Two to Lead

Chapter 9: The Right Way Home

Never wasting time taking the right way home.

I know I'm never wasting time finding the right way home.

-Jimmy Buffett, Incommunicado

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Fox was lounging against one of the poles holding up the hoops on the Quidditch Pitch, listening to the night noises and opening her mind, the Guardian version of sleep. The stars were close here, comforting to her as they always had been.

'The stars hold the answers,' her grandfather had told her time and again. 'So does the rippling of the stream. We just need to see what they have to show us and hear what they have to tell us.'

The memory brought back a smile. Silly mortal drivel - she'd known that at the time - designed to make sense of things, to categorize and order things, to believe that there was a vast truth out there somewhere accessible to humans if only they tried hard enough.

There were several Guardians, like Dumbledore and herself, who thought that the mortals could handle the knowledge of The Guardians. But Fox could not fathom Dumbledore's desire to coddle the rest. Those like her grandfather, who lived and breathed this quest for understanding the great message and the cosmic truth of human existence were not to be pitied. Their ways were holding back the human race, and they needed to be destroyed.

And despite Dumbledore's little speech about trust, both of them upon meeting had begun building walls against the other. She had cause - he had done away with her predecessor, after all - but Dumbledore's motivations were a bit hazier. It was possible he had realized, as she had, that things between them must someday come to a head. Much like Harry Potter and Voldemort, Fox sensed that once their truce had reached the limits of its usefulness, one of them would have to overpower the other in the interest of history.

She wasn't angry with him for this, and neither would she expect him to be angry with her. Guardian in-fighting took place at a slightly higher level than that. It was simply a fact of life, one that mortals largely chose to ignore. In order for a conflict to be resolved, one side must eventually triumph. And that triumph must be complete.

Professor Snape approached. Fox could hear his thoughts before his footsteps, though she waited an appropriate period of time before greeting him, her Injun persona dripping over her like a Disillusionment Charm.

"The Headmaster informed me that I could find you here," he explained.

"Yes, he would know."

"He always seems to. It's rather annoying, actually."

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Thera Castelar."

"Who?"

"Ah, so unlike Dumbledore, you don't know everything."

"Nobody knows everything," Fox said patiently.

"That's up for discussion, but to shorten the path to the point, she's the servant of Voldemort that Dumbledore would like to bring to Hogwarts."

"Oh, yes. What about her?"

"Well, currently she's residing in a rat-infested shack awaiting a Ministry raid. However, I had opportunity to meet with her before she was sent there, and I was giving Dumbledore a summary of that meeting when he told me to come out here and tell you about it."

Fox stood up and brushed the grass off of her pants. "Was there anything interesting about your meeting?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Well, to preface, the Dark Lord asked me to meet with her to see if she was vulnerable to Legilimency. Apparently, he hasn't been able to read her himself."

Fox's head snapped up. "Really? Interesting."

"He thought it might be a side effect of the bond, but I wasn't able to read her either."

"A natural Occlumens," Fox mused.

"A bit more than that," Snape replied. "She didn't just block me out, she smiled and bombarded me with images...well, let's just call them images of her choice."

"It's unfair to pique someone's curiosity and then not follow through."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Very well. They were pornographic images. I have a feeling she didn't appreciate my attempt to get into her head."

"Or maybe she did."

The professor peered at her, trying to figure out whether or not she was joking.

"In any case, she doesn't appear to be a walking time bomb, and since the Dark Lord can't get into her head, I doubt she could be used to spy on us. For better or worse, Miss Castelar seems to have been cleared for entrance."

Fox nodded. "Is that all?"

"Well, I've also been sent to gather you for a faculty-staff meeting in the Great Hall."

She groaned. "I've overthrown governments with fewer planning meetings."

He might have smiled. It was hard to tell. Usually his smiles were accompanied by sneers. "You'll find this one a bit more...interesting, I'd imagine."

*******

An Abandoned Shack Somewhere Near Dover

"Sing with me,

Sing for the years."

Thera had absolutely no singing talent whatsoever. She also had a rather low voice, which made her Steven Tyler stylings particularly painful.

"Sing for the laughter,

Sing for the tears."

When Lucius had told her where they were going to keep her captive, he had merely said she'd feel right at home. Lucius had his comedic moments.

"Sing with me,

If it's just for today."

The two goonish Death Eaters watching over her had spent the first hour of her captivity knocking her around. They had claimed to be doing so under orders, for the sake of realism, of course.

"Maybe tomorrow,

The Good Lord will take you away."

