Three Animagi and a Werewolf

Chapter 26: Future Foreshadowed

Aftermath

The social life of Frank Longbottom in the weeks following what the Daily Prophet had termed the "St. Mungo's Massacre" shrank in upon itself until it was practically non existent. He got up in the mornings, washed and dressed, had a slice of dry toast and a glass of milk in the kitchen before even the house elf was up, and left through the fireplace before his parents rose. He reached the Ministry of Magic earlier than anyone save old Bert from maintenance could boast of. He had Bert let him into Auror Headquarters and went through to the room at the back where he proceeded to begin training at once. He became faster, more powerful and especially more determined than anyone else in the class. He continued to practise through lunch and stayed on after the others left. He would not hear of rest, he would not hear of eating with the others, he barely even spoke to them.

The only person, in fact, who could get more than a curt "good morning" or "good night" out of him these days was old Bert, who knowing next to nothing of the facts of the incident at the hospital, but having heard many rumours, was far enough from guessing the truth as to make Frank feel safe in his presence. "Safe" meaning that there was no need to fear that old Bert would ask him what Damian was really like, whether Frank missed him, how he was coping with his death...

Had he allowed himself to think about it, Frank would have been forced to admit that he was not coping with it at all. He told himself that he was, that it had hardened him, that it made it necessary to work himself to a wreck, but the fact was that concentrating on his training enabled him not to think about how he felt. With every jinx and hex that he practised, he placed another brick in the wall that he had erected around the place in his heart that Damian Diggle had occupied. What he did not realise was that he was erecting that same wall around himself, cutting himself off from his other friends and from his family.

This particular Monday morning should have been no different from any other. Frank had spent the weekend shut away in the attic, poring over books about the Dark Arts, reading up about counter-curses, refusing to come down for tea, and having all his meals brought up to him by the house elf. He had avoided coming back down while he knew his parents were in the house, or before he could be sure of their having gone to bed. But last night his mother had still been up, and he had been forced to look at her for a short moment as they passed in the hall. She had looked worried, and it had not suited her. It suited her to look resolute, to look strict, even to look content at times. But certainly not to look worried. He had known it was on his account, but he had not been able to stop, to talk to her as she so obviously wanted him to. He had spent Sunday night tossing and turning in his bed, seeing his mother's worried face whenever he closed his eyes, or if not that then Damian's, pale and lifeless.

He got up, washed and dressed as usual. He studied his face in the mirror, which volunteered the opinion,

"You look all done in, love. You need a break. How about a trip to the seaside? I've heard Blackpool is..."

He didn't hear what the mirror had heard about Blackpool, for he had already left the room and was on his way downstairs. He continued down another floor and into the kitchen. He went right through it to the larder door and opened it. Taking out a loaf of bread, he went to the table to cut it... and gave an almighty start. Sitting there in the dim light from the hall that came in through the half-open door was his father.

"Good morning, Frank," he said stiffly.

"Good morning," replied Frank hesitantly.

He wondered what was coming now. It was very unlike his father to be up at this hour. Not that he wasn't an early riser, but he didn't usually get up as early as all this. It was also unlike his father to look at him as he was doing now. A kindly smile and a pat on the back were the method he normally employed when wishing his son a good morning, not a stern expression and that stiff tone of voice. Sensing more than a little tension in the air, Frank went to fetch a knife.

"Do you ... err ... want a slice?" he asked.

His father shook his balding head. Frank cut himself a slice and returned the loaf to the pantry. He used his wand to light the oven and with another flick charmed the slice of bread to float above the flame, all the time aware that his father was watching him. Neither of them said anything until Frank's slice of toast was buttered and sitting on a plate in front of him. Then, at last, his father spoke. His words surprised Frank.

"Your mother and I received a letter last night," he said, "from Alastor Moody."

"Mr. Moody? What did he want? Err - I mean - how is he?" Frank checked himself, not wanting to sound callous. It was, after all, quite a few weeks now since he had seen Moody out and about.

"You'll be finding that out for yourself, I dare say. He wants to see you."

"See me? What, now?"

Frank looked around, half expecting Moody to be standing behind him. But there was no one there. Of course not, he told himself, his father would hardly be lounging around in pyjamas and his checked flannel dressing gown if that were so.

"At your earliest convenience, so he says. I suggest you go to St. Mungo's this morning."

"St. Mungo's?" Frank repeated with a note of panic in his voice.

His father's grey eyes appraised him quickly.

"You can't shy away from the place forever, Frank."

"I'm not shying away from it!"

"Then why do you object to going there to visit Mr. Moody?"

"I don't," Frank murmured untruthfully. "I'm just ... rather ... busy at the moment."

His father's expression told him he was not fooled. With a sigh, Frank gave in.

"All right," he said, "I'll go."

* * *

"Prongs!" Sirius said impatiently. He gave James a not-too-gentle shake. "Prongs, wake up, will you?"

"Alarm clock rung yet?" came the sleepy response, muffled by thick winter bed clothes.

"No, but ..."

"Then go away." James rolled over so that his face was to the wall.

Sirius shook him again.

"Geroff!" James grumbled. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't sleep," Sirius complained, sitting heavily on the edge of James's bed. "I'm surprised you can."

James sighed and rolled over yet again. He pushed the covers away from his face and studied Sirius's dark profile. Then he asked quietly,

"What makes you think I can?"

Sirius snorted. James said calmly,

"Just because you happen to have shaken me awake right now, that doesn't mean I've been asleep all night. As a matter of fact, I only fell asleep ..." He squinted at the clock. "... about three quarters of an hour ago. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to at least get forty winks before I have to get up."

"Sorry," Sirius murmured. He went back to his own bed and pulled the covers over him. But it was only another minute, at most, before James sat up.

"It's a frightening thought, isn't it? That any minute we may all end up like poor old Damian."

Sirius said proudly, "I'm not scared of dying."

"Aren't you?" James paused, then went on, "I am."

Sirius sat up and looked at him sharply across the room. James nodded slowly.

"It's true. I don't think I'd really thought about it until Halloween, but ... when I heard what had happened up on the fourth floor, it sort of hit me. It's all very well to talk about sacrificing your life for the greater good. It sounds so noble when it happens to strangers, but ... Somehow it's different when it's someone you know. Someone your own age. At the funeral, when we were watching them lower Damian's coffin into the grave, I thought 'What if it's me next time?' And I was scared ..."

With a shudder, Sirius said, "I don't want to think about that kind of thing."

