43A: The Battle of Many Armies, part I

It had been many years since Sirius Black lived up to his reputation as a ladies' man. The stint in Azkaban and his subsequent fugitive status had wiped out any prospects for romance, and then his pseudo-death and temporary loss of magic hadn't improved matters. Only for the past few months, and within the walls of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, had he finally been restored amongst his peers in the Wizarding world--and the Witching world as well.

He felt rather awkward, therefore, as Hermione Granger stood beside him, silently weeping as they watched the Muggle jet pull away from the terminal. She was quite a bit younger than him, and judging by the diamond on her finger, the rumors about her and Viktor Krum must be true. He finally settled on draping a tentative arm over her shoulders. A godfatherly gesture, one he'd bestow upon Harry without giving it a second thought.

She immediately gripped his middle like a python and sobbed into his shoulder until the corner of his Muggle T-shirt was soggy with tears and Merlin-only-knew what else. Sirius wrinkled his nose, but patted her back comfortingly. Hermione was no frail flower; these were tears of sincere and profound grief.

"It'll be all right, luv. It'll be all right."

Hermione finally composed herself enough to step back and wipe her face impatiently. "Sirius," she said bleakly, "don't... Thank you, for being kind just now, but don't be patronizing. He won't be all right. We both know that." Her lip began to quiver.

"Funny, I heard you dropped Divination," he smirked. He clapped her twice on the shoulders. "Come on, what good's talk like that? Voldemort has no idea of the sorcerer Harry's become. Ondossi's no slouch, and she's there with him. And we're not sitting on our bums either."

That got Hermione's attention. She took a few deep breaths. "We're not?"

"Pah! Course not! You think I'd let my godson go off to fight, just like that?" He flicked his brows mischievously. "I've kept mum, because he's too polite to read me the way he does, and I didn't want him picking it up from anyone else."

Hermione's eyes gleamed. "Tell me the plan."

My kind of girl, Sirius thought before he could banish the notion. He winked and put a finger to his lips for a few more minutes' worth of quiet patience, then offered his arm and escorted her back to Headquarters.

Or tried to, anyway. The portrait in Terminal Zero refused to let them back in to use the Floo. They had, after all, claimed to be "ticketed passengers" when they went out that door. Hermione and Sirius were forced to take the Tube, which at first annoyed them greatly. The brand new Heathrow Express service had opened days before, and it did not accept Travelcards. Hermione tried to argue their way past the ticket counter, but the Muggle behind it was much more stubborn than the portrait. In the end, Sirius performed a few illegal (but discreet) Charms to get them onto the train, Hermione grumbling behind him all the way.

Sirius was surprised by the speed of the non-magical train, and when they got off at the Paddington Rail station to transfer, he capered around like a puppy off leash. He successfully begged for a sightseeing spree at Baker Street station, but Hermione drew the line after that. "Behave, now! I gave you the Sherlock Holmes tour, but there's nothing like that at Euston Square. We've already wasted half an hour!" She had to practically drag him away from King's Cross, as he'd only ever been to the railway platform and was curious about the tunnels and escalators beneath it. "Morgan le Fay, Sirius, I'll let you keep the Travelcard and play all you want, after I hear this plan of yours!"

"Language!" he hissed impishly, but took her arm again and abandoned the sights and smells of the Underground.

They found Lupin wearing a hole in the rug before the kitchen fireplace. "Where've you been?" he snapped when they descended the stairs. "I was five minutes away from buying an airplane ticket just to get through Tee-Zed."

"Reem," Sirius chided, muttering, "Mother hen!" under his breath for Hermione's benefit. "Bloody portrait told us to go use our tickets--and the last thing I need right now is a citation for Apparating out of Muggle London."

Lupin scowled, but he finally rolled his eyes and waved both of them to the long table. "All right, out with it then," he grunted, leaning across the table expectantly.

Sirius blinked and gave his friend a puzzled smile. "What? You think I'm up to something?"

Lupin gave him the old Hairy Eyeball and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Must I even answer that?" he grunted.

Sirius finally flopped onto his bed that night, bone-tired from his late night drinking with Harry, but too worked up to sleep. He and the rest of the "London Order" had spent the day sending Owls and barking instructions into Floos. The messages would propagate as he slept--for what might be the last time in his old bed. He would leave for Hogsmeade in the morning.

After wriggling restlessly on the big four-poster, he sat up and lit the oil lamp on his nightstand. He scanned the top shelf of his wardrobe. There, in the back--in a little box, naturally. Heaven forbid that Reem leave one messy, jumbled pile of stuff in the house, not even inside a shuttered wardrobe. Might've been Tonksy, he reckoned idly as he pulled down the box, then rejected the notion. Moony was the neat freak. They'd all joked, that summer after fourth year, that Remus was "born to Prefect."

"Look at us," he said aloud, softly, as he pulled the first photo out of the box. He looked so thin at seventeen, all legs and arms compared to now. And I thought I looked so sharp at the time, he mused with a wistful smile. No idea I was such a gangly thing. Of course, James was no better, smirking in the photo beside him, his hair pointing every direction but down. He tried to imagine how James might look now, but couldn't picture anything but the grinning youth.

He flipped slowly through the stack of photos. Once in a while Pettigrew would show up in one of them. James had owned the camera, but Peter usually took the pictures. When he came to a snapshot of just Prongs and Wormtail together, he nearly crumpled it in his fist. "Will I see you soon, Peter? Or will you turn tail and run out on your master, just like you did to us?" Getting up, he shoved the box back onto its shelf and stared out of the window, pressing his forehead to the cool glass.

Should've been me that night, he thought for the millionth time. They kept him locked in a cupboard! "Harry," he said aloud. They were in Krasnoyarsk by now, probably tucked in and fed in some cozy cottage. Again his stomach heaved and twisted; again he wished he'd gone along.

