“And then we arrived here,” Tonks finished, leaning heavily against the chair opposite her mentor’s desk. “And Harry stepped out the room to get the Pensieve, and –”

   “I get it, Tonks,” Moody growled, examining the two ectoplasmic tools Cassane had given Harry and Tonks with a critical eye. “I’ve used models similar to these before when there was a nasty possession in York the Death Eaters orchestrated in the First War – I can see the Unspeakables changed the design...”

   “They look better constructed, I can tell you that,” Tonks said, gesturing wearily at the tools as she took a seat. “Reinforced for stability and durability.”

   “About damn time the Unspeakables began taking advice from us,” Moody said with a disgruntled snort. “And it only happens when I’m retired – typical. Merlin only knows they’d need qualified Aurors right now...”

   “They...” Tonks ran a hand through her hair, which went slate grey. “Look, I’m not going to lie and say we’re not understaffed, but the Order needs you here, Alastor.”

   Moody gave a snort as he set the ectoplasmic tools back on the desk. “Of course it does – without Dumbledore or even Snape, we’re understaffed here as well. I’m assuming that we’ve heard nothing from either of them?”

   “Nothing from Dumbledore, nothing from Snape,” Tonks said tiredly. “Nothing from Lupin either – nobody knows what’s happening there. A lot of us are guessing he’s deep undercover with the werewolves, but nothing’s been confirmed.”

   “And I’m assuming Kingsley’s not going to be getting an Order of Merlin, First Class, for fighting Voldemort himself at Azkaban?” Moody growled, his wooden leg thumping rhythmically as he paced over to where his wall was increasingly plastered with notes and scribbled diagrams.

   “As much as any of us...” Tonks paused, unable to stifle her yawn any longer. “Sorry, but as much as any of us might deserve it, nobody at the Ministry is saying a damn word – although it’s only a matter of time before Fudge chooses to see reason.”

   “You’re exhausted,” Moody interjected sharply, his eyes narrowing. “When was the last time you slept, Auror?”

   “I dunno,” Tonks retorted, trying desperately not to rub her eyes. “Thirty-six, thirty-eight hours ago, I think?”

   “You think?”

   “Hey, when there’s time sinks, you can’t be sure of –”

   “That’s not what I meant, Tonks, and you know it.”

   Tonks closed her eyes and put her hand to her head. “I know, I know. If you must know, I haven’t slept since Azkaban.”

   “Your constant vigilance is compromised if you’re not able to be fully alert, Tonks,” Moody growled. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

   “Would you believe me if I said I haven’t had a chance?” Tonks retorted sarcastically.

   “No.”

   “Figures,” Tonks muttered. Her hair faded to matte black and lengthened several inches as she strained to pull the shadows away from her eyes.

   “Don’t even try to make it look like you aren’t as downright exhausted as you are,” Moody said, a note of disappointment in his voice. “Did something happen at Azkaban?”

   “Yes,” Tonks said through clenched teeth.

   “Have you allowed yourself to unwind, to clinically analyze the situation –”

   “I really can’t do that easily this time, Alastor,” Tonks snapped, her voice biting as she pulled herself to her feet.

   “And here I thought Potter’s stupidity wasn’t infectious – apparently, though, it’s sexually transmitted.”

   Tonks fought to keep the redness from her face as she rounded on her mentor. She could hardly believe what he had just said – was he really implying – what gave him the right –

    “What, are you angry with me because I ‘just don’t understand’, or because it’s the truth?” Moody spat, his mismatched eyes glaring with full intensity at his protégée. “You do know what happened with Potter after his little misadventure in Potions?”

   “He told me –”

   “He was goaded, Tonks, by a bit of narcissistic Death Eater discharge that doesn’t deserve the air he breathes,” Moody said in a low voice. “Is that it? Did you allow yourself to be goaded?”

   “He was –”

   “DID YOU?”

   Tonks stared Moody with hatred. “Yes.”

   “And what did you suffer for it?”

   “Multiple cracked ribs, a shattered hand, broken nose...” Tonks spat. “And... and goddamn it, Alastor, he tried to rape me!”

   Moody’s eyes went hard as diamond. “And I’m only assuming you did not immediately report yourself in for a St. Mungo’s counselling session?”

   “You think I have time for that –”

   “Yes, you damn well do!” Moody shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. “Tonks, it’s Auror procedure you undergo a psychological consultation at St. Mungo’s after attacks of a mental or sexual nature, or in the case of extreme uses of the Dark Arts! I was one of the Aurors that helped put in that regulation, and I’ll be damned if my best protégée feels that she doesn’t need –”

   “I don’t want any Ministry Healer anywhere near my brain!” Tonks yelled, her temper finally breaking, all of the frustration and fury rushing out. “Despite the fact that Dumbledore fought so hard to get Metamorphmagi treated as human beings, most people haven’t gotten the message - and I will not be analyzed like a fucking Muggle science experiment!”

   She didn’t even notice for a few seconds that her hair had gone matte black, and she didn’t know her eyes were now a vivid green, but from the strange look on Moody’s face, she could tell that he was suspecting something was amiss.

   “Tonks, I helped put that regulation in place for your own good,” Moody said, his teeth gritted as he fought to control his own temper. “I’m trying to make sure you’re not going to hurt yourself or others if a situation like this happens again. Right now, I can’t force you to submit yourself to the session – believe me, if I wasn’t stuck here, I’d be dragging you in myself –”

   “I’m sorry, then,” Tonks snarled. “Is that what you want? I just don’t want the Healers – and by extension, the Ministry – poking around inside my head right now. I don’t want to be directed to the same mental wings of St. Mungo’s where Dmitri Kemester is going to end up, and you can bloody bet that if Umbridge got a hold of my file, I’d be locked in a Cushioning-Charmed cell in an hour.”

   She held Moody’s gaze for a long five seconds before Moody made a disappointed noise and turned back to his wall of papers. “So what did you do to the man?”

   “I killed him,” Tonks replied steadily. “Wilson was an Auror, so I was planning on giving him a merciful passing, but Sturgis blew my cover and I ran out of options.”

   “You didn’t even consider asking for a surrender?”

   “Alastor, he was treating me like property,” Tonks growled between clenched teeth. “He would never surrender to me, what the fuck was I supposed to do?”

   “So how did you kill him, then?” Moody growled.

    “In the fight, I gouged out his eyes and set him on fire.”

   Moody clenched his jaw, and it was clear that at that very moment he wanted to fly into a tirade, ripping her defiant face to pieces, but he restrained himself.

   “Well,” he said stiffly, after a long tense few seconds of silence, “no wonder you can’t sleep.”

   Tonks’ eyes went wide. “How dare you –”

   Moody whirled around. “Don’t even, Tonks,” he growled, his raspy tone brooking absolutely no argument. “Don’t even. You know the rules – just because Crouch lightened our regulations in the First War, gave us license to use Unforgivables, doesn’t mean it’s right. Doesn’t mean it was ever right. Doesn’t mean I don’t expect more from my best student. Aurors don’t torture, Tonks – I thought you remembered that.”

   “I didn’t torture him,” Tonks said in a low voice.

   “No, you only blinded him, set him on fire, and left him to die,” Moody retorted. “Sometimes our job is brutal, I understand that. I also understand, Tonks, that there are times when we must kill or be killed, but those times are never a license for sadism.”

   She didn’t have an answer to that.

   “So,” Moody said after a long few seconds of silence, as he turned to face Tonks while his magical eye looked through the back of his head to scan the wall, “are you going to tell me what the hell you and Potter have been experimenting with?”

   She had been dreading this question for a long time, and she knew she didn’t have a good answer – she was having a hard enough time justifying all of it to herself, and without rest, she knew she wouldn’t be able to put together a rational explanation.

   “I can’t, Alastor.”

   “Do you not trust me?”

   “Dumbledore knows, if that makes you feel any better.”

   “Dumbledore’s not here.”

   Tonks put her fingers to her temple, trying to stave off the blossoming headache. “Alastor, I don’t want to go into it. It’s dangerous, really complicated, and right now, I’m too damned tired to explain it all to you in the level of detail you’d want.”

   “More reason why you should get some sleep,” Moody growled. “I’m going to want the truth, Auror, and I don’t care how ugly it is.”

   “Fine,” Tonks exclaimed, tossing her hand up the air with exasperation. “You’ll get it when I’m articulate enough to talk about it, okay?”

   “I don’t like that tone.”

   “Good.”

   There were two steps, and before Tonks knew it, Moody was standing inches away from her, his breath smelling strangely like stale onions. “Listen,” he began in a low voice, “I know you’ve been with Harry, and frankly, I don’t really care. After what he’s done and what has been done to him, I can consider him an adult – and apparently, so can you. And I know that Dumbledore knew about and tolerated the collaboration between you and Potter, because he thought it would be beneficial for all of us – much to my ongoing scepticism. But one thing I won’t let you do is regress – or do something stupid because of him. Potter’s getting better, but he’s far from perfect.”

   “I know that,” Tonks said curtly, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s your point?”

   “You’ve been a good influence on him,” Moody said, his voice edged. “Don’t let him be a bad influence on you.”

*         *        *

   Harry set the Pensieve down on Moody’s desk with trepidation. “Professor, with all due respect –”

   “I understand your concern regarding the time fluctuation, Potter,” Moody said gruffly. “Rest assured, I understand.”

   “Then why are you insisting on seeing these memories too?” Harry asked exasperatedly. “The second I mentioned that Cassane had given me anything –”

   “Potter, I’ve waited over fifteen years for the answers that are likely contained within that vial,” Moody said roughly. “Moreover, I saw men ruined, lose their lives – or souls – because of some of the actions in the First War that were never explained. Answers were never given, the whole truth was never known, and certain people behaved in ways I never could explain. Inside that vial could be whole, untainted grimy truth, and I will be damned before I let that truth slip away from me again.”

   “So, in other words,” Tonks said with a sigh, “is that all three of us are taking a look.”

   “Right,” Moody said curtly, wordlessly Summoning the vial straight from Harry’s fingers. “Now let’s not waste any more time.”

   The silvery memories flowed sluggishly into the Pensieve, and after a few expert prods with his wand, Moody nodded with satisfaction.

   Then, without warning, he grabbed Tonks’ and Harry’s arms and pulled.

   Harry felt his face contact the chill silvery material, and then he was falling and falling and falling and....

   He was standing in an office – a Ministry office, by the looks of it, and a rather nice one at that. The wood paneling seemed new, and the carpet seemed relatively clean. One wall of the office was lined with books, and the other, strangely, by what looked like tacky Ministry recruitment posters, spaced around clipped articles from the Daily Prophet. The back wall, opposite the door, was taken up by a massive window, shrouded by curtains that looked rather filmy and light compared to most heavy velvet curtains that seemed to be the mainstay in the wizarding world.

   And in the center of the room was a desk. Well made, yet exceedingly simple in designs, papers were strewn across it in neat piles, each held down by a glass paperweight.

   Sitting at that desk was a much-younger Nathan Cassane.

   His hair was a rich dark brown, and a bit longer than in the present. He wore a classy suit, almost Muggle in appearance, but with the hems a little longer to indicate that they could be considered robes – albeit of a very unusual style. Interestingly, despite his very professional clothing, his tie was loose around his collar, he was leaning back in his chair (reading the Daily Prophet, by the looks of it), and his brown eyes were glinting. And a simple golden band was around his ring finger – a ring Harry never recalled seeing.

   Harry caught a date on the edge of the Prophet. “July 29th, 1978,” he said aloud.

   “Sounds about right,” Moody said coolly, both his eyes whizzing in their sockets as they sought to take in anything and everything about the room. “The war was heating up.”

   Without warning, there was a knock on the door. It seemed to be a knock Cassane was expected, because he smiled and said loudly, his voice strong and clear, “Come in.”

   The door opened, and Harry sucked in a breath – he was looking at his father.

