“Harry, wake up...”
   He muttered something unintelligible and groaned, rolling away from the nagging voice, pulling his pillow closer. Go away, I’m tired, I need sleep –

   “Potter!”

   “Go ‘way,” Harry groaned, keeping his eyes tightly shut. “I’m sleeping –”

   SPLASH.

   “Professor Moody!”

   “You’re not sleeping anymore,” Moody said with a satisfied smile as he lowered his wand and watched as Harry sat bolt upright, swearing. “Besides, we have work to do.”

   Harry ran a hand through his sodden hair and glared at Moody before looking around the room. Crowded around his bed was Ron, Neville, the Weasley twins, an extremely stern-looking Professor McGonagall, and –

   “Luna!”

   She was standing closest to him, her usual benign smile returning to her face the second Harry met her eyes. Without warning, he scrambled out of bed and pulled her into a tight embrace, a rush of relief surging through him. Oh thank Merlin, she survived – we survived! But how...

   “Harry, your gratitude is much appreciated,” Luna said with a slight grin. “However, you are rather wet right now, and –”

   “Right, sorry,” Harry said, sitting back on the bed and turning towards Moody. “But I thought we were both goners –”

   “You should have been,” Moody growled, all hints of happiness gone from his face, replaced by a dour expression of disapproval. “Potter, what the hell were you thinking, leaping off the Astronomy Tower like that? You could have been killed!”

   “I should be dead,” Harry muttered, accepting Ron’s proffered towel and beginning to wipe his face. “I remember grabbing her, and trying to cast that peto terra spell –”

   “That explains the flaming crater surrounding your landing,” Professor McGonagall said curtly.

   “But that wouldn’t have saved me,” Harry continued, turning to Moody. “Did you –”

   “When that massive blast of lightning hit the Astronomy Tower, Professor McGonagall and I headed toward the tower, and it was just our luck that we saw the two of you fall,” Moody said gruffly, folding his arms across his chest. “And you’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch that I’m still as fast as I used to be. Nailed you with a Cushioning Charm just before you went over the edge.”

   “And the fall still broke half of the bones in your body,” Neville said in a hushed voice. “It was scary – you managed to block Luna, but you’re lucky to be alive, Harry.”

   Harry let out a deep breath and finally surveyed the room. It was the Hospital Wing, as he had expected, and a cheerful deluge of light was flooding the hall. “But what about the spirits –”

   “Both gone, as far as I can tell,” Professor McGonagall said solemnly. “That was a very brave thing you did, Mr. Potter – very brave and very stupid.”

   “On that note, what the hell were you thinking, going after her alone like that?” Moody growled. “You were lucky as hell –”

   “The two ghosts were competing against each other, for control,” Harry said quickly. “From the glow that Luna was emitting, I’m guessing that one was Slytherin, one was Ravenclaw. The first one was a bloody sociopath, and the other... the other was –”

   “Suicidal,” Luna finished softly. “She seized control right after the other left. I’m sorry, Harry.”

   “Damn it, don’t apologize, Luna, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Harry said, shaking his head. “How’s your eye?”

   “All healed up,” she replied cheerfully. “You have a nice left hook, Isabelle.”

   Fred and George both stifled snickers, but Moody immediately pounced. “Who’s Isabelle? Luna, why did you just call Harry –”

    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor,” Luna replied innocently. “Now if you’d excuse me, I’d like to go start my Transfiguration homework, if you don’t need me.”

   Moody looked apoplectic, but Professor McGonagall waved her hand, and Luna left the room, an unusual spring in her step.

   “Bloody mental, that girl is,” Ron muttered.

   “Wait, aren’t we going to interrogate her?” Harry demanded. “She had two spirits in her head, she might know where the origin of these attacks is!”

   “We already spoke at length with her on the subject, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said crisply. “Unfortunately, due to the conflicting consciences within her during that time, her memory is patchy about the entire endeavour.”

   “Damn,” Harry muttered, slumping back on his pillows. “So close...”

   “I need to debrief you, Potter,” Moody said sternly, conjuring a stiff wooden chair out of thin air and setting it next to Harry’s bed. “And it would do well for McGonagall and the twins to hear this as well. I need everything that Cassane talked to you about.”

   “Wait, what about me?” Ron asked angrily. “I’m Harry’s best friend, and –”

   “Are you willing to fight, then?” Moody snarled, rounding on Ron. “Willing to risk your life against an enemy you have no comprehension of, one that will kill you without a second glance? And what about you, Longbottom?”

   Neville swallowed hard, but his face didn’t pale. “I- I’ll stay if Harry lets me. I’m ready.”

   “And so am I,” Ron said, moving closer next to Harry, his voice stony and his eyes fixed on Moody – and for the first time, Harry saw the real impact of Charlie’s death on his friend.

   “They’re ready,” Harry said softly, closing his eyes against a rush of emotion. They shouldn’t be, but they’re ready now. God...

   His eyes snapped open almost instantly, though. It took a few seconds for his brain to process who he had seen in the gap between people, sitting on the bed on the other side of the Hospital Wing. What the...

   She was sitting alone, twisting the edge of the sheet in her hand nervously, but there was something grimly resolute about her expression that set Harry’s stomach on edge.

   Abruptly, he wondered why exactly she was there in the first place. Maybe it was for Luna – but then again, as far as I know, the two of them had nothing to do with each other... unless she’s coming here to gloat...

   Moody noticed the direction of Harry’s gaze in a second, and his gaze hardened. “Looking at someone, Potter?” he asked, his voice bitterly sardonic.

  “Why is she here?” Harry asked quietly. “Professor, why the fuck is Hermione Granger in this Hospital Wing right now? She looks the last thing from sick –”

   “I’m assuming you want an explanation, Potter. Weasley –”

   “That’s damn right I want an explanation, because I have nothing to say to her –” Harry began heatedly.

   Ron grabbed Harry’s shoulder. “She’s here because –”

   “Ron, I don’t give a damn about what the hell she’s here for!”

   “Even if it was for you?”

   Harry’s eyes narrowed sceptically. “Yeah, bullshit.”

   “You know, I’d actually like to be included in your conversations, rather than just talked about like some object, you know!”

   Harry blinked twice as Hermione rose from her seat and stormed towards them. If anything, her hair looked bushier and worse than normal, and from one look at her face, it appeared as though she hadn’t slept in days – something which was common in everyone standing around Harry’s bed.

   Harry returned her glare with open hostility – even in a hospital bed, he wasn’t going to show weakness. Not now – for once, he had succeeded, after a fashion, and he did have an idea what was going on. He wasn’t going to kowtow to her knowledge – not this time. This time, Hermione, I’m the one ahead of the game.

   “Harry does raise a good point, though,” Fred said roughly, sliding around the bed to get a better glaring angle at Hermione. “Why are you here? Last time you were around us –”

   “I remember her distinctly condemning our efforts as suicidal,” George finished dangerously. “And that we had no chance of succeeding.”

   Hermione looked around the group uneasily and slowly cleared her throat. “Uh, well –”

   It was sudden, and Harry could hardly hold back his gasp of shock, but Ron had released his grip on Harry’s shoulder – only to grab the front of Hermione’s robes.

   “Don’t you dare,” he whispered, his eyes dilating as his hand shook. “Don’t you fucking dare say –”

   “Mr. Weasley, there will not be fighting here!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed angrily, wrenching Ron’s hand free and shoving him back with surprising strength.

   “I dunno, Professor, it’s pretty damned insensitive for her to make comments like these when she’s lost nothing,” George snarled.

   “Especially coupled with the fact that without her little letter causing Cassane to enter this conflict,” Fred continued, slowly pulling his wand from his robe pocket, “Charlie might still be alive –”

   “ENOUGH!” Moody roared, stomping his wooden leg with a surprisingly loud bang. “These events are far too complicated to be blamed on a single eventuality, and fighting amongst ourselves solves nothing! At least Potter has mostly been cured of his moronic behaviour – now it seems it’s merely transferred itself into you two.” He scowled furiously, but then he rounded on Hermione. “And right now, nobody gives a flying Quidditch fuck about whether you were right, one way or another.”

   “Like it or not,” Professor McGonagall began severely, “Professor Moody is correct – we need to find the culprits of the spiritual attacks, and bring them to justice immediately, and I have reason to believe that Mr. Potter here does indeed have some new information that we all could utilize. Mr. Potter?”

   Harry paused for a long few seconds, considering what he should say – or indeed, if he should say anything. He had trusted Hermione, but that trust was damaged, and he had said things that he wasn’t sure he could take back if he wanted to.

   She’s on our side, but is she on my side?

*          *          *

   The first thing he noticed was the cold.

   It was familiar – horrifyingly familiar.

   “So you’re awake. Took you long enough.”

   He jerked up, rubbing his eyes frantically as he looked around for the source of the voice. It was raspy, with a faint accent he didn’t recognize, but it was a voice, which meant someone was there, and it wasn’t the damned poltergeist –

   “You need a light?”

