miya: Thank you so-so much! I - along with Lucy and Sirius - am very happy you enjoyed your read! : ) (Well, yeah, everyone deserves a little vacation sometimes, eh?)

Chapter 13 – Under Scrutiny

They appeared hand in hand at the edge of a small, weedy square, in uncomfortable proximity of a reeking container. Black immediately pressed Lucy down behind it and placed a firm hand on her mouth. There was a distant whoosh as a bus passed in the parallel street, then silence settled in the neighbourhood once again.

This was the longest Apparition Lucy had ever experienced; it had felt like being pressed through the eye of a needle instead of the usual narrow tube, and the sudden cease of perpetual movement around her made her stomach rise.

"Ouch…" She moaned softly. She felt something hot and wet dripping down her back, and she had a very good idea what it was – Black noticed it, too, and he cursed softly under his breath.

"Shit. I knew I shouldn't have done it in one go. Try not to tear the skin further, will you…? I'll fix it when we're done. Provided that you won't get sneaky again."

Lucy was too drained to even bite back. She closed her eyes instead, trying to get a grip on herself. Her head still felt dizzy. "Are we in 'Ciuc, or something?"

"And what the bloody hell would we be doing there?" Black raised an eyebrow. "I thought you would recognize good ol' White Oaks in all its glory." He sniffed theatrically in the air. "Home sweet home, huh?"

"White Oaks… wait, we're in London?" Lucy looked around as if she was fearing a raid of armed Ministry forces. "You just Apparated us through the entire goddamn continent?!"

"Should I have waited for a signed permission, or what?" Black's voice had that malicious edge again. "You said you could fix things, so here's your chance."

"Uh… okay… yeah."

Lucy gathered herself for the umpteenth time that day and stood. Over the surface of the container, she could see a raunchy semicircle of houses with weed-overgrown gateways and tottering trash bags. Windows were squinting down on them like inquiring eyes, but not a soul was around. With an effort, Lucy could spell out the words Grimmauld place on a street sign at the corner.

Black had not lied – this was the very brink of White Oaks, just a few corners away from her father's house. The scenery had changed over the years, though… did someone piss the garbagemen off?

"…all right." Lucy took a deep breath and Occluded. "So now, I'm going to do a couple of nasty things to keep my job, keep you outta jail, save Dumbledore's face… that kind of stuff." She eyed the tall man directly. "You are nothing more than an unmannered stray I picked up in Romania. You bark, you wag your tail, you break vases… anything that dogs do. I won't spoil your fun. But whatever I do… whatever I say… whatever you hear from those morons in there… you don't interfere."

"Well, that depends," said Black darkly.

"We're gonna have to trust each other, I fear. You could just as easily blow the gaff on me as I could blow it on you. Don't worry, my Dad won't have any qualms about unleashing the Wizengamot on me as soon as he sees a chance. He'd probably think of it as something didactic. So are we even?"

Black stared at her. "Your Dad would put you to trial?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Lucy shrugged. "It wouldn't surprise me."

Black was still looking at her in a way that seemed to burn holes in her body. She grimaced.

"Well, let's just say that Dad… when I was younger, he had a very firm idea that I should be a certain way... do certain things… live my life like this and that… He'd envisioned me as a Ministry official, with the highly bunned hair and all. He refused – and probably still refuses – to see me any other way. If I were to beg for his forgiveness, he'd surely forgive, oh yes… with the condition that I'd change. That I'd be fixed. That I'd be the way I should be. See, he never even tried to understand who I actually was. He still has no idea about it, which is why he's gonna be fucked over real hard this time. I guess we should even thank him for that." Lucy gritted her teeth. "By the way, it's none of your fucking business!"

For a moment, Black looked like he was about to start an hour-long lecture on life choices. "…I was sixteen when I ran away, too, you know," he finally said, every word low and croaky like the murmur of some blighted blues singer. "Best thing I did in my entire life. So heads up."

Lucy stared at him, too aghast to even feel thankful. Black patted her on the shoulder with the slightest frown, then turned her gently towards the empty square in front of them.

"I know, I know. Still none of my fucking business. Now let's go. There are so many shoes to piss."

