Aberforth Dumbledore closed the door to his bedroom and let out a strange noise – not quite a sigh of relief, but not quite a snort either.

   “So?”

   Aberforth roughly pushed his glasses up higher on his nose and met his brother’s eyes as he trudged towards the armoire in the corner of the tiny room.

   “Did you have any luck?” Albus Dumbledore asked concernedly.

   “Pomfrey’ll have more luck than I will,” Aberforth grunted as he shoved his cloak onto a hook. “She took over.”

   “And Severus?”

   Abeforth gave his brother an exasperated glare. “What do you think?”

   “I thought as much,” Albus said softly. “It’s a shame –”

   “Hardly, because it being a shame would require that Snape’s good behavior in this matter be expected,” Aberforth interrupted, slamming his armoire shut with an audible snap. “Of course he wasn’t going to come, not even to gloat.”

   Albus blinked twice, but never took his eyes off of his younger brother. “Will he live?”

   “I was amazed he was anything close to alive when he was dragged in here,” Aberforth retorted. “Multiple chest wounds, holes in his lungs and liver, his spine snapped in three places… you’re lucky he’s only in shock and not dead.”

   “Poppy is skilled.”

   “She’ll need to be, if you ever want Sirius Black to walk again,” Aberforth shot back. “As it is, he’s in a pretty damn deep coma, and he won’t be coming out for some time. He’s off your active duty roster.”

   “At least he’s alive,” Albus said softly, a very real note of concern in his voice. “And back on our side.”

   “How can you be so sure?” Aberforth’s voice was skeptical. “It could be a ruse.”

   “Sirius Black was possessed – of that, both Harry and I are certain,” Albus said firmly, folding his fingers as he watched his brother sit opposite him. “How he was controlled becomes a different question.”

   Aberforth eyed his brother suspiciously. “I thought Headquarters was sealed off, and before that well-protected.”

   “There was a leak.”

   “And you didn’t tell me?”

   “Were you so eager to come to Headquarters?”

   Aberforth glared at his brother. “You leave a man trapped in a place like that, you’re asking for trouble, Albus. I told you it was a stupid idea to try that bluff –”

   “I would have had no way of knowing that Voldemort would attempt such a tactic as spectral possession,” Albus replied evenly. “In fact, I’m interested in how he discovered that knowledge at all. But given the location, it does not surprise me he tested the spells on Headquarters first. After all, Hogwarts was the only home he knew, and he didn’t dare risk catastrophic failure.”

   Aberforth crossed his arms over his chest. “Didn’t he get it anyways? I’m assuming there’s a reason why you arrived late on the scene.”

   Albus didn’t answer, and Aberforth snorted with disgust.

   “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

   “Aberforth, I would have told you –”

   “No, you wouldn’t have,” Abeforth said flatly, “but I’ve come to expect that by now.”

   “You know what is at stake –”

   “Damned straight I do,” Aberforth spat, rising to his feet. “Potter’s soul, or at least his life.”

   “I’ve let him walk his own path,” Albus replied grimly. “Harry has made his own choices –”

   “So he thinks,” Aberforth said darkly. “So it’s the Auror girl, then.”

   “She is more loyal to Harry than to the Order –”

   “And I would guess you had nothing at all to do with that?” Aberforth cut him off harshly.

   Albus’ eyes flashed, and Aberforth was reminded for a split second of a night over fifty years earlier, when his brother had made the choice to finally pursue his old friend and best him in single combat. It was the same, terrible look.

   And here I thought something had changed.

   “You’re ruining Harry’s life.”

   “I’m letting him live by his own choices and decisions –”

   “But you haven’t told him everything,” Aberforth said accusingly. “Merlin forsaken, Albus, he’s fifteen!”

   “And he’s already behaved with more maturity than most,” Albus replied curtly.

   Aberforth ignored the subtle barb as he glared at his brother. “Then if he’s mature, he deserves the whole truth. You owe him that much.”

   “And if I had my choice, I would tell him everything,” Dumbledore said calmly, “but there is an unshielded link to Voldemort’s mind in Harry’s head. If Harry came to know the whole truth, Voldemort could use it, and then none of us would have hope. As it is, Harry and Voldemort both know the contents of the prophecy – and right now, that is all Harry needs.” Albus closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with two long fingers. For a second, Aberforth could see the great weariness in his brother’s face, in his darkened eyes and drooping brow, but then it was gone, replaced by a shield.

   Aberforth knew that shield – it was the one his brother always used, when he wanted to look more than human, but was really less.

   “I need to speak to Harry,” Albus said quietly, slowly rising to his feet. “Will you guarantee us some privacy?”

   Aberforth met his brother’s eyes for a long few seconds before sighing and turning away.

   When his brother deserved a response, he would get it.

*          *          *

   “I’m amazed he’s alive,” Harry murmured, cradling the bottle of Butterbeer in both hands as he sat opposite Tonks in a dank corner of the Hog’s Head. He could still smell burnt earth and cinders, but he suspected that smell wouldn’t go away anytime soon.

   “So am I,” Tonks replied, rubbing her eyes as she pulled the cloak tighter around her. It wasn’t much, barely covering her shredded Auror robes, but in the chilly bar, any bit of heat was precious. “You really hit him hard there… how did you know the Patronus would do something like that?”

   “As soon as it clicked that he was possessed, it… well, it seemed like a wild guess to me,” Harry admitted after a few seconds. “That spectre was sociopathic, undoubtedly evil – why wouldn’t a Patronus be able to drive it off. It’s not like I’ve had a good chance to try any good banishing spells, and fighting against Sirius…” He shuddered. “I was too lucky as it is. He’s good. No wonder they thought he was Voldemort’s second-in-command.”

   “Of course he’s good,” Tonks replied with another shiver as she rubbed her newly healed shoulder – Madam Pomfrey had been able to heal the wound in seconds, despite its depth. “He survived the first generator of the Order – and knowing how Sirius is, he wouldn’t have shied from a fight.”

   She carefully looked around before lowering her voice. “We don’t have a lot of time. Where did you hide your simulacrum?”

   “Woodshed,” Harry replied immediately, “along with the books and my Invisibility Cloak. Frankly, I’m amazed they weren’t burnt to cinders.”

