Harry Potter 1. Tenebrae

(Standard Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and anything else you recognize from Jo Rowling's books, belongs to Jo Rowling. Lucy Stellanova (Clarice Starling), and anything else you might recognize from Thomas Harris' books, belongs to Thomas Harris. All else is mine. CC)  
  
  
There wasn't much for Harry, Ron and Hermione do, as far as being boat-tenders went. Remus was doing all the work; Harry guessed that their real role was to act as security guards for the virtually helpless first-years, in case there were Death Eaters nearby.  
  
Each of them had entered a boat filled with first-years, as did Remus and Lucy. Then, after all the boats were filled, Remus, who sat in the bow of the lead boat, called out "Forward!", setting all the boats in motion.  
  
The little boats proceeded silently over the lake, its surface shimmering in the light of a first-quarter moon. The first-years oohed and aaahhed as they got their first sight of Hogwarts, its thousand-year-old turrets rising up from the island cliff that jutted from the mists of the lake.  
  
They reached the ivy-covered gap in the cliff, and at Remus' command, everyone ducked their heads to pass through. Everyone, that is, but a somewhat dreamy-minded first-year girl in Ron's boat. Luckily, she only got a bump on her forehead out of it.  
  
The boats soon landed at the underground, pebble-strewn landing. Remus, his electric-blue robes gleaming in the moonlight, escorted the group up the secret path, and in a very short while they were all standing at the entrance to Hogwarts Castle.  
  
Looking more impressive than Harry had ever yet seen him, Remus then recited his version of the speech with which Professor McGonagall was wont to greet all new first-year students. Harry's mind, however, was on different things.  
  
The Ministry must be hard-pressed if they're letting Remus come back to teach at Hogwarts in spite of his lycanthropy, Harry thought. But, then again, the person likeliest to make a row would be Lucius Malfoy -- and now that his son Draco   
had just revealed himself to be a Death Eater, Malfoy's leverage, already quite diminished ever since Fudge and MacNair died, would probably not suffice to undo Remus' appointment.  
  
Harry wondered if Draco's father was over at Azkaban, or if he was part of the attack on the train. Or did he instead try to stay in the background, as usual, and let others do the dirty work? Lucius Malfoy was not noted for his personal courage.  
  
An elbow, jabbing into his ribs, interrupted his thoughts. The elbow belonged to Hermione.  
  
"Earth to Harry," she whispered sarcastically into his ear. "Did you hear a word of what Remus said?"  
  
"Er, no."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We're going to walk behind the first-years, along with Lucy," she continued, "while Remus walks in front. Then we'll take our seats before the Sorting starts. Come on!"  
  
They entered the castle and proceeded directly to the Great Hall.   
  
=================  
  
The first thing Harry noticed, after taking his seat, was that none of the tables were as full as they should have been. For starters, a large number of students were missing. The biggest gaps were over at the Slytherin table, but there were some missing from the other tables as well.   
  
Harry stole a glance up at the head table. Acting Headmistress McGonagall was there, as were Professors Sprout, Flitwick, Vector, Sinistra, Binns, and most of the others. Dumbledore was not. Hagrid was not. Snape was not.   
  
Harry's stomach lurched.  
  
At a nod from McGonagall, Professor Lupin commenced the Sorting Ceremony, placing the three-legged stool in front of the assembled first-years, then putting the Sorting Hat, that dusty, worn relic as old as Hogwarts itself, on the stool. He then gave a Sorting speech that was a near-perfect mirror of the one traditionally given by Professor McGonagall, and the Sorting was soon underway.  
  
He would have dearly loved to been able to ask Lucy if she knew where the missing staff members were, but she was up at the staff table. She was sitting next to a blushing Professor Flitwick, who could not take his eyes off of her, much to Professor Sprout's consternation. Harry couldn't help smiling as he saw Lucy, looking as carefree as ever, graciously withstanding the amazed stares of staff and students alike.   
  
"What's Lucy doing up there?" Ron wondered. "Is she joining the staff already?"  
  
"I don't know," replied Harry, watching the Sorting Hat put the girl who had bumped her head, whose name was Emma Barwin, into Ravenclaw. "I don't think so. I think she's just at the staff table as a guest of the school."  
  
"She did a bang-up job on Malfoy and the others," observed Hermione, who was sitting on Harry's right. "Did you see Flint's face when he saw what had happened to them? He looked like someone dropped a piano on him."  
  
"Ah, so you got Malfoy and Flint's carriage, eh?" said Fred Weasley, on Ron's left. "We got the one with Pansy Parkinson and Milicent Bulstrode. Eeeeewwww."  
  
"What did you do to them?", Harry asked, just as the Gryffindor table rose to applaud its first new member for the year, a tall Irish boy named Sean Conway.  
  
"Nothing fancy, unfortunately," frowned Fred as he clapped. "Just the standard stun-and-bind. Though I was tempted to try out my new Itching Jinx -- got the idea from Dr. Reader the last time we were at Offhand Manor."  
  
"Yeah, I remember that," Ron said, grinning. "You guys went through every curse-breaker you knew of before it occurred to you that it was just plain old non-magical itching powder."  
  
The Sorting Ceremony proceeded quickly. Aside from the Gryffindor table, there wasn't much cheering of the new Sortees. Hufflepuff and Slytherin were especially muted; Hufflepuff, because they were still mourning the loss of Cedric Diggory; Slytherin, because they had so few members in attendance.  
  
When the last Sortee had jogged off to the Hufflepuff table, Remus retrieved both hat and stool as Acting Headmistress McGonagall stood to speak.   
  
Harry noticed that she was wearing dark blue robes of a familiar cut; he realized that she must have acquired them, custom-made, from the same Paris couturier that Lucy herself favored. McGonagall had purchased new glasses, too: she wasn't wearing her old square-lensed ones, but stylish gold-rimmed, smoked-lensed spectacles. If as much of her rubbed off on Lucy as Lucy has on her, Harry thought, then Lucy must be one very strong witch already.  
  
Her new look notwithstanding, McGonagall still was every bit as formidable as before, if not more so. Her steely gaze swept the Great Hall, and a sudden hush fell as the students and staff waited for her to speak.  
  
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, in her standard stern yet calm teacher's voice. "I am Professor McGonagall, Acting Headmistress on behalf of Headmaster Dumbledore, who is currently away from the school but is expected back shortly."   
  
A large burst of applause rippled over the Great Hall, starting at the Gryffindor table. Professor McGonagall let it subside before continuing.  
  
"As are our Potions Master, Professor Snape --" there was some booing at this point, but it was largely smothered by the cheers from the Slytherin table "-- and our Care of Magical Creatures instructor, Mr. Rubeus Hagrid." Harry, Ron and Hermione were immediately on their feet, cheering and clapping rapturously, at that last bit of news; half of the rest of the school joined them in short order.  
  
"I would also like to welcome to Hogwarts two persons, one whom many of you know already as a teacher, and another about who most of you have heard much over the summer. Professor Lupin is rejoining us in his former capacity as the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, and I, for one, am heartily glad to see him here again. Welcome back, Professor Lupin!"  
  
The applause was deafening.   
  
Every single Gryffindor was on his or her feet cheering, and most of the other students were, too. Remus, who by now was seated next to Lucy, was taken quite by surprise; he had to resort to fiddling with his napkin to conceal the fact that his eyes had suddenly gone misty. Lucy patted his arm and whispered something into his ear; whatever it was, it made him laugh out loud. Harry had never before seen him so happy.  
  
"And tonight we have, as an honored guest of the school, Miss Lucy Stellanova, who many of you know as the assistant to Dr. Marcus Reader, who is working at St. Mungo's and has helped many of its patients."  
  
Lucy got nearly as big a hand as did Remus; Neville in particular clapped and shouted, even out-shouting Harry. She smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, her cabochon emerald earrings gleaming in the light of the floating candles, and at that moment half the boys in the room lost their hearts to her.  
  
McGonagall herself was smiling broadly, having abandoned all attempts at keeping a stern exterior. When the noise finally subsided to a dull roar, she spoke again.  
  
"Since I am acting in the Headmaster's place," she said laughingly, "I will endeavor to conduct these proceedings exactly as he would have, were he here tonight. To that end, I command you all to Tuck In!"  
  
And with that, the tables suddenly groaned with delicious food, and everyone did as the Acting Headmistress had bid.   
  
It was the most memorable feast Harry had ever witnessed at Hogwarts. This was partly because of the unusual circumstances, what with McGonagall running things and so many people missing, and partly because he was getting the chance to see a Muggle-born-and-reared person, a person that he knew, sitting at a Hogwarts feast table for the very first time and bathed in the light of thousands of floating candles.   
  
He looked at the person that everyone present but himself knew as "Lucy Stellanova". Former FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling didn't spook easily, and she had had nearly two months' time to adjust to the existence of the wizarding world, and to the fact that she was herself now a part of this world. But there were certain things she had never before seen, one of them being steaming-hot fried chicken with biscuits and gravy magically appearing on the golden dinner plate in front of her. Harry saw her flinch, and saw Professors Flitwick and Lupin smile at her, making her smile bashfully in return as she shook her head.  
  
She really does look almost veela-like, Harry thought as he studied her from the Gryffindor table. Veela-like, except that veela beauty is silvery and cold and fake, and she is golden and warm and real. That might be a problem for her, what with all the girls here who probably already hated her guts because of it. But then, it was a problem for her in the Muggle world, too -- so much so that her immediate supervisor at the FBI did everything he could to get her and her friends killed, simply because she refused to be his mistress. Harry hoped that she wouldn't run into any Krendlers in the wizarding world.   
  
The desserts came and went, and the feast drew to a close. Professor McGonagall rose to her feet, and the hall fell silent.  
  
"I have a few start-of-term announcements to make before the prefects take you to your dormitories for the night.  
  
First-year students should know that the forest on the forest on the school grounds is forbidden to all pupils regardless of year. Also, magic is not to be used in the school corridors between classes. And, due to the need for precautions in light of recent Death Eater activity --" Harry saw a shiver run through everyone in the hall, teachers and students included, but McGonagall was not one to mince words "-- students going to Hogsmeade must do so only in groups of three or larger.  
  
"In closing, I wish you all a very good night. You may go now."  
  
The prefects assembled the members of their respective houses. Everyone was tired and stuffed to the brim with food; despite the events of the day, sleep would probably follow in very short order, even for the first-years in Harry's carriage.   
  
Harry, Ron and Hermione decided to wait a few minutes for the crush to thin out before joining the rest of the Gryffindors. In addition, Harry wanted to say good-bye to Lucy, who would be leaving for London right away.   
  
They were about to approach the head table when Lucy and Remus, whose faces suddenly looked rather grim, signaled to them.  
  
"We just got news from Jack Crawford," Lucy said in a low voice, as Remus drew them all into an out-of-the-way alcove. "All of the Death Eaters we captured are dead."  
  
Harry and his friends were stunned into silence.  
  
Draco Malfoy.   
  
Vincent Crabbe.   
  
Gregory Goyle.   
  
And Flint, and Bulstrode, and Parkinson, and all the others.   
  
All persons they had known, albeit hated, for years. Persons with whom they had shared meals and classes. Persons who had been a part of their lives.  
  
When he finally could make himself speak, it was in a whisper.   
  
"How did it happen?"  
  
"They died just as they were about to be given Veritaserum," Lucy replied darkly. Her hands kept clenching and relaxing, as if she wanted to put them around someone's throat. "They apparently were killed in order to keep from giving away their secrets. All of them were under a special sort of charm, a Tenebrae Charm."  
  
"Tenebrae Charm?" whispered Ron.  
  
"It's a two-part charm used by Dark Arts practitioners," answered Remus, his eyes scanning the hall to make sure they were unobserved. "The first part is cast well in advance. If a Dark witch or wizard who has been given the charm is caught and about to be forced to divulge information, he or she -- or anyone else who was present when the first part of the charm was made -- whispers a trigger word, usually 'tenebrae', hence the name. That sets the rest of the spell in motion, which shuts down the user's heart and other vital organs. There's no known counterspell."  
  
"That's horrible," Hermione said in a soft, shocked voice.   
  
"It is," agreed Remus, his face pale with shock. "What makes it worse is that most of the persons who were put under that charm -- and, since this is a charm that takes many years to master, I'll wager that very few of the persons under it were able to put it on themselves -- weren't full-fledged Death Eaters, but only their children."  
  
"Only their _children?_ Even at _Azkaban?_" Harry was astonished.  
  
"Yes, even there. Voldemort wanted to make a lightning strike, hoping apparently to take us by surprise and to initiate the future generation of Death Eaters at the same time. But he didn't want to send his most seasoned troops, not yet."  
  
"So he forced his devotees to let him send their children to their deaths?"   
  
"Exactly," Remus replied, his soft voice quivering with mingled anger and sorrow. "And his followers were craven enough to acquiesce to such a obscenity."  
  
"It'd be one thing if the kids were doing this of their own free will," whispered Lucy through clenched teeth, "but it looks like they were put under the Imperius Curse first, in order to make them accept the Tenebrae Charm. And as Remus says, once the charm was placed on them, anyone present during the casting could speak the trigger word and perform the spell in case any of the kids got cold feet. That's what happened tonight: When none of the kids would do it, one of the adults did."  
  
"Merlin's beard," said Ron, who looked like he was about to vomit. "Merlin's beard. So that's what we're up against."  
  
"It is indeed," nodded Lucy. "It is indeed."  
  
========  
  
"Miss Skeeter," said Marcus Reader, escorting his visitor into the study, "this is an unexpected pleasure."  
  
The reporter for the _Daily Prophet_ smiled unpleasantly as she sat in the leather chair opposite his desk. She waited for him to be seated, then she got right to the point:  
  
"Let's hope you still feel that way when I'm through here, Dr. Reader -- or should I say, Dr. _Lecter?_"  
  
The man known to most of his acquaintances as "Dr. Reader" did not respond immediately. Instead, he let the ensuing silence build, his eyes fixed on Rita Skeeter's own, his finely-boned imperial countenance registering absolute calm.   
  
Her acid smile wavered somewhat; this was not what she had expected. Anger, fear, terror, yes -- but not this magisterial silence.   
  
Could he be a wizard after all? No; no, of course not. He would have blasted her into atoms already, if he were.  
  
That last thought gave her the courage she needed to break the silence.  
  
"I'm surprised, Dr. Lecter. Don't you have anything to say to me?"  
  
"What would you have me say, Miss Skeeter?" Dr. Lecter replied, leaning back a fraction of an inch in his chair.   
  
There was another pause, while Rita Skeeter gathered her wits and her composure. "I'd like to hear you agree to my being allowed to follow Harry Potter around without restraint for as long as I like, Dr. Lecter."  
  
The doctor smiled. "Why do you need to do that, Miss Skeeter? From what I've read of your stories, you tend not to use the unadorned truth very much, if at all. You could write all sorts of stories about my ward without needing to come within ten miles of him."  
  
Rita Skeeter's smugly nasty smile returned. "If you don't let me near Harry, I'll write the unadorned truth about you."  
  
