The Prince of Hogwarts (An ASP at Hogwarts prequel)

[Inkwolf]

20

“The first order of business today,” Augustus continued, “is to welcome five new pledges to our ranks.”

There was a cheer, and Yorick pushed Prince forward, saying ‘Get on the stage.”

Prince made his way to the dais and climbed the steps, as the black-masked Son of Walpurgis continued speaking. “Brother Lucius will read the minutes of the last meeting. Then we will have a word from Sister Alecta about the ongoing recruitment of female members. Brother Fenrir will give the treasurer’s report, and Brother Porfirio will read the news releases from the order and give the closing address. Our usual instructional program will follow after the meeting.”

Prince got on the stage and stood waiting for the other new members to make their way up and stand in a line with him. Bradshaw/Lucius read the minutes of the last meeting. To Prince’s disappointment, it was quite dull and contained no accounts of plots, crimes or arcane rituals to bring back the Dark Lord. They had voted to restrict ‘combat training’ to students in their third year and above. Three students had sung an original song in praise of Voldemort. Some other students had put on some sort of geographical presentation about significant locations in the life of Voldemort. It had been debated whether to expand their code name base, as names of well-known Death Eaters and supporters were running short. Looking out at all of these black-masked faces, Prince was not surprised. He did worry, though, how he was going to report on the conspirators if they all had bags over their heads.

Once Bradshaw had finished reading, Augustus stepped forward once more.

“Brothers and sisters!” He called. “Five new supplicants have applied for membership and have been sworn in. Before they can be made true Sons of Walpurgis, they must receive their new identities. Behold the first new candidate to be born into the service of our Lord Voldemort!”

Augustus whipped the mask off the boy at the opposite end of the line, leaving his face naked, shocked, and terrified, the hair standing up in messy spikes. Prince was glad he had not been the first to be exposed unexpectedly. At least he knew what was coming, now.

“Eyes front,” muttered Bradshaw, poking him in the back, and Prince turned back to look at the hooded mob, who were cheering the new member with enthusiasm.

“Does anyone object to this candidate being elevated to full membership?” Augustus asked. There was relative silence. “Then let his name be entered into the rolls. Welcome, Edward Selwyn, Son of Walpurgis!”

Augustus continued down the line. The second boy was christened Adelbert Jugson, the third, Lorimer Welch, and the fourth Delmar Black. Prince wondered what second-rate Death Eater, collaborator or supporter he would be named after.

When Augustus whipped the mask off Prince’s head, the roar went up from the crowd again. “Does anyone object to this candidate being elevated to full membership?” Augustus asked.

In the lull that followed, one of the smaller black-cloaked figures, hopping up and down in rage, nearly screamed “I OBJECT! I OBJECT! He’s not fit to be among us! That filthy Oldblood has no right to serve Lord Voldemort! He—“ It was the outraged voice of William Talbot.

“That will be quite enough, Brother Antonin,” Augustus said sharply.

“But he—“

“You are in disgrace as it is, if I may remind you. If you have no more valid ground for objection than these offensive epithets, then shut up. Any more outbursts and you will be ejected from the meeting.”

“I WILL NOT SHUT UP!” Talbot was nearly in hysterics. “The last thing Voldemort’s army needs is another pampered pureblood rich boy with a mansion and a house elf—“

“Rabastan, Evan,” said Augustus, gesturing. “Please see Brother Antonin out.”

Another figure cleared its throat from behind Prince, and the room fell silent as this boy spoke. “Please forgive my brother,” the speaker said, and it was as if the entire room leaned forward and held its breath, straining to hear every softly spoken word. “Antonin feels the generations of wrongs done to past mixed bloods and Muggleborn wizards very deeply. It is only this and his devotion to the return of Lord Voldemort that cause him to forget himself on occasion. One day, he will learn to temper his passion with reason.”

In a pig’s eye, Prince thought. But there was no further vitriol from Talbot, and the room was silent apart from an approving murmur. Was this Jeremy Talbot, William’s older brother? Or was he referring to his ‘brother’ merely as his fellow member in the Sons of Walpurgis?

“Thank you, Brother Porfirio,” said Augustus drily. “We all look forward to that day.” Prince got the impression that he was not as charmed by the other as the rest of the room seemed to be, but would not oppose him in front of the crowd.

“Does anyone object to this candidate being elevated to full membership?” Augustus asked again. There was silence this time. Prince held his breath and waited for his Death Eater name.

“Then let his name be entered into the rolls. Welcome, Amycus Carrow, Son of Walpurgis!”

Oh, ick.

The crowd erupted in cheers, as if one of their members had not just been named after an ignorant, unwashed, sadistic boob, and Prince tried not to let his expression show what he felt.

The new members were dismissed. As he followed the others off the stage, one of the masked figures gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Prince wasn’t sure whether it was Bradshaw or Porfirio.

As a girl mounted the stage and started venting her frustration at the lack of success in recruiting members from the female student body, Prince tried to find Yorick among the assembled masked masses. It was not easy, as everyone looked alike, but he headed for the area where they had been standing before his induction, and one of the figures started waving at him surreptitiously. “Welcome to the Sons, Amycus,” Yorick growled softly, and Prince took his place beside his protector with some relief. Member or not, he did not want to be alone with these people. Putting his mask back on at least gave him a sense of anonymity.

The girl finished giving her report, and Augustus thanked her. There was applause from the crowd, though there were also a few catcalls, and one member shouted in an obviously altered voice, “Start a Daughters of Walpurgis, already, and leave us alone!”

“Right, who said that?” Augustus demanded furiously. There was snickering, and whoever it was simply vanished among the identical black-masked figures, “May I remind everyone that all members are equal, and this sort of continual bickering and squabbling amongst us only weakens the organization. Brother Fenrir, the treasurer’s report, if you please.”

Prince thought he recognized the nasal, reedy voice of the treasurer. If he was not mistaken, it was a studious fifth year with tinted eyeglasses and a gentle manner. Why on earth he had chosen the name of Fenrir Greyback, Prince could not imagine. Very few people paid attention to the account of late dues, balances, expenditures and suggested future purchases, donations and fund-raising ideas.

But the babble of conversation that had been steadily rising through the financial report stilled to a hush instantly when Augustus announced, “And now, Brother Porfirio,” and the masked figure stepped forward.

Porfirio removed his mask and looked around the assembly. He was nobody Prince had particularly noticed before. Porfirio’s hair was tightly curled, a sort of washed-out brown, and there was something electric about his gaze as he stared out over the assembly. Prince supposed he could see some resemblance to William Talbot, in an older, less pie-faced version. The speaker held a paper in his hand, but kept his eyes on the Sons of Walpurgis.

“Brothers and sisters,” Porfirio intoned. “The Headquarters of the Sons of Walpurgis have sent us their monthly newsletter. A particularly exciting event is on the horizon. Lord Voldemort’s birthday is approaching! And this year, HQ has planned a very special event, a bold public affirmation that will draw the wizarding world’s attention to our presence and proclaim our conviction to the world! I know there are those of you who go home for the holidays,” he said this as if it was inexplicable, and saddened him deeply, “but this year, you will not miss the celebration. Each and every one of you will be able to take part this year! The brilliant minds at HQ have invented an exciting new spell, and we will be learning it today in lieu of our usual combat training. More details will be given then.”

Porfirio looked down at his paper, and as if being released from his gaze had broken some spell of paralysis, the crowd screamed and cheered.

Prince was cheering, too. He wasn’t quite sure why.

“Headquarters also reports that they had their monthly meeting, and it was productive, invigorating and enjoyable.”

There was another cheer.

“That’s a lie.” Porfirio tore up the paper.

The crowd did not cheer this time. They gasped.

“Sources from inside have informed me that the meeting was a disaster. It was a war zone. The nomination of next year’s officers turned into a shouting match as the Pureblood supremacists tried to keep their own people in power, and the Newblood members fought to be represented. Grand High Sagamore and founder of the order, Newton Avery, had the Newblood faction ousted from the meeting, and the nominations were postponed. They will be conducted by owl, and in secrecy.”

This announcement was met with an angry roar.

“The world has changed, and the Sons of Walpurgis must change with it,” Porfirio continued. “We can not let our differences divide us. Lord Voldemort was a half blood. His kind must never be excluded from our ranks and leadership again! But we must not forget that his servants were chosen from among the pureblooded wizards of his time. I understand, it is hard for Purebloods to give up their traditional privileged position. Just as it is hard for Newbloods to suppress their natural resentment. But if we don’t work together, the Sons of Walpurgis will destroy itself, and who will there be then to work for the glorious return of Lord Voldemort?”

More cheering.

“And if our Pureblood leaders are so mired in the past that they can’t comprehend this, or see that the glorious future before us is crumbling under the weight of their arrogance and greed for power, they will have to be swept away.”

The cheering went mad, and it had a bloodthirsty tone to it this time. Behind Porfirio, Bradshaw and Augustus leaned together, whispering. Prince thought there was a nervous tension in their attitudes. Prince himself was cheering along with the mob, but couldn’t help feeling a bit concerned. Purebloods were Voldemort’s servants? Would he be considered a servant in this ‘new order’ of the Sons? Would he have to polish Talbot’s boots for him?

Brother Porfirio went on for a while, the crowd cheering at every opportunity, then with a few more formalities closed the meeting, and Brother Augustus stepped forward again.

“Combat training will now commence.” He announced. “That means that everyone under the age of thirteen is dismissed. Brother Amycus, please come here. And you, Brother Harkin.”

Prince forgot until Yorick gave him a shove that he was Brother Amycus, and he stumbled up to the stage again.

“Amycus,” Brother Augustus said. “You will be under the authority of Brother Harkin. Any questions, problems, suggestions or whatever you have, you bring to him. You are also expected to take his direction. Is that clear?”

Prince nodded doubtfully.

“Is that clear to you as well?” Brother Augustus said a bit sharply to another figure that was approaching.

“Clear as a bell.” It was the voice of Elroy Parkinson.

“And there’ll be no more trouble?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Good.” Augustus turned away, and Prince found himself being walked out of the Chamber of Secrets, Parkinson’s hand on his shoulder, and surrounded by other masked figures. He looked back anxiously, but if Yorick was with him, he was indiscernible from the rest of the Sons of Walpurgis.

They arrived back at the entrance. One figure leaned into the slide, and disappeared, sucked up into the tube. A few more did the same, and Prince found they were the next in line, standing before the open chute. Parkinson pushed him forward.

Prince approached the open hole with misgivings. He leaned forward, looking up into the dark tunnel. As soon as his head entered the hole, an irresistible force dragged him in the rest of the way, and he shot upward far faster than he had slid down, yelling with terror.

Finally he was expelled from the tunnel, thrown into the air, and landed hard on another conveniently placed mattress. He lay there, trying to recover his breath, but hands seized him and pulled him away, just in time to save him from being flattened by Parkinson, who came hurtling down on the mattress next.

“They’ve really got to come up with a better way of exiting the Chamber,” Parkinson growled, scrambling to his feet and seizing Prince by the shoulder again. “That you, Amycus?”

“Er,” said Prince. A bellowing Kedgewick Nott landed on the mattress next, followed by a couple of other figures.

“Oy, oy!” Parkinson called, and four of the dark figures hurried to join them as they left the bathroom and made their way toward the Slytherin dormitory.

When they reached the Common Room, Parkinson stopped. Some of the other Sons of Walpurgis who had been following along vanished into the passages toward various Slytherin dormitories.

“Belvidere, go bring me two bottles of the butterbeer in my wardrobe,” Parkinson ordered, removing his mask and tucking it into a pocket. “I’ve got to have a talk with Brother Amycus. The rest of you get off to bed.”

One figure stayed stubbornly rooted in place. “I think we all ought to hear what you have to say to Brother Amycus,” Talbot said.

Parkinson, who was taking his cloak off and turning it right-side-out, glared. “Have I got to report you for insubordination, now? You know, it’s only a matter of time before Porfirio gets fed up with saving your bacon and lets you be thrown out of the Sons, brother or no.”

Talbot stood for a moment more—Prince could feel his glare through the mask—then whirled to stomp to the first-year dormitory without another word, nearly crashing into Zounds, who was carrying a couple of butterbeer bottles.

Zounds put the bottles on the table at which Parkinson was now sitting. “Right, push off,” said Parkinson, sliding one of the bottles toward Prince. “Have a seat, Brother Amycus. And for Crippen’s sake, take that mask off. A house elf or Sylvanus might poke their heads into the Common Room at any time.”

Parkinson waited until Zounds was gone, and Prince was sitting and unmasked. Then he chuckled. “It’s a relief to finally have you on board. I swear, it took three years off my life trying to keep you in line.”

Parkinson opened his butterbeer, and Prince looked down at his own. It appeared to still be sealed. “It’s not poisoned,” Parkinson said. “Go on, you’re one of us now.” Dubiously, Prince twisted the cap off and took a sip of butterbeer.

“We’ve needed someone like you on the team for a while,” Parkinson said. “You’ve got brains and you’ve got talent and a nasty, sneaky streak. If you had some guts and leadership ability and ruthlessness, you could probably have my position. But as it is, I expect you’ll go far. I mean, no disrespect to Lester Blood and Kedgewick Nott, but they aren’t thinkers. Emmet Zounds is just a sheep. And Willy Talbot—I haven’t got to tell you what a loose cannon that one is. Once you find your feet, I expect you’ll be my second-in-command, so let’s try and get on better. Water under the bridge and all that.”

“Right,” said Prince.

“Now, then, names,” said Parkinson. “When we’re in uniform, or when you’re talking about club stuff to a third party, I’m Harkin Mulciber. Lester is Thorfinn Rowle, Kedgewick is Igor Karkaroff, Emmet is Belvidere Travers, and Willy is Antonin Dolohov. Can you remember that? Because it’s not good to take notes and leave them lying about.”

“I’m good with names,” Prince said. “So, I assume Brother Augustus is after Augustus Rookwood? I’ve met the fellow a couple of times, but don’t know his real name.”

“Aloysius Brimble,” said Parkinson. “He used to be a Prefect before he lost his badge, and it gives him a nasty, officious outlook, so don’t cross him.”

“And is Porfirio Lestrange Talbot’s older brother Jeremy?”

“Yeah,” said Parkinson. “Our most popular leader. He really knows how to whip up the crowd, though I’m sure Gusty regrets making him a high officer. He’s got almost the whole organization convinced that pureblood wizards are second-class members and that halfbloods and Muggleborns are the wave of the future.

“And don’t look at me like that,” Parkinson hastily added. “I have nothing at all against Muggleborns, or even Muggles. I grew up with Muggles. After the Voldemort war, my parents thought it would be a good idea to raise their kids with Muggles, so they moved to Hackney, and I must say, I really admire the sort of organization and control you see in the street culture down there. They know how to maintain respect, let me tell you. I’ve got a lot of Muggle friends in the gangs, they even let me join in on a few robberies. And movies—have you ever seen Muggle movies? I love ‘em.”

“Really?” At last Parkinson had said something that didn’t make Prince want to cringe. “So do I. I never met anyone else who did. Well, no wizards.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Parkinson. “Brilliant what they can do without magic. Have you seen Saw 15 yet? No? I’ve seen the whole series, even the really ancient ones from before 2010, but they keep raising the bar. That scene where that blonde bint was tied up in chainsaw chains and—well, anyway, don’t want to spoil it for you. The point is, I have nothing against Muggles. It’s probably a good thing if the Muggleborns wipe out all the complacent old poops at Headquarters. Even if they hate Purebloods now, in ten years or so all their kids will be considered Pureblood or Halfblood, and things will simmer down. Don’t you think?”

Prince didn’t know what to say, so he took a long drink.

“Anyway, it’s not our problem,” Parkinson continued. “The club officers handle the philosophy. We’re the foot soldiers. We do the grunt work. And we have a mission tomorrow night, so we probably ought to get what sleep we can. All right, Al? Can I call you Al?”

Albert Severus Prince loathed being called Al, but since he wasn’t about to invite Parkinson to call him Bertie, as if he was a friend, he just nodded. “What sort of mission?”

“Leave that to me,” Parkinson said shortly, rising. “Finish your butterbeer and get some sleep, mate. Tomorrow you prove you’re a Son of Walpurgis. G’night, then.”

“Nighty night, my love,” Prince called after Parkinson, getting a sour glance in reply.

Prince remained in the deserted common room after Parkinson had departed, sipping his butterbeer and thinking.

He did not want to go on a Sons of Walpurgis ‘mission’, whatever that entailed. He didn’t really see a way out of it, at this point. About the only way to avoid the mission would be to go to Fudge at once and report what he had discovered.

