Inquisitor Carrow and the Phoenix Fiasco

by littlewhitecat

With Carrow forced into sick leave, much to his horror Timothy finds himself temporarily the Senior UnderSecretary to th Minister of Magic. Between dealing with political plots, unexpected business manoeuvres and the machinations of a bored Carrow, can he survive the year?

2. Chapter 2

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

Author's note

No long author's note this time. One of my work-mates was a little bit too generous when she shared her germs and so I'm currently dealing with a nasty head cold. I'm about the fourth person to catch this thing; there is such a thing as over sharing, Susan.

Chapter 2

Now he knew what he was looking for it was almost impossible to avoid, rather like suddenly discovering the colour blue. Timothy propped himself up against the wall momentarily, mindful of all the odd paraphernalia, junk and much doodled white boards that cluttered the corridor that led up to the reserve labs where Professor Schmidt had set up home.

The psychic presence of the man was impossible to miss, like wading through blinding sunlight that was as thick as treacle. Timothy shook himself as he mentally steeled himself. Walking around where someone had carried on some heavily involved calculation onto the floor, he slowly approached the plain grey fire doors.

Someone had taped a homemade sign to them, a witch on a broomstick complete with disapproving cat. Mumbo Jumbo in Progress! It announced. Seriously? Timothy shook his head with a sigh, running nervous fingers through his hair. Blasted stuff needed cutting again, but he never quite seemed to have enough time.

Looking back, he saw the same individual who'd decided to draw on the floor had also partially filled the ceiling. The sooner they had that new mainframe computer they were begging for, the better.

Trying to hide his nerves, he knocked sharply on the door. The cheerful whistling on the other side stopped. "Come in," Professor Schmidt boomed.

Sliding around the door, Timothy almost fainted as the man's psychic presence went from almost unbearable to intolerable. He swayed as his vision greyed around the edges, his eye swimming as he desperately tried to stay conscious.

Large hands guided him to a chair. "I see Xander has been teaching you things he probably shouldn't." Professor Schmidt's voice sounded as if it were coming through a long tunnel, distant and muddled and extremely exasperated. "Such a sink-or-swim attitude to everything."

Definitely sink, Timothy thought his mind sluggish and glacial under the psychic assault of this impossible being's presence.

"Here, if you just close your eye…like that…yes."

Gasping for air, Timothy blinked as the world snapped back into focus. The ceiling tiles and fluorescent tube lighting were blessedly reassuring in their utter dullness and he breathed a huge sigh of relief. No face tentacles then.

"Okay?" Professor Schmidt asked. Timothy tilted his head to find the huge man looking down at him with concern, black curls hanging messily around his hawkishly handsome face, the infamous pencil wand tucked behind his ear.

"I'm…I'm fine," Timothy croaked, trying to nod his head but sinking back into the chair with a groan when the motion set off a new wave of nausea.

"Right," Professor Schmidt sighed, as he handed a puzzled Timothy a bunch of tissues. "For your nose bleed," he explained.

Blinking in puzzlement, Timothy dabbed at his upper lip, only to find the tissue coming away a brilliant scarlet. Oh Throne! He thought.

Professor Schmidt…the God-Emperor of Mankind gave him a slightly pained look as he made a cup of coffee. "Here, this should help you feel better," he said as he handed it over, "I've got some biscuits around here somewhere."

"Honestly, I'm fine," Timothy protested sounding rather muffled through the tissues.

Professor Schmidt ignored him as he rifled through a cupboard and then a drawer. "Do you want ginger nuts or jammie dodgers?" he asked turning round, holding the packets up for Timothy's assessment, "and honestly, Tim, call me Jon."

Timothy couldn't even begin to imagine calling such an incredible indescribable being by such an informal name. It just didn't feel right.

"Anyway," Jon carried on, looking slightly fed-up, "you wanted to ask me about something?" He planted a plate of biscuits on Timothy's lap.

"Erm, yes…Cedric Diggory. He was supposed to start work in our Ministerial Department over a month ago, but he disappeared," Timothy said, distracted as he decided what to tackle first. Scalding hot coffee, plate of biscuits or the heavily blood stained tissues. He couldn't see a bin anywhere, and he daren't move in case he spilled or dropped something. Effectively pinned by biscuits, he though with an exasperated sigh.

"Didn't Xander cover his tracks?" Jon asked, almost amused, as he toed the wastepaper basket towards him.

"Of course he did," Timothy said as he sipped the coffee. Hot, wet and caffeinated, just what he needed he thought as he relaxed. "The only reason I went digging was I knew Mr Diggory was supposed to start work with us and then he didn't appear, and no one seemed to know anything, including his very worried parents. So I went looking for him. All I've been able to discover is that Mr Carrow diverted him to the R&D Department, specifically the "Garage", which apparently means you."

Jon considered him carefully for a moment.

"Carrow's up to something isn't he?" Timothy asked with an exasperated sigh closing his one remaining eye.

"Well…I suppose…"

"And he's pulled you into his latest ridiculous scheme. Hasn't he?" Timothy glared. "I thought you were more sensible than that."

Jon actually looked embarrassed for a moment scratching the back of his neck. "In a way," he admitted, his gaze turning alien and remote, "except that this will set in motion a whole range of events in the future that…" The large man shook himself, a grin spreading across his face. "Do you want to see them?"

"Them?" Timothy asked with a sinking feeling. He was definitely not going to like this.

"Biscuits first, though," Jon grinned at him.

.oOo.

The new lab Jon had taken him to appeared to be deep within the under-workings Carrow had ordered constructed several years previously. A monumental task that was still apparently ongoing. Timothy suspected sometimes that Carrow was building an underground city. Why? He could only begin to guess at the megalomania and overwhelming paranoia that would lead someone to see such a thing as being an absolute necessity.

Now, beneath the stone vaulting of this space's ceiling sat two rows of almost bus sized machinery, humming and clicking to themselves, pipes and cables snaking away in an incomprehensible cat's cradle. So where was Mr Diggory? Was he working here? It seemed rather improbable since the only staff appeared in fact to be golems of some type, though a lot sleeker and neater than the filigreed bone-yard monstrosities Carrow so loved to make.

"So where…" Timothy asked, but Jon was busily flicking through the contents of a clipboard.

"Ah," he smiled triumphantly, "I do believe…yep, CD-3541893, this is the one." He led the way down the row stooping in front of one of the machines. "Yes, this is it," he smiled down at Timothy, "this is where he is."

Timothy looked up at the machine, its faceless metal expanse unbroken and forbidding, a couple of green lights winking away in the partial gloom as cables and pipes climbed up from its top disappearing away to who knew where. "I don't understand," he turned back to Jon. "Is he being experimented on or something?" he asked suspiciously not sure he was liking where this was going.

"In a way," Jon sighed. "After his, err, illness…accident…Xander came to me begging me to re-start…or start even, the Astartes program, and I could see his point, the necessity of it. So I agreed."

Timothy looked at him utterly horrified. "Astartes…Carrow is Astartes," he said slowly, "which means," he turned to stare at the machines, apparently giant incubators, cold sweat trickling down his spine, "that this is a nursery for…"

"Yep. Baby Carrows," Jon grinned, almost laughing at Timothy's appalled expression. "Well no," he sighed, "I'd have to be utterly mental to clone Xander, however lovable he is. No, I've studied Xander's biology, with his permission of course, and back-engineered the process. There were a few hiccups along the way, and I've made some tweaks here and there just to improve the process. But rest assured, these likely lads will be very much their own people."

Turning slowly on the spot Timothy counted the machines, twenty all told. So twenty possible bio-engineered super soldiers. Nearly an army in its own right if they were all as capable as Carrow. "Why," he asked slowly, "would we need nearly two dozen super-soldiers?"

Jon considered him for a moment, his head slightly tilted, his gaze distant. "It won't be twenty. Not this first time, at any rate. I'm still refining the process to reduce adverse reactions and the like." He patted the nearest machine, "Thanks to Xander just existing right now, the future is going get a lot more exciting a lot more quickly…we're going to need them," he said firmly.

"By exciting, I take it you mean hair-raisingly dangerous," Timothy sighed.

Jon shrugged with a grin. "Maybe, maybe not. There's also this," he said after a moment. "Have you ever considered just how soul crushingly lonely Carrow is?"

. .oOo.

Professor McGonagall looked around carefully at the painfully Muggle street she had just made a sudden appearance on. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be about, nor was there any suspicious twitching of lace curtains. Not that such behaviour would occur in such an obviously affluent area, probably. She gave the nearest detached Victorian villa with its carefully groomed front garden a suspicious glare.

Now to find 112 Wisteria Way. In most muggle areas that she had visited, the house numbers would zig-zag back and forth across the street, even on one side, odd on the other. But this particular road, for some unfathomable reason was numbered consecutively, number 26 sitting next door to number 27, while across the road were numbers 298 and 299. It appeared she was in for something of a walk.

Shaking her head at the contrariness of muggles, Professor McGonagall set off, her sensible tweed skirt swishing around her calves, her practical brogues clip-clopping smartly on the pavement.

Number 112 Wisteria Way turned out to be a mock Tudor affair with a front garden full of yellow and salmon pink roses, a large and extraordinarily ugly muggle vehicle occupying the front drive. Why the conveyance had shiny silver bars attached to its front was beyond her; was it to drive some sort of creature before it? All very peculiar.

Walking up the steps to the front door, she pressed the doorbell, only to glare at it when it proceeded to play a jaunty little tune. How terribly vulgar.

A thundering of steps and a clatter proceeded the wrenching open of the front door, and Professor McGonagall found herself looking down at a possible future student.

"Is this the Pratt…"

"Are you the teacher from Hogwarts?" the girl butted in rather rudely, her dark eyes snapping with excitement as she practically vibrated on the spot.

"I am indeed Professor McGonagall," Minerva said primly.

The girl squealed like a demented kettle, grabbing her wrist and yanking her into the house, much to Minerva's shock.

"MUUUUUM!" the small banshee bellowed as she dragged her along. "The Hogwarts teacher is here!"

"TIFFANY! How many times have I told you not to shout in the house!" an older female voice bellowed from the depths of the house. But the girl, Tiffany, definitely a future student if her parents were amenable, seemed to pay her mother no heed as she pattered through into what appeared to be a living room, given the quantity of chintzy furniture and knick-knacks.

