Two to Lead

Chapter 13: Unlikely Connections

The Ministry of Magic, London

Sometime during the course of her childhood, Bernadette had acquired the unfortunate and undesired nickname 'Bunny.' The unique nature of the name Bernadette didn't exactly lend itself to many dignified shortenings. One didn't go around calling little girls in pigtails "Bernie" or "Bennie."

Still, it was rather degrading to arise in the morning as a handsome and respectable middle-aged woman of a certain social stature and look in the mirror at someone who was cursed with one of the silliest names possible.

Bunny Fudge.

She, with her carefully maintained cap of gray curls and wardrobe of pastel robes, the wife of the Minister of Magic, mother of four well-groomed and successful children, seven times a grandmother, was saddled with a name better suited to a monthly centerfold in Playwizard.

The only person in her entire circle of family and friends and acquaintances who called her by her proper name was her nephew, Balder. Bernadette knew her sister Louisa was a twit. She had been a twit since birth, and when she'd intentionally become pregnant by a married foreign emissary, she had been an unforgivable twit. Louisa had planned the pregnancy. She'd wanted a child, regardless of the general proprieties that should be involved in having one, like notifying the gentleman with whom you were about to conduct intimate relations that you had lifted your own protective spell against pregnancy.

There was absolutely no reason for a fully-grown witch, or a witch of any age to become accidentally pregnant. Even the Hogwarts students were covered from the moment they set foot in the school until the moment they graduated, though nobody felt the need to advertise this fact for obvious reasons.

And even after the pregnancy was announced, the possibility existed that Louisa's bull-headed desire for a child could be rectified with a quick marriage, but Louisa had refused.

Not only had she remained unmarried, she had named the child after his father. She had liked the father's name. She'd thought it was musical. The father to this day had never acknowledged his unwanted son, had felt understandably betrayed by the very existence of this son, and had nearly caused an international conflict over the son being named after him. And so Bernadette's nephew went through life as the second Balder Astragand, and nobody ever brought up the fact that there was another individual by that name who everybody knew was his father, largely because Louisa had done absolutely nothing to cover up that fact.

Bernadette had initially pitied the child, growing up with such a twit for a mother, who had managed to hang an albatross around his neck before he had even entered the world. And then at the age of six, young Balder Astragand had asked her if Bunny was really her name. She had explained the situation, and ever since, he had called her Aunt Bernadette, earning a secret and special place in her heart.

Even at the tender age of six, the boy had understood the importance of a name. Plus he met her for lunch once a week, which was more than she could say for her own children.

"Aunt Bernadette," he greeted her, kissing her cheek. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and placed their usual lunchtime orders.

"So are the women still beating down your door?" Bernadette asked, winking. After his feature in Witch Weekly, Balder had been inundated by offers from unattached women of all ages. He had said it was like waking up and suddenly being Gilderoy Lockhart.

"It's tapering off now. I think they're losing interest."

Bernadette tutted. "You shouldn't go around throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce."

"I'm busy, and I like my work," he said mildly. "I don't like women who chase after me because of an article in Witch Weekly."

Their food arrived. "So how's Uncle Cornelius holding up?" he asked in hushed tones between bites.

"You know how he is," Bernadette answered, just as quietly. "Every article and every rumor about an inquiry just makes him all that much worse."

Balder winced. "I'm sorry for that."

"It's not your fault," Bernadette said automatically. Unfortunately, it fell upon Balder to figure out where things had gone wrong and fix them. All too often, the spotlight fell on Cornelius.

"It looks bad, you know that. Putting me in this position when I'm his nephew. Everyone expects me to cover for him."

"Would you?" Bernadette asked the question of her salad. She didn't want to look at her nephew, because she wanted honesty from him, and frankly, he was the only person she knew who would give her an honest answer. If things were going to go badly for Cornelius, she at least wanted to know that it was coming.

Balder took a long time to answer. "I don't know," he said finally. "I want to help the Ministry work better, and I want to win this war." His voice got even lower. "I'm not going to cover anything up, but I'm also not going to let Uncle Cornelius take the fall for something that wasn't his fault."

Bernadette nodded and raised her eyes. "I wouldn't expect anything less of you."

"Don't think it's entirely my decision, Aunt Bernadette. The judgment may very well be out of my hands."

Bernadette nodded again. "How are things going with Dumbledore?" Bernadette asked carefully. It was rare that she asked about the specifics of his job, and she'd never asked about Dumbledore before, even though it had worried her ever since he and Cornelius had fallen out.

"They're not going," Balder answered flatly. "It's a difficult situation. He has a group of people working for him, but he won't give us their names. He is willing to share intelligence with us when it doesn't compromise his operation, but the very fact that he has an operation..." Balder trailed off, pushing the remainder of his pie around his plate thoughtfully.

"All of this talk about Dumbledore reminds me that I have a moral quandary," Balder finally said, grinning up at her. It was a game they'd played since he was a boy: What Would You Do? As in 'What would you do if a genie offered you a billion galleons, but you had to be an ugly hunchback for the rest of your life?'

"Well, what is it?" Bernadette asked, sitting back.

"What would you do if you were a thirty-something, reasonably attractive and successful man..."

"Balder, you're selling yourself short."

"Who said it was me?" he asked innocently. "Anyway, say you had sort of a crush on this certain girl in school, only she was with somebody else."

"Hmm."

"And then say she moves away and gets married and you forget about her entirely for years and years."

"Yes."

"But then she comes back and seems to be using her maiden name again, so you make a few inquiries - just out of curiosity, of course..."

"Of course."

"And you find out that she's divorced..."

"Oh, dear."

"...so she's available..."

"Obviously."

"...only you're not even sure she remembers you..."

"I'm sure she does, sweetheart."

"...and she happens to be working for someone you don't entirely trust."

Bernadette paused. "Do you mean Dumbledore?"

Balder shrugged. "So do you make a play for her or not?"

"Well, do you mean working for Dumbledore?" Bernadette asked.

"That's sort of up in the air, but no, I don't think so. There doesn't seem to be any reason for her to, and she worked for the Ministry during the first war."

"But she's working for him..." It was suddenly obvious, considering there had been only one addition to Hogwarts, and she just happened to be the same age as Balder. Bernadette smiled. "I never knew you had a crush on Vivian Wellbourne."

"I suffered in silence," he said sheepishly.

Bernadette clapped a hand over her mouth. Divorce? Removing her hand, she whispered, "She and David Lynes got a divorce? How awful."

"That's what the records say."

"Oh, my. Well, that explains why he didn't come back with her. And everybody thought he was traveling. But I just had tea with Amelia Bones the other day - he's her nephew, you know - and she didn't say a word. When did this happen?"

