Unofficial Portkey Archive

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. The characters aren't mine (well, maybe some of them)... only my mind's mindless wandering...

A/N: Wow! An interesting chapter. I'm not apologizing for the chapter itself, but rather that I wasn't able to get to any of the big points I mentioned last time. I allowed myself to get a little carried away with a particularly rabid plot bunny. Fifty-seven "book" pages later, I'd only gotten a start on one of them, and that was in the first few paragraphs!

So I decided I could either throw it all away, post nothing, and still make you wait another two weeks for the chapter I had in mind at the end of Chapter 30. Or, I could post this now to hold you over until I finish the chapter I had in mind at the end of Chapter 30.

So, that said, I DO hope that you enjoy this, because I like it very much, as it adds another element to the story. This story is turning into as much "how things might have been" if certain tiny details had been different. I'm sure you'll understand as you read. The scene in the Minister's office alone took a week of tinkering to get it to where I wanted it.

I PROMISE the shortage of fluff this time will be made up for in the next chapter. ;-) Please also know that I feel terribly guilting about not replying to your WONDERFUL reviews yet. Two months in, I'm finally settled into my new job, but my hours are longer, so I have on average two hours per day fewer in which to write. So, for these last two chapters, replying to reviews gets pushed back in favor of writing. I will get to them eventually, as many of you have questions or make valid observations that I want to answer.

Eternal thanks go out to my beta, MapleMountain! Figured I should also mention I got a little historical help from answers.com.

Oh, and yeah, for you Battlestar Galactica fans out there, I couldn't resist an Admiral Adama quote there at the very end. No, don't cheat by peeking!

And finally, once again, similarities to Book 6 are intentional, as are the differences. Oh, how I wished Tony Blair was PM in 1996 when I titled this chapter.

Chapter 31. The Major-Witch Project.

Harry stepped forward, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and threw it into the fire. He took another deep breath and then stepped into the green flames.

"The Burrow!" he shouted, and was gone.

Upon his arrival at stately Weasley Manor, Harry had been rather numb to the outside world. He just couldn't believe it: the best summer he'd ever had, had come to an end. And he couldn't even be mad at anyone about it; there was no one to blame.

Dumbledore had been right (it was about something else, but it applied equally well here too): nature had to take its course. It most definitely did so without their permission. And Ron was right too: the timing of it all just plain sucked!

After his egress from the fireplace, he was literally caught by Mrs. Weasley as he tumbled out. This was a good thing, for his hands were full with his school trunk and Crookshanks' basket. He realized that it was impossible to feel bad when he was being given a warm, loving hug. He'd actually discovered that on his first day at Hermione's house, three weeks and one day earlier.

As he had all of the air squeezed out of his lungs by Mrs. Weasley (and welcomed it), Harry could not help but smile. That day back then, when he was surprised to see Mr. and Mrs. Granger on the Dursleys' doorstep, that day when he didn't even know their first names, felt like a lifetime ago.

It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet it had only been three weeks and one day. Now that he looked back on it, Harry was actually a little scared at it all. So much had changed in the last three weeks.

"Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" He had the vaguest memory of Hermione saying that once. He could hear her voice, Hermione Granger, cleverest witch of her age, saying the words, and yet he couldn't remember when it had happened. Oh well, maybe he'd heard it in a dream.

Anyway, everything had changed. It was a little scary, but it had to be worth it. All Hermione had to do was smile at him, and he felt like Voldemort was nothing more than another Draco Malfoy, a little brat who, while not harmless, was more bark than bite. Harry knew that was not the case, but sometimes it felt like that. And as the Patronus Charm (and Unforgivables) showed, sometimes the feelings behind a spell mattered more.

Once released from Molly's grip, Harry turned to find Ron eagerly waiting to help take his stuff upstairs. Actually, he rather suspected his redheaded best mate was more interested in one particular item that was most likely in the trunk. But Harry was perfectly fine with that. He suspected he would need a lot of chess to help keep his mind off of... his mind occupied.

As he reached for Harry's trunk, Ron froze. His eyes had landed on Crookshanks' basket. He looked at Harry dubiously, and less than enthused.

"They couldn't take him with them on such short notice," Harry explained. He conveniently left out the part that there had been another option available.

Ron seemed to be trying very hard to find an upside to the situation.

"Well, it'll be fun to watch him chase Arnold around, I suppose," he said with a grin. His head suddenly jerked forward.

"OW!"

"I heard that, Ronald!" Ginny said after smacking the backside of his head. She'd just walked into room behind him as he came up with his brilliant idea. "I, for one, am happy to have him here if it helps Hermione out. Besides, Crookshanks like me. And he likes Harry. In fact, I'm sure he likes everyone who hasn't tried to kill him," she said, teasing her brother.

Ron wanted to defend himself and his actions from third year, but that also would have meant defending Pettigrew. So in the end, Ron just stood there with his mouth moving but no words coming out while Harry and Ginny watched in amusement.

"Oh, I'm sure the little guy has forgiven me by now," Ron finally said, sweetly. He leaned down and started to reach for the still-closed basket. Crookshanks let out a soft growl; not loud enough to be threatening, just enough to know he wasn't exactly thrilled to see Ron either.

Harry and Ginny smiled. "I don't think he's forgiven you about teasing him with the popcorn," Harry joked.

"Ronald? Are you teasing Crookshanks again?" Molly called from across the kitchen. Harry and Ginny chuckled.

"Yeah, Ron, are you teasing Crookshanks again?" Ginny asked, mimicking her mother's voice.

"Leave him alone, and go help Harry take his trunk upstairs," Molly called out. As Ron levitated Harry's trunk up to his and Ron's room, Harry let Crookshanks out of his basket.

"Go chase some gnomes," he encouraged the feline. Crookshanks ran over to the kitchen door, which was usually left open thanks to an insect-repelling charm. Once at the door, he crouched down and began to stalk outside, on the prowl.

Turning around to head upstairs, Harry found Molly standing behind him with a plate of sandwiches.

"Hungry, dear?" she asked.

"Oh, no thanks, Mrs. Weasley. I ate a little while ago," he assured her. Molly stood her ground. "Well, maybe half of one," he compromised as he took one of sandwiches that had been cut in half.

Molly smiled as she turned back to the kitchen. "At least Hermione and her parents are taking good care of you over there," she said mostly to herself as she put the remaining sandwiches in their magical icebox.

"How are they, dear?" Molly then asked as she turned back to Harry. "Hermione and her parents... how are they?"

The smile faded from Harry's face. "They're doing all right, I suppose. I mean, as well as anyone could be expected when a loved one was in the hospital."

"Is... everything... is everything all right?" she asked hesitantly. "There's nothing..." she stammered. Harry looked at her encouragingly. She took a breath and finally asked what had been bothering her ever since her seventh son's head appeared in their fireplace the day before.

"It has nothing to do with You-Know-Who, right? He's not going after them, is he?"

"No," Harry replied. "As far as I know, it's just the circle of life completing itself," Harry said, using Dan's words.

"And besides, it's Emma's dad. If it was Voldemort, I can't imagine him being that subtle." Harry was surprised to see Molly shudder at the mention of Voldemort; he'd gotten used to Dan and Emma saying the name without any difficulties (let alone hearing it). With her wince out of the way, she then appeared visibly relieved and was eager to switch topics.

"So, will you be with us for the rest of the summer?" she asked. "Will Hermione be joining us when they get back?"

"Depends on when they get back, if she'll be visiting," Harry answered. "But I most likely will be going back to their house, at least right before school starts. Dan and Emma scheduled me in for a dentist appointment that last Friday. Hermione and I both have appointments that day."

Molly smiled. "Shouldn't've been surprised at that," she said, amused. She too knew Hermione's parents were dentists. Part of her smile was also for the fact that Harry had used their first names and seemed so comfortable doing so.

Ever since she found out that Harry was leaving those awful Dursleys early, she'd felt that the only place for him to go was to come stay with them. But the situation with Percy had prevented that.

Her third son still spent much of his time either out of the house, looking for a new job, or tucked away in his room away from everyone else. But he did join them for meals everyday, and he was beginning to join in the conversations. That, of course, had not been the case when Harry was forced to move in with the Grangers. When Harry left the Dursleys', she was still finding Percy stuck to the ceiling or flapping around him room in the form of a canary.

Molly wasn't sure how to feel when she found out that Harry was moving in with the Grangers. By no means did she not trust Dan and Emma at the time. Even though she really didn't know them, they'd obviously raised Hermione, so that made them fit parents in her mind.

Rather, it was simply that she'd wanted Harry with her where she could keep an eye on him herself.

Looking at him now however, it was clear that he'd obviously been in good hands the entire time. The fact that he felt so comfortable around them spoke volumes alone. Perhaps everything had worked out for the best after all. She was slowly getting her almost-lost third son back, and Harry, her seventh son, was safe.

And now, he was here with them for a while.

Harry nodded, almost in guilt, at the fact that he'd been roped into a dentist appointment. "Yeah, that's the price you pay living with dentists," he said with a laugh.

"Harry! Hurry up!" came Ron's whine from upstairs.

"I believe his highness would like a game or two before dinner," Molly said as she looked up in the direction of Ron's room. As he started to climb the stairs, she called back to him once more.

"Any requests for dinner tonight, Harry?"

Just like with the Emma, Harry was pretty sure Molly would not let him get away with "Whatever you want." So instead, he tried something Dan had once mentioned when the girls had been out of the room.

"'Whatever you want,' sounds like you're too disinterested to care," Dan explained in a whisper. "This however accomplishes the same thing, but puts an entirely different spin on it. This way, you're saying that you trust them enough to make that decision for you. Just make sure you really do trust them, as it can go terribly wrong otherwise."

"Surprise me," Harry said. Molly smiled and he resumed upstairs.

* * *

Midnight tolled on 10 Downing Street as the Prime Minister leaned back in his seat. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and released it slowly. He'd finally finished the last of the seemingly never-ending memos and reports and mandates and studies and projections that made their way across his desk. At least, he'd finished the ones that were in the stack that was set before him fifteen and a half hours earlier. Tomorrow it would start all over again.

