Fathers and Sons

Fathers and Sons

Chapter Four: No Exit

It should be no surprise the average witch or wizard that Dark wizards inevitably attract Dark Creatures. Mara Mockridge, A Short History of the You-Know-Who Days, 1985.

Susanna King never liked the idea of werewolves, savage, drooling, useless beasts that they were. They were halfbreeds of the nearly worst sort, and the disgusting pictures of the hulking and hairy-snouted beasts from her sixth year Defence textbook haunted her thoughts as she contemplated her task for the night. It took a glass and a half of wine before she was even willing to leave the house, to meet a fellow Death Eater in Magical Law Enforcement tonight.

They were to capture a werewolf for the Dark Lord's plans, one that was just waiting for them, too opportune to ignore. But it didn't mean she had to like it.

If Susanna was less than excited about the task set before them, Bradley Davis was downright squeamish. He said nothing to that effect, determined to bear it with something resembling bravado. No matter how much he tried to talk himself down with the idea that it was for the best in the end, or even just that it was an order that he had to follow, it remained that this was a werewolf, a monster who had no business being free, and he certainly didn't see why he had to do it, even if there would be another with him.

The Ministry was as quiet as a tomb after everyone packed up and went home at five o'clock. He just wished that this could be over and done with, he could go home, crawl into bed with his wife, and forget that it ever happened. When his fellow Death Eater did finally arrive, he wished that she were late so that he could say so. She was on time, early even, so all he managed was a curt nod in greeting.

Susanna rolled her eyes and tugged nervously at her furs. "Oh, Bradley, don't be such a twat," she sniped in a contradictorily gracious tone. "It's so dreadfully cold out here, we ought to get to it -- oh, look, we'll be early." She smiled; after all, a werewolf might go much more easily along if they were a very nice wizard and witch capable of dealing with savages.

He was really not in the mood for her shit tonight; not any night, really, but especially tonight. She wasn't particularly likeable, he didn't think, but certainly more bearable than most in the Dark Lord's service. "Yes, well, February will tend to be cold. Let's stop wasting time," he suggested.

She scowled at him, tossing her head defiantly and beginning to walk. Her heels clicked briskly on the floor as she left him behind. "You could use a bit of diplomacy, you'll need it for when we're in there with it. And a spine, is it too much to hope you've grown one of those? Or am I going to be left doing all the men's work?"

"Speaking of growing things, if you happen to have grown the equipment for it, why not," he snarled, advancing after her. He was fully aware that he was being manipulated into getting worked up, and it was rather sad that it continued to work. He was a bit calmer when he spoke next. "As you said, we haven't much time, and I see nothing wrong with wanting to accomplish this in the quickest, most efficient manner. So are we going to go or are we not?"

Susanna looked back at him, utterly amused for an instant before nervous giggles erupted from her. They weren't too far, and there would be no banter once inside. Whistling in the dark began now. "Oh, I like it when you get aggressive," she said wryly. "Quickest, most effective manner - that must really please your poor wife. And you ought to grow the equipment for men's work, perhaps then you wouldn't have a more capable woman sent to guide you - "

"You are now the one who is avoiding completing the task," Bradley cut her off, maybe too proud to admit that he was practically scared witless and that - well, that she was right, but he was not above pointing a finger in her direction if something happened. "Now, ladies first," he added after lighting the end of his wand with a lumos to illuminate their way; the dim, after hours lighting was not going to be convenient for their needs.

Susanna gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes and simpered, "How kind of you, Bradley, I can truly tell you're a gentleman of the highest prestige." She dropped the sarcasm. "Relax. You don't want to ruin this for Him, do you? They can smell fear, you know." A triumphant sort of smirk flickered on her face before she turned into the right corridor.

It was very third year of him and he knew it, but Bradley couldn't help but make a face at her back before following her into the darkened corridor. They could smell fear. Definitely the last thing he needed to hear right now. "If that cheap perfume of yours doesn't cover it up, I don't know what would," was his retort. Immature banter was going to see him through tonight.

Susanna stopped instantly at a sound, imagined or not, and glanced around. Of course, the place was largely if not completely empty (as had been arranged) but there was still room for paranoia. "Just don't run away and we'll do fine, darling."

Bradley checked over his shoulder as well; his nerves were really starting to get to him. "I am not going to run away," he muttered after following her around a corner.

"I hope you're prepared, I know you had a great lot of work to catch up on -- I saw you slaving away earlier." She bared a pleasantly nasty grin.

He responded to her grin in the harsh lift light with an equally unpleasant scowl. "The amount of paperwork you get handed is directly proportional to how much the Department head hates you," he advised.

Susanna feigned complete innocent shock, a hand going to her lipsticked mouth. "I don't understand why, you're such a people person," she sighed. "And that family of yours, equally entertaining and riotously fun, of course -- I only fell asleep once at your dinner party." Normally she'd have stopped minutes ago but now, as the silence and darkness of the abandoned Department threatened to envelop them, there was little else to do but pretend like they were at the Magical Law Enforcement's water cooler and bicker away.

"Only once? What a pity, I was hoping you'd do us all a favour and just die of the boredom," he answered, and flinched at his word. That was insane, they weren't going to die. They were a completely capable and competent witch and wizard, and this was only a werewolf. Vicious, but able to be subjugated.