And what had he discovered? That the Sons of Walpurgis were planning a birthday celebration for Voldemort? It hardly seemed sinister enough to make an impressive revelation. Besides that, Prince had only a handful of names: Parkinson and his friends, Bradshaw, Jeremy Talbot and Brimble.

And Yorick, Prince suddenly realized uncomfortably. Turning in the Sons of Walpurgis would also mean turning in the one person who had come to his defense at Hogwarts. And as tough as Yorick was, it must have been a risk, even for him, to flatten Arnold Goyle the way he had. Prince owed him a debt for that, at least, if not for more.

As much as he racked his brains, Prince could think of no way to expose the Sons without Yorick being caught up in the crossfire. Sighing, he left the butterbeer bottle for the house elves to clear away, and went to bed.

He did not sleep well.



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[Inkwolf]

21

Prince awoke when something hard hit him in the head.

“Ow!” he complained, sitting up. A shoe was on his pillow. “What’s the idea?”

“Well, we’ve only been bloody shouting at you for ten minutes to wake up!” Parkinson snarled. “With all those booby traps on your bed, we’ve got no other way to wake you than throwing things. Now get up and get your hood on. It’s time for the mission.”

Prince reluctantly sat up and began pulling on his boots. He would have to find some anti-missile wards to put on his bed, now, he supposed. What a pity Parkinson had thought of throwing shoes, instead of giving up in disgust and going on his mission without the newest foot soldier. Over in their own beds, Fish and Lovecraft were snoring the snores of innocent Quaffleheads, and Prince felt a twinge of jealousy.


“Don’t mind them,” Parkinson said. “First thing they taught us in the Sons was how to keep people asleep when we want to. They might wake up if the ceiling fell in, but nothing short of that.”

Prince threw on his cloak inside-out over his pumpkin-print jammies, and put the mask over his head, joining the rest of the dark figures. By the clock, it was nearly half past midnight.

“Finally,” said Parkinson. “All right, tonight’s mission. Neddy Belcher has been making some disrespectful jokes about Lord Voldemort. We are going to teach him the error of his ways. Any questions?”

“Uh,” said Prince, wondering how he could possibly have missed hearing about a student named Neddy Belcher. “So, what exactly will we be doing?”

“Standard procedure. We slip into the dormitory, put a touch of sleeping charm on everyone but the target, give him a good thumping and a few curses, and leave him till morning to think things over. In the morning, someone slips back and removes all the evidence and puts the chump to sleep. He wakes up, and if he’s stupid enough to tell anyone what happened, they say he was dreaming, and we teach him another lesson about keeping his mouth shut. Simple.”

“Simple,” Prince agreed, his heart sinking. Other people slipped out after hours to visit the kitchen. He would be going out to beat someone up for telling Voldemort jokes.

They slipped out of the dormitory to the common room. To Prince’s surprise, they left the Slytherin dungeon to climb the stairs to the Great Hall.

“Park—I mean, Harkin,” Prince whispered. “Isn’t the Belcher in Slytherin?”

“And why in blazes would we have left the dungeon if he were?” Parkinson asked. They continued down another set of stairs, to the pantry. The large, dark room was filled with crates and barrels and bulging flour sacks.

“But how can we get into his dormitory? Without the password, I mean?”

Parkinson snorted. “You think we don’t have brothers in Hufflepuff? There are Sons of Walpurgis in every house in the school, I’ll have you know. I asked Brother Caiaphas for the password. Pumpkin pasty!”

At this phrase, an enormous wine cask creaked open to reveal a door. Prince’s heart sank again. He had hoped they would be stopped from entering.

“Come on now,” Parkinson said.

“Hang on,” Prince said hastily. “It seems to me that this is just the sort of thing the club officers DON’T want you doing. I mean, aren’t you all in the doghouse for bullying already? I got the impression they wanted us to stay out of trouble. Are you sure they ordered you to do this? Are you sure you understood what they—“

“You think too much.” Even with the mask on, Prince could hear Parkinson’s sneer. “Like I said, we’re the soldiers. Brother Evan says that Belcher’s been making Voldemort jokes, I don’t need to be given an order, I take care of it. That’s called initiative. That’s what separates the leaders from the sheep.”

“But—“

“And if Brother Augustus raps us on the knuckles with his wand and makes us sit in the corner, what of it? He knows we’re the ones fighting for the glory of Voldemort. Troublemakers must be dealt with, and if we’re caught doing it, Augustus can say, oh, we told him over and over to be a good boy. Don’t make any mistake about it, we’re the ones taking the risks and doing the dogwork, and we’re the ones who take the fall if we’re found out, so the Sons of Walpurgis can go on without being blamed. Because we’re expendable, and don’t you forget it.”

“If I’m expendable, can I go back to bed?”

“What a plimpy you are, Amycus,” said Parkinson in disgust. “Come on.” He led the way into the lair of the Hufflepuffs.

As far as Prince could tell in the darkness, the Hufflepuff common room was cozy, and pretty in a homey sort of way. It had none of the style and flair of the Slytherin common room, but it looked exceedingly comfortable. Prince wished he could sink into one of the well-worn, overstuffed sofas and vanish from Parkinson’s attention. But he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

They left the common room through an arched passageway, and stopped at a wooden door. Signaling them all to be quiet, Parkinson sent Blood—or Thorfinn—into the room.

After what felt like eons, the door opened again and Blood beckoned them in.

“You stay here and keep watch,” Parkinson whispered to Talbot.

“Why always me?” Talbot whined.

“You know why. Because you never know when to leave off,” Parkinson hissed. “Now do as you’re told or we’ll leave you home altogether next time. Boys—into the breach.” Parkinson entered the dormitory, and the rest followed, Prince in the rear.

The darkened room was full of sleeping Hufflepuffs. Prince didn’t see anyone he recognized, but thought the sleepers looked like about fourth or fifth year students.

Parkinson stopped at one bed, and they crowded around. A pudgy boy was sleeping peacefully, drooling on his pillow and mumbling something about cauldrons. Parkinson touched his wand to the boy’s forehead and whispered. Instantly the mumbling stopped. Even the boy’s breathing stilled. Prince leaned forward anxiously. Had Parkinson actually killed Belcher? No, the boy was still breathing, only silently.

“Right,” said Parkinson, and Blood and Nott seized the sleeping boy’s arms and pulled his hands to the bedposts. A muttered charm, and thorny vines sprouted from the bedposts and twined around the Hufflepuff’s wrists. Before Belcher was properly awake, he was trussed hand and foot. He struggled and shouted, but made no noise at all, thanks to Parkinson’s spell of silence.

“Your turn,” Parkinson said, giving Prince a push forward.

“My turn for what?”

“Curse him, of course,” said Parkinson. “Hex him. Jinx him, whatever. Something painful, that will make him think twice about mouthing off again.”

“I don’t know any curses,” Prince said with wide-eyed innocence. This was not technically true, as Moody’s book had been rife with horrible spells, some of which Prince was sure he could cast without difficulty.

“You tried to duel me once,” Parkinson said. “What were you planning to do, fling marshmallows? Come on, now! Or do I have to do it myself?”

Remembering what Parkinson’s little jinxes could turn into, Prince stepped forward hastily, pulling out his wand. Stepping into the muffling silence around the bed, Prince pointed his wand at Belcher and whispered, “Rictusempra!”

Belcher bucked and struggle. In the silence, it was hard for even Prince to tell whether the bound boy was laughing or screaming, especially with the expression of terror on his face.

“Right, that looks like a nasty one,” said Parkinson admiringly as Prince kept up the tickling jinx. “You’ll have to teach it to us. I think that’s enough of that, now. Boys, let’s give our lad a final good-night.”

As Prince put his wand away, Blood, Zounds and Nott leaped forward and began pounding their fists into Belcher.

“You too, Amycus,” said Parkinson. “There’s no room for lily-white gloves in my unit. That’s what the club officers are for.”

Prince was revolted, but knew better than to drag his feet. He stepped forward to the bed. Promising himself he’d make it up to Belcher someday, somehow, he hit the boy in the face, hoping to cause a nice, showy nosebleed without doing much real damage. He managed it on the third or fourth punch.

“I think that will teach him a lesson,” said Parkinson smugly. That’s enough. We’ll let him stew till morning. He won’t be making any Voldemort jokes for a while, I think, do you?”

Nott, Blood and Zounds snickered.

“Well,” said Prince, “he won’t if he figures out why we were thrashing him. I mean, it’s not like he could hear anything through the spell, and nobody exactly told him what it was all about.”

Parkinson’s jaw sagged. Then he brightened. “How did you do that writing on the wall? The Asp Was Here, and all that? That was really flash, by the way.”

Sighing, Prince leaned over Belcher. On the underside of the bed canopy, in large, glowing letters, he wrote LORD VOLDEMORT IS NOT FUNNY.

“Well, then, our work is done,” said Parkinson, tossing a blanket over Belcher to hide his condition from casual view. “Let’s go.” As the others filed away, Prince quickly scribbled—sorry—under the other words. Then he hurried after Parkinson.

“You’ll go back and clean up in three hours, Amycus,” Parkinson said. “Get some sleep till then. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Prince went back to bed, but didn’t sleep. He was utterly disgusted with himself. Would Bingo Deedle have taken part in tonight’s assault? Not likely. He’d have drawn himself up and given the bullies a lecture, and then thrashed their leader in a not-even-fair fight. Or been nobly beaten to a pulp himself, to rise again later against his enemies.

What would his family think if they had been alive to see what he had done?

Prince’s only comfort was to think of Severus Snape. He had cursed the ear off the legendary prank inventor, George Weasley, Prince knew, in trying to blend in with the Death Eaters. He had had to go along on raids and murders. He had even been forced to kill Albus Dumbledore. Prince had never truly felt the awfulness of it until now. How far would he have to go with the Sons of Walpurgis? And was it really worthwhile? Would it come to murder? What exactly was he trying to prove? Or was he just saving his own skin, like a coward, by going along with them, and the idea of turning them in was just a fantasy to make himself feel better?

Prince wondered if Snape had ever suffered from doubts like this. He wondered whether, if it was possible to bring him back from the dead for one single question, Snape would think it had been worth the moral compromises.

At three in the morning, Parkinson started heaving shoes again, and Prince got up and into his mask and cloak once more as Parkinson gave him his instructions.

Belcher was still awake when Prince entered the dormitory again. Belcher went wide-eyed when he saw the masked figure, and started struggling and shouting again. The silence spell was beginning to wear off, but the shouts were just at the level of a whisper. The glowing letters still proclaimed their message on the bed canopy, and Prince erased them and replaced it with NOBODY WILL BELIEVE YOU.

Prince then gave Belcher the healing potion, which was easier said than done. The Hufflepuff boy apparently believed he was being poisoned, and clamped his lips tight shut. Prince had to pinch the boy’s blood-caked nose shut to force him to breath through his mouth, then dump the potion in as well as he could. He suspected Belcher inhaled more than he swallowed, but it would have to do. Prince cast the sleeping spell—Parkinson had taught it to him—and when Belcher settled into a doze, Prince removed the thorny shackles.

Belcher’s cuts and bruises were fading quickly. Prince erased the glowing message from the canopy and cast a quick cleaning spell to remove any blood stains or other evidence from the area before returning to his own dormitory, where Parkinson was waiting for his final report.

At last Prince went to sleep. For a couple of hours, anyway. Then he had to get up and dress for his classes.

Tuesdays were always extremely busy, and Prince was grateful that Parkinson’s gang—Prince’s gang, now, too, and that was an uncomfortable thought—was too busy with their potions classwork to ask for more details about the spell Prince had cast on Belcher. Prince was not in much of a mood for conversation at any rate. His coaching of Goyle was restricted to the most terse, least detailed instructions he had ever given her. And for her part, she never once ‘accidentally’ stepped on his foot, or elbowed him in the mouth, or knocked over his supplies.

Prince supposed that being on the Quidditch team was doing him some good after all.

In the afternoon was Transfiguration, and it was not until Charms class that Prince realized he had entirely forgotten to prepare for his usual private lesson with Professor Flitwick. The little professor looked most disappointed, and clicked his tongue admonishingly, before saying it was all right, and that he understood that being suddenly put on the Quidditch team was enough to make anyone forget their homework.

“But you must not let this happen again,” Flitwick said sternly. “Remember, I expect great things from you, and just because the Headmaster refuses to advance you is no excuse for getting into lazy habits. I expect you to have twice the work done by next week!”

“I will. I promise!” Prince said. Flitwick smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“You’re such a good boy,” he said, and sat at his desk again. Prince forced himself to smile, and hoped that Professor Flitwick never found out about the Sons of Walpurgis.

That night, at least, when Parkinson began to hint that Prince might sit with them and help his brothers in Walpurgisness with the staggering mound of homework Puddleby and McGonagall had assigned them, Prince was able to beg off, pointing out that Professor Flitwick expected him to learn twice the usual amount of charms in a week.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was the first class on Wednesday. After class, Parkinson and the others waited around the door for Prince to join them for the study hour, but he told them to go on, and that he had to talk to Professor Sylvanus. They left, looking irritated.

“Yes, what is it, Mr. Prince?” Professor Sylvanus asked after ignoring him and shuffling papers for a while in the apparent hope that he would go away.

“Can I ask a hypothetical question?” Prince asked.

“Another one? Yes, yes. Ask away.”

“Well, entirely theoretically, of course, suppose there was a secret society operating within the walls of Hogwarts, dedicated to the glorification of Voldemort, with about a hundred members, and suppose I joined as a spy, and suppose I had to go and commit crimes in the school as part of my cover. How many names would I need to turn in to get the organization shut down? And what would happen to the people I turned in? And would I be let off, since I only joined in so as to inform on them? And if there was someone else who was, say, helping me but already had a bad reputation for being in trouble, could they possibly be let off, too?”

Professor Sylvanus went back to shuffling papers. “You tell me, Mr. Prince,” she said. “You’re the history buff. How has Cornelius Fudge responded in the past to accusations of mysterious evil forces lurking under his nose?”

“Yes, but…he’s learned his lesson, hasn’t he?”

“Entirely theoretically hypothetically speaking?” asked Professor Sylvanus. “Maybe. Do you want to try him and find out?”

When put like that, it sounded like a bad hypothetical idea. Theoretically VERY bad.

“But since you are here anyway, I should let you know that your detention is scheduled to begin this Saturday afternoon.”

“Detention?” Prince was shocked. “For what? I told you, this is all just theoretical—“

“For releasing Peeves, Mr. Prince. You may vaguely remember having done that. It was over three weeks ago, of course.”

Oh. The dreadful, delayed detention, alas.

“You will meet with Professor Crowther in the Muggle Studies classroom for the next six Saturdays—“

“One of those Saturdays is Christmas Eve,” Prince pointed out. “And one’s New Year’s Eve. I’ll be at home then.” And well away from whatever the Sons of Walpurgis were planning for Voldemort’s birthday.

“No, I’m afraid you will be with us for the holiday,” said Professor Sylvanus. “Though we will, of course, be skipping those two Saturdays. Your detention will recommence in the new year.”

It took a while for this to penetrate Prince’s brain. When it did, he exploded. “Of course I’m going home for Christmas! I don’t care how many poltergeists I’ve turned loose, you can’t keep me at Hogwarts for Christmas!”

“It’s not a punishment, Mr. Prince. Your guardian is still abroad with no plans of returning in December. We can’t send an eleven-year-old boy home without a responsible adult to watch over him. I assumed you understood this.”

“Wriggle’s a responsible adult,” Prince insisted. “He’s over a hundred years old. He looks after me all the time.”

“A house elf bound to obey your orders is not viewed as a suitable guardian, by school policy,” said Professor Sylvanus.

“Reginald!” said Prince with sudden hope. “Reginald Burke, he’s Mr. Burke’s great-nephew, and he—“

“Will be in the South Pacific for the holiday season,” said Professor Sylvanus.

“The South Pacific?” said Prince incredulously. “What in Circe’s navel will Reginald be doing in the South Pacific?”

“Getting a suntan, learning to surf, and drinking Bahama Mamas on the beach, one presumes,” said Professor Sylvanus. “He wrote the school specifically to let us know you would be remaining here.”

The next time Reginald wanted to borrow money, Prince would make him bark like a dog and push a peanut the entire length of the Grand Ballroom with his nose.

“Will that be all, then, or do you have more hypothetical situations to propose to me, Mr. Prince? I have a great deal of work to do…”

Prince sulked away through the corridor. No Christmas at Alspellers, as if Christmas without his family wasn’t sad enough. It hardly bore thinking about. No huge fir tree in the parlor. No opening presents by the fireplace. No Wriggle. No caroling in Zennor with the Prendergasts.