   There was a striking of a match, and a second later, a tiny wispy candle ignited, and he could see where he was. He was lying on a stiff, solitary mattress magically fused into the wall – if one could call the craggy and uneven rock face a wall at all. Stalactites hung low over the tiny darkened room, and he could see a few links of broken chain hanging from between the jagged spikes. On the floor were a battered desk and chair, a stubby candle, a heap of quills, inkbottles, and paper, and in the corner, a single smooth hole. On three sides, he could see raw, untamed stone, a tiny nook in a cavern.

   On the fourth, a snarled, fused mesh of black iron bars, each an inch thick. And outside it was a hooded figure...

   His breath caught in his throat. It couldn’t – it couldn’t be –

   “No,” he whispered. “No...”

   “What, are you surprised?” the raspy voice said with a snort.

   “This...” he gasped, his voice hoarse with disbelief as he slowly approached the bars, “this can’t be right. They can’t do this to me! They can’t fucking do this to me!”

   “Sorry, but I think you’ll find that they can,” the raspy voice said conversationally. “Really sucks to be you.”

   “I’M A FUCKING HIT WIZARD, YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!”

   The cloaked figure turned, and the awful cold he remembered rushed through him. He staggered back quickly, hitting his head against a stray stalactite, and just as quickly, the Dementor turned away.

   “Once again, I think you’ll find that they can,” the raspy voice said, with a hint of a snort. “You’ll get used to it. And so, welcome to Azkaban – hope you enjoy your stay, however long or short it might be. Considering where you are, I’m guessing long. And don’t feed the Dementors – but that should be obvious.”

   “W-Where am I?” he asked, looking around his room – his cell, he realized, with a pang of horror.

   “Solitary, obviously,” the raspy voice said snidely, “but this is high-security. Whatever the hell you did, you’re not getting out of here on your own, unless you’re Sirius Black or something.”

   “I was hunting for that bastard,” he breathed, slumping against his mattress as a wave of despair crushed against him. He had failed. I’ve taken Harry Potter’s place...

   “Basics around here are simple,” the raspy voice said lightly, with the air of somebody reading a list. “Food comes three times a day, and it’s terrible. Get used to it. The hole in the corner can produce tiny amounts of water or bring away waste. It also acts as the drain whenever a Dementor comes by and you need to throw up. It’ll also produce a single geyser once a day for a few seconds for you to shower off, and there’s a towel under your bed. Otherwise, have fun.”

   “I’ve got to get out of here –”

   “Forget it,” the raspy voice said smoothly. “You’re not getting out. Cigarette?”

   “They – they let you have those things in here?” he said, unbelieving.

   “Yeah, and these shitty little matches too,” the raspy voice said. “Just enough to light up – theory goes that if you can enjoy it, the soul-eating parasites will get some of those positive emotions, and you’ll stay alive a little longer – maybe.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “No, but the Warden thinks it’s a worth a damn to try,” the raspy voice replied irritably, and he could almost hear the shrug of shoulders. “Why do you think that he put all three Lestranges in the same bloody reinforced cell? He figures the more Bellatrix fucks Rodolphus’ brains out, it’ll keep the Dementors placated. Of course, it draws them like maggots to meat.”

   He fought to control his breathing. “I need to talk to the Warden.”

   “That won’t happen.”

   “Listen, you fucker –”

   “Don’t insult somebody you don’t even know, it’s rude,” the raspy voice said reprovingly. “The name’s Tony, you stupid fuck – who might you be?”

   “Kemester,” he said after a long few seconds. “Dmitri Kemester.”

   “Huh,” Tony said after another long few seconds. “Interesting.”

   “Why is that interesting?” Kemester demanded.

   “Because your father’s in here –”

   “I have nothing to say to that treasonous –” Kemester snarled heatedly.

   “And he’s dying.”

   Kemester’s next words caught in his throat against a rush of emotion. “What?”

   “Frankly, I’m amazed he lasted this long,” Tony said conversationally. Kemester peered through the bars, but the other man was hidden in shadows, completely concealed in the darkness. “He was an old man when they brought him in – either way, he’ll be dead by Yule.”

   “You celebrate Christmas in Azkaban?” Kemester asked disbelievingly, grabbing a hold of the bars and peering into the cell opposite, where Tony was lurking.

   “Not exactly,” Tony replied, his voice filled with restrained glee. “You see, your father’s a loose end – as he is, he’s not much use – and when the Warden dies at Yule, loose ends will have to be tied up.”

   “Why is the Warden dying –”

   “Because Santa Claus is coming to Azkaban this year,” Tony whispered, “and he’s giving all the naughty boys and girls a present we’ve been dying for, a present to be earned.”

   “What?”

   “Freedom.”

*          *          *

   Harry closed the door of Moody’s office with a heavy sigh. More than anything, he wanted to go straight back to sleep, but he knew that the ex-Auror was in no mood for that.

   Any second now...

   BANG.

   “Potter!”

   “I’m right here, Professor,” Harry said dully, sliding listlessly into his chair and rubbing his temples, his headache steadily getting worse.

   “I can see that. What I can’t see is your new angle for wanting to bring Miss Granger in on this – from everything the Weasley twins told me, I half-expected you to toss her out on her ass, regardless of anything McGonagall would say on the matter!” Moody slammed his wand down on his desk and stared beadily at Harry. “Well? What’s your new ‘plan’, Potter?”

   “Like it or not, Cassane wouldn’t be on our side if it wasn’t for that damned letter that she sent to him,” Harry retorted, slamming his palms against the arms of his chair. “And he actually bought her theories, albeit with corrections, which makes me think we’re on the right trail with these attacks. And finally, the more people who can comb the library for clues, the better. She’ll have completely plausible deniability – she’s always in the Library.”

   Moody stared at Harry distrustfully for a long few seconds. “Why don’t I believe you?”

   “Why would I lie?’

  “You’ve got another angle on this, Potter – something I don’t trust,” Moody growled. “Or the convenient fact of how you’ve been able to slip out of the school and contact Cassane right out from under my nose – twice.”

   “I told you, it’s between Tonks and I,” Harry snapped, rising to his feet and running a hand through his hair. “And on that note, I should be leaving the school soon, to speak with her in person. I need to get answers on what’s happening outside Hogwarts.”

   “Well, the Ministry still hasn’t stabilized, that much I can tell you,” Moody said harshly, sitting down in his desk chair, his electric-blue eye never leaving from Harry. “The goblins are fighting for better terms, the investigation into your little mission into the Ministry is hitting a score of dead ends – you can probably thank your friend Cassane for that – and there still has been no news about Dumbledore’s whereabouts.”

   “There couldn’t have been that many places for him to have disappeared between Gringotts and the Ministry,” Harry said intently, beginning to pace. “Is it possible he was trapped somehow? And what about Fawkes?”

   “The phoenix hasn’t been sighted since Dumbledore’s disappearance,” Moody said grimly, “and I’d love to see the magic that could trap Dumbledore. But it’s been a crazy few weeks, that’s for damn sure.”

   Harry froze in mid-step. “Few weeks?”

   “Yeah,” Moody said with a scowl. “Outside, of course. You’ve only been out for two days in here, but as far as McGonagall can tell, it’s been approximately thirty-two days outside of Hogwarts. Give or take, for every day here, sixteen days pass outside.”

   Harry’s mind spun. He sat back down abruptly, trying to regain control. “But that doesn’t make sense – from the rough estimations Cassane and I made, that would mean that there should have been another attack –”

   “Or that this temporal slowdown is proceeding exponentially instead of regularly,” Moody finished grimly. “Which is not good for us by any stretch of the mind, which is why most of the Order is currently trying to find Dumbledore as quickly as possible – of any wizard alive right now, he stands the best chance of reversing our little temporal problem –”

   The knock on Moody’s door surprised both of them, if only for a split second. Moody seemed to visibly tense, his hand snapping to his wand.

   “What?”

   The door opened a few inches, and Harry clenched his jaw as Hermione poked her head inside. “Professor, if possible –”

   “I don’t have all bloody day, Granger, what?” Moody barked.

   “Can I talk to Harry for a few minutes?”

   Harry exchanged a cool, dispassionate glance with Moody – all of which disguised the raging emotions churning inside his gut. Did he want to talk to her, and likely get drawn into another argument that would leave her in tears?

   Did he even really care?

   “Fine,” he said listlessly, rising from his seat, rubbing the temple where his headache was swelling, and closing the door tightly behind him.

   The second the door clicked, Hermione began to speak. “Harry –”

   “Shut up for a second, I need to make sure nobody’s listening,” Harry interrupted, raising his wand and muttering the words to a charm he remembered scrawled on the list of spells Tonks had given him. “There, now what?”

   She took a deep breath, and for a brief second, Harry enjoyed the look of complete uncertainty on Hermione’s face – after all, it was refreshing to see somebody besides himself not know something, and he was getting bloody sick of dead ends.

   “How... how are you feeling?” she finally asked hesitantly, shoving some stray hair away from her face.