What started as a grin was released as an unladylike snigger, stifled within an instant of its escape. "Oh, really, Bradley, do pull yourself together, you're acting like a frightened rabbit."

"Enough," he hissed, his voice lowered from their conversational volume they'd previously been speaking in. "We're nearly there. Past the court rooms, let's just go."

They tracked their way across the Aurors' section of the Department, not jostling a single cubicle or desk on their way to the courtrooms. Susanna tried not to goggle and grin too long at the walls covered with Aurors' valiant efforts to search out certain Death Eaters, but it was difficult.

Bradley also examined it briefly as they passed, although not with as much glee as Susanna. The newspaper articles, dossiers, and photographs served as a reminder to him how he needed to keep alert and on his toes -- not that Magical Law Enforcement could do a lot. That was mostly their job.

He undid the locks on the door to the corridor of small holding cells and fixed it so that they wouldn't automatically lock again when the door shut behind them. Without asking Susanna if she was ready, he pushed the door open.

At this ungentlemanly indiscretion, she straightened her furs as she was forced to hold the door open for herself. There were more important things to consider. She withdrew her wand and idly counted the doors to the cell. "The third door, yes?"

It was a foolish statement, she realised, upon actually looking at the shape of the door that she could see. This was clearly a door modified to hold something very strong and very dangerous. "I wouldn't have possibly guessed," she muttered.

"The third door," he echoed dryly just as the door fell closed. The light from his lumos bounced off the walls and created an eerily appropriate glow. "You really should have just guessed." He couldn't believe that he could still find it in himself to be caustic, but a defense mechanism was forever a defense mechanism.

Susanna was cold, he was unpleasant, and she very much hoped the Dark Lord would gain very very much from this ordeal, because she hadn't even seen what lay behind that door and already this ranked as one of the worst nights she'd ever had. "Open the door, would you, darling?" she asked with uncharacteristic terseness. "Or do you need a woman's help?"

Yes, because she'd been such a fabulous help so far. Unheeding of her remarks, he said, "Keep your wand ready," as if that weren't already obvious, and undid the locks in a similar manner to the previous door, and pulled it open.

For an instant she stared into the sliver of the room she could see, not moving, but then swiftly stalked past Bradley and into the cell. This was no time to shrink back. This was a very important mission, and she wasn't going to be counted as useless.

Where was it? It could not have possibly broken through that door, halfbreed freak or not. She turned, a snide comment already prepared to call out to Bradley, when she saw the man, the creature, huge and slumped in the corner. She met its eyes and the gaze it returned made her feel like prey. She took a step back. "Bradley?"

Bradley took in a sharp breath, also catching a look into its face. His heart skipped several successive beats and after a moment he slowly released the breath he'd been holding. A bit dumbly, he said, "You're Fenrir Greyback?" No harm in making sure.

Fenrir looked between the witch and wizard, pushed his hair out of his face with long fingernails and smiled slowly as though unveiling his teeth. The threat and hunger lurked only in his eyes along with the wolf. The memories of Erin Curenton, though satisfying, could not keep him sated. "That's what they call me. What are you looking for, wizards? A pet? I'm not well house-trained."

It was so sickening. Beyond disgusting, and Bradley really hoped that this was going to be worth it for himself in the end -- not just for the Cause, but for him. He had been promised it would be, but reward was dependent on success of the mission. He resisted the urge to violently retch on his shoes and without taking his eyes off him said, "We've come to deliver you from this place."

Fenrir considered standing, to stand not only at the level of but above the witch and wizard. There was no point. They had come through all of those security measures, all of those open doors now pointing towards freedom, to speak to him. "Out of the kindness of your hearts, you would deliver a murdering werewolf back to freedom?"

Susanna teetered for a moment in her high heels. Oh, he smelled, and his hair and his long fingernails, oh, she was going to be sick. Finally, she recovered and gave the beast a sunny and pleasant smile as she answered. "We want what's best for the world. You closed the mouth of a false prophet. You spread messages by spreading fear." She lowered her furs, relaxing. "As does the Dark Lord."

Bradley personally wouldn't have minded leaving Fenrir Greyback in the depths of the Ministry to rot. It would be bound to happen anyway, which was why this was an offer no one would refuse - for anyone who wasn't interested in Kissing a Dementor, anyway. "Our Lord believes it would be most beneficial to enter into an... arrangement." He did his best to discreetly hold on to the door to keep himself upright.

Fenrir leaned his head back against the wall and turned his eyes to the ceiling to conceal his doubt. His end, to the pack, would be inconsequential. Pack was pack, and no individual was important enough to risk the end of the pack. Still, he knew he could lead his pack, and they deserved the best. "So what do you need me for," he said after a long pause. "If it's good for me and my people, I might consider helping you, but who knows?"

Susanna took a step forward, and the quick movement caught Fenrir's eye -- the eyes of the wolf and the witch met, and the wolf was the first to back off. "You would rather suffer the Dementor's Kiss," she sneered, "than work for the man who wants to clear away the disgrace of the world's weakest wizards? Well." She huffed and turned to Bradley. "He doesn't appreciate what he's getting, let's go."

