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.

21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Harry appeared outside the lobby of the great hospital and wandered through the main entrance, not quite sure where he was supposed to go. He didn't have to wander long before someone recognized him and shouted out a greeting.

"Hello. If it isn't Harry Potter," said a tall, smiling mediwizard, striding purposefully toward Harry with his hand extended. Harry accepted the handshake, but before he could ask for directions, the mediwizard said, "I owe you a great deal of thanks, Mister Potter. You saved quite a number of people the night before Halloween. Sometimes, what a healer needs most is reliable medical evacuation assistance, and though I admit I don't have any idea how you did it, I can tell you that your bringing those people here made a real difference. None of us would have known how to reach them... or even that they were hurt. And if we had known, and had to rely on transporting each patient individually, we would have been too slow to obtain the results that we did. Each patient's treatment would have been more difficult, and their healing wouldn't have been anywhere near as smooth. Thank you, Mister Potter. Sincerely."

By the end of that speech, Harry's face was bright red. "I'm glad I could help," he said. "That's what I want to do, mostly, now. Help. However I can." He gathered his nerve and looked the mediwizard in the eye. His next statement was astonishingly hard for him to say, but if he was going to be a success, he would have to get used to making such statements regularly. "You know, I'm running for Minister. I'd appreciate your vote."

The healer studied the boy for a moment. "You know, under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be giving my vote to Cornelius Fudge in any case. I'm a conservative. Last election, I supported Wilhelmus Pitt. You can see how effective that was. But your age would seem to be a barrier to your taking office. Have you filed papers to appear officially on the ballot?"

"My staff is taking care of that today," Harry waved the concern away as though it hardly mattered at all.

"And if the Registrar does not allow someone of your tender years to be included on the official ballot?"

"If Fudge's Ministry prohibits me from appearing, that will only swing public opinion more toward my candidacy," Harry replied confidently.

The mediwizard laughed. "Good for you. In politics, the most successful aspirants are usually the ones who claim they can't possibly lose. If you can turn your absence from the ballot into an advantage, then you may well prove successful after all." Harry had nothing to say to that, so he nodded and tried to act nonchalant. The mediwizard waited for some further comment, and when none was forthcoming, offered, "Let me turn the tables then and ask: How may I help you?"

"I'd like to see the Longbottoms, please. Husband and wife, they're long-term patients in the..."

"I know them," the mediwizard interrupted, glancing around to see who may have been listening in on his conversation. No one appeared to be unduly interested, so he quietly questioned Harry. "Do you know the condition in which the Longbottoms have remained for the past years of their stay here?"

"I know," Harry said sadly. "I just fought the people that did that to them. I thought that I should see them. I know I won't have much of a visit as far as conversation or anything, but... I want to see them."

The mediwizard seemed very uncomfortable. "When was the last time you saw either of them?" Harry made a noncommittal motion. The mediwizard scowled. "They have become much worse of late," he warned. Then, seeing that Harry was not discouraged, he reemphasized, "Much worse." Harry merely looked more determined. The mediwizard was on the brink of forbidding the visit, but remembered that he had just been praising Harry as a hero. If the boy was tough enough to survive a disaster like the night before Halloween, perhaps he was strong enough to take a visit with the Longbottoms. The healer relented and said, "I'll take you. It's a bit of a maze to get there. And you may need a password or two in order to make it through all the security."

Harry thanked the man, but it soon became clear that it was neither the confusing architecture nor the security checks that would slow Harry's progress the most. Mediwizards and mediwitches saw the boy and rushed to thank him for helping the victims of the night before Halloween. Medical researchers in their formal robes and emergency healers in their practical garments filled the halls as Harry made his slow progress toward the Mental Ward. Everyone seemed to want to congratulate the young man who had helped so many people. 'At least they're not staring at me because I failed to die from a killing curse,' Harry thought. This new kind of attention helped to counter some of the bitterness he still felt at being recognized as 'The Boy Who Lived.'

At the heavy, locked doorway into the Mental Health wing of the hospital, Harry lost most of his well-wishers as they returned to their duties and he checked in with the guards. The people on duty at the door did not call themselves guards, nor was 'guard' their official title. They were officially nurses. But their grim seriousness and watchful demeanor - not to mention their wands kept constantly to hand - gave them the unmistakable appearance of security personnel. Apparently, some of the patients at Saint Mungo's were so unpredictable that constant vigilance was called for. But in the small area that Harry was led to, the patients were all too predictable. For the most part, those being treated there had been comatose, or immobile, or completely uncommunicative for years. For Harry, the scene was made even more heartbreaking by the care the staff took to provide as much light, color and decoration as hospital regulations allowed. And how little any of the patients seemed to be aware of that effort. Some sat motionless, staring, barely breathing. Some lay as though deeply asleep. But the Longbottoms appeared to be dead. Both lay on their backs, shoulders propped up by pillows, eyes open, and totally blank. They hardly seemed to breathe. Harry had to watch for a long while before he caught a hint of motion that betrayed respiration. "May I have some time alone with them?" Harry asked a mediwitch who was just finishing work on a neighboring patient. The mediwitch nodded and looked over the couple who had lain unresponsively for so long. "You can have as much time as you'd like... oh! I should say, as much time as you would like up to two hours or so. After that, we'll have to be here to care for them. Some of what we have to do is a bit unpleasant for those not used to treatment of this sort. But feel free to talk to them. I still believe that they hear quite a lot of what goes on around them. And if we ever find a way to help them, I think they'll be better off the more stimulation of that sort they receive."

Harry studied the mediwitch carefully, trying to understand how she could continue to come to work day after day to treat patients that never got any better. She must have had a tremendous store of determination to keep from becoming thoroughly discouraged. 'And I had almost convinced myself that I was a hero,' he chided himself. Then he remembered what he had told the mediwizard. Even if he wasn't a hero, perhaps in this case he could be of some help.

Harry found a chair and placed it between the Longbottoms' beds. As pleasant as the mediwitch's suggestion had been, he didn't think he would be speaking much for the next couple of hours. He found a comfortable position, settled in to it, let his eyes go out of focus and concentrated on the people on either side of him. They had shown no physical activity for years, but they weren't dead. So there had to be some mental activity, no matter how minimal. He searched, as though listening very hard for the tiniest of sounds. And after a long while during which he heard nothing, there was some faint impression tantalizingly just beyond his reach. He concentrated more intently, and the impression became clearer.

-

"What in Merlin's name is this?" The Director of Mental Health at Saint Mungo's had been summoned from home to deal with an emergency. He expected to be called upon in that fashion from time to time, and had not been particularly annoyed at the request. But once he had arrived, no one could seem to tell him what the trouble was. And when he saw the supposed crisis for himself, he was completely baffled. A visitor had taken a chair between two beds and had apparently fallen asleep there. What could be so difficult to handle about that situation? Wake the boy up, or carry him away, the Director insisted. To the Director's intense irritation, his staff informed him that no one could approach the area around the beds. "Is there a wall?" the Director demanded. "Is there a force field? A magical barrier? Anything that might actually prevent the authorized health care workers at this hospital from approaching those beds and the snoozing visitor between them?" There were no such impediments. But no one could get anywhere near either of the beds.

The Director scowled, looked at the peaceful tableau before him and decided to march right up to the visitor and ask him what his business was. A few moments later, the Director collected his thoughts and realized that he was in fact standing in front of a different pair of beds, between which there was no visitor.

The Director questioned those of his staff who had just seen his movements. They told him very clearly that he had not been apparated, flown or forced away from the Longbottoms and their visitor. But as he had approached to within a few bed-lengths of them, he had simply changed his mind and wandered away. The Director did not like having his mind changed for him.

He went to the housekeeping closet and picked out a long pushbroom. He approached as close to the Longbottoms as he dared, reached out with the broom... and dropped it. He reached forward to pick it up, and came to his senses standing in front of the closet, about to put the broom back away. He called for his most knowledgeable researchers and some test equipment. There was definitely something to be learned from this.

-

Behind the counter in the Hall of Records at the Ministry, Elspeth Surewater looked in confusion at the application that had just been handed to her. She looked back up at the handsome man standing at the head of the line of wizards and witches waiting to file official documents. She wasn't sure how to put this. She didn't want to offend him, and it was rather sad that he had spent so much time waiting, but this simply wouldn't do. "Pardon me," she said solicitously, using her soothing voice to cushion the disappointment that would certainly follow her explanation. "But this form has already been filed."

The handsome man did not become angry, but he was clearly confused. "Are you sure?" Elspeth nodded with a sweet smile. "But... who would do such a thing? Who would file this? And why?"

"That man just leaving," Elspeth purred in a hypnotist's soporific tone. "The one in the long, black, rather severe robe. He filed this very form only two minutes ago. You could ask him."

"Hold on to that one too," the handsome man requested. "Put the two together. I think mine has the correct address." He was out of line and off after the other man even as he finished speaking.

Elspeth sighed. She had to spend so much time with the unpleasant ones, and when a pleasant, attractive man such as that one arrived at the window, he was always gone at a run before she had even learned his name. Such a pity.

"Next," she called sweetly and offered a pleasant smile to the next man in line, a rather ugly and very angry fellow who slammed his form down on the counter and began to complain before Elspeth could even see what he was trying to file. "How nice," she crooned, looking up to catch a final glimpse of the retreating handsome man, and causing her current applicant to gawk at her uncomprehendingly.

"Pardon me. Sir! Please! Pardon me. Sir!" Remus caught up to the tall man in the severe black robe and practically blocked his path to gain his attention. "Pardon me, but it seems as though you filed my application before I had a chance to do so today."

"I applied for no patents, registered no copyrights, nor filed any lawsuits today," the man explained icily. "I doubt that I have trod upon your business inadvertently."

