[FFML] {HP] {XOVER] Drunkard's Walk VIII, Chapter 4

[Bob Schroeck]

Okay, I wasn't expecting the attachment to get scrubbed.  Let's try
pasting it in its entirety.  If that doesn't work, you can read the
chapter on my website, at http://www.acccessdenied-rms.net/dw8-04.shtml

-- 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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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





4.  Gee, Mr. Wizard, What Are We Learning Today?

...[W]hen it comes to stuff written about magic, 99.9% of
everything is crap.  -- P.E.I. Bonewits, "Real Magic"

Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths
theater.  -- Gail Godwin

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams.
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.
-- Arthur Machen, "Dreamer's Ode"




    *Slytherin House
    Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
    7 September 1995*

    *Dear Father:*

    *Thank you for your replies this week, and please thank Mother
    also for the cakes and pastries.  My yearmates and I enjoyed
    them greatly.*
    
    *I regret to say that, like you, I have little new or of value
    to report.  I have noted that Professor Sangnoir has taken a
    personal dislike to me, but it does not affect his teaching;
    he does not single me out for humiliation in his classes, nor
    does he assign me arbitrary point deductions and detentions.
    At least he is as even-handed with Light-aligned students; I
    can find no bias at all in his rewards or punishments...*

                              * * *

Hogwarts, Great Hall. Tuesday, September 3, 1995, 7:51 AM

On the second day of classes, Harry spent the early part of his
breakfast brooding over the events of the previous evening.
Seamus Finnegan, whom Harry had thought of as a friend, if not to
the same degree as Ron or even Neville, had clearly bought into
every accusation and insult the *Prophet* had slung at Harry over
the summer.  Now Seamus regarded Harry as a liar and a madman and
maybe even a threat to his safety.

"Hullo, Harry Potter."

At the sound of that dreamy greeting, Harry turned away from his
brooding to find the strange Ravenclaw girl from the Express
standing behind him, still wearing her radish earrings and the
necklace of butterbeer corks.  He struggled for a moment to
remember her name, taking in her dirty blonde hair and gray
(almost silver) eyes before it came back to him -- Lovegood, Luna
Lovegood.

He turned completely around on the bench to face her.  "Good
morning, Luna."

She tilted her head, her wide eyes not quite resting on him in a
way that reminded him uncomfortably of the Headmaster's
"precautionary measure".  "You had Defence yesterday," she said
flatly.

Harry glanced to his side, where Ron simply shrugged.  "Yes, I
did," he said after a moment.

She tilted her head the other way, her gaze shifting to somewhere
past his other shoulder in the process.  "What does Professor
Sangnoir know about blue-tailed eyebiters?"

"Um."  Harry craned his neck to look back at Hermione, who also
shrugged.

"He mentioned throwing salt at one," she offered, "as an example
of the kind of thing we *wouldn't* be learning."

Luna's gaze now not-quite-rested on Hermione, and she nodded
slowly.  "Of course not.  Salt is useless against eyebiters of
any variety."  She tilted her head back in the first direction,
and Harry was struck by the irrelevant thought that she looked
like the world's slowest metronome.  "Daddy's done an extensive
study of the genus *oculomordus*," she confided before turning
and walking back to the Ravenclaw table.

Baffled, Harry watched her until she sat down, then turned back
around to his breakfast.  Next to him, Ron shook his head.
"Mental, that one," he muttered.

                              * * *

Unlike dinner's rigid seating plan, once the school year began
the arrangements for breakfast at the high table varied from day
to day.  There were a few constants:  Albus's throne always
remained at the center, Minerva was always to his right, and
Wilhelmina always sat in the doublewide at the far end past her.
But beyond that, though, it was catch-as-catch-can, and one's
morning dining companions frequently shifted, even before the
term formally began and the individual instructors' schedules
were taken into account.

I liked that, as it meant my morning conversational partners were
not restricted to Sybill and Severus (or, as I had privately
labeled them, the Dip and the Grump).  Of course, it also meant
that I was sometimes at Rolanda's mercy for an entire meal, but I
quickly learned that if I timed my arrival properly, I could
usually avoid spending up to sixty full minutes trying to ignore
her passes and pinches.

This morning, after another rousing plunge through the castle
stairwells, I was seated between Filius and Pomona and enjoying
myself thoroughly.

"So, Doug," Filius asked as he scooped scrambled eggs onto his
platter.  "How did you find your first day of classes?"

"Oh, it was easy," I said around bites of toast.  "I just went to
the classroom wing and there it was, waiting for me."

Filius's eyes went wide for a moment, and he broke into tiny
belly laughs just a second behind Pomona's own unladylike
guffaws.  "I must admit," he said amid a last couple chuckles,
"that I do enjoy your company much more than that of most of your
recent predecessors."

"Merlin's beard, yes!" Pomona added.  "Why, last year..."  She
stopped short.  "Well, perhaps I shouldn't go into that.  Remus
Lupin two years back was friendly, if quiet, but Lockhart before
him was a bore."  She fanned herself.  "I can't believe I found
the man so attractive at the time.  Now that I recall it, he only
spoke of himself, and that to excess."

Thinking of the books of his I'd found in my classroom (and their
quantity), I nodded.  "Why does that not surprise me?" I
muttered, and Pomona grimaced.

Filius disguised another chuckle as a cough into his napkin, then
said, "Back to topic, though, Doug.  I understand you had the
Gryffindor and Slytherin fifth-years yesterday."

I nodded as I swallowed a bite of eggs.  "Yeah, together in a
double in the afternoon.  Why?"

He shot me a strange, neutral look.  "You'll find that most of
the excitement that happens throughout the year tends to follow
that class, those two Houses in particular.  What with the
Troublesome Trio on the one hand..."

"Troublesome Trio?" I interrupted, fork halfway between my plate
and my lips.

"Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, though it
seems at times that Ron's younger sister Ginny is intent on
making it the Troublesome Quartet," Pomona explained.  "All in
Gryffindor.  If *anything* out of the ordinary is happening in
the school, they're usually in the thick of it."

"I'm familiar with them, though maybe not as much as I thought.
Serious troublemakers?" I asked, remembering my thoughts at the
previous night's feast.

"Oh, no!" Pomona sat up straight.  "Well, not really.  More
trouble*catchers* than trouble*makers*.  Poor Harry... it really
isn't his fault, but so much has happened to him."

"You mean besides what's in the history books?" I asked.

Filius nodded so vigorously he almost tumbled out of his seat.
"Oh, my, yes.  Last year, for instance, was such a terrible
ordeal for him, what with the way the rest of the school treated
him for so long -- and all the stories in the *Prophet* didn't
help at all..."

"I see."  I didn't, but then again my "recent history" research
*had* stopped at the period just before Harry's first year, and
the *Daily Prophet*'s current series of hatchet-jobs were low on
details that were unnecessary for a good old-fashioned character
assassination.  All I knew was that it had to do with Lord Emo's
resurrection (and I'd already guessed Harry's involvement with
that) along with some kind of tournament.  Best to rectify that
quickly.  I wondered if there was a collection of back issues in
the library; I'd have to check after dinner.  Failing that, I'd
probably have to visit Diagon Alley and see if I could get access
to the *Prophet*'s morgue.

"So, is it just them?" I asked as I nibbled on a rasher of bacon.

"Oh, no," Pomona chuckled.  "We have a whole collection in fifth
year, including the niece of the Director of Magical Law
Enforcement, the children of several members of the Wizengamot
and the Hogwarts board of governors..."

"Including Draco Malfoy," Filius interjected.

I snorted.  "*Him* I've noticed.  Arrogant little snot."

Pomona nodded.  "Very privileged, and very aware of it.  You'll
no doubt grow sick of the phrase 'When my father hears of this'
quickly enough."  She actually growled.  "The boy is an
unprincipled bully, as well.  I've done what I can to slap him
down, but to no avail."

"Oh, and we have the spawn of the Black Widow," Filius threw in
just as I lifted my tea to my lips.

I managed not to spit-take at that.  "The what?"

"Antonia Zabini," Pomona said, leaning in conspiratorially.
"Seven husbands in less than twenty years, and they *all* died
mysteriously, leaving her every Knut in their vaults."

"Now, now, Pomona, nothing's ever been proven," Filius chided.
"Either way."  He turned back to me.  "As I was saying, Blaise
Zabini is among our oh-so-interesting fifth years."

I wracked my brains trying to recall Blaise Zabini from my roll
call the day before.  "Tiny Sicilian-looking girl, all porcelain
skin and raven hair?"

Filius gave me a strange look.  "No, the tall brown-skinned boy."
He nodded toward the Slytherin table.  "There."

And so he was, as part of the clique surrounding Draco "I've
Stolen Andy Warhol's Hair" Malfoy.  Huh.  I must have not been
looking up -- or listening closely -- when he replied during the
roll call.  I glanced around the Hall, and saw no one who matched
the description of the girl I'd thought I'd seen in his place.
Weird.  "Okay," I said slowly.  "I could have sworn...  oh, well.
So, he's hanging with young Mister Malfoy.  Is he just as
obnoxious?"

Pomona pursed her lips.  "Not as obnoxious, no, but while he
holds himself separate for the most part, he does share most if
not all of the same beliefs."

"Joy," I muttered.  "Another baby terrorist."  I'd received my
introduction to the Blood Purity movement within hours of my
arrival on this Earth, thanks to Charlie and his explanation of
who Voldemort was and what he was all about.  But until I ended
up at Grim Old Number 12 I hadn't actually had much first-hand
experience with it -- the guys at the dragon preserve were a
relaxed lot who didn't care much about your blood as long as you
could wrangle the big lizards.  The Romanian wizards I'd met on
the odd trip off the preserve seemed pretty unconcerned about
blood, too, though I can't say I did a lot of socializing with
them.

It was only when I ended up in the Black ancestral home that I
really got my first exposure to followers of the ideology (if at
one remove), and that to one of the more extreme families devoted
to the idea.  As I had expected, I found it all about as
appealing as an Aryan Brotherhood meeting or a THAMF tract.  To
discover that there was a significant bloc of students embracing
those beliefs upset me more than a little.  To further discover
that many of them were the children of Lord Emo's Emo-ettes and
were apparently tasked with actively promoting the agenda and
persecuting *die magische Juden* when they could get away with
it...  Well, that pissed me off big-time.

Albus had sworn up and down that he was sure he could sway them
to the side of the Light (his words, not mine).  I wasn't so
sure, but I was also aware that it was likely to be my own bias
speaking in defiance of my ethics, and stomped down on it.  If I
could give the demon Mara a second chance, I had damned well
better give a bunch of school kids one, too.

Nothing said I couldn't do my own share of convincing, though.
I made a mental note to come up with at least one lecture that
would address the subject -- and another on logical fallacies,
to be given immediately before.

"Oh, and before I forget," Filius piped up, shaking me out of my
musings, "Minerva's calling a staff meeting tomorrow night to
determine chaperone duties for the Hogsmeade weekends this year."
Right, the kids' monthly day to run wild in the nearby Wizarding
village.

Pomona shook her head.  "I swear, if she proposes a round of
cards again to decide who gets which weekends..."  Catching sight
of my raised eyebrow, she coughed and explained.  "Unless someone
has a conflict we have to work around, we usually use some random
method to pick the chaperones for each of the Hogsmeade weekends.
Minerva's a bit of a card-shark..."

"Among other people," I interrupted dryly, and Pomona shot me a
smug little grin.  She knew very well that I'd quit the faculty
game because of the last time she'd trounced me in it.

"As I was saying," she continued, still grinning, "Minerva likes
to turn the whole thing into an elimination tournament, with the
early losers getting stuck watching over the mid-winter weekends,
and the winners getting fall or spring dates."

I thought about that as I chewed a forkful of sausage.  "I'm
sure I'll be happy with whatever assignments I end up getting."

"Not familiar with winter weather in Northern Scotland, are you?"
Filius asked smugly.

                              * * *

Day two of classes started simply enough, with the morning split
between second-years and third-years.  I gave them the same basic
introduction (not much time, this will be hard, you'll hate me)
that I'd been giving all but the first-years before launching
into material from the appropriate syllabi.

It was the first class after lunch when things got... odd.

It was a double-long with fourth-year Ravenclaws and Slytherins,
their first DADA class of the year.  Again with the introduction,
followed by the roll call, and then the instruction.

And then it got weird...

"...which is how we know the Ministry is building an army of
heliopaths."  The girl was the one I'd seen parting from the
12 Grim crew when they'd entered the Great Hall that first night:
long dirty-blonde hair, eyes so grey they were almost metallic
silver in color, slender almost but not quite to the point of
emaciation.  Her voice was thin and dreamy and seemed to wander
aimlessly through various tones and pitches even as her gaze
wandered randomly about the room.  Her name was Luna Lovegood,
and something about her struck me with a profound sense of deja
vu from the moment she'd responded during roll call.

I had no idea how she had ended up discussing the Wizarding
government's secret army of heliopaths, whatever the hell they
were supposed to be.  (Of course I could parse the word's Greek
roots; that didn't clarify matters. I made a mental note to
corner Wilhelmina and ask her.)  What I *had* asked Miss Lovegood
to describe was where their instruction the previous year had
left them in knowledge and skill.

As she stood there expectantly, the voice of Terry Jones drifted
across my mind:  "And that, my liege, is how we know the Earth to
be banana-shaped."  I valiantly resisted the urge to imitate
Graham Chapman's follow-up and ask her how sheep's bladders could
be used to prevent earthquakes.  Gods help me, she might have had
an answer ready!  Instead, I decided to feed her a straight line,
just to see what would happen.  So I fixed her with a stern gaze
and said, "Surely you're not serious."

She turned her wandering gaze more or less back to me, tilted her
head slowly, then replied, "Of course I'm not serious.  Stubby
Boardman is.  And don't call me Shirley."

I resisted the urge to grin.  Oh, she was good, and not half as
crazy as she made herself out to be.  I could get to like Miss
Luna Lovegood, I could.  Oh, yes, indeed.

Oh, and I gave her five points for spinning a good yarn.

                              * * *

By the time classes ended, the stormy weather had finally broken
and save for an intermittent sprinkle the day looked to end much
drier than it had started.  It was still a few hours short of
sunset and while the sky hadn't cleared yet, it had become
comfortably cool, with a breeze that was just strong enough to
feel pleasant and nowhere near strong enough to start robbing you
of body heat.

After shooing out my last class and closing down for the day, I
headed out to talk to Wilhelmina.  Although she had a classroom
proper in the castle, most days she held her classes outdoors, in
and around a collection of sheds, corrals and pens which housed
the various critters whose ecology, care and feeding she taught.
Thus it was down to her magical barnyard that I dashed.  As I'd
hoped, she was still there, distributing feed and cleaning out
stalls with waves of her wand.

We traded greetings, and then she gave me the grand tour as she
completed her end-of-day duties.  Which is how I learned that
hippogriffs like me, unicorns don't, and flobberworms are
disgusting.  And that Scotland possessed its very own counterpart
to the mosquito called the midge, and that I liked them as little
as I did their transatlantic cousins.

I also learned that Wilhelmina had no idea what the hell
"Shirley" had been talking about, either.  "That poor girl," she
said, "is not quite right in the head.  Takes after her father
that way, what with his newspaper publishing articles about all
manner of creatures that simply don't exist.  I have no idea what
a 'heliopath' is supposed to be, Douglas, but I can assure you
there is no such thing.  And it goes without saying that the
Ministry is most certainly *not* raising up an army of them."

And that, apparently, was that -- at least for Wilhelmina.  But I
was certain that Luna Lovegood was anything but "not quite right
in the head".  As someone who had often used a crazy act himself
to keep others off-balance and confused, I was pretty sure I
recognized the signs.  She might not have had the same
motivations as I did, but the methods were close enough.

Miss Lovegood and her heliopaths aside, there was one other
reason I'd trudged out through the still-muddy grounds to talk to
Wilhelmina.  Now that I'd gotten the first couple of school days
out of the way and was feeling a bit more secure in what I was
doing, it was time to start my investigation into the whereabouts
of one Tom Marvolo Riddle, aka Lord Flight-of-Emo.

(And may I just say that I always got a private laugh out of
using that name for him.  Besides deliberately mocking the dark
grandeur he obviously intended for his monicker, it also sounded
like the name of a horrible cover band that only performed songs
by A Flock of Seagulls and The Cure.  And somehow that struck me
as just so *right*.)

Anyway, after much thought, I had decided that for my first try,
I was going to do something fun and interesting -- not to mention
something that as far as I could tell was completely out-of-
context for wand wizards.

And to do that I needed to pick Wilhelmina's brains about what
magical and mundane critters there were in the vicinity of
Hogwarts.  Which I did, for close to half an hour.

Thanking her for her time, I made my way back to the castle.  As
I did, my thoughts bounced back and forth between my plans to
find Lord Emo and pondering the curious case of Miss Lovegood.
Wilhelmina's comment about the girl's father and his newspaper
had piqued my curiosity.  So after dinner, I headed to the
library not only to check for recent issues of the *Prophet* per
my earlier plans, but also to find out more about newspaper
publishers named "Lovegood".  And promptly discovered that the
Wizarding world had its own version of the "Weekly World News",
only without the obvious wink-and-nod to the readership.

Well.  That certainly did explain a lot about Miss Lovegood.  The
ability to fake being bonkers with a perfectly straight face was
probably genetic.

It also explained the "Stubby Boardman" comment.  Oh, yes, there
was definitely much more to Luna Lovegood than met the eye.

                              * * *

Gryffindor Common Room.  Tuesday, September 3, 1995, 7:11 PM

"I *swear*!" Ginny averred, holding one hand up and the other
over her heart.  "I thought he was going to *die*!  I thought *I*
was going to die, watching him!  Then he just sort of grabbed
part of the stairs below, did this twirl thing and then shot
right back up to *talk to us*."  She giggled.  "About how
important *breakfast* was, of all things."

Between their class schedules and Ginny's desire to eat with
friends in her year, the Gryffindor common room that evening was
the first chance any of them had to hear her first-hand account
of the morning's incident on the stairs.

"What, was he just floating there?" Ron demanded.

"No!" Ginny exclaimed.  "He was just, you know, coming back up
before falling back down."  She gestured vaguely with both hands,
and added, "And then he just swung from one part of the stairs to
another until he was all the way back down on the floor again."

"Huh."  Harry looked up from the chessboard where he battled Ron,
and thought about that for a moment.  "Like an acrobat, but I
wouldn't think you could *do* acrobatics in robes."

"I would think that the aerodynamics would make it all but
impossible," Hermione mused, her eyes half-closed and gazing at
nothing in particular as she worked her knitting needles.  "He
would have to be extraordinarily skilled -- almost..."  Her eyes
shot open for a moment as her mouth closed with a snap.

"Almost what?" Harry demanded.

"Yeah, Hermione, what?" Ron chimed in, still contemplating his
next move.

She glanced around at the three of them.  "Almost... superhuman."

None of them said anything for several seconds.  The squeals and
cries of several first years on the other side of the common room
filled the air between them before attracting Hermione's
attention.  "Oh, for the love of..." she growled.  Dropping the
misshapen attempt at a knitted cap she had been making, she shot
up off the couch to stalk across the room.  "Fred!  George!  What
are you giving those children?"

Harry watched her lay into the twins before looking back at Ron
and Ginny.  For some reason, Hermione's pronouncement made him
want to rub his eyes and groan.  Instead, he settled for a brief
sigh.  "Superhuman?" he asked neither of them in particular.

"Mental," Ron declared without raising his eyes from the board.
He moved a piece.  "Checkmate."

"Bloody hell," Harry said without heat.

                              * * *

I spent an hour or so after dinner in my office doing paperwork.
Before I could head to London for martial arts equipment, I
needed a good idea of the sizes and quantities I was going to
require.  So I did up a quick form querying height, weight and
other specifics (because the Wizard-born weren't likely to know
from standard sizes), and after about a half-dozen tries my magic
chicken managed to make me about a hundred duplicates to hand out
to my older students the next morning.

That done, I then retired for the evening to my rooms.  I made
sure the door to my quarters was securely bolted -- not that it
would stop an unlocking charm, but hey, force of habit -- then
paused.

"Twonky?" I said uncertainly.  I hadn't called on the little
creature since he (she? it?  I *still* didn't know) had helped me
unpack weeks before, but I decided that, after all the talking at
the meeting, I wanted a cup of tea before moving on to the next
item on the evening's agenda, and quite frankly didn't feel like
trying to find the kitchens at this time of night.

No sooner had the name left my lips than there was a soft "pop"
and the house-elf appeared before me.  "Professor Looney called
Twonky?" it asked in its piping voice.

I boggled for a moment.  "Where did you learn that name for me?"

Twonky tilted its head.  "House-elves *knows* who they serve,"
it said matter-of-factly, far more voluble than it had been at
our first meeting.  "We finds out so we serves them the right
ways.  You is the Crazy Songs, and the Rider Between the Worlds,
and the Wizard of War.  And you is sworn and sword to She-Who-
Flies-With-Lightnings."

Well, that certainly was *one* way to describe Hexe.  That the
house-elves had *somehow* found all that out was, frankly, more
than a little disturbing.  "Um.... right," I mumbled, deciding to
table the whole thing until a later, more comfortable moment.
"Right," I repeated, remembering why I'd called on Twonky in the
first place.  "Can you please bring me a cup of tea, strong and
sweet?"

It bobbed its head once.  "Twonky do," it chirped, and then
popped away.  A moment later, another pop, and it was back with a
steaming cuppa on a saucer, which it lifted up to me.  I accepted
the tea from the little creature, and took an experimental sip of
the almost coffee-colored liquid.

Perfect.

Maybe there was something to this "knowing who they serve"
business.

"Thank you, Twonky," I said.

"You is welcome," it said and popped away.

My quarters as a professor were a small but pleasant suite --
sitting room, bedroom and private bath.  One end of the sitting
room was taken up by a largish fireplace, in front of which were
an end table and a comfortable armchair I had already grown far
too fond of.  I settled myself into the chair and watched the
fire as I sipped my tea.

