When John started Hogwarts, there was a crater the size of a small farmhouse where a Whomping Willow used to stand, shallowed out by rain.

Lush blue-green grass grew dense in the center every spring, snapping hothouse flowers layered the bowl in the short months of summer, and in the fall and winter - fog hanging low and dew a chilly cling on every blade and petal - snow-white lilies, bells dark in the center, sagged on limp stems wherever the Willow used to shake off its turning summer coat.

A slim, twisted Japanese maple, star-like purple leaves stubbornly present during every dreary season of Scotland, arched over a circular stone slab that marked the edge of the hole closest to the castle. And on the slab was an epitaph, cryptic verse in a carved scrawl, with points about moors and gray heather and a city at the bottom of the sea; about black hounds and the sky at four p.m. and the slow, mellow burn of early autumn. Square-cut hieroglyphics rimmed the outside, half-buried under aged moss, impressions caked with dirt from over a decade of weather.

No one knew what it meant or who had placed it there.

Most said, though, that if you followed the words to their end, you'd find Harry Potter. But Harry Potter, boy-savior, was dead.

**

Millicent Bulstrode stared moodily across the room, a scowl curving her lips, cup of long-cold tea cradled between her hands. Her kitchen was spare but clean, and an obnoxious birthday Owl from Abbott was perched on the counter, flashing pink sparkles and, thankfully, not shouting her age.

The woman never forgot an occasion. Millie, despite her numerous complaints about the ex-Hufflepuff, actually appreciated the effort. There weren't many people left who would care.

And now the old gang was getting back together. Excellent. She rolled her eyes and got to her feet, spilling her untouched tea down the drain.

Something strange was afoot at Hogwarts, apparently, but she supposed it beat tossing off that exposé on wild yetis she owed the Quibbler. There was a time when she'd sought actual newsworthy freelance assignments, but the truth had lost its limited appeal years ago.

Sitting down at her desk, she wrote to Abbott and jotted a quick note to Malcolm and then set about finding her copy of Hogwarts: A History. She didn't think she'd burned it, although at one point heavy drinking had been an important part of her daily life, and the amount of fuzzy and missing pieces in her memory was truly frightening - it wasn't as if the temptation hadn't always been there.

Hogwarts represented the best and worst moments of her past. She'd gotten over it. Gotten over as much as she could, really, and it helped to have a half-insane woman as a non-best friend, who had a determinedly cheerful outlook on nearly everything.

Millicent wasn't exactly sure what was going on or what she was supposed to do, but she'd go back. Partly because he'd asked her to, of course, but mainly because she was curious.

**

"It's blatant discrimination!"

John glanced up at McKay from his Potions' text, which he hadn't actually been reading. He never read when he was in the library with the sixth year Slytherin. McKay was just too damn entertaining. "What is?"

"That hag who calls herself a librarian won't let me into the Restricted Section. I even have a note!" He waved around a little piece of parchment in front of John's nose. "You'd think after ten years Slytherin would have a better rap."

Eyebrows arched, John snatched the paper out of his hands. He snickered. "McKay, this is Carson's handwriting."

"It's nearly illegible," McKay grumbled, dropping down into the seat across from him. "That should've been enough. Professor Weasley marked my last paper with a red crayon. I mean. Incompetents like that shouldn't be allowed to shape impressionable minds."

"He's a werewolf," Aiden said in a hush from beside John, leaning forward, eyes big and dark and too young to have remembered anything first hand about the Second War.

"Thank you, Mr. Obvious," McKay snapped, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, Sheppard, where do you find them? You're like the pied piper of underage Hufflepuffs."

John flashed him a grin before clapping Aiden's skinny shoulder, a friendly, shrug-it-off reminder. The kid had known McKay only half as long as John had, and he knew most people needed a hell of lot more than three years to build up a protective shell against the Slytherin's caustic tongue.

"What do you need back there, anyway?" John asked, fiddling with his quill.

Half of McKay's mouth twisted down in a thoughtful frown. "Well, I'm curious about the Woman."

The Woman � capital W, of course, as McKay was nothing if not dramatic - was the brand new resident of the structure that'd been rebuilt where the famed Shrieking Shack used to stand. She wasn't especially mysterious, told everyone to call her Han, and was a big-breasted blonde nearly twice their age. John didn't see the attraction. "What about her?"

"Elizabeth says she's taking over Charms."

Aiden leaned forward again. "I heard she knew Harry Potter."

McKay blinked at him. Slowly, he slid his gaze from the third year Hufflepuff back to John. "No, seriously. You're allowing this-this...?"

"Nice young wizard," John prompted, grin sharper than before, a warning at the corner of his mouth. He took a lot of shit from McKay, but there were some carefully drawn lines between the Slytherin and Gryffindor. He made sure McKay knew when to pull up and rethink his words.

Not that McKay always took the hint. This time, though, he chuffed and crossed his arms over his chest and gave both Aiden and John a dark scowl. "Look," he finally said, "we know she's an old friend of Potter's. That's the easy part."

John grinned his approval of McKay's hard-won restraint, ignoring his answering eye roll. "Okay," he nodded. "And the hard part would be...?"

"Figuring out what she knows about the stone in the courtyard."

"Wait, the stone? And you want to search the Restricted Section?" John asked. There wasn't anything remotely dark about the blooming crater and the marker deeply set in the ground. It was where the famed last battle had taken place, the last Death Eater stand, the exact spot, it was said, where Potter had killed Voldemort, and then laid down his wand to finally rest.

McKay brushed his chin with the feather end of his quill. "Radek got me thinking," he said, then pulled out a borrowed Ancient Runes text. "Follow my brilliance, here—"

"McKay, you hate Ancient Runes," John cut in. "You think it's a huge waste of time."

"Which is why I didn't think of this before," McKay conceded semi-graciously, "but this ties in pretty tightly with our work in Arithmancy. Look." He flipped through to the last pages of the book, then spun it around and pushed it towards John. "What's wrong with these charts?" He leaned back in his chair, smiling smugly.

John arched one brow, but dipped his head gamely to study the numbered glyphs. "I have no idea," he finally drawled, looking up through his lashes to see McKay's smirk go from smug to annoyed.

"Oh, come on. You're not even trying," he accused.

"Okay, okay," John chuckled. "Um, well," he thumbed through the pages again, pointing to a picture of a simple half moon, "some of these are off."

McKay tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. "Of course they're off, this is a fifth year text written under duress at the height of the Second War. Chuck left scribbles all over the eighth and tenth chapters, which are so completely mangled they boggle the mind. But what's wrong," he stressed, "is that they're biological glyphs."

John looked at him blankly. "And?"

"Have you even looked at the marker, Sheppard?" he demanded incredulously. "The carvings are all chevrons. There are no," he flailed a hand, "geometrics in this. We're missing something."

"And you think it's in the Restricted books?" Aiden asked, fidgeting in his seat. The kid never could sit still for very long.

"Well," McKay hedged, "yes and no. I mean, maybe, but the main reason is because of this." His eyes looked shifty as he slid a piece of parchment over to John.

"Gene Splicing and the Venomous Plant by N. Longbottom?"

"What? No." He tore the paper back and flipped it over. "This," he hissed, shoving it at him again.

John read the title silently. Ley Curses, Wards, and Fundamentally Immoral Fractures Thereof. "This doesn't sound all that good, McKay," he said, voice low.

"We need rubbings," McKay protested. "There's so much magic webbed over that area, the entire courtyard's nearly roped off!" It wasn't, of course, but it was a close thing, since anyone who even thought about touching the stone immediately wanted to be somewhere else, and rushed off before they could remember why they were outside to begin with. The best view of the marker was from a window above, with a handy set of Omnioculors, but even then it was hard to get exacts, half of it almost always obscured by the Japanese maple.

"So you want to learn how to break strong protective ley line magic." John nodded. "Still doesn't sound good."

"I don't care how it sounds." He rolled his eyes. "Are you in or are you out? Since old lady Pince won't take my note, I'm going to have to sneak back in tonight."

"Yeah, and you're just a master of stealth," John cracked.

"In or out, Sheppard," McKay growled, scowling.

John sighed, resigned. "In." Of course. Like he even had to ask. "Jesus, you're gonna be the death of me, Rodney," he grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

**

John had lost his mother when he'd been seven, when the War had exploded into the western hemisphere and Muggle-born magic had gone up in green, skull-shaped smoke. When the dust settled, Wizarding culture in the Americas had been nearly decimated, and overseas the only establishments still standing were Hogwarts, the half of Diagon Alley that housed Gringotts, the French Ministry of Magic, and one underground corridor that led away from Durmstrang castle, spilling out into a fetid pond. Wizards and Witches from all over the world flocked to London for what was later referred to as the Golden Trio Memorial Celebration, and most of them just... stayed.

So John was from California, originally, and McKay was of the Toronto McKays, and little Radek Zelenka hadn't spoken any English at all when he'd first sat under the Sorting Hat six years before, swinging legs hardly touching even the topmost rung of the stool. It was rumored he had a bit of elf in him.

Whether it was actually true or not, though, didn't seem to affect his leadership role in the Slytherin Underground, Hogwarts' black market. Zelenka had a sly, diabolical edge - what McKay often referred to as being 'crazy around the eyes' - but was thankfully fond of McKay and, by proxy, John.

He couldn't get them an invisibility cloak, unfortunately, but he scrounged up the exact time and route that Filch paced along the halls of after-hours Hogwarts. The caretaker Squib had gotten predictable in his old age, and Mrs. Norris had been dead for nearly two years. It was possibly the easiest time in the history of the school for students to sneak around after curfew.

Which was a good thing, since it was virtually impossible, John found, to shut McKay up for any length of time.

"Did you hear that?" McKay whipped around, blue eyes wide and really sort of eerie in the glow of his lit wand.

"No."

"Are you sure? It was sort of a," he tipped his head back and forth, "swishing noise."

John grabbed his shoulders and forced him back around. "That noise?" he hissed in his ear.

"Yes!" McKay exclaimed in a loud, Christ, really loud hush.

"It's our robes, McKay," John pointed out as patiently as he could, fingers uncurling and curling, itching to slap a palm over McKay's babbling mouth.

"Our... oh. Right." He reached for a smile, tossing it slantways at John with a nervous flick of his wand. "Knew that."

"Almost there," John half-crooned, urging McKay impatiently along, one hand on the crook of his elbow to keep him from wandering away from the dark edges. The corridor torches weren't lit, but John felt safer moving against the solid wall, a reassuring presence on one side.

They reached the library with no problems, luckily, and McKay seemed to know exactly where the book was shelved, making a beeline towards the back corner. John hovered at the mouth of the aisle, one eye on the door, wincing at the racket McKay was making as he pretty much climbed the stacks to reach the very top shelf.

John wasn't really sure why or how they became friends. You couldn't live at Hogwarts and not know Rodney McKay, but they were in different years and rival Houses and while John practically lived on the Quidditch pitch, McKay had to be dragged out there whining and complaining. Somehow, though, they'd ended up in the same Advanced Arithmancy class two terms ago.

After the first day, McKay had sniffed imperiously, chin tipped up, and told him that he wasn't a complete idiot, and his shame would only be marginal if they were seen together outside of class. Instead of telling him to fuck off, John had grinned sardonically and drawled a mocking, "Thanks," and McKay took that as the olive branch it wasn't and bullied his way into John's daily life.

McKay was brilliant, though, and could do things with numbers that literally made John pant, but his ego was the absolute last thing he needed stroked, so John never ever told him that. He liked to talk, too, and John apparently liked to listen - which was a little weird, but John shrugged and went with it - and they had crossed paths in the library so often that they'd eventually just gravitated towards the same table. John'd woken up one day months later and realized he'd been spending nearly every evening with McKay. Surprisingly, he hadn't been all that disturbed by the revelation.

