The Huddled Masses

Please note that this chapter includes some harrowing images of substance abuse.


"Listen, it makes sense," Roxanne gave an encouraging nod as they waited for coffees from a muggle food truck. Dawn was just breaking over the horizon but the frigid night air still clung to the streets of muggle London. Roxanne blew on her hands while Perry bounced in place, avoiding her eye. "I don't blame you for wanting to change your name. I mean, I know what it's like to have a famous family—not that it's the same! I mean..."

"I didn't change my name to avoid my family history," Perry sniffed.

"Oh?" Roxanne's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "Why then?"

"Scorpius is a terrible, awful name," he replied. "And unlike other terrible, awful names, it lacks any redeeming possibilities for being shortened."

The muggle finished adding cream to their coffees and handed them over. Roxanne removed the lid and blew, considering what Perry had said. "Yeah, I suppose 'Scorp' isn't much good," she mused and Perry replied with a grave shake of his head. "Scor, maybe—that isn't so bad... Pius is awful, though."

"I am aware," Perry agreed, turning on his heel back to Baker Street. "Since you're working with me," he added after a pause. "I'd like to know if you're attached."

"Attached?" Roxanne asked, falling into step with him.

"Yes, attached," he repeated. "To another. A boyfriend, a fiance, a paramour."

Roxanne faltered, overwhelmed by the terrifying idea that Scorpius Malfoy might be hitting on her. "No, not... right now," she replied before embellishing: "nothing serious, anyway."

"Yes I imagine that being blood relations to half of wizarding Britain might rather stymie a romantic life," Perry nodded

"And you?" Roxanne asked, hoping to draw attention away from herself. "Girlfriend?" Perry missed a step. "Boyfriend?" she asked instead, trying to keep the tinge of hopefulness out of her voice. She couldn't help but think that significant awkwardness might be avoided if he were gay, but also recognized that his sexuality wasn't any of her business.

"Neither as of yet," he replied, jaw tense, as his pace evened back out.

"So what do we know?" Perry asked, sounding everything in the world like a professor back at Hogwarts conducting a lesson. They were sat at the kitchen table, files and notes laid out before them with more organization than Roxanne would have thought him capable of.

"It's a narcotic, mixed muggle and magical ingredients, and it's potentially fatal," she replied.

"And what might that tell us?" he pushed on, steepling his fingers.

"The supplier is likely a witch or wizard, but has a decent understanding of the muggle world." She frowned, feeling like he would be expecting more from her. She went back to what they'd discussed at the Ministry, and the reason for the laws about messing with muggle chemical compounds. "And it's a fatal augmentation of a muggle material, which suggests it could be Dark Wizards trying to cause muggles harm."

"Unlikely," Perry concluded to her surprise. "The fatal component is the muggle narcotic—hardly a novel introduction into muggle society. The assumption that naivete might make a person vulnerable—as is the modus operandi with muggle baiting—would instead put wizards as the intended targets. I suspect that there isn't much of a conspiracy at play here; just the careless distribution of a dangerous substance."

"But you said, at the Ministry—"

Perry waved a hand. "I only suggested muggle baiting to keep the case under auror jurisdiction. There isn't actually much support for that theory."

Roxanne couldn't think of anything clever to say, so she instead decided to scan Perry's meticulous notes.

"If you'd like to take a look at a sample," he said, producing a parcel of twisted cellophane from his pocket.

"But Harry said you weren't to take any evidence from the Ministry!" she spluttered.

"Yes, so I procured a sample myself. Independently."

"But—how?" she asked, taking the sample and turning it over in the light.

"Well, I bought it, as one typically buys drugs," he rolled his eyes, then collapsed into a chair. "Which tells us something else..."

Gray eyes bored into hazel while Roxanne considered the question.

"Distribution isn't confined to the wizarding world," she replied, unhappy to realize the connection.

"Yes," he sighed. "And the material contains magical ingredients. It's only a matter of time before some muggle dies or goes to hospital and the authorities discover the substance. A few tests in a lab and bam: the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, crumbled to dust."

Roxanne felt the full weight of the predicament settle onto her chest. "Is black tar heroin really that much more dangerous?" she asked. She knew a bit, from Healer training, about heroin's addictive nature and overdose potential—but only in its powder form, or when diluted with water. She tried not to imagine that gummy silver material clogging up a person's veins.