He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and renewed the vow he'd made when Harry insisted on heading to Siberia alone. He knew he couldn't stop his godson from meeting his fate with Voldemort, but he could clear a path. In a few days' time, every one of Voldemort's little minions would be storming the gates of Hogwarts, clamoring for the head of Sirius Black. He would finish that which his little brother had started: he would make Voldemort mortal again.

"What ARE you wearing?"

Sirius rounded the breakfast table and kissed his cousin noisily on the side of her head. "What's it look like?"

After crossing her eyes in mock concentration, she finally concluded, "Like some poor cow died in vain."

He sneered at her, which she instantly imitated perfectly, right down to the stubble on his chin. "You wish you looked so good in leather." Tonks laughed outright, her own features popping merrily back onto her face.

"I'm taking the bike up to Hogwarts," he said, reaching for a scone. "No time like the present, innit?" he responded to her inquisitive look. "Might not live to ride it again, all that."

Nodding, she pursed her lips in a sad smile. "Hardly any rush to get up there yet. Where are they, you think?"

Sirius peered at the clock. "It's what, four o'clock there? They should have flown up north by now. If they found a pilot." He set the scone back down, unable to take a bite after all.

His motorcycle was parked in the courtyard. He spent a few minutes lovingly waving James's wand over the chrome and leather, Vanishing any remaining dust from Umbridge's garden shed along with the morning dew. Lupin burst from the house in his nightshirt, his feet bare. "Thought I'd missed you," he said.

Sirius tried to think of a snappy comeback, but couldn't. He set the wand on the seat and strode toward his oldest friend. They met halfway, each with his arms wide. Sirius berated himself for shedding a tear, and was relieved to see, when they finally stepped back, that Lupin's eyes were misty as well.

"I could still come up for a couple of days, you know," Lupin said.

"Shut it, Reem," said Sirius. "Someone's got to coordinate things here. And the last thing we need is for you to get trapped up there." The full moon would rise in four more nights, and with Ondossi gone, there would be no Wolfsbane. Death Eaters had already broken the Floo Network once, and if they managed to disable Portkeys, Remus would be stuck on the Hogwarts grounds. The wolf couldn't distinguish between friend and foe when it attacked. Remus would have to weather this full moon alone in number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and nurse himself back to health after the destructive night.

Lycanthropy had cost Remus Lupin many things over the course of his life, but nothing compared to the anguish of that moment, knowing he must abandon his friends at their most urgent hour. But he could hardly fight beside them when, with one flash of moonlight, he'd become a liability. Forcing back tears, he clasped Sirius to his chest again and promised, "I'll be up there as soon as I can."

"Not till you get your strength back, either, you wanker," grunted Sirius, but his throat tightened painfully. "I mean it," he said quietly. "No stupid heroics, right?"

"Hark who's talking," Lupin said. "I bow to the king of stupid heroics." They eyed each other as only the oldest friends can.

"Will you two knock it off?" hollered Tonks from an upstairs window. "I can't stand to start crying again."

"Then draw the curtains!" barked Sirius.

He stuffed Godric Gryffindor's red book in a deep pocket of the leather jacket. Once the book was secure at Hogwarts, Arthur would come for the gold cup and Apparate it to Hogsmeade, accompanied by Mad-Eye, Shacklebolt, and a host of other soldiers. They would advise the villagers either to flee or join them at the castle to fight, then make their way to Hogwarts. Sirius reckoned that most would opt to run and hide, but he hoped Rosmerta would at least send over a few kegs of butterbeer.

The locket would stay at Headquarters until they were ready to seal the borders of Hogwarts. That had been a point of contention, but Sirius held firm. "I want absolutely no risk of these things communicating until we're ready. Voldemort's always wanted Hogwarts. If there's any place he's likely to be watching, it's there."

He started the bike and revved the engine, which echoed mercilessly through the enclosed courtyard. The windows rattled visibly. Sirius gave his best friend a grim smile, Disillusioned himself and the bike, then drove straight up the side of the house and launched into the sky.

Contrary to popular belief, the Weasley twins didn't read each others' minds. Once a plan was laid, they worked together like two well-oiled cogs, creating the illusion of some otherworldly connection, but that was merely a product of years and years of teamwork. They'd learned long ago that the secret to making their hijinks look so effortless was to plan them relentlessly beforehand.

Similarly, when the twins held conversations with other people, they were so synchronized in their moods and opinions that it was irrelevant which of them spoke at any given time. They didn't have to finish each other's sentences, but they chose to, because they enjoyed watching peoples' reactions. And if one twin happened to think of something before the other, well, each of them had long since perfected the art of playing along.

In private, however, the twins split into Fred and George, distinct and separate entities. This morning, they had closed their shop and were busy in the fabled Back Room, Reducing a great deal of their stock and shipping it to Hogwarts via Owl Post. With their hands occupied with busy work, and no employees to distract them, they were free to have a serious discussion.

"Heads up!" said George, tossing a Dungbomb at his brother's back.

Without dropping the miniaturized crate of Wildfire Whiz-Bangs, Fred whipped his other hand into the air and closed it into a fist. The Dungbomb was arrested in midair, surrounded by a glowing blue sphere that contained the stinky contents when the thing exploded an instant later. Setting down the crate, Fred raised his wand and Vanished the whole sphere.

"Nicely done," said George.

Fred grinned. "Been getting pointers from Elias Ravenclaw. You?" Without batting an eye, Fred lobbed a Portable Swamp capsule at his brother. George attempted to catch it the same way, but wasn't quite fast enough. A gush of sulfurous water and a frantic heron smacked into his shirt before he could plug the hole.

"Could do with a bit more," admitted George, Vanishing the swamp-ball and opening a window for the heron.

They worked in silence for a while, boxing up vials of Instant Darkness powder and Decoy Detonators. "You think these Daydream Charms?" Fred said thoughtfully as he cleared another shelf.

George shrugged. "If there's an owl to spare in the end, we'll pack them on." Fred nodded. They weren't the best weapon in their shop, but they might come in handy.

