“Well?”

   “Well what?”

    “Did you get an answer out of him?” Malfoy demanded, his nose flaring as glared at Zabini.

    “He sent the message, if that’s what you’re asking,” Zabini replied coolly. “I’m not sure what else you wanted from him.”

   Malfoy let out a hiss and continued pacing. It was the weekend – which was fortunate, considering Nott’s worsening condition, and that if he attended a class, it was only a matter of time before somebody found him out. And then Moody would come and who knows what…

   “Stop pacing,” Zabini finally snapped, matching Malfoy’s glare.

   “Well, forgive me if I’m a little concerned!” Malfoy retorted, moving to the plush armchair opposite Zabini and dropping into it. “The fortunes of my family, the hunt for Nott, the undeniable fact that Potter remains on the loose – and I thought at least you would care about that last bit –”

   “I have had the opportunity to grieve for my mother,” Zabini said curtly, turning back to his book. “After all, upon reflection, considering… elements of her lifestyle, it was only a matter of time.”

   “That’s callous –”

   “It’s as if you don’t know me at all, Draco.” Zabini flipped a page in his book. “Potter’s fate is up to the Dark Lord, as it has always been – why should I waste my valuable time concerned with it?”

   “Namely because you’re a target –”

   “And unlike you, I’m inconspicuous,” Zabini returned crisply. “Potter won’t even look at me.”

   “And what about Weasley, or Granger?” Malfoy pursued, his eyes narrowing. “They know you’re involved.”

   The dark-skinned young man considered this, and closed his book slowly. “Weasley… Ronald Weasley is reckless, but considering his brother’s death, he’ll either seek revenge – which we have not seen – or he’ll be cautious.”

   “And Granger?” Malfoy wrinkled his nose with disgust. “The Mudblood is at least moderately intelligent – she might figure something out, and if Weasley eggs her on, she might find something to pass along to Potter. She –”

   “I haven’t seen anything from Granger to indicate that there is any close connection to Potter –”

   Malfoy snorted. “Yeah, but you haven’t had to deal with them regularly for the past few years. If Granger isn’t whispering something in Potter’s ears, I’ll eat my shoes –”

   “A meal, given the state of your estate, you probably couldn’t afford,” Zabini remarked wryly.

   “Shut up. My point is that if we need another target – particularly if we want to neutralize Potter – she should be on the list.” Malfoy lowered his voice. “We targeted Loony Lovegood for less.”

   Zabini paused before speaking, his eyes narrowing. “That also brings us back to dealing with our mutual friend Theodore, and considering his degeneration –”

   “Wh-Whose degeneration?”

   Malfoy hastily looked away as Zabini stopped in mid-sentence and looked at Nott. Somehow, the young man had added bleak circles under his eyes to his already horribly dishevelled appearance. But despite a strange listlessness in his expression, his gaze looked surprisingly sharp.

   “Sounds like… sounds like you’re talking ‘bout me,” Nott said, his hands clenching into fists. “That’s cruel, Blaise – I’m helping you, both of you, and I don’t like insubordination from the people under my command.”

   Malfoy opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it immediately. It wasn’t worth contradicting Nott right now. Not when he was as unstable as he was.

   “In any case, the Dark Lord will probably be replying soon,” Nott continued, his eyes glinting dangerously, even as his voice didn’t change from its half-slurring monotone. “The circle… it’s almost linked, Draco, it’s almost all the way ‘round. We served the Dark Lord well…well, for the most part.” His eyes rested on Malfoy. “There are still weak links in the chain… pieces that need a little refinement.”

   “What does that mean, Nott?” Zabini asked cautiously.

   “It means that to complete the circle, we need to take from all four houses – and we’ve been neglecting one in particular,” Nott replied, his unblinking stare fixed on Malfoy. “First was Ravenclaw, then Gryffindor, then Slytherin blended with Ravenclaw – with a jump-start to Hufflepuff – and now we’ve got four left to complete the circle. The Hufflepuff is already prepared… but that still means we need a Gryffindor… and a Slytherin.”

   Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “And you can’t just do what we did with Lovegood –”

  Nott’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Bending rules only works once – and trust me when I say we shouldn’t snap them completely.”

   “Okay, then what about –”

   “No – it needs to be a Slytherin, Draco.” Nott’s gaze drifted as if to scrutinize Malfoy from every angle. “Are you… volunteering?”

   “He’s not,” Zabini quickly interjected, motioning for Malfoy to leave the room, “but let’s talk about something – you said four, not three. Why?”

   Nott immediately launched into an animated discussion – or at least his body language was animated, his voice was still completely monotonic, but Malfoy had long stopped caring. Shoving his books into his bag as he walked, he ducked into the dormitory bathroom and shut the door, breathing hard as he leaned against the dark, cold wood.

   He couldn’t quite believe it – Zabini had been right all along. Nott was insane – and it could have easily been Malfoy in that position should the Dark Lord had chosen him. It could have been me, he thought with a shudder, casting a quick glance at the mirror before turning away. I’ll take the scars over insanity, thank you very much…

   Malfoy took a heavy breath as he set his bag down next to the sink as his thoughts drifted. What would have the year been like if the Dark Lord hadn’t come back? He would have had his O.W.L.s, his homework, his family, girls… now all lost in the mission.

   A necessary loss… doesn’t change the fact that it complicates things…

   Tap-tap

   He looked up, and turned to the tiny window set high on the bathroom wall. Next to it was a small, rather scrubby-looking owl with ruffled feathers and a surprisingly sour expression – and a letter tied to its foot.

