Ten Minutes to Midnight

Chapter Two

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token . . ."

Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven

"I'll do it," Bridget announced immediately. Jack whirled around to look at her, astounded. "Don't look at me like that, Jack. Who else is going to?"

He ignored her, and turned back to Dumbledore. "What exactly does it mean to be a Secret-Keeper?"

"Well," Dumbledore pursed his lips, "it is an immensely complex spell involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul. The secret is hidden inside the chosen person - the Secret-Keeper - and is impossible to find from there on, unless the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it of his or her own free will. Prior to her death, your mother was your Secret-Keeper, Jack, which explains why Lord Voldemort has not found you yet. Do you wish Bridget to be the next?"

Jack cast a wary glance at his wife, who took his hand and squeezed it.

"If she wants it," he said softly while turning his gaze to the floor. "I don't see what other choice we have."

"Very well, then." Dumbledore sighed. "I know of a house on the outskirts of Hogsmeade that would serve nicely as a temporary home. There are some things you should know before you leave, however." He folded his hands and stared at Jack gravely through half-moon spectacles. "You must understand the gravity of the situation. If Lord Voldemort were to get his hands on you, or find out of your existence, the consequences would be unimaginable. You are his heir. The same blood that flows through his veins - or did before, when he was still Tom Riddle - flows through yours. You possess many of his strange characteristics . . . am I correct in guessing that you are a Parselmouth?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore nodded. "You are intelligent and powerful, and there is no doubt in my mind that if Lord Voldemort laid his hands on you, he would manipulate and control you to do his bidding. I know you do not want to spend the rest of your life in hiding just because of who you are, and since you have survived this long without anyone finding out, it is somewhat unlikely that anyone else will unless either of you let it slip. But the chance is out there now. Tell me, did you speak with anyone on your journey?"

"I told Ethne - she's my mum's best friend that lived with us - that we had to leave to settle some unfinished business, but other than that, no. My mother told me not to speak to anyone unless I absolutely had to, on the night she di--"

He grabbed her wrist and twisted it back, digging his fingers into the flesh so hard that they left white imprints on the skin. She whimpered as he pinned her arm behind her back and took a step forward, now so close she could taste his breath.

The dim orange glow of the torches highlighted her beautiful, terrified face, which was utterly white against the cold grey stone of the walls. She hurriedly brushed a strand of light hair out of her brown eyes and stared up into his livid blue ones.

"No--please--"

"You didn't come tonight, Deirdre. Where were you?" He exhaled through his teeth. "With Silvius again, I presume?"

She wrenched her arm out of his grip and took a step back. Her voice was desperate. "No! I was just out, by myself . . ."

"There's no use in lying. I know what you've been doing, Deirdre . . .Sneaking around with Silvius, leaving every night after I'm done with you to cry to Florette . . . Does she know you're betraying her? Is she really a friend, love, or just another pawn in your desperate game to keep any child of mine from squirming around inside you?" He spat out the last words. "You are my wife, Deirdre, as much as you wish it weren't so. You will do as I say."

She stepped back again, this time holding her chin up in defiance. "Or what? You won't hurt me. You can't. Too much depends on me, on that child I can't bear to have squirming inside me. You're too much of a coward to let me go, and you know it."

He, in one swift motion, closed the distance between them and grabbed her slender throat and pinned it to the wall. Her eyes widened in fear and surprise, and he could feel her pulse beating wildly under his hand. He knew how easy it would be to tighten his grip, crush the fragile bones beneath the skin, and stop her pulse . . . it would be so painless, so satisfying, to kill her. No one would ever know. But she was the only one he would ever have carry his child. And he needed that child. His grip did not change.

"Be thankful of that, Deirdre. If you were not useful to me, don't think that I wouldn't hesitate to kill you right here, right now. Consider yourself lucky." He smiled cruelly, revealing his perfect teeth. Such beauty in such ugliness. "But if I ever catch you with Silvius, or hear that you've been sneaking out to visit him, I will kill him and make you beg for death, a death you will never see . . . my wife." The last word stung like the foulest insult.

He withdrew his arm and Deirdre stood motionless, chalk-white and terrified, looking as though she wanted to cry but was unable to. Tom smirked at her then turned on his heel, his black cloak billowing out behind him as he sauntered down the hall and away from Deirdre. Deirdre clamped a hand to her mouth, uttered a small cry, and promptly fled from the hall.

"--Died." Jack blinked. He didn't know what had just happened, but that had been his mother and his father there, together, and so real that he believed he could have touched them. He wanted to, he realised. However bad the memory - if that was what it truly was - had been, he wanted it back, just to hear his mother speak again. He shifted his weight and looked at Dumbledore, who wore an expression of concern.

