Mordant

Chapter Fifteen: Quadruple Quandary

“To friendship,” said Sirius, refilling the wine goblets from one of the dusty bottles he’d dug out of the cellar. Tonks, Hestia, Kingsley, Mundungus, and Moody echoed the toast.

Remus took a sip and rolled it around on his tongue appreciatively. Whatever else the elder generation of Blacks had been and done, they did have excellent taste in wine.

He’d been a bit dubious when Tonks had suggested that having a dinner party might be a good thing for Sirius, but their host was clearly in his element, proposing toast after toast and urging the guests to take third helpings. Lasagna was Remus’ one real culinary accomplishment, and he thought it had turned out rather well. Hestia had brought over a vegetarian casserole, which everybody enjoyed except Dung Fletcher, who poked at it suspiciously for a moment and then claimed to be allergic to vitamins. Tonks had made her famous Pineapple Surprise Cake. “It’s called Surprise Cake,” she explained, “because I invented the recipe when I used horseradish instead of baking powder by mistake, and surprisingly it didn’t turn out too badly. Also I can never tell beforehand whether I’m going to burn it or not, so that’s another surprise.”

The cake surprised Remus by being edible. The horseradish, he thought, brought out the flavor of the pineapple and added a certain zing.

“Anybody for Quadruple Quandary?” Sirius asked, clearing the dishes away with a flick of his wand. Quadruple Quandary was a popular wizarding game in which you had to come up with an element that four items drawn at random from the Bag o’ Esoterica had in common. Points were awarded for wit, accuracy, and surrealism.

Hestia reached into the Bag o’ Esoterica. “The original manuscript of Hélas, Je me suis Transfiguré mes Pieds, a Demiguise pelt, parsnip wine, and a Nimbus 2000,” she read.

“Things with the letter I in them,” said Kingsley.

“Accurate but boring. One point,” Hestia arbitrated. “Other team?”

“Things I’ve stolen,” said Mundungus promptly, raising a laugh from most of the other guests.

“You have not,” said Hestia. “The original manuscript?”

“Come to my flat ‘round midnight, love, and I’ll show you,” said Dung with a leer.

Hestia looked distinctly uncomfortable with this proposition, so Remus took over the Bag o’ Esoterica and the position of moderator with one swift motion. “I’d like to have a look at that manuscript, Mundungus.” He made a brave attempt at leering back, although he wasn’t sure it was all that successful, as he hadn’t had much practice.

“Ladies only,” mumbled Dung, turning red, and Remus drew the next round of items.

“A Knight bus, the Starfish Without Stick, The Monster Book of Monsters, and a flobberworm,” he announced.

“Things that can kill you,” said Moody promptly, “if you don’t practice constant vigilance!”

“A flobberworm can’t kill you!” Kingsley objected from the opposite side of the table.

“It can if you choke on it,” suggested Tonks, Moody’s teammate.

Remus shook his head in astonishment. “How can you possibly choke on ... oh, never mind, it’s you. Two points for surrealism. Other team?”

“Things that can move, but don’t have a brain,” offered Sirius, provoking an extended argument about the anatomy of flobberworms that was settled only by a consultation with the Encyclopaedia Sorceriana. (Nobody, however, disputed the essential brainlessness of the Starfish Without Stick.)

Feeling the beginnings of a headache, Remus plunged his hand into the Bag O’ Esoterica once again. “An Egyptian tomb, a gargoyle, a packet of Ice Mice, and the maw and gulf of a ravined salt-sea shark.”

What these four items had in common remained a mystery, because a raspy voice from Kingsley’s pocket interrupted the game. “Calling Auror Shacklebolt. Auror Shacklebolt.”

“Excuse me for a minute. That sounds like Tight-Ar- ... I mean, Titus Dawlish.” Kingsley fished a Calling Card out of his pocket and stepped out into the hallway.

When he returned, his face was grim. “They’ve just discovered a St. Mungo’s Healer who was waylaid on her way home from work and nearly killed. It seems she had something to do with mind-altering potions, so Dawlish got it into his head that it was someone who traded in them illegally, but I don’t think that adds up. Why would she be bringing potions home from work with her?”

