Two to Lead

Chapter 30: The End of the Beginning

"Now, this is not the end. This is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

-Sir Winston Churchill, November 1942

*******

The knock was expected. In fact, it was the reason Severus had come down to his office at all, rather than spending the Battle of Little Hangleton prowling around Dumbledore's office. In his numerous years as a spy, he had fought several times as a Death Eater. He had never once fought as a member of the Order, and probably never would.

Some things simply couldn't be risked. The Dark Lord obviously realized that, or he wouldn't have limited the audience for his most recent attempt on Harry Potter's life to the inner circle and a few anonymous guards. Severus knew that the Dark Lord trusted his loyalty...to a point. So long as he provided tidbits of information, Severus was safe. He was invaluable. But if the Dark Lord was centralizing power, if he was worried about a spy among his followers, it wouldn't take him long to find a scapegoat.

"Come in," he called before his mind could stray yet again to The Cardinal's offer, bracing himself for whatever news young Malfoy bore. Severus walked around to the back of his desk, largely to avoid acknowledging the fact that the boy was now taller than him. He held the authority, and always would. But something about the fact that he now had to look up at Draco Malfoy annoyed him.

"My father says they've completed the spell."

Severus froze, but the boy's wording kept him from...oh, say, tossing himself out the window. "He says they have? Do you know if they actually have or not?"

Draco narrowed his eyes the way Lucius always did when he was trying to decide whether or not to divulge information.

"Have they?" Severus prompted.

"I'm not sure. I spoke with..." he cleared his throat. "I spoke to the Weasley girl, and she seemed fine. She said nothing happened."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "She told you all of this?"

A muscle tensed in the boy's jaw. "Yes, she did. We have a bit of an understanding."

"I see," Severus said, pursing his lips. He hadn't any real interest in the nature of that understanding, but nonetheless, he couldn't help but find it odd.

"It's possible he put a memory charm on her."

"Or that he possessed her again."

Draco started. "How could he?"

"The Cardinal's team traced Potter's last movements before he disappeared. He went into the Chamber of Secrets. I can only assume Miss Weasley was with him."

For a brief moment, the boy's face reflected pure, unadulterated rage. "Potter. How unsurprising," he sneered.

Severus silently agreed. "So far as I know, the Chamber has been cleaned out. There should have been nothing left to endanger anyone. Nonetheless, it was a remarkably foolish thing to do. The last thing the world needed was for Ginny Weasley to come in contact with anything even remotely related to Tom Riddle."

At his words, Draco went utterly still, his eyes wide. "Oh, shit," he whispered.

Severus snapped to attention. "What?!" he demanded. "What do you know?"

The boy looked as if he were about to be sick. "She has the diary."

"Tom Riddle's diary?" Severus asked with an extremely false and flimsy sense of calm. Draco nodded. Closing his eyes and counting to ten to keep from ripping the answer out of his student's windpipe, Severus kept his voice unnaturally even. "And how, may I ask, did Tom Riddle's diary make its way back into Ginny Weasley's hands?"

Draco Malfoy actually looked too floored to lie. "I gave it to her."

Severus Snape had a remarkable talent for destroying others with words, and occasionally with merely a glare. In general, he did not believe in violence, especially against his own students. Aside from the fact that it could get him fired, Severus had always viewed violence as an idiot's way of handling a problem requiring intelligence.

However, considering that the student in question not only topped him by several inches, but may have rendered years of bowing and scraping and sacrifice moot and possibly aided in the destruction of their world, Severus felt that violence was justified. In fact, he felt that violence existed precisely for situations like this one.

Rounding the desk, he grabbed Draco Malfoy by the front of his robes and slammed him against the wall of his office. Then he yanked him back and slammed him into it again.

"And what on earth," he said, punctuating the word with another slam, "possessed you to do such a stupid [slam], moronic [slam], asinine [slam] thing?"

Draco did nothing to stop him, preferring instead to fix baleful gray eyes on his own. Severus' hand fell from the boy's robes without thought and he turned away. He knew that look. Hell, he'd lived that look. He'd forgotten his other reason for eschewing violence: eventually it lost its effect. It certainly wouldn't work on Lucius Malfoy's son.

Plus, the why of the matter was really no longer important. "We must tell Dumbledore," he said curtly, leading the boy from the room.

*******

"Why do all of our Defense Against the Dark Arts professors have to turn out to be evil?!" Harry yelled, lashing out with his foot to kick Dumbledore's desk. He promptly grabbed his side and groaned.

"And once more you learn the hard way that anger gets you nowhere," Fox observed.

Sucking in a breath, Harry sent her a death glare.

Fox ignored it, kneeling down in front of him to fix up his ribs. "First of all, I don't think Wellbourne's evil. I think she was duped. Second of all, you still fell for it."

"She said Dumbledore approved it," Harry grumbled as she lifted his chin up to examine the deep purple bruise covering the right side of his face.

"Right. Because Dumbledore would just let you prance off into the Chamber of Secrets without even bothering to take you himself."

"Well, she works for Dumbledore, so I figured..." he trailed off with a shrug.

"Looks like they hit you with a two-by-four," Fox sighed. "I can leave the rainbow of color if you want. Chicks dig shiners."

"No, thanks. Hermione'll go through the roof if she sees..." Harry trailed off, going pale. "They're okay, aren't they? The others?"

"As far as I know," Fox said. "They should be here soon."

In fact, they arrived very soon. Within about thirty seconds, the Headmaster's office was full of people as Dumbledore apparated in, Harry's friends arrived by portkey and Professor Snape came through the trapdoor, followed by Draco Malfoy.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, nearly tackling him. "Are you alright?"

So what happened with Wellbourne? Fox asked the Headmaster. Was it Sakura?

"Yeah," Harry answered, patting her on the back awkwardly. "You two are okay?"

Dumbledore looked surprised. "No, actually it was the fault of one David Lynes, acting on Voldemort's orders. What do you have against Sakura, anyway?"

"We're fine, mate," Ron said, peeling Hermione off of Harry. "Let him breathe, would you? Even Harry needs a minute or two to recover from the annual attempt on his life."

"Nothing," Fox shrugged. Trying to explain to a heterosexual male - even Dumbledore - what was wrong with Sakura was a pointless endeavor. "So did you kill him?"

"Oh, that's a really nice way to put it, Ron. Honestly, could you be any more insensitive?" Hermione railed.

Dumbledore looked smug. "No, I put a locator charm on him and let him go."

Ron Weasley's face turned pink and his bushy-haired companion put her hands on her hips and Harry directed his gaze at the ceiling in a way that led Fox to believe that this sort of behavior was the norm, rather than the exception.

"Please tell me he apparated back to wherever they're keeping the dark creature army."

"That, Fox, is exactly what he did."

"Insensitive? What is that supposed to mean?" Ron asked heatedly.

"It means that..."

"Where's Ginny?" Harry asked Dumbledore. Ron's head snapped up.

"I haven't heard anything yet," Dumbledore said in a reassuring tone of voice, "but..."

"She's fine," Draco Malfoy piped up.

"Oh? Is she?" Ron snapped. "And how would you know?"

"She's fine," the blonde boy said icily.

"If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut and thank my lucky stars that I haven't been thrown into Azkaban. Yet."

"You know what, Weasley?" Draco Malfoy responded in a bored voice, "If I were you, I'd dance naked in the Great Hall just to embarrass you."

Before Ron could put together a rejoinder, his sister appeared, setting off another round of hugging. Fox's attention wandered back to Professor Snape and Draco Malfoy. Both were watching the spectacle with distaste.

"Headmaster," Snape finally said with a look on his face that screamed impending doom, "she has the diary." The four chattering teenagers paid him no mind.

Dumbledore paused in the middle of the note he seemed to be writing and turned his laser-like gaze to the Potions Master. "How?"

Snape inclined his head toward the Malfoy boy, who looked ill. It took Fox a second to put everything together, and when she did, she began to understand the need to be ill. If Ginny Weasley was in possession of a Voldemort-related artifact, had conveniently just visited the Chamber of Secrets and had just returned from being in his clutches, then in all probability, Ginny Weasley was anything but fine, and they were all screwed.

The door opened, and a frazzled-looking Professor McGonagall bustled in. "Sir, the Weasleys have arrived. I took them up to the Hospital Wing."

"Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore replied, finishing off his note with a flourish and handing it to the professor. "Would you mind sending this off and then taking Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley up to meet them?"

Ron looked hesitant. "But shouldn't Ginny and Harry...?"

"I would like to speak to them for a few moments," Dumbledore said. "I have no fear that they will fill you in on the details of our discussion as soon as they see you."

Looking slightly sheepish, Hermione and Ron followed McGonagall out of the room.

"There were entirely too many people in here," Dumbledore said with a small smile, conjuring up more chairs. "If everyone wouldn't mind taking a seat, I know I for one would like to know exactly what happened tonight."

*******

Ginny and Harry took turns telling the story of their capture, and she for one felt increasingly foolish as it went on. Professor Wellbourne had been acting strangely, and Ginny should have said something about it to the others. And why on earth had she picked up the sodding knob? Couldn't she have just reminisced at a distance? Harry looked awful, and whatever had happened to him had happened because of her stupidity.

"Then there were a bunch of Apparation cracks," Ginny said, "and one of them stunned me, I guess. What happened after that, Harry?" she asked, looking over at him.