   Harry snorted. “Bloody fantastic, what the hell do you think? Honestly, Hermione, if that’s what you called me out here for –”

   “I can’t say I’m not concerned –”

   “Ron’s still pissed at you, I bet, though,” Harry continued, disgust leaking into his voice. “Merlin, Hermione, you’d think you’d have some bloody common sense after everything we’ve seen –”

   “It only proves my point –”

   Harry moved without warning. Before he could hardly register the motion, he had drawn his wand, and pointed it under Hermione’s chin. “Do not even fucking go there. You weren’t there – I was. Until you fight your way out of hell, you can’t tell me shit about anything I might say or do regarding the Ministry – clear?”

   Hermione stared steadily back at Harry, and to his modest surprise, she wasn’t crying this time. “Look, I don’t approve of the way you’re doing things, but right now, we’re all in this together –”

   “Damn right we are,” Harry spat.

    Hermione swallowed hard, momentarily lost for words. She took a deep, shuddering breath as she tried to meet Harry’s eyes again. “Harry, I want to be on your side, I... I just can’t agree with... with what you’ve done. You haven’t been a leader -”

   “Oh, you’ve got to be bloody kidding me,” Harry said with absolute disgust, pulling his wand away and shoving it violently in his pocket. “Haven’t you gotten the clue that I don’t want that?”

   “Harry, you might not care about how other people see you, but nobody at Hogwarts really has seen much good from you,” Hermione began tentatively. “And, I mean, the last time most of your class saw you was when you tried to drown Malfoy in that acid!”

   Harry folded his arms across his chest. “And tell me that wasn’t a good thing, I dare you.”

   “All it did was piss off Malfoy and tell the rest of the school that you’ve lost control of your rage!” Hermione retorted. “I’ve been trying a quieter approach, trying to spy on him and get information about what he’s up to – because pretty much anybody with a brain knows he’s in thick –”

   “Except for the minor fact that moving against him could be suicidal, because we don’t know what magic he’s utilizing to control the fucking ghosts, I know,” Harry interrupted tersely. “So what’s your point, that I need to be concerned about my image? Hermione, I don’t need to justify my actions to you, or any of the students – I have stronger, more competent allies, and let’s face it, there are very few people here who are in any way prepared for what’s actually out there.” His eyes flashed. “Believe me, I know.”

   Hermione took another steadying breath. “All I suspect now is that between Malfoy and his two newest cronies, Nott and Zabini, something’s going on –”

   “And that’s why Moody’s got the twins invisibly spying on them,” Harry finished shortly. “Okay, what else?”

   Hermione suddenly looked very, very uneasy. “H-Harry, when you explained that time thing in the Hospital Wing, and with everything C-Cassane said about my theory – well, there’s an anomaly.”

   Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

   “Well, he said magic runs on patterns – the Ravenclaw girls first, then Filch and the Creevey brothers... and then Luna getting possessed by a Slytherin ghost and a Ravenclaw ghost. I’m just thinking... what happened to the Hufflepuff?”

   Harry closed his eyes, his headache pounding as he considered Hermione’s words. “The pattern doesn’t make sense...”

   Hermione looked quickly around the corridor, and suddenly leaned very close to Harry – something that made him more uncomfortable than he dared show.

   “Harry,” she whispered, “I think a Hufflepuff has already been attacked.”

   “What?”

   “Ernie Macmillan,” Hermione said in a low voice, her terrified eyes shooting back and forth down the corridor. “He disappeared for a few days... and when he reappeared, something hasn’t seemed right about him. I tried talking to him, and everything seemed perfectly normal, but he was planning on exposing everything to the school about the attacks... and then he disappeared, right after he, Ron and I ran into Malfoy, Zabini, and Nott on the seventh floor.”

   “And you haven’t told Moody this?” Harry asked incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

   “I don’t have proof, and everything I’ve seen of him has been perfectly normal –”

   Harry let out a long breath of frustration. “I can’t bloody believe this. I honestly can’t believe this, Hermione – what the hell are you trying to prove here? This could be his sanity we’re talking about – you want him ending up like Cho and Su Li and those other girls in the Hospital Wing? Why the hell haven’t you told somebody yet?”

   “The teachers are stretched too thin, trying to cover up the time dilation and the attacks –”

   “Not a fucking excuse, Hermione!” Harry snarled. “Just tell me!”

   She tried to swallow back her tears, but it didn’t work this time. She quickly brought her hand to her face, but Harry could see the moisture flooding her eyes. “Harry, Malfoy knows I suspect him! I-If I tell anyone, I-I don’t know what he’ll do, and w-with you  g-gone –”

   Harry stepped back, his mind reeling. So this was why she hadn’t told anyone. No fancy reason, no trumped up explanation – just sheer, natural terror. Fear that the unseen attackers would strike her the second she told another soul. Fear that she would end up just like the poor girls in the hospital wing, their sanities shattered and adrift.

   I can’t blame her for fear. I can’t blame her for being weak.

   His mind raced while she sobbed, leaning against the wall as she choked back tears. He didn’t know what he could say to comfort her – not now. But for a second, he desperately wished he could. He wanted to comfort his old friend when she was crying, he wanted to be there for her. She’s alone...

   And so am I. I’ve just learned to deal with it.

   “You might be terrified to tell Moody about this,” he began in a grim voice, “but I’m not. Thank you.”

   And without another word, he yanked open the office store and strode in, slamming it loudly behind him. Moody, who had been writing furiously in his book, stood up quickly.

   “What was that all –”

   “You need to find Ernie Macmillan and use every fucking exorcism spell we have on him,” Harry cut the ex-Auror off, striding to the front of the room. “Hermione thinks he was possessed at some point, and we need every damn bit of information we can get. Not only that, he would fill in the link in the pattern.”

   “In more than one way,” Moody said softly, cursing under his breath. “Ravenclaw girl, Gryffindor boy, Slytherin girl, Hufflepuff boy, Ravenclaw girl. It’s an alternating gender pattern, and with Lovegood’s dual possessions, the anomaly in the pattern has been repaired. Damn, Voldemort thought this one through.”

   “It’s worse,” Harry growled. “Hermione thinks Malfoy suspected her and Ernie, and that he attacked the Hufflepuff to get her to shut up. Scare tactics.”

   “Didn’t think those would work on Granger.”

   “Nor, apparently, did I,” Harry said darkly. “You know what, I could really use some fucking good news right now!”

   Suddenly, Moody’s electric-blue eye gleamed. “Then I do have something that might interest you – something I didn’t inform the rest of our little group of investigators of yet.”

   “Why?” Harry asked suspiciously, as Moody yanked open a desk drawer and began rooting through it.

   “Because I wanted you to see it for yourself,” Moody said with a hint of a smirk, tossing Harry a resealed envelope with a familiar crest on it that he had last seen on an old gate...

   Harry’s heart jumped into his throat. He tore open the envelope with shaking hands and read:

Dear Mr. Potter,

   No point in wasting ink with pleasantries, particularly considering the chaos with the Prophet. And, obviously, I cannot say much, even though I doubt this particular message will be intercepted. But I do have good news.

   To discuss everything further, we must meet at the Hog’s Head pub in Hogsmeade on December 23rd – You-Know-Who is on the move, and it is time we force him to react to our plans, rather than the other way around. Mr. Black and Miss Tonks will both be there, I can assure you.

  And to end on a high note, I spoke with our man in the Department of Mysteries, and Mr. Bode has a little something for the two of us that simplify our problems at Hogwarts immensely.

   I look forward to seeing you.

Sincerely,

Nathan Cassane

   Harry felt a rush of elation. Finally, some answers – finally, we’re getting the initiative!

   But then the happiness was immediately subsumed by confusion. “Why didn’t you tell the others this?”

   “Because I don’t trust Nathan Cassane,” Moody said roughly. “Apparently, you do, and frankly, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather hear the news confirmed by you and my protégé than from his mouth only. So regardless of your views on this matter -”

   “I’m going,” Harry said quickly, rushing towards the door of his tiny quarters for his cloak. “And with the time dilation, I’ve got to go now!”

   “Of course,” Moody muttered to himself. “Just keep your eyes on the truth, Potter, and not my protégé, who I would bet will be very happy to see you.”

*          *          *

   He pulled his hood tighter, concealing more of his face, as he slid carefully into the dank and shadowy booth. Unsurprisingly, the old wood creaked badly as he settled his weight and stared at the hooded figure across from him.

   It wasn’t for him to go here for tips – not this part of Knockturn Alley, where marginalized near-humans wandered and preyed upon those idiotic enough to get in their way. Even in this bad excuse for a tavern, which he regarded it as more of a cross between a horse stable and a charnel house, if only because of the unique and distinctive odours of piss, vomit, and blood. Even here, where there was a modicum of civility, he knew it wasn’t safe for his kind.

