Harry Potter and the Butcher of Hogsmeade Chapter 18, a harry potter fanfic

The reviewers ask…

How long will this story be?

Even after multiple inquiries, I hadn't wanted to reveal that bit of information, since I was well aware that if I did, thoughtful readers would be able to anticipate the story's structure and that might spoil some surprises.

But if you read a printed book, you can tell how many pages are left. If you're watching a movie, you know how long it is going to run. The good writers' challenge is to overcome the strictures of structure and keep the work interesting to the last word.

So here it is. This story will be 22 chapters long. The chapters following this one push the limit of acceptable file size, so there's still quite a bit of story left.

As always, I thank you all for your comments and criticisms. It is frankly thrilling to receive feedback on my work, and each review drives me on to further writing (an original story is in progress now).

But you had logged on to get to Chapter 18, didn't you? Well, then….

Chapter 18

That Sunday, Fred and George Weasley returned to the Burrow to join their family for dinner. They could smell the rich aroma of beef stew, but the house was nearly silent, without the familiar clattering of bespelled utensils their mother usually kept working in the kitchen up until time to serve the evening meal, and without the usual shouting between rooms that comprised most of the Weasley family's conversations any time they were not actually seated around a table together. The twins looked into the kitchen to find it deserted. They walked out to the living room to find their father standing calmly, waiting for them.

"Hi, Dad!"

"How are you?"

"Where's Mom?"

"When's dinner?"

The swift patter of questions suddenly ran out as both twins realized that their father was not attempting to answer, but merely looking at them gravely. Arthur waited for the quiet to establish itself, sighed, and very quietly answered. "I arranged for your mother to be out of the house for a few moments. It wasn't easy, and we haven't much time before she returns, so to make tonight as pleasant as possible, I will ask you questions and you will answer them, quickly and succinctly. There will be no verbal games and no delays or, by God, I'll continue this interrogation with your mother in earshot, and you'll never hear the end of it."

Neither twin said anything. This seemed to satisfy Arthur, as he gave them one ponderous nod and began his questioning. "How is it that the two of you obtained information regarding the Death Eaters' next major attack?"

"Who told you that?" George demanded, outraged.

"So it is true," Arthur replied, unperturbed by his son's upset. "My sources are not your concern at the moment. I want the truth from you both."

Fred continued, allowing his brother to maintain his outraged pose. "As you might expect from us, it began with a prank. We placed a listening device on someone who was on his way to a meeting. He went, and we got our first hint of what we had stumbled onto. Now, this first meeting was totally innocuous. Just a bunch of kids..."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Arthur interrupted, nearly growling in anger. "Does a 'bunch of kids' meet in Voldemort's Throne Room?"

"Yes, in this case, they do," George countered, fighting to maintain an even tone through rising irritation. "I'll tell you how it happened. There was a beer party at Vincent Crabbe's house. You may remember the boy we went to school with. I'm sure you're acquainted with his father." Arthur's look of disgust testified to the correctness of George's supposition. "The kids showed up at the party, went to get their beers and touched a piece of rope that turned out to be a portkey. It zapped the lot of them to a room where they got a recruitment speech: 'Join The Death Eaters.' It wasn't like a press-gang. No one was captured and made into a slave. Nobody got hurt. No one was even allowed to join up that day. The bastards running the recruitment effort even zapped the kids back to their party after they delivered their appeal. But it just so happens that our listening device looks exactly like a used piece of chewing gum. Our victim pulled it off of himself and stuck it somewhere at the meeting. And when the kids left, the Ear stayed. And we listened to a whole bunch of nothing for several days until the big guys showed up. And that's when we heard their plan."

Arthur's face showed as much disappointment as anger. "And you thought that Voldemort - perhaps the single most paranoid person in the entire world - would not notice a piece of chewed-up gum stuck in his throne room? In fact, you're telling me that you believed Voldemort would not only fail to notice, he would fail to use such a thing to mislead his enemies?"

"That's exactly what I believe," Fred responded defiantly. "Where do people stick gum? It's probably under something or in a cranny somewhere. It's between two stones or under a seat. And no one is going to notice it. Proof? There are wads of gum on the desks at Hogwarts today that date from the time you were a student there. And that's despite the fact that Filch goes around with a scraper and harvests gum wads hours at a time for days on end all summer long."

"And what if our Ear was discovered?" George added reasonably. "It wouldn't be Voldemort who found it. It's Peter Pettigrew that does all the work in the place. During the dull days we heard him getting his orders all day, every day. I mean, Voldemort's 'Headquarters' isn't exactly a hive of activity. It's Voldy and Wormtail in their cozy cottage hideaway. And they had just portkeyed a bunch of kids into there. Kids who were quite likely chewing gum when they arrived. What would you think in that situation if you saw a squashed wad of pink goo stuck on your wall? Would you think: 'Ahah! A spy device such as I have never before seen! I'll trace it back to its source by casting powerful magical spells that haven't been invented yet?' Or would you think: 'Ugh. Gum. I'll throw this out with the garbage?' I believe that if our Ear had been discovered we would be listening to the sounds of the garbage right now."

"And I believe that what you've been listening to is garbage that Voldemort has been deliberately feeding you. Who was your victim that carried the device into the meeting?"

Both twins merely shook their heads, matching their father's glare with their own.

"Boys," Arthur argued, "you have just told me that whoever it was is innocent of any wrongdoing... so far. All he did - by your story - was go to a beer party and listen to a speech. Oh, and stick gum on someone else's property, but we'll overlook that for now considering whose property we're talking about. I can't see why you feel the need to protect him. So, I have to conclude that you're protecting yourselves. You've been making deals you're ashamed to admit to, and you finally got in over your heads with this one. Is this something I have to speak with the Ministry about?" The twins shook their heads in unison once again. "Are you going to tell me who your victim... or accomplice... or customer is?" The same headshake was his only reply. "Fine," Arthur said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll have your mother get it out of you."

"Dad!" both twins protested at once.

"What?" Arthur snapped.

"Do you really want to go upsetting the woman?" George pleaded.

"No, not really," Arthur said with as little concern as if the three of them had been speculating about the price of cheese on the moon. "I went through quite a lot to buy myself a little peace this evening. But the two of you aren't interested in cooperating, so..."

"Dad, I can guarantee you, we're protecting him, not ourselves," Fred begged.

"So he's male... and most likely a sentient being. That narrows it down quite a bit," Arthur reflected with patient satisfaction.

"Dad... please... not Mom."

"Why not? She'll know sooner or later. She's a part of the Order. She'll be called out to fight with the rest of us. And if your spy work is all a load of shite, she'll be cut down when the trap springs, just like the rest of us. We're facing the next war, boys. We can't go in half-blind, distrusting our intelligence. We need to know, now, as much as possible. Spit it out. Who did you use?"

The twins shared a glance of only an instant. They knew they were beaten. They had to hope that they could appeal to their father's reasonable nature and avoid their mother's emotional excess. "It was Draco Malfoy."

Fred and George enjoyed a glorious moment during which their father was stunned. They could savor the shock on his face, cherish the confusion in his eyes. But Arthur Weasley was recovering quickly. Before he had a chance to say anything else, his sons compounded his shock as much as they possibly could.

"He's been working with us."

"Since he disappeared."

"That's why he disappeared."

"In order to work with us."

Despite the multiple blows to his composure, Arthur was forcing his mind back into gear, and engaging his tongue. "Who... are... 'us'?"

"Me."

"And Me."

"And Harry Potter."

"And Severus Snape."

"And Remus Lupin."

"And, as we said, Draco Malfoy."

"We're going to kill Voldemort."

"Well... Harry is going to kill him."

"But we're all going to make it possible together."

Arthur stared at his sons waiting for them to laugh and say it was all a lie. Hoping that they would laugh and say it was all a lie. But behind his baffled expression, his mind was racing, putting together what few facts he possessed, and realizing how well they fit into this new framework. "Lupin... and Snape. Potter... and Malfoy. And you two. By all that's good in the world, boys, if you actually accomplished that - if you really got that group of people to do anything together toward a common goal, you may well be able to kill that bastard, after all, because you have accomplished a miracle already."

