Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wherein Dumbledore has a chat with one of his students, the thoughts of several supporting characters on the eve of the Christmas holiday are examined, Harry and Hermione attend another Slug Club party, meet exotic, interesting people, and go on holiday to Château Blackwalls.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "fair use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 63 - Setting Up

The Headmaster's frown broke through as he gazed at the student he had called to his office. This was not the first warning he had given the boy.

"Mister Malfoy, I assume you recall our discussion of September last," he began gravely. "I acceded to your wishes, supported by what remained of your family, that you return to Hogwarts. I had no obligation to do so - and, indeed, your re-enrollment was over considerable opposition, both within these walls and without."

"I am aware of that, sir, and I am grateful," Draco answered with deliberately downcast eyes.

"So I am sure you recall the one, and only, condition that I placed upon your return," Dumbledore addressed the boy sternly.

"Of course," Draco replied. A pause ensued as the Headmaster deliberately held his tongue. "…To keep my nose clean and no association with Death Eaters…."

"Quite," Dumbledore added once Draco finished. "Thus it pains me greatly to learn, from a source whom I consider unimpeachable, that not only have you been corresponding with Caractacus Burke, but you met him personally during the last Hogsmeade Weekend."

Draco was surprised but not shocked by the Headmaster's words. He was not such a naïf to believe that their association would stay secret, but he had not expected the discovery to occur so soon, or to be confronted with it so directly.

"I've known Mister Burke for years," Draco immediately told Dumbledore. "Unlike almost everyone else, he didn't abandon my family after my father's disgrace. Yes, I met him in Hogsmeade, and also before I came back to Hogwarts. We've also owled each other regularly."

"You are aware, are you not, that Mister Burke is most surely a Death Eater?" the Headmaster asked accusingly. Still, Draco was being surprisingly forthright in admitting his contacts with Burke.

"I wasn't aware of that," Draco responded quickly - a technical truth. "…And in case you're wondering, neither am I." With a flourish he shoved his robes' sleeves up to his shoulders and revealed his pale-skinned arms fully to Dumbledore. "No Dark Marks. If you have doubts, perform any spell you like. I have been keeping my nose clean as instructed."

"That will not be necessary," Dumbledore replied calmly. "My concern is your contact with Mister Burke."

Malfoy was resistant, if not defiant. "As I said, he was one of the few wizards who always helped my family, despite everything. Surely you remember, better than I since you were there, that Malfoy Manor was practically destroyed in a fight with the Death Eaters."

"True enough, but he is most certainly a Death Eater," Dumbledore maintained, not allowing any diversion.

Draco now trotted out the alibi he and Burke had devised at the outset of their project - a cover story with the added advantage of being true.

"You don't know that, and I don't know that," Draco parried. "But I do know this - he's acting as my building contractor at the moment…."

That answer was most unexpected. "Your what?"

"He's my building contractor," Draco repeated. "The reason for that meeting, and why we're regularly in touch, is that he's taken on rebuilding Malfoy Manor after you and the Dark Lord combined to leave the place a smoking ruin."

Dumbledore brought his good hand to his chin and thought for a moment. He had not anticipated any legitimate reason for those two to be collaborating because….

"Burke is a shopkeeper," the Headmaster observed, looking down his nose at Draco. "He has utterly no qualifications to act as a building contractor…."

"He has one," Draco cut in quickly. "He was willing to take on the job before any inheritance surfaced - when we couldn't say for sure we'd even be able to pay him. Not everything's been perfect; another reason for the rather close contact. But nobody else would help when my family really needed it, and I'm not going to cut him out now … unless you've proof he's a Death Eater."

The Headmaster had no such conclusive proof, so he turned the tables. "Very well," he said, "can you show me documentation, such as the bid sheet?"

"My lawyer holds all the relevant correspondence," Malfoy replied. "I swear you'll get a copy over the holiday."

"Very well, Mister Malfoy, you are excused," Dumbledore ended the interview. If it were just the word of Harry Potter, the Chosen One, against Draco Malfoy, son of a fugitive Death Eater, that would be one thing. But Malfoy plus documentation, against just Harry's word … well, that was something else.

Draco Malfoy was already headed for the door, when he turned and asked. "You let Potter associate with Sirius Black, even whilst under Umbridge's probation last year. Why's that so different from me and Mister Burke?"

There were many differentiating reasons, but most involved information that Dumbledore would not trust with Draco Malfoy. The Headmaster responded with something rather basic. "Mister Potter never felt compelled to bare his arms to me to prove he was not a Death Eater."

Draco left without another word.

Upon reaching the privacy of his Slytherin bedchamber, however, Draco nearly hyperventilated. He had pulled it off! The cover story had succeeded - well enough that the Headmaster had not even forbidden him from communicating with Burke.

But somebody was obviously watching him - probably more than one somebody.

He had to be very careful.

Thus, as he prepared the note directing his solicitor to send a copy of the Burke contract to Dumbledore, Draco realised something else. He badly needed to "adjust" the peer tutoring records, if he could - to erase his participation, and if possible Ginny's.

Fortunately Draco thought that would be rather simple. Professor Slughorn paid no attention to any student-to-student assistance not involving his Slug Club. He had posted the sign-up roster, made a perfunctory announcement, and as far as anyone knew nothing more. Not once had he asked after the tutors, and students requiring academic assistance were even further beneath that wizard's interest.

After that, he could go back to Malfoy Manor and engage in a little advanced potions brewing over the holiday. It was his best subject, and he had already been informed that most of the necessary ingredients were on hand.

* * * *

Neville Longbottom could not remember the last time he had so eagerly awaited the approaching midwinter holiday. Whilst he would never consciously call it such, the Death Eaters had almost done him a favour in reducing draughty old Longbottom Castle to rubble.

Maybe some day he could rebuild, but for now, good riddance.

It had always been rather isolated, and Gran seemed much happier having moved into an in-town villa in Upper Barnton with her second cousin Harfang. Gran's five house-elf staff had struggled to maintain the somewhat tumble-down castle. Things were much easier now.

Gran had a much better social network at the new place. With other outlets, she did not demand his company nearly as much.

Her improved situation helped assuage residual guilt, but things were much better than just that. Neville was thrilled to be invited to join Harry, Hermione (despite her now being Harry's girlfriend), and others members of Harry's emerging inner sanctum. They would accompany Harry on his inaugural visit to what Neville understood to be the extraordinarily opulent - not to mention vast - country estate, Château Blackwalls. The grounds were reputedly an order of magnitude larger than old Longbottom Castle, as was the building itself.

The place had been run by Lucius Malfoy for over a decade, so most of the staff were holdovers from that regime. Neville's and the others' presence had been requested to watch Harry's back and stiffen his spine in the event of unpleasant personnel changes.

Beyond fellowship and fortitude, Neville looked forward to working with Harry in the struggle against Voldemort. Before ever meeting Harry, Neville knew without ever being told that he never lived up - in his Gran's eyes - to the standards set by his now-departed Auror parents. That aura of insufficiency completely vanished after the Death Eater battle in the Department of Mysteries. For the first time Neville could remember, his actions received Gran's unreserved praise.

Neville also knew that all this talk about Harry being "The Chosen One" was more than just talk. The snippets he heard of the prophecy told him as much. The "Death or Glory" pennant that he gave Harry for his birthday was only the plainest manifestation of his belief. Harry's reaction to Neville's follow-up questions reconfirmed everything. If Harry needed a right-hand man, and Ron was not willing or up to the task, Neville was happy to step forward.

Neville owed his now deceased parents - and himself - that much.

But to step up to that particular wicket meant that Neville needed significant upgrades in Defence and duelling skills. Here was another reason he wanted to spend time at Blackwalls. Out there, amongst the fields and vineyards of the great estate, Neville hoped to make even more progress in developing his one generally recognised skill - magical dominion over plants.

Sirius Black had left to Neville the Staff of Asclepius, a magical object that accentuated its owner's most noteworthy magical abilities. For Neville, his best (he would say only) magical attribute doubtless lay in the field of Herbology. Literally the day after receiving the Staff, Neville had knocked on Professor Sprout's door and asked for her help in learning how to channel its powers.

The two of them had worked on that project ever since. But like the extra training Harry and Hermione had both enjoyed and endured, Neville had to study in private. That limited what he could attempt, and thus achieve. At Blackwalls it would be different. Neville could practise with an entire field, indeed an entire forest, if he felt up to it.

With a determined smile on his face, Neville picked up the Staff, smacked it audibly into his left hand, and packed the thing away in his trunk. On top of that he placed his Christmas gift for Harry and Hermione. Harry had money, and things, and Hermione. Neville would give of himself - he would offer to perform some difficult task, if they ever needed him.

