A Season of Change

Chapter 13

In a dark little corner of London there is a lane where a single street lamp illuminates the cracked concrete. Dilapidated brick structures boast window panes grimy with age while ripped yellow-brown awnings snap in the breeze. Very few visitors travel to "The Tomb," the nickname given by the locals after a bedridden man died and then didn't have the courtesy to stick around. It was, as the vegetable vender on the next block over was wont to say to pedestrians eager for gossip, as if the old man had simply disappeared. After a thorough sweeping of the dead man's quarters lodged in the very rear of the rooming house, even Scotland Yard conceded defeat and stamped "Unsolved" in bold red letters on the file. These quarters, tainted with the stigmatism of death--and of ghosts--lay silent for over twenty-five years, the sole occupant a man who kept exclusively to himself.

That autumn morning, Londoners in the more polished sections of town dropped their stuffy airs and kicked up their heels to prance about in the mounds of leaves. Indeed the entire city seemed awash in bright reds and oranges, and even the ever-present tourists with their never ending clicking cameras paused outside of Buckingham Palace to breathe the crisp air.

A freckled messenger riding a rusty bike flew down the old cobblestone lane toting a basket of flowers. On a whim, he tossed a handful of the fragrant blossoms to a group of dark-suited business men and grinned cheekily as an old Mini screeched around the turn, its horn squawking.

It was in this morning of sunshine and mums, oak leaves and window displays of outrageously orange pumpkins, that Walden Macnair shuffled home, his nose running with cold. Diagon Alley was just less than five kilometers from his home, but he felt no desire to alter his routine by apparating to one of the several spots recently deemed "safe" by the Ministry. In fact, he grumbled as he withdrew a particularly gray handkerchief from within his robes, my day can't get any worse. The route to his home seemed a veritable garden which only served to exacerbate his allergies. Just as he reached his corner, the messenger flew past with a screech of tires. Walden yelped and stumbled backwards, his foot catching on the crooked hem of his robes.

"A flower, sir, to brighten up that frown?"

Walden's face scrunched as freckled hands selected what had to be the largest mum of the group and tucked it into the breast pocket of his robe.

"Cheerio, then!" With a gap-toothed grin, the boy jumped onto his bike and peddled down the lane.

Walden shook his head a few times. Ever so slowly, his hand reached into his robes and with a quick, "Petrificus Totalus!" he froze the messenger. He laughed for the first time that day, a dry rattle of a chuckle at the way the boy's mouth hung open and his eyes took on a sloe-like appearance. With a smug smile, Walden pocketed his wand and shrugged off the inevitable Ministry letter scolding him for the improper use of magic before Muggles. Definitely better, he thought with a bit of a whistle.

The alley was the same--the awnings still hung from rods now black with rust--and he noticed with grim satisfaction that the city ordinance seemed to have overlooked his street when road reparations had been in full speed. He kept his head down, his face hidden by the sides of his hood as he fumbled for his key. Anonymity was his prized possession, and no one valued privacy more than Walden.

At last... he breathed in a deep sigh of relief at the thought of warming himself by the fire. This simple act of breathing led immediately to his hacking up a wad of mucus. He spat red.

Slowly he began the tedious climb up the peeling steps where bare bulbs droned on each landing like a swarm of flies feasting on rotted flesh. The sickening smell of spoiled curry accosted his nostrils as he passed his neighbor's quarters, and as he coughed, he thought of the open vents in his flat and wondered how long it would take this time for the smell to disappear. Nausea tinkered with his stomach.

After pausing for a moment to catch his breath, Walden twisted the key in the lock. A section of the door frame fell at his feet. When he had first made arrangements to rent this unit, the landlady had handed him a hammer with the instructions to remove the boards. At the time he didn't know the circumstances surrounding the boarded door, so he simply worked the sharp edges of the hammer into the grooves and yanked. Several splinters of the frame came off as well, but Walden had learned to never bother himself with the small details.

Flashbacks to his days as an underling in the Department ricocheted through his head as he flipped the light switch. His predecessor, the old executioner, had insisted on the using Muggle fluorescent lights to illuminate the dungeon-like rooms at the Ministry, and Walden had developed a very acute loathing for anything brighter than firelight. He had long since painted the windows in his flat black, but until he could see through the murky darkness to light the tapers, he resigned himself to the dreaded inconvenience of electric lighting.

Ten minutes later saw Walden lying prone on the couch, a wet cloth draped over his eyes, a box of tissues on his chest. He shivered furiously as the wind seeped through the cracks in the window sill with icicle-like strength. After several long minutes the fire roared to life, and he rolled to his side so that the heat could melt the harsh lines on his face. As the old adage goes, Walden had been born with the face only a mother could love--and try as his mother might, she had never been able to charm the sour expression away.

When he was quite small, his first encounter with prejudice had taken place during his first trip to the market. Imagine, if you can, a young child leaping from the front door, his trousers held up by jaunty red suspenders. A cowboy hat in the fashion of the old American west adorned his head, and twinkling eyes peered out from beneath the brim.

"Wally! Come here, love, tie your bandana about your face. You want to be like the cowboys, don't you?"