   He slid further into the shadows, hoping that the dim, flickering light from the stub of a candle set into the table wouldn’t reveal the tell-tale scars on his face – scars that any Hit Wizard would acquire with any length of time. At least I’m not as distinctive as Kemester, he thought uneasily, remembering his former partner and wishing he could run a hand through his close-cropped bristly hair. It was a nervous habit, one of the reasons he had adopted that particular hair style –

   “You’re early, Hit Wizard.”

   “Figured we could get this done quickly, so I can leave,” Reed Larshall replied quickly – too quickly. Swearing silently, he laid his left hand on the table – a silent sign that his right hand was holding a wand pointed directly at the ragged-looking cloaked man sitting opposite him. The man’s voice was muffled, but yet strangely familiar...

   “No need for threats, Larshall,” the cloaked man said with faint amusement. “After all, you can’t threaten a dead man.”

   Larshall knew the voice then, and he nearly started as he saw a few long blond hairs escaping the edge of the man’s hood. He fought to control his instinctive short inhalation of breath that would have betrayed his surprise. Can’t show surprise or weakness... knowing him, he’ll capitalize on it...

   “How did you survive?”

   “It wasn’t difficult for a man of my talents,” Lucius Malfoy replied icily, folding his hands on the table. “The rest of the wizarding world may think I’m dead, but the people who need to know of my survival know.”

   “You did a good job covering your tracks –”

   “You mean the Ministry did,” Lucius interrupted bitterly. “We were scapegoats –”

   “From what Kemester told me, you were just as much an instigator –”

   “I don’t need your smug bastardization of this issue, when you have a much bigger problem on your hands,” Lucius said curtly. “I would have not emerged from hiding if not for a very good reason.”

   “The Ministry cannot provide you aid in this, Malfoy,” Larshall said uneasily, already knowing that it wasn’t what the very dangerous former Death Eater was seeking. It can’t hurt to feign some ignorance... “The goblins would find out –”

   “One of the reasons we’re eating here in this festering excuse for an outhouse instead of at a reasonable location,” Malfoy spat, glaring with disgust around the shabby and filthy Knockturn Alley establishment cordially known as the ‘Vampire’s Armpit’. “Not even goblins will descend this far into the alley.”

   “Much further and you’ll be deep enough to be in werewolf territory,” Larshall muttered, wishing silently that he had had the common sense to bring more backup than just the five Hit Wizards hidden in the heaps of garbage outside.

   Lucius let loose a brief, cold bark of laughter. “Hit Wizard, you’re already in werewolf territory. Greyback knows that all of you are here, and it is only my protection at the present that prevents... unfortunate confrontations.”

   “He wouldn’t dare attack a Hit Wizard – he’d risk another potential cull –”

   “The Ministry doesn’t have the gall yet to unleash that sort of attack,” Malfoy said scornfully.

   “With Fudge’s current popularity, maybe,” Larshall countered, his hand tightening on his wand. “But all he would need is to send a few Dementors down here – let’s see if all those happy memories the werewolves have can keep them at bay.”

   Lucius’ eyes hardened. “Regardless, I have a warning for you and the Ministry – something you must take back to your superiors as quickly as possible.”

   “I hardly think that you are in the position to be giving me –”

   “The Dark Lord Voldemort is alive, powerful and planning an attack upon Azkaban on the eve of Yule.”

   Larshall’s mouth fell open. “W-What? But how –”

   “He plans to murder the warden – a former comrade of yours, I believe – freeing all the prisoners and seizing control of the entire fortress – including all of the wands.” Lucius lowered his voice and fixed the Hit Wizard with a beady stare. “I cannot emphasize the gravity of this charge.”

   Larshall wracked his mind for words. “B-But he can’t be back, he was –”

   The bang was muted by the clamour of the bar, and Larshall’s eyes snapped to the Dark Mark, a blazing red, on Lucius Malfoy’s arm. It was proof – every Hit Wizard knew that mark, and knew what it meant if it was that shade of red.

   “I cannot,” Lucius hissed, “give you any more incontrovertible proof than this.”

   Larshall’s mind reeled. But that meant –

   “Fudge knows –”

   “He refuses to believe it,” Lucius said softly, “which is partially by the Dark Lord’s design and elsewhere by his own fear of Dumbledore’s ascent. Of course, Dumbledore and his pathetic Order knew all along, thanks to Potter – and I suspect by now Scrimgeour knows as well.”

   “He knows? But why can’t –”

   “It’s politics, you idiot! You know better than I do that Scrimgeour’s position is perilous!”

   “That’s why you went to Kemester in the Ministry,” Larshall said suddenly, his eyes lighting up with sudden clarity. “He was figuring it out, and you went to silence him –”
   “That was different,” Malfoy growled, “and that was then. This is now. Kemester’s in Azkaban now, and will likely die with the rest of the traitors when the cells are broken.”

   “You can’t just –”

   “Oh, I think you’ll find the Dark Lord can,” Malfoy snapped, a surprising note of bitterness in his voice.

   “I should arrest you right now, you self-righteous son-of-a –” Larshall snarled, his voice rising dangerously as he began to lurch to his feet, but Malfoy snatched the edge of his cowl.

   “Sit down, Larshall, you’ll want to hear the rest of what I have to say.”

   “Look, I know more than anyone that Kemester did a lot of bad things – some really fucking bad things,” Larshall began, his voice unsteady as he fought to control his rising anger, “but he doesn’t deserve to die in Azkaban, not for –”

   “He’s on his own when the fortress is broken open,” Malfoy said, his voice brittle and cold as he released. “And I didn’t think you cared.”

   “As soon as I found out he was in that damned prison, I’ve been trying to get him out –”

   “He treated you like garbage,” Malfoy said smugly.

   Larshall gritted his teeth against the uncomfortable truth. “He was my partner – goddamn it, that means something. He’d do it for me.”

   “I doubt –”

   “He’d do it,” Larshall snarled. This time he took a hold of Malfoy’s cowl with the same iron grip of any man committed and a bit desperate to believe something. “We were partners.”

   Lucius looked as though he was fighting not to roll his eyes. “Fine – waste your precious life rescuing a bitter, domineering, irrational burnt shell of a man – have fun. I, however, have a very important reason for being here – not so you could express your commitment to a man who would never return the favour.”

   Larshall’s grip shook on Malfoy’s cowl, but didn’t release. “I’m listening.”

   “Then listen carefully,” Malfoy whispered, his voice dropping even lower as he leaned closer. For the first time, Larshall could get a clear glimpse at Lucius’ face – and he didn’t look good. There were lines forming around his eyes, and his hair was untidy around his face. “The Dark Lord has made it clear to his servants that the relevant and working agencies within the Ministry are informed of his attack upon Azkaban. What I’m here to inform you of is the inevitability of this attack – and how you will not win.”

   Larshall snorted. “That’s insane, Azkaban’s the most heavily guarded and protected fortress –”

   “The Dementors are not yours,” Malfoy hissed. “And the Dark Lord has been very busy gathering his army. I can only say that you are lucky the giants have not mobilized on his behalf. And you will be facing the worst of his Death Eaters – and what is left of the Ministry? Many Hit Wizards and Aurors have died in the past few months, Larshall – your forces are depleted. The Ministry cannot save Azkaban. It will become a meat grinder if you try.”

   The Hit Wizard could hardly believe what he was hearing – but in the back of his mind, he realized the truth. Both Aurors and Hit Wizards staffed Azkaban to keep the Dementors at bay, but it was a token force. Even with reinforcements...

   It will become a deathtrap.

   There were a long few seconds of stillness. Somewhere in the bar, a near-human creature bellowed a challenge to a trio of hags in the corner, and there was the smashing of a broken chair.

   “Wh-why are you telling me this?” Larshall finally asked, fighting to keep the tremble from his voice.

   “Two reasons.”

   “And those are?”

   Malfoy moved like a striking viper. His hand snapped out and seized Larshall’s forearm, his fingers curling around it. His grey eyes glittered with awful, icy intensity.

   “Because you are a part of this, Reed Larshall.”

   His mind went blank at the words, and he trembled violently in his seat. His muscles seized, and he struggled against a spasm in his legs. But he couldn’t look away from Malfoy, he couldn’t listen to anything but the Death Eater’s smooth words...

   “The second reason is that I came here on my own accord,” Malfoy said softly, “and that I need someone to place an appeal to some very powerful men. The Ministry hasn’t been able to tear up my bank overnight – not for the goblins’ lack of trying – and I have powerful connections that could be of great use to the Ministry. All they need to do is say the right words, and give me and my family what we need. I’ve given too much, and have received nothing – that must change.”

   “What... are you... changing –”

   “There are no ‘sides’ in this conflict, Larshall,” Malfoy hissed, shaking his head almost wistfully. “The old days of the First War are dead – things have changed.”

   “What,” Larshall whispered, “do you... want then?”

   Malfoy’s lip curled with disgust as he spat a single word, a word representing something that the Hit Wizard had never thought or dreamed a Malfoy would ever request.

   “Asylum.”

   Yes, times have changed indeed.

*          *          *

   He couldn’t keep track of time.
   The meals began to blur together, between sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking again. It was so dark, and so colourless, and so cold – even in the darkness, he could swear he saw his breath.

