"ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢʏ. ɪ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴏᴠᴇꜱ"

― ʙᴏʙʙʏ ꜰɪꜱᴄʜᴇʀ


Chapter Five: Forcing Moves

The repetitive skritch-skritch of quills around her, Mafalda gazed up at the clock near the door, as if it were the only thing that could possibly release her from her misery.

11:55

Those last five minutes were almost too long to bear. Mafalda forced herself to concentrate; she had a performance review coming up, and she couldn't afford to be paid any more below her worth than she currently was.

She imagined Barty Crouch Senior's smug face and angrily refilled her quill with ink. There had been no replacement for Percy, who was now even more unbearable than ever as he swanned about the Ministry with his Very Important Job Title.

Perhaps it wasn't too late to get Crouch to see sense, Mafalda reflected. Who did he think he was to turn her down, anyway? To not believe her when she'd told him about facing Death Eaters?

There was only one thing to do about it, thought Mafalda, as she hastily finished the last of the report, springing to her feet the minute that the hour hand clicked into the 12 o'clock position. She had to tell Crouch to his face what an idiot he was. It wasn't like she could sink any lower than the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects.

Hurrying past her coworkers and out into the hallway, Mafalda began to make her way to the Department of International Magical Co-operation, all the way on the fifth floor. She squeezed into a crowded lift just behind a witch with a tight grey bun clutching a clipboard.

"Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," a cool female voice announced as they descended a single floor. About a third of the lift's occupants dashed off. Mafalda somewhat enviously wondered what had happened and then thought that constantly cleaning up after others' messes must be a thankless job.

"Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

Practically everyone else in the lift made their way out; Mafalda supposed it was the second largest department in the Ministry, after all.

"Level Five, Department of International Magical Co-operation."

Only Mafalda and the witch with the grey bun were left in the lift. The witch gave Mafalda a disapproving look, then hurried out. Left to her own devices, Mafalda stared up at the ceiling of the lift as if appealing to a higher power. She had to be mad. There was no way she could convince Crouch after he'd soundly rejected her proposal — snubbed her, even.

The grate creaked loudly, threatening to slide back across and startling Mafalda; she slipped through just as they completely shut with a heavy clang.

She was a little taken aback by the un-impressiveness of her surroundings. It was true that she was in a very inconsequential part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but despite that, it was the largest and most important department, its halls furnished lavishly and outfitted handsomely in oak. By contrast, the Department of International Magical Co-operation was white and bare, almost crude in its efficiency. The fact it was lunchtime probably didn't help; the hallway echoed emptily around her as she made her way down towards Crouch's office, taking note of each pallid door and the card next to it.

There was a strange stillness about the corridor, an unnatural emptiness possessing it. But places were funny like that; without human presence, one's mind necessitates the habitation of ghosts and monsters.

Finally, she found herself in front of Barty Crouch's door. Ash, most likely. The wood was a soulless, greyish-blonde.

The worst he can say is no, thought Mafalda. And with that sort-of-encouraging thought, she turned the cold handle of the door.

Realising she should have knocked first, Mafalda winced. But the room was strangely quiet, too, she thought. Perhaps he was out to lunch.

Strange.

Mafalda's hand faltered on the doorknob, shaking so hard that she had to clamp her other hand on top of it to still it.

A deep red stain marred the wooden desk. Papers lay amok. A bottle of ink had been disturbed, and a black lake puddled across the desk; the shredded remains of a quill swam in it.

"Mr. Crouch?" asked Mafalda, her voice coming out more petite than she expected. An eerie chill ran down her spine even as she forced herself to step forward, her foot pressing down on something soft yet hard. In her fright, she tumbled over it, falling to the floor with an undignified shriek.

What is wrong with me?

Get up, Mafalda.

Why did her heart beat so quickly, so strangely in her chest? What was this primal fear, this stink about the place?

Then she saw it.

What she had tripped over.

The green gemstone in the centre of a ring winked at her, glistening in the light.

Tendon and bone and muscle had been severed messily. Limp strands of skin dangled over the grisly wound. The fingers reached, as if outstretched, towards the door to escape.

Mafalda followed the path of blood with her eyes, cupping her hand to her mouth to hold back the bile in her throat. Another grisly stain was swabbed across the rug. A whole eyeball, still attached to the bloodied optic nerve. A matted tuft of steel grey hair, along with the skin, as if it had been ripped out. A clothed leg dangling across the very chair she had sat in—

There was no stopping it — the retching, the screaming, the crying, all mixing with what she had smelled in the corridor — the horrible smell of death.

