Girl Most Likely

Two men, talking over a cup of tea:

"Is it enough, do you think?"

"It'll have to be. Anything more, and it would be too obvious."

"From what I've heard, you'd have to wear green and silver snakeskin and carry a sign saying 'I Love The Dark Lord' before he'd notice anything." A snort. "Gryffindors."

"You underestimate him. That's a mistake."

"He's one man."

"He's the most powerful wizard of our age." A chuckle. "But, yes, one man. It's enough."

***

Harry saw her in the shadows: a thin, cloaked figure, retreating into the darkness as the Aurors made their way down Knockturn Alley. He caught a glimpse of black eyes in a pale face, and felt a flicker of recognition. He knew this girl, or at least, he knew who she was. And what she was.

Her gaze had a familiar focus that made Harry's neck prickle, as if she could see through their Invisibility Cloaks.

He'd often wondered the same thing about her father, he recalled.

Somehow, the denizens of the Alley had caught wind that something would happen that night, and the only others around were a huddled man, smelling strongly of carris seeds, and a shabby prostitute sheltering from the rain. Neither showed any interest in the hidden Coterie as it moved through the night with a whisper.

They paused in a cavernous shadow, where a Malfoy-owned carris den once stood.

"Now."

At the whispered command, the seven Aurors removed their Invisibility Cloaks. Most tucked them into the pockets of their robes; Harry found an unoccupied pocket in his Muggle-style combat pants. He had no desire to get tangled up in voluminous fabric on a dark, rainy night like this.

With the darkness and the rain, Harry couldn't see more than three feet in front of him, but he could sense Ron, excited and worried, and Dennis Creevey, who was fearless and eager to begin. The others, less known to him, were merely a blur of anticipation. As always, Harry found himself straining to identify individuals, like a non-musician attempting to follow an individual instrument in an orchestra.

Stop that, he thought. Empathic abilities were unmeasurable, but he could never shake the feeling that his were duller than the rest.

And whose fault is that?

Harry abandoned the useless line of thought.

He'd never been particularly musical, either.

Silently, the Coterie advanced, taking up their positions.

"Open up on College business!"

Harry watched from the shadows as Enid Zabini leaped forward kicked the door open, demonstrating yet again why a Slytherin with an inferiority complex should never be allowed to watch Muggle action movies. It was all Ron's fault, he mused as he watched his best friend follow Enid through the door. He smiled at the memory of that weekend of beer, bad Muggle movies and Chinese food four years ago, back when they were mostly relative strangers. Ron had been determined to share his newly discovered love of film with the world; the weekend had gone further in developing a cohesive Coterie unit than six months of Ministry-sponsored "camps".

Lisa and Michael entered next, moving more cautiously than their seniors. Next were Dennis and Marion; Dennis bore that slightly manic grin made Harry think twice about considering taking up the Dark Arts as a casual hobby, or even jaywalking. Enid wasn't the only one who'd watched too many Bruce Willis films. Marion merely looked determined, bless her homicidal, Hufflepuff soul.

Harry, as the Coterie's Second, was the last to enter, ready to move quickly if a trap was sprung. That was the way of the Coterie: you formed emotional, empathetic bonds, and you looked after your colleagues.

Before he moved, he turned slightly, but no one met his gaze from the shadows.

Inside the shop, he found the greatest anticlimax of his career: Janus Borgin quietly allowing himself to be magically bound to the Portkey that would take him to the College's cells. He looked up as Harry entered, meeting his eyes through a curtain of limp, greying hair.

"Potter. The Ministry has planned quite a party indeed. And I'm not even dressed."

Borgin was wearing a worn, grey nightshirt, although there was fresh ink on his fingers, and heat radiated from the teapot on the counter. It looked as though he'd been enjoying a peaceful midnight tea party before the entrance of the Aurors, although there were fresh potions in the cauldrons around the counter.

Two teacups rested beside the antique cash register.

"Good evening, Janus," Harry said conversationally, peering into a cauldron with interest. He looked up at Enid. "Is the rest of the building secured?"

"I'm on it." And don't tell me how to do my job, you great Gryffindor prat, she didn't say. Harry took the hint, and hung back as Ron, Marion and Lisa returned to confirm that yes, the shop and the flat above it were completely secured.

