Pettigrew's Daughter

"You're very busy at the moment, Prunella," Professor McGonagall observed as she and passed yet another cloaked body in the mortuary. "I'm surprised that you had the time to come and talk to us."

"It's terrible, isn't it?" Dr Watson replied, wrapping her dark cloak tightly around her plump body. "I haven't seen this much death for fourteen years... What is the world coming to? In the past few weeks I have examined muggles, witches, wizards, children... All sorts of people from different walks of life. It's not the work of the same person, they've all been killed in different ways, but it is the work of the same cause. The people that call themselves the Death-Eaters, that serve He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, are the people behind the deaths. But try as I might to explain this to the Ministry, all I get are excuses in return. They don't even seem sure that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is alive- active again. Everything that has been established over the past fourteen years is turning to custard and nobody in the Ministry seems to be bothered. It is truly terrible..."

"But surely-"

"They don't have a clue about what they're up against, Minerva. Only the people that have seen what I've seen do - the Aurors, the Curse-Specialists, my assistants, the other Doctors that examine the bodies. And we don't have the power to convince the Minister of Magic that there really is a problem."

"There are other organisations that are trying to change that, Prunella," Minerva McGonagall said.

"I know," Prunella said. "I'm a member of one."

Morgiana stared at each white-robed individual as she passed it. They lay on their backs, their faces sometimes covered and sometimes uncovered. If they had hands they were folded in their laps. Her mother would be one of those nameless dead people, laid out on a cold slab for anybody who cared to see. Not that anybody did. 'Look at Professor McGonagall,' she thought, viciously, 'Her niece is dead and she's busy discussing some crap with the Doctor. They should be catching Sirius Black instead of mucking around like this!' She had no idea what the Professor was talking about. She wasn't really listening.

"Here she is," Prunella said, breezily.

Morgiana was glad to see that her mother was one of the people that had been totally covered, from her legs to her head. She also felt sad at the same time. The white sheet may have hidden the victim's injuries, but did not however, hide the tell-tale lumps and bumps that told the viewer that the body was not totally intact. It looked as though Iris McGonagall's entire torso was missing. There was an impression where her head, Morgiana presumed, was, a gap, and two pillars that must be legs. One hand appeared to be resting next to the top of her legs. But everything else was gone. Morgiana shuddered. Staring at the shroud gave her enough inclination of her mother's wounds. She did not really want to see any more of the violence inflicted upon the corpse that was once a living human being, but now only a few lumps of burned flesh. But she had to, of course. She had to know what Black had done so she could do exactly the same thing to him. Morgiana took a deep breath, "I want to see her face."

The cloth peeled back slowly, like a scab from an old wound. Iris McGonagall's hair, once soft and shiny, now matted and dead, was revealed. Then the time-creased forehead, the dark arched brows and her eyelid-hooded eyes, rimmed with black lashes. Her skin was clean and pale, the colour of life struck from it by the curse of death. Her lips were bloodless and shut fast, but somebody had carefully manipulated them into a smile. Morgiana was thankful for that. It was the only thing that kept Iris McGonagall's humanity intact, otherwise she would just be another lump of dead flesh, like the others. The cloth kept falling, exposing the determined jaw, the fire-blunted tips of her hair, the badly bruised neck. A network of shattered white bones were revealed, tearing through and peeking out of ragged skin and flesh. There was no blood. The trauma was clean. Morgiana screamed...

***

Three weeks later Morgiana Pettigrew sat in the Gryffindor Common Room at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She had spoken little of the events in London, but anybody that looked at her face could see that they were tearing her mind apart. She no longer looked like a fourteen year old girl, instead she looked much older, scarred by the mutilation she had seen on her mother's body. People tried not to talk to her. She was very volatile, liable to scream and shout and cry at the drop of a hat. She had a few good friends, people that she had hardly known to begin with but now stood by her. Hermione Granger, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

It was a Saturday and most students seemed to have something to do. Morgiana didn't. As for her so-called friends, Harry and Ron had some sort of a detention ('On a Saturday!' Ron had ranted.) and Hermione was off doing whatever Hermione did in the library. Reading probably.

A voice interrupted her thoughts. "Nice wall, that."

Morgiana hardly comprehended a single word. "Mmm Hmm..." she agreed, not looking at whoever had said it.

"Always had a things about walls, me," the boy continued. "Love that wall-feeling against my skin-"

"What?!" Morgiana snapped. She turned away from the wall she had been staring at to face her inquisitor. He was one of the Weasley twins, she recalled, Ron's older brother. Tallish, with Ron's red hair and freckles, a slight acne problem and a small growth of facial hair. 'He must be about eighteen,' Morgiana guessed to herself.

The twin smiled, "Good, now I've got you're attention. Some of us are sick of seeing you moping around-"

"Some?" Morgiana asked. She surveyed the room, only to discover that she and the Weasley twin were the only people present.

"Slight exaggeration," he explained. "I meant me. I thought maybe you'd like to-"

They were interrupted by a shriek as a girl with long hair thrust her way into the room. She had her arms folded across her chest. "There you are George Weasley! I've been looking for you all over the place-"

"I'm not George," the twin told her. "I'm Fred, Angelina. George is out with Lee Jordan somewhere."

"I'm not falling for that explanation again," Angelina said, fiercely. "I've just seen Fred and Lee outside. They said you were up here."

"I'm Fred. George is the twin that's outside."

"Look George, I don't care. Stop fooling around. Can you just fix this? I don't know what the hell you two thought you were playing at." Angelina uncrossed her arms and Morgiana saw what the problem was. One breast was a lot bigger than the other.

"I told him it wasn't ready," Fred Weasley exclaimed. "I'm sorry-"

"Sorry?" Angelina screeched. "What have you guys done to me? Is it going to wear off?"

"Well, we tried it out on a book first and that wore off in a couple of hours."

"A couple of hours? I'm stuck like this for a couple of hours?" Angelina moaned. "Has whatever you've done to me got any side-effects?"

