Number 8 Knockturn Alley, January 1983
It was the seventh meeting between Althea and Pulcheria Oswin. At the first visit, Althea had listened with feigned interest as the woman who enjoyed her own voice spoke of her travels, her thoughts on Dark creatures, and commented upon Althea's discoveries. Now, as the hours would pass during each visit, Althea would just tease Pulcheria with her stories and Pulcheria wanted more. At every meeting at Number 8, Althea built that tenuous trust between the two women—Althea an eager researcher of the Dark and Pulcheria a happy teacher.
"Amazing," Pulcheria breathed and took a sip of coffee. "Did they ever catch the vampire?"
Althea nodded. "Eventually, but not after it killed three more children," she explained, taking a sip of coffee. "Terrible stuff those vampires."
"Indeed," she replied, placing her mug on the kitchen table. "I had visited a village were the inhabitants had planted rows and rows of garlic around the perimeter of their village. The vampire problem in Eastern Europe is most out of hand."
"Oh, I agree, but nowhere near the intensity of the werewolf problem," Althea began, taking another sip of coffee. "A community of werewolves was a common legend among the villagers as well," she continued, placing her coffee mug on the kitchen table.
"A community of werewolves? That is our worst fear, and there it is a reality," she said, shaking her head in disgust.
Althea nodded