"Even the regular wards are down," Lisa added, biting her lip. She glared at Janus and added pointedly, "one might even think he knew we were coming."

"One might even think he had something nasty up his sleeve," said Dennis. He, like everyone else, was still carrying his wand. Borgin had a history of springing nasty surprises on Coteries. This sullen compliance was unprecedented, and Harry found it worrying.

"One might even think I was tired," Borgin said. "Take me away, if you will," he said to Enid. "I have no further purpose here."

Enid nodded, her eyes blazing with curiosity, and they both vanished.

Over the sound of the rain, Harry could hear pops and curses as journalists and photographers Apparated into Knockturn Alley. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Your entourage, Mr Potter?"

"They're not mine," Harry snarled, as flashes began to go off in the window and the Fourth Estate of the wizarding world attempted to catch a glimpse of the Man Formerly Known As The Boy Who Lived at work.

See Potter. See Potter work. See Potter save the world. See Potter stare at a cauldron full of gooey sludge and wonder what it does.

He had just decided against poking it, either with a wand or a finger, when the door opened, and a journalist actually threw himself into the room.

"Sorry about that, chaps," he said cheerfully, "but it's raining Snidgets out there, and why hang about in the wet when the story's in here?"

"This is Ministry business," Ron snapped. "Get yourself out. Or get yourself arrested for obstructing the College of Aurors, and see how Malfoy enjoys bailing you out."

"Mr Weasley! Hero of the Diamond Gorge—"

"Out," Ron said, raising his wand.

"How does it feel, playing Third Auror to the Boy Who Lived?"

Harry retreated to the sidelines, glancing outside. Knockturn Alley was more visible now; the rabble of reporters had lit their wands and carried self-illuminating notebooks. On the other side of the narrow street, he caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure moving further into the shadows.

Does Daddy know you're here? he asked the figure.

"Not as good as it will feel to arrest you—"

"Let him out," said Harry wearily. He grabbed the journalist by the scruff of the neck, ignoring the fact that the man was a head and a half taller than he – walk as if you own the school, Potter, cease this ridiculous slinking around. Stand up and look me straight in the eye, like your father did – and made for the door.

"Mr Potter! Allow me to introduce myself: I am Thomas DeMartiller of the Evening Seer—"

"This may amaze you, DeMartiller, but I really don't care."

The door flew open as Harry approached, and the herd of journalists and photographers straightened.

"There," said Harry cheerfully, "that'll make the front page. That's all your lot want, isn't it?"

Somewhat reluctantly, he released DeMartiller without dropping him in a puddle, and faded into the shadows to retrieve his Invisibility Cloak. The journalists were concentrating on Borgin and Burkes; no one noticed Harry as he moved across the Alley.

He was beside the girl, as well concealed as she in the shadows, when he removed his cloak. She spun around, cat-like, wand at the ready. He had half expected her to run away at his approach, like the near feral orphans who'd haunted the Alleyways during and after the War, but she identified him and became still.

Oh yes, there was a lot that he recognised in this girl.

"Knockturn Alley is no place for a teenage girl," he said conversationally, as soon as he was sure that she wouldn't flee.

"It's no place for anyone," she said, looking past him at the prostitute and the addict, who were watching proceedings with interest. Her cloak slipped aside, revealing a flimsy Muggle dress. Harry shuddered at the thought of a girl like this in the Alley, fair game for the illegal Potions merchants, the Dark Wizards, the pimps and drug dealers.

Although, come to think of it, that was a fair summary of her family tree.

"Where's your father?" he asked.

"France." She pushed her hood back, revealing very long, black hair that fell around her face, emphasising the pallor of her skin and the harsh, strong features she'd inherited from her father.

"Does he know you're here?"

"You must be joking."

"You should get home."

She shifted, looking annoyed. "I Floo'd here. Now your Aurors are crawling all over the shop."

"Well, you can't spend the night out here."

"I do realise that."

He held his Cloak out. "Hop under here. I'll take you home."

