Get Ready, Get Set

A pink fury was storming through the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac Department, despite the Obliviator's earnest attempts to waylay it.

"Treason and treachery!" she shouted, or attempted to – after a few minutes wheezes began to punctuate her sentences. "I'll expose the corruption of this branch if I have to! An Obliviator deliberately harboring a fugitive from justice! Approved by his superiors! I'll speak to him myself or have you all arrested as accomplices after the fact!"

"What seems to be the problem?" T. Rowle, head Omniamnist for the London Division, walked on to the scene, adjusting his cloak (nearly black, with no ornamentation aside from a white crescent moon on the left collar and a black crescent on the right collar, the only marks of an Obliviator). He stood before Dolores Umbridge as she swayed a bit on the spot with her gasps and wheezes.

"Rowle, how could you have not heard?" she demanded. "A trusted Oneironomist, recommended to the court by your signature, has – " she spluttered, "abandoned the court with his client! The Muggle did not return to Sycorax jail at his curfew, and your L.O. has failed to report for work today…"

"Oh, has he?" Rowle said calmly. "Could someone please get me an attendance report for today?"

E.C. responded promptly, "L.O. sent in a note explaining his absence. Says he's got an emergency family meeting. He said he'd be back in a few days."

"Aha. And can this sister be contacted?"

"Well, I haven't tried yet."

"That seems to clarify that. Miss Umbridge, do come inside my office, let's not make a scene about this."

The grey-cloaked crowd parted to let her pass, watching her with faces that didn't dare betray emotions.

T. Rowle's office was a subdued place. There were very few photographs on the walls, but a couple of well-tended plants and a generous (synthetic) window on the wall behind him. Rowle pulled out a chair out for Umbridge, who seemed to have calmed down a little bit.

"Really, Miss Umbridge, I don't see what my compartment itself has to do with all of this."

"One of your men abandons the Ministry to support a –"

"Now, now. There is no proof that my Obliviator has run away. He has written a note excusing his absence."

"A fake! A ruse to give him a head start!"

"Mm, maybe so. It may be so. But Linus Ollivander has never been one to deceive…"

"Ollivander? Did you say the boy is an Ollivander?"

"Yes, the young man is an Ollivander through and through."

"Ah… I hadn't realized…" Umbridge had begun to lean into her seat but then sat up straight again. "Child of Philomel Ollivander?"

"But of course."

"But of course," Umbridge sneered at Philomel's memory.

"To play devil's advocate," T.R. pointed out, "Let me remind you that for many years Philomel Ollivander served as a brave and able member of Magical Law Enforcement."

"New stains don't wash out old ones," Umbridge quipped. "But Linus Ollivander was still given custody of Mark Printzen, who was supposed to report to the Sycorax Thames Jail last evening and has so far failed to do so."

"You didn't tell me that."

"I wouldn't be here if that weren't the case."

"All right, all right. Let's say, for theory's sake, that L.O. has gone on the lam with this Muggle. Is it not possible that he could be under a threat? Against him, property, or against a loved one?"

"What could a Muggle possibly have to hold over a wizard?" Umbridge scoffed.

"Information. Ties to the Muggle mafia. Maybe even force. Don't laugh, I've seen a wizard die at the hands of a Muggle wielding a gun. It's possible, with his longwinded attempt at Presumption, that the Muggle is completely unhinged but clever. L.O. could be a hostage."

"In which case, to be overpowered by a Muggle means he's incompetent and an utter embarrassment to your department."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. Is it true that the Muggle was to be sent to Azkaban?"

"Yes."

"Then let's try a new scenario, say that L.O. sympathized with his Muggle client, that he found this ruling unfair and wanted to take the Muggle to political asylum – maybe the Republic of Ireland – before making a legitimate appeal."

"Nobody runs away when they're in the right. Not to Ireland, at least."

"Maybe Finland, then."

"Are you mocking me?"

"By no means."

"Mister Rowle!" Umbridge stood up and stormed around the desk to his side. "Where is your loyalty, to your Ministry or to this presuming American Muggle?"

Rowle answered calmly, "My Ministry, always my Ministry. But I am not defending the Muggle, I am defending one of my best Obliviators."

