Memoria Excidere

Shakedown, 1979. She had disapparated to Paris, in the 10ème arrondissement where she was to be staying. A future memory of coming here with her parents hit her, and it was followed by a sharp twist of melancholy. Would her future end up like that, now that she had changed things? Now that the holder of secrets had changed, who would live and die? She did not know why she had let her lover turn to the dark side. At the time, she had convinced herself that it was his duty. Now, doubt began to seep through her veins.

Amelia Winter stepped out of the station métro. It was a gloomy October morning in Paris; the only light from the shafts of sun that glinted through the ever-darkening clouds that loomed overhead. She shook her head sadly - Wizarding Paris was no longer as she had remembered it. Now it was a shell of its old life, the reminders of the ongoing war scattering the Rue Chateau Landon. There were curse scars on the cobbles that surrounded the paved road. Stepping over one these scars, and crossing the road, she approached her apartment building.

"Madame Chardon?" she called, stepping into the hall of a tall, white building that was across the road from the station. A plump woman, with a nose that reminded her of Mrs Weasley and an abundance of blond curls, bustled heftily into the room.

"Oui? Ah, vous êtes...Mademoiselle Winter?" The woman seated herself at the desk that sat in the center of the hall, and searched through a pile of papers piled upon it.

"Oui...parlez-vous l'Anglais?" Amelia asked, hoping desperately to be able to communicate with less difficulty. Her French was not bad (in fact it was excellent if Amelia did say so herself), but at suchspeed as Madame Chardon spoke, even one as fluent could not keep up.

"Of course, ma chère. Un moment - I seem to 'ave misplaced ze papier...bon! Voila. 'Ere iz your key, zis iz for room vingt. C'est d'accord?" Madame Chardon asked, handing over the key as she spoke and reaching for the phone, which was now ringing.

"Oui, merci Madame," Amelia said, and picking up her case made for the stairs as Madame Chardon answered the phone ("Bonjour? Oui, c'est Madame Chardon. Non, ce n'était pas marché...").

--

Amelia fumbled with the somewhat rusty lock, before opening the door onto what appeared to be just another corridor. On closer inspection, the doors proved to be not to other apartments, but to her living room, study, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. Heaving her case onto the bed, she opened the doors out onto the balcony and surveyed the view. From here she could see the station métro, and not far from the road was the Canal Saint Martin. Sighing at the memory of her last visit, Amelia turned and opened her suitcase.

Some minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Amelia dropped the pair of socks she was holding and went to greet her visitor. On opening the door, she was met by an exceptionally tall man, with a shock of red hair that he had cropped in some modern style that Amelia hadn't seen before. He held out his hand, a grin showing a row of neat teeth.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Puis-je me presente? J m'appelle Bill Weasley - et vous?" He gestured to the hand he was offering, and Amelia shook it dazedly.

"I know, we've met before..." she said, her English surprising him. Amelia suddenly realised that no, he didn't know her - she looked different now. Cursing herself for her slip, she covered up quickly. "Oh, you probably don't remember me. I was in the year below you at Hogwarts."

"Really? No, I can't remember you. What house were you in, Miss..."

"Winter. Amelia Winter. I was in Gry-Ravenclaw. Like I said, you probably don't remember me." Amelia stood out of the doorway. "Would you like to come in?"

Bill grinned at her, flashing those teeth again. "That would be lovely. How long have you been here in Paris?"

"About twenty minutes in this apartment," she replied, glancing at her watch. "As you can see, creature comforts are severely lacking about the place." She gestured to the kitchen, sitting rather lonely at the lack of appliances save for a cooker.

"Oh," he said, blushing slightly. "I hope I'm not disturbing you at all." She shook her head.

"Don't worry about it - I've not exactly got a lot to unpack. I...shall we say, left England in rather a hurry yesterday." Glancing up at the raised eyebrow she had received, Amelia gave a small smile. "That's classified information, I'm afraid," she smirked, predicting his next question. He chuckled.

"You some sort of seer?" Bill joked. Amelia let out a bark of laughter in response, eliciting a smirk from Bill in return. "Hit upon a nerve there, have I?" Amelia nodded, still smothering giggles that were becoming more nervous than amused. "So how about we meet up, get reacquainted? I've always wanted to know what the Ravenclaw common room looks like..."