That was okay with Bradley, even if this was a bluff. "Very well," he replied in a similar fashion, stepping back to allow her room to go first -- a time waster. "We can leave you here to waste away at the hands of other wizards, or you can come with us."

Fenrir rose to his feet, unfolding to his full height, and watched their bluff for an instant before worry quickly erupted into anger. He seized Bradley and shoved him into the nearest wall, strong hand gripping his throat and long fingernails sharp in his flesh. "Give me your terms," he snapped, nose-to-nose with the wizard.

Bradley winced against the impact of his back with the wall. The hand around his throat was not nearly as worrying as the thing on the other end of it, despite the nails pressing into his flesh. He wanted it to let go, but that was not going to happen. "We spring you from here in exchange for services to our Lord," he managed to get out, and took the deepest breath he could get. "He can promise -- better for your kind when He succeeds, with your help -- fucking hell would you put me down?"

A growl built in Fenrir's throat, the wolf's overreaction at being cursed at, and stopped abruptly at something that Fenrir the man had not expected. Susanna's hand was now resting on his arm. He looked over at her, tightening his grip on the wizard's throat. It had been too long since he'd tasted something real - real blood, real meat, real prey. "You expect me to serve a wizard?"

Susanna tightened her own grip on Fenrir's arm, her manicured fingernails pressing crescents into his skin. She shot Bradley a warning look before smiling at the werewolf. "It's mutually beneficial. We benefit from you, you benefit from us. You're certainly no servant, no more than either of us are. We're soldiers for the best cause."

Yes, obviously the best. Sign yourself up and you too can be breaking dangerous magical beasts out of Ministry lock-up and getting the crap beat out of you. This was not Bradley's best night ever. "The benefits far outweigh any downsides," he said dryly, as much as he could manage with a hand wrapped around his throat.

Fenrir rolled his eyes at the wizard and released him. "So what would I do for your Father? And I demand protection from your wizards' Ministry."

Bradley attempted to scramble back to his feet, although really the return of air was enough for the moment. "Our Lord desires to make allies from the fringes of the wizarding society," he said. He truly didn't know what else was in store, he was a fucking messenger. "And of course -- protection."

Susanna physically insinuated herself back into the conversation, fairly certain that the werewolf liked her more. "So what do you say, Greyback, we haven't much time, you know, and I'm sure you'd rather be out in the fresh air than stuck here in the Ministry, waiting for your trial, don't you agree? Bradley, do find your wand, we've a Vow to make." She gestured briskly at him, taking the werewolf's hand.

Her hands were warm, and he squeezed her hand, feeling the soft skin and the muscle beneath. Immediately he revealed a toothy grin, one that quickly turned to a snarl when he looked to the wizard. "A Vow," he repeated. "What kind of Vow?"

"The Unbreakable sort," Bradley cut in, snatching his wand from where it had been dropped. He was officially in no mood for surprises or things that weren't in the plan. This should have been finished a long time ago. He touched the end of his wand to their joined hands. "Go on, Susanna," he told her.

Susanna drew herself up to her full height and smiled benevolently upon the wretched creature who stood over her. "Will you, Fenrir Greyback, pledge your life and faithful service to the Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named?" she whispered, his name reverent as though in prayer.

What choice did he have? Abandon his pack, his children, his Father's ideals, all that he had worked for his entire life? He could make this work. He would never be their Father's pet. He closed his eyes. "I will."

One fiery strand shot from the end of Bradley's wand and wrapped around their hands. He focused intently on the task at hand, silently urging her and even time itself to go faster. Susanna closed her eyes to avoid the werewolf's rapt, predatory gaze, unable to escape it even so. Carefully thinking, she spoke a few minutes later, her voice even. "Will you follow the Dark Lord's every command until the day you die?"

Fenrir turned his gaze from Susanna for a moment, towards Bradley, irritated at the length of the ritual. Wizards and magic, all useless and time-wasting skills. "I will," he said, his usual rasp of a voice turned to a snap directed at the idiot holding the wand.

As a second line of flame wound around the first, glowing orange against pale skin, Bradley forced himself to hold the werewolf's gaze. He was the wizard here and not him, and no matter what his societal status among wizards might be, he was still above him.

Susanna bit her lip, thought in her best twisting legalities, and opened her eyes. She squeezed the werewolf's hand, and he turned his gaze to her -- the creature behind his eyes also stared at her. "Will you never tell the things you now know and will learn about the Dark Lord and His servants to anyone except those who are also in His service?" she pronounced.

Fenrir's fingers wove with hers, and he gave her a slight nod. The wolf knew alliance, because it knew pack. They would be loyal first to pack, and then to this Dark Lord. "I will." His voice was low, though her eyes shifted demurely away from his now seeking look.

It was a way with words, Bradley would give her that. The third and final fiery cord moved with the speed of a striking snake and glowed, before all three faded. "The Vow is complete," he announced, almost unnecessarily. "Now let's get out of here."

Susanna made a move to withdraw her hand, but that appeared to be unlikely; Fenrir's grip had tensed. She threw a veneer of a gracious smile over her fear and looked to Bradley. "Yes. You'll lock the door behind us?"

