Two to Lead

Chapter 5: When The Other Shoe Drops

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London

Ginny's arms were sore and her back was sore and her legs were sore. Her punishment for the troll's head stunt was scrubbing the entrance hall.

Remembering the look on Ron's face, Ginny decided it was still worth it.

Scrubbing was a tedious activity, physically tiring and mentally unstimulating. Hence its convenient use as punishment. At least she had kneepads, though. The fact that her mother had thought to bring kneepads, a bucket and a scrub-brush to Number Twelve proved to Ginny that Mrs. Weasley knew her children better than they thought she did.

As with all repetitive activities, Ginny eventually began scrubbing in a rhythm.

Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub, dip, crawl backwards.

She began whistling impromptu melodies to the rhythm, which seemed to make things go a bit faster. Bolero worked surprisingly well. Ginny was three-quarters of the way finished when Ron came bounding downstairs, a parchment grasped in his hand.

"Ginny, I need you to translate this," he said desperately. This meant that the parchment was a letter from Hermione. Every time Ron received one, he brought it to Ginny, for 'a girl's perspective,' which generally meant a half-hour spent explaining to her brother that when Hermione wrote 'I miss you,' it probably meant that she simply missed him, and that the three words did not contain any secret codes or hidden meanings.

Immediately, Ginny knew what was going to happen. She tried to warn her brother.

"Ron, I just scrubbed..."

Ron didn't get the message in time, took two steps off of the staircase, lost his footing, hung in the air for a long and comedic split-second, then landed full force on his ass.

Because such moments are inherently funny when actually witnessed firsthand, Ginny laughed.

Ron scowled at her and stood up carefully, rubbing his tailbone.

"Why didn't you tell me the floor was wet?" he accused.

"I...tried...to..." Ginny choked out between laughs. "You...weren't...listening..."

Still scowling, Ron shook the letter at her. "I need you to help me with this."

Finally regaining control of herself, Ginny halfheartedly went back to scrubbing. If directed properly, her brother's in depth analysis of Hermione's letters had the potential to be at least as laugh-out-loud funny as watching him fall on his ass.

Ginny giggled again, recalling the way his arms and legs had flailed.

"What?" Ron asked suspiciously. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Ginny said soberly. "Just remembering you flying up in the air..." That brought it all back again, and Ginny had to sit back and just laugh it all out: the surprised look on his face, the way he'd held up Hermione's letter protectively instead of dropping it and using that hand to brace himself against the fall. If looked at properly, just about every element was hilarious.

"It wasn't that funny," Ron said petulantly.

"No," Ginny sighed, "of course it wasn't. Just a bit giddy today, I suppose." She studiously kept her gaze on the Entrance Hall floor, because she knew very well that if she looked up and saw Ron rubbing his chin and squinting his eyes as if he could see through the letter if he just tried hard enough, she would lose it again.

"So anyway, the letter..."

"Yes," Ginny said, scrubbing in earnest. "I'm listening."

"Well, she goes on and on about how she wants to write a paper on the Moorish influence on the Spanish magical tradition, whatever that means..."

"Really? I can see how that would be an interesting topic, if one were interested in magical law and regulation..." Ginny began, before realizing that she was talking to Ron, who couldn't care less.

"Yeah, so she's already writing a paper before its assigned," Ron said dismissively. "Okay, but here she says: 'We're in Seville right now, and I really think you'd like it here.' What do you think that means?"

"I don't know. Does she elaborate?"

"Um...she says the architecture is spectacular and the atmosphere of the city is very laid back."

"Okay," Ginny said thoughtfully, going along with the overanalyzing because there was nothing better to occupy her mind. "So if she thinks you'd like it there, she obviously associates you with Seville."

"Spectacular architecture?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Well, she obviously thinks you'd appreciate it," Ginny hedged. "And she feels comfortable there, I suppose, if she thinks the atmosphere is laid-back."

"Yeah, I can see that. I mean, we've known each other for years, you know? It makes sense that she'd feel comfortable around me. And I'm a laid-back kind of guy, right?"

"Of course," Ginny agreed, privately wondering whether Hermione had sent the same letter - word for word - to Harry.

"But, see, here's the real killer: 'I'm enjoying it here and learning so many interesting things, but I miss you and can't wait to see you again.' Now, what do you think of that?" Ron asked smugly.

Ginny stopped scrubbing. "She actually wrote that?"

"Yup."

"Wow. Well, that's certainly interesting. That's a lot of emotion coming from Hermione."

"Emotion," Ron said, nodding.

"I mean, she always says that she misses you, but she's never said before that she can't wait to see you again."

"No, she hasn't," Ron confirmed, grinning.

"Ron," Ginny sighed, "why don't you just tell her that you like her?"

"What?!" Ron seemed appalled. "I don't like Hermione, not like that."

"Funny, you don't make me analyze every letter Harry sends you."

Ron blushed noticeably. "That's Harry. I don't need you to interpret his letters. It doesn't mean I like Hermione."

Ginny shrugged and went back to scrubbing. "You're a big, fat coward," she informed him.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"You're nuts."

"No, I'm not. Ron, do you know why I can't stand the girls in my dormitory?"

"What? What does that have to do with this?"

"Just answer the question."

"No," he said huffily. "I have no idea why you can't stand the girls in your dormitory."

"Because when it comes to boys, they mess about and they play games and they make a general mess of things. They make the stupidest things out to be far more important than they need to be, and they drool about boys in the dormitory and then pretend that those same boys don't exist when they see them in the hallways."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're doing the same thing, Ron. Instead of choosing the simplest option, which is telling Hermione that you like her, you study the wording of her letters for hours, and I know for a fact that when you're around her, you don't act at all as if you like her. As far as I'm concerned, this means that you have the emotional maturity of a fourteen-year-old girl."

Ron stared at her for a moment before scoffing. "You're barmy."

"Call me whatever you want, but at least I've had a second date," Ginny shot back. It was a low blow, but it was true, and frankly, when it came to romance, Ron needed a sound kick in the trousers to simply acknowledge its existence, much less apply it to a girl he liked.

"That...you're..." Ron sputtered. Finally he crossed his arms. "Girls are stupid."