She — she'd barely known Crouch; she'd respected him but detested his arrogance, his stubbornness, and now she found herself detesting that she'd been right.

I know that you're marked for death … You're a threat. If Death Eaters haven't tried to assassinate you, they will after the election today.

How terrible it must be to be a Seer. To know, she felt, was to be responsible. She hadn't wanted him to die — and not like this; no one should die like this.

Was that what this horrible, hopeless feeling was? Guilt?

It didn't matter anymore. He was already dead. He was dead. There was no changing it. It was reality. And she must get up. She must get herself together.

Yes.

Malfada clumsily got to the feet, her legs numb and boneless under her, swaying as if in a breeze. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand and sniffled.

Yes. Doing something about it would make her feel better.

What to do?

The Aurors. The Auror Office.

The Auror Office is full of traitors. The whole Ministry is crawling with Voldemort's allies. You don't think they could be behind this.

"Shut up," Mafalda groaned as she dragged herself out of the office. She could only wish she had never dragged herself down here in the first place.


If anything, her spirits were somehow lower by the time Malfalda reached the tall, imposing oak doors between which lay the Auror Office. It had begun to sink in.

Bartemius Crouch Senior was really dead. He was in pieces in his own office.

And I'm going to be the one to deliver the news.

Why me?

Oh, how she wished she was back safely in her cubicle, boring herself to death with reports on accidents that people had brought upon themselves by bothering with counterfeit nazars, or whatever the rage was now. The innocence of this morning would never be regained.

Someone surged out of the oak doors, causing Mafalda to stumble back.

There's nothing to it. I have to. I can't risk letting anyone loyal to Umbridge get ahold of this. I'll go right to Shacklebolt.

Mustering her courage, ignoring her stomach turning over and over again, Mafalda flung the heavy oak door open, and marched through.

Thankfully, the office was busy, and loud. The room was filled with glossy open cubicles, with lavender memos in the shape of birds zooming between them. Ordinarily, Mafalda would have been envious of the scarlet-robed, laughing inhabitants, but right now, she had a single focus — finding Shacklebolt.

It was more complicated than she expected; with the uniforms and the residual shock, she found it hard to tell people apart.

"Watch where you're going," said a deep voice just as Mafalda stumbled headfirst into a blur of scarlet.

And then she found herself locking eyes with Hassan Shafiq — his concerned face was close, too close, close enough for her to see the dark brown beauty spot on his cheek, the traces of five o'clock shadow along his jawline, the little wrinkles in his lips — everything was still an incomprehensible mass of details, as torn and shredded as Crouch's body had been, never to be put back together—

"Are you alright, Prewett?"

Like you care, she wanted to say, but her stomach roiled, her head spun, her legs weightless.

"Here!" Another voice, someone had thrust a flask of something strong-smelling under her nose, and Hassan looked up in surprise.

But the herbal, woodsy scent was familiar and comforting.

Wiggenweld, thought Mafalda gratefully, and she knocked the whole thing back before her legs started to give way beneath her. The perilous feeling of weightlessness receded; trying to scrape together some semblance of dignity, Mafalda found herself a chair and sat down.

"You should go home and rest," said Tonks, her hair dark and lank, eyes wide with worry. She fiddled with the lid of the flask, screwing it back on hesitantly as if she expected Mafalda to need another draught.

"I'm fine," said Mafalda through her teeth. Now, a good amount of the Aurors were staring at them, peering curiously over the low tops of their open cubicles. She wished they would get back to their work; after all, it surely had to be more interesting than hers. "I just need to speak to Shacklebolt. Can one of you please go get him?"

Hassan crossed his broad arms, frowning. "What would you possibly need to say to Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

By the time he'd finished speaking, Tonks had already turned on her heel and left, presumably to find him. She had obviously assumed it was Order business.

Though her limbs were still weak, and her mind sluggish, Mafalda looked up at Hassan to respond: "More than you would assume, it appears."

A hysterical laugh nearly escaped her, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep it back.

His frown grew deeper. Hassan had just opened his mouth to speak when Tonks drew close again, Kingsley Shacklebolt striding after her. The latter nodded at Hassan as if to dismiss him; and Hassan slunk away, but, Mafalda noticed, still close enough to overhear if they spoke too loudly.

