divided.

Installment Nine.

Niamh rubbed violently at her eyes and stifled a yawn. She refused to admit defeat. There had to be something, somewhere on the whole of the Internet about these Legislature officials. There absolutely HAD to be. And since it was out there, she would find it. She wasn't even looking for anything spectacular. She just needed something small; she knew something seemingly useless to anyone on the outside would be her key to working her way to the inside. Some article mentioning their favorite type of wine, or the neighborhood they grew up in. Information would be key in Niamh's attempt to reach out to the American Legislature's ambassadors to the British Ministry.

She had to give the Legislature credit; their security was high, and well maintained. A peon like herself stood little chance of getting into any of the Legislature's important offices here in Britain. For Niamh, trying to set up a meeting with the Legislature's ambassadors to the Ministry was like a fan trying to get a date with Brad Pitt. Unless you were some kind of political celebrity, it just wasn't happening. To make matters worse, Niamh was constantly tempted to throw Dumbledore's name around, or to mention the Order, and that was a difficult temptation to overmaster. She knew with that information involved, they'd have to at least humor her. But between the concerns that the Legislature simply humoring her was possibly more detrimental to her cause than being outright ignored, and the Order's need for absolute secrecy, Niamh knew making mention of her true position was not a good idea. No matter how frustrated she became, she would have to work her way in from the outside purely through her own skill and cunning. That was all there was to it. She just hoped that the competition, ie. Voldemort's cronies, weren't getting in any faster.

Frustrated, Niamh thrust her chair away from the desk and stalked out of the bedroom, heading for the kitchen. She needed a drink. By the time she reached the kitchen, she had not yet decided if her drink needed to contain alcohol, or caffeine. The alcohol seemed the most tempting, considering the knots in her shoulders and the headache threatening to release itself behind her left eye. But she feared the alcohol would tire her out even more, which made caffeine a better (if less exciting) choice. It was only 9.30 pm, hardly late by any standard. But Niamh was exhausted. She'd been sitting in front of a computer all day, and besides the fact that her eyes had begun to burn from the strain, sitting still at a desk staring at the screen was literally sapping all the energy from her body. She was bored, irritated, and tired. It was not a pleasant combination of sensations. Mondays, it seemed, were just unavoidably awful. It didn't matter where she was, or what she was doing, Niamh thought bitterly, her Monday would suck.

As she rummaged through the cabinets looking for a tall glass she could fill with a combination of Bailey's and iced coffee (caffeine and alcohol seemed to be the only appropriate choice given the situation), Niamh caught sight of Shirley, curled up in the corner of the couch nose buried in one of her Psychology text books. A wave of jealousy crashed, unbidden, through her chest as she watched Shirley turn the page and pluck a highlighter from between her teeth. She'd give most anything to be back in her apartment in New York, attacking one of her literature anthologies with a highlighter and preparing for the next day's classes. That had seemed like so much at the time. And yet, looking back, it was all pretty simple, all pretty straight forward. To drown the feeling in her chest, Niamh raised the bottle of Bailey's to her lips and took a swig before turning to put it back in the refrigerator.

"You know, drinking alone in your apartment on a weeknight is one of the signs of alcoholism," Shirley offered, smirking into her textbook without looking up.

Niamh grumbled and grabbed another glass, splashing Bailey's into the bottom of it and hastily dropping in a few ice cubes.

"Now I'm not drinking alone," she said, thrusting the glass in Shirley's face.

When Shirley put down the book and took hold of the glass Niamh dropped unceremoniously into the other corner of the couch, pulling her legs close and propping a pillow up under her chin. For a moment, neither said anything, Niamh stared at her toenails, the red polish chipping around the edges. She could feel Shirley's eyes on her, searching her features for a sign as to what was going on inside her head.

"Long day at the office, honey?" Shirley asked, her voice high and flowery. Niamh had to crack a smile.

"Work was fine. Tedious today, because all I got to do was edit the Intern's copy for some new slip-sheets. But it wasn't awful or anything. It could have been worse. Shit, I even got to leave on time today for once!" Niamh sipped heavily at her drink.

"Then what's got you in such a foul humor?"