* * * *

Luna Lovegood, ensconced in her Ravenclaw four-poster with the bed curtains drawn, was ecstatic over her upcoming trip to Blackwalls. Friends! She actually had friends. That was a dramatic change for a girl who had endured ridicule and worse, even within her own House, for her eccentric ways. Without friends at Hogwarts, Luna had cultivated her "loony" mannerisms in large part as a defence mechanism. Since the mainstream had turned her away again and again, she could - and had - returned the favour.

Inside her bed chamber, where nobody else could see, Luna had a secret. Three quarters of the way around the top - a metre tall and several metres long - was a half-finished poster she was in the process of creating. It had six portraits, hers and the other five Order of Merlin winners. She had completed her own, Harry's, and Hermione's likenesses. The others were sketched in outline, except for Ron, which she had placed centre and largest. That one she had yet to begin.

Luna's reticence stemmed from having a great deal of trouble figuring out what she could, and should, do about Ron.

Tonight, however, she was only adding some trim. She had found and adapted a new spell from a calligraphy text. Reciting the incantation, she pointed her wand at the banner. A gold striped jet of magic struck the surface of her creation, and a long, narrow, worm-like ribbon emerged. It proceeded to squiggle this way and that as it outlined the six portraits - repeating the same word over and over again - "friends" - in shiny gilt lettering.

"Tee-hee," Luna giggled as she clapped her hands. She thought that spell had been brilliant, just like going to Blackwalls with Harry and the others would be.

That completed, Luna's face became more serious (for her). She had to finish Hermione's Christmas - no, Solstice - present.

Luna was convinced that something … something significant, had happened to Hermione that night she had lain on the gnomon-cenotaph and been charmed - cursed, whatever - to search for Harry. If it had, she wanted Hermione to be prepared.

Her family had always been Druids, for as long as anyone knew or had records. Any other affiliation was lost in the mists of deep time.

Part of that heritage was an incredibly old tome entitled, "The Compleat Druid: Spells & Rituals." It had no author, and was at least seven hundred years old - before the coming of the Black Death, since no spells in the section on healing related to bubonic plague.

Luna was completing her memorisation of all the spells in this book. In that she was assisted by a Memory Quill. Hermione had given it to her during those frantic hours when Luna thought she would have to send Hermione on her journey after Harry - or, more likely, on her journey to the next great adventure. Over and over again, Luna wrote, circled, and deposited millennia of magical Druid heritage directly into her mind.

Then she would give the book to Hermione. If Luna were even close in her suspicion about the not-so-funny thing that had happened to that girl on her way to save Harry, Hermione would need this text far more than she. Luna had no idea when that suspicion would be confirmed or debunked - but preparation was essential.

Ever since the Roman conquest, all Druid daughters prepared themselves for that eventuality. Alone amongst them all, Luna might actually have to use that preparation.

* * * *

Jazeera al-Habiba, or "Jazzy" to everyone but Harry Potter, was profoundly conflicted as she burned incense in memory of her parents. Tomorrow she would depart Hogwarts for the place everyone called Blackwalls. Her quandary stemmed from the basic logic of her existence. Jazzy knew from hard personal experience that nobody ever did anything without a reason - without wanting a quid pro quo.

She could not figure out Harry Potter's reason, nor his presumed quid pro quo, for taking interest in her. He was everything she was not, and vice versa. He was wealthy almost beyond measure, famous to the point of having professors fawn over him, respected as the recipient (at age 16) of Wizard Britain's highest honour, an outstanding Quidditch player, and deeply involved with a woman who in her own way was as extraordinary as he was.

Jazzy was Harry's antithesis. She was so poor that even her badly-off relatives thought her a burden, viewed as something of a head case by her professors, looked down upon for both racial and religious reasons, a bench-warming Quidditch player with more brass than talent, and an immature third-year with a well-founded aversion to any emotional relationship with anybody of either sex.

What could somebody so rich, handsome, famous, and everything else want with her? It was certainly nothing carnal. He had a girlfriend to whom he was devoted, and should he ever stray - the resultant queue would include half the female population at Hogwarts, but not her. She was no more interested in him "that way" than he was in her.

He had everything. She had nothing. Her parents … had been … killed … when…. But Harry, he lost his parents at an even earlier age. So at least they had that in common.

And not just Harry … that Longbottom boy, too. The death of his parents was common knowledge.

And that weird - now that was the pot calling the cauldron black - Lovegood girl. She had lost her parents also. Her father's death had been mentioned in one of those Quibblers that printed the big story about Harry.

All orphans - everybody she knew who was invited to Blackwalls. Well, except Harry's girlfriend, and she was Muggle-born, so nobody in this bigoted wizard world even cared about her parents.

So that must be it. Harry was collecting people as … dare she say it, friends, who were orphans like himself. Jazzy could live with that - provided there was a really fast broom available for her to fly around the estate's environs, which she had heard were larger than Hogwarts' grounds.

That and as long as nobody expected her to give anybody any gifts. She had no money, and did not believe in Christmas anyway.

* * * *

Ginny Weasley was not looking forward to the Holidays. Harry was not coming to the Burrow. He was off with Hermione to that grand new estate he had inherited. She had not been invited, but then neither had Ron. So she was stuck with her obnoxious brother for three weeks - especially if her parents grounded her and Ron for that damned Quidditch incident.

It was just as well that Harry would be absent. Unlike Ron, Harry was not reliably oblivious to what was going on around him.

After the final Gryffindor Quidditch practice, she had stayed back, ostensibly to work out some new moves she had devised. Before she was done, everyone else had left - as intended. Once the house-elf assigned to the Gryffindor clubhouse appeared, she told it (she neither knew nor cared if it was male or female) she had been punished and had to clean the place herself. The subservient elf accepted the explanation without question. Ginny knew her domestic spells well, and had everything spotless in short order. But along the way, she managed to acquire Harry's sweaty … well … unmentionable. Harry's not being at the Burrow eliminated one thing that could go wrong.

If Ron stumbled on anything, he would just assume she was helping with the wash - but if she were forced to wash them to cover her tracks, it would be a disaster.

That is, if besotted baby Ronald paid attention to anything at all - except going to visit that scarlet girlfriend of his over the New Year. She was frankly shocked that Mum would let him go.

But Ron had put on the full-court whinge…. And the Changs were quite rich…. And Mum had finally let go the dream match with Hermione…. But Cho? Everything that woman did only caused Ginny to despise her more.

Ginny shuddered. Ron had never to her knowledge used that Felix Felicis Potion he had won. Was it possible that he was saving it…? Could he be planning to use it on that visit? Could he be planning to…?

She would not, could not, let that happen.

One fortunate knock-on effect from being little sister to so many brothers was that she knew all the Burrow's hiding places. She had to. Otherwise she would never have gotten what she wanted when she was younger.

And she knew how to get what she wanted.

As soon as she and Ron returned to the Burrow, she would find where Ron had that potion squirrelled away. If necessary, she would even toss his room.

At least Ginny agreed with Mum (or had, until Mum gave up) on one thing - Ron belonged with Hermione - if only to get Hermione away from Harry.

* * * *

Ronald Weasley stood next to his bed, feeling bored, and absently mindedly scratched himself.

Should he head down to the music room and try for a jam session with Seamus and Dean, or should he just turn in early? After all, he would have to pack tomorrow morning, or tonight, he supposed.

Harry and Neville would both be away for several hours at Slughorn's bloody Christmas party. He had an invitation, too, but She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would be there with Harry. Even though he had apologised to her - sort of - he really did not fancy being around her (and him, he had to admit) in a setting like that. Everybody in attendance would just be fawning on them.

Ron scratched himself again. Damn, he had been itchy down there ever since his last time with Cho, which was not (he grinned at the thought) very long ago. Somehow she had obtained a key to a vacant Staff Assistant's office. They had spent the better part of two hours….

That explained being tired enough to consider turning in early. Maybe it explained the itch, too. What was the punch line to that old joke? They had been at it hard enough and long enough to get second degree burns all over his….

It did feel sort of like burns did, but only after they had been healed.

Damn, she could be such a freak. Where did she learn to use Switching Charms like that…?

Come to think of it, a few days away from Cho might be nice, simply to get some rest…. He had fainted again during their lovemaking, and not long after she had cast that Switching Charm. It had been mind-blowing, and then she had added that bit of - what had she called it? Breathplay? Wow … at just the right moment.

He was getting randy again just thinking about it. A few days were one thing. Almost two weeks without her, until Chinese New Years Eve, was something else entirely. That was too long. He worried he would go insane from sex deprivation before seeing her again.