Harry was not a tall man, but the days when he could share his Cloak with another person were long gone. He sent the girl across to the shop, grabbed his wand and Apparated, beating her there by several minutes.

"Jesus, Harry," breathed Dennis as he appeared. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

"Just keeping you on your toes."

"It's not my toes you should be worried about."

The door opened slightly, and then closed. Dennis, Lisa and Ron raised their wands, but Harry stilled them. He cast Obfuscato – long overdue, in his opinion – on the windows, ignoring the howls of protest from the mob outside as the glass went dark.

"Well," he said, directing his words to a point somewhere near the door, "come on out, then."

There was a whisper of fabric near the fireplace; Harry turned and found himself looking into a pair of slightly amused black eyes.

"I thought you Aurors never let anyone get behind you," she said.

"Let's just assume that I'm very trusting."

Dennis, examining the contents of a concealed cupboard, tried and entirely failed to disguise his laughter. Harry ignored him and lit the fire.

"I'll accompany you home," he said, not bothering to pretend it was a request. She nodded, reluctantly, and threw the powder into the flames.

As he followed her into the fire, Harry heard Dennis say to Lisa, "Isn't that the Snape girl?" Then the fire swallowed him, and Knockturn Alley vanished in a haze of ash.

They arrived in a typical wizarding house, albeit neater and newer than the Burrow, or even the Granger-Weasley home. The first things that Harry noticed were the books. They were everywhere: on the kitchen table, on the benches, stuffed into corners and in piles next to the couch.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" she asked diffidently.

"Thanks. Black, two sugars."

She made it manually, while he examined some of the titles on the table. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6. Ars Potionis. Several nasty looking Potions texts that made him wonder if he shouldn't be watching her make his tea very carefully.

And, tucked behind them all, there was a battered paperback: The Boy Who Lived, the unauthorised biography of Harry Potter. When he picked it up, it fell straight open to Chapter Six: Snape, the Shadowy Mentor.

Her collection, then. Certainly not her father's. And speaking of whom ... as she handed him a mug, he asked, "When does your father get back?"

"The fourteenth. He's attending the International Conference of Magical Educators." She stared into her drink, rotating the cup between hands that seemed almost too large for her thin arms. Her damp cloak had been thrown over a chair, revealing a gaunt frame. Slightly appalled, Harry averted his gaze from the prominent cheekbones, wrists, and collarbones revealed by her skimpy dress. Almost reluctantly, she added, "Technically, he forbade me to leave Oxford. But I wanted to see my uncle."

"Borgin."

"Go to the head of the class." She watched him for a moment. "I know who you are," she said.

"Oh?"

"Potter. The Boy Who Lived." There was a cynical note in her voice, and Harry suppressed a wild urge to look around for her father.

"I know who you are, too," he said, and was rewarded with a surprised look, the first unguarded expression he'd seen on her face.

"Who am I, then?"

"The Lestrange child. The Azkaban baby. The Dementor's child." Rather apologetically, he added, "I'm afraid I don't actually know your name."

She scowled. "I'm not a Lestrange. I was never meant to be a Lestrange, why do you think my mother--" She stopped.

"And your name?"

She mumbled something. Harry stared. "Did you say your name is Lily?" A million half-remembered rumours and thirty year old slanders flooded into his mind.

"Lilith. Lilith Miriam Susanna Borgin. My mother named me before -- before the Dementors Kissed her."

"I knew your mother slightly," said Harry before he could stop himself.

"I'm not surprised. She was a Death Eater, you're Harry Potter. You must have found so much to talk about."

Yeah, well, she did enjoy torturing some good friends of mine. Harry bit his lip before the words could leave his mouth. Hermione might enjoy criticising his sensitivity, or lack thereof -- not that she was much better, really -- but he recognised the hungry curiosity in Lilith's eyes, and he knew better than to criticise much-loved deceased parents.

It was one of many lessons he'd learnt at Snape's hands.

"How long have you known Borgin? I can't imagine that your father encouraged the relationship."

"Since I was twelve. We met briefly in Diagon Alley. He knew who I was. Dad took me away and forbade me to speak to him, but he sent me letters."

"He initiated the contact?"

"Yes. He said that Dad had no right to keep him away from his last living relative."