"Ron, if you're still holding onto that belief at sixteen, then you'd better start hanging out more with Justin Finch-Fletchley. I hear he's quite familiar with alternative lifestyles," Ginny said sweetly.

"I'M NOT GAY!" Ron shouted.

"Then prove it. Put one iota of your pride on the line and actually ask a girl out."

"Who?"

"Anybody," Ginny said peevishly. "You don't have to marry her, just spend a few hours with her and chew with your mouth closed. For most boys, this isn't something that requires persuasion."

Ginny heard Ron begin pacing the Entrance Hall and she approached the end of her scrubbing.

"If - theoretically, of course - I were to ask out Hermione, do you think she'd say yes?" Ron asked uncertainly, still pacing.

Ginny suddenly felt very guilty for her harsh treatment of him. After all, Ron was Ron. He was one of the most selfless and noble people she knew. Of course, he was also one of the most obstinate and dense, too. But that was part of what made him Ron.

But the lack of self-confidence worried her, because Ginny knew that it wasn't about living up to Percy and Bill and Charlie any more. It was about Harry. Harry was a hero. It was just part of him, like his glasses or his messy hair. You couldn't really resent him for it, because it was just who he was.

And Ron knew that. He knew that more intimately than Ginny could ever understand. But the unfortunate side-note was that being Harry's best friend diminished Ron in some ways. Within his own family, he could at least find his own path, find something that suited him, or that he alone was good at, but with Harry, you were either Harry or you were someone Harry had to save. There was no way to create your own identity in an all-or-nothing game.

Ginny hoped somehow that Ron's recognition as the Gryffindor Keeper would allow him some leeway in all of that. And maybe it would. Maybe next year, Ron would be a Quidditch star and attain the sort of glory he always wanted, even when he pretended not to really care about it all that much.

She did truly want that for him, wanted it to become a tangible thing that she could somehow pull out of the air and give to him, because maybe he needed it. Or maybe it was even more than that. A fear Ginny had felt since the beginning, a very secret fear she'd always had, that maybe Ron didn't want Harry to succeed, that maybe - unknowingly, unconsciously - Ron would sabotage Harry. A fear that Ron's jealousy, which went hand-in-hand with his lack of confidence, would someday take him over.

Ginny realized quite suddenly that she'd been silent for far too long, and that she had strayed way too far into dark thoughts that were unnecessary and irrelevant to the matter at hand.

"Of course she'd say yes, Ron." Looking uncharacteristically pensive, Ron left her to her punishment.

When she finally finished scrubbing, Ginny went down to the kitchen to return her gear. Her mother was standing at the large sink, trying to coax an eggbeater into the soapy water with both her wand and her hand. The eggbeater didn't incline to obey.

"Just go!" Molly snarled, grabbing the eggbeater and once more trying to force it into the sink. The implement shot out of her hand and hovered a foot or so above the sink, as if taunting her.

"I'm finished, mum," Ginny said meekly, trying to get out of the kitchen before any frustration was vented in her direction.

"That's nice, dear," her mother said vaguely, throwing hexes at the eggbeater, all of which bounced off. Finally Molly threw her wand down and put her head in her hands.

Ginny shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether or not she should get involved. She heard a distinct sob and sighed, coming over to touch her mother's shoulder.

"It's okay, mum. Dad can stop off in Diagon Alley and get us an uncursed eggbeater."

"I hate this place," her mother said, her voice muffled by her hands, "and it hates us back."

Ginny led her mother over to a seat at the table, sinking down beside her and rubbing her back.

"It's not so bad, and it's only for a little while, right, mum?"

"Yes, it is, dear," her mother said shakily, wiping her eyes on her apron. "We just hoped to get everyone together this summer at the Burrow, maybe even P-P-Percy..." Ginny winced as her brother's name became a wail. "And Grandmother Weasley was going to visit, and now she can't because we're here and even if Dumbledore would allow her to come here, I can't bring myself to ask her."

"Well, maybe we could visit her later this summer, or at Christmas," Ginny said hopefully, feeling utterly wretched at seeing her mum feeling utterly wretched.

"I suppose," Molly sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to put all of this on you. Your father and I fought You-Know-Who the first time because we didn't want you to grow up like this, hiding out and afraid all the time."

"We're not afraid, mum."

"No, I suppose you're not, are you?" her mother murmured, almost to herself. "You don't know what it was like then, what it's going to be like soon." Her mother reached a hand over and stroked Ginny's hair, the way she had since Ginny was a little girl, her face so unaccountably sad that Ginny felt tears welling up in her own eyes.

When they had been told that You-Know-Who was back, both of her parents had walked around for days, looking like somebody had died. She and Ron and Fred and George had had a sort of conference about it, with the understanding that they were going to fight. It had all seemed very simple: He was back and they were going to fight him.

But now Ginny recalled the shadow in her parents' eyes then, the terrible knowledge as they looked at their children, that this war was going to fall on their shoulder, and that they might not all survive it.

Molly continued stroking her daughter's hair, that same sad look on her face as tears continued dripping down her face, plopping onto her apron unnoticed. All her life Ginny's parents had softened the truth for her, protected her, shielded her from the worst. They did it because she was their only daughter, and because she was the youngest. Much as she resented it, Ginny wanted very much to be lied to right now, to be told everything was going to be okay, even if it wasn't.

And suddenly Ginny realized that aside from what her mother had said and what she had said, that she did know - or at least have an inkling - and that she was afraid. Still, she didn't want to voice that thought. She had a feeling somehow that it wouldn't make her mother feel any better, that somehow she needed this time, be it days or weeks or months, in which she could treasure the innocence of her children that hadn't yet been lost.

So Ginny kept silent, letting her mother stroke her hair until it was time to prepare lunch.

*******

Little Whinging, Surrey

After showering, dressing, and appeasing his rumbling stomach with a hastily compiled turkey sandwich eaten under the silent yet disapproving glare of his Aunt Petunia, Harry made his way to the park for his meeting with Lucy. He ended up being a few minutes early and amused himself watching the summer activity.

Harry liked the park because it was perfectly acceptable to just sit on a bench and watch everybody else go about their business. Women stood in pairs, chatting with each other as they kept an eye on their youngsters. Businesspeople ate quick lunches, enjoying a bit of nature before going back to the office. Children made toys out of any useful object available, be it a large fallen branch, a fire hydrant or a perfect stranger. A large German Shepherd outleapt a short-legged Terrier for a thrown Frisbee, which he then proceeded to parade around with proudly.

