A Season of Change

Chapter 16

And so everyone tried to return to something akin to their normal life. At Hogwarts, Dumbledore resumed his duties as Headmaster and spoke with Hagrid at length about the fir trees for the Christmas celebration next month in the Great Hall. Professor Snape continued in his most suitable manner of mass intimidation and was disappointed to find that the previously enjoyable marking down of the Gryffindor exams at ten points less than the rest of the houses had lost a great deal of its appeal. Professor McGonagall, ever purposeful and strident in her duties, was often to be found sitting at her position at the head table, stroking a small mewling tabby kitten.

Elsewhere, Charlie reported back to Augustine and resumed his post as acting second-in-command to the team supervising the baby Welsh Green. A week later all Dragon Keepers were dispatched post haste to a village in the Ukraine currently besieged by two six ton Ukrainian Ironbelly dragons of a particularly vicious nature and possessing immensely large feet. Whitney's absence was marked by all and commented on by none. But Charlie felt, as he rolled out his sleeping bag and readied himself for his watch, that the Ukrainian witches would hardly have missed him anyway. The Whitney of October was hardly the same cock-sure man as before, and this, Charlie reflected, might possibly be a good thing. No letters were exchanged with a certain brown-haired witch.

The younger generation, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny worked absently and worried terribly. Their supervisors at the Auror Department, Ollivander's, the Ministry, and elementary school respectively noticed these changes, in addition to the abnormally high number of hushed fireplace conversations in which the word "werewolf" was brought up...and yet considering the to-do at Culpepper's department, it was hardly astonishing. More than one customer at Ollivander's took offence to Ron's sudden barrage of questions whenever a snide comment was made about Dark Creatures, and the Headmistress at Ginny's school had to deal with a sudden onslaught of irate parents whose children were coming home with pictures of "friendly werewolves." Hermione continued to blame herself for the loss of the transcript and her inability to quell Macnair's warpath hell bent on revenge; her hair taking the brunt of her frustration. Harry, as was typical of the young man, felt himself to blame for a good deal of Remus and Sirius' difficulties and dispatched several of his closest Auror companions into the field to take up a bit of the reconnaissance work he had spoken of earlier. After all, he noted bitterly, there was nothing to lose as Remus' situation was hardly a secret anymore.

In Yorkshire Wolds, Cecilia returned to the regimented grind at the IWPA and fretted over the clearances for Wednesday night's examination of Margaret's Pensieve. She thrilled at the tiny stain of pink on Elizabeth's cheeks and marveled once again at the powerful influence of family. An unopened letter from Allister Dougray lay on her desk. Only twice a day could Genevieve find her staring out the window at the moors in search of an owl that never came.

Mary and Bridget McAllister were as comfortable as could be expected in their quarters at the school and stayed up until the wee hours contriving a plan complete with visual aids to help "those dear, dear boys." On the eve of Remus and Sirius' departure, they had been properly introduced to Christian Huber and his band of friends, Michael, Doug and Clayton, all of whom had finally learned the truth of his uncle and were staunch supporters of "The Cause" as Remus' case was known throughout the school. Perfectionist Michael who had an aptitude for drawing created buttons that flashed: "Werewolves Are Human Too" and "Families First." About a third of the students sported them on their school robes, wary at first about what the professors would say until McGonagall walked into the Great Hall wearing her own "Families First" badge. After that nearly every student took up "The Cause," and not a day passed without the daily dispatch of irate letters directed towards the Ministry. Soon after, Rita Skeeter headlined the Sunday edition of The Daily Prophet with a banner that read: "Dissension at Wizarding School: Students who put werewolves before humans." That afternoon her office windows were egged, bits of shell clinging to the viscous liquid bearing tiny letters that appeared to spell out "Weasley's Wiz..." And if one were to look quickly enough, they could make out the tiny figure of a little old lady leading the pack of students away from the newspaper office.

And what of the young man representing Mr. Remus J. Lupin, werewolf and illegal father? Ensconced in his old bedroom at the Culpepper mansion, Whitney sat on the floor surrounded by dog-eared stacks of paper, thick leather-bound tomes of mind-numbing legal jargon, a crate of ink bottles and two slender wands. Tucked under a faded quilt was a sleeping girl, the softness of her snores tickling his ears. He couldn't recall her name, Janice or Jeannette or something like that... she had been brought up as a diversion, a means to avoid the mess spread out all around him...and the bleakness of his soul. She had but one purpose to fulfill and that was to make him feel alive again--to help restore the old Whitney to life. A small pile of sickles lay on the bedside table next to a length of shining gold hair. She rolled over and threw an arm above her head, the green wool of her sweater a contrast against the whiteness of the walls. Whitney ran a hand absently across his neck and played with the scratchy stubby hairs. In the end, the only thing that had roused him in the slightest was the snipping of the shears as his ponytail was cut off...not her cheap perfume or the slightly unwashed smell of her.

And in a house surrounded by naked birch trees shivering in the salt wind, two men stood stiffly in the front room, neither of them moving to carry the trunk upstairs. At long last, Sirius bent down to start a fire to remove the chill from the air, and Remus moved off towards the kitchen to scramble up a spot to eat. In silence they went about their work, stopping to thumb absently through a pile of post and compose a list of food items to be picked up from the grocers.

"How do you feel about rice tonight?"

Sirius frowned at a missive from the Auror Division he and Harry reported to. "Come again?" he asked distractedly. Surely this can't be right...I can't be assigned to duty in Venezuela now...

"Rice," Remus called louder from the kitchen. "Let's have curry. I've got potatoes and a bit of pork...what is that, Sirius?" he glanced up as he reached for the sack of potatoes.

"It's...I've...this is a letter from the Division notifying me that departure time for Venezuela is oh-five hundred tomorrow morning." Sirius stared at Remus blankly.

"Talk about timing..." Remus murmured filling a pot with water to boil. "Can you call you advisor and let him know you can't report for duty?"

"Of course...of course... it's just," Sirius folded the letter quickly and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. "Surely they know about the situation...I notified them before Elizabeth and I left for Hogwarts. And Harry--Harry's had to have told them something--anything about all this." He scraped a chair across the floor and straddled the back of it.

"What's on your mind, Sirius?" Remus peeled carrots into the sink.

"What I'm thinking is that this is awfully convenient. It's a ploy to get me out of country, and what I want to know is who the fuck is making these decisions and how the hell they've managed to infiltrate the Division!"

Remus was quiet.

Ranting and raving was something Sirius hadn't indulged in since that damn truce he had made with Whitney. But Whitney was securely tucked away in London, and Sirius needed to find some way of releasing his pent up frustrations. Leaning backwards he lifted the back legs of the chair off the ground and then shifted his weight forward with a resounding thump. He proceeded to do this several times in a row.

Remus' chopping grew louder.

"...and fuck if I'm going to bloody Venezuela..." Thump went the chair. "...bloody asinine Death Eaters... if Macnair wants some heads to roll, I'll serve him up a crate of those nasty, good for nothing, sadistic fuckers and he can practice severing their--"

"Sirius!" Remus turned furiously to his mate, sucking on his index finger. "I've cut myself," he said sharply, "and I'm going upstairs to bandage this--and when I come down I'd had better see you in front of that fireplace," he jabbed his undamaged hand towards the living room, "talking to your advisor because frankly I've had enough!"

"Moony?"