"Yes," Perry replied, lowering his chin so that his face caught the shadows. "Very much so."

"How about this?" Roxanne asked, smoothing her disguise with an anxious hand. She'd paired every 'pre-distressed' muggle garment she owned in an attempt to look shabby.

"Absolutely not," Perry replied from his threadbare armchair, chin perched absurdly on his fist while he considered her. Roxanne couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Well what do addicts wear?" she demanded. "This is all I could come up with."

"It's too forced, like an undercover officer," he said. "And you're just too well kempt. Too clean, too manicured."

"Thank you?"

"It wasn't a compliment," Perry replied. "The residual effects of an easy childhood and years of clean living."

"Well excuse me, Last Scion of Malfoy," Roxanne rolled her eyes. "I suppose I should defer to you on all matters regarding the rough life." She regretted it just as soon as she said it.

"Money and privilege are not mutually inclusive," was all he said.

"So what should I do, then?" she asked, trying to ignore her frustration.

"Start chipping at your nail varnish," Perry instructed, swooping up from his chair. "Damage your cuticles if you can."

Roxanne sighed and did as suggested but felt uncomfortable with the passive role she'd been playing. It wasn't easy to do as she was told by someone younger, and madder, and more ridiculous than she was. Then again, she had exactly zero experience in any investigative field, and rather appreciated the deal she'd been given. And, if she were being honest, she couldn't help but find the entire concept of his work fascinating.

Then, all at once, Perry was attacking her hair.

"Oi!" she shouted, elbowing him away on reflex. "Is that oil?" she demanded, feeling a few greasy locks.

"Olive oil, stay still," he said, trying to accost her again, and again getting swatted away. "We need to make your hair look dirty. Your muggle clothes are all too nice, so just wear what you had on yesterday—at least they'll be wrinkled."

"Fine." She grit her teeth and allowed him grudging access to her hair. Roxanne didn't like people touching her hair on principal. At Hogwarts, her afro had often felt like a black hole for white fingers. Then again, she supposed, it wasn't as if Perry was molesting her hair because he was curious about what it felt like. "Do you think that'll be convincing enough?" she asked while he worked.

"Well you have an advantage," he shrugged.

"Yeah?"

"You're black."

"Oi!" Elbow made contact with ribs, knuckles with shoulder.

Roxanne felt self-conscious in her oily hair and rumpled outfit from the previous day as they marched down Charing Cross Road. Her green tights were stretched and baggy for being worn twice in a row without being washed and the sleeves of her striped jumper bore coffee stains. Perry had even applied dark circles under her eyes with shadow and used her red lip pencil on her waterline. Before, she'd been concerned she wouldn't be believable enough—now, she regretted how convincing the disguise seemed to be. Passers-by made a wide berth of the raggedy duo and every pair of eyes avoided her own. The muggle workforce of London were all about, dressed in their respectable clothes and heading to their respectable jobs. Those that had nowhere to go, or who were still up from the night before, huddled at the edges. The middle-ground of humanity had yet to rise and so the sidewalks were populated only by the gainfully employed, or invisible wretched.

"So you think distribution is focused around the Leaky?" Roxanne asked, wanting to distract herself from the many looks of derision she attracted.

"We have to assume the supplier is a witch or wizard, so the Leaky will be their probable entry-point into the muggle world," Perry reasoned. "During the night I sampled various drug-trade hotspots. The highest concentration appeared to be the Strand area."

"So we just... try to buy it all?" Roxanne clarified.

"Well we can't possibly buy it all, but we can try and get as much off the streets as possible—buy ourselves some time."

"When should we start?" she asked, anxiety creeping under her skin. The closer they got to actually realizing the plan, the more dangerous it started to feel.

"Well, first we need to get a sizable sum of muggle money at Gringotts."

"Um, Perry?" Roxanne said. "Couldn't we have gotten the muggle money before we got into our disguises?"

"Less efficient," he replied around the filter of a cigarette.

"Fucking hell," Roxanne seethed.

Summer was, it turned out, the exact worst time to visit Diagon Alley in a tramp costume. Madame Longbottom was back from Hogwarts and stationed behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron. Roxanne tried to keep her head down, in the hopes that she might not be recognized, but it was futile. She and her brother had inherited a unique suite of traits and could typically be spotted from many metres away.

