Disclaimer: There ain't no such thing as a free JK Rowling.

A/N: Well, eight weeks is a lot longer than I'd like. Not that I've been idle; I've just been dealing with a bunch of other stuff. But I've been slowly ramping my writing for the Animagus-Verse back up. I'm settling in at my new job, but I still have one more big trip this week, so it'll probably be at least two weeks for the next chapter. Still, I'm hoping to continue picking up the pace in the next month or so.

Thanks for all the support. I know the last chapter was hard, but I was pleased to see that many people agree I gave McGonagall a good sendoff. Now, for the aftermath.

Chapter 17: Career Advice

Harry sat in his Head of House's office, only half paying attention.

"I'm sorry; this is a bit disorganised, Mr. Potter," Professor Sinistra said. "This has been on really short notice, but I wanted to try to keep all of Professor McGonagall's appointments…"

"It's fine," Harry muttered offhandedly.

"Ah…well…" she said. "This meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have and to decide what classes you want to continue to N.E.W.T. level. Have you given any thought to what you want to do after you leave Hogwarts?"

Harry rolled his eyes, barely looking at her.

Professor Sinistra sighed: "I am trying to help you, Mr. Potter, but I'm afraid I don't know you as well as Professor McGonagall did."

"A firefighter," Harry said.

"Excuse me?"

"What do I want to be when I grow up?" he said in a childish, fake-chipper voice. "A firefighter. Isn't that what I'm supposed to answer? That or an astronaut. I'm not sure what's in style these days."

"Mr. Potter, this is a serious discussion. These choices will have a large impact on your future."

"What future?" he said. "Honestly, Professor, I don't see much point."

"I understand it's only been a few days," Sinistra said. "It's hard on all of us, but we have to hold out hope, and we have to keep doing our best to press on…"

But Harry wasn't listening. He looked out the window at the Lake below, remembering…

Uruquart Castle was a small, but ancient place in the hills overlooking Loch Ness. To muggles, it was a ruin—a tourist attraction, even open to the public. But that castle was only half of the original property. The other half, invisible to muggles, was higher up the hill and was still maintained, at least a little.

The castle had been held by McGonagall's late husband and had passed to her upon his death. With her death, it had passed to her nephew, Malcolm, who had made the decision to bury her there next to her husband rather than moving them to the McGonagall family manse.

It had been pouring rain the day of the funeral. A few of the attendees had magicked up a canopy over the whole service, but it just hadn't felt right to Harry. The rain had seemed fitting, somehow—more fitting than the sunshine at Cedric's funeral in many ways. Still, a lot of people crowded in—an outpouring of support from students Professor McGonagall had taught over the years. Minister Fudge had posthumously given her an Order of Merlin. She'd died a hero; of that everyone was sure, even though it wasn't publicly known what the mission was about.

Harry didn't speak. It didn't feel right after he'd come up with the plan that had got her killed. He had stood and watched with his family and his fellow Gryffindors as they buried her. The funeral was closed casket, obviously. Tonks had told him that the Aurors had recovered most of her body from the shattered street, but he didn't think he wanted to know more.

They'd only found half of her wand.

"Mr. Potter!" Professor Sinistra said.

"What?"

"Please try to pay attention. I know you're going through a very difficult time, but you still have to look to the future—"

"Oh, Merlin's sake!" he snapped. "I'm not just depressed because Professor McGonagall died, okay? I'm sick of hearing that! I meant I don't have plans for a career. My only plan for the future right now is surviving the war, and helping my family and friends survive the war. I haven't thought beyond that in a while. I mean, I want to start a family one day. I want to live a bloody quiet life for once. But, no, I don't know what I want to do for a job, so there's no point in this meeting."

"And you're still young," she said. "You have time. But still, it's probably something you should begin thinking about."

"Er, not really. I'm rich enough; I don't really need to do much of anything with my life."

Professor Sinistra took a deep breath to centre herself. "That's not a wise way of doing things, Mr. Potter. There is always risk in life, not just in the war. If something were to happen where you needed to work, you should ensure you have the skills you need to do it. Now, with you're grades, you should have quite a few options—"

Harry started up again with a tone that was almost as if she hadn't spoken: "You know, Professor, Hermione says we should've had a meeting like this before we picked our third year electives, and I kind of agree with her. If I hadn't taken Runes or Arithmancy, we'd be having a different discussion today."

"Then do you want to do something that uses those skills?"