"Arthur!"

All three Weasley males in the living room jumped as Molly's voice cut through the house from the kitchen door to where they stood.

"Dad?" George murmured hopefully.

"Let me think," Arthur practically whispered. "Quiet for now, though, right?" His sons nodded vigorously.

"Will you help me carry these things?" Molly shouted in irritation.

"Better than that," Arthur called back cheerfully. "I'll send you two strong men. Fred and George are here!"

The twins trotted through the house to see how they could help their mother. Both felt as though they had dodged a bullet by keeping her out of their last conversation. But they had a new worry. What would their father do with what he now knew?

Most of the hallways running through Beauxbatons were crowded with the between-class crush of students that Monday morning. Draco Malfoy had long abhorred crowds, and had learned within the first few days of school what routes to take that would be less travelled. For this particular change of class, he had chosen a path that would mean several hundred extra steps. But the additional effort paid off in terms of being able to walk most of the way alone.

He needed the break between each class for a lot more than merely walking between classrooms. His command of French, which he had often bragged was like a second language to him, was sufficient for study; he could pass his classes without undue strain from having to search for words. But Draco had not yet learned how to express any of his personality in French, at least in the context of the classroom. The subtle insults and innuendoes, the sarcasm and superior attitude which had been crucial to his conversation at Hogwarts were just out of his reach while speaking the gallic tongue at Beauxbatons. And when he did manage to fire off a stinging comment, the students here just didn't get it. He had insulted one boy in particular at least a dozen times, and the dull git had actually laughed at each bon mot as though Draco's cutting comments were nothing more than jokes. Draco wondered whether he needed to completely relearn this country's language or whether the people here were simply used to confronting each other with a mountain of attitude. Not knowing how to express himself, not understanding how others perceived what he did say, not having any of his old sycophants or hangers-on, and not being able to use the Malfoy name to impress and intimidate others left Draco tired by the end of his first class of the day, and positively weary by the time he could leave for home.

He felt further isolated from his classmates by the very fact that he did go home when classes were done each day. A majority of students lived on campus, as Draco himself had done at Hogwarts, and the shared dinners and breakfasts, the shared time in the various common rooms, and the sharing of accommodations by assigned roommates all fostered a closer relationship between those who lived at school... and increased Draco's own feeling of being left out. He needed some way to overcome that emotional disadvantage. His long walks between classes helped him relax, regain his focus and go into his next class with the maximum possible determination to distinguish himself and dominate the proceedings.

Today, there was another concern that occupied his mind, burdening him with further distractions. His mother had met one of the neighbors last week and had apparently been offered a job, though nothing about the neighbor or the offer seemed so straighforward as it sounded at first. His mother may have to go to Indonesia. That was interesting. She may leave him here in France. That was a situation ripe with promise. But she may want him to move into a dormitory at Beauxbatons. He wasn't really sure how he felt about that. He considered the idea from as many perspectives as he could think of as he hurried toward his next class.

Draco's long detour through the deserted hallway took him past a small room whose intended function was a mystery. It was currently empty, and had no door hung in its doorframe. It was too large for a broom closet, too small to hold a class, and had no plumbing that might allow it to serve as restoom, kitchen or laundry. Draco thought it may have served a religious purpose once, though what it might have looked like then, or what it may have been equipped with, he could not have guessed. He had passed that inexplicable room on several previous days, had noticed that it was always empty, and had promptly lost interest in it. He didn't spare it a glance as he hurried past. But the mysterious room was not empty that day.

"Malfoy!"

Even as he heard the insistent whisper of his name, Draco was weighing the possibilities of who was whispering and what they wanted. Whoever it was certainly expected Draco to whirl in shock and fear, so he would definitely deny them that bit of enjoyment. He briefly considered ignoring the call, pretending that 'Malfoy' held no meaning for him. He rejected the notion immediately. Anyone who knew his name would likely be quite sure of who he was. He turned slowly, with a disdainful smirk, and saw six girls gathered in the room. The one he had expected to have betrayed him, Artemis Thymescria, wasn't there, but that didn't mean she hadn't pointed him out to these others. The one he had hoped to see, the half-Veela, Fleur, wasn't there either. He took a moment to regard the group with his most arrogant look. He decided that these girls, while reasonably attractive, all lacked the astounding beauty of their tri-wizard representative. He recognized none of them, which in England would have meant that they were socially unimportant. Here, it merely underscored his ignorance of proper society. At least two, he was fairly certain, were seventh-years, though at least one of the others was almost definitely younger than he. Draco had to admit that the group had the advantage of him. They, at least, knew his name, while he remained ignorant of all of theirs. "Oui?"

"I know you, Draco Malfoy," said the girl who appeared to be the oldest of the group. "I saw you at your old school, Hogwarts. Why are you named 'Black,' now?"

"Family troubles," Draco drawled, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug as though the subject bored him. "I live with my mother, now. Her last name before she married was Black. She uses that name, now. So, I do, too." He motioned down the hallway. "I have class. May we walk?"

The girls surrounded him as they all made their way back toward the more crowded parts of school. Draco found the sensation of being attended by a half dozen girls to be quite to his liking. As they walked, the other apparent seventh-year girl asked "Your mother is divorced from your father?"

"That's rather between the two of them, don't you think?" Draco responded.

"Your father. Do you speak with him?" someone else wanted to know.

"Not in the past few days," Draco shot back with irritation.

"Will he be executed?"

Draco stopped walking immediately. Unsure of who had asked the last question, he tried to glare at the entire group and gave up the effort as impossible. "What do I look like, a...?" His search for a sarcastic simile fell apart. "The case against my father is totally unfair. What they did to my family is totally unfair. What happened to me because of it is totally unfair. I don't know what they'll do to my father, and I don't think I can do anything about it whatever they decide." To his own surprise, Draco seemed to have won the group's sympathy. They all looked at him with compassion. The experience was so unusual for him that Draco began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"But... are you supposed to be secret?" the youngest of the group asked worriedly. "Is no one supposed to know that you are 'Malfoy?' Could we invite you to a gathering as your father's son?"

Draco nearly groaned out loud. He had suspected that these girls were some sort of French anti-Voldemort league, offended by the very presence of a Malfoy on their turf. Instead, the very opportunity he had most hoped for was being held out to him... and he couldn't accept it. Bitterly, he said, "I wish you could. I wish I could accept in my own name. I wish I could speak out, defend my father, defend my family... defend myself! I wish I could take my place in French society as I had in the society of England. But I cannot. The English government believes that I have money hidden somewhere, and they wish to steal it from me. I would be in danger any time I publicly acknowledged my true identity. Those who hunt me would not bother themselves with following the law. Mine would not be a case for extradition or any other ponderous court proceeding. I would be captured, apparated to a dungeon, tortured until I revealed the location of my wealth, then killed."

As he spoke, Draco noticed something quite odd, and very unexpected. The girls' eyes lit up as though this were the most romantic story they had ever heard. When he derided the English government, their faces burned with outrage. When he described his likely fate should he be discovered, they became angry.

"Perfide Albion," muttered one. The others agreed with a threatening rumble of curses.

"We will help you, Draco Black," announced the oldest. "We will see to it that you are given the chance for your revenge!"

Draco, who had not thought in terms of revenge - except against Voldemort, for failing to help Lucius - was quite taken aback. And since it seemed that, one way or another, the Dark Lord would be eliminated, revenge was far from his mind. "What you could do," he suggested, "what I would prefer... or, that is... what would help me the most, is if you could invite me to a gathering as my mother's son, rather than my father's. That is, as Draco Black rather than Draco Malfoy."

"It is not so simple," the youngest said sadly. "In order to invite you as Black, I would have to explain that your mother was your father's wife. So... you would be 'Malfoy' in either case." With an elegant shrug, she closed the subject.

