[FFML] [HP] [XOVER] Drunkard's Walk VIII, Chapter 1

[Bob Schroeck]

Just five weeks after the end of DW5, I present to you the next
story in the Drunkard's Walk:  installment number 8, "Harry
Potter and the Man from Otherearth".

Enjoy.

-- Bob

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Bob Schroeck         http://www.accessdenied-rms.net        rms at eclipse.net
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Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
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-------------- next part --------------
Disclaimer and credits will be found after the end of the
chapter.




                      DRUNKARD'S WALK VIII:
            HARRY POTTER AND THE MAN FROM OTHEREARTH

                      by Robert M. Schroeck





0.  Forbidden Magic and Primal Fear


Glendower:  I can summon spirits from the vasty deep!
Hotspur:  Ay, so can I, but will they come when you do call them?
-- Henry IV, part I

Show me the magic.  C'mon.  Show me the magic.
-- John Cassavetes, "Tempest" (1982)

Peer's Law:  The solution to a problem changes the problem.



Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, England, UK.  Saturday, July 17, 
1995, 11:21 PM

Although the moon was just past full, beneath the treetops little
light penetrated; it was pitch dark.  In the shadows the quiet 
tread of two pairs of feet upon the soft layer of dead leaves and 
other litter that made up the forest floor was the only sound --
at least until there was a sharp crack followed by a rustle of 
leaves.  "Ow!"

"Honestly, Ginny," Hermione Granger sighed, then added, "Well, I
suppose we're far enough from the Burrow now that we can use my 
torch without alerting anyone."  There was a moment or two of 
fumbling, and then a brilliant beam of yellow-white battery-
powered light shone out across the underbrush.  With her free 
hand she swept her bushy brown hair back away from her face.   
"No need to walk into tree branches any more."

The petite redhead accompanying her sent a dirty look in her 
direction.  "I *thought* I knew the way.  I *did* grow up in 
these woods, after all."  She turned her attention forward again 
and made a vaguely affirmative noise.  "Okay, there's the 
clearing.  I knew it was around here somewhere."

Half an hour later, the two of them were kneeling within a 
complex design of both concentric and interlocking circles 
scratched with almost mathematical precision into the bare dirt
of the clearing.  Long looping strings of runes and symbols 
swirled around and along the scribed lines, cast into sharp
relief by the electric torch laying on the ground and shining 
across their work space.  To one side lay the string and styluses
that had made creating the circles a simple task.

"I'm not sure we ought to be doing this," Hermione muttered as 
she added the last few characters to the circle in which she sat.  
"After all, theurgic rituals *have* been banned by the Ministry 
of Magic for centuries."

In her own rune-inscribed circle, Ginny Weasley rolled her green 
eyes.  "Fine time to worry about that *now*, Hermione.  Wasn't it
*you* who found the book, and *you* who wangled an early visit to
the Burrow so we could use it as soon as possible?"

"Yes, yes," Hermione huffed impatiently.  "I *know*.  You can't 
fault me for having second thoughts, can you?  Especially with 
the Minister turning against Harry after the Third Task -- I'm 
sure he'd would *love* to have an excuse to arrest us and use us
to discredit him.  But still... you *saw* what Harry looked like 
on the Express.  If there's even the *slightest* chance this 
could help him against Voldemort..."  She swallowed.  "I'd offer 
anything I have.  Even my soul."

Slowly, Ginny nodded.  "Me, too."  Her hands rested on a tiny
drum between her knees, and she brushed her fingertips across the
taut leather of its head.

Hermione smiled grimly.  "Then we'd best begin, hadn't we?"  

Ginny grimaced.  "I suppose.  I'd feel more confident if this
were a regular spell, though."

Hermione looked up from the bag which rested between her knees 
and raised an eyebrow.  "What, with a Latin incantation and a
swish-and-flick of the wand?"  As she watched Ginny, she reached
into the bag and retrieved a pair of maracas she had liberated 
from her parents' box of vacation souvenirs.

Ginny nodded, sending her hair swinging.  Its normal bright red
was reduced by the low light to a near-black with the occasional
red highlight.  "Yeah.  I'm still afraid I'm going to mess up
and mispronounce a word or two in the chant -- and we'll get 
something we don't want."

Withdrawing a small leather pouch from the bag, Hermione paused
for a moment, closed her eyes and shuddered.  "That *was* one of
the reasons the Ministry outlawed theurgic magic, after all.  It
was far too easy to call up something -- or Someone -- who was
both hostile and very powerful.  And which couldn't be sent back 
to where it came from."  She huffed, and untied the rawhide thong 
which held the pouch closed, revealing a grainy, off-white powder 
within.  "We'll just have to be *especially* careful."

"If you say so."  Ginny resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. 
This was too important.  She glanced down at the drum -- rescued 
from the depths of Ron's closet, where it had been left since he 
was six -- and tapped its surface lightly with her fingertips. 
She felt its slight give at the impact and the bounce its return 
imparted to her fingers, and listening to the faint, almost tinny 
sound it made.  It was a bright orange that almost glowed in the 
light of Hermione's Muggle torch, and animated text flowed along 
its sides, morphing back and forth between "Chudley Cannons" and 
"Season Opener 1985".  "Let's do this before I lose my nerve."

"All right."  Hermione studied the younger girl's face for a few
moments before closing her eyes and trying to center herself.
She deliberately slowed her breathing before opening her eyes
again to see Ginny making the same effort.  When the redhead's
eyes opened, Hermione silently nodded to her.  Then she held up 
the maracas in one hand, and began to shake them slowly and 
rhythmically.

Ginny joined in a moment later with a matching beat on the little 
orange drum.  

Hermione nodded infinitesimally to the rhythm, counting out each
shake/strike with silent lips, until the right moment came. 
Then she stretched out her arm and sprinkled a handful of the 
powder from the pouch along the lines of the ritual circle, 
chanting in a language so foreign that the book she found had no 
name for it, only a phonetic pronunciation and a translation that 
she prayed was accurate.

"<Eastern Wind, blow clear, blow clean>," she sang out, strong 
and firm, and Ginny sang along:  

   "<Cleanse my body of its pain.
    Cleanse my mind of what I've seen.
    Cleanse my honor of its stain.
    Maid whose love has never ceased,
    Bring me healing from the East.>"

Then Hermione reached into the pouch for another handful of the
grainy white powder, and readied herself for the next verse.

                              * * *

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland, UK, Sunday, 
July 18, 1995, 12:10 AM

Sybil Trelawny, a dressing gown belted tightly over her 
nightdress, blinked owlishly through the heavy lenses of her 
glasses as she held up her wand, its tip blazing with light from
a Lumos spell, and drifted slowly through the darkened and empty 
Divination classroom.  She had just completed a long and tiring 
evening of communing with the currents of fate, of becoming one 
with the forces of destiny.  So much had she learned!  The 
secrets of the universe had been laid bare for her to see with 
her inner eye, and the course that the future would take had been
displayed before her.

She would have to place that bet on the Cannons taking the
championship as soon as possible.

But that was a task for the morrow.  Her ultimate destination was
bed, for the inner eye needed its rest in order to perceive that
which is invisible to the unenlightened.  But first, as was her
habit of many years, she would partake of a nightcap, a small
glass of sherry before retiring.  To her surprise, though, the 
bottle she kept on the credenza in her quarters was empty.  She 
couldn't recall finishing it off, but there it was.  Or perhaps
wasn't.

Fortunately, she kept another in her classroom.  

Thanking the spirits once again for advising her to take 
residence in the rooms at the top of her tower rather than in the 
wing where the other professors dwelt, Sybil stole down the 
spiral staircase to the rear door of the classroom.  Stopping at 
the wooden desk which served more as a shelf for her various 
divinatory equipment than a proper workspace, she quickly 
withdrew a bottle and glass from the lowest, deepest drawer.

As she straightened up, though, a violent spasm ran through her
body, her eyes turned glassy, and the glass and bottle both fell 
from her quivering hands to smash on the floor.  As the sherry 
pooled around her feet and soaked into her slippers, she began to 
speak to the empty room in a voice that did not belong to her.

"CHAOS COMES, SERVING ORDER:  MAGIC-BORN, FLAWED AND PUISSANT.
SWORN TO ONE, FAVORED OF EIGHT; TIME AND FATE GUIDE HIM, THE
DAUGHTER OF THE STORM CALLS HIM TO DUTY, AND TWELVE WHO LOVE HIM
WILL FOLLOW IN HIS PATH.  HE COMES ON WHEELS OF LIGHT THROUGH A 
WHEEL OF LIGHT, AND WHERE HE PASSES, ALL THINGS CHANGE AND 
NOTHING REMAINS THE SAME.  CHAOS COMES, SERVING ORDER..."

When the last echoes of the unearthly voice had faded away from
the empty classroom, Sybil Trelawny shook herself and blinked 
twice, then looked down at the shattered glass and the aromatic 
puddle in which she now stood.

"Oh, *bother*."




1.  Okay, So, You Meet This Wizard In A Tavern...


A knight of ghosts and shadows,
I summoned am to tourney;
Three leagues beyond the wide world's end, 
Methinks it is no journey.
-- "Tom o' Bedlam" (Traditional)

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens 
can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever does.  
-- Margaret Mead (attributed)

Wind's four quarters, Air and Fire,
Earth and Water, hear my desire!
Grant my plea, who stands alone,
Maiden, Warrior, Mother and Crone.
-- "Wind's Four Quarters", Mercedes Lackey



The British Ministry of Magic, London, UK.  Monday, July 19, 
1995, 3:00 PM

"Well, then, man, out with it.  What have you learned?"

The Unspeakable glanced around the office, shifting from one foot
to the other.  "We've determined that the damage began when
several key prophecy spheres spontaneously shattered, all at
the same time, as best we can tell."

"Spontaneously?  That's impossible."

"Not necessarily," said another of the Unspeakables, stepping
forward and holding up a finger with a decidedly pedagogical air.
"There are several ancient records of prophecies self-
destructing when *all* conditions for their fulfillment were
suddenly eliminated.  According to authorities of the time, the
backlash of magic from the alteration of fate was such that it
fed back into the sphere, which could not contain it and thus
exploded."

"But we didn't lose just one or two prophecies," Minister of 
Magic Cornelius Fudge objected.  "Hundreds were destroyed.  It 
was a disaster!"

"Ah, yes," the first Unspeakable interjected.  "That's what's so
*very* interesting.  According to witnesses, the subsequent 
destructions were *not* simultaneous.  In fact, they were 
staggered in waves or pulses a half-second apart.  By careful 
examination of the shards and their distribution on the floor, 
plus pensieve replays and... other information available to us... 
we've determined that each pulse destroyed more prophecies than 
the one before it until about halfway through the process, at 
which point the number of prophecies destroyed began *dropping*. 
It continued to drop until no further prophecies exploded."

"Plus!" added the second Unspeakable, finger still raised, before 
the Minister could get a word in edgewise.  "Plus, our first few 
efforts at reconstruction seem to indicate that the prophecies 
that were destroyed may all have been related to one or more of 
the other destroyed prophecies."

Fudge frowned as he considered this.  "Related?  How?"

The two Unspeakables glanced at each other.  "Well, sir," the
second replied, "It is of course difficult to tell with the often
obfuscated nature of prophetic composition, and the labels which
survived were not much help, but..."

"But what?"

"We believe that they may all be linked... causally," leapt in 
the first.  "That is to say, each of the prophecies that were 
destroyed in any given pulse were dependent on the results of one 
or more of the prophecies destroyed in the immediately preceding 
pulse, all the way back to the initial few."

The Minister pushed himself back in his chair and ruminated on
this. "So, the obvious conclusion is that something has happened
which has significantly altered the fate of the Wizarding World."

"Yes, sir," the first Unspeakable replied.  "That is the 
conclusion we have come to as well."  He resisted the urge to 
scowl; he'd bet his partner twenty galleons that Fudge wouldn't 
have been able to figure it out himself, and instead would've 
needed to have every last detail spelled out for him.

"For the better or worse?" the Minister asked, almost
rhetorically.

"It's impossible to tell at this time," the second Unspeakable
declared.

The Minister didn't seem to have heard him.  "I wonder what it
was," he said with a frown of concentration.

The second shifted uncomfortably as the first coughed.  "We may
have an idea, Minister."

The Minister whirled on him.  "You do?  Well, spit it out, man!"

The Unspeakable grimaced.  "Well, as we said, the destruction
began when several prophecy spheres spontaneously exploded.  
These spheres were all equidistant from one specific prophecy, 
which was one of the few spheres left intact."

"It was?  Which one was it?" the Minister demanded.

"Row ninety-seven, case two, shelf one, position five," the
Unspeakable reluctantly replied.  "It was labeled 'S.P.T. to
A.P.W.B.D.  Dark Lord and (?)Harry Potter'."

                              * * *

I awoke to the smell of brimstone and a pair of reptilian eyes 
which for size would have put a couple of hubcaps to shame.

Naturally I reacted in a manner that both my training and 
instincts agreed on.  My right arm snapped forward with all the
strength I could put behind it, and my fist (fortunately still 
encased in a gauntlet with polykev plates across the knuckles) 
impacted the scaly skin between those two eyes with a full-power 
strike.

Oops.  I'd intended to hit it on the nose, like smacking a dog
or a shark with the intent to drive it off, but the odd angle and 
attacking from lying on my back messed up my aim.  And of course, 
lacking a newspaper to smack it with, this probably wasn't going 
to end well.

Before I could draw my arm back for a second strike, though, the 
eyes crossed momentarily then rolled upwards, the pupils 
disappearing under a pair of eyelids the size of pizza pans.
A veritable gale of sulphurously bad breath suddenly engulfed me, 
and slowly, eeeeeeever so slowly, the dragon that had been 
standing over me fell first to its knees, and then over onto its 
side.  The impact was heavy enough bounce me off the ground.

I blinked once, then levered myself up into a sitting position
before studying the creature before me.  Yes, it *was* a dragon.
And yes, it was quite thoroughly unconscious.  

Then I lifted my eyes and realized that it had not been alone -- 
a small herd of other dragons were now staring at me.  I made
ready to flee until I realized that they were all crouching down 
in what was obviously a submission posture.

*Oh *great*,* I thought.  *I've just become the alpha dragon.*
I groaned at the very idea, and in Yosemite Sam's voice I said
out loud, "Dragons is *soooo* stupid."

"Sweet bloody Merlin!" said a voice somewhere outside of my
line of sight.  *An audience.  Just what I needed.*  If I hadn't 
been wearing my helmet I would have facepalmed.

                              * * *

Several hours later I found myself sitting across a rough-hewn 
trestle table from the vocal member of my audience, who happened 
to be a fellow named Charlie Weasley.  Also in front of me:  my
first meal in this world, a simple but hearty beef stew, into 
which I dug with great gusto.
  
Charlie was British, as it so happened, and very much the outdoor 
type, which only made sense since he had a job that was equal 
parts park ranger, livestock handler, and zookeeper.  It showed 
in his stocky, muscular build, the mass of sun-born freckles that 
went with his longish red hair, and in the dozens of scars -- 
shiny burns mostly, but there were a few long-healed cuts and 
punctures -- that ran up and down the length of his forearms.

Oh, and he was a wizard.  Complete with an honest-to-Merlin wand.
And not the kind that was a ritual implement, but something more
like a classic fairy-tale "wave it and voila" tool, complete with
little incantations in Latin or Greek.

So were all his co-workers.

Did I mention that I'd awakened in a *dragon preserve*?  In
Romania?

The weird thing?  It was 1995.  And most of the world was a
pretty average late 20th century Earth in all ways (save for the 
absence of obvious metahumans, which after all these years I'd 
come to expect) -- except that around its edges and in hidden 
enclaves, there was an entire civilization of people with a minor 
magic talent.  *Very* minor, compared to, say, Dwimanor and 
myself.  Or just about any average mage throughout the worlds, in 
my experience.

Despite living among and around their non-magical neighbors, 
these self-proclaimed wizards seemed to be stuck in a blend of 
the Middle Ages and the Victorian era, and regarded the non-
wizards -- "muggles", as they called them -- with a mixture of 
pity and snobbish disdain.  Because lacking magic, they were 
clearly inferior and relegated to living lives devoid of meaning 
and purpose.  Of course.

Uh-*huh*.

I learned and/or deduced all this from my first few hours in the
company of Charlie and his co-workers.  Or perhaps "custody" 
would be a better word, as the preserve wasn't open to the public 
(magical or not) and I was most definitely an interloper.  
However, my arrival -- complete with getting catapulted off my 
bike and landing flat on my back unconscious -- had been 
witnessed by another of the dragon-keepers (a fellow with the 
improbable name of Erebeus Pillock), who had alerted Charlie and 
the others.  He then spent the time between that and their 
arrival dithering about whether to interfere when the dragons 
decided to perform their own investigation of my arrival.

(Apparently one local wizard versus a small wing of dragons is 
not an even match, especially if the wizard wants to herd them 
away from something.  The odds are vastly against the wizard.  In 
this world, dragon-handling is very much a team operation.)

