Two to Lead

Chapter 12: Unintended Consequences

Avery Aviary and Beast Sanctuary

Southwestern England

"Organizing? Please tell me you're joking."

"No, m'lord," the stringy young man fidgeted. "It's makin' everybody right nervous, too. They's all whisperin' wif' each other and lookin' shifty and holdin' meetings all the time. S'only me and Buddy Winkles what'll even agree to guard 'em."

"How admirable," Lucius said coldly. "Did it ever occur to any of you that vampires - being vampires, after all, and not kneazle groomers - tend to be...shifty by nature?"

"S'a lot more'n that, m'lord. They gots a whole chain o'command and everything. They's up to somefink, I'll bet my last knut on it."

"Yes. Well thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Mr..."

"Skeevey," the stringy young man replied, grinning a mouthful of yellowish teeth. "Mort Skeevey." He held out a hand, which Lucius pretended not to see.

"Mr. Skeevey then. Send in this emissary, or whatever he calls himself."

"Yes, m'lord. He wants to make a deal, I fink. The leader's wif' 'im."

Lucius nailed the young man with the patented Malfoy glare, guaranteed to freeze an individual at fifty paces. "They have a leader?"

Instinctively, Skeevey cowered slightly. "Y-yes, m'lord. That's what I meant wif' the chain o'command. They's got a leader now, goes by the name o'Marcus Aurelius."

Despite his anger at this development in dark creature relations, Lucius had to roll his eyes at the utter pompousness of vampires. Marcus Aurelius, indeed. The man was probably a shoe cobbler in his former life.

"Very well, then. Send them in."

Skeevey nodded, seemed to think the situation demanded more subservience, then bowed at the waist, Japanese-style. Still bent in half, he backed out of the room.

"Where on earth do we get them?" Lucius asked himself aloud, shaking his head. Of course, guard duty for the resident dark creature population didn't exactly attract the cream of the Death Eater crop. Sometimes he dreaded the legacy he was leaving for Draco. Although on another level, it gave Lucius a sense of relief. These sorts of idiots would soon cease to be his problem.

Sitting back down at Avery's desk, Lucius twirled a strand of hair thoughtfully. He was very pleased with his hair today. Narcissa's latest copy of Witch Weekly had included a softening potion designed for thick hair like his, and it seemed to be working out nicely. Lucius had harbored doubts, as softening potions had a tendency to leave one's hair frizzy, and that was simply intolerable.

Just in case, he ran his hands over it, smoothing it out. Can't look frizzy in front of the vampires. They tend to be a meticulous lot.

With everything that was going on, he truly didn't need this snag, although he probably should have foreseen it. Werewolves were quite simple. They were outcasts from society, and they behaved like proper outcasts: wary, self-contained, not wanting to cause trouble. But vampires were notoriously difficult to work with.

They demanded this. They demanded that. They needed more Muggles to feed off of because they liked to show off for each other, seeing who could keep one alive the longest or drain one in the shortest amount of time. As if Muggles grew on trees. They insisted on signing contracts in blood. They needed silk robes, but only in black, which Lucius thought an aesthetic mistake, as black only made them look paler. The list went on and on.

The door opened, admitting a very tall, well-built, dark-haired vampire and another slightly-shorter light-haired one with an aristocratic air. Of course, the aristocratic air was largely induced by the silly Dracula cape he was wearing.

"Welcome. Please, sit," Lucius said, gesturing grandly.

"You are Malfoy?" the aristocratic vampire asked. He had an unidentifiable old-world European accent that Lucius immediately knew was fake.

"Yes, I am. Marcus Aurelius, I presume?" Even after all these years, it was hard to keep a straight face on occasion.

"Yes. My young friend would like to put forward a proposal, for you to take to the Dark Lord."

"I see," Lucius said, trying to stay pleasant. He turned his attention on the dark-haired vampire. "And what would that proposal be?"

"There is a group working for Dumbledore," the dark-haired vampire began. Lucius was slightly relieved to hear that he was unpretentiously British. "I understand they've been quite a thorn in your side for some time now?"

Lucius narrowed his eyes slightly. "They have been bothersome, yes."

The vampire smirked slightly. "Well, I imagine you'd like them out of your way, in any case?"

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Are you telling me you can arrange such a situation?"

"Let us just say that I have access," the vampire replied carefully.

"In what way?"

"I'd rather not go into the details until the Dark Lord has shown interest in the opportunity."

Why couldn't vampires be more trusting? Lucius wondered. "I'll take the proposal to him, though he will ask what you desire in return."

"Power," the vampire said simply. "There are certain abilities that take time to develop in a vampire. The Dark Lord knows ways of achieving these powers in an instant. The whys and hows can be negotiated at a later date."

Lucius was silent for a moment, studying the vampire. He didn't seem quite as involved with fripperies as most. He felt that this man was a vampire with whom he could do business.

"I will take your proposal to my Master and relay to you his response. Is that all?"

"Yes," the younger vampire replied, standing. "Thank you for your time, Malfoy." The aristocratic vampire rose and thanked him also. And with a flip of a cape, the two vampires were gone.

Lucius gritted his teeth, then stroked his hair to calm himself. Vampires would be vampires, after all. Still, at this point, he wouldn't have time to discuss anything with the Dark Lord before the ceremony. Feeling decidedly put-upon, he Apparated to the Manor.

To find Narcissa in a snit.

"You knew my mother was coming to visit! What are the Crabbes doing here?"

"So they've arrived already?" Lucius asked, trying to dodge an argument.

Not likely. "Yes, they've arrived. I gave them food and put them in the parlor for people we don't like very much. They'll be fine for a while. But, Lucius," she said, employing that whiny tone of voice that made him want to wrap both hands around her throat and squeeze.... "Mother's here, and you're going to flood the place with those grimy..."

"I'll keep them in the dungeons," Lucius assured her. There had been a very strict lecture about this to the Death Eaters after a spate of liquor-cabinet raids and trampled perennials.

Narcissa put her hands on her hips and glared at him. It was a veela glare, too, and had the potential to reduce a man to impotence. Lucius quickly focused his eyes on the ceiling.