When I was done, I left the cup and saucer on the end table and
walked into my bedroom.  I pulled my helmet out of my wardrobe,
set it in place on my head, then laid down on my bed.  I wriggled
a bit to make sure I was comfortable, then, after the computer
had finished booting, I said, "System.  Load song 'Long
Distance'.  Play song."  And as Ray Davies began to sing, I
focused on my target.

    "Spent last winter playing in the sand
     With the prisoners of the motherland
     Damn hotel is feeling like a cell..."

*Merlin's baggy Y-fronts!  Where's that bloody bell coming from?*

*Um,* I projected.  *That would be me.  Hi, Sirius, how're things
hanging in beautiful 12 Grim?*

*Doug?  What the bloody hell are you doing inside my head?*

I chuckled in spite of myself.  *I'm not inside your head, I'm
sending to it.  You wanted me to keep you up to date on how
Harry was doing at school, and I figured this would be a good way
to do it.*

He laughed, which came through the telepathic link with
surprising clarity.  *Figures you couldn't be like any other
wizard and just send a note by owl.*

I sent the image of a shrug across the connection.  *Why be
normal?*

*Why indeed?*  And I could see his grin.  *So, tell me, how's my
godson doing?*

*Well, first, why didn't you mention that Harry was the famous
Harry Potter?*  "Long Distance" only lasted five minutes and 23
seconds, but that was more than enough time for me to bring
Sirius up to date -- and to give him some of the simple, ordinary
human contact he so desperately needed, stuck alone in that
haunted horror of a house.

Some time later, as I prepared for bed, I glanced over at the
chest of drawers on which I had set up all my photographs and
other (small) keepsakes.  Involuntarily, my eyes locked onto the
jewel case that lay flat on the dresser top in front of the
mystery photo of Makoto and friends, and onto the silvery disk
within it.

For a moment I was tempted to take it out and use it for the
purpose for which it had been given to me -- contacting one of
the very few gods whom I could trust, a god who felt she *owed*
me and had promised to be there if I needed her, even if only to
talk.

But here at Hogwarts I wasn't alone, and I wasn't lonely, and for
the first time in a while my life was pretty good.  Regardless of
what Marller had said, I would not call upon any of the gods
lightly.

Calling Charlie, though... that was something to consider for the
next evening.

                              * * *

Wednesday, September 4, 1995, 10:50 AM

"Honestly!  What were they thinking?" Hermione huffed.  Harry and
Ron glanced at each other over her head and shared an eyeroll.
As she had almost every free moment since the night before,
Hermione was fuming over the twins' latest venture.  They had
come up with sweets which produced counterfeit illnesses for
getting out of classes, and had been paying first-year
Gryffindors to test them. Even when she'd put a stop to it with a
judicious threat to write their mother, she continued to complain
about their behavior, as though it had been a personal affront.

She'd been so preoccupied by it that Harry was afraid that he and
Ron would have to drag her along as they dashed from Gryffindor
Tower to Transfiguration class.  The shortest route took them
through the entry hall, though, and they were forced to a halt as
a flood of third-year Hufflepuffs in grass-stained robes streamed
in from outside, chattering excitedly.  The open doors let in a
cool fall breeze, not yet cold enough to be uncomfortable.

One young Hufflepuff, not watching where he was going as he
gesticulated wildly to his companions, ran right into Harry, who
caught him before either of them could be knocked down.  "Hey,"
Harry said gently, "you need to watch where you're going."

The younger boy's eyes tracked up to Harry's scar and widened;
Harry suppressed a groan.  "Sorry!" he blurted, as his friends
paused, waiting for him with a silence that was entirely too
fearful and respectful both for Harry's peace of mind.

"What's got you all so worked up?" Ron asked, and Harry gave a
silent thanks.

"Oh!" one of the Hufflepuffs piped up.  "It was brilliant!  We
had Defence out on the lawn!  Professor Sangnoir took us outside
because it was nice, and we sat in a big circle on the grass
around him while he taught."

"Yeah!" another chirped.  "He was talking about how important
'situational awareness' was, and he was doing all kind of
wandless stuff to demonstrate."

"An' keep us jumping," the first one added.

"Wait, wandless?" Hermione demanded, her preoccupation with the
twins and their antics now forgotten.

"Oh yeah!  And silent, too -- he's really good!"  The group
nodded as one.  "He'd just be talking 'bout how you had to keep a
little part of your attention on the world around you at all
times, and suddenly a pillow'd come outta nowhere and drop on
someone's head.  And if they didn't dodge it, they lost a point."

"An' if they did, they *got* a point," another said.  The third-
years shared grins.  "We made *lots* of points today, all of us."

"C'mon, guys," said the one who'd run into Harry.  "We're gonna
be late for Charms!"  And with that they dashed off.

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.  "Is it even
*possible* to cast silently while talking?" Ron asked.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger," a cheerful tenor voice
rang out across the entry hall.  Professor Sangnoir had followed
the Hufflepuffs in, smiling broadly.  He wore deep indigo robes
this morning, and a familiar grey helmet swung by its chinstrap
from his left hand.  "Good morning!"  He paused to raise an
eyebrow at them.  "You're going to be late to your next class if
you don't get a move on, you know."

"Oh, crap," Ron muttered, and the three of them took off,
leaving the professor and the latest strangeness concerning him
behind.

                              * * *

Wednesday, September 4, 1995, 6:30 PM

It had been a very good day, both teaching-wise and weather-wise,
which put me in a very pleased and confident mood in which to
launch my anti-Voldemort intelligence operations.  Although
between my bike and judicious song usage I had considerably
better mobility than anyone else in the castle (to put it
mildly), I couldn't afford to actually use it -- my teaching and
other faculty responsibilities required my physical presence at
Hogwarts for most of the week.  This left me with insufficient
time to either personally conduct a thorough investigation or vet
and assemble a network of spies and informants to do the job for
me.

There are in my repertoire a few songs with informational
effects, giving me what Wizarding Britain would call Divination.
(Though gods help me I would never admit it anywhere near Sybill
"Ye Originale New Age Dip" Trelawney.)  Due to aspecting, range
or other issues (like permanently becoming "several with the
universe", as Maggie had put it when I'd nearly lost myself in
the Cosmic All the last time I tried to use the Beatles' "Within
You, Without You"), they were either too limited, too dangerous
or only useful for laying the groundwork for my search.

What I needed was an absolutely trustworthy proxy or proxies that
I could conjure up more or less immediately.

Which was why I had consulted with Wilhelmina.

I was going to go all-out "Doctor Dolittle" on Lord Emo and set
the birds, animals and insects of Great Britain on his trail.

I already had some songs that let me summon and command a few
varieties of animals, both useful and not. (Despite a certain
story published in the *Sun* back home in 1996, trout would *not*
be involved in this plan).  But I'd needed to pick Wilhelmina's
brains about what magical and mundane critters there were in the
vicinity of Hogwarts so I knew what I had to work with.  And what
songs I should dig out of my library to try.

Once I'd extracted an exhaustive list of the local fauna from
Wilhelmina, I patted myself on the back once again for my
outstanding cleverness.  Wizarding magic had no organized
subcategory of animal magic at all -- except for two pretty much
random conjurations (one for snakes, another for birds) that I'd
come across in my reference books, Wizarding magic all but
ignored animals.  (Oh, and a kind of self-taught critter-morph
ability called "animagism", but that wasn't the kind of "animal
magic" I meant anyway.)  If pressed, a wand wizard might turn a
spell intended for humans on animals, but that was the extent of
it.  Wilhelmina's specialty was pretty much magical zoology --
the care and feeding of and/or how to defeat J. Random Critter.
*Not* how to use it as a servant or tool.

Lord Emo, from all I'd learned of him through Albus and other
sources, was pretty clearly an "Old Ways Are Best/The Ancients
Knew All" kind of guy.  Between that and his pathological
superiority complex, I was betting that he would be completely
unable to *conceive* of someone using a form of magic unknown to
him.  Especially a form of magic using creatures he would dismiss
as beneath his notice -- in some cases literally.

And thanks to Wilhelmina, I had a catalog of agent candidates in
my sweaty little paws.

During dinner that night I took advantage of my position between
the Grump and the Dip (and the utter lack of conversation which
resulted) to consider my options.  As soon as I could do so, I
took my leave of the rest of the faculty, gave Albus a nod (to
which he replied with his own, knowing, one), and took off for my
quarters.

Twenty minutes later I stood in a grassy meadow which I had
specifically chosen because it was out of direct view of any but
the topmost windows of the highest towers of the castle.  It was
near enough to the Forbidden Forest that I could easily make out
individual tree trunks even some way in; conveniently close for
my needs, not close enough to be pounced upon without warning by
something both hungry and annoying.

I pulled on my helmet and snugged up the chinstrap as I waited
for its computer to boot up.  Both tasks were completed -- as
usual -- at almost the same moment.  I took a deep breath, then
said, "System.  Load song 'Were-Owl'.  Play song."

Hopefully there were a few dozen owls in the Forest who would
respond to my call.

   "Look long enough into the eyes of any creature,
    there's no knowing what you'll find.
    We all seek the light one way or another,
    mostly flying blind.
    Everything flies at the mercy of the moonlight,
    lovers more than most at times.
    You've sought the light where few have ever found it,
    captured deep in tawny eyes.
    Little one seek and ye shall find.
    Take care what you find
    in the tawny eyes of a hunter by night."

                              * * *

Susan Fawcett, fourth-year Ravenclaw, paused at the door to the
Owlery and panted a bit.  She had climbed all the way to the top
of the West Tower, a folded sheet of parchment bearing a red wax
seal clutched in one hand.  Since she'd first arrived at Hogwarts
it had been her practice to send a weekly letter to her family,
and this was her first of the new academic year.

Unfortunately, it seemed that she'd gotten a little out of shape
over the summer.  Trudging up the seemingly-endless spiral
staircase had left her a bit more winded than she'd expected and
her calves complaining.

Susan leaned heavily on the door post as she caught her breath,
looking absently through the open entrance into the circular
stone room filled with perches -- and owls.  A gentle breeze
poured through the door courtesy of the dozens of unglazed
windows in the tower, cooling her and carrying away the sweat of
her exertion.  It felt good now, but it wouldn't take long for it
to chill her to the bone.  Best to hurry.

"Socrates?" she called to her owl as she stepped gingerly into
the room.  She tried not to think about what might be mixed into
the straw that covered the Owlery's floor.  "I have a letter to
send, Socrates!"

Socrates was winging his way down to her from his perch when he
suddenly pulled up and veered off.  At the same time every owl in
the Owlery woke up and turned their heads as one in the same
direction before taking off and streaming out through the windows
in a vast feathery cloud that made far less noise than Susan
would have expected.

For a moment she stood there, dumbfounded.  "Socrates?" she
called plaintively.

                              * * *

I was expecting a couple dozen owls at the most.  After all, that
was about how many the Forbidden Forest should be able to
support, at the most.

Instead, I got what looked like hundreds, orbiting me in a vast
ring of near-silent flight.  It only took me a moment to realize
that I had to have accidentally summoned every owl in the castle
in addition to (or maybe instead of) the wild ones I had been
intending.

The late afternoon light caught and illuminated all the different
colors of their plumages, from ink black to snowy white and a
hundred shades of grey and brown in between.

The occasional glimpse of a golden eye amidst the great flock
gave the distinct feeling I was being *glared at*.

Gathering all my public speaking skills together, I addressed the
horde of birds.  "Um," I said.  "I apologize for disturbing you,
but I have a request I would like to make..."

                              * * *

After getting myself out of Dutch with about half a million
pissed-off owls, I managed to sweet-talk them into my plan --
which was to report back to me anything they happened to come
across regarding Voldemort or his location.  They weren't to go
searching -- just keep their figurative ears open.

It was more or less the same request I planned to make to every
kind of animal I could summon and/or command, as many times a day
as I could without falling over from magical exhaustion.

I had spent a couple hours running queries on the helmet's
metadata, assembling a list of every song that could or looked
like it might let me call upon and influence animals or even
insects, both magical and not.  Once I made my way through the
entire list, I planned to 'port to London and hit a few music
stores to find more.  But that would be a couple-few weeks, at
least, as I had close to a hundred songs cued up, including a few
I had only the barest clue would do what I needed.

To speed things along, I did six more summonings that first
night, pushing a couple of the new songs hard to get results.
Which is how I ended up recruiting a herd of sheep-sized
somethings with an omnivore's teeth and short, stubby horns whose
ridged and wrinkled surfaces made them look like someone had
smushed them against the creatures' skulls.  They were either
teleporters or capable of natural invisibility (I never did
figure out which) and once I got my request across to them, they
seemed quite amenable to keeping an eye out for Lord Emo.  I made
a mental note to ask Wilhelmina about them, as they hadn't been
included in her inventory of the local fauna.

By the time I was done summoning and negotiating, the sun was
just starting to touch the horizon, and the temperature was
dropping out of "comfortably cool" and into "get yerself inside,
boy."  Not to mention I had a staff meeting to get to.

I turned around slowly, making sure I had left nothing behind,
when out of the corner of my eye I spotted movement.  I turned
back toward the Forbidden Forest, and in the golden light of the
setting sun I spied something so unexpected that I almost dropped
my helmet.

Centaurs.

Eight of them -- their human parts looking like living statues
from Classical Greece, their horsely parts looking like well-
exercised Percherons or Clydesdales.  They were all male, evenly
split between bearded and not.  They all carried bows; a couple
had spears as well.

And they were staring at me.  They were far enough away that I
couldn't really make out the expressions on their faces, but the
moment they realized I had spotted them, one -- the leader, no
doubt -- whistled sharply.  They whirled and galloped off into
the Forest.

I watched the place where they had vanished for several minutes.

*Well,* I thought.  *There's *another* thing to ask Albus about.
Along with Lord Emo's known associates.*

                              * * *

Owen Cauldwell smiled down at Rose Zeller as she tried the wand
movements for the button Transfiguration once more.  "That's it,
you've almost got it," he offered encouragingly.

"It's hard!" she complained, pouting a little, and Owen chuckled.
He remembered *his* first week of Transfiguration the year before
and how hard it had seemed to him -- and how much help Cullen's
advice had been.  It was only right that he helped another 'Puff
in the same situation.

Owen was just about to work with her on the incantation when he
heard the common room door swing open.

"Whoa!" came the voice of an adult.  "Hobbit doors!"  Owen turned
to see the new Defence professor, looking wide-eyed around the
room as he shut the door behind him.  "I should have checked this
place out weeks ago."  Tearing his eyes from the furnishings,
Professor Sangnoir looked around at all the house members in the
common room.  "Hey, kids, how's it going?"

Owen and Rose looked at each other.  "What's a hobbit?" Rose
asked.  Owen shrugged.

                              * * *

After visiting the Hufflepuff dorms for the first time and
getting to know some of the students (and explaining the works of
J.R.R. Tolkien), I then attended the staff meeting where the
Hogsmeade chaperone duties were hammered out.

And by "hammered out", I mean "determined by nearly a dozen
rounds of a certain poker-like game of my recent acquaintance
which I had of late attempted to *avoid* playing".

I will *not* detail my ignominious losses at the hands of certain
staff members who shall remain anonymous but who are notorious
card sharks.  I will note, however, that I ended up with October
5, February 14 ("Remember the Scottish winter!" Filius laughed),
and May 18.  Plus I was on-call as a substitute for November,
January and March.

After gathering up the tattered remains of my pride, I bid my
colleagues good evening and returned to my quarters.  There, I
had Twonky bring me a cup of tea once more, after which I used
The Kinks' "Long Distance" to give Charlie a call.

                              * * *

The British Ministry of Magic, London, UK.  Thursday, September
5, 1995, 4:37 PM

Dolores Umbridge scowled at the parchments which lay spread out
across the top of her desk.  At the request of the Minister's
very good friend Lucius Malfoy, she had begun investigating the
background of Hogwarts' new Defence professor.  She had had high
hopes of finding something in Sangnoir's history with which to
embarrass and perhaps even disgrace Dumbledore, but to her
growing fury, her investigation had to date gone nowhere.

The Americans, uncultured barbarians that they were, were
disrespectful and barely helpful at the best of times.  Only
their diplomatic status had prevented Dolores from teaching them
a well-deserved lesson in manners and deference to their betters
on more than one occasion.  She hated dealing with them; they
were all disgusting egalitarians and Mudblood-lovers, little
better than animals as far as she was concerned.

And this time they were worse than useless.  When Dolores had
demanded everything they had on Douglas Sangnoir, the magical
embassy's attaché had all but laughed in her face.  "Unlike
certain corrupt and oppressive regimes," he had said in a snotty
tone, "*we* don't compile dossiers on random citizens, nor would
we just hand them over to any two-bit foreign functionary if we
did."  It had taken all her willpower to resist cursing him
through the Floo connection, and it had required the threat of a
diplomatic incident and an escalation to a superior before the
Americans would even consent to look through their records.

And then the impertinent ruffians had had the temerity to come
back and claim they had *nothing* on Sangnoir at all.  Not even
the bare minimum paperwork a proper magical government should
possess for a Wizarding citizen, particularly one working outside
of his country.  "Are you sure he's from the United States?"
another insolent lout had demanded of her.  "Maybe he's from
Canada -- I know we North Americans all look alike to you Brits.
With that name he might be Québécois."  Uncivilized, impudent
savages, the lot of them!

With a vicious swipe of her wand Dolores gathered up the few
sheets of parchment into a stack -- an irritatingly short one --
and wrapped it in a pink ribbon and bow.  After depositing it in
a drawer with a glare, she turned her attention to the next
inconvenience facing her and the Minister:  the Prophecy.

Its very existence incensed her.  Prophecy spheres were supposed
to be dusty relics all but ignored on their shelves in the
Department of Mysteries.  That was why the Ministry put them
there, after all -- to keep them out of the way, where they could
cause no trouble.  But this one had been drawing far too much
interest since the disaster had brought it to the Unspeakables'
attention.  They had all but built a fortress around it and were
now devoting almost half their entire staff to its study --
something Cornelius had been unable to prevent, as Mysteries'
budget was controlled directly by the Wizengamot and the
Minister's Office had no veto power over it or its allocation.
Cornelius was pulling what strings he could, but the best he
could do would be to reduce *next* year's funding for Mysteries,
and even that wasn't guaranteed -- it seemed Mysteries had its
own hooks into the Wizengamot.

Even this would have been bearable had the Merlin-be-damned
sphere not been about Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
And still yet to be fulfilled according to the Unspeakables.  Of
course, Cornelius had classified *that* bit of information at the
highest level of security, but as Dolores well knew, these things
had a way of getting out.  The amount of attention and manpower
the Unspeakables were devoting to the blasted thing had already
been common knowledge among the Ministry staff before they could
clamp down on it.  Worse yet, her informants were reporting that
infuriatingly accurate rumors about the Sphere's subjects had
begun circulating among the Ministry staff.

Dolores gritted her teeth and clenched her fists until her fleshy
knuckles turned white.  Something had to be done about that
prophecy!  Already its existence and the gossip about it were
undermining her campaign to show Wizarding Britain that Harry
Potter was a lying attention-seeker trying to sabotage the
Minister.  Too many Ministry employees were already doubting the
official truth of the matter.  And if word of the Prophecy's
existence were to reach the Wizengamot (or worse, the *press*)
then Cornelius's prestige -- and by extension her own prestige,
not to mention her future prospects -- would be irretrievably
damaged.

Dolores Umbridge was, at her heart, a simple woman who believed
simple things.  One of those things was that the truth was always
and *only* what Authority said it was, and that denying it was
treason.  That if something or someone defied the truth, they had
to be destroyed.  And that she, Dolores Umbridge, was (and
deserved to be) part of the Authority that defined Truth for the
inferior masses.  After some thought, she drew up a memo to
Cornelius proposing severe penalties to any Ministry employee who
repeated seditious rumors judged to be counter to Ministry policy
or goals -- for the ultimate good of the Ministry and Wizarding
Britain, of course.  With a wave of her wand it folded itself
into a paper airplane and took off for the Minister's office.

That done, she considered other, less official, avenues.  The
idea that the Dark Lord could return -- or might possibly have
*already* returned -- was patently ridiculous.  The prophecy
sphere was obviously malfunctioning; it should have registered
its contents as fulfilled after the events of Halloween 1981.  As
long as it continued to malfunction, though, its lies would only
reinforce those of Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore, threatening
the stable, peaceful society that defined Wizarding Britain under
the benevolent rule of Dolor... Cornelius Fudge.

For the good of that society, the Prophecy had to be destroyed.
It was the only logical option.  With the sphere gone, the
Unspeakables would return to their uninteresting little esoteric
projects, the rumors would cease to circulate, and the threat to
the Minister (and by extension herself) would vanish.  Sadly, the
fanatics in the Department of Mysteries would disagree with her
and refuse to properly dispose of the sphere.  So Dolores would
just have to contact some more of the ... independent contractors
whom she had hired for similar tasks in the past.

                              * * *

Thursday, September 5, 1995, 6:16 PM

Albus held open the door of his office for me.  "Please, after
you, Douglas.  Oh, and Septima let me know that she will be a few
minutes late to our meeting tonight."

I nodded my thanks as I stepped into the room.  "Before I
forget," I said as he closed and latched the heavy oaken door
behind us, "I need to be out of the castle on Saturday -- I need
to pick up some supplies for my classes in London.  I hope that
won't be a problem?"

Albus considered this for a moment before lowering himself into
his office throne.  "I don't see that it would.  Please," he
gestured.  "Sit.  Sit.  No need for you to stand until Septima
gets here."

"Oh," I said.  "Right."

"I have had a chance to review the witness's memories of Tom's
resurrection," he continued as I settled into my seat.

Fawkes did a hop-flap that took him to the arm of my chair, and
trilled softly but demandingly, so I chuckled and started
stroking the phoenix's head.  "And?" I asked.

Albus smiled at the bossy bird, then turned his attention back to
me.  "I studied the event extensively, watching it several times
from several perspectives, with the witness on hand to point out
anything I may have overlooked."  He folded his hands in front of
him.  "I am quite certain now that it was indeed a Horcrux
ritual."