Fred Weasley smirked. "As far as I can think of, no... but there was that unsightly purple pustullating rash-"

"A rash? I'm going to get a rash! You're going to pay for this, Weasley-" she hurriedly fumbled for her wand in the pocket of her cardigan.

The twin held up his hands. "Careful- Careful- I was only kidding... there is no rash. Anyway, I'm not the one you should be talking to about this. There's George now." He ducked behind Morgiana's chair as a streak of blue fire flashed past, impacting on a table which began to grow a garden of purple, frizzy hair.

Angelina swivelled to face Lee Jordan and the other Weasley twin. "All right, Lee, which one of these two is George Weasley."

Lee Jordan gulped as the wand slowly positioned itself near the base of his stomach. "That one," he said, pointing at the twin that had been accompanying him.

"You rat!" Angelina shouted as the red-headed boy ran toward the entrance to the dormitories. Lee Jordan scampered in the opposite direction. Morgiana and Fred Weasley were left alone once more.

Fred Weasley stood up, just in time to face another wand. "You better not even think of doing that to me," Morgiana snapped.

"You? No, of course not," Fred replied. "It was just- I didn't know he was going to try it out so soon-"

"Try what out?" Morgiana asked, lowering her wand.

"Well... We've been working on these things... They're chocolate, called Chocolate Wands. Don't tell anybody this-"

"I won't," Morgiana said, with a frown.

"Anyway, they're just like a wand, only they're chocolate. Valid for one spell-"

"What's that got to do with Angelina's breasts?"

"I'm getting to that-" Fred said. "Anyway, we've been developing them for a while. We had other stuff too, stuff that exploded, but Mum confiscated it before we got to school. She didn't take this lot because we told her that we were... making chocolates for our girlfriends. She thought that was quite sweet... So we've been working on the Chocolate Wands. As I was saying they're chocolate, valid for one spell, then you get to get to eat them. Only problem is, the spells they do only work by halves - like Angelina's breasts. One big, one little."

"Oh. So these wands of yours don't just do breast-enlargements?" Morgiana asked.

"No, they do all sorts of things. George just discovered that spell the other day and we wanted to see if it would work using our wands. A great advertising ploy if it did, you see."

"So you're going to sell these wands? Are they safe?"

"Of course," Fred replied. "Anyway, what do you care about safety? I heard that you've been expelled from half-a-dozen schools for doing things that aren't safe."

Morgiana was about to bite his head off, but saw the glimmer in his eyes. She had a feeling that this was a friendship that she shouldn't blow off before it had begun. "It's true," she said. "Seven schools... So can I try one of these wands out or not?"

Fred Weasley grinned. "I thought you'd never ask." He used his wand to tap on a panel in the wall Morgiana had been staring at, which popped off and fell on the floor, revealing what looked like a small tin bucket. "You see, we have to keep moving them around because people and people's pets keep getting into them. So the other night we did this to the wall. Don't tell anyone." He pulled a roughly ten-inch long tube of dark chocolate out of the bucket and handed it to Morgiana. "There you go, free of charge."

"Which way is up?" Morgiana asked. There was no knob or finger guard to inform the user which way the wand should be orientated.

"Oh, yeah, we had a couple of problems with that too," Fred said. "George burnt his hand pretty bad and had to go to the Hospital Wing. All the skin was sort of hanging off the bones and that was just from trying to levitate a vase."

Morgiana flinched. "Oh, okay."

"That was a week ago. We melted those wands down and made a fresh batch. This time we scratched an arrow into the tip of it so that people would know." He took the wand and pointed the small arrow out. "Now you're ready to go."

"Okay," said Morgiana. "What should I do?"

"Anything," Fred replied. "It's up to you. But it only works for half the spell, remember?"

"Yeah, I know." Morgiana took a deep breath. Her hands were sweating and the chocolate was beginning to melt. The wand smelt strange, like some sort of animal. She rubbed her hands together, making both brown and sticky. She pointed the wand at the table and said, "Retrosus!" The hairy purple table gave a shudder as half of its hairy crop was singed off. The other half remained. Morgiana looked up at Fred. "Cool."

"Now's the fun part," Fred said. "You get to eat the wand."

Morgiana stared at the sticky mess in her hands. The tip had melted, revealing a gooey looking green liquid that dripped in her shoe and giving off the distinct smell of burnt hair. She gulped and took a big bite. Her tongue recognised something that tasted like vomit, but the other flavours were foreign to her. Her stomach instantly revolted before the food even reached her throat and she spat a mixture of feathers and chocolate into her lap. "Blazes! What the hell did you put in it?" Morgiana spluttered. "Ugh! It tastes like foot odour! The thing's a health hazard. You're going to have to work on the flavouring if you want people to buy your products. Ugh! What is that? Feathers?"

"Well..." Fred grinned, helplessly. "Proper wands sometimes have unicorn hair and phoenix feathers in them, but we couldn't afford that sort of thing..."

"So you stuck a mixture of cat hair and owl feathers in your brew," Morgiana snapped, coughing up another chocolate coated feather. "And what's the green stuff?"

"Eye of newt congealed in a combination of house-elve's earwax and sugar syrup."

Morgiana's stomach heaved as she tried to remove the taste from her mouth, dribbling all over her lap. "Do you really expect people to eat this stuff? How stupid do you think they are?"

"You ate some," Fred said with a smirk.

"Have you ever tried any?"

"No."

"Well, today's your lucky day." Morgiana picked up the part of the chocolate wand she hadn't bitten and shoved it at his face. Fred Weasley wheeled back across the room avoiding the offending article. Morgiana was quick on her feet and soon had him cornered beside the fire. He bit his lips to keep his mouth shut as she rubbed the wand under his nose. "Open your mouth!" she hissed.

"No!" he shouted in the reply.

She seized her chance and rammed a piece of chocolate in his mouth. "Not very nice, is it?"

Fred Weasley spat the chocolate out and laughed. "No, it isn't. We'll have to work on the flavouring."

"Yeah. I'm not sure you should be using feathers and earwax either," Morgiana said with a giggle. His face was covered in a mess of chocolate, goo and feathers, his jersey was also coated. "Do I look as bad as you do?"