"But you do think about it. We all do. We can't help ourselves. And it's necessary for us to do so, because... well, because our whole life may depend on it. How we think, what we feel, and what we do. Can you honestly say that it doesn't make a difference to you? If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, wouldn't you act differently than if you knew you had - another hundred years, say?"

Sirius thought for a moment, but he shook his head. "No, I don't think I would. I enjoy living. I don't know if I'm much good at explaining it, but ... to me every day is important. I just can't bear to do nothing for a minute, because I'd feel it was a waste, so ... if I did know I was going to die tomorrow, I couldn't do any more than live today as fully as any other day, if you see what I mean."

James nodded. "Yes, I think I do see. But we're not all like you. Take me for instance. There are certain things that I - I want. I know I want them. But if I have another hundred years to live, then it doesn't matter when I get them. Tomorrow, the day after, even in another ten years' time will do. But if I die tomorrow and I haven't had what I wanted, then I might just as well never have lived at all."

"Meaning that, if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, you'd make sure you got Lily Evans to marry you this morning?" Sirius asked with a faint grin.

James blushed a little, but did not object. Sirius continued,

"Yes, I can see that." He sighed. "Poor old Damian. I wonder what he'd have done with his last day if he'd known. And poor old Frank. You know, I think that's what I'm afraid of," he added soberly, not looking at James. "To see my best friend die and not be able to do anything about it."

James smiled. "Don't worry. I've got no plans to kick the cauldron just yet."

Sirius remained gloomy. "Nor did Damian."

* * *

The young members of the Order of the Phoenix were not the only ones on whom the fight at St. Mungo's had left an impression. On Slytherin's Rock, Lord Voldemort stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom, fastening the silver buttons on the collar of his black robes. Not for the first time, his mind was dwelling on what his Death Eaters had reported. To him, the death of a boy called Damian Diggle was as insignificant as the death of an annoying fly that one swats without a thought. It was no more or less important than any other death for which he and his followers had been responsible.

What interested - or rather disturbed - him was quite another matter. The presence at St. Mungo's of a man robed in red and gold, wearing the lion crest of Godric Gryffindor. Judging from the descriptions Lord Voldemort had been given, the man had cut an impressive figure, like an avenging knight come from a distant past. It angered Voldemort to think that this man had succeeded in stunning and hexing a good number of his Death Eaters, and it distressed him to think that his guise might not have been mere costume. He thought back to the words of the prophecy that Severus Snape had written to him about, and further still to events that had taken place many years ago.

Could it be, he wondered, that the man at St. Mungo's had actually been Gryffindor's heir? After all these years, was it possible that the old man - and he must be very old by now - had come out of hiding, had given up his hermit-like life and was coming out in the open to challenge him, Lord Voldemort? But what would induce him to do so? From what Voldemort had heard, old Gordon Gryffindor had lost all interest in life after his daughter had turned her back on him, or he on her, whichever way you looked at it. Could it be that she, too, was in some way involved? Voldemort recalled the wedding between Vindictus Lothian and Bridget Gryffindor. Admittedly, she had been a good-looking girl with her dark curls and large brown eyes, her pale skin and that shy smile. So young ... and so naive.

*I wonder where the little fool is now,* he thought.

The idea that she might have rejoined her father, that both of them might be conspiring together in his ultimate destruction, made him anxious.

There was a knock on the door. Voldemort composed himself, taking another glance at the mirror. He could not afford to appear worried in front of his followers.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened and Paula Lestrange entered. She bowed her head, then held out a sealed piece of parchment to him.

"A letter has arrived for you, master."

He took it, opened it and read it silently. His mouth creased into a crooked smile.

"Good old Vindictus," he murmured, then added out loud, "Tell the house elves to lay on a regal feast for two in the small parlour Saturday night. I am expecting a visitor."

"Yes, master."

* * *

At about the same time, Laura Lovegood was wakened by a sharp tapping on her bedroom window. She got up sleepily to let in an owl which presented her with a letter, then took off into the rainy dark. Laura lit a candle, and sitting down broke the seal. The letter was short and to the point:

"Am close to finding what you were looking for. Will make contact first thing on Saturday. Will let you know result immediately."

Laura smiled to herself. Good old Williams. You could always trust him to get a job done, and to be discreet about it too. The last thing she wanted was for Crouch to find out that she was conducting investigations of her own, and especially against a person she knew he had had a dinner engagement with only the other evening. Williams would get results, she knew, and he could be trusted to pass them on only to her, because he didn't like Crouch any more than she did and because, like her, he had admired Malcolm. As she held the letter to the candle's flame and watched it burn, Laura wondered briefly where Malcolm was now and what he was doing.

* * *

Guilt and Sacrifices

It was an eerie feeling to be standing at the reception of St. Mungo's hospital again. The bright lights seemed oddly out of place to Frank, as did the laughter of the staff behind the counter. His eyes swept the scene, taking in the signs of wreckage that still remained - damaged walls and furniture - and the broad-shouldered security wizards stationed at every door. He took a deep breath before he approached the desk and enquired after Alastor Moody. Having followed the healer's instructions to reach the ward in question, it did not take Frank long to locate the man he was looking for. His distinctive growling voice could be heard all the way down the ward.

"I don't want any of your nice healthy juices, thank you. Get me some butterbeer."

Frank approached the bed just as the flustered young healer, having failed to coax her patient into accepting the proffered drink, beat a hasty retreat. Moody looked up at him and grunted.

"Oh, it's you. About time you showed up, don't you think? You're the last of the Auror course, you know. All the others have been round. Crimple and Fortescue even brought me a present."

He waved a gnarled hand at a bunch of carnations that sat in a vase beside his bed. They looked somewhat bedraggled.

"Not the right time of year for flowers really. Not that I'll be sorry if they shrivel up and dry by tomorrow. Never was much of a one for flowers. So, how are you, Longbottom? Though actually, of course, you should be asking me that."

"You're quite right, sir," said Frank, only too happy not to reply to the initial question. "How are you?"

Alastor Moody frowned grimly.

"Better than I could have been, worse than I'd like to be."

"I heard your leg was badly wounded."

Moody made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a snort. "You could say that. Or you could say that's one knee I'll never be getting arthritis in." The look Frank gave him must have told Moody that he wasn't in possession of the full facts yet. He therefore went on brutally, "That blasted Death Eater nearly took off my leg with one clear sweep. Wound got infected, so the healers had to finish the job."

"What?!" Frank cried.

Moody nodded. "Yup. It's gone. I'll be getting a wooden replacement some day soon."