So Pillock just stood and watched as the alpha dragon walked up
to me, trying to decide if he could save me from becoming Purina
Dragon Chow, while Charlie and the other handlers converged on 
the scene.

Then I woke up, punched out the dragon, and -- as they say -- the 
rest is history.

Or maybe sociology.

As far as Charlie and his co-workers were concerned, the coolness 
factor of me going "Boom! Headshot!" on a dragon with my fist
made up (a little) for my being in restricted territory.  Pillock 
testified that my arrival looked like an accident, and the two 
factors combined got me a lot of leeway those first few hours.

I still had to answer questions, though -- the first of which 
was, "what in Merlin's name was that spell you used to get here?"
I was able to pass that off as unplanned, wild magic -- or
"accidental magic" as they call it here.  (Usually the province
of the under-ten set, but not unheard of in trained wizards put
under serious stress.)  Beyond that, well, since there was no 
point hiding anything -- and since they *were* magic-users 
(however weak) and could possibly help me -- I saw no reason not 
to tell them everything.  

(Well, everything that was relevant.  Even that early on, I was 
certain that the casual integration of magic and technology in my 
home timeline would shock or perhaps even offend them.  It seemed 
an article of faith with these wizards that magic was both better 
than and incompatible with "muggle toys" -- even though my 
careful counter-questioning indicated that they had about as much 
real idea what the non-magical world was like as one of their 
dragons did.  Arrogance born of ignorance.  Gotta love it.)

"The question now is," I said between bites of one of the 
better mutton stews I'd had the pleasure to consume, "what do I 
do with myself next?  Assuming you guys don't turn me into the
authorities for being a trespasser on the preserve."

"Well, that depends," Charlie said while tearing off bits of 
bread from the loaf between us, and soaking them in his own 
bowl's gravy.  "Do you support the Dark Lord?"

I frowned.  "Dark Lord?  What Dark Lord?"

He suddenly looked uncomfortable.  "*The* Dark Lord.  You-Know-
Who."

I really wanted to answer him, but his question was too vague to
let me.  "No, I don't know who."

"V..." he stammered, apprehension crossing his features.  He 
looked around quickly, then leaned forward and almost whispered, 
"Voldemort!"

I blinked, then burst out laughing.  "What is it with so-called 
dark lords and their pretentious self-inflicted titles?  I swear, 
they must all come up with these things while they're whiny emo 
teenagers planning how they're going to revenge themselves on the 
entire world for how sucky their childhoods were.  There's no 
other explanation for it."  I rolled my eyes.  "'Flight of 
Death', indeed.  Give me a goddamned break."

Charlie looked shocked at first, but then a smile broke over his
freckled mug and he began to chuckle as well.

"Geeze," I went on, "I thought you were talking about something
*serious*, like a Sauron or a Vader, or worse, a Chessandar.  But
no," I continued as the urge to explain myself peaked again, "I 
don't support *anyone* who fancies himself a 'Dark Lord'.  In 
fact, you might say part of my job at home is being a dark lord 
*killer*."

He gave me an odd, intent look.  "Well, that's good to hear," he 
said, tearing off another hunk of bread.  "Did you come here with 
the intent to commit any kind of crime?"

"Hell, no."  The truth bubbled up out of me again without 
thought.  "I have no control over where I go to begin with, so I 
had no specific intention of arriving here at all.  Of course, 
being a stranger in these parts, I don't know if there's anything 
I'd consider innocent that you'd consider a crime.  Rules are 
different everywhere, y'know."  I took another bite.

"I can accept that," Charlie said, leaning back after dredging a 
wad of bread through the gravy in his bowl with his thick 
fingers.  "But you'd say your intentions were innocent?"

I shrugged.  "It depends.  My standard procedure on arriving in a
new world is to establish some manner of false identification
for myself, which is usually illegal.  But I don't do it to
defraud or deceive -- instead it's to protect myself from 
unwelcome attention from the authorities, or from persons or 
organizations who'd like to take me apart and find out how I 
tick.  It's more a matter of survival than anything else."  You 
know, I was being unusually voluble with someone I'd only met a 
few hours before.

Charlie nodded slowly while chewing.  After he swallowed, he 
asked, "So if you could get established without falsifying any 
papers?"

"Oh yeah, I'd do it," I said with a sigh.  "But that's pretty 
much impossible most places I end up."

He smirked at me.  "You wouldn't need to fake anything to get
established in the Wizarding World."

I looked at him over my spoon.  "I thought you had a well-
organized government."

"We do," he said with a nod.  "Several, in fact.  But none of
them require identification papers like the muggle governments
do.  Or at least not to the same degree."

"Well."  I put down my spoon and considered that.  "That would be
a welcome change from the usual post-arrival runaround."  I
scratched my ear.  "I'd still need a job, though.  My gold stash
won't last long in your economy."

"Tell you what," Charlie said, leaning back.  "I know a few folks
back in England who could help you with that, and might be able
to help you find a way home, as well.  I've got some leave time
coming in a few weeks -- I can take you home with me, introduce
you around, see if we can't find something for you."

"Hm."  I studied him for a moment.  "That's awful kind of you,
going out of your way like that.  How do you know I'm not just
feeding you a line?"

Charlie's brow creased in sudden confusion.  "Feeding me a line?"

I sighed.  "Muggle idiom.  How do you know I'm not lying to you,
and am as trustworthy as I seem?"

His brow uncreased and he grinned broadly.  "Oh, simple.  I dosed
your stew with veritaserum."

"Veritaserum?"  Breaking that word down into its roots was simple 
enough.  A truth drug of some sort, presumably magical in nature.  
Interesting that I was affected.  Then again, most medicines 
affect me normally, because I voluntarily let them into my body.
Just like I let food -- say, a good hearty mutton stew -- into my
body.  "Wasn't that a bit impolite?"

He shrugged good-naturedly.  "Well, yes.  Illegal, too.  But we
keep a supply on hand to interrogate possible poachers, and,
well..."  He shrugged again.

I nodded, understanding.  "And for all you knew, I was an
unusually clever poacher.  Fair enough."  I laughed.  "I was 
wondering why you accepted my story so easily.  *I* wouldn't've
bought that story before I got kicked out of my home world."

"The truth is the truth," Charlie said simply.

"It is at that," I agreed.  "Okay, say I go with you back to 
England and hit up your contacts for a job.  What do I do with
myself until then?"  I gave him a mischievous smile.  "I'm a
terrible troublemaker when I'm bored."

He laughed merrily.  "You can't be any worse than my brothers
Fred and George -- I swear they'll turn my mother gray before
they get out of Hogwarts."

I picked up my spoon again.  Sure, the stew was still laced with
truth serum.  But it wasn't like I had anything more to hide,
was it?  "Hogwarts?  What's Hogwarts?"

Charlie grinned again.  "Only the best school of magic in the 
world.  It's one of the places I thought you might be able to 
find a job, as well as someone to help you.  How are you at 
teaching?"

For some reason I couldn't identify, I felt a strange pang of 
loss at that question.  Weird.  "I can teach -- I've been a 
combat instructor back home, and I taught the occasional class at 
the Academy we had set up.  And I've done a little teaching here
and there on my journey."

"Good, good.  I was planning on introducing you to the Headmaster
as soon as I could.  He's always got an opening or two at the 
school, and with those qualifications..."  He winked at me.  
"Until then, though... how do you feel about learning dragon-
keeping?"

I pretended to consider that.  "Well," I finally said, "it beats
just about anything else I can think of doing in rural Romania."

And that, children, is how I ended up learning how to be a lizard 
cowboy.

                              * * *

Somewhere in England,  Monday, July 19, 1995, 7:09 PM

It had once been a ballroom, in better times.  Elegant dancers
had spun across its parquet floor, coquettes had led young swains 
on merry chases as musicians played on the raised dais.  When it 
had first been built, candles had bathed the room in a warm, 
golden light when the parties had stretched long into the night; 
in later years, gas lamps had replaced them, and even later 
electric 5lights.

And after that, no lights at all shone there for many years.

Although the hour was early enough that the lowering sun could
still illuminate the ballroom through its great windows, thick, 
heavy tapestries had been hung over them, rendering the room as 
dark and dank as a cave even at the height of noon.  The air was
heavy with the scents of moisture, earth and decay.  The only 
light came from the candles which had retaken some -- but far 
from all -- their lost places of glory, barely shedding enough of
a glow to make possible navigating the rotting, splintered floor
that had long ago played host to so many dancing feet.

On the dais that had once been graced by musicians plying their
instruments for the amusement of the party-goers, there was now a
single piece of furniture -- a chair of dark wood, large, heavy 
and ornate, with a straight vertical back almost as tall as a 
man.  In it sat a figure that might once have been a man, but was 
now both more and less.  Black robes of a simple cut but 
expensive fabric draped his form, baring only his hands and his 
hairless head.  His flesh was as white as that of the blind 
salamanders which dwelt in the lightless depths of the earth; his 
all-but-noseless face was dominated by burning, blood-red eyes.  
In the taloned fingers of one hand he held a wand made of yew.  
"What news do you have for me from the Department of Mysteries, 
Rookwood?" he asked slowly.  His voice was high in pitch, almost 
the sound of a raptor's cry, and held the same unpredictable 
cruelty and predation.

Before him, kneeling in the crumbling parquet, was a tall man
with long, lank grey hair, tied back with a leather thong.  He
raised his head, revealing a pock-marked face almost placid in
its well-schooled blankness.  "My lord, there has been an
incident in the Hall of Prophecies.  Some of my fellow 
Unspeakables are calling it a disaster."  Quickly he sketched out
the mass destruction of prophecy spheres which had occurred the 
night before.

"And at the center of it all was the prophecy concerning you and
the Potter brat," Rookwood concluded.  "It is the general
consensus among the Unspeakables that something about the 
prophecy has changed so radically that it has shifted the entire
destiny of the Wizarding World."

The Dark Lord Voldemort stroked his beardless chin as he 
considered this.  "They are certain of this conclusion?"

Rookwood shook his head.  "No, my lord.  But it is the only 
explanation that makes sense to most of them."

Voldemort tilted his head as he studied the man before him.  
"And what of you, Rookwood?  What is your opinion?"

Bowing his head, Rookwood declared, "I believe it heralds your
inevitable triumph over the mudbloods and blood traitors whose
impurity has contaminated and weakened our world for too long!  
What else could it mean?"

"Perhaps," the Dark Lord mused.  "Perhaps."  He looked off into
the distance, absently caressing his wand.  "Continue with your
efforts in our plan to gain the prophecy.  With this... incident,
it has become even more vital that I learn its full contents."

Rookwood glanced back up in shock.  "But my lord, it will be
impossible to acquire it now.  Before the disaster, the prophecy
was forgotten, its own obscurity aiding our efforts.  But now it 
is the most important object in the Department -- every 
Unspeakable with even the least interest in Divination wants to 
study it, and the protections on it have been increased tenfold."

The Dark Lord did not respond immediately, and Rookwood dropped
his head, fearful of Voldemort's wrath.  As the seconds dragged 
on, he began to tremble.

"I am sure," the Dark Lord finally said, "that you will find a
way.  I will ensure that our catspaw is ready; it remains up to 
you to see that he can play his part."  He took a long, 
satisfied-sounding breath.  "You are dismissed, Rookwood."

"Yes, my lord," the Unspeakable whispered.  "Thank you, my lord."
And, still trembling, he slowly backed out of the decaying 
ballroom and the terrifying miasma of the Dark Lord's presence.

                              * * *

12 Grimmauld Place, London, England, UK, Saturday, August 7, 
1995, 1:13 AM

Harry Potter sat bolt upright in his bed, panting as though he 
had just finished running a footrace.  A chill trickled down his
back like a stream of water, and he ran his fingers through his
eternally-messy hair as he strove to control his breathing.  

After it finally settled down, he fumbled for his glasses on the
nearby nightstand, then put them on.  Only a few feet away his 
best mate, Ron Weasley, lay motionless in his own bed.  Harry 
worried for a moment that he might have wakened the other boy 
with his night terrors, until a snore like an asthmatic chain saw 
erupted from across the room.  He closed his eyes and clenched 
his fists in his covers before he took off his glasses again and
all but flung them back onto the nightstand.
 
For two months he'd been having nightmares about Cedric Diggory's 
death at the hands of Wormtail and Voldemort, reliving the 
horrific conclusion of the Tri-Wizard Tournament every night.  He 
couldn't sleep more than a couple of hours without Cedric's dead 
eyes staring at him, accusing him.  It would almost always launch
him, screaming, straight out of the dream and into the waking 
world.

Until tonight.

Tonight was different.  Tonight Cedric, Wormtail, Voldemort and 
the graveyard had all surrendered to a new dream, a dream no less 
disturbing in its own understated way.  Harry had found himself
in a long, dark corridor, with a door at the far end.  A door he 
knew he had to reach, although he had no idea why, either in the 
dream or now.  All Harry could remember was that he *had* to 
reach the door, and open it.

And the failure to do so had frightened him completely awake. As 
he settled back in to go back to sleep, Harry wondered if it had 
been the dementors that were responsible for the change in his 
dreams.  The black-cloaked, skeletal figures, with their aura of 
ice and despair, had attacked him and his cousin Dudley in Little 
Whinging five nights earlier, though, and the new nightmare had 
only begun tonight, after Headmaster Dumbledore's Order of the 
Phoenix had rescued him and brought him here.

As he pulled the covers back over himself, Harry's thoughts 
turned to the questions that had occupied him since the night of 
August second.  The dementors were the guards of the Wizarding 
prison Azkaban, which perched on a desolate island somewhere in 
the North Sea.  And not just guards, but executioners as well; 
Harry didn't think he'd ever forget that moment two years before 
when both he and Sirius were had been attacked by a horde of
dementors a hundred strong.  They would have lost their souls to 
the dementors' Kiss had they not been saved by a Patronus cast by 
Harry's own time-traveling self from three hours in the future.

He shuddered at the memory; the experience had been so horrifying
that he was grateful that he had been spared the sight of 
Minister Fudge's dementor bodyguards sucking out Barty Crouch, 
Jr.'s soul after the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, when 
Fudge couldn't bear to have a witness testify to Lord Voldemort's
return from the dead.

Harry realized he was shaking and clenching his teeth in anger
at the Minister's deliberate refusal to accept the truth.  And
not just a refusal, but deliberate action to destroy any evidence
of the truth.  An action that just underlined the questions that
had occupied him for five days.  

Everyone knew, everyone *said*, that the dementors were supposed 
to be under the control of the Ministry of Magic.

So what were two of them doing in Surrey?  In Little Whinging?
Only blocks away from the house where he spent his summers?

Had the Minister decided that Harry was another piece of evidence
that needed to be destroyed in order to preserve his precious
little illusion of peace and tranquility?  Or had Voldemort 
turned some of the guards of Azkaban to his side and sent them
after him?  And the upcoming hearing on Harry's Underaged Magic 
Use charge -- a charge brought because he had defended himself 
and Dudley from the dementors with the Patronus spell -- was that 
just going to be another opportunity to silence him?

He growled softly in frustration at the thought of all the 
complications added to his life by that one incident -- the 
hearing, the change in nightmares, the implications of 
the attack itself.  He *so* wanted to hit, or hex, or curse 
something, anything.  Finally, in the last moments before sleep 
claimed him again, he wondered if he were strange for thinking 
that it was almost a good thing that he had a new nightmare to 
replace the old one.  At least he no longer saw Cedric's eyes.

                              * * *

Antonescu Memorial Dragon Preserve, near Ciacova, Romania,
Wednesday, August 11, 1995, 3:00 PM

All-in-all I spent about three and a half weeks learning how to 
wrangle dragons before Charlie's leave came up.

And may I just say that when Yosemite Sam declared "dragons is 
*so* stupid", he was *vastly* understating the case.  These were
not the great, wise, ancient creatures that I had encountered 
in myth and legend and occasionally in real life.  These were 
nothing more than stupid beasts that resembled the great wyrms.  
And when I say "stupid", I mean that they made the average cow 
look like Einstein or Tsung.  Something *that* dim should *not* 
be 15 meters long and weigh several tonnes. 

As a result, "dragon-keeping" was a deceptively literal job 
description.  One's time was spent almost entirely keeping the 
dragons on the preserve, keeping the dragons from fighting, 
keeping the dragons from eating things that would disagree with 
them, keeping the dragons *alive* when they managed to eat 
something that disagreed with them anyway, and keeping the 
dragons' range reasonably clear of accumulated dragon dung.  (The 
less about which I remember, the better.)

It was tedious, tiring work, much more so if (like me and 
*unlike* Charlie) you weren't all that crazy about dragons to 
begin with.  It was also dangerous work -- much more so if your 
co-workers all knew you could knock out a dragon with one punch 
and thus kept nominating you whenever one of the beasts got a 
little ... rowdy.  