"What's going on, Mafalda?" asked Kingsley, and her head snapped up.

"I—" How could she? Who was she to deliver this news? How to even begin?

Start with the facts. Mafalda cleared her throat, her hands forming fists, the pain of her nails digging into the palm, anchoring her to reality. She willed her voice to be still.

"Barty Crouch Senior is dead," she whispered.

"No!" Tonks's hands flew up to her face as if to hide the horror in her expression.

There was something defeated, accepting, knowing, expecting in Kingsley's posture.

"What happened?" His voice was lower than Mafalda's had been and soft.

Mafalda's head snapped up again — she'd been staring between her feet at the floor.

"I don't know," said Mafalda, and she wondered if she looked as miserable as she felt. "I found him —" The hysterical laugh bubbled up again "—no, no, not him. Pieces. There were pieces of him, you know. And the puddle — blood."

"Hey, maybe we should—" Tonks started, her worried gaze flicking from Mafalda to Kingsley.

"Where is he?" asked Kingsley, in that same low, calm voice.

She answered him. And then the office became a blur of scarlet.


Hermione looked up as Harry and Ron slid into the remaining seats opposite her. She looked a bit peaky, Harry thought, and her hands trembled on either side of her copy of the Daily Prophet. There was even moistness on the paper behind her fingers — her hands must have been clammy.

"Are you alright?" asked Harry.

"Fine," said Hermione in a weak voice. "But I think the front page of the Prophet's worth reading today."

That couldn't be good. Harry and Ron exchanged a look as Hermione slid the paper across the table towards them.

BARTEMIUS CROUCH SENIOR, HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF INTERNATIONAL MAGICAL CO-OPERATION, FOUND MURDERED IN HIS OFFICE

Yesterday afternoon, an unnamed Ministry employee discovered Bartemius Crouch Senior's remains in his office. Upon arriving on the scene, Aurors confirmed that there were signs of a violent struggle and evidence of dismemberment.

This act of terror has deeply shaken those at the Ministry, with many questioning how he met his unfortunate end and whether there are dark forces at work. Percy Weasley, his former assistant, said "I had always looked up to and admired Mr. Crouch, but I do not think we should speculate on the nature of his passing. The Auror Office is doing its utmost to uncover the cause, and all that we can do is to wait."

Indeed, the Auror Office has elected and assigned a special task force to investigate Crouch's murder. Head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke to the Prophet. "Several of our most seasoned investigators have been assigned to Crouch's case. Rest assured, we shall find the assassin and uncover their plot, and they shall face justice."

Throughout this trying time, the new Minister for Magic, Dolores Umbridge, has been steadfast, a bastion of strength, kindness, and courage, holding 'office hours' and 'discussion circles' for those with lingering questions about Shacklebolt's death.

Ron lifted his head. "Probably so she can have them tortured into silence," he muttered.

Crouch's death has raised concerns about the safety of the Ministry, concerns which began with the attempted assassination of Cornelius Fudge, the previous Minister for Magic, in 1994 at the Abraxas Malfoy Memorial Ward of St. Mungo's. Checkpoints and random searches have been implemented, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Minister herself have both issued statements emphasising vigilance against future threats.

Crouch was a highly regarded member of the magical community, famously serving as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement during the war, in which he took a strong stance against Death Eaters, authorising the emergency use of Unforgivable Curses by Aurors and imprisoning hundreds of Voldemort's followers in Azkaban. In peace-time, Crouch served for several years as the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation. One of his most notable successes was maintaining trade and diplomacy throughout the Dementor crisis. He is survived only by his son, Bartemius Crouch Junior, a notorious Death Eater who he sentenced to Azkaban in 1981.

"Well, what could have done that?" asked Ron, looking a little green.

"Blasting Curse," Harry suggested. "And besides, there's loads of Dark curses, libraries full of them—"

He stopped, all of a sudden remembering what Riddle had picked up in Sirius's library.

Why does the library have a manual on making Inferi?

And he remembered Ruby's whispered recollections of the year she'd disappeared with Riddle around the table with him, Sirius, and Lupin — of the terrible black cave filled with horrible, zombie-like things, things that she'd said wanted to tear them apart alive.