"That's terrible ..."

"Could've been worse," grunted Moody. "Could have been my neck. Probably would have been, if young Miss Borealis hadn't been there."

"But to lose a limb like that ..."

"It's tough, I don't deny it. When something's been a part of you for a long time, you kind of get used to having it around, and when you lose it, you wonder at first how you'll ever get along without it. But you know deep down you will. There's nothing that can happen in this world that you can't learn to live with."

Frank glanced down at Moody awkwardly, sure that he was not at present talking about his leg, but rather hinting at Frank's own situation. Moody, however, looked quite innocent - by his standards. His eyes left Frank's face to look past his shoulder. Frank heard footsteps and felt someone brush past him. He was already looking at the back of an auburn head of hair when the newcomer, leaning forward to speak to Alastor Moody, handed the latter a glass and said softly,

"Please drink this, sir. I know you'd rather have butterbeer, but I'm afraid you'll just have to wait until you're back home for that. Go on now, drink up ..."

"I don't mind drinking what you've brought me," said Moody gruffly. "As long as you'll swear no one but you has touched it. But you're treating our young friend here rather impolitely, don't you think?"

He nodded towards Frank and Aurora - for it was her - turned round.

"Oh, hello Frank. I'm sorry, I didn't see ..."

"That's all right," Frank said quickly.

"No, it isn't. I really do apologise. How are you?"

Frank swallowed hard. "I'm all right," he mumbled.

Aurora quickly rested a hand on his arm, but withdrew it when he flinched.

"I've been meaning to tell you how very sorry I am for what happened," she said. Then she added, "Though to be honest, you haven't made it easy for anyone to tell you anything at all lately. Even at the funeral, you just seemed to disappear all of a sudden..."

"I - I don't really want to talk," Frank said.

"I suppose that's understandable. We all have things we'd rather just forget."

There was a strange, sad note in her voice that caught Frank's attention briefly, but Aurora just said hurriedly,

"Excuse me, I must be getting on. See you soon, I hope."

She left Frank alone again with Moody, who was finishing the last sip of the juice Aurora had brought him.

"Wise girl, that," Moody proclaimed appreciatively. "Very wise indeed. Knows what she's talking about. Heart of gold, too. She's been looking after me well, ever since they let her come back to work. They did that too soon, really, if you ask me. She's got troubles of her own she needs to get over. Still, some people prefer to keep busy ..."

"Troubles?" Frank asked, surprised.

Moody laughed harshly. "You don't suppose you're the only one who's been depressed since what happened here, do you? That girl's been heavy-hearted ever since. I don't know what exactly is on her mind, but I suspect she's carrying some feeling of guilt around with her. She shouldn't, but I think she is. Anyway, that's enough gossip for one day. I haven't got anything else to tell you. You've done your duty by coming to see me at last, now be off with you."

Surprised by this sudden dismissal, and wondering why on earth Moody had insisted on his coming to St. Mungo's in the first place if there was nothing particular he wanted to talk about, Frank left the ward, intending to make his way back to the stairs. He passed the half-open door of a small kind of lounge on the way, and caught sight of Aurora sitting on a chair, rubbing her eyes with one hand. Frank hesitated for a moment. Then his feet, moving almost of their own accord without waiting for a command from him, carried him to the door and he knocked quietly. Aurora was startled. She quickly ran a hand over her face and hitched a smile onto it.

"You've caught me neglecting my duties," she said. "Was there anything you wanted?"

"No, I just thought ..." Frank began. He was struck suddenly by how perfectly miserable she looked. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Wrong? There's nothing wrong."

"Yes there is. You can't tell me you've been crying for nothing."

"I wasn't crying."

Frank did not point out that her eyes were red and her cheeks visibly damp. He just looked at her, unsure of what to do. All of a sudden, Aurora burst into a series of sobs. For the first time in weeks, Frank's own troubles went right out of his head. He came into the room, closed the door behind him, and fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief handed it to her. Aurora accepted it gratefully and dabbed at her eyes.

"Thank you," she said at last when she had managed to stop herself sobbing. "I don't know what's the matter with me at the moment. I just start crying every now and then for no good reason and then there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"Is there really no reason? Mr. Moody said ..."

"What did he say?"

"He said you have troubles you need to get over."

She sighed. "Don't we all?"

"Care to tell me what yours are?"

Aurora bit her lip and shook her head. Frank waited. Only a few moments ago, he had been the one not wanting to talk. Now here he was on the opposite side, asking to be talked to. Presently, Aurora looked at him again. She gulped heavily, then spoke at last,

"I feel so wicked."

Frank was completely taken aback by her answer. He repeated the last word incredulously. Aurora nodded.

"That day, when we were fighting on the fourth floor, I - I killed a man, Frank."

"Oh, that," Frank exclaimed, glad to think he understood now. "You didn't really kill anyone. It was more an accident, really. The Death Eater was coming towards you, aiming his wand at you. You managed to make him turn round and he fired his curse at his own colleague rather than at you. That it turned out to be a killing curse was nothing to do with you. It was one Death Eater killing another, that's all."

Aurora shook her head again. "You're wrong. I knew what was going to happen. I knew he wanted to kill me, I knew that the next curse he would use would be a killing curse. So I made him turn around - I made him turn around deliberately and - and ..."

She burst into another fit of sobbing. Frank struggled to reassure her.

"There's nothing bad about that. You had to defend yourself. The curse had to come out, and you did what you could to stop it harming anyone ..."

"No, I didn't. I directed it deliberately at that man. If only I had directed it at the wall, at a piece of furniture, anywhere! Maybe it would even have been better not to have changed the direction at all ..."

"No!" Frank told her. "You did what had to be done, that's all. You've nothing to reproach yourself for."

Aurora looked down at the floor. Frank crouched in front of her so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"You had no choice," he said gently but firmly. "It was self-defence. You were all alone against two Death Eaters, naturally you had to use one to eliminate the other if you could. If you hadn't, one or other of them might have killed you, or Mr. Moody, or me when I came into the room."

She stared at him for a moment. Suddenly she gave a curious little laugh.

"You make it sound like I did something wonderful."

"So you did. There aren't many people alive who could have done what you did - you may well have saved at least one life, you know."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes," he affirmed positively.

Aurora smiled at him sweetly. "You're very kind."

Frank abruptly got to his feet and turned towards the door through which he had entered. His hand was on the doorknob when Aurora asked,

"Do you mind if I tell you something?"

He looked back at her. "What's that?"

