Darkness and Light 03: If We Survive

Chapter Two: Twin Compasses

Maud rested her elbows on the windowsill, gazing out into the cobbled courtyard beyond. For the first two days after her return from Hogwarts, she had stayed in a room above the Leaky Cauldron; but now she had found a place of her own, and she was pleased with it.

Still, it was something of a shock to wake each morning and find herself alone: she'd got used to Muriel's snoring, Lucinda's sighs, and Annie's cheerful early-morning prattle. Part of her wondered if she ought to seek out a flat-mate, preferably one with a few more pieces of furniture to her credit, to help fill up the silence and the space. But that could wait until some other things were settled -- and considering what she was about to do, it probably should.

Sliding the window shut, she walked over and picked up the now-familiar scroll from the tea-table. It unrolled easily in her hand. Dear Miss Moody...

Maud held her breath, drew her wand, and tapped the parchment three times.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, without warning, the letter began to curl, shrivel, and blacken at the edges. Stepping closer to the fireplace, she let it drop to the hearthstones and watched as it burst into flames and consumed itself, leaving nothing but a fine layer of sparkling ash.

And when she looked up, she was no longer alone.

Maud wasn't quite sure who or what she'd been expecting, but it definitely hadn't been this. It would have been difficult to find a less secretive-looking individual than the one who stood before her: a plump, cheerful young woman only a few years older than herself, with bright hazel eyes and a smooth brown cap of hair. Her butter-and-saffron robes were just barely on the tasteful side of garish, but they suited her, as did the warm, open smile she gave Maud as she came forward and stuck out her hand.

"Hullo," she said. "I'm Imogen Crump."

Maud shook her hand, still a little bemused by the unexpectedness of the other girl's arrival. She'd expected to be warned by the familiar popping sound of Apparation, but for all the vivacity of her manner, Imogen had materialised in absolute silence.

"I'm Maud Moody," she said.

"So I hear. No relation to Mad-Eye, I suppose?"

"He's my uncle."

"Really?" Imogen's eyes were wide. "Phemie didn't tell me that. Though she must have known, the old termagant." She grinned. "No wonder she was so keen to get you on-side."

Maud was finding herself somewhat at a loss. It had been a long time since she had dealt -- openly, at least -- with someone so naturally good-natured and friendly. Part of her wanted to glance about the flat to make sure there weren't any Slytherins there to notice. It was that impulse which made her ask, somewhat irrelevantly:

"What House were you in at Hogwarts?"

"Oh, Hufflepuff, of course," said Imogen. "I look like one, don't I? And you? Wait, let me guess -- Ravenclaw."

"Slytherin."

"Seriously?" Imogen blinked. "Well, that's a novelty. Funny, though, I don't remember your name coming up in the Sorting. I'm sure we would have overlapped for at least your first year."

"I was only at Hogwarts for my last year. Before that, I was at Durmstrang."

"Really?" Imogen looked impressed. "You have had an interesting career. Spying for your uncle, I suppose?"

Maud looked at her in surprise. "Now why would you think that?"

"Well, he's always had a tendency to dabble in Department business -- as though being an Auror wasn't enough -- and if you'd gone to Durmstrang to learn the Dark Arts, Dumbledore would hardly have recommended you to us, now, would he?"

Imogen might look guileless, thought Maud, but she was sharp. And no doubt she'd cast some kind of privacy spell before she Apparated in, or she wouldn't be talking so frankly. Nevertheless, Maud kept her face expressionless, merely raising her eyebrows a fraction, as if to say, Think what you like.

"Ooh, a tricky one," said Imogen appreciatively. "Well, then, there isn't much I have to tell you about secrecy. The Department of Secrets is, as you've already seen, exceedingly stingy with its information. Even members of different sub-departments often don't know each other's names or particular lines of work. We have our spies, of course; that's what everybody suspects we're all about. But in fact we do a lot more than that. Investigation, research, strategy... we have people who grub about in archaeological digs and old libraries, and others who sit in little offices all day and just think."

"And what are you?" asked Maud. "If it's all right to ask."

"I'm one of the Departmental liaisons, obviously, but I also work in Muggle surveillance. Somebody has to keep an eye on what's going on with the rest of the world, and actually understand it for a change." Imogen sighed. "We have some enthusiastic Muggle-watchers in other Ministry departments, but they're such amateurs."

