The Worst Day Since Yesterday

Diana was a little concerned about Gemma. Just a little. The girl had taken to doing the crossword in the newspaper. She had never approved of Gemma riding the subways alone, but there had been little that she could do to stop the practice (Gemma could be a veritable escape artist when she was in the mood). Aside from that, Gemma always came back talking about who was on the subway--she was fascinated with this Auror named Tonks, Diana soon learned. The Auror was apparently a klutz and was easily surprised. Diana thought she knew the name, though. In any case, while she worried about Gemma; the girl did seem to be able to function on her own. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

The teapot on the stove screamed. Diana turned off the fire. She would let the water cool a bit before she drank any tea. It was around noon, lunchtime. She had a day off. Currently, she went back to watching Gemma read some book or another that Luna had recommended. Diana wondered just how much Luna knew. Sometimes Diana could swear that that girl just knew things. Everything, not just inconsequential, random things, but the important things. It made her uneasy. Diana wondered if the girl had Seer blood in her. It would make sense.

Nothing had been in a good way for the last couple of weeks. She refused to mention, even to herself, why. It didn't matter. The reality was bad enough. What did matter was how her brother-in-law was dealing with it. Everything seemed to inexorably drawn back to Britain. War had decided to grace the country with itself once more. The Ministry yet again decided to not inform the Muggles about anything. This was one of the few times Diana could bring herself to agree with them about the war. Voldemort had returned, and there was nothing she could do about it. It had been her job to report it all back. So, everyone was going back into the breech.

Diana cursed vehemently. There was no reason behind all of this. She supposed, though, that it was better to fight a good war than one that wasn't. That damn pureblood doctrine! That damn prejudice against Muggle-borns and Half-bloods. Damn it all.

Oddly enough, she couldn't bring herself to curse all the descendants of Slytherin (Voldemort had a special place in hell, though). They were in the same boat as the descendants of the other three houses: judged based only on their name. Hufflepuffs were known to be flighty, irritatingly happy, and scatterbrained where Gryffindors were courageous, daring to the point of stupidity. The Slytherins were the deceitful, heartless bastards of the lot who made an art out of treachery, while Ravenclaws were the know-it-all, pragmatic witches who simply did not give a damn about anything else but knowledge.

Obviously, none of the stereotypes were completely true, even if Gryffindors were suicidally brave, Slytherins had a tendency to be cold and calculating, Hufflepuffs were so loyal they worried over the most inane problems, and Ravenclaws had a gift for exaggerating.

However, Diana was not exaggerating. She was being perfectly frank, honest, and serious. (Ravenclaws also had a penchant for lying to themselves. And babbling to drunken, enchanted hats. But that was a completely different story.)

- - - - -

Remus Lupin was concerned for his friend. Something was just not right. The one person who had never, ever (well, rarely) opened his textbooks throughout all seven years of school was intently working on lesson plans. It was like something out of a horror movie, but worse. Well, Remus amended, it just really meant Sirius was either trying to ignore reality or facing it. The latter was like every time exams had come around back in school. Or a test. Or when he was still awake at three in the morning doing his homework. Couldn't ruin his image, Sirius had said. Staying up until the crack of dawn was infinitely preferable. The former of the two possibilities was much more likely, though. Remus wished he was not sure about that, but Sirius had a habit of living in denial until he snapped. Unfortunately, no one was left to pick up the pieces this time. Remus couldn't--he never could. It always ended in a shouting match where the two did not talk for at least a month. Again, Remus had learned that the hard way.

"Are you going to just stand there, psychoanalyzing me, or are you going to help me, Remus?" Sirius asked him, not once looking up from his work. They were in the dining room of 12 Grimmauld Place; Sirius had insisted on being there whenever Mrs. Weasley decided to wage war on the dirt and grime entrenched within the depths of the house. However, Sirius would not leave the dining room. Remus guessed it had to be something more than the prevalence of dust.

"I think I'll psychoanalyze some more," Remus, grinning, replied from across the table. There. Sirius almost smiled. After a moment, Remus asked, "What's bothering you, Padfoot?"

"Nothing," Sirius replied detachedly. He paused in his writing and smiled distractedly. Looking up, he reiterated, "It's nothing, Moony. Really. I'm fine." If that were true, then Remus was definitely not a werewolf. He was obviously a vampiric kelpie that despised chocolate.