"Damian's death was not your fault."

He stiffened and turned away again, starting to open the door.

"Frank!"

He stood stock still.

"I mean what I'm saying. It's only natural under the circumstances, I suppose, that you should feel somehow responsible for it, but you're only causing yourself more pain by doing so."

"I don't want to talk about this," he croaked.

"Sometimes what we want is not the same as what's good for us. You may think that talking about it is too painful, that you'll feel better if you're just left alone, if you can just forget. But you can't forget, can you? You can't forget what happened because you feel it's your fault."

"So it is," Frank said bitterly. "Damian sacrificed his life for me. If I had only fought better, there would have been no need for that. He died to save me."

"Yes, he did," Aurora said gently. "But there are better ways to make his sacrifice count than by spending the rest of your life blaming yourself for it. Don't reproach yourself for being alive, Frank. Be grateful for it. Use the extra time that Damian has given you to remember how he lived, not how he died. And use it to do all the things that he will never have time to do. When Damian died for you, your life became his gift. You owe it to his memory to enjoy it."

Frank turned slowly to look at her. "What a strange way you have of seeing things."

"Maybe it's because I see beneath the flesh, Frank. Because I can feel what other people feel." She paused, then said, "When Damian died, I knew him. I had never taken the time before to think much about him, to wonder what he was like. I regret that now. But in the moment of his death, I felt his soul pass by me on its way to wherever it is that our souls go when we die. And I knew him then better than he knew himself. He didn't want to die. He didn't realise, when he came to your aid, that he was going to die. He didn't know he was giving his life to save yours. But he didn't mind, Frank. The last feeling I got from him before he vanished from reach was - was satisfaction."

"What?" Frank stared at her in disbelief, but Aurora nodded.

"Yes. Damian felt deeply satisfied when he died. And I can tell you the reason too. He was all that Hufflepuffs are known for: loyal, hardworking, truthful - but not brilliant, not extraordinary in any way. He believed himself to be insignificant, that being a hero was only for the brave or ambitious. When he died, he felt important and contented to know that he had done something glorious after all, that he had made a difference. You are that difference, Frank. Because you're still here thanks to him."

Frank was still trying to understand what she was saying. He couldn't fully grasp it. All this talk of souls, of feeling what others felt, of thoughts beyond death, was above him. He tried to puzzle out what the experience that Aurora had had might have been like, but he couldn't. He couldn't even begin to understand. He didn't even know why it made him feel better, he only knew it did. After a very long pause, he said quietly,

"It must be a strange feeling, to find out everything about a person in such a short space of time, without even needing to get to know them. I suppose you could go through life without talking at all, just seeing straight into people's minds."

"I can promise you I have never looked into yours."

"That I can well believe. It would probably be far too dull."

After a pause, Aurora said with a sudden odd little tremor in her voice. "In some cases I find it is far more rewarding to be able to understand without looking into a person's mind. I think - I think that you are someone I could learn to understand like that."

"Oh yes, there's no mystery about me. I shall never understand you though," Frank said heavily.

"Do you think so? There have been times lately when I - I thought you did."

Frank shifted awkwardly, and finally left the room.

* * *

November 22nd. A month and two days to go before Christmas. Not that anyone was feeling about thinking about presents and puddings and the yuletide spirit. John's anxiety increased with every week. Faith did not know why, and she didn't ask. She lay awake at night until he came home and held his hand until he fell asleep. Only then could she find sufficient peace to sleep herself.

John was silently grateful that Faith did not ask questions. If she had, he would have been forced to tell her the truth: that he was worrying more and more every day about Malcolm. Leaning back in his armchair in the living room, John drew something from his inside pocket. It was a letter that had reached him by owl post two nights ago, and it was from Malcolm:

"Dear John,

I'm really beginning to wonder if what I'm trying to do here is of any use. It seems to me sometimes that I'm doing more harm than good. You know that incident near Newcastle last Friday? Well, I was there. I saw it all happen and I felt so completely helpless. And then there was that girl. The poor kid can't have been more than twenty. I'd warned Dumbledore what was going to happen, but he did nothing. Why? Why didn't he stop it? Why did he let me go through with it? What could I do? I keep telling myself that if I hadn't done what I did, she'd be dead now. But that doesn't help. I still hear her screaming whenever I'm alone.

I don't know where to turn or what to do. I wish I could talk to you. I know if I could, I would find new strength. But as it is, I have very little strength left at all. And yet, if I simply give up and come home, I know I'd only reproach myself the next time anything happened, feeling that perhaps I could have prevented it.

Then again, am I really preventing any horrors by being here? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore these days, not even who I am. I've even forgotten what I really look like. I'm sorry to burden you with all of this, but somehow writing to you seems to help, just a little. I miss you all."

John folded the letter up again and returned it to his pocket. His face was grave. He picked up a scrap of parchment, wrote a note on it which he placed on the kitchen table, and went out into the rain that had begun to pour down about half an hour ago. He followed the path from the house until he reached a point that was far away and not protected against apparition, then he disapparated from there to Hogsmeade. Not too long after, there was a knock on the door of Professor Dumbledore's office.

"Come in," he called, then, "Hagrid!" he exclaimed when the gamekeeper entered.

"Mornin', Professor Dumbledore, sir. 'ave you got a moment at all? Ye've got a visitor ..."

"Indeed? Who is it?"

"Mr. Lupin, sir. He's waitin' in Professor Pettigrew's office."

Dumbledore sighed. "Very well. Send him up, will you, Hagrid? "

* * *

Disagreements

Lily Evans hurried to the telephone as it rang shrilly.

"Hello? - No, this is Lily speaking. - Lily Evans. - Her sister. - Yes. - No? - I see. - Yes, yes she is. - I'm sorry? - Oh, right. - Yes, just a minute."

Lily covered the receiver with her hand and called up the stairs,

"It's for you!"

"Who is it?" Petunia called back.

"Someone called Deborah ..."

Petunia briefly made a noise that sounded rather like she was being strangled in the middle of attempting to sing a soprano solo. She came charging down the stairs as though the upstairs floor was on fire and nearly tripped down the last step. Lily called her by the arm.

"Slow down, Pet, it didn't sound as urgent as all that."

Petunia glared at her. "Give me the receiver, and don't call me by that ridiculous name!"

"But ..."

