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Amara watched in silence as the lights in Gryffindor tower slowly went out and its inhabitants at last found sleep. The rain grew heavier and spattered forcefully against the paned window that separated her from the cold outside. She was more than glad to be indoors, where a warm fire was dancing in its berth and a soft bed was awaiting her slumber. With fresh clothes in place of the old, tattered ones she'd worn for some time, and her dark hair washed and pulled away from her face, she looked in far better shape than she had upon her arrival to Hogwarts, a mere two days before. Dumbledore had hardly recognized her when she walked through the entrance to the school, though that was soon fixed. Under the careful watch of Madame Pomfrey, Amara had healed her many wounds, mended her aching fingers and straightened out a disjointed knee. The dirt, ash, muck and dried blood had all been rinsed away from her face, revealing her far more pleasant-looking profile underneath. The heat of the fire was a welcome sensation against her pink cheeks. She'd spent one too many cold nights sleeping out in the open, nearly freezing, although many of her travels took place during the hot summer months.
Despite the moonless sky, she could not find herself able to tear her eyes away from the tower that she had long lost sight of. The Gryffindor rooms were there, sitting in the darkness, their residents exhausted from their lengthy day. She wondered if her charge had yet fallen asleep, or if, he too, was still awake, not likely to drift to sleep any time soon. A rush of guilt washed over her. She was angry at herself for leaving, for not having been there and helped when she could have. If she had been there for him, if she had only been there, she could have provided him with a trusted shoulder, she could have helped to ease the pain.
Upon her silent return last Christmas, she'd told Dumbledore that there was so much for her to do, but he'd requested her to go elsewhere. And, without question, she did it. As angry as she would get with Dumbledore, she owed much to him, and trusted him more deeply than any other she'd met. That did not mean, however, she did not doubt his decisions from time to time. She shook her head, and few stray hairs fell out of place; Dumbledore knew what it he was doing - he must have. She pressed her hand against the window, its cold glass stinging the tips of her warm fingers. She hoped that, somehow, her charge could know that she was there for him, that she was back. His mind, though, was on more important things, things she could only begin to imagine.
She stood and walked away from the window. She had been sitting there for what had felt like all day, though she doubted it had really been that long. She turned to the small mirror on the table beside her bed. It was an old antique she'd carried around with her for years. There were chips in the glass and the gold filigree edges had long since lost their once glorious sheen. It had certainly seen more prosperous days. She tenderly picked the mirror up and looked into it. The face looking back at her seemed so much like the face of a stranger. It had been so long since she'd seen herself that she hardly even recognized her own reflection. Her likeness was so different, or, at least, it seemed to be different. She'd thinned out over the previous year, yes, that much was true, but it really was her eyes that appeared to have changed. They seemed weary and more crestfallen than they had in the past. She sighed; perhaps her age was finally catching up to her.
"Arthur." she said quietly. The mirror shook lightly in her grasp, and then the image of a man replaced her own reflection. He had a long, thin face and his red hair had already begun to leave him balding. She knew his face, though the recognition was not returned. He had never laid eyes upon her before. If he was surprised by her appearance, he was careful not to show it. She was sure he expected someone so close to Dumbledore to look much older. If he only knew.
"Ah, Ms. Corvus, I presume?" the man asked, pleasantly. Amara nodded her answer without speaking. He smiled half-heartedly, "Dumbledore had expected you to be back earlier,"
"There were several delays," she interjected before he could continue. She greatly despised small talk when there were more important things to speak of; "Any news?"
Arthur looked at her the way a father looks worriedly at a child; it was the kind of look that Amara hardly knew; "Are you well?" he asked quietly, "Would you prefer to do this in the morning, once you've had some rest?"
Amara looked to the man in the mirror. She knew he was only expressing his concern, but her well-being was not of any particular significance at the moment; "I am as well as I ever will be."
"Of course." he said with a nod. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Well, now that you've returned, Kingsley has begun to feed the Ministry word that Sirius has been spotted moving out of Tibet, with a likely intent of heading further south."
"Where does that leave me?" Amara asked, "If I am to be a decoy -"
"If Dumbledore's word was correct," Arthur responded before she could finish, "and I, for one, have never known it to be wrong, the Death Eaters were following you as closely as the Aurors. It was too dangerous. There was too much of a risk of spilling innocent blood."
"The only innocent blood left resides in this school. It most certainly will not be found at the Ministry." she retorted absentmindedly. Her disdain for the Ministry was not exactly a secret. She then looked at Arthur quickly, having forgotten that he worked for the Ministry, "Present company excluded, of course."
Arthur smiled, his agreement with her feelings very clear on his face; "Ms. Corvus -"
"Please, call me Amara." she softly threw in.
"Amara," he continued, "Dumbledore would like you to stay were you are – at Hogwarts."
She sighed audibly, "I wish he would simply tell me these things himself. He is only a short walk down the hall."
"You know how busy he is." Arthur protested, "He needs you to keep an eye on our charge for him."
Amara nodded, "As the dictations of my return had stated, even though he already has -"
"Please, Dumbledore wouldn't ask you to abandon your work for the Order if this was not important. I thought he would have told you that." Arthur responded. Amara noticed suddenly how tired he looked.
"He did. It's just -" she stopped herself. Up until that point, she'd been refusing to admit to anyone how her return home was making her feel. It was not in her nature to be mysterious, despite the amount of mystery that naturally seemed to swirl around her. She did not want to risk any of the Order finding out who she really was. She had no desire to sit down and explain to them why she'd left, and why she seemed not to have changed. Her anonymity was the only thing that was keeping certain memories and emotions suppressed. She had been telling herself even since Dumbledore had told her to come home that it was all going to be okay, but she knew it wouldn't be so – not if they saw her, not if he saw her. She'd left for a reason, and doubted that he'd yet come to forgive or forget. She did not want her feelings to grow wild and take control – feelings of guilt, longing, remorse, sadness, pain and anger. She was afraid that seeing him would bring back memories that she'd long attempted to stifle. She was not ready for him to know. The farther away she stayed, the better it was for everyone.
She looked at Arthur. He looked so tired. She wondered if he had spoken to him, if he knew where he was. She wanted to ask Arthur about him, if he was okay, but knew that it was neither the time nor the place. She took a deep breath and composed herself, "Have you told anyone of me, of who I am? Anyone at all?"
"No one of consequence – my wife, perhaps," Arthur answered, "The members know of your work, they just don't know who is doing it."
"It is for the good of the Order that my work remains . . . anonymous."
"Yes, Dumbledore did mention your anonymity." he replied, almost to himself.
"What else did Dumbledore tell you about me?"
"Very little I'm afraid."
"That is for the best. The less you know the better."
"What is it that we should know of you?" Arthur inquired cautiously. She could tell his suspicions were rising.
Amara looked him sternly in the eye, "That my loyalty is unwavering."
