in perfect agreement!" Eugenie enthused. "You need an income, a place to use your unique abilities, and protection from the English Fudge. Bon. You are currently in a period of transition, and you have no pressing obligations. Wonderful. Tell me, have you heard of Aubeneuf-Sarbanes?

Narcissa blinked. The last question was ludicrous. It was like asking an American if she had heard of Coca-Cola; asking a Japanese whether she knew of Mitsubishi. Aubeneuf-Sarbanes had built the current Ministry of Magic building in England, as well as all of the government buildings now being used in France. They had been instrumental in upgrading the floo network two decades ago. They were among the most familiar names in shipping and in the manufacture of many household items. And, unlike many wizard-owned companies, Aubeneuf-Sarbanes made a great deal of money working on muggle projects. Their highways could be found in twelve different countries, and they had expanded and improved over twenty major harbors around the world. Their financial branch's lending program was the only money lender in the entire wizarding world to provide any real competition for Gringott's. With a start, Narcissa realized that Madame DeMolay was waiting for a reply. "Sorry. I thought that was a rhetorical question. Of course I have heard of Aubeneuf-Sarbanes. Who hasn't?"

"Perhaps someone who was not paying attention," Eugenie shrugged. "The only place we really display our name is on our kitchen products."

"Our?" Narcissa asked, quite impressed.

"Well..." Madame DeMolay laughed. "More properly, Mine. I have given the duties of running each division to individual presidents. But they still all report to me. And I retain ownership of over eighty percent of the entire company."

Narcissa was more than impressed by this. She was frankly amazed. Even allowing for a considerable bit of exaggeration on her hostesses' part, anyone who owned a majority of Aubeneuf-Sarbanes would have been a multi-billionaire even if her wealth were measured in galleons, let alone such paltry units such as pounds or francs. "That must represent a sizable fortune."

"Enh," Madame DeMolay dismissed the consideration of the value of her holdings. "The first few millions make a difference. After that, it is simply wealth. What becomes important is what one does with it. And what I intend to do with the wealth I hold is to open new markets for my company, to do business where we have not done business previously. If that were only a matter of selling a self-stirring kettle in a new city, I would not be concerned. But I am currently most interested in gaining public works contracts in the Orient. And for that, I need special people to make and develop the crucial contacts we will need to learn what jobs are becoming available, and to secure the business for us. I will need people with more subtle skills than are possessed by most kitchen-goods salesmen, people who can adopt a less hard-sell approach than most of my product distributors. I need people with social skills and political understanding. People like you, Narcissa."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Narcissa countered lightly. "How do your people work in such a situation? Is it all by floo? Do you go to visit individuals in their offices? I'm afraid I wouldn't know how to begin."

"Narcissa," Eugenie scolded teasingly. "I would not put you on cold calls or floo work. Not only do I have too much respect for your family, but it would be a waste of talent. Your expertise would be utilized once we had introduced ourselves to our potential clients. Specifically, once we were ready to invite these people to spend an evening with us, dining and enjoying conversation. How would you like to spend the next year in Indonesia?"

Narcissa was no longer merely suspicious. There was something definitely wrong with the situation in which she found herself. One simply did not go from a chance meeting at the grocery to a job offer in the course of a single conversation. Keeping her tone light and bantering, Narcissa asked, "Madame, have you been stalking me?"

Eugenie smiled, nodded, and with evident relief said, "Yes. I was so glad that you finally came out of your house. I was beginning to fear that I would have to knock on your door and offer you a cake as a welcome to the neighborhood. I would have been uncomfortable doing that, and I am sure that, had I done so, I would have been dismissed before I was able to explain what was on my mind."

Slowly, carefully, not wanting to show how upset she was, Narcissa sipped her coffee and then spoke over the rim of her cup, "You were... watching me?"

Eugenie pursed her lips slightly and shook her head, every bit the practical businesswoman. "Nothing improper. I certainly did not look through your windows. I could not even see your door. All I had was a simple charm that made a sound any time you ventured out of your house. And I did not chase you to this place. You moved here. I recognized you and realized that you could be an asset. So I cast my little charm. I had several false alarms when you answered your door. Each time you immediately disappeared back inside your house once again. But once you actually left home to travel in public, I felt it was safe to approach you. And so it was. I have told you who I am and what my interest is. And I ask you once again: How do you feel about living in Indonesia for the next year?"

Narcissa scowled. "I don't think I would be very effective in Indonesia, Madame. I don't even speak..." she frowned more deeply in frustration, "... Indonesian."

"Bahasa," Eugenie corrected crisply. "And beyond 'Selamat sore,' as you welcome your guests and wish them good evening, there will be little cause for you to speak it. The Wesias have all taken to using English for their trading, though most of those I have met also speak French.

"Doesn't 'wesia' mean 'warrior?'

Eugenie smiled slyly. "You see? You know more Bahasa than you thought. And yes, wesia is the name of the so-called warrior caste. But to the Indonesians, warriors include traders and minor nobility - exactly the people we need to work with." Madame DeMolay relaxed in her chair and sipped coffee. She had placed her offer on the table, it would be up to her guest to understand that such opportunities came seldom and would not be available forever.

Narcissa understood those things quite well. She also understood that her obligations as a mother overrode most other concerns in her life. "I don't believe that moving to Indonesia would be fair to my son," she explained, hoping that there might be some other opportunity for her somewhere within Madame DeMolay's immense holdings.

"Perhaps not," Eugenie said sadly, then brightened once again. "Or... perhaps we could arrange for him to remain here. He could stay at your home, in a place in which he is already comfortable. He could attend his school, and you could begin your new life - possibly with a new name and a brand new, perfectly respectable history that would not interest your government in the least."

"Madame, I will have to think about this. Discuss it with my son. Take some time to consider my options," Narcissa said pleasantly. Even as she spoke, she was thinking bitterly, 'I have already admitted to this woman that I have few options and that I was out of time when I moved here. What has changed since my arrival in France? Only our meeting, and the Madame's generous offer. So what if I am sick of hosting parties and making small talk while the real business gets done behind my back? What if I am as sick of that as she says she was of hosting her own childrens' celebrations? What choice do I have?' She smiled politely and sipped more coffee.

"Of course, I understand. I hope we will discuss this soon," Madame DeMolay replied, just as pleasantly as Narcissa had spoken. But the confidence in her manner telegraphed that the older woman had already determined exactly how many options Narcissa had available. She smiled and sipped her coffee, content to wait patiently for the time being.