Pettigrew's Daughter

Nine months earlier...

His obsession with Iris had been renewed on a chance sighting four years earlier. He had been wandering the school hallways as he always did at night, hidden by his changed form. The Weasley boy that owned him as a 'pet' had been asleep. It was close to midnight. He had heard a grating noise as the door to Dumbledore's office had been opened. Then he had seen Iris exit alone. Even from the distance he could tell that she was angry. There was a slight heaviness in her stride as though she was punishing the ground with her feet. The long dark hair he remembered hung down her back in a thick plait, peppered and streaked with white in places, but definitely hers. She wore a starched floral dress that clung to her narrow waist and flounced about her legs when she walked. She had been just as beautiful as she had been nine years earlier.

He had watched Iris walk away and had done nothing. He had wanted to talk to her but he couldn't risk blowing his cover. There were too many people that would want him dead. Iris had walked out of his life again but he hadn't stopped thinking about her. Now that he had reconciled himself with his master he could pursue her without a worry. But where could he start? He had no idea where she lived, what she called herself or whether she was married again.

By a stroke of luck he had found an article in the Daily Prophet that he had at first thought was about himself.

The Pettigrew Affair

Name suppression has been lifted, allowing us to publish the

name of the girl from Storax School that used an illegal

curse on a classmate. Her name is Morgiana Pettigrew.

At a court hearing earlier today the case against Pettigrew

was declared 'Not Proven'. The judge residing over the

case declared that Pettigrew was very lucky not to have

her wand snapped for her behaviour and warned that she

would not be so lucky next time. Storax School has

allowed Pettigrew to resume her schooling...

'Morgiana Pettigrew,' Peter had thought to himself. As far as he knew there was no other Pettigrew family in the area that practised magic. He had wondered whether she was muggleborn, but had quickly discarded that idea. Muggleborn witches did not end up at Storax School for Badly Behaved Magical Pupils unless they were expelled from Hogwarts and Hogwarts had not had an expulsion since Hagrid (or at least, he thought not. He had spent a vast amount of time there with various Weasley children over the recent years). He had no brothers or sisters so the girl could not be a niece. So who was she?

He had time on his hands so he had gone to Storax to find the girl. The school was a huge grey monstrosity with no trees or garden and high stone walls. The building gave him the creeps just from looking at it from a distance. As he approached it, he had seen Iris again. She was standing outside the school talking to someone. Peter's heart clenched. The person Iris was laughing with was tall, with long dark hair and a thin, graceful body. 'Black's brat,' he had thought as has heart sank to his boots. He watched Iris hug the girl and wave as the girl went back inside. Then Iris turned and walked back to the tin-can on wheels that muggles call 'car'. He followed her home to a muggle suburb. That was how he discovered where she lived.

After that he had journeyed to Iris's home whenever he had free time. He had watched Iris peg out her washing and weed her garden. He knew that every Wednesday morning Iris went out and came back in the afternoon. He had waited until she left in her car and entered the house. The entire building fascinated him. It was like being inside Iris's head - tidy, neat and methodical with controlled splashes of colour here and there. The scent of various flowers filled his nose as he entered each room. The walls were lined with Iris's memories, pictures of her and Black's brat, but no pictures of Black. However, there was a picture of himself and Iris next to Iris's bed. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

One Wednesday everything changed. He was in the hallway with it's impeccable white carpet. It was his favourite place in the entire house because of the photographs. He was admiring the one taken of fifteen year old Iris and her father. Iris looked beautiful there, "real pretty," he thought, with her long dark hair swept off her face by a small red clip, big blue eyes the same colour as the velvet dress she wore. She didn't look anything like her father. Thomas McGonagall was a tall man, whereas Iris was quite petite. He had thick curly black hair that was tied back with a ribbon, yet he didn't look girlish, instead he looked extremely masculine. Peter had only met him once, but his impression of Thomas had always been that this was a man you did not say no to. This was a man to be afraid of. Thick square framed glasses sat on Thomas's nose. Shrewd green eyes glared at the camera through the panes of glass. Thomas McGonagall was a frightening man, more frightening than his sister, the Transfiguration teacher, Minerva McGonagall.

The front door must have opened, but he didn't hear it or see it. The only thing he heard was Iris's scream.

Iris stood in the doorway, her face marked with fear. She dropped the brown paper bag she held, but kept her keys tightly clenched in her little fist. It was the first time that Peter had seen her face in fourteen years and she was terrified. "Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing in my house?" she fired off in quick succession.

"It's all right," Peter tried to say, but it came out in a grunt. He stepped towards Iris and tried to clasp her hand. She jolted as if he'd bitten her and lashed out with her left fist. Her collection of keys extended through her interlocked fingers and slashed the side of his face. He felt a sharp pain in his right cheek. He didn't think of anything except stopping her and grabbed at both her wrists, using his superior body mass to push her against the now-closed front door. "It's all right, Iris," he said again. This time it came out in a whisper.