Yawning, Harry glanced at his watch. His heart sank a bit. It was twelve fifteen.

Lucy was late. Or, a voice sounded in the back of his head, she's not coming at all.

"She's coming," Harry told himself. "She's just running late." He forced his mind back to the action around him, not allowing himself to look at his watch. Long minutes passed - or at least he thought they did- and Harry tried to look at the situation philosophically.

Even if she doesn't come, it's not a big deal. We barely even know each other. No big loss. Plenty of fish in the sea and all of that.

Finally, Harry's defenses broke down and he looked at his watch. It was half-past. She wasn't coming. Rising from the bench, Harry stretched a little and tried to figure out how he should spend the rest of the day.

"Harry," he heard suddenly from his right. He turned and saw Lucy striding purposefully toward him.

Against his will, Harry's heart leapt at the sight of her, in a long summery dress with her hair trailing behind her in a ponytail.

It took a lot of control not to grin like an idiot, but he managed.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized as she approached, dropping down on the bench with a flounce. "The bloody baby got hold of the milk and spilled it all and my sister acted like the world would end if we didn't have more immediately, and she wouldn't let me go to the grocery and buy some because she said I'd never come back - well, that's probably true, actually - so she made me stay with the baby while she went to buy some and she only just got home." Lucy said all of this in one breath, which Harry found impressive.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"It's okay," Harry said with a casual shrug. "I was late, too."

She smiled and patted him on the knee. "I was afraid you'd left."

"Why would I leave?" he asked, raising a seductive eyebrow.

Her smile grew into a knowing grin. "Well, what do you think we should do?"

There must be another Harry residing inside him, a heretofore unknown Harry, because the Harry with whom he had spent the last nearly sixteen years would never have thought to just lean across the bench and kiss a girl he barely knew. In public, no less.

"Oh, that," Lucy giggled, eventually drawing back from the kiss. Harry realized he had moved closer to her so that their legs were touching, wondered when that had happened, then discarded the question as unimportant.

"Actually," she offered in a low tone of voice, drawing designs on his knee with her finger in a way that made him feel very tingly, "I was thinking you could teach me some techniques."

"Techniques?" Harry asked distractedly, trying to smell her hair without appearing to.

"You know, fighting techniques."

"Sure, whatever you want," Harry answered before thinking. And then, unfortunately, he did think. Fighting techniques? The only experience he had with combat not involving wands or weapons generally involved cowering or running for it, depending on the options available.

"I'll teach you anything you want to learn," he said confidently. "A girl should know how to defend herself, after all."

"Yes, she should," Lucy agreed, her hand moving to his shoulder.

Harry's hormones took this as an invitation to kiss her again, which he did. She tasted like orange juice. This time he drew back first.

"You're a good kisser," Lucy commented, gazing up at him innocently.

"Kissing," Harry's badass alter-ego replied, "is only the beginning."

Had it been a movie, she would have swooned, fluttered her eyelashes or at least gazed up at him adoringly. This being life, she instead rose from the bench and offered him a hand.

"I have the perfect place," she said excitedly.

They held hands all the way through town, winding their way through the midday pedestrians. Heading into the west side of town - referred to as the West End by the inhabitants of Little Whinging with a complete lack of irony - Harry spotted Dudley and his friends hanging out in front of the ice-cream parlor. They were all leaning against the wall near their bicycles, making rude comments about the passersby.

Scouting around for another target, Dudley suddenly spotted Harry and Lucy. He shook his head as if he'd just seen a mirage and looked again.

Feeling a heady sense of confidence, Harry grinned at his cousin before pulling Lucy in for a quick kiss.

"Harry," she admonished him playfully when he let her go, "you're terrible."

Looking back at his cousin, Harry was pleased to see that Dudley was wearing an expression of utter shock.

Take that, you brainless chunk of lard, Harry thought uncharitably.

Lucy led Harry past the schoolhouse, which backed up to the woods marking the western boundary of Little Whinging. Since it was summertime, the place was mostly deserted. Harry suddenly knew where Lucy was leading him. In the middle of the woods was a pleasant clearing; Harry had often spent recess there as a child in order to avoid being pummeled.

And she wanted him to teach her fighting techniques.

If only they had a blanket, Harry would be happy to make his move on Lucy there. Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Picnic lunch and all. She'd go for that, wouldn't she?

"We're here," she announced, holding her arms out. "So show me what to do."

"Erm..." Harry stalled, scratching his head. "Well, have you ever punched anybody before?"

"Not seriously, no."

"Okay, well, you start by making a fist." Lucy complied, holding it up for his inspection. Harry took the opportunity to take her hand. It looked okay to him.

"Good," he said, letting go of her reluctantly. Her skin was soft and cool and just being this close to her made him want to throw her dress over her head.

"Now...ummm...act like you're going to punch me, but do it in slow motion."

Smiling a bit, Lucy drew the fist back, then slowly brought it forward to meet his chin. As he watched her, Harry began getting ideas. It was common sense, after all, wasn't it?

"Here," he said, taking her hand again. "Don't bend your wrist. You'll only end up hurting yourself." He positioned her fist so that there was a straight line from her knuckles to her elbow. "Do it like that."

Lucy nodded and did so.

"Very good," he praised her. "See? It's easy."

"I know how to punch someone now," Lucy said clapping her hands. "Teach me more."

More ideas started coming to him, defensive moves he'd used to get away from Dudley and his friends back in the day. Harry actually knew more about this than he'd realized.

"Okay, now say you're on the ground and someone's trying to hold you down, okay?"

Instead of merely nodding, Lucy actually sat down on the ground, leaning back on her elbows. Harry swallowed and tried to focus.

"Yes?"

"Actually...." Harry couldn't think of how to describe it, he just knew it worked. "How about I lay down and you pretend to be attacking me and I can show you how it's done?" He blushed as he said the words.

"Okay," Lucy agreed, getting on her knees and flipping her ponytail out of the way.