"And what did you think of that?"

She shrugged. "It was just Dad and I, and Aunt Arabella, sort of. And then there was Uncle Janus. Family. I liked that." She asked softly, "will he go to Azkaban?"

"That's my hope. But he's been brought in before. Evidence and witnesses have a tendency to disappear, and Borgin has some pretty powerful allies."

"He's just a businessman."

"He's a--" Harry stopped himself. He was exhausted, and he was losing control of his tongue. Swallowing the last of his tea, he stood up. "I need to get back to the Ministry. I'll be back tomorrow to take an official statement."

"Very well."

"Don't go anywhere. Don't tell anyone about the raid."

"Right." She sounded bored, but he had a feeling that she'd obey.

"And stay away from men like Borgin."

The last thing he saw before he Disapparated was Lilith Borgin rolling her eyes and slouching back in her chair.

***

It was so bloody depressing, Lilith decided after Potter had Apparated away. The Boy Who Lived was all grown up, and far from being the arrogant scofflaw her father occasionally complained of, he was as dull and repressive as any other adult she knew.

"Stay away from men like Borgin."

Huh. As if she hadn't heard that advice before.

He sounded like her father. Wouldn't Dad hate that, she wondered. Or maybe he'd approve. She never knew what he was thinking, except that it was bound to be critical.

Merlin. Dad. Who'd be reading the Daily Prophet (French edition) in a few hours, and for all she knew, her face would be splashed across the page with Potter's. Hiding in the shadows hadn't concealed her from him, after all, and if he had recognised her, others might.

Her father would know. That she'd come to the attention of the College of Aurors. That she'd been seeing her uncle, in direct defiance of his directives. That she'd been visiting Knockturn Alley on a regular basis.

Merlin.

Potter might be a dull stick, another Auror in the grand hero machine, but she'd rather deal with him than her father.

Lilith leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples. Her head was hurting, and she couldn't remember if she had any of the analgesic potion left. She buried her head in her ink-stained arms on the kitchen table, uncomfortably aware of the Dark Arts books surrounding her. Potter had probably noticed. She wondered if he knew enough about Potions to recognise that two of the books were strictly forbidden, except to authorised parties.

Her father was an authorised party.

Lilith was most emphatically not.

Maybe she could share a cell with her uncle in Azkaban.

Potter would return tomorrow. She should clear up, get a few hours' sleep. But the room spun when she stood up, and her migraine worsened.

It was going to be a bad one.

She managed to get to the couch in the next room without collapsing. She curled up, snuggling into the blanket Aunt Arabella had made for her when she was nine.

Things had been simpler when she was nine. No uncles, no relatives at all apart from her father, but no migraines, or exams, or classmates happy to destroy the Headmaster's daughter.

Lilith groaned and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the swirling lights behind her eyelids. Her uncle was in custody, Potter was returning in a few hours, and her father was sure to find out about it.

And there was something else ... something that nagged at her behind the pain and nausea. Something she needed to remember...

Eventually, the sound of the rain on the roof lulled her to sleep, but the nagging feeling remained.

***

"The conquering hero returns," called Michael Truelake as Harry Apparated into the Coterie lounge.

"Very funny. Is everything secure?"

Enid gave him an amused, exasperated look. With the strain of the raid over, she had resumed the mask of an affectionate elder sister. "Isn't that my line? Though it's the second time tonight you've stolen it…"

"Yeah, whatever. Is Borgin secure?"

"Safe and sound. The Second Coterie relieved us."

"How's the Snape girl?" asked Dennis.

"A chip off the old block."

"Oh God, kill her now," called Michael. Enid gave him an irritated look, but didn't bother reviving the old Let's Be Nice to Slytherins Argument. It wasn't unusual for Slytherin Aurors to have a chip on their shoulders, and Enid was better than most, but Michael had a knack for pushing her.

So did Harry, now he thought of it.

"Harry," said Enid, handing him a cup of coffee, "nice work tonight."

"Was that work? Borgin hardly even put up a fight. I didn't do anything."

"I meant with the journalists. And Severus's daughter."

"Ignore Harry," called Ron, "he's just an adrenaline addict. We need more jobs like that one."