"Hello, Roxy dear!" Madame Longbottom waved, but her smile soon faltered. "Is everything alright, love?"

"Yes, fine, inahurry," Roxanne wheezed, trying to keep her cosmetically adjusted eyes out of view, before realizing that the suspicious behavior only amplified the effect of her costume as she hurried past.

The alley itself proved a veritable mine-field for the eldest Johnson-Weasley. She tried not to draw attention to herself while families bustled merrily between the shops, but it was a useless exercise. Tartan mini-skirt, lime green stockings, striped jumper—not to mention the ginger afro. Roxanne Weasley was as far from subtle as a person could be.

The most obvious hazard was her father's joke shop, which opened in a few short hours. The likelihood that her dad and uncle Ron would be kicking about, getting an early breakfast, was high. Then there was Ollivander's, where her cousin Albus would certainly be engaged in his wandmaking internship. He, too, could be anywhere at any time. James would probably be spending the day darting between Flourish and Blott's and the Leaky, scribbling away at his manuscript, while Rose might be meeting with fellow activists for her radio show. Hugo could be doing… whatever Hugo did these days, and Uncle Bill might be drawn to the alley for some meeting at Gringotts.

Thinking about it, Roxanne realized she could run into any number of them. Every member of her family possessed freedom of movement and exercised their locomotive abilities. Shame, she thought.

Perry, for his part, didn't seem affected by the sidelong glances of passers-by. With a pang she realized he'd probably grown up accustomed to scorn. Roxanne determined to stop indulging her own self-pity for her woeful appearance—she hadn't, after all, ever had to experience living under the dark cloud of a name like Malfoy. Daughter to one of the most adored and respected men in England, and niece to living legends, her name had always inspired admiration and respect. She'd been a bright student, driven Healer trainee, and later, a rising star in her field. Even this, appearing in public like she hadn't bathed in a month, couldn't possibly be enough to tarnish her sterling reputation.

Roxanne Weasley's determination didn't last long.

"Roxy, Roxy is that you?" a drawling voice called out, and it took a moment for her to place it. "Goodness Roxy, you look awful."

Christina McLaggen. Christina McLaggen seizing her shoulder. Keeping Roxanne from getting away. Christina McLaggen: her actual nemesis.

"My, you've been out of a job less than a week—I didn't realize how hard it would be for you," Christina said, flipping her clean hair ostentatiously.

"Been enjoying the freedom," Roxanne lied. "Late night out with my mates." She'd intended to twist the knife where a hurt the most: a Healer's pointed lack of a personal life.

Without even asking first, McLaggen reached out for one of Roxanne's oily curls and Roxanne stepped back on instinct. Christina had been one of those girls in Healer training who made liberal use of the word 'ethnic.'

"Well listen, I'm glad I ran into you because I wanted to tell you I absolutely stood up for you during the disciplinary hearing." Christina's lies dripped from her pouting lips like syrup. "I know that the whole thing was Blishwick's fault, as your superior, and all—"

"Listen we're in a hurry—nice seeing you Chrissy," Roxanne cut her off and didn't wait for a reply before storming away.

Perry waited until they were out of earshot before speaking. "You had a disciplinary hearing?"

"That's none of your business," Roxanne replied through clenched teeth.

"And I take it you lost?" Perry pressed on.

"And what makes you say that?" she shot back, bracing herself for another of Perry's invasive, deductive analyses.

"Well, had you won, you wouldn't be out on a Tuesday morning scoring drugs with the Last Scion of Malfoy."

Roxanne repressed a smirk.

Perry withdrew two thousand muggle pounds from Gringotts and Roxanne rushed him out the gates just as soon as he had the banknotes in hand. He'd insisted that they needed to get 'small notes,' lest their clandestine purchases arouse suspicion. 'Small notes' were, it turned out, only small in reference to their spending power. The sheer mass of them proved difficult to manage; Roxanne usually used a credit card when she did muggle shopping. Grumbling, she forced a wad of two hundred individual notes into her skirt pocket, uncomfortably aware of its sum value. More money than it was ever wise to carry on one's person. Most definitely if one's person was intent on quickly coming in contact with other, particularly unsavory, persons.