Since then, they had been ordered not to lay a hand on her, or apparently to feed her. Thera was beginning to have disturbingly vivid dreams about apple tarts. Having no other way to amuse herself and feeling somewhat vengeful about her black eye, Thera was employing the only method of psychological torture at her disposal: her voice.

"Dream on, dream on,

Dream on, dream on."

It was time to put the screws to these assholes. Thera attempted to take it up the octave and fell ear-splittingly short, placing her face right next to the ancient flue that connected her windowless basement chamber to the upstairs room where her two captors were unable to escape her calculated destruction of Aerosmith.

"Dream on, dream on,

Dream on, dream on, aaaaaahhhhh...."

There was a long silence, as if they were making sure she was really finished. Finally a deep male voice called down to her.

"You know, I used to like that song." That was the tall one.

"So did I," another voice joined in. "I certainly don't anymore." That was the fat one.

"Hey, I'm open to requests, boys," she called back, her voice slightly hoarse from overexertion.

"I have a request. Shut up!" yelled the tall one.

"Throw me down a ham sandwich and you'll never hear another peep." The mere thought made her stomach growl.

"You know we can't do that," the fat one reminded her yet again.

"Hey, do either of you like Linda Ronstadt?"

The pause was just a beat too long before the fat one urgently called down. "NO! No, we don't! Not at all!"

"Please!" begged the tall one. "Not Linda!"

Thera grinned and began slowly and painfully murdering Blue Bayou. Unfortunately, she didn't even make it to the chorus when a commotion arose from upstairs. Voices shouted, furniture got overturned and it sounded like several windows got broken.

Hurriedly, Thera flung herself on the pallet in the corner and tried to look pitiful. A few minutes later, she heard somebody coming down the stairs.

"Just Apparate them to the Ministry and then get back here to help us look around," a male voice called. The footsteps continued more slowly this time, in case the two Death Eaters upstairs had any friends hiding out. Kicking the basement door open, the man spun into the room, wand at the ready. Seeing that she was the only one there, he pocketed the wand.

"Are you an Auror?" Thera asked, standing up unsteadily and putting just the right amount of awe into her voice.

As expected, the man puffed up slightly. He was putty in her hands. "Yes, I am. Are you okay?"

According to Reina's Grand Philosophy of Men, there are two female clichés that males instinctively respond to: the mother and the damsel in distress. Playing into the mother instinct is basically a matter of using the proper tone of voice when issuing an order to a man. All the damsel in distress requires is a pretty face and the ability to cry on command.

So when the Auror asked if she was okay and Thera burst into tears, he really had no choice but to feel very protective and tell her it was all over now and the bad men were gone.

It became even harder to keep a straight face once they reached the Ministry. Even more than regular men, law enforcement officials are downright suckers for crying teenage girls. Within five minutes, she was sitting at an empty desk wearing one of the Auror's cloaks and stuffing fried chicken into her mouth with a wholehearted disregard for table manners while a healer fixed her up.

Eventually and in a very gentle manner, they questioned her about her identity and how exactly she had come to be locked up in the basement of a run-down shack. Thera tearfully recounted the horrific murder of her mother, her kidnapping and captivity at the hands of the evil Death Eaters who she believed were planning on using her as a ritual sacrifice to bring forth a demon that would help out with the Dark Lord's plan to take over the world.

The last part she made up on the fly, but it elicited gasps of horror from her rapidly growing audience. Deciding to quit while she was ahead, Thera thanked the Aurors in a shaky voice for saving her from those vile, vile men, then dramatically burst into sobs.

Thera had always been a master at sob stories. In all of her fifteen years, she had never paid for a cab ride or a meal. Even by her standards, this was an award-winning performance.

The Auror who had taken her in put a comforting arm across her shoulders. "The Minister's here," he said softly. "He'd like to speak to you, if you feel up to it."

"The Minister?" Thera asked, wide-eyed. "But why would he want to talk to me?"

"Honestly, we need to figure out what to do with you, and he'd like to hear your input before a final decision is made. Do you think you could speak with him?"

Thera took a deep, shuddering breath. "I suppose so," she said bravely.

Thera's initial impression of Cornelius Fedge was that of a grown man dressed like a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz. He sported a vivid purple set of robes and a lime green bowler hat, worn at a rakish angle. A lot of the problems in British magical society suddenly made sense.

"Good day, Miss Castelar," he greeted her, sounding slightly put-out, as if getting herself kidnapped by Death Eaters had been a conscious effort on her part to create a lot of extra work for him. "I'm Minister Fudge. I'm the head of the British Magical Government."

Don't you mean the Lollipop Guild?

"Thank you for meeting with me, Minister," Thera said meekly. "I know you're a very busy man."