Corpses bewitched to do a Dark wizard or witch's bidding. Should add that to the curriculum for next term, I suppose. Being killed by them is…

"What?" asked Harry, realising that Hermione was staring at him with wide, horrified eyes.

"I know that look," she said, slowly. "You're thinking. And I think you're thinking what I'm thinking of."

No. Not more monsters.

He'd been put off of his breakfast, anyway. The smell of food made him feel sick to his stomach. They all simply sat in silence until it was time for Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall looked as grim as Harry felt, and he wondered if she'd read the article too, and if she'd come to the same horrible conclusion.

He sat down in his usual seat beside Ron, enviously watching an oblivious Dean and Seamus laughing and joking in front of them.

"Do rounds with Greengrass yet, Ron?" asked Seamus, swivelling around in his chair, his eyes wide with interest.

Shaken out of his stupor, Ron said, "No, I did one with Zabini, though. Wouldn't even speak to me when I asked him something. I've got Greengrass on Tuesday."

Dean snorted. "Don't look so happy."

"And you're bloody lucky," said Seamus in a wondering tone. "Rounds with Greengrass!"

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and the classroom went silent.

"You cannot pass an O.W.L. without serious application, practice, and study. I see no reason why everybody in this class should not achieve an O.W.L. in Transfiguration as long as they put in the work."

Harry felt his eyes dart over to Neville Longbottom and instantly felt horribly guilty. Before he forcibly tore his gaze away, he noticed that he wasn't the only one looking in that direction.

McGonagall's expression tightened. "Today, we are starting Vanishing Spells. These are easier than Conjuring Spells, which you would not usually attempt until N.E.W.T. level, but they are still among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your O.W.L."

Pulling out a piece of parchment and his quill, Harry mentally prepared himself for one of McGonagall's lectures — though always interesting, he always found them somewhat difficult to follow.

"Vanishment is the art of causing objects to disappear. Now, I assume some of you are about to ask me where Vanished objects go. The simplified answer is that they go into non-being, which is to say, everything. But how is Vanishment achieved? This, indeed, is an open question, which one of you might go on to study. Some believe that the matter in the object is hyper-compressed, therefore conserving it, and therefore, that is why Vanished objects may be retrieved. Others who have worked at the intersection of Muggle physics and alchemy believe that the Vanishment of objects converts them into dark matter, that which cannot interact with light nor the energies which bind ordinary material things. Still others believe that there is a place where Vanished things go. For homework, you will write a three-foot essay on what you believe is the most likely hypothesis of Vanishment, and why."

"Now, for the spell itself…"

The snail on the end of Harry's desk twitched unintelligently. Ron prodded his with a grimace, and its soft body promptly retreated into the shell.

Clear and collected, Harry reminded himself.

"Ten points to Gryffindor, very good, Miss Granger."

Hermione beamed, and Harry's spirits lifted slightly at seeing the sunny expression on her face. She hasn't smiled much since third year, he thought.

BOOM!

Neville's snail was instantly incinerated, the room filling with the noxious smell of smoke. Sitting beside him, Hannah Abbott pinched her nose, visibly gagging, and leaned over to open a window. Saying nothing, McGonagall placed a new snail before Neville and nodded encouragingly. "I expect even you to pass the Transfiguration O.W.L., so do try again."

Once again, Harry turned his attention to the snail, and with all his might, he tried to convince himself that it was not in fact there, that there was nothing left of it but a trail of slime.

"Evanesco!"

The snail flickered, and Harry held fast to the notion of it disappearing, forcing his will to supersede reality, his eyes trained on the target.

With a last, feeble flicker, the snail faded into thin air.

"Blimey," said Ron in a thin voice, and Harry felt his face heat. He'd never been the best at Transfiguration; it had that taken him a year to master match-to-needle.

"It's nothing," said Harry, "I just practised a bit with — you know."

When Professor McGonagall walked by, she gave Harry five House points, and then that caused seemingly everyone to turn and stare at him.

And contrary to what Snape thought, Harry did not like the attention. He found himself descending into a foul mood afterwards, which did not lift as they entered the Defence classroom.

The instant he sat down, Ruby appeared in the other chair, looking anxiously behind her.

"Trouble in paradise?" muttered Harry. He wasn't fond of getting mixed up in the complex social troubles of the Slytherins, and neither was his sister.

"Yeah, something like that. Pansy and Daphne are at each others' throats, as usual. And don't get me started on the boys."

"I won't."