"Right," Remus agreed with a smile. "So how does it happen that you are filing for Harry Potter's candidacy for Minister in our next election?"

"I... I beg your pardon?" the other man said, pretending to misunderstand.

"I am Remus Lupin, representative of Harry James Potter, candidate for Minister of Magic. I brought my client's application to the Ministry today only to find that our Records clerk did not wish to accept it, due to the fact that you had filed the same form on behalf of the same person only minutes before. Who are you, and why are you tampering with my client's candidacy?"

"Because, Mister Lupin, since I do not believe that either you or Mister Potter is a practicing solicitor, I doubt that either of you would know any of the very few ways that his name might be added to an official ballot despite his age. I am, and I do. I wanted to make sure that, when the objections are heard from the defeated after Mister Potter's victory, the simplest problems had been swept away." With a tight smirk on his face, the stranger watched Remus process all of that.

"You're certainly going out of your way to do us a favor," Remus pointed out. "Who are you?"

The other man laughed, a wicked gleam in his eye. "I am Deckard Constantine, late Chief of Minister Fudge's staff. I resigned my staff position immediately following Minister Fudge's decision to oppose Mister Potter's candidacy - the declaration of which, as it happened, took place in my office at the Ministry. I resigned from this administration because I believe Mister Potter will win the popular vote. And because I believe that Mister Potter will soon realize he needs someone experienced in the Ministry's inner workings to help him accomplish whatever it is he wishes to do. I am looking for a job, Mister Lupin. As Harry Potter's representative, I hope you will recommend me. Unless you can hire me on your own authority, that is."

"I appreciate the candor," Remus said, genuinely astonished at the directness of Constantine's approach. "How did you... I mean... which of your 'few ways' to make Harry's application acceptable did you choose to use?" All during the conversation, Remus had studied the man, wondering if he posed any threat. Wolf senses provided the maximum information in the minimum time. The man did not smell menacing, nor did he exhibit fear at having been discovered. On the contrary, he seemed excited and enthusiastic to have met one of Harry's protectors. The man showed none of the telltale signs of lying, but that was less significant. Remus understood that this was most likely a man who mislead others by using selected bits of the truth rather than by employing outright falsehood. But though Constantine might be clever or manipulative, the Wolf found no reason to presume he was dangerous.

"You are probably aware that we in the wizarding community have long depended upon the aurors to police our civil society," Deckard lectured. Remus had to force himself not to laugh at the didactic style, but he had to admit that the man was very confident about what he was saying. In his own mind at least, Constantine was a master of his subject. "Meanwhile, we have left the soldiering to the muggles. A wise idea? I do not believe so. But what do we do when we, the wizarding community, need a military force? You are probably aware that the general euphemism for those who go to war on behalf of British wizardry is: 'In Service.' Placing individuals In Service is necessarily looser and more flexible than the rigid military traditions common to muggles, and there's what I took advantage of on behalf of Mister Potter. Those who have performed with distinction In Service are acknowledged to have gained extraordinary experience. Those who have led a battle are presumed to have gained proportionately greater experience. Those who have planned a successful campaign have exhibited their maturity, as well as resourcefulness and ability to make decisions under pressure. On Mister Potter's application, I credited him with solving the Voldemort crisis. He effectively planned, led and did the lion's share of the fighting in the last battle with the dread dark wizard, thus proving his qualifications as a candidate for our highest office."

Remus shook his head slowly, wearing a sad smile. "No one with any official authority placed Harry In Service," he said with a sigh.

"There wasn't time," Constantine shrugged. "I can testify to that because I was in the Minister's office on the night before Halloween. The battle was over before the Minister knew it had been joined. Besides, all I want to achieve by putting an In Service credit on Mister Potter's election papers is the inclusion of his name on the ballot. It will actually do more good for Mister Potter if, after the election, there are objections to his claim of military status. If anyone - especially Minister Fudge, who should have been the one to recruit him - disputes it, Mister Potter will be able to show the evidence to prove that he was, in fact, the Hero of Halloween, and that our current Minister is merely weeping over a bowl of sour fruit. Mister Potter's defense against such objections will be the showpiece he needs to convince anyone who remains doubtful of his qualifications for the office he seeks. And it will, frankly, make Minister Fudge look like an idiot."

Remus chuckled quietly. "You certainly have no love for your previous employer."

"Have you ever spent any time with Cornelius Fudge?" Constantine challenged, eyes flashing.

"Nothing... significant," Remus murmured, thinking of a time three years ago when Fudge could have helped clear Sirius Black's name, but instead betrayed those he should have supported.

"Good for you," Deckard said sarcastically, wondering what had disturbed Lupin so much.

The two men went to the Ministry cafeteria, bought coffee, and talked for nearly two hours.

-

Ron entered the Great Hall for dinner, and paused for a moment to appreciate the differences amongst the four House tables. Those waiting to dine at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables seemed a bit more animated than usual. The Slytherin table hosted a particularly glum looking crew, sullenly waiting for food to be served. But the Gryffindor table was filled with students laughing, cheering, and calling to one another along its entire length. There were a few subdued Gryffindors, and Ron's eyes were drawn to one in particular. He went to sit next to Hermione and smiled at her as she gave him a brief nod by way of acknowledging his presence.

"So..." Ron started out cheerfully, then realized he had no idea what to say. Hermione turned back toward him and waited for him to continue, which merely flustered him all the more, driving all reasonable conversation from his mind, and leaving doomed requests like 'Kiss me,' and foolish questions like 'Why don't you love me anymore?' rattling around his brain and fighting for their chance to be spoken and embarrass him even further. He finally remembered what he had intended to ask Hermione since he had heard the news that morning. "You going to vote?"

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "I'm glad I never counted on you remembering my birthday," she said, clearly disappointed.

Ron sat there, flummoxed. What had he said this time? He had only asked about the most exciting news to hit the Gryffindor common room since the last Quiddich Cup, and now she was on about her birthday. He puzzled over Hermione's reaction until the girl took pity on him and explained.

"I'm young for our class, Ron. My birthday comes too late for me to vote this year. I won't be allowed to cast a ballot."

"What? That's daft." Ron was instantly angry at the outrage. "If there's anyone in this whole school could make an informed, intelligent decision, it's you. It would make more sense to let you vote instead of the rest of us, then multiply your choices by as many of us as there are."

Hermione looked uncomfortable. "It wouldn't work, Ron. As for informed... I know I haven't been very favorably impressed with anything Minister Fudge has done..."

"Forget Fudge," Ron scoffed. "Harry's running!"

"And he'll probably win," Hermione admitted sadly. "Which will be unfortunate for everyone, because although he is old enough to vote, he doesn't meet the minimum age requirement for the Ministership, and so his victory will be challenged immediately, but the decision won't be immediate and either way it's decided, there'll be an appeal. So Harry will have the win, but not the office. And we'll be without a Minister at all until the mess gets straightened out. Which might take months, because if the final decision is to disallow Harry from serving, we'll have to hold another election. And then everyone who did vote for Harry will feel angry over having their choice taken away. Civil wars have been started over less."

Ron stared at her wide-eyed. Trust Hermione to take the best news and turn it into pure gloom.

"But I was talking about being informed," Hermione continued, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "We haven't seen Harry, haven't talked to him, have no idea what he's been doing. He disappeared, let us believe he might be dead..."

"He was getting ready to take out old You Know... uh... Voldemort." Ron corrected himself as he caught Hermione's glare at his reliance for the old euphemism. Ron shuddered. It still felt weird saying the dreaded name.

"We don't know what he was doing, Ron. We used to do things together."

"Yeah, well, the two of us used to do things together, too. Things change."

"That's what worries me. People change, too. If Harry hadn't changed, I think he might have let us know... something. That he was alive, at least. That's not all. Harry has always hated Voldemort. He always wanted revenge for his parents. Then for Cedric, and then for Sirius. If Harry had gone around the world to kill Voldemort, I wouldn't have been surprised. But where did running for Minister come from? Harry never liked politics, he didn't even like to talk about it. He didn't need to be in the public eye. About the only time he accepted attention gracefully was on the quiddich pitch. He hated being 'The Boy Who Lived.' A natural politician would have been unable to keep himself from capitalizing on that."

Ron wrinkled his nose as he caught one corner of his lip between his teeth. He thought about what Hermione was saying, and had to agree that, by and large, she was right. "Maybe killing You Know... uh... Voldemort made him feel... kind of... responsible for what happens after. So he would have to take charge to make sure everything came out all right."

"Maybe," Hermione said absently. "But what I was thinking was, if Harry disappeared, then kept himself locked away from the people who know him best, then suddenly started behaving totally differently... how do we know that he's really Harry Potter at all?"

"We could tell if we could talk to him," Ron stated with certainty.

"If," Hermione said sourly. "We don't even know where he is."

Ron grinned, intrigued by the challenge. "I'll bet we could find him if we worked together."

Hermione didn't answer right away, but Ron wasn't worried. He knew her well enough to be quite sure. Harry... or whoever was impersonating him... didn't stand a chance of avoiding the two of them.

-

By evening, Snape and Lupin had both become too worried to sit at home and do nothing. Harry had been gone all day without a word, and both men knew that, Oaths or no Oaths, Death Eaters were dangerous people. Remus and Severus came to their decisions at almost exactly the same time, and both readied their wands and agreed to apparate to the Stone complex, where Harry had most likely spent the day. They concentrated, visualized the revel room... and nothing happened. Somehow, their first-chosen destination was blocked to them. But both of them knew another point in the complex - the anteroom just beyond the revel room. They agreed to the new destination and disappeared to the accompaniment of a double thunderclap.