He sent her an indulgent smile. "Yes, well, I simply wanted to welcome you back home and to let you know that we intend to do whatever we can to make your transition easier. I also wanted to give you my assurances that your parents' crimes will not be held against you."

Thera blinked. "Thanks?"

"After all," he continued, "it's not as if you did anything wrong, is it?"

"Er...no, not that I know of, Minister."

"Anyway," Fudge continued heavily. "About your mother."

"Yes?"

"Well, obviously it's been several weeks since...erm, since she was...befallen." The Minister looked pleased with his word choice. "So the Muggle police have already dealt with the details surrounding the...befallment..."

"She's been buried, then?"

"No, she's been..." Fudge began shuffling through parchments on his desk. "Oh, what's the word...crenellated?"

"Cremated," Thera said faintly, an odd sort of pain settling in her chest.

"Yes, yes, that's the word. Cremated. The Muggles hadn't found anything to do with the remains yet, but we've notified the magical government over there and they'll be sending them to you."

Here, little girl. It's your mother in a box. Something inside her cracked open. Thera was having one of those rare and dangerous moments of clarity, when you realize that the really terrible thing you haven't been thinking about has continued existing, has worked its way through the bureaucracy and is now a pile of ashes wending its way to you. What was she supposed to do with it, anyway? Buy an urn and keep it on her bedside table? Reina had always said she wanted to be stuffed and mounted when she died. 'Just arrange me in the position of a St. Francis of Assisi statue and put a couple of animals at my feet, muffin. You can keep me in a corner. I don't care, so long as I'm well lit...'

Thera could count on one hand the number of times in her life she was lost for words. She was now.

"Ah, Albus. So glad you could come," Fudge said to somebody who had appeared in the doorway.

"I am always available when the matter is as urgent as this one, Cornelius," answered a wizened, slightly wheezy voice. The Minister rose to greet an old wizard with a long flowing beard. Thera noted that there was a distinct coolness to the exchange.

"Miss Castelar, this is Albus Dumbledore. He's Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I...well, I can only assume you've heard of Hogwarts?"

"Yes," Thera answered, her brain snapping into focus. It was show time. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Headmaster."

"It is a pleasure to meet you too, my dear, though I'm sure we all wish it could have taken place under different circumstances," Dumbledore answered, sounding sympathetic. Thera looked at him, his blue gaze peering at her expectantly, and had the sudden nagging sensation that he knew what was up.

Which meant the Death Eaters were a pretty goddamned incompetent lot.

"We've had some preliminary thoughts on how to handle your current situation," Fudge continued, oblivious. "I'm afraid you haven't much family, Miss Castelar. Your grandparents have passed on. Family Services dug up a great aunt in Greece, but I think she's still got a potted fern for a head. Terrible accident, irreversible. All they can really do is water her regularly. In any case, we've contacted Lucius Malfoy, who seems to be the closest relative we can find. He should be on his way in, but...well, I'll let the Headmaster explain."

"Thank you, Cornelius," Dumbledore said, sounding vaguely amused. "Obviously, you have been through quite an ordeal, Miss Castelar. There is no need to decide anything right now. I understand completely if you want to spend some time with your relatives, but if you'd like to attend school, classes begin in less than a month, and we would all like to see you at Hogwarts."

"I imagine you haven't had any magical education?" Fudge asked without an ounce of tact.

"Not really," Thera answered. "My mother taught me some things, but that's it."

Fudge's eyes narrowed. "Oh? What sorts of things?"

"Just basic things," Thera said innocently. "Calling things to me, banishing things, self-defense..." Obliviating people, transfiguring Muggle currency into larger denominations, you know, the usual.

"You can read, can't you? And write?"

Thera fought back the desire to roll her eyes. "Yes, I can."

"Now that you are back among us," Dumbledore cut in, "we would like to see you educated, as I'm sure your parents would have." Fudge made a sound, but the Headmaster ignored him. "But you are a unique case, and I imagine you will need some catching up. However, I assure you that the professors at Hogwarts would be more than happy to give you the help you need."

"Thank you, Headmaster," she said gravely. "I suppose what you're proposing makes sense. It's just very difficult to think about anything right now." She sent him a watery smile.

Later, Thera would justify her actions to herself in a number of ways. She was tired. She was still hungry. She was messed up about the prospect of an owl showing up with what was left of her mother. She was caught up in a situation she couldn't control, that frankly scared the shit out of her.

The rock moves only for the mountain. But what if there are two mountains? Mum and Dad moved for one of them and the other one ran them over.

"Am I interrupting?" The cold voice was easily identifiable as Lucius Malfoy's.

