(A/N: three updates in one week?!? who am I lmfao)

CHAPTER FOUR:

Third Person Narrative:

Charlie awoke early the next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. There was a sliver of sky visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron's snoring.

Above him, Charlie noticed the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. He turned his head to the left, smiling softly. In a fit of gallantry, he had insisted that Hermione slept on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Charlie's. He wondered whether Hermione had unknowingly reached out for him in her sleep. Still, she was resting, her slow, rhythmic breathing reassuring him. Over her sleeping form, Charlie could make out Ron in the dim light, asleep on the sofa across from them.

But, as he quickly came to realize, Harry was gone.

Sitting up in a panic, Charlie silently pulled himself out of his sleeping bag, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room without disturbing the others. On the landing he whispered, "Lumos," and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.

Charlie continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing, where there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading 'SIRIUS', and it had been mysteriously left open a crack. It was in that moment that Charlie knew, Harry hadn't of gone far. With a sigh, he pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible.

The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains, and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle stubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax hanging in frost-like drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed's headboard; a spider's web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Charlie moved deeper into the room, he noticed Harry sat upon the bed.

"Shit, sorry," cursed Harry, finally taking notice of Charlie's presence in the room. "Did I wake you?"

"Didn't wake me, no," said Charlie, clapping Harry on the back, "but you did give me a minor heart-attack. Probably not a good idea to sneak off like that, mate. I mean, just imagine the look on Hermione's face if she woke up before I did."

Harry chuckled, "Right, my apologies."

Charlie, grinning to himself, looked around at the floor. The sky outside was growing brighter; there was a shimmer of light that revealed bits of paper, books, and small objects scattered over the carpet. Evidently Sirius's bedroom had been searched too, although its contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with their covers, and pages littered the floor.

But then his best friend caught Charlie's eyes once more. Harry was still sat on the bed, pieces of parchment scattered were around him. Charlie recognized one as a part of an old edition of A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. The third, however,was handwritten and crumpled, and which was being held shakily in Harry's hands.

"What've you got there?"

"It's a letter," murmured Harry, smoothing out the piece of a paper. "Go on, have a look who it's from."

Confused, Charlie took the crumpled letter from Harry's grasp and read aloud:

"Dear Padfoot,

Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favourite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself, I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there).

Of course, James thought it was so funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player, but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going. We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway!

James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell — also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons. I cried all evening when I heard.

Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore —"

Charlie's extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a quiet eruption sent excitement and grief thundering in equal measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down next to Harry.

"This is from your —"

"Yeah," said Harry quietly, taking the letter back into his hands, skimming the lines over again. "As it turns out, Sirius was the one who gave me my old toy broomstick. Crazy, isn't it?"

Charlie let Harry ponder the letter once more before clapping him on the back, asking, "Perhaps the rest of the letter is here somewhere?"

Both Gryffindor boys got to their feet and scanned the floor. Harry seized papers, treating them, in his eagerness, with as little consideration as the original searcher; he pulled open drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under the bed and armchair. 

Across the room, Charlie searched. At long last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after him.

"Here, mate, I imagine you'd like to have this," muttered Charlie sadly, extending the photograph out towards his friend. Harry smiled at it momentarily, before he then tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily's letter and continued to look for the second sheet.

After another quarter of an hour, however, Charlie and Harry were forced to conclude that the rest of Lily's letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable.

"Harry? Charlie? Charlie!"

"We're up here!" Charlie called back, slightly panicked. He rushed to the door, "What's happened?"

There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door before Charlie could reach for the handle, and then Hermione burst inside, looking terrified.

"There you are!" she said breathlessly, hugging her complicated lover tightly. "I-I woke up and you both were gone — don't do that!" she added scoldingly, slapping Charlie on the arm.

"Oi! Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his now throbbing shoulder. "Harry evidently couldn't sleep, so I came up here to check on him."

Pulling out of his embrace, Hermione sighed before turning and shouting over her shoulder, "Ron! I've found them!"

Ron's annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below. "Good! Tell them they're a bunch of gits!"

Hermione turned back to Harry.

"Why did you come up here anyway?" she asked, gazing around the ransacked room. "What have you two been doing?"

Harry held out his mother's letter, saying, "Look what we've just found!"

Hermione took it and read it while Charlie watched her. When she reached the end of the page she looked back up, tears glistening in her eyes, and muttered, "Oh, Harry..."

"And there's this too."

He handed her the torn photograph as well, and Hermione smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.

"We've been looking for the rest of the letter," Charlie added, shrugging, "but it's not here."

Hermione glanced around.

"Did you two make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?"

"Someone had searched it before us," responded Harry, eyeing the mess on the floor.

"I thought so," Hermione shook her head sadly. "Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?"

(A/N: loll I dare someone to count how many times I'll use this gif in DH)

"Information on the Order, if it was Snape," answered Charlie, his jaw clenched at the mere thought of the ex-Potions Professor.

"But you'd think he'd already have all he needed, I mean, he was in the Order, wasn't he?"

"Well then," said Charlie, keen to discuss a theory that had been brewing in his head since he first read the letter from Lily Potter, "what about information on my grandfather? The second page of this letter? You know this Bathilda Harry's mum mentions, you know who she is?"

"Who?"

"Bathilda Bagshot, the author of —"

"A History of Magic," finished Hermione, looking interested. "So Harry's parents knew her? She was an incredible magical historian."

"And she's still alive," added Charlie, and Harry immediately looked up with intrigue, "and she lives in Godric's Hollow. I know because Ron's Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew my grandfather's family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn't she?"

Harry nodded, grinning, "I always knew Godric's Hollow would hold some answers."

There was a little too much understanding in the smile Hermione gave him for Harry's liking. He took back the letter and the photograph and tucked them inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have to look at his friends and give himself away.

"Let's not make any final decisions just yet," said Hermione reluctantly, glancing between the now confused boys stood in front of her. "I mean, I understand why you'd love to talk to her about your mum and dad, Harry, as it's the same reason I imagine Charlie would like to talk to Bathilda about Dumbledore. But that wouldn't exactly help us in our search for the Horcruxes, would it?" Neither Charlie or Harry answered her, and so she rushed on, "I know you'd both really want to go to Godric's Hollow, but I'm scared. I'm scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just makes me feel more than ever that we ought to avoid the place where this all started, I'm sure they'd be expecting us to visit it."

"But this isn't just about Harry's parents," Charlie said, still avoiding looking at Hermione. "You should've heard the stuff Muriel said about my granddad at the wedding. Hermione, I want to know the truth too. Listen..."

Quickly, he told both Harry and Hermione everything that Muriel had told him. When he had finished, Hermione said, "Of course, I can see why that's upset you, Charlie —"

"I'm not upset," he lied, leaning up against the bedpost, "I'd just like to know whether it's true or not —"

Harry blinked, perplexed, "Mate, do you really think you'll get the truth from a malicious old woman like Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!"

Charlie shrugged guiltily, muttering, "I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure."

Hermione shook her head, taking a step forward to comfort him, "But, Charlie, don't you remember how little truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you?"

"What, like us two ending up together?" he said before he could stop himself. Hermione looked taken aback. "Sorry," he mumbled quickly, his eyes immediately apologetic.

"You know that's not what I meant," Hermione whispered, taking his hand. "Doge is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of your grandfather?"

He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was again: choose what to believe. He wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined that he should not get it?

"Charlie," Hermione said quietly, pulling him from his thoughts, "I know that you want to understand the truth of Dumbledore's past, just as Harry does with his parents, I'm sure, but we already have enough to figure out as is —"

"And I understand that, but —"

"But," Hermione cut him off, "we need to be very careful now with everything going on. We can't go rushing into anything. While I agree that Godric's Hollow could hold some answers —"

"Then let's —"

"We need to be sure," Hermione finished, glancing to Harry briefly to enforce her notion onto him as well. "We can't just go off straight away."

Charlie looked away again, but nodded begrudgingly. Harry sighed, clapping his best friend on the back in understanding. The three of them had shared an unspoken agreement.

"Shall we go down to the kitchen, then?" Hermione suggested, relieved, after a little pause. "Find something for breakfast?"

Harry and Charlie agreed, following Hermione out onto the landing and past the second door that led off it. There were deep scratch marks in the paintwork below a small sign that Charlie had not noticed in the dark. He paused at the top of the stairs to read it. It was a pompous little sign, neatly lettered by hand, the sort of thing that Percy Weasley might have stuck on his bedroom door:

Do Not Enter
Without the Express Permission of
Regulus Arcturus Black

Excitement trickled through Charlie, but he was not immediately sure why. He read the sign again. Harry and Hermione were already a flight of stairs below him.

"Harry, Hermione," he said, and he was surprised that his voice was so calm. "Come back up here."

"What's the matter?"

"R.A.B. I think I've found him."

There was a gasp, a brief hesitation, and then Harry and Hermione were both running back up the stairs. When they reunited on the landing, Charlie pointed at Regulus's sign. They read it carefully, then Hermione clutched Charlie's arm so tightly that he almost winced.

"Sirius's brother?" she whispered.

"He was a Death Eater," said Harry, recalling a previous memory, "Sirius told me about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave — so they killed him."

"That fits!" gasped Hermione. "If he was a Death Eater, he had access to Voldemort, and if he became disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!"

She released Charlie, leaned over the banister, and screamed, "Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!"

Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.

"What's up? If it's massive spiders again I want breakfast before I —"

He frowned at the sign on Regulus's door, to which Hermione was silently pointing.

"Yeah? That was Sirius's brother, wasn't it? Regulus Arcturus... Regulus... R.A.B! You don't reckon — ?"

"Let's find out," muttered Charlie, and he tried to push open the door, but it appeared to be locked. He took out his wand, pointed it at the handle and said, "Alohomora."

There was a click, and the door swung open.

They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus's bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius's, though it had the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his difference from the rest of the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colours of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, Toujours Pur. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed the room to examine them.

"They're all about Voldemort," she said, skimming them with her eyes; Ron winced at the name. "Regulus seems to have been a fan for a few years before he joined the Death Eaters..."

A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat down to read the clippings. Charlie, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph; a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on their chests — Slytherins. Regulus was instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row. He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.

"Oi, look, he played Seeker," announced Charlie, pointing to the photograph.

"What?" said Hermione vaguely; she was still immersed in Voldemort's press clippings.

"He's sitting in the middle of the front row, that's where the Seeker sits... you know what? Forget it," shrugged Charlie, realizing that they were all immersed in their individual searches for information. Ron was on his hands and knees, searching under the wardrobe. Across the room, Harry was looking around for likely hiding places and approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The drawers' contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.

"There's an easier way," said Hermione, as Harry wiped his inky fingers on the bedsheets. She raised her wand and said, "Accio Locket!"

Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the folds of the faded curtains, looked disappointed.

"Is that it, then? It's not here?"

"Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments," explained Hermione, shrugging. "Charms to prevent it being summoned magically, you know."

"Like the one that Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave," said Harry, remembering how he had been unable to summon the fake locket.

Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose, asking, "How are we supposed to find it then?"

"Well," said Hermione, crossing the room, "we'd have to search manually."

"That's a good idea," said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumed his examination of the curtains.

They combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but were forced, finally, to conclude that the locket was not there. The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even through the grimy landing windows.

"It could be somewhere else in the house, though," exclaimed Hermione in a rallying tone as they walked back downstairs. As Charlie, Harry and Ron had become more discouraged, she seemed to have become more determined. "Whether he'd managed to destroy it or not, he'd want to keep it hidden from Voldemort, wouldn't he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron. Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket's hiding place, even though we didn't realize it at... at..."

Charlie, Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with one foot in midair, with the dumbstruck look of one who had just been obliviated; her eyes had even drifted out of focus.

"...at the time," she finished in a whisper.

Confused, Charlie walked up next to her, pulling her from her thoughts, "Something wrong?"

Hermione looked up at him, eyes wide, whispering, "There was a locket."

"What?" said the three boys together.

"In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we... we..."

Charlie felt an overwhelming urge to kiss Hermione in that moment, and it was almost as though a brick had slid down through his chest. He remembered. He had even handled the thing as they passed it around, each trying in turn to pry it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy —

"Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us," said Harry, remembering as well. It was the only chance, the only slender hope left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. "He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C'mon."

He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the other three thundering along in his wake. The four of them made so much noise that they woke the portrait of Sirius's mother as they passed through the hall.

"Filth! Mudbloods! Scum!" she screamed after them as they dashed down into the basement kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Charlie ran the length of the room, skidded to a halt at the door of Kreacher's cupboard, and wrenched it open. There was the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf had once slept, but they were no longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there was an old copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.

Refusing to believe his eyes, Charlie snatched up the blankets and shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled dismally across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed her eyes.

"It's not over yet," said Harry, and he raised his voice and called, "Kreacher!"

There was a loud crack and the house-elf that Harry had so reluctantly inherited from Sirius appeared out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, white hair sprouting copiously from his bat-like ears. He was still wearing the filthy rag in which they had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bent upon Harry showed that his attitude to his change of ownership had altered no more than his outfit.

"Master," croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog's voice, and he bowed low, muttering to his knees, "back in my Mistress's old house with the blood-traitors and the Mud—"

"I believe I already told you not to call Hermione 'Mudblood', Kreacher," Charlie growled, and as he took a threatening step forward, Hermione was quick to pull him back.

"Don't!" she whispered, interlacing their fingers impulsively. "Please, Charlie, he doesn't know any better."

"I forbid you to call anyone 'blood traitor' or 'Mudblood'," commanded Harry, ignoring the conversation happening behind him. He would have found Kreacher, with his snout-like nose and bloodshot eyes, a distinctly unlovable object even if the elf had not betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.

"I've got a question for you," added Harry, his heart beating rather fast as he looked down at the elf, "and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?"

"Yes, Master," said Kreacher, bowing low again: Charlie saw his lips moving soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbidden to utter.

"Two years ago," Harry went on, his heart now hammering against his ribs, "there was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?"

There was a moment's silence, during which Kreacher straightened up to look Harry full in the face. Then he said, "Yes."

"Where is it now?" asked Harry jubilantly, as Charlie, Ron and Hermione looked gleeful. Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear to see their reactions to his next word.

"Gone."

"Gone?" echoed Charlie, elation flooding out of him. "What do you mean, it's gone?"

The elf shivered. He swayed.

"Kreacher," said Harry fiercely, "I order you —"

"Mundungus Fletcher," croaked the elf, his eyes still tight shut. "Mundungus Fletcher stole it all: Miss Bella's and Miss Cissy's pictures, my Mistress's gloves, the goblets with the family crest, and — and —" Kreacher was now gulping for air; his hollow chest was rising and falling rapidly, then his eyes flew open and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream "— and the locket, Master Regulus's locket! Oh, Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!"

Then, Charlie was forced to react instinctively. As Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione's scream mingled with Kreacher's, but Harry bellowed louder than both of them: "Kreacher, I order you to stay still!"

Charlie felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay flat on the cold stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.

Hermione shrieked, panicked at the sight, "Charlie, let him up!"

"So he can beat himself up with the poker?" snorted Charlie, kneeling beside the elf. "I don't think so. Right, Kreacher, we want the truth. How do you know Mundungus stole the locket?"

"Kreacher saw him!" gasped the elf as tears poured over his snout and into his mouth full of greying teeth. "Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher's cupboard with his hands full of Kreacher's treasures. Kreacher told the thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and r-ran..."

"Of course he did," quipped Charlie, remembering his encounter with Mundungus Fletcher in Diagon Alley. "Here's to hoping ol' Dung hasn't given the bloody thing away already."

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on alert. Charlie saw what had happened as clearly as though he had been present. He vaguely felt Hermione's hand squeeze around his shoulder for reassurance. Still, he couldn't shake the possibility that he stood back and watched as the locket was potentially given away to —

He was ripped from his thoughts when the elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face between his knees, and began to rock backward and forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.

"Kreacher kept the locket for Master Regulus, but Kreacher could not destroy the locket as Master Regulus instructed! So many powerful spells upon the casting, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open... Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders. And his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened between him and the D-Dark Lord..."

"Oh, Kreacher!" wailed Hermione. She dropped to her knees beside the elf and tried to hug him. At once he was on his feet, cringing away from her, quite obviously repulsed.

"The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?"

"Harry told you not to call her 'Mudblood'!" snarled Charlie, but the elf was already punishing himself. He fell to the ground and banged his forehead on the floor.

"Stop him! Please, Harry, tell him to stop!" Hermione cried, cradling her face into her hands. "Oh, don't you see now how sick it is, the way they've got to obey?"

"Kreacher — stop, stop!" shouted Harry, evidently abiding by Hermione's protests.

The elf lay on the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening around his snout, a bruise already blooming on his pallid forehead where he had struck himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and swimming in tears. Charlie had never seen anything so pitiful.

Kreacher began to sob so hard that there were no more coherent words. Tears flowed down Hermione's cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not dare touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of Kreacher's, looked troubled. Charlie sat back on his heels and shook his head, trying to clear it. Harry froze, evidently racking his brain for necessary answers.

"Kreacher," he said after a while, "when you feel up to it, er... please sit up."

It was several minutes before Kreacher hiccuped himself into silence. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes like a small child.

"Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something," muttered Harry, and he glanced at Hermione for assistance. He wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time, he could not pretend that it was not an order. However, the change in his tone seemed to have gained her approval, for she smiled encouragingly.

"Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need to find out where the locket — where Master Regulus's locket is. It's really important. We want to finish the work that we assume Master Regulus started, we want to, uh, ensure that he didn't die in vain."

Kreacher dropped his fists and looked up at Harry, managing with a croak, "Find Mundungus Fletcher?"

"And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place," confirmed Harry, smiling. "Do you think you could do that for us?"

As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Charlie had a sudden inspiration. He went to the drawing room quickly to get the moleskin satchel that he had received from Hagrid, and then took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort.

"Kreacher, I'd like you to have this," he said as he returned, pressing the locket into the elf's hand. "This belonged to Regulus and I'm sure he'd want you to have it —"

"Overkill, mate," grunted Ron, as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground.

It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away.

Kreacher then made three low bows to Charlie, Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione's direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before disapparating with the usual loud crack.

————————————————————

To everyone's disappointment, Kreacher did not return that morning or even that afternoon, leaving the four Gryffindors to prowl the house in a state of high anticipation. By nightfall, Charlie felt discouraged and anxious, and a supper composed largely of dry bread, upon which Hermione had tried a variety of unsuccessful transfigurations, did nothing to help.

Kreacher did not return the following day, nor the day after that. However, two cloaked men had appeared in the square outside number twelve, and they remained there into the night, gazing in the direction of the house that they could not see.

"Death Eaters, for sure," said Ron, as he, Charlie, Harry, and Hermione watched from the drawing room windows. "Reckon they know we're in here?"

"I don't think so," responded Hermione, though she looked frightened, "or they'd have sent Snape in after us, wouldn't they?"

Charlie looked up, curiosity inflicted upon his features, "D'you reckon he's been in here and had his tongue tied by Moody's curse?"

"Yes," whispered Hermione, nodding, "otherwise he'd have been able to tell that lot how to get in, wouldn't he? But they're probably watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry owns the house, after all."

"How do they — ?" began Harry.

"Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, remember? They'll know Sirius left you the place."

The presence of the Death Eaters outside increased the ominous mood inside number twelve. They had not heard a word from anyone beyond Grimmauld Place since Mr. Weasley's Patronus, and the strain was starting to tell. Restless and irritable, Ron had developed an annoying habit of playing with the Deluminator in his pocket. This particularly infuriated Hermione, who was whiling away the wait for Kreacher by studying The Tales of Beedle the Bard and, fairly, did not appreciate the way the lights kept flashing on and off.

"Will you stop it!" she cried on the third evening of Kreacher's absence, as all light was sucked from the drawing room yet again.

"Sorry, sorry!" said Ron, clicking the Deluminator and restoring the lights. "I don't know I'm doing it!"

"Well, can't you find some useful way to occupy yourself?"

"What, like reading kids' stories?"

"Dumbledore left me this book, Ron —"

"— and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I'm supposed to use it!"

Trying to tone out the bickering, Charlie loudly turned a page of the Daily Prophet, and his grandfather's name leapt out at him. It was a moment or two before he took in the meaning of the photograph, which showed the Dumbledore family.

His attention caught, Charlie examined the picture more carefully. Dumbledore's father, Percival, was a good-looking man with eyes that seemed to twinkle even in this faded old photograph. The baby, Ariana, was little longer than a loaf of bread and no more distinctive-looking. The mother, Kendra, had jet-black hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved quality about it. Charlie studied her dark eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally composed above a high-necked silk gown. Albus and Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets and had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus looked several years older, but otherwise the two boys looked very alike, for this was before Albus's nose had been broken and before he started wearing glasses.

The family looked quite happy and normal, smiling serenely up out of the newspaper. Baby Ariana's arm waved vaguely out of her shawl. Charlie looked above the picture and saw the headline:

EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM THE UPCOMING BIOGRAPHY OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
by Rita Skeeter

Thinking that it could hardly make him feel any worse than he already did, Charlie began to read:

Proud and haughty, Kendra Dumbledore could not bear to remain in Mould-on-the-Wold after her husband Percival's well-publicized arrest and imprisonment in Azkaban. She therefore decided to uproot the family and relocate to Godric's Hollow, the village that was later to gain fame as the scene of Harry Potter's strange escape from You-Know-Who.

Like Mould-on-the-Wold, Godric's Hollow was home to a number of Wizarding families, but as Kendra knew none of them, she would be spared the curiosity about her husband's crime she had faced in her former village. By repeatedly rebuffing the friendly advances of her new Wizarding neighbours, she soon ensured that her family was left well alone.

"Slammed the door in my face when I went around to welcome her with a batch of homemade Cauldron Cakes," says Bathilda Bagshot. "The first year they were there I only ever saw the two boys. Wouldn't have known there was a daughter if I hadn't been picking Plangentines by moonlight the winter after they moved in, and saw Kendra leading Ariana out into the back garden. Walked her round the lawn once, keeping a firm grip on her, then took her back inside. Didn't know what to make of it."