Sometimes he felt trapped by the walls that enclosed his "business" office, but at least the chair was comfortable.

He glanced at the time zone clocks to verify the time that his body already felt. It was just after seven in the evening in Washington. If he hadn't called by now, he probably wasn't going to until tomorrow. The Prime Minister (well, one of his aides, actually) had a call into the President (well, one of his aides, actually) of their neighbor across the pond.

The PM was rather annoyed that his call had not been returned yet. True, his counterpart was getting ready to ramp up his campaign for reelection. But really, even at this early of a stage, it was accepted that his opponent faced an extremely uphill battle. And that brought him back to his phone call.

Even though his own election was still months away, change was in the wind. Everyone could feel it. And most unfortunately, it had absolutely nothing to do with the unseasonably cold and misty weather. More focus groups and telephone surveys than he cared to know about told him that his constituents were looking to be led in a different direction.

His "advisors" had suggested he take advantage of a few photo opportunities with the extremely popular politician. Even if they had no intention of instituting the same kinds of policies, any meetings would provide photos would make good front-page headlines. Those same advisors had told him again and again: sometimes it was more important to look like he was doing something than to be actually doing it.

The Prime Minister sighed as he flipped back to the confidential memo buried amongst the intelligence reports and economic forecasts. His advisors, even with months to go, were taking seriously the threat of the opposition. If public sentiment was shifting in a direction that favored their opponents' policies, about all they could do was to attack their opponents directly, rather than those policies.

The PM took another deep breath and stared again at the walls that surrounded him. Sometimes he felt more trapped by his "advisors" than these walls. At least the walls were decorated nicely.

And the chair was very comfortable.

So, on the one hand he was rather annoyed that the president had not returned his call immediately, for it meant he would have to deal with it again tomorrow. And yet on the other hand, he was glad the man did not call, for it meant it could wait until tomorrow. After all, while it was currently 7:15PM on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, it was 12:15AM in Number 10.

The Prime Minister tidied his desk and locked away everything that needed to be locked away for the evening. He leaned back in his very comfortable chair, propped his elbow up on the arm of his chair, and rested his forehead in his hand.

With everything he had to do today taken care of, he used these few spare minutes before he retired to his flat upstairs to consider what he wanted to do. If he knew his advisors well, and he did, he knew the direction they would insist he go in the upcoming months.

A clearly defining issue needed to found. If it could not, then the entire election would be reduced to "stay the course" and "a new direction." With increasing interest in "a new direction," all that was really left were personal attacks. And that was a path he was not at all eager to trod. He stood up and walked over to the window.

When he wanted to let his mind wander, he always came to this particular window and looked out at the street below. For some reason, he found it easier to think when he was looking out at the outside world. Tonight, the full moon seemed to cause the fog outside to glow. The luminescence helped encourage his mind to clear.

As he looked though the thick but perfectly clear armored glass, he pondered his situation. For the sake of his election, for the sake of his job, for the sake of his conscience, he needed to find an issue.

"Ahem," came a soft cough behind him.

The Prime Minster froze where he stood. His gaze automatically refocused from the police car on the side of street to his own scared-looking reflection. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.

"Hello?" He cringed at the sound of his own voice. It clearly betrayed his anxiety.

In the fraction of a second that passed, the PM allowed himself the infinitesimally small chance that it was just his imagination, that the one painting in this office no one else ever seemed to notice (except that one time he tried to have it torn off the wall) would not answer him back.

There was a reason it was infinitesimally small, for the froglike man with the silver wig immediately replied.

"To the Prime Minister of the Muggles. It is urgent we meet. Please respond as soon as possible. Sincerely, Madam Amelia Bones, Minister of Magic."

The PM felt his stomach fall out from under him. Every time this painting spoke, trouble followed. Those advisors' memos were starting to look good again. And he had been waiting for a telephone call, hadn't he?

"Er, this actually isn't the best moment, you see. I'm expecting a very important-"

"You know he would never call you after midnight to discuss a publicity stunt," the portrait replied immediately. The Prime Minister sighed. He knew that too.

"Very well," he conceded as he looked in the direction of the fireplace, expecting an arrival. "Oh, wait!" he called out as ran over to it. "I need to move the screen first!"

It was too easy to forget that what was in this office was no ordinary fireplace. A gift from a family member, he'd placed a decorative fireplace screen in front of the hearth, to help liven the room. Crashing into a cast iron depiction of St. George defeating a dragon was generally not considered to be an appropriate way for one Minister to greet another.

"It's clear now!" he called strongly up to the portrait. He didn't think he would ever get accustomed to this method of communication. If he ever spoke more than five or six words through the painting, for reason he kept getting louder and louder. He was usually shouting by the time he was done. Shouting was also generally not considered to be an appropriate way for one Minister to greet another.

He hurried to his desk to make himself look presentable. By this time of night, his tie was halfway undone; his shirt was un-tucked, and his suit jacket draped over one of the many desks in the room. Once appropriate attired, he returned to his chair and relaxed all of his muscles, trying to sink into it as deeply as possible. Whatever this new Madam Bones (whom he'd still hadn't met in person) needed to discuss with him at midnight, at least he could be comfortable.

About a minute later, the empty fireplace roared to life with bright green flames. A moment later, the (new) Minister of Magic arrived in 10 Downing Street for the very first time.

Refusing to process the fact that a woman had just appeared out of thin air (or rather fire), the Prime Minister's attention was immediately drawn to the ash that she brushed off of her, and onto the antique rug beneath her feet.

More than anything, he wondered how he was going to explain to the maintenance staff how ash could come from a fireplace that had not seen a fire in it for a long time.

"Ah... Prime Minister," she said, striding forward with her hand outstretched. "Good to finally meet you in person."

The PM honestly did not know how he wanted to respond. It was agreeable to finally meet in person the new Minister of Magic. But at the same time, as he had just observed to himself, meetings like this meant trouble. All he could do was hope for the best, so he replied in kind as he went to shake her hand.

"Madam Minister, I agree. It's nice to meet you in person. I received notification of your appointment," he said as his eyes darted to the exact spot on his desk where he found that letter only a few short weeks ago, "but it is nice to put a face to a name."

Finally accepting that the new Minister of Magic was now standing in his office, the PM was finally able to take in her appearance. It never ceased to amaze him how he'd always built up some mental picture in his mind of what someone looked like whom he'd never met.

He therefore was often times surprised that a person looked nothing like he expected, even though he'd had nothing upon which to originally base his initial impression. This time was no exception.

And yet, something about this new Minister of Magic lodged in his mind. She did not at all look anything like he'd expected. And yet, the moment he saw her, he knew she looked exactly like she was supposed to.

Yes, he knew that was probably the most obvious assessment ever-even to the point of "Duh!"-level as his son might say-but to have one's preconceptions shattered by a face-to-face meeting, many people never get over the fact when someone doesn't look like they expected.

But still, something about her struck a note within him. Maybe it was her short gray hair that instantly reminded him of one of his favorite teachers when he was a child. Maybe it was the monocle. He hadn't seen someone with a monocle in a long time.

Whatever it was, he immediately had a good impression of her. Something about her appearance conveyed... sturdy... reliable. He trusted her... as much as any head of a government could be trusting.

He led her back to his desk, subtly directing her to the more comfortable of the two chairs on the other side of his desk. He intentionally had two different chairs placed in front of his desk: one very hard and very uncomfortable, the other rather pleasant (but not as nice as his own).

He often used these chairs to dictate how much of his time a person was allocated. If he didn't like the person, or just wanted them gone in a hurry, he made sure they got the lesser of the two chairs. Few people could stand to sit in it for more than fifteen minutes; most were ready to leave after five. Everyone else however, got the comfortable chair.

Once both were seated comfortably, the PM looked appraisingly at the other Minister. "So, what do I owe the pleasure? Or were we just out for a lovely stroll in the foggy moonlight?" he asked, trying to be a friendly as possible. He would never admit it, but he never really did like her predecessor. He saw an opportunity for a fresh start. He desperately wanted to seize it.

The Minister of Magic smiled at the Prime Minister. She'd read the private notes left behind by her predecessor. The picture he'd painted bore no resemblance to the Muggle in front of her. That alone was a good sign.

"Business, I'm afraid," she replied wearily, after her smile faded. She noted that his smile faded as well.

The Prime Minister leaned forward, listening attentively. From what little contact he'd had over the years, he'd gotten the impression that something was... well, something. He didn't know what, but there was just something he couldn't put his finger on.

Oh, nothing had ever been said outright, nothing except the "matter" at hand, but a pattern was developing, one that even a mere Muggle could see. For woven in with almost all of the "matters"-a single escaped murderer, the boy named Harry, the tournament with its dragons, and most recently the mass breakout from the previously escape-proof prison-was a single common thread, a man, a wizard who could not be named.

The "Other Minister" (as the PM thought of him) constantly assured him that things were under control, that Lord Volde-something-or-other (that was about as much as he ever got) was dead. But the nameless man kept popping up, something the deceased tended not to do. The PM got the distinct impression that his counterpart saw things as he wanted to see them, and then governed accordingly.

The fact that there was now a new Other Minister, that she was visiting him past midnight, confirmed his suspicions. He-who-he-didn't-know-what-else-to-call-him was back.

The Minister of Magic leaned forward in her chair. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked.

"Actually, somehow I suspect I'm going to need something a little stronger," the PM said with a slight laugh. To his surprise, the witch across from him laughed as well.

"I'm afraid you're right," she agreed. She pulled out her wand and conjured two glasses of whiskey and one cup of hot chocolate. She offered the PM one of the whiskeys and then poured some of the other into her chocolate.

The two Ministers each took a single drink and allowed it to go down slowly. They both then sat back in their chairs.

"As you know," the Minister of Magic started finally, "it is not under the most of ideal of circumstances that I found my way into this position. I..." she trailed off, and took another large drink from her cup.