"Not at all, Lucius," Fudge called out. "Come in, come in. Dreadful circumstances, I tell you. Absolutely dreadful."

"Indeed. So I take it this is the girl?"

"Yes, Lucius. She's been through quite a time; I don't hesitate to tell you. Held captive for several weeks now. The Death Eaters have gotten to Reina. I'm terribly sorry."

"Well, I know as well as anybody what Death Eaters are capable of," Lucius commented tragically.

"Of course. Terrible what they did to you, Lucius, with the Imperius and the Department of Mysteries. Cornered you in Diagon Alley, of all places..." Fudge shook his head. "No place is safe anymore, I tell you."

"So you would be Thera, then?" Lucius asked her. Thera nodded, trying to look disoriented.

"Who are you, then?" she asked carefully.

"Lucius Malfoy," he said, in what he probably thought was an understanding and sympathetic tone. "I happen to be your closest living relative."

The exact same words he'd used the first time. Well, he definitely deserved points for not being original. "You're my cousin, right?" she asked, the fact that she was in a room full of men making the urge to play up the vulnerable young girl act irresistable.

"Yes, I am."

"I'd like to speak with you, about...my mother," Thera paused and dabbed at her eyes. "But if it's possible, I'd like to see Hogwarts." She looked up at him, trying to communicate that she was working an angle here. "After all, I suppose that's where I'm going to end up, right? And both of my parents went there. My mother spoke of it often. She was happy there."

Lucius did not look pleased at this turn of events, but he also realized that he would look like a tremendous ass if he denied her anything right now.

"Of course," he said, smiling tightly, a note of warning in his voice. "Just remember that family can be very comforting in times like these."

"Thank you, Cousin Lucius," Thera gushed. "Thank you for your understanding. Thank you for everything."

Dumbledore and Fudge said their goodbyes, and Lucius glared at her. Thera winked back. Fudge stood back to allow her and Dumbledore to floo to Hogwarts.

Dumbledore's office was comfortable, filled with portraits of old Headmasters, odd little gadgets, and...

"Is that a phoenix?" she asked, dazzled in spite of herself.

"Yes, it is. His name is Fawkes."

"Hullo, Fawkes," she said softly, holding out her hand. The bird rubbed his head against it and cooed happily.

"They are amazing creatures, aren't they?" Dumbledore asked, settling himself at the desk comfortably and drawing up a cushy chair for her. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"You knew I wanted to speak with you, Headmaster?" she asked, still holding onto the vestiges of her traumatized teenager persona as she sat down. It suddenly struck her that she must look like shit. Thera hadn't had access to a mirror since she'd been sent to the shack, but she could only imagine what sort of picture she presented, and how it must be working in her favor.

"I think everyone in the room knew you wanted to speak with me," Dumbledore answered, a hint of warning in his voice.

Lucius. So he did know. Or he knew something. Thera chose to ignore it, though. No need to tell him anything, just do the deed and get out of here.

"You lead the resistance against the Dark Lord, do you not?" she asked with uncharacteristic bluntness.

"I am a resistor. I claim no leadership of our motley crew," Dumbledore qualified, smiling a bit.

Thera nodded. He wasn't going to give her that sort of leverage. "If you're looking for information, I can give it to you," she said, laying all of her cards out on the table. Some significant part of her balked at this reckless disregard for her own well-being, but another had a more long-term goal in mind.

After all, nobody knew who was going to win the war.

"Can you?" he asked shrewdly. "What sort of information, might I ask?"

"Useful information," Thera said dismissively. "Are you going to make me spell it out, sir, or can we reach an agreement?"

"That depends on what sort of agreement you seek," he said cryptically.

Thera wondered vaguely if he knew about the bond. It was entirely possible. There had been enough Death Eaters at her initiation for rumors to reach the right ears. For all she knew, Professor Snape had given him a full report. Thera did not believe for a second that she was the only one playing both sides.

"I am to be sent here; everyone seems to agree on that. I'm not privy to inside information, and I'll be even less so at Hogwarts. But I will tell you everything I learn."

"In exchange for what, exactly?"

"Protection," Thera said flatly. "It's not within your capabilities to protect me from the Dark Lord, but you can protect me from the Ministry. I'm not about to become the first member of my family to go to Azkaban, Headmaster."

"I see," he said carefully. "You do realize that even as a member of the Wizengamot, I have very little say in Ministry matters, my dear. My opinion carries a great deal of weight, but I can't guarantee you much more than that. Not under the present circumstances."

"What circumstances would those be, sir?"