Minerva blinked in quickly hidden surprise as a very blonde woman with shockingly orange skin and terrifying eyelashes like demented spiders appeared from around the corner wearing…Minerva blinked in surprise again. Was the woman in her underwear? She'd seen some very curious muggle attire in her time as she visited prospective muggle-born students, but still…

"Oh, hello," the woman minced forward in strappy pink sandals, extending her hand in greeting, "I'm Trudi, Tiffany's mum. She's been so excited the last couple of weeks, absolutely desperate for her Hogwarts letter she's been."

Minerva gave Trudi's pink taloned hand a dubious look before shaking it. "I am Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your daughter Tiffany is eligible to attend in September, due to her special magical abilities. I am sure you have many questions," she said as she pulled out the parchment letter from her handbag and presented it to Tiffany, who bounced up and down with excitement, the heels of her funny muggle shoes flashing obnoxiously.

"I will endeavour to answer as many as I possibly can," Minerva finished, the beginnings of a migraine throbbing just above her right eye. She was so glad she'd thought to pack a headache remedy this morning.

"It's my letter, it's my letter," Tiffany squealed in excitement as she raced off, "Tyler! I've got my letter!"

Trudi shook her head in exasperation, hands on her hips. "Would you like a cup of tea, darling?"

"Yes, please." Minerva sighed inwardly. This looked like it was going to be one of the more difficult visitations.

"So I've been meaning to ask," Trudi called through from the kitchen, "does conjured food have calories?

What on Earth was a calorie? Minerva frowned in puzzlement. Was it some curious muggle edible she had hitherto been unaware of? Trudi minced back in with a tray of mugs and a plate of biscuits. "Just curious, you understand," she said as she perched on the edge of the chintzy sofa, handing a mug of tea over. Minerva couldn't help but notice that the object was decorated with very pink and painful looking high heeled shoes; her host's mug meanwhile was covered with teddy bears of all things. Come to think of it, there were rather a lot of teddy bears about the place, from ornaments to cushions. There were even a couple of stuffed bears sitting on the sofa itself, one of which had a large pink bow around its neck. It looked rather indignant about it.

"I was just thinking," Trudi carried on, "I'm on a diet, but if conjured chocolates have no calories then I could literally have my cake and eat it," she smiled triumphantly as her offspring clattered nosily back into the room.

"MUUUUUM," Tiffany's smaller male sibling roared, "I WANT MY HOGWARTS LETTER TOOOO!"

"Can it, Tyler!" Trudi shouted, "you'll get it when you're eleven!"

"I'm taking it," Minerva sighed, "you are well aware of the existence of magic and the magical world."

"Yeah," Trudi said as she considered the biscuits for a moment, "it runs through my mum's family. I must be the only mum on the street who has to tell her kids off for changing the colour of the carpet all the time." With a thoughtful frown, she scooped up a blue iced ring and bit a chunk out of it.

Minerva took an uneasy sip of her tea. "Have you…been to any of the magical shopping areas at all?"

"I haven't," Trudi said around her biscuit, "but my cousin, he's a wizard, has taken the kids around Diagon Alley and that more than once. If I hear one more thing about pet owls…" She rolled her eyes.

"I've learnt a little bit of magic already," Tiffany exclaimed, her voice full of excitement as she thumped a book full of impromptu bookmarks down on the coffee-table. Rifling through it, she pulled out a sheet of paper with a crude but painstakingly drawn runic array. Simple third year material to be sure, constructed from three interlinked symbols.

Minerva eyed it warily; was this young lady about to attempt what she thought…oh yes, she really was going to try and activate it without a wand. Should she intervene? But the likelihood of the young lady actually succeeding were rather slim.

"My cousin's been teaching her the odd thing," Trudi explained, "the culture and stuff…and he also gave her that book. Gives her little lessons every so often. At least it means she's not doing weird things to the sodding furniture anymore."

"Indeed," Minerva said with pursed lips, not sure that she approved of this mystery cousin.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Tiffany's cheek as she scrunched up her face in concentration, Tyler watching her every move intently. The runic array stuttered for a moment before fluttering into life, the muggle paper warping and twisting oddly around the glowing magic as if it were in pain.

Minerva's eyebrows shot into her hairline; to be sure, she'd seen better, and the light the impromptu lamp cast was rather murky, but for the work of an untrained child, it was actually quite remarkable.

Tyler scooped up the glowing scrunched paper and ran off waving it triumphantly over his head. "Tyler! Give it back!" Tiffany yelled as she set off in hot pursuit.

"Keep that thing in the house," Trudi screamed after them, "and stay away from your Dad's computer!"

"Kids!" she snorted turning to Minerva. "Who'd have them, eh?"

Minerva gave her a strained smile.

The jaunty tune of the doorbell rang out over the sound of distant running feet and yelling, and Trudi pulled herself to her feet. "That'd better be my cousin. He's got a kid same age as Tiffany; well, not his precisely, but he looks after him a lot, so we figured we could do the school shopping together."

"So err, you're accepting the place for your daughter, then?" Minerva asked, feeling quite discombobulated.

"Well, of course," Trudi shouted back, "if I can get her trained up to turn things the actual colours she wants, then it'll make redecorating so much simpler."

Somehow, Minerva thought, as she watched the other woman disappear from the room, Mrs Pratt was missing the point by a mile.

"Tim," Trudi's voice drifted in from the hall, "your timing's great, for once. She's upstairs, Felix."

A vaguely familiar voice murmured something indistinct, obscured as it was by the thundering of a third set of childish feet up the stairs, soon followed a shriek of "Felix!" from Tiffany somewhere overhead.

"…fraid we would miss you," the mystery male said as he came towards the living room.

"Not at all," Trudi said, obviously not that thrilled with her visitor, "I was about to give you a call, actually, see where you were. Cup of tea?" she snapped over her shoulder, as she minced in.

"No, thanks. I'm sure you're eager to get going."

Minerva looked up curiously at the young man as he entered the room, blinked in surprise, blinked again and stared. There, in all his finery, stood the Acting Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, looking even more grim and haggard than the last time she'd seen him, the mutilated remains of his right eye-socket now hidden behind a black velvet eye-patch.

What was such an august person of the Ministry doing here in this terribly muggle neighbourhood? But of course…cousins…wasn't he a muggleborn? How incredibly curious. She wasn't absolutely certain on this fact, since he hadn't been one of her lions. He had been a solid EE student, though.

"Professor McGonagall," Acting Senior Undersecretary Faulks said, his face breaking into the closest approximation to a smile he could apparently manage these days, as he strode forward to shake her hand, "it's very good to see you again. It wasn't so long ago that it was myself and my parents you were visiting to explain magic and Hogwarts to."

"Doesn't time fly," Minerva gave him a nostalgic smile, "you've grown quite a bit since then."

Faulks gave her a small tight smile, as footsteps thundered overhead accompanied by shouting. "Shall we round them up, then?"

.oOo.

"This is…well, frankly I'm lost for words," Professor McGonagall huffed.

Timothy was inclined to agree with her. There was just something fascinatingly awful about watching Trudi Pratt in all her fluorescent pink glory trotting up Diagon Alley, screaming full blast at her errant children as they ran amok, aided and abetted by Felix, of course. It was like she'd landed from another planet.

Many of the other denizens of Diagon Alley obviously felt the same way and had stopped in their tracks to stare at the spectacle unfolding before them, one horrified mother covering her young son's eyes.

"TYLER! How many times have I told you about setting things on fire!" Trudi screamed as she shimmied her boob-tube back up to a relatively more decent height. "Get here, you little shit!"

"Maybe we should, ah, go to Flourish and Blotts and get her off the alley," Timothy suggested through gritted teeth as Trudi stormed back towards them, her orange lips pursed in barely contained rage as she dragged her screaming son along, Tiffany and Felix trailing along behind her.

"Will I ever be able to look Mr Flourish in the eyes again?" Professor McGonagall asked, looking slightly frazzled.

"Don't worry," Timothy sighed, "just pretend you're not with her. I'll do the rest…Trudi, bookshop next."

"Right," Trudi snapped, "it better not be run by those little goblin creeps. That one behind the counter tried staring down my top, the pervy little shit!"

"I want a book too!" Tyler bellowed now distracted from his tantrum. "Dragons! I want dragons!"

"You'll want a clip round the ear soon," Trudi shouted back as she stormed towards Flourish and Blotts, only slightly skidding on the cobbles in her strappy sandals.

"Dragons!" Tyler bellowed as he ran towards the bookshop, overtaking Professor McGonagall, as she tried to get as far from Trudi Pratt as she politely could.

Flourish and Blotts was blessedly cool and tranquil after the bustle of the alley and Timothy began to relax slightly. There was just something very soothing about spaces full of large quantities of books, the smell of paper, the way they muffled sound, their solid reassuring presence, the anticipation of an intriguing read…

"TYLER PRATT YOU GET HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Timothy sighed as he met Professor McGonagall's accusing stare, "I'll err, I'll go and see what she's up to," he sighed shuffling past the table displaying New Releases! towards Extreme Animal Husbandry.

"If you think for two bloody seconds that me or your dad would let you have a bloody dragon…"

Striding round a bookcase, Timothy found Trudi berating her son by a display of books of specialist manuals more suitable for a dedicated dragon keeper than a small boy. Beyond an assistant stood transfixed, his thin face alternating between pasty pale and alarmingly red. Following the young man's line of sight…

What had Trudi been thinking when she dressed this morning. Timothy sidled up to his cousin. "Erm, Trudi," he hissed, "your, err, your top, its, err…" he gestured helplessly.

Trudi's head jerked down. "Well, sod," she exclaimed as she adjusted the boob-tube, so her lacy pink bra was no longer on display, "I knew I should have used that tit-tape stuff instead."

The poor sales assistant made a soft squeaking sound as he tried to get away unnoticed.

"Do you work here?" Trudi demanded as she stomped towards the terrified young man, "because my feet are bloody killing me and I need a shed load of books for my daughter for school…plus something on dragons for him," she nodded towards Tyler as she fished around in her handbag for the list. "Tim, have you got the bloody list?"

Timothy sighed as the young man finally noticed him, his face paling to a funny grey colour. "If we could have two lots of the set books for Hogwarts first years, that would be wonderful…and of course something on dragons suitable for a highly intelligent eight year old too, please. I'm afraid we're in something of a hurry today."