And Walden had easily acquiesced, thinking it was all part of a game. Hand clasped within the gloved one of his mother, he skipped eagerly down the lane seeking adventure--perhaps he might encounter a buffalo! Witches and wizards stopped to greet his mother and to make his acquaintance.

"Say hello, Wally, to Mr. Winfrey."

"G'day, sir," he said shyly to the man who smelled of ripening onions.

"What an original son you have, Mrs. Macnair," boomed Mr. Winfrey. "Fond of cowboys, eh lad? I had a bandana like that one myself at one time. Let's see here... perhaps I could find a... aha." Walden's eyes widened like saucers at the small wooden pistol Mr. Winfrey had conjured. "But first..." Before either Walden or his mother could speak, Mr. Winfrey's hand reached out and yanked the bandana down.

Silence.

The offending hand jerked back as if burned, knocking the cowboy hat to the ground in the process. Walden stood exposed in the middle of the street, his face bare for the whole world to see. The twisted mess of flesh was comprised of a bulbous nose, a cleft palate, and two almond shaped eyes that sat at different angles--almost as if they had been dropped as an after thought. In a world where the highest bidder could often barter his own humanity, Walden's mother wondered what she had done to deserve this.

"Stop staring at him," she screeched, drawing him close to her side. "Walden, pick up your hat."

Walden, understanding the change in tone and realizing the seriousness of the situation since she had called him by his full name, stumbled for his hat. As he knelt to the ground he heard the laughter of children and his ears perked. He had never had any playmates and wondered with delight if this were part of his mother's plan. Eagerly he placed the hat back in position and turned to the children.

"Hallo," he called out in bright tones.

Three children, the same age as he, stood directly in his path, over come with laughter. The tallest boy stooped his shoulders, adopted a hunchback position, and growled. Thinking he was playing a game of sorts, Walden stooped his own little back and growled in reply.

"Oh--oh--look at the freak! Look at the monster. Billy," the tall boy gasped for air. "Look! The monster wants to play! Garr... Hey beast! You don't need to pretend. You already are a freak!"

"Freak!"

"Freak!"

Walden's mother yanked him upright and tied his bandana over his face with short hard jerks. "Stop that, Wally." Walden's eyes filled with tears as the children began to play again--and even for a child so young as he, he was wise enough to know what they were doing. And he stood frozen, his heart shattering within the cavity of his chest until it hurt to draw a breath. His mother's friends moved away quietly, and finally his own mother reached down and lifted him into her arms. Walden's memory had forgotten what it felt like to be carried, but his little tortured body responded automatically as small limbs gripped her warm neck. She turned and Walden knew they would not be going to the market today. He watched as the small wooden pistol dissolved into the air.

The children's jeers rang in his ears for several blocks, and when Walden reached his front garden, he broke loose from his mother's arms and raced into his bedroom. He dropped the cowboy hat and the bandana to the floor and jumped up and down, smashing and flattening it, wishing he knew how to make fire.

It only seemed natural, perhaps, that Walden Macnair was destined for a career where no one judged him by his face and the "things" he dealt with were uglier than him. A beast for beast, his mother had snapped when she discovered where he was apprenticing.

"What about your education?" she had wailed as Walden knotted his tie. "All those years at Hogwarts?"

"Mum! This is my opportunity! Why can't you be happy for me?"

"What kind of career is being an executioner? Your job is to kill, Wally--they're going to train you to ch--chop off heads and--it'll change you."

"Mum, please. You're making yourself upset. Sit down. Do you want a spot of tea?" Walden's face wrinkled with concern. Gently he pushed his mother into her chair and tucked the afghan around her legs. "Mum. You know that my O.W.L.'s were only mediocre. I'm lucky to have this opportunity. Mr. Sinclair is taking a chance with me. It's my chance to prove myself." His mother continued to cry while her hand patted his head. "Please, Mum. You can trust me--I'll be fair." He stood and checked to see that his Ministry badge was affixed securely to his robes. "After all, everyone is entitled to a proper trial."

Walden's eyes fluttered as fatigue took over, and in minutes he fell into a restless sleep. The strangest visions prevailed in his dream, and as the Walden in his head separated himself from the man on the couch, he touched the wisps of atmosphere wonderingly. A glance at the ground suggested that he was floating, and yet he definitely felt something firm under his feet. Tentatively he struck the ground with his boot and puzzled over the softness.

"Hallo!" he called out. "Hallo! Is there anyone here?"

Margaret stepped forward seemingly from out of nowhere and braced her hands on her hips. "Macnair. You're late."

Walden rolled his eyes at the annoyance Margaret presented even in his sleep. The swamp witch was simply unavoidable. There were no excuses to be made--one couldn't regulate the moment the body dropped off--and yet, he knew that she was waiting for a damn good answer. "I tagged another one."

The chilly acknowledgement of his words prompted him to wonder if he responded correctly. Just as he opened his mouth to elaborate, she waved him off dismissively.

"What about the beast? Does Culpepper concur?"

"Culpepper is putty in our hands. You know that."

"Be that as it may, I want assurance that you are handling everything--he's an incompetent fool--you know that as well as I do. I still don't understand why you had to involve him."

