The landing on the crumpled masonry was harder than the last time... or was it the time before that? It was beginning to blur – in and out of the same memory, the same hell...

    He could still feel the raging heat of the flames, and even though he knew they couldn’t hurt him, he could still feel a trickle of sweat sliding down the back of his neck –

   “Expelliarmus!”

   The voice was ragged, and unmistakeably female, but he knew who had shouted that spell. With horrified fascination, he watched as the spell smashed the hasty Shield Charm, ripping the arm from the Hit Wizard’s body with the gory wet snap of breaking bones...

   He knew what was coming, so he looked away. He didn’t want to have to witness the massacre all over again. It would be impossible to ignore, but his job wasn’t merely desensitization, but also an analysis of his mistakes – the mistakes that Tonks, as his doppelganger, had made.

   She faced Scrimgeour alone, the other Hit Wizards and Aurors charging after the dark-haired woman who was slaughtering them with grossly exaggerated spells. He watched as the Metamorphmagus fought off Scrimgeour’s furious spells and curses with surprising deftness and dexterity...

   Something was wrong.

   He moved closer, and then he noticed Tonks’ hesitation after every spell. Her reaction time was slowed, without the usual graceless intensity she possessed. It was as if she was pretending to be inexperienced – which made sense, he realized, considering who she was impersonating.

   Her spells were still powerful, though – Scrimgeour was driven back a few steps by a nasty jinx that was parried at the last second. He wondered why Tonks didn’t immediately press the advantage – he would have, even despite his relative inexperience...

  He saw the anxiety playing across Tonks’ face mirroring his own – and the look of rage and betrayal on Scrimgeour’s visage as the Auror leapt back on the attack with a string of curses that Tonks blocked just in time –

   He heard screams, and he looked back – and then immediately wished he hadn’t. The dark-haired girl – his simulacrum, but still him all the same – had just unleashed a black cloud from her wand, and he could see the Hit Wizards convulse as the cloud touched them, their heads spasmodically twitching, as if to burst...

   He wrenched his gaze away, but he could still hear the sickeningly wet cracks behind him as the ground ruptured beneath his feet. Any second now –

   The ground blew open. Charlie and the twins were streaking up through the hole, building speed with every second...

   He heard a howl, and he twisted his glance back to Tonks – she had lost her footing for a second, and that had caused her to fumble. Her wand was blown out of her hand by Scrimgeour’s hex.

   He had seen enough.

   With little more than a thought he shot up faster than the Weasleys were flying, up and up... until he felt himself stagger back from Pensieve, breathing heavily as struggled to regain his footing.

   “You didn’t stay until the end.”

   Harry wiped the sheen of sudden sweat from his forehead and glared at Moody, who was on the opposite side of the Pensieve. “I’ve lived through it, and you’ve made me watch that nightmare five times – I think I know the ending.”

   Moody’s eyes both narrowed as he stepped around the Pensieve towards his desk – towards Harry. “You think you know where you went wrong?”

   “Yes,” Harry replied through clenched teeth.

   “Description, now.”

   “Scrimgeour was faster than I was,” Harry began, taking a deep breath and staring straight into Moody’s mismatched eyes. “That shouldn’t be the case – I’m a good Seeker, and I’ve got better reflexes than that. I was destabilized by the collapsing environment, which I should have been blocking out –”

   “What else?” Moody growled. “You know there’s more!”

   “I was holding back,” Harry continued, still on the same breath, “because Scrimgeour intimidated me, considering our prior dealings this year –”

   “Explains why you didn’t go to Azkaban for what happened in the summer, but that’s not difficult to figure out, considering whatever you planned had Black’s and Tonks’ fingerprints all over it,” Moody said darkly. “Take a breath, and tell me what else you did wrong – NOW!”

   “I was distracted –”

   “By what?”

   “- By the brutality of my... of my ally’s tactics!” Harry finished, out of breath, finally tearing his gaze away from Moody’s eyes. “I didn’t... I didn’t expect for her to be using spells like she did –”

   “Yeah, using Unforgivables will do that,” Moody said harshly, stepping around to his desk, his electric-blue eye still fixed on Harry. “Especially when they hit your best friend’s brother –”

   The feelings he had been holding back broke loose, and he could feel the rage, the mingled guilt and fury that made him want to make whatever hurt him burn –

   “SHUT UP!”

   Moody paused for a few seconds, and turned to face Harry, a strange expression on his scarred face. “What did you say to me, Potter?” he asked quietly, an ominous note in his voice.

   “Shut up about that,” Harry whispered, his breaths coming in hot gasps as rage filled his stomach. “Shut the... fuck... up.”

   Moody crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed Harry. His expression was inexplicable, and strangely, Harry felt the anger leaking out of him like a hole in a balloon. He felt deflated, vacantly staring as Moody met his gaze again.

   “Congratulations, Potter,” Moody said with a grunt. “You’ve just passed your second lesson. Do you hate me yet?”

   The word ‘Yes’ leapt to his tongue in a second, but for some strange reason he couldn’t say it. Maybe because the feelings of hatred and loathing that he had felt towards Moody in those furious seconds weren’t really there at all... just resignation.

   “No,” he finally said.

   “Why?” Moody asked sharply. “I’ve made you relive this five times. For most intents and purposes, this would be considered torture.”

   “Torture was living through it the first time,” Harry whispered, putting a hand to his head to fight the rising ache in his temple. “This....”

   “Sit down, Potter.”

   He started for a second, fighting back the queer daze as he stumbled into a chair Moody had conjured out of thin air.

   “What if I were to tell you,” Moody said after a long few seconds, neither of his eyes meeting Harry, instead scanning the mosaic of paperwork strewn across the wall, “that what we just went through in the Pensieve was not desensitization training, but something different?”

   “W-What?” Harry asked, startled.

   “You’re feeling guilt, Potter,” Moody said bluntly, pressing both of his hands on his desk as he stared at a confused Harry. “An extraordinary amount of it – for a number of things, I’m guessing, but for Charlie Weasley’s death in particular.  You believe that you should have been able to prevent it, that it shouldn’t have happened.”

   “Well, of course I –”

   “Let me finish,” Moody snapped. “Potter, that feeling is making you act irrationally. Furthermore, it is depriving you of your common sense and reasoning. Thus, I’m here to prove that it’s irrelevant.”

   Harry’s mouth fell open. “You’re saying –”

   “Don’t put words in my mouth, Potter,” Moody warned, raising a deformed finger. “I’m saying the feeling is irrelevant – not the fact. It might be a fact that you could not have saved Mr. Weasley, but do you think he’d want you to honour him by losing your mind and giving Malfoy an acid wash?”

   Harry paused, his eyebrows rising. “Well, actually –”

   “Bad example,” Moody said curtly. “My point is that these feelings get in the way and ruin a lot of good people, Aurors and Hit Wizards included.”

   “You’re saying I just shouldn’t care?”

