"Very well." Mr Weasley paused, and took another sip of his brandy, as though he needed the fortification. "Now," he went on, "I'm afraid this has been pieced together second-hand and includes a certain amount of inference …"
"Inference … how do you mean?" asked Hannah, pressing Neville's handkerchief to her eyes.
"Based on my experience in Misuse. Noone's activities were, on one level, typical of the random nature of a great deal of nasty Muggle-baiting incidents that I've dealt with over the years."
"Random? Wait …" Hannah took the handkerchief away from her face. "Are you saying she didn't mean to kill my mum?"
"No, Hannah, I'm afraid I can't say that. However, the plain and depressing fact of the matter is that Noone's only reason for choosing your mother as her victim was that she needed someone with a regular routine. Travelling to and from her place of work, your mother was at the same junction every weekday, almost to the minute. She did not even know at that stage that the woman she had selected as her second 'test case' was the mother of a witch."
Neville couldn't help interrupting. "And her own mum and dad were the first?" Witnessing Noone killing Perkins in cold blood had disgusted him, but any sorrow he had felt had been on Mr Weasley's and Hannah's behalf, rather than for the old man himself, who had died a hero's death. Now, thinking about Noone's innocent parents, as well as Hannah's mum, the full horror of everything the witch had done sank in. He'd thought that nothing else could surprise him about the extent of evil in the world.
"Yes. I'm not sure there's any need for you to hear what happened to them. It's rather distressing."
"I'd – I'd rather not," Hannah answered quietly. "I want to hear about Mum." Neville was relieved. He didn't have the least idea what a wind turbine was and had no desire to find out. He took a sip of the revolting brandy, and after a moment the warmth hit his stomach, which helped slightly. Hannah seemed to be holding up rather better than he was, despite the tears that continued to roll down her cheeks at intervals. "Where did the lorry—, I mean Mike come into it?" she asked.
"Mr Harding was someone she picked up in her home town shortly after she moved back there. She met him in a public house near to where her parents had lived. He was friendly, easy to get to know, eager to please. She quickly learned that one of his long-distance routes between London and various towns in the North of England passed near to a possible location she had already earmarked in your home village. It had the right kind of road layout and excellent visibility. His journey could be made to intersect with your mother's with very little trouble. All Noone had to do was get Mr Harding, now living under the Imperius Curse, to make a small deviation to his route."
"She went to so much trouble," mumbled Neville. "I'm sorry, I just don't get it, Mr Weasley."
The older man sighed, but seemingly not with impatience. "Yes, that's something I've found strange myself over the years. It's very disturbing, the lengths to which Muggle-baiters will go."
"She made the lorry driver do everything, anyway." Hannah's voice was dreary. Neville caught her eye and held out his hand. She left her chair, and sat down on the hearth rug in the space vacated by Mr Weasley. "It was all at a distance," she said to herself quietly. "She hardly had to lift her wand." Neville rubbed the back of her knuckle with his thumb, trying his best to comfort her without words. He didn't have any to offer her.
"There is more to it …" said Mr Weasley apologetically, "if you would like me to continue?"
Hannah indicated that she would, and he leaned forward in his chair. "Noone needed Mr Harding to control the vehicle, that was his role. On the day of the accident, she made him wait in a lay by, while she positioned herself where your mother's car could be observed winding its way down towards the junction with the main road. Noone was able to time the collision perfectly, using a minute trace of magic to Transfigure the traffic light sequence so that it remained on green. She then lifted the Imperius Curse on the lorry driver so as not to arouse suspicion – she did not want him to display any odd behaviour that might attract the attention of the Ministry – and concealed herself. Mr Harding, of course, was shocked and confused by what had happened, but that was all to the good. His story at the scene was simply that he could not have avoided the collision, which was quite true. The simplicity of the plan was its beauty, you see."
"She could have got away with it, I think," said Hannah, still in the same colourless, detached voice as before. "I mean, never been found out at all. If she hadn't messed about with Mr Harding afterwards. Even then … we'd never have known what really happened if Neville hadn't gone to see him."
"I believe so too," said Mr Weasley. "It was afterwards that things began to go wrong for her. To her annoyance, a low-ranking MLE officer in the Improper Use of Magic Office arrived to examine the scene. From her knowledge of Muggle Liaison, she soon realised that he had been sent to make only a cursory investigation after your mother's death was reported."
"But how did they know so quickly?" asked Hannah.
It was something Neville had always wondered too. Professor Sprout had just told him Hannah's mum had been 'found dead' when he went to ask for her address. Mr Weasley looked embarrassed, Neville noticed. "The Ministry has its – er – ways of flagging certain changes in the Muggle population," he said delicately.
"Like those maps out there, you mean?" Hannah pointed in the direction of the outer office.
