The Heiress

I hadn't been around to see Harry right after the last battle of the war had been won, though while I was lying in St. Mungo's recovering from my injuries, I wondered what had happened as soon as Tom Riddle had taken his last breath. As it turned out, I hadn't been the only one who'd been curious - the Prophet, Witch Weekly, The Quibbler and all sorts of other wizarding magazines had published "exclusive" accounts of what had happened at Spinner's End, all of them different and all of them a big bag of wank.

Harry hadn't sunk to his knees and cried, like the Prophet said he did, and he didn't take Voldemort's wand and snap it over his knee and turn one edge of it into a quill like The Quibbler had said, and he didn't nance about or sing or any of that rot.

I found out the truth about a year later. After it had been confirmed that Voldemort was dead, Harry turned and walked off the battlefield and into that crumbling little shack that Snape had once lived in and that Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange had used as a hiding place when the tide started turning against the Death-Eaters. He went and just sat on the floor, staring straight ahead, not paying any attention to anything and not saying a word for hours and hours. I'd heard all about it from Hermione, who'd been there and had kept everyone from crowding in on him.

When Hermione and I had gotten to Harry's flat, Ginny let us in and pointed her chin at the far wall. Harry was standing there in a corner, aiming an empty, endless stare at the floor, and I fancied that it must've been a bit how he looked in those quiet hours after the fighting had stopped. Back then, I'd wondered what had he been thinking about : His parents? Ginny? All the people we lost? That he'd finally fulfilled the prophecy and was alive and free? I never knew and never got up the nerve to ask him.

But I didn't need to wonder this time. I knew what was on his mind. I knew, because I was thinking it, too. And so was Urdsmore, who was sitting by himself near the Floo, wiping his face with the edge of his sleeve. We were all sharing the same thought as sure as if someone had grabbed all of us and smashed our heads together.

We'd failed.

We'd told Whetwistle that we'd protect him and his family, and we'd failed at that. Failed miserably. While Hermione and I had been faffing around in the cold, and Harry had been doing what he could, some bloodless bastard had tormented an innocent girl, made her suffer - and he was doing it again to yet another little girl.

Harry barely looked at Hermione and me when we'd come in. Just asked us if we were all right and if we'd seen anything. Then he told us that the Healer he'd gotten was on her way to the flat with news, and Whetwistle was coming along. While Ginny brought Hermione over to the couch for a hot cuppa, Harry unrolled a scroll and turned it toward me.

Whetwistle.

You were warned. You have three chances left.



"Livesey got that owl minutes before Marie Whetwistle ..." Harry trailed off and crushed the parchment in his fist. "Three chances left. Whetwistle has three daughters ... left."

He turned and stalked off to where he'd been standing when Hermione and I had first arrived. Urdsmore started to go after him, but I stopped him with a shake of the head and, for lack of anywhere else to sit, crumpled next to Hermione on the couch. When she lunged for me and hid her face in my cloak, I tried to act as if I didn't notice or mind much. I reckon I didn't - at least not the second part.

Ginny was in an armchair keeping watch on Harry, her eyes red-rimmed and cloudy. Now and again she glanced at Hermione and me, huddled on the couch now, and I could read in her face that she wanted me to do something to snap Harry out of it. I only wished I could - but I knew it wouldn't be as simple as clapping him on the back and saying, "Forget it, mate. We'll get 'em next go." This wasn't a bloody Snitch he'd just missed grabbing, after all

Harry suddenly moved toward the front door. Our eyes followed him, because none of us had heard a thing. He walked over, put his wand to the door and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he nodded at Urdsmore and opened the door.

The first one through was a short, plump woman in white Healers robes, wearing those dodgy type of glasses that you just balance on your nose. Harry said a few quick, low words to her before Urdsmore sprung forward to lead her to a chair. Livesey came in next, and behind him, in dark clothes, was Whetwistle.

Everyone stood when he walked in. He nodded solemnly at Harry, but his march across the living room faltered a little, and he leaned on Livesey the rest of the way. I thought Whetwistle looked like he'd aged about four hundred years since I'd last seen him. His skin was a sickly grey and the lines on his face stood out as if they'd been etched in with a knife. He looked absolutely gutted. My heart went out to him immediately - but it stopped about halfway and came back again when I caught the change in his eyes when he spotted Hermione.

His face softened almost at once, taking on the same smushy quality as the blond git's from the Muggle inn, and he nearly tripped over his feet when she extended a hand and murmured her condolences. He never answered or even let on that he heard what she was saying. Whetwistle just stood and stared at her as if she were a sandwich that he was trying to decide whether or not to put mustard on.