   “I’m not,” Tonks said, taking a swig of her Firewhiskey, her hair going sodden brown as she took a deep breath. “Most wizards are smart enough to make their spellbooks fireproof, particularly any they’re using a ritual. After all, those things are hard to get, and a fire in a failed ritual is the worst way for them to go.”

   Harry clenched the bottle tighter as he leaned close to Tonks. “And did we fail? We both know something went wrong.”

   HIS NAME IS HARRY POTTER.

   Tonks shoved the voice back while keeping her expression perfectly blank. “Probably something to do with the shielding magic I used, but I haven’t seen any problems yet. I mean, you’ve got control of the simulacrum without difficulty –”

   His hand was a blur, and Tonks felt Harry’s shaking grip on her shoulder. “Tonks, when I’m in that body, it’s different,” he whispered. “There’s more muscle memory than usual, I can control the body much easier… and there’s something else.”

   That explains why he was able to fight Sirius so quickly, but there’s still something missing, Tonks thought quickly. He couldn’t have fought Sirius to a standstill without…

   “Harry,” she carefully asked, “what spells were you using against Sirius in that fight?”

   Harry swallowed hard, and his grip on Tonks’ shoulder grew tighter. “Nothing I can remember all too well, it was too damned fast… but I hadn’t seen them before. And they didn’t feel right… I could taste bile in my mouth whenever I was casting them –”

   His voice trailed off, because Tonks had gone rigid with realization, her hair and eyes going matte black in seconds.

   “Tonks –”

   “I knew I hadn’t gotten rid of all of it,” Tonks whispered, her eyes flashing to Harry’s left forearm. “But it’s not showing on you, but there’s still probably a trace left –”

   Harry went pale. “You’re talking about the Dark Mark – I thought you got rid of it when you were shaping the body!”

   “I must have missed something, there must have been a root to the enchantment that I hadn’t seen – fuck!” Tonks jerked herself out of Harry’s grip and slammed her fist on the table, causing her glass to rattle. “Damn it, why wasn’t I sure it was gone!”

   “Tonks, there’s nothing you could have done, this magic’s beyond us both and we know it,” Harry said quickly, but his voice betrayed him as he looked quickly at his arm, as if he were expecting the tattoo to twist and erupt onto his skin from the blood below. “Do you…. Do you think it’s going to have any other negative effects?”

   “Can’t be sure,” Tonks muttered. “At the very least, it might burn if You-Know-Who presses it, or give you the magical competence to cast the Dark Mark – hell, given the other spells you were casting, that’s a genuine possibility. At the worst… damn it, Harry, I don’t know how bad it could be. We could ask Snape.”

   Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

   “Of course I am.” She took a deep breath as she downed the rest of her drink. “In any case, until you get your hands on the rest of your money, we won’t be able to afford simulamancy, let alone risk it again.”

   “Keep your voice down,” Harry warned. “I think Dumbledore’s coming –”

   “What are we going to –”

   Her words had been cut off, because Harry had just kissed her full on the mouth. His arm had slid around her waist and he was pulling her closer even as the doorknob twisted…

   But you’re not going to let him have all the fun, now, are you?

   She could feel something rising inside of her, and she returned his kiss passionately, her hand darting forward to pull away the ragged T-shirt…

  Dumbledore coughed loudly.

  They broke apart, but Harry shot Tonks a wink as he turned to face Dumbledore, a flush creeping into his cheeks.

   “Sorry, Professor, I… uh, well, I…”

   “I quite understand, Harry,” Dumbledore said, a hint of a grin crossing his face as he took a seat at the table. “If anything, I should allow you to continue.”

   The funny feeling in Tonks’ gut urged her to follow on that train of logic, but she forced it back and pulled her cloak as modestly as she could around her.

   “Sirius is going to be okay?”

   The smile left Dumbledore’s face. “I do not know,” he replied quietly, the glimmer in his eyes dim as he met Harry’s anxious gaze. For a short second, Tonks could see the old man’s hand tremor. “His wounds are severe, but Madam Pomfrey is the best Healer I have ever known. If anyone can save him, it will be her.”

   “How long?”

   “At least a week until he’ll be able to awaken,” Dumbledore replied, “presuming all goes well – and it may not.”

   “It could have gone well if you had gotten to us in time,” Harry growled.

   Tonks tensed – an argument with Dumbledore was the last thing both of them needed right now – but the old Headmaster simply nodded.

   “I agree, although the situation was beyond my control. I was stymied by the same force that delayed me last time. Even with Fawkes, I could not bypass it.” Dumbledore folded his hands carefully. “However, I cannot deny that you performed exceptionally well.”

   “I got lucky, Professor –”

   “It was not a stratagem I would recommend in the future, Harry,” Dumbledore said carefully. “The Patronus Charm is powerful, and can indeed be used in the manner that you suggest to banish the ghost from the possessed, but if you intend to save him, it is terribly risky.”

   “It’s not like I had time for any banishing spells,” Harry replied defensively, “and he – the ghost – was going to kill me if I hadn’t used my Patronus. I don’t think he was expecting I knew that spell…”

   “Do we have any idea who the ghost actually was?” Tonks interrupted, her eyes fixed on Dumbledore. “Or how the hell it got into Sirius?”

   Dumbledore’s face looked grave as he folded his fingers. “There has been a leak within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for a long time – you both know this. What we haven’t known, until now, is how Lord Voldemort has utilized it. If anything, if my hypothesis is correct, it was an ingenious strategy on his part.”

   “You’re talking about that paper with the location of Headquarters that they found on Kingsley and restored,” Tonks said sharply. “I thought You-Know… okay, fine, Voldemort used that paper to seal off the entire street because he didn’t know the exact street address.”

   “Or he did,” Harry said suddenly, “and used it to break into Grimmauld Place and magically compel a ghost to possess Sirius.” He looked at Dumbledore. “Someone could have told Voldemort that Sirius could be hiding out there, even if it was our Headquarters.”

   “Unfortunately, the Fidelius Charm is a little more foolproof than that, Harry,” Dumbledore said heavily, “but Voldemort is much smarter. I suspect he had an insider within the house the day it was sealed to us and Sirius was possessed.”