Bursting out the pub doors back onto Charing Cross Road, and away from the wizarding alley, Roxanne experienced a few seconds of ecstatic relief—but it rapidly dissipated when she remembered what would be coming next. Anxiety Over Getting Recognized soon gave way to Anxiety Over Getting Jumped by a Drug Dealer, and she gulped hard. She instantly regretted the obvious gesture of worry, as the last thing she wanted was to appear nervous in front of Perry.

Then again, Perry hadn't proved himself particularly adept at recognizing emotional cues.

"You had an affair!" he blurted out, quite without any segue.

"What? No I didn't!"

"That's why you had the disciplinary hearing. That's why McLaggen was on about Blishwick being your 'superior,'" he speculated, starting on a path away from the main road.

"Wrong and wrong," Roxanne snapped, catching up to him. "It wasn't like that."

"You stole potions," he guessed again.

"Absolutely not, don't be crazy."

"Then why did you lose the disciplinary hearing?" Perry asked.

"I didn't, actually," Roxanne sighed. "I really did quit... Well, I think 'resigned in disgrace' might be a more accurate description," she admitted.

"But why the disciplinary hearing?"

"I—I'm really not supposed to talk about it," she said, bitter memories creeping back out from the region of her brain she'd been trying to ignore.

"Can you give me an idea of the basic shape of the charges?" Perry tried.

"Fine. Malpractice and insubordination," she replied. "I got off on a technicality."

"Which was..."

"The charges were in direct conflict with one another."

"Wait, what?!" Perry spluttered, stopping dead in his tracks as they turned into an alley. Roxanne hadn't even realized they'd been walking. "How is that even possible?" He fretted, frustrated, by the new information. It was clear to Roxanne that he didn't like incongruities in data and she couldn't help but enjoy withholding the mystery from him.

Perry continued to gape as Roxanne took in their surroundings. The alley was everything she had been expecting: thick with the stench of overflowing skips and crusted with graffiti. The orange plungers of syringes peeked out like easter eggs hidden among the scattered rubbish and she had to take care not to tread on any shattered glass pipes. A mangy fox slinked around a chain-link fence, seemingly for dramatic effect. Roxanne couldn't help but feel shocked that a place so seedy might exist just off such a major tourist strip.

Realizing he wouldn't get an answer from her just yet, Perry stepped up to a great industrial door and rapped his knuckles against it. Roxanne hadn't anticipated how much sound it would make and flinched.

And then it opened a crack. A shadowy face emerged.

"What's your business?" the shadows growled.

"I'm looking for that silver stuff," Perry said, making a show of manically scratching his neck.

All at once the door slammed shut with a boom.

The two investigators remained still and silent for the space of a breath. "Did we do it wrong?" Roxanne asked out of the corner of her mouth.

"Not at all," Perry assured her.

The door creaked back open and Roxanne tensed.

"How much you need?" the man on the other side asked.

"What do you have on-hand?" Perry replied, lowering his voice and scanning the alley both ways. Roxanne couldn't help but feel impressed by how convincingly he played his part. He didn't affect an accent, or even really change much of his behavior—rather, slid into the role.

The door snapped shut once more, but before Roxanne could ask what was happening, it opened again. Wide enough to admit the both of them. They passed through an oppressively dark corridor, and then—her breath froze in her lungs.

A gleaming, bustling kitchen. Chefs in neat white uniforms and tall hats chopped and filleted, or flipped skillets such that jumbo prawns leapt into the air glistening with butter. Just as quickly as she had registered the space she was being ushered towards a great steel door; a walk in freezer. Frigid cadavers of a dozen pigs hung from hooks in the ceiling. The contrast against the warm, bubbling kitchen came as a shock to her dizzy mind. Their guide, a dishwasher by the look of him, slammed the door behind them. The gutted carcasses swung from the force of it.

"How much are you looking to spend?" the dishwasher asked, chewing his cheek, arms folded tight across his chest.

"Whatever you have. We're going up north soon, and I need a supply," Perry replied.

"Huh," the dishwasher chuckled. "I can spare ten bags for you. Five quid a piece."

"I'll give you one-fifty for twenty bags," Perry countered.

The dishwasher furrowed his eyebrows as he did the math. "Anybody ever tell you you're a shite negotiator? That's not how people try to play bulk sales."