"Are you all right, Jack? Your face went blank and your eyes rolled back into your head. Are you sure you're feeling well?"

"Yes, I'm sorry . . . memories . . . came back . . ."

Best to play for the Headmaster's sympathy, Jack thought. There was no reason for Dumbledore to know that he'd been living his mother's life for a few seconds there. Besides, when you were going through the thing that old psychiatrist he had seen about his "issues with his father" called "severe emotional trauma," people expected you to act strange. Quite a few of his mother's friends at the funeral had been surprised when he hadn't lost his cool and started hyperventilating or laughing hysterically during his speech. That "Grieving for Grown-ups" book his old professor had sent him said that psychotic behaviour was to be expected after a great loss, and Jack had discovered that other people held this opinion as well. Dumbledore appeared to be one of them.

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm very sorry. Can you continue?"

"Yes, I'm fine now. Where were we?" Jack said, apparently not noticing that Bridget did not seem to share Dumbledore's opinion on his behaviour.

"I was just asking you if you had spoken to anyone on your trip, and you said no. So now I must ask you if you understand what I have been telling you. Do you?"

Jack and Bridget both nodded.

"You weren't expecting us, so you want us to go into hiding," Bridget began, pausing at the end of each sentence to wait for Dumbledore's affirming nod. "No one is to know who we are, so I am to be Jack's Secret-Keeper. We're to live in a house on the outskirts of Hogsmeade until you find another place for us." She furrowed her brow. "Are we allowed to create aliases for ourselves and carry on life in disguise? Or should we stay by ourselves and let you handle business for us?"

Dumbledore considered this for a minute. "I don't want to risk any suspicion towards you. If I did not have to worry about the continual accuracy of your stories, I would be able to devise my plan for you with less worry. And I can assure you that you will only be in hiding for two weeks at most."

"All right," Bridget said, brushing a strand of hair off her face. "I'm willing to do it." She looked apprehensively at her husband, who was staring at Fawkes. "Jack?"

"Yes, it's fine," he murmured in a disaffected tone.

Dumbledore sighed. "Very well. Unless you have any more questions, I will escort you to your new home. Your luggage has already been delivered. Once we arrive, I will let you take a look around and memorise the location, because I will be taking you to a separate location to perform the Fidelius Charm and make Bridget the Secret-Keeper. You will return to the house, then send me an owl at Hogwarts telling me what you need. The owl, Mordred, has been trained to arrive at the tallest tree on your property every morning at nine. It will bring you anything you request of me. If you need it before or after that time, go to the tree, point your wand at the lowest branch and simply say 'Accio Mordred!' The owl should appear within moments."

Bridget frowned. "I'm confused. Why do we need to send you the owl? You know where the house is, so why can't you simply come over?"

Dumbledore frowned. "I do not want to cause suspicion by disappearing into the Hogsmeade woods every day. I can't risk anyone following me, although on the outside, the house appears to be abandoned, and if anyone manages to get inside, they will be greeted with nothing but an old, empty, decaying house. The charm creates a very complex illusion."

Bridget nodded. "I see."

Dumbledore turned to look at Jack, who was still staring at the phoenix with a vacant look in his eyes.

"Jack? Do you understand me?"

He slowly turned his head back to face Dumbledore and nodded. Bridget's heart sank. She hated to see him like this. He hadn't given her a real smile since the morning they had learned of Deirdre's illness, and he wouldn't talk to her. She hated watching him cry while she stood there, completely helpless to do anything because he just wouldn't let her in. And now he was closing out Dumbledore.

"Well, if you don't have any more questions, we can leave now," Dumbledore said.

Jack looked at Bridget, who shrugged.

"I think we're all right," she said.

Dumbledore nodded and stood. "Please follow me, then."

They left the school and stepped out onto the chilly Hogwarts grounds. As the stepped into the horseless carriage waiting to take them to Hogsmeade, Jack cast a wistful glance over his shoulder at the castle. He wondered if he'd ever be able to see the whole thing. Bridget squeezed his hand and he looked up at her, then pulled himself into the carriage.

Bridget made cheerful conversation with Dumbledore while Jack simply sat in the shadows, staring out the window as dead leaves were blown around the ground in a sort of slow waltz. His hand, in Bridget's, was cold and limp. Even as Bridget laughed at Dumbledore's jokes, she found herself worrying for Jack. She didn't know what to do to bring him back.

They arrived at the house, a rather small cottage surrounded by thick foliage, a few minutes later. A thin fog hung around the grounds. Indeed, it did look old and abandoned, with the ivy growing up its stone walls and the cracks in the windows, but it was the kind of house Bridget liked. A house with character.

Dumbledore waved a hand and the carriage doors opened. The three passengers stepped out to look at the house. Jack separated himself from Bridget and walked over to the tallest tree in the yard, a maple with very few leaves left. One leafless branch jutted out very close to the ground, and Jack assumed that this was the owl perch.