And he would be very bored.

For once he had no friends at the Burrow for the Holidays - nobody but Mum, Dad, and Ginny. Harry and Hermione were off to that place he had inherited - where they could shag whenever they wanted. He probably could have nagged Harry into taking him along, but intentionally decided not to. That would just have led to another fight with Hermione. He would lose, again. Everybody else would gang up on him, again.

Not that the Burrow promised to be any better. This would be the first Christmas without Bill. His death would hang like a dark cloud over the entire holiday. As the only Weasley brother at home, he would bear the full brunt. Charlie was away, as always, in Romania. Percy had a new flat in London, and might drop by, but not for very long. The Twins would definitely turn up for Christmas, but being in the retail trade, this was their busiest season.

Then again either he, Ginny, or both of them might be grounded over that incident after the Quidditch match….

So Ron would be home alone with Mum, Dad, and an obnoxious baby sister who was insanely jealous of his girlfriend.

If he had his way, though, Cho would be more than his girlfriend before the Holidays ended. That little phial of Felix Felicis that Harry was holding for him would see to that.

That's what he needed to make sure of.

Ron left a note on Harry's pillow to make sure to owl him the potion shortly before the Chinese New Year, when he would leave for three days with Cho's family.

* * * *

Cho Chang was terrified. Something awful was going to happen. She knew it, but she could not lift a finger to stop it. Her every move these days was dictated by that accursed Xiao Jing charmed tattoo. A product of several thousand years of Chinese magical evolution, it enforced filial piety - requiring the bearer to do everything that one's elders demanded. But if she had not accepted the Xiao Jing, she would never have been permitted to go to Hogwarts.

She had wanted that then. Now she wanted anything else - even a traditional woman's Chinese magical education - even foot binding. Anything was better than absolute parental control.

At least by her father.

And nobody on the Hogwarts staff had any idea. None of them was trained in Chinese magic.

The Xiao Jing was even worse than the unforgivable Imperius Curse. According to Professor Lupin, the Imperius produced a hazy mental state where the victim did not really understand what was happening. With the Xiao Jing she knew exactly what she was doing (if not why), but was simply powerless to stop herself or obstruct her father's will in any way. She could not act, not even speak, in opposition to it.

Her father adjusted it - strengthened it - every time she left the Castle for "Chinese Magic" lessons that were neither Chinese nor magical.

For months she had not been able to do anything remotely independent of her father's will - not since before those "lessons" began, when she had sent Harry her own family's seal as a birthday present, and (she hoped) as a clue.

She had known, even then, that something was not right. She had hoped that, maybe, Harry would save her. That was what he did.

Her ploy had quite obviously failed.

The target of whatever was going to happen, Cho was certain, would be Ron. She wanted to stop him - tell him to run away as fast and as far as he could from her - but instead she had invited him to her father's house for New Years (even though it was not). That had been the Xiao Jing talking. That spell, honed over millennia, was simply too strong for her to overcome. Nothing was more important than filial piety in traditional Chinese Magic.

Cho was terrified, as well, by what had occurred when she and Ron were last together. He had fainted, and not for the first time. But this time blood was all over - his blood. She had done something to him. Somehow, she was changing, too.

Where would it end?

Because of the Xiao Jing, she could not stop it. All she could do was clean everything up, heal him, and pretend nothing bad had happened. She blamed it on the breathplay, but that was yet another lie.

And now her back was acting up. It itched in places maddeningly hard for her to reach. It had reacted this way each of the last several times she had been with Ron.

* * * *

Draco Malfoy sometimes had trouble believing his own good fortune. He had converted what could have been - and in some ways was - a disastrous abduction of Harry Potter into a second chance for the Malfoy family to curry favour with the Dark Lord. Or at least it was after his Master had finished Cruciating him for his presumptuousness.

What began as a desperate attempt to save his father from the Dementor's Kiss had resulted in Draco surpassing his father, at least in the eyes of the only one whose opinion really mattered.

It might have been luck, but he was seen as competent - something most Death Eaters unfortunately were not, with the notable exception of his former Potions professor and mentor, Severus Snape.

Being competent meant that he attracted assignments - delicate assignments - delicate assignments for which he stood to be richly rewarded. At the moment Draco was working on two such assignments. He suspected they were related in some fashion, although he could not yet divine how. All he knew is that they both involved Hogwarts….

And he had already been richly rewarded. The Dark Lord had seen fit to arrange the funds that had rescued Malfoy Manor from the depredations of the Goblins and their wizard accomplice, the Git Who Lived.

Draco tried not to look gift Thestrals in the mouth, but even he would admit that his rewards so far seemed disproportionately high compared to what he had been ordered to do. He was tasked with finding some way to torpedo the romantic relationship between the aforesaid git and the insufferable Mudblood who had bested the Dark Lord's marks.

But why?

Why would the Dark Lord even care about a Mudblood? Draco had no idea, but the Dark Lord was insistent. Nobody, especially a supplicant like himself, asked questions. One took orders.

But he had been promised, and already received, far greater rewards for his incomplete work than had other Death Eaters who had tried killing the Mudblood outright. It was strange. At least he understood the value of infiltrating Death Eaters into Hogwarts - the other assignment he had received.

In any event, he was going home to Malfoy Manor. Parcels containing essential Potions ingredients and equipment awaited him. He would personally transfer them to Oceanix, the better to render them untraceable. At that isolated estate he would enjoy both the privacy and freedom to brew the Potion stock for that wildly complicated Love Potion that Snape had created many years ago - and that had somehow fallen into Ginny Weasley's hands.

Assuming the Weaslebitch did not lose her nerve over the holiday - a constant worry, even with the Master's influence - he would smuggle partially brewed bits of the potion back into Hogwarts. He had already figured out how. Woolen clothing could absorb his concoctions and be dried. The active ingredients remained impregnated in the absorbent wool. Once inside the school, Draco would soak some sweaters and socks (he would bring along a new wardrobe) with the right solvent to recreate the Potion stock on the inside of the Castle's wards.

As long as the mission was successful, the Dark Lord was indifferent to how Draco handled the Weaslebitch - as long as he did not kill her. He could seduce, drop, or toy with her as he chose. Draco cared nothing for that spitfire's questionable charms, so that narrowed the options to two. His choice would depend upon how things sorted out once the Great Git was dealt with. Until then, he would have to keep her both close and content.

The sooner the Dark Lord finished Potter the better - but until that happened he had to split Hogwarts' royal couple apart without appearing to do so. That plan revolved around Ginny Weasley.

* * * *

Having attended one of Professor Slughorn's Slug Club parties before, Harry and Hermione now knew what to expect. Perhaps a dozen favoured students would be attending, maybe more, since this time invitees were encouraged to bring dates. The students would, in turn, meet various witches and wizards selected, they assumed by Professor Slughorn, on the the professor's estimation that these contacts could be "helpful" to the chosen students' future careers.

With conversations well lubricated by fine food and drink - not to mention Slughorn's own fawning presence - mutually beneficial alliances would develop. And when Slug Club members graduated and achieved success, the unspoken assumption was that they would return as guests and similarly assist the next generation.

The whole situation made the pair more than a little uncomfortable, as it reeked of the kind of influence peddling and class discrimination that they - primarily Hermione, who worried about such things - thought contributed to the retrograde nature of Wizard society.

But it was a small price to pay for the information Harry had persuaded Slughorn to part with - and some people they met the last time had actually proven useful.

Dressed sharply in their best school robes, Harry and Hermione set off for the Ceremonial Library where the party was held. Professor Slughorn had hinted that their Order of Merlin dress robes would be appropriate, but they both believed that would be too ostentatious.

"I was hoping Ron would come with us," Harry broached a touchy subject. "But when I mentioned that, of course, you were coming as my date, he still acted like he was under a Repelling Charm - suddenly found something else he had to do…."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well, he used the word `apologise' and my name in the same sentence, at least. But it was frightfully obvious that he was acting more from obligation than because he actually meant it. I knew it, and I think he knew I knew it."

Harry shook his head. "So does that mean that you didn't accept it? I was hoping to get that mess with Cho behind us…."

"Well, of course I `accepted' it, Harry," she talked over him. "I accepted it in precisely the spirit it was given. It's that he wanted me to apologise to her…."

It was obvious who "her" referred to.

Harry winced. "So you refused to apologise to Cho? And now we're back to square one?"

"No," Hermione replied, "of course not. I told Ron that I would be happy to apologise to Cho, but that I wanted to speak to her in private so that we could, I believe the precise words I used were, `talk through our differences'."

"And Cho never showed," Harry half asked and half declared.

