It was so loud from the boisterous celebrations of the Irish that none of the Funny Farm would have been able to sleep, even if they'd wanted to. They stayed up into the late hours of the night around the fire pit, celebrating with raucous singing and random bursts of cheering; poignant, moving reminiscence; and comfortable, companionable silence.

But then, around eleven o'clock, a distant shot like a gun startled them all, and Haley abandoned her hilarious anecdote, looking concerned.

"That don't sound like the Irish," Mrs. Finnigan said worriedly.

Another shot went off, this time nearer, and then someone screamed. Suddenly, a tent down the row a ways burst into flames, and everyone began panicking.

"Into the tent!" Mrs. Finnigan cried, shoving them all inside the boys' tent, where they cowered in a corner. "Stay here and don't budge, y'hear?" she said, then pulled out her wand and hurried outside, Haley close behind.

Immediately, Katelyn leapt from her spot behind Dean and ran to the door, poking her head just the tiniest bit out the flap. A second later, she jerked her head back in, white as a sheet.

"What's wrong?" Rachel asked. "Who's out there?"

"They're Ku Klux Klan rejects, you guys!" Katelyn cried, clapping a hand to her mouth in horror.
"Who…?"

"Death Eaters!"

At this moment, Mrs. Finnigan and Haley hurried back in, their faces whiter than Katelyn's had been. "Get your things, boys," she said quickly. "As much as you can carry. We're going to London early. Haley, be a dear and fetch the girls' things from the tent, if you can."

The Funny Farm slung jackets on and hooked backpacks over their shoulders as Mrs. Finnigan tapped her foot, occasionally saying things like "Don't bother, Tanya, dear, I'll fix it later" and "Seamus Braeden Finnigan! I'll skin you alive if you don't move it!" Haley brought in all their luggage, and they quickly took it.

Together they hurried out of the tent and down the path toward the cottage. People were still screaming, and even more tents were ablaze. They could see now hundreds of hooded wizards marching ominously across the chaotic campground. Four puppet-like figures dangled above their heads.

They didn't get a chance to see more, for Mrs. Finnigan pressed a deflated football into their hands, and then they were gone.

-----------------------------------------

There was a long moment of shocked silence after the Funny Farm landed in the Leaky Cauldron. "What the bloody hell was that?" Seamus said finally.

Mrs. Finnigan looked too stunned to chastise her son's language. "I don't believe it," she murmured, and Haley bit her lips anxiously. "Don't believe what?" Rachel prompted.

"Those hooded wizards we saw were Death Eaters," Mrs. Finnigan said with some difficulty. "They haven't had an open rampage like that since…oh, I don't know—since the Boy Who Lived was born."

The Funny Farm traded glances.

"Now I'm scared," Tanya whispered.

"I think we're too shook up for sleep right now," Mrs. Finnigan said wisely. "How about this—I'll go get us some coffee, and you seven go and sit in the back lounge. There's a nice warm fire and some Witch Weekly magazines if you get bored."

"Let me help you," said Haley, and together they headed to the bar where Tom the innkeeper was wiping out ceramic mugs.

"Shall we, then?" Dean asked, jerking his head toward the lounge. They filed in and stacked their luggage by the door, then stood around awkwardly until Tanya and Katelyn had the sense to find two cushy chairs near the fire and sit down in them. Then they all drifted to the matching loveseat and sofa that were arranged neatly around a coffee table laden with back issues of Witch Weekly and even a few old London Times ("Hitler Dead!") and Daily Prophets ("Two Ministry of Magic Officials Captured and Killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named"). The fire flickered reassuringly in the hearth, casting warm shadows on everything.

"So," Dean said finally, flopping down next to Hannah on the sofa. "What do you mates all think about this?"

"I like the rustic look of the decor, myself," Katelyn began, but, seeing everyone's odd looks, she went on, "Oh—you mean about the Death Eaters? Well, it was all very frightening."