"No!" Remus cried stomping out of the room. "Enough! That's enough! I'm bleeding, I'm tired, I'm hungry--and I don't want to hear another word!" He left the room muttering under his breath. Sirius could make out the faint threads of, "...he talks about severing heads...Merlin..."

Sirius stood and tucked his hands into his back pockets. The water was beginning to boil over the sides of the pot and he wondered vaguely if he should add the potatoes. He glanced at the stairs and then shrugged. Turning down the heat, he grabbed a few large brown potatoes from the sack and threw them into the water, jumping back as a few vicious bumbles hissed at him. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he ambled into the living room and took out the letter.

Not showing up for Auror dispatch was immediate grounds for dismissal, and he was well aware that there was very little aside from one's own death that could serve as a viable excuse. He had been granted an extension away from duty for Elizabeth's adoption with the understanding that as soon as the missive for the Venezuela mission was dispatched he would report to his advisor immediately. With a scowl, Sirius threw a handful of powder into the flames and barked Harry's name.

Within seconds Harry's face appeared in the fire, his eyes suspiciously guilty. "Sirius?" he asked mildly.

"Harry," Sirius growled, "what do you know about Venezuela?"

"Venezuela?" Harry stared at him with a look of surprise as if this was the last thing he expected Sirius to ask. "I've not really been briefed on it." Sirius was pretty confident that Harry was shrugging. "The Croatian mess isn't cleared up yet--I report back to the Continent tomorrow."

Sirius' brow furrowed. "Well, I've been assigned to Venezuela. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Harry looked at him blankly. "What do you mean 'tomorrow'? Igby's headed up the team ages ago and took everyone that was selected three weeks past. They've nearly finished from what I've heard. Doesn't make sense that they'd send you now."

"Well that's what the letter says. Oh-five hundred. Tomorrow. Venezuela."

"Have you had a chance to talk with Bergman yet? He's back in London, but he didn't say anything about you coming back to duty. Fact is I've been under the impression that no one expects you back until this...well until the trial's over." Harry's eyes were somber.

Sighing, Sirius smoothed the letter and read aloud.

"And Bergman signed this?" Harry inquired when Sirius had finished.

Sirius nodded. "What more, he's re-stipulated the terms of my contract with the Division and the repercussions for not showing up."

"D'you... should I make some inquiries?" Harry offered hesitantly.

"No..." Sirius said slowly. "There's something off, and I don't trust anyone just yet. It makes it sound as if the Venezuela mission is just beginning--like the operation has barely got off the ground. But if you're saying that Igby's team's been there for weeks..."

"...then maybe you'd better take care," Harry finished quietly. "Sirius, where did they say to meet again?"

"The Division. Base 1."

"But we never apparate from the Division, you know that. It's traceable that way," Harry's voice rose. "Sirius, there's something wrong about that letter. You'd better contact Bergman straight away."

"Yes...well," Sirius folded the letter and tucked it back into his pocket. "Either way I'm not going."

"No... I didn't think you would be," he paused. "But Sirius, this is serious--someone's setting you up, and I don't think it takes a fucking genius to guess who."

"Mmm...Harry, look, I've got to go. I just wanted to confer, and I've..."

"Sirius? Sirius!" Harry's voice was sharp. "Promise me you'll not go tomorrow unless you talk to Bergman. Promise!"

Sirius nodded quickly and cut off the call. A million thoughts began to race about his head. Sabotage was the first thing that came to mind, and frankly, Sirius was exhausted at being set up. He had taken the blame too many times, falling prey to people he had known only to trust. And now Bergman... There had never been anything untrustworthy about his advisor--in fact Bergman had been the epitome of graciousness when the Ministry had granted he and Remus permission to adopt a child, offering a leave of absence, promising a job upon his return... Something smacked of deviousness; he shivered.

"Damn, the potatoes..." he rushed into the kitchen at the sound of water hissing in the flames.

**********

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

Hermione skimmed through a thick stack of documents on her desk. "What is it, Morgan?" She beckoned her into the room. "Have you located the apparating treatise for Japan?"

A young woman stepped into the office, her eyes barely visible atop a tall stack of books. "Got it right here...and the ones from north east Russia, too."

"Good," Hermione said approvingly. "Just set them on the couch. Oh, and Morgan?"

Morgan turned from the door, rubbing her sore arms. Hermione looked up over her recently acquired reading spectacles. "I'd like for you to request my tea be brought up by certain house elf by the name of Toopy."

"Toopy," Morgan repeated. "And will I know where--"

"The House Elf division knows who he is. If they need reminding tell them he's the one that was missing."

"But, ma'am, if he's missing..."

Hermione fixed a firm stare on Morgan. "Morgan," she said slowly, "Toopy was Alonzo Fitzherbert's personal house elf, employed by the Ministry in Culpepper's department after Fitzherbert's death." Dawning recognition flittered across Morgan's face. "Fitzherbert was the prosecutor for the Bristol Werewolf case. Need I continue...?" Morgan shook her head. "All right then," Hermione bent back to her task. "See that he brings my tea...and thank you," she added already engrossed in her work.

Morgan walked slowly to the door. "But, ma'am... how do you know that he's returned?"

Smiling grimly, Hermione struck a line with flourish clear across the page of the document she was reading. "Rubbish," she muttered. "He's returned because he's been released." She fiddled with the nib of her quill. "Toopy's been employed as of late at the Culpepper mansion. Howard Whitney, Culpepper's grandson, discovered him the other day bringing his grandfather breakfast." Morgan's mouth dropped open. "Whitney had him re-instated at the Ministry."

"I see." Morgan still looked puzzled and opened her mouth to ask another question but was interrupted by a knock on the door. "I'll bring up the apparating treatise for the Marshall Islands in a bit, ma'am," she said loudly as she opened the door. "Sir," she bowed her head politely.

Hermione sighed. So many disruptions... "Harry!" she said with surprise as her chum passed through the doorway and perched himself on the edge of her desk.

"'Lo, Hermione," he said with a tired smile.

"Tell me," she answered firmly, noting the shadows under his eyes and the recently acquired hollows in his cheeks. She had always prided herself in being able to read Harry as simply as if she were analyzing herself, a trait that at one time had irked Ron, but lately a new type of mask had fallen over him, secreting his thoughts further inside than ever. This gaunt appearance of his could only mean one of two things now that Voldemort was gone--either something was wrong with his relationship with Ginny or things were going terribly bad for Remus and Sirius.

"Hermione, d'you hear from Cecilia?"

She shook her head. "No...but should I have?"

Harry yawned. "When's the last time you slept, Harry?" she scolded him.

"I don't know...yesterday...day before...I've got to return to Croatia tomorrow morning."

"Oh Harry," she said softly. "But you've just returned... does Ginny know?" He shook his head. "Harry..." she argued. "You know what she'll say..."

He straightened and picked up a small glass ball barely larger than a Snitch. It reminded him of a monstrously-sized cat's eye and he rolled it about in his hand. "Cecilia's located Margaret's Pensieve. She's securing clearance for you, Remus, Sirius and Whitney for Wednesday."

"Margaret's got a Pensieve?" Hermione looked at him in disbelief. "Why haven't I been told?"

Harry smiled at her dryly. "I think I'm telling you now."

She waved him off impatiently. "Today's Friday...that gives us five days to learn how to operate and read it...somewhere I think I remember seeing something about recording devices that function something like a Muggle camcorder...and..." she started yanking open drawers. Harry watched her in amusement.