One tedious hour later, Lucy and the dog were standing in front of a smooth wooden door in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, gazes fixed on a small golden plate with the name Senior Auror John Dawlish on it.

For Lucy, it felt like crossing a lava pit. She had not seen her father since she was sixteen – almost nine years ago. Was he supposed to look far older now? Was she supposed to look more mature? Her magic held certain limitations, to be sure – while it had easily made her coiffure impeccable for once, her dress motelessly elegant and her heels uncomfortably high, it could not change her temper at will. She could certainly control her deep-rooted anger up to a certain point, but her father had always possessed some devilish skill to make her lose it…

This time, she would not, though. She was not sixteen anymore.

There were, however, still too many questions left unanswered. Would it mean anything to her father than she had come here on her own accord…? Because that is what she would tell him, of course. That was what he needed to hear. He was just another man, after all, and all men wanted the same thing… For many years, Lucy had thought that the "one thing" in question was sex – but no. It was the thing she herself valued above all: ownership. Control.

If she continued to dwell on such things, though, her rage would surely show. Rage was unbecoming on a woman; and Lucy had already learned that when a thing was unbecoming, most of the time it was also entirely useless.

She smiled to herself – the sort of easy, coy smile she wore whenever she daydreamed about disembowelling her conversational partners – and she knocked lightly on the door.

"Enter," said her father's muffled voice, as tired and disillusioned as she knew it. For an absurd moment, Lucy wondered if he'd been sitting behind the same desk ever since their final argument, and she felt like crying; but the moment passed. She pressed the handle and walked in with her head held high, every step a flawless demonstration of elegance and ease.

John Dawlish placed his quill neatly into the inkwell before glancing up at her (and almost falling back in his chair).

"Lucy…?"

"Hi, Dad. Been a while, hasn't it?" She looked around, taking in the dusty – and mostly unchanged – furniture. "Wow, your orchids have quite grown. So have the trash piles." She grabbed the top document and held it out in front of herself to read. "Carnivorous rubbish bins in Bristol. Three injured, five traumatised. Muggle "law procedure" to come. Blue light alert… Rubbish bins? Seriously?"

"Another wizard taking advantage of a well-meaning Muggle family," said John Dawlish drily. If his surprise still affected him, it did not show. "They bought the bins from a, I quote, mysterious man; which, upon not being discharged soon enough, began spitting junk on passers-by. Then, a few months ago – and that is where we have picked up the case from the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office – the same man sold the same Muggles a so-called Tarot Curse, claiming that it would get rid of the bad aura that made the bins, and I quote again, behave badly. Now that is a violation level two of the Statute of Secrecy. The man's name is Mundungus Fletcher. Known friend of your new patron Dumbledore. Anything you might know…?"

"Not a clue," said Lucy with a very straight face. "I feel for you, though. It must be horrible to sit in a bureau all day reading about murderous rubbish bins."

"I wish that I would be only reading about them," said her father, then he finally managed to look at her. "Well – at least you do not lie drunk and disillusioned in a ditch. When I heard about your new employer, that is what I was fearing."

Lucy imagined slamming his head into the desk, and she smiled sweetly at him.

"My current employer is Ragnuk, the director of Gringotts. Whatever I do, I do it for the bank. Knowing how forward and wizard-friendly Goblins usually are, I'm sure he'll be ready to appease all your fatherly concerns. Now – the reason why I'm here is that I need a questioning order from you."

"A questioning order," John Dawlish repeated, aghast.

"…yeah? You know, small piece of paper, usually squarish, with that ugly grinning caricature of Merlin in the corner…"

"That's Ulick Gamp…"

"Whatever!"

"…wait, a questioning order for whom?"

"Myself," said Lucy, and she spread her arms somewhat theatrically. "You know, Veritaserum being illegal and all, it's a mere formality."

Her father looked at her sharply. "You want to be questioned under Veritaserum?"

"No one will believe me otherwise. Dad… Dumbledore is nuts. He thinks that You-Know-Who's back, and all. And he has… he has weird friends. He does weird things. It freaks me out. I want to get out of this, but I can't lose my job, and all… I also think that Fudge kind of likes me. If I told him everything I knew about Dumbledore, he might not give me the boot… I mean, Ragnuk might not give me the boot… well shit."

