Oh, yes. We had been expecting this. And our cleverly thought-out plan was about to be put in effect.

  We were going to wing it.

  'George' was still shivering at my side, but standing on his own.

  "Good lad," I said. "Why don't you take a bite of your Chocolate Frog?" Fawksey had supplied us with various chocolate confections. Apparently, Azkaban was rife with the stuff. Go figure.

  'George' looked at me like I was an idiot. "'Coz oi et it, di'n't oi?" He visibly restrained himself from adding, 'Duh,' no doubt out of respect for his elders.

  " 'Sides," he said, looking puzzled. "Hit ain't all that, is't? They just caught me off m'spot. Yeah, oi'm scared t'def, an' oi'm remembering bad stuff..."

  I looked sharply at him. Yes, still shivering, but he was right. We had been exposed to the Ministry's captive Dementor in Auror Training, first as a test of endurance, and then to strengthen our Patroni. This was muted, somehow.

  "Hoi!" I shouted. "The Harnesses ere helpin' sommat! Iffen ye feel ut bad, retreat to the Third Bunkroom. No shame, it's nobbut gud sense t'clear th' dom way!i

  Behind me I heard minor amount of shuffling, and what sounded like encouraging claps on the back. Then I heard Shamir talking as he approached.

  "Hard thoughts!" he said, loud, but not shouting. "Don't try to be happy, or hopeful, or any of that shite! Be angry! Be strong! Just hold on!"

  He arrived, standing on the other side of 'George.' He laid a hand on the lad's shoulder, saying, "Good lad. Door secure?"

  "Aye, sorr. Outside 'George' an oi saw 'em oozin' out'a th' shadows in th' back o' th' Rec Room, loike, and both frew up th' sign. Door slammit loike a cannon goin' off!"

  Shamir squeezed the thin shoulder, and let go. "Good work. Go help get the locals into Harness."

  With a shaky smile, the lad scarpered.

  Shamir regarded the wraith-like shapes floating around, and sometimes through one another.

  "Any thoughts?" he asked, speaking in a low tone.

  I replied the same way. "Stalemate. The which means we lose. Ah think they're puzzled-like. Prolly try gettin' closer, the stren'th o' th' power is a function o' distance.

  Sure enough, the swirling stopped, and the Dementors lined up side by side. They started floating toward us. I could feel the effects increasing, trying to force images into my mind.

  Suddenly, from behind us, an impossibly deep voice bellowed out.

  "Tyr! Thor! ODIN! VALHOLL!"

  Even as I turned, three things flashed through my mind. Standing upright. Approaching. No paint on face. Well, no face at all. Technicality. Crap.

  I yelled, "Jo-Jo! No!" ...as a five-and-a-bit foot-tall Berserker darted between me and Shamir, lightning trailing from his impossibly blue eyes. I had really hoped he would revert by now.

  Jo-Jo dived as if to tackle the center one, and flew straight through, of course...

  ...but its shape had rippled.

  What?

  They swarmed him, swooping around until he was barely visible in a ball of grey mist. He tore at the insubstantial things with clawed fingers and snapping teeth. And, very occasionally, a shred of grey mist would fly free and dissolve.

  Shamir softly echoed some of the loud questions behind us. (But not any of the profanity, obscenity, or scatology).

  "What. The. Hel?" (Not profanity, by the way. He was genuinely asking a question of the Goddess).

  I shrugged and made a WAG. "Jo-Jo is basically mindless when he's like this. Any memories they could get w'ld likely be those of t' Berserker Spirit."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "And Berserkers don't have bad memories?" Shamir demanded.

  "Berserkers ere bad memories. An' all they feel is ecstacy. Tha' right there is prolly th' happiest man in Azkaban this day."

  "But that still leaves us in a stalemate. I doubt they will continue to ignore us if we try to slide weak men past them." Shamir stepped in front of me, and lowered his voice even more. "And my bad feeling is getting even stronger. It's like there is something even worse than...

  "I can HEEAARR you!"

  ***

  The very loud, quavery, manic voice had come from behind us, behind everyone. We all turned to see someone standing just outside the Pillar Room, near the Locked and Blocked Door. (I wasn't going to start thinking of it as 'The Gestation Chamber' until a LOT of questions were answered).

  It was Bates.