They appeared in the anteroom to find it silent - and totally dark. Keeping his head low, in case there were hidden lurkers waiting to attack, Snape whispered "Lumos," and the tip of his wand blazed with a brilliant white light. The anteroom was, in fact deserted. Remus rushed to the revel room door, confirmed his suspicion that it would be locked, attempted an Alohamora, found the spell to be insufficient, and nodded toward the opposite exit. The two men quickly and quietly searched the complex. They did not find Harry. Nor was anyone else present. By the time they had worked their way back to the anteroom, Remus was ready to try something that would have been impossible for him only a few weeks ago.

"I'm going to change," he informed Snape. "I'll need my good ears and my nose to determine whether anyone is in the locked room."

Snape stared suspiciously at the werewolf. "I don't believe that's wise," he said, mouth dry.

Remus looked genuinely surprised, as though he had just remembered that night long ago when Snape had been menaced by Lupin's vulpine form. "You don't think I would go all this way just to bite you now, do you?"

The glare from Snape's wand kept Remus from seeing the man's face clearly. "If you don't mind, I'll wait over here," Snape said stiffly, leveling his wand into a position from which he could launch an attack in an instant.

"Fine," Remus said tersely, turning away. His face began to stretch, his arms started to change angulation, his spine adjusted its attachment to his pelvis. Unlike most animagi, Remus transformed slowly, and he seemed to suffer from the ordeal of changing, though not nearly so much as when his transformations were involuntary. Within a minute, a huge wolf stood facing the locked doorway.

Wolves in the wild could be tall, but they tended to be thin creatures - agile, but not particularly heavy. Their phenomenal success rate in the hunt could be ascribed to their quick intelligence, their craftiness and the cooperation of the pack rather than from sheer physical power. Remus' vulpine form had always been heavier than a normal wild wolf, since the shape he assumed during his involuntary changes incorporated the monstrous aspects of his humanity as well as the bestial qualities of his body. But now that he had achieved control over his changes, the aspect he presented was more impressive than his previous werewolf form had ever been.

Standing on four legs, he weighed at least as much as his human body did when fully clothed. And while his previous bestial shape had been a grotesque distortion of wolf and man, the form he displayed now was like an idealization of a wolf. His fur was thick and rich, his bearing was regal, his eyes shone with a golden glow. He tried to ignore Snape, who was pressed against the far wall, his wand trained on the wolf's heart. Remus understood that the man suffered from fear, and because of their particular history, he would have a difficult time overcoming that fear. Remus would have to show that he could be trusted, that the two of them could work together. The Wolf felt contempt for the human cowering against the stone, but Remus' human mind knew that whatever else he may have earned, Severus Snape did not deserve his contempt.

The wolf sniffed, listened, sniffed some more and then stood alert, waiting for an impression to come from a sixth sense he had never identified, but which had never steered him wrong. He stood feeling the atmosphere until he was sure. Then, laboriously, he forced himself back into his human form.

"Harry was here... but we knew that," he reported. "He's not in there now. I know it."

"You know it?" Snape scoffed.

"You use your eyes. I use my nose. You're blinded by darkness, invisibility or any opaque object. I'm not. Harry locked this door very well. But humans almost never think of sealing anything airtight, unless they're preserving food. So the smell finds its way out, if there's any smell at all. He's not in there. That... thing... that he made of Pettigrew - that's still in there."

"And Voldemort?" Snape asked anxiously.

"He turned Voldemort into plastic," Remus complained. "I'm not a miracle worker. But Harry's not there, and neither is any other flesh and blood human. I know it."

"Right," Snape drawled. "So, where is he?"

-

Sitting at a tiny table in a small office of the muggle government far from the Hogwarts grounds, Hermione shook her curly hair back over her shoulders. It was a new habit for her, almost a nervous tic, but the motion captured Ron's attention so fully he didn't realize that Hermione had actually found something important until she reached out and tugged on his collar. "There," she said proudly.

"Naw," Ron replied in disbelief, staring at the long list of names and numbers spread open on the reference desk. "Why didn't we know about that before?"

"We never thought to look," Hermione said smugly. "Really, Ron, why would we have?"

"Do you want to try it? Go there?"

"Why not?"

"We'll need a map."

"We can get one right here."

Their eyes met, and the sense of adventure that had so often filled them before they had launched their ill-fated romance returned in force. "It's worth a bit more off-campus travel, don't you think?"

"Definitely."

"Tomorrow?"

"Morning. Early."

-

"Wha' th'Ell's THIS?" bellowed Ambrose Garamond, Calligrapher In Charge for the Ministry of Magic Printing Office.

"It is precisely what it says it is," came the snooty reply from Devan Gorseheather, Project Coordinator for Wizarding Ballot Preparation. "There is a new candidate to be included, and he must appear on each of the Ballots to be used in the election."

"Wha' abou' THESE?" Ambrose thundered, indicating the neat stacks of thousands of completed ballots, ready for transportation to the polling places.

"Those are incorrect," sniffed Devan. "Do with them whatever you do with incorrectly produced material."

"These'r Nawt INCORRECT," Ambrose shouted back. "They're PERFECT! They're READY! Wass'is new candidate? Inn'ner a cutoff date? Don'we 'ave a Deadline?"

"Not, apparently, for War Heroes," Devan smirked.

"War 'Eroes? Y'need a bleedin' WAR for there t'be War 'Eroes!"

"It seems we had one. This man fought the whole thing by himself without troubling the rest of us with it in the least. That's a war hero in my book. Put him on the ballot. Let the people decide."

Devan left, his message delivered, his worries over until it was time to check the new ballots for accuracy. Ambrose pulled one of the completed, correct, absolutely perfect ballots from one of the stacks that had been set for delivery. He called a Calligrapher Second Class to his side. "C'Mere, you!" He indicated the perfectly good ballot and the request which had made it worthless. "Y'see this?" He drew his finger across the tiny space below the listing for Minister Cornelius Fudge. "Look 'Ere. C'n you squeez'is new bloke inta there?"

The Calligrapher Second Class knew better than to claim to be unable to accomplish what the Calligrapher In Charge had already decided was what would be done. He nodded, pouting forlornly at the tiny space available.

"Do it, then!" Commanded the Calligrapher in charge, and the unfortunate Calligrapher Second Class was left to dash throughout the work area, ordering everyone to, "Get out the Repeatoquills!" and spreading the word about the, "Emergency Addition!" He scrupulously avoided calling the rush job a 'Reprint.' It was far too close to election day, and all the Calligraphers' nerves were stretched tight as it was. Riots had been started for less.

-

Harry stood in the middle of a street very like Diagon Alley, except for the fact that his feet were at the apex of a single cobblestone which curved away from him like the dome of an immense cathedral. There were buildings in view, grotesque gargantuan edifices painted in garishly brilliant colors. None of them had any doors or windows. Their doorways and window frames were empty, and dark. People in great numbers passed by, but none of them faced him. As they approached, walking backward, they would turn as they drew near to walk away with their backs toward him. No one in sight had a visible face. The sky was a violent mixture of heavy storm clouds and glaring sunlight. There was no middle value of illumination. Everything in sight either gleamed blindingly or receded into impenetrable shadow. Almost all sounds were curiously muffled, as though heard at a distance through cotton wool. Occasionally, a shriek of anguish or a scream of fury would pierce that wooly insulation, all the more shocking for its sudden clarity.

Harry did not fool himself that he was experiencing the mental picture of the world as seen by either of the Longbottoms. He was quite aware that this was his own interpretation of their catastrophic withdrawal from the world. His attempt to understand their perceptions had been cobbled together from his vague impressions of each of the Longbottoms' separate and unique dementias. But it would have to do. If he were going to provide either of those long-suffering people any relief at all, it would have to do.

Harry saw a flying shape like a fluttering dark rag darting around the sky. He contemplated it for a while, and guessed that the flying rag-thing most likely stood for one or both of the LeStranges. Armed with his own knowledge of those people's demise, he blasted the specter from the sky and congratulated himself on handling the disturbing symbolism of this place so well. He should have known better. The Longbottoms had been strong-willed people, and the LeStrange specters must have been blasted or otherwise destroyed many times over during the past years. Within seconds, another flying specter, indistinguishable from the first, was flitting about the sky, unperturbed at having been blasted.

Harry thought of running through the outlandishly oversized cityscape around him, and felt thoroughly daunted at the prospect of covering such immense distances on foot. Then he thought of how much easier his search would be if he flew. He remembered his broomless flying lesson, taken in the front yard at Godric's Hollow, and kicked off, taking to the air. As soon as his flying magic became active, fire belched from every empty window frame and doorway. Fire filled the sky, and choking smoke seared his throat. He landed, and the fires went out. The air became clear once again.

"Right, then," Harry said out loud. "No magic." There was no reply. "I can't search for you, so you'll have to come to me," he said conversationally, speaking to the entire scene around him as though to a personal friend. There was still no direct reply, but the crowd of people, all turned away from him, hunched their shoulders as though fending off a cold wind. "Don't worry. You can find me. I'm right here. I'll call."

After only a few repetitions, Harry realized that 'Mr. Longbottom' and 'Mrs. Longbottom' were ridiculous names to use here. He searched for alternatives, and vaguely recalled that Neville's parents had been called Frank and Alice. He began to shout those names out loud, the crowd pulling their coats tighter around themselves and turning their collars up as he called.

As he paused for breath, Harry had the impression of some kind of attempt to reply to his calling. He waited, listening, trying to feel, taste or smell the reply that was just beyond his hearing. He called again, listened again, repeated the process several times. Finally, he could hear - not words - but an idea of an attitude, the sound of a gesture, floating past him. It was untranslatable, and would have been pure gibberish if put into words, but the feeling said something along the lines of, "I can't come to you. You're in the wrong town."

Harry replied in as close to the same fashion as possible, visualizing his response more than actually articulating it. The result was a rather distant sounding cry of "Come out, then, where we can speak directly to one another."