It seems that Kendra thought the move to Godric's Hollow was the perfect opportunity to hide Ariana once and for all, something she had probably been planning for years. The timing was significant. Ariana was barely seven years old when she vanished from sight, and seven is the age by which most experts agree that magic will have revealed itself, if present. Nobody now alive remembers Ariana ever demonstrating even the slightest sign of magical ability. It seems clear, therefore, that Kendra made a decision to hide her daughter's existence rather than suffer the shame of admitting that she had produced a Squib.

Moving away from the friends and neighbours who knew Ariana would, of course, make imprisoning her all the easier. The tiny number of people who henceforth knew of Ariana's existence could be counted upon to keep the secret, including her two brothers, who deflected awkward questions with the answer their mother had taught them: "My sister is too frail for school."

Next week: Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts — the Prizes and the Pretence.

Charlie had been wrong, for what he had read had indeed made him feel worse. He looked back at the photograph of the apparently happy family. Was it true? How could he find out? He wanted to go to Godric's Hollow, even if Bathilda was in no fit state to talk to him; he wanted to visit the place where his grandfather had grown up.

"Charlie?" Hermione asked tentatively; she was watching his face contort with confusion as he read over the paper. "Is everything all right?"

He sighed and looked up, forcing a smile.

"Yeah, fine," he mumbled, and he left the Daily Prophet open on a page about 'Educational Reform' before excusing himself from the room. Hermione's eyes followed him as he left, and, from the look on her face, Charlie got the impression she wished she could follow.

Hours later, Charlie returned to the drawing room after taking the time to think some things over. Harry sat, staring at the Snitch that Dumbledore had left him as it hovered in front of his face, still none the wiser as to how they could open it. On the couch in front of the fire, Ron slept soundly, drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Behind him, Hermione was carrying a tune on the old grand piano, and Charlie saw her briefly cast a look over her shoulder, smiling in his direction.

Unable to stop himself, Charlie crossed the room and took a seat on the padded piano bench next to her. He smiled as he watched Hermione press down on the keys, fully contented to sit there and stare at her forever. To his great surprise, however, Hermione nodded towards his hands, silently instructing him to play along with her. She gingerly tapped the keys at a moderate pace, looking at Charlie to see if he understood it.

"Like this?" he asked, stumbling his fingers across the keys.

"Be a little gentler," Hermione said with a soft laugh, after Charlie had made a rather clumsy second attempt, "like this," and then she placed her hands over his, helping him to strike the right keys; Charlie had heard the song before, though he wasn't sure what it was called.

(A/N: you better not hate me in the comments for this... we only know Charmione, okay? remember that <3)

Lost in thought, Charlie still managed to shudder when Hermione leaned her head on his shoulder, his eyes still on the piano. He tried again, less clunky this time, forcing himself to concentrate on something other than the electrifying sensation of Hermione's touch.

"Beethoven," she whispered absentmindedly, maybe to herself, more than anything. "My dad taught me, when I was little..." she trailed off, and Charlie knew she was thinking of her parents. Now, she might as well be an orphan too, for what it was worth, because of the sacrifice she'd made.

All too quickly Charlie stopped playing the piano, turned his head and placed a delicate kiss to her forehead, his heart racing.

"I love you," he told her quietly, so only she could hear. "I feel like I don't say that nearly enough."

Impulsively, Charlie thought of his grandfather, of how their last words were spoken in a fit of rage. Ever since the day of Dumbledore's death, Charlie seemed more determined than ever to remind the ones he loved how much he cared for them. It was a mistake, he realized, to push others that loved him away in some valiant attempt at honour. And now, he vowed to never make that mistake again.

Pulled from his thoughts, Charlie sensed, rather than saw, Hermione smile faintly, before she tucked her head into the crook of his neck and placed a soft kiss on the underside of his chin; Ron had now awoken from the noise of the piano, and was instead trying to tune an old radio they'd found stashed away in a cupboard.

But a loud crack and the noise of a scuffle echoing from downstairs broke the trance. Charlie and Hermione looked at each other for half-a-second, before they were up on their feet, rushing out onto the landing and down the stairs; Ron and Harry were right behind them, hot on their heels.

For the first time in three days Charlie had forgotten all about Kreacher, but when he and the others bursted into the kitchen, they could see a mass of struggling limbs.

"Charlie Hawthorne!" squeaked a voice. It wasn't Kreacher, but instead Dobby, who was tugging hard at Mundungus Fletcher's leg. Kreacher was climbing over Mundungus' shoulders and then the squat man collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"As requested," Kreacher croaked towards Harry. "Kreacher has returned with the thief."

Mundungus scrambled up and pulled out his wand; Hermione, however, was too quick for him.

"Expelliarmus!"

Mundungus's wand soared into the air, and Hermione caught it. Wild-eyed, Mundungus dived for the stairs. Charlie rugby-tackled him and Mundungus hit the stone floor with a muffled crunch.

"Wha'?" he bellowed, writhing in his attempts to free himself from Charlie's grip. "Wha've I done? Setting a bleedin' 'ouse-elf on me, wha' are you playing at, wha've I done, lemme go —"

Before anyone could answer, though, Dobby clambered up a chair and onto the table.

"Dobby saw Kreacher in Diagon Alley, which Dobby thought was... curious," Dobby squeaked, recalling the tale. "Then, Dobby heard Kreacher mention Harry Potter's name. And then, Dobby saw Kreacher talking with the thief —"

"I'm no thief! I'm a purveyor of rare and... wondrous objects," growled Mundungus, coming to his own defence. "Lemme go, or I'll —"

"Or you'll what?" snarled Charlie, his jaw clenched; he hadn't forgotten Mundungus' cowardice on the night Mad-Eye died. He heard Mundungus yelp as Charlie pressed his knee more firmly into his back. Mundungus stank of stale sweat and tobacco smoke. His hair was matted and his robes stained.

"You're not in much of a position to make threats," said Harry, and he crossed the kitchen in a few strides, and dropped to his knees beside Mundungus, who stopped struggling and looked terrified. Charlie got up, panting, and watched as Harry pointed his wand deliberately at Mundungus's nose.

"Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master," croaked the elf. "Mundungus Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the thief in the end."

"You've done really well, Kreacher," smiled Harry, and the elf bowed low. "And you too, Dobby. Thanks for helping." Dobby beamed, jumping up and down excitedly.

"Right, we've got a few questions for you," Charlie told Mundungus, who shouted at once.

"I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along! No offence, mate, but I never volunteered to die for any of you, an' that information was bleedin' useful for You-Know-Who, I'll tell ya! Anyone woulda done wha' I did, especially after seeing wha' You-Know-Who was offerin' me! Freedom, an' heaps of gold —"

"You sold us out for fucking gold?" snapped Charlie, anger flushing his face at the newfound revelation. "You got Mad-Eye killed you bloody coward! And then you had the gall to make it look like I was the traitor? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Well, it was either you or me then, kid, wasn't it? Sorry to disappoin', but I never pretended I was up for killin' meself —"

"We're not interested in your excuses," growled Harry, moving his wand a little closer to Mundungus's baggy, bloodshot eyes.

Ron nodded, adding, "We already knew you were an unreliable piece of scum!"

Charlie turned unexpectedly, rounding on the ginger, "Oh, that's rich coming from you! As I recall, even after I told you that I was innocent, you still pointed your fucking wand in my direction."

"Watch yourself, Charlie! I don't need you to tell me when I've made a mistake!" Ron snapped back in equal measure, and he took a threatening step towards Charlie, who had already clenched his fists, prepared to strike.

But just as quickly as the two boys challenged one another, Hermione stepped in between them, begging, "No, no, stop! We mustn't fight!"

"He started it —"

"Ain't no one cares!" shouted Mundungus, still at the mercy of Harry's wand. "Jus' tell me why the 'ell am I being 'unted down by 'ouse-elves! Is this about them goblets again? I ain't got none of 'em left, or you could 'ave 'em —"

"It's not about the goblets either, although you're getting warmer," said Charlie, fixating his anger on the man in question. "Shut up and listen."

It felt wonderful to have something to do, someone of whom he could demand some small portion of truth. Harry's wand was now so close to the bridge of Mundungus's nose that the thief had gone cross-eyed trying to keep it in view.

"When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable," Charlie began, but Mundungus interrupted him again.

"Sirius never cared about any of the junk —"

There was the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony: Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan.

"Call 'im off, call 'im off, 'e should be locked up!" screamed Mundungus, cowering as Kreacher raised the heavy-bottomed pan again.

"Kreacher, no!" shouted Harry, and Kreacher's thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan at once, although he still held it aloft.

"Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?"

Despite his rage, Charlie couldn't help but laugh.

"We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading you can do the honours," chided Harry, stifling a laugh of his own.

"Thank you very much, Master," said Kreacher with a bow, and he retreated a short distance, his great pale eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing.

"When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find," Charlie began again, "you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there."

Charlie's mouth was suddenly dry. He could sense Harry, Ron and Hermione's tension and excitement too, for there was a shift in the atmosphere.

"What did you do with it?"

"Why?" asked Mundungus, his eyes bulging with curiosity. "Is it valuable?"

Hermione cried aloud, "You've still got it!"

"No, he hasn't," said Ron shrewdly. "He's wondering whether he should have asked more money for it."

"More?" echoed Mundungus, shaking his head in disbelief. "Tha' would 'ave been fuckin' difficult... bleedin' gave it away, di'n' I? I 'ad no choice."

Charlie's mouth fell agape, horror arising in his stomach.

"So that was the locket you had in Diagon Alley!" he said, his eyes wide. "I saw you with it that day!"

Mundungus grunted in response. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had all turned their heads towards Charlie, questioning looks in each of their eyes.

"What do you mean?"

But Mundungus thought it best if he told the tale:

"I was sellin' in Diagon Alley and this woman comes up to me and asks if I've got a license for trading in magical artefacts. Bleedin' snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an' told me she'd take it and let me off that time, and to fink meself lucky."

Harry blinked, perplexed, "Who was this woman?"

"I dunno, some Ministry hag." Mundungus considered for a moment, brow wrinkled. "Little woman. Bow on top of 'er head —"

"Umbridge," said Charlie, internally cursing himself. "Bloody hell, she's got the locket."

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, only broken by Hermione's weak gasps of horrific realization. Harry dropped his wand, and it hit Mundungus on the nose and shot red sparks into his eyebrows, which ignited.

"Aguamenti!" screamed Hermione, and a jet of water streamed from her wand, engulfing a spluttering and choking Mundungus.

Charlie looked around and saw his own shock reflected in Harry, Ron and Hermione's faces. The scars on the back of his right hand seemed to be tingling again.

————————————————————

As August wore on, the square of unkempt grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place shrivelled in the sun until it was brittle and brown. The inhabitants of number twelve were never seen by anybody in the surrounding houses, and nor was number twelve itself. The Muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had long since accepted the amusing mistake in the numbering that had caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.

Yet the square was now attracting a trickle of visitors who seemed to find the anomaly most intriguing. Barely a day passed without one or two people arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other purpose, or so it seemed, than to lean against the railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen, watching the spot between the two houses. The watchers seemed to be gleaning little satisfaction from their vigil. Occasionally one of them started forward excitedly, as if they had seen something interesting at last, only to fall back looking disappointed.