"Er...Hermione?"

"Wait...wait...something's here..." she tapped at her forehead, muttering a string of words that Harry couldn't quite make out.

"Hermione," he shouted.

"What?" She looked at him, startled. "Harry this is extremely important! You should have told me the minute you knew--think of all the time we've wasted!"

"If you'd listen to me and shut up for a minute, you'd find all your answers pretty fast."

She narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about, Harry?"

He smiled knowingly. "You've forgotten it seems."

Blowing out an exasperated breath she regarded Harry sagely. "I don't forget...I simply...misplace my memories."

"Misplace, forget, whatever," Harry laughed. "Hermione, I know how to operate a Pensieve. It's simple."

"You!" She stared hard at him. "Who's Pensieve?"

"Dumbledore's. 'Member? The Twi-Wizard Tournament... Barty Crouch, Jr."

"Ah... yes. I'd for...well, that slipped my mind." She sat back down and glanced at the mess of her papers Harry's bum was making. "Harry..." she glanced down pointedly. "Do you mind?" Together they walked over to her couch, removed the pile of apparating treatises and sat down. "Tell me how it works."

"It's quite simple actually," Harry began. "It starts out looking like a basin of swirling gasses, I s'pose...kinda like if light were made liquid and you just want to grab hold of it...grip it and kinda squeeze it like." Hermione nodded, not quite sure what Harry meant, but certain that there was a book somewhere that could explain it with a bit more theory. But for the time, she merely smiled encouragingly. "But," he continued. "I didn't know what I was looking at, you know, and knowing me," he gave her a boyish grin, "I had to figure it out, so I poked at it with my wand." Hermione gasped. Did Harry not know what kinds of things happened to Wizards when they put their wands into foreign places? She rolled her eyes. "Then things kind of shifted--first everything swirled very, very fast and then nothing. It was like looking into a basin of glass. Perfectly clear and absolutely still." He paused.

"And?" she prodded.

A faraway look came into Harry's eyes. "...and there at the bottom of the basin was a room--it was like looking into something through a secret window at the very top. At first I could only see what was directly in my line of vision, rows and rows of witches and wizards sitting around this one chair in the center of the room. But I was curious to see what else was in the room, what the circular window was blocking, so I leaned in closer...and that's when my nose touched the surface and I was yanked into the scene."

Hermione gasped. "Like a portkey? You fell into the room?"

"Something like," Harry shrugged. "That's the key, I think--touching the surface with part of your body and then you can actually get into the memory."

"But how did you--why that memory?"

"I don't really know. All I know is that they can't see you or hear you, but you can hear and see everything. Like a silent witness. But the scenes shift, ya' know. Because people don't think linearly--thoughts are broken up."

"Fragments, yes," Hermione nodded.

"You can see and hear things without transporting yourself into the actual memory. In fact, I don't think it would be wise for all of you to go in all at once because the key to getting out of the memory is having someone on the outside of the Pensieve pull you out...and I don't know if it has to be the owner or who. Dumbledore pulled me out the last time."

"It was Crouch's son's trial, wasn't it?" Hermione said in a slightly choked voice. "The memory you fell into." Harry bowed his head. "You told us there was a chair...with chains..." she swallowed hard against the lump that persisted in wedging in her throat. "You're thinking about Remus now, aren't you?"

"Hermione...if you could've heard the jeers...the way they all just laughed. And then Dementors just kinda glided in, and I could feel them..." She placed a hand on his arm. "I know they're not going to have Remus Kissed, but all the same. It's no place for an innocent man, and god, hasn't he been through enough?" Harry dragged his hands through his wild hair. Hermione shifted uncomfortably.

"But Harry," she tried to reassure him, "we've all been working tirelessly on Remus' case--we'll win, we've just got to." Her voice was steady.

They fell silent for a long moment. Both unsure about the validity behind her words. In principle the words were the catalyst that kept them fighting day in and day out--the same motivating force against injustice that prevailed in the long run against Voldemort. But with this new blackness settling down amongst the wizarding population, amidst this resurgence of unmitigated hatred there was a new element to the idea of light overcoming dark...an aspect which bespoke of the fear that no matter how many efforts made to the contrary, a new type of evil would always rear its dreadful head and try to swallow whole the goodness of humankind.

Hermione played with the cuff of her robe. "Harry."

"Yeah, I know. Sometimes Dumbledore would kinda shake the Pensieve. Sort of hold it by the edges and swirl the liquid about and different memories would appear and talk to him. Snape was there...and that Bertha Jorkins woman." Harry turned to stare at Hermione. "He's amazing, you know."

"Yeah, I know..." She leaned back against the couch. "I suppose we could use one of those recording quills Ginny gave Sirius. Harry, what do you think would happen if one of us were to get stuck in her Pensieve?"

Harry looked at her with alarm. "Hermione," he warned.

"I know, I know...but think of how much could be accomplished if say, one of us were to go inside and just stay there awhile. One of us could go through years of her memories in the time it would take all of us standing around just staring at a few images. It doesn't seem as if time is linear inside the Pensieve, so in reality maybe we'd only be gone a few minutes while zooming through hours of time."

"No," Harry said firmly. "It's dangerous, even Dumbledore knew to pull me out when he did."

"Or maybe he knew when to pull you out, Harry, because of what he was afraid you would see," Hermione retorted. "You're hardly an expert at all Pensieves just because you've been inside one." She ignored the expression of hurt on his face. "I'm sure there's plenty involved in breaking into a Pensieve."

"Talk to Dumbledore at least. He'd know how these things work better than anyone. You can't just go off and put yourself into danger without thinking of the consequences!"

"Like you," Hermione returned archly.

"It's different," Harry argued staunchly. "Besides, you know Remus and Sirius wouldn't go for this plan of yours. Remus would rather die before harming any of us."

"All right," she conceded. "I promise to talk to Dumbledore about this--but I'll have you know, I'm going to figure out a way to maximize the time we have with Margaret's Pensieve."

"I'm not expecting anything less from you, really," he replied caustically.

"But just the same, Harry, I'm not letting you think--" a soft knock at the door interrupted Hermione's lecture, and she threw Harry a look that clearly read, "This isn't over yet," before calling out, "Enter."

A tiny demure little figure, years younger in appearance than Dobby if that was all at possible considering the amount of wrinkles on his face, peeked inside, a heavy tray in his hands.

"Over on the table will be fine, please," Hermione instructed. "...Toopy."

"Excuse me, miss?" the elf squeaked, his round eyes growing even rounder. The plates on the tray clattered.

"Your name is Toopy, am I right?" Hermione asked kindly reaching into her pocket.

"I is not sure what you is meaning, miss," Toopy stammered watching fearfully as Hermione carefully matched up the piece of fabric left in her drawer to the torn edges of his garment. "Please, miss... please...Toopy is sorry, miss...Toopy is only following Master's instructions!" he wailed pitifully.

"Hermione," Harry whispered, cringing at the huge tears rolling down the ugly little creature's wizened face.

"Toopy, here, take this." She handed him a tissue from her robe. "Dry your eyes, Toopy, you're not in trouble." Hermione wondered how best to handle this wailing creature that had proceeded to blow his rather large nose almost clear through the tissue.

"Toopy is knowing nothing, miss...nothing!"

Hermione knelt down in front of the elf and fixed him with a firm stare. "Toopy," she began, "I know you took the transcript from my desk. Your old Master's transcripts." Toopy began to shake. "Not your new Master, not Master Culpepper--"

"Master Culpepper will beat Toopy, miss, he will... he will."

