Three Animagi and a Werewolf

Author's Notes: Okay, it took me a while to figure out why, although each of my chapters had dividers between scene changes, they don't seem to get displayed. It seems the single line doesn't appear :( Anyway, I've tried a new divider, so let's see if this works better ...

Chapter 24: The Life of a Death Eater

Arguments

After struggling valiantly against its end for a couple of months now, summer had finally given in to autumn. It was a Saturday morning in October, and most flowers had shed their petals. The leaves on the trees had turned to red and gold. The air was chill and crisp, though today the sun was peering through between the clouds. Squirrels were hurrying to assemble a store of nuts and birds were embarking on this year's long journey south.

But of all this, Severus Snape saw nothing. He was far too busy. Despite the bright sunshine outside, his laboratory was gloomily dark. A candle burned on the table beside him, casting its flickering light on the heavy book and sheets of parchment that lay there. His finger traced the words in the book, his eyes darted from them to what was written on the loose pages. The list of ingredients that had so far been obtained for the brewing of the Dark Lord's potion, the Brew of Eternity that only the Darkest of wizards would drink, for it involved not only the killing of many innocent creatures, but also the death of another human being. It was the only thing - apart from the Elixir of Life, that could not be made without a Philosopher's Stone that he did not possess - that would prevent the Dark Lord from dying ... ever.

"Drain the blood of a half-dozen house elves," Severus recited for the umpteenth time, for he had checked and double-checked this complicated brew so often that he practically knew the wording off by heart.

He referred once more to the list on his left. Ah yes, of course, Macnair had provided this ingredient, as well as the next.

"Add a grain of powdered unicorn horn ..."

A unicorn. No wizard should ever kill a unicorn. They were so innocent, so pure, so utterly untouched by sin or evil ... Severus shook off these thoughts. He had not killed the animal. The curse would therefore not rest on him, but on those who had. The curse. He wondered, and not for the first time, if the Brew of Eternity might not actually be a curse in disguise. Could a life prolonged at the cost of killing such innocent creatures as unicorns and house elves truly bring its drinker happiness? Then again, what did happiness matter to the Dark Lord?

"There is only power, and those too weak to seek it," he murmured.

Tap-tap-tap. Something was beating against the window. After a first irritated grumble, Severus discovered that he welcomed the distraction. A tap on the window could only mean an owl was outside, and that, surely, could only have been sent by one person. Severus found that he was pleased. He had not been seeing as much of Josephine lately as he had at one time. Ever since that night at the Bouncing Banshee, there had been a strange sort of tension between them. But today, for some reason - perhaps it was the change of the season that affected him more than he cared to admit, or perhaps it was a case of absence making the heart grow fonder - he felt that tension ebbing away inside him.

He went to the window and found that, sure enough, it was an owl, and the note it carried was indeed from Josephine. It was strange how she always seemed to interrupt him when he was reading this particular text. Almost as if she didn't want him to. Severus frowned. He should not be thinking such thoughts. She wanted to meet him in York for lunch today. Severus checked his watch. He would have to set out almost immediately if he wanted to make it in time. Without further ado, therefore, he quickly wrote a reply on the back of the turquoise parchment she customarily used and handed it back to the owl. He locked and bolted the door after the bird, closed the book that lay on the table and locked the loose pages away in a drawer. Neither his parents nor Mirmy the house elf were in the habit of venturing into his laboratory, but it was as well to be cautious, just in case. Then he blew out the candles, fastened the door behind him and went in search of his mother.

He found her reading in the drawing room. She jumped when she heard the door open and looked obviously relieved to see that it was her son, not her husband, who came into the room.

"Finished for today, have you, dear?" she enquired, getting up.

"Not exactly finished," he replied curtly, "but it's nothing I need to complete right now. In fact I can't. I still need some ... things. So I'm going out."

His mother gave him an odd look, a mixture of sorrow and doubt. Seeming to make up her mind all of a sudden, she walked quickly past him to the door, looked out into the hall to make quite sure it was empty, and closed the door again. Lowering her voice she said urgently,

"Severus, give it up. Please, give it up."

He looked puzzled. "Give what up, mother?" he asked, jumping at once to the totally wrong conclusion. "Do you mean meeting Josephine? Because if you do, you can forget it. I don't want to give it up ..."

She was shaking her head impatiently. "No, no, no. I don't mean the girl. I'm glad you've found her. Even though I still haven't met her, I like the influence she's had on you. You know I've always wanted you to go out more, to do nice things rather than brood over those awful books all day. That's what I mean, you see," she went on hurriedly. "Those books. Your experiments. That's what I want you to give up."

Severus stared at her. "But ... I am conducting these experiments in the service of the Dark Lord. He needs a potion that will grant him eternal life and invulnerability against all curses."

His mother was nodding quickly and unhappily. "Yes, yes, I know. And that's just why I want you to stop. That man must not be allowed to live forever. He is evil, Severus. He will take every last shred of hope and happiness and tear it apart. He will subject the world to a rule of terror, bending every living creature to his will, killing and torturing."

"Shut up, mother," Severus said sharply, facing her with a look of anger.

His mother flinched and shrank back from him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he went on. "If father knew what you've been saying ..."

"Oh Severus," she whimpered with an abrupt return to the usual timid, submissive manner that revolted him more and more, "Severus, you wouldn't tell him - would you? Oh ..."

She sank back down on a chair. He watched her for a moment.

"No, I won't tell him," he said quietly. "Though by rights I should. You shouldn't speak out against the Dark Lord. No one should."

His mother shook her head. "You're wrong, Severus. If more people spoke out against him, then - then some of us might not need to be so afraid."

"Only the filth of this world need to fear the Dark Lord, not pure-bloods like us."

Her face changed. It took on a very strange expression he could not fathom.

"The filth of this world," she repeated. "I wonder ..."

"What?" he snapped.

"Sometimes I think that we are the filth of this world. We who oppress others just because we feel superior to them, because our blood is purer."

"We are superior to them."

"Are we? Well, you keep telling yourself that, if it gives you comfort. If it makes you feel better about what you're doing."

"I don't need to 'tell myself' anything to know I'm right."

She smiled suddenly. "Oh, but you do. Yes, yes, I know you think that you believe in what you're doing, but there may come a day when you discover that you are my child as much as your father's. And no child of mine could willingly hurt anyone."

Severus looked at her curiously, her rare, shy smile that he had not seen for years awaking something in him, something that he had long forgotten, like a hidden childlike affection for his mother that he had cast aside long ago, when her lack of self-assurance and timidness towards his father had begun to annoy him. Suddenly he realised that, beneath the swollen eyes and frailty that he despised was a pretty and generous woman who could have been a totally different person, if she had only had more luck in her choice - her family's choice, rather - of a spouse. For a second he wished that her life had been different, or that she had the courage to assert her true nature against the forcefulness of his father. The fact that she could not do so, and probably never would, caused Severus to shake his head with exasperation. He turned on his heel and left her alone.

* * *

The youngest members of the Order of the Phoenix were back once more at Hogwarts, back in the room where they and a select group of students practised Defence Against the Dark Arts. Pippa was teaching them alone today, and had divided them into smaller groups. Remus was being pulled back onto his feet yet again by James and Sirius, having been knocked over by Frank Longbottom's powerful Reductor curse.

"Whoa, Moony, looks like someone must have slipped something potent into your pumpkin juice last night," Sirius joked. "You're falling about all over the place."

"If someone did, I'm willing to bet it was you," said Remus, coming up smiling, though a little breathless.

However, James, as usual, was quick to notice that he seemed strangely irritated. He came closer under the pretext of wiping an imaginary speck of dust off his friend's shoulder for fun.

"Come on, mate, pay him back. Don't let the side down," he said loudly. Then he whispered in Remus's ear, "What's up with Frank today?"

"I don't know," Remus murmured back, sounding puzzled. "This is the first time he's even come near me in ages, and he's acting very strangely."

James frowned. "Funny. Well, try hitting him back a bit harder. He's good, but - strike when he's preparing to cast, that always gets him. He's got this habit of giving his wand an elegant little swish before he casts a spell. That's your chance."

He patted Remus on the shoulder and rejoined Sirius, who appeared to be busy watching a pair of pretty young Ravenclaw girls practising stunning spells, though they, in turn, were apparently spending at least half their time casting sidelong glances at Sirius and giggling openly.

Remus readied himself. Grinning inwardly, he discovered James was right. Frank did flick his wrist before he cast, and Remus took the opportunity to hit him first, sending him flying backwards several paces. Still, as he watched Frank scramble back to his feet, he wondered what was wrong. They had always got on so well, but it had been a while now since he'd been able to have an ordinary conversation with Frank. It was as though Frank had been avoiding him on purpose. He was sure if it hadn't been for the fact that they were one short today, as Peter was busy helping his father in his apothecary, and there had been no one else to practise with, he wouldn't have exchanged so much as two words with Frank again today either.

He made up his mind to talk to Frank directly after practice, but when the time came he was robbed of his chance when Aurora, packing her wand tidily in her handbag and freeing her hair from the ribbon with which she had tied it out of the way, came over to him, Sirius, James and Lily, and taking Remus by the arm, drew them all over to the side of the room.

"Listen," she said conspiratorially, "I've just had a thought."

"Great. Good to know the old grey matter's still working," Sirius teased.

Though she looked positively exhausted this morning - the staff at St. Mungo's had been kept busy lately - Aurora smiled back at him. "It's in perfect working order, thank you. I was thinking ... it's Halloween this month, and what with all that's going on around us, wouldn't it be nice if we could all just get together and have some sort of party?"

"When you say 'all', do you mean the whole Order, just some, us five and Peter, or what?" James asked.

"Well, the Order, I suppose. Or at least those that can make it. I mean, the teachers will be spending Halloween here, of course. But if the rest of us could get together - us, Frank, Oliver, Gideon and your mum, James, and Remus's parents - well, I thought maybe it would brighten everyone's mood a bit."

"Some of us could do with it, by the looks of it," James said quietly, nodding towards where Frank had slung his bag over his shoulder and was preparing to leave.

"Exactly," Aurora agreed, following his gaze. "We all need to get in a bit of fun. We've all been working hard. You've had your Auror training and studying and things have been pretty busy for me at St. Mungo's lately too, what with all the people that have come in with nasty after-effects from illegal curses. We're all tense and nervous. We need to relax and let our hair down for once."

She shook her long, auburn hair back over her shoulder as though to emphasise the point.

"Well, I'm all for that," Sirius said, watching her with a grin.

Lily agreed eagerly. "A party to take our minds off things sounds like a good idea."

"But where can we have it?" Sirius asked. "We can't come here. We can't have a private party at the Bouncing Banshee. I somehow don't see Mrs. Pettigrew being keen on the idea of a load of witches and wizards endangering her perfect muggle disguise ..."

"You could all come to my place," Remus said. "I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind. There's not much risk of any one bothering us there."

"Sounds great," James agreed. "And ... well ..."

"Yes?"

"Do you think it would be all right if we asked my grandfather to come too?"

"Do you think he'd want to?" Remus asked doubtfully.