"Margaret," Walden began, weary of this talk and feeling as if he were beginning to drown in his own spittle. He spat ungraciously on the floor. "Culpepper approached me--he heard that you had filed a complaint with the Department about Lupin. Truth be told, he's pretty ticked that you didn't go to him first."

"That idiot? We just barely managed to win the Bristol case thanks to his help. He'd probably slap a warning on this werewolf and then invite him to tea. No... no, this was better." Margaret sidestepped the puddles of blood and spittle as she crossed the room to her partner. "So did Culpepper concur? Can we use the potion again?"

Walden's jaundiced eyes blazed with excitement as he nodded.

"Well, you should feel happy," she said sharply. "Two dead--hundreds left. How many more until you satisfy your revenge?"

It wasn't easy--this act of restraining oneself--and yet Walden had learned over the years that if you wanted to keep your enemies as your friends there was nothing worth saying if it could jeopardize the relationship. So he bit back his harsh reply and said simply, "When I die I'll be satisfied."

She peered at him closely, her face a chiseled marble mask--cold and unfeeling. "You never did tell me why you hate them."

"Aside from the fact that they're beasts, you mean?" He felt as if he had hacked up a lung. Strong forearms rested momentarily on his knees.

"Aside from that."

It had happened so many years ago--twenty-five to be exact--and yet it seemed like only yesterday evening that Walden had apparated from the Ministry to his parents' home where he was still living; apparated right past the ambulance on the street. The sight of his parents' mangled bodies, fleshed ripped from the bones, white eye sockets rolled towards the ceiling, had sent him keening in the kitchen where his roars of anguish were intermixed with the sounds of vomiting.

His mother they had been unable to save; her throat had been torn out completely, and just as the medic moved to draw the sheet over her face, Walden put out a hand. He gently stroked her soft auburn tresses, fingering each individual curl. With a surprisingly steady hand he carefully lowered her lids to block the vacant stare which gave her the horrible appearance of seeing nothing and yet appearing to see everything.

The death certificate said "mauling by dogs." There had never been any dogs in the neighborhood.

His father, however, clung to life by the thinnest of threads. He couldn't speak and had lost all function as a human. Later that evening, Walden summoned a team of MediWizards to collect his father from the Muggle hospital and transport him to St. Mungo's. It was no secret in the Wizarding world as to what had happened, and it was with an almost tangible sense of relief that the nurses released the senior Macnair into the care of his son. A small flat in a run-down rooming house in London was available, its door boarded up after years of vacancy. Walden quickly installed his father into the quarters and raised every possible silencing and locking charm on the place. The windows were painted black to shield out the neighbor's curious stares. Lastly, Walden installed a cage with thick bars and a metal floor.

Mr. Macnair, Senior never survived his first transformation. After that, unless it was absolutely necessary, Walden never apparated again.

Margaret's craggy features displayed a rather singular expression. "So that explains it. This is personal. That's dangerous you know."

Walden raised his face to what appeared to be the sky. A single raindrop of warning fell on his forehead before the clouds broke loose and water drenched him to the bone. He thought briefly of how his mother would have blistered his ear for not wearing his slicker and goulashes. In the foggy distance he could hear Margaret's cackling laughter and something else... a voice... a feminine voice... and yet...

He jerked upright as a second cup of water was dumped over his face. Spluttering, his shoulders shook with hacking coughs. "Goddamn it!"

"Get up."

Walden brushed his wet tresses from his eyes and peered through the shadows at the person who dared to invade his rooms. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

Hermione stepped forward, her wand pointed directly at his heart. "I have known about you for ten years now, Walden Macnair, and it's time you answered some questions for me."

**********

With a contented sigh, Remus pressed himself against the Sirius' warm side. It would be so easy to stay curled up with his cheek pressed against warm bare flesh... so tempting and filled with possibility. But he knew that up in the castle the others were waiting and there were a million issues that needed to be hashed out between two of the most headstrong men he knew. With a loud yawn, Remus pulled lightly on the hairs adorning Sirius' chest.

"Padfoot," he whispered.

Sirius smacked his lips as if eating a delicious treat. "Hmm?"

Tightening his arms around his lover, Remus propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at Sirius with shadowed eyes. "We need to go back. Harry's probably already here."

"I'm so comfortable, Moony," Sirius whined. "C'mon... just a few more minutes..."

Remus laughed. There was very little that he could resist when it came to Sirius, and when he used that whiny puppy-dog voice of his--look out. He settled himself back on the bed and closed his eyes. It's remarkably comfortable, he mused, once we used a cushioning charm. Perhaps I shall close my eyes... just for a minute...

"Sirius!" Remus jolted up in the bed. "It's been hours. Come on... they're waiting for us." Using both of his hands, he pulled his sleep-tousled mate to the floor. "Get dressed. Hurry!" Frantically he pulled on his shirt and tucked it messily into his pants. "I can't believe we did this... sleeping together--wasting time--Sweet Merlin, Sirius, we just had sex--our daughter's gone and we just had sex." He spat the word to the floor, jumping on one foot while yanking on his sock.