Something flashed in his blue eyes. "Your continued contact with the Dark Lord."

Thera shifted. "Well, I might not exactly have much choice in that, sir."

"He can find you; this much we know." Thera looked up, surprised. "But he couldn't get you here. If you chose to stay, that is."

So he wanted her to turn herself over. A wide chasm of decision opened up before her, and Thera balked. If the Dark Lord called her, could she even refuse to go, or would she be taken to him anyway? She didn't know, and frankly, that wasn't even the main problem. If the Dark Lord came out on top in this war, she would spend the rest of her life as his slave. If, however, the Ministry won, her position might be even more precarious.

"If I chose to stay," Thera said to her hands in her lap, "certain...things would come up. Things I don't think the Ministry could ignore."

"And yet if you don't stay, the list will only get longer, Miss Castelar."

"I know that," she said quietly. She'd kill more people. The Death Eaters would demand it. Voldemort supplied the bread and she was responsible for the circus. If the Dark Lord won, that's how the rest of her life would be.

But she realized that this decision was not entirely based on practicality, or her own best interests. Something very dark and angry was rolling around inside of her, something she'd never felt before and didn't have a name for. The piece of shit had murdered her mother, and Thera wanted to see him dead. No, she wanted to help kill him. And in the last moments of his pitiful ass life, she wanted to be able to look him in the eye and tell him that she had made it happen. And then she wanted to stand on top of his corpse and laugh maniacally while the sky opened up and lightning rained down...

"If it were my decision to make..." Dumbledore's voice interrupted her vengeance fantasy.

"But it's not your decision, sir," Thera said as politely as she could. "It's mine, and I want to see him defeated."

"That's understandable," Dumbledore said deliberately, as if he were talking somebody down from a ledge. "But you also must respect that if you choose this path, you will be placing yourself in a very dangerous position. One mistake could cost you..."

"He can't kill me," Thera interrupted. If the Dark Lord found out, he'd probably torture her a lot and then control every single minute of the rest of her life. Of course, there really wasn't anything stopping him from doing that anyway, if the idea struck his fancy.

"You aren't going to be argued out of this, are you?"

"No," she said, grinning at him. "But I am going to need my own room."

*******

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London

Harry hadn't even taken a step out of the fireplace before he was bowled over by Hermione.

"Harry! You haven't been writing or answering the phone!" she admonished him.

"Hermione! I didn't know you were here."

She pulled back and grinned at him. She looked very tan and very happy. "I'm only here for your birthday. I'm going back tomorrow."

"Oi, Harry!" Ron stepped out from behind Hermione, giving him a once-over. "You don't look any different..."

Harry found this statement puzzling, but it sent Ginny into fits of laughter.

"Hey, Ginny," he greeted her, moving aside to allow Remus through the fireplace.

"Congratulations, Harry," she answered before dissolving once more into giggles.

"For what?"

"Come on, let's take your stuff upstairs," Ron offered, grabbing Harry's arm and hauling him out of the room, Hermione in hot pursuit.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked peevishly as he tossed his reduced trunk on the bed.

Ron and Hermione were both smiling at him knowingly. Harry felt his face grow very warm with realization and he sank down on the bed.

"Bloody hell, Ron, can't you keep a secret?" Harry growled.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course he can't, Harry. Not one as big as this." She sat down next to him.

Ron sat down on the other side. "So what was it like?" he asked excitedly.

"What? I'm...not...why...what makes you think I'm going to tell you anything?!" Harry spluttered.

"You don't have to give us the details, just a general overview," Hermione said, crossing her legs in front of her and watching him expectantly.

Harry put his head in his hands. "Please tell me your mum doesn't know, Ron," he groaned.

"Mum? Not likely. She's so removed from reality that she still thinks Bill's a virgin."

"Here, let's start easy. Who was she?" Hermione broke in.

"Just this...girl."

"What was her name? Was she hot?" Ron asked.

"Er, Lucy. And yeah. Or I thought so, at least."

"Our age?"

"Yeah."

"Well, describe her to us," Hermione urged.

"Um, she was about your height, Hermione. And she had dark brown hair - really long and straight - and blue eyes."

"Nice," Ron said dreamily. "And...you know, the rest?"

"Ron!" Hermione scolded him.

"What? I'm just trying to get a mental picture."

"For what purpose?"

"No purpose," the redhead answered, his voice squeaking slightly.

Thankful that their little spat had drawn the attention away from his sexual experience, Harry asked Hermione how she enjoyed Spain. This question set off a long lecture on modes or nodes or something of cultural contact and the subversion of identity and a whole host of other things that made his eyes glaze over.