   “I told you not to put words in my mouth, Potter! Did I say ‘don’t care’? Did I tell you to become a sociopath?” Moody snarled.

   “No, but –”

   “No, what I’m trying to enforce upon you is that while these emotions make you human, they also make you a dangerous liability if they’re uncontrolled,” Moody finished, pressing a palm down on the desk as he pointed at Harry. “You need to learn that emotional control – you have a good sense of self in fighting off the Imperius Curse, but this is different – and part of that control is facing and dealing with the issue at hand before gaining closure. And you’re already moving towards it – getting your emotions out through screaming tends to be effective.” Moody grunted as he pulled out his desk chair with a kick of his wooden leg. “Not to mention therapeutic.”

    Harry was silent as he watched Moody sit down opposite him as his own mind tried to pull itself together. He was feeling guilt for Charlie – justified guilt, though Moody would never need to know that – but maybe the old Auror was right. Maybe there was something he could use to block it out, so the rage wouldn’t take control...

   Pulling open one of his desk drawers, Moody pulled a heavy-looking leather-bound book from his desk drawer and tossed it open upon his desk. “Now some would advocate ‘cures’ like Occlumency or Dreamless Sleep potions as a way of attaining that emotional control, but I don’t buy it. That’s escapism – that’s blocking away the grief and rage, not dealing with it. No, I believe in the old way of dealing with this – an Auror-style debriefing.”

   “Okay,” Harry said uncertainly, thinking fast. He can’t find out about simulamancy, and he can’t find out about who –

   “So who was your ‘ally’ in the Ministry fight?” Moody asked suddenly, yanking a quill from his desk and beginning to scribble, one eye fixed on Harry while the other watched the parchment.

   “Does it matter?” Harry muttered.

   “Damn well it does,” Moody replied sharply, glaring at Harry as he continued to write. “Considering you want her dead, I consider it highly relevant. Who is she?”

   “It’s my business,” Harry said stiffly.

   “Did I say you were allowed to have secrets?” Moody growled.

   “This one, sir, is personal,” Harry retorted, matching Moody’s glare. “I’ll deal with her when the time is opportune.”

   Moody glared at Harry for a long few seconds. “I didn’t become an Auror just because I was skilled with a wand, Potter. It would make my investigation a hell of a lot easier if you told me the truth about this.”   “Probably, but that’s not going to happen,” Harry replied evenly. “This is between Tonks and I, and if you trust both of us –”

   “I’m sorry, when did I ever say that I trust you?”

   “ –Fine, trust Tonks then!” Harry exclaimed angrily. “It’s a personal score, and I will deal with it.”

   Moody’s glare intensified for a few seconds before he turned back to his paper, and Harry couldn’t help but breathe a silent sigh of relief. It’s a stalling tactic, and Moody’s probably going to investigate anyways, but this should hold him off...

   “How did you get into the Ministry, Potter?”

   “Portkey,” Harry replied immediately. “Came in with Tonks.”

   “And I’m assuming you had a reason to be there?” Moody growled.

   Harry clenched his fist under his desk. “We leaked the information regarding my case to the international journalists, to encourage an investigation that would discredit Fudge –”

   “Won’t work,” Moody interrupted flatly. “Everything will be held behind closed doors, and the Prophet won’t report a damn thing.”   “We handled the Prophet,” Harry replied coolly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was actually surprisingly easy, with the right leverage.”

   Moody paused for a few seconds before fixing Harry with a dangerous stare. “Blackmail?”

   “Effectively,” Harry replied.

   A crooked smirk crept onto Moody’s face. “Knew you had a brain somewhere, Potter.  Now, I haven’t seen any articles in the Prophet proclaiming your innocence, but that’s only a matter of time?”

   Harry thought for a couple of seconds. It was strange that nothing had been printed – but then again, Paulus Amoccio was probably still gathering evidence. “It’s coming,” he said carefully. “I’m not sure when, but it is coming.”

   “And what would you know about those explosions that ripped a hole in the middle of the Ministry?” Moody growled, his tone abruptly harsh as he continued to write furiously. “The Ministry will have commissioned a full investigation by now, and I suspect warrants for the Weasly twins will have already been distributed, but they aren’t the backing force behind that.” He drew a line across his paper, deliberately creating a new section with a slow, controlled motion. “And I suspect you know exactly who was behind that.”

   Harry shifted uneasily. “They weren’t my idea – I mean, I wanted a distraction, but I wasn’t planning on something of that scale –”

   “Of course you weren’t, but you know who was,” Moody interrupted, looking up, his beady eye gleaming. “And so do I – I’ve seen this sort of thing before from Nathan Cassane.”

   Harry’s mouth fell open. How did he –

   “Rest assured, Potter, Cassane will have covered his tracks – he’s very good at that – but it begs the question why he chose to get involved at all,” Moody said curtly. “Did you ask him to bomb the Ministry?”

   “No, I –”

   “But you did speak to him before you went into the Ministry?”

   Where’s he going with this? Harry thought, scratching his temple. “Yeah, I spoke to him. Figured he could get me to the journalists without any problems. Then I heard about Malfoy’s attack on my vaults and things got... sidetracked.”

   “I can imagine,” Moody growled, scribbling faster. “I need to talk to Tonks, see what she’s got on this, there are pieces missing here...”

   “Professor, where are we going with –”

   Moody’s palm slammed against the table with an abrupt bang. “Potter, let me be very clear on something: while your emotional and mental stability is of paramount importance to us right now – or at least it should be – there is one person in our world whose instability I have more reason to be concerned about, because I’ve seen the direct ramifications of said instability.”

   “You... you’re talking about Cassane,” Harry said slowly, his mind racing.

   “I warned Dumbledore he was a loose cannon – one far looser than even I had predicted,” Moody snarled, his eyes snapping up. “This will get bad very quickly, unless we take action – otherwise others will take advantage of this, those who have recognized Cassane’s... behaviour in the past, and who can identify it.”

   “Voldemort?”

   “At this particular moment, worse,” Moody said grimly. “Scrimgeour.”

   Scrimgeour drummed his fingers on the arms of his office chair. One of the first to be repaired in the two weeks after the attack, he could still smell the thin odour of conjured cement throughout the room. His window was dark, and he had dimmed most of the candles in his office, leaving only a large, palely-glowing Sneakoscope to emit any sort of light. A dark mood, for a dark meeting. Maybe this will convince them of the gravity of this situation...

   The door opened, and Scrimgeour saw Kingsley Shacklebolt step in and give his superior a crisp nod, devoid of emotion.

   “You wanted to see me?”

   “Close the door, Shacklebolt.”

   Shacklebolt closed the door quietly. “It’s a little dark in here.”

   “It sets the mood,” Scrimgeour replied tersely, motioning for the Auror to sit down. “It also ensures that we won’t be overheard.”