"If even one of them disturbs a petal in my rose garden..." she said warningly.

"They all watched me hack Nelson to death," Lucius said in a calming tone, patting her on the shoulder. "They know better. Your mother won't even know they're here, I promise. Now why don't you go upstairs and take a nice long bath and I'll handle everything. How's that?"

Narcissa looked slightly mollified. "You know how mother is, Lucius. If any funny business comes up those stairs, I'll hear about it every day for the rest of my life."

Nagging and complaining and judgment? What could he possibly know about that?

Lucius put both hands on her shoulders. "I know, dear. Don't worry. You won't even know they're here." He kissed her on the forehead.

"And I'm not wrestling Bellatrix," she said petulantly. "It's undignified. And she bites."

Lucius had a sudden and very arousing image in his head, but he ignored it.

"You don't have to wrestle anybody, dear. Just go upstairs and relax, and I'll handle everything."

She sighed. "Fine. And if there's a mess, make sure the house elves clean it up before breakfast."

"I will."

"And I don't want the Crabbes here overnight," she said sharply, shaking a finger at him. "We always have to burn the linens afterwards, and you know how fire attracts gnomes."

"They'll be gone before midnight," Lucius said placatingly.

Narcissa nodded. "Goodnight, then, dear."

"Goodnight," Lucius said absently, his mind already on the initiation of Vincent Crabbe.

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

For Harry, sixth year was shaping up to be even more difficult than fifth year. Not only with classes, either. The Dueling Club had had an organizational meeting, in which Professor Wellbourne and Professor Snape announced that each team (Gryffindor and Ravenclaw on one, Hufflepuff and Slytherin on the other) would only have sixteen members. Trials were set for next Saturday, and Filch had his hands full with all of the practicing going on in the hallways.

And then there were Quidditch practices. Katie Bell was shaping up to be more like a drill sergeant than a captain. Whereas Wood had been all dedication and good speeches and Angelina Johnson desperation and coaxing, Katie Bell was single-minded and ruthless. Natalie MacDonald had yet to make it through an entire practice without bursting into tears. In addition to this, he had his training with Fox twice a week, which left him sore, angry and disappointed with himself, generally with his scar still burning the way it used to after Occlumency lessons with Snape. Every night, Harry fell into bed exhausted, only to wake up in the morning feeling as if he hadn't slept at all.

And then there was the D.A. Professor Wellbourne must have told every student she could find to join the club, because kids had been seeking him out all week, trying to gain entrance. It was flattering, and Harry felt gratified that so many people had so much respect for his abilities. Hermione had convinced him to call a meeting of the original D.A. to take a vote on new membership.

It was strange to watch everybody shuffle in, realizing how much had changed since last year. Neville, Luna and Ginny had proven themselves in a real confrontation against real Death Eaters. Cho walked in with Michael Corner, both of them looking tentative. Because Harry still felt a twinge of guilt whenever he thought about Cho, he walked over to greet them.

"I'm glad you guys came," he said lightly, wishing Cho weren't quite so pretty.

Cho's face relaxed into a smile. "Thanks, Harry. I'm glad you're okay with us coming...I mean, with everything that's happened and all."

Michael Corner was sending Ginny Weasley worried glances. She didn't appear to have noticed his presence.

"Yeah, I mean, I still need to perfect my Patronus," the younger boy said sheepishly.

"Take a seat. I think everybody's here," Harry said, smiling tightly. He walked up to the front of the Room of Requirement and cleared his throat, looking out at all of the expectant faces.

"Well, I'm glad everybody came back this year," he began. "You all made a lot of progress last year, and those of you who fought at the Department of Mysteries..." Harry faltered, his throat suddenly feeling constricted. Harry ducked his head and cleared his throat again. This wasn't the time.

"You should be proud of yourselves. You fought bravely, and you fought well." He looked up and saw Neville shining with pride. It galvanized him a bit.

"Anyway, there are a lot of new people who are interested in joining, and I just thought that you should all have a say in the future of the D.A., how many people should be let in and all that."

Hermione stood up, holding a parchment with the names of the interested students. "There are a lot of people who are interested in joining," she said in a businesslike tone. "Too many to let them all in, I think. We should probably decide how big we want the group to be, then decide what the criteria should be for new members." She sent a questioning glance at Harry. He nodded.

"Professor Wellbourne says we can use her classroom from now on, so we'll have enough room for about thirty people total," Harry continued, beckoning Hermione up to join him. "Honestly, I don't know if I can teach more than that."

"Well, we can be objective about it," Ginny piped up. "I mean, most of the stuff we're going to be learning is pretty advanced, so we can limit it to fourth year and above or fifth year and above, or something like that."

"But the original members still get to stay, right?" Dennis Creevey asked worriedly. He was only a third year.

"Of course," Harry assured him.

"Well," Hermione said, scanning down the list, "if we limit it to fifth year and above, we're still going to have..." She did a quick count. "Thirty-nine members."

"Are there any Slytherins?" Ron asked curiously.

"Should it matter?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Of course it should matter," Ron answered. "They might be sent in to spy or something."

"Oh, honestly, Ron," Hermione huffed.

"House doesn't matter," Harry bit out. "Which house somebody's in isn't relevant, okay?"

"Of course it's relevant," Ernie MacMillan argued. "They're all future Death Eaters; everybody knows it. Why teach things to people who are just going to use it against us?"

"Well, if we exclude the Slytherins, how many are there, fifth year and above?" Zacharias Smith asked.

Hermione scanned down the list again. "Thirty-two," she said in a flat voice.

Zacharias looked decidedly pleased with himself. "Well, then there you go. That's the new D.A." Several voices agreed with him.

Hermione looked rebellious, but nobody seemed inclined to agree with her, and Harry had a feeling that this was the best they were going to get. And he had to admit that a large part of him agreed with Smith. It was possible that some of the Slytherins actually wanted to join and learn things, but did he really want to teach defense tactics to a bunch of people they couldn't really trust?

"So is that okay with everybody?" Harry asked.

The vote was unanimous, probably because instead of voting, Hermione simply glared at him. Harry was starting to develop a heavy feeling in his stomach, the way he usually did when the real Hermione and the Hermione-like voice of his conscience joined forces.