The reaction was immediate. Fear. Confusion. A horrible sense of betrayal. The tenuous contact Harry had achieved was broken. He called again. It was obvious that making a sure contact with the injured couple would not be simple. But Harry was determined. And he had absorbed so much power that he had a better chance of success right now than at any other time in his life.

-

In the time he had stayed at the house in Godric's Hollow, Severus Snape had become quite enamored of the quiet. All of the neighbors had deserted the area long ago. There was no traffic along the street that passed by the front yard. There were no visitors. And the only people with whom he was required to share the residence were the very considerate Remus Lupin, and Harry Potter, who had been too busy learning to control his new abilities to get into any trouble.

Remus loved the peaceful atmosphere as well. Between the time he had moved away from his childhood home to the time he had taken up residence in Godric's Hollow, the most relaxing place Lupin had ever lived had been Hogwarts. And there, he had been very busy teaching, grading assignments and planning lessons. Plus, he had felt obligated to make himself available to his students at any time, and was likely to be awakened at all hours of the night by anything from genuine emergencies to poltergeist attack. There was almost no comparison between this comfortable, nearly silent home and the noisy, unpleasant places the werewolf had resided over the years.

Both men were looking forward to some peaceful relaxation when they arrived back at the house after apparating around the country searching for some clue as to what had happened to Harry Potter. They were as uninformed on their return as they had been when they left, and both felt the need to rest and reconsider their options before starting out on another search. Remus made tea, and both men settled down to a steaming cup, reviewing what they knew and wondering what to do next.

So it came as a shock when a knock sounded at the front door. Severus nearly dropped his cup, then placed it carefully back onto its saucer so that it made no noise. Drawing his wand, he moved silently toward the door, Remus following several steps behind, crouching, wand at the ready, checking for any movement outside the windows.

As Snape drew near to the door, he could hear youthful voices chattering away on the porch. His first thought was that those sounds were a mere distraction to help disguise an attack, but as he caught a few more words from outside, he was suddenly certain of what he would find when he opened the door. He motioned to Remus to indicate that there was probably not an immediate threat, drew himself up to his full height and swung open the door.

"...told you!" crowed a male voice. "This is... Professor Snape?" Ron Weasley stood there, uncertain of what to say next.

Hermione saved him from his indecision. "We've come to see Harry," she informed the potions professor, then waited politely to be invited in.

"Have you... been with... Mister Potter? Recently?" Snape wanted to know.

"No," Ron replied, confused. "That's why we've come. We'd like to see him."

Snape smiled at this, but there was so much skepticism in his expression, he might as well have snarled. "So, out of nowhere, you decided to drop by the little settlement of Godric's Hollow. Which is out of the way, practically unknown to anyone, and as it so happens, entirely muggle."

Ron was thoroughly sick of Snape's constant sneering and his superior attitude. It was bad enough to have to endure it at school, but to encounter the man here, hundreds of miles from Hogwarts, was infuriating. He replied with his own rather thick sarcasm. "Not out of nowhere, out of a tax roll," he declared.

An instant later, Ron wished that he could have a photograph of that moment to keep and savor forever. He wasn't quite sure what had done it, but all of a sudden, he was the one standing there with the answers, and Snape was... frightened? Nervous, certainly.

Very slowly, so as to make sure his question was very well understood, Snape said, "You, Mister Weasley, found this house in a tax roll?"

Ron's attitude lost some intensity. "Hermione did, actually. She used a muggle trick she learned at home."

"It only makes sense," Hermione explained. "The home is on a muggle tax roll. I only found it because I was making a last try after failing to find any properties belonging to James and Lily Potter in any wizarding tax records. The tax on this place is grossly overdue," she added apologetically.

"Seventeen years behind," Ron said with wonder in his voice. "It's amazing there aren't marshals here now to Ow!" Hermione's foot came down hard on Ron's.

"The important thing is," Hermione said quickly, "that once we had an address, all we needed to do was look at a parcel map. That's a map that..."

"I know what a parcel map is," Snape drawled. "But -" he looked each of his visitors in the eye before continuing. "Are you telling me that you were able to locate... this place... on a map? And then follow those directions here?"

"That's how we got here," Ron said defensively, wondering what was so strange about finding directions from a map.

"And how did you arrive?"

Ron's anger was back up again. All Snape knew how to do was needle, irritate and harass. And this man was supposed to be a teacher? He was horrible. "I flew," Ron said, scowling.

"Broomstick?" Snape asked, drawing the syllables out to show his disdain for that particular mode of transportation.

"Yes. I flew here on my broomstick. Yes, it was a long flight. Yes, it was cold. Yes, it's getting dark. Yes, I'll probably be flying back in the middle of the night."

"I thought that you, Miss Granger, were not an afficionado of broomstick flight?"

"I never pursued it," Hermione corrected Snape promptly. "At Hogwarts, the emphasis on brooms was all about quiddich. I wasn't interested in trying out for Beater. However, riding as a passenger on this flight, I found it quite enjoyable. I may take it up." Hermione enjoyed the flash of surprise that crossed Snape's face, then asked, "Is Harry not here, Professor?"

Snape's sneer broke enough to allow the hint of a smile to tug at one corner of his mouth. "Once again, Miss Granger, you bring a refreshing directness and lucidity to a conversation with Gryffindors. No, Harry is not here, and has been absent for the better part of a day."

"So what are you doing here?" Ron asked sullenly.

Remus was convinced by then that the children had come on their own. There was no one using them as a distraction. They were certainly not anyone's prisoners. "Waiting," he called out approaching the door in such a way that Severus automatically moved a step to the side to allow him room. "And while we're waiting, trying to figure out where to look next."

"Remus!" Hermione and Ron cried together. As Snape looked on with irritation, Hermione stepped into the house and gave Remus a quick hug. Ron followed her... and realized that he would be embarrassed to offer to hug Lupin. Remus solved the problem almost before Ron's hesitation was noticeable at all. He reached out, grabbed Ron's hand, shook it firmly, and invited both visitors in to the kitchen for tea.

"Where to look... next?" Hermione asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes," Remus sighed, pouring tea for everyone. "We've already been... well, all around, really. I presume you have come from Hogwarts?" Hermione nodded. "And, it goes without saying... why do people say that?" Remus asked, and Hermione laughed out loud. She couldn't stop staring at the man. Werewolf. Whatever he was. There was something different about him, almost as if he were a different man from the one who had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. The difference was multifaceted, subtle, and very appealing.

Remus waited for Hermione's burst of laughter to fade, then continued his train of thought. "If Harry is not at Hogwarts, and Professor Snape and I know that he's not at the Ministry, or... um... several other places we have already searched. I was hoping either one of you had some clue as to where he might be."

"He hasn't told us anything," Hermione sighed. "I haven't even gotten a letter from him since... since before school started. What is wrong with him?"

"I believe he has finally realized his destiny," Remus pronounced pompously. "He has finally become a wizard... more powerful than... Hermione Granger!"

Hermione laughed again, and punched Remus lightly on the shoulder. Ron looked on, baffled. Was she flirting with the ex-teacher? 'She looks more comfortable in that adult man's company than she ever did in mine,' Ron thought miserably. He felt he had nothing to add to the conversation, especially since Hermione was already pointing out the obvious: "We thought he was here."

Perhaps the man was only trying to be polite, but he turned to Ron and asked for the boy's suggestions. Ron felt put on the spot, and spit out the first thing that came to mind. "Have you tried the hospital?" He received glares from three people for that, and had to explain himself.

"I don't mean that he got hurt. After what he did before Halloween, I'm not sure he can be hurt. But... he sent all those people in for emergency care. It was in the newspaper. And maybe he went to see... you know... how they were doing or something." Ron felt immediately, intensely embarrassed. He was certain that he was out of his depth. His companions included a Professor, a man who had survived a lifetime of lycanthropy... and Hermione. Yes, definitely out of his depth.

So Ron was thoroughly shocked when Remus told Snape, "The boy's right. If it had been anyone else, we would have checked the hospital first, afraid he had been injured. Because it was Harry, we never thought of him getting hurt... at least not in any way that would allow him a chance to reach a hospital before it was too late. But Ron is right. Harry may have gone to check on the people he saved. He would do that."

"Gryffindor bravado, lording it over the people who now owe him?" Snape ventured.

"Just Harry, being concerned for those he was involved with, however tangentially," Remus amended. "We should check. Do you want to go, or should I?"

"Can we come?" Hermione and Ron were both on their feet, eager to accompany the adults.

"We'll be apparating," Remus warned. "Ron, Professor Snape will have to carry you. I'll take Hermione."

"Will you?" Snape said archly. "And I carry Mister Weasley...?"

"Because I chose first," Remus grinned. "Come on, Hermione." She leaned into him and the two of them disappeared in a bang.

It took a while longer for Ron and Severus to disapparate. Ron felt as though he were delivering himself into the very hands of the Grim Reaper as Snape's arms wrapped around him. When the disorientation caused by his apparation cleared, Ron could see Hermione and Remus talking and laughing comfortably, two adults at ease with one another. Ron found this a very discouraging sight. Once again he felt out of his depth, though he took some solace in the thought that all four of his group were here because he had suggested the destination.

Snape knew exactly where he wanted to go, and his three companions fell into line behind him as he strode purposely through the bustling hospital. They soon came to a crowded station where a number of care givers were trading information about various patients. "Pardon me," Snape interjected at the first pause in the conversation. "Have you seen Harry Potter?"

Doris Runcorn had been a nurse at Saint Mungo's for over twenty years. She was used to the hospital being understaffed, overburdened with patients, and crowded to capacity. She had developed a talent for carrying on several conversations at once while she worked. When she heard Snape's question, she didn't even look at him before she automatically replied, "No Press." Then she did look around to see four people, perplexed by her comment, none of whom looked like reporters. "Oh," she offered by way of apology. "Pilgrims or other?"

