Hermione glared down at the list of names. It had been fascinating at first to trace the bloodline of such an odd family, but after three days of looking through a birth record she was feeling rather discouraged. She sighed and glanced around the Great Hall, looking for a distraction of some sort.

Many other students were sitting at their House tables, playing games or talking. Many had their textbooks out and open in front of them but Hermione doubted that any of them were studying. With all of the attacks that had take place on owlries all over the world, many students hadn't heard from family members in days. Those wizarding families with their own owls were lucky in respect. Many of them had sent letters requesting that their children return home. Even though Hogwarts was possibly the most secure place in wizarding Britain, they still wanted their children close by. Some of the parents had children in other houses, but most of the students were in Slytherin. Hermione and Ron speculated that the Slytherins knew what was coming next and were planning to help their Death Eater parents make it happen. The thought made her glare over at the Slytherin table. No one noticed.

Because so many students were wanted at home, Dumbledore had announced at breakfast that there would be a train leaving at Hogsmeade station that weekend, and all students that wished to leave on it must make arrangements with their heads of houses.

Hermione herself had received an owl from her muggle parents. They had heard what was going on and were worried for Hermione's safety. She hadn't enjoyed writing the letter telling them that she would be fine. It was half a life. If she stayed at Hogwarts, she felt confident that she would be all right, but if she and the others went on a rescue mission for Harry like they were planning to do, she'd be putting her life in danger.

She wondered, not for the first time, where Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were. At the end of the previous year, Dumbledore had asked Sirius Black to contact 'the old crowd.' Harry got letters from Sirius only periodically. It had been two weeks since the last owl. Sirius had requested that Harry not try to contact him; in the places Sirius was going, there were ways of telling a Hogwarts owl from another owl, and he said that Hedwig would definitely stand out. Harry had worried about his godfather quite often although he tried not to show it. She wondered what Sirius would do if he knew that Voldemort had kidnapped Harry. He would probably stop trying to find 'the old crowd' and come straight to Hogwarts. No, telling Sirius about Harry's kidnapping would not be the best idea.

"How's the research going?" Ron asked as he settled down into the seat next to hers.

"Spectacular," Hermione said. "I now know many things about the Darmians. For one thing, every generation has the same names as the generation before it. It's all bloody difficult to tell them all apart."

"No mention of any Gringotts visits, eh?" Ron concluded.

She shook her head. "I suppose they wouldn't write down 'Gifted with Pathic abilities' next to their names, would they? If most Darmians don't know about magic and this book was meant to be read by any of them…"

"Maybe you need a different book." He digged through her bad and pulled out another of book from the Darmians' collection. "How about this one? This looks like a diary."

"It is. It's the diary of Arien Charles Sanford Patrick-Darmian," she told him. "It's written in Latin."

"I though you knew Latin."

"I know a little," Hermione admitted. "For this, I need a Latin-English Dictionary, and the library's copy is out at the moment."

"Professor Pierson probably knows Latin," Ron speculated.

"What do you mean?"

"Remember in Defense Class last week when Neville tripped?"

Hermione nodded. Last week, Pierson had been showing Neville how to deliver a kick properly when Neville over balanced and fell against the professor. Both of them fell to the floor. On the way down, Neville grabbed onto the nearest object to regain his balance. His mistake there was that he grabbed onto an axe handle. He ended up dislodging the weapon enough from its mantle that the axe blade almost beheaded both of them. Fortunately, a fifth-year Hufflepuff had wiped out a wand and performed a levitation spell on the axe before anyone was harmed.

Afterwards, Professor Pierson had lectured Neville for a minute or so before moving Neville well away from the weapons. Pierson then spent several minutes muttering in what sounded like several foreign languages. "I think I remember hearing him speak in Old French," Hermione said.

Ron nodded. "Seamus reckoned that he spoke in Ancient Greek for a few moments, too. If anyone knows Latin, I'm betting it's Professor Pierson."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask him," Hermione said.

"I'm not sure I trust him," Ron said. "I think Harry was going somewhere with the whole Benjamin Jamison connection to Professor Pierson, and I want to find out what."

Hermione waited a moment. "Got any ideas?"

Ron deflated. "Not at the moment, no."

After a moment, he switched topics.

"Are you going home Saturday?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I think I convinced my parents to let me stay. You?"

"I'm staying here, too," he replied. "Dad says there's something going on at the Ministry. You know, besides the increase in security at every owlry that hasn't been destroyed yet. I think it has something to do with Fudge but Dad wouldn't really say. I hope that bastard is retiring."

"Shh," Hermione said. Ron's voice had risen on that last bit and people were turning around and giving them odd looks.