I noticed that he kept a firm grip on her hand. She tried to pull away a couple of times, but he held on tight. When I saw her make a third try to get her hand back, I stepped forward to help things along. Livesey came up just then. He peeled his bloody client away, gave Hermione an apologetic smile, and shoved Whetwistle in a seat near Ginny. Whetwistle looked lost without something to do with his hands, so Livesey helped him there, too, by giving him a teacup.

Harry made a couple of quick introductions. Moira Kilcairn was a new Healer at St. Mungo's specialising in medicinal potions. She'd been the Healer that Harry had hoped would be able to help Marie Whetwistle. I thought she looked a little ... old to be so new, actually, but maybe it was just her face. She reminded me a lot of McGonagall, and McGonagall was the sort that you could never imagine having ever been young.

Harry asked after Whetwistle's wife, and we were all a little stunned when Livesey told us that she had been admitted to St. Mungo's a few minutes after her daughter.

"But she'll be fine. With all that's happened, she's just knackered, poor woman," said Livesey. "Greg and I are going to pop round this evening. Hopefully Katherine will be up and around then."

Between sips of tea, the Healer talked about Whetwistle's newest sick daughter, Sarah. She was now in a closed ward in St. Mungo's for observation, resting comfortably, as far as that went. Healers were poking and prodding her, which I supposed was normal, but there was a problem - one that was making veins stand out on Harry's forehead.

"What do you mean you don't know what's wrong with her?"

"I know you hate hearing it, Mr. Potter, but again, we're not sure." Kilcairn's glasses slipped down her nose, but she caught them before they could land in her teacup. "We've drawn blood and have done some diagnostic spells, but there's been nothing conclusive. The girl has all the symptoms of a wasting disease - the sallow skin, the body's inability to metabolise food and utilise nutrients, pronounced nausea - but she shows none of the common signs of having been hexed or poisoned.

"Many wasting conditions are induced by a potion containing highly toxic amounts of Pokeroot berries. If this young lady had been given such a potion, her teeth would be as soft as porridge, as the potion is highly destructive to tooth enamel. Also, her throat would be quite red and sore. None of those conditions exist."

"Fine, so it's not a potion." Hermione lifted her head. "It doesn't rule out hexing. In the Goblin Wars of 1807, the Macresco Curse was used as a weapon against the Merpeople. Several hundred of them died as a result, and they all exhibited the symptoms you just described. Also, some effects of corrosive potions can be reduced if the mixture is sprinkled with Embauba petals and ground valerian root."

The woman adjusted her glasses and peered at Hermione. She carefully put her cup down and moved her lips around for a second. It looked as if she were trying to smile, but she wasn't putting much effort into it.

"Well! I'm not a betting woman to be sure, but I'd wager a Galleon that you did quite well on your Potions N.E.W.T. What you say is quite correct," she said, her smile turning sharp at the edges. "Except that the amount of herbs needed to neutralize such a potion would have turned the young lady's skin- not to mention her liver - bright yellow by now. Also, though it's been ages since I've studied magical war history, but the Macresco tragedy resulted in massive death within a few days, did it not? Marie Whetwistle, I'm told, was sick for two months or more."

Hermione looked down into her lap, the tips of her ears glowing pink with embarrassment. I glowered at Kilcairn's smug smile and the way those barmy glasses teetered at the end of her nose. I wondered where Harry had found her.

"Yes ... two months. That's quite a strange pathology for any sort of magically induced wasting illness. It shouldn't take quite so long for it to reach its end result."

Whetwistle bounded up, his face purpling and every hair he had left standing on end.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing! Are you barbarians or is heartlessness simply one of the hallmarks of wizardry? She was only ten years old, and she's gone! My little, smiling sunshine - and you can sit here and imply that she took too long to die? How dare you!"

"Greg, please." Livesey put a beefy arm around Whetwistle, and pulled him away from Kilcairn, who'd lost the cheeky grin and was now cowering in her seat. "We all know you're upset, but we're simply trying to rule out possibilities. Think of Sarah - she needs an expert hand right now."

"But that's just it. She" - he pointed at Kilcairn - "seems to know no more than those silly doctors who had care of Marie! Do you know what those - those idiots at the hospital had the cheek to say to me?"