James nodded. "Oh yes. He's softened up a lot lately, and I think he's really quite lonely, you know. Actually," he added guiltily, "I promised him ages ago that we'd all come and help cheer him up and bring life back to the old Hall. I'd suggest we have our party there, only I don't think I should volunteer him as a host without asking. But if he could come round to your place ..."

"In that case, of course."

"Excellent." James beamed. "So shall we make it a proper fancy dress party with our own entertainment and games and such?"

His suggestion was greeted with such cheerful enthusiasm that Pippa came over to join them and asked,

"What are you lot so happy about?"

"We've just made plans for a Halloween party," James told her. "For the Order, you know. Like to come?"

"It sounds like fun," Pippa said enviously. "But I'm afraid I can't. I have to celebrate Halloween at Hogwarts, more's the pity."

"Are you kidding?" Sirius demanded. "Halloween at Hogwarts? You're bound to have lots more excitement than we will."

"I doubt it," Pippa laughed. "Hogwarts has become rather dull without it's chief troublemakers around. I hear parties were a lot more fun in the days when certain professors used to go shooting up into the air like rockets or bursting into fits of uncontrollable giggling."

"You've been talking to Flitwick," Sirius guessed.

Pippa winked at him. "Not only, but also. McGonagall still hasn't forgiven you for the fact that it was her Christmas pudding that Flitwick squashed when he landed. She's very partial to Christmas pudding."

"So that's why I got such low marks in Transfiguration that year," Sirius quipped with the air of someone making an amazing discovery.

Everyone chuckled, and they packed the rest of their things away and left.

* * *

Severus's mood had not improved by the time he met Josephine at the arranged place. She greeted him brightly, slipping her skinny arm through his and at once dragging him off in the direction of the little place where she had decided they would lunch. Even though the sun was shining, there was a distinct chill in the air. But this had not prevented Josephine from wearing what she liked. She had on a short black skirt and a pair of dark green cotton tights. Her jumper was wine red and she had tied a multicoloured scarf around her neck that looked as though she had knitted it herself - and she was not a very skilled knitter, if so. They passed a little side street and Severus suddenly stopped.

"No, it's this way," said Josephine, tugging at his arm. "There's nothing down there."

"There's the apothecary. Do we have time to pop in there and get something? It won't take long."

"All right," she agreed.

They went down the narrow street and Severus stopped at a spot where two large overflowing rubbish containers stood against the wall of a delapidated building. With Josephine still hanging on his arm, he went right up to the container on the left and walked through it.

Beyond the rubbish containers, the space opened out into a small but neatly arranged wizard apothecary, illuminated by a couple of oil lamps on the heavy oak counter. It smelled strongly of strange herbs, menthol and a few other things not so easily definable. The walls on either side of the door and behind the counter were lined with shelves, on which were stacked boxes of all sizes and colours, jars with oddly shaped contents - in some cases moving - and little dishes emitting puffs of differently coloured steam. A little bell floating unattached in mid-air above the door tinkled as they entered, and soon a small wooden door set in among the shelves behind the counter opened.

"Good mor...," said a polite voice, then halted.

Josephine, who had been standing looking at a jar containing what looked like live leeches on a shelf by the door with mixed fascination and revulsion, turned around to see what was the matter. The young man who had appeared through the little door was standing with his hand still on the knob, staring at Severus. He was short and stocky, with fair hair and eyes that looked positively shocked. Josephine had the distinct feeling she had seen him before, but she didn't know where.

"Pettigrew?!" Severus exclaimed.

The other gave a nervous attempt at a laugh. "H-hello Severus. What a surprise to see you here. Good morning, Miss," he added to Josephine.

She smiled broadly and marched right up to him. "None of that. Just Josie will do, since you two obviously know each other," she said, and held out her hand, which he shook very hesitantly, quailing under the thunderous look on Severus's face.

"What are you doing here?" Severus demanded.

"I'm helping my dad out while he's busy stocktaking. This is his apothecary. Didn't you know?" Peter replied.

"No. Do you think I bother to ask what an apothecary's name is before I let him serve me?" came the arrogant retort. "In any case, I wonder he trusts you to help him. You were never much good at Potions or Herbology - or anything else, for that matter."

Peter went red. "Well, of course I don't advise people. But if it's ingredients people want ..."

Severus snorted.

"Sevvy dear," Josephine put in, taking his arm once more and squeezing it. "Won't you hurry up and get what we came for? I'm starving."

Peter Pettigrew shot her a grateful look. "Y-yes, what can I help you with?"

Severus pursed up his lips. "I need some root of asphodel. Whole, not powdered. An ounce of frog liver and a jar of leeches."

Peter Pettigrew nodded and turned away, looking rather relieved. His hand shook under Severus Snape's cold stare as he scooped the frog liver onto the scales, weighed it and filled it into a jar. He placed it on the counter and went to fetch the asphodel. Then he began to thumb the prices into the ancient-looking cash register. Severus tapped his fingers on the counter impatiently.

"Have I f-forgotten something?" Peter asked.

Severus was about to say something cutting, when Josephine butted in again.

"Leeches, wasn't it? They're over by the door, I think."

She strode over to where she had been standing earlier, picked up a jar with two fingers only and, holding it at arm's length, brought it back to the counter. Peter Pettigrew entered the price and Severus paid. He waved Peter aside when he went to place the purchases in a bag and did it himself, making sure very noticeably that the labels were correct and the lids on tight.

"Right," he said. "Goodbye."

"B-bye," murmured Peter.

Josephine waved at him merrily and followed Severus outside. He had paused in the street, looking livid.

"What is it?" she asked him. "Who is this Pettigrew?"

"He's no one," Severus snapped.

Josephine laughed. "He looked like a person to me. Don't tell me he was at school with you too."

"Actually, yes. Potter's loyal lapdog," he sneered.

"Potter?" Josephine queried, ignoring the derisive comparison. "Oh, he was the one at the Banshee that night, wasn't he? The one that stopped Sirius and you fighting. Now I know where I'd seen this boy before too. He was there that night."

"Yes," Severus said, starting to walk back up the street.

"Was there anyone you actually liked at your school?" Josephine teased, hurrying to keep up with him.

"Not in Gryffindor," he snarled. "There were plenty of decent people in Slytherin. People who were not a disgrace to wizardkind."

"A disgrace? Well, I suppose I'm one of those too, aren't I?"

She grinned, indicating her clothes.

"No," he replied firmly. "I'm not talking about appearance. I'm talking about background. About purity."

"Are we back on the blood thing?" she asked, sounding a little bored as they walked back out onto the main drag.

"The 'blood thing', as you call it, is important. Our blood is what distinguishes us from the common. From half-bloods and mudbloods and muggles."

Josephine shot him a sidelong glance.

"Does it really distinguish us?" she asked. "Just because someone has a different purity of blood, does it make him so very different from someone else? I mean, do you look at a person and say 'Oh, he's different, he must have impure blood'? You can't tell, can you, from looking at a person, whether he or she has pure blood or not. Even when you've known someone for a long time, you might still not know whether their blood is pure. You might find that someone you like is about as impure as you can get. Or that someone you've always hated has much purer blood than you do. You don't know if people like, say, Sirius Black or James Potter might not be able to trace their bloodlines much further back than you can."

Severus gave a dry laugh. "Black and Potter. Pure-blood? Not likely!"

Suddenly he stopped and turned his head sharply.

"James Potter," he mused. "James ...," he placed a strong emphasis on the name. "How do you know his first name?"

Josephine replied quite naturally, "I don't know. You must have mentioned it some time. Why, did I get it wrong?"

"No. His name is James, all right." Severus was looking at her sharply. "But I'm quite sure I have never mentioned it. I've never called him by his first name."

"You must have done," Josephine said. "How else would I ..." She broke off, suddenly realising how she knew.

Her cheeks flushed. Severus watched her and his face hardened.

"How do you know?" he repeated.

Josephine's face grew suddenly defiant.

"Sirius Black told me," she said.

"Sirius - Black?!" Severus spluttered. Several passers-by turned their heads and looked at them. His hand closed more tightly over the bag containing his purchases and he pulled Josephine hurriedly back the way they had come, down into the side street, and hissed, "When did Sirius Black tell you that? When you were dancing?"

"No."

"Then when?!"

He shook her. Josephine wrenched her arm free of his grip, walked a few paces away from him, sighed and turned around.

"I met him. Not long after that day at the Banshee, in fact. He asked to see me and I - I went."

Severus's face turned slightly purple. "You ... went to see ... Sirius Black?"

"Yes. Oh, only the once," she added hastily. "Like I said, he wanted to talk to me about something and I ... There was something I wanted to ask him too."

"And what did you want to ask him that you couldn't have asked me?"

Severus's voice was rising in volume again. Josephine kept hers calm.

"About what had happened between you back when you were all still at Hogwarts. Well, it was obvious you didn't want to talk about it," she said defensively.

The anger inside Severus became red hot. So this was what he got for looking forward to seeing her, was it? After having hoped that, after a couple of months of awkwardness, things would finally be all right again, he was to find out that she had been seeing Sirius Black, of all people, behind his back? Had been talking to Black about their past, about Hogwarts, about him! Now, at least, he thought he knew where the awkwardness had stemmed from in the first place ...

"How could you?!" he yelled at her. "How could you go to meet Black when you knew very well what I thought of him?"

"I wanted to know what had happened. And - and ... You may hate Sirius, but I like him," she said shrilly.

"Oh, you like him, do you? I should have realised. You're a girl. And of course, all the girls like Sirius Black, don't they? Black the handsome, Black the ladies' man, Black the murderer! Well, if you like him so much, why don't you go back to him?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't like him in that way," Josephine protested. "You know I don't. And I've already told you I only met him the once. But I do think you're being unfair to him."

"Unfair? Josephine, he - he tried to kill me! Can you get that in that - that straw-filled head of yours? He's a common murderer."

Josephine's voice was quiet. "He told me about that."

"Oh yes? Rather proud of it, I expect. Proud of how he and Potter and their friend the halfbreed lured me down the tunnel that night, how they got away with it because Professor Monster-Lover Dumbledore didn't want anyone finding out one of his precious pupils was a werewolf."

"A werewolf," Josephine repeated quietly, understanding at last, "so that was it. Sirius wouldn't tell me. It was that other boy, wasn't it? At the Banshee. Sirius's friend ... You called him a - a ..."

"I called him a half-breed," said Severus. "Because that's what he is. And some day soon he'll be dead, because the Dark Lord will take over our world, and he will rid us of that kind of filth."

But Josephine was shaking her head, and suddenly looking very sad.

"No, no, he can't. He mustn't."

"Shut up," Severus snarled. "You're starting to sound like my mother. The Dark Lord will kill the werewolf Lupin, and Black the murderer, and Potter and Pettigrew and all the other mudbloods and squibs and half-breeds and scum of the earth. His Death Eaters will help him do so. I will help him do so. It is our mission and our destiny. We will have a pure world ..."

"No!" Josephine fairly screeched. She backed away, her eyes wide with horror.

Severus stared at her. "What's go into you?" he demanded. "Josephine, I'm talking about the purification of our world, about making it a decent place for people like you and me to live in."

But Josephine was shaking her head frantically, her eyes now brimming with tears.