   “Snape,” Harry snarled.

   “He has an alibi, Harry,” Dumbledore said reprovingly, “one I and the students in his classroom at that time can vouch for. In this case, however, we’re looking for an enemy just as dangerous.”

   He frowned and turned to Tonks. “Are you familiar with Sirius’ old house-elf Kreacher?”

   “The house-elf?” Harry exclaimed. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me! I thought house-elves were forbidden from turning on their masters anyways –”

   “And I’m quite sure that Kreacher would be punishing himself if indeed he knew the truth,” Dumbledore said grimly. “But that house elf hated Sirius, and Sirius certainly had no love for a creature that represented everything about his past life that he loathed.”

  “Are you suggesting Kreacher let Voldemort in?” Tonks asked incredulously. “There’s no way that thing is that powerful –”

   “It didn’t need to be,” Dumbledore said, closing his eyes and shaking his head with disappointment. “All Kreacher needed to do was leave the house, go to the one remaining pureblood relative he could speak to – conveniently Narcissa Malfoy – and return with a parcel for his master, never knowing what was inside of it.”

   “Sirius would never take anything Kreacher gave him, not even for a second,” Tonks said with a frown. “Did the house elf plant it on Sirius?”

   “It looks to be that way,” Dumbledore replied. “Not the focus of the spell itself – that was here at Hogwarts, I suspect, where all the other possession… incidents took place – but a beacon to draw a hungry spirit in for a second chance at life.”

   “That sounds like an astronomical amount of power to be transferred over a very long distance,” Tonks said, her eyes narrowed skeptically as her hair went grey-silver.

   “Must be one hell of a beacon,” Harry muttered, “or one hell of a ghost…”

   “An interesting proposal, Harry,” Dumbledore said suddenly, his eyes snapping back to Harry, “and perhaps more correct than we both realize. I have a hypothesis, and with a bit of Miss Tonks’ description of the fights that you have had with him, I believe I might have an idea who the ghost is.”

   “I thought there weren’t any ghosts in Grimmauld Place,” Harry said carefully. “Only that murderous old ghoul that Fred and George threw out near the end of the summer.”

   “Didn’t think you knew about that, we were trying to keep quiet,” Tonks muttered. “I helped with that, by the way.”

   “I’m sure,” Harry shot back, but he grinned.

   “I will need Sirius’ confirmation to prove my theory, but I believe there’s one ghost lurking in Grimmauld Place that is both intelligent enough to keep himself very well hidden, and murderous enough to serve Lord Voldemort in this manner,” Dumbledore said evenly, drawing his wand and tapping the center of the table lightly.

   With a murmured word, an image of a middle-aged heavy-set, somewhat balding man appeared. He was large, but his girth was muscle instead of fat, and he moved with the grace of a much younger wizard. His face was strikingly handsome, with very well-defined features complementing his thick, dark goatee, which was as well groomed as his short, straight hair.

   Tonks swore under her breath. She would know that face anywhere – her mother had described in impeccable, horrifying detail. “That damned...”

   “And from Sirius’ testimony, we all thought he was,” Dumbledore finished grimly. “After all, Druella Rosier’s ritual was reportedly designed to send him straight into a state of eternal torment.”

   “Rosier?” Harry asked, running a hand through his hair. “Who is this?”

   “This, Harry, is Cygnus Black, Sirius’ uncle,” Dumbledore said, a strangely forced note in his voice, as if the Headmaster was visibly trying to remain as calm as possible. “The father of Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, and –”

   “Andromeda Tonks,” Tonks hissed. Her hair had gone blood red, and her eyes were flickering in that direction. “My mother. He was my grandfather – not that I would ever want to meet the fucker.”

   Harry swallowed hard at the look of pure hatred on Tonks’ face. “What did he do?”

   “Cygnus Black was a blood purist of the worst kind,” Dumbledore said grimly, his eyes burning with disgust. “He believed the only blood fit for his line was that of his own loins – that of another Black. If what was believed was true, he had already brutally raped his eldest daughter – Bellatrix – before he was killed.”

   “Didn’t get a chance at my mom, though,” Tonks whispered savagely. “Thank Merlin for that.”

   “She got away?”

   “My mom ran away when she was sixteen, just like Sirius,” Tonks said, breathing very fast as she stared hatefully at the slowly rotating image. “That put that raping monster in a bit of a hard spot, because he didn’t dare touch Narcissa. No, no, she was Druella’s favourite, and even Cygnus didn’t dare cross a Rosier – that family would have no qualms ripping him to shreds and feeding him to their Fire Crabs…”

   “So, if Sirius’ story is to believed,” Dumbledore finished, “Cygnus Black was caught in bed with Walburga Black, a widow at that time, by Druella. After having a relation of hers – a Death Eater named Evan Rosier – beat Cygnus into a pulp, she utilized a very nasty piece of Dark magic to damn him to eternal torment at the site of his greatest crime.”

   “And you think he was the ghost?” Harry asked slowly.

   “It would fit the spell’s description,” Dumbledore said simply.

   “Also makes sense, considering if you hadn’t summoned him out of the way, he would have had no qualms molesting me, Harry,” Tonks added, unable to stop the tremor from creeping into her voice. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

   “And the spells –”

   “Sirius is a powerful wizard in his own right, although the majority of the magic was not his style, although well within his ability to cast,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Cygnus would have simply enabled the skills that were utilized.”

   “What about this beacon?” Harry asked quickly. “Is there a chance that Sirius still has the thing?”

   “Possibly, but I highly doubt it,” Dumbledore replied, and Tonks was startled to hear a tiny note of frustration in his voice. “Voldemort would have reclaimed the item for future use.”

   “Sirius can probably describe it, though,” Harry pointed out, undaunted. “And we have the entire Hogwarts library to identify it, and that could give us something.”

   “At this particular point in time, Harry, that would not be the most efficient method for solving this problem,” Dumbledore replied. “I suspect that an expert with such esoteric objects would have better luck identifying it.”

   Harry and Tonks exchanged glances. “Cassane?”

  “He said he’d remain neutral, and he’ll know this isn’t neutrality,” Harry said sharply.

