4. Victims
by Northumbrian
"Crucio!" shouted Alecto Carrow.
Instantly, fire burned my bones; my muscles cramped and went into spasm. My back arched involuntarily and, suddenly, I was falling. I landed hard, elbow first, then hip, then head. I heard the dying echoes of my own scream as I lay disorientated on my bedroom floor.
The dream had been so real. I could still see Carrow's hate filled face, saying that word, torturing me. I could still see the ghostly image of the stone walls of the dungeon. My wrists felt chafed by the shackles around them, shackles removed years ago. I shivered and tried to fully wake from my nightmare, but I lost myself in memories.
"I've got to leave you, now, Corner," Alecto Carrow told me. "The Headmaster wants to see me. But don't worry. My brother will be along in a few minutes."
She strode from the dungeon and was almost immediately replaced by her brother.
"Help," I croaked weakly.
I opened my eyes and discovered that I was back in my bedroom. I watched as Luna clambered from my bed.
"You were having a nightmare, Michael," she assured me. "You need to focus on what is real."
"The pain is real," I mumbled.
"The pain was real," Luna told me. She smiled reassuringly. "That was the memory of a pain from years ago, Michael, from before the battle. You were only eighteen. This is real. Here, now, you and me in your bedroom." I smiled gratefully, but the moment I felt safe, her features twisted and changed. She was Alecto Carrow! "I'll make you see reason, you filthy half-blood troublemaker! I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget. Crucio!" There was joy in Alecto Carrow's voice as she, like her brother, shouted the word. The pleasure on her face as I again shrieked in pain was chillingly cruel. She was happy, she was enjoying herself.
I imagined that my own screaming woke me. The walls were resonating with my cries. This time, I kept my eyes closed. Was I really awake? The last time I'd opened my eyes, they had lied to me. Luna wasn't here; it had been eighteen months since she'd last been here.
"You are relying on me too much, Michael," she'd said. "There is no easy way to say this, but I don't love you. I thought that I did, but I was wrong. You are good-looking and clever and I felt sorry for you. I still do. I mistook sympathy for love. I thought that I could help you, and I think that I have, but I cannot spend my life looking after someone I do not love."
"But…" I'd begun desperately.
"Don't tell me that you love me, Michael. You say it, often. But you don't mean it. You need me. At least, you think that you need me. But you don't love me; you only think that you do. A lot of girls feel sorry for you, you know. But you don't need someone to be sympathetic, Michael; you need someone to love you. You need someone to tell you the truth, and I've failed you. You are the only person I have ever lied to. I lied because the truth hurts and you've been hurt enough. And now I must hurt you by finally telling you that truth. You need to face your demons, Michael; you need to face them alone. I'm sorry, but I have the opportunity to go to South America, to explore, to look for new beasts, and I'm going. Goodbye."
That memory was real, brutally, cruelly, honestly real, just like Luna, but I still did not risk opening my eyes. Was I still dreaming?
The hard surface I was lying on was covered in a smooth pile; I was lying on a carpet. My elbow, hip and head were sore, but my bones were not burning. Nevertheless, I knew that if I dwelt too long on the memory of the searing curse-induced pain I had endured all those years ago, it would arrive. When it did, my limbs would twitch with the angry ghost of the pain which continued to haunt me.
After the battle, Neville had agreed to take me to visit his parents. I had hoped that it would help; in fact, it had made matters worse. If Neville and Terry and the others hadn't rescued me from the Carrows, I would probably be in St Mungo's, in the next bed to Neville's parents.
My mind began to drift to those dark places. I recognised the signs; I was falling into fear again. After all these years I could still fall. That one word of pain was all it took, that unforgettable, unforgiveable curse-word. I needed to move, to work, to think about something else. I tried to concentrate on now, on here, on my actual feelings and not the memory of that madness-inducing agony.
I tried to be dispassionate, to examine my own body with a researcher's eye. There was no lingering pain, no hot needles inside my brain. I had inot/i been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse, I decided. Perhaps I had simply fallen out of bed. Perhaps dream Luna had been telling me the truth.
Where was I? I was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and lying on a carpet. My skin was cold and clammy. I could feel my sweat-covered body cooling. I waited until I was cold and shivering, until I was certain that these were true sensations, not simply another level of my dream, before cautiously opening one eye. I was lying on my bedroom floor and I was alone in my Kennington flat.