Muggle Studies not being a popular course at Durmstrang, nor a politic choice of subject for a Slytherin, Maud had had little opportunity to study the non-wizarding population. Nevertheless, she was intrigued. "So what do you do? I mean, how do you study them?"

"The truth?" Imogen chuckled. "Mostly I just sit about in cafés, wearing Muggle clothes and eavesdropping on their conversations. It really isn't a very challenging assignment -- at least not for anything but my waistline." Then her face took on an expression of mock severity and she added, "But enough about me. You have a decided talent for misdirection, don't you? If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd already been introduced to Phemie's First Rule: People are far more interested in talking about themselves than they are in finding out about you. Words to live by, when you're a witch asking Muggles a lot of gormless questions about their jobs, their families, and what they think of the government."

She took a few steps back and plumped down into Maud's armchair, propping her feet up on the ottoman with every appearance of ease. "You wouldn't mind putting the kettle on, would you?" she said. "I'd murder for a cup of tea."

* * *

By the end of an hour with Imogen, Maud's mind was reeling. It wasn't that she'd been given a great deal of information about the Department of Secrets -- in fact, when it came to anything other than the activities of her own sub-department, Imogen didn't appear to know that much. No, it was more that the other girl's method of delivering information was so scattershot, so entangled with cheerful anecdotes and amusing bits of trivia, that Maud found it hard to sift out what was relevant.

Nevertheless, it had at least become clear that Euphemia Glossop's letter had not exaggerated: there were any number of possible avenues within the Department that Maud might choose to pursue. Espionage and counter-intelligence she had already ruled out, but there were plenty of investigative and analytical openings, including the kind of work Maud's own father had done. Even more intriguing was the offhand remark that the Department did some work involving potions, but unfortunately the extent of Imogen's knowledge appeared to end there.

"So," said Imogen brightly, "what do you think? Do I whisk you away to Phemie, or do I just thank you for the tea, cast Obliviate, and slope off?"

Internally, Maud winced. The casual use of Memory Charms in the wizarding world, even among genuinely kind and well-meaning people, had never failed to disturb her. "I'm interested," she said. "Yes."

"Smashing." Imogen put down her teacup and jumped to her feet. "Well, then, take my arm and off we'll go." She grinned up at Maud almost shyly. "You won't be sorry, Maud Moody," she said. "This is going to be fun."

* * *

"Moody. Hmm. Yes."

Euphemia Glossop was a tall, gaunt witch with tight iron-grey curls and the brisk manner of a woman accustomed to authority. She regarded Maud through the glittering pince-nez perched on the end of her nose and said crisply, "Well, your academic credentials are certainly in order. How did you enjoy working with Professor Snape?"

The swift pointedness of the question took Maud by surprise, and she flushed. "I-- it was--"

"Ah," said Glossop, with a penetrating look. "A true Moody, I see."

Swallowing back her dismay -- did this woman know everything about her? -- Maud forced herself to smile. "Is that so unfortunate?"

"Only if you were hoping to go into espionage. Never mind. We can use you anyway." Glossop rose from her desk and extended a long bony hand. "Welcome to the Department of Secrets."

Maud couldn't help thinking, as she shook the older woman's hand, that she had seldom been anywhere that looked less like a Department. The office consisted of two narrow, windowless rooms, austerely furnished and silent as a crypt. There did not appear to be a door: Imogen had Apparated in with her and then promptly Disapparated again. Maud had no idea even what city the place was in. Which was, no doubt, the whole point.

"We do, of course, have a formal base of operations in London," Glossop said, sitting down again. "But that's only the tip of the wand, so to speak. The bulk of our activities take place in small, isolated cells like this one, located throughout Great Britain."

She gave an economical flick of her wand, and a translucent map of the British Isles appeared in the air between them, with sparkling dots scattered across it.

"I see that you have your Apparation license," she continued, "so there should be no need for delay. Starting tomorrow, Imogen will teach you how to Apparate to the most generally known locations--" London, Belfast, and Edinburgh lit up like starbursts-- "while I myself will take you to others. Later, you will learn a few Apparation points unique to your sub-department." She dismissed the map with another gesture. "No one of us knows all of the Department's secrets. Which is just as it should be."

Maud nodded. It might make for a bit more difficulty in communication, but strategically it made sense: Voldemort -- or anyone else -- could never hope to crush the Department of Secrets at one blow. No doubt Euphemia Glossop was only one of several people in authority, for the same reason.

"So," said Glossop, leaning back in her chair and putting her fingertips together, "I expect Miss Crump has given you some idea of the possibilities open to you as a member of our Department. Have you any preference as to what you would like to do here?"