"Defend him all you like," Umbridge lifted one finger in warning, "But I'm telling you: you had better do everything in your power to find L.O. and bring him back to your department for a firm and lengthy interrogation. If I do not receive proof – and I have people who will tell me – that you are doing your utmost, everything within your power, to find L.O. and bring him back alive, then you can tear up that Cloak of yours for cleaning rags for all the good it'll do you."

Rowle sat stunned in his chair for a moment. At last he gave his head a little shake and stood up, towering well over Umbridge. "You want L.O. alive? You don't care about the Muggle?"

"Alive. I don't care about the Muggle, as long as he's stopped. L. Ollivander is under your jurisdiction. I expect you to act accordingly."

She left without another word, and did not slam the door behind her.

He took a breath, watching the door unblinkingly. Finally he whispered, "I will act accordingly. Oh, yes I will."

That morning, Linus took more coffee than a self-respecting Brit ought to have, in his opinion, just to keep up with Mark. The brown-haired man kept talking about all the other things he'd like to visit in England – he mentioned something about the wild moors and acting out a show called 'Withering Heights,' which apparently consisted of people running around yelling "Heathcliff! Catherine!" punctuated by the occasional swoon. The pizza did indeed serve as a tidy breakfast (to Linus' disbelief).

Mark took a detour to a shopping mall, where he bought himself a new suit of clothes and a briefcase for his things. Linus insisted that once they got to Hollywyck, Mark would be able to borrow some of his clothes, but it seemed important to the Muggle to have things of his own. He changed in the public restroom, and stepped out looking passably British. Said Mark, as they left the mall, "I wonder what became of my little backpack. Probably permanently taken into custody to be one day destroyed."

Linus did not disagree.

"I'm sorry. I liked that backpack. Served me well at U Penn. So do we have everything we need?"

Linus frowned. "I'm trying to think… there was something I remembered we had to get…"

"Water? Energy bars? Fake IDs?"

"No – no – chocolate!"

"What?"

"We've got to get some chocolate." He said with such a tone and with such a face that Mark didn't dare joke. "I think we passed a grocery on our way here."

"What… kind?" Mark asked, slowly.

"Any kind. Good quality. Fewer preservatives. Not white chocolate. The darker the better."

"That's not quite any kind. But I've heard lots of times that British chocolate is superior to American. I'm eager to see if that's true."

"This is for emergencies."

"Exactly what kind of…"

"Now remember yesterday how I Apparated with you to the station?"

"I don't think I could forget it."

"Once we buy the chocolate, we're going to go to Hollywyck the same way."

"Oh? Why didn't we do that yesterday?"

"Yesterday I was too tired and didn't feel I could risk a long voyage, especially with a passenger. But I'm awake now, I have more energy – theoretically – and we can't afford to waste more time. We'll get there before you know it."

"… Okay. I trust you."

"You should. First, the chocolate."

Agatha Zabini tossed her office keys up and down in her hand, bidding her co-workers "Good morning." A short, blonde Obliviator met her outside her office door with a smile on her face.

"Hello," The Obliviator held out a hand. "I'm A.T., of the Obliviator's and Paramnesiac Division. I believe you are Agatha Zabini? I would like to talk to you."

Agatha shook the proffered hand and readjusted her stance, emphasizing her height. "Ah, hello. I haven't even entered my office yet, as you can see. Could you wait a moment?"

"No, Miss Zabini, I'm afraid this is an emergency."

Agatha wanted to ask, "How old are you?" with the expected answer of "eighteen," but something steely in A.T.'s eyes made her think better of it. She settled for, "What do you need my help for?"

"It's not very difficult to figure out. The safety and freedom of a Muggle and Obliviator relies on it. I'm just asking you for a full transcript of the trial of Mark Printzen."

Kingsley Shacklebolt was walking past them on his way to the Minister's office – the last two sentences intrigued him more than he showed.

Word traveled fast in the Order of the Phoenix. Kingsley had heard that very morning of A. Tweak, the Obliviator, working to clear the name of a convicted Muggle and her colleague. Within an hour and a half, Hestia Jones had found out and read five news articles relating to the subject and had been informed of Tweak's professional record and specialty (research into the mind and mental disorders.)