Just as he was considering good places to go and be miserable in, Parkinson appeared with his stooges. “There you are!” Parkinson said. “We’ve been waiting! No time like the present.”

“Waiting for what?” Prince asked, scowling. Someone was missing. “Where’s Talbot?”

“Outside,” said Parkinson. “Said something about starting a rock collection.”

Prince would definitely be setting anti-missile wards on his bed before nightfall.

“Anyway, you were going to teach us that spell,” Parkinson insisted. “The one you used on Belcher the other night. Get on with it, man! You can demonstrate it on Emmet, he won’t mind.” Zounds looked as if he WOULD mind, thank you very much, but was afraid to say so.

“I can’t,” said Prince.

“What do you mean, can’t? I gave an order, soldier.” Parkinson leaned forward, glowering.

Prince leaned forward as well, and whispered, “It was the Cruciatus curse.”

The eyes of Blood, Nott and Zounds went as round as saucers. They stared at Prince in mingled horror, fear, and admiration. Parkinson was clearly trying to look as if he wasn’t impressed.

“I could only cast it without being nailed by the Ministry taboo last night because of your silence spell,” Prince added. “And even then it was a risk. I won’t cast it again, not without good reason, and certainly not just to teach you louts how.”

“He’s making sense, Boss,” Zounds said hurriedly.

Prince drew himself up, tucking his thumbs under his lapels and sneering arrogantly down at his fellow conspirators. They looked so cowed he could barely keep a straight face.

Parkinson’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?” he demanded.

Prince looked down, and was horrified, though he tried to keep his sneer in place. “What, these?” One corner of his eyeglasses had somehow worked its way up out of his pocket and into view. He pulled them casually out the rest of the way. “I nicked them from Puddleby.”

Parkinson’s followers looked even more awed, if that were possible, as Prince slipped the spectacles on. “I’ve tried to smash them, but they appear to be unbreakable. How do I look?”

Parkinson snorted. “Like the world’s scrawniest twerp. Anyway, I have work for you. That Wilton from Ravenclaw needs to be seen to. Been spouting rubbish about how Newton Avery’s history book, Voldemort Betrayed, is a pack of lies and poorly written propaganda. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

“But Voldemort Betrayed IS a…master work of research and investigative scholarship,” said Prince, hoping his tongue wasn’t turning black. “So, shall we be visiting Ravenclaw tonight?” The idea of being caught by little old Professor Flitwick doing Voldemort’s work in the Ravenclaw dormitory made Prince’s stomach twist into knots. The only worse possibility would be being confronted by Professor McGonagall in the Gryffindor tower. And it might happen yet.

“No point breaking into Ravenclaw, not unless you can get us into the girls’ dorm. If only we could get Abby or the Gargoyle on board,” said Parkinson wistfully. “It would be so much easier to keep these females in check. No, we need a subtle way to get our point across in public without being caught. Put your brain to work on it.”

“I’m on the job…Boss,” said Prince, putting the spectacles back in his pocket.

He left the others to their own devices and returned to the dormitory to beef up the defenses around his bed. As he did, he racked his brains for a way to deal with this Wilton girl, and with the Sons of Walpurgis. His original plan of turning them in to the Headmaster appeared to be impractical after all. And how could he satisfy Parkinson without causing any real harm to what was clearly a sensible and history-respecting young witch?

He went through the rest of his day weighed down with the feeling of being trapped, the despair of not knowing what to do, and the gloom of homesickness, brought on by the bad news about Christmas. Parkinson and the others respectfully refrained from asking him for homework assistance that night, and he was grateful to curl up in a ball under his blankets at the earliest reasonable time. The pyramid of fist-sized rocks on Talbot’s bed stand made him glad he had tightened the protective aura around his bed.

The last two nights had given him little opportunity to sleep, but in spite of his exhaustion, nervous tension kept Prince awake long after the other students had turned off the lights and gone to bed.

Eventually he heard what he had half expected—the crackle of magical energy as something hit his defensive barrier, and the sound of a rock dropping to the stone floor. Then another, and some muffled swearing from the direction of Talbot’s bunk. After that, the dormitory returned to silence again.

He fell into a fitful sleep, filled with dreams of dark things pursuing him. He ran until he found a safe hiding place, but as soon as he settled into it, he realized it was a trap, and they now knew where he was, and he could do nothing but wait for them to close in. Closer they came, evil laughter echoing all around. They loomed bigger and bigger, dark shadows hovering over him with malicious intent.

Something brushed Prince’s face, and his eyes flickered open. There WAS a dark shape hovering over him.

With a yell more of terror than rage, Prince leaped up, seizing the figure by the throat and pinning it onto the bed. “Lumos!” he shouted, his wand in the intruder’s face.

“You!” he cried when the light had revealed the identity of his visitor. “How did you get in here?”

“Easily-peasily-poo,” boasted the house elf. “Wizardy barriers and security spells are no match for the amazing cleverness of Wriggle!”

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[Inkwolf]

22

Prince threw his arms around the house elf and hugged him tightly, bursting into tears. He got out of bed, cast a quick sleeping charm over his dorm mates, returned to the bed, and snatched Wriggle up in another hug.

“Wriggle is glad to see the young master, too,” Wriggle said. “How has the young master been?”

Between sobs, Prince poured out the entire tale of the Sons of Walpurgis, the strange meeting, the beating of Neddy Belcher, and his current assignment.

Wriggle’s wrinkled old face puckered with worry and perplexity. “The young master must not be upset,” Wriggle said soothingly. “Wriggle will think of a way out of this.”

“I don’t think there IS a way out,” Prince sniffled.

Wriggle patted him on the head. “There is always a way. The young master was clever not to take the evil oath to the Dark Lord, but now he must shut up and let Wriggle think.”

Prince sat back and pulled himself together, rummaging for a handkerchief to dry his eyes and wipe his runny nose. He felt ashamed of himself, not just for breaking down, but because he was supposed to be the house elf’s master. He was not an infant any more. It was supposed to be his responsibility to protect the house elf, not the other way around. He ought to send Wriggle straight home before he was caught, maybe even locked up.

But just seeing the house elf sitting cross-legged on his bed, face creased with concentration, was a comfort beyond belief. Prince’s heart felt lighter already. And as the fear and tension drained away, Prince found his brain beginning to work again.

“Wriggle,” he finally said. “I have a plan. At least for now. If you leave Hogwarts, can you get back in?”

“Certainly,” Wriggle said. Leaning close, he whispered, “Wriggle’s cousin Nubbin works in the kitchen. Nubbin will let Wriggle in, but the young master must not tell.”

“Of course not. Will you do some things for me, without arguing? I know they’re awful, but I’m dealing with people who go out in the middle of the night to beat on people who make Voldemort jokes.”

Wriggle looked disturbed when Prince explained what he had in mind, but reluctantly agreed to do it.

“But,” Wriggle added, “Wriggle should warn the young master that the protective spells are only around the sides of his bed, not the top or bottom.”

Wriggle disapparated, leaving Prince to repair the gap in his defenses, glad that Talbot had not been more imaginative in his attacks.

At breakfast that morning, Parkinson asked if he had any ideas yet about dealing with Wilton, the Ravenclaw girl who had denounced Newton Avery’s history book for the rubbish it was.

It’s under control,” Prince assured him. “I’ve arranged for her to be sent a box of live spiders.”

As if on cue, there was a shriek from the Ravenclaw table, and several people hastily backed away, as Wilton continued to squeal.

“Well done,” Parkinson smirked, petting Prince on the head and leaving.

Prince sighed with relief and gathered his own school things. Over at the Ravenclaw table, Wilton was ecstatically crying out, “And there’s a Clubiona rosserae! And a Bagheera kiplingi! And a Heliophanus dampfi! And a Argiope aurantia! And a Heteropoda davidbowie!” as her classmates hastened away.

Prince’s discovery of the girl’s fascination with spiders had made this ‘punishment’ easy to fake. Even if Parkinson had remained long enough to see her delight at the horrible package, he might not have suspected Prince of any intent to thwart the punishment. Prince grinned as he watched the Ravenclaw trying to gather the fleeing arthropods back into their packing box, but his grin vanished when an owl dropped a parcel in front of him.

It was small, the size of a wallet. There was no return address. It was heavily sealed, and marked with dire ‘hazardous magical materials’ warnings. Wriggle had done just as he asked.

Prince half wished he hadn’t.

He slipped the packet into his robes and went to his classes. Though it was very light, he felt the weight in his pocket all day, and a heavy feeling in his chest.

“Aren’t you eating?” Parkinson asked that night at dinner.

“Not hungry,” Prince muttered. It was the truth. His stomach was in knots and he was consumed with guilt over what he was going to do. That would not stop him from doing it, however.

“You didn’t eat your lunch, neither. You feeling all right?”

“No.”

“I’ll take you to the hospital wing, if you like,“ Talbot leered. “I know another shortcut.”

Prince stood, without looking at the loathsome creep. “I’m going to bed early,” he said shortly.

“Yeah, you take care of yourself,” said Parkinson. “If you’re not feeling better soon, best see Nurse Bollocks. We’ve got another mission tomorrow night, and we need you in form.”

Talbot’s reminder of their last trip to the hospital wing together mitigated some of Prince’s guilt, and the promise of another mission reinforced the idea that he needed to put a stop to all this one way or the other. On reaching the dormitory, Prince pulled out the sealed packet and, determined not to think about it any more than necessary, tore it open. He removed the small scrap of fabric from inside and tucked it inside Talbot’s pillowcase. Then he carefully destroyed the packaging and washed his hands with magical mess remover, three times.

Then Prince curled up in his bed with the covers pulled over his head. At length the others entered, chattering and getting ready for bed. He pretended to be asleep as he heard the others enter, heard Talbot get into bed, and saw the lights go out. Soon the dormitory was filled with the snores and heavy breathing of his fellow Slytherins.

But Prince lay awake far into the night and wondered if, after all, he was any better than the rest of Parkinson’s gang.


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[Inkwolf]

23

“PONCE! OY! WAKE UP!” Prince woke to the sound of Parkinson’s irritated shouts, and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“Save us,” said the exasperated Parkinson. “His majesty awakes. You know, if the dorm caught fire, there’d be no way to get you out.”

“Why would we want to?” sneered Talbot.

“Feeling any better?” Parkinson inquired.

“Indubitably,” said Prince, examining Talbot. The boy seemed his usual, delightful self. “I am in the pink of pank. Thanks for asking.”

“Good. Next time we’ll just overturn the bed and dump you out of it.” Parkinson spit on the floor, as Prince made a mental note to place a sticking charm on the feet of the bed.

“We have a mission tonight, remember?” Parkinson said. “We need to plan. It’s that Lupin from Gryffindor. He’s been making very disrespectful comments about our Bradshaw, and we’re going to show him the error of his ways. Gryffindor’s a tough place to get safely into and out of, and Lupin’s dangerous as well, so we’re going to spend the entire day working out our strategy.”

“Alas, I must offer my regrets,” Prince said. I’ve got Quidditch practice all morning, and a detention in the afternoon.” For the first time, he was delighted about both.

Parkinson swore. “Well, get back to me as soon as you’ve finished,” he ordered.

Prince got out of bed as the others left. When he was alone, he removed the rag from Talbot’s pillow, destroyed it, cast several disinfecting charms, and took a bath with the magical mess remover. Either the damage had been done, or Talbot had been preserved (either by divine providence or the devil himself, and Prince knew which he’d bet on) and there was no point in leaving evidence lying about.

He ate a huge breakfast, showed up late to Quidditch practice, and put in his time with as little effort as he could get away with, then spent his free hour or so eating lunch and carefully avoiding Parkinson.

Finally, he reluctantly made his way to the Muggle Studies classroom, dawdling along the route.

Professor Sylvanus had told him that his detention would be something physically and mentally exhausting, that would keep him so busy he would be kept out of trouble. At this particular moment in time, being kept out of trouble sounded lovely to Prince, but apart from that it didn’t seem likely to be much fun. Was it related to Muggle Studies? He had enjoyed farm work with Will and Emma, but principally because it was something he was not actually required to do.

He slouched in at the door of the classroom. The teacher had not yet arrived, but two Ravenclaw boys were waiting there, their faces reflections of Prince’s own sullen expression. They broke off their conversation as he entered, glaring at him suspiciously. He recognized them from Herbology class. The lanky red-haired boy was Rafe Abernathy, and the podgy one with black hair was Aristotle Quark. Prince had never had a conversation with either. They seemed to keep to themselves, even among their own housemates.

“What are you in for?” Abernathy eventually asked.

“I killed a man,” said Prince. “With…this…thumb.”

The Ravenclaws rolled their eyes.

“Well, what about you, then?” asked Prince.

“We transfigured a chamber pot into the Starship Enterprise,
and sent it into Fudge’s office,” said Quark with relish. “Warp factor nine.”

“Ah,” said Prince. And just to prove he knew what they were talking about, he added, “Firing proton torpedoes all the way, I take it?”

Quark groaned, and Abernathy rolled his eyes again. “PHOTON torpedoes, Merlin,” he said. “You are in the COMPLETELY wrong Muggleverse.”

“It was a slip of the tongue,” said Prince, his ears turning red. He had no idea why, but it was suddenly very important to him to impress these Ravenclaws.

“Don’t waste your breath, Rafe,” said Quark. “He didn’t even ask what version of the Enterprise it was. I’ll eat my abacus if this dingus has a clue. He probably doesn’t know a Dalek from a Reaver.”

“I do so!” said Prince hotly. “I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. And I’ve seen every Planet of the Apes movie ever made.”

“And the television series?”

“Yes.” Prince crossed his arms over his chest and stuck out his chin defiantly. Actually, he hadn’t known there was a television series. He must consult with the Prendergasts about seeing it over the summer holidays.

Quark and Abernathy exchanged an odd glance. “What do you think, Rafe?” Quark said. “Shall we ask him?”

“I don’t know,” said Abernathy dubiously.

“Ask me what?”

“My colleague and I are members of an exclusive private society,” said Quark. “One which can only be joined by invitation.”

“What? Tell me you’re not in the Sons of Walpurgis!” Prince asked, aghast.

Rafe snorted at that. “Our league is much more impressive than they are,” he said. “It’s so secret it doesn’t have a name.”

“It’s so exclusive that we’ve only found two members with the requisite qualities of superlative esoteric knowledge, fine discernment, and suitable character,” said Quark. “So far.”

Prince held his breath as the two boys eyed him, their faces skeptical.

“You’re that Albert Prince character, aren’t you?” Quark asked. “The one who let Peeves out? The one who invented Goo?”

“Albert Severus Prince, yes.”

“I hear you’ve got a mansion on the coast,” said Abernathy. “I hear you started a yachting club at Hogwarts. I hear you’re on the Quidditch team.”

“In point of fact,” said Quark accusingly, “there are some people who would consider you to be fairly cool.” The Ravenclaws stared at Prince with narrowed eyes.

“Oh?” said Prince. “Where are these people of whom you speak? Let’s have a look at ‘em.” He pulled out the horrid spectacles and popped them onto his nose

The two other boys paused for a moment, staring.

“Right,” said Quark. “You’re in.”


Prince had barely time to revel in his acceptance into what was clearly a supremely geeky fellowship when Professor Crowther bustled in. She was a plump, rumpled-looking woman with untidy grey curls, who gave the impression that half her buttons had been buttoned into the wrong holes.

“Ah, there you are at last!” she said breathlessly, as if she hadn’t been the one to be late. “We’ve got a few things to go over, and it will be only minutes before they arrive!”

“Who?” Prince asked. “Muggles?” Considering her area of expertise, it was all he could think of.

“Of COURSE not!” said Professor Crowther. “As the three of you seem fairly advanced in all your studies, you have been chosen for a special outreach program. Several ten-year--olds will be arriving shortly. They need tutoring in basic subjects, if they are to make the most of their time at Hogwarts next year.”

“Ten year olds?” said Rafe with a shudder. “I was one of those once.”

“What a coincidence, so was I,” said Prince.

“Me, too! Small world,” said Quark.

“There are study materials and supplies on the desks. Mary Pilchard, Adelbert Wiggins, Wilbur Dorset and Miriam Candlebrass all particularly need help with basic reading and writing,” Professor Crowther went on. “Kerry Slighcarp, Chephzibah Monk, Loring Barley and—“

The door burst open, and a harried-looking Professor Puddleby ushered in a mob of chattering, giggling pipsqueaks.