"This past spring."

"Do you know that his parents were at one of our fundraising dinners this summer, and his father said they were both doing fine. Oh, he always was a slippery one." Everyone knew Thelonius Lynes had made his fortune through currency speculation during the Grindelwald years. Not outright dirty business, but hardly respectable.

"Er, Aunt Bernadette?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, dear. She's certainly a wonderful girl. I knew her mother quite well in school. It's a shame what happened..." but one didn't talk about things like that at a casual lunch. "Anyway, I'm sure the two of you will get along famously."

"So I should ask her out, even though she works for Dumbledore?"

"Oh, she won't stay long. She's far too bright to want to spend the rest of her life teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts," Bernadette said dismissively. "And after all she's been through, I'm sure she'd welcome the attention."

Balder chuckled. "I'd say that's up to her to decide."

"Dear, ask her out for lunch to catch up on old times. Even if she isn't interested in romance, I'm sure she's in dire need of a distraction. The poor girl is probably bored to tears at that dreary old school."

"Well, at least I have that going for me," Balder said dryly, calling for the check.

*******

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

When one was in a hurry, flooing could be dangerous. Vivian did manage to make it to Dumbledore's office, but she fell flat on her face upon arrival.

"Headmaster," she panted, picking herself up off the floor. Dumbledore bustled over to help her.

"Vivian? Has something happened?" he asked quickly.

Still out of breath, she struggled to tell him what she'd learned, but it wouldn't come out right. "There...five...numbers...didn't see..."

"Sit down, Vivian," he said calmly. "Catch your breath and put your thoughts in order while I make us some tea."

Unable to speak, she simply nodded. Of course, the making of the tea took a wave of the wand and about ten seconds.

"Now," Dumbledore said, sitting down and blowing on his hot tea after placing a cup in front of her. "What is it you have to say to me?"

Vivian took a quick sip of tea before taking a deep breath and answering.

"We thought there were four children, but there are five."

Dumbledore looked confused. "Five?"

Taking another deep breath, Vivian launched into an explanation about the children's birth numbers.

"And I don't suppose you have a copy of The Daily Lives of Ancient Magical Cultures?" she asked. "I just want to check the dates and be certain."

Dumbledore held out a hand. A book flew into it and he handed it to her. It was a copy of The Daily Lives of Ancient Magical Cultures.

Vivian flipped through the book to the chapter on magical seasonal ceremonies and feasts. It didn't take her long to find the passage. "You see," she said in preface, "Severus and I worked the birth dates of the four children and noted that they were all in different seasons - winter, spring, summer, fall - but then it occurred to me that the dates themselves weren't meaningful."

Dumbledore nodded. "But then," Vivian continued, "I realized that we might be looking at it wrong, that there were several ancient magical cultures, largely of the fertile crescent and the eastern part of the Mediterranean, that believed in the existence of five mystical seasons. These seasons weren't only annual, but also sociological. Entire civilizations rose and fell based upon when the five seasons began and ended. But the seasons were also tied to the natural calendar in very strict and very important ways. Five being the number of the natural order, it was also the prominent number in progeny spells using blood ceremonies." She paused. "Is this making any sense?"

Smiling slightly, Dumbledore nodded again and Vivian referred to the passage in question.

"To each of these cultures, the seasons represented Chaos, Discord, Confusion, Bureaucracy and Aftermath." Turning a few pages further, to the section with the dates of each season, Vivian continued. "Draco Malfoy was the first to be born, on January 4, in the Season of Chaos. Specifically, he was born on the first day in which a child could be born in this season and have the number five as a numerological indicator - as all of the children do. Beyond that, he was also born on the fourth day on the Season of Chaos, which means very little to us, but to the cultures we're talking about right now, this is significant. Four is a number of wise leadership, of bringing separate factions into harmony with one another."

"Now, Gregory Goyle is the next child, born April 19 in the Season of Discord, but not on the first day in which a child could be born and have five as a numerological indicator. He couldn't, you have to understand," she said, looking up at him once more.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Well, because unlike all of the other seasons, the Season of Discord has an apex right in the middle. Goyle was born on the closest day to this apex on which a child could be a numerological five. Now, by being born on the thirty-sixth day of the season, Goyle is a nine according to his season, which is considered a servant's number. Three is considered completion, and nine is three to the third degree. To put it very simply, it means he's a people-pleaser."

"Now this is where the break occurs. Crabbe was born August 15, which means that if there is a fifth child, he or she was born during the aptly named Season of Confusion, between May 27 and August 7. I have the date narrowed down, or would you like me continue with the other two we already know about?"

"A brief discussion of the other two would be useful," Dumbledore said. "I believe I'm beginning to see where this is going."

"Well, Crabbe was born on the eighth day of the Season of Bureaucracy, which is only truly relevant because eight in the ancient cultures is generally considered a number of numerous different loyalties and different duties, largely because of the multiple factors of the number eight."

"Lasty, Thera Castelar was born on November 3, the fifteenth day of the Season of Aftermath, which makes her a six. She's a allowed to be a six, because frankly, looking at this group a six is much needed."

Vivian realized how stupid that sounded and explained. "Six was an important number to the ancients, which is what led to six being viewed as the number of order and completion in the tarot. But to the ancient magical cultures I believe we're dealing with in this situation, five was the number of order - the natural order of things, the chain of events and human history, impetus, I guess you'd say - and it was the most important number to them."

"Well, to make things relevant, if you add all four of the children's numbers together: six, four, nine and eight, you get twenty-seven, which is a numerological five. But if that's true, then where does the fifth child fit in? Numerologically, he or she can't be a zero, so how does it work out?"

"Easily," Vivian said, answering her own question. "The child was born on July 25. The fifth child is a five in and of him- or herself. If there's a fifth child - and I believe that there absolutely must be for any spell I'm aware of to be effective - he or she must have been born on July 25."

The Headmaster stared at her. "July 25? Of the same year?"

"It's the most likely possibility, but I don't know if it's a requirement. The child would have five as a numerological indicator, and he or she would also be born on the fifty-ninth day of the Season of Confusion, which in the beliefs of the cultures who followed a five-season system, would also make him or her a five." Having finally gotten it all out, Vivian slumped against the chair in relief.

"July 25," Dumbledore said once more.

Vivian sat up again. "Does it mean anything to you?"

The Headmaster closed his eyes for a moment. "I know two individuals born on that date," he said heavily, staring at his desk as if it weren't even there. "Not in that particular year, but..."

One of them had to be the child, then. Vivian was almost certain, but they were interrupted by a thudding sound from the floor. Dumbledore arose from the desk.