"Cho never showed," Hermione confirmed. "As if that…."

"Hello, there," came a familiar voice from behind. It was Luna - she was wearing her Order of Merlin robes, and earrings that looked, and smelled, like onions.

"Hi, Luna," Hermione replied. "My but you're looking fancy tonight. Whom did you ask to the party, then?"

"Nobody, really," Luna responded, with a blank look, as if the question were meaningless. "Maybe Neville will be there…."

"Umm … I believe Neville asked Melinda Bobbin - you know, from Hufflepuff," Hermione informed Luna, who shrugged off the information.

"Melinda? When did that happen?" asked Harry. "I mean, I suppose she's nice and all…."

"I don't know that anything's happened," Hermione responded. "They chatted at a previous Slug Club party that we didn't attend, and then after Ginny dumped Neville…."

"Why aren't you wearing your Order robes?" Luna changed the subject.

"Because we thought it would be too much showing off," Harry answered for the both of them.

"But … Slughorn … he made it seem like it was … required," Luna said with sort of a dazed look on her face.

"Nope," Hermione added. "He wanted us to, but when we hesitated, he said it was fine just to wear these."

"Oh dear," Luna squeaked. "I'll meet you there, then." She turned and hurried off (as much as Luna ever hurried) down a side corridor, her onion earrings bobbing up and down.

* * * *

Professor Slughorn was definitely from an older generation.

As usual he was at the door greeting the guests as they entered. Slughorn was at his most jovial when he saw Harry and Hermione arrive - as if always a little unsure whether they would, in fact, appear.

"Harry! Hermione! Glad you could make it," the portly professor called to them as they reached the door. "I've tried to liven things up a bit this time, for you younger set. I've brought in a band, and there will be dancing…."

Harry and Hermione looked around. Part of the library had been cleared to create a dance floor and a band of sorts was playing - that is, if one liked Viennese waltz.

Harry knew less about waltzing than he did about the whereabouts of missing Horcruxes. `I took a bit of dance when I was little,' Hermione Legilimenced to him, `I'll try to help you if you want to try. Perhaps you'll do better than at the Yule Ball.'

"…I've invited quite a few people whom you'll find worthwhile to meet," Slughorn continued, oblivious to Harry's distraction. "There's Clarence Younger, an attorney with Clifford Chance's wizard chamber. He has some ideas about property. The woman in the blue robes - the one looking over the wine list - is Kahina Cohen, who sells more crystal balls than anyone in Britain. Couldn't get a straight answer about her intentions. Practised in the art of deception, that one."

"Could be interesting," Hermione commented dryly as she tried to keep her eyes from glazing over.

Slughorn droned on. "Over by the fireplace is what's left of Leonora Ampersand, a ghost writer who's really a ghost. If you're interested in possibly writing your memoirs…. And by the window, talking to Professor Vector, is Manongia O Kaeaea, a representative of the Maori nation. I believe he's present to follow up on the invitation you received the last time you were here. And the rather short fellow by the bookshelves…."

It went on and on. Or at least it would have, but for Luna's providential arrival. She had turned her Order of Merlin robes inside out. Harry had never bothered to look, but apparently these robes were lined with pleated grey gabardine sewn at the seams with bright red thread. The inside-out pockets, which flopped about as Luna walked, were some sort of black, shiny material.

With Professor Slughorn momentarily distracted by Luna's peculiar sartorial style, Harry and Hermione stole away to the buffet table, where they helped themselves to a spread of fancy mixed nuts (not a peanut in sight), crisps and other munchies, together with a wide-ranging selection of cheeses and accompanying biscuits.

In the background, the magical string quartet Professor Slughorn had engaged began to earn their Galleons.

After a few minutes grazing, Harry felt Hermione's eyes on him. He turned to face her and … she was looking at him with a delightfully naughty smile on her face. "Umm … Hermione, you're thinking something devious, and I know it," he said to her in a voice barely above a whisper.

"So what if I am?" she teased, swaying slightly to the classical music.

"So what if you are?" he played along.

She slipped her hand into his. "So what if we dance?"

"But … I can't dance to this," Harry spluttered. "I don't know anything about waltzes."

"Oh, yes you do," Hermione corrected him. "You waltzed at the Yule Ball."

Harry regarded her skeptically as she tugged on his hand. "I did? How can you remember that when I don't?"

She gave him a saucy half-smile. "Let's just say I was very jealous of Parvati."

"You…. You were?" Harry asked blankly. "Even with Krum?"

"Haven't I already told you? I'd already fancied you on some level for quite a while," she reminded him.

"And I was too stupid to notice," Harry added.

Hermione dismissed Harry's admission. "You were a boy, and that came with the territory. But you notice now, so let it go…. Now let's dance. I let me lead; nobody will notice…."

Hermione led Harry out onto the dance floor, such as it was. She placed one of his hands on her waist, but before she took the other in her own, she flicked her wand from its holster and incanted, "Tarantridenquadrans. There, that should help."

Harry might have wondered where Hermione learnt that mouthful of a spell, but he had other things on his mind. Suddenly, Harry's feet knew what to do - and just having Hermione in his arms…. He was not one to worry how she got there.

They slowly pirouetted, taking care in a constricted space they were sharing with several other twirling couples. After not saying much, Hermione leaned forward and whispered in Harry's ear, "Harry, I can't wait until tomorrow. I get goosepimples just thinking about it."

"Yeah, I'm nervous, too," Harry murmured back. "I'm so glad I've got you and the rest. Blackwalls has been under Malfoy control for so long … I might have to be a right bastard to people, and I don't like doing that."

"I was talking about tomorrow night, you," Hermione clarified whilst pinching his shoulder. "Not that we have to wait that long, mind you…. I just hate having to act like we're doing something wrong…."

"We're doing nothing wrong," Harry told her. "You can't really think…."

"Oh, yes we are," Hermione reminded. "You know as well as I that it's twenty House Points each, first offence, for any sex between students - and more for me, because you're still under age. I'm tired of immediately having to get up and leave - just when that's the last thing I want to do…. I want to cuddle…."

"Hmmmm … sounds good to me," Harry thought about it. "Bring your broom, too. I have some interesting ideas of my own."

"Harry, you know how I can get about flying…."

"Don't worry, Hermione," Harry reassured. "I wouldn't do anything to make you uncomfortable … you know that. It's just, well, some things work better with two than one."

Hermione suppressed a giggle.

Harry, looking at her intensely, realised that he could have been clearer, and had to stop dancing to keep from bursting out laughing.

`Well, that settles it,' Hermione switched to Legilimency. `I've got to drop by Samson's Option on our way to Blackwalls tomorrow - to replenish.'

The music ended, and the pair went in search of something to drink. They (at least Hermione) intended to dance some more, but it was not meant to be. In short order, Hermione was accosted by some wizard determined to pique her interest in possible post-graduate work at the Galdrar Institute of Reykjavík. Shortly thereafter, Harry found himself listening to a pitch for importing bulk amber from Latvia for use in magical modulation devices.

Eventually, Harry broke free from the various would-be hangers on. He noticed the man dressed in monotonously black Snape-style robes - the one whom Slughorn had described earlier as a Maori representative. The rather dark-complected wizard was nursing a glass of something, probably alcoholic. He was watching Harry out of one eye whilst pretending to be perusing the various documents displayed on the wall.

`At least he's not likely to try to sell me anything,' Harry thought, whilst making his way in that direction.

Harry had already committed himself when he noticed that the man's swarthy complexion was only partially due to ethnicity. Covering almost all of his face was the largest, most complicated tattoo Harry had ever seen.

This time, when it came to the introductory upward eye flick, Harry was not the only recipient. A worse problem was that Harry was pants when it came to remembering names, especially unusual ones.

"Evening, Mister … er … Man… er … Okan…. Um…."

"That's Manongia O Kaeaea," the older man came to Harry's rescue. "And you, of course, are Harry Potter. Mister Potter, I've been asked by the Polynesian Confederation of Covens, of which I am the honorary Aotearoan representative, to pursue the invitation we first made some weeks ago. I'm afraid our initial representative might have been a wee bit … overenthusiastic, and might have scared you off…."

Harry knew what the man was getting at. That Hawaiian woman, Ms. Ku … something or other (he definitely was pants at this), had made a convincing case for attending next June's Pacific Magical Gathering - until she delved a bit too deeply into Harry's and Hermione's budding relationship. Her suggestion that Hermione might want magical help in getting pregnant had pretty well spooked the both of them.

Harry was not following the conversation well. Try as he might, he was distracted by the intricate patterns covering Mr. O Kaeaea's face. Evidently, the Maori was rather used to this, as he soon paused with his prepared speech and addressed the matter most immediately at hand.