"No flies on this one, eh, Neville?" said Uncle Arnie dryly. Hannah spared him a cold glance.
Mr Weasley nodded. "Something similar," he said, answering Hannah's question. "I believe different offices have their own tracking spells and monitoring systems …"
"Depending on what they're looking out for," finished Uncle Arnie.
"You mean every department except those involved in Muggle Liaison?" Hannah shook her head in disbelief.
"Er—" said Mr Weasley again.
"Not the internal departments, obviously," replied Uncle Arnie unapologetically
"Subject to regular checks and strict review procedures, or so I've always been told." Mr Weasley and Hannah exchanged a look of understanding.
"Now Arthur, don't get on your high horse," Uncle Arnie broke in with a touch of irritation. "You know perfectly well you've been glad enough to rely on our reports in times past."
Before Mr Weasley could reply, Hannah spoke again. "At least it makes sense now," she said, looking to Neville for confirmation. "No one ever explained properly." She sounded as though she were speaking from a long distance away.
He thought back to almost a year earlier, and how everyone in Herbology that morning had imagined another horrible incident like the ones that were being reported with increasing frequency in the Daily Prophet. The memory stood out clearly. He'd been helping the other Gryffindors prune the Venomous Tentacula when the door to Greenhouse Three had opened, letting the cold air rush in from outside. Professor Sprout had tutted in annoyance. A moment later, he'd watched his favourite teacher's face crumple, and then the gentleness with which she'd drawn Hannah Abbott to one side. As the teacher who had brought the news steered the white-faced girl past their table, he'd almost missed the tendril that was snaking around his neck.
He'd never taken much notice of the Hufflepuff prefect before then, except in the normal way. At some point during fifth year, when someone demanded to know who in their year was looking 'fit' that week, Neville had joined in for the first time, mentioning Hannah's name. Ron had howled with laughter and advised him to "go for it, mate." After careful consideration, Seamus had declared her "well-stacked" and commended Neville's taste. He'd filed her away in his mind as pretty, nice and completely out of his league. That morning he'd stood helplessly as she walked past, arms unthinkingly by his sides, ambushed by the raw pain he could see etched across her normally rosy and cheerful face. Her eyes had flickered to one side, and she'd pointed at his shoulder. "Watch out," she'd said hoarsely, as she was hurried out of the greenhouse. It was only after finding out she was gone for good that he'd realised he wanted to know her better.
"When Professor Sinistra came and got me," Hannah was saying, "I couldn't understand how the Ministry could even have known."
"Your mother's accident fell under a recent security directive," explained Mr Weasley. "The one requiring all sudden deaths which cannot be immediately attributed to natural causes to be investigated. This applies to anyone connected to our kind, including next-of-kin of Muggle-born witches and wizards. It should have been explained to you properly at the time."
"It wasn't," said Hannah sullenly.
"They can be a touch brusque in Improper Use, I've noticed," said Uncle Arnie contemplatively.
"The wizard was completely unprofessional in what he said to you, Hannah. After we last met, I had a brief word with Mafalda Hopkirk about it. She is an excellent witch, and runs her department impeccably."
"I've met her," Hannah replied. "She seemed really nice."
"Hah!" said Uncle Arnie. "I bet the bloke in question received sharp reprimand."
"I believe so."
"Thanks, Mr Weasley," she said dutifully. "But it really doesn't matter now."
Mr Weasley gave her a sympathetic glance and went on with his story. "As you can imagine, this greatly complicated things for Noone. When she realised there would be both a Ministry presence and her victim's witch daughter at the hearing, she panicked. Difficult questions might be asked. Her invention was not ready, she did not want to be discovered at such an early stage of her research. She decided to alter Mr Harding's memory."
"Mr Weasley?" Neville didn't want to interrupt, but he was in danger of getting left behind again. Something else had been puzzling him. "Why was that necessary, if she were controlling him with the Imperius Curse?"
Mr Weasley's voice went suddenly harsh. "Tampering with Muggle objects and causing the death of an innocent woman is one thing. Using an Unforgivable Curse, even on a Muggle, is in a different league altogether. She could not keep him under the Imperius while he was giving his testimony. Casting it in the presence of a Ministry MLE officer was too big a risk to take."
"Even the dimmest wand in Improper Use is trained to recognise the behavioural patterns of someone under the Imperius," supplied Uncle Arnie.
"For Noone to be assured of remaining at liberty to pursue her research, it was crucial that your mother was blamed for the accident. Mr Harding had to be beyond suspicion. There was a strong chance that if awkward questions were asked, his simple tale would not stand up. He might even remember that he'd been waiting in the lay by and forced to drive in a direction in which he had no intention of going. It was vital that by the time of the enquiry that his story would bear out the findings that your mother was at fault, that she had ignored a clear signal from the traffic light to wait."