His head swiveled around and he gave us all a good glare. "When I asked the doctors if Marie ever ... ever woke up, even near the end, they looked at me as if I were mad. One of them even tried to deny that he'd ever treated Marie at all. More than two hundred pounds a day, and they didn't remember! I suppose that since she's dead and there's no more money to be made, they couldn't give a rat's arse anymore!"

"They were confused, Greg. I explained to you about that." Livesey looked at Harry. "Your Obliviator bloke was a bit heavy-handed, I think. When he was done with them, not only did the doctors not remember our visit, but most of them didn't remember Marie at all. Well, one did - and I think he was frightened when he realised that I was a solicitor. Muggles are absolutely terrified by the threat of lawsuits."

"I do wish I'd been able to see the younger girl," Kilcairn said, when everyone had settled down. "But just from what I've heard of that case and what I myself have observed in young Sarah, I don't believe it is a wasting condition at all. It would be the first cases of it in years - decades, perhaps centuries. I've often heard it said that the Death-Eaters - I beg your pardon, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, to speak of such things in your home - but I'd often heard that one of the reasons they turned away from using wasting potions and the like on their victims -"

She stopped and looked nervously in Whetwistle's direction. I took a look, too, and kept on looking, hoping with each blink that the picture would change. No joy there. Whetwistle had calmed down from his outburst - maybe a little too much, actually. He was staring at Hermione. His face was slack, except for his mouth. There was a queer sort of twist to his lips: He wasn't smiling, exactly, but he wasn't frowning, either. It was something in the middle, and it made him look like a good bit of a nutter.

Kilcairn cleared her throat and picked up where she'd left off. "- was that the Cruciatus Curse was a much more ... effective tool for their desires, and had effects long after the curse had been cast without necessarily being fatal."

Hermione trembled in my arms and buried her face further into my shirt, but I barely noticed. As Kilcairn talked, a horrible thought had surfaced in my mind and was making itself at home.

"What if that's what it was," I said, hating the direction my thoughts were taking. "It can cause permanent damage in a grown wizard. Marie Whetwistle was a child. If she'd been hit once or twice ..."

I couldn't say anything more. The words wouldn't come, and I wasn't going to force it. It was too bloody disgusting to even think about. I'd seen the effects of Crucio on the battlefield, could still remember passing heaps of broken wizards who'd been hit by it, all of them a breath away from death, but not so close that they couldn't feel the pain they were in. Toward the end, a few Aurors went about to collect these men, and I'd heard that some of them had put some of the more far-gone blokes out of their misery.

And they had been wizards - full-grown men trained in duelling and defence. A nonmagical girl of ten would have had no chance at all.

"Hmmm. Perhaps," Kilcairn said crisply, looking a bit put out by the idea. "The aftereffects would be extensive - inability to eat, atrophied muscles, labored breathing ... all the hallmarks of a wasting illness, and quite easy to misdiagnose as such."

"Cruciatus? That's impossible!" Livesey's voice boomed across the room.

When I looked at him, I fancied for a moment that he was trying hard not to laugh. But then he gave a great sigh, and his face turned solemn again.

"She likely would have died instantly if hit with the full force of the spell. It would have to be cast with Marie standing right where the spell could hit her. That 'magician' who appeared in Marie's school only gave her candy. And Sarah has been looked after constantly - how could anyone get close enough to her to cast any sort of spell whatsoever?"

Livesey went on, and I let my mind wander a bit. I didn't much like the bloke, but I did take some comfort in what he was saying. He was right - Crucio wasn't like a Portkey that could cork off whenever you wanted it to. But if it wasn't a wasting hex and it wasn't an Unforgivable, what the bloody hell could it have been?

Harry asked about the gifts that Sarah had been getting from an "unseen admirer" at school that Whetwistle had mentioned earlier. Livesey assured him that he'd gone to a top official in the Department of Mysteries to have the things inspected and that nothing strange had been found. Harry insisted on having a look for himself, and after some reluctance, Livesey told him where the things could be found in the basement of Whetwistle's shop.

"We will keep trying to get to the bottom of this," said Kilcairn after Urdsmore had gone off to collect the things Harry wanted to inspect. "If it isn't the results of Crucio, then it must be something. Please trust us, Mr. Whetwistle. We will do everything we can to help Sarah."

She looked at Whetwistle expectantly, maybe expecting him to fall at her feet in tears of gratitude. He wasn't paying her a bit of mind - his face was scrunched up in thought now, his lips working as if he were trying to sound out a word that he was having trouble pronouncing.

"Greg? Are you all right?"

"Crucio." Whetwistle's voice was thick and hoarse. "What is that, exactly? What does it mean?"