Harry avoided her eyes. "Ginny, you weren't stunned."

"Oh," she said, confused. "What happened, then?"

Harry took a deep breath, as if trying to figure out what to say. "They got Ron and Hermione and then I remembered the port-a-call and I was trying to get you and me out of the way so that I could get to it and that's when I noticed you were acting funny."

She blinked. "Acting funny?"

"You weren't defending yourself. They weren't even shooting curses at you. The Death Eaters got me and Voldemort came up and..." Harry swallowed. "And you smiled at him and called him 'Tom.'"

"I did what?" She couldn't say anything else. Her whole face went numb with shock.

Harry continued to not look at her. "You talked to him like you were all happy to see him and he asked for the knobby thing and you gave it to him, and then he opened this vault and there was a big gilded chair that he called The Heir's Throne, and he fit the knobby thing into it and said it was finished." Every word was like a nail driving into her brain and Ginny stared at her knees, her mind whirling in a panic.

"He has The Heir's Throne?" she heard Dumbledore ask sharply.

Harry spoke. "They took me up to the ballroom and brought it along."

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said. "Did you see it in the ballroom?"

"He had a big gilded chair, but then he always has a big gilded chair," Draco said.

"Severus, have you heard anything about this?" Dumbledore asked.

"There were rumors of it during the first war, but I haven't heard anything for years."

They kept talking, but Ginny couldn't hear them anymore. She closed her eyes and dug through her memories of the past few hours, but she couldn't find anything at all that fit what Harry described. Frustrated tears began gathering and she dug the heels of her hands into her eye sockets to hold them back. If she started crying right now, she'd never stop. Not again, not again... It repeated over and over in her head.

Dumbledore said her name and Ginny dropped her hands.

"Yes, sir?" Her voice came out weak and wavering and Ginny felt a wave of shame. She was always the weak one, wasn't she? Not just useless, but dangerous. She had led them all into a trap. She didn't remember what Harry had just described, which begged the question: what else didn't she remember?

"The diary, Miss Weasley," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm afraid I must insist."

Ginny's hand went to her pocket, her fingers wrapping around the diary automatically, feeling the comfortable texture, her arm somehow unable to take it out and hand it over. It would all become real if she did that. Even now, even four years later, even after she knew what Tom had done to her and Harry and Sirius and Harry's parents and Neville's grandmother and Susan Bones and hundreds upon hundreds of other people, some tiny piece of her still couldn't entirely believe it. Her Tom couldn't have done those things.

But he had. And tonight, he had found that tiny piece and used it, used her.

A hand touched her arm and Ginny looked over at Draco, his face stony and unreadable. "Give him the book."

Her fingers tightened protectively around the diary. "Did you mean what you said?"

His jaw clenched. "Give him the book."

"Did you mean it?" Ginny repeated in a firmer voice. She wasn't sure why it was suddenly so important that he confirm his love for her in weird pseudo-code in front of three people who didn't know about their relationship and one who strongly disapproved of it, but it was. She needed to know if it was true or not.

A pained, desperate sort of expression crossed his face, as if he wanted nothing more than to deny it. "Yes, I meant it," he said, sounding as if somebody were literally ripping the words out of him. "Now give him the bloody book, would you?"

Without looking away from Draco, Ginny pulled the diary out of her pocket and forced herself to relinquish it to Dumbledore. With two different people, she supposed, the moment would have been a happy one, but considering the circumstances, Ginny found it hard to imagine that them being in love could bring anything but misery to them and everyone they cared about. Well, everyone she cared about, at least. As far as she knew, he didn't care about anyone else.

"Mr. Malfoy, would you be so kind as to escort Miss Weasley up to the Hospital Wing?"

Draco's eyes left hers as he nodded to Dumbledore. They arose as a unit, walking in silence down the spiral staircase, through the hallways and up to the Hospital Wing. They both paused outside the door, not looking at one another.

Draco shifted slightly. "I should probably leave you here."

Ginny nodded. "I really don't want to go in there," she admitted.

"I don't blame you." They continued standing there, neither one wanting to be the first to acknowledge the elephant in the room. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

Ginny turned to look at him, surprised. "For what?"

"For giving you the diary. They wanted to get you and they had plenty of time to mess with it, and I should've realized that. Ironically enough, I gave it to you because I was trying to prevent them from using it to do exactly what they did. Go figure."

From somewhere, she dug up a smile. "Serves you right for trying to be a do-gooder."

"Too true. From now on, I'll redirect my energy into more worthwhile Malfoy pursuits."

"Fixing your hair, bullying first years..."

His hand came up to stroke the hair away from her face. "You're just putting it off now."

Ginny scowled. "So what if I am?"

"Not quite ready to be the brave little Gryffindor yet?"

"No, I'm not," she said. Turning to him, she grabbed his shoulders and kissed him in that desperate, heavy-breathing, teeth-gnashing together sort of way that people kiss when they think the world is about to end, which was a pretty apt description of the situation, in Ginny's mind. Abruptly, she shoved him away. "Now I'm ready." Not wanting to see the look on his face, she turned quickly and barreled into the Hospital Wing.

Her mother pounced on her, blubbering. Ginny focused her gaze on the far wall, acutely aware of the fact that her father, Ron and Hermione were all standing around awkwardly. Madame Pomfrey came out of her office and Ginny sent her a desperate glance. If her mother said "My baby," one more time, Ginny was going to lose the very tenuous grasp she had on her sanity.

"Now, now, Molly. Let me take a look at her," the nurse said calmly, extricating Ginny from her mother's grip with the ease of somebody who's done this sort of thing before. She steered Ginny in the direction of a partitioned bed in the corner.

"I'll come with her," her mother declared. "She'll want me with her."

"No, mum, I really, really don't," Ginny said, squeezing her eyes shut and realizing that it actually wasn't possible to actually die from humiliation, because if it were, she certainly would've managed it by now.

"It'll only take a moment, Molly," Madame Pomfrey said briskly, "and then..." She didn't finish the sentence and Ginny understood why. And then what? And then they start discussing baby names? And then they file a paternity suit against Voldemort?

"Here we go, just sit right down here," the nurse said, plopping her onto the bed. "I'll be quick." Taking out her wand, she waved it at Ginny. Nothing happened. Surprised, she waved her wand again, to no effect. She waved her wand in a different motion and Ginny glowed red for a moment. Then she waved it in another different motion and several small globes of light circled her head. "Oh, dear," Madame Pomfrey breathed.

Fear fluttered in Ginny's chest. "What? What is it?"

"Well, the good news is you're not pregnant."

It took a second for that to sink in. "Isn't that...a good thing?"

"Of course, but..." the nurse cleared her throat delicately. "I don't suppose you have a boyfriend, do you?"

"A boyfriend?" Ginny echoed, her voice a little higher than usual. "No. No boyfriend."

Madame Pomfrey looked exasperated. "Miss Weasley, I am not trying to pry into your romantic life and your sexual behavior isn't the issue here. I simply want to know if the individual with whom you...were intimate...last week was a reptilian dark lord, or merely your basic, run-of-the-mill teenage boy."

Ginny felt her face go red. "You can tell that?" Staring her down, Madame Pomfrey nodded. "Teenage boy," Ginny mumbled, dropping her eyes to the floor.

"I see."

"Are you going to tell my mum?" Ginny asked her shoes.

"Considering her emotional state, I don't think that's wise at the moment. However, on her behalf, I would like to say that you are entirely too young to be partaking in such shenanigans. And now I'm going to inform your mother that your virtue is intact."

"Thank you," she said in a small voice.

"Hmph. Well. It will be a lot more believable once you stop blushing."

*******

My yearly chat with Dumbledore, Harry thought glumly as he watched everybody else leave. I wonder what new and exciting piece of information he'll drop on me this time?

"Are you alright, Harry?" the Headmaster asked.

He nodded. "Fox fixed me up."

"Very good. Would you like to tell me what happened in the ballroom?"

Almost automatically, Harry launched into the story, glossing over the more embarrassing parts. Considering the number of times he'd done this before, he was actually getting rather good at storytelling.

"So he took the throne with him when he left?" Dumbledore asked when he was finished.

"He ordered some of the Death Eaters to take it. I didn't see if they did or not."

"And Miss Castelar went with him?"

Harry shrugged. "I guess so."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, sinking into silence.

"Professor?" Harry asked, suddenly curious. "Why didn't you disapprove of Thera and I...being friends?" he finished diplomatically.

The Headmaster bit back a smile, giving Harry the uncomfortable feeling that Dumbledore knew exactly what had gone on between the two of them. "It is hardly my place to dictate who you choose to...become friends with, Harry."

"Er, yes, of course," Harry said, a blush stealing up his face. "I just thought that - considering the circumstances and all - maybe it might not have been the best idea."

"Do you believe that?"

"I don't know," Harry mumbled, staring at his hands twisting in his lap. "Maybe." He tried to ignore the sensation of Dumbledore's eyes boring into the top of his head.

"She activated the port-a-call tonight, didn't she? Do you believe that she would have done that if the two of you had never become acquainted?"

"Who knows? She might've. She hates the spell and I'm the only one who can stop it at this point, if it can be stopped. Why should I think it had anything to do with me?"

"She wouldn't have known the port-a-call existed if you hadn't told her."