Surprised and concerned by Remus' reaction, Sirius pulled on his shirt and began to fumble with the buttons. "Moony, what do you mean? How can you be angry about this? We need this--"

"We wasted time, Sirius! Hours--time that we can't get back we spent doing this." He jabbed a finger at the rumpled bed. With an angry jerk of his wand he banished the sheets and pillows, returning the bed back to its original state. "Don't you understand the seriousness of the situation, Sirius? We should have been working--finding ways to get our daughter back--not indulging ourselves!"

The shack trembled under Remus' shouts, and for a brief moment, Sirius didn't have any clue as to what to say. He hesitated, then muttered, "Screw it," and yanked Remus into his arms. "Don't defame what we just did. I don't regret it and hell if I am going to let you."

"Sirius..." Remus' muffled voice came from somewhere between the folds of Sirius' shirt.

"No--let me finish. I always allow you to be the rational one, the one with the sturdy head, picking up after my mess, giving me advice--and I'm sick of it. Even this morning--I sat here wallowing in self-indulgent guilt--I cried out for comfort like some kind of nancy boy--I picked a fight with the most important person in the case... and frankly, Moony, I'm sick of myself. Since when did Sirius Black become such a whiner? God, if I had ever taken Divination seriously I would have been appalled if I saw myself now. And you can bet your ass that James and Peter wouldn't have believed it either."

Remus raised his head and frowned slightly over the ease at which Sirius said Peter's name.

"So..." he paused. "I'm ready to go and work this through together, Moony, and if I'm not going to wallow than neither are you. Buck up, Moony. C'mon, Harry's waiting for us."

Managing an excellent imitation of a man who just had a freezing spell thrown at him, Remus smiled faintly and gripped Sirius' hand. No words were needed as the two men crawled down the tunnel, leaving behinds ghosts of their present selves to add to the collection.

**********

Albus Dumbledore prided himself on his patience. His stomach growled loudly as he reached for his handy bowl of lemon sherbet drops. The cellophane wrapper crinkled loudly in the room, and he sucked appreciatively on the tasty sweet. The sugar crystals melted away into a lovely pool of just perfect sourness.

"Would you care for a lovely lemon sherbet drop, Mr. Whitney?"

"No thank you," returned the voice of a rather put-out young man.

Dumbledore shrugged lightly as he circled his chambers slowly. Walking had always proved to be an excellent stress reliever--a suggestion Madam Pomfrey had made upon his last physical.

"You are getting far too soft in your old age, Albus," she had scolded him.

Even now, if he pressed his hands through the heavy material of the robes a pillowy softness cushioned his fingers. Ah... curse the ancestor who passed down the sweet-tooth gene! He chuckled.

Whitney turned at the sound and wondered what in the world the old man could find amusing. For him, this was a regular purgatory. His twitchy fingers reached automatically for his pack of Kents but found only lint. Stormy gray eyes swept the floor for the missing box. He didn't want any bloody sweets--what he needed was his nicotine high and some serious exercise. And a good hex to wake me from this nightmare, he added dryly. Perhaps a girl...

"Why did you stop practicing law?"

The simple question shook him from his reverie. "It ceased to appeal to me," he answered shortly.

"Ah yes... the ubiquitous thought that somewhere out in the universe there is an idyllic job just awaiting our attention." Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back and turned to circle the room counter-clockwise. "Well, have you found it?"

"Have I found what?" Whitney bit out as his eyes snapped to the window. The normally wild Whomping Willow had stilled, and if his eyes didn't deceive him, those were people were crawling up from the ground. He watched in amazement as two very familiar figures ran across the grounds hand in hand.

"Why your perfect career, of course!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Dragon Keeping is your profession, correct? Mr. Weasley just heaped praises about your skills."

"I somehow doubt the accuracy of anything Mr. Weasley said in regard to my skills. I would be willing to bet that his words were heavily laced with sarcasm." It is them, he breathed. How the hell did they get that bitch of a tree to freeze like that?

Dumbledore laughed appreciatively.

Sighing, Whitney turned from the window and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. He was startled to realize that it was half past one in the afternoon. "Why hasn't Mr. Potter arrived by now? It's been hours."

As if on cue, someone rapped firmly on the great door.

"Enter," boomed Dumbledore, his eyes solemn as he banished the wrapper to the waste bin.

The door opened to reveal a tall young man holding an ancient looking woman by the arm. Behind the rather odd looking pair stood Professor Snape his dark eyes glittering dangerously.

"Perhaps someone should go fetch Lupin and Black?" Severus prompted the quiet assembly.

"No need," Whitney called from his post at the window. "They're on their way up."

For the moment, however, Harry led the woman Whitney assumed to be Mary McAllister to one of the high backed chairs and sat her gently down. The morning chill had completely evaporated causing the tower to warm slightly, and Harry hung up Mary's threadbare cloak, taking care to place her gloves in the pockets.

It was awkward, this disjointed group, and Whitney shifted uncomfortably as no one moved to break the silence. He knew, of course, who Harry Potter was, but he wondered if Harry knew who he was. Whitney glanced at Dumbledore, but the Headmaster seemed rather engrossed. Pale blue eyes were appraising Mary and seemed to linger about her hands.