   Shacklebolt’s expression was blank – carefully so, Scrimgeour noted with a grim smile – as he took the seat opposite Scrimgeour. “I’m assuming you have a good reason for calling me in, Rufus.”

   “Let’s cut to the chase, then,” Scrimgeour replied curtly. “Shacklebolt, I know you have aspirations towards my position –”

   “With all due respect, sir –”

   “But with the current situation in the department, I’m willing to overlook that,” Scrimgeour interrupted, his eyes glittering. “I hope your integrity allows you to put the needs of the Ministry over your own ambitions.”   “That should not be difficult, Rufus,” Shacklebolt said with a shrug, “as I’m not angling for your position. Your Sneakoscope can prove that.”

   “I’ve disabled it,” Scrimgeour replied smoothly, folding his hands carefully. “After all, this is the Ministry – the shrieking gets annoying, and it serves as a handy bluff. But I’ll take your sincerity as a given, in this case.”

   “I’d hope, Rufus, you could take my sincerity as a given all the time,” Shacklebolt said with a sigh. “I’m not a liar or traitor, as you know.”

   “Which is why I’m pulling you off of the Sirius Black case.”

   Shacklebolt didn’t betray any signs of surprise, but his eyebrow rose. “Might I ask why?”

   “Because you are currently one of my best investigators,” Scrimgeour growled, “and I need answers in a hurry regarding the attacks upon the Ministry.”

   “I wasn’t even at the Ministry –”

   “I know, you were guarding the Minister,” Scrimgeour said impatiently. “But answers are still required. Fortunately for you, we already have a suspect.”

   He slid the black case file across the desk to Shacklebolt, who opened and scanned it with interest, lighting his wand with a muttered word for more light.

   “This isn’t Lucius Malfoy.”

   “I know that,” Scrimgeour snapped, “and it wouldn’t make sense in any case. Malfoy has no reason to attack the Ministry – he makes too much money off of it.”

   “The Hit Wizards allowed the goblins to reduce Malfoy Manor to cinders,” Shacklebolt replied incredulously, “and you’re saying he’s not involved in this?”

   “That was a different issue,” Scrimgeour said tensely, “while not unrelated, I can assure you Malfoy is not the culprit. Keep reading.”

   Shacklebolt held Scrimgeour’s gaze for a long few seconds before turning back to the case file. Scrimgeour watched the Auror’s eyes descend down the page, and then stop.

   The change in Shacklebolt’s body language was immediate. His lips tensed, his neck stiffened, his shoulders straightened.

   “You understand, then, why we must keep this quiet.”

   “Rufus, this is a grave accusation.”

   “And one the evidence supports – he was the only one to have contact with Potter, and given the incarceration of Charles Weasley, he would have been able to easily manipulate the younger brothers to his cause.” Scrimgeour’s hand curled into a fist. “And it is not like this hasn’t happened before.”

   “You made a deal with Potter,” Shacklebolt said slowly. “That’s how he was able to –”

   “A bargain I regret with each passing second, but that matters little right now,” Scrimgeour growled. “I think you understand why I brought you in on this.”

   “You’re accusing a very powerful man of treason –”

   “I’m giving him a chance to come quietly, to explain his actions,” Scrimgeour snapped.

   Shacklebolt eyed the Head Auror. “You know he won’t do that.”

   “He’s a reasonable man. It shouldn’t be an issue.”

   “The public won’t like this. Cassane’s appointment was well-received, even though he replaced Dumbledore. The Prophet will have a field day –”

   “Another reason I’m keeping this quiet,” Scrimgeour hissed, gesturing towards the door. “You think I don’t know that this could be disastrous –”

   “And what if he’s guilty?”

   Scrimgeour gave no response, and Shacklebolt swore in amazement.

   “Rufus, you’re barking. We can’t –”

   “He’s under the law, just like anyone else.”

   “Rufus, you don’t understand,” Shacklebolt said, a hint of anxiousness in his voice as he ran a hand over his bald head. “While I would have no qualms arresting him like any other criminal, we might not be able to. Cassane is one of the most powerful wizards of his generation – there’s only two men who would reliably be able to bring him down alive. Only Dumbledore and –”

   Shacklebolt’s voice cut off, and Scrimgeour’s eyes narrowed.

   “You were about to say Voldemort, weren’t you?”

   Shacklebolt’s eyes were unreadable, but his expression was grim. “You know he’s alive and active.”

   “Did Dumbledore tell you that?”

   “I deduced it for myself, and there’s a wealth of evidence to support it,” Shacklebolt replied calmly. “And our world would be a better place with that knowledge openly accepted. You still don’t believe, do you?”

   “There have been an awful lot of coincidences in our world over the past few months,” Scrimgeour returned irritably. “Whether we can lay them at the hands of Dumbledore, Potter, Voldemort, or even Sirius Black remains up to debate. I will say this: if I was Minister, this would be a much simpler matter. Fudge’s bellicose antagonism towards Dumbledore’s assertions is not making our lives any easier. But right now, even that option seems nebulous at best.”

   He couldn’t help but let frustration into his tone: Fudge, under Umbridge’s advisement, had moved with startling and uncharacteristic speed and conviction after the attacks, and his popularity had soared. While casting the Malfoys as scapegoats had not gone over entirely well with some, it had placated the goblins enough to begin tentative negotiations. Fudge profited from all the lives that my Aurors gave, Scrimgeour thought savagely. I’ll be sure to mention that when Voldemort openly moves...

   “Politics aside, how do you plan to arrest Cassane?” Shacklebolt asked coolly.

   “He’s agreed to a clandestine meeting in this office, and he will be here in a few minutes,” Scrimgeour replied, motioning for Shacklebolt to take a position behind him. “Though he won’t realize it, I have six Aurors ready to Apparate if the meeting sours. For once, I have all the cards.” The grim smile returned to his face. “If he’s guilty, he’s not getting away.”

   “And Black? Who’s taking over his investigation?”

   “I’m reassigning Wilson to the investigation, and Bones has agreed to allow Sanders to continue on the case.”

   “You do know Sanders is on Umbridge’s personal payroll,” Shacklebolt said in a low voice.

   “Then it’s exactly where I want him.”

   Rita Skeeter could hardly believe her ears. It was impossible, unbelievable...

   And from the looks of this paperwork, it could all be true.

   She snapped her gaze up at the thin man with the unkempt, patchy beard. “You’re sure about this? That this is all true?”

   “I would not give it to you if it weren’t the truth,” Paulus Amoccio said quickly, his eyes darting around the room nervously. “This is a sworn statement from Harry Potter himself, and Albus Dumbledore’s signature is here –”

   “Just because they signed it doesn’t mean it’s the truth,” Rita exclaimed angrily, tapping the papers angrily. “You independently verified everything here?”