Iris trembled. Her wild blue eyes searched his face. "How do you know my name...?"

"Don't you remember me?" Peter asked. He was so close to her that he could have kissed her. He didn't want to, not while she was terrified of him.

"No- No- I don't. Have you been stalking me? You've been reading my mail!" she exclaimed. Peter blushed. He had been reading her mail. She struggled and for a moment he thought she might knee him in the groin. He quickly put his feet down on her feet to hold her away.

Iris caught him off guard. She was about the same height as him, so when she brought her head slamming down against his forehead the impact was not so severe as it would have been had she been taller. Still, it was like ramming a concrete wall with his head. He howled and stepped backwards, letting go of her hands to hold his throbbing forehead. Iris followed through with a carefully aimed kick to the groin and a jab in the chest with her keys. Peter sank to the ground, the pain in his forehead forgotten as he doubled over to defend the crown jewels. He stared at the brown bag Iris had dropped. It was full of vegetables.

Iris kicked him again, this time in the small of his back. Then she stepped past him and into the lounge. From his vantage point on the floor, he saw her pick up a grey plastic object with a bulb at either end. It was connected by a curling, flat plastic tube to a board with numbered buttons on it. He had no idea what it was, but he knew that whatever it did must be bad. He got up hurriedly, forgetting his pain and stumbled into the room. As entered, he tripped over another long flat plastic wire, causing it to be plucked from a socket in the wall. The plastic object in Iris's hand was pulled to the floor, as was the numbered board.

Iris screamed loudly and backed away from him. She picked up the poker from next to the fire and held it in front of herself. "Who are you?" she asked in a gasp.

Peter groaned and pulled himself to his feet again. "My name's Peter," he said. "Don't you remember me?"

"No, I don't!" Iris shouted, "I don't remember you! I told you that before, didn't I?" She swung the poker devastating close to his head.

Peter swore under his breath and back off a little. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand, a long, knobbly stick of willow. He muttered a spell and the poker in Iris's hand vanished. "My name's Peter," he said again. "It's me, Peter Pettigrew."

Iris looked down at her hands. The poker she had used to defend herself was gone. "No-No-No," she said in a quiet voice. "Don't-kill-me-please," she pleaded. Her big blue eyes wavered with fear.

Peter dropped his wand back into his pocket. He didn't want to hurt her. He just wanted to prevent her from hurting him. "It's all right, Iris," he said. "I won't hurt you. It's me, Peter. I would never hurt you." He no longer felt the pain where she had kicked him. He was used to pain. In his view, nothing was more painful than cutting your own hand off.

"N-N-No," Iris stuttered. She seemed very afraid of him as she shrunk further into the corner she had wedged herself in. The strange plastic thing she had held to her ear was dropped at her feet. "If you're gonna kill me, just kill me. Don't- Don't mess with my head as well. Peter is dead," she said.

"I'm not dead," he whispered. "I'm right here. It's me. It's me, Peter Pettigrew." He took the wand from his pocket and handed it to her. "It's my wand, you know it is."

Iris took the piece of wood in her outstretched hand. She studied it for a moment, then looked up at him with tearful blue eyes. "It is Peter's," she admitted. "But Peter is dead. How did you get his wand? Did Sirius give it to you? Did Sirius send you to kill me? If he did, then you're in for the fight of your life. I won't die easily." How true that statement was, Peter thought, later on. Iris would be with him for the rest of his life, even though he had killed her. There was a flash of light. Peter narrowly missed some sort of curse, or a curse narrowly missed him. Iris screamed and he saw flames issue from the hand that held the wand. "Of course," he thought. She had tried to wield someone else's wand, a wand that had not chosen her. He ignored her protestations and pulled the wand from her hand. A coating of burnt skin came with it. Then he picked up the vase of flowers on the mantelpiece and poured it over her burning hand, flowers and all. The flames fizzled out, leaving an angry red patch. Iris stared at Peter, bringing her good hand up to touch his face. "I think I might be going mad," she whispered. "Because I believe it is you... back from the dead." She started to cry like a baby. Her tears disturbed him. He'd never, ever, seen Iris cry. Not even when her father died.

Peter held Iris tightly as the tears fell from her eyes. Iris suddenly jerked away and stared at him. "How is it that you survived Peter? What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," he told her. He didn't answer her first question.

Her eyes hardened. "Who killed the muggles, Peter? You or Sirius? Tell me." Blind fury crossed Iris's face. "You did, didn't you?"

"It was an accident," Peter mumbled. How could he make her understand?