"Then I'll let the new members know they're in the club and I'll let all of you know when the next meeting will be," Harry said, keeping his gaze focused on the club. Following his announcement, they all got up and started to head off to their various houses. Harry could feel Hermione's eyes on him, but he tried to ignore her as he chatted with Dean and Seamus.

It was impossible to avoid her in the corridor back to the Gryffindor tower, however.

"Do you really think that was the right thing to do, Harry?" she asked him, her voice piercing into his head.

"I did what the club wanted me to do," Harry said dully.

"Good for you, then," she said briskly. "Of course, letting Slytherins into the club might have facilitated inter-house relations. It also might have convinced people who otherwise would have become Death Eaters to choose a different path. But then, I guess we'll never know, will we?"

"Come on, Hermione," Harry said raggedly.

"Harry, I'm not going to tell you what to do," she said in a gentler voice, turning away from the portrait hole to look at him. "I just..." she took a deep breath and let it out. "I don't think it's necessarily best to let the group tell you what to do, either. You're the leader, Harry. I know you don't like it sometimes, but you are. And that means that every once in a while, you have to lead people, not just tell them what they want to hear."

For Hermione, they were pretty cutting statements. Cutting enough that Harry stood back for several seconds in the hallway after she climbed through the portrait-hole. Cutting enough that he stared up at the ceiling for a long time that night before finally falling into a troubled sleep.

*******

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London

At the grand old age of thirty-six, Remus was beginning to feel like the matronly chaperon in a comedy of manners. Bill Weasley - having broken up with Fleur Delacour over 'the marriage issue' - had moved in. Which is to say that he retained his own flat while spending every waking moment at Number Twelve, and possibly some sleeping ones as well. Whether or not he and Tonks were an item was a matter for speculation.

Well, as the sole observer, it was largely a matter for Remus' speculation.

But the matronly idea wasn't entirely inspired by his unfortunate spectator position in the ongoing 'are they or aren't they?' drama of Bill and Tonks. It also had a great deal to do with the fact that without his whining and bitching presence, those two could close down a club, go for some after-hours partying, stop somewhere for a spot of breakfast and open up the corner pub the next day.

Even in his younger years, Remus couldn't remember having that kind of stamina. Sure, there had been drinking and revelry, but not drinking and revelry that lasted from six o'clock on Friday until midnight on Sunday without a break for sleep and a change of clothes.

And no force on the planet was about to get Remus Lupin to wear dragon-skin trousers out to a club. He didn't care if putting them on would defeat Voldemort. He didn't care if the casual act of zipping up the fly would create some sort of cosmic accident that would bring about world peace. Remus was not going to wear something like that in public. Period.

No matter how flattering they were. And he had to admit, they were actually pretty damn flattering. After all, he was a lean guy, and with the werewolf thing and all, he was still looking pretty fit for thirty-six, aside from the gray hair...

No, no, no, no, no. No dragon-skin trousers. Yes, his ass may look lickably fabulous, but he would not even consider wearing something this stupid to a twenty-something dance club, especially when he happened to be well past the twenty-something Muggle dance-club dragon-skin-trouser-wearing phase. Hell, even when he was twenty-something, he'd never gone through a twenty-something Muggle dance-club dragon-skin-trouser-wearing phase.

It just wasn't his style.

He was Remus Lupin. Decent. Solid. Dependable. He wore sweaters and wool trousers and the occasional pair of argyle socks. He wasn't a clotheshorse, but he didn't want to be one. He just wanted to be himself.

But himself just looked so damn good in these trousers. Remus had the nasty feeling that he was staring his midlife crisis in the face. Or - to be more precise - in the well-crafted rear end.

Who knows? I might get lucky. It's about time I got lucky. There are plenty of guys my age who don't have to remember what year it was that they last had sex.

Before he could change his mind, Remus threw open the door to his room and strode down to the Entrance Hall, where a whooping Bill and Tonks were waiting to meet him. And as the three of them walked out into the chilly London air, Remus felt like a new man. A dangerous man. A man who wore dragon-skin trousers, and you could never tell what sort of mysteries a man like that was hiding.

For a period of about forty-five minutes, Remus felt the hippest he had ever felt in his entire life. He danced with Bill and Tonks to the pounding techno music, which is to say that he sort of bobbed his head to the beat. He drank things he couldn't even pronounce. He even talked up a cute young thing who complimented his bun-hugging trousers.

However, he was feeling a growing need to go to the loo, which he finally did with great trepidation. As expected, the toilet was disgusting, and Remus always felt exposed when using urinals. Finishing up quickly, he went to the sink to wash his hands, and made the mistake of looking in the mirror.

His ass still looked great. The rest of him, however, wasn't doing so well. He was sweaty from dancing and his hair was drooping. The unflattering fluorescent lighting seemed to highlight and advertise every one of the wrinkles on his face. Moving aside for the next person at the sink, Remus took his time drying his hands, feeling very old and very foolish.

What was he thinking? It suddenly became obvious to him that he was probably the oldest person in the club. The loud music was beginning to give him a headache, his neck was getting sore from the head bobbing and the trousers were beginning to chafe in spots that didn't take to chafing very well.

It had been a lot easier to pretend when he didn't have to look the pretense in the eye.

"I think I'm going to go back," he half-shouted to Bill and Tonks when he finally wound his way back to them.

"Oh, c'mon Remus, don't be such a wet blanket. There was a feisty blonde girl watching you walk over," Tonks protested. Her hair was a jet black and her features were some sort of pan-Asian mix, with heavy, dramatic black eyeliner. Tonks needed a bit of work on her ethnicities.

"We've still got three more clubs to hit!" Bill joined in.

"I've had my adventure and now I have a headache," Remus complained. "And I need to get these trousers off before I do permanent damage."

They moaned some more, but eventually let him leave. Remus walked back out into the night to find that it had started raining.

"Bloody fucking great," he muttered, sneaking off into an alley to cast an Impervius charm over his clothes and hair. He couldn't imagine dragon-skin trousers were any more comfortable when wet.