"And what sort of truth would that be, Miss Skeeter? If it's like most of your published statements, it's surely nothing you could ever prove."  
  
"Oh, I have no evidence -- just a few good guesses. I did some reading in the Muggle psychiatric journals, and there's only one man who was as good as the famous 'Dr. Reader' at getting inside of people's heads." Her thin-lipped smile grew even wider. "But that doesn't matter, Dr. Lecter," she continued, her eyes shining with glee. "I don't need any evidence, not any more. My readers trust me and believe me, no matter what I write. I've broken bigger men than you -- and they were wizards, while you are a mere Muggle. A mere helpless, defenseless Muggle," she finished, emphasizing the last words with relish.  
  
With one swift, elegant movement, Dr. Lecter rose to his feet. His dark sleek hair gleamed like an otter's pelt as he slowly moved towards Rita Skeeter.  
  
"A mere Muggle, Miss Skeeter?" Dr. Lecter queried softly.   
  
A knife was visible in his hand; it was Hannibal Lecter's favorite one, the Spyderco Harpy.  
  
A white-faced Rita Skeeter jumped from her chair, her wand out and pointed at the doctor. "Stupefy!" she cried out.  
  
The rush of energy flew from her wand, struck Dr. Lecter full in the chest.  
  
And harmlessly dissipated.  
  
"Oh, no," breathed Rita Skeeter. "_No!_"  
  
She let out a small, mewling cry, then changed into her beetle form and flew towards the doorway. She had almost cleared it when Dr. Lecter threw his knife at her.   
  
The Harpy, whistling through the air, pinned her straight through her exoskeleton, trapping her writhing against the doorjamb.   
  
"How very thoughtful of you to transform for me, Miss Skeeter," said Dr. Lecter as he carefully removed the Harpy from her dying beetle body, holding an open unused notebook underneath her to catch her as she fell. "It'll be far less bother to dispose of you this way."  
  
He slammed the notebook shut with a wet, crunchy snap.   
  
Then, humming a theme from Monteverdi, he crossed over to the fireplace and threw the notebook into the flames, waiting patiently until its ashes mingled indistinguishably with those from the pine logs burning merrily away.  
  
That job finished, he turned his attention to supper.  
  



	2. The Department of Mysteries

The next day was the start of the new term, and the start of the fifth year for Harry, Ron and Hermione.  
  
Word of the deaths of so many students, most of them Slytherins, had spread like wildfire among the houses. A pall hung over the school; there was virtually no horseplay, no cheerfulness, no happiness of any sort. All most of the students could do, even the ones who actively hated Malfoy and Parkinson and the other dead Death-Eaters-in-training, was concentrate on getting from class to class without breaking down in tears.  
  
The Three Musketeers did not by any means share every class. Hermione was loading up on advanced Astronomy and Arithmancy courses, while Ron and Harry both decided to take Muggle Studies, and even managed to drop their Divination class; it was an easy class to fake one's way to a good mark in, but both Harry and Ron had had quite enough of Madam Trelawney to last them several lifetimes.  
  
But one of the classes the three friends all shared was, of course, Potions.   
  
They were all intensely curious to see Professor Snape again, something they discussed in whispers as they made their way down the dungeon stairs to his classroom. What would he be like -- especially now that he had revealed himself to the three of them to be a Death Eater, albeit an allegedly-former one? What was the job he had performed for Dumbledore, the night of the third task? What had Dr. Reader done over the summer to make him more amenable where Harry was concerned?  
  
Most importantly: How would he handle the loss of so many members of his own house?   
  
The students, most of them Gryffindors, filed silently into the classroom. There was an unspoken agreement that seemed to have been reached between the Gryffindors and the surviving Slytherins; the usual strict seatings-by-house were abandoned, in favor of a looser style that made the gaping holes in the class far less obvious.  
  
A soft, rhythmic wooden tapping could be heard in the hallway. The students, now all seated by their cauldrons, turned around and craned their heads for a look.  
  
Professor Snape, leaning heavily on a cane, slowly entered the classroom.   
  
His face had a few extra lines, and not from aging. He did not frown; he did not smile. His face was, aside from the occasional grimace of pain as he walked, was devoid of expression.  
  
Looking neither left nor right, he made his way to the front of the classroom, walking past the desks and cauldrons as if they weren't there. No one dared move, much less speak.   
  
He faced the class, his hand on the cane with a white-knuckled grip. His black eyes slowly moved over his students, as if he were reckoning who was missing.  
  
"And so, it begins," he said in a voice just barely above a whisper. "Before we commence with the first class of this term, there are a few things which you all will need to hear.   
  
"You all will have heard about what happened last night. Some of you, in fact," and here his eyes rested upon Harry, Ron and Hermione for the briefest of moments, "were involved in defending your fellow students against the attack directed at the train. You could not know the fate that the Dark Lord had decreed for those of your classmates who were so unfortunate as to have been born into the wrong families. I wish to emphasize two things to you.   
  
"First, for those of you who helped subdue those of your fellows who were part of the assault on the train: Do not blame yourselves for their deaths. You did not kill them; Voldemort did."  
  
There was a ripple of dread that went round the room at the mention of the Dark Lord's name, but Snape appeared not to have heard it. He continued, in a voice that dripped scorn:  
  
"Secondly, you all will be hearing much talk from the parents of your dead classmates about how shocked, shocked they are that their sons and daughters would have been supporters of the Dark Lord. Do not believe them. They are merely trying to divert suspicion away from themselves, when they were themselves the ones who in the first place pushed their own children into Voldemort's service."  
  
Harry's eyes widened, and he shot quick glances at Ron and Hermione, who looked just as surprised as Harry was himself. Snape was, not to put too fine a point on it, publicly accusing several prominent witches and wizards, including Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, of being Death Eaters!  
  
He must be convinced that the surviving Slytherins are trustworthy, Harry surmised, and his cover among the Death Eaters must have been blown for good last night. And he must reckon that Lucius Malfoy's power to harm him has dwindled to next to nothing. There's no other way I can imagine Snape talking like this. If ever I wanted proof that he's on our side, he's just given it to me.  
  
"Are there any questions about this before I take up today's lesson?" Snape asked, relaxing his grip on his cane as he allowed himself to fall heavily into a chair he had just conjured; evidently his injury was too painful to allow him to stand for prolonged periods of time.  
  
The room was silent.  
  
"So be it," Snape said softly from his chair, his thin mouth curled into a somewhat-less bitter version of his customary sneer. "On with the lesson, then."  
  
===================  
  
MI5's and MI6's official headquarters are fairly prominent London buildings, the former being the stately Thames House on Millbank and the latter being a formidable modern building across the river at Vauxhall Cross. But their shared London liason office with the Department of Mysteries of the Ministry of Magic is another story, at least from the outside.  
  
Jack Crawford stepped out of the cab in front of a building that looked to be exactly what it was, a fairly typical, albeit particularly well-done, conversion of a turn-of-the-century industrial building into efficiently modern office space.  
  
He entered the large arched glass-and-brass double doors, found the brass-trimmed elevators, and punched "7". The elevator carried him up to the 7th floor, which according to the ground-floor building directory was entirely taken up by a British-American dot-com firm, Cyberspace Ltd.   
  
Once at the seventh floor, Crawford was confronted by a dingy-looking door with a tatty notebook-paper sign on it that read "Back on Monday" in scrawled laundry marker ink, in the casual manner befitting the ponytailed Muggle dot-com set. Crawford smiled thinly to himself. If it had actually been Monday, the sign would have read "Back tomorrow;" the guardian camouflage enchantment the Ministry used was a heuristic one, and one of the better ones around.  
  
"Buttercup 328," he said, and the door swung open and vanished.  
  
Jack Crawford found himself in the midst of a hive of quiet activity. He was in the exact center of a huge circular room, with private offices, conference rooms and a cafeteria on its rim surrounding and facing into the enormous open middle area, which was filled with desks at which a dozen wizards and witches were sitting.  
  
Muggle and wizard artifacts were cheek-by-jowl everywhere. State-of-the-art wireless encrypted T1 terminals were being used by robed wizards and witches with quills tucked behind their ears. Great glowing computer display screens were being projected in the air by magical means. Owls delivered tea trays and inter-office messages to persons in perfect Muggle bank-manager disguise, persons who were obviously as comfortable in Muggle attire as was Jack Crawford himself. One of these persons, a tall strapping blond man who looked as if his nose had once been crushed by either a Bludger or an opposing tackle's helmet, came into the middle of the circular room to greet Jack.  
  
"Jack Crawford, I presume?" said the blond man, holding out his hand for what Crawford hoped wouldn't be too strong a handshake. "Ned Peverel, Department of Mysteries. Welcome to our humble abode. We finally got it spiffed up last month."  
  
Jack spared a moment to glance around openly. "Nice place," he commented. "Didn't think the Tories would spring for anything this fancy during their budget-cutting drive. How'd you get Major to cough up the dough?"  
  
"He didn't. Marcus Reader did. Fabulous man, Reader," beamed Peverel, "the best Muggle I've ever met. First-rate mind; would have given even Dumbledore a run for his money in the wizarding department, if he'd been born with any magical ability at all. He heard from Arthur Weasley about our troubles with the Muggle Chancellor of the Exchequer, and decided to step in with a million pounds' worth of free gift."  
  
"You don't say," replied an astonished Crawford.  
  
"I do say. Plus, he's matey with the landlord, so he was able to get us a substantially lowered rental rate. I'm glad he's on our team."   
  
"I'll be dipped," was all Crawford could think of in response, as he followed Peverel into a private office.  
  
Peverel's office was a somewhat less cluttered version of the main floor, a mixture of magical and Muggle items. Ministry of Magic and British Secret Service credentials decorated the wall behind his desk. A bronze statuette of Pallas Athena shared space with a minibar on a credenza, and an messaging-owl perch stood near the large window that made up a good portion of the office's outer wall. Peverel waved Jack into a large Scandinavian-looking leather chair while he used his wand to rummage around in the minibar.  
  
"What's your poison, Jack? I've got Old Number Seven here, if you like."  
  
"I'll take bourbon-and-branch, if you have any," said Jack, settling into the sinfully comfy leather chair.   
  
Peverel shot him a discerning look. "A man after my own heart," he said, as he, without using his hands, poured a splash of cool spring water into a levitating tumbler, then fetched out some Leestown Eagle Rare and let a few fingers of it mingle with the water. "So how goes the hunt for the Blake-Smiths' killers?", he asked, sending the drink floating in the air to Crawford, who picked it up matter-of-factly.  
  
Crawford made a face. "Well, it depends. If by that you mean 'Do you have a clue which of the Death Eaters did the deed, I'd have to say 'Hell, no.' If what you mean is 'Do you think we can make them all pay for it?', I'd have to say 'Hell, yes.' And if what you mean is ' Do we have a good cover story that will satisfy both the next of kin and the Muggle authorities, then I'd have to say 'We've got a pretty good one worked up right now, and with a coat of paint or two it might even work.'"  
  
"I thought so," said Peverel, who had just fixed himself a drink identical to his guest's, and using the same method. "So you've interviewed Harry Potter, then?" he said, settling behind his desk, a filled tumbler floating into his hand. "Anything more to go on, since the twin attacks?"  
  
"Not yet. He was awake when the attacks took place, and his connection to Voldemort usually is strongest in his sleep. Reader's coached him in memory techniques, so we've been able to pull up some clean visuals of the interior of the cave where Voldemort's denned -- no outside pictures, though. We did get good visuals of various Death Eaters, especially one of a fellow who Voldemort calls 'Wormtail', who's apparently an unlicensed Animagus. He can turn into a rat."  
  
Peverel's eyebrows lifted a hair's breadth. "'Wormtail'. I should know that name."  
  
"That's because of the Marauder's Map, the magical surveillance map Harry Potter was tricked into giving to the fake Mad-Eye Moody last year. You probably heard about it from the debriefing paperwork. It was created by four Hogwarts students in the early 1970s as a way to monitor the comings and goings of various teachers, as well as showing all the ways in and out of the castle."  
  
Peverel whistled, impressed. "That's right, I remember now. How did Harry Potter get hold of the thing?"  
  
"Fred and George Weasley gave it to him; they'd managed to sneak it out of the caretaker's cabinet some years back, after it had been confiscated." Crawford leaned forward, his face intent, his eyes fixed on Peverel's. "The map, by the way, is signed with the nicknames of its creators: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs."   
  
Ned Peverel's blue eyes widened. "Merlin's brass balls," he swore in an undertone. "So you think this Wormtail of the map is the same as the Wormtail hanging around Voldemort?"  
  
Crawford's eyes crinkled in sardonic amusement. "Not ithink/i. It turns out that all four of the Marauders have been identified. 'Moony' himself stepped forward and identified himself as Remus Lupin, a lycanthrope and former Hogwarts teacher, and he was able to identify the others. The nicknames have to do with the fact that Lupin's three Hogwarts friends all became unlicensed Animagi, as a means of safely watching over him during his wolf period."  
  
The skin on Peverel's neck tingled in foreboding. "Unbelieveable. Who are they?"  
  
"'Prongs' was none other than James Potter, Harry Potter's father. He took the form of a stag when he transformed. 'Padfoot' is Sirius Black, who turns into a big black dog."  
  
"And Wormtail? The one who turns into a rat?"  
  
Crawford's smile was a masterpiece of hard-bitten cynicality. "The allegedly-martyred Peter Pettigrew."  



	3. Semper Forticulus

(Standard disclaimer: Jo Rowling owns Harry Potter and everyone else you recognize from her books; Thomas Harris owns everyone you recognize from his books. Enjoy!)  
  
It is a lovely fall night at Offhand Manor.  
  
The man known to both the Muggle and magical world as Dr. Marcus Reader sits in his study, a fine nib pen in his hand, as he composes a letter to Albus Dumbledore, currently headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.   
  
Books and monographs on magical theory and history are neatly stacked at his elbow, ready for his quick reference. Scarlatti, as played by Glenn Gould in a recording never released to the public, wafts through Gradient loudspeakers powered by VTL equipment; Mr. Gould's occasional subtle throat-clearings, not audible on most home stereo gear, are present, but not obtrusively so. A glass of Lillet catches and mirrors the lovely amber of the flames in the fireplace, the sparks from the resiny, aromatic logs dancing like fireflies.  
  
Hannibal Lecter has been communicating to Professor Dumbledore his theories concerning magic and entropy. He is particularly interested in how magic could perhaps be used by wizards such as Voldemort to halt or even reverse the flow of entropy, the inevitable breakdown of order into disorder, at least as it applied to their own persons. The entropy-retarding effects of magic are well-known and obvious; even without explicitly resorting to magical aids, witches and wizards age more slowly than the general population of humanity. And Nicholas Flamel and his wife Perenelle were able to use the Philosopher's Stone to indefinitely stall entropy dead in its tracks, until the Stone was destroyed to keep it from falling into Voldemort's hands.  
  