The upshot of this was that after three weeks, I was thoroughly
sick of dragons -- but I had also accumulated just about all the
hazard pay doled out during that time, in addition to my regular
salary.  I went to England with a *very* nice nest egg socked 
away.

I also had a much better picture of the Wizarding World.  And 
thanks to the time to practice with Charlie and the guys -- not 
to mention at a local Wizarding settlement -- I was pretty good 
at passing myself off as a native-born wizard of non-wizard 
stock; what they called a "muggle-born".  My act did have the 
unfortunate side effect of making me a target for the still-
active followers of the late and unlamented Lord "Flight-of-Emo", 
but if I couldn't defend myself against a bunch of inbred 
hedge wizards like them, I'd resign my commission and take up 
needlepoint.

Anyway.

A week before our departure, I crated up my motorcycle and had it 
shipped via a wizarding parcel delivery company to Charlie's 
family homestead somewhere in Devonshire.  I have to admit I was 
more than a little worried -- I hadn't entrusted my bike to 
anyone else for longer than a couple hours since Skuld took it 
apart and rebuilt it, lo these many years ago.  But Charlie 
assured me the parcel company was trustworthy and secure, so I 
forced myself to calm down and trust them.  And what I could 
determine about the security spells on the wooden crate they sent 
seemed to bear their reputation out -- once it was properly 
sealed and the spells activated, even *I* would have had a hard 
time getting into it without the unlocking sequence.

Even so, I made sure the motorcycle's aura shielding was up and 
at full power, and before I sealed up the crate I set its anti-
theft systems to "where shall I mail the ashes, ma'am?" 

If the combination of their protections and mine wouldn't ensure 
that my motorcycle made it to its destination, nothing short of 
me flying it there myself would.

Believe me, I had considered doing just that.  

And after actually making the trip, I wished I had.

Getting to England was faster and easier -- sort of -- than I had
expected.  It was also typical of this civilization's approach to
magic, as I would come to learn.

It's called a "portkey".  It's a magical device that takes you to
a preset location upon invoking any of several different kinds of 
triggers.

It also has to be one of the stupidest magical transportation 
methods I've ever encountered.  It's like going through 
hyperspace naked while handcuffed to a tilt-a-whirl.

I knew they had some kind of teleportation -- I'd seen more than
enough wizards popping onto and off of the dragon reservation in
my time there.  So why the hell hadn't they taken the next 
logical step and developed a *gateway* teleportation spell?
Your guess is as good as mine.

Anyway, after a twenty-minute "flight" from darkest Romania, I 
found myself sprawled on a patch of bare dirt in the late-
afternoon sun, with Charlie standing next to me, laughing his 
fool head off.  I rolled over onto my back, then knocked him off 
his feet with a quick leg-sweep  As he went sprawling himself, I 
hopped back upright with a quick kippup and took a good look 
around me.

The bare patch was actually part of a dirt road running through a 
good-sized meadow.  On three sides of us, the meadow was bounded
by lush old-growth forest; the road ran toward the forest in one
direction, and in the other vanished over a low hill that blocked
my view of anything beyond it.  The sun was shining to beat the
band in a brilliantly clear, bold blue sky.  It was hot, almost
uncomfortably so.

Nodding to myself, I looked back down at Charlie, who had gotten
to his hands and knees during my glance around.  "That," I said,
"had to be the single worst magical transport I've ever used, and
I've used some doozies."  

He laughed and looked up at me.  "Heh.  Should have guessed you'd
never used a portkey before."  He held out his hand.  "Here now,
give us a hand up."

I gave him a dubious look.  "If you pull me back down into the 
dirt when I do, Charlie, I will *so* kick your ass."

He laughed again.  "Would I do that?"

"In a heartbeat," I said.  "I haven't forgotten who dunked me in
the camp cistern."

"I *told* you, that wasn't me!  It was Tannenbaum!"  Rather than
wait for me to offer a hand, Charlie climbed to his feet.

"Tannenbaum was visiting *Vrajitor lui alee* in Bucharest that 
day, and you know it."  As he straightened up to his full height, 
I began slapping the dust and dirt off his clothes.  Maybe a bit 
harder than I needed to, but he deserved it.  "If you'd decided 
to blame someone who was actually *in* the camp, I *might* have 
believed you."

"I swear on my mother's grave..."

"Charlie, two things.  First, your mother's still alive, which is
one of the points of this visit.  Second, you would swear on your 
mother's grave that you were a 140-centimeter Swedish girl with 
three legs if it would further one of your gags."

A thoughtful look crossed his freckled face.  "Yeah, I suppose I
might, at that."

I whapped him on the back of the head, but not hard enough to 
cause cranial trauma.  "C'mon, Laughing Boy.  Lead me to this
Burrow of yours before I decide to bury you out here up to the 
waist -- head down."

As it turned out, the Burrow was on the other side of that low
hill -- which was only low on our side:  when we crested the top,
I saw that it sloped gently down into a broad, low dell, in the
center of which was what I could only assume was a house.

It was either that, or someone had spent his life creating a 
three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle out of building supplies using 
an Escher collection as a guide.

It was, as best as I could determine, about six stories tall, or 
trying to be -- but rooms and wings hung off the thing with an 
arbitrary whimsicality that made it difficult to determine what 
floor they were supposed to be on.  The lowest level looked like 
it might once have been a classic British cottage or farmhouse, 
but *so* many random architectural encrustations had been applied 
to it that it was hard to be sure.  At least one part seemed to 
be *upside-down* and reachable only by an exterior door and a 
crawlway past a working chimney.  It was much larger in the 
middle -- where I figured the third and fourth floors were likely 
to be -- than at either end, but had no supports of any kind.  
Despite this, it defied all logic by appearing to be rock-solid. 
A sign was stuck in the ground near the one visible door, but at 
that distance I couldn't read it. 

Nearby was a much more reasonable-looking structure that seemed 
to be half garage and half chicken coop, judging from the big 
doors on one end and the small openings on the other through 
which chickens occasionally passed.  More chickens wandered the 
overgrown yard between the two buildings, deftly avoiding a large 
rusting cauldron and several shapeless black blobs that I 
couldn't readily identify.  

Beyond the house and garage-coop appeared to be some kind of 
orchard.

"And he built a crooked house..." I muttered to myself as I 
stopped short at the sight of the place.

"Well, there it is, the Burrow," Charlie said as he came up 
alongside me.  "The Weasley ancestral home, the family's been 
living there for... Merlin, I don't know *how* many generations."  
He slapped me on the back.  "What do you think?

"Charlie," I said softly, "I now understand you *far* better than
I did five minutes ago."  I shook my head and snorted a brief
laugh.  "Whoever built this house clearly was in a blood feud 
with both physics and architecture.  Either that or clinically
insane."

"Actually, my da did a lot of the most recent work on it, like
the room at the top."  He pointed at the upside-down section.

I opened my mouth, then shut it again, then opened it again to
say, "I *definitely* want to meet this man."

"Well, then," Charlie replied, starting down the road toward the
front gate, "best be moving on.  I haven't had one of me mum's
dinners in far too long."  Calling back over his shoulder he 
added, "Besides, you want insane, you need to visit our neighbors 
the Lovegoods."

                              * * *

The sign next to the door was a little lopsided, and read "The 
Burrow", naturally enough; it was painted with more care than 
skill, which gave it an endearingly homey look.  This contrasted 
with the shapeless blobs, which were orphaned rubber boots 
apparently left to rot in the overgrowth.

For a moment I had the uncharitable thought that all the yard
needed was a car up on cinder blocks to look like the dwelling of
American white trash.

Charlie didn't slow down as we passed the sign -- he just burst
through the door bellowing, "Oi!  I'm home!"  I followed him 
into a kitchen that looked like it came out a historical
recreation -- ancient scarred slab table, oil lamps, wood-fed
Rayburn stove (cold, its top bare of pots), an antique mechanical
clock, a similarly antique radio, and bundles of herbs and root
vegetables hanging from the ceiling beams.

And absolutely no one present.

A moment's observation told me no one *had* been around for at
least a couple days.  There were no lingering cooking odors in 
the room, and every dish was clean and away.  The sink -- a 
fairly primitive wooden one with a hand-pump next to it -- was 
dry as a bone and empty.  Under it was what looked to be a trash 
bucket, as clean as the day it was bought.  

There was a boot tray by the door, but it was devoid of footwear.

Charlie was moving deeper into the house, shouting things like, 
"Hey, where is everyone?" and "All right, great prank, you can 
all come out now!" while I switched to mage sight and gave the 
kitchen another once-over, this time counting the items that had 
magical fields -- and then, after a while, giving that up and 
counting the items *without* magical fields instead.  

On my third inspection of the table itself, I realized that 
somehow I had until that point failed to notice that there was a 
folded piece of paper there with a single word written on it.

I walked around the table to get within arm's reach and realized
that it wasn't paper, it was parchment -- pretty ritzy medium for
what appeared to be a simple note -- and the single word was 
"Charlie".  Without thinking, I reached for it.

It reared up like a snake, grew a mouth filled with sharp paper
teeth, and snapped at my fingers.

Ooooooookay then.

"Hey, Charlie," I yelled toward the door he'd gone through as I
drew my hand back.  "There's a carnivorous letter here for you."

The kitchen door burst open as Charlie stiff-armed his way
through it.  "No one's home," he muttered in confusion before
looking at me.  "What'd you say?"

I pointed at the parchment, which was still in defensive 
configuration.  "I believe the saber-toothed stationery there is
for you."

He glanced at the animated parchment then favored me with a 
lopsided smile.  "Tried to pick it up, huh?"

I shrugged.  "What can I say?  Back home we don't routinely
enchant our letters to bite people."

Charlie snorted and reached for the fanged notepaper.  The moment
his fingers touched it, it flopped back down into an ordinary-
looking sheet of parchment -- but only for a moment.  Then it 
spun in his hand, lifted into the air, and folded itself like an 
autonomous origami into the shape of a human, and vaguely female, 
mouth -- which pointed itself at him and began to speak.

"I'm so sorry we're not home, Charlie dear, but something's come 
up."  The voice was female to match the paper mouth -- pretty 
obviously that of Charlie's mother -- and I got the impression of 
a plump, bustling woman firmly in middle age but nowhere near 
"old".  "We're all in London -- I'm sorry, but I can't tell you
where.  Talk to Headmaster Dumbledore, he'll tell you how to find 
us.  Don't dawdle, come join us as quickly as you can."  The 
floating paper lips suddenly turned to face me.  "And Douglas, 
I'm so sorry we weren't there to welcome you to the Burrow.  
We'll just have to do something special when you two finally 
catch up to us.  Charlie's told us *so* much -- we're all looking 
forward to meeting you.  Oh, and we brought the crate you sent 
along with us, so don't worry about it."

Then the parchment mouth exploded into a shower of confetti.

I looked at the pile of shredded paper, then at Charlie.  "Must
make it hard to keep file copies, eh?"  Charlie didn't respond; 
he was rubbing his chin and looking thoughtful -- something he 
rarely did unless matters were *very* serious.  "Charlie?"

"Mm?"  He started, then looked up at me.  "Sorry, just thinking.
This might be more serious than it seems.  Mum or Da would have 
normally sent an owl to let me know of any changes in plans.  
That they didn't... something odd's going on."

I nodded.  "The 'addressee-only' enchantment plus the refusal to
say exactly where they were -- they're in hiding.  And your
Headmaster Dumbledore is their trusted contact."

Charlie frowned.  "But why would they have gone into hiding?"  He
shook his head.  "This makes no sense."  Abruptly, he turned and
strode into the living room.  

Shrugging, I followed him.

The living room was maybe a bit closer to the late twentieth 
century than the kitchen.  It was a bit shabby, but not a 
decaying shabby -- more a "seven kids were raised here on a tight
budget" shabby.  Worn and threadbare at the edges, but clean, 
neat, comfortable and inviting.  My bubbe's house had been like 
that -- a very distinct contrast to our home in Beverly Hills, 
which was as much a showpiece for my parents' wealth and status 
as a place to live.  I always got the feeling that my mother was 
embarrassed by her mother's home, but I loved it.  It was so... 
lived-in and real, unlike our house.

The Weasleys' home -- despite its architectural peculiarities
and the way it seemed to spend part of its time in the Victorian
era -- felt like my grandmother's home.

I liked it.

Anyway, I found Charlie standing in front of a grandfather clock,
studying the dial.  "What's so interesting about the time?" I
asked as I walked up to him.

"Not looking at the time," he said, stepping aside and gesturing
at the dial.  It took me a moment to register that while it 
*looked* like a clock, it wasn't one.  For one thing, it had nine
hands.  And it had no numbers -- instead, the circumference of 
the dial was marked with words like "Home", "School", "Work",
"Traveling," and "Mortal Peril".  (I blinked and re-read that 
just to be sure.  Yup, "Mortal Peril".  Ooooookay.)

One hand -- which I realized upon closer examination was marked 
"Charlie" -- pointed at "Home".  All the other hands (the top one 
of which read "Ginny") pointed at "Unknown".

"Well, that isn't good," I said.

"Actually, no, it's probably good," Charlie said.  "The most
likely reason they're 'unknown' is if they're behind some 
serious wards.  The clock's enchantment is pretty sophisticated
but it's not all-powerful -- strong enough defenses will block 
it."

"If you say so," I replied dubiously as I dropped into the 
aging, patched couch that was -- along with another antique-
looking radio -- one of the centerpieces of the room.  "So what 
next, o fearless reptile wrangler?"

Charlie leaned on the armchair next to the clock and chewed his
lip for a minute.  "Well, we were going to go see the headmaster 
tomorrow anyway.  We can ask him then."

"Right."  I looked around and considered our situation.  Despite
the relocation of Charlie's family, I doubted we were in any kind 
of danger.  It was clear to me that the evacuation of the Burrow
had been calm and orderly -- more like a family leaving on a 
vacation than fleeing their home in the face of an immediate 
threat.  This was supported by the pristine state of house -- if 
an attack had been imminent when the family had left some days
earlier, it would have taken place by now.  But the house showed 
none of the damage or vandalism I would have expected from the
frustrated members of a thwarted killing spree.  The only 
conclusion to draw was that the Weasleys had relocated "just in
case", or perhaps because they were needed, en masse, elsewhere.

And even if we *had* arrived between an evacuation and an 
attack, I was more than confident I could handle a squad or two
of the rather weak mages they had in this timeline.  

I quirked an eyebrow at Charlie.  "We crash here overnight, 
then?"

"Yeah.  I'll sleep in my old room, you should probably use Ron or
Bill's."  He grinned at me.  "Unless you want to take your 
chances with Fred and George's room."

Charlie had told me a bit more about those two over the past 
weeks.  "Ah, no thank you."

He laughed.

                              * * *

The Burrow, Thursday, August 12, 1995, 7:30 AM

We overslept a little the next morning, thanks to portkey-induced 
jet lag.  Oh, they didn't have a proper name for it in the 
Wizarding World, but they knew of it, and Charlie complained that 
we should have allowed for it.  But frankly, we weren't running
all that late.

I got up first and whipped up a breakfast for us from ingredients 
left behind in the kitchen.  There was a pantry and an icebox, 
both with what looked to be limited stasis enchantments on them, 
and both still fully stocked -- apparently the evacuation of the 
Burrow, while orderly, had been a relatively sudden thing.  In 
the icebox I found eggs, milk, cheese and bacon; in the pantry I 
found coffee, bread, and rolls.  By the time Charlie had stumbled 
to the table I'd brewed a pot of coffee and was in the process of 
building some egg, bacon and cheese sandwiches.

(Oh yeah, there was tea, too.  This *was* an English home, after
all.  Given my druthers I'd've had tea steeping instead, but both
of us needed the caffeine.)

After breakfast, washing up and getting dressed (me in borrowed 
robes over jeans and a T-shirt, God's Toothpick stuck in the 
pocket-like depths of one sleeve), we cleaned up after ourselves 
in the kitchen.  For me, it was only polite.  For Charlie, it was 
a matter of keeping his mother from nailing him to the shed wall 
when she got back, or so he claimed.  Between a few household
wand spells, and a couple of my less-frequently used songs, we
quickly had the house returned to the state in which we'd found 
it.

That morning we employed the second of the Wizarding World's most 
commonly-used transportation methods -- teleportation via 
fireplace, or as they called it, the Floo.  (Yes, with two "O"s
instead of the usual "ue" on the end.) 

The way Charlie had explained it, many (if not most) fireplaces 
in Wizarding Britain were connected to a network that sounded 
suspiciously like a twisted version of the telephone system.  You
could connect any two fireplaces through the network and then 
hold a conversation between them -- by sticking your head in the 
gods-be-damned fire!  (Oh, it was safe, Charlie assured me -- the 
magic supposedly made sure of it.  He had never ever heard of 
anyone being burnt using the Floo.  Or so he claimed.)  Above and 
beyond that, you could actually step *through* the connection and 
physically move from one fireplace to the other.

And I thought *portkeys* were stupid.