Feeling slightly awkward, Harry lay down in the grass. "Sit on top of me," he directed her, blushing even more. Giggling, she did. "Now...erm...hold my wrists down." She did that, too, which brought their faces very close and their parts even closer. Little Harry liked this arrangement a lot, much to Big Harry's discomfort.

"So you've got me trapped, right?" His voice sounded strained.

"Yes. I do, don't I?" Lucy whispered fiendishly, her eyes on his, her ponytail falling over her shoulder to brush his cheek.

"Well, it seems that way, but..." Harry tried, but it simply wasn't coming to him. He suddenly couldn't remember where all of this was going. As the blood fled his brain to deal with more important things, he utterly lost his train of thought.

"Harry?" Lucy asked uncertainly.

"You could do anything to me you wanted," Harry said honestly.

"Could I?" she asked softly, looking suddenly as if she liked that idea very much.

"Uh-huh," Harry answered, his mind now incapable of forming complete sentences.

"Absolutely anything?" she asked slyly.

Words now being beyond him, Harry simply nodded.

Still holding his wrists firmly to the ground, Lucy bent down and kissed him, just underneath his left ear. Then she licked his ear, tracing the lines of it. Harry shifted a bit, wanting to have his hands free, wanting to touch and grab and smell and do a whole long list of things that would eventually satisfy the Imperius-like voice in his head that was telling him to rip her knickers off and shag her senseless.

Who needed a blanket and a picnic lunch anyway? Overrated, romantic crap. Harry the criminal wouldn't stage a picnic lunch to get laid, he'd just go for it when the opportunity presented itself.

Oh wait, he thought, it is presenting itself.

Good Harry had the sense to keep his conscience out of the matter as Bad Harry finally performed the move he'd been planning to show her. Bending his knees and drawing his feet up, Harry pushed his hips off the ground and turned. Lucy lifted up and was promptly thrown on her back with Harry on top of her. She looked understandably surprised at this development.

"So that was the move, was it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Rather effective, I think," she whispered.

They had landed with Harry's legs trapped between hers, the starring body parts in this little scenario pressed intimately against each other, and his wrists still in her grip. Harry drew his free hand down and with instincts he didn't know he had, began stroking her breast through the fabric of her dress.

Lucy gasped a bit as he made contact, her hand tightening on his unoccupied wrist. Still stroking, Harry leaned down and kissed her, their tongues dueling before Lucy broke away.

"This isn't exactly the most private place, is it?"

Harry was not in a state of mind to care. Still stroking her breast, he leaned down to kiss her again and was stopped by Lucy's hand.

"I'm just saying this might not be the best place to do this," she said, glancing around as if a peeping tom might be hovering among the trees. Harry suddenly and fearfully wondered if the Order was still following him around. The thought that Mundungus Fletcher might be observing this moment made him roll off of Lucy very quickly.

"Where, then?" Harry asked pointedly.

"I don't know," she said, biting her lip. "We can't go to my sister's house. What about yours?"

Harry suddenly had a fleeting image of somehow managing to sneak Lucy into his room, then sighed. It wouldn't work. Aunt Petunia was still there, after all, and would surely notice if a second person came into the house. The minute the door opened, she'd be investigating to see who it was.

"No, we can't," he said sadly.

"Ooh. I know what we can do," Lucy said suddenly.

"What?" Harry perked up, thinking that she'd just remembered the location of an abandoned shack or something. His mind was still very fixated on breasts, specifically seeing some naked and perhaps touching them.

"I'll play you some of my songs." Lucy said this as if he should be terribly honored.

"Songs?" Harry asked faintly, disappointed. He immediately tried to cover it up. "Um, sure, sounds great."

"You'll like them, Harry, I promise," Lucy gushed, sliding out from underneath and taking his hand. "One of my main themes is that we're all prisoners, and I'm sure you'll relate to that..." Harry tuned her out, finding himself suddenly uninterested now that he knew there would be no sex involved. It might make him a bastard, but there it was.

For this reason, Harry felt more put-upon at being forced to sit through several hours of Lucy playing the guitar and singing angrily that he normally would have. Her songs tended to revolve around why war and violence were wrong, how evil and corruptive society was and how men were assholes. She played the guitar well and she sang well and occasionally put together some good lyrics, but Harry honestly didn't think he could stand much more.

"This one's called, 'You're So Fucking Pretentious,'" Lucy announced, tuning her guitar.

"I have to go," Harry said suddenly.

"Really?" She seemed disappointed and Harry felt bad. Not bad enough to stay, but still bad.

"Yes," he lied. "I told my Aunt I'd be home by now...to help her...uh...in the garden." That sounded plausible, at least.

"Okay," Lucy replied, putting her guitar away and walking him to the front door. "Do you want to get together tomorrow?"

"Um, I don't know. I might be busy..." Harry began, but he stopped when he realized that Lucy was standing very close to him.

"They're going out tomorrow night to a dinner party," Lucy whispered. "Leaving me with the baby. Come by around seven thirty, okay?"

Harry grinned. "I will." And just like that, his spirits rebounded. The promise of sex was in the air. Indoors, no less. With any luck, Hedwig might have already returned with Fred and George's pointers.

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Near the Greenhouses

Fox was restless as she walked around the Hogwarts grounds. Nature usually calmed her, but it wasn't doing a terribly great job right now. Amina and Gautham may be pleased as punch about their new job, but she certainly wasn't. She didn't like the interference in the voice she felt when inside the castle. She still wasn't entirely comfortable being so close to another Guardian. She especially hated the idea of a war going on without her influence on it.

Voldemort had the power, and Voldemort was running the war. She and Dumbledore knew that, even if nobody else did. He was in charge, and their side could only prepare and react. Fox wasn't used to taking a defensive posture, and she was finding out quickly that she didn't like it one bit.

Guardians being neither all-powerful nor all-knowing, plenty of wars had broken out here and there without the influence of her or her predecessors. Mortals were mortals, after all, and they were perfectly capable of taking it into their heads to kill each other if given even the most minor of incentives.

Like that foolishness in Chechnya, Fox thought, shaking her head, wondering how a simple vampire uprising against a corrupt magical oligarchy could lead to a long, drawn-out, costly, stupid Muggle civil war. Left to their own devices, mortals would do nothing but waste time on meaningless crap. If it weren't for us, they'd still be holding staring contests in caves.