I sighed in relief.  "Thank the gods.  If he *had* gone through
the full lich transformation he would have been ten times harder
to destroy.  In comparison, a partial soul jar homunculus is
much easier to deal with."  I paused and chewed on my lip for a
moment.  "Not *easy*, not by a long shot, but definitely easier
than a true lich."  Fawkes trilled an objection and I realized
I'd stopped petting him; with a soft laugh I started again.

Albus nodded gravely.  "The only way I know of to deal with him
is to find and destroy the remaining Horcruxes before killing his
new body.  Depending on how cleverly he has chosen and hidden
them, this may be far more difficult than it sounds."

"Feh."  I waved a hand.  "The order doesn't matter.  If you
disembody him first, you at least get him out of your hair for a
while, plus damage his reputation some more."

"This is true," Albus said contemplatively while stroking his
beard.  "Of course, his followers now know how to revive him."

I shrugged.  "So you don't get a dozen years before the next
resurrection.  Big deal.  The point is, until then Tom Marvolo
Ghostface is less of a threat than having Lord Emo stalking about
zapping people.  It damages his prestige, too.  And it forces his
followers to run around gathering the parts for another
homunculus; if you plan it out properly, I'm sure you can deprive
them of one or two key ingredients, at the very least."

Albus nodded slowly.  "There is some merit to your suggestions,
Douglas.  I will have to give them some careful thought, though."
He gazed at me over the half-moon lenses of his glasses.  "In the
meantime, have you come up with any ideas for locating the
Horcruxes?"

I sorted through the strategies in my head, and picked one of the
more promising.  "You still have a dead soul jar or two of his
around, right?  We can try to craft a tracker spell based on the
contagion resonance between an old jar and the remaining ones."

"Contagion resonance?"  Albus raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
"I'm afraid I don't recognize the term."

"You probably call it something else -- that's okay, a lot of
magic systems do."  I stopped petting Fawkes long enough to get
another complaint as I thought on that.  "Regardless what it's
called, the Law of Contagion is a pretty common axiom.  The usual
way it's expressed is 'once together, always together'."

"Ah, I know the concept to which you refer," Albus said with a
gleam of comprehension in his eyes.  "Yes, indeed, we do call it
by another name, and it is an advanced principle which few
wizards fully master."  He raised an eyebrow again.  "I take it
that this is not the case for the magics you know?"

"Huh.  I'm going to have to talk to Septima about that," I said.
"Yeah, it's almost always a beginner-level concept."  I shook my
head.  "Forgive me, Albus, but wand magic is *weird* sometimes."

He laughed.  "I've known that for more than a century, Douglas.
Even without other magics to compare it to.  The more I learn
about it, the less I'm sure I know."

"The sign of a wise man," I said with a smile, and Fawkes sang
his agreement.

"So then.  Will your 'contagion resonance' make it any easier to
destroy Tom's Horcruxes?"  Albus looked hopefully at me.

"Destroy?"  I thought about that a moment, then shook my head.
"I'd have to run the equations to be sure, but I don't think so.
Without an actual soul fragment to anchor them, the links between
a dead jar and the live ones are probably too tenuous to support
a decent thaumaturgical attack -- they'd break as soon as any
real level of power was applied to them.  We'd have better luck
with a live jar as our focus."  I laughed quietly as a silly
thought occurred to me.  "Hell, we could theoretically destroy
the soul jars by destroying Lord Emo himself, because the
contagion links go both ways, but frankly, it'd be impractical."

One bushy eyebrow rose.  "Impractical?  In what way?"

I snorted.  "In the way of needing to dump several wizards'
entire lifetimes' worth of magic into him in the space of a
minute or two.  That's the only way we'd get enough power forced
back down the links fast enough to burn out the magic anchoring
the soul fragments in their jars."  I smirked at him.  "Got
anyone you'd like to get rid of?"

Albus smiled ruefully.  "Would certain members of the Wizengamot
count?"

"Only to ten," I said, "and then only if they can see both
hands."

                              * * *

Gryffindor Common Room.  Friday, September 6, 1995, 8:25 PM

Harry sighed happily as he flopped into his favorite seat by the
fire in the common room.  The Quidditch try-outs had been
exhausting but more fun than he'd expected, even with his scar
hurting in the middle of it all.  He closed his eyes and burrowed
back into the cushions and debated falling asleep where he sat.

There was a thump as a body dropped into the next chair over.
Without opening his eyes, Harry said, "Congratulations again,
Ron."

"I still don't believe I made it!" Ron mumbled for what had to be
the twentieth time.

"Believe it, Ron," Hermione responded, and Harry opened his eyes
in time to see her settle into the love seat next to Ron.
"*Please.*  You really *are* the new Keeper."

Ron shot up in his seat, a look of utter panic on his face.  "Oh,
Merlin!  I'm the new Keeper!  What do I do now?"

Ginny leaned over the back of the love seat and smacked his head
from behind.  "You go to practices and then you play in the
games, you git."

He turned and glared at her.  "No!  I mean, what if I'm no good?"

Harry tried not to chuckle at the sight of Hermione's expression;
she looked like she wanted to throttle Ron.  Sighing, she said,
very slowly, "Ron, I'm going to try to explain this in very small
words, so try to follow me, okay?  Tonight's try-outs were to
find the best players.  You were chosen as Keeper.  That means
*you* were -- *are* -- the best Keeper.  Do.  You.  Understand?"

"But Hermione," Ron voice rose to a wail.  "What if they made a
mistake?"

Harry couldn't help it -- he burst out laughing, with Ginny only
a moment behind him.  He loved his friends, he really did.

Especially at times like this.

                              * * *

A couple hours later, after the excitement had died down and the
butterbeer had run out, Harry sat alone in the common room, quill
in hand and a sheet of parchment resting in a small circle of
yellow light cast by a nearby lamp.

*Dear Snuffles,* he had written.

    *Hope you're okay.  The first week back here has been
    brilliant, but I'm still really glad it's the weekend.*

    *Professor Sangnoir is turning out to be one of our better
    Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, I think, though he's
    really different from the others we've had.  He's got our
    class talking about what evil is and how it thinks, he's got
    some of the younger classes dodging pillows, and I heard
    rumors about some kind of fighting club.  Hope it's better
    than Lockhart's try at a dueling club three years ago.*

    *He also wanted to know everyone's heights and weights.  I
    don't know what that's about.*

    *I'm writing because that thing I wrote to you about last
    summer happened again last night during the Quidditch
    try-outs.  I'm not sure what to do or who to talk to.*

    *Ron made Keeper, by the way.*

    *We're all missing our biggest friend, we hope he'll be back
    soon.*

    *Please write back quickly.*

    *Best,*

    *Harry*

After giving it a read-through to make sure it had come out
right, Harry folded and sealed it, then took it to the Owlery
before returning to his dorm room and crawling into bed.

                              * * *

    *I can hardly believe that your extensive contacts -- not to
    mention the Dark Lord's -- have been unable to acquire *any*
    records on Professor Sangnoir.  Of course, the Americans have
    always been obstructionist if not outright hostile, but this
    is beyond the pale.  I have to agree that the degree to which
    Professor Sangnoir's background has been hidden suggests that
    he must be an operative of some sort.  But whose?*

                              * * *

Great Hall.  Saturday, September 7, 1995, 7:22 AM

The arrival of the post owls at breakfast interrupted (thankfully
so, both Harry and Ron thought to themselves) another harangue by
Hermione on the topic of homework.  A screech owl bearing a copy
of the *Daily Prophet* landed on the table dangerously close to
the sugar, then gave Hermione the newspaper in exchange for a
Knut before taking off again.

As Hermione studied the front page, Ron asked, "Anything
interesting?"  Harry ducked his head and smiled into his oatmeal;
anything to distract Hermione from one of her rants.

"Not really, no," she replied absently.  "A puff piece about the
bassist from the Weird Sisters getting married..."  She flipped
through the paper, taking in entire pages at a glance.  "Oh, no!"

"What?" Harry and Ron asked in unison.

With a stricken look, Hermione folded the paper back to silently
display an article to them.  Harry's eye was immediately drawn to
the headline:  "SIRIUS BLACK IN LONDON?"  He quickly scanned the
article as Ron tried to get a look in.  He looked up at Hermione,
who still looked heartbroken.

"'The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off...'" Harry
repeated from the article in a low, furious voice.  "It was
Lucius Malfoy, I'll bet anything," he continued.  "He *did*
recognize Sirius on the platform..."

"What?" Ron blurted.  "You never said..."

The other two hushed him.  Hermione took the paper back and
finished the article.  "It's not as bad as it sounds," she said
after a moment.  "Mostly rubbish about how dangerous he is, and
how the wizard or witch on the street should avoid confronting
him and call the Aurors instead if they see him."  She tossed the
paper aside; it fluttered down in front of Harry again.  "It's
just another report of a rumor, nothing more."

"Well, that's good," Ron muttered.

"Hey, what's this?" Harry said.

"What, the robe advert?" Ron asked, peering at the page.

"No, this."  Harry stabbed his finger down at a tiny article,
barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of a column.
It was headlined:

             MINISTRY BREAK-IN SUSPECT FOUND INNOCENT
    Tristan Jugson, 46, of number seventeen, Venena Gardens,
    Hulland Ward, has appeared in front of the Wizengamot charged
    with trespass at the Ministry of Magic on 30th August.  Jugson
    was arrested by Ministry of Magic watch-wizard John Munch, who
    found him loitering near a top-security door shortly after
    midnight.  Jugson was cleared of all charges when a Ministry
    employee, Eleuthero Avery, vouched for his presence in the
    Ministry after hours.  Had he been convicted, Jugson could
    have been sentenced to as much as six months in Azkaban.

"Eleuthero Avery," Harry said slowly, stumbling over the
unfamiliar name.  "There was an Avery at Voldemort's
resurrection, but I never heard his first name."

"D'you reckon it's the same fellow?" Ron asked.

"Honestly," Hermione huffed.  "How do you expect Harry to know
just from a *Prophet* article?"  Her eyes grew thoughtful.
"Still, it's awfully suspicious for someone to be lurking about
in the Ministry after midnight.  And to have someone who might be
a Death Eater vouch for him..."

"You've got to wonder what was behind that door," Harry said.

                              * * *

Saturday, September 7, 1995, 8:15 AM

Back home, I knew of and had frequented easily a dozen suppliers
of martial arts equipment in and about London, from little shops
catering to individual artists through general sports stores to
wholesalers who dealt in bulk purchases for dojos and schools --
places like Blitz and Shogun International and UK Fitness
Supplies.  In my role as a combat trainer I liked to do my own
browsing and selection when it came to the tools I used, and had
developed a collection of favorite establishments.

And wonder of wonders, most of them existed in some form or
another in this timeline -- something I had gone out of my way to
confirm during my week at 12 Grimmauld Place even though my class
planning hadn't gotten anywhere near needing them by that point.
They didn't have the *really* high-end stuff -- apparently the
"no metahumans" thing in this world included the more extreme
martial arts styles and masteries -- but what they did have was
more than adequate for my needs.

Unfortunately, the particular one I wanted to hit was a
wholesaler with annoyingly tight hours:  9 to 5 on weekdays and
9 to noon on Saturdays.  While I could probably have tried to get
to London immediately after the end of classes one afternoon, it
really wouldn't have given me any time at all to really do the
shopping and bargaining I needed.  So when Saturday breakfast
came, I reminded Albus that I'd be out of the castle much of the
day before speeding through my meal as quickly as I could and
still be polite.

Once back in my rooms after breakfast I tugged off my robes to
reveal the jeans and T-shirt I'd worn underneath ("Ask me about
my vow of silence!" it read today), and then pulled on both my
leather jacket and my helmet.  Activated by the pressure switches
in its lining, my helmet was powered on and fully booted up by
the time I had the foam pads centered over my ears and my goggles
seated properly.

Now, as I've said elsewhere, I could cover the distance between
Hogwarts and London on my bike in less than a half-hour, if I
really wanted to and didn't mind leaving a sonic boom in my wake.
But in addition to being rather noticeable, it also took half an
hour that I didn't want to spare.  (Yeah, I'm an impatient
sunovabitch.  Wanna make something of it?)

So I planned on using a different mode of travel.

"System, load song 'Lucky 4 You'.  Play song," I said to the
computer in my helmet.

    "You always said that I have multiple personalities
     I bounce around somewhere between my dreams and reality..."

I don't know why people are always surprised to find that I use
(and *like*) country-western music.  Yeah, sure, a lot of my
repertoire is based on classic and contemporary rock of all
types, but I'm hardly *limited* to it -- even if that "Rolling
Stone" reporter *did* dub me "Heavy Meta" in the "Jukebox Hero"
article.  Pick the right songs, and bands like SHeDAISY and
Little Big Town can be both very useful and a lot of fun.  But
some people turn their noses up at country music.

    "So where'd you dig up the audacity
     To ask of me
     How we've all been doing
     Since you broke our hearts?
     Well, so far..."

Case in point:  according to "Playcount" field in the metadata,
I've used this song almost two hundred times, but...

"Ooof.  Again country song about woman?  In first person yet?  To
summon *me*?" Skitz's current personality grunted from behind me.
The deep, guttural edges of the Russian accent coloring his
speech identified him immediately to me.  "*Really*, Douglas.
Can you not find more appropriate way to call us up?"

I turned in place and controlled my instinctive urge to punch him
in the nose.  Just my luck that his simulacrum would manifest as
the persona I liked least.  "Hello, L'Reaux."

Yes, a French name for a Russian persona.  I don't understand it,
either.

He was dressed in the usual outfit his personalities had agreed
to wear while on duty:  a vaguely military-cut black shirt and
pants with an inordinate number of pockets.  If he hadn't spoken,
I would have recognized him as L'Reaux from the antique Russian
cap and the fascia he wore (the fabric of both crumpled and
creased from decades of jamming them into pockets when *not*
L'Reaux) along with the ornate silver cross hanging from a chain
around his neck.

    "Number 5 just cries a river a minute
     7 wants to tie you up and drown you in it..."

Skitz didn't really shapechange to reflect each of his many
personalities, but the sometimes radical differences in posture,
body language and, well, attitude, often made it seem like he
did.  This particular personality somehow made Skitz's athletic,
dark-haired form seem small and somewhat weak.  Which he wasn't
by any means -- back when he had been Skitz's current incarnation,
L'Reaux had actually had a well-deserved reputation for inhuman
endurance and strength.

He had also had a reputation for thoroughly messing with people's
heads, as well.  Which he kept up even after death.  For example,
"L'Reaux" (obviously) wasn't his real name.  Well, the name he'd
used when he was the *live* Skitz.  He called himself that partly
to hide his former identity from the unaware, but also partly for
the joy of confusing and deceiving people.

Did I mention that he was also a first-class pain in the ass?  (I
know, I know -- pot, kettle, apparent reflectivity indices -- but
I mean, *really*.  Worse than me.)

L'Reaux tilted his head and studied me with his usual intense
stare.  "I suppose you *want* something.  You would not call
otherwise," he growled.  He tilted his head and twitched a lip in
a subtle little self-satisfied smirk.  "Of course, there was time
you summoned up Margaret for little romantic..."

"L'Reaux!" I snarled.

He scowled in annoyance at me.  "Oh, *be* that way."

    "Yeah, 14 just wants to say 'so long, bygones'.
     32 wants to do things to you that'll make you blush..."

"I need a gate to London, L'Reaux," I ground out between gritted
teeth.  "Woolwich.  As close as you can get me to Duke of
Wellington Avenue, in the Royal Arsenal area."

"What's in it for me?" he scowled.

"What's in it for you is freedom from pain."  I looked down on
him -- even though we really were about the same height he
*seemed* shorter -- clenched my fists, and did my best to be
intimidating.  "If you *don't* open a gate for me, I will beat
you to a pulp, and keep doing so until the song ends and you
vanish.  The entire remainder of your virtual life will consist
of the most exquisite agony."

Not that it would really work -- the threat of actual violence
would prompt L'Reaux to abandon control of the body, allowing
another of Skitz's personalities to swap in.  (L'Reaux had an
almost completely overwhelming aversion to physical harm -- "Try
gettink shlowly killt by incompetent asshassins," he had
confessed to us one drunken evening at the Red Lion when I had
teased him about his fear of injury.  "Buildsh character, da?
Next time idiot ashks you 'what worsht can happen?', you
*know!*")  Then again, I got along well with most of Skitz's
other selves; whoever took control would almost certainly be
willing to open a gate for me.

I wonder what it says about me that my subconscious mind's
simulation of Skitz defaulted to the persona I liked least.

He seemed to shrink down even further at the threat.  "Okay,
tovarishch, if you're going to be like *that* about it."  He
waved his hand palm up.  A square hole in space-time three meters
tall by three wide opened, revealing an alley with a sun-bathed
city street beyond.  "Behold."

    "10 would key the El Camino that you love so much
     And there ain't nobody wants to mess with 23."

I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.  "Thank you,
L'Reaux," I growled before I stepped through to London.  I don't
care that he's part of some kind of eternal champion.  He's an
asshole, and he gets on my nerves.

*I let Hexe bully me about, soplyak.  She has nobility you lack.
Next time ask like comrade.  Be grateful I don't send dozen tons
of mud from bottom of Thames to follow you.*  The telepathic
message came in quickly.  Of course, L'Reaux *had* to get in the
last word.

As the gate snapped shut behind me and vanished with a little
"pop", I looked around me.

"That son of a bitch... this is Battersea!" I yelled.

    "Oh, lucky 4 you, tonight I'm just me..."

                              * * *

I have noticed, over the worlds and years, that criminal scum are
surprisingly -- and conveniently -- consistent.  If there was,
say just for the sake of argument, an arms dealer working out of
a certain block in Lambeth during the middle 1990s back on
Homeline, there was an uncommonly good chance that there would be
one there in another world's version of London during the same
time period were I to go and look for him.  Not always the same
person or the same precise building (and almost certainly not the
same stock), but an arms dealer nonetheless.

Which is how, in addition to a hundred kilos or so of sports
equipment, I brought a long, flat, lockable case, its contents,
and certain related supplies back with me to Hogwarts.

And thanks to the right song I got *such* a discount...

Fortunately, Sirius didn't ask what was in it when I dropped by
12 Grim to share a Greek take-out dinner with him.  I wasn't
entirely sure how I would explain why I had an Accuracy
International L96A1 and a few hundred rounds of 7.62×51 mm NATO
ammo in among the padded training gear I'd bought.

                              * * *

Gryffindor Common Room.  Saturday, September 7, 1995, 7:51 PM

Hermione paused in her knitting and looked beseechingly after Ron
as he angrily stomped up the staircase to the boys' dormitories.
When he vanished from sight, she turned back to Harry.  "How was
he, really?" she asked.

Harry sighed.  "I suppose he could have been better."  He rubbed
his eyes.  "It *was* only the first practice, like you said..."

She bit her lip.  "Do you think there's anything I..." she began,
and her needles clicked tentatively against each other again.

"No," Harry said.  "Not right now, at least."

"Later, then," she said.  "After homework."

"Right," Harry said.

                              * * *

Gryffindor Common Room, Sunday, September 8, 1995, 11:30 PM

    "Dear Ron,

    "I have just heard through a mutual acquaintance that you have
    become a Hogwarts prefect.

    "I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this news and
    must offer my congratulations.  I must admit that I have
    always been afraid that you would take what we might call the
    'Fred and George' route, rather than following in my
    footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have
    stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some
    real responsibility.

    "But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want
    to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at
    night rather than by the usual morning post.  Hopefully you
    will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid
    awkward questions.

    "First, I presume that absent any radical changes in your
    life, you are still close to Harry Potter.  I have reason to
    fear that continued fraternization with him could cost you
    your badge -- or worse.  Before you throw this letter away in
    anger, please let me explain.

    "The Minister is convinced that Potter and Dumbledore are
    spearheading a campaign to undermine him.  I have heard him
    say in private moments that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cannot
    have returned, and thus Potter must be insane and/or lying
    about it for political reasons.  His primary Undersecretary,
    Dolores Umbridge, agrees with him and together they are
    planning some manner of retaliation against Potter and
    Dumbledore both.

    "However, in my time here, I have cultivated contacts in other
    parts of the Ministry.  From my acquaintances within the
    Department of Mysteries I have learned that the Unspeakables
    have accepted Potter's account of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's
    return as an incontrovertible fact and are acting accordingly.
    I cannot relay their reasons for this to you due to Ministry
    regulations imposed just this week, but the evidence offered
    to me has been most convincing.

    "Thus I find myself in the position of having to warn you to
    sever your ties with Potter for the sake of both your future
    and your safety.  Potter's disciplinary hearing before the
    Wizengamot this summer was only the beginning of the
    Minister's campaign against him, if what I have overheard is
    any indication.  I suspect that there will be no hesitation to
    strike at his associates if it furthers the Minister's plans.
    If you are tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be
    very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here
    about life after school, too, should matters fall out as the
    Minister desires.

    "That is assuming you *have* future prospects.  Remaining a
    very visible friend and supporter of Potter will make you a
    primary target for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers.
    While I understand that our family is already marked for death
    as 'blood traitors', the simple fact is that by being one of
    Potter's two closest friends you have elevated yourself (and
    most likely everyone else in our family) to 'kill first, kill
    at all costs' in the eyes of the Dark Lord and his followers.

    "This is the simple truth, Ron:  in the current social and
    political atmosphere, keeping company with Harry Potter is at
    best a decision that will ruin your immediate future, and at
    worst will cost you your life.  Please, please distance
    yourself from him and protect not only yourself, but the rest
    of our family.

    "I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the
    summer.  At the time I was afraid that I could no longer live
    under our parents' roof while they remained mixed up with what
    I saw as the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore.  Even though I
    now know that Potter and Dumbledore are right, that does not
    make their crowd any less dangerous.  I choose to continue my
    estrangement from our parents in order that some part of our
    family will escape the inevitable retribution which
    He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will visit upon the Weasleys for
    their opposition to his cause.