"Not really…I mean, I might keep them up, since we're talking classes. I'm dropping History and Astronomy regardless. And I'm not gonna sit through Snape's class any longer without a good reason. I'll keep the wand-based classes if I do well enough. And magical creatures, I guess, since that's Luna's thing. Is that good enough for you?"

Professor Sinistra frowned a little. "If that's how you want to choose your classes, I can't stop you."

"Well, that's all I've got for you," he replied, looking back to the window.

She didn't say anything for a minute, but finally, she voiced what was on her mind: "I hope you don't think I'm trying to replace Professor McGonagall, Mr. Potter. She was such a fixture at this school; it won't be the same without her. But we do have to keep moving with the end of term coming up—"

"I know you're doing your best, Professor," he said without thinking as he gazed out to the Forest…

The thestrals pulling the carriages seemed more fitting than ever when they rode up from Hogsmeade Station after Easter holidays. The school was quieter and more subdued than Harry could ever remember seeing it. The Great Hall was decked with black curtains, making it seem darker and drearier than usual. The food was plain, the usual feast omitted, which was fine because even several days later, few people felt like eating much. The war had touched home in a deeper way than even Cedric's death. If Professor McGonagall wasn't safe, who had been among the best of them, who was?

A few of the Slytherins were obnoxious about it, but even the ones who hadn't liked McGonagall were rattled by losing Adrian Pucey, and in full Death Eater regalia, no less. Even though it was just him in the school, the fact that he was still a student set a bad precedent for anyone trying to avoid Slytherin's association with Voldemort. And it was even more worrying because they hadn't been expecting any Marked Death Eaters to show up as students. Sympathisers, sure, but no Marked. Harry was worried there might be others.

Even Malfoy didn't say anything to Harry and looked as sullen as the rest of them that night, although to be fair, Harry suspected he might have had a much closer encounter with an angry Voldemort after the horcrux was destroyed. That wouldn't go well for anyone. He wondered if Voldemort had killed anyone for their failure, although they hadn't heard anything, and their luck wasn't good enough for Bellatrix to be taken care of for them.

When classes resumed, Transfiguration was cancelled. Dumbledore promised to have a sub in by the end of the week. Exams were soon, after all. (He was qualified, himself, but he was too busy with the war.) The rest of the classes, they muddled through. Professor Flitwick looked the worse for wear as the new Deputy Headmaster, and the students couldn't pretend there wasn't a little bit of resentment of Professor Sinistra for taking McGonagall's place, but still, they muddled through. Not that Harry much felt like going to class these days.

It didn't seem real to him half the time, being back here. Hermione had noticed it too. She told him he was being overly mopey like after Cedric and Rowena died, and while she understood he was grieving, he needed to not wallow in it again. His response was less than polite.

"I still think you should give a little more consideration to your interests, Mr. Potter."

Harry kept looking out the window. "I can worry about that after the war," he muttered.

"You are still a student here. The war won't come to Hogwarts if Dumbledore has anything to say about it. You shouldn't waste the time you have now."

Who said anything about wasting it? he thought. He thought of the time he was putting in learning to duel, learning magical battle tactics. He thought of Quidditch and hanging out with his friends and time spent with Luna. He was trying to live his life, while also learning enough to survive.

Professor Sinistra said something else, but he wasn't listening. When she coughed, he turned back to her and said, "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said, is there anything you're interested in now that you could see yourself doing long term?"

Harry thought about it briefly. "Sort of, yes, but not enough for a career," he said.

"Why not?"

"Well, I like Quidditch, but that doesn't pay much. I probably have a good chance of playing for England if I want. That pays alright, but it's not really long-term. I enjoy writing, but I can't really make a living on that either. I've done the maths; the magical world's too small to live off of books unless you're Bathilda Bagshot or Gilderoy Lockhart. And anyway, plenty of muggles don't figure out what they want to do until their twenties. I've got enough to worry about as it is right now."

She sighed heavily: "Yes, I suppose you do."

While Hogwarts was getting back to some semblance of normal, one seventh-year boy had other concerns on his mind. While the school slept, Graham Montague Disillusioned himself and crept up to the seventh floor, trying to suppress his trembling. Pucey's death had rattled him. It brought the war much closer to home. But he knew that some sacrifices would have to be made for the Dark Lord's plans to be completed. Now, he had a new task to complete, and though he dreaded what he would find here, he dared not refuse.