I struggled to my feet. Most of my bedclothes were in a crumpled pile on the opposite side of the bed. A glance at my clock told me that it was a few minutes after six in the morning, but I wasn't going to attempt to get back to sleep. I picked up the bedclothes and dumped them in an untidy pile upon my bed. As I did so, I noticed that my pillow was bloodstained. My hand moved up to my face for confirmation. I was not surprised to discover a hard crust covering my moustache and beard. My nose, too, was crusty.
I staggered into my bathroom and stared into the mirror. One glance confirmed my deduction. I'd had a nosebleed in my sleep, a bad one. My face was covered in my own blood. The nightmares had returned, and so had the nosebleeds. Luna had managed to end them, but now they were back.
As I showered, I watched the bloodstained water swirl around my feet and I tried to analyse my dream. I decided that it wasn't Luna's absence which had brought on my nightmare. As the water ran down my face, I finally knew who was to blame. It was the haunting spectre of Alecto Carrow, my torturer. She had hurt me six years ago, and she was still hurting me.
Eventually, the water around my feet ran clear. I had removed all visible signs of the blood. The insides of my nostrils remained scabbed and uncomfortable, but I knew better than to pick and poke at those unhealed wounds. The slightest touch and I would bleed again. My mind and soul, I realised, were in the same state as my nose.
Dried and dressed, I wandered into my kitchen. The larder was almost empty. There was nothing for my breakfast. The loaf was stale and the milk was rapidly becoming cheese. My head was throbbing, and I did not feel like eating. Common sense, however, told me that I needed to get some fresh air and that I really should eat.
Luna would have cajoled me, pampered me and probably gone out to buy breakfast.
No, I was wrong; she would not! She would never have allowed me to run out of food. Luna was right, I realised; I had been using her. She had been my crutch. Without her, I was limping, staggering, and sometimes falling. But before her, I'd been leaning on Terry and Anthony. Now, I was alone. I rarely entered the office, my social life was non-existent. Poor Michael Corner, all alone, unloved and unwanted.
"'Pull yourself together, Michael," I told myself sternly. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have a good and well paid research job; you are working at the very edges of Arithmantic theory. You are doing what you've always wanted to do. All you have to do is prove your system works."
I walked out from my kitchen and examined myself in the mirror above my fireplace. My beard definitely needed trimming, and I needed a haircut. I was a shaggy-haired recluse. I wagged a finger at myself. "But you are not taking care of yourself, Michael, and worse you are talking to yourself. That's never a good sign." I found myself nodding in agreement at my own words.
Whether or not I wanted to eat was immaterial. I needed to eat and drink. I decided to risk the not very fresh London air and buy myself breakfast. I walked from my flat, along several side roads, and onto a surprisingly quiet Kennington Park Road. I eventually found a café and ordered myself a coffee and a bacon sandwich. As I sat alone in the window of the café, I began to plan.
Who should I visit first? Carrow, Malfoy, or Mulciber? It did not take me long to decide. It had to be Mulciber.
It was easy for me to justify my decision. I did not know where he was. It would probably take some time to track him down. Fortunately, I reasoned, I had plenty of time. The others could wait. I went very carefully through what I knew.
Fact: five people had died. Fact: all had died a 'natural' death. Fact: in four cases a girl, 'The Girl', had been present (I had been unable to find any sign of 'The Girl's' involvement in the death of the Auror Bryn Prosser, but I had no witnesses at all to that death). Fact: in the four cases I had confirmed the presence of 'The Girl', she had been near the victim for some months. Fact: in three cases (probably four), 'The Girl' had remained with the victim until after death occurred.
Conjecture was becoming easier as the deaths continued. More deaths meant more data. Dreadful though that fact was, with every death I would get closer, it was inevitable. I still had no real idea about her method. Whatever 'The Girl' was doing—however she was making her victims ill—it took her some time to do it. The deaths were spaced from one hundred and fifty to two hundred and eighteen days apart. I had the dates and I had calculated the timings. I knew the current mean, median and standard deviation. Even without running the RANDOM system, I was confident that I had at least five months, and possibly seven, before the next death. Numbers don't lie. I knew that whoever was next to die would almost certainly die in October, November, or December.