"We're Harry's friends... and teachers... from school," Hermione volunteered.

Doris sighed. "I haven't heard that one yet," she said, clearly exasperated. "I hope you understand, we aren't even allowing anyone in to the Mental Health wing unless they are here to visit a relative. We can't have any more upset. It's bad for the patients."

Remus was about to ask the nurse what she was talking about, but at that moment, a group of angry people came storming down the corridor, complaining to everyone in the area.

"You can't keep everyone out forever!" shouted one man.

"Quiet!" A nurse commanded him. "Don't you realize this is a hospital?"

"We're here to see the Truth!" A woman declaimed, only to be shushed by several workers.

A distinguished looking man in elegant robes, with long, grey hair falling to his waist, stopped to scold Doris. "We are legitimate Pilgrims," he said confidently. "The Boy Who Lived became The Man Who Saved and now is transforming himself once again, most likely into the Spirit Who Heals. We - and all people, everywhere - have a right to know what is going on. If you insist on keeping him behind locked doors, your efforts are doomed to failure."

"We are not keeping anyone behind locked doors," Nurse Runcorn insisted. "We do keep some doors locked to keep disruptive influences away from our ongoing treatment of our patients. You are one of those. Please go away, and let us get on with returning people to health. If Harry Potter, or anyone else, wishes to speak with you, I'm sure they will find you when they leave the hospital. Now go."

Snape shepherded his companions back in the direction of the lobby. "Remus. Take these children to the waiting room. I don't know what Potter has done, but it seems to have caused trouble already. I believe I can use an official title to gain access to the area, but I will have to go alone." Snape disappeared down an intersecting corridor. Remus took the protesting children with him in search of the waiting room.

When Severus arrived at the secured door to the Mental Health portion of the facility, he presented himself to the orderly on duty. "I am Severus Snape, official potions maker to the Ministry. I believe you are expecting me."

"This about the Longbottom thing?" the orderly asked, practically ignoring Snape as he kept his eye on a group of people Severus presumed to be more 'pilgrims.'

"Frank and Alice are a special concern of mine," Snape improvised smoothly, and the orderly unlocked the portal, ushering Snape through and slamming the door behind him before the suddenly agitated group of waiting people could storm through.

It wasn't hard for Snape to find what he was looking for. Every worker in the wing was trying to catch a glimpse of it as they went about their duties. Snape turned a corner into the area he was looking for, and stopped in shock.

The scene would have been an utterly commonplace sight consisting of a visitor on a chair between two patient beds... except for the glow. Harry and both Longbottoms were shining with a brilliant white light, and there was a globe of golden light surrounding them. As Snape watched, workers were putting up curtains to block some of the glare from spilling out into the rest of the wing. He noticed that all of the workers were very careful to avoid the half-sphere of golden light, and he soon saw why. When one man, trying to support a curtain rod, stepped into the glowing area, he immediately abandoned his work and wandered away, only to return a few seconds later, his face flushed a bright red. "Sorry," he said, and went back to work - this time staying scrupulously away from the odd illumination.

Snape could not think of anything to do, so he waited and watched. The curtain went up, the workers tugged on it to test how well it would stand up to being bumped and brushed against in the course of a normal day, and just as the whole group was about ready to leave, the illumination flared in a flash that left a floating afterimage in Snape's eyes, then faded away entirely.

"Healer!" called one of the workers, and Snape moved forward with authority, as though he were the proper respondent to the call. He was astonished at the change behind the curtain.

"Frank?" Alice Longbottom said, sitting up, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Frank? I think something bad has happened."

"It did," her husband replied. "But I believe it's done with, now."

The two Longbottoms sat up and climbed out of bed facing one another. As their eyes met, they very clearly recognized one another. Their faces exhibited a gamut of expressions as the couple realized that they had, indeed, been the victims of something bad, but that for them, it was now over. They began to step toward each other, arms out to embrace. Then they both looked down.

"Neville!" Alice screamed. "Son!" Frank shouted. Both fell to their knees, lifting the boy who lay limp on the ground at their feet.

"That is not Neville," Snape announced. Both Longbottoms looked up at him, shocked to find anyone else there. "Neville is fine. That is Harry Potter."

Frank looked at the boy whose head he cradled. "Who?"

"He's been helping you," Snape explained. "Neville is at school. We'll call him."

Frank and Alice hugged the boy they held. Though both were relieved that it was not their son who lay helpless on the floor, they both needed the comfort of offering an embrace, and both wished they could do something to help this unknown boy. Frank looked up at Snape, his face showing his worry. "It has been this long, hasn't it? Our son is as old as this boy, isn't he?"

Alice looked up as well. Both waited for the answer: how much time had they lost? "Neville is a fine, healthy lad and a genius in herbology. He is as old as Harry, here.

"Help us," Alice said, and Severus lifted Harry into the bed that had been Frank's. A mediwizard burst through the curtain, saw Snape, drew breath to order him away, then froze as he saw the Longbottoms standing together.

"It has been a long while, I know," Frank said. "We owe you a great deal," Alice added.

In the waiting room, an orderly tapped Remus on the shoulder and asked him to bring his friends and follow. At the secured entrance to the mental ward, the group of pilgrims were very agitated, demanding entrance. When Ron, Hermione and Remus were shown through the door, the pilgrims nearly rioted. Beefy security personnel arrived and began to force the group out of the hospital. Ron looked over his shoulder just before the security door closed. 'When I used to think of Saint Mungo's Mental Ward, that's what I thought it would all be like,' he mused, and was surprised to see the quiet, organized activity of the real thing all around him once he had passed through the secure door.

By the time the three visitors made it to where Snape waited, Alice and Frank Longbottom had been taken elsewhere by their supervising mediwizard. The gawkers had departed and Snape seemed to stand alone near a bed chosen at random. Then Remus saw Harry, lying senseless. The werewolf stood uncomfortably, staring down at the boy. "Oh. Poor lad." Ron was next. Involuntarily, he leaned away from the bed and shuffled his feet. "Harry. What's happened to you?"

Hearing that, Hermione knew what to expect. She pushed past the awkwardly standing men and sat on the edge of the bed, taking Harry's hand in hers. "Hello," she began casually. "It's been a while since we've talked." Ron watched for a few minutes, confused as to what she hoped to accomplish, as Herimione described her class schedule, talked about flying as a passenger on Ron's broom and told the story of searching for Harry's house in Godric's Hollow. When she began to outline the correct grooming procedure to follow for a cat-kniezel cross, Ron lost interest, watched the staff dealing with other patients for a while, and was completely surprised when he heard Harry's groggy, rasping voice requesting, "Get me out of here, please."

"You'll go nowhere like that, young man," Snape informed him. "If the staff sees us carrying you out, there will be more questions than we will be able to answer in a week's time. Stand up, walk under your own power, clear your eyes and be able to speak for yourself or you'll find yourself committed as a patient here."

"Oh," Harry said sadly, eyes drooping closed. "I was hoping that Hermione could carry me home." Then he glanced up from under his lashes and couldn't help himself from laughing at the looks on his friends' faces. "Seriously, I will need some help getting along. I'm not sure I can stand on my own right now."

"Put him in the middle, and let's shuffle out in a bunch," Ron urged. "This lot look to have had enough of visitors for now. If we get moving, they'll be glad to see our backs."

Ron's plan was put into effect immediately, Remus and Snape holding Harry up at either side, Hermione taking the lead, and Ron bringing up the rear, trying not to look too obvious about being ready to catch Harry if he fell backward. With Snape making the appropriate official sounds at the security exit, the quintet was out of the mental ward swiftly, and had made their egress from the hospital within minutes.

The group found a bench on which Harry could rest, and Remus gently asked, "Harry, can you...?"

Harry waved away any suggestion of his doing anything. "I couldn't cast Lumos on a forest fire," he said. "I'm tired, I'm sick, and I keep forgetting things."

"Forgetting things?" Snape prompted.

"Yes," Harry sighed. "Like who I am, and what I've been doing for the past dozen years or so. I think... it's kind of like getting hit in the head with a bludger. I'll be all right in a little while... or I won't, one of the two."

"Maybe you should have stayed at the hospital," Ron worried.

"No, I need rest," Harry insisted. "And I don't need to be checked into the hospital right before..." He stared blankly for a moment. "What was the big thing we were doing?"

"The election?" Remus suggested.

"Right! Oh, no. When is it? The election. When do we...?"

"Day after tomorrow," Remus reassured him. "We have plenty of time."

"Good thing," Harry said, relieved. "I need to recover. You know, I was starting to think that I was pretty strong there during the past couple of days. But the Longbottoms... they're TOUGH!"

"I never doubted it," Snape interrupted. "We need to get you home. Mister Weasley, wait here. Remus, bring Miss Granger. I'll take Harry. And I'll be back for you, Mister Weasley."

Ron swallowed hard. He felt as though he'd been given an appointment with Death himself.

-

Ambrose Garamond picked a corrected ballot off one of the shipping stacks. He held it out to Devan Gorseheather. "Perfect!" Ambrose proclaimed in the face of Devan's disapproving look. 'Really,' Ambrose thought, 'it nearly is perfect. If you look at it sideways, and don't pay too much attention to the candidates for Minister, it's really quite good.'

"This will have to do," Gorseheather decreed. "We're out of time, anyway. Ship Them!"

-

"Motion denied!" With the bang of a gavel, Lucius Malfoy's last attempt to delay his trial was thwarted. His legal team had hoped to postpone the finding of a verdict and - most importantly - the sentencing portion of the proceedings until after election day. They had heard interesting things regarding what Harry Potter had said about the government's treatment of their client, and had believed that, if Potter could win before sentence was passed, the Malfoy family might have a chance of recovering some of their confiscated wealth. Apparently, that was not to be.