"Sir! Yes s-s-sir, yes, of course Sir," the young man stuttered as he backed away, before finally fleeing among the shelves.

"That was strange," Trudi said with a frown, "he seemed almost frightened."

"Just young and nervous," Timothy said as he looked around, "did you see where Tiffany and Felix went?"

"No," Trudi glared at him, "you were keeping an eye on them remember."

"Fine, fine," Timothy huffed not remembering any such agreement. Reluctant to start an argument, he went to find Professor McGonagall instead. No doubt the dreadful pair had found something really unsuitable on hexes and curses and were even now poring over it while attempting to memorise the wand movements. Not that it would do them any good.

"Well?" Professor McGonagall demanded as he walked round the corner into the Transfiguration section.

"I got an assistant to help, so we should be able to leave soon," Timothy reassured her, "but we've still got Madam Malkin's, the Apothecary and Ollivander's after this."

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes with a groan.

"I'll quite understand if you wish to leave," Timothy said hoping she'd say no. Misery did love company after all. "I'll just tell Trudi that you had another appointment to get to or something."

Professor McGonagall seemed almost tempted for a moment. "No, no," she sighed, "I'll finish what I started…though I do appreciate the offer, young man." She gave him a small but warm smile.

"TYLER!"

Professor McGonagall winced. "She's utterly appalling!"

"Tell me about it," Timothy muttered, "I grew up with her."

. .oOo.

"Why not hand this to Carrow?" Timothy asked trying hard to hide his irritation.

Madam Bones smirked at him. "Ah, but isn't our poor esteemed Senior-Under-Secretary on sick leave? I wouldn't dream of disturbing his respite…so I've come to you, Mr Faulks. I think you'll be very interested in this one."

Scowling, Timothy turned back to the thick folder she'd handed him, flicking through the sheaf of parchment within, eyebrows rising as he read.

Was it possible for one person to be so self-absorbed and dense they couldn't see when they'd managed to offend everyone around them, even those they considered their allies? Timothy shook his head in disgust, as he carefully read through the folder of information the Haitian Department of Magical Law and Order had thoughtfully provided, along with the extremely indignant Mr McGuire.

In a space of a month, the man had managed to break numerous magical and religious taboos, offended a leading member of the Haitian Magical community and had done experimental works on two vulnerable young men who'd merely been looking for a job, the sort of thing that had been banned under international treaty since Grindelwald and WWII.

All this on top of the unpleasant findings of the last year or so in the Knockturn Alley area; Mr McGuire's name had popped up several times in connection with all sorts of interesting things, including Augustus Crabbe's now infamous brothel.

This was most likely the twisted individual responsible for Felix's permanent physical changes, poor lad. Not that he seemed to let it hold him back.

"I thought you might like a little bit of a pop at this one," Madam Bones said, "see what you can get out of him. He's been very resistant so far, been giving the lads a bit of a run around."

.oOo.

Timothy looked up at the sullen middle aged man who slumped in the chair on the other side of the desk in one of the DMLE's more secure interrogation rooms. It was a sparse space, the minimal furniture plain and utilitarian, the walls a depressing grey. Behind him was a window which let onto the observation suite where, Timothy was pretty certain, he was currently being watched by Madam Bones, and Wulfric, not to mention various senior members of the DMLE. The thought of it made his shoulder blades itch.

"Enjoy your trip?" Timothy asked, the scar through his lip twisting his smile into an ugly smile.

"Oh, fuck off," McGuire snarled slumping down as far as the manacles would let him. "Fucking amateur," he muttered.

Timothy ignored him. It was extraordinary just how utterly dull and boring McGuire really was in person. Average height and build, mousey hair, brown eyes and skin that still showed the signs of being exposed to the unfamiliar heat of tropical sunshine; McGuire was going to be very itchy in a few days time.

"Robert Calvin McGuire," Timothy gave him another smile, "I am Interrogator Faulks. I work for Mr Carrow and he's very interested in you." (Probably. Nothing like using the Big Lump as a bogey man.)

McGuire glared back, obviously not at all impressed, so he'd definitely not being following the news for the last few years or so. Shame. And now for the hard part.

"You used to live on Wig Alley in the Knockturn Area, after leaving Hogwarts," Timothy said as casually as he could, "No.4 Antipholus Terrace."

McGuire glared at him.

"According to your landlord, you had an experimental potions laboratory in your rooms, illegally of course. Quite a few complaints too…" he slowly leafed through the folder, "Aurors called to a number of disturbances with angry neighbours worried about toxic fumes…hmmm…and possible building demolishing explosions. Were you aware there was a parlour school next door?" he glared at the sullen and utterly unrepentant McGuire.

"Why should I give a toss," the unshaven man snarled, "about the grubby brats of some feckless trollops? Half of them barely had enough magic to warrant a wand even. Worthless, the lot of them, getting in the way of my work. Complaining day and night about the slightest things, the ingredients wasted, the experiments ruined…" his jaw shut with a clack as he flushed, furious to realise he was giving any information away.

Determined to make up for his error, McGuire clammed up tighter than a constipated oyster. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Timothy pondered his options, cursing Bones in a small corner of his mind; he could carry on with his list of questions, to none of which he would get any sort of answer if he wasn't careful, frustrating both himself and Madam Bones. Could he change tactics? Use physical intimidation? Except that he really didn't have the build to get away with that, it would be like an aggressive stick-insect or something, not in the least bit threatening…not like Carrow, and that was a very dark road he was reluctant to go near.

Talking of dark roads, there was always that mental exercise Carrow did, where he made him project himself out and enter Carrow's mind. He suspected that actually he wasn't really, that somehow the large man had created a sort of neutral area within his mind to keep him safe from the really horrific toxic sludge that he was pretty sure infested the large man's mental recesses.

So if he just pushed out as he normally did…the interrogation room receded and darkened as a constellation of bright fires came into view, that he instinctively knew were people, Wulfric tinged with worry and the scent of the wolf, Madam Bones patient, biding her time, the DMLE personnel frustrated and bored, McGuire…

He dove forwards like an Olympic swimmer crashing into the light that was the prisoner's very essence. He felt rather than heard the scream, a physical thing that spiralled around and away from him thorny and tangling like brambles. Wrestling and tugging, he tore into the muddle of gold.

Memories, where were McGuire's memories? Here? He touched a tattered streamer of mist…no, just muddled impressions of something…daily tasks…routine, maybe…teeth flossing?

He moved on, latching onto an impossibly sided shape that swirled and twisted as he tried to rationalise it…old resentment overwhelmed him, bitterness at the oh so superior purebloods in his classes. Oh, he'd show them, he may only be a half-blood but he was cleverer, more talented than they ever would be, more driven to prove himself…

He forcibly tore himself away, before he lost himself completely, the tattered emotion/memory trailing away behind him leaking green slime as it went. That had been far too close, this was ridiculously dangerous, far more dangerous than Carrow had ever implied, and wasn't that just typical of the man. He needed to know where McGuire had been, what he'd done where, who he'd met and why…it had to be here somewhere. McGuire was supposed to be a potions master which required a high level of organization and control but this was a chaotic cluttered mess of shape and colour and sound…

Lunging forward he tore through a drift of things like giant grapes or maybe even sea urchins that skittered away squeaking even as they attempted to stick to him and leach into his mind form. He tore at them, crushing them, swatting away at the feelings that they sprayed out, despair, frustration, giddy elation, anger, sick satisfaction, jealousy…

Memories, where were they. He sank his fingers down into the colour streaked drifts below, an invisible smile breaking across his face. Got them. Impressions streaked past him, of summer days, a favourite swing, reading books, the grind of revision by candle-light late into the night, jumping into a swimming pool, the tedious grind of basic but money-making potions as his Master drank himself to oblivion upstairs, a successful experimental mixture as the surprised cat grew wings moments after wolfing down the dosed treat, and then…blast, frustration as it escaped through an open window…a walk, fresh air, open hillside, a heavy knapsack on his back…a tabby cat leaping off the desk in the Transfiguration classroom, transforming mid-air into the severe form of Professor McGonnagall…

No, back, left a bit, he dove back in…he'd found it, all the information he'd been after, the deals and experiments and dosing of unwilling victims for people whose names he'd never quite bothered to learn. After all they weren't important; it was always about the elixirs, perfecting their transformative properties, a liquid answer to the animagus transformation…and then the perfect deal. Oh yes, this was it, Timothy tugged at the memory gleefully following it along…and then the deal went sour as the DMLE busted the place swarming like red cockroaches all over his precious work, smashing and breaking things with their ignorant ham-fisted hands, his beautiful test-subjects carted away by small minded dullards, unappreciated for what they were…so he'd grabbed what he could and fled…

Howling in triumph, Timothy sliced through the thread tearing at it with teeth and claws he didn't realise he'd got. Tangling it carefully into a ball, he stuffed it into his mouth (did he currently have a mouth? This was all very puzzling, but he could always ask Carrow later couldn't he) and pushed away, swatting clinging filaments and strands out of his way, biting and slicing at the amorphous shining things like sea cucumbers that tried to block his way…

"Tim…Tim…Tim…"

The interrogation suite snapped back into focus, Wulfric looming over him, his expression frightened, angry and worried all at once, a strange fusion thing. How did he manage to pack so much emotion into one expression? He opened his mouth to ask but everything went strange and fluid and sideways.

oOo

The light was so intense it felt as if red hot skewers were being inserted into his eye. Groaning, he tried to swat it away, surprised when his movement was slow and sluggish. Where the heck was he? He squinted around at what appeared to be a small medical bay of some kind, a disapproving healer glaring at him from her work station. Well, that was sort of normal and reassuring.

"Finally," Wulfric said somewhere off to his left, his voice sounding far too relieved. Turing his head Timothy groaned as pain lanced across the front of his skull. What had he done, head-butted the floor? No wait, just an ill-advised attempt to extract information from an uncooperative person-of-interest, which meant of course that now he felt as if an elephant marching band was making its way across his skull.

"Mr Faulks," Madam Bones' voice came from his right.

Timothy winced. This was it, he had single headedly destroyed all Carrow's work building a cordial relationship with the DMLE. "Madam Bones," he croaked, steeling himself for the worst.

"Well, at least you remember who I am," she sounded positively relieved. Puzzled, Timothy tried to shift round to actually see her, cursing his missing eye. What was going on? Gritting his teeth against the pain, he heaved himself into a more upright position, trying to ignore the fussing and helping hands that erupted around him.