He'd watch him rant and flail and study and interact - a term John used extremely loosely, since McKay yelled an awful lot and cut people off and made Hufflepuffs of every age cry - and John figured he was the closest thing the Slytherin had to a best friend. It made him feel sort of fuzzy-warm inside.

"Done?" he asked as McKay slipped up next to him, a wide, thick book cradled in his arms.

He flashed a huge grin. "Found it."

"All right, good. Let's go." He hooked an arm around McKay's neck, giving him a friendly shake. "I'll walk you back to the dungeons."

**

John thought he could probably pace the climbing path from Slytherin to Gryffindor with his eyes closed. He doubted McKay could do the opposite. Or reverse, whatever.

Thing was, McKay had, in the two years they'd been friends, been inside the Tower a total of four times.

Once, when John had gotten clocked by a rogue Bludger and hadn't been allowed to get out of bed - or risk being shunted back to the infirmary, a place John hated above all others.

Twice over last years' Christmas holiday, since only four Gryffindors had stayed on at Hogwarts for the season, and McKay had deemed the common room not quite as contaminated with idiot contagions as usual - there was a brief stint of time when McKay'd toyed with the theory of stupidity being catching, but eventually pinned puberty as the underlying culprit.

And once that September, when three of the Slytherin first years - who hadn't yet learned the practicalities of keeping McKay happy - had gone missing, along with McKay's secret stash of chocolate frogs. The boy had been seriously pissed, on the warpath, and John doubted he even realized he'd stalked right through the portrait hole after him until Miko'd sidled up next to him with an offering of piping hot cocoa.

Most days, it was John who had to brave the snake pit. Not that he really minded. Laura Cadman was always good for a laugh and, really, nothing beat watching McKay and Zelenka double team reaming out their younger housemates. They apparently kept running tallies of all the stupid infractions made during the day, then charted their progress over the course of the year, outlining the improvement or degeneration of their behavior with bar graphs and percentage pies and frowny-face stickers.

There was a sign just inside the door that read: YOU ARE ALL INFINITELY DUMBER THAN ME, BUT EVERYONE ELSE IS EVEN MORE MORONIC THAN YOU. HAVE SOME PRIDE, MEN -MCKAY.

When John had pointed out that, on average, Ravenclaws held the highest marks in the school, McKay'd harrumphed and said that Ravenclaws were narrow-minded, stuff-shirted page memorizers who called a spade a spade even when it was clearly a shovel, and that no one truly brilliant had ever come out of that House.

John secretly agreed with him, of course, but it was so much fun to wind him up.

The dungeon sofas were butter-soft leather, surprisingly comfortable, and incongruently riddled with homey cross-stitched pillows sporting pithy proverbs like, "The more you get, the more you have," and, "If a job's worth doing, it's worth paying someone else to do it," and, "Hufflepuffs are not puppies, feel free to kick."

And, for the most part, the Slytherins seemed to like him. He'd snuggle up with Ager and Simpson, and McKay'd glower at them until he shifted over to make room on the couch. Then he'd break out the Wizard's chess and John would purposefully lose, and McKay'd get hilariously mad and as pissy as that hell-beast he called a cat.

So no, John really didn't mind hanging out in Slytherin. It was just. A little odd. John seemed to be putting in an extra effort that wasn't being reciprocated. Appreciated, on the other hand. Yeah. John was pretty sure he never imagined the way McKay's face lit up when their eyes caught, or the crooked, little-boy smile that seemed reserved just for him and chocolate cake.

Nick and Peter were still awake when John stumbled back through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor common room, bent dangerously close over a game of Exploding Snap, chatting companionably. They were both well-known night owls, so the sight wasn't unusual.

John threw them an absent wave as he made for the stairs, but paused when Peter said, "I thought Brown was seeing McKay," as he slapped down a card. His stomach bottomed out and his foot stuttered on the first step, and he furrowed his brow, trying to gauge his internal reaction to that news.

There was a beat, the two younger Gryffindors waiting warily to see if the stack would blow. Then, "Nah," Nick countered somewhat morosely. "Don't think so. Parrish and Brown are always together."

Frowning, John backtracked and flopped down on the sofa in front of the fire, propping his feet up on the low table where the boys were playing.

"But that doesn't mean—I bloody saw that, Lorne! You've got an extra set of cards in your trousers!" Peter accused.

"It's impossible to cheat at Snap, Grodin," Nick said, rolling his eyes. "And stop looking down my pants, you poof."

"I'm not the one making eyes at David," Peter groused, slumping back in his chair. He offered John a weak grin. "Hullo, John."

"Shep," Nick slapped his booted feet, "you hang out with McKay. What's up with him and Brown?"

John shrugged. Katie Brown was a timid little Hufflepuff. He doubted anything at all was up with her and McKay. McKay, in traditional Slytherin prejudice, thought Hufflepuffs were big-eyed capuchin monkeys dressed up in yellow and black scarves.

That wasn't the point, though. The point was that the thought of McKay and anyone, really, seemed to make John physically ill. "Huh."

"What?" Nick asked through a yawn, tossing the rest of his hand away and scrubbing fingers over his shorn head.

"Nothing, just." He shrugged again. "Weird thoughts."

**

Despite living in the cold bowels of the castle, Rodney almost always woke up with his blankets kicked off, limbs sprawled wide, a thin sheen of sweat covering his entire body. He wasn't sure why. If it was from dreams, Rodney never remembered them.

He was usually the last to wake up, too, and Radek shouted from across the room, "You are going to be late."

Rodney groaned and groped for his wand. "Whoever invented morning classes should be mortally wounded with a spoon."

Stackhouse grunted in agreement, slowly pulling on his boots, eyes still sleep-swollen and half closed. Markham was fully dressed, draped over the foot of Stackhouse's bed, arms wide, dozing. Rodney's cat, Marmalade, an orange tabby with short whiskers and a crooked tail, was perched on his chest.

"If you do not hurry, there will be no time for pancakes," Radek stated, giving them a hard stare over the rims of his glasses, "and I will make you all pay."

The stare was effective enough to get Stackhouse and Markham moving, and the mention of pancakes managed to bolster Rodney out of bed and into his robes, book-heavy satchel draped over his shoulder. He'd learned how to spell it light years ago, thank god, or he'd have surely been a hunchback by then.

Cadman and Bates were waiting impatiently at the bottom of the steps, and Rodney snapped, "Why the hell is breakfast always a group effort?" but without much heat. He didn't really have the energy for proper scoldings before his first cup of coffee. Bleary-eyed glares were usually the best he could do until after ten.

In the Great Hall, the Gryffindors were ridiculously wound up. Rodney wondered absently about it for a second, got distracted by a donut, and then Cadman started blathering on about Carson and uniforms and Rodney thought, Oh, right. Quidditch. First game of the year.

Rodney was torn between the novelty of having a Friday afternoon free of classes and the obvious monumental waste of time.

Opposite him, Radek eyed him curiously. "So. How was last night?"

Rodney swallowed a bit of eggs and grinned smugly. "Good. Perfect. I've got the book, so now it's just a matter of reshaping the courtyard." They couldn't actually destroy the webbing of magic, since anyone with half a brain knew that something that drastic would instantly alert either the Headmistress or Professor Weasley.

Bates gave a warning growl, and Rodney glanced up to see a jittery young Gryffindor approaching their table, black hair slicked back in a high ponytail, small fingers twisting the front of her robe. He thought he'd heard Sheppard address her as Miko before, but he wasn't sure, nor did he really care. He tended to just call her, "You," and occasionally, "Jojo the dancing monkey" - although that one often made her cry, and a sobbing, wet Gryffindor was possibly worse than an un-cowed Hufflepuff. She had a relatively good brain, though, and was excellent at following directions, so he shot Bates a 'back off' glare before scowling up at her. Well, sort of over at her, actually, since she was also very, very tiny, despite being a fourth year - and he only knew that, of course, because he refused to let anyone younger work on his pet experiments.

"Jojo," he said sharply, and her lower lip only quivered a very little bit - honestly, it was high time she just got used to his abrasiveness; it wasn't as if it was personal - "what have you got for me today?"

"Um," she pushed her glasses up her snub nose and drew a scroll out of her robes, unrolling it so slowly that Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently in a hurry-up motion. She cleared her throat. "Um, well. It turned blue."

Rodney stared at her. "Blue."

"Yes, we—"

"Blue, when it was completely impossible for it to turn blue, unless you added bezoar, which I clearly stated would ruin the whole potion." He snatched the parchment out of her hands, skimming through the cataloged step-by-step results.

She blinked. "I don't recal—"

"Of course you don't. Why would you?" he snarled. "It was only written in large bold print, but I've obviously misjudged your level of reading comprehension, and what do you mean 'we?'" He eyed her suspiciously. Rodney's forays in spell reform, efficiency, and potion effectiveness versus potion effects were not common knowledge. Well, not common knowledge in the way that everyone knew about them, but nobody said anything. And, also, his minions did not share projects without his express permission.

The girl actually blushed. "The third step was giving me trouble, the numbers weren't adding up, and Calvin was on his way back from—"

"Calvin?" Rodney cut in, incredulous. "Calvin Kavanagh? You let that imbecile near my—oh. Oh god. I feel dirty. Did he touch this?" He dropped the curving parchment onto the tabletop and leaned away, disgusted sneer on this face. "I can feel my genius being sucked out through my pores."

"Calm down, Rodney," Radek said, rolling his eyes. "You cannot catch his stupidity, remember?"

"I remember," Rodney stressed, gaze still narrowed on the offending paper, "but that doesn't mean I should take unnecessary risks, does it?" Rodney had been constantly surprised by magic his entire life. There was always something new to learn, some variant making itself known for the first time, some mutation or bastardization of a magical thread that no one had seen before. He'd learned early on how to manipulate the world around him, how to create and destroy in his own sort of shorthand, but that only meant he was even more aware of all the possible ways magic could go wrong. And not just dark magic, which was a common misconception. All magic; elemental, ancient, hybrid, light, dark. All of it was just an accident waiting to happen.

"You," he growled at Miko. "Take this and disappear." He palmed his wand and set about scourgifying the wooden surface and his left hand. "I swear, they're getting more incompetent each year."

"I do not see how," Radek said, "with your sweet disposition."

"Like you're one to talk," Rodney scoffed. "Half the first year Ravenclaws are terrified you'll eat them."

Radek shrugged. "You made a Hufflepuff wet his pants last term."

Rodney grimaced. "God, don't remind me. Not my best moment. Or his."

"You're both kinda scary," Cadman put in cheerfully, and not for the first time, Rodney really wondered what she was doing in Slytherin. Although she was really good at explosive spells and bugging the crap out of him, and could exercise a sharp, sarcastic wit when she actually put some effort into it. He figured that might've been enough for the Sorting Hat. If she hadn't been placed under it before him, he would've suspected that she'd asked for Slytherin, just to be as gratingly close to him as possible.

Bates growled again, but it was slightly belated, and Rodney felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder.

"McKay," Sheppard said from behind him, all polite and sharp. "Can I have a word?"

"I'm eating," Rodney groused, tearing apart a piece of biscuit. The Gryffindor's grip tightened and Rodney gave a pained yelp. "Fine, all right, let go, you savage!"

Sheppard backed up, hands at his sides and a stiff, not at all nice grin on his face.

Rodney huffed and got to his feet, straightening out his robes before arching a questioning brow.

"Over here," Sheppard said, and crooked a finger for him to follow.

Sometimes, he suspected Sheppard merely tolerated him. Rodney inspired a large amount of fear and hate, an occasional bout of misplaced hero-worship, but not many people bothered to tolerate him. It was entirely too passive-aggressive an approach to his larger-than-life personality. He genuinely liked Sheppard, though, so he waded through their odd friendship and pathetically lived for the times when he could make the other boy smile.

He was afraid he was obvious, but Cadman and Radek were the only ones who ever dared to call him on it.