"Worse," Fred replied. "You look... well, worse. I'm sure you do, but I can't really tell 'cos I can't see myself."

Morgiana wiped her face with her sleeve, leaving a brown smear on her cheek.

"You missed a spot," Fred said.

"Where?"

"There!" Fred wiped a lump of chocolate across her face and ran to get out of the way. Unfortunately, he tripped over the half-hairy table and landed face down. He quickly staggered to his feet and darted behind another chair.

"That's not fair!" Morgiana yelled. She was suddenly overcome by a fit of giggles and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"Are you all right?" Fred asked, still half-hidden by the chair.

"Yeah," Morgiana said through cackles of laughter.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You know, it's the first time I've seen you laugh, mate. Most of the time you're all serious and scary."

"Scary?" Morgiana asked.

"Yeah, real frosty to other people with this sort of black look on your face."

"Oh." Morgiana giggled again. "You didn't put anything else in that wand did you?"

"Like what?"

"Some sort of laughing potion."

"Nah. I told you exactly what I put in it."

"Oh, okay... You're right, I haven't laughed in a long time." Morgiana slowly pulled herself to her feet and retrieved the boy from behind the chair.

"Morgiana?"

"Yeah?"

"Some friends and I are going down to Hogsmeade, tomorrow, you know, the wizard village-"

"Yes, I know it."

"Well, I was wondering..."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'll come with you, okay? That is what you're asking, right?"

***

The next day dawned cold and drizzly. Morgiana dressed herself hurriedly in a pair of worn jeans and a bright pink jersey (knitted by her mother). She had once thought that her mother's handicrafts were uncool but now that she realised that there would be no more, she wore them at any chance she got. Now that she stared at herself in the mirror, she knew that pink was definitely not her colour. In fact, she'd always known it, as she had tried (unsuccessfully) to explain to her mother. Iris had liked pink, so now Morgiana begrudgingly liked it also. The problem was that this particular shade made her already pale skin look slightly blue tinged, 'Like the skin of a corpse,' Morgiana thought, shuddering at the memory of the Ministry of Magic morgue. She was going to put some make-up on, but thought that she'd give people the wrong impression, so she left her skin alone. She tied her long hair back with a red ribbon (which didn't go with the pink jumper at all) and pulled a few strands down around her face in an effort to make herself look less dead. It seemed that she saw corpses everywhere now.

"Are you going down to Hogsmeade?" Hermione asked as she also dressed.

"Yeah," Morgiana said.

"Have you got a permission slip from your... guardian?"

"Professor McGonagall signed one for me last night," Morgiana replied, slipping her hands into some blue fleece gloves. She rummaged through her chest of drawers for her wallet and threw it on the bed. Then she retrieved the piece of paper from the bedside table. "See?"

"I didn't doubt it," Hermione said. "I was just making sure that we weren't going to get down there and have you turned away."

"Oh, okay. Are you going too?"

"It's the first Hogsmeade weekend, almost everybody in the school goes then. Besides, a whole pile of Gryffindors are going. I dare say somebody invited you too?"

"Yeah," Morgiana said, the skin that she had been so worried about now reddening up. Why was she blushing? It wasn't like she was going out on a date and it wasn't as though she had expected the trip to be exclusively her and Fred Weasley.

Hermione smiled. "Who asked you?"

"Oh... Just one of the other Gryffindors... It was while you were off doing whatever you were doing in the library, yesterday-"

"I was writing a letter to Viktor. Was it a boy that asked you, Morgiana?" she asked, mockingly, a 'I know anyway, but I'll ask because I can' look on her face.

Morgiana blushed a little more. "Perhaps," she said. Why was she making such a big deal out of this? "Fred Weasley did, okay?"

Hermione sounded surprised. "All right."

***

The group of 'some friends' turned out to be almost the entire Gryffindor House, excluding First and Second Years. Morgiana realised that she should have expected it. She hardly got to say a word to Fred Weasley on the walk down to Hogsmeade besides, "Hi..." Instead, he talked to his friends - his brother, George, Lee Jordan and some other Seventh Years, in muffled conversation. She ended up talking to Ginny Weasley and Hermione. Ron and Harry were lagging somewhat behind.

They approached the Three Broomsticks Pub first, in order, Hermione explained, to get served and seated before any of the other Hogwarts students that were busy shopping decided to have a drink. There wasn't a table big enough, so the group dispersed around the smaller tables. Morgiana found herself sitting with Ginny, Hermione, Lavender, Parvati, Ron, Harry and Colin Creevy. Conversation was slow in comparison to Fred's table, but Morgiana supposed that the division was to be expected. They were Fifth and Fourth Years while the Weasley twins' group were mainly Sixth and Sevenths. Perhaps she shouldn't have got her hopes up.

All these thoughts were running through Morgiana's head as she stared at the be-gloved hands in her lap. She supposed she was going to be bored stiff. Suddenly a voice spoke and she looked up. Fred Weasley. "Me and George are buying the first round of drinks. Is everyone happy with butterbeer?"

The replies of 'Yeah, that'd be great', were interrupted by Ginny Weasley, "You sure?" she asked.

"Course I am, Ginny," Fred said.

"Well... I know you've been selling some stuff but-"

Ron elbowed his sister in the ribs, hissing, "We'll ask him later."

"Oh- Yeah, okay-" Ginny said, with a jump. She scowled at Ron and rubbed her side. "Ouch! That hurt, Ron."

"Then it's settled," Fred said. "You're all having butterbeer." He looked at Morgiana. "Will you give me a hand with the drinks? I think Madam Rosmerta's a bit busy today..."

"Sure..." Morgiana said and followed him to the counter.

They were served by a busty woman with long dark hair. 'I suppose this is Madam Rosmerta,' Morgiana thought. She was quite pretty, in her own way, and had a very curvy figure which she accentuated with an old-fashioned corsetted dress.

"Seventeen butterbeers please," Fred said, dropping a handful of gold coins on the bench.

Madam Rosmerta looked up, startled. "Did I hear you right, seventeen?"

"Yeah, there's quite a lot of us here," Morgiana explained.