"Oh, hell," she finally said, setting her cup down. "Minister, I need your help."

The Prime Minister set his drink down and leaned forward. "Please, John," he insisted. "With the two of us, I think there are far too many Ministers in here all ready."

The Minister of Magic laughed in agreement. "Amelia," she asked.

"Please, Amelia, what can I do?"

Amelia took another quick drink. "I guess the best place to start is for me to ask you how much you know of what is happening on our side of the wall. I've been in office exactly four weeks as of today, well, yesterday, and I find I spend half of my time picking up the pieces from where dear Cornelius left off. Again and again, there is the truth and there was Fudge's version of it."

For the next fifteen minutes, John recounted for Amelia as much as he could remember of what he knew about the magical world, what he'd gleaned from the few visits he'd received. Sensing that the formidable-looking witch in front of him would be nothing like Fudge, he held nothing back. He even went as far as to give her his honest opinion of Fudge and the way the wizarding world did things.

Always the politician, he quickly made sure to limit the scope of his criticisms. "That is to say, it was like that, the way Fudge did things." Amelia smiled then finished off her drink. Forced to become a quick study in the countless intricacies of politics, she recognized what he was doing.

And she took it as a good sign. To her, it signified that he wanted to leave the past in the past, to learn from it, and move forward. She hoped that was what he wanted, as moving forward was exactly what she needed to do. Quickly.

"Well, for the most part, much of what you heard is true," Amelia explained. "About the only correction I need to give is to say that most everything he flat out denied was true."

"So it's true then? What's-His-Name has returned? He's alive." John said.

"Yes. Voldemort is alive and well," she confirmed. John immediately took notice that she used his name. That was one of the things that really contributed to his lack of faith and trust in Fudge. No matter how evil or vile Voldemort was, if Fudge couldn't even bring himself to say the name, how could he stand up to him in a real confrontation, such as something like, say... WAR?!

This fact alone, that she could say the name, cemented his trust in her. It would take a powerful person to bring her down. For the next few minutes, Amelia caught John up to speed with the most recent goings-on.

"And that is what brings me to why I am here at such an obscene hour," she said, then taking a moment to steel herself. "We've received communication from Voldemort, a threat. I'm to step aside and release his followers from Azkaban, or he'll make an example."

John's stomach sank. "What kind of example?" he asked fearfully. Amelia reached for her cup but stopped herself upon seeing it was empty.

"An example that would result in the deaths of many, many Muggles."

John's first reaction was to push the little button on the underside of his desk. Within thirty seconds (twenty-six on their last drill), Number 10 would be filled with at least fifty armed police, and at least one hundred more regular, non-armed street officers would be outside in the surrounding blocks within two minutes. And that was to say nothing about the status of the military.

But what would he tell them?

However, just because he couldn't push that button right now, it didn't mean he was going to simply roll over and surrender.

"It would be the last mistake he ever made," the Prime Minister said confidently, and justifiably so... from his point of view. He did, after all, have at his command one of the most powerful arsenals on the planet... if it came down to it.

The Minister of Magic looked up at him incredulously, and actually laughed. "And what would you do?" she asked frankly. John could sense that it was intended as a serious question and not a sarcastic attack, yet her directness took him aback.

What would he do? It seemed so simple in his mind at first. He had guns and tanks and aircraft carriers, even nuclear weapons. He had the Royal Navy, the Marines, the RAF, the SAS, even certain other... unmentionable resources at his disposal. He could even get NATO and the UN and the Americans involved if he needed to. Yes, it seemed so inconceivable that anyone could attack Great Britain and not be utterly destroyed.

But this was a foe like no other.

And Madam Amelia Bones explained exactly why.

"My dear Minister. I do not believe you truly comprehend what you are facing," she said bluntly. John was amazed that she was able to say this in a way as to not sound condescending. "You are so used to dealing with normal adversaries, enemies who fight with bullets and tanks, and are housed in barracks and have command posts.

"How do you stop a Killing Curse with a bullet-proof vest? How do you lock yourself in some sealed command center when the people who want to kill you can Apparate... teleport through walls? How do you bomb their headquarters or meeting place when its location is so secret, it literally can not even be mapped... when you could look right at it and not see it?"

John wanted to be able to give answers to her questions, but found he had none. Amelia looked at him carefully and saw that he was actually listening to what she said. He was beginning to realize the nature of the threat before him.

"Now, let me assure you," Amelia resumed, "I have absolutely no intention of rolling over and surrendering." John actually managed a slight smile that she'd used the exact same words as had gone through his head only moments earlier.

"I do, however, have a slight problem: manpower. He's given me a deadline of 4PM this Friday to submit to his demands. If I don't do as he asks, he says he will destroy the Brockdale Bridge while it is loaded with Muggles on their way home from work.

John was unable to stifle a gasp. He knew that bridge. He'd been out there not four months ago as part of a traffic commission study. The bridge, built within the last decade, was on a new motorway that was intended to ease rush hour traffic out of London. It had worked, kind of. The traffic on the other motorways in the area had decreased noticeably... and all moved onto this new route. At the height of the evening rush, there could easily be a hundred cars or more on the eight-lane overpass.

Once the look of shock and nausea had worn off, it was replaced by doubt.

"You see my dilemma," Amelia explained as she leaned back in her chair. "I've been given an obvious target. Will it be his real target, or is it a diversion away from something else? Voldemort is the type of enemy who would tell you of his intended target to create fear, and because of his confidence in his own abilities. But it's just as likely to be a trick.

"So what do I do? I could probably successfully stop him if I pool all of my resources there. But that would leave everything else unattended. Or I could spread them out evenly across the country, but that most certainly would not leave enough people in any one place to stop him.

"And stop him, I must," Amelia said emphatically. "He's just come off of one highly-publicized defeat. Oh, sure, innocent people died, but his objective failed. Did you know, the wizarding community is actually starting to feel more confident?

"People are still scared, but they are beginning to feel like it's actually possible that we might win this war. He attempted to attack the prison to release his followers, and he failed. The dementors, which originally seemed to be on his side, now seem to be out for themselves, which actually makes them easier to fight and contain, since they aren't organized.

"And most of all, the wizarding world now has a symbol that they can believe in, a chosen one who is supposedly prophesized to defeat Voldemort once and for all. People are beginning to have faith, which is why Voldemort is determined to strike in a very visible way," Amelia explained.

"In effect, he's a wounded animal, and he feels the need to strike out to remind everyone he still has claws," she said.

"Animals are most dangerous when they are wounded," John warned, though he wasn't trying to dissuade her.

"Yes, but they are also the most vulnerable when wounded. And that is why we must succeed. If I step aside, he wins. If I release his followers, he wins, and increases in strength countless times over. If I do nothing, countless innocent Muggles will die, and he wins. The only way to ensure he does not win is to ensure that he loses.

"Do you remember how I said this was not an enemy you understood how to fight? Well, the same things you had never considered make it no easier for me to fight either," Amelia admitted. "How do I fight an opponent that is invisible and appear and disappear at random? A foe that can use mind control to force people to help him? An enemy that has absolutely no reservations about slaughtering innocent bystanders?"

Again, John didn't really know how to answer.

"You fight them the only way you can: directly. You have to be there when they attack; you have to be standing in the line of fire, casting spells at them while they cast spells at you. And there in lies my problem. Voldemort's cause may be wounded and vulnerable, but that does make him more dangerous than ever.

"And that is made worse by the fact that he is one of the most evil, and most powerful, wizards to have ever lived," Amelia said solemnly. "That, Minister, is why I am here tonight."

"I do not know if we will succeed in tracking him down before he strikes. And should he strike, I do not know if we will prevail. I simply cannot ignore his promise to attack this particular target, nor can I afford to ignore all other possible targets. To be blunt, I am stretched too thin to guarantee success on my own."

Amelia stopped for a moment to conjure another cup of hot chocolate; she skipped the whiskey this time however. She resumed after taking a long drink.

"You have to understand something, John. The wizarding and Muggle worlds have been separate for centuries. 'Live and let live,' I think Fudge once said about you, about the Muggle world, after one of his meetings with you. No one... almost no one... would blink an eye if I insisted to do this on my own.

"In fact, most would be shocked to know I am here right now. But to be honest, John, I'm scared. I'm scared that my best efforts won't be enough this time. I have every Auror and Hit Wizard and quite a few others out there right now, looking for him. But I don't expect they'll find him.

"At 4PM Friday, they'll all be relocated out across the country, guarding possible targets, ready for him to attack. We'll have a larger force stationed at Brockdale, but I'm afraid it won't be enough. What I need from you is your help."

Amelia took another drink from her hot chocolate. She then looked John squarely in the eye. "What I need from you are your MI6 00-Agents."

That was something the Prime Minister was most certainly not expecting to hear from the Minister of Magic.

"My dear Amelia. I'm afraid you watch too many movies," John chuckled with well-rehearsed ease.

"Actually, I've never seen a movie," she replied seriously. "I know you don't have 00-Agents any more than I have Mages," she said, giving him a weighted look. "I know you use the movies as cover for them, just in case someone accidentally lets something slip.

"What I also know is that now is not the time to be worried about whether or not I know about them. It is time to be worried about if we fail this Friday," Amelia stressed. "Because if we fail, it won't stop with the one bridge. Every victory Voldemort achieves strengthens his cause, bolsters his support.

"This conflict goes way beyond Muggles and wizards. There are many other parties involved... parties that up to now have been content to sit on the side and stay out of the fighting. Centaurs, giants, goblins, trolls, vampires, werewolves... these are all communities that usually live isolated from the Muggle and wizarding worlds.

"Under normal circumstances, they would live off on their own with no reason to attack. But with a few victories in Voldemort's favor and certain promises only he would make, they might find reason to join his side."

John could hear the desperation beginning to creep into Amelia's voice.