"It's ... a spell - a horrible spell. It causes hideous, unbearable pain." Livesey sounded grim, and by the way his eyes hardened, I could tell that he'd had a brush or two with it before. "But don't worry - it isn't what ... harmed Marie."

"I've heard that word before," Whetwistle murmured. He was staring out of the window with the hopelessly lost expression of a man who'd forgotten the keys to his flat and was trying to figure out how to get back in. "Long ago. I was a boy. Eddy was with me - we were playing. I heard ... I heard Father say it. Crucio. I remember. I thought it an odd word. An ugly word. Father was shouting at the top of his lungs. I thought he'd gone mad. Even Eddy had been afraid ..."

Hermione gripped my arm tighter and put a hand to her mouth. My eyes sought out Harry's. He was staring slack-jawed at Whetwistle and had a hand over his stomach as if he were trying to keep something from clawing its way out.

I think I might've been the only one in that room who didn't look shocked or sickened at the idea of Whetwistle Senior, supposed decorated "war hero," flinging out an Unforgiveable? After all, everything - and just about everyone - connected to the man was about as knocked around and wrong and dangerous as a live wand up a bloke's arse. That couldn't exactly be coincidence.

"Greg, you must be mistaken," Livesey had his hand on Whetwistle's shoulder. "The Cruciatus hex is a horrible spell. It has been known to drive wizards and witches insane. If your father had used it, he certainly would have gone to Azkaban prison for the rest of his life. The spell is illegal."

"I know what I heard. I'd forgotten it until just now. Perhaps ... I wanted to forget it." Whetwistle swallowed hard. "You see, after I heard my father say that word, I never saw my mother again."

~*~

"Well?"

I watched Harry's whole body coil into a tight spring. He held up the ugliest doll I'd ever seen - it was all teeth and eyes and plastic hair. It had to be a Muggle thing.

"It's scary, all right - scary that someone paid for this junk." He tossed the doll into a cardboard box by the table. "But bad taste is about all I'm finding here."

Harry, Urdsmore and I were camped in the kitchen looking through the things that had started popping up "out of nowhere" at Sarah Whetwistle's school. Kilcairn had gone back to St. Mungo's to check on the girl, but everyone else was still in the living room listening to the Wizarding World Report on the Wireless.

Aside from the doll, which made sense as a gift for a young girl, the rest of the things were pretty all over the shop - a Muggle novel, a towel, a diary, a man's jumper, a deck of playing cards, a Muggle pound note ...

"It just looks like rubbish. What's it all mean?"

"Probably nothing," Harry absently flipped through the diary. Every page was blank. "None of them are hexed and it doesn't look like they ever were. I'd say these things are just calling cards - like Livesey said before, this bloke wanted them to know that he could get at the girl at any time. But why go through all the trouble?"

"How's that?"

"Sarah's never seen the bloke who left these things, according to Livesey. But Marie did. He wasn't shy then - he showed up in front of Marie and all her friends. Why go from that to anonymously leaving useless bilge?"

"Maybe he was trying to be careful about who saw him?" suggested Urdsmore. "Marie was younger than Sarah, maybe a bit less observant. Sarah might've been able to tell her parents more than Marie was able to - physical appearance, voice, that sort of thing."

"I don't think he was worried about that. When he went to Marie Whetwistle's school, he could've been wearing a glamour. Or he could've used polyjuice for all we know. Besides, Sarah got sick somehow. And if it wasn't through any of this" - Harry waved his hand over the table - "it was some other way - and he probably would have had to have been around for that."

"Depending on what that is, which no one seems to know," I said, fighting a yawn. It was barely nine in the evening, but I could barely keep my eyes open. "Are you sure about that Kilcairn bird? She seems all mouth and no knickers to me, mate."

"She's got her own way of doing things, but yeah, I'm sure of her. If anyone at St. Mungo's can help that girl, I think she can. She has science on her side, but it's pretty certain that's not going to do it all." Harry threw the diary into the box. "This bloke's clever. We're going to have to assume that he's got an above-average knowledge of potions and dark hexes - maybe old, dangerous ones that we didn't exactly cover in DADA."

I wondered at the irony of Harry saying that. I could only guess at how many spells and curses of that sort he'd had to learn in order to kill Voldemort. But then, he'd had to face Riddle down and do it to his face; he hadn't done it the coward's way under darkness and puzzles, leaving a trail of rubbish behind.