When every owl from their Shipping Department (a stolen chicken coop they'd nailed to the roof) was on its way, they prepared the crates they would carry personally. Much of it was still in the testing stage, too unstable to send by owl. They'd kept secret for just this occasion.

"Any word from Elias whether he'd like to manage our branch in Hogsmeade?" asked George as he carefully shrank a bin of Spell Slammers. Fred didn't answer right away, knowing the concentration his brother required for his task. They'd been working on the Slammers for months now and still didn't have them quite right, but time was up. Like their line of Shield Hats, the Slammers deflected oncoming hexes, but these also worked on the Cruciatus. The trouble, of course, was that the spell could just as easily ricochet and land on the next fellow.

"Not yet," said Fred when the box was surrounded by wards that would slowly constrict and shrink it. "I've not actually mentioned it to him." George looked up inquisitively. "Silly git wants to take a few N.E.W.T.s," Fred shrugged, furrowing his brow at the absurdity. "Been too distracted for serious business."

George shook his head with an indulgent smirk. "We ought to help him sort out his priorities, brother."

Fred nodded, lobbing another Portable Swamp at George's back, which he arrested in mid-air without even looking. Not so much as whiff of decay escaped the blue sphere this time. "He'll catch on. Where've you been sending all those, by the way?"

Smiling brightly, George chirped, "Percy's flat."

"Me too." Fred returned the smile. They were in peak form for what lay ahead.

"I tole yeh teh clear out!"

The centaur Bane cocked his head and eyed the gamekeeper disdainfully. "We will not abandon our home."

Hagrid rolled his eyes and threw up his arms in exasperation. "Yeh great idiot, yer home's about ter become a battlefiel'. All the Sasquatch giants're gonna be Portkeyin' right here."

Bane turned his head with a disdainful sneer. "We care nothing for an unwanted war that you brought to our doorstep."

Utterly ignoring the arrows pointed at his chest, Hagrid stomped straight up to Bane, bellowing into the centaur's face. "Yer doorstep? Yers? Jus' whose wards have yeh been livin' under, Bane?" He spun angrily to the next centaur. "Magorian? Who's kep' yeh safe an' sound all these years? Never ask yeh fer nothin', while he kep' yeh from answerin' teh You-Know-Who?" Hagrid threw up his hands in disgust. "I never seen sucha ungrateful buncha... ingrates! 'Brought it to yer doorstep.' Yer all high'n mighty 'bout 'unwanted war,' well, we don' exactly wannit either, yeh know! But it beats becomin' slaves ter You-Know-Who!"

Hagrid paused, glaring around the group, his enormous fists clenched tight and pressed to his hips. Some of the younger centaurs glanced at one another furtively, but the old stallions maintained their haughty gaze. They remained silent, however, and Hagrid wasn't quite finished with them. "Wonder what'll happen teh yer fores' if he takes over?" he muttered darkly, then abruptly turned his back to the centaurs. He continued his prior task, clearing the "staging area" of prickly shrubs by blasting them to bits with bolts of energy from his pink umbrella, pointedly ignoring the herd.

All the centaurs, however, were watching the lead stallions. Some of the archers lowered their bows. Others shuffled their hooves in the undergrowth, swishing their tails in anxiety. One started to rear, but caught himself in the act and forced his forelegs back down, his face red with humiliation.

The centaur Ronan slowly approached Hagrid, halting when they were shoulder to shoulder. "Tell me this," he said. "Right now, where is the phoenix?"

Hagrid stopped firing his umbrella but did not lower it. "Fawkes? 'E's in London, boun' ter his perch. What about it?"

A wave of nervous jitters passed through the herd, and several centaurs struggled with the instinct to rear. Bane and Magorian held each others' gaze for some time. The lead stallion finally raised his hand slowly over his head, then twisted it twice. The herd abruptly broke their broad semicircle formation and scattered into the trees at full gallop.

Scowling, Hagrid glared at the only remaining centaur in the meadow. Magorian raised his head high. "The stars foretell of an hour in which the master of this castle cannot defend it. When its fate will be determined by its stewards." He peered shrewdly at the half-giant. "It is fitting that we repay his hospitality."

As the centaur sprinted out of the meadow, Hagrid furrowed his brows, then shrugged. "'Bout time, is all I hafta say," he grumbled, setting back to work on the brambles.

Voldemort hated mornings like this--and every morning here was the same, or worse. In other words, cold. He wished once again that he'd built his enclave in an African jungle, or better yet, a desert. His body had become far too reptilian to tolerate this climate.

Severus had suggested this location, and he'd been right, as usual. If I'm to make Hogwarts my permanent home, I can't become acclimated to basking in the sun. Besides, deserts had been crossed, jungles had been burned, but the Siberian steppes had always resisted invasion. And as much as Voldemort despised the very thought of it, he needed a safe hideaway to build and prepare his army.

Potter! Even with Dumbledore out of the way, that green-eyed insect was still nagging him. He was absolutely certain the child had something to do with Black's resurrection. Black! And Lupin! How dare they remain alive all this time? Their Order of the Pipsqueaks had taken on a whole new dimension. He was meeting effective resistance around the entire world--the world that should have been his decades ago. Was he not the most powerful wizard ever to live? He'd conquered Death itself, by Jove--which was far more than that fool Dumbledore could say. Albus might have a Chocolate Frog card bragging of his achievements, but he was also cold in his grave.

"No point in brooding over history," he reminded himself. Bellatrix had been captured and the troops were demoralized. He needed to divert their attention, to remind them who they served, and why.

He was pondering such matters of state when Lucius Malfoy poked his head in the door. "My lord," he said with his usual icy politeness. Voldemort nodded that he could continue. "We've received an envoy."