"Yes, Mister Potter, it's real," he commented.

"You mean … the tattoo?" Harry winced, embarrassed at being called for doing something he detested. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have stared like that. I know how I hate it when people do it to me."

"Not to worry," O Kaeaea dismissed Harry's apology. "You are hardly the first, and you surely won't be the last."

"Is it … magical?" Harry asked.

Since he was speaking to Harry Potter, the older man forced back any hint of sarcasm. "Yes," he replied, "quite magical. Before the coming of the pakeha, the moko was the primary method of practising magic amongst the wizards of Aotearoa."

"You mean your magic was wandless?" Harry asked, rather in awe of an entire society of wizards performing their magic wandlessly.

Mr. O Kaeaea thought some explanation was in order. "Yes, the traditional magic of Aotearoa, makutu, was conjured through our moko and activated primarily by means of tongue positioning, the tongue, of course, being quite close - although we used certain ritual dances as well, particularly in time of war. I could show you, but this is hardly the time or place for that."

"So that tattoo … er … moko, is more than just magical, then?" Harry asked as he sought to digest the culture of this far-away society.

"Look closely," O Kaeaea instructed, offering Harry a better look at his left cheek. "You will see that the pattern is hardly static - that's makutu."

Harry looked closely, and sure enough, both the pattern and colours of Mr. O Kaeaea's moko fluctuated gradually.

The Maori continued, "It would change more quickly and dramatically were I required to perform powerful makutu - as if I were acting as, for instance, as tohunga rongoa. You see, making moko incorporates several of your branches of magic. It involves what you call Transfiguration, as the patterns must change as necessary. Then what you call Charms; they ensure that the mana, or magical force, is correctly cast. And you have Potions, as moko ingredients must be correctly collected and mixed. For example, the shiny blue pigments of various shades that make up most of my moko in its rest state are prepared by cooking Antipodean Opal-Eye scales for specified time periods over kauri fire."

Harry was duly impressed. "Well, you remind me of my girlfriend Hermione in how much you know about this subject."

"I have to make my living somehow," Mr. O Kaeaea, replied with a smile. "After all, this post of coven representative is purely honorific - a reflection of Maori respect for my skills."

"You…? You're a magical tatooer?" Harry asked. He looked more shocked than Mr. O Kaeaea thought was appropriate.

"I am tohunga-ta-moko, which your language would translate as `master tattooist'," he replied a bit warily. "My people view me as one of the best at my form of makutu."

"So you know a lot about magical tattoos?" Harry asked, starting to feel warm, almost feverish.

"I know my culture, yes, but beyond that I have no great learning," the Maori adept said slowly, as he tried to divine what Harry (to whom he was supposed to be issuing an invitation) was on about.

"Please wait," Harry asked urgently. "I need to ask you something … that might be important."

Harry turned and quickly spotted Hermione across the room. She was deep in conversation with a witch wearing black robes with orange trim. `Hermione, you wouldn't happen to have a picture of Cho's tattoos available, would you?' he Legilimenced.

He saw, first, her head first jerk. Then she whirled around and gawked at him. Harry knew she had understood his request.

`I'm serious,' Harry reiterated.

"Telepathy," Mr. O Kaeaea commented. "You are every bit as impressive as I was led to believe, then."

"You … you overheard me?" Harry asked, rather mortified. The subject of his question was quite confidential.

"No, you can relax, Harry," the Maori adept answered gently. "I sensed. I know what you did, but I have no idea what you thought."

In the meantime, Hermione had excused herself and, once hidden in the stacks of the ceremonial library, had rummaged through her beaded bag.

`You're in luck, Harry,' she returned his thought. `I have one picture - well a copy - that's pretty much non-suggestive. It's not the best, but it'll do in a pinch. Do you want it?'

`Yes, bring it over, please. I may have caught a break, for once,' Harry responded in kind.

"Something is obviously up," Mr. O Kaeaea said knowingly, a hint of a smirk coming over his face. "Is this a good time to press you on the invitation for the gathering in Hawai'i this coming June?"

"It might be," Harry replied enigmatically. "But you may do even better to postpone that until you see what I'm going to show you…. We could both be very much in your debt."

By that time Hermione had bustled over.

"What's up, Harry?" she asked quickly. "And how do you do? I'm Hermione Granger," she added to the stranger.

"Not here," Harry whispered, as he led them into one of the library's stacks of books. Once there, he gave her a silent head signal.

Hermione responded by conjuring her new specialty - sparkling mist - to which Harry added a Muffliato. Silently, she handed the folded up piece of paper (not parchment) to Harry.

Harry opened it, and showed the picture of Cho's large circular tattoo to the now quite intrigued Maori tattooist. He looked at it.

"It's Chinese," he pronounced.

They both looked at him expectantly.

He took another, much longer, look. Finally, he frowned, shook his head, and handed the paper back to Harry.

"I'm sorry, but anything more would be little better than speculation," Mr. O Kaeaea shook his head. "This - Sinic tattooing - is so outside of my field that I wouldn't want to lead you astray by saying something that might not be accurate."

"Say it anyway," Harry persisted. "We understand that, but even `might' is a lot better than what we're going on so far."

"What exactly are you trying to do?" the man asked.

"I'd love to tell you, but it's quite private," Harry gently, but firmly, refused to answer. "We could really use your help, though."

"Enough to come to Hawai'i?" he asked.

"I'd love to go to Hawai'i," Hermione offered. Harry, his expression unreadable, said nothing further.

"Very well," Mr. O Kaeaea agreed. "But first, you must appreciate that I've never even seen one of these in person. The professional scuttlebutt I've heard could well be completely off base. Old-fashioned Chinese parents are rumoured to use tattoos like this to control their children. I understand that Chinese culture takes respect for one's elders to something of an extreme. That's all I know - and it could be one hundred percent hooey. Like I said, I've never even seen one myself…."

The Maori wizard could not help notice the meaningful look Harry and Hermione exchanged.

"We seriously doubt you're full of hooey," Hermione told him.

"Thanks very much," Harry added, pumping the man's hand. "And here's the card of my lawyer. Please contact him to make arrangements for the trip."

His mission accomplished, the Maori ambassador moved on, no doubt quite perplexed by the interests of his illustrious interlocutors.

As soon as they were alone, Harry and Hermione immediately fell into an urgent discussion of what to do next.

"Familial control?" groaned Harry. "I can't go through with my promise to Ron if she's being controlled."

"Your promise to what?" Hermione hissed, gesturing to Harry to keep his voice down.

"You know … to help Ron with the Felix Felicis," Harry reminded her.

"That wasn't exactly a capital idea to start with," Hermione warned. "But I have my doubts about what we were just told. Not only is it admittedly uninformed, but…. I mean, you'd expect parents, if they're exercising control, to make their kids do pretty much the opposite of what Cho's been doing, wouldn't you? Merlin knows, if my parents had had that luxury, I wouldn't even be here now."

Harry had a thoughtful look on his face. "Not everybody has your parents, Hermione …thankfully…."

"True, but that's not going to get us anywhere," Hermione tried to keep Harry on track.

She succeeded even more than she expected.

"Well, Hermione…. Shite! That's it!" Harry could feel one of those moments of improvisational inspiration coming on - the kind that had saved Hermione's life more than once.

But also, the kind that had cost Sirius his.

Hermione knew the drill. "What exactly are you thinking of now, Harry Potter?"

"Now at least we know what questions to ask," Harry blurted. "Luna's really good image that's in the Pocket Pensieve … we can send it to Lao Kung. I sure he can tell us what that is…."

It sounded like a good idea, indeed, but it was Hermione's job to try poking holes in it. "We don't know where he is … except that he's halfway around the world," she reminded him.

"Hedwig can find anyone. She could find Sirius, even when the Aurors couldn't," Harry answered confidently. "As for him being in China, it'll just take her a while. I trust Hedwig."

"But you know how much Lao Kung is Dumbledore's man," Hermione pointed out. "If we contact him about Cho, then the Headmaster will find out. Even if Dumbledore is discreet about things, he'll be obliged to do something…. After all, he is the Headmaster, and Cho is a student."

Harry exhaled loudly. "If she's being controlled, then he ought to know," he maintained. "And, you know, all this rubbish has gone on long enough. I think it's time to get this over with one way or another. I vote that we ask Lao Kung."

"I do too, Harry," Hermione agreed. "I frankly think it's a brilliant idea. I wish I'd thought of it. I just wanted to consider all of the ramifications before we went ahead."

"Well, let's go, then. I've had enough of this party, anyway," Harry declared.