   Malfoy quickly opened the stiff latch to the window and deftly pulled the letter free. It had to be for him, but from who?

  The answer became apparent the second he unrolled the note.

To my son,

   As I’m quite sure you are aware, our family has fallen upon hard times in the past few months. It has led your mother and me to reconsider our options for the future and the long-term prosperity of our line, and of your education.

   As I know you are quite aware, Hogwarts is no longer safe – but what you may not know is that whatever meagre safety you might have will slip away as your mission continues, particularly given certain factors involving its instigation.

   On a similar note, our family has suffered grievously through a combination of mishandled opportunities, failures, and accidents that have rendered us pariahs. Such a status is not befitting to this family and our station, and thus, after much discussion, we have a new plan.

   Given the damage to the family holdings here in England, we will be withdrawing to one of our many summer properties on the mainland until we can find a more permanent locale. You will be transferred to Beauxbatons (Durmstrang will be far too easy of a target by those seeking you) under an assumed name, and thus attain anonymity, given that you remain unmarked. My flight will prove slightly more complex, but I can assure you that the pieces are already moving.

   I know this is not ideal for you, my son, but we have no other choice. It is clear that certain elements view this family as nothing more than pawns on this chessboard, and I refuse to remain a pawn any longer.

   Please reply with your confirmation of this message, along with a date on which you will be available to leave Hogwarts inconspicuously.

Sincerely,

Your father

   He could hardly believe the message, and he read it again. And then again.

   By the fourth time he had reread the letter, some of the fear had vanished – but only some. It would be tricky, very tricky to pull off.

   But there was a way out – he had a way out – and a chance to start over.

   He had never been so happy to leave Hogwarts before in his life.

***

  Kemester wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead as he looked into the tiny room where Larshall – his partner – was lying. He had run up the narrow rickety stairs to get to the rooms, and the very fact that he was breathing hard showed his loss of fitness from Azkaban, but he didn’t care – not this time.

    He strained to get a better look, but he couldn’t see much of him, and he didn’t dare open the door and compromise any healing magic that was placed on the room itself.

   “Where’s the bloody Healer, they told me he’d – ah, perfect!” He gestured towards the man in bright green robes approaching, scanning a clipboard through narrow-rimmed spectacles. “You told me I could –”

   “He is awake, yes,” the Healer replied irritably, looking up from his clipboard.

   “Then I can see him?” Kemester pursued, raising his eyebrows with impatience.

   “As soon as I unlock the doors, yes, but before we do so, I’d like to discuss your partner’s condition,” the Healer replied, peering down at the clipboard again. “And, once again, you won’t have much time, your Department requires that he undergo a full debriefing –”

   “And when they get here, they can have it,” Kemester said, trying to rein in his impatience. This time, I’m not going to treat him like garbage – this time the partnership will mean something... “So what did you want to discuss with me, then?”

   The Healer looked down the hall carefully before stepping closer and lowering his voice. “You do know the reports that have come back from Azkaban –”

   “I was there, on the last Portkey out before the island exploded,” Kemester replied with a grimace. “I thought Larshall was dead – nobody could have survived that explosion. At least that’s what I heard – the Spire was apparently levelled –”

   “I wouldn’t know about that,” the Healer interrupted quickly, “but what I do know is this: from what few fragments of his clothes we found embedded in his skin, we magically tested and analyzed – and we discovered that from the scale of the burning, if Mr. Larshall was indeed wearing these clothes, he should be less than a cinder, rather than sprawled half-drowned on the edge of what’s left of the island.”

   Kemester ran his hand along his chin. Perfect, just another question for which I don’t have an answer. “You’re saying he shouldn’t have survived.”
   “I’m saying that it is physically impossible he survived,” the Healer replied in a low voice. He looked inside and shook his head with disbelief. “He shouldn’t have lived, Mr. Kemester, much less in as good of a condition as he is, with limbs and organs intact and functioning!”

    “So you’re telling me that –”

    “It’s a miracle he’s alive, if we would believe in such things,” the Healer replied, looking back to his clipboard with a huff. “Those of us who believe in the law of large numbers just call it a statistical anomaly.”

   “Excuse me, what?”

   “It’s a Muggle thing,” the Healer replied with irritation, drawing his wand and muttering a few words as he tapped the door. The door glowed slightly, and then dimmed. “Alohomora. There, you should be fine to go inside.”

   “Thank you,” Kemester replied, wrenching the door open and heading straight into the room, completely ignoring the Healer’s scoff as he continued down the hall.

***

   “Well?”

   “I told him everything you instructed me,” the Healer replied in a low voice, not looking up from his clipboard. “And the gold best be in my vault at Gringotts by tomorrow morning or there’ll be hell to pay.”

   The Healer could see the cloaked, blond man’s lip curl. “Not yet ready to transfer to a wizard bank?”

   “When a bank gets shelled by goblin artillery, it’s hard to trust the financial security of such an institution,” the Healer replied briskly. “Now either proceed to your appointment or get out of my way, I have patients.”

   Lucius Malfoy nodded sharply, pulling his hood tight around his face as the Healer left. He had been fortunate to discover the man in one of his quiet visits to St. Mungo’s for treatment of his injury – and even more fortunate to discover the man could be easily bought.

   A shame that was the easy part of this.

***

  “And you don’t remember anything?”

   “Nothing after everything going white-hot,” Larshall replied wearily, shaking his head. “I wish I could, but the first thing I remember is waking up in here. I thought I was dead.”