"What, boring?" asked Dennis, "aren't you the man who went haring off after Jocasta Kostakeidis without a wand?"

"Yeah, well," Ron shrugged, "maybe I'm growing old."

"Or up," Enid muttered.

"Hey, I've got a family to think about."

"Uh, Ron?" said Lisa, "I hate to break this to you, but at your birthday party, Hermione told me that your untimely death would be just the excuse she needed to become a hermit and finish her third book."

"Yeah, but she always gets a bit crazed when she's editing."

Enid leaned over to Harry and asked quietly, "Is there any point in questioning Lilith?"

"Probably not. Has her uncle said anything?"

"Of course not. He's quietly waiting for his Advocate. Makes my skin crawl."

"Mine too," Harry admitted.

"Speaking of Advocates, can you keep your godfather away from this one?"

"Not a problem. Sirius reckons he won't defend the same person twice. Not for the same crime, anyway."

"Lovely."

"I was planning to get a statement from Lilith tomorrow, but I don't think she's important."

"Sounds good." Enid stood up, making sure that she had everyone's attention. "Off duty, people; I'll see you all in the morning."

***

Harry exhaled slowly as he arrived home, feeling exhaustion creep over him as his caffeine-prolonged adrenaline high diminished. He could sympathise with Enid sometimes, the way she concealed her true personality from all but the closest of friends.

Like Ron and Hermione, or Marion.

Not Harry. Not since—

He stared numbly at his reflection in the mirror.

"Bad hair day?" the mirror asked.

"Shut up."

He was thirty-three, but in these quiet moments, when there was nothing else to fill his mind, he felt older. It was almost shocking, to look in the mirror and see someone so … young staring back at him. The flecks of grey in his hair were premature; they were the only obvious signs of the stress of the last few years. But his eyes, they held his age, and more. Haunted green eyes in a strained, pale face. He'd lost weight, he realised: his clothes hung off his frame, and his cheekbones were more prominent than he remembered.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Boy Who Lived.

So … have you saved the world lately? What have you done to justify your existence today?

Like so many others lately, it was a pointless, circular line of thought. Harry turned away from his reflection and went to bed, but he didn't sleep.

***

The house felt still and unoccupied when Harry Apparated into the small parlour that most wizarding households used as a magical entry point. The mid-morning light was bright, but there was no sign of Lilith.

He wandered through the house, opening doors and listening to his footsteps echo on the wooden floors. Snape may have been out of the country, but his presence permeated the otherwise-deserted house. Despite the sunshine, Harry felt as though he were thirteen again, being led down into the dungeons for punishment.

On a low table was a copy of that morning's French Daily Prophet and some owl treats. The raid was on the third page; there was a particularly good photo of Ron leading the Coterie out of the shop. At least Lilith had avoided the attention of the media, Harry thought.

Scrawled across the newspaper were the words, 'We'll speak when I get home. Father.'

He paused to examine an overflowing bookshelf. Hermione would fit in well here, he decided. In fact, there was a well-worn copy of her first book right in front of him. He flipped through it, but there was no autograph, or indeed any sign that Snape was acquainted with the author, aside from some acerbic margin notes in the first chapter.

"Potter."

Harry swung around in surprise. Lilith was standing behind him, a towel wrapped around her head. Her face was still damp, and her eyes were oddly bright. She'd traded her flimsy Muggle dress for a more traditional gown (black, of course; he was beginning to understand her taste). The outfit made her look even more vulnerable than the other dress, for it revealed her prominent collar-bones.

"Are you all right?" he asked, for there was a disturbing brittleness about her. Absently, he began ticking off the symptoms of illicit Potion use.

"Fine," she said shortly. His scepticism must have been obvious, for she added, "I had a migraine. The analgesic potion removes the pain, but it makes me feel -- strange. More real than real, if that makes sense."

"I'm familiar with the potion." He'd used it a lot when he was sixteen. Had he looked like that, he wondered, a skinny, unnaturally wakeful teenager?

"Can I get you anything?" she asked. "Tea? Coffee? Breakfast?"

"Coffee. Please. Black, two sugars."