Lucy shut her eyes and tensed the muscles in her face for a few seconds – she emerged with a gracious blush, one that draped her cheekbones in the faintest shade of pink, and – she knew – one that made her very pretty.

"What was that about Fudge giving you the boot?" Asked her father sharply.

"I really can't tell you, Dad. I'm sorry… can you please just… help me out here?"

"Not unless I know what you have gotten yourself into this time! Answer me: are you working for Fudge, or not?"

"I can't tell you!" Lucy repeated stubbornly. "Ask him, if you have to. Or you can find it out yourself, if you have an ounce of sense."

Her father slowly rose from his chair. "You will not speak to me in that tone," he said harshly. His forefinger was pointing at her, and behind him, the curtains flickered softly in some unseen breeze.

Lucy almost jumped at the low, menacing growl that sprang from around her elbow. For a fleeting second, she had no idea what it even was; but then, her father lowered his hand, and sighed in exasperation.

"Merlin's beard," he sighed, "what on Earth is that thing again?"

"Ah, him." Lucy squinted at the giant black dog. "This is Fluffy, at your service. He's a very good boy, now aren't you, Fluffy?"

"Fluffy" turned his head slowly back to her, the promise of brutal retaliation settling in his eyes.

"No offense," said John Dawlish in a tone that was offense itself, "but what exactly is that thing?"

"Fluffy? Oh, well… he's the fruit of an unlucky union between a Crup and an Irish Wolfhound. Don't ask me about the anatomy, it happened. See, he turned out a bit too wild and intelligent for a normal dog, so he was thrown out. Same old, same old. Happens to people all the time." Lucy smiled sweetly. "Don't worry, he won't attack unless I say so. Which might be another convincing factor for you to finally pick up your quill and fill that questioning order."

But John Dawlish shook his head. "This is… this is not how things are done, Lucy," he said with a short, awkward laugh. His eyes were not laughing, though. "You haven't answered my letters for years… I wrote you a million times… and now you're here, completely out of the blue, because you need something from me." He clicked his tongue. "And you're expecting me to comply, to trust you, without any idea of where you have been these past years… of what you have done… of who you are now… Yesterday, when I learned about the links between you and Dumbledore, I was so angry and I feared for you… you know nothing about Dumbledore… if that man is crazy, than I am a reincarnation of Merlin. No. He knows exactly what he is doing, but you do not. He is using you. I don't care if you hate me or disobey me, but I don't want you to be used."

"What?" Lucy whispered, completely dumbfounded. "Are you saying that you… that you believe Dumbledore?"

"I am saying that he is not crazy." Her father was looking at her very seriously. "Sadly, I can no longer teach you (not that you've ever listened, of course), but I'll tell you this: if you want to keep playing your little games, you need to stop thinking in absolutes. Blacks and whites… truth and lies… friends and enemies… Ministry men and Death Eaters." His eyes hardened. "The intersections of those sets are wider than you think. Which is why I prefer having the scandal of the century to leaving you in the hands of people who pull you on their strings."

Lucy wetted her lip. That was a flawless act of a Concerned Father right there. Things were getting interesting…

"Dad," she said softly, "this is easier than you think. If you don't help me, Dumbledore will get me before Fudge does, and he'll erase my memories. Important memories. And I'm not here to… to blackmail you into that, or anything, it's just that if I went directly into the office, Mr Crouch would have probably been there, wagging his tongue about how I've grown and stuff, and I thought…"

"Barty is dead," her father quipped.

"Excuse me, what?"

"I've found his body in an advanced stage of decomposition on the grounds of Hogwarts castle," said her father coldly. "Now, do you need another reminder to be careful with Albus Dumbledore?"

"You cannot think…" Lucy stuttered, "that Dumbledore…"

"You told me moments ago that he was, I quote, nuts." Her father raised an eyebrow. "You also told me that you were employed by a certain Ragnuk, still you keep talking about Fudge. Would you shed a light on all that?"