On the first day of September, there were more people lurking in the square than ever before. Half a dozen men in long cloaks stood silent and watchful, gazing between houses eleven and thirteen, but the thing for which they were waiting still appeared elusive. As evening drew in, bringing with it an unexpected gust of chilly rain for the first time in weeks, there occurred one of those inexplicable moments when they appeared to have seen something interesting. The man with the twisted face pointed and his closest companion, a podgy, pallid man, started forward, but a moment later they had relaxed into their previous state of inactivity, looking frustrated and disappointed.

Meanwhile, inside number twelve, Charlie had just entered the hall. He had nearly lost his balance as he Apparated onto the top step just outside the front door, and thought that the Death Eaters might have caught a glimpse of his momentarily exposed elbow. Shutting the front door carefully behind him, he pulled off Harry's invisibility cloak, which had been used to gather supplies undetected, and hurried along the gloomy hallway toward the door that led to the basement, a stolen copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in his hand.

The usual low whisper of "Severus Snape?" greeted him, the chill wind swept him, and his tongue rolled up for a moment.

"I didn't kill you," he said, once it had unrolled, then held his breath as the dusty jinx-figure exploded. He waited until he was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen, out of earshot of Mrs. Black and clear of the dust cloud, before calling, "I've got news, and you won't like it."

The kitchen was almost unrecognizable. Every surface now shone; copper pots and pans had been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleamed; the goblets and plates already laid for dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire, on which a cauldron was simmering. Nothing in the room, however, was more dramatically different than the house-elf who now came hurrying toward Charlie, dressed in a snowy-white towel, his ear hair as clean and fluffy as cotton wool, Regulus's locket bouncing on his thin chest.

"Shoes off, if you please, Master Charles, and hands washed before dinner," croaked Kreacher, seizing the Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a hook on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned robes that had been freshly laundered.

"What's happened?" Harry asked apprehensively. He, Ron and Hermione had been pouring over a sheaf of scribbled notes and hand-drawn maps that littered the end of the long kitchen table, but now they watched Charlie as he strode toward them and threw down the newspaper on top of their scattered parchment.

A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired man stared up at them all, beneath a headline that read:

SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER

"No!" shouted Harry, Ron and Hermione loudly.

Hermione was quickest; she snatched up the newspaper and began to read the accompanying story out loud.

"Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was today appointed Headmaster in the most important of several staffing changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother, Amycus, fills the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.

"I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions and values — like committing murder and cutting off people's ears, I suppose! Snape, Headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore's study — wait!" Hermione shrieked, making Charlie, Harry and Ron jump. She leapt up from the table and hurtled from the room, shouting as she went, "I'll be back in a minute!"

But Charlie wasn't listening, as he was too busy glaring at the article about Snape, his nostrils flaring. Ron then pulled the newspaper toward him and the lines over.

"The other teachers won't stand for this. McGonagall, Flitwick and Sprout all know the truth, they know how Dumbledore died. They won't accept Snape as Headmaster, there's no way! And who are these Carrows?"

"Death Eaters," growled Charlie, his stomach coiling in exasperated anger. "There are pictures of them inside. They were at the top of the tower when Snape killed Dumbledore, so it's all of his friends together. And," Charlie went on bitterly, drawing up a chair, "I can't see that the other teachers have got any choice but to stay. If the Ministry and Voldemort are behind Snape, it'll be a choice between staying and teaching, or a nice few years in Azkaban — and that's if they're lucky. I reckon they'll stay to try and protect the students."

Kreacher came bustling to the table with a large tureen in his hands, and ladled out soup into pristine bowls, whistling between his teeth as he did so.

"Thanks, Kreacher," said Harry, flipping over the Prophet so as not to have to look at Snape's face. "Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is."

Charlie grumbled something incoherently under his breath. When Ron and Harry gave him a confused look, he merely began to spoon soup into his mouth. The quality of Kreacher's cooking had improved dramatically ever since he had been given Regulus's locket. Today's French onion was as good as Charlie had ever tasted.

"There are still a load of Death Eaters watching the house," he told Harry and Ron as he ate, "more than usual. It's like they're hoping we'll march out carrying our school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express."

Ron glanced at his watch, muttering sadly, "I've been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn't it?"

In his mind's eye, Charlie seemed to see the scarlet steam engine as he, Harry and Ron had once followed it by air, shimmering between fields and hills, a rippling scarlet caterpillar. He was sure Elaina, Ginny, Neville, and Luna were sitting together at this moment, perhaps wondering where he, Hermione, Ron, and Hermione were, or debating how best to undermine Snape's new regime.

"They nearly saw me coming in just now," mumbled Charlie, changing the topic quickly. "I landed badly on the top step, and the cloak slipped."

"I do that every time. Oh, here she is," Ron added, craning around in his seat to see Hermione as she reentered the kitchen. "And what in the name of Merlin's pants was that about?"

Hermione panted, "I remembered this."

She was carrying a large, framed picture, which she now lowered to the floor before seizing her small, beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening it, she proceeded to force the painting inside, and despite the fact that it was patently too large to fit inside the tiny bag, within a few seconds it had vanished, like so much else, into the bag's capacious depths.

"Phineas Nigellus," Hermione explained breathlessly as she threw the bag onto the kitchen table with the usual sonorous, clanking crash.

"Sorry?" questioned Ron, but both Harry and Charlie immediately understood. The painted image of Phineas Nigellus Black was able to flit between his portrait in Grimmauld Place and the one that hung in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts: the circular tower-top room where Snape was no doubt sitting right now, in triumphant possession of Dumbledore's collection of delicate, silver magical instruments, the stone Pensieve, the Sorting Hat and, unless it had been moved elsewhere, the sword of Gryffindor. Charlie's grip around his spoon tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this house for him," Hermione told Ron as she resumed her seat. "But let him try it now, all Phineas Nigellus will be able to see is the inside of my handbag!"

"Good thinking!" said Ron, looking impressed.

Charlie nodded in agreement, it was good thinking, it was Hermione after all, but he again found himself slightly irritated at the quickness, and new frequency, of Ron's compliments directed toward their best friend.

"Thank you," smiled Hermione, unaware of the grimace now gracing Charlie's face, pulling her soup toward her. "So what else happened today?"

"Nothing," said Charlie, his tone helplessly standoffish. "I watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign of her. Probably since it's a Sunday so it's quieter. Saw your dad, though, Ron. He looks fine."

Ron nodded his appreciation of this news. They had agreed that it was far too dangerous to try and communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walked in and out of the Ministry, because he was always surrounded by other Ministry workers. It was, however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him, even if he did look very strained and anxious.

"Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work," added Ron, smiling faintly at the mention of his father. "That's why we haven't seen Umbridge, she'd never walk, she'd think she's too important."

Hermione kinked a brow, asking, "And what about that funny old witch and that little wizard in the navy robes?"

Ron laughed, "Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance."

"How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?" Hermione asked, her soup spoon suspended in midair.

"Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes."

"But you never told us that!"

Hermione dropped her spoon and pulled toward her the sheaf of notes and maps that she, Harry and Ron had been examining when Charlie had entered the kitchen.

"There's nothing in here about navy blue robes, nothing!" she said, flipping feverishly through the pages.

"Well, does it really matter?"

"Ron, it all matters! If we're going to get into the Ministry and not give ourselves away when they're bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little detail matters! We've been over this, I mean, what's the point of all these reconnaissance trips if you aren't even bothering to tell us —"

"Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing —"

"You do realize, don't you, that there's probably no more dangerous place in the whole world for us to be right now than the Ministry of —"

But at the sound of Harry's voice, the entire room fell eerily silent: "I think we should do it tomorrow."

Hermione stopped dead, her jaw hanging; Ron choked a little over his soup. Charlie was pulled from his thoughts of revenge and nearly got whiplash from how fast his head turned.

"Tomorrow?" he repeated, unsure if he had heard correctly. "You aren't serious, Harry?"

"I am," said Harry, nodding. "I don't think we're going to be much better prepared than we are now even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we put it off, the farther away that locket could be. There's already a good chance Umbridge has chucked it away; the thing doesn't open."

"Unless," suggested Ron, "she's found a way of opening it and she's now possessed."

Charlie shrugged, "Wouldn't make any difference to her, she was already evil in the first place."

Hermione was biting her lip, deep in thought.

"Maybe, but —" she started, but Harry cut her off.

"We know everything important. We know they've stopped Apparition in and out of the Ministry. We know only the most senior Ministry members are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now, because Ron heard those two Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know you get in using those funny coins, or tokens, or whatever they are, because Charlie saw that witch borrowing one from her friend —"

Hermione started, "But we haven't got any —"

"If the plan works, we will have," Harry continued calmly.

"I don't know, Harry, I don't know... there are an awful lot of things that could go wrong, so much relies on chance..."

"That'll be still true even if we spend another three months preparing," said Harry, looking between his three best friends. "It's time to act."

Harry could tell from Charlie, Ron and Hermione's faces that they were scared; he was scared too, and yet he was sure the time had come to put their plan into operation. They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the Invisibility Cloak and spy on the official entrance to the Ministry, which Charlie and Ron, thanks to their fathers, had known since childhood.

They had tailed Ministry workers on their way in, eavesdropped on their conversations, and learned by careful observation which of them could be relied upon to appear, alone, at the same time every day. Occasionally, there had been a chance to sneak a Daily Prophet out of somebody's briefcase. Slowly, over time, they had built up the sketchy maps and notes that were now stacked in front of Hermione.

"All right," said Charlie slowly, "let's say we go for it tomorrow... I still think it should just be me, Harry, and Ron."

"Oh, don't start that again!" sighed Hermione, shaking her head. "I thought we'd settled this."

"It's one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak, but this is different, Hermione," Charlie jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously. "You're on the list of Muggle-borns who didn't present themselves for interrogation!"

"And you're a rogue Death Eater who's been disobeying Voldemort for the last year and a half! So, forgive me, but I fail to see your point. If anyone shouldn't go, it's you and Harry, you've both got a ten-thousand-Galleon price on your heads —"

"Fine, I'll stay here," said Harry, shrugging, as he took a seat at the kitchen table. "Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort, won't you?"

As Ron and Hermione laughed, pain shot through the scar on Harry's forehead. His hand jumped to it. He saw Charlie's eyes narrow in his direction, and he tried to pass off the movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"Well, if all four of us go we'll have to Disapparate separately," suggested Ron, but Charlie wasn't really paying much attention. "We can't all fit under the cloak anymore."

Harry's scar was becoming more and more painful. He stood up. At once, Kreacher hurried forward. "Master has not finished his soup, would Master prefer the savoury stew, or else the treacle tart?"

"Thanks, Kreacher, but I'll be back in a minute, uh, I've got to use the bathroom."

Aware that Charlie was watching him suspiciously, Harry hurried up the stairs to the hall and then to the first landing, where he dashed into the bathroom and bolted the door closed.

But after several minutes of Harry's absence, Charlie began to grow anxious. Having had enough, he excused himself from Ron and Hermione's conversation, and then proceeded down the hall towards the bathroom. It only took a few steps to hear the incoherent screeches coming from the bathroom. With wide eyes, Charlie banged on the door loudly.

"Harry! HARRY! OPEN UP!"