"No, I thought I'd leave the doors hanging open with arrows pinned up indicating our escape route. Yes, I'll lock the doors," Bradley said, becoming more and more agitated by the second.

Her smile grew wider as her desperation built to panic. The halfbreed wolf was clinging to her hand, its yellow fingernails in her skin. "Thank you, Bradley, you're so kind," she said wryly, and stepped out into the hallway with Fenrir following with a movement more reminiscent of a couple entering a ball than the perpetrators of a jailbreak. "Quickly now."

Bradley was too eager to comply, stepping out after them and closing the heavy door, removing the charm he'd used to keep it from locking, and even adding another one. It'd take time to break that, and every minute was worth it. "Go on, have to get through the Department yet," he said, preparing to repeat it with the next door.

"Go on, lead the way, wizard." Fenrir left it in the flat tone of an order, the tone he used on every member of his pack from the newly converted to those who knew they must do anything for pack. This man would be cowed.

Susanna's fear subsided with amusement at the halfbreed talking down to her Death Eater colleague. "Now now, let's not fight over trifles."

Bradley would lead the way, all right. Right off a cliff. Or into the Thames. He didn't really care. Scowling, he pushed past the two of them and moved quickly down the corridor. "Come on," he hissed at them, before doing the Charms on the door.

Susanna wasn't exactly certain why the halfbreed was steering her closer to the far wall, but she wasn't about to push back (and she doubted it would have any effect on the monstrous thing). She certainly hoped that the contact with the beast would end here, because even in the service of the Dark Lord, she wasn't sure she could make herself tolerate Fenrir Greyback for much longer.

Fenrir sensed her fear, could smell her hair, her skin; within a moment, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the wall with a nasty thud, leaving blood where her head struck.

Bradley recognized the sound as one that didn't belong. He snapped around in time to see Susanna slide along the wall. Damnit, they should have known that they couldn't trust a Dark creature! He leveled his wand at the monster and stammered out, "Stay back -- "

Fenrir turned, looking down at the insignificant wizard and his useless piece of wood. Smiling with the pure joy of the hunt, he shoved the wand arm away and seized the wizard by the neck. Any spells the man could think of while being choked would probably not hurt him very badly.

Bradley's hands immediately came to grasp and ineffectually claw at the strong, rough hand around his neck. As it had earlier, oxygen was becoming scarce and for the first time, he was honestly certain that he wasn't leaving the building alive. Even if by some miracle there was someone coming, it'd be over.

Fenrir stared down into the wizard's face, and spoke with the greatest satisfaction. "I will serve no wizard." With that, he seized the wand and twirled it between his two fingers idly, laughing as he readied it and shoved it point-first into the wizard's throat.

He saw no point in watching the man die, and the wolf was satisfied with the blood that had seeped onto his hand. He chose to walk calmly out of the Department rather than run like frightened prey. He had truly proven that his kind was superior, and now he would return to his pack, where he belonged and was needed.

~*~

If Gilly Broadmoor was well-known for anything, it was violence, Quidditch, shouting or any combination of those three, but her defining trait certainly was not a fondness for reading. The Gryffindors knew this, which was exactly why they found it so bizarre for the Gryffindors to see their least politically inclined housemate reading the front page of The Daily Prophet with a raptness usually reserved for articles regarding "the unequivocally best team ever," the Falcons.

She spoke to no one, not even her teammates, and barely looked up until she saw Isabelle Davis enter the Great Hall. At that she uncharacteristically buried her head further into the newspaper, eating a piece of toast somewhat mechanically until she happened to see Julia Frobisher arrive, and hurriedly waved her over with the remaining crust of her toast.

Julia could count the number of times she'd sat and eaten at the Slytherin table since returning from Christmas holidays on one hand (and until there was a specific order from the Headmaster, it wasn't happening on a regular basis) so it was a little bit of a surprise that Gilly was even bothering to wave her over. Her step did speed up a little to accommodate her friend's beckoning, and dropped onto the bench beside her. "What're you all excited about?" she asked, reaching for some toast of her own and the marmalade.

Gilly quickly stuffed the remaining toast into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, all in time to thrust the newspaper into Julia's face. "Look smart, Frobisher, things just got very interesting." She glanced over at the Slytherin table, running her fingers through her already unruly hair. "Fucking hell, everything's going to shit -- next thing I wager You-Know-Who runs for bloody Minister."

"... Not that that wouldn't be interesting, what're you going on about for real?" she asked, following Gilly's glance with one of her own. She didn't notice anything in that quick look, but Gilly seemed to think that there was something worth noting. "What?"

Gilly rolled her eyes and stabbed her finger into the article that sat front page center: Werewolf Escapes Ministry. "Read, and read between the lines - and if you don't get it, I'll accept that I'm a bloody paranoid Gryffindor who thinks half you lot are Death Eaters, but I really think they're hinting - "

Julia wasn't even listening to Gilly after the first order to read. Her toast dropped to her plate as she snatched the newspaper from her and began to read. Her stomach sank steadily as she continued, reading closely as she had with every other article since December, and she couldn't even finish it, having to put it down about three-fourths of the way through. "Fuck," was the only thing she could come up with to say.