   “The story makes sense –”

   “Just because a story makes sense doesn’t mean it’s valid!” Rita snapped, flipping through the papers. Her anger was only partially real – her heart was hammering with gleeful anticipation – but she had to be sure. With allegations like these... like these, for instance? The statement that Potter did not blow up Ollivanders’, but that it was renegade Death Eaters instead? Or that the Zabini family has been funnelling money to the Malfoys, who have been financing said Death Eaters – actually, considering the way the Ministry’s treating the Malfoys, that might go over quite well –”

   “The financial data can be supported,” Amoccio said firmly, his accent a delight to Rita’s ears – but not nearly as much of a delight as the pile of financial documents that the Sicilian reporter pulled from his bag. “I think this should be sufficient.”

   “Where did you... how did... these are...” Rita could hardly put words together as she rifled through the papers eagerly. “This is incredible! Unbelievable? How did you get these?”

   “The Department of Magical Finance, while offsite from the Ministry proper, was in complete disarray when I began my search,” Amoccio said smugly. “The destruction of the bank and the goblin currency crisis, albeit brief, had them worrying about a lot bigger things than a heap of papers. Besides, I had ‘executive clearance’.”

   “Thank Merlin the Ministry did something right, getting the Galleon back... wait one damn second!” Rita said, her eyes narrowing. “How the hell did you, a foreign journalist, managed to net executive clearance? I’ve been fighting for that for years!”

   “I have friends in high places,” Amoccio said with an insufferable smile.

   “Don’t give me that load of shit, how did you get these?” Rita continued, her nostrils flaring dangerously.

   Amoccio huffed and scratched his beard. “If you must know, a former Department of Finance employee was listed as a contact in the folder I was given – her name is at the bottom there –”

   “Fleur Delacour,” Rita breathed excitedly. “Brilliant – a Triwizard Champion to boot, this is fantastic...”

   “Well, I contacted her, and she spoke to her benefactor on my behalf,” Amoccio finished with a smile.

   “She has sworn statements here... enough documentation to demand inquiries into Fudge’s office... a paper signed by Harry Potter and Dumbledore alleging Umbridge used Blood Quills at Hogwarts without jurisdiction – oh, that’s brilliant, her career’s over... and so is Cuffe’s and Kemester’s by the look of it, what scandals... and everything tied off with a joint statement from Dumbledore and Potter stating innocence and that...”

   Rita’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked up at Amoccio. “The Prophet can’t print this – not this last part.”

   “Where Potter and Dumbledore state that... that...”

   “That part will cause a panic, and we don’t need that right now,” Rita said forcefully, pressing the paper down on the table. “What we need is to frame all of these documents into a workable article – an indictment that will land us the cover and a place in wizarding history. And for that all we need is...”

   The barn owl flew through Rita’s window before she could say another word, and Amoccio – who seemed to be expecting the arrival, snagged the small bit of parchment looped around the owl’s leg and passed it to Rita.

   “What’s this?”

   “My benefactor’s identity,” Amoccio said with a small, secret smile, “and a little offer.”

   Rita wasn’t listening anymore. The words on the page were printed in stark clarity in her mind, as dizzying possibilities of what she would do with her fame and wealth exploded into her mind. She could see it already – greatest English reporter of the century, exposing corruption and bringing the truth to the nation and the world...

   All because of a single note. She read it again, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming...

Miss Skeeter,

I request your presence at Cassane Manor at precisely noon tomorrow, in which I will both provide concrete support for the papers delivered here, and a full, extensive interview. Bring a bottle of scotch – it will be a long afternoon, and I’d hate to be without refreshment.

Sincerely,

Nathan Cassane

Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards

   “Well?” Amoccio asked after a few seconds, his smile growing wider.

   “If you can hammer this into a workable draft by noon tomorrow, I’ll give you full coauthor status on the article,” Rita replied, shoving the papers into Amoccio’s hands as she rose to her feet and yanked on her coat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to find the most expensive bottle of scotch in London.”

   It seemed like eternity, even though he knew it was only a few seconds, but Scrimgeour was patient. He knew that the man would come – his pride demanded it more harshly than any order that was given. He’ll be here, if only to prove me wrong...

   There was a short knock on the door, and Scrimgeour exchanged a terse glance with Shacklebolt. This was it.

   “Come in.”

   “My, it is awfully dark in here, isn’t it?” Nathan Cassane said breezily as he entered the room, surprising energy in his voice and a bounce in his step. “Mind if I cast a bit of illumination?”

   “Yes, I mind,” Scrimgeour said shortly, watching Cassane’s movements with interest. The wizard was wearing what appeared to be a smoke-grey Muggle suit, complete with vest and bowler hat. To Scrimgeour’s disgust, he looked like nothing less than a used-car salesman, with the tone and attitude to match. “Sit down, please.”

   “Are we going to make a deal?” Cassane asked with a charming wink as he conjured an armchair out of thin air with a wave of his wand. “Because I have plenty of good news –”

   Scrimgeour’s hand slammed loudly on the table, cutting off Cassane’s words.

   “Sit.... down,” Scrimgeour growled. “Enough games, Cassane – you and I know each other better than that.”

   Cassane shrugged and calmly took his seat, putting away his wand. “If you say so, although, you really must come to realize –”

   “I don’t think you realize the seriousness of this situation!” Scrimgeour snarled, slamming his hand on the desk again – only this time, it was curled into a fist. “People are dead, Cassane, and our world – yes, I said our world – is in turmoil. You have responsibilities, and it’s damn time that you recognize them!”

   The jovialness vanished from Cassane’s expression, and even in the dim light, Scrimgeour could see the lines on the wizard’s face grow deeper, as if he was visibly aging. But his eyes... no, they were always the same. They were the eyes that Scrimgeour vividly remembered: while they weren’t blazing like Dumbledore’s hard stare, they seemed as if they were full of some simmering fire that nobody could gauge.

   Scrimgeour knew that fire. Men, good and evil, had died because of it.

   “To business, then?” Cassane said calmly.

   “To business,” Scrimgeour growled.

   “One question?”

   “What?”

   Cassane pointed at Shacklebolt. “Why is he here? The whole ‘good-cop, bad-cop’ routine doesn’t work on me, you know – I practically invented it.”

   Shacklebolt let out a low chuckle. “I’m here for Mr. Scrimgeour’s security, Mr. Cassane, nothing more.”

   “You trust him,” Cassane said, plainly disbelieving.

   “More than I trust you, that’s for damned sure,” Scrimgeour retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

   “Ah,” Cassane said, as a disturbing glint entered his eyes and an equally unsettling smirk settled on his face. “Then you might want to ask your trusted colleague exactly why he accepted the job of guarding the Minister the day the goblins attacked.”

   Scrimgeour’s glance snapped to Shacklebolt, but the man remained impressively stoic, his expression not even acknowledging that Cassane had said a word.

   I know that expression – he’s hiding something.

   “Regardless, it is not Shacklebolt’s actions I’m here to discuss,” Scrimgeour growled, turning back to glare at Cassane, who was idly toying with his fingernails. “Don’t play stupid, Nathan – it’s not becoming of you.”