"Hello?" Petunia had snatched the receiver away from Lily. "Aunt Deborah, how nice to hear from you. - About Saturday? - Oh dear, I hope it's nothing serious. - I see. - Yes, yes, of course, very annoying. - Yes, I quite see that. - No, of course we wouldn't dream of asking you to pay out for a hotel. - Err ... here? - Vernon suggested ...? - I really don't know if that's such a good ... - I'd really rather ... - No, no, we wouldn't want that. - All right. - Yes, yes, lovely. - Yes, see you then. - Of course. - Yes. - Goodbye."

By the time she had replaced the receiver in its proper place, Petunia was looking as white as a sheet and rather shaky. She brushed past Lily as though she were something insignificant, like a hat stand, and charged into the kitchen.

"Why, whatever's the matter with you?" her mother exclaimed.

"That," announced Petunia, "was Vernon's Aunt Deborah. She says that the friends she was planning to stay with for the wedding have rung her up to say their children have got the measles, so naturally she can't stay there. Vernon suggested she should come and stay with us ..."

"Of course she can, I don't see that that's a problem."

"But ... mother ..."

Petunia cast what she seemed to consider a meaningful look over her shoulder. Mrs. Evans's eyes shifted briefly to Lily, standing in the doorway, then back to Petunia. There was a faintly dangerous glow in them.

"What is it, Petunia?"

"Well, how can I have Vernon's aunt staying here? What if she notices something odd?"

"Like what, for instance?" Lily demanded.

Petunia glared at her. "Like you, for instance."

For once, Lily did not feel like standing it. She had been hurt by what she had gleaned from her brief conversation with Vernon's aunt.

"I should think," she said cuttingly, "that the only thing Vernon's relations will find odd about me is the fact that I exist. Tell me, Petunia, have you told any of your wedding guests that you have a sister? Or will I be expected to spend the festivities draped in an Invisibility Cloak so no one will know I'm there?"

Petunia ignored her. "Mother, I can't have Vernon's family finding out ..."

"Your sister asked you a question," her mother interrupted.

Petunia huffed, turned on her heel and marched out of the room and back up the stairs.

"Oh dear," Lily murmured as she heard a door slam.

Her mother hugged her. "Take no notice of your sister, sweetheart. She's just a bit overwrought at the moment."

"She's always overwrought when it comes to me. Sometimes I wish I wasn't a witch."

"Nonsense, my love. It's something to be proud of. Your father and I are."

"I know," Lily sighed. Sometimes she wished her parents weren't so proud of her, too. It might have helped with Petunia.

"Don't you worry," her mother said. "We'll make sure this aunt of Vernon's doesn't find out, if it makes you any happier."

Lily tried to smile, but it didn't really work. She didn't want to ruin her sister's wedding for her by letting everyone discover that she was a witch. Petunia would hate that. But her parents would never allow her to not go to the wedding at all. However, she thought that it might be easiest if she simply stayed away from Vernon's family as much as she possibly could. She decided she would ask Aurora if she could come and stay with her for the weekend.

* * *

Bartemius Crouch Jr. was turning a corner on his way back from the Great Hall after breakfast. His head was bent low over a sheet of parchment he held in his hands and his brow was furrowed. He muttered and grumbled to himself at the words his father had written and was so engrossed that he did not notice anyone coming the other way until the actual moment of collision - and that was despite the fact that one of the people he collided into was Hagrid.

"Oh, sorry," Barty murmured.

Hagrid responded with a brief apology of his own. The man with him said nothing. He looked as though his mind were dwelling somewhere miles away from Hogwarts. The pair passed and Barty's eyes turned back to the letter, but only for a few seconds. Then Fabian Prewett drew level with him.

"I say," he panted breathlessly, "that wasn't Mr. Lupin I just saw, was it?"

"Who?" asked Heather at his shoulder, turning her head quickly to see.

"The chap Barty just bumped into. Yes, I'm sure it is. Wonder what he's doing here. I say, that was an absolutely scrumptious breakfast, wasn't it? Too bad I have to follow it with Double Divination. What have you got next, Heather?"

"Potions."

"Yeuch. Okay, I'll see you two later then. TTFN."

Fabian and Heather left in the directions of their dormitories. Barty hesitated for a moment. Then he crumpled up his father's letter and moved as nonchalantly as possible the way Hagrid and his companion had been heading.

* * *

Severus Snape was in his laboratory. What he was doing there, however, he had no idea. The potion he had been working on for Lord Voldemort, his grand project, was as good as finished. It lacked only one more ingredient, and that was not for Severus to add, but for Voldemort himself to select. The potion book from which the recipe had been taken was packed away, a small vial of the brew sat tidily on a shelf beside other bottles of different shapes and sizes, properly labelled. Severus stood looking around him, wondering what to do with himself now that this task was done. He supposed he could leaf through some other potion book to find himself a new challenge, but somehow he didn't feel like it. He felt - restless. As though he were waiting for something to happen without knowing what that something was. He also felt bored. Just at that moment, there came a timid knock at the door. Severus started. This must be the first time ever that anyone had knocked - had dared to knock - on the door of his private sanctum. Annoyed, he pulled the door open roughly and glared down at the house elf that stood there, scared out of its wits.

"What do you think you're doing here?" Severus demanded.

Mirmy shrank back and began to mumble incoherent apologies.

"Mirmy didn't know what to do, sir. It is the first time this has happened to Mirmy, and Mirmy is sorry but the young lady said Mirmy must come, so Mirmy came, although Mirmy was worried the young master might ..."

"Young lady?" Severus repeated. "What young lady?"

"The young lady in the drawing room, sir."

Severus stared at the house elf. "In our drawing room? How did she get there?"

"Mirmy showed her in there, sir."

"You let her in?! What on earth ... Why didn't you ask first?"

"Mirmy did not dare to disturb the young master. Mirmy wanted the young lady to wait until you comes out, sir, but the young lady would not wait any longer, and she told Mirmy to come and fetch you, so Mirmy has come."

Shaking his head in disbelief at the elf's readiness to obey orders from just any stranger off the street, Severus asked at last,

"Well, did she at least give a name?"

"Yes, sir," the house elf said eagerly, clearly pleased to be able to answer the question positively.

Severus waited for Mirmy to go on, but Mirmy didn't, so he asked,

"And?"

"Sir?"

"What name did she give?"

"Miss Coronis, sir."

In a flash, Severus was rendered speechless. Josephine. In his parents' drawing room! His parents ... He swept the astounded house elf aside and rushed along the passage, across the hall and into the room in question, closing the door behind him.

"Josephine!"