"Listen to yourself," she cried. "You're talking of murder - mass murder. Of killing people just because they're different."

"Yes, because we are the ones who are pure, and we alone deserve to live ..."

"No, Severus," Josephine said quietly. "Don't you see? Can't you understand that it's - it's wrong. To kill people for something they can't even help. After having had such a narrow escape yourself - you could have become a werewolf that night, if you had been bitten. Do you think that boy wanted to become a werewolf? Do you think people choose to be born as squibs or half-bloods or muggles? You can't kill them just because of their blood, it's madness."

Severus drew himself up. "It seems to me that you're over-reacting. There is nothing more important than the purification of our world," he replied. "Nothing."

"Nothing," Josephine echoed sadly. "Not kindness? Not happiness? Not - not love?"

For a moment, a very brief moment, Severus hesitated. Then he said coldly, "Nothing."

Very slowly, Josephine nodded. Her voice changed, it became dry and emotionless.

"I don't think I fancy that lunch any more," she said. "I've lost my appetite. I'm going home. Goodbye, Severus."

* * *

A man stood alone by a small open window in the hallway of the fortress on Slytherin's Rock. His eyes were narrowed under the bushy eyebrows and his fingers tugged absent-mindedly at the moustache over his lip, until he realised what he was doing and stopped, remembering that he must never play with the moustache, but keep it perfectly groomed at all times.

He therefore smoothed what was currently his moustache and rested his hand on the window sill. He looked out across the sea sparkling in the midday autumn sunlight. A gull swerved far above and began to circle lower and lower. It landed on the waves close to the rocks and waddled ashore. It was strange, the man thought, that creatures so ordinary as seagulls should venture near this place. Even as he thought that, the bird took off again, uttering a mournful cry. He smiled wryly.

*That's it, fly away. You don't want to linger here if you can help it,* he thought, as once more the sound of pitiful screaming reached his ears.

He balled his fist on the window sill, so hard that the knuckles stood out white. More screams followed. The cries of creatures in pain, somewhere below him, down in the cellars or dungeons of this miserable place. He had never been down there. If he was honest, he didn't really want to investigate the cause of the squealing too closely. If he did, it was more than likely that his righteous anger at what these people did to the helpless would gain control, would overcome his resolve to keep his cover, no matter what happened. But it was hard in moments like these, when even the crashing of the waves was drowned out by those terrible sounds. His jaw clenched, and he focused purposefully on the farther shore, where a small beach between tall rocks was half bathed in sunlight and blue waves washed the sand.

He called up pictures from his memory and his mind readily projected one particular image onto that beach. The figure of a woman, small and slender, her brown curls framing the sweetest face he could think of, swam before his eyes. For a moment the screams, so close at hand, seemed to quieten, and he breathed in deeply. But then he heard the sound of muffled voices behind a nearby door, and he quickly cleared his mind of all those treasured memories. It would not do for anyone here to find out who he had been thinking about.

He turned away from the window just as a door to his left opened and three people emerged. The group was led by a man with very dark hair and a goatee beard. He spoke in accented English. The other two were Paula Lestrange and a thin, nervy-looking man he had only met once before. He did not know the man's first name, but knew him to be the brother of Paula Lestrange's husband. Paula Lestrange at once spotted the man she knew as Travers, and smiled across at him. It was a smile that he had seen her give several times before now, and it gave him the shivers every time.

When Paula Lestrange smiled, the corners of her mouth would curve softly upwards, and dimples formed in her cheeks. It was a smile identical to another that he knew - that of her sister, Pippa Pettigrew - except in one detail. When Pippa smiled, her pale eyes shone with a kindly light. In Mrs. Lestrange's case, that light was a malicious glow. She parted from the other two and came over to join him.

"Hello, Tiberius," she said.

As always, he flinched inwardly at the sound of that name. To carry the surname of Travers was not so bad. But to go around being called "Tiberius" ...

"Good morning, Mrs. Lestrange," he replied.

Her smiled stretched wider.

"It won't kill you if you call me Paula, you know."

"Presumably not."

She studied him, her head a little to one side. He pretended not to notice or care about her scrutiny.

"You look in a bad mood this morning," she said. "Why?"

He shrugged. He knew perfectly well where his bad mood was coming from, naturally. But he could hardly tell her that.

"I suppose you're bored," she went on. "We've not exactly given you an awful lot to do since you joined us, have we?"

"No," he agreed.

It was true that the man who went by the name of Tiberius Travers had been required to do very little since joining the Death Eaters. Beneath his disguise, Malcolm assumed that this was due to the fact that he had not been a Death Eater for long. Apparently, Voldemort and his supporters wanted to keep new members of their morbid club under observation for a while before sending them out "on the job", as it were. Secretly, he was rather glad of that. Travers had a reputation - as a ruthless killer who had first practised the killing curse on his neighbour's dog at the age of fourteen, and had since murdered more than just pets. And Malcolm, though the last thing he wanted was to blow his cover, had no intention of continuing that reputation.

Paula Lestrange, thankfully unaware of what was going through his mind, looked mildly triumphant.

"Ah, so I was right. You are bored," she declared. "Well, you needn't be for much longer. I've just been talking to Igor and Rabastan about a ... small matter. I can't tell you too much about it as yet. But let me just say that you may not have to be bored for too much longer. I shall talk to the Dark Lord about it later. On Wednesday afternoon we shall pay a nice little visit to the Ministry of Magic. It'll be risky, of course. There are a lot of Aurors about at the Ministry, and a lot of civilians most of the time. They might get in the way ... but that's half the fun, isn't it?"

Malcolm hitched a look of curiosity and carefully controlled eagerness on Travers's face. It served to conceal a very urgent thought. The Ministry. They were planning some sort of trouble at the Ministry on Wednesday afternoon. This, he thought, definitely qualified as information that needed to be passed on immediately. So far, he had done what Dumbledore had advised: nothing. He had observed, he had listened, he had made mental notes of all that he had found out. Dumbledore had warned him not to risk an attempt at communication with the Order too soon, while he might still be being closely observed by the Death Eaters around him. But he could not let this opportunity pass. It sounded like just the kind of event that could end in disaster. He resolved to send a note to Craigg at the Better Days this evening.

* * *

Wednesday Morning

Bridget stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom on Wednesday morning for an unusually long time. She felt restless and dissatisfied. Staring at her reflection without really seeing it, she was allowing her mind to dwell on all the things she should be trying not to think about. First and foremost in her mind was Malcolm. She missed him. She still marvelled at how suddenly and unexpectedly she had discovered just how much she cared about him. And she marvelled at how people could go on living with such dreadful worry as hers gnawing at their hearts. She had hardly slept since the last time she had been with him. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. At night she would dream of him, but they were not pleasant dreams. She constantly pictured him in trouble, in pain, even dead.

And when she was awake, not only did she spend much of her time wondering what Malcolm was doing, but she worried about everyone else around her too. Mrs. Hammersmith, for a start. The doctor had been wrong to count the old lady out so soon that summer. She had actually picked up a little after that seizure. But lately her health was declining rapidly, and it was terrible to watch her growing thinner and thinner, her skin greying. She barely ate anything these days, she couldn't lift a fork without help. It had hurt Bridget to have to do it, but in the end she had had no choice - she had called the doctor and he had arranged for Mrs. Hammersmith to go to hospital. What had pained Bridget even more than this was the fact that the old lady had not even had the strength left in her to protest. The doctor had spoken kindly to Bridget, had told her that there were places where people in Mrs. Hammersmith's condition could be cared for even better than the hospital. Nursing homes where she would receive all possible care and attention. But really, he had said, in his opinion it was not worth it. He had been wrong in the summer, but she could not last much longer now.

Bridget had cried that first evening when she had come home from the hospital and passed the flat on the fifth floor, knowing it was empty, and that her old friend was never likely to enter it again. James had found her in that flat later, packing together some of Mrs. Hammersmith's things to take to the hospital for her - a favourite vase, a picture of her husband, one of Bridget and the boys - with tears streaming down her face. He had tried to comfort her, but it had ended with them comforting each other. Both James and Sirius had been especially kind and helpful to her since.

She had not told them about her feelings for Malcolm, but she was sure they had found out somehow, because they so obviously avoided mentioning his name whenever she was around, and stopped talking about him and what he might be doing when she entered the room. Well, she supposed John or Faith or even Remus must have told them, since they would know. Or maybe they had worked it out for themselves. It didn't matter. In the mood she was in now, she was just grateful for every bit of consideration people showed her. She could not remember having felt so dreadful for years, and she almost despised herself for it. It was not like her to despair, or to feel so weak and helpless.

And the strangest thing was, she reflected, that while she sank deeper and deeper into a well of misery, of all the people around her whom she had expected to help her and be strong for her, Faith - who normally seemed to go to pieces over the smallest hint of danger - had rallied to the cause most excellently. Really, Bridget thought, Faith had been a rock these past months. It was odd. As though the threat of something uncertain was worse for Faith to bear than knowing her brother to be in immediate danger. Or maybe it was that Faith, when faced with adversity in her private life, always put other people's worries before her own. And the more John and Bridget both worried, the more Faith tried to help them feel better, to do little things for them to make the burden lighter. Perhaps, Bridget thought, that was Faith's way of helping the Order. She could not fight herself, she was neither courageous nor powerful enough. But she could offer support to those who were.

And as tears started back into her eyes and she wiped them away with her fingers, Bridget found herself wishing desperately that Faith had a telephone. She could do with a friend right now. But it was no good. It was Wednesday morning, and time to go out of the house. There was work to be done that would not do itself, and in any case sitting at home and moping would do no earthly good at all.

* * *

In a small antechamber behind a door marked 'Veritus Legis, International Magical Office of Law' at the Ministry of Magic, Peter Pettigrew sat at his desk, his hand moving slowly across a page of thick parchment, a long white quill clasped tightly in it. His tongue was protruding slightly between his lips and the fringe of his blond hair was drooping over his eyes. The door opened and he jumped to his feet as his boss entered, jerking his quill in so doing and leaving a very unsightly squiggle of ink right across his hard work.

"Morning, Pettigrew," said his employer.

Peter gave a polite reply.

Veritus Legis was a middle-aged wizard with a round, red face and very close-cropped greying hair. He was short and somewhat overweight, which as some unkindly noted gave him the appearance of a rubber ball on legs. However, he was a genial sort of man, sympathetic and kindly, though tough on any who disobeyed the law. Removing a well-worn black cloak, he hung it up on the cloak stand and proceeded,

"You're early this morning, young man."

"Y-yes I know, sir, but I wanted to get the minutes of yesterday's meeting written out neatly for you by midday."

Legis nodded approvingly, though his sharp blue eyes darted briefly to the squiggle now marring the page.

"Good, good. Actually, I'm glad you're early this morning," he went on. "We've got a dispute coming up for hearing later - just a small matter, but nonetheless. I'd like you to attend."

"Me, sir?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, Stele did his wrist in at the weekend playing some muggle sport. Squish or something. That sport where they use an oval net in a frame to hit a ball against the wall."

"Squash?" Peter offered.