  “Cassane is also a man who likes an intellectual challenge, and identifying such an object would be such a challenge,” Dumbledore replied reasonably. “I feel confident it would not be an issue persuading him –”

   He stopped speaking, because a massive silvery lynx had bounded through the cracked window of the bar and landed on the table, facing Dumbledore.

   “What the –”

   “Kingsley’s Patronus!” Tonks whispered blankly. “What the hell could have possibly gone wrong now –”

   “Barnabus Cuffe has been arrested on charges of contract violation and extortion,” the lynx said in Kingsley’s slow, measured voice, but they could all hear the note of satisfaction in his voice. “He has been taken to the Ministry, and his legal counsel has been… delayed, somewhat.”

   Harry’s eyes lit up. “Scrimgeour got him?”

   Dumbledore gave Harry a swift look of slightly surprise that soon dissolved into pride. “Very good, Harry.”

   Tonks could tell that Harry was trying not to let on how much Dumbledore’s words had meant to him, but she could see the slight rise of colour in his cheeks.

   “But we have a problem,” the lynx continued, his tone picking up pace. “He’s already being interrogated.”

   Tonks’ eyes flew wide open. “What? By whom? Who has the time in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement these days –”

   The lynx fixed Dumbledore with what looked like a steely gaze, something so intentional that Tonks knew Kingsley had done it to make a point.

   “Dumbledore, it’s Dmitri Kemester. He’s alive.”

   Harry surged to his feet. “What?”

   “Umbridge somehow arranged to have him revived and back on the field – it’s beyond terrible, Dumbledore, what she did to bring him back, she should have let him die –”

   “I killed him!” Harry snarled furiously. “I fucking killed him! It was over!”

   “ – And now he’s in the room with Cuffe, and the conniving bastard’s scared to death that Kemester’s going to eat him alive,” the Patronus finished.

   “What does he want, Kingsley?” Dumbledore whispered, already knowing that the Auror had anticipated the question and prepared the Patronus with the answer.

   “The truth.”

*          *         *

   There was a very awkward silence as the two of them walked up the slippery steps to the Owlery, a silence that had persisted since she had asked him to accompany her.

   Finally, Hermione cleared her throat. “Thank you, Ron.”

   “For what?” Ron snapped irritably, twirling his wand in his fingers clumsily.

   “For coming with me,” Hermione said in a rush, “and letting me borrow Pigwidgeon. I really…” She swallowed hard.

   “I get it,” Ron replied curtly. He didn’t lean against the wall, like he usually would – but then again, given that the entire room reeked distinctly of owl droppings, it was an intelligent choice. “You couldn’t have asked Harry.”

   “Do you… do you know where he is?” Hermione asked tentatively.

   “No,” Ron said flatly as Pigwidgeon flew over, hooting madly. “Better let me tie this on – Pig’s too hyper right now.”

   “T-That’s fine,” Hermione said quickly, passing Ron the small envelope.

   “Why couldn’t this have waited until morning again?” Ron asked after a few seconds, listening to the peals of thunder shake the small tower. “I mean, it’s late, and the last thing we need right now is detention from McGonagall.”

   Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “I… well, I really don’t think it’s anyone else’s business –”

   “I’m here with you, and that makes it my business,” Ron snapped. “What’s going on, Hermione?”

   “It’s just a letter, all right?” Hermione retorted, snatching Pigwigdeon away from Ron and carefully tying the letter to the tiny bird’s leg with a bit of string. “To someone who could help us.” She looked back up at Ron. “You know, with the attacks…”

   Ron’s face was a flat mask. Most of the candles in the tiny circular room were guttered, and the few that were lit cast long shadows across his face, making it appear almost carved. “You’re keeping secrets, Hermione. What’s the matter, you don’t trust me now either?”

   “That’s not fair,” Hermione said quietly, yet she was breathing very fast. “Harry might have made things difficult for both of us, but that shouldn’t drive us apart –”

   “Why don’t you trust me, Hermione?” Ron asked suddenly. He finally met her eyes, and she was shocked to see something else there – pain. Genuine hurt.

   “It’s not… it’s not like you’ve trusted me!” Hermione said, swallowing hard as she gripped Pigwidgeon a little tighter than she should have. The owl let out a little hoot of pain, but Hermione ignored it. “I mean, going behind both Harry’s back and mine with your crazy plan and learning Dark magic –”

   “Did you honestly think I was going to leave my brother in the clutches of a monster like Umbridge?” Ron asked furiously as the tower shook from a particularly close rumble of thunder.

   “No,” Hermione replied in a small voice barely audible, “but I wish you would have trusted me, talked to me about it. You’re my friend, Ron… my only friend now, the way Harry is… and I’m not going to throw that away.”

   Ron clenched his fist and turned towards one of the few filthy windows in the tiny room. Rain streaked the glass, and he could see the lightning dancing over the Quidditch pitch…

   The door of the room opened suddenly, and Ron spun on his heel, his wand already drawn –

   “Easy there, Ron,” Ernie said, raising his hands in surprise. “A little nervous tonight? It’s just me.”

    “What are you doing sending an owl at this time of the night?” Ron asked roughly, shoving his wand in his pocket as he forced back embarrassment. God, I’m getting more paranoid than Harry these days…

   Ernie winced. “My mother’s birthday,” he said apologetically, pulling a rather heavy package from his bag as his barn owl flew down. “Family would never forgive me if I forgot.”

   Ron turned away, the words ringing in his ear as he looked out the window. Family would never forgive me… but I can’t just abandon him!

   “What did you get her?” Hermione asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

   “Didn’t see you there, Hermione, nice to see one of the best students in our year around,” Ernie replied pleasantly. “As for the gifts, just a couple books I know you’d probably appreciate. There’s…”

   Ron tuned Ernie’s rambling out as he moved to another window, this one with a view of the castle. The rain was coming down harder than ever, drumming on the stone roof like hammer blows…

   His gaze stopped, and he carefully drew his wand. I was sure I saw…

   “Impervius!”

   Immediately some of the frost and water lifted from the window – not much, but enough to confirm what Ron had suspected.

   Someone was walking around the seventh floor corridor. Someone with white-blond hair…

   He looked over to where Ernie was prattling on. “Hermione, we’ve got to go. Send Pigwidgeon out, I want to check something.”