Notes were taken, ideas were communicated, and it became clear that Mark Printzen, Linus Ollivander, Hector Gibbs, and now, Amity Tweak, were all to be watched.

Happily this coincided with the resolution of the threatening letters being sent to the Netherfield family. As one ball was added to the juggler's set, another was taken out. So business conducted itself in the Order of the Phoenix.

Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, the windows washed out the corridors with dull, cloud-light in the morning, before it began to rain. The dormitories were empty and some teachers were preparing for their classes, some enjoying a last cup of tea in the faculty lounge. One teacher, in her sunny classroom, was bent over her desk, pushing pale curls off of her forehead.

After the clock chimed two o' clock, she stood up, took the papers she had been poring over, and left her classroom.

We move ahead of her to meet Professor McGonagall. Her walking stick (still quite shiny after three months of use) leaned against her desk. She spotted a plump, younger woman standing at the door. "Come in, Professor Burbage," she beckoned, and Professor Charity Burbage entered.

She walked up to McGonagall with a subdued smile. "Good morning, Minerva, how are you?"

"Rheumatic, overworked, and fine. Just as busy as I like it. How can I help you?"

Professor Burbage set the papers down on McGonagall's desk. "I was reviewing my cache of students' work – planning on showing my sixth years some exceptional Muggle summer projects, you know, give them an early start – and I came across this paper."

McGonagall took it up and read the title aloud. "Peter Pan's Awfully Big Adventure: A Summer Among Actors." She checked the upper left hand corner. "Benedicte Ollivander –" hesitated – "Gryffindor, August 1972."

"That was when I had just got my footing as a teacher here, twenty-four years ago," Burbage volunteered, "And I read it through, it's an excellent essay. I see my own annotations all over it, but I don't recall having read it before. And I can see by your face, you have the same issue as I had –"

Professor McGonagall overrode her: "I don't remember any Benedicte Ollivander, and certainly not in my House."

"The two Ollivander children, Linus and whats-her-name, they were Ravenclaws, I remember –"

"But their mother was a Gryffindor, the black sheep, she was. I remember her."

"I couldn't possibly have misread the name, could I?"

"No, I don't think so, the writing is quite clear…"

"And I'm sometimes foggy remembering old students, but this name, this Benedicte Ollivander, means nothing to me."

After a pause, McGonagall was forced to admit, "Not to me either." She checked the teacher's schedule on the wall behind her. "Flitwick taught in 1972, you can ask him. Slughorn will be by tonight. He has a good memory but –"

"Fallible," Burbage supplied.

"Yes, if this girl seemed important to him he'll remember everything about her. An Ollivander especially."

Over the rest of the day, Professor Burbage's tottering footsteps sounded all over the school as she asked Flitwick, then Sinistra in her astronomy tower, then down to the greenhouses, to find Sprout. Then, shyly, Burbage approached Hagrid's gamekeeper hut. His memory for students who were his friends was clear and good as gold. But he, too, shook his head.

"I don't recall any Ollivander o' that name, nor any that was a Gryffindor besides their mam. You might ask Dumbledore, or mebbe look in the trophy room, see what ye find."

To the trophy room Professor Burbage duly went, though she wanted to reserve meeting Dumbledore for a last resort.

Between Quidditch medals and honors from the Potioneers' Society, she found solid proof that Benedicte Ollivander was real: she had been named Gryffindor Prefect and later Head Girl in 1972. Burbage gave a small, happy sigh; this assured her that this was an aberration, not a hoax. Benedicte Ollivander had existed, but this was strange: no one remembered her now. That was essential to keep in mind… unless, of course, this Head Girl crest was also a hoax…

Burbage shuddered. She had always been a touch paranoid. But she was certain that this was important: she knew it in a firm, steady part of her mind.

Upstairs, in the tower with the most impressive view from its windows, the only person who could have shed further light on this case was entering Dumbledore's office to discuss the Swiss wandmaker. There was no small talk: Dumbledore merely offered her a small candy, which she declined.

"I learned that Gregorovitch refused to accompany you to England. Could you please give me a full explanation of your visit there?"