It was early June. I had a month or more before anyone was in serious danger. 'The Girl' needed to be close; she needed to be there at the end. So I must make Mulciber a priority. I must find him and warn him. I must find out if a girl was visiting him. The others could wait for a couple of weeks. They could even wait for a couple of months if necessary.
Patrick Mulciber proved very difficult to find. It took me rather more than a month to track him down. He was living on an island called Inishaughy, in the middle of Upper Lough Erne, in the north of Ireland. The island was hidden in dozens of ways, and was covered by an anti-apparition jinx and several alarm spells. Flying to the island had been prevented, too. The only way onto the island was by boat.
I Apparated to Knockninny, transfigured a broken branch into a boat, and made my way across to the island.
I landed on a narrow pebble shore a few hundred yards from Mulciber's refuge. I disembarked and strode towards the white-walled cottage. I had taken no more than a dozen steps when there were several flashes of blue light, and I found myself surrounded by half-a-dozen grim-faced Aurors.
"Auror Office!" a pony-tailed man yelled. I recognised him. I turned to face him, and then everything went black.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself wandless and in a cell. Minutes later the pony-tailed Auror opened the door.
"This way," he ordered, pointing. "And don't try anything."
I walked along a dimly-lit barrel-vaulted stone corridor with the Auror behind me. His wand was pointed at my back. When I reached a locked door, I stopped.
"Auror Williamson and prisoner Corner," the man announced, and the door was opened. Williamson motioned me through the warder's room and up a flight of stairs.
"Where are we?" I asked. There was no immediate answer as we ascended the staircase. I had decided he was not going to answer and was wondering what to do when, finally, he spoke.
"This is the Court of the Sheriff of Ulster, Corner," he said as we reached the top of the stairs. "First left," he added.
I looked at the sign on the door, opened it, and walked into 'Interview Room 3'.
"Sit," he ordered.
I sat.
"Michael Corner, Unspeakable, you are charged with trespass on a secure Ministry area. What was your reason for visiting Inishaughy?"
"I wanted to warn Patrick Mulciber that someone, a girl, was going to try to kill him," I said. Auror Williamson's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
"What makes you think that Mulciber is on Inishaughy?" he asked. "Did someone tell you? Who was it? Was it Boot, Potter, Bones, Brown, or Creevey?"
As I expected, he assumed that I must have used a contact, an Auror, to find out where Mulciber was.
"I didn't ask anyone," I told him. "I simply went through the paperwork. The Auror Office guards Mulciber, that's public knowledge. Everyone knows that he's under house arrest at a secure location. He can't be sent to Azkaban because it's full of people he betrayed, and the other prisoners would try to kill him, just like they tried when Lucius Malfoy was sent there.
"The Wizengamot's Revenue Scrutiny Panel examines all expenditure from all apartments, that's public too. I went through six years of files. The Auror Office owns eight parcels of land in very remote locations. This one is the only one with a regular expenditure, and that expenditure has been ongoing since Mulciber was placed under house arrest." I tried to stay calm and reasonable as I began to explain my theory.
This was important. Why did no one believe me? I told Williamson my suspicions but, like Robards, he was dismissive. I begged him to allow me to speak to Mulciber. He refused, and he kept me in a cell overnight while he made further enquiries.
The following day I was released without charge, but with a warning not to reveal Mulciber's location to anyone. I again tried to be allowed to speak to Mulciber. I begged. When Williamson refused, I handed him a letter, and asked him to deliver it to the prisoner. He said that he would consider it, but he reminded me that no one else knew where Mulciber was, and that even I had not managed to get close to him.
"Get out, Corner," he ordered. "If you try to get onto that island again, I will re-arrest you and have you charged. How could someone kill Mulciber? Without one of these you can't get onto the island without setting off an alarm." He pulled a small silver medallion from his pocket and showed it to me. "You're an Unspeakable, you're supposed to be clever. If you can't get onto the island, what chance does some fantasy girl have?"
He didn't wait for a reply. He simply stood and walked from the room. I considered stunning him and stealing the medallion, but I decided against it. I watched as Williamson left. He handed the medallion to the duty Bailiff, who locked it in the safe. It was obvious that Mulciber had not been visited. I should concentrate on the other two targets.
I was not surprised to discover that there was no formal record of my arrest. Nor were there any reports in the press. The Auror Office would keep this quiet and they were probably already busy redacting information from the public files. They would ensure that no one else would find Mulciber using the method I'd used.