"I don't care, I need as much as I can get."

"Fine," the dishwasher shook his head, smiling. "Twenty bags for one-fifty." He reached right into the cavity of one of the hanging pigs and dislodged a can. Flipping it upside down revealed a false bottom and then a glimpse of shimmering silver. Perry handed over his muggle money and the dishwasher handed over a handful of plastic and death—a mere fraction of what still remained in the can.

"How much for the rest?" Perry asked, not looking up from the bags he was counting.

"Can't give you any more—hotel needs this on hand for guests." The dishwasher had gone back to chewing his cheek.

Perry only shrugged, and pushed the contraband into his pocket. When his hand came back out, it gripped his wand.

"Stupefy!"

The dishwasher crumpled to the ground in a flash of red.

"Take the rest," Perry instructed. With surprising calm Roxanne dumped the remaining stash into her rucksack.

We have magic, she reminded herself.

She peered inside the hollowed pig just in case but found nothing. Perry crouched down and directed his wand to the unconscious dishwasher.

"Ennervate," he incanted.

The young man blinked, confused, but was obliviated within seconds.

"You sold me the whole supply for a big mark-up," Perry fed the man the false memory. "But you pocketed that money, and will lie to your superiors that it all got doled out as planned. When you get home, you'll discover the money is missing and blame yourself for losing it. You will continue to tell all who work here that I am an excellent customer."

With the memory modification complete Roxanne and Perry left the disorientated dishwasher and made their way back out into the alley. They didn't speak for several minutes, nerves still crackling with adrenaline.

"What did you mean, 'continue to tell' the people that work there that you were a good customer?" Roxanne finally asked.

Perry stabbed a cigarette between his lips and gave her a look that seemed to say proceed. She remembered at once that he had experience in cross-examination and began to second guess herself.

"Well, 'continue' seems like... I dunno."

"Yes, well, if I had indeed over-paid, rather than robbing him, he would have said that. So I told him to continue to say that, as he would have done."

Roxanne started to feel confused by the semantics. "It just sounded a bit, the way you phrased it, like you already knew him."

"How would you have had me phrase it?" Perry countered.

Roxanne didn't have an answer and tried a different strategy: "How did you know to try there?"

"Nice hotels always have drugs," he shrugged. "This isn't my first investigation."

The next few hours were less eventful. They moved in concentric circles out from the epicenter of the Leaky Cauldron, visiting more dodgy corners, back-rooms, and alleys than Roxanne could ever have imagined existed. The further out they spiraled the more willing, even eager, the dealers were to part with their wares.

"Do you think you know how to spot one now?" Perry asked after Roxanne had negotiated her first few transactions. "They won't look like users so much. Rough, but with a few affectations. Expensive trainers or jewelry. People make the mistake of thinking they'll be minorities—they're usually white."

"Yeah, I think I've got the hang of it," she nodded. They were the kind of loitering gangs that usually glared at her when she passed, when her hair was clean and her manicure intact. An entire sector of humanity she'd subconsciously ignored her entire life. But dressed as she was, they made eye contact. Jerked back their heads. If she scratched her neck enough, they would toss out coded slang words until one of them stuck.

The two investigators shared a curt nod before Roxanne turned north into Regent's Park. The sun had reached the top of the sky and little insects glittered like motes of dust above the grass. The gardens should have been beautiful. Roxanne should have enjoyed the weather and the picturesque greenery made robust by heavy rains that spring. Instead, she saw only the telltale detritus that told her she was approaching her prey: discarded needles, pipes, plastic bags. She reminded herself over and over that she was, indeed, working with the government; saving people.

Earlier in the day, Roxanne would forget herself, instinctively offering smiles to mothers pushing prams or shopkeepers opening for the day. Each time she was forcibly reminded of her disguise by their horror-struck faces. But the more nasty glances she received from Contributors to Society, the better she got on with the dealers and addicts. Their absence of judgement was coming more and more as a relief to her.

"'Ello gorgeous, you need somthan?" a youth called out from a nearby park bench. Roxanne began her routine of neck scratching and shuffling closer. The dealer had an unfortunate bowl-cut and a freshly split lip. "I got that real class A shit, right," he promised.