Rosmerta gave a slight yelp and dropped the goblet she was holding. There was a resounding tinkling sound as the glass shattered. The patrons were quiet for a moment, but then speech resumed. Instead of clearing it up, the barmaid stared at Morgiana, a pensive look on her face.

"Are you all right?" Fred asked.

"Have you cut yourself?" Morgiana said. She reached out across the bar to take the woman's hand. Rosmerta flinched as fleecy glove touched warm flesh. Morgiana saw that she was indeed bleeding from a laceration on her palm, a piece of goblet protruding from the skin. It looked as though Madam Rosmerta had clenched the goblet so hard that she had shattered it in her hand.

Rosmerta stirred, pulling her hand away. "Yes- Yes, I'm fine. It's just a scratch." She deftly removed the shrapnel and pointed her wand at the wound. The skin knitted back together in the blink of an eye. She then bent over and reassembled the goblet. Morgiana noted that one of the warlocks seated at the bar was staring down the barmaid's shift as she did so. She was glad to notice that Fred wasn't. The intact goblet was thrust to one side and filled with some sort of cleaning potion. Rosmerta turned back to her customers. "Seventeen butterbeers, you said?"

"Yeah," Fred replied.

"Coming right up."

Morgiana stopped watching as glass upon glass whirled toward the bar and was filled to the brim. It made her feel dizzy and slightly nauseous. Instead she stared at the wall behind the bar and saw something she recognised. They were small, made from a combination of black dragon's skin and yeti fur, with brilliant red top-stitching along the seams that ran from the tip of each finger to a point at the elbow. There was a silver buckle at each wrist. 'Unique,' Iris McGonagall had said. 'I had them made-to-measure at this little shop in Diagon Alley. The owner said she'd never used that design before and she promised that she would never use it again..." Morgiana took a deep breath. Her mother's missing duelling gloves were hanging from a hook behind the bar, beside a big sign that read 'Found'.

"I haven't seen you before," Madam Rosmerta was saying. "Are you new at Hogwarts?"

"Sort of," Morgiana said, still staring at the wall. "My parents were schooled here."

"Yes," the barmaid replied. "I think I can see some family resemblance... What's your name?"

"Oh, sorry," Fred said. "I should have introduced you two in the first place. Madam Rosmerta, this is Morgiana Pettigrew-"

"Pettigrew?" Rosmerta asked. She looked as though she was about to ask another question, but changed her mind at the last minute. Instead she said, "Oh... You must be Iris McGonagall's daughter. I read about her death in the newspaper. I'm terribly sorry... I would have come the funeral, there just wasn't-"

"We didn't have a funeral." Iris McGonagall had been cremated. There had been no money to pay for all the trimmings and Morgiana had persuaded Professor McGonagall that her salary was best spent elsewhere. The family home had been sold to cover her mother's debts, along with most of the furnishings, the McGonagall silver service and her mother's trinkets. All Morgiana had left were the photographs, her mother's awards and magic books. The rest was all gone.

"Oh..." Rosmerta said. She finished filling the last glass and took the money. She didn't look at Morgiana again.

"Can I ask you a question?" Morgiana said as Fred apparated three feet with five butterbeers, filling the air with a cracking sound.

"Of course- Hey, Mister Weasley, didn't you read the sign - No Apparating or Disapparating in the Bar!"

"Can I please look at those gloves?"

"These?" Madam Rosmerta clicked her fingers and the gloves fluttered down to her hand. "Are they yours? I couldn't find a name-tag on them."

Morgiana quickly folded the left glove inside-out and looked at the index finger. There it was, perfectly stitched, the initials 'I.M'. "These are my mother's duelling gloves," she explained. "Look, I- I- Thank you-" She picked up both gloves and ran toward the door, narrowly missing Professor Lupin who was just entering.

"Where's she going?" Fred asked as he fetched the last round of drinks. "Did she say?"

"No," Rosmerta replied. "She just said that those were her mother's duelling gloves... and ran off."

"She must be going back up to the school," Fred said. "Can you hand the rest of these out, I'm going to catch up with her." He turned and rushed to the door, nearly knocking Lupin off his feet.

"Hey, wait!" Rosmerta shouted. "Don't you want your change?"

"Give it to George," Fred said, slamming the door behind him. He could see Morgiana a few hundred metres ahead of him, standing out in her bright pink jumper. She was running very fast. He apparated to catch up with her. "Hey, Morgiana! Where are you going?"

Morgiana didn't stop running. "Up to the school. The gloves that were hanging on the wall in the pub belong to my mother. They were stolen when she was murdered. I have to give them to Professor McGonagall."

Fred saw a tear trickle down her cheek. "Hey... It'll be all right," he puffed as he jogged by her side.

"No it won't," Morgiana snapped. "She's dead! Someone pinched her gloves and stuck them in the pub. Why? Because they wanted me to recognise them. They wanted to see me take them! Don't you see? Sirius Black is after me. I'm not sure why, but he is. He went to Mum's house looking for me..."

"Don't you think somebody would notice if Sirius Black strode into the Three Broomsticks and left a pair of gloves behind?" Fred said. "The whole town would be hysterical. It would be all over the news."

"Then he must have got someone else to deliver them then," Morgiana said in a savage voice. If she wasn't careful she'd begin to cry.

They tried Professor McGonagall's office first, but she wasn't there. Next they tried the Staff room.

"What is it?" Professor Snape snapped, holding the door open barely wide enough for his face to be in full view.

"Is Professor McGonagall in there?" Morgiana tried to push the door.

The Professor resisted. "No. Go away."

"Well, do you know where she is?"

"Have you tried her office?"

"Yes," Morgiana roared. "Look, I need to see her!" The tears were beginning to rip through her eyelids and scour her cheeks.

"For goodness sake, stop snivelling, girl. I'm sure it's nothing that urgent."

"She- I- I- The gloves-" Morgiana cried. She felt Fred Weasley put a supportive arm around her shoulders.

"We've found some evidence from Morgiana's Mum's murder," Fred explained in a firm voice. "We need to tell her and have somebody notify the Ministry of Magic."