    "I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of
    association with Dumbledore's people, but make no mistake --
    as much as I respect the Minister, his refusal to accept the
    evidence possessed by the Unspeakables reveals him to be far
    less astute than I had believed.  However, by sticking close
    to him and to Dolores Umbridge I have acquired a certain
    protective coloration that will serve me in good stead should
    the worst occur.  I strongly recommend that you make similar
    arrangements.  Break publicly with Harry Potter, and visibly
    align yourself with any clique or classmate whose political
    views can shield you.  The rest of our family may be doomed by
    their association with Potter and Dumbledore, but you do not
    have to be.  And if by some miracle they and I both survive
    the next few years, rest assured that I will be ready to offer
    them a full apology for the pain and anguish I have surely put
    them through.

    "Please think over what I have said most carefully, and
    congratulations again on becoming prefect.

    "Your brother,

    "Percy"

Harry looked up from the parchment in his hand.  "Well," he said
after a long moment of thought.  "He's not exactly *wrong*, you
know."

The arrival of a strange owl carrying a letter for Ron had
finally ended several hours of homework punctuated by Ron's
sulking and misery.  However, his brief-lived curiosity was
quickly replaced by anger, and when he shoved the sheet of
parchment into Harry's hand, Harry had no choice but to read and
learn what had upset him.

Ron snatched the letter back from Harry and began tearing it into
small pieces.  "Maybe not," he snarled, "but if he thinks I'm
going to turn my back on you, he's the world's.  Biggest.  GIT!"
He tossed the scraps into the common room fire.  "Come on," he
continued in less angry tones.  "We've got to finish that essay
for Sinistra by tomorrow."

As Hermione relented on her earlier refusal and offered to
correct their essays, Harry allowed himself the slightest smile
at the loyalty of his friends.  By instantly, instinctively
rejecting Percy's suggestion to "sever ties" with Harry, Ron had
proven to him that he wasn't the berk he'd been in fourth year.

Just the thought of Ron's betrayal after the Goblet of Fire had
spat out his name was enough to stoke Harry's temper, which since
the summer always seemed to be simmering close to surface.  But
he took a deep breath, stared into the fire, and forced himself
to calm.  Ron had come to his senses quickly enough after the
first task, and this year wasn't making the same mistakes at all.
It was a definite improvement.

Now if only the rest of Hogwarts would come to their senses as
well, Harry thought as he stared into the common room fire,
watching it consume the pieces of Percy's letter.  But far too
many believed the endless snide comments and insinuations that
the *Prophet* had been making about him since the summer.  No
doubt some even thought he was unbalanced and violent.

He suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for his godfather.  Sirius
was probably the only person who could understand his situation,
given that practically the whole of the Wizarding world thought
he was an insane mass murderer and Voldemort's right-hand-man.

Harry blinked.  Was that...?  He slid out of his chair to land on
his knees upon the worn hearthrug, and leaned down toward the
flames.

"Er -- Harry?" said Ron uncertainly. "Why are you down there?"

"Because I just saw Sirius's head in the fire," Harry replied
calmly.

"What?" cried Hermione, and then she gasped.  Ron followed her
gaze to the fire and dropped his quill -- there, surrounded by
the flames, was Sirius's head.

"Hey, kiddo.  I was starting to think you'd go to bed before
everyone else had disappeared," he said.  "I've been checking
every hour."

"Every hour?" Harry asked, a grin spreading across his face for
the first time all evening.

Sirius nodded, dislodging some of the nearby coals.  "For a few
seconds at a time, to see if you could talk."

"But what if you'd been seen?" protested Hermione.

"No worries," Sirius said with a sly wink.  "I wasn't.  And I
won't be doing this again -- but I just needed to answer Harry's
letter face-to-face."

Hermione turned a glare on Harry.  "You wrote Sirius and didn't
tell us?"

Harry shrugged.  "I forgot.  Besides, there was no way anyone
would have got secret information out of it, was there, Sirius?"

"No, you were good," Sirius said, smiling.  "Now we need to make
this quick.  About your scar..."

"What about..." Ron began, but Hermione shushed him.

"I know it's no fun when it hurts," Sirius went on, "but we're
confident it's nothing to worry about.  Now that Voldemort's
back you're probably going to feel it more than before, but it
shouldn't be *dangerous*.  Just unpleasant."

"Okay," Harry said doubtfully.

"Good."  Sirius nodded, still smiling.  "Next.  If you need to
reach me in a hurry, go to Doug...  I mean, Professor Sangnoir."

"Professor Sangnoir?" Hermione asked.  "Why?"

"He can get in touch with me instantly."  Sirius laughed.  "He
can probably get in touch with anyone in the world instantly,
come to that."

Hermione frowned.  "How is that possible?"

Sirius smirked at her.  "Doug is... special.  He can do things no
other wizard I've ever heard of can do."

"Special?  How?" Hermione demanded.

"Look, if you want to know more, just ask him.  He's got nothing
to hide and will probably answer every question you have."
Sirius glanced around at the three.  "How're you doing in his
class, by the way?"

"Brilliant!" Ron said.  "We started with a lot of talk, but we're
moving on to actual fighting."

"Good, good.  I asked him to give you lot extra attention because
like it or not we know sooner or later you're going to be
wand-to-wand with the baddies.  Get as much from it as you can,
while you're still able."

"While we're still able?" Harry asked.  "What's that mean?"

Sirius scowled.  "That's the third thing.  Fudge might try to
defang Defence Against The Dark Arts.  Our information from
inside the Ministry is that he doesn't want you -- *any* Hogwarts
students but particularly you three -- trained to fight.  And
that's just what Doug is doing."

"Yeah, but that's to defend ourselves," Harry objected.  "What
does he think we're doing here, forming some sort of army?"

"That's *exactly* what he thinks you're doing," said Sirius.  "Or
rather, what he's afraid Dumbledore's doing -- building a private
army, with which he will be able to take over the Ministry of
Magic."

After several seconds Hermione finally said, "The Minister is a
lunatic.  A paranoid lunatic."

"No."  Ron shook his head.  "He's got the right idea.  Just about
the wrong wizard."

"*How* many times did the Wizengamot offer to make Dumbledore the
Minister of Magic over the years?" Harry said.  "If he wanted to
be the Minister, he'd *be* the Minister right now."

"Hey, you don't have to tell me," Sirius protested, laughing.
"But Fudge is convinced that Dumbledore will stop at nothing to
seize power, and is just biding his time for the right moment."
The laughter vanished from his voice.  "We're pretty sure it's
only a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some
trumped-up charge."  He speared Harry with a gimlet eye.  "So I
want you to promise me -- if anything happens, anything at all,
that might put the three of you and Ginny in danger, *go to
Doug*.  We had a good long talk about you lot tonight over
dinner, he and I..."

"You had dinner tonight with Professor Sangnoir?" Hermione
demanded.

"Yes, I did, Hermione.  He was in London doing some shopping, and
he dropped by with some take-away, which rescued me from a right
cock-up of a day.  He won't be watching you every minute, and he
won't be riding you, but if you need *anything*, from a chat with
me to ... how'd he call it?  Right, an 'emergency extraction',
he'll be happy to provide it."  He started, and his head turned,
making him look like he was examining the brick lining of the
fireplace for a moment before he turned back to them.  "Look,
I've got to get going, I can hear Kreacher coming down the
stairs, the little bastard.  I'll send messages to you through
Doug, and if you need to talk to me, go to him, okay?"

"Right," Harry said.  "Be careful, Sirius."

"Aren't I always?" he asked with one last self-mocking grin.
Then there was a tiny pop, and he was gone.

                              * * *

 From his heavy throne in the rotting ballroom, Lord Voldemort
stared down at the man who knelt before him.  "What do you mean
you have learned nothing?" he inquired with a deceptive mildness.
His expression gave nothing away to his followers, but -- trained
by long exposure and frequent punishment to recognize his moods --
his other followers shuffled nervously while trying not to look
like they were.  They could feel their lord's anger roiling and
seething under the placid exterior he wore like a mask.
Voldemort's desire, his *need* was being denied, and he did not
take frustration well; sooner or later the mask would break.

"My lord, forgive me," said the supplicant without looking up.
The long blond hair draping over his shoulders and hiding his
face along with the snake-headed cane he held flat to the floor
identified him as Lucius Malfoy.  "Sangnoir is a cypher.  No one
knows anything about him.  No one had ever heard of him before
this summer.  And not just in our world -- I have made inquiries
through the Muggle government and they have no record of him,
either."  His shoulders slowly heaved, rippling the curtain of
his hair as he took a deep breath.  "It is as though he simply
did not exist before appearing in the employ of the Romanian
dragon preserve last July."

"I see..." Voldemort murmured thoughtfully.  "Have you then
inquired of the preserve's management to see what they may know,
Lucius?"

"Not yet, my lord."  Malfoy dropped lower to the floor, almost
groveling with his face in the decaying varnish and oak.  "I am
in the process of persuading the Minister to send a team of
Aurors to Romania to do the job.  A team whose membership I shall
have a say in, of course."

"Of course."  Voldemort drew back his thin lips to bare his teeth
in an expression that barely resembled a smile.  "Then go and
complete your task, Lucius, and do not return until you have done
so!"

Harry shot up into bed, thrust abruptly into wakefulness by the
spite and utter maliciousness that had inexplicably filled
Voldemort's mind at the thought of learning of Professor
Sangnoir's origins.  There in the dark he shivered, drawing a
long breath of the room's cool air before allowing himself to
wonder -- why *was* Voldemort so interested in the professor?

He'd have to talk to the others about it over breakfast come
morning.

                              * * *

Monday, September 9, 1995, 1:55 PM

The huddled discussion over Harry's dream during breakfast
yielded only confusion among his friends -- and Hermione's
vigorous insistence that he inform the Headmaster of Voldemort's
interest in Professor Sangnoir.  After a moment's thought Harry
agreed, and immediately sent a note to the High Table.  Upon
reading it, the Headmaster looked toward Harry without actually
meeting his eyes, and nodded soberly.

After breakfast, the day's classes were more than enough to drive
all thoughts of the vision and Professor Sangnoir from his mind.
Defence itself that afternoon was no different.  Harry, Ron and
Hermione had shown up for the class as usual, only to find a mix
of students from both Gryffindor and Slytherin clustered around a
sheet of parchment pinned to the door.  On it was written "Come
outside" in Professor Sangnoir's distinctively bold and sprawling
handwriting.  It wasn't entirely unexpected -- not after all the
other years' Defence classes they'd heard had been held outside
the past few days -- but it was a bit of a surprise, since the
professor had given no warning in their last session.

Together with the others they trooped obediently down to the
entrance hall.  All around them gossip about Professor Sangnoir
swirled, and the three of them exchanged looks as broken
fragments of rumor reached their ears.

"...says the time he was in Romania he was secretly organizing
the dragons to...

"...heard from her friend in Beauxbatons that he was a Ranger for
the American Department of Magic..."

"...says he's an ancient immortal responsible for the fall of
Atlantis who's walking the earth and working to redeem himself
while..."

"...he's a chicken, I tell you!  A giant chicken!"

Upon overhearing that last claim (made by a Muggle-born
Hufflepuff), Ron, Hermione and Harry shared an incredulous look
before bursting into badly-stifled snickers.

Some of the rumors they'd heard they knew to be true.  Others
were by turns both outlandish (thought not as much so as the
chicken rumor) or intriguingly plausible.  And then...

"...and according to my father's contacts in the Ministry, the
man has *no* history whatsoever," a familiar voice proclaimed.
Harry grimaced at the sound of Draco Malfoy shooting off his
mouth again.  "Who knows what he did before Dumbledore dragged
him out of the dragon dung at that preserve?  The man could be a
criminal for all anyone knows!"

As Harry angrily bit back a few choice comments about people who
could be criminals, they passed through the entrance hall, and
from there directly outside.  As they did, they suffered briefly
under the unrelenting scowl of Argus Filch.  Filch lurked, broom
and dustpan in hand, to one side of the great iron-bound doors,
as if unhappily anticipating the detritus of nature that would be
carried in on the feet of returning students two hours hence.

Once outside, they quickly made their way down to the meadow
below the Astronomy tower in which Professor Sangnoir had been
holding classes for the last few days.  Harry could see him
standing patiently, his feet hidden by the ankle-length grass
waving in the gentle, pleasant breeze.  He had his arms folded
behind his back in an almost military manner, and next to him was
a large wooden crate.  In the distance behind him, the Forbidden
Forest lurked, a dark mass defining the edge of the castle
grounds.

"Good afternoon, people," he called out as they came within
earshot.  "Pull up a patch of grass and make yourselves
comfortable," he added.  Harry was privately amused to note that
everyone sat down in more or less the same arrangement as they
did in the classroom.  "Come on, now, don't be fussy.  After all,
that's why Merlin invented cleaning charms."

Once the stragglers had caught up and everyone was seated on the
ground in front of him, Professor Sangnoir launched directly into
the lesson.  "I know at least some of you have been saying to
yourselves, 'all this talk the last few days has been well and
good, but when is he going to teach us to kick more butt than we
already can?'"

Harry joined in the laughter that rippled across the class at
that.

The professor looked over them and his lip twitched into a tiny,
momentary smile.  "Well, you're in luck.  Today we start on the
butt-kicking lessons.  From this point on we'll be mixing up
classes inside with fighting lessons outside."  He glanced upward
at the clouded sky above.  "As often as the weather permits, that
is," he added wryly.

An excited murmur arose, and Professor Sangnoir nodded
approvingly.  "Okay, then, let's get started.  We're going to
begin with basic physical combat."

"You're going to teach us to fight like Muggles?" Draco
(predictably, in Harry's opinion) objected, a look of disgust on
his face.  "What good is that?"

"Why, yes indeed, Mister Malfoy, I am," the professor replied,
breaking into a grin that Harry thought was more than a little
sinister.  He was suddenly very glad that he hadn't been the one
to draw the professor's attention.  "Why don't you join me here
to show the class why."  Though phrased as a question it had
the unmistakable whipcrack of an order in it, and after a
moment's hesitation, Malfoy rose from his spot on the grass and
swaggered his way to where the professor stood.

"Thank you for volunteering, Mister Malfoy.  You have your wand
with you?  Good."  Professor Sangnoir then turned back to the
rest of the class.  "We're going to have a little demonstration.
Mister Malfoy will stand over yonder..."  He waved Malfoy to a
spot some twenty feet away, to Harry's (and the class's) left.
"...And I'll stand over here, without a wand," he added, suiting
action to words by moving over to stand opposite Malfoy at the
other side of the class.  "Mister Malfoy, I want you to attempt
to hex me.  And I'll attempt to stop..."

Draco whipped his wand up.  "Reduct..."

There was a breeze, a slap, a dull crack and a soft thud as the
professor shot across the distance between them so quickly it
almost seemed like he Apparated, followed by Draco's wand flying
into the side of the crate, followed by Draco hitting the ground.
Well, *almost* hitting the ground -- somehow, the professor had
not only knocked Malfoy down, but had also gotten his arms under
the boy and cushioned his fall.  "...you," he concluded
conversationally.

Harry blinked, then glanced over at Hermione and Ron, who looked
as stunned as he felt.  He'd expected *something* like what
they'd just seen, having watched the professor working out during
the week he'd stayed at 12 Grimmauld Place, but this was beyond
anything he'd done then.  Unbidden, Sirius' words came back to
him:  *He can do things no other wizard I've ever heard of can
do.*

When Harry turned his eyes forward again, the professor was
helping a slightly-dazed Malfoy to his feet.  As he brushed bits
of grass and dust from the boy's robes, the professor said,
"Excellent, Mister Malfoy, precisely what I wanted.  Five points
to Slytherin for your participation."  As Malfoy retrieved his
wand and staggered back to his spot next to a starry-eyed Pansy
Parkinson, the professor turned to the rest of the class and
said, "*That's* why you need to learn some basic combat skills."

"The *hell* that was basic, what he just did," Ron hissed from
Hermione's other side, and Harry could only agree.

The professor continued on.  "It gives you more options than just
'run' or 'die' if you've been disarmed.  And only a complete
idiot refuses to have more options for survival."  He suddenly
favored the class with a familiar-seeming sneer, and in a perfect
imitation of Professor Snape said, "I trust I have no idiots in
this class."

As nervous chuckles erupted here and there, Professor Sangnoir
relaxed.  "Another reason is that the more fit a wizard is, the
stronger their magic is.  I'm going to be making sure that you're
*very* strong."  His expression turned wry.  "You remember when I
said you'll hate me?  It starts now."  He stepped over to the
crate and flipped its lid open.  To Harry's complete surprise it
was full of padded protective gear just like Dudley used for
training in boxing -- gloves, headwear, chest protectors and
more, all made from a shiny red foam.  "Okay.  I have here
safety gear that will let you give and take a hit without hurting
someone or getting hurt in turn.  I'll show you how to suit up,
and then we'll begin with some simple moves."  He waved at the
crate's contents.  "C'mon, people, no stalling."

As Harry stood up with the rest of the class, he happened to look
past the professor and out toward the Forbidden Forest.  Movement
caught his eye, and he spied a half dozen or more centaurs at the
edge of the woods, silently watching.

                              * * *

After my fifth/sixth period double class with the fifth-year
Gryffindors and Slytherins, I gathered up what protective gear
hadn't made its way back into the crate.  (Five points each from
Slytherin, Mister Goyle, Mister Nott; likewise from Gryffindor,
Miss Brown and Mister Finnegan.)  As I did so, I never let my
gaze stray from the distant edge of the Forbidden Forest.

The centaurs were still watching me.

Not content just with observing me talk British wildlife into
playing spy for me, the centaurs had begun discreetly stalking
my outdoor classes.  At first it had been only one or two, but it
quickly escalated into a regular band of six or eight who would
lurk just inside the forest, their complete attention focused on
me.  I know it had to have been me, and not my classes, because
they invariably showed up as soon as I stepped outside, and
wouldn't leave until after I went back into the castle.

It was perhaps not the creepiest fan club I'd ever had, but it
was certainly one of the more disconcerting.

I'd toyed with the idea of running over to them to ask why they
were so interested in me, or using a song to teleport in case
they took off when I approached them, but decided it would be a
waste of time and effort.  If they had anything to say to me,
they could just walk up and say it.

Besides, I had other things on my mind.  It was barely the second
week of classes, and I'd already overheard more than I could
stomach of the so-called Pureblood Agenda.  Much of it had been
spouted by the older Slytherins, but I'd heard at least one such
comment from someone in every house, usually when no one realized
I was there to hear.  And some of the young ones were starting to
parrot it already.  It was a pretty pernicious meme, and I had
resolved to craft a counter-meme to combat it.

I had a few ideas, but I didn't want to jump right in with the
first thing that came to mind.  I was treating this as a serious
full-bore grey or even black PsyOps campaign, which meant more
than just coming up with a catchy phrase to hook a bunch of
schoolkids on -- I needed a whole legend with which I could
infect British Wizarding society, one strong enough to dislodge
and displace Voldemort's brand of purebloodism.  I wasn't going
to come up with it in an afternoon.  Or a week.

                              * * *

Later that night, in between waves of drizzle, I talked a few
dozen raptors -- mostly peregrine hawks and their friends and
neighbors -- into joining my intelligence network.

While the centaurs watched.

                              * * *

    *... I have some more information for you about Sangnoir,
    Father.  He is very skilled at Muggle fighting -- impressively
    so, moving and striking with the speed of a basilisk.  This he
    very graciously demonstrated in my class to prove the value of
    his Muggle methods, and to my disgust it was successful, even
    among some of my Housemates.  Zabini and Nott are openly
    intrigued at the possibilities, and Pansy is all but drooling
    over him.*
    
    *Of course nothing can possibly excuse polluting our ancient
    and time-honored ways with any kind of Muggle filth,
    regardless of how useful it may appear.  I have attempted to
    correct my housemates' opinions, but have not yet accomplished
    anything more than stopping Pansy's brainless prattling about
    Sangnoir...*

                              * * *

Wednesday, September 11, 1995, 7:35 AM

They were halfway down the stairs to breakfast, with no one else
closer than a full flight in either direction, when Hermione
suddenly derailed Ron's latest defence of the Chudley Cannons'
chances for taking the All-Britain Championship.

"Professor Sangnoir left the castle last night," she blurted,
interrupting him in mid-sentence.  The three of them halted in
place, Ron on the step below her (putting their eyes on the same
level, she noticed), and Harry next to her.

"He did?" Ron asked at the same time Harry said, "How do you
know?"

"Yes, he did," she replied to Ron, then turned to Harry.  "I saw
him through one of the common room windows last night.  He just
walked out past the courtyard and out of the lights there."  She
paused for a moment, then added, "Did you know that helmet of his
has headlamps in it?"

"Headlamps?" Ron's face was scrunched up in confusion.

"Muggle light charms," she rattled off quickly without looking at
him.  "Anyway, it made him easy to follow in the dark, at least
until he went around the side of the castle."

Harry stared at her.  "You suspect something, don't you?"

"D'you think he's still in the castle?" Ron asked.

"Goooood morrrrrrrrning, kiiiiiiiiiiiids!"  A blue-robed figure
plunged past the stairs.  They rushed to the railing and looked
down to spy the increasingly-familiar sight of Professor Sangnoir
spinning and twirling his way past beams, landings and railings
to land unharmed at the base of the stairwell.

"This is just a guess," Harry said in the most deadpan voice he
could manage, "but I think he is."

Hermione huffed in annoyance.  "He shouldn't do that!  What if
someone tries to copy him?"

                              * * *

Thursday, September 12, 1995, 8:22 PM

A couple days and several more recruiting drives later, I had
decided to take a break from my intelligence campaign for one
evening.  (Okay.  A downpour had started just before dinner and
didn't show any signs of letting up any time before dawn.)  I put
in an hour in my office after dinner in case any students wanted
to see me (none did), then retreated to my room to get in a
little reading.

I had managed to polish off "Memoirs of the Late War Against
Grindelwald" by Arminius Esterhazy the night before, and was now
snickering my way through the early chapters of "Twenty Years as
a Muggle" by Jürgen Eckert.  Eckert, a surprisingly open-minded
pureblood, had started his experiment in cultural immersion in
1947, and while England (and the world as a whole) had been a far
simpler place shortly after the War (whichever flavor of it you
were familiar with), it had still been fraught with pitfalls for
someone who was essentially an alien to it.