"I'll be glad to go back to Hogwarts," Rachel sighed.

"Why's that?" Seamus asked, and adjusted his position on the loveseat so as to see her better.

"Well, Hogwarts is the only place that You-Know-Who's followers won't go, because of Dumbledore," she explained, pulling the pillow out from behind him and hugging it to her body. "It's where we're safest."

Seamus nodded thoughtfully, then picked up a copy of the London Times. "Hey, look at this—the Allies have landed in France! They've begun liberating Europe!"

"Zorro, dearest," Rachel said patiently, "that newspaper is from 1944."

"Oh. Right." He folded the paper with the utmost dignity and placed it back on the table.

The ensuing silence was broken when Haley and Mrs. Finnigan arrived with eight steaming mugs. "They didn't have coffee, dears," Mrs. Finnigan said gently, "so I got us some nice Irish tea. Here you are, loves."

Rachel took the mug and wrapped her fingers around it, holding it under her chin so the steam could warm her cheeks. "Thank you, Mrs. Finnigan."

"You're welcome, love."

Since all the seats were taken, she and Haley went to sit at a little chess table near the fire, where they began discussing an issue of The Dublin Courier that Mrs. Finnigan had taken along.

"Look, Rachel," Hannah said offhandedly. "There's a piano in the corner."

Rachel shot up from her relaxed position. "Really?"

Hannah nodded, and Rachel set her mug down with a clatter and scurried toward the old, weather-beaten upright piano, much to the amusement of her friends. She pulled the scarred bench out from under the keyboard, then lifted the lid and began rifling around in old, yellowed sheet music. "Don't know it…don't know it…" she murmured distractedly, but suddenly she gave a shout of delight. "Know it well! Know it, too! Seamus, could you close the doors for me, please? I don't want to disturb anyone else."

Seamus got up and shut the paned-glass doors of the lounge, then went over to the piano and lit the candles in the sconces on the wall. "Here—now you can see better."

"Thanks, Seamus."

He went and took his seat, and rippling, stirring notes filled the room like sunshine, and Rachel looked more at home than she'd ever looked before.

"What was that called?" Dean asked when she finished.

"Prelude in C Major, by Johann Sebastian Bach," she replied. "It's one of my favorites." She immediately put the music on top of the piano and rifled through the pages under the bench lid again; when she'd picked new music, she then went to the long chest next to the piano and lifted the lid. "A veritable goldmine!" she said happily, and quickly picked out a stack of music. She dove deeper into the chest, and then gave a little gasp.

"What?" Katelyn asked.

"There's a guitar in here," she replied. "It looks like the paper's kept it in good condition."

Seamus started from his seat, but Katelyn beat him to it and lifted the instrument from the chest. "Is there a pick…ah, yes, right here." She pulled a chair up and began tuning the guitar.

"You don't play guitar," Rachel said in surprise.

"A little bit," Katelyn replied. "I dabble."

Rachel shrugged. "Do you know this song? We could play together."

"No."

"This one?"

"Never heard of it."

"Well…how about this one?"

"Too difficult."

Rachel sighed. "You have to know this one, Katelyn. It's got only one flat, and it's a Christmas carol."

"Which one?"

"'I Saw Three Ships.'"

"Let's try it," said Katelyn, and so they did. But soon after, Katelyn stopped her and slipped the strap back over her head. "I don't read music, Rachel, so I can't follow along. I told you I only drabble."

Rachel looked crestfallen. "Oh."

"Seamus plays guitar," Mrs. Finnigan called, and Seamus' ears turned pink.

"Would you play with me, Seamus?" Rachel asked. "Please?"

"All right," he grumbled, getting up and taking the guitar from Katelyn and lighting a few more candles. "Now, where are you…"

"Here. You come in at the same place, since it's not a duet."

"Okay. You count in, or me?"

"I will. On four. One, two, three, four."