Calliope remembered that this might be her last chance to discuss with Dumbledore, and recited her facts carefully and quickly. "I arrived in Switzerland without any problem. He admitted me into his house, he wasn't busy with anything, and he chatted a bit. He didn't know about my mother's death, so he seemed to be out of touch. When I told him about my uncle, he was concerned for himself before he expressed, you know, sympathy."

"He is only human," Dumbledore remarked.

She nodded. "I know. I offered him the Order's protection, though, and his mood changed dramatically – it was suddenly an unthinkable convenience to… um, 'put his life on pause' was what he said, for his safety. He said he was competent enough to face it." Her voice faltered, she couldn't look at Dumbledore's bright eyes again. Looking at the carpet, she continued, "He said that you have more to fear than he does."

"And he is absolutely right," Dumbledore said, nodding. "Don't let that upset you, Miss Ollivander. What happened then?"

She frowned. "I… let slip… a Moroccan phrase, that I heard my grandfather use, and after that Gregorovitch seemed to regard me a joke. He showed me this symbol, and when I didn't know it, he…"

"Where is the symbol?"

"Oh!" Calliope's cheeks flushed. "I don't have it with me, but I can reproduce it easily."

"Please do so."

"Well… I found out it was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows."

Dumbledore had been tracing the windowsill's stone with his good hand. He froze. "Really?"

"Wait! Here, I have it!"

She hastily pulled the much-battered and crinkled napkin from her inner pocket. Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted slightly at the triangle, circle, and line symbol. For a long time he did not speak. Finally, he said, "Very interesting."

"So after I left Gregorovitch, being unable to convince him," she went on, more quickly now, "I returned to Hogsmeade and started living with Dora. We've had a busy couple of days. Yesterday I accompanied her to the Hog's Head for the meeting, and at the bar I sat next to a girl who also recognized the symbol. A Hogwarts student."

"Really?"

"Yes. Her name's Luna Lovegood."

"You found Luna?" Dumbledore asked, not displeased.

"Yes. I liked her very well. Er… she had her own idea about the symbol and what it meant. She associated it with the Deathly Hallows – which, I concluded, means that she thinks, and possibly Gregorovitch thinks too, that the Dark Lord's ultimate goal is the acquisition of the Elder Wand."

There was a pause.

"And how did you regard that theory?" Dumbledore asked.

"Farfetched. At best. I've always been of the opinion that the Elder Wand was thrown into the sea, sealed in an anchor, and has yet to be recovered. The idea of it surfacing, and of … of You-Know-Who…"

"Say Voldemort."

Calliope stuttered, (it was much more difficult in English than French) "V-v-vold-more working to possess it is – rather alarming."

"Indeed."

Calliope swallowed. "But I don't intend to give up the search for my uncle yet, sir. I'm planning on returning to Hollywyck as soon as possible to research all I can on the Elder Wand – if you'll give me leave, that is."

"Of course, of course, leave is given." Dumbledore waved his preternaturally black hand. Calliope shuddered, but ignored it.

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Miss Ollivander, for your time and diligence." Dumbledore glanced furtively to a clock on the wall. "May I ask you a parting question?"

"Of… of course."

"In a hypothetical situation, if you or your brother were in danger and on the run, where would you or he likely turn?"

Calliope considered a moment. "I think he and I would act pretty similarly – if we couldn't find refuge with a friend, probably Hollywyck. It's got powerful enchantments."

"Ah." Dumbledore seemed rather relieved by this news. "Thank you. Linus is quite a capable young wizard – much like yourself. He would make a valuable addition to the Order of the Phoenix, if he so chooses."

"Really?" Calliope clutched her skirt tightly.

"Yes, really."

"And sir –"

"Yes?"

"Was my information helpful?"

"More than you know, my dear." Dumbledore looked away from her, and towards the darkening Eastern horizon. "You have given me much to think about."

Calliope started to move slowly towards the door. "I'm glad, sir. I'll leave you to your work now…"

"Miss Ollivander, I have another question."

"Yes, Professor?"

He turned to her, and his blue eyes looked at her kindly and with – remorse? But it was impossible to think of Dumbledore being remorseful. "I hope I have not demanded too much of you, or demanded that you go against your own judgment, in asking you to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"How do I feel?" she repeated. "I – I don't think of it as a matter of feeling, sir. It was a chance for me to help, and I took it. I… well, admit that I never thought of the Order as an organization of which I would like to be part. But, now that I am, I'm rather… glad, to tell the truth, that I'm not a horrified spectator any more."