Malfoy's breath turned to mist. The Dementors must have just finished their patrol. As usual, the man was well-rehearsed in his delivery--there was no telling from his voice whether the news came was from friend or enemy. Always testing me, aren't you, Lucius? he thought with mild displeasure, then raised his wand for a wordless glance into the wizard's mind.

"Your house elf," Voldemort drawled aloud, deliberately rankling his doorman. He hadn't punished Malfoy enough for that diary business, but he'd been forced to rein himself in. It wouldn't do, advertising the fact that the diary had been THAT important. Once Potter was dead and the Dark empire established, he could finally turn his proper attention to Lucius, but that day had not yet come.

"He bears a message from the Order of the Phoenix, and will deliver it to you alone," said Malfoy without the slightest strain in his oily voice, but he couldn't hide the twitch in his temple. Voldemort smiled. Are you frightened or humiliated? he wondered idly. He didn't really care. As long as Lucius was unhappy, that would do.

"Cut off his head and Owl it to Remus Lupin."

"Very good, my lord," said Malfoy and departed.

He was mildly curious about their message, but he wouldn't accept it from a servant. If the werewolf wanted to talk, he could bloody well propose a summit meeting. But Voldemort barely had time to pick up his quill when the snap of Disapparation disturbed the quiet. The creature had the nerve to land right on his table and address him at eye level.

"You don't turn me away, Mr. Riddle," said the elf, waggling an insolent finger. "I has a message from the Order for you."

Voldemort snorted. This was so absurd it was actually funny. "You has?" he mocked. "And you has learned to use the pronoun 'I,' though your mastery of verbs remains limited. Perhaps I shall keep you on a chain, orc, and merely send your tongue back to the Order." He raised his wand to cast the Incarcerous, but the spell caught in his throat.

The elf was holding out a photograph of his locket, his cup, and his red book, laid out at the foot of the marble stairs of Hogwarts. A Dark Mark wove itself in the air above them, and Sirius Black stood on the next step, poised to crush the locket with his heel.

"Or perhaps you're out of time, Mr. Riddle," said Dobby calmly, and vanished with a loud crack.

As the Forbidden Forest began to overflow with Giants, the castle itself filled with wizards, arriving in clusters of five to eight around a Portkey. Arthur Weasley stood on one of the more sedentary staircases, earnestly scouting the Great Hall below for his wife. He chewed nervously at a thumbnail. Messengers from the Ministry kept dashing up to deliver reports, and though he did his best to concentrate, his gaze flicked automatically to each new group as they popped into existence.

In some ways, he hoped she wouldn't make it before they had to seal the castle, even though he knew she'd charge the rear flank of the Dark Army if she couldn't meet them head-on.

He was interrupted from scanning by a huge, silvery-white wild turkey that whooshed in from above, making him leap back from the banister. "Don't do that!" he grumbled irritably at the Patronus. "Nearly gave me a coronary. Well, what is it?"

The turkey opened its little beak, but instead of gobbling, it spoke in Sirius Black's voice. "Molly's up here, in the Gryffindor common room. With her sisters." The turkey gave him a knowing look and faded into silvery wisps. Arther charged up the stairs two at a time. The Aurors could handle things for a few minutes.

"Wobbles," he murmured in her ear when he made it through the portrait hole. She grinned bashfully and tugged him back out in the corridor.

"Oh, don't get all mushy on me, Arthur. I'm fine. I'm the one who should be worried--you're a much more popular target than I am!"

Arthur shook his head. "Not if anyone realizes what you girls are up to."

She waved at him, rolling her eyes. "They'll never make it all the way up here. Now you get back down to the Great Hall. You're the Minister, Arthur; people are looking for you. Go inspire them, or something."

Scoffing, he squashed his wife in a desperate hug. "Just stay near that Portkey. If they push us back to the third floor, I want every one of you Daughters out of here, understand? I don't care where you are in your enchantment."

They eyed each other knowingly, each one willing the other to keep out of danger, each one grimly determined to see their role through to the end. "Be careful, pet," Molly said to her husband, biting her lip as she returned through the portrait hole, because she knew such a request was impossible.

The common room hadn't changed at all since her own days in Gryffindor, though she'd never seen it quite so packed with witches. There were only two males present: Draco Malfoy, who gaped at all the red and gold trappings with guilty discomfort, and Sirius Black, flopped comfortably in an armchair with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, beaming like he'd gone straight to heaven. Molly chuckled. Cheeky!

She edged her way over to Draco and tousled the frowzy tufts of fine blond hair poking unevenly from his scalp. "Never thought you'd see the inside of this tower, did you, lad?"

He shook his head. His voice was rather squeaky when he finally mumbled, "I can't believe I'm back in Hogwarts, full stop."

"Ah, ah!" She waggled an insistent finger at him. "None of that, now. You've earned your way back--we don't need remorse today. Remember why we're here!"

Draco bowed his head and inhaled deeply. "Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice already steadier.

She patted his shoulder kindly. Molly was proud of him. Draco had wanted no more to do with magic, snapping his ruined wand himself and casting the pieces into the fire where they burned with a sickly green. But anyone knowledgeable about phoenixes knew that Fawkes's fire would have killed the young wizard if he was beyond redemption. She'd convinced Draco not to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Draco had taken to Avallocian magic so naturally, just like Fabian... She forced herself to halt that train of thought. Grief and remorse had no place in Gryffindor Tower today.

"He's back!"

Ron had been stationed in the kitchens to await Dobby's return, and he was supposed to send up a Patronus to the Great Hall when the elf arrived. He ran up the stairs instead, hauling Dobby along by the arm.

The group around the staff table whirled as one to appraise the newcomers. Dobby's eyes were even wider than usual, and he looked several shades too pale. He held his head triumphantly high, however, and spoke clearly, albeit shakily.

"It was just as you said, Master Weasley. They was making me to wait, and I listened with the Wizarding Ears. Mr. Riddle told... Mr. Malfoy to cut off my head and post it back." His skinny fingers clamped the back of the nearest chair. "So I was popping right to his desk and showing him the photograph."