"The Ministry can keep the vampires at bay, or we can keep the werewolves under control. But if they all joined him? What if he offered the blood of every man, woman, and child of London to the vampires? What if he offered the flesh of every resident of Birmingham to the werewolves? What if he offered the entire Bank of England to the goblins?

"Voldemort would not hesitate to make these offers. Right now, even if he did make those offers, I doubt any would take to his cause. But with a high-profile victory or two? That is why he must be stopped here and now, while he is most vulnerable!" Madam Bones closed her eyes for a few moments to calm herself. She finished off her second hot chocolate and pulled out a handkerchief to dry her eyes, which had begun to get misty from of the intensity with which she tried to convey the gravity of the situation.

"John, now is our chance. Now is the turning point that may dictate the future of this war. Will we defeat Voldemort Friday? We might not defeat him, but at this point I'd settle for just making sure we prevent him from winning. Or will he win Friday and send out a message? A message that innocent people will be murdered if he doesn't get what he wants?"

The Prime Minister just leaned back in his very comfortable chair and took a deep breath, the kind those facing a no-win scenario often took. The Minister of Magic seemed to be struggling to recompose herself and took no notice of the PM's expression.

Ever since he sensed that she was trying to ask for his help, something about the whole thing had been bothering him. Now that Mugg- (Good heavens, now even I'm starting to think of us as 'Muggles,' John was amazed) Now that non-wizards were being drawn into this magical war, now that he was being drawn in, he just had to say it.

"For heaven's sake... you're wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort out... well... anything!"

Amelia looked up at him slowly. She managed a smile as she said kindly, "The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister."

Finally the Muggle Prime Minister understood. The two sides were stalemated; they were, in a way, evenly matched. The Ministry's superior numbers were offset by the difficultly in finding a very small group that was hidden, combined with Voldemort's willingness to kill innocent civilians. What she was looking was a way to till the balance in the Ministry's favor... and since she was here, something unexpected, something that didn't involve magic.

"Why do you want the 00s? I mean, why just them?" John asked. "Why not everything? With a single phone call, I could have 100,000 troops mobilized."

"And how long would that take?" Amelia asked cleverly. "We have less than forty-eight hours. But more than that, this all must be kept secret. The fewer people that know, the better. Can you imagine the panic if the general population knew that magic and dragons and vampires were real and that an evil wizard was hell-bent on conquering the world?"

Madam Bones remembered that he was first and foremost a politician. "Either that, or they wouldn't believe you, and they'd lock you away for having gone round the bend."

John was quite deflated at this. It had just occurred to him at the very last minute that this could be the issue, his ticket to a guaranteed reelection. He was going to be the PM who helped save the United Kingdom from Lord Voldemort. It meant he could rally on something, and not succumb to all of those mud-slinging memos.

Unfortunately for him, Madam Bones had only been a politician for four weeks. She was first and foremost a fighter. She'd been in the MLE in various positions ever since she'd graduated from Hogwarts. She'd never been especially fond of politicians, and as such had learned to read them pretty well. She had seen his reaction.

"Were you hoping to use this as a publicity stunt, Minister?" she asked, displeased. Maybe Fudge had been right about the man in front of her after all.

"No, not a stunt!" John defended. "I was just thinking... well... what's the harm in taking a little credit for a job well done... for both of us?"

"Because the magical world must be kept secret at all costs!" Amelia explained. "This war may, for the moment, be confined to Britain. But exposure of the magical world would have drastic consequences, not just here, but the world round. Millions of witches and wizards all over the world would suddenly find themselves cast out into a weary and untrusting world.

"Even today, here in England, you know there are groups of people who would have us burned at the stake if they knew of us," Amelia said, disquieted. She knew it was pointless to try to burn a witch at the stake. It was the motivation behind it that was unsettling. Plus, she knew it was still a powerful image for Muggles.

"Even to this day, here in the great civilized lands of England and America, there are still book burnings. Every time some popular book about magic or wizardry comes out, the fires light up." John winced; he knew she was right. Sometimes those who considered themselves to be the most righteous were the first to pick up stones.

"Sometimes it is more important to do what is right, and not receive any accolade for it, other than to know that you did what was right," Amelia said. "A very wise man told me this recently. It was he who suggested I enlist your help. I probably would have tried to do this by myself were it not for his advice."

John actually chuckled at that, which confused Amelia. He'd been thinking about what his advisors would say if they were here now.

"Advisors," he practically spat out. "What's the point in having an advisor if you already know what he or she is going to say... if their advice never deviates from a predetermined path, or the party line? Every situation is different, so how can the answer to every problem already be decided?"

Amelia looked at John appraisingly again. Perhaps her initial impression of him was correct after all. Not being a politician at heart, she felt she had the luxury of changing her mind as a situation changed. It was why staying the course just to stay the course was no better than change for the sake of change. Situations changed, so responses needed to adapt.

Amelia looked at John and smiled in understanding. "My dear John, trust me, you are not alone in that. My office is filled with the very same advisors you face. But every once in a while, you find someone who is different... someone who puts the welfare of everyone ahead of just those who voted for him."

John chuckled. "I'd certainly like to meet someone like that. You won't find anyone like that around here... at least not in this building. Most people like that don't make it beyond MP... not political enough."

"Sometimes the best political advisors are those who eschew politics," Amelia said. "I could ask him if you would like to meet him sometime. You may have heard of him. His name is Albus-"

"Dumbledore?" John finished, surprised. The look on Amelia's face was clearly one of surprise that he was surprised. "Well, it's just that the impression I got of him from Fudge..." the look on her face at that exact moment explained everything, "was his own," he finished.

"I think, Minister," Amelia said as she vanished their empty cups, "that if you are honest with him, you will find him a refreshing change. You may not agree with him, but he will definitely give you food for thought. As I mentioned, it is he who... encouraged me to not go this alone and ask for your assistance."

"Which you will have, Madam Minister," the Prime Minister said formally with a smile.

"Thank you, John."

"So, how many of the 00s do you envision needing?"

Again, Amelia looked him squarely in the eyes. "All of them." Again, John was surprised, but not as much this time. "I trust you understand the seriousness of the situation. We might not win, but we cannot fail. We need the best of the best. And it must remain absolutely secret."

"Agreed," John said.

"Excellent. What is their deployment? Do they normally work in groups of six, or four, or what?" Amelia asked.

"They usually work alone, one agent per mission."

If that was true, Amelia was impressed. The actual amount of intelligence the Ministry of Magic had on MI6 was actually very minimal... little more than the fact that the 00-Agents actually did exist and that they were the best Muggle Britain had to offer. There were several... doubtful comments associated with them in the files, but that could have easily just been the typical wizarding underestimation of Muggles.

"They're that good?" she asked.

"They're 00s," John said proudly. Madam Bones looked at the clock; it was nearly one in the morning.

"Very well. With your permission, I will meet you here in your office Friday at noon for lunch," she said. "You can wow me with your favorite lunch menu, and I will see if I can convince Albus to join us as well. Afterwards, we'll see if we can't surprise even your 00-Agents with a magic trick or two," she said as she went over to the fireplace and threw a handful of Floo powder into it.

"With everything they've been through over the years," John said, "I doubt they'd be that surprised."

* * *

Seven o'clock dawned too bright and way too early for Nymphadora Tonks. She'd slept restlessly all night, unable to think of anything except Remus. He'd already gone through one full moon while he was staying with her. She'd been concerned for his well being then, but... well, that was before.

Tonks had woken up several times throughout the night. Each time, she could have sworn she heard a wolf howling, but she knew it had to have been her imagination. He was miles away, on the opposite side of London from her. And she knew that he had taken his Wolfsbane potion, so he'd be little more than a puppy curled up on the rug in front of a warm fire.

Okay, so she knew that he was far from a puppy, but he would be safe, safe from himself, safe to others. But she knew it would not be easy or pleasant from him. She'd gasped when she saw his appearance that first morning after the full moon a month earlier. She'd felt so helpless to do anything for him. All she could do was watch as he did what he had to in order to recover.

Not this time. This time, she knew what he needed. This time, she would be there at his side, with him, for him.

By 7:30, she was showered, dressed, and had called into Shacklebolt that she would be taking a personal day. Kingsley knew that their mutual friend was "under the weather" today, so he had no objections to her taking a day if it meant it helped Remus. Besides, according to her records, it was the first time she'd ever asked to take a day off since becoming an Auror (her time off after Sirius's death was ordered by their former boss, Rufus Scrimgeour).

Tonks Apparated into the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place and immediately started a fire in the stove to get it warmed up. She then went upstairs to check on Remus. She found him curled in ball on the floor in front of a now-dead fireplace in Sirius's old room. The oversized clothes he wore during his transformation (to afford himself some modesty) were stained in now-dried sweat.

His skin, where she could see it, was almost pink, raw and irritated from the physiologically violent transformation. A blanket that at one point had been covering him had been kicked off during the night. He looked cold.

Tonks drew her wand and relit the fire. She then went over to the window and opened it, allowing light and fresh air in. On her way out, she stopped and knelt down, pulling the blanket back over him. He had told her that he would not wake up for anything until his body and mind had healed back up to a certain threshold.

Since transformations under Wolfsbane were relatively controlled, Remus knew from experience that this would not be until at least eight o'clock, and could be as late as eleven, depending on at what time the height of the full moon was. He had explained this to Tonks in the event that there was some emergency. He didn't want her, or anyone else, to worry about him being unresponsive in case she, or anyone else, showed up unexpectedly.

Tonks didn't know if he was implying that he suspected she would come, or subtly requesting that she do, but she had known that she was going to come anyway.

All she could do now was wait for him to wake up. She returned downstairs and put a pot on to start some strong, black coffee... something Remus preferred while recuperating from his transformation. He had asked her to make some for him last month after returning from wherever he'd gone.

Remus woke up just shy of 8:30. He noticed three things immediately. First, every single part of his body screamed out in agony. He was quite sure that even Merlin himself would cry out at such torture. But he was used to it by now; he did this every month. Second, he noticed the lovely, warm, crackling fireplace... the fireplace that should have died out hours ago. And third, his hypersensitive olfactory sense was regaled by the seductive smell of freshly brewed coffee.