The thing that turned a regular fire into a Floo connection was a
powder that the Weasleys kept in a crock on the mantel.  When
Charlie took it down and showed it to me, I had a sudden Bugs 
Bunny flashback and wondered if I could turn him into a plowhorse 
by spritzing him with a pinch of it.  I resisted the urge to make 
the experiment, though, and paid close attention when he 
explained the voice-triggered aspect of the process.

(Gods save anyone who mumbled while flooing -- wrong numbers were
a bit more serious when the person on the other end could drag
you through and thrash you for disturbing him.)

So along about 8:30 AM on Thursday the 12th, we stepped through
the kitchen fireplace, our destination being a place called the 
Three Broomsticks.

Or at least we tried.  Charlie let me go first so he could watch
and make sure I did it correctly.  (A few years earlier a friend 
of his youngest brother had bungled this step on his first Floo 
trip and ended up somewhere unsavory.)  I took a pinch of the 
floo powder and threw it into the fire.  When it blazed up green, 
I loudly and clearly announced my destination:  "The Three 
Broomsticks!"  Then I stepped into the flames.

Which promptly erupted in a burst of green fire followed by black 
smoke, then went out. 

Completely -- right down to the glowing embers in the ashes under
the logs, which had winked out.  Cold as ice.

Charlie blinked as he cleared the air with a spell.  "I've never 
seen anything like that before.  Let me try."  He relit the fire 
with his wand, thew in a pinch of powder, yelled out "The Three 
Broomsticks!", stepped in and vanished.   The flames promptly 
changed from green back to their usual color.

Seeing that, I began to get an unpleasant suspicion as to the
cause of my trouble.

Several seconds later, they turned green again and Charlie 
stepped back out of the fireplace.  "Huh.  Works fine for me."

I sighed.  "In that case, I think I know what it is."  

Charlie raised an eyebrow.  "Yeah?  What is it, then?"

I sighed again.  "Me."  I stood up from where I'd perched myself 
on an ottoman, stepped to the mantel, and took another pinch of 
floo powder from the crock.  I tossed it into the fire, calling 
out the name of our destination, and again the flames shot up 
green.  Instead of stepping in, though, I simply stretched out my 
hand, forefinger extended, to touch them.

As soon as my fingertip got about ten or fifteen centimeters from
the fire, it exploded again in a gout of green and black, then 
went out.  I sighed.  "Light it again."

Charlie did so with a wave of his wand.  I tossed in yet another
pinch of powder, shouted "The Three Broomsticks!" and reached for 
the flames once more.  Once more I got a belch of flooflame, 
followed by a cloud of black smoke, followed by a cold fireplace 
and Charlie frantically vanishing soot from his mother's 
slipcovers.

I nodded, more to myself than to Charlie.  "Yup, it's me.  Or 
rather, my field."

I stepped back and let Charlie relight the fireplace a third 
time.  "You're not going to get soot all over the living room
again, are you?" he asked as he put his wand back in his belt.

I shook my head, then took another pinch of powder out of the 
crock and stood in front of the fireplace.  "Give me a minute or 
two."

"Nudging" my field is not something I do lightly.  It took a long
time to "train" it to leave my clothing and food and a few other 
essentials alone, and it still isn't entirely happy about it.  
Add something new to that list, however temporarily, and you can 
be sure unpleasant weird shit is going to be happening in my 
vicinity for a while afterward.

I hadn't been expecting it to short out a magical transportation
system, though.  Especially not one that I *needed*.  Like many
wizards, Charlie could teleport -- the Wizarding term was,
bizarrely, "apparition" -- but he couldn't carry me along with 
him.  So the Floo was a necessity.  I *had* to make this work.

I closed my eyes and took a moment to center and ground myself.  
Then I visualized the green flame of the Floo, and the mental 
image I had of the network (accurate or not).  I visualized 
myself stepping into the green flames, entering the system, and 
arriving at my destination.  I pictured it as something simple, 
something routine, like getting on a subway or driving a car.  
Then, with all my force of will, I *pushed* that image as hard as 
I could.

I snapped open my eyes, and threw the powder in the fire, which
obediently blazed up as green as leaves in springtime.  Shouting
"The Three Broomsticks" -- and still *pushing* with all my
not-inconsiderable willpower -- I stepped into the flames.

And into the Floo network.

>From Charlie's description I expected something on the order of
a standard teleport gate -- portal opens, you step through, 
you're at your destination.  Sorry, no.  Apparently, the Floo
system was designed by a wizard enamored of the spinning effect 
of portkeys, but who thought it needed to be spiced up with 
audiovisual aids.  I found myself tumbling like a towel in a 
dryer, passing by fireplace after fireplace and getting momentary 
glimpses of life beyond the flames in most of them.  *Somebody 
could use this to spy on people,* I thought between tumbles, *if 
they could get around all the tossing and spinning...*

A few moments later I was spat out of a fireplace into a dimly-
lit room.  And when I say "spat", I mean sent flying completely
across the room and into a couple of tables, accompanied by a 
quite creditable "Ptui!" sound.

I blew through the tables and fetched up against a wall -- at
which point my field decided to get even with me.  There was a
"poof" and suddenly I was surrounded by a cloud of two-toned dust 
as the plaster-and-lath behind me and the floor boards under me 
spontaneously broke down, leaving me half-embedded in a hole in 
both the floor and wall.  Above my head a shelf of crockery 
rattled threateningly, then gave up the ghost -- one of its 
supporting brackets simply melted away, sending the shelf 
swinging and the plates and mugs it had supported falling around 
me.  

None of them struck me, although they came close.  Naturally, as 
they hit the floor, they played out the classic "Shave-and-a-
haircut, two bits!" rhythm.

The entire room, which had gone silent a moment after the Floo
had fired me at the wall, held its collective breath.  When 
nothing else seemed to happen after several seconds, the murmur
of conversation restarted and everyone seemed to ignore me.  I
shook my head to clear it, and found Charlie standing over me, a
hand out.  "And what happened to you?"

I took it and let him haul me to my feet.  "Don't ask."  As I
brushed myself off, the barmaid -- who bore a striking 
resemblance to Julie Christie, and whose pile of ash-blonde curls 
reminded me a little of Marller -- sauntered out from behind the
bar.  She looked me up and down, then studied my landing zone.
She waved her wand and incanted "Reparo!", and the entire site
reassembled itself.  She shook her head and gave me another look.
"The only other person I've seen have that bad an exit from the
Floo is Harry Potter, and yours was worse than his by far," she
chuckled.  "Are you hurt?"

"Only my dignity, which was practically non-existent to begin
with," I said.

"Thanks, Rosmerta," Charlie said.  "We'd stay but we're off to
see Dumbledore."

"You're welcome, Charlie.  As long as you remember to come back
and spend a little time in the bar," she replied with a saucy, 
flirtatious smile.  Then she turned and sauntered back to the 
bar, her robes swishing just a bit more than necessary from the 
waist down.

Charlie grinned and waggled his eyebrows at me, then led me out
of the tavern.

I realized as we stepped out into the morning sunlight that we 
must have traveled *far* to the north -- the temperature couldn't 
have been more than 10 or 15 degrees.  Compared to Devonshire's 
heat, it was positively frosty.

"Say, Charlie," I asked as a thought suddenly struck me.

"Yeah?"

"What's going to happen to that fire we left burning in the 
Burrow?"

                              * * *

As it so happened, The Three Broomsticks was a pub and tavern
in a village called Hogsmeade, which was somewhere in Scotland.
(The *far* north of Scotland, if the temperature and the angle of
the sun were any indication.)  According to Charlie, it was the 
only all-wizarding village in the entire British Isles, mainly 
because it was the "town" half of a "town and gown" arrangement 
with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

(And may I just note, if this tiny burg were the only all-wizard
settlement in the UK, how did wizards manage to be so freaking 
*ignorant* of the non-magical world?  They *had* to go among the
mundanes part of the time.  Or maybe not -- the various magical 
transportation methods pretty much obviated the need to travel
through non-magical areas, and if they kept to themselves, they
could probably enforce their ignorance rather efficiently.  But 
surely there would be some exceptions.  And why didn't the
continuous influx of wizards born of non-wizards carry along its
own payload of knowledge and familiarity?  I still didn't quite
get how or why the wizarding world was so backwards.)

Anyway, Hogwarts, as it turned out, had no link to the Floo 
network of its own save for a fireplace in each of the common 
rooms of the four dorms (which could only accept inbound "talk" 
connections), plus one in the headmaster's office, which was not 
open to casual arrivals.  This arrangement was intended, Charlie 
claimed, to keep the students on the grounds of the school, to 
keep politicians and reporters *off* the grounds of the school, 
and to prevent endless Floo calls by homesick first-years to 
their parents.

It also had the effect of turning what should have been a quick
and convenient arrival into a long walk.  Only the cool, spring-
like temperature (by my standards) made the twenty-five minutes 
of trudging along yet another dirt road endurable.  Said road led
us up and around a long, tall hill and brought us to the front 
gates -- and my first view of the school.  I stopped cold to take 
it all in.

It was a castle.  Not a vertical Disney fairy-talesque confection 
of white stone and gingerbread, but a broad, walled fortress 
built of dark local granite.  It had soaring towers that did add 
a bit of a fairy-tale feel, but they looked like an architectural 
afterthought, added to the fortress later in its life and 
scattered about the grounds without regard for defensive (or 
offensive) positioning.  In the middle of all this squatted a 
large central keep, a blocky structure which had had even more 
towers added to it at some point long after its construction.

Sitting as it did on the edge of the loch which formed a backdrop 
for the school, Hogwarts possessed a stark but strangely 
enchanting beauty; at night, lit up from within, it must look 
almost, well, magical.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Charlie asked at my elbow.

"It is at that," I replied. 

"When you get a job here, you can admire it all you want."  He
grabbed hold of my arm and started dragging me onward.  I shook
myself free and drew up alongside him.

"I appreciate your confidence," I muttered.

A few minutes later we walked into a cloister-like courtyard, at
the back of which were the gates to the castle proper.  Tall,
iron-bound oak, they had to weigh hundreds of kilos, but they 
were so well-balanced that Charlie could open them unaided -- and 
did.  "Hullo!" he called out as we stepped through, and into a 
large, broad foyer in a distinctly medieval style.  Apparently 
someone had discarded all thoughts of defensibility and roofed 
over the castle bailey, or at least parts of it.  Probably the 
school's founders, I realized.

"Charles Weasley!"  The voice was female, with a touch of age to
it, flavored with just a touch of a Scots burr.  "This is quite a
surprise."  The speaker appeared from between two columns and 
strode toward us; she was a tall, stern-looking woman with black
hair in a bun, her face lined with the beginnings of age.  A set
of square-framed glasses sat on her nose.  One look at her and I
could see that she was the kind of woman who must have been a
heartbreaking beauty in her youth, and even now could turn heads, 
as much from her presence and force of personality as from the 
beauty which remained to her.  She was dressed in emerald robes, 
and to my surprise, her pointed hat had a band in a clan tartan.

"Professor McGonagall!" Charlie all but shouted as he rushed up 
to her.  I followed at a slightly more sedate pace, smiling at
the sight of the reunion.  Charlie jogged up to her, then sort of
stalled out.  He looked like he couldn't decide whether he wanted
to hug her or shake her hand.

*She* looked amused at his indecision, and decided to relieve him
of it, by gently wrapping her arms around his shoulders and and
touching her cheek to his.  "How're ye, Charlie?" she said 
softly, her burr growing somewhat more pronounced, as he finally
brought his arms up around her for just a moment.  As soon as she
released his shoulders he dropped them again, and they stepped
back from one another.

To my vast amusement, Charlie was blushing slightly.  "I'm doing
well, Professor.  I'm head of my own team at the preserve these
days."

"Is that so?" she said, a pleased smile appearing on her lips.
"Well, good for ye, Charlie.  You'll be runnin' the place in a
few years, mark my words."  Then she turned her attention to me,
the burr dropping almost entirely out of her voice.  "And who 
might your friend be?"

"Ah, right!"  Charlie turned back a little and gestured at me.
"Professor, I'd like you to meet Douglas Sangnoir, one of the
most unusual wizards I've ever had the pleasure to know.  Doug, 
Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy
Headmistress of Hogwarts."

I stepped forward and held out my hand.  "A pleasure, Professor."

She took it and we shook.  "Likewise."

"Doug and I are here to talk to the Headmaster, Professor."  He
leaned in and stage-whispered conspiratorially, "I think I've 
found you a new Defense professor."

Professor McGonagall turned to him, her eyes wide with surprise.
"You have?  Oh, Albus will be glad to hear of it.  We've gotten
word that the Minister is planning to pass a law that lets him
appoint a defense professor if Albus doesn't have a candidate by 
the end of the month.  And we've had no luck at all this summer 
finding a single witch nor wizard willing to take the job."  Her 
surprise vanished, wiped away from her face by a sudden 
realization.  "Oh, but you've missed him entirely.  He's in 
London today, at the Ministry, for Mr. Potter's hearing."

Charlie and I traded glances.  He seemed as clueless as I about
Mr. Potter and his hearing.  "London, then?" I asked him.

"Needs must as the devil drives," he agreed, then turned back to
McGonagall.  "Professor," he asked with the same smile he'd used 
to charm a pair of twin Romanian witches out of their robes the
previous weekend, "do you think we might use the Headmaster's
Floo?"

The Professor gave him a look that said she knew exactly what he 
was up to, but didn't mind.  "You're a scamp, Charlie Weasley, 
and you have been since you were a firstie.  But you're a good 
man, and this is important enough.  Albus shouldn't object, but 
if he does I'll give him a piece of my mind."

"Thank you, Professor," Charlie and I said almost at the same
time.

The walk up to the Headmaster's office was a bit longer than I
had expected and had more interesting features than I could 
really take note of at the time.  I did notice animated 
paintings, moving staircases, and a gargoyle statue (or perhaps
a genuine gargoyle) that acted as the guard to a stone escalator
which led to the office in question.

This time I managed to make it into the Floo network on my first 
try.

                              * * *

The British Ministry of Magic, London, England, UK, Thursday, 
August 12, 1995, 8:42 AM

Nothing exploded, disintegrated, vaporized or broke when I came
out of the giant economy-sized fireplace -- one of what looked
like dozens -- at the British Ministry of Magic.  Mainly because 
there wasn't much there for my field to affect.  I also managed 
to exit on my feet instead of being fired out of the flames like 
a cannonball, which helped cut down on the breakage.

Charlie stepped out a moment later, and was very obviously 
disappointed that I hadn't provided a floor show as I had in the
Three Broomsticks.  He said as much, and I replied with a short,
pithy response that got me more than a few scandalized looks from
the few government functionaries passing by us on their way into
or out of the Floo network.

I glanced around.  We were in a largish room with a dark wood
floor, about a third as wide as it was long, with nothing but 
fireplaces lining the long walls -- huge fireplaces, each large 
enough for a man to stand upright in it, their gilded surrounds 
and mantels shining in the firelight.  They were all lit, and 
every minute or so the flames of one would turn green, and a 
witch or wizard would step in or out of it.

The entire feeling was something like a subway platform designed
by an interior decorator specializing in Victorian living rooms.

The fireplaces on the right side of the room seemed to be 
reserved for outbound traffic, while the hearths on the opposite 
wall -- through one of which I had arrived -- was inbound traffic 
only.  The near end of the room was a blank wall, but the far end 
was an archway opening on  a much larger chamber.  Clearly 
visible through it was a fancy gold fountain of some sort.  
Exercising my deductive faculties, I concluded that it had to be 
the entrance to the Ministry proper.  I turned back to Charlie.  
"So.  What do we do now?"

Charlie shrugged.  "I figured we'd hang in the atrium and wait 
for the Headmaster to appear.  If he's in a hearing, that's going
to be official business and they wouldn't let us in."  

"So it'd be better to wait where we know he has to come out and
flag him down there."  I nodded.  "Makes sense.  Let's do this,
then."

At the end of the room, as I expected, was the entrance to the 
Ministry of Magic.  I stopped and took in the sight for a moment.

It seemed very typical of Wizarding society as a whole -- gaudy, 
aggressively antique, and outrageously arrogant.  The overall 
feel was a kind of reluctant Victoriana -- as though the entire 
structure had been forced to be "ultramodern" some time at the 
end of the 18th century and still hadn't quite stopped being 
quietly resentful about it.  The atrium was easily a dozen 
stories in height, ringed with mezzanines and windows which 
presumably led to cube farms or whatever the Wizarding equivalent 
was.  The dark wood of the Floo room floor continued here; it was 
probably safe to say that the Floo room was an extension of the 
Atrium.  The ceiling was a deep, shimmery blue hue, over which 
golden runes and symbols -- many of which I recognized -- drifted 
in an almost Brownian motion.

The golden fountain I'd spotted turned out to be an incredibly 
tacky gold statue doubling as a fountain, complete with coins in
the water.  It depicted several nonhumans, among them a centaur, 
looking up with a sickening, obsequious worshipfulness to an 
overly-idealized human witch and wizard, all of them much larger
than life.  I couldn't identify the other creatures in the 
sculpture, but they all bore the same simpering "oh please tell 
us how to live, you are so much more intelligent, powerful and 
*right* than we are" expressions on their faces.