Lucy suddenly wished she was alone in the room so she could smash all the furniture into the wall. She knew that she was being cornered – and now that her father had found a grip on her, he would not let go. He was still a legendary Auror, after all…

Sometimes, said the echo of a deep voice in her head – this time Bane's, not Ronan's – the best way of defence is an underhanded attack.

"Is it true, then?" She said simply, raising her eyes to meet his. "Is You-Know-Who alive, and all?"

"He is." John Dawlish crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. "There are reports. I do not believe that he has regained his powers as Dumbledore claims, but it is fairly plausible that he should operate through a small group of former Death Eaters… or the entire rumour might be just that – a rumour. We do not know, but that doesn't mean that we do not investigate."

"But Fudge…"

"Fudge categorically refuses to believe anything that means the slightest threat to his seat as Minister for Magic, and there I have been as honest with you as I shall ever be," said her father curtly. "The current narrative of the Ministry is that Voldemort is dead, and Dumbledore is crazy, so I, as a Ministry official, shall advocate that. It certainly would not hurt to see Dumbledore's powers reduced by a shade." He pursed his lips. "I don't think I should explain to you why it would not be a good idea to have the public believe that the most dangerous dark wizard of our century is restored in his former power, until we are not entirely sure."

"There would be panic," Lucy said slowly, "and he would know that you know… and it would be more difficult to track him down…"

"Exactly."

"But Dad, are you tracking him down?"

"Am I?" John Dawlish laughed shortly. "Lucy, I am an Auror, employed by the Ministry of Magic. I do my job, and in the meantime, I keep my eyes open. There are certain… happenings… showing unknown forces at work. It could be Voldemort, or it could be anyone else. I know for certain that Dumbledore's intentions are not harmful, at least not in the way as the hypothetical Voldemort's would be – power is not what he wants, but he won't be satisfied by sitting idly in a corner, either. I have no idea what Dumbledore truly wants, and that frustrates me; also, I generally refuse to support his libertine (and that is a soft word) approach to the execution of law. I've heard things… do you know, for example, that he'd employed a known werewolf at his school?"

"And Fudge employed Bertha Jorkins," said Lucy through her teeth.

"Indeed. Well, no one is perfect."

Lucy stared at her father, eyes wide as plates. "You're joking… Dad, you're capable of joking?!"

She did not know what to make of the sudden flash of pain in his eyes. "We're running out of time, and you still refuse to tell me what is it that you are hiding."

Lucy frowned as a new idea crossed her mind. It was not to her liking – far from it – but it meant a compromise.

"As I said before, I really can't tell you. I can, however, tell it to the one who leads the questioning."

Her father eyed her suddenly, rigidly, and Lucy felt the tentative pressure of his intruding presence at the edge of her consciousness. She suppressed her resentment and let him in, showing a few flashes that crossed her mind – Charlie talking about the Norwegian Ridgeback he was working with; her fixing Hagrid's tie before he went to Buckbeak's hearing last year; Snape telling her she was about to fail her OWL-s if she kept blowing up her cauldrons all the time; a colourful mosque in Turkey…

…her being surrounded by Dementors as she sidles through the gates of Hogwarts in the light of the full moon…

…her braiding flowers into Ronan's hair so he would look like a red-haired Robert Plant…

…Mizzet gliding through summer skies in who-knows-which country; and her holding onto his spikes, drinking in the scent of freedom and wind as they fly over rivers and hills…

…Arcturus, no, SIRIUS kissing her hotly in the downlit lounge, his hand sliding under her dress and his lips tracing wet circles on her neck…

Occlude!

"…would you like to see the rest, or are you finally convinced that I don't want to murder you?" Lucy quipped, genuinely embarrassed for once.

"No… thank you, that would do," said her father with a very straight face. Then, he sighed. "If I asked you who that man was… and how sincere his intentions were with you…"

Lucy snorted.

"…and if I were to give you my opinion on that…"

"Tempting, but no."

Her father shook his head, and for a few moments, he seemed terribly tired. "All right…" He said, as one who came to a long-awaited conclusion. "All right," he repeated. "I might regret this later, but it is the only satisfactory option. I will fill that sodding order."