Dashing through the rain-soaked streets, Remus suddenly missed Sirius terribly. It was a wrenching in his chest that he knew would never entirely go away, but would just ebb and flow depending on how occupied he kept his mind. Bill and Tonks were a good time, and the three of them had decent conversations, but even Sirius in his most cabin-fevered, climbing-the-walls, biting-the-head-off-of-anyone-within-reach mood was better company. Old friends were irreplaceable like that.

Of course, if Sirius saw Remus in his current get-up, he'd wet himself with laughter.

Finally entering Number Twelve, Remus kept up his light jog, wanting to get back to normal as soon as possible. However, on the second floor landing, he froze. Someone else was in the house. He could hear them moving around in the library.

Damn, damn, damn. He tried to sniff the air and figure out who it was, but they must have flooed in, because all he could pick up was sulfur and ash. Remus would have to sneak by the library in order to get up to his room to change. He really did not desire a meeting with one of the Order members right now.

Tiptoeing lightly across the floor, Remus had just made it to the next staircase when the person began exiting the library. Without any sense of decorum, Remus just started running up the stairs.

"Hello?" a voice called from the library door, hearing his pounding footsteps. "Bill, is that you?"

Once more Remus froze, closing his eyes and wishing himself anywhere else but here. Or wishing that the person in the library were anybody but Vivian. Although, considering she was only getting a waist-down view of him and thought he was Bill, perhaps he should be flattered.

"Hello, Vivian," he said, his voice sounding unnaturally high. "I was just going up to change."

"Remus?"

"Yes," he said in that same voice. "That's me. Just going to change. Now. Yes." Without another word, he quickly climbed up the rest of the stairs and went into his room, putting on more reasonable attire as quickly as possible, which wasn't very quickly. When an individual peeled off a pair of dragon-skin trousers, it was literally peeling them off.

Vivian - being Vivian and not somebody willing to leave a man with the barest shreds of his dignity - knocked on the door shortly thereafter.

"Remus? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, his voice thankfully back to normal.

"Well, then why were you acting so odd just now?"

Cursed woman. "It was raining outside. I just wanted to change."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I was just returning a book I borrowed. Wouldn't want your legal team coming down on me for stealing property, now, would I?" She was joking. She was still talking. She hadn't left. Remus had a feeling that unless he could come up with a believable illness, he was in for a chat.

Remus racked his brain for about a second and a half, then immediately felt guilty. It wasn't her fault that she'd caught him at a low point. She was just being friendly, and this was Vivian, for Merlin's sake, not some stranger. And she wasn't twenty-three; she'd understand.

Opening the door, he had to smile. She looked so worried. It was a typical Vivian look when dealing with other people. Vivian avoided socializing in general because she was utterly terrified of situations just like this one. Frankly, if she had caught anybody else on the stairs, she would have let them go and snuck out of the house.

"I could use a cup of tea right now," he said. "Would you like some?"

"Oh. Yes, actually. That would be nice."

Remus led the way down to the kitchen, wondering vaguely why they were acting so stiff and polite with one another. Vivian sat at the table silently while he prepared the tea.

"So," she said conversationally as he served them both, "dragon-skin trousers. Turning over a new leaf, are we?"

Remus felt his face grow warm and mumbled something about being adventurous.

"Don't be so shy. You looked good in them," she assured him.

"It wasn't even the pants, actually," he admitted. "It was wearing the pants and then looking at a gray-haired, wrinkled face in the mirror. I felt silly. All these young kids around, and I was dressed like them and everything, but from the neck up, I looked like their dad."

"Well, we all do that at one time or another," Vivian sighed. "Just after the divorce came through, a couple of the single girls took me out to a bonfire. I let them convince me I needed to wear a bikini. Then I got there and all the girls were thin and toned and tan and I looked like a scoop of cottage cheese shoved into a two-piece. It was awful."

"You know, if we're going to be talking about getting old, we're going to need something stronger to drink." Remus rose from the table and fixed them gin and tonics, silently thanking Tonks and her alcoholic nature.

"It's a shame, you know," Vivian mused as she accepted her glass. "When I was eighteen I had firm breasts and a flat stomach and no idea what to do with them. And now that I actually do know what to do with them, they're making their way towards the floor." She looked down at her bosom sadly.

"Stop it, Vivian. You look great."

She ignored him. "You could have dropped a sickle on my ass and it would have bounced right back up into your hand. Now, you'd have to use a niffler just to find the damn thing again."

Remus couldn't help but laugh. "Don't say that. Your ass is glorious."

"It's not glorious," she said flatly. "The fact is that you reach a point in your life when you look a lot better with clothes on than you do without them. I need them now just to hold everything in place."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Is this leading up to a striptease?"

Vivian smiled. "No, it isn't."

"Not even if I transfigured one of the chairs into a pole for you?" he asked hopefully.

"Not even if you put on Brass in Pocket and dressed up like a swarthy pirate."

Remus looked at her curiously. "I never knew you had a thing for pirates."

"Every woman has a thing for pirates, if she's in the right frame of mind," she explained. "You know, innocent damsel held captive by a swashbuckler with questionable intentions and an historically inaccurate respect for bathing, flossing and consensual sex."

"Hmph. I never knew that. Perhaps I should act like more of a scoundrel." Remus stroked his chin and leered at her.

"No offense, Remus, but you're just not the scoundrel type."

"Why not?" he asked, feigning offense.

Vivian fixed him with a penetrating gaze. "When was the last time you had sex?"

"Ummmm..."

She rolled her eyes. "Remus, if you have to think about it, you're not a scoundrel."

"Alright, so I'm not a bloody scoundrel," Remus conceded. "Of course, every other day of my life, I haven't been one either, so I suppose I'll be okay."

Vivian shrugged. "Some have it, some don't."

"When was the last time you did it?" he asked her, a bit vengefully.

"I'm not trying for scoundrel status, so how is that relevant?"

"That long, eh?"

"Oh, shut up," she grumbled, taking a nice long sip of her drink.

"Come on, Vivian. This is juicy gossip."

"Yes, the world is dying to know when I last got some. I hear the Daily Prophet is offering a thousand galleons for pictures."