Lilith led him into the kitchen, denuded of last night's books. She made him coffee and joined him at the table with a glass of pumpkin juice. For the first time, Harry noticed the Muggle refrigerator and stove.

Following his gaze, she said, "There's a lot of coming and going between Muggles and wizards in Oxford." She sipped her juice, slowly. Noticing the tension in her hands, Harry wondered how effective the analgesic potion was.

Lilith was watching him as closely as he was studying her.

"What can I do for you, Mr Potter?" she asked.

Harry opened his backpack and drew out several blank parchments and a Transcription Quill. He quickly tested it, and showed her the resulting page to prove that it wasn't a Quick Quotes Quill. "I need a statement from you regarding your presence at the raid, your visits to Borgin's shop and your relationship with your uncle."

"Will it be used as evidence in the trial?"

He snorted. "We'll be lucky if Borgin stays in custody for more than a day. His solicitors will get him out. They always do."

"Good," said Lilith softly. Then, "fine. I'll answer your questions."

"Good girl." She pulled a face at him. Harry pulled one back, and she laughed quietly.

"You're not nearly as dull as you make out, are you, Potter?"

"You'd be amazed at how dull I really am." Harry indicated his parchments. "May we begin?"

"Please." Lilith removed the towel from her head and proceeded to brush her tangled hair.

"How did you come to be outside at the time of the raid?"

She shrugged. "Uncle Janus knew that Dad was out of the country – there was an article about the conference in the Prophet – so he owled me and invited me over. He'd promised that I could stay the night, go through his books—" She looked suddenly guilty, but recovered quickly. "Talk, and so forth. We don't see much of each other … not as much as I'd like."

"How long were you there?"

"Several hours, I suppose. The raid was shortly after midnight, am I correct? I can't really remember how we spent the evening. You know how time slips away when you're talking."

"I know."

"I was on the verge of going to bed, when his Foe Glass lit up: seven Aurors, heading our way. He told me to get home, but he wouldn't let me use the Floo network … it's traceable, I suppose, but it was pretty stupid of him, really – I mean, how else was I going to get home? Did he think I'd spend a night hanging around Knockturn Alley?"

"In my experience, Borgin – and others like him – become remarkably selfish when threatened. Short-sighted, too."

"Yes, but I'm family. I should be treated better." She shook her head and continued, "I went out the back way, and ducked through the alley beside the shop to get back to the street. But of course, I had nowhere to go after that… I lingered, thinking that he might need my help, but I had no idea what to do."

"Admirable, anyway."

"Stupid."

"Well, yes. But admirable, nonetheless."

"It was a useless notion. I abandoned it pretty quickly when I realised that you were part of the raid. Everyone knows that Harry Potter can do what he wants."

"That's not quite true." But not far off. "Did you spend much time in the store?"

"Sometimes. He'd tell me stories, about how he got the stuff, and what it did." Lilith removed the towel from her head and proceeded to brush her tangled hair.

Harry glanced up. "He trained you in the Dark Arts?"

"No. He just told me about some artefacts." She peered up at him through a curtain of hair. "Last time I checked, knowledge alone didn't constitute a crime. Otherwise, they'd have to lock up all the Aurors."

Harry refused to be baited. "Ever deal with the customers?"

"Sometimes."

"Think you could identify them?"

"Perhaps."

"A heavy-set black man with a scar on his face in the shape of an equilateral triangle?"

Lilith shook her head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"A thin woman, about forty, blond hair, yellow eyes, moves like a cat?"

"No."

"Blond man about my age, grey eyes, looks like a ferret?"

"No." She offered him a challenging smile. "I've only ever seen Draco Malfoy in the Daily Prophet. Where he is described as an upstanding citizen, and looks nothing like a ferret."

"Touché. Although you'd be amazed at what the Daily Prophet considers an upstanding citizen, if he holds enough shares. And I'm going to stick with the ferret descriptor."

"He looks like an albino squirrel. Twitchy."

Harry laughed, and she smiled in return. Not such a bad kid, really, he thought. Smart, at least. The kind of person he'd have wanted as a sister.

The tension had been broken, and he saw her hands relax as they returned to business.

"Did you ever meet your uncle's business partner?"