"For some reason, I don't believe a word of that," Remus replied cheerfully, watching as Sirius scowled. If that was not proof, Remus did not know what was. Even without Sirius' reaction, Remus knew his friend was in a bad way. It had been about fourteen years, but Sirius still blamed himself for the deaths of James and Lily. The man had still not properly grieved, although he may have acclimated himself to the idea. The emotion would have been tantamount to suicide in Azkaban. Before all that, there had been the whole ordeal with the Ministry Inquest. That had been terrible. Even James had not been able to get through to Sirius for upwards of a week. And then at the funeral... Remus grimaced.

Apparently, Sirius was thinking along similar lines: his hands were shaking. Sirius made an attempt to still them. Now was not the time. No. Why did Remus have to start a conversation? And where was the firewhisky when he needed it? Damn. Might as well surrender. "Am I that obvious?" he asked, feeling guilty for some reason. "I thought I was hiding better than that."

"You are working," Remus replied seriously. "You have been working for the past six hours without leaving the room. You do not seem to notice that you are currently working in your own personal vision of hell. You hate this house and almost everything in it."

"You forgot about Kreacher, Remus. He's my own personal harpy, except he's a house elf and not a harpy," Sirius said bitterly. The dialogue was a conversation ender, and they sat in silence of a couple of minutes. Finally, Remus decided, "Sirius, we're terrible at the talking-things-out thing." The only route to take was the add-humor-and-hope-for-the-best strategy, which, in Remus' experience, tended to backfire more often than not. "We're missing the Rock of Gibraltar and the Yes-man. The Listener and the Comic do not mesh well."

Sirius nodded silently before murmuring, "I wouldn't say I was the Comic, Remus. Tortured idiot that took out his own problems on others, yes. Comic, no." He covered his eyes with his right hand, trying not to think about the past. Laughed harshly at himself, Sirius let his hand drop back to the table. "What the hell is wrong with me?" he demanded, looking off to the side. "I can't feel anymore. There's just ... nothing. I can't stand it! And... The last time, I couldn't... not without..." By then, the expression on his face had faded from disillusioned and bitter to wretched and almost... desolate? But was that really the right word for it?

"I shouldn't've brought it up," Remus apologized, realizing that he had forgotten about yet another reason his friend was in a bad way. That matter was infinitely more delicate--damage could still be done. However, it was not Remus' place to say anything on the matter. He was going to stay out of it. Remus watched Sirius quickly calm himself down and wondered how often his friend had worn these masks at school, when the Marauders were still the best of friends (James insisted Sirius wasn't disaster prone, no matter how much the latter had tried to claim he was; there was no way he had tripped down the stairs. It was un-Sirius-like. Very much so.) "Maybe you should stay away from this house," Remus suggested gently. "You don't have to stay here--I have a pretty good idea of what should be tossed and what shouldn't. I'll also make sure Molly keeps her crusade against the dirt away from the doors you've kept locked."

Sirius seemed to consider it. "I'll think about it," he finally said and went back to working on the lesson plans. Remus swore that Sirius looked relieved; the stubborn mutt might actually acquiesce in favor of the idea. Of course, Sirius would then claim it was his idea in the first place. Hopefully.

Remus smiled and ducked out of the room, saying goodbye in passing. Sirius murmured his reply as Remus was shutting the door. Creeping quietly past the portrait of Sirius's mother (Remus was very glad to have never met the woman if the portrait was anything to go by), Remus went upstairs, looking for Molly. He looked around the second floor, and when he eventually wandered near the rooms Sirius had locked, Lupin still had not found her. He had thought he had heard something, though. Strange. He started back the way he came, and right as he was about to look downstairs, Molly called from one of the first rooms he had searched, "Remus, could you help me with this drawer? It won't open, and there's a Boggart in the closet."

"Coming!"

- - - - -

"That was close," Fred said, sighing in relief, as he leaned back against the door. He and George had been... researching (yes, that was the word) various spells and potions for certain extracurricular experiments when they had heard someone coming down the hallway. Of course, their mother would have had a conniption had she found him. So, they cast Alohomora on the nearest door--they had previously discovered all three of the doors in the hallway were locked--and ran inside, seeking sanctuary. It might not have been a good idea.