   He shivered and pulled his tattered robes more tightly around him as he huddled against his rock of a mattress, holding the shrivelled candle in his trembling hands. The tiny flame quivered with his every breath, and he took care to breathe easily, to preserve the little flame...

   “It’s nearly time, you know.”

   Kemester jerked up and peered through the bars. The shadows were too deep, he couldn’t see Tony’s face across the hall, but he could hear his voice, surprisingly filled with a hungry life.

   “Time?” Kemester asked listlessly, moving a hand to his cracked and scarred face. It was hideous, grotesque, this mutilation. He hadn’t been particularly attractive before joining the Ministry, but now he looked like a walking corpse. Should save them all the time, I’m already in a grave -

   “Yeah,” Tony said, his voice filled with irritation. “I already told you about it. Fuck, are you going to start losing your memory on me now? Goddamnit, I hate it when that happens around here – stupid Dementors.”

   He heard a rustle as Tony lit a cigarette. Through the bars, Kemester could see the tiny embers – hardly a spot of light. Not even worth considering... nothing but flaming ashes...

   He could feel emotion creeping into his mind. Not glee, or rage, or even fear. No, this was something insidious, something quiet, something that he knew was half his own making and half something the Dementors were spewing into the air. He choked back the sudden lump in his throat as he began to recognize the emotion – sadness. That cold shaky despair that came at funerals in the pouring rain, where the few people standing around the grave don’t know what to say...

   “Tony?”

   “Yeah?”

   “Do... do you ever wonder... ever wonder why we’re here?” Kemester asked through the lump in his throat, forcing free the words.

   There was a muffled snort. “I know why I’m here. I heard the charges.”

   “No, not that... it’s just, have you ever wondered why we’re here, in this world –”

   “You might be a fucking, degenerating mess, but listen: one thing is damn certain, Kemester,” Tony interrupted, his voice dripping with contempt. “You want to know what that thing is? I’ll tell you: dead is dead. If something’s after, that’s great, but who says I can count on it? Nah, I’d rather live – at least I can understand this life. What, Kemester, are you telling me you don’t understand the purpose of your life now?”

   “I wanted to fight Dark wizards like my father,” Kemester whispered, “and when my mother died, the three of us took care of each other. Then I went to Hogwarts... and then they came and took my father away... brought him here, and I never saw them take him. Do you know when the last time I saw my father was, Tony?”

   “Not to be offensive, but I really don’t give a damn,” Tony replied, a note of forced reasonableness in his voice.

   “It was on the Platform...” Kemester murmured. “Bartholomew waved, but I didn’t – I was still angry about the argument we had the night before. I could have waved... I could have, I could waved. And Bartholomew – shit, I didn’t even see him die. The Muggle aeroplane took off his head.”

   There was a hint of a raspy whistle from across the hallway. “That sucks.”

   “And... and when he died, leaving me alone... why did I deserve that? What had I done wrong?” Kemester paused, moving his ravaged hand around the outline of his face, his monstrous, ruined face. “And the thing is, if the Ministry had just waited a few minutes before sending the officials... hell, Dumbledore would have sorted things out. He would have. He would have sorted it all out, and none of this would have happened...”

   His voice trailed off as he stared into the candle, the guttering little candle in his hand. He squinted slightly – was that his brother hiding in the tiny flame, just waiting for the right moment to speak or smile? Was he there... or was he just a name and a slowly blurring memory that he tied to rationalize everything he killed?

   “You know, I’ve done some bad things,” Kemester whispered, a warm moistness in his eyes making him blink quickly. “I lied... I abused Reed’s trust... fuck, I treated him like shit, he was my fucking partner... and Potter... well, fuck, I tortured him! I tortured Harry Potter! I can hardly say that without recoiling – he was supposed to be the hero, and I tortured him on... on...”

   His voice trailed off. Had it just been blind revenge? He knew there was a reason – hell, there had to have been a reason – he wouldn’t have prosecuted this war just on vengeance?

   Or had he?

   Was it all a monstrous lie that he had chosen to believe? Everything he had done – was it all in vain? Instead of putting away Potter, he was the one scarred and mutilated – and sitting alone, in the bleakest prison on the planet. He didn’t know how long he had been there, or how long he would have to stay.

   His father was dying – would he have a chance to see him? To hear the old man explain why he had betrayed everything they had always believed? And Reed Larshall – a partner he had neglected, ignored, manipulated, and outright abused... would he see him? Would he have a chance to apologize, to explain why he had done... well, everything?

  He was starting to see something now, in the flame. It was a man, with a few jagged scars across his face. He was plain-looking, with reddish hair and a wide smile. He always took after Mum, Kemester thought, closing his eyes against the memory. I was more like Dad – more serious, more business-like – yet we both cried at Mum’s funeral, when we lost Dad to this nightmare... and now having lost him, I’m losing me...

   “I don’t know whether Potter is guilty or not,” Kemester whispered, finally admitting the unspoken truth that he had been dreading for so long. “But even if he is, there was more to it than him – and more to it than me. It was never just us two... I just never treated it that way...”

   He could see his brother nodding in the flame, his cherry-red hair dancing around his face like on a blustery fall day, where reminiscences are intended but never realized. And suddenly he could see Potter, blood trickling down his shattered nose, his arms sheathed in metal and spiked to the table in front of him, his eyes blackened and filled with acknowledgment...

   He closed his eyes against the tide of accusing emotions, and exhaled.

   When he opened his eyes, the flame was gone.

*          *          *

   Scrimgeour folded his scarred hands and fixed the nervous Hit Wizard with a penetrating stare. “And you are sure?”

   “As sure as I am of anything,” Larshall replied, swallowing hard. “Sir, does that mean –”

   “No.”

   “But you don’t even know –”

   “You want to know whether or not it is safe for us to inform our men that Lord Voldemort has indeed returned?” Scrimgeour asked with a scowl.

   Larshall raised his hand with helplessness. “It makes sense –”

   “Tell that to Fudge. He won’t believe us.”

   “Well goddamn it, he should! All of the facts –”

   “I’m sorry, when did you ever get the impression that Cornelius Oswald Fudge was running the Ministry of Magic based on facts?” Scrimgeour snapped, slamming his open palm down on the desk.

   Larshall looked around the office unsteadily for a few seconds. “I hadn’t considered that.”

   “Understandable,” Scrimgeour said crisply, rising to his feet and crossing to his Secrecy Sensor. He prodded the antennae of the thing with the tip of his finger. “You’d like to believe that the office that runs our government believes more in facts than in perceptions, but there you have it. The question, though, is what to do about the attack.”

   “Malfoy warned –”

   “I don’t trust a word that bit of filth says,” Scrimgeour spat. “After the banking fiasco, I’m not placing any money with Lucius Malfoy – it’s bad enough he hasn’t been killed yet. As for warning us away from reinforcing the prison...well, our action there depends on our beliefs regarding the size of the resurrected Voldemort’s forces. If we believe he has an army of size and the Dementors under his control, it would be idiotic to send a large force. On the other hand, if Malfoy has exaggerated Voldemort’s strength, our failure to send Aurors could result in a smaller force seizing Azkaban, which would be both stupid and embarrassing on our parts.”

   “We have to do something –”

   “Agreed,” Scrimgeour interrupted, “which is why I’ve been working for the past month on a third option.”

   Larshall’s mouth fell open. “What – you knew?”

   “Dumbledore personally informed the Ministry and specifically the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that sinister forces were moving to take Azkaban at Yuletide Eve months ago,” Scrimgeour said crisply, moving to his filing cabinet and browsing briskly through the folders, pulling several stamped with a peculiar slate-grey crest out of the cabinet. “After a series of... ‘events’ gave me the evidence to believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, I began planning for this eventuality, along with a few others in the Department of Mysteries.”

   “The Unspeakables know too?” Larshall asked, flabbergasted. “Doesn’t this compromise our operational security? I mean, are they authorized to –”

   “Not all the details, but they’re smart,” Scrimgeour said with irritation as he laid the folders out on his desk. “They knew it would be foolishness not to be prepared, so we have planned a third option, one for which you and your team will assist us.”

   Larshall swallowed hard. “Those are Azkaban folders – prisoner records –”

   “Exactly,” Scrimgeour said icily. “Now I’ve spoken with Bones, and she’s agreed to give the Hit Wizards on your team access to these and look the other way when you stage the mission. The team will be small – five members in total, three Aurors, two Hit Wizards – and you will be leading this mission.”

   “Me?” Larshall asked, shocked to his core. “I don’t think – I mean, it’s not that I’m not qualified, but –”

   “But right now you are the only person in this Ministry, outside of myself, to know Malfoy’s role in this, or even that he is still alive,” Scrimgeour growled, leaning over the desk and fixing Larshall with a golden-eyed stare. “That information cannot be leaked to the Ministry – the tenuous goblin treaty we have right now would implode in our hands and we’d have civil war. Remember – the reason we got our treaty and the makings of the new bank is because Malfoy was ‘killed’. While it would destroy Fudge’s career for this to be shattered, I’m not willing to sacrifice that many wizard and Muggle lives to become the Minister for Magic.”