"Lucas Burke? No, never." She frowned. "That's strange, isn't it? I mean, he only disappeared six months ago, and I've spent hours at my uncle's shop over the last few years. But I never met him."

"Very strange," Harry agreed, "although by all accounts he's more paranoid than Mad Eye Moody. Officially, he disappeared in February, but no one's actually seen him with their own eyes since last November."

"Maybe he really loves his Invisibility Cloak."

"Perhaps." Harry shook his head. "Thanks for your time, Lilith."

"A pleasure, Potter. It's not every day that a bona fide hero comes around to ask routine questions of an innocent teenager."

"What can I say? I needed a day job."

"I didn't think they sent the Boy Who Lived out to do drudge work. They say you can pick any assignment you like."

"Nah. They gave me that option a couple of years ago, after – after I'd been an Auror for a few years. I rejected it."

"Was that after your wife died?" She stopped, looking horrified. "I'm sorry—"

Harry looked down at his hands, wrapped around his coffee cup. There was still a lighter band of skin on his left ring finger; the summer sun had yet to remove that trace. Heal that scar.

"Yeah," he said softly. "That was after she died."

"I shouldn't have said anything." Now, at least, he'd truly cracked through her nonchalant, sulky façade; here was real remorse. It was more genuine emotion than he'd ever seen from either of her parents, and it made her seem more real, less of a copy of two people he'd hated.

"It doesn't matter," he said gamely. He glanced down at the transcript, the faux pas preserved on the parchment.

Harry stood up, stuffing his things into his backpack. "Thanks for the coffee," he said. Lilith watched him, her face unreadable. "I'll contact you if I need to speak to you again, and if you think of anything more, please owl me straight away."

Lilith nodded. "There's just one thing," she said, "my father. He – he doesn't usually follow trials that closely, so he might not find out that I was there unless—"

"We don't exactly speak," said Harry shortly. "If Snape finds out, it won't be from me."

"Thank you."

Harry didn't bother returning to the Apparition parlour; he grasped his wand and Disapparated from the kitchen.

***

Ron looked up from his messy desk as Harry appeared in his office.

"Harry, you idiot, you're not supposed to Apparate here—"

"Yeah, well. I was in a hurry."

"How was Snape?"

"Out of the country, just the way I like him."

"Lucky," said Ron. "Hey, check this out." He shoved a sheaf of parchments at Harry. "Enid just dropped these in – wanted Hermione or Sirius to take a look at them. It's the paperwork from Borgin's solicitors."

"I'm no lawyer," Harry murmured, but the meaning was quickly apparent: Borgin would cooperate with the College of Aurors and the Ministerial judicial system.

"Borgin didn't run. And now he's not squirming his way out of prison."

"Right," said Ron.

"Is he talking?"

"Called Enid a few things I wouldn't repeat in front of Mum, but he refused to list names."

There was a knock at the door, and Enid entered. "Ron, have you shown Harry – oh, good, you're here. Listen, Borgin wants to speak to you."

"Why me?" asked Harry, scowling. He already knew the answer, but he would have thought that Borgin would be immune to the dubious glamour of fame, not demanding to see him, like some common dabbler. "Yeah, I'll come."

Enid was several inches taller than Harry, and he had to stride to keep up with her. Her younger brother had been in his year at school; the whole family was Slytherin to the core, but rumours of Dark magic had never so much as touched them. They channelled their ambitions into business, and the Ministry. Harry was never certain where he stood with Enid, or Blaise for that matter; they were cool and polite, and he was … himself. He and Enid had almost been friends, once, until that whole mess with the Cabal. He had defeated that dangerous incarnation of the Dark Order, but even now, two years later, he was still counting the cost: budding friendships, his youth, his wife…

But he trusted Enid, almost more than he trusted Ron or Dennis. Enid was dispassionate; she'd never hesitate to abandon him if it would serve some greater purpose. And by the same token, she'd never make that decision prematurely. Harry suspected that Hermione, had she become an Auror, would have developed the same skill, but Hermione had become an Unspeakable, quietly manipulating the wizarding and Muggle worlds from the confines of her office.

Harry had no doubt which job required the greater level of courage and integrity.