  “By all accounts you should have been,” Kemester said, exhaling slowly as he pulled his chair a little closer to his partner’s bed. “Apparently according to an analysis of the clothes you were wearing, there shouldn’t have been anything left of you at all...”

   “But you’re here,” Larshall said, his eyes brightening. “You were actually able to come and see me, and that means…”

   “I’m a free man again,” Kemester replied, scratching his temple, one of the few parts of his face not horribly seamed by burns. “Under watch, but otherwise exonerated. You don’t think you’d be able to get any reparations for my little stint in Azkaban?”

  “Considering what the Ministry’s been going through, you’d be lucky to even get an apology,” Larshall admitted with a sigh. “Assuming it’s chaos in there?”

   “The full panic in our world hasn’t set in yet, but that’s only a matter of time,” Kemester said bitterly. “The second the Minister makes a coherent statement to the international press, all hell is going to break loose – especially considering that he’ll need to prepare it in a way that allows him to salvage his career and get immunity for his office. The families of those Azkaban guards are going to be screaming for Fudge’s head.” Kemester looked towards the small darkened window next to the bed. “It’d be easier for him to just admit that You-Know-Who was back and Dumbledore was right, but he won’t admit it as long as Dumbledore remains missing.”

   “He wouldn’t admit guilt anyways,” Larshall said with a grimace as he shifted in his bed. “So everyone in the office has accepted he’s back?”

   “The few I’ve talked to have,” Kemester replied. “And yeah, no sign of Dumbledore anywhere. You know, I’ve got a funny feeling – I bet the old bastard’s up to something. He’s normally a bigger presence – that we haven’t heard from him for this long…”

   Larshall ran a hand over his bristly hair. “Back to the conspiracy theories, then?”

   “I have evidence to back all of my theories,” Kemester replied stiffly. “And besides, we do have a leak.”

   “I thought you considered Sanders the leak,” Larshall said tiredly.

   “Doesn’t make sense, because if we factor You-Know-Who into matters, things become more complicated.” Kemester gave Larshall a very even stare. “For instance, I read your report on the ‘informant’ who tipped you off regarding the Azkaban raid. Commendable report, but I could Malfoy’s fingerprints all over it.”

   Larshall was speechless. “But… how –”

   “I read between the lines. Malfoy’s persona non grata right now throughout the Ministry, and any ‘unknown’ informant tipping you off regarding that sort of attack would either be a member of Dumbledore’s group – which you would have noted in your briefing documentation you passed along to Scrimgeour – or a Death Eater.” Kemester shrugged. “As for the jump to Lucius Malfoy, it just made sense.”

   “And you’ve obviously had dealings with Malfoy in the past,” Larshall reasoned. “But that still doesn’t rule Sanders out as a leak – he looked like he was under the Imperius Curse back at Azkaban –”

   “An Imperius that wouldn’t be necessary if he was the spy,” Kemester continued. “And while we knew he was passing information to Umbridge –”

   “But what if Umbridge is the leak?”

   “That was my first thought, and it makes a degree of sense until you consider that Umbridge hasn’t nearly been embroiled in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – she tends to keep her distance for the most part.” Kemester’s brow furrowed. “And it’s all the little leaks, the little pieces, that aren’t lining up – that requires a degree of subtlety I don’t think she’s capable of.”

   “She was involved with H.A.I.T. –”

   “That was more political than anything,” Kemester said, turning back to Larshall. “No, I’m talking about missing evidence in the Potter files – and the Black file, when you come to it – and those Umbridge has never been close to. And there are questions that still haven’t been answered.”

   “Like what?”

   “Like who killed Laertes Rawling, and why,” Kemester finished, his expression stormy as he grimaced with frustration. “I don’t believe Dumbledore had Sturgis Podmore kill him – it’s too sloppy, Dumbledore’s far more meticulous, and Podmore pointed the finger far too quickly. No, something’s missing there, something we’ve overlooked. And frankly, it’s the only case file there’s any hope in hell I’ll be able to access, given all the oversight.”

   Larshall gave Kemester a very frank expression. “You can’t exactly be surprised by that –”

   Kemester glared at Larshall. “Do you want to help or what? It’s a cold case, and one that might help us plug the leak before it ruins any more lives and kills any more Hit Wizards.”

   “And you think it’s all tied together?”

   “There are too many things that make no sense for it not to be –”

   The door to the recovery room opened suddenly, and Kemester whirled, his hand plunging for his wand –

    To see the last woman he would ever expect to enter the room, wearing a grubby brown coat, her blonde hair lank around her face and jewelled spectacles, and a very business-like expression on her face.

  “I was told you were down here, Mr. Kemester,” Rita Skeeter said evenly, pulling an acid-green quill from her coat. “Don’t worry, I need to add another piece to your puzzle.”

   Larshall’s eyes widened, but Kemester only snorted with disbelief. “And why would I believe anything a professional hack like you would deliver?”

  Skeeter bristled. “Because two old Death Eaters burned down my flat about a month ago, and I figured you can only look for answers and theories for so long on your own before you consult a professional.”

  “And you’re coming to me?” Kemester asked coolly, crossing his arms over his chest. “That seems… unlikely. Uncharacteristic of you.”

   “Mr. Kemester, you have a reputation,” Skeeter replied, “and while we haven’t seen eye-to-eye in the past –”

   Kemester could hear his partner stifle a snort, but he didn’t particularly care – it was widely known outside of the Department and the Ministry that he had little patience or courtesy for journalists of any type, and even less for Rita Skeeter. But despite himself, he was intrigued.