Harry squirmed on the couch. "Hermione..."

She raised a hand to silence him. "Your old Master, Master Fitzherbert. The Master to whom this transcript really belonged to." Toopy raised his knobby fingers to his face and began to sob. "Toopy, Toopy listen to me...please. I promise, here look," Hermione took her wand out of her pocket and placed it on the floor between them. "I'm not armed. I won't hurt you. Toopy...please stop crying...my friend needs your help. I am asking for your help."

Muffled cries filtered through the entwined fingers. "No one is ever asking Toopy for help. Everyone is always telling Toopy what to do." Sob. "Toopy is sorry, miss...but the transcript is gone. Master is burning it."

"Burned it?" Hermione said blankly. "Sweet Merlin...no." Toopy began to wail anew. "No, no," she rushed to say. "Toopy, listen to me, this is important. What do you remember from when you served Master Fitzherbert? Do you recall what happened during the trial?"

Tears trickled down his cheeks in little rivulets. "New Master is bad...bad...he will punish..."

"No, no he won't. I promise you, he won't hurt you."

"Not Master hurt Toopy! New Master kills Master! Master is dead...Master is dead..." The little elf curled his arms tight around his chest and began to rock.

With a rush of sympathy, Hermione reached out and gently placed two fingers on his bony shoulder. "Okay, Toopy...that'll do...thank you." She sighed tiredly and gently skimmed her fingers along the dry brownish grey skin.

Through his sobs, Toopy stared at Hermione and began to speak in a hollow, creaky voice: "Master is pacing...Master is so tired, so tired...no sleep but Toopy is knowing that Master is worried."

"And why is Master Fitzherbert worried?" Hermione prodded.

"Toopy is seeing things...dreadful things...Toopy is hiding in dark corner in Master's study. Master is arguing with New Master...yelling...screaming...Master is saying he is wanting out...he is not wanting to lie anymore...he is wanting to say the truth!" The little elf was quickly growing animated. No longer were tears flowing down his cheeks. A passionate flame flickered in his round blue-veined eyes. "But Master is weak...New Master is cruel...so cruel," he snarled. "New Master is raising his wand and is pointing at Master and screaming and screaming and screaming!" The elf's howls shrieked towards the ceiling. "New Master is screaming 'Cruciatus'!"

Hermione gasped and met Harry's eyes frantically.

"Master... oh Master...Toopy is scared...Toopy is trying to help Master but New Master is strong...too strong...and Toopy is weak...Toopy is not worthy," he choked on a sob. "New Master is laughing now and says, 'No one will know the truth now, werewolf lover.'"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione choked.

Toopy wrung his hands. "Master is dying...Master is asking for Toopy...Master is looking for Toopy and I is running to him...to do anything for Master. New Master is leaving but I is fast...so fast...I is getting to Master and he is whispering to Toopy, 'The drugs...see to the drugs, Toopy. The wine...' and then he is silent. And," he was crying in earnest now. "New Master is coming back and killing Master...killing him...and Toopy is taken away. Toopy belongs to new Master now..."

Hermione struggled not to cry. She knew her face was probably as ashen as Harry's. She handed a wad of fresh tissues to the elf. "Toopy...I want you to know how very grateful I am to you--you must know that I'll do anything to help you. Anything at all."

"Miss is brave. Miss is deserving the truth to help miss's werewolf friend."

"Why Toopy!" Hermione exclaimed with astonishment. "What do you know about him?"

"Toopy is knowing everything, miss," he said archly. "Toopy is knowing that miss's werewolf friend is a daddy and that the New Master is trying to kill him."

"Yes," said Hermione carefully. "But Toopy, you can't say anything about our talk. You know you'd get into trouble don't you?"

"Oh yes, yes, miss! Toopy is quiet. Toopy is not to say anything...anything to nobody." He bobbed up and down nervously.

Hermione nodded. "Perhaps you should return to your duties," she said kindly. The little elf walked dejectedly towards the door. "And Toopy," she called after him. "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart. I'll find you if I need to ask you anything else." The little elf bowed respectfully and then dashed from the room.

She turned Harry and knew that the expression of disbelief in his eyes was mirrored in her own. "What do you suppose..." he began just as she said, "I thought that Culpepper might have killed Fitzherbert."

Shrugging, she proceeded to pour two cups of steaming tea, deftly stirring in the cream and sugar just the way Harry liked it. Sitting across from him, steam clouding his glasses, she pondered over the details of the strange conversation.

Finally with an air of resignation, she said, "I'm guessing the transcript's lost for good then. Damn..." Harry cocked a brow at her. "Yeah, yeah..." she muttered. "But what did he mean about the drugs? 'See to the drugs...the wine'? Some type of poison, do you think? Perhaps Culpepper poisoned Fitzherbert before attacking him with the Cruciatus?"

"I don't know...but there's something bloody fishy about Culpepper murdering Fitzherbert. And you heard Toopy. Culpepper called him a 'werewolf lover.' The prosecutor--the one who was responsible for making sure the jury decided to execute Dietmar Huber. You could almost ask what Culpepper was trying to hide."

**********

Five house elves banded together in a tight group, their bony arms clutching at each other with terrifyingly strong grips as they set out to investigate the smell of smoke that had crept down into the kitchen. Working as one unit they shuffled across the oak floor and into the grand foyer.

The sight that met their eyes nearly petrified them.

In the center of the dancing inferno was the portrait of a man emblazoned in the light of a million tongues of flames, licking, snapping, hissing... Curls of smoke twirled with serpentine-like grace across crimson lined black velvet robes, almost as if the fire itself was afraid to touch one of the devil's own.

Those were the serpent eyes... emerald jade...cut glass orbs of crystalline brilliancy that began to melt as the oil paints long ago set to canvass succumbed to the heat...never to intimidate again. Charles Culpepper's reign of terror was over.

The door to the front of the Culpepper mansion slammed shut. A young man with short blonde hair tousled at the edges strolled down the stone path, kicking leaves about carelessly. In his hands, twirling like twin batons, were the wands, still warm from the fire.

A resounding cheer broke free from the mouths of elves.

**********

Remus folded the last of his shirts and put them into the dresser. Shrugging out of his robes, he slid into a pair of worn jeans and a light gray pullover. He was aware of the fact that the curry wouldn't cook itself--and as Sirius was quite inept in the kitchen there was hardly any assurance that either of them would be eating tonight if he didn't leave the room. With a resigned sigh, he checked to make certain that his bandage was secure and headed down the stairs, intrigued by the noise coming from the kitchen.

"Sirius," he passed through the door way and stopped. With that ridiculous flower apron tied about his waist, Sirius was the paragon of a fifties housewife gone to seed. Remus walked over to the stove and peered down into the pot which, thankfully, had been turned off.

"Sirius...why is the water brown?"

Sirius shot him a glance and continued with his chopping--mutilation more likely, Remus smiled. "I think it's just...gravy...Moony. Hey, do you reckon that when the potato crumbles under the knife it's done enough?"

Remus reached into the sack of potatoes and observed at the soil covered object in his palm. He cleared his throat. "Dirt, my dear Padfoot." His lips twitched. "Did you think to scrub them perhaps?"

"Scrub what, eh?" Sirius hacked away at a particularly large spud. Soon a pile resembling potatoes caught in the path of a machete covered the end of the cutting board. Wiping his brow, he reached for another potato.