At one time, Malfoy Manor must have been a grand place, I thought, as I strode purposefully up the weed choked gravel drive. But upkeep must be expensive and the garden was now overgrown. There was an air of neglect and hardship about the place. The Malfoys had lost much of their fortune. A combination of lost Ministry contracts and compensation claims from those imprisoned and … tortured … had seen to that.
I hesitated. I knew the stories. Within these walls, Tom Riddle and Bellatrix Lestrange had killed and… Hermione had been… I stopped and checked my nose. It was not bleeding. I moved slowly forward toward that imposing front door. I'd arranged to speak to Lucius Malfoy, he never left the place.
Draco was now engaged to be married to Astoria Greengrass, daughter of another old Death Eater family. Astoria's father had died in the battle; he was one of very few Death Eaters killed.
The door opened as I approached and a house-elf bowed low in greeting.
"Hello," I said. "My name is Michael Corner, I have an appointment with Mr Lucius Malfoy."
The house-elf silently escorted me through an entrance hall. The portraits lining the walls glowered and hissed at me. They were Malfoy's through the ages. All bore the familiar pale and pointed features, and all seemed able to identify the fact that I was not a pureblood.
The house-elf opened a door and showed me into a large and well-appointed study. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy sat side by side on a comfortable sofa. Neither stood when I entered; they simply watched as the house-elf escorted me to an uncomfortable high-backed chair facing them.
Lucius Malfoy sat with his left leg resting on a footstool, a walking stick at his side. He looked unwell; I panicked.
"Are you well, Mr Malfoy?" I asked. He looked startled by my question.
"You impudent young…" he began.
"Lucius," Mrs Malfoy interrupted her husband. "Mr Corner is an Unspeakable, and he is a friend of Harry. Any friend of my grand-nephew's godfather is always welcome. I'm sure that Mr Corner spoke from genuine concern, didn't you, Mr Corner?"
"Yes," I agreed while trying to work out what she'd said. She was talking about Teddy Lupin, her sister's grandson, I realised.
"I ask because several…" I paused.
"Several people who fought on the losing side at Hogwarts. People who, like us, were lied to and threatened by the half-blood Tom Riddle have died," said Narcissa Malfoy. She was gripping her husband's knee tightly as she spoke. Lucius Malfoy remained contemptuously silent. "I have noticed, Mr Corner, several people who we knew have died. We have heard rumours that you think that these deaths are connected, haven't we, Lucius?"
Mr Malfoy merely grunted.
I explained my theory carefully, and to my amazement, Narcissa Malfoy listened. She nodded, asked several very sensible questions, and questioned me closely about 'The Girl'. Lucius merely mumbled his agreement. There was a smell of stale firewhisky in the room, and I was fairly certain that it was coming from Lucius.
"You believe that a young woman is visiting former followers of Voldemort and, somehow, killing them." Narcissa Malfoy summed up our conversation.
I nodded.
"I can assure you that my husband is as healthy as he normally is. His injured leg causes him some pain, but otherwise, he remains well. Is that not so, Lucius?"
"Yes," her husband said.
"However, Mr Corner, I may be able to assist you. As you must know, my son will soon be married. I planned my own wedding with help from my parents. Weddings are traditional affairs and not really difficult to plan. My son's fiancée and her family, however, have other ideas. The Greengrasses have employed a young lady to help plan the wedding. She is visiting us at the moment."
I jumped from my seat.
"Please, Mr Corner, I don't want a scene. She may simply be exactly what she claims to be: a iwedding planner/i." Narcissa Malfoy's contempt for the very idea was obvious from her final words. "Lucius is quite well, remember. The young lady's name is Lauren Cauldwell. If you promise not to make a scene, I will introduce you to her. By all means, investigate her, but, please, do it discreetly. We Malfoy's do not want to be associated with any unpleasantness."
There was some considerable force in Narcissa Malfoy's final words to me. She was trying to improve the family's standing, but it was not easy. I tried to hold my excitement in check. This was her; it must be her! But I could not be sure! I needed to see her, to check her identity. If Lauren Cauldwell did not exist, then, and only then, would I act.
"I won't say anything, Mrs Malfoy. You have my word," I assured her.
Narcissa Malfoy nodded. She stood, smoothed her elegant and expensive, but rather unfashionable, robes and walked to the door. We left her husband in the study, and she led me through the entrance hall to another door.