"What sort of evidence?" Snape hissed with barely an iota of interest.

"The duelling gloves that were stolen when the Morgiana's Mum died turned up in the Three Broomsticks at Hogsmeade."

"Excuse me?" Professor McGonagall asked. Morgiana hadn't noticed the teacher arriving behind her.

"Yes-" Morgiana whimpered, trying hard not to cry. "M- Mum's duelling gloves that were missing... I found them at the- the Three Broomsticks..." She handed the folded parcel to the Professor. "You'll- You'll have to tell Mister Abberline."

Professor McGonagall took the gloves. She didn't touch Morgiana, just nodded and said, "I'll see that he gets them. You'd better go and rest, you look tired." She nodded to Fred and pushed her way past Snape and into the staffroom. A murmur of voices came from inside.

"She wasn't that helpful," Fred said. "Are you all right?"

Morgiana shuddered, her mind filled with a tempest of emotions. She began to cry. Fred put an arm around her and lead her away.

***

Timothy Abberline arrived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the second time in a month. This time, he felt less apprehensive. His job would be easy enough, all he had to was take the girl down to the Three Broomsticks, where she discovered the evidence, question her and a few people, and go home. A piece of cake. He grinned to himself and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He was almost looking forward to seeing Morgiana Pettigrew again.

The smile left Abberline's face when he was informed by Professor Dumbledore that Morgiana was currently in Potions, a class that was taught by one of his least favourite teachers, Professor Snape. He'd wimped out then and tried to tell the Professor that he could wait until lunchtime. That old excuse hadn't worked and he'd soon found himself wandering deep into the bowels of the school, carrying a signed note for Miss Pettigrew's release.

He took a deep breath and didn't bother to knock on the door. The door was heavy, but it opened quite easily with the outward strength that Abberline was trying to show. What seemed like a thousand pairs of eyes stared back at him. He smiled to stop his teeth chattering and addressed the scowling, dark-robed teacher. "Good morning, Professor Snape. May I have a word with you regarding one of your Fifth Year students?"

"Now?" the Professor sneered with a dark look on his face. "Can it wait a moment?"

"Um..." Timothy said. He suddenly made his mind up. "No. No it can't. You see, it's regarding a murder investigation that I am in charge of. I require leave to speak to the principal witness, Miss Pettigrew. I already have permission from Professor Dumbledore." He risked smiling again. It always worked on the ladies... but then Professor Snape wasn't a lady.

"Well, if Professor Dumbledore has given you permission, you might as well take her. She's no use to me anyway," Snape hissed. He dropped the handful of herbs he was holding into his cauldron, which gurgled and gave off a cloud of vivid magenta smoke. He waved his arm to clear the air around his face. "Another potion ruined by interruptions... You girl, get going."

Morgiana stood up from her position at the back of the classroom and winked at Abberline. "Thank you, Professor. I'll catch up the work later."

"Sure you will," an anonymous voice sneered from somewhere in the depths of the smoke. Morgiana shot a look behind her but didn't seem to identify the speaker, of at least, if she did, refrained from comment. She moved across the room with as much speed as she could. Timothy was sure that she would skip if she had had the room to.

"It must be a big step, skipping up to Fifth Year work. You have OWLs to do this year. You'll be able to catch up on the missed class-time, won't you?" Abberline asked as soon as they were far enough from the doorway.

"You mean Potions," Morgiana said. "Of course I'll be able to catch up the work. I could do the stuff we're doing at the moment in my sleep, it's so basic. Half the idiots in there wouldn't know a cauldron if it bit them on the bum. The whole syllabus has been dumbed down for morons like that."

"Really," Timothy replied, feeling slightly taken aback. "Where'd you learn all the stuff then? What makes you so much better than the others?"

"Practise," Morgiana whispered. "Mum was always a bit of a perfectionist. She didn't do magic herself, but she wasn't above making me mix her the occasional sleeping draught or beauty potion... It wasn't illegal, 'cos I wasn't using my wand... Besides, she'd be watching me, she knew what she was doing... But the amount of hard-work that goes into some of that stuff is amazing. The last potion I did, which was some sort of firming facial something, had to be cured by moonlight for a week, then strained using rose petals, which was bloody fiddly, I kept ripping the damn things..."

"Okay."

"Where are we going?" Morgiana asked. "Is this about Mum's duelling gloves?"

"Yeah, down to Hogsmeade, to the Three Broomsticks. You'll have to show me where you found them, and I'll also have to speak to Madam Rosmerta."

"Oh..." Morgiana stared at Timothy. Her nose wrinkled slightly. The hat that sat on his fair hair looked a little bit like half a deformed carrot, except it was midnight blue and fringed with red and gold. It reminded her of the hat she'd once seen a muggle 'magician' wear, very glitzy, tacky and fake. It didn't seem to fit with the rest of his clothing - the well-cut but conservative black robes, lined with a brick-brown coloured silk. A less handsome man probably wouldn't have pulled it off, but he somehow managed to. "Nice hat," she said, wondering whether she should comment or not.

Timothy raised one perfectly arched eye-brow. "Really?"

Morgiana giggled. "No, it's terrible... Did your girlfriend buy it for you?"

"Nah, my Mum did. My parents are both muggles, and neither of them has any idea about the value of wizard money. They get ripped off right, left, and centre every time they set foot in Diagon Alley. Mum didn't tell how much this monstrosity cost, but it's designed by Laurence Caligula, so it probably cost her an arm and a leg. I thought I'd better wear it, just because of how expensive the damn thing is. I tried to take the stupid frilly bits off but they're stuck on with something, so I'm stuck with them."

"Muggles," Morgiana commented. "I thought-"

"I seem to have a few more clues than someone that was born and raised in a muggle suburb, right? That's Hogwarts for you."

"So are you an only child then?"

"I've got an elder sister. She's doesn't talk to Mum and Dad much, now that she's a full-grown witch. And she certainly hasn't spoken to me since I lost my job with the Ministry of Magic. She's all high and mighty now that she's married to Midas Wyvern. Her name's actually Ellie, but she's changed it to Allegoria. Allegoria Wyvern, wife of a Ministry of Magic judge. She spends more money in a day than I make in a year."