Sheppard crossed his arms over his chest once they stepped out of the Hall, and Rodney straightened up to his full height, thankful he was at least as tall as the other boy.

"You made Miko cry," the Gryffindor said.

"She made an incredibly moronic mistake that'll set me back weeks. Well, probably not weeks," Rodney amended. "Weeks for anyone else, yes, but if I work through it myself, I should be able to—"

"McKay," Sheppard drawled, and his entire stance was one long, lean warning. How he did that while wearing billowing robes, Rodney didn't have a clue.

"She's overly sensitive," Rodney protested. "I didn't set out to make her cry. It just happened!"

"I don't care. You're gonna have to apologize."

"Apolo—oh, you have got to be kidding me." Rodney McKay didn't apologize. Everyone would say he'd gone soft. Hufflepuffs would start trying to have conversations with him. It would be pure anarchy.

Sheppard just stared at him, hazel eyes hard. He was ridiculously stubborn about the strangest things.

"Oh, fine. But if Ford approaches me without you—"

"You'll be civil and mannerly," Sheppard finished for him.

Rodney glared and the Gryffindor finally broke out into a loose grin, unhooking his arms and sliding one over the stiff set of Rodney's shoulders. He urged him around and back into the Hall, and Rodney's lips twisted sourly for show, since the weight of Sheppard against him always made him slightly giddy.

"You'll be at the game later, right?" Sheppard asked, tone playful.

Rodney sniffed. "If I have nothing better to do."

**

Rodney was not good on a broom. He could fly, passably, but he never liked the speeds or, god, the heights, and he watched the Quidditch game with only minimal interest. Cadman had dragged him there so she could drool over Carson - who was the Hufflepuff Keeper and always looked completely terrified up by the rings. He was all right when he put his mind to it, though, and it was Hufflepuff. There weren't a lot of star athletes to choose from. Rodney half suspected Cadman had bullied the Scottish boy into it.

He slanted a glance at the girl, then froze. "Have you no shame?"

She grinned at him unrepentantly, yellow and black scarf wrapped around her throat.

"You're an embarrassment to Slytherin," he snapped.

Cadman laughed. "Like you don't have that red and gold ribbon John gave you in your pocket," she needled, diving for his robes.

Rodney squirmed away, batting at her hands. "Off, off, are you insane? Stupid question. Of course you're crazy. You're dating a Huffle—hey! Hands in inappropriate places! Stop groping me, woman!" he screeched.

Flushed and triumphant, she held up the 'Gryffindors are #1' ribbon Sheppard had jokingly pinned to Rodney's chest after a random win the term before.

"I hate you," Rodney grumbled, snatching it back from her and hastily stuffing it into his robes.

She punched his arm. "Nah, you love me."

Chuck, the lone Ravenclaw among the Slytherins, whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Elizabeth's giving me the evil eye again."

Elizabeth was all for the integration of students so long as it didn't affect her own House unity. Rodney waved at her with an overly pleasant smile.

They had an understanding of a sort about Chuck, though, who was excellent at research, and didn't annoy him too much. In return for his use, Rodney made sure Elizabeth stayed in good standing with the Slytherin Underground - although, honestly, he didn't have to do much of anything. Radek was, and had been for years, completely infatuated with the seventh year Ravenclaw.

Rodney normally didn't like Ravenclaws, either - well, he normally didn't like most people, but that had less to do with Houses and more to do with intense stupidity. Some Houses just seemed to breed more idiots than others and, in Rodney's experience, an ability to recall verbatim almost everything they've read did not spell genius. Ravenclaws were not automatically smart. They simply had no lives - but he made an exception for his fellow Canadian, and graciously allowed Chuck to socialize with him outside his potions lab.

"Your boy's in fine form today," Cadman commented airily, knocking his elbow and looking an inch away from wink-winking suggestively.

Rodney scowled at her. She had no tact whatsoever. Rodney really couldn't claim much himself, of course, but his predilection towards bluntness was clearly on purpose, and aimed at persons who were too stupid to live. He glanced out across the pitch, though, eyes drawn to Sheppard involuntarily. He did look good, but then Rodney hadn't expected him not to. He was arguably the best Chaser at Hogwarts, and Gryffindor had won the House Cup nearly every year since he'd been on the team.

A feint, and Rodney's breath hitched as Sheppard's broom spun, barreling towards the Hufflepuff stands at a blinding speed before righting himself and driving upwards, Quaffle tucked neatly under his arm, grin cocksure and self-satisfied. "He's reckless," Rodney griped, nose wrinkled.

"He knows what he's doing," Cadman countered, a sigh in her voice.

Everyone hooted and cheered and stomped as Sheppard tossed the Quaffle past Carson and through the center hoop.

Sheppard was universally loved. He was the fond son of every professor, no matter how much he slacked off, and none of his fellow students, not even the Slytherins, could muster up any resentment over it. He was John Sheppard. He just had to flash his wide, effacing grin, go, "Awww, shucks," and everyone fell all over themselves to please him, Rodney included. Though he made sure to front a grudging air.

Predictably with Gryffindor/Hufflepuff matches, the game went fairly quickly after the first goal, and it took less than an hour for Lorne to hunt down the Snitch, snatching it out of the air right in front of Parrish's nose. They were hovering by the Slytherin stands, and Rodney watched bemusedly as Parrish blinked, mouth agape, Lorne's grin of triumph turning up wickedly at the corners, but any words said between the two Seekers were drowned out by the raucous cheers.

Sheppard zipped by on his broom, a ham for the crowd, before pulling up in the middle of the field and executing a perfect tumbling dismount that oozed right into a saunter as he made his way towards the locker rooms. Rodney just shook his head.

"That's so cute," Cadman needled, hooking an arm through his as they got to their feet. "He was showing off for you."

"Stop it," Rodney hissed, trying unsuccessfully to shake off her grip. She was like a Crup with a bone.

Radek chuckled, turning from his position in front of them, flapping a hand through the air. "Please. You are in love. It is special, and should be treasured."

"Oh, ha ha," Rodney ground out, then muttered, "Painful, horrible deaths," low and venomous.

Cadman just leaned into his side as they started down the steps. "You're so sweet, McKay. I can't imagine why John hasn't lured you up to the Astronomy Tower yet."

"The Astron—? What?" Rodney jerked back, eyes wide. Sheppard was...was... doing things? In the Astronomy Tower? Although, really, it shouldn't have surprised him. The boy flirted with anything that moved, and Rodney'd even accidentally witnessed a few horrifying encounters with inanimate objects that absolutely had not turned him on. At all.

Cocking her head, Cadman gave him a fond pat on the back of his hand. "Rodney, you can't think John's sitting around celibate, can you?" Her tone was mockingly sympathetic, but the underlying message was undeniably true. Then her face sort of twisted into her own brand of sincere, taking pity on Rodney's distress, and she said, "Look, all you have to do is tell him."

Rodney snorted. "Yes, of course, that's it. Tell him. Why didn't I think of that before?" He snapped his fingers. "Oh, that's right, because it's comparable to suicide."

"You are being overly dramatic." Radek sounded highly amused.

"I'm being realistic," Rodney countered morosely, then immediately brightened when he caught sight of the Charms professor they'd formally met that morning; the Woman, the one who insisted everyone call her Han even though no one actually had the nerve to, the most beautiful blonde ever to grace Hogwarts' halls - barring one Samantha Carter, of course, who'd been a sixth year when Rodney'd first started, had a dizzying grasp of magical theory and practical Arithmancy, and would've been the first girl to ever break his heart if she'd bothered to let him anywhere near her. "Professor Abbott!" he called out, waving his free hand.

Cadman hissed in his ear, "You realize she was in Hufflepuff, right?"

"That's a vicious lie," Rodney growled out of the side of his mouth, then bounced on his feet and grinned up at the professor when they drew close.

"Laura, Rodney." Her cheeks were rosy from the wind or the excitement, hair pulled messily out of the combs above her ears, and she nodded at them, smiling. Then she added, "And Radek and Charles, too," grin expanding to encompass all four of them. "Enjoy the game? Haven't been to one myself in ages, least not at Hogwarts. Hufflepuff put in a good showing, don't you think?"

Cadman jostled Rodney and crowed sotto voce, "Told you."

Rodney mouthed a, "Proves nothing," back at her, then cleared his throat. She couldn't have been in Hufflepuff. She'd remembered all their names, just from that day alone, and at the very least that suggested Ravenclaw. "Professor, there's a potion I've been meaning to try that involves the Impervium charm, and I wonder if you could—"

"Rodney, it's Friday afternoon. Go," she laughed, waving a hand, "do something fun, will you? Charms can wait 'til Monday."

Right. Well, definitely not Ravenclaw, then.

"Must be off," she said cheerily, tugging on a shank of hair that the breeze had spilled over her forehead, twisting it up before stuffing it back behind a comb. "Try not to get into too much trouble," she chastened, eyes twinkling. "I've heard about you four."

She practically danced off, waving greetings to smiling students and bemused faculty.

Cadman just stared at him expectantly.

"Hell," he said finally with a slight shrug. "She's still gorgeous."

**

Rodney's lab was actually just a supply closet off a dead-end corridor in the dungeons that he'd spelled big, and a non-Hogsmeade Saturday afternoon meant that it'd be brimming with minions diligently working under his command.

Parrish, though, was fidgeting just outside the door, Lorne lounging next to him, one hand palmed against the wall by the Hufflepuff's shoulder.

"If you're done flirting, David," Rodney snapped as he strode past, elbowing him out of the way. He hated using Hufflepuffs, but Parrish and Brown were surprisingly adept at Herbology, and Rodney'd rather explain Static Arithmancy to a bunch of first years using sock puppets than work with plants. Carson was usually useful, too, when he wasn't droning on about the latest breakthroughs in Healing.

Turning around, Rodney held the door open pointedly for Parrish, who was blushing disgustingly, and glared at Lorne until the boy flipped him off and stalked away.

"That wasn't very nice," Parrish said, but he hustled inside the lab.

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Moon on your own time. Right now, I need you to work with Jojo and fix whatever Kavanagh did to her brain. Hopefully it isn't irreparable."

"You mean Miko?" Parrish asked.

"Yes, yes, the short, teary-eyed girl in the corner over there," Rodney pointed to where the girl was hunched over an open book, a caldron and three beakers of liquid in front of her. "You," he called out, and she whipped her head up, almond shaped eyes startled behind her huge glasses, "I apologize for making you cry yesterday morning, but in the future please try to avoid being an idiot. I realize that's a lot to ask for, though, so I've decided to implement a buddy system."

Clapping his hands once, he cleared his throat to gain everyone's attention. "All of you turn to your left," he said loudly. Then, "Well, not everyone. Every other one." At their blank stares, he snapped, "Oh, for god's sake, just pair up! The person you see in front of you? That is your buddy. You will not do anything without first having your buddy check your legwork. If you have a question on any part of your experiment, you will ask your buddy, and if further explanation is required, you may come to me. You will not, under any circumstances, discuss your projects with someone who has not been handpicked by me, and thus shows promise beyond the mild retardation this school seems foster. Understand?"

Corrigan snickered and ducked behind Simpson, but nodded dutifully when Rodney turned a glare on him.

"All right. Back to work. Jojo, you'll be working with Parrish."

"But, Rodney," Katie piped up, dirt-caked fingers smudging her jaw, "what about—"

"Carson's asked for you. He needs an extra pair of gardening shears this week," he cut off her complaint. "Meet him in Greenhouse three in a half hour."

Finally settling at his workbench, he pulled out a clean piece of parchment and the book he'd taken from the library Thursday night. He'd only just cracked it open when an imperious voice said from the doorway, "Rodney."

With a weary sigh, Rodney waved Elizabeth into the lab. "Yes?"

She arched an eyebrow. "May I ask why I found this," she strode forward and dropped a folio of parchment onto his table, "in Daniel's possession?"