"...which was entirely exacerbated by the Franco regime's policy of...are you two even listening?"

Harry could see Ron nodding in unison with him in his peripheral vision, though he knew very well that neither of them had been listening for a while.

Hermione suddenly looked very ashamed of herself. "Sorry," she said in a small voice. "I'm really trying to be better about that."

"It was really interesting," Harry said quickly and with a surprisingly straight face.

"No, it wasn't, was it?" Hermione asked, apparently to herself, because she rubbed her face very quickly and turned to Harry with a falsely bright smile. "So how did you do on your O.W.L.s?"

"I don't know," Harry answered, bewildered.

"But didn't you get your results yet?" Hermione seemed - in Harry's mind - unaccountably worried about this possibility.

"I got a letter from Hogwarts, but I haven't opened it yet..."

"Your results are in there, Harry!" she said sharply. "Don't you want to know how you did?"

It wasn't so much that he didn't care. It was that he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"The letter's in my bag," Harry muttered, getting up to rifle through the various books and half-finished summer homework assignments in his schoolbag. At last he saw the envelope with the official Hogwarts seal.

With Ron and Hermione's eyes boring into the back of his head, Harry broke the seal and revealed its contents. His heart was pounding now, remembering McGonagall's requirements for becoming an Auror. Potions was likely to be his weak spot, but he might have...

Harry scanned down the parchment. His heart sank. Transfiguration and Charms were solid 'Exceeds Expectations.' And though he'd gotten 'Exceeds Expectations' on his Potions practical, he'd only scraped an 'Acceptable' on the written portion.

Well, maybe Snape will let me in anyway, he thought for a second. Then he realized that this would involve him - Harry Potter - petitioning Severus Snape - who hated his guts - for entrance into N.E.W.T.-level Potions.

Two words: fat chance.

"Well, Harry?" Hermione asked. "How many did you get?"

"Let me see..." Harry counted them up. "Twelve."

"Well, that's more than me, mate," Ron assured him. "I only scratched nine."

Harry laughed shortly. "The only thing I got 'Outstanding' in is Defense Against the Dark Arts. And I got 'Dreadful' in both Divination and History of Magic."

"I'm going to be the only person taking N.E.W.T.-level History of Magic, aren't I?" Hermione sighed. "Didn't anybody pass the exam besides me?"

"Some of the Ravenclaws probably did," Ron said helpfully.

"I gave you both my notes. I know Harry left halfway through the test, but how did you manage to fail it, Ron?"

"Well, Hermione, you have to understand that just because you gave me the notes doesn't mean that I actually studied them," Ron explained.

"Honestly, Ron, this is serious now," Hermione cried. "If you think the O.W.L.s were tough, wait until we take the N.E.W.T.s. And you can't even become an Auror now..."

"Neither can I," Harry added dully.

"Oh, don't be silly, Harry. Didn't McGonagall say that she'd do whatever was within her power to make sure you became an Auror?"

"Well, yeah, I guess she did."

"So there you go. You can still become an Auror, if you put the effort into it," Hermione said encouragingly.

"Ugh, why are we talking about school?" Ron asked. "It's summer, it's Harry's birthday and Mum's making pot roast for dinner."

"Er, Ron?" Harry asked suddenly. "Who else have you told about Lucy?"

"Well, the whole Order knows. Not about the sex, I don't think, but they know you were seeing a girl because they were following you around all summer."

Harry had a sudden image of Hestia Jones peeking in the kitchen window at Lucy's sister's house and observing the whipped cream incident. Shuddering, he banished the idea from his mind.

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Vivian simply could not understand why the book wasn't there. She'd gone through her fathers books three times and she still hadn't managed to locate the one book she really needed to research whatever spell Voldemort was using to form these bonds. The Sanguinitio was a thorough compendium of literally thousands of uses for blood magic covering everything from Druid healing rituals to animal sacrifices among the pre-agricultural civilizations of the Fertile Crescent.

Vivian knew for a fact that her father had owned a copy. He had spent a good portion of his life savings to purchase it from an illegal book merchant. He never would have parted with one of the few published copies still in existence.

So why wasn't it here?

Vivian went through everything once more, but the book was nowhere to be found. She went through the other relevant books on dark uses for blood bonds, but didn't find anything that fit the criteria of Voldemort's spell. Finally, she could put it off no longer. She was going to have to contact the only other person she knew with a copy of the Sanguinitio.

Yuri Dashkin had been a protégé of her father's during his grand tenure at the British Magical College, and had always been very interested in blood magic, specifically the darker uses of it. After her father's death, Dashkin had worked his way up the ranks of research professors at the university attached to the Durmstrang Institute. She ran into him every once in a while at a conference, and she didn't like him. There was a slickness about him that rubbed her entirely the wrong way.