The rolling notes of "I Saw Three Ships" filled the room, and, despite a few mistakes and slip-ups, the outcome was rather good, and the others applauded enthusiastically.

"Let's play one that's not a Christmas carol," Seamus said, flipping through the sheet music. "Are there any duets for a C instrument in here? Oh, you're kidding."

"What?" Rachel asked, looking over his shoulder. He was holding a yellowed paper with the words "Danny Boy—for piano and C instrument" in his hands. "That's perfect," Rachel said enthusiastically, and Seamus gave a flicker of a grin as he looked over the chords.

"Stereotypically Irish," he sighed, handing her the music when he was done, and Rachel arranged it on the piano. "You're going to tease me about this later, aren't you."

"I like this song, Seamus," she said softly, scanning the notes. "I wouldn't tease you about something I like."

"I like it, too."

Rachel smiled. "Okay. You start here, eight measures after I do. It's twelve-eight time, so…"

"I can read music pretty well," he replied. "You don't need to tell me."

"Good," she said with a grin, "because I can't explain anything other than two-four, three-four, four-four, and six-eight. I have to warn you, though," she added, "I like to embellish, so don't follow the time signature too strictly."

"Can do, Su," he said, tuning the guitar. "Key of D, right?"

Rachel nodded. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"On three. One…two…three." Sweet, wistful notes came whispering from the piano, and Seamus leaned closer. The whispering notes then became mezzo piano, until suddenly they faded away almost completely. Then the warm, mellow notes of the old guitar took up the tender melody, and the piano echoed and embraced it like a mountain valley. Mrs. Finnigan was touched, and she mouthed the words with tears in her eyes:

"Oh Danny Boy

The pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen,

And down the mountainside.

The summer's gone,

And all the roses falling

It's you, it's you,

Must go and I must bide.

But come ye back,

When summer's in the meadow

Or when the valley's hushed

And white with snow

It's I'll be there

In sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy

I love you so!

But when ye come,

And all the flowr's are dying,

If I am dead, as dead I well may be

Ye'll come and find

The place where I am lying

And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

And I shall hear,

Though soft you tread above me

And all my grave

Will warmer, sweeter be

For you will bend

And tell me that you love me

And I shall sleep in peace

Until you come to me."

The piano took up the last notes and echoed them with all the poignancy of an old folk flute, until finally, like a last breath of wind, they faded away.

"Bravo! Bravo!" Mrs. Finnigan cried, clapping exuberantly. Seamus and Rachel flushed with pleasure.

"Excellent work, Seamus," Dean said. "I didn't know you could read music so well. Rachel, I didn't even know you could play piano, much less as brilliantly as you just did."

"I've learned that song before," Seamus admitted.

"So have I," Rachel said sheepishly. "It was nothing new."

"Bloody good job anyway," Dean said with a grin.

"Ditto," Hannah said. "Isn't there an old piano in the Three Broomsticks? You really should put on a show, or something."
"I'll sing," Katelyn volunteered.

Rachel and Seamus grinned, both rightly pleased with their musical accomplishments. "You play wonderfully," she said.
"You too," he replied, and they shook hands.

"I think it's time for bed," Mrs. Finnigan interrupted.

"Why now?" Katelyn said.

"Because Tanya's already out cold," Hannah informed her. She was right—Tanya, lulled to sleep by the soothing music, was sprawled out in her chair and snoring lightly.

"Tanya, love," Mrs. Finnigan whispered, gently shaking the girl.

"Mmph," Tanya replied.

"Time for bed."

"Already? Okay, but let me just finish this one waltz." And she dozed off again.

There was a surprised silence, and then all seven of them began laughing. "Seriously, children, there's nothing fun about being grouches in the morning," Mrs. Finnigan said, attempting to mask her smile.

When nobody showed any effort to move, she said, "Last one upstairs gets short-sheeted!"

And the lounge was clear in an instant.