"I'm fine, honestly," he wheezed, more to reassure himself than anything else.

"Not for lack of trying," Wulfric growled, "I leave your side for ten minutes and you nearly succeed in frying your brain. Do you have no sense of self preservation, or is this yet another thing Carrow's setting out to stamp out of you?"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Madam Bones cut in to Timothy's relief, before Wulfric could really get going, "Mr Faulks, precisely what is this?" the Head of the DMLE held a carefully sealed jar up, the sort normally used to store memories in for archival purposes. Inside this one was a wisp of colour streaked something that thrashed and twisted against the walls of the jar, settling in the bottom momentarily before attempting to unscrew the lid. Timothy watched it with a frown.

"It fell out of your mouth," Madam Bones helpfully explained, her face deadpan but her eyes wary.

"Oh," Timothy shifted uncomfortably, this must be… "it's a memory, or possibly multiple memories that I managed to retrieve from McGuire's mind. Have you tried watching it yet?" he asked as the thing tried growing spikes in a futile attempt to punch holes in the lid of the jar.

"That's a memory?" Wulfric said dubiously.

"Not like any memory I've ever seen," Madam Bones gave the struggling thing a glare, "and believe me when I say I've seen more than a few in my time." She pinned him with a penetrating stare. "Precisely what did you do to McGuire?"

Timothy sighed unhappily; here it was, crunch time. "I entered McGuire's mind, since he was being so uncooperative, and…so…I got frustrated and…Madam Bones, I apologise, I've jeopardised the case and…"

"You entered his mind," Madam Bones leaned forward her eyes sharp, "using legilimency?"

"Legilimency?" Wulfric echoed, "I've never seen it do that before."

Timothy gave them a puzzled look. "I've vaguely heard about it, the odd obscure reference in the Library at Hogwarts with regards to wandless magic and the like, but nothing specific to what it was. Is that what Carrow's been teaching me?"

"Carrow? Of course, but Legilimency doesn't normally work like that, entered the mind indeed," Madam Bones growled in frustration, "the man is utterly brilliant at what he does, but sometimes I would really, really like to strangle him."

"Join the queue," Wulfric muttered. Timothy hid his snort of laughter as a cough; just in time too, considering Madam Bones' disapproving glare.

"So, what aren't you telling me?" Timothy asked, "I remember projecting out of my body as Carrow taught me to and entering McGuire's mind, found that," he nodded at the jar where the memory was still objecting to its capture, "and then I left…" He drifted off as he took in Wulfric's and Madam Bones' strange expressions.

"The first thing we knew something was wrong was when McGuire began screaming and trying to claw his own eyeballs out," Madam Bones said slowly, "and you were far too still, so I of course entered the interrogation room with the intent of finishing the interview, which was when you fell out of your seat."

"You were bleeding," Wulfric glared at him, "from your nose mainly but your eyes and ears were trying to join in too."

"Looked like that time one of the Unspeakables we were working with bit of more than he...or she could chew," Madam Bones chuckled grimly. "Please don't do whatever it is that Carrow has taught you to do again. I really would prefer not having to arrest you for illegal mind magics if at all possible…or have to have your brains scraped off the walls," she added with a grim smile.

"Which doesn't help us with this," she sighed giving the jar a little poke. The trapped memory flung itself against the jar wall attempting to savage her finger through the glass. "Personally, I have absolutely no desire to stick my face in this…did you actually view the memory before you extracted it?" she asked.

Timothy blinked, "Erm, I, err, I think so. He was fighting me pretty hard at that moment…"

"No, I think he was dying at that point," Wulfric muttered. Timothy ignored him.

"But you did see his memory," Madam Bones demanded.

"Er, yes," Timothy tried to edge away, "I did find out the location of a lab he helped set up about a year ago. I'm pretty certain it's not one that's popped up on the surveillance intel yet either."

Madam Bones' expression turned predatory. "Wonderful," she smiled showing far too many teeth.

. .oOo.

"Where are we going?" Timothy asked, mildly apprehensive as to the answer as Wulfric dragged him down the street towards town.

"We're going to have some fun," Wulfric grinned at him, "just for once."

Fun? What was that? Timothy thought sarcastically as he strode along the pavement, his great coat swirling around his ankles, Black Russian hanging from the cleft in his lip. He'd attempted to look casual that morning, taken one horrified look at himself in the mirror and then shoved his normal attire back on.

Timothy sighed as he trudged along. Of all the things he could be doing with his day off. He could be relaxing in front of the television right now, rotting his brain with sit-com re-runs, or reading a book or even being sensible and catching up on his sleep, but no, no, he was allowing himself to be dragged to who knew where by the local overly friendly werewolf. Brilliant.

"Come on, Timmo when was the last time you did something purely for enjoyment," Wulfric asked, "and no, your morning constitutional to get the paper doesn't count."

"I go jogging," Timothy glared at him, feeling rather got at.

"Jogging," Wulfric shook his head sadly, "seriously Tim, you're like an old man shuffling around in his slippers. Before you know it you'll start smoking a pipe."

Of all the… Timothy opened his mouth ready to tell Wulfric exactly what he thought of that idea, but thought better of it as they gave a slow moving mother with pushchair room to pass, her trailing brood all carrying brightly coloured school bags and lunch boxes covered in cartoon characters, a silver car gliding past.

"When was the last time you ate out, seriously," Wulfric glanced at him.

"Well…" Timothy strained his memory, "err…we had a takeaway from that Chinese place a couple of months ago…"

Wulfric shook his head sadly. "Doesn't count at all, plus they won't deliver any more….which is a shame because they were really good."

"And Artemis was only being friendly too," Timothy said, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Friendly to the chicken chow mein you mean," Wulfric smirked. "So, restaurant," Wulfric gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder as they walked past the small row of shops, a chemist, a hairdressers and a little mini-metro, a lad in a cheap tracksuit guarding a couple of jack-russells straining on their leads whining, giving them suspicious looks as they strode past.

Timothy sighed, resigned to his fate.

"You're going to enjoy this," Wulfric gave him a toothy grin over his shoulder as they crossed the road.

So much for his quiet day off, Timothy grumbled to himself as he trailed after the far too cheerful werewolf. A silver car slowly drove past. Wait, "Isn't that the car from earlier," he hissed to Wulfric.

Wulric glanced at it, froze, then started walking faster.

"One of yours is it," Timothy asked as he caught up. Wulfric gave him a sideways look.

"Fine, you don't need to tell me, especially if it's going to cause you trouble," Timothy sighed. When had life got so complicated? "Restaurant, right?"

.oOo.

The cherry trees in the market place were festooned with lights, lending the space an unseasonably festive air which was totally at odds with Timothy's previous experiences of the place. The last time he'd visited, admittedly well over a year ago, he'd been left with the impression of down-at-heel gentility. The Georgian and Victorian buildings around the market place had looked shabby and unloved, the few shops basic and clinging on by the skin of their teeth.

But now…the streets swarmed with people, students from the local collage hanging around after tutorials, late shoppers, and people dressed up for a night out.

The car-park as a result, Timothy noted, was full; people had even resorted to leaving their vehicles in strange places. In fact somebody was about to have their afternoon ruined by a traffic warden, and quite rightly too considering they'd been daft enough to park on the double-yellow lines on the tight bend of road that led into Church Lane.

And the shops…there had been a fair few empty shops before, a smattering of "to let" and "for sale" signs. Those were all gone; even places that he was pretty sure had been empty for years and years were now obviously occupied or in the process of being done up.

Even the church was getting in on the action, its wrought iron gates now spanned by an arch of foliage and lights.

In front of it sat the war memorial, a plinth of white marble topped by a bronze angel, wings out spread. Timothy peered at the names engraved on the bronze plaques fixed to the plinth. Under the title "Ypres" and a date, so many names, all of them so young…

"So where's this restaurant them?" Timothy nudged him with his elbow.

"Oh…yes, yes of course," Wulfric grinned, "the Starganza. One of Mrs Thorpe's ladies recommended the place to me. Apparently her husband took her there for their anniversary."

There was really wasn't anything he could do as the werewolf physically towed him across the square through the throngs to what had originally been a small theatre, but had then been converted into an equally tiny cinema. Now it was a restaurant of some kind, so new the paintwork was probably still damp. There were even topiaried privet bushes in pots by the doors.

.oOo.

"So how many violations of the Statute of Secrecy do you think we can get them on so far?" Timothy muttered softly as he glared at the salt and pepper pots that were slowly ambling round a pen in the centre of the table. Every so often they would bump into one another and clumsily stagger off. The bottle of vinegar obviously disliked the smaller condiments with a passion and would lash out whenever they got too close; the ketchup on the other hand seemed completely indifferent to the goings on.

"Erm…yeah, quite a few I'd have thought," Wulfric gave the seasoning rodeo a dubious look over the top of his menu, "but it's not what we're here for. Fun, Tim, remember?"

Timothy gave him a nasty glare as he picked up his own menu. "Let's see what they've got…" he murmured to himself, still annoyed. "The children's sweets menu looks more like the trolley on the Hogwarts Express…Wulfric…Wulfric?" Timothy looked up in annoyance, to find Wulfric gazing up at the ceiling, seemingly in a trance.

"Wulfric?" he tried again, but the werewolf hushed him, motioning him to look upwards.

Frowning, he craned his neck back, and nearly fell out of his chair in shock. Jupiter loomed above them in all its glory, slowly revolving bands of clouds snaking across its surface, swirls of interference arising where they interacted, culminating in the swirling eddies that surrounded the Great Red Spot which stared down at them like some sort of baleful eye.

A misshapen lump of rock lazily tumbled past. Timothy blinked as he watched it glide past and now he noticed it, the small orange dot of Io as it orbited close to Jupiter…and also a small pale white disk…was that Ganymede or Europa? He could never quite remember their order, though he was pretty certain it wasn't Callisto, because he was pretty sure Callisto was really dark and heavily cratered…

"Gentlemen, would you like to place your orders?" the waiter asked, grinning down at them. Disturbingly, he appeared to have a very small ginger kitten perched on his top lip. "The ceiling is pretty amazing isn't it? This guy from Aquila Ind. helped us set it up, Jon I think, really nice guy, he even set it up so we can change the view if we want to; makes the monthly Astronomy nights really fun."