Iris moved further away from him. Her beautiful face, the face that he had just seen light up when she realised that he was alive, now shuddered in revulsion. "How could it be an accident, Peter? How could you accidentally kill twelve innocent people? Did you just wave your wand and go, 'Oh, woops, I just killed twelve muggles'? You did not do it by accident. You did it on purpose, Peter. You did, didn't you?" she didn't wait for his response but continued, "All these years I've thought that my husband was a murderer. That the father of my child was a murderer. And I was wrong, wasn't I, Peter? The man I married, the man I hated, didn't kill anyone. You did. And here I was mourning your death, mourning your bloody death for the last fourteen years! I even gave my daughter your surname to protect her! How could I have been so stupid? How could I, Iris McGonagall, have been so totally taken in by you? Here's what I think happened. Sirius was supposed to be James and Lily's secret keeper, but at the last minute he changed his mind and made you- Peter, he made you the secret keeper. And you betrayed them! And Sirius knew it. So he came after you and he found you. But you couldn't let them take you away like that. I bet the Death-eaters were pretty mad at you as well, weren't they? Something happened at the Potter house that wasn't supposed to happen, didn't it? So you made it look like it was Sirius. You made it look like everything that happened was planned by Sirius. And then in a dramatic finale, you blew yourself and a dozen muggles sky-high, except you didn't die. I bet you changed into your other form and escaped. Probably chucked some poor dead muggle's finger in there so that they thought you were dead. Am I right?"

"It wasn't like that," Peter stuttered.

"Yes, it was," Iris snapped. "It was exactly like that. Your animagi form suits you - you traitorous rat. I don't ever want to see you again, understand?"

"What?" he said. She was pushing him to the door. She no longer seemed afraid of him. Just angry... and hurt.

"You should feel lucky that I haven't called the Ministry of Magic on you!" she shrieked as he collapsed out the front door.

That was his first meeting with Iris in fourteen years. He didn't let it deter him. He was back in two days time.

***

Harry ran as quickly as he could to Professor Dumbledore's office. He had no idea what the current password was for entry, so he knocked as loudly as he could on the stone. When nothing happened, he started to shout as well. Finally, the staircase revealed itself. He dashed up the steps into what must have been a meeting between Mad Eye Moody, Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, and Lupin. Harry was surprised so many people could fit into the seemingly small room and guessed that the Professor's office had some sort of enlarging charm cast on it.

Everybody looked up when Harry entered. They looked irritated that they had been interrupted, especially Professor Snape. Snape regarded Harry with a dark scowl that made Harry's bones shiver. If looks were curses, Harry would have been lying dead on the floor. However, it wasn't Snape that finally spoke. It was Professor McGonagall.

"What is it Harry?" the Professor snapped, in a 'can't-you-see-we're-busy' voice. She appeared harassed and tired. Her face was so pale it was almost grey. Her normally tidy bun was starting to unravel. Locks of grey-streaked black hair stuck out haphazardly around her face but she did not seem to care.

Harry's tongue felt thick and unyielding. "It's Vesta von Strauss," he explained, his voice tripping over her name so that sounded more like, 'Vetha-vonth-South'. He stopped and said her name more slowly, "Vesta von Strauss."

"What about her?" the Professor asked in a sharp tone. The others just stared.

For a moment, Harry didn't reply. Then he found his tongue, which was in fact in his mouth, and said, "It's the Malfoy's - they're beating her. Madam Pomfrey's being held outside the Hospital Wing while they do it by a man from the Ministry." Still nobody moved or spoke. "You have to come quickly!" Harry said, urgently.

Suddenly the room was filled with voices, all speaking at once, all that is, except Professor Dumbledore, who stood up slowly and walked towards the door. Harry followed him out.

***

They arrived at the Hospital Wing to find Ben McGooligan struggling from within a cocoon of ropes. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy had gone.

Madam Pomfrey was seated on a chair beside Vesta's bed, speaking quietly. Vesta was curled up in a foetal position, her knees under her chin and her arms around her knees. She was shaking and Harry could see that she was breathing in very short breaths of air. Her face was red and wet with tears. There was dried blood on the collar of her pyjamas and on her sleeves, but all injuries had been healed.

Vesta did not look up when Professor Dumbledore entered. However, Madam Pomfrey did. She smiled with her lips pressed together for a second then relaxed her mouth to a straight line. She patted Vesta's arm and stood up.

"Those people are animals," the nurse hissed, barely controlling the rage which made her voice tremble. "I don't understand it. Why would they do that to her? She has just lost the love of her life. She needs support, not a beating."

"It's not Lucius' style," Professor Snape said, watching the girl on the bed with disdain. While the other people around him had gone to talk to Vesta, he remained near the door, his arms folded across his chest. "He would not make his anger at his niece public. No matter what she did he would not punish her where people could see him do it. It would mean losing face and acknowledging a fault in the bloodline."

"Well he did, didn't he? He did acknowledge the fault," Madam Pomfrey spat. "You can go and tell that girl that it wasn't Lucius' style, that he wouldn't punish her where people could see his anger. He broke her nose, four fingers, five bones in her left hand and wrist, not to mention all the bruises! You go and tell her that it wasn't Lucius's style. Go on."

Snape did not answer. Instead, he re-crossed his arms and went and stood by the window.