Dr. Lecter believes that it is possible to recreate the Philosopher's Stone, and wishes to demonstrate this to Dumbledore: the faint scratchings of the pen's metal nib can be heard as one equation after another flows effortlessly onto the parchment. He conceives of many variations on the Brouwer-Kakutani Fixed-Point Theorem, and its possible magical applications in a closed system in reversing entropy's relentless flow. The early work of Stephen Hawking, in which the great Cambridge professor considered the possibility of entropy's reversal, is also revisited; Dr. Lecter peruses the vast spaces of his memory palace, re-reading his mentally stored copies of the many books of the Lucasian Professor of Mathematics.  
  
Whether it would be wise to recreate the Stone, on the other hand, is another matter. But events in Dr. Lecter's personal history have sorely tempted him in the past to attempt to overthrow entropy's rule.  
  
When he was six years old, Hannibal Lecter was the heir and scion of a wealthy Lithuanian count who had married into the even wealthier Visconti family of Italy. He lived a happy, privileged life, and the apple of his eye was his younger sister, Mischa.  
  
When he was seven years old, Hannibal Lecter was a penniless refugee, his parents dead, his home burned, his beloved baby sister eaten for food -- all of this caused by the retreat of the starving, desperate German army in 1944 as they fled the Russians.  
  
Ever since that time, what Dr. Lecter has wanted, more than anything in the world, is to undo that tragedy.   
  
The arrival of Clarice Starling into his life may have blunted the keen edge of that desire, in addition to making him realize that committing a series of bloody killings, no matter how ingenious, was not a proper response to that tragedy -- that in fact, those killings had lowered him to the level of Mischa's murderers. But the efforts of both Voldemort and Flamel -- and probably those of Dumbledore himself, for if anyone alive knew the late Nicholas Flamel's heart and mind, it was his closest living collaborator, Albus Dumbledore -- raised some tantalizing possibilities.   
  
But enough of that for now, decides the doctor. He spreads the parchment to dry, then caps the inkwell and places his pen in the pen-holder on his desk. He will hand the letter to Clarice so she can deliver it herself into Dumbledore's hands, the next time she goes to Hogwarts to check on Harry. As much as he loves sending things by owl post, it would be best not to send this that way.   
  