   James could have been mistaken for Harry’s brother. His eyes were hazel, his nose was a little longer, his hair was a little wilder, but for all intents and purposes, he was Harry’s splitting image, the few years in age leaving little difference.

   Or maybe it’s because the past few months have aged me, he thought to himself.

   Tonks nudged Harry in the ribs. “He’s cute.”

   “Shut up.”

   “So, you wanted to see me, sir?” James asked earnestly.

  “Yes, James, sit down,” Cassane said with a warm smile, rising, setting down the paper and shaking James’ hand vigorously. “And dispense with all that ‘sir’ crap – I’ve known you and your family for years.”

   “But if you’re going to be my boss, don’t I have to respect the, uh, chain of command?” James asked, frowning slightly.

   “You sound like an Auror trainee under Alastor,” Cassane remarked with a wink. “I’m not nearly so formal, James. And neither is my team. We tend to get things done more quickly in my group, with a lot less... paperwork. Oh, don’t worry,” he added, seeing the brightening look on James’ face, “there’s still plenty of it, but we have a certain amount of... leeway, in what we can get accomplished.”

   “Your training is a lot faster, that’s to be sure,” James said, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince. “Pretty hard, too.”

   “We live in a hard world, James,” Cassane said seriously, “and what we do, while requiring less training, requires other things as well. We are a team that gathers information for prosecution of Death Eaters, compiling evidence, collecting details from witnesses, and if – and only if – we have enough information, make surgical strikes.”

   “Surgical strikes,” James said, a smile breaking on his face. “I like the sound of that – on Death Eaters?”

   “Not... not precisely,” Cassane said, seemingly weighing every word. “While we are technically permitted to make arrests... given the current situation in the Ministry... well, I’m sure you’ve seen the casualty reports...”

   “I see them daily in the Prophet –”

   “Fortunately for the wizarding world, the Daily Prophet doesn’t know half of the story,” Cassane said quietly, nudging the folded paper with the tips of his fingers. “Unfortunately, I know more – and believe me when I say this: none of the unreported information is good.”

   James shifted uneasily in his chair, and his grin faded a little bit, but he raised his chin up. “I can handle it, sir.”

   “And that’s one of the reasons why I called you in here, James,” Cassane continued, leaning forward and leafing through a stack of neat papers, each clipped with a small moving photograph. “I have the report on your progress here, James, both from the physical and magical training, and the psychological evaluation.”

   “Was that last part really all that necessary?” James asked with a bit of confusion. “I mean, I’m normal. Damn near exceptional in some spots...” He winced. “Sorry, old habit –”

   “James, it’s the truth,” Cassane said seriously, setting down the paper and folding his hands. “You passed all the tests and training with flying colours, and I wish I could accept you onto our team.”

   James let out a whoop. “Yes! I made it! I... wait, what?” His eyes went wide, and his smile was abruptly gone. “What do you mean, you wish you could accept me? I’m available!”

   “James, this isn’t about availability or ability and you know it,” Cassane said with a frustrated sigh. To Harry, the man looked like he was talking around a subject – a very touchy subject. “It’s something different.”

   “What are you –”

   “How’s Charlus doing, James?”

   Most of the colour left James’ face, and he visibly swallowed hard. “He’s... Dad hasn’t gotten better, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied, a note of pain and helplessness creeping into his voice. “He’s still sick, just like he was when you visited at my Hogwarts graduation party. The Healers say... they say...”

   “The magical consumption is getting worse?” Cassane asked sombrely.

   James nodded, and Harry felt a surprising lump in his throat. I didn’t even know my grandparents... they must have died before I was born... oh Dad, I’m sorry you’re going through this...

   Suddenly, he turned to Moody. “Magical consumption – that’s what Claudius Kemester has!”

   Moody nodded darkly. “Terrible disease, and worst of all, the Healers can’t do anything to slow or stop it. It consumes your magic, and then consumes you. Terrible way to die.”

   “James,” Cassane began, rising to his feet and crouching next to James, slumped in his chair, “your father was the older brother I never had. Our families have always been very close, and I hope you can understand why I can’t accept you into the team. What if something were to happen to you, and I had to tell Charlus? Dorea’s passing last year nearly killed him – if something were to happen to you, you can’t ask me to have the responsibility of giving him the killing blow.”

   “But nothing will happen to me!” James exclaimed with frustration, and Harry was astounded to see his father fighting back tears – tears that had began to form the instant Cassane had mentioned the name of his grandmother – James’ mother. “You know I’m better – hell, I’m one of the best damn trainees in your squad, and you know Dad was fine with me joining the Aurors! Hell, take a look at their casualty rates!”

   “It’s not just the danger, James,” Cassane said, rising to his feet and walking behind his desk, facing the window.

   “Then... then what?” James asked with confusion.

   “This squad, while receiving the implicit support and funding of the Ministry, is not known to the wizarding public,” Cassane said quietly. “If it was, this team would be disbanded – and most of the team, likely including myself, would be in Azkaban.”

   James paled, and for a moment, Harry instantly recognized the expression on his father’s face – it was an expression of mingled of doubt and fear, with unease about what he was choosing to do. “I thought...”

   “The family name would be blackened for years,” Cassane said quietly. “People wouldn’t understand what you’ve done or tried to do. You would be snubbed, neglected, feared, even hated by those who know even a half truth about us. Fortunately, we have a degree of secrecy, but if that slips...” His voice trailed off as he turned around to face James. “My team, all of us, know the risk, and we are prepared to take it in order to bring down Voldemort and his cult of filth, but you...” Cassane sighed, and for a moment, looked terrifyingly human, his face lined and filled with indecision. Normally his eyes gleamed with magic, giving him presence, but now to Harry’s eyes, he seemed like a middle-aged father, speaking to a young man who he treated as a son. “I don’t want the Potter name blackened, James. I can’t do that to Charlus – or to you. Do you understand?”

   James was silent for a long few seconds, and then looked up, a desperate look on his face. “Your team... you think they’re doing the right thing, right?”

   “As often as they – as we – can.”

   “And I trust your judgment,” James said, getting to his own feet. “And so will Dad. He doesn’t care about reputation, sir, you know that. And... and to be honest, sir, nothing would make him happier than me working with you.” James blinked twice and rubbed the edge of his glasses. “Call it... repaying an old debt.”

   “There’s no debt to be paid, James,” Cassane said with a sad shake of his head.

   “Dad’s told a different story.”

   Cassane shook his head again. “I need to tell him to stop mentioning me whenever he tells that story – he wooed your... your mother out of the Blacks on his own. All I really gave him was a bit of a nudge.”

   “It was important,” James retorted, taking a deep breath as he fought to control his emotions – an expression Harry was very familiar with.

   “I was ten,” Cassane replied with an irritated wave his hand. “I was irrelevant to that story.”

   “Well, even so, I think Dad would be happier if I worked with you over the Aurors,” James continued doggedly. “At least you’d fight like hell to keep me safe.”

   Cassane looked at James for a long few seconds, and Harry saw the older man taking several deep breaths of his own.

   “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s very... very true.”

   And then it changed.

   The memory seemed to dissolve beneath Harry’s feet, and he instinctively looked for something to grab onto, but before he knew it, he was on solid ground again – and in a very different memory.

   The room he was in was large and very loud, filled with a cacophony of music and chatter. The room looked very ornate, with polished marble floors, fluted columns, and rich paintings decorating the heavily embossed walls. And yet despite its size, the room still felt hot and crowded, filled with people dancing or sitting at a slew of tables talking and drinking and laughing.

   He spotted Tonks almost instantly and gestured to move to the side of the room, where it was a little less crowded. He squinted to see Cassane as he slid silently through the richly dressed crowd... he had to be there somewhere...

   “Where are we?” Tonks called out loudly, pulling Harry up the few stairs to the slightly elevated sitting area. “Alastor?”

   But even as Moody was rising up the stairs, he paused, and stiffened with sudden recognition.

   “I remember this.”

   “What?”

    “This was a Ministry function celebrating the inauguration of Millicent Bagnold as Minister for Magic after Athanasius Acontine stepped down,” Moody said roughly. “And Cassane was here... and so was Scrimgeour...”

   Moody’s eyes snapped up. “We need to get outside.” He pointed at the far doors on the other side of the room, slightly ajar and open to the night. “Cassane will be going out there... and if this is what I suspect...”

   They cut through the crowd with surprising speed, with Moody making surprising time with wooden leg. It was made significantly easier by the fact that they could pass through the crowd like smoke, but Harry still felt unnerved whenever he passed right through someone, and opted more often than not to step around them.

   “There he is!” Tonks called, pointing at a figure slipping out the door. Harry immediately recognized Cassane’s robes, which seemed to mimic a Muggle tuxedo in everything but cut – but unlike his initial meeting with James, Cassane didn’t look nearly as happy. In fact, he looked downright irritated.

   “Come on, let’s move!” Moody snapped, shoving Tonks and Harry through the door as they stepped onto the balcony. Harry immediately noticed the differing atmosphere – the sounds of the music were muted instantly, and he could see the dozen cloaked figures standing on guard around the semicircular balcony.

   Despite himself, Harry shivered. The wind was quite chill, and a few dead leaves were strewn around the railing. It felt like it was late November.

   “This had better be damn good,” Cassane said immediately, upon closing the oaken door behind him and glowering at the few richly dressed individuals standing together by the marble rail. “I don’t get enough time with my wife as it is, and the last thing I need is –”

   “Easy there, Nathan,” one of the men replied, his voice clipped and almost nasal in its businesslike tone. “I wouldn’t pull you away from Cassandra if it wasn’t absolutely necessary –”

   Harry knew that voice. He stepped into better light, and couldn’t help but feel his stomach lurch. It was Bartemius Crouch Senior, and from the gleam of exultant righteous fire in his eyes, he was at the height of his power. His robes were elegant and fit well on his muscled frame, and his expression was clear and determined – the best possible leader

   And yet I remember seeing raving and out of his mind, Harry thought to himself, his stomach still uneasy as he moved even closer. There was another cloaked figure, and Harry squinted to get a better look at the man – he certainly seemed familiar...

   “Nevertheless, I thought you were on the Parkinson case tonight,” Cassane said suspiciously, wordlessly pulling a bottle of wine and a trio of glasses out of thin air with a tiny flick of his wand. “Wine?”

   “Summoned or Conjured?” Crouch asked lightly.

   Cassane snorted. “Conjured – I’m not that good at Summoning, Barty.”

   “Then no thank you, then,” Crouch declined politely with a slight shake of his head. “I find Conjured wine lacks body... you don’t get the same richness of flavour –”

   “I’m not a wine connoisseur, Barty, just trying to be polite,” Cassane replied with a shrug. “Besides, I’m more of a scotch person anyways, and you’d never conjure something like that... what about you, Rufus?”

   “I’d rather stay sober tonight,” Rufus Scrimgeour growled, pulling back his hood to reveal a heavily scarred, albeit younger face. His tawny hair was neatly trimmed, and looked surprisingly well-groomed – although standing next to Crouch’s rigidly straight parting, it almost appeared unkempt. “This isn’t a night for drinking, but business.”

   “Tell that to the people inside,” Cassane replied with a snort. “I swear, I think Antonin’s trying to match Horace drink for drink –”

   “You’ll have to show me when we go back inside, but unfortunately we have something else to deal with first,” Crouch interrupted apologetically. “Something of vital importance.”

   Cassane popped the cork from the wine bottle and poured himself a glass. Then, with surprising deftness, he Vanished the bottle, cork, and empty glasses with another flick of his wand. “Well, spit it out.”

   “I’ve been promoted.”

   Cassane’s face blossomed into a grin, and he raised his glass in salute to Crouch. “Guess all that hard work paid off, didn’t it?”

   Scrimgeour snorted with disgust, but Harry caught the subtle mocking note in Cassane’s voice. Crouch didn’t appear to catch it, and returned Cassane’s smile.

   “Although,” Cassane added, after taking a swig of the red wine, “I can’t help but be a bit surprised. I thought Charon or Bones were next in line for Department Head.”