Harry sat back and crossed his arms, staring down the Headmaster. "So that makes it all worthwhile, then? She activated the port-a-call and someday I'll take down Voldemort and we'll be even? Because it doesn't sound all that even to me."

Dumbledore held up a hand. "That's not what I meant. I was merely trying to point out that your relationship provided you both with important information, and one never knows when such information might prove useful. I also believe that the two of you learned a great deal from one another. Do you disagree with that assessment?"

Harry could think of quite a few things he'd learned from Thera, none of which he could discuss with the Headmaster. "Erm...like what?"

"I believe Miss Castelar learned that even when it seems as though we have no choices left, there is still an opportunity to make a difference, to do what is right insofar as we are capable of it. And I believe you have learned that the world is not a study of absolutes, of the entirely good against the entirely evil. Men and women may perpetrate terrible deeds upon each other, Harry, but that does not necessarily mean that they, themselves, are evil. And that does not necessarily mean that they do not deserve the chance to seek forgiveness and to make amends, if they sincerely regret their actions."

"I'm not the one who needs to hear that; she is," Harry said bitterly. "Assuming she regrets any of it, which I find hard to believe."

Dumbledore was eyeing him closely. "I do not doubt for a moment that she regrets it. And both of us know that you do, in fact, need to hear what I said."

Harry reached under his glasses and rubbed furiously at his eyes. Just like every time he met with Dumbledore, he felt as if the old man had reached into his head, found the most confusing thoughts he could and then confronted Harry with them in a way that only seemed to make them more confusing. Harry didn't necessarily feel any sort of moral apprehension about ridding the planet of Voldemort. What he feared was what it might do to him. He feared that the part of him that had once prevented Sirius and Remus from killing Peter Pettigrew would be gone forever.

He and Tom Riddle shared so much in common...

"Ending the life of another human being is a terrible thing, Harry," Dumbledore continued. "It leaves a mark - a scar, if you will - that can never be entirely erased. But that does not mean that forgiveness cannot be sought or granted. It does not mean..."

"...that Thera's evil, or that I'll be evil if I kill Voldemort," Harry finished in a flat tone.

"In part," the Headmaster agreed. "It also means that very few individuals are able to live through war with clear consciences. It is one thing to believe in a cause, but it is something else entirely to fight for one, I'm afraid."

Harry slumped in his chair, feeling like a wrung-out dishrag. Luckily, he was saved from having to formulate an answer by the sudden appearance of Madame Pomfrey's head in the fireplace. "Headmaster? Are you free to speak?"

"Yes, Poppy. It's just Harry and I here right now."

"Potter? Yes, I've got his usual bed reserved," she said sarcastically. "I do hope you send him up soon, or I may have to spike Molly's tea with sleeping potion."

"He'll be along shortly, Poppy. I promise." Harry bit back a smirk. He'd never heard the Headmaster sound quite so much like a scolded child. "I assume you have news?"

"Yes, sir. The tests were negative."

Dumbledore showed no outward reaction to this. "You're certain?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you, Poppy. I'll send Harry up momentarily."

Frowning pensively, Dumbeldore stroked his beard. Then he turned around to the small table of gadgets that he'd consulted the night Harry had seen Mr. Weasley being attacked by the snake. He tapped one of them, which began spinning its wheels, pumping its intricate array of pistons and emitting little puffs of smoke. Last time, Harry remembered the smoke had formed into a snake of some sort. This time, the tiny machine puffed out a collection of rings that floated up one by one, joining together.

"Yes, but where is it coming from?" Dumbledore asked softly, as if to himself. The machine puffed out a long snake that slithered through the rings. Sighing, Dumbldore waved his hand, dispersing the smoke formation.

"Professor?" Harry asked tentatively. "Madame Pomfrey said that Ginny's not...right?"

The Headmaster smiled slightly. "No, Harry, she is not."

"Then what did all of that mean with the machines?" he asked.

"Harry, contrary to popular belief and not for lack of trying, I do not know everything."

"So you don't know?"

"No, but I can make an educated guess. Voldemort managed to rebuild The Heir's Throne, the key to his birthright as the heir of Slytherin. It means that all of the weapons and privileges of that birthright are now accessible to him. It will also allow him to hide. Neither the Order nor the Ministry can touch him. He is connected to his birthright by blood in many of the same ways you are connected to yours."

"Great," Harry said, sagging back in his chair. "Just what we needed."

"It is hardly as hopeless as you think. You're forgetting one of the main themes in Voldemort's life, Harry."

"What's that?"

The Headmaster's eyes twinkled. "He always seems to overlook important details." Standing, he gestured to the door. "I'm sorry to rush you out, Harry, but the idea of facing the combined forces of Madame Pomfrey and Molly Weasley is enough to make even the bravest man quiver in fear."

Harry stood, but didn't make any move towards the door. "I'll be seventeen this summer," he said, studying Dumbledore for a reaction.

The Headmaster chuckled. "Have no fear, Harry. You will be away from your relatives by the time your birthday happens along."

Harry couldn't stop the relieved smile that spread across his face. "Really? And I never have to go back, right? I mean, I'll be an adult and everything, right?"

"Yes, you will. Time does fly, doesn't it? And if everything goes as planned, there should be no need for you to ever reside with the Dursleys again."

"Well, that's good, because I don't think they'd take me." Something Dumbledore said clicked in his head. "Hang on, what do you mean 'if everything goes as planned?'"

All trace of humor gone, Dumbledore came around the desk and put a hand on his shoulder. "I mean that you are nearly ready to do what you were born to do."

The bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach. Fear, anticipation...well, mostly fear. It seemed odd that facing off against Voldemort once and for all had been a fact of his life for so long - before he even knew about the prophecy - and yet it just really hit Harry in the moment that the event didn't just exist far off in some nebulous future. It was real and it was here and it was soon and he didn't feel even remotely as ready as Dumbledore seemed to think he was.

Unable to say anything past the lump in his throat, Harry just nodded.

"And the next time you face him, Harry, you'll be ready. I promise you that."

The next time. Harry found himself almost hoping he could get another practice run. The next time. "Thank you, sir," he mumbled, leaving the office. Despite his opinion of her at the moment, he wished Thera was still around, and not just for sex. He would have been happy to just walk into her room, lay all of this on her and then have her shrug, make a smart-ass comment and then get him drunk.

He had to admit that it sounded a lot more comforting than the fussing and coddling tag-team Mrs. Weasley and Madame Pomfrey.

*******

Draco didn't have to wait long for his quarry to appear. As the statue in front of Dumbledore's office moved, he stepped out of the shadows. Potter's eyes fell on him immediately, and he saw the kid sag a little.

"What the hell do you want?" he asked irritably.

"I think it's time we had a conversation, Potter."

His bespectacled nemesis nodded. "Yeah, I think it is. First of all, I know you were the one who yelled 'Grab his balls' during my unintentional live performance earlier."

"Potter, I was surrounded by Death Eaters, all of whom believe I'm as gung-ho as they are. It was the sort of situation where going with the flow was a smart thing to do."

"Going with the flow. I see. Is that what Thera was doing?"

"You're angry about that?"

"Angry? At having my ass grabbed in front of Voldemort's inner circle? At a nice spot of torture and a loud, untrue announcement that I'm a virgin?"

Draco shrugged. "I know you're not exactly used to this sort of thing, but a little humiliation and some Cruciatus is not high entertainment for Death Eaters, Potter. It's your average Tuesday night in the Slytherin common room. As for the virgin comment, it was necessary."

"Necessary?" Potter laughed. "I fail to see the necessity behind it and how is it that if I spend more than a minute in your presence I start to talk like you?"

"Because somewhere deep inside, you really do want to better yourself, that's why. And the virgin comment was necessary because if the Dark Lord had any inkling that the skinny bespectacled Boy Who Lived had managed to score with a girl, two words would immediately spring into his mind: 'kidnapping' and 'gang-rape.'"

Potter paled and recoiled. "Holy fuck."

"Yeah, well, if you ever find a replacement for Sluterella, I wouldn't recommend holding hands with her in the hallway, if you catch my drift."

The Gryffindor straightened up, staring him down. "Well, maybe you should take your own bloody advice, eh, Malfoy?"

"I'm hardly in the same boat you're in, Potter."

"Really? Then how exactly did Ginny get ahold of a diary that I know for a fact I left in the possession of your father?" Turning, he began walking off towards the Hospital Wing. "Should be a short story."

"I gave it to her so that they couldn't use it against her," Draco snarled.

"And yet they did."

Against his will, Draco felt his hands ball up into fists. "That's not why I gave it to her."

"Right," Potter said, his eyes flashing. "You gave it to her to protect her."

"You think I had a hand in this?" Draco challenged, holding his arms out. "Come on, then. Make a sorry attempt to kick my ass. Here, I'll even be the bigger person and admit that I should've realized they'd already messed with the diary. On the other hand, giving it back to my father wasn't exactly the smartest move on your part."

Potter's mouth opened and closed and Draco felt a thrill burn through his stomach. He'd rendered Harry Potter speechless. And he'd done it by...out-confessing him? Merlin, why hadn't he thought of this tactic before? Especially when it was this effective?

"I didn't even get there until the Dark Lord had already completed the spell," Draco continued, "and even if I had gotten there, I couldn't have done anything to prevent it." Potter hadn't moved yet. "Not with my position in the spell and..." Draco trailed off as his statements failed to provoke a reaction.