  
~~~~~  
  
The mood at Hogwarts was very odd. There were no overt hysterics -- it was as if everyone had somehow agreed that hysteria was a luxury they could not afford   
at the moment -- but the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. People were always a touch on the edgy side, less patient than usual.  
  
A giant memorial service had been held on the grounds of Hogwarts, both for the dead students and for the persons who had fallen at Azkaban, at which Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley had presided. It had helped matters, but only to a degree.   
  
As Professor Snape had predicted, the parents of the dead fledgling Death Eaters, including Lucius Malfoy, insisted on pretending that they knew nothing at all about their children's having turned to the Dark Lord. This didn't sit well with those families who had lost members in repelling the attack on Azkaban, and who well remembered how readily certain families, such as the Malfoys, had joined with Voldemort during the years of his first rise to power; some of them had to be physically restrained from openly attacking Lucius Malfoy during the service.  
  
After the service, the normal routine was resumed. Classes were held; Quidditch practices took place. Yet there was a joylessness about everything, even Quidditch; it was if several Dementors were hovering about the school, as they had during Harry's third year.  
  
Finally, Dumbledore decided that it was time to do something that would help buck up everyone's spirits. To that end, he proposed a Celebrity Quidditch Match, with a team made up of selected Hogwarts staff and students facing a team of worthy members of the wizarding world. Proceeds from the ticket sales would go towards a fund set up for Voldemort's victims.  
  
Clarice Starling, alias Lucy Stellanova, was one of the first persons that Dumblefore invited to be on the celebrity team that would challenge the Hogwarts team. She accepted immediately, with Dr. Lecter's approval and encouragement, when the owl bearing the invitation arrived at their residence one fine fall morning.   
  
"You sit astride your Firebolt as if you were born on it, Clarice," Lecter said to her over breakfast at Offhand Manor. "I think you'd make an excellent Seeker."  
  
"So does Professor Dumbledore," replied Clarice, an enigmatic smile on her face. "But I'll see if I can try out for a Beater position instead."  
  
Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow, then smiled in return. "As you wish, my love."  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
There was an electric atmosphere on the day of the match. Hundreds of people had arrived to see the match and to see the cream of the wizarding world, both in the match and on the sidelines.   
  
Reporters from the _Daily Prophet_ were whizzing about on broomsticks, interviewing nearly everyone they could catch: Harry himself had to give three different interviews, and his guardians two apiece, before he and Clarice were mercifully hustled off with the other players to change into their Quidditch robes.  
  
"I'm surprised Rita Skeeter isn't here," Harry said as they disappeared into the changing rooms. "You'd think she'd be all over an event like this."  
  
Clarice snorted. "I'm glad she isn't," she said. "I'd have a tough time keeping my fist out of her face."  
  
Soon, all was ready. The visitors' side, dressed in royal purple, took to the pitch first. Clarice had gotten her wish; she carried a Beater's bat, which she held over her shoulder like a rifle. Her fellow Beater, Jack Crawford, was alongside her; they shared a secret smile as they marched onto the pitch. Charlie Weasley, who had come back from Romania expressly for this match, was the Seeker; his appearance brought a roar from the crowd, who well remembered his playing days at Hogwarts. Florean Fortescue, bluff and hearty, was one of the Chasers. Mafalda Hopkirk, from the Ministry of Magic, and Celestina Warbeck, the singing sorceress, were the other two. Meaghan McCormack, Keeper for the famous Pride of Portree club, played the same position for the celebrity team; her appearance drew a wave of cheers.   
  
Then the Hogwarts team, dressed in polychrome-and-gilt robes, strode onto the pitch. Hagrid came out onto the field as one of the Beaters for the Hogwarts side; his broom, the biggest Nimbus 2003 made, looked like a twig in his immense hands, and his bat looked like a small ruler. Madam Hooch, her sturdy figure bolt upright with pride, was the Keeper. Professor Snape, astonishingly enough, was the other one of the Hogwarts Beaters; he was apparently fully recovered from the injuries he had sustained at the beginning of the year, though he didn't look overly pleased to be part of the festivities. He held his bat as if he really wished he could be beating heads and not Bludgers. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, cheerfully led her fellow Chasers Sprout and Sinistra out onto the pitch. Finally, Harry himself, as the Hogwarts Seeker, came onto the pitch, to tumultuous applause.  
  
Professor Dumbledore, wearing referee's robes, stood in the middle of the pitch, silver whistle in one hand, broomstick in the other. He hopped onto his broomstick and floated over the pitch to address both the players and the crowd.  
  
"I thank you all, my fellow wizards and witches, for taking time out of your lives both to play and to watch what I am sure will be a most memorable match of Quidditch," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying to every corner of the pitch. "This will be a red-letter day in the history of the sport, and I know that everyone concerned will honour this day by playing as cleanly as possible.  
  
"And now, without further ado, let the match begin -- and may the best team win!"  
  
With that, he blew on his whistle, and the two teams rose into the air.  
  
The celebrity team may have had a few of what Lucy/Clarice was wont to call "ringers", but the Hogwarts side was certainly capable of holding its own. Hagrid was not the most graceful flier in the world, but he could smack a Bludger the length of the pitch and well into a knot of opposing players. Snape, for his part, wielded his bat with a savage intensity that caused everyone to stay well away from him. He also seemingly had eyes in the back of his head, for he could spot a speeding Bludger a good second before nearly anyone else on the Hogwarts side; only Harry had a better eye for the flying iron missiles.  
  
The commentary was handled by none other than Arthur Weasley himself, and he was in fine form:  
  
"Professor McGonagall has the Quaffle and is hanging onto it like glue... she hands it off to Madam Hooch, who scores! Hogwarts Point!"  
  
"Now the visitors have possession. Celestina Warbeck is passing the Quaffle to Florean Fortescue, who is dodging a particularly heavy Bludger attack courtesy of Professor Snape -- but Lucy Stellanova puts up her feet and sends _both_ the Bludgers hurtling back towards Professor Snape! Oh, what a mighty kick!"   
  
"Kick-y! Kick-y!", roared the crowd.   
  
"She can't DO that!" Snape yelled, outraged, as he smacked the Bludgers out of his way.  
  
"Oh, yes, she can," replied a chuckling Dumbledore, who had seen the whole thing from his vantage point not fifteen feet away. "There is nothing in the rules that forbids a person from using his or her feet to deflect a Bludger."  
  
It rapidly became obvious that while the visiting team had a very good Seeker and Keeper, the Hogwarts Seeker was just as good, if not better, and the Hogwarts Chasers were definitely better than those of the celebrity team. Poor Florean Fortescue was simply too heavy to be a good Chaser, and being saddled with an old Cleansweep Seven didn't help matters. The Hogwarts side soon was ahead by a score of four to three.  
  
Professor McGonagall had the Quaffle again, expertly dodging the Bludgers sent her way by Jack Crawford. She was speeding towards the visitors' goals when suddenly, she saw several strangers on broomsticks flying overhead. Their wands were out and pointed at the Bludgers, which suddenly all reversed their courses and headed straight for Harry Potter.  
  
"_Finite Incantatem!_", she cried, and just in time, too, for one of the Bludgers was within five feet of Harry before it suddenly stopped in mid-air and fell to the ground.   
  
Crawford was the next to react. "Stop the match! We're under attack!" he bellowed, in a voice loud enough to be heard across the entire pitch. The roaring crowd suddenly fell silent in shock.  
  
In a flash, everyone had their wands out and aimed at the intruders. There looked to be at least a dozen of them, flying in from all directions; not being able to Apparate on the grounds at Hogwarts, they had apparently chosen to Apparate in the closest airspace they could find.  
  
Professor Snape was the closest person to Harry at the moment. "Potter, get down to the ground NOW!" he bellowed, throwing himself between Harry and a fast-moving attacker on a Nimbus 2001. Harry did as he was told, but couldn't help drawing out his own wand; he yelled "_Expelliarmus!_" at the top of his lungs, knocking the speeding wizard off of his own broom just as he was about to blast Snape. The wizard hit the ground as Harry landed next to Dr. Lecter, who immediately wrapped him in a bear hug.  
  
"Stay here until it's all over, Harry," Dr. Lecter whispered in his ear. "They shan't be able to harm you, so long as I'm encircling you. I'll deflect whatever they send."  
  
"But what about Lucy?" cried Harry, still holding his wand out in front of him; it was a measure of his new-found mental strength that he still had the presence of mind, even under extreme duress, to remember to call Clarice by her alias.  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled. "She'll be all right. Watch."  
  
Clarice, Snape, McGonagall and Crawford were in the thick of it, stunning and disarming the invading wizards right and left as the crowd cheered. Charlie Weasley was also giving a good account of himself, protecting his startled fellow celebrities until they were able to recover from the shock and fight back themselves. Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley were kept busy floating the stunned-and-bound attackers down to the ground; they were aided in this endeavor by Alastor Moody, who had been watching the match on the sidelines near Dr. Lecter.  
  
Suddenly, three of the remaining attackers converged on Clarice. They apparently didn't have the ability to fly with a broom in one hand and a wand in the other, because none of them had their wands out.  
  
Quick as lightning, she reached behind her and pulled out a second wand from a holster on her back. Then, with a wand in each hand, she shouted "_Stupefy!_", and the wizards on either side of her dropped off their broomsticks.   
  
The third wizard was not fazed by this; he merely tightened his grip on his broom and stayed the course. And when he got within range, Clarice reared up the front of her broomstick, put up both of her feet, and smacked him full in the face. He tumbled down to earth, knocked unconscious.  
  
It was over in less than two minutes.   
  
Most of the attackers had been subdued; a few of them, either smarter or more cowardly than their fellows, had apparently turned tail almost immediately, without firing off a single spell. Fifteen people lay, unconscious but largely unharmed, on the ground.  
  
"Take them away separately and jail them separately," growled Moody as several Ministry representatives made their way onto the pitch to remove the captured attackers. "We don't want them killing themselves before we have the chance to interrogate them." He then turned towards Clarice, who had just landed on the ground with Jack Crawford.  
  
"Miss Stellanova," he said, stumping towards her on his wooden leg, his face grim.  
  
Clarice looked him straight in the eye. "Yes, Mr. Moody."  
  
"You are insane."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"You are foolhardy."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"You had no business taking on that lot with less than three months' worth of magic under your belt."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"You're an Auror."   
  
Clarice's eyes widened. "Mr. Moody?"  
  
Moody's face was split by a wide smile. His magical eye was spinning in its socket. "Crawford's been after me to hire you, but I hadn't made up my mind -- until now." He pulled out a small silver badge from inside his robes and handed it to her. "Put it on, Stellanova. You're an Auror now, or you will be when I'm done with you."  
  
Clarice read the embossed legend on the badge: _Semper Forticulus_. She couldn't quite keep her hands from shaking as she pinned the badge to her chest. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," she said, her eyes shining.  
  
"My pleasure," he replied, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "That was the damndest display of virtuosity on a broom I've ever seen, lassie. I'll never forgot the sight of that wretch's face as your boots smashed into it. And that's smart of you to carry a spare wand. I've a mind to make that practice mandatory for all Aurors." He paused for a moment, gathering in both her and Crawford in one glance. "Now, you're by no means   
home free. There's a probationary period while you get your Auror training. But there's no doubt in my mind that you'll make it. You're smart, you're tough, you've got guts."  
  
"I'll try to justify your trust in me, Mr. Moody."  
  
"Don't 'try'," growled Moody, "just do it. You know how." He suddenly grinned again. "I know you know how."  
  



	4. A Quiet Dinner at Home

Figures in a room, in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic.  
  
The room was lit by a single overhead light. The light shone down softly upon the figure of a man, strapped face-up to a table, surrounded by several other figures, their faces in shadow.   
  
One of the figures is Alastor Moody. One of them is Albus Dumbledore. One of them is Jack Crawford. One of them is Severus Snape. One of them is Clarice Starling, also known as Lucy Stellanova.  
  
And one of them is Hannibal Lecter.  
  
Richard Lott, being under the Stunning Spell, did not notice the tiny pinprick of Dr. Lecter's needle as it sent 10 cubic centimeters' worth of the finest hypnotic drugs known to Muggle science into his bloodstream.   
  
Dr. Lecter withdrew the needle from Lott's arm with his usual dexterity, leaving not so much as a single drop of blood to betray him. He waited for thirty seconds, chin in hand, pondering, his index finger lightly tapping the side of his arched nose. He then stepped aside and nodded to Professor Snape, who had been watching the whole time with the strictest attention stamped on his features.  
  
"Nox," whispered Snape, his wand pointed upwards, and the overhead light slowly dimmed until it was extinguished.   
  
"Ennervate," Snape whispered again, ever so softly, his wand pointed this time at the man on the table. He then retreated back into the shadows, and the man some of the shadowed figures knew only as "Dr. Marcus Reader" stepped forward once again.  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Lott," said Hannibal Lecter, as the form on the table began to stir.   
  
Richard Lott opened his brown eyes. "Good... evening..."  
  
"You've been in a nasty scrape, Mr. Lott. If you're feeling any soreness, it's probably just from the bruises you suffered in a fall you took. I'd like to be positive about something, though, so if you could just look over here --" Dr. Lecter produced a small penlight and shone it in Lott's eyes.  
  
It didn't take very long for Richard Lott to be fully hypnotized. Once in that state, he was convinced by Dr. Lecter to ignore any past entreaties to suicide. After that, he was given Veritaserum.  
  
Then, and only then, did his questioning begin.  
  
  
  
Word of the battle of the Quidditch pitch spread like wildfire throughout the wizarding world. Unlike the earlier Death Eater attacks, this one was resisted in such a way as to leave a hopeful feeling in the hearts of the average witch and wizard, especially since there were no losses, except on the part of the attackers.   
  
Those persons who were on the pitch became instant heroes. Orders of Merlin were given out, with special honours going to those who taken part in stopping the earlier attacks on the Hogwarts Express and at Azkaban. Snape in particular was singled out for official praise, and he walked the halls of Hogwarts in a far better mood than usual, the students' whispers behind his back being for once almost wholly laudatory -- almost.  
  
But the one person who the wizarding public had truly taken to heart was Lucy Stellanova. Her uncommon bravery and style, in the face of overwhelming odds and with a limited knowledge of magic, sent her already-sterling reputation to new heights.   
  
The Holyhead Harpies, the only all-female professional Quidditch team, put out a standing offer to her to be a Beater on their team; she graciously declined, citing prior commitments. Companies pestered her for product endorsements, most of which she declined, the sole exception being that of the Firebolt Company.  
  
One of the Daily Prophet's photographers had managed to get some excellent shots of her in action on the pitch; he had been focusing on her since the start of the match because of her beauty, and so was in perfect position to capture her as she did the two-wanded Stunnings, as well as the two-footed kick that brought down the remaining Death Eater. Those pictures found their way onto posters, which the Daily Prophet sold with Miss Stellanova's blessing, on the condition that some of the proceeds go to charity. Soon, images of Lucy Stellanova -- or "'Kicky' Stellanova", as the Daily Prophet now called her -- could be seen all over Diagon Alley, repeatedly stunning and booting her perpetually surprised opponents.   
  
One of these posters, signed by "Kicky" herself, had pride of place in the front window of Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor. A large black dog was often seen to be watching the poster, sometimes for nearly fifteen minutes at a sitting, before he would be on his way, begging scraps of food from the Diagon Alley merchants.  
  
  
  
Dr. Lecter and Clarice are enjoying the evening meal at Offhand Manor.  
  
It has been quite a busy day for both of them. Clarice's Auror training means that Dr. Lecter will soon be without her services at his Harley Street clinic, and of course Neville Longbottom's own apprenticeship at the clinic was curtailed by the beginning of the Hogwarts school year, so the doctor has suddenly found himself without capable help.   
Fortunately, St. Mungo's has today graciously offered him the services of one Charles Gaffaney, a thin, studious Irish wizard and a recent graduate of Hogwarts, where he was a Ravenclaw. Dr. Lecter has met the lad and, upon reflection, believes that he will do.  
  
For her part, Clarice Starling has spent the day with Jack Crawford, Arthur Weasley, and Sirius Black. The four of them are trying to puzzle out a way to argue before a wizarding court that Harry's Pensieve-stored memories should be treated as evidence sufficient to prove Sirius' innocence of the crimes of which he was accused so long ago.  
  
The main course finished, Dr. Lecter is about to beckon to the house-elf waiting in attendance to bring the dessert into the drawing room -- Dr. Lecter has found house-elves to be superb cooks -- when suddenly he clutches at his side, his face paling.  
  
He is unconscious by the time Clarice reaches him.


	5. Facing Up to Things

Hannibal Lecter opened his eyes, and, as he expected, Clarice and Harry were standing by his bed.   
  
Albus Dumbledore was also standing by his bedside, along with Julia Hiatt, the matron of St. Mungo's. This he had not expected, and, to judge from the expressions they wore, was not good news.   
  
He thought for a moment about what this news could be. Considering the nature of the pain in his side, it took him less than a quarter of a second to arrive at the correct diagnosis.  
  
_Ah, well_, he thought, hoisting himself upright with an effort that made him wince, _might as well face up to the worst right now._  
  