   Scrimgeour visibly stiffened at the implied insult, and even Moody let out a low breath of incredulous disbelief at the comment, but Crouch dismissively waved his hand. “Ah, Charon’s too valuable right now. The way he kills Death Eaters – he’s a machine, Nathan, and it would just be silly to put him behind a desk.”

   “Yeah, just took his entire family being murdered to make him that way,” Moody growled, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

   “And considering the spat Edgar Bones got into with the Minister –”

   “I was talking about Amelia, not Edgar,” Cassane replied evenly.

   Crouch gave a sniff of disdain. “Please. She might be a talented witch, but running the Department of Magical Law Enforcement requires a certain... stentorian presence the woman simply lacks.”

   Moody looked murderous, and Harry gave Tonks an uneasy glance. But even she looked angry at Crouch’s remarks.

    “So you’re the new Department Head, then,” Cassane said lightly, toasting Crouch again and taking another sip of wine. “Congratulations – so why did you want me here again?”

   “Right to the chase, I like that,” Crouch said approvingly. “I like that sort of commanding presence, that strength of will you only find in men like you, Nathan. You’re exactly the sort of man I need by my side.”

   Cassane kept his smile, but it looked a bit forced. “I’m flattered, once again, Barty, but I’m not a Ministry employee.”

   Scrimgeour rolled his eyes at that remark, and Crouch chuckled, putting his hand on Cassane’s shoulder. “Oh, come now, Nathan, let’s not clutter the truth of this. We’re both intelligent men, and we both have a vested interest in defeating the Lord Voldemort. And considering... considering the current course the war is taking, we need a new strategy.”

   Cassane’s eyes brightened with interest as he took another sip of wine. “What do you have in mind?”

   “Lord Voldemort is not going to roll over and die just because we ask politely,” Crouch said, his eyes gleaming with righteous passion. “We cannot afford to simply be defensive and reactive in this matter – we need to take back our power, fight fire with fire. And you, Nathan... well, the results your team has produced... quite extraordinary, as a matter of fact.”

   “Where, exactly are you going with this, Barty?” Cassane asked slowly, cautiously weighing every word as he eased out from under the man’s hand.

   “Simple,” Crouch replied. “I would like to deputize your and your entire squad. Pull the entire group under the Hit Wizard banner, incorporate your skills and contacts into our organization.”

   Moody swore aloud.

   Tonks turned to Moody with astonishment. “Mad-Eye –”

   “I can believe he tried this,” Moody snarled, looking as though he wanted to strangle Crouch with his bare hands. “That he dared – ”

   But Scrimgeour seemed to agree with Moody’s point of view – the Auror looked livid, and was barely holding onto his temper. He looked as though Crouch had just personally stabbed him, and was twisting the knife with every pleasant word.

   Cassane however, did not appear all that disturbed. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow.

  “And what makes you think that my team has skills or contacts that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn’t have?”

   “Well, you have managed to recruit Antonin Dolohov, for one,” Crouch said with a huff. “Given his reputation as a duellist, I’ve been trying to recruit him for years, and yet you somehow snagged him in an afternoon. Not to mention his wife – now there’s a foxy lady if I’ve ever seen one! And you have some fresh talent as well – Potter, Black, Lupin, Evans...”

   “So I have talented people,” Cassane replied with a shrug. “That’s nothing special –”

   “And to say nothing of your friendship with Judge Kemester –”

   Harry went stock-still. What?

    Cassane’s smile was definitely a mask now. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Barty. Claudius and I are old friends, but nothing more –”

   “And yet all of those warrant that conveniently fall into your hands – warrants that my Hit Wizards could never get even if they saved Claudius’ little boys –”

   “Barty, if you’re implying that I have some sort of illegitimate relationship with the good Wizengamot Judge, you’ve been badly mislead,” Cassane replied. He wasn’t smiling now.

   “All the same, Nathan, we’re both on the same side here,” Crouch said earnestly. “Your methods have proven most effective, don’t you agree, Rufus?”

   “No.”

   Everyone – including Harry, Tonks, and Moody, turned to look at Scrimgeour. Crouch looked as if he hadn’t heard the Auror correctly.

   “Pardon?”

   “Oh, his methods might be effective,” Scrimgeour began through gritted teeth, “but there’s no damn way I want his team in my Department.”

   Crouch was taken aback, but Cassane just sighed and downed the rest of his wine. “This again, Rufus?”

   “Your people are thieves and liars, Cassane, and don’t even deny it! The fact that the Ministry is paying your people to stand above the law is downright fucking disgraceful! You play fast and loose with the law and Ministry policy, and to top it all off, you have the gall to demand the bounties for the capture of Death Eaters you find through intimidation and blackmail!”

   “Well, I’m sorry if I’m depriving you of your skim, Rufus,” Cassane replied bitingly, “but my people get the job done.”

   “So what about the little brothel you set up in Knockturn Alley, in total defiance of the law?” Scrimgeour snarled, his face going red.

   “You mean the undercover operation concluding on Halloween that netted us three Death Eaters and three dozen recruits, not to mention the wealth of information we discovered on future operations?” Cassane replied evenly. “Yes, that was such a disaster.”

   “You had Evans, Meadowes, Mrs. Dolohov, and your own wife disguise themselves as harlots!” Scrimgeour shouted. “And Black as a violent and abusive pimp! Do you have any shame or respect for even your own people?”

   “They all volunteered for the job, Rufus, you honestly think I would sink to Voldemort’s level and abuse my own people?” Cassane replied, his voice icy and barely above a whisper. “Besides, Cassie was perfectly safe – I was there under Polyjuice as a dancer myself, and I would have had no compunction of disposing of anyone who put my wife or my team in danger! And like it or not, because of it, we saved lives, and put Death Eaters in Azkaban!”

   “And that’s my point,” Crouch finished, raising a finger. “With the full backing of the law, your team will have the freedom to operate however they wish, and this won’t even be an issue! And, I might add, you’ll have much better resources, Nathan – the full might of the Ministry –”

   Scrimgeour looked ready to explode, but against all odds, when he spoke, his voice was flat and even. “Crouch, if you let him in, make him part of the Department... well, I don’t think I could be part of a Department that endorses and funds that sort of behaviour.”

   “We already do pay them –”

   “And believe me, if I had a way to cut that off, I would!” Scrimgeour snarled. “But there’s a line between necessary evils held at a distance, and inviting them into the home.” And before Crouch could protest, he spun on his heel and Disapparated with a crack.

   Crouch huffed and turned to Cassane. “A shame, but –”

   “He’s got a point.”

   Crouch was nonplussed. “Pardon?”

   “I mean it, Barty,” Cassane said quietly. “I understand what you want to do – really, I do – but bringing us into the Ministry officially would cause hell to break loose and you know it. For once, Voldemort would have a point about the Ministry.”

   “Nathan, you know how bad the situation is, and your people are some of the best –”

   “No, damn it!” Cassane snapped, stepping back and tossing his wine glass onto the marble balcony, where it smashed into a million pieces. “You can’t legitimize what we do, it would make us what we’re fighting against – particularly considering you wouldn’t treat your people half as well, and you’d have psychological breakdowns on your hands! All my people know the ugly truth about our missions and get the help they need to cope! It’s sure as hell not perfect, but we do it because it gets results!”

   “And that’s my point!” Crouch replied angrily. “It gets results – goddamn it, Nathan, we need that, and I’m willing to fight fire with fire –”

   “And horrify the rest of the wizarding world when they see what your people would do, or what my people would do under the banner of the Ministry?” Cassane retorted. “There’s a reason we’re not a part of the Ministry, it’s called plausible deniability, Barty!”

   “So I take then, your answer is a ‘no’?” Crouch asked, his voice abruptly frigid.

   “Emphatically,” Cassane snapped, turning away and storming towards the door.

   “Your funding can just disappear, you know!”

   Cassane openly laughed at this. “Try that threat again – both of us know you don’t have the balls to cut off one of the only groups that are making a difference and not getting slaughtered for their trouble.”

*          *          *

   The bronze instruments whirled about the study, tracing silver lines as they sketched around him. His wand was outstretched, and with every sweep of it, the silver rippled like weeds parting in a pond.

   The papers on his desk fluttered and shook as the air shuddered around him, nearly lifting free of their glass paperweights as the magic coalesced. The silver arcs around him began gleaming with the faintest traces of moonlight, creeping through the ivy-shrouded windows.

   It was the final component of the magic.

   He took a deep breath, and then exhaled. “Come.”

   Even with his knowledge of things of esoteric magic long-forgotten, he couldn’t describe it. It was almost like being inside a silvery translucent bubble, with everything around him melting away to insubstantiality. It wasn’t magic he was familiar with - in his years of travelling, he had never experienced something like this.

   But he knew it worked.

   He could see the figure, hazy and barely even there, approach the edge of the bubble, formed of silvery magic, bended space, and the slow time that one only finds in dreams... or reality so twisted it became a nightmare.

   “You see me,” he whispered.

   The voice was tired and very old. “I see you.”

   He began breathing very fast. “Then you understand why I’m here?”

   “Of course I do,” the voice replied, every word carefully spoken, but filled with compassion. “I’ve longed for it as well. But you know they’re already gone.”

   You know they’re already gone...

   Already gone...

   Gone...

   “NO!” he suddenly screamed, his voice raw and booming inside the bubble, the very sound contorting the magic. “I paid the damn price, bring them back!”

   “You know I can’t do that.”

   “Don’t tell me they’re not waiting, don’t you dare tell me –”

   “I’m sorry.”

   His reply was a wordless howl of pain, for he couldn’t bring the words to mind. The anguish was far too fresh.

   “There’s nothing you can do,” the voice replied quietly. “The two have gone on – and they do not need saving.”

   “Three,” he breathed.

   There was a long, echoing pause, and then –

   “You seek another?”

   “He’s so close,” he whispered, his eyes wet. “He’s taking the same steps I did... and he deserves so much better than that...”

   “I cannot control the flight of prophecy –”

   “Prophecy be damned!” he shouted, red-hot sparks exploding from his wand. “I know you set him on this path! You stripped the barriers and paved the road with the best of intentions – and you knew exactly where it led.” Each breath came heavily, and there was a stitch in his chest.

   “I already know I will not earn forgiveness,” the voice replied, suddenly very heavy and very sombre.

   “Not from either of them you won’t.”

   “So you seek only –”

   “Fortunately for us,” he whispered, “she can still save herself.”

   “As can you.”

   He sighed. “The pact can’t be broken,” he murmured. “The gears were set in motion...the gears I set in motion, in a moment of weakness when I thought there was a chance...”

   “It wasn’t weakness,” the voice whispered. “It was hope.”

   “A fool’s hope.”

   “That’s all there ever is.”

   “And I still cling to it,” he whispered, wiping a tear. “It’s all I have... I can only hope...”

   He took a shuddering breath. “You should be free now. If what I’ve read is true...”

   “I was already free.”

   His eyes widened slightly with sudden astonishment. How... it was impossible... “Then where –”

   “Setting the board,” the voice replied as it faded with the figure. “Check.”

   And as soon as it began, the magic faded. The bubble did not burst, but dissolve into the air. Everything returned to focus.

   He set his wand down on the desk and moved towards the panelled wall, where a single small photograph was framed. It was a picture of a family – husband, wife, and daughter. The husband and wife sat together on the sofa, quietly holding hands and watching the fire. The teenage daughter sat in a chair next to a lamp, reading with quiet contentment. Outside, snow brushed the windows, clean of ivy and stain.

   If he had walked into the room now, the lamps would be dark, the fire guttering. The window would be shrouded in ivy and snow. The room would be dark, the flickering moonlight and embers illuminating a room filled with discarded books, eclectic devices, and memories.

   And both chair and sofa would be empty of life.

   “I’m coming, Cassie,” he whispered, staring at the barely-moving photograph. “Just wait a little longer with Phoebe... I’m coming.”

   He turned back to his desk, to its single new addition in the past week.