Within seconds, Harry unbolted the door; Charlie toppled inside at once, regained his balance, and looked around suspiciously. He looked unnerved as he pointed his wand into the corners of the chilly bathroom.

"What did you see this time?"

"Nothing —"

"Don't play dumb with me," chided Charlie, taking deep breaths. "I know your scar hurt downstairs, and you're white as a sheet."

Harry sat down on the edge of the bath.

"Fine. I've just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he's probably killed her whole family. And he didn't need to. It was horrific, they all just sat back and watched it happen..."

"Hermione told you not to let this happen anymore," said Charlie, his voice echoing through the bathroom. "My grandfather wanted you to use Occlumency for a reason! He thought the connection was dangerous. What good is it to watch Voldemort kill and torture innocent people, how can it help?"

Harry shrugged, rubbing his forehead, "It helps us know what he's doing."

"So you're not even going to try to shut him out?"

"Charlie, I can't. You know I'm lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of it."

"If we're being honest, you never really tried!" Charlie said desperately, now crouching down next so that their faces were level with one another. "You don't know what this connection might mean. Listen, Harry, Dumbledore —"

"Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else's. I want to know why he's after Gregorovitch."

"Who?"

"He's a foreign wandmaker," explained Harry, shrugging once again. "I reckon he's been captured by Voldemort."

"But according to you," said Charlie, his eyes narrowing in question, "Voldemort's got Ollivander locked up somewhere. Nobody's seen him since the attack on his shop last year. If You-Know-Who's already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?"

"Maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better... or maybe he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn't know."

"So you think that the night we were ambushed, you saw Voldemort? And that your wand acted on its own accord against him?" asked Charlie, in need of clarification. When Harry nodded, he pressed on, "But, Harry, are you sure you didn't make anything happen yourself? Things happened so fast —"

"No! I know it wasn't me. And so does Voldemort, Charlie! We both know what really happened!"

"Okay, okay, I believe you," sighed Charlie, unwilling to argue. "But let's talk more about this later, yeah? If we're going to the Ministry tomorrow, we should go over the plan."

Reluctantly, as anyone could tell, Harry let the matter rest, though Charlie was quite sure he would argue again at the first opportunity. In the meantime, the two of them returned to the basement kitchen, where Kreacher served them all stew and treacle tart.

They did not get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going over their plan until they could recite it, word perfect, to each other.

Charlie, who had still be residing on the drawing room floor, laid in his sleeping bag with his wand light trained on the phoenix feather that Harry had given him for his birthday, going over the plan one more time in his head. As he extinguished his wand, however, he was thinking not of Polyjuice Potion, Puking Pastilles, or the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he thought of Snape's new position as Headmaster, and how long he and his friends could remain hidden while Voldemort sought them so determinedly.

Hermione, who had initially turned away from the light of the wand, but was now facing him, whispered, "Charlie, are you awake?"

"Yeah," he said, looking up to meet her worried gaze in the darkness. "Is everything all right?"

Instead of giving an immediate answer, however, Charlie was surprised when he heard Hermione move from the sofa onto the floor, shuffling closer into his embrace. Unable to help himself, Charlie smiled and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her under the covers with him.

"About tomorrow," Hermione began, and Charlie felt her exhale deeply against his skin, "I-I'm scared."

Charlie gulped. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine. He wanted to tell her they would be safe. But he couldn't, and he knew Hermione wouldn't want that. Deep down, he also knew that didn't mean she was scared because she would be risking her life — she had done that plenty of times before — but instead she was scared for him.

"I am too," he admitted, easing her worries ever so slightly. "But still, I'd like to imagine that seven years of constant surviving must account for something. Besides, we've come too far to turn back now."

"I suppose you're right," Hermione mumbled, kissing him lightly on his chest; as always, Charlie had been left surprised — and fell utterly and hopelessly in love — with Hermione's unexpected affections towards him.

She hummed contently at his reaction, nuzzling her face further into him. Charlie pulled her in as closely as he could, wanting to savour their closeness, and putting off the thoughts of whatever tomorrow would bring.

Dawn, however, seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.

"You look terrible," greeted Harry, as Charlie met him on the stairs the next morning. Hermione hadn't been in bed when Charlie awoke.

"Not for long," said Charlie, yawning. They found Hermione and Ron downstairs in the kitchen. Hermione was being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and wearing the slightly manic expression that Charlie associated with exam review, the calm state in which she'd fallen asleep gone completely.

Harry waved as he entered the room, "Morning."

"Robes," Hermione said under her breath, acknowledging their presence with a nervous nod and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag, "Polyjuice Potion... Invisibility Cloak... Decoy Detonators... you should each take a couple just in case... Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Nougat, Extendable Ears..."

They each gulped down their breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they returned.

"Bless him," said Ron fondly, "and to think, I used to fantasize about cutting off his head and sticking it on the wall."

They made their way onto the front step with immense caution. They could see a couple of puffy eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.

Hermione Disapparated with Harry and Ron first, then came back for Charlie. Before they Disapparated however, Hermione paused to whisper in Charlie's ear.

"I love you too, you know," she told him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on alert. "I meant to tell you last night but I —"

Stood in shock, all Charlie could manage to do was squeeze her hand in silent reassurance before Disapparating. After the usual brief spell of darkness and near suffocation, Charlie found himself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place. It was as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not usually appear here until at least eight o'clock.

"Right then," said Hermione, checking her watch. "She ought to be here in about five minutes. When I've stunned her —"

"Hermione, we know," groaned Ron, shaking his head. "And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?"

Hermione squealed, "I nearly forgot! Stand back —"

She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door beside them, which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as they knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty theatre. Hermione pulled the door back toward her, to make it look as though it was still closed.

"And now," she pressed on, turning back to face the other three in the alleyway, "we put on the cloak again —"

"— and we wait," Ron finished, throwing it over Hermione's head like a blanket over a birdcage and rolling his eyes at Charlie and Harry.

Little more than a minute later, there was a tiny pop and a little Ministry witch with flyaway grey hair Apparated feet from them, blinking a little in the sudden brightness; the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. She barely had time to enjoy the unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione's silent Stunning Spell hit her in the chest and she toppled over.

"Nicely done, Hermione," said Ron, emerging from behind a bin beside the theatre door as Charlie and Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak. Together, they carried the little witch into the dark passageway that led backstage. Hermione plucked a few hairs from the witch's head and added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion she had taken from the beaded bag. Ron was rummaging through the little witch's handbag.

"She's Mafalda Hopkirk," he said, reading a small card that identified their victim as an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. "You'd better take this, Hermione, and here are the tokens."

He passed her several small golden coins, all embossed with the letters M.O.M, which he had taken from the witch's purse.

Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now a pleasant heliotrope color, and within seconds stood before them, the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she removed Mafalda's spectacles and put them on, Harry checked his watch.

"We're running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any second."

They hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda; Charlie, Harry and Ron threw the Invisibility Cloak over themselves but Hermione remained in view, waiting. Seconds later there was another pop, and a small, ferrety looking wizard appeared before them.

"Oh, hello, Mafalda!"

"Hello!" greeted Hermione in a quavery voice, "How are you today?"

"Not so good, actually," replied the little wizard, who looked thoroughly downcast.

As Hermione and the wizard headed for the main road, Harry, Charlie and Ron crept along behind them.

"I'm sorry to hear you're under the weather," muttered Hermione, talking firmly over the little wizard as he tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential to stop him from reaching the street. "Here, have a sweet."

"Eh? Oh, no thanks —"

"I insist!" said Hermione aggressively, shaking the bag of pastilles in his face. Looking rather alarmed, the little wizard took one.

The effect was instantaneous. The moment the pastille touched his tongue, the little wizard started vomiting so hard that he did not even notice as Hermione yanked a handful of hairs from the top of his head.

"Oh dear!" she said, as he splattered the alley with sick. "Perhaps you'd better take the day off!"

"No — no!" He choked and retched, trying to continue on his way despite being unable to walk straight. "I must — today — must go —"

"But that's just silly!" said Hermione, alarmed. "You can't go to work in this state — I think you ought to go to St. Mungo's and get them to sort you out!"

The wizard had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still trying to crawl toward the main street.

Hermione cried aloud, "You simply can't go to work like this!"

At last, he seemed to accept the truth of her words. Using a repulsed Hermione to claw his way back into a standing position, he turned on the spot and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron had snatched from his hand as he went and some flying chunks of vomit.

"Urgh," groaned Hermione, holding up the skirts of her robe to avoid the puddles of sick. "It would have made much less mess to stun him too."

"Yeah," chuckled Ron, emerging from under the cloak holding the wizard's bag, "but I still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention. Keen on his job, though, isn't he? Chuck us the hair and the potion, then."

Within two minutes, Ron stood before them, as balding and downtrodden as the sick wizard, and wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag.

"Weird he wasn't wearing them today, wasn't it, seeing how much he wanted to go? Anyway, I'm Reg Cattermole, according to the label in the back."

"Now wait here," Hermione told Charlie and Harry, who were still under the Invisibility Cloak, "and we'll be back with some hairs for you."

They only had to wait ten minutes, but it seemed much longer to Charlie and Harry, who were skulking alone in the sick-splattered alleyway beside the door concealing the stunned Mafalda. At long last, Ron and Hermione reappeared.

"We've somehow managed to get the hairs of Gawain Robards, the current Head of the Auror Department," said Hermione, passing Charlie several short brown hairs, "and he's gone home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he's pretty tall, you'll need bigger robes..."

She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had laundered for them, and Charlie retired to take the potion and change. Once the painful transformation was complete, he was more than six feet tall and powerfully built. He also had a well-trimmed beard. Acting quickly, he rejoined the other three.

When he had returned, Harry had transformed into a stout — but stocky — man in his early forties. Stowing the invisibility cloak and his glasses inside his robes, he gave the group a twirl.

"We don't know who he is," said Ron, looking up at Harry, who was finally taller than the ginger, "but he and Robards seemed to know each other."

"Here, both of you, take one of Mafalda's tokens," Hermione told Charlie and Harry, passing out the coins, "and let's go, it's nearly nine."

The four of them stepped out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards along the crowded pavement there were spiked black railings flanking two flights of steps, one labeled gentlemen, the other ladies.

"See you in a moment, then," whispered Hermione nervously, and she tottered off down the steps to ladies. Charlie, Harry and Ron joined a number of oddly dressed men descending into what appeared to be an ordinary underground public toilet, tiled in grimy black and white.

"Morning, Reg!" called another wizard in navy blue robes, as he let himself into a cubicle by inserting his golden token into a slot in the door. "Blooming pain in the arse, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry Potter?"

The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron gave a forced chuckle.

"Yeah," he said, "stupid, isn't it?"

And he, Charlie and Harry let themselves into adjoining cubicles. To Charlie's left and right came the sound of flushing. He crouched down and peered through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair of booted feet climbing into the toilet next door.

He looked left and saw Ron blinking at him, his brows furrowed, "We have to flush ourselves in?"

"Looks like it," Charlie whispered back; his voice came out deep and gravelly.

Side by side, he, Ron, and Harry stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish, Charlie clambered into the toilet. He knew at once that he had done the right thing; though he appeared to be standing in water, his shoes, feet, and robes remained quite dry. He reached up, pulled the chain, and next moment had zoomed down a short chute, emerging out of a fireplace into the Ministry of Magic.