"Potter!" he said loudly, waving his hand in front of the kid's face.

He blinked a few times. "He didn't complete the spell," he said.

Draco froze. "What?"

"Dumbledore heard from Madame Pomfrey while I was in there. Ginny isn't...I mean, she's not in a way that would indicate that...the spell isn't complete," Potter finished.

He shook his head. "My father said it was."

"I see," Potter said seriously. "And everyone knows that Lucius Malfoy never, ever lies."

Draco balked less at Potter besmirching the Malfoy name and more at the implication that he personally had been misled. "He didn't have any reason to lie!"

"That depends. Did you find out before or after Thera's little stunt in the ballroom?"

"Before, obviously."

"Did he tell Thera, also?"

"Yes, Potter," he said impatiently. "She was there when he said it. Hell, she might've been there when the Dark Lord did it, for all I know."

Potter looked uncharacteristically smug. "So the two people involved in the spell who aren't drooling idiots and weren't locked up in a bedroom were informed leading up to Voldemort's attempted murder of his rival that the spell had been completed?"

Draco opened his mouth, then shut it. As much as it might very well give him an ulcer to admit it, Potter had a point. He and Thera weren't stupid enough to let anyone know about their opposition to the Dark Lord's plans for them, but he certainly wouldn't put it past his father to make sure neither of them caused any trouble.

"So if the spell isn't finished..." Draco began.

"Then that means there's still a chance to stop it," Potter said stoutly.

Draco glared at him. "No shit. Unfortunately, it also means he'll come after her again."

"Oh. Yeah. And that."

"Dear Merlin," Draco moaned at the ceiling. "This is our bloody savior? Do you really hate us that much? Are we that reprehensible, or are you just having a good laugh?"

"Malfoy!" Potter said sharply. "Come back down to earth with the rest of us, will you?"

"Okay, listen up, hero boy," Draco said, poking a finger into Potter's chest that was quickly knocked aside. "As much as I abhor the idea of even breathing the same air as you, it's obvious that this endeavor isn't going to succeed if it's limited to me sending you threatening owl-posts and you and Red bumbling into traps."

"What do you propose then?"

Draco frowned. "I don't know. But I'll think of something."

"Yeah, keep me updated on that, mastermind."

"Stop trying to be smart, Potter. It doesn't suit you. This," he said, waving a hand between the Gryffindor shithead and himself, "is still about hate. It will always be about hate. This is not - I repeat, not - a truce by any definition of the word."

"Agreed," Potter said, turning around and heading up the staircase.

Draco turned around also, taking two steps before he stopped and turned back around. "Hey, Potter!" he yelled through gritted teeth.

"What?" the kid asked in an annoyed tone as he stopped.

"He can't get you during the summer, right?"

Potter looked over his shoulder at him. "Not while I'm with my aunt and uncle. Why?"

"Do you still have that locator thingy?"

"Yeah."

"Give it to her."

The Gryffindor stared at him for a moment. Then he nodded and walked up the staircase.

"A rather good idea, Mr. Malfoy," a wizened voice said from the shadows on his right. Draco turned and raised an eyebrow. One would think that the Headmaster of Hogwarts would be above lurking around in the hallways eavesdropping on students.

In the case of Dumbledore, one would be wrong.

"Professor," Draco said with the proper amount of respect and not one iota more.

The old man stepped into the moonlight, a small smile on his face, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Your father is very good at that, too, you know."

"Good at what, sir?"

"At putting me in my place. Could you spare a few moments for your headmaster?" he asked, gesturing towards the staircase to his office. Draco murmured his assent and followed the barmy old fool, feeling a stab of annoyance.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore offered as they sat down.

"No, thank you. What did you want to talk to me about, sir?"

"Ah, yes of course," Dumbledore said, smiling again. "Forgive me for taking the indirect approach, but I have just hosted several Gryffindors, and I'm afraid I am not as quick as I used to be at making the switch. I'll just get straight to the point then, shall I?"

Unable to tell whether this was leading to a lecture or a detention, Draco just nodded.

"I would like to inform you that you will be Head Boy next year."

That...hadn't been on the list of things he'd expected to come out of Dumbledore's mouth right at that moment. Though he was thrown a bit by this glaring breach in Head-Boy-naming protocol, Draco couldn't stop the warm sensation that filled his body or the smile that crossed his face. He'd been working to be named Head Boy since his first day at Hogwarts. Hell, he'd been working for it since he could say it. And now he'd done it. He'd done it and - no matter how much he kissed Dumbledore's ass or how much the staff drooled all over his stupid scar - Potter hadn't.

He couldn't wait to see the look on his father's face when he told him. Of course, Lucius had probably spent the last six years thinking up the perfect backhanded compliment for this precise situation: 'So there wasn't anybody better?' or 'I suppose Potter couldn't fit it into his busy schedule of beating you at Quidditch and making the Dark Lord look like a buffoon.' And at the same time, a little voice in the back of his head wondered why he'd been chosen. He had the best marks in his year aside from Granger, but MacMillan and Goldstein had probably never broken a rule in their entire lives, and the Malfoy family's affiliation with the Dark Lord was the worst kept secret in the magical world.

"Thank you, sir," Draco finally said.

"No thanks are necessary, Mr. Malfoy. In many ways, you have already earned the honor. In all of the other ways, I fully expect you to justify my decision."

Draco blinked. "Sir?"

Dumbledore peered at him over the top of his spectacles. "I'll be blunt, Mr. Malfoy. The staff has yet to put forward their choice for Head Boy next year, but I know already that the choice would not be you. However, as Headmaster, I have the right to overrule their decision. I have done it only once before, and I have never regretted it. Now I have decided to step in once more, and - as I did the first time - I am informing you of my choice well before the school letters come out. I am doing this because I believe you will need the entire summer to ruminate on what I expect from you as Head Boy."

Draco felt as if Dumbledore were speaking a completely different language. "What exactly do you expect of me, sir?" he asked carefully, wondering if this was Dumbledore's own eccentric way of keeping him in line.

"No more and no less than I expect from any other student I choose to fulfill the position: intelligence, fairness, courage and a desire to succeed."

Draco ran a hand through his hair, cognizant of the fact that a gauntlet had just been thrown down. "I see."

"For the sake of my reputation, Mr. Malfoy, I sincerely hope that you do." Dumbledore stood and Draco followed a moment later. "Despite what you may think of me," the Headmaster said lightly, "I am not a fool. A bit odd, I'll admit, but not a fool."

"Professor Dumbledore, I certainly never..."

"Perhaps I should add one last requirement for the position," Dumbledore interrupted, raising his eyebrows. "Honesty."

Draco opened his mouth to continue protesting, then smartly shut it and nodded.

"I am placing a great deal of faith in you, Mr. Malfoy. As I said before, I have only overruled the staff one other time. Like you, that individual was also very intelligent, very proud and very charismatic. Like you, he was also quite fond of redheads." Draco stared back innocently. Dumbledore's mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh.

"And like you, he also had a difficult time restraining himself from making life difficult for the other students," the Headmaster concluded pointedly.

So Dumbledore was basically expecting him to achieve sainthood in the next few months. Aside from the fact that he couldn't see how one would go about achieving that - especially someone like him - Draco couldn't see why anybody would want to.

No more underwear-shrinking hexes, he thought sadly. It seemed like a high price to pay. Was adding 'Head Boy' to his resume really worth what Dumbledore was asking of him? What was the point of being rich and well-connected if you still had to work? And yet both Draco and Dumbledore knew that he'd never ever turn it down. No Malfoy could resist the opportunity to wield power, especially when it came with a title.

"I appreciate your trust in me, sir," Draco said diplomatically.

Dumbledore managed to look like he almost believed that statement. "Trust is earned, Mr. Malfoy. I am merely providing you with the opportunity."

"Of course, sir," Draco answered, trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean.

"You may return to your dormitory now, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for your time," Dumbledore said graciously, nodding to him and sitting back down .

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he answered automatically, turning to leave.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"Sir?" Draco asked, turning back around.

"I trust you to keep this information to yourself, and to act adequately surprised when the school letters arrive in August."

Draco sighed. No rubbing it in. Fine, then. "Yes, sir."

"Also, I was hoping you might be able to return Miss Castelar's personal effects to her when you return home at the end of term." Draco nodded. "I would also appreciate it if the contents of her desk were given back to their...original owner, Mr. Malfoy."

"Of course, sir," Draco said gamely.

His mind was in a muddle as he walked back to the dungeons, wondering why Dumbledore would try to manipulate him in such a heavy-handed and obvious way. The Head Boy nomination was clearly the carrot, but where was the stick? Taking it away? On the Malfoy threat scale, that ranked about as high as a disdainful sniff.

As much as he hesitated to give Dumbledore that much credit, he got the sense that the old man was trying to get him to think about the bigger picture. The Headmaster had made him Head Boy for a reason, and Draco didn't think that reason was to turn him into a more attractive, tow-headed Potter clone. Dumbledore hadn't said a direct word against his beliefs or methods. In fact, it seemed almost as if...

Draco grinned as it fell into place. The spell hadn't been completed, and they'd been given a second chance. And though Potter and crew might be content to shrug it off as luck, Draco and Dumbledore knew that when it came down to ancient spells and Dark Lords, second chances were too valuable to be wasted.