   Cassane’s eyes hardened even as his smirk returned. “So for what are you accusing me for this time, Scrimgeour? As before, I’ve always played by the rules – your rules, as a matter of fact –”

   “Lying’s also not becoming of you either.”

   Cassane stiffened, and for a second, Scrimgeour felt a twinge of unease – Cassane was powerful. He’s got a thick skin – he can handle it.

   “You didn’t answer my question,” Cassane said coolly. “What are you accusing me of?”

   “I need to know your involvement in the Ministry bombing,” Scrimgeour replied grimly, “and keep well in mind where all the evidence points.”

   The veiled threat was obvious to everyone in the room, but Cassane simply rose to his feet, still idly scratching at his fingernails, as if he was attempting to pry flicks of dirt from beneath them. Scrimgeour watched him closely, waiting for the moment when –

   “Tell me something,” Cassane asked suddenly, his gaze snapping to Scrimgeour with startling intensity. “Do you believe?”

   “In what?” Scrimgeour snapped.

   Cassane laughed, and as it always had, the rollicking sound seemed to brighten the room – something Scrimgeour did not appreciate.

   “That’s a damned good question, Rufus,” Cassane said lightly, returning to his fingernails as he began to move towards the oversized Secrecy Sensor. “Typically, what one believes is held to be true by the believer – only a fool believes in a lie that he knows is a lie, and you’re no fool, Rufus.”

   “What are you getting at?”

   “Well, I’m sure you have, on your desk, a heap of evidence that points towards my guilt,” Cassane continued, his tone still light and conversational as he placed his hand on the shelf. “You’ve worked with me in the past, you know my record, you know my current position, and most importantly, you know what I believe. Shouldn’t that satisfy your inquiries?”

   “Beliefs change, Cassane,” Scrimgeour said grimly, crossing his arms over his chest. “As you undoubtedly know, Harry Potter and I made a deal in the Hog’s Head, and I believed he could be trusted.”

   “He still can,” Cassane said quietly.

   Scrimgeour took a deep breath as he fought to control his temper. “Cassane, he was in the Ministry the day of the attack, I duelled with him myself –”

   “Did you now?” Cassane said, his eyes lighting up with a sudden manic intensity. “Now I have to ask – out of curiosity, of course – are you quite sure it was him? Did he speak to you, did he attempt to kill you... or was he only acting in self-defence, because you fired the first curse?”

   Scrimgeour paused for a second as his mind raced – and then he realized that Potter hadn’t said anything. And from everything I know of the boy... no, Potter is smarter than that... but it was...

   “Polyjuice Potion,” Shacklebolt said curtly.

   “Exactly!” Cassane said triumphantly. “There’s that fine Auror intellect put to work! You only fought him for a few minutes, the evidence you received that it was indeed Harry is scarce indeed!”

   Scrimgeour could feel color creeping into his face. I’m not going to admit I’m wrong in front of him – not in front of Cassane, who should be the last to talk –

   “So if it wasn’t Potter, than who was it?” he growled, pulling a quill out and opening his ink bottle. “Traitors? Dumbledore’s agents? Death Eaters?”

   Cassane stopped speaking in mid-word, as a look of dawning comprehension crossed his face, as if he had just found a piece in the puzzle that he only now realized was critical.

   “So you believe, then,” he said very quietly, his eyes returning to his fingernails. “Interesting indeed.”

   “What?” Scrimgeour said sharply.

   “You believe that Voldemort is back, don’t you?” Cassane asked, his expression unreadable as he drew his wand and began spinning it around his fingers with remarkable dexterity. Both Shacklebolt and Scrimgeour tensed, but Cassane kept talking. “You believe that he is once again active.”

   “Do you believe that?” Scrimgeour retorted harshly.

   “I believe Dumbledore, Mr. Potter, and the orgy of evidence that I’ve seen stacked in favour of the belief that the Dark Lord Voldemort has regained his body,” Cassane replied evenly. “The Death Eaters are operating with unprecedented coordination – in the same afternoon, they managed to free Severus Snape from Ministry custody, attack you and Mr. Potter at the Hog’s Head, and attempt to attack my own place of residence.”

   “That wasn’t reported,” Shacklebolt said suspiciously. “That they attacked your house.”

   Cassane gave the dark-skinned Auror a condescending look that Scrimgeour remembered – and hated. “Shacklebolt, it’s me. Or more importantly, my house – it’s a better bodyguard than any dozen Hit Wizards or Aurors.”

   Scrimgeour’s jaw clenched, and he throttled back his urge to strangle Cassane.

   “But that’s hardly important,” Cassane continued blithely, turning to meet Scrimgeour’s hostile expression. “What is relevant is that you believe.”

   “It makes sense that Lord Voldemort has returned,” Scrimgeour growled though clenched teeth after a few seconds. “So you’re suggesting that Death Eaters bombed the Ministry?”

  “It makes a hell of a lot more sense than saying I did it,” Cassane replied, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you spot Lucius Malfoy himself in the Ministry? While he might not have been involved in the bombing, he could have coordinated the attack –”

   “That makes no goddamn sense!” Scrimgeour snapped, slamming his fist on the desk. “We have eyewitnesses saying that the Weasley twins were supporting the attack, and they would never work with a Malfoy!”

   Cassane rolled his eyes. “Rufus, Polyjuice... Potion. The Death Eaters aren’t new at this, you know!”

   Scrimgeour forced back his anger at the infuriating wizard standing across from him as he began furiously rifling through his papers.

   “Looking for something?” Cassane asked brightly.

   “There was a report here, that established Malfoy’s alibi – aha! According to Reed Larshall, Malfoy was here to meet with Dmitri Kemester on ‘discussions about the new bank’ – which is credible, considering every report we’ve received from the goblins ties Malfoy to that issue!”

   Cassane pursed his lips. “Well, it’s credible, I can say that –”

   “Of course it...” Scrimgeour’s voice trailed off as he reread the section again. “Wait one damn second... I didn’t see Kemester’s name on the list of bank partners.”

    Cassane’s expression was impassive. “And?”

   “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was kept out of the loop about this bank!” Scrimgeour snarled, cursing himself for not seeing the connection sooner. “So why the fuck would Kemester get himself involved?”

   Cassane shrugged and raised his hands helplessly. “Who can say?”

   “Shacklebolt, go get Bones and have her find Kemester immediately,” Scrimgeour ordered dangerously. “That deranged fuck has a lot to answer for.”

   Shacklebolt wordlessly nodded before crossing the room. Cassane’s eyes did not leave the Auror until the door shut behind him. The moment it clicked, he swivelled back.

   “So you believe me?”

   “Until I see the evidence, I don’t trust you half as far as I can see you,” Scrimgeour spat, shoving his papers back into the folder. “And besides, I’m not going to forget twenty years of history overnight.”