Roxanne played her part. The youths had three bags on hand. They could get more. In minutes, she was following them up the Camden High Street. She didn't know where they were going but the dealers seemed keen to crack jokes and make conversation. Roxanne fretted as she walked.

What are you doing?

What are you thinking?

Who are you?

She pushed aside her misgivings and focused on her goal and mission.

"Where you from then?" the bloody-mouthed boy asked as he lit a fag. Up close, she noticed a field of freckles over his nose and cheeks.

"London," she shrugged, steeling herself for the inevitable follow up question: but where are you from originally. She'd learnt the steps to this dance while she was still a girl—strangers were always dissatisfied to hear that her mother's family was from Shoreditch. They would push and press until they got the words that amounted to their answer; Kingston, Jamaica. Then they would ask her about current events in the Caribbean, as if she should have some insight into a country she had never visited. But grandpa Johnson had been a muggle and a Rude Boy. His experience had had more to do with slim ties and two-tone ska than whatever third world fantasies white interrogators wanted to hear corroborated.

"Where abouts in London?" the youth asked instead, to Roxanne's surprise.

"Isle of Dogs," she replied before she could think better of it. A small wizarding community had been living in what appeared to be a complex of disused warehouses for almost a hundred years.

"Yeah? I got mates 'round there!" he grinned.

Roxanne chose better than to claim she'd grown up in a nearby tenement, realizing she didn't know enough to make her story convincing. The boy retreated, noticing her reticence, and changed the subject. Respectfully?

They snaked away from the main street and then made an abrupt stop before turning into a shop. It wasn't unlike the many others in Camden—cramped, and over-crowded with cheap merchandise. Indeed, it stocked the same identically distressed leather jackets as at least a dozen stores they'd passed already. Roxanne followed the youths down the steep stairwell into the basement where a pair of weathered-looking white women with dreadlocks stacked an imposing heap of, likely dodgy, merchandise. The women glared at Roxanne with suspicion as she emerged in the gloom.

"She's alright, Mum," said the teenager with the bowl-cut. "Here for the Silver."

The more imposing of the women studied Roxanne for several excruciating seconds and Roxanne tried not to let her gaze drift to the woman's facial tattoos. Then the woman nodded, shifting the dolly of stolen goods. Behind it, a hidden door. Roxanne followed the teenager through.

The space was narrow and humid, reeking of sweat and blood and other bodily effusions. An emaciated woman lay motionless on a bare, stained mattress. She looked more like a pile of skin and hair than a person. One scabbed, swollen arm lolled onto the floor. A young man reclined against the damp, windowless wall, nodding off behind his curtain of greasy hair. Another person of indeterminate sex and age composed little more than a curled up heap in the farthest corner. The room felt too small for so much despair.

"Here we are, then," the boy said after rifling through the rubbish on the tacky floor. His voice wasn't loud, but it still shocked Roxanne. She felt, somehow, like one shouldn't speak above a whisper in this crypt-like place. "That's all of them," he grinned, handing over fifty-odd bags. He seemed pleased with himself. Wholly unaffected by the atmosphere. He had the expression of someone who'd completed a job well done. "You can spike up here if you fancy," he offered... kindly? "We can shift you some room on the bed."

It took Roxanne a moment to realize that he was referring to the horrific mattress. "No thank you," she replied, too formally, she knew. He looked dejected.

Once he'd completed counting out the cash she turned around back through the hidden door, past the piles of leather jackets, and up the stairs. She stepped back into the bright day and didn't stop to let her eyes adjust to the light before marching away. She walked for blocks—one, and then two, and then she lost track. After a while (she wasn't sure how long) she let herself stop. And then she cried.

One tendril of smoke spiraled up through the air from the end of Perry's cigarette. Roxanne's tired eyes followed its twisting journey.

"It isn't a sustainable strategy," he said from his armchair after a long silence. "This haul is off the streets for now, but in the long run, we've only increased demand in the supplier's eyes. In a week's time, London will be flooded with three times as much Silver."

His cigarette was tipped by more than two centimeters of cylindrical ash. Roxanne wondered how long until it finally broke off onto the carpet.

She'd scrubbed and scrubbed under the terrible water pressure of the Baker street shower, scouring the grease from her hair until it was a frizzy mess, but she hadn't been able to rinse off the residue of that day. Too tired to do anything else, she huddled in the second armchair with her comfiest t-shirt pulled over her knees.