"Yes, that was it. Squash. Sounds a damn silly name, and a damn silly waste of time to me. Anyway, Stele was playing it at the weekend, took a fall and landed awkwardly on his wrist, so he can't write. So Mulciber and I will be needing someone else to take notes for us, and I thought you might be interested in seeing the workings of the law first hand."

"Oh yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Good. Just finish what you're doing then, Pettigrew, and come into my office when you're done. Then I can fill you in on the procedure."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

"Concealment and Disguise," Sirius muttered impatiently under his breath. "What a stupid waste of time it all is."

"Shhh," whispered James, bending over his book, uncomfortably aware that Alastor Moody kept shooting critical glances in their direction.

"But you know I'm right," Sirius said in his ear. "With our special abilities, we could teach him a thing or two about disguise ourselves - Prongs."

"Will you shut up?" James hissed back. "The last thing we want is for him to find out about that."

Sirius grunted, and very grudgingly and unconvincingly pretended to return his attention to what Moody was telling them about various magical methods of changing one's appearance.

"Of course, probably the best method," he was saying in his growling voice, "is to become invisible. But there aren't many wizards and witches who can do that. Personally, I only know of three wizards alive today who can - and no, I won't be telling you their names. Invisibility Cloaks are the next best thing, but they have their disadvantages, as you may be aware. Yes, Miss Crimple?"

Mary had raised her hand. Sirius turned his head to look at her while she spoke. It was almost impossible not to look at Mary, he thought. Annoying as he had found her that time when she had founded the 'Potty Potter Fan Club', as he had called it, he had since come to realise what a good-looking young lady she was becoming. She had arranged her curls in rather an elegant tangle on top of her head today and now rested her pretty face on a slim, delicate hand as she had a habit of doing whenever she spoke.

"I was just thinking," she said in a very succinct voice that tended to be faintly condescending, but held a note of embarrassment at her own cleverness that never failed to endear her to the male population, "that Invisibility Cloaks are surely rather impractical as a means of concealment and disguise. After all, they are rather bulky. You could hardly hide an Invisibility Cloak under your coat or in a handbag, and it would look rather conspicuous if you went around with it draped over your arm."

"I think the idea is to wear the Cloak, Mary, not carry it over your arm," Benjy Fenwick pointed out amusedly.

She shot him a fiery look and he playfully pretended to cower under it.

"I meant," Mary went on determinedly, "that one does not usually wear such a Cloak all the time. And while you're not wearing it, it would only attract attention, since Invisibility Cloaks are both very rare and rather expensive."

"Ouch," James grumbled in response to a conspiratorial wink and a sharp-elbowed nudge in the ribs from Sirius.

"Also," the girl added practically, "Invisibility Cloaks can slip off you or shift, and people are sure to notice a pair of feet walking around by themselves, and find it very odd indeed."

"Very well, Miss Crimple," growled Moody. "What would you recommend?"

"A Disillusionment Charm," she replied promptly. "It's not quite as difficult as learning to become invisible, but almost as effective, since you just take on the colour of whatever background is behind you."

"Still takes a pretty powerful bit of magic though, doesn't it?" Sirius put in lazily, tipping his chair back a little.

Mary rounded on him. Her eyes flashed.

*I should ask her out again sometime,* Sirius thought.

Then again, he doubted she would agree to go out with him again. The last time he had asked Mary Crimple out, he had not exactly given her a very enjoyable evening, or even the attention she had a right to expect, he reflected.

"What would you do then?" she demanded.

"Well," he began, well aware that James was eyeing him very warily, "the best bet, to my way of thinking, is to be conspicuously inconspicuous."

Mary tutted and rolled her eyes.

"What nonsense," she said.

"No, it's not," Sirius objected, allowing his chair to drop onto all four legs again. "It makes sense. The best place to hide is when you're right under people's noses. That's their blind spot, you know. If there's a row of Death Eaters in front of you and you want to get by unnoticed, the best way is to find a disguise that doesn't make you invisible at all. I mean, imagine you're invisible. You're still solid, right? So they don't know you're there, and then they suddenly take a step sideways that you didn't expect and wham - they crash into you, probably grab hold of you as they fall, and they've got you. You'd find it pretty hard to explain that you're not up to anything fishy, but you just enjoy running round invisible. But get a simple disguise, one they can see but won't take any notice of because it makes you look like someone or something they have no interest in, and you're laughing."

"Like what?" Damian Diggle asked, gazing at Sirius with a look of deep interest and admiration on his face.

"Well, dress up as a beggar or something. Or the girls here could borrow a baby for the occasion." This remark earned a chuckle from the other boys and several huffs from the girls, but Sirius went on unperturbed. "No Death Eater's going to suspect a young mother going shopping with a pram of trying to spy on them. Of course, it would be ideal to be something like an animagus, or a metamorphmagus or something."

James felt his stomach do a backflip. He had known it. The minute Sirius had opened his mouth, he had known what he was getting at. Honestly, sometimes the silly idiot just had to get in a boast, especially if it was risky. Sirius, meanwhile, was smiling genially and quite innocently at their fellow Aurors-to-be. Frank Longbottom laughed heartily.

"Great plan, Sirius. Obviously, that would be ideal, but it's not all that simple, is it? Still, I think you have a point there. About being conspicuously inconspicuous, I mean." He turned to Moody. "What do you say, sir?"

Moody nodded gruffly. "Black's quite right, of course," he said. "The way that looks riskiest is often the safest. Well, we'll soon find out. Because I'm planning to test your skills at concealment in the field, as it were."

"Oh, really?" Florence Fortescue cried excitedly. "When?"

"Not telling," said Moody with a crooked smile. "It'll be soon. But I won't be warning you of the exact date. You just do some practising at whatever method you think's best, and we'll see which of you manages to show the rest they were right."

He proceeded to describe the methods of disguise that had so far been discussed in more detail, adding a few more suggestions which they all noted down. James risked a look at Sirius, who was looking entirely unconcerned, his dark head bent over his parchment.

"You just couldn't resist it, could you?" he whispered.

"You know me. Anyway, Moody said it himself. The way that looks riskiest is the safest. Now I've thrown in that bit about animagi, no one's going to suspect that ..."

"Will you cut it out?"

"Sorry." Sirius grinned. "But you've got to admit it feels good knowing we've got an advantage over them that they don't know about, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but it's an advantage we can't very well use in Moody's test," James murmured, though he couldn't suppress a slight smile.

* * *

Ill News Travels Fast

Bridget's mood was going from depressed to exasperated. She was dealing with a particularly troublesome customer: an elderly man who was looking for a suitable book to buy his fifteen-year-old granddaughter for her birthday. He had left it rather late, in Bridget's opinion, the birthday in question being tomorrow, and therefore was in a hurry as well as being very particular about what he chose.

Bridget had recommended various works of literature that she knew were well-written and held a lot of appeal for a girl of that age, but the old man had refused them all, claiming that his granddaughter was still to young for that kind of novel. Instead he spent his time picking one children's book after another off the shelf. Some of which, while featuring very sweet illustrations, contained barely any story at all, and all of which were aimed at a much younger generation of budding bookworms.

"Young lady, I really do not see what you object to where this volume is concerned," the customer was saying now, waving a thin booklet in her face. "It is informative, decent, ..."

"It was written for children who can barely read, sir. It's supposed to help get them interested in books."

"Yes, well, that's just what I need. My granddaughter has absolutely no interest in reading."

"Then perhaps, sir, you should consider a different sort of present," Bridget advised.

"No, I want a book. Every young girl should take a keen interest in literature."

"Then pick something with a subject that concerns her age group."

"I will not buy one of your teenage romance novels. She is far too young to be interested in that sort of thing," he declared pompously.

"That's all you know," Bridget murmured under her breath.

Luckily, the old man did not hear. He seemed to have made up his mind. Bridget was about to make one more attempt at changing it when the telephone on the counter rang.

"Hello?" said Bridget, picking up the receiver with the relief a welcome distraction brings. "Yes. Speaking. Yes. Oh." The relief changing quickly into dismay, she turned away from her customer and from Mrs. Shaw, who had come bustling to the front of the shop from the store room at the back. "You don't mean ...? I see. Yes, of course I - I'll come at once. Thank you."

She put the receiver down and stood for a moment with her hand still resting on it, aware that both her customer and Mrs. Shaw were watching her intently. She felt her hand tremble as she moved it away from the telephone and turned around. The old man looked annoyed, but Mrs. Shaw at once became sympathetic at the sight of Bridget's face.

"Has something bad happened, my dear?" she asked.

Bridget swallowed hard. "It's ... my neighbour. The one who's been in hospital for some time now and it seems - it seems ..."

She broke off, but there was no need for her to go on anyway. Mrs. Shaw began patting her arm consolingly.

"All right, dear. Don't upset yourself now. You just run along to the hospital and see your friend, I'll finish up here. Would you like me to call someone for you and let them know?"

Bridget shook her head, wishing fervently that she knew of someone she could turn to who had a telephone. If only Malcolm were there ... She said, "If anyone calls for me, will you tell them where I've gone?"

Mrs. Shaw promised that she would. Bridget quickly snatched up her jacket and hurried off to catch the bus.

* * *

Peter Pettigrew knocked on the door of his employer's office. In answer to the latter's call, he entered. Legis waved him to a chair and Peter sat. Veritus Legis continued to peruse the sheets of parchment in front of him for a moment, then he looked up.

"Finished your work?" he enquired.

"Yes sir."

"Good."

The older wizard bent his head over the documents once more.

"Hm. I'm afraid today's hearing isn't going to be very exciting for you, Pettigrew," he began. "Quite a petty business, if I'm reading these notes correctly. Young French couple returning from honeymoon accosted by wizard who begins insulting the girl as being not all human. New husband gets offended, tells the other chap to back off - hot-blooded, these French people. Chap does not back off. Duel ensues, young groom ends up being carted off to hospital with nosebleed and conjunctivitis owing to curses received. The whole thing is only prevented from getting too much out of hand, it seems, by young bride's sister intervening. Apparently she was there to pick them up. She seems to have had her wits about her, all right - used the full body bind to great effect. Young French husband now suing the other chap for damages and demands he be locked up for attacking him and his wife."

"Will he be?"

"I don't know so much about that. It'll be hard to prove who actually started the fighting."

"But that man insulted those people without reason, didn't he?"

"That's what they're claiming. But even if it's true, insults don't land you in prison, Pettigrew," said Mr. Legis. "Besides, whether or not it was without reason is a point for debate. You see, apparently the young bride really isn't all human. Got some Veela blood in her. Now that could cause problems."

"Why is that, sir?"

Legis shot him an astonished look.

"Why is that? Haven't you been following the news lately, lad? Part humans are getting to be about as popular right now as a bunch of nifflers at Gringotts. One quarter of the population thinks anyone who's not all wizard has no right to live, one quarter's terrified of being associated with anything but purebloods, one quarter's scared to death because they're not purebloods themselves ..."

Peter's brow furrowed. He thought for a moment, then he said,

"What about the last quarter?"

Legis smiled. "Not too bad on your maths, are you? The last quarter are muggles who haven't got a clue what's going on."

"They're probably a lot happier a lot of the time for not knowing about anything," Peter murmured. "I wish I were a muggle."

His employer shot him a shrewd look.