Amelia crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Are you asking me to dinner? Because that's a horrendous chat up line." Bill shrugged in reply.

"Perhaps."

"How do I know you're not some sort of Death Eater?" she chuckled. His face darkened, and Amelia knew that she was the one hitting a nerve this time. "Oh, I'm sorry, I..."

Bill shrugged. "It's okay. Tell you what - there's this really great place near the Canal..." Amelia noted his quick change of subject with some intrigue. "How is eight o'clock for you?"

"Wonderful."

--

Alastor was exceptionally bored. In fact, the only other time he could remember being this bored was when Minister Fudge made his first speech in office, talking mainly about himself (a force darker than Gilderoy Lockhart was at work here) and how he intended to "reform Magical society". Alastor almost snorted out loud. Reform indeed. All those years in office, and what had Fudge done? Given the Wizarding public a fake sense of security, thus upon the second rise of Voldemort plunging them even further into shock than they would have been, had there been a Minister who hadn't denied the presence of Mr. Riddle at every turn. It was only when the first of the Great Battles occurred that Fudge would admit his mistake. Even then he would not accept that it had been a mistake, insisting that he had been lead to believe all was safe by his advisors (who were later sacked by Minister Fudge). Alastor could not describe the hatred that he had for Fudge without it involving many four-letter words and a large axe.

That was why they had reformed the Order of the Phoenix, trying to place hope in the notion that an independent body could overthrow the Dark Lord. With the help of their agents within the Ministry, Dumbledore and his band of followers hoped to triumph where others could, and would not. Alastor was of the belief that it would depend entirely on whether they could work as a group or not. Currently, animosity between the two generations - Potter and Weasley versus Snape, Lupin and Finnigan - was high, and to Alastor it looked as though the two groups had forgotten their common cause. Both generations had lived under the terror of one Thomas Marvolo Riddle.

Since the War began, the differences between the two groups had greatened, even with the link between Potter and Lupin. Snape did nothing to help the relations, sulking around Order meetings as if he were Death himself. The elder generation saw the return of the Dark Lord as a sign of never-ending torment, while the younger generation remained ever hopeful that they could overthrow Voldemort and regain their power. Said elder generation felt that they were more learned on this topic since they had lived through one rise to power already, while the younger generation insisted that Voldemort would be expecting the same response and that new ideas were needed.

Alastor chuckled at the door to Dumbledore's office opening. "Speak of the devil," he said, nodding at Finnigan and Dumbledore as they entered the room.

"Alastor! I do hope you're well," Finnigan said, clapping a hand on Alastor's back (the said recipient of the clap sneering in return).

"No you don't, Finnigan. You would rather my rotting corpse sat here grinning inanely while rats nibbled away at its ankles." Alastor smiled briefly, and folded his arms over his chest. "Well, Dumbledore? Where are we flying off to now?"

Albus sighed, and sat down at his desk. "Lemon drop, Alastor?"

"As far as I am aware, that is not a town in Britain," Alastor groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with an elongated finger and thumb. Dumbledore chuckled, and placed the box he had been holding out back on the desk.

"To answer your question, Alastor, I am not entirely sure. I was hoping, as a former Auror, that you would have some suggestions." Dumbledore smiled wanly over his half-moon glasses.

"Archer's Alley," said Finnigan suddenly. Alastor was momentarily confused, but Finnigan proceeded to explain. "Hermione and Ginny had a flat there. After they left Hogwarts."

Dumbledore nodded. "Is Miss Weasley still living there?"

"I'm not sure. But we can always ask her brother, he should know."

Alastor mumbled under his breath, before speaking more coherently. "Parents house. Place where Potter lived...Little Whatsit."

"Little Winghing. What about The Burrow?" Dumbledore leant his chin on neatly folded hands.

Finnigan let out a bark of laughter. "Don't you think the Weasleys would notice if she were there? I mean, we all know Arthur's a bit mad, but the man's not dense, Albus."

"Maybe not," Dumbledore said. Finnigan raised an eyebrow. "She's an animagus, Seamus."

Finnigan's eyes widened. "Since when?"