Fortunately, Eckert had had a healthy sense of humor about it all
and the first few chapters played up his initial mistakes and
missteps for laughs, starting right with his rueful admission
that he had done insufficient research and thus had entered
Muggle London dressed to the nines -- for *18*47.

Given that his photo on the back of the dustcover showed him in a
Grateful Dead T-shirt and blue jeans with a macrame headband, I
suspected that he'd adapted well enough by the time the Summer of
Love had blossomed.

I'd just finished an extended anecdote about how Eckert had gone
about getting a driver's license (which mixed what I'd come to
recognize as his trademark sly self-mocking humor with a
surprising amount of useful advice and information for the
adventurous wizard-at-large) when there was a tapping at my
window above and beyond that of the raindrops.  I was still a
little wary around post owls (and they around me) after the
little incident a week earlier, so I was momentarily taken aback
to see a barn owl there.

I hopped up out of my seat and over to the window to let the
sopping wet bird in.  It held out a leg and I untied the scrap of
damp folded parchment attached there.  "Sorry," I said.  "I don't
have any food or water for you, but I'm sure the Owlery has
anything you need."

The owl bobbed up and down in what I assumed was supposed to be a
nod and hooted once before turning around and launching itself
back out the window and into the rain.  I closed the sash behind
it, then unfolded the parchment.

    *Doug:  Contact me.  Charlie.*

I raised an eyebrow.  The unwritten message was obvious -- he had
something he needed to tell me that he couldn't trust to the post
owl system.

Well, then.  I pulled my helmet from the wardrobe, put it on and
laid down in bed, then cued up "Long Distance".

*Doug?* Charlie "said" as soon as our minds connected.

*Who else?* I sent back.  *I got your note.  What's up that you
couldn't tell me by owl?*

I "felt" his frown over the connection.  *A team of Aurors showed
up here this morning, asking about you.*

Well, that was interesting.  *I thought the preserve was outside
of British jurisdiction.*

*Technically it is.  Realistically?  Wizarding Romania is in no
position to object to anything Wizarding Britain does.*

I sighed.  The British Empire lives, in all the worst ways.  *Of
course it isn't.*

*Anyway, they quizzed everyone from the top on down about you.
They were specifically looking for where you came from, but they
were taking down anything and everything someone had to say about
you.  They weren't threatening people with Veritaserum and
arrest, but it wasn't far from it.*

I resisted the urge to facepalm.  *They didn't hear...*

*Yeah, they did,* Charlie replied.  *Punching out Old Grouchy,
anything any of the guys saw you do without a wand...*

*Not the nickname,* I begged.  *Tell me no one told them the
nickname.*

*Sorry,* Charlie said.  *Tannenbaum told'em, and the rest of the
guys confirmed.  The Ministry now knows you as "Merlin Reborn".*

*Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking handtruck.*

Charlie's surprise, followed by his laughter, came over the
connection very clearly.  *That's one hell of a mental image,
Doug.*

I rubbed my eyes.  *This is not a laughing matter.  The last
thing I want in any world is to come to the attention of a
government.  Any government.  And excuse me for saying so,
Charlie, but yours is one of the worst from my point of view.*

*No offense taken.  If it's any consolation,* he offered, *they
were pretty clear that they weren't on a criminal investigation.
But I figured that regardless, you'd want to know.*

*You figured right.*

Well, the conversation kind of tapered off after that, so I said
good night and cut the song before it could run out.  Then I lay
there in my bed, chewing on my lip as I turned this intel over
in my head, looking at it from all sides and correlating it with
things I already knew.  It was pretty obvious that when
Dumbledore hired me it spoiled some plan that Fudgie the Whale
had had in motion to place a loyal agent into the school.
Unwilling to accept defeat, he or his loyal minions were now
looking for anything to use as leverage to oust me.

Knowing the kind of exaggeration the guys at the Preserve were
likely to spin around stories that were already over-the-top by
Wizarding standards, I could only wonder if finding out they were
facing a so-called "Merlin Reborn" would frighten the bureaucrats
into stopping their campaign, or terrify them into doubling their
efforts to get rid of me.

Ah, the hell with wondering.  I knew bureaucrats.  They would
believe the stories, and act like they didn't.  I was going to
have to prepare for a direct political attack at some point.

Displeased with the unhappy turn of mind I was taking, I decided
to go back to my reading.  Jürgen Eckert's misadventures in
Muggle Britain of the 1940s beckoned, and with a fierce
determination to distract myself with amusement, I picked up the
book again and dove back in.

For the most part it worked.  I got my mind off the Ministry's
machinations, had a few laughs, and actually began understanding
in my gut just how huge the cultural gulf was between the mundane
and magical worlds.  I kept turning pages for another good hour
or so.  When the account began to settle down into a more-or-less
serious examination of the differences between Wizarding and
Muggle culture, I closed the book and laid it back on the
"unread" stack on my nightstand (on top of "What the Great War of
the Muggles Means to You" by Roland Knockbuckle and another
couple volumes from my "recent history" collection).

I had just folded my arms behind my head as I rested it against
the ornately-carved headboard of my bed when my eyes fell on the
collection of photos on top of my dresser -- in particular, the
mystery photo and the seven teenaged girls in it.  I abruptly sat
up.

Now, it occurred to me, was a perfect time to ask an expert about
memory magic.

                              * * *

"Now there are a variety of spells that can affect memory,"
Filius began in his piping voice.

Less than five minutes after I'd sat up so suddenly, I was
seated, a cup of tea in hand, at a small table in Filius's
quarters.  He was not at all put out by me knocking on his door
at 9:30 at night.  In fact, he seemed absolutely delighted that
I'd come by, and equally delighted to answer my questions.
(Although to be honest, he seemed delighted by most things, most
of the time.  Filius was the kind of person for whom the word
"delighted" had been invented.)

As he conjured and served the tea, I glanced around at his
sitting room.  In addition to the various academic honors and
mementos I had expected there was a shelf full of trophies and
medals, along with several (moving, Wizarding) photos which
clearly showed a younger Filius taking part in some kind of
formalized magical combat.  To my eye it was clearly a sport
form, executed on a narrow "playing field" with about the same
dimensions as the piste in fencing.  (A stray corner of my mind
wondered if one had borrowed from the other, or if the formats
had arisen independently in a kind of athletic convergent
evolution.)  I made a mental note to remember to ask him about it
some other time when I didn't have my own mental integrity as a
priority.

"Many of the minor mental magics, such as the Confundus," he
continued, "can blur or block memory, mainly by interfering
with the mechanisms by which long-term memories are formed in the
brain.  Some healing spells unfortunately have a similar side-
effect."  He sipped his tea thoughtfully.  "And of course, any
hex or curse which strikes a person in the head may affect their
memory."

"How about the systematic erasure or suppression of a long
period?" I asked, inhaling the rich scent of the tea in my own
cup before blowing on it to cool it to drinkable temperature.

Filius frowned.  "How long are we speaking of?"

I thought about that photo, and the names and inscription on its
frame.  Whatever had happened, it had not been brief or casual.
"Hmm.  Let's say several months at least."

His bushy eyebrows rose in obvious surprise and curiosity.
"Well... discounting exotic but unlikely approaches such as using
the Imperius to command someone to forget a long period from
their life, the only remaining option is Obliviation, known very
succinctly as the 'Memory Charm', which can be wielded as either
a scalpel or a bludgeon, depending on the skill and intent of the
caster."  Filius narrowed his eyes and studied me for a moment.
"Douglas, do you suspect that you may have had your memory
modified?"

I sighed.  "I don't suspect, Filius.  I *know*."  And between
sips of my (quite good) tea, I explained about the photo and the
girls and my concerns.

Filius took a long, slow drink from his teacup, then looked up at
me.  "The easiest way to determine if you have been Obliviated is
to have a Legilimens examine your mind."

"Okay," I said.  "So where do I find a Legilimens?"

"You can always ask Albus," Filius suggested mildly.

                              * * *

Friday, September 13, 1995, 6:25 PM

Dinner had ended half an hour earlier.  I'd arranged a private
meeting with Albus for later that night after our usual research
get-together with Septima, but in between I'd be putting in my
usual early-evening hours in my office next to the DADA
classroom.

I was on my way there from the post-dinner socialization in the
staff room when I heard faint sobbing coming from one of the
classrooms on the second floor.  I immediately shifted from
casual walk to stealth, ghosting my way over to the door, which
hung just enough ajar to let a whisper of sound out into the
hallway.

"Why's he so *mean*?"  I recognized the lightly-accented voice --
Javaid Patel, one of the Hufflepuff first years.

"I don't know.  He just is."  A female voice, older maybe, but if
so not by much.  "Unless you're a Slytherin."

"Snape's a git."  An older boy, confidently.  "The Snakes can't
win the Cup on their own, so he cheats for them."

"Gryffindor's been winning the Cup the last few years, though,"
the girl pointed out dubiously.

"Better Gryffindor than Slytherin," the older boy shot back.
"Even if the Headmaster cheats for *them*."

"But it's not *fair*!" Patel protested, a hitch in his voice.
"I'm way better at potions than Urquhart, but Snape gives him
points all the time, and always takes points from me."

"It's what he does," the girl said sadly.  "Ask any of the
Seventh Years -- *they* got told about him when *they* were
Firsties.  He's been doing it as long as anyone can remember."

Patel wailed again, and as the two older students comforted him I
slipped away to give them their privacy back.  I could do nothing
for Patel that they weren't already doing anyway, and the arrival
of a teacher on the scene would ruin that.

But while I couldn't help comfort the boy, there were other
things I could do.  I wondered if there were written records
somewhere of the points awarded and taken away over the years.

                              * * *

A couple of hours later, the idea to search for point records was
still embryonic, pushed to the back of my mind by my meeting with
Albus and Septima.  (Executive summary:  no progress yet on
finding me a way home.)  And once that had ended and Septima had
left Albus's office, it was time for my private meeting with him.

When we had settled back into our seats and I'd accepted the
requisite sherbet lemon, Albus fixed me with that twinkling gaze
of his and asked, "So, Douglas, what was it you wanted to speak
with me about?"

I grimaced, rubbing one eyebrow with a fingertip as I sucked on
the hard, citrus-flavored candy.  "This isn't exactly school-
related, Albus, but more of a personal favor.  I've recently
discovered that someone has blanked part of my memory."

He raised an eyebrow.  "Indeed?"

I nodded, frowning.  "Yeah.  I've found a photograph of me with a
band of people who I'm clearly close to, but of whom I have no
memory whatsoever."  I chewed my lip for a moment.  "Filius tells
me that you are adept at Legilimency.  I was wondering if you
could enter my mind and, well, see what's been done to me.  Maybe
fix it if you can?"

Albus folded his hands in front of his face and closed his eyes.
"It is indeed true that I have some skill at Legilimency, but I
am not a healer of minds.  At best I could tell you if you have
been Obliviated, and perhaps determine if it could be reversed."

I chewed my lip some more.  "Well, I suppose that's better than
nothing."

Albus studied me closely.  "As I recall, your quite formidable
defences include a mental component, do they not, Douglas?"

"Well... yeah," I said with an embarrassed smile.

"You will, of course, have to lower them, if you can."  He tilted
his head inquisitively.  "Do you still wish me to try this?"

I chuckled ruefully.  "I've gotta know, Albus."

"In that case," he said as he drew his wand, "please prepare
yourself."

I popped the lemon candy out of my mouth and into my hand, then
closed my eyes and began to firmly instruct my field to let
Albus's magical telepathy through.  I got a bit of feedback, not
unlike a bad-tempered guard-dog growling at its keeper, but I
pressed harder.  The feedback settled down, and for a moment I
wondered when my field would make up for it, and what would
happen when it did.  "Okay, go for it," I said, opening my eyes
to see Albus pointing his wand at the bridge of my nose.

"Very well," he said.  "Legilimens!"

                              * * *

I shook myself to awareness.  It felt as though I had fallen
asleep, and been nudged back awake.  Blinking my eyes rapidly to
get them back in focus, I looked around and confirmed I was still
in Albus's office.  Like myself, he was still in the seat he had
been in at the start; his wand lay on the desktop in front of
him, and he wore an expression halfway between troubled and
intrigued.

I took a deep breath.  "Well?"

Albus raised his eyes slowly to mine.  "My dear boy, I can
confirm that you have a memory block in place.  However, while it
*is* magical in nature, it is not Obliviation; it is... quite
unlike anything I have ever seen before, with defences outside of
my experience.  Sadly, I cannot help you.  Nor, I think, can
anyone else in the Wizarding world."

"Well."  I grimaced.  "That's great news.  Just freakin' great."
I petulantly threw the sherbet lemon, which had stuck to the palm
of my hand through the whole process, into the wastebasket next
to Albus's desk.  It cracked against the side of the metal bin
with a sound like a bullet.

Albus favored me with a slight smile.  "It may not be as bad as
you think.  If I am not misled, the block is not permanent.  I
cannot say how long it may take, but I do believe it will
eventually end itself and return the locked memories to you."

"You do, huh?"  I studied him, and realized his eyes were
twinkling again.  Damn.  That was a tell of some sort, but I had
no idea what it meant.

"Yes, I do," he replied.  "I think you need not worry quite so
much about it as you have been."

I leaned back in my seat and shook my head.  "I suppose that's
some small consolation."

                              * * *

As the door swung shut behind Douglas, Albus leaned back in his
chair and sighed.  He had not been entirely honest with the
younger man and it pained him, but he had made a promise.

Douglas had, despite his claims of minimal control over his own
defences, lowered his mental shields so thoroughly that Albus had
felt no resistance whatsoever to his Legilimentic probe -- quite
a contrast to his first encounter with their adamantine solidity
during the "job interview" at the Leaky Cauldron.  No sooner had
he cast the spell than he had found himself in Douglas's mind.

It was almost a truism among Legilimencers that every mind was
unique.  But in Albus's experience, the more powerful the mind,
the more likely it would be to manifest as a fully-realized
mindscape to a visitor.  And if the subject was skilled in
Occlumency, it was even more likely to do so -- one of the more
common (and useful) techniques for building up Occlumentic
defences frequently resulted in a well-formed mindscape.

Douglas had a mindscape.

And what a mindscape it was!  For someone utterly untrained in
Occlumency, it was unusually realized and detailed, from the
huge, full -- indeed, gravid -- moon hanging low on the horizon
to the wooden sign before him reading "Welcome to Wackyland!
Population Thursday and Still Growling!"  Structures whose
improbable shapes and stability put the Weasley home to shame
dotted the landscape, and in the distance were many small,
hopping forms.  Faint hooting noises echoed across the strangely
smooth and brightly-colored terrain.

Albus smiled approvingly, then stretched forth his hand, palm up,
with his wand upon it.  "*Indica mihi hidden memories*!" he
commanded.

The wand spun like a wheel-of-fortune, then slowly came to rest
pointing directly at the moon.

Albus cocked a bushy eyebrow.  "Fascinating," he murmured, and
began striding toward his target.

As it so happened, appearances were deceptive, and Albus found
himself standing before the low, full moon much sooner than he
had initially expected.  Unlike its real-world counterpart, it
hadn't receded from him to maintain its apparent position in the
sky. Instead, here in Douglas's mindscape, it actually rested
directly upon the ground; not the real moon of course, but an
immense model, exquisitely detailed.  Albus spent a moment
marveling at the miniature perfection of its mountains and maria
before returning to his task.  Another *Indica* confirmed that
this model moon was indeed the vessel holding Douglas's lost
memories.

"Well, now," Albus mused to himself.  "How do I get in?"  He
thought for a moment, then chuckled to himself before stepping up
to the miniature satellite and knocking firmly in the middle of
the flat expanse of the *Mare Serenitatis*.  "Hullo?"

He had just begun to laugh at himself for his own puckishness
when a mote of shining silver appeared in the spot where he had
knocked.  Almost as soon as he had registered it, it exploded
into a torrent of light.  Albus calmly stepped to one side and
watched curiously as it first coalesced into a human outline,
then snapped with eye-watering suddenness into the appearance of
a human being.

It was a girl.  No more than fourteen or fifteen years old, if
Albus was any judge, petite even for that age, and dressed in a
high-waisted, floor-length gown of white silk.  She wore a golden
breastplate over the gown and golden vambraces on her forearms,
all with fine silvery filigree decorating them.  On her head was
the most intriguing crown, very obviously magical -- Albus leaned
forward to study its six points, one each of earth, water, fire,
ice, lightning and metallic light.  Beneath it, her brow bore a
shining crescent, its tips pointed upward as if to emulate a
smile.  In her right hand she held a staff of the same pale wood
as the one Douglas owned, but unlike his, hers had a headpiece:
a golden mount holding a large crescent moon made of crystal,
with another crystal -- this one a faceted sphere the size of a
walnut -- blazing like white fire at its center.  Her hair was
blonde and gathered into two slender ponytails long enough to
reach her knees.  She was lovely, a girl no longer a child though
not yet fully a woman, but still hinting at the woman she would
one day become.

Her eyes were closed, and an unexpected pang of longing shot
through Albus's heart at the expression of innocent serenity on
her relaxed face.  Then she opened her eyes, and they were wide
and sapphirine blue.  Looking straight ahead instead of at him,
she spoke.

"Hello.  If you're seeing this message, then you haven't acted in
a way which could be considered an attack on Doug-sensei's mind,
but are probably trying to help him."  Her voice was high and
clear, and she spoke English as an American, although with a
faint and exotic accent which Albus could not place.  "I ask that
you please go no further.  Beyond this point are memories which
must remain sealed for now, but will in time return to him."  Her
eyes, still looking straight ahead and not at him even as he
circled her and studied her from all sides, narrowed in obvious
determination.  "If you persist despite this request, you will be
dealt with as an unwelcome invader."

"How curious," Albus mused aloud as he came to a halt directly in
front of the image.  "And who might you be, my dear?" he murmured
absently.

Slowly, as if forcing itself with great effort, the image broke
its gaze on the horizon for the first time and turned her eyes to
Albus.  "I am Serenity II, once princess of the Moon Kingdom
during the long-dead Silver Millennium, and future queen of
Crystal Earth.  Doug-sensei was my teacher and my friend."  As
she responded, she became more and more animated, as though the
very act was bringing her to life.  "Who are you?"

Albus smiled.  "I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  You might say I am Douglas's
employer, but I would like to think I am also his friend."

Serenity's wide eyes grew wider.  "A magic school?  Really?  Then
you must be in a different universe from mine, because we don't
have any schools like that."  Aside she added, "It sure would
have helped a lot."

"I am quite certain of it, my dear," Albus replied, "as I know
the circumstances of Douglas's arrival in our world, and he had
no opportunity to take on a student, royal or otherwise, before
accepting his position here."

"Good!" she chirped, and Albus almost chuckled at the energy the
image now displayed.  "I hoped I could get him a little closer to
his home."

Albus slowly nodded.  "That is a task I am helping him with as
well.  Perhaps he has you to thank for sending him to our world."

Serenity bit her lip as she considered that.  "Maybe, but I don't
know if there've been any other worlds between yours and mine --
this is the first time I've activated to defend his memories."
She frowned minutely.  "I'm not really me, you see, I'm kind of
an image of me I made to do a job I couldn't do myself."  She
frowned more.  "That made more sense in my head."

"Ah, yes, that."  Albus glanced at the moon behind her.  "Perhaps
you could explain a little?"

She turned and looked back at the moon herself.  "Wow!  Did I do
that?"  Then she turned back around to face him.  "Doug-sensei
was our teacher, me and my friends; he helped us fight the Dark
Kingdom when they tried to invade Tokyo.  He taught us how to use
our magic, and how to be a team, and he was like a father to us
all, Makoto especially.  And when I turned back time after we
won, I hid his memories of us before sending him on his way home.
And I set a copy of myself as a guardian to keep them hidden as
long as needed.  Because he would never leave us if he thought we
might still need him -- his honor and his sense of duty would not
let him put his needs over ours."

There were visible tears in her eyes now, and to his surprise
Albus found his own sight growing misty.  "He isn't ready to
remember us yet," she continued.  "He'll remember in his own
time, but it would hurt if it's too soon.  And worse, he'd try to
come back to us, and he shouldn't -- he needs to go home first.
He'll remember us, someday, when the time is right and it won't
hurt him to know that he left us behind."  Serenity placed her
free hand, balled into a tiny fist, on her breastplate over her
heart.  "And after all he did for us, for me, I *owe* him
whatever I can do to make him happy.  Please, *please*, don't try
to release these memories."

Albus fancied himself a good judge of character -- a man with as
many political duties as he had needed to be -- and he was struck
by the strength of the sincerity and dedication Serenity
projected.  He suspected that there was more to this magical
construct than simply the "image" she characterised herself as,
and wondered if she was aware of it.  She certainly didn't act
like a simple programmed simulacrum, but more like an actual
human mind.  And every skill and instinct he turned to the matter
said that this mind, this *child*, loved Douglas Sangnoir and was
fiercely determined to protect him with a power as far beyond him
as he was beyond one of the first year students in his care.

Albus bowed deeply to the young woman, who (to his private
delight and amusement) goggled at him.  "Far be it from me to
defy the wishes of such a lovely example of magical royalty," he
said as he straightened up.  "And I suspect that I would not
succeed were I to try.  I promise you I shall not tell Douglas of
your presence or reasons for hiding these memories."

"Thank you, Dumbledore-sensei," Serenity breathed with obvious
relief.

                              * * *

Albus leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands before him.
He had spent a fair amount of time (subjectively, of course) in
Douglas's mind after that point, conversing with young Serenity,
who was positively bubbly once engaged in matters less serious.
Regretfully, she declined to share any more specifics of
Douglas's time with her than she had already revealed, but even
so, he found her quite charming.  And if her iron-bound loyalty
to Douglas was any indication, he had definitely made the correct
decision in hiring him.

Yes, indeed.

                              * * *

Saturday, September 14, 1995, 7:45 PM

"Have you found him?" Ron asked as the three of them bent over
the Marauder's Map.

"No," Hermione replied distractedly.  "He's definitely not in his
office."

Ron snorted.  "Well, I figured that when he didn't answer after
we knocked."

"He's not in his quarters, either," Harry added, tracing his
finger along the rooms lining one of the hallways, "or any of the
other professors' quarters either."