"Did you just say sodding?"

"I will say worse: we are going to fake this."

"What?!"

"Why do you make me repeat everything today? Here," John Dawlish waved his wand, and another chair appeared in front of the desk. "You'll write me a list of questions that will get the necessary information out of you. I'll rehearse them. When you'll drink the Veritaserum, I'll ask them all, and you'll answer, but nothing else. It does follow the protocol," he said, as if trying to convince himself.

"Dad…" Lucy was utterly confused. "Why…"

"Fudge's Undersecretary may be with him," said her father darkly. "I am not taking any risks around that woman. You will understand." He knocked lightly on the table. "Now set to work. Quick. I still have three meetings today."

"You see, John," said Cornelius Fudge measuredly, "this is not precisely how I've envisioned this."

They were sitting around the coffee table in the Minister's Parlour; Fudge had settled comfortably in his armchair while Lucy and her father had occupied the sofa. Black was lying stretched near Lucy's legs, giving a perfect show of a sleepy, slightly bored dog. As much as she hated to admit it, Lucy was glad he'd come. It had always been just her alone against everyone and everything in her father's world – now, at least, someone had her back.

"And you, Miss Dawlish!" The Minister shook his head mournfully. "Most embarrassing turn of events, most embarrassing. Please believe me, if I knew about Dumbledore's folly, I would have never offered you this position."

"It's quite alright," said Lucy calmly. "As long as you let me keep this job. Minister," she added quickly, feeling her father's displeased gaze on herself. "I like it. I think I'm good at it. I want to go through. Also," she added tactfully, "it wouldn't hurt to keep one of your employees close to Dumbledore, would it?"

"Precisely," said Fudge with a small smile. "Well, Miss Dawlish, it is true that the Goblins are pleased with you. You seem to be getting on well with them, which is a rare feat."

Lucy had never seen even the smallest of gests from Ragnuk or Griphook that indicated that they were pleased with her. Quite the contrary… although Bill had once told her something about Goblins placing extreme weights on the employees they found worthy or promising; and Bill knew much more about Goblins than she…

"Is that a yes, Minister?"

"We will see," Fudge closed his eyes for a moment. "Your father shall lead the questioning. My Undersecretary and myself will listen. I do not believe you've had the chance to meet her yet – ah, and at the moment we speak…"

The large, two-winged door opened behind them, and in came a woman who, according to Lucy, simply could not be real. She was short and squat, plump body bundled into a slinky green dress. That, the little neck, the broad, flabby face and the black velvet bow sitting at the top of her artfully combed chignon gave the overall appearance of a skulking toad. Lucy had to implement three of Ronan's breathing techniques to avoid laughing out loud at the sight of her. Black, however, seemed to be not amused, but rather generally alarmed by her appearance; he raised his head from the floor, ears perked high, every muscle tense.

The woman stopped short in the doorway, and let out a tiny, girlish squall.

"Cornelius! Who let that dog inside the department?!"

"He's mine," said Lucy quickly, with the slightest tremor of laughter in her voice. "Don't worry, Madam, he doesn't bite…"

John Dawlish cleared his throat. "I believe that a few introductions are in order. Madam Umbridge, this is my daughter, Lucy. Lucy, this is Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister."

"Pleasure," said Lucy, and she extended her hand. Umbridge didn't take it, though; she shot another hostile glance at Black's sprawled figure, then only nodded.

"Is this the case you have been informing me on, Cornelius?" She asked dismissively. Her voice was breathy and high-pitched, and it made the hairs on the back of Lucy's neck stand up. Under her robe, her scars started pulsing with pain again.

"Indeed, indeed," Fudge waved his hand awkwardly. "Shall we, ah, proceed, then?"

"The tea will be here in a moment," said Umbridge sweetly. "I will see to it."

"I'll drink the serum with tea?" Lucy raised an eyebrow. "That's nice."

"Of course, sweetheart. We shall do our best to make this conversation pleasant." Umbridge smiled at her. "I'm sure it will feel great to get all those secrets out of you. You must have seen nasty things around Dumbledore, my dear."