Timothy almost groaned in frustration; and he had thought Professor Schmidt knew better, but then the man seemed incapable of turning down a challenge, and he had to admit the results were absolutely stunning, he risked another glance of swirling storm clouds.

"Of course only a psykic or whatever they call themselves can adjust it, but still," the man shrugged with a grin.

"Wizard, actually," Timothy pointed out, "or Witch, if you're female."

"Huh, really," the waiter said, "seems a bit old fashioned. I think empath or maybe even psyker sounds way cooler."

"I think I'll stick with wizard," Timothy grimaced, trying not to be impolite.

"Me too," Wulfric chimed in, "or werewolf. I'm happy with…"

"Werewolf?" the waiter practically squealed. "That's so cool, and I thought it was brilliant when those vampires from the Castle started turning up to the Astronomy nights. One even complemented me on my veins. I've never been so flattered in my life…"

Timothy sighed heavily as the waiter wittered on. Even the Coven were getting out more than he was. He really must be living under a rock or something if a group of people with a collective age of a millennium were getting out and about more than he was.

.oOo.

"…definitely employing house-elves in their kitchen," Timothy growled as he lit a cigarette.

"Maybe their cooks are just very talented," Wulfric shook his head with a smile, "I thought house-elves only really occurred in old family manors and the like.

"Not necessarily," Timothy grumbled as he glared around the street. Contrary to expectations, it was not getting quieter, just less muggle maybe. There were certainly fewer cars around and definitely increased numbers of people whose humanity was probably a little questionable.

Busier…and stranger, Timothy thought, as he watched a young woman with surprisingly real wings sprouting out of her back walk past. She and her friends looked rather muggle from their attire. Not many wizarding folk in his experience were conversant in muggle style-trends, even muggle-borns. Something about being out of the loop…unless, of course, they were actual muggles who'd been taking transformative potions; he closed his eye in exasperation. Oh Throne, this was a complete cluster-fuck; that is, if it were discovered by the DMLE.

But then again maybe Carrow wouldn't be interested. The infuriating man was happy to rant about the extermination of all xenos and abhumans but was suspiciously tolerant of vampires and werewolves. Obviously he had different, inscrutable, only-understood-by-giant-megalomaniacs-from-the-future criteria in mind when it came to this sort of thing, like if it were to his advantage.

Wulfric elbowed him in the ribs. "You're off in the clouds again. Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, obviously concerned.

Timothy rubbed at his forehead. "Yes, yes, just…I wished I'd been more aware of what was going on here. I've just been so caught up in work, that…"

"Hey, don't beat yourself up about it," Wulfric slung an arm around his shoulders, "you've been stopping Carrow from destroying the world. That's pretty much a full time job. Since this is the first day you've let yourself have off in about three months, why don't you just enjoy it? Let's make an evening of it, so…where to next?"

Timothy looked around the busy Market Square, feeling rather nonplussed. He had quite frankly had no idea what entertainments could be found here, particularly late on a weekday afternoon. In fact given the size and rural nature of Godric's Hollow it should be deader than a graveyard at this time, except for the odd pub of course, but only an utter idiot would incapacitate themselves with alcohol near Carrow.

"How about…over there," Wulfric pointed to what had been the Market Hall until it had closed down sometime in the early 80's. Now it was sporting a gaudy flashing sign declaring it to be the Night Market.

"Do you think they named it after the bus?" Timothy asked. Wulfric gave him a blank look.

"You haven't been on the Knight Bus, have you?" Timothy grinned sensing a chance for a little light revenge.

"Er, no, can't say I have," Wulfric gave him a funny look, "should I have?"

"No, not really," Timothy smirked at the werewolf, "something to look forward to, though," he chuckled to himself as he strode off towards the old Market Hall, a slightly worried Wulfric trailing after him.

It was obvious that the arched portico of the Market Hall had become something of a meeting place for the local youth, considering the group of teenagers gathered at one end. One of them was sharing around the headphones of his portable CD player so his friends could hear some new piece of music, most of whom were wearing an odd mish-mash of wizarding and muggle clothing. No knowing who was magical and who wasn't.

Nearby stood a witch in practical travelling robes, with a broom tucked under her arm; a rather nice model too, if Timothy was any judge. She was obviously waiting for someone, as she kept casting tempus charms and then glaring out into the square.

There was even a very normal looking muggle family carrying bulging bags of shopping waiting for their taxi to arrive, their children tired enough to begin bickering, much to the parents' exasperation.

A shadowy figure lurked beside the entrance, eyeing the group of teenagers hungrily. Timothy gave the predatory vampire a stern glare as he went past, causing it to do a double take. Cringing, it slunk off round the corner.

"I'm taking it that this is in fact a market," Timothy muttered to Wulfric as they entered the noisy crowded space of the Hall. He blinked rapidly, almost dazed by the sheer sensory overload of the place. The cavernous space of the hall was crammed with stalls stuffed higgledy-piggledy in between the cast iron pillars that soared up to the arch of the ceiling.

Everywhere there was produce, objects and services for sale, colourful awnings proclaiming stall holders' names, advertising signs that flashed and morphed and even tried talking to passers-by.

"This is…" Timothy began, lost for words.

"It is, isn't it?" Wulfric said, sounding almost as dazed as Timothy felt.

A nearby fruit and vegetable stall was winding down for the evening, but the book stall next was still very busy. Sidling closer, Timothy could see that it was stocked with a mixture of both magical and non-magical texts, all shelved together in topics. It was odd seeing One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungiby Phyllida Sporesitting next to The Well-Tempered Garden by Christopher Lloyd. The customers were nearly as mixed as the books, and it didn't stop there…

Further along, they passed an electrical appliance store that offered a conversion service "for the magical home," someone in grey robes fiddling with the internal workings of a portable television…

…second-hand robes and muggle toiletries…

…a butcher's, whose offal products were on prominent display, much to the delight of a passing hag…

…a clothing alteration service which looked non-magical at first glance, but the lady ironing a shirt had her wand stuck through her bun…

…an apothecary, the stench of which followed them down the aisle…

…a new-age hippy place with fairy figurines and crystals and packages of something suspiciously "herbal" on a stand behind the counter. An oddly dressed Witch was trying on one of the luridly coloured "made in Peru" ponchos …

…someone selling pre-made potions, a small gaggle of young women spilling out of the stall as they walked past, dressed up muggle-style for an evening out, little black dresses and strappy sandals with towering heels. One of them was already sporting fluffy cat-ears and a tabby striped tail. Her friend downed a small vial, just bought, her companions ohhing and ahhing as her hair rapidly cycled through a spectrum of colours, before settling on a blending of blues, greens and purples.

"Is it even safe for muggles to drink those?" Wulfric asked, "Does anybody even know?" He looked at Timothy. Timothy shrugged; he had a nasty feeling they were going to find out over the next few years…

…a couple of non-magical police officers who had a scrawny young man in cuffs.

"I ain't done nothing," the youth complained, as he fidgeted.

"So my eyes were deceiving me, were they?" one of the officers said. "That lady's handbag just magically jumped into your hands then?"

"Yeah…no…but, well…" the youth stumbled over his words as he became increasingly agitated.

"He's no wizard," a hag shrieked pointing an accusing finger, "he ran up to Elsie and just grabbed her handbag and tried to run off with it. That's when I hit him with mine!" Elsie nodded as she dabbed at her scarred and pock-marked cheeks. "I was just shopping," she wailed.

"Ladies," one of the police officers raised his hands placatingly to the two hags, obviously unhappy with the situation. Frankly, Timothy couldn't blame him, a muggle lad trying to mug a hag, and getting caught by muggle policemen, who were now talking to the obviously not-normal victims and the small crowd of witnesses, one of whom was blatantly a vampire. Where did all this end?

"Wulfric," he gestured at the surrounding crowds, "this is…I don't even know where to begin."

Wulfric's laugh sounded slightly hysterical. "This isn't a breaking of the Statute of Secrecy, Timmo, this is so far past it, it might as well be in a galaxy far, far away."

Timothy rolled his eye. "Right…cup of tea?" He pointed to the café set in the middle of the hall.

The café had invested in a large potted orange tree (magically maintained) which was utterly infested with tree fairies, underneath which were set chairs and tables. The tables even had red and white gingham tablecloths. Initially, it looked charming, but…

He glared as a couple of the blasted little flying pests worked together to manoeuvre a sugar cube out of the bowl and into a net he suspected had been made from the shed hair of customers.

"Blasted little nuisances," he muttered as the tree fairies flew off.

"They'll be back for more," Wulfric smiled over his coffee cup.

"We need Aurors permanently stationed here in Godric's Hollow," Timothy said suddenly, "except…" he looked around, "we can't. They're bound by oath to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, not to mention all the laws relating to the magical alteration of muggle objects. They would destroy all of this," he gestured to the cheerful chaos of the market, "and I'm not sure that's such a good idea…it would destroy the R&D department...gut it…"

"And that's before they started looking at Mr Carrow and his other business activities a little too closely…" Wulfric pointed out.

Timothy nodded, distracted, "but it's all here because of Mr Carrow…they're all as reliant as us on him just existing. No Carrow, no Aquila Ind. and none of this would exist…but something needs to be done," he shook his head in frustration. "It's like a free for all, there's no regulation or enforcement relating to the magical side of things at all, and when the two mix..." he grimaced, "people need protection."

"Who's making sure that the acromantula eggs are genuine and aren't being sold to the underage, or that nobody is substituting cheaper ingredients in the potions on sale? Do we even know whether the magical alterations to muggle technology that that guy back there was doing are safe, that they aren't going to suddenly burst into flames or something?"

"Or what about the sheer number of erm…creatures, and I speak as one of them here," Wulfric said, "what about laws pertaining to them and their rights…do we see this as an opportunity to make things better? Because Merlin knows it needs it."

Timothy scrubbed at his face with a hand, feeling as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. "We're going to have to liaise with the local Police ourselves and just enforce what we can…as for the law…we've got that constitution Carrow put together, I don't know whether he considered the magical side of things though. You know what he's like." He grimaced. "I'll have to have a look and see what I can put together."

"No, you're not," Wulfric gave him a severe look, "you've got enough on your plate right now. Delegate, Timmo."

Timothy almost sagged into his chair with relief. "Fine, fine, I'll talk to Slyte…and Curtis, maybe get Percy in on it too…possibly Carrow too. This is something that needs dealing with as a matter of some urgency."