Because the curiosity was beginning to eat at him, Remus decided to bargain. "Okay, how about this. I'll tell you if you tell me. The information will never leave this room."

Vivian thought about it for a second. "Deal, but you have to tell me who it was."

"Who it was?" Remus asked faintly.

"Well, of course. You know who mine was. It's only fair."

"Oh? Do I?" he asked coyly, more to stall her than anything else. Remus was weighing his incomprehensible desire to know when she and David had last done it against his really comprehensible desire not to tell her about his last score.

"Of course. It was with Ned, my ninety-pound Master's assistant at the Institute. On my desk, no less."

"Okay, ewww."

"But now that I think about it, I'm not entirely sure if that little encounter was before or after I shagged the seventy-five year old head of my department in the faculty toilet..."

"I get it!" Remus interrupted her. "It was David. I get it. Please stop."

"Fine. You tell me who yours was."

Remus stared into his drink. "Well, you remember that girl Sirius was dating when Lily and James got married? He brought her to the wedding."

Vivian chewed on her lip. "Honestly, I could never tell Sirius' girlfriends apart. I think there was a period of time when he dated the same girl and just kept introducing her to me under different names."

"So you don't remember Marigold Flemisher?"

"Marigold...he brought her to the wedding?"

Remus nodded, still staring at his drink, awaiting the realization.

"Wait a second. Gryffindor, a year younger than me, right?"

"Yep."

"Isn't she the one who disappeared just after the reception and turned up the next morning in the bushes with the band leader?"

"That would be her. You have to admire Sirius' taste in women."

Looking up, he saw Vivian's jaw drop. "You slept with a girl who slept with Tad of Tad and the Tadpoles in the Potters' front garden?"

"Yes," Remus croaked.

"Wow. I remember her, too. She was really stupid. I imagine you weren't entranced by her witty repartee."

"No, she was just cute and blonde and we ran into each other and one thing led to another," he said tightly.

"Okay."

Something in her voice rubbed him the wrong way. "What?!"

"Nothing," she answered innocently.

"It was just that one time. It's not like we had a thing."

"Random one night stands with ditzy blondes are a perfectly acceptable mode of male sexual behavior," she said in the same tone of voice.

"Well she's not the sharpest knife in the bunch, but at least she hasn't gone and become a vampire or anything." Remus wished immediately that he could take the words back, not only because it was a low blow, but also because it was a really dumb comeback.

Vivian's eyes went wide. "David's a vampire? When did that happen? And why hasn't somebody been endlessly antagonizing me about it?"

Remus suddenly didn't feel up to the fight. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't have. A person would almost think you were jealous, Remus, which would be silly considering the person you're jealous of is no longer my husband, and was only my husband in the first place because you're a witless prat."

"That's an interesting interpretation," Remus commented with a great deal of false equanimity. "I mean, a person could also almost think that you're jealous of a stupid blonde chick I shagged one time three years ago when you were still married to someone else."

"Well, I'm not jealous. But she's still stupid." Vivian sniffed, swirling her drink around. Then her head snapped back to him. "Wait a second. It's been three years?"

"Yes," he snapped "Why? How long has it been for you?"

"Actually," she said sheepishly, "we did it a few hours before David saw you in the fireplace."

Remus gaped at her. "Really? But I thought you guys weren't getting along."

"We weren't," Vivian said, blushing slightly and looking away from him again. "But that doesn't mean we didn't...I mean, even when we were fighting, we still...you know...every other day or so."

If there was a step beyong gaping, Remus had just achieved it. "Every other day? You'd been married for fourteen years and you still did it every other day?"

"Remus," Vivian said pityingly. "We did stay together that long for a reason. Actually, I think that might have been the only one."

He sat back, still awe-struck. "Every other day," he breathed. "So did you like it better..."

"Don't you dare ask me to compare the two of you," she interrupted threateningly.

He looked at her guiltily. "But you did like it with us, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. Don't be silly."

"Do you miss it at all?" he asked tentatively. "Not even with David, necessarily, but just...in general?"

She sighed heavily. "Yes, I do."

"So do I."

They sat silently for a moment, and Remus watched her. He hadn't lied before. She really did look great. She'd always been pretty, but she actually bothered with her appearance now. The long light brown hair she'd spent her younger years shoving up into a ponytail now brushed her shoulders and actually had a hairstyle. The years had softened the sharp lines and edges of her face, and the firelight cast a golden wash across her generally pale skin.

But it wasn't just physical attraction, it was shared history, an old and comfortable knowledge of each other's personalities and proclivities. He'd gotten used to loneliness for all those years, and then Sirius had come back. But now Sirius was gone, and the loneliness was worse. Much worse. Soul-deep and unendurable. Remus' conscience told him that what he was about to do, he was doing for all the wrong reasons.

Or maybe he wasn't. They had been young when they'd been together, but they had still loved each other. Part of him still did love her, and it was probably the best part of him left after all this time. Even if neither of them was in any state for a decent relationship, what was wrong with two lonely adults enjoying each other's company? And maybe other things...his libido weighed in.

"We're still hopelessly hung up on each other, aren't we?" he finally asked.

Vivian took a deep breath and let it out, her eyes meeting his. "Yes, I think we are. Sometimes I think we always will be." Without diverting her attention, Vivian laid her glass down on the table and leaned closer to him.

Remus couldn't keep himself from touching her hair once it came into reach, running the silky strands between his fingers. "What do you think we should do about it?"

Vivian's eyes fell to his lips as he spoke. "I think you should kiss me," she answered.

"Well, you always were the smart one," Remus commented as he leaned forward and did just that

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Nosebleed Nougat," Fox said. The gargoyles parted and Fox proceeded up the revolving staircase and knocked at the Headmaster's door.

Fox, he greeted her, looking up from the parchments in front of him.

You wanted to speak with me?

I just wanted to see how things were going with Harry.

He's far too easily manipulated, Fox said peevishly. Certain aspects of Potter's personality had only been realized at her first contact with him. I make one comment about his mother and he flies off the handle.

Dumbledore sighed. It is a touchy subject for him, I'm afraid.

Well, then I'll be sure to avoid it, because of course Voldemort will...