"So," he said, surveying the concerned faces around him, "let me guess: the diagnosis is advanced pancreatic cancer, and so far it has shown itself, in my case, to be as resistant to magical treatment as it is to Muggle medicine."  
  
Madam Hiatt started in surprise, then slowly nodded. "We've tried everything, Doctor Reader," she said in a voice which she could not quite keep from quavering.   
  
"You've apparently had it for quite some time," added a weary-looking Dumbledore.  
  
"Too late for Muggle surgery to be effective, then," said Dr. Lecter, as calmly as if he were discussing whether or not he should have his wisdom teeth pulled. He readjusted himself in the bed, this time with somewhat less discomfort than before. "The cancer will kill me within three to six months, or nine at the very most."  
  
Madam Hiatt's pinched, careworn face nodded in sad assent. "Unfortunately, yes, Doctor Reader."  
  
Tears were streaming unchecked down Clarice's face. "I'm going to quit my Auror training," she said in a husky voice. "I'll be with you to the end."  
  
Dr. Lecter turned to face her. "Lucy," he said gently, "your giving up becoming an Auror won't keep me alive a minute longer." He reached out a hand to her, taking one of hers in his strong, firm grip. "I don't need you to be physically present at all times to know that you love me and care about me." He looked from her towards their young ward, whose face was pale with shock and dismay. "And that goes for you, too, young man," he said, addressing Harry. "You are not to miss a single day of school on my account."  
  
"But -- but Doctor --"  
  
"No 'buts', Harry." Dr. Lecter's voice was firm. "If there was any chance that I could survive this, that would be one thing. But since there is not, there's no point in your both throwing your lives into limbo when doing so cannot hope to save mine." He smiled. "Besides, I have, in a rather perverse way, been given a gift of sorts. Most persons never know, until the very day they die, when or how they will shuffle off their mortal coils. I know not only how I will die, but when, and that aids me in setting my affairs in order." He turned back towards Clarice. "And the first thing I intend to do is to make sure I have enough palliative medicines of the Muggle sort to keep me functional for a period long enough to ensure that I have trained both Charles and Neville to take over the Harley Street clinic."  
  
  
  
  
Midnight, in a cave somewhere in England.  
  
Voldemort sits on his throne, Nagini in his lap, and ponders his situation.  
  
He has lost a distressing number of devotees in recent weeks. He has enough for one final push, one last attempt at a shocking blow -- but the sort of attacks that would have succeeded, were Cornelius Fudge still alive and his opponent, have not been at all successes.  
  
Fudge made things too easy for me, Voldemort muses. He was so incompetent, so spineless, so afraid of doing what he needed to do in order to fight me -- if ever he could realize what he needed to do. I let myself get flabby against him. I must change my strategy, now that those who I fight have both courage and intelligence.  
  
He sits and ponders long into the night, and Wormtail, passing by on an errand, knows better than to disturb him.  
  
  
  
  
"Good morning, Dr. Reader." Fred and George Weasley stepped out of the fireplace in Hannibal Lecter's study, shaking off a very light coating of ash onto the floor.   
  
"Sorry about that -- Mum needs to clean out the flues again." Fred pointed his wand at the offending ash, whispered "Immaculatio!", and the dust promptly vanished.  
  
"A neat trick," said the man the twins, and nearly everyone else, knew as Dr. Marcus Reader. "I never tire of seeing cleansing magic, whether used by you or the house-elves the Ministry has been so kind to procure for me." He stood facing the twins, erect as a dancing master, the apparent picture of health and strength. One would never know that he was under the influence of several powerful narcotics.  
  
"Good morning, gentlemen, and thank you for taking the time to visit me and assist me with my little project," he said, indicating with a nod the chairs by the fireplace as he sat down behind his desk. "How have things been going?"  
  
"Oh, very good, indeed, Doctor," said George. He produced a handsome mahogany wand and set it on the desktop before sitting in one of the chairs indicated by the doctor. "This one's our latest effort. I think you'll find it to be just what you wanted."  
  
  
  
  
Clarice Starling sits in a small room, surrounded by other Auror trainees, doing her best to keep her mind on Alastor Moody's gravelly Scots brogue as he leads the class in the finer points of resisting the Imperius Curse. _Ha_, she thinks distractedly. _Harry should be here to give everyone a demonstration._  
  
In accordance with Dr. Lecter's wishes, she is continuing her Auror training. But Dr. Lecter never told her not to call him several times a day, which she does without fail even though she, and the other trainees, get to go home at the end of each day's training.  
  
She is glad that he made her continue with the training, for it gives her something to do, something constructive. She would be furiously researching both Muggle and magical means of attacking his cancer, if he had not expressly forbade her from doing so. _Clarice, I am the best doctor on the planet, and you know that,_ he had said, not unkindly, _ and you haven't had any medical training beyond mere first aid. If I can't find a cure for my own sickness, no one can._ And that was that.  
  
Clarice knows that he is right -- he is almost always right, being who he is. But that still doesn't make her feel any less guilty for not trying it.  
  
Alastor Moody, sensing her distraction but not knowing the reason for it, takes the opportunity to see if he can catch her out by asking her a series of highly technical questions; he likes her very much, but he will tolerate no slacking off in his class.   
  
Clarice answers the questions with ease -- and, more importantly, with just the right amount of interested enthusiasm -- which temporarily puts the wind up old Moody.  
  
But then again, Alastor Moody does not know of the art of the memory palace.


	6. Cordial Sympathy

"Very good, Mr. Longbottom -- very good, indeed!", said Professor Snape, thinly smiling for once as he inspected Neville's Mithiridate Potion, which he had made Neville create, without help from Hermione, in a cauldron in front of the class. "That is precisely how it should look, taste, smell -- and behave."  
  
"Thank you, sir," replied Neville, whose calm demeanor made him almost unrecognizable as the famously clumsy Longbottom of yore.   
  
No one had ever expected to hear Professor Snape praising Neville Longbottom, least of all the professor himself. But things had changed since the previous school year.  
  
It was now common knowledge that Severus Snape had spent several years playing a very dangerous role: that of the double agent. In order to seem the perfect servant of Voldemort, it had been necessary for him to be publicly cruel towards nearly all non-Slytherins, but especially to all Gryffindors -- and particularly to Harry Potter and his circle of friends.   
  
Tormenting young Potter and his associates came easily to Snape -- partly out of Snape's hatred for the long-dead James Potter, the man who a younger Severus Snape alternately admired and envied, and partly out of Snape's own jealous realization that Harry would, in terms of popularity, eclipse even the well-beloved James and Lily Potter. But something had happened to Professor Snape over the summer. He wasn't exactly friendly to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville, but neither did he go out of his way to harrass them. This was enough to make Potions classes a good deal more bearable for all concerned.  
  
But as much as Snape had changed, Harry and Neville had changed even more.   
  
They were both calm, competent and eager to learn, especially Neville. No more did Neville stammer and stutter his way through class; he could now hold beakers with a hand as steady as a rock. Even on those increasingly rare occasions when Professor Snape would deliberately try to unnerve him in front of the class, Neville would proceed, unfazed, and provide concise and correct answers to the toughest questions Snape could throw at him. He and Hermione were now Snape's best students, with Harry close behind.  
  
And all, Professor Snape realized, because of one Marcus Reader, M.D.  
  
It was a realization that wasn't entirely comfortable.  
  
  
  
  
Clarice Starling lay in the large bed, her arm thrown protectively over her lover's chest. Hannibal Lecter was fast asleep -- the morphine derivatives he used as painkillers saw to that -- but she could not sleep, not yet.  
  
With her free hand, and with the utter quiet she knew how to keep, Clarice slowly, carefully, pulled the coverlet up over Dr. Lecter's chest. Then she withdrew her arms from him and, pausing to kiss him gently on the cheek, slipped out of bed and out of their bedroom, closing the door behind her as she left.  
  
So much had happened in the past few months, so many events and experiences, good, bad and unclassifiable, that even the comforting structure of her own memory palace was not sufficient to shield her from the occasional feeling of being totally overwhelmed. It wasn't bad in the daytime, when she had her work and her classes to keep her busy; she was grateful to Hannibal that he had insisted she continue her Auror training. But, in the dark of night, when all was quiet, it all would hit her in a rush and she would find herself fleeing their bedroom for a quiet spot in the mansion, as far away from Hannibal's preternatural hearing as she could get, so she could cry until the tears would no longer come.  
  
Clarice always knew that, actuarially, he was supposed to die first. He was a good three decades older than she was, after all. But knowing something on an abstract level and being confronted with its cold stark reality are two different things. Her emotional self expected him to be immortal, impervious to all harm, as physically untouchable as he was inhumanly strong and intelligent.  
  
It was a shock finding out that he was mortal after all.  
  
Tonight, the shock was worse than usual. She had barely made it down the stairs to the ground floor when she found herself so racked with sobs that she could barely stand. She staggered into Hannibal's study and threw herself down onto the leather couch therein, her hair plastered to her face and head by tears and sweat, to cry in peace.  
  
But, even in the depths of her grief, the discipline of the memory palace was not totally overthrown; a part of her mind kept watch for disturbances in her immediate area.   
  
Thus it was that she heard the faint sounds of an intruder. She had her hands on his throat before she realized it was Sirius Black, who was staying overnight before heading off on yet another mission for Dumbledore.  
  
"Remind me never to sneak up on you," said Sirius wheezingly as a chagrined Clarice found some soothing blackberry cordial in Dr. Lecter's minibar. "I was just about to drop into the kitchen for a midnight snack when I heard this rustling in the study." He took the glass from her hand and downed it in one gulp. "Aaaahhhhh! Much better, thank you!"  
  
"Watch it, Sirius," Clarice said, the ghost of a smile on her tear-bloated face. "Keep that up and you'll become an alcoholic."  
  
"Me, alcoholic? Never!" he replied, handing her the empty glass. "So," he said, turning to look her in the eye, "I hope I wasn't intruding."  
  
"Well, you were, but that's all right – it's just my nightly ritual nowadays." Clarice looked away for a moment.  
  
Sirius said nothing in response; he merely waited for her to continue. Eventually, she did.  
  
"I never thought I'd lose him, Sirius," she said, her voice trembling. "Never in my wildest, worst dreams did I ever think I'd lose him. Somehow I always thought that I would be the one to go first, that I'd be the one to slip up and get myself killed --" She froze, realizing she had said too much.  
  
"Get yourself killed? In what way, Lucy?"  
  
Clarice said nothing, forcing herself to remain quiet until her heart rate had dropped out of stroke range.   
  
"Sirius," she said at last, "there's something I have to tell you."  
  
He took both her hands in his. "No, you don't," he said, gently and quietly. "Harry's already told me, Clarice."  
  
Her eyes went wide. "He has." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
"He told me a month ago."  
  
"And… how do you feel about it?"  
  
Sirius laughed, a short, self-depreciating bark. "Well, at first I wasn't too crazy about the notion of a cannibal, even a reformed one, as Harry's legal guardian. But I'd seen too much of you, both you and of Dr. Lecter, not to know that you are both dedicated to doing whatever you can for Harry."  
  
"The Cannibal and the Death Angel," Clarice muttered. "We make a fine set of foster parents, don't we?"  
  
"You certainly do," said Sirius, and hugged her to him, just as a fresh round of sobs started to burst forth from her body.   
  
He held her close, rocking her back and forth in his arms, until she was too exhausted to cry any more; then, taking her by the hand as if she were a toddler, he led her back up the stairs to her bedroom.  
  
She paused just before opening the door to the bedroom. "Thank you, Sirius," she whispered. Then she slipped inside and closed the door.  
  
Neither of them had any idea that Dr. Lecter had, some time before, himself slipped quietly out of bed to observe the goings-on in his study, and had only been back in bed a few moments before Clarice herself had returned.  
  
  
  
  
Roger and Roselyn Granger were closing up shop for the day. There had been one badly abcessed tooth, the owner of which had stubbornly refused to seek care for until his wife had literally dragged him to the clinic, one routine wisdom tooth extraction, and a slew of fittings for braces. All in all, a fairly typical day at the Granger Clinic.  
  
"Wonder how Hermione's getting on over at Hogwarts?" said Roselyn as her husband set the alarm for the night.  
  
"She's probably just fine, Rose," a long-suffering Roger replied. "We just got an owl from her this morning, remember?"  
  
"Well, I think that she's not telling us all she knows," retorted Roselyn as they walked to the car park behind the clinic.  
  
Before they got that far, two cloaked, silver-masked figures stepped out from the night-time shadows, both of them making gestures towards the Grangers. Two bright flashes of light later, the Grangers slumped to the ground, unconscious.  
  
"Where shall we put these, Wormtail?" asked the taller of the two, who was picking up Roger Granger in his arms. "The cavern is fast filling up with Muggle captives."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure the Dark Lord will have a place for them," snickered Wormtail, who had a firm grip on Roselyn. "Come along. We can't afford to be seen here."  
  
They then Disapparated, taking the Grangers with them.  



	7. Autopsy

Figures in a room, four black-robed, one white-robed, their attention drawn by the cold lifeless clay that had once been Igor Karkaroff.  
  
The dungeon space normally reserved for the Potions classroom was serving a different, more sinister purpose this evening. Hermione Granger thanked Merlin she had remembered to put Anti-Nausea Charms on herself, Neville and Harry before coming down from Gryffindor tower; Karkaroff's body was under several powerful Preservation Spells, and had been for weeks, but even the best spell couldn't undo the fact that several days had elapsed between his death and the time his bloated body was found next to a Muggle motorway.   
  
She darted a quick glance over at Lucy Stellanova. Lucy's face was nearly as white as her robes, but her expression was impassive. _Does anything shock this woman?_ thought Hermione, studying her in the glow of the light globes that floated directly over the table bearing Karkaroff's mortal remains. Harry and Neville, likewise, were pale, but not unmanned by the sight, as she half-expected them to be. It was rather unnerving.  
  
A low, familiar voice suddenly compelled her attention; she had to force herself not to start.   
  
"Normally, autopsies, both magical and mundane, are handled by the Ministry's Forensics Division," Professor Snape explained in his usual didactic manner. "But, for security reasons, it has been decided that a special examination be held before the body is officially released to the Forensics personnel. In fact," he said, his silken voice taking on a touch of the old classroom sharpness, "the Forensics staff has not been, and will not be, told of this examination."   
  
He whirled around in a swift arc, eyes taking in those of the other persons in the room, making certain that they understood what he meant without having to be told. They did.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore has asked me to select a handful of persons from among my students who I felt would have the right combination of intelligence and mental toughness. You may allow yourselves to feel honored that I have chosen you, though --" here he allowed himself a particularly thin smile "-- you may decide, before we are finished tonight, that the honor is one you could have done without."   
  
"In addition, he has asked Miss Stellanova here to observe and participate, as part of her Auror studies." He inclined his head towards Lucy in the briefest of motions, and she responded in kind, stiff and formal. "I trust that none of you will embarrass the school, or me, by doing something stupid in front of her. Are you all ready to proceed?"   
  
"Yes, sir," Hermione, Neville and Harry said together, in a solemn chorus; Lucy merely nodded.   
  
"Very well, then. We shall proceed." Snape waved a hand at what used to be the headmaster of Durmstrang. "We shall start with you, Miss Granger. What tales can Igor Karkaroff's remains tell us?"  
  
Hermione, Anti-Nausea Charm notwithstanding, had to fight to keep her stomach from rebelling. "He died in extreme agony."  
  
"What makes you say that, Miss Granger? Certainly not the _rictus sardonicus_, the famed "Smile of Death" -- that is a natural result of the ravages suffered by dead flesh."  
  
"No, sir," replied Hermione, her own face free of any rictus, sardonic or not. "His hands, however, have gouges in them that occurred while he was still alive, for they bled -- gouges that match the size and shape of his own fingernails. Only someone in excruciating pain, or undergoing a seizure of some sort -- which in itself would be painful -- would mark himself in that way."  
  
"I see. Very good, Miss Granger, you are correct, Igor Karkaroff would not have done that had he not been in great pain. Now, can any of you tell me what caused his agony?"  
  
"Yes, sir." Neville had spoken. "The Cruciatus Curse."   
  
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Your evidence, Mr. Longbottom?"  
  
"His muscles were tensed when he died, and his back is arched. This kind of overall tension is achieved only through seizures or Cruciatus, which, from what I gather, creates a kind of seizure within the victim's body."  
  
"And how can you tell that this was not a non-Cruciatus-related seizure?"  
  
Neville's reply was quick, calm and precise; he had no need of the reassurance of Hermione's surreptitous hand-squeezes, though he acknowledged them with return squeezes of his own. "The only known natural events to cause both great pain and muscle tensings of this sort would be stroke or heart attack. However, both of those events almost always occur with some sort of physical warning weeks or months beforehand, such as clubbed and bluish extremities and burst bloodvessels on the surface of the skin. Such evidence is not present with this body. In addition, his skin has goosefleshed to a considerable extent, and remained so even after death; this is a side effect of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. This, taken together with the decedent's activities when alive --" Neville was here gracefully alluding to Karkaroff's history, first as a Death Eater, then as someone who who betray his fellow Death Eaters not out of conscience, but simply to save his own skin " -- make a strong contraindication of natural death."  
  
