Chapter Twenty-Three : Master of Magnetism



"Excuse me, excuse me. Could you quite possibly tell me who you are?"

Golden-blond hair falls in waves around the wizard's handsome features, accentuating his perfect smile and perfect nose. He wears lilac robes that are trimmed with white lace, befitting of a king with their soft, velvet texture. His eyes are forget-me-not blue and vacant, gazing around the room in wonder, he knows not where he is and every new experience is a joy to him. He sits on a lavender-cushioned chair (he was offered a red one, but he claimed it clashed with his robes), and his hands are folded neatly on his lap. His shoes, adorned with golden stitching and bells, are polished and the darkest shade of purple.

The wizard across from the absentminded young man exhales in exasperation, and rubs the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. His light brown hair, with a few prematurely grey strands, falls scraggily around his pale face and to the base of his neck. His eyes are unique, a yellowish colour that haunts him always, and he squeezes them shut. "For the last time, I'm Remus Lupin."

The golden-haired wizard nods slowly, licking his glossed lips. "Right, right. . . . Who am I?" He looks to another wizard in the chamber for his answer.

"Gilderoy Eric Lockhart," Severus Snape replies, grating his teeth.

Gilderoy brightens, his pearly-white teeth flashing and lighting up the room. "Yes, yes. I remember now." He gawks around the library, from the four annoyed wizards to the beautiful witch (Gilderoy considers that she's nearly as beautiful as he is), and stops at Sirius Black. A blissfully confused look sweeps back over the fair-skinned Gilderoy. "Where am I?"

Sirius straightens, surprised at being addressed when he stands hidden in the over casting shadows of the lofty bookshelves. "In Marseilles. Delacour's Manor, to be precise," Sirius replies flatly.

"Hmm, righty-oh." He tilts his head. "Why?"

Fleur tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear and glances up from the Muggle romance novel she's reading. "We liberated you," she answers simply, and goes back to her book with the muscular, bronzed men and full-breasted, scantily clad women on the cover.

"Did I need this . . . liberation?"

Severus takes a belt from a flask. "Unfortunately."

Gilderoy ponders these recent and repeated proclamations. The air is quiet once more, something he's used to and, in fact, welcomes now. For far too long his thoughts have been alone in his mind, when he has these thoughts, that is. He isn't able to remember much since that incident in 1992; it rather goes into one ear and out the other. He remembered a padded room, screaming nurses, and a large explosion that tore at the earth. The next time he blinked, he was living in a building with strangers, passing each day with bells on his feet, as wizards in black kept things in order. Then, just as he grew accustomed to that life, he was whisked away to a wondrous place that fed him foods of the Gods, bathed him in fragranced waters, and dressed him in robes of luxury.

Gilderoy glances around the room with delight, taking in the many stacks of priceless books and large crystal windows with wide eyes. He leans comfortably back, only to jump out of his seat when the mahogany doors to the library bang open.

And in walks a distinguished fellow, his brown robes billowing around his ankles.

"Who are you?" asks Gilderoy, hoping he can process all this new information. "And who am I?"

"Someone gag Joseph here," is the only response from the black-haired wizard who commands the Last Alliance. Letting the doors slam together, he quickly paces past Gilderoy, who looks up at him with marvel.

Severus keenly steps forward. "With pleasure," he exclaims, gagging 'Joseph'.

Seeing the urgency and exasperation reflected in their commander's eyes and stride, Remus stands. "What's wrong?"

The heir of Merlin stands in the centre of the room, arms rigidly at his side, hands grasping the cloth of his robes. His alliance surrounds him. "The International Ministry refuses to help us still," he informs, his voice listless. "As long as Tahirah Nefertari is the Minister, we can't count on them. But we're not conquered yet. And never forget that. The Death Eaters' faults lie in believing that they have defeated us. They won't be expecting another attack so near in the future. We have a month to research the heir of Gryffindor, because on the first dawn of April twentieth I want to infiltrate the camp that he's in. Now, here is what we know:

"Whoever this heir may be, he was sorted in Gryffindor. He has a hidden power, and for some reason that we have yet to figure out, he hasn't been able to tap into it. I've read in Merlin's Book of Shadows that Godric Gryffindor had the ability to polymorph into a griffin, but I've accessed the old records and there's no Animagi who can do this. So, either this wizard doesn't know of his ability, or he's an unregistered Animagus.

"I've consulted lists of those who've graduated from Gryffindor in the last forty years; eliminated the names of those who've died or the names of those who've joined with the Death Eaters. That leaves families such as the Wealseys, the Longbottoms, the Woods and Creeveys, the Jordans, Browns, McGonagalls, the Harrises, Morgans, and the MacTaggerts, just to name a few. Here," he passes each a thick booklet, thrown quickly together with various documents, "these deal with the recent genealogy of all of the families. With any luck, the information contained will help us in some way.

"I have business in Romania with Hagrid, the giants, and the dragons, but I should be back in two weeks time. Until then, Remus will be in charge of all affairs. Dumbledore saved a few spell books in 1996, and Hagrid has been keeping them. I hope that they might be able to help our Joseph here blossom into a Magneto. Until then, I'm afraid he must be constantly watched, and--Karkaroff, there's an owl outside the window."

Karkaroff cranes his head over his shoulder and climbs to his feet. Approaching the window, he curses lightly. "This isn't your normal, mediocre owl," he whispers hoarsely. "This is a Sjöstedt's Owlet."

The owl scratches impatiently on the window with red-orange claws, her bright yellow eyes wide. The breast feathers are a copper colour, and wings brown and white. She's small, around seven inches with a double wingspan, and has a yellow-orange beak suitable for tearing rodents fed to her by her master.

"Native to parts of Africa," Karkaroff finishes as he opens the window. Removing the parchment from the owl's claws, she quickly takes her leave.

"Well?" Karkaroff recognises the edgy voice as Sirius's.

Karkaroff reads, " 'Karkaroff and fellow clangers of the Last Alliance,

My daughter is getting married to the Lord of Britain. I'm giving my daughter away to Lord Lucius Malfoy for the second time in my life, and I couldn't be more pleased. Malfoy laughed in the face of your attack, and they celebrated with a Quidditch match. And you expected my Ministers and their countries to aid you in your war? Maybe you should consider joining the winning side, and then maybe I will consider holding an audience with you.

Cordially,

Tahirah Nefertari

International Minister of Magic' "

As Karkaroff dictates the words, the parchment erupts into flames. A safety device, in case this letter were to be placed into the wrong hands by those of theLast Alliance. With blank expressions and confusion filling the room through the cracks, the commander speaks with a cracking voice, "Why--why is she telling us this?"

"Because. She doesn't fear us," Karkaroff replies, voice quavering.