He turned to look at the area around the house, trying to memorise it. A dirt road twisted through the woods, and he could see the backs of a few Hogsmeade buildings at the end of the road. The house was not very far from the centre of the village at all, but well hidden by the trees surrounding it.

"Do you think you'll be able to find your way back?" Dumbledore called.

"Yes," Jack said, moving closer to the carriage.

"Good," Dumbledore replied when Jack and Bridget had reached him. "We'll be going just up the road there. I know of a clearing that will be perfect for the casting of the charm. It shouldn't be very hard to come back down." Jack and Bridget nodded, so he gestured towards the carriage. "Shall we?"

It only took them less than two minutes to reach the clearing, and they stumbled out of the carriage and into chilly forest. Dumbledore was clutching his wand in his hand, and as soon as Bridget saw it, her face paled. As much as she trusted the Headmaster, she found herself frightened that something would go wrong and they'd have to send her remains to her mother in a matchbox. After all, the spell was supposed to be "immensely complex." Bridget didn't trust most immensely complex things.

"Professor--is there any way this could go wrong?" she asked nervously. Dumbledore smiled.

"I have performed it before, and the spell itself cannot go wrong. No harm will come to you. I promise," he said earnestly.

And with that, he took his wand and waved it three times.

"Fidelius!"

The air around the tip shimmered with golden light and spread outward, forming the vague outline of a roll of parchment. The light spread from the edges of the shape inward and began to solidify until a glowing, blank piece of parchment levitated before Bridget's face. Dumbledore flourished the wand again, and a golden quill appeared, scrawling gothic, inky black script on the page. Bridget stepped forward to read the words.

"The Fidelius Charm conceals a secret within a single living soul. It cannot be forced loose by magic or pain, only by the will of its bearer. A signature upon this parchment binds the secret safe inside, with magic that breaks the laws of even Veritaserum. Sign your name below, and let the secret be veiled."

Bridget picked up the quill, which was unusually warm in her fingers. Biting her lip in determination, she signed her name in huge, spiky lettering at the bottom of the page. The signature shone brightly for a moment, and then the quill burst into flames. Bridget cried out and jerked her hand away.

The words had disappeared, leaving the parchment blank once again. New words followed.

"Bridget Thetford, Secret-Keeper. Good luck."

The parchment caught fire and burned away slowly, leaving the ashes to dance sadly in the wind. The air darkened, and Bridget stepped back, eyes wide and one hand over her heart. She took a deep breath to steady herself and watched the ashes drift off into the dark woods. She watched those woods for a moment with narrowed eyes, then turned back to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore took both of Bridget's hands and held them out in front of her. Jack stepped back.

"Bridget, the secret is safe within you now. Nothing but your own free will can draw it out." He looked at Jack. "I want both of you to return to the house now. I will send Mordred tonight to see if you need anything. Good luck."

He turned and stepped into the carriage, which pulled away as soon as he was inside and disappeared down the road. Bridget looked up at her husband and placed a gloved hand on his cheek, then with her free hand took his hand and placed it on her heart.

"Don't worry. The secret's safe right here."

He smiled faintly at her. "I know . . . it's just . . . I can't remember where we're going."

She laughed. "Right down the road, to the house in the trees. Come on, let's go! I can't wait to see the inside."

She proceeded to drag him down the road and to the house as the wind whipped around their faces and whistled eerily through the trees. Night was falling, sending shadows across the ground. Jack shivered and longed to get inside the house.

They reached it shortly and Bridget pulled open the door and stepped inside.

"Ohhh . . ."

The house was warm and bright, with white walls and blue carpet. Their luggage was piled next to a navy couch, pictures adorned the walls and the windows were high and elaborate. Bridget grinned.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" She abandoned Jack to run up the spiral staircase and then, a moment later, shrieked with delight. "Jack! Come look at the bedroom!"

Jack looked away from the painting he'd been inspecting and walked up the stairs to join Bridget in the bedroom. She had thrown herself across the bed and was staring at the skylight on the ceiling. She turned her head to grin at him when he walked in.

"Don't you just love it?"

He did. It was huge, with even bigger windows than the ones downstairs, a grandfather clock, and a huge bookshelf filled with dusty old spellbooks. The bed had navy velvet covers, and above it hung Silvius' painting. A desk with a blue chair sat in the far corner, and next to it was a vase of roses. The whole room was in shades of blue, white, or deep mahogany, and the brilliant red of the flowers contrasted beautifully.

Jack stepped forward to look at the bookshelf. He ran a finger across the dusty tomes, and his eyes widened in surprise when he realised that they were the books he'd collected before but forgotten to bring in his haste to leave Ireland.