Snape nodded, his greasy black hair gleaming faintly in the glow of the overhead globes. "Very good, Mr. Longbottom. So," he said, his sharp gaze sweeping over his listeners, "we now know two things: that he died in agony, and the agony was almost certainly caused by a Cruciatus Curse. From this we could, if we wished, make a supposition as to his likely killer or killers, but that will have to wait for the nonce. We must first gather more data." He glanced over towards a metal tray, barely visible in the shadows away from the globes, floating at about Snape's waist height.  
  
"_Accio_," he whispered, and the tray, covered with various implements, mundane and magical, floated to the autopsy table. Snape dextrously picked up a largish scalpel.  
  
"Now," he said in a low voice, "we will begin to gather that data."  
  
===============  
  
The actual autopsy was mercifully brief, but quite informative. Professor Snape, using the scalpel with a speed and efficiency which would have brought a pleased smile to the face of Hannibal Lecter, soon had Karkaroff's corpse totally opened and his viscera removed for display.  
  
Examination of Karkaroff's internal organs showed symptoms that were consistent with the known effects of _Crucio_. Harry spotted the peculiar discoloration of the spinal cord, which had become exposed as a result of several fractures of the spinal column, and Lucy noticed that those fractures had sharp, jagged edges and no encrustations of new bone mass. This indicated that the fractures had not had time to heal, but had occurred immediately before death as a result of the extreme muscular contortions resulting from prolonged exposure to a Cruciatus Curse.  
  
There were other, more subtle signs, signs that were duly noted by all present, and soon Professor Snape, who was recording the information with an autoquill, had filled several sheets of parchment.  
  
At length he looked round the table, and his gaze, while less sarcastic, was no less sharp.  
  
"Tonight we have discovered some information about the Cruciatus Curse that I doubt even the Dark Lord himself knows," he said quietly. "This information will prove useful to those researchers working on a way to thwart it. You may congratulate yourselves on a job well done. But," and a bit of the old sharpness came back into his voice, "none of you are to discuss what you have found tonight with anyone save Professor Dumbledore, Dr. Reader and me. Is that understood?"  
  
Everyone nodded quietly.  
  
===========  
  
After bidding Professor Snape a professionally civil good-night, Lucy walked to Gryffindor tower with Harry, Hermione and Neville.  
  
"I take it he's always like that?" Lucy said once they were well away from the dungeons.  
  
"Actually, he was on his best behavior tonight," Harry averred. "Partly because of the seriousness of the matter, but also partly because of your presence."  
  
"And you're supposed to survive seven years of that? That sounds like _Crucio_ in itself."  
  
"It used to be," acknowledged Neville. "But not anymore." He smiled up at Lucy, who, along with Dr. Reader, had worked over the summer to strengthen him to the point where even Snape's worst behavior couldn't faze him.  
  
They walked onwards. Lucy's eyes widened at the sight of her first moving staircases, but other than that, they made their way to Gryffindor tower without incident.   
  
They had nearly reached the Fat Lady's portrait when they were intercepted by a panting Professor McGonagall, her face pale with shock.  
  
"Hermione -- everyone -- come with me to Dumbledore's office, now!" she gasped. "There's something to tell you."  
  
  



	8. The Beginning of the End

Chapter 32: Beginning of the End  
  
Professor McGonagall didn't say a word as she escorted Harry and his friends to Dumbledore's office, and nobody, not even Lucy, dared break her silence. It was obvious that this was something that couldn't be discussed out in the open.  
  
"Palestrina", McGonagall told the gargoyles at Dumbledore's door, and they obligingly swung out of her way, allowing her and her party to enter.  
  
The headmaster's office was as gloriously beautiful as always, but its joyousness was not reflected by its occupants. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, looking very old and sad and tired. Snape was there as well, as was Jack Crawford, seated in armchairs at Dumbledore's left and right hand; their facial expressions weren't sad, but grim. Fawkes the phoenix was on his perch, tensely expectant.  
  
"Sit down," urged Dumbledore, and chairs suddenly appeared from nowhere. He waited for them to each take a chair before continuing. "I have some distressing news -- particularly for you, Miss Granger."  
  
Hermione's face turned dead white. "My parents?" she said, speaking the words that flashed first in her mind.  
  
"Kidnapped by Voldemort," Dumbledore replied, softly yet bleakly. He nodded to Crawford, who was holding a piece of parchment.  
  
"Voldemort is apparently making one last-ditch gamble," the FBI man said. "His organization has taken several severe hits recently, and morale within the group is low. He knows that it's now or never. He had to try to find a way to get some sort of leverage over us, and he thinks he's done so by kidnapping several Muggles -- including your parents." He held up the piece of parchment, Levitated it, and pushed it towards Hermione. "This is a copy of the ransom note he sent us tonight."  
  
Hermione read the note in silence, holding it with both hands in a white-knuckle grip.   
  
At length, she let her face, drawn and hollow, rise from the parchment, slowly meeting Jack Crawford's gaze.   
  
"He wants to be given command of the Ministry, effective at noon tomorrow? Otherwise he starts killing his captives?"  
  
Crawford nodded.  
  
Hermione sat for a long time, clutching the parchment, staring off into space.   
  
The silence was agony for all concerned.   
  
Finally, she, with newly-adult eyes staring out of a child's face, turned to Harry. "Harry -- remember your meeting with Voldemort, when he was using Quirrell's body?"  
  
Harry's green eyes met hers. "Yes."  
  
"He promised you all sorts of things then, too, didn't he?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you knew at the time that you couldn't trust him to keep his word, didn't you?"  
  
A short pause; Harry could see what Hermione was driving at. "Yes."  
  
"Then -- all the hostages are doomed anyway -- including my p-p-parents--"  
  
And suddenly Hermione was on the floor, crying uncontrollably.   
  
Harry and Neville were immediately at her side, each taking an arm, holding her upright. Fawkes, seeing what had happened, jumped from his perch and glided over towards the three students; Harry saw him approach and rolled up one of Hermione's sleeves so Fawkes could drop a tear on her bare flesh.  
  
Lucy was out of her chair, too, but for a different reason.   
  
"Do we have a fix on their location?" she asked Crawford.  
  
"We do," he nodded. "It's right where Harry's dreams said it would be."  
  
Lucy's face was set in hard, grim lines. "I thought so."   
  
Jack Crawford had known Lucy Stellanova, aka Clarice Starling, longer than anyone else in the room. But even he could not have known what she was about to do next.  
  
"Hermione," she said quietly, just as Fawkes' tears were soothing the young girl's grief. Miss Granger looked up, puzzled.  
  
"I'm going after them," she said, simply and directly.  
  
Then, before anyone could react, she was out the door.  
  
  
  
Dr. Lecter and Sirius Black were in the midst of a friendly chess game at Offhand Manor -- Lecter was within two moves of putting Sirius in check -- when the doctor's cellphone started vibrating.  
  
"One moment," he said to Sirius, flipping open the phone at his belt and raising it to his ear. He listened dutifully to Dumbledore's voice on the other end. As always, he kept a carefully neutral expression; only the slight tensioning of his fingers on the cellphone gave away any hint as to the nature of the conversation.  
  
"I see. I'll let you know if she appears here, Albus. Good night." He closed the cellphone and turned towards Sirius with a somber expression. "There's trouble afoot. Voldemort's just taken several people hostage, including Hermione's parents. He wants to use them to extort his way to power."   
  
"Merlin's beard," whispered Sirius. "He's mad."  
  
"Not to mention bloodthirsty. He knows perfectly well that Dumbledore and Crawford would never submit to his demands -- he almost certainly expects a show of armed and massive Ministry force at his hideout within the next few hours -- so he wants to cause as much harm as he can before his inevitable defeat."  
  
"That barking-mad bastard," Sirius said, his eyes wildly staring. "Did they tell Hermione?"  
  
"They did," affirmed Lecter grimly. "She, of course, understands that her parents will be killed by Voldemort no matter what else happens. It was a hard wrench for her, but she saw the sense in not negotiating --or rather, in pretending to negotiate while not actually giving in, as a way to buy time to gather the Ministry's forces." He sighed. "However, it seems we have a different problem."  
  
"Which is?" Sirius' face was taut.  
  
"Clarice took it upon herself to go into Voldemort's lair. Alone."  
  
Sirius was on his feet so quickly he nearly tipped over the chessboard. "She _what?!_"  
  
"She left as soon as Crawford confirmed that the lair was where we thought it would be."  
  
"She'll be killed!"  
  
"Very likely," agreed Lecter sadly. "She's always been possessed an excess of zeal. However," Lecter said, rising from his chair somewhat gingerly -- the cancer had spread to his liver and lungs by now, making the slightest movements painful -- "she has a fighting chance, if we help her."  
  
Sirius looked at the doctor's face, yellowed by illness. "But how?"  
  
Doctor Lecter turned to face Sirius, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Can you Apparate us to his lair, or near enough for our purposes?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Give me a moment to collect some things and then we'll go. I'll explain everything when we get there."  
  



	9. Mano a Mano

Chapter 33: Mano a Mano  
  
Robespierre Cheyney leaned against the wall of the cave and spat onto the stony floor in front of him. He had pulled guard duty that night, and he didn't like it one bit.  
  
Here he was, watching over some worthless trash Muggles, when he could have been out enjoying the party. The Victory Party.   
  
But no, someone had to stay behind and keep the putrid Muggles from trying to escape. Even though there was no way they could escape, they being Muggles and all.   
  
How sodding ridiculous.  
  
He was still fuming at the unfairness of it all when he felt the knife slice into his throat.   
  
His hands scrabbled frantically at whoever had grabbed him from behind, but his neck was snapped soon thereafter, ending his struggles and his life.  
  
Clarice Starling, wearing her Invisibility Cloak, set Cheyney's dead body down by the door of the chamber where the Muggles were being kept and and cast a Camouflage Charm on the corpse. She didn't bother to search it for weapons or artifacts; she had brought with her everything she needed.   
  
Her progress through Voldemort's cave complex was astonishingly swift; she had already surprised and killed five Death Eaters, hiding their bodies so as not to immediately reveal her presence. The Dark Lord may have had up-to-date knowledge of how to magically torment and torture, but he and his minions obviously knew next to nothing about Muggle commando tactics.  
  
Starling doffed her Invisibility Cloak, revealing her robes underneath. She quickly Transfigured them to resemble her old FBI jump-out squad uniform, something that would at least look more familiar to the Muggle captives. When she was finished with that, she turned to the door.  
  
"Alohomora!" she cried, and the oaken door flew open so fast that Clarice had to jump out of the way.   
  
The room was dark and dank and stank to high heaven; Voldemort had obviously not planned, or intended, on keeping his captives alive for very long, much less keep them in anything resembling a sanitary environment. Clarice found herself being stared at by two dozen persons, men and women, tired and filthy and hungry and frightened.   
  
"Lumos," said Clarice, pointing the wand at an unused torchholder on the wall, and suddenly there was light in the room -- light enough for two of the Muggles to recognize the woman they knew from their summer trips, in the company of their daughter, to Offhand Manor.  
  
"Lucy!" cried Roger and Roselyn Granger, rushing forward. "How did you get here?"  
  
"No time for that now. I've got to get you all out of here," replied Clarice, pulling various objects out of the pockets of her uniform. "I'm going to send you two first, so you can help the others get oriented. I've arranged for Dumbledore to meet you."  
  
"Meet us? Where?"  
  
"On the grounds near Hogwarts," Lucy replied, handing Roger Granger a small Altoids tin. The other Muggles stared, wide-eyed, hardly daring to hope they might soon be free. "Now listen to me," she said, looking first at Roger, then Roselyn. "This is a one-way Portkey. It's set up to take you out of here and to Hogwarts. Roger, you hold onto Roselyn, then open the lid when I say so. Got it?"  
  
"Got it," replied Roger, wiping his sweaty hands on his shirt so as to get a better grip on the tin.   
  
"Good. You'll feel a weird jerk around your navel, and then the next thing you'll see will be Albus Dumbledore." She stepped away from them, to give them enough room to cleanly disappear. "Ready?"  
  
"Ready," they both said, trying to keep the shakiness out of their voices.  
  
"Now!"  
  
Clutching his wife by the waist, Roger Granger carefully opened the Altoids box -- and both he and his wife vanished.  
  
Clarice looked around at the rest of the Muggles. She held out another Altoids box. "Okay, we don't have much time before somebody raises the alarm. Who wants to go next?"  
  
  
  
  
"Are you sure about this, Doctor?" Sirius asked as they quietly stole through the dense woods near Voldemort's hideaway. Sirius was wearing an Invisibility Cloak; the doctor was not.  
  
"Quite sure, Sirius," replied Hannibal Lecter. "It's better than waiting for the cancer to attack my nervous system. And what better way to cash in my chips than this?" He smiled, showing his fine, even teeth, and pulled from his inside jacket pocket one of the special wands Fred and George Weasley had secretly crafted for him. "As far as they will know, I will be a wizard capable of casting the most puissant spells, particularly defensive ones. I don't intend to give them time to discover otherwise."  
  
"If you say so, Doctor. But at least wear this when you go up to the front door." The space where Sirius stood could be seen to shimmer slightly for a moment; then, a large black dog suddenly appeared from beneath the cloak.  
  
"As you wish," said Dr. Lecter, and picked up the cloak from where it had fallen. It was one of the few magical items Lecter could actually use.   
  
"Onward, my friend," said the doctor, and he and Padfoot set forth.  
  
  
  
The last of the Muggles was gone from the room, so Clarice permitted herself the luxury of a small sigh while she sat and plotted her next move.  
  
She had deliberately made sure that the hostages used up all the Portkeys; the last thing she wanted was for Voldemort to capture her and have an easy entree to Hogwarts.   
  
At least, that's what she had consciously told herself. The real reason was somewhat more embarrassing. More shameful, actually.  
  
Clarice couldn't bear a life without Hannibal in it. Not only that, she couldn't bear watching him being eaten away by slow degrees. So, when the opportunity presented itself, she chose to offer herself up as a sacrifice rather than spend another day watching her beloved suffer.  
  
She hated herself for thinking this way, hated the cowardice inherent in such a thought, and resolved then and there to let herself live, to get herself out of the death trap into which she had so happily flung herself just bare minutes before, if only so she could be there for Hannibal when he breathed his last.  
  
Unfortunately, her thoughts were interrupted by a tall man with silver-gilt hair and a wand, who suddenly filled the doorframe of the now-nearly-empty room. Clarice was on her feet, but it was too late.   
  
"Stupefy," she heard Lucius Malfoy say, and then she fell into blackness.  



	10. Tin Star

Chapter 34: Tin Star  
  
"Enervate."  
  
Starling woke to a familiar throbbing of the head. _Feels like Alabama Slammers_, she noted. _Must have been a Stunning Spell_.   
  
She carefully noted her circumstances in the half-second before she opened her eyes. _Bound, probably magically -- those feel like conjured serpents holding me down at my wrists and ankles... to some sort of wooden table.   
  
Hmmm.   
  
Gagged, of course -- he doesn't want me shouting out a spell, even without my wands. And my robes are gone.  
  
Looks like Malfoy thought of everything_.  
  
And on that thought, Clarice Starling opened her eyes.  
  
The table on which she was bound was in the middle of the room. _All the better for   
Lucius Malfoy's torturing pleasure_, guessed Clarice. _Nothing like easy access_.  
  
Malfoy himself, dressed in full Death Eater regalia, was standing near the entrance to the room. He was quite happy to see that she was awake.  
  
"Miss Lucy Stellanova," he said, his own blue eyes meeting hers. "So nice to have you with us."  
  
"You know, I will have to let the Dark Lord have his turn with you, eventually," he drawled, tapping his wand lightly into the palm of his other hand as he slowly sidled towards her. "He's not going to be too pleased to hear that the Muds are missing. And he'll want to vent his frustrations. With any luck, he'll do it all on you and not on me. But," and here he smiled, his teeth showing pearly white like a movie star's, "he won't kill you -- yet. Not so long as he can use you as a bargaining chip."  
  
Clarice saw him point the wand at her, knew what was coming.   
  
She sent her conscious mind away, deep into the center of her memory palace, the bare feet of her inner self running along the deep shag pile of the palace's study, and waited for the blast.  
  
"_Crucio_," said Lucius Malfoy.   
  
The figure on the table writhed in agony, her back arched and taut. But Lucius Malfoy could not know that the mind that controlled the figure was untouched and inviolate.  
  
In the study, the largest part of Clarice's mental self dug her toes deep into the luxurious shag, and watched on a projection screen as sweat started to pool in the hollows of her physical form. _That's not so bad. But I do have to writhe a bit more. Let him think me weakening under the pain. Let him get the idea of wanting to hear me moan and beg and plead for mercy...  
  
"Crucio!_" Malfoy said yet again.   
  
The mental portion of Clarice, watching impassively from the protection of her memory palace, instructed her physical self to whimper slightly through the gag. She then returned to sipping her green tea from the bone china cup that she had willed to appear in her hand.  
  
A gleam appeared in Lucius Malfoy's ice-blue eyes. "Oh, it hurts, does it?" he mocked, playfully striking her flesh with his wand. "This is only the beginning, mudblood. Only the beginning."  
  
And he cast the Pain Curse a third time. And a fourth.  
  
The physical Clarice was now bathed in sweat, her eyes goggling, foam appearing around the edges of her magical gag. Her throat was making one long, continuous keening.  
  
Meanwhile, the controlling part of Clarice was still sitting in the study, sipping green tea, watching Lucius Malfoy's face contort in pleasure. _Oh, let him be arrogant enough to want to hear me scream_, she wished. _Let him be sick enough to want to make me beg._  
  