Give him time, Fox, Dumbledore said indulgently. He's still trying to accept all of this.

Yes, but the matter still stands that I'm not a shrink and the boy's a powder keg.

You've made some progress, though. Was he able to figure out what you were doing?

He figured out that I was manipulating him, but I doubt he understood why. It's going to take longer than I thought to tear him down, and even longer than that to build him back up again.

Dumbledore studied her for a moment. Build him back up into what, exactly?

Into someone capable of surviving Voldemort, Fox replied curtly.

Dumbledore nodded, apparently accepting this. He is trainable, though? The potential is there?

He attends the training because he knows he should, but if it were left up to him, I doubt he'd continue. And as for his potential, I would say at this point, he simply needs to be carefully watched.

Watched? For what reason?

Fox fixed him with a look. If his trust in me is going to be worth anything, it's going to be a long, hard road to earning it. Until I do, he's dangerous.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. To himself, or to others?

To all of us. For at least the next few weeks, he's going to be vulnerable to outside infiltration: mine, yours and Voldemort's especially. The boy's a walking conduit. Until he builds up some defenses, we have to assume that everything Harry Potter sees and hears, Voldemort sees and hears.

The Headmaster nodded. If Voldemort's still able to get into Harry's head, will it expose your presence here at Hogwarts?

No, Fox answered, grinning. If Voldemort's been listening to his own intelligence, I'm a Hispanic guy.

Dumbledore blinked. I'm sorry?

The Cardinal's been spreading misinformation, saying that Grindelwald's Guardian heir is one Carlos Martinez of Brownsville, Texas.

I see. Does Carlos Martinez of Brownsville, Texas aware of this?

There is no Carlos Martinez of Brownsville, Texas. Or I suppose you could say that there are probably thousands. It's a wild hippogriff chase.

Well, Dumbledore sighed, sometimes the simplest plans are the best ones.

It keeps him busy, Fox shrugged.

Has there been any progress teaching Harry how to do battle?

There will be soon. I've got a whole sack full of dirty tricks to teach him.

Dumbledore smiled slightly. Do you think Harry has it in him, to fight dirty?

Probably not, but he might as well know that the Death Eaters certainly will. I wouldn't be doing him any favors by throwing him out there with the assumption that everybody fights fair.

No, you wouldn't. Thank you for the update, Fox.

Fox nodded and headed back to her chambers, which for some reason had become central headquarters for her team. Whether it was because she was always awake for a late night discussion or because she had fun sharp weapons to play with, Fox wasn't sure. In any case, she wasn't terribly surprised to find Gautham lounging in his boxers eating a sandwich with Baba on his lap, idly watching Amina lip-synch to Whitney Houston on Fox's wireless.

As the song went into the chorus, Fox dodged Amina's flailing limbs.

Ohhhhh, I wanna dance with somebody,

I wanna feel the heat with somebody...

"Oh, hey there, Fox." Amina said, trotting over to turn the music down. She was still slightly breathless.

"Gee, it would be nice to be able to spend all my time sitting around listening bad eighties dance music. Damn shame I actually have to work and all," Fox said wistfully.

Amina suddenly looked very dangerous. "Are you..." she asked between gasps, "insulting...Whitney Houston...in front of me?"

Fox was not about to get into this argument again. Even if she believed Whitney Houston songs were formulated in a laboratory somewhere. Even if the woman had made that terrible movie with Kevin Costner and utterly ruined it by not dying even though it would have been the only fitting end. And even if she'd married a guy whose claim to fame was singing the theme song for Ghostbusters 2.

It just wasn't worth it.

"I love Whitney Houston. Love her to death. Is this a marathon? Gee, I hope so," Fox said with minimal enthusiasm.

"Catfight?" Gautham asked hopefully.

Had a catfight actually been in the works - which was, doubtful - it was immediately sidetracked by Whitney Houston's segueway into...oh, yes, it truly was...Prince.

Once, several years ago, Fox and Amina had conducted an in-depth discussion regarding music. Specifically, they had made a list of the top-ten list of songs guaranteed to turn any woman into an instant slut. They had then written the list down and given it to Gautham. Had he bothered to employ the list, he would have gotten laid with far more frequency.

Four of the top ten were Prince songs.

Fox ran over to turn the wireless up. She caught a brief glimpse of Gautham's horrified face as Amina picked up Baba and began rubbing him against her body in a porn movie shower scene sort of way. Fox removed one of her daggers from its sheath and flourished it with a great deal of hip wiggling.

Dig, if you will, the picture,

Of you and I engaged in a kiss.

The sweat of your body covers me.

Can you, my darling, can you picture this?

"Uh, girls?" Gautham asked tentatively, adjusting his glasses as Amina took Baba places no stuffed animal had gone before, except Baba. Several times, in fact.

Dream, if you can, a courtyard,

An ocean of violets in bloom.

Animals strike curious poses.

They feel the heat, the heat between me and you.

Gautham grabbed a couch cushion and hid behind it as Fox slinked over to join Amina, licking her dagger before removing sweatshirt and throwing it at him. He dodged most of it, but a sleeve wrapped around his forehead. Gautham didn't seem to notice.

How can you just leave me standing,

Alone in a world that's so cold.

Baba had now worked his head into Amina's t-shirt. Fox was waving the dagger seductively in front of her crotch.

Maybe I'm just too demanding.

Maybe I'm just like my father - too bold.

Gautham was still watching them, wide-eyed. "Dirty. You're both dirty, dirty women."

Maybe I'm just like my mother.

She's never satisfied.

Why do we scream at each other?

This is what it sounds like when the doves cry...

By the time the song ended, the floor had been writhed across, clothes had been flung, in some cultures, Baba and Amina would now be married, and Gautham, having been an unwitting prop at one point, was lying on the floor with a pillow over his crotch, still muttering to himself, "Dirty, dirty women..."

"So Fox," Amina said, stepping over Gautham and taking a seat on the couch as the wireless announcer boomed about the All Muggle Music Weekend ahead of them, "you never told us what Harry Potter's like."

Fox shrugged and sat down beside her. Both of them were now resting their feet on Gautham's inert form. He adjusted his pillow, still muttering.