"My books," he breathed.

Bridget grabbed him around the waist and he flopped down on the bed next to his wife.

"It's wonderful," he said, giving her a real smile.

She rolled onto him, grinning widely as he reached up to pull off her coat. "And we get it all to ourselves. So," she reached down to unbutton his shirt and kiss him briefly, "we can be as loud as we want."

He laughed.

* * *

Jack woke up early the next morning because the sun was glaring down right into his eyes. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillows. Bridget laughed from somewhere across the room.

"We need to fix the skylight," she said. Jack felt her fall onto the bed. "Even if it is beautiful at night."

He rolled back over and then propped himself up on his elbows, blinking in the bright light. Bridget smiled softly. She looked blindingly beautiful, bathed in the early morning light, her hair a mess and her face bare and flushed from sleep. Her white nightgown fell off her freckled shoulder and Jack reached out to put it back. She caught his hand and pulled him to her, cupping his cheek in her free hand.

"Did you sleep all right?"

He nodded. "Did you?"

"No," she said softly, shaking her head. "I kept having nightmares. It was like . . . the spell didn't work, and they were torturing me, and I let it slip, and they were leaving to find you . . ." She shuddered, then shot him a glance, hazel eyes frightened. "I won't do it. I won't let them find you . . . But I'm afraid they will, somehow. What if I'm not strong enough?"

"You are," he whispered.

Tears had formed in her eyes and were threatening to spill, but she smiled at him anyway and nodded, then let her gaze drift to the sky. Jack slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her down into his arms, and they lay there for a moment, watching the clouds drift lazily by outside.

Jack closed his eyes and buried his face in Bridget's hair.

"I love you."

She flipped over onto her side and grinned at him.

"I know."

He grinned in return and shook his head. "Am I that obvious?" She nodded in reply, and he laughed. Bridget reached up and ran a hand slowly through his hair, then down across his cheek to his mouth.

"It's nice to see you smile again," she said softly.

He took her hand and kissed it, then pulled her closer and moved his lips to hers. She threw her arms around his neck as she kissed him, and then rolled onto him, laughing through the kiss. She pressed herself against him, drinking him in . . . This was the first time since their honeymoon they'd been truly alone, and Bridget was determined to make the best of it. She had Jack right where she wanted him, and nothing could stop her now--

Except the strangled squawk from outside the house that chose to interrupt them just then. Bridget pulled away from Jack and sat up, looking murderous.

"Damn owls . . . Honestly, we'd be so much better off if we just switched to those Muggle things called telephones." She stood up and began to pull on some clothes. "Don't need to be fed, don't get sick, don't leave feathers or mud everywhere, don't die at inopportune times or interrupt you during sex . . ."

Jack, who had once dated a Muggle, knew otherwise. "Oh, yes they do."

She tugged her hair out of the collar of her red sweater. "Whatever. At least you can just turn them off instead of having to drag your arse outside in the bitter cold and see what's wrong with them."

Jack shrugged, a difficult - and potentially dangerous - thing to do while zipping up his trousers. He pulled on a shirt and slipped into shoes without bothering to tie them, then proceeded to leave the room, Bridget following him and grumbling all the way down the steps.

He pushed open the door and was greeted with a rush of freezing air that cut straight through his skin and rubbed his cheeks raw. He took one step and then halted, just before breaking into a run. His heart thudded against his ribs at the scene before him as he ran to the tallest tree in the yard, shoelaces flapping.

A splash of crimson blood, glistening in the early morning sun, lay among the fallen leaves of the maple tree. It trickled slowly down the trunk and stained the grass, and was littered with fluffy black feathers and what appeared to be chunks of flesh.

Bridget put her fist to her mouth and tried to stifle a cry. Jack tentatively stepped forward into the blood, ruining his brown leather shoes, and was nearly violently ill when he peered around the tree trunk.

Whatever had attacked Mordred hadn't simply killed him, but literally ripped him to shreds. The remains of one wing lay five feet away from a detached foot, and three feet away from what looked like the body was the head, neatly severed by a single stroke. Sitting innocently next to the head was a simple envelope, stamped with the Hogwarts seal.

Trying not to retch and swatting away flies that had begun to swarm, Jack gingerly reached down and picked up the envelope. Its contents had been emptied, but miraculously, the paper was not damaged at all. No smudges of blood tarnished the off-white surface. And probably no fingerprints either, Jack thought grimly.

Holding it between his fingers like a bomb waiting to explode, Jack stepped back out from around the tree to face Bridget. Silent tears were coursing down her cheeks.

"What's that?" she managed to choke out.

"The envelope that used to contain the letter Mordred died for," he said coldly. "Apparently, it was very important, as Mordred was completely ripped apart in the quest for it."