Madam Pomfrey moved back to the bed, pushing past Professor McGonagall and Hagrid. She picked up a glass bottle from the bedside table. "All this stuff about pure blood and keeping the bloodline pure. I don't understand it. I really don't," Madam Pomfrey muttered under her breath. She administered a rather hefty dose of green medicine onto a spoon and placed it in Vesta's mouth. Vesta's cat-like eyes watered, but she swallowed it down without a complaint.

Harry stepped quietly over to the bed and stood beside Professor Lupin. Vesta watched him for a second, then gazed down at her hands. Her face was very pale and tired.

"Did Lucius-?" Professor Dumbledore asked, watching the girl intently. His half-moon glasses slipped down his nose and he was obliged to push them back up.

Vesta interrupted. Her voice was low but firm. "It was a fitting punishment. I should not have been rude to my Aunt. She has a delicate constitution. Harsh words upset her."

"That does not give them an excuse to do that-" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed.

"It does. I flaunted an issue that obviously upset her. I deserved what I got," Vesta said.

"So what are you going to do now?" Professor Lupin asked.

Vesta took a deep breath and looked at her hands. She swallowed. "I don't know." Her voice wavered on the 'know' as if she was about to cry. Her body started to shake again and her breathing quickened. "I don't know," she repeated. "I can't go back to my Aunt. They won't have me. To them, I'm dead."

"Surely-" Professor McGonagall began.

"No!" Vesta interrupted. "There is no surely anything. I have corrupted my blood. Through me, my Aunt's blood, my Aunt's husband's blood and my Aunt's son's blood are all corrupted, or as she puts it, 'defiled'. The only way to remove that corruption is for me to die, or for them to disown me, which is what they've done. There is no going back, there is no undoing it. That is how it has to be." She glanced down at her feet and began to cry.

"That's a law from the dark ages!" Madam Pomfrey exploded in rage.

Vesta sniffed. "It is to be expected."

"Where will you go?" Harry asked.

Vesta's head rose from her knees, her cattish eyes blood shot and glazed with tears. "I don't know!" she shouted in a hoarse voice. "Do you think I planned this? Well, I didn't and I've got no idea I'm going to go." She smacked her face against her knees a couple of times, and muttered under her breath, "Bloody Sirius Black."

"So you've got nowhere to go?" Professor Lupin asked, gently.

Vesta buried her face further into her knees. "No," she murmured. "I've got no-one and nowhere to go home to."

"You could stay here," Professor Dumbledore offered.

"I couldn't possibly accept your offer. I'd just be a burden," Vesta sniffed.

"Well, what else can you do? You've already said that you have nowhere to go."

Vesta pursed her lips together. She shut her eyes for a moment as if thinking. "So? I'll find something. I'll get a job. I'll go and live with some other relative. I've a cousin, Nymphadora, that won't begrudge giving me a bed and a roof over my head until I find somewhere else to live. Or if I have to..." she sniffed, "I'll find something. A job. Another job." Suddenly she slapped her face with her bare palms. A sound like the growling of a wounded animal tore from her throat. Harry stepped back to avoid a spray of spit as the frantic girl started to shriek and scream. "It wasn't supposed to be like this!" Vesta cursed. "It wasn't! Why did he have to kill him? I don't understand! Timothy never hurt anyone in his life. So why? Why?!" Her howling died back and she started to tear at her hair and face with her long-nailed fingers.

"Don't trouble yourself by looking for answers in the mind of a madman," Madam Pomfrey said in a soothing tone. "It's about as much use to you as a wand is to a squib. What you need to do is to calm down and start to rebuild your life. It's what Timothy would have wanted."

"How do you know?" Vesta muttered in a sullen voice. She dug her nails deep into her cheeks so that their colour changed from white to purple. When she pulled her fingers away, ten tiny red crescents appeared, pricked with blood. Madam Pomfrey grabbed the girl's hands before she could do it again. Vesta looked as though she might attempt to bite the nurse, but then her face softened slightly. "I suppose so," she whispered. "I'll leave in the morning. I've got a friend in Wales. I'll go and stay with her."

"I'm sorry, but you can't leave just yet," Mad-Eye said, slowly.

"She- You- Why not? She just told me to rebuild my life. Well that's the first step isn't it? I'll get away from here, away from my family, away from- away from- everything."

"The Ministry hasn't finished investigating the murder. We will probably need to formally question you-"

"I thought that's what you did this morning, you and Scabitha Sludge," Vesta snapped.

Moody coughed, although to Harry it sounded like a stifled laugh. He hastily straightened his face. "Her name is Tabitha Fudge. I might remind you that her father is the Minister of Magic and holds considerable influence over the entire investigation. Abberline's body was found this morning. The Ministry has yet to interview all witnesses and complete a full scene examination. Questions could come up that we haven't asked you-"

"So apparate over to Wales and ask me!"