*******

By the time Thera and Crabbe portkeyed back to her room, she wasn't very happy with him. Malfoy, she noticed, was still lying on her bed. He appeared to have polished off her entire bottle of dragon wine, but Thera had bigger problems.

"I can't believe you used Cruciatus on me," she growled at Crabbe, shoving him. It didn't have any effect.

"The Dark Lord told me to. And anyway, you used it on me first," he said accusingly. "It really hurt, too."

"I also used it on you because I was ordered to, and it was only bad because I was pissed at you for throwing that Muggle's head at me!"

Crabbe actually looked sorry. "I didn't mean to throw it at you. I just threw it, and you were there."

"Muggle heads?" Draco asked with great interest, propping himself up on his elbows.

"I ripped it right off," Crabbe said proudly.

"And then threw it at me," Thera added. "I actually touched it." She wiped her hands on her robes yet again.

"Disgusted by Muggles now?" Draco asked in a slurred voice. "You didn't used to be, back when you were fucking them all the time."

"I wasn't disgusted by the Muggle. I was disgusted by his decapitated fucking head!"

"Sounds like it was quite a party," Draco said, rising from the bed and swaying slightly. "Had a little party of my own. Think I'll go to bed now. Help me with the walking thing, Crabbe." He began sinking to the floor, but Crabbe hauled him upright. "There's a good boy," Malfoy commended, trying to pat Crabbe on the shoulder and missing.

Crabbe picked Draco up like a baby and carried him back to the boys' dormitories in a way that was almost sweet. Thera scourgified her robes and put them away, then reset the hidden bar and sat down on the bed. Snape had told her to come straight to his office, but she was sore from the bloody Cruciatus, which was apparently painful even when the caster was an oafish moron.

There had been a point to it, one that wasn't lost on her. Crabbe wouldn't touch a hair on her head...unless the Dark Lord told him to, of course. Good to keep that in mind, lest they all get too comfortable with their current arrangement.

And she'd almost slept with him, for Merlin's sake. Thera put her head in her hands. True, it was every female's dream to have a male on hand who obeyed your every command, but generally he looked more like Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise and less like a zoo exhibit.

Hogwarts was getting to her. It wasn't even the schoolwork, which through a complicated web of favors, she largely managed to dodge. It was the students. Thera had spent her whole life watching kids like these hang out with their friends or study in the public library. She couldn't say she really envied them. There wasn't enough there to envy. They lived in a completely different world.

But now she inhabited their world. She wasn't just an observer anymore. She was also - to a small degree - a participant. It threw the remainder of her life into even starker perspective.

If it weren't for the chump Dark Lord and his delusions of grandeur, she'd be just like all of the other kids here.

Well, in all honesty, even a Voldemort-free world wouldn't have transformed her parents into Ward and June Cleaver, but Thera certainly would have had a much better chance of reaching seventeen before committing her first murder.

A knock sounded on her door. Snape. Thera stood up stiffly and opened it, feeling relieved for the interruption. Slytherins didn't do self-pity very well. Cunning and determination and ruthlessness generally canceled out the emotional depth required for a good pity session.

"You were supposed to come to my office when you returned," he admonished her as he swept into the room, wrinkling his nose at her unmade bed. Not a word had been said about finding her earlier sharing a sheet with Crabbe. So long as they didn't take place on the common room sofa, sexual shenanigans were largely overlooked in Slytherin house. And even when they did take place on the common room sofa, the only punishment was gawking first years and the risk of attracting a peanut gallery.

Thera paused as an icky thought popped into her head. How is it that she suddenly feels the need to shag Crabbe, and then just as suddenly he's spirited away to renew his bond with the Dark Lord? It was too much of a coincidence to actually be a coincidence.

And then an even ickier thought popped into her head. Does this mean one of these days I'm going to be seducing Goyle?

Thera shut the door and crossed her arms, feeling several hours and a decapitated head past beating around the bush right now. "Are we going to see the Headmaster?"

He didn't even blink. "Yes."

"So you work for him?"

"My loyalties are the least of your concerns, Miss Castelar," he said smoothly.

"I wondered how he knew about me, about the four of us," Thera answered, ignoring his answer. "Don't worry. I'm not going to rat you out, if that's your concern, Professor."

He raised an eyebrow. "It is your job, however. Isn't it?"

"So I've been told. Funny that nobody's asked me to give a report yet. Even funnier that I don't think anybody's ever going to."

"Perhaps they don't think you'll have anything useful to say."

"Then why bother to send me here in the first place?" Thera asked impatiently.

Professor Snape was impassive. He knew. She could feel it. But he wasn't going to tell her anything.

"Shall we go to Professor Dumbledore, then?" he asked. It wasn't a question, and he was already at the door. Thera followed him blindly, wondering what he wasn't telling her, and how bad it was. Because it could only be bad. People didn't refuse to tell you about good news.

She thought they would be going through the hallways, her playing the part of the misbehaving student perhaps, but Snape headed straight down the hall to his office. Hiding her surprise, Thera followed him inside.

He went through his office and into the Potions classroom, the site of numerous instances of Thera burning something. Now Kim did her potions for her in return for sitting next to him in classes. Apparently her presence lent him a certain cachet among the munchkins.

So, for what it was worth, the first year Slytherins thought she was cool. Even a few of the older students seemed to have been told by their parents that she had a position with the Dark Lord. Nobody was stupid enough to say anything out loud, and none of them would dare publicly befriend her, but Thera had received an awful lot of party invitations.

Snape strode over to the potions cabinet and whispered a few words under his breath, tapping the handle lightly with his wand. To Thera's surprise, the cabinet slid soundlessly away from the wall to reveal a staircase.

"Very nice, Professor," she observed.

Snape shrugged. "It's a necessary measure."

Thera followed Professor Snape up the staircase, which wound around several times before stopping at what must be a trap door. Snape knocked, and a few seconds later, the trapdoor opened with a shaft of light, revealing the Headmaster's wizened face.

"Come in," he greeted them briskly. "We've been waiting for you."

Snape halted so that Thera nearly ran into him.

"We?" Snape asked suspiciously.

"Yes, Severus. Vivian's here. We've been discussing a few things." The Headmaster didn't pause while conjuring up chairs for the two of them, but he glanced quickly at Professor Snape, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

Thera finally made her way up the remainder of the staircase, blinking in the golden light of the Headmaster's office, which was jarring after the dimness of the dungeons. Professor Wellbourne was sitting in a chair, looking pale and tense. When she saw Thera, the woman sent her a half-hearted smile.