"Since always. She's Unicus, just like me. Lily was one too, and so is Severus." Dumbledore smiled at Finnigan's surprise, and carried on. "All Unicus are natural animagus, to represent the God or Goddess they embody. I myself am Mentor - thus, my animagus is an owl. I can watch over my charges at night without being noticed. I was never sure of Hermione's form, though I suspect that it was a cat. Cats as you know are night creatures by heart, and Hermione embodies Nyx, Goddess of Night. I always felt that to be most fitting. Severus...Severus is Erebos. Erebos was both the brother and lover of Nyx, and kept watch over the gateway to the Underworld."

"So," Alastor said, breaking the silence that was hanging over them like a dark cloud. "London, then. Anything else we should know, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not that I can think of. As usual, report back to me should anything come up. Owl me when you've checked all three places and we shall arrange another meeting to discuss the results, and further action."

Alastor and Finnigan nodded. "Thank you," they chorused, and left the room.

Dumbledore tapped his fingers against the pile of letters that lay in front of him.

"I hope you are enjoying your time in the corner, young one..." Dumbledore spoke aloud to the room. There was a scuffling from the corner in question, and a rustling as a sheer material limped to the ground. "Your Uncle's concealment cloak?"

The light from the fireplace flickered against Snape' hair as he stepped into it, making it shine in the warm light. There was a brief flash of colour in his skin, and his eyes glazed over for a moment. "You know I hate it when you call me that, Albus."

The older man chuckled. "You never were one for informalities, Severus. Well? Will you be off after them, then?"

"You know she wouldn't want me to do that."

"Ah yes - the ties that bind us. Do tell me...did you ever tell her that you loved her?" Albus rested his chin on his hands, and smiled weakly at his companion, who did not return the favour.

Snape growled in warning. "Don't."

Albus sighed. "That would be a no. Why is it, then, that you think she will come back?"

"I don't think that." Severus yanked a chair from the fireplace abruptly and sat himself down by the side of Albus' desk. "I know that. She said she was sorry."

"What did she tell you, Severus?"

"She said she would come back. She said that she was sorry for what she had done, but that it was necessary. She said..." Severus paused, and shook his head. "She said she had to make me believe that she didn't love me. Didn't need me. She said that if I hadn't turned to Voldemort, then millions more would have died."

Albus nodded. "And what is it about this that you do not understand?"

"What does it mean, Albus? All of it? Any of it?"

"If you had stayed with Hermione, then the world as we know it would not have happened. You saved millions of lives, Severus, just by being there. Hermione knew that - she realised it. It was not Lily and James that she was supposed to save, but you." Albus smiled again, a knowing and twinkling smile. Severus couldn't stand it when he smiled like that.

"What am I supposed to gleam from this golden nugget of philosophy, Albus?" Severus said, tiredly. "Some purpose, some meaning to my existence?"

"No, Severus. I am telling you that Hermione was in love with you, whether she told you it or not. Likewise, you were - and still are - in love with her." Albus rose from his desk. "What you do about it...I leave to you. Should you want to act upon your emotions...I cannot deny that I wish for you to be happy, Severus, but what is it that you really want? Do you even know, child?"

Severus stood up with a flourish and stalked to the door. He put his hand upon the handle, and turned back to look at Albus one last time. "I want to wake up, and see her there. Like I used to. Even if just one more time."

The door slammed behind him.

"Oh, Severus," Albus sighed, and exited to his chambers. The room lay tense behind him, echoes of a previous meeting hovering heavily in the air. Nyx lingered in her blank but ever tormented canvas of night.

--

"Pour manger?" a waiter asked, smiling politely at the two guests that had just entered La Chansonniere, a restaurant near to the Canal Saint Martin. Thankfully for the two of them, the Muggle world had so far remained unaffected by the war that was terrorising the Wizarding world - thus, public services remained open, if you knew where in the Muggle world to go.

Bill Weasley, sporting a dark brown suit complimented by a soft grey shirt that he wore with the collar open, returned the smile. "Le menu, s'il vous plaît."

The waiter nodded, and handed the two leather-covered menus, showing them to their table. It was near the window, and showed the canal at its best - the moonlight glittering in the ripples as the water swished down. Amelia smoothed out her suede skirt as she sat on one of the elegantly carved oak chairs that had been pulled out for them.