“Mighter been addicted to ‘em, couldn’t she?” Dung suggested. “I’ve always thort them ‘Ealers wouldn’t be ‘uman if they didn’t indulge a bit, on the side, like...”

“Perhaps,” said Kingsley diplomatically. “I’ll make a note of it. Anyway, there was only one witness – a Muggle beggar who was sleeping in the alleyway where the Healer was attacked – and his story isn’t too clear, but as far as I can make out, they used Imperio on her and followed it up with a powerful Memory Charm. She’s unconscious, and there may be permanent brain damage.”

Remus frowned. “But they didn’t use the Killing Curse?”

“You’re bright, lad, but it’s plain to see you’ve had no Auror training,” said Moody. “Avada Kedavra’s a deal too risky for everyday use. Anyone could see the flash of light if they did it outdoors, and it takes a powerful bit of magic. Most wizards wouldn’t be able to cast any other spells or Disapparate for a few minutes afterwards.”

“Do we know anything about this Healer?” asked Tonks.

“Forty-five, unmarried, lived alone. She was an Alienist – worked mainly with spell-induced mental damage, and also did a bit of general counseling. Colleagues thought well of her. Her name’s Hope McCrae or McRae, I didn’t catch the spelling – What’s the matter?” Kingsley broke off and looked at Tonks, who had started visibly.

“I know Hope McRae,” she said quietly. “I saw her last week when I went to visit Alice Longbottom. She was ... she was such a nice woman. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt her.”

“The Death Eaters don’t care about nice, lass,” said Moody.

“Oh, I know. But still – Why would they have gone after her?”

Sirius, who had been leaning back in his chair with half-closed eyes and what Remus liked to think of as his “Genius at Work” expression, suddenly sat bolt upright. “The Longbottoms were on the same ward as Broderick Bode, weren’t they? D’you reckon there might be some connection? Could she have seen or heard something about the person who sent him the Devil’s Snare?”

“Could be.” Kingsley scribbled a note on the back of his Calling Card. “Odd that they would have waited so long to act, though. Bode received the plant in December.” He stood up and beckoned to Tonks. “We’d better get going. Thanks for your hospitality, Sirius.”

Mundungus and Hestia edged toward the door and said good night shortly afterwards, leaving only Mad-Eye Moody to sit by the fire and talk over the news with the house’s two permanent residents. Remus kept a sharp eye on Sirius, but he seemed alert and engaged, and he asked pertinent questions. One thing hadn’t changed since their school days, Remus decided: he was at his best when he had an intellectual problem to chew on. It was – he thought, suppressing a laugh that was highly inappropriate to the occasion – sort of the mental equivalent of a rawhide bone.

 

                                                            *          *          *

Hope McRae was recovering, and seemed alert, when Tonks interviewed her at St. Mungo’s a few days later. She was sitting up in bed and reading a paperback mystery novel, and the Healer in charge of the ward said there would most likely be no permanent damage to her mental function or magical abilities. However, she remembered nothing of the attack, and any attempt to break the Memory Charm would put her in grave danger of losing her sanity.

“Do you know of anybody who might have had any motive to assault you?” Tonks asked.

Hope thought about the question for a long moment. “No.”

“Are you certain?” Tonks ran through half a dozen profiles of possible attackers – a deranged former inmate of St. Mungo’s, a relative upset about a patient’s lack of progress, a professional rival. She dropped “someone who might want to put a stop to your research” in among the other items. Hope neither reacted nor suggested a possible name.

“Can you tell me anything about herb o’ grace?” Tonks asked on impulse.

“Herb o’ grace...” The Alienist looked dazed. “We learned about it in training, but that was years ago ... It’s got something to do with rue, hasn’t it?”

“Not rosemary?”

“No. Rosemary is for...” Hope pressed her lips together and wrinkled her forehead, as if she found concentrating on this subject intensely difficult. “For remembrance. Quite a different family of herbs.”

“Do you remember a patient named Broderick Bode, who died last January?”

“Yes, of course.” Hope seemed to be back on comfortable territory. “He was strangled by Devil’s Snare. Terrible. Miriam Strout called me in, but we arrived too late to save him.”

“Can you remember if he had any visitors in the last few days before he died?”