He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body than he was accustomed to. The great atrium seemed darker than Charlie remembered it. Previously a golden fountain had filled the centre of the hall, casting shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden floor and walls.

Now, a gigantic statue of grey stone dominated the scene. It was rather frightening, this vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words 'MAGIC IS MIGHT'.

Then, suddenly, Charlie received a heavy blow on the back of the legs. Another wizard had just flown out of the fireplace behind him.

"Out of the way, can't yo— oh, sorry, Robards!"

Clearly frightened, the balding wizard hurried away. Not willing to concern himself too much with what had just happened, Charlie stepped forward, following the crowd towards the statute.

"Psst!" said a voice, and he looked around to see a whispy little witch, a stocky wizard, and the ferrety wizard from Magical Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the statue. Charlie hastened to join them.

"You got in all right, then?" Hermione whispered to Charlie, resisting the impulsive urge to embrace him.

Ron rolled his eyes, "No, he's still stuck in the hog."

"Oh, very funny... it's horrible, isn't it?" she said to Charlie, who was staring up at the statue. "Have you seen what they're sitting on?"

Charlie looked more closely and realized that what he had thought were decoratively carved thrones were actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and children, all with rather stupid, ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the handsomely robed wizards.

"Muggles," whispered Hermione darkly, "in their rightful place... come on, let's keep moving."

With a sudden urge to vomit, Charlie followed. They joined the stream of witches and wizards moving toward the golden gates at the end of the hall, looking around as surreptitiously as possible, but there was no sign of the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge. They passed through the gates and into a smaller hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty golden grilles housing as many lifts. They had barely joined the nearest one when a voice said, "Cattermole!"

The four of them looked around. Charlie's stomach turned over, his fists clutching instinctively. One of the Death Eaters who had witnessed Dumbledore's death was standing at the door. The Ministry workers beside them fell silent, their eyes downcast; Charlie could feel the fear rippling through them.

The man's scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, sweeping robes, which were embroidered with gold thread. Someone in the crowd around the lifts called sycophantically, "Morning, Yaxley!"

Yaxley ignored them.

"I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, Cattermole. It's still raining in there."

Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else would intervene, but nobody spoke.

"Raining... in your office? That's not good, is it? Have you, uh, tried an umbrella?"

Ron gave a nervous laugh. Yaxley's eyes widened.

"You think it's funny, Cattermole, do you?"

A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the lift and bustled off.

"No," squeaked Ron, growing red from the newfound attention, "no, of course not —"

"You realize that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife, Cattermole? In fact, I'm quite surprised you're not down there holding her hand while she waits. Already given her up, have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a pureblood next time."

Charlie could feel Hermione's anger emanate from beside him. She had let out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley looked at her, but she merely coughed and turned away.

"I — I —" stammered Ron.

"But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood, not that any woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth," Yaxley went on with a laugh; it was taking all of Charlie's willpower not to blast the scumbag into a hundred pieces, "and the Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement needed a job doing, I would make it my priority to do this job, Cattermole. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," whispered Ron, his hands shaking.

"Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within an hour, your wife's Blood Status will be in even greater doubt than it is now."

The golden grille before them clattered open. With a nod and unpleasant smile to Charlie, who was evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of Cattermole, Yaxley swept away toward another lift. Charlie, Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered theirs, but nobody followed them. The grilles shut with a clang and the lift began to move upward.

"What am I going to do?" Ron asked the other three at once; he looked stricken, staring blankly ahead. "My wife's all alone downstairs..."

Charlie took a sideways glance at Harry and Hermione before answering, "Uh, Ron... you don't have a wife."

"Oh, right, yeah."

"Try Finite Incantatem," Hermione told Ron at once, "that should stop the rain if it's a hex or curse. If it doesn't, something's gone wrong with an atmospheric charm, which will be more difficult to fix, so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his belongings —"

"Say that again, slowly —" said Ron, searching his pockets desperately for a quill, but at that moment the lift juddered to a halt.

A disembodied female voice said, "Level four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," and the grilles slid open again, admitting a couple of wizards and several pale violet paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the ceiling of the lift.

"Morning, Albert," said a bushily whiskered man, smiling at Harry. He glanced over at Charlie, Ron and Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more; Hermione was now whispering frantic instructions to Ron. The wizard leaned toward Harry, leering, and muttering, "Dirk Cresswell, eh? Nice one, Albert, I'm confident I'll get his job now!"

He winked. Harry smiled back, hoping that this would suffice. He chanced a glimpse at Charlie, who merely shrugged in response. The lift stopped; the grilles opened once more.

"Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," said the disembodied witch's voice.

Charlie saw Hermione give Ron a little push and he hurried out of the lift, followed by the other wizards, leaving Charlie, Harry and Hermione alone. The moment the golden door had closed again, Hermione spoke, very fast, "I don't think he knows what he's doing, and if he gets caught the whole thing —"

"Right," breathed Charlie, now suddenly wishing very much he had agreed to postpone their trip. "I say if we don't find Umbridge in an hour, we go and find Ron and try another day. Deal?"

"Yes," agreed Harry and Hermione simultaneously, as the lift came to a shuddering stop.

"Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."

The golden grilles slid apart again and Charlie felt Hermione tense. Four people stood before them, two of them deep in conversation: a long-haired wizard wearing magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short hair and clutching a clipboard to her chest.

"Ah, Mafalda!" beamed Umbridge, looking at Hermione. "Travers sent you, did he?"

"Y-Yes," squeaked Hermione.

"Good, you'll do perfectly well." Umbridge spoke to the wizard in black and gold. "That's that problem solved, Minister. If Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping, we shall be able to start straightaway." She consulted her clipboard. "Ten people today and one of them the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut... even here, in the heart of the Ministry!" She stepped into the lift beside Hermione, as did the two wizards who had been listening to Umbridge's conversation with the Minister. "We'll go straight down, Mafalda, you'll find everything you need in the courtroom."

Charlie stood, frozen to the spot. Umbridge looked at him, eyeing him up and down.

"Good morning, Gawain, aren't you and Albert getting out?"

"Yes, of course," muttered Charlie in Robards's deep voice, panic coursing through his veins.

He seized Harry by the wrist and dragged him forward. Together, they stepped out of the lift, but Charlie was reluctant to leave Hermione behind. Nevertheless, the golden grilles clanged shut behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, Charlie saw Hermione's anxious face sinking back out of sight, a tall wizard on either side of her, Umbridge's velvet hair-bow level with her shoulder.

"What brings you two up here?" asked the new Minister of Magic. His long black hair and beard were streaked with silver, and a great overhanging forehead shadowed his glinting eyes.

"Needed a quick word with," began Harry, hesitating for a fraction of a second, "Arthur Weasley. Someone said he was up on level one. Robards is here to help me make sure things don't get out of control."

Charlie nodded, "That's right."

"Ah, Arthur Weasley, you say?" echoed Pius Thicknesse, his eyes narrow. "Has he been caught having contact with an Undesirable?"

"No," said Charlie quickly, his throat dry. "No, nothing like that."

"Ah, well, it's only a matter of time," muttered Thicknesse, shrugging. "If you ask me, the Blood-Traitors are just as bad as the Mudbloods. Anyhow, good day to you both."

"Good day, Minister."

Resisting the urge to hex him, Charlie watched Thicknesse march away along the thickly carpeted corridor. The moment the Minister had passed out of sight, Harry tugged the Invisibility Cloak out from under his heavy black cloak, threw it over himself and Charlie, and led the way down the corridor in the opposite direction.

Panic pulsed in the pit Charlie's stomach. As they passed gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with the owner's name and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its complexity, its impenetrability, seemed to force itself upon him so that the plan he had been carefully concocting with Harry, Ron and Hermione over the past four weeks seemed laughably childish. They had concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without being detected, but they had not given a moment's thought to what they would do if they were forced to separate.

Now, Hermione was stuck in court proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours; Ron was struggling to do magic that Charlie was sure was beyond him, a woman's liberty possibly depending on the outcome, and they, Charlie and Harry, were now wandering around on the top floor when they knew perfectly well that their quarry had just gone down in the lift.

The silence pressed upon them. There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here; the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as though the Muffliato charm had been cast over the place.

"D'you reckon her office might be up here?" whispered Charlie, glancing around.

Harry nodded in response, "Yeah, maybe."

It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep her jewellery in her office, but on the other hand it seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. They therefore set off along the corridor, passing nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring instructions to a quill that floated in front of him, scribbling on a trail of parchment.

Now paying attention to the names on the doors, Charlie forced Harry to turn the corner. Halfway along the next corridor they emerged into a wide, open space where a dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks not unlike school desks, though much more highly polished and free from graffiti.

Charlie and Harry paused to watch them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and squares of coloured paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. They were watching the creation of pamphlets, which, when assembled, folded, and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.

The two boys crept closer, although the workers were so intent on what they were doing that Charlie doubted they would notice a carpet-muffled footstep, and he and Harry slid a completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch. They examined it beneath the Invisibility Cloak. The pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:

MUDBLOODS and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society.

There was no author's name upon the pamphlet, but again, the scars on the back of Charlie's right hand seemed to tingle as he examined it. Then, the young witch beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still waving and twirling her wand, "Will the old hag be interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?"

"Careful," said the wizard beside her, glancing around nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the floor.

"What, has she got magic ears as well as an eye, now?"

The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Charlie looked too, and the rage reared in him like a snake. Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood — an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who had known Alastor Moody.

For a split second, Charlie forgot where he was and what he was doing there: he even forgot that he and Harry were invisible. He strode straight over to the door to examine the eye, and Harry quickly followed behind him. The eye was not moving, gazing blindly upward. The plaque beneath it read:

Dolores Umbridge
Senior Undersecretary to the Minister
Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission

Looking towards Harry, Charlie whispered, "We need to get in there."

Harry blinked nervously, "But how?"

Charlie looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers. Though they were intent upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door of an empty office opened in front of them. He, therefore, withdrew from an inner pocket an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a body.

Crouching down beneath the cloak, he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground. It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in front of him and Harry, before multiplying into two, which swiftly turned into four.

A few moments later, during which Charlie waited with his hand upon the doorknob, there came four loud bangs and a great deal of acrid yellow smoke billowed from each corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked. Pink pages flew everywhere as she and her fellow workers jumped up, looking around for the source of the commotion.

Charlie turned the doorknob, leading the way into Umbridge's office, and Harry swiftly closed the door behind them. Once they were inside, they took off the Invisibility Cloak, reappearing.

Glancing around, Charlie felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge's office at Hogwarts. The walls bore the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly coloured, beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-Eye's eye, a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on the workers on the other side of the door.

Charlie took a look through it and saw that they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonators. He wrenched the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind, pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in his pocket. Then he turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, "Accio Locket."

Nothing happened, but neither he or Harry had expected it to, as Hermione had warned; there was no doubt that Umbridge knew all about protective charms and spells.

"Check the drawers," suggested Harry, and the two of them quickly hurried behind her desk. Charlie saw quills and notebooks and Spellotape as he wretched open the cabinets. But they quickly came to realize, there was no sign of a locket.