*Well,* I mused to myself.  *Nineteenth-century British racism is 
apparently alive and well and living in a fantasy world.*

*Not that it ever wasn't, but still.*

Hanging directly over this oversized piece of kitsch was a huge 
banner several stories tall, bearing an animated photo of the 
current Minister of Magic and vaguely celebrating his alleged
achievements.  He was a pudgy, disreputable-looking career 
politician whose name (as I'd learned some weeks earlier) was, 
improbably enough, Cornelius Fudge.  If I were reading between 
the lines properly (and correlating it with what I'd learned from 
Charlie and the other British dragon-keepers), his entire 
platform was based around being a cross between Professor 
Pangloss and King Log -- in short, it was impossible that 
Wizarding Britain could ever be in any but the best possible 
state, so there was no need to do *anything* to improve it or 
prepare for the worst.

I'm sure he presented a very reassuring figure to the average 
witch or wizard, but the moment something bad actually *did* 
happen, he'd be out on his ear.  I'd lay good money on it.  I 
laughed, then dismissed the thought.  Wizarding politics was
ridiculous, to be sure, but it was far away from me and would
stay that way if I had anything to say about it.

Charlie and I made our way around that godawful tacky fountain
and found ourselves a couple of seats on a bench conveniently
positioned to let us watch everyone coming and going.  At the
far end of the atrium, walled off by a line of golden gates and
some kind of security desk, was a bank of elevators which seemed 
to go both up and down from this level.  I wondered briefly what 
might be under our feet.

Charlie nudged me and pointed at them.  "The headmaster will have 
to come up one of those lifts in order to get to an exit, since 
you can't apparate into or out of here."

"Right," I said, and settled in for a long sit.

While waiting I took the time to study and memorize the Ministry
atrium in case I ever had the need to teleport back here.  You
never know, right?  Which reminded me, I needed at some point to 
check out Mundane London as well.  I doubted it was very much 
different from London back home, but it would be nice to confirm, 
just in case I had to teleport somewhere there, too.

When I was done fixing a detailed image of the Ministry in my 
memory, I then began studying the people around me.  We had just
missed the rush hour, so the traffic in and out was light, but 
there were enough passers-by to get a good idea of what the 
Ministry, at least, thought were proper working clothes.  

The vast majority of the people going past us wore robes -- like 
college academic robes, only heavier; made for daily use, not 
special occasions.  The shoes worn with the robes seemed to be 
all over the place -- mostly low, soft leather boot-like things, 
but I know I saw more than a few wingtips and pumps, and I 
*swear* I spotted a pair of Converse All-Stars under the hem of a 
particularly ornate robe.  Red ones.

Beyond shoes, I wasn't sure what else was worn under the robes.  
I saw lots of bare legs, but also trousers and leggings of 
various types, on both sexes.  

I decided to leave it at that.

The ones who weren't in robes ran the gamut from Renaissance to
almost the middle of the twentieth century.  I saw a woman in an 
elaborate gown that Lucrezia Borgia would have killed for (and 
may have), and a fellow who wouldn't have looked out of place in 
a jazz club during World War II.  And the opposite as well -- I 
spotted a gaggle of what seemed to be secretaries, all done up in 
classic 40s style right down to identical harlequin glasses, and 
there was one fellow who looked like he'd stepped right out of a 
production of *Romeo and Juliet* except he had no sword.  

It was as fascinating as it was inconsistent, and I wondered who, 
if anyone, determined what was acceptable.  I mean, why the 
apparent cut-off in the 1940s?  Was that the latest period that 
wizards felt comfortable with?  I knew from talking to the other
keepers in Romania that many wizards' concept of non-Wizarding 
life seemed to be anywhere upwards of two hundred years out of 
date, and a couple seemed to be absolutely confident that 
"Muggles" all still lived in wattle-and-daub shacks with straw 
thatching for roofs, grubbed in the dirt for their food, shat 
into holes in the ground, and never traveled farther than a few 
miles from their places of birth, and then only by walking or 
riding horses.

One had actually said as much to me while a passenger jet passed 
by overhead, leaving an arrow-straight contrail behind it!

Why did Wizarding society as a whole seem single-mindedly 
insistent that normals were all gormless primitives?  And did it 
have anything to do with the range of Wizarding fashion cutting 
off abruptly at the middle 1940s?

I spent the rest of the time we were waiting for Headmaster 
Dumbledore pondering that question, and came up with several 
hypotheses -- all of which stemmed from the simple fact that 
World War II ended with a nuclear punctuation mark.

I had gotten that far in my ruminations when Charlie elbowed me
and hissed, "There he is!"

I scanned the small crowd in front of the elevator bank, but no
one leapt out at me as obvious.  Charlie had jumped to his feet,
though, and began striding toward the gates, so I pushed off and
followed him.

When we got closer, it became obvious which one was Dumbledore -- 
the guy who looked like the wizard on the cover of every 
paperback swords-and-sorcery novel published since the 1970s:  
obviously elderly, verging on ancient, with long silver hair and 
beard, the latter gathered together near his waist with some kind 
of little chain-and-pendant dojiggy.  He wore robes, like most of 
the other magicals who had passed through the atrium, only his 
were obviously finer -- they were an expensive-looking velvet, 
trimmed in satin, both fabrics deep, rich midnight blue in color, 
contrasting starkly with all the gilt and varnished wood around 
him.

He also wore little "half-moon" style pince-nez glasses perched 
on the end of his nose -- a nose which someone had once broken
quite thoroughly and with great professionalism, leaving it 
distinctly crooked in the middle.  He had an abstracted, 
grandfatherly air, at least until Charlie caught his attention, 
but even without engaging my mage sight I could feel the power 
rolling off him -- far more than most of the magicals I had met 
so far in this world, enough in fact to flag him as a serious 
practitioner even by my standards.

Yes, this was a Wizard with a capital "W".

"Charles!" he declared, clasping Charlie's hand in one of his and 
laying the other on his shoulder.  "I must admit I am surprised 
to see you here -- I had thought you would be in Romania still."

"I would have been, Professor," Charlie replied with a broad 
grin.  "But I had a few free days coming to me, and decided to 
spend them with my family."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, immediately grasping the unspoken 
request.  "And who is your friend?" he asked with a tilt of his
head.

If anything, Charlie's grin got even wider.  "Headmaster," he 
said, "I'd like you to meet Douglas Sangnoir.  I owled you about 
him last week?" he added in a querulous tone.

Dumbledore nodded with an almost ponderous slowness.  "Ah, yes, 
the traveler looking for help in returning home -- and a job."  
He held out his hand.  "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, 
at your service.  I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. 
Sangnoir."

I took it and shook.  "The pleasure is all mine, sir.  I don't 
know what Charlie's told you about me," I shot a mock-irritated
glance at him, "since he forgot to inform me that he was writing
to you, but I assure you all the bad parts are utterly false, and
all the good parts are merely understatement."

The old wizard laughed.  "Charles spoke very highly of you indeed
in his letter.  If that were mere understatement, then I hesitate 
to imagine the true scope and magnificence of your person."  His 
eyes twinkled as a good-natured smile appeared through the veil 
of his whiskers.  "I am most eager to discuss both helping and 
hiring you, Mr. Sangnoir, but I must first attend to a small 
personal matter.  However, if you and Charles would care to meet 
me at the Leaky Cauldron in, say, half an hour?"

I traded glances with Charlie, who nodded.  "We'd be happy to,
sir."

"Excellent, I will see you then."  He bowed slightly to us, 
before turning to stride off to the hall of fireplaces at a 
surprisingly quick pace for someone of his apparent age.

I watched him until he vanished into the crowd.  Then I turned to 
Charlie.  "Okay, so where's this Leaky Cauldron place?"

                              * * *

The Leaky Cauldron, Thursday, August 12, 1995, 9:50 AM

Thirty minutes later Charlie and I were sitting in a genuine 
medieval tavern on Charing Cross Road, noshing on the Wizarding
idea of snack food, when Dumbledore stepped out of the green 
flames of a Floo connection.  We caught his attention with a 
wave, and after greeting the barman like an old friend, he 
crossed the floor and slid into the booth we had claimed.

"Charles," he said, nodding at Charlie.  "Mr. Sangnoir.  If I 
may, I would like to assure our privacy.  With your permission?"

"Sure," I said, at the same time Charlie said, "Certainly,
Headmaster."

"Thank you."  From the sash which belted his robes, Dumbledore
drew a wand.  Compared to those I had seen in use over the past
three and a half weeks, it was a little different -- it had the
usual wand shape, but it looked more *grown* than carved like the
wands I'd already encountered.  There were several small bulges 
along its length, evenly spaced and of increasing size from the 
smallest about 10 centimeters back from the tip to the largest 
near the grip.  They didn't look shaped by any tool, either, but 
more like growths similar to oak galls, although the pale color
of the unvarnished wand was unlike any bare oak wood I'd ever 
seen.

He twirled the wand through a complicated series of movements
while reciting a short incantation in Latin or something close to
it.  When he was done, he slid the wand back into his sash and 
nodded.  "There," he said.  "We may speak in complete privacy 
now."

"Cool," I said.  The booth now felt... enclosed, as if we were
in a sealed box.  Sounds seemed slightly muffled, with a very
faint echo to them, and my ears felt like I'd just dropped a
few hundred feet in altitude and needed to equalize the pressure
on my eardrums.  Interesting.

Dumbledore fixed me with a surprisingly steely look and began 
the interrogation.  "In his missive to me, Charles made some 
very... unusual claims about you, Mr. Sangnoir.  Perhaps if you
were to tell me in your own words about your travels?"

"Very well," I replied, and launched into an abbreviated version 
of my life story as Charlie nursed his drink -- not ale or lager
at this hour of the morning, but something called "butterbeer" 
which was mildly carbonated, had the consistency of malted milk, 
and possessed a flavor reminiscent of butterscotch -- sweet, but 
not cloying.  Kind of like a butterscotch egg cream, if you catch
my drift.  After tasting my own I thought it might also be a 
smidge alcoholic, too.

Anyway, when I completed my recitation about forty-five minutes 
later, Dumbledore took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes and 
the bridge of his crooked nose.  "That is... quite the tale, 
Mister -- no, Colonel, wasn't it? -- Colonel Sangnoir."

"I've confirmed it, Headmaster," Charlie offered.

Dumbledore stopped rubbing his eyes, replaced his glasses, and 
looked over at Charlie for this first time since casting his 
privacy spell.  "Confirmed it, Charles?"

"He's seen me in action, and the photos and other records I 
carry with me," I said.  "He also dosed me with your magical 
truth serum." 

Charlie grinned and shrugged.  "I put veritaserum in his stew and 
asked him questions over dinner, the day he arrived.  I can vouch 
that he's not Dark, and not a follower of You-Know-Who."

I rolled my eyes at the euphemism.  "I *kill* the kind of people 
who fancy themselves 'dark lords'.  I don't follow them.  I don't 
serve them.  I *bury* them."

Dumbledore looked slightly troubled at that, but slowly nodded.  
"Judging from your history, I have no doubt that you do, at that.  
Well, then."  He folded his hands together on the table before 
himself.  "I believe I will take you at your word, Colonel, and 
trust Charles' judgment in this matter.  Which means that, 
firstly, I am willing to aid you in finding your way home, or at
least closer to it."

I released a breath that I had not realized I'd been holding.
"Thank you, sir."

He held up a finger.  "Understand that this is not an area of
study in which I have more than a cursory knowledge.  Magic 
involving communication and transport between the planes of
existence is traditionally considered dark due to its misuse and 
the ease with which the inexperienced may bring disastrous 
consequences upon themselves and others.  The Ministry has banned 
it accordingly.  This will be a learning experience for me, and I 
cannot guarantee any results at all."

"I understand, Headmaster."  Even a microscopic chance was better
than no chance.

Dumbledore went on.  "Now, Colonel, it would be most convenient 
for these researches to have you close to hand.  Therefore, to 
facilitate them accordingly, and in consideration of your most 
impressive *curriculum vitae*, I do indeed have a position at 
Hogwarts that I might offer you."

"Go on," I said.

The old wizard frowned.  "Before I actually do offer it to you, 
though, I must explain to you certain relevant facts about the 
position."

"This is the Defense Against Dark Arts professorship, right?" I 
asked.  "Charlie told me that you have a problem keeping people 
in it."

He sighed.  "Charles understates the case.  It is commonly 
believed that the position is cursed.  You see, for several 
decades now, no individual has been able to keep the 
professorship for more than a single academic year, and many 
have been unable to stay in it for even that long."  He coughed
and frowned, then added, "And I find I must admit that more 
Defense professors have died during their tenures during that 
time than in all the other professorships combined."

I laughed.  "That's not going to be a problem.  *Something* has
been keeping me from dying from natural causes for three quarters
of a century now.  And I'm an expert at deflecting *unnatural* 
causes of death."  I took a sip of my butterbeer.  "As for 
leaving the job for non-terminal reasons, well, I'm not intending 
to make a career here, I just need a way to support myself until 
I find a song that will take me out of this universe."  I 
shrugged.  "Even if I *am* forced out of the position 
prematurely, I'll at least have savings to tide me over for a 
while afterward."

Dumbledore smiled.  "I'm glad to hear it.  However, this year 
there are other complications.  I have become politically... 
unpopular because I have been attempting to alert the Wizarding 
World to the return of Lord Voldemort."

Charlie gasped and shuddered, then buried his face in his mug.  I 
just looked at Dumbledore.  "The return of Voldemort?  According 
to what I've heard, he's supposed to have died some fifteen years 
ago."

He studied me over the tops of his glasses through half-lidded 
eyes.  "One of my students, a young man of impeccable character,
witnessed his resurrection several weeks ago.  Since then, 
though, Voldemort has made a point of remaining out of the public 
eye."

"And let me guess," I offered.  "The Minister, whose whole 
career seems to revolve around telling the public that everything 
is the best it could possibly be, didn't want to hear that your
Voldemort had come back from the dead, and didn't like the idea 
of you telling people he had, either."

A bushy grey eyebrow rose above one half-moon lens.  "You have
more political acumen than I had suspected, Colonel.  Yes, that
is the case, precisely.  And as a result, the Minister and his
allies are doing what they can to undermine and marginalize me."
He sighed.  "Among other tactics, they are attempting to insert a 
Ministry representative into Hogwarts' faculty."

Charlie nodded.  "Professor McGonagall mentioned that the 
Minister is pushing the Wizengamot to pass a new law that will 
let the Ministry assign a professor if you can't get one."

"Who will no doubt be one of his toadies."  I spread my hands and 
smiled.  "Well, then, Headmaster, you're in luck.  Here I am -- 
your new Defense professor, guaranteed non-Ministry."  

"Bloody right," Charlie laughed, and I clinked my mug to his.

"Are you sure you wish to do this, Colonel?" Dumbledore pressed.
"I suspect that the Ministry has been actively 'discouraging' 
many of the potential candidates I sought to recruit.  You may 
come under some... pressure to refuse or resign the 
professorship."

I snorted and made a point of cracking my knuckles.  The sound
echoed weirdly in our little bubble of privacy.  "Let them try." 

Dumbledore studied me for a long moment, and then suddenly he
smiled, his eyes twinkling.  "In that case, Colonel, welcome to
the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Thank you, sir."  I leaned back from the table.  "I look forward 
to the challenge."

Charlie thumped me on the back.  "Congratulations, mate!"

The Headmaster beamed at the two of us before continuing.  "You
will be paid the standard starting salary of 6,344 galleons per 
annum, which will be deposited in your vault at Gringotts on a 
monthly basis.  You will of course get room and board at 
Hogwarts year-round, plus professional healer care in our own 
hospital wing when needed, and St. Mungo's if necessary."  He 
smiled benevolently.  "We'll go over your other benefits -- and 
your duties in addition to classroom hours -- when you arrive at 
the school."

"Excellent," I declared, and we shook on it.  "Beyond that, is 
there anything else I need to know?"

Dumbledore studied me for a moment.  "Perhaps.  It will take 
approximately a week for the Board of Governors to formally 
approve your hiring -- a purely symbolic gesture but a necessary 
one, I fear.  After that you may move into your quarters in the 
castle.  Until then," Dumbledore added, "I cannot but assume that 
you will need a place to live, unless you wish to return to 
Romania."

"No, thank you," I said with a bit of disgust at the thought of 
going through another pair of portkey trips.  "I suppose I could 
get a hotel room here in London after I exchange some of my 
dragon-keeping pay for pounds..."

"That may not be necessary," Dumbledore interrupted.  He turned 
his attention to Charlie.  "Charles, I presume you trust Colonel
Sangnoir around your family?"

"Of course, Headmaster!" he sputtered, surprised at the question.
"I took him right to the Burrow yesterday, after all."