Remus smiled. No one besides Tonks knew about the coffee... at least no one alive. It wasn't a secret; it was just something Lily (who at the time was still just another girl James was ogling) had suggested he try once after he felt lethargic after one particular transformation back at Hogwarts.

She had told him that the beverage he'd never before tried often "jump-started her day." Since at the time Remus had secretly fancied Lily a little (back when she was still not at all impressed with James), he was all too eager to try out her suggestion.

His skin felt like it had been scrubbed with a cheese grater and his muscles felt like they had been slow-roasted to medium-well and each and every one of his bones felt like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces, and yet he smiled, feeling better than he could remember in a very long time.

He just wanted to say it to himself: Tonks is here, and she made coffee.

* * *

Thursday afternoon, Harry, Ron, and Ginny were sitting outside the Burrow, taking a break from their most recent game of three-on-three Quidditch. Ron's team (since he was Gryffindor Quidditch Captain) consisted of him as Keeper, Harry as Seeker, and Bill as Beater. Ginny's team was comprised of her as Seeker, Charlie-who wasn't due to return to Romania until September-as Keeper, and to everyone's surprise, Neville as Beater.

"What?!" she asked Ron sharply at his initial reaction to her suggestion. "We need one more. Fleur won't play," she said annoyed, and out of earshot of her other brother. With Arthur's earlier blessing, Fleur had moved into the Burrow the day after Ginny's party, the day before Harry moved in. The honeymoon between the two females was clearly over already.

"Fred and George are at work, so who does that leave?" Ginny asked defensively. Only because he was used to seeing it on his dorm mate, Harry noticed Ginny's ears turn a faint shade of pink. They then turned red as Ron opened his mouth to say something.

Ginny did not give him a chance to say anything however as she answered her own question by rattling off the names of six other boys she knew full well Ron would not have happy spending any quality time with her. From that point on, and for the rest of the summer, Ron would never again object to when Neville came over to fill out a Quidditch team or when Ginny volunteered his services (before telling him) to her mum to help get their garden back in order.

Oh, Molly was furious at what the gnomes had done to her beloved garden during the six weeks or so while they were gone.

And speaking of gnomes...

While Harry, Ron, and Ginny were sitting around the backside of the house, and while Neville was down on his knees literally examining the dirt with his hands as Molly explained the problems she was having (and Ginny attentively watched the two of them interact), Crookshanks was having the time of his life, chasing around more gnomes than he could keep up with.

Since he couldn't be with his favorite one, Crookshanks knew he had to go with the nice one, the one who scratched his head and gave him popcorn, and had joined with his favorite one. He knew his favorite one and the nice one weren't ready to have a litter, but the Kneazle in him could sense that they had already bonded for life.

Oh, and since that was the case, Crookshanks supposed he should now start calling him 'his nice one' rather than 'the nice one.' If the two of them were now joined, that meant the fact that Hermione was his property now transferred by default to Harry as well. The cat in Crookshanks knew that. As most cat "owners" could attest, the difference between cats and dogs was that a dog rubbed up against a person to show how much they loved their owner. Cats rubbed up against people to mark them as their property.

So, even though he was with his nice one, he still wasn't entirely thrilled to be with the red-haired one. But at least his nice one, the fiery one (who also had red hair, but Crookshanks didn't see Ginny that way), and the feeding one kept the red-haired one from threatening to curse him. He also hoped the same-ones would be here soon, as he enjoyed it when they teased the red-haired one.

And at least the loud, yappy, white one who chased him around trying to bite his tail was not here.

Harry and Ron watched in amusement as Crookshanks would slowly stalk up to the taller grass of the surrounding fields. He would crouch down near the edge of the lawn and sit there waiting patiently for a few moments. They silently chuckled, as he would then spring forward and start running into the field, in hot pursuit of a gnome.

The two best friends watched as the cat ran after the small creatures. He still was never able to catch one. That didn't stop the two of them from cheering him on though.

Little did they know however that Crookshanks didn't care. He himself knew he wasn't able to catch them; they were just too fast for him, despite their appearance. Little did Harry and Ron know... little did the gnomes know that Crookshanks wasn't actually trying to catch them.

He was trying to chase them. Or more correctly flush them out. Whenever Crookshanks went after a gnome, all of them in the area would take off in all directions. He would give chase, trying to chase them in the direction of the large tree off the side of the house... the very same one beneath which, unbeknownst to him, his favorite one and his nice one had straightened a few things out earlier that week.

After three attempts, Crookshanks was getting tired. The random scattering of the gnomes was just too, well, random. He'd let them settle down, then try once more before dinner, and then give up for the evening.

"So, mate, good to be back?" Ron asked as he stretched out in his chair, enjoying the lazy afternoon. It had been a good day. He'd avoided his homework, properly trounced Harry in a game of chess, had lunch, experimented to determine which foods went well with cream cheese-something not found in the wizarding world (and ate the entire 300g block in the process)-and then enjoyed a great game of Quidditch.

Harry too leaned back in his chair. "Sure beats the hell out of the Dursleys'," he said happily. He hoped he wouldn't be forced to make a certain other comparison.

Ron then lowered his voice. "So, what do you think?" he asked.

"About what?"

"About Mr. Greenwand over there," Ron whispered as he nodded in Neville's direction. By now, Ginny had wandered off to "help Mum," which pretty much consisted of standing there and listening while Neville explained to Molly how to make a homemade pepper solution she could apply to her plants to keep the gnomes from gnawing on them.

"What about him?" Harry asked.

"'What about him?' Harry, this is the third time he's been here this week!" Okay, so Ron would only question his presence when it wasn't for Quidditch, and when his sister couldn't hear him.

"So?" Harry asked justifiably. Ron started to open his mouth, but Harry cut him off. "Ron, it's Neville!"

Harry meant that in a good way. Ron started to say something again, but again Harry preempted him. "Are you ever going to give her a break? You didn't like Michael. You didn't like Dean. Now, what? You don't like Neville?"

Just then, a very rare event occurred: Ron stopped and thought about his response before actually speaking.

Finally, after inhaling to start talking three times in about ten seconds, Ron finally made up his mind.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. At least we don't have to worry about him trying to take advantage of her."

So close, and yet...

Harry wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult, or both. Just for that, he decided to mess with Ron a little.

"If anything, I think you should be more worried about her taking advantage of him."

Ron's eyes widened for a moment and then a very unhappy look appeared on his face. "Oh, man!" he whined as he turned towards the garden. He now started watching his sister suspiciously instead of Neville.

Harry suddenly nudged Ron with his elbow. "Here we go again!" he said as he nodded towards the field. Crookshanks was on the prowl once more.

The two best mates watched as Hermione's cat began his routine. They quietly cheered as he took off after one.

"Oh, look at that one," Ron pointed out. "It's heading straight for the tree. If he thinks Crookshanks can't follow him up it, he's in for a big sur-"

FWUMP!

Harry and Ron were stunned speechless. Both of their mouths were wide open in shock. It happened so fast. There was this momentary white blur and then... nothing (everything was hidden from this distance by the tall grass).

"Did you just...?" Ron tried to ask.

"Yeah..." Harry tried to answer.

Metis had just dive-bombed down onto the gnome from some branch high up in the tree. A moment later, Crookshanks came trotting out of the tall grass, his bottlebrush tail swishing happily. He looked quite like the cat that ate the canary... or perhaps in this case, the cat that helped the owl catch the gnome.

Crookshanks immediately ran over and jumped up into Harry's lap, purring contentedly. Harry and Ron looked back towards the tree just in time to see Metis take flight, carrying the gnome in his talons. He was headed around to the side of the house where Ron and Harry's room (and its open window) was.

Harry was still a little surprised. "Well, your mum was looking for a way to thin out their numbers. At least this way we don't have to poison them."

Molly was still searching for ways to reduce their gnome infestation. Unfortunately, there was only one spell that could extinguish a life, any life... at least, not without getting messy or cruel. Humane "rodent potions" were largely ineffective against the resilient gnomes, so that really only left strong poisons and of course various physical methods, neither of which were desired for the same reasons as spells: they were just too messy or inhumane.

Ron was still watching Metis fly away in shock. He could only think of one thing to say. The words slowly came out in a whisper, clearly expressing his amazement at what he'd just seen.

"Son of a bi-"

"RONALD!" Molly shouted, standing right next to Ron.

"Bird! I was going to say bird!" Ron hastily tried to cover, even though it was quite obvious that wasn't what he was going to say.

Evidently Molly had either seen or heard Metis's attack, and had come over to the two boys. The actual dive bomb itself was silent, but landing on the gnome was not. Of course, by then it was too late. In fact, the last thing the gnome was aware of was something knocking it to the ground.

Molly too watched as Metis finally disappeared around the side of the house, an early dinner for him and Hedwig in his talons.

"One down, plenty to go," she said in satisfaction. "Though you two boys might want to stay out of your room for the next little while or so." Harry and Ron nodded; frogs and mice could be eaten whole. A gnome would require some disassembly.

* * *

At ten o'clock that night, Harry was in bed, reading his Sherlock Holmes stories. He was currently in the middle of The Red-Headed League. It seemed rather fitting at the moment. Ron was over in his bed, reading Harry's A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions.

Now, technically it was not homework, and Ron refused to let Harry describe his actions as "reading." No, Ron was... absorbing offensive spells and strategizing defense scenarios. And it certainly was not homework.

"Harry?"

Harry's head jerked up. It was bad enough he was constantly thinking about Hermione all the time. Now he was hearing her voice.

"Are you there?" He heard it again. "Is this working?"

THE MIRROR!!

He quickly looked over at Ron; Ron was still rea... er, scanning the words that were printed on the page. It didn't appear that he had heard.

Harry quickly reached over to the desk drawer beside him and opened it quietly, pulling out the unbroken mirror. His stomach did the biggest somersault to date when he looked into the mirror. For in the mirror was not his reflection, but an image of a very haggard-looking Hermione.