Just as he moved from the window, Harry stepped forward with a smile. "How do you do? Harry Potter."

"Howard Whitney. I'm fine, thanks." He smiled cautiously, his eyes narrowing at the calculated way in which Severus was staring at the two of them. "Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black are on their way."

With a yawn, Harry threw his own cloak over the back of one of the plaid chairs and settled himself comfortably, his long legs stretched before him. Dumbledore took a seat in the adjoining chair and leaned forward, his beard pooling in his lap.

"How was your trip, Harry? Did you have any trouble accessing the apparating ports?"

"No. Everything was fine... Professor," Harry lowered his voice softy, "there's something a bit odd about her. I asked about Bridget like you instructed and I couldn't seem to get a straight answer from her. Based on the calculations Professor Snape sent in his letter, Mary should be about 81 years old and her daughter about 65. However, the Croatian Ministry couldn't recall ever meeting a non-Croatian woman around the age of her daughter. In fact, the Department Chair specifically said that--" He broke off as Dumbledore placed a warning hand on his arm.

The door opened and Remus and Sirius entered the room, their eyes searching for Harry. With a broad smile on his handsome face, Sirius crossed the room quickly and pulled Harry into a tight embrace. "It's good to see you." Harry returned the hug and smiled over his shoulder to Remus who stood to the side, waiting patiently as always. His golden eyes were filled with weariness but still managed to twinkle at the younger man.

"Welcome home, Harry," Remus said kindly.

Once the introductions were completed, everyone took their seats at the table. Severus' face took on an unreadable expression as Sirius took the seat next to his. Remus sat on Sirius' other side, flanked to his left by Mary McAllister. Whitney, Minerva and Harry sat in the three seats opposite. Dumbledore presided over the strange gathering, a calming force in a room where earlier, tempers had escalated to astounding levels and words of the harshest caliber had been exchanged.

"Before Harry and Mary begin, I would like to say something," Sirius spoke up. Everyone turned and stared at him. Remus gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. "Since I made my accusations in public, I feel it only right to make my apologies in public as well." Whitney stared at him. "Whitney, I apologize for anything I may have said yesterday and this morning. It was very indecent of me to accuse you of having an ulterior motive. I was wrong and I apologize," he finished stiffly.

Whitney was flabbergasted. He swallowed once and nodded. "Apology accepted, Mr. Black." His gray eyes darted between the half scowl half smile on Sirius' face and the small smile on Remus'. "I, too, would like to say that I am sorry for my outburst as well. You are both dealing with a situation I have had the fortune to never find myself in, and it was wrong of me to add insult to injury."

Silence fell as Sirius nodded his acceptance. Slowly, two hands extended across the table, one large, brown and strong, the other equal in size but paler in color. Both men shook firmly then quickly dropped hands. Harry knew nothing of what had transpired before his arrival and could only guess that his godfather's hotheadedness had once again got the better of him. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward and began.

"Everyone, this is Mary McAllister. She has kindly stepped forward to assist in your case, Remus, and is willing to testify about werewolf parenting."

A tiny lady, no larger than some of the smallest first-years, blinked blue eyes behind round spectacles. Silver locks of gray hair framed her face, and she gripped her hands together as if the act itself would still her trembling. Frail in appearance, she was of the type who looked as if she had been the victim of one too many ineffective killing curses. All were typical signs of a person long suffering from lycanthropy, perhaps, but in Remus' estimation she seemed a bit... different.

"Mrs. McAllister?" She turned towards Whitney. "Where is your daughter?"

"Bridget stayed behind on the continent. She's addled and can't leave the house."

Frowning slightly, Whitney taped the recording quill. "If it's alright?" he asked with a quick glance at the occupants of the room. "Mrs. McAllister, when did you and your daughter flee Britain?"

Still gripping her hands, Mary's eyes glazed over slightly as she thought about her response. "It was 1940--I was living in London at the time. Bridget's father had already left us. I suppose when he found out about my curse he decided that being saddled with a wife who was a werewolf would cause too many difficulties in his career," she said sourly. "Bridget was born that fall, lycanthropy free, I might add. But did the Ministry care? No--all they could see was that I had gone against Ministry sanctions and wanted to kill her, and in order to save my daughter I fled. We've never come back."

Minerva released a horrified gasp while Severus sucked in his breath. Harry watched as Remus, like Dumbledore, seemed rather preoccupied with her hands.

"Where on the continent have you been hiding--we won't report your whereabouts to the Ministry, ma'am," Whitney hastened to reassure her. In the spirit of fair play, Sirius swallowed a rude comment and awaited Mary's answer.

Mary threw Harry a disgruntled look. "You didn't say that I'd be interrogated."

"Ma'am, we're just trying to familiarize ourselves with your background, that's all. I'm sure Mr. Potter's briefed you on the circumstances and that you understand the urgency of the situation," Whitney explained in his best solicitor's voice. In his experience, women always melted when he turned on his charm. A flush rose to his cheeks as he realized Mary wasn't going to play his game. He felt all at once small and without integrity.