“No. I’m only on the long-term ward for a couple of hours a day; Miriam would be the best person to ask about that – but no, I’m sure they have asked her. We were both questioned very thoroughly.”

“Are you finished yet?” asked the ward Healer rather brusquely. “She needs to rest.”

“Yes. I think so. Could I speak to you out in the corridor for a moment?” Tonks felt certain that the key to the attack lay with the research on memory potions. And despite the fact that Hope seemed able to answer questions about Broderick Bode, she was not ready to dismiss her cousin’s theory that the two incidents were connected.

“Do you know anything about the project she was working on?” she asked when the Healer had shut the door. “Something to do with memory potions, wasn’t it?”

The Healer – Vivien Armstrong, according to the sign outside the ward – shook her head. “You know more about it than I do, then. She spent hours here in the evenings doing research, but she was very closed-mouthed about her work.”

Tonks outlined what Hope had told her on her last visit to the ward.

Healer Armstrong thanked her, but said there were many kinds of memory potions and without knowing exactly which ones Hope was experimenting with, it might be difficult or impossible to reproduce her research. “Her notes are missing, you know. We just discovered it this morning.”

“Oh God. She must have been ordered to destroy them or hand them over while she was under Imperius.”

“Yes.” Armstrong looked grave. “And the other problem with recreating her experiments is that Hope was a Potions researcher in a thousand. Nobody else at St. Mungo’s has her brand of intuition. We’ll try to carry on with her work if we’re able to reconstruct it, but it won’t be the same, not at all.”

“She was hoping she might be able to restore Alice Longbottom’s memory. Did you know?”

“So that’s what she was looking so happy about. And, of course, it gives whoever attacked her a motive – If the Longbottoms could give a full account of what happened to them in those last few hours, people who have been walking around free for fifteen years could be in Azkaban.”

Tonks nodded.

Armstrong clicked her tongue. “Utterly wicked, I call it.”

But where, Tonks wondered, did Broderick Bode fit in? Had he overheard something the Longbottoms had said in a lucid moment, or had his work as an Unspeakable made him a target? “Do you keep records about the patients she was treating?”

“Of course. They’re in the basement.”

The Healer led Tonks down a maze of staircases and corridors, to a long, low room whose walls were lined with file cabinets. “Under normal circumstances, these records are confidential,” she explained. “We never share them with anybody except the patient, including Ministry officials, unless there’s a compelling reason to do so.” She gave Tonks a questioning look.

“There is,” said Tonks. “I’ve got reason to think the attack on Healer McRae might be related to the one on Broderick Bode. If that’s the case, other people might be in danger as well.”

That did the trick. Bode’s death had been the biggest scandal to hit St. Mungo’s in years, and the hospital staff was anxious to avoid a repeat performance. The Healer handed over the keys to a file cabinet marked Lobalug Poisoning - Morecambe’s Disease and left Tonks alone in the basement. “The ones you want are labeled Mental Damage. Hope’s worked here since 1979, so you can ignore anything older.”

She sifted through a number of folders containing case histories of Mental Damage patients. Most of them had been treated by Hope McRae at some point, but apart from the Longbottoms and Broderick Bode, none of the names were familiar and most of the notes entirely routine. She was a little troubled to see how many of them were Muggles suffering from the cumulative effects of multiple Memory Charms, but that seemed beside the point.

Hope had not been officially on duty the night of Bode’s death, but had apparently been called to the scene as soon as the Healer in charge of the ward had discovered his plight. A hospital administrator had interviewed her soon afterwards about the events of the night. Tonks read the transcript with great care, but was unable to discover any possible clues, and the information dovetailed with what Hope had told her in their brief interview. She hadn’t been present when the Devil’s Snare was delivered and she had no idea where it might have come from; she knew nothing about the patient’s work apart from the bare fact that he was an Unspeakable; and he had not produced any coherent speech in her presence. Tonks had the distinct impression that her opinion of Healer Strout’s professional competence was not very high, but while this was mildly interesting, it didn’t seem to shed any light on the crime.

With an uncomfortable, clutched-up feeling in her stomach, she picked up the Longbottoms’ files and began to read through them. The first few pages were yellowed with age and gave a clinical yet chilling account of the couple’s condition when they first arrived at St. Mungo’s.