"It's not that simple-"

"Why not?"

"What if Black comes back to kill you, the chief witness against him? You need to be under a Ministry guard at all times. At the moment, Hogwarts is the safest place for you, and, if Professor Dumbledore doesn't mind, I'd like you to remain here for the duration of the investigation. We'll make sure no more encounters with the Malfoy family happen. Reporters will be kept at bay. We'll keep you under lock and key. You'll be perfectly safe."

"You're acting like I'm the criminal-!"

"Excuse me, if I could interrupt-" Professor Snape said quietly. He had turned from the window and was now staring at the bedraggled figure of Vesta von Strauss.

"Yes?"

"I'd be willing to keep an eye on Miss von Strauss. She can come and work in my potions laboratory. I could always use a spare hand. The school could pay for it."

"Good idea," Mad-Eye said. "That settles her housing, financial and safety issues."

Vesta wrinkled her nose and turned to Mad-Eye Moody. Her cat-like eyes were brimming with tears. "Please- Him?- I couldn't possibly- A man can't look after me when I'm washing or sleeping- It wouldn't- be right."

"I know of a female auror that can be assigned to sleep in your room and accompany you everywhere. She is well-trained in warding off un-wanted attacks. However, I strongly advise you take up Professor Snape's offer of a job as well. We wouldn't want you to get bored."

"I'll take the job," Vesta sneered. "But who is this auror? My cousin, Nymphadora?"

"I'm sorry but Tonks is otherwise engaged." Mad-Eye smiled. "So I recommend Tabitha Fudge. I'm sure you two will get along famously. You must have gone to school together. Also, I will assign some extra Ministry men to patrol Hogsmeade and the Hogwarts grounds." His swivelling eye focused on Professor Dumbledore without moving his head. "If that's alright with you, of course?"

"An excellent suggestion," Professor Dumbledore said. "The staff will also arrange some strong surveillance and guard spells around the school."

As the teachers left, Vesta von Strauss sank back into the pillows of her newly acquired Hospital Wing bed. She gently wiped the tears from her eyes and shut their lids. It wasn't until Madam Pomfrey scuttled away that she opened them again. A cruel smile lit her face. "It's all going to plan," Vesta thought to herself.

*

"Nice idea of yours," Professor Lupin said dryly to his greasy haired companion.

"And what idea would that be?" Professor Snape snapped.

"Hiring von Strauss to work in your lab. No ulterior motive there?"

"There are at least three things that could have happened in Hogsmeade last night - One: your friend Padfoot could have killed Abberline and she could be telling the truth. Two: she is a very disturbed young woman and she could be blocking out what actually happened. Three: this is a set-up, she's a lying little snot, she killed Abberline, she is a Death-eater, and this is only the beginning of worse to come. Personally, I think number three's the most likely and that she is milking everybody's sympathy for what it's worth. And if she is a Death-eater, then I'm the perfect person to find out. I know the signs."

*

Tabitha Fudge swore as she stubbed her toe against an upraised paving stone. She looked down at her feet and saw blood trickle down the crease where the nail joined the skin on her big toe. "That's what you get for wearing sandals," she said, out loud. She had thought that her shoes were very beautiful, but now she hated them. The four-inch heels were killing her and the very narrow black straps were biting into her flesh. When she had bought them, or rather, when she had persuaded her father, Cornelius Fudge, to buy them, she had not thought to check them for a comfort charm. She had just assumed that for that price, they would come fully equipped. "Stupid, stupid shoes," she cursed to herself. However, she was not about to take them off despite the agonising pain. 'They look too good,' she thought, vainly.

"Tabitha do this," Tabitha murmured in a parody of her new mentor's voice. "Tabitha do that. Tabitha could you please go down to the kitchen and get one of the house elves to make us something to eat." That was where she was going now. What annoyed her was that the 'Professors' in Professor Dumbledore's office were perfectly capable of making food appear on the spot. They did not need her to go and fetch some.

"They just wanted to get rid of me," Tabitha whined to herself. "They think they're so much smarter than me. Well they're not. They're not. And I intend to prove it. I'll show them what I can do."

Suddenly she heard a sound like the cry of a half grown mandrake through some sort of muffler. It seemed to be coming from the behind her. Ignoring the pain from her shoes, Tabitha turned and ran back down the hall. She was careful to miss the paving stone on which she had just stubbed her toe. The noise became louder and louder as she approached a thick door to her left. The door read "Staffroom" in linked golden letters. There was a warning sign in smaller print. Tabitha ignored it.

Purple light glowed through the key hole and in a chink below the door. She tried the handle but the door was locked. As she fumbled in a tight pocket on her thigh for her wand, Tabitha called out, "Is there anyone in there?"

"Yes!" a male voice she thought she recognised yelled.

"Are you all right? What's that noise?" Tabitha asked.

"Someone's thrown their wand on the fire!" the voice replied. "I can't quite reach it. Can you help me?"