Bridget cried out again. "Who did this? No one knows where we are! No one could . . . " She looked at the letter. "Could they?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe they don't know exactly where they are, but they saw the owl leave and intercepted it . . ."

Bridget frowned. "But no one even knows you exist." She shivered and rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. "There's simply no way anyone else could know who you are."

Jack's throat had gone dry. "Maybe there is. Silvius Malfoy. My mum told me that she kept contact with him for awhile after I was born. It's possible that maybe he saw her obituary and followed us here. He could have been following us the whole way and we'd never know. I don't have the faintest idea of what he looks like or anything. I don't know what his motivations would be, but who else would be doing it?"

With a frown, Bridget replied, "I don't know, but we've got to tell Dumbledore. With Mordred gone, there's no way for him to get in contact with us. And we can't just wait here like sitting ducks until Dumbledore catches on and comes to find us. If it is Silvius Malfoy--"

"If it is Silvius, I bet he's up at the castle. He can't see us, so obviously he'd go to Dumbledore and demand to know where we are. You'd be walking straight into a trap."

"But there's no alternative! We can't just wait here!" A strange look crossed her face and she ran a hand through her orange hair. "I'll tell you what. You stay here, and I'll go up to Hogwarts alone." Jack started to protest, but she cut him off. "Silvius might recognise you. He won't have a clue who I am. You wait in the house and I'll find Dumbledore and tell him what happened. I can take care of myself, trust me."

"I'm not going to sit here while you go out and get yourself killed," he said sharply. "Look at the owl. That could very well be what you look like in a few minutes."

She took his hand. "But there's nothing else we can do." She brushed a lock of greying hair out of his face. "Nothing will happen to me."

His eyes met hers for the briefest of moments and then she was kissing him on the mouth, clinging to him and trembling. He slid an arm around her waist, begging her to stay without saying a word, even as he realised that she was kissing him good-bye.

Bridget broke the kiss, smiling softly, and as Jack opened his mouth to speak, she held a finger to his lips to stop him.

"I'm going now," she said. "Either go into the house or wait on the steps. Whatever happens, don't leave the yard. You can't risk being seen." She tilted her head up slightly and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I love you, Jack."

And then she turned and ran down the road, her bright hair blowing in the increasingly fierce wind. Jack watched her until she disappeared into the darkness of the trees, then he started to walk up to the house. He paused at the door, then decided he didn't want to go inside. He dropped to the steps and sat there shivering.

The wind howled mournfully as it snaked through the forest, and then the skies opened up and rain poured down. Jack, head in his hands, let it fall. It soaked straight through his thin shirt, but he barely noticed. He needed to get up, do something, before Bridget became his first casualty. It was only a matter of time before his secret started to take its toll; but why, God, did it have to take her first?

Oh, but she's not, his mind replied cruelly. Take a look at the rain over there; see how it runs red with blood? That was the first. Mordred was the first. Bridget is going to be the second.

Abruptly he stood up and started to pace, grabbing clumps of wet hair and tugging them to distract himself with the pain. The rain continued to pour, sticking his shirt to his chest and washing the blood off his shoes so it ran down the stone steps in a steady crimson river. He had started to shake, both from fear and the cold. And then the sound he had been waiting for pierced the thick, wet air.

The screams were unearthly and muffled, and as soon as they reached his ears, Jack forgot everything Bridget had said to him and dashed out of the yard and down the road. The mud clung to his shoes and made a strange sucking sound every time he lifted his foot, and branches seemed to reach out across the road just to whip across his frozen face. The stinging pain made his eyes water, but he ran harder as the screams got louder and nearer.

He reached the village and now noticed the faint but distinct odour of a smoky fire extinguished by rain. His pace quickened again as he headed towards what he hoped was the general direction of the town square. The screams had been silenced now; all that was left was the deafening sound of rain pounding on the roofs of the houses around him and his shoes pounding the pavement.

He turned and his heart leapt into his throat. A crowd was gathered in front of the Three Broomsticks, a pub that now sported a broken window from which smoke steadily poured. The crowd was quiet, so quiet that they heard Jack approach and some turned around to look at him. He didn't waste time on conversation.

Jack shoved through the masses, ignoring protests, until he found himself in the centre of the circle. A strangled cry tore through his throat.

Shards of glass littered the ground, most of them lying in puddles of blood. The inside of the pub had been charred by something, presumably a curse, and though the fire had been put out, smoke still poured out. In the very middle of the circle lay a pale hand, clutching a broken wand and bleeding profusely from the wrist.

Jack's eyes followed the hand up the arm to the face, and he stood transfixed by it for a moment, staring into the glassy, dead eyes of the woman he'd never gotten to say good-bye to. Her fiery hair was stuck to her face and neck by the rain, and her clothes were torn and bloody, but it was Bridget all the same. He stood gulping for a moment before tearing his eyes away from the corpse to look at the one next to it.