   “How did you know they were Death Eaters?” he asked, leaning against the wall and fixing Skeeter with a critical eye.

   “One of them was Fenrir Greyback,” Skeeter began crisply, “and given his known affiliations –”

   “He could have easily been there on werewolf business,” Larshall interrupted.

   “And why would the werewolves target me?” Skeeter retorted. “I believe in the stamping out of vampires, not werewolves. And besides, they mentioned You-Know-Who. They said they wanted me out of the way because of the article I did for Cassane, indicting the Ministry of its crimes.”

   Kemester quickly looked towards Larshall. “Want to fill me in?” he asked, his tone a mixture between shock and supressed anger.

   “Somehow, she got her hands on a bunch of files and documents,” Larshall replied curtly. “She and some foreign correspondent published an article for the Supreme Mugwump Cassane demanding the Minister resigned and an investigation into your behaviour. Apparently, Cassane made contact with Potter himself, and Potter gave up everything. The article made some waves, but Fudge had plausible deniability about the wholes mess and too many people were scared to ask the next round of questions. It hasn’t ruined him –”

   “But with whatever happened in Azkaban, it’s only a matter of time,” Skeeter replied smugly.

   “Do you have a death wish or something?” Kemester growled through his clenched teeth. “Writing an article like that, in this political climate, it’s no surprise someone set your flat on fire! Have you considered the possibility that –”

   He paused at the eager look on Skeeter’s face. No, can’t forget she’s a reporter – I can’t even make the implication that Greyback might have been paid off by someone in the Ministry, regardless if it sounds exactly like something Umbridge would do.

   “In any case,” he continued, his voice far more measured, “you said the Death Eaters mentioned You-Know-Who. What does that mean to you?”

   Skeeter, for the first time since she had entered the room, looked visibly unsure of what she was going to say. “I…look, when Amoccio – the international correspondent – came to me with the files that he had been given, there was a statement included inside them that said You-Know-Who was back. It was from Potter, and given the political climate right now, I figured it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to publish something like that in the Prophet, particularly considering the way the Ministry went after Dumbledore and Potter for holding that stance. Besides, while there was evidence in the file, there wasn’t enough to make a definitive statement, at least outside of Potter’s word. But now… now I don’t know.”

   Kemester exchanged a glance with Larshall, the unspoken question hanging heavily in the air. Did they tell her what most of the Ministry had already come to accept, and was trying to keep covered up?

   “Why are curious about that, anyways?” Skeeter pursued, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you so quiet? Why, is You-Know-Who –”

   “If we had more evidence, Fudge would have made a statement by now,” Kemester replied brusquely.

   “No guarantee of that,” Larshall muttered, “considering how his ratings have bounced up and down –”

   “Our country’s not screaming for his head, so we can make the reasonable assumption that he’d make a statement – if only to be the one making the statement – if he knew that You-Know-Who was back,” Kemester replied. “As it is… well, I assume you’ve heard about Azkaban.”

   “Bits and pieces,” Skeeter said slowly. “Why, is there…”

   Her voice trailed off. “Oh.”

   “You see the problem,” Kemester said coolly, stepping around the bed and closer to the reporter. “If the wizarding world, the general public, found out how dangerously weak the Ministry is right now, particularly the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, we could have a crisis on our hands – and I know you wouldn’t want to enable a crisis. Right, Skeeter?”

   Skeeter scowled. “I’m not an idiot, Mr. Kemester, I just want answers.”

   “As do I,” Kemester replied, tucking his hands into his pockets as he fixed the reporter with an evaluative stare, sizing her up. “At the moment, there are far too many things that have gone unanswered, too many unmatched pieces in this puzzle – and I could use an investigative reporter who has a… fondness for the ugly truth.”

   “I tell it like it is.”

   “And that’s my point,” Kemester continued, glancing at Larshall. “As soon as I can help my partner get back on his feet, we’re going to get at every shred of evidence we have and put this puzzle together. Now, obviously we won’t be able to get everything – I don’t suspect to find much new material on certain characters, and I know I won’t be able to find anything on others. Those, I think, you might have more luck with.”

   “Dmitri, who are you referring to?” Larshall asked cautiously.

   “Come on, Reed, think,” Kemester replied impatiently. “I can’t go asking open questions about Scrimgeour or Umbridge or Fudge or Cassane – they’re prominent public figures or members of my own damn Department, and we’re not going to be able to get close to them.” He glanced at Skeeter. “Not the way certain reporters can.”

   A small grin slowly grew on Skeeter’s face. “You want dirt?”

   “I don’t care about their dirty secrets,” Kemester replied tersely, “unless they’re really dirty, obviously – but I do want documentation and motivations, and connections to people. You have a reputation for getting that sort of thing.”

   “I do,” Skeeter said with a crafty smile.

   “Don’t look so happy,” Kemester snapped, “it’s not a good reputation. In any case, Larshall and I will be working on the murder case of Laertes Rawling.”

   Skeeter frowned. “Who?”

   “Unspeakable who was killed a few months ago,” Larshall spoke up. “See, she doesn’t even remember him.”

   “Not surprised,” Kemester muttered, “the case only stayed on the public mind for nearly a day before falling off.”

   “What about Potter?”

   Kemester snapped his gaze back to Skeeter. “What about him?”