Roxanne couldn't remember ever having been so exhausted. They'd walked miles and miles, spoken to the most terrible people, and seen the most hellish things. It had been more grueling even than her residency. And there hadn't been anything she could do for those people, hidden away in that basement. No potions to administer, no room for her to keep her cover and also check their vital signs. That dealer—that child—she'd just left him there to return to a life where he wasn't even shocked by horror…

The sunset looked bloody beyond the sitting room window.

Roxanne went to bed without saying goodnight.

"Weasley, Weasley," the persistent beat of the words broke her from her slumber—had she fallen asleep? She'd only just lain down. But that couldn't be right. The room had been bathed in red light when she'd crawled under the covers. Opening her eyes, it was black as tar.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, confused.

"Just after midnight," Perry replied, excited. "Where's the stash you got from the hotel?"

"My ruckie," she said, rolling back over.

The room blazed suddenly bright. Roxanne had no idea that so subtle a gesture as flicking a light switch could be so violent.

"Sorry," Perry shrunk. "Where's your bag?"

Roxanne groaned and crawled to the end of the bed to scoop up her rucksack from the moth-eaten carpet. It was full to brimming with little shimmering bags. The sight of them made her nauseous.

"Grab one of the ones we nicked off the hotel," Perry said, eyes bulging with anticipation as he rocked gently back and forth. He might have been a child at Christmas. Some sort of terrible, perverse Christmas.

Too tired to play into his Socratic game, Roxanne plunged one hand into the depths of the rucksack where the earliest bags had fallen. She retracted it at once. Something felt slimy. "Eurgh! They've leaked!" she shouted, holding her contaminated hand away from her face like it might explode.

"Does it feel sticky?"

"N—no," Roxanne considered, then rubbed her fingers together. "It feels greasy."

"And I'll assume that at no point did you rub the bags of narcotics against your head."

"Hah, hah," she said, considering the oily material. Roxanne had spent enough time brewing potions to recognize that the compound wasn't animal fat, but for some reason she wanted to say that it was. Something about the smell seemed familiar, yet she couldn't place it. Perhaps it had been something she'd encountered during potions class at Hogwarts... She had the sensation that she'd been young when she'd first smelled it.

"Is it toxic?" she asked after some consideration.

"I don't think so," Perry frowned. "Let's see."

Before Roxanne had time to think, or guess what he would do, he licked the oil off her pointer finger.

"Eurgh!" she cried again, retracting her hand, if possible, more quickly than she'd done before.

Perry just smacked his lips, totally unperturbed, while she wiped her assaulted hand on her bedspread.

"It's salty," he noted.

A pause, and then he lunged for her rucksack, burying his face in the mass of plastic bags and inhaling deeply.

"What are you doing?" Roxanne screamed, slapping at the back of his head with her hands. "Stop it! That can't be safe!"

"I know this smell," he withdrew his head, his face a mask of giddy triumph. "Let's go."

Roxanne had done little more than throw on a pair of fur-lined-boots and a hoodie before tearing out the door after Perry. They walked through the electric night, alive with weekend revelers and couples at the ends of promising dates. Perry would stride meaningfully down a street, stop abruptly, then turn back. He seemed to be quite literally following his nose.

"Do you have any idea where you're going?" Roxanne asked after several minutes of jilted wandering.

"Generally, yes," he replied with unwavering confidence. "I know that smell. I've smelled that smell. You know about Olfactory memory I'm sure? Or maybe not. Healing doesn't generally include more advanced fields of biology or neuroscience. Smell is associated with memory—well, we remember smells differently—or… better. If I could just jog something... Give me your ruckie."

Roxanne had been cradling the satchel of contraband like an infant to her breast. In full view of the street, Perry opened the rucksack containing thousands of pounds of drugs to inhale more of that oily smell.

"This way," he directed just as soon as he came up for air.

Roxanne wasn't even tired anymore. All at once, Perry went at a run.

"Here!" he shouted and she broke into a jog after him. "This is it! It must be coming from here!" He held his arms out wide, face jubilant under the glittering lights of a cinema marquis. "This might be the epicenter of the manufacturing… or," Perry stuck a cigarette between his teeth and started to pace. "But this isn't anywhere near the Leaky Cauldron. If the foreign material is coming from this location…"

All at once, Roxanne realized what the oil was.