Laying his hands over Sirius', Remus leaned forward and rested his chest against his mate's back and his chin on his shoulder. With slow even rocking motions he guided the knife along the surface of the cutting board and deftly sliced the potato into perfect sections. Slim fingers scooped up the mealy flesh and tossed the bits into the pot. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled.

"Just like this," he instructed softly, picking up a new potato. "Visualize a rocking chair, Sirius...the way the bowed legs sway forward...then back...the momentum and weight of the object forcing the equilibrium back...and forth... that's right...perfect."

"Well bloody hell," Sirius exclaimed with pleasure after a moment, surveying his small pile of slightly misshapen potatoes. Remus laughed and kissed the side of his neck, his lips lingering for a brief moment.

"Shall I see to the rest of the dinner?" Remus inquired with a straight face. Pork, celery, carrots, onions and curry powder were placed on the counter next to the stove. As with most of the things he did in life, Remus took particular pleasure in the steadiness and reliability of patterns. There was a formula to cooking, a logic that at the same time lent itself to creativity and imagination. With the swift sure movement of an artist's touch, Remus created neat little piles of vegetables. He circled olive oil into the hot pan and waited for it to sizzle before dropping in handfuls of fragrant, spicy onion.

Behind him, Sirius uncorked a bottle of red wine.

A long handled brown wooden spoon stirred the onions about until a glossy sheen resulting from the sweat of the liquid formed on the surface. Remus threw in for good measure a few extra handfuls of pork before adding the rest of the vegetables to the pot. A few neat splashes of water and a liberal scoop of powder, and he turned about and appraised Sirius silently. Sirius who stood leaning against the side of the kitchen table, sipping from a wine glass, the ridiculous apron tossed carelessly over the back of his chair.

"It's good to be home." He took another sip of the wine.

Remus took the proffered glass and raised it slightly in a silent toast before lifting it to his own lips. "I'll drink to that," he murmured. One of his favorite things to do was watch the play of emotions dance across Sirius face. If there was one thing he could be truthfully honest about, it would be his own jealousy at the ease at which Sirius gave into the sentiment of the moment--be it the maddened anger aimed at a usually deserving individual, the staunch resolve when one of his own was injured, the brilliant way he smiled at a object or person or saying that he thought beautiful, the all consuming display of ecstasy during a moment of impassioned lovemaking... Even when Sirius was confused, dismayed, or simply unsure of himself he had difficulty hiding it. He was not, Remus reflected, graced with the power of lowering and raising the mask of polite nonchalant indifference that had become his own shield.

And he loved him for it. Loved the brashness that encompassed the way his mate moved through life--as if by accepting the mundane and doing nothing to change it, he, too, would become something of an enigma, a person of little consequence and of no regard. And to Sirius Black, man extraordinaire, person of a great deal of importance (at least in his own opinion), he could think of nothing less appealing than hiding behind a façade not of his own volition.

It wasn't this simple for Remus--Remus, who despite his lycanthropy, was by nature a more reserved individual, prone to great lapses of personal reflection in which outward displays of sentiment were displayed only after a great deal of contemplation. Perhaps this is why, Remus reasoned swirling about the liquid that shone purple crimson in his glass, we work so well together. The rational element of his brain suggested at times that perhaps he might have been better off had he found a mate as equally devoted to the passions of literature, music, cooking and philosophical ruminations as he.

A partner who, when strolling through a glade of sun-kissed amber stalks of foliage at Bosworth Field would agree with him that yes, perhaps this was the spot where King Richard knelt praying for guidance before the battle that would change the course of English history; and what do you wonder was going through his head at that epic moment when he could probably feel the thunder of Henry Tudor's troops roaring over the hill in a bid to claim the crown? To be conquered or be conquered...and Remus would ask in turn in a dreamy voice, "Do you ever think the human mind is equipped to deal with the inevitability of death when faced with one's own mortality?" Instead, he strolled side by side with a man who drank in all the beauty about him with the whole-hearted impatience of a child and exclaimed, "I could build a ramp right alongside that glade of trees, Moony, and launch the motorbike off this jump I've been designing...here, let me explain the physics of it to you..." And Richard would disappear with a poof of vapor as oil cans and ignitions dominated the conversation.

But anyone else wouldn't have been Sirius. This mystical person would never be found squatting in the shed behind the house up to his elbows in dirt and grime, grinning foolishly at the purr of a piece of machinery. There would be no forced sojourns on broom sticks, cutting through tree tops at ridiculously dangerous paces, afraid for one's life. This someone with his identically matched reading specs would never think to distract a lover buried a bit too long in a thick dusty tome with an impromptu rendition of Abba's "Dancing Queen."

Ah yes...indeed there was no one else in the world that completed him so wholly, someone who made him actually want to discover the things in life that frightened him or were of little personal interest. And the true beauty of it all was that there was really nothing rational about love anyway.

Remus glanced down into his glass and watched as the lights from the kitchen were reflected on its crimson surface. The bubbling from the pot reminded him of his own hunger and he moved to begin cooking the rice. The sound of rattling flatware and of plates proved that Sirius was setting the table, and for a while longer, Remus basked in the silence of the familiar territory called home.

As they sat across from each other, each blowing at turns at the steaming food which was still too hot to eat, Sirius fiddled with his fork, his unease transparent. "Moony, I've spoken with Harry."

"Hmmm?"

"...and it's a fake. This letter from Bergman--we don't think it genuine. There's inconsistencies that worry us...for instance, it instructs me to apparate from a spot Aurors never travel from. And the way the mission is worded it sounds as if it's only just begun and my help is needed immediately, when according to Harry, Igby's been making the rounds down there and is nearly done with the lot." He passed the letter across the table.

Remus opened it and scanned the contents. "You know there's something awash here? Or is it just speculation?"

Sirius slumped in his chair. "Gah...I don't know, Moony. Harry offered to put out feelers--" at this Remus looked up at him, "but...but I told him not to. Who knows who's managed to infiltrate the Division. According to my understanding of the way the chain of command works, there would be no way to forge a directive, but clearly something's at work here...and...well truthfully I don't want to open up another can of worms." His eyes searched Remus' face. "We've got enough to deal with, and I'm stretched...stretched to my limits, Moony. I can't take another inquisition on top of this one, and that's what it would be if I challenged this."

"There's something else, isn't there?" Remus noted.

"Honestly?" Remus quirked a brow at him. "Yeah...it's just not important to me anymore," Sirius answered with a note of resignation in his voice. He stirred about his food restlessly. "What's the point, Remus? Fighting off insurrections? It's ridiculous to search out these battles--they're everywhere. It's human nature. We're not going to live in harmony and that's that. I'm exhausted by it; someone else can take up my spot. I'm tired of the hatred and this mad compulsive need for absolute power that seems to drive these people." He reached across the table and gripped Remus' hand tightly. "I've got too much to lose right here. You, Elizabeth, my family...my heart. I'll fight for you. I'll fight to save what's important."

Remus didn't know what to say. His stomach quaked in that odd unsettled way it always did when faced with the responsibility of choosing one thing over another, and he found he had to take several deep breaths before he was able to breathe without difficulty again.