"The lads at the Department of Mysteries have to know a lot of 'off-the-books' spells," said Urdsmore. "This bloke might've worked there, or some other high-level post in the Ministry."

"Good thinking. You have contacts there, Brock, yeah? Poke around. Ask after anyone who might've left the department under less than ... voluntary circumstances. Or anyone who ran into any sort of trouble at any time in the past 10 years." Harry drummed his fingers on the table. "We're going to need to do some research - lots of it. First, we'll need to look into ancient spellcasting - maybe going back to the Founders' day."

"Research? Well you're one jammy bloke, aren't you?" I said. "It's been at least a week since Hermione's had the chance to bury her nose in some dusty, boring book. She's probably close to snapping by now. She'll probably have a full scroll of possibilities within an hour or two."

But Harry surprised me by getting stone-faced. "No. Hermione's too close to the situation. I think it might be better to do this myself and keep her out of it."

"She's not exactly going to take well to that, mate."

"I'm not exactly going to give her a choice. I want her and Whetwistle to keep out of sight. Livesey'll take care of the one, and you take care of Hermione. You've been doing a pretty good job of it so far, it looks like."

He threw in a half-leer, just in case I missed his meaning. I hadn't - and neither had Urdsmore, who was going red enough for the both of us. I wondered if Urdsmore had ever had a girlfriend - or even a really good snog.

"Well, I agree about Whetwistle. He's been through enough." I thought about how quiet Whetwistle had gotten after his last outburst.

"Yeah," agreed Urdsmore with a shudder. "Blimey ... do you think his father might've Crucioed his wife and maybe ... killed her?"

"I dunno. I doubt it, really. You said the Compendium has her down as missing, right, Ron? Well, Aurors would've investigated that, given him Veritaserum, everything."

I nodded, but I wasn't as certain as Harry was. The First War was raging at that time, and Aurors had other things to worry about than looking into disappearances. And since Barty Crouch Sr. had authorised Aurors to use Crucio back then - and Whetwistle had fought in the First War - he might've been able to get away with it without anyone being the wiser. His wife hadn't had any family - at least none that cared enough to look into her disappearance.

I got up to "stretch," and in getting the crick out of my legs and back, I happened to wander over to the doorway and looked into the living room. Everyone had been cast down at dinner, and there wasn't much conversation going on now, either. Livesey was talking to Ginny. By his face, it seemed like he was asking all the sort of polite questions you should ask when you're a guest in someone's flat. By her face, I could tell that she thought he was a boring git.

And then there was Whetwistle. He was sitting in my old place, on the couch next to Hermione, across the room from Ginny and Livesey. Hermione seemed to be trying to get up a conversation with him, but he was staring at the floor, showing no sign that he was listening to a word she was saying. I fancied Hermione, being a teacher and all, was rather used to that reaction, but she looked more sad than annoyed.

I saw Whetwistle sitting there in his dark suit with his hair all over the place, and the earlier sympathy I'd felt came back. I didn't like him. I wasn't sure I trusted him, and not just because it was obvious that he was gone for Hermione. And he was a married man, at that.

But he'd had a rough life - a brother who'd been a traitor, a father who'd hated him, a mother who might've died in agony, a daughter who'd definitely had done so, and another one who might be next in line. It seemed too much for one bloke to bear, and I reckoned that if I were in his place, I wouldn't be able to sit there while people I didn't know and couldn't really give a toss about made polite conversation around me. I might've gone mad - or worse - long ago. He had to be tougher than he looked to bear up under so much. Or maybe, considering how he'd grown up, Whetwistle was used to getting pissed on, which was just about as bad.

Hermione put a hand on his shoulder, and said something soft, trying to smile. I almost ran out of the kitchen, because Whetwistle started twitching right away. His whole body twisted and a strangled half-moan echoed around the whole flat.

Livesey and Ginny shot up out of their seats, and Harry and Urdsmore were behind me in a second, wands drawn. Only Hermione and Whetwistle were sitting down. That awful sound came again from the back of Whetwistle's throat and a flood of tears poured down his face, his whole body heaving. Hermione bent close to him and after a second of hesitation, took him into her arms, stroking his back gently and murmuring things none of us could hear above his howling.

It was a pitiful sight, and I felt a little ashamed that all I could think was that I didn't like the way Hermione was cradling him. I didn't like how her cheek was resting on his shining head, and how she was rocking him like a child. But I couldn't say that what she was doing was wrong, considering everything that had happened to the man that day and in days past. I couldn't say anything at all, which, considering the thoughts that were going through my head as I watched them together, was probably a good thing.