"And? Did he say anything?" urged Professor McGonagall.

Dobby shuddered. "I didn't stay long enough to be finding out, Headmistress. He took one look at the photograph and his eyes flared up like coals before the bellows, and I'm thinking, 'Time for a hasty retreat.'" The house-elf cringed apologetically.

"You did the right thing, Dobby," said Arthur Weasley with a kind nod. "No wizard could have gone through those wards to take a message to Voldemort--or lived to tell about it." Dobby's color returned and he gazed at his mismatched socks with humility, but said nothing.

This was just as well, for the mood in the room had sombered. The witches and wizards exchanged hard glances and set their jaws. They had drawn a line in the sand. War was coming.

Voldemort sealed off his chambers first, then the entire hallway, and began to pace. He hadn't anticipated this. Never. He'd fretted about it many times, which is why he'd taken lengths to hide the Horcruxes so diligently, and to exterminate that fool Slughorn. But Slughorn had eluded his grasp, and there were always more important things to attend--or so it seemed at the time.

"How DARE he?" Voldemort exclaimed, grabbing his writing table and flipping it over with a smash. Slughorn was supposed to be too self-absorbed to remember the casual question about multiple Horcruxes, from all those years ago. If he remembered, he was supposed to be too simple-minded to understand its significance. If he understood, he was supposed to be too cowardly to incriminate himself by speaking of it.

The Dark wizard snapped suddenly to a halt. Dumbledore had brought Slughorn to Hogwarts. Of course. There was seemingly no end to that man's interference.

Voldemort resumed pacing. He must assume the signet ring had been discovered and destroyed. He'd suspected this ever since the thing went missing, but without proof, he'd dared to reassure himself it had probably been stolen solely for its value as a Slytherin artifact. But if Dumbledore managed to collect those others, you could bet he'd found the ring.

Dumbledore! Even in death, the old coot was tormenting him. Potter and Black could never have found those Horcruxes on their own. The Red Book had been stashed in the most unassuming of places, while the locket had been utterly secured in the cave. The Malfoy boy must have betrayed the cup; there was simply no other explanation. Why, only one Horcrux remained absolutely secure!

There was nothing for it. The Dark Lord needed to retrieve his property.

Winky hiccupped and eyed Dobby with contempt. "You is the wickedest house-elf ever," she snarled.

Dobby looked up from the hauberk he was trying to put on. Though small, as if it had been made for a child, the mail shirt was still too large for him. He was determined to wear it, though. You couldn't just go into battle dressed in everyday clothes--especially not this battle.

"Oh, you doesn't know a thing," he chided. "Hold this," he said, handing her one of the sleeves. It was made out of the finest white silver rings and weighed less than a feather--yet was as tough as dragon scales. Despite its beauty and craftsmanship, Winky took it between two reluctant fingers like a piece of moldy old bread.

"Winky knows you be not only wearing clothes, you's going fighting in a Wizard war," she scorned. "You's gone clear round the bend, you has. Not any sort of normal elf at all."

Dobby rolled his eyes, glad she wasn't aware he'd been reading, too. His peers would probably stone him to death if word got out. Yet it was precisely because of reading that he was now gearing up to face death in battle. Funny how ideas gets you into so much trouble, he mused as he finally popped his head through the correct hole.

"This war isn't just about wizards," he corrected her irritably as he threaded his arm carefully into a sleeve. "It goes further than that. Do you know why house-elves serves the wizards, Winky?"

She sniggered in disbelief. "That's what we does, you numbskull. We's always serving wizards!"

"Not always," Dobby countered firmly. "We once fought against them. No, it's true!" he responded to her look of utter shock at his heretical claim. "We was forced to battle all kinds of good wizards and men, until we was setted free from a terrible master. Even after that, some of our kind fighted on their owns. But many understood they was wrong. Wrong to be serving the Dark One. They was grateful to the wizards for setting them bang to rights again. So they was vowing to serve good this time, out of gladness."

Winky was having none of this blasphemy. She smacked him with the end of his own sleeve. "You is full of it," she snarled.

He smiled wryly. "I's full of something," he agreed somewhat cryptically. "But I knows it's true. We can fight against wizards. We was doing it before, on the wrong side. Today I's fighting on the right side, Winky. I wishes you would, too. For honor."

He might has well have asked her to cut off her own foot and serve it to the headmistress. "There's no honor in fighting our masters," she said matter-of-factly. "You is just bringing more shame on us--you and your clothes, and your wages."

Even though Dobby had only been reading for six months, he'd learned a great deal. "So you says," he ceded quietly. He picked up the small sword that had hung beside the shirt of mail in the attic above the Headmaster's office. It glowed blue in his hand. "Tomorrow maybe will tell something else."

At that moment, a deep vibration shuddered through the stone foundations of the castle. Winky jumped and regarded him frightfully. "No needing to be scared just yet, missy," Dobby said reassuringly. "That was just sealing off the castle. No more Portkeys. There must be some Dark ones at the gate."

Winky eyed a nearby crate of butterbeer with desperation. "Oh no you doesn't!" Dobby snapped. "Not after all your talk of I bringing shame on all of us! They's needing lots of service real soon. You keeps your head on straight!"

Winky gave the crate a last longing glance, then smartly straightened the dishtowel she was wearing and stalked back to the kitchen. Dobby was right about one thing: they had an army to feed.

Alastor Moody glared at the crowd of anxious wizards rushing to join him atop the Astronomy Tower. Without exception, every one of them had scanned the balmy blue sky, then rushed to the parapet to examine the grounds... and then turned to him with a scowl. He held his ground until there were no more pounding feet on the stairwell, then addressed everyone at once, simply by tapping on his magical eye.

"Dementors," he added gruffly. "In two minutes." He turned and stared intently at the eastern horizon. If anyone begrudged Moody's slightly early closure of the castle's borders, they could keep it to themselves.