He paged through the papers distractedly. "I had him working on piecing together what was visible on the stone slab. He seemed eager enough to work on the epitaph."

"This wasn't authorized."

"Elizabeth," Rodney said with more patience than usual, because he truly respected the girl and her commanding grip on the Ravenclaw House, "he's in his seventh year, and completely capable of saying no. If you don't want him working with me on this, then you're going to have to tell him yourself. Bryce," he shouted across the room, "buddies, not threesomes." He flashed Daniel's work. "Read this over, see if you can make sense of Jackson's notes. Work with him on forming a cohesive outline of relevant information. This is all gibberish and shorthand. Was there anything else?" he asked Elizabeth.

She tapped the table with her wand. "I'd like a report on his findings, please. I'm interested in knowing about the stone as well."

Rodney flapped a hand. "Fine, yes, will you go away now?"

Elizabeth's mouth quirked up in wry amusement. "I'll just let Daniel know you have his work, then?"

Humming, Rodney took up his quill and made busy, busy, busy motions and ignored the Ravenclaw until she left. Honestly, it was a miracle he ever got anything done. Well, actually, it really wasn't. Interruptions aside, he was easily the smartest Wizard in the school - and probably the smartest Wizard in the world, but he'd decided to wait to declare that until he'd left Hogwarts, so he'd seem less presumptuous.

Lost in work, Rodney didn't know how much time had gone by or at what point Marmalade had hopped up onto the chair beside him to make a nest on his discarded robes, but he jerked his head up at her hissed growl to see Sheppard standing in the doorway, looking ridiculously hot, messy hair going in every direction and lips pulled down in a small scowl, narrowed hazel eyes locked on Marm. The two of them hated each other, and Rodney found it close to hilarious, since every other thing, living and not, adored the Gryffindor.

"Your cat is plotting my death," Sheppard muttered, keeping one eye on the tabby as he sidled up on the other side of Rodney.

"She's simply doing her master's bidding," Rodney quipped, chin tilted up, and Sheppard watched him with amusement.

"Right, Rodney," he drawled, then slumped against the table, scanning the room. "You know, I still have no idea how you get all these guys to help you out here of their own free will."

"The key is to grab them while they're young," Rodney returned, going back to his notes, "and don't know any better. Plus, they all want to ride on the coattails of my fame. Was there an actual reason for this visit, or are you just here to bug me?"

Sheppard shrugged. "Just bored."

"I could give you an assignment," Rodney asked, hopeful.

"It's Saturday, McKay," he pointed out, idly playing with an extra quill.

Rodney scoffed. "Oh, come on, numbers make you salivate. I'll let you work on the Arithmancy problem Lindsay was having trouble with. It involves coefficients and four different static theories," he tempted, as if wagging a delicious treat in front of his nose, then went on in a singsong voice, "Bagglevarger's Theory of Inversive Magic."

Rodney could tell Sheppard was fighting to visibly maintain his cool.

"Well," he said with forced nonchalance, "I guess I could glance over it."

**

There were exactly two chapters in Hogwarts: A History, fifth edition, devoted to Harry Potter, and most of it was rot. The four paragraphs waxing poetically about the final battle, for instance, were completely false.

Well, maybe not completely false. The bit about Weasley and Draco and the blue light really happened, if not in the precise terms put to paper. Millicent, authoress of said paragraphs, would know. She'd been there, of course.

The four paragraphs, full of glowing praise and vague images of valor, were written precisely because it was what Wizards and Witches had wanted to read: Potter standing alone in the courtyard, bloodied and dirt-smeared, chest heaving with exertion. You Know Who - even after and even present, most people, idiots, couldn't read the name Voldemort without unpleasant, fearful shivers - backed by his fiercest generals, wands at the ready for the boy-Wizard - who wasn't even a boy then, or ever, but nearly topping twenty-one - the elders Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle, Macnair and Bellatrix with her coal black eyes.

There were youngers there, too, of course, but not in the words Millie wrote. In the story, Greg and Vincent were spies for the Light, and Blaise was in love with a bushy-haired Muggle-born who'd spun his beliefs neatly upside-down. They were her friends, after all, her Hogwarts family, and the world was only ever black and white, right and wrong, for mule-headed Gryffindors.

In the end, Potter's sheer love and goodness and strength destroyed the last cavalcade of Death Eaters. In the end, Harry Potter wasn't just a boy.

And no, before the Second War, Millie wouldn't have catered to Potter's simpering public - she'd known the boy, the man, at last, as mates in the seedy House of Black, the War Room for The Order, and at one point even Draco had grudgingly admitted to a mocking fondness for Potter's clumsy wit and extreme anger issues with his saintly reputation - but the War had nearly broken everyone, on all sides, effects rippling out so far even Muggles were rumored to have felt it, an ache in their bones, and the threads pulling the world out of the rubble were all hopes and dreams and love for one pure-hearted Wizard; the horrific truths from the front line would've only made it buckle.

No one wanted to be a hero. Unfortunately, Potter had been born to it - some said for it - and Millie took full advantage of that in recording the final scene.

It was over ten years past, though, and Millie had been cold sober for nearly five.

Mal bit into a sandwich and mangled, "Now what?" through his chewing.

Millie rolled her eyes. "We wait for the others." They were in the back of the new Three Broomsticks, which looked exactly like the old Three Broomsticks, except it was four and a half meters further to the left. All of Hogsmeade, actually, was four and half meters further to the left. Aberforth Dumbledore, who'd overseen the rebuilding of the small town, said he'd always thought before that everything had been just slightly off center.

Specifically, Malcolm and Millie were waiting for Abbott and Longbottom, since the Ravenclaw contingent of their little group was incorporeal and bound to the castle grounds. Abbott had taken the position as temporary Charms professor for the express purpose of keeping in contact with him, since all four of them invading Hogwarts at once would've been met with no small amount of suspicion. They could've sent Mal, of course, with his oldest, Myra, just starting - a Gryffindor, no less, but that's what came of marrying a decorated War Auror, Millicent supposed - but Mal and Boot had never really gotten along.

Abbott, on the other hand, was friendly with pretty much everyone. Boot, especially. When he'd fallen, Millie had watched her visibly break, just for a moment, her eyes cutting dark and empty, her face a pale wash so fleeting that Millie had blinked and it'd been gone, replaced with more resolve and fire than she'd ever seen in her before. They'd had a war to win and a Dark Lord to kill, and there'd be decades afterwards to mourn all they'd lost.

Suddenly, the floo flared bright and spat out a mussed Wizard in dark robes, harried eyes seeking until they spotted Millie and Mal in the corner.

"Sorry," Longbottom murmured, rushing towards them. "Small problem with my blooming nettles, needed to get them in before the storm or they'd have been useless and you don't care, do you?" He grinned at them nervously, sliding into the seat next to Mal, and Millie was struck by how much he looked exactly the same: long-toothed smile, plump, flushed face, large ears poking out behind mussed shag curls.

"Abbott's not here yet," Mal said, taking a gulp of his butterbeer.

"Oh." Longbottom smoothed his hands on the scarred tabletop, fingers twitching. "Right, good." His gaze darted about the room, and he pressed his lips together, folding them in and over his teeth. Then he let out a puff of air and breathed, "Listen, did Harry—"

"Oh yeah," Mal cut in, nodding, jabbing a crisp at him. "Scared the hell out of me. I mean, he isn't very... ghostly, is he?"

"That's because he's not one." A heavy book thumped down on the table and all three of them glanced up to see a grinning, grubby-looking Hannah Abbott. "Ready to get started?"

**

"It's called Ascension," Abbott said, thumbing through the musty tome, dust motes spinning up to settle in the ends of her golden hair. "He was a bit vague about it, said he couldn't honestly meddle, as it was against the rules, and pointed me towards this book in the Hogwarts library."

"Ascension," Mal rolled the word around in his mouth. "So he's... not dead?"

"Well, he's not living, if that's what you mean. He's been, um," she scanned the pages, following a finger, "lifted to a higher plane of existence."

Mal snorted. "Of course he has."

"The point is." Abbott gave him a stern look, then started again, "The point is, he's some sort of all-knowing being, and even though he could help us out a great deal here, he's not allowed to."

"Help us out with what?" Millie asked gruffly. Potter had been rather cryptic when he'd shown up at her flat and helped himself to her tea. He'd frowned at her, though, and told her to gather up Mal and go meet Abbott, Longbottom and Boot, and everything would sort itself out. But everything seemed to just get even more complicated.

"I'm not exactly sure," Abbott admitted sheepishly. "He wouldn't say. It's got to be about the ring, though."

The ring was really the only thing they had in common anymore. They were the lone four - five, if you counted Boot, which Potter apparently had - that'd survived that last bloody battle, where the air had crackled with so much magic they could taste it, dry and acrid and bitter. The old Whomping Willow had been reduced to chips and sap-bleeding limbs, the result of explosive spells buried shallow and abundant. Then the ground had imploded, and the ring had opened up, and Voldemort had fizzled out of existence by the blaze of a blinding white-blue light, a flash of melting skin and bone.

Millie'd been caught between pure amazement and bafflement at the scene, the yelps of panic as Weasley and Draco had tumbled forward and slipped beyond what looked like a glowing puddle of water. It was hours or minutes, or seconds or days or months. The entire world had gone still, quiet. A breathless pause. And the light, so much light, filling the entire courtyard until it'd washed away every color on every blade of grass, soaking up the blood until the broken bodies of her comrades had been pale, sparkling stars and then pinpricks that glowed and swallowed themselves into nothing.

And through it all Potter had been calm and stone-faced and at last he'd given Longbottom his wand, passed it tip first, though it was so dead of magic that it'd barely sparked against Longbottom's palm as his grip tightened around it.

Strewn Death Eater bodies were the only one's recovered that day, and Harry Potter was never seen again.

"Did Potter happen to mention any texts on that ring, then?" Millie asked. Even though they'd made sure it stood protected for years, none of them were exactly sure what the hell it was.

Abbott blushed. "No. He said Terry could tell us everything we needed to know, though."

"Terry?" Longbottom queried, just as Mal bit out, "Why would Boot know anything about anything?"

"So far, all I've gotten out of him is this song he's made up to piss off Peeves." She rubbed the side of her face, expression tired, cheer spreading suddenly thin. "The truth is I have no clue what Harry wants us to do, or why. Any suggestions?"

Mal grumbled under his breath about, "Fucking do-gooders," and, "Haven't we saved the world enough, already?" and Longbottom scratched the side of his neck and said, "Er. Can't we just, you know, take down our wards and figure out what it is ourselves?"

**

Radek Zelenka was not an imposing boy to look at. He was short-statured, thin-limbed and rumpled, owl-round eyes hiding behind clunky specs, fine, brown hair terminally mussed. He didn't give off much of a commanding air, either. In fact, he was very good at hiding in plain sight, everything about him quiet and settled and unassuming. That, Rodney surmised, was the part that threw everybody off. He had a keen mind, but no one ever knew exactly what he was thinking.

Rodney was a certified genius, but he was loud and brash about it, and made sure everyone around him knew where they stood, delegated to classes of It Doesn't Hurt To Talk To You, Not Entirely Stupid, Clearly A Monkey In Disguise, Monkeys Are Smarter Than You, and How Are You Even Alive? He wasn't very good at sly, subtle digs.

In contrast, if Radek decided to hold a grudge, enact vengeance, the attack would be silent, but oh so very affective. It was a really good idea to never piss him off.

He was also adept at wading through Rodney's ramblings and finishing his thoughts, anticipating a great deal of his tangents, and was generally only a half-step behind his brilliant revelations. Consequently, he was always fun to work with.

"This one," Rodney said, pushing the open book towards him. They were sitting in a dimly lit alcove, next to a large window that overlooked the courtyard, the crater below them pale with moonlight and broken lilies. A few of the carved chevrons seemed to glow on the circular marker, a trick of the angled light.