   Cassane’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he crossed the room, looking the Head Auror dead in the eye. “So now the truth comes out.”

   “I know your history, Nathan,” Scrimgeour said coldly, “and you have a lot to answer for – not to mention an understandable... concern with elements of the Ministry.”

   “You said yourself beliefs change.”

   “Not fast enough for some people,” Scrimgeour snarled, shooting to his feet to meet Cassane face-to-face. “And I’m one of those people.”

   “The classic argument,” Cassane said coolly, the simmering fire in his eyes revealing his tightly controlled fury. “But then again, you know exactly what I did – and thanks to Crouch, it was all legal –”

   “That doesn’t make it right!”

   “And what would you know of rightness?” Cassane asked, his tone as biting as it was ruthlessly disdainful.

    Scrimgeour’s temper snapped. Before he could stop himself, he had seized the front of Cassane’s shirt.

   “Am I supposed to just believe when I hear you speak?” Scrimgeour hissed.

   “It would do you a big favour,” Cassane returned with a shrug, “considering how often I’m right.”

   “You ruined lives, Nathan!” Scrimgeour snarled, his hands shaking. “And not just the families you went after, your own command! If the wizarding world knew what you did to them –”

   “They’d burn you as well as me,” Cassane whispered fiercely, “because you knew the entire time, and then ruined a few lives of your own covering it up.”

   “I was under orders!”

   “So was I,” Cassane replied icily. “You have to remember that, Rufus – it’s that fun little double-standard that we played –”

   “The wizarding world would understand what I did, and the position that gave me the legitimacy to act as I did!” Scrimgeour roared. “You think they’d do the same for you? I was a force of law, Nathan – and what were you?”

   “The ones who finished the job the law couldn’t,” Cassane replied, his voice hardly raising above a whisper.

   “We all lost people, Nathan – it’s not a good reason to do what you did. Do you think Cassie or Phoebe would have condoned what you did?”

   Cassane froze, and a second later, the Sneakoscope exploded on Scrimgeour’s shelf, peppering them both with hot glass. The Secrecy Sensor was next, melting into a smouldering wreck that sparked and hissed.

   Scrimgeour knew he had touched the nerve.

   “Well, would they?”

   Cassane snapped up, seizing Scrimgeour’s wrist and tearing it away from his shirt, slamming the Auror’s hand on the table with furious strength. His eyes weren’t simmering anymore – they were burning with an awful light, of anguish and loss, fused into a core of white-hot rage. For the first time in the room, Scrimgeour felt a moment of fear – and terrible, terrible sadness.

   “If you mention my wife or daughter’s names again,” Cassane said, his voice low and strangled with emotion, “I will kill you.”

   “Did you attack the Ministry?” Scrimgeour whispered fiercely.

   “I gave you the evidence you wanted,” Cassane replied in the same awful voice. “Follow that straight to your culprits.”

   “Nathan, did you attack the –”

   “Any other information you’ll want or need from me, you’ll get in the press conference statement Rita Skeeter’s releasing on my behalf – which shouldn’t be difficult to get print, since Harry Potter cowed Cuffe and his Prophet into compliance. Right now, though, your government is fighting the wrong war, and you’re sitting on your ass.” Cassane shoved away Scrimgeour’s hand turned towards the door. “Fuck, for once, Dumbledore might have actually been right.”

   “Do you know where he is?”

   “If I knew that, I would be speaking with him right now,” Cassane replied curtly, without looking back, “not you.” He strode towards the door.

   “Wait.”

   Cassane turned back, the blaze in his eyes only beginning to dim. “I’m listening.”

   “You’re working with Potter,” Scrimgeour said coolly, returning to his seat and picking up his quill. “I know that.”

   Cassane was unmoved. “And?”

   “When you see him next,” Scrimgeour said, swallowing back unexpected bile in his throat, “tell him... tell him that if he was indeed not the one I was duelling, that our agreement is intact, but he owes me part of his side of the bargain. I need to know what he knows, if the Death Eaters are indeed active.”

   Cassane nodded as he turned back towards the door. “I’ll see what I can work out.”

   “One more thing.”

   Cassane didn’t turn around this time.

   “With Dumbledore vanished, if you’re teaching Harry anything... don’t teach the son the same things you taught the father.”

   Cassane shook his head as he opened the door, his shoulders slightly slumping. “You never understood, Rufus. James and Lily did – they always understood.”

   “And they’re dead,” Scrimgeour said harshly. “We need Harry Potter alive.”

   “It’s a shame that condition is relative.”

   And the door slammed shut.

   “Okay, we’re done for today,” Moody said curtly, pulling his desk drawer open and dropping the smudged parchments into a folder. “That should be enough.”

   “Are all Auror debriefings like that?” Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stifled back a yawn. It had taken four hours of uncomfortable questions before Moody had been satisfied that he knew enough.

   “Not all of them, but we had a lot of information to cover,” Moody replied, shoving the desk drawer closed and rising to his feet. “And from the looks of the time, it’s nearly dinner.”

   “Didn’t you have... I dunno, classes or something to teach today?” Harry asked, bewildered. “You spent the entire day here –”

   Moody grunted. “Cancelled them, except for a quick class of first years while you were in the Pensieve. What do you want for dinner, Potter?”

   Harry glared at the Auror. “You’re telling me that I could have –”

   Moody gave Harry a smirk that showed missing teeth. “Weren’t paying that much attention, were you? So what do you want to eat – I’ll have the house-elves bring the basics up here and I’ll go from there.”

   “I... damn, I don’t care,” Harry said, rising to his feet and moving towards the window. His back was sore from sitting all day, and it felt good to walk around the room, if only for a few minutes.

  Moody nodded and cleared his throat. “Fine. Tonny!”

   There was a loud crack, and a rather decrepit house-elf appeared in the room. Both of his eyes were glazed over, and he swayed on his feet as he eyed the Auror. He was wearing a Hogwarts toga, but it was utterly filthy.

   “Master... Master called?” Tonny wheezed, stumbling back a step before looking up at Moody.

   “The usual, for two,” Moody said curtly. The house-elf nodded, and two quick cracks later, it had reappeared, bearing a massive tray filled with diced vegetables, meats, and potatoes. Moody set the tray on his desk as the house-elf vanished.

   “You really don’t want me to eat in the Great Hall, do you?” Harry asked, struggling to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I’m fine – the debriefing –”

   “One debriefing and a round in the Pensieve does not clear as ‘fine’ in my thinking, Potter,” Moody said roughly, as he began tossing the ingredients into a well-cleaned iron pot. “So you’re going to eat with me tonight. Hell, I’m making you dinner, you should consider it a favour. Grab the plates next to the armoire, would you?”

   “I’d consider it a favour if you’d let me eat downstairs with my friends,” Harry replied darkly, as he pulled two dented tin plates from a small box stuffed in the corner and brought them to Moody, who was now heating the pot with repeated jabs of his wand.