Good old Gryffindor gullibility had nearly done them all in, but what happened tonight was not going to happen again, because The Potter Squad was going to learn a few things about sneakiness, mistrust, underhandedness and keeping one's ass alive. They were going to learn how to think like a Slytherin, and he was just the Slytherin to teach them.

He felt lighter and sharper than he had in months. It was one thing to be wealthy, good-looking, smart, witty and charming. It was something else entirely to be all those things and Head Boy. And it was perhaps the closest Draco Malfoy would ever get to heaven to be all of those things, Head Boy, and the one man standing between Potter and Potter's messy death at the hands of the Dark Lord, which - unfortunately - Draco was forced by circumstance to prevent. His purpose in life was not just to look gorgeous or to parade around in a silly mask and kill people, or even to be the snarkiest being ever to walk the earth. It was to save Harry Potter's ass. More specifically, it was to save Harry Potter's ass and then spend the next eighty years reminding him of that fact on a daily basis.

As he strode into the Slytherin common room, Draco grinned. He - Draco Malfoy; The Dark Lord's Peon; bane of all Hogwarts first years and Hufflepuffs; heir to the Malfoy dynasty and Slytherin asshole extraordinaire - was going to achieve the impossible.

He was going to out-Harry-Potter Harry Potter.

*******

The Ministry took their sweet time wrapping up the paperwork for Remus' release. Three hours after Dumbledore and Balder Astragand hied off to save the day, he finally arrived in the lounge for Ward 121: Mind-Control and Mental Instability Curse Reversal. Balder Astragand was sitting on the sofa with his robes undone and his dragonhide loafers resting on the coffee table, watching an omniocular replay of the previous day's Holyhead Harpies match against the Chudley Cannons that was being projected onto the opposite wall. His eyes flickered briefly over to Remus, then went back to the match.

"Any news?" Remus asked in a half-hearted attempt at civility.

"Yes. I hate to ruin it for you, but the Harpies win."

"I meant about Vivian," Remus said, fighting to keep his voice even.

"Neural damage," Balder said, yawning widely. "They fixed most of it up, but it's going to be a while before it really takes. She's asleep right now, which is probably for the best. Her memory's all messed up. When I tried to talk to her, she alternated between worrying about her Charms exam and calling me a fascist prick."

Remus hid a smile.

"The staff is ready to kill her," the other man continued, his eyes on the match. "She's been a bit...uncooperative."

The smile grew, and Remus chuckled. "Yes, I imagine she is." Never in the history of mankind had there been a worse patient then Vivian Wellbourne. Once as an Auror, she'd gotten trapped in some crossfire and been forced to spend three days here. Upon her release, the ward's entire staff had given her a standing ovation, not because they liked her, but because they were truly that happy to be rid of her.

"I fail to see the humor in the matter," Balder said icily.

"Somehow I get the feeling that happens a lot."

The man turned his head to look at him, the hard, angry look on his face at odds with his boyish features. "You know, if I had my way, you'd be locked up in Azkaban."

"Yes, I know. Because it would get you that much closer to defeating Voldemort."

Balder narrowed his eyes. "It's not entirely about him. Do you know how many new werewolves were created last year that we know about? Thirteen. Now, considering there are one hundred and fifty known werewolves in the U.K., I'd say that's a bit of a problem, wouldn't you? Oh, wait," he said, holding up his hands, "but you're a safe werewolf. You've never nearly attacked Hogwarts students or anything like that."

Remus flinched involuntarily, unable to respond because there wasn't any response.

"You're free right now," the other man said, "but if I even hear a whisper of a hint of a rumor that you've so much as apparated to an undesignated location, I will have your ass thrown in jail so fast it'll make your head spin."

Remus goggled at him. "Dear Merlin, you really read too many detective stories."

"Mr. Astragand?" a voice asked from the doorway. Remus stood quickly to face perhaps the one individual in the world more disgustingly attractive than Balder Astragand. He had brown hair that was messy in a way that advertised the fact that it was intended to be messy, as if the guy had just rolled out of bed with a starlet. He had chiseled features and piercing brown eyes that seemed entirely too full of intelligence for Remus' liking.

There was something inherently unfair about attractive people being smart, too.

Balder stepped forward. "Tamarind," he said shortly in greeting.

Standing between the two men, Remus felt the sudden desire to cover up the bald spot forming on the crown of his head.

"There isn't much point in staying," the Healer said with a false sort of smile that made Remus unintentionally warm up to him just a tiny bit. Tamarind obviously liked Balder Astragand about as much as he did. "She'll probably sleep through the night, and even if she wakes up, she's not going to be in any shape to answer questions."

"Alright," Astragand sighed. "I'll come back in the morning, then." Doing up his cloak, he left the lounge.

"Can I just go in and see her?" Remus asked the Healer. "I'm not here to conduct an interrogation, after all."

The Healer sized him up. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

Briefly, Remus thought about lying and saying he was her brother or something, but he sensed somehow that he was a lot better off with the truth. "Remus Lupin."

The man raised his well-crafted eyebrows. "You're Remus?" he asked with a tinge of disbelief that he quickly covered with a smile. "I'm Elias Tamarind, the Healer in charge of her case. She's been asking about you."

Remus couldn't stop the wolfish grin that spread across his face. "Oh?" he asked casually. "Has she?" Take that, you sodding runway model.

The Healer nodded. "She seemed quite worried. Follow me, please."

"So am I to assume that she isn't actually asleep?"

"No, she's awake. I just didn't want him to know that. I didn't realize who he was when I let him in there. She recognized him, so I figured it was okay. Asshole."

"What did he do?"

"Tried to conduct an interrogation. She doesn't understand why she's here or what happened. As far as she's concerned, we're holding her prisoner, and she has no qualms about voicing her opinion on the subject. She remembers things, but there's no coherence to it. I just happen to think it's a little underhanded for the Ministry to question somebody who doesn't know whether or not they're incriminating themselves."

It suddenly occurred to Remus that Vivian's state of mind at the moment could put a lot of people in a lot of danger. "Did she say anything?" he asked carefully.

"Not to him," Tamarind said shortly. Making sure they were alone, he stopped. "Listen, she's going to be like this for at least another twenty-four hours. I've already heard some things that I have a feeling I wasn't supposed to hear. When I became a Healer, I took an oath to put the well-being of my patient before all else, and to maintain confidentiality. Aside from that, I respect Dumbledore, and I intend to forget everything she said tonight. Balder Astragand isn't bound by any of those rules, and I wouldn't be surprised if he returns in the morning bearing a piece of paper with Fudge's signature."

Remus rubbed his eyes. "What can we do?" he asked bluntly.

"Well, I'm going to decide that her condition's worsening and arrange to have her transferred to a special facility. Then I'm going to lose the paperwork. As for you...I'd really rather not know."

Shocked, Remus just stared at him. "Why would you...?"

"Because I would love nothing more than to never have to see another permanently brain-damaged Imperius victim," Tamarind said tightly. Then his face twisted into a wry smile. "Plus, I have a feeling Hestia would have my head if I didn't help out."

"Hestia Jones?" Remus asked faintly, wondering exactly how much Vivian had blabbed about the Order.

The Healer's smile grew. "She's my mother-in-law."

Remus blinked at him. "She is? But I thought she just had..." a son named Gary who was a broker for Gringott's. "Oh. I see." Against his will, he liked the guy a lot more. It was perfectly fine for Vivian's Healer to be disgustingly attractive if he was gay.

"So I'm not on the make," Tamarind said sarcastically, handing him a slip of parchment. "Here's her potions schedule for the next week, after which she'll have to come back for a check-up. I understand you have someone at your disposal who's qualified to make everything on that list, though I should warn you that you'll probably have to wrestle her to the ground in order to get her to take them."

"That ought to be pleasant," Remus said as he followed Tamarind to Vivian's room.

After several more twists and turns, they stopped halfway down a long hallway and the Healer opened a door. "What on earth?" Tamarind whispered, glancing into the room, then looking down the hallway. "Bloody menace," he muttered, taking off. Remus watched him go, then walked into the empty room and sat down in the vinyl visitor's chair. Honestly, he was surprised it had taken her this long to try to escape.

A minute later, Tamarind shuffled in backwards, both arms wrapped around Vivian, who - while not employing active resistance - certainly wasn't helping him at all. The man sat her on the bed and took a step back, his hands on his hips.

Vivian glared up at him mutinously. "You can't keep me here," she hissed. Her eyes were wild, her hair was sticking up in all directions, she was wearing a rather revealing hospital gown, and more than anything, she looked like somebody you might meet wandering down the street pushing a trolley and muttering to herself. "I don't know what sort of ridiculous misunderstanding landed me here, but if you don't let me out right now, I will spend every last sickle I have suing your ass for malpractice."

Tamarind sighed. "Yes, I'm the very embodiment of evil. Remind me not to expect a thank-you note. You have a visitor, by the way." He turned to look at Remus. "She's going to need a calming draught, I think," he said, pulling Vivian's wand out of his pocket and handing it to Remus with a smile before walking out of the room.

"Remus? Oh, thank Merlin. These people are crazy." Glancing at the doorway nervously, she lowered her voice. "We have to get out of here before he comes back."

"Yes, we do," Remus said seriously. "Here, put this on." He wrapped his cloak around her, admiring the view of her bum through the gap in the gown.