"He's a good kid, I suppose. Better than most, actually."

"So he can't turn water into wine or change the weather with a wave of his hand?"

"Not that I've seen, no."

"Well, at least you have a project. All Gautham and I do is wake up, assure ourselves that the school's still here and isn't full of Death Eaters, and our job's pretty much finished. Every once in a while, we have to extricate somebody from one of the traps, but that's about it."

"So you're bored?"

"Beyond bored. I spent yesterday afternoon painting Gautham's toenails. See?" Amina picked up one of his feet and showed off the toenails in question. Four of the toes were painted bright orange, and the big toe was decorated with palm trees. Something about pretty tropical paintings and the curling hair on Gautham's feet combined to make the overall effect truly disgusting.

"That does take a lot of boredom," Fox noted. "And a strong stomach. If you're looking for entertainment, I could certainly use some assistants for the Potter kid's training."

Amina eyed her suspiciously. "Sounds good to me, so long as you don't use us as practice dummies or anything."

"I'd never do that," Fox lied.

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Ginny had noticed that Draco Malfoy was suddenly everywhere. And not just everywhere in a 'hey, there's Malfoy again; wonder what he's doing here?' sort of way. He was everywhere with snide comments and hexes.

As she was walking to Transfiguration and eating an apple, he suddenly jumped out from behind a suit of armor, causing her to jump back and make a high-pitched 'eek' sound.

"Eating again, Red? Might want to watch out for that. Don't want to turn out like your fat mum, do you?"

For the first few days, she had ignored this new behavior. That was when he started hexing her.

So out of nowhere, as she was trudging through the mud to Care of Magical Creatures, she suddenly tripped and fell. Trying to get up, Ginny realized she couldn't move. For a few seconds, she tried to put together what had just happened. Then a pair of Italian loafers appeared in the mud beside her, followed by an upside-down silver-blonde head and a pale, smirking face.

"Thought you'd feel more at home down there, Red," he'd said. Then he'd walked away, leaving her struggling in the mud until Colin Creevey came along and set her free.

"Merlin, Ginny. Who put a Binding Curse on you?" he'd asked, helping her up, then taking the opportunity to put his hands on her shoulders in what was probably the Colin Creevey equivalent of copping a feel.

"Dunno," she'd answered with fake puzzlement, quickly extricating herself from him. Ginny wasn't about to say anything to anybody about Draco Malfoy. First of all, it wasn't in her nature to snitch, for better or worse. Sure, the words 'the diary's writing back to me and telling me to do things' might have saved everybody a lot of trouble, but she would have felt like such a tattletale.

Secondly, there was the matter of blackmail. If her little assault on Draco Malfoy in the trophy room ever became public, there would be several piles of shit hitting several different fans. Ron would kill Malfoy and go to Azkaban, Ginny would be lectured into insanity by just about everybody she knew, from her parents all the way down to Hermione, and then would likely spend the rest of her life locked in a room somewhere, possible in St. Mungo's.

Well, she might be blowing things out of proportion slightly, but Ginny still couldn't imagine anything good coming from it.

Which meant that her only choice seemed to be to endure. Unfortunately, this meant that Malfoy employed a strategy of steady escalation, until Madame Pomfrey started muttering about Dumbledore and notes home to parents. Ginny had a feeling the 'I have no idea how I got boils on my face/sprouted antlers/grew another leg' excuse wasn't cutting it.

"Malfoy," Ginny finally asked through puffy lips as her head slowly swelled to the size of a beach ball, "why are you doing this?"

"To piss you off," he explained, watching her head expand with a great deal of satisfaction. "Aren't you really pissed off now, Red? Don't you want to yell at me? Hex me?" he asked, rapid-fire.

"That's what this is about?!" she asked with great difficulty, her voice sounding deeper and oddly sonorous. "You're trying to make me angry?!"

"Is it working?" he asked excitedly.

At the moment it was, but not for the reasons he thought. Suffice it to say, this wasn't the first time Ginny had found herself with a head that wouldn't fit through doorways. What made her truly and uncontrollably angry was that she had been giving Draco Malfoy a lot more credit than he deserved.

All this time, she had thought that this whole thing was an epic battle of wills, him trying to push her as far as she could go, to make her complain to somebody so that he could rip apart her carefully balanced life piece by piece. And the entire time, the stakes had been far lower, almost insultingly low. The point of this whole thing was just to make her lose her temper? How lame was that?

The majority of Hogwarts made out Slytherins to be these evil, dastardly beings, when really they just ran about like the stupid schoolchildren they truly were, insulting people to hurt their feelings and pulling stunts like this just to...to what? To feel superior? To amuse themselves?

Just then, had Draco Malfoy rolled up his sleeve and shown off his Dark Mark - assuming he even had one, which he probably didn't - Ginny still wouldn't be impressed. She had put up with weeks of Colin Creevey acting very concerned and developing a dangerous hero complex with respect to her, for this?

Malfoy was still watching her, his gray eyes wide with anticipation. Tightening the lid on her temper, Ginny pulled out her wand and shrank her head back to its normal size. Then she crossed her arms and employed a voice that sounded dangerously like her mother's.

"I've spent the last few weeks wondering what all of this was about. I've dreamed up entire scripts of how this situation was going to come to a head. I've imagined Azkaban and St. Mungo's and this all possibly being a secret plan of You-Know-Who's that you were just acting out in order to get to Harry in some really sneaky way. And the entire time, you were just trying to make me angry."

Malfoy cocked his head in confusion.

"On a bad day, one of my brothers could have formulated a more nefarious plan. You're a disappointment, Malfoy. A complete and utter disappointment. In fact, you know what you are?" Ginny walked right up to him as he goggled at her stupidly.

"You're a freaking Hufflepuff," she hissed. Malfoy stepped back awkwardly, as if she'd punched him. Turning on her heel, Ginny stalked away, rage still boiling in her stomach. Fifteen minutes later and through a series of events neither of them truly understood, she and Terry Boot were a couple.

*******

Draco stood there for several minutes after Ginny Weasley stomped off. He didn't have much choice; he was stuck to the floor by the sort of emotion he usually felt when Potter caught the bloody snitch. It was expected on the Quidditch pitch. It was entirely unexpected in the hallway, and especially from Ginny Weasley.