"Professor," Thera mumbled, taking her seat. It was odd enough to talk about the night's events with Dumbledore. Was she really expected to recount the whole story to her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, too?

"Miss Castelar," Professor Wellbourne replied, her attention already back on Dumbledore.

"It is late, so I will not keep you long," Dumbledore said, settling in behind his desk. "Vincent Crabbe renewed his bond with Voldemort?"

"Yes, sir," Snape answered. "Just like before, the actual ceremony took place prior to the arrival of the Death Eaters, so I don't have any details."

"And then?" Dumbledore asked.

Snape sighed. "Crabbe killed a Muggle. With his bare hands. Increased strength, obviously. Merlin knows what other powers he gained tonight."

Well, I think we can rule out wit and intelligence, Thera contributed silently.

"It's another sort of bond," Professor Wellbourne murmured. "To kill another in the service of your master. It's quite common. Everybody from the ancient Thuggi to modern day Muggle gangs use murder as an initiation rite."

"Was there anything else?" Dumbledore asked.

Snape continued on, telling of the Cruciatus-fest and the Dark Lord's speech at the end about them getting ever nearer to their goal. Having heard it all the first time, Thera let her attention wander around the room, from the portraits of former Headmasters who had long since stopped pretending to be asleep to the odd collections of instruments to a bloody sword on the wall, to the phoenix, who blinked at her serenely.

"Miss Castelar?" Dumbledore asked suddenly.

Thera turned her attention back to him. "Yes, sir?"

The Headmaster smiled slightly. "Do you recall the ceremony during which you renewed your bond with Voldemort?"

"Of course, sir," Thera said, confused. "But I've already told you about it, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have, my dear. In very helpful detail, I might add. So you recall reading an incantation of sorts out of a book?"

"Yes. It was in a different language. I don't know what it was."

"No, I can't imagine you would," Dumbledore said gently. He was talking to her as if the two other people in the room didn't exist, and somehow they didn't seem to. The room felt smaller, somehow, and was growing smaller by the minute. It sent a panicky flutter across Thera's chest.

"Miss Castelar?"

"Yes?" she said quickly.

"You read the language out of a book. Do you recall what the book looked like, or what the language looked like?"

Thera thought for a moment. It was hard now. A respectable portion of her brain was devoted to keeping her calm, even as the walls pressed in further and a nauseous rumbling developed in her stomach. She felt very hot on the inside and very cold on the outside and considering how her last encounter with the Dark Lord had ended, Thera had a feeling she better talk quickly.

She swallowed. "The book was...uh, old. Larger than most books. The pages were thin. I didn't see the cover, though." Bile rose in the back of her throat. Languages and blood and screaming and the staring eyes of the Muggle's head.

"And the words?" Professor Wellbourne broke in. "Do you remember what they looked like?"

"They were all squiggles and lines. The were rows and rows of them, and the words all ran together, not separated like English words," Thera said quickly. She closed her eyes briefly, her heart thudding in the soles of her feet and the pads of her fingertips, the cold sweat making her shiver.

"Were they complex..." Professor Wellbourne began, but Dumbledore held up a hand.

"Thank you, Miss Castelar. Your help has been invaluable. You may leave now. Please come to see me tomorrow."

The 'Thank you, sir' occurred on her way out the door. Thera heard Dumbledore tell somebody to give her a few minutes as she pounded down the circular staircase to the hallway. For a brief, panicked moment, Thera couldn't remember which way the girl's toilets were. It seemed silly to worry about where one vomited when one really needed to vomit, but Thera finally got her bearings and stumbled off for a reunion with her supper.

*******

It had been one thing when Harry was busy all the time and feeling exhausted. Now even the approach of bedtime made him nervous. For the past few weeks, his head didn't seem to belong to him. His scar burned at odd intervals, and his dreams at night were filled with images of animals ripping people apart, cowering groups of Muggles and high-pitched laughter.

He knew whose laughter it was. He met with Dumbledore about it, told him about the animals and the Muggles and Voldemort, and Dumbledore just looked sympathetic and told him he'd be able to block it out soon, that he was making good progress. Harry couldn't see how, but Dumbledore didn't seem to want to give him any details.

Harry knew he'd be feeling the same frustration he'd felt last year, the same resentment for Dumbledore, if only he weren't so bloody tired all the time. He wanted to sleep, he was dying for sleep, but he knew it wouldn't be restful.

Ron and Hermione noticed his behavior, but neither of them seemed to want to push him to talk about it. Even Harry had to admit that burning scars and disturbing dreams were pretty much old hat for all of them. Ron was nervous all the time now, with the match against Slytherin coming up. He also seemed to be avoiding Hermione like the plague. For her part, Hermione looked even worse than Harry did.

She was snappish lately, and always seemed to be working on some sort of project that nobody knew the nature of, because every time he or Ron asked she just said they wouldn't understand. When Harry asked her for help on their Potions homework a few days ago, she'd gone off.

"So that's all I'm good for, is it? Need help with your homework? Ask Hermione! Need somebody to do some tedious and boring task that nobody else wants to do? Ask Hermione! Why not? After all, it's not like Hermione's got a life or anything."

Harry had been too shocked to even apologize. He hadn't spoken to her since, not because he was angry with her or didn't feel like apologizing, but because he wasn't entirely certain exactly what he should be apologizing for.

It seemed to Harry that even though they still spent time with each other at the newly expanded D.A. or at Dueling Club practices - as they'd all three made the team - there was a certain distance between them. Harry wasn't sure where it had come from or why it was there, and most of the time, he was too tired to try to think it out. And so things continued.

Harry did all kinds of things to keep himself from sleeping. At first, he tried to read or clean his broomstick in the common room, but he always fell asleep anyway. Lately, he had taken to wandering the school in his father's invisibility cloak. Harry knew that he was only tiring himself out more, lowering his defenses for when sleep finally overcame him, inadvertently letting in more and more of the visions, but he couldn't help himself anymore. As the only person awake in his dormitory, he felt lonely and put-upon, but wandering around the school at night, he at least felt like he was doing something.

The Astronomy Tower being generally populated, Harry kept to the hallways, though it would have been nice to get some fresh air. He went up to the owlery the first time, but despite the droppings, that seemed to be a secondary snogging location, so he abandoned it to Hannah Abbott and a seventh-year Hufflepuff whose name Harry didn't know.

So when he'd sat down to do his Transfiguration homework and woken up shortly later feeling the same thing he'd felt this summer, that connections had been made, that Voldemort was pleased, that things were moving forward on schedule, Harry awoke to a largely empty common room.