He could honestly say (though not to her face) that he had never seen her look worse. And yet he had not seen anything so beautiful since when she waved goodbye to him as their train departed.

The only strange thing, however, was that her image was shattered. His mirror was fine, but the image was broken in exactly the same way as was the other mirror. In fact, there was even a wedge-shaped hole in the image where one of the shards must have been too damaged to work.

As Harry looked into the mirror, Hermione's face brightened ten-fold.

"Harry!" she said happily. He looked up again at Ron, who still didn't seem to take notice of the sound of Hermione's voice coming from Harry's bed.

"Hermione?" Harry said tentatively, then looked up again. Ron still didn't seem to hear.

"Harry, the mirrors... they work!" she pointed out unnecessarily, but with great enthusiasm.

"Yeah, they do," he chuckled, feeling so much better now that he was talking to her again. Up until this moment, he thought he'd been feeling okay. But now... now it felt like he'd been holding his breath the entire time and hadn't even known it. Now, it felt like he was breathing again.

"You fixed them! What did you do?" he asked. He was starting to think it odd that Ron still hadn't taken any notice of the conversation ten feet away from him.

"I didn't do anything. I just tried talking into it. I figured I should start there," she explained. "You did try that, didn't you?" Harry had to look away, embarrassed. "Didn't you? Harry..."

Harry looked back, grinning sheepishly at his own faulty assumption that the mirrors didn't work, simply because the glass was cracked. The only time he'd ever tried it was after Sirius had died. It hadn't worked then because there was no one on the other side.

"Well, I think you've established they work after all," Harry finally said. He could not help but look at Ron again. This was just getting really weird.

"Hermione, have you figured anything out about these mirrors yet?" he asked. "Ron is sitting not ten feet away from me, and it doesn't look like he's heard a word of anything you or I have said. In fact, I don't think he's even looked up even once."

"Well, before I got too involved trying to fix them, I wanted to try them out, to see if they actually worked." Harry looked properly guilty when she gave him a weighted stare to emphasize the last part of her sentence.

"I would imagine that there is some sort of privacy or distraction charm on these, something so that people don't notice you when you're talking through them. I can't imagine any of the professors letting your dad and Sirius use these during their detentions."

Harry nodded; that made sense. Excuse me, Professor Snape. Do you mind if I chat with Hermione instead of mashing up your beetles? he imagined himself asking his beloved Potions instructor.

He looked back into the mirror. He suspected Hermione did not call him just to see if the mirrors worked.

Harry's voice immediately became serious yet gentle. "So, how are you? How is your grandfather?" The brave façade Hermione had been wearing immediately crumbled.

"Awful, Harry! It's awful," she said as her lower lip began to tremble. "He doesn't know who I am. He doesn't remember me, or Dad. He only barely recognizes Mum and my aunt, and even then only because they resemble how he remembers them as kids. It's like he's lost the last thirty years."

Harry wished he reach through the mirror and hug her, not because he fancied her, but because it looked like she needed a hug at that moment.

"How are your mum and dad? Where are they?"

Hermione looked over to her left. "They're asleep right now. We got back from the hospital a little while ago. Gramma insisted we stay at her house, but with my aunt and uncle and their four kids there, it was just too crowded. So Mum got us a motel room."

She then looked around for a moment. "Look at me, Harry. Here I am, alone, in one of the most beautiful cities on earth, and we're stuck in a Holiday Inn!" She laughed sarcastically then looked away and mumbled something under her breath.

"Sorry?" Harry asked. Hermione turned back to the mirror.

"I said, I wish I hadn't come here. I wish I hadn't let you talk me into coming," she sighed as though she'd given up. "I feel so useless here, so helpless. I feel like... like we're all just sitting around, waiting for him to die." Harry could not remember Hermione ever looking or sounding so hopeless.

"Hermione..." he tried to say.

"I should probably be getting to bed now," she said suddenly as her face hardened slightly. "We have another long day ahead of us tomorrow. Good night." Her image then disappeared in a swirl of fog, leaving only Harry's reflection looking back at him.

"Hermione, wait!" Harry said as his other hand reached out towards the mirror in instinct, as if he was going to try to stop her from turning away from him. But it was too late. All he could do now was rest his hand on the mirror where her face had been. "Good night," he whispered.

Harry looked up again. Ron was now playing a miniature game of Exploding Snap on his desk. Evidently the magic in the mirror was making him find ways to distract himself. It didn't appear as though he'd heard or seen anything. Harry returned the mirror to the drawer and then got up to use the bathroom. He was quite ready for bed now.

Upon his return, Harry climbed into his bed and, with a wave of his wand, extinguished the candles on his side of the room. With the mirror put away, this finally caught Ron's attention. He turned around and looked at Harry.

"Going to bed already, mate?" Ron asked with an amused smiled, unaware of everything that had just transpired. "It's not even 10:30 yet!" Thus far, they'd been averaging a bedtime around midnight.

"Yeah, I'm just tired tonight."

"Everything all right, Harry?" Ron asked, genuinely concerned.

"Is everything all right?" Harry unexpectedly lashed out. "Hermione's grandfather is dying, and we're sitting here, playing Quidditch and reading books. No, Ron, everything is NOT all right."

Despite the fact that he appeared more stunned at his outburst that Ron did, Harry then sank even further under his blankets and drew them all the way over his head, trying to shut out the outside world.

Bloody hell! Ron thought to himself as he put everything away and put out his candles also. Now was probably a good time to call it a night as well. What's got his wand in a knot?

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock that night; the moment Remus Lupin had been waiting for, for nearly a week, had finally arrived. He was about to climb into a soft bed to go to sleep. It was about the only thing he could look forward to when that time of the month came for him.

After the body-breaking process of transformation had been completed, the feeling of slipping into a soft, warm bed, heck even a cold, lumpy bed, was simply beyond description. It was better than sex. Well, at least just that first night after a transformation.

But, to get all the way to this point, it had been one very long day for Remus. The first day after the full moon always was. But at least this time he hadn't faced it alone.

After lying on the floor in front of the fire for about half an hour until he felt strong enough to move, Remus finally made his way downstairs.

One pot of coffee and a huge breakfast of steak, eggs, and potatoes later (cereal just didn't cut it after a transformation), he was finally beginning to feel like he was human again.

Once Remus was up and about, albeit moving gingerly, Tonks had decided to take advantage of her day off and get half dozen or so errands she'd been putting off finished. But not before she made him take a bath.

After helping him back upstairs (it was easier coming down than going back up), Tonks led him into the bathroom to draw a hot bath for him. Remus watched as she poured in at least seven different "Trust me, they help" ingredients-soaking salts, oils, and the like-none of which he could identify.

He did suspect however that one of them was plain, ordinary bubble bath. It was, she said, her own personal mix that she used to help relieve her aching body after the grueling Auror training sessions.

When she told him to go ahead and get in, Remus looked at her expectantly, then down at his clothes, reminding her that he was still dressed.

"Oh yeah, sorry about that," she said without any trace of embarrassment. After watching her actually Apparate away, just to be safe, Remus returned to the bathroom, disrobed, and climbed into the tub.

At first, the salts in the water stung his irritated skin fiercely, but it was nothing compared to what he felt during the actual transformation itself. Remus would deny it if asked, but Tonks' concoction was quickly beginning to work wonders on his body. The scented oils she added were so relaxing he actually fell asleep while still in the tub. Fortunately, the old-fashioned claw-footed soaking tub was a good foot shorter than he was, so there was little chance of him sliding underwater.

And so now, eleven o'clock, Remus was in his pajamas, standing in the doorway of Sirius's bedroom, looking at the bed he was so eagerly looking forward to slipping into. Having slept in this bed before the Weasleys moved in, he knew it was a very comfortable bed. Old Padfoot had always been fond of a comfortable bed... for reasons Moony hoped he would never have to explain to Prongs, Jr.

There was just one hitch, however: Tripsy was already in said bed.

Remus stood in the doorway, surprised and uncertain, as he looked at Tonks sitting comfortably under the covers in her pajamas. When they each lived alone, Remus ordinarily wore boxers and an old shirt to bed, while Tonks usually wore a skimpy little nothing of a nightgown. Sharing a flat temporarily, both decided to invest in a proper set of pajamas, simply for the sake of decency... and embarrassment.

"Um, Tonks?" Remus finally asked as he found his voice.

"Yes, Remus?" she said as she looked up at him and put down her copy of Wands and Hexes, a magazine geared towards witches and wizards in law enforcement, as well as dueling enthusiasts. It did not escape his attention that she was sitting on the right side of the bed and not in the middle.

"You're staying here tonight?"

"Well, of course. Someone's got to keep an eye on you in case there are any lingering effects," she replied. She was quite familiar by now with those lingering effects, specifically the terrifying nightmares that he sometimes experienced.

While the wolf inside his body had been appeased with the passing of the moon, sometimes his mind would relive the transformation in his sleep in the day or two immediately following. He would occasionally wake up screaming, having relived in a fully-human mind the horror of becoming a werewolf.

During his transformation, Remus's existence was drastically altered. He was more basic; his feelings and emotions much more primal and powerful. This was normal, and tolerable, for his human consciousness was dulled at the same time.

But for the wer to know the wulf... to experience the raw power and strength, the lack of control that he experienced in his lycanthropic state, in a fully human state, it was absolutely terrifying.

"Oh, uh, okay then," he said hesitantly. "I'll just be in Harry and Ron's room."

"Don't be daft!" she said firmly before he could turn to leave. "You know none of the other beds are made up. And don't even think about sleeping on that davenport in the drawing room. Those stodgy cushions are no place for your back so soon after a transformation."

Remus regretted Molly's efficiency and tidiness. Before they left, she made sure all of the beds were stripped down and the sheets put away so that they would be clean and fresh, ready for the next time they were needed.

"Er..." he started to ask.