“Culloden’s dentures, we are inundated,” said Prince.

“Aww, they're so little and cute,” Quark said.

For the next hour, Prince and his new cohorts helped Professor Crowther attempt to drill some basic mathematics, literacy, discipline, and general study skills into the thick skulls of what were arguably the most dimwitted and difficult children Prince had ever come across. The presence of the professor prevented Prince from engaging in the same candid, honest teaching style he used so freely with Goyle and Talbot, which he thought a shame.

After the first hour, Professor Crowther was called away. The moment she was gone, Prince turned to young Edgar Simms to ask exactly how he had managed to survive for ten years counting on his fingers when one or more were always up his nose, but before he could speak, Simms demanded, “Teach us a spell!” The rest of the pre-Hogwarts brigade enthusiastically repeated the demand.

“It’s against the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery,” said Prince virtuously. “What do we look like, rule breakers?”

The demands grew more vociferous, until Professor Crowther returned, demanding, “What’s all this, then? I could hear you halfway down the corridor. Mr. Prince, Mr. Abernathy and Mr. Quark, I expect you to maintain a higher level of discipline.”

“Are we allowed to use Unforgiveables?” Abernathy muttered under his breath.

Before long, Crowther was called away again, and the demands resumed.

“Pipe down,” Prince finally ordered, tired of the noise, “or we will knock your heads together. You may outnumber us, but we are bigger and have wands.”

“If you don’t teach us a spell,” Simms said grimly, “I will tell Professor Crowther you threatened us and took my pocket money.”

“And I’ll back him up,” said Barley.

“And we’ll cry,” added Candlebrass.

Prince raised his eyebrows and looked to his allies.

“Don’t look at us,” said Quark. “Those ones are clearly headed to YOUR house.”

“Fine,” said Prince. “Let’s make a deal. We have six lovely Saturday afternoons to waste with one another. If, on the last day, you can all write legibly, read adequately, and do your times tables without taking your shoes off, I will teach you how to make your own dungbombs.”

It worked like magic. On Professor Crowther’s next return, she entered a room full of silent and studious children, intent on their studies.

“Do you even know how to make dungbombs, Bertie?” Quark asked as, free at last, they finished their dinner. Prince had joined the Ravenclaw table for the meal.

“I shall have to learn, shan’t I?” said Prince. “I’ve got six weeks—no, eight weeks, because of Christmas hols.” He remembered the lasting stench of the tebo pen he had helped Professor Longbottom muck out, and thought he had a good idea where to start.

They left the Great Hall and wandered down the corridor.

“Really, though, there ought to be some sort of use we can make of the midgets,” said Abernathy. “Do you think Crowther will be in and out like that all the time? If she leaves us to our own devices, we could…oh, I don’t know. Form our own tribe, and force them to learn the tribal language and do ritual dances and stuff.”

“We would be the tribal gods, I take it,” said Quark.

“Or we could put them on toy brooms and have them run races,” said Prince. “I know a fellow who’d be happy to manage the betting, though he’s probably too greedy to cut us in.”

“Still,” said Quark. “If that’s what the next year’s students are like, I weep for the future of Hogwarts and Great Britain.”

“These are only the dunderheads, Tottles,” said Prince. “The future Goyles. Imagine what we could do if they gave us the bright ones to teach.”

“We could create mayhem.” Abernathy grinned.

Prince was still mulling over the possibilities when Quark said, “Well, this is our stop. Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens, but I’m knackered.”

They were at Ravenclaw Tower. “Oh,” said Prince, his heart sinking. “Well…see you in Herbology, then.”
He stood shrouded in gloom as the others disappeared up the spiral staircase, and for the first time, felt a twinge of regret as he made his way to the familiar dungeon.

He could have been in Ravenclaw.

The hat wanted to put him there.

What was the use of making friends who were only going to be locked up in other houses all the time?

Maybe he ought to have gone to Ravenclaw after all.

Then he remembered that Severus Snape’s best friend had been sorted into Gryffindor, and his spirits rose. Not only because Prince was again following in Cousin Severus’s footsteps, but because it could have been far worse. Better to have friends in Ravenclaw than Gryffindor!

The good mood lasted until he entered the corridor to the dormitories, and the Muggle song he was singing in his most exaggerated German accent died on his lips. Five black-cloaked figures stood waiting for him.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Parkinson snarled.




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[Inkwolf]

24

“Have you been waiting for me here all day?” Prince asked. “How touchingly loyal. Like dogs.”

“I told you, we needed you to help plan!” Parkinson growled. “Now come on! We haven’t got much time. You two! Go study in the Great Hall or something!”

Lovecraft and Fish scurried away clutching their homework and a couple of Quidditch magazines, and Parkinson dropped heavily onto his bed.

“Here’s the plan so far,” said Parkinson. “We’ll follow standard procedure—get in, tie Lupin down, give him a thrashing, leave him to think about it, heal him, and get out. We’ve got the password for Gryffindor Tower and a map. Lupin’s in the sixth year dormitory. We’ll need to be extra careful, because Gryffindor are a bunch of touchy prigs who’ll scream bloody murder if they see us. And Lupin might be difficult to manage. By all accounts he’s a light sleeper, good with his wand, and fast with his fists. We’ll be under a silence charm for maximum stealth. Any questions or comments?”

Prince raised his hand and waved it. Parkinson sneered. “Don’t be a prat. If you have something to say, out with it.”

“Just a few questions,” said Prince. “Firstly, I hear Lupin’s father was a werewolf. Is that at all hereditary? I mean, is there any record of what’s happened in the past to people who have been bitten by the child of a werewolf?”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Parkinson. “Not a chance. There’s nothing to be worried about.” Zounds, Blood and Nott turned slightly pale, though.

“Secondly, what about this metamorphmagus thing?” asked Prince. “Will all the same spells work on him? For example, the binding spell. Enchanted brambles are all very well for holding normal people, but what if he transforms into an enormous slug and oozes right out of them?” Zounds, Blood and Nott looked distinctly queasy, and Parkinson was starting to look uncertain, himself. “Or what if he can change into a giant earthworm? Or a lion? Or a venomous tentacula?”

“Prince--,” said Parkinson in a warning tone.

“Thirdly,” Prince added hastily, “If we have a silence spell cast on us while we’re moving through Gryffindor Tower, will we be able to hear if Professor McGonagall is sneaking up behind us?”

Now even Talbot looked rattled. Professor McGonagall could be quite a spitfire, and Talbot was the utterly worst student in his Transfiguration class. And, Prince thought, his comments about setting cats on fire had probably done little to endear him to the cat animagus.

Parkinson seized Prince by the shoulder, said, “I need a word with you,” and dragged him out of the dormitory.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Parkinson growled when the door had shut. “You’re not being good for morale, Ponce.”

“Is that what I’m here for?” Prince asked. “I thought you needed my prodigious brain to plan. If I knew I was the entertainment, I’d have brought my inflatable snorkack.“

“Just keep your trap shut unless you have something helpful to say.”

“I thought I WAS—“

“And stop scaring the stooges!” Parkinson barked, before turning to slam the door open. As Prince followed him back into the dormitory, the others broke out of a whispering huddle.

“Slight change of plan,” Parkinson announced. “We will not be using the silence spell. That means we have to be QUIET and not trip over our own feet. This means you, Emmet. Also, we’ll be using the Petrofactus Totem spell to hold Lupin.”

The expression of relief on their faces was instant.

“Good idea, Prince!” said Nott.

“It was MY idea!” said Parkinson.

“Of course it was, mate.” Blood’s voice was just a shade too conciliating, and Parkinson glared at him. “You’re all going to bed early and get some sleep before the mission. Here, you, Ponce—you’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

“Elroy, this is so sudden.”

“Don’t be funny,” Parkinson snapped. “I’m not spending three hours trying to wake you up from behind your fortress of magical security when it’s time to go. Unless you’d rather bunk with Willy.”

Prince absolutely would not, so he reluctantly put on his pajamas and crawled into Parkinson’s bed.

“If you snore, I’ll kick you out on the floor,” Parkinson snarled as he grabbed more than his share of the blankets.

“I should warn you, I tend to cast spells in my sleep,” Prince said. “I woke up one morning to find my pillow transfigured into a horklump.”

He remained wakeful for some time, not only because of the cold, but because he felt extremely vulnerable without his defensive spells around him. If Talbot intended to attack him, Prince thought almost hopefully, he might accidentally curse Parkinson as well. It could be highly entertaining to see how that played out, almost worth being cursed for.

But there seemed no cause for concern. Talbot had dropped onto his bed fully clothed, and was sleeping like the dead. Prince watched him with consternation, until Parkinson’s thick, even breathing indicated that boy was asleep. Prince considered the possibility of returning to his own bed, and decided to do so, in just a moment, when he wasn’t feeling quite so drowsy.

Prince woke to the tiny chiming of Parkinson’s watch. It was midnight, and the Sons of Walpurgis first-year sergeant groaned, sat up, and gave Prince a punch on the shoulder.

“Time for action!” he muttered. “Put a sleep spell on the non-members.”

Yawning, Prince cast the snoozing charm on Fish and Lovecraft as Parkinson kicked the other Sons of Walpurgis out of bed. Talbot whined and moaned in particular, and was still grumbling when the six of them, cloaks inside-out and wands in hand, left the dormitory.

“Quiet,” Parkinson growled.

“I don’t want to be quiet,” Talbot whined. “I want to go back to bed, Elroy. I’m tired.”

“That’s Harken to you, remember? Code names on, you lot.”

“What’s the matter with you, Antonin?” Blood demanded—no, Thorfinn, Prince remembered—“You’re usually champing at the bit to get to work!”

“Scared of Lupin?” Nott/Igor taunted.

“No,” Parkinson/Harken said. “He’s scared of Professor McGrannypants. Ever since the rabbit incident—“ Parkinson shook his head. “Now, pipe down, all of you.” Curious to know what the rabbit incident was, Prince decided to ask later, but then, knowing Talbot, wondered if he really wanted to know.

They stepped past Professor Sylvanus’s silent office and out into the dark corridor. The Great Hall seemed more enormous than ever, empty, and eerie without its usual hubbub of chattering students. The group made their way through the castle without incident, though, at one point, the six of them ridiculously tried to hide behind a suit of armor as Mr. Shunpike whistled his way down the corridor, carrying several baskets. If he had happened to look in their direction, he could not have missed spotting them. And there seemed no way anyone could have avoided hearing the whispering, shoving, and rattling of armor.

But he carried on along his way, to Prince’s disbelief. With sudden misgiving, Prince remembered that Shunpike had claimed to be a former Death Eater. If he still had dreams of serving Voldemort, could it be that he intentionally did not notice the Sons of Walpurgis? And could it be that there were other teachers and staff members who supported the secret society, or were even members themselves?

It was an unsettling thought, one that kept Prince silent until they reached Gryffindor tower, and made their way upward. Prince noted a charming little alcove with a window overlooking the lake, and wondered with a pang if that was the one Professor McGonagall had said his sister Merylyn had liked to study in.

Parkinson stopped before a portrait of a hefty woman in a pink silk dress, dozing.

“Twinkle-toes,” Parkinson whispered gruffly, and the others snorted with suppressed mirth at the silly password.

“Goodness, you’re out late tonight,” the portrait grumbled dozily, without even opening her eyes, and the picture swung back to reveal a secret door. The six Slytherins stepped silently and awed into the forbidden enemy territory of the Gryffindor Common room.

Prince stood there gazing along with the others. Even in the darkness, the gold glinted, and the red velvet glowed in the moonlight. The Slytherin common room had a spooky wonder to it, the Hufflepuff common room had been comfy and cozy, but the Gryffindor common room was…majestic. There was no other word for it.

“Ha. No wonder they’re such snots,” Parkinson finally commented. “Come on—that must be the way to the dormitories. Quit whimpering, Will—er, Antonin.”

They entered the doorway and began quietly going up the stairs.

Halfway up, Prince felt something shift under his foot—and then the entire stairway went flat and slick. He yelped as Parkinson slipped and slid down, knocking Talbot’s feet out from under him, and the two of them crashed into Prince. They accumulated the rest of the yelling task force as they continued their plunge back to tumble onto the rich red carpet of the common room.

“What the—it’s booby trapped!” Zounds squeaked in shock as Parkinson fumbled for a piece of wrinkled paper from his pocket.

“Shut your gob,” Parkinson snarled. “A little mistake, that’s all. It’s the other door.”

“You tried to take us into the GIRLS’ dorm!” Nott accused.

“I said shut it!”

“You’re an idiot, Elroy! And you can’t even throw a proper curse. What makes you think you belong in charge of this?”

“Oh, and would one of you lot be any better, then?”

“I’m complaining to Brother Lucius about you. And if he won’t do anything, I’m going right to Augustus and Porfirio!”

“Do it and your arse will get a good look at my boot,” Parkinson snarled.

Prince was enjoying this exchange tremendously, when a bright light sent a stab of terror into his soul. In the open passageway, a figure had appeared—an old woman with a glowing wand in one hand, a lethal-looking knobbly cane in the other, and an expression of anger on her face.

“What are you doing out of bed at this hour?” Professor McGonagall demanded. And, seeing their terrified faces in the light of her wand, her own expression grew even more furious and outraged, as well as suspicious. “And in GRYFFINDOR TOWER?!”

They stayed frozen in place by terror. “HOW, may I ask, did you get in here? And why? Mr. Parkinson, nothing to say? Mr. Prince, you are uncharacteristically silent.”

Prince sputtered a few unintelligible syllables before managing to choke out, “We got lost.”

“Lost? LOST? Come, you will have to do better than that. Your house head will be--”

“It’s true!” Prince lied desperately. “We were trying to get to the hospital wing, and we thought we knew a shortcut, and we went through a door and we ended up here—“

“The hospital wing?” Professor McGonagall snorted. “All six of you suddenly came down with the megrims? You look surprisingly healthy, Mr. Prince.”

“Well, it was an emergency,” said Prince. “We thought we’d better come along with William, here, under the circumstances. Do you see the purple blotches on the back of his neck? We think he’s got a case of the Spattergroit.”



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[Inkwolf]

25

Prince was the first to return to Hogwarts from St. Mungo’s. Since he had had Spattergroit before, Prince had only been required to be thoroughly disinfected and de-spored before being sent back with a clean bill of health. All the same, neither Headmaster Fudge nor Professor Sylvanus seemed inclined to approach him too closely, and were completely agreeable to his returning to the dormitory, rather than rejoining the girls in class.

It was in a subdued frame of mind that he entered the Slytherin dungeon, where teams of healers were still checking and sterilizing the common room. He made his way to the first-year boys’ dormitory, which was empty not only of students (Lovecraft and Fish had been rousted out of bed and whisked away to the hospital, too) but of mattresses, sheets, blankets, pillows and clothing of all sorts. Prince supposed the Hogwarts house elves were working overtime to scour the living daylights out of every garment. The floor and walls had been scrubbed until they almost shone.

The thought of house elves made Prince feel even lower. He sat on the wooden frame of his empty bed—now stripped of all spells, though he supposed he wouldn’t need them for a while—and kicked his feet back and forth.

“Oy! How’s life in the leper colony, then?” Yorick was looking in at the door.

“Hullo, Hero,” Prince called dully. “What’s new?”

“I’ve been thoroughly scanned and pronounced spore-free,” said Yorick. “Along with most of Slytherin, except your lot. They’re going through the entire school, though, and I hear they’ve found a few more cases in Ravenclaw.”

“Ravenclaw?” asked Prince in a panic, thinking of his new friends. “Who?”

“No idea,” Yorick shrugged. “Under the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t come in and give you a big, fat kiss. Oh, and Bradshaw says you needn’t turn up for Quidditch practice this week.”

“I’m perfectly healthy and sanitary!” Prince protested. Not that he had any interest in either the kiss or Quidditch drills.

“Yes, well, all the same…” And Yorick departed.

Prince sighed and kicked his feet some more. Then he finally called,”Wriggle!”

After a few moments, the house elf appeared. “Wriggle is here!” he announced. “What does the young master require? Are all of his plans going as they should?”

“Yes, sort of,” Prince said reluctantly. “Wriggle, that was not really Spattergroit we infected Talbot with, is it? Because I only said it should be something that might be mistaken for Spattergroit long enough to scare the daylights out of Young William. St. Mungo’s is still in a tizzy, and you’d think they’d be on to it by now. And Ravenclaw have had some cases as well, now. I would not like to think I’ve caused another epidemic.”