It was slow going down the hallway, slow enough to make him wonder how she'd managed to make it anywhere on her own during her failed escape attempt. Her balance was off, her legs took a long time to process the commands of her brain and once every few minutes she looked around, confused, and asked him where the hell they were.

Once they reached the stairwell at the end of the hallway, he picked her up.

"Put me down, Remus," she protested, pushing against his chest. "I can walk."

"No, you can't, and we need to get out of here before they find us," he said.

"They? They who? And where the hell are we anyway?"

And that was pretty much how it went the entire time it took him to get her down the stairs, apparate them to Number Twelve, get her up the stairs and put her to bed.

"I feel like shit," she declared. She looked like it, too. Her skin had taken on a greenish tinge and she was shivering despite his cloak and the blankets. Digging into his pocket, Remus pulled out the slip of parchment from Tamarind.

Midnight: Sleeping Potion, Blood Replenishing Potion

Well, at least he wouldn't have to get Severus, since they kept both of those on hand at Headquarters. Then he looked at the list again. "Blood Replenishing Potion?" he muttered, running a hand over his face. "For Merlin's sake, Vivian."

"What?" she asked irritably.

"Nothing," he sighed, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. "I just wouldn't want to be in David's shoes when you finally recover from this."

"David? Who's David?"

"A dead man," Remus said under his breath as he went off in search of the potions.

*******

Vivian's memory returned suddenly and whole, thanks to five days of neurological recovery and an Instant Recall Potion. She had not been the best sport about potions-taking, and this is why she unfortunately regained her memory with Remus sitting on top of her pinning her arms to the bed and Severus holding an empty vial in one hand while the other one pinched her nose shut. Both men were watching her warily. Both men also looked as if they'd just come from a brawl.

"Did it work yet?" Remus asked through a fat lip.

"It should work immediately," Severus answered, cautiously touching the area around his right eye, which was steadily purpling.

"If it doesn't work, I think we should start punching her back," Remus said, not sounding as if he necessarily disliked the idea. "Maybe it'll knock something into place."

"Of course the potion will work," Severus said in a chilly voice. "I made it."

"Stob looging ad be lige I'b a grazy bersod," Vivian said.

"What was that?" Remus asked, leaning in only to be stopped by Severus's hand.

"Don't forget the biting incident," he warned. "And for Merlin's sake, don't let her up until we know if it's worked or not."

"But you made it, Severus," Remus said pleasantly. "Of course it will work."

Severus' lip curled, but he let go of her nose, wiping his hand on his robes.

"Stop looking at me like I'm a crazy person," Vivian said. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Sorry, dear, but we've heard that line before," Remus said patiently. "I'm not letting you up until I know you've got your memory back."

"Oh, shit," Vivian said, screwing her eyes shut. "I punched you in the face, didn't I? And I bit Severus's ear and kneed you in the...oh, Merlin, and I told Balder about the first time we did it underneath the Quidditch bleachers..."

"Honestly, Lupin, the Quidditch bleachers?"

"Not the time, Severus."

Vivian gasped. "And I said all kinds of stuff to the Healer..."

"It's okay, Vivian," Remus said, sitting her up. "I dealt with the Healer."

"The kids," Vivian realized, grabbing onto his shoulders. "There was a portkey and David had told me what to say and Voldemort..."

"You're a little behind on the times. The kids are fine."

"And the lake house thing was a trap and I guess you figured that out and got out of it, because you're still here, but I took you to the lake house before and left a bunch of evidence so it looked like you'd killed Howard and Roxanne..."

"Who are Howard and Roxanne?" Severus interrupted.

"The dead Muggles that David killed that I helped him frame Remus for killing," Vivian said impatiently. "Do keep up. But then when we got back to Number Twelve I obliviated you so you'd forget about it and..." she ran out of air and had to heave a huge breath.

"Is babbling a side effect?" Remus asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Not that I know of," Severus answered, watching her with wide eyes.

"And David ambushed me and it was a really lame ambush, too, but I thought it was supposed to be this big showdown. I figured it was just him and me, and I never even thought he'd have this whole big plan to use me to fuck everything up completely and the little bastard put me under Imperius and then he mesmerized me and when the mesmerism started wearing off, he bit me and I can't seem to stop myself from talking otherwise I'd be able to convey exactly how angry I am about that and how slowly and painfully I'm going to kill him when I finally find him and sweet Merlin, why won't one of you shut me up before I make an even bigger ass out of myself than I already have..."

"Silencio," Severus obliged. Panting a little bit, Vivian sent him a thankful look.

Remus sat back, shaking his head. "Well. That was...what was that, exactly?"

"I'm not sure. The potion isn't commonly used. I've never actually seen the effects of it personally before, though it does share quite a few ingredients with veritaserum."

"So...you're saying she can't lie?" Vivian did not like the smile that spread across Remus' face at all.

"It's possible she can't. At least, not for a few more minutes." The gleam in Severus' eye was most certainly not academic curiosity. Vivian began to worry.

"It would be highly inappropriate for us to ask her questions in her current state."

"I completely agree. Immaturity at its worst." They were now finishing each other's sentences. Like the Weasley twins, Vivian realized. Then she really began to worry.

"A shameless exploitation of another person's momentary weakness."

"Yes, it would be. Much like trying to gnaw the ear off of one's caretaker."

"Or kneeing a perfectly innocent man in a highly sensitive area."

"Quite. Finite incantatem."

"If either of you think I'm going to tell you one single bloody thing..." Vivian warned.

"Would you like to go first, Severus?"

"Yes, Lupin. I would." The Potions Master smiled at her nastily. "Didn't you ever secretly resent Lily Evans for getting Head Girl instead of you?"

"Well, of course I did. I had better grades and it was just because she was a little brown-noser who tattled on every-mwfh-mwfh..." The rest of her decades-old diatribe was quelled when Vivian managed to pick up a pillow and stuff it in her mouth.

"I knew that anyway," Remus shrugged. "You were always way too nice to her, so I figured that you secretly hated her."

Vivian ripped the pillow out of her mouth, feeling maligned. "I didn't secretly hate her. I only hated her when she wasn't around." She frowned. That hadn't come out right. "I mean I only hated her behind her back." No, that wasn't what she'd meant to say, either. "I hated her a lot less after graduation," she said desperately, "and her getting killed helped me like her a lot more, because it's impossible to hate a bloody martyr even if she stole Head Girl..." This time she stuffed the pillow in her mouth, scrambled off the bed past the shell-shocked faces of her former classmates and current Order brethren and locked herself in the bathroom. It was a bit teenage and dramatic, but it provided her with a sink full of nice cool water to splash on her face around the pillow in her mouth.

They hadn't meant for it to end up this way; she realized that. She'd been terrible to both of them for the past few days, and they were just getting some well-deserved revenge. They couldn't have known how much she'd resented Lily Evans. Actually, until about thirty seconds ago, she hadn't even known how much she'd resented Lily Evans.

Well, it's not as if she'd had much dignity left anyway. She was most likely canned, she had been used in the most embarrassing way possible to put a group of her own students in mortal danger, she had nearly gotten Remus sent to Azkaban for at least the remainder of the war and at most, the rest of his life, and she had just spent the past few days making life hell for the two individuals who had seen fit to help her sorry ass. Compared to all of that, it seemed silly to get upset about having the deepest, darkest, nastiest little insecurities of her seventeen-year-old self put on display, but she did.

A light tapping sounded. "Vivian?" Remus asked through the door. "Are you sulking?"

Kind of. "No," she said loudly, standing up and brushing off her thoughts, thankful that the truth-telling qualities of the potion seemed to have worn off.

"We weren't trying to be cruel, it's just...you have one hell of an uppercut."

Smiling a little, Vivian opened the door. "First of all, I certainly hope Severus has left or he'll be very angry at you for implying he might do something that wasn't motivated by spite. Secondly, it's kind of sad that the two of you had such a hard time subduing little old me."

Remus' eyebrows drew together. "Yes, he's gone, and for your information, we were actually following this sort of wacky chivalric code along the lines of 'no matter how much thou mightst want to, thou shalt not deck the sick woman, tho' she holdeth no such qualms in regards to thee. But healeth not the injuries sustain'd by her hand, for thou mightst be able to arrange for thyself a gratitude fuck.'"

Vivian snorted. "Mightst?"

"I'll have you know every word I said was historically accurate knightspeak."

"Right. Like 'gratitude fuck.'"

"Even if the term as such didn't exist, the concept surely did. How else would Uric the Oddball have begotten Uric the Oddball the Younger?"

Vivian dropped her hands down to play with the front of her nightgown, realizing that the frightening appearance she'd seen in the mirror a few minutes ago probably hadn't improved since then. "I'm sorry I punched you. And I'm sorry I kicked you and scratched you and kneed you in the wolfberries."

"Ah, well," he shrugged. "Those potions were pretty disgusting."

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his chest. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"I don't know," he murmured into her hair as he pulled her in closer, "but it must have involved positions we haven't even dreamed of trying."

Vivian smacked him on the ass. "You thought that one up beforehand, didn't you?"

"Well, I did have several days to think about all the ways you could thank me."

"Just thank you? What about Severus?"

"Severus will have to make do with a nice note and a potted plant."

"Hmm. I get the feeling you're expecting something more."