"Do you? Don't you think it's better to know what threat you're under than to be ignorant of the fact that any threat even exists?"

"No. N-not necessarily. Not if ignorance makes you feel safer."

"But doesn't that make it all the worse when the threat becomes a certain tragedy?"

"Some people do look at it that way, I suppose."

The young man looked awkward. Legis studied him for a moment, then he said matter-of-factly,

"Well, what you and I think of the state of the world is neither here nor there. My point is that, whatever the facts may be or however we may evaluate them, if it comes to a proper trial, there will be plenty who will vote that the fellow who insulted them was quite right to do so, and that being part Veela this young woman has no right to expect the same treatment as a pure-blood. So you see there's a potential for ... Yes?" he called as there was a knock on the door.

It opened, and in walked a man of about the same age as Legis himself. He was broader built, however, and tall, with a square chin and a toothbrush moustache. Though Legis gave him a polite smile, it was obvious that he did so to conceal an intense dislike of the newcomer.

"Mr. Mulciber. This is a surprise."

He did not say that it was a pleasant one.

"Morning, Legis."

The man called Mulciber came right into the room. He turned his head to look at Peter, and his piercing eyes seemed to take the young man's measure from head to foot, clearly disapproving of what they found. He returned his attention to the man behind the desk.

"Could I have a word?"

"Certainly," Legis said, keeping up the indifferent politeness. "Leave us, Pettigrew, will you? Go and make sure the small council chamber on this floor is in order - no need to go down to the court rooms for this - and get ready to receive these people in the Atrium when they arrive. Here's the file. Take a look through it."

He handed Peter the parchment and the latter withdrew.

* * *

As soon as she reached the hospital, Bridget rushed upstairs to Mrs. Hammersmith's ward. The nurse on duty - a ginger-haired young woman with an abundance of freckles across her nose - spotted her and came straight towards her.

"Ah, good mornin', Mrs. Potter," she said. "I'm so glad you made it. The poor ol' lady's been fretting something terrible, worrying as how you mightn't get here in time and she might die without seeing you. I told her. I says to her, I says, 'Now don't you go worrying yourself, Marm. She'll be along directly.' But she wouldn't hear none of it. 'I'm going to die,' she says. 'I'm going to die and I won't have seen her first. In a right old state, she's been. But you're here now, thank God."

"Yes, yes, I'm here. Did the doctor say - do you have any idea - how long ..." Her voice trailed away.

The nurse shook her head sadly. "It's hard to say, Mrs. Potter. Dr. Higgins reckoned last night as how she might be dead by morning, but he was wrong, you see? Dr. Jenkins now, he said he gives her till tonight, but that's at the most. I'm afraid she's failing, Marm."

"I - I see. Thank you. I'd better go along and see her then."

Bridget prepared to set off along the ward to the bed at the end, but was interrupted by a sudden outburst of noise behind her. She turned her head to see five people coming towards her. One was a man who looked to be in his mid-sixties. He was broadly built and not particularly tall, with grey hair and a square, expressionless face with an extremely weak chin. The woman beside him seemed about Bridget's age at most, perhaps a little younger. Her fair hair was thin, her face intended to be made interesting by a lot of rather garish makeup, which included bright red lipstick and ample amounts of dark blue eye shadow. But underneath all that she was a plain woman, conventional and with little or no charm about her. These two were preceded by a sort of advance guard comprised of three young and singularly unattractive children who made about as much noise as a primary school class out on a day trip. The man walked up the ginger-haired nurse.

"Excuse me," he began in a pompous voice. "My name is Hammersmith. I was told that I would find my aunt in this ward. Mrs. Hilda Hammersmith?"

"That's right, sir," said the nurse enthusiastically. "She's just down the end of this ward, sir. But I'm afraid she's in a bad way."

"Yes, yes, I realise that," he said curtly. He turned to the woman who was with him. "Perhaps the children had better wait here, Agnes."

She nodded, but what appeared to be the eldest of the children - a fair-haired boy - burst into loud protest.

"Why, Granddad? Why have we got to wait here? Why can't we come with you?"

His mother silenced him and the man turned away from the group. Bridget walked up to him.

"Excuse me," she said. "Mr. Hammersmith?"

"Yes," he said, looking at her blankly.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear ... I'm Mrs. Potter."

Bridget held out her hand, and with a look that held more annoyance than curiosity, the man shook it.

"Potter?" he repeated. "The name rings a bell. Are you an acquaintance of my aunt's?"

"I live in the same building. Mrs. Hammersmith was kind enough to take me and my son in years ago, when I was in trouble."

"Your son? Oh, wasn't he the one who rang me up a couple of months ago?"

"Yes, that was James."

"I see. Well, it's good of you to have come to visit my aunt, but her family are here now," he replied in a tone that said very definitely that he considered her a superfluous presence.

"I'm glad of that," Bridget said, struggling to keep her voice steady and polite. "So, shall we go along to see her?"

"Mrs. Potter," the woman called Agnes began tartly, briefly abandoning her children, who at once set about making a nuisance of themselves to one of the nurses on duty, "I'm sure we're all very grateful to you for what you have done for my great-aunt recently. We know there aren't many perfect strangers who would bother. But I really don't think that you need trouble yourself any longer."

"Oh, it's no trouble, I assure you. Besides, the nurse tells me Mrs. Hammersmith has asked to see me."

"Oh." Agnes seemed momentarily taken aback. "Well, in that case ... We'll tell her you came, of course. But I'm sure you'll agree that this is really a moment for the family," she finished in a sharp tone.

"Oh yes, I agree," Bridget retorted just as sharply. "Which makes me wonder what exactly you're doing here. It seems to me that you've developed family feeling a bit late in the day. Not only has your aunt not had so much as a Christmas card from you for years, but you couldn't even be bothered to come down and see her when my son rang you a couple of months back to tell you she was ill."

"Well, it clearly wasn't that serious," said Mr. Hammersmith. "After all, she didn't ... I mean ..."

"You mean she didn't die then," Bridget finished for him. "No. That was rather lucky for you, wasn't it, or you'd be too late now."

"Mrs. Potter!" the man exclaimed. "I do think you're being rather offensive about this ..."

"Oh, am I? Well, that's just too bad, I'm afraid. It so happens that I find it rather offensive myself to be referred to as a perfect stranger and sent packing as though I have no feelings. In my opinion we'd all be a lot better off if you'd just go back where you ..."

Bridget broke off, her speech coming in sharp breaths, her grief, fear and frustration getting the better of her, when she suddenly heard a soft voice call her name. She turned, and felt at once enormously surprised and extremely relieved to see none other than Faith Lupin coming towards her.

"Bridget," Faith repeated gently, taking her arm as she reached them. "My dear, I just came round to the shop to see if we could have lunch together and your boss told me ... I'm so sorry."

Bridget softened at once, her anger subsiding. Grief took over. She said nothing, but hugged Faith gratefully. Then she drew back, turned once more to Mr. Hammersmith and his daughter and said more calmly,

"There's no point in our arguing. We're wasting time. I think we should go and see her now."

Mr. Hammersmith, with an annoyed look at Faith, whom he seemed to regard as yet another intruder on the family 'grief', nodded and led the way. Bridget, taking Faith's arm again, followed and whispered,

"Thank you so much for coming, Faith. I'm afraid I was rather losing control of myself just then."

"Without knowing the exact circumstances, I'm sure you were well within your rights," Faith said. "These people don't strike me as particularly nice."

* * *

The Stage is Set

Peter Pettigrew checked his watch for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time discovered that the hands had barely moved. He felt nervous, and wished that his boss had not chosen to send him down to the Atrium alone to wait for the people involved in the hearing. Alone. It was almost the right word, as well. He had never known the Atrium to be so empty before. There was just one watchwizard asleep at his desk, and occasionally one or two people would cross to or from the golden gates. Other than that, the place was empty. It was strange.

As strange as the change of manner in his boss. He had only seen Legis briefly after his talk with Mulciber, and had found him sterner and more curt. He wondered what Mulciber could have said to effect that change, but had not wished to intrude in a clearly private matter.

A flash of flame flared up in one of the fireplaces and someone stepped out. For a minute Peter thought it might be the first of the party he was expecting, but then he recognised Gloria Boom. She spotted him while she was dusting herself off, smiled broadly and came over.

"Hello, Peter," she said cheerfully.

"H-hello," he replied, glancing over her shoulder in case the people he was waiting for should miraculously appear behind her.

Gloria turned her head to follow his gaze, her head tilted a little to one side. She looked back at him enquiringly. Peter's face flushed and he said quickly,

"I'm supposed to be meeting some people here and taking them up to Mr. Legis, my boss."

"I see. You are a busy bee then, aren't you? Well, I haven't exactly been idle myself. Just had a very bad case of splitching to deal with." She screwed her face up rather comically and gave a shudder. "You should have seen it. Half of this bloke apparated in St. Alban's, the other down in Eastbourne."

"That's a long way apart!" Peter exclaimed.

Gloria nodded excitedly. "Yes, but that's not all. He tried to get the half that was in Eastbourne to apparate back in St. Alban's, where it belonged. And what do you think? He only ended up splitching himself again, didn't he? The part in St. Alban's stayed put all right - right in the middle of a zebra crossing, as a matter of fact. Now if that wasn't a shock to traffic I don't know! The other half got splitched again, with one bit still stuck in Eastbourne and the other transported to Margate. Talk about taking the coastal route."

Gloria laughed, and Peter joined in. She had an infectious laugh. A rather awkward silence followed. At least, it was awkward to him. He didn't know if she knew what awkwardness was. She seemed to have such a cheery disposition, such an open nature, that it was impossible to imagine her experiencing such a feeling as awkwardness. She was a bright, shining girl, cheerful and full of life. Peter wondered that she could even be bothered to stop and talk to someone dull like him. He was about to say something of the kind, when several fireplaces along the wall flashed into life at the same time. He turned his attention that way, expecting the party he was waiting for to emerge from them, but instead five very unfriendly-looking characters materialised.

They were all of them dressed in long black robes with voluminous hoods hanging back over their shoulders, and not one of them was talking. They merely exchanged glances and curt nods and marched straight towards the lifts. Peter's eyes followed the group, his mouth hanging slightly open. Gloria followed their direction, then looked back at him and said,

"What's up, Peter? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

He didn't hear her. His eyes were still fixed on the figures now disappearing behind the closing lift doors.

"Polly?" he muttered, half wonderingly and half with concern. "Polly? Here?"

"Polly who?"

But Peter never got around to explaining, for the fireplaces came to life again, and this time a group emerged that seemed to fit the description in the file he'd read. Peter excused himself to Gloria and went to welcome them.

* * *

Bridget, Faith and the Hammersmith relations had been sitting by old Mrs. Hammersmith's bed for about an hour now. Mr. Hammersmith's daughter had left them once or twice to make sure the children were all right, which apparently they were - more than could be said for the nurses they were continually terrorising and under whose feet they were evidently getting. Mrs. Hammersmith had opened her eyes only once so far, and then she had clearly been too weak to speak. The ginger-haired nurse popped in now and then to adjust the tubes that connected the old lady up to various machines. Bridget shook her head and murmured quietly to Faith,

"She would have hated all this so much."