The task itself ought to be safe enough. Even if he were caught out, no one would have to know where he went or why—not unless it was right by the room the Dark Lord told him to investigate. He was relieved when he made it to the seventh floor undetected and found the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He walked back and forth down the corridor three times, focusing on the idea the Dark Lord had told him. An ornate door appeared, but when he opened it, his heart sank. The place was huge. And somewhere in this mess, he had to find a single artifact—or determine conclusively that it wasn't here.

"In my travels in my youth, I came across an artifact of great power," the Dark Lord had said. "The lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. I knew that Dumbledore would do anything to acquire it if he knew I had it, so I hid it in the last place he would ever look: within the walls of Hogwarts itself. However, I fear that in this case Dumbledore may have outplayed me. I have recently learnt new information that he may have found it after all.

"I am asking you to search for the diadem, Montague. If it is where I hid it, it will be easy to find. I will tell you the spells you will need. If you find it, place it in this runic containment box and contact me through your Mark for further instructions. But do not touch the diadem, for its power is too great for all but the strongest minds."

Scary, that the diadem itself was so dangerous, but other than that, the task was simple enough. If he didn't find it, he would say so in a coded letter. What was far scarier, though, were the consequences should the diadem be gone. Even though it was expected, the Dark Lord's anger would surely be terrible to behold when he learnt, and a few of the senior Death Eaters seemed to think the things was even more important that he'd let on.

As he feared, the Room of Hidden Things looked noticeably different from the Dark Lord's exacting description. Things must have been hidden in here all the time. Even he knew that; it was just that no one ever found the room again afterwards. Montague picked his way through the litter and found the place the Dark Lord told him about. He almost missed it. Someone had stuck a broken Vanishing Cabinet at that exact spot. Something about the thing gave him the creeps. He couldn't help imagining getting trapped inside as he passed by it.

Still, he scanned the area multiple times with the appropriate detection spells, and his fears were confirmed. There was a lingering trace of dark magic around the area, but there was no sign of the diadem. He widened his search pattern, but if it were still here in the Room, he should have been able to find it. It was gone.

It was a night later that Cassius Warrington slipped out of the Slytherin Common Room to carry out his mission for the Dark Lord. He didn't know what Montague was doing last night. Maybe he had a mission of his own, though since no one had turned up dead this morning, he couldn't imagine what it would be. At any rate, Warrington wasn't to let anyone know about his own mission, so he'd had to delay it a night waiting for Montague to get back.

Tonight, though, it seemed the coast was clear. He Disillusioned himself and left the Common Room. Carefully avoiding the patrols of prefects, Filch, and various professors, he made his way to the seventh floor and found the tapestry of the dancing trolls.

Unbeknown to them, Warrington and Montague had both been given the same orders by Voldemort in case one of them screwed it up. Neither of them did, though. The horcrux was long gone. It was anyone's guess how long, though Voldemort suspected it was after Malfoy's damn fool idea to send his diary to Hogwarts without his say-so. He was sure he'd covered his tracks at least that well.

To say it was a disaster was an understatement. Once he realised Dumbledore was after his horcruxes, he'd had to check on the remaining ones. The diary and Potter he knew about, and Nagini he kept with him—now far better protected than before. The Peverell ring, though, was gone from his grandfather's house. True, it was perhaps the least protected of the remaining four. Dumbledore might have been able to connect him with the Gaunts, however carefully he had hidden his relation to them. After all, Dumbledore knew his father's name was Riddle and his own middle name was Marvolo, and neither were common names. Yes, in retrospect, he could see how that one had been found out.

Surely, Slytherin's locket must have been the safest from Dumbledore's clutches. How could even his brilliant mind have found that specific cave? But it turned out it didn't matter. Regulus Black had turned traitor and stolen it himself, probably immediately after Voldemort had hidden it, given that was when he vanished. That wasn't just horrifying; it was embarrassing, and no one would ever learn of that if he could help it. There was a small chance that Regulus had left the horcrux hidden intact somewhere, but far more likely was that Sirius had got hold of it and destroyed it since his release from Azkaban.

And Hufflepuff's Cup. The utter catastrophe! Deep inside Gringotts, the cup ought to have been safe from any assault or attempt at theft, but Dumbledore had worried him. Alone in magical Britain, Dumbledore just might have been able to talk his way past the goblins, duplicitous vermin that they were. With so many of his other horcruxes lost, Voldemort had felt he needed to move it. And now, even his dear Bellatrix had failed him. He still didn't know what he ought to do about her—though he could imagine what the Dark Lady Pantera would say.