He didn't recognise this man at all, but he knew from the black tattoo on his forearm that he was a Death Eater. He was pale, dressed in black, and completely emaciated. He looked as though he had just escaped from Azkaban. Jack didn't waste another second looking at him. His eyes went back to Bridget.

Without warning, his knees gave way and he found himself kneeling in glass and his wife's blood. He crawled to her body, tearing his hands and knees up in the process, and managed to drag her into his arms.

She was limp and heavier than he had expected. Her head fell back and her mouth fell open, blood pouring down the lips he had once loved to kiss. He ran a trembling finger across them, then up her cheek, smearing the blood, and finally up to close her lifeless eyes. He shut them slowly, then bit down on his lip so hard that it, too, bled, as a choked sob racked his body.

He struggled for breath, but every time he inhaled, more wretched sobs shook him. Tears coursed freely down his face to mix with the blood and rain on Bridget's dead cheeks. Jack held her head to his chest and rocked back and forth, wailing and trying to believe that the heartbeat he felt wasn't his own, but Bridget's; she was still alive, he was the one that was dead. He choked again, sputtering and blinking and crying like he'd never done before. He gasped for air, but it wouldn't come, only tears.

He had hunched himself up over her body by now, and shuddered as a hand tapped his shoulder. He tightened his grip on Bridget, rocking faster and trying to block out the feeling of being touched. He opened his eyes, squinting through the tears and the rain, and closed them instantly when all he saw was the body of his wife's murderer.

He was vaguely aware of someone calling his name, and then of someone kneeling before him. He opened his eyes again and saw Dumbledore, watching him. Dumbledore took his hand and tried to help him up, but he jerked away.

"Please, Jack, come with me," he was saying. "You've got to let her go, just for a moment so we can put her on the stretcher."

"No, no, no . . ." He repeated it again and again, rocking faster and holding Bridget to him tighter.

Another voice, warm and female and pleading, joined Dumbledore's. "Please, love, we've got to take her . . . just let go, you'll see her again in a moment . . ."

Jack felt hands reaching down, prying his wife from his arms--his voice cracked in a sob again as she was lifted away from him. He put his head in his hands and sobbed harder, not noticing that someone had pulled him to his feet. Conversation drifted over his ears as someone led him blindly through the crowd. Some voices were hysterical, others cold and shocked, a few of them eager to gossip.

"Please, please, step aside--"

"I'm a reporter from the Daily Prophet, sir, just one quick photo--"

"Who is she?"

"The poor thing, did you see how he cried? Who are they? I've never seen them before--"

"Look at the pub--"

"Awful, isn't it? I saw the whole thing happen--"

"My word! If that isn't Mr. Lestrange! He just escaped from Azkaban, I heard it on the wireless this morning--"

"Hogsmeade isn't safe any more! We have to evacuate!"

Jack felt the voices move away, but he did not take his face out of his hands. The tears had stopped flowing and now all he was left with were rather annoying hiccups. He felt something brush his leg and looked down to see Bridget, sprawled across a floating stretcher. One of her arms hung limply over the side. He reached down and held her dead hand.

The rain showed no signs of relenting. It poured down in sheets, and to add to the misery, Jack was now shaking from the cold. Someone draped a cloak around his shoulders, and he turned to see a middle-aged woman smiling sadly at him. She brushed a lock of soggy hair off his face and then patted his arm reassuringly. He had no idea who she was and didn't bother to ask. He just kept moving blindly through the village.

After a few minutes, Dumbledore stopped walking and opened the door of a small house. Jack, the woman, and Bridget's stretcher followed him in.

The house was dark but warm, a problem which Dumbledore quickly fixed by clapping his hands together. White light flooded the room.

The room revealed itself to be something of a makeshift infirmary, with white beds lined up against the far wall, cabinets of medical supplies, and an operating table in the centre. Dumbledore said something to the other woman that Jack couldn't hear, then disappeared up the stairs.

The woman, who was dressed in a nurse's uniform and had grey hair, scurried over to Jack and led him to one of the beds. She pushed him down onto it, pulled a sodden bar of chocolate out of her pocket and handed it to him, then went over to Bridget's stretcher.

Jack ate the chocolate silently as he watched the nurse pull out her wand, wave it, and then take the stretcher away after Bridget had floated onto the table. She returned to the table, pulled open one of Bridget's eyelids, felt for a pulse, and lay her head on the corpse's chest. She sighed and walked over to one of the cabinets, shaking her head.

She pulled out a roll of bandages and two bottles of potion, then walked over to Jack and began cleaning the cuts on his face, hands, and knees. He winced as his cuts burned and stung, and the nurse clucked her tongue.