Not half as nasty as you, Lucy thought as the older woman disappeared in the adjoining room to get the serum. She somehow doubted that Umbridge's reassurance had sprung from honest sentiment.

The perfect moment came when Fudge walked over to the window, gazing mournfully out to the enchanted view of Tower Bridge below. Lucy's father sat tensely next to her, looking at his own joined hands in his lap; in was almost too easy to whisper Confundo, and watch as his gaze became unfocused for a few moments. Said few moments were perfectly enough for Lucy to pluck a small, grey stone out of her pocket, and slide it under her tongue.

"This is gonna be fun," she whispered to Black, still sprawled on the floor, albeit suddenly very tense. "You watch."

Potions was, as Lucy had the occasion to learn under the critical eye of Severus Snape, an art of shades and nuances; a terrain for adventure; a shaky, distant dimension of strange occurrences and experimental imperfections. Which is why it was impossible to learn from a textbook.

Veritaserum had given her many sleepless nights when she'd learned about its existence at Hogwarts – she would sometimes wake up before dawn, drenched with sweat. In her dreams, Snape had forced her to drink the potion and cry all her secrets out loud in front of the entire school. The dream had recurred for years, and although Lucy had learned to laugh at the idea, she never forgot it. She had studied Veritaserum for years, dissecting it, analysing its brewing method, testing it on volunteers and enemies alike. It was possible to fight or lessen its effects; it was possible to trick it with half-truths and subjectivity; there was, however, no way to nullify its effects completely.

At least, not until she had found it.

If one wanted to counteract a potion, they had, first and foremost, to understand how it worked; and the mechanism of the ultimate truth serum was almost laughably easy, once you understood it. It only took a cryptic counsel from Bane, a pilgrimage to Ireland, a small theft and a couple of wicked charms; and there she was, protected, in all her vengeful glory as Black had put it. Oh, she would enjoy this.

Umbridge's tea was sweeter than the chocolate Remus had made her on the night of Halloween; and considering that he had melted an entire packet of marshmallows into it, that was saying something. It was also lukewarm; and faintly, it crossed Lucy's mind that Snape would consider the present situation as a disgrace to the use of his lore.

"I am sure you're ready now, dear!" Umbridge smiled appallingly at her when her cup was half emptied. Lucy did not fall into the trap of answering; there had been no questions asked, after all. She knew more about Veritaserum than most people who brew it for a living - she felt more than able to simulate its effects. She let her eyes become unfocused; the three faces blurred comfortingly before her as she channelled all her wit and consciousness into her brain.

Yes. This was brainwork.

She had tamed dragons. She had parleyed with a vampire. She had dwelled with a herd of Centaurs for an entire summer. She could do this.

"I believe we could get to the questioning, John," said Fudge somewhere far away.

"All right," replied her father's voice, uncharacteristically thick with concern. "First – your name?"

"Lucy Dawlish."

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday. Twelfth of July. Nineteen-ninety-five."

"Good. Now first – how did you come into Albus Dumbledore's employ?"

Lucy raised her empty gaze to her father, opened her mouth, and let the flow of lies come out. It was thrilling, really – the questions came one by one and clashed against the gates of her conscience, like sellswords seeking to plunder a besieged castle. Some questions recurred, some were missing, and some were emphasized; yet Lucy Dawlish answered them all; her voice flat and relentless, her face a rigid mask, betraying nothing about the mad race of thought and calculation in the shelter of her skull.

Stroke by stoke, she painted the picture of a naïve young woman who thought she was so intelligent, and so much in control; who was not quite loyal to anybody but the fat packs of gold sent every month by her Goblin patrons; who was deadly afraid of You-Know-Who, and no, oh no, he couldn't have come back, that's simply impossible; who entertained peaceful ideals about a symbiotic life involving wizardkind and magical creatures; and who would be quite ready to inform the Minister for Magic about any bizarre thing Dumbledore did, thank you very much. The illusion was so flawless she almost started to believe it herself; and she suspected that the only reason why Black didn't interfere were the obvious lies she'd told about their mission and its outcome.

When her father was done, Umbridge and Fudge asked her a couple of small questions, and they all seemed very pleased with the outcome. Then suddenly, out of the blue, Umbridge asked her:

"Do you know Rubeus Hagrid, the groundkeeper of Hogwarts?"