"Oh, you know, just..." She paused for a second. Magic stuff, stuff for the Order, these meant nothing to Shirley. They were just words. Slightly bizarre words, but, words all the same. She didn't know. "Just stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" She set her text book aside entirely and turned to face Niamh.

"Well, it's just...it's magic stuff, and you--"

"I wouldn't understand?" She raised an eyebrow. Her voice was calm, understanding even, and yet...hurt, somehow. "I think, Niamh, if you gave it a chance, you'd find I could understand a lot if you would just help me."

"I know, but it's all so complex, and it's getting messier every day. I just don't--"

"Niamh, I'm all you've got here. We--we used to be so close. You know, before all this magic rubbish came out of the closet. And I miss that. And if you would just open up, I think things would be better. I think I could help...you know, be someone to lean on." She fell silent for a second but Niamh knew she was not done. "I just don't understand why you try to keep your life so...so..." she searched for the word, "divided."

"I'm sorry, Shirley. I didn't realize you...I'm sorry I've been pushing you away with this stuff. I guess I'm just not adjusting to all these changes as well as I thought I would. I never thought adjusting to a society like this would be so hard."

"Well, what makes it so different here from what it was like for you at home? Wasn't your magic always a secret? Isn't the magical world always separate from the...what's that word?"

"Muggle."

"You know, I hate that word," she mused, before continuing, "Anyway, what I mean is, aren't muggles and wizards always separate?"

"Well, yes." Niamh considered her answer carefully. It was a complex question. "But at home it was much easier to have both in my life. It was acceptable. Lots of witches and wizards had muggle jobs and muggle hobbies...entire muggle lives, really. All of that, in addition to their magical lives." She sighed. "That's the difference. Sure, magical and muggle worlds have been separated from one another by a thin veil of secrecy for centuries--things are safer that way, no matter what continent you're on. It's just that here, there is no grey area. You either lead a muggle life, or you lead a magical life. Not both. And I...I just feel alienated from both here. I'm not really a part of either. It feels like I've just slipped through the cracks.

"No, you haven't," Shirley said softly. "I would never let you slip between the floorboards on this side of life. Never. You're too important to my life now for me to just let you go.

"Thanks Shirley," she whispered, trying not to tear up, and offered a soft but grateful smile.

"Oh stop it, it's nothing." She smiled. "Well, okay, maybe it's something." A wink.

Niamh put her glass down on the coffee table and leaned deeper into the sofa, letting her head fall until it hit the back. For a moment she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It felt good to have spoken those words aloud. She'd been holding onto them, afraid of worrying or upsetting someone with the admission of her truth. It had been a long time since she'd really spoken her mind. In that moment she was more glad for Shirley's company than she ever had been before--even in her most homesick moments.

"So, tell me about those boys who suddenly appeared in the sitting room the other day. Who were they?"

For hours she and Shirley talked, over glass after glass of Iced Coffee spiked with Bailey's. Mostly, they talked about Niamh's wizarding life. Often, she had to halt her stories to explain some nuance or another of the wizarding world to Shirley. But Shirley was a quick study and she picked up on what Niamh was trying to say very rapidly. Perhaps it was just because she was so open to the material, or maybe it was a natural affinity for the other-worldly. Niamh didn't really care either way. At the time it just seemed more important to pour it all out onto the table. She'd forgotten how good it felt to share these things. She'd forgotten the innate comfort of complete trust.

***

"Well, what was it like?"

"At first I felt stupid, you know, cause I must have completely frozen when I saw the lightening bolt shaped scar on his forehead. I just stared. And when I realized what I was doing I'm sure my recovery was no more graceful than the way my jaw hit the table in shock when I first figured out who he was. But I determined to pretend nothing happened. And to not treat him like a freak--I figure he must get enough of that everywhere else, and he doesn't need it at his own freaking dinner table. But after that it was like...normal. I've hung out there twice now and he's just this really normal kid. He's easy to talk to and stuff, kind of like a kid brother or something. Well, not like my kid brother when he was that age--what a pest!--but like the kind of kid brother you'd pick out for yourself if you were ever given the choice." A smile flickered across her lips, unnoticed. "There was, however, a real pest at the dinner table."