There was a dull clunk as Josephine dropped the serpent-shaped silver paperweight she had been holding on the rug. She picked it up hurriedly, gave it a wipe with the sleeve of the overlarge rainbow-coloured jumper she was wearing and placed it back on the small desk where she had found it.

"Golly gosh, Sevvie, was that jack-in-the-box entrée really necessary?"

"What are you doing here?"

Josephine's brow creased. "How wonderful to find you so overjoyed to see me. It's much more than I'd hoped for."

"I thought we'd parted ways."

"And glad you were to get rid of me, I'll bet. Only I'm afraid it's not that simple. I'm not easy to get rid of. Keep turning up again, like a bad knut."

"Why?"

"Why why?"

"Why - I mean what ...?"

"What?"

Severus, annoyed, shook himself. "Why have you come?" he ejaculated.

"Oh, that. Because I missed you," she said simply. "Haven't you missed me?"

Severus opened his mouth to say he hadn't, and that he thought she had better go straight back where he came from before someone saw her - then for some reason beyond his own comprehension, he shut his mouth again. Josephine smiled sweetly.

"I thought so. Quarrels are such silly things, aren't they? They seem so important at the time, and later on when you look back you wonder what you were thinking. We're all entitled to our own opinions, that doesn't have to affect whether or not we get on."

"Not even when our opinions are diametrically opposite to one another?"

"Can't you talk like a normal human being for once? Diametrically opposite? What kind of an expression is that? Anyway ... no, not even then. I can live with the fact that you think it's great to be a pureblood if you can live with the fact that I don't think it's great at all."

"That's not all though, is it? I'm a ..."

He broke off as the door suddenly opened again, causing them both to jump. His mother stood in the doorway, looking as surprised as they were. Josephine - not surprisingly - was the first to recover. She came over to the door and greeted Severus's mother with a ready smile.

"You must be Sev's mum," she declared happily. "Really, I've been starting to wonder if you exist, since Sevvie never seems to have wanted us to meet."

To Severus's utter amazement, his mother laughed.

"I've thought the same about you ..."

"Josephine - Josie," said Josephine. "I'm ever so pleased to meet you at last, Mrs. Snape."

"Iris," said Severus's mother with a shy smile.

Josephine smiled back. "I like that."

Severus watched them both, still not quite believing what he was witnessing. Before he knew it, they were talking together as if he wasn't even there, and then his mother ended by saying she would leave them alone now, but she hoped Josephine would come round for dinner on Saturday evening, and Josephine accepted. When they were alone again, Josephine flopped down into an armchair and said,

"Why did you never tell me what a lovely woman your mother is, Sev?"

"You think so?"

"Oh, absolutely. She's so sweet. You must be very fond of her."

Severus did not answer. He had no wish to tell Josephine that he had never thought of his mother as 'lovely' or 'sweet'. 'Meek' and 'timid' were more the kind of adjectives he would have employed.

"She certainly seems to have taken a fancy to you," he mused. "I haven't known her to talk so much since ... well ..."

He broke off. The truth was that he could not remember her ever having talked so much in all his life, nor was he aware of ever having heard her laugh before either. He looked down at Josephine. She was sitting with one leg pulled up in front of her, looking towards the window. What a contrast she formed to this room. She stood out like a poppy in a field of daisies. As she sat there, he gradually began to sense a change of mood in her, and by the time she turned her head to look at him again, he was no longer as surprised as he might have been to find her face more serious than was her custom.

"I meant what I said before, Sev," she said quietly. "I can't change my opinions, and I doubt if I can change yours, but I really have missed you. I'd like us to have another shot at it, if you don't mind."

Severus felt the strangest wave of emotion sweep over him that he had ever known. Part of him was telling him plainly that he was being stupid. Josephine was not his kind of girl. She was too vigorous, too frivolous, too colourful, too much of everything. But another part of him was aware that no other girl could ever affect him as she did, and that no matter how disturbing it was to him to feel that way, it was something he didn't want to be without. On the other hand, if she truly disagreed with his ideals to the extent that she had displayed ...

"I'll need to think about it," he said at last.

"All right," said Josephine. "Think about it. I'll be round Saturday evening, after all. You can tell me then."

* * *

Plans of Action

"I'll come straight to the point, if you don't mind, sir," John was saying in Dumbledore's office. "I think it's time Malcolm came back home."

"I see," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "And is there any particular reason why you have come to this conclusion, or is it just general worry?"

"No, there is a reason. It's this."

John took the letter from his pocket and held it out across the table. Dumbledore read it without displaying any kind of reaction, even when he read his own name.

"I see," he said again when he had finished, and handed the letter back to John.

"This has gone on long enough, in my opinion," said John. "He's obviously been going through hell, and I don't see that there's any sense in putting him through more of it, especially if we aren't going to act upon his warnings."

"But we can't, John. Not every time. If we did, the Death Eaters would be quick to discover who he is really working for. They may discover that anyway, if he makes it a new habit to send you letters. That was a very foolish thing to do."

"I know," John agreed. "And I also know he wouldn't have done it if he was thinking clearly. Sir, I don't know much about spying, but I do know Malcolm. This letter is... wrong. This isn't the man I know writing."

"Are you saying that he did not in fact write the letter?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

John shook his head. "No, it's not that. He wrote it all right. But it shows that he's changed. He has always been an optimist. He's never let anything get him down before, no matter how bad things were, he's always been the one to look on the bright side, even when no one else believed there was such a thing. This letter isn't like that. This letter was written by a man who can see no hope for the future. And it's something else too. A call for help. He obviously doesn't know how to go on, and he's asking me to help him..."

"And you think the right way to do that is to persuade me to summon him back home immediately?"

"He'd listen to you, sir."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I am afraid it cannot be done."

"Why not?"

"For one thing - because I have no way of contacting him," the headmaster said apologetically. "It was arranged that I would never send any message to him because it would be far too easy to trace if it should be intercepted. He sends his messages to the theatre and from there they are passed on to me in ever varying ways ..."

"For you to act upon or not, as you see fit?" John added bitterly.

"Malcolm may be right in blaming me for not acting quickly enough," Dumbledore admitted with a sigh. "Perhaps the outcome at Newcastle would not have been so bad if I had alerted the Aurors sooner. But I considered it ... unwise to act too quickly. Malcolm has been working undercover as a Death Eater for a long time, and the longer he does so, the greater the risk of discovery. If we prepare for every attack that he informs us about so well that no one is harmed, then Voldemort will become suspicious. He will start to wonder if there is a connection between which of his Death Eaters he tells and the swiftness of our reaction. And it will not take him long to find out who is betraying him. Voldemort is no fool."