   Moody paused for a second to give Harry a very penetrating look. “Yeah, and who would those be? Friends, I mean.”

   “Ron,” Harry said defensively. “Neville, the twins... uh...”

   His voice trailed off as Moody took the plates from his hands. Who were his friends? Or rather, who could he trust in the same way...

   “That’s what I thought,” Moody said with a snort as he tossed a handful of celery into the pot. “Not so many as you might think, and I wonder what you would talk about.”

   Harry glared at Moody and tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his gut that told him that Moody might have a point. “We could talk about classes or Quidditch or... hell, I dunno, girls or something –”

   Moody snorted again, this time much more loudly. “Classes you don’t attend, a sport you don’t play, and women that you haven’t spoken to. Yeah, you’d be a bloody great conversationalist, I imagine.”

   “Well, it’s not like I can talk about anything that we talked about today, could I?” Harry snapped, his overstretched temper straining again, even as he heard the increasing truth in Moody’s words. “They’re sort of isolating, the things I’m working on –”

   “So maybe you have more in common with me that with your ‘friends’,” Moody said grimly, emptying a container of spice into the pot and stirring the stew with a thick wooden spoon. “If I was less of a realist, I’d feel sorry for you.”

   Harry frowned. “I’m sorry?”

   “This is Voldemort’s doing, mostly,” Moody said darkly, his electric-blue eye fixing on Harry. “Put you in positions where you can’t enjoy your life, your teenage years. He tried to do the same thing to your parents and every student that came though Hogwarts when he was ascendant, and with the load of ‘would-be’ Death Eaters in this school, it was pretty damned easy. It was a double-edged stratagem, to be sure, but it tended to work more often than not: force them to grow up too fast, and they’ll begin to forget what they’re fighting for, or any sort of rules of engagement.”

   “I don’t think Voldemort really cares if I enjoy my time at Hogwarts,” Harry said warily as Moody threw a few more ingredients into the pot. “I’m pretty sure he just wants me dead – and don’t you think that’s enough onions?”

   “I like onions,” Moody retorted, dicing the onions even finer with a jab of his wand, “and Voldemort’s smarter than that. Why do you think he’s attacking the school? He’s not some mindless sociopath, he’s got a plan. With the attacks, he spreads fear and panic, and the fact that he’s willing to cross any humane boundaries of warfare by attacking children implies to some that they have to do the same, to beat that bastard. Others are so cowed they go to him, thinking under his protection, they’ll be safe. He did it the first war, and he’ll do it again.”

   “So you’re saying Hogwarts was attacked when my parents were here?” Harry exclaimed, aghast. “That they went through this too?”

   “Not that simple, and not like this,” Moody growled, stirring the stew rigorously as he continued to prod the pot to increase the heat. “Back when he was rising to power, people knew about him, and there were groups that gave him a lot of support. Those who didn’t support him – the Ministry, the Order, a bunch of scattered wizarding familes – got attacked. In Hogwarts, from what Dumbledore told the Order, the school was the last ‘neutral ground’, so to speak, but it didn’t stop what your parents coined the ‘Junior Death Eaters’. Voldemort gave them orders to cause havoc in the school, but Dumbledore couldn’t do much other than discipline them. I mean, expel the student and he immediately joins Voldemort or has a death sentence dropped on him and his family.”

   Harry swallowed hard. “That’s... that’s disgusting.”

   “Yeah, you could say that,” Moody agreed, tipping some more vegetables into the pot as he jabbed his wand at a loaf of bread, which immediately began to slice itself. “On the other hand, Dumbledore liked to view Hogwarts as a place where he could redeem some of those Junior Death Eaters, give them the second chance most didn’t deserve.” He snorted with disgust as he glared into the pot. “Stew’s looking a little runny – transfigure those plates into bowls, will you?”

   Harry nodded and with a few muttered words completed the transfiguration, turning the dented tin plates into chipped plastic bowls that earned another snort from the old Auror. “You’re talking about Snape, aren’t you?”

   “Not just that cowardly, double-crossing filth,” Moody spat, doling hefty spoonfuls of stew into the bowls. “I’m talking about all the rest of them – Rosier, Wilkes, Avery, the Lestranges, Malfoy, Black –”

   “Black?” Harry asked, interested.

   “Sirius’ younger brother, Regulus,” Moody grunted as he sat down at the desk and grabbed a few hunks of roughly sliced bread. “Want something to drink?”

   “Just water please,” Harry said distractedly as he sat opposite Moody, pulling his chair close to the desk. “I don’t remember Sirius mentioning he had a brother.”

   “Yeah, that break wasn’t clean,” Moody muttered darkly as he conjured a stream of water into Harry’s glass, dunked his bread in the stew, and then popped it into his mouth. “The stupid idiot joined the Death Eaters after Sirius ran away, and the situation degenerated from there – ask Sirius about the details. All I know is that when we interrogated Mulciber, he said that Regulus Black had disappeared about a year after joining Voldemort, and neither we nor they found the body.”

   “Forgetting Snape for a second, did Dumbledore’s plan to redeem any of the ‘Junior Death Eaters’ actually work?” Harry asked sceptically, already guessing the answer.

   Moody frowned for a few seconds before nodding. “As a matter of fact, it did, one time. Tonks’ mother, Andromeda, was a prime candidate for the Junior Death Eater crowd, considering her lineage, but Voldemort didn’t count on the fact that she’d fall in love with a devilishly charming scoundrel called Ted Tonks.” Moody chuckled as he took a swig from his hip-flask. “And Andromeda was just as talented as her sisters – and, of course, we got Tonks out of the deal, so I’d call that a victory.”

   For the first time in hours, Harry smiled as he tapped his glass with Moody’s hipflask. “Yeah, I’ll drink to that.” They both drank deeply, and Harry tried the stew. Much to his surprise, it wasn’t terrible – although it was extremely spicy and as he suspected, had way too many onions.

   “So what about my parents and Sirius? They obviously didn’t go bad.”

   Moody was quiet for a long few seconds before letting out a breath. “Yeah, they weren’t bad. Joined the Order right out of school, along with Lupin and that slimeball Pettigrew. They also were working their way through the Auror program, which was a fairly common destination at the time for most of them. Pettigrew didn’t have the grades to get there, even with the Ministry’s desperately low standards at the time, but the rest of them did.”

   Harry frowned – Moody was avoiding something. It wasn’t anything he had said, but something about the way he was looking...

   “You were working with the Auror Department during that time, right?”

   Moody snorted. “Yeah, you could say that. I was one of the senior Aurors – which meant I got see a lot of underprepared Auror and Hit Wizard trainees get killed in fights they weren’t prepared for, and lead missions in which I was lucky if we got three-quarters of the team out alive.”

   Harry’s mouth fell open. “That bad?”