   “You’ve gone after him before.” There was no accusation in Skeeter’s tone, only truth. “I assumed he’s still on your mind.”

   Kemester exchanged another glance with Larshall. “The problem is tracking Potter and getting close to him – he’s hard to follow, and I know for a fact that some people have a vested interest in keeping him protected.” The last word came from gritted teeth as he thought of Nymphadora Tonks and her collaboration with that lawyer of Potter’s, Clarissa Desdame. “I’ve got a suspicion he was doing something with the goblins –”

   “No, that’s true,” Skeeter interrupted evenly.

   Kemester’s eyes widened. “What?”

   “When I was speaking to one of Potter’s contacts, a Miss Fleur Delacour,” Skeeter said conspiratorially, “she may have mentioned that she was passing along dealings between Mr. Potter and Gringotts. Now granted, she did say this to ensure that Potter indeed intended to pay me, but I can confirm that there was something going on –”

   But Kemester wasn’t listening – his mind was racing. Why on earth would Potter bomb Gringotts in August and then try to deal with the goblins? The little fiends don’t forget things like that – wait a minute, that accountant Welmon said that Potter was looking for information about two dead accountants, who were apparently tied to the Potter Vaults case... and I don’t remember Lucius mentioning multiple vaults when we attempted to ‘transfer’ his funds… that must mean he’s either keeping the money isolated and out of our reach…

   “Or he doesn’t have access to it,” he breathed, a puzzle piece finally snapping into place. “And he wants that money.”

   “Pardon?” Skeeter asked, her Quick-Quotes Quill rising to her lips.

   “Put that away,” Kemester said, his eyes wildly snapping to Larshall. “Reed, I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise, but I need to go dig up some old files. Skeeter, I need you to get in contact with that Delacour girl again and verify whether or not all of Potter’s negotiations were executed.”

   “That might be a bit of a problem,” Skeeter replied tersely. “And that’s the other reason why I’m here.”

   “What?” Kemester demanded.

   “To report a missing person, one that I think has valuable information,” Skeeter replied evenly. “You see, I can’t find her, and I haven’t been able to for the past few months. For all intents and purposes, Fleur Delacour is gone.”

***

   For a long few minutes, none of them really spoke. Moody limped behind his desk and pulled out his kettle, filling it with water from the tip of his wand and heating it in seconds. Tonks sat in one of the mismatched armchairs around the office, her eyes shadowed as she stared into her lap.

   And Harry just stood, his mind in a daze from everything he had seen, everything he had witnessed…

   He felt Moody press the mug of hot tea into his hands. “Drink.”

   He didn’t drink. Instead, he set his mug down and watched Moody give the second mug to Tonks, who took it and continued to stare at the floor aimlessly.

   “You should drink that,” Moody said in a low voice, pouring himself a mug once he had limped back to his desk. “It’s got herbs… help relax you.”

   “We can’t sleep here,” Tonks whispered, not looking up. “The time sink…”

   “But we should talk while you’re still here,” Moody replied, pulling his notebook out and peeling it open to a fresh page. “We got a lot of valuable information in there.”

   “Did we?” Harry asked suddenly, his eyes snapping up. “Did we, Professor? Sure, I got to see my Mum and Dad and Sirius and Cassane’s group, but… but ultimately, we still don’t have most of the answers.”

   “We know what role Claudius Kemester played with Cassane’s group,” Moody replied steadily, his quill whizzing across the page. “He was their judge they went to for warrants and convictions –”

   “And apparently a traitor, since he ended up in Azkaban,” Tonks said harshly, looking up and taking a sip of her steaming tea, which she nearly spat out. “You have to wonder if Dolohov had a point in there – whether or not Voldemort was just playing us all for fools –”

    “I don’t buy that for one damn second,” Moody retorted sharply, looking up from his book. “As much as I disapproved of what Cassane’s group did – for as much of it as we saw – they did save lives, and there were a lot of good people working with him. And besides, Dumbledore would have done something if the group was being played for Voldemort’s benefit.”

   “But even still, we don’t know everything,” Harry said, a bitter note creeping into his voice. “Cassane’s memories were informative, but there were huge gaps! He even admitted that – after the deaths of his family, we don’t see anything else. We don’t know what happened with the group, what they did, why the Potter Vaults were sealed, why Snape was involved at all, or why Kemester Senior went to prison! We just end up with more questions!”

   “At this point, we can at least begin searching for answers,” Moody said crisply, continuing to scribble as quickly as he could. “And I think we might have something more with the Potter Vaults.”

   “Really?” Tonks asked, unable to stop the sarcasm from leaking into her voice.

   “We know from Dumbledore that there were four people who know the full extent to the Potter Vaults debacle,” Moody replied, snapping his notebook shut and dropping it on his desk. “Two are dead, one was in Azkaban – Mr. Claudius Kemester, I would assume – and the final is Severus Snape. We know that Kemester was a judge – he was likely involved in the decision to close said vaults. Do we know who the two dead people are?”

   “Miguel Prince and Keaton Matthis,” Tonks replied quietly, almost to herself. “Defense and prosecuting attorneys. Lupin told me when I ran into him a few months ago.”

   “Fine, then that leaves Snape in some role,” Moody finished, his mismatched eyes glittering. “Now he was a known Death Eater, he wouldn’t have had any role in the decision-making process. I suspect he might have been called in as a witness.”

   “For which side?” Harry asked suspiciously.

