The Inadequate Life

Minerva McGonagall appeared in front of the café/pub the Sword and the Sheath. Standing still for a moment until she recovered from the effects of Apparating, she turned to face the pub. Her nose wrinkled, most likely from the entendre in the pub’s name, but after only a moment she walked inside.

“That was her!” Oliver whispered excitedly. He picked up his headset and strapped it on hastily. “She’s here!” he said rapidly, keeping his voice down. “McGonagall just arrived! She’s in the pub now!”

Back in the flat above Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, Katie sat bolt upright. “Oliver says McGonagall just arrived!” she blurted out.

Hermione, who’d been reading some of the book of Floo controls, whipped her head around, her eyes widening. “Oh! But it’s only a quarter to eight! She’s early!” She jumped up, reaching for the fireplaces. “It’s time! I have to do it now!”

“Hermione, calm down,” Ron insisted, laying a calming hand on her arm. “Katie, thanks. Head to the roof now, okay?” Katie was already halfway to the door. Once she’d stepped out and shut the door, Ron turned back to Hermione, who was staring at him impatiently. “You told me that you had to be calm and focused to do this,” he reminded her, carefully modulating his voice. “Don’t rush yourself, ‘mione. Make sure you do it right. We only get one chance at this.”

Hermione nodded and slowed her breathing. “You’re right,” she said, consciously steadying her nerves. “But I have to do the Floo first, obviously.” Ron nodded. Hermione turned back to the box which contained the tiny fireplaces. The ones she’d specified earlier were still floating in front of the rest, waiting. Hermione thought carefully about what she wanted, took a deep breath, and said: “Redirect all output from the selected fireplaces to the three separated fireplaces, distributed evenly! Cancel all input from the selected fireplaces and the three separated fireplaces!”

All the fireplaces flared, and a series of glowing lines appeared, stretching from each fireplace in the group on the left to the three on the right. The lines grew additional lines out of themselves, becoming arrows; all the arrows pointed to the three fireplaces on the right.

“All fireplaces in London!” Hermione shouted, and all the fireplaces in the box rose to the front, regrouping around the already-selected ones. They stood ready and waiting. “I’m going to be under trance, and not able to give a command,” Hermione told Ron, setting the box back down. “Once enough time has passed that the Death Eaters should all be in Diagon Alley, just give the command “Shut down all input and all output for all selected fireplaces!”. That should shut down the entire Floo network in all of London.”

Ron nodded nervously. “Er—right. So… it’s time, then.”

Hermione glanced at the chalked circle of Runes. “I’ve done it already,” she insisted, trying to reassure both Ron and herself. “From that very spot, while I was practicing. It should be fine, Ron. Really. It’s like Harry said about his plans for Voldemort: I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t believe it would work.”

Ron took a deep breath of his own. “I know. I believe you can do it, too.”

Hermione smiled in thanks. “Once I’ve stopped chanting, wait about a minute; assuming that I haven’t moved, I’ll be in trance, and it should be safe to cover me with the Invisibility Cloak.”

Ron nodded. He felt like he should say something more, but he couldn’t think of what. So he leaned down and kissed her, softly. She returned the kiss fervently, making it a promise for her safe return as much as it was an expression of her love for him.

When they finally broke apart, Hermione licked her lips and smiled again. “See you soon, Ron,” she murmured.

She walked over to the corner. Carefully stepping over the runes so as not to disturb them, Hermione arranged herself comfortably on the cushion. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, concentrating on calming her tension and clearing her mind. When she felt centered and ready, she began to chant: “E Colodomus Protectus...”

*****

At ten to eight, Harry came out of the Floo in the back room of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. He took the back door out of the shop, and came up the side alley until he was on the main strip of Diagon Alley. Turning left, he walked past the entrance to Knockturn Alley until he reached The Sword and the Sheath. Quirking his lip, he pushed the door open and entered.

There were only a few other patrons at such an early hour on a Sunday. Minerva, who’d been waiting only five minutes, looked up from her glass of port and smiled hesitantly. Harry saw her and walked over. “Good morning, Minerva,” he said pleasantly as he sat down.

Minerva was about to ask Harry for some proof that he was who he appeared to be—Harry’s own precautions from their previous meeting having rubbed off on her—when the waiter, a young man of about nineteen, came over. “Drink, sir?” he asked with what Minerva thought was a rather cheeky grin.

“Thank you, I’ll have a rum and currant, please,” Harry said calmly, returning the waiter’s grin with a calm smile.

“Right you are,” the waiter said and hurried away.

