“There’s no need to be so wound up about this,” said Draco helping her to arrange a tray of snacks on an antique wooden side-table at the cottage they’d hired. Hermione immediately started to rearrange them again. Draco let her; it was easier that way. Hermione continued bustling about the cottage, straightening and rearranging; in a word, fretting. Harry and Ginny were old friends, true; but she feared . . . she didn’t know what she feared. It was too long to leave a friendship hanging like that. There were loads of good memories, but the final bad ones cast a pall over the lot. It was all simpler when they were barricaded away; but now the wall was breached and the memories were streaming over for drinks and light refreshments. Though Draco was more at his ease, he too was fidgeting. These were his friends after all; real friends, not the cannon fodder he used to keep about him in school. At least his guests were more enthusiastic. And relaxed. Harry always jumped at the chance for merry-making, and Ginny was flattered to be asked to perform such an important task. Esmeralda, too, had promised to come, so the time was set at dusk in deference to her. Her senses were far superior to any wizard’s or muggle’s; if there was to be trouble, they would know it as soon as it could be detected. The sun was setting when Draco heard a knock at the door. Before he could get up to answer it, Harry and Ginny had let themselves in. True to form, from Harry’s satchel could be heard the faint musical clinking of glass bottles. “Esmeralda not here yet?” asked Harry, peering about the cottage. Ginny sauntered close behind with her accustomed smoldering air. That is, the air temperature of a room always seemed to increase by a considerable amount when she entered it. For once, Draco seemed curiously unaffected by it, which he put down to the evening’s distractions. “I’m sure she’ll be here presently,” said Draco, coming to the door to meet them. “Expecting trouble then?” “Always. Handing in your notice is never popular among Death Eaters.” “Nice cottage,” said Ginny, taking in the rustic dwelling. “Take me on a tour?” she asked Draco, raising an elegant eyebrow. While Draco showed her around, Harry saw himself to the sitting room and found a chair across from a wordless Hermione and unpacked his satchel. One by one, he lined up colorful bottles of varying fumes and fizziness until he had quite a startling collection laid out. He chose a deep magenta one and another full of cheerful bubbles, pouring careful measures with a practiced hand. “Cheers!” he said with a wink as placed the glass in front of her. “What’s this?” “Pink Nimbus. I did get an ‘Outstanding’ in my Potions NEWT, after all.” “I doubt that was what Slughorn had in mind,” she replied blandly. She picked up the glass with a faintly shaking hand. “But, then again,” she added, reconsidering, “maybe it was.” Avoiding his eyes, she sipped her drink. “Thanks for not giving up on me.” “Wouldn’t think of it. I’ve got a saving-people thing, remember?” Draco and Ginny returned from their tour. “What a lovely little place!” enthused Ginny. “We’ll have to build one, or buy one like it for when we’re in England, Harry.” Spotting Hermione’s glass, Draco blanched a little. Hastily, he said, “Ah . . . why don’t we get our business done with before we start celebrating?” “Good idea,” said Ginny briskly. “Now let’s see this dreadful Mark that’s causing so much trouble.” * * * “Master, the Mark itches again,” said Wormtail, speaking to the floor. He was serving his usual evening duty as his master’s ottoman. Theodore leapt up from his chair, delighted. “Excellent! I had hoped that the evening wouldn’t be a dull one.” He glanced at his manservant. “Get up, Wormtail,” he said impatiently. Wormtail raised his body slowly from the contorted crouch which he’d held for the past hour. He didn’t dare raise his eyes, so he watched his master’s boots as they paced a circuit on the hearth rug. “Excellent,” he repeated, now rubbing his hands in excitement. “Do you think you can find it, Wormy?” “Y-y-yes, I think so, Master.” “First rate. Going to need some equipment, though. Wormy, go fetch that dementor from the basement, will you? We’ll be needing him.” “M-master? The d-dementor?” “Yes, Wormtail, the dementor,” explained Theodore patiently. “Tall chappie in black. Last cell on the left.” “H-h-how, Master?” “Just pick up his lead from the hook on the wall,” he said with growing testiness. He made shooing motions. “Honestly, it’s not that difficult.” “Y-y-yes, M-m-master,” whimpered Wormtail. He backed out of the room, and then started to make his way toward the dungeons of the Nott family castle, while the sun sank outside. The “basement” was dank and cold, all the colder for housing a dementor. Light from the torch glinted on the wet stone, and the skeletal remains of some of the cells’ occupants. Wormtail’s steps lagged as he got closer to that deep cell where Master Theodore kept his dementor; even tame ones were unpleasant. He unlocked the door with a rusty key. The dementor had been floating aimlessly about, but at Wormtail’s intrusion it tried to flee and hide in the furthest reaches of its small cell, only to be halted by the narrow chain that tethered it in place. “Master wants you,” said Wormtail flatly. It shuddered violently, like a squid pinned to a clothesline in a gale. He found the stained metal lead, lifted it from the wall peg, and tugged the reluctant dementor out of its cell. Dragged behind Wormtail, the once-fearsome dementor sagged like a tattered balloon that had lost most of its helium. Even in its current pathetic state, it gave him the screaming heebie-jeebies. At least, despite his life’s misadventures, he was still alive. He wasn’t sure if dementors even were living things. A thought struck him: If they’re not even alive, what could Master Theodore have done to it? He shut down that line of inquiry. He didn’t want to know. Theodore was pacing the sitting room again when Wormtail returned. “The dementor, Master,” said Wormtail, lowering his eyes and presenting the metal lead. “Right-o! Let’s be off. Side-along Apparition to the spot,” he said, grasping Wormtail’s forearm with one hand, and wrapping the dementor’s lead around the other. “Wormy, we can’t leave Raggy behind; hold his little hand, will you?” He looked at Wormtail expectantly. Wormtail didn’t dare disobey, but couldn’t help shuddering as he touched the dementor’s rotted flesh. Less from a wish to be a good servant than a fervent desire to let go of “Raggy’s” arm, he Disapparated.