Hermione was sitting in a chair by the fire, the crease between her eyebrows telling that she was concentrating very hard on something. A whole host of books were spread out in front of her, and Harry couldn't bring himself to tell her about the dream. She'd just tell him to go to Dumbledore, and maybe he would. But he didn't want to be told to do so.

Instead, Harry went upstairs, his roommates' snores greeting him as he opened the door. Harry took out his invisibility cloak, putting it on before he left the room. Hermione was still studying, and Harry didn't want to open the portrait hole while she was there. He sat down in a chair to wait, wondering how things had come to a point where he had to hide from his own best friend.

Is this how things were going to be now? Ron, all wrapped up in Quidditch, practicing every spare minute? Hermione working on whatever she was working on until all hours of the night? Harry sitting invisible less than ten feet from her, unwilling to let her even know he was there, much less what he was up to? When had it become so difficult to maintain a bloody friendship?

Once more he fumbled for the moment things had changed, and he couldn't seem to find it. Harry's gaze went between Hermione and the portrait-hole, wondering when he could get out, feeling restless and cramped in the chair.

He must have dozed off, because suddenly Hermione was gone, and Harry couldn't remember her going upstairs. Somewhat sluggishly, Harry got up and went through the portrait hole. He didn't have a particular destination in mind, but his thoughts on Ron and Hermione brought him to Dumbledore's office. Harry stood outside for a while, wondering whether he should go up or not, wondering whether there was any point in going up at all.

Harry heard a sudden grinding sound and realized that the entrance was opening. He stepped off to the side and flattened against the wall, somewhat curious about who might be in there at this time of night. He was shocked when a small, dark-haired girl stumbled out. She stood in front of the entranceway looking uncertain, then put one hand over her mouth and another over her stomach in the manner of a person about to make a mess on the floor and rushed off in his direction.

She was hurrying, frantic. She stumbled. Harry tried to sidle towards the entrance and get out of the way, but being invisible didn't keep him from being solid, and her hand made full contact with his chest. Harry held his breath, strangely horrified that someone would realize he was there, even if it was a student, and someone quite a bit younger than him by the look of her.

The girl stared at her hand, making contact with something that was certainly not the wall, and then she looked directly at him. It was only a split second before the girl looked at her hand, shook her head, retched, and put her hand over her mouth again, running flat out towards the girl's bathroom down the hall, but Harry felt shaken nonetheless.

He stood there for several seconds, catching his breath, before he followed the girl down the hall. He could hear her being sick from the hallway, and he winced instinctively. And yet, as in most circumstances, his curiosity won over any other feeling he had about the situation. What could have possibly happened to send a girl running out of Dumbledore's office to go vomit?

Harry didn't have to wait long. The girl had only barely finished when Snape came striding down the hallway so quickly that Harry had to sidestep out of the way once more. Thankfully, this time he was successful.

The sound of water running in the loo made Snape take pause. For a brief and enjoyable moment, Harry got to see Snape looking uncertain. Finally the water stopped running and the Professor knocked on the door.

"Miss Castelar?" There was no answer. Snape knocked louder. "Miss Castelar, are you all right?"

Harry took a step back, suddenly realizing who the girl was. The sorting feast, a petite girl with dark hair, Ron trying to bet him. Something Hermione said about her being in the paper. Hadn't the Aurors rescued her from the Death Eaters or something?

"Perfectly fine," called a faint voice from inside the toilets. "Must have eaten some bad oysters."

"Oysters?" Snape asked, sounding puzzled.

The girl opened the door, looking pale and sweaty. "Yes. Lucius had some out after the meeting. Shame that you missed them, Professor. Did you think Lucius' hair was a bit too fluffy tonight? I wonder if he's switched shampoos..." She attempted to breeze by Snape, only to be stopped by a hand on her arm.

Harry inched closer. Lucius? They could only mean Lucius Malfoy.

"Is it the curse?"

Curse? Harry inched even closer, until he was within mere feet of them. Their voices were low. Obviously neither of them wanted to be overheard, even if they appeared to be the only two people in the hallway.

"Crabbe's curse was a joke, Professor, even if the Dark Lord was behind it all," the Castelar girl said stiffly. Her eyes were shiny and bright, rather like a crazy person's. "My mum had a more formidable Cruciatus when half-distracted by the television."

Harry took a step back. Crabbe? Cruciatus? What the hell was going on here?

Snape released the girl's arm.

"Ah, yes. The patented Death Eater child-rearing philosophy," he said coldly.

And now Death Eaters? The only explanation Harry could come up with was some sort of Death Eater shindig at Malfoy Manor. It made sense for Snape to be there, but why would the girl be there? Or Crabbe, for that matter? Honestly, Crabbe?

The girl started backing away from Snape slowly, still looking pale and sweaty, wild-eyed. "Well, generations of evil don't raise themselves, Professor."

Harry finally remembered that the girl was a Slytherin. Evil. Death Eaters. Well, it wasn't all that far a stretch. Slytherins and whatever evil lord happened to be in power at the time went together like bangers and mash. But if this girl was working for Voldemort, what was she doing in Dumbledore's office? She couldn't be spying on Hogwarts, then, could she? Dumbledore wasn't that stupid.

Harry shook his head and started over.

Snape worked as Dumbledore's spy, and this girl seemed to have working knowledge of the Death Eaters, so was she a Death Eater? Dumbledore wouldn't let her into the school, would he? Did Death Eaters get recruited that young? Or was she spying for Dumbledore, like Snape? Was the Order really in such bad shape that they had twelve-year-olds planted among Voldemort's followers? Harry's brain became hopelessly entangled in conflicting loyalties.

"Miss Castelar, to avoid having a lengthy and revealing discussion in the hallway, I am merely asking if you need anything," Snape said impatiently. "Potion-wise, that is," he clarified.

The Castelar girl seemed to think for a moment, her demeanor changing in a split second to...Harry recoiled. Flirty? "I don't suppose you'd have any Old Ogden's on hand?" she asked, looking up at Snape through her lashes. "I'm fresh out myself."

Flirting with Snape? Who the hell thought that was a viable avenue of persuasion? Not only was it repulsive, but there didn't seem to be much potential for success.

"I don't hand out alcohol to my students, Miss Castelar, and you're a bit young for firewhisky."

Once more the girl's demeanor changed. She actually seemed to out-sneer Snape when she replied, "Young, Professor? Some would say I'm a bit young for killing Muggles and providing entertainment to the entire Future Death Eaters Club, but then, it's all relative, isn't it? Or were my actions with Crabbe earlier entirely my own?"