Morgiana smiled as he gripped her elbow. "You sound bitter," she said.

"No, I'm not bitter-" Timothy said. "Oh, a little bit- A lot, even. But it doesn't matter. I wouldn't want to be married to that snob, even if he was female, which I very much doubt."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's sort of cold, like a fish with lips. His hair's gone grey but he dyes it black, and it really shows. He sniffs a lot, but he never blows his nose. He carries this big walking stick with a gold tip and handle, even though his back's as straight as a beanpole. Uses it to hit people that are in his way. If you go into his office, everything looks as though it's been dipped in gold, and I'm talking solid gold, the type that would feed ten third world countries for ten years if he sold it. Ellie's changed since she met him, she's gotten all hoity toity, now that she's respectable. The Wyvern family, is old money, you see, the type of family that has shares in Gringotts Bank. To them, she's just another pretty article to hang on Midas's keychain."

"Does she look much like you?"

"Same hair, same colouring, a bit of a freak of nature, us two. She's six years older than me, a bit taller, with assets I don't have. Her eyes are really big and she's got really high, fine cheekbones. She's gorgeous and she's married to that old trout-mouth. I'm sure she must be in it for the money. It's the only explanation I can give." Timothy laughed. "Ellie might not be very good at magic, but she's very good at saying what people want to hear."

"Oh," Morgiana replied, as the grip on her elbow relaxed. Timothy Abberline was close enough to her that she could smell his earwax, yet she felt nothing at all. He seemed to have almost the status of a teacher with her. She respected him. That was all.

"Where did you find the gloves? Professor McGonagall had an owl deliver them to me but she didn't seem to know the details. Apparently, there was a highly secret meeting taking place when you appeared."

'Yet they didn't invite Professor Lupin.' Morgiana recalled that she'd nearly knocked the teacher over as she ran from the pub. "My Mum's gloves? Well, they were hanging on the wall behind the bar next to a sign that said 'Found' or something. I knew they were hers, because they're a unique design. Mum had them tailored specially for her. I asked to look at them and found Mum's initials on the inside of one of the fingers."

"Good," Timothy said. "Why did you look behind the bar? Were they positioned at eye-level?"

"I was waiting for my drink," Morgiana replied. Hogsmeade loomed up in front of them, a sprawling but successful village, isolated from the rest of the world. They approached what was obviously the main street. Morgiana felt lost. She'd only been here once before and she hadn't taken much notice of the scenery.

Abberline used his grip on her elbow to steer her along the street and into the tavern. Madam Rosmerta was nowhere to be seen. Three patrons sat near the fire, their cigarettes giving off great spirals of smoke. Morgiana tried not to look at them. They looked mean. One of the men was bald, with a writhing scar that ran from the base of his neck, across his head, narrowly avoiding the left eye and ending in his great red beard. The next man wore a green hooded cloak that covered most of his body. The only appendages Morgiana could see were the purplish-toned fingers clasped tightly around his cigarette. They contorted at strange angles as if the bones had been broken repeatedly and not healed properly. The other person accompanying them was a woman, who looked extremely out-of-place. She wore a kimono-style silken robe printed with peacock feathers that seemed to flutter and move of their own accord. Her cropped blonde hair was carefully layered about her face. Heavy electric-blue make-up rimmed her eyes. She attempted to duck under the table when Timothy and Morgiana entered, but either Timothy had already seen her, or the movement caught his eye.

"Tabitha!" Timothy exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

Tabitha reluctantly reappeared from beneath the table. Her hair became caught in the table cloth and looked slightly dishevelled. She rubbed her face, smearing make-up around her nose and forehead. "Oh- Tim- I could ask you the same question." She nodded to the two men seated next to her, who didn't seem to notice the disturbance. "Milligan and Antony are teaching me how to play poker..." Her red-painted nails lightly touched the deck of cards in the centre of the table.

"Oh," Timothy said. "Well, aren't they going to say hello?"

"No, they're very quiet," Tabitha replied.

Abberline tapped each man lightly with a finger. Neither moved nor flinched. "What is this?" He slapped the bald man about the face. Morgiana noted that he still seemed uncertain, stepping back slightly in case the man retaliated. "What on earth's going on, Tabitha?"

Tabitha gave a watery smile, her pink-painted lips trembling. "Nothing, absolutely nothing at all." She stared past Timothy at Morgiana, her sea-coloured eyes narrowing. "Is this your witness, the Pettigrew girl?" Morgiana shivered as the cold gaze assessed her. She felt as if somebody was pulling and prodding her body with hard fingers.

"No," Abberline replied. "It's none of your business. I want to know what you think you're playing at. There's obviously something wrong with these men..."

The woman laughed. "She's a bit young for you, don't you think?" she drawled.

"It's none of your business, Tabitha." Abberline pulled a pale wand from his pocket. He placed the tip between the bald man's eyes. "Retrosus!" The man's nose grew bigger and bigger, until it became white and shiny. A hole appeared in the area between the edge of the nose and his face. The skin became white like enamelled china. The scar on his face writhed about until it bloomed into a bouquet of roses. The man's red beard shrivelled along with the rest of his body, leaving a head-shaped white hemisphere. Slowly the scalp hollowed out. Abberline was left with a shuddering tea-cup sitting on the table. "Bravo, Tabitha! Transfiguration always was your specialty!" Timothy pointed his wand at the other man, who morphed into a saucer. "Now you can explain what you're doing here." He levelled his wand at Tabitha's forehead.

Tabitha blanched. "I- Those- You realise- You've destroyed the RUNTs! How the hell am I going to explain to Mister Smales what happened to them? They're only prototypes!"

"RUNTs?" Morgiana asked.

Tabitha's eyes narrowed further, so that she appeared to be squinting out of blue valleys. "RUNTs - Replication Utility Nomial Transfiguration! I'm not even supposed to have them with me! They take weeks to prepare - it's not just Transfiguration, you know, it's Arithmancy too-"

"What are you doing with them?" Timothy said. "What are you doing here?"