Wriggle shrugged and stuck an exploratory finger in one ear. “It would serve the Talbot right. Anyway, the young master should not worry. Nobody is dying of Spattergroit any more. Hardly anybody. And the young master will be much safer now.”

Prince’s blood ran cold as he remembered Professor Sylvanus’s tales of house elves murdering in their masters’ defense at Hogwarts in the old days.

“Wriggle!” Prince demanded. “Answer the question!”

Wriggle sighed. “The Talbot does not have Spattergroit, only Pooka-pest.”

Prince relaxed. Pooka-pest was a strange disease, which imitated the symptoms of whatever the most virulent local epidemic was, but only temporarily.

“You are certain, Wriggle?”

“Wriggle is. In a week or two, the nasty little Talbot is turning bright green, hiccupping constantly and blowing colored bubbles out its ears.”

“Because, Wriggle my sweet, while I’d be delighted to dance mazurkas with you on Talbot’s freshly-dug grave, the guilt of knowing I’d put him in it myself would probably upset my rhythm, and your feet might get stepped on. A lot. And very hard.”

“If it comes to that,” Wriggle said, “Wriggle does not object to sore toes. Does the young master require any other assistance?”

“None at present,” said Prince. “The rest of the class has no immunity, so they will be spending most of the day being tested for evidence of infestation. Wouldn’t it be lovely if the entire Parkinson brigade all came down with Pooka-pest?”

“Unlikely,” said Wriggle. “It is not so contagious as Spattergroit.”

“Pity,” said Prince. “Ah, well, I shall enjoy this brief and glorious moment of having a room to myself again. Thank you, Wriggle, I will call on you again, when necessary. Oh, wait—can you get me the recipe for dungbombs?”

“Wriggle regrets to say, no. The formula is kept at Gringotts under high security in Zonko’s own vault.”

“Bugger. I shall have to create my own version, then. Hasta la vista, Wriggle. If that means what I think it does.” The house elf departed, and Prince began riffling through his textbooks for clues on how to proceed. He had promised the midget morons a lesson in dungbomb-making, and the Princes were in the habit of keeping their promises. At least, they were when it suited them.

There were plenty of spells and potions for eliminating a terrible smell, but he found nothing for creating them. After a time, he put aside his textbook and simply racked his brain.

There was a time when Goyle had messed up her wakefulness potion, driving the class out of the room with the steamy stench that bubbled from her cauldron. Prince had too much pride to co-opt one of Goyle’s creations, but he thought that it was a start. Perhaps some combination of stinkroot, giant’s sweat, and tebo dung would make the potion more original, stable, and stinky. He put on his cloak and headed out to gather the smelliest potion ingredient.

He passed the staff room on the way, and overheard part of a discussion on decorating the castle for Christmas. Prince felt another pang at the thought of not being at Alspellers with Wriggle for the holiday, but he put it out of his head and left the castle.

Outside, the air was crisp and cold, the sky overcast, and everything had gone brown. December was in evidence everywhere, and the world was preparing for winter. At least, Prince thought, the snap in the air reduced the fetid stench that usually wafted from the tebo corral.

As he drew nearer the paddock, though, the smell didn’t increase. There was the barest whiff of it on the icy breeze. Absent, too, were the snorting, whuffling noises that the creatures generally made. Prince reached the fence to find the pen empty, the door to the shed open. The foul-smelling beasts were gone.

Near the gamekeeper’s cottage, Prince saw Hagrid with a wheelbarrow and a rake, and he ran after him.

“Hagrid!” Prince called. “Oy! Where are the teboes?”

“Gone,” said Hagrid gloomily, continuing to push the wheelbarrow. “All them St. Mungoes healers have been swarmin’ over the place, and they said it wasn’t sanitary to keep teboes within two miles of human habitation. It was all the excuse the headmaster needed. He ordered me to get rid of ‘em at once. Don’t know what things are coming to. Wizardin’ world’s turning into a bloomin’ nanny state.”

“Too bad,” said Prince. “I rather liked them.”

“I’ll miss ‘em, too,” said Hagrid. “Mind you, the money we got from selling ‘em is bringing in a fine pair of breeding manticores. And maybe one or two even more interestin’ beasts.” He glanced toward the forest. Was it Prince’s imagination, or was there a distinctly shifty expression in Hagrid’s eyes?

“I don’t suppose there’s any more tebo dung about the place?” Prince asked. “Only, there was an experiment I wanted to try…”

“I doubt it,” said Hagrid. “Ask Professor Longbottom. Mind, I’m pretty sure he’s already composted everything that hasn’t gone right into the gardens.”

Cursing his luck, Prince returned to the castle. Students were gathering for lunch in the Great Hall. As he walked by the Gryffindor table, he heard complaining students. Apparently the healers had invaded, cleaned and scanned the Gryffindor common room for evidence of contamination as well. Ravenclaw was in a total flutter. With some relief, Prince saw Quark and Abernathy seated at the far end of the hall. Spirits seemed highest at the Hufflepuff table. They were no longer the sole infected house at the school.

Prince took has seat with the Slytherins. The students to each side of him hastily scooted their chairs away, but Prince cheerfully ignored it. Down the table, he could hear Jared taking bets on which house would produce the next Spattergroit victim.

He returned to his classes that afternoon, ignoring how the girls nervously kept their distance.

Transfiguration class was a bit awkward. Free to give individual attention to the few remaining students, Professor McGonagall coached Dorcas, Dierdre, Belinda, Abigail and the Goyle while Prince continued to pursue his independent study. From time to time, though, she would cast a glance filled with dark suspicion in his direction. It made Prince quite uncomfortable, and he did not have his usual quick success as he attempted to transform a toadstool into a pocket watch.

Eventually, Professor McGonagall came to watch his progress.

“So,” she said quietly. “You and your friends got lost and somehow ended up in the Gryffindor dormitory, did you?”

“The castle is full of oddities, isn’t it?” Prince said. “I think I’ve just about got this.” There was a sudden twanging noise, and the face flew off the pocket watch, scattering bits of metal and toadstool in every direction.

“Not quite good enough, Mr. Prince,” said the professor drily.

He looked up at her. Professor McGonagall’s eyes were like steel gimlets, but she was, after all, tottery and very ancient. Terrifying, she could be, yes. Still, the thought of a confrontation between the old witch and the room filled with dark-cloaked figures made Prince uneasy. She was just the type to leap in and confront the Sons of Walpurgis face to face, and he could not foresee a happy ending to the conflict.

Prince looked back down at his desktop and gathered the remains of his work up. “It’s…very complicated,” he finally said. “But I’ll get things sorted out in the end. I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help.”

She continued to glower at him.

“Trust me,” he added.

Professor McGonagall still looked grim, but she moved away to hover over Goyle and make encouraging noises. Prince took a deep breath and let it out.

The other Slytherin boys did not return until late in the evening, by which time the dormitory had been restored to its usual state. Prince was lying on his bed reading a comic book about the invention of Gobstones when the grumbling students stumbled in.

“Hullo,” said Prince. “Where are the others?”

Parkinson dropped heavily onto his bed. “Emmet and Fish have been taken home by their parents. Willy’s still at St. Mangle’s. He really does have the Spattergroit. And I thought you were just making it up to spook the old lady.”

“What about the Ravenclaws?”

“They have it, too. All three have been carted off to the Spattergroit ward.”

The Spattergroit ward? With genuine victims of the disease? Prince sat up suddenly. He had not thought this through well enough. While Talbot was not actually infected with Spattergroit, he soon would be. Prince had a sudden impulse to rush to Professor Sylvanus and confess all before it was too late.

But…it probably was too late already.

And Talbot would be under the best healing treatment from the beginning, of course.

“Rough luck on Willy,” said Parkinson. “Still, it may be for the best. His sort are at their best in a fight, and pretty awkward to handle the rest of the time. He was making our work difficult. Things will run smoother now. Good thing you spotted it when you did, Prince, or he might have infected others. Spending Christmas in hospital—better Willy than all of us, eh?”

“Mm,” said Prince.

“What are you looking so glum about?” said Parkinson. “I didn’t think you liked Willy at all. I thought the two of you hated each other.”

“Well, yes,” said Prince. “I—I guess I feel sorry for his family. Anyway, everyone ought to be able to go home for Christmas.” He couldn’t, himself, and he still felt miserable about it.

Parkinson snorted. “Don’t worry about that. He hasn’t got a family to go home to. Parents are dead.”

Prince hadn’t imagined he could feel sorry for Talbot, and had certainly never conceived of the notion that he could ever feel a kinship with the horrible boy.

Talbot, like him, had lost his parents.

Talbot, like him, would not be going home for the holidays.

Talbot would probably be suffering through all the misery of Spattergroit, as Prince once had.

“How did his parents die?” Prince asked.

“How should I know?” said Parkinson. “Some sort of magical accident, from what I’ve heard.”

“Magical accident?” Nott asked. “I thought they were Muggles.”

Parkinson shrugged. “I don’t know any details. Anyway, he would never have gone home and missed the Voldemort’s Birthday celebration. The thing for us is to use the time well when he’s out from underfoot. Lupin and the other Gryffindors are probably out of reach for a bit, but I’ve got a few other names on the list we ought to deal with. We’ll see to them as soon as possible.”

“But, hang on, Parkinson,” Prince protested. “In case you forgot, we were caught red-handed, nicked, rumbled, found out.”

“Yeah, and you lied our way out if it with the brilliance we expect from the resident brainiac,” said Parkinson. “Besides, one look at those splotches on Willy’s neck, and she forgot all about us. We’re in the clear.”

“That’s what you think,” said Prince. “Our enchanting Minerva was eyeing me with the evilest of eyes all through Transfiguration today. She smells a rat and the rat is us. Our delightful nocturnal excursions, alas, must come to an end before we do. Besides, what if you catch Spattergroit? Talbot must have picked it up that night we were in Hufflepuff. I’m immune, but YOU all--”

“Bugger McGrannypants,” Parkinson growled. “Stop always going on moaning like somebody’s maiden aunt. Tomorrow we start thinking about how to deal with Alvin Meadows. Now, I’m tired. Shut up and turn out the light.”

Prince lay awake for a very long time, thinking.


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[Inkwolf]

26

Prince hurried along the hall to his Saturday detention. He was going to be late.

Parkinson had been quite serious about getting as much done as possible while Talbot was gone. Over the past two weeks, he had led three expeditions into Ravenclaw and four into Hufflepuff, one of which had been cut short when Professor Puddleby had been working unusually late into the night. Even Parkinson had backed down from sneaking past the well-lit office to reach the dormitory.

The worry and loss of sleep had made Prince groggy, and he had dozed off immediately after Quidditch practice, sleeping until he was almost too late for detention.

He burst into the room. Professor Crowther was nowhere in sight. Rafe Abernathy and Aristotle Quark were already coaching the unruly horde of ten-year-olds.

“Sorry!” said Prince breathlessly.

“About time, too,“ said Abernathy sternly. “This lot needs as many handlers as we can get.”

“Yes, I see that young Simms has already got Arithmetic all down his shirtfront,” said Prince. Taking a closer look at Abernathy he added, “Why in the name of Merlin’s nose flute have you got—“

“DON’T TELL ME WHO IT IS!” shouted Abernathy. Both he and Quark had Chocolate Frog cards attached to their foreheads. Rafe wore Bertie Botts, while Aristotle sported Lord Voldemort in all his pasty, sneering, red-eyed, noseless glory.

“It’s a game we’re playing in Ravenclaw,” said Quark. “People have to treat you like the person on your card, and at the end of the day, you have to guess who you’ve got. I’m pretty sure I already know mine,” he added glumly. “People have been screaming and running away and yelling ‘Someone get Harry Potter’ at me all day.”

“What fun,” said Prince. He wondered how he would treat Lord Voldemort, supposing the Sons of Walpurgis actually did manage to bring him back. He considered the possibility of fighting the Dark Lord, or of going undercover as one of his followers, like Snape. Most likely, he was forced to admit, he would simply try to avoid the Dark Lord and his minions altogether, as the previous generations of Princes had.

But, for the honor of Slytherin and in memory of Severus Snape, he bowed to Quark and said, “Welcome back, My Lord,” in as evil a tone as he could muster. Ignoring the strange look Quark gave him, he turned to Abernathy and asked, “Is there a snidget-flavored one? Or a rotten egg one? Or an air one? How about zebra flavor? Or rotting corpse? Or vampire? Or arsenic? Or—“

Professor Crowther bustled in at this point, and Prince hastily began coaching his students. But whenever she was out of the room, he would call to Abernathy, “Any dandelion ones?” or “What about shark’s liver flavor?” or “Burned curried squid! Ha!”

But most of his attention was taken up by the brat pack.

“Is it me, or is this lot wilder than usual?” Quark asked.

“It is the proximity of the holidays,” Prince said. “I believe they are mad with anticipation of the yearly ration of coal, switches, and rotten potatoes Father Christmas must bring them each year.”

“The rotten potatoes are the best,” said Abernathy. “I haven’t been bad enough to get them for years, so I have to actually ask Father Christmas for them. Last year he told me there wasn’t enough to go around, what with kids like Simms, Wiggins, Barley, Slighcarp and Dorset sucking up all the supply.”

“That’s stupid,” said Adelbert Wiggins rebelliously. ”Why would you even want rotten potatoes?”

“Put ‘em out in the yard, stick the switches in for arms and make eyes with the coal,” said Quark. “Haven’t you ever made a rotten potato man?”

“That’s stupid,” Wiggins said again, and Prince gave him a rap on the skull.

“A little more respect for your wise old tribal elders, if you please,” said Prince sternly, “Or we shall hurl you into the crocodile pit. Now, I’d like to congratulate you on the fact that I can find no misspellings in this paragraph you wrote. On the other hand, that may be because I can’t read your awful handwriting. Do it over.”

“Shan’t!”

“May I remind you that your lesson in making dungbombs at the end of our association is dependent on the good behavior and cooperation of everybody?” Prince said.

“Do it, Adelbert,” the other pipsqueaks ordered. Wiggins grumpily started re-writing the paragraph.

“Nice. The carrot and the stick,” said Abernathy.

“The rotten potato and the switch,” Quark corrected him.

“I bet there isn’t a dungbomb-flavored one, either,” said Prince. His careless tone was forced, though. He still had made little progress on his dungbomb research. Though he supposed he could always blame some misbehavior of the students for his failure to deliver the promised lesson, he was sure Quark and Abernathy would be equally disappointed in him.

Prince was all set to join the Ravenclaw table for dinner again that night—he saw that the rest of the first-years also had Chocolate Frog cards stuck to their heads, and he wanted to see who they were, but Parkinson was standing at the Slytherin table, imperiously waving him over. Prince reluctantly returned to his proper place.

“You ought to be careful who you’re seen with,” said Parkinson darkly as Prince sat down. “That Quark kid’s been desecrating the image of Lord Voldemort all day.”

“What, the Chocolate Frog card?” asked Prince. “It’s just a game they’re playing. He just got Voldytoes by random choice.”

“I don’t care,” growled Parkinson. “And don’t call the Dark Lord Voldytoes! I think that Quark needs seeing to. Yeah, I think we ought to pay him a visit tonight.”

Chilled, Prince stared at Parkinson. “Is it me, or are your excuses for attacking people getting thinner every day? I’m through with this…reign of terror of yours. If you go, you go without me, and I hope Aggie catches you and feeds you to her basilisk-skin handbag.”

“You’ll do as I say,” said Parkinson. “You know who’s in command of our group. I have the full authority of the Sons of Walpurgis. One more traitorous word, and you’ll be added to our list of enemy sympathizers.”

“We’re going out too often!” Prince said desperately. “We’re bound to get caught!”

“Rubbish, we get more efficient every mission we go on!” said Parkinson confidently. “Without Willy chewing up the walls and Emmett tripping over his own feet, we’re like a well-oiled machine. So, be prepared. We’re for Ravenclaw tonight. And, as you know the target, maybe I’ll let you do the spellwork tonight.”

Parkinson, Blood and Nott left the table, and Prince sat staring down at his plate with no appetite. Quark had not been his friend for long, but Prince had few enough friends to appreciate them all the more.

And even if Quark hadn’t been his friend, Prince loathed the night-time raids and attacks. He stood back as much as possible, left the curses and beatings to the others whenever he could, took part only enough to avoid arousing the wrath of Parkinson.

But he did take part. In short, he had become one of the bullies in order to avoid being one of the victims. “What a wretched coward I am,” Prince thought. At the same time, he was fairly certain Mr. Burke had told him that it was better to be a live coward than a dead hero.

He didn’t think, though, that Severus Snape would agree to that. Or Professor McGonagall. Or Neville Longbottom. Or anyone else he really admired.