“Rum and currant, Harry?” Minerva said in mild surprise. “Did you know that that’s Remus Lupin’s drink of choice?

Harry looked like he was trying not to laugh. “I’m very aware, yes.”

Minerva narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m Remus, Minerva,” Harry said. “Surprise.”

“What? But—” Minerva sat back and eyed Harry. He looked quite serious. And he certainly didn’t act quite like Harry… “Why would you have arranged this meeting, then? You could have spoken to me at any time…”

“Oh, I didn’t arrange this,” Harry said. “Harry did. That really was his owl you received, inviting you here. He simply asked me to come in his stead.”

“And why would he do that? Does he not trust me?”

“I believe he does, yes. But there are events about to transpire that are far more significant than the trust between two people.”

“Is that so?” Minerva asked rhetorically. “Can you prove it to me that you are actually Remus?”

“Certainly. After the Order of the Phoenix met two nights ago, you pulled me aside and asked if I’d heard from Harry recently. I told you I had and that he was fine, but that he would probably appreciate a letter from you. You responded that you feared coming across as a mother hen, which was something you’d prefer not to have students at Hogwarts—even former ones—think of you as.”

Minerva’s eyes widened while ‘Harry’ was talking. No one but herself and Remus had been privy to that conversation. “And now, if you would do me the courtesy of returning the favor?” Harry asked.

“Ah… of course. Hmph. Well, in that same conversation you confessed to me that you had something special in mind for Miss Tonks, once the war was over, but you weren’t sure if it would be ‘proper’… and I berated you for acting such a fool—”

“Yes, all right,” Harry said quickly, glancing around nervously.

“Speaking of Nymphadora,” Minerva said, “is she aware that you’re apparently running secret missions for Mr. Potter without Order knowledge?”

“Oh, I would say she knows,” Harry said dismissively as the waiter came back with his drink. “Tonks most definitely knows what I’ve been up to, Minerva.”

“That she does,” the waiter said with the same cheeky grin. “Wotcher, Minerva. By the way, Remus—it’s on. A slimy-looking little man eyed you all the way in, and scarpered off as soon as you sat down.”

“Ah. Thank you, Dora,” Harry said calmly. “No breakfast, I think—the drinks will have to do.”

Minerva gaped in shock as the waiter—Tonks—walked off. “Do try not to be too obvious, Minerva,” Harry said with amusement before taking a sip of his drink.

“Obvious? This—you—” Minerva pulled herself together. “Remus—what in Merlin’s name is going on?” she hissed. “This cloak-and-dagger nonsense is a bit much even to protect Harry, isn’t it?”

“And if all we were doing was protecting Harry, then I’d agree completely,” Harry replied.

“Oh yes—events are about to transpire,” Minerva said ironically. “Would you care to be sharing what those might be?”

“I would,” Harry agreed. “And quickly, because I expect everything will start within—” He checked his watch. “—within the next fifteen minutes.”

*****

Ananthus Silvedore, thirteenth-generation pureblood, heir to the Silvedore fortune, proudly Marked Death Eater at the willing command of Lord Voldemort , came shooting out of the Floo.

Except it wasn’t the fireplace he’d expected. He was so surprised that he lost his balance and collapsed, sliding face-first across the old wooden floor. He hit up against a countertop and lay there for a moment before the ache in his back and the sting of the splinters in his cheeks penetrated his shock. “Ow,” he muttered.

His eyes slowly looked over the room he was in: glass cases with bizarre objects, counters and furniture with more of the same, another counter near a door, with a… till?

He was in Borgin & Burkes. It had been some time since he’d last been in the shop in Knockturn Alley, and he honestly hadn’t expected to be there again so soon. He was supposed to be in Gambol & Japes, just across and down from the pub where Harry Potter, The Dark Lord’s sworn enemy, was meeting with the head of the Order of the Phoenix.

The fireplace he’d emerged from flared up again. Another cowled and masked Death Eater emerged, did the same shocked, half-skip, half-leap that Ananthus had done, lost his balance just as Ananthus had, and slid across the floor the same way. Fortunately for him, he had Ananthus to cushion his eventual stop.

Ananthus shoved the other man off him and dragged himself to his feet. Leaving the other Death Eater to collect himself, Ananthus walked over to the door and peered out into the street. It was almost completely deserted, apart from the random vagrant or homeless wizard. He looked across the street at the shop opposite, Grouning’s Magical Artifacts—and stumbled back in shock as he saw another Death Eater looking across at him from inside that shop! What in Merlin’s name is going on?