He and Hermione had almost reached the door when someone's Legilimency stopped them both in their tracks. `You two, especially her, have been avoiding me all evening. I don't expect you to leave before we've had our chat.'

Harry's halted so abruptly that Hermione, who was looking over her shoulder for the source of the message, almost ran into him.

`Over here,' the telepathic voice repeated.

That voice came from an olive-complected witch, who could have been anywhere between thirty-five and who knows what. She stared straight at them - almost through them - from an ottoman adjacent to the now empty dance floor. The witch wore a great deal of makeup, which deflected attention from her rather prominent nose to her full lips. Her hair tumbled down the back of her flattering powder blue robes in copious, jet-black curls. In one hand she held a glass of pinkish rosé wine. Her other hand extended towards the pair, making a beckoning gesture with her middle finger.

Her fingernails were chiseled to sharp points. Painted white, they most closely resembled cat claws. The effect was decidedly intentional.

"That's the woman who sells crystal balls," Hermione whispered in Harry's ear. "She's right, I have been avoiding her. You know what I think about Divination."

Still, she exuded an almost … magnetic … presence when she chose to display it. Somewhat against their better judgment, Harry and Hermione decided to learn what this mysterious woman had to say.

Something about this woman's aura let her control her surroundings. Although Harry and Hermione had been plagued by gladhanders and well-wishers all evening, by sheer force of will she cleared the space about her as the two approached.

She obviously intended a private conversation.

"Okay, we're here," Hermione spoke forcefully. She and Harry, who had palmed his wand, sat down on the chaise lounge opposite. "But it's only fair that you know we're not buying or selling anything."

The woman regarded Hermione with an enigmatic smile. "Excellent, because I'm not selling or buying anything. My card…."

From thin air two business-card sized pieces of paper materialised in her outstretched hand.

Intrigued, both of them took the cards. Kahina Cohen did indeed deal in crystal balls. Her card included a wizard photo of a specimen, complete with swirling mist.

The pair looked up quizzically after reading her cards. Ms. Cohen had her wand in her lap, pointed non-threateningly. She incanted, "Lumos."

Her wandtip glowed with intense violet light, but nobody besides Harry and Hermione seemed to notice.

"Please hold the card in front of your eyes, to block the light," she directed.

Hermione understood and acted upon the command before Harry did. She gasped audibly as she comprehended what she saw.

What had appeared as a crystal ball now bore the distinctive maria pattern of the full moon - but superimposed over the now glowing sphere was a distinctive watermark of the Star of David, which repeated itself in a Moorish pattern throughout the card.

"You're … you're one of them," Hermione practically whispered.

"Very perceptive. Just as advertised," the woman spoke in equally low tones. Looking over at Harry, she caught his growing look of comprehension. To remove all doubt she winked at him and remarked, so only present company could hear, "Magorian sends his regards."

Kahina's free hand moved to a front pocket in her robes. She withdrew a piece of parchment just enough so that Harry and Hermione could see what it was. "Now, about this…. I would be lying not to tell you that it strikes a deep chord with everyone in the organisation. But why us?"

Hermione started to mutter an explanation, but with a touch, Harry let her know that this explanation was his.

"You surely know that I've inherited the great bulk of the Black Estate. The goblins let me into the Black family's vault recently. I discovered hundreds … literally tonnes … of those. I was lucky, very lucky, that Hermione was with me because by myself I don't think I would have recognised them for what they were…."

"But why us?" Kahina Cohen repeated.

"I'm getting to that," Harry promised. "From the goblins' records we tried to suss out how the Blacks ended up with all this Nazi gold. It turned out that Voldemort's predecessor as Dark Lord, Grindelwald, was the middle-man. That made me think of the Sisters, because, well Voldemort himself…. Well, I think I know why he killed Abigail Rosen. It was be…."

Kahina had been the very picture of self-confidence ever since they first laid eyes on her. With the mention of the martyred Abigail, all colour left her face. "You have proof?" she asked, and quickly followed with, "How do you know?"

Harry looked around. "Not here," he declared.

Without anymore words spoken, all three of them rose and left the Slug Club party.

"Where, then?" Hermione asked as they strode down the main corridor past the darkened Great Hall.

Harry turned to Kahina. "Do you want to see the gold itself?"

"Yes, I would like that … very much," she answered. "Anything that would help redeem the Shoah victims."

"Good," Harry replied, somewhat grimly. "Because I want you to have it. Even having it around weighs me down … mentally, anyway."

At that, Hermione grabbed his hand. "Harry, you never told me," she said. "You should … I want to help. You've been wonderful about it…."

His ears went pink with embarrassment. "I can handle it," he declared.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Kahina offered.

At the same time Hermione was telling Harry, "But you shouldn't have to, not alone."

"Anyway," Harry went on, anxious to put that discomfiting subject behind him. "That means we're going to my dormitory room."

"Everyone will see us," Hermione reminded him. "After all, it's the night before we all leave, it's past curfew, and except for Slughorn's party, there's nothing going on, not even homework."

"Well, I've got the Cloak," Harry reminded her.

"Forget about it," Kahina insisted. "I can handle it. I know spells for that."

As they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, she cast Notice-Me-Not Charms over all concerned.

Passing through the common room, nobody - not even Ginny, who was on the lookout for Harry and Hermione - paid attention to the nondescript trio who glided towards, and then up, the staircase to the sixth-year boys' sleeping quarters.

Fortunately, none of the other occupants was present. Hermione uttered a couple of spells to keep things that way.

After opening his trunk, Harry needed only a few seconds to locate an object wrapped in greaseproof paper. He undid a Fastening Charm, the paper fell away, and Harry was left holding a gleaming bar of gold.

"Here." He uncomfortably handed the ingot to the older witch. "See if you agree with Hermione about what it is, but I have no doubt that she's right."

Kahina took it, flipped it over, and her nose almost immediately wrinkled with disgust. She produced a wand, uttered a quick spell, and the stylised, swastika-clutching Nazi eagle melted into the bar. "That's enough of that," she said forcefully. "You - she - is correct, as I fully expected from the rubbing I received. It's melted down gold, from things like wedding rings and dental work from the Shoah victims of the Treblinka concentration camp."

"There are tonnes where this came from, over seven tones more, the goblins said," Harry told her. "I don't want it. I've got enough things that give me nightmares. I don't need this…."

"And you own all of this?" she asked.

"As I said, I inherited it," Harry responded precisely. "You must have read about it. It was in the papers…."

"Ordinarily, I don't concern myself with such things - who's rich and who's not," Kahina said with a shake of her head. "Obviously, an exception is advisable."

Hermione patted Harry on the arm. She pointed at her beaded bag. Harry nodded in agreement, so she opened the bag and produced copies of the goblins' documentation. "Here, these documents detail the transaction by which the Blacks acquired this gold from the Nazis. Grindelwald brokered a deal with some Muggle Nazis, getting the gold at a bargain price in exchange for helping them escape to South America."

Kahina silently perused the documents for several minutes. Angrily, she vowed, "If they're still alive, we shall find them. And if we find them, they'll wish they were dead. Eichmann would prefer Jerusalem."

"You can handle returning the gold to its rightful owners?" Harry asked after her.

"I'm afraid, that would be impossible after all these years," Kahina answered ruefully. "The best we can do will be to arrange - somehow, it will require thought and discussion with my Sisters - for the gold to be `found' by trustworthy Muggles. The gold would then be distributed as appropriately as possible, and what can't be traced … probably most of it … will go to various Shoah victims' funds. You can't expect anything better that. Is that enough for you?"

Harry stole a glance at Hermione. She sighed and nodded to him. "It's loads better than me keeping it," he affirmed.

"From what I know about you," Kahina replied, "I trust that the goblins will do your bidding concerning this gold, even though surrendering it could cause a significant hit to Gringotts' finances."

Harry confirmed the first part without offering any opinion about the second. He did not know how much the Sisters of the Moon knew about his relations with the goblins. "I'm confident that the goblins will do what I ask. If you would like them to do anything, just tell me what it is."

"And Abigail Rosen…. You said you had information on her death," Kahina reminded them. "I assume you know she was one of us … or else you wouldn't have mentioned her."

Between them, Harry and Hermione told about the Pensieve memory and the Tarot reading it revealed. They explained how similar the reading was to the Grindelwald Reading associated with Adolph Hitler, and how Abigail abruptly fled from Tom Riddle's presence. They advanced their suspicions of Tom Riddle's romantic interest, and that he probably killed Abigail Rosen when she refused him.

All the while, Kahina's already olive face grew darker still, even through her thick makeup. By the end of the tale, she was transparently seething.