"I do," Lucy said as flatly as she could manage. "Nice guy, if a bit thick. Brews his own tea which is quite decent, but his cookies are terrible."

"Very nice, dear," Umbridge piped, in a tone that made her want to cast Silencing Charms on the entire neighbourhood. "Now, do you know anything about the Hippogriff that was sentenced to death last year at Hogwarts castle?"

"No," said Lucy immediately. Her entire brain screamed danger; Buckbeak was a highway to the information concerning Sirius and Remus. Buckbeak was taboo.

Umbridge looked disappointed. "Maybe you've only forgotten, dear," she said. "There was a certain animal named Buckbiff… or something like that… it attacked a student last year, and a very nasty affair followed… since you are a Magical Creatures expert yourself, Dumbledore might have asked for your opinion… doesn't it ring a bell?"

"No," said Lucy, remembering a study about the detrimental effect of truth serums on the consumer's ability to use figurative language. "Hippogriffs don't ring bells."

Umbridge pursed her lips. "I believe we are done, then."

"We are." Fudge graced Lucy with a full view of his stage smile. "I am very pleased with your findings, Miss Dawlish. You might not be in the state of mind to appreciate this, but I look forward to working with you in the future. You shall receive the antidote shortly – your father will see to it." He suddenly seemed to be in a generous mood; when he stood, he extended his arm to help up her secretary as well. "New dress, Dolores?" He said absently.

"Oh? Yes," Umbridge chirped. "Delivered straight from Malkin's yesterday. Isn't it comely?"

"It makes you look like a fat frog, actually," said Lucy, before the possible outcome of her words could even settle in her mind. "Especially with the bow. It's what someone's maiden aunt would wear, really. I wonder how you fit in it, by the way – is it a house-elf that does the trick? Like, it awaits next to your bed in the morning, prepares the set of chains and pulleys and forces you into it… Merlin, it must have a biceps…"

Her father visibly froze, and Umbridge's eyes became wide like plates. For a long moment, no one moved; then Cornelius Fudge bent his back as he was caught by a sudden – and most unlucky – fit of coughing.

"N-now, n-now, Dolores," he said shakily, "don't stare like that. The young lady is confused, that is all… yes, very confused… you never know with these potions… she doesn't even mean it, now, do you, Miss Dawlish?"

"I absolutely mean it," said Lucy blankly, and she let the warmth of utter delight spread in her chest. "You made me drink a truth serum. I tell you the truth." She blinked. "Madam, you look so hurt, what is it? Has no one told you before that you looked like someone's maiden aunt? Oh, holy shit, are you someone's maiden aunt?"

Fudge waved his hands uselessly. "John – John, do something."

"Stop asking her questions," said John Dawlish with a face of marble. "She will feel obliged to answer until she takes the antidote. I…" He let out a discreet cough and looked seriously at Umbridge. "I would like you to remember that Veritaserum makes consumers reveal what they perceive to be true; which is to say, Madam Umbridge, that just because my daughter told certain things about your appearance, well, that doesn't mean that they are impartially true."

At that, he eyed Fudge for a moment, and both their faces twitched.

"I know, John, and thank you," said Umbridge in a sickeningly sweet, girlish tone. "Poor dear… of course, not everyone can have taste. I'm sure we will forget this little incident in no time."

With that, she left the room, but Lucy caught the last glance she'd thrown at her – a glance that promised that nothing would be forgotten over the span of the next decade, at least.

The door of the office closed behind them with a soft clank, and Lucy was helped to her father's chair. Outside, the approaching sunset draped the skies in spectacular oranges and yellows, and the shadows lengthened among the dusty furniture.

"Wait here until I get the antidote," said her father curtly. It was perfectly reasonable that he should go and get it with his own hands – a misplaced Summoning Charm could have broken it, or worse. Still, something was not all right… he was so tense…

Lucy was suddenly lifted on her feet. It was Black – she had almost forgotten about him, really. Something must have gone amiss in his head, though, because he had transformed back into a man, and he was grinning wildly at her.