   “That’s what the trial documentation would inevitably tell us and considering the fracas of paperwork that has been lost in the Ministry, both in the recent explosions and over the past fourteen years, I don’t suspect we’ll ever find that,” Moody growled. “But what the documentation would not tell us is Keaton Matthis’ motivations for pushing for a vault closure.”

   “Wasn’t he the lawyer for the Rosiers, trying to prevent their vault from being closed?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing. “The Rosiers were Death Eaters – they could have bribed him to take the case – or maybe Matthis was a Death Eater himself.”

   “None of the Order intelligence ever indicated Matthis was a Death Eater,” Moody replied emphatically. “Probably because he did as much damage to the Death Eater cause as he did to ours. He was a freelance financial lawyer, from what I remember – too full of himself to work for a firm, he sold his skills to the highest bidder – and given that he was actually pretty damned good at his job, he made himself very rich doing so, so I doubt his motivations were for the money.”

   “What about this Miguel Prince?” Harry asked, his gaze darting from Tonks to Moody. “Remember anything about him?”

   “Other than the fact every case I remember him being involved with was a disaster,” Moody replied with a snort, “nothing much. He was also freelance – but unlike Matthis, it was more because no other firm would hire him other than the Ministry.”

   “So it sounds like Matthis would have had no trouble crushing Prince in court,” Tonks said, her hair going yellow-blonde and curly as she frowned. “But if Kemester was a judge working with Cassane, why would he turn on your parents?”

   “Maybe because he was a Death Eater and with the Dark Lord gone, he was looking for an opportunity to get even?” Harry returned, grasping his temples with frustration. “It’s the obvious answer.”

   “But it doesn’t make any sense, Harry,” Tonks argued. “If Kemester was a Death Eater, why didn’t he do something to bring down Cassane’s group earlier? He could have made their lives a living hell, but instead he was probably their greatest supporter within the Ministry, with the warrants and everything. Hell, both of his sons grew up to be Hit Wizards! It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense that he would turn out to be one of Voldemort’s active sympathizers. If he was just under Imperius or blackmail or coercion, he would have easily escaped Azkaban – hell, the Malfoys did!”

   “Unless he was an exceedingly good actor –”

   “Still doesn’t give a reason why he didn’t act sooner –”

   “Unless, Tonks, Voldemort got him after the summer of 1979 –”

   “Tonks has a point, Harry,” Moody interrupted, his electric blue eye whirling down towards the closed book on the desk as his beady black eye focused on Harry. “Every time I met Claudius Kemester – and despite the fact he was an abrasive, caustic, and rather cold individual, almost tyrannical – but I never doubted that he was a firm supporter of the law. I didn’t understand why he was sent to Azkaban – it happened very quickly, in the flurry of events around the Longbottom attacks, and I was occupied elsewhere. He might be our biggest lead.”

   “That’s assuming we can get him out of his coma,” Harry replied, raking a hand through his hair as he finally picked up his mug and took a sip of tea. “And with Matthis and Prince dead, that only leaves one person left who – if Dumbledore was right – knows the whole truth.”

   Moody grimaced. “Snape. The last time I saw him was the night before the Ministry attack – he vanished the same time Dumbledore did.”

   “Do you think their disappearances are tied together?” Tonks murmured, raising a finger. “You know, maybe they’re on a mission together or something? I mean, the last time I saw him was when he accidentally rescued me at the Ministry – he thought he was rescuing Harry –”

   “I dunno, Tonks, that doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Harry replied with a frown of his own as he took another sip of tea. “Dumbledore would have left us something, or at least indicated a substitute for Snape’s class rather than have McGonagall appoint one if the two are just going off on a mission.”

   “You honestly think that Dumbledore would bother with something so trivial –”

   “It makes sense when we consider when Umbridge was thrown out, I was called in,” Moody replied, raising his hands with exasperation. “No, Dumbledore would have said something if the two of them were planning a mission. Snape… I reckon he’s either with the Death Eaters or on his own somewhere.”

   “Except that none of us saw him at the Azkaban attack,” Harry pointed out.

   “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there –”

    “Snape’s a tricky bastard,” Moody interrupted, “so even if he wasn’t at Azkaban, he could be elsewhere. He could be anywhere.”

   “Still probably worth searching his office,” Harry argued. “If he kept notes, information about his plans – he had to have left something behind.” He turned to the old ex-Auror. “Hell, Crouch Junior used to ‘search his office’ all the time last year.”

   Moody snorted as he finished the rest of his tea. “And who would have thought I would be following in his footsteps?”

***

   The intricate magical diagram would have covered a dozen rooms if he had chosen to let it unfold in its grand design – but he did not require such extravagance. Each line traced, he knew its purpose. Each fold conserving space did not exist in his mental picture – he could see it all.

    And with Bellatrix’s unique ideas – which he trimmed to something far more useful and much less gratuitous – he now had the final missing links.

   “This will be difficult to accomplish, Bella,” he finally said, setting down his wand and causing the glittering magical diagram to vanish into smoke with a thought.

   “But glorious in its conclusion,” she breathed, her eyes blazing in their sockets, even further shadowed by the long hours awake. “Another link to your grand plans for our world.”

   “I have no doubts of my own abilities, Bellatrix,” Voldemort said sharply, giving his Death Eater a scornful look, “but such a plan like this requires extraordinary timing, and the abilities of others to operate at a very high level.”