Another girl suggested, "I can introduce you to some men you will want to know. My cousin fought alongside them in Rwanda and in the Balkans. They have experience in fighting and in covert operations. Whether you think your cause would be better served by assassinating your Minister of Magic, or by exterminating the judges that passed sentence on your father, these men will know how to proceed."

'Mordred's Bastard Son!' Draco thought desperately. 'I thought Hogwarts had intrigue.' Soothingly, he said, "My father's sentence has not yet been passed. Reason may yet prevail. The government wants his money more than his life. If they can find a way to rob him and yet leave him alive, they may decide to do just that." That bit of speech had been nothing but improvisation, a way to forestall any meeting with the unknown French fighters, who frankly sounded more dangerous than useful. But his rambling had brought up a point he had never before considered: What if the court did decide to confiscate Lucius' wealth and then did not execute him? What if he received time in Azkaban? What if he were simply turned out into the street, penniless? The prospect made Draco's skin crawl. It was more disturbing than the threat he had almost come to accept: his father's death at the hands of the Ministry. What sort of man would Lucius Malfoy be without a fortune? Draco could not imagine it at all. Attempting to appear nonchalant in the face of his personal disaster, he raised an eyebrow and calmly told the group, "What would really help me right now the most... that is, if you are - so much to my regret - unable to invite me to your party..." He stopped to smile and saw that several of the girls found that pause very interesting. "Could you each tell me your name?"

The atmosphere in the meeting house at Grimmauld Place was tense. As Arthur Weasley entered the room that had been dubbed the Command Center for the Order of the Phoenix, he saw Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt arguing as Albus Dumbledore looked on, bemused. He smiled at his wife, who rolled her eyes and tilted her head toward the argument in progress. Arthur looked back apologetically, hoping she had not had to endure this for too long.

Dumbledore broke up the argument by the simple expedient of greeting the new arrival and gently guiding Alastor and Kingsley toward the rest of the group with a hand on each of their shoulders. "Arthur... How was the... Ministry... today?" he wheezed, moving toward the table around which sat Arabella Figg, Dedalus Diggle and Mundungus Fletcher. Nymphadora Tonks and Emmeline Vance broke off their conversation and moved closer to the general gathering.

"Tedious," Arthur replied, with a failed attempt at a smile. "So far as Misuse of Muggle Artifacts goes, it's all guns and automobiles these days. I used to get cases where someone had charmed an electric can opener or a water heater to..." he saw the warning look from Molly, and quickly finished. "... Never mind that, we're doing fine. Nothing came up that couldn't be fixed. And anyway, I'm here, now. What's on the agenda?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he spoke. He knew that Arthur was perfectly aware of what everyone wanted to know. "Molly tells me you had an opportunity to speak with Fred and George. What did you learn?"

Arthur glanced at Molly, and saw that she was as determined as ever. He had wanted to say as little as possible, to give his sons the opportunity to work out whatever plan they had. In short, to give them the benefit of the doubt. But Molly had been adamant. The Order had worked toward Voldemort's defeat since the last war. Gathered together, they were a versatile, multi-talented, and quite dangerous group of combatants. If anyone had a chance to defeat the Death Eaters and their monstrous leader, the Order was the most likely choice. They had to know as much as possible. "It started with a prank," Arthur began, and saw Molly relax into her seat, still watchful, but satisfied that her husband was going to give the Order the information they needed. "But it wasn't what the twins may have led you to believe. It was no stooge that carried the device into Voldemort's lair. And he didn't take it in to a Death Eater meeting. The gathering he attended was part of a recruitment drive during which the Death Eaters attempted to attract young followers who might become recruits once they had finished school. And the one who carried in the spy device was Draco Malfoy."

Chaos. Voices raised in indistinguishable babble. Molly remained silent. Dumbledore did not speak. Arthur waited for the hubbub to die down so that he might continue. But everyone else had something to say about Arthur's revelation. When Alastor and Kingsley began shouting at each other, Albus called the meeting back to order.

"Wait," Dumbledore croaked, and the entire Order respected his request, although everyone present noted that the old wizard's voice lacked the strength they were used to hearing from him. The gathering began quieting immediately, but it took nearly a full minute for them to fall silent. "This cannot be good, Arthur," Dumbledore explained sorrowfully. "How did your sons know that the conspirator with whom they plotted was... in fact... Draco Malfoy?"

Arthur sighed. He knew that once he had opened this particular can of worms, that he would be hooked this way, played like a fish through a long interrogation. But if nothing else, he wanted to accomplish one thing this evening: he wanted to make sure the Order did not have to drag Fred and George into this headquarters to be given a third degree by Dumbledore... or worse, by Moody and Shacklebolt. Arthur hadn't put the twins though as thorough a questioning as he was in for, but he knew his sons, knew their caution, knew the way they worked. He was confident that he could answer for them and be correct in almost every case. "They were with him for long enough periods to rule out polyjuice," he began. "And they knew Draco personally. An imposter under some more permanent type of glamour would have given himself away. They saw the boy both before and after his mission. Draco was still Draco after he had placed the device."

The eyes of the others in the room swung from Arthur back to Dumbledore as though watching a tennis match. Albus looked genuinely disappointed at having to oppose the claims Arthur was making on behalf of his sons, but the old man proceeded as though given no choice. "Even if we can accept that Draco Malfoy was... ah... himself... how can we assume that he did not deliberately act against your sons' interests in this case? He is a Malfoy, inheritor of an exalted position in the Death Eater hierarchy. And he has been rather outspoken in his contempt for your own family, Arthur. How can we know that he was not cooperating with Voldemort, and only pretending to assist your sons?"

Arthur knew he had to stand firm at this moment more than at any other point of this discussion. He had to convince the others, even if Albus himself remained skeptical. "You can find the answer by looking at the boy. And by examining his supposed 'heritage.' I say that, without his father to push him into it, Draco Malfoy has no more interest in becoming a Death Eater than any other bright, sane, young man." Arthur looked around the room, pleased to see that his mention of sanity had awakened some listeners who had begun to lose interest in the argument, presupposing that Dumbledore was correct, and that any Malfoy had to be purely evil by nature. Arthur pressed on quickly, while he still had their attention. "Being a storm trooper under a 'dark' lord holds some appeal for the stupid, especially those with little imagination. But Voldemort knew from the beginning that he couldn't run his entire organization with idiots. He needed a few followers with intelligence to manage the rest of the herd. Most of the time, in order to get smart people he had to settle for the ones who were completely mad. The LeStranges are a perfect example. They weren't stupid. They were insane. They loved the destruction the Death Eaters wrought. They reveled in the hatred which is the primary emotion that Death Eaters generate. A dangerous combination: brilliant and barking mad. But occasionally, Voldemort would hit a kind of jackpot. Someone whose intelligence was high, whose insanity was manageable, and whose prejudices and hatreds paralleled the manifesto Voldemort put forth. Someone like Lucius Malfoy. But look at Lucius' life! Look at who he was surrounded by as a Death Eater. People he had nothing but contempt for, like Goyle or Crabbe. People whom he hated, like Severus Snape. And people of whom he was justifiably afraid, like the LeStranges. Draco saw the results of his father's choice to join the 'Opposition' played out in his own home for years. Why would he want to join the same unsatisfying organization? To be as miserable as his father?" Arthur could be persuasive when he wished, and he believed he had inherited some of his maternal grandfather's way of telling a story that kept listeners involved. He met each pair of eyes in his audience, and saw that they were following his tale, at least giving him a chance to convince them. Then he heard heavy footsteps approaching the meeting along the hallway. 'Not now,' he thought. 'This is the worst time for him to arrive.' But Arthur had no choice but to continue, to make his points and stand up for his sons.