Dumbledore nodded sagely, then drew a scrap of parchment out of 
his sleeve.  "In that case, I can offer you temporary lodgings at 
the same location where the Weasley family is currently dwelling, 
at no cost to you.  Is that acceptable?"

I laughed.  "For free?  Sure."

He smiled, then pushed the scrap of parchment across the table.
"I recommend that both of you read this, then."

Charlie picked it up and glanced at it with a sudden intake of
breath.  "This is where...?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied.

I snatched the parchment out of his limp fingers and took a look 
at it.  On it was written, "The headquarters of the Order of the 
Phoenix may be found at 12 Grimmauld Place, London."  At the 
moment I read those words, I felt an incredibly complex magical 
effect strike me, and took a moment to try to analyze it.  It was 
part compulsion, part evocation, part something I'd never seen 
before, and it bypassed my field and other protections as if they 
hadn't been there.  If I were understanding what it seemed to do, 
it had to be one of the most elegant and intriguing pieces of 
security magic I'd ever encountered.  I wondered if Dumbledore 
had cast the spell himself, because it seemed well beyond the 
capability of the average wizard if my experiences to date were 
any indication.

I slid the paper back across the table to Dumbledore, who picked
it up and made it vanish back into his sleeve.  "The headquarters
of the Order of the Phoenix..." I began, but couldn't get any
further.  I steeled myself and tried again.  "The headquarters of 
the Or...  Or..."  I couldn't even get as far as I had the first 
time.  I gave up and looked back at Dumbledore.  "Oh, that is one 
impressive piece of spellcraft.  What's it called?"

His eyes twinkled again as he smiled.  "It's generally referred
to as the 'Fidelius'."

"Mmmm.  I think I'm going to want a copy of that spell, if only 
to see how it's done."  And to make sure nothing else could
bypass my defenses the same way, I didn't say aloud.

"I think we can arrange that, once you settle in at Hogwarts,"
he said, still smiling.  

"So," I went on.  "What is this Order?"

Dumbledore studied me for a moment.  "It is a private group 
dedicated to the defeat and destruction of Voldemort."

I nodded my comprehension.  "A magical militia of sorts, then.
Would it be safe to assume that it dates back to Voldemort's
original period of activity?  And dammit, Charlie, chill!  It's
just a stupid emo alias."  Charlie's gasping and gulps at every 
repetition of "Voldemort" was starting to get on my nerves.

"Yes," the headmaster intoned, smiling faintly as I threatened to 
smack Charlie one.  "Quite so.  It has been reactivated in the
wake of the events of this past spring."

"In that case, since I'm going to be teaching anyway, let me
offer my services to the Order.  While my oaths as a Warrior 
won't let me become a member proper, I can certainly train your
forces if you need it," I said.  "And even if you can't use me as 
a trainer, I can gather and analyze intelligence on the enemy for
you.  Plus I could be your outrider -- you never know when you 
might need an unexpected reinforcement or backup at a crucial 
moment."

The rising of Dumbledore's eyebrows betrayed his surprise.
"Thank you, Colonel.  I will certainly keep your offer in mind."
He glanced between me and Charlie.  "Well, then, gentlemen, I 
believe our business is concluded.  I expect I shall see you both 
tonight at Headquarters." 

He took his wand from his sash, to remove the privacy spell I
guessed, and I quickly said, "Just one more thing, Headmaster.
You said Voldemort had resurrected.  Which method did he use?"

Dumbledore frowned.  "Which method...?"

I nodded.  "I know of no less than five ways by which a 
sufficiently powerful magic user may ensure his return from 
death."  I held up one finger.  "Your basic soul anchor, AKA the 
partial soul jar, plus a homunculus body."  I raised a second
finger.  "The lich ritual and transformation."  Finger three.  "A 
directed reincarnation event triggered by a 'dead-man switch' 
spell."  I raised my pinkie, and looked like I was doing the Boy
Scout pledge.  "An externally-applied directed reincarnation."  I
unfolded my thumb from across my palm.  "Or, finally, a demonic 
contract."  

As Dumbledore blinked at me while I held my hand up, a thought 
occurred to me as I paused in counting.  "I suppose it might be 
possible to make a contract with *Heaven* to ensure one's return 
from death, but it would have to be for an extraordinary and 
unselfish reason that serves their purposes, and I sincerely 
doubt that Yggdrasil would approve one for a self-declared dark 
lord.  Still, it's a method, so that would actually make it six."  

I lowered my hand.  "There's also the Koschei-style soul jar, but 
you said 'resurrection'.  A Koschei soul jar gives you physical 
invulnerability and immortality -- it's like the lich ritual but
without all the messy dying and possessing your own preserved
corpse.  They're a hell of lot harder to make than a simple
partial jar, but with one you just can't die, no matter what 
happens to you, so resurrection never comes into the picture."  I 
looked up at Dumbledore.  "Do you know which one he used?"

Dumbledore had started looking troubled as I began my list, and
had grown only more so as I went through it.  "I must admit that 
I thought I did, for I knew of only *one* means.  Learning that 
there are others..."  He shook his head.  "Already I am thankful 
for hiring you, Colonel."   He shook his head.  "I must research 
this, and more, we must discuss this matter at length, soon."

"Whenever's convenient for you, Headmaster," I agreed.

He inclined his head to me -- more than a nod, less than a bow. 
"Thank you, Colonel."

"Please," I said.  "Call me Doug."

                              * * *

12 Grimmauld Place, London, England, UK, Thursday, August 12, 
1995, 1:17 PM

For nearly a week now they had been cleaning and exterminating,
and Hermione (though she was far too well-mannered to say so) was 
thoroughly and utterly *sick* of it.  She had arranged to stay 
with the Weasleys that summer as part of a plan to help her
friend Harry Potter (which had, unfortunately, not worked).  She 
hadn't planned on spending it as an unpaid housemaid.  

*Where* she was spending the last weeks of the summer just added
to her discontent.  The Black home at 12 Grimmauld Place seemed 
to be a den of all things dark and foul, and not in an amusing 
"Addams Family" way.  No, the Black family -- except for Sirius,
that is -- had wallowed in evil magic like hogs in mud, rolling 
around in it, covering themselves in it, and splashing it 
everywhere.  *Why would anyone in their right minds make 
*doilies* that hexed anyone who touched them?* Hermione wondered, 
as she had about so many other items of random undirected malice 
that the six of them -- Harry, Ron, Ginny, the twins Fred and 
George, and herself -- had uncovered during their labors over the
last week.

The Blacks had to have been utterly insane.  That was the only
explanation.  Sirius was a dear, sweet man, obviously very 
different from his relatives, but even he was clearly a little
off-balance.  More so than the average wizard, that is.  And 
after a week's exposure to the house in which he'd spent his
childhood, Hermione was beginning to think it hadn't been the
twelve years in Azkaban which had left him that way.

She suppressed a sigh.  It would have been nice if the impromptu
celebration over Harry's exoneration this morning had lasted
longer -- if you could call Fred, George and Ginny dancing around
and chanting "He got off, he got off!" a celebration -- but it 
seemed that Mrs. Weasley was determined to purge 12 Grimmauld 
Place of all dark influences before the start of school and the 
loss of her unpaid workforce.  

Hermione blew a lock of her brown, uncontrollable hair out of her
eyes, and felt a small ache in her back.  With a sigh, she 
straightened up from where she had been crouched at the 
baseboards of yet another room -- she'd honestly lost count of
how many it had been now -- removing unidentifiable filth from 
the woodwork with a rag soaked in Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess 
Remover.  She dropped the rag on the floor, then stretched and 
twisted back and forth at the waist to try to banish the annoying 
little pain.  At the same time, she discreetly watched and 
enjoyed the effect her stretch had on Ron.

To her amusement, Ginny and Harry didn't even notice.  Ginny had
eyes only for Harry -- what else was new? -- while Harry seemed 
to be brooding.  Over what, she could make a few guesses, but she 
resolved to corner him at some point before bedtime and make him 
tell her anyway.

Whether it was the cleaning or her figure (Hermione smiled very
smugly to herself), at least Ron was focusing on something 
different for the moment.  The move to 12 Grimmauld had thrown
him into a near-panic.  The second-eldest Weasley son, Charlie, 
had been scheduled to come back and visit with the family for the 
first time since -- well, Hermione actually didn't know how long 
it had been since he'd last been in England.  Long enough, at 
least, that she and Harry knew of him only through family stories 
and anecdotes.  The sudden relocation from the Burrow and the 
*Fidelius* protection cast on the Black home had prompted endless
rambling monologues in which Ron worried about Charlie never
learning where they were, giving up and going back to Romania
without the family ever seeing him.

And to her irritation, it seemed that except for Mr. Weasley and
the twins, the rest of the family actually shared Ron's concern,
though not to the degree that he seemed to feel it.  The previous
evening Hermione had actually caught Mrs. Weasley going out of 
her way to take worried looks out the front windows of the Black 
home, as though she might spot Charlie out in the street with the 
co-worker he was supposedly bringing with him, fruitlessly 
searching for his hidden family.

The twins, she'd also noticed, seemed far more interested in the
contents of the very large and mysterious crate addressed to that 
co-worker, a "Douglas Sangnoir", care of the Weasley family.  She 
didn't *think* they'd broken into it yet.  She couldn't fault 
their curiosity, though.  What could be so important to Mr. 
Sangnoir, and so *big*, that he had had to ship it rather than 
just carry it shrunken in a pocket?  When her own curiosity grew 
too strong, she found herself hoping that Fred and George had 
actually worked their way around the crate's protections... or 
were about to.  

Another part of her insisted on worrying about the name on that
crate -- "Sangnoir" meant "black blood" in French, and despite 
her rational side insisting otherwise, she had the tiniest 
persistent dread that it was some manner of portent or omen.

Hermione closed her eyes and forced herself to focus on the task
at hand again.  As boring as it was, as backbreaking as it was
proving to be, it was what they were supposed to do right now.
She picked up the rag from where it lay on the floor between her
knees, poured a little more of Mrs. Scower's Remover on it, and
prepared to attack the next stretch of baseboard.

Suddenly the sound of a loud, clanging bell echoed up the 
stairwell, followed by a slamming door and a deep male voice 
bellowing "Hulloooo the house!"  To her immense surprise, the
painting of Walburga Black for once did not begin screaming at
the disturbance.  Hermione looked heavenward and mouthed "Thank
you!"

"Charlie!" Ginny squealed and pelted out of the room, followed 
closely by Ron.  Hermione smiled fondly. 

She glanced over at Harry, who had straightened up and was 
staring at her.  "Well?" he asked sullenly.  "Shouldn't we follow 
them?"

Hermione huffed.  "Mrs. Weasley told us to finish this room
before lunch," she declared, more as a matter of form than as a
real objection. 

Harry gave her a disbelieving look.  "Oh, come on, Hermione."

She considered stringing him along for a little longer, but then
relented.  "Oh, all right," she said in mock exasperation.  "I
suppose."

By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the front hall
of 12 Grimmauld Place was awash with a sea of redheads.  The only 
Weasleys not present were Mr. Weasley and Bill, both of whom were 
still at work, and would be so for at least another four hours.  
(And Percy, of course, but he had his own home in London, and his 
estrangement from the family suggested nothing was going to 
change about *that*.)  At the center of the mob, a sobbing Mrs. 
Weasley hugged a burly-looking red-haired man barely taller than 
she was, whose face was home to a veritable galaxy of freckles 
along with a couple of shiny burn scars.

"I suppose that's Charlie?" Harry murmured somewhere outbound of 
her ear.  She turned to upbraid him for asking a question with
such an obvious answer, only to change her mind when she realized
Harry wasn't even looking at her.  Instead, he was watching the
reunion below with such a naked longing that she ached for him.
Rather than say something that would set off his recent moodiness
again, Hermione forced her attention back to the scene before 
them, where her eye was drawn to an unexpected swirl of grey 
robes behind the mob of Weasleys.

There, near the front door, that had to be Charlie's co-worker,
the mysterious Douglas Sangnoir.  She couldn't see much because 
he had his back to her and was pulling his wizarding garb off -- 
to her surprise, he had on well-worn blue jeans underneath them, 
and an expensive-looking pair of trainers.  While she was taking 
this in, he finished doffing his robes (revealing a black T-shirt 
and close-cropped blond hair) and hung them on the coat rack by 
the door.  Then he turned around.

Some part of her which had been dormant since the end of second
year and Gilderoy Lockhart's fall from grace suddenly awoke, saw 
the stranger, and to her complete and utter mortification went 
"Yum!"  He was handsome, with blue-gray eyes, and the jeans and 
T-shirt ("I Do All My Own Special Effects"?) he had worn under 
his robes did nothing to hide a physique that was solid and 
athletic without being musclebound.  He was watching the Weasley 
reunion with a gentle smile on his face that seemed to be equal 
parts amusement and wistful longing.

*I wonder what he's thinking,* Hermione found herself musing.

Meanwhile, Charlie had finished going through the rest of the
available Weasleys, and was laughing, "Enough!  Enough!"  He
glanced about, finally spotting the blond man who lurked behind
him.  "Doug, help me here."

"I don't know, Charlie, you seem to be handling things well
enough," the other -- now confirmed as Douglas Sangnoir -- said 
with a smirk.  To Hermione's surprise, he had an American accent.
"Better than that litter of Norwegian Ridgebacks that were 
trying to use you as a chew toy last week, at least."

"And whose fault was that?" Charlie demanded.  "Get over here 
and meet everyone."  As Doug stepped forward, a look of mock
trepidation pasted on his face, Charlie turned back to the other
Weasleys.  "Everyone, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Doug
Sangnoir.  Doug, this is my family."

"Hello, Charlie's family," the other man declared.  This got him 
a friendly smack on the back of the head from his host even as 
Fred, George and Ginny chorused "Hullo, Doug!" back, laughing.

Then as she and Harry watched, Charlie introduced them one by 
one, starting with Mrs. Weasley and progressing down through the
available siblings until he ended with Ginny.  With that 
completed, he spotted the pair of them at the base of the stairs.
"And ... I have no idea who you two are."

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry."  Mrs. Weasley suddenly turned to them and,
taking their hands, drew them into the mob.  "Charlie, these are
Ron's friends..."

Hermione thrust her hand forth to shake Charlie's.  "Hermione
Granger.  I watch over these two and make sure they do their
homework on time."

"Woman's a bloody taskmaster, too," Ron muttered from somewhere
in the center of the group, to his other siblings' laughter.

She ignored that and finished, "Pleased to meet you finally,
Charlie.  I've heard stories about you for years."

He raised an eyebrow.  "Stories?  About me?"  He glanced at his
mother.  "Mum, have you been telling tales?"  Without waiting for
an answer he returned his attention to Hermione.  "Good to meet
you, too, Hermione.  I've actually heard quite a bit about you
from Ron's letters.  I should have recognized you right off --
sorry about that."  He shifted his focus to Harry.  "And that
would make you Harry.  Pleased to meet you, Harry.  Ron's said a 
lot about you as well."

"Hopefully better things than Charlie says about me behind my 
back," Doug offered, grinning.

"Hey," Charlie objected.  "I don't say bad things about you 
behind your back.  I say them to your face."

"You see what I have to deal with?" the blond man asked, looking
at the ceiling with hands outstretched.  "Is it any wonder I'd 
take any job just to get out of Romania?"

"Oh, yeah," Charlie added.  "As of this morning, Doug's the new 
Defense professor at Hogwarts."

                              * * *

When the resulting noise and din had faded back to a dull roar, 
Mrs. Weasley managed to drag Charlie and his friend down to the 
kitchen for a late lunch.  Momentarily forgotten by the Weasley 
matriarch, the six teens retreated to Ron and Harry's bedroom on 
the second floor.

The twins were the last into the room, and as George closed the
door, then did something to it with a brightly-colored bundle he 
drew from his pocket, Fred looked around the room with a grin.  
"So.  New Defense professor.  What d'you think, should we start 
the pool early?"

"Pool?" Hermione demanded.  "What pool?"

"Well, there're actually two," Fred replied.  "The first one 
isn't all that interesting -- it's just for how long the Defense
professor lasts this year.  It's terribly straightforward -- we
could run it in our sleep."

"However," George said as he turned away from the door, "there is
the *other* pool -- on when the Defense professor will attack
ickle Harry here."  George smiled contemplatively.  "Now that one
*is* a challenge to run.  We offer bets on exact date, 
before/after date, method of attack..."

"Injury or death," Fred continued, "type and degree of injury, 
length of stay in the hospital wing afterward -- for both the
professor and Harry -- and the number of potions consumed during 
recovery."

"We even offer very handsome odds on Harry's death followed by an
immediate resurrection afterward," George concluded with a manic 
grin that was matched by his brother's.  "The Creepy -- excuse 
me, the *Creevey* brothers *always* bet on that one."

As Ginny giggled, Hermione stared, disbelieving, at the pair.
"That's *disgusting*," she finally said, then whirled on Harry,
who had somehow drifted to one of the windows during this and was
staring out at the street below.  "Harry, aren't you upset at 
them, making money off of you that way?"