"That was…" He shook his head, searching for words. "That was simply wonderful. Spectacular. So-so-so satisfying. Especially the part about the maiden aunt. I haven't felt this happy since I broke outta jail. Thank you."

"No… I think I fucked up…"

"Nah, you didn't. Holy shit, that was… that was awesome. I'm deeply impressed. Smitten, even. Siriusly, I'm your fan."

Lucy rolled her eyes at the terrible joke. "No, you don't understand… my Dad… I think he found out…"

Black held the sides of her face and kissed her hotly. "You think too much, princess."

With an amount of heroism, Lucy resisted the temptation to kiss him back. "You had no permission to do that."

"Is that how things go now? Permissions?" Black raised an eyebrow. "Well, as long as I get shagging orders for Christmas, it's fine with me."

"I don't shag men who take orders," Lucy quipped. "And now listen to me, because we've got a prob…"

Fortunately, her father re-entered the room back on – so she had the time to shove Black behind the nearest cupboard.

Come on, she fumed inwardly. This is a very stupid way to get caught.

Then, her father turned around to look at her, and Lucy froze at the extent of open rage she saw in his eyes.

"So is that how we stand now?" John Dawlish closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, his wand was pointing at her heart. "Of course you would do it again. People never change. I was a fool to trust you… not that I truly did, of course…"

"Dad…?"

"How did you think this would go, Lucy?" He sighed. "You did well enough, for sure… but the risk was too great… there were so many pits you could fall in, and eventually, you did…"

"W-what are you talking about?" Lucy stammered. She could feel the subtle pulse of fear in her veins; it made her scars hurt again.

"The information you told Umbridge about Buckbeak is not identical to the one I have seen in your head. You knew about that Hippogriff, which leaves us with only one possible explanation – that you have faked the entire questioning." Her father's face was ghastly pale. "That… that is a call for trial, Lucy. I'm sorry… but I think you are not."

"Dad – dad, wait…" She swallowed hard. "I can explain…"

"I'm not falling for that again. I'm sorry."

"Imperio!"

Lucy's breath hitched in her throat, sudden and hard. She had only heard about that spell, she'd never seen it done, she had never seen anyone do it in her entire life, how was she even supposed to fight it?!

The feeling she got, however, was simply… nothing. Three full seconds passed before she noticed that her father, on the other hand, was standing rigid and motionless like a statue, completely unshaken by the fact that Sirius Black emerged from behind the cupboard, turned him around by the shoulder, and pushed him down into his chair.

Lucy felt her hands tighten into fists.

"You…"

"Come on," said Black, voice calm and quiet as a mountain lake. "We don't have much time. He might have launched an alert."

"You put the Imperius on my Dad!"

"Yeah, yeah, save the fireworks for later. We've gotta go…"

"I'm not going anywhere with you! You put the fucking Imperius…"

"Can you scream Imperius a little louder please, so we can get neighbouring cells?!" Black yelled at her. "I had no choice, okay?"

"You were behind his back… you could have Disarmed him…"

"Yeah, he totally wouldn't have cried for help…"

"Then Stupefied him…"

"…in which case he'd have fallen flat and started an alarm – and we'd have been seized before you could've said maiden aunt. I've been an Auror once, okay? Like your Dad. We even worked together, if you must know. I know how things are done here."

Lucy's brain was still processing that particular information. "But the Imperius… it's an Unforgivable…"

"I don't need anyone's forgiveness," said Black icily. "Now… come on, Floo through. At least you. Your Dad's fireplace should work. Address is Maulden 7, Godric's Hollow. Maulden. Just like that."

They were staring at each other for three silent seconds.

"Trust me," said Black, almost softly. "Please."

Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I must be completely crazy," she observed. Then, she turned to her father's laconic figure in the chair, and muttered Obliviate.

(to be continued)

Author's Notes

"White Oaks" is the magical community's name for Islington in my little HP universe. I may (or may not) dwell more on that later.

I have an exact concept about Lucy's "antidote" to Veritaserum, which will be fully explained later – either in the following chapter, or in an eventual sequel. We'll see.

Thank you so much for the views and comments, I'm very happy about them!