Court will recess in order to allow the Panel of Judges to come to a verdict. In the event of a finding of the defendant's guilt, sentence will be passed immediately. A time was named, some two hours from that moment, and the gavel fell. Last recess for the Malfoy trial.

"...damned shame we can't use dementors," one of the justices was complaining as the panel entered the deliberation chamber. "Never trusted the things in the first place, but I hadn't expected them to desert their posts altogether."

"They must have been part of this whole Voldemort ballsup," another judge opined. "They'll be angry at being cheated of their big chance to take part in the violence the Death Eaters had planned - and after they went and blew their cover, too."

"If one can believe the news, that Harry Potter fellow ought to keep someone on payroll full time to watch his back... and two more for each side."

"The dementors are cowardly," another jurist insisted. "They won't go for any hard targets, at least not right away. And they'll be hungry. They feed on misery. And that's how we'll catch them. They'll attack a series of helpless, miserable people to feast upon. And we'll catch them in the act of doing so."

"And do what? How do you deal with a dementor? There are charms to drive them away or keep them at bay. But what happens when you want to capture one? Or kill one? Do they die? Does anyone know?"

"I'll bet Voldemort knew. We'll be wishing we could ask him before we have the last of the dementors taken care of."

"Or we could all troop down to Inhuman Resources and attempt to obtain the list of dementors who have sought temporary work with us."

"If Inhuman Resources operates anything like our Human Resources Department, they'll have kept the temporary workers waiting in vain for any word from us - possibly for years."

"But they'll have lost the dementor applicants' contact information, anyway."

"That's hardly our problem now," a judge growled in annoyance. "Our problem now is that the full-time, permanent dementors have deserted their duties and we can no longer use them." Then, seeing that the entire panel had taken their seats, he exclaimed, "Oh!" and looked slightly abashed, as though he had violated a minor rule of etiquette. "I take it that we are agreed the verdict is guilty?" he asked nervously.

A general murmuring accompanied unanimous nods. The judge who had asked looked relieved to have confirmed everyone's agreement. "Good. So - without dementors - how do we kill the bastard?"

The court reconvened, the accused stood, the judges declared him guilty and placed black cloths over their wigs. The chief among the judges read the sentence. "Lucius Malfoy, for your crimes of treason, your association with and your funding of terrorist organizations; your property - as listed in the summary, attached to the court's official findings - are forfeit. For your crimes of murder with special circumstances, you will be taken to Montgomery Chamber at Azkaban tomorrow morning at six o'clock a.m. There you will be administered Dormorlethe until you are dead."

"What!" Lucius stood, eyes blazing, fists clenched, his barrister dangling by one hand from his right shoulder, the result of a pathetically ineffective attempt to restrain his client from rising. "I am no muggle philosopher, to drink a cup of kindness for the convenience of my cowardly captors, who are too fearful to slaughter me properly after stealing my family's worldly goods."

"There was no mention of your drinking anything," the sentencing judge replied calmly. "The Dormorlethe will be administered, and you will fall into a deep, forgetful sleep before expiring. May the fate of your soul be a merciful one." The judges bowed their heads over their clasped hands, then removed their black wig-coverings.

"You may steal my property!" Lucius raved. "I have no doubt you will take my life! But Dormorlethe... to take my memory, my self... that is monstrous! It is contemptible! It is..." His face twisted as he prepared to hurl his final, ultimate, insult. "Un-British!"

"You would prefer the dementors, I'm sure," drawled the oldest judge on the panel. "Your solicitor might file suit to force us to use them. He might be successful if you simply tell us where they are. They are your confederates' allies, after all."

"Taunting the condemned?" Lucius sneered, regaining some of his composure. "You are even lower than you have previously shown yourself to be."

"The condemned is allowed a statement after sentencing," the youngest of the judges reminded his peers. The sentencing judge nodded toward Lucius.

Malfoy had once again assumed his detached, sardonic demeanor. "Tomorrow morning?" he mused. "There is only one explanation for that timing. You are genuinely afraid that a boy will be elected in place of the incumbent Minister. You fear that, if you don't grab it all right now, some of my money might escape your clutches. You are fearful, greedy thieves, every one of you. And how does it happen that you are afraid of a boy? Because you have misgoverned this kingdom so disastrously that a majority of your citizens want to throw the current government out. And that does not apply only to the Minister. The anger and resentment goes deep, and is spread wide. Even with my wealth to prop you up for a little longer, you will all face the wrath of an angry populace soon. I have nothing more to say."

Lucius' legal team accompanied him out of court, assuring him that the sentence he had received was flawed, and would likely be overturned before the next day's dawn. Lucius paid them no attention at all.

-

The next day, queasy though he felt, Harry forced himself out of bed to take care of something he felt he needed to accomplish before the election. He washed thoroughly, dressed in his best robe, made sure his shoes shined, told Remus, Snape, Hermione and Ron that he would be back soon, visualized a grove of trees in a peaceful neighborhood, and apparated to France.

He was nervous as he knocked on Narcissa's door. He had disappeared without a word, and had made quite a splashy public reappearance without contacting her. He hoped she wouldn't be too offended to listen to his offer.

He knocked at the Malfoys' door, and was about to turn away when the lady of the house finally answered. Harry stood speechless, staring. He had always accepted the description of Narcissa as 'beautiful.' He had never been blind to her striking curves or her sculpted features. But it was not until that moment that Harry finally saw Narcissa as beautiful. She was standing in the doorway without makeup, her hair tied back in a scarf, wearing a plain cotton dress, holding a cleaning rag, slightly disheveled from work. As he stared, Harry realized why her appearance was so moving at that moment. She was, for the first time in Harry's view, not posing. Her carefully choreographed placement of every fingertip, the way she automatically put herself in the most flattering position, using light, furniture and even other people to create a composition for maximum effect on the viewer... all of that was totally absent. What he was seeing right then was a real woman, occupied with everyday, unexciting work that was nonetheless important to her, taking time out from her labors to answer her door. The vision was so gorgeous he nearly wept.

And his heart caught in his throat in the next moment, when she smiled and her eyes lit up with genuine warmth. "Harry! It's good to see you. Come in. I'm glad you made it. Another few days and I'd have been gone."

"Gone? Where?" Harry walked through the entryway and nearly stumbled on a pile of boxes.

"Indonesia. I have a job, and - with any luck - a new career." She laughed lightly, and amended, "Or, I should say, my old career in a new setting. I'll be entertaining clients trying to win Indonesian business for my new employers. Essentially, I'll be hosting parties at which everyone else but me negotiates the actual business. But, that's an old story for me. I'll be able to do quite well at it."

"But... uh..." Harry was having trouble adjusting to the unexpected turn of events. He had come prepared to debate the particulars of Narcissa's role in his new administration. He hadn't expected to find her already employed elsewhere. He was further distracted as his hostess directed him to a chair and he found himself sitting among stacks of packed boxes. Narcissa perched on the couch, sharing her seat with a suitcase. "I had... um... an idea that you might... ah... work for... me. When I become Minister. After tomorrow's election. If... if I win, that is."

"Thank you," Narcissa said. "I had thought you might." At Harry's look of surprise, she explained, "I have been keeping up with the news lately. It's a lot less painful to do so, now that I'll be leaving Europe altogether... and working under another name, with a safely artificial history. I won't be 'Narcissa Black' any longer. For safety's sake, I'm not even sure what my new name will be... I won't know until I'm on my way to Indonesia."

"You shouldn't have to worry about keeping yourself hidden. Especially if I win the Ministership."

"Even if you win, you won't be taking office tomorrow. And even as Minister, you won't be able to micro-manage every facet of the government. There will be an auror, or a judge... or someone... who thinks I should be punished for Lucius' behavior. It's not worth the risk."

"But if you're working in international business, it's only a matter of time before someone recognizes you," Harry protested.

Narcissa grinned wickedly. "I'm sure someone will make something of that," she said with a slow wink. "I dread the 'Exclusive Photos' that will surely appear in Witch Weekly. Their story should be entertaining, at least: long lost twin separated at birth, something like that. But, as tasteless as they are, I don't really mind the magazines like those. To them, the interest... the profit... is in the purely fantasy stories. One reason I always hated the Daily Prophet was that they wanted to have enough truth in their nonsense that they could claim to be legitimate journalists. Some of their people harassed Lucius... and me... several times. Very annoying."

This conversation was not going at all as Harry had planned. Without thinking, he blurted out, "Where's Draco?"

Narcissa smiled, and this time her expression was not sarcastic at all. The gentleness in her face spoke of the genuine love she held for her son. "He's living at school, now. He objected to it when I first brought it up, and I guessed that he had a girlfriend. But he very suddenly warmed to the idea, so I believe he has several of them, now."

Harry didn't follow that logic at all. "Huh?"

Narcissa waved away his concern. "Don't worry about it. I have a feeling that, especially after tomorrow - whether you win or lose - you won't have to worry about balancing romantic assignations the way the rest of us do. You'll be the Great Harry Potter. Girls will only expect to be able to have a small sliver of your time. And they'll probably understand that you're dating several different women at once." She stopped speaking and looked Harry directly in the eye. "Do you have friends?" The question was delivered intensely, demanding a complete answer.

Luckily for Harry, the answer was easy. "Yes. I do. Two, my own age. At least three adults. You are one of those. I hope you consider yourself my friend. I know you helped me a lot. And I have become very close to Remus and Snape..." Narcissa laughed, and Harry looked a question at her.