Radek shook his head. "Will cause explosion," he said. "The wording, To bend a mended Curse thy will hath shooke all ground beneathe It. Is not good."

Frowning, Rodney countered, "It's clearly a reference to change, Radek. An explosion would be astronomically stupid, since it'd destroy everything that the curse was protecting. There'd be no point, and while I grant you the point is something often set aside in the magical realm—"

"Destruction of the courtyard does not necessarily mean everything in it will be lost," Radek interrupted chidingly. "Do you wish to risk it?"

Rodney grumbled under his breath, but pulled the book back onto his lap.

"I thought you said you were ready," Radek said, reclining against the wall and folding his legs up in front of him. "Why are we even here if you have no idea how to proceed? You are wasting my time."

"No, no, look. I wasn't sure about that one; I mean, it sounded good, one counter-spell and poof! But half the time these books are filled with nonsense, so. This, maybe," he tapped the page and Radek leaned forward, brow furrowed.

"Okay, yes," he murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "Could work. If you—"

"Right, said the third part while actually in the courtyard, defining my position, but only after I've—"

Radek snorted. "Obviously, or otherwise you will forget why you are there, but I do not see why I couldn't—"

"Do this and this," Rodney cut in excitedly, pointing to the first two incantations.

"Yes, exactly," Radek agreed, small smile on his face, "since I will be up here..." He drifted off, and Rodney nodded and grinned and then narrowed his eyes on the page again.

"Only question is whether this will permanently alter the protection spells or if we've only got a specific box of time."

"I think perhaps it does not matter," Radek said, slow and stern, "since you are only acquiring rubbings, yes?"

"Well, I might want to go back at some point," Rodney hedged.

Radek sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "Yet you have no clue what you are messing with."

"It can't be bad. I mean, it's on school grounds! It's practically Harry Potter's resting place. It's probably just being protecting from-from..." he flapped a hand around, "hooligans or vandals or something."

Radek's brows arched skeptically. "I hope you do not truly believe that."

"Need some help?"

Rodney started, eyes wide on the dark hallway, then a wandtip flared to life, and he glowered up at Sheppard.

The Gryffindor just grinned unrepentantly, robes open, one hand stuffed in a pants pocket. "You two don't seriously think you're hiding, right?"

Rodney narrowed his glare. "And why are you out after hours...?" He paused, catching sight of two giggling girls that looked vaguely familiar standing just behind him and to the side. Sheppard's brows were at a mocking arch, lips twitching, and Rodney recalled that they were seated off the corridor that led straight up towards the Astronomy Tower. Damn it. "Two, Sheppard?"

He smirked, rocking back on his heels. "I'm going to show them Orion's belt."

Rodney's mouth curled into a half-sneer. "Don't let us keep you."

"Aw, but Rodney," he drawled, "I want to help out. What's this, find something useful?" He bent down, snatching the book out of his hands. "Doesn't look too hard," he said after scanning the page.

"It won't be," Rodney growled. "Just give it ba—"

"The first part's written wrong, though."

Rodney frowned. "What?"

"The words are unbalanced and, look here, a dissolving element. That can't be right." He shoved the book back at him.

Radek pushed his glasses up his nose. "I think," he said slowly, looking over Rodney's shoulder. "I think Sheppard is correct. The next two incantations—"

"Negate the need for any sort of dissolving charm, right. Huh. The redundancy might have damaged the entire area. Good work, Sheppard," Rodney praised absently, already mentally rewriting the first spell. They knew the function and parameters and what it shouldn't be, so it would be a relatively simple matter of coming up with the right combination of words. In theory. It would've really helped if they had a test subject.

"I might put Chuck on this," Rodney said, and then Sheppard clamped a hand over his mouth with a harsh, "Shhhh," head cocked.

After a moment, he whispered, "Filch," and, "Scram," and pulled Rodney to his feet, shoving him down the hall.

**

No matter how much magic infused the great stones of Hogwarts, there still managed to be nooks and crannies and broom closets that were not the least bit accommodating, despite any vehement complaints. Rodney had never been so uncomfortable in his life.

A sharp elbow jabbed his lower back and he sent a blind glare over his shoulder, and then a grabby hand startled a yelp out of his throat.

"Shhhh," Sheppard chastened again, and Rodney hissed, "There's hardly enough room in here for one, let alone five."

One of the vaguely familiar girls giggled.

A hand palmed his waist, and there was a hushed, "Relax, McKay," and until then Rodney hadn't realized how tense he'd been standing, muscles clenched, with Sheppard's long body nearly pressed up against his front.

Loose hairs tickled his nape, and a light-hearted, "Oh my god, John, this is the most fun ever," came from somewhere in the vicinity of his spine, and then a low-pitched, mock-scandalized, "Radek."

"Quiet, quiet," Sheppard said, but there was laughter in his voice, and he somehow managed to find Rodney's shoulder in the dark, head dropping down to roll close to his neck, little quakes of mirth shaking his frame.

When the door jerked open, flooding the closet with golden wandlight, Rodney was not surprised. It wasn't, however, Filch. It wasn't even a professor. And that was how the orgy rumors got started.

**

John often dreamed that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. It was unsettling, mainly, but occasionally he'd wake up panting, breathless, and everything in his life felt intensely wrong.

Sometimes, like any normal Wizard boy, he dreamed of adventure, of intrigue and evil and the thwarting of. And he dreamed about Harry Potter.

He was pretty sure he wasn't dreaming, though, when he found the man in question sitting on the foot of his bed. He'd been to breakfast and three classes already.

"Um..." John stared at him dumbly.

"Hello." Harry gave him a sort of sheepish wave. "Look, haven't got much time here, but everything's going to shit and... John? John, are you listening?"

John reached out to poke him, but his hand slid straight through his arm. There was no frigid chill, though, and he certainly looked solid. Very, very weird. "Aren't you...? I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

"I'd really love to explain everything," he said, getting to his feet, "but even being here is breaking all sorts of rules. Just. When the time comes, tell Rodney he's probably going to have to cross the beams, all right? I'm trying to, you know, prevent it entirely, but since my bloody hands are tied, and I've got to depend on one addled ghost to help who keeps getting everything backwards and, really, the bottom of the barrel, Order-wise, even though I honestly do like them." He ran a hand through his messy hair, tugging on the ends, then muttered, "Merlin's short pants, this higher existence crap is frustrating as hell."

His eyes, green and lively and so very real, shifted uneasily around the room. Then he bent towards John, voice lowered. "Someone's going to let him out," he whispered. "I can't stop it."

John blinked. "Him who?"

Harry's face screwed up. "Who do you think?"

**

"And that's all he said?"

John nodded. "Right. He said someone was going to let him out, and that you needed to cross the beams." McKay was sitting across from him in the library, Arithmancy text open in front of him along with a two and a half foot scroll, three-fourths of it filled with tightly-spaced formulas. John's own parchment was messy and blotched, the scrawl not even halfway down one foot, but he never expected to get anything done in the library anyway. Besides, the paper wasn't due for another two days.

"Him who?" Chuck asked, looking up from the text he was studying. He had notes spread around him at the head of the table, and the biggest pot of ink John had ever seen sat at his elbow. Ravenclaws took their writing implements very seriously.

"Voldemort, I think." John still felt kinda confused about the whole thing.

"Only he's dead," Chuck put in reasonably, flicking his quill. "The account of it says so."

"And like a proper Ravenclaw," McKay said patronizingly, patting Chuck's head, "you believe everything you've read. The four paragraphs about it in Hogwarts: A History are clearly wrong."

"So you believe me," John said brightly, relief spreading through him. He slumped down into the library chair.

"Of course not, you're delusional. Harry Potter? Please," McKay scoffed. "Chances are, though, that the paragraphs are still wrong. I mean, who wrote them? There wasn't supposed to be anyone there. Just Potter and his sidekicks and Draco Malfoy, and they didn't even find their bodies."

"Millicent Bulstrode."

"What?" McKay's brow crinkled, an are-you-babbling? twist to his lips.

"Millicent Bulstrode wrote the last account," Chuck clarified. It didn't surprise John that the kid knew that. Chuck knew all sorts of weird facts, like the average weight of a human head, and how many goldfish would fit in a size five shoe, and the sound of one hand clapping. McKay always said Chuck was handy to have around, and John was inclined to agree with him.

McKay rolled his eyes. "All right, so Bulstrode wrote it. She had to have been there, then, right?"

"That's great, McKay, but I think we're wildly off-track now," John said, rubbing a hand over his face.

"We weren't on-track to begin with, Sheppard. Maybe you should check into the Hospital wing."

"I didn't imagine him," John bit off, slightly petulant, lower lip threatening to jut out.

And then Chuck cried, "I think I got it!" and earned a harsh glare from old lady Pince. He lowered his voice, pitch still excited as he slipped McKay a sheet of parchment. "Look, I think I've fixed it."

"You might have redeemed yourself, Chuck," McKay said, frowning thoughtfully at the document. "This looks like it'll work. We'll try it out tonight if Radek's free."

John sighed. "I've got a really bad feeling about all this. Can't you just leave it alone?"

Half of McKay's mouth quirked up. "Harry Potter shows up in your dorm out of nowhere and suddenly you've lost your nerve?"

"Harry Potter was in your room?" Aiden gushed, dropping down in the seat next to John. "That is so cool."

"I'm getting really tired of being made fun of," he growled. Aiden just looked bewildered, though, and John sighed. "Never mind."

"It doesn't matter whether you imagined him or not," McKay said, obviously trying to be reasonable.

John was oddly touched that he'd put forth the effort, even though his blue eyes were still mocking him. He managed a dry, "Gee, thanks, McKay," and leaned back in his chair.

"It doesn't matter," he stressed, "because we're not going to be opening anything, so whatever message this," he flailed a hand, "figment of your imagination floated your way, it clearly wasn't meant for us."

John really hoped he was right.

**

Chuck didn't come. He told them he wasn't feeling well, but John had his suspicions. They were never going to live down the orgy thing. He found it funny, really, and god knows if he'd stayed in that closet any longer it might've actually been one. That close, McKay had smelled like mint and coffee, and he'd given off heat like a just-banked fire. John only had so much restraint.

Laura, Carson and Zelenka came, though, and John ignored Laura's deliberate mock-leer and looked down onto the courtyard. It was just after one, the gibbous moon past its zenith, barely hanging above the distant blue-black tree-line. There was a hum, a buzz beyond magic in the air. "It feels different."

McKay leaned into the sill next to him. "Huh." He palmed his wand, flicked a quick revealing charm. "Everything's gone," he said thoughtfully. "The protection charms are gone."

"What?" Zelenka wormed his way in between them. "Gone? That is impossible."

And then voices drifted up towards them from shifting shadows, half-hushed snippets of a conversation. "...doesn't mean... we never learned..."

"...but look at those glyphs!"

"That's the... no idea."

"...this... not helping..."

The voices grew softer, moving further away, and someone said, "What are we looking at," loudly in John's ear, a cold blast of air burning the shell. He clapped a hand over it and spun to find Terry, one of the ghosts that haunted the Entrance Hall. He wore the uniform of The Order of The Phoenix, the fitted tunic and short-cape, the soft boots that came up to his knees. There was a velvet-black scorch mark at one temple, skeins of dark gray covering his half-bald scalp, curving down to slice through his left eye, leaving it a smoky white.

John had never actually seen him do much of anything other than bug Peeves. Right then, though, he was eating a sandwich, rotted, half-chewed bits flopping onto the floor as he pushed them past his gray lips.

McKay made a vaguely distressed sound and groused, "None of your business."

Terry shrugged, said, "If you want to go, you should probably go now, before they come back," and took another huge mouthful of his honestly nasty-smelling sandwich.

Zelenka cocked his head and asked "Go where?"

"Only one place to go, now." Terry's grin was caught between maniacal and truly amused. John couldn't figure out if something had gone off wrong in his brain right before he died, or if he'd been that odd his entire life.