   “What’s going on?” Ernie asked with interest, as his owl took off into the high, dung-encrusted rafters with the package towards the single open window.

   “Nothing important –”

   Hermione’s eyes lit up. “Ron, if you need my help, why not bring Ernie along? Three’s always better than two, we both know that.”

   Ron clenched his jaw. Oh, he knew that all right.

   “Fine. Let’s go chase a ferret.”

*         *          *

   “I need to get into that meeting,” Harry muttered as he began to pace. “I can’t let Kemester rip Cuffe to shreds! With our luck, that’ll happen and Cuffe will get released!”

   “There might not be much we can do about that,” Tonks replied briskly, as she rifled through the pile of clothes that Dumbledore had conjured out of mid-air and dumped onto the table. “Dumbledore’s already moving –”

   “If he can get the people he needs in the Daily Prophet, it won’t be enough,” Harry muttered, shoving a chair aside out of frustration. “Cuffe will have them back under his boot heel. That plan will be finished, and that damned deal I made with Scrimgeour will be precisely worthless.”

   Tonks’ eyes snapped to Harry as her hair stopped in mid colour-change. “You’re talking about going to the Ministry now.”

   “Simulacrum, obviously. As Desdame, I can get past a lot of the security in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement –”

   “Not nearly all of it, you’ll need me to come with you,” Tonks interrupted.

   “And as an involved party in dealing with Cuffe, I’m fairly certain he and I can discuss a deal,” Harry finished, his eyes snapping to Aberforth’s room. “Do you think he’ll have any witch robes that’ll fit Desdame?”

   “No, and this is not a good idea!” Tonks said, alarm filling her voice. “It’s too risky to try simulamancy without knowing everything that went wrong last time!”

   “We can’t afford to wait!” Harry snapped, and Tonks could tell her temper was already beginning to strain.

   “Listen to me, Harry, as the one who conducted the ritual, I know something went wrong with this,” Tonks said, very real anger creeping into her voice as she shoved aside a heap of clothes. “You’ll be risking both our lives – and yes, I said both – if you try this. I’m in this as much as you are.”

   Harry frowned. “You think something went wrong at your end –”

   “I don’t know, and that’s the damn point!” Tonks exclaimed, carefully letting a note of fear creep into her voice. She wasn’t going to deny that she was worried, and not just for Harry this time. She really didn’t want to tell Harry that she was hearing a voice inside her head. Not now, at least. “We can’t afford to rush into this –”

   “And we don’t have the time not to rush into this,” Harry interrupted.

   “What about Cygnus Black’s ghost?” Tonks asked desperately. “You heard what Dumbledore said, you didn’t destroy that spectre.”

   “So?”

   “So what if it comes back?” Tonks asked angrily. “Are you just going to let Sirius get possessed again – or worse, let yourself get possessed by that monster?”

   “Tonks, in every encounter I’ve had with those damned things, I’ve learned one thing,” Harry said curtly, “and that is that none of those damned things can get into my head. And you seem awfully worried about that ghost – we don’t even have any proof it’s still around!”

   “If you had heard any of the stories my Mum told me,” Tonks said tightly, keeping a tight lid on her own frustration, “you’d feel the exact same way. This is a terrible idea, Harry. If anything, you should let me go as Desdame –”

   “You’d need backup.”

   “I’m an Auror! And it’s not as if I wouldn’t have backup – Kingsley would be there”

   “I don’t trust Shacklebolt, and neither should you,” Harry growled. “I’m going, Tonks, and right now, I’d need all the help I can get. Are you coming with me? Hell, you said I’d need you.”

   HIS NAME IS HARRY POTTER…

   Tonks closed her eyes and shoved the voice away. Damned simulamancy… or maybe that fucking dagger Sirius used was poisoned… either way, I’ve got to stop this…

   “Tonks, we have to go!” Harry exclaimed, trying to meet her eyes. “There’s no time, we have to move! Grab the most professional-looking thing you can find in there and let’s move!”

   She took a deep breath and turned away. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a shadow behind the door that she knew led to Aberforth’s room.

   “Fine,” she said grimly. “Let’s get this done.”

*          *          *

   “You know the Dark Lord has given me orders –”

   “I thought I fucking told you, Nott, not to start talking until we’re under cover!” Malfoy snarled, rounding on the smugly smiling Slytherin with a furious look on his face. “So shut the fuck up already!”

   “And what was wrong with the library?” Nott asked, his voice plainly irritated.

   “I’m thinking we were overheard,” Malfoy growled as he peered carefully around the darkened corner, “and either way, with Moody and McGonagall on the prowl, I’m not taking chances.”

  “So where are we going?” Zabini asked, following a few steps back with a bored expression on his face.

   “I found us an abandoned classroom up here,” Malfoy said curtly. “It’ll do.”

   “What about the chamber?” Nott hissed. “It’s far more secure than any classroom –”

   Malfoy quickened his pace unconsciously. “No.”

   “You know what I think, Malfoy?” Nott asked, picking up his own pace until it matched Malfoy’s. “I think you don’t want to go down there. How’s your new vagina coming along, you miserable excuse for –”

   His temper snapped, and a second later, he felt a stinging in his knuckles and he could see Nott stumbling back into the wall of the narrow corridor, his hand rising to his nose. He raised his hand for a second strike –

   “Since when is Malfoy a girl?”

   His wand was out in seconds and pointing to the end of the corridor. There, twenty feet back, were Weasley, Granger, and Macmillian. There was an insufferable smirk on Weasley’s face – something that immediately made Malfoy want to curse him.

   So he did.

   “Confringo!”

   The spell streaked down the corridor – and bounced off the invisible shield. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected a Shield Charm, but apparently the Mudblood wasn’t useless after all…

   “So, you didn’t answer my question, Malfoy!” Weasley shouted, his smirk growing wider as he raised his wand. “Since when did you have a –”

   “You can’t fight here, Draco!” Zabini hissed urgently, his eyes scanning the corridor. “It’s a shooting gallery, and we’ve still got twenty feet till the next turn! There’s no cover!”

   Malfoy ignored Zabini and raised his wand in turn. “And you would have such intimate knowledge about a lady from whom, Weasel? Was it Granger? After all, bushes do grow in the mud –”

   “You disgusting brat!” Macmillian shouted, his face going crimson with righteous indignity. “Stupefy!”