"Very well. I shall be in touch, Harry Potter," Kahina Cohen promised. Gathering herself to leave, she carefully slipped the gold bar into a purse fastened to a belt inside her robes. Next to it hung a silver dagger every bit as long as the purse. "And my thanks to you as well, Hermione Granger. You have excellent instincts."

After the departure of the Sisters of the Moon's representative, Harry and Hermione dallied a bit before Hermione vacated Harry's room and removed her privacy charms. Their brief snog session greatly tempted her to stay, but the holiday began tomorrow, so Harry's room mates need not be inconvenienced.

* * * *

21 December 1996, the day for Hogwarts students to leave for their three week Christmas/Solstice (depending upon one's religious inclinations) Holiday, had finally dawned. Most students took the Hogwarts Express south, but a small knot waited, instead, at the Castle's side gate at the terminal cul de sac of what became the road to Hogsmeade.

For the umpteenth time, Harry expressed his regrets to Ron and Ginny about not going to the Burrow. Molly issued an invitation to Christmas dinner, but Harry responded every bit as ambiguously as the invitation was worded. Until certain that not only he, but also Hermione, would be welcome, he would not commit to attending.

The Express left first. Once everyone else had gone, Harry enchanted his duffel bag - stuffed full of clothes, books, and various other things (such as WWW products) - to drift down the stairs to the common room. He followed with his broom. There, he waited for Hermione and Neville.

A couple of minutes later, Hermione's own duffel floated down and landed neatly next to Harry's. She followed almost immediately, her wand still pointing at the overgrown rucksack. In her other hand she carefully carried Athena in her cage.

Behind her, Crookshanks practically flowed down the stairs, his distinctive orange on top and white on the bottom tail held high.

"Where's Neville?" she asked.

"He'll be along any minute," Harry explained. "He didn't get around to packing until last night, and he only has a regular trunk. Oh, where's your broom."

"Oh, blast," she growled. Drawing her wand, she pointed it the way she came, "Accio broom."

The arrival of Hermione's Valkyrie was overshadowed by a loud thumping noise. Neville's only-partly-under-control trunk came bumping down the stairs, careened into the edge of the thick carpet that covered most of the common room and pushed the increasingly lumpy carpet before it until it flipped over and landed upside down on top of Harry's and Hermione's luggage.

Crookshanks shot for safety under a chesterfield, whilst at the last moment Hermione managed to Summon to safety the cage holding her loudly screeching owl.

"Oops, sorry about that," a rather red-faced Neville apologised. "I've never done that spell before … obviously…."

"Well, you'll have three weeks to perfect it," Hermione snipped at him.

"Have you seen Jazzy?" Harry asked her.

"No, but her room is three floors up. I'll go look," Hermione quickly offered.

It was an excuse. Hermione already knew Jazzy's plans. What she needed, and had not had, was an excuse to sneak upstairs to the boys' dormitory, whilst everyone paid attention to Neville's ongoing struggle for supremacy over his balky trunk. Hermione slipped up the "wrong" staircase and promptly delved into Harry's trunk. He had given her blanket permission.

Pushing the Grunnings laptop aside, she found the box she sought, still tied with Muggle string. Until now, it had always been beside the point.

Now it was the point.

Hermione shrank it and slipped it inside her robes.

When Hermione reappeared, Neville was attempting to smooth out a rather rumpled carpet. "No sign of her," Harry's fiancée reported, "but her bed's neatly made, and I didn't see any luggage. Maybe she's gone ahead…."

"Maybe she got cold feet," Neville speculated.

"I doubt it," Harry told him. "I could see her refusing the invitation, but she'd do that to my face. She wouldn't just go hide. Whatever else she is, she's not afraid of me or anybody."

The Fat Lady gave a squeak as she swung open, revealing Professor McGonagall. "Potter, Granger, your departure is nigh," she said briskly. "Longbottom, leave that alone. The house-elves will restore things better than you ever could. Come, gather your things and be off."

Neville did better with his trunk in the Castle's wider corridors, and within minutes the three Gryffindors, their luggage, and their familiars, arrived at the side entrance. There they found Luna and Jazzy (she had indeed come down early by herself) chatting easily.

A few metres away stood the largest Thestral-drawn carriage Harry had ever seen. Eight Thestrals were in harness, arrayed in two rows of four. A coachman in Blackwalls livery - black lined with silver - sat in front, controlling several sets of reins.

"Well there yeh all are. I was wonderin' if yeh had decided ta start the Holidays early with a lie in." Hermione's cheeks burned red at the implications of Mad-Eye Moody's greeting. The old Auror popped his head out of the spacious interior.

"Leave them alone, Alastor," came Tonks' instant retort. She was still completely inside the carriage and not visible. "You're just jealous."

"Aye, that I am," Moody shot back. "I've told him, better his way than mine."

Picking up the travellers' baggage like it was feather light, Hagrid loaded everything into the back of the carriage.

"Where do we go from here?" Harry asked his Guardian, who had undertaken to organise the trip from Hogwarts to Blackwalls.

"We're stayin' on the ground `till Hogsmeade," Moody told him. "There we stop by Slamdor's headquarters ta meet yer goblin guard. Once that's over, we're airborne all the way ta Blackwalls. Obviously this is their - well, yers now - carriage. It's known ta the estate's wards, so we can land right on the grounds and not have ta waste time goin' overland from the Château's boundaries. Mind yeh, the place's charmed like Hogwarts' so's yeh won't see it in all its glory until yeh touch down."

"In that case," Hermione piped up, "since we'll be stopping in Hogsmeade anyway, I've an errand I'd like to run."

"Fine," Moody agreed, "but nobody's expectin' us ta be out an' about, so's I better go with yeh for security."

"Umm … if you don't mind, I'd rather take Tonks," Hermione told the gruff ex-Auror.

"Fine, have it yer way," Mad-Eye replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He turned and half smiled-half leered at Harry. "Looks like yer ladyfriend's got a surprise in store for yeh."

* * * *

At the carriage's first stop in Hogsmeade, two visibly nervous Blackwalls footmen welcomed - if that was the word - a contingent of seven of what Slamdor described as his "most accomplished specialists." One need not look much further than their weaponry, which drew plenty of sidelong glances, to grasp these goblins' relevant specialty.

Harry, aware that first impressions - even those of footmen - could be important, ostentatiously welcomed the goblins aboard and directed them to be seated rather than transform into boulders, as had been their initial inclination.

Harry found his own seat and waited for Hermione to return. On one hand, he was more than ready to get this show on the road - to begin the chore of exercising ownership of this great estate he had never seen.

On the other hand, he knew where Hermione was shopping and what she was planning to buy. So another part of him hoped she would take all the time necessary make perfect selections - and, of course, to make plenty of selections.

Whilst he waited, one of the two Blackwalls-livery-clad footmen stationed himself in close proximity to Harry's seat, a spotless white towel over his arm, ready to tend to his lord's every need.

"Would you care to sample some of the Château's finest, milord?" the man asked. "We have crêpes to break your fast - banana, cherry, chocolate and pumpkin. We also have…."

Harry turned and took his measure, "What's your name?" he asked slowly.

"Oscar, sir," he answered. "Oscar Plimpton."

"Well, I'm Harry, and I'm pleased to meet you, Oscar," he replied whilst extending his hand. "Just `Harry', okay?"

The servant responded with a rather limp and hesitant handshake. "Yes, sir … Harry."

`Worse than Dobby,' Harry thought, stifling a sigh. "Why don't you pass me a cherry crêpe and some of the Château's finest … pumpkin juice?" Harry spoke out loud. "And help yourself to whatever flavour crêpe strikes your fancy."

"Harry, I'm back, now!" came Hermione's bright voice as she clambered into view, trying her best to evade the other footman. He was urgently attempting to assist the presumptive Proprietress of the Château - and she was having none of it.

Harry pecked her on the cheek, and she burrowed against his side, squirming impatiently until feeling his arm settle about her shoulders. She looked up into his intense gaze. "What is it?" she asked gaily.

Harry lowered his head to whisper in her ear. "You know what. Rumour has it that you delayed us all to do some shopping. Well, I don't see any shopping."

Hermione lowered her eyes and gazed purposefully to her left, settling on her beaded bag. Harry's eyes followed. Quite deliberately she gave the bag a pat while hissing back. "Rumour has it I know Shrinking Charms … believe me, you won't be disappointed…."

She may have said more, but the ever anxious Oscar Plimpton chose that minute to approach. "Umm … excuse me … er … Harry, sir, madam…. Are you ready to depart?"

"Sure," Harry agreed.