My own flesh and blood did this. Why in hell couldn’t I have had the ordinary sort of Horrible Auntie who knits scratchy jumpers and collects porcelain knickknacks, hmm?

She paged through the later additions to the file: the record of long hopeless years, cures attempted and failed, signs of improvement that went nowhere. Hope had scribbled a few notes about her experiments with Memory Potions, but they were cryptic; if she hadn’t had the benefit of the Healer’s own explanations, Tonks wouldn’t have been able to make head or tail of them, and as it was, she learned nothing new.

She was, nevertheless, more convinced than ever that Hope McRae had been attacked because her work promised to restore the Longbottoms’ memories. She couldn’t find any information that provided the ghost of another motive.

She was replacing the files in the cabinet when a folder labeled Lycanthropy caught her eye. Tonks reached for it, hesitated for just a moment, and then snatched it up and tucked it under her robes. She’d bring it back, of course. After she had a chance to compare the contents with the Registry.

 

                                                            *          *          *

Kingsley unwrapped the memo that had just landed on his desk. Meet me at HQ for lunch. Found something important. Tonks. Whatever her discovery might be, she must be excited about it, he thought. Her handwriting had never been what you’d call elegant, but this time it was so untidy he could hardly read it.

He made his excuses to Dawlish, who had been threatening a lunchtime meeting, and Apparated to the house in Grimmauld Place. Sirius looked only mildly surprised at having company, and immediately went down to the kitchen to fix sandwiches.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Remus commented. “He’ll make enough to feed a small army.”

Tonks Apparated into her favorite window seat, promptly got tangled in the curtains, and pulled them down about her ears. “What’s going on?” Kingsley asked her as Remus was trying to work out how to repair them. “Any leads?”

“Not about the attack on the Healer. But I’ve found something else entirely.” She removed a folded sheet of parchment from her handbag. “I found this when I looked up the records for lycanthropy patients at St. Mungo’s. A man named Sam Barker. Treated for a werewolf bite in July of 1994, but the Registry has no record of him. And – get this – he lost most of his right ear when the wolf mauled him.”

Kingsley was baffled for a moment, and then the significance of this detail hit him. He slapped his knee and whistled. “The werewolf that bit Linus Berowne was missing the better part of an ear,” he explained to Remus. “Do we know where this Sam Barker lives?”

“About fifteen miles northwest of Raven’s Glen,” said Tonks. “That’s consistent with the direction from which he approached Mason’s house. If he was the werewolf who attacked Mason, that is,” she added as an afterthought, with a quick glance at the older Auror.

Kingsley had lectured her more than once about jumping to conclusions, but he had no intention of doing so this time. He turned back to Remus. “You know Berowne better than we do. Should we tell him?”

Remus frowned. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “He’s got a right to know, but at the same time – I’ve got an idea that he may still be thinking of carrying out vigilante justice, and I’d rather he didn’t.”

“If this man is the one, he’s got some people backing him who are very powerful. And very dangerous,” Kingsley pointed out.

“Then I think you should take Linus with you when you confront Barker, rather than leaving him alone to brood over the news. Have you got enough evidence to bring Barker in for questioning ... Oh hell, I forgot, you don’t need evidence, do you?”

“No, we don’t,” said Kingsley, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “Sorry, Remus.”

Remus shrugged. “No need to apologize. You may as well get some use out of that idiotic law.”

Tonks was all for collecting Linus on the spot and going to Barker’s house to arrest him, but before they had a chance to work out a detailed plan, the Calling Card in her handbag went off. It proved to be the perpetually needy Dawlish, who, deprived of his lunch with Kingsley, settled for ordering his most junior colleague back to work at once. She muttered a few swear words, grabbed a couple of sandwiches off the tray Sirius had just carried into the room, and Disapparated.

“I could go with you,” Remus offered after she had gone. “He won’t know I’m not from the Ministry.”

Kingsley nodded. He wasn’t sure what he was going to find at Sam Barker’s house, but he preferred to go there with as much backup as he could.

“Need a guard dog?” Sirius offered eagerly.

Kingsley and Remus exchanged a look. “No. Not this time. Sorry.”