   Malfoy blocked the Stunning Spell, carefully deflecting it into the wall where it fizzled, but a cruel smile was growing on his face. Finally, something he could relieve his tension upon – it was almost refreshing. “Or, you know, I’ve always heard that siblings like to be intimate with each other –”

   “Vercundus!”

   Malfoy parried the curse, but he had felt the fury behind that attack and for a moment, a cold pit of worry began to form in his gut. This could get somewhat interesting, but the last thing I need is…

   “So what are you doing slinking around the castle, Malfoy?” Weasley shouted. “Looking for more people’s lives to ruin?”

   “Well, you’re doing a damn fine job of ruining yours, so why should I expend the effort?” Zabini called back mockingly. “I mean, how the hell do you get the slime and dirt out of your clothes from being associated with beings less than filth –”
   “Or finding new girls to torture?”

   The Mudblood’s voice rang in the corridor, and for a few seconds, Malfoy let the accusation hang in the air. It was his chance – he could point the finger at Nott, and it would be over in a heartbeat. His hands would be clean… mostly.

   “I don’t know what you’re talking –”

   “Don’t lie!” Granger screamed. “You did it, I heard the truth, and I have proof!”

   The pit of worry in his stomach had blossomed into full-fledged panic, but he struggled to keep his face an expressionless mask. Outside, he could hear the thunder pounding the school.

   “You were the one, Draco Malfoy?” Macmillian shouted, raising his wand. “You murderous… you perverted freak!”

   Malfoy looked only at Granger, ignoring the Hufflepuff’s bellowing. “You have no proof, Mudblood, and nobody would believe you even if you did!”

   “Harry would,” Weasley snarled. “And even I wouldn’t want to get in his way –”

   “I’ll expose you!” Macmillian roared, his eyes blazing with a righteous fury visible twenty feet away. “Your own House will disown you, and you’ll deserve the just punishment Dumbledore will give you –”

   “Fuck, this is taking too long,” Nott spat. “Gelumorsus!”

   A rush of blackness exploded from Nott’s wand, spraying down the hallway like a Muggle fire extinguisher, and even as the temperature plummeted and a nearby window shattered, Malfoy’s mouth twisted into a tiny smile. Let’s see you get past that –

   “Incendio!”

   Flames erupted from Weasley’s – Weasley’s – wand, and the cloud of blackness shivered to a halt, even beginning to dissipate…

   “Run!”

   The option didn’t come a second too soon. He started backpedalling, firing every curse he could remember into the black cloud to drive them back –

   “Into the secret passage!” Nott snarled, grabbing Zabini’s collar as they rounded the corner and pulling him headfirst into a heavy wooden door. Malfoy braced for the heavy sound of flesh on wood, but Zabini fell right through the illusion, Nott right behind him. Finally, after firing one last hex into the blackness and cursing one of the torches to explode, spraying shrapnel all across the corridor, he dove into the darkness.

   He heard running sounds, but he stayed quiet, listening for the inevitable.

   “They’re gone. Damn it!”

   “We thought before Malfoy’s got an Invisibility Cloak, he can certainly afford it,” Granger said bitterly. “He’s likely hiding – either that or he can run really fast.”

   “Him?” Weasley asked incredulously, and Malfoy heard the sounds of a muttered Reparo. “I wouldn’t count on that, why do you think he was using so many curses to stall us?”

   “Nice Shield Charms, Ron,” Macmillian said, very real appreciation in his voice. “And how did you know the counter-curse for that black cloud spell?”

   “A very good question,” Nott whispered, his eyes bright with suspicion.

   “You know… I, uh… well, I’ve seen Harry beat it before,” Weasley said, trying to sound modest despite himself.

   “Well, he can’t hide forever,” Granger said briskly, “and his little escape act here only confirms his guilt.”

   “I’m just curious why he punched that little weed Nott in the nose,” Macmillian mused. “It hardly matters now, though. Hermione, if you can get me the proof and all the evidence, I’ll expose Malfoy before lunch tomorrow.”

   “Let’s circle around the corridors a bit first,” Weasley added, his voice rough. “If we catch Malfoy, we can do some sentencing of our own tonight…”

   Their voices died down, and with a muttered word, Zabini lit his wand. The light was feeble and pale, and with blood dribbling down Nott’s face, it made him look quite disgusting.

   “And now what do we do?” Zabini asked scathingly after a long few seconds of silence.

   “The Dark Lord gave me a mission,” Nott replied, his face twisted into a scowl. His mouth was lined with blood, and from the way he licked his lips, Malfoy suspected the sick bastard liked the feeling. “And now I’ve got a target.”

   “Weasley,” Malfoy said immediately.

   “I already hit a Gryffindor, that’s not how this works!” Nott spat. “I already told you this, there’s a cycle to these things to gather the appropriate energy, and I can’t hit the same house twice in a row! I was thinking of hitting one of the Slytherins, as a matter of fact – one of the more disposable ones, like Davis or Bulstrode.”

   “And I already told you that’s not going to happen!” Malfoy snarled. “You’re not attacking our House!”

   “It’s the perfect alibi for you and I, and they’re disposable!”

   “Nevertheless,” Zabini interjected icily, “wanton violence would prove useless here, as that pompous bastard would have no qualms exposing us anyways.”

   “And you have a better idea?” Nott snapped.

   “Hit Macmillian,” Zabini said coldly, “and hit him so hard that no one dares to even consider the thought of publicly exposing us. And I know you’ve got something in mind for something like that.”

   “Going to Hufflepuff next will break the cycle –”

   “And Dumbledore will break us in half if he finds out what we’ve done,” Malfoy cut him off. “To say nothing of the Dark Lord.”

   “Find the synergies you need to get the power you require, I don’t bloody care,” Zabini said, his eyes glittering in the blackness. “But Macmillian needs to be removed from the picture – tonight.”

   There was silence for a long few seconds, and then –

   “I think I might have just the thing.”

*          *          *

   Barnabus Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, did not consider himself to be a humble man. After all, that would imply there was someone that he should be subservient towards or showing respect. He was more of a man than that.