   Bellatrix’s expression hardened. “I can provide any additional impetus for them to fulfill your will –”

   “There are some things even fear cannot control,” Voldemort replied quietly, “and one of those things is time. And with time comes chaos, hand in hand – and magic can only bring so much order before being subsumed.” The Dark Lord turned to the back of the room, where an unremarkable wooden crate was shrouded in shadow. “Even with the purest magic, harvested from thousands of wands, chaos can only be defeated for a time. Death is a far easier opponent.”

   He could tell that Bellatrix did not know what to say, but he didn’t care. Despite her creative brilliance, these concepts were on a very different level – one that would always remain far beyond her reach.

   He heard the scuffle on the stairs, but he did not look up. Instead, he turned back to the Book of Inversion and Duplex and slowly turned the page, scanning every line, equation, and diagram with extreme precision.

   “My Lord, I have the books.”

   “All of them, Antonin?” Voldemort asked quietly, still not turning. “Did you run into any difficulties?”

   “They’re fairly innocuous texts, my Lord,” Antonin Dolohov replied with a short bow as he set the four books down on the table. “Nothing all that special.”

   At the sound of the leather covers touching the stone, Voldemort finally turned. He could hear the faint rustling of the blades within Blood and Astral Projection: A Thesis, but he easily tuned out the noise as he looked at the three remaining books.

   An old musty copy of Consciousness Conjunctions. A pristine, hardly-used copy of The Study of Age and Magic. And a battered, dog-eared copy of Metamagical Extrabiology: An Examination.

   “I now possess all five books required for simulamancy,” Voldemort said softly, fixing Bellatrix and Dolohov with a steely expression, “and despite dear Severus’… disappearance, I feel quite comfortable in stating that the potions will not prove difficult. However, I lack a key ingredient for this ritual.”

   Bellatrix’s eyes were wild as she licked her lips. “Say the word, my Lord, and I will have my wretched niece on the floor at your feet –”

  “Your enthusiasm is admirable, Bellatrix… but it is unnecessary,” Voldemort replied smoothly, ignoring the slight twitch on Dolohov’s face at Bellatrix’s words. Perhaps he is not as strong as I had hoped… no matter, that will soon be remedied. “I have no desire to attempt the simulamancy ritual, only to understand it.”

   “It would make sense to remove the Metamorphmagus,” Dolohov said calmly. “After all, given how much trouble she’s caused –”

   “She will play her part in the upcoming events, just as I have planned, Antonin,” Voldemort interrupted softly. “No, our efforts are better focused elsewhere. Bellatrix will stay here and work with me to refine this ritual – but I have an important task for you, Antonin.”

   Dolohov raised an eyebrow, but gave no reply.

   “Contact Barnabus Cuffe, and inform him that he has a job to do.”

   “Anything else, my Lord?”

   His lipless mouth formed a small, satisfied grin. “No, he’ll understand.”

***

   “You’d think,” Moody finally said, looking up from Snape’s now empty trunk at the heap of books laying on the floor, “that a professor and former Death Eater would have more personal effects other than books and paperwork.”

   “Just because you cart around all those Dark Detectors doesn’t mean the rest of the world does, Mad-Eye,” Tonks replied distractedly as she rifled through another stack of papers neatly stacked on Snape’s personal desk. “Besides, considering how much Snape was on the move, I’m not surprised we can’t find much.”

   “But even I keep records!” Moody snapped, shoving yet another theoretical Potions text aside as he picked up another few unmarked books. “Snape has left nothing – nothing! Besides Potions ingredients and incomprehensible notes, the man’s left nothing to make himself remotely traceable. No forwarding addresses, no bills or notifications, no paperwork, not even a damn journal!”

   “He certainly tore out of here in a hurry,” Tonks muttered, her hair going acid-green as she set down the papers. “I mean, he left all this stuff behind –”
   “Aha!”

   Moody’s blue eye snapped up to Harry, who had just emerged from Snape’s old private bathroom adjacent to his quarters. “What are you – is that shampoo?”

   “Yep,” Harry replied, tossing the bottle to an astonished Tonks. “And the bottle’s nearly empty – guess he did use it after all.”

   Tonks snorted. “You have no proof of that. He could have just been emptying it down the drain –”

   “Uh huh, why don’t you just pay up?”

   Moody made a disapproving noise from the back of his throat as he flipped through the books with a vengeance, his blue eye watching as Tonks begrudgingly handed Harry a few Sickles.

   “So, any luck?” Harry asked hopefully.

   Moody snorted, and Tonks shook her head. “Nothing even close,” she added, her hair darkening.

   “Shouldn’t there be, I dunno, correspondence from the Order that Snape would have received?” Harry asked as he picked up another unmarked book and began scanning it. “Something with an address?”

   “Nah, Snape’s too smart for that,” Moody replied curtly. “He’d have burnt all the papers after reading, and all of the envelopes sent from the Order were unmarked – he never gave us an address, either.”

   “That doesn’t make a damn bit of sense,” Tonks said with frustration, tossing a stack of papers on the floor. “Look, I know the primary way we contacted him was through Patronuses or the occasional message to Hogwarts, but he would have had to give something, even for emergencies –”

   “Not if he didn’t want to be found by either side,” Harry muttered, tossing the book on the floor. “You’d think, though, that Hogwarts would at least have something…”

   “That’s it!”

   Both of Moody’s eyes snapped up at Tonks’ triumphant exclamation. “What’s it?”

   “Hogwarts would have to have a record of where Snape lived,” Tonks said, her smile broadening as her hair lightened again. “I mean, after all, didn’t he get paid?”