"I wonder whose room this was," George said, looking around. Unlike the rest of the house, the room was almost impeccably clean. There was, however, a fine coat of dust on the desk next to the window that lit up the entire room. The bed on the far side of the room was perfectly made but had a book or two thrown haphazardly on it. "Think it's Mr. Black's?"

"I don't think grey is his color," Fred replied, referring to the paint on the walls.

George disagreed: "I dunno. I think it looks more like white or light blue or something."

"No, it's really light grey. It's obviously not white, and where did you get blue from?"

"We're arguing about color."

"Point taken." Fred walked over to the bed and looked at the books on top of the navy blue duvet. A book called The Scarlet Pimpernel, which Fred had heard of before, so it sounded vaguely familiar, and some book by a man named Ian Fleming. He somehow could not imagine the man working in the dining room reading either of the two books. Well, maybe the latter. "Forge, do you suppose Mr. Black has a brother or sister?" Fred said to his twin.

"It's possible, Gred," George answered and glanced at the pictures on the dresser. Nothing was really out of the ordinary. There was a picture of two people whom George figured were the late Mr. and Mrs. Black. Actually, now that he looked closely, he was sure the woman was Mr. Black's mother, despite the happy expression on her face. The next picture over was of three girls: the first looked psychotic, the second looked perfectly normal if slightly annoyed and making funny faces, and the last looked eerily familiar but amiable-ish. George's eyes widened as he saw the next photo. "Fred, you have to see this," he said, pointing at the photo. "Look."

Fred did as his twin suggested. It was a photo of a couple of Hogwarts students, Slytherins by the look of them. The half-recognized blond girl from the last photo was in it again. There were one or two others that looked vaguely familiar, but one of the last two stood out. "Bloody hell!" Fred exclaimed. "Is that Professor Snape I spy? My God, has he ever taken a shower?" Even more frightening was the almost friendly look on his face. Wait, no. False alarm. It was just his typical smirk. Or was it? This was very puzzling. He glanced at the remaining figure. "Look at him," Fred said, referring to the final figure.

"Hm. I guess this was Mr. Black's brother's room, then," George decided. The teenager in the photo looked to be about Ron or Ginny's age and looked very much like Mr. Black. If they did not know that he had been a Gryffindor, they might have thought it was Mr. Black. Now that they were looking, however, the boy in the photo did look significantly different from the adult downstairs, disregarding age. George looked around the room once more. "When do you think it was the last time someone came in here? It's rather odd how neat everything is."

Fred nodded in agreement. "I wonder what happened to him," Fred said. "I'd say that no one had been in here for years, but the room's too well kept for being neglected. I didn't think Kreacher was capable of keeping anything clean."

George started to feel like they were trespassing on something they should not have seen. "Gred, I do believe we should avaunt," he said, starting to collect the texts and materials they had dropped on the floor. He then spied the book sticking out from under the bed. Fred noticed it, too. "No, we should leave it where it is," George said, heading off what would have been Fred's suggestion. "Let's go."

Fred nodded and agreed, "We shouldn't tell anyone we came in here. No one, especially not Mum. She'd blow a gasket if she knew we'd broken into one of the rooms then make us apologize to Mr. Black. Somehow, I figure he'd rather we just never speak of this again."

George looked around the room. It was a little surreal to see such a normal, bright, clean room in this grim, old place. They then ducked out of the room with all their things. Fred cast the charm to lock the door before they rushed off to dump their stuff in the room they normally reserved for their research. As they sped off to return to their proper posts, they happened to overhear a conversation between Professor Lupin and their mother.

"Molly, I'm sorry, and I know it sounds strange, but it is absolutely imperative that you keep the children away from the hallway with the locked doors. Trust me, it's better off left alone," the professor said very seriously. Apparently it had been Lupin who almost caught them.

"I take it that you managed to talk Sirius out of hanging about, then?" their mother said. She made an exasperated noise. "I swear, it is hard enough cleaning this house without him moping about. Even the children can tell how much he despises this place."

The twins could imagine Lupin grimacing. "You don't know the half of it, Molly. Between bad memories of his mother and all memory of his brother, I'm surprised he even set foot in the house again," Lupin admitted. "All that business was hard enough the first time 'round. I hardly imagine Sirius likes dredging it up again, and he's already not feeling well."