"What?"

"Okay, this sounds really bad, but, whatever. One of the members of the Order is Sirius Black--"

"That names sounds familiar...why does that name sound familiar?"

"He's a convicted criminal who escaped from prison three years ago. When he escaped the Ministry of Magic informed the Muggle Prime Minister, who alerted the public. He'd killed Muggle before, and they thought he might do it again, I guess."

"Now I remember! There was a reward out for him! He looked really dirty and hairy." Shirley shuddered. "My mother was really worried about him. Don't ask why. You know my Mam..."

"I bet she said a million novenas or whatever for protection," Niamh mused. Shirley, who had just been rolling her eyes, burst into laughter.

"And another million to save his poor soul."

"Aww, I love your mom!" Niamh was still laughing.

"So anyway--this, mass murderer or whatever--he's in the Order?" Shirley stopped laughing and changed the subject quickly, she was getting more and more curious by the minute, it seemed.

"Yeah."

"How is that a good idea?"

"Don't ask me. I don't get it at all. Everyone seems to think it's normal. I'm the only one who's scared, as far as I can tell."

"Is he as creepy in person as he was in those mug shots?"

Niamh's head fell to the side, strand of hair falling across her cheek and into her eyes. As she tucked the curtain of red back behind her ear, she looked off into space and took a long, quiet break.

"I don't know if creepy is the right word, but he definitely makes me uncomfortable. Like, no one has told me anything about him, so, why am I supposed to believe that he's not some crazy criminal? And then he acts like he's so normal and funny and charming, and it's just...weird. He wouldn't leave me alone." She scrunched up her face for a second as she fell silent.

"Maybe..." Shirley started, but did not finish a thought.

"What?"

"Oh, never-mind. Just, tell me more about the Order."

"Like?"

"Like, what is your job for them? Why did they want you? How did they even find you? Was it--"

"Slow down there Mrs. Curiosity!" Niamh winked and Shirley looked a bit sheepish. "I can only answer one question at a time!"

***

"I actually hate the American Legislature," Niamh grumbled.

She was in the back room of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Diagon Alley headquarters, surrounded by an assortment of anti-dark magic accessories, most notably shield cloaks and hats. She was fingering a small tin of Peruvian Darkness Powder absentmindedly when suddenly Fred's hand smacked hers away. She recoiled and looked up at him as if to say 'Chill out, Muscles, that actually hurt.' But he refused to budge, and shot a defiant look back at her...grudgingly, she had to admit to herself that she knew exactly why. The Peruvian Darkness Powder had been difficult to come by, and was a big seller. If she were to knock over one of their last tins, they would actually have to charge her for it, on top of being really irritated with her.

Niamh sighed and looked around the room quietly. It didn't shock her that at such an unstable time, Fred & George had been able to capitalize on their considerable skills and market incredibly profitable, and incredibly useful magical devices for protection against the Dark Arts. Although most people preferred to write the twins off as teenaged magical mischief makers, Niamh knew otherwise. They were shrewd and talented, and knew when to throw their eggs into a basket.

"Now, now, you mustn't say things like that," George cooed, "hate is a very strong word, Miss Cassidy."

"Shut the fuck up," she said, tossing him an earnest dirty look.

The situation wasn't funny to her, in any way, shape or form. And she certainly was not in the mood to joke about it.

In an attempt to infiltrate the ranks of the Legislature, she'd spent four hours on an absolutely terrible date with a money obsessed, greasy, racist, man named Mario who was easily twice her age. Four hours of her life gone, completely irretrievable. And yet, here she was, still as far from worming her way into the Legislature as ever. Perhaps, she was even further away. Her misguided impression that Mario was central to the operations of the Ambassadors' office actually could not have been more off. He had simply been lying. Or, as he preferred to call it 'embellishing a teensy bit' to get her attention. And she'd fallen for it. Hook, line, and sinker. And now, after a long dinner of torture in the Ambassador's favorite restaurant, she knew the truth of the matter. Mario may have worked in the Ambassadors' offices, but he seemed to be something of a nuisance to everyone there. Just as he had been something of a nuisance to Niamh on their date. And it seemed, there wasn't a person in that office that cared for his company, or even took the time to speak to him during their dinner, no, everyone made an effort to steer clear of the man. Which meant everyone made an effort to steer clear of Niamh. It was entirely possible that, by falling for Mario's inflated, egotistical stories, she'd done more damage to her image than she could easily reverse.