"That was completely unhelpful, of course," McKay snapped, but he started for the stairs anyway. "Well?" he tossed over his shoulder, visibly irritated. "Coming?"

The humming intensified as they entered the courtyard, and John murmured, "Does anyone else hear that?"

"It's a wee bit, ah, breezy, isna it?" Carson hedged, watching John warily.

John gave him an odd look. The night itself was silent, no wind rustling leaves or late season crickets rubbing legs in the wet grass. The sky, the stars, the dusty nimbus around the moon: they all seemed deeper and brighter and closer.

Laura asked, "Hear what?" and rubbed her arms, as if warding off a chill. "It's dead still."

Tipping his head back, John closed his eyes. Whispers pulled at the edges of his mind, though he couldn't make out any words. When he looked again, McKay was already across the grass, kneeling down at the marker, hands waving excitedly as he talked with Zelenka. John really didn't want to go anywhere near the thing, but he found himself striding forward, focused on the shadowed crater beyond. He didn't even realize he'd grabbed Laura's hand until McKay gave him a quick, pointed glance, eyes sliding down his arm, but John just shrugged and kept hold. The whole place sort of knocked him sideways, off balance, and Laura wasn't complaining.

"I don't think this is actually stone," McKay said, hands moving lightly over the chevrons. Words were burned across them in a slant-handed scrawl, a haphazard layer, and he traced them, fingers pressed into the slightly ragged-edged marks. "There's magic in these," he murmured, and Zelenka nodded in agreement.

"Yes, yes, right here, but not here." The chevrons again.

"I wonder if Bryce made any headway yet on Jackson's notes for this." McKay brought his lit wandtip closer. "It's like—"

"A warning," John finished, stepping up next to him, looking down into the hollowed out bowl of earth. The ground shook, and he flashed McKay a half-panicked look. "Does Hogwarts: A History actually say what happened to the Whomping Willow?"

"Several triggered explosive spells. Mines. Cadman," he snapped his fingers, "sense anything?"

John snorted. Laura was the best Witch of any year in the school at offensive magic, but he seriously doubted she could tell if the courtyard was about to blow.

"Nothing," she said, and a growl rumbled up from the earth, loosening the hard-packed dirt surrounding the marker - which apparently wasn't just a marker, but something that went deeper, a slightly rounded face atop a thick-stemmed base - and McKay and Zelenka both stumbled backwards as it sort of lurched out of the ground, tilted, two feet out on one side, cutting into the bark of the twisted maple, the other still buried past the second row of glyphs.

The whispers in John's head were separate, distinct voices then, the message still nonsense, and by the grimace on Laura's face, he thought his grip must've been bruising. He slipped his hold, bringing the palm up to dig into an eye socket. "I think we triggered something," he said, and instead of a normal snarky reply, McKay gave him an open-mouthed Oh shit look, and the chevrons started lighting up, one by one.

"We've opened the gate," Terry said, sitting on the low, fat courtyard wall, one foot braced on the crumbling stones.

"Oh, so we opened it, did we?" John said, narrowing his gaze at McKay.

"Oh my god, we're going to die," McKay said hoarsely, hand to his throat, eyes wild and horrified as the ground of the crater shook and shifted and made an odd sort of mechanical clicking sound that echoed in the complete and creepy emptiness of the courtyard, the only dampening their harsh, panicked breaths.

Tufts of dirt and grass and lilies spewed out of the hole, and then a light shot up from the center, bright white tinged with blue, fast and rippling almost like water until it settled back like some strange, glowing pool. The shaking stopped.

From beside John, McKay let out a slow breath.

The blue reflected in Zelenka's glasses, opaque-ing his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curled up slightly, lips parted.

Carson had his palms covering his ears, whispering, "No, no, no," just under his breath.

Laura whistled. "All right," she said. "So what the hell is that?"

"The gate, I'm guessing," John said, and moved forward, slipping over the edge of the bowl.

"What are you doing?" McKay demanded stridently, scrambling to follow. "Don't touch it! Christ, do you have some sort of death wish? The ground explodes for no reason whatsoever and you're going to go investigate?"

"It's okay," John threw over his shoulder with an easy smile.

"Okay? Okay?" McKay spluttered, flailing.

John couldn't really explain it. He just knew. God, he knew he wanted to... to... dive into it. Through it. This was for him, and every voice, every whisper in the back of his mind was urging him on.

"What about what Potter said?" McKay flung out desperately. "You're going to let him out."

John paused, cocked his head, listening. "He's already out," he said. "She wants me to help."

"She?" Zelenka drew up next to McKay, Laura a beat behind, and all three of them stared at him incredulously.

John wanted to laugh. "On the other side, boys and girls. Come on, it'll be fun."

"You've gone completely insane!" McKay yelled, but he just gave them a jaunty salute with his wand, held his breath, and jumped in.

**

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Rodney chanted, wringing his hands. "This is the worst day ever." He'd lost Sheppard. It was exactly like that time he'd lost Marmalade for an entire summer, only ten times worse, because it was Sheppard, and Rodney was fairly certain the whole school would form a mob and lynch him if he didn't bring him back.

He shuddered, squared his shoulders, and, damn it, he didn't want to, but the thought of not following Sheppard was pretty much unbearable. "Right. I'm," he gave the others a desperate look. "I'm just going to, ah, go get him."

Radek's brows shot up. "You're—"

"Yes, bye, tell my cat I love her," he spat out, because he was about to do the stupidest thing ever, but Sheppard was the only person he'd willingly look like an idiot for. He squinched his eyes tight and took a deep breath and—

"Wait, wait," Cadman called out.

He glared at her, but she just grabbed hold of his arm. Carson, looking miserable, was shackled by her other hand. Radek moved to the edge of the ring and gazed down, openly curious.

"Although I'd normally welcome any speech or physical display to dissuade me from doing something this monumentally tragic," Rodney said, resigned, "I think I'm actually in love with him."

Cadman rolled her eyes. "Of course you are. We're coming with you."

Carson shook his head vehemently, panic edging his eyes. "Laura, love, let's think about this now," he cautioned. "We don't know what we'd be getting into."

Cadman grinned at him, releasing Rodney in order to wrap both hands around his arm. "You honestly can't think we should let Rodney go all by himself, do you?"

His shoulders slumped in defeat. "I've a horrible feeling about all this."

"Oh, me too," Rodney agreed emphatically. "I already mentioned we were going to die, didn't I? Because I really think we're going to die."

Radek looked over his shoulder and said matter-of-factly, "I also have slightly bad feeling, but if we are not able to return, I will take comfort in the fact that I will be with all of you, and can reap my vengeance in timely manner."

**

"That... is really bad," Abbott said faintly, fingers to her lips.

The puddle swirled soundlessly closed, and Millicent scrubbed her eyes tiredly. "Yes. Yes it is."

"It's all right," Boot said, appearing beside them.

"It's not all right, Boot," Millie snapped. "Why didn't you stop them?"

The ghost cocked his head curiously, and Millie really, really wished he was corporeal so she could choke the bemused expression off his face.

"Harry told me to dial the gate," he said, voice a shrug. "He wanted them to go through."

"No, no he didn't. I mean," Abbott glanced at Millie. "Does that sound right to you?"

"I'm pretty sure we were supposed to prevent something," Mal said, scratching the back of his neck.

Longbottom moved towards the crater and peered at the huge ring, the odd shapes rimming the edge, the ground scorched black in the center. "Er, well," he stuttered. "Perhaps they'll find Ron and Malfoy?"

**

John's confidence wavered as he stumbled and landed on his back in a large room, dark and cold and musty. And then wavering confidence turned into budding panic, because he was completely alone, his breathing echoing off sharply angled shadows.

But then McKay came tripping out of the gate, his eyes tightly closed and arms pushed out in front of him, wand clutched in a fist. And Carson screeched like a girl as he fell through sideways, Laura and Zelenka following in a much more presentable fashion.

"Och," Carson groaned, struggling upright and palming his forehead. "My head."

"Where are we?" Laura asked, lighting her wandtip and gazing around the room.

McKay stalked over and stood above John, legs parted and arms crossed. "I can't believe you made me do that," he groused.

John held out a hand, wiggling his fingers, and said, "Hey, you started it, McKay. You're the one who wanted to figure out what was written on the stone."

McKay harrumphed, but grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet.

"Seriously," Laura said, helping Carson up, "this place is beyond creepy. Is that..." She cocked her head at a window, and Zelenka asked, breathless, "Are we under water?"

"Oh wow. Wow." John started for the stairs that seemed to take up one entire side of the room, then stopped when the whole length of the first step lit up. Tentatively, he moved higher, and the lights followed him, along with bare whispers of ask me, ask me, ask me in the back of his head, pooling at the base of his skull. "It's like," he ran a hand over the railing, tilting his head up, "it's like she's alive."

"Right, yes," McKay scoffed.

And John sort of mentally purred and gave the ceiling a coquettish grin and all the lights came on at once, all the doors slid open, and several large objects on the level above them started to glow. "Hell-o," John said, and McKay rolled his eyes.

"We're Wizards," he stressed.

"I didn't spell anything, did you?" John countered reasonably, then gave the railing a pat and murmured, "Good girl."

McKay stared at him, incredulous. "You really have lost your mind, haven't you?"

"Uh, Rodney? John?"

"Yes?" McKay snapped, turning to glare at Carson. Then, "Holy crap."

John practically jumped back down the steps, sliding to a stop next to Laura and the Scot. A large black cloud was hovering over them, edges spinning and swallowing itself. Impressions of faces, open-mouthed, agonized visages, pressed the expanding and contracting boundaries, inky hands reached out and retreated, some fingers curled like claws, some palms open in entreaty. John's breath caught.

"Run," he finally croaked out, and the five of them took off through the first open door they found.

**

In retrospect, Rodney had been honest enough with himself to realize that hiding in a dark closet with Sheppard was never truly a bad thing, no matter the uncomfortable amount of people stuffed in there with them, or the orgy rumors that inevitably followed.

Still. The dark, blatantly evil, roiling cloud sort of left a pall over the whole experience the second time around.

"Voldemort," Sheppard hissed.

Rodney curled his fingers into Sheppard's arm, grip tight. Whatever had really happened on Hogwarts grounds, whatever battle had taken place, Potter apparently hadn't completely destroyed the Dark Lord. He wasn't fully corporeal, though, which served as both a boon and a curse. Though obviously not as strong as the Wizard had once been, he was pretty sure the Cloud of Evil could hurt them. He wasn't so certain about the other way around.

"Dear god in heaven," Carson murmured, "Mum's going t'kill me."

"She will not need to," Radek said sagely. "You will already be dead."

"Does anyone else think we're like sitting ducks in here?" Cadman asked testily, then the wall behind them suddenly lit up and Carson declared stridently, "I didna do that!"

In the blue-dim light, Sheppard narrowed his eyes on the Scot. "You hear the voices too, don't you?" he asked, and Rodney muttered, "Of course you're hearing voices."

Of course he was.

Carson shook his head, though. "No. No, really. No voices at all." A nervous laugh slipped past his lips and he splayed his fingers, waving them in front of the lit wall. "Ooh, look. A map."

It was a map, illuminated with blue and white lights and lines, complete with a helpful little blinking dot where the Cloud of Evil was perched. Right outside their closet door. Excellent.

"Okay," Sheppard said. Then he reached out and pressed the far left corner, and in the next moment the doors were sliding open on... an entirely different room.

Lengths of dark gray cloth were half-pulled off of large, slanted tables, weirdly shaped objects were in haphazard piles, and a few blankets were bundled under a large window, shaped almost like a bed.

"Someone was here," Sheppard said, and Radek added, "Not for a very long while," skimming his fingers along a table, through a thick coating of dust.

"I recognize this," Rodney said, just as a screen lit up in front of him, Sheppard hovering over his shoulder.

"You do?" he asked.