   Larshall nodded uneasily. “So what is the mission? Who are all of these people?”

   “Political prisoners, mostly, and a few with lighter sentences that don’t deserve to die,” Scrimgeour said quietly. “Your secondary mission will be to reinforce the standing garrison and the Warden at Azkaban, but your primary objectives are these prisoners. They must be freed and brought back to the Ministry for holding. Even though this place is still an active reconstruction project, the political ramifications of their deaths would be... unpleasant.”

   “What about the Death Eaters?”

   Scrimgeour paused, and his eyes flashed. “The ones that are alive in Azkaban are powerful and very dangerous. Even I would have great difficulty bringing a witch like Bellatrix Lestrange down. Avoid them if you can, as well as Lord Voldemort... presuming he shows his face.”

   Larshall ran his hand along his jaw. “You know, if we do see him... a wizarding photograph would do wonderful things for proving to Fudge that he’s actually back –”

   “You’d never see it make print, Reed,” Scrimgeour said, bitterness filling his voice. “In any case, once you have these people to one of the Auror outposts, we need to ensure that... elements of Azkaban don’t fall into the wrong hands.” He carefully reached into his desk.

   “What are you implying?” Larshall asked suspiciously.

   “I need you to use this,” Scrimgeour said carefully, gingerly setting the object in his hands on the table, between the folders. Larshall bent to get a closer look. It was clockwork, made of intricate bronze gears and spinning hourglasses, but it was mostly hollow around the center, where it looked like a tiny droplet of yellow-white liquid was suspended.

   Larshall frowned as he scrutinized the device. “What is this? What’s that droplet?”

   “It’s a highly purified, super-concentrated droplet of Combustion Concoction, hot enough to vaporize stone,” Scrimgeour said in a low voice. “It’s suspended in a modified temporal field adapted from Time-Turner innovations. All you would need to do is insert this key,” he added, sliding a tiny golden key across the desk, “and the Time-Turners would slow and stop, causing the droplet to fall and explode.”

   “Is this... safe?” Larshall asked worriedly. “It looks a bit fragile.”

   “It has been magically reinforced, but I wouldn’t play Quidditch with it,” Scrimgeour replied coolly. “Either way, it’s the best thing that has come out of the Ministry attacks, and the notes that weren’t destroyed in Experimental Charms proved invaluable.”

   “How powerful –”

   “Calculations indicate that Azkaban will be less than smouldering rubble.”

   Larshall swallowed hard. “And you want me to place this... at the spire?”

   “Where else?” Scrimgeour retorted impatiently.

   “Sir, that spire is a relic of over five centuries –”

   “And I’d rather have it destroyed than in the hands of Lord Voldemort,” Scrimgeour interrupted, his voice a growl as he rose to his feet. “He’s attacked Azkaban for it before – and now he actually has a shot at taking it.”

   Larshall took an uneasy breath before piling the folders in his arms, scanning the names as he stacked them. As he slipped the last one into his hands, he paused.

   “We’re missing a folder.”

   “Really?” Scrimgeour replied sarcastically, prodding the antennae of his Secrecy Sensor again, this time with his wand. “Do tell.”

   “Kemester, sir. The younger.”

   “He doesn’t have a file,” Scrimgeour said briskly.

   “But he’s –”

   “Because officially,” Scrimgeour snapped, glaring at Larshall, “he’s not there.”

   “Sir, you and I both know that’s bullshit,” Larshall said bluntly, anger finally creeping into his voice. “We need to get him out –”

   “You’re willing to risk your life, your mission, and your squad to get him out?” Scrimgeour snarled, rounding on Larshall, his golden eyes blazing. “You think he’s worth that much?”

   “He was my partner, sir,” Larshall returned angrily, “and damn it, that counts for something!”

   “He treated you like garbage!”

   “That’s because he needs help!” Larshall said, amazement and frustration warring for dominance in his voice as he ignored the echo of Malfoy’s words. He couldn’t even believe this was an issue – yes, Dmitri Kemester had done some terrible things and had abused his power as a Hit Wizard, but he was in Azkaban for all of the wrong reasons! “The death of his brother shook him badly, and getting mutilated in his fight with Harry Potter only hurt him more. Either way, he doesn’t deserve to rot in a cell for this!” Maybe for other things, but not this!

   “And you’re willing to risk it?” Scrimgeour asked incredulously.

   Larshall didn’t know what he could say, and he spent a few seconds struggling between half-formed ideas and words, beginning to move aimlessly through the office as he thought and Scrimgeour watched. Finally, he just shook his head.

   “Sir, I’m the closest thing to a friend that he has, and like it or not, he is still a Hit Wizard – the Department should take care of its own,” he said quietly, finally meeting Scrimgeour’s eyes. “Especially now. We can’t afford to lose any more.”

   Scrimgeour was silent for a long few seconds as he sat down on the other side of the desk. Finally, he picked up the explosive and held it out for Larshall to take.

   “You have a mission, Hit Wizard – and I do not officially condone any rescue operation taken for Dmitri Kemester. But,” he added, even as Larshall as about to protest, “I would appreciate debriefing Mr. Kemester myself – Madam Bones and I have a number of questions that he could readily answer.”

   Larshall nodded – that was the best he could hope for. “I’ll set up in one of the private briefing room with Sanders – send your Aurors down at 1800 hours tomorrow – we’ll move from there.”

   Scrimgeour stood up and extended a scarred hand, which Larshall very awkwardly shook while balancing the files and explosive in his other hand. “Good luck, Reed.”

   He could have said the unspoken words hovering over, but he chose not to, instead nodding and leaving the office. No need to state the obvious.

   Good luck...  we’re going to need it.

*          *          *

   Harry stared down at the heap of papers on the table, his expression filled with complete disbelief. How the hell... if this is all true –

   “It hasn’t accounted for all the factors,” Cassane said, drawing a heavy breath as he rubbed his eyes, “but it accounts for... well, what we know.”

   “Which isn’t enough,” Sirius muttered, tossing his quill aside and falling back into his chair with exhaustion. “Wish you hadn’t been comatose for so bloody long, Harry –”

   “I didn’t choose to be out of action for a month, Sirius,” Harry snapped irritably as he picked up the bottle of Butterbeer that he had placed near the leg of his chair – there simply wasn’t any room left on Aberforth’s tiny table in the sitting room above the bar. “At least you two managed to find each other.”

   Sirius and Cassane exchanged glances. “Well, after everything you told me, I had some idea where to look,” Cassane began fairly.

   “Didn’t stop me from making your life difficult until I felt you were trustworthy enough,” Sirius said wryly.

   “Either way, he’s been valuable in at least getting an approximation to a solution to this nightmare,” Cassane finished, rising to his feet and taking the bottle of scotch from Aberforth’s tiny countertop. “Want any, Sirius?”

   “Please,” Sirius replied gratefully, letting Cassane refill his glass with a generous amount. “Let me tell you, Harry, this is damn good stuff, and I usually don’t care much for this stuff –”

   “Too uppity for you?” Cassane asked with a grin.

   “It’s the stuff my father and uncle used to drink, what do you think?” Sirius retorted with a snort. “Ponce is practically written on the damn bottle – save some for Tonks, will you, Nathan?”

   Harry’s face lit up, and he felt a warm feeling of anticipation rise in his stomach. “She’s coming?”

   “We’re lucky we’re seeing her at all tonight,” Sirius replied heavily, taking a tiny sip of the scotch. “The Aurors and Hit Wizards have been working insane hours running protection for Ministry negotiators. The goblins are still misbehaving, and nobody would put it past them to strike – particularly the more radical elements. Even this close to Yule – hell, it’s in less than two days –”

   “And that means I have to be in London starting tomorrow,” Cassane finished with a scowl. “The Minister’s throwing a massive charity event for the diplomats returning to England, and he’s planning a big speech about the strength of a ‘rebuilding Ministry’. Most of it’s a load of garbage, but –”

   “The food will be good,” Sirius said, taking another sip of his scotch.

   “So you haven’t seen Tonks at all, recently?” Harry asked with surprise. “What about Order meetings –”

   Sirius snorted. “What Order meetings? We’re overextended as it is, and the ones that aren’t combing the country to find out what Voldemort’s doing are working double overtime at the Ministry. I think I saw Kingsley at the end of November, and Tonks... shit, I remember seeing her just after I finally met up with you, Nathan –”

   “December 3rd,” Cassane said distractedly.

   “Yeah,” Sirius finished, setting his glass on the table and rubbing his eyes as he gestured at the heaps of paper on the desk. “Most of my time has been used puzzling out this damned simulamancy magic, and trying to find out how the spiritual attacks interfered with everything. And whenever Nathan’s not running off to the Ministry –”

   “Don’t blame me, blame the job,” Cassane muttered, moving to peer out the window.