Almost as soon as it was made, her wish was granted.   
  
"Such music to my ears," he murmured, barely audible over her mewlings. "But I think it'd sound better without the muffling." He made a motion with his wand, and the gag vanished from her mouth.  
  
The inner Clarice jumped for joy, sending her teacup flying into nonexistence. She set to work concentrating on a happy memory.   
  
"You have a choice, Mudblood," purred Malfoy as he stood over her, his face bare inches from her own. "Face three more curses just like that.... or beg me to take my pleasure with you."  
  
The inner Clarice directed the outer one to slowly, shamefacedly, turn to meet Lucius Malfoy's lecherous stare. _I don't have a wand, but maybe, just maybe, if I use the tip of my nose as a focal point..._  
  
A happy memory:   
  
Starling was eight years old, sitting in the kitchen, eating oranges with her daddy.   
  
He would soon be dead, cut down by petty thieves, but that was in the future and not important now. He was peeling the oranges with his old Barlow knife, the one with the tip broken off square, the one he'd got from _his_ daddy. He was handing her the orange sections. Daddy was real and vivid and alive, smelling of tobacco and soap and hard work.  
  
Clarice's heart swelled, and her eyes shed tears of happiness, which she knew Malfoy would mistake for tears of shame -- and this made her even happier.  
  
She was looking Malfoy right in the face now, eyes red-rimmed and bloated with weeping. _Now or never_, she decided.   
  
"_EXPECTO PATRONEM!_" cried Clarice, in a voice that shook the walls.  
  
Bright blue light filled the room. The serpents binding Clarice vanished.  
  
Lucius Malfoy found himself flung against the opposite wall, wide-eyed and panicked. He tried to point his wand at Clarice, but something got in his way.  
  
A something that looked like a man.  
  
And it was carrying something that looked like a long brace of tubes, welded together.  
  
"Avada Kedavra!", screamed Malfoy, but of course the Killing Curse was useless against a Patronus, who, strictly speaking, was not alive.   
  
The Patronus smiled, raised the brace of tubes to his shoulder. There was a loud blue explosion.  
  
Lucius Malfoy felt the blast hit him in the chest, a storm of steel particles, and realized that he had just been cut rather messily in two. The Lord of the Malfoys had enough life left him to mouth a last, incoherent attempt at a spell before he slid to the floor. His eyes were still open.   
  
"Daddy," Clarice said, ecstatically extending a hand to her ghostly father.   
  
"How's my baby girl," John Starling said, his coal-miner's twang making each word sing. The blue light clung to him like an aura. His Stetson with the Fort Worth crease, the one he was buried with, sat jauntily on his spectral head. A tin star shone on his shirt front.  
  
The ghost that was once John Starling held his baby girl in his arms for a few moments, rocking her back and forth, smoothing her mussed hair with hands calloused from long years of hard labor; then he released her. "Sugar, I got to take off. You go get dressed and help your friends. They'll be here any minute."  
  
And before Clarice could protest, her daddy shimmered and was gone.  
  
  
  
  
There were several confused persons on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Much of their confusion was due to the fact that, most of the time, they couldn't see the school itself, only an old ruined building with "KEEP OUT!" signs all over it.  
  
But Dumbledore, the old man with the long white beard and the funny clothes, was kind, and the other funnily-dressed people were kind as well, ready with food and drink, as well as preparations for removing the accumulated filth of their captivity.  
  
It was decided that they should stay the night to recuperate before being sent back to their homes; what they could not know was that Dumbledore wanted to make sure that it would be safe to send them home before he actually did so.   
  
"Madam Pomfrey will see you to your quarters," beamed the old man, indicating with a wave of his hand the pleasant-faced, stoutly-built lady who must have been the Matron for the school's hospital. She radiated competence and a comfortingly wholesome authority, and the Muggles gladly turned to follow her into the castle, which most of them could see by now.  
  
His smile faded once the Muggles had gone. "Any word from Lucy?" he asked Harry and McGonagall, both of whom had their magically-adapted cellphones in their hands.  
  
"No," replied McGonagall, with a look on her face as tense as the one now on Dumbledore's own. "But Dobby called five minutes ago."  
  
"Dobby?" Dumbledore raised a snowy-white eyebrow. "Over at Offhand Manor?" Dobby, Lucius Malfoy's former house-elf, had gone to work for Dr. Reader several months earlier, and was devoted to him.   
  
"Yes," nodded McGonagall. "Both Sirius and Dr. Reader left the mansion about an hour ago. Dobby thinks they've gone to find Lucy."  
  
The headmaster blew out a bushelful of air from his cheeks. "I was afraid of that."  
  
  
  
  
Clarice had just finished putting on her robes, and reclaiming her wands, when there was a commotion at the door. She had her wands out in a flash, but it was only Sirius and Hannibal.  
  
Sirius took one look at what was left of Lucius Malfoy and had to fight down the urge to vomit. Dr. Lecter, on the other hand, seemed pleased at the sight.  
  
"So your Patronus carries a shotgun and wears a badge, does he not, darling?" he said, smiling as he stepped gracefully over Malfoy's bloody remains. "I thought he might."  
  
Then he nodded to Sirius, who quickly Stunned Clarice while her back was turned to him.  
  
"I hate to do this to her, but I know her," said Lecter as he caught her falling body, keeping it from reaching the floor. "She won't leave here of her own accord." He lifted up his beloved with the supple ease he still possessed, and handed her into Sirius' waiting arms.   
  
"Take care of her, Sirius," whispered Hannibal Lecter. "Take care of her."  
  
"I will, Doctor," Sirius replied, his voice shaking slightly. "I promise you that from the bottom of my heart."  
  
The doctor smiled, even teeth flashing in the torchlight. "Better go home now with her, Sirius," he said. "Dobby's probably called either Dumbledore or McGonagall by now."  
  
Sirius nodded. "Goodbye, Doctor. And good luck."  
  
Then Sirius, with Clarice safely gathered into his arms, vanished. 


	11. The Throne Room

Chapter 35: The Throne Room  
  
Midnight in the dank darkness, deep inside the cavern complex carved out by Voldemort and his followers.  
  
Walking in the dimly-torchlit stone corridors, Hannibal Lecter smiled as he felt the first fine fingers of morphine threading through his system. The timed-release painkiller packs under the skin of his forearm had discharged the last of their doses. For the next two hours, he would be able to function at a level he judged to be acceptable.  
  
It would be enough.  
  
It was amazing how easily they, meaning he and Sirius Black, had managed to penetrate Voldemort's unholy of unholies. The Dark Lord had trusted almost solely to the use of magical concealment, and had therefore not bothered to set up more than a perfunctory guard network -- a network that Clarice, in her passage, had by and large eliminated. As for the warding and warning spells, there was no indication that they had been triggered at all. Apparently, being an Anti-Magus meant that, as far as magical detection spells were concerned, Dr. Lecter didn't exist.   
  
Fascinating. He would have loved discussing this with Albus, but, alas, such was not to be.  
  
Still walking with his usual light strides, his body as erect as a dancer's, Dr. Lecter held one of the two wands he had made for him by the Weasley twins. He smiled as the faint aroma of wand varnish, lavender and rose with just the faintest suggestion of civet, made its way almost coquettishly into his nostrils.   
  
Both wands looked to be typical of the type favored by skilled Transfigurationists: twelve inches long and mahogany, with a matte finish. But closer inspection would reveal that each wand had a series of small buttons, flush with the wand's surface, arranged in rows running nearly the length of each wand.   
  
Each of these buttons was connected to a spell, stored deep in the wand's dragon-heartstring core. And each of those spells was as strong as Fred and George Weasley could make it.   
  
Shouts and alarums down the corridor behind him: Lucius Malfoy's corpse had been discovered. Dr. Lecter saw no reason to quicken his pace.  
  
The noises drew nearer, a cacaphony of leather-shod feet and raised voices. They had just spotted him.   
  
He didn't bother to look. His pulse remained at its usual seventy-four beats per minute.   
  
First they called out "_Stupefy!_", and Dr. Lecter felt the rushing of energy directed towards him, saw the torchlight flicker behind him as the spells flew past the flames. He heard several gasps as his attackers watched their Stunning Spells dissipate harmlessly bare inches from his back.   
  
Someone, a female Death Eater who Dr. Lecter judged to have a light soprano voice that was cracking from misuse, shouted "_Crucio!_" in what she must have hoped was a powerfully loud bellow. The spell slammed into Dr. Lecter's aura and vanished without a trace, causing its caster to shriek in frustration.  
  
Ever the cheerful gentleman, Dr. Lecter started whistling the first of Bach's Goldberg Variations and continued on his way, pulse still at seventy-four.  
  
A male wizard's scream of rage, melded with more than a little fear, reached his ears:  
  
"_Avada Kedavra!_"   
  
The green glow of the Killing Curse filled the corridor, outshining the torches for a brief moment. And then, it, too, was sucked inexorably into the magical black hole that was Hannibal Lecter.  
  
Dr. Lecter judged it advisable at that point to turn around. A faint smile played on his lips as he tapped them with his wand.  
  
Out of respect for Fred and George's sensibilities, he had not asked the Weasley twins to load any of the Unforgivables into either of his wands. There were many spells that would serve his purposes equally well, and he was about to release one of them, one that had no counterspell.  
  
"_Engorgio in perpetuuis_," murmured the doctor, pointing the wand whilst discreetly pressing a button.   
  
A flash of red energy shot from the tip, surrounding its target.  
  
The male Death Eater directly in front of Dr. Lecter suddenly -- and, to judge from his vocalizations, rather painfully -- swelled to a grotesque size, filling the corridor with his bulk. His face, now the size of an oil drum lid, contorted in red agony. His screams would have frozen the blood of any normal human, wizard or Muggle.   
  
But, of course, Dr. Lecter was most emphatically not a normal human.  
  
Pulse still seventy-five.  
  
The Death Eater's comrades would either have to Apparate around their inflated fellow, or hack their way through him, because the nature of the charm meant that he would be spending the rest of a painful and short life lodged irretrievably in that portion of the hallway. Dr. Lecter knew that all Death Eaters could Apparate -- it was required of them before they took the Dark Mark -- but he wanted to see whether or not any anti-Apparition charms existed anywhere in Voldemort's lair.   
  
And besides, he was a whimsical person.  
  
He turned his back on the engorged man and resumed his stroll down the corridor.  
  
  
  
Peter Pettigrew's nostrils twitched nervously, as if he were wearing invisible whiskers, and despite the warmth of the torches, he shivered slightly as he stood, in his human form, outside the gleaming ebony door to Voldemort's throne room. The Dark Lord had made a very big gamble, but the longer they waited without hearing from their opponents, the less likely it was that the gamble was going to pay off.  
  
On the one hand, Peter found it hard to believe that the Ministry, even with -- or especially with -- Dumbledore pulling Arthur Weasley's strings behind the scenes, would go so far as to allow the Muggle hostages to be killed rather than agree to any of the Dark Lord's terms. On the other hand, he couldn't see Dumbledore simply giving in to anything Voldemort would want. It was a predicament.  
  
Sounds of running from the south corridor.   
  
Peter looked up, saw Nicodemus Nott and Reginald Avery, their faces white with shock.   
  
"Wormtail! The Muggles are gone! And Malfoy is dead!"  
  
"What?!?" cried Peter. "Show me!"  
  
"T-this way," Nott replied stutteringly, and made to go back down the way he had come with Avery. Suddenly he stopped. "Shouldn't we tell the Dark Lord?" Nott asked.  
  
"Not yet," replied Peter, a good deal more confidently than he felt at the moment. "Come on, hurry!" he said, and both Nott and Avery were soon racing ahead of him, back down the south corridor.  
  
If the Muggles were really gone, Peter thought as he ran, the jig was indeed up, and Voldemort would take out his fury on the fool unwise or unlucky enough to be the bearer of bad news. Best to make his escape now, while he could... but how to get rid of these two oafs?  
  
They rounded a corner, Nott and Avery well ahead. Wormtail let them get a little farther ahead, then pulled out his wand.  
  
"Avada Kedavra," he muttered to their backs, pointing his wand at them. The familiar green flash erupted from his wand, rushing to envelop Nott and Avery. They died where they stood, falling silently to the floor.  
  
"A pretty little trick," said a rich, cultured voice behind him. "But I know a better one."   
  
Peter rounded on the voice, his wand upraised. "Avada Kedavra!" he said yet again, this time a touch more forcefully.  
  
The green rush of death sped towards the stranger, making a direct hit.   
  
And did nothing.  
  
Peter made a small noise at the back of his throat that could have best been described as a whimper. He then did what he usually did when he wanted to evade pursuit: he changed into a rat. With luck, the intruder wizard wouldn't notice him scampering away.   
  
But luck was not on Peter Pettigrew's side that night.  
  
"Stupefy!" he heard the stranger say, and then felt the unshakable tendrils of a particularly strong Stunning Charm. And then he knew no more.  
  
The stranger walked to where Peter, in rat form, lay unconscious by the wall.   
  
He pulled a glass jar, with holes in the lid, from one of the pockets of his jacket, and slid the Stunned Wormtail inside. The jar was fitted with an Unbreakable Charm, cast by Hermione Granger herself, when some months ago during a dinner party she was asked by the man she knew only as Dr. Marcus Reader to demonstrate how she captured that nosy reporter for the _Daily Prophet._  
  
"That should hold you until Dumbledore gets here," said Dr. Lecter as he screwed the lid on tight. He then returned the jar to his jacket pocket and resumed walking down the corridor, in the direction from which Wormtail, Nott and Avery had come.  
  
  
  
Voldemort sat on his ivory-white throne, the arms shiny from the nervous motions of his hands, and watched the crowd of his assembled followers.  
  
They tried to conceal it, at least when they were in his immediate presence, but he could tell that they were nervous. It was a very big gamble, and the longer they waited for word, the less chance there was of the gamble's succeeding.   
  
Everyone in the room knew that, including Voldemort. Especially Voldemort.  
  
His ivory-white face tightened even more than usual. He had to force his opponents' hands.   
  
Fortunately, he knew just what to do.  
  
"Mr. Crabbe," he said softly, beckoning with the slightest motion of his bony finger towards one of the more unsavory of his followers. "Bring two of the hostages to me. It's time we had some sport."  
  
"As you wish, master," responded Crabbe, a particularly cruel smile blossoming on his face. He turned away and jogged towards the door.  
  
Crabbe got about three steps before the smile fell from his face.  
  
His jet-black hair gleaming in the torchlight, Dr. Marcus Reader, the Muggle Magician, was standing in the doorway_.   
  
  
  
_There was the briefest of pauses, a space in which the only sound in the chamber was of the faint crackling of burning torches.   
  
Voldemort was the first to recover his equilibrium. "So," he said, in his calmest, most deceptively honeyed voice, "they've sent you to negotiate, Dr. Reader?"   
  
"Oh, no, Mr. Riddle," replied Dr. Lecter, politely but firmly. "I'm not here to negotiate. I'm here to kill you."_   
  
_Another slight pause ensued, while Dr. Lecter savored the effect his pronouncement was having on all and sundry.   
  
"But of course, I can't possibly do that without first, as they say in American Muggle law enforcement, busting a few caps on your followers." He pointed his wand at Crabbe. "_Putrefactio!_"  
  
A sickly gray-green light hit Crabbe's feet. He looked down at them, watched them start to liquefy before his eyes, emitting the most horrid stench as they did so.  
  
"You -- you bloody _bastard!_" Crabbe screamed, pulling his wand out even as his newly footless body fell to its knees. "_Avada Kedavra!_" His comrades soon joined him in casting the Killing Curse, and suddenly there were dozens of green rays of death hurtling through the chamber, all aimed at the intruder.  
  
Bathed in a corona of green light, Dr. Lecter smiled and nodded his appreciation. It really was quite pretty.  
  
He noted with amusement that many of the rays weren't even hitting him, but bypassing him like water rushing over a stone, and hitting other Death Eaters. Five of them had already joined the fast-rotting Crabbe on the floor.  
  
Dr. Lecter aimed his wand again. "_Incendio ultimus!_" he said, in a low but firm voice, moving his wand in front of him in a sideways pass.  
  
White-hot flame spat out from his wand, enveloping the first rank of surviving Death Eaters, causing them to shriek like stabbed horses. By the time some of their quicker-thinking fellows attempted to use Flame-Freezing Charms, half of them had already been charred beyond saving.  
  
By this time the chamber was now Chaos itself.   
  
The Death Eaters were creatures of habit. Even though they had no discernible effect on the doctor, shouts of "Avada Kedavra!" still rang through the throne room, mingled with the screams of the dying, and the smell of burnt flesh reigned supreme.  
  
_"_And now, for something completely different," announced Dr. Lecter, his pulse rate still seventy-four. "_Gelidio ultimus_!" he cried, moving his wand again in another side-to-side pass.  
  
More blue-white rays issued from his wand, but this time they brought not extreme heat, but extreme cold. The remaining Death Eaters were frozen solid where they stood, turned into lifeless statues. Dr. Lecter casually knocked one over; it shattered on the stone floor, sending myriads of frozen flesh-shards flying about. Some of them landed on Lecter's suit; ever the tidy gentleman, he brushed them off before they had a chance to melt and stain the fabric.  
  
And now there was no one left but Voldemort.  
  
The Dark Lord had risen from his throne, consternation stamped on his masklike features. He was uttering a series of curses, in rapid succession, his wand unwaveringly pointed in Dr. Lecter's direction as an unending stream of energy poured forth from it. His eyes grew wider with each failed spell, gazing helplessly as the doctor walked slowly, casually, towards the throne.  
  
A sudden shift in Voldemort's eyes, which Lecter noted. The doctor guessed correctly that the Dark Lord had decided to attempt to Apparate out of harm's way.   
  
"I think not, Tom," said Dr. Lecter aloud. Before Voldemort could react, he had pulled out the second of his two wands and pointed both of them directly at the throne.  
  
Twin rushes of energy, twin Holding Charms, designed to prevent their target from being able to Apparate. Voldemort could have blocked one of them, but not both. His last route of escape was now blocked.  
  