. .oOo.

The distant howling rumble broke the silence of the morning and Timothy paused in his running to watch as a blue comet of fire ascended into the clear sky getting smaller as it went until it disappeared into the far distance.

"Wonder if they got ATC clearance for that," he muttered to himself. Bet that would be an interesting conversation, "we just need some clear airspace so we can go on a little jaunt into low earth orbit…" yep, that would go down well. A small paranoid part of him couldn't help but wonder what they were up to…was Carrow involved somehow…or was it just the R&D fruit-loops?

He shook his head, no point worrying about it, Timothy thought as he resumed his jogging, unable to help the grin as he ran past a dog walker out in his flat-cap, his cheap plastic bag full of newspapers. There was plenty to be cheerful about, no need to spoil the mood.

The man's small terrier yapped hysterically as he passed, fading into the distance as he turned the corner and ran alongside a closely trimmed privet hedge. It was all so blissfully normal, the sun was actually shining, he'd even managed to persuade Wulfric that he wouldn't be in imminent danger running round the sleepy suburban streets of Godric's Hollow, so for the first time in what felt like months he was out completely alone. It felt so liberating.

And just to put the cherry on top of the cake, Carrow was going to be gone for an entire nine months, nine months! Of course he would be returning for meetings, training with equipment he couldn't take with him and the like, but he wasn't going to be living here. The difference in atmosphere at the Lodge was already changing, almost anticipatory of the coming Carrow-less-ness; one of the gardeners had even smiled at him this morning.

He swerved around an older lady out and about on her mobility scooter, her little white dog glaring at him suspiciously from its place in the basket on the front. Further down the road were a couple of people in blue uniforms who had a rather frantic look to them.

Timothy watched them in concern as he approached; they didn't stop him as he went past. They weren't police…the RSPCA; he gave their van a curious glance as he went past. Not his problem, he grinned to himself as he jogged past.

There was rustling in the leylandii hedge alongside him, almost as if whatever it was were trailing him…

A rustling explosion of leaves, twigs and something erupted out of the hedge barrelling into him, knocking him flat on the pavement, shoving the air from his lungs with a yell. The something sat on his chest, grumbling and huffing, before licking a very wet and hot stripe across his face.

Groaning in disgust, Timothy tried to sit up, swiping at his face and dislodging the creature that was affectionately pinning him down into his lap.

"What the…" Timothy drifted off in puzzlement as he attempted to recognise the animal. It looked a little bit like a cat, sort of, if you squinted and put your head on one side, but then it also had bat-like wings, and a long tail with spines which it was now carefully washing, and a strange mixture of fur and scales all in a dark inky blue as if it couldn't decide which one it wanted, so it had just gone for both.

Perking its ears up at his movement, it gazed up at him with big yellow eyes, its pink tongue still sticking out.

"You look absolutely ridiculous," Timothy muttered, noticing the overly energetic creature was wearing a collar with a bone shaped tag hanging off it. "Hold still," he growled at the squirming creature as he tried to read the engraving. "Muffin? Seriously?" He shook his head at the naming idiocy of some people; hopefully their children hadn't suffered the same terrible fate. On the other side was a phone number, a local one by the look of it.

"Err…excuse me," A voice came from behind him.

Timothy twisted round as much as he was able, given his lap full of wriggling bouncy creature. Obviously it was a juvenile member of its species given its almost puppyish behaviour. Muffin gave a startled burp, followed by a whoosh of super heated air that whistled past his ear by inches. He could actually feel his hair frazzle.

"What the hell?!" He glared down at the contents of his lap.

Muffin gazed up at him all innocent and wide eyed, before pouring off his lap and trying to make a bee-line for the road.

"Oh no, you don't," Timothy snapped as he smartly grabbed Muffin's collar. Muffin objected strongly to his or her capture, wriggling, squirming and flapping her or his wings as he or she tried to get away, squeaking indignantly.

"Here, I've got a lead," the lady RSPCA person bustled forward, efficiently slipping a rope halter over Muffin's head, "there we go. Do you know him?"

"No, not particularly," Timothy glared at the blatantly sulking creature as he climbed to his feet. "There's a contact number on "Muffin's" name tag…must be some sort of experimental cross-breed," he growled in frustration. Just what he needed, some idiot producing mashed-up creatures in their garden shed for fun and profit. "Some sort of cat…dragon, maybe wyvern…I don't know, it's not really my area of expertise," he grimaced. The RSPCA people exchanged wary glances.

"Muffin! Muffin!" a frantic voice called. Approaching, loping down the road came a lanky man in glasses and a tracksuit that was at least ten years old, "Muffin! You naughty boy, running away like that!"

Muffin hearing the familiar voice began pulling at the lead, squeaking and chirping in excitement as he jumped up and down, wings frantically flapping. The man quickly clipped a lead to Muffin's collar, easily dodging the creature's affectionate licks. "You silly thing, honestly! What were you thinking running off like that," he cooed ruffling Muffin's ears, "thank-you ever so much for finding him," he smiled at them, "my little Tara would be devastated if she lost her pet…oh! Sir! Interrogator Faulks, Sir!"

Timothy held his sigh in, as the man turned the earnest gushing on him, the two RSPCA officers giving them curious looks.

"…sorry, Sir, that Muffin interrupted your morning. I hope he wasn't too destructive…"

"Do you have contact details for Muffin's breeder?" Timothy interrupted before the man could really get going, "I'd be very appreciative." So appreciative he'd pay the person a visit while fully armed just to make sure they were completely clear on his opinion on their activities. The sooner he could sort something policing out for the place the better.

.oOo.

Timothy sighed to himself as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair the sound of Dalziel going through the report from Accounting a soporific hum in the background. He suppressed a yawn as he gazed out of the windows of the boardroom; he was getting too old for this sort of thing, his back ached all the time, and his hair …his hair was definitely undeniably going grey. He hadn't realised until he'd got a good look at himself this morning in the bathroom mirror and seen all the silver streaks. It was official; working for Carrow aged you by twenty years at least.

"This all looks very promising," Roberts said as he leafed through the report, "the Colombians appear satisfied with the performance of the Cadia IV in all its variants."

"Doesn't seem fazed by anything, does it?" Dalziel interjected. "Heat, humidity…mud…"

"Wulfric proved that nearly a year ago," Timothy growled, bored out of his skin, "silly idiot dropped one in a ditch in the dark. Took him over five minutes to find it. I suspect he summoned it in the end."

"Magic proof too then," Dennis said from where he sat ensconced behind his laptop as he took the minutes for the meeting, "wait a minute…I should leave that out, shouldn't I…"

"Quite," Curtis sniffed delicately, "but it all means that we've got several other governments making discrete enquiries as to contracts. The Accounts Department are about as happy as they ever get…Franklin, don't eat all the figgy-biscuits please."

Franklin gave her a guilty grin, sinking down into the leather upholstered chair as Timothy sank back into his bored stupor, the meeting dragging on around him.

"…like to contribute anything?" Timothy startled, blinking as he found Curtis giving him a very pointed look down the table. Embarrassed he shifted in his chair uncomfortable to find himself the centre of attention, his mind busily scrambling for equilibrium.

"British Eagle Airlines," he blurted sending a half-hearted glare down the table to Carrow, "when were you going to tell us you'd started an airline?"

Curtis sighed in exasperation as the others froze.

"British Eagle Airlines?" Dalziel asked, scratching the balding spot on the top of his head. "What's that and what's it got to do with us?"

Timothy scowled at Carrow, who glared sullenly back. "Mr Carrow owns it, and somehow we've supplied the company two aircraft…space shuttles, with more on the way. I only found out because I went and did a little digging."

"And then Timothy came to me," Curtis pursed her lips in disapproval, "and we did even more digging, including paying them a visit."

"It was fascinating," Timothy leaned back in his chair, "they were almost as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Fancy that now." He gave Carrow a long look.

"So where are they operating from then?" Dalziel asked, looking around the board room as if it would give him answers.

"Other side of the airfield," Curtis said, "which is busily being turned into an airport. They've bought all that land with the abandoned farm buildings."

Dalziel stared. "What…how?"

Curtis could only shrug.

"The usual way," Timothy muttered, "with diggers and builders."

"Those extra air shuttles we made," Franklin scowled thoughtfully at the table, "the extras we made after Big Bertha, the ones Professor Schmidt helped out with…that's where they've gone, isn't it?"

Everybody turned and stared at Carrow who seemed far more interested in his data-slate as it chimed, his leather embossed robes and elaborately engraved goblin-steel armour looking particularly out of place in a modern board-room. Timothy felt his stomach sink as a satisfied smirk passed across the large man's face.

"The R&D department have been successful in their endeavour of placing a communications satellite in orbit," Carrow smiled at them the expression never quite reaching his chilly eyes.

"Ah, the shuttle this morning," Timothy burst out, "now I understand. I bet it took them, what…five minutes or so to get up out of the Earth's atmosphere and then the rest of the morning putting it in orbit and testing it and what not…" he trailed off Carrow continued to stare at him in interest. It was not a comfortable place to be.

"Wait," Dalziel said, "why do we suddenly have a communications satellite?"

"As I will be away in Scotland for much of the next year," Carrow explained as he rearranged the folds of his robes, "I need a way to keep up with the office. I will be having a satellite dish put on the roof and a pocket generator installed in my quarters at Hogwarts to further facilitate this."

Which Timothy was pretty certain Carrow had failed to inform Headmaster Dumbledore about in any way shape or form. Brilliant.

"And of course," Carrow continued, "this is just the first step in our space program."

"What space program?"

"It's rather minor at the moment," Carrow tilted his head apparently amused by the whole thing, "it seems rather ridiculous to term it a "space program". Still, regular orbital insertions, and then the Moon, to build a colony by the end of this year. There's a lot to be gained, privacy, working room, access to minerals without awkward questions, the Moon is rich in iron…and then of course Mars…the rest of the Solar System…and eventually we will have the resources to contemplate inter-stellar exploration. That is my end goal. It is rather frustrating being stuck on one planet for so long."

Timothy stared at the giant in silence. Was this truly possible? Except they now had working energy weapons, a few years earlier he would have scoffed at the possibility of those, so…

"Isn't there some sort of international treaty or something with regards to mining rights and land rights in space? Stop nations and individuals from just grabbing stuff?" Dalziel helpfully asked.