The three of them had retreated to an unused classroom with the
Marauder's Map, guaranteeing their privacy with a locking charm
and a *silencio* on the door in the hope of preventing stray
sound from leaking out into the hall beyond.  Before activating
it, Harry had completely unfolded the map and spread it out over
the professor's table at the end of the classroom, and the
members of the trio had each taken a side from which to watch.

"Ah!" Ron blurted, and jabbed his fingertip down on the Map over
the entry hall.  "There he is!"

"I knew it," Hermione whispered, half to herself.  "He's up to
*something*.  Why else would he be sneaking out of the castle?"

"He doesn't actually seem to be sneaking, Hermione," Harry noted.
"In fact, it looks like he's talking to Filch.  Move your finger,
Ron."  And when Ron did so, the animated footprints that
represented both Professor Sangnoir and Filch were adjacent to
each other, face to face if the orientation of the footprints
could be trusted.  The two were off to one side of the entry
hall, so it didn't look like Filch was trying to block the
professor from going out.  Hermione was forced to admit that
Harry was probably right -- the two were simply speaking to each
other.

After several uninteresting minutes, the conversation apparently
ended.  Mister Filch wandered off deeper into the castle, but the
Professor's trace turned and headed right out the doors.  The map
followed him for a short distance before he went beyond its range
and the footprints faded away.

They waited several minutes, but the animated trace did not
return.

"What is he *doing*?" Hermione murmured as Harry cleared the map
with a quick "Mischief managed" and then began folding it up.

"Did you ever consider he might just be going for a walk?" Ron
asked.

Hermione looked up at him sharply, her mouth open to reply.  Then
she snapped it shut.  "You're right, of course," she finally said
after a moment's thought.  "But it's hard not to be suspicious
given our history with Defence professors."

Sliding the folded map into the sleeve of his robe, Harry looked
at Hermione.  "You're really worried about this?"

Hermione bit her lip, then nodded once.

"Well, then," Harry said with a bit of a sigh.  "We'll just have
to keep watching him on the Map, and maybe follow him, to see
what he's up to."

                              * * *

Saturday night turned out to be not only dry (for a change) but
very profitable for my intelligence efforts -- I not only
recruited a battalion of rabbits, several species of birds and
over a hundred Scottish Red Deer to look for Flight-of-Emo for
me, I actually managed to get my needs across to something like a
gajillion dragonflies.  I had half-not expected insects to work.
I was curious if the hive mind I had accidentally imposed on them
would carry over to future generations, or if it would die with
the coming winter.

                              * * *

Monday, September 16, 1995, 7:25 AM

As I did my morning exercises in the stairwell on my way down to
breakfast the following Monday, I heard a shriek of terror from
above me.  Catching a handy outcropping of worked stone, I
redirected my momentum to send me back upward to the closest
landing.  From there I dashed and leapt upward to another
landing, where a small group of younger students were clustered
about one of their number.

"Okay, people, step back, give them some breathing room," I said
as I hopped up the last few steps.  They obediently shuffled away
as far as they could in the limited space, revealing a small girl
in Ravenclaw colors, clutching the railing and hyperventilating.
Her eyes were wide in fear or panic.

The moment she saw me she launched herself to her feet and
clamped her arms around my waist.  "You're alive!" she wailed.
"I thought you fell!"  Then she buried her face in my robes and
began crying.

"No, no, I'm fine," I murmured as I gently patted her back.

                              * * *

Monday, September 16, 1995, 2:05 PM

"Good afternoon, everyone," Professor Sangnoir began once the
last few students, slightly damp, had rushed into the classroom
and dropped into their seats.  "Given as it's another rainy day
today -- as some of you have just discovered from personal
experience..."  He nodded toward the latecomers and Harry
couldn't help but chuckle along with the rest of the class.
"Well, today we'll be going over some theory."

Next to Harry, Hermione immediately perked up.  Harry glanced
across her to Ron, and they shared a knowing smile.

"Consider this useful background for some of the more...
extreme stuff we'll be getting into later in the term," the
professor continued.  "Also be aware a lot of this is high-level
stuff that *isn't* in the standard texts.  If you find it
confusing or hard to understand, feel free to come to me for help
on it.  Also, Professor Vector is familiar with this material and
is also available for help if you need it."

Professor Sangnoir turned back to the easel and slate which most
of the time he ignored.  Rather than fill it with a wave of his
wand, though, he picked up an actual piece of chalk.  "Okay,
first things first.  And I do mean *first*.  Today, we're
covering the fundamental nature of magic."  He turned and wrote
"Magic - What Is It?" on the slate.

"Magic is not wands," he said, turning back to the class.  "Magic
is not incantations, it's not swish-and-flick, it's not even
point-and-shoot.  Wands are *tools*, just as are incantations and
movements.  They are a way of using magic, but not the only way.
Even within the Wizarding tradition, you have wandless and silent
casting, potions and alchemy, and even the accidental magic of
children.  House-elves have their own way of using magic, as do
many other creatures, some of them not even remotely like wand
magic.  But it's all magic.

"The best and simplest definition of magic I've yet to come
across is this:  Magic is the deliberate application of energy to
change or influence the physical or spiritual worlds through an
act of will."  He paused a moment to let that sink in.  "Very
accurate.  Still, it leaves something out.  What energy?  Where
does it come from?  What *is* it that we're all using, but in so
many wildly different ways?  Why does it respond to acts of
will?"

Predictably, Hermione's hand shot up.

The professor favored her with a smirk.  "Those were rhetorical
questions, Miss Granger, but don't worry, you'll get your turn in
a moment."  Hermione smiled sheepishly as she lowered her hand,
and the professor acknowledged it with a slight incline of his
head.  Then he turned his attention back to the class.  "The
nature of magic is a question that has been debated by wizards
from time immemorial.  Fortunately for you, the debate has been
settled."

And then he launched into the heart of the lesson.

                              * * *

After Defence class ended, they and their fellow Gryffindors
headed back to the tower to drop off their books and belongings
before proceeding to dinner.  As they made their way up to the
Fat Lady's portrait, Ron and Hermione debated the validity of
Professor Sangnoir's lesson.  "I'm just saying I've never seen
anything like this 'unified theory' in any book I've read," she
was objecting.

Harry, though, couldn't help but find himself recalling and
wondering about the final words of the professor's lecture:  "But
there is more to magic than simply will, word and energy.  We are
able to do magic because there is more to us than just this crude
matter, this too-solid flesh.  Every sapient being, simply by
*being* sapient, partakes of the divine, of a nature beyond the
merely corporeal.  Some of us, we fortunate few with the gift,
are able to touch the world as the Celestials do, even if only in
a lesser manner.  This is the root and truth of magic, that all
of us, even those who seem to have no power at all, are as gods."

Something about that resonated within Harry, and filled him with
a wonder he hadn't felt since his first days at Hogwarts.  "We
are as gods," he whispered to himself, and engrossed in their
argument, neither Ron nor Hermione heard.

                              * * *

I suppose it was too much to expect that nothing would come of
the scene on the landing that morning, but some hours later Albus
held me back when everyone else began to file out of the staff
room and into the Great Hall for dinner.

"Douglas," Albus began in a friendly tone that immediately made
me worried.

"Yes, Headmaster?"

"I understand that in your home world a certain amount of...
leeway was afforded persons with gifts like yours.  However,
there are standards of behavior demanded of a professor at
Hogwarts."

"Sir?"

Dumbledore sighed.  "Douglas, if you could, please refrain from
performing acrobatics in the central castle stairwell from now
on.  It not only frightens some of the more sensitive students,
it is not befitting the dignity of the Hogwarts faculty."

Damn.  And bouncing around those moving staircases was one of the
best workouts I'd had in years.

But after that morning's little scare, I suppose it was the right
thing to do.

                              * * *

A few more hours later, I was back in my quarters after sitting
through my office hours.  On my mind was the same topic that had
occupied it since dinner -- where could I get as good a workout
as I had been getting in my daily plunges through the stairwell?
I could easily do without it, true, and had many times in many
worlds before.  But I'd been spoiled with my workouts here, and I
was loathe to *stop* just because the stairwell was now off-
limits.

Absently, I called for Twonky as I tried to think of alternative
facilities I could use.  There were always empty classrooms, of
course.  There was the one large one with a dueling platform,
which offered a lot more room than the rest.  But if I wanted
a better workout than I could get doing it just anywhere, I'd
need equipment of some sort, even if something just as simple as
a set of parallel bars (or a moving staircase).  And acquiring
and installing enough stuff to give me the kind of workout I got
on the stairs would take a lot of Galleons and time.

Twonky appeared with a pop.  "Professor Looney called Twonky?" it
asked as it always did.

I opened my mouth to order my usual strong, sweet tea, but
instead, I found myself asking, "Twonky, you wouldn't know where
in the castle I could get a good workout?"

Twonky tilted its head, causing one of its ears to flop over
comically.  "Professor Looney needs a place where he can jump and
swing and punch?"

"Yes, exactly!" I all but shouted, pointing a finger at the
little thing's long, sharp nose.

The house-elf nodded sagely, looking for just a moment like an
impoverished, anorexic Yoda.  "The house-elves know of a room.
It is called the 'Room of Requirement', but the elves calls it
the 'Come and Go Room'.  It be's whatever you needs it to be.  If
Professor Looney needs a place to jump and swing and punch, then
it be's that for Professor Looney.  If Professor Looney needs
somethings different, it be's that, too."

I stared at the elf.  A danger room.  Twonky was describing a
freaking magical *danger room*.  I valiantly suppressed the urge
to grab the little creature by its non-existent lapels and shake
it.  "Twonky," I said with false calmness, "where can Professor
Loo...  I mean, where can I find this 'Come and Go Room'?"

Twonky stared solemnly up at me.  "It be's on the seventh floor,
across from the tapestry of a wizard teachings trolls to dance.
If Professor Looney walks past the wall three times and thinks of
what he is wanting, the Come and Go Room will open."

To hell with my tea.  Time to hit the seventh -- eighth, if
you're American like me -- floor.  "Twonky, I owe you one.
Thanks!" And with that I was out the door faster than the elf
could pop away.

                              * * *

Twonky had not steered me wrong.  I'd barely made the third pass
and a door faded into existence on the wall -- a four-paneled
Edwardian-style door painted gloss white, with brass fittings.
It was quite unlike the heavy, medieval-styled oak-and-iron doors
to be found everywhere else in the castle.

It looked suspiciously familiar.

I pushed it open and found myself in a gymnasium.

No.  Not *a* gymnasium.  *The* gymnasium.  The *Mansion's*
gymnasium.  Complete with all the equipment we had designed and
built ourselves for our own special needs.  (When you can
deadlift 20 tons, a weight set from the local Dick's Sporting
Goods just ain't a-gonna cut it.)

I stood there at the edge of the mat and fought back tears.  It
had been seventy-five gods-be-damned years since I had last seen
this room.

Not since before the argument with Maggie.

I closed my eyes, breathed in deeply, and got my emotions under
control.
                   
Then I flung my robes away and launched myself into the best
workout I'd had in years.

                              * * *

An hour later, as I dried off from my post-workout shower in the
men's locker room (right in front of the third locker on the
right, the one with the label on its door that read "Looney
Toons"), I wondered just what the limits of the Room of
Requirement really were.  I had entered the gym through the door
that would have led to the rest of the Mansion, but if things
worked as I expected they would, going through it would take me
back to Hogwarts proper.

I got dressed (my clothes had been cleaned and pressed while I
showered, either by the Room or the house-elves, I had no idea
which), and exited the gym.  I was, as I expected, right back
where I'd started from on the eighth floor, and the moment it
closed the door vanished, leaving a blank stone wall behind.

I studied it for a moment, then began walking back and forth in
front of the spot it had been, concentrating on what I now
wanted.  A different door, still Edwardian in style, but
varnished instead of painted, with a massive brass knocker in the
center at eye level as well as a thick brass handle with a thumb
latch.  Surmounting it was an elaborate fanlight of alternating
clear and stained glass panels through which a warm glow
radiated.  Mounted at the center bottom of the fan was a security
camera.  On stone of the wall to the right of the door handle sat
a charcoal-grey plastic box 15 centimeters on an edge, a single
red LED burning continuously in one corner.

I smiled to myself at the sight.   I knew this door *oh* so well.

I snapped my right hand out to my side, and my Warriors ID
dropped obediently into it from my sleeve.  With a practiced
motion ingrained into muscle memory by more than a decade of
repetition, I swiped it across the sensor.  The red LED turned
green and the lock buzzed.  I seized the handle, thumbed the
latch, opened the door and stepped in.  As it closed with a
comfortingly solid thud behind me I took in my surroundings:
white marble, dark wood, brass chandeliers overhead, the
portraits...

I was home.

Well, maybe not home for real.  But it was like "Beatlemania" --
an incredible simulation.

After silently basking in it for a minute, I took off for the
basement.  The first thing I had to check out was, naturally
enough, the Danger Room.

                              * * *

"Well?" Hermione demanded.

Harry shook his head as he continued to study the Map.  "I have
no idea.  He went up to the seventh floor, walked back and forth
a couple times, and then vanished."

"He has to be *somewhere*!" she objected.  "He certainly can't
have Disapparated -- you can't do that on Hogwarts grounds!"

"Yes, we know, Hermione," Ron grumbled.

                              * * *

A morning workout in the Mansion became part of my daily
schedule.  And some evenings, after I was done with my office
hours and my rounds I would head up to my old duty station and
park myself in front of the Big Board despite the lack of
anything to keep an eye on, just for the reassuring familiarity --
and because Wizarding Britain had nothing at all to match a
padded, reclining executive leather office chair.

Oh, and as it turned out, the Room of Requirement was recursive.

                              * * *

Wednesday, September 18, 1995, 6:15 PM

A few days later, I was making my regular rounds of the castle
when I came across Luna Lovegood slowly meandering down a third-
floor hallway, wand limply grasped in one hand.  She was peering
into the niches and dark corners of the stonework, sticking her
head into open classroom doors, and casting light spells into the
ribbed vaulting of the ceiling above her.  It was hard to tell at
that distance, but she seemed to be humming or crooning a
wordless (and almost melodyless) tune to herself.

I'd come up a stairway behind the young Ravenclaw student,
quietly enough for her not to notice, and I froze for a moment
out of surprise.  She seemed to be searching for something, but
not with any sense of haste or urgency.  I raised an eyebrow,
then called out, "Is there something I can help you with, Miss
Lovegood?"

"Oh, hullo, Professor Sangnoir," she replied as she slowly turned
around.  "I'm just looking for some of my belongings.  My
housemates think it's great fun to hide them."  It was hard to
tell with the dreamy manner of speaking she had, but I was pretty
sure that it was delivered in as matter-of-factly a tone as she
was capable of.  "Every year they make a game of hiding my
possessions and making me look for them.  I don't usually find
them all again until just before we take the Express home," she
added, staring directly at me in a way that might have been
unnerving had I not had long experience being stared at by far
more dangerous and unnerving things than her.

"A game?"  I chewed my lip for a moment.  "And do you enjoy this
game, Miss Lovegood?"

She tilted her head and appeared to think intently on the
question before answering.  "Not really.  But it does give me
something to do on long nights when no one in my House will talk
to me."

Right.  In the words of the immortal Charles de Mar, "I'm no
dummy."  I know what bullying looks like, and this certainly
looked like bullying.  "Would you like to *stop* playing this
game, Miss Lovegood?"

"Oh, yes, please."  The dreaminess bled out of her voice and for
a moment it was tired and plaintive.

"In that case, I'm going to end it, right now.  First, let's get
your things back."  Which was going to be the easy part.  I
looked up at the ceiling for no good reason and called, "Twonky!"

Like clockwork, Twonky appeared with the usual "pop".  "Professor
Looney called?"

Miss Lovegood giggled, a surprisingly normal sound that seemed at
odds with her usual behavior.  "Yes?" I asked her with another
raised eyebrow.

"I'm Loony, too," she explained, and the giggle's brightness
drained out of her almost immediately.  "Well, that's what they
call me."

I put a second mental checkmark next to "bullying".  It's one
thing to call *yourself* Looney...  "No, no, no, that just won't
do," I said.  "We can't have two Looneys at Hogwarts, no, that
would be too confusing."  I leaned in a bit toward her.  "And
I've been Looney *far* longer than you have, so I have seniority.
And precedence.  So I get to keep that name.  We'll just have to
get you a new one."
   
Her wide eyes went wider, and her mouth worked for a moment.
Then she tilted her head and said, "Can I be Omar instead?"

I stood up straight and rubbed my chin in mock thought.  "Hmm.
I don't know.  You're too blonde to be an Omar.  How about... oh!
I know!  Shirley!"

"Shirley?"  She tilted her head the other way, but her eyes never
left mine.  Odd.  She didn't blink as often as most people did.
"Because Stubby Boardman is serious?"

Good.  She remembered that first class.  "Exactly!"

She spent a moment considering it, looking off to one side as she
thought.   "Shirley.  Shirley."  Then she nodded and looked back
into my eyes.  "Yes.  I like it."

"Good."  I raised my hands in a pseudo-blessing, solemnly
intoning, "I hereby officially dub thee 'Shirley'."

She bowed her head and sketched out something like a curtsey.  "I
am honored, good sir."

I laughed and clapped my hands.  "Now that that's settled, Shirl
my girl, we get your stuff back.  Twonky?" I addressed the house-
elf, who had been waiting patiently to one side during the entire
charade.

"Yes, Professor Looney?" it responded, stepping a bit closer to
the two of us.

"Shirley here has had some of her belongings stolen and hidden
from her.  Can you please have the house-elves find them all and
return them to..."  I turned back to her.  "Is your bed all
right?"

"To my trunk, please?" she requested.

"Right.  To her trunk," I said to Twonky.  "And can you guys
watch her stuff and make sure no one takes it again?  Without
getting in the way of your regular duties?"

Twonky nodded briskly, sending its ears flopping about.  "House-
elves can watch Missy Shirley's things and makes sure they stays
where they is supposed to be."

"Great!  And if someone does try to take them, or do anything
else to her for that matter, I want to know about it."  I'd have
to do something really nice for the house-elves when I got a
chance.  I didn't know what yet, but the little guys (girls?
asexual beings?) put 110% or more into everything they did, and
deserved a little recognition.  "Thank you, Twonky."

The house-elf nodded again and blinked away.  I turned back to
Miss Lovegood.

"Now, Shirley, let's see if we can beat your stuff back to your
dorm."

                              * * *

I escorted Miss Lovegood back to Ravenclaw Tower, making only a
brief stop at Filius's office to let him know what I'd learned,
and to let him know how I was dealing with it.  After exercising
my staff privilege with the annoying door knocker, I escorted her
into the common room and right to the base of the staircase that
led up to the girls' dorms.

Every eye in the room was on us, so I made it very clear by both
word and deed that she was *not* being punished for anything.
(Just in case her merry skipping through the room and up the
steps wasn't clue enough.)  I watched with a smile as she climbed
the stairs and vanished through an archway off a landing about
halfway up.

Then I dropped the smile and turned to scowl at the rest of the
room.  "Prefects!  Front and center!  *Now!*" I snapped in my
best drill sergeant voice.  Two students -- a pretty Asian girl
with long hair and a spray of freckles across her nose, and a
gaunt blond boy -- hesitantly stepped forward.  "We're going to
have a little talk about how to treat your Housemates."

"And when he's done, I'll have a few things to add," Filius, his
high-pitched voice in no way amusing now, said from where he
stood in the door.

                              * * *

Long story short, no one stole anything belonging to Luna
Lovegood ever again, at least not while I was at Hogwarts.

A week and a half later, a girl named Edgecombe did try to exact
some misguided (and extreme) retribution on Shirley for the lost
points and detentions the House had suffered that night, but she
was expelled when the elves caught and prevented it, then told
Filius and me about it.

After which the two of us had *another* little talk with the
remaining members of House Ravenclaw.

Nothing more happened after that.

                              * * *

Wednesday, September 18, 1995, 7:32 PM

"Any change?" Harry asked.

"Nah, he's still in the Ravenclaw common room with Flitwick,"
Ron said as he watched the Map.  "Dunno what's going on, but just
about all the 'Claws are there 'cept for Shirley Lovegood.  She's
runnin' around up in the dorms."

"You should call her by her real name, Ron," Hermione objected.

"Why?  What's wrong with 'Shirley'?" he objected.  "It's her
nickname, innit?  And loads better than what they used to call
her."

"He's got a point," Harry commented from the window seat where he
was reading their Transfiguration text.  "It *is* a lot nicer
than 'Loony', after all."

"I know, it's just..."  Hermione sighed.  "I don't know."  A
thought struck her, and she frowned for a moment.  "Say, when did
they stop calling her that?"

"Huh?" Ron asked, looking up from the map.  "I don't remember
exactly, but it wasn't that long ago.  Harry, do you know?"

Harry looked up from his book.  "I don't think I ever heard
anyone actually call her 'Loony'.  So it must've been before the
ride in on the Express."

"Yeah, mate, I think you might be right."  Ron turned his
attention back to the Map.  "And Professor Sangnoir's still with
the 'Claws."

                              * * *

    *...Enclosed find copies of my notes and the handouts from
    Sangnoir's most recent "theory" classes.  If what he's been
    teaching *isn't* total nonsense, as you say the experts you've
    consulted have suggested, then where does it come from?
    Professor Vector claims not to know, although she does admit
    that Sangnoir has shared far more with her than we've seen in
    class, and that it is all demonstrably true.*
    
    *In other news, Sangnoir has apparently taken a protege --
    Luna Lovegood, who is the daughter of the Quibbler's publisher
    from what I understand.  Everyone used to call her 'Loony' but
    now they call her 'Shirley' for reasons which escape me...*

                              * * *

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England.  Thursday, September 19, 1995,
3:53 PM

His personal study was one of the few rooms in the Manor which
was not decorated with gilded fixtures, and Lucius very much
preferred it that way.  Its deep mahogany paneling was no less
ornate than the rest of the house, with its rich finish and
exquisite carvings, and the carpeting was, if anything, more
decadently thick and soft than even that in the private bedrooms,
though its pattern was stark and formal.  The furnishings were
solid and heavy, unlike the flimsy-seeming Second Empire pieces
Narcissa preferred, without sacrificing elegance or style.