  I have had it in for this bully for a long time. But since I wasn't in his barracks, I had to pretend not to know what was going on. That was, until we got Quidditch started, then I could develop some sources of my own. All my information had to come from other undercover ops, or through the Auror Office. He was the major impediment to getting the Leagues started, mostly because he couldn't figure out how to control and profit from them. He even tried forbidding 'his' people from playing, and sabotaging equipment. It took five serious attempts on his life to make him realize that he could not bully all the people all the time. A whole barracks was more than even his bully boys and a second-rate suppression-proof Augery wand could cow.

  The two attempts that came closest were from his own people.

  He had some sort of in with the guards, but they were under pressure about the Dementor sightings, and couldn't do their usual job of looking the other way.

  I was sure he had some kind of connection to the outside as well, and suspected the guards of giving him access to other barracks. I had set traps, to no avail.

  I was willing to bet he had something, maybe everything, to do with the state this Barracks was in.

  The... fight, I guess, was still going on back by the Rec Room door. The Dementors couldn't get through to Jo-Jo, but they were too stupid to quit trying.

  Shamir and I were slowly working our way back through our people and the ones they were trying to rescue. Under our breath, we were telling them to retreat to the second Bunk Room, clear the hall.

  Bates noticed them making their way into the room, and tittered, in an odd, pitchy voice. "Thaaat's right. Those belong to me. Put them back where you found them. They're my trade bait. Got to have something to trade, or they'll take me instead." He looked quite mad, eyes wandering from side to side, up and down, even rolling up into his head so only the whites showed."But they won't do that." His voice dropped to a confiding tone as we came closer. "I'm special, see? Their Array is broken, and I'm the only one who can catch these." He waved an empty hand at us.

  At least, it looked empty. Some trick of the light made distortions in the air around his hand. And a disturbingly familiar feeling was growing in me. A feeling of loss, of draining... I brushed the back of my hand against Shamir's. "Close enough," I muttered into my chest.

  We stopped, about thirty feet from the end of the Hallway. I spoke up. "So, what in th' world hev ye caught there, Bates? 'Tis odd, it is, and no lie."

  Bates' eyes wandered in from different directions, managing to focus on me. "Why, it's John, isn't it?" He gave that oddly intimidating titter of a laugh again. "Good old Whisky John, painted up like a Red Indian. Good ol' too good for perfectly good homemade hooch John. John likes to play games with the scum. I like to play games with them, too. But I use Dementors to play my games. And I'm the only winner."

  "You control Dementors, do you, Bates?" Shamir showed no sign of the disgust he must be feeling. I was having to choke down bile, myself. Shamir continued. "What's that like?"

  Bates eyes wandered over him and away again. "I don't know you," he said, looking confused. "Oh, I've seen you. You're some sort of Boss." His expression cleared a bit. "You want to know what it's like, do you, little Boss? It's like owning the biggest, most venomous snake in the world. A snake the Dark Lord would be thrilled to just see. But it can't eat me, see? I'm poisonous to the snake. I can lead it to food, and watch it torment and torture its food, and see it finish every bite. But it is still hungry. Always hungry. never full..."

  His eyes were wandering again, and focused on his empty hand. "These, though. They call these 'Eaters,' but they eat different. They don't eat souls. And I'm the only one who can handle them. Pick them up and put them in Containment. Only me. I've been selling them for years. They don't come along often. And not always in the same place. This is the last one they need." His mouth stretched in a mad grin. "For now. For now. They always come back."

  He slumped, suddenly looking weary beyond belief. "But that's good. I need a break. Usually I have to sneak around. Bribe guards. Maybe one a year. Plenty of rest and PERFECTLY GOOD HOOCH!" he suddenly screamed at me. Then, suddenly calm, "I should force it down your throat, you know, like I did to a pillock that stole from me. Filled him full and watched him die. Just that once. WASTE OF GOOD HOOCH." That time was just loud.

  "But it's all good. You're here now." He looked puzzled for a minute. "You're here... how? Doesn't matter. I was running out of food for my snakes. Good food, that is." He raised his eyes and peered at the other end of the Hallway.

  "Is that one of yours? Must be a strong one. But they'll get him."

  "Bates!" I snapped. He looked at me, startled. "How? How ere y' doing this? Don't say it's th' Pow'r o' Happiness er such rot, coz yer the most mis'rable sod I know!"

  The manic grin crept back across his face. "Nooo, no. That's mine. Without that, I got nothing to sell. And I wouldn't advise trying to rush me. You'd be dead or worse before you got within three feet of me."

  "Worse?" Shamir asked calmly. "What's worse than dead?"

  The grin improbably managed to get even wider."If it doesn't kill you, it'll still knock you out."

  His eyes narrowed to cruel slits. "And when you wake up..."

  "You'll be a Muggle."