"Are they able to enforce it?" Carrow raised an eyebrow, his thoughts on the matter quite clear.

"Erm, currently? Probably not," Franklin said.

Carrow smirked, his eyes hard and cold.

"Like to see him explain that to the UN," Roberts muttered.

"These ridiculous little governments shouldn't make rules and agreements that they can't actually enforce in any way," Carrow growled.

"Right," Roberts grimaced, "next topic."

The boardroom descended into uncomfortable silence.

"From an Inquisitorial point of view, though, at the moment, British Eagle Airlines, it makes a lot of sense," Timothy said thoughtfully, "a minor airline that flies to smaller airports and less popular destinations, some of them rather out of the way too, easily overlooked, particularly by any local magical authorities…it's an excellent idea, particularly since their fleet are made up of rather off-beat aircraft, everything from a Bombardier Q400 to a retro-fitted DC-10. Means when Big Bertha…"

"Hammer of Justice," Carrow hissed.

"…turns up," Timothy carried on, "she's far less likely to catch people's attention." He nodded at Carrow.

"That is very much my thinking too," Carrow almost smiled, giving him an approving look.

"It'll make hunting down that cult considerably easier," Timothy agreed.

"Timothy," Curtis growled glaring at him disapprovingly, "you're supposed to be on our side…on to our next topic, Expo '95," Curtis gave the others a severe look as they suppressed groans, casting cautious glances down the table to where Carrow sat in all his glory.

Carrow smirked back at them as he stroked Artemis's head. "Excellent. I'm glad you brought that up, because I've had a number of ideas for the design of our…"

"That's quite all right, Allesandor," Curtis interrupted, "I've taken the precaution of commissioning a professional designer to take care of that. I've checked their credentials and they've done work for this sort of thing before, so understand," she glared at Carrow, "the constraints and regulations that have to be taken into account."

Carrow glared at them rather half-heartedly, his arms crossed over his chest, cold eyes watching them carefully. Far too accepting by half, Timothy thought, as he watched him warily.

"So the big thing for the Expo is the new plasma rifle," Roberts said. "Seriously, this thing actually works?"

"Oh yes," Franklin said around a mouthful of biscuit, crumbs falling down his front, "we struggled with the battery life at first, but…"

"And of course we'll want the tank as the centre-piece of the display," Carrow butted in, obviously of the belief that this was a given.

"Tank?" Roberts looked around warily.

"The tank," Curtis sighed heavily.

"Yes, the tank," Timothy groaned.

Franklin buried his face in his hands. "That bloody tank," he wailed in a muffled tone.

Carrow glared at them at all. "My tank is a serious weapon of war, both psychologically intimidating and an effective war machine, which is why it should be the centre piece of our display. It would be an excellent mascot for Aquila Industries."

"The best thing about that blasted tank is the main gun," Franklin groaned, "the rest of it…honestly it's like an A to Z of how not to build a tank. Some of the guys actually cried, because of it. I mean, rivets…rivets," he glared down the table at Carrow.

"Well, of course it's going to have rivets," Carrow glared back, "how else is the armour supposed to be held on?"

"Not a single sloping surface, either," Franklin threw his hands up in despair, "the thing's a bloody death trap. And then he had it bloody gilded," he jabbed an accusing finger at Carrow.

"It's my personal tank," Carrow growled, "I need it to be gilded to indicate my status," he said as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

"Right…so no tank," Roberts said as he checked the meeting itinerary again.

"No tank," Dennis agreed as he tapped away at his laptop, "but definitely the plasma rifle...does it have a name yet?"

"Solaris," Curtis said, Franklin nodding in agreement.

"And the Cadia V…"

"Yup, just basic upgrades on the Cadia IV," Franklin explained, "we've improved the balance so it's easier in the hands and we've also slightly altered the bayonet fitting and improved the bayonet design. It's a proper survival knife now. Nice and sturdy."

"So you can stab people with it and use it for chopping firewood and gutting squirrels," Timothy said.

"Exactly," Franklin smiled, "should be popular."

"A whole smorgasbord of ammo types…" Roberts continued, "imploding grenades?" He stared around the board room. "How long before they get banned under International treaty, I wonder?"

"That is the million dollar question," Timothy sighed, "isn't it generally the cruelty of the injuries inflicted on people that gets things banned? I mean, land-mines rip limbs off and shower you with shrapnel, and once laid, they can be difficult to find and disarm…"

"On the other hand our energy weapons should cauterize any injuries they cause," Franklin said, "that's if they don't just vaporise you outright."

"Right," Curtis gave them all a stern look, "so now we've considered some of the ethical implications of our latest products, could we move on to the next topic of discussion."

.oOo.

A huge furry paw snaked over the edge of the desk as it quested its way towards the plate where a few forlorn biscuits still sat.

"Artemis," Timothy sighed, pushing the plate out of her reach, "chocolate isn't good for you…at all."

Artemis made a soft huffing grumble as she nudged into him, her nose snuffling at the folders and paperwork he'd had to bring to the meeting. "Artemis," Timothy hissed in exasperation. She had grown so large now there was little he could do to dissuade her when she had made her mind up to do something.

The large cat gazed up at him, her blue eyes round and innocent, the tip of her tongue protruding. With a huff, she leaned against him.

"You're far too heavy for this," Timothy grimaced as she seemed to seek out the bruises on his ribs from the morning's training. Giving in, he buried his fingers in her thick plush fur, massaging behind her ears. Artemis closed her eyes in bliss, sighing in contentment.

"You're getting far too large," Timothy sighed, "but you're so beautiful."

Softly huffing, Artemis nudged his bruises again.

"ARTEMIS," Carrow's rumbling bellow drifted into the boardroom.

Artemis's large head swivelled round, ears twitching. With a rush, she pushed away from the table, nearly knocking Timothy's chair over as she stormed out of the room in search of her daddy.

"She's getting far too large," Maria Curtis sighed, obviously exasperated as she strode into the boardroom, "and the problems I'm having with tiger hair on my clothes…" She swiped at the legs of her smart trousers.

"Tell me about it," Timothy grumbled as he neatly stacked notes and reports, "all my clothes are black and it's like she knows."

"Cats! Just typical, doesn't seem to matter the size either," Curtis said as she tidied up her own stack of folders, "have you er…been into town recently…"

Timothy gave her a smile that was more of a grimace, "yes, about that…"

. .oOo.

Now he'd called this very informal and extremely unofficial meeting he wasn't sure where to start, Timothy rubbed at his right eye socket, the newly healed skin still sensitive, itching under his eye patch. And he had to admit as sneaked a glance round the small grove of potted palms they were currently sitting in, he wasn't entirely sure which bit of the original office they were in. Was this a new expansion into the rest of the floor or was this in fact an expanded cupboard…

"This is very nice and all that," Slyte took a sip of her mug of tea, "but there's quite a stack of paperwork awaiting my attentions at the moment…" she gave him a meaningful look, Curtis apparently in full agreement.

Timothy sighed, no point beating around the bush then, "Godric's Hollow…we need to do something about it, legally, to protect it…"

Clarrisa Slyte, Maria Curtis and Percy all exchanged looks.

"The town desperately needs some sort of…unofficial…official DMLE that liaise directly with the local police," Timothy continued hoping they would understand, "things are getting…complicated, what with our unique blend of magical and non-magical, but it means that currently there aren't any sorts of controls in place to keep people safe."

"Complicated," Percy said slowly, "that's one way of looking at it. I bought a small house in the Hollow last year thinking I'd have to pretend to be muggle, that is until the neighbours on one side had a screaming match with their daughter about her getting stuck with rabbit ears on a school night." He sighed heavily. "And the neighbour on the other side…I think they work for the R&D department, because there's always coloured smoke drifting out of their kitchen window, clearly magical, in the middle of the day, and nobody seems to care."

He shrugged in obvious frustration, "I gave up after that. It was too much effort."

"Coloured smoke drifting out the window?" Slyte gave him a dubious look.

"See, this is exactly what I'm talking about," Timothy pounced on the straw Percy had offered him, "that is clearly a safety hazard, who know what's in that smoke. They need a properly ventilated work area so they don't poison themselves and the entire neighbourhood."

"So," Slyte put her mug down, "how do you plan to go ahead with this…do remember that we have that educational reform bill to put through too. Mr Carrow is relying on us to further his work."

"So we'll slip the law enforcement items for the Hollow past under the educational bill," Percy suggested.

Timothy thought about it for a moment. "That could work…maybe have a chat with Madam Bones. See if we can do some sort of deal with the DMLE…"

"Isn't this just the thin end of the wedge?" Slyte said, giving him a piercing look. "'It's not just a discrete law enforcement body that Godric's Hollow needs, it's all the regulations and standards and…"

"We're going to have gradually implement all of Carrow's blasted constitution, discretely…in the background, and hope people don't look too hard, because if they do…" He slumped down in his seat. "There are times when I really wish I was still cleaning toilets," he muttered to himself.

Percy gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

. .oOo.

It was as if his Godfather was attempting to live inside the Sun, Carrow thought as he ducked through the front door of No.12 Grimmauld Place, Charles and Edwin following him behind. The man seemed to be obsessed with light; he glared at the sparkling chandelier as he dodged around it. It was, he supposed, understandable, given Azkaban wasn't exactly known for the brightness and airiness of its cells; and so now Sirius Black was overcompensating.

He watched as his Godfather greeted another guest, Madam Longbottom, with a rather strained smile. "…nice of you to come. My house-elf has laid on refreshments in the living room."

"Marvellous," Madam Longbottom said, "and I hope you're keeping out of trouble?"

Sirius seemed to shrink down into his robes. "Well, yes. Of course I am. I'm a reformed character, I'll have you know."

Madam Longbottom gave him a disbelieving sniff. "Are the others all ready here?" she asked.

"Yup. Already in the living room…I recommend the lemon drizzle cake, by the way," he called after the older lady, as she strolled further into the house.

Carrow grinned down at the smaller man as he turned round. "Oh no! It's you!" Sirius squawked, leaping back dramatically.

"But of course," Carrow's grin broadened, "who else would I be?"

Sirius laughed sarcastically as the vampires made their presence known.

"My goodness me," Charles exclaimed, "the Snack!"

"As I live and breathe," Edwin clasped his hands dramatically to his chest, "he survived. Freedom seems to be suiting you well."