"I particularly like the bit where they're insensitive enough to take the millionth-and-one shot at the Curentons," Gilly idly mentioned, "but Bradley Davis. Notice they didn't mention how he died, or when, just that the werewolf killed him? How the fuck did a werewolf get out of a Ministry cell?" She looked aside where Isabelle sat at the Slytherin table, staring at her plate. "Bet I can make her cry in ten seconds flat."

"Probably," Julia agreed listlessly, taking the paper back. She was going to force herself to finish the article. She wasn't thinking about Isabelle or even very worried about a backlash from her right now, or even sure there could be any sort of satisfaction in making her cry, or angry, or anything right now. "Just... goddamn." She wasn't able to express herself but in single curse words, not even a strand of them.

"Are you hearing a word I'm saying? This is big." Gilly gestured widely. "Big. You know, like what the fuck, big bad werewolf is out to start eating half the population and he's probably going to start with your boyfriend. Big as in now werewolves are fucked, Frobisher. Worse than usual." She suddenly looked down at her toast and fell silent, grabbing the sports section and leaving the rest for Julia.

She hadn't really been listening before, but she picked a terrible time to start hearing what Gilly was saying. "They never weren't fucked," she replied, and put down the newspaper.

Jeremy. She was going to have to write to Jeremy. "And not my boyfriend," she added belatedly.

More familiar and less political ground. Gilly stole a piece of toast off of the Seeker's plate, offering a good natured and somewhat dangerous smile in return. She raised an eyebrow at Julia. "Right, you two are just best mates, and I'm a bloody Harpies centerfold model -- "

"I didn't know either of you could read." For once, Isabelle Davis stood unflanked against the pair of idiot misfits with the filth at the Gryffindor table. "It looks like your favourite halfbreeds are in the news again, Frobisher," she said nastily. "If you want more disgusting Dark Creatures to associate your name with, I hear Sebastian Derrick is half-troll."

It never seemed to fail, Julia thought, that Isabelle Davis appeared where she was least wanted. "You seem to be a full harpy, speaking of disgusting. Do you want something?" she added.

"Looking for someone to abuse? Because I saw Maude Bletchley wearing red nail varnish and everyone knows that blue looks better with elitist stupidity," Gilly interjected before Isabelle could even recover enough from indignance to open her mouth.

Isabelle's eyes filled with tears but her firm posture didn't change. "I'm glad," she snapped. "I am very glad. Because now everyone will know that inhuman freaks like werewolves are dangerous and ought to be destroyed like the rabid beasts they are."

"Go and shag your shoe catalogues or something," Gilly muttered, shoving her in the shoulder. "This is so bloody stupid -- "

"You don't know ANYTHING," Julia found herself standing to yell at Isabelle. Her cheeks began to flush with rage as she continued, not even sure what was going to come out of her mouth until it did so. "You just - you don't even think that there's the least bit of possibility there could be a single good werewolf out there let alone maybe dozens just because of one, and -- do you ever listen to yourself? You probably shouldn't because if you ever did you'd realize how little sense you ACTUALLY make and then you might just have to make up your own mind about something instead of what superstition tells you!"

Gilly had been waiting for some time for an excuse like this, but she hadn't foreseen that there would be a death involved. She glanced up at the staff's table to see McGonagall's gaze on their table, and made her decision, standing to pull Julia down. "It's not worth it now sit and later, later you can knock her out -- "

" -- I listen to myself, and all the evidence points to everything I say," Isabelle hissed at Julia. "Everyone agrees with me, everything agrees with me, I'm right, you're wrong, and if you weren't a halfwit piece of filth you'd understand by now -- "

Isabelle was never given a chance to put an ending on that sentence, whatever it was going to be. Julia shook Gilly off, pulled back her fist and as only a girl with two brothers can, threw it into Isabelle's jaw. She really would have liked to do it a second time but her hand protested at the thought, now throbbing with dull pain -- although with any luck it didn't hurt nearly as much as Isabelle's face.

As much as Gilly had been hoping for just that sight in particular, this was not fun at all. She gaped for an instant before scrambling up and pulling a now-sobbing Isabelle away from the Gryffindor table.

"Shut your face and sit down," she whispered sharply, but Isabelle slapped her across the face in response. It stung, but Gilly merely gave Isabelle a shove towards the Slytherin table and returned to Gryffindor with her head lowered.

Julia was sitting on the bench again, staring at her plate, empty except for the forgotten piece of toast. She was trying to ignore the hushed whispering and those straining to see what was going on, even the glances that were inevitably coming from the staff table and the thought of the summons that would certainly come after breakfast, although this was proving easier said than done. When Gilly sat down, she said blankly, "I can't believe I did that."

Gilly rubbed at her cheek. It only hurt because she wasn't expecting it and she hadn't managed a punch in return, and that opportunity had just come and gone. "If they try to give you detentions, blame it on me, would you?" She threw a toast crust into the air and caught it in her mouth. Chewing, she added, "I can handle two or three more."

Julia chortled, packing away the pertinent section of the paper -- the front page -- into her bag. "That's a very Gryffindor thing for you to say," she said. "I won't get too many, I don't have a history of detention. Unlike you."

"That's my paper," Gilly pointed out pointlessly. "And I mean it, you can blame me, Slytherin that you are, you'd probably do it anyway." She took a long drink of water and sighed, leaning on the table and toasting her with the rest. "To things not getting worse."