The way she'd said it implied...well, quite a few things, and all of them pretty gross. Harry froze for a second, considering her flirty manner with Snape, trying to decide whether it was more disgusting to imagine Crabbe having sex or the Potions master. Harry weighed drool and gorilla arms against a hooked nose and greasy hair and decided it was a draw.

"I'm not in the habit of intoxicating underage individuals," Snape said, but even Harry could tell he was softening. It was a strange thing, seeing Snape soften, but Harry had to admit that the girl was pretty effective.

"I'm not trying to get drunk, Professor," the girl said, suddenly innocent, her eyes sliding away from Snape demurely. "I just needed something to take the edge off, that's all." Harry was beginning to think she had some sort of personality disorder.

Snape wasn't buying it. "Painkilling potion," he said flatly.

The girl shook her head. "I don't want anything that will make my brain fuzzy. I can't afford not to have my wits about me, Professor. I might let something slip, and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"I'm not going to..." Snape persisted.

"Professor," the girl interrupted, only barely managing to make the title sound respectful. "You know what my mum was like. Let's not pretend that this is the first or the hundredth time I've had firewhisky, or that I'm going to get drunk off of one measly shot."

"Fine," Snape snapped, heading off toward the dungeons, his voluminous cloak flowing out behind him. The Castelar girl followed close behind, and Harry followed as quickly as he could without betraying the sound of his footsteps.

The three of them went down to Snape's office, but Harry couldn't get inside before they shut the door. He pressed his ear to the door, but he could only hear incoherent mumbles. A few minutes later, the girl came out of the office and went down the hallway towards the Slytherin dormitories. Harry followed her just in case, tiptoeing behind her quietly.

Or so he thought. She must have heard something, though, because she suddenly spun around, her wand in her hand, her eyes searching the hallway. Harry stood perfectly still, holding his breath.

She seemed to stare at a specific point a few feet in front of him for a second. Then she smirked a little and put her wand away. Harry relaxed, but jumped again when she spoke.

"Listen, whoever you are," she said in a low voice. "I don't give a Tranfiguration professor's bony ass what you're doing wandering around the school this time of night."

Harry stood frozen, his heart pounding.

"But for future reference," she continued, "you're too tall for that invisibility cloak."

She turned and touched a knob-less door to the right of the dormitory entrance, which opened immediately. Harry remained frozen for several seconds after the door closed behind her. Then he glanced down. Sure enough, the toes of his shoes were peeking out from underneath the cloak.

Feeling somewhat foolish, Harry made his way back to Gryffindor tower, trying to work things out in his head. There were a whole bunch of factors that he couldn't quite seem to wrap his mind around.

And what was all of that about Crabbe and Lucius Malfoy's hair anyway?

Harry gave up. His head felt like it was full of cotton balls. He just wanted to lay down and go to sleep for days on end and forget about all of it. Unfortunately, that wasn't in the cards. Harry took off the invisibility cloak and had just opened his mouth to give the Fat Lady the password when the portrait hole opened.

*******

Terry Boot was a genuinely wonderful person. He walked Ginny to class. He carried her books. He helped her with her homework and took her for walks around the lake, asking her opinion about political issues, or the war, or philosophy. Vendetta turned into a little kitten whore every time he came around. He was good-looking and within a few weeks of dating bought her a collection of Emily Dickinson poems.

"I just like the voice of her poetry. She reminds me of you," he'd said.

All of this combined to make Ginny feel like an utterly terrible human being for treating him so badly. She didn't think Terry was dating her so much as her evil twin. Molly and Arthur had certainly never taught the Ginny she knew to accept a gift of Emily Dickinson poems by seething, "So I remind you of a forty-year-old American virgin, do I?"

He didn't deserve it. Nobody on earth deserved it, and yet he put up with it. And the more he put up with it, the worse she treated him. And the worse she treated him, the more Ginny was appalled at her own behavior. She had long stepped back from the situation, unable to control the bitch in her that reared its ugly head every time he came near.

She was becoming some sort of monster, or at least a version of herself that she didn't particularly like. And Terry was a good enough guy and treated her well enough that even Ron could find no complaints about him, only about her.

"Why does Terry always think you're angry at him about something?" he asked her, quite frequently nowadays. Ginny generally told Ron to stay out of it, but it was a legitimate question. She wasn't angry with Terry. She wasn't entirely sure who she was angry at. She just seemed to be angry in general, and the worst part of it was that she had no reason to be angry. What was so wrong in her life that she was justified in taking it out on everybody around her?

"I'll be cheering for you this Saturday," he said tentatively as they sat in the hallway outside the library. Everything he said was tentative - for obvious reasons - but the very sound of his tentative voice set her teeth on edge.

"Of course you will. Everybody will. We're playing Slytherin."

"No, I mean I'll be cheering for you," he said with a bit more force. "Are you nervous?"

"No." She probably should be. Ron certainly was. Oh, he was a far cry from the basket case he'd been this time last year, but he still got a flash of terror in his eyes every time someone mentioned the match.

There was a long pause. Ginny realized that Terry was watching her out of the corner of his eye. That annoyed her, too. If he had something to say, why couldn't he just bloody well say it? Finally, she turned to face him, trying to smile.

"Did you have something you wanted to ask me?" It came out less polite than she'd intended, but it was still an improvement.

"Ginny, do you..." he trailed off and sighed, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. Terry Boot was considered a catch among the female population at Hogwarts, not just because he was attractive - not rip-your-clothes-off gorgeous, but definitely attractive - but also because he was smart and nice and so on and so forth. Because he was considered a catch, girls got nervous around him and only rarely asked him out. And because he wasn't much for asking girls out himself, Terry didn't exactly get around much.

Which is to say that he hadn't worked up the courage to so much as lay an unnecessary finger on her person.

"Do you even like me?" he finally blurted out.

Ginny sat back a little, surprised. "What?"

"I mean, I thought you liked me," he went on, "but since we've been going out, you don't seem to." He chewed on his lip, mulling over his next statement for a second before speaking. "I guess I'm saying that if you don't want to go out with me, if you don't like me, then maybe we should break up."

He looked so earnest and uncertain and sweet that Ginny felt an almost motherly sort of softening toward him. Poor, poor boy. He's never put all that earnestness and sweetness out there and had it trampled on before, manipulated and turned against him. He needs me, doesn't he? This is a good lesson for him, and better it comes from me than from somebody who'll really screw him up.

"Terry?" she asked softly.

The uncharacteristic speaking of his name in a non-annoyed tone caused Terry to make a face like someone who had been hit by a bludger.

"Er, yeah?"

"You know, you've never kissed me," she whispered, leaning in closer, glancing down at his lips and then sending him a teasing smile.