   “He’s been helping you?” Harry guessed.

   “As much as he can,” Sirius said. He looked up at Cassane. “I don’t remember working with you being this mentally exhausting before –”

   “Sirius,” Cassane interrupted, his voice abruptly icy.

   “Cassane, I already know that Sirius was working for you – and so were my parents,” Harry said exasperatedly. “Why don’t you just tell me –”

   “I don’t remember most of it,” Cassane said curtly, “and the things I do remember, I have no interest to talk about. You have the memories I gave you?”

   “I haven’t had a chance to view –”

   “Then I’m not saying a word,” Cassane said, his voice heavy with finality as he turned to fix Harry with a glare. “You need to know the context of everything... understand what it meant –”

   “That’s what Sirius told me last year before we talked about Crouch!” Harry exclaimed with frustration. “Sirius, back me up here –”

   Sirius let out a heavy breath, and to Harry’s shock, didn’t meet his eyes. “Harry... in all fairness, what I do remember – and I don’t remember much, probably for the better – I don’t think is relevant here. Nathan’s right, you need context before you start digging into what we did –”

   “Shame any digging you’re going to do is going to have to wait – Harry!”

   Harry’s eyes went wide, and before he had realized it, he had jumped to his feet and pulled Tonks into a tight embrace. Her hair, a long curly straw yellow, immediately went bright bubblegum pink as she laughed and hugged him.

   “Merlin, I’ve missed you,” she whispered huskily, and before Harry could say any more words, her left hand was slipping toward his waistband –

   Cassane cleared his throat, but Harry couldn’t detect any irritation in the noise. No, it sounded like a strange mix of distinct pride and something else...

  “Oh, leave them be, you old coot,” Sirius said with a smirk as he picked up his scotch glass. “I’m enjoying this –”

   Tonks smiled, and broke the embrace. “We’ll continue this later, but right now, Sirius is right – we’ve got a lot of work to do. Nathan, Sirius – I see you’ve been busy.”

   “And we actually have results,” Sirius said with a wide smile, gesturing for her and Harry to take chairs. “Well, approximate results anyways –”

   “Enough that we can effectively fend off the ghost attacks and cut their ties to the temporal distortion,” Cassane interrupted, his eyes lighting with manic energy as he moved to the table and drew his wand. Tapping the parchments with a brisk flick, the massive equation erupted into the air, hovering above the papers and dripping gold sparks. “All we need is the deflection device – most of which I’d been working on already with my contacts in the Department of Mysteries – and we should be able to block the temporal decay from getting any worse and the spirits from hurting any more people.”

   “Will it do anything about Peeves?” Harry asked darkly as he sat down.

   Cassane paused in mid-wand motion, and the floating, glowing equation dropped back into the papers as he thought. “I’m not sure, to be completely honest,” he finally admitted. “Poltergeists are a different sort of creature entirely.”

   “Well, you should put those papers away,” Tonks said grimly, pulling a heavy envelope from her robes and tossing it on the table. “We’ve got a more immediate problem right now.”

   Both Cassane and Sirius’ faces hardened, and Harry blinked with confusion. “What’s going –”

   “I was waiting until Tonks got here to tell you this, Harry,” Sirius began slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Tonks, you want some scotch?”

   “You don’t have any goblin rye?” Tonks asked with a disgusted expression. “Or at least some soda or something –”

   “Nymphadora, this is the best damn scotch in England,” Cassane said with a smirk. “Courtesy of –”

   “Would you stop calling me Nymphadora?” Tonks interrupted heatedly.

   Cassane raised his eyebrows and smiled as he passed her the glass. “Just drink it, my dear – and don’t you think of cutting it with soda. This is the good stuff, courtesy of Rita Skeeter for my support of her article.”

   Tonks sighed as she accepted the glass. “Well, might as well drink now to something good,” she said wearily, “considering none of us could be alive tomorrow to say it.”

   “Okay, what’s going on?” Harry asked, his eyes widening.

   Sirius exchanged a glance with Tonks, and then sighed. “Harry, I wasn’t lying before when I said that the Order’s overextended. It’s bad, Harry – we might have had a head start before, but without some of Dumbledore’s shrewd ideas, we’re several dozen steps back in reacting on time to Voldemort’s actions.”

   “But one thing we all knew about was what Voldemort was planning for this Yule,” Tonks said quietly. “Or really, I should say that Snape, Moody, and Kingsley all knew – I found out everything from Kingsley a week ago. All because of operational security reasons – the rest of the Order doesn’t even know.”

   “But why wouldn’t Dumbledore just tell the Order –”

   “This mission was far too important,” Sirius said heavily, looking down into his glass. “Or so Kingsley told me – we couldn’t afford the risk that Voldemort knew that we had any clue of the details of his planned attack. He undoubtedly knows that we know about the attack itself and the timing – that information, Voldemort likely leaked himself – but he can’t know that we might know any more.”

   “Attack... on what?” Harry asked, a chill filling his gut.

   “Azkaban,” Cassane muttered darkly. “He’s going to get his best and let them loose.”

   “And worse,” Sirius agreed sombrely. “He wants the Spire.”

   “Sorry?” Harry asked blankly

   “The Spire, Harry, is where all of the wands of the Azkaban detainees are stored,” Cassane explained quietly, his eyes going distant as if he were remembering something long ago. “It’s a massive tower, over five hundred years old, and filled with tiny holes. The holes are slowly being filled by wands, and inside the tower, whatever magical essence inside those wands is slowly filling a membrane spanning the height of the tower, turning to the Spire into a gargantuan caricature of a wand itself.”

   Harry’s mouth fell open. “That’s... that’s insane on so many levels.”

   “How do you think that the Warden of Azkaban is able to control all of those Dementors at once?” Sirius asked bitterly. “One Patronus Charm from the Warden’s chamber at the top of the tower, and the Dementors would be pushed past the stratosphere, if not annihilated entirely. It’s a massive veiled threat, which the Warden uses to keep those fiends in line.”

   Harry frowned. “Hang on – if wands are drained of power when they’re in this Spire, why does your wand still work, Sirius?”

   “Harry, it would take almost a century for a wand to be drained of magical essence,” Cassane explained. “I doubt that Sirius notices any difference at all.”

   “It does feel a little lighter...” Sirius mused.

   “Oh shut up. The point is, Voldemort has always coveted the Spire, and made several raids on Azkaban to take it during the First War, yet he was always repulsed.” Cassane let out a deep breath. “Unfortunately, the Ministry had a lot more manpower to spare during those years, and defence of Azkaban was a priority. And of course, it helped that Dumbledore had a vested interest in the Spire – or more specifically, its destruction.”

   “What?”

   “It was strange, really,” Cassane said, almost to himself, “because I remember as a young man out of Hogwarts listening to Dumbledore give a speech on it. He said it would always be a temptation for those seeking evil, and that ‘a man’s wand is always his own – it can be taken but must never be destroyed.’ Harry, there is a reason that the Wand-Breaker Curse has been banned since the fall of Grindelwald, but Dumbledore always said that wasn’t enough. He had been fighting to repeal the wand destruction for underage wizardry for decades, but the Ministry never really cared...”

   “And nor did they try to get rid of the Spire,” Tonks finished heavily. “Until now.”

   Sirius’ eyes shot wide. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

   “Scrimgeour signed off on it himself –”

   “There’s no way that they’d be willing to relinquish that kind of power –”

   “Well, obviously Fudge doesn’t know,” Cassane said with a huff. “This has been Scrimgeour’s plan from the start – he’s as desperate as we are now. If Kingsley has chosen to alert Scrimgeour about the upcoming attack – and really, I can’t see how else Scrimgeour would have found out – then he’s in the same straits we are.”

   “Wait a second,” Tonks interrupted suddenly. “Nathan, not to be rude, but how the hell do you know about this? I only found out three hours ago, and –”

   “Use your brain, Miss Tonks,” Cassane said tiredly. “I’ve had people in the Department of Mysteries for months – rest assured, I knew about the explosive device and the plan for it.”

   “So the Ministry is going to attempt to blow up this Spire?” Harry asked, his gaze darting from Cassane to Tonks.

   “Try the entire fortress,” Tonks muttered.

   Sirius shot to his feet. “You’re kidding me.”

   “Wish I was.”

   “Fuck, there are people in there that we –”

   “Oh, don’t worry, Sirius, Scrimgeour’s got a list of political prisoners that we have to get out during the anarchy of the attack and spirit away before blowing the fortress,” Tonks said bitterly. “It’s a suicide mission.”

   “What about Sturgis Podmore?” Sirius demanded.

   Tonks shook her head, and Sirius swore again.

   “Why does that name sound familiar?” Harry asked with a frown.

    “Because he was the man who reportedly murdered Laertes Rawling a few months ago and blamed it on Dumbledore,” Tonks said coolly. “He’s also a member of the Order – we need him out of prison, at least to get some answers.”

   Harry’s eyes suddenly snapped wide open. “He’s not the only one we need to get out.”