"No one... absolutely no one calls that man by his given name. I'll bet his mother called him the very same thing." She put on a stern expression, shook her forefinger and scolded, "Eat your green beans, Snape..." Something in the image struck her as hilarious, and she laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks as Harry stood by, smiling politely. Narcissa sighed, wiped her eyes and said, "It's good to be going." She looked away for a moment, and visibly fought to control her expression. "You'll meet thousands of people once you're Minister. Remember to keep your good friends close, and keep the number of people you truly trust very small." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "I know about Lucius," she explained, not meeting Harry's eyes. "And I know what you've been saying about the government seizure of our property. Thank you for the kind words. But the sentence has been handed down. I have to credit you, Harry. You frightened them very badly. Lucius will be executed before the polls open tomorrow."

"What?" Harry barked, leaping up from his seat. He waved his arms about as he blustered, "They can't! That was one of the things... If they do that now... I had already stated that I was..."

"Harry," Narcissa said soothingly. "You weren't going to try to save his life, were you?"

"No," Harry admitted immediately. "But you... your home, your money..."

"I'll be fine," Narcissa reassured him. "And, as hard as it is to admit it, I think Draco needs a lesson or two in humility, as well. I think that living on a limited budget for the remainder of his sixth and seventh years at school will help him see how the mechanics of life operate a little more clearly than he could have seen when he had an unlimited allowance to grease the necessary wheels. We'll do well. We have some resources of our own beyond the money we once took for granted."

"I wish I could have had you close by during the next few years," Harry said sadly. "You would have made a great cabinet member."

"Don't you see how wrong that would be?" Narcissa asked, genuinely amazed at how innocent Harry remained. "You make a big deal about the government's mistreatment of me, and then put me into a cabinet office? Think of how the voters would see that. Suddenly, your principled argument against an unfair policy looks more like a cheap attempt to grab some money back out of the State coffers on behalf of your personal friend. No, that would be bad. And if I were to be accused of Death Eater associations, the very basis on which you were declared a hero becomes suspect. You'll have a hard enough time explaining your relationship with Professor Snape."

"He refuses to appear in public," Harry admitted. "He said much the same thing you just did."

"And he's right," Narcissa insisted, waiting for Harry to nod in agreement before continuing. "The Professor will have a hard time finding his own way," she said sympathetically. "He needs to teach in order to be happy, I believe. And serving as Head of House for Slytherin was very close to his heart. If he cannot return to Hogwarts, he will suffer for it." She brightened and very deliberately changed her posture and voice to shake off the gloom that had settled over their conversation. "I, on the other hand, have a tremendous opportunity awaiting. I will be living in exotic foreign lands, meeting intelligent and successful people and getting started in a career with a company that has tremendous resources and limitless potential. I will be reporting directly to the owner, so I won't merely be sent to Asia and forgotten. All in all, my own prospects look very positive. I'm excited."

"Oh. Well... good," Harry said, making as if to leave. "I still think I need to make some sort of protest over Lucius' sentence being carried out tomorrow. I'll have to call the government cowardly for trying to close the books on their case without my involvement, or something along those lines. Professor Snape will have some ideas about what I should say, I'll bet. Uh... say 'hi' to... I mean... tell Draco I was here, and tell him I... wished him well."

"So it is going to be Harry the Diplomat from now on," Narcissa teased.

"Oh, well, I mean, if I've already made a public statement about the government's seizure of your assets and then they go and..."

"No." Narcissa stopped Harry's babbling with a word. "I wasn't talking about your statement to the press about Lucius' case. Mothers aren't all clueless, you know. I am quite aware that you and my son have not gotten on at all well for the past five years and more. I appreciate you leaving a word for him. And that attitude will get you farther in life than will an endless series of head-on combats. Genuine diplomacy is a good habit to take up, the sooner the better. Good luck to you, Mister Potter. When the polls close tomorrow, I hope you have thoroughly kicked Cornelius Fudge's ass."

-

Harry apparated to the Prophet offices and made a statement to a bored reporter, who didn't really care what the candidate had to say, since the stories for the election day edition of the paper were already written, and the next big news would be about who had won. Still, Harry's rather wordy, intellectual sounding criticism of the court for deciding the Malfoy case without taking his own statements into account appeared on election day morning somewhere in the Daily Prophet's front section. But few people read it because everyone who might have done so had to get to the polls and vote in addition to going to work, or school, and whatever else they had to do that day. It probably wouldn't have made any difference, anyway. By election day morning, most people in wizarding Britain had made up their minds about who they were going to vote for.

-

Dormorlethe was an obscure poison, seldom used by anyone in the last four or five hundred years. There were many concoctions that were more immediately lethal, many that were more difficult to detect, and a very large number that were more painful in their action. Dormorlethe was rather mild in comparison to many of those. It took a long time to work, several hours on average. An antidote could be given at almost any time during those several hours, which would completely reverse the effects of the poison, leaving the intended victim perfectly healthy. And, of course, anyone intending to make his victim suffer as much as possible would prefer the agonies inflicted by Briarbane or Barbsolven to the peaceful forgetfulness imparted by Dormorlethe. But the Ministry had no interest in causing their prisoner pain. Quite the opposite: they wished to make his passing away as painless as they could. Nor did they fear that he would be reached by anyone with an antidote during the critical time between administration of the fatal dose and the moment Malfoy's body ceased to live. He would be under auror guard as well as medical supervision for the entire time. The official concern was concentrated on two things: making sure that Lucius actually died from the poison, and preventing his return as a ghost. The dreamy, amnesia-inducing operation of the chosen agent was perfectly suited to allowing the condemned to slip peacefully into death without the sudden, violent trauma associated with most executions, thus preventing his spectral reappearance. And, once the condemned's body had expired, there was no known antidote that could bring him back to life. Dormorlethe, therefore, was perfect, and suited all of the Ministry's requirements admirably.

Lucius Malfoy, as he had promised, refused to drink the preparation containing the poison, so it was injected into his veins. Malfoy struggled as much as possible, attempting to turn his execution into the kind of violent event that would assure his ghostly return. Unfortunately, the aurors tasked with the labor of injecting him were very adept at restraining individuals without harming them, and the injection went flawlessly, without any more than a slight stinging in Lucius' skin to testify to its having been done. The injected poison worked even more quickly than it would have if it had been ingested, and soon, Lucius could not recall why it was he was lying in bed with so many serious looking individuals observing him. A little while later, he could not even recognize the expressions on those surrounding him as serious, and a few seconds after that, he could not have found words to describe what he was seeing at all. Familiar terms such as 'nose,' 'eyes,' or 'mouth' would have seemed like a foreign language to him... if he had cared to think about his situation at all. As it was, he was so comfortable, it was so relaxing to simply lie there and feel the pull of gravity drawing him into the soft bedding, that he wasn't interested in talking about it in the least. Soon, he fell asleep, whatever tension he had brought with him into the Montgomery Chamber completely transformed into mindless restfulness. Whatever happened would be completely acceptable to him. Calmly, entirely relaxed, he died.

He was pronounced dead, and his bed rolled through the hallway to the embalmer's workshop.

The man who had, during his trial, been characterized as the most dangerous Death Eater in Britain was no more.

-

One of the many odd characteristics of Harry's decidedly odd candidacy for Minister was the fact that he had no election day headquarters in which to publicly follow the returns as his supporters cheered for him. The reporter who had been so bored by Harry's statement on the previous evening kicked himself for publishing it in that morning's edition instead of holding on to it for the next day's paper. At least he would have had something. As it was, there was the expected media circus at the Leaky Cauldron, where Cornelius Fudge held forth, preaching about his confidence to a crowd of confirmed sycophants as reporters and photographers looked on. The other candidate was nowhere to be found.

It wasn't as though Harry were hiding. It was just that no one knew where to look for him. In Godric's Hollow, a tiny group of three individuals - the candidate and his inner circle - were gathered, listening to returns on a small radio tuned to the Wizarding Wireless Network. Snape laughed often that day as he thought of the thousands of politically apathetic entertainment seekers tuning in only to be frustrated by the day-long election coverage.

The three tense listeners did not even have the company of Ron and Hermione, who had been hard pressed to get back to Hogwarts before they were missed. Remus and Snape had helped the two students by apparating them to the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds, but even though that kept both of the Gryffindors from getting into trouble, Ron was unhappy about leaving his broomstick behind. The 'stick was simply too much to drag along during an assisted apparation, in which Ron himself, and all his clothing, was essentially dead weight that Snape had to carry along. Harry cheerfully thanked Ron for the 'loan' of his broom, but got only a sullen 'Yeah, right,' in return.

The morning's election reports sounded bad, mostly due to a large number of people who were interviewed as they left the polls claiming that they had voted to re-elect Fudge. Many of the comments these early respondents made as they answered reporters' questions were snide and highly insulting - not only to Harry, but to anyone who might have considered voting for him. Harry felt bad listening to them, but Remus predicted that those comments would backfire, and motivate more voters to get out and cast their ballots - not necessarily for Harry, but against Fudge and his snotty supporters. Remus' predictions seemed to turn out, for as noon approached, many more people participating in the exit interviews voiced their support for Harry, and made comments that directly referred to the earlier insults by the Fudge backers.

But even as Harry's confidence rose while the exit poll percentages showed him essentially tied with the incumbent, the radio commentators began to remind their listeners that exit polls had been notoriously misleading in the past, and that no one should take these preliminary indications as official results.

A little after noon, during a break from the non-stop exit polling and discussions about the other races and measures on that day's ballot, Harry was shocked to hear an interview with a group claiming to support him - though their representative was careful to explain that they were not 'officially sanctioned' in any way. Their contention was that Harry's candidacy had been illegally adversely affected because his name on the ballot appeared smaller than any other candidate's name, and that it had been placed between Cornelius Fudge's name and the heading describing the office for which the candidates listed below were contending. In short, Harry had been squeezed in, and looked like an afterthought - or a mistake. "This is a blatant attempt on the part of the Fudge government to discourage voters from supporting Harry Potter by trying to make Harry Potter's name look somehow inferior," the group's spokesman stated.