Terry stared at her as if she'd just grown horns for a moment before blinking and shaking his head, as if to clear it.

"Well, uh...no, I guess I haven't," he stammered.

"Would you like to kiss me?" She leaned a little closer and his eyes fell to her mouth.

"Of course I would," he answered, swallowing.

"Then why don't you?"

Terry drew back slightly, glancing up and down the mostly deserted hallway. "Here?" He made it sound as if she'd just suggested shagging on top of the staff table in the Great Hall during lunch.

"Sure, here. Unless," she purred, touching a light finger to his chest, "you know somewhere else we could go."

His mouth opened slightly. He looked down at her finger, then back up at her.

"But what if someone sees? What if your brother sees?"

Her patience was wearing thin. "Maybe he'll learn something," she growled, leaning close enough that his only options were to kiss her or scoot backward on his elbows.

"Oh...uh...okay then," he said, nodding. His decision had been made, apparently.

Nothing happened.

They were so close that they were breathing into each other's mouths. His bold male move required moving forward a centimeter.

And still nothing happened.

Ginny had a feeling that if Terry walked into his dormitory and found her lying naked on his bed, he'd stammer and blush and scratch his head and then ask her if she was cold and would she like to borrow his cloak?

She was a heartbeat away from backing away and giving him the tongue lashing of his life - verbally, of course, so as not to harm his delicate sensibilities - when he finally leaned forward and kissed her.

It was a sweet kiss, Ginny decided. Not too long, not too short, mouths closed. His lips were soft. Terry broke it off and stared at her stupidly.

"Kiss me again," she ordered.

"Okay." He did. Longer this time. He smelled nice, like books and soap and teenage boy. Not the bad teenage boy smell - like sweaty socks - but the good one. He smelled like youth and vitality and Quidditch and aftershave.

It wasn't fireworks, but Ginny decided it would do for now. She opened her mouth a little, which threw Terry off for a second before he did the same. He slid his tongue into her mouth cautiously, as if he expected her to draw back and slap him at any moment. Ginny welcomed his tongue and gave a little moan in the back of her throat for positive reinforcement.

They went back and forth, trading tongues, until Terry finally drew back, blushing. He quickly wiped his mouth and adjusted his robes.

"Meet me at the Room of Requirement tonight," Ginny said, not even really realizing what she'd said until it was already out there.

Her brain immediately put a halt to the proceedings. Whoa, where did that come from? Sure, he's nice and all, but do you really want to lose your virginity to someone who only kissed you because his only other alternative at the moment was calling for help?

"The Room of Requirement?" Terry squeaked, his eyes wide.

"Just to have some privacy," Ginny said, trying to reassure both of them. "I mean, you practically need to make reservations at the Astronomy Tower."

Terry seemed to be having an internal argument. "Um, when?" he finally asked.

"We'll do it later, when there are less people around to see us," Ginny continued, concentrating her mind on planning as opposed to analyzing motivations. "I mean, anybody in my entire house who saw me sneaking out for a snog would tell Ron. And then he'd kill you."

"K-k-kill me?"

"I was exaggerating, Terry," Ginny sighed. "Ron wouldn't kill you. He likes you. So two o'clock at the Room of Requirement?"

Terry didn't nod or acknowledge this question. He just looked pained and slightly overwhelmed. Ginny patted him on top of the head and left.

Unfortunately, that meant she had many long hours to ponder her decision. Ginny threw herself into her schoolwork, but didn't make much progress. Vendetta, sensing that Ginny wasn't in the mood for socializing, conveniently tripped anybody who came near. Finally the common room was populated only by a few students, including an intense-looking Hermione and Harry, who was asleep on top of his Transfiguration book, glasses askew, twitching occasionally.

Ginny packed up her books. Vendetta, hoping to knock her roommates around some more, looked excited at the possibility of going up to the dormitories.

"No way," Ginny told the kitten. His tail drooped slightly and he stared at her imploringly. "Anyway, how is it that you don't like them, but you're such a sucker for Terry?"

Vendetta blinked and rubbed his cheek against her arm.

"Well, yeah, he treats me like a queen and I genuinely like him as a person and all, but I don't even think I like him like that."

Vendetta gave her a sly look, as if to say, "So?"

"Evil," Ginny said firmly. "You are entirely evil."

Vendetta grinned and Ginny sat him down near Harry, to keep him company. Vendetta had warmed up to the trio a bit since their first encounter, largely because he was head-over-heels in love with nesting in Hermione's hair. Harry's came close second, apparently, because Vendetta immediately trotted over and batted at a strand sticking straight up out of Harry's head.

Once in bed, Ginny must have dozed off for a time, because at some point she rolled over and it was ten minutes to two. Cursing silently, Ginny leapt out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs to find a thankfully empty common room. She silently opened the portrait hole.

And ran straight into Harry.

"Ginny?" He took a step back, surprised.

"Harry?" Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This was about one step away from being caught by Ron.

"Where are you going?" he asked suspiciously.

"Where have you been?" she shot back, trying not to look shifty.

"I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk," he said, holding up his invisibility cloak. "I'm coming back to the tower at two o'clock in the morning. Where on earth could you possibly be going at two o'clock in the morning?" To his credit, he sounded less accusing than curious.

"To study," Ginny said in a small voice.

"Ginny," he said dryly. "You don't have any books with you."

Ginny flashed him a saucy grin. "What makes you think I was studying something that required books?"

He blushed noticeably, embarrassed. "Oh, I see. Terry Boot, right?" He took a step back, apparently deciding to let her go. He looked utterly awful, and Ginny felt a bit sorry for him. Everyone else slept nice and snug in their beds and poor Harry fell asleep on top of his homework and rubbed his forehead all the time and wondered when Voldemort was going to try to kill him again.

But at the same time, she really needed to cover her ass here.

"Harry?" she asked tentatively. "Can you not tell Ron about this? You know how unreasonable he is."

"Ginny," he sighed after a moment, "you really shouldn't be sneaking around the castle at night, you know. And Terry shouldn't be asking you to do it, anyway. You could get in a lot of trouble."

She smiled, knowing by his tone that he wouldn't say a word. "Thanks, Harry."

"Astronomy Tower?" Harry asked, giving her a sly smile.

"Room of Requirement," she said airily.

"Ginny," he said seriously, losing his smile, "just tell me you know what you're doing with all of this. I mean..." he seemed to falter.

"I'm not going to have sex with him, Harry," she said impatiently.

He winced when she said 'sex.' "Ginny..."