Another flare from the fireplace made Ananthus turn. Two more Death Eaters came out together and hit a glass case, which fortunately had been Charmed to be unbreakable. Hardly a breath passed before another came through, and then three more in quick succession. As Ananthus watched, dumbfounded, more and more Death Eaters came through the same fireplace, until the shop was a disaster, with dozens of men crushed together—and more still coming.

We’re going to suffocate if many more arrive, Ananthus realized. Turning, he pulled out his wand and blasted the door open. “Outside!” he commanded imperiously. Not bothering to wait and see if anyone obeyed, he rushed out into the street.

The few people about who weren’t unconscious shrieked and fled at the sight of a Death Eater out in plain view of the public. As they should, Ananthus thought smugly. The sound of breaking glass caught his attention; the Death Eater he’d seen in Grouning’s Magical Artifacts had copied him and blasted open the door. He stepped hurriedly out, and Ananthus could see why—like in Borgin & Burkes, dozens of Death Eaters were crammed into the insufficiently sized shop.

“What’s going on?” the other Death Eater asked Ananthus as another door was blasted out just up the street, and scores of Death Eaters emerged from the three shops.

“They must have known we were coming, somehow,” Ananthus said. “And somehow arranged for us all to come out in the same place…”

The other man laughed, his voice sounding reedy and thin behind his mask. “Oh, please. How could they have known? The Dark Lord’s spies are very discreet and very thorough! More likely the Floo Network is having problems—there was that trouble in Chudleigh, remember, where a thousand Quidditch fans Flooed into a single old lady’s apartment after a game? Most likely something similar has happened.”

“Then why can’t we Apparate into Diagon Alley, you fool?” asked Ananthus, who’d already tried without success. “Someone has set up an Anti-Apparition field!”

The other Death Eater paused, and Ananthus was certain he was trying to Apparate. “Most likely a precaution Potter has taken, or perhaps the Order,” he said dismissively. “It will work in our favor, won’t it? They won’t be able to Apparate out, either!”

Ananthus didn’t think it seemed right, but he had to admit that it was possible. The Dark Lord certainly seemed to think that this meeting between Potter and the head of the Order—McGonagall, that was her name—was important, enough so to muster a force of over one hundred Death Eaters to go and bring them down. With the Ministry crippled, the Order of the Phoenix and Potter’s subversive little group were the main obstacles between The Dark Lord and victory. If both leaders could be killed at the same time, it would be demoralizing enough to crush both groups.

“Our orders have not changed,” Ananthus announced loudly over the din of all the Death Eaters babbling. “We go after Potter and McGonagall. There is likely more resistance than we’d anticipated, but both of them together can’t muster the force to defeat us!”

Spurred on by Ananthus’ words, the large group of Death Eaters turned and marched up Knockturn Alley towards the entrance to Diagon Alley. Ananthus hoped that The Dark Lord heard of how he’d roused the other into action—such acts gained favor in The Dark Lord’s eyes, and Ananthus might be granted a high position within The Dark Lord’s ranks as a result.

There was no talking as the army approached Diagon Alley, although with hundreds of feet stomping on the cobbles it was hardly a silent procession. Finally they turned a corner, and Diagon Alley was in sight, not twenty feet away. “Remember,” Ananthus said, his voice low but carrying, “take down Potter and McGonagall. Their defeat is everything. And The Dark Lord has requested that Potter be brought to him alive, if possible—the one who does so will be honored above all others.” Secretly hoping it would be him, Ananthus hurried after the head of the mass of men.

Some sense of self-preservation kept Ananthus from breaking into the lead. Instead, he allowed a few Death Eaters to maintain a pace ahead of him. It turned out to be fortuitous, because just before they reached Diagon Alley, the Death Eater just ahead and to the right of Ananthus screamed. Ananthus pulled up short, and was immensely glad that he had.

The Death Eater was dangling upside down, his left foot suspended twelve feet in the air as though caught in a noose. But what was worse was the way he was moving. It was as though his entire body had been reduced to jelly. He had dropped his wand, his hands too floppy and loose to hold it, and he couldn’t even raise his arms. He couldn’t even speak—some other hex had clamped a giant adhesive sticker that read “DEATH EATER” over his mouth.

The sight of the man was enough to make all the Death Eaters in front pull up short. But the crowd of Death Eaters behind them kept going, shoving them on. With a yell, Ananthus was propelled forward—and with another yell quickly cut off by a sticker, he found himself upside down as well, as did another fifteen Death Eaters along with him. It was as though all his bones, and muscles and tendons, had ceased to exist. All he could do was—breathe.