"I'm terribly sorry, dear . . ."

Deciding not to ask about Bridget, Jack turned his attention away from his smarting wounds and to the room.

"What is this place?" he asked hoarsely.

"In the previous war, during the seventies and eighties, it was a makeshift hospital. The hospital wing at Hogwarts became so overcrowded that we needed extra room for all the war victims. I worked as a mediwitch both here and at Hogwarts, depending on which place needed me more." She sighed. "It looks as though we'll be opening this place up again."

She reached up to wipe a streak of blood off his forehead, and he took the chance to look down at her nametag. Madam Pomfrey.

"Such a shame that we didn't get here earlier," she said wistfully, gazing at Bridget. "It wasn't a Killing Curse that did the girl in, at least not right away."

Jack looked up at her, his blood-shot blue eyes meeting her brown ones.

"What happened?"

She shook her head again. "No one knows as of yet. It seems that Mr. Lestrange, who was one of the Death Eaters to escape when You-Know-Who raided Azkaban this summer, attacked the poor girl as she was passing through Hogsmeade. Take off your shirt, please, dear." He raised his eyebrows at her. "I've got to clean the cuts on your arms. You bloodied them up quite badly."

After he obliged, she began to rub a purple healing salve into his cuts.

"Now, your guess as to why this poor girl was murdered is as good as mine."

No, Jack thought dryly, I'm willing to bet that mine is better.

She peered oddly at him. "Is she your wife?"

"Yes, she was," Jack said coldly.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head again. "I'm so very sorry. What's your name?"

Jack had just opened his mouth to lie when Dumbledore came down the steps. "Poppy, I wish to speak to the patient alone."

"But Albus, I'm not finished with him yet--"

Dumbledore cut her off. "Jack, come with me," he said.

Jack shrugged apologetically at the nurse then stood gingerly, trying very hard to not glance at Bridget's body. He walked over to Dumbledore, pulling his shirt back on, and then silently followed the Headmaster up the creaking stairs. They entered another room filled with empty beds and medical supplies, and Dumbledore motioned for Jack to sit on one of the beds. Jack obeyed.

Dumbledore heaved a sigh. "Jack, I extend my sincerest apologies for Bridget."

"Don't talk about it," Jack said thickly, fighting to swallow the tears. "Really, I've heard enough of these speeches when my mum died to last me a lifetime. You don't have to say anything."

Dumbledore remained silent for a moment. "She killed Sebastian Lestrange. I don't know if you heard or not, but he was one of the Death Eaters who escaped when Lord Voldemort raided Azkaban and freed its prisoners. Sebastian and his wife, Anastasia, were two of the few prisoners to escape with most of their minds intact. They were most likely reunited with their former master. Do you know what this means, Jack?"

Jack shook his head slowly.

"Voldemort does not kill unless he has a reason. He would not send out one of his top-ranking Death Eaters to murder Bridget unless he felt it served some purpose. And if he did not know that she was married to his son, he would not have killed her."

"What you're saying is that he knows about me," Jack said softly.

Dumbledore nodded. "How he found out, I do not know. But the point is, it is no longer safe for you to remain yourself. Apparently he knows your name, or he would not have known about Bridget."

"What do you mean?"

"You must go into disguise. You cannot remain Jack Thetford any longer. We must change your name, your appearance, your history, everything about you, or you will most likely be found and brought to Voldemort within the week."

"Change my identity? What, with Polyjuice?"

"No." Dumbledore frowned. "We do not want you to turn into any existing person. We want to create an entirely new human being, a permanent disguise that will not wear off within the hour. There is only one way to do this. Glamour charms."

"Wait," Jack interjected. "Am I supposed to remain in this new body for the rest of my life? I quite like how I look now . . ."

"If it ever becomes safe for Jack Thetford to walk the streets again, it is possible for the charms to be lifted. But with the situation as it is now, you will remain under the spell indefinitely." He frowned. "There's no use in protesting. Either you are under the spells, or you are dead."

Jack put his head in his hands, mind reeling. After some time, he spoke in muffled tones. "Then put me under the charms."

Dumbledore crossed the room and lifted Jack to his feet. He pulled out a roll of measuring tape, which immediately began to measure Jack's height, around his waist, the circumference of his head, and any other length on his body, floating along of its own accord.
"Well, you're certainly too tall; your height will be the first thing to go."

Jack's heart sank. "Don't make me too short," he warned.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I won't." He began to walk in circles around Jack, inspecting him. "Your eyes are too noticeable. The colour will have to change to something less conspicuous. We'll make you younger, so not even your age can be suspicious."

"Will you take the grey out of my hair?" Jack pleaded.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, fighting back a laugh. "We'll darken it up a bit, too." He stopped circling. "I think I have a good idea of what I want to change."