"My son and his fiancé are in the library with Miss Cauldwell," Mrs Malfoy said, opening the door.
Draco Malfoy sat languidly in a chair, looking on disinterestedly while two young women pored over a book of fabrics. All three turned. Draco stared at me, puzzled. He'd obviously failed to recognise me. The two girls looked at me curiously. One was a statuesque and striking brunette in form-fitting robes. Her deep brown eyes took in my hair, beard and robes, and she shuddered. The other girl was a bony and horse-faced young thing with hair the colour of Luna's.
"Is this one of the wedding party, Mrs Malfoy?" the brunette asked. She looked worried by the thought.
"Merlin!" Draco exclaimed. "You're 'Crucio' Corner. I didn't recognise you under all that hair."
I gasped and staggered when Draco said the word. I tried to draw myself up to my full height, but my knees where buckling.
"Corner used to be quite the ladies man at school, Astoria," Draco drawled. "But, somehow he ended up with the Lovegood and just look at the state he's…"
Narcissa Malfoy stepped alongside me, and Draco lapsed into silence.
"Mr Corner is our guest, Draco," Narcissa said.
I tried to ignore Draco and to watch the two young women. They were both staring at me so surreptitious observation was impossible. I stared back at them.
"Have you made an appointment with my sister, Miss Cauldwell?" Narcissa asked. "Her grandson will be a page-boy. Dear little Teddy is so looking forward to it."
"I am seeing her on Saturday, Mrs Malfoy," the attractive brunette said.
"Good. Come along, Mr Corner." With a curt nod, Mrs Malfoy swept from the room leaving me no alternative but to follow.
"I hope that you are satisfied, Mr Corner. You can be certain that I will be keeping a close watch on my husband's health. If there is any change, I will be in touch. In return, I expect you to do your best to discover whether we have a killer in our midst." Narcissa Malfoy stopped, and I discovered that I was standing at the open door to the manor. Mrs Malfoy produced a card from her robes. "Here is Miss Cauldwell's business card. Goodbye," she said pointedly.
I left. I had no choice. Narcissa Malfoy was certainly a force to be reckoned with, and, innocent or guilty, Miss Cauldwell might find herself in serious danger were Lucius Malfoy to fall ill.
I spent weeks checking on Lauren Cauldwell. She was a real person. She had a younger brother, Owen, she had parents, she worked as a wedding planner and I could find no evidence that she was 'The Girl'. I could not place her at any of the deaths, but neither could I find categorical proof that she was elsewhere when the deaths occurred. She travelled with her work, moving from place to place, from wedding to wedding.
Further research showed that Owen Cauldwell had been tortured by the Carrows. Was that motive?
I still had not seen Alecto Carrow. I needed to see her, to warn her. Lucius Malfoy was not ill; Patrick Mulciber was being guarded by Aurors. I should go and see Carrow.
I must go and see Carrow.
I must ignore the voice in my head which asks: why?
It was late September; the critical time was fast approaching. I returned to my notes on Carrow and that's when I realised what a fool I'd been.
Alecto Carrow, Flat 46, Aireside House, The Calls, Leeds.
I pulled out the business card Narcissa Malfoy had given me.
Lauren Cauldwell, Wedding Planner, Flat 49, Aireside House, The Calls, Leeds.
She was close to two victims, not one. Why? Perhaps the sudden release of Alecto Carrow had forced her to change. Whatever the reason, I had to visit Leeds. I had found my killer. Now, all I needed was proof.
Lauren Cauldwell had seen me; she would recognise me. But she had not really paid much attention to me. I was long-haired, bearded and robed when she saw me, so I went to Diagon alley and treated myself to a shave and a haircut. With my beard trimmed to a fraction of an inch and several inches cut from my hair, I felt, and looked, like a new man. My hair now merely reached my shoulders. I swept it back from my face, returned home, and changed into Muggle clothes. I looked different, tidier.
I wore black; it seemed fitting. I packed a suitcase with my Muggle clothes, Apparated to Leeds, and booked myself into a Muggle hotel near the Royal Armouries. I was on the opposite bank of the river to Aireside House, but I was only a matter of minutes away. I unpacked my clothes and made myself at home in the hotel room. It was time for me to face Alecto Carrow.
I determinedly walked along the riverside, crossed a footbridge, and strode up to the building. I stopped.