The other Death Eaters finally stopped moving forward as they gazed in horror at their stricken comrades. Several of them cast Finite Incantatem and some other counter-curses on the dangling Death Eaters, but nothing worked—the curses and hexes wouldn’t break.

“You fools!” The collected Death Eaters still on their feet felt their blood turn to ice. Behind them in the road of Knockturn Alley stood the Dark Lord himself—Lord Voldemort. Every one of them feared the Dark Lord’s wrath like nothing else—and there it was, directed at them.

“I travel here to see the progress my mighty army of Death Eaters makes in bringing me the head of the Potter boy,” Voldemort seethed, “and I find you here, milling about like cattle while my truest followers dangle helplessly! Their dedication will be rewarded—and your cowardice will be punished! Now get them down from there, and then BRING ME POTTER!”

The Death Eaters surged forward again; some stopped to try and help the incapacitated Death Eaters, while the rest once again made for Diagon Alley—and another dozen or more ended up upside down. “Incompetents!” Voldemort bellowed. “Do not stop! Go and get me Potter!”

One of the Death Eaters who was trying to help the upside-down men spoke; “My lord,” he stammered, “c-could you not help these dedicated men? It seems—forgive me, my Lord, but the magic trapping them seems beyond our skills to counter.”

“Useless!” Voldemort snarled. “You Death Eaters are all useless! Can’t fight worth a—” Voldemort stopped, because the Death Eaters around him were staring, some of them suspiciously. “Cannot fight,” he corrected himself, “worth a—”

“You don’t sound like The Dark Lord,” one of the more daring Death Eaters said.

Voldemort shrugged. “Oh, well. The jig is up,” he said cheerfully. “Eeylops!” And he vanished.

*****

Voldemort appeared in Eeylops Owl Emporium, and quickly Metamorphed back into Tonks. “I screwed up,” she said apologetically to Lupin, McGonagall, Padma, Seamus and Dean, who were waiting inside. “Got careless with my wording and they figured it out. But I think a good thirty or forty of them got caught in Fred and George’s traps.”

“That’s a huge number,” Remus said. “Well done!”

“I still can’t believe this,” McGonagall muttered. “You incited You-Know-Who to send a mass of Death Eaters and Merlin knows what else to attack Diagon Alley? This is mad!”

“Maybe, but it’s working,” Tonks said with surprising viciousness. “And the Death Eaters should be—” A number of distant yells and an enormous bellow made her nod in satisfaction. “They’ve just run into Hagrid and Grawp.”

“Hagrid?” McGonagall exclaimed. “Did everyone in the Order know about this except me?”

*****

Ron glanced over at the corner. He knew Hermione was there, but he couldn’t see her. The Invisibility Cloak he’d draped over her hid everything, even the runes on the floor; the corner looked completely empty.

He half-wished he hadn’t insisted that they keep one of the cloaks for Hermione. It would have been a comfort to him if he could at least see her, watch her breathe, just to know that she was okay. But he knew that there was little that could harm her while trancing—except from outside, physical sources. And if any Death Eaters showed up and figured out that she was the source of the Anti-Apparition Charm blanketing Diagon Alley—well, it would be best if no one even knew she was there.

Deciding that enough time had passed for the Death Eaters to all have gotten into Knockturn Alley, Ron stood up from his seat and walked over to the table, where the box with the tiny fireplaces was. He picked it up; the fireplaces were still in careful rows, waiting for that command.

Ron had a moment of panic when he couldn’t remember exactly what Hermione had told him to say. But after a minute of racking his brain, he remembered it, and made sure that it was clear, word for word, in his head. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the fireplaces, thought hard about what he wanted to happen, and said firmly: “Shut down all input and all output for all selected fireplaces!”

Nothing happened. There wasn’t a single movement, or light or anything. “Oh, bloody hell,” Ron muttered.

He tried again, and again, but still nothing. Finally, in desperation, he pulled out his wand, hoping it would direct his magic better, or his intent, or something—anything. “Shut down all input and all output for all selected fireplaces!” he repeated, and heaved a huge sigh of relief when the fireplaces in the box all flared simultaneously, and then lost all light, becoming nothing more than ceramic pieces. That was too bloody close, Ron thought as he set the box down gingerly. Maybe Hermione’s powerful enough to do that without a wand, but I’m not! Next time, we’re going to figure that out before Hermione goes into a trance!

Then he thought about it a bit more, and chuckled softly. Next time. Sweet Merlin, there better not be a next time!