"Harry, I'm late and I don't need another older brother and you look like you could desperately use some sleep." She patted him on the shoulder, surreptitiously moving him toward the Fat Lady's portrait. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

Funny how at one point, physical contact with Harry Potter would have sent her into paroxysms of joy. She'd been so in love with him, and maybe a part of her always would be. It was impossible to know Harry and not love him. He was just that kind of guy.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "I'm not going to give you a big speech or anything, just...be careful."

"I'll be fine. Get some sleep, Harry. We need our seeker in top form on Saturday."

"I will," he said, smiling half-heartedly in a way that told Ginny he was lying. "But if you get caught..." he added warningly.

"It was my idea, Harry. Don't go beating up Terry about it," Ginny scolded him. Harry's mouth opened, but she turned and was already walking away. "And anyway, I'm not dumb enough to get caught," she called over her shoulder.

*******

Fox was beginning to feel that Dumbledore needed an appointment sheet to speak with him. Every time she checked in, somebody else was there. First it was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, rambling on about some sort of mystical hoo-hah. Then it was Professor Snape and Voldemort's little slave discussing the events of the night. Finally, he was alone and Fox get some information. She didn't know who the second child was, but it was one of the stupid ones. She couldn't really tell them apart.

Dumbledore had given her a lecture about apparating on school grounds and wandless magic and how it unnerved your average witch and wizard. He had even given her a useless piece of wood to use as a fake wand. Considering most magical and none-magical individuals who had seen her Guardian powers were soon thereafter dead, Fox had an understandably difficult time keeping up appearances.

But she dutifully checked to make sure that she shoved the piece of wood into the back of her jeans before she started up to Dumbledore's office.

Fox was only halfway there when something tugged at her. She generally had to close her mind to avoid the interference, but she opened it a little to see what was going on. Ah, the Weasley girl. The little redhead who had felt her power and confused it with Voldemort's. What was she doing wandering around the school at this hour?

Curious, Fox followed the sensation up a few flights of stairs. The redheaded girl was walking back and forth in front of a tapestry, but paused at Fox's approach. Fox leaned against the wall and tried to look stern.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked.

The girl looked shifty. "I...uhh..." Her eyes went between Fox and the wall at her left.

Following her eyes and her thoughts, Fox smiled. "There's nobody in there, you know."

"I'm looking for a lost book?" the girl asked hopelessly, believing that she was staring several detentions in the face.

Fox didn't know if she had the power to give out detentions, but even if she did, it seemed like a pain in the ass. And beyond that, she felt a certain sympathy for the girl. Fox had a feeling that her encounter with Voldemort wasn't doing her any favors in life.

"He's not coming," Fox said as gently as she could. "Nobody's coming but Filch."

"Filch?" the girl asked, looking up and down the hall.

Like a bat in the dark, Fox bounced her mind off of his. Squibs were always easy to find. "He is climbing the stairs behind me."

The girl looked panicked, wanting to run but not certain whether or not she was in trouble already.

"Just go," Fox sighed.

"Thanks," the girl said as she spun around and hauled ass back to her dormitory. Fox heard a meow behind her and turned to scoop up Mrs. Norris. The cat hated to be handled in any way, so Fox made it a point to pick her up and cuddle her as often as possible. Like any other mortal being, cats often needed to be put in their place.

"Hey there, Mrs. Norris," Fox said, hugging the struggling cat, who wanted nothing more than to chase down the Weasley girl. "Aren't you a cute little kitty?" she gushed, scratching the annoyed feline's head.

"Let my cat go!" Filch growled from the stairway.

"Oh, but she's such a precious little thing. Aren't you, Mrs. Norris?" Fox asked, holding the cat in front of her face. Mrs. Norris gazed at her with a good deal of kitty hatred.

"Put her down," Filch said, shaking with anger.

"You know," Fox said conversationally, still suspending Mrs. Norris by one hand several feet above the ground and slipping seamlessly into Wise Injun Fox, "in my culture the cat is considered an instrument of evil."

"Put her down," Filch repeated worriedly.

"They were spies for the dark shadows," Fox said in a mysterious voice, making it up as she went along. "They consumed the souls of the newly born and led the fully grown down the path to ruin."

"Put down my cat!" the caretaker protested powerlessly.

Fox turned her eyes to Filch. "Trust not the feline," she said seriously. "A cat may warm your lap at night, but never shall she drag your unconscious body from a raging house fire."

"Give me my cat," he said, holding his hands out and walking closer.

Fox shrugged. "If you insist. Catch!" She tossed the angry clawing animal at Filch and apparated to the hallway in front of Dumbledore's office. The Weasley girl had been given plenty of time to get away by now, and Fox didn't want the Squib to know where she was going. What happened between Fox and Dumbledore was entirely between Fox and Dumbledore.

Dumbledore looked tired. Fox, he greeted her.

So I take it he has the two of them now, Headmaster?

Yes, he does. Both murderers now in his service.

Fox sighed. He'll only ask more and more of them, to draw them closer. I watch them as you do. It isn't safe here, not only for the other students, but also for them. Having a servant or two in Hogwarts with such easy access to what he wants...

...it puts them in danger, as well, Dumbledore finished. And yet I have received even more worrisome news.

Fox raised an eyebrow. Is there any other kind anymore?

He smiled a little. I'm beginning to wonder myself. There is a fifth child. Or we believe there is. I won't explain to you how we reached this conclusion. I'm not even sure I can explain.

A fifth child? But who? How could we not have known this before?

Vivian seems to think that the fifth child's purpose is separate from that of the other four, and if what I imagine is correct, this cannot bode well for any of us.

What do you imagine?

The child's birth date is July 25.

So you know who the child is?

I certainly hope I'm wrong, but yes, I think I do.

Well, who is it?

The Headmaster shook his head. I'm afraid I can't tell you Fox. Not until I've ruled out all of the other possibilities. I can't let us get ahead of ourselves, seeing things that aren't there and forging connections where no connection exists. Do you understand?

So you want to find out about the spell before you decide on the identity of the fifth child?

Yes. I don't want our knowledge of the child to affect our investigation into the spell.

Would it affect the investigation that badly?

In this case, yes. It would.

Fox sat back. I can accept that, I suppose.

Vivian is waiting for a book from a friend. Once she receives it, hopefully she'll be able to tell us exactly which spell was used.

Fox stared at him. We're waiting on a book?

Dumbledore chuckled. I know. It seems silly, but it's an extremely rare book.

Why didn't you just ask the one person you know who can get his hands on anything, sir? Fox asked, smirking.

Dumbledore blinked at her. His mouth opened, then closed. Honestly, I didn't even think of it.

Whatever a person needs, The Cardinal can provide.

For a price, of course, Dumbledore answered, his eyes twinkling. Always for a price.