However, he was also the foremost expert on blood magic in the world, and so far as she knew, didn't actively support Voldemort.

Sighing, Vivian wrote him a very kind letter, asking to borrow three books in addition to the Sanguinitio, hoping to cover up her true intentions. She went on a bit about how she hoped to finally finish her father's research on ancient ceremonial languages. If she was lucky, he would buy her excuse. If she was really lucky, he would consent to send her the book.

If she was really, really lucky, the spell she needed would be inside. And if she was the luckiest woman in the world, it would actually be in a language she could translate.

In other words, this was beginning to seem like a wild hippogriff chase, and in the meantime, she'd been neglecting her duties as a soon-to-be professor. She only had a day or two of lesson plans completed and she hadn't even finished reading through the different sections of all of the different books she needed to cover in the first week of classes.

So when Professor Flitwick knocked on her door and told her that the faculty and staff were all gathering in the Great Hall, Vivian was so happy to have a diversion that she honestly didn't mind sitting through yet another administrative meeting.

They met up with The Cardinal's team outside the front doors. Flitwick told them mysteriously to wait until they were called.

"What's all this about?" Amina asked, yawning slightly. "I've been up since dawn taming down the Catapult Hexes at the front gates. If this thing drags on, I'm just going to sleep right there at the table."

"I think it's initiation time," Vivian sighed.

"Initiation?" Gautham asked. "What sort of initiation?"

"Most magical institutions do it for new professors. It generally involves loyalty oaths and humiliation."

"What sort of humiliation?" Fox asked, her eyes darting around as if searching for a threat. They tended to do that a lot, Vivian noticed, as if the woman's life was one long covert operation.

Having taken a secrecy oath at her initiation at the Institute, Vivian was literally unable to go into the details, though her arse had been sore for days afterward. She was saved from explaining by the doors swinging open and a deep voice calling out, "Enter!"

"If I walk in there and they have a live goat, my ass is out of here!" Gautham whispered as they started into the Great Hall.

The room was blessedly without livestock. It was gloomily lit by low-burning candles on the ceiling. The entire faculty and staff of Hogwarts had lined up at the front of the room, dressed in black robes and looking very stern. The ghosts - all looking equally stern, even Peeves - were floating above them.

Vivian had thought the deep voice had been Dumbledore's, magicked to sound menacing. But she quickly saw that behind the line at the front of the room stood four large statues. Moving statues, of the four founders.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the Helga Hufflepuff statue boomed, smiling down at them.

"By coming here, you have agreed to educate young minds in the art of magic," Rowena Ravenclaw continued.

"And to defend your young charges from threats both internal and external," added Godric Gryffindor.

"And above all, to serve the vision of the four founders," came the booming voice they'd heard earlier, which Vivian realized now belonged to Salazar Slytherin.

"Do you pledge your loyalty to this school, its Headmaster, your colleagues and all of the students within?" Helga Hufflepuff asked. "Please answer by saying, 'This I doth promise.'"

The four of them looked at each other briefly. "This I doth promise," they finally answered loudly. Vivian felt incredibly stupid.

"Do you pledge yourselves to the quest for knowledge, and to not only educate your students to the best of your ability, but to also instill in them the desire to educate themselves?" Rowena Ravenclaw asked.

This seemed like a pretty tall order to Vivian, but they all promised.

"Do you pledge yourselves to ensuring the safety this school, its Headmaster, your colleagues and all of the students within?" boomed Godric Gryffindor.

They all pledged.

"And do you pledge yourselves to protecting and maintaining the magical world and our magical arts from any and all outside penetration and insinuation by the Muggle world?" asked Salazar Slytherin.

They started to pledge, but he continued.

"Including the threat of exposure posed to our kind by the education of..."

"Don't you dare finish that sentence!" Gryffindor's statue roared, reaching for the sword hanging from his belt.

The interruption broke the fourth wall so forcefully that Vivian actually took a step back.

"We're not going to make them promise that," Helga Hufflepuff said firmly.

"Honestly, Salazar," Rowena Ravenclaw said, looking pained. "Must you always be a problem?"

McGonagall suddenly turned around and shook her fist at them. "Will you lot knock it off! Stick to the script, or we'll be here all night! Every year, it's the same thing! Every year, I tell you!"

Apparently McGonagall in a snit was threatening even to statues, because all four shuffled their feet and looked guilty.

"Fine," Slytherin's statue said grudgingly. "Do you pledge to do the first part, at least?"