"I- I- took them okay?" Tabitha stuttered. "I was nice to Callum McGougan, one- one of the nerds that in charge of the project. I said I'd go out for a drink with him if he showed me how they worked. His- his glasses fogged up- so I slipped them in my bag while he was trying to fix them- I was going to return them, honest. But now I can't because YOU BROKE THEM, you idiot!" Her shrieking voice rang through the bar, causing glasses and goblets to shiver in their shelves. Madam Rosmerta appeared behind the bar.

"Tell me what you're doing here!" Timothy roared. "Are you following me?"

"No! Why would I want to follow you?"

"What are you doing here?" Timothy's wand sparked causing Tabitha to push her chair further back.

"Okay- Okay! Stop pointing that thing at me! I heard Mister Smales complain to Papa that you were trying to get one of the curse specialists to examine some sort of evidence you found from the McGonagall case. I found out which specialist it was and asked him what it was and where you got it. Then I guessed that you'd come here so I arranged a stake-out. You weren't supposed to notice me," Tabitha moaned.

Abberline took a deep breath. "Take your stuff and get out now, all right? If I see you again, I'll-"

"You'll what?" Tabitha said. "Arrest me? Tell Papa on me? He won't listen to you."

"Get out, now!" Timothy shouted.

"Fine," Tabitha hissed. "Fine! I'm leaving." She shoved the cards, cup and saucer in her hand bag and strode out of the tavern.

"Timothy Abberline..." Madam Rosmerta said slowly. "It's nice to see you again..."

***

The interview with Madam Rosmerta provided no useful leads. Timothy Abberline returned to London, fuming at Tabitha Fudge. Morgiana was left alone to walk back up to the school. She arrived back in time for lunch, feeling tired and hungry. The altercation at the Three Broomsticks was just another example of the Ministry of Magic's incompetence in dealing with her mother's murder. Timothy Abberline should not have been the only one assigned to the case. People like that crazy woman, Tabitha, should be locked up.

"Did you have fun?" Harry asked her as she slumped into the chair beside him at the Gryffindor table. Morgiana had noticed that he'd been quite distant lately, spending a lot of time alone with the dog, Padfoot. He seemed to have problems of his own, so she didn't like to intrude.

"Yeah, it was all right," Morgiana said.

"Are the Ministry any closer to catching your mother's killer?" he seemed genuinely interested.

"No," Morgiana replied. "Or at least, if they are, they haven't told me anything."

"It must be frustrating," Ginny Weasley said, sympathetically. Morgiana hadn't noticed her sit down, but she had suddenly appeared at Harry's other elbow.

"It is," Morgiana agreed. She smiled to stop herself crying and changed the subject. "I heard you got yourself selected as the new Gryffindor Keeper. Is that right?"

"Yeah," Ginny said, "Great, ay?"

"Well done," Morgiana replied, warmly. She had long since given up her ambition to join the team. It had flown out the window with her mother's death.

"Don't know how you got in," Ron remarked. "I've hardly ever seen you play at all."

"From what I hear," Hermione murmured, "she's used to having heavy objects thrown at her."

Ginny blushed. "That's about right... Ron, you're just jealous."

"No, I'm not." Ron scowled and drummed his fingers on the table. "I wish people would hurry up so we could eat. I'm starving."

Morgiana combed her unruly hair off her face with her fingers, cursing herself for not tying it back that morning. It now bushed about her face in a knotted mess and she felt sure that she looked like a stereotypical muggle witch. She'd have to either buy or mix another brew of Felix's Frizz-Free Elixir. That normally kept it under control. She tuned out the conversation around her and began to recite the ingredients she'd have to beg, steal or borrow from Herbology and Potions in her head. She could set it up overnight to brew, that was no trouble, since this particular concoction required no heat to create. Suddenly, reality kicked in once more as Harry slumped forwards in his chair. His face was a pale bluish white. She wondered why she hadn't seen it before.

"Is he all right?" Harry heard somebody gasp as somebody else tried to straighten him up in his chair. All he could feel was an intense pain in his scar as if somebody was stabbing him repeatedly with a needle in one place. A high-pitched shrieking noise clouded his ears, yet he could still hear those around him, their voices fluctuating in frequency and volume. His eyes focused on Morgiana as she tried to make him drink a glass of water. For a moment she was there and then it seemed to be her father, then her again. He blinked as another face came into view. Ginny. Across the table he saw Hermione bending toward him. He should have felt grateful, all these girls attending to him, but he didn't. He felt terrible.

"Ron, go and get a teacher!" Hermione seemed to shout, the features on her face becoming distorted, her voice wavering and gurgling in ways that he knew weren't possible.

"It's all right-" Somebody said as somebody else shouted, "He's having some sort of fit!" and "Get the nurse!" The screaming in his ears went up and up in octave, until the pitch was so high that he could not hear it, except a dull vibration like a constant cicada chirp. That sound was suddenly and inexplicably replaced by the plipper-plap of dripping water, merged in with heavy, rhythmic breathing. Then that was drowned out and all he could see, hear and smell was darkness.

***

Timothy Abberline stomped his way down Diagon Alley on his way to the Leaky Cauldron. He needed a drink after the days events, the stronger the better. He was in half-a-mind to report Tabitha and have her badge taken off her, but he knew that that would be useless, since she had done nothing really wrong, besides stealing the RUNTs. Her father was the Minister of Magic. Any charges Abberline made against her would jeopardise the career that he hoped to re-establish. He'd already been fired once for being right and he could just as easily lose his job (if he could call it that) again.

His mind wandered to the McGonagall case. He may have discovered nothing about who had placed the dead woman's gloves at the Three Broomsticks, but was certain he knew why they had done it. The killer must have known Morgiana would identify her mother's gloves. They had been purposely placed in Hogsmeade in order for the killer to observe the girl. Which meant... the killer was still in Hogsmeade.

With a crack, Timothy apparated back to his flat and found his camera lodged under his bed. He didn't bother to change or leave a note (nobody was there to read it). He had decided to question people in the other pubs, people in the street, anybody that could have seen anything in Hogsmeade. Later, he would lurk in the local bars in the rather absurd hope of seeing Iris McGonagall's killer. That's what he had the camera for.