"Just a moment," Tabitha said. "I can't get in, can you unlock the door?"

"I can't," the voice said back. "I'm sorry, Tabitha."

"How do you know my name?" Tabitha shouted over the screams of the burning wand.

"Look, there's no time," the voice argued.

"Okay, okay- Alohomora!" Tabitha screamed. The door flew open toward her so quickly that she couldn't get out of the way. The edge of the door hit her in the middle of the forehead and she reeled backwards, crumbling neatly against the wall on the other side of the hallway. For a moment, her vision was filled with black and white stars. Then, as the pain dulled and her eyes adjusted, she made out a figure standing in the doorway, backlit with purple.

He was solid and transparent at the same time. His body was defined in silver edges. "Tabitha, are you all right?" the ghost of Timothy Abberline asked.

"I must've taken a hard knock to the head," Tabitha muttered.

"I just appeared in there a few seconds ago... I don't understand it... I'm dead- How- I'm guessing I was murdered because the only thing I remember is the pain... then looking at that fire... You have to get the wand out of there, Tabitha. It's evidence."

Tabitha grimaced and hauled herself to her feet. She teetered on the four-inch heels of her sandals for a few seconds as she held her aching head. Then the urgency of the matter struck her and she ran into the staffroom, through Timothy. She didn't try to find a shovel or some tongs. Instead, she plunged her right hand deep into the belly of the fire. She ignored the heat of the coals in the grate and the flames that licked the skin shiny on her arm. All she was aware of was the screaming of the burning wand. Her blackened fingers finally found a hard object. She felt the screaming of the wand in her blood and knew she had found it. She quickly retracted her hand from the fire, hoping that the wand would not crumble into pieces. It didn't.

Fudge's daughter stared at the blackened object resting in her stinging hand. It was long and thin, but she could not tell what colour it had been since the wood was charred. In one place, near the tip, the veneer had peeled back revealing the core of the wand.

"It's a good thing that they now make all wands with an anti-flame charm," Tabitha said.

Timothy's ghost hovered beside her. As she watched, the edges of his body became more and more blurred until he was nearly a mist. "Hey," she snapped. She tried to prod him with her elbow, forgetting that it would just go right through what was left of him. "Don't you dare leave this world just yet, understand? You're evidence."

"There's a light at the end of the tunnel-" Timothy explained.

"I don't care about the light and I don't care about tunnels. Walk in the other direction." Tabitha elbowed the dissipating mist again.

"Timothy, you're staying here with me. You're evidence."

"But I have to go-"

"No, you don't!" Tabitha shouted.

The-mist-that-was-Timothy suddenly took human form again. "Damn-it, Tabitha. The light went away."

"Serves you right. I need you here," Fudge's daughter said in a smug voice.

Timothy discovered that when he rolled his eyes as a ghost he could roll them three hundred sixty degrees and see the world at bizarre angles. "You need me here. Why?"

"You're a murder victim, Timothy, in case you haven't noticed," Tabitha explained. "And I'm doing the investigating."

"There can't be much hope then," Timothy said.

"Excuse me?"

"The Ministry obviously think that there can't be much hope of finding my killer if they let you investigate."

"I don't know what you mean," Tabitha snapped. Both her forehead and her hand were beginning to throb. "Besides we already have an eye-witness and a major suspect."

"Really?" Timothy muttered, sarcastically.

"Yes, we do. We have an eye-witness in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing and the suspect is a well-known felon."

"Oh really? And who are these people?"

"Your girlfriend and Sirius Black," Tabitha replied.

"My girlfriend? I don't have-"

"Vesta," Fudge's daughter snapped. "And she's really upset that you went and died on her, so if you were two-timing you had better have a very good explanation."

"Vesta von Strauss?" Timothy said, incredulously. "I'm not- I mean- She's not- I danced with her, that was all. I hadn't seen her since I left Hogwarts... She looked lonely."

"You only danced with her," Tabitha muttered. "Yeah right."

"I did-! I saw her just before-"

"Before what?"

"Before I died! She was by herself in the Phoenix Nightspot getting harassed by a couple of drunk guys that looked like they had more than half ogre blood in them. She looked really scared," Timothy reflected.

"So what did you do?"

"I walked over, sort of pushed them out of the way, took her hand and lead her out onto the dance floor. We must've danced for a good half hour, then I said that I had to get going. She looked disappointed, but that was about all."

"So you only danced with her?" Tabitha said, cynically. "Well, I've got news for you. Either you're lying or she is, and with your track record, I'd be more likely to believe her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

***

Morgiana was sitting in the corner of the common room, reading one of her mother's books, when Harry came in. She pretended not to notice him, since she was still angry with him for his actions in Potions that morning. At least, that's what she told herself. The truth that lurked deep down inside her shadowy soul said otherwise. Her anger with Professor Snape had been lying like forgotten gunpowder for days. It had the potential to blow up at anytime, not just when Harry's actions caused the teacher to act harshly toward her. Besides, it was as much her fault as the teacher's that she had had to leave the class. She had been rude, obnoxious and sarcastic from day one toward Professor Snape. She had instantly disliked him and never given him a chance to prove her wrong. Her actions had brought out the worst in him. The result of the day was her fault and no-one else's. It would be stupid to blame Harry. With this resolution she smiled slightly and shut her book.