"Yes, from what you've told me about her over the years, I'm sure she would have."

"It seems so unfair," Bridget went on, "for her to have to put up with this. She hated being ill, she hated doctors and medication and hospitals."

"I know," Faith said. "This kind of ending is cruel for people who love an active life. In most cases I think when they reach this stage, they'd prefer it to end quickly. But instead they go on and on existing, until their bodies finally convince their brains to give in, and death comes as a relief. That's what happened to Christopher, in the end."

Bridget turned her head enquiringly. "Christopher?"

"Christopher Lupin," Faith explained. "John's father. He had always been such an active person. Used to take the three of us out a lot when we were children, and even in later years he used to take his broomstick and go out on the moors. Then he - he fell ill. It was a slow, painful decline, awful to watch. Though it was worst of all for John, of course. He adored his father. He took it hard."

Bridget nodded. "Yes. Yes, I can imagine John would."

She looked back at old Mrs. Hammersmith and gave an unhappy shudder. Faith grasped her hand. With a grateful look, Bridget said,

"Would you - could I ask you to do me a huge favour? I know I shouldn't be asking you to dash here, there and everywhere for me, but ..."

Faith smiled understandingly. "You want me to go to the Ministry and send James to you?"

"If you would," Bridget answered. "I'd be ever so grateful."

"Of course," Faith said kindly. "Leave it to me. I'm sure he'll come right away. And if ... well, you know John and I will be more than happy to have you come and see us tonight, and stay with us if you like."

"Thank you," Bridget said again.

* * *

Six people sat around an oval table in one of the smaller council chambers at the Ministry of Magic. Sitting at his own small desk a little way apart from them, Peter Pettigrew heard rather than saw them. There was Veritus Legis, whose voice was uncharacteristically subdued and lacking in his usual tendency to heartiness. The man called Mulciber, speaking quietly and distinctly. Monsieur François Delacour, who had a rather guttural voice with a strong French accent. His wife with her soft, musical tones. She did not appear to know much English, but her presence alone made a man believe anything she was saying, even without being able to understand a word of it. Then there was her sister, Désirée Dulac, who spoke excellent English in spite of a distinct accent. And a man with a deep, cold voice who had been introduced as Mr. Wallis, the man who had apparently insulted Madame Delacour.

How all these people had looked, what mannerisms they displayed and how they behaved to one another was something Peter would never be able to recollect afterwards. He listened only, he did not observe. He was far too nervous of missing an important word to waste time admiring Madame Delacour's beauty as Sirius would have done, noticing her young husband's utter and complete devotion or even wondering at the change in his employer's attitude.

For in view of the opinions he had voiced to Peter earlier that day, Veritus Legis was acting very strangely. So far, he had poo-pooed everything the 'accused' was reported to have said to Madame Delacour as being insignificant, not to be taken seriously, clearly intended as a joke rather than to cause offence, etc. etc. Now that they had come to the subject of the actual duel that had taken place, he seemed actually to be twisting everything the young Frenchman said around in order to make it sound as though he, not Wallis, had started the fight and he, not Wallis, had inflicted the most damage - this last despite the fact that Monsier Delacour was still sporting a black eye, had a plaster across his nose and his arm in a sling.

Peter Pettigrew merely wrote all that was said down, hardly paying attention to the contents until Monsieur Delacour's voice suddenly rose angrily and he jumped to his feet.

"Monsieur Legis! May I remind you zat it is my wife and I 'oo are ze plaintiffs in zis matter! You talk as if my wife 'ad done something to provoke zis man into insulting 'er."

"So she had," Mulciber said in a dangerously quiet voice, leaning forwards a little and staring hard at Madame Delacour across the table. "She existed. People like her should not be allowed to exist. Don't you agree, Veritus, my friend?"

For the first time, Peter looked up from his sheets of parchment. He fancied that Mr. Legis was looking queer, his eyes oddly empty. For a moment the man said nothing. Then Mulciber turned his head slightly towards him and prompted again,

"Veritus?"

The emptiness of Legis's eyes gave way to a hard, cold expression strangely similar to Mulciber's own. He gave a sharp nod.

"Yes, indeed. It is time that the halfbreeds in our world were taught a lesson."

With a crooked sneer, Wallis rounded on Madame Delacour. "You think that you can walk around as you please, taking up breathing space that belongs to pureblood witches and wizards. Well you can't. You're nothing but cum, both of you." He cast a glance at Miss Dulac, who had so far said nothing. "And any pureblood wizard who degrades himself by preferring your presence over that of a decent, pureblood witch, deserves to be killed just as much as you filthy halfbreed upstarts who aspire to infect our world with your impurity."

"You 'ave no right to speak to my wife like zat!" Delacour cried, outraged.

His hand went for his wand. In a flash, Wallis was on his feet and had his out too. Curses split the air. One of them grazed Legis's shoulder and caught him off balance, nearly knocking him off his chair. Peter made it as far as to stand up before he froze in mid-action.

Mr. and Mrs. Delacour had taken cover their side of the table, Wallis was crouched on the opposite side. Mulciber had withdrawn to the door and Legis was still half hanging off his chair, looking dazed and rather as though he hadn't a clue of what was going on. A hand descended on Peter's arm and pulled him down behind his desk. Gasping for breath from his surprise, he looked across at Miss Dulac, crouching next to him. The door to the council chamber opened. Through the forest of desk, table and chair legs before him, Peter saw one pair of black shoes leave the room, and several others enter, all of whose owners seemed to be wearing sweeping long black robes.

Next to Peter, Miss Dulac had taken out her wand too. He stared at her. She looked very much out of place, squatting on the floor in her elegant robes, her white fingers with their bright red fingernails gripping the small wooden rod that was her wand. She turned to him.

"We do not stand much of a chance against zese people," she whispered hurriedly. "We need 'elp."

"Wh-who are they?" Peter stammered.

"Death Eaters, I presume."

He paled. "D-Death Eaters? Here, at the Ministry?"

The look she gave him was filled with both pity and annoyance with his naivety. "Yes, 'ere. And if we do not act quickly, zey will soon 'ave achieved zeir objective to kill my sister, 'er 'usband, and probably me. Now, I will 'elp to 'old zem off as long as possible, but zere are only three of us and many more of zem. It does not seem to me that Monsieur Legis will be of much assistance. You must go and get 'elp."

Peter swallowed hard, aware of the many dangerous curses that were flying back and forth across the room, shattering furniture and bits of the wall as they missed their intended targets.

"I will cover you while you make for ze door," Miss Dulac told him. "Do not look back, do you 'ear? Just 'urry."

He nodded nervously. With a moment's delay and a deep breath, Miss Dulac leapt out the other side of the desk and fired two curses in the Death Eaters' direction. Peter scrambled along the length of the desk the other way. He hesitated. What if one of the Death Eaters saw him? What of they killed him before he even reached the door? He saw a red spark fly across the room and strike the wall behind Miss Dulac's shoulder. He would have to go. Shaking all over, he threw himself flat on his stomach and started to crawl towards the door. His eyes were half closed with fear, and he kept their vision firmly focused on the opening before him, trying not to pay attention to the many pairs of feet around him, the shouts, yells and curses.

He reached the door at last and scrambled to his feet. As he did so, he caught the eye of one of the Death Eaters. The man stared at him through the slits in his mask for a moment, then suddenly he yelled,

"Oi! You!" and directed his wand in Peter's direction.

Peter darted out of the room at once and heard a crash and splintering noises behind him, where a curse had just struck the door frame just above where his head had been. He charged along the passage towards the lifts, and the second the door to one of them opened, swung into it. As the doors closed behind him, he thought he saw the Death Eater who had fired a curse at him come hurrying along the passage after him.

* * *

An Unexpected Turn

The Auror headquarters were practically empty. Most of its personnel were either out on duty or had gone for a break. Laura Lovegood, busy removing the pictures of criminals off the walls of her office who had since been apprehended, was interrupted by a knock on the open door. She looked up, and was more than a little displeased to see Mr. Bartemius Crouch in the doorway.

"Ah, Miss Lovegood," he said with an artificial air of one surprised to find her there. "Left you holding the baby, have they?"

"Mr. Crouch," she replied, politely but coolly. "What can I do for you?"

"As a matter of fact," said the man, "I was hoping I might catch you alone."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, indeed. May I ...?"

He came into the room, closed the door and sat down before she could reply either way.

"I was wondering whether you might have heard anything from our mutual friend, Mr. Marley."

Laura was genuinely surprised. "You mean Malcolm? Why would I hear from him? And why would it matter if I had?"

"To answer your questions in order: Malcolm? Yes, Malcolm. I know of no other Mr. Marley. Why would you hear from him? Because, apart from being your partner in crime detection, I believe he was also a friend of yours - some say more than that. Why would it matter? Because Marley has a tendency to pigheadedness that could prove a risk to us now that he is no longer an Auror. He is not the sort of man to step aside quietly and leave the job to others just because it is no longer his to handle. His landlady hasn't seen him at his flat for quite a long time, yet his bills are still being paid. To me, that indicates he is still in the country, carrying out some hidden agenda of his own that could interfere with our work when it is most inconvenient for him to do so. So, will you answer my question now?"

Laura considered for a moment. Then she said steadily,

"I have not heard from him. I have only spoken to him once since you fired him. And that was shortly afterwards. I'm sure there is no need for you to be concerned. Malcolm would never do anything to interfere with our work. He was a good Auror - one of the best."

Bartemius Crouch returned her reproachful look coldly.

"So you claim you don't know where he is or what he's doing?"

"I don't." In answer to her superior's disbelieving expression she went on, "Malcolm and I worked well together as a team. That was all. Occasionally he might tell me what he'd been doing at the weekend, occasionally he wouldn't. I have no idea where he went after you fired him ... sir. If you really want to find him, I suggest you ask someone who is more likely to know. His brother-in-law, for instance. He works here, at the Ministry."

Crouch rose impatiently.

"I have spoken to Mr. Lupin. He claims not to know anything either."

"In that case ..." Laura spread out her hands apologetically.

"He's lying," Crouch affirmed. "He's not a good liar. I told him so. That much he admitted freely. But he still refused to change his statement."

"And why should he do otherwise? Malcolm no longer works as an Auror, and he has not committed any crime. That takes away the only two possibly options that would give you a right to insist on knowing where he ..."

She was interrupted, perhaps rather opportunely, at that moment by the rushed arrival of Peter Pettigrew. He looked startled to find Auror headquarters so empty and hurried over at once. Ignoring Mr. Crouch, whom he had never met, he turned at once to Laura.

"M-Miss Lovegood, quick, there's a fight going on down on level five."

"A fight? What sort of fight?" Crouch asked.

"Death Eaters," Peter panted. "They burst in on the hearing ..."

He got no further. Laura immediately strode to the door at the back and pulled it open.

"Mr. Moody - you were right," she said briskly. "It's happened."

Alastor Moody emerged from his office, shaking his hair back and pulling his wand out of his pocket.

"Whereabouts?" he asked her, then stopped when he saw Peter. "International Magical Office of Law," he murmured to himself. "I see."