"...all this time since my release...since I was pardoned...I've been trying to forgive myself. And I have, I have...but I've been driven to go beyond that, to search out ways to find retribution, and maybe, I think this work with the Division, this quelling of Death Eaters gave me strength. But I don't need that kind of security. It's not real. This," he shook Remus' hand. "This is real." He pointed towards one of Elizabeth's bottles hanging upside down in the dish rack. "That's real. All of this--but not the fighting. Not that...not anymore... Am I being unreasonable?" Real fear slashed across his haggard face.

Sitting across from the man who had caught up his hand within fingers capable of squeezing the life out of someone, Remus let his heart open and damned all the consequences, which was the way of love.

Slowly disentangling his fingers from Sirius', Remus left his chair and walked around the table. He stood in front of Sirius and sighed as he felt the other man press his face against his chest. There were no words to be said that could replace the transmittal of love, real love, read through the simplicity of touch. And so he wrapped his arms around Sirius and just held him.

**********

That evening Cecilia walked into Ward 1 carrying a fresh pile of towels. As she passed by her desk she noted with surprise that the letter from Allister Dougray had been moved. Frowning, she set down the towels and picked it up. The seal of the Muggle envelope had been neatly sliced open, almost as if the reader hadn't wanted her to be aware that it had been tampered with.

Impatiently, she pulled out the letter. My dear Miss Bracey, it read. I am writing in the hopes that perhaps I can explain a part of myself, of my life to you, in the hopes that you don't think I am a man of little conscience...

I sensed a reticence in your reply to my announcement that Elizabeth Dougray is indeed my granddaughter, the only child of my daughter, Julia, with whom I have been estranged these past twenty-five years. Until Margaret Lancaster approached me at my office I had no idea my daughter had even been with child. I take full responsibility for the rift between Julia and me; for you see ten years ago in a moment I shall regret for the rest of my life, I caused the death of her mother. Alexandra and I were returning home from a social engagement in which I had imbibed a bit too freely, thus losing control of the vehicle I was driving. Alexandra died instantly at a fault entirely my own, and Julia has never been able to forgive me. She blames me, and rightly so, for the way in which I destroyed her life. Her mother was dead, I was sent away, and she became a ward. She was only eight years old. Her entire family was torn apart--destroyed irrevocably. When I was released five years later she was gone. I had never been able to locate her until recently when Margaret Lancaster, bless her heart, found her for me. You can imagine my sorrow when I discovered that Julia has been working as a prostitute since she was fifteen. Elizabeth was the result of an affair she had with a man she had deceived herself into believing loved her. But Julia is home now and that's what is important. She claims to hate me still, but I can see past that, and what I see is a scared girl who desperately wants a second chance at life. Like what I've been granted. A chance at love. I haven't had a drink in twenty-five years and would do anything to change the past, but I can't. What matters to me now are my family and Elizabeth. Please, Miss Bracey, I am only asking for a chance to see my granddaughter--a chance to get to know her and to love her. Please allow me this chance. Yours truly, Allister Dougray.

Cecilia folded the letter and sat in the falling darkness. The irony of the situation was not lost on her--she who had no memories of a mother or a father was responsible for the elevating and dashing of the hopes and heart wishes of three men identical in their desire for a family. The implicit weight of her impending decision was crushing her. How to breathe in a situation like this...the very essence of staying afloat seemed foreign and somewhat ridiculous. Her only hope was for something outside of her control to make the choice for her.

She hoisted herself from her chair and walked the line of cribs checking to make sure the children were all right. All right... she laughed hollowly. Baby Hugh sat playing with a set of blocks in his crib. The baby with the aquamarine eyes and the golden curls batted away at the mobile twirling above and around her head. And Elizabeth...the little girl lay on her back listlessly picking at railing of her crib. All the toys Genevieve and Cecilia had placed about her were ignored. But at least she was alert. That was a positive sign. She passed her hand across Elizabeth's downy cheek and moved on.

The door to the ward opened and in walked Genevieve, a tray in her hands. She smiled as she passed Cecilia, asking over her shoulder if she were hungry.

"A bit...Genevieve..." the other girl turned slightly at the note of hesitancy in Cecilia's voice. "Did you happen to open my letter?"

Looking a bit put out Genevieve stirred milk into her tea. "What letter?" she asked cautiously.

"This one. From Allister Dougray--Elizabeth's biological grandfather." Cecilia waved the envelope. "I found it opened on my desk."

"Nooo...I didn't open your letter."

With a small barely audible sigh, Cecilia handed her the letter. Perhaps she had opened it herself and then put it down on the desk unread. Anything's possible, she thought tiredly.

"...what are you going to do about him?"

She looked up, startled, and realized that Genevieve had been speaking to her. "Dougray?" she asked, confused. Genevieve nodded. "I...I dunno. Don't really want to do anything about him. I just wish he'd go away. Elizabeth's mother is a prostitute--was I suppose if you want to believe Dougray. Supposedly he's trying to reform her--have a second chance at being a proper father. But don't you think that love--that a bond--counts for something? What about Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black, huh? You saw the way they connected with her. What's going to happen to Elizabeth's parents if they go through all of this and then...nothing?" She stirred her tea dejectedly, her appetite done for. "It's just so bloody unfair. They've been waiting for this chance forever and she, this prostitute, threw her baby away. She didn't even want her!"

"These things are always complicated," said Genevieve, "but let's not loose hope. Not just yet."

Cecilia took back the letter and crumpled it into a ball. She tossed it into the waste bin. "It's not going to happen. Elizabeth is their daughter. Nothing will convince me otherwise," she said firmly. "I'll keep him away somehow...he doesn't even believe in magic, why d'you think he'd believe in werewolves? We'll look crazy to him." Her tongue went out and passed over her lips, and when she next spoke the urgency in her voice made her loud: "I want to perform a memory charm on him. He'll never remember any of this. Elizabeth will be safe then."

"No. You can't. Miss Lancaster would kill you." Genevieve's cup rattled against the saucer.

"But to give her back...to break their hearts?"

She shook her head firmly. "Cecilia, listen to me. There's a lot of politics involved here--you understand this. It's not a custody case. Dougray is a pawn in this exploit just as Elizabeth's adoptive parents are. Erasing Dougray's memory won't solve anything. Miss Lancaster will only pull another trick out of her sleeve. Think of her influences already--what makes you think she'll ever allow Elizabeth to return to Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black? As long as she's in charge it will never happen."

"I don't care," was Cecilia's immediate response. "He's just an added complication to an already incredible mess, and I don't know what to do!"

"I see..." Genevieve examined her closely. "That's it then...you're feeling responsible. Cecilia," she reached out and touched the other girl's shoulder. "Please... think. You've got to handle this one thing at a time. And you need to eat something. Here," she handed her a plate containing toast and marmalade. "Eat."

Wordlessly Cecilia took the food. It tasted like cardboard. "What's the point?"

"Hmmm?" Genevieve looked at her, clearly hesitant. Cecilia could tell what she was thinking: she's finally gone mental.

"This," she gestured her arms about the room. "We're here, stuck here actually, working day in and out with little reward, playing god in childless couples' lives and I hate it. I'm expected to be able to identify the person who I think will make a proper parent but I...I've...never even had a mother--" her voice wavered. "Why am I able to hand out families to everyone but...me..." and with that she buried her face in her hands and began to cry. Her heart sobbed for Elizabeth and Remus and Sirius and Allister Dougray; and it wept for the child trapped inside of her own soul who had never been loved.