"Then please, strap in," Oscar advised.

A tremendous jerk followed. Evidently, the footmen had not been as solicitous of their other passengers. Or perhaps they were simply terrified of goblins. Whatever the reason, five of the seven goblins lost their balance as the carriage took to the skies. Had he been so inclined, Harry could have improved his vocabulary of goblin expletives substantially.

Fortunately, the goblins were not alone, thus their rather prickly feelings towards wizards were not aggravated (much). Tonks also bounced into the aisle, her hair turning sickly green. Neville sailed over the back of his chair, and came to rest sprawled in rather undignified fashion in Luna's lap.

Frayed nerves were soon mended, though, by a combination of holiday good cheer and excellent victuals served by the carriage staff.

Harry quietly contemplated what lay before him. Short of combat, he was not temperamentally inclined to exert command - but he was expected to exercise control over a staff that, he had been told, had loyally served Lucius Malfoy for most of a decade. Striving to fortify himself mentally, Harry mostly gazed out the window and through the broken cloud cover at the earth below.

Hermione, attracted by both Harry and the view, craned her neck over his shoulder to see what she could see.

Oscar continued to hover. He slipped in behind them. "Sir … Harry, milady…. If I might…?"

Their puzzled looks vanished as Oscar tapped his wand on the back of the dual high backed chair that they occupied. The fixture immediately began pivoting towards the window. Simultaneously, the window expanded in size to accommodate them.

"Please … Harry…. You are Lord Black now, whether or not you choose to use the title," Oscar explained. "And your friend … well, we know she is the presumptive Lady Black. Whatever you want, please ask. We, the domestic Château staff, have spent months preparing for your arrival. Please, allow us to do our jobs and serve you…."

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, but not words. "Okay, we'll do that," he told Oscar. "But first, sit down and have a chat with us."

For the next fifteen minutes Harry, with Hermione joining in, quizzed Oscar about Château Blackwalls. They learnt things like the Château and its extensive grounds ordinarily requiring a domestic staff of twenty witches and wizards, although currently with an unusually large number - three - of unfilled openings. House-elves served as scullery maids, grooms, and ordinarily coachmen. Because of the importance of the occasion, the stablemaster himself had assumed the role of coachman, hence the jerky ascent.

Somewhere between fifty to sixty house-elves were in the Château's service at any given time. Perhaps that number again was in training, with an eye towards being sold. The crops, vineyards, and grounds were tended by a horde of field-elves - Oscar was not sure how many - over a hundred. Most field-elves were not even named, at least not to any wizard's knowledge.

The Château was huge; with maybe two hundred rooms, depending upon the Proprietor's (that is, Harry's) inclinations at any given moment. Both ornamental and working gardens surrounded it. The base of the great house was old stone - from when such mansions were built to be defensible. A major rebuilding had occurred about a century ago, adding a turreted brick superstructure capped by a sharply sloping copper roof.

As Proprietor, anything Harry wanted, from a grand indoor swimming pool, to an arcade, to a croquet field, was either available or could be arranged by the staff on short notice. Also, as Proprietor, he (and anyone he keyed into the Château's wards) could practice whatever magic he wanted. His status overcame the usual Ministry restrictions on underaged magic - within the physical boundaries of his estate's demesne.

The Château contained most of the Black family's artwork. Oscar proudly mentioned a da Vinci, a Michelangelo, a Rembrandt, and more. Conversely, the Black family's library remained mostly at Grimmauld Place, once Orion and his wife aged and journeyed less frequently to the Château. Still, some works, largely Muggle and predominantly ancient, had stayed at the Château.

Oscar commented that Hermione's bookworm reputation (although he used the more proper term, bibliophile) had preceded her. The staff had some gift for her. Oscar would not, of course, reveal what it was - only that she would surely appreciate it, and certainly had never read it previously.

Critically, a majority of the staff were relieved to be out from under Lucius Malfoy's thumb. He was never viewed as a proper Proprietor, since the Château never belonged to him. Draco had been to the Château only a couple of times, and was viewed as cold, aloof, and arrogant.

Harry's response to that was, "Some things never change."

None of the staff really knew what to make of Harry. His ascendancy was completely unexpected - except perhaps by the major domo. Hermione was a surprise bordering on shocking. No avowed Muggle-born had ever before set foot upon Blackwalls' grounds - let alone arrived as a possible Proprietress.

The major domo was a man named McAllister. Harry knew his name from records he had read during the inheritance process. Oscar told Harry that Mr. McAllister was a most likeable man - a Hufflepuff - who had been at the estate forever and who would exert himself fully to do Harry's bidding.

By then the carriage was clearly descending.

"Your arrival is almost upon us," Oscar finished as he made for his proper place. "Remember who the coachman is, and prepare accordingly."

Harry and Hermione pivoted the seat forward and checked that their seatbelts were securely fastened. This time Hermione enjoyed the window seat. They passed through spotty clouds towards a rather vacant landscape of oak and spruce forest pockmarked by apparently fallow and overgrown fields.

Neither was at all surprised by this.

With the Château and its grounds charmed like Hogwarts - unless and until the protective wards recognised the viewer, the property would appear ruined.

The wards would not recognise anyone arriving by air. For an aerial view of the great Château and its grounds in all their glory, Harry would have to ascend from those grounds.

Masses of ruined stone rushed by, surrounded by the swampy remains of a clogged up and overgrown moat.

With several thumps, the carriage set down.

Oscar was before them once again as the carriage slowed and was brought around. Almost theatrically, he bowed low. "I bid you welcome to Château Blackwalls, Proprietor Potter-Black and Mistress Granger."

"Oh my word," Harry heard Hermione gasp. "It looks like Alnwick Castle topped by the Château Frontenac."

* * * *

Author's notes: In the 1400s, Upper Barnton is home to a giant named Hengist

Harfang is a Narnia giant reference and also means "snowy owl"

The Death or Glory pennant was given in Chapter 22

Neville's got of the staff occurred in Chapter 51

Neville's future promise will be important

The spells cast on Hermione occurred in Chapter 35, and are of critical importance

The use of "compleat" echoes the "Compleat Angler"

The "not so funny" line recalls the play "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum"

Neville's and Luna's parents died in Chapter 23

Hogwarts uses house-elves in place of clubhouse attendants

"Full-court" comes from basketball

Cho's Switching Charms approximate the "plot" of "Deep Throat"

Breathplay is the erotic use of near asphyxiation

Filial piety is discussed in Chapter 29

Traditional Chinese foot binding crippled girls by preventing their feet from growing properly. Tiny feet were considered erotic

Almost too late, Cho's clue is understood

The date of Chinese New Year is very important

Draco's backstory is in Chapter 27

Rescue of Malfoy's inheritance from the goblins is mentioned in Chapter 54

Potion stock is like soup stock

The onion earrings recur

Melinda Bobbin is a Slug Club member

"Clarence Younger" combines Clarence Darrow and Irving Younger, two famous lawyers

Chance Clifford inverts Clifford Chance, a large UK law firm

Kahina was a Jewish female seer who resisted the Muslim conquest of North Africa

Kahina recalls the woman mentioned in the first and last verses of the Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want"

Manongia is just a Maori name. We went glowworm caving near Kaeaea

"Crisp" is British for potato chip in America, and a "biscuit" means a cracker

Tarantridenquadrans means "dance 3/4" which is waltz rhythm

Hermione visited Samson's Option in Chapter 52

Galdrar is Icelandic magic

Amber is found in the Baltic, as is Latvia

New Zealand's rugby team is the "All Black"

Maori have intricate facial tattoos

Aotearoa is Maori for New Zealand

Harry and Hermione will go to the Pacific gathering

Maori words: pakeha means white people, moko means the Maori tattoos, makutu is magic, tohunga rongoa is akin to a shaman, kauri is a tree native to New Zealand

I reference (without naming) the Maori haka dance

Kahina uses UV light

There are stars of David woven into Moorish patterns in Atlanta's Fox Theater

Shoah is Hebrew for the Holocaust

The Nazi gold is discussed in Chapter 60

Israel caught and executed Adolf Eichmann

The Tarot reading occurred in Chapter 45

Moody made that statement to Harry in Chapter 57

Oscar is picked from a hat; Plimpton references the author George Plimpton

The various servants' titles accurately reflect positions on the staff of a great estate

Field-elves are to house-elves as field slaves were to house slaves in the antebellum South

The gift is valuable, but not in the way intended

Alnwick Castle is a large castle in northern England; HP movie scenes were filmed there

The Château Frontenac is a large hotel in Quebec City

51

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 6/9/2008

Document created with wvWare/wvWare version 1.2.7

-->