"Come on," she said, almost sounding impatient as she pulled back the covers, revealing the empty, left side of the bed.

Remus quickly looked from Tonks to the empty half of the bed, twice.

"Well?" she asked. "For the love of Merlin, Remus. We're both adults. I'm sure we can share a bed together and keep our passions under control," she said in a joking voice. Even though they had both admitted to each other that they were willing to slowly explore the new territory between them, Remus was still sleeping on the couch in Tonks' flat.

Because both were worried that what they were starting to feel for each other was based not on genuine affection but rather mutual sympathy over a shared loss, both were adamant about proceeding cautiously, to make sure they didn't do something that couldn't be taken back.

It was also why they were eager to be subtle about it. Both hoped that if things didn't work out it would be easier to go back to "just friends" if there weren't a bunch of awkward questions to answer from their friends. It was because of this deliberation that up to now, they'd done nothing more than hold hands a few times and exchange a few kiss-on-the-cheek-goodbyes, despite their mutually admitted interest.

Sharing a bed together was definitely a big step forward... even if both fully intended on not allowing this big step forward to lead to any other big steps.

For a split second, Remus was terrified. He didn't know what to do. And then he realized it: he didn't know if he wanted to say yes, but he knew he absolutely could not say no.

"All right. But if you hog the blanket or start snoring in the night, I'm kicking you out of bed," Remus said as he finally entered the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Friday, 16 August, 1996. 13:30.

In an undisclosed room five stories somewhere beneath the Secret Intelligence Service building at Vauxhall Cross, MI6 Special Agent 009 sat in his chair in the oval briefing room, chatting with Special Agent 0010, who sat next to him. There had been a particularly exciting football game on the telly last night, and it was always nice to be able to talk about it afterwards, especially with someone who rooted for the right team... unlike a certain 0016.

When 0010 paused for a moment to take a drink of water, 009 quickly looked around the room. Must be a training exercise, he thought to himself. Everyone's here.

Indeed everyone was there. At the moment, there were currently twenty-five 00-Agents on the active list (i.e. alive): 001 to 0026. One number was always intentionally skipped. The reasons were obvious: to pay respect to their fictional counterpart... and because no one wanted the pressure of being 007.

As he looked around, 009 noticed many of the other 00s also looking around as he was. It was rare that they were all called together like this, usually only for training scenarios. As luck would have it, none of them were currently on assignment.

The average 00-Agent had two to three missions per year. The remaining ten to eleven months of their year were spent training. In order to be a 00, agents had to be experts at pretty much everything: shooting, driving, fighting, and yes, even snowboarding and gambling. Training like that took time, lots of time. Twenty-five agents training in rotation meant that there usually were three or four on actual missions at any given time.

But not this week. This week, those with missions had finished them early allowing them a chance for a little R&R. With all twenty-five agents present, any practice scenario would prove most interesting. More agents meant more things could be thrown at them in their training.

A door opened on the side of the room and all the chatter immediately died down. All eyes quickly fell upon C, the director of MI6, and his three guests.

Every 00-Agent knew that the very first director of MI6 (then called the Foreign Section of the Secret Service Bureau) was a man by the name of Captain Sir George Mansfield Smith-Cumming. He often dropped the 'Smith' and used his initial 'C' for his code name, something that was then adopted by all subsequent directors.

Every 00-Agent also knew that it was generally believed that the fictional M from Ian Fleming's novels was derived from the same real person... just a different initial.

As C approached the center of the room, around which the twenty-five agents sat, 009 noticed that his three guests remained on the side of the room, as was customary. Everything in MI6 was "need to know," and if the 00s didn't need to know who they were, then they wouldn't.

But that didn't mean they couldn't look (at least until C started talking).

The first thing 009 noticed was their guests consisted of an older man and woman, as well as one very large man. This, in it of itself, was not uncommon. The highest-ranking members of the Admiralty and Parliament were often the same age as his own parents. And the various security officials and bodyguards he'd seen walk into this room were frequently imposing individuals.

His attention was first drawn to the woman, as the large man was obviously not the one in charge, and the older man was currently looking away from him, evidently inspecting with great fascination the large electronic world map on the wall listing all current Threats... those that weren't classified, at least.

Special Agent 009 couldn't explain it, but something about this woman inspired trust.

Maybe it was her sharp business suit combined with her short-cropped hair. It exuded professionalism with a hint of a military or law enforcement background. He knew she had to be someone important to be in this room. But, even if he hadn't seen her here, he got the distinct impression she was someone, and someone not to be trifled with at that, despite the fact she had gray hair and wore an eyepiece.

The second man needed very little said about him. He obviously was the muscle of the three. The trained assassin took an extra moment to size him up. Despite the fact this man was nearly a foot taller than him, and probably weighted a good three stone more, 009 was quite confident he was perfectly capable of killing this dark-skinned man in hand-to-hand combat if necessary. It was not ego; it was a professional, tactical assessment.

It was entirely possible however that he would sustain a broken bone or two in the process. Very high praise from a 00-Agent.

The third man finally turned around, allowing a clear look at him. He was an older man with a long beard and a moustache. His navy blue velvet suit certainly seemed odd, but 009 had the feeling that he was supposed to know why it was out of place. He had bright blue eyes that sparkled even from...

MI6 Special Agent 009, who was licensed to kill, sat in his chair in complete and total shock. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. It WAS NOT possible! It was him. He didn't remember the man's name, and he'd only seen his picture when he sneaked a look at his brother's cards once. 009 had been trained for years to expect the unexpected. But never did one of Britain's finest ever expect this.

"Ahem," C cleared his throat to begin the briefing. The surrounding lights lowered, plunging the perimeter of the room into darkness while he and the twenty-five agents remained brightly lit.

"It's rare that we are all gathered here together at the same time," C addressed his agents. "Some of you are usually out on missions, while the rest of you are in training. But seeing as how it's been a slow month with only two diabolical plots to thwart, we've been pretty lucky."

All of the agents shared a small chuckle at their director's sense of humor. They all knew each and every mission truly was a life or death mission. The fate of the world literally rested in their hands. After all, 00-Agents were not sent out to track down crazed serial killers who had killed tens or even hundreds. No, 00-Agents were sent out to track down perfectly calm, rational men and women with designs to kill millions.

While he listened to every word C said, 009 could not help but constantly glance in the direction of where he knew their guests were standing, even though they could no longer be seen in the darkness. This was something that did not go unnoticed by C, though he did not say anything.

"So, while I wish I could say I was here to tell you you're all getting raises or that you're all getting knighthoods," C resumed, "or even that we were here for a training session, I am afraid I cannot. No, I am afraid we are here on business."

Although everyone was paying full attention, the mood in the room suddenly became that much more serious. Every person in that room (who was a member of MI6, at least) knew that nineteen times out of twenty, missions were assigned on one-on-one basis. The agent most qualified was simply called into the director's office for the assignment.

Again, nineteen times out of twenty, they only ever met in this room for post-mission debriefings and of course practice mission planning.

But of course, there still remained that one in twenty time. With C's words, all of the 00s began to suspect that this was one of those times.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Britain now faces one of the greatest threats the world has ever known... or should I say not known." It was their years of experience that allowed the 00s to realize the deathly-serious nature of the first part of their director's sentence while still appreciating the humor intended in the last... even if they didn't know why exactly it was funny.

"To better explain the situation, we are honored to have three very special guests here today." C turned and nodded towards the three visitors in the darkness. "Double-ohs: stand tall," he said formally.

All twenty-five 00s immediately stood up at attention, the deference they showed to any head of state. All agents but one had absolutely no idea why they were doing this-since they all knew the entire life history of each and every known head of state, official and otherwise, in the entire world-but none questioned the order.

As the three guests walked towards the center of the room, 009 could not help but let his eyes be drawn to the man he still could not believe was here in front of him. In the meantime, C had disappeared into one corner of the room and returned a moment later carrying a small wooden box.

"Thank you. You may all be seated," the woman addressed them. She briefly looked at C, her two other companions, and then clasped her hands together. "Ladies and gentleman. I am told that you represent the best that the United Kingdom has to offer. I truly hope that is the case, for all of our sakes," she said as she slowly looked around the room.

None of the agents knew who this woman was (009 didn't know either, but could make an educated guess), but all recognized that something was afoot.

"I understand that you all live in a world of secrets," the woman continued. "Well, I am about to let you all in on quite possibly the greatest secret in the history of the world. I must stress this upon each and every one of you: this secret goes beyond your oaths to Queen and Country."

"Understood?" C suddenly asked sharply.

"Understood!" all twenty-five agents replied in unison.

The woman then looked questioningly towards the older man, shooting him a dubious, "If you say so" sort of look. There was something about him, the other twenty-four agents 00s noted, that drew their attentions away from him. Something about him seemed so unassuming, so unthreatening, that most people would consider him harmless. This fact alone caused the agents to suspect the exact opposite; he was the most dangerous. The older man's eyes twinkled behind his glasses as he smiled and nodded back.

"You may have heard, 'Ve hav vays of making you tok,'" the older woman mimicked an old movie voice, which caused many of the agents to smile. "Well, ve hav vays of making you forget." Again, all but one of the agents had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but all knew she was not joking.

"Once I finish, I have the feeling that a small demonstration might be necessary. Perhaps a volunteer?" she offered cheerily.

C already knew the perfect person for the job... even though he didn't know why his agent had seemed so distracted.

"009! Step forward," C called out. Surprised that he was called... then again maybe not, 009 did as he was ordered. He cast a glance at the older man as he approached, and was somehow reassured by the smile he received in return.

C opened the wooden box he was holding when his 'volunteer' stood in front of him. "Your weapon, please," he asked. 009 looked into the box and saw a Walther PPK pistol that was identical to his own in every way except one: the normally black plastic handgrips were replaced with blue plastic. The blue color indicated this was a training weapon, and was to only ever be loaded with blanks.