Ron said, "I need to go. Maybe you could ask Dante or Atalanta or Nola to get that Latin-English Dictionary for you."

"You know," Hermione said, making Ron pause. "If Dumbledore trusts him, Professor Pierson can't be all that bad."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, and Dumbledore can always tell a spy from someone he can trust. Remember Moody?"

"Oh, be reasonable. Just because Professor Moody turned out to be Bartimus Crouch's son doesn't mean that Professor Pierson is another spy. What's the real reason why you distrust him? And don't tell me that it's his mysterious connection to Benjamin Jamison."

Ron looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I…er…I just don't. It's instinct."

Hermione crossed her arms. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that I think he is hot?"

"You think he's hot?" Ron exclaimed. His eyes widened and he went red. "Of course it doesn't bother me," he added hurriedly, trying to make up for his unintentional slip.

"Uh huh."

"Really!" Ron looked panicked. "So you've got a crush on him. Big deal!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "We're holding a meeting tonight to discuss the rescue plan," she told him after a moment. "See you there?"

Ron stood up quickly. "Er…yeah. See you there." He looked very eager to get as away as possible.

Hermione watched him go and shook her head in exasperation. Forcing Ronald Weasley to admit his feelings for her was beginning to feel like an impossible venture. Maybe it was time that she took the initiative.

"Dark times are almost upon us," Dumbledore said, sounding very, very wary. Not for the first time, Methos took in the long, white beard and hair framing his friend's wrinkled features. Albus Dumbledore was very accomplished for a man of a hundred and fifty, and although Methos knew wizards that had lived to be two hundred before becoming old enough to die of old age, he suspected with regret that his friend might not live that long.

"Yes they are," Methos commented. The two of them were alone together in Dumbledore's office. It had been a busy week. Everyone was in a panic ever since the attacks started on the owlries. Communication was very difficult. Although Dumbledore had not shared it with Methos, he hadn't heard from either Hagrid or Sirius in over two weeks. Albus worried that two of the people sent on assignments that Dumbledore himself had handed out were in danger. After all, although both Madame Maxime and Hagrid were half-giants, their relatives were much bigger, stronger, and tended toward meaner tendencies than either of them. As for Sirius Black, the last Dumbledore had heard was that Sirius was in Romania searching for Remus Lupin. The Headmaster hoped that the younger man had not run afoul of Voldemort's operations in the country.

Dumbledore had played the waiting game many times. However, with time running out, he wished that he could take the initiative. However, with very little intelligence on Voldemort's specific whereabouts, there was little any of them could do but wait for the Dark Lord to make his next move, which was a very dangerous risk indeed.

Dumbledore took a sip of his tea before addressing his Immortal friend once more. "I have spent many months trying to gather allies on our side, but I still fear that it is not enough. You already know that is why I asked you to come teach here, Methos. An Immortal as powerful as yourself, who is able to control his own Quickening bolts and use them as a weapon in a fight, can be a very valuable advantage. I hope you also know that I wanted you here for advice. We've known each other for along time, and you have never hesitated to inform me of whenever I am being an arse."

Methos nodded. He already knew all of this. "What is it that you need?" he asked. He knew he'd help if he can, but there were some things he would never do for anyone.

"You have told me that all Immortals are very skilled fighters. If you have any friends that are Immortals, or know of Immortality and you think might be willing to help, I would be most grateful if you could contact them."

Methos understood. The more skilled fighters, the better. Aurors, as well as Muggle police officers, military officers, and government leaders all over the world were being split up to protect the owlries left standing. Methos and Dumbledore had both noticed that when the new security measures for the owlries were announced over the Wizard Wireless Network, which could be listened to by traveling down the road to Hogsmeade. Dumbledore worried that if a war broke out, the aurors would be too spread out to be of much use before it was too late. Therefore, they needed more help in case of a battle.

"I know a few," Methos said. "Although I am worried that if I try to contact them, Voldemort will know they are friends of mine. He hasn't gotten over the whole killing-his-right-hand-man thing back in the seventies."

"No he has not. Voldemort does not forgive easily. If you fear for your friend's safety, you must leave immediately, Methos, and bring them back here if you can. I hope you do not have too much trouble convincing them that magic exists. Please return as soon as you can."

Harry wasn't aware of much, wherever he was. He remembered falling into something before every one of his senses except touch seemed to turn off. It threw him into a panic. After he calmed down again, he was aware of someone touching him. No, someone was picking him up and carrying him somewhere. But who could it be? Why couldn't he see or hear whoever it was?

Suddenly, he heard, or rather felt, words being spoken.