But Harry did not seem to notice her. Instead, he walked straight across to Hermione and Ron, who were seated closer to the fire. They both looked up when Harry approached. Hermione had been furiously writing on a piece of paper resting on her knees for most of the night. Now, it seemed she had finished. The expression on Harry's face was grim as he told them something. From her corner, Morgiana noticed Hermione bite her lip and become pale. They argued in muted voices for a second before standing up and hurriedly pushing through the entrance to the stairway up to the dormitories. Morgiana was going to follow but thought better of it. They hadn't asked her to come. That alone had never stopped her before, but she sensed that this was a private matter. Lately she had become more sensitive to private matters.

She opened her book again but could no longer comprehend the words. They seemed to swim in front of her eyes in a sea of black letters. Deep in the marrow of her bones she felt a screaming sensation. Something was very wrong. She closed the book with a 'thump', but the uneasy feeling did not go away. For some reason, she looked up and her eyes met with those of Professor McGonagall.

The Professor had just entered the common room, probably a few seconds after Harry, but it seemed to Morgiana like minutes. She approached Morgiana with an unnatural gliding grace as though her feet were floating on the air beneath. Her elderly face was set in an unreadable mask. "What's happened?" Morgiana asked in a loud voice. People swivelled to look at them, though who they were Morgiana could not say. All she saw was the Professor bearing bad news.

Professor McGonagall gripped her arm tightly as if she was afraid Morgiana would run away. "Come outside where I can talk to you in private," she whispered. She didn't smile and her eyes seemed cold.

The first thing Morgiana had done when she had left Professor Snape's classroom was check the house points. None had been taken. But now it seemed to make sense, why Snape had not seemed too bothered that she had walked out. Perhaps it would be up to Professor McGonagall to punish her. After all, Gryffindor was her house. "I'm not going back to Potions," she said as firmly as she could. She found it a lot more difficult to be rude around the Professor, since she had known her most of her life.

Professor McGonagall looked slightly confused. "It's not about Potions. Please, come outside, I need to speak with you."

"Is it about Mum?" Morgiana asked. Hope rose in her like helium in a balloon. "Did Timothy find out something from the gloves I found?"

Her mother's aunt shook her head. "No."

"Then what is it?"

"Please come outside." Morgiana followed the Professor, the uneasy feeling churning inside her bones once more. Perhaps this was why Harry had looked so grim. But 'this' did not have a name, she had no idea what was going on.

Once outside the door of the common room, the Professor pulled Morgiana to one side. There was nobody around. "I'm afraid I have some bad news," she said.

She looked Morgiana in the eye as she said it, and Morgiana felt her hope plummet from a great height. "What sort of bad news?" Morgiana asked.

Professor McGonagall spoke slowly and added no decoration to her simple words. "Timothy Abberline is dead."

A jolt of pain coursed through Morgiana's body. "How?" She could find no other words to voice her emotions.

"He was murdered. In Hogsmeade," the Professor explained. "Either early this morning or late last night. I'm sorry." And she did look sorry, Morgiana thought.

"Who- What did they do to him?" Morgiana whimpered. Instinctively she wondered whether it was because of her, or because of his investigation into her mother's murder.

"I don't know." Morgiana could tell she was lying. Was the truth that horrible? Had Timothy been ripped into pieces like her mother? She shuddered to think, remembering the room in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, where row upon row of dead people lay. That would be where Timothy was now, tended by that doctor... What was her name? Prunella Watson.

The Professor took a deep breath. "His girlfriend was with him... but she survived... she's here in the Hospital Wing... The Aurors may want to question you. I am just warning you."

A million questions flooded Morgiana's brain. "I hope she's all right," she said, thinking, 'She must be feeling a million times worse than I am. I hardly knew the man.' "Why would they want to question me?" she asked.

The Professor seemed to know more than she let on. "Just routine questions I think."

"Oh, okay," Morgiana whispered. Without needing to ask, Professor McGonagall held her close. "What will happen to the investigation into my mother's death?"

"I don't know," the teacher replied. Once again, she seemed to be holding something back.

Morgiana's final statement was, "It must have been Sirius Black." Professor McGonagall said nothing, but Morgiana felt her heart skip a beat, and her grip slacken.

***

It was several hours before Morgiana met with sleep.

Morgiana opened her eyes slowly as shards of white light flooded her gaze. She was in a small white room, but she could not see any walls or ceiling. It seemed as though a patch with a two metre radius existed around her but everything else was just a blur. There were four high narrow benches in front of her and on each bench lay a human form, cloaked in a white sheet. She shuddered instinctively, remembering her mother's shattered remains. She had seen them laid out in a building just like this.