009 immediately withdrew his own weapon, removed the ammunition magazine, cleared the live round from the chamber, and set all three pieces in the empty half of the box. He then picked up the blue handgun, quickly loaded the five provided blanks into the empty magazine, loaded it, and drew back the slide, putting a round in the chamber. He then holstered his weapon under his arm.

MI6 staff had always been rather fond of the Walther PPK; both the real and fictional MI6 had been using them for decades. While military and law enforcement personnel around the world were quickly adopting more "modern" weapons such as the Glock, MI6 remained steadfast in their love for the PPK.

Yes, it was true that the .380 cartridges the PPK used was smaller than the 9mm or .40 caliber rounds that were quickly becoming the norm. So, while some members of the armed forces crowed about the size of their gun barrels, 00s were always ready with a snappy, albeit grim comeback: "You may think more lead means more dead. But you're just as dead when I put the lead in your head."

Not that they ever got to actually use it however. Since their existence was so secret they didn't even "exist," it generally wasn't a good idea drawing attention to themselves by getting into Glock fights.

"Double-ohs: hands on the table," C called out, informing the remaining agents they were about to witness a training session and that they were not to intervene under any circumstances. The other twenty-four 00s put their hands on the tables.

"Defend yourself," was the only instruction C gave to his standing agent. 009 stepped a few feet back to put a safe distance between himself and the three unique guests... safe from a training standpoint, for there still was risk of injury from the muzzle flash if the training weapon was fired too close to someone.

As 009 stepped back, the oldest of the visitors whispered to him in a voice that was strangely easy to hear, "You will not be harmed."

From the moment he was selected as the volunteer, 009's mind raced at what was to come. He knew very little, enough to fuel his imagination, but not enough to temper it. The whispered words, which he was pretty sure no one else heard, reassured him enough to focus on the task at hand: listen attentively to the greatest secret in the world... one he already knew, at least in parts.

"Very well," the woman began. "I supposed the best place to begin is to start with a simple question. Do any of you recognize any of us?" Everyone looked around the room at their fellow agents. Only 009 raised his hand, and only after a few moments of hesitation. The older woman appeared surprised, but pleased.

"Which one of us?" she asked politely. 009 immediately nodded towards the oldest man, who then spoke.

"Might I ask how you recognize me?" he asked warmly and with a smile that was buried beneath his very long beard. While highly unusual, the long beard was certainly not the strangest thing ever seen inside this room.

009 took a deep breath before answering. "My brother, sir. I saw your... you, once, many years ago on a... some sort of collectable card of his. I don't think I'd ever forget seeing that, though I admit not noticing your name."

"Your brother?" the older man asked, interested.

"Yes, sir," 009 replied. Memories came flooding back to him, words he'd heard, words he'd forgotten simply from more than fifteen years of disuse, were suddenly as clear as day. "We were told he was what you called a Muggle-born wi... Muggle-born, sir," he finished, unwilling to be the first person in the room to say that word.

"Did he perchance ever mention his house?"

009 loved his brother; he remembered everything he ever told him about his amazing new school. Very little, unfortunately, but it was enough to awe him, who was five years younger than his brother. The only bad thing about it was that he wouldn't be able to follow his brother. They only saw each other a few months each year, during summer and Christmas holidays. And that was cut back even more once he was finished with school.

His brother wanted to be an... an Auror. He was accepted straight out of school, and excelled through the program quickly. He saw his brother less and less over the next four years, but the letters his brother mailed regularly (owls were far too conspicuous in their housing complex) contained all the proof they needed that he was having the time of his life.

And then, fifteen years ago, one of his brother's weekly letters didn't arrive.

And then came a knock on the door: 12 October, 1981.

He, 009, was seventeen at the time. His first impression was that the man standing in their living room looked rather like a lion. He had a lively mane of tawny hair and a bushy set of eyebrows. His eyes... he had piercing yellowish eyes that lay behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He carried himself quite well, though he walked with what appeared to be a stiff leg... perhaps a freshly healed injury, or the early onset of arthritis.

He'd listened as the man told him how his brother fought with bravery, how he and his team had been going after one of the evilest men to have ever existed. Something with a V... he'd blocked it out. Even then at the time, 009 had noticed the lack of emotion in the man's voice. There was an immediate impression of toughness, something that might or might not be a good thing, depending on whether there was any compassion or sympathy to tame it.

It was explained to his parents, rather impersonally, that they could have him buried in either world, with full honors either way. His parents elected-and 009 agreed-to have him buried with the other Aurors that died that night. They, his family, wouldn't be able to visit him there, but he would be with his friends.

That, they felt, was more important: that he be with his friends. He'd lived with them and trained with them. And he died with them. The least they could do was let him be buried with them. There were other ways, better ways they could remember and honor him, besides leaving over-priced flowers on a tombstone.

And finally, 009 had watched as his parents were presented with his brother's wand, in a small wooden case with a glass cover. It had, of course, had its magical core removed first, rendering it safe for Muggles. Even to this day, 009 could clearly see in his mind where the wand had been scorched.

Even more, he could see the finger-shaped marks where it had not.

Whenever he prepared for a mission, 009 would go back and reread the letters he brother had sent him. Send via Muggle post, they were of course devoid of anything compromising. However, looking through the eyes of an intelligence officer with fourteen years under his belt, he could sense that his brother's excitement had been building: he had been preparing for some big, important mission.

There was nothing in the letter to overtly indicate that, of course. It was just the gut instinct of a man who had been a 00 for just over two years now.

00-Agents lived and died by their gut instincts, and he'd seen and done more in his two years than most intelligence operatives did in an entire lifetime. It was his brother's death actually, that made him join MI5. He dedicated himself to his brother's memory, putting himself on the fast track to MI6. In honor of his brother, he wanted to follow in his footsteps as best he could.

"Ravenclaw, sir," 009 answered immediately. The other agents observed the exchange, deducing that they were discussing some boarding school. Considering the demanding requirements necessary to become a 00, this was something most agents were familiar with, as most of them had attended elite boarding schools.

The older wizard nodded and both of their attentions returned to the woman.

"Well, one out of twenty-five... far better than the national average," she chuckled. "I think, therefore, that we shall begin with a few introductions. My name is Amelia Bones, and these two gentlemen are Kingsley Shacklebolt and Albus Dumbledore. Allow me to make your world a whole lot bigger."

For the next twenty-five minutes, Amelia gave the assembled agents a brief history of the magical world, to say nothing of informing them of its existence in the first place. While they were all attentive, it was clear that the twenty-four still sitting were skeptical.

It was one thing to accept the notion of a madman threatening to detonate a stolen nuclear warhead beneath an unstable geologic fault (yes, it really did happen; Lex Luthor would have been proud... and then sued for the rights). It was another thing entirely to think about dragons and vampires. MAGIC?!?

Having seen the skepticism on the face of C less than an hour earlier, this was not lost upon Madam Bones and Kingsley.

"And so we are faced with a defining moment. Now is the chance to stand tall in the face of the threat Voldemort represents. Now is the chance to-"

BANG! BANG!

BANG! BANG!

It was a very good thing the remaining twenty-four 00s had their hands on the table. The Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix might have found themselves without leaders. Or Albus Dumbledore would have been forced to reveal exactly how powerful he truly was. Either way, it was a good thing neither happened.

What had happened, however, was that everyone in the room, Muggle and wizard alike, had just witnessed an amazing demonstration of what each side was capable of.

While Madam Bones was talking, Kingsley had subtly withdrawn his wand from a pocket in his Muggle-style trousers, something that did go unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Though 009 had been rather captivated by the Minister's story and speech, he still was a hard-trained 00-Agent.

He saw out of the corner of his eye Kingsley suddenly raise his wand. While the Auror had one of the fastest wand draws in the Ministry, 009 was just as fast drawing his weapon. So, while Kingsley was busy thinking the incantation for his wordless stunner, 009 was busy pulling the trigger, twice.

Just as Kingsley thought the last syllable and the spell was about to fire, 009 saw Madam Bones draw her wand and begin to point it in his direction. He spun and fired off two more rounds at her just as Kingsley's stunner hit him.

The fifth bullet he had intentionally saved for Dumbledore-who was standing seven feet away at his eight o'clock-just in case he needed it. Rule #3: Always keep track of how many bullets you have left.

Rule #1? Always keep track of your friends and foes. All subsequent rules were pointless if this one failed. Rule #2: Always keep track of your weapon. All subsequent rules were pointless if this one failed.

A split second after being stunned, 009 was then hit by Amelia's levitation charm.

It was a very effective demonstration for all. The 00s learned that magic was real (a body floating in midair was hard to ignore), and that they had absolutely no way to defend against it, aside from killing their attacker, or as they would later be explained, taking cover behind something substantial.

And Kingsley and Amelia learned first hand exactly what the 00s were capable of. Each of them had been "shot" twice before either could finish their first spell. If real bullets had been used, both were certain the spells would have quite literally died on their lips... or the front of their minds.

The rest of the briefing proceeded rather rapidly. Both sides had quickly earned the respect that both rightly deserved. Madam Bones explained that she only had enough resources to cover roughly fifty targets with four-man teams of comprised of MLE officers, Aurors, and Hit Witches and Wizards.

The last target, Brockdale Bridge, would be covered by her own equivalent to the 00s: Mages. She had eight Mages; they would all be at Brockdale.

C then went on to explain that the twenty-five 00s would be assigned to twenty-four of those fifty sites, those deemed to be the greatest targets... in other words, the greatest potential body count. Two 00s would be assigned to Brockdale.

"I don't think I need to tell you, boys and girls, that this mission comes straight from the top. I about choked on my lunch when the PM introduced this lot to me," C said as he waved his hand towards the witch and wizards. All could tell he meant it in a friendly way.

"This may very well represent the beginning of the end," C emphasized. "Whether it's our end or Voldemort's rests in your hands, as well as those of our magical compatriots."

C turned and nodded one last time to the Minister of Magic, the temporary head of the Aurors, and the Chief Warlock on the Wizen... Wizzen... wizarding court system. He then looked back to his agents.

"Good hunting!" he wished them all.