"Dittrias, Seiran, Alia, liber libri liberatio!"

A whirlpool engulfed him, ripped and tore at him. Sound, sight, smell, and taste returned to him in an unexpected rush. He fell onto a stone floor. He tried to move, but found that his entire body felt like a giant bruise.

"Hello again, Harry Potter."

Harry froze. He knew that voice. Knew it with the same surety that he knew why his scar suddenly began to throb with pain.

His body rose off the floor with Harry telling it to do so. He sailed through the air only to stop with his back against a stone wall.

Voldemort himself entered his line of sight. The pain in his scar increased drastically; Harry's forehead felt like it was burning away the flesh around it. Through the haze, he took in what he could see of the Dark Lord.

The same red-skinned, flat face that he remembered stared back at him. Harry could see that they wore black wizarding robes. A quartz stone, hanging from a long chain, stood out clearly on his chest. A mesh of wire twined around his right hand, and there was something else strong on his belt.

Voldemort raised the hand wrapped in the metal mesh. Manacles, appearing out of nowhere, snapped closed around Harry's wrists.

The Dark Lord glanced down at the metal. "Do you like it?" he asked. "The stupid goblins at that Bulgarian bank tried to stop me from taking it. It seemed that they were informed about how powerful this object can be. They didn't know enough to stop me, however." He met Harry's eyes. "Neither will Dumbledore before it's too late for him."

"Dumbledore's too powerful for you to face and you know it!" Harry snarled.

Voldemort smiled. It was a hideous expression on his flat face, and it was the last emotion Harry expected to see. "He might be, but he won't be for long."

"I'm tellin' ya, Olfrek! If ya join You-Know-Who's side, ya ain't gonna live fer long. He's gonna use ya until he gets tired of ya, then mark my words, he'll kill ya!"

Olfrek let out a long, low growl and swung a fist at Hagrid's face. Behind him, Hagrid heard Madame Maxime let out a gasp, but she needn't have worried. Hagrid ducked with plenty of time to spare. Olfrek the giant's foot came out of nowhere and connected with Hagrid's jaw, sending him to sprawl in the grass. Hagrid barely managed to roll out of the way of the giant's foot as it came crashing down, intending to squash him.

Olfrek was one of the Madame Maxime's relatives. So far, Hagrid and Maxime had been pretty lucky in locating quite a number of giants who were willing to join their cause. This was the first giant they'd run across who wasn't quite as willing.

Hagrid was determined to see it through, if he could live long enough to do so. All he had to do was get it through Olfrek's head that Dumbledore wasn't as evil as the giant had been lead to believe and that Olfrek wouldn't be killed the minute he set foot on English soil for being a giant.

Hagrid got to his feet and retreated a little ways away. "Think, man! If ya help the wizardin' world in the fight against You-Know-Who, you'll be a hero! They'll like ya and respect ya! You'll be helpin' the world to see that giants aren't that bad!"

Olfrek, stalking toward Hagrid at a rapid pace with a huge, thick fist raised, paused. Hagrid grinned inwardly in triumph. He was getting to the giant! He knew that the giant was tempted; all giants were tired of being hunted and just wanted to go about their lives in peace.

Olfrek's face closed up. "There is no hope of that ever happening," he said solemnly. He let out a huge below before driving his huge fist down toward Hagrid's head. Once again, Hagrid barely managed to run out of the way. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing when Olfrek's fist collided with dirt, making the entire ground shake.

It was going to be a long day.

We'll get you out of this, Mel. I promise, Blake wrote on the seemingly blank pages of the diary.

Blake dipped his quill in his ink jar. Are you sure you can't remember anything?

No. In his mind's eye, he could see his sister pacing up and down the floor in frustration. Any minute she'd start kicking the bedposts and the chair legs in anger. That scares me a little, Blake. I could have told him anything, but I have no idea what.

Melanie didn't even pause to consider it. Yes. I want to know what I told him.

Blake glared down at the page as Melanie's sentence was absorbed back into it. Oh, give me a break, Mel. I am trying here.

There was a pause. I know, I know.

Ron hurried up the stairwell in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room. He didn't really care where he was going as long as it was away from the Great Hall. Right then was not the time for admitting his feelings to one of his two best friends. He wasn't exactly sure why. After all, he, Hermione, and Harry faced danger all the time. There was always something to worry about, so using the excuse that he should wait until after the danger was over would never work. He didn't know why he wouldn't admit his feelings for Hermione. He just knew that he wasn't ready.