"Twelve of us," she muttered out loud. "It takes twelve Guardians on constant watch to make sure they don't fuck the whole thing up, and even then, it ain't for lack of trying on their part."

Her wanderings eventually took her near the lake, where she saw Amina, in full drill-sergeant mode, shouting orders at a crew of young, well-muscled men. Most of them had taken their shirts off in the heat.

"Wow, your job really stinks," Fox commented, eyeing a particularly breathtaking set of abs.

"The Cardinal lent them to us," Amina muttered conspiratorially. "You know the Ministry couldn't scrounge up Brits this well-tanned."

"Trainees?"

"No, they were all pulled from one of his Magi-Sensual Houses."

"Makes sense." The Cardinal was well known for his Houses, which offered a wide array of attractive prostitutes - male, female and non-human - trained for at least three years in the charms, potions and spells necessary to provide a very rich patron with absolutely anything he or she desired in the way of magical sexual fulfillment.

"Unfortunately, they're only here for the day," Amina sighed. "I need a whole group of people to put up the necessary defenses on the lake and along the boundary of the forest."

"Have they had a lunch break yet?"

Amina turned to her and grinned. "No, they haven't, you horny thing."

Fox shrugged. "I'm just saying the opportunity exists for anyone willing to take advantage of it."

Amina saw that all of the fine young things had reached their positions around the perimeter of the lake and magically enhanced the volume of her voice.

"Alright," she boomed. "Just as we practiced on the count of three. One. Two. Three!" In unison, everybody around the lake incanted a spell that Fox didn't recognize. Every wand shot out an orange light, and they all met in the center of the lake.

"Lower your wands. Slowly." Amina ordered. Everyone did so, until the nexus of the two dozen or so separate spells touched the surface of the water. The orange glow immediately spread until it covered the entire lake, then faded slowly.

"Very good. Now come on back." Amina ended the volume spell.

The men began approaching them, and Amina crossed her arms and smiled. "Fox, you have no idea what it's like, to have this many men who look like this doing whatever you tell them to do. Once this Hogwarts thing is over, don't you think I'd make a brilliant Madam?"

"Yeah, sure," Fox said distractedly, her attention drawn to the rippling biceps of a sexy Latino.

"If you want one, I'm sure I could arrange it. Any of them, except for the Nubian Giant over there. His ass is mine."

Fox seriously considered it before refusing. "No, I've got too much on my mind right now."

Amina looked flummoxed. "Too much to be the sole center of attention of the type of man we've only seen in magazines, who is only too willing to meet your every perverted need? Fox, you owe it to every single unfulfilled woman on the planet to let one of these beautiful men give you the greatest sex of your life."

The Latino noticed Fox's attentions and smiled at her invitingly.

"I'm reconsidering."

"That's my girl," Amina said, slapping her on the back.

The men finally formed a highly attentive circle around them. "Time for lunch, men. But could Omari and...?" Amina glanced at Fox, who gestured with her head toward the utterly ripped Latino. Amina nodded.

"...and Antonio please stay behind for a few moments?"

Laughing and chatting, the men set off for the castle, leaving behind the aptly described Nubian Giant, who had to be at least seven feet tall, and Fox's Latino dream lover.

"Did you need us for something?" Omari asked innocently.

"Yes, we do," Amina answered, a blatantly lascivious look on her face.

"We'd like you to demonstrate your...talents...for us," Fox clarified.

Antonio looked uncertain. "Are we allowed to?" he asked his cohort.

Omari simply shrugged. "The boss said to do whatever they asked."

"We're asking," Fox and Amina said in unison.

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dumbledore's Office

In her meeting with Dumbledore, Vivian was prepared to discuss her lesson plans or her overall vision for preparing the woefully undereducated students of Hogwarts in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Leave it to Dumbledore to go right for the unexpected.

"What did you think of Severus' comments at the meeting last night?"

"His comments, sir?" Vivian tried to recall what Snape had said. Voldemort was interested in the younger generation, Voldemort had gone out of his way to obtain one specific girl who may or may not be coming to Hogwarts and may or may not be important. That about covered it.

"Yes. Though he did not say as much, I believe he is concerned that Voldemort has shown an interest in the children of his most loyal Death Eaters."

It came back to her then: Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and now the Castelar girl. "Do you think they're important in some way? Those specific children?"

"I am not entirely sure what to think at this point," Dumbledore said with uncharacteristic bluntness. "I do, however, find it worrisome that Voldemort has suddenly turned his attention to a select group of children, all of whom are the children of loyal followers and all of whom were accessible to him prior to his defeat."

Vivian jolted. "Merlin, I didn't even think about that," she whispered. "His effort to obtain the Castelar girl. It makes sense that he could have done something when they were all born. There are hundreds of spells...of course, most of them take a great deal of effort and need to be maintained, so those would probably be out...on the other hand, there are a whole host of blood rituals...but there are a few obscure spells that he could have performed on the mother even before the child was born..." It finally occurred to Vivian that there was a thin line between thinking out loud and babbling. She promptly shut up.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Don't stop on my account."

Vivian looked at her lap, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, sir. My mind tends to get ahead of me sometimes."

Dumbledore waved away her apology. "Do not apologize. Your mind is the reason I brought you here. You have knowledge of subjects about which the rest of us are hopelessly uninformed. You are the legacy of your parents, Vivian."

She was surprised at the wave of grief, since she'd gotten over the loss of her parents long ago. It was her surroundings, she realized. Being in Dumbledore's office made her feel like a schoolgirl again. The last time she'd been here, they'd been alive and well, with no idea that their days were numbered.

"Thank you, sir," she said, feeling a wave of emotion. Was she their legacy? Would they have been proud to know that she'd long given up her foolish law enforcement career and taken the path they'd always wanted her to take?

It was a useless train of thought, one she'd long outgrown. They weren't here to judge and they weren't here to be proud of her, so what did it matter?

"I simply hoped that you might have some thoughts on the matter," Dumbledore said gently.

Vivian tried to focus. "Of course, sir. Obviously, there are hundreds of different possibilities, but I imagine if I were to look into blood rituals, Paternus-style spells, obedience charms, bloodline continuances and the like, specifically involving contact with the subjects as very young children and - taking into account Voldemort's renewed interest - adolescents, I should be able to narrow it down quite a bit."