"I've given it some thought," admitted Maud. "But I'm also curious..."

"Yes?" asked Glossop.

"Well, you've seen my academic records, and you know my history. Where would you assign me?"

Glossop's brows lifted. "An interesting question." She narrowed her eyes, tapping her fingers against the desk as she contemplated her answer. "My personal inclination," she said at last, "would be to put you in Potions Research and Development."

Inwardly, Maud exulted, but she kept her expression mild. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Your work would involve the formulation of antidotes to poisons and other malicious brews used by Dark wizards. You would also create potions for offensive and defensive use by Aurors and other Ministry enforcers. A little analysis, a little medicine, a little creativity -- and, once you gain sufficient experience, some work in the field. Not quite espionage, but it could be somewhat dangerous, nonetheless. I trust this does not alarm you?"

Maud shook her head.

"No, I didn't think so." Glossop smiled grimly. "No one raised by Alastor Moody could afford to be timid." Her fingers tapped the desk again. "Which reminds me. By all reports, you have been estranged from your uncle for the past five months. Do you have any intention of altering that arrangement?"

"Do you think I should?"

"Not unless the rift between you is genuine, which I doubt. If it merely suits Alastor to have his niece appear sympathetic to the Enemy's cause, I have no objection. Indeed, it will probably make your work -- and some other things, I imagine -- easier if you do. Nevertheless--" she held up a finger sternly-- "you know as well as I do that your ruse would not survive close inspection by a truly intelligent Death Eater, much less by the Enemy himself. So I expect you to keep a safe distance, and not follow your uncle's unfortunate habit of dabbling in espionage. Am I understood?"

"Yes," said Maud, a little ruefully.

For just an instant, Glossop's angular features softened. "You are not... quite... what I expected, Miss Moody. But you'll do. Oh, yes, you'll do."

Maud opened her mouth to ask Glossop what she meant, but too late; the other woman drew a deep breath, and was all business again. "Now. Imogen will attend you tomorrow morning at eight o'clock precisely, and your training will begin. Have you any more questions at this time?"

As a matter of fact, Maud did; but she suspected they were not questions Glossop would be prepared to answer at this point. "No," she said. "Thank you."

"Very well. You are dismissed," said Glossop. "Good day."

Maud inclined her head respectfully, took two steps back, and Disapparated.

Reality blurred, then coalesced again in the form of her flat. She looked around, and found Imogen once more comfortably ensconced in the armchair, pouring a fresh cup of tea.

"So you got past Phemie unscathed," said the other witch, handing her the cup. "I thought you would. Did she tell you we're starting tomorrow?"

Maud took the teacup gratefully and cradled it in her hands, breathing in the fragrant steam. "Yes," she said.

"Good." Imogen beamed at her. "You know, I think we're going to be friends, Maud Moody. Don't ask me why, but I just do."

* * *

She'd been right, too. As Maud discovered over the next few weeks of training, Imogen usually was. She might look unassuming and behave innocently -- and to some extent both were genuine -- but beneath that affable surface was a mind and a will nearly as formidable as Euphemia Glossop's.

"But she's got no ambition at all," said Maud to George, stirring her drink idly with the straw and watching the ice go round. "She's perfectly happy doing what she does, and I don't think she'd mind if she never did anything else."

They were sitting outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley, having met (by accident, it would seem to any casual onlooker) in the Apothecary's half an hour earlier. It was the first time Maud had seen George since he'd left Hogwarts, and she couldn't help thinking how much she'd missed him.

"So what does this new friend of yours do, then?" he asked.

"Research," said Maud. "She studies Muggles and writes about them."

George's eyebrows shot up. "She must be as big a nutter as my dad, then. Does she collect plugs, too?"

Maud gave a wry smile. Arthur Weasley's fascination with the Muggle world was well known at the Ministry, but he was definitely one of the "amateurs" who drove Imogen to despair. His view of Muggle life was romanticised, and most of his information was either inaccurate or out of date.

Imogen, on the other hand, knew precisely what she was doing. She subscribed to Muggle catalogues, newspapers and magazines by the score; used their slang and wore their fashions with casual ease; and frequently disappeared into their society for days at a time, pursuing some obscure bit of information or acquiring a new non-magical skill. If she had ever been dazzled by the novelty of the Muggle world, that naïveté had long ago worn off.

"Not that I know of," said Maud. "So what have you been up to?"