"Would not," Julia answered, equally pointless to Gilly's observation. If things did get worse... well, she really hated to think about how they could get worse. It probably wouldn't be in the front page, but in the back with the obituaries. "To things not getting worse," she echoed, and settled in to finish breakfast.

~*~

Later that night Julia was sitting on her bed, in her nightclothes and underneath the covers. An inkwell was balanced on one knee, a textbook being used as a makeshift writing desk for a letter to Jeremy she was trying to compose was on the other, and her cat Odysseus stretched out on his side beside her. This letter was not one of the easiest or even best that she would ever write. She'd tried to start it about ten times just in the last hour and all the attempts ended up scratched out and crumpled at the foot of her bed. She'd managed to write once since coming back to school, right after Gilly had made her threat, and he hadn't written back.

On this, her eleventh attempt since she'd climbed into bed, she'd so far written Jeremy, and nothing else. She'd gone back and forth between using that salutation and 'Dear Jeremy' and decided against it because it was maybe a little forward, or awkward. Both of those things got in the way of what she wanted to say, or would get in the way of him reading what she wanted to say. The less of that there was, the better. She nibbled on the end of her quill in contemplation.

What was there to say? Everything she could write down sounded inane or stupid and not worth the ink she would use or the parchment she would write it on. She was sorry that Fenrir Greyback had escaped. So what? The entire wizarding world was sorry that he'd gotten out; sorry didn't even seem like a strong enough word for it. She was sorry that his sister was dead. That wasn't even remotely fair -- the one thing that was clear about Jeremy once she had gotten to know him was that he adored his sister. And she was just plain sorry that he wasn't there anymore.

Whatever it would mean to him, he had to know that. He had to know that she understood, a little, or at least sympathized. He might not ever know why she understood, but it could be enough to just know that someone got it, or at least wasn't going to judge him if it was indeed beyond their grasp.

She gave a frustrated sigh, angrily capped her inkwell, and shoved it all aside to straighten her legs and lean back against the headboard. Odysseus gave a low mrow as his sleeping position was disturbed, before curling right back up again. Maybe this wouldn't work. Maybe she should just not say a word. Not say a word about recent events? She sighed again, milder this time and closed her eyes briefly.

The dorm was quiet, her three roommates long asleep in their beds, or so she'd thought. The first sound she heard was so muffled that she thought it was coming from the corridor outside. She listened closely, however, and figured out that it was coming from the next bed, with its curtains drawn.

Isabelle's bed. Isabelle was crying.

Julia's stomach sank. She felt badly, mostly because she couldn't dredge up a lot of true sympathy for the girl. How many times had she been in the same position, crying herself to sleep behind the bed curtains, but because of something that had been said or done to her by the infinitely more socially powerful Isabelle Davis? It had been more times than she'd thought to count, and in the end it was too many. She hadn't always been so lucky to have the friends that she did, few that they were, and becoming fewer by the day.

But by god, could she sympathize if she'd wanted to. She could recall precisely the thoughts that were swirling in Isabelle's head, and she chose not to care. Couldn't bring herself to care. That might make her one of the worst sorts of people, but she couldn't bring herself to care about that, either. Not when it concerned a girl who had done no less than bully and torment her for the last four and a half years.

She wrenched the curtains on her own bed closed and shoved everything to the foot of her bed. The letter could wait for tomorrow. She turned away from Isabelle's bed and pulled her covers over her head, hoping it would drown out the sound enough for her to sleep soundly.

~*~

Even a month after Fenrir Greyback's escape and the consequent outing of two Magical Law Enforcement employees as Death Eaters (if posthumously, in one case), Bartemius Crouch, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, found himself personally barraged with questions and concerns ranging from the security of MLE personnel, or lack thereof, to what specific sort of team was going to be sent after the werewolf, to specific dates by which he planned on apprehending and executing the werewolf. All of this was very startling to both him and his assistant, who suffered a large amount of post on any given day from any number of concerned citizens. The Death Eaters elicited terror, but a werewolf fugitive who maimed children really brought the populace out of the woodwork, and for the first time in a number of years, Barty Crouch read letters that held genuine criticism from people he respected.

The public had doubt in his ability to handle a situation. It was an unpleasant thing to realise.

He folded a letter from one of the Vances and put it in his pocket, and as he passed the desk of his assistant, he simply called, "Emily!" as he went directly into his office.

Understanding, she followed him into the office. "Yes, Mr Crouch?" She stood with notebook in hand, poised to take note of and complete any orders.

He waved that part off; it was only nine o'clock, and he had to prepare himself for the rest of the day. "Any new post, new memos? Anything of note at all?"

"Of course, sir, I'll have it on your desk directly." She paused and pursed her lips. "Mr Crouch, there's an op-ed -- "

Crouch sat forward heavily and looked at her over the top of his glasses. "These op-eds, that's all you tell me about, haven't we a war to fight and a country to run? Op-eds, as though they've any idea what goes on in here unless I tell them myself -- nonsense, Emily -- "

Emily gave him a look of clear unamusement. "Mr Crouch, you ask me to keep track of things, and I do. You told me yourself that the papers deserve watching, as they say what the public wants to hear. It's the voice of the people." At his equally unamused silence, she went on. "There's an op-ed suggesting that you send a team of Hit Wizards after Fenrir Greyback."