   “It was the middle of the fucking war, Potter, and things were bad in the Ministry,” Moody snarled, slamming his spoon on the desk with a clang, both his eyes blazing with fury. “We were overstretched to the limit, and just because Barty fucking Crouch said it was ‘okay’ and ‘legal to use every means necessary to bring in the enemy’ didn’t mean I was going to do it! No, I brought them in alive, and I tried to bring my team in the same way. Not particularly easy, when you consider the enemy doesn’t give a rat’s ass about who they kill or what they destroy, but I wasn’t going to sink to some levels...”

   “Sirius told me Crouch authorized the Unforgivables,” Harry said hesitantly.

   “Along with a load of other magic – Dark magic, by every definition of the term – that most of us weren’t comfortable with, and Dumbledore was livid when he found out,” Moody growled. “He warned Crouch that it was dangerous, that using those sorts of spells and techniques would only make us the evils we were fighting, but Crouch didn’t listen and didn’t care. So Dumbledore got those of us together who had a problem with Crouch’s methods and formed the Order of the Phoenix, which got full vigilante status once Crouch found out about it. And when Dumbledore started recruiting straight out of Hogwarts, so did Crouch, and given the hell most students got thanks to the Junior Death Eaters, Crouch got a lot more people than we did.” Moody snorted with disgust. “Unfortunately, his recruits tended to die a lot faster.”

   “But you said my parents joined the Order and the Aurors,” Harry said sharply.

   “They were attempting to both, just like me,” Moody said curtly. “Wasn’t pleasant, I can say that. So was Sirius, Lupin until he dropped out of the Auror program for reasons he won’t even tell me about, Frank and Alice Longbottom...” He ticked them off on his scarred fingers. “Hell, rumour had it that my fucking impersonator last year was even lining up to become a Hit Wizard out of Hogwarts, just like his father –”

   “Wait – Barty Crouch Senior was a Hit Wizard?” Harry asked with shock.

   “He was,” Moody growled. “Which, of course, made it easier for him to authorize the usage of Dark magic against the Death Eaters, considering he didn’t know enough to know any better. Hit Wizards don’t have the same training Aurors do for dealing with Dark magic, and while there is some cross-over at the higher levels, it was still unbelievably stupid for Crouch to authorize that sort of magic for both sections of the Department. Fuck, even that bastard Scrimgeour called him out on it –”

   “Wait, Tonks told me you hate Scrimgeour,” Harry interrupted as he swallowed another mouthful of stew.

   “And I do,” Moody said grimly. “He’s a contemptible bastard and a fucking war-profiteer to boot, but he got the same training I did, and he knew that meddling with Dark magic, even to bring down Voldemort’s cronies, was dangerous to the extreme and not worth the risk. I said it, Nathaniel Charon – he was the Hit Wizard right below Crouch, he retired just after H.A.I.T. was formed – said it, but Crouch wouldn’t listen.” Moody gave a bitter laugh. “Made for such a fucking wonderful scene when his son was arrested right out of the Hit Wizard training room by a group of enraged Aurors – and you wonder why there’s bad blood between us and Hit Wizards...”

   Harry picked at the last bits of his stew for a few seconds as Moody ate voraciously. He thought about what Moody had said, and he thought again of the memories he had seen in the Pensieve last year. Barty Crouch Jr. would have become a Hit Wizard just like Kemester... if he hadn’t been found out, he would have worked with my parents...

   “When did Kemester join the Ministry?” he asked suddenly. “Did he fight during the war?”

   “No, he joined a year or two after with his older brother,” Moody replied curtly. “Just after Crouch Jr. got arrested, as a matter of fact.”

   “And my parents...”

   “Yeah, what about them?” Moody asked, setting down his empty hipflask with a grimace.

   “Did you ever work with them, train them at all?” Harry asked quietly.

   Moody shook his head. “Different groups, Potter. We weren’t on the same teams. I worked with them in the Order, but not in the Ministry. And before you ask, yeah, they were good.” The old ex-Auror looked away, looking into the cracked Foe-Glass crookedly hanging on the wall. “I miss them and all the rest every day.”

   Harry swallowed back the unexpected lump in his throat – he didn’t expect to see Moody say that, his voice filled with quiet, bitter regret. The voice of a man who had seen too much, seen too many people die. The voice of a man who had to lead people to their deaths, and had to provide comfort to unbelieving families in the rough, awkward tone that all of those conversations follow for men like him.

   For a second, Harry tried to imagine Moody offering any sort of condolence to a family, and the lump in his throat grew even bigger. He couldn’t imagine it, but something in his gut told him that of all the Aurors he had met, Moody’s words would be the most blunt – and the most heartfelt.

   “My parents... did they... did they join the Aurors because –”

   “Potter,” Moody said, his voice abruptly filled with menace, “you’ll want to consider that line of questioning very carefully.”

   “What?” Harry was startled – he hadn’t expected this sort of sudden hostility. “I’m only asking why they –”

   “And the answers are not pleasant,” Moody growled. “And I refuse to give them.”

   “What does that mean?”

   “Exactly what I said, Potter,” Moody replied, getting to his feet. “Take out your wand.”

   “Why?” Harry asked warily.

   “That was an order, Potter,” Moody snapped, drawing his own wand with a single sinuous motion. “I’m going to test how well my former apprentice has trained you, see if you’re up to scratch.”

   “Why won’t you tell me about my parents?” Harry demanded, anger flooding through him. “Why are you hiding this from me – they’re my parents, I deserve to know!”

   “There’s a very distinct difference between hiding something and not wanting to talk about it,” Moody growled as he stepped around his desk. “Namely that there’s deceit involved in one, and about this, I’m not the one to lie to you. And you haven’t proven enough maturity to deserve to know a damn thing.”

   “I can handle whatever you –”

   “No, you can’t.”

   Harry was incensed. “After everything I’ve seen –”

   “No, you can’t!” Moody roared, his voice booming across the room at shocking volume. Harry’s eyes widened at the sheer rage evident on the old Auror’s face, and real terror flooded into his gut.

   “I saw you coming out of the Pensieve, don’t forget that,” Moody growled, his voice returning to a normal volume as he faced Harry and raised his wand. “I know you’re not ready for this truth.”

   “Why, because you think I can’t handle the truth?” Harry snarled, his own wand snapping up.

   “After everything I’ve seen, Potter, I still cannot reconcile to myself everything related to this,” Moody said, his voice grim, yet filled with inexplicable emotion. “It’s something I could have gone my entire life not knowing – and the fact that I know enough of it still chills me. But if that doesn’t dissuade you – and it really should – then the next time you see Nathan Cassane or Dumbledore, or even Snape, ask them the roles your parents played in the first war.” Moody’s eyes glittered in the dim candlelight. “In fact, ask Snape first – I’d love to see him explain his way out of this.”

   “What does Snape have to do with any of this?” Harry asked with growing frustration and confusion.

   “Ask him, and make sure to save the memory,” Moody growled. “But enough talk about your parents: let’s see if you’re good enough to honour their memories, so you don’t become a memory yourself.”