"Draco is arrogant, stubborn, and filled with prejudices of his own. Blame his wealth and social position for most of that, but give him some credit for not blindly accepting every precept of hatred Lucius fed him. Draco can be petty and selfish. But remember that he's only just turned eighteen years old. Your whole experience of him, Albus, has been while he was but a child. Petty and selfish? Sounds like a typical child to me. But even as a petty, selfish child he was demonstrably intelligent and arguably sane. So why do I say he was not working as Voldemort's pawn? Because he would have no interest in doing so. And without his father to force him, he wouldn't have to. For all his faults, he's not evil."

A huge form stomped into the room, squeezing through the hall doorway and standing stooped to avoid the ceiling. "An' whar' abou' Buckbeak, an' him tryin' to have 'im killed an' all?" thundered Rubeus Hagrid, arriving late for the meeting once again, but this time uncharacteristically furious. The half-giant didn't have much need for anger most of the time. He was huge and tremendously strong, so few people risked irritating him. Moreover, Hagrid's was a gentle soul, more inclined to sympathy than enmity, more likely to offer support than to seek retribution. But Draco Malfoy had gotten so thoroughly onto Hagrid's bad side due to the hippogriff incident of three years before that the half-giant was unlikely to ever forgive the boy.

Arthur looked up at the ceiling, deliberately avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room. "Ah, yes. Buckbeak. I was just about to discuss that. If you are feeling up to it, that is."

"Arthur..." Molly said warningly, but her husband acted as if he had not heard her.

"Up to it?" Hagrid rumbled. "I don't have to feel 'Up to it' to talk abou' Buckbeak. 'E was a fine one, 'e was."

"I'm sure he was," Arthur agreed smoothly. "But we were considering the boy. Let's think about him as he arrived for Care of Magical Creatures three years ago. Here's the richest boy in the nation - give or take a few million galleons. From the most prestigious family in the United Kingdom - give or take a social rating point or two. He attends the most prestigious magical school in the world. He shows up for his first day of an important class and finds that his teacher - who has been banned from using magic by the Ministry itself - is a half-breed dropout..."

"Ah was expelled!" Hagrid thundered.

"Even worse!" Arthur shot back. "Banned, expelled, and putting children face to face with an animal that could have killed the lot of them had it cared to!"

Hagrid looked absolutely stricken. He sat motionless, his mouth hanging open, tears gathering in his eyes. Of all the regrets he had expressed about the incident, the thought that he might have exposed any of the children - other than Draco Malfoy - to danger had been the most bitter.

"I know your side of the story," Arthur said quietly, "and I hold with your ideas of what young people ought to be able to do, and what we should expect of them. And for the most part, your instincts were right. None of the other students were hurt, and Harry Potter actually rode the hippogriff and returned to the yard safely. But Draco's actions stemmed from his feeling that Hogwarts had not provided him with a suitable teacher. His vindictiveness was directed at you, the animal was no more than a means to remove you from employment as a Hogwarts teacher. And I submit to you all that a boy who could grasp the situation well enough to use such a magnificent creature as a weapon would certainly be able to understand the advantage of spying on the Death Eaters' meetings - and would have the determination to deploy a listening device in Voldemort's throne room."

Dumbledore had moved to Hagrid's side and laid his hand on the half-giant's shoulder in a comforting gesture. "But... surely, Arthur... you see the flaws in your... ah... contention. If Draco could use a hippogriff as a tool with which to... attack his teacher... how small a step is it to betraying the humans with which he is... acquainted?" A general murmur of assent ran through the room. Underneath that sound was the heavy bass rumble of Hagrid, grumbling as he recalled Buckbeak's narrow escape from the executioner. No one present cared much for any Malfoy. They would be hard pressed to trust Draco, even in the face of much more convincing evidence. "Besides..." Dumbledore continued. "We know that Draco Malfoy appeared in London... soon after his disappearance from his home. Then he suddenly vanished into the lair of his Dark Lord."

"Noooo..." Arthur said slowly. "What we know is that one of your devices suddenly registered Draco's presence in or around London, and then just as suddenly registered nothing at all. With respect, Albus, that sounds more like instrument failure than a reliable trace. Hell, an expert apparator would find it difficult to show up and vanish again that quickly. And Draco doesn't yet apparate, even on a novice level. Even if he did arrive quickly and then disappear suddenly, how many explanations are there for that? Did someone apparate while holding on to him? You assume so when you say he went to Voldemort's hideout, but think of how many other places he could go. How well do your detectors work when someone uses the Knight Bus, or muggle transportation, for that matter? What if he went through the Chunnel? Or went beneath the streets to take the Underground? Damnit, Albus, what if he were relaxing in his new home and reached through a floo into a friend's house in London, then leaned back again without stepping through? He could have reached out to take a beer from one of his delinquent friends without moving his feet from Australia - or wherever he was flooing from."

Perhaps it was the mention of Australia, and the reminder of the old, stale argument over where the Malfoys could have disappeared to, but Dumbledore's face turned stern and his eyes went from twinkling to steely hard. "I understand that you want to believe your sons, Arthur, but their story just won't do," Albus said sternly.

"Your 'Malfoy detectors' won't do either, Albus. Because they showed nothing at all during the time I know that Draco Malfoy was in my sons' warehouse, not far from Diagon Alley."

Everyone in the room looked at Dumbledore, waiting for some response. Then they continued staring with concern for the old wizard. For a moment, it was as though Albus' mind had left his body. He stood blankly, face lifeless, eyes glazed. Then, just as Alastor Moody was reaching out toward him, wondering what kind of first aid would be most appropriate, Dumbledore murmured. "The warehouse. I understand. Their receiver would be there, as well." His face once again became animated and everyone present was reminded what tremendous strength of personality resided in the old wizard's frail-looking frame. "We have to treat your sons' spy device information as untrustworthy," Dumbledore declared, "because it depends on too many unknowns: Malfoy, the device itself... as well as Voldemort's suspicious failure to find it once it was left in his lair... not to mention the fact that we do not possess a record of the Death Eaters' meeting, but only the report of those untrained observers who listened in on it."

Arthur's face burned red. The man he had considered his leader and had thought to be his friend had just insulted his sons rather seriously. "And what would Voldemort gain by putting us on our guard against a Halloween attack?" he said angrily.

"One of two things," Dumbledore replied calmly. "They may wish us to mobilize our strength on Halloween and then relax our guard when the Death Eaters do not strike on that date. They will then attack once we are convinced they are not going to do so. Or they may wish us to believe that we have plenty of time to ready ourselves, when in fact, they are planning to launch their attack earlier."

Arthur glanced around the room, but saw no one making any move to participate. For better or worse, he was the devil's advocate for this discussion. "The Death Eaters are very concerned with significant dates. They always plan their major actions to coincide with some important day on the calendar: Walpurgisnacht, Halloween, the World Cup..."

"What better way to mislead us than to change that pattern?" Dumbledore countered with a slight smile. He was feeling much more confident making these last points, and the twinkle had already begun to reach his eyes once again.

"But you do believe that they are getting ready. That they're coming to attack us all, and soon."

"I believe that they are building their strength, yes. But we do not have... the resources... to remain on full alert from now until the Death Eaters... decide to strike. We will have to remain vigilant, yes. We will all have to be prepared to awaken in the middle of the night, leave our regular employment in mid-workday, whatever is necessary. But that is all we can do."

"What about a special extra watch on Halloween night?" Arthur suggested sourly.

"If you would like to stand one," Dumbledore allowed graciously.

Arthur left the meeting feeling as though he had betrayed his own children for no good reason. Molly caught up to him before he apparated away and slipped her hand into his, meeting his eyes, silently comforting and reassuring her husband. But she could tell her efforts were not enough. "Let's go home," Arthur said, his voice dull, defeat written in his face. "We can talk there." Molly nodded and with a double clap of collapsing air, the two vanished.