"Working like mad, mostly," said George. "Mind you, after we left Hogwarts we didn't exactly rush home -- Fred and I reckoned we deserved a bit of a holiday before we really got down to business." He paused, added with a grin, "We were also trying to figure out how to break the news to Mum without getting buried up to our necks in the garden and left for the gnomes."

"How did she take it?"

"Well, she wasn't exactly keen. The words 'die of shame' were lobbed around a few times. But in the end, we talked her around."

"Why am I not surprised?" said Maud wryly.

"Well, it didn't hurt being able to show her the shop we'd already bought and the two hundred Galleons' worth of advance orders, either." George licked the back of his spoon and contemplated the empty dish of Boysenberry Ripple Delight with satisfaction. "Now that is what I call a business lunch."

Maud smiled.

"So what about you?" George went on. "Your letter said you'd found a flat -- in Oxford, wasn't it? -- and made a new friend, but you didn't say anything about a job."

"I have one now," Maud told him. "I'm working in a lab at St. Mungo's, doing medicinal potions research."

This was, in fact, the truth, although few of Maud's co-workers at the hospital could have guessed the full extent of her activities. The lab in question had an extra room, unknown to all but Maud and the two other Department members with whom she worked; it was there that they carried out their more volatile experiments, and made top-secret potions at the Ministry's behest.

"Oh," said George. "Well. Good on you, then."

"You sound disappointed."

He looked sheepish. "I suppose I am. I mean, after being raised by the Ministry's most famous ex-Auror, and spending half your life as an amateur spy, I guess I expected you to do something a little more... exciting."

Maud gave a short laugh. "There'll be excitement enough for all of us, before long. Too much of it, I expect."

"Yeah, well, I try not to think about that. Most sane people do." George glanced around, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Heard from your boyfriend lately?"

Maud nearly choked on her soda. The thought of Severus Snape as anyone's "boyfriend" had never occurred to her. "Er... no."

"What?" George was outraged. "Not even a letter?"

"We both knew it might be difficult to keep in touch," Maud explained calmly, although a familiar dull ache was making its way into her heart as she spoke. "He's in a precarious position, and so am I. We can't afford to risk being discovered, not yet."

Again, the truth, though only part of it. In all honesty, Maud was beginning to get worried. She had known Severus would be busy this summer, both with Dumbledore and with Voldemort; but surely he would have found some way of contacting her?

Still, she had no fear that Severus had forgotten her, any more than she had forgotten him. Indeed, if anything she yearned for his presence, his touch, more than ever. It was a good thing he had not taken her up on her impulsive offer to stay with him, that last night at Hogwarts; if he had, how much harder would it be for both of them now?

"I dunno," George said, with a sceptical look. "Much as it galls me to admit it, Snape's a clever b-- er, bloke. He ought to be able to think of something."

"He will," said Maud firmly. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

"Watch that beaker by your left elbow, will you, love? It's rumpy juice, and you know what that stuff is like..."

Maud looked down at the workbench in surprise, and saw that he was right: the slender vial on the stand was labelled Erumpent Exploding Fluid, Class B. "What on earth are you working on?" she asked.

Tony Gamble tapped the side of his nose with a dragonhide-gloved finger and gave her a knowing wink. Stocky and mercurial, with thinning hair and bright blue eyes set deep in a sun-weathered face, he was both Maud's supervisor at St. Mungo's and her team leader for the Department of Secrets, although he seldom bothered to draw attention to either.

"Special commission from the Department of Aurors," he said. "All very hush-hush." With deft movements he added several more ingredients to the cauldron in front of him, then clapped the lid over it and held it down as the mixture frothed and belched. "Nasty stuff," he added, with a distinct note of satisfaction.

"I can tell," said Maud.

A ring of blue flame licked the rim of the cauldron, then subsided. Tony, looking surprised, took the lid off, peered down at the contents, and gave vent to a bitter oath. "I knew those slugs were past their freshness date," he fumed. "Another batch ruined. Where's that lazy trollop Peg? I'll have her wand for this!"

He slammed the lid down and stomped out the door before Maud could even speak -- off to yet another of his legendary battles with the hospital's supply mistress. Which left Maud in a quandary, because she'd meant to ask him if she might leave a few minutes early tonight. Should she wait until he came back?

No, she decided after a moment, she might as well just go ahead. She'd put in more than enough time on both sides of the lab this week, and besides, it was Friday. "Sarah," she said, turning to the woman quietly stirring her cauldron in the corner, "would you mind telling Tony I'm off for the day? I've got an appointment."