**********

Wednesday, November 2, dawned clear and bright--a refreshing change from the relentless pounding of rain Mother Nature had delivered on England for the past week. Remus rolled to his side, wide awake and decidedly restless. Next to him Sirius continued to snore, an arm thrown above his head locked in a struggle with the bed post. He hated to wake him--they had been up until two in the morning the previous night talking with Whitney--and until that moment, scholar that he was, Remus had had absolutely no idea how complex the legal system truly was. His very head ached from the way Whitney grilled him relentlessly--first pretending to be the prosecutor, then switching sides and acting as the defense.

They were at three weeks and two days before trial. The countdown had started. Ignoring these decidedly unpleasant thoughts, he snuggled into the warmth of Sirius' back and stretched his legs along side his. With his head he buried his nose in the veil of Sirius's hair and let the strands slide against his cheeks. It had been quite some time since Sirius had last cut his hair, and Remus loved the way the longer locks curled slightly at the ends lending an almost boyish quality to his appearance.

He shifted positions slightly and draped a leg over Sirius' thighs and claimed a share of his mate's pillow. The ceiling became the object of his reflection as he waited patiently for Sirius to awaken. Over the past few days Remus had found much to digest. Hermione had stopped by to relay the information she had discerned from Toopy the house elf and the instructions for operating a Pensieve, Cecilia had owled to say that the wards were set for Wednesday, and Christian Huber had forwarded copies of letters sent by his classmates in support of Remus' position. A shimmering "Families First" badge lay on the nightstand next to the stub of a beeswax candle.

After a while, thinking that Sirius would never awaken, Remus crawled out of bed and slipped on his dressing gown. Crossing to the window he pulled the curtains aside and blinked out into the bright sunshine that haloed the naked forest. He drew a finger along the condensation on the glass pane, residuals from the night's frost. A million thoughts swam through his head and he gnawed upon them mentally. Provisions should be drawn up should anything happen to me, was the first issue that came to mind. Knowing that Sirius would be furious if Remus were ever to voice this aloud, he glanced back at the bed then slipped out of the room, his bare feet making not a sound as he went to his study to add a codicil to his will.

Three hours later, Sirius stumbled into the room, a mug of coffee in hand and a sash tied haphazardly around his waist. Remus carefully slid an open book over the paper he was writing on.

"G'morning, Moony," Sirius said thickly.

Remus smiled down at his desk and pushed up his spectacles. "Good afternoon is more like it, Padfoot. It's nearly half two." The aroma from the coffee perked his senses.

With a groan, Sirius fell into one of the over stuffed chairs flanking the fireplace and kicked a leg up on top of the arm. Yawning broadly, he blinked through the yellow light filtering through the windows. "Whatcha working on?"

"Just a bit of research," Remus said smoothly turning the page of a book of whose title he had absolutely no idea. He leaned his elbows on the desk, glanced into his cup of cold tea and pulled a face. "Are you hungry?"

Sirius swung his leg lazily. "What a question, Moony. I'm always hungry. It just depends on what for." He winked.

Remus laughed. Sirius was truly incorrigible. "Well, I'm hungry. For food," he clarified. "Since you've already started," he nodded pointedly towards the coffee, "what would I have to give you to get you to fix me some eggs and grilled tomatoes?"

"Your money or your life?" Sirius quipped.

Remus leaned back in his chair and appraised Sirius' laughing features with dancing eyes. "Considering I have very little money and only a fool would want my life, I've got to say you've got the raw end of the deal there, Padfoot."

With a shrug, Sirius slid out of the chair and pressed a kiss on Remus' lips. "Well bugger it all then. Keep your moldy robes on that scrawny professor's frame of yours, Moony." He strolled to the door and paused. "What time are they expecting us?"

Without looking up, Remus answered him steadily: "Half six. Margaret leaves the institution at seven. Whitney and Hermione are meeting us on the moor. Next to the tree were we met the last time. Cecilia'll be waiting there for us."

"Okay..." Sirius's eyes scrutinized Remus' bent head. "Tomatoes and eggs coming up," he said finally.

*********

"It's freezing in here," Hermione whispered as she followed the rest of the group down the hall. In the shadows aided by a spectery gray light, the doors to all the various rooms stood cold and imposing, locked both to keep people out...and to keep them in. Remus, understanding her distress, slowed his steps and draped a comforting arm around her. He squeezed her shoulders lightly.

"...almost there..." Cecilia whispered leading them around a final bend in the hall. Creeping noiselessly towards the door thanks to silencing charms Hermione had set on everyone's shoes, they huddled in a small group, wands out in readiness. "Step back," she whispered. Carefully she traced the frame of the door and then murmured, "Patesco." The tell-tale shimmering band of gold outlined the door, flashing once, twice, and then fading. Beckoning them forward, Cecilia carefully opened the door and ushered them into the tomb otherwise known as Margaret Lancaster's office.

The same owl with the glow-in-the-dark beady eyes followed their movements as they crossed the room to her desk. "It's right in here..." She whispered the unlocking charm and slid open the slender drawer at the top of the desk. "Watch it now..."

Sirius and Whitney leaned in for a closer look, breaths held in anticipation.

"It's just as you said, Hermione," Sirius was intrigued. The crystalline vapor separated into tiny swirling rivulets, then blended into a single whirlpool before again breaking apart.

"Fascinating..." Whitney breathed. The puff of air released from his lips caught a thread of vapor and sent it spinning. "...and you say we just...stir it about a bit?"

Hermione frowned down at the basin. Her eyes glowed brilliantly in the brightness of the substance. Puckering her lips in consternation, she slowly lowered her wand, but--

"Wait." Cecilia moved between Hermione and Sirius. "Perhaps we should use my wand." She shrugged apologetically. "Mine's been approved by the IWPA. I don't want to take any chances." The four of them stepped aside and made room for Cecilia to access the basin. She pushed up her sleeves and took a deep breath. "Right. Well, here goes." Lowering the tip of her wand into the Pensieve she stirred it a bit. "Oh!" she gasped, watching as the vapors began to swirl furiously, all in unison.

"Look...it's just as Harry said it would be. It's slowing, see?" Hermione pointed. And indeed it was. Very quickly the vapory gas like substance had stilled entirely. "It does look like a sheet of glass. Can you see anything, Cecilia?" She craned her neck.

Cecilia shook her head. "Not yet," she admitted. "Wait a moment...there's something...oh wow...here, come here and have a look."

All four of them cocked their heads to the side and stared into the basin. There at the bottom, just as Harry had said there would be, was a room. It appeared to be an office or a library of sorts.

"We've got the eagle eye view here," Remus murmured racking his memory to try to identify the room. He glanced at his partner. "Sirius...does it look familiar to you?" Sirius lowered his face closer to the substance to have a better look.

"Watch out," Hermione warned, tugging on the back of Sirius' robes. "Remember what Dumbledore told us--only the owner of the Pensieve can remove a person caught within the memory. It's a safeguard so that their secrets are preserved."

Whitney slipped on his spectacles and surveyed the room. "Why that's my grandfather's library!" He stared in horrified fascination as four figures moved into view. "Quick! Hermione, the amplification charm. Have you the recording quill, Sirius?"

In a flash Hermione whispered "Sonorus." What would normally work to amplify a person's voice over an entire stadium simply elevated the voices of the people inside the memory up to normal level.

"...glad to see you could join us Fitzherbert," sneered a voice easily recognizable as Walden Macnair's. In three chairs placed before a large desk sat the figures of two men and a woman. From their vantage point they couldn't make out their faces, but it was quite clear that the man seated behind a desk built only to impose was the grandfather himself, Robert Culpepper, several years younger but very much the same.