"I understand," John said slowly. "I see you do share my fears."

"Yes. But there is nothing we can do at this time. To send a message from Hogwarts to Slytherin's Rock would be dangerous in the extreme. We should not attempt it unless we are absolutely certain of there being imminent danger."

* * *

Sitting at her desk in the Department of Mysteries, Lily signed her name to the note she had just written and sealed it up. She wrote Aurora's name on the outside and placed it in her 'out' tray. Next, she pulled a sheaf of parchments towards her and leafed through them. Nothing urgent here. Lily sighed. She was feeling more restless and discontent than she had done for a long time, and she was still brooding over her sister's intense dislike of her. She pushed the papers away from her, and resting her hand on her chin stared hard at the door that connected her little room to the office of Algernon Rookwood. A frown creased her brow as she thought of the discussion she had had with him a few weeks ago. With sudden decision, she rose and went to a shelf, taking from it the register she had been looking at that day. She flicked through the pages, and finally smiled to herself. After all, why not? Rookwood was not here today, he would never know, and there was nothing pressing for her to do here. She closed the book and set it back on the shelf. Then she pulled on a thick winter cloak and made her way to the lift.

* * *

Only a few doors on from where Lily had just made her decision, Remus was sitting at a long mahogany table, reading the agenda for this morning's meeting with a deep frown on his face:

1 - Progress report on attempts to breed fire-breathing budgerigars

2 - Possibility of constructing cages for cave trolls in the Atrium

3 - Suggestion of employing vampires as night-watchmen

...

"Morning, Remus," said a voice by his right elbow.

He looked up. "Good morning, Gloria."

Gloria Boom - the very same Gloria Boom who had been given the job Peter was supposed to have had when they had first started work - had signed on for the Ministry's "Alternative Methods of Protection" programme about a week ago. Her attitude to the whole affair was quite opposed to Remus's. But then, she didn't have his background. To Gloria, every new experiment, however dangerous, was an adventure. She simply loved throwing ingredients in a cauldron and stepping back to observe the result. In the same manner, she was fascinated by the idea of cross-breeding magical creatures and attempting to tame the untameable. She pulled out the chair next to Remus's and sat down. Leaning over to see what he was reading she said,

"Is that today's agenda? Cave trolls in the Atrium? Hm, I don't know that I think very much of that idea. Vampires sound much more sensible. I mean, trolls are just beasts who'll destroy anything and everything in sight, aren't they? Vampires are part human, so I suppose they could be expected to show a degree of understanding of what they're supposed to be doing, don't you?"

"I am sure they would understand perfectly," said Remus. "The question is whether they would do it."

"Well, why not? I should think they'd be glad to be given a decent job."

"A decent job?" he repeated dryly. "To be used as barely human watchdogs?"

Gloria shrugged her shoulders. "Well, after all, they're not completely human, are they? I wonder if it would be possible to use vampire genes and implant them to normal human beings to create a type of vampire that would only suck blood when required to do so. You know, without the urge to suck the people it's meant to be defending."

Remus considered telling her just what he thought of that kind of talk, but decided against it. He knew Gloria was not unkind, she just didn't understand. Like all witches and wizards, she had been brought up to regard anything not entirely human as little more than an animal. She could not be expected to understand that a "non-wizard part-human" had feelings that went as deep as hers, that it had the needs of what she called a "normal" human being. He changed the subject back to the cave trolls.

"I don't think much of this troll idea. There's no way they can be controlled, they're likely to cause more damage than the intruders they're meant to be fighting."

"Yes," agreed Gloria. "I say, how about cross-breeding a troll with something more human? A creature with the muscles of a troll and the brain of a vampire would be ..."

"Everyone's worst nightmare, I should imagine."

Gloria sighed. "You have such a cynical outlook on these things that I wonder what you're doing working as a part of this group sometimes."

"Mr. Westmore assigned me here."

"To keep an eye on the rest of us and make sure our experiments don't get too much out of hand, eh?" Gloria asked with a grin.

"Perhaps," said Remus, and left it at that.

* * *

Faith was busy darning a set of John's work robes when she heard the knock on the front door. As always these days, the sound startled her. She laid aside her needlework and went quietly to the front door. The knock was repeated.

"Who is it?" she called through the locked door.

"It's Lily," answered the voice of Lily Evans.

Faith unlocked the door. "Hello," she said, surprised. "Come in, won't you? Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?"

"No, thanks. Actually I've come because I thought I might be able to do something for you."

"Oh? Well, you'd better come and sit down."

Faith waited while Lily hung up her cloak, then led her through into the living room and they each took a seat. Now that she was here, Lily felt unsure how to begin. She looked around the room, taking in the rubbed arms of the chairs and the faded look of the curtains as if she were seeing them for the first time. She took a deep breath.

"This is harder than I thought," she said with a little apologetic smile. "I had pictured myself coming in and saying 'now look here, I've had this idea' ... but it's not that simple. You see, it's occurred to me that there's a lot of injustice in the wizarding world and ... I want to do something about it."

"That's a very kind thought," said Faith, "but I'm not sure why it brings you to me ..."

"Well, it's like this. A few weeks ago I was looking through a register of wizard households that have applied to have extra protection measures installed, and I discovered that a lot of people's names had been taken off the list. I asked about it, and was told that that was because those people couldn't ... afford to have any more protection put in by the Ministry. It didn't seem fair to me and I - I decided something should be done about it."

"I see. That is, I still don't know why ..."

"Why I'm here? Because your name was on that list. Perhaps you didn't know, but John applied to have this house protected against all kinds of forced entry."

"No," Faith said slowly. "I didn't know that. I thought he was satisfied that the anti-apparition charm he and Malcolm put on the clearing was sufficient."

Lily shook her head. "No, he wasn't satisfied with that. But the Ministry seems to think he ought to be."

Faith gave a half smile. "They took our name off the list because we can't afford to pay for any extra protection charms to be performed, I suppose," she guessed. "Well, one can't really blame them for that. No one wants to work for nothing."

"But it's so unfair!" Lily cried out. "It would only take a couple of powerful wizards a few minutes to do it, and it could mean the difference between life and death for the households concerned. But the Ministry seems to care more about filling its bank account with gold than ensuring the safety of its people."

"That's not so very unusual, is it? It's simply the way our world works."

"I know. But it's not right, and I want to change it."

"All alone? I hardly think you will be able to, my dear."