"No, not really, Hermione," he said flatly without turning 
around.  Hermione waited for him to expand on that, but he said 
nothing further.  She crossed her arms and huffed, to the 
amusement of Ron, who was seated beside her on the loveseat that 
occupied one end of the bedroom.

"He's not very like any of the other professors, is he?" Harry
suddenly said, still staring out the window.  "He's an American,
for one."

"Charlie says he's muggleborn," Ginny pointed out.  "I don't 
think we've ever had a muggleborn defense professor before.  I
*know* we've never had an American professor before." 

Ron snorted.  "Charlie said a lot of things about him, and you
can't believe half of them.  It all sounds like something out of
that prat Lockhart's books," he sneered.  "I certainly don't 
believe he took down a dragon by himself."

The twins shared a pair of knowing looks while Hermione turned to
stare at Ron.  "Took down a dragon?  What letter was that in?  I 
thought I heard all the letters Charlie wrote to your family this
summer."

"Charlie owled me a couple times," Ron answered shrugging.  "Just
me."

"And you didn't share them..." Hermione began, before Fred cut
her off.  

"So what about a dragon?"

Ron perked up.  "Oh, right.  Charlie said the day he met Doug..."

"*Professor Sangnoir*," Hermione grumbled, folding her arms
across her chest again.

"...he knocked a dragon out cold by punching it once, hard,
between the eyes."  Ron snorted again.  "Bollocks, if you ask me.
There's no way you could get close enough to a dragon to punch
it.  Charlie was just trying to take the mickey out of me, like
when I was real little."

"Well," Fred offered, "you *were* quite gullible as a five-year-
old.  When I think of all the things we told you..."

"Don't remind me," Ron growled, and the twins laughed.

"He's not comfortable with robes," Hermione suddenly said, as a
few pieces of information gelled together.

"What's that?" Ginny asked.  

Hermione looked up and around at the others.  "He may be 
muggleborn, but I don't think he's spent *any* time in the 
Wizarding World at all.  The first thing he did when he came 
inside was take off his robes -- and he was wearing muggle 
clothes underneath -- muggle clothes that were broken in and 
comfortable."

"We noticed that," George said.  "What did that writing on his
shirt mean?  'I do all my own special effects'?"

Hermione bit her lip.  "Special effects are...  well, there are
muggle entertainments that, as part of their story, have to show
things that look like magic, or futuristic technology, that 
aren't really possible.  For muggles, at least.  So to do this, 
they have a whole field of work in which people come up with 
the... well, the *illusion* of magic for those stories.  And 
that's called 'special effects'.  You know," she said as a 
thought occurred to her, "some of what you two do could be 
considered 'special effects'."  She thought for a moment as the 
twins shared a glance and a wink.  "I think that his T-shirt 
might be a joking way for Professor Sangnoir to say 'I'm a 
wizard!' to the entire muggle world without anyone being the 
wiser."

"Wicked!" Ron breathed.  "Like he's flipping the bird to the 
Secrecy Statutes."

Hermione sighed and continued.  "Another thing -- he's not
carrying a wand."

The room, except for Harry, was in a sudden uproar.  Hermione
waited for it to die down enough to shout over.  "I mean it.  
T-shirt with bare arms -- no place to hide a wand 'up a sleeve'.
No wand in his belt.  His jeans are too tight to hide a wand in
a pocket or down a leg -- if he could even fit one in, we'd see
it.  No wand holsters anywhere -- in fact, the only thing he's
got that looks like a holster is the wrong size for a wand
completely."  She looked about smugly.  "Ergo, no wand."

"So... he's really a muggle?" Ron said after a moment.

"No," Fred answered immediately.  "First off, this place has all
kinds of muggle-repelling wards on it -- Black family manor, 
after all.  He got through them as easily as Charlie did."

"And he did get hired as Defense professor," George continued.  
"Say what you want, I don't think Charlie would prank us over 
that, and I don't think he'd get a co-worker to help him with it.
So unless Dumbledore is completely barmy..."

"Which people *have* been saying for years," Ron pointed out.

George nodded.  "Unless he's *so* barmy that he'd hire a muggle
to teach defense, then Sangnoir's *got* to be a wizard."

"Harry?" Hermione said, looking over to where Harry still stood
by the window.  "What do you think?"

For a long moment Harry appeared not to have heard her at all, so
distracted was he by the view outside.  Then he blurted out,
almost wonderingly, "He has no idea who I am."

The other five exchanged confused looks.

"What?" Hermione asked.  "What do you mean, he has no idea who 
you are?"

"You're joking, right, mate?" Ron added.

Harry turned around from the window for the first time, shaking
his head.  "Didn't you notice?  Meeting Charlie was like when I
first met your dad, Ron -- he didn't look at my scar or anything, 
he was just like, 'oh, you're Ron's friend Harry'.  But Doug..."

"*Professor Sangnoir*!" Hermione insisted.

Harry shot her a sour glance.  "But he didn't even react *that* 
much.  It was like Charlie said 'This is John Smith'.  I was just 
another teenager out of a half-dozen to him."  Harry's eyes shone 
with an emotion Hermione couldn't identify, but felt she should.  
"He's never heard of the bloody 'Boy-Who-Lived'!"

"But how is that possible?" Ginny asked.  "Everybody knows about
you!"

"Even as far away as Japan and Bangladesh they tell your story,"
Hermione confirmed.  "You can't go anywhere in the Wizarding 
World and *not* find it in the history books."

"Lovely," Harry muttered, half to himself.

"He *is* muggleborn," Ron reminded them unnecessarily.  "Maybe 
that's why?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.  "*I'm* muggleborn, Ron, and I knew
about Harry before I even got on the Express our first year."

"Yeah, but you're obsessed with books," Ron said offhandedly.
"He doesn't look like the kind who would be."

"He's clearly in his 30s, Ron," she pointed out.  "He'd've had to
have heard the story by now even if he couldn't read."

Ginny ignored the interplay between Ron and Hermione and instead
looked at Harry, who seemed almost to be in another place
entirely.  "What are you thinking?" she asked.

He turned his attention to her and smiled at her, a broad, 
gleaming smile unlike any he'd ever before worn in her presence,
one that was very much at odds with his recent moodiness.  "I 
think it's bloody brilliant that we're going to have a professor 
who doesn't give a damn who I am for once."

"Harry, language," Hermione sniffed prudishly, but then her lips
quirked into a tiny smile of her own.  "It *will* be a new and
unusual experience for us, won't it?"

                              * * *

I laughed at the way Molly Weasley manhandled Charlie until she 
took a firm grasp of *my* arm and dragged us both down a short
staircase and into a large basement kitchen.  There we were 
gently but firmly deposited at the large table that filled most 
of the center of the room and told to sit.

Grinning at each other, we sat.

As Molly bustled about assembling a meal for us -- upon finding
out that we hadn't had lunch yet, she had taken it upon herself
to provide us with it -- I took a look around at the second room
I'd had the dubious pleasure of experiencing here at the 
headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.  Like the foyer before
it, it was dark, dirty and thoroughly unpleasant -- completely
unlike the Burrow.  Based on the mental image I'd assembled of
Molly from my short time there, I couldn't imagine how she could 
cope being here.

Oh, the house was showing her touch -- the kitchen looked like 
someone was slowly but surely beating back centuries of 
accumulated grime, but even so it was still dark and overbearing. 
And the foyer had been worse -- black-on-black (or so it looked)
wallpaper, dark wood wainscoting, poor illumination, and a
delightful, omnipresent snake motif -- the place looked like it 
had been intentionally designed to be oppressive.  The umbrella
stand that appeared to have been made from the leg of some large
humanoid just added an extra little macabre touch.  So did the
large animated portraits of various stern and unpleasant-looking
people, one of which had been hidden behind a curtain.

At least there was daylight in the kitchen.  Of a sort -- it was 
a slow, tired daylight, weakened almost to death by the effort of
fighting its way through the defensive perimeter formed by the
room's tiny, dim windows.  These had been placed so sparingly 
about the walls that one suspected the architect had misplaced 
several zeros when pricing them out.

"So," I said.  "That was the infamous Weasley clan."

"Most of them," Charlie agreed.  "The only ones who weren't 
here...  Mum?"  He glanced over at her.

"Bill and your father will be here for dinner after they get off 
work," Molly interjected without missing a beat at the stove -- 
another enchanted wood-burning Rayburn or a Wizarding knockoff.
There was the slightest tension in the air, as though there were
something not said, that would not be said in front of strangers.

Charlie seemed to pick up on it.  "Thanks, Mum," he said after 
the barest pause, then looked back at me.  "So there you have it, 
you'll meet them tonight at dinner."  He leaned back in the old, 
rickety chair Molly had parked him in.  

"Your dad works at the Ministry, right?" I asked.

Charlie nodded.  "He's a department head.  And Bill works at 
Gringotts in Diagon Alley as a cursebreaker.  We probably won't
see much of him because the goblins like to work their junior
employees pretty heavily."

"Goblins?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Actually, Bill's managed to get a half day off tomorrow morning 
in order to see you, Charlie," Molly interjected as she laid 
plates of roast beef and vegetables before us.  The aroma wafting 
from my dish was exquisite.  A moment later and silverware 
appeared -- literally -- followed by mugs and a pitcher of 
something that sloshed thickly.

"Thank you, Molly," I said, salivating at the scent.

"Mmm, thanks!" Charlie was already digging in.  "Anyway, that's 
good to hear, Mum.  Doug needs to go to Diagon Alley to get his
teaching supplies for the school year; maybe Bill and I can give 
him the five-knut tour tomorrow morning."

I took a bite of beef and gravy and moaned at the flavor.  If 
this is the way this woman cooks on limited means in *this* 
kitchen, I wanted to drop her into Kitchen Stadium with an 
unlimited budget, just to see what she could do.

"That's a fine idea, Charlie," Molly said.  "I'm sure Bill will
be happy to help."

"Perhaps you can pick me up a thing or two while you're there,"
a new voice said.  I looked up from where I was involuntarily
playing trencherman to see a fellow about my (apparent) age 
standing in the door which led to the staircase back up to the 
foyer.  He had dark hair, shoulder-length, and bit of beard and
mustache of the same color which looked like a goatee or Van Dyke 
that had been neglected for a few weeks.  He was pale, and he had 
the look of someone who had been close to starvation for a long 
time, and hadn't yet gotten back up to his ideal weight.

"Sirius Black," he said, stepping fully in and taking a seat at
the table near us.  "I'm allegedly the owner of this house," he 
added with a smile that carried just a little too much pain in it 
to be truly happy or amused.

"Charlie Weasley," Charlie said, reaching across the table and 
offering his hand to Black, who shook it.

I had already stopped eating when I noticed him, so I laid down
my knife and fork and reached over to shake his hand as well.  
"Doug Sangnoir, new Defense professor at Hogwarts."  This got me 
a raised eyebrow.  "Let me just thank you for your hospitality.  
It's very kind of you to open your home to me, even if it's only 
for a week."

Black barked a laugh.  "You're welcome, although I didn't know 
about it until now."  As I made noises about imposing on him, he
dismissed them with a casual gesture.  "No, no, it's quite all
right.  These days the place is more the property of the Order
than it is my home, and mostly I like it that way."  He leaned in
conspiratorially.  "I didn't much get along with the rest of my
family," he said, "and growing up here was a kind of hell for me.
If I lived here alone, I swear I'd go crazy.  Not that living 
here with the Red-Headed League isn't crazy-making in its own 
right," he added with an off-kilter smile and a waggle of his 
eyebrows.

Molly laughed as she laid a third plate down in front of him. 
"It's about time you showed up for lunch, Sirius.  How are you
ever going to manage if you keep skipping meals?"

"Any meal with Snivellus at it that I skip is food for my soul,"
he said piously before digging in.  "Oh, thif if wunnerful, 
M'ly," he managed through a mouth full of beef and gravy.

                              * * *

After we'd finished our late lunch, I asked where my bike had 
been put.

"Oh, that's right, *you're* the owner of the mystery package," 
Sirius said, an excited glint in his eye.  "That big box of yours 
has been causing quite a stir among the younger set."  Charlie 
and I shared an amused glance at that.

"You've been lurking around it as much as the twins, and you know 
it, Sirius Black," Molly scolded him affectionately.  "And I 
daresay you've made as many attempts to open it as they have."

"Just for the challenge!" he protested, and I laughed.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'll be depriving you of your entertainment
now."  I stood.  "Would you care to come watch?  It won't be all
that exciting, but I'm sure you'd like to see what's inside."

"Of course!"  Sirius shot to his feet.  "We've kept it on the
rear porch.  It seemed weatherproof, I hope you don't mind."

I shook my head.  "Not at all.  A little rain wouldn't hurt it,
or so I was told."  I made a broad, "after you" gesture.  "Lead 
on, please."

A moment later, the three of us were standing in the British sun.
It had been a hot, dry day, easily in the high 20s, almost 30,
but somehow the back yard seemed darker, cooler and damper than 
the street out front.  Before us lay the enchanted packing crate 
which held my motorcycle.  The twin Weasley brothers were, as I 
had half-expected, already there, poking at it.  (In a figurative 
sense only -- they were in fact carefully casting what appeared 
to be diagnostic and informational charms on it -- interspersed 
with the occasional lock-pick spell.)

I looked at my companions, and with a smile held a finger up to 
my lips in the universal (among humanoids with lips, at least) 
sign for silence.  As Charlie and Sirius watched, grinning like
maniacs, I slipped up behind the twins as stealthily as I could 
manage.  (Which, if I do say so myself, is pretty damned 
stealthy.)

"Do you want to keep at it, boys?" I asked them suddenly.  "Or 
can I just go ahead and open it now?"

When both boys jerked in surprise, Sirius and Charlie cracked up.
Gotta love people who appreciate sophisticated humor.

The twins -- although I'd been introduced to them separately not
an hour earlier, I had no idea which one was Fred and which was 
George -- looked at me for a moment as though they couldn't 
believe someone had gotten the drop on them.  Then they
exchanged glances before, in reasonable synchrony, stepping back 
to bow and wave me on to the crate.  "By all means, Professor,"
one said.

"Don't let us stand in your way," the other followed on the heels
of the first.

"Although we enjoy the challenge," the first continued.

"We'd rather see what was inside," the second concluded.

"Thank you," I said as I stepped between them, wary of some gag
or prank thanks to the extensive stories Charlie had told me
about them.  "Twinspeak, eh?  Nice trick," I added offhandedly
as I ran my hands along the lid of the crate.  "You do that a 
lot?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Thing One shrug.  "Not as much 
as some people believe."  I turned around to look at them.

"It's harder than you might think," Thing Two added.

"But if we get in the right rhythm," Thing One offered.

"We can make anything *sound* like it."  This time I saw the 
other one shrug.  "It's mainly about picking up on each other's 
cues.  As long as we say *something* that makes sense in the 
context..." 

And then he pointed at his brother, who made an exaggerated show 
of pretending to think oh-so-hard.  After a moment he smiled and
held up a finger as though just coming up with an idea.  "...Then 
it sounds like we're reading each other's minds and finishing 
each other's sentences!"  The two of them then laughed and shook 
hands, congratulating each other -- for what, I don't know, but 
it was amusing to watch.

I looked at Charlie and Sirius, over on the other end of the 
porch, and crossed my arms across my chest to indicate each twin 
with a forefinger.  "I *like* them, they're silly."

The twins then bowed to me, and thanked me effusively.  "High
praise indeed," Thing One said, wiping away an imaginary tear.
"But enough of us, it's time to open that wonderful box."

I glanced sidelong at him.  "For all you know, it could hold
nothing but my dirty laundry."  

The two of them just did a synchronized eye roll and hung 
elaborate and complementary "Please, kind sir, I was *not* born 
yesterday" expressions on their faces.

Laughing, I turned back to the crate and decided to make a show
of opening it.  I carefully and obviously touched the four points
(unmarked, of course) on the lid that needed to sense my magical
signature.  Then I laid my hand over the spot where a latch would
be if the crate were a steamer trunk, and recited the pass phrase
("I wasn't built for comfort, I was built for speed") that would 
complete the unlocking.

Then I dramatically flung the top back and over to bang on the 
far side of the crate and dropped the side to reveal my beloved
motorcycle, all two and a half shiny black-and-chrome meters of 
it.  

The twins applauded enthusiastically, and Sirius gave a low 
whistle.  "Merlin's beard, now *that's* a bike," he said 
admiringly while next to him Charlie chuckled.  The twins made 
vague noises of agreement.

"Wait until you see it in action," he murmured, but Sirius didn't
seem to have heard him.

"Thanks," I replied as I toggled the bike's anti-theft systems 
and then worked it out of the box.

Sirius walked around it as I did so, followed by a very amused-
looking Charlie.  "I've never seen its like before.  Where did 
you get it?"

I looked up with a smile from the dash.  "Oh, I built it myself
starting with a junked frame, and then a few years later a friend 
rebuilt it from the ground up."  I checked the fuel level --  
oddly enough, turbines love firewhiskey -- and eyed the battery 
charge, then climbed on.