Harry chanced a look over to the left side of the second row, where Parkinson was, rather performatively, giggling at something that Malfoy had just said. Daphne and Blaise looked on with identical airs of superiority. Crabbe and Goyle were engaged in a contest of flicking things at Nott's skinny back. The latter, seemingly oblivious, was watching Bill Weasley fixedly.

Following his gaze, Harry turned his attention to the Defence professor, who was writing UNIT ONE: COUNTERJINXES on the blackboard, then proceeding to add a list under them.

Hermione, who was directly in front of Harry, thrust her hand up into the air, even though Bill couldn't see her, with his back turned.

When Bill finally turned to face the class, his mouth open as if about to speak, he caught sight of Hermione, who was bobbing impatiently in her chair, her hand wiggling in the air.

"Professor Weasley?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

Harry thought there might be a tired note in his voice.

"Don't you think we ought to start with Dark creatures?" asked Hermione, putting her hand down.

Something conflicted passed over Bill Weasley's face. He shook his head, expression suddenly blank.

"I'm not sure I know what you're referring to, Miss Granger."

Professor Weasley was just about to return to UNIT ONE: COUNTERJINXES when Hermione went on: "I'm referring to the murder of Crouch, of course. You did see it in the Prophet, didn't you, Professor Weasley?"

Bill's eyes widened in shock; Harry heard half the class suck in a horrified breath.

"Oh, no," Ruby murmured.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger," said Bill, his voice forcibly level and his posture ramrod-straight. "If you don't mind discussing this topic out of class, we'll all return to counterjinxes."

"Actually, I do mind, Professor," said Hermione, halfway out of her chair now, and Bill's eyebrows shot up.

Across the room, either Crabbe or Goyle — Harry couldn't tell them apart anymore — chortled until Malfoy hissed at them to shut up. The latter, along with the entire rest of the class, was watching Hermione and Bill with rapturous interest.

"I know that you used to be a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts," said Hermione slowly. "And I know that you must have run into Inferi."

"We mustn't speculate on what killed Crouch." Bill's response was almost rehearsed.

Could he be working for the Ministry? Harry pondered. After all, Dumbledore did say that he was having a hard time finding anyone who wasn't. I'll have to ask Ron. Maybe that's why he's been so… weird about the whole thing.

"Now, on counterjinxes…"

As they all split up to practice the counterjinx to the Jelly-Legs Jinx, Harry couldn't get that thought out of his head.

"What's wrong with him?" he hissed at Ruby as they carried their chairs over to the sides of the room.

Ruby shrugged a shoulder, tucking her wand behind her ear. "Maybe he's just scared. Seems it."

"Of what?"

Harry hardly thought the man he'd met at the dinner in 12 Grimmauld Place could be scared of anything as simple as a teaching position. Surely, he'd faced monsters far more perilous than stage fright! That couldn't be it.

"Dunno, maybe of messing everything up. I would be," she said heavily. "It's a lot of pressure, trying to live up to expectations."

They found an empty place on the newly-cleared floor. Already, spells were flying to-and-fro. Parkinson and Greengrass had already turned each other's legs to mush, neither looking as if they wanted to bother casting the counterjinx on her opponent. Neville was attempting to un-Jellify Crabbe — or Goyle's legs, profusely apologising at every failed attempt.

"I think I should try it on you first," said Ruby with a wry smile.

Not like his mood could get any darker.

"Yeah, go on, do your worst."

Harry didn't like the smirk that flitted across Ruby's face before she lifted her wand.

"Locomotor Wibbly!"

The sensation wasn't unpleasant anymore after years of having it cast on him in Defence lessons — no, that wasn't true — but it was unpleasantness that, strange to say, he'd gotten used to.

"Can you at least try to fix me?" asked Harry, glowering up at Ruby, who had her hand pressed to her mouth in a fit of giggles.

"Alright, alright. What was it — Firmum Esse!"

To Harry's relief, it worked the first time, and all of a sudden, the hard wooden floor was pressing into solid knees.

"Now, your turn," said Harry as he got to his feet, and Ruby's eyes widened comically.

As if to spare her temporarily, Bill paused on his way past to nod, and say, "Good job," with a nervous manner, before continuing on.

"What, no points for Slytherin," said Ruby under her breath in mock horror. "Maybe we should try it on you again."