The cumulative effect was a room that was relentlessly masculine
yet still reminded the visitor of its owner's wealth and taste.
And Lucius Malfoy very much preferred it that way.

In the center of the room was a large desk of gleaming maple.
Lucius ensured that its surface was never cluttered even during
the most hectic of days; and today was not a hectic day.  It bore
only the three items that made their permanent home there:  the
gold inkstand which held his quills and inks, the simple cherry
wood box in which he kept his parchment, and the blotter of thick
green felt trimmed with red leather corners.

Six feet above floated a Permanent Lighting Charm, bathing the
entire desktop in bright, but not harsh, light.

Lucius Malfoy carefully laid his son's most recent communique
down in the precise center of the blotter and leaned back in his
tall, leather-upholstered chair.  He steepled his hands before
his face and gazed out over his fingertips at the door to the
study without really seeing it.  Once again he pondered the
questions which had come to occupy more and more of his
attention.

Who was Douglas Sangnoir?  Where did he come from?

The Dark Lord wanted to know, because Sangnoir was an unknown
quantity, and Lord Voldemort could not abide an unknown quantity,
especially not one whom rumor suggested might be able to best
him.  The Dark Lord wanted to know every bit of Sangnoir's past;
his follies, foibles, and weaknesses, his family and friends --
every bit of leverage that could be used to twist, subvert or if
necessary destroy Sangnoir before he could become a threat.

But Sangnoir *had no past*.  No history.  No family.  And the one
confirmed friend that the man had was not exactly a soft target,
as he lived surrounded by dragons.

Lucius frowned at the thought.  Dragons.  It took a half-dozen or
more wizards to subdue a dragon -- unless they were Douglas
Sangnoir, who didn't even need magic to render one unconscious
and then exert dominance over the preserve's entire wing.

And now, there was what he was teaching at Hogwarts, relayed in
Draco's letters.  According to the experts that Lucius had
consulted -- French members of the extended Malfoy family and
more than able to keep a secret -- Sangoir was presenting as fact
things that Departments of Mysteries the world over had only
barely begun to *suspect* about magic, with more detail in a
beginner's survey than the Unspeakables had been able to acquire
in half a century of research.  The material in Draco's last
letter alone was revolutionary, according to his contacts -- it
idly answered questions which had perplexed the Wizarding world's
best minds for decades.  And today's letter...

He chuckled suddenly.  Umbridge, the fat cow, feared the army she
was sure Dumbledore was raising against the Ministry, using the
students of Hogwarts.  The foolish toad would happily cripple
Wizarding Britain to protect her own power, and for months now
Lucius had encouraged and supported her, because she unknowingly
served the Dark Lord's purposes.

But it wasn't Dumbledore who was building an army, it was
Sangnoir -- and he didn't even realize it.  He was simply
teaching the children in his care what children were taught where
he came from -- wherever in Merlin's name *that* was.  And the
moment Umbridge thought she was about to destroy him *or* them...

Like he had the dragon alpha, Sangnoir would undoubtedly strike
her down with a single crushing blow.

And if the Dark Lord decided to act against Sangnoir...

Lucius began to reshape his plans.  Slowly withdraw support from
Umbridge, to be sure.  He wouldn't undermine her, but he'd no
longer speak in her favor to the Minister.  Let her independent
actions aid Voldemort's cause for as long as they could before
she self-destructed.  Allow nothing to be traced back to himself,
nor to the Dark Lord.

And as for what Sangnoir was teaching...  Lucius would tell the
Dark Lord nothing more than that it was "advanced" magic.  He
would instruct Draco to hold his tongue on the matter and learn
*everything* he could.  And in the meantime, he would ensure that
Draco's letters and notes were safely stored in the family vault
at Gringotts.

Pureblood ideology was all well and good, but nothing was more
important to Malfoys than family.  And Lucius was beginning to
suspect that following the Dark Lord and his goals was no longer
in the family's best interests.

                              * * *

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Thursday, September
19, 1995, 6:15 PM

Ah, "Talk Like A Pirate Day".  Sure, if it were even created in
this universe it would still be seven years before it got
international recognition, but that didn't stop me.  I took
delight in doing all my lectures that day in mangled faux-
Yorkshire dialect by way of Hollywood.  Only one student -- Miss
Granger -- demanded to know why I was speaking so oddly, so I
explained the holiday to her.

She seemed personally offended, for some reason.

                              * * *

"My dear, I am in your debt."  I bowed over Irma Pince's hand, and
she giggled loud enough to draw looks of shock and disbelief from
the few students in the library at that hour -- mostly Ravenclaws,
whom I recognized from the dressing-down Filius and I had given
them the night before.  No doubt Irma had cultivated the classic
"harsh librarian" persona for the students, and now I'd gone and
blown it for her.

Oh well.

In the wake of the Ravenclaw massacree (with full orchestration
and five-part harmony) the night before, I recalled my private
vow to look for (and into) House point records for the last few
years.  I left a note on my office door referring anyone who was
looking for me to the library, then made my way there and did
what I do best when it comes to researching things outside my
specialty areas -- I asked someone for help.  In this case, Irma,
who not only confirmed that such records existed, but knew where
they were *and* retrieved them for me in a matter of minutes.
The older volumes, she explained, were static, but the one for
the current year dynamically updated itself as points were given
and taken.

How very convenient.

After I embarrassed her in front of the Ravenclaws, she set me up
with the books (several *huge* volumes better described as
"tomes" or "folios") in the staff reading room.  I stacked them
on one of the big tables in the center of the room, grabbed a few
sheets of blank parchment off the stack conveniently provided in
a box in the center of the table (along with ink and quills), and
sat down to read.

                              * * *

Friday, September 20, 1995, 4:45 PM

Severus Snape awaited the start of dinner in the Great Hall with
the same sense of anticipation that a man about to be executed
would possess for his last meal.  He had allowed himself to
arrive somewhat earlier than his colleagues, but not so much so
as to suggest anything approaching eagerness, for either the food
or their company.

If indeed there was anything in the immediate vicinity that he
looked forward to, it was the few minutes he spent beside the
fire in the staff room before the lot of them filed out and took
their places looking out at the unruly and irritating lot of
fools, idiots and dunderheads with whom he was required to
interact day in and day out.  Even as summer approached at the
end of the school year the staff room fire was a welcome warmth,
banishing the eternal chill and damp driven deep into his bones
by the dungeons of Hogwarts.

He sat there tonight, basking in its light and heat, and not at
all happy at the thought that he would have to leave it in only a
few minutes to face the student body one last time before the end
of the day.  He sat in one of the armchairs before it, leaning
forward with his eyes closed and his chin propped on his folded
hands, taking what little pleasure he could before he would be
torn away from it.  His fellow professors had long ago learned to
leave him be in these minutes, at risk of his anger and his sharp
tongue.

All of them but one.

A potions master's senses must be exquisitely sensitive, and
those senses told him that someone was daring to interrupt his
moments with the fire.  The almost inaudble scrape of shoe
leather upon flagstones, the faintest displacement of air, and
the scent of soap indicated that someone had approached him.

At least he had had the civility not to block the fire.

Severus suppressed a sigh and opened his eyes.  "Douglas," he
drawled.

"Severus," the Defence professor replied, his voice lacking its
normal jollity.  Snape raised an eyebrow at that.  The man was
almost never serious.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?" Severus
asked, sitting up and then back.  As his eyes met Sangnoir's,
Severus idly probed with his Legilimency.  He barely controlled
his reaction to running into a set of powerful mental shields
which resembled nothing in his experience.  Instead of the usual
Occlumentic protections with which Severus was familiar, Sangnoir
possessed something akin to a greased wall of solid steel --
Severus was unable to get a grip on Sangnoir's mind, nor could he
simply force his way into it.  Where had the flamboyant idiot
learned to guard his thoughts in such a way?

If Sangnoir had noticed the Legilimentic probe, he gave no sign
of it.  "I've been looking through the House point logs for the
last few years," he said conversationally, "just to get a better
feel for the whole system, you understand.  And as I did, I
noticed something."

Severus was quite sure he knew what Sangnoir had noticed.  "Oh?
And what might that be?"

Sangnoir narrowed his eyes.  "That you blatantly favor Slytherin
and penalize the other Houses for the most trivial of reasons.
And you have what appears to be a grudge against a student or
three."

Elsewhere in the room, the other members of the Hogwarts staff
who had entered along with or after Sangnoir froze, listening.

"Do I?" Severus asked mildly, allowing himself the slightest of
smirks.

"Oh, yes," Sangnoir replied.  "You do."

"How remarkable," Severus offered.  "Your investigative skills
astound me, Douglas."  That the buffoon had even suspected there
were permanent records of the House points, let alone possessed
the mental capacity to add them up, was an intellectual
achievement of which Severus was surprised to find him capable.

To his disappointment, Sangnoir did not rise to the bait.  "This
offends me on a deeply personal level, Severus."

"Does it?  You have my condolences."  Severus leaned back into
the armchair and closed his eyes, ending the conversation.

Sangnoir, however, was too dense to notice the obvious dismissal.
"I suspect I'm far from the first to notice this," he continued,
the tone of his voice growing even colder.  "And I doubt I'm the
first to confront you about it.  So it's pretty obvious to me
that confrontation doesn't work with you.  And unless I'm grossly
mistaken, Albus allows you to get away with it anyway, so going
to him about it would be just as useless."

The man was growing annoying; a great pity, as he had been
tolerable company -- that is to say, usually quiet -- at the
faculty table these last few weeks.  "Sadly, I cannot say that I
find it in myself to care about your suspicions."

"Sadly, I didn't think you would."

Severus allowed himself an aggrieved sigh.  "Is there a point to
your obvious disapproval, Douglas?"

"Why, yes."  Severus felt the man block the warmth of the fire as
he leaned down to bring his face close to Severus'.  "I wanted to
let you know that the game you're playing isn't Solitaire -- it's
Snakes and Ladders, and it's fun for the whole family."  Severus
snapped open his eyes in time to see Sangnoir standing up
straight again, an intolerable smirk on his face.  "Enjoy your
dinner, Sev."

                              * * *

"All right..."  Two hours later I was ensconced in a carrel in
one corner of the staff reading room, the current year's point
log open to the first day of classes and a pot (with cup) of
fresh (hot, strong, sweet) tea near to hand.  Yet another autumn
rain storm pattered the stained-glass window over my head almost
musically as I made my request known to the logbook.  The spells
on it allowed it to be searched like a simple database, so I was
looking only at those entries made at Severus' behest.

Speaking of whom... When I had confronted him before dinner, I
felt him attempt to touch my mind.  Thanks to Albus's attempt to
fix my lost memories I now knew what Legilimency felt like, and
Severus had made a definite, if passive, attempt to read at least
my surface thoughts.  Fortunately, the combination of my field
and Psyche's training was more than enough to deflect him.  I
wondered if Albus knew Severus was a Legilimencer, and what the
policy (and law) was regarding telepathic scanning.  I made a
mental note to ask later, and turned my attention back to the
task at hand.

"Let's see, now," I murmured to myself, and began running my
finger down the "reason" column, looking for the insulting,
outrageous or ridiculous.  "Five points to Ravenclaw for proper
preparation for the lesson," I whispered, bringing to mind
relevant moments from the first few classes I'd taught.  "Five
points to Gryffindor for enforcing safety protocols.  Five points
to Hufflepuff for outstanding mentoring of younger students.
Five points *from* Slytherin for disruptive behavior."

I took a deep breath.

"Five points to Hufflepuff..."

                              * * *

Saturday, September 21, 1995, 8:10 AM

"Hey," Ron said as they passed through the Entrance Hall on their
way to breakfast.  "Check it out.  I wonder what happened."

Hermione looked up from the book in her hand.  "What do you mean,
what happened?"

Ron gestured at the gem-filled hourglasses on the walls flanking
the castle's front doors.  "Look at the point counts -- they're
a lot more even than they were last night after dinner.
*Something* must have happened since then."

Harry glanced to either side, comparing the relative sizes of the
piles in the four hourglasses' lower bulbs.  "You're right, last
night Slytherin was in the lead and Ravenclaw was *way* behind.
Ravenclaw's still a bit behind, but Slytherin..."

Ron shot a wide grin at him.  "You think Malfoy got caught doing
something he shouldn't?"

Harry returned the grin. "We can only hope."

Hermione rolled her eyes.  "Honestly!  In case you haven't
noticed, it isn't just that Slytherin lost points -- all the
other Houses *gained* them."

The two boys turned identical looks of surprise upon her.

"Really?" Ron asked.

"How can you tell?" Harry followed.

She huffed.  "Yes, really.  And it's because I pay attention to
these things."  She took off at a rapid march for the Great Hall.
"Unlike *some* people," she called back over her shoulder.

Harry and Ron stifled snickers before chasing off after her.

                              * * *

The glares Severus shot me over breakfast were worth every minute
of sleep I'd missed the night before.

I simply smiled sweetly at him and ate my pancakes without a
word.

                              * * *

Saturday, September 21, 1995, 7:13 PM

"He's leaving the library," Ron hissed.

"Is he heading for the Entrance Hall?" Harry asked.

"Looks like... yes, he's turning away from the staff wing and
going straight to the door."  Ron looked up.  "Now?"

"Yes!"  Hermione was already at the door while Harry was still
shutting down and folding up the map.  "Come *on*!"

Harry supposed he couldn't fault her impatience -- between one
thing and another they hadn't been able to watch the map for the
last few evenings.  This time, though, everything had fallen
together perfectly.  This time they would get to follow Professor
Sangnoir and find out what he was doing almost every evening --
and maybe Hermione would calm down, finally.

Together they dashed out of the classroom and down the hall, the
leather soles of their shoes sliding as they rounded the turn
right before the staircase landing...

...and nearly collided with Professor McGonagall.

McGonagall lifted her chin and looked at them through half-lidded
eyes.  "Mister Potter.  Miss Granger.  Mister Weasley.  Where
might you be off to in such a hurry?"

Harry exchanged glances with Hermione and Ron, and sighed.

                              * * *

It had taken far too long -- and a trip to her office -- to
convince McGonagall that they weren't up to any kind of mischief.
(Or that mischief wasn't up to *them*, as the professor had put
it with a sly smile.)  When she finally released them with a
stern but generic warning about proper behavior, they slowly
walked away until they were out of sight of her office, then ran
breakneck for the Entrance Hall.

Where they spied Professor Sangnoir cheerily greeting Filch as he
strode back in.

"Next time," Ron grumped, "we use the cloak."

                              * * *

Sunday, September 22, 1995, 3:41 PM

Severus didn't take my interference in his hobby laying down.  By
the next time I checked the logs on Sunday afternoon, he had laid
into Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw for at least a hundred
points each, penalizing everything from running in the halls to
"excessive humility".  The points awarded to Slytherin were even
more blatant, rewarding such trivia as personal grooming and good
penmanship.  He had even gone so far as to give young Mister
Malfoy 50 points for "proper deportment as befits the heir of
Pureblood house".

Unfortunately, I couldn't just blindly invert every point he took
or gave.  The man *did* dole out legitimate punishments and
rewards, and I didn't want to zero those out.  That meant closely
examining the borderline cases, and playing it safe when I
couldn't be sure.  And to satisfy my personal ethics, I also had
to make sure my counters to his excesses were proper and
legitimate, and not arbitrary.

Between that and brainstorming a counter-meme to the Pureblood
ideology, I had my work cut out for me.

                              * * *

The British Ministry of Magic, London, UK.  Monday, September 23,
1995, 9:20 AM

Dolores Umbridge trundled into her office, ready to begin a new
week of service to Wizarding Britain, and froze.

In the exact center of the pink felt blotter which covered the
top of the mahogany desk were two piles of what appeared to be
ashes, with a small slip of folded parchment between them.

Dolores cast several quick charms to detect traps and other
possible threats, and when they all reported negative slowly
eased around her desk.  Standing before her chair, she reached
for the parchment and unfolded it.

    *Next time it won't be just your hired wands.*

It was signed with the seal of the Department of Mysteries.  A
moment after that detail had registered, the parchment burst into
a flame that consumed it in an instant.

Dolores Umbridge's scream of rage and frustration could be heard
all the way to the Ministry Atrium.

                              * * *

The Great Hall, Hogwarts.  Monday, September 23, 1995, 12:10 PM

Ginny shot a poisonous glare at the staff table and growled into
her lunch.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked around bites of roast beef and cheddar.

"Snape's on a tear today," she said.  "He's been taking points
from *everyone* not in Slytherin, for any excuse he can come up
with.  Something's got him a right strop."

Ron nodded sagely.  "Probably whatever happened on Saturday
night, eh, Harry?"

Harry looked up from his plate.  "What?  Oh, yeah.  First chance
he's had to take points from entire classes at once since then, I
suppose."  He gave Ginny a sympathetic smile.  "What'd he get you
for?"

Ginny blushed, picked up her pumpkin juice and mumbled something
into it.

"What was that?" Ron demanded.

If anything, Ginny blushed deeper.  "Five points for mooning over
Harry," she admitted, half-whispering.

"Well, what else can you expect from the greasy git?" Ron asked
philosophically, and took another bite of his sandwich.

                              * * *

Tuesday, September 24, 1995, 9:34 PM

I latched the door to my quarters behind me, then dropped heavily
into what was rapidly becoming my favorite armchair.  My arms and
legs still had that pleasant tiredness that I always got from a
good workout, and I could easily let it spread, take me over, and
send me to sleep.  But certain thoughts that had occurred to me
before I even left the Room of Requirement that night were
occupying my mind.

My first three weeks as an instructor at Hogwarts had, on the
whole, gone well.  To my surprise I was not as hated as I had
anticipated I would become; most of my students, regardless of
their year, took eagerly to my classes and methods, as though
hungering deeply for a more substantial Defense course than they
had previously experienced.

There were, of course, a few exceptions -- Draco Malfoy was
always prime fodder for a few dozen penalty points with which to
knock down Severus' Slytherin favoritism.  Oddly, although he
fought tooth and nail against anything new or at odds with "the
old ways", he still paid intense attention in class, taking notes
in quantities to rival the Granger girl.  So I figured I had to
be getting across to him at some level.

What was really surprising was how well they took to the
digressions I made from my teaching plan.  I'd found myself
mixing more philosophy and freeform discussion into my classes
than I'd originally intended, and sometimes ranging very far
afield indeed from the ostensible topic at hand.  But to my
surprise it was paying dividends I couldn't have anticipated, in
student attention and participation, and in their overall
performance.

Whether it was the right thing to do or not, I wasn't sure.  That
was what I'd been debating with myself about all the way back
from the eighth floor.  I had almost convinced myself that I
should dial back the digressions, get more strict, and hew much
closer to my original plan.

But then I remembered Professor Thackeray from my freshman year
calc course at Princeton.  His lectures tended to wander even
wider than my classes did, but damn if I didn't learn more math
from him in one semester than I did before or after.  In his last
lecture for the course, he'd proudly described himself as "a
professor of life, with a concentration in mathematics".

My reaction to that could pretty much be summed up as, "that's
the coolest thing I've ever heard."  (I've heard cooler since,
but it still ranks well up there.)

And at the moment I recalled it, I realized that this was what
*I* was, here at Hogwarts:  A professor of life, with a
concentration in Defense.

I could live with that.

                              * * *

Wednesday, September 25, 1995, 8:34 PM

It was my fifth night of countering Severus' unfair point
assessments, and I was camped out once again in the staff reading
room in the library.  I think Irma had caught on to what I was
doing because she had begun to keep the log book at her desk,
handing it over with a wink and a whispered "Have fun!" when I
came in after my office hours.

As I blew on my tea to cool it before the first sip, I pondered
an idle thought that had crossed my mind earlier in the day:  Of
Severus and myself, whose part in our little competition was the
easier?  His, because he could be proactive all day long, or
mine, because I needed only to react to him, and that at my
leisure?

I supposed the answer would only become clear when one or the
other of us tired of the game first.

That evening, it took me about an hour to review Severus's latest
moves and put in my counters.  I'd returned the log to Irma and
then camped at the big table in the staff room to continue work
on the anti-Pureblood meme.  For maximum effectiveness I needed
to come up with something that would dovetail seamlessly into the
existing Wizarding belief system and seem like a reasonable
development out of it, yet go in the exact opposite direction
from the Death Eaters' credo.  But the ideas I'd come up with in
my first few rounds of brainstorming failed to pass the smell
test.  It was times like these that I really missed having the
full resources of the Warriors and the UN to hand...

I stopped in mid-quill-stroke.  Unconcerned about the growing
blot on the parchment, I turned that thought around in my mind.
Could it really be that easy?  The Mansion I'd been visiting
every day was empty except for me.  But did it have to be?  Could
the Room manifest the *staff* as well as the structure of the
Mansion?  If it could...

If it could, I could have the help of an entire team of
specialists instead of trying to do it all myself.

I was on my way up to the eighth floor just a few minutes later
when Pomona intercepted me.

"Doug!"

I turned to see her bustling up behind me.  As much as I wanted
to get the Room right freaking now, I didn't *need* to, so I
stopped and waited for her.  "Good evening, Pomona."

"I'm glad I caught you, dear," she said as she joined me.  "I had
meant to speak with you over dinner, but I got distracted and...
well, I wanted to remind you that our match with Ravenclaw starts
the school Quidditch season on Saturday."

"It does?"  I didn't remember hearing about it, but I certainly
didn't want to miss my first chance to see the game live -- there
were only six matches in the whole season, after all.  "Well,
I'll be there with bells on."

Pomona frowned at the odd expression, then moved past it with a
motherly smile.  "It'll be good for House morale to have you
there, Doug.  It's been far too many years since Hufflepuff won
the Cup, and I'm afraid the children have gotten rather
fatalistic about it all."

"Well, then," I said, thinking back to football weekends at
Princeton, "I'll have to do something about that, now won't I?"

                              * * *

It took me a few minutes more to shake loose from Pomona, after
which I dashed up to the eighth floor to make three fast passes
in front of the wall, concentrating on Mansion plus Staff.