Reaching inside his coat pocket, he looked around him and whistled. A small owl came flying up. Moody produced a small scrap of parchment that appeared to already have writing on it, swiftly pointed his wand at it, muttered something, then shook the parchment quickly to disperse the smoke it was suddenly emitting. Peter saw that it now had a number five burned on it beneath the scratchy writing. Moody tied the note to the owl's leg.

"John Lupin, level four," he said gruffly.

The owl took off at once.

"What's going on?" Crouch demanded.

"We knew there'd be some funny business," Moody told him. "That's why we made up all sorts of excuses to keep most personnel out of the building today. Don't want to invite disaster."

Crouch looked around him. "Where are the Aurors?"

"Not far," said Laura, taking out her wand and stepping towards Moody. "Shall we go, sir?"

He nodded.

* * *

From under Travers's black mask, Malcolm watched Peter Pettigrew disappear into the lift and gave a secret sigh of relief. He turned back to the hearing room and almost collided with the masked Paula Lestrange coming the other way.

"Did he get away?" she asked.

"I'm afraid so," Malcolm replied. "We'd better go. The Aurors won't be far away."

She nodded and called back into the room, "Aurors on the way. Time to go."

The other Death Eaters stepped over the now unconscious bodies of their adversaries towards the door. Wallis, the only one not wearing a mask, paused in the doorway and looked back. Before Malcolm even realised what he was about to do, he had raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra," the Death Eater said lazily.

A green spark emitted from his wand and struck the semi-conscious Veritus Legis full in the chest. Malcolm suppressed a gasp with difficulty, grateful that his mask concealed the shock that must otherwise have been plainly visible on his face.

"He'd have been no use to us," said Wallis. "We always knew he'd fight Mulciber's Imperius Curse. And then he'd have let on who put it on him. Which reminds me ..." He looked around searchingly. "Where's the kid?"

"What about him?" asked the voice of Rabastan Lestrange.

"Mulciber told me he was there when he went in and put the curse on his boss," Wallis explained. "I don't like witnesses."

"He got away," Paula stated factually, and Malcolm wondered if she knew that the boy in question was her own brother. He thought she might - but she obviously didn't care.

"Well, we can't hang around," he made himself say. "The place'll be swarming with Aurors soon."

Paula gave a queer laugh. "Yes. Isn't it exciting?"

Rabastan tugged at her arm. "Let's go."

Well aware that it was impossible to disapparate on this particular floor of the building - a security measure that Crouch had insisted on - they headed quickly towards the golden-grilled lifts. They were almost there when they saw one of the lifts descend from above. It was not empty. Four people were in it, and Malcolm recognised them all at once, even before the grilles slid aside. Sparks began to fly back and forth at once. The only one not joining in was Wallis, who had turned his back to the lifts while he pulled a mask over his face. Malcolm carefully aimed his wand at a point just right of Crouch's head. The older man flinched as a small part of the wall beside him exploded and showered him with plaster, but he was unhurt.

"Get the kid," Malcolm heard Wallis order.

At once, his suspicions regarding Paula Lestrange were confirmed. Without hesitation, she directed her wand straight at her brother and sent a shot of green light flying towards him. But Laura Lovegood was fast. Seeing the curse coming, she dived sideways and pulled Peter down to the floor with her. With relief, Malcolm saw the force of the curse impact the closing lift doors and shatter them instead of killing their intended target. Meanwhile, the doors of one of the lifts coming up from the Atrium slid open.

"In!" he yelled, and pushed Paula into the open lift before she could do any more damage.

The others followed them quickly, Wallis hanging back till last, muttering something under his breath. The grilles closed behind them and they travelled quickly upwards.

"Pity you missed that boy," Rabastan said to Paula.

"Doesn't matter," Wallis assured him. "I managed to modify his memory. I've always been pretty good at fast memory charms, though I say it myself."

Malcolm's relief grew. They travelled up a couple of floors, catching their breath, before Paula said,

"This is no good. We've got to get to the Atrium."

"Don't you think that's what the Aurors will be waiting for?" Malcolm pointed out.

"Yes, but we've got to get out of here somehow."

The lift made its announcement.

"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services."

Eager to prevent a catastrophe if he could, Malcolm made sure he was first to step out of the lift. He headed for one going down. Standing there waiting for it, he found himself wondering if there was really no other way out that would not take them back past Moody and the others, or any other Aurors that must be around somewhere.

*Stop it,* he told himself, *You're starting to think like some sort of criminal.*

A lift arrived, going downwards. They all stepped behind the grilles. Malcolm was aware of his breath coming heavily as it began to move. They passed level three. There was no sign of anyone. Malcolm wished fervently that he knew what exactly the plan was. He assumed Dumbledore must have received his warning. There would have been more people about if he hadn't. But what had the Order decided to do? They had clearly emptied the Ministry as far as possible without making it too obvious. But now what? Would the Aurors simply sit tight and wait for the group of Death Eaters to depart? That was probably the best bet, but then Paula and the others would surely grow suspicious. No, the Aurors must be about. But where?

Level four. Suddenly, it all happened rather fast. The lift stopped. Not as it normally did, but abruptly, as though someone had literally thrown a spanner in the works. It would not go on. The grilles slid aside and they had no choice but to exit onto the corridor - a corridor that had been empty on the way going up, but which was now full of familiar faces for Malcolm. So this was where the Aurors were, or at least some of them. The eldest and most experienced of his former colleagues looked as though they had been waiting for this moment all day, if not all week or even all their lives. Their expressions were grim.

The fight began at once. There was little cover to be found in the corridor of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. John had explained once that the idea of having shelves and cupboards in the hallways had been abandoned after a family of vampire flees had decided to nest in the warm and inaccessible spaces behind them, coming out every once in a while to bite an unsuspecting employee. It was clear to Malcolm, however, that these Aurors had been told to be careful with their spells. They were holding back, dodging and using defensive spells rather than attacking the group of Death Eaters. A few of them entered into duels with one or two of the Death Eaters, but he was pretty sure they had no intention of really holding any of them.

He heard a rattling sound close by. Another lift. It was going up. But that was better than nothing, it would get them out of this difficult fix. He backed towards it, using a shield charm to easily block one of the Auror's curses. He felt the grilles slide back behind him, he stepped backwards into it, the other Death Eaters following suit, he heard a muffled scream he turned round ... and felt an impact of shock so fierce that it made the world around him spin as though he had just been dealt a physical blow to his head. The lift he had backed into had not been empty. There was someone in it. Someone who had simply wanted to go upstairs, so it seemed. Malcolm cursed inwardly. The idiots. Instead of hanging around on level four to stage a weak attempt at preventing the Death Eaters' escape, why hadn't those damned fools of Aurors waited down in the Atrium to prevent anyone from entering the lifts?

"Grab her!" he heard Paula yell.

Her voice echoed in his head like that of a harpy in some of the worst nightmares he had had as a child. But even those nightmares had never been as bad as this. Not once in his life had he dreamt that one day he would be standing in a large, golden-grilled lift at the Ministry of Magic, pretending to be a murderer, on the run from Aurors with his own sister as a hostage!

He forced himself to come back to his senses just in time, stepping in just as Wallis was about to. Taking Faith's arm in a firm grip that he hoped had not hurt her as badly as her terrified face indicated and praying silently that he could get her out of this mess unscathed and without having to drop his cover so soon into his mission, he pulled her up to the grille and stepped back out of the lift beside the triumphant Paula, making sure the Aurors could see just what the situation was. He saw their looks of dismay as he and the Death Eaters moved sideways to the nearest undamaged lift going down.

"Don't try and stop us," Paula Lestrange warned them coldly. "We will now take this lift down to the Atrium. From there we will disapparate. If anyone tries to prevent us from doing so, she dies. Is that quite clear?"

As yet another set of golden grilles closed before his eyes, Malcolm saw one of the Aurors in the front row nod. He also saw something else. John had just stepped out of a door just behind the man's shoulder. His face, which Malcolm could only see for the briefest of moments, registered complete horror as he came running up to the already descending lift.

"Faith!" he yelled.

Malcolm clapped his hand firmly over his sister's mouth before she could call back. She struggled, but he held firm.

*Don't let her do anything to provoke them,* he thought desperately.

* * *

John Lupin stood back from the space where the lift had been, feeling utterly dazed. He felt someone come up beside him, but did not look round.

"Idiots," Alastor Moody said angrily, voicing Malcolm's thoughts of moments before. He turned on the others. "Idiots! I thought I ordered the visitor's entrance to be sealed up once we knew the Death Eaters were in the building, and the fireplaces watched. Who's the watchwizard on duty?"

"Barney Doze," one of the Aurors replied.

"The man who holds the national record for sleeping on duty!" Moody exclaimed. "Damn. I shall have his guts for garters for this!"

"But not now," said Crouch. "We need to act fast. I don't know where the rest of you are ..."

"On their way to the Atrium," Moody told him. "Well, they should just be arriving. Waiting to stage a final attempt at preventing the Death Eaters' escape."

"Attempt?!" Crouch was beside himself. "Attempt? I ... what were the Death Eaters doing here, anyway?"

"They came to stir up a bit of trouble at a basically rather insignificant hearing. Their idea of fun, I suppose. Not old Legis's idea of fun though, I'll bet."

"Legis? What about him?"

"Dead," Moody said emotionlessly.

At last, John turned his head sharply.

"Dead?" he repeated hoarsely. "My God ..."

"It'll be all right," Laura Lovegood said soothingly. "He won't let anything happen to her."

"But why did she have to come?" John asked. "Why? I was so sure she'd be quite safe. She said - she said she wanted to stay at home all day with Remus. She told me so."

Laura patted him gently on the arm. Bartemius Crouch drew himself up.

"They're not going to get away with this," he said grimly. "This has got to stop. We can't have them marching in here as if they own the place, murdering as they please. We're going after them."

To everyone's surprise, he motioned to them to follow him, and led the way to a small door at the far end of the hallway. It opened into a cramped storage space. An empty storage space. Taking out his wand, Crouch ran it in a circular pattern over a solid brick wall. A hole appeared there, widening fast until it was large enough for grown men to walk through onto a very narrow, very dark winding staircase leading both upstairs and down.

"Very clever," Moody murmured. "Yes. I always knew there was a secret escape route only certain people knew about. So you're one of the certain people, eh?"

With a brief smug grin, Crouch turned to the Aurors.

"This will get you down to the Atrium before the lift, if you hurry. I want those Death Eaters stopped. I don't care how you do it, just stop them. Use any means you have to. And I mean any means. I am hereby authorising the use of the Unforgivable Curses," he added with an almost triumphant look at Moody.

Several of the Aurors nodded and moved through the hole. Moody held Crouch's gaze steadily.

"Well," the Auror said in his growling voice, "you've got what you wanted, at least. You've been after authorising those curses for ages, haven't you? But you're making a mistake. Those Death Eaters must not be stopped."

"They will be stopped," Crouch insisted.

"What about my wife?" John demanded. "Have you thought about what might happen to her, with all your curses flying about?"

He looked nearly frantic with fear.

"Those people have committed a murder today, Mr. Lupin," said Crouch. "I am determined not to let them get away with it, whatever the cost."

"The hell you are!" John exclaimed, and pushing the man aside, he hastened through the hole after the Aurors.