Ron stepped off another staircase just as it began to move upwards so that its risers became the steps and vise-versa. He walked across the landing, intending to go down the next staircase, when he glanced beyond the archway into the hall behind. He could see a clear view of the forth story corridor. That floor housed the teacher's faculty rooms and offices, including Dumbledore's.

He glanced down the corridor in time to see the stone gargoyle jump aside, unbarring the entrance to Dumbledore's office. The sliding door opened and a few people stepped out. Ron recognized with a glance the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mad-Eye Moody. Keeping pace with him was a man with a shock of red hair.

Ron froze. He turned and jogged down the corridor. "Dad," he said when he reached the two adults. "What's going on? What are you doing here?"

Arthur Weasley smiled a little hesitantly at his son. "Hello, Ron. I was just about to go look for you, your sister, and your brothers. As for what I'm doing here, well…"

"Is it about Fudge?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes, it is. He resigned earlier today. He couldn't handle the fact that You-Know-Who might be rising again, and a lot of people were mad at him for promising that there was no way that the Dark Lord could rise again, so he gave up the position of Minister of Magic."

Ron smiled. "About time," he muttered. Moody smirked at him in the background. Apparently, the retired Auror agreed with his sentiment.

"Yes, well," Arthur began again. "They've decided on appointing a new one, and they voted on me. I've already accepted."

Ron stared at his father in shock. "You're the new Minister of Magic?" he repeated, disbelieving.

"Well…pretty much, yes."

Joseph Dawson sat on a stool on the stage of Joe's Bar, his own establishment in Seacouver, Washington. He strummed away at a guitar on his lap, eyes closed. He just let his mind wander, trying not to think about world events. But, of course, they leapt back up into his mind with annoying ease.

So many buildings all over the world had been set on fire in the past week. Mostly it was caused by arson, but other times it looked like the work of bomb experts. It was all over the news. It seemed that no one had any idea when and where the next attack would occur. Earlier that day, Joe got a call from the manager that he'd hired for running Le Blue Bar, Joe's establishment in the city of Paris. Another attack had occurred on the building right across the street from Le Blues Bar. For awhile, it had looked like the flames would spread, but the manager had assured Joe that the fireman had managed to get the fire under control. Needless to say, Joe had already bought a plane ticket to Paris to check on the situation, and his flight was scheduled for four days away.

The front door swung open. Joe looked up in time to see a map hidden in shadows enter the bar. He squinted, trying to see the man's features, but although the fluorescent lights were on and daylight streamed through the window set in the door, the man's face remained shadowed and indistinct.

"We're closed," he said, setting his guitar aside. Joe slowly got to his feet and, grabbing his cane, walked off the stage and across the floor, stopping a few feet away from the stranger.

The other man didn't move. "I'm sorry," he said. Joe immediately took note of an English accent with a hint of Romanian mixed in. "I wish to speak to the manager, a Joseph Dawson?"

"That'd be me. What can I do you for?"

"Well," there was a hint of a smile in the man's voice. "For starters, you can get on the phone and call that friend of yours, Duncan MacLeod, and ask him to come over.

Joe's eyes widened and he tensed. He wondered what he should do. If this man was an Immortal, he didn't want to be the cause of a fight between him and MacLeod. Trying to get away from this guy was not an option; his prosthetics made that impossible.

He walked around the counter. He reached below the bar for the phone, only he let his hand slide past it to the drawer beneath it. Slowly, as quietly as he could, he pulled the drawer open. Inside the drawer was a handgun.

Sudden pressure on Joe's throat made him freeze. "I would advise you not to do that, Mr. Dawson," the mystery man said. "Close the drawer and put the telephone on top of the bar."

He was caught. Joe slid the drawer closed, pulled out the phone, and placed it on top of the counter. The muzzle of the man's gun never pulled away from Joe's neck.

When Joe straightened again, he realized that the man did not hold a gun to his neck but a long, thin stick. Joe's brow burrowed in confusion. What was the man playing at?

The man noticed Joe's look and grinned. "Don't mistake this for only a piece of wood, Mr. Dawson," he said, a threat in his tone.

Joe began to dial MacLeod's number.

Methos took the Hogwarts Express train into King's Cross and then took a ten-hour flight to Seacouver. He could have gone by floor powder, which would have taken only a half hour at best, but he'd sworn several hundred years ago that he would never set foot into another wizard's or witch's chimney and he'd stuck by since then. Flooing anywhere was dangerous to one's health. Not that airplanes were free of dangers, but they at least he didn't feel very, very, very dizzy after a flight.