At Hogwarts, having returned from the meeting of the Order, Albus Dumbledore sat in the large room behind the Great Hall. That room had been transformed over the years into a place of refuge in which the faculty could temporarily escape the pressures of their duties without retiring to their quarters. When the coffee maker had been added, Professor Flitwick had taken to calling the faculty gathering place the 'Teachers' Common Room.' But no one followed suit, and he soon stopped using the appellation. Nonetheless, the room had to be called something, and gradually 'Lounge' had become the accepted term. At that moment, Dumbledore was making use of the furniture in a way that lent great affirmation to the name. He sprawled in an armchair, feet up on an ottoman, chin on his chest, arms hanging limply. Minerva McGonagall sat upright in a wooden chair at the dining table across the room from where the Headmaster relaxed. She was asking about the Order meeting, and for every inquiry Albus answered, Minerva seemed to have two more to follow. Dumbledore finally got around to describing the way the meeting broke up, his final comments, and his instructions to the Order members. He was certain that Minerva would have no more questions after that, and apparently she did not. She made a succinct assessment, instead.

"Albus, you silly old fool."

"Hrmm?" he mumbled, forcing himself upright in the soft chair, letting his feet rest on the floor.

"You heard me." Most of the time, Minerva found Albus' absent-minded professor pose charming. She had no patience with it that evening. "We cannot remain fully alert forever. Quite right. But you have been waiting for the next Dark Wizards' Great Halloween Assault for twenty years! You know Tom Riddle has his body back. You know that he's been more aggressive, risking his followers on things like the attack on the Ministry last spring. You know he has no interest in seeing either of the Prophesy Boys - Harry Potter or Neville Longbottom - finish schooling at Hogwarts. To me, that means there are only two dates on which our Next War can begin. Halloween of next year or Halloween of this year. Why would the Death Eaters wait?"

Albus spread his hands, beginning to deliver once again the argument he had gone through so many times before. "Neither you nor I, nor the Order all together, will defeat our enemy..."

"That's Tom Riddle," Minerva snapped. "What about all the others? The sleepers, the double agents, the escapees from Azkaban? Those people are our responsibility. If they come out this Halloween in their little masks, rallying to their bloody Morsmordre, we need to be there to stop them, to contain them and to kill them."

Albus could see that delaying techniques would not work any longer. "And we will," he said, drawing an arch look from McGonagall. "I'm serious. Quite apart from this ridiculous Malfoy - Weasley escapade, Halloween is the most likely time for an attack to be launched. We will call our participants to attention on October twenty-ninth. If there is to be a Halloween attack, there will likely be a revel on the previous night. The night before that is the most likely time for the kidnappings of potential victims to be tormented at the revel."

"Really," Minerva said tartly. "In other words, exactly what the Weasley twins told you."

Dumbledore shot McGonagall a reproving glance. "What they did not tell me was that they have introduced some rather interesting improvements to their warehouse. Improvements which - if I understand Arthur correctly - prevented even my detectors from penetrating those defenses to find Draco Malfoy hidden within. Those rather advanced techniques of concealment would also explain why I have been unable to scrye out the location of the Weasleys' spy-device receiver."

"Which you didn't trust in the first place."

"I never meant to listen to the drivel exuding from it," Albus said, quite pleased with himself. "I meant to use the device to trace the signal to which it was attuned, and thus discern the location of the Ear, which should betray the location of Voldemort's lair. What has been our constant frustration in dealing with the Death Eaters? We don't know where they meet or where their leader lives. If I knew the location of Voldemort's throne room..."

"What would you do?" Minerva asked sarcastically. "Do you believe you would be able to apparate there?"

"No," Albus admitted sadly. "But perhaps the bulk of our allies could surround the place. We would have somewhere to start, at least. I shall have to investigate the Weasleys' building. Who knows what surprises I might find?"

By late October, the Malfoy defense team had made every argument they could present in their own favor. All that was left was the prosecution's rebuttal to the defense's case, and then closing arguments for both sides. As Lucius' barrister had predicted, the trial was on a pace that would see a verdict delivered by Halloween. Neither the legal professionals nor the defendant had any illusions about how the case would be decided.

Searching for the least offensive way to pose the question, the eldest member of the firm that had represented the Malfoys for generations met with his client in the conference room which was so very obviously monitored. The guards had ceased even pretending to allow the defendant any privacy and now stared openly as the elderly barrister told his client, "Your will is... quite out of date, Sir."

Lucius glared at the man. "What shall I bequeath? My body? I own nothing. The clothes I wear are on loan from the government that has taken everything from me. For all I know, my earthly remains will be treated in accordance with the executioner's instructions, to reduce the chance of my returning as a ghost."

"Perhaps. But you have not exactly lost everything, Sir," the barrister replied, nodding deeply in lieu of bowing. "There are some items that were determined to have no monetary value, nor any potential for... ah... political misuse. You have..."

"Bah!" Lucius shouted over his representative's quavering voice. "The scavengers have already listed my assets to make their thievery more effortless?"

"The catalogue was made during the search for evidence, Sir. Your..."

Lucius had no interest in the dry details. "If it's worth nothing, and will not contribute to my taking revenge on these criminals who have robbed me, why should I waste my time dispersing it? Who would want it?" He glared at the man opposite him, but he knew there was nothing else to discuss, and nothing waiting for him in the featureless cell in which he had spent the past weeks. "Oh, go on, tell me. What is it? What do I have to put into a Last Will and Testament?"

"Two things, Sir. First, there is a sheaf of some twenty sheets of parchment, containing poetry in your hand." The old man did his best to hide his discomfort at seeing his employer looking positively embarrassed.

"Oh, Gods, no. 'Narcissa Love?' Is that what you found?"

"That is the title on the first sheet, and it would appear to apply to the entire collection."

"I thought I had burned all of those."

"You must have burned most, Sir. There is a note that refers to a later page which is no longer in existence. And page twenty is charred along the right edge."

"What else?"

"A gnarled stick, listed as a 'walking stick or cane,' Sir. The rest is... uh... merely scraps and waste."

"Lucius sat up, his face blank, his voice businesslike as he said, "Our esteemed

government must be anticipating my making out a will bequeathing a stick and some romantic drivel to my heirs, so let us not disappoint them. If I am considered useful for nothing else, perhaps I might provide some value as entertainment. There is no monetary worth whatsoever associated with these items, though, am I correct? Good. So if I were to bequeath them to you, and you were to give them to someone else, there would be no tax-related repercussions for you, would there?"

"That would be highly improper, Sir. For me to receive..."

"My son going to his own home which as been seized by the government in order to beg for a stick and a stack of papers is highly improper. Your giving my last items to him, respectfully, after my death is to my mind quite superior. Make a will, counselor. Make it read that my poems and my cane shall be left to you. Then, as you are a good man, you will pass those things on to my son, when next you see him. Tell him that the poems are to remind him of how past foolishness can return much later in life as a base humiliation. And tell him to cherish the cane. Can you remember all of that?"

"Of course, Sir. But a will such as that cannot be signed until after a verdict is reached in your current proceeding. Technically, you still own..."

"You know what my technical ownership is worth. Make the will. Bring it to me. Have it ready for me to sign once I am condemned."

There was no comfort to be offered, no plausible hope to be extended. The counselor felt compelled to extend some support, however. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

Lucius' reply was stoic. "Unguent."

"I... beg your pardon."

Serrepticiously, Lucius slid his left cuff away from his wrist, providing the other man a brief glance at his left forearm. The old man gasped, then hid his reaction with a cough. The skin on Malfoy's arm, where once the Dark Mark had been inscribed, was blackened as though it had been burned away with hot iron pressed hard into the flesh.

"Ah. Yes, Sir. Unguent. I will... ah... see that the proper clearances are made for you to... ah... accept the... that is, medicine can always be... hrm. By tomorrow morning. Sir." The counselor stood and left, walking stiffly, his face pale. Lucius waited expressionlessly for the guards to lead him back to his cell.

Edmund Creevey led his band of adventurers though the muddy ground alongside a tributary of the Amazon toward his first definite target in Brazil. The group he had assembled for this journey consisted mostly of baggage carriers, but there were two specialists upon whom he depended greatly, whose sole duties were the care of Edmund's cameras and film. The huge, though ramshackle, building toward which they were walking was attached to a very sturdy dock, always a good sign in this wet country, but while it boasted a number of boats tied to the many pilings at dockside, it had few neighbors on the land side. This did not fit the image that Edmund had formed of the business that had rented a boat to the missing men of Hogwarts, but the address was correct. It could hardly have been otherwise... with no other buildings in sight, this had to be the place.