Before she could do anything, the shrouded form on her far right began to shiver. Morgiana saw the sheet rise and fall below the bump which she supposed was the nose. A sound like somebody choking echoed in Morgiana's ears. Without thinking, she tugged the sheet off the person's face, hoping that it would help them to breathe more easily. Her actions exposed the body. Morgiana gasped with recognition. She saw her mother's face, her eyes shut and her neck fully extended. She dressed in a plain starched shirt and skirt, both made of a similar shade of deep blue. Her limbs were fully intact.

Morgiana watched as Iris's chest rose and fell. She seemed alive, but she did not open her eyes. Morgiana tentatively reached down and brushed her mother's cheek, finding it as cold as ice. She ran her fingers down her mother's cheek and felt the gentle contours. She smoothed Iris's long dark hair back from her face, marvelling that it no longer contained wisps of grey and white. Iris looked younger and happier. She also felt waxy and dead.

Morgiana reached down and gently patted her mother's hand. As she did so, the hand jolted away. Morgiana hurriedly stepped backwards, nearly bumping into the next stretcher. Iris's eyes snapped open but she did not seem to see Morgiana. Her lips parted slowly, mechanically, as she began to speak. "Don't be impulsive like the dog," she whispered. "Dark times are ahead for you." Her eyes and mouth shut once more and no matter how much Morgiana prodded and poked her, she would not speak again. Morgiana watched as the stretcher with her mother on it melted into the blurred whiteness. Iris was gone.

Morgiana quickly moved to the next stretcher and pulled back the cover. She met Timothy Abberline's brown eyed stare. She wanted to speak to him but she couldn't open her mouth. It was almost as though somebody had glued it shut. Timothy gave no signal that he had recognised her. "Think before you lift your wand," he said. His stretcher also vanished.

The person lying on the third stretcher was tightly wrapped in sheets. Every time Morgiana pulled one sheet off, there was another one below it. Each time she removed a sheet it became harder to do so. The sheets began heavier, coarser, until it was like lifting a carpet sprayed with glass splinters. Morgiana's hands bled, but she kept on going, not even noticing the acute stabbing pain. All she could think about was finding out who was underneath the sheet. Just when she thought that she no longer had the strength to pull another sheet back, a knife appeared in her left hand. It had a thick, sharp blade that was pointed at the end. The handle was made from some sort of bone. Morgiana began to slit through the sheets, hoping that she would cut the person underneath them. She shuddered at the thought, especially when the knife she retracted became stained with blood. She dropped it on the ground, spattering herself and the wheels of the stretcher with blood. She peeled back the sheets she had cut through and saw the person on the stretcher. It was her own body. She was dead.

Her body looked as though it had been starved to death. Her face was little more than a skull with skin, the cheeks tightly pinched and the eyes set in deep hollows. Her hair was cropped short. She had been in several fights. Three long silver scars ran down her left cheek, her nose was broken and both hands purple and gnarled from where they had been broken but not set properly. She was dressed in plain, shabby black robes that were almost shiny because they were so threadbare. Part of her clothing was slit open at the side, and from this wound dribbled blood. Morgiana supposed it was where the knife she had been using to cut the sheets off had contacted the body. The cuff on her left hand sleeve was rolled back and Morgiana could see, printed in faded white letters, the word 'Azkaban'. She screamed.

"What the hell are you screaming about?" the corpse snapped. Morgiana was too shocked to respond. "You think you're so perfect, don't you?" the corpse continued, "All wound up in your perfect little world. Well, I've got news for you. It's not always going to be like that. You're going to end up just like me, understand?" A cold, knobbly hand grasped her fingers tightly. She felt like she was being pulled out of her skin, but was aware that she hadn't moved a step. The corpse began to fade away, the cold hold on her fingers replaced by a warm liquid sensation.

She was crouched on her hands and knees in a thick, tepid liquid. Everything was black and she could not see a thing. Her face, arms and clothing were sticky with something that had the consistency of honey and smelt strangely like vinegar and raw beef. The hair, both on her head and in her eyebrows and eyelashes, was caked with the congealed substance. She tried to touch her face with her left hand, but realised she was already holding what felt like a wand.

Light snapped into her eyeballs, causing momentary blindness, then realisation. Everywhere she looked she saw the same red liquid that spattered her face and clothing and pooled at her feet. It had dripped down the walls as it had down her face. Blood. Not hers, but someone else's. She saw what looked like a pile of dirty laundry slumped against the wall in front of her. The red colour was at its darkest around this figure. Morgiana guessed that it was source of all the blood. Her victim. Just as she was about to see who it was, a man's voice said, "Well, he's definitely dead, isn't he?"

Morgiana did not see who spoke because the dream ended. She jolted awake, uncertain of what was real and what was imaginary.

.