There was a filing cabinet behind the desk; Charlie set to searching it. Like Filch's filing cabinet at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a name. It was not until Charlie reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract him from the search: Mr. Weasley's file.

He pulled it out and opened it:

ARTHUR WEASLEY
BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of the Phoenix.
FAMILY: Wife (pureblood), seven children, two youngest at Hogwarts. Correction: youngest son is currently at home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have confirmed.
SECURITY STATUS: TRACKED. All movements are being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1 will contact (has stayed with Weasley family previously)

"Undesirable Number One?" questioned Harry, reading over his best friend's shoulder. Charlie furrowed his brows as he picked up another file. Moody's. There was a red cross slashed across the photo of Mad-Eye. The next file was Sirus's. Another red cross slashed over the photo.

And then his heart sunk further still.

The next file was Hermione's. It was topped with a photo of her from Hogwarts; it looked like she hadn't even been aware it had been taken. She was in the window of the library, smiling and laughing with Charlie. Fifth year, by the looks of it, and Charlie thought ruefully of Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad, one of whom had no doubt taken the photo.

Even in the current circumstances, Charlie couldn't help but think how beautiful she looked, and chastised himself for ruining how happy they once were. Then, the panic came back, knowing she was down there with Umbridge. That he'd just left her alone with the evil woman. He flipped over the photo and read the file.

HERMIONE GRANGER
(UNDESIRABLE NO.2)
BLOOD STATUS: Mudblood — believed to be in a romantic relationship with Undesirable No. 3.
FAMILY: Mother (muggle), father (muggle) — location unknown.
SECURITY STATUS: UNKNOWN LOCATION — strong likelihood of target accompanying Undesirable No. 1 and Undesirable No. 3
— KILL OR CAPTURE —

Charlie bit back a growl, his eyes burning, and placed the files carefully back in the drawer, closing it silently. As he straightened up and glanced around the office for fresh hiding places, he saw a poster of himself on the wall, with the phrase, 'Undesirable No. 3' emblazoned across his chest. A little pink note was stuck to it with a picture of a kitten in the corner. Charlie moved to read it and saw that Umbridge had written, "To be punished."

(A/N: another AMAZING artwork by wonhosmila)

"Wait, I've got one too," said Harry, and he prodded a finger towards the poster of himself that read 'Undesirable No. 1' beside Charlie's. Again, the two boys shared a unamused, yet confused glance.

Angrier than ever, Charlie proceeded to grope in the bottoms of the vases and baskets of dried flowers, but was not at all surprised that the locket was not there. He gave the office one last sweeping look, and his heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore was staring at him from a small rectangular mirror, propped up on a bookcase beside the desk.

Charlie crossed the room at a run and snatched it up, but realized the moment he touched it that it was not a mirror at all. Dumbledore was smiling wistfully out of the front cover of a glossy book.

The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore
by Rita Skeeter

Charlie opened the book at random and saw a full-page photograph of two teenage boys, both laughing immoderately with their arms around each other's shoulders. Dumbledore, now with elbow-length hair, had grown a tiny wispy beard. The boy who roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a gleeful, wild look about him. His golden hair fell in curls to his shoulders. Charlie wondered whether it was a young Doge, but before he could check the caption, the door of the office opened.

If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder as he entered, Charlie and Harry would not have had time to pull the Invisibility Cloak over themselves. As it was, they thought Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of movement, because for a moment or two he remained quite still, staring curiously at the place where Harry and Charlie had just vanished. Perhaps deciding that all he had seen was Dumbledore scratching his nose on the front of the book, for Charlie had hastily replaced it upon the shelf, Thicknesse finally walked to the desk and pointed his wand at the quill standing ready in the ink pot.

It sprang out and began scribbling a note to Umbridge. Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Charlie and Harry backed out of the office into the open area beyond. The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. Charlie hurried off up the corridor with Harry as the young witch said, "I bet it snuck up here from Experimental Charms, they're so careless, remember that poisonous duck?"

Speeding back toward the lifts, Charlie and Harry reviewed their options. It had never been likely that the locket was here at the Ministry, and there was no hope of bewitching its whereabouts out of Umbridge while she was sitting in a crowded court. Their priority now had to be to leave the Ministry before they were exposed, and try again another day. The first thing to do was to find Ron, and then they could work out a way of extracting Hermione from the courtroom.

The lift was empty when it arrived. Charlie and Harry jumped in and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak off themselves as it started its descent. To Charlie's enormous relief, when it rattled to a halt at level two, a soaking-wet and wild-eyed Ron got in.

"M-Morning," he stammered to Charlie and Harry as the lift set off again, not seeming to notice who he was standing next to.

"Ron, it's us!"

"Harry! Charlie! Blimey, forgot what you both looked like — where's Hermione?"

"She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge, she couldn't refuse, and — "

But before Charlie could finish, the lift had stopped again. The doors opened and Mr. Weasley walked inside, talking to an elderly witch whose blonde hair was teased so high it resembled an anthill.

"...I quite understand what you're saying, Wakanda, but I'm afraid I cannot be party to —"

Mr. Weasley broke off, having noticed Harry. It was very strange to have the eldest Weasley glare with so much dislike. The lift doors closed and the five of them trundled downward once more.

"Oh hello, Reg," greeted Mr. Weasley, looking around at the sound of steady dripping from Ron's robes. "Isn't your wife in for questioning today? Uh, what's happened to you? Why are you so wet?"

"Yaxley's office is raining," explained Ron, addressing Mr. Weasley's shoulder, and Charlie felt sure he was scared that his father might recognize him if they looked directly into each other's eyes. "I couldn't stop it, so they've sent me to get Bernie — Pillsworth, I think they said —"

"Yes, a lot of offices have been raining lately," said Mr. Weasley, nodding. "Did you try Meterolojinx Recanto? It worked for Bletchley."

"Meteolojinx Recanto?" whispered Ron, pondering for a moment. "No, I didn't. Thanks, Da— I mean, thanks, Arthur."

The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill hair left, and Ron darted past her out of sight. Charlie made to follow him, but found his and Harry's path blocked as Percy Weasley strode into the lift, his nose buried in some papers he was reading.

Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy realize that he was in a lift with his father. He glanced up, saw Mr. Weasley, turned radish red, and left the lift the moment the doors opened again. They had reached the Atrium. Mr. Weasley gave Charlie an indifferent look, glared at Harry, and swept from the lift. Both boys stood there, confused, before the lift doors clanged shut again. Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak again and threw it over top of them.

They would have to get Hermione on their own while Ron was dealing with the raining office. The panic in Charlie was rising — that blind panic he'd felt the last time he was in the Ministry of Magic, when Dolohov's curse had hit Hermione.

When the doors opened, he and Harry stepped out into a torch-lit stone passageway quite different from the wood-panelled and carpeted corridors above. As the lift rattled away again, the two of them shivered slightly, looking toward the distant black door that marked the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

Charlie led the way, his destination not the black door, but to the left, down to the court chambers. He still had a couple of Decoy Detonators, but perhaps it would be better to simply knock on the courtroom door, enter as Robards, and ask for a quick word with Mafalda. Of course, he did not know whether Robards was sufficiently important enough to get away with this, and even if he managed it, Hermione's non-reappearance might trigger a search before they were clear of the Ministry.

Lost in thought, Charlie did not immediately register the unnatural chill that was creeping over him, as if he were descending into fog. It was becoming colder and colder with every step he took. There was a cold that reached right down into his throat and tore at his lungs. And then, he felt that stealing sense of despair, of hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him.

"Dementors," muttered Harry darkly, pulling Charlie's attention. "They must be close."

Sure enough, as they reached the foot of the stairs and turned to their right, Charlie and Harry saw a dreadful scene. The dark passage outside the courtrooms was packed with tall, black-hooded figures, their faces completely hidden, their ragged breathing the only sound in the place.

The petrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning sat huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most of them were hiding their faces in their hands, perhaps in an instinctive attempt to shield themselves from the Dementors's greedy mouths. Some were accompanied by families, others sat alone. The Dementors were gliding up and down in front of them, and the cold, and the hopelessness, and the despair of the place laid themselves upon Charlie like a curse.

Fight it, he told himself, but he knew that he could not conjure a Patronus here without revealing himself instantly. So he and Harry crept forward as silently as they could, and with every step they took, numbness seemed to steal over their brains, but Charlie forced himself to think of Hermione, who needed him.

Moving through the towering black figures was terrifying. The eyeless faces hidden beneath their hoods turned as they passed, and Charlie felt sure that they sensed him, sensed, perhaps, a human presence that still had some hope, some resilience.

And then, abruptly amid the frozen silence, one of the dungeon doors on the left of the corridor was flung open and screams echoed out of it.

"No, no, I'm half-blood, I'm half-blood, I tell you! My father was a wizard, he was, look him up, Arkie Alderton, he's a well-known broomstick designer, look him up, I tell you — get your hands off me, get your hands off —"

"This is your final warning," said Umbridge's soft voice, magically magnified so that it sounded clearly over the man's desperate screams. "If you struggle, you will be subjected to the Dementor's Kiss."

The man's screams subsided, but dry sobs echoed through the corridor.

"Take him away!"

Two Dementors appeared in the doorway of the courtroom, their rotting, scabbed hands clutching the upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting. They glided away down the corridor with him, and the darkness they trailed behind them swallowed him from sight.

"Next," announced Umbridge, "Mary Cattermole!"

A small woman stood up; she was trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair was smoothed back into a bun and she wore long plain robes. Her face was completely bloodless. As she passed the Dementors, Charlie saw her shudder.

He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan, because he hated the sight of her walking alone into the dungeon. And so, as the door began to swing closed, Charlie pulled himself and Harry into the courtroom behind her.

There were more Dementors stationed around the room, casting their freezing aura over the place; they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest from the high, raised platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge, with Yaxley on one side of her, and Hermione, quite as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole, on the other. At the foot of the platform, a bright silver, long-haired cat prowled up and down, and Charlie realized that it was there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the Dementors.

"Sit down," said Umbridge in her soft, silky voice. Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the raised platform. The moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of the arms of the chair and bound her there.

"You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?" asked Umbridge, and Mrs. Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod. "Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?"

Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears, "I don't know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!"

Umbridge ignored her.

"Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?"

Mrs. Cattermole sobbed harder, "They're frightened, they think I might not come home —"

"Spare us," spat Yaxley, unbothered. "The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies."

Mrs. Cattermole's sobs masked Charlie and Harry's footsteps as they made their way carefully toward the steps that led up to the raised platform. The moment they had passed the place where the Patronus cat patrolled, Charlie felt the change in temperature. The Patronus, he was sure, was Umbridge's, and it glowed brightly because she was so happy here, in her element, upholding the twisted laws she had helped to write.

Slowly and very carefully, Charlie edged himself and Harry along the platform behind Umbridge, Yaxley, and Hermione, taking a seat behind the latter. Charlie was worried about making Hermione jump. He thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon Umbridge and Yaxley, but even murmuring the word might cause Hermione alarm. Then Umbridge raised her voice to address Mrs. Cattermole, and Charlie seized his chance.

"Harry and I are behind you," he whispered into Hermione's ear. "Stay calm."