Sirius lifted an eyebrow at the younger man's discomfort. Personally he didn't understand why she was being difficult, but realized quickly that they had a problem on their hands if she wouldn't even cooperate after only two questions. Before he could say anything, Mary spoke.

"So, what do they do nowadays to werewolf parents? Do they still chop off their heads?"

Pointedly ignoring her question, Remus laid his forearms across the table, his fingers splayed for examination. "Harry," he began, "a sign of a person with lycanthropy is that the skin turns translucent over the years. Do you remember?" Harry nodded, glancing down at Remus' pale skin. "Okay--I want you to take a good look at Mary's hands." All eyes riveted towards the objects. Even Mary dropped her own eyes and began to examine her flesh curiously.

A dawning comprehension struck Harry, and he jerked backwards in his seat, as far away from the woman as possible. And to think I held her in my arms when we apparated!

"Well, I think you can see why it's impossible for this woman who claims to be Mary McAllister to actually be who she says she is. The Mary McAllister from the records says she was born in 1924 and gave birth in 1940--as an already infected werewolf. That would make her 81 today."

"So?" Mary snapped. "What does that prove?"

"There has never been a werewolf of your age with cream-colored unlined flesh."

Silence.

"Who are you?" Harry sputtered furiously. "The documentation--the Croatian Ministry led me in your direction--you're one of the followers of the recent insurrection. God, it all lines up perfectly!"

Remus leaned forward urgently, "Harry, you don't think it's odd that it was so easy to track her down? You don't feel at all surprised that she so readily agreed to come back to England--to a place she fled over half a century ago?"

"Are you suggesting some type of polyjuice potion? Is that what you're thinking?"

"Possibly, among other things," Remus frowned. "I just have this feeling that this Mary McAllister is not the same woman that fled back in the 40s. And I can't imagine her becoming a part of fringe society--certainly not part of an insurrection like the one you speak of. All signs point towards a woman in search of freedom from persecution--in search of a place her daughter would be safe. A woman like that would hardly join a faction that values waste of life and cruelty."

"How do you know all this?" asked a poor confused Whitney. Remus handed him Harry's letter. Within seconds, Whitney cast a binding spell.

Harry felt a pang of self-anger at Remus' words and hated the imposter Mary with every fiber of his being. He felt duped. Sirius' blue eyes had morphed into inky black. "Professor--did you know?"

"Yes, Harry, I knew. I knew the minute you said you were returning with her." Harry wanted to curl up into a little ball of embarrassment. To think he prided himself as an all-important Auror!

"She didn't even offer to bring Bridget..." he mumbled.

"Come again, Harry?" Remus asked.

"I said at the time she didn't even offer to bring Bridget. I should have known! Look at all the time we wasted while the real Mary's still out there somewhere, god knows where, and I've got us an imposter!"

"Harry," said the low voice of his godfather. Harry jumped. "Think of it this way--we now know that Margaret's tentacles extend far beyond Macnair and Culpepper. She's a fucking monster, that woman." Remus nodded in agreement, hating and understanding far too well the look of self-recrimination in the younger man's eyes.

"Okay... okay then... well, someone should keep an eye on her--play her game, perhaps? Keep up the pretense so Margaret thinks she has the upper hand?" Harry's mind worked frantically, and for a moment, he felt a twinge of empathy towards Hermione and her poor overworked brain. Remus' smile encouraged him further. "And I'll ask the Division for permission to do some reconnaissance work--that way Margaret doesn't know I've gone back. Oh, and Professor, you were right--originally, that is--the Croatian Ministry approached me by using her--I didn't approach them. I was just so excited by her name that I didn't even stop to think."

"It's okay," Sirius said gruffly. "It's probably better this way."

Remus caught Severus' glance for the first time since the start of the conversation. Their eyes met briefly and an understanding sparked between the two men. Quick as a flash, Severus raised Mary from her seat and strode to the door, her prone form floating before him.

"I'm taking her to the dungeon. I'll find out what type of concealment charm she is using."

"But," Harry told them after the door closed. "If you think about it, it makes sense that Margaret would attack all the avenues--especially with Culpepper on her side and complete access to the Ministry files." He paused briefly. "Gads! I can't believe you said the trial transcript was stolen! It's Macnair--it's that bloody little house elf of his. All the clues point in that direction. God we could use reconnaissance work at the Ministry, the IWPA, over at the Culpepper mansion..."

"We have Cecilia at the IWPA--she's our eyes and ears. Hermione, Arthur and Percy are placing feelers at the Ministry, and Whitney's taking care of his grandfather--which won't really last that long if you think about it, Sirius, considering Margaret's attitude," Remus threw him a worried look. Whitney's expression was guarded as the two men turned to look at him.

"Yeah, but real reconnaissance work..." Harry's eyes shone.

Sirius laughed sharply. "It's delicate, you know that... besides, can you really trust anyone in the Division to go undercover for a project like this? Not everyone's sympathies lie where yours do."

Pondering the question, Harry began to pace the length of the room. "You're right, Sirius, it is delicate. I don't know. I guess not."