   A marble chess set.

   The pieces were arranged midway in an elaborate and complex game, white versus black. So stark... if only it was that real...

   He looked at the white pawn on the left edge of the board and moved it one square forward.

   “Your move.”

*          *          *

   “I don’t think,” Harry said quietly, even as the ground began to slide away beneath his feet as the memory shifted, “that was what you were expecting.”

   Moody returned Harry’s remark with a glare. “It doesn’t make sense, that’s what my problem is, and it’s a piece that doesn’t fit either. Cassane reportedly supported it when Crouch authorized Aurors and Hit Wizards to use the Unforgivables –”

   “I thought that was in 1980, though,” Tonks mused, running a hand through her now short, emerald-green hair. “There were probably a lot of –”

   But Harry shushed her as the memory coalesced around them – into a very familiar location.

   “This is Cassane Manor,” Harry breathed, as he looked up to see the massive chandelier hanging in the foyer – a chandelier now covered in holly and ivy, draped with red velvet. The entire entrance hall, small as it was, had never felt warmer and more inviting.

   “It looks like it’s Christmas,” Tonks said, looking around the foyer with curiosity. “But what year –”

   The knock on the door made all three of them jump – Moody even pulled free his wand, but a second later, a woman in a sparkling, bright red gown and matching red boots moved to the door. She was a brunette in what Harry guessed her mid-thirties (although with magic, it was hard to tell), her hair cropped short and framing her face. But there was a mischievous glint in her brown eyes that almost made her seem a little younger. But who was she?

   Harry nudged Tonks. “She’s hot.”

   “I know.”

   “Just thought you should – wait, what?”

   Tonks winked at him.

   The knock was repeated, and the woman sidled up to the door. “Who is the best Hit Wizard alive?” she asked, her voice shockingly sultry, particularly for such a banal question.

   There was a snort. “Nathaniel Charon, obviously,” a very familiar voice replied on the other side of the door. “He’s killed three Death Eaters, arrested five, and saved the French ambassador from kidnap and eventual mutilation. Cassie, it’s cold, will you let me in?”

   “That’s not the security question, unconfirmed-Nathan,” the woman named Cassie replied, a grin creeping across her face.

   “Fine – what did your mother want to call our daughter?”

    “Jacqueline,” Cassie replied, rolling her eyes. “But we decided to call her Phoebe because you thought the name was cute and I knew that my daughter would eventually weaponize that cuteness.”

   The door creaked open, and a very weary-looking, snow-covered Nathan Cassane slid inside, pulling his wife into a tight embrace. “Much to the consternation of her parents, but it’s a good thing she can take care of herself.” He kissed Cassie lightly. “Is Phoebe home yet?”

   “Yes, she’s in the dining room,” Cassie replied, taking her husband’s coat and effortlessly Banishing it with a wave of her wand onto a hanger waiting by the closet.

   “You actually got her to help with dinner?” Cassane asked incredulously as he bent to unlace his shoes. “A Christmas miracle?”

   But his wife pulled him back up. “Keep your shoes on, dear,” Cassie replied with a smile, removing the snow from his shoes, cuffs, and hair with another wave of her wand. “Tonight’s a special occasion.”

   “I thought this was just going to be a family affair,” Cassane protested, but Harry could tell the protests were half-hearted. “You, me, my daughter that’s growing up to be tougher than both of us –”

   “Trust me,” Cassie said with a wink, “you’ll like this.”

   Cassane considered this for a few seconds before smiling. “Ah, what the hell – you are wearing those boots that I bought you for our anniversary last year.”

   “The same boots that kicked Chester Gibbon in the face when we arrested him and the rest of his Death Eaters in that brothel scheme, I might add,” Cassie finished with a knowing smile. “You know, when you were under Polyjuice as my twin sister and we lured him into the backroom with the promise of –”

   Cassane laughed, and Harry heard warmth and cheer in Cassane’s laugh, something he had never heard before. “The best damn plan you ever dreamed up – but what does that have to do with anything?”

   “Oh, I don’t know,” Cassie replied mysteriously, moving to a set of closed double doors. “Why don’t I show you?”

   She waved her wand, the doors flew open, and –

   “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

   Harry could only watch in disbelief as Cassane gasped in awe as a group of people rose from their seat at the dining table to their feet in a cavalcade of laughter and smiles. He felt a warm sensation in his gut, for there was his father, holding hands and joking with an auburn-haired, green-eyed woman that had to be Lily – and there was Sirius, his hair only slightly groomed as he hoisted his bottle of Butterbeer. Lupin was sitting next to him, wearing and looking a little uncomfortable in what looked like newer robes, but there was still a smile on his face. And opposite him was Madam Pomfrey, sitting with a man who could only be her husband. And they all looked happy, and so relieved –

   “Dad!”

   “Phoebe!” Cassane said, his smile widening as his daughter – who had to be seventeen and with her short hair even shorter than her mother’s, looked every bit as tough as described – ran into his open arms. “So good to see you – how’s seventh year?”

   “Let’s... not talk about school,” Phoebe replied with a bit of a forced smile, her embrace tightening. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

   “And we figured,” said a man rising to his feet at the opposite head of the table, “that we should focus on the better sides of our lives while we still have them!”

   “By Merlin,” Moody whispered to himself – a response Harry and Tonks nearly echoed. They both knew that face.

   It was Antonin Dolohov.

  But he looked far different. His hair was clean and short, his eyes gleamed with contentment rather than malice, and while his face was still slightly twisted, it didn’t appear sinister. Rather, his expression was full of good-hearted mischief and confidence. He had broad shoulders, filling out the clean and almost dashing navy robes he was wearing.

   Laughing, Cassane took his seat at the opposite end of the table, along with the rest of the people in the room, but Dolohov remained standing, grinning widely.

   “Oh Merlin,” a dark-haired, pale skinned witch groused. “Antonin, we want to eat, we don’t want the speech –”

   “Dorcas, please. As I am second-in-command of our fine unit –” Dolohov retorted.

   “Third,” Cassie interrupted, narrowing her eyebrows.

   Dolohov raised his hands. “Honest mistake – thought you and Nathan split command, my mistake –”

   “And that still makes you third, Tony,” Sirius spoke up, drawing himself up into the snootiest demeanour possible. “After all, given you are an accredited professional Quidditch player, duellist, and accomplished novelist –”

   “Oh sweet Morgana –”

   “- you should obviously know that if two individuals or teams occupy the same position in the rankings, the person below them is unquestionably third,” Sirius finished, the false nasal tone making the entire table break into chuckles.

   “Sirius, why do we invite you, well, anywhere?” the woman named Dorcas – Dorcas Meadowes, Harry suddenly realized, asked scathingly.

   Sirius sighed. “Because I have personality, dear Dorcas, and I’m delightful to behold.”

   “If I might continue,” Dolohov quickly interjected, before Dorcas could rise to her feet and throttle a snickering Sirius and James (while Lily rolled her eyes), “I’d like to say a few words.”

   He looked down the table at Cassane, sitting between his wife and his daughter. “Nathan, we’ve been through some tough times in the past few months, and as of now, we are the only unit affiliated with the Ministry that has experienced no casualties!”

   A round of cheers broke out around the table, and Cassane smiled with pride – another expression had never truly seen.

   “Yeah,” Moody whispered grimly. “Shame that doesn’t last.”

   “Now, as much as I’d love to take credit for all of it,” Dolohov continued (drawing a few more chuckles and a glare from Dorcas and a fiery-haired, rather fierce looking woman sitting next to Dolohov that Harry thought was Dolohov’s wife), “I’ve got to give some of the credit to Claudius Kemester here.” He pointed down at a stern, craggy-faced man with bright orange hair sitting a few seats down, who was trying (and nobly failing) to keep a stern, emotionless expression and not break into a smile. “He’s gotten us over half our convictions, and for that, we owe him.”

   There was a smattering of applause at this, and Claudius did smile slightly then. But Harry noticed that not everyone at the table was applauding. Lupin, in particular, only clapped twice, and Dorcas Meadowes didn’t even raise her hands.

   “But the majority of thanks go to you, Nathan,” Dolohov continued, his voice suddenly becoming serious. “And although we have a messy and oft unpleasant job, the fact we’re all alive today is... is, well, something for which we ought to be thankful. And a lot of that is thanks to you. You’re a good man.”

   There were a lot of appreciative murmurs at this, and Harry saw a few of them wipe away hasty tears.

   “So, here’s to you, Nathan,” Dolohov finished, hoisting his glass of what looked like scotch. “The man who is almost as gorgeous of a stripper as his wife.”

   Laughter broke out around the table, and Cassane went a little red as he returned the toast, along with the rest of the table.

   “And now,” Dolohov began, raising a finger, “I have composed a song for this occasion –”

   “Okay, you can sit down now,” the fiery-haired woman sitting next to Dolohov said with a huff, tugging her husband back into his chair.

   “But Regina –”

   “I’ll make it up to you later, sweetheart,” Regina Dolohov said with a surprisingly provocative wink, “but nobody needs to hear you sing. Let’s eat.”

   And like at Hogwarts, the food magically appeared on the table – although Harry had the suspicion that Cassane didn’t have a house elf, because none of the food was in matching dishes.

   “Potluck?” he asked his wife as he spooned mashed potatoes onto his plate.

   “It’s an office party, Nathan,” James called from halfway down the table.

   “Damn good food, though,” Phoebe added, piling roast beef and turkey onto her plate.

    “No swearing at the table, dear.”

   “Guess you’re shit out of luck, Dad,” Phoebe returned, now adding salad to her plate.

   Tonks chuckled. “I like her.”

   “I don’t know why you keep bringing up the brothel scheme like it was so good,” Dorcas Meadowes suddenly said, taking a swig of her wine as she threw a glare down the table at Dolohov.

   “Technically speaking, it was good, Dorcas,” Lily spoke up, her voice slightly apologetic as she set down her water glass and began helping herself to a croissant. “Who brought the French food?”

   “We did, dear,” a silver-haired man that Harry didn’t recognize, sitting with his wife and two grown sons. All of them wore extremely fine robes, and Harry frowned as he tried to remember who they were from the photograph –

   “The Vunerens,” Moody growled. “Malfoys only joined Voldemort after he killed every last one of them – they were old enemies. Shame too – Vunerens took a lot of powerful magic with them.”

   “I can’t believe you, of all people, are saying that, Evans,” Dorcas spat. “It was degrading, it was disgusting –”

   “It was an act, Dorcas, you didn’t have to volunteer,” Lily replied tiredly, buttering her croissant. “Besides, even if it was uncomfortable, James was always close. If anyone tried anything that I thought I couldn’t handle, he’d kick their ass.”

   “No swearing at the table,” Sirius muttered distractedly, taking a swig and finishing his Butterbeer.

   But Dorcas still simmered. “It was still wrong,” she growled. “It was still gross.”

   “Dorcas, what’s going on?” Cassane asked quietly, cutting into the argument.

   The dark-haired woman scowled. “Well, it’s kind of hard to consider this a happy Christmas when I know the Dark Lord is having a nice fun meeting in four days about the planned strike on New Years – and as the Order’s special spy, I have to be there. Don’t worry, I’ve already tipped off Dumbledore and the Ministry.”

   “Good,” Cassane replied with a sigh. “Look, Dorcas, I know you’re under a lot of pressure – we all are. Our job is hard and unpleasant – we need to keep our spirits up, though.”

   “And you have to admit, the fact that Nathan took Polyjuice was really funny,” Dolohov interjected. “And watching him try to dance – ouch!”

   “Sorry about my husband,” Regina said primly. “The match against Portugal two nights ago was a victory, and that tends to put him in such a high mood he forgets to stop talking.”

   “I heard about that match!” James put in eagerly. “How on earth did you run an Earlman’s Feint against that defence, with the Portuguese...”

   From there, the conversation turned to Quidditch, as they talked and laughed and bickered. Harry, Tonks, and Moody could only watch in silence, wishing they could join in and experience some of that success, some of that happiness...