"I'd hardly be in this predicament were it not for you," the man assumed to be Fitzherbert snapped.

A bone dry laugh that sent shivers down all the listeners' spines cut across the angry man's retort. "Is that what last night was about?"

Whitney threw Cecilia a sympathetic look. She glanced in his direction at the same time and gave him a tiny smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"...did you bring the potion, Macnair?" asked Culpepper after Margaret had finished laughing.

"Well, after my most enlightening evening with Fitzherbert here I could hardly forget it," Macnair sneered. He laid a flask of what appeared to be a dark red liquid on the desk before Culpepper. "It does work," he confirmed ostensibly after what must have been a questioning look on Culpepper's behalf.

"Excellent...and Lancaster, where do we stand with the child?"

Ruby red rings glistened richly from bony fingers as she tapped her nails impatiently on the arms of her chair. "The child will come into my custody. We're removing him tomorrow."

Suddenly the image before them began to dissolve. Blacks and grays wove in and out of the disintegrating figures, the sound of their voices fading. In its place a new scene was starting to take shape. It appeared at first to be nothing more than a black canvas stretching out underneath the sheet of glass, but as they continued to stare into the basin tiny bursts of yellow began to cut through the ribbons of black. What looked to be stars soon proved to be the tops of candles and the black the darkness of a dimly lit room.

They were forced to wait until their eyes adjusted to the change in light, a period of time that seemed horribly long as each second that ticked by meant being a moment closer to Margaret's return. Cecilia fidgeted, Hermione bit her lip, Remus gripped Sirius' hand hard, and Whitney stood absolutely still. Several times Remus caught Whitney looking in Cecilia's direction with an odd, guarded expression.

Peering into the shadows of what appeared to be a small dark paneled room Sirius craned his neck and tried to see into the corners. "This is impossible, Moony," he griped. "I can't get close enough to make out where the walls end. This could be anywhere."

Remus squinted slightly. "Hmmm..." he pursed his lips. "I think those are tankards on the table..."

"...and the swirling gray substance...I think that's smoke," Hermione reflected. "The Pensieve shouldn't be cloudy so the only explanation is that it's something in the air of the memory."

"Wait," Whitney held up his hand. "You can hear them talking...damn it...they're all talking at once." He stared hard. "I think this is a pub we're looking at."

"Yes...I think you're right, Whitney," Remus agreed shooting him a grateful look for drawing the lines that connected the dots. "The question is which one? There are a million little hole-in-the-wall pubs across Britain."

"It's a wizarding pub," Cecilia spoke up. "Miss Lancaster would never defile herself by stepping into a Muggle establishment." Hermione snorted. "Well, it's true," Cecilia muttered. "To her Muggles are second class citizens. Barely worth her notice. No, that simply has to be a wizarding pub."

"Can you make out anything that's being said, Moony?" asked Sirius.

Remus shook his head. Even with the advantages of his lupine hearing he couldn't break apart the different voices. Everything was muffled into one big blur.

...and then there was a change in the current. A crackle as if someone had adjusted the knob on a wireless. Suddenly voices, clear sentences and distinguishable sounds of glasses being set on wooden tables and liquid splashing into tankards could easily be made out. The vision scrolled as if on fast-forward and the bar soon came into view.

"...what can I get you to drink, ma'am?"

"Scotch, straight up." The sound of footsteps walking away was heard.

Cecilia's eyes never strayed from the image. It was evident that the speaker was Margaret, but what was strange was that the woman possessing her voice had jet black hair knotted into a severe bun, not the steely gray Cecilia was accustomed to.

"...you're late." Peevish as befit Margaret was the voice that crackled across the room. The door to the establishment was pushed open awkwardly to reveal a bent figure shrouded in a long green cape with a hood that concealed the face.

A soft melodious voice said tremulously, "Miss Lancaster?"

"Is that it?" Margaret pointed towards something the woman was carrying. A slender hand reached up and caught the edge of the hood revealing an all too familiar face.

"Cecilia...is that you?" Remus was startled. He frowned down at the young woman who stood a good distance from Margaret. "What are you...why are you in this memory?"

Cecilia covered her mouth with her hands and gasped. "But I've not been there," she whispered urgently. "I've never..."

Sirius looked from Cecilia to the woman in the image and back. "It certainly looks like you. Same hair, same eyes...your face..."

"Is someone posing as me?" she asked weakly. Her hand fluttered nervously at her throat.

"Polyjuice, perhaps," Hermione hastened to say. In a silent gesture of friendship, she pressed her side comfortingly against Cecilia's. "There's about seven different ways people can impersonate someone if they know the proper techniques." Instead of reassuring Cecilia as was her intent, she only served to make the other girl stiffen.

"There...there's something wrong with Margaret's hair," Cecilia whispered. "It's black. I've never seen her with dark hair."

Remus had been thinking the exact same thought. And if he looked closely the woman in the memory, although bearing a very close resemblance to Cecilia, was most definitely not an identical replica of the woman standing next to him. "I don't think this is you, dear," he said slowly. "There's something not quite the same about your eyes...she looks older than you..."

"And you haven't that mole above your lip," Whitney pointed out when the woman tilted her head back and squeezed her eyes tight.

"But she looks so much like me." Cecilia's blues eyes widened, and then widened as far as they would allow when the woman in the vision did the same.

"Miss Lancaster, please..." the woman in the vision begged. "...just another minute, one more minute..."

"Absolutely not. You know the arrangement." Margaret's bony hand brushed aside the cloak roughly.

Everyone gasped. Lying in the arms of the woman was a child fast asleep. The little girl could have been no more than three years old, but even at that young age it was clear she was the woman's daughter. Soft brown curls framed a cherubic face possessing a pair of rosy cheeks.

"Give me the child."

"No...no...I--I've changed my mind. I'll just take her home. Let me take her home..." the woman's voice broke off with a sob. She backed away several steps as if the very presence of Margaret repulsed her and frightened her simultaneously. "I haven't signed anything yet--there's still time. Please," she cried.

"Hand me the child you silly girl. I've a family waiting for her at the institution. They're a couple who will make proper parents. They'll be able to offer her everything you can't." Margaret's voice was steely.

"But not her mother...not love..."

Margaret waved her excuses away impatiently. "What does someone like you know about being a mother? We've made a bargain. Need I remind you of the consequences?" she hissed.

Tears poured down Cecilia's cheek. Hermione stared at her miserably.

The woman pressed her child close to her breast and cried bitterly. "Darling, darling..." she pressed tiny kisses about the sleeping face, her tears trailing silver in the wake of her lips. "My darling...oh god..." a low keening sound burst forth. "Take her." She practically threw her child at Margaret. She spat out her next words: "Your filthy bitch. I hate you...hate you." Even from a distance they could see how her lower lip trembled.

Margaret clapped her hand over the child's mouth. The little girl had awoken in the wake of her mother's anguished cries and struggled frantically to escape Margaret's iron grip. The woman reached out her hand tremulously, and then let it fall. With wail that shattered Remus' heart, she tore at her hair and ran from the room. The last thing they heard before the scene began to shift was the sound of Margaret's perfectly satisfied voice shouting: "Bridget McAllister, you've forgotten your payment. Be silent, Cecilia."

The scene went black and Cecilia fainted.