The restaurant itself was typically French - full of conversation, smelling strongly of brown Galoise cigarettes and every now and then accented every now and then with the tinkling of a wine glass. Amelia inhaled, revelling in the smell that she had not partaken of for some time. France was like a second home to her, since her parents had taken her and her brothers there so often during their youth. Although her brothers had preferred the South, Amelia had always had a soft spot for Paris and the North, looking forward to the walks that she and her mother would take across the beaches of Normandy - delighting in the history that surrounded them and smelling the fresh air.

Those days were gone now, though, and Amelia was much older. She had not walked along those beaches since then, and her desires to were quashed by her feelings of confusion regarding her family. Her brothers had never been magical - they hated her for being the other one, the strange one. She always felt separate from her family no matter how much love they might show for her; felt that it was all a ruse to present an image of normality. Amelia envied Bill, for he had always known honest love from his family. She had no such luck - though that was not to say that her childhood was wasted or spoilt, simply a very confused time. She inwardly chastised herself - thinking was something she did too much of. That was how she had ended up in France again, and was something that she didn't want to think about.

They ordered their meals, and returned the menu to the waiter.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Amelia asked, taking a sip of her wine.

Bill smiled. "I'm a curse breaker," he explained, and lit up a cigarette. He offered Amelia one, but she declined. She had never been a smoker, even though her friends had been. The idea of inserting tar into one's lungs and blocking the windpipe somehow did not appeal to her. "How about you?"

She took a breath before beginning her well-read story. "Well, I used to teach...but I'm in research now, ever since the school I taught at was destroyed." She paused. "Death Eaters attacked, killing the students and burning the building down." Amelia tapped her nails against the base of the wine glass, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"What did you teach?" Bill asked, sensing that the school itself was not something Amelia would be too happy discussing.

"Potions," Amelia explained. "After I went to Hogwarts, I went straight to University to get my degree, and my teaching diploma. Then, when I was 24, I joined the school. I taught there for four years, but then the school was attacked." She blushed. "I'm ranting, sorry."

Bill shook his head. "No, don't be. I like hearing peoples' stories...mine's not that interesting. I'm sure you know how big my family is."

Amelia grinned. "I couldn't imagine living in a family so big. I had two younger brothers, and that was all."

"Were they magical?"

"No, I was Muggleborn - and the only magical person in my family." She took another sip of her wine, enjoying the sharp aftertaste, and looked at her companion. He hadn't changed since she had last seen him - he was a little older, perhaps, and that showed in his eyes. His once-long trademark Weasley hair was cropped shorter, so that it fell around his face in a crumpled mess.

"So what are you researching now?" Bill asked, thanking the waiter as he set the plates down on their table.

"History and Psychology, mostly. I want to see if there's a pattern to the attacks the Death Eaters make. Voldemort's not stupid - he'll cover his path well - but even the greatest criminals have some sort of trademark, some pattern." Amelia was reluctant to reveal her research initially, but seeing Bill's interest continued.

"Well obviously his trademark is the Dark Mark."

"Yes, but there's going to be a subconscious trademark - have you ever read Silence Of The Lambs?" Bill shook his head at that. "Well, the serial killer in that had his victims serve a purpose. He also left cocoons, moth ones, in their throats - that was his Dark Mark, if you will. What I want to know is this - what purpose do Voldemort's attacks serve? Why is he putting so much time and effort into these planned excursions - it can't just be for publicity, if it were that then he'd just stick a bomb in the Ministry offices."

"You think he's...building up to something? That all the attacks are in preparation for something?" Bill ripped his bread apart and began to spread butter on it. "What do you think he's going to do?"

Amelia shrugged. "Take over the world?" They laughed. "No, seriously - I think he'll go for the big one. Hogwarts."

"He's gone for Hogwarts before."

"I know - but only the grounds, not the castle itself. Hogwarts is Dumbledore's stronghold, his fortress - if Voldemort can get into the castle itself then he'll have power over Dumbledore. It's a toss up he has to make - face your most feared enemy and conquer him, or take the easy path and risk attack. Riddle was a proud man - he'd always pick the conquering." Amelia's face set itself in an unreadable expression and Bill picked at his food thoughtfully.

"No one's ever tried that before," he said, and Amelia nodded. "Sure you're up to it? It's a completely blank area in research. You'll have no academic help; it's far too Muggle-based."

Amelia smirked. "Are you saying you want to help?"

Bill shrugged in reply. "I'm saying I might know someone who could help you. Some people, rather."

