On a dismal street located in Edmonton, a dark hooded figure hastened past the ghastly terraced houses; in the distance, the crippling tower blocks loomed over the borough. A light drizzle pattered from the sky, it was dusk; yet the streets were coloured grey entirely.

The figure, in its heedlessness, tripped over debris receiving a cut on its leg in the process; it swore, though regardless paying no genuine mind to the pain. Driven by anger, it lumbered onwards to its destination.

It was angry indeed. Rather, it was displeased. Despite of the figures ire, it moved promptly and smoothly to its destination.

As it turned out to be, the completion of its voyage was a copper-bricked addled store front; in its high tide it had doubtlessly been a dodgy snack bar, one of London's many. Here and now, the building had a much more crucial function.

At once, the figure waved its wand and was granted access. The guise fell away and a plain black door was revealed. Upon the door's appearance, the figure entered. Inside the building was an unvarnished waiting room; as one would see at the doctors, perhaps. Beyond a counter, a woman with wavy blond hair was seated.

'Thomas.' She said by manner of greeting.

'Brown. Good evening.' Guiltily, he indulged briefly in taking in her demeanor. At Hogwarts, especially in her sixth year, she'd been one of the most vibrant luminaries, many a lad had chased after her, but she had always made her own path.

In the meantime, the conditions had changed. Similar to the rest of the former DA, the war had taken its toll on her. Dean knew she had been attacked numerous times during the Battle of Hogwarts, but above all, it had taken its toll on her mentally.

Her bubbliness had gone; she only spoke when required, or when spoken to. It was evident that she was only taking care of body at a basic level; her face was gaunt, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Be that as it may, the lack of sleep was in all likelihood caused by nightmares; a torment which Dean was also quite familiar with, regrettably.

'Our new cooperatives require us to use Polyjuice for each meeting, and comparatively also use false names. Both you and Macnair are familiar to them, so you won't need to, but you won't recognize the person in front of you.' Derived of emotion, she delivered her lines.

'So I'm the lucky bloke then?' A vague attempt at a joke, but an effort nonetheless.

An intense stare was her sole reply. 'They'll be waiting for you in the second room in the first corridor.' She sighed, seemingly to take a brief moment to collect herself. 'It's good to see you… You can go on now.' By the manner she squinted her face, and her inclination to look away after the fact, Dean understood the little amiability she had shown had been an undertaking for her, and knew not to press any further.

'And you too.' He said, before he turned and headed to meet the mysterious stranger.

Unsurprisingly, Lavender's words had been correct. The woman sat behind the table was entirely strange to him. The woman beholding him with dark eyes was most likely some unsuspecting Muggle, whose identity had been loaned for the occasion.

Spread about in front of her on the desk was a mishmash of paper. Before he moved to be seated, the woman waved her wand, and the papers reunified in an orderly fashion.

'Mister Thomas. Please elaborate on the fourth trial of the Muggle selection venture.'

The aberrant amount of formality the woman was addressing him with irritated Dean somewhat. Rationally, he knew collaborating with other resistance factions was a good idea, however, the secrecy involved made him feel less human. Should the situation have arisen, Dean would have gladly laid down his life for any former DA or Order member. The woman in front of him was disguised; chances were he would never find out who she was. The irony struck him as painful.

'Negative. The selected Muggle performed her task exemplary well, regardless, I have genuine doubt in her ability to function as an agent among wizards.'

Despite the woman's lack of emotion, Dean saw a brief expression of dismay flash across her features.

'Let it be said that Macnair reported otherwise.' She said solemnly. 'Be that as it may, he is known to have.. Questionable judgement. For what reason did you find her unsuited?'

Terse moments out of the past few days flashed before Dean's eyes. As he considered them, his arguments solidified in his mind.

The wind hauled against their backs, as the sea stormed angrily on the beaches below. Comparatively, the sky above seemed to be splitting open in an effort to swallow the earth whole, drowning it in rain and burning it in thunder. And the two of them along with it.

To ease the strain of the tempestuous weather, Dean had employed every spell in his arsenal to make her work easier, though it had unfortunately done painfully little for her temper.