   So he eyed the door of the interrogation room with supreme self-confidence. After all, in moments, his highly-paid and exceptionally professional lawyer would be here, the entire issue would be brushed aside, and the Ministry would pay a high tithe to his vault in reparations for taking him against his will. That was just a fact, after all – the Ministry wouldn’t dare harm their most important communication medium –

   The door cracked open, and a hooded man walked in, a heavy woolen cowl thrown over his face. Cuffe couldn’t fathom the reason why a man would wear such a garment in such a bloody stifling cell (the enchanted glass, claustrophobic stone walls, shoddy lighting, and lack of windows did nothing for the air circulation).

   He took in a deep sniff and immediately regretted it – the room reeked of sweat and urine – but he glared balefully at the figure, who was clearly not his lawyer.

   “Well?” Cuffe demanded after a few seconds of silence. “If you’re not going to give me a glass of water, then get the hell out. I have nothing to say to you.”

   “Oh, you do.”

   Cuffe’s eyebrows shot straight into his neatly brushed hair, even as his mind raced to put a face to the voice. “Excuse me?”

   “We’re not going to play legal games here, but if we were, I’d call this ‘Interrogation’,” the hooded man growled, his voice raspy. “I ask questions, you give me answers, and if I don’t like the answers I get, I keep asking questions and things will get messy in here. I don’t have a problem with that, but I bet you do.”

   Cuffe’s eyes narrowed. He still didn’t recognize the voice, but that hardly bothered him now – if the man meant anything or had done the slightest thing worthwhile, he would be worthy of recognition.

   “I’m not telling you anything,” Cuffe spat imperiously. “I have my rights and under the law, you can’t question me –”

   The hooded man’s wand snapped up and pointed at the window. A second later, he waved his wand…

  And dispelled the illusion revealing only a grey brick wall where the window used to be.

   Cuffe’s heart started to race. He was trapped in the room, and nobody would be able to see anything –

   “You’ve got information I want,” the hooded man hissed, tearing away his cowl with a gloved hand. His fingers gripped the hem of his hood. “And I’m really good at getting this part.”

   The hood was thrown back, and Barnabus Cuffe swallowed back vomit at the sight of the man.

   Patchy orange hair covered a mercilessly burnt head, with crude stitching holding the pieces of his scalp together. The man had never been attractive, but the horrifying burns across his face, somehow sparing the charred eyebrows, made him grotesque. A trickle of blood dribbled down the edge of the man’s temples, where Cuffe could see hints of a wound still open.

   But he recognized the man – for Merlin’s sake, he recognized the monster – and the burning rage set in every charred crevasse of the man’s face seemed to darken the entire room

   He couldn’t help himself, and a few moments later, he understood exactly why the room reeked of urine.

   “So here’s how this goes,” Dmitri Kemester hissed. “First question: why the hell were you –” he shouted the word, and Cuffe shrank back – “brought in here? Crimes of violation of contract and extortion, eh? Where’s the multiple counts of bribery and perjury, I might ask?”

   “I… I have never perjured –”

   He didn’t get another word off, because Kemester had just punched him across the face. The hit made him reel, but a second later, there was a curious dull ache instead of the throbbing pain…

   “You answer the questions I ask without protest,” Kemester said coldly as he lowered his wand, “and though that little hit I gave you won’t leave a mark, enough of those and it’ll feel like your face is on fire – unless, of course, I start breaking fingers.”

   “No, no, please –”

   “Then answer the fucking question!” Kemester roared, backhanding Cuffe again, only to remove the visible mark a second later. “Why were you brought in here, of all people?”

   “I don’t know –”

   There was an audible crunch, and Cuffe nearly toppled off his seat, blood streaming freely from his broken nose.

   “Episkey. Tergeo. Now answer the fucking question,” Kemester growled, lowering his wand as Cuffe struggled to string a word together.

   “I was arrested for b-blackmailing Dumbledore to get the article he wanted, and then p-printing my own in its place. O-Of course, he never paid me –”

   “It’s the principle behind the matter, you cowardly bit of filth, and I really don’t give a damn why he didn’t pay you,” Kemester spat. “What article did he want?”

   “S-Something about Potter – Dumbledore said they wanted to bring out some s-story about how Y-You-Know-Who is back –”

   Kemester’s ruined lips twisted into an ugly smile, revealing, much to Cuffe’s horror, disturbingly white teeth. “But you couldn’t allow that, could you? Who paid you off?”

   Cuffe blanched. “The money came from three different accounts –”

   “Then I want account numbers!” Kemester roared, slamming both his fists on the table. Ripping a sheet of paper from the pad at the corner of the desk, he shoved a quill and ink to the cowering editor. “Write them – now.”

   Cuffe started scribbling madly, but Kemester continued moving, pacing slowly around the table, until he was standing directly behind Cuffe.

   “I want names.”

   Cuffe continued writing for a few more seconds, splattering ink all over the table. He noticed, for a brief moment, that the inkwell was old and cracked around the top – something wasn’t quite right –

   “Stop writing.” Kemester’s voice came from directly behind him, out of his peripheral vision, but Cuffe didn’t dare turn around.

   “Now, I want you to be very honest with me,” Kemester began softly. “Did you ever meet with these people?”

   “N-No.”

   “Did you ever try to meet with these people?”

   “No.”

   “Have you ever met any of these people in a context outside of this case?”

   Cuffe shook for a few seconds, until in a very small voice, he said, “Yes.”

   The next few seconds were a blur. Before Cuffe could even scream, his hand exploded with pain – worse pain than he had ever experienced in his life. His eyes rolled back as he let out a howl, blood and ink mixing together  as his right hand lay shaking on the table – he couldn’t look at it, he didn’t want to see the remnants of the shattered inkwell buried in his flesh…

   “Like that, huh?” Kemester snarled. “Do you like that?”

   “NO!”

   “THEN DON’T LIE TO ME!” Kemester roared, slamming the base of his hand down hard on Cuffe’s, driving the glass deeper and deeper –

   And suddenly, it stopped. The blood was gone. The pain was strangely muted – again. But as Cuffe looked around the desk, still soaked in ink, he wondered where the glass was –

   Kemester only smiled his horrifying bright smile as Cuffe screamed and screamed as he realized where the glass had all ended up – inside his hand…

   “I knew for a fact you met Felix Nott,” Kemester said smoothly, stepping around the table to face Cuffe, who was now crying openly and trying desperately not to move his hand. “It was on the front page of the paper three months ago. He’s also,” he added, all trace of a smile vanishing, “a former Death Eater. Want to explain that?”