Soon all could see it, a gray cloud advancing far more quickly than any natural phenomenon. The landscape beneath it took on a dismal, yellowish hue, in stark contrast to the fresh spring greens gleaming in the sunlight to either side. The air began to cool.

"Will they hold?" someone asked breathlessly. Pointlessly, in Moody's opinion. The wards were the best they could set, but obviously they wouldn't last forever. Even Dumbledore hadn't been able to keep the foul things completely off the grounds.

The cloud came to an abrupt halt at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. Bolts of lightning arced to the ground, following the contours of the magical wards. Seconds later, the thunder reached the tower, mingled with the incensed wails of the Dementors. "That set them off!" Moody observed staunchly, then noticed he had no audience. He glowered at the sorcerers instinctively backing towards the stairs. "Oh, do get hold of yourselves!"

He turned back to the eastern border and raised his wand to reinforce the wards, hoping some of his colleagues could master their fear. "For Harry," said a voice in the crowd. Moody smiled.

Though it was hot and stuffy inside Gryffindor Tower, the windows remained closed against the clash of combat and the advancing presence of Dementors. Dark Giants had waded past the wards and were rekindling old grudges with the expatriates, while more civilized Sasquatch Giants were taking quite a beating. Fortunately, they far outnumbered their opponents, and three "soft" Giants could more than stand up to one scrappy enemy. The Whomping Willow had joined the fray and was mostly dispatching Dark Giants, though not so much out of loyalty as the fact that the Order had strongly warned their forces to steer clear of the tree.

Human combatants would have appeared small as ants from the tower, but this battle could be seen quite clearly. Most of the Daughters of Modron (and one Son) were pacing, fidgeting, or otherwise discharging nervous energy about the common room. Sirius Black, however, was the picture of serenity, chatting up a veritable coven of fair, anxious witches.

Draco couldn't stand it any longer. He took a detour past the couch and hissed, "Why don't we start?" into his cousin's ear.

Black caught his wrist and swung the younger man around the chair, tugging him down to sit on a low table. "Far too early. We're only the bait, remember? Voldemort has to believe there's a chance he can recover them. Otherwise there's no point in wasting his time attacking. He'd be better off to take the loss and make more."

Draco rubbed his brow, attempting to thwart an oncoming headache. "But how do you know? Potter might already--"

"If Harry was in position," he interrupted pointedly, "the Dark Army would be racing back to Siberia." Black's mien relaxed. "Besides, you know how far they had to walk. It's what, two AM where Harry is now? We'll start the enchantment around midnight, when he and Tura are back on the road. They should arrive at the keep by sunrise here. Go upstairs and get some sleep, Draco," he added kindly.

Draco nodded listlessly and slouched into a chair by the window. Presently he noticed a distinct chill spilling from the glass. Flashes of red and green light suddenly dotted the eastern borders.

"The Death Eaters broke through," he said, but not a sound left his lips.

"Do we still spare Potter for His Lordship?" said Amycus Carrow after he charged through the breach in the wards.

Rabastan Lestrange clenched his fists visibly in response. "You need to ask? Now? Did you pay any attention to the Master's instructions?"

Carrow whirled back around to face him. "Aren't you all high and mighty!" he sneered. "Specially for someone on the front lines. Now that Bella's gone, your name means nothing to the Master. You're out here to die."

"Yet I'm not alone, am I?" Lestrange snarled. "I noticed you're here too. See if you can't--"

Amycus Carrow might have interrupted with a snide remark, but he never had a chance. An arrowhead was poking from the center of his throat. There were some bubbling, choking sounds, then silence. A centaur stepped out of the trees, another arrow already nocked and drawn.

Not another soul was in sight. The Death Eaters were ordered to penetrate the wards by splitting into pairs and finding weak spots. Lestrange processed the situation in an instant. There was no one to witness his next move, no one to carry word of his actions back to the Dark Lord. Lestrange was a coward, but he was a smart coward. He dropped to his knees. "I surrender," he said evenly.

The centaur simply stared at him, motionless.

"Come now! Don't tell me you're as thick as the one you just disposed of!" he spat. "I surrender. I'm your prisoner now. Take me up to the castle and turn me over to the wizards. They'll decide what to do with me." None of which will involve the Cruciatus or death--with any luck they'll send me to the dungeons. He knew the Order had no soldiers to spare. If they assigned anyone at all to guard him, it would be someone useless for battle--someone he could easily murder. Then he could disappear in the warren of passages within Slytherin House, and invent some appropriate alibis.

The centaur met his eyes, and with a cold gasp Lestrange realized that there were no witnesses to the archer's actions, either.

There was the barest flicker of motion. A thin wood shaft seemed to pop into existence just under his nose, three feathers fletched along its axis. Lestrange saw it, had just enough time to marvel at the oddity, then fell dead.

The chill was almost unbearable. Neville leaped uneasily over the wrist of an unconscious giant. Tonks could really move when she set her mind to it. He had to push himself to keep up.

"To the north!" she shouted over her shoulder. He saw the flock of dementors, a dark vortex of tatters and streaks whirling above the Divination tower. He raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum!" A dozen shining toads sprang from his wand and bounded spiritedly toward their target. Tonks flashed him a thumbs-up.

A silvery Jack Russell terrier scampered into the sky to their left. Neville darted behind the rock. "Ron and Luna," he panted, pointing at the Patronus. Tonks nodded, still catching her breath.

"You see any Death Eaters?" she presently asked.

He shook his head. "Just passed-out giants. But I saw some wandlight by the lake. We should back up Ron."

"No," she declared firmly. "It must've been a reflection--there's no way they'd be coming across the lake yet. If there are any hostiles about, they'll be in front of us, here. We need to hold our own. Forward!"

Neville bit his lip, but he followed her into their assigned zone. She was right. Their duty was to hold the enemy back from the castle until morning, if possible. A hint of sunset filtered through the area just vacated by the Dementors. It was going to be a long night.