   But the night ended far too quickly, and before Harry really knew it, everyone had moved into Cassane’s living room for drinks and more talking. Harry tried to follow every conversation, but much to his surprise (and from the looks of his face, Moody’s growing frustration), none of them were talking about the war. They were talking about family, about Quidditch, about little problems in the Ministry and gossip.

   Harry sidled next to Tonks and silently squeezed her hand.

   “I wish we had this.”

   Tonks blinked twice. “It’s like looking at a photograph, Harry,” she whispered. “They were all happy, they didn’t have to mourn... and even though they know they could all die tomorrow, they don’t want to let go of that happiness. It’s something to hold onto.”

   “I know,” Harry replied, watching as his mother and father darted into a corner and began kissing passionately, to a few whistles from Sirius, Dolohov, and Phoebe (who had latched onto Sirius as almost a kindred spirit early in the evening and hadn’t left his side). “I just wish... well, that we could have that.”

   Tonks turned to look at him, and for the first time Harry could remember, he saw a hint of a wet glimmer in her eyes.

  “Who’s to say we can’t?” she whispered.

   He pulled her into an embrace – an embrace that lasted a minute long. When they finally broke, they held hands as the night went on, until the last of the people – Dolohov and his wife – left through the Floo and the fire died down to embers.

   Cassie and Nathan were alone in the sitting room now, standing by the fire. They looked into each other’s eyes, and Nathan smiled.

   “You know, I’ll always remember this,” he said, taking his wife in his arms. “Just because we’re all happy together, and even though I know the odds, I can just think back to this...”

   Cassie kissed him. “No matter what happens,” she whispered, “you’ll always have me. Merry Christmas, Nathan.”

   “Merry Christmas, Cassie.”

   And then they embraced as the fire sparked behind them, the snow drifting against the window – the last image Harry saw of the memory as it dissolved into darkness.

*          *          *

   It had taken him hours and a fair amount of luck, but he had done it. Somehow, without tipping off Umbridge and her thugs, he had done it.

   The entire case file, Kemester thought to himself, setting the folder down on his desk, and dimming his candles with a wave of his wand. As far as he was concerned, the less people who knew he was looking, the better.

   Now to put together the pieces.

   The first page was a report – his own report – of the night of August 2nd, 1995. The night an alarm that had sent four Hit Wizards to their deaths.

   Including Bartholomew.

   Kemester blinked twice and focused on the words that he had scrawled months before, the myriad ink splotches evident of the quills breaking in his hands because of sheer rage...

   ...Potter was taken in under Auror custody by one Kingsley Shacklebolt... series of explosions, considered accidental, gave Shacklebolt cover to remove Potter before he could be arrested by Hit Wizards...

   He closed his eyes and clenched his fist. It all could have been so very different, if he had arrested Potter that night instead of Shacklebolt. So very different...

   He turned the page and carefully studied the page. This one he hadn’t wrote – it was a progress report by Shacklebolt himself, regarding the whereabouts of Sirius Black.

   ...all reports and sightings indicate that Black is hiding in the Tibetan mountains, likely searching for the quasi-mythical Shangri-La to utilize as a hiding place from Aurors...

   “Yeah,” Kemester muttered with a scowl, turning over the page almost violently, “and it’s just such a damn shame that when I checked those ‘reports’, the Classification Charm prevented me from seeing any details... or who was sending those reports... or whether there was any text at all on those pages...”

   He knew the investigation details regarding the hunt for Sirius Black were problematic – other wizarding nations wouldn’t take kindly to foreign Aurors hunting criminals in their borders – but he also knew Shacklebolt’s arrest of Potter was no coincidence.

   The next page was very familiar – he had reread it countless times, cursing the disaster that had nearly cost him his career.

   The Gringotts break-in.

   He knew the explosions were a cover – simple fireworks, meant to distract and destroy evidence – but the tip from the accountant Welmon had given him enough to question Shacklebolt. The finding of the paper fragment, restored with tricky Arithmancy magic, was a stroke of luck, and had nearly been enough to track Potter to the Grimmauld Place road – but it hadn’t been enough to find anything of substance.

   And using Veritaserum on a prominent and well-liked Auror hadn’t helped either.

   “What the hell was I thinking?” Kemester growled to himself, cursing his idiotic presumption. “Stupid, stupid, stupid...”

   But even despite the inquiry and Potter going free, it hadn’t been a total loss. He had enough suspected evidence to tie Potter to Black, and prove Shacklebolt’s complicity. It wasn’t as if anyone would believe him, but he knew he had something.

   And turning over the page, he groaned. The Ollivanders’ explosion. Bloody wonderful.

   The investigation had been chaotic at best and poorly organized at worst. Having been reassigned to H.A.I.T., he hadn’t been able to help Larshall pinpoint details – other that Potter and an unidentified woman had been spotted mere feet from the explosion.

   Could have been Tonks, Kemester thought, rubbing his temple as he scanned Larshall’s scribbling. But if she’s involved, why would they have been so close to the explosion... according to Larshall, they were almost inside the blast radius... and they only passed the shop after leaving the ice cream parlor... certainly not enough time to set up an explosion, and compared to the Gringotts break-in, this almost seems sloppy...but the debris suggests that the same potions used for the fireworks by Gringotts were used here... this isn’t making any sense...

   He turned the page, and groaned again. The second, damning strike against his career – although this time, it wasn’t as much of his fault.

   The Hogwarts Express confrontation.

   He had outlined it, Larshall had executed it – and in an accident, another Hit Wizard had died. And somehow, Potter had escaped again.

   No, Kemester suddenly thought, narrowing his eyes, not ‘somehow.’ I know exactly what happened – Sirius Black swooped down on his goddamned motorbike and Potter got on. And somehow, the two of them got past our security and into the school... and Shacklebolt was on duty with H.A.I.T., so he couldn’t have helped...

   He paused, and turned towards his filing cabinet. Standing, he pried open the case and began rifling through the files, searching for the banal reports he had requisitioned, monitoring H.A.I.T.’s short-lived period at Hogwarts...

   And on the day when Potter had broken into Hogwarts, Nymphadora Tonks had taken a day off.

   Bingo.

   “Still doesn’t explain Black’s involvement,” Kemester muttered, staring at the attendance record as he slipped it into the file folder on his desk. “Every bit of evidence suggested that Black wanted Potter dead.” He turned the page to another report – this one his own, the day he had personally arrested Potter on the trip to Hogsmeade. “And this attack proves it... unless the little Metamorphmagus was masquerading as Black the whole time... but it still wouldn’t explain where they got the motorbike, or why Potter was looking for information about Black or Rosier accounts at all in Gringotts...”

   He rubbed his forehead as he tried to ward off the headache. There were too many pieces to this puzzle, and he suspected he didn’t even have half of them. Most of the documents he had in front of him, he had written himself – those that hadn’t been destroyed by the explosions in the Ministry weeks earlier. And the few scraps of information he had managed to put together still weren’t enough. Even the source who had leaked information to him about Potter’s whereabouts outside of Hogwarts the night before he arrested Potter was shady. He had the strangest suspicion it might have even been Tonks, but if she was collaborating with Potter, why would she turn against him...

   “Of course,” Kemester murmured distastefully, turning the page with a scowl, “there’s always manipulators.”

   The next report had been written by Dawlish, a high-ranking Auror that had brown-nosed his way to the top of his force, and who was often assigned as Fudge’s personal bodyguard. And representing Fudge’s interests, he was also the author of the next report: the murder of Laertes Rawling, by Sturgis Podmore, on the ‘orders’ of Albus Dumbledore. The evidence had been damning enough to send Podmore to Azkaban – where he was likely a cinder now – but Dawlish hadn’t been able to tie anything to Dumbledore.

   Kemester sat back in his chair and considered the unpleasant implications with a growing feeling of unease. Dumbledore hasn’t been seen since before the Ministry attack, and even if he was the backing force behind Potter, Tonks, and Shacklebolt, what’s his angle? And why would he stand behind Black, he testified against him at his trial! And why on earth would he want Laertes Rawling dead?

   And even accepting that Lord Voldemort has returned – even assuming Dumbledore’s been right since the beginning – what’s his angle? Other than Azkaban, there haven’t been any obvious signs that the Death Eaters have been active at all. Even the attack on the Ministry – for which everyone’s blamed Lucius Malfoy more than anyone, though I can’t imagine why he’d try such an asinine tactic – doesn’t seem like the Death Eaters’ style; it was too uncontrolled and uncoordinated. And even if Voldemort was backing the new bank – another example of a good idea on my part ruined, this time by Malfoy’s idiocy – why would he be so willing to allow the Malfoys to be slaughtered by the goblins?

   Kemester frowned as he turned to the last page in the surprisingly small case file – a page Larshall had deemed his ‘conspiracy paper’. Filled with random scrawls and arrows, it was nothing more than a tattered bit of parchment, crammed with theories and wild guesses regarding motivations, plans, and the entire convoluted nightmare that had been the new bank debacle – for some of which he had been responsible. And that’s still going on, he thought wryly, as he remembered the articles in the Prophet furiously debating the reconstruction and legalization of the wizard-backed bank, which was currently still under repair....

   He shook his head and, removing his conspiracy paper from the file, he closed the folder and pulled a new sheaf of parchment from his desk and began to write:

Fact: there is a leak within the Ministry of Magic, more specifically the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Information is being leaked to You-Know-Who, Dumbledore, or (likely) both.

Fact: the location of Dumbledore is currently unknown, and needs to become a priority if indeed You-Know-Who has returned.

Fact: the motivations of Sirius Black, Nymphadora Tonks, and Harry Potter are unclear, and a covert investigation must be mounted to ascertain the truth of their involvement.

Fact: something is happening at Hogwarts. More information is required.

Fact: Umbridge is a flabby, power-crazed and insufferable bitch –

   He paused, and then inked the line out. Despite the truth in every word, it was a dangerous thing to write these days.

Fact: Umbridge’s motives and goals, while aligned with the Ministry, remain unclear, as do those of Minister Fudge, Rufus Scrimgeour, and the bizarre involvement of Nathan Cassane (note – begin information gathering here – lack of information surrounding Cassane is disconcerting) –

   Kemester paused again, this time setting down his quill. Rumour around the office had it that Cassane had just received executive clearance from Fudge itself to set up a laboratory down in the Department of Mysteries – the same Department where Laertes Rawling had been murdered.

   And the same place from where Harry Potter somehow escaped after his interrogation, something Kemester had only discovered in the confused brawl at Hogwarts that nearly killed him.

   He frowned. “Too many coincidences, I think... and nobody’s asked the question: why did Sturgis Podmore kill Laertes Rawling –”

   “Kemester!”

   He started with shock, but he was still able to quickly shove his papers into his filing cabinet, rise to his feet, and scowl at Boyd Clyvis as he approached. It was rumoured that Clyvis would soon be replacing Larshall as his partner – something that he and Clyvis both passionately resented. Larshall was my partner – and even though he’s gone, that’s not changing right now.

   “What do you want, Clyvis?”

   “Just figured you should know that the first investigation team is back from Azkaban,” Clyvis replied with a scowl, wrinkling his nose with disgust as his eyes raked Kemester’s horribly scarred features.

   Kemester sat back down and turned away from Clyvis with blatant disinterest. “And I should care because...”

   “They found your partner.”

   Kemester paused for a few seconds against the sudden torrent of emotions, but forcing them back, he let out a strange noise, a cross between a huff and a snort.

   “Fine, I’ll see to it that his remains are given a proper burial –”

   “You might want to rethink that plan,” Clyvis interrupted curtly.

   “Why?”

   “Because Larshall doesn’t need burying quite just yet,” Clyvis replied, giving a toothy smile. “He’s alive.”

*          *          *

   The memory coalesced again – this time to a location Harry recognized.