"Wait, wait," Sirius objected.  "You're not going to start it up
here on the porch, are you?"

I winked at him while setting the turbine noise suppression to
90% of full.  "Sure!"  I hit the start button, and the turbine 
spun up with the barest whisper of sound.  I glanced over at 
Charlie, who gave me an amused wink.  I'd made frequent use of my 
bike during my stint as a dragon-keeper, both on duty and off, 
and he knew what I was going to do next.

Which was, of course, engage the grav drive and lift off the
porch entirely.  

Because I hadn't turned that option off, holographic flames 
appeared in place of the wheels.

"Wicked!" the twins declared with a single voice as Sirius just
stared.  I grinned at them and slowly drifted the bike off the
porch and into the long, broad backyard behind the house.  I spun 
in place until I was facing back toward the porch, then came in 
for a two-point landing on the stone walkway which ran down the 
center of the yard.

Instantly, the twins were next to me -- and I do mean 
"instantly", as they teleported from the porch to either side of
me with that funny little spin-in-place-and-pop thing that 
wizards do when they "apparate".  They peppered me with 
questions, which I tried to answer as best I could while powering 
down the bike.  Since most of my answers were "no, it's not 
magic", though, they were more frustrated than informed.  

Meanwhile, a chuckling Charlie sat himself down on the top step 
of the wooden stairs that led up from the yard to the porch.   
Sirius just stood there behind him, smiling and shaking his head.  
"And here I was going to tell you about *my* motorcycle and bet 
you that it was cooler than yours..."

"You've got a bike?" I asked.  "Feel up to a little ride?"

                              * * *

As it turned out, Sirius couldn't go out for a ride because he
was an escaped convict -- but innocent and framed, he claimed.  
I'll admit that my initial reaction to that admission was not 
good -- I didn't do anything to insult my nominal host, but I 
took my leave of him as quickly as I could to query Molly about 
his story.  She confirmed that it was true, complete with 
eyewitness accounts of several recent encounters with the actual 
culprit -- a man Sirius had been imprisoned for killing -- and 
his acknowledgment (if not actual confession) of guilt for the
other crimes on Sirius' record.

When I asked why he hadn't been cleared, but was instead forced 
to stay in the house 24-7 to avoid detection by the wizarding 
cops, Molly muttered something about the actual criminal never 
being caught, and Ministry officials whose positions would be 
threatened by the truth.  Which left me even less impressed with
the Ministry of Magic than I'd been earlier in the day, if that
were possible.  "If you're still unsure," she said at the end of
the whole sordid tale, "talk to the Headmaster.  He'll vouch for
Sirius."

I decided that I would, but in the meantime I had no reason to be 
impolite to the man whose house I was living in.  I thanked 
Molly, found Sirius out in the yard still admiring my motorcycle,
and came right out about my reactions to his revelation.  He
laughed, told me he appreciated my honesty, and asked me if 
Molly had reassured me enough that I felt comfortable around him.

I thought about it, and consulted my gut, and even though I was
going to quiz Headmaster Dumbledore about it when next I saw him,
I had to admit I was getting good vibes off of Sirius Black.  He
didn't *feel* like a bad guy to me.  So I admitted that yeah, I
was okay with him for the moment.  

Which led to us, the only two males in the house in their 
thirties (well, simulated thirties, for centenarian me), hanging 
out through the afternoon together.  Charlie by this time had 
vanished to spend time with his family, so it was just the two of 
us, sitting in the backyard of 12 Grimmauld Place, each with a 
bottle of wizard-brewed ale in his hand.  Sirius talked a little 
about his time in Azkaban, the high-security wizarding prison, 
and I talked about life as a Warrior and my exile, without really 
saying I was from another universe.  During Sirius's half of the 
conversation I learned about dementors, the prison's guards.  
They sounded like a variety of undead not unlike the wraiths we 
occasionally ran across back home, and I decided that I did not 
want to encounter one.  Not without proper preparation, at least.

After that, Sirius decided to change the subject to something
happier.  He downed the last of his ale, vanished the bottle, and
then dragged me off to show me both his motorcycle -- a huge, 
heavily-enchanted Triumph of a model I'd never seen before -- and 
his hippogriff -- the likes of which I'd *also* never seen 
before.  

Buckbeak and I hit it off, despite how dangerous Sirius claimed 
he could be.  I didn't see it, though -- Bucky seemed to take to 
me as soon as I walked into the makeshift paddock Sirius had made
from his late mother's bedroom, bowing like the dragons had as 
soon as he spotted me, and then generally acting like a big dog 
around me from that point on.  (Which, mind you, is pretty weird 
behavior for a creature that's half horse and half eagle.  Not 
that I complained.)

I gradually relaxed around Sirius, and decided my gut knew what
it was on about where he was concerned.  Most of the afternoon 
later, he and I made our chortling way down to dinner, discussing 
plans to break him out of the big house for just a few hours by 
getting all three of us -- Buckbeak, Sirius, and me -- out and up 
into the night sky one evening soon.  We had just determined that 
we needed to drag Charlie in on this plan (riding Buckbeak, of 
course) when we made our entrance to the dining room, right off
the foyer.

There we found a large table as packed with diners as a Norman 
Rockwell Thanksgiving painting.  It was almost as well-appointed, 
too -- Molly Weasley seemed to be a kitchen mistress of the first 
water, and had whipped up a meal for over a dozen in that dank 
and lightless workspace.

As we came through the door, Charlie was leaning back in his 
chair while addressing someone who could only be his brother 
Bill -- another freckled redhead, with his hair long and in a
ponytail and some kind of dangly earring in one lobe that I
couldn't quite make out between the distance and the low light.
"So, tell me about this bird you're dating," he said.

As Bill began to wax rhapsodic about a young lady named Fleur 
with whom he worked at Gringotts, Sirius poked a threadbare-
looking fellow sitting near the end of the table.  "Budge up, 
Moony, give us some room."

"Moony" looked up and smirked.  He seemed a bit tired and 
careworn, and a little grey around the edges, but without the air 
of cynicism and defeat that often goes with those traits.  His
robes were shabby, with patches here and there, which just added
to the effect.  "And good evening to you, too, Padfoot."  He 
seemed to notice me for the first time, and held out his hand.  
"Remus Lupin.  Sirius and I are old schoolmates."

I suppressed an urge to start singing the "Dennis Moore" song and 
shook his hand, which was only the latest in a long series that 
didn't evince any signs of stopping any time soon.  "Doug 
Sangnoir.  I'd guessed that might be the case from the 
nicknames."  I turned to look at Sirius.  "Padfoot?"

Ignoring me, he said, "Doug here is the new Professor of Defense
at Hogwarts, Moony."

Lupin's eyebrows shot up almost into his hairline.  "Really?  
Well, then, we should talk.  I was Defense professor there two
years ago."

"And the best one we've ever had, too," the teen with the glasses 
and the unruly black hair -- Harry, was it? -- called out from 
the other end of the table.  Lupin had the grace to look somewhat 
embarrassed at that.

I grinned.  "Ah, a victim of the infamous curse.  How long did 
you last?"

Embarrassment turned to sheepishness mixed with... regret?  And
maybe a little anger?  "Almost the full year.  I was let go just
a couple of weeks before the end of the spring term."

I could tell the circumstances around that were a sensitive 
issue with him, so I didn't push for details.  "Far better than
some.  Yes, we'll have to sit down one evening soon -- I'm only
staying here for a week."

This time one eyebrow only rose, as he glanced between me and
Sirius.  "Just a week?"

I shrugged.  "Until my paperwork clears.  Then I can move in to
quarters at Hogwarts itself."

He nodded.  "Ah, I see.  I was rather a late hire, myself, and
arrived with the students on the first day; I didn't have much
chance to settle in before the term started."  He leaned forward 
and stage-whispered, "I'm afraid I hadn't had much time to 
prepare a syllabus either.  I ended up improvising most of my
first week or so of classes."

Chuckling, I said, "I get the hint."  A thought struck me.  "You
know, maybe we can chat after dinner tonight?  I'm going to this
Diagon Alley of yours tomorrow for supplies, and I'd like to get 
your recommendations for textbooks."  I shrugged.  "I have no 
idea what's on the shelves here."

"Certainly!" Lupin replied.  "In fact, I..."

Sirius placed a hand over his mouth.  "Shop talk later, Moony.
Dinner now.  Or Molly will skewer us."

"Sirius Black!" that worthy huffed indignantly from her seat next
to an older red-headed gentleman who had to be her husband 
Arthur.  Laughing, Sirius and I took our seats.

                              * * *

After dinner, as the dirty dishes were being levitated off the 
table and down into the kitchen, I had the opportunity to 
formally meet both Arthur and Bill Weasley.  

Bill was *still* talking about his girlfriend when the meal 
ended.  He clearly had it bad for her.  It was equally clear that 
neither Molly nor his sister Ginny thought very much of her, if I 
were reading their identical expressions of distaste correctly.  
On the other hand, his brother Ron seemed to have been 
conditioned, Pavlovian-style, to drool at the sound of her name.

>From all this, I deduced that Fleur must be a very attractive 
girl.

Charlie managed to get him to shut up about her (ah, young love!)
long enough to be introduced.  When the inevitable handshake was
taken care of, Charlie added, "Doug here's the new Professor of
Defense at Hogwarts.  We're going into Diagon tomorrow morning to 
get him set up with supplies -- d'you want to come along?"

Bill's broad smile was infectious.  "Since I took the morning off
to spend time with you, what choice do I have?"  He laughed.  
"Sure, we can steer him away from the clip joints."

"Thanks," I said.  "Although, you know, if you don't want a 
complete stranger horning in on your brotherly bonding time, I'm
sure I can get by alone."

"No, no," Bill said.  "If you've never been to Diagon Alley 
before, you'll never find anything without a guide."

"Or a pair of guides," Charlie amended.

"Before my boys begin planning out your day for you," came a 
softer voice from behind me, not unlike Bill and Charlie's, "if I 
may?"  I turned around to find myself face-to-face with Charlie's
dad, who held out *his* hand.  "Arthur Weasley.  A pleasure to
meet you, Professor Sangnoir."

"Oh, please, just 'Doug', at least until school starts," I said 
with a smile as we shook.  Behind me, Charlie and Bill apparently 
*were* planning out my day, starting with something called 
"Flourishing Blots" and proceeding from there.

"Oh, certainly, if that's what you prefer," Mr. Weasley replied.  
"In which case, please call me Arthur."

"Thank you, Arthur.  A pleasure to meet you as well."

"We've heard quite a bit about you through Charlie's letters 
these last few weeks," Arthur said, ushering me out of the 
dining room and into the foyer.  "Some of it quite... difficult 
to believe.  We thought he might be telling tall tales," he added
with a smile as he led me into a sitting room.

I settled into a burgundy leather wingback armchair -- *very*
comfortable -- as Arthur seated himself opposite me in another
which was identical to mine except it was a deep, royal blue.
"I can imagine how you might think so, but unless he was 
particularly outrageous, he probably told you the truth.  For
example, I *did* knock out a dragon with a single punch -- but
it was more accident and luck than a deliberate act.  The dice
rolling in my favor, you might say."

Arthur leaned forward in his seat.  "Still, it was something 
quite astounding to hear of."

I nodded.  "Yeah, I can see that."

"And not knowing what to believe, finding out that Charlie was
recommending you to Albus for the Defense professorship, I 
thought he was perhaps being a bit..."  He trailed off with a 
little shrug.

"Optimistic?" I asked.

He chuckled.  "That's one way -- a very diplomatic way -- of 
putting it.  But seeing as Albus actually hired you..."  

I held up a hand.  "Given what I've heard about my immediate 
predecessors, you shouldn't necessarily take that as evidence of 
my competence."

Arthur laughed outright.  "No, I suppose I shouldn't, should I?"

We chatted for a good quarter hour, mostly about Hogwarts and the
history of the defense professorship.  It was a good, idle 
after-dinner conversation -- something I don't usually get much
of, given the worlds and places I've been.  All we needed was a
snifter of brandy each to look the perfect cliche.

We'd just reached a natural lull in the conversation when there
was an interruption, almost as if scheduled.

"Ah, there you are."  Remus suddenly appeared at the entrance to
the sitting room.  "May I join you?"

"Sure," I said, waving at a nearby seat that he could easily
carry over to our little nook.

"Actually," Arthur said, suddenly standing up, "I think I should
go help Molly in the kitchen with the last of the clean-up.  You
sit here, Remus," he said, gesturing to the chair he'd just 
vacated.  "Doug, I'd love to talk to you some more later.  I 
understand you're muggleborn?  Perhaps we can discuss plugs."

"Plugs?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

"Oh yes!" Arthur enthused.  "I have quite the collection.  Well,
excuse me."  And with that he left the room.

Remus chuckled softly as he took Arthur's place across from me.
I looked at him and said, "Plugs?"

He shook his head, smiling.  "Arthur's very keen on muggle 
technology, but he doesn't understand it at all.  I'm not quite 
sure why he seized on *plugs* to express his obsession, but there 
you have it."  He lifted his head and caught my eyes.  "So I take 
it you already know that Defense education at Hogwarts these last
few years has been... well, 'irregular' would be the kindest word
for it."

"Yes," I said.  "Charlie's told me some, as has Arthur just now, 
and the Headmaster a bit more this morning.  Is it really as bad 
as it seems?"

"Possibly worse," Remus confirmed.  "In the past four years, two
of the professors have been incompetent, one was a disguised 
Death Eater, and, well, one was me."  

"Death Eater?" I asked with a frown.  "Oh, right, a follower of 
that Voldemort character."

Remus shuddered at the sound of the name, and I wondered for a
moment just what the hell was up with that.  Had Flight-of-Emo
been *so* horrible that he'd turned into some kind of bogeyman 
in the popular memory?  Everyone but the Headmaster seemed to 
jump whenever his name was mentioned, and to a one they preferred 
to use all manner of euphemisms when referring to him.

"Oddly enough," Remus said when he'd finished shuddering, "the
Death Eater was a competent instructor, if a little extreme..."

"Talk about your irony," I interjected.

He nodded.  "And I do believe I acquitted myself well during my
term there."

"What about before that?  Five and more years ago?" I asked, 
leaning back and steepling my hands before my face.

Remus sighed as he sat back as well, almost vanishing into the
shadowed depths of the chair.  "Even worse, I've been told."

"Joy."  I thought about this.  "That means every student 
currently in the school has had at best a half-assed education in
magical self-defense during an age of equally magical 
terrorists."

"I'm afraid so," Remus said from the shadows.

"Well, then."  I laced my fingers and rested my chin on top of
them.  "I suppose I'm just going to have to make up for all that
lost time.  Somehow."

"I'll give you a list of all seven years' standard texts to pick 
up on your shopping trip tomorrow," he said.  "If you can read
through them all before classes start, you'll know what you need
to cover."

"Oh, I can do that, easily," I murmured as I considered my 
options.  

"You're not limited to the standard texts, though," he added.
"You can specify your own choice of textbooks, if you get your
list to Professor McGonagall quickly enough."

I caught his eyes, a glitter in the shadow of one of the chair's
wings.  "Got any suggestions?"

White teeth joined the eyes in that shadow.  "I know a few books
that are a bit more... aggressive in their approach than the
standard texts."

A smile grew on my face to match his.  "Tell me more."



END OF CHAPTER ONE

------------------------------------

This work of fiction is copyright (C) 2012, Robert M. Schroeck, 
and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-
Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

The Harry Potter universe and the settings and the characters 
thereof are the property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner 
Brothers, and are used without permission.

"Douglas Q. Sangnoir," "Looney Toons", "The Loon" and any
representations thereof are copyright by and trademarks of Robert
M. Schroeck.

Lyrics from "Wind's Four Quarters", recorded by Leslie Fish,
words by Mercedes Lackey, music by Leslie Fish, copyright (C) 
1989 by Firebird Arts & Music of Oregon, Inc.

Lyrics from "Bad for Good", recorded by Jim Steinman, words and
music by Jim Steinman, copyright (C) 1981 by SBK Songs.

These and all other quotes are included in this fiction without
permission under the "fair use" provisions of international
copyright law.

For a full explanation of the references and hidden tidbits in
this story, see the Drunkard's Walk VIII Concordance at:

	http://www.accessdenied-rms.net/dw8conc.shtml

Other chapters of this story (when there are any), along with
other parts of the Drunkard's Walk saga, can be found at:

	http://www.accessdenied-rms.net/dwmain.shtml

The Drunkard's Walk discussion board is open for those who wish
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	http://drunkardswalkforums.yuku.com

Many thanks to my prereaders on this chapter:  Christopher 
Angel, Kathleen Avins, Nathan Baxter, Ed Becerra, Andrew Carr, 
Kevin Cody, Logan Darklighter, Helen Imre, Eric James, Josh 
Megerman, Berg Oswell, Peggy Schroeck and Amanda Stair-Duran.

C&C gratefully accepted.