"Yes, yes, it's good to see you both too," Sirius grimaced as he put up with the friendly jostling and back pats. "So…the Headmaster invited you to his little shindig."

"Indeed," Carrow said, "I hadn't realised that the Headmaster was such a social creature."

Sirius laughed nervously. "Well, you know," he shrugged, "when you're surrounded by children all day, must be nice to get some adult company occasionally."

A little bored at the forced socialising, Carrow glanced round, his eyes widening minutely as he took in one of the paintings hanging on the wall. It was nice to know when a gift was appreciated.

"Heh, you know I never did thank you properly," Sirius said.

Carrow gave him a quizzical look.

"About Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," Sirius grinned up at him bouncing on his heels, "we've been mainly doing business by owl post while they finish off their education, though this year of course I've got more opportunities to go up to Hogwarts and that…well, we're planning on opening the shop next summer, just in time to catch the Hogwarts trade. Should be good," his grin broadened to almost manic proportions, "we've found a prime location and everything on Diagon Alley, with a flat above so the lads are going to…"

"Cooee," a shrill female voice called out.

Sirius's face fell. "Merlin's saggy balls," he groaned hurrying forward, "bloody old hag," he muttered, as he attempted to pull the velvet curtain back in front of his mother's portrait, "always pick your moments don't you?"

Watching in bemusement, Carrow couldn't help but notice that the frothing lacy and heavily corseted dress that Mrs Black was attired in would have been quite lovely on someone eighty years her junior, and her approach to face paint reminded him heavily of one world he'd visited (thankfully briefly) where the ruling classes had adorned their faces with patterns and colours as part of a rigid system of rules denoting season, circumstances and mood. It had been very annoying, and very garish.

"Come on," Sirius bellowed, "just this once, you spiteful old cow. You can moon over your bloody boyfriend later."

"Hateful hippo-dropping of my loins," Mrs Black snarled in her son's face before peering over his shoulder, fluttering her eyelashes with a sickly smile as she waggled her fingers in greeting.

Carrow followed her line of sight. It was nice to see that Brother Librarian Octavius was stalwart in the face of her flirtations.

.oOo.

"…now we're all here," Headmaster Dumbledore beamed happily around the hodge-podge gathering from his place on the sofa, "we can finally get down to business."

Carrow narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. The Headmaster had been unusually opaque about the reasons for this meeting, downright evasive in fact. No matter, his mole in the Headmaster's little political group was present as were Alastor Moody and Severus Snape, though he couldn't help but notice that the Potions Master was looking a little pale, even for him, ashen even.

He was sure with a little prompting he could get a fuller picture of Headmaster Dumbledore's thinking on this occasion.

"As some of you aware, Voldemort…"

Most of the people in the room gasped in horror. Carrow rolled his eyes in exasperation. For Throne's sake, these people were so embarrassingly sheltered from reality.

"Yes, Voldemort," the Headmaster continued, "is not only not deceased, but has regained a…how should I put this…a physical form?" He frowned thoughtfully at Carrow.

"Precisely what is this gathering in aid of?" Carrow asked.

"Oh, didn't I say?" Dumbledore said.

Carrow gave him an unimpressed stare, waiting for the Headmaster to get to some sort of point.

"During the last war, a group of us decided enough was enough and got together to help the fight against Voldemort in any way we could," Dumbledore said brightly, "those of us here are what is left of the Order of Phoenix, with a few new faces, of course." He smiled at the young lady with violently pink hair. To Carrow's vexation, her hair shifted and deepened to a vivid crimson as her face flushed unnaturally, the colour disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

A secret society with vigilante tendencies meddling in things they shouldn't; just typical, Carrow scowled to himself. This needed shutting down fast, before these idiots managed to get themselves hurt.

"This…Dark Lord of yours has indeed returned. His new form, such as it is," Carrow looked around the gathering with narrowed eyes, "is not human and is extremely dangerous both physically…and spiritually."

"Well," Dumbledore smiled cheerfully into the fraught silence that had descended on the gathering, "let us discuss the first item of business shall we…guard duty at the Department of Mysteries."

"Guard duty" Carrow boomed, "guarding what from whom?"

"Didn't your young friends inform you?" Dumbledore gave Moody and Snape a pointed look as the two men suddenly found the floor, the ceiling, a nearby piece of driftwood wrapped in twinkling lights, incredibly interesting.

"I would like to hear it from you," Carrow said, locking eyes with the Headmaster.

Dumbledore's lips almost twitched in amusement. "Hmm, I see. Well then…we are currently guarding an item within the Department of Mysteries that Voldemort…"

Most of the room gave a collective twitch.

"…has certainly in the past greatly desired, a prophecy pertaining to himself…and you." Dumbledore sighed heavily. "It is a heavy burden that I…"

"A prophecy," Carrow growled, blue sparks of warp light beginning to shimmer around his eyes, "why was I not informed of this at the first possible moment. Throne cursed things. Where is it stored? How is it stored? Who may access it? I need to know now."

"Really Mr Carrow," one of the older ladies gasped in alarm.

Carrow ignored her, his glare boring into Dumbledore.

Eventually, with some careful questioning, Dumbledore confessed everything, leaving Carrow grinding his teeth in frustration. A small globe, that was all it was. He could have dealt with this over a year ago.

"I doubt even now, if there's anything of him left," Dumbledore continued explaining, "that he'd feel any less interested in it. If not him, then his…new allies maybe…"

"Pray they are not," Carrow closed his eyes and said a small prayer in an effort to calm himself. These people…by the God-Emperor, they were a danger to themselves and each other. "If he, this Dark Lord, comes for this…this prophecy, in his current state, not only would your guard not survive, nor would the Ministry itself. That is the truth of the situation."

The room froze in horror for a moment.

"Surely you're joking, the entire Ministry," Emelline Vance laughed hysterically. She jerked back as Carrow turned his attention to her. "We'd at least be able to get a warning off…wouldn't we?" she almost begged.

"No, you would not." Carrow sighed internally. The sheer naïve optimism and ignorance of these people would never cease to amaze him. They were so totally unaware of just how much danger they were truly in.

"The only way you would be able to get a message off in such a situation would be if you had a method that, on the event of the guard's death, sent a pre-determined signal. Even then, there's no guarantee that it wouldn't be intercepted in some manner, stopped in its tracks, or warped and altered to some new and unwholesome purpose."

The gathered Order stared at him in silent horror.

He sighed heavily. "I will retrieve this prophecy myself." If only to save these innocents from their ignorance, he thought. The God-Emperor's duty never ended.

"If you are sure…" Dumbledore asked, his smile serious.

Carrow gave him a curt nod.

"Severus?" the Headmaster turned his attention to Snape who was sitting slumped, head down clasping his left arm tightly.

"Has Voldemort summoned you to his side?" Dumbledore asked.

Uncomfortable at the question and the sudden attention, Severus swallowed, painfully gripping his left forearm tightly. "No…no, he has not."

"If he does, do not respond," Carrow said sharply.

"If I don't, I will die," Severus rasped. "I have no choice, unless I wish a slow and agonising death."

"You will not go," Carrow growled.

Severus opened his mouth, in protest perhaps, Carrow wasn't sure as he held up a hand. "I understand that you acted as a spy prior to his untimely de-corporalisation, but this time is different. If you go to his side, wherever he is, you will not return. Maybe something that looks like you will return, but it will not be you."

Severus subsided, his expression blank, dark eyes feverish.

"Come to me and I will ensure your safety," Carrow said firmly.

"Truly?" Severus whispered.

"Yes," Carrow said with absolute certainty, "this will not be a repeat of the conflict which you all lived through; your Dark Lord has new allies now. Genuinely dangerous ones."

"The old ones were pretty bloody dangerous too," someone muttered darkly.

"Except they're all dead now," Moody gave them all a nasty grin, "just two left. Severus here, and Igor Karkaroff, and I don't expect to see that yellow-bellied coward outside the confines of Durmstrang's wards for the rest of his natural life. As for Severus…" he looked at his now friend, "he was never truly one of them, despite his carrying the Mark."

"The Mark?" Carrow frowned.

"You-Know-Who marked all his followers…"

Snape made a strangled sound clutching his left forearm as he slipped bonelessly from his chair, eyes rolling back in his head as his limbs twitched spasmodically, people leaping to their feet in concern. Carrow watched over their heads in interest as they crowded round the fallen man.

"Professor Snape! Are you all right?" the pink haired woman exclaimed as she knelt by him wand drawn obviously unsure of what to do.

"It appears to be an epileptic fit of some kind," Carrow commented, his voice carrying over the general distress. "Not much to be done except make sure he doesn't injure himself. Look lively," he growled when they turned and stared at him cow-like, "keep his head away from that chair leg."

The spasms began to die down leaving Snape limp and shaken where he lay on the floor, far too exhausted to snarl at his concerned audience.

That alone was enough to cause Carrow some concern. "Your mark," he demanded. Snape sullenly pulled his sleeve up revealing his bandaged forearm for examination.

"A direct link?" Carrow growled as he closely examined the swollen angry mess that was Snape's forearm. The dark mark stood out starkly against the angry red flesh. Directly around the mark itself was a pale yellow area that constantly weeped fluid, and the smell…Carrow sniffed the air delicately. Yes, the smell of taint was faint but highly distinctive, sweet and rotten and foul.

"Nothing I do seems to work," Snape said his voice shaking slightly as Carrow gently traced a red tendril of infection that seemed to be working its way up his arm. "I've tried everything, balms and salves, potions and ointments, even Phoenix tears but it only seems to be keeping it from spreading..." he looked up, raw fear in his eyes.

"They won't work," Carrow said with utter finality as he dropped the smaller man's arm. "We need to go now," he surged to his feet ushering Snape in front of him as he made for the door.

"What are you doing?!" Snape snarled his voice carrying over the surprised and outraged shouts of the rest of the so-called Order of the Phoenix.

Carrow ignored his protest as he pushed the man out of the door. "I'm saving your life," he growled as he grabbed Snape's arm and physically dragged him to the front door, "you are linked on the ethereal plane to a being that is now little more than a plaything for a daemon. Can you not see the urgency of the situation?"

Snape's protests trailed off and he finally stopped struggling. "A daemon," he whispered.

Carrow looked down to find Snape staring back up at him, face pale as a ghost, dark eyes desperate and haunted. "Have faith little one," Carrow said as he pushed Snape out of the front door.