   “Why do you think we’re back here?” he asked aloud, looking around Cassane’s Ministry office. This time, the windows were flecked with rain against a stormy night sky. Cassane was once again in his chair, but he didn’t look nearly as content as before. In fact, he looked rather weary indeed as he scribbled as quickly as he could on the official-looking parchment.

   “From the new Prophet on the desk, it looks like it’s early April of 1979,” Moody replied grimly, looking up from the newspaper folded neatly on the corner. “No wonder Cassane doesn’t look good – his first two casualties were only a few weeks earlier.”

   Harry swallowed hard. “Who died?”

   “Madam Pomfrey’s husband and one of the younger Vuneren brothers,” came the curt reply from the Auror. “Both were nasty – and public.”

   The knock on the door was quiet, but Cassane looked up the instant he heard it.

   “Come in, Carson.”

   The dark-skinned man walking through the door at first reminded Harry of Shacklebolt, but on second glance, this man was different. He wasn’t as scarred or muscled, he had a smallish afro where Shacklebolt was bald, and he didn’t have the same proud bearing that the Auror did. But there was something about his eyes...

   Harry knew those eyes. His son had the exact same eyes.

   This is Dean’s father.

   “Glad you could find time to see me, Nathan,” Carson Thomas said gruffly, settling himself in the chair opposite Cassane. “Especially considering... well, you know.”

   Cassane sighed and set aside his papers. “Yes, I do know. Is there something wrong, Carson?”

   The black man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well... I don’t know how to say this properly, Nathan, without sounding like a fool or a coward, but...”

   He looked up and met Cassane’s eyes. “Nathan, my wife’s pregnant.”

   Cassane’s eyes lit up and his face broke into a wide smile. For the first time since the memory had began, warmth appeared in Cassane’s brown eyes. “That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you –”

   “You really shouldn’t be.”

   Cassane chuckled. “Carson, your wife is pregnant! Isn’t that great –”

   “It was an accident, Nathan,” Carson interrupted, his voice still hard and very low. “I didn’t want a child – not right now. Not with the war going on. Especially not with what we’re doing. I’m not a bloody Weasley, for fuck’s sake.”

   In an instant, Harry saw that Cassane understood completely. “So... what are your plans, then? Is your wife planning on –”

   “She’s not getting an abortion, if that’s what you’re asking,” Carson retorted harshly.

   “Wasn’t even asking that,” Cassane replied cautiously, “but there are magical contraceptive measures that if utilized at the right time –”

   “I already asked her,” Carson said curtly. “She doesn’t want magic cast on her, or anywhere near here. We’ve already argued about it – it’s not happening.

   “Then I don’t really know what you want me to do,” Cassane replied, and Harry could tell the man was unsure where Carson was going.

   Carson looked down at his big hands and shook his head. “Nathan... you and I both know it’s getting worse out there. You’ve got James and Lily out every other night even though they’re engaged, you’ve got Black running messages across the country on the damned bike of his, you’re trying to juggle politics with Crouch and Dumbledore... and to top it off, Dolohov’s out competing for England in professional Quidditch so they can make it to the damn World Cup.” Carson shook his head. “And considering how Voldemort’s starting to take notice of us...”

   “Dolohov’s cover is that of a professional Quidditch player, Carson, you know that.”

   “Yeah, and what’s mine?” Carson retorted. “You’re missing my point, Nathan, it’s getting worse. And Voldemort’s already shown he’s willing to attack families. My wife’s a Muggle, Nathan.” He blinked twice as his voice caught in his throat. “She... she can’t defend herself like I can.”

   Cassane nodded tiredly. “I see – you want a leave of absence?”

   “Indefinite, if you can manage it,” Carson replied with a nod. “I’m not sure how long it’s going to last with her... but I want to be there while I still can. And if I can’t, or if something happens to me... make sure somebody knows. Make sure that they’re safe. You’ve got connections in the right places, you can make that happen.”

   “So what happened, then?” Harry asked quietly as the memory began to fade around them.

   Tonks gave Moody a quick glance, and he replied in a harsh voice. “Carson Thomas stayed and protected his wife throughout the course of her pregnancy. Then, after Dean Thomas was born in early January, Carson had a fight with his wife and walked out.”

   “And?” Harry asked impatiently.

   Moody closed his mismatched eyes. “They found him face-down in a ditch on the outskirts of Bristol. The Dark Mark was in the sky, his wand was snapped, and there was a hole the size of a Bludger in the center of his chest.”

*          *          *

   “We’ve received another message from the Italians, my Master,” Bellatrix said quietly, sending the letter soaring into the unopened stack lying on a side table of the Dark Lord’s laboratory. “It appears they are getting persistent.”

    “And until they have the boldness to come to England, their threats are meaningless,” Voldemort replied smoothly, staring at the intricate magical diagram he had sketched within the air – and the hovering The Book of Inversion and Duplex behind it. “Completely irrelevant... unlike this.”

   He turned and fixed Bellatrix with a vivid red-eyed stare. “A lingering mystery, Bella, one I have overlooked, until just hours ago. You see, Potter screamed when I touched him in the graveyard... and while his blood was used to revitalize me, it should not have provoked that reaction.”

   Bellatrix breathed heavily as her hungry eyes followed Voldemort’s every move as he turned back to the diagram. “So what do you think then, my Lord?”

   “A deeper connection between he and I, beyond the fragile mental ties I believe have bound us since I tried to kill him,” Voldemort replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “But how such a connection can exist, I cannot fathom... but that, at this moment, is not the question that we must consider. Instead, the question must be how we can... utilize it.”

   A small grin slid onto Bellatrix’s face. “My Lord, you told me when you asked for my assistance, that you desired the destruction of Potter’s mortal soul.”

   “I did,” Voldemort replied calmly, turning to regard Bellatrix with interest – which only made the woman tremble with exultation.

   “Then perhaps, my Lord, simple destruction of the soul may not be quite what we should seek,” Bellatrix replied, her voice becoming sly. “After all, you’ve lured many to your cause with the right... levers.”

   “I do not suspect, Bella, that Potter would ever join me,” Voldemort replied coolly, traces of amusement in his voice.

   “We do not need him to join you, my Lord,” Bellatrix replied, her smile growing wider as a mad glint appeared in her eyes, and she licked her lips eagerly. “All we need is to push him towards our end designs... and destroy whatever’s left of him once his rage is smothered by despair.”

   Voldemort turned and regarded the magic diagram sketched in flame and red mist for a few seconds before turning back to Bellatrix. “You’re suggesting a different sort of attack.”

   “In a matter of speaking.”

   “And the target, then?”

   Bellatrix raised her finger to her lips and ran the edge of it along her smile. “Simple, my Lord. We destroy his ability to love – permanently.”

*          *          *

   “So let me get this straight,” Harry said with a frown as the memory began to form around them. “Cassane ran some sort of group that was funded by the Ministry, but not officially a part of it? Like the Order was?”

   Moody snorted. “If the Order ever received funding from the Ministry, it was from the salaries and bounties it paid the members that already worked for it, and whatever gold Dumbledore managed to raise. It’s always been a problem – we just don’t always have the capital to match that of, say, the Malfoys –”

   “But Dumbledore always gave a lot,” Tonks added, her own frown deepening as her hair went auburn. “I thought that was what you told me... and speaking of Dumbledore, where is he? I would have thought –”

   “Looks like he’s right... there,” Harry murmured, his heart jumping slightly in his chest as the memory materialized, and surely enough, he could see the old headmaster walking down the hall, his expression concerned as his sky-blue robes fluttered around him. The corridor was relatively nondescript, lined with heavily locked and barred doors – but Dumbledore didn’t pay any of the doors any attention. His eyes were only fixed on a man standing by an iron door at the very end of the hallway – a familiar man with greying hair and fiery brown eyes.

   “About damn time you got here,” Cassane snapped tersely, his voice like a striking whip as he stepped away from the door to peer behind the headmaster. “Where’s Claudius?”

   “Speaking to the crowd of reporters in the Atrium,” Dumbledore replied, his voice very business-like as he stepped next to Cassane. “He’ll buy you a little time – at least before Parkinson and his lawyers get here.”

   “And Scrimgeour?”

   Harry was shocked – and a little scared. There wasn’t just anger in Cassane’s voice, but rage – sheer, undiluted fury that Harry had never heard before.

   “He hasn’t said anything –”

   “Unsurprising,” Cassane’s voice was clipped as he turned towards the door. “I need your key – I heard Crouch’s most recent regulation, that suspects are only allowed to speak with their people when the prosecution or a judge is present, and considering you’re on the Wizengamot –”

   Harry’s eyes went wide. “What?”

   “Yeah, Crouch did more than authorize the Unforgivables,” Moody growled. “It’s easy when people are scared – and dying.”

   Dumbledore raised his wand and with a simple wave, the locks evaporated into thin air. Shoving the door open and lighting his wand without a word, Cassane shoved himself inside the dank, dark cell –

   “Nathan!”

   Harry’s mouth fell open in shock. “This is...”

   “Surreal?” Moody finished Harry’s sentence with a bitter laugh. “Yeah, imagine how it was when we actually arrested him.”

   Antonin Dolohov was the sole occupant of the cell – and he looked far worse than when Harry had seen him at the Christmas dinner. Bruises lined his face, and his lip was badly swollen from a punch to the face. He moved gingerly, but even then he couldn’t move far – his legs had been chained to a wall. But the strangest thing about the picture was that Dolohov was still wearing what were unmistakably Quidditch robes in the colours of England. Did he get pulled straight off a pitch...

   “And Dumbledore... Nathan, you’re pulling out all the stops –”

   “Enough with that, I’ve got Claudius on his way,” Cassane interrupted, pulling Dolohov into a tight embrace with relief. “This is disgusting, how they’re treating you – as soon as the paparazzi finds out they’re keeping a national Quidditch player in these conditions –”

   Dolohov snorted. “They won’t care – the charges are Quidditch-related that landed me in here, or at least the ones they’ve deigned to release. Apparently, I was responsible for fixing the World Cup semi-final match.”

   “If I remember correctly,” Dumbledore spoke up as his brow furrowed, “you were knocked out ten minutes in by a stray Bludger.”

   “But I was the captain, right, and the captain goes down with his ship,” Dolohov replied, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Or his team, in this case. But we both know these are trumped up charges. Nathan, Scrimgeour’s already been down here.”

   “Of course he has,” Cassane hissed through gritted teeth. “And what did you tell him?”

   “Nothing, obviously,” Dolohov replied, his voice picking up as he looked surprisingly nervously around the room. “Nathan, people are going to start asking questions, why we’ve been so lucky... hell, there are suspicions we’re spying for them, only picking up the people Voldemort’s throwing away – Dumbledore, you’ve gotta help us –”

   “Antonin, he’ll do what he can within the rules,” Cassane said warningly, “but that’s not the point. What about that tip you got? What did you find out?”

   Dolohov looked around, and lowered his voice, speaking faster than ever. “Nathan, Voldemort’s moving. The attack we thwarted on Lily and James’ wedding was just the beginning. He knows about us, Nathan, all of us. And he’s coming for us – he’s coming for you, Nathan, the only way he knows how –”

   “Nathan,” Dumbledore said warningly, “I can see them coming.”

   Harry darted around Dumbledore, and surely enough, he could see a crowd of people moving down the hall, all speaking very loudly and waving clipboards and papers –

   “I’ll get you out of here, Antonin, I promise,” Cassane said fervently, pulling Antonin into another embrace before stepping away, moving out of the cell completely. “Just hold up a little longer.”

   “Tell Regina I’ll be okay,” Dolohov called out, his eyes filled with panicked desperation. “Tell her I love her, and I’ll be out as soon as –”

   BANG.

   “He won’t be going anywhere.”

   “Willard Parkinson,” Cassane said, his eyes narrowing with hatred. “And to think the Ministry could sink no lower.”