Dumbledore smiled. "Thank you. I am glad to know that you think so." He paused for a minute, but then he added, "That was your mother's reaction, too."

"What?" Calliope stopped, and stared at the old professor.

"Your mother, Philomel Ollivander, was a fine, brave, noble lady. After your older sister vanished, she applied to the Auror Division of the Ministry, but was rejected on account of her health."

"Yes…"

"She went to my colleague, Minerva McGonagall. It was not long before she stood exactly where you stand now, and frankly demanded that I let her into the Order of the Phoenix. She said that she would do anything in her power to protect her two remaining children." Dumbledore looked at Calliope again, and he seemed to look straight through her as well. "I gave her the philosophy on which I built this Order. We accept the unacceptable. The outcasts. The unwanted. From a bed of ash and dried bone rises the phoenix – 'risen with healing in his wings,' as the lovely Muggle carol goes. Yes, Miss Ollivander, your mother was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and furthermore, she was one of our bravest and best fighters until I disbanded the Order in 1982. You would be too young to remember very well," he added, seeing Calliope's expression, "and I know that she told her husband, but very few others. And," he inclined his head gravely, "I know she would be immeasurably proud to see you doing the same."

Calliope said nothing. Her eyes were wide, and she was looking away from Dumbledore's face, and instead staring at a set of seven silver bells kept in a cabinet.

"Miss Ollivander?"

"Yes, sir?" She looked at him again.

"I hope I have not upset you?"

"No, sir, no… I am rather surprised, is all. But… I am… I'm proud of her, I think."

"And well you should be."

"Thank you, sir, for telling me."

"I am glad that you know now. Godspeed, Miss Ollivander."

"Thank you… Take care, Professor."

On the empty stairwell towards the Entrance Hall she passed Professor Burbage. She nodded, "Good day, Professor."

The older woman nodded a "Good day" back to her, and then, when she was at the top of the stairs and Calliope at the bottom, she exclaimed "Miss Ollivander!"

Calliope turned: Professor Burbage was clattering down the stairs towards her. "Miss Ollivander, may I ask you a question?"

"Why… sure, I'm happy to help."

"Don't laugh if you find this silly, but, did you have a sister or a cousin named Benedicte Ollivander who graduated in 1973?

Calliope looked a little surprised. "Well, yes. That was my sister."

"Really?" Burbage smiled. "Oh, is that a relief! What became of her, if I may ask?"

Now Calliope looked at her strangely. "Didn't you teach her?"

"I think – yes, I did."

"She died, Professor."

The happy music of discovery that had been ringing in Professor Burbage's ears came to a halt.

"She was killed by Death Eaters when I was about three years old."

"Died?" Burbage repeated as if dazed. "When you were three?"

"Yes."

"And that would be –"

"Twenty years ago, Professor." She added, "technically I was two and a half."

"Oh, my. I had – forgotten that." Indeed, in Burbage's mind, beneath the regret that the student she sought had died prematurely, there seemed to be a certain way that this fitted. Somehow, the name Benedicte combined with Ollivander did not strike her as the name of a lady who would grow up and have children and die of old age. "Thank you, Calliope. I'm sorry if I took up too much of your time."

The bell tower boomed the next hour, and with minimal pleasantries the two parted. Burbage passed through a landing on the stairs where Benny had once loved to sit and pass time with her non-Gryffindor friends – but now there was no one in the world who could have told her that.

Calliope, as she was coming out of the front doors of the school, spotted Dora running towards her. She quickened her pace. She could see Dora's little orange Wizarding Wireless in her hand.

"What is it, Dora?" She asked.

"I paused and rewound the broadcast - just listen!" Dora turned up the volume knob on her Wireless and pressed 'Play.' With scratches and a few hisses of feedback, the radio declared,

"We repeat, for the first time in two hundred years a Muggle has been sentenced to Azkaban for Presumption to Wizardry. Furthermore, it has been discovered today that the Muggle has failed to report to the Thames Jail. It is believed that he has gone on the run with a member of Magical Law Enforcement, an Obliviator named Linus Ollivander."