Standing, Remus pushed back his chair. The atmosphere of the room was beginning to stifle him. The entire process so far was one step forward, ten steps backwards--and each backwards step caught them falling faster into Margaret and Macnair's lair. A small ball of panic was fast snowballing in the pit of his stomach.

"Albus," Dumbledore looked up. "Do I have your permission to seek out Christian Huber? I would like to speak with him about his uncle."

Dumbledore nodded. "The sixth-years are just finishing Ancient Runes--you should be able to catch him in the south tour in a few minutes."

Remus hastened to the door, and with a vague sort of farewell, slipped away.

**********

A billowy gust of wind ruffled the speckled flight feathers of the tiny owl perched on the window sill. He puffed up his chest in response and pulled his wings closer. Cecilia stroked the gray-blue breast in absentminded affection as she dipped her quill in the ink pot.

"All right, Kavali, all right..." she murmured. She stared tiredly at the empty parchment from the exact position as yesterday--and as the day before, her eyes tracing Rorschach patterns amidst tiny drops of ink. Under normal circumstances, composing a letter directed towards a ward's recently discovered family member required nothing more than filling out the necessary paperwork and getting Margaret's authorization for temporary visitation rights. Kavali the indignant owl was wise--he was trained in the procedure: pick up the signed missive from unknown relative, deliver to Nurse Bracey in Ward 1, await return letter. Currently he paced back and forth across the window sill, his glinting yellow eyes observing the pensive way in which Cecilia dipped and re-dipped her quill. He stood puffy with indignation after spending two full nights in the confines of the building--a jail cell of sorts when just outside, night creatures were beckoning and calling his name.

Cecilia ignored his persistent whoo-whooing and laid the quill down. Occupying the last cradle on the right side of the room was a child she had been so certain would never sleep in that bed again. Her eyes drifted slowly across the room as she mused about the letter that was to be delivered to an ancient relative of muggle blood who most certainly did not believe in magic of any type...or of werewolves for that matter.

Guardianship Request Form

Name: Allister Dougray

Age: 75

Place of Residence: Felixstowe, England

Relationship to Child: Grandfather to Elizabeth Dougray

"Where did Margaret find him?" she asked aloud as a tiny unmoving picture fell from the letter. The colorful snapshot displayed a tall, elegant man wearing an old-fashioned bowler's hat and a three piece pin-striped suit. Twinkling violet eyes surrounded by million of wrinkles hinted at an internal zeal for life. Lips spread in an eager smile drew attention away from the angry scar slashed across his right cheekbone. It was a smile that spoke of warmth, of love, of an infinite type of kindness and affection unique to grandfathers. Cecilia wasn't sure how she managed to surmise all this from a muggle photo, but as she held his image in her hand she began to wish wholeheartedly for a man such as this to be her grandfather. And then she noticed Elizabeth had his eyes.

Coming to her feet, she walked to the sleeping child and stared at her for long moments. Grandfather and granddaughter... violet eyes... family. Until images of a man with golden eyes beaming with complete happiness and another man possessing jet black hair and a smile to charm even the driest of hags flashed in her mind, and her heart cried with pain. She understood what Margaret had instructed--what Margaret would insist on doing even if Cecilia couldn't complete the task--and she wanted to weep. For a moment, she wondered if life would be easier if she were cleverer or braver. She glanced down at her hands. Such simple parts of the bodies--she wriggled her fingers experimentally, noticing as she did how the individual knuckles rippled in unison, a fluid intricate rhythm of sorts. Complexities are easily disguised, she thought. The movement of my hands looks so effortless, yet physiologically there's a scientific reason for everything. Why can't the definition of a family be so simple? Scowling, Cecilia noticed the shabby maintenance of her nails and cuticles and tucked her hands into her pockets.

Elizabeth's little hand clenched the amore ball, her fingers refusing to loosen even in her sleep. Tears no longer rained unchecked from her eyes as they had two days ago when Margaret dropped her unceremoniously into Genevieve's surprised arms. Cecilia's forehead crinkled beneath her wimple as she lovingly stroked the downy cheeks. The Impedimenta Charm was used for daily tasks such as bathing and changing, but just this morning Genevieve fussed that if Elizabeth didn't eat soon she would have to set up a drip. The little girl simply lay in her crib, turning her head away at the slightest contact. Only during the release of sleep did she allow for Cecilia to touch her.

The amore ball glowed red.

Heaving a great sigh, Cecilia returned to her unenviable task. Many days had passed since her discovery of Margaret's Pensieve, and there was still no word from Mr. Lupin or Mr. Black. This in itself worried her, but when Elizabeth suddenly appeared back in Ward 1, her worried turned into alarm. The previous night she had sat up until dawn trying to compose a letter to Charlie Weasley that didn't come across as desperate or needy. That evening words were not her friends.

Charlie's reply lay unanswered on her writing desk. The slightly singed parchment smelled of old flames and charred wood. Charlie had responded in the negative to her request that he come to the IWPA under the pretense of viewing children and posed an equally dreadful alternative. Diagon Alley. A place she had not been for over 23 years. A setting riddled with fragments and ghosts of images--images of a silvery-white face with empty sockets for eyes, a stooped figure shrouded in a cloak of forest green, and two gnarled hands with curled yellow nails that in her nightmares were forever trying to touch her.