"Killing your followers the first time they fail you is a recipe for disaster, Voldemort. They'll just switch sides if they ever fail you—or they won't join in the first place. This is basic stuff."

Yes, that was exactly what she'd say. And she might tell him the story of some Chinese Emperor who'd learnt that lesson the hard way for good measure. Just the thought of it made him want to kill her, and all the more so because she was right.

"Of course I'm right. Besides, this is your fault as much as it is hers. You sent your best attack dog on a stealth mission—a mission she was wholly unsuited for."

"I didn't have a choice," he muttered to himself. "It was her vault."

"Yes, you did, Voldemort. Do you really think Dumbledore could have got your horcrux out of a goblin bank? He couldn't if he didn't want to open up a second front. You could've just taken over the Ministry and then got it, but instead, Dumbledore played you like a fiddle."

And now his internal monologue sounded even more like her. Wait…

He spun around, wand drawn. No one should be able to get in this house without his noticing, let alone this room, but there it was: a glowing, transparent jaguar floating in the room with him. A Patronus? Her? But he didn't feel the aura of peace around it that a Patronus should have. He brandished his wand to it. "How—?"

"Astral projection," La Pantera's voice came from the jaguar's mouth. "I bought the spell off our Russian friend. Short range. Not as good as a Patronus Charm. I could have used that instead, of course, but I didn't think you'd appreciate it. I'm outside the front gate now. You called?"

Astral projection wouldn't have been seen in transit (and far better for it). His followers wouldn't know she was here yet, so he called for someone to show her in. It was time to face the music; unfortunately, he found himself in need of La Pantera's services yet again.

No, he wouldn't kill Bellatrix, he thought. She was certainly demoted; he would limit her more to her proper role as an attack dog. And he'd torture her, oh yes. But he wouldn't kill her. He remembered what he'd said about Karkaroff. He didn't have the luxury of casting aside followers right now. Bella was still too useful to get rid of.

A few minutes later, a nervous Death Eater showed La Pantera into his private chamber. One of the new batch of recruits, not yet toughened up to have confidence with menial tasks around the Dark Lord, but he would learn. He bowed and scurried out, leaving the two of them alone.

"Lady Pantera, thank you for returning on such short notice," Voldemort said perfunctorily.

"What can I say?" she replied. "This little campaign of yours is entertaining."

Even standing up straight, one got the impression with her of a cat lounging on the rug and feeling pleased with itself. It was her version of a power move. Voldemort could admit she pulled it off, but it irked him. Naturally, his own attitude was more that of a snake, which even when sitting still was ever-watching and poised to strike at any moment.

"So, what kind of trouble have you got yourself into this time?" she asked. "You didn't make another horcrux, did you?"

"No, of course not," Voldemort hissed. "However, my horcruxes are my current problem. Last week, I made a play to retrieve one of them—as you have probably guessed by know," he added, remembering how she had greeted him. "I knew that Dumbledore knew just enough to be a danger, so I investigated my remaining horcruxes."

"Oh, this'll be good," La Pantera interrupted. "How many did he find?"

He sneered at her: "Dumbledore has been moving more than I thought. Through his finding my hiding places and other accidents, I have only one horcrux remaining, my loyal Nagini."

"Ho ho! And whose fault is that?"

"I have been forced to confront that question in detail over the past several days, but it is no business of yours. My problem is that my life is now in a far more precarious position than I had thought."

La Pantera gave him a smug grin: "Congratulations. You've rejoined the ranks of ordinary dark mages who think one horcrux is enough."

"I might have been willing to agree with you, given the circumstances. However, as it happens, my only remaining horcrux is Nagini, who is mortal, herself."

"Again, whose fault is that?"

"I am not paying you to assign blame!" Voldemort hissed through clenched teeth.

"You haven't paid me at all, yet," La Pantera said. "What do you want?"

"Is there a way to move a horcrux from one vessel to another, more permanent one?" he asked.

"Probably." She twirled her magic dagger disinterestedly in her hand. "I've never had reason to try it because no one's done something that stupid before. But there's an easier way."

"Oh?"

"Bind the horcrux to the snake's skull. You bound it to her body, which can die. That's not a complete horcrux ritual. You can push it deeper into her skull to complete it, make the skull indestructible, and you're good. It'll even match your look. Make it into a necklace or something. You needed me to come all the way here to tell you that?"

Voldemort stared in silence. Could he have really overlooked the obvious? He wondered if he, even with all his world travels, had been too provincial about these things. He had fiddled with the horcrux ritual a bit, but when he found one solution to his problem he'd stuck with and it didn't bother with others. It was why he had had to seek out La Pantera in the first place.