Dumbledore smiled. "I would expect no less from you, Vivian."

"Is that all, sir?"

"Unfortunately, it is not all," he sighed. "But I believe it might be helpful if Fox were here to discuss the details..."

"Fox, sir?" Vivian interrupted, confused.

"She is a member of the team sent to us by The Cardinal."

"I see."

"Let me just..." Dumbledore rose from his desk and stared into the fireplace. Vivian had the sudden impression that Dumbledore was trying to contact this woman with his mind. He turned abruptly, startling her.

"Sir?" Vivian asked as Dumbledore sat down quickly. He didn't meet her gaze, and she could have sworn he was blushing.

Dumbledore blushed?

"Unfortunately, I think she might be busy at the moment," he said unconvincingly, a distinct hint of amusement in his voice. "Perhaps some other time would be more...appropriate."

"Er, yes sir. Of course," Vivian said, puzzled.

"Severus!" Dumbledore said with an immediacy that made her jump.

"We've already talked about Severus, haven't we?" Vivian asked uncertainly.

In the blink of an eye, Dumbledore was himself again. "Yes, we have. I merely thought you might like to consult with him on the formation of a Dueling Club this year."

"I think a Dueling Club would be great fun, sir," Vivian said, getting a bit excited. She'd been captain of the Dueling Team at the Institute when she'd been an Apprentice, and had continued on as a coach once she'd become a Master. It would be nice to keep it up. It would be especially nice to wipe the floor with Severus, Vivian thought, mentally rubbing her hands together in malicious glee.

"I am pleased that you like the idea," he said pleasantly, rising from his desk once more to approach the fireplace. Throwing a handful of powder down, he called out, "Severus Snape."

Snape's office appeared in the flames. It took a moment for Snape to answer. "Yes, sir?"

"Might I send Vivian down to discuss the Dueling Club?"

"Of course, sir."

Dumbledore stepped away from the fireplace, and Vivian took a handful of powder in order to floo down to Snape's office.

Once she'd stopped spinning, Vivian saw immediately that Snape's office was - in a word - repulsive.

It was dark and dank and filled with misshapen things in jars. Vivian had the sudden impression that he spent a lot of time in here, and that nobody but Severus Snape could bear to spend that much time in here.

"I'll never understand the correlation between ambition and ruthlessness on one hand, and a hatred of sunlight on the other," she commented.

"Sunlight makes people cheerful. If you're cheerful, you might do something silly or whimsical. If you were a Slytherin and did something silly or whimsical, your housemates would murder you in your bed," Snape answered flatly, gesturing for her to take a seat. "Hence the lack of sunlight. Now, it might be useful for you to know that the Dueling Club's history during my tenure at this school has been a bit spotty."

"Spotty how?"

"Let's just leave it at spotty," he sneered.

"Okay."

"And I'm not talking about dueling talent," Snape explained. "I'm talking about a frightening lack of organization and forethought."

"I see," Vivian said slowly. "Well, at the Institute, we usually spent a few weeks teaching the basic dueling techniques to the newcomers, then had a weekly bout of duels. I suppose we could do something like that here."

Snape shook his head. "That worked at the Institute. Here, I recommend splitting the Dueling Club into two teams."

"Two teams? How?"

He smirked. "Slytherin and Ravenclaw on one team and Gryffindor and Hufflepuff on the other. It's the best way to keep someone from being killed in practice."

Vivian's mouth dropped open. "That's ridiculous."

"I have six words for you: Slytherin, Gryffindor, same room, learning hexes."

Against her will, she winced. Both houses had an unfortunate tendency to hate each other with a passion. "Slytherin and Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw," she said. "That's the only way I'll agree."

Snape laughed shortly. "I can't be held responsible for what the Slytherins do to the Hufflepuffs," he scoffed.

"Well, actually you can," Vivian informed him.

"On the other hand," Snape continued, rubbing his chin, "the Hufflepuffs could use some lessons in life if they're planning on surviving in this war. Slytherin and Hufflepuff could be a good combination in the long run."

With that much agreed upon, they spent a few minutes arguing over dueling formats, how often matches should take place, how the matches should be structured, and a whole long list of school club minutiae. Finally, they'd settled on four matches a year, with one-on-one duels randomly drawn and a rough idea of a points system.

"Are you coming to the attack?" Severus inquired as Vivian stood up to leave.

"Attack?"

"Oh, didn't you hear?" he asked sarcastically. "The Cardinal's people are going to test out all of the extra protection they've put up by staging an invasion of Hogwarts. For fun."

"A staged invasion of Hogwarts? Could be interesting. Since we're short-staffed, I'll see if Remus and Molly and the kids want to come, too."

"Are we really so short-staffed that we need the help of a werewolf, a housewife and two teenagers?" Snape asked disgustedly.

Something in his voice struck her. It took her a moment to figure out exactly what it was.

"You still hate him, don't you?" she accused, grinning and shaking her head at him. "Twenty years, and you still hate him."

"I don't hate him," he snapped.

"That's one hell of a long time to hold a grudge, Severus. Remind me to stay on your good side."

"I don't have a good side."

"Just because you don't use it doesn't mean it isn't there, Severus."

"Don't you need to go somewhere? Do something? Be anywhere but here?" he suggested.

"No, I don't, but I'll leave anyway, because even though you're trying so hard to be polite, I get the impression that you have pressing matters to attend to..."

"Get out of my office before I hex you out."

"Now there's the pleasant, sweet Severus Snape I remember."

"Out!"

Knowing she'd probably pushed him as far as she could without violence ensuing, Vivian sent him a saucy grin and left his office, purposefully leaving the door open because she knew it would annoy him.

She grinned to herself as she heard it slam shut a few moments later. Some things never change.

*******

Malfoy Manor

Having spent her life in transience, Thera knew how to fit into a new situation quickly without getting comfortable. In the Malfoy household, Thera went about her business, which largely consisted of amusing Draco. She made him drinks, she told him stories about far off places, she pretended not to be bored when he dragged her out to watch him fly around on his broomstick or complained about the kids at school. She got a bloody earful about Harry Potter and his band of worshipers. She did not, however, consent to have sex with him again.

The little hemorrhoid needed to be taught a lesson.