"Borgin's cooperating," Enid said, "has Ron told you that? Frankly, I'm worried. You weren't involved, the last time he was captured, but I was – and this is completely different. No violence, no threats…"

They exited the Passageway at the other end, emerging on another floor, in another wing of the Tower. The opalescent glow of the upper levels had been replaced by something darker, more disquieting: if the upper tower resembled a white pearl, the lower levels were the black cousins.

"He's here willingly," Enid said, biting her nails.

"Something's after him, then?"

"Something. Or someone. Has your girl Snape encountered Lucas Burke lately?"

"Never met the bastard. And her surname is Borgin"

"Confusing. And annoying. I thought we were onto something there."

"You might still be right. By all accounts, Borgin wanted to protect Lilith from the more, uh, unpleasant aspects of his work."

"Then he should have left her alone," said Enid grimly, and they entered the cells.

Janus Borgin was sitting quietly in a cell at the far end, apparently absorbed in a meditative trance. Harry could see no resemblance to his late, mad sister, but there was a hint of Lilith in his chin. With his greasy, greying hair and sallow skin, Borgin looked more like Severus Snape than anyone else, and Harry remembered how closely pureblood families were related. Hell, he might be related to Borgin on his father's side.

At last, Borgin opened his eyes. "Potter."

"Borgin." Harry leaned closer to the bars, careful not to let the charmed metal touch his skin. Even at a few inches' distance, the protective magic warmed his skin. "Something you wanted to tell me?"

"I just wanted to bask in the reflected glory of the Boy Who Lived." Borgin smirked. "Looking a little worn around the edges, Potter."

Harry ignored that. "I spoke to your niece this morning."

A flicker of something – fear? – crossed Borgin's face. "Lilith. I hope you Aurors kept your filthy hands off her."

"I think you have me confused with Lucius Malfoy. As it happens, she's safe and well, and worried about you."

"I – that is gratifying. She's my only living relative, you know."

"I know." Harry started to pace, feeling Borgin's eyes following him. "Why, Borgin? What would she reveal if I interrogated her?"

"Nothing."

"You can tell me now, or tell me under Veritaserum in a few hours."

"You may have trouble with that, Mr Potter. I took Inveritas Potion this evening. For the next … hmm, twenty-one days, the slightest dose of Veritaserum will cause me to go into anaphylactic shock. And unless you're inclined to take up necromancy as a hobby, my corpse is unlikely to be very forthcoming."

Behind him, Harry heard Enid swear. She took a few steps forward, her heels clicking on the stone.

"How are you enjoying our hospitality, Janus?" she snarled. "You seem quite uncharacteristically eager to remain in the hands of the College, yet you refuse to help with our investigation. Inveritas is a Proscribed Infusion, yet you freely admit to taking it. That's three years in Azkaban already. Why are you here? Why didn't you Disapparate as soon as you knew we were coming? You can't possibly have believed that we'd mistreat a fifteen year old girl."

"I admit it. I'm here for the food. Prison food is addictive, you know. My compliments to the house elves."

"What are you running from, Janus?" Enid asked, almost gently.

"Nothing."

"Liar," said Harry.

"We'll pull you up into the Circle if we have to," Enid said. The gentleness had gone from her voice, and Harry gave her a worried look. He had no desire to be part of a Circle if he could avoid it. I thought I was meant to be the bad cop…

"I'm not running from anything." Enid and Harry exchanged a look.

"Summon the Coterie, Harry," Enid ordered.

"Fine," said Borgin, licking his lips nervously. "I sold some tainted goods … cursed carvings from Papua New Guinea. I recovered most of them, but a few are irretrievable, and my customers … should they survive … are likely to be disgruntled." His hands were shaking slightly as he said this, and the back of Harry's neck prickled.

Borgin reached through the bars, the hairs on his arm rising from all the magic worked into the metal. He was careful not to touch the bars as he took hold of Harry's arm. His hands were sweaty, and Harry shuddered, wanting to pull back, but unwilling to cause unnecessary injury.

"Please," said Borgin, "you must protect me."

His story was likely to be true, Harry mused as he returned to his office, but it wasn't the whole truth.