You're not wiggling out of this that easily, thought Harry, and he cast the jinx before she could get another remark in edgeways. He had to admit that her look of shock was quite funny as her legs puddled to the floor in a gelatinous squish.

Five minutes before the bell rang to signal the end of class, Bill moved through the room once more, un-jinxing anyone whose opponent's counterjinx had been unsuccessful, and shouting out next week's homework just as everyone began to stumble out of the classroom.

"Well!" said Hermione angrily, turning to Harry and Ruby as they caught up; Ron was nowhere to be seen. "What is his problem, anyway?"

"Simple, unlike you, he can keep his mouth shut, Granger," trilled Parkinson as she walked by arm-in-arm with Bulstrode, seemingly her new companion.

All three glared at her retreating back in silence.

"Can you imagine what would happen if he did start teaching us about Inferi all of a sudden and agree with Hermione that Crouch was killed by them?" asked Ruby after a pause. "He'd be completely discredited and thrown out of the position by the sheer volume of complaints. You know what Dumbledore said, Harry — the Ministry is trying to gain influence over Hogwarts."

Hermione let out a sort of disbelieving snort, and Harry himself wasn't wholly convinced.

"Er — maybe you should ask Dumbledore about that theory."

"Maybe I will," said Ruby, and Harry realised with a sense of mild horror that there was conviction in her tone.


The Headmaster's Office was intimately known to her — from the strange silver instruments to the portraits of (usually asleep) former Headteachers, to the ornate stone Pensieve.

What Ruby was startled by was the third occupant of the room. Why was Tee here? He ought to leave. This was her meeting time with Dumbledore.

Why is he here?

Oh, yes. Because you called for him. It's all your fault.

Dumbledore looked up, appearing to finally notice her. But Ruby knew better; he had noticed her from the very start, when she walked into the room.

"Come in," he said jovially. "Do make yourself comfortable."

Or as much as I can be with him in the room.

"Thank you, Professor." Ruby sat without paying Tee any mind, or at least trying not to.

She wondered if Dumbledore would tell him to leave soon.

Or would she have to ask, with him in the room? He showed no willingness to leave, curiously inspecting a frosty Ice Mouse.

Fine. Ruby cleared her throat, and leaned forward to meet Dumbledore's expectant gaze.

"Professor, why did you give Bill Weasley the Defence position?"

At that, Dumbledore looked surprised — and beside her, Tee startled, sitting up straight and turning towards them.

"It was very kind of Mr. Weasley to volunteer, and I trust him," said Dumbledore, his voice level and expression unreadable. "Ice Mouse, Ruby?"

Stifling her irritation, she peered into the shallow bowl filled with translucent, squeaking sugar mice and pulled one out by its twitching tail, not quite sure what to do with it.

Tentatively, Ruby bit off a tiny corner and nearly shrieked at the freezing sensation.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Yes, they are quite… invigorating, aren't they? Although, I believe, like coriander, it is highly polarising."

Ruby tried another tactic. "I saw the article about Crouch's murder this morning."

All of the levity drained from Dumbledore. "Yes," he said grimly.

Spurred on by his new demeanour, Ruby asked: "And do you think it's Inferi?"

"Well," said Dumbledore, seeming to consider the idea, "the logistics would be tricky indeed. But it is a possibility that we cannot rule out as of yet. However, using Inferi for the purposes of a political assassination does seem melodramatic."

Ruby couldn't help the slide of her gaze towards Tee, who made an insulted sound in response.

"What do you **think, Tom?" asked Dumbledore, stroking his beard with a thoughtful expression. "You have been rather quiet. And — unlike many speculating — you have encountered the creatures, and seem to take an interest in them."

At first, Tee did not speak, but finally, he put his Ice Mouse aside, crossed his arms, and said: "How can anyone draw conclusions from a Prophet article?"

Though she hated to agree with Tee, he was right. The Daily Prophet was the most important and popular newspaper in Wizarding Britain, but it was also known for misleading and highly biased reporting — with sensationalist columnists like Rita Skeeter, Ruby didn't expect the news staff to be significantly more truthful.

"Perhaps you and I should pay the Ministry a visit?" asked Dumbledore lightly. "That should allow us to draw our own conclusions."

While Dumbledore was still somewhat serious, Ruby pressed on about Bill Weasley. "So if the Inferi idea's so plausible, why wouldn't he even entertain Hermione's suggestion?"