A vision of a sneering Alecto Carrow swam before my eyes.
"I've got to leave you, now, Corner," she said. "The Headmaster wants to see me. But don't worry. My brother will be along in a few minutes."
At least I'll have a few minutes respite, I thought.
I was hanging, slumped forwards on the chains in the dungeon, the manacles digging into my wrists. I still have scars on my wrists, but that pain was inconsequential; it was nothing, no more than a mere inconvenience, an itch. It was the curse—that was pain—that was undiluted pain, raw and real and…
"Crucio," she yelled as she left the room and locked me in that cell. I was still sobbing when her brother arrived.
I was still sobbing when I arrived back at my hotel.
I ordered a coffee from a concerned receptionist who looked to be about sixteen-years-old, and I sat in the lobby and drank. I was trying to do the right thing. I was trying to save a life. But, of all the lives to save, why was it hers? All life is sacred, that's what Luna said. Is it? Is not saving someone the same as killing them? I knew Luna's answer to that, too. Yes.
I waited a day. One more day would not hurt.
The following day, I got into the building. I was walking across the foyer towards the lift when my nose started to bleed, and it would not stop. I spent the afternoon mopping up my face, and cleaning myself up. When the blood finally stopped flowing, my head was pounding. I had not had a really serious post-nosebleed headache for years. In the days after the battle, they had been a regular debilitating occurrence.
The next day, I rested.
The following day I managed to get into the lift and up to the fourth floor, but my feet would not move. I stood, helpless as the doors closed, and I returned to the ground floor.
At my next attempt, I got no further than the lobby. I was just entering the building when Lauren Cauldwell strode from the lift. I looked at her, and she at me. I was a lot smarter than I'd been the last time she'd seen me, and I don't think that she recognised me. She was wearing smart Muggle clothes and she was confident, poised, and beautiful. Was that really what a multiple-murderess looked like? I tried to follow her, but she spotted me, turned into an alley, and Disapparated.
The next day, I was determined; I was strong. I strode into the lift and stepped out onto the fourth floor. I walked purposefully along the corridor to flat 46 and I raised my fist to knock. My muscles locked. I could not bring my fist down on the door.
I stood there for several minutes, simply staring at the door. My upraised arm fell to my side. So close, I was so close. This time, I could not give up. I raised my fist higher, determined to try again, and then the door to the adjoining flat opened, and a young woman looked out.
She was a slight little thing, with straight blonde hair. She was pale and rather worried looking, and vaguely familiar.
"Marlene Brocklehurst," I said.
She looked surprised.
"Marley, you always wanted to be called Marley! I'm Michael Corner," I said. "Your sister, Mandy, was in my house, in my year."
The girl slumped. Mandy had died in the battle, despite Ginny's best efforts. Ginny and Nevill had managed to get her to the hospital wing, but too late. My comments were hardly sensitive. I strode across to her and grabbed her elbows. She allowed me to help her back into her room. It was a tiny little place. I was standing in a combined living and kitchen area with two doors off it; bedroom and bathroom, I assumed. My Kennington flat was small and cramped, but hers was positively claustrophobic. There was only one armchair, a horrible mustard-coloured thing. I guided her to it and sat her down.
"Are you okay?" I asked. She nodded.
I looked at her in concern. 'Mandy's shadow' we'd called her at school. She was a Hufflepuff, unlike Mandy, but whenever we were out of the common room, Marley would appear and Mandy would roll her eyes apologetically. Anthony had always teased me about her. He reckoned that she fancied me, but that was when I was with Cho.
Marley Brocklehurst looked ill. She stared at me in utter confusion as if my appearance had brought her world tumbling down. It probably had. She had always been 'Mandy's shadow,' but Mandy was dead. My presence, and my tactless words, had probably reminded her of her loss.
"How are you, Michael? What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Do you know a girl called Lauren Cauldwell?" I asked.
She nodded.
I told her my story. I watched her eyes widen in shock, but, like Narcissa Malfoy, she understood. She believed.
"Alecto Carrow is ill," she told me. "I've been nursing her. I've been helping Lauren to nurse her."
My jaw dropped.
"How is she doing it?" Marlene asked.
"I don't know," I told her.
"We need to find out," Marlene said. "Would you like a cup of tea? Or a chocolate chip cookie? I've just been baking."