"They're all so THICK. All of them. I thought it was just Governor Tree, but it turns out that his entire administration is just as awful as he is. Stupid, classless, willfully ignorant, and RUDE." In a burst of frustration, she jumped off the table she was sitting on and kicked the wall violently with the toe of her boot.

Niamh was ready to shout an explicative, when George headed her off at the pass, "If you break something in here, Niamh, you're going to the time out corner." He pointed to one of the barer corners of the room, in the far back.

"Stop laughing about this. It isn't funny! I might have set myself back even further. Now they know who I am. And not in a good way!"

"Calm down, Niamh. I'm sure it's not that bad. They probably hardly noticed you at all. Besides, wrecking our shop is not going to help you, I promise." Fred put a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to bring her down from the height of her frustration, the place where it had escalated to physical outbursts.

"Sorry, guys, I just hate feeling like this. Like I'm trying to scale a Teflon wall." Although the strange analogy earned even stranger looks, Niamh didn't notice. "I'm over-tired and I'm freaking out about nothing, I know, I just..." she trailed off; she didn't know what she meant to say.

"Don't worry about it. We know what its like," George offered softly.

It was long after 10 pm, and the shop was completely silent around them. Fred and George had been working diligently on the wireless Extendable Ears in the lab above the shop, when they heard a banging at their front door. It had been Niamh, robes thrown open to reveal a formal dress and boots--the kind of outfit they'd never actually seen a witch wear, never mind Niamh. Incredulous, they'd opened the door and allowed her to enter the shop and follow them to the back room where they could not be seen by any prying eyes in Diagon Alley.

She'd just left a restaurant near the Ministry of Magic where many Magical Diplomats dined. Too frustrated for the grace and concentration that walking in heels required, she'd transfigured her shoes for a pair of Dr. Martin boots. She didn't care whether or not they matched the black cocktail dress she was wearing, or if she looked completely foreign and shocking to British witches and wizards. She didn't care about much of anything but finding a place where she could vent her frustrations. Someone who would understand what she was going through. Fred and George had been her first choice. She was relieved when she saw a light on above their shop.

"Why does everything have to be so difficult!" She raged, storming circles around the end of the room.

"See, this is why we didn't want--" George very suddenly stopped his sentence. "Ouch," he croaked. Niamh stopped to look at them.

"What George--the git--was trying to say, is that we understand completely."

"I know, he already said that." Niamh cocked her head to the side.

"Oh! Haha!" Fred laughed uncomfortably. "What I meant, was..."

"That we're sorry it's been so difficult for you," George cut in, saving Fred from himself. "But, you know, no one ever promised you that this would be easy. It turns out, choosing the good guy is always the hardest choice. Always."

The irony of that statement, although offered in earnest support, was not lost on Niamh. Clearly, she had chosen the wrong guy that evening. And now she was paying the price. She wanted to kick herself for believing it could possibly be that simple: use a guy, get to the inside. It was selfish of her to have behaved in such a way, and perhaps she didn't deserve for it to have worked out in her favor.

"You're right," she said, softer than she had meant to.

Suddenly, she couldn't get enough oxygen behind her words. Suddenly, she couldn't get enough oxygen at all. She opened her mouth to speak again, to say something about how she felt, but no sound came out at all. Something was very wrong, and she couldn't even form the words to tell them. As a feeling of headiness rushed over her and her vision went black, she realized she wouldn't have to tell them. She was about to pass out, and that would be information enough for both Fred & George to realize that something was gravely wrong with her.

When she came to again everything was incredibly distorted, as if she was looking out on the world from the inside of a fish bowl. Still, she could not speak. She could just barely recognize the shapes of Fred and George hovering before her, urging her to grasp on to them tightly, they were going to attempt Side-Along-Apparition.