Rodney nodded. "I've no idea about the symbols, of course, but my uncle has one of these. It's a computer."

"A what?" Cadman's brows furrowed in confusion.

"You know what a computer is?" Sheppard asked, skeptical.

"Yes, yes, I know what a computer is," he retorted with sharp impatience. Honestly, you couldn't go one step outside Wizard boundaries anymore without being accosted by Muggle technology. Most of it was fascinating, too. "I dismantled my uncle's to figure out exactly how it worked. I do admire Muggle ingenuity, actually, adapting to life, attempting to make it easier without the benefit of magic. Uncle Jeremy said I'd improved its speed and memory by eighty percent when I rebuilt it," he added smugly. "It was absurdly easy to fix, of course."

"Of course," Sheppard echoed dryly.

Rodney gave him a dark look. "I sense your mocking scoff, Sheppard, but you really shouldn't underestimate a Slytherin."

"Oh, I'd never underestimate you, McKay." Sheppard grinned winningly, palming a small orb and snapping his wrist, tossing it a few inches into the air before easily catching it again. And then it clicked and the center spun out with a low hum and—

"—I can bloody well press any button I'd like, Weasley, and you can just shut your—"

"You can't go around playing with things you don't know anything about!" A scuffle, and then a growl of, "Give me the fucking egg-thing, Malfoy—"

"Look, look! It's doing something."

"Oh, hell, oh fuck, just drop it, will you!"

"It's humming!"

"It's going to kill us."

It flicked off with a buzz and Sheppard and Rodney stared at each other, incredulous.

Radek scratched the top of his head. "Was that—?" he started, and Cadman nodded, and then nodded some more, and then said, "Yeah, yes, I'm pretty sure it was."

Carson breathed, almost reverently, "Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy. D'you think they're dead, then?"

"I don't know," Sheppard said, twisting the orb around in his fingers, thumb rubbing the almost invisible seam in the middle. "But if they were still here, she would've shown me."

"She is showing you," Radek said, sweeping an arm out to encompass the room.

Rodney snorted. Apparently, crazy was catching.

Radek sent him a narrow glare, then went on, "She is showing us that they are gone. That they have been gone for a long time. That there is way out of here, yes?"

It was kind of a comfort, Rodney supposed, to think that the floating mass of Dark Lord probably hadn't eaten them. But. "What the hell are we doing here, then? This place is obviously deserted. Presumably, Voldemort can't do any harm imprisoned in an unpopulated... whatever this is. City?"

"I, um," Sheppard bent an elbow behind his head, scratching at his upper back, "I sorta volunteered to get rid of him."

Rodney blinked at him blankly.

"It was an impulse!" he said defensively. "I mean, he's like an evil, harassing... entity, and—"

"She said, 'Hey, John, I'm an inanimate glass building and this huge roiling Cloud of Evil is smudging my walls with goo, and it's seriously ruining my inanimate vibe, so please come and risk your life to—"

"No need to be mean about it, Rodney," Sheppard pouted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rodney matched his stance, scowling. "I'm going to find us a way out of here without resorting to a confrontation with the scourge of the Wizarding world," he said pointedly.

Sheppard grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?" Rodney cupped a hand over his ear, leaning forward.

"Fine. I said fine."

**

McKay jerked his head up, blue eyes rounded, lit with revelation. "Crossing the beams."

John crinkled his brow. "What?"

The five of them were sprawled around the room, all the doors shut tight � John was confident that the voice in his head would let them know if Voldemort was near � and McKay and Zelenka were hunched, shoulder to shoulder, at one of the computers.

"What Potter said to you," McKay clarified, snapping his fingers. "That I should cross the beams."

John nodded slowly. "Right," he drew out.

McKay gave him an oh-my-god-you-are-so-dumb look, and snapped, "You just worked with this, Sheppard. Bagglevarger's theory? Ring any bells?"

Zelenka almost gasped, "Yes, yes. Inversive. It is perfect."

"Wait." John held up a hand, and Carson queried, "I thought we weren't allowed t'cross spells?" but McKay shook his head and barreled on, "No, listen."

He flapped a hand, wand arching through the air. "The first thing you learn is that words are powerful, right? That intentions color your words, and that the swish and flick of your wand determines strength and accuracy, but magic." He bounced a little on the balls of his feet. "Magic is the whole body, magic is literally pulled up from your toes, threaded through every vein. If positioned correctly it, if ordered correctly, it's theoretically possible to join several spells, cross beams without risk of ricochet or, you know, injuring the casters."

Essentially, Bagglevarger theorized that you could weave a number of separate magical imprints together in a precise pattern that would, in fact, create a completely new, stronger imprint, without compromising the individual sources. John thought the idea was kind of cool.

"But Harry Pot—"

"Potter and Voldemort had sister wands, and were positioned opposite one another," McKay cut Carson off, jabbing a finger. "Plus, their spells had inherently different roots. Same theory, different intent."

Laura, who'd been snuggled in the blanket bed, shifted up onto an elbow. "It sounds like this would only work if we got everything exactly right, Rodney. Why can't we just attack him separately, but at the same time?"

"It's the difference between tossing pebbles or throwing one huge, heavy stone," McKay huffed, and John drawled, "You know, I could've sworn you said something about getting us out of here without confronting Voldemort."

"But-but," Zelenka sputtered, shoving his glasses up the slope of his nose, "think if it succeeds. We would have working proof, room to expound upon theory—"

"Right," McKay cut in excitedly. "Though we'd have no way to measure the intensity of the results, I think the mere fact that we'd destroyed the Dark Lord would at least spawn more interest in the subject."

"Although we cannot destroy him, I do not think," Zelenka said with a slight frown. "Contain, maybe, but in his present state," he shrugged, "I do not know of any curses that would alter him."

"And how, exactly, are we supposed to contain him?" John asked, leaning a hip against the table, and then the air in front of him blinked and another map lit up, this time hovering above a bank of computers. The transparent screen pulsed and zeroed in on a single room.

"There," McKay said, pointing with his wand. "Something must be in there that your lovely city thinks will work."

"Sheppard and I will go," Zelenka volunteered, a challenge in his gaze when he looked at John.

John cocked his head quizzically. "Sure," he drawled.

**

John waited until they stepped into the closet-transporter-thingy before calling Zelenka out. "So," he said. "You wanna tell me what this is about?"

Zelenka peered at him carefully over his glasses. "I am ninety-five percent certain you only stepped through gate so confidently because you knew Rodney would follow."

The statement didn't really warrant an answer. John tilted his head, slouching back against the wall and silently willing for Zelenka to get to the point.

"I find this distressing," Zelenka went on, frowning.

John nodded. "Okay. I suppose that's valid."

Radek eyed him skeptically. "Do you know why I find this distressing?"

"Um..."

"He would not do that for anyone but you."

"That's totally not—"

"For me," Zelenka interrupted with a wave, "he would do something if I asked him to. For you, he just... goes. I am afraid he is setting himself up for big fall."

John nodded again, slower, brows furrowed. Then, "I'm not sure I follow."

Zelenka let out an exasperated sound, then pressed his forefinger onto the room the city had nicely highlighted for them. "You are seeing that Ravenclaw. Tara something, right?"

"I see a lot of people," John hedged. He really didn't want to discuss his love life with the underground kingpin of Slytherin.

"Correct!" Zelenka exclaimed. The doors slid open and they both glanced cautiously out into a narrow hallway. The Czech smiled up at him. "So we are agreed?"

"Still have no clue what you're talking about," John pointed out. The hallway seemed deserted, thank god, and he hooked his thumb to the right. "This way, I think."

Zelenka gave him a withering glance. "Rodney is not particularly generous with his time. Money, material things, yes. Words," he sounded amused, fond, "he will rant just to hear his own voice. But he hoards time for himself, doles out sparingly. Yet often he gives you his full attention, and you do not even recognize that for what it is worth."

"So you're saying I'm—"

"I am saying," Zelenka interrupted him, unfazed as a door slid open in front of them, stepping inside a dim-dark room that seemed to be humming, "that you should not allow him to do this. He does not expect anything from you, but he is delusional, and thinks that he will not be hurt."

John was honestly not sure they were speaking the same language. "I haven't done anything to Rodney."

Zelenka's you-are-so-stupid look was eerily similar to McKay's.

"Let's just find this thing, all right? You can lecture me cryptically about Rodney later," John offered, sort of desperate, and Zelenka reluctantly nodded.

**

"Are you sure this actually goes somewhere?" Abbott asked, poking tentatively at what Boot had called a Dialing Device, the large, circular marker with strange words burned into the metal-like skin.

They'd appeared soon after Potter had vanished with a look of blissful relief infusing his entire face, and they were the words that Millie had never written about the last battle. Words that she never truly understood, either. They had a Lovegood quality, a singsong cadence, and Millie suspected they served as both a warning and a dare. And if the late Witch had written them, if she was in an Ascended state like Potter, it wouldn't have surprised her in the least.

Boot was on the lowest branch of the Japanese maple, legs swinging. "Yes," he answered.

Mal rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Guess it didn't eat Draco and Weasley then, eh?"

Boot quirked a smile. "No."

"Well," Abbott took a deep breath, straightening her robes, "we're going to have to go after them."

"You and I will go, Abbott," Millie agreed, nodding, then she narrowed her eyes on Mal. "Watch Boot while we're gone, and give us one hour before opening the ring again—"

"Gate," Boot interrupted absently.

"What?"

"It's a gate."

Millie pressed two fingers to her brow. "Whatever it is," she said, voice pinched, "I want you to check on us in one hour. All right?"

The gate made a slow shifting click, and Boot chirped, "Starting dialing sequence," with a cheery grin on his face.

**

"Everything has to be taken into account. Physical height, magical skill, ancestry—"

"Are you sure this is the appropriate time to be experimenting, Rodney?"

Rodney ignored Sheppard, pacing the floor, wand hand tapping on his thigh. Bagglevarger detractors warned that it would be impossible to detangle an inversive melding, and while they weren't entirely correct in that assumption, there was a definite danger of something going horribly wrong if - and this was the important part - they hadn't weighed every factor and picked the exact order of casting that would enhance the strength of the spell without splintering it. "The anchor is the most important piece," he muttered, almost to himself, "and I'm fairly sure Radek will have to go first, since he's the only pureblood. Although Carson's lack of practical wand-wielding skill has to be considered."

"Hey!"

"Carson," Rodney jabbed a finger at him, "you still have trouble with basic transfiguration spells."

"It's a minor speech impediment!" Carson protested.

Rodney paused in front of the large tube-like unit that Radek and Sheppard had levitated back from across the city. It was thick-skinned, and while Rodney couldn't sense any sort of magic surrounding it, the computer had detected a high level of energy, not unlike Muggle electricity. It wasn't the same, of course, but closer to that than the organic magic Rodney was used to dealing with.

"A modified Stunner," Rodney said finally, hands on his hips.

"Yes, yes," Radek agreed, nodding. "Modified with sustainable magic, entrapment charms. Will be easy."

"Really?" Sheppard asked.

"Yes, really," Rodney snapped. "And you're going to be our anchor." He eyed Sheppard speculatively.

Sheppard was a true mutt, Muggle-born mother, father the son of a half-blooded Witch and a Wizard rumored to have sylph ancestors. He might not have had the strongest thread of magic, but chances were he had the healthiest. Plus, he had quick reflexes and a relatively keen mind, and he'd follow Cadman, who was notorious for her impressively powerful wrist-flicks.

Cadman was like Rodney, pure-blooded except for one half-blooded aberration - Rodney's mother and Cadman's dad - but Carson, born of two Muggle parents, was most adept with blocking and disarming spells, so he'd have to handle the middle slump.

"Radek, me, Carson, Cadman, Sheppard. What do you think?" he asked Radek.

"Uh, guys?" Cadman interrupted.

"What?"

She gestured towards one of the computer consoles, which was emitting a fast, high-pitched beeping. "That might be bad."