A thin man in a worn white shirt and slacks cut off at the knees was reclining in a chair on a porch that faced the building's dock side. He had kicked the chair back onto its rear legs and settled the backrest against the wall. From there, he had a good view of the river. He seemed quite surprised when he heard Edmund's team sloshing though the mud, and he stood up and stared at them for a long while before waving and calling out to them in Portuguese, something that sounded like, 'Garotas Exitar!'

In a booming voice, in English, Edmund shouted out, "Sorry, old man! What was that?"

With a distinctly different accent, the man called back, "Chicas Calientes!"

Edmund shrugged, and the man tried again, "Le Jeune Filles Exquisite!"

"Yes, quite," Edmund said, speaking slowly and loudly so as to be understood. "I was looking for the boat rental establishment."

The other man's face lit up in recognition. "Hot Girls!" he promised.

"No, no," Edmund argued. "Boats."

The Brazilian waggled his eyebrows with an exaggerated leer. "Hot boys!"

"No," Edmund began again.

"Hot old women! Very fat. Tatas grandes. Sehr gut. Je t'adore!"

One of the baggage carriers, Martin Cabral, an American whose parents had both been Portuguese natives, stepped up and fired off a rapid burst of the Brazilian national tongue.

The man from the porch frowned. "No."

Martin asked some more questions. The Brazilian chuckled. "No." Martin tried again. The other man snorted, laughed and once again replied, "No."

Then Edmund lost all track of the conversation as the torrent of Portuguese from both men was accompanied by arm waving, pointing and drawing in the air. After a couple of minutes, Martin turned back to Edmund and explained, "We have been mislead. This is the location that was indicated on the copy of that bill you have, but this place does not rent boats. Only whores. By the act, by the hour, or by the night. The nearest boat rental is over four hundred kilometers downstream. And that doesn't sound like the place we're looking for either. One odd thing, though. Renaldo here claims that a few weeks ago, a tall, skinny, white man with long hair, wearing a black dress, came out of the jungle from the same direction we just did. He didn't talk to anyone, just walked to where we're now standing and released a huge bird with something tied to its leg. Then he went away."

Creevey looked disgusted. "Ahhh, we have pictures to take," he said. "Anyone want to stop here for a while?"

"You can if you want," Martin said with a shrug. "Renaldo assures me that only about half of the people inside this building have AIDS. But he doesn't know which ones."

Renaldo must have understood enough English to follow the story. As Martin finished his report, the Brazilian laughed, clapped his hands and went back to his seat on the porch, watching the river, the route by which most customers arrived. The Creevey expedition tromped back into the jungle.

"More of it!" bellowed Minister Fudge, earning a scowl from his chief of staff. "Boy Who Lived, Deckard! Put him into my interviews, my speeches, my posters, everything! Boy Who Lived!"

"You can have too much of even a good thing, Minister." Constantine tried to sound reasonable, but Fudge's insistence on hammering this theme had become ridiculous over the past few weeks, and there was little patience left in his chief of staff for the subject. "This thing isn't even all that..."

"Nonsense, Deckard!" the Minister continued, unperturbed. "Election day is coming up! I want people to know that I wasn't the one who lost the Boy Who Lived! I want them to think of me as the Boy Who Lived Minister. I want them to feel, deep in their entrails, that electing me is like putting a little bit of the spirit of the Boy Who Lived into the Minister's office!"

"We have already hit that subject pretty hard, Sir. We did have the front page of the Prophet with that subject, and now..."

"That front page is ancient history now, Deckard!" Fudge railed. "What's all this you have me saying in my next speech? Look at it! Economy? Housing crisis in the face of Muggle expansion? More channels for the Wizarding Wireless Network? Garbage! There's not a gut-level item in the whole speech. You don't have the right idea, Deck. I'll tell you what I want you to do. Make the voters of this nation of ours wish that they could put the Boy Who Lived in my office. And then convince them that I'm the next best thing. That's your assignment, Chief. Put your best people on it." He threw down the sheets on which his proposed next speech was written. "And get rid of this stuff. This won't fly because it won't go straight to people's hearts. Get them by the heart, Deckard! Boy Who Lived! I want to see my next speech on my desk by this afternoon!" He stormed out of Constantine's office, leaving a dozen senior campaign planners shifting uncomfortably behind the chief of staff.

"You heard the man," Deckard said grimly. "As of now, we are running Harry James Potter for Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge to act as his regent. Let me see some ideas."

Harry Potter had a problem. This in itself was not new for him. To Harry, it often seemed as though his entire life consisted of nothing but stumbling from one difficulty to another. But with this particular problem, he was completely unfamiliar. And so he sat in his room in Godric's Hollow on October thirtieth wondering about it.

He didn't know what to wear.

He had three good choices available to him, each with something to be said for it. There was his standard Hogwarts robe, a useful garment, but not conducive to a great deal of physical action. He had his Gryffindor quiddich robe, which allowed for a great deal more athleticism, but was so brilliantly red and gold that it might make him an easier target for sniping curse-casters. He finally decided on his third choice, purely muggle clothing. He put on dark jeans and a long-sleeved pullover, thick socks and tennis shoes. He was about to leave his room when he remembered. He had decided to wear his glasses this evening. He opened the drawer of his nightstand and removed the spectacles from the soft cloth in which he had been keeping them wrapped. He adjusted his eyes so that the lenses once again allowed him clear vision. He slid his wand into a pants pocket and felt as ready as he thought he would ever be. He went out to the kitchen to join Remus and Snape.

The two men were at the kitchen table, sipping tea. As soon as Harry came into view, Snape began reminding him, "The summons should come very soon now. I'll be there for..."

"Wait," Harry said, and the potions master fell silent. "I know. We've been over it. I'll have a long wait. I'll be ready."

"If I return and find you asleep," Snape started, but Harry once again stopped him.

"I couldn't sleep now, if... Never mind. I won't be asleep, or somewhere else, or preoccupied with something. I'll be ready."

Snape was too nervous to be soothed by such reassurances. "I hate to feel as though we're wasting time that we could be going over our plan or - Augh!" Severus clutched his left arm, grimacing in pain. "That's it. I must go. If they haven't decided to kill me, I'll be back when the time is right. Be ready." He stood and moved away from the table. "Be ready," he repeated and apparated away.

"I'll be ready," Harry said quietly to the empty space where his teacher had just been.

"Oi, Snapey! No drink, no smoke, no victim and nobody naked next to you? You really know how to put a damper on a revel!" It was the elder Goyle who was shouting at Snape, staggering as he shouted, and fighting to focus both eyes on the potions master at the same time. Snape had never cared much for Goyle, and being called 'Snapey' did little to endear the man to him any further. "Come on, you old stick in the mutt... mud... butt... you know what I mean. This is our gladiator party. Eat, smoke and be fornicated for tomorrow we kill... die... whatever."

It was no wonder that Goyle was shouting. Nearly everyone in the gathering who wished to be heard was bellowing at the top of their lungs. There was music - of sorts - as a background to the Death Eaters' Revel. It was created using dozens of drums accompanied by heavy bass notes pounded out of a set of gigantic tympani and a pair of huge gongs. It was undeniably primal, and Snape could even appreciate the intricacy of the rhythms on an intellectual level. But the overall impression was of an earthquake in a rock quarry. Not so much music as overwhelming noise.