"Who would they be?" Amelia asked, finishing off her tomatoes. "Friends of yours?"

"Workmates, actually."

"Oh really?" Amelia was being overly cautious - something she'd picked up from living under two reigns of terror. "And who do you work for, exactly?"

Bill paused, and sipped nervously at his wine. "If I tell you, then I'll have to kill you," he said slowly.

"That's a chance I think I'll have to take," Amelia retorted.

"I'm an agent for the Memoria Freedom Fighters." He took a bigger gulp of wine and let the liquid smooth his throat. He glanced around the room nervously, as if one look could tell him whether the location was safe or not. "We're a group of former Ministry agents and the suchlike that...deal with Death Eaters."

Amelia nodded. "You neutralise them."

"In a manner of speaking."

Her left forearm throbbed painfully.

--

"Bon soir, chère," Madame Chardon trilled as Amelia and Bill entered the building. They smiled back at her.

"Bon soir, Madame," Amelia said. "Are you enjoying the evening?" Madame Chardon's curls bobbed jovially as she nodded. Bill and Amelia bid her goodnight and ascended the stairs, clutching onto the banister in a failed attempt to fake sobriety.

"Now, my dear Mademoiselle Winter...will I have to carry you to your flat, or are you still capable of traversing this hallway?" Bill grinned, flashing rows of neatly placed teeth that were yellow stained by wine and tobacco, setting off the dark red of his lips that reflected the wine also.

Amelia giggled. "I am quite capable of walking, Monsieur, I assure you." They reached the door to her flat and she fiddled with the keys.

"Amelia?" Bill asked suddenly, and her head flicked up. He tilted his head and leant towards her, bringing a hand up to brush a wisp of hair out of her face. "I hope you don't mind if I..." He cut his sentence off abruptly when he felt the pressure of a wand on his stomach. "Ah. Perhaps you do mind." He flushed unattractively - it clashed with his hair and made him look like a tomato. "I'm terribly sorry..."

Amelia smiled weakly, and put her wand back in her pocket. "I should explain myself. Come in..." She pushed the door open and waved him through to the living room. He sat down on the sofa, and she stood awkwardly, leaning against the piano that sat against one wall.

"Listen, I'm really sorry about that, I should have thought -"

Amelia shook her head. "Don't worry about it - it's my problem. I guess I'm just one of those people who comes with back story." She shrugged, and fiddled with her jacket.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bill asked, and she frowned.

"I don't know. I know I should do, but I don't know if I can..."

"You won't know until you try," Bill suggested, and Amelia nodded in response. "At least, that's what my mother always used to say." Amelia smiled in reply - she could just picture Molly saying something like that. It didn't help the wave of discontent, however, that began to sweep though her stomach.

"I don't think so, Bill," she said softly, and smiled a little more, as if it would make up for her reluctance. "Maybe...once we've known each other a while longer. These things...in these times..."

Bill nodded, and patted her arm as he got up. "I know. Well, I should be off - work in the morning, of course. Life's such a drag." He winked at her, and she flashed him a grin. "I'll see you soon; you need to meet some of the people I work with. The guys in Research know more about anything than anyone, I think."

Amelia chuckled. "I'll see you soon, Bill."

When she had showed him to the door, she returned to the living room. Talking to Bill had made her remember her old life again, the one that she had tried to leave behind. The six years since she had seen a familiar face were notched onto her heart like a child's experimental scratching into a prized antique.

Oh Merlin, did she miss it back home at Hogwarts. The echoing corridors whose silence was punctuated every hour by students milling to their next class, the chatter of hungry mouths at the Great Hall...and the darkness of the dungeons, the comfort in solitude and the little hideaway that she kept only for herself. Of course, it was his domain now. But no, she wouldn't think about him - that part of her life was over.

Which was, of course, exactly why she had agreed to go to dinner with someone closely related to it.

She felt his face press against her neck, the sharp scratching of his emerging beard burning her unwashed skin. Why do you not want me? I am more than you could ever hope for. I can help you unleash your power, I can show you why we will be the winning side in this war. His hands were gripping her sides tightly, squeezing the layers of fat and skin at her waist and hips until his fingers and the skin there turned white. You do not know anything. You know nothing. No one wins in war. Everyone dies. That is why I killed them. So that I could have you back.