He clenched his left hand and felt fire smoldering in his fist, but she casually pointed her knife at his heart. No, this wasn't the place—surrounded by his followers, yes, but with no plan, and Nagini in the building with him. He relaxed his grip and sidestepped the question: "Since you're here, perhaps you could consult on other possible ways to evade death."

"Huitzilopochtli! Haven't you done enough already?" she cried in disbelief. "What, were you raised by nuns preaching hellfire or something?"

He was, but that was irrelevant, as he didn't believe in the Christian God. "I'm surprised you're so indifferent about it, Lady Pantera," he countered. "After all, out of all the dark mages who have lived since the invention of the horcrux, how many of them are still alive?"

But La Pantera wasn't fazed. "Yes, yes. That's what they all say," she replied. "Ask me again when you find a reliable way around old age…But since I did come all the way out here, I suppose we can compare notes."

That would have to be good enough for now.

At Hogwarts, as the week progressed, the school fell into an uneasy anticipation. The panic of an attack on Diagon Alley in broad daylight and the loss of a beloved figure had rattled the community, but was beginning to subside, as it didn't appear to be the start of a pattern. Most people understood it was only a matter of time, though. Whenever anyone asked, Harry would say that it looked like Voldemort was planning something big, but they didn't know what, which unfortunately was still close enough to true.

Defence Against the Dark Art class didn't do anything to lighten people's spirits, as Professor Grayson had only grown more serious over the course of the year.

"I know these are dark times," he said. "We've had several attacks this year, and it probably won't let up anytime soon. But I'm still going to try to teach you as much as I can. This last term will probably be the hardest yet, but it's important that you learn. Remember, if you pass your O.W.L. exams in this class, you will be considered qualified to defend yourselves in the world at large."

Some of the students made noises of surprise. This had been in the back of many of their minds, but most of them hadn't really thought about it in that way.

"But Professor!" Lavender said. "We saw what happened in Diagon Alley. Even Professor McGonagall couldn't handle it. How can we defend ourselves against that?"

"Minerva McGonagall fought bravely against a woman who was hardly less terrible than Voldemort himself, Miss Brown, but I'm not expecting you to charge at a vicious Death Eater with a sword." He scanned the room again, making sure they were all paying attention. "We call this class 'Defence Against the Dark Arts,' but the truth is, in peacetime, none of you would ever need to defend yourselves from a more than a run-of-the-mill stalker or thief, or the occasional dark creature. Basic self-defence and maybe sport duelling would be all you need to know at this level.

"But in wartime, you're right: a fifth-year education is not nearly enough. This is why we have N.E.W.T. classes, and why we have Aurors beyond that. In wartime, Defence Against the Dark Arts for civilians means surviving long enough to flee to safety, or until Aurors arrive, or, as a last resort, fighting to defend your homes and your lives when you have nowhere else to go. That is not nearly the same skill set that you would need if there were no war outside these walls, so I have tried to account for that.

"The reason we are studying Grindelwald's War this term is so that you know what to expect: where attacks are likely to occur, what tactics are likely to be used, and what your best strategy is to get out alive. This is also why we compared magical wars with muggle guerrilla warfare. Most of you won't know much about that, but the tactics are similar in many ways, and there are many more examples to study. The muggle-raised in the class will see it: we aren't about fronts and battle lines and huge armies in the magical world because of our small numbers. Most attacks come in small raids, and they can hit anywhere, as in guerrilla insurgencies.

"It's also why I mentioned muggle naval warfare. Remember, when the muggles fought in the Pacific in Grindelwald's War, they hopped from island to island, passing over some and attacking others that held a strategic advantage. That's also how wizarding wars are fought because wizards are clustered in small enclaves around the country. All of this will help you avoid dangerous situations, but the other question is, what you do when an attack comes, and you aren't a trained soldier?"

The class spent some time discussing the merits and feasibility of various strategies. The obvious answer was to Apparate away, but Death Eaters were likely to put up Anti-Apparition Wards first. The Floo network was usually reliable, so long as it remained in Ministry hands. Some people suggested carrying brooms around, but few people could afford a magical handbag that could hold one. They had got into a spirited debate about the situations where it was better to run versus hide versus charge a Death Eater with a sword when Professor Grayson called them back to attention.

"Now, that's the kind of thinking I'm talking about," he said, "but let's direct it, now. I'll be doing some review for your exams, but these are the kinds of questions I want to cover in the remaining term, based on my own experiences. And yes, we will be doing practical exercises."