He arrived at Hogsmeade at lunchtime and started his search by buying lunch at a teahouse. He discovered nothing, not that he had expected to. Next, he went through all the shops, buying worthless knick-knacks and spells with his hard earned money. Nothing. By the time he had finished the shops it was tea-time. Time to hit the pubs. He spent several hours in each, buying drinks for the patrons in the hope of discovering some sort of evidence, and trying not to become too drunk. The Three Broomsticks was the last tavern on his list.

The street was dark, lit only by the small circles of light provided by a lamp every few metres. Timothy didn't see anybody else around, nor did he hear anything except a low hum of voices and music coming from his destination. The cobblestones made clip-clop noises under his feet, but his attacker's footsteps were silent. Suddenly, Timothy was illuminated by a flash of green light. His flesh felt as though it was shimmering with fire. Clawed hands seemed to grip his heart, tightening until the beating stopped. Timothy gasped as he slid to the ground. Now his lungs were constricting. He fought fruitlessly for air, but could do nothing to stop his life being ripped from his body. Within milliseconds he was dead, his soul slashed out by fire.

***

"No..." Prunella Watson whispered as she approached the body. "It can't be..." She saw Timothy Abberline slumped on his side against the dirty guttering. He looked very pale in the early morning light. His brown eyes were wide open, his face paralysed in a last gasp for air. A rather tacky looking hat sat lopsidedly on his head. His white blonde hair was splayed around his face, his clothing just as dishevelled, the complete opposite to Timothy's normally pedantic neatness. A small, new-looking camera hung from a belt about his neck, the flash shattered on the pavement into millions of sparkling particles. "When did this happen?"

"Late last night," Bob Stuart told her. "A couple of drunks fell over 'im on their way 'ome after a night's drink. They didn't see anybody around, but they're not exactly seeing straight at the momen'. Piss'd out o' their brains, the both of 'em."

Dr Watson gulped down a lump of tears. "It looks like an execution," she said. "A common curse that the Death Eaters usually use... N- Not very messy, just stops the heart, lungs and brain..." she broke off for a moment. "This is terrible... He- He- was so promising. Had such a spark of life..."

"'E was a good fella," Bob agreed. "Pity 'e 'ad to go this way. Poor bloke."

"Has his family been notified? His parents are muggles... but his sister-"

"Al-leg-goreee-a Wyvern?" Bob mocked. "Someone's gone round to the mansion to tell 'er. We'll get 'er to come and see the parents wiv us, a bit of moral support, like... You'll be right, won't you?"

"Yes," Prunella said. "I'll do my job."

"We've got another one!" somebody shouted.

"What do you mean, 'Another one'?" Watson called. The Ministry of Magic men had suddenly disappeared around the corner into what she presumed was a narrow alley. She glared at Bob Stuart. "Didn't anybody do a thorough search when Mister Abberline was discovered?"

"O'viously not," Bob said.

Prunella pushed past him to the alleyway. She was right, it was narrow, and rather dingy, the shabby bricked sides of the nighbouring buildings closing out most of the light. There were several wooden crates stacked in a lopsided pile next to a wooden panelled door with an arched frame. To her right was a pipe outlet, growing some sort of infectious looking mould. At the end of the alley was the stone wall of another shop. Lying at the base of this wall, surrounded by a pack of Ministry of Magic men, was a body.

At first, Watson thought that it was a child, but on closer inspection she saw it was a very small woman. The woman was under five feet tall, with delicate, twig-like arms and legs that reminded Prunella of a wood nymph. She seemed quite young, but appearances were often deceiving due to the appearance of products like Arden's Age-defying Ointment on the market. Her skin was very pale, probably a result of the manner in which she had died, and her hair was a coppery blonde colour. Despite the circumstances, her hair still seemed to sit beautifully about her face, a smooth and sleek jaw-length cut. Her open eyes were a pale green colour and set on a slight angle, giving her a cat-like appearance. The long nose came to a point, which seemed to match the angle of her chin and fine cheekbones. Her full lips were parted, perhaps in a groan or gasp.

She was dressed in an emerald green halter-necked blouse, with a wide black belt and a sheath-like black skirt. Several silver bangles decorated her arms and latticed silver choker shone at her neck. 'If her killer had been after money, he would have found half a mine here,' Prunella thought. She stared at the pair of wicked-looking pointed black shoes on the woman's feet, decorated with a pair of huge silver buckles and a spiky heel. Then she looked at the woman's hands, 'No wedding or engagement rings,' she noted. In fact, the woman wore no rings at all. The taloned hands were both clasped around a wand, as if trying to hold on to life.

"I reckon Abb'line was killed firs', but this madam saw it. So she tried to get away by running into one of the alleys. Wasn' thinkin' straight, poor girl. She tried to protect 'erself but it all 'appened too fas' an' 'e killed 'er," Bob explained.

"Perhaps," Prunella said. "Does anybody know who she is?" The surrounding men shook their heads. "All right, Mister Stuart and I will examine this body first. I want the rest of you out canvassing the area for clues and making sure there are no more bodies. Some of you will also have to keep back any curious onlookers. Understand?" The men left, murmuring amongst themselves. It was not Prunella's place to tell them what to do.

Prunella kneeled beside the victim. "I presume they want some photographs taken?"

"Nah," Bob said. "We'll just use memory examinations if this ever comes to court, love."

Prunella raised her eyebrows at the 'if'. "Oh," she commented. She ran a discerning eye over the woman's arms and noticed what looked like a bruise on the woman's forearm. As she touched it, the mark vanished. 'Strange,' she thought. 'Perhaps it's a side-effect of the curse.' Just as she was about to cross the woman's arms across her chest, she noticed a faint flutter in the woman's blouse. It could have been a breeze, except their was none. Prunella watched her chest for a moment, then said in a sharp voice, more angry at herself than at the others, "None of those idiots actually checked for signs of life."

"She's not dead?" Bob asked.

"No. She's alive. Somebody call a healer, now!"