A similar conversation was taking place a few hundred meters away. "They're fine, Luna! Probably worried about us! So stop fretting already!"

"I don't fret, pet," she said warmly. "But as long as it's quiet, it seems like we ought to--"

"Ssst!" hissed Ron, stepping suddenly away and motioning for her to duck down.

Luna flopped obediently onto her belly, just as a bolt of green energy scorched over her. Ron pointed his wand into the shadows and mouthed, "Expelliarmus!"

A wand whipped through the air, accompanied by an angry tirade. Ron grinned at Luna, but froze when he saw her look of intense concentration. Nolo Gravitiae! she murmured, her wand slashing violently upward. There was a puffing sound, then a swirling mist gushed from the ground ahead. Other voices joined the first, trying to find a way out of the bank of fog.

Ron gaped at Luna. "Anti-Gravity Mist," she whispered brightly from the grass. "That should keep them busy for a bit. I'm pretty sure there's another band of them just to the left, though." A twig snapped somewhere in that direction, confirming her suspicion.

Ron dropped where he stood. This was bad. These Death Eaters must have crossed the lake; wasn't someone supposed to be guarding the far side? Doesn't matter now, he thought. They're here, and we're in a Hot Zone. He crawled through the tangled undergrowth to Luna's side. "There's a breach somewhere," he whispered. "They shouldn't be so close. We've got to warn the castle!"

Luna nodded, delicately raising a finger to her lips for silence. Only seconds later, a pair of booted feet tromped into view beyond the brush, not three meters distant.

"Keep your eyes peeled," said a low voice. Another, further away, began calling instructions into the mist, guiding the enshrouded Death Eaters to the exit.

A look that almost resembled alarm appeared on Luna's face, while there was no mistaking it on Ron's. He carefully showed her three fingers, trying not to move too quickly. She gave her head the tiniest shake and pointed with two fingers at four different spots along an arc in front of them.

Eight enemies! He raised his brows to ask if she was sure. Luna scrunched her lips into a pout; her answer was clearly, "Would I lie about this?" There were at least three more floundering about in the mist. Once they were freed, things would become very grim, very quickly.

The boots took a step closer. It was dark, but not that dark. They were only seconds from being spotted. Ron gave her his sternest look, hoping she would understand: Stay down!

Suddenly it was as though the sun burst through the clouds, but it was already past sunset. During the instant it took Ron's eyes to adjust, the owner of the boots crumpled to the ground. Noise and chaos everywhere: thudding sounds as objects struck the ground nearby, the shouts of the Death Eaters, and a roaring sound from above...

An oddly familiar roar, and familiar voices whooping...

"Oi! Laying about again?"

Ron froze, but Luna was already on her feet. "Hello, Fred!" She cheerfully took the hand reaching down from the rusty Ford Anglia floating at shoulder level. "Get in, Ronald!" she chided gently after clambering into the back seat, then chirped, "Hello, George!"

"Our pleasure," said George from behind the steering wheel. "Pardon a moment" he said, lobbing another projectile through the window at a Death Eater in the headlights. It landed with a distinctive thud at the witch's feet, where it burst open like a clamshell and released a puff of pink vapor.

Ron was only halfway in the car when George hit the gas and launched them into the air, flipping off the headlights. "Hold a moment!" Ron squealed, but Fred merely grabbed the back of his pants and hauled him into the car.

"Always were slow, Ronnie," he said. "Amazing you've made such a good Keeper."

Ron was sputtering a reply when Luna effortlessly changed the subject. "Where'd this wonderful Ford come from?"

"We were out setting traps in the Forbidden Forest," began Fred.

"Won't be anyone getting through there anytime soon," noted George confidentially.

"... and our dear old Anglia approached us," said Fred fondly.

"Very social creatures, cars," added George.

"Needed a bit of polishing, didn't you?" Fred asked, giving the dashboard an affectionate pat.

"So we thought we'd do with an aerial assault," said George.

"He who controls the skies controls the war," Fred observed sagely.

"Very handy for dropping MunDung bombs," said George, swerving suddenly toward a flash of wandlight off to their left. "Something special we cooked up. Same principle as a Dung bomb, except--"

"--rather than stink, they turn the unfortunate victim into a compulsive kleptomaniac." Fred scooped up a handful of grenades from a box on the front seat and began tossing them out the window.

"One whiff and they'll steal pebbles from the ground--"

"Or pull every leaf off the nearest tree," concluded Fred as he settled back on the seat with a satisfied grin. "Keeps them occupied for at least an hour." Below them, little pink clouds blossomed briefly, presumably sending some Death Eaters into a hoarding frenzy.

"Strong work," Ron said, then clambered over the seat to displace George from behind the wheel. "Give over!" he said firmly, ignoring the twins' protests. "My girlfriend's in this car; there's no way I'm letting you drive."

By ten o'clock, the flashes of magic had come no closer, but were steadily increasing in number all around the grounds. Sirius finally lost his composure and was pacing before the windows, wringing his hands.

Molly Weasley had pulled her chair right in front of the portrait hole. She raised her hand forbiddingly before he could open his mouth. "You chose to be here, Sirius," she reminded him sternly. "You can't back out now."

"But--"

Her hand clamped down over his mouth. "Your time's coming. This was your choice!" She gazed at him sadly. "To finish your brother's work. We need you here, Sirius."

He whirled away, stamping his foot in frustration. He knew better than to argue, but every green jet of light below made him wince. People were fighting for their lives, and he was just sitting here in the tower...

"No buts!" said Molly as he whirled back around to face her.

She left her armchair and put a matronly arm around him. "Do you think it's easy for me to sit while all seven of my children are out there? And Arthur?" She clicked her teeth. "Even so, not one of them would change places with me--or you. Ours is the nasty work."

She gave him a knowing look and continued in a lighter tone. "I think I know why the Lady favors you. Some call her the 'Starlight Lady,' you know. I reckon she's one of your ancestors--and that's why all the Blacks are named after stars or constellations."