I slapped my ID against the sensor pad and yanked the door open
as soon as it appeared.

"Welcome home, Colonel," Summerfield said as the door closed
behind me.

                              * * *

The British Ministry of Magic, London, UK.  Friday, September 27,
1995, 4:32 PM

Cornelius Fudge looked up from his desk at sound of the door to
his office opening.  His secretary had poked her head in.
"Senior Undersecretary Umbridge to see you, Minister."

"Ah, good," he said, keeping his face as blandly expressionless
as possible.  "Send her right in."  As the door closed behind
her, Cornelius swept the papers before him off his desk and into
a folder, which he dropped into a drawer as the door opened
again.  No one needed to see his Fantasy Quidditch roster and
strategies except himself, after all.

"Ah, Dolores!" he said a moment later as Umbridge lumbered
through the inner door and into his office proper.  "Come in,
come in, and shut the door behind you."

"Good afternoon, Minister," she greeted him as she closed and
latched the door.  "I just wanted to let you know I've closed out
or handed off all my outstanding tasks, and I wanted to see if
you had any last-minute instructions."

Cornelius shook his head and settled his best trusting look on
Umbridge.  "No, none at all.  Just get out there and destroy that
den of subversives."

"Oh, have no fear, Minister," Umbridge replied, baring her teeth
in a sharklike, anticipatory smile.  "I plan to."

                              * * *

Hufflepuff Common Room.  Friday, September 27, 1995, 6:30 PM

Half an hour after dinner's end, the Hufflepuff common room was
already well-populated with students from all years allegedly
making a head start on their weekend homework.  To one side,
Kevin Whitby was walking Rose Zeller through the proper motions
for the levitation charm as Laura Madley looked on, her Charms
text open in her hand.  In another corner, Zacharias Smith,
Cullen Keinan and Owen Cauldwell had their heads down over
something unidentifiable that occasionally made soft hissing
sounds and emitted the odd green spark.  And they were far from
the only ones sharing the space.  The Quidditch team, though, was
conspicuous by their absence; they were at the pitch, preparing
for the next day's match.

Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones had barely sat down at one of the
broad, shared tables with their books, quills and parchment in
front of them when Professor Sangnoir popped through the dorm
entrance.  They shared a quick look.  The Defence professor was
an odd case -- usually bearing a serious, even dour, mien in
class, he seemed to become an entirely different person when
visiting the Hufflepuff dorms.  Which he did on a more or less
weekly basis, offering help with homework or just random advice
when needed.

Tonight was no different.  Gone was the sober teacher, and in his
place was a grinning maniac.  His robes were loose and open,
revealing Muggle blue jeans and T-shirt (bright red with the
inexplicable text "Beeblebrox!  Beeblebrox!  Beeblebrox!" on it
in yellow), and his movements were broad and flamboyant.

"Hey kids!" he called out, grinning broadly.  "I'm here to help
you all get psyched up for the game tomorrow!"

Susan nudged Hannah.  "Sounds like this could be fun," she
murmured into Hannah's ear.

                              * * *

Gryffindor Stands, Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch.  Saturday, September
28, 1995, 12:30 PM

"So," Neville asked as they settled into their seats, "which side
do we cheer for?"

"It depends," Ron replied absently as he craned his neck to study
the sky.  The weather was unsettled -- the day had started sunny,
only to swiftly turn dark and rainy for an hour or so before
breaking up and returning to sun, and already it looked like it
was clouding up once more.  Harry gave private thanks that it
wouldn't be him getting drenched in mid-air this time, should the
the skies open up again.

"On what?" Ginny demanded from the other side of Harry.  She
leaned around him to hear Ron better, and Harry became acutely
aware of her body pressed into his arm.  Not to mention the shock
of floral-scented red hair that was almost in his suddenly-dry
mouth.

"Well," Ron's tone turned thoughtful, "it's only the first match
of the season.  So it's not *critical*, although it *is*
important to the final Quidditch Cup scores.  Plus, historically,
neither team is a realistic contender for the Cup.  So it really
comes down to whether you want to root for the team that's more
likely to win this match, or the underdog."

"And Hufflepuff's the underdog," Ginny announced definitively.

"Right!"  Ron's attention remained on the sky.  "Being as it's
the first match of the year, neither team's had a lot of time to
get into shape, so regardless of who wins there aren't going to
be a lot of points coming out of this."

"I've noticed that Ravenclaw usually does well against Slytherin
later in the year, though," Neville offered hesistantly.  "They
don't always win, but they do narrow things up a bit."

Ron turned his attention back to his friends.  "That's right.
Ravenclaw's a good spoiler for Slytherin.  If they do well here
they might be able to push the Snakes down in the ranking later
in the year."

"So we root for Ravenclaw," Hermione declared, rolling her eyes.
She didn't really care -- she had a book to keep her occupied --
but it was nice to be sure she was on the same page as everyone
else.

"Works for me!" Ginny laughed, finally sitting up straight.

"Good afternoon, Quidditch fans!" Lee Jordan's amplified voice
rang out over the pitch.  "Welcome to the first game of the 1995-
1996 season, Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff.  With the threat of
rain today we've got a chance for a real mudder of a match,
especially since these two Houses have a long and distinguished
rivalry over the hotly-contested last place position..."

"Mister Jordan!"  Professor McGonagall's outraged tones made
their first appearance of the season.

"Sorry, professor.  Right, and here come the teams..."

Fifteen minutes later they were already deep in the game, with
Ravenclaw leading 20-0 after a quick first goal and an even
quicker turnaround after Hufflepuff took possession of the
Quaffle.  Harry and the rest were already screaming themselves
hoarse cheering Ravenclaw on.

As the Ravenclaw Chasers tried to drive in toward the Hufflepuff
goal, there came a "thud-thud" from the 'Puff bleachers, as
though everyone there had just stamped their feet twice in
unison.  A massively-echoing group clap followed.  When the
thud-thud-clap repeated, Hermione suddenly looked up, her eyes
wide.

"Hermione?" Harry asked.  There was something familiar about that
rhythm, he realized as the Hufflepuffs repeated it again.

"That's..." Hermione began.

Another thud-thud-clap, and then the 'Puffs began to chant:

	*"We will, we will rock you!"*

Overhead, a 'Puff Chaser snagged the Quaffle and shot down the
pitch, wildly corkscrewing around Beaters and Bludgers.  Harry
vaguely registered Lee Jordan identifying him as Cadwallader in
the midst of his agitated play-by-play.

	*"We will, we will rock you!"*

The chant broke up as the Hufflepuffs began to cheer Cadwallader
on as he dove in toward the center ring of the Ravenclaw goal.
But before Cadwallader could confront the Ravenclaw Keeper,
Hermione clamped a hand on Harry's arm and hissed, "That's
*Queen*!"

Harry turned to look at her.  "What?"  Behind him a cheer went up
in the Hufflepuff seats and Lee Jordan announced a successful
goal for Hufflepuff.

"That was...  they were singing *Queen*!  'We Will Rock You'!"

Harry blinked in confusion for a moment, then realized what she
meant.  "A Muggle rock song?  But who taught them..."

"There!"  And Hermione pointed at a figure standing up from the
frontmost row of the Hufflepuff bleachers -- a familiar blond
head atop bright yellow robes.  "Professor Sangnoir!"

The professor turned around in his seat to face the students
behind him, raised his clenched right fist and slowly pumped it
twice into the air while intoning, loud enough to carry across
the pitch to where they sat, "Hip!  Hip!"

To which the Hufflepuffs responded:

    "Rah, rah, rah!
     Badger, badger, badger!
     Siss, siss, siss!
     Boom, boom, boom!  Ah!
     Hufflepuff! Hufflepuff! Hufflepuff!"

Each line was recited faster and louder than the one before,
sounding for all the world to Harry like an old steam locomotive
picking up speed.

As the Hufflepuff bleachers broke out into wild cheering,
Professor Sangnoir bowed to them, then took his seat again.

"I suspect this is going to be a *very* different game," Neville
commented mildly.

                              * * *

It wasn't, not really.  Not in the air at least.  But Hufflepuff
kept singing "We Will Rock You" every time they had a serious
chance to score, and the other cheer every time they *did* score.
And Harry began to wonder if it wasn't some kind of clever plan,
because eventually it seemed to him like the booming sound of
"thud-thud-clap" was unnerving the Ravenclaw players even as it
boosted the Hufflepuff team's morale.  It got to the point that
even Lee was singing along with the Hufflepuffs whenever the
chant began.

*We should have some cheers like that,* he thought once he
realized the effect they were having.  *I wonder if Hermione
could suggest anything...*

For more than an hour, Ravenclaw would take back the lead, and
then Hufflepuff would even the score, one goal at a time.  When
Hufflepuff finally took the lead with more than one goal for the
first time and held it, a new cheer erupted from their quarter of
the stands, with half the House chanting "Badger!  Badger!
Badger!  Badger!", and the other half chanting "Mushroom!
Mushroom!" in response.  There was another part to the cheer
chanted by the whole House together -- something about Snape or a
snake (Harry couldn't be sure which they were saying) -- but then
it went right back to "Badger!" and "Mushroom!"

*Okay, maybe not *that* cheer,* he mentally amended.
	
To everyone's surprise -- including very verbal exclamations
from both Ron and Lee Jordan -- Hufflepuff pulled far ahead of
Ravenclaw with a series of well-executed plays that left the
score 320-210 in their favor.  Ravenclaw seemed to have lost all
momentum right up to the last moment, when Cho Chang snagged the
Snitch right from under the nose of Stebbins, the Hufflepuff
Seeker, for a sudden turnover and a final score of 360-320 for
Ravenclaw.

Harry noted that despite the loss, the Hufflepuffs were still in
very high spirits, if the excited chatter while leaving the
stadium was any indication.

                              * * *

Okay, I had a great time at the game.  Sure, the scoring was all
wonky, and you got a sore neck from having to look up into the
air 90% of the time, but damn if the action wasn't some of the
fastest, most exciting stuff I'd ever seen -- half Australian
rules rugby, half Formula One racing.  Rolanda seemed to suffer
from the same visual acuity problem that afflicts so many
referees in professional wrestling, though, and like them missed
at least half the fouls committed during the game.  This, to be
honest, only added to the energy level of the play.

(I briefly entertained the amusing image of disguising myself as
a Quidditch foul in order to escape Rolanda's more unwelcome
attentions, but sadly had to discard the idea as impractical.)

Add to that how pleased I was at the way my cheer coaching had
upped the energy level of the House, and I was definitely going
to be there for the rest of the year's games.

Now if I could only undo the color-change charm on my best set of
casual robes.

                              * * *

The Room of Requirement.  Sunday, September 29, 1995, 10:07 AM

The next day, I headed to the Mansion with something other than
my usual training session on my mind.  I had by this point begun
to summon it complete with staff as a matter of course, so I when
I entered Summerfield was, as always, there to greet me.

"Good morning, Colonel," he said as he bowed, as distinguished as
always.

"Good morning, Summerfield."  I pulled off my robes and handed
them to him; he folded them carefully over his left forearm.
"Could you please inform the P.R. staff I want to get together
with them in, say, fifteen minutes?"

With the faintest hint of a smile on his face, Summerfield
replied, "The entire Public Relations group is ready and waiting
for you in conference room six, sir."

I blinked.  Come to think of it, I had been thinking of my plans
while calling up the door, hadn't I?  I shouldn't have been
surprised that the Room had already organized and started the
meeting for me.  "Oh.  Good.  Thank you, Summerfield."

"You're very welcome, Colonel."  He paused for a beat, then
added, "Will there be anything else?"

"No, thanks, that's all."

"Very good, sir."  And he vanished into the cloakroom with my
robes.

                              * * *

Conference room six was on the ground floor, in the admin wing of
the Mansion.  It took me about ten minutes' quick jog to get
there -- not so much because it was far away, just because
Edwardian manors aren't always very efficiently laid out.  The
Mansion was an official historic building for reasons long
predating our occupation of it, and when we refurbished it for
our needs we weren't permitted to gut and remodel the inside
completely.  Consequently, we had to rebuild around the existing
floorplan; it was only in the new wings, which we built from
scratch, that we could go for a contemporary design.  (Inside, at
least -- outside they had to match the original building.)

The P.R. staff was based in a more modern section, but it took me
a fair amount of doors and furniture-dodging to get to them.  As
to *why* I wanted to talk to the folks in P.R., well, officially
the Warriors don't do PsyOps.  We don't have a mandate or
official permission to change hearts and minds in our favor.  (At
least not on a wholesale basis; our telepaths are always free to
do so on a retail level when required by the mission.)  Because
we don't do PsyOps, we don't have a division tasked to them.

What we *do* have, though, is a Public Relations department.

You'd be surprised at just how much overlap there is between P.R.
and PsyOps.

We also hire lots of veterans, if you follow me.

So if, hypothetically, I needed a custom-crafted meme, well then
naturally I'd go to the P.R. team.

Who were waiting for me in Conference Six.

"Good morning, people!" I announced as I swept in and dropped my
helmet onto the conference room's docking station.

"Good morning!" echoed back in half a dozen voices.

"Good morning, Doug," a seventh, very familiar soprano added a
moment later, and I looked up to see Kat calmly looking at me
with a raised eyebrow.  Kat, our P.R. Officer, who was in charge
of the Public Relations group.

Now why hadn't I expected that?

                              * * *

The Great Hall.  Monday, September 30, 1995, 7:37 AM

"I take it you knew nothing of this, Albus?" I called down along
the table somewhere around 21 hours later.

Albus shook his head.  "Sadly, no.  I was aware that the Minister
was arranging *something* behind closed doors, but I did not know
exactly what, nor could my usual sources within the Ministry find
out."  He stared down glumly at the newspaper before him.

"Perhaps you need new sources," Severus muttered from my left.

"Amen, brother," I muttered back, which got me a look of
surprise.  (I think he expected me to be nasty or something just
because of our little conflict over House points; the fact that I
*wasn't* seemed to confuse him.)

I looked down at the copy of the *Daily Prophet* that I had
before me.  Filling up a good fraction of the front page above
the fold was a photograph of one of the ugliest women I'd ever
had the misfortune to see; grossly fat with a wide, rubbery mouth
and bulging eyes, she looked vaguely amphibian, like a Deep One
or maybe one of those frog demons whose invasion we thwarted in
New Zealand in 1994 -- definitely blessed with a bit of the old
Innsmouth Look.  She was dressed in an almost obscenely pink
ensemble with frills and bows including one bow perched on top of
her head, making her look like a demented five-year-old.  Being
as it was a wizard photo, it was animated, and it cycled through
a loop of her smiling widely and blinking slowly, as though she
were puzzled by something.

Above this dubious personage was the headline:

                 MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM
      DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"

And wasn't *that* just delightfully ominous?  The Ministry of
Magic had obviously never learned the propaganda value of giving
their functionaries titles that didn't immediately scream "I AM A
BAD GUY!  DO NOT TRUST OR TURN YOUR BACK ON ME!"  (Either that,
or they couldn't give a damn if they sounded like Nazis.)  I
didn't really need to read the article to figure out the rest,
but I did anyway.

    In a surprise move yesterday the Minister of Magic made use
    for the first time of a provision in "The Emergency Powers Act
    of 1939", a law dating back to the War against the Dark Lord
    Grindelwald, to appoint a High Inquisitor to survey the types
    and quality of educational methods in use at Hogwarts.

    "The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at
    Hogwarts for some time," said Percy Weasley, Junior Assistant
    to the Minister.  "Rumors of unsafe conditions at Hogwarts
    have circulated for several years now, and of late there have
    been whispers of political unorthodoxy which may threaten the
    high standards for which it is famous.  By taking advantage of
    the powers granted by Section 12-B of the Emergency Powers
    Act, the Minister is responding to concerns voiced by many
    anxious parents who feel the school may be moving in a
    direction they do not approve."
    
    The Emergency Powers Act of 1939 was passed in the early days
    of the War against Grindelwald in order to combat the possible
    infiltration and corruption of the Ministry and other British
    institutions by agents of the late Dark Lord.  It granted the
    Ministry sweeping powers to combat sedition and subversion,
    most of which were never used.  In particular, no High
    Inquisitor was ever appointed despite the Minister's right to
    do so.  After Grindelwald's defeat in 1945 the Wizengamot
    suspended the Emergency Powers Act, but never revoked it; it
    remains in effect and numerous provisions, including Section
    12-B, can be activated at the discretion of the Minister.

    This is not the first time in recent weeks that the Ministry
    has sought to effect improvements at the Wizarding school.  As
    recently as August 30th Educational Decree Twenty-two was
    passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current headmaster
    being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the
    Ministry should select an appropriate person.

    "Given the difficulties Headmaster Dumbledore had filling the
    Defence Against the Dark Arts professorship this year, the
    Ministry wished to be ready to step in and prevent a vacancy
    in the faculty," said Weasley last night.  "As it is, the
    dubious qualifications of the person hired have prompted the
    Minister to appoint a High Inquisitor."
    
    "This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get
    to grips with what some are calling the 'falling standards' at
    Hogwarts," said Weasley. "The Inquisitor will have powers to
    inspect Hogwarts' educators and make sure that they are coming
    up to scratch.  Senior Undersecretary Umbridge has been
    offered this position, and we are delighted to say that she
    has accepted and will be taking a leave of absence from her
    Ministry duties in order to perform this very important
    task."
    
I leaned around Sybill the Dip's back and got Aurora's attention.
"Who's this Weasley guy the paper's quoting?" I asked.  "Any
relation to the clan of redheads in Gryffindor?  He sounds like a
seriously officious little twit."

"Their elder brother," Aurora replied, "He was Head Boy two years
ago, and frankly a bit of a suck-up."

I gestured at the paper.  "Sounds like he sucked his way all the
way up the Ministry ladder."  I stopped for a moment when I
realized how that sounded.  "I mean..."

Aurora laughed.  "I know what you meant.  No one's quite sure how
he ended up working directly for the Minister so quickly.  He's
not even twenty yet, I believe."

I nodded and turned back to my copy of the *Prophet*.  "The Peter
Principle, probably," I muttered to myself.  I skimmed through
the rest of the front page article, then lifted the paper
vertically to open up and find the "continued on".  "So, when is
the lovely Lady Innsmouth supposed to grace us with her divine
presence?" I murmured to myself.

It was at that moment that I realized that the Great Hall had
gone completely silent save for a slow, heavy tread of foosteps.

Before I could lower the paper, though, I heard a badly-faked
throat-clearing in an improbably high-pitched, almost girlish,
voice.

"Hem, hem."

                              * * *

    *...and this might interest you -- apparently, a Ravenclaw
    student named Marietta Edgecombe did something that got her
    expelled.  I came upon Dumbledore and Flitwick escorting her
    out the doors of the castle yesterday afternoon, complete with
    trunk.  The silly bint was crying her eyes out, as if that
    would make a difference.  Dumbledore made an announcement at
    dinner last night about her expulsion but was rather cagey
    about why she was expelled.  All he said was that she had
    assaulted another Ravenclaw.*
    
    *If I'm not mistaken, the girl is related to the Edgecombe
    woman at the Ministry whom you've spoken of in the past.
    You've said that she is already sympathetic to our cause --
    maybe we can use this to draw her even closer to the Dark
    Lord.  But no doubt you've already thought of this, and have
    worked out three different ways to do so.*
    
    *Undersecretary Umbridge arrived first thing this morning just
    as you warned me she would.  I'm not sure I understand why,
    but I will hold myself apart from her as you've instructed,
    and report back to you on her actions.  She has yet to do
    anything worth passing on to you, at least in public.*
    
    *Thank Mother for me for the gift package she sent, but do ask
    her to cut back on the sweets.  As delicious as they are, they
    make my teeth hurt, and I am forced to share them with my far
    less deserving Housemates rather than let them go to waste.
    Oh, well, at least Pansy is convinced I still dote on her.*
       
    *In the service of our Dark Lord, I remain*
    *Your son,*
    *Draco*


END OF CHAPTER FOUR

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

This work of fiction is copyright (C) 2015, 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.

Portions of Percy's letter and some of the material in the *Daily
Prophet* articles presented in this chapter were taken verbatim
from "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" by J.K. Rowling;
I do not believe the selections I employed were beyond the bounds
of Fair Use, but if someone more knowledgeable than I in the
legalities of the matter says otherwise, I will gladly revise
accordingly.

"Tsukino Usagi"/"Princess Serenity" is the property of Takeuchi
Naoko, TOEI Animation, DiC, Kodansha, Bandai, Cloverway and
others, copyright © 1992 and trademark Naoko Takeuchi and TOEI
animation, and is used without permission.

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

"Skitz", "L'Reaux" and any representations thereof are copyright
by and trademarks of John L. Freiler, and are used with his
permission.  Some of L'Reaux's dialog written by John L. Freiler.

"Kathleen 'Kat' Avins" and any representations thereof are
copyright by and trademarks of Kathleen Mee Avins, and are used
with her permission.

"The Warriors", "Warriors' World", "Warriors International" and
"Warriors Alpha" are all jointly-held trademarks of The Warriors
Group.

Lyrics from "Long Distance", recorded by the Kinks, written by
Ray Davies, copyright © 1983 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC.

Lyrics from "Were-Owl", recorded by S. J. Tucker, words and music
by S. J. Tucker, copyright © 2009 S. J. Tucker.

Lyrics from "Lucky 4 You (Tonight I'm Just Me)", recorded by
SHeDAISY, written by Kristyn Osborn, Coley McCabe and Jason
Deere, copyright © 2000 Lyric Street Records, Inc.

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

Special thanks to Kathleen "Kat" Avins for suggesting "Lucky 4
You" as a simulacrum song for Skitz, and to John L. Freiler for
consulting on characterization for L'Reaux.

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
to trade thoughts and comments with other readers, as well as
with the author:

    http://drunkardswalkforums.yuku.com

Many thanks to my prereaders on this chapter:  Kathleen Avins,
Andrew Carr, Kevin Cody, Logan Darklighter, Shaye Horwitz, Helen
Imre, Rob Kelk, Josh Megerman, and Peggy Schroeck.

C&C gratefully accepted.