It was no good. He would have to stand up to Parkinson at last. Ten to one he would end up in the hospital again, before being expelled.

“And with my luck,” Prince muttered, “they’ll put me in the bed next to Willy Boy.”

Shrouded in gloom, he made his way to the dungeon. Maybe if he simply told Parkinson he was going to tattle, it would be enough to stop the night raids. Then he’d only have to look out for himself.

Walking down the dungeon corridors staring at his boots, Prince didn’t notice the other boy until we crashed headlong into him.

“Watch where you’re going!” an irritable voice snapped.

“Sorry,” Prince said hollowly, looking up. The thin, pinched face was familiar. It was Brother Augustus, chief officer of the Sons of Walpurgis. Prince had to rack his brain for the seventh-year’s real name. Brimble, that was it.

“Prince, isn’t it?” Brimble asked. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you’re getting on with your classmates. There’s been no more trouble, has there?”

“Trouble?” Prince said, a faint ray of hope piercing his soul. “Well, that all depends on what sort of trouble you mean…”



“Quiet!” Parkinson hissed, and they all froze and melted into the shadows. Professor Flitwick came down the hall, singing a Christmas carol to himself. They waited until he entered his office, until the lights went out, and until all was silence.

“He’s up late,” muttered Blood as they moved on.

“He’s been decorating for Christmas, in case you haven’t noticed, oh ye of little observation,” said Prince. The walls were festooned with wreaths, holly, and golden bells, and had been all the way up from the dungeons.

“Pipe down,” Parkinson snarled quietly. “We’re almost there. Come on.”

They approached the entrance to the Ravenclaw dormitory. Prince particularly hated raids on Ravenclaw, because he knew they could never get in without him to answer the riddle at the door. He felt personally responsible for every time Parkinson and his cronies had set foot in the Ravenclaw common room. But somehow he could not quite bring himself to pretend he didn’t know the answer.

Parkinson suddenly gave the signal to freeze, and they all went motionless, tensely staring into the darkness. Prince could hear his own heart pounding, could hear Parkinson’s breath in the silence of the tower.

After several minutes frozen in place, Parkinson relaxed again. “’S alright,” he muttered. “Thought for a minute I saw someone.”

“Really? And who could possibly be here in the middle of the night waiting for you?” A clear, irritable voice rang out. Prince gasped with the rest, though he had been half expecting it. Aloysius Brimble stepped out of the shadows.

“Brother Augustus!” said Parkinson nervously. “We were just—“

“I know what you were just,” said Brimble sharply. “Do you think we haven’t heard rumors of your misconduct? Did you think you were completely unobserved? Did you really believe you could go on terrorizing students forever without anyone noticing?”

“We were doing—“

“You were overstepping your authority,” Brimble snapped. “You were flouting the traditions and aims of the Sons of Walpurgis. You were running off half-cocked on your own personal agenda without a thought for the welfare of the organization. It’s followers like you,” he added bitterly, “who give Lord Voldemort a bad name.”

Even Prince’s jaw dropped at that comment.

“You have been warned before. It has apparently made little impression on you. Therefore, I must officially suspend you from the Sons of Walpurgis. You will not attend meetings until further notice. You will not take part in the Birthday Ceremonies. And you most absolutely certainly will NOT carry out any more of these nocturnal adventures of yours, am I clear?”

Parkinson stammered, “B-brother Lucius—“

“I have discussed this already with Brother Lucius and Brother Profirio. They are in complete agreement. If there is any more trouble AT ALL, your suspension may become permanent. Now--”

A door creaked open down the hall, and a shaft of light lit the hall.

“What is all the commotion?” Professor Flitwick’s voice quavered. “Who’s there?”

“First years out of bed, Professor,” Brimble said promptly. “Don’t worry, I am dealing with it.”

“Aloysius? Is that you?” said Professor Flitwick dubiously. “That’s all very well, but what are you doing out of the dormitory yourself?”

“It’s all right,” Brimble said, raising his lapel so that something flashed golden in the light of the candle the little professor was carrying. “Professor Sylvanus restored my prefect status for the night, just to deal with this. I am taking them right back to the dungeon this instant.”

When Flitwick had retreated into his office, Brimble turned to them. For the first time ever, Prince saw a tight smile cross his features.

“It’s been almost a year since I was last able to take points away from anybody,” Brimble said, “and my authority only lasts for a night. I’d better make the most of it.”




“Fifty points apiece from Slytherin!” Nott moaned when they had been escorted back to their dormitory and crawled back into bed. “How can he do that to his own house? How can Aggie have let him be a prefect again, knowing he’s like that?”

“Is that why he lost his badge?” Prince asked. “Took too many points from his own house?”

Parkinson didn’t answer, but lay staring upward until they all settled down for sleep. Just as Prince was about to drop off, Parkinson said, “The thing I don’t get is how Brimble got on to us. I mean, nobody was talking that I heard about. Everyone we visited was too scared to blab it about. Someone must have tipped Brimble off.” He rolled onto his side and eyed Prince with a hard, suspicious glance. “It wasn’t you, was it?”

“Me?” said Prince indignantly. “Why me? In case you didn’t notice, I was punished, too. I’m just as suspended as you are!”

Parkinson snorted and rolled over again.

“Bugger,” said Prince. “And I was so looking forward to a slice of Voldemort’s birthday cake.”


Post feedback here, please!

[Inkwolf]

27

The loss of Slytherin’s soaring lead in the house cup race did not go unnoticed. All along the table, people glared at Parkinson, Nott and Blood. As for Prince, he avoided a good deal of the house disapproval, partly because, once more able to distance himself from his classmates, he was sitting with the Quidditch team. Also because it was well known that he had materially contributed to the lead in the first place.

Parkinson and his cronies still looked like stunned bunnies, and Prince wondered if they had noticed the general censure, or if they were still simply reeling from the suspension.

Professor Sylvanus entered the hall, her usually serene demeanor slipping as she cast a sour glance in the direction of the first years. She shot another quick look of disfavor at Brimble, who was eating a hearty breakfast and practically glowing with satisfaction and triumph.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Prince asked. “Brimble lost his prefect’s badge for taking too many points from Slytherin.”

Yorick snorted with laughter.

“Not really,” Aisling Cault said. “Well, maybe sort of.”

“Aggie’s got a really laid-back approach to enforcing the rules,” Yorick said. “Brimble doesn’t. At all. Their styles clashed.”

“He’ll end up a tax auditor, or an Auror, or something equally loathsome in the Ministry, you watch,” predicted Bradshaw, hastily adding, “Not that I don’t have the highest respect for his integrity and dedication.” The high officers of the Sons of Walpurgis stuck together, it seemed. At least for the moment. Prince wondered if there would be a huge three-way falling-out at some point. It would almost be worth remaining a member to see it happen.

As if the thought had summoned him, Jeremy Talbot appeared at the table. “Morning, Bradshaw,” he said amiably. “Mind if I borrow Prince for a moment?”

Getting up to follow Brother Porfirio to a quiet corner of the Great Hall, Prince was aware of the eyes of Parkinson boring into his back.

“I understand we have you to thank for informing on our rogue members,” Jeremy said softly, when they were away from the table. “We owe you a debt of thanks.” His eyes were cold and expressionless, though, and Prince wondered if he really felt thankful at all.

“Just trying to be a loyal Son of Walpurgis and uphold the fine moral standards with which our dear Lord Voldemort left us,” Prince said. “You won’t let them know it was me, will you?”

“Of course not,” said Jeremy. “I’ll be off to give them a talking-to next, so they don’t wonder why I’m speaking with you. But the next time you have something to report, I would appreciate it if you came to me directly.”

“Come to you,” Prince repeated. “As in, don’t go to Brother— er, to Brimble?”

Jeremy smiled, and it was a smile that somehow made Prince immediately feel a surge of confidence in him, in spite of himself. “It’s a chain-of-command thing. You understand. Bradshaw and I feel that Brother Augustus tends to be…over-zealous, shall we say.”

Prince struggled not to be overcome by Jeremy’s strange charisma, and to make sense of the actual words. “I see. So, you wouldn’t have stopped them?”

“Oh, I’d have put a stop to it,” said Jeremy. “Only perhaps I wouldn’t broadcast it to the entire school.” He looked at the huge hourglasses overhead, now filled with two hundred less of the little green gems, and his nose wrinkled slightly.

“Right,” said Prince. “Got it.”

Jeremy nodded. “I’ve heard you’re bright. The Sons of Walpurgis will find much better uses for your talents than petty bullying and breaking into other houses. Just be patient and keep out of trouble until the suspension ends, and you’ll find we take care of those that give good service. Now, I’m off to chat with your classmates. Keep the faith.”

“By the way, how’s your brother doing?” Prince called after him.

Jeremy looked blank. “Eh? Which one?”

“The one in the hospital with Spattergroit,” said Prince.

“Oh, Will. He’s fine, I suppose. At least, I’ve heard nothing. I assume they’d tell me if anything was up.” He shrugged and moved on.

Prince felt another twinge of sympathy for the loathsome Talbot, whose own brother couldn’t be bothered to check whether he was dying or not. However much William Talbot reminded one of a rabid stoat, biting everything and everyone in reach, Prince suddenly had the feeling that Jeremy was by far the more dangerous and frightening of the brothers. Prince couldn’t shake off the impression that there was something slimy and poisonous about Brother Porfirio.

Prince watched as Jeremy went on to lecture Parkinson, Blood and Nott. Far from looking as if they were being scolded, they appeared to cheer up considerably. At least, Prince thought, they weren’t glaring in his direction. Whatever promises and words of comfort Jeremy Talbot was giving them, he at least didn’t seem to be ratting on Prince.

There was a sudden thump, followed by the crashing of metal and shattering of glass. The Slytherin students jumped up from their places as a bundle of armor and feathers rolled down the table, knocking over glasses of pumpkin juice and pitchers of milk, to shudder to a halt in front of Prince. It was a familiar armored owl, lying on its back in a plate of scrambled eggs and clutching several rumpled letters in its talons.

“Ah, said Prince, ignoring the outraged grumbling of his fellow students as he took the letters. “Many thanks. It must be difficult to land with all that metal plating. Well done. You are building up some amazing wing muscles, I see.”


The owl staggered proudly to its feet, and Prince rewarded it with a couple of sausages. It took off clumsily, spattering scrambled egg over the general company, as Prince opened his mail. There was a lot of it, but the one he opened first and with the most enthusiasm was a fat packet from America. It was, at last, a reply to his letter to Amanda Trollope.

“Dear Bertie,” she wrote. “I am having an absolutely fabulous time! Everyone is so nice! Quodpot is a hundred times more exciting than Quidditch, and the team captain is sooooooo scrumptious! Of course, I miss all of you TERRIBLY. You look so cute in your Quidditch uniform! Of course, you’d be INCREDIBLE in Quodpot padding. Here is the next chapter in my novel, by the way. I want you to read it first. Pass it on to Margery Flack when you’re done, will you?”

Prince winced, and skimmed through just enough of the thick ream of parchment to confirm his suspicions. The eagle-eyed Gryffindor Quidditch captain had a new rival in a lantern-jawed, tousle-haired Quodpot-playing exchange student. The two of them glowered at each other constantly over the heroine’s flaming, red-haired head.

Prince delivered the manuscript to Amanda’s number one fan, and returned to his mail.

The next was from Mr. Burke. “Dear Albert, I have instructed Gringotts to transfer five hundred galleons to your personal account for your Christmas shopping needs. As I’m sure you are busy with your studies and have many new acquaintances to cultivate, I have instructed my secretary to take care of your familial and business connections for you this year. I hope you are having a safe and productive time at school, and regret that I shall not be seeing you for the holidays.

“Warmest Regards, Antonius Burke.”

Prince yelped with a combination of delight and dismay. In all of the ruckus over the Sons of Walpurgis, Spattergroit, dungbomb research, tutoring the midgets, and Parkinson’s raids, Prince had entirely forgotten his Christmas shopping.

His plans to improve the library’s history collection had also fallen along the wayside, along with his work to advance a year early, and the quest to save Severus Snape’s bed from the ravages of Arnold Goyle. For all Prince knew, the elder Goyle might have set the bed on fire by now.

The rest of his mail consisted of a note from Gringott’s confirming the transfer of funds, and several gift catalogs. Prince began to leaf through them. He had the entire, glorious Sunday off to spend choosing gifts.



It was only a few days later that the Hogwarts Express departed, taking most of the school's students home for Christmas. Prince had expected to feel terribly glum, alone, and abandoned. But though he definitely felt a twinge of homesickness, at least he was not alone in misery.

"Buck up," he said encouragingly.

"How can they DO it to me?" Parkinson snarled. "How can Mum and Dad go off to Majorca on Christmas, without me?"

"Be fair," said Prince. "You told them you WANTED to stay at school for the holidays."

"That was BEFORE we got banned from the Voldemort birthday celebration," Nott moaned. His parents had also made alternate plans which couldn't be changed, as had Lester Blood's. And the three of them hadn't stopped moaning since the train had left.

Hogwarts was, in fact, surprisingly lively and populated. Though clearly not every Son of Walpurgis was staying for the celebration, the number of students who remained behind were a considerable surprise to Prince, and apparently also to the house heads, all of whom wore put-upon expressions.


On Christmas morning, Prince awoke to find an enormous hamper dominating the dormitory.

“Wriggle has really outdone himself,” Prince said to his roommates. He opened the hamper to discover an enormous black cake and more pasties, pastries, pies, biscuits, cakes and sweets than any ten boys could have eaten in a year. Prince half expected to find Wriggle in the hamper as well, but the elf was clearly taking the threat of rogue house elves poaching his territory quite seriously.

“Help yourselves,” he said to the others. They were still moping, even as they opened their gifts. “I hope you like the dragons,” he added. “I didn’t know which ones you had already.” He knew the others collected dragon models, and had ordered three of the newest releases.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Parkinson said.

“That’s all right,” said Prince.

“I wasn’t apologizing, just telling you. Oy, what’s this?” He pulled out a folded paper from his dragon’s wrapping.

“You get something extra, since you’re our fearless leader,” said Prince. “It’s a book of useful coupons. You know the sort of thing, kids give them to their mums with things on them like ‘dust the banister’ and ‘extra hug’ and ‘wash the dishes.’ The ones I gave you are more like ‘Shut your blooming pie-hole’ and ‘Will you stop that bloody singing,’ and ‘Show me all the mistakes on my homework before I turn it in and look like a prat.’”

“Only one of each?” Parkinson objected. “Tosser.”

“Well, you do have the dragon. The coupons were extra.”

“I’d rather you kept the dragon and give me a couple hundred of the ‘shut your blooming pie-hole’ coupons,” said Parkinson.

Prince left Parkinson to sulk and returned to his own gifts. The Prendergasts had sent him a Muggle storybook about a young wizard. Prince was chortling before he got through the first page.

Reginald had sent him a Christmas card from the tropics. Prince threw it away.

Then he opened Mr. Burke’s gift, and his jaw dropped. He jumped out of bed.

“Look!” he squeaked at Parkinson, not that he thought Parkinson would care, but there was nobody else to share with. “Look what I got!”

Parkinson’s face twisted. “Ech. Don’t you hate it when you get books for Christmas?”

“It’s not just A book,” Prince said, bouncing with excitement. “By Dumbledore’s nose-hair clippers! In the name of Prospero’s dandruff! It’s Ten Thousande MORE Magickal Pranques by Othmar the Amusing!”

“Yeah, so?”

“It’s the sequel to the original masterpiece! Only five hundred were printed, and I thought they were all burned by angry teachers and parents! This must be the last copy in existence and it’s MINE!”

“Yeah, well,” said Parkinson, “try not to wet yourself.”

Prince happily returned to his bed. When he opened the ancient book, a small slip of paper fell out. It was signed by Mr. Burke, and said only, “Please, Bertie, do not get yourself expelled.” Prince skimmed the table of contents, and bounced again when he came to ‘Chapter 43: Two Hundrede Wayf of making a Bad Smelle.’

“Othmar probably INVENTED dungbombs,” said Prince happily. He would have his recipe by the time Quark and Abernathy returned from their holiday, he was certain.

Eventually, Prince tore himself away from his gifts and made his way to the third-year dormitory. Yorick hailed him the moment he entered.

“My old man’s sent me a set of Gobstones, as if I was ten years old,” he said. “Can you believe it? My dad’s mental.”

“Well, it’s the thought the counts,” said Prince. “Here, I’ve got you something.”

“You shouldn’t have,” said Yorick. “I didn’t get you a thing. Hey, would you like some gobstones?”