Hannah rubbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. "If she hadn't tried to manipulate us, and just trusted to luck, we probably would have believed in the end that Mum lost concentration for a second, and ran a red light."
"Indeed. These Muggle – er – inquests…?" Mr Weasley looked doubtfully at Hannah, who nodded and gestured for him to go on. "I understand they are brief affairs. The lorry driver would, in all likelihood, have simply repeated his tale that he was driving along as usual, minding his own business, and had been unable to avoid the collision. Even if he'd mentioned that he was on a slightly different route to normal, this would have meant little to the Ministry representative, who was highly unlikely to come up with the possibility that Muggle-baiting was involved without a large, obvious splash of magic anywhere in the immediate vicinity. I wouldn't have done myself – not without both you and your father relating to me in detail the version of events given by Mr Harding at the inquest, allied with your rock-solid certainty that your mother had not taken her own life. I think perhaps it was because of her own expertise in Muggle technology, she failed to see the wood for the trees."
Uncle Arnie chimed in. "Yes, that was certainly where Noone slipped up. It's no small matter to alter a memory after the fact, even a very minor change. Very complex bit of magic, requiring subtlety and finesse, way beyond the ability of all but the most skilled witch or wizard. Noone's affinity is with machines, not minds. She could have destroyed that man's brain completely. It's a miracle she didn't. He'd have ended up little more than a vegetable, no better than Frank and poor Alice."
At this last remark, Neville noticed Hannah giving his godfather another one of her looks. She'd just have to get used to him, he thought, like she'd got used to Gran in the end. After all, it was no secret that his mum and dad's condition was hopeless. Neville's attention began to wander, as his thoughts ran along this well-worn path. Then, with a jolt, he hit a bump. What was it Pye had said? In the last few hours, since watching Perkins' memory of being murdered, the rest of that afternoon had dimmed in his memory. Now the Healer's words came back to him … about how his mum and dad should have more – what was it? Stimulus – or something … rather than endless doses of a standard sedating potion, one containing hellebore of all things. What if there was something else …?
No, he told himself firmly. Gran was right about some things. She'd impressed on him for years that they mustn't allow themselves to hope. "You have to make your mark on the world, Neville," she'd said, the one time he'd tried to put into words his vague and uncertain reasons for wanting to follow his interest in Herbology and make it his career after leaving school. "How many times do I have to tell you that you can't stay in this dreamworld of yours all your life?"
Even when, six months later, he'd found out he'd got an 'O', she'd only sniffed and said, "Pity you couldn't have spent a bit more time getting your other grades up. All 'A's and 'P's except for three – and a 'D' for History. Your father got ten 'O's, you know." Of course he knew. "I can't say I'm impressed," she'd sighed. "At least you managed to scrape a pass in Potions. I'd never have been able to look Griselda in the eye again otherwise." As soon as breakfast was over, Neville had rolled up the parchment and rushed up to his bedroom to tell Trevor instead. He'd spent the rest of the morning writing a letter to his mum, which he'd placed carefully next to his other treasured possessions in the little wooden box that had once belonged to Grandad.
Silence had fallen over the room. Hannah was staring fixedly into the empty fireplace, as though entranced by something no one else could see. Neville wondered what Gran would say if he told her he'd been into a Pensieve, and seen someone's memory being extracted. It had only been last Christmas she'd finally accepted he wouldn't be applying to work with his godfather after his NEWTS. She'd had no choice, now that he wasn't doing Transfiguration, and thus no chance of getting anywhere in the Ministry, thank Merlin. She might despise the way they'd handled things over the last two years, but didn't stop her pushing him to get a job that would enable him to "take his rightful place in Wizarding society." Neville couldn't think of anything less appealing. Her latest attempt was trying to steer him towards conservation. "They're crying out for rural land managers up in Drear," she'd said at lunch on the first day of the Christmas holidays, pressing yet another Ministry leaflet on him. "Might as well do something useful if you're set on working outdoors like a common labourer."
Neville understood this to be more respectable than "import and export" out in foreign parts, like her brother Algie. "And a good pension at the end of it, too," she'd argued. If he survived the ravening beasts, he'd thought gloomily. "They want 'unswerving commitment to the countryside and our native magical heritage' – I suppose that means the Quintapeds, there's nothing much else up there – 'allied to a practical aptitude for basic restraint techniques and Muggle hand tools' … that's you to a tee, Neville." He wasn't so sure. He had nothing against Care of Magical Creatures, but animals were so predictable compared to plants. As for maintaining boundary spells, and looking after hedges and stuff – bor-ing.