'Right.' She'd mumbled. 'Nearly completed.' It was clear to the eye that she was in her element; sweat had the tiny black hairs glued to the frame of her face, as all her strength was extended to build the machine.

Notwithstanding his efforts to keep her warm, Dean felt his presence was entirely futile; for nearly hours on end, she'd worked, and all he'd been able to do was cast a few warming charms. Hoping to be useful, he made a suggestion. 'Shall I turn on the power then?'

A wild look appeared in her eyes. 'NO! No! Do not touch anything!' She screeched.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Dean sighed and conceded. 'Very well.'

In retrospect, the image which had stuck in his mind insistently, was the uncontrolled expression that had appeared on her face after his comment about turning the electricity on. The flash of emotion, concise though it may have been, was a definitive indication to the nature of her character. It had been fear, mixed with anger and uncertainty. In effect, Dean wondered if Tamar was capable of maintaining composure in front of the increasingly repulsive vermin Voldemort's mob had to offer. Doubtful at best, given the effort it took to collaborate with a single individual for the sake of finishing one assignment.

'She has a weak grasp on her emotions. Both in her body language, and her speech, it can be seen plainly by anyone that she is as tightly wound as a coil. In our interactions, as far as I can tell, she practically oozed stress.'

By a common eye, it might have been missed, however, Dean saw the attitude of the woman shift. Rather than pretending to be cold or indifferent, she changed and payed him her honest consideration. In order to let the words stir, she remained silent for a slight while before she replied.

'Would you say she was afraid?'

Dean nodded his head in acknowledgement. 'Very much so, I believe. Not only did she fear me, she also had little faith in her ability to complete the assignment, in spite of the fact that she in reality had no difficulty.'

In response, the woman sighed and looked troubled. Conversely, Dean felt relieved; she took to his advice, which was detrimental to the success of the mission in general.

'Should your observations turn out to be correct, we are obliged to reconsider. The position we are screening for requires by and large a large intelligence of Muggle matter, regardless, the selected candidate must be capable of standing among wizards.' The verdict came in a displeased tone, nevertheless, the message was indisputable to Dean; they'd reasses.

The woman looked at the table sourly, seemingly attempting to burn a hole in it with her eyes. Clearly, this signified the end of their meeting.

'As soon as a decision is reached, we will reconvene. In the interim, you may set the Muggle on more assignments, and observe how she copes.'

Her last statement left Dean somewhat flabbergasted. 'More assignments? What sort of assignments?'

Finally, an impish smile graced her features. 'Utilize your imagination. As luck would have it, we received full clearance from M.o.M., so by all means, do as you wish.'

It truly took all of Dean's self-control not to fall out of his chair. 'Full clearance? And what exactly does that encompass?'

'Full clearance means permission to do whatever it is that your mind can conjure, granted you can provide the M.o.M. with a neat little report that explains your motivations. Use it well.' After a short pause, she continued. 'The organization also expects reports of your progress with the Muggle. You are dismissed, until further notice, resume on your current path.'

His anger now having substantially subsided, Dean politely thanked the woman for her time and made his way out of the building. Prior to leaving, Lavender gave him a wistful smile and tentatively wished him a good day. Despite of her stony exterior, Dean had a slight suspicion she was trying to warm up to him, although it evidently took a lot of effort on her end.

Ordinarily, he would've walked to the Apparition zone without deviating from the route, however, his feet wandered. He still needed to process the conversation he'd had with his superior. While he was not dissatisfied with the outcome, the verdict was of course a double-edged sword. By a happy chance, they were not going to throw a frightened, unprepared Muggle to the wolves. On the other end, there was a substantial chance that the Muggle still might be selected, and the responsibility of supplying the moguls with advice rested on his shoulders.

Truthfully, Dean loathed the nature of the assignment; thousands of Muggles had found their demises during the war, and employing yet another to do their dirty work left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Regardless of the fact that the thankless task was to be done for the sake of the resistance, the risks the Muggle in question was taking were insurmountable. Chances of survival were abysmal; and the job itself would most likely be hell to complete.

Henceforth, Dean swore to himself he would try to protect this person, whoever they might be. Countless lives had already been lost. It would not do to be responsible for another one.