"Ruby," said Dumbledore, in a 'I-think-this-conversation-is-over' tone. "I think you know the answer to that question as well as I do."

There was clearly no way to coax any more information of him. Ruby sunk into her chair, contemplating. Yes, she'd defended Bill to Harry and Hermione, but could that really be true — was it possible that his drastic change in demeanour and appearance was all a sham to avoid reproach from the powers that be? Or could it be something more pernicious in nature?

Maybe I should pay Bill Weasley himself a visit, thought Ruby. That might be more fruitful.

Just then, Dumbledore stood, folding his hands in front of his robes.

"Shall we go to dinner?" he asked warmly. "My watch reads five-to."

The conversation was well and truly over, then. Ruby accepted defeat, following Dumbledore out of the office.

As they left, Dumbledore looked over his shoulder and said, archly, "I trust you will avoid any trouble, Tom?"

If Ruby didn't know better, she'd think the Headmaster was needling him on purpose.

"I was wondering if you had gotten the chance to speak to Draco Malfoy since his return," said Dumbledore as they descended the stairs.

Ruby bristled. So it's alright for him to question me?

"Honestly, I've tried not to, Professor," she said. For the past three weeks, she'd been studiously avoiding all of her Housemates, lingering in the Gryffindor dormitory with Lavender and Parvati until curfew. "Things in Slytherin are… complicated right now."

"I see, I see. Trials of adolescence, as it were."

She thought of something. "Why did Malfoy come back?"

"Hmm." Dumbledore looked quite pensive. "That, I do not know. Perhaps his mother's ascendancy at the Ministry has something to do with it."

You mean the fact that Narcissa Malfoy's practically running the country — or, at least, the magical part of it.

"At any rate," said Dumbledore, as they reached the double doors at the entrance of the Great Hall, "we must be ready for the next plot. Whatever move Voldemort plays next — it will be forcing. We cannot afford to be outmanoeuvred again."

The sounds of the Great Hall were an excellent cover; no one paid any attention to their entrance as they drew to the side of the doors.

Ruby considered Dumbledore's words. "Then why don't we lay a trap?"

"Yes, that is the question. But which one?"

Without another word, Dumbledore turned in a swathe of violet robes and made his way up to the professors' table, leaving Ruby more confused than ever.

"Hey — umm — start the Ancient Runes project proposal yet?"

It was Anthony, standing behind her and looking slightly sheepish.

"No," said Ruby, "I didn't. You?"

He stared up at the misty ceiling for a second. "No, couldn't think of anything. Want to do something in the library over the weekend?"

"Yeah, sounds good." Anything to get out of the Slytherin common room sounded good these days. In fact, Ruby even followed him to the Ravenclaw table, glad to have an excuse to get away from the drama for a while.

She found herself sitting in between Anthony and Padma, which was a little awkward, with all the complaining Parvati did about Padma these days. Padma was gracious enough, especially given Ruby's… reputation, and even made a vague offer for her to join the Ravenclaw's O.W.L. study group.

However, that didn't apply to the rest of the Ravenclaw table, who either stared at her as if she were a curiosity or glared at her with disgust.

"Don't worry about it," said Anthony, "I'm sure something insane will happen in the next few weeks and totally eclipse it."

Don't wish that into being, thought Ruby, but she only shrugged. For some reason, she felt strangely tongue-tied.

"Did you read the Prophet this morning?" asked a soft, pleasant voice — it was Cho Chang, sitting down opposite Anthony along with two other Ravenclaws whom Ruby didn't recognise.

"Hasn't everyone?" asked Padma, in the process of sprinkling a truly shocking amount of pepper on her food. "Hey, Anthony, wouldn't your dad know whether or not it's Inferi?"

Anthony's father, Benjamin Goldstein, was the Head of the Pest Advisory Board, but Ruby wasn't sure exactly how much overlap that had with Inferi and assassinations.

"If he knew, he wouldn't tell me," said Anthony sourly.

"Well, let's hope it's not Inferi," said Cho. "That's the last thing we need after the Dementors."

That thought seemed to upset everyone in the vicinity. But a quiet, depressing dinner at the Ravenclaw table, Ruby thought, was far, far better than the alternative.


A/N: I'm really attached to my 'Muggle scientists are sometimes witches or wizards' headcanon. The fact that many famous chemists and physicists such as Newton and Boyle, were alchemists, is just too fun not to exploit.