He let out a great huff but caught hold of his temper and merely sighed. "What good is it to send another team when my Aurors -- my Aurors, who regularly track down criminals and murderers of all sorts, Death Eaters even -- have had no luck, when Magical Creatures has yet again fallen completely silent when the country actually requires them, for once -- "

"Sir," she interrupted, prim and yet patient, "I'll close the door if you mean to rant today, but you only have seven minutes' leeway in your schedule."

"Seven minutes?" Crouch repeated, astounded. "My schedule is packed for all but seven minutes? Good god, what hordes could possibly all need to talk to me today, of all days?"

Emily chose that moment to decide that today was a ranting day, and closed the door. "Mr Bulstrode, Hit Wizard Head, Mr Gibbon, our contact with Azkaban, three reporters have requested time with you but they may have to fight to the death for it, as there's only room for one -- "

"When will the press understand the rules," he said, simmering. "I am a press-friendly man, but there are rules. I grant them interviews, or they can contact the press secretary. The utter nerve." He paused. "Who's asking?"

She referred to the list. "Ah. Williamson, O'H -- "

He cut her off. "Bring Williamson in, I'll set him straight, and remind any others that contact you of the rules we've set. What does Bulstrode have to say to me?"

Emily pursed her lips again, and held out an unmarked envelope for him. "He left this for you, sir."

Crouch gave her a stern look -- that expression of hers never boded well -- and opened the envelope, his exasperation only growing as a newspaper clipping fell out of it. He read only two lines of the op-ed, those underlined in red, and beside which were marked two words in Marvin Bulstrode's handwriting -- He's right.

"This is not the time for the head of the Hit Wizards to decide to involve himself in widespread MLE policy," he snapped, staring at the piece. And he so enjoyed the press when they behaved.

"Don't seem like any of your people are listenin' to you these days, are they, Barty?"

Emily and Crouch both looked up at Alastor Moody, who had managed to open the door and come inside without making a sound or visible movement. He closed the door behind him in the surprised silence, and Crouch regained his senses at that. "It's polite to knock," he said.

"My mistake." Moody gave a grim sort of smile. "Didn't realise you were runnin' a charm school. You mind excusin' us, Miss?" he added to Emily.

Crouch knew the answer before he asked, but he said it anyway. "Is he on the schedule?"

"No," Emily said, not quite looking at the most accomplished Auror still employed, if ever.

Moody gave a gruff snort. "Something's come up," he said, "Real world doesn't run out of appointment books, after all."

"Yes, I know that," Crouch sighed, and gestured for Emily to go. Once the door shut, he looked to Moody. "Well, make it quick."

"King and Davis came up like scum on a pond. No one was surprised, not saying that, but my meaning is, you never know around here -- "

Crouch heard enough of this in the letters, but from the Aurors... "Nonsense, we have many trusted employees who have worked for us many years, Auror Moody, King and Davis were -- "

"They were Death Eaters! Low-level, no Marks on their arms, but through-and-through and dedicated enough to lose their lives just to free a werewolf, and no one here saw it comin', or if they did, they wanted it to happen." Moody stomped his foot in his impatience. "Have to be more careful about who we've hired and who we let handle things like the damn keys, Barty, that's for sure -- "

He held up his hand to stop Moody's rampage, but was inevitably forced to cut him off in order to speak. "And your suggestion is, Auror Moody?"

Moody snorted a laugh. "Surprise security check, make sure everyone, and I mean everyone, is who they say they are. No lettin' the old friends get off easy. Thought you'd like this one -- it'll look good in the papers, sir."

The disdain and shouting always gave Crouch a headache, but the man was a fine Auror, so he set his jaw and dealt with it. "Thank you, your experience proves useful once again."

Moody gave a curt nod. "Another thing," he said, raising a finger. "Put the Longbottoms on King, either one of 'em. They're the best you got in that Auror office, excepting me."

King. He chose not to think about her, a family friend who he had pulled strings back when he was an administrative assistant to get a job. "That interrogation's already been assigned to, ah, two more seasoned Aurors."

"Oh yeah?" Moody considered that. "How're they doing with her?"

He'd heard about Susanna King, the victorious suspect, breaking the first two Aurors who spent hours in an interrogation room. Of course. "The case is being reassigned. Take it up with the Auror office, please, these things are not my direct concern. Is that all?"

Moody shook his head at him. "I mean it, Barty, better move now or you'll end up fightin' Death Eaters with Death Eaters, if you get my meaning." He limped back towards the door.

"We take many precautions, Auror Moody, I hope you realise," Crouch said sharply.

Moody looked at him as he opened the door. "Not enough," he said, and left.

Crouch sat back at his desk, exhausted, and checked the clock. It was only nine-thirty. He exhaled, took a sip of his already cold tea, and just like that, Emily was back at his door. "Marvin Bulstrode for you, Mr Crouch," she informed him, and he nodded back.

He stood and greeted, "Mr Bulstrode," giving the bulky man a firm handshake and a strained but polite smile. Just like that, he resigned himself to a day of humiliation as he had every morning since Fenrir Greyback's escape had eliminated his chance of one.