"It's popcorn butter!" she cried.

Perry rolled his eyes. "Don't be daft, you know as well as I do that that material isn't butter."

"No, not real butter. Popcorn butter," Roxanne explained. "They use it at every muggle cinema. Or at fairs, or carnivals—really anywhere you can buy popcorn."

"Well," Perry bit his lip, deflating. "But.. why?"

"Why use fake butter on popcorn? I suppose it's more cost effective—"

"No, why is it on the bags? There's traces of it on every one, but the larger yields we found have more residue. The yields that were closer to the epicenter—to the supplier."

A theory began to click together in Roxanne's mind. "Cinemas are basically big dark rooms," she began. "They stay dark for two hours, sometimes more. So long as you don't draw attention to yourself, no one will even look at you—everyone stays faced the same direction."

"Wait—what? That sounds terrible," Perry scrunched up his face. "Why do people go to these?"

"That bit isn't important just yet," Roxanne waved her hands. "I'm thinking that the main supplier sets up shop at the cinema and doles out stashes during the film hidden in bags of popcorn. It's the perfect place for people to assemble without being seen together!"

"You. Are. Brilliant!" Perry cried, and in a show of tremendous enthusiasm he seized Roxanne around the waist and swung her round in a circle.

"There can't be too many cinemas within a reasonable radius of the Leaky Cauldron," Roxanne panted once he'd set her down.

"Miss Weasley," Perry said with mock formality. "Are you implying that we should conduct a stake-out?"

"Yes, Mr. Hume, I believe I am."

Six owls. Six owls pecking, scratching, and hooting in Roxanne's bedroom when she returned home from their thrilling discovery. Six owls with six letters, signifying six unique family members.

Roxy,
I'm going to assume that everything is just fine, because I know you. Do write, though. Your mum's in a fit about your hair...

Roxanne,
How are you holding up, honey? Let me know if you need anything at all. We're all here for you...

Xan,
what the hell is going on? why are you hanging round scorpius madman malfoy? like, I realize you lost your job and all in some bloody great scandal, but pull your shit together, girl. your hair is like—I can't even...

Roxanne,
Whatever you do, don't read this evening's Prophet. Trust me, it's always better to just ignore it. However frustrating it might seem at the time, it always blows over, and you'll be happier to just skip it all together...

Rox,
So I know better than to believe what that Skeeter woman writes and everything, but I SAW you in Diagon today. You looked well out of it, and you we're acting all furtive like. AND you didn't even come say HI to me, even though you KNEW I'd be there. I demand all of your excuses...

Roxy,
Do you think you could swing by the Ministry tomorrow? We don't usually ask Perry to come by, but technically I'm not asking him—I'm asking you. He can tag along if he must. There have been developments, but I can't write about it here. Long story short, we need your expertise. I would have called in Blishwick for a consult, but I'd rather keep him at a distance if I can right now.

And your Aunt Ginny informs me that you've gotten splashed onto the Evening Prophet—bad luck. Be glad it's the evening edition, a small mercy. Rest assured that I'd never read such a thing. I recommend you follow my lead—but I imagine Hermione's already owled her warning.

With this news in mind, I'll open the direct Floo line from Baker Street to the Auror office—the line should be open between 16:00 and 17:00.

Lots of Love,
Harry

Roxanne flung herself back onto her bed, feeling everything in the world like a moody teenager. I'm almost thirty-years-old, she reminded herself. Why must they treat me like a child? Even just thinking it, she realized how childish it sounded.

She rolled over and pulled her duvet over her head, as though it might block out her creeping panic about what The Prophet might have written. She resolved not to read it—to let it just blow over, as Aunt Hermione had suggested.

"Weasley!" Perry shouted from the sitting room. "Have you seen the Evening Prophet?"


Author's Note: Enormous thanks to my betas, Crestwood and Mymischiefmanaged at HPFF. This story is a million times better, and freer of grammar derps, for all of their help!

Anyone have any guesses on who each of the letters were from? It's hardly an important point, but I do have it all worked out! (And theoretically, one might be able to match up each letter to each character as the story progresses, but I'm not sure why one would :P)

xoxo
Roisin