   All eyes turned to Harry, and a small grin crept across Cassane’s face.

   “Beg your pardon?” Sirius asked incredulously.

   “Claudius Kemester,” Harry said, clenching his hand into a fist. “He’s one of the last two men alive who know all the details about the Potter Vaults – and we need that money if we’re going to attempt simulamancy again –”

   “Which you will need to do, at some point,” Cassane interrupted, glancing at Tonks, who a nodded quickly before turning back to Harry. What was that all about...

   “Fine, then we get Claudius Kemester out too,” Sirius said heavily, downing the last of his scotch in a single swig and earning a sharply disapproving glare from Cassane. “Fuck, I never wanted to go back to that place...”

   He turned to Harry and swallowed hard. “Harry, I’m not going to ask you to come with us on this one –”

   “I’m going,” Harry said firmly, finishing the last of his Butterbeer and slamming the bottle on the table. “No questions.”

   “This isn’t a good idea, Harry,” Cassane said in a low voice. “This is a suicide mission.”

   “Maybe not, though,” Tonks said suddenly, raising a finger as he hair shifted to fluorescent blue. “The main fights will be the guards fighting off the mobs of prisoners and Death Eaters, and whoever we encounter inside the prison itself. Sirius and Harry could probably sneak in and out in the confusion and nobody would ever notice.”

   “And if Harry comes with me, we’ve got a better chance of finding the old judge,” Sirius finished. He shuddered. “I never thought I’d go back to that place...”

   Cassane stared at Sirius for a long few seconds before sighing and turning to Harry. “Then if you’re set on this, Harry, I have some things you might appreciate. As would you, Sirius.”

   Sirius’ mouth fell open. “You have... my old gear?”

   “And James’, and Lily’s,” Cassane said, closing his eyes. “I’d have to go through some old storage containers, but I could give you a few things, Harry. A wand-protector, some armour padding, your father’s old Silver Arrow –”

   “You have the Silver Arrow?” Sirius asked, his eyes lighting up with astonishment and unrestrained excitement.

   “Isn’t that just a broom?” Harry asked curiously.

   Sirius shook his head, a wide childish smile on his face. “Harry, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

*          *          *

   They talked for another few hours, until Sirius nearly fell asleep on the table in the middle of planning. Realizing that they weren’t going to get much further without significant sleep, they agreed to begin fresh in the morning.

   “Well, I guess I’ll see you in the morning, Harry,” Tonks said with a wink as she rose to her feet.

   He didn’t quite understand the feeling rising suddenly in his gut. Time seemed to pause, as Harry’s mind raced. His heart pounded faster, as he thought about the words he desperately wanted to say, the risk he had wanted to take the second he had seen her walk through the door -

   “You – you don’t have to go, Tonks,” Harry blurted.

   Sirius snorted audibly, and while Cassane didn’t make a sound, Harry thought he could see a hint of a smile on the older man’s face. Harry felt blood rush to his face, but he took a deep breath to steady himself. I can do this – I took the first step, I just have to follow through... please say yes –

   “I guess,” Tonks said slowly, her smile slightly widening, “that I might be able to stay the night.”

   “Wait, where am I going to sleep?” Sirius asked indignantly.

   “How about on the table, you were already nearly there five minutes ago!” Harry retorted, glaring at Sirius. “Aberforth will use his room, and Tonks... and Tonks and I will use the guest room. Just transform and use your basket like you did before – I thought you said you preferred sleeping like that anyways.”

   Sirius shrugged. “Just wanted to clarify.”

   “I’ll go... freshen up, then, in the guest bathroom,” Tonks said, giving Harry a sly smile. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready.” She winked at Harry again, and before he could stammer a response, she had slipped into the guest room and closed the door.

   Harry could hardly believe his luck.

   There were a long few seconds of silence, and then Sirius looked at Harry, his expression unreadable. “You’re going to be sleeping with Tonks, and she’s my cousin.”

   Harry swallowed hard. “Uh... yeah.”

   Sirius raised his hand into the air and beamed at Harry with triumph.  “And right now, I’m so proud of you! Up top!”

   Even Cassane laughed as Harry gave Sirius the high five, his face burning with mortification all the while.

   “Right, so you do know what you’re doing, right?” Sirius asked, his business-like tone completely betrayed by the wide grin on his face. “You’ve had the talk, right?”

   “I got it from Uncle Vernon with Dudley when I was ten,” Harry said with a shudder. “My uncle thought I should know everything not to do so I wouldn’t reproduce and plague him with a baby on the doorstep.”

   Sirius made a revolted noise. “Just thinking of him makes me not want to have sex, but that’s besides the point – I guess I’ll just have to do my godfather duties.”

   “Oh good lord,” Cassane muttered.

    Completely ignoring Cassane and Harry’s amazed expression, Sirius began to speak. After roughly three minutes, Harry had heard quite enough.

   “Thanks, Sirius, that should be good.”

   “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet!” Sirius exclaimed indignantly.

   “He’ll figure it out,” Cassane said, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “In any case, I’d like to speak with Harry for a few minutes.”

   Leaving Sirius slightly crestfallen, they stepped into Aberforth’s empty room and Cassane shut the door.

   “Even though I’m not as open as Sirius, I’m proud of you,” Cassane said warmly, putting his hand on Harry’s shoulder. The warm feeling in his gut welled up again, and he couldn’t help a smile.

   “Uh... thanks, I guess.”

   “You have something special with Miss Tonks there, I think,” Cassane continued, his eyes strangely moistening. “Reminds me a bit... a bit of what I used to have with my wife, a long time ago.”

   Harry felt a bit of a lump forming in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry, Nathan – I really am.”

   “You know... once you lose someone like that... she’s gone, forever, and you’ll never replace her.” Cassane took a great, shuddering breath as he continued, a strange note in his voice. “Harry, I’d do anything to bring her and my daughter back – my family. That kind of beauty... you can spend your whole life searching and never find it again. No matter what you do...”

   He shook his head, and turned back to Harry. “You should go. Be careful, and keep in mind that what you’re doing... well, you’re making it clear who you can’t afford to lose.”

   “I think Tonks know that,” Harry said quietly, “and she’s accepted it.”

   The smile returned to Cassane’s face. “Yes, I know. Go ahead, then – you’ve earned this.”

   Harry nodded quickly and left the room, the back of his mind pondering the strange note in Cassane’s voice – like he was trying to send a message to Harry, a cry for help...

   He shook his head as he approached the door, taking a deep breath. I’m ready... it’s time. I can do this.

   He knocked twice.

   “Come in.”

   He slid through the door and nearly gasped. Somehow, in the five minutes that he’d been gone, the room had changed. Candles were lit around the room, a breezy perfume hung in the air, and the sheets that had once been rumpled were now cleanly pressed.

   And on those sheets, Tonks was lying on her side, a wry smile on her face and a black halter nightdress hanging off her shoulders. It was short, barely covering her buttocks, leaving Harry to admire her legs that were bouncing lightly off the bed. Her hair was long, curly, and bright pink again, falling around her face in a way Harry guessed would take most girls hours of careful preening to achieve.

   “You ready for me?” Tonks asked, and Harry felt a shiver run down his spine at the sultriness of her voice.

  “God no,” he replied honestly.

   Tonks laughed, and Harry felt some of the pressure in his chest abruptly fade. “Good, because I hate holding this pose.” Rolling clumsily to her feet, her hair getting shorter, she moved close to Harry and peeled away his robes with slow contained motions. His shirt and pants were gone seconds later – as was her nightdress, untied in Harry’s shaking fingers.

   “Are you nervous?” she asked, her smile never wavering as she pulled him towards the bed.

   “Yeah,” Harry whispered. “I want... you know, to do it right.”

   Tonks laughed again, and this time some of the wryness left her smile. “Let me show you, then.” Taking his hand, she guided it around her, to the clasp of her straining bra. Then taking his other hand, she placed it gently just inside the front of her panties. Harry noted, with a degree of astonishment, that the panties were a little damp.

   “And...”

   He didn’t have to say anymore, because Tonks pressed her lips to his, and all of his doubts and fear went straight out the window. He didn’t care – he was with her, and that was the only thing that mattered.

   Her bra clasp, after a few seconds of fumbling, fell open, and it was discarded on the side of the bed, which creaked under their weight as he fondled her breasts with the tips of his fingers. His other hand tugged away the fabric, and moved deeper, caressing and stroking. She shuddered a little, and then leaned close, her breath warm against his ear.

   “That’s the trick... let me return the favour.”

   They shifted on the bed, and she was on top, her hair tickling the inside of his legs as she began to lick. It was a feeling unlike any that he had felt before – and it was incredible. He felt his nerve endings rising, becoming more sensitive with every second as her tongue caressed him, pulling him up towards something, something amazing –

   She pulled up, and before he could say another word, she had shifted her weight – and this time he felt a very different wetness pressed against him. She leaned close, her voice hot in his ear.

    “Harry... I’m ready.”

   “I – I know. It’s... it’s time.”