“Thank you, no,” said Prince. “I endeavor to spend my free time in intellectual pursuits which elevate the mind and spirit and make the world a better place. Dungbombs are my current project.”

“Eh, how nice,” said Yorick, unwrapping his present. “A used Snitch. Well, it’s the thought that counts, like you said. Thanks, mate.”

“It’s the one from the 2000 World Quidditch Cup,” said Prince, and Yorick’s eyes widened.

“Not really?”

“Of course, really, Hero.”

Yorick mussed Prince’s hair violently and painfully. “Well, I think this makes us even for all the times I saved your life, eh?”

Yorick examined the Snitch as Prince attempted to restore his hair to order.

“Sorry you and your friends got banned from the Voldemort party,” Yorick said regretfully.

“They’re not my friends. YOU should know that, if nobody else does, Yorick.”

“Yeah, yeah. Still,” Yorick said. “It’s going to be pretty exciting. We’re all going to gather in the sixth year dormitory, and when the—“

“The dormitory?” Prince asked. “Not the Chamber of Secrets?”

“It’s too inconvenient,” said Yorick. “Like I’m saying, as soon as we’ve heard the speeches from the leaders, we’re going to sneak out and cast the new secret spell everywhere. We want somewhere we can duck in and out of quickly, in case any of the house heads are nosing about.”

“Why the sixth year dormitory?” Prince demanded.

“The Bloody Baron says it’s the room where Tom Riddle lived as a student,” said Yorick. “Besides, nobody’s living there over the holiday except for brothers.”

“Did the Bloody Baron tell you what bed Voldemort slept in?” asked Prince with a twinge of panic.

“It’s gone,” said Yorick. “It broke past repairing about ten years ago, and they burned it with the trash. Brimble’s sick about it. You should hear him go on. Anyway--”

Prince relaxed. He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt that there would have been something terribly wrong about it if Voldemort had slept in the same bed as Severus Snape. People would go on calling it Voldemort’s bed, as if nobody else important had ever slept there.

He had stopped listening to his companion’s rambling until Yorick suddenly poked him. “Here,” said Yorick. “You could come to the party.”

“No I couldn’t, I’ve been suspended from the SOW,” Prince answered.

“Clean out your ears. I just said everyone will be masked for security reasons. I mean, you mustn’t speak to anyone who’d recognize your voice, and you can’t cast the secret spell, but there’s going to be food, and you can see the Mortfire --.”

“Mortfire?” Prince said sharply. “That’s nothing like balefire, is it?”

“Oops,” said Yorick. “That’s still secret. Don’t tell anyone I told you. No, Mortfire is sort of like a cross between a bonfire and the Dark Mark. The practice ones we cast were amazing. I don’t think it would actually catch anything on fire, unless you threw something into it.”

Like a dilapidated old bed. Prince found it hard to believe that the Sons would set a big fire during their party and not throw things into it. They were teen boys first, after all, and secret society members second.

“I may have a Christmas present for you after all,” said Yorick. “Do you know the Tennessee Bird Walk?”

“I don’t think so. Why, do Tennessee birds walk differently from others?”


Shortly afterward, Prince ambled into the first-year dormitory singing, “Oh remember my darling, when spring is in the air, and the bald-headed birds are whispering everywhere, and you see them walking southward in their dirty underwear—“

“Are you going to make me use this coupon already?” Parkinson demanded. He was still sprawled on his bed, sulking.

Prince beamed down at his surly dorm mate. “Cheer up Parkinson! It’s Christmas! And I bring unto thee tidings of great joy!”

“Get stuffed,” Parkinson snarled.

“Be not afraid! Be not overcome with fear! Be not paralyzed with terror!”

Parkinson was fumbling among the discarded wrapping paper for Prince’s coupons when Prince plunked himself down on the corner of Parkinson’s bed and beamed at him. “Guess what, Starkers O’Parkers—we’re going to Voldemort’s birthday party!”



Post feedback here, please!

[Inkwolf]

Happy Voldemort's Birthday, everyone!

28

The potion burbled in the cauldron, rich and brown and stinky. Prince added a sea sponge. It melted away, like everything else he tried to add. Prince sighed. It was hard to sigh while holding your nose.

There were footsteps in the hall. "There you are," Yorick called. "I was told you were looking for me. What on earth are you up to, hiding way off in this--yeugh." He covered his nose and mouth, his question answered.

While Othmar the Amusing had not included a dungbomb recipe in his second book, he had made many useful suggestions for ingredients and combinations that resulted in a foul stench, and Prince was busily working away at his own special blend. He was content with the aroma, just not with the format. At any rate, it seemed wisest to work at as great a distance from the noses of the innocent as possible.

"I'm trying to make dungbombs, but all I get is liquid," said Prince. "I thought you might have an idea how to thicken it up into a nice, solid blob that can be primed to explode on impact. Everything I add to the smelly stuff just melts away without making any difference, and instead of dungbombs, I have this…this Poo Potion."

"Have you tried flobberworm drool? Griffon dung? Powdered dragon bone? Cornstarch?"

"Be serious," said Prince. "Where am I going to get my hands on cornstarch?"

"The kitchens. Duh. Man that stuff is foul. What's the main ingredient?"

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Oh, and I’d write 'Happy Voldemort's Birthday' on your forehead in blood. Happy December 31st, my Voldemort-cultist friend."

Yorick chuckled behind his hand. "By the way, have you heard? I've been chosen for the honor of casting the very first Mortfire spell this evening!"

"Why yes, I think somebody mentioned that at breakfast," said Prince casually.

"I can't wait! It's going to be stunning. Can you believe it? Out of all the members of the Sons of Walpurgis at Hogwarts, I was chosen! Incredible, eh?"

"I'm sure it's because you have a reputation as someone who likes to take risks," said Prince. And who has already been in lots of trouble, in case they need a scapegoat, he didn’t add. "You do realize that if the Mortfire spell caster is caught, Fudge will throw them right out of Hogwarts on their bum, right? If you’re not actually dragged off to be questioned by the Aurors.”

Yorick just snorted. “They can question me all they like, I won’t talk.” He was becoming accustomed to the odor, and took a few cautious breaths of air as he snooped through Prince's potion-making gear.

"Hey, you're kidding, right?" he said, pointing to a bottle. "That's not really your main ingredient, is it?"

"No, that's a bottle of butterbeer," said Prince. "I got three full cases in my Christmas hamper. Keep your grubby hands off it."

Predictably, very predictably, Yorick picked up the bottle and drained it in one long swig.

"Sorry, mate," he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I didn’t quite catch that last part. Would you mind repeating it?”

But Yorick's evil grin faded quickly as his face turned white, then green.

"I tried to stop you," said Prince, wide-eyed. "Some evil cretin put Puking Pastilles in there from a Skiving Snackbox."

Yorick bent over and heaved. Prince winced. "Well, at least the smell in here can't get any worse."

"Antidote!" Yorick gasped.

"I don't have any," said Prince. "Do I look like someone who has Skiving Snackboxes on him? I’ve never skived off of class in my life. They do say that the pastilles wear off in an hour even without the antidote, but I think that there was more than one in that bottle." Actually, Prince had put six in to be safe--all stolen from Parkinson's secret stash. "Let's get you down to the hospital wing."

"Can't!" Yorick choked. "Party tonight. Voldemort's Birthday--" He bent over again, adding more of his dinner to the dungeon's floor decor.

"Sorry, but you're in no state to party tonight," said Prince. "Voldemort will understand." He took Yorick's hand and led him out the door. Yorick, retching horribly, didn't resist.

When his friend had been securely deposited in the hospital wing and into Madame Bannock’s charge, Prince returned to the dungeon. He poured out the remains of the tainted butterbeer, filled the bottle with the brown fluid from the cauldron, and tapped the cork back in. Then he cleaned up his workspace and packed away his gear.

Prince returned to his dormitory. Thankful that there were no witnesses, he pulled one of the crates of butterbeer out from under his bed, slid the bottle into the sole empty slot, and pushed it back. Then he put away his potion-making gear and headed for the bathrooms, where he took a long, leisurely bath.



"Come on," Parkinson said nervously. "We should go now!"

"We don’t want to be among the first to arrive," Prince reminded him. “What we want is to slip in with the hurly-burly of the hoi polloi. Everyone turns up to parties a little late.”

“Not to Voldemort’s party!” said Parkinson. “What do you think Brother Augustus would say?”

There was something in that. Prince could picture the meticulous Brimble standing at the door berating people who had the temerity to be late to honor the Dark Lord’s birthday.

“Oh, all right,” said Prince. “Remember, avoid speaking to anyone, and for the love of little dragon hatchlings, keep your masks ON. Now grab a crate of butterbeer each and let’s go.”

“Why do we have to carry the butterbeer?” Parkinson grumbled.

Prince rolled his eyes. “I already explained it once. They’ll be less likely to question us if we look like we’re bringing party supplies.”

“Allow me to make myself clear. Why aren’t YOU carrying them?” Parkinson said with a sneer.

“Because I’m busy being the brains of the outfit,” Prince snapped. “Now, pick up that crate and move, or stay here and celebrate Voldy’s birthday with the cockroaches.”

He put on his mask and strode down the dungeon corridor. Behind him he heard the sounds of cloaks and masks being hastily pulled on, then the clink of bottles as the three first-year Sons of Walpurgis hurried after him. Prince did not slow his pace—best if he was separate from the others, in case anyone inspected the bottles.

Prince had worried in vain--they were not the first to arrive. People were swarming into the dormitory in masked droves, and it was easy enough to slip in amongst them.

“What have you got there?” he heard a suspicious voice demand.

“Butterbeer. For the party,” Parkinson answered, attempting to disguise his voice by making it deep and gruff.

“Oh, all right, put it over on the table.”

“Hey, I could do with a bottle of that right now,” someone said.

“No,” Brimble’s voice answered firmly. “We party after the Mortfire is set, and not before.”

Prince’s heart rate returned to normal, but there was grumbling from the crowd. “We’ll be too busy hiding afterward to party,” he heard someone mutter.

Prince pretended to mingle as he checked out the dormitory furniture. His heart nearly stopped again when he realized that Snape’s bed was no longer in its place, but then he saw it pushed to the side of the room with the rest of the furnishings, to make room for the table in the center.

The crowd was a bit thicker around the table, but Prince squirmed his way through for a look. There were plates of sausage rolls, bowls of crisps, and assorted biscuits. Dominating the table was an enormous cake in the shape of the Dark Mark. The frosted image didn’t move, but the eyes of the snake glittered knowingly, and Prince looked away in haste.

“Speaking of the Mortfire,” said Jeremy Talbot’s voice, “has Brother Walden arrived yet?”

There were murmurings through the room. Then one of the masked figures said, “I think he must still be in the hospital wing. I went down there for a cauldron burn, and he was puking his guts out. I overheard Nurse Bannock say something about Skiving Snackbox overdose.”

The murmur grew louder.

“That doesn’t sound like Brother Walden,” said the voice of Bradshaw. “He would never skive off his duty.”

“We will investigate later,” said Jeremy grimly. “The problem at hand is that we mean to open the festivities with the lighting of the first Mortfire—the first of the many that will be lit across the nation and here at Hogwarts tonight! If Brother Walden can not carry out this signal honor, then someone else must. Who wishes to be considered for this great and noble task?”

The murmuring died, died to a dead silence.

“Come now,” Jeremy said, amusement in his voice. “The lighter of the first Mortfire will go down in history, remembered every December 31st for as long as people honor the memory of Lord Voldemort! You will be immortal. Who volunteers to live forever?”

Jeremy’s charisma seemed to have failed him on this occasion, perhaps because he was masked and not standing on a stage. The crowd remained silent. Awkward foot-shufflings were the only thing to be heard.

“What a lot of sniveling cowards,” said Brimble, outraged. “Very well, I will cast the first spell myself. Shall we do it here, where we can enjoy the flames as we celebrate the birth of Lord Voldemort, or shall we cast it in the Great Hall for all to admire?”

With a sigh of regret, Prince slipped his wand out of his pocket. It was a pity to ruin the refreshments before the party began, but he had rather begun to like Brimble, and preferred to save him from what seemed to be certain expulsion. Also, Prince was quite sure he didn’t want to see any Mortfires inside the castle.

In the midst of the cheers, suggestions and congratulations that followed Brimble’s statement, Prince muttered, “Exfluviez!”

There was an explosive bang, and the lids flew off all three butterbeer crates. Fountains of foaming fluid shot up from the bottles, and gasps of horror and revulsion filled the room.

It had been a pity to pour all that delicious butterbeer down the castle drain, Prince reflected, but it was for the greater good. It was a far, far better thing those butterbeer bottles did than they had ever done before. It was a far, far fouler fluid they poured forth than they had ever held before, he thought, as he covered his nose and mouth and tried not to gag on the scent of Poo Potion.

As the fumes became intolerable, masked and cloaked figures rushed from the room, hands clutched over their mouths and noses. Prince hung back from the general rout, and stepped to the table. Everything had been soaked with a rain of repulsive Poo Potion. Trying not to breathe, he dug a finger into the icing of the Dark Mark cake and scrawled across its bony face: The Asp Was Here.

Then he turned and ran after the others, ran with his eyes streaming and his mouth covered and his nose filled with the disgusting reek of Poo Potion—ran right smack into the solid mass of Headmaster Fudge himself.

The Headmaster was not pleased.






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[Inkwolf]

29

When Prince opened his eyes, he was still sitting outside Headmaster Fudge’s office. He stretched and yawned. Parkinson, Blood and Nott were sitting nearby, their faces still white with terror, none of them looking inclined to drop off to sleep.

But there was nobody else left in the hall apart from the four of them, so Prince realized that Headmaster Fudge had saved the first-years for last, and they were to go into the office next. He could vaguely hear the sound of Fudge shouting at whatever unfortunate soul was currently in the hot seat.

Three second-year Gryffindor girls, still in their inside-out black cloaks, left the Headmaster’s office. They looked shaken and teary-eyed, but not as bad as Brimble had looked last night, the first to leave Fudge’s office, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as he walked the gauntlet of every party-goer lined up along the hall of shame.

Jeremy Talbot and Bradshow had skulked out shortly later, ignoring the whispered demands to know what had happened and whether any of them were expelled.

“Come in, you four,” said Professor Sylvanus. She was wearing, oddly, a green party dress made up of sparkling sequin scales. It felt like walking past a festive dragon as Prince and the other three boys entered the office of Headmaster Fudge.

“Sit,” said Fudge. Fudge’s eyes were baggy and looked tired. His voice sounded hoarse, probably from all the shouting at students he’d been doing all night, Prince thought. He would either want to finish with them quickly, or be cranky as a baby deprived of naptime.

“In all my years at Hogwarts, never have I so much as DREAMED of the…the abominations that happened here tonight!” Fudge sputtered. “Parties honoring He who Must Not be Named? Underground cults? Secret societies? How dare you sit there and—“

“Here,” Prince protested. “Why are you shouting at us? We’re the ones who put a stop to it. We’re the ones who broke up the party. Didn’t we?”

Parkinson looked up, a faint gleam of hope in his eye. “Uh, yeah.”

Fudge’s eyes narrowed. “Explain yourself,” he said sharply.

What would Bingo Deedle do? Prince asked himself. In almost every book, the boy wizard was dragged before Headmaster Scourge to answer various accusations. For one interview, Prince thought, I can be Bingo Deedle.

“Well, we heard about the Voldemort party, and we were morally outraged. Weren’t we?” He shot a look at Parkinson.

“Yeah,” said Parkinson. “Outraged.”

“So, we filled three cases of butterbeer bottles with Poo Potion—my own invention,” he couldn’t resist proudly adding. “And when the party was just about to start, we uncorked them. Isn’t that right?”

Parkinson, Blood and Nott were staring at him, stunned.

“Isn’t that right?” Prince prompted them, with a steely glare. The three mumbled assent.

“You saw the result for yourself,” Prince finished.

Fudge was still glaring. “Are you telling me that you are the ones responsible for that unholy stench in the Slytherin dormitories?”

“Guilty as charged, sir,” said Prince. “It was for the greater good.”

“And you are all four equally responsible?”

“Yes, sir. I brewed the potion and popped the corks. These three heroically smuggled the crates into the party, risking discovery and the wrath of the Voldemort-worshipping infidels. We wished to make a pungent statement of our moral disapprobation.”

Parkinson, Nott and Blood were starting to look distinctly uneasy, but Prince stood firmly in just the pose he always imagined Bingo Deedle to take when defending his righteous actions.