Calliope's eyes grew very wide. She took the radio in her hand to hear it better.

"The Obliviator, who had volunteered to represent the Muggle in court, is described as 'a rather tall man, with black hair, a black goatee, and glasses,' described as a capable wizard and a shrewd thinker. The name of the Muggle, who is an American, is Mark Printzen."

"What?"

"Sssh…" Dora said.

"What?"

"Ssh, listen!"

Calliope leaned forward.

"… described as having light brown hair and hazel eyes and will likely be dressed in Muggle clothing. His exploits of Presumption include serious bodily harm, including the use of an automobile against a witch…"

"What."

"So he is to be considered dangerous and perhaps mentally disturbed. The Ministry will be posting a reward for them both within the day…"

Dora, still breathing heavily, lowered the volume. "That was it. I'm going to guess you know the Princeton guy?"

"Printzen." Calliope corrected automatically. "I do. How in hell's name did he get – and Linus – and…" She turned away from Dora and started to pace frantically across the lawn. "A reward for them both? Presumption to Wizardry? Hitting a witch with a car, Dora, that was me! Mark must have been the one to hit me! And because of that they're sentencing him to…" she turned to her friend, frantic, "Dora, what am I going to do?"

"Calliope! I know this is scary. I know. But get a grip. Think this through. Linus has disappeared with Printzen – where would he be likely to go? You know Linus very well. Where would he…"

"Hollywyck."

Dora nodded. "All right. Then the next step is…"

"Go to Hollywyck. Wait for them there. If nothing else, Scurry can take me to where Linus is."

" Very good. And you can't lose any time about it."

"I won't. I'll set out right away. I'll let you know if I need anything."

"Do that."

"And Dora?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell the Order about it?"

"I'll put out the word."

Calliope was starting to head for Hogsmeade, but looked up at the castle again. "You think you could tell Dumbledore for –" she stopped.

"Yes?"

"Wait. He already knows."

"You're learning," Dora smiled wryly, but it faded quickly. "Now go to Hollywyck before they get there!"

Calliope was already gone.

"So where do you think you'll be Sorted?" Benny took a deep breath, having just taken her listeners through her entire family tree and sketched her odds of being Sorted into Ravenclaw (the Ollivander's traditional house) or of following her mother into Gryffindor.

"Well, I really don't know," said her more talkative listener, pulling her pointed hat low over her ears. "Which is the best House for Muggleborns?"

"Probably Gryffindor. Four to a boat, c'mon, Debbie!" Benny had only known this girl since the morning and was already on a nickname basis, "Let's take this one!" She pulled Debbie's sleeve towards an empty boat.

Benny, as they were joined by two other first-years in their boat, asked, settling herself in at the prow: "This is our first day at Hogwarts, a once in a lifetime experience, so – if we all could please be, um, quiet as we go through?" She didn't seem to notice the irony.

Debbie nodded, as did the quiet blond boy (self-identified as "Gil") who was coming with them. The fourth student-to-be, a Chinese boy, only looked out across the water. When Debbie asked him his name, he was only able to give "Huo –" before, with a shudder that startled everyone, the boats took off.

The boat glided across the mirrorlike lake surface, broken by spare flutters of wind. Benny glanced around at the people sitting in the boat with her – maybe these would be her best friends one day? – and she was the first to see Hogwarts Castle. She gave a little gasp at the beauty of it, all its lights aflare against the Scottish sky.

That evening, Benedicte's new chum Martindale, Debra was Sorted into Gryffindor, along with "Huo," whose given name Benedicte still didn't catch.

The very quiet boy who had come in the boat with them, a certain Lockhart, Gilderoy, was Sorted into Slytherin.

Ollivander, Benedicte herself sat on the Stool with the Hat for a very long time before it declared her a Gryffindor as well. As she was cheered to the table, she heard the Sorting Hat's earlier words echoing in her ears:

"The future lies before you,

Terrific and unknown.

If you face it with courage,

You're Gryffindor in your bones,

If you see it full of conquest,

A Slytherin you'll be,

While Ravenclaws will see it as

An unlocked mystery

The Hufflepuffs will take in stride

What they know they must face

And now, all our futures unite

In this beloved place.'