Sarah Proctor raised her head slowly and blinked, as though surprised that Maud was addressing her. She was a thin, middle-aged woman, with faded blonde curls and eyes that seemed permanently unfocused. "What? Oh, yes, of course."

"Thank you," said Maud, and Disapparated.

* * *

"You're going to love this place," promised Imogen, skipping ahead of Maud as they headed down Charing Cross Road. "They make the most gorgeous lamb curry..."

She looked perfectly natural in those Muggle clothes, thought Maud with a flash of envy. Of course, Imogen was a casual sort of person, and the fluid lines of the brightly printed cotton blouse and skirt she'd picked out for the evening suited her.

Maud, on the other hand, was feeling self-conscious. The sleeveless shift-dress of royal blue linen was undeniably flattering, and she supposed it wasn't really immodest -- especially not compared to some of the outfits she'd seen on Muggle women. Still, she was glad for the jacket that came with it, and she couldn't help wishing both parts of the outfit were a good deal longer. It was hard to get used to the feeling of the evening breeze on her legs, and her shoes were so flimsy -- even in one-inch heels she felt ready to fall over and break her ankle at any moment.

Nervously she put a hand to the hair knotted at the nape of her neck. It felt as though it was going to come apart, but Imogen had put a Hold-Fast Charm on it, and insisted it would be fine. Come what may, she'd been determined to make Maud fashionable: making her comfortable, it seemed, came a distant second.

A brief ride on the Tube, followed by a much longer jaunt on a rattling double-decker, brought them to the restaurant Imogen had been crowing about. It was a glass-fronted bistro, brightly lit and oozing urban trendiness in the form of brushed metal furniture and lots of exposed piping. The music playing in the background as they entered -- jazz music, Imogen called it -- sounded to Maud like the quacking of an extremely depressed duck, but fortunately it wasn't too loud.

The patrons all seemed to be young professional Muggles of a vaguely artistic sort, who cast brief, supercilious glances at Imogen and Maud before returning to their murmured conversations. As they followed the waiter to their table, Maud bent down and whispered to Imogen, "Didn't you say something about fun?"

"You wait and see," said Imogen mysteriously.

Maud was sceptical, but she held her peace. The restaurant was warm, so she took off her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair before sitting down. The meal was ordered, their drinks were filled, they made idle -- but carefully censored -- conversation about what they'd been up to over the past few days, and the duck continued its doleful complaints over the loudspeakers until at last the food arrived.

"You're right," admitted Maud between forkfuls of curry, "this is good."

Imogen seemed preoccupied, however. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, craning her neck as though looking for someone.

"What is it?" Maud asked, frowning.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought I saw... never mind." She gave a brief, apologetic smile and returned her attention to her meal. "So anyway, I was sitting outside a café over on the Edgware Road, and the sweetest little Japanese man with a camera came up to me and said--"

"No need," came a low, silk-and-velvet voice from the doorway. "I'm expected."

Maud's heart stopped. Slowly, she turned around, knowing all the while that she was being ridiculous; they were in the middle of Muggle London, after all, and there was no chance it could possibly be...

A man, tall and lean, dressed in a charcoal-grey jacket and slacks, a deep crimson turtleneck turning his sallow skin to gold. Dark hair worn loose to his shoulders, but with the dull gloss of absolute cleanness and not a strand out of place. He looked cultured, supercilious, and very much as though he belonged here -- certainly a good deal more than Maud or even Imogen did.

"What are you..." Imogen began, and then, weakly, "Oh."

His gaze swept the restaurant, then locked with Maud's. He gave a quirk of a smile, dismissed the waiter with a negligent wave, and made his way across the room toward them.

"It can't be," sputtered Imogen. "I mean... but no, he doesn't look like that -- and he couldn't be the one -- not him -- surely --?"

He stopped at their table, looked down at them, brows arched in mild inquiry. "May I join you?" he asked.

Imogen and Maud stared at him.

"Ah. I was forgetting -- we've not been introduced." He turned his attention to Imogen. "Stephen Soames."

"And I'm Celestina Warbeck," said Imogen in an undertone, but she put on a bright smile and shook his hand with every appearance of pleasure. "Oh yes," she said. "How silly of me, I should have known at once. Won't you sit down?"

He smiled at her, the briefest flash of white teeth, and pulled up a chair.

"Certainly," said Severus Snape.