“I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you to report the matter to your house head or to me, rather than to take matters into your own hands?” Fudge asked sourly.

Prince looked shocked. “Tattle on my fellow students? Bear tales? Squeal? Fink? Rat them out?”

“Besides,” Parkinson piped up, “Professr Sylvanus was away at a New Year’s party.” That explained the dress.

“And we didn’t want to spoil your holiday,” Nott added, full of wide-eyed innocence.

Prince was afraid it would be a bit much, but Fudge just growled. “Very well. Just get out of my sight. And keep out of trouble. Next time, come to me!”

Yes sirring all the way, they exited the Headmaster’s office.

It was time for breakfast. Prince helped himself to an assortment of Wriggle’s Christmas gifts from the hamper and slipped away to the Quidditch pitch, where he sat at the foot of a goal post and ate. The buns were beginning to get stale, and the seat of his trousers was soon soaked as his body heat melted the slight mound of snow on which he sat. All in all, though, it was more comfortable here than it would have been at the table with his classmates, or with the remaining Quidditch team members, including Bradshaw. And Yorick. Prince didn’t look forward to meeting Yorick again at all.

There was a clattering crash at his feet, and a fine dusting of snow scattered into the chill air. The armored owl had arrived, Prince’s copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in his talons.

“Thank you,” said Prince. “May I offer you a slightly stale pumpkin pasty?” The owl accepted, and started making an effort to bite through the tough crust with its beak.

Prince unrolled the paper. Covering the upper half of the front page was a photo. Skull-shaped green flames rotated, the jaws of the skull opening and closing in a silent howl.

HORROR IN MORPETH said the title.

Have the Death Eaters returned? Muggles in the quaint Northumberland town were horrified and astounded when this threatening bonfire appeared in their village at the start of the New Year. Obliviators and Aurors rushed to the scene, but so far have been unable to extinguish the magical flames.

“We’ve been on duty all night” said Marigold Suggins, senior obliviator. “We’re having —OBLIVIATE!!!— having to erase the memory of every Muggle who happens by.”

What does it mean? The green flames, eerily reminiscent of the fabled Dark Mark, have sent terrified rumors through Northumberland’s wizarding communities, rumors that Lord Voldemort may have returned, or at least his followers. Though one must wonder what it is about Morpeth that has attracted their attention.

So far, the Aurors have no suspect and nobody has been connected to the mysterious blaze, though Newton Avery of the Sons of Walpurgis (an organization described by some as a Neo-Death-Eater movement) has contacted the ministry to deny his group’s involvement.

“Just one?” said Prince with disbelief, putting down the paper. He had been under the impression that that Mortfires were meant to be blazing all across Britain this morning. Apparently, all the Sons of Walpurgis had chickened out. All but one. Prince wondered who it had been, and whether they felt like a complete prat when they realized they were alone, left holding the bag.

The owl gave up on the pasty, hooted, and took off. Prince was watching the owl fly away when someone coughed behind him. He jumped.

Yorick dropped onto the snow mound next to him and gave Prince a light cuff to the side of the head. “You little clot,” he said, and helped himself to a pasty.

Prince didn’t mention that it was the one the owl had been chewing.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Not good,” Yorick said, gnawing at the tough crust. “But better than if I’d been expelled, I suppose. Actually, your little Poo prank probably saved a lot of people from getting in serious trouble. Apparently Fudge was coming down to check up on how Slytherin was behaving with Aggie out at her party. You can imagine what would have happened if he’d found a Mortfire burning merrily in the hearth.”

“Fudginiptions galore,” said Prince. “So…so, is everything okay?”

Yorick shrugged. “Mostly. Brimble got expelled.”

It wasn’t what Prince had meant, but still sad. “I thought so, the way he looked when he came out of Fudge’s office,” he said. “What about Bradshaw and Talbot?”

“No, they’re fine,” said Yorick. “They said it was a New Year’s party, and the Voldemort stuff was just a lark, but Brimble went off his onion, and started saying they had a right to honor the Dark Lord if they wanted to, and that there were no rules against it, and that he would rise and come again, and so Fudge gave him the boot.”

“Poor old Brimble,” said Prince. “He was a sincere Son of Walpurgis and a true believer.”

“But a berk,” said Yorick. “Don’t mind him, the Sons of Walpurgis look after their own. The main chapter will find a use for him. Bradshaw and Talbot haven’t been in trouble before, but they’ll have to lay low and stop holding meetings for a while. Everyone will have to watch it. Fudge knows our names, and he’ll keep an eagle eye on everyone who stayed for Christmas this year.”

Prince nodded, and Yorick continued, “Funny thing, Fudge was hoping I’d been involved, and he’d finally have the excuse he needed to bung me out, but the Bannock was able to tell him I’d been in lockdown all night, blowing chunks.”

“So, are we still friends?”

Yorick cuffed him again. “Considering what you do to your friends, I don’t dare have you for an enemy. By the way, Aggie’s looking for you. Better head for the dormitories. Something’s up.”

Prince stood and stretched. Then he smacked a handful of snow on the back of Yorick’s neck and ran.

Yorick easily ran him down and shoved him head-first into a snowbank. Prince returned to the school with his face stinging and handfuls of snow melting inside his shirt and pants. It was good to have a friend.

He reached the dormitory to find Professor Sylvanus tapping her foot impatiently. Parkinson, Blood and Nott were rummaging through their wardrobes glumly, packing up their trunks.

“Don’t stand there,” Professor Sylvanus said sharply. “I want your things packed, and quickly.”

“We’re not being expelled after all, are we?” he asked.

Professor Sylvanus didn’t answer, simply gave him that unsettling stare of hers. Prince quickly dragged out his trunk and started packing his belongings. As he worked, the others occasionally shot quick, unfriendly glares in his direction. Whatever was going on, they seemed to say, it was all HIS fault.

Professor Sylvanus was called away for a few moments, giving Parkinson the opportunity he had been seething for.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Parkinson snarled. “It got out, what you said about us four poo-bombing the party. I told Bradshaw and Talbot that it was just you, but Bradshaw doesn’t believe it, and Talbot DOES and thinks we were total nincompoops to be tricked into carrying the stuff for you. He LAUGHED at us! Anyway, they’ve decided first-years are too immature to be members anymore, and gave us the shove! They may not even let second-years join, and if WE ever want to rejoin, Bradshaw says we have to do a traitor’s penance first.”

“What’s that?” Prince asked.

“He says he hasn’t come up with anything ghastly enough yet, but he’ll let us know,” Parkinson growled.

“I’m sure, whatever it is, that it will be good for your character,” said Prince, closing his trunk and snapping it.

Professor Sylvanus returned. “Are you ready? This way, gentlemen.”

“If we’re not being expelled, where are you taking us?” Parkinson asked.

“Maybe to a safe house, to be protected from Voldemort cultists and traitor’s penances,” said Prince.

Professor Sylvanus did not answer, but as they moved down the dungeon corridor, the answer to the question wafted to them on the air.

“You have GOT to be joking,” said Parkinson.

“Gentlemen, your new home,” said Professor Sylvanus.

It was the sixth-year dormitory. The table and cake and bottles had been cleared away, and the furniture returned to its rightful places, but the memory of Voldemort’s Birthday Party hung redolent in the air like a rich perfume of sulphur, pig dung, decaying fish and the belches of garlic-eating dragons.

“Is this a punishment for interrupting the Voldemort celebration?” Prince asked, casting a suspicious glance at Professor Sylvanus.

“This is not a punishment at all, least of all for interrupting Voldemort’s Birthday, oh, pardon, the innocent New Year’s party with the amusing Voldemort theme. It is simply a matter of common fairness,” said Professor Sylvanus. “This evening, the Hogsmeade Express returns with most of a class of sixth-years who had no part either in the celebration or the interesting eruption that ended it. It would hardly be fair to expect them to suffer the results of the foolish choices made entirely by others. Therefore, you gentlemen and, alas, your innocent classmates, must live with the consequences of your actions. If you spend a certain amount of your free time scrubbing walls, floor and ceiling—“ there were brown spatters even there, Prince could see,“--this dormitory may once again be a pleasant place to live. I have asked the house elves to produce buckets, mops and sponges for your use. They are in the corner. Enjoy your new home, gentlemen.”

She left. Parkinson, Blood and Nott cursed and swore, and began rattling buckets and splashing their soapy contents on the floor, but Prince headed for the most dilapidated bed in the room and began casting spells of protection on it as quickly as he could.

Then he crawled into it. It sagged in the middle. The frame creaked. He didn’t care. He curled up and pulled the blanket over his head, ready to make up for his (mostly) sleepless night.

“Oy!” said Parkinson indignantly. “Get out here and help clean up, you dirty slacker!” Prince ignored him, as he ignored the water-soaked sponge that hit his protective spell, splattered, and dropped to the floor.

Prince sighed. The air reeked. Parkinson raged and shouted at him. He was still in his snow-soaked clothes. Things could be better.

But not much.

He was attending Severus Snape’s school.

He was in Severus Snape’s house.

He was living in Severus Snape’s dormitory

He was lying in Severus Snape’s bed.

Albert Severus Prince blocked his nose and ears with a thick, down-filled pillow, and snuggled. Inside the mattress, a spring snapped. It didn’t matter.

Life was sweet.

The end



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[Inkwolf]

Someone over at TheHPN.com asked if I'd please write a little story where Prince got to speak to his hero, so a quick epilog for you all.

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A Peek at the Past

Severus Snape dropped a pair of white bat’s wings into his cauldron and stirred, frowning. Tomorrow it all starts, he thought. Tomorrow, Harry Potter arrives at Hogwarts, curse him. And everything is going to start moving.

He was certain of it.

No wonder he couldn’t sleep.

At least concentrating on the complicated mixture before him stopped him from lying in bed biting his nails. He scattered a sprinkling of owl’s down, letting it settle gently over the surface of the liquid as he continued the intricate stirring pattern. The work forced him to put his worries aside, and his nerves began to settle. By the time the potion was finished, he might not even need it.

Twiggins’s Tension Tamer, the recipe book called it. “Soothes nerves and banishes worry. Do not take more than two doses in a 24-hour period. Side effects may include headaches, vomiting, foolish courage, saying things you may regret in the morning, and hallucinations. Brew in a well-ventilated area.” Snape snorted. If there was anything he ought to be worried about, it was the idea of testing the potion.

He added the last few ingredients, turned down the flame, and finally removed the cauldron from the fire entirely and stood staring into it. The potion was finished. It appeared to have been perfectly executed. Should he take a dose?

And if he did, what difference would it really make?

A flicker of light caught his eye. The light flickered again, then expanded, a silver circle hanging like a mirror in the center of the room. Snape cautiously pulled out his wand as a face began to appear in the expanding circle, then clarified.

Severus Snape was staring into what appeared to be some sort of magic window, at a total stranger. The man was young, probably barely out of school, and wore a Slytherin tie with his expensive-looking black robes, yet Snape did not recognize him.

The young man gave what could only be described as a squeak of triumph. “I was right! It worked! It’s you, isn’t it? Severus Snape, his very own self!”

Snape had half expected to be contacted tonight, but this stranger was unknown to him, and certainly had none of the look or attitude of a Death Eater. His face was open and shining with childlike joy, his eyes practically glowing with…was it admiration? Snape had seen it before, of course, but rarely directed at him.

Snape probed deeper, and images began flashing in his mind…a small boy, surrounded by doting family, opening Christmas gifts…the boy, a few years later, falling off a broomstick in the middle of some secluded moor, three older girls--sisters?—rushing to his aid…the boy, his face marred with Spattergroit, in bed, attended by a worried house elf…the boy and the house elf sitting and eating biscuits on…on the snout of a dragon! Stuffed and mounted, Snape realized, and inside some enormous mansion. The boy being sorted at Hogwarts. The boy, in the astronomy tower, being attacked by other students. The boy scrubbing some white marble monument. The boy hanging off the top of a tower in the rain, held only by a younger, red-haired boy. The boy rushing after an older boy, who was casting a spell on a classmate in the middle of a crowd.

“You’re doing it, aren’t you?” the young man asked, as if he could not be more thrilled. “You’re Occlumentizing me? Well, help yourself!”

Snape continued. The boy weaving a bridle of rushes and riding a Kelpie across some sort of pool as an audience cheered. The boy at a ball in the Great Hall, dancing with a huge, muscular, tough-looking blonde girl.

It unnerved Snape that he recognized not one of the students in the Hogwarts scenes, but all became painfully clear when he came upon a scene of the boy, standing in a Slytherin dormitory, staring at a stunningly familiar wraith.

“You’re from the future,” Snape said. And I end up a ghost in Slytherin House. Lovely.

“Got it in one!” the young idiot burbled. “Brains run in the family, don’t cha know. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Albert SEVERUS Prince. Named after you, of course. Your uncle Budick was my—“

As the young fool babbled on about genealogy, Snape frowned. It had been one of his mother’s bitterest sorrows that the Prince family had pruned the Snapes ruthlessly off their family tree, having no desire to be associated with her Muggle husband or his half-blood son. What could have possibly changed in the future to make him a hero to this young Prince? Perhaps he ought to listen to what the stranger had to say.

“So, anyway, I spent almost an entire year doing nothing but paperwork, can you imagine? You have no idea how many statistics the Ministry compiles, or how many reports they write, and I must ask, why? Some day, a hundred years from now, is anyone really going to go looking for the comparative ratio of apothecary shops to cauldron specialty boutiques? I ask you! So anyway, I kept quiet and behaved myself and did the paperwork—and let me tell you, it nearly KILLED me—before they FINALLY let me into the Department of Mysteries. And what do they give me to do? Glorified night watchman. These are unidentified magical artifacts, they say. Keep an eye on them, don’t let anyone near, and if you lay a FINGER on any of them, it’s as much as your job is worth. But I looked at this thing and said, ‘That’s a time portal, if ever I saw one,’ not that I ever HAVE seen one, and then I said, ‘Well, I’ve been good for a whole year, don’t I deserve a little treat?’ and then I said—“

Or, rather, perhaps he ought to interrupt and ask questions.

“Is everyone from the future a babbling nincompoop?” It seemed a fair first question.

“Very nearly,” said Prince. “We tolerate them with as much kindness as we can find in our hearts, though.”

“If you’re from the future, tell me,” Snape said sharply. “How do things turn out with…with…”

“Voldemort?” said the stranger blithely, without the slightest hesitation in speaking the name. “Oh, that turns out all right. You completely make a fool of him and save the world. Not that there aren’t still idiots waving his name about, but we carry on the fight in your name.”

That hadn’t been the person Snape was going to ask about, but he bit his lip. He would NOT ask what became of James Potter’s son.

“And I’m a national hero, am I?” he asked suspiciously. A dead one, by all indications.

“Oh, yes,” the young man said. “That is…you see…” he hesitated, looking less cheerful. “I really oughtn’t to say anything that might change the past, only...well…beware of snakes, will you? Now, I hope I shan’t turn this thing off and discover that Voldemort’s ruling the world.”

Change the past? Snape wondered. Was there really an unidentified time portal in the Ministry? Could you talk to someone in the past and make things happen differently? Was it possible?

Would he listen to himself?

Prince was babbling again, though less happily, now. “What WAS I thinking? I really ought to have gone straight to the Shrieking Shack, or maybe even back to your childhood, though goodness knows you seem to have been a bit of a berk back then. And if I did change the past, would it really be that bad? I mean, suppose one drowned Voldemort when he was a pup, and prevented the whole thing from happening. The war would never have happened, and you might still be puttering around at Hogwarts or somewhere, though I’d have no idea who you really were, assuming I still had been born. Of course, I could always come back here and try again. After all, if I was going to do something stupid, I’d have used the portal to have warned myself, though not if I had already negated my own existence. Time paradoxes are the very devil, aren’t they?”

A distant voice spoke. “Prince? Is that you in there?”

“Crikey,” Prince muttered. “By Hufflepuff’s beatified chin whiskers! I’ve barely had a chance to ask you anything! Quick, I have so many questions! Tell me…tell me…”

The man stood there, his face agonized, his mind obviously having gone completely and utterly blank. “Er…”

“ALBERT PRINCE! WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PLAYING AT?”

“Boxers or briefs?” the young man blurted, just as the image winked out completely.

Severus Snape stood staring at the empty air.

There was a knock at the door. “Severus?” Dumbledore entered. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep, and was walking about, and thought I heard voices. Am I interrupting anything?”

“No,” said Snape. “Just a psychotic episode. Too many potion fumes.”

He poured the contents of the cauldron down the drain. Goodness knows what he’d see if he actually drank any.