Anger boiled in the pit of her stomach, and all of it was directed toward the red-haired man who had first bullied her into staying on at the IWPA and then bullied her into trespassing into Margaret's office. And now he was doing it again. Damn him, she raged unfairly, knowing full well that she had her own cowardice to blame.

Miss Bracey,

I refuse to participate in a charade that can harm innocent children. As a nurse of your caliber, I would have thought that you of all people would be horrified by the idea of creating false hopes in these children. I will however, agree to meet you at Diagon Alley at a mutually convenient time. My hours are irregular, but I can try to rearrange my schedule.

Charlie Weasley

Cecilia wanted nothing more than to crumple the letter and throw it into the fire. Such a pompous letter did not sit well with her, and she played briefly with the idea of skipping the meeting altogether. Except, she realized bleakly, Mr. Lupin, Mr. Black, and Elizabeth would be the unintentional pawns in the game. She scribbled off an angry reply, noting the hour of tomorrow's break, and sent it off with Kavali who hooted in protest at the change in plans.

"No--not Felixstowe, you silly bird, Ottery St. Catchpole. Go!" She pushed open the window, and Kavali flew through with a furious flapping of wings. She watched as the tiny owl became a small gray ball against the moors and then turned into a streak across the sky before dissolving into a dot and disappearing. The gnarled hand flashed across her mind briefly before she shoved her morbid thoughts aside and picked up her quill to begin composing the letter to Mr. Allister Dougray.

Remus walked through the long corridors and managed to get caught on only one moving staircase. It was, however, with a big sigh of relief that he arrived at the south tower, the haven of Ravenclaws. He recalled with vague fondness his own Ancient Runes class--how he was the only one of the four Marauders to sign up for the notoriously challenging course--that is, until he made a snide remark about he being the only possessor of brains in the group. So it was with little surprise that Remus found himself accompanied by his three best friends that early September morning in 1977.

He propped his shoulders against the stone wall and smiled affably at Sir Cadogon. "Back in your usual post, I see?" he teased.

The little knight withdrew his sword and charged to the front of the portrait. "Professor Lupin! Good to see you, sir!" In his excitement the lid of his visor flipped forward concealing his eyes.

Biting back a chuckle in an attempt to keep a straight face, Remus glanced up the staircase. "Have you any idea, Sir Cadogon, when the Ancient Runes class is over?"

"Ten minutes, my good man!" came forth the echoing voice from the confines of the helmet. "I'm off then, Professor Lupin! My damsel awaits me!" And without another word of farewell, the little knight dashed across the green lawn and disappeared from the portrait entirely.

Almost ten minutes to the dot, students began to pour from the tower room. Remus pressed himself against the wall as they rushed past. In the middle of the crush, he made out Christian's dark brown hair. "Mr. Huber!" he called.

Christian paused in the middle of his conversation with a boy with black hair. "Catch you in the common room, Clayton," he said as he weaved his way through the students. Remus watched as the boy named Clayton walked off with two others who patted Christian on the back and wondered briefly if those were the friends Dumbledore spoke of.

"Mr. Lupin," Christian frowned. In the middle of the afternoon, out of his too- short pajamas, Christian looked every inch the aspiring Hogwarts' scholar. He shifted his feet nervously on the floor.

"How do you do, Mr. Huber?" Remus asked as he drew the boy to the side. He realized how nervous Christian seemed and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Do you have a moment when we might speak?"

"I've got a study group right now... but I guess I could miss it." His eyes darted towards the receding figures of his friends and he shifted his pack. "I know of an empty classroom where we can talk."

Suppressing a small smile, Remus followed his lead through the maze of halls and noticed with amused surprise at the ease in which Christian seemed to navigate the passages. And then when they turned up at the entrance to the room the Marauders had discovered and he whispered the password, Remus' suspicions were confirmed. The Marauder legacy lived on.

"Doug found this room in our third year--technically it's off limits, but you know... all the good places get taken." He shrugged.

Ah yes, Remus did know, and it was with vast amusement that he remembered what it really meant when all the good places were taken. As he followed Christian into the abandoned classroom, a quick glance told him all he needed to know. It seemed that over the decades many students had found out about the room if the carvings in the woodwork were any indication.

His eyes went immediately to the upper left hand corner of the first window, and he saw with satisfaction that no one had carved over the initials. The SB and RL were still quite noticeable, and he blushed as he remembered how Sirius had wanted to dig the grooves even deeper and paint them cherry red. How Sirius had teased him for days!! Calling him a scaredy wolf until the younger version of himself had grabbed the knife from his laughing mate and carved the initials--five centimeters deep, mind you. It was with grim satisfaction that he had jumped back to the floor, shook his hair from his eyes, and asked the black haired boy what he thought of that. And how Sirius had laughed... and laughed...until laughter turned to tears and two boys trained to act as men had collapsed on top of each other, neither one noticing or caring the way the tears mixed in with the saliva as they kissed.

Christian had long since taken a seat on one of the cushions littering the floor, and Remus dropped down across from him. "Christian, I want you to tell me about your uncle."