When Snape had apparated in response to the summons of the Dark Mark, he had not appeared in Voldemort's throne room, but in another chamber so much like it that the differences were not immediately apparent. The room was stone, windowless and torchlit, like the throne room. But there was no throne nor dais and the room was much larger. There were four racks against one wall, each one with a human tied to the frame. There were two men and two women. Two were muggles, one a witch, one a wizard. All had been brutally abused and none were likely to survive the night. Bound tightly and left scattered about the floor there were several more victims who had been kidnapped the previous day, sedated and left to regain consciousness in the midst of the revel. Many Death Eaters had trod upon these unfortunates, while others had already delivered them bone-breaking kicks. The sounds of the various victims' screams and groans played counterpoint to the percussion orchestra. All around the room there were barrels of alcoholic beverages, cauldrons of intoxicating potions, and mounds of psychoactive herbs. On blankets and pads scattered throughout the area, many of the revelers were already copulating. One woman danced nude before the bank of drums, various bodily fluids glistening all over her skin. Snape, the pain in his left arm gone as soon as he had obeyed the Dark Mark's summons to apparate there, stood against the wall farthest from the wall of victims and watched in silence.

Goyle either lost interest in baiting Snape, or, more likely, forgot he had been talking to him in the first place and staggered off to find further entertainment.

For his own part, Snape was spending his time counting. He counted the total number of attendees. He counted the few among those who had remained sober. And he counted the passing seconds. There were no time keeping devices allowed at a revel. Part of the point of these celebrations was to forget such mundane concerns as the time of day. And while Snape was more concerned with initiating his plan when the proper conditions had been met than in acting at a particular hour, he did not wish to wait too long to take action, or react too quickly to any perceived advantage. Already, the revel had reached an intensity of debauchery - not to mention sound volume - within which he would most likely not be noticed should he suddenly apparate away. But through experience, he knew that the celebrants would become more intoxicated, more exhausted, and even less watchful than they were at that time. He also suspected that several of the revelers were feigning drunkenness. Those would be the ones designated as enforcers of security for the early part of the evening. During the first half of the revel, they would watch for any attempts at sabotage and they would try to keep the Death Eaters from directing their violence at one another in their frenzy over tormenting the kidnapped victims. But later in the revel, even the security guards would be free to actually indulge in the debauch. Once things had progressed past a certain point at a Death Eater revel, even Voldemort knew there would be no restraining those in attendance from participating.

So Snape waited, watching for the signs of rising insanity that would mean the revel was into its second half. And he worried about how long this would force him to be absent from Godric's Hollow. For all Harry Potter's power, for all his recent accomplishments, Snape still did not believe that the boy possessed an acceptable level of self discipline. In Snape's eyes, Harry still counted on the adults around him to keep him focused, to force him to follow a proper schedule, to make sure he accomplished what he needed to do each day. Worse, Harry was famous for sneaking away from where he was supposed to be and encountering grave difficulties when he did so. If Snape were to begin acting out the evening's plan and Harry was not in position... or if the boy were asleep, or distracted, or anything other than absolutely ready to go... then the results would almost certainly be disastrous.

There was some reassurance to be found in the fact that Lupin was waiting with the boy. Snape was amused that he now trusted the werewolf sufficiently to be reassured by his participation. Lupin would certainly make sure that Harry did not wander off, and he might even be able to keep the boy awake. That was all Snape asked. But such a limited role had proven unsatisfying to the werewolf as the plan for tonight was being finalized. Lupin had wanted to join in the attack in wolf form, so that he might have had a chance to clamp his great, slavering jaws onto some Death Eaters. It had been Harry who had convinced him to stop arguing and accept that he would be staying home. If the plan failed, there would be plenty of time to make war on the Death Eaters, and every man - and every monster - would be needed to do so. But for the plan to succeed, all that was necessary was Harry.

Snape pressed himself back against the wall in the darkest place he could find, as far away from a torch as he could get. Almost everyone was stripping off their robes already, and in the center of the floor, revelers piled into a sweating, grunting mass for drugged, violent, mob sex. Snape had long ago seen too many revels to be shocked, and he had long ago found that he really wasn't truly disgusted by the guttural utterances, the dripping bodies or the blind groping of the average revel's dogpile. Rather, the whole spectacle was simply so uninteresting as to offer no attraction for him at all.

While watching the mob, he could pick out individuals whose bodies were shapely, and who might, under different circumstances, be attractive. He could find isolated examples of impressive sexual athleticism, where flexibility, talent and sheer enthusiasm combined to turn part of the writhing mass into a remarkable dance. Snape remained unmoved.

On display amongst the usual sexual pursuits were a number of fetishes. There were people enjoying pain, others indulging in humiliation. There were those who hungered for the taste of blood and some who sought out excrement. There were a large variety of accessories to play with and a large number of body modifications - usually covered by robes - that were being exposed that night.

But Snape's own fetish remained - not only ignored - but practically the antithesis of the revel's activities. He loved power. The more high-level, the more concentrated the power the better it was for him. He had felt this way all of his life. Years before, he had believed Voldemort to be his natural leader because the Dark Lord was so powerful. He had become a double agent for Dumbledore because Albus' power was, in some ways, even more impressive. And now there was Harry Potter. Wandless magic, improvised spells, and levels of magical energy that had yet to find their measure. Teaching him had been an exquisite experience.

A Death Eater revel, by contrast, sapped the raw power of its participants. It let them waste their energy, leaving them sated, sleepy, intoxicated, and later, hung over. But more importantly, it left them malleable. Voldemort knew the value of giving his endorsement to celebrations such as these. They were great rewards which suggested the pleasure-filled life that awaited the victorious forces of the Dark Lord once the inhibited, fearful, puny governments of the rest of the world had been trodden underfoot and the Death Eaters ruled in the way they saw fit. People would follow a man who offered them a life of revels. They would follow his instructions, accept his hatreds, attack his enemies, and - most crucially - they would think they were doing all of this for themselves. Voldemort himself never participated in a revel. He suggested that this was because he wanted his followers to be truly uninhibited during the celebration, without their leader present to remind them of their duties and responsibilities. Snape knew that Voldemort's absence was due to the Dark Lord's determination to retain his full power, complete awareness and total self control at all times.

Of course, that meant that Voldemort wanted his followers... all of his followers... to participate fully in every aspect of the revels. Snape had habitually remained aloof for years, and at each such gathering he had wondered whether he would finally push the Dark Lord's patience past its limit. 'Once more,' Snape hoped fervently. 'Just once more let me stay here and be ignored.'

To Snape's astonishment, an explosive noise sounded so loudly as to be audible... barely... over the cacophony of the drumming. Snape shuddered as he thought of what would befall anyone foolish enough to apparate into such an important gathering so late. Then his heart sank. This person would not be punished. This was an honored guest. And, most likely, Snape himself could forget about remaining ignored. Appearing on the far side of the room, her skeletal face split wide in a manic grin, was Bellatrix LeStrange.

Snape remained motionless, willing himself invisible. This woman, this escapee from Azkaban, this member of Voldemort's inner circle, knew him - had known him since they were both children. She had suspected him of being a double agent for years, accusing him to Voldemort, raving about how he could not be trusted. Voldemort seemed to enjoy having such division between his closest followers, however. He listened to Bellatrix's charges, took time to consider them carefully, then did nothing. This made Bellatrix furious, but so far, Snape had managed to avoid her vindictiveness. On the far side of the room, Bellatrix was exhorting the crowd to greater frenzy. She pulled off her robe, spun it around over her head several times and flung it away. She was wearing nothing else. She turned, selected a knife, stepped daintily in front of the muggle man hung on the wall rack and showed him the blade. He had been beaten so severely he was barely aware of his surroundings, and to Bellatrix's disappointment, he showed no reaction to her display of the weapon. But she reached up to check the pulse in his neck, and beamed happily as she discovered that it was still strong. With a well-practiced flick of the knife, she severed the man's carotid artery, and as his heart forced his lifeblood out in great gouting spurts, she showered in the thick red flow, rubbing it into her skin and twisting in enjoyment. As the provider of her blood shower died, she plunged the knife into his groin and turned back to the crowd.

"Men!" She bellowed loudly enough for Severus to hear across the room and over the drumming. "Can you rise to the occasion? Men! To Me! On Me! In Me! Now, Damn You!"