But, as he had expected, she jumped so violently she nearly overturned the bottle of ink with which she was supposed to be recording the interview, but both Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs. Cattermole, and this went unnoticed.

"A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. Cattermole," Umbridge was saying. "Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair core. Do you recognize that description?"

Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes on her sleeve.

"Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?"

"T-Took?" sobbed Mrs. Cattermole, evidently confused. "I didn't t-take it from anybody. I b-bought it when I was eleven years old. It ch-chose me!"

She cried harder than ever. Umbridge laughed a soft girlish laugh that made Charlie want to attack her. She leaned forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and something gold swung forward too, and dangled over the void — the Horocrux locket. Hermione and Harry had seen it too; they both let out a little gasp, but Umbridge and Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, were deaf to everything else.

"No," said Umbridge, shaking her head, "no, I don't think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent to you here — Mafalda, pass them to me."

Umbridge held out a small hand. She looked so toadlike at that moment that Charlie was quite surprised not to see webs between her stubby fingers. Hermione's hands were shaking with shock, but when she felt Charlie's reassuring, and invisible, touch upon her shoulder, she resolved herself to the task at hand. She steadied herself, leafed through a pile of documents balanced on the chair beside her, and finally withdrew a sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole's name on it.

"T-That's pretty, Dolores," Hermione awed nervously, pointing at the pendant gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge's blouse.

"What?" snapped Umbridge, glancing down. "Oh yes — an old family heirloom," she said, patting the locket lying on her large bosom. "The 'S' stands for Selwyn... I am related to the Selwyn... indeed, there are few pureblood families to whom I am not related... a pity," she continued in a louder voice, flicking through Mrs. Cattermole's questionnaire, "that the same cannot be said for you. 'Parents' professions: greengrocers.'"

Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat patrolled up and down, and the Dementors stood waiting in the corners.

It was the heart-stopping similarity to some of the information that had been in Hermione's file coupled with Umbridge's lie that brought the blood surging into Charlie's brain and obliterated his sense of caution — that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a petty criminal was being used to bolster her own pureblood credentials. He raised his wand, not even troubling to keep it concealed beneath the cloak.

"You're lying, Dolores, and one mustn't tell lies!"

Umbridge didn't have the chance to scream at the disenchanted voice before Charlie yelled, "Stupefy!"

There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled and her forehead hit the edge of the balustrade. Mrs. Cattermole's papers slid off her lap onto the floor and, down below, the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold air hit them like an oncoming wind. Yaxley, confused, looked around for the source of the trouble and saw Charlie's disembodied hand and wand pointing at him. He tried to draw his own wand, but he was too late.

"Stupefy!"

Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor. Following Charlie's plan, Harry had stunned him.

"Charlie!"

"Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let her pretend —"

"No, Charlie, look at Mrs. Cattermole!"

Charlie whirled around, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak at once. Down below, the Dementors had moved out of their corners; they were gliding toward the woman chained to the chair. Whether because the Patronus had vanished or because they sensed that their masters were no longer in control, they seemed to have abandoned restraint. Mrs. Cattermole let out a terrible scream of fear as a slimy, scabbed hand grasped her chin and forced her face back.

Harry and Charlie raised their wands together, "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

But to his great surprise, Charlie's Patronus did not take the silvery form of his falcon. It took a second for him to realize what it was, but once he did, Charlie's entire body shuddered in excitement.

The most miraculous embodiment of a silver phoenix and stag soared from the tips of their wands and flew toward the Dementors, which fell back and melted into the dark shadows again. The phoenix's light, even though visibly stronger, joined with the stag's, each even more powerful and more warming than the cat's protection; both filled the whole dungeon as they soared around the room.

"I thought your Patronus took the form of a falcon?" questioned Harry, although he was gazing up in awe. "When did that happen?"

"I dunno," shrugged Charlie, leaping down the steps, "but I reckon we have more important matters to deal with as of this current moment."

"Oh, right, right! Quick, get the Horcrux," Harry shouted towards Hermione, following Charlie back down the steps. He stuffed the Invisibility Cloak back into his pocket, as the two of them approached Mrs. Cattermole.

"You?" she whispered, gazing into Harry's face. "But Reg said you were the one who submitted my name for questioning!"

"Did I?" muttered Harry, tugging at the chains binding her arms. "Well, I've had a change of heart. Diffindo!"

But when nothing happened, Charlie raised his wand, yelling, "Relashio!"

The chains clinked and withdrew into the arms of the chair. Mrs. Cattermole looked just as frightened as ever before.

"I don't understand," she whimpered, glancing between the two men coming to her rescue.

"You're going to be leaving here with us," Harry told her, helping her to her feet.

Charlie cocked his head over his shoulder,  panicked, "Hermione, we've got to go!"

"Wait, I'm trying something up here —"

"Hermione, we're surrounded by Dementors!"

"I know, but if she wakes up and the locket's gone — I need to duplicate it — Geminio! There, that should fool her..."

Hermione came running downstairs, but stopped and gasped once she noticed the now visible sight of her two friends.

"Harry!" she shouted, pocketing the locket. "Harry, you're changing!"

And then, Charlie saw it too; his best friend's painful transformation back to being himself was starting. Harry, his face contorting, grabbed his glasses from the pocket of his coat.Mrs. Cattermole looked utterly bewildered. Above them, Charlie's phoenix was beginning to fade, the Dementors getting closer and closer.

"Never mind that, we've got to move," chided Charlie, helping urge Mrs. Cattermole forward alongside Harry. "Hermione, please, do something!"

"Expecto P-Patronum," stammered Hermione nervously, who was still disguised as Mafalda.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

"It's the only spell she ever has trouble with," Charlie told a completely bemused Mrs. Cattermole, as he dragged her towards the door. "Bit unfortunate, really... come on, Hermione..."

"Expecto Patronum!"

A silver otter burst from the end of Hermione's wand and swam gracefully through the air to weave in and out of the phoenix's wings. Under different circumstances, Charlie and Hermione might've smiled to see their Patronuses working together.

(A/N: this gif lives rent free in my head)

As they turned, the door into the room burst open.

"Reg!" yelled Mrs. Cattermole, flinging herself out of Charlie's grasp at Ron. "They saved me. Oh, the kids... w-why are you so wet?"

"Water," mumbled Ron from over Mrs. Cattermole's shoulder. He looked stricken as his gaze met Harry's, "We need to go. I heard something in the lift about them realizing an eye was missing from Umbridge's door. They know there's intruders."

And just then, Charlie's phoenix faded, and some of the Dementors burst through before Hermione's otter or Harry's stag could cover the space.

"RUN!" shouted Charlie, grabbing Hermione's hand and charging out. Harry, who was now fully transformed back into himself, helped Ron pull Mrs. Cattermole along.

"T-That's Harry Potter," stammered Mrs. Cattermole, her mouth agape.

"It is, innit? This will be one to tell the kids," said Ron jokingly, as he pulled her through the door.

The five of them hurtled down the stone corridor, the Dementors raging after them, though Hermione's otter and Harry's stag had managed to stall their progress. The lift grates opened as they approached, Hermione hauling herself in first before Harry, Ron and Mrs. Cattermole slammed into the other side. Charlie turned, just managing to close the doors as three Dementors hit the grates; their black, slimy hands reaching through the bars.

Charlie pressed back into the other four, flinging his arms out, but it wasn't enough. He could feel the Dementors sucking the will from him, all of the hope leaving his body. Behind him, he felt Mrs. Cattermole begin to slump, he felt Hermione's hand drop from his back.

With all his might, he willed the memory of his kiss with Hermione on the steps of the Entrance Hall to the forefront of his mind. He thought effortlessly of their first year anniversary, of their subsequent walks around the lake, and of the happy weeks he'd been able to spend as just another normal student of Hogwarts, whom was madly in love.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The phoenix once more burst from his wand, the orb hammering into the Dementors with such force they almost dissolved, as the lift clicked into action and rattled them upwards. By the time they had risen to the atrium, Charlie and Hermione's potions had worn off too. Ron's was still working, but there couldn't be much time left; Mrs. Cattermole was clinging to him for dear life.

Thankfully, whatever panic had been caused by the hole in the door of Umbridge's office did not seem to have reached the atrium yet, as the Ministry workers still seemingly going about their business.

Charlie and Hermione stepped out, clinging onto each other and keeping their eyes fixed to the floor, but they had only just led the way into the main section of the atrium when they heard Ron's — Reg Cattermole's — voice once again. Charlie, Hermione, Harry stopped and turned. Ron had halted a few paces back, twisting a completely bewildered and understandably terrified Mrs. Cattermole around to face him.

"Go home," Ron told her, looking quickly to Charlie, Harry and Hermione. "Get the kids. I'll meet you there. We have to get out of the country, understand? Mary, do as I say —"

But Ron didn't get to finish, because Mrs. Cattermole was now kissing him firmly, seizing hold of him by the collar.

"Mary?" came a voice from behind Charlie, Harry and Hermione. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting, but pale and wan, had just come running out of an opposite lift, looking utterly baffled. Mrs. Cattermole and Ron broke apart. "Who's that?"

"Long story," muttered Ron, who had now begun transforming back into himself. Mrs. Cattermole recoiled with disgust. "Err... nice meeting you!"

He bolted off to join Charlie, Harry and Hermione, but just as they turned, a wheezy wizard took notice of the exposed Undesirables, and exclaimed loudly: "Harry Potter! That's Harry Potter!"

And that's when uproar began to set in. Numerous guards, who had instantly set up and charged towards them, noticed the gloomy hush that began spreading like a wildfire at once.

"Seal the exit! SEAL IT!"

Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was now running toward the group huddled in the atrium. As the wheezy wizard lifted his wand, Harry raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air. The core four made a break for the fireplaces, leaving behind the confused Cattermole couple, and pushing their way through the crowd.

Behind them, Yaxley sent a curse their way, but it blasted into the statue above the fountain as the crowd dispersed in fear. Charlie grabbed Hermione's hand and ran, flinging his wand at a bunch of posters with his face on them and casting them into the air before they swirled around, acting like a shield between them and the chasing guards.

All around them, the fireplaces begin to seal, one after the other. Ron, who was the first to reach the last open grate, dived into the fireplace first, and disappeared from view. Nearly avoiding the jinxes that were flying over their heads, Charlie, Hermione, and Harry each piled into the fireplace together. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle.

"LET'S GO!" Charlie yelled, flinging the door of the cubicle open just as Yaxley emerged in the next one. Without hesitation, the four of them interlocked hands; they all turned on the spot.

Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of compressing bands, but something was wrong — Hermione's hand seemed to be sliding out of Charlie's grip. He held onto her tighter, trying to pull her towards him.

Charlie wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see, and the only solid things in the world were Harry's arm and Hermione's fingers, which were both slowly slipping away...

And then, by the grace of Merlin himself, he saw the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but before Charlie could draw breath, there was a scream and a flash of purple light; Hermione's hand was suddenly vice-like upon his and everything went dark again.

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Author's Note:
*this chapter was not proof read*

this one was a bit longer, but I hope you enjoyed it anyways!

the DH movies always get a bad rep, but as someone who thoroughly enjoys them, I wanted to incorporate more of the scenes and intertwine them with how things happened in the books.

lmk what you think!

until next time! much love to you all <3

xo, selena

p.s. that Patronus change tho 👀