"I can try. I'm good at charms, I always was. Professor Flitwick once told me I was one of his best students. Of course, I'm not powerful enough to protect a whole house against intrusion on my own ... but I if I had help, I could try it."

"I'm afraid you won't find me much use," Faith told her. "I was never very good at anything. Sometimes I think I was only accepted at Hogwarts because everyone held out the hope that I might someday display powers like my brother's ... which I never did."

"He's a strong wizard," Lily agreed. "So is John ..."

"John? Ah. I think I'm beginning to understand. You want John to help you with your plan - in exchange for helping him protect this house, is that it?"

"Basically, yes. I still don't know if even the two of us together will be powerful enough, but it's worth a try, don't you think?"

"Yes," Faith said thoughtfully. "But if that is your plan, why didn't you go straight to John himself?"

Lily smiled. "He's a man. Men tend to be proud, especially where money matters and accepting help are concerned. I thought if I spoke to you, maybe you could talk to him later and persuade him. Make it clear that I'm not just doing this to do him a favour, you know."

"I understand. I'll do my best."

"Thanks."

Lily rose to go. Out in the hall, she removed her cloak from the hook and put it back on again. Her gaze fell upon the photographs on the wall, and as she studied them closely without appearing to, another idea came to her. She felt almost wicked tricking Faith like this, but she couldn't resist.

"I know you might not want to hear this," she said as she turned around to say goodbye to Faith. "You probably prefer to just go on as if nothing were wrong, but ... well, I am really sorry about ... everything. If there's ever anything I can do ..."

Faith was surprised again. "I didn't know you knew," she said quietly. "It's kind of you, Lily, but there's nothing anyone can do. We've tried everything we could think of, but there's just no cure."

Cure? The use of that word and what it implied intrigued Lily more than ever. She had a feeling that she was being very unfair, wheedling information out of Faith like this. But what could she do when no one would tell her the truth outright? "It must be terrible for you," she remarked.

"It was to begin with," Faith admitted. "But we've all learnt to live with it. John found it hardest, because he blamed himself. Silly of him, of course. By now we've got used to it, and accepted the fact that there's nothing we can do about it, and it's really so much better that way. And we couldn't be more proud of our son."

"Remus is a dear," Lily said with a smile.

Faith smiled back. "You tell him that, and you'll have given him all the help he needs. He's never complained, you know, but he does feel it terribly - what it's meant to us."

"I imagine he would. Well, I'd best be off," Lily added, feeling that no more information would be forthcoming right now. She had been given enough additional food for thought. On a sudden impulse, she hugged Faith affectionately, then made her departure.

* * *

The Spy Game

Barty Crouch Jr. decided to skip his next lesson. He could always say after that he had had a stomach ache or something. He didn't really even care if he got detention. He had news for the Dark Lord, and he was not going to waste any time in reporting it. His master would be pleased with him. He would praise him. Not like his father, who only ever sneered at his achievements and told him to do better. He might never be good enough for his father, but he was good enough for Lord Voldemort. Yes, in his thoughts, Barty dared to use that name, though he would never speak it. Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, master of all, the most powerful wizard of all time. Reaching his dormitory, Barty took a sheet of parchment and his quill out of his bag. He pulled the curtains around his bed just in case, and by the light of his wand wrote down all he had seen and heard. How he had seen Hagrid pass by with Mr. Lupin, how he had followed them both unobtrusively up the stairs and seen Lupin go up to Dumbledore's office. He had written down the exact amount of time that the two had spent in conference, and he had followed the headmaster's visitor back along the crowded passages of Hogwarts afterwards, and managed to find a good position just within earshot when Professor Pettigrew had stopped him on his way out to ask,

"Well, what did he say?"

"He says we must wait and see."

"Wait and see? See what? Whether he becomes incautious enough to get himself killed?"

Lupin had winced. "I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that."

"There has to be more that we can do other than just hope. If only he could take a break ..."

At that point, Lupin had looked around him anxiously and murmured, "Let's talk about this elsewhere, Philippa. I don't want to be overheard."

Barty had attempted to follow them both, but at that point the eternal nuisance Fabian Prewett had reappeared to talk to him, and he had not had the chance. Still, he could not complain. The Dark Lord would be interested to learn that there was something going on that involved at least Dumbledore, Professor Pettigrew, Hagrid and this Mr. Lupin, as well as another man whose name they had not mentioned ...

* * *

Malcolm was at that moment busily engaged in reproaching himself for his foolishness. That letter he had written to John - what a stupid, idiotic thing to do! What good could come of it? None at all, he knew. It would only worry John, and didn't he already have enough on his mind?

Paula Lestrange greeted him in what, for her, was a friendly manner.

"Ah, Tiberius ... I must tell you," she said, taking him through into one of the rooms that led off the entrance hall, "our master is in a good mood today."

"Oh yes?" he said. "Why is that?"

"He got a letter this morning. I think it was from Vindictus Lothian."

Inwardly, Malcolm shuddered at the name. He had not met Bridget's husband yet, but whenever his name was mentioned by the other Death Eaters, it was with a good deal of awe and respect. Lothian, they all knew, was close to Voldemort - as close as anyone could be. He was a powerful wizard and the Dark Lord trusted him more than anyone else. Malcolm remembered all of this and said as lightly as possible,

"I see. Any idea what it said?"

"Not really. But I do know that he's coming."

"Lothian? Coming here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"On Saturday evening. The Dark Lord seems to expect to have something important to discuss with him. He plans to have dinner served for two in the small parlour."

"I see," Malcolm said again. Then he added, "What's Lothian like? Have you met him?"

"Only in passing. He's an impressive sort of man. Very secretive." She gave a twisted smile. "He's rather like you in that respect."

"Do you find me so secretive?"

"Absolutely. One never does know what's going through your mind."

"I'm sure you wouldn't want to know."

"I'm sure I would."

Malcolm looked at her. He felt a repulsion towards her that was far from new to him. How different she was from her sister. Such a sweet girl, young Pippa. He hoped she would never come up against this black mirror of her own personality. He could not imagine anyone getting the better of Paula Lestrange, not even himself. She was dangerous. Her almost coaxing smile made him feel positively nauseous. He turned away from her and started thinking. So Lothian would be coming on Saturday. He did not know where the man had been of late, but if Voldemort was planning to celebrate his return with a private meal, then surely he must be engaged in something important. What, he wondered, could that be? Did Paula know? He doubted it. And in any case, to ask her might seems suspicious. He would simply have to wait and see ...