"There you go," Snape purred sarcastically. "When you lose, you can challenge the results immediately."

Remus scowled at the other man. "I'm more concerned that Fudge will try to say Harry had some special advantage due to that ballot. Fudge won't hesitate to stoop to filing a lawsuit over it. He'll have plenty of time once he's out of office."

Harry saw the whole controversy in the most positive light. "That's one more thing I have to make sure never happens when I'm in office. I'll make it a promise: Fair Ballots for All."

A little later, when the long day had grown boring for all three, Remus asked Harry, "When are you going to go cast your ballot?"

"I can't," Harry admitted, blushing. "I had already dropped out of public view by my birthday. I never registered to vote. What about you?"

"Once it became public knowledge that I had been infected by lycanthropy, I was disenfranchised. Werewolves have no voting privileges in this country. I can't vote either. Professor?"

"Aurors lurk outside every polling place," Snape sneered, "ostensibly looking for disruptions of the proper electoral process. Actually, they're waiting to grab those who have avoided apprehension. They avoid doing any real police work by waiting for each person to 'Clearly state his name and address,' as every voter is instructed to do upon entering the polling place. I still do not wish to be questioned officially quite yet. Therefore, I will not be going to vote today."

The three looked at one another, all appreciating the irony. Here was an unlikely challenger to an established incumbent; a challenger who needed every vote he could get - and neither the candidate himself nor either of his closest supporters could vote for him.

The day wore on interminably. Harry decided many times that day to ignore the election coverage and wait for the final count to be announced. But invariably, he drifted back to the radio, listening to the projected percentages, hanging on every word the analysts had to offer. Well after their usual dinner time, Remus made some food, and insisted that Harry sit down and eat. Both Harry and Snape shoveled food into their mouths mechanically, their attention riveted to the wireless broadcast. Remus was annoyed, and pointed out that the analysts had been saying the same things over and over for more than an hour. Harry had to agree, but couldn't tear his attention away from the repetitive coverage. Listening to one analyst babble about the same exit polls the last analyst had just finished reviewing was like eating salted potato crisps. It was easy to ignore them entirely, but once one had been consumed, Harry felt compelled to finish all of them.

Just as all three listeners were about to turn the radio off and hide the receiver to prevent themselves from becoming mesmerized by the same stories repeated yet again, the first real ballot counts came in. The polls had closed, the counters were working, and the results were official now, not simply the speculations of exit pollsters. The radio stayed on. Remus sighed, cleared away the dishes and made coffee. It would be a long time before enough ballots were counted for the totals to be definitive.

-

At Hogwarts, student interest in that day's election was higher than had been the case for any previous vote in history. Dumbledore authorized a display in the Great Hall to help everyone follow the returns. He insisted on only two requirements: that the scoreboard be entirely magical, with no mechanical components whose rough edges might harm the Hall's furnishings... and that the results of every race and every proposal on the ballot be included. In order to avoid unduly influencing any of the student's votes, the display would not be activated until after the polls closed. It would not display any early predictions or projected results. Only the actual ballot count would be reported, as results from each polling place became official.

A lunchtime field trip into Hogsmeade for students who were registered to vote had been organized, and turnout was extremely good. After dinner, as the election-results display came to life, filling the Great Hall with its powerful glow, many sixth year students and all of the seventh years carried their ballot stubs with them to show that they had taken part in the democratic process. A few students had decided to avoid the Hall and not follow the election results with their peers. But every single Gryffindor in the school was present to cheer on one of their own.

There wasn't a lot to cheer about in the early hours of the vote count. Fudge and Potter stood at about fifty-fifty, with Fudge drawing slightly more support in the large cities - especially London - and Potter doing slightly better in more rural areas. There were a number of write-ins, mostly as jokes or protest votes. Lucius Malfoy showed up on a number of ballots. Members of the Fudgecicles were popular choices. And a surprising number of people wrote in the name of Wilhelmus Pitt, the conservative candidate who had challenged Fudge in the last election. But all together, the write-ins accounted for fewer than two percent of the vote. As midnight neared, the number of votes counted for Potter continued to rise quickly as those for Fudge rose more and more slowly. By one o'clock in the morning, as the returns showed Fudge with just under forty percent of the vote, and Potter with nearly sixty percent, a red flickering began to appear next to the incumbent Minister's name, in anticipation of a certain statement from him. But Cornelius Fudge refused to concede the election.

-

There are many advantages to using magic to help people accomplish simple, repetitive chores. Speed is one. And hundreds of years of evidence have shown that accuracy is another. A very complex magical spell helped to tally the results of wizarding Britain's balloting. By a little after two in the morning, the ballots had all been counted. By two-thirty a.m., Cornelius Fudge was demanding a recount.

"It's all the fault of that Dam... er... improperly prepared ballot!" he shouted at the press, who still awaited his concession at the Leaky Cauldron. "The magical counters couldn't read the unevenly placed names properly. As Minister, I am authorizing a complete recount - by hand, by humans - of every ballot cast in this election!"

A chorus of 'boo's filled the Great Hall at Hogwarts as disappointed students went off to bed. They were already up far too late, and most knew that they would pay for their indulgence by being groggy when they awoke for their next classes. It would have been worth it to have been able to cheer Harry's victory. As it was, the entire portion of the student body that had followed the reporting all night was extremely annoyed, and felt that Fudge had cheated them of their rightful celebration.

As Harry stood to go to bed, he felt the coffee sloshing in his stomach. He grimaced as he leaned his weight on a chair back. "How long?" he asked, mumbling from sleepiness.

"At least three to four times as long as the count required with magical assistance," Snape assured him. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you if anything significant happens."

-

As soon as he was out of sight of the reporters at the Leaky Cauldron, Fudge rushed to the Ministry and directly to the office of the Supervisor of Elections, Chad Gerrymander. The elections official was not pleased to see the Minister.

"A recount, Cornelius? You realize that your request for a recount reflects directly upon me. It's my reputation that's being damaged here."

"Your reputation?" Fudge demanded, puffing out his chest and rising onto his toes in the way a fighting bird will do to try to intimidate an opponent. Unfortunately, the Minister's language skills seemed to have regressed to a bird-like level as well, since all he could think of to follow his first question was a repeat of the same, "Your reputation?"

"Yes, mine," Chad replied coldly. "You have already lost. Don't look at me that way! Do you really think we miscounted thousands of ballots? The results were far from unanimous, I'll give you that, but the difference between you and Potter is twenty percent of the participating voters. And this election enjoyed a good turnout. A hands-only recount will take until the middle of the day tomorrow, and you'll still have lost. And I will have suffered the humiliation of conducting a recount during my supervision of an election. Twenty percent, Cornelius. Even if every counter blundered more horribly than has ever happened in the past, there's no chance you'll even get close."

"I could," Fudge suggested slyly, "if we had trustworthy vote counters."

"Cornelius," Gerrymander sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, "what are you asking of me?"

"Of you? Nothing," Fudge reassured him. "I simply say that if we had... trustworthy... counters on the job, there would be nothing like a twenty percent difference between Potter and myself."

"Are you asking me to throw the election for you?"

"What? No! All I'm saying is that if we had counters that we could trust..."

"We?" Gerrymander's voice was cold as he stared directly into Fudge's eyes.

"Yes, we!" Fudge insisted. "You... me... everyone who has been loyal to this government."

"So loyalty gets rewarded while challenge gets... what? Undercounted?"

"The magic failed!" Cornelius wailed. "Potter's name was entered strangely and it got counted far too often. I'll bet there are thousands of ballots that showed a result of one vote for Potter and one vote for Fudge!"

"Then there would be a total number of votes for Minister much higher than the total number of ballots counted," Chad pointed out reasonably. "That has not happened. The total number of ballots matches the total votes for Minister very closely. In fact, there are fewer votes for Minister than there are total ballots, indicating that some voters cast no vote for Minister at all!"

"Doesn't that seem strange to you?" challenged Fudge.

"How long have you been in politics, Cornelius?" Gerrymander responded disbelievingly. "No, it doesn't seem strange. Every election, there are people who do not cast votes for the top offices. They show up at the polls to vote for the local offices, for people they know, or for issues particularly close to their hearts. I would expect to have at least a few ballots in every national election with no choice for Minister indicated. You know that. Why are you doing this?"

"Because he's a BOY!" the Minister bellowed, out of patience at last. "Does it make sense that sixty percent of good British citizens would vote for a boy who is not qualified to hold the office if he wins it? Don't give me that look... if there's no change in these ridiculously skewed numbers before the recount is finished, the first thing I'm going to do is challenge this result, and the next thing I'm going to do is challenge the qualifications of that boy to hold my office! I know how the system works. I know how to get the proper judge to hear my case. I know how to manipulate the calendar - what does that boy know? Nothing! If you give the election to him, you'll have no government at all! I'll tie this whole thing up in court so tight that no one in the Ministry will be able to do squat! The whole of wizarding Britain will grind to an absolute standstill while the lot of you waste your time until you realize that you can't give the Ministership to a boy not old enough to be out of school, let alone hold the top office in the land! And the point should be noted, Chad... you not only can't give the boy my office because he's not qualified - you can't give it to him because he did not win the election! The votes were miscounted. That is the only possibility!"

"So, you're saying that - despite my polite and thoroughly logical request that you see reason - you are still going to officially ask for a recount of all ballots cast in this election?"

"By hand," Fudge demanded. "Every single one."

There is but one chapter remaining in our tale. Don't miss 'Chapter 22' this story has had scintillating chapter titles, don't you agree? posting early next week.

(Unless you are reading this after the week of 2-28-05, in which case Chapter 22 is probably already posted, and you don't have to wait at all!)