   The man gave a short bow and a toothy smile, which only accentuated his extreme handsomeness. Perfectly coiffed brown hair, bright eyes, a muscular figure and a clever smile – the man was almost the image of wizarding perfection – but the second Harry moved to get a closer look, he recoiled. The man might be handsome, but there was something beneath the surface about the man that felt wrong. It didn’t help that every one of his smartly dressed aides clustering around him all had expressions of mingled avarice and hunger. Neither expression graced Parkinson’s perfect face – such emotions were beneath him.

   “The Ministry,” Parkinson began smoothly, “ah, chose only to hire the best in prosecuting this highly important case –”

   “When there’s another two Death Eaters that Charon personally brought in this week on multiple Muggle murder charges, you consider this one the important case,” Cassane spat, his enmity for the lawyer evident in every syllable. “Clearly Voldemort’s attorney has his priorities in line.”

   Parkinson stiffened. “I’m insulted.”

   “Good, then my work is done,” Cassane replied curtly, pocketing his wand. “And good luck getting Dolohov to talk – he wasn’t afraid of scum like you at Hogwarts, and while he’s grown a set of balls, yours have only rescinded.”

   Parkinson’s eyes hardened as Dumbledore coughed lightly at the crude words. “So you spoke to Mr. Dolohov?”

   “We did,” Dumbledore replied simply.

   “Then I will require a full transcript of said conversation with complete documentation for the prosecution’s case,” Parkinson said primly, withdrawing a form from his cloak and passing it to Dumbledore – but before Dumbledore could even unfold it, it vanished in his hands.

   “I don’t think so,” Cassane said quietly, this time keeping his wand free.

   “Would you like a subpoena instead?”

   Cassane’s eyes flashed. “You know what?” he whispered, the barely-contained rage slipping into his voice and causing the lawyer and his aides to back up a half-step. “Go ahead – I dare you.”

   “You would stand against your own laws then, Cassane?” Parkinson asked, his eyes glinting with triumph.

   “I stand where I always do,” Cassane replied, and without another word, he shoved his way past the aides without a second glance back, Dumbledore only a few steps behind him.

   Somehow, without quickening his pace, Dumbledore easily caught up to Cassane. “Nathan –”

   “Is there anything you can do?” Cassane abruptly asked, looking at the old man, brown eyes meeting blue. “Anything, Albus?”

   “I will do everything I can to protect him within the fullest extent of the law,” Dumbledore said immediately, “and perhaps a little more.”

   “I’d appreciate it.”

   “We’re on the same side, Nathan.”

   “So is the Ministry,” Cassane retorted, throwing a contempt-filled glare behind him. “And we both know how that’s going. Crouch wants my autonomy – and my people.”

   “They’re good people.”

   “That they are,” Cassane replied shortly, turning away to climb the nearby stairs.

   “And on that, Nathan... my offer still stands.”

   “And the answer’s still ‘no’, Albus,” Cassane replied, turning around to meet Dumbledore’s eyes again. “I know what you’re doing with the Order is good, but... well, you and I know our differences in operations.”

   “Most of your team –”

   “Already works for you part time,” Cassane replied with a scowl, “and you managed to pull Remus out entirely.”

   “He chose to leave of his own free will.”

   “Yeah,” Cassane replied, bitterness leaking into his voice. “Right.”

   And without warning, the memory dissolved around them, and Harry instinctively grabbed Tonks’ hand as the colours bled together and swirled as the world around them warped, slowly reshaping...

   “Where are we now?” Harry asked blankly, looking around the room. It was dark, lit only by strange small globes hanging on chains from the low ceiling that gave a pale white light. It strongly reminded him of Moody’s office, covered in clippings and papers meticulously organized. And even like Moody’s office, there were magical devices and objects lined up on counters around the room – although some of the objects looked far more intimidating than anything Moody had ever brought into Hogwarts. The only wall without a counter or a shelf of books was dominated by a large window, and Harry couldn’t see anything on the other side but sheer blackness.

   “I know where we are,” Tonks whispered suddenly, her eyes lightening up as she turned to Moody. “This is an organization room, for investigations!”

   “Yeah,” Moody replied curtly from where he was scanning a newspaper on top of a pile. “And if this is the most recent paper – and I think it is – this is early September of 1979. Dolohov was arrested at the end of August... not much time has passed...”

   “But whose memory is this?” Harry asked with confusion. “I don’t see Cassane...”

   “I do,” Tonks said quietly, extending a finger and pointing at the far corner of the room.

   Sitting in an old, wooden chair, was Cassane – and he looked terrible. His robes were tatters hanging around his frame, and Harry guessed with a lurch in his stomach that the red stains around Cassane’s sleeves and collar weren’t ketchup or wine. His face almost looked as bad as Dolohov’s, except where Dolohov was bruised, Cassane’s face was littered with cuts, including a nasty one winding down from his temple that stilled leaked a trickle of blood.

   But it wasn’t just Cassane’s face. No, there was something about the way he was sitting. There wasn’t any confidence or pride or even sheer bravado in his expression. His eyes didn’t glint with confidence... no, there was something else there... worry, and fear...

   The door of the room cracked open, and Cassane was on his feet in a second as a hooded figure walked in.

   “Well?” Cassane asked, his voice hoarse.

   The figure pulled back his hood, and Harry’s heart jolted as he saw his father’s face again. “We got him, Nathan. He’s being processed right now, and then Sirius and Lily will have him down here for interrogation.”

   Cassane’s face hardened. “And Claudius?”

   “On his way with everything we need,” James said wearily, hanging up his cloak. “The other Wizengamot members, Parkinson, Crouch, the press... none of them have a clue.”

   Cassane nodded curtly. “Good... this won’t take long.”

   “Nathan, what are you –”

   “My wife,” Cassane interrupted, his voice hoarse again as he turned to face James, “and my daughter, James. They’ve been gone two days and... and there have been no reports. Cassie was following Mulciber, James, he’s our lead.”

   “I know that,” James replied cautiously, “and given usual timing on Death Eater attacks –”

   “I’m not relying on that, Voldemort’s looking to get to me personally.”

   “Which is why you really shouldn’t be the one doing the interview,” James said in a rush.

   For the first time in Harry’s life, he saw a look of shock pass Moody’s face. Tonks whistled under her breath as Cassane turned to face James.

   “Did you miss the part of the conversation, Mr. Potter,” Cassane began quietly, “where I said my wife and daughter were missing?”

   “No, but –”

    “And you think for one nanosecond that I’m not going to go in there myself and find out who took them so I can get them back?” Cassane growled, his voice growing louder and louder. “Do you honestly think that?”

   “Nathan, you’re too close to this!” James pleaded. “Look, I care about Cassie and Phoebe just as much as you do, but you know as well as I do we’ll be lucky if we only get one shot at this before everyone else knows we’ve got him! Mulciber’s a Death Eater, one that specializes in the Imperius Curse! He’s a manipulator, and he’s going to try and mess with our heads!”

   “You think I can’t handle –”

   “All I know is that you wouldn’t want yourself to make a mistake because it’s someone you care about,” James replied, swallowing hard and casting a quick glance towards the door. “And I’m not going to lie and say that this’ll be easy, but if we want answers fast, we need to be analytical. Look, let Lily take the interrogation. She’s really good, she’ll get something out of the bastard, and with Liar’s Heartstone all over the damn market, she’s probably got the best chance we’ve got at getting answers without Veritaserum.”

   There was a long pause as Cassane seemed to consider this.

   “And you’re... you’re comfortable with your wife in that room with Mulciber?”

  “We’ll be watching from the window,” James said with a nod, “and I know Lily can take care of herself. Hell, the three of us helped get the bastard in the first place.”

   Cassane looked as if he was going to say something, but the words caught in his throat, and he simply nodded as they turned towards the window.

   Then the light clicked on the room beyond the window, and Harry couldn’t help but gasp.

   The room was familiar – starkly familiar. Kemester had beaten him bloody in a room just like it. The same dark and close walls, the same metal table bolted to the floor, the same low-hanging light that sputtered every few seconds.

   James took a deep breath and quickly glanced at Cassane. “Are you ready for this?”

   Not really, Harry thought, a strange feeling of dread creeping up into his stomach. He had the feeling he really didn’t want to see this interrogation, not one bit.

   Cassane swallowed and he nodded once. James drew his wand and tapped the glass.

   “Bring him in.”

   The concealed door of the interrogation room broke open with a shuddering bang – courtesy of being kicked open – as a young Sirius shoved his way into the room, dragging a snarling, spitting, violently cursing man wearing rich dark robes. Sirius’ own garb was just as dark, but much cheaper – and more martial. His leather jacket almost looked military (and more than a little strange thrown over his robes), and he was wearing what looked like combat boots made of black dragonhide.

   Moody snorted. “Trust Sirius to augment his uniform.”

   The prisoner spat and tried to take a swing at Sirius, but Sirius easily sidestepped the wild punch – and then slugged the man twice in the face in one easy motion. The prisoner reeled, but Sirius wasn’t done. Manhandling the prisoner with surprising dexterity, he slammed him headfirst into the table.

   Harry couldn’t help but wince – he remembered being in nearly the same position.

   James tapped the glass again. “Easy, Marauder, we need him conscious. Tell our mutual partner she’s got the interrogation, and that she knows what to ask about.”

   Sirius looked up and glared at the window. “This fucker ripped my jacket!” He held up one of his arms to display a large tear in the leather, and a smear of blood leaking from behind the torn lining. “I just bought this thing!”

   “Marauder –”

   “He ripped my jacket, Prongs! You know how expensive –”

   “We’ll deal with it later, Padfoot,” James said tersely. “Lock him in.”

   Sirius rolled his eyes, but without another word, he pulled the nearby lever next to the table, and the very familiar vambraces dropped down onto the Death Eater’s forearms. The prisoner immediately began to struggle –

   “You keep moving like that, you’ll lose both your arms.”

   Harry’s eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat – Lily Potter had just entered the interrogation room.

   She was wearing the same armour that Harry’s simulacrum had worn at Azkaban, albeit a bit less scratched and worn. Her robes were tattered and singed, but they were still in far better shape than the robes that Cassane was wearing.

   But it was her face that struck Harry’s attention. He had seen her in the Mirror of Erised, and in the photo album that Hagrid had given him, but never like this. Her green eyes - so much like his own – were hard as steel, and her jaw was set with angry determination. Her auburn hair had been cut short – it must have been right after the wedding, she had long hair then, Harry thought – and it framed her pale face starkly.

   And unlike Sirius, who nodded as he slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him, her wand was drawn.

   The Death Eater froze in mid-struggle and glared up at her, before spitting once the table.

   James winced, and Harry heard Moody mutter, “He really shouldn’t have done that.”

   The backhanded slap came out of nowhere, and although Lily’s motion was almost delicate, her hit sent the Death Eater reeling, his shoes slipping out from under him as he scrabbled to find a crouching position – unlike Harry, he hadn’t been given a chair.

   “Her hit shouldn’t have knocked him back that hard,” Cassane murmured. “She barely moved.”

   “She charmed her gauntlet so when she backhands someone, she moves with no air resistance,” James replied softly, a small grin creeping onto her face. “Got to love it.”

   “That’s actually a good idea,” Tonks muttered, her hair going aquamarine as she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Wonder if we can try that...”

   “So, as I was saying,” Lily continued, her eyes glittering as she leaned against the wall parallel to the table, opposite the window and perpendicular to the door, “you struggle much more, you’ll lose those arms. And I don’t think Lord Voldemort will find much use for a maimed Death Eater besides cannon fodder.”

   “The Dark Lord,” the Death Eater spat, still scrabbling to find a good crouching position, “would not abandon me. He would give me new limbs –”

   “I’m sorry,” Lily interrupted, raising her wand and twirling it lightly around her finger, “were you under the impression that you’ll ever see your precious ‘Dark Lord’ ever again? The Ministry’s got a slew of Dementors that want your soul, Damien Mulciber – and it would be all too easy for us to give you them.”