"Oh … and 'a good level of physical fitness'." His gran frowned, then rallied. "Well, that's all right. There's a bit less flab on you these days, love, and you've gained a few inches at last, even if you're never going to be six feet tall like your dad." Neville had ignored this, helping himself to three more roast potatoes and drowning his roast lamb in gravy. "Your Grandad loved the land too," she'd said thoughtfully. "You must get it from him." Neville had gone on eating in silence. He knew how much Gran had loved Grandad and looked up to him, even though she didn't hold him up as a shining example as often her son, the brilliant Auror.
With another jolt, as he came back to the present to find Hannah smiling faintly at him, Neville was surprised to discover that the familiar sensation of muddled anger, resentment and guilt was missing. He tested himself, prodding at his feelings carefully like a fading bruise. He'd never wanted to disappoint his grandmother, but he was beginning to see that following his own path might not have to mean choosing whatever she mapped out for him. It would be one more battle, but she would come round in the end. Life, he'd discovered recently, was definitely more interesting when he made his own decisions. Firmly Neville dragged his train of thought back to the matter at hand. Uncle Arnie had started up again. "Pardon me, Arthur, but I must say this mixing of magic and Muggle scientifical rubbish is a bad business. Always has been, always will be. No good ever comes of it."
"Yes Arnie, and that's why you never use your Ministry car, I suppose," said Mr Weasley dryly. It sounded to Neville like an exchange they'd had before. On balance, he had more sympathy with his godfather's view of things. "Would you like me to go on, Hannah?" asked Mr Weasley. She nodded. "That's pretty much everything I can tell you about your mother's accident, but there is a little more, if you'd care to know the broader scope of Noone's plans that is?" asked Mr Weasley.
"I think …" Hannah paused, then nodded. "Yes, I would." She seemed calmer now. Her eyes were still red, but she'd stopped scrubbing at them. Perhaps it really did make all the difference, Neville thought, knowing exactly what had happened to her mum.
"Very well. Noone's initial wind turbine and traffic light experiments were useful as a means to test the principle of harnessing the – er – elec-tricity." Mr Weasley pronounced the difficult word with care. "However, these devices were static, unwieldy. Of no use whatsoever in her quest to create a portable, stealthy weapon, which was her ultimate goal. The toy water pistols you have both seen – at Noone's own house and in Mr Harding's family home – were the second iteration of her project, on which she refined and extended her testing of the Transfiguration spells she had discovered in the old Muggle Research data."
Here, he got to his feet and began to pace up and down again, as though it helped him to think. "This was not satisfactory either. The toys utilised an inconstant source of Muggle energy – the simple pump-action mechanism – which she found difficult to work with, despite making several different prototypes. The amount of physical pressure needed to fire the device was too variable, and the intentionality needed to invoke the destructive spells built into the object rather great. Consequently, the magic itself remained somewhat heavy and crude compared to those she had developed to work with an electrical power source, and thus easy to identify by Dark Detectors."
"That must be why it made you feel so ill, Hannah," said Neville. She nodded, frowning, but didn't elaborate and he cursed himself for his lack of tact. Fortunately the two older wizards, despite appearing slightly puzzled at the exchange, didn't ask for an explanation. Uncle Arnie took up the story.
"The successful culmination of Noone's 'research' was the ingenious device which finished off poor old Perkins …" Then he broke off. "Well, we don't really need to tell you. You both saw what her latest weapon can do." Neville watched as he poured himself a third – or was it his fourth – brandy. "Hmph. She seemed pretty attached to it, that's for sure. I'd guess that up until then the young man had been her best source of comfort, so she kept him on a leash, poor devil. Never mind that he had a wife and child somewhere else."
"What I don't understand in that case," said Neville slowly, "is why she left him on his own. You said it was her house, but it looked like no one else had been there for ages."
"I understand she had not been staying there in the weeks leading up to her final killing." Mr Weasley's voice filled with disgust. "Following the breakthrough of her last successful invention, it seems she decided to take her ease in a suite in the Dorchester Hotel spending what remained of her parents' legacy, apparently in preparation for the luxurious lifestyle she felt she deserved after her life of disappointment and privation." There was long pause as this sank in.
"So what was smashing up our house all about?" asked Hannah at last. "That's the only thing left to explain. I don't really want to know – it doesn't feel like my home any more – but you might as well tell me. Was she trying to get to Dad … to shut him up, or whatever?"
"Not exactly …" began Mr Weasley.
"But when we met before," Hannah interrupted him, "you said his letters could have attracted attention."
"Yes, but …"
"And she must have been able to tell there was no one living there, so what was the point of leaving that stuff behind on the carpet?"
Mr Weasley seemed to come to a decision. "This is what I know – if you're ready to hear it that is…?" Hannah nodded, squeezing Neville's hand more firmly. "She didn't go there looking for your father, Hannah. She went looking for you."