Sirius paused to consider that a moment. "You really think so? But the Blacks have been Dark for generations!"

Molly shrugged. "Well, there's always a few bad apples." She smiled. "Come on. Might as well start the ritual. All the foul magic around the castle will slow things down anyway."

A lamp filled with oil smashed into the far wall of the barracks, immediately starting a smoky fire on the stones. Lucius Malfoy doused it discreetly while the Master raged.

"I will behead every Giant on the North American continent," Voldemort snarled, pacing. It was not in Malfoy's nature to feel empathy, particularly toward other Death Eaters, but he couldn't help but pity the wretch cowering before His Lordship. It wasn't Yaxley's fault that Hogwarts was well-defended.

Voldemort whirled to Malfoy. "What of Fenrir's troops?"

"Ready to Apparate, my lord," purred Lucius soothingly. "He kept them hungry but under control last night, so they'd be ready for a repeat performance. All but a few have transformed back to human; the first wave can attack on your command."

Voldemort turned back to the courier. "Tell the vanguard to withdraw from the grounds. Send Fenrir first, then his 'men.' I'd like him well within the wards before moonrise." Yaxley gave a single clipped bow and darted off, sweat beading all along his forehead.

Voldemort sighed, then idly repaired the lamp he'd smashed. "Lucius," he said quietly. "Although I would wish otherwise, I fear we'll have to unleash all our forces."

Malfoy nodded. "Between the beasts and the Inferi, many beautiful things will be destroyed."

The Dark Lord sighed again, heaving his shoulders. "I know. There's nothing for it, though. I can't let them get away with this. I must take Hogwarts now."

Wishing he'd taken five precious minutes to beat the message out of that cursed house-elf, Malfoy smiled encouragingly at Voldemort. "You will, my lord. We'll have Potter, Weasley, Black, and the others routed by this time tomorrow."

Voldemort peered at him coldly, then smirked. "Indeed. Yes 'we' will," he

sneered. "I suggest you prepare, Lucius--you'll be leading the Inferi in at dawn, GMT." The blond aristocrat did a good job covering his shock, but not completely. "Must have my best men at the helm," he added patronizingly. "I know you won't fail me again."

Malfoy nodded just as Yaxley had and left. He understood the Master completely. Victory was the only option. Victory or death.

He wished he could talk to Severus.

The man clamped a hand over her mouth and whispered into her ear until he was sure she wouldn't scream. "Don't DO that!" Hermione hissed.

"Sorry," he whispered back. "Vasn't much choice." Viktor leaned his broomstick against a tree and crouched beside her. "Nothing to see at moment," he reported. "There is group of three up there--" he pointed "--pawing on ground for rocks. I hope Veasleys brought many of pink bombs."

Hermione nodded. So far, the battle had consisted mostly of defense against Dementors. Pity there was no way to destroy the horrible things, but really, once you had your Patronus, they were only a nuisance. The Giants apparently hadn't expected any resistance and had fought fiercely, but they never made it far enough to threaten the castle. And thus far, the Death Eaters had been kept at bay.

The round, golden moon rising in the east, however, could only bring trouble.

Viktor followed her gaze. "They von't dare," he said. "Vere-oolfs are too unreliable for veapons. Vill turn on friends and enemies." Despite his comments, he reached for his broom and kept it in hand.

"I don't like this," Hermione said uneasily. "Too quiet. I haven't sent off a Patronus in fifteen minutes." She scowled at the moon, dull and heavy as it crested the horizon. "They're planning something."

As if in response, a canine howl broke out in the distance and was cut off with a sudden yelp.

Viktor mounted the broom and yanked her to his chest in an instant, but Hermione gave him a mighty shove. "Settle!" she hissed. "I'm not leaving unless we've no choice."

"Choice vill be mine," Viktor growled stubbornly, but loosened his grip. Another howl issued from a new direction, closer to the main gates. They stood back-to-back, wands at the ready. The air turned chill.

At the same moment, they turned to each other in comprehension. A coordinated attack! By defending themselves against the Dementors, their Patronus would give their position away to the werewolves. Viktor gestured silently with his hand, bringing the broomstick up beneath them.

Hermione stomped on his foot, scowling. "When did you become such a chicken?" she whispered.

"Ven I fell in love vith insane fearless girl," he said simply, reluctantly releasing her waist once again.

They turned as one to the sound of cracking foliage, but soon spotted Tonks on the move, and waved her down. "Wotcher!" she panted cheerfully. "Reckon we'll see some canine action pretty quick!"

"I don't suppose Professor Lupin taught you any tricks for handling them?" Hermione asked.

Tonks bent over to catch her breath. "Only that the silver bullet business is a myth. Pure rubbish," she added, straightening back up as Neville finally arrived. "Cutting off their heads'll do nicely." They all stared at her. "What?" she squawked. "These hounds aren't like my Remus. They're with Greyback! More animal than man anymore."

"Is right," said Viktor grimly. "Killing may be only defense. If you do not have stomach, take broom and go back to castle," he said, though his tone was kindly, not provocative.

Hermione started to reply when Neville pointed frantically behind them. They felt it rather than hear it: a vibration in the earth, the pounding footfalls of a large, heavy creature.

The three younger sorcerers instinctively shrank back, but Tonks stepped up, whipping something from inside her robe and tossing it to the ground. With a flick of her wand, there was the characteristic whoosh of a magical expansion. She leaned forward and put her foot on the thing she'd enlarged.

"Mental!" gasped Neville. "She means to become like Lupin!"

Tonks, however, snapped suddenly upright, the handle of a ripcord in her hand. There was a tremendous rumbling roar, and she picked up the object and brandished it with both hands.

The wizards continued to gape, but Hermione immediately launched a Patronus. The silvery light of her otter illuminated the chain saw as Tonks whirled it onto the head of the lead wolf.