   “That only means he would have needed to give Hogwarts a Gringotts account number, Tonks.” Moody suddenly paused, and an incredulous expression emerged on his face. “Are you suggesting that the goblins would have paperwork on record with his location?”

   “Ten-to-one odds those papers are falsified,” Harry muttered.

   Tonks, however, was undaunted. “Okay, fine, maybe Gringotts doesn’t have everything, but he was a legitimate employee at Hogwarts, and that means he collected a salary, and which means –”

   “He paid taxes,” Moody finished, a dark expression on his face.

   Harry’s face fell slightly. “Wait a second… you’re telling me –”

   “When you get a paying job, Potter, you’ll understand,” Moody replied brusquely, rising to his feet. “Wizarding taxes go through the Department of Magical Finance –”

   “Which has always been offsite of the Ministry at a separate location in downtown London,” Tonks said excitedly, “so it’s likely most of the paperwork – which will include a physical address, which he would have needed to provide for tax purposes – is intact!”

   “And it also means,” Moody replied grimly, “that you’re not getting any paperwork out of there without a subpoena. Peter O’Sanden – that’s the Head of the Department, for your information, Potter – is a stickler for that, and we have no idea where he stands politically, other than that he has a passable relationship with Scrimgeour.”

   “Which could mean anything,” Harry finished heavily, sinking into one of the few uncomfortable wooden chairs in the room. His eyes brightened. “We do have Fleur, though – she works in the Department of Magical Finance. She’d have an alibi.”

   “And you’d be asking her to take one hell of a risk,” Moody said grimly, setting the last of Snape’s books down on the desk. “Delacour’s an international citizen and only part-human… at best, she’d be deported if she was caught, and even Cassane’s clout wouldn’t be enough to save her from the worst.”

   “She’s helped us before –”

   “Harry, filing a tax audit is a hell of a lot different than looking into private files, particularly those of a former Death Eater,” Tonks replied, pursing her lips as her hair slipped to turquoise. “If she didn’t know what to say or who to say it to, she’d be exposed – or worse, tip off the wrong people that somebody’s looking.”

   “We could help her…”

   But a smile was spreading across Tonks’ face – a devious smile – as her hair turned silvery-blonde. “I think,” she said, “I’ve got a better idea.”

***

   “You’re back from St. Mungo’s.” It was not a question, just a simple statement of fact.

   Lucius Malfoy nodded. “Antonin, could I have a word with you?”

   Dolohov’s lip twitched, on the verge of a smile. “Need something, Malfoy?”

   Malfoy’s eyes darkened as he stiffened his posture as the two slipped into a well-appointed side room. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

   “Sure you do – I’m smart, creative, good-looking, and a hell of a lot more lethal than you are,” Dolohov replied primly, closing the door behind them and leaning on it, his smile insouciant. “And I can tell by the look on your face that this is just killing you to ask for something, so let’s save you the agony.”

   “I’m currently in great pain, Antonin,” Malfoy hissed through gritted teeth.

   “And as I’m sure you realize, that statement is utterly pointless as I do not care about your flambéed genetalia,” Dolohov replied with a shrug. “Talk.”

   “Are you interested in a vacation, Antonin?”

   Dolohov’s eyes lit up, and he let the smile blossom on his face. “Really? I’m touched, Lucius, that you’d think of me like that. Where are we going? I hope it’s the Caribbean, I’ve heard such wonderful things –”

   “You misunderstand me,” Malfoy interrupted, his eyes flashing with either pain or anger, Dolohov really couldn’t tell. “I’m speaking of something like an exodus, per se. A way out.”

   The smile vanished in an instant, and there was silence for a long few seconds.

   Dolohov let out a slow whistle. “I tell you, Lucius, even though your balls have been nicely roasted, you still have them.”

   Lucius’ nodded grimly. “And I have waited long enough – and I could always use an extra hand, particularly one with nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

   “You have a peculiar definition of ‘nothing’, Malfoy,” Dolohov said, scratching his chin idly.

   Malfoy was undaunted. “There’s nothing of significance for you here, Dolohov, and you know that as well as I. Your servitude has given you little reward.”

   “And do you think for an instant that if I had an option besides sweet, sweet damnation, I would not have taken it?” Dolohov retorted, his eyes hardening. “It doesn’t work like that, Malfoy – you know that as well as I.”

   “You could be free –”

   “I haven’t been free for seventeen years,” Dolohov interrupted harshly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why the change of heart, Lucius? Should I draw my wand, so we can settle this like men instead of like the cowards I scrape off my shoes?”

   “I only seek to disappear.”

   “And you think you’ll get away?” Dolohov’s laugh was loud, barking, and filled with contempt. “Run fast and run far, Lucius Malfoy, but there’s a tattoo on your arm just the same as mine. He’ll find you – and even I am not that foolish to cross him.”

   Malfoy paused, and then took a deep breath, disguising it as a sniff of disdain. “I’ll take that risk.”

   “Then you’ll take it alone,” Dolohov replied with a shrug. “I’m not that stupid. Even considering everything I’ve lost… yeah, I’m still not that stupid. Why the precipitous drop in intelligence, Lucius? Your brains located in your penis rather than your skull?”

   “I’m doing this for my family,” Malfoy replied, his voice low and dangerous as he stalked forward. Dolohov tensed, but Malfoy only seized the doorknob, wrenching it open. “So we can have something left at the end of it all. You, of all people, should understand that.”

   Dolohov paused as the door slammed shut, and then he shook his head, his eyes glittering. “Oh, you did not just go there.”