"It's not payback," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her neck. "It's just that you've been lying about looking all cute in your flannel nightgown with your hair all messy and I couldn't do anything because you thought you were fourteen."

"How noble of you. In what messed up universe are flannel nightgowns sexy?"

"The nightgowns aren't. In fact, they're bloody well hideous. It's more the nightgown-bed-sex connection, I think."

"You know, I could get used to unemployment, if all we do is putter around all day in our pajamas having sex and reading and eating and having sex and whatnot."

"Unemployment?"

"Yeah. I mean, I think getting fired from Hogwarts might affect my employability at institutions of higher learning."

Remus straightened up, looking at her. "Vivian, you're not fired."

"What? Of course I am. I nearly got four students killed."

He grimaced a little. "Suffice it to say that considering the history of the job, that actually isn't so bad."

"So, let me get this straight. After everything that's happened, Dumbledore still wants to employ me as a professor at Hogwarts?"

"What can I say? The candidate pool includes you and...you. You have an administrative hearing at the Ministry the day after tomorrow, and if you feel up to it after that, Dumbledore said he'd be pleased if you'd come back for the leaving feast."

Vivian gawked at him. "But...who's been taking my classes? Have they been doing the revisions I had planned? Has anyone managed to get through my essay backlog? Are the fifth years and seventh years all making it to the extra review sessions? Who's going to be proctoring the exams? Damn. I thought I wouldn't actually have to think about any of this stuff because it wouldn't be my problem." She groaned. "And now it is."

"Not right at this very moment, it isn't. Everyone has been covering for you with no problems. Dumbledore explained your absence to all of the students. Don't worry."

"What did Dumbledore say, exactly?"

"I think he just left it at you were attacked."

"I still have to apologize to Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny, though," Vivian said glumly. "And then I'll just crawl into a hole and die."

"You didn't do anything bad. You just misjudged the situation."

"With horrible consequences." Vivian pulled her hands up and covered her face. "I never would have imagined myself capable of getting four of my own students killed."

"They're still alive, Vivian. You do know that, right?"

She raised her head. "Of course I know that," she snapped. "That's not the point."

He sighed. "I know. If it makes you feel any better, I almost got them killed, too."

"Remus, that was just a mistake."

"Exactly. A mistake. Much like you simply made a mistake."

"No, no, yours was more of a lapse in judgment," she argued, "whereas mine was...oh, this is ridiculous. Merlin, we really are a pair, aren't we?"

"We're human. We fuck up, we make amends, we learn our lesson and then we find a new and different way to fuck up."

Vivian smiled and looked up at him. "Thank you for putting up with me for the past few days." He leaned down and kissed her on the nose.

"Well, I love you. That kept me from holding a pillow over your face."

"Ah, love. It means never having to say you're sorry, right?"

Remus snorted. "In my experience, love means having to say you're sorry just about every damn day."

"I am sorry, Remus. I can't even tell you..." he cut her off with a kiss as his hands explored what they could through her flannel nightgown.

"That sounds like the perfect lead-in to my gratitude fuck. Now let's get this repulsive thing off of you, shall we?"

"How much gratitude do I owe you, anyway?" she asked as the nightgown came off and they stumbled awkwardly down the hall back to his bedroom, kissing and fondling each other and generally making it a much more difficult process than it needed to be.

"Five days' worth," he said from the crook of her neck, "and an escape from St. Mungo's. Not to mention pain and suffering."

"Hmmm...when's the hearing again?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"How about forty-eight hours of non-stop sex?"

"Let's start with one, see how that goes, get something to eat and then negotiate a payment plan?" They tumbled onto the bed in a confusing mix of limbs.

Vivian giggled. "You sound like a loan officer."

He raised himself up on his elbows. "Well, that wasn't quite the angle I was looking for, but if it works for you, then I'm game."

"Ugh, please. My cousin Barry's a loan officer."

"So that's a no, then."

"Remus," Vivian said seriously, "I'm going to be a better person. I'm going to use the second chance I've been given and I'm going to damn well live up to it."

"Okay. Does this start before or after we have sex?"

"Definitely after."

"Good."

*******

Thera's eyes snapped open when the alarm went off. "Up, up, up! Tiiiiiiiiime to get up!" it shrieked, in a high-pitched, maniacally chirpy voice. Snarling, she knocked the cheesy snow-globe to the floor, but the evil little penguin inside clad in a scarf and hat just ice-skated merrily around the little pond, repeating his grating little chorus.

In the past two weeks, she'd tried to break it, throw it out the window, reason with it, curse it, lock it in the closet, chuck it out into the hall and - in a fit of desperation - bribe it. Nothing worked. It unerringly popped right back up on her bedside table. When Mummy and Daddy wanted her up, her ass got up. It was one of numerous little tortures intended to drive her stark, raving mad.

And it was working. Bellatrix and Rodolphus weren't amateurs.

The snow-globe went quiet and still as soon as her feet hit the floor. "I hope the polar ice caps melt and destroy your entire fucking species," she hissed at her tormentor. "And if I ever figure out how to get you out of that little globe, I'm going to feed Crabbe and Goyle each a plate of refried beans and have them take turns sitting on you until you melt. Do you hear me, you slimy little bastard?" Her tormentor remained silent and still, grinning evilly, surrounded by fake snow.

Kicking it across the floor, Thera went into the bathroom to take a shower. The water was hot and would stay that way. They'd messed with her the first week, turning it cold right in the middle, so she'd taken to leaving the shower with shampoo in her hair, getting dressed and going downstairs for breakfast. After three days of this, they'd given in.

Drying her hair, she hummed "Pretty Woman" as she picked an outfit to wear. Her t-shirts and jeans were gone. Her current wardrobe was a lot more Romper Room: sweaters with kittens on them and plaid skirts and tights and ankle-socks and Mary Janes and frilly dresses, if she'd a mind to wear them. It was such an obvious tactic that Thera found herself kind of enjoying it. A girl could get away with a lot in a kitten sweater. She pulled out a bright yellow cardigan and a lime green skirt with grinning yellow suns along the hem and added a pair of yellow ankle-socks and a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes and a yellow headband. Looking in the mirror, she grinned.

Alice in Wonderland by way of an American shopping mall circa 1983.

In other words...perfect.

As she walked down to breakfast, Thera kept her steps silent, her wand in her hand and her senses on high alert. Bellatrix loved nothing more than to jump out from behind things and...

"Ha!" Before she could turn or even brace herself, Bellatrix had tackled her from behind a suit of armor. Thera slithered out from underneath her and tried to get away, but her shoes slid on the newly-polished floor and Bellatrix managed to grab an ankle, yanking her feet out from under her. With a yelp, Thera went sprawling, headband askew.

Again, she tried to get up and again the Mary Janes thwarted her, allowing Bellatrix to sit down on her and bend her right arm behind her back until her hand was up between her shoulder blades.

"Say 'uncle,'" Bellatrix said in a sing-songy voice, shoving her hand up a little bit more.

"Uncle," Thera bit out.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Bellatrix said, hitching the hand up until Thera grunted, feeling the neckline of the cardigan against the back of her fingers. "What did you say?"

"Uncle!" Thera said as loudly as she could with a grown woman sitting on top of her.

"That's the spirit," Bellatrix said brightly, releasing her and standing up.

Shakily, feeling as if her right arm weren't correctly attached to her body, Thera stood up and smoothed her hair down, resettling her headband.

"Look at you. You look good enough to eat," Bellatrix said, appraising Thera under hooded lids. Thera smiled charmingly, feeling a flutter of nervousness. She didn't mind men leering at her. She knew how to handle men. She had a feeling she wouldn't stand a Hufflepuff's chance in the Slytherin dormitories against Bellatrix.

"Thanks, Mummy," she said, turning quickly to walk into what had once been the dining room and now served as more of a feeding trough. At any given time, one could find between five and fifty Death Eaters shoveling food in their mouths and silently commiserating. The majority of them were cattle; Rodolphus and Bellatrix were the only two members of the dwindling inner circle who ever ate there, and the two chairs at the end of the table nearest the kitchens were theirs. It had taken two dead Death Eaters to drive that point home.

Thera piled her plate with eggs and bacon and sat down next to Rodolphus. "Morning, Daddy," she said, pouring a cup of coffee.

"Morning," he yawned, not raising his eyes from the paper. After the initial entertainment value had worn off, Rodolphus' interest in playing father had waned. Lately, he seemed as unnerved by Bellatrix's unique brand of maternalism as she was.

Bellatrix sat down and Thera's two undesired 'parents' fell into idle breakfast chat. Thera let her mind wander. Oddly enough, aside from the pedophilic undertones of the whole situation, she felt more comfortable here than she had at Hogwarts. She was far better equipped to handle Death Eaters and threats around every corner than she was Transfiguration essays.

"...and Draco will be coming home tonight. Perhaps we can..." Thera's head snapped to Bellatrix.

"Draco's coming home tonight?" she asked, not bothering to keep the excitement out of her voice. Draco. Thank Merlin. Somebody sane.

"Yes, he is," Bellatrix said, studying her with a sly smile. "Dolphie, did you know our ickle Thera has a crush on my neffie Draco?"

Rodolphus frowned at her. "Isn't she a bit young for him?"

"I'm sixteen," Thera said pointlessly.

He grunted, turning back to his paper. "You don't bloody look like it," he muttered.