"Whatever the cost?" Laura Lovegood repeated, turning slowly to face her superior. "Are you saying that apprehending a group of murdering Death Eaters justifies the sacrifice of yet another innocent life in the process?"

"I am saying that preventing several further murders in the future justifies the loss of one life in the present."

Laura stared at him coldly. Then she said quietly,

"I'm going down to see what I can do. But when I come back upstairs, I shall be resigning, Mr. Crouch."

* * *

James, Sirius and Frank were positioned down in the Atrium with a number of fully trained Aurors. They had insisted on not being kept out of this encounter with the Death Eaters on the grounds that they had not yet completed their training, and Moody had apparently seen no reason not to let them have their way. Sirius was fingering his wand eagerly.

"Come on," he murmured under his breath, apparently speaking to the Death Eaters, who had not yet made an appearance in the Atrium.

James grinned at him. "Hold your horses, Sirius. There's not much we can do anyway. We've got to let them escape."

"Yes. Worse luck," Sirius grumbled. "I thought the idea of Malcolm getting in with the Death Eaters was to help us catch them."

"Right. But not when he's with them. Especially when we don't know which one is him. Hello, now what?"

He had just noticed a group of people appearing along a corridor. He recognised them as Aurors, and with them was John Lupin, talking urgently to what appeared to be the Auror in charge. He came over to them.

"John," James said, "what are you doing here? I thought the idea was Aurors only. What's happened?" he added, noticing the look of anxiety on John's face.

But John did not have time to explain, for at that moment the lift arrived, and the Death Eaters stepped out, leading a terrified-looking Faith in front of them.

"Oh hell," Sirius exclaimed.

All of them watched, fully alert, as the Death Eaters advanced. Peter Pettigrew came up beside James. He was shaking.

"Stay back!" the Death Eater leading the group warned them.

As the Aurors all moved to form a circle, wands held out before them, James heard Peter murmur next to him,

"My God ... that sounds like Polly's voice."

The woman went on.

"Now, we are going to disapparate one by one. Don't try to stop us, or we will kill this woman." She indicated Faith, whose eyes were wide with fright.

Then she nodded to one of her companions. He returned the gesture, and disappeared instantly. One of the Aurors made to step forwards and intervene before more Death Eaters could follow, but John held him back.

"Let me go," the man whispered. "I've got my orders. We can't let them escape."

"Oh yes, you can. You're not going to do anything to endanger my wife!" John's voice shook with fear, but his eyes were cold and determined, and his wand was in his hand, pointing at the Auror.

"Step aside, Lupin," said Bartemius Crouch, appearing beside them, "I can understand your concern, but while we're wasting time talking, the Death Eaters are escaping, and all they'll do when they've got away is go out and threaten and harm and kill more innocent people. I'm sure that's something neither of us want to happen."

James stepped in. "John," he said quietly, "... you know Malcolm's one of those Death Eaters. He won't let anything happen to her ..."

John ran his fingers through his hair and nodded. He bent his eyes towards the Death Eaters once more. There were only three left now. The woman and two men, one of whom was holding Faith in a firm grip, preventing her from struggling loose. And suddenly John noticed something about that man. Something about his stance, the way he was holding his wand against his captive. He was standing with one shoulder, the right, a little forward, the other drawn back. That way, Faith was actually standing more to the side of him than in front, shielding him as she should be. In fact, any spell cast in their direction would be likely to cause more harm to the Death Eater than to her. John let out a quiet sigh of relief that caused Sirius and James to look at him rather surprised. Their bewilderment increased further when he murmured under his breath,

"Nottingham. Of course."

Suddenly, pushing the Auror and Mr. Crouch aside, he strode forwards, brought his wand up quickly and in a flash sent a powerful Reductor curse flying at the Death Eater holding Faith. They both went down before anyone had time to react. The Death Eater at once began scrambling back onto his feet, but the curious thing was that he did not try to grab Faith again, who had received less of the impact of the blow and was crawling away from him. In fact, it seemed to the boys that he was actually positioning himself so as to block the line of fire for the other Death Eaters' wands. And suddenly they understood. James and Sirius exchanged grins. The Aurors advanced, and the final Death Eaters quickly disapparated all at once before they could be apprehended.

John, his wand still in his hand, ran across the Atrium to where Faith was just getting to her feet and helped her up. James and Sirius came up behind him, and soon Peter, Laura and Moody caught up with them too.

"You all right, girl?" Moody asked gruffly.

Faith looked shaken and was clinging to John, but she nodded. "Yes. Yes, I think so. He ... he didn't really hurt me."

"No," said Sirius with a grin. "He wouldn't."

Faith looked enquiringly from him to John. He said nothing, but his smile seemed to give her the answer she needed. She smiled back.

"I see."

Seeming to relax, she closed her eyes for a moment. Then John said softly,

"What were you doing here anyway? I thought you were going to stay home ..."

Faith's face became upset again. "Oh, yes. I decided to go out just for a little while and see Bridget. Remus said it would be all right, he was going to get some sleep and wouldn't be needing anything. But Bridget wasn't at the shop. I went to the hospital to see her there, and she asked me to come here ..." She turned to James. "She wants you, dear. Do you think you could get away?"

James swallowed hard. Sirius's face lost its cheer. Moody growled sympathetically,

"Yes, he can get away all right. Off you go now, Potter. Take as long as you need. You too, Black. You've both done enough for today."

The two boys nodded.

Faith went on, "Look, I know this has been a hard day for all of us, and ... well, I've already told your mother, James, that you're welcome to come and stay with us tonight if you feel you want to. All right?"

"Thanks," said James, and he and Sirius headed for the exit. John turned to Faith once more.

"That's the second time you've ended up right in the middle of a dangerous Death Eater attack. Please don't do it again, darling, or you might finally frighten the life out of me."

Faith kissed his cheek, and wrapped her arms around him.

* * *

The Day's End

Back on Slytherin's Rock that night, Malcolm stepped out of a back door and took a short stroll down the rocks, then stood looking out across the black sea under a moonlit sky. There was a chill wind blowing in his hair and biting his face, but he felt he needed that. It reminded him that he, Malcolm Marley, was still alive somewhere under the shell that imprisoned him: the shell that was Tiberius Travers.

He sat down on a rock and thought back over the events of the day. It had been a bad day. He had though that, having warned Dumbledore of what was likely to occur, he could prevent anything bad from happening. He had been wrong. Those two young people - they would recover, he was sure, but they had received something of a shock. And Désirée. It had given him quite a turn to see her there. And then Wallis murdering that man, and his momentary fear that Peter Pettigrew would be killed too.

But nothing had compared to the horror of coming across Faith in that lift. He hoped he had not frightened her too much, that she was all right now and that the Death Eaters had not remarked his reluctance to hurt her. It did not seem as though they had. And he was glad that John had cottoned on to what he was doing. The old trick. Him and John playing Robin Hood. John playing the Sheriff of Nottingham, pushing his arm in front of his "hostage", Lady Marian - played by Faith as customary - and himself, as Robin Hood, using a much weaker form of the curse John had employed today to send them both flying and rescue the fair maiden. The good old days ...

He smiled to himself. It was good to remember times like those, once in a while. To remember what you were fighting for. For children now and in the future, children who were like he and John and Faith had been. Happy children. Children who could play in the woods without being afraid of anyone coming to hurt them or their parents, just because they were different. Children. Suddenly he found himself picturing a little house, somewhere on a cliff with a garden overlooking the sea, and two children with curly brown hair - beautiful children, he knew, though he could not see their faces - playing with a ball. He could picture Bridget, smiling as she watched them ... How strange, he thought, that he could suddenly picture scenes like that. He had always been so essentially an uncle. It had never occurred to him before that he would ever seriously consider fatherhood. But he would think no further of it now. No, not now. He, Malcolm Marley, would not put a child into the world as things were now.

* * *

It was over. Mrs. Hammersmith was dead. She had struggled against the inevitable to the end, but finally she had succumbed. Shortly before it had happened, she had regained consciousness once more. Seeing her family sitting by her bed, she had at once sent them away. She had not wanted her nephew or his daughter to be with her. She had held Bridget's hand and told her in a voice that was so weak that it could barely be heard,

"Thank you, my dear. Thank you for everything. You've been good to me, always. As good as a daughter."

Bridget had smiled and kissed the old lady's cheek, and Mrs. Hammersmith had smiled too and turned her head to look at the boys.

"Sirius ... I'm sorry if I've been ... a bit distant with you. It meant nothing. It's just ..."

He had answered quickly,

"It's all right. I understand, Mrs. Hammersmith. Really I do."

She had managed a nod and looked at James.

"Jamie ..."

"I'm here."

"I know you are," she sighed. "Dear Jamie. I know you've always been there when you were needed, and you always will be. You're a good lad. Be good to your mother."

"I will," said James, and Mrs. Hammersmith nodded.

"Yes, you will."

She had lain there another half hour or so after this, exhausted and unable to move or speak. Then, at last, she had tried to say something more, but she had not had the strength. Finally, she had let out a sigh, and breathed no more.

Now, Bridget, James and Sirius were sitting on a bus taking them home. They said nothing. Bridget was holding a tissue to her face and James's eyes were very red. Sirius looked both solemn and uncomfortable. The bus stopped and they got off. Bridget fumbled trying to get her key in the lock, and in the end Sirius took it from her and unlocked the door. They began to climb the stairs, but when they reached the fifth floor, Bridget stopped. Suddenly tears filled her eyes again and she broke down completely. Putting his arms around her, James looked rather helplessly at Sirius across her shoulder.

"You know," Sirius said, "I think perhaps it would be better if we didn't stay here tonight. Faith said we could come round any time. I think we ought to take her up on that, don't you?"

James nodded. "Yes, good idea. What do you think, Mum? Would you like us to go to John and Faith's?"

Bridget nodded. "Yes. Yes, I - I think I would."

Making sure they were unobserved, they apparated a little way from the Lupins' house and walked there. Faith was in her night gown, but she and John welcomed them warmly and made some steaming hot chocolate. Remus appeared a while later, looking ill and very tired, but anxious to offer his condolences and help in any way he could. It was the early hours of the morning before any of them went to bed. Faith went first. Sirius and James bedded down on mattresses in Remus's room, but Bridget still couldn't bring herself to go upstairs. At about half past three, John - looking dead on his feet by now - persuaded her to come upstairs. He led her into the spare bedroom and made sure she was comfortable. But as he was about to leave, she turned and held out her hand to him.

"John," she called appealingly.

He came back and sat down, taking her hand.

"Yes, Bridget?"

For a while she said nothing, but just held onto his hand for comfort. Then she murmured,

"Do you think he's all right - Malcolm, I mean? It's been such a day ... I've missed him more than ever. And I've been thinking - if anything were to happen to him ..."

"He's all right," John assured her. Then he added. "I saw him today. No, I won't go into details now. You need to get some sleep. I'll tell you tomorrow. But I promise you he's all right."

Bridget nodded slowly, and finally released John's hand. He paused in the doorway and watched her snuggle under the covers, her body apparently relaxing at last. He only had to wait a few minutes to hear her breathing coming regularly. She was asleep.