Radek leaned over it, eyes narrowed in concentration. He tapped a few keys, hmmed under his breath, then said, "I have no idea what this means. It is nonsense."

"I'm pretty sure it means someone opened the gate," Sheppard said, hovering over his shoulder.

"You can read this?" Radek shot him a bewildered frown.

"No, I—"

"He's hearing voices, remember?" Rodney said dismissively, gesturing towards his head. He bit his lip, thoughtful, then turned wide eyes on Sheppard. "What if." He snapped his fingers. "What if Potter wasn't talking about us? He said someone was going to let him out, but what if that really wasn't one of us?"

Sheppard matched his worried gaze. "So whoever just opened the gate—"

"Could be allowing the Cloud of Evil to leave. Yes, exactly."

"Right. So, is this thing ready?" Sheppard asked, patting the large container, smile tight.

"No, not in the least," Rodney snapped, jittery with nerves and something that would've been debilitating fear in anyone else. Panic and fear just seemed to make Rodney more focused on figuring out ways to not get painfully hurt or dead. That was a really high priority for him. "Grab it and let's go. I'll work on it on the way."

"Aren't we, like, three seconds away by that transporter-thing?" Cadman asked.

"What are you, the narrator? Just get in the closet and get us close to the gate room."

Cadman snapped a mock salute - which was completely uncalled for, given the situation � and they all trooped into the transporter, Sheppard and Carson gripping the container between them, Radek poking at it with his wandtip.

"Will be easy," Radek said again, though the conviction in his voice seemed to have wavered some. He lifted his brows to Rodney. "Right?"

**

"I take it back," Rodney hissed, gazing into the gate room. "I was rendered temporarily insane by Sheppard's hair. This is a completely horrible idea."

"Hey, isn't that Professor Abbott?" Cadman asked, waving over to where the blonde woman was crouched down behind a console. The professor waved back with more enthusiasm than was sane or warranted. The brunette next to her shoved her head down with a scowl, and then tossed off another blue-tinged spell that the blob previously known as Voldemort just seemed to catch and absorb.

"Seriously. I don't think we can win," Rodney went on. Not even the sight of his favorite teacher, flushed prettily with robes askew, bolstered his spirits. They were all going to die.

What had he been thinking? There was no order in magic. Magic just happened. It was entirely likely that crossing their spells would cause all life as they knew to stop instantaneously, confining them forever in another freaking dimension, and was that something they really wanted to risk?

"I do not disagree," Radek said from beside him, sliding his glasses up his nose. "However, I would rather not wait placidly for my death." He nodded at Sheppard, and the two of them counted to three under their breaths and pushed the container as hard as they could out into the middle of the room.

Rodney's eyes went wide. "That wasn't ready!" he yelped.

"It'll have to do, McKay," Sheppard drawled, swiping his palms on his robes. "We're running out of time."

"It's not going to work," Rodney stressed frantically, gripping Sheppard's arm. "There is every possibility I was high when I came up with this plan."

Sheppard gave him a wry grin. "It's a good plan, Rodney."

"It is the only plan we have," Radek amended cheerily, and what the hell was with all the smiling in the face of death crap?

"Oh god," Carson groaned, hand over his eyes. "This wasna why I agreed to bleedin' Wizard school. 'You'll have a grand time, son,' says Da. 'You'll meet interestin' folks,' says Da. 'Get you out from under your mum's skirts for once,' says Da. He didna mention homicidal Slytherins."

Cadman patted his hand. "Carson—"

"Don't you 'Carson' me, you daft Witch," he growled. "You got me into this mess."

"Carson!"

"Can you two fight on your own time?" Rodney snarled. "Preferably when we're not facing certain death, or at the very least pain and dismemberment and—"

Sheppard clapped a hand over his mouth. "It's a good plan," he reiterated, eyes dark and solemn. "I trust you."

Rodney took a shuddery breath and nodded. "Okay," he said thickly when Sheppard's palm slipped away. "Okay. Radek, you." He waved a hand, wordlessly telling him to go ahead.

They stood side by side in the doorway, watching as Professor Abbott and the other woman shot spell after useless spell at the cloud, but at least they were entertaining the damn thing.

And then Radek raised his arm, and Rodney suddenly called out, "Wait!" closing his fingers over the end of the Czech's wand. "Wait, Cadman, how many siblings do you have?" he demanded.

She turned questioning eyes on him. "Three."

Rodney scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "Switch with Carson."

"What? You cannot change that now, Rodney," Radek said, shaking Rodney's grip off his wand. "Carson is the weaker link. He should be in middle."

"No. No, listen, Carson's an only child. A Muggle-born only child. Potential over practice." It was a dicey variable, but if they had to do this, if they were going to do it despite all of his reservations, Rodney thought he could at least go with his gut instinct. And his gut was telling him that Carson could be surprisingly strong when provoked.

"But—"

"I'm with Rodney," Sheppard cut in. "We're flying blind here anyway, so what the hell difference does it make? Let's just do this before we all get killed, okay?"

"Carson," Rodney ground out, glaring at the Scot, "if you fail to live up to my expectations, I'll personally recount every single detail of that sheep incident last year to your mother. I will show up at her peat hut—"

Carson growled, which was a good sign.

"—and sit her down, and enumerate the entire embarrassing episode with excruciating thoroughness. I'll make her cry. I'll make your father watch. Do you understand me?"

Carson's grip on his wand was white-knuckled, and he nodded tightly.

Radek raised his arm again. "Ready?"

Rodney squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing, wand palmed, and if he believed in any sort of voodoo religion, he would've prayed to God, Allah, Yahweh, Vishnu, Clifford the Big Red Dog that they'd all come out the other end in one piece.

**

"Well, that was really... anticlimactic."

Rodney warily opened one eye. "We aren't dead, are we? Stuck for all eternity in a hell dimension?"

"No, Rodney," Sheppard drawled, surveying the almost non-existent damage to the room.

Rodney's other eye popped open and he fisted his hands on his hips. A dark scorch mark covered the floor around the large container that was jumping hotly, a steady hiss of steam rising out of the top. Voldemort was no longer hovering menacingly in the center of the room. "Huh." He grinned widely at Sheppard. "It worked."

"That it did." Sheppard grinned back at him.

"I knew it would work," he said smugly, tipping his chin up.

Sheppard just arched his brows.

"As fun as this has been," the brunette woman said, circling around to stand beside the five students, "Boot should be dialing in any minute now." She looked a step away from grabbing Sheppard's ear and tugging him along like a recalcitrant child, irritation steeped in her voice and her narrow glare.

Professor Abbott came bounding up behind her, smiling. "Good work, children," she said, then prodded the other woman in the side with her wand. "Millicent, didn't they do great? Amazing?"

"Abbott," she growled warningly.

"Truly excellent." The professor nodded enthusiastically. "And that, ah," she wriggled her fingers, "beam trick. I never would've thought of that, eh Millie?"

"Abbott," the brunette ground out, jaw locked, hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically at her sides.

Abbott knocked a good-natured elbow into the woman's arm, jostling her. "Honestly. Millie agrees. That was quite a feat you five pulled." She leveled a strangely proud look on them, and the brunette's fingers curled like claws, and Rodney watched in fascination, certain she was actually going to lunge at the professor, but then the gate opened up with a whoosh, flooding the room with cold, blue-white light.

**

John was actually sort of sad to say goodbye.

The city clung to the back of his mind, soft whispers asking him prettily to stay, but then McKay grinned over his shoulder at him before blithely marching into the blue light, and John realized that whatever it was that made the Slytherin blindly follow him through the gate, whatever faith McKay had in him, well. If Zelenka thought it was one-sided, he was completely wrong. Rodney would always lead John home.

He spared a fond pat on a wall and a trio of crystals lit up, flashed twice, then faded away.

**

Somewhere, some place near by, a bushy-haired woman with a stern brow and apple cheeks crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. "You know, if you'd just left everything alone... I told you this would happen, didn't I? You're just lucky they haven't tossed you out."

"Yes, Hermione," Harry said morosely. "You're right, Hermione. I'm bloody lucky."

**

At the same time, somewhere in a galaxy far, far away, a lanky redhead leaned full-length against a sharp-faced blond, pressing him up against their cottage wall, fisting a tangled mess of long strands, jerking his head back to carefully lick along his jaw. He hissed low in the man's ear, nudged his legs apart with a thigh, dropping his other hand to curl over a naked hipbone, fingers digging into his arsecheek. "You're fucking lucky I haven't killed you yet, Malfoy," Ron growled.

He rolled his hips, almost lazy, and Draco panted, "Yes, yes, lucky. Oh... oh. Get on with it, Weasel."

Ron just grinned into his throat.

**

Epilogue:

For John, nothing in the world topped flying.

It was the rush of air that teased tears from the corners of his eyes, flushed his cheeks, pulled at his hair, robes, mouth. The wind-muffled birdcalls, the chill at the tips of his ears, fingers. The illusion of utter weightlessness as he cut across the horizon, broom vibrating with pleas to go faster.

His old Firebolt was still the best broom ever made, in his admittedly biased opinion, and he'd had it so long it could nearly anticipate all his moves, mirror all his joy, and sometimes John just liked to hover, high above the ground, eyes closed, drawing in deep breaths of thin air until his whole body unwound, until there was nothing but the moment, and the moment was nothing but sky.

The Quidditch pitch was empty save him and a small speck of Rodney, settled in Slytherin stands with an open book across his lap. John grinned indulgently and swooped down.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked, leaning forward on his Firebolt, elbow propped on the handle, chin cupped in his palm.

Rodney flicked him a happy glance, blue eyes bright. "Apparently, that thing was a wormhole."

"Really," John drawled, enjoying Rodney's cold-pink face, scarf tucked up under his chin, his fine hair flattened across his forehead.

"When he's not taunting Peeves," Rodney said, half his mouth quirked up, "Boot's a font of semi-useful information. It was made by ancient Muggles, you know, and these wormholes theoretically span across space and time. It's absurd and fascinating."

John's brows arched. "What are you reading, McKay?" He reached out and tugged at the text, lifting it up to peer at the title. "Theoretical Astrophysics?"

"I'll be done Hogwarts in a year." Rodney's chin took on a stubborn tilt. "I'm thinking about applying at Northwestern."

John blinked. "Muggle?"

He flailed a hand. "The impact I could make on the scientific community is immeasurable. My capacity for brilliance goes far beyond anything ever recorded. I mean, most of the math in this book alone is completely laughable," Rodney explained stridently. "It would be entirely selfish of me, not to mention horrendously wasteful, to expend my genius exclusively on the Wizarding world."

John nodded slowly. "Okay. I was kinda thinking about going somewhere in the States myself."

"You were not," Rodney snapped. "You love it here. Your life's dream is to fly for the Canyons."

"Cannons."

"Whatever."

John shrugged. "I've got a year to think about it, don't I?"

"This is your last year, Sheppard."

John looked at him blandly. Wait for it.

"What, you're just going to hang around, wasting time 'til I..." He trailed off, staring at John in equal parts horror and wonder. "You are, aren't you?" he accused hotly.

"Maybe." He cocked his head. Rodney's intense overreactions always gave John a kick.

"Did Radek put you up to this? Cadman?" Rodney demanded indignantly, slamming his book shut and getting to his feet. "Chuck?"

John kept his gaze steady and said, simply and calmly, "No." And he wasn't going to mention the confusing talking-to Zelenka had given him if he didn't have to.

"Oh, um," Rodney stuttered, pressing the book to his chest and going even more pink, though it would've been easy enough to blame the coloring on the rapidly approaching winter, "okay, then."

"Yeah?" John pushed, corners of his lips curled up.

Rodney straightened his back and his eyes were sparkling and the little-boy smile twitched over his mouth and John didn't know how their lives were actually going to turn out, but he was pretty sure he'd remember that moment forever.

 

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