There was a moment of silence. "Has the Ministry decided anything concerning Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked, obviously trying to switch the subject to happier things. "Or are they still deliberating, and it's unlikely anything will be decided before the end of the summer?"

"I don't know," Lupin replied. It seemed from the ensuing pause that he was hesitant to share what he was to say next. "Honestly, I don't think it would be good for either of them, as terrible as it sounds. Sirius... He's dealing with too much right now, and the last thing he needs to deal with is more guilt. On the other hand, Harry would be incredibly disappointed if nothing happened. He deserves something resembling a stable home life, but Sirius just can't provide that to him right now. He knows it, too. That's why he hasn't talked to Harry recently."

Fred and George, from their hiding place, shared an amazed look. Was it really Professor Lupin saying that and not some doppleganger? The man who rarely said a harsh word against anyone and who was, to the twins' knowledge, Mr. Black's best friend? Granted, what he was saying made sense, but the twins felt very sorry for whoever ended up having to tell Harry. There would be hell to pay; that was for sure.

"I agree, but I am sure that by the end of this year the Ministry will decide to place Harry in Sirius' care. By then, he may be fine," Mrs. Weasley pointed out. She paused before asking hesitantly, "Remus, excuse me for asking, but what was it that made Sirius completely ignore his brother? I remember the headlines, of course, but... Well, you know how the papers were."

Fred and George listened very carefully to what was said next. After all, they were already in too deep. Might as well learn what they could in order to sate their curiosity. "You heard what happened to him, right?" Lupin asked grimly. Their mother must have nodded, because Lupin continued, "Sirius and James were the ones that found the body. James had to call in to headquarters, write the report, do everything pertaining to that case. It was almost ironic: despite how Sirius had already seen too much in the war and barely been fazed, he hadn't been prepared to see his younger brother's body in an alleyway. It took James a long time to get Sirius to talk about any of it." He sighed and said cynically, "If you asked him now about his brother, Sirius would probably call him an idiot and curse him for getting himself killed."

"How old was he?" Mrs. Weasley asked softly. The twins had the feeling their mother was thinking about their uncles right about then.

"Regulus was only nineteen," Lupin replied. "Poor kid. He didn't deserve what happened to him, especially since he was apparently so uninvolved in the war that the Aurors didn't even have a file on him. They looked for it for a long while, too."

Apparently that last sentence was pointed, because Fred and George had a little bit of trouble understanding what was said next. Their mother gasped and exclaimed, "He wasn't!"

Lupin replied, "I'm not positive, but it seems to be the only explanation. Why else would they have done all that to him? He had to have rubbed a good many Death Eaters the wrong way. The coroner said it was a long, painful death. And everyone knew who Regulus had sided with."

At this point, the twins ducked out. That was more than their share of knowledge. Now they knew they could never mention wandering into that room. They were surprised the house was not haunted.

- - - - -

Daniel Lovegood was not a gambling man. He did not think it was a good idea to go through with what his superiors were planning. If it were up to him, he would have made sure that the Americans kept their specialist overseas. It was just too dangerous to bring the man back over. So many things could happen, and with Voldemort on the scene again, if the specialist were caught, there would be a repeat of what had happened the last time. They needed he information, dammit, and getting the only man who knew it killed was just plain idiotic.

Sadly, he was not in control of the Special Operations division of the Department of Mysteries. He only ran Information Collection and Distribution, Codename Quibbler, and he was very close to complaining to the director of the whole department. They would be best off keeping the only man who knew how to kill Voldemort once and for all off of British soil for the sake of everyone, not the least the man himself. They all knew the risks, but, in his opinion, it was much better to be safe than sorry.

Mr. Lovegood decided to go see the Director.

He exited his office to come upon a scene of barely organized chaos. The other heads of the subdepartments were clustered around the Director's office. Special Ops was looking rather nervous and avoided Mr.Lovegood's gaze when he approached. Hall of Prophecies looked to be deep in thought. That man was always concerned about how everything could affect everything else. The last time Mr. Lovegood had seen Hall of Prophecies that serious, a particular prophecy courtesy of a S. Trelawney had been shelved away. Death and Special Artifacts looked rather miffed--but he always looked miffed. R&D was demanding from Moneypenny, the Director's secretary (the Director had a strange sense of humor), what exactly all of the hubbub was about. Various DM agents were chatting around the subdirectors.