Dr. Lecter had now closed to within grappling distance. Without so much as a backward glance, he tossed the wands over his shoulder; they clattered on the stone floor behind him, rolling to rest against the puddle of putrefaction that was once Crabbe.   
  
Then, as Voldemort's disbelieving eyes watched the wands come to rest, Dr. Lecter, his other hand moving too fast for even the Dark Lord to see, brought the exquisitely-sharp blade of his Spyderco Harpy up to the former Tom Riddle's throat, and buried it there.   
  
The blood fountained in time to Voldemort's heartbeat, and there was a surprisingly large bit of it. But, not being able to speak, he could not cast a healing spell on himself.  
  
It took about five minutes for him to bleed to death. Dr. Lecter stood and watched, standing well back to preserve the neatness of his raiment.  
  
When Voldemort had bled his last drop, Dr. Lecter pulled him from the throne. Pulse seventy-four.   
  
He still had about an hour and forty-five minutes before the last of the morphine wore off. Should he wait until the Ministry personnel arrived? He thought not.  
  
He carefully arranged the late Tom Riddle, Jnr.'s body so that it rested on its knees directly in front of the the throne, the head drawn down low enough to touch the floor in abject abasement. Dr. Lecter then alighted into the Seat Perilous, his feet propped up for comfort on the Riddle ottoman.  
  
He pulled parchment and quill from his vest pockets, and, in his finest copperplate hand, wrote a note in ink that could be read only by Dumbledore himself. He then wrapped the note around the jar containing Peter Pettigrew, then replaced the jar in his jacket pocket.  
  
He heard voices in the corridor: Dumbledore, the hostages safely retrieved, had wasted no time in ordering an assault on the complex. Very good.  
  
Well, there's no need for me to hang around, he decided. Everything is well in hand.  
  
And with that, he put the tip of the quill in his mouth and injected himself with enough hemlock to kill a battalion. He had just enough time to compose himself before the curtain of blackness fell upon him.  
  
A last thought, as his mind went spinning off into that velvet dark: Clarice.  
  
  
  
_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_


	12. Ten Years After

Episode 36: Ten Years After  
  
  
It was a hot afternoon in late June as Harry Potter swung his modified Honda Insight up into the parking ramp of the Harlem building wherein he had an appointment. The engine, now on electric power only, was whisper-quiet as he pulled it into a vacant spot.  
  
The Harlem Empowerment Zone, created in the 1990s by Presidential decree, had succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. People and companies that once avoided Harlem now flocked to it, and it was by far the healthiest part of New York City.   
  
Two men in black were already by the car, ready to escort him to his appointment. One was a Secret Service man, the other was part of the building's own security force. Both men were African-American, and both were detailed to guard the man that Harry was about to meet, the man who had made the New Harlem possible.  
  
"Charles Rock, Secret Service," said the older and stockier of the two as he showed Harry his credentials. He had several bulges under his jacket, and, if Harry guessed correctly, a .45 strapped to each ankle, the same way Clarice had taught Harry to wear his.   
  
"Chris Schneider, Harlem Redevelopment Agency," said the younger man, flashing his own badge and ID card. He looked as if he could have been a wide reciever or a quarterback; he had a tall, lithe, quick build, yet not so tall and lithe that he could have played pro basketball.  
  
"Harry Potter, MI5 and MI6," said Harry, his own credentials from both agencies in his right hand. "Nice to meet you. It's an honor to be here."  
  
Both men flashed identical smiles. "It's an honor to work here," said Rock. "Follow us."  
  
Rock and Schneider brought Harry up the elevators to a very-well-appointed office suite. Then, they frisked him from head to toe, leaving him only his wand. Then they left the office, leaving him alone in the presence of the man who had asked to see him.  
  
"Thank you for the invitation, Mr. President," said Harry to the white-haired man who was getting up from his desk and coming to greet Harry, hand outstretched.  
  
"You can just call me 'Bill', Harry," said former President Clinton. "I'm not in the White House anymore."   
  
"Yes, Mr. President."  
  
Bill Clinton laughed until his face turned red.   
  
"Sit down and stay awhile, Harry. I've heard so much about you." He waved a hand towards the liquor cabinet. "Let me fix you a drink while you fill me in on how your guardians managed to defeat Voldemort ten years ago."  
  
Harry leaned forward, his Armani suit crinkling slightly at elbows and shoulders. "Well, Mr. President, it all came about when my uncle was trying to get me committed to an insane asylum..."  
  
  
  
  
"Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry!"  
  
Two children, a boy and his younger sister, came running excitedly to the front door of Offhand Manor, nearly knocking over Dobby, their harrassed-looking house-elf babysitter.  
  
"Hello, Dobby! Hello, James! Hello, Ardelia!" Harry picked a child up in each arm and gave them both kisses on the cheek -- James, being eight, was not yet too old for such 'sissy stuff'. "Where's your mummy and daddy?"  
  
"Out playing in the back," said Ardelia, rolling her blue eyes. She was six years old and acted twelve. "Mummy says she's practicing being an Animagus for the Auror classes she's teaching, but really she's just chasing around Daddy when he's being Padfoot."  
  
"Would Harry Potter like some refreshment?" asked a somewhat breathless Dobby, who after Dr. Lecter's death had reverted to his familiar speech patterns. "Dobby can have a gin and tonic ready in seconds if Harry Potter wishes."  
  
"Just ice water will do for now, thanks, Dobby," said Harry, making his way to the kitchen. "I'll be out in the back with Sirius and Clarice."  
  
And he would have been, too, except that they came inside themselves first.  
  
A large black dog, his coat glossy and well-kept, used a rather dextrous front paw to turn the handle of the kitchen door; once the door was open, he bounded inside. He was followed closely by a lioness, small for her species, yet finely-made and with blue eyes, and a small round mark over one cheekbone, the most beautiful lioness imaginable.  
  
They both transformed at the same time, and Harry found himself looking at Sirius and Clarice Black.  
  
  
  
"How goes the new job, Harry?" said Clarice as they sat in the study, drinks in hand. "I'm glad you got into both 5 and 6, though how Jack ever pulled it off, I'll never know. I keep pestering him about it, but he won't tell me."  
  
"I don't know for sure, either," replied Harry, grinning slightly. "But I think that the fellow I went to visit in Harlem last week might have had something to do with it."  
  
"Got to see old Bill, eh?" chuckled Sirius, his blue-black hair gleaming in the magical torchlight. "How was the old codger?"  
  
"Oh, he's really charming and smart. Very interested in how Voldemort met his end, which I told him. Without anyone else present, of course," Harry quickly added, before his godfather's and godmother's faces could even begin to frown.  
  
The talk turned towards the summer and fall of 1995, and the events of that time. Dobby was soon bringing in a second round of drinks, and everyone was starting to unwind a great deal.  
  
"You know," said Sirius abstractedly, almost sheepishly, "I've been carrying around this Bad Thought for years now, that I need to get off of my chest." He looked round at Harry and Clarice, an embarrassed smile on his face. "I've often thought how, even though it was shocking at the time, and still is a tragedy -- well, I've often thought how incredibly lucky it was for our side that McNair went mad and killed Fudge."  
  
Harry and Clarice were silent awhile. Then, slowly, they both nodded in agreement.   
  
"Fudge, bless his pointed little head, was still in denial about Voldemort to the very end," Clarice averred, sipping her Lillet. "He never would have moved against the Dark Lord, much less moved as quickly and decisively as did Arthur and Albus. It was, sad as it is to say it, very lucky for us that dealing with Dementors 24/7 finally blew the fuses in McNair's brain."  
  
"Exactly," replied her husband, cuddling up to her on the leather couch, his free arm around her shoulders. "And his revealing himself to be a Death Eater, right before killing himself -- that convinced even the die-hards that Voldemort really was back. Having the support of the whole wizarding world made it a lot easier for the Ministry to act."  
  
"Yes," said Harry absently. "Yes, it did."  
  
  
  
  
The exterior of Hogwarts had not changed materially since his graduation, Harry thought as he rode his Firebolt Seven into the grounds, but the inner workings certainly had.   
  
Minerva McGonagall was now in charge. Albus Dumbledore had gone to his reward a year after Harry's graduation; the old headmaster had willed himself to live long enough to be assured that the wizarding world was in capable hands; then, when the last of the stray Death Eater cells had been found and destroyed, he allowed himself to go quietly in his sleep. Harry had been one of the speakers at his funeral.   
  
Headmistress McGonagall had made it her mission to watch over the school exactly as Albus would have done. Therefore, and with the express permission of the Board of Governors -- which, now that Lucius Malfoy was gone, was no longer quite so anti-Muggle as it had been -- she allowed the use of Muggle technologies and disciplines. This meant, among other things, that the house-elves were using specially-adapted Cuisinarts in the kitchens, and that Professor Snape could teach the periodic table as well as the twelve uses of dragon's blood.  
  
It was Professor Snape that Harry was going to see now.  
  
Harry shrunk his broomstick down and placed it in his jacket pocket -- he was wearing his standard Muggle business-casual attire, brown chinos and matching jacket, with a collarless black shirt underneath -- and made his way down to the dungeons.  
  
The dungeon corridors were much less damp, and much better-lighted, than during his student days. The sense of foreboding, which had seemed a permanent part of the dungeon's atmosphere, was gone, too.   
  
Soon Harry found himself at Professor Snape's office door. He put his fist to the worn, iron-bound oak -- that, at least, had not changed one bit -- and knocked.  
  
"Harry Potter, is it?" came the familiar velvet-and-vinegar voice from within. "Come in, Potter." The door swung silently inward, and Harry stepped inside.  
  
The jars of preserved beasties still lined the bookshelf walls, but they had to share space with some new, mundane items. Harry recognized the Quick-Fit chemistry lab gear as being similar to that from Lecter's own workshop. A glass Klein bottle sat on   
Snape's desk, filled with green liquid and holding down student essays. Books on Muggle chemistry and physics sat next to volumes on hexing and dueling.  
  
The man himself seemed to be impervious to change; he sat behind his desk wearing the familiar black robes, his raven-black hair as yet free of any gray, and with no additional lines in his strongly-carved, hollow-cheeked, hook-nosed face.  
  
Snape inclined his head a fraction of an inch, his version of a courteous bow. "Take a chair, Potter," he said, in a surprisingly neutral voice. He watched quietly as Harry did just that, settling in the one chair that looked at least remotely inviting.   
  
"So, Mr. Potter," Snape said, fixing Harry with a particularly sharp, though not actively hostile, gaze. "You wanted to see me about something."  
  
Harry had long since passed the point when a mere stare from Severus Snape could frighten him. His reply was quick, yet calm. "That I did, sir."  
  
Snape let one of his eyebrows rise. "Perhaps you could be so kind as to tell me why."  
  
The young Auror looked the older man full in the face, unflinching, and shot his thunderbolt:  
  
"I want to know how you and Dr. Lecter managed to bring about the deaths of Walden McNair and Cornelius Fudge."  
  
  
  
  
There were a few different ways that Professor Snape could have reacted to Harry Potter's demand: Rage, indignation, perhaps even a magical or physical attack.   
  
Instead, he let his eyes meet Harry's, and asked quietly: "Are you asking me in your official capacity, Mr. Potter?"  
  
"No, Professor Snape." Harry shifted slightly in his chair, his eyes never leaving the Potions master's face. "You are in no danger of going to Azkaban over this."   
  
He let the ensuing silence hang between them, a palpable, living thing, filled with tension. Two strong-willed men, seeing who would break first, and why.  
  
At length, Professor Snape realised that Harry Potter was not going to leave the room until he had an answer.   
  
Snape leaned back in his desk chair, his eyes softening, losing some of their sharpness. Some undefinable thing -- regret? Resignation? Resolve? -- coloured the features of his angular face.   
  
"For your own curiosity, Mr. Potter?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Snape gathered a chestful of air and expelled it almost soundlessly. Harry didn't interrupt; he knew that he was about to have what he had come to get.  
  
"It was, of course, when your new guardians were making the rounds of Hogwarts, ingratiating themselves with the faculty and other staff members. Miss Stellanova had gone off with McGonagall -- Minerva had taken to her directly she saw her -- leaving Dr. Reader alone with me."  
  
Harry's eyes widened. "He must have already known he was an Anti-Magus, to be willing to risk that."  
  
"Obviously." Snape's attitude was sardonic, but not guarded; once he had decided to speak, he intended to speak fully. "I soon discovered that for myself, when he revealed to me that he knew far more about my past than I found comfortable. I'll never forget the feeling I had when I saw three successive Memory Charms wash over him without any effect whatsoever." He smiled thinly at Harry, a sidewise razor-cut in his face, before continuing.  
  
"Dr. Reader -- or, rather, Dr. Lecter, as he revealed to me that day; he only thought it fair that I know that much about him -- had a very good grasp of the political situation, as it stood with the Malfoys, Fudge and McNair. He knew that Voldemort was planning to use the Dementors, under McNair's command, to mount a full-scale assault, one that in all likelihood we could not withstand, even had Hagrid been able to rally the giants in time to our cause.  
  
"In short, he knew that desperate times called for desperate measures."  
  
Harry sat quietly, and nodded at Snape to continue, which, after a moment, he did.  
  
"We found ourselves in complete agreement, both on the need for such measures and the need to conceal them from Dumbledore, even after the fact. Albus simply would never have countenanced such a thing, even were he to have acknowledged the need for it. Nor did the doctor tell Miss Stellanova -- or, at least," Snape said, choosing his words with more than even his usual exquisite care, "he told me that he would not tell her, as he had made a promise to her not to revert to his old ways, and that this would constitute breaking that promise -- even though it was for a cause which she most likely would ultimately have approved, given time.  
  
"Of course, we had to find a way that would not involve magic, or the actual physical presence of Dr. Lecter -- either would have raised suspicions during the investigation. He arranged to provide me with several Muggle hypnotic drugs, as well as teaching me the basics of Muggle hypnosis; we practiced on house-elves, immediately Memory-Charming them afterwards, until I was able to perform to his satisfaction.  
  
"The meeting with McNair was easily arranged; as a fellow Death Eater, I had always been welcome in McNair's offices. I let it be known that I was meeting him on the Dark Lord's business, so he made sure that we were alone and unobserved. A few drops of hypnotic drug in his coffee, and he was soon in the proper frame of mind to accept hypnotic suggestions -- complete, of course, with the final suggestion that he would not remember the conversation.  
  
"Several days later, he met Fudge as they were both on the way to a humdrum Ministry meeting. The rest you know."  
  
Another silence, this one somewhat shorter, while Harry digested what Snape had just said.   
  
"The killings happened in Diagon Alley," the young Auror finally noted, leaning forward in his chair. "Was that intentional?"  
  
"Of course," Snape snorted. "A private murder and suicide, as well as the fact of McNair's being an active Death Eater, would have been covered up by Malfoy's minions within the Ministry. Getting rid of both Fudge and McNair was not enough -- we had to ensure that Lucius wouldn't be able to appoint another head-in-the-sand type as Minister. Thus, the hypnotic suggestion was set to be triggered when, and only when, McNair encountered Fudge out in the open, in front of a large crowd, with the murder -- for that is exactly what it was, Potter, and both Lecter and I were not blind to that fact -- to be followed immediately by his showing off the Dark Mark to all and sundry, then a quick suicide before he could be caught and questioned by the Aurors. I had incorporated in my suggestion to McNair the idea that he should attend that particular meeting, knowing that he could not help but meet Fudge on the way to it."  
  
"Very clever," noted Harry, though without any particular enthusiasm. "Brilliantly planned and executed." His gaze took in all of Professor Snape, still sitting at his desk, his face not registering any emotion that Harry could detect. "It suddenly makes sense, especially in his choice of conspirators."  
  
Snape actually laughed at that, a short, bitter chuckle. "Yes, it _was_ rather a complement, wasn't it, Potter? Both that he would trust my discretion and my ability to carry out the task at hand. But he knew that I, with my past history, was the obvious choice."   
  
The Potions master rose from his desk, a smooth flowing action that Harry knew was intended as a gesture of dismissal. "I trust I have answered all your questions."  
  
"Yes, Professor. And, yes, I will be on my way now."  
  
Snape smiled again, his standard thin, bitter smile. He even allowed it to reach his eyes. "Good day, Mr. Potter."  
  
"Good day, Professor."  
  
Harry stood up and was out the door without a backward glance.  
  
  
  
The members of the audience inside Diagon Alley's Lyceum murmured like a hive filled with excited bees.  
  
They were all here to listen to a speaker, a young wizard armed with a Muggle medical degree, who was leading the efforts to introduce cutting-edge Muggle psychiatric practices to the wizarding world, melding and refining them with magical techniques. He had scores of successful cures to his credit, many of them victims of Dark magic who had been written off as untreatable.   
  
All in all, it was very good for a lad who was barely seven years out of Hogwarts. But, then again, he had himself been written off as untreatable, along with his parents, until Marcus Reader had come along.  
  
The crowd erupted in ecstatic applause as he walked onto the stage, his quick, light strides bringing him gracefully to the podium. His light brown hair was combed straight back from his forehead, and his smile showed white, even teeth. His Muggle dress suit was Italian, and beautifully cut even by the standards of Italy.  
  
He patiently waited for the crowd to settle down before starting to speak.  
  
"Good afternoon," he said, in a pleasantly-modulated baritone, well suited to soothing worn and wounded nerves. "I'm Neville Longbottom, and today I'm going to talk about the uses of atypical antipsychotic drugs in the treatment of the chronically insane..."  
  
  
  
The End 


End file.

Harry Potter, Adventure, Drama