   “He left… he left the D-Death Eaters years ago!” Cuffe cried. “God, K-Kemester, p-please get the glass out –”

   “No,” Kemester said coolly, continuing to pace. “But you know what I think? I think there’s a reason he paid you off. I think he paid you off so that no news would be leaked surrounding a few strange little events, so disappearances go unreported… and anything that supports Dumbledore gets vetoed. That’s why Skeeter’s article vanished – because you didn’t want to admit that something might be happening.”

   “Y-You-Know-Who c-can’t be back –”

   “We don’t know that,” Kemester growled viciously, leaning forward, his horrifying face inches from the sobbing reporter. “But I’ll have everything I need soon enough, and the funny thing was, you should have seen it coming.”

   “I d-don’t know –”

   “You see, Barnabus,” Kemester hissed through his pearlescent teeth, “I know you’ve been following the business section like any other rich fuck would. You would have noticed the wavering support for goblin banking after the break-in this summer, and the rising discontent of several very rich wizard bankers and lawyers both inside and outside of Gringotts. So when you would have heard that they were looking for the easiest possible way to break free of the clutches of those little rat-bastards, you would have been all over it.

   “Of course, it wouldn’t be so easy for you, considering you couldn’t reveal your hand openly given your position. And given that those bankers and lawyers needed an opening in Ministry law to pull off their little scheme – found, by the way, by yours truly – you knew you had to be on their side if you wanted any sort of executive clearances.” Kemester smiled again, his eyes lighting up with sudden recognition, and Cuffe could feel another warm trickle down the inside of his leg. “But they wouldn’t let you in, would they? You’re a little climber, not old money… no, you had to cut a deal.”

   “I d-don’t know what you’re –”

   “So you bargained with that old money to get a share of the massive profits that they’re sure to reap when all the fools come rushing to invest in the ‘newest wizarding institution’,” Kemester finished, a disgusted look sliding onto his ruined face. “A pity so many of them are Death Eaters.”

   “T-Then aren’t we –”

   “On the same side?” Kemester asked distractedly, prodding Cuffe’s right hand lightly. Even as the fat man howled, the Hit Wizard continued to speak, almost to the gently swaying lamp hanging from the ceiling. “Not particularly. I have only interest in one thing and one thing only, and they have the capacity to do it for a minimal charge. But I also have no interest in having a mob of angry goblins and the possibility of them unleashing their dragons from inside Gringotts into Diagon Alley. And they’d do it, too – they’ve been quiet for too long.”

   Kemester looked down at Cuffe, who was gasping and choking for air against his wracking sobs of pain. “So, what possessed you to be so stupid to try and double cross the goblins?”

   “The M-Ministry needs financial security – GOD, MAKE IT STOP! MY-”

   “And you believed it too,” Kemester growled very slowly, pulling his finger away from Cuffe’s finger. “You stupid little man. You ought to go to Azkaban just to cure you of your idiocy.”

   Very real fear surged through Cuffe, enough to drive away the pain even for a second. “N-No, please don’t send me there, I’ll give you everything, don’t send me to the Dementors –”

    “I’m sure you will,” Kemester growled. “Oh I’m sure you will…”

   “That’s enough of that.”

   Both Cuffe and Kemester started – neither of them had heard nor seen the door open – and Kemester’s hood was pulled up in a second. Cuffe struggled to focus his eyes on the figures through the haze of pain. They were both beautiful and blonde, dressed primly in very dark robes… but for some reason, Cuffe couldn’t recall seeing them before…

   “You don’t need to disguise yourself here, Kemester, we know who you are,” the first woman said. Her hair was cut very short around her ears in an attractive style, but there was nothing soft about her appearance. If anything, her eyes were brutally cold.

   “Who the hell are you?” Kemester asked bluntly. “And I want to see your clearance – now.”

   “We’re prosecuting attorneys, from the legal consulting firm hired to pursue the case against Mr. Cuffe over there,” the second woman said in a clipped tone. Her hair was considerably longer and tied back tightly, but just untidily enough to look stylish at the same time. But while her companion’s features were hard, this woman’s face was softer, although there seemed to be something about her eyes that he didn’t quite understand –

   “What firm?” Kemester asked suspiciously. “And why wasn’t I called?”

   “The firm is Desdame & Vuneren,” the first woman said primly. “I’m Miss Vuneren, and this is Miss Desdame. And regarding your call, I believe one Reed Larshall has been frantically trying to reach you for the past hour.”

   “We passed him on the way in,” Desdame said softly.

   Kemester still looked suspicious. “Where have I heard the name Desdame before…”

   Desdame gave Kemester a cold smile and extended a business card. “If you’re ever in the need of some… persuasive consultants, don’t hesitate to contact the firm. Our rates are quite reasonable.”

   “I’m sure they are,” Kemester growled. “Fortunately, you shouldn’t have any difficulty getting anything out of him.”

   Vuneren raised a well-manicured eyebrow. “Oh?”

   “Give him a good handshake,” Kemester said with a hint of a cruel grin. “You can see what happens. Although you wouldn’t want to be too rough – if he’s released, he’s got a big report for tomorrow, and I know the Minister wouldn’t want it to be subpar.”

   Desdame’s eyes went stony. “What are you talking about, Hit Wizard?”

   The smile vanished from Kemester’s face, and he suddenly looked extremely grim, as though he was concealing the true extent of his frustration and rage. “Fudge has decided that he wants to make his public declarations tomorrow to the wizarding world. It passed preliminary Wizengamot screening last night, so that was enough for him and decided to move up the schedule.”

   “What, exactly, is he planning to announce?” Vuneren asked, her eyes narrowed to near slits.

   “The new wizard bank, and of the full extent of Dumbledore’s treason,” Kemester growled darkly, appearing to enjoy the brief looks of shock that the two lawyers exchanged. “Tomorrow, the war begins.”