For some reason, that pronouncement made most of the class shudder.

At the end of the week, Albus Dumbledore went to see the three Seers again. He had taken to visiting them at least once a week to debrief them on any new findings. With Voldemort's apparent attack plan now only two months distant, he needed all the information he could get, but Fate had been stubbornly silent.

"I am sorry, Headmaster," Sybill told him. "We have written down what we have found, but there is little. So many techniques of divination are muddied by trivialities—the mundane lives of the casters, the lives of those around them, the great turnings of the earth, the weather next week…"

"As I have said, Albus," Madam Fan creaked, "it is difficult to gain more knowledge when true prophecy is exhausted. It seems that we have learnt all the Fate feels we have need to know. Finding out more will be harder."

Dumbledore nodded: "Just the same, I thank you for trying."

"We really tried to get something more specific, Professor," Cho spoke up. "We tried Bibliomancy, but we used the I Ching, and all three of us got a static hexagram 47."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar—" he said.

"Kùn," said Madam Fan. "The interpretation of the ancient Chinese is fuzzy. Most commonly translated as 'confining,' but it can be 'oppression,' 'exhaustion,' or 'entangled.' Without any moving lines, we cannot learn anything more, and when the Book of Changes refuses to give up more information, it is unwise to persist."

"Such a pity," said Sybill. "Seers tell legends that once there were ways to call up relevant prophecies on demand! But they say they were dark magic, and now, they are all lost."

"That's really all we have, sir," Cho repeated. "In terms of actual prophecies, it might be better to separate the three of us, but…" She looking at her companions, "I don't think any of us is strong enough to be of much use on our own."

Dumbledore shook his head: "Remember your own prophecy, Miss Chang. The Wyrd Sisters will be of most use to us together."

She nodded, but she asked, "What about my other prophecy? Fire falling on Hogwarts, and a threat from the eagle and the serpent? I still don't see anything out of the ordinary in Ravenclaw."

"At this point, you know as much as I do," he replied. "And the prophecy might not be referring to Ravenclaw, or even to Slytherin. Perhaps they are literal animals." Not that that was a comfort. Suppose Voldemort had another basilisk! "We shall have to hope to learn more as the time grows nearer, or through direct investigation. Beyond that, we must only be prepared when the time comes, and if we are very lucky, perhaps we can still end this before it begins. In the meantime, what of our security?"

"No worse," said Madam Fan. "The Hogwarts wards will keep Jugashvili from seeing what happens here as long as we don't let him in. I've confirmed that. But Jugashvili is also blocking us from detecting what Voldemort is planning. His scrying is better than ours. There's no hope of watching the present, and the future is silent."

"Then it seems," Dumbledore said, "that we must prepare for anything."

Cornelius Fudge read over the latest confidential report from Dumbledore, but he soon threw it aside in disgust. Nothing. The old man had no idea what was coming. Not that Fudge did either, but he'd hoped someone would figure it out before it was too late.

Only Fudge and Amelia Bones received these confidential reports to keep them safe from spies. For all the good it did. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was planning something big, and for all their preparation, he still felt like a sitting duck. It didn't help that both of them were still effectively living in hiding after Boxing Day. Ordinary wards just weren't enough with You-Know-Who and his allies around.

Not to mention the Ministry itself seemed to be suffering from rank incompetence these days. Amelia kept losing files. She insisted it was sabotage, but she couldn't prove it. And Scrimgeour seemed to think he could do her job better. Or Fudge's. Or both. At the rate they were going, the Ministry would fall flat on its face before You-Know-Who made a move—not that the public knew that.

One thing was clear, and that was the growing sense in the Ministry and among the public that open war was inevitable. Well, really, they were in open war now, but he feared it was going to get much worse. Dumbledore still claimed to hold out hope that he and Potter could kill You-Know-Who for good before he attacked, but if they could manage that, why hadn't they done it yet? That mess in Diagon Alley was supposed to be part of it somehow, but didn't look like a success from where Fudge stood.

For his part, Fudge had been trying to keep the people from panicking, with diminishing success. He'd been telling all of his employees, not just the DMLE, to train up in preparation for a battle, and he'd been doing his best to root out spies, but he knew from the last war that the Death Eaters always had the Ministry on the back foot, because they were willing to do things the Ministry wasn't.

But he'd give it a good try anyway. If he was stuck in this war, then damned if he didn't fight with everything he had to get through it.