   But Mulciber let out a harsh barking laugh at this, a noise Harry was a little surprised the man could make – he looked like a burly guy the same age as Lily, not a middle-aged grizzled veteran. “You think the Dementors are still –”

   “Or I could just beat every scrap of information out of you,” Lily continued idly, continuing to twirl her wand, “and since you’ve undoubtedly taken Liar’s Heartsone –”

   “That your old friend made –”

   The next hit made even James wince, and Harry could only watch as Lily wiped the smear of blood of the back of her gauntlet, with almost disinterest.

   “Anyone who collaborates with scum like you,” she said in a low voice, “is not my friend, Mulciber. So let’s cut out the garbage and let’s see if we can get something worthwhile out of you.”

   “And you’ll think I’ll talk?” Mulciber retorted, wiping blood from his broken nose on the table as he stared up at Lily, a strangely defiant, fanatic look in his eye. “Talk to a Mudblood like you?”

   But Lily, who finally met Mulciber’s wild eyes, simply shrugged. “Well, there’s a good thing about being someone who can charm anything,” she said lightly, giving her wand one final twirl. “It makes a mind like yours so much more pliable.”

   “What are you –”

   “Legilimens!”

   The spell hit Mulciber like a bullet, and he thrashed wildly as Lily twisted her wand in concentration before –

   “NO!”

   Lily paused, and then lowered her wand in the sudden silence.

   “An Occlumens... so Bellatrix has been training all of you –”

   “We’re wasting time,” Cassane muttered, his hand moving towards his own wand, but James grabbed his shoulder.

   “Nathan, give her some time, please.”

   “I don’t have time to just waste –”

   “Just hang on,” James pleaded. “A few more minutes –”

   “Well, without Legilimency,” Mulciber hissed triumphantly, “you ain’t getting into my head.”

   Lily pursed her lips and stepped a little closer, raising her wand. “Well, that’s not exactly true, Mulciber. See, I’ve been working on this little charm, and it’s keyed to my thoughts... and all I need to do is touch my wand to your temple and pull... and I should be able to get exactly what I need.”

   “What?” Moody exclaimed, both of his eyes going wide. “When did she – how did she – why didn’t she tell us?”

   “She might be bluffing,” Tonks replied warily, a sentiment that Mulciber echoed an instant later.

   “You’re full of shit.”

   “That’s your opinion.”

   “It’s fact!” Mulciber shouted. “The spell doesn’t exist, you stupid slut!”

   The next insult didn’t even come, because Lily had sighed and effortlessly flicked Mulciber in the mouth. There was a sickening crack, and bloody teeth flew from the reeling Death Eater’s mouth.

   “Mulciber, I create spells,” Lily said, shaking her head with disdain, hardly even acknowledging the man bleeding copiously from nose and mouth onto the table. “And I’m good at what I do – unlike you. And I’ve just been looking for the right person to test this magic. You know, somebody expendable. And best of all, I can get all the memories you’re trying to hide.”

   “He’s not expendable, he has information!” Cassane snarled, jerking out of James’ grip and drawing his wand. But Sirius, arriving in the room in fresh robes, caught Cassane in midstep and slowly guided him back  towards the window in a surprisingly gentle manner.

   “And as for you... well, I do suspect the charm has adverse effects on the brains of those it is cast upon,” Lily replied softly as her eyes narrowed. “So do you really want to take that risk, Mulciber? Do you really want to risk it all? Do you want to risk becoming even more useless to Voldemort than you already are?”

   Mulciber’s jaw quivered, and Lily’s wand moved closer and closer, her stare never wavering.

   “We can’t let him destroy his mind!” Cassane shouted, his eyes going wild as he shoved Sirius backwards. “I’m not losing Cassie and Phoebe on a bluff, I’m not –”

   “She knows what she’s doing, Nathan –”

   The wand tip moved closer and closer to Mulciber’s temple –

   “Mens –”

    “Wait.”

   Lily stopped the spell mid-incantation, and looked with amusement at Mulciber. “You’re going to talk?”

  Mulciber swallowed hard. “What do you want to know?”

  “Pensieve, now,” Cassane ordered, and James, who let out a relieved sigh, pulled a dented shallow bowl from a nearby cabinet.

   “Whatever you might know regarding Cassandra and Phoebe Cassane,” Lily replied evenly, crossing her arms over her chest. “The memories, of course, so we’re not missing anything.”

   “Nathan, you need a warrant for that,” Sirius warned.

   “I’ll get one from Claudius when he gets here,” Cassane replied quickly, his eyes fixed on Mulciber as he slowly pressed the Pensieve against the glass. And to Harry’s shock, the glass shimmered like liquid, and the Pensieve passed right through, to be caught a second later by Lily’s deft Summoning Charm. And in one fluid motion, she slammed it on the table with a loud bang.

   But a strange expression was creeping onto Mulciber’s face. “Cassane... you said Cassane.”

   “Good to know I didn’t damage your hearing,” Lily replied coolly.

   A grin crept onto Mulciber’s thin face. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

   “Apparently, I did damage your cognitive functions, though,” Lily replied humourless, raising her wand. “The memories, Mulciber –”

   “Cassane, you want to know what your wife tasted like? You want to know what she said when I was inside –”

   But he didn’t get anymore words off, as Lily slapped her wand to the Death Eater’s temple and pulled. The memory strand came fast, and fell into the waiting Pensieve, which she hurriedly Banished with a wave of her wand through the shimmering glass and into Cassane’s waiting hands.

   And then gravity seemed to shift again. Harry felt his perspective warp, and suddenly he was falling and falling and falling –

   The room was dark and made of stone, only like by a few torches along the walls. The room was very small, but it was filled with tables and couches and strange instruments mounted on the walls –

   “This is a memory within a memory,” Moody said, his eyes widening as he saw Cassane land in the room and look around wildly, looking for someone, anything –
   And there she was, stripped and shoved into a barren corner like a piece of discarded garbage, surrounded by broken shards of metal, covered in blood from horrific lacerations across her fair skin, her brown hair thrown back to show her neck at an unnatural angle...

   “CASSIE!”

   The breath caught in Harry’s throat as Cassane – a man who Harry had never seen snap or seriously lose control of his emotions, streak across the room and try to hold his wife in his arms – only for his hands to pass right through her –

   And then the door opened.

   They all looked up to see two masked men drag someone inside the room – it was dark, it was hard to tell who it was –

   “Mummy! No, Mum, no –”

   Her voice was cut off by a brutal crunch, as one of the masked figures punched the woman in the jaw, silencing her just long enough to slam her against the wall opposite.

   Harry recognized her in a second – it was Phoebe, Cassane’s daughter.

   She had been stripped naked as well, and her eyes were wide with utter terror. Harry could hear Cassane’s breath catch in his throat –”

   “We don’t get to take this one?” the first Death Eater asked with disappointment.

   “We don’t need to,” the second Death Eater – Mulciber, Harry realized with horror – replied, turning towards the smouldering fireplace. He picked up a thin flaming log from the fire  in his gloved hand. “We just need to make sure he sees it.”

   “Daddy?” Phoebe whimpered, her eyes fixed on the flaming log. “Daddy... daddy, where are you?”

   “Oh, he’s coming, sweetie,” Mulciber whispered, turning the log over in his hands as his partner picked up a small bucket of a brackish liquid, a short stubby knife, and what looked like a paintbrush. “We’re just going to make sure... you’re nice and ready for him.”

   Cassane let out a choked sound, and Tonks grabbed Harry’s hand.

  Moody only closed his eyes.

   “Dad... oh god, it hurts! DADDY! HELP ME!”

   Harry jammed his eyes shut – he didn’t want to see this, he didn’t want to see anymore, he pulled Tonks into her arms as he felt tears fill his eyes even as his feet left the ground...

   They came out of the Pensieve, and James and Sirius immediately steadied Cassane on his feet, but Cassane didn’t need to be steadied. Instead, he drew his wand.

   “REDUCTO!”

   The glass exploded, and Cassane went right through the window, seizing Mulciber by the throat, his eyes red with tears and wild with fury.

   “WHERE IS SHE?”

   “I don’t –”

   “Lily, break his legs.”

   “Locomotor mortis. Reducto.”

   CRACK

   “AAAAHHH! Th-the old Black safehouse that Cygnus and Druella used during Grindelwald’s –”

   It was enough for Cassane, who let go of Mulciber’s throat and vaulted back through the window, Summoning his cloak and hat without even a wave of his wand.

   “Nathan –”

   “Lily, kill Mulciber.”

   Lily’s iron-hard demeanour finally broke, and she threw a shocked glance at James and Sirius. “I... I don’t think – Nathan, we can’t just –”

   “Fine,” Cassane snapped, pulling black dragonhide gloves over his hands. “Then make him wish for it.”

   He spun on his heel, and Harry felt the sudden squeeze of space crushing around him...

   They reappeared - in front of a building that had been consumed.

   The roof was gone entirely, torn apart by flames. The stone walls were even partially melted, evidence that the fire that had consumed this building was far from natural. But even despite the danger, Cassane didn’t care. He ran into the building, his clothes soon covered with soot as he ran from ruined room to room, the flames guttering around him as he screamed his daughter’s name.

   “Phoebe? PHOEBE! WHERE ARE YOU? PHOEBE –”

   He felt Tonks’ hands around him and he pulled her into an embrace. He could feel the wetness of her tears on his face...

   “PHOEBE, I’M HERE... oh no, oh god...”

   Harry looked at that moment, but he wished he hadn’t – Cassane had found the room – and his daughter.

   “Phoebe, I’m here – Daddy’s here... oh god, no... no please...”

    Tonks was sobbing opening now, her hair jet black as she watched Cassane sink to his knees, his tears tracing lines in the dirt on his face...

   “I’m sorry, Nathan.”

   Harry looked up at this – and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

   Antonin Dolohov was standing barely feet away from Cassane, his robes covered in ash, his eyes red. His arms were bare.

   And on one of his arms was the livid red tattoo of the Dark Mark.

   Cassane looked up, his hand going to his wand. “Antonin... you... you...”

   “It was quick,” Dolohov replied quietly. “She asked for it... in the end.”

   “Why didn’t you try and save her?” Cassane screamed, his entire body shaking with emotion as he tore his gloves off and pulled his wand free. “Why did you let this happen? Why –”

   “REGINA’S DEAD!”

   The words stopped Cassane in a second, and his mouth fell open. “But...”

   “What happened to protecting her, Nathan?” Dolohov roared, his own eyes wild with sorrow and fury, mirroring Cassane’s. “What happened? Instead, she’s fucking dead! The Ministry came for her just like they came for me, and she fought and... and –”

   “Antonin, I didn’t know – it doesn’t mean y-you should –”

   “WHY NOT?” Dolohov yelled, yanking his hood back. “It’s always been them! It’s always been the rest of the world that ruins people like us! And no matter how fucking hard we try and save them, they piss all over it and ruin our lives! EVERY-FUCKING-TIME! SO FUCK IT! I’M DONE!”

   Dolohov’s words were ragged, as if they were ripped straight from his throat, but he didn’t say a word until Cassane stood.

   “I’m not gonna kill you, Nathan – not today. He wants you to live, you know.” Dolohov blinked twice and ran a hand across his eyes. “He wants you to become like me.”

   “I’ll never join him,” Cassane whispered hoarsely.

  Dolohov shook his head sadly as he picked up a battered broom leaning against the ruined wall. “Nathan...  in his books, you already have. It’s all part of the plan... he said one dead wife deserves another... but he’s already won. I’m just there because there are people that need to die and meet their justly deserved hell – you know, the one we were already going to.”

   “You could have saved her,” Cassane whispered.

   “I did,” Dolohov replied quietly as he mounted the broom, “and I only wish I could save you too. Save yourself, Nathan – please.”

  The wand dropped from Cassane’s nerveless fingers, and he fell to his knees in the ash where his daughter had died as Dolohov slowly rose into the sky. Without warning, Harry felt himself and Tonks rise into the sky as well, but he somehow managed to catch the last of Cassane’s words.

   “They’re dead... they’re dead... and so am I.”