Bellatrix ignored him. "I'm sure we can arrange for you two to spend some time together," she said, raising an eyebrow at Thera.

Her heart started thumping. This was her chance. "Actually," Thera said, turning her attention to pushing her eggs around her plate with her fork, "I was hoping we might be able to meet him in London, so we can pick up the present he bought for me."

"Present, eh? What sort of present?"

"A Ferrari." Both Bellatrix and Rodolphus looked at her blankly. "It's a luxury sports car," she explained. Continued blankness. "A Muggle automobile," she said quickly.

"A what?" Rodolphus asked at the same time Bellatrix screwed up her face into an expression of distaste and hissed, "Draco bought you something Muggle?!"

"He bought me this," Thera said innocently, digging the creased and well-handled picture from Car and Driver out of the pocket of her cardigan and laying it out on the table.

Bellatrix and Rodolphus leaned forward to look at it. Thera watched their reactions closely. Unless they realized the appeal of the bloody thing immediately, her only fallback was that she and Draco planned to make a bunch of messed up magical modifications to it and reintroduce it to the Muggle world in order to wreak havoc.

"It can go almost twice the top speed of a Firebolt," Thera contributed.

Rodolphus' face relaxed into dreamy male half-drooling. "Does it fly?"

"It could," Thera said enticingly.

"But it's a Muggle contraption," Bellatrix protested weakly, her eyes riveted to the picture in a way that suggested she was imagining herself lying on the hood naked and couldn't quite figure out why. "The Dark Lord will never allow it."

"But I was planning on running over Muggles with it," Thera explained with a bit of poutiness. Well, if they were going to dress her like a child... "And it was a gift from Draco. A very meaningful and expensive gift. It would be rude to refuse it."

"Yes, of course," Rodolphus said distractedly. "Terribly rude. How fast did you say it went again?"

"You couldn't keep it here, though," Bellatrix argued. "One of these idiots might get sick on it, or accidentally send a curse near it, or..."

"Don't worry," Thera assured her. "I've got it all taken care of." Between the libraries at Hogwarts and Shirag Castle, she'd managed to collect a nice long list of spells that ensured the car would be safe from everybody but her.

"Lucius doesn't know about this, does he?" Rodolphus asked warily.

"I don't see why he'd care," Thera hedged. "Draco bought it with his own money, and it belongs to me now, and Cousin Lucius isn't even really my guardian anymore. You two are. So," she said, leaning in conspiratorially, "there really isn't any reason why he ever needs to know about it."

The two of them looked from the picture to her, and then back at the picture again. "She has a point," Bellatrix admitted. Thera had to marvel at the ease with which one could manipulate people who had no experience whatsoever raising a teenager.

Rodolphus looked over at his wife, still not entirely convinced. "Go off and play, or whatever it is you do," he said, waving his hand at Thera. "We'll let you know what we decide." Thera glanced at Bellatrix, who was gazing at her husband from underneath hooded eyes. Feeling confident in her victory, Thera took her leave.

Her shoes made silly tap-tapping noises across the marble and Thera imagined the look on Draco's face when he saw her in this get-up. As she walked through the doors to the entryway, someone grabbed her from behind, spinning her around in a clumsy waltz.

"Well, if it isn't wee Thera LeStrange," a thick Irish brogue trilled.

"Castelar," Thera snarled, shoving the man off of her. "And if you call me 'wee' one more time, I'll shove that preposterous fucking hat down your throat."

"Such language!" he cried out, clapping a hand to his chest in mock horror, his ever-present black top hat tipped at a rakish angle. Tall and barrel-chested with dark hair, blue eyes and a mischievous smile, Patrick O'Riordan ran the legitimate wing of the Death Eater organization, i.e. the financing. Through a wide variety of civic groups, charities and philanthropic endeavors, he tapped into the average pureblood non-Death Eater's pocketbook using vague allusions to preserving heritage, then promptly laundered the money in order to fund the Dark Lord's Rise to Power, Part II.

He was a born con man, a fast and smooth talker, and Thera detested him with a passion. She didn't hate him because of what he did - everybody needed to make a living, after all - but because a.) he did lame shit like this, and b.) as far as con artists go, it takes one to know one. From the moment she'd met him, she'd known he was a fraud; unfortunately, he knew that she was, also.

Thera hadn't decided how to handle him yet, and was hesitant to employ sex this early in the game. For now, she was just making sure that he had nothing on her, and she knew very well that he was making sure of the same thing.

She smiled humorlessly. "What are you doing here this early?"

"Meetin' Lucius. We've a charity luncheon in Hogsmeade today."

"Why didn't you meet him in Hogsmeade, then? Or at the Manor?"

He raised an eyebrow, making Thera's simmering hatred bubble up a little. "So many questions from such a tiny thing."

"Oh, but size doesn't matter. Right, Patrick? I'm sure the girls tell you that all the time."

"'Tis unfair of you to judge without tryin' it out yourself."

"No, thanks. I fucked an Irishman once, or at least I think I did. When he woke me up, I just kind of took his word for it."

Something dark and ugly flashed behind his eyes: a threat. It was a threat they both knew he couldn't and wouldn't follow through on. Patrick O'Riordan hadn't risen this far this fast by giving in to his baser instincts. But he still had them.

She'd known men like him before. They smiled and charmed publicly, then spent their private time beating up prostitutes or partaking in recreational drugs or throwing away more money than they could afford, and their private pursuits inevitably came back to bite them in the ass. If there was one life lesson that Thera had learned well, it was that you had to live the lie every second of every day you were lying.

Patrick O'Riordan didn't, and he knew he didn't. And he knew that she knew he didn't. And that made him hate her in return.

"Little girls ought to be careful about the things they say," he warned softly. "It could land them in a whole mess of trouble."

"Could it?" she asked, wide-eyed. "You mean more trouble than threatening the Dark Lord's wee little protégé?"

His face fell into a smile. "The stories you come up with," he chuckled.

"O'Riordan," a chilly voice said from behind him, "if you want to enjoy the attentions of a girl half your age, I suggest you find someone who doesn't require an appointment."

"Good morning, Cousin Lucius," Thera said, her eyes never moving from Patrick O'Riordan as he took a slow step away from her.

"Thera," Lucius greeted her, not bothering to keep the dislike out of his voice. His hair glistened in the morning sun as he turned his head to sneer at the Irishman's top hat. "Are you ready?" he asked the man, sounding as if he wanted more than anything for O'Riordan to answer, 'I will be as soon as I get rid of this,' and toss the thing in the moat.

"As always, Lucius," the Irishman answered jovially, "I am at your convenience."

"Lucius," Bellatrix's voice sounded. "You weren't going to sneak out without saying hello, were you?" she asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

The look on his face suggesting that he still wished it was an option, Lucius forced a smile. "Bellatrix," he greeted her smoothly. "How lovely to see you."

"We're going to go pick up Draco at the train station this evening," she informed him.

"Who is?"

"Dolphie and Thera and I. It's a family outing."

Amusement spread across his face. "Three fugitives are going to collect my son from King's Cross Station when the place will undoubtedly be crawling with Aurors and Dumbledore's people?"

Bellatrix looked peeved. "We're going to go in disguise, Lucius."

"Wait just a second," Thera interrupted, "since when am I a fugitive?"

"You should read this morning's Daily Prophet," Lucius smirked.

"Ugh, don't bother," Bellatrix said, making a face. "It's not a good picture of you."

Dazed, Thera walked past her into the dining room. Rodolphus was on the Lifestyles section, but there on the stack beside him was...she grimaced. Bellatrix was right; it wasn't a good picture of her. It was from the Hogwarts yearbook, and she looked as if someone had hauled her out of bed and stuck her in front of a camera, which Thera recalled had pretty much been the case. Her hair was in a messy ponytail and her black-and-white self on the bottom of the front page of the Daily Prophet alternated between yawning, scratching her head and staring into the camera dully.

So far as Thera knew, there was only one magical picture of her anywhere on the planet, and this was it. Retrospectively, she should have at least brushed her hair.

'The Littlest Death Eater?' proclaimed the headline in large, prurient news-type. Thera seethed. Leave it to the Daily Prophet to take the cheapest shot available.

The story was slightly less flattering than the picture. They spanked her parents around for a few paragraphs, then spent the rest of the story painting her as a raving, sadistic lunatic who kept a harem of Muggle men to fulfill her lurid desires and enjoyed drinking unicorn blood and torturing small furry animals. In all, they managed to make her sound a lot more interesting than she actually was, which had probably been the point.

But the last paragraph was the nail in her coffin. These weren't just rumors, according to the Prophet. They were based upon eyewitness accounts from 'innocent citizens' who had found themselves placed under Imperius and forced to partake in illegal activity. It wasn't too hard to figure out the identity of the 'innocent citizens': MacNair, Howard, and the Elder Crabbe and Goyle. The four Death Eaters captured at Little Hangleton.

They'd sold her out, and Thera had no doubt that they had been ordered to do so. It was a brilliant move by a Death Eater leadership that didn't trust her one bit. If the Dark Lord went down, she'd be going down with him. She was - in a word - fucked.

"Lucius says he couldn't care less if we pick up Draco tonight or not, just so long as we don't get caught," Bellatrix said smugly, walking up to stand next to her. "Look, your reward's already at twenty-five thousand galleons."

Thera put down the paper and smiled wanly. "Lucky me."