He pulled out his wand. Jack twitched.

Dumbledore waved the wand twice. "Dissimulo!" The tip of the wand began to glow blue and hum faintly. He took a step forward. Jack trembled and silently said good-bye to his good looks.

First Dumbledore waved the wand up and down Jack's full height.

"Five eleven," he whispered, and Jack cried out as he felt himself shrink, bones melting and twisting.

Once that was over, Dumbledore waved the wand in front of Jack's eyes. Jack saw stars and heard the word "brown." His vision went black. Dumbledore continued the process, changing nearly every aspect of Jack's physique, from his hair to his nose to his jaw to the length of his arms. After what seemed like an eternity, the hum died away and Jack felt an odd tingling spread through his body.

"Open your eyes," Dumbledore ordered.

Jack found himself staring into a mirror at a person he'd never seen before in his life. Himself.

He was shorter and thinner, and his clothes were too big. His hair was longer and slightly curly, a very dark brown without any traces of grey. His nose was straighter, his jaw less defined, his bottom teeth slightly crooked. And his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, were now a simple dark brown. He reached up and ran a hand through his new hair, mourning the loss of his old body. At least, he noted with some satisfaction, he was still handsome.

He held up his hands. The fingers were shorter, not unusually long anymore. He wondered hopelessly if he'd lost his talent with the piano. He didn't know if he could bear it if he had.

"What do you think?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"My hands," Jack moaned. "They're so different. Will I still be able to play piano?"

"I don't know, but just in case--" He waved his wand and the charm on Jack's hands lifted. They returned back to their normal shape.

"Thanks," Jack said.

"Anything else?"

He shook his head.

"Good. Now we have to think of a new name and history for you."

"Christian," Jack said straight away. "Change my name to Christian."

"Last name?"

Jack thought for a moment. The first person to pop into his head was his best friend and former boss, Allen McBay.

"McBay?" he suggested.

Dumbledore nodded. "Christian McBay. You're thirty-four years old, from Dublin, Ireland. You attended the Rontage Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry." He smiled faintly. "Lovely private school in Dublin. I'll give you a fact sheet to fill out and memorise. We want this illusion to be as realistic as possible. You've got to know everything about your new self."

Jack nodded, still examining himself in the mirror.

"Now, you'll need a new home, and of course a job . . . The Department of Mysteries at the Ministry is desperate for employees. I understand you're good with a typewriter, hm?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. You'll be working there in a few days. If you hate it, don't worry, it's only temporary until I can find some other work for you."

"Dumbledore--"

"Yes?"

Jack took a deep breath. "Is there any way I could get a job as an Auror? I really don't want to be stuck in some office typing up worthless reports all day long while other people are fighting my father. I know how dangerous it would be, but my wife's lying downstairs, murdered by a Death Eater, and I can't just sit back and not do anything about it. I want to fight. I could be an asset to the Aurors, I know I could, and it's not just for revenge, I want to see the war over--"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Not yet. But I promise that if we need you, I will let you."

Jack's heart sank again. "Thank you, Dumbledore."

"Please, call me Albus."

He took Jack's arm and led him down the stairs. They paused halfway down, and Albus leaned in to whisper something to Jack.

"Madam Pomfrey is still down there, and I believe the coroners have arrived. I want you to go out the back door here, and be as silent as possible. Wait out back, and I will meet you in a few minutes."

Jack nodded, and Albus patted his arm once, then walked down the stairs and began to talk to Madam Pomfrey quite loudly. Jack, concealed in the shadows, slipped out the back door and stood outside, his back pressed to the outer wall.

The rain was falling more softly now, yet it still carried its freezing bite. Jack shivered and wished that Dumbledore had given him a cloak or a dry pair of robes to wear. It probably wouldn't have done much good, but any warmth he could get was welcomed.

He stood waiting for five minutes before the door opened and Albus stepped out, looking grave.

"What did they say about Bridget?" Jack whispered.

"It was not the Killing Curse that murdered her," Albus replied. "Lestrange seems to have tortured her for awhile with the Cruciatus Curse before trying to hit her with same kind of spell that caught the Three Broomsticks on fire, and I believe he hit her with a fatal curse, though it has not yet been determined what that is. After he hit her, she killed him with Avada Kedavra, then died shortly after. Jack, I'm so sorry."

Jack nodded slowly, trying to keep his face a blank mask as his insides screamed in anguish. Another fresh wave of tears clawed their way up to his eyes, stinging as they threatened to spill. He swallowed and gasped. The tears overflowed and he hunched over, burying his face in the sanctuary of his palms.

Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder and led the crying man up the road to the castle, cursing the black clouds that hung over the sky like a black mourning veil.