It was morning in Seacouver when he arrived, while in England, according to his watch, it was closer to sunset. Methos rented a jeep and drove out to Joe's Bar. He drove down E. Washington St. on the way and noted the scorched building next to the post office. He couldn’t remember ever seeing it before, which meant that it had to be one of the many owlries that were attacked in the past week. From the number of men and women working on restoring it, some wearing very odd assortments of muggle clothes, the anti-muggle spells would be back in place soon and the owlry would be restored. Even then, though, it would take awhile, and Methos worried that Voldemort would not wait.

Methos pulled into the parking lot at Joe's. As he walked up the steps to the front door, he knew there was something wrong.

He pushed open the door with his left hand while his right slipped into his coat, resting above the hidden sheaths of both his gun and his sword.

A man hidden in shadow stood behind a table. Joe sat in the chair in front of the man. The wizard had a wand against Joe's throat.

"Adam Pierson," the man said, sounding surprise. "Or is it Benjamin Jamison?"

"And you would be Marek Mincent-Darmian?" Methos asked.

Marek smiled. "That would be me. I was expected MacLeod. He should be here any minute. I'd advise you to take a seat, if you value this muggle's life."

"Adam?" Joe asked in a half-curious, half-warning tone.

"Not now, Joe." To Marek, Methos said, "Step away from him and I'll make it quick."

"I don't think so," Marek said. He reached into his coat. Methos tensed as his hand wrapped around the handle of his gun, but Marek did not pull out a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a book and tossed it onto the table. The book flapped open a little, revealing blank pages.

"I brought two this time, too," Marek said. "One for your friend MacLeod, and the other will be great for you."

"So that's the plan, then? You plan to bind us into those books, then you'll take us back to your master."

"That's right."

"Just like Voracnar," Methos said, shaking his head. "He wanted to do well for his master, too. Only see how much good it did for him."

Marek glared. "Adam…" Joe said, between his teeth. Marek was jabbing the stick, or whatever it was, hard into his neck, so hard that Joe was surprised it hadn't drawn blood yet.

"Gravitas," Marek said. He moved his stick off of Joe's neck.

Every part of his body suddenly felt extremely heavy and weighed down, as if the gravity had increased in the room making his feel five times heavier than he actually was. Joe tried to move, but instead he found himself slouching in his chair. He tried to move an arm and quickly broke out into a sweat.

Marek had performed a heavyweight spell on Joe. He now held his wand pointed at Methos. "Hands where I can see them, Jamison," he said. Methos pulled his empty hand out of his coat. "Step up to the book and place your hands on the middle pages."

Methos didn't move. Instead, he concentrated inwards on the energy that made up his Quickening.

Long ago, he had learned how to control his lightning bolts to use as a weapon. It took millennia for him to become powerful enough to do so, but since then, he'd learn quite a few tricks. Not only could he direct lightning bolts at another person, but he could use his Quickening as a sort-of shield from spells.

He closed his hands into fists. Hidden within them, he could feel a tiny blue Quickening bolt spark along his skin. They sent a tingling feeling up his arms.

Marek did exactly what Methos expected him to do. "Imperio!" the pathic wizard said.

A burst of magical energy shot out of the end of Marek's wand. Joe's eyes widened. Methos flinched and raised his hand.

The magical energy of the Imperiatus Curse was immediately attracted to Methos' right hand like the opposite ends of a magnet. Not only Joe but also Marek stared this time. The energy blast formed a translucent sphere around Methos' open hand. Blue lightning arched between the sphere and his skin, making him feel an excruciating mixture of pain and pleasure usually reserved for a Quickening.

/How?/ Marek projected, betraying himself without even, it seemed, realizing it.

Methos grinned a nasty, murderous-looking grin. He drew back his right hand and brought it swinging forward, throwing the spell's energy back at Marek. It was almost upon Marek when the pathic wizard teleported away in a flash of light.

In the same instant, Methos felt the Buzz only a moment before MacLeod stepped into the bar. As Methos turned toward him, he saw Marek reappear in a second flash of light behind the Highlander.

"Mac, get down!"

Amazingly enough, Duncan MacLeod actually hit the floor on request, narrowly missing the lightning bolt that shot from Methos' hand, aimed at Marek. Marek waved a hand, and his telekinesis caused the lightning bolt to be knocked off course. It impacted with the wall on Methos' right side, leaving behind a small crater.

Methos and Marek stared at each other in the eyes. /You've got a lot of surprises, Jamison,/ he said, projecting the thought only to Methos' mind.

He disappeared in a flash of light.

After he didn't reappear for several minutes, Methos allowed himself to relax. It was only then that he noticed that his two friends were staring at him with wide eyes.

Methos sighed. It looked like he had a lot of explaining to do.