After a long and shocked pause, they did.

"Then, welcome to the family," Dumbledore said warmly. The tables around them filled with food and - Vivian noticed - a great deal of alcohol.

The statues had returned to being just statues. Vivian noticed that Salazar Slytherin still looked annoyed. Or maybe he looked like that all the time.

*******

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London

When Harry flooed in, Ginny felt a sort of pang. It was fine to be around Ron and Hermione or Ron and Harry, but get all three of them together and she was - to be blunt - not necessary. The Trio didn't need anybody else; they never had.

"Gits, all of them," Ginny muttered.

"Got a name for him yet?" Remus asked, gesturing to the calico kitten, who for whatever reason was staring very intently at the kitchen door through which the Trio had just exited.

"No, I haven't. I'm waiting for one to come to me."

"How about Fluffy? After that three-headed dog Hagrid used to have?"

The kitten's eyes swung around to Remus, glaring.

"Er, no, I don't think so, Remus. I wanted something a bit grander."

"Well, you're welcome to look through the library for cool and obscure mythological names, if you'd like."

"Thanks," Ginny said, glad to have a project that might serve to make the rest of the summer more bearable.

Mrs. Weasley walked in with a piece of parchment, looking relieved. "Well, they're finally done with the Burrow. Got a bit hung up on the lake and apparently they've been swamped with other jobs, too. Everybody's clamoring for extra wards. I'm certainly glad we got our request in early, or we'd be here for years."

"It'll be nice to go home," Ginny said, snatching the kitten off the table and putting him on the floor before she got another lecture about fur and eating surfaces.

Ginny, Remus and her mother waged war with the cooking utensils. Remus had shown himself to be quite handy in the kitchen, more because he had good reflexes than because he had much cooking talent. He was able to catch the pot roast with one hand when the oven attempted to launch it across the kitchen.

Her father arrived with Bill in tow, followed a few minutes later by the twins, who offered to help with dinner.

"Not a chance," Mrs. Weasley cut them off. "Sit at the table and keep your hands where I can see them."

"No trust at all," George sighed.

"Here, mum, we'll make up a sign for Harry," Fred offered, waving his wand. A banner appeared, reading: Congratulations for Surviving Another Year, Harry!

Still putting the finishing touches on the treacle pudding, Molly called out, "If I turn around and that banner says anything other than 'Happy Birthday Harry,' you can both find somewhere else to eat."

Fred complied, grumbling.

"And put something up there congratulating Ginny on making prefect, too," Mrs. Weasley reminded them.

"I'm afraid that would go against everything I believe in, mum," Fred said piously, tucking his wand back in his pocket.

"Oh, of all the..." Mrs. Weasley huffed, finally doing it herself. "Ginny, dear, why don't you go upstairs and collect the others? Dinner's nearly ready."

Wondering how the family would survive without the patented Ginny Messenger Service, she started for the door only to hear footsteps on the stairs.

"They're already coming, mum." Ginny noticed that the kitten was sitting near the door, staring at it almost hungrily. Well, he's a cat. They do unexplainable stuff like that.

The kitchen door opened and the Trio came in. The kitten twitched his tail.

Suddenly, the three of them simultaneously tripped. Well, actually they didn't trip so much as fall, as if an invisible force had knocked their legs out from under them.

Everybody in the room under thirty started laughing. Mr. Weasley walked over to help them up.

"Who did that?" Ron asked, looking confused.

"Did what, son?"

"Tripping Curse. It was you two, wasn't it?" he accused, pointing at the twins.

"Does the persecution never stop?" George asked the ceiling, holding his hands out in entreaty.

"At least give us credit for imagination," Fred commented, sounding disgusted. "Like we'd do something as run-of-the-mill as a Tripping Curse."

Ginny felt something rubbing against her ankles. It was the kitten, purring and looking decidedly pleased with himself. Ginny picked him up and he gave her a kitten sort of grin.

He had been watching the door rather intently, even for a cat. And the tail twitch... But that's impossible. Even magical cats can't do that sort of thing, can they?

"Did you do that?" she whispered.

He blinked at her, purring louder.

"Well, it wasn't very nice," she admonished him. The kitten stopped purring and his tail drooped a little. He looked up at her with wide gray eyes and meowed questioningly. Ginny had the odd feeling that he had been trying to please her.

"Got a new kitten, have you?" Bill asked, reaching over to scratch him behind the ears. The kitten continued looking up at her imploringly. "What's his name?"

Ginny smiled at the kitten and kissed his nose. "Vendetta," she said, handing him over to her brother. "And I'd be nice to him, if I were you."