But the entire time, there was an underlying sense of dread, of waiting for the other shoe to drop. After all, they hadn't brought her here because Draco was lonely.

She'd been there less than a week when the shoe finally dropped.

They were finishing dinner when Cousin Lucius asked her to stay behind. He continued sipping his aperitif, twirling a strand of his hair absentmindedly as Draco and his mother left the room. Thera kept her eyes on her plate and tried to slow down her heartbeat, tried to remind herself that this was expected, that she'd known this was coming.

Finally Lucius spoke. "Through the doors behind you is a hallway. At the end of the hallway is my study. Inside you will find a set of black robes. You will put them on and wait until I come for you. You will touch nothing in the study aside from the robes. Are we clear on that?"

Thera nodded, finally raising her eyes to meet his. He looked extremely bored.

"Where are you taking me?" Her voice sounded calm, even the rest of her didn't feel that way.

"The Dark Lord would like to make your acquaintance," he replied with a superior smile.

"I see," Thera answered, her heart rate increasing to a level most people don't achieve without sprinting for a mile or so. Shakily, she rose from the table and made her way to the doors.

"And if you value your life," Lucius' voice called from behind her, "that will be the last question you ever ask. Curiosity is not a virtue in this organization."

Thera nodded, but didn't stop walking. She had a feeling if she stopped, she wouldn't be able to start up again; she'd just stand there staring off into space, turn into stone perhaps.

Lucius' study was so representative of the Lucius persona that she would have found it hilarious in any other set of circumstances. The shelves were full of books on the dark arts, or what she assumed were books on the dark arts, since she didn't recognize any of the languages. The walls were cluttered with an array of swords and the room was full of ominous looking trunks that probably held the kittens he tortured in his spare time. The only thing missing was a portrait of Salazar Slytherin with candles burning around it and a bench to kneel on.

Thera removed the dark purple robes she'd been wearing and replaced them with a set of thick black velvet ones with a hood, her body going through the motions automatically, her mind stuck in horror mode, unable to move backward into unease or forward into full-fledged terror.

Reina had always spoken of the Dark Lord with a mixture of fear and loathing. The loathing was understandable. She had, after all, been screwed over in a fairly major way when he was defeated. In her drunker moments, she tended to refer to him as 'The Ol' Trouser Snake.' It was in her more sober moments that the details came out: the red eyes with slits for pupils, the huge, white hands, the ability to read minds, and all other manner of descriptive characteristics that Thera was suddenly able to recall with astounding clarity right now.

But behind it all was the big question: why had he brought her here? Could it really be to serve him? And if so, how? By making him Martinis?

Frankly, she wasn't as horrified at what she might have to do as what he might feel the compunction to do to her.

Thera jumped when she heard Lucius entering. He was wearing an identical set of black robes, with the hood drawn up.

"Follow me," he ordered coldly.

Since her only alternatives appeared to be either jumping out the window or impaling herself on one of his swords, Thera pulled up her hood and followed.

They went down, and then down some more, deep into the bowels of the mansion, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the stone passageways, marked here and there with torches. Finally they went down a long staircase into what appeared to be an arena, with raised platforms all around for spectators to sit and a circular center area like a stage or a small playing field. At the center sat the man - or whatever he was - on a throne. Thera's heart leapt up in her throat.

Everything she'd imagined about the Dark Lord was true. She almost stumbled in her blind fear, her mind wanting nothing more than to overrule her body and get as far the fuck away from that thing as possible. He was like some monster out of a horror movie, only worse. Much worse. At least monsters in horror movies stayed on the screen where they belonged. They didn't pop out and say hello, or - in the Dark Lord's case - offer you a lipless smile and invite you to sit on the lowest platform.

"Milord, I present you Atreus' daughter," Lucius said importantly, taking a seat beside her on the platform.

The Dark Lord looked pleased, insofar as he was capable of producing recognizable facial expressions. "Yes, I see the resemblance now. Uncanny. Your bloodline is ancient, my dear, did you know that?"

"I've heard some things," Thera said. She was appalled at the tone of her voice. Don't do this, she told herself. Do not even start with this. Do NOT mouth off to the Dark Lord...

He didn't seem to have noticed. "Do you know why you've been brought here, Thera?"

"To serve you, milord," she answered. Better. Much better. Brown-nosing good, sneering bad.

He turned his red eyes upon her, and Thera suddenly felt it, the same way she always had with her mother. He was trying to get into her head. Immediately she shut all of the doors and focused on innocuous images: the beach at sunset in Saint Tropez, the lights and flashy billboards of downtown Tokyo, the staid orthodox grandeur of Red Square, the bustling marketplace in Marrakech.

He must have been satisfied, because she felt him draw back.

"Quite a life you've led, my child."

"Yes, milord." Then she added, "But I've always wanted to come home, to take my rightful place as the last living member of two very old and esteemed magical bloodlines. I would like to restore them to their glory, milord." For a moment, Thera feared she'd gone too far with the whole pureblood pride line, but the Dark Lord just smiled again.

He even looked proud of her. Or at least she thought he did.

"And so you shall, my dear. You are truly your father's daughter." Then his demeanor abruptly changed into classic Dark Lord. "Wormtail," he snapped, as if to a servant.

Immediately, a man who had apparently been standing in the shadows at the far end of the arena came forward. Once the light revealed him, Thera saw that Wormtail was a pudgy, balding, middle-aged man with what appeared to be a silver hand and a dreadfully unfortunate name, if it was real. It's probably just a silly nickname, Thera thought wildly. Maybe they all have silly nicknames. Maybe this is going to be like those college fraternity initiation rituals with robes and chanting and spanking each other on the bum with paddles, and then they'll give me a silly nickname and we'll all laugh and throw a big keg party.

Her hopes were ruthlessly destroyed by the fact that Wormtail was carrying a scroll of parchment, a golden bowl and - on a velvet pillow, no less - a bejeweled ceremonial-style dagger.

Not a paddle. Much worse than a paddle.

Thera's stomach churned as she eyed the dagger, but thankfully the Dark Lord took the scroll as Wormtail placed the bowl on the platform next to her. The Dark Lord began speaking in a cold, clear voice. She didn't recognize the words, but they sounded like some sort of incantation. When he finished, Wormtail took the scroll and brought it over to Thera.