She had called him a Hufflepuff. She would die for that, but first he needed to talk to Thera.

Thera opened the door wrapped in a sheet, looking flustered.

"Bringing back the Greek Senate look?" he asked.

"No," she said blankly, sitting down at the desk. "I almost had sex with Crabbe."

"What?!" Draco snapped, pinning her with a glare. Or he would have, had she been looking at him. "Why?" he asked, in a more reasonable tone of voice. It was, after all, a valid question.

"I'm not sure, actually," she said, scratching her head. "I just saw him in the common room, and then...clothes were flying...he smells terrible."

"Then why did you do it?" Draco asked patiently.

"Well, I didn't, or I should say we didn't." Thera was still not looking at him, her shoulders hunched over. "Snape knocked on the door and said Crabbe's father was here, and that was it."

Draco felt that he would much rather be talking about his failure with Ginny Weasley, but considering the current events and the fact that from the get-go, Thera had said that his plan for Weasley was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard, he should probably not bring it up right at this moment.

"So are you telling me," Draco said, still trying to wrap his mind around what must have just gone down in Thera's room, "that you think Crabbe's good-looking?"

"That's the funny thing. I don't. He's like a pet you don't bathe enough. But something...I don't know what the fuck happened. I need a drink."

"Good luck," Draco said absently as Thera stood up and tapped the bottom drawer of her desk with her wand. The top immediately opened and flipped around to reveal an admirably-stocked wet bar.

"Merlin," Draco said, standing up. "Where did you learn that?"

"Reina believed that all a person truly needed to get by in the world was central heating and a hidden bar," Thera said breezily, pouring a healthy dose of Voodoo Rum.

"Okay. But where did you get all the alcohol?"

Thera smirked. "Stole it from your father before I left the Manor."

"I wondered why your trunk was so heavy."

"Want something?"

"Mmm. Dragon wine."

Thera poured him a glass, then changed back into the clothes strewn across the floor.

"Weasley called me a Hufflepuff," Draco sighed.

"Draco, if you use Hufflepuff strategies, you have to expect to get called on them," Thera said, smirking. "On the other hand, it shows a pretty un-Gryffindor prescience on her part. Odd, that."

"She bothers me. She doesn't respond to anything the way she should," Draco brooded into his glass. He was always at his most attractive when brooding, he felt.

There was an intake of breath from Thera. When Draco looked over at her, she was shaking her left hand as if she'd burned herself.

"Problem?"

Thera stared at her left hand as if it were an alien being. "It feels weird."

Draco shrugged. "Probably a delayed reaction from touching Crabbe's balls."

"No, it's..." Thera suddenly looked up at him in horror.

"What?"

"Oh, dear," she said faintly. Then, almost against her will, her left hand formed into a fist and she disappeared.

*******

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London

Kissing Remus again after such a long time was strange. On the one hand, it felt comfortable, like putting on an old pair of jeans that fit in all the right places. On the other hand, there was something new and different about it. Maybe it was because they were just kissing each other, as opposed to mashing their lips together while ripping each other's clothes off like they used to do.

In fact, Vivian couldn't remember a time when the two of them had just sat and kissed, going back and forth and exploring each other's mouths without groping something else along the way.

Remus finally pulled back a few inches, looking back at her with a soft smile on his face. His hand had moved to cup the back of her head while they were kissing, and he kept it there.

"Are we really going to do this?" he asked. "I mean, do you think we've both learned our lessons?"

She couldn't hold back a snort. "No, of course not."

"Actually, me either," he said, grimacing.

"How is it possible for me to be older and wiser in every aspect of my life except for you?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," he said, letting her go, looking so entirely Remus that she could suddenly understand how something like this was happening, even if it was stupid and impetuous and potentially destructive.

"I'm glad it's you, though," she said honestly. "I just can't imagine getting all mixed up with somebody new, and having to meet them and their friends and their family, and at every step you have to worry about liking them and them liking you. Dating is hell."

"I agree. Isn't it funny how we get so set in our own ways? I know we're hardly spring chickens, but we're what at the worst? Mid-summer chickens? Of course, once you start staring down forty, it might as well be winter."

Vivian sat straight up as something clicked in her brain. The seasons. Severus had talked about it with the four children, but she had disregarded it because the dates hadn't been important. They hadn't been solstices or equinoxes or harvest days or celebrations. But it all depended on how one looked at the seasons, didn't it? She and Severus had both been raised in Britain. They both lived in a world with four seasons, but not all cultures did, and the numbers...

"Vivian?"

"Oh, dear Merlin," she breathed. Five. All of the children were fives. And in some of the ancient cultures, there had been five seasons...

"Vivian? What's wrong?" Remus got up and came over to her, looking worried.

And perhaps he had reason. Vivian's heart was pounding in her ears and she felt clammy. She should have seen it. How had she not seen it?

Remus had his hands on her shoulders now. "Vivian? Are you okay?"

With an unreal sense of dread, she brought her eyes to his. It was too much to think on, and who could the other one be, anyway? Severus had already said that these were the children, but were they, really? What had Lucius said, and what had Voldemort said, and in what ways had Severus interpreted it in terms of what he already knew?

"I'm..." she couldn't bring herself to say that she was fine. "I have to go." Shakily, she got up from the chair and made her way to the fireplace.

"What's going on?" Remus asked, confusion and worry in his voice.

"I just...I realized something, and I need to talk to Dumbledore," she explained lamely, fumbling with the floo powder, trying to put her thoughts in order. "I'm really sorry, Remus. I'll talk to you later."

And was she even correct? She'd have to get out the astrological charts, do a quick check in The Daily Lives of Ancient Magical Cultures, but something in Vivian was screaming that she'd found the one thing that had been holding her up, the one thing she'd overlooked. She had entirely ignored the facts staring her right in the face.

"Dumbledore's Office, Hogwarts," she said clearly, throwing the powder down. Her body began spinning, but her head was already doing so, the same thought repeating over and over again.

There aren't four children, there are five. There are five of them...