There were at least a half dozen takers for her offer, and several more who seemed to be willing to form a second wave once she had exhausted the first bunch. Many among the gathering realized the advantage of pleasing such an important member of the Dark Lord's inner circle. Most were also aware of the danger of spending any time close to such a visciously dangerous maniac, but they had chosen to gamble, pitting the risk of being killed or injured by one of Bellatrix's insane whims against the opportunity for advancement her favor represented. Snape sighed in relief. Bellatrix would be too involved to seek him out... at least for a while.

Late at night on October 30th, Arthur Weasley entered the house on Grimmauld Place with his shoulders slumped and his face turned toward the floor. He stomped on the rough mat lying in the center of the entryway as vigorously as he had pounded his feet on the outdoor mat. It was still early in the year, there wasn't any snow yet, but the air was damp enough that Arthur had expected to find a heavy coating of mud on each of his shoes. He certainly felt as though something was weighing down each of his steps. There was something weighing on him... but it wasn't mud. Arthur did not feel at all well... but he wasn't ill. He looked down the hallway toward the rooms where the other members of the Order would gather, and dreaded going there... but not because of any aversion to the Order, those people who had become his greatest friends. With perhaps one exception. Arthur truly hoped he would not see Albus Dumbledore. Not tonight. Not with so much bad news. Not with so many unanswered questions about the way Albus had directed the Order's preparation for the Halloween season.

Arthur forced himself to straighten his posture and remove the defeated expression from his face, and walked into the expansive sitting room to find Nymphadora Tonks stoking the fire, getting a little more heat and light out of a very economical measure of fuel.

Nymphadora looked over her shoulder and smiled at the new arrival, welcoming him back from street patrol with the barest sketch of a salute. She liked Arthur. He was much more reasonable, and far less prone to nervous tension than most of the older Order members. For example, almost any other one of them would have gone out of his way to take over the fireplace-tending, pushing her away from the hearth in terror just because she had been a little clumsy in the past. "Hi!" she called out, then grabbed the shovel to try to contain the embers she had inadvertently knocked out of the firebox with the poker when she had looked away. As Tonks had expected, Mister Weasley did not rush forward in panic, but calmly let her push the burning bits back to safety. Once the danger of burning the house down had been removed, Tonks put the tools back in the rack - upsetting it only once, and even then, catching it before it clattered to the ground - and stood up to admire her own work.

"Is Molly in yet?" Arthur sighed, stripping off his heavy woolen overcoat.

"Still out. Not due in for another half hour or so."

"And Albus?"

"Haven't seen him," Tonks shrugged. "But your sons did." Arthur made a strangled sound, and Tonks was surprised to see the man's face twist with anger. She guessed that Mister Weasley had misheard her, so she added some details, hoping he would discover his own mistake. "I talked to Fred a couple of hours ago. Professor Dumbledore went over to your sons' warehouse again tonight. He said that some of his tracing spells must have gone wrong and that..."

"Idiot!" Arthur spat, dropping heavily into an armchair.

Tonks stared at him, not understanding. "What?"

"Of course his tracing spells went wrong," Arthur fumed. "Can you trace a radio signal with a radio receiver? Well, with two you can, if they're tuned to the same frequency... and if you have special antennas... but..."

"I don't know anything about radio, but Professor Dumbledore said he would be able to find the..."

"That's because he thinks he can do anything!" Arthur barked back. "And there he is, tonight of all nights, absent again, piddling around because he's angry at the twins for not giving him the whole Ear device in the first place, never mind their pending patents, and that they expect to make a living from their inventions, and meanwhile we're late!"

At Tonks' questioning look, Arthur scowled and reported bitterly, "Oh, yes. Late. It looks like we've lost at least four. I checked with Kingsley. At least four people went missing last night. Good, innocent, hard-working people... exactly the sort that the Death Eaters love to punish for daring to have a normal life. And that's just from our own people. We have no idea how many muggles were taken - or simply killed outright. So Albus thinks it's a good use of his time to go harass my sons instead of trying to save people from being kidnapped and used as sacrifices at a Death Eater revel. Horse piss!"

Tonks was shocked. Arthur so seldom used any harsh language at all that even such a mild ephitet was remarkable, coming from him. "Are you sure the missing people have been kidnapped? And are you sure the victims will be sacrificed?"

Arthur grimaced. "Snape has seen it all. He's been to revels. He's told me about them. Kingsley has arrested people who have seen it all. They've bragged about what they've done. I've read reports at the ministry, about investigations of people who have seen it all. Even through the dull, dry, official language you can tell how awful a revel is designed to be. For example: Do you know what a piñata is?"

Nymphadora did not.

"Never mind. Whether it's a ritual killing or just for the Death Eaters' enjoyment, everyone who gets dragged into a revel as a prisoner comes out dead. And it looks like four prisoners - at least - are going to be killed tonight. While Albus is off playing around my sons' warehouse."

"He's not there now," Tonks pointed out gently. "When I talked to Fred, Professor Dumbledore had already been gone for a long time. And if it's any consolation, he said he had found something interesting before he left the warehouse. "

"If 'something interesting' had been the location of Voldemort's hideout, you'd think we would have been summoned to surround the place by now," Arthur groused.

"Yeah..." Tonks said thoughtfully. "Or maybe he decided to go after the whole Death Eater army by himself. Either way, I don't think Voldemort's bunch will be hiding out anymore after tonight."

"No," Arthur agreed. "They'll attack tomorrow, when we're all exhausted enough to make plenty of mistakes." He fell silent, and the two of them waited glumly for more of the Order to return to Grimmauld Place.

"Doing all right, Harry?" Remus asked for at least the twentieth time in the past hour.

Harry glared at the man. "Fine," he said tightly and took another sip from his huge coffee mug. He and Remus were waiting in the kitchen, lights blazingly bright, curtains drawn to hide the darkness outside.

"With the amount of coffee you've had, I can imagine you're awake," Remus grinned. "And if you get into trouble in a magic duel, you can always drown your opponent in..."

"I just went," Harry interrupted. "I'm ready." Then, knowing that continuing the conversation was the only way to prevent Remus from asking whether he was 'all right' again, Harry began talking about anything that came to mind. Anything except Death Eaters or tonight's impending fight, that is. "You remember when you left Hogwarts, when you quit the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching job?" Remus nodded, wearing a regretful smile. "Where did you go? I mean, I know you said you eventually moved to London, but when you quit, when you first left Hogwarts, where did you go? That day. Right after I saw you last."

Remus stared off into space, visualizing the scene. "I knew I had to go south. London isn't too far off the mark, actually. When I..."

BANG!

Severus Snape appeared in the center of the kitchen floor. Before the explosive sound of his apparation had finished ringing through the room, Harry had leapt out of his chair and run directly into Snape's chest. "GO!" Harry shouted.

Snape grabbed Harry's shoulders and turned him around so that the boy's face would not be buried in his robes after they reapparated. He flicked his wand toward the room lights. "Nox," he commanded. The room darkened immediately. He wrapped his arms firmly around Harry and with quiet intensity he said, "We will appear with a wall at our backs. You'll be facing the entire room from the center of that wall. Ignore the prisoners. Most others are drunk."

Harry had expected the Death Eaters' intoxication to be their greatest ally. He couldn't understand why Snape was wasting time talking about it. "GO!" Harry bellowed.

"Look out for Bellatrix LeStrange, she's completely sober. She'll be on the far side of the room, totally naked."

Harry didn't care if the revel's floor show included a line of nude dancing veela. "GO!" Harry yelled.

"I haven't seen Voldemort or Pettigrew at all. I don't know where they are, but it makes sense that Voldemort will have some way of watching the room.

"They'll come running once they see I'm there, then!" Harry squirmed in impatience. "GO!" he screamed.

"The revel room is dark. The only light is from torches. You've been sitting here with your illumination at noontime sunshine levels. If you go before your eyes adjust, you'll be blind."

"They're adjusted!" Harry wailed. "GO!"

BANG!

They went.