"No, R&D, I do not know about whether or not MI6 will be informed," Moneypenny said irritatedly. Quite frankly, she had become tired of the James Bond jokes after her first week. There were a surprising number of wizards in the department that actually had seen some of the movies. "Mr. White will not be participating in any dangerous missions--his function is solely as an advisor. I would have expected at least you to read your briefing."

"What briefing?" Mr. Lovegood asked. White was already here? He was too late, then.

Moneypenny looked at Mr. Lovegood surprisedly. "You, Collection and Distribution, don't know, either? Isn't it your job to know these things?" she demanded. "My Lord, is everything here going to hell in a handbasket?" She turned to Prophecies. "I take it you were unaware of all of this, too?"

"He should not have returned," Prophecies said, shaking his head and talking to himself as he paced the room. "There are too many eventualities to account for, and I don't even want to consider the ramifications on other prophecies..."

Death rolled his eyes. "Lovely! You've got Prophecies yammering about the state of his beloved scraps of information!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "Next thing you know, he'll be predicting the end of the blooming world!"

Ops glared. "I thought we had an agreement never to speak of such things in Prophecies' presence," he reminded Death. "It only makes him start talking about them."

"Is the Director talking to Mr. White now, Moneypenny?" Mr. Lovegood asked her.

"Yes, IC&D. They were actually waiting for you," she informed him, motioning for Mr. Lovegood to enter the room. "I daresay the Director was a tad bit on edge--Mr. White must be important if the Director will only allow you to ID him."

Mr. Lovegood nodded in response and entered the room. Mr. White was much younger than Mr. Lovegood remembered, even if he did have a streak of white in his otherwise ubiquitous pitch-black hair. "How've the States been treating you?" Mr. Lovegood asked.

"Fine, Dan," Mr. White replied after a moment. It seemed as if he was uncertain as to how he should be acting. The mixed feelings were evident in his expression. The two had always been a little bit on edge with each other since White's near-death experience the last time he had been working against Voldemort.

The Director smiled. "Please sit down," she said to Mr. Lovegood before addressing both of them: "I am sure both of you have kept up with the recent events of the summer. As such, I expect you both know how much danger Mr. White is in. Any number of people could recognize him, and it would be very unwise to allow Voldemort to know he survived."

Mr. Lovegood noticed Mr. White looked a little torn. "What are you suggesting, Madame Director?" he asked. "I'm not sure why I am present. I only run the Quibbler. My specialty is broadcasting information to our agents, not protecting it."

"Exactly, Mr. Lovegood," the Director said. "You need to inform our agents about Mr. White. We cannot afford any friendly fire, especially if he is to go into deep cover once more."

"What?" Mr. Lovegood exclaimed as he stood up. "Are you mad?"

"I requested it," Mr. White said softly. "There is no other way for this to work. I cannot reach the rest of the horcruxes if I am not one of Voldemort's cronies. Unless, of course, we try some half-witted scheme to break into his headquarters, which we need to locate, and steal the things that Voldemort guards the most thoroughly. I would bet anything that the same people have been in charge of guarding the horcruxes since before Voldemort's first death, so said idiotic scheme would prove at best useless and at worst devastating."

"I suspected as much, hence why I have already coordinated a meeting for you with the Death Eaters," the Director cut in, sitting back in her chair. She sighed and addressed Mr. Lovegood, "I know you disagree with this particular course of action, Daniel, but it is the only way, as you must know. Inform our field agents that Mr. White is on our side but to treat him like an enemy. We cannot afford for the past to repeat itself."

Mr. White looked off to the side, looking like he was trying not to remember what had happened, and Mr. Lovegood hardy blamed him. Mr. White composed himself before saying, "Dan, please. I wish it could be different, but I can't see any other option. If it were up to me, I'd be back in D.C. with Vesta and the kids. I don't want to be here, but I must do this."

Mr. Lovegood nodded. Of course Mr. White would have preferred to stay back in the States, where he was considerably safer from the Death Eaters and all of their sympathizers. "I know," he said finally. Turning to the Director, he asked resignedly, "When do you want me to inform the agents? This issue or the next?"

"The August issue, I would hope," she replied, smiling.