"Start reading here," he said, pointing to a spot on the parchment with his silver hand.

Thera squinted at the text, which was a collection of odd squiggles and unrecognizable symbols. She was about to ask Wormtail how he expected her to read this when she suddenly just...did.

Without any forethought or reflection, Thera suddenly began speaking a language she didn't even know. It said something about the general weirdness of the situation that she was able to take this little development in stride. Once she stopped worrying about it, Thera realized that she even knew what she was saying.

...And this shall bind me to thee, oh lord, oh father above my blood father;

Bring our bond into fruition, and let it rule above ties of love, and of kinship.

Let it find me when I am lost.

Let it remind me when I am uncertain.

Let it guide me when I stray.

Bind me to you through my blood and the blood shed in your name,

And in my service, I shall carry the knowledge of your faith in me.

Through me, shall you live.

The meaning of these words was only barely able to penetrate the veil of horror in Thera's mind before Wormtail promptly turned her left hand palm-up and sliced it with the dagger.

Thera stared numbly at the wound, watching the blood well up. Taking the dagger, the Dark Lord opened a similar cut on his own left hand. Wormtail took her hand and held it over the bowl, letting some of the blood drip into it, mingling with that of the Dark Lord, which Thera was mildly surprised to find out was normal, average, red, human-looking blood.

Thera closed her eyes and hoped fervently that they wouldn't have to drink the blood or anything. She was unaccountably relieved when Wormtail merely dipped her hand in the bloody mixture and let her go. Her relief, however, was quickly forgotten in the face of an odd overcoming sensation in her mind, as if she'd suddenly gotten a brain tumor that was spreading at lightning speed. Thankful she was sitting down, Thera saw the torches blur, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Something was happening to her, and it couldn't be good.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the feeling faded into nothingness. There was not even an echo of it in Thera's head. She blinked her eyes, which slowly came back into focus. What on earth had that been? It must have had something to do with what the Dark Lord the spell and the blood ceremony, but she really felt no different now than she had before. Shouldn't she feel different, somehow? Blood magic was supposed to be powerful, wasn't it?

Oh, please let it not have worked.

The Dark Lord stepped back, a look of triumph on his face. "It is done," he said simply, his eyes still resting on her. "The next stage will take place in front of my Death Eaters. It will be a very good way to introduce them to you."

"Lucius," the Dark Lord ordered, his red gaze still holding her captive, "are the Apparation controls disarmed for my followers?"

"Yes, milord. For the next ten minutes."

"Good. Give me your arm."

Lucius obeyed, drawing up the sleeve of his robes to reveal his Mark. The Dark Lord's eyes finally left her as he touched his wand to it.

"Morsmordre."

Though Thera was glad to be out from underneath the Dark Lord's heavy stare, her mind was going nuts trying to figure out what they were going to do with her when the Death Eaters arrived. What was 'the next stage?'

It took a few minutes for the Death Eaters to begin Apparating onto the surrounding platforms. The Dark Lord returned to his throne, and Lucius and Wormtail seemed content with staring off into space. The ideas running through Thera's head were growing increasingly obscene and ridiculous.

Maybe I'll have to fuck every Death Eater...or compose an ode to the Dark Lord in haiku...naked tap-dancing...wrestling a troll...having 'I heart Voldemort' tattooed on my ass...naming the rulers of England in chronological order...

Thera was thankfully snapped out of her speculations when the Dark Lord started speaking. Blinking, she realized with surprise that the hall was half filled with Death Eaters, nearly a hundred.

Thera folded her hands on her lap and stared down at them. It was then that she realized her left hand showed no mark. In fact, there was no blood visible on it at all. It was almost as if the blood ceremony had never happened.

"My loyal servants, it has been a difficult road of late, and we have experienced several disappointments," he began, glaring at the assemblage. "And yet tonight I am able to present you with the vanguard of my young followers. A new generation rises. Many of them have recently joined our ranks, and those ranks now include our first second generation Death Eater, who shall serve me as loyally as her father once did."

Thera shrank back slightly as he gestured towards her. She had an aversion to being the center of attention, especially when the audience was masked and evil, and she wasn't. Well, masked, at least.

"Thera Castelar, daughter of Atreus, join me as my left hand. Take the position that your father once held, and fulfill it as the heiress of two pure and noble bloodlines."

Realizing that he was ordering her to do just that, Thera rose and stood on his left, facing the crowd with a sense of unreality. The assembled Death Eaters stood silent until the Dark Lord sent another glare at them all, at which point they tentatively began clapping. For her.

Having a roomful of people applauding her somehow didn't feel as gratifying as Thera had always imagined it would.

The Dark Lord waved a hand and the applause stopped. "She is only the first. Soon she will be joined by the others chosen to carry on my legacy." He nodded to Lucius, who stepped forward and presented Thera with her wand. She practically snatched it out of his hand, feeling it out to make sure it was hers.

"Bring out the Muggle," the Dark Lord ordered. Wormtail quickly bowed and scurried off into the shadows. Thera's heart began beating again. If there was a Muggle here, then he or she didn't have a very long life expectancy. And Thera had just gotten her wand back...

Oh, shit.

The Muggle was a thirtyish dark-haired man wearing a red jogging suit. He was carried into the arena, bound and gagged, by two very large Death Eaters.

The Dark Lord arose from his throne and waved his wand, muttering something. The throne transfigured into a flat stone table. The Muggle's eyes widened in fear as the two gorillas tossed him on top of it. With another wave of his wand, the Dark Lord bound the man's hands and feet to the table. He left the gag in place.

"He is all yours, my dear," he said to her with another lipless smile, something very ugly flashing behind his eyes. "My loyal followers could use some entertainment."

Thera stared back at him blankly, then turned her gaze on the Muggle.

His eyes went from her to the wand in her hand to the rows of robed and masked strangers before rolling up into his head.

"I hate it when they do that," Wormtail grumbled, striding up to the man and Ennervating him. The Muggle regained consciousness, realized he was still in the same situation, and promptly started screaming, the sound muffled by the gag in his mouth.

Wormtail sent her a grin and removed the gag. The Muggle's screams were the only sound in the room as Thera gripped her wand tightly, finally realizing what the next stage entailed.