~*~

The day had been a slow one, just the sort that Owen was growing to enjoy in the months following Erin's death. The spring was coming - Erin's April birthday was approaching, but they pushed it from their minds. Instead they busied themselves with their activities in their various domains. Brighid kept busy in the house, Owen threw himself into work and both did what they could to keep Jeremy occupied, but that was a lot harder than it sounded.

He approached his house at dusk, lost in a thought, but made himself slip out of it as he came closer. The house was still, but that was not unusual. Approaching the door, he spied some parchment wedged in the door and frowned. People usually sent their messages by exploding post or tied to a rock through a window. He pulled it out of the door and opened it there on the porch. His face immediately fell, his stomach sank, and his heart raced. Even though it had likely been left hours ago, he looked up in every direction for the note's author. When he was nowhere to be found, he opened the door with such force that it hit the outside of the house and made a beeline for his study, not bothering to close the door.

Brighid heard the door slam open - and worse, not close - from where she sat reading the evening edition and called, "Jeremy, close the door!" until she saw her husband stalk past without a word towards his study. "Owen?" she asked as a courtesy before just following him into his study. "Owen."

Owen didn't seem to hear his wife at first, but stood behind his desk and stared at the note that he'd dropped on top of the other parchments. "What?" he said, a bit off balance.

"Owen, what's going on?" she demanded in her Mum voice, growing more insistently frightened by the second.

He hesitated for a moment, unable to decide what to do. He looked up. "Did you see anyone unusual around today? Anyone?" he asked with a great deal of urgency.

"No, not at all, now what's going on, Owen?" Brighid went to his side in hopes of talking sense into him more directly. "I haven't seen anyone."

He paused for a moment and shut the door to the study with a wave of his wand. Another pause, and he also locked it. "I... am not even sure where to - " He picked the note up and held it out to her. "I came home just now and this was in the door. It... I think we need some stronger wards," he concluded.

She looked at the handwriting, then read the note, and put her hand to her mouth as she paled. "Owen," she breathed. "This isn't - it can't be. There's no way that he could have got through the wards. He's a fugitive."

"Exactly, he's not going to be going by normal avenues, Brighid," he said, moving at a terrifically frantic pace through the room, unable to keep still. "The wards don't allow Apparation for fifty yards but really, do we have anything that is going to work for this case?"

Brighid's panic was rising. "It's not the wards I'm concerned about, it's that he can get into town and right to our door, and no one seems to care! Fenrir Greyback is all over the newspaper - and an actual threat, for once! - and still no one notices him, how is that possible?"

Owen hesitated and pulled at his hair as he continued to move. "I don't... I don't know. He knows the area, with the wooded area around I wouldn't say it's impossible." Not that it made it any better. "It... we'll set something up and just be careful. All three of us. Keep our eyes open."

Brighid grabbed his arm to stop him, giving it a hard squeeze to snap him back into sense. If he lost control, so would she. "We can do it, there's no need to panic," she said. "We'll strengthen the wards, tell Jeremy, keep him inside and entertained more often - Fenrir's a fugitive, he can't get away with this for long. He can't - " He can't take him from us.

He stopped in front of her, anchoring himself by taking hold of her arms. "Yes," he said, more to calm himself down and stop his frenetic pacing. He forced himself to think, refusing to give in to the persistent guilt, but the fear of losing his last child to this madman took its place. "Yes, we can do all that," he started, and then stopped, struck by another thought. "I don't think we can tell Jeremy. Not outright."

She felt tears pricking her eyes and forced it back, closing her eyes. "No, he has to know. He has to know the sort of danger he's in, if he sneaks out or stays out late or goes wandering, it won't matter what sort of wards we have, he'll be gone before we have a chance to do a thing, Owen!"

"He blames himself, Brighid," he said urgently. He made himself slow down, and touched her face briefly. "He blames himself for what happened, for not saving Erin. You have a very good point, I - there's no reason to argue against it. But he blames himself and I can't help but think what his reaction will be if he knows that he's at the center of the threat."

"You don't think he'll - " She had to stop and reconsider before daring to say it, and wisely rethought it. Thoughts about anything Jeremy would do besides staying with them didn't even bear consideration. "You're right. I don't want to... he's a teenage boy, he's not got much to do, we shouldn't - startle him."

"No. It would not do," Owen agreed, and forced a smile for her. "We're just going to have to be careful, and make Jeremy be more careful as well."

Brighid could at least manage a slight smile at his. "I think I'm going to fix us both a strong drink. You stay here - no work, do you hear me? We'll work on this problem tomorrow."

He kissed her on the cheek quickly and unlocked the office door for her with a wave of his wand. She went, and he approached his desk again. He read the note again, swallowing, and forced himself to be numb to it. The hardly veiled threat against his son - his son, not Fenrir's - read plainly, and terribly.

Quickly, Owen unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept all of the important papers, usually legal, but in this case it could serve for a hiding place. One of the rules of the house was that Owen's desk was off limits to the children, but of course that had never stopped Jeremy or Erin and he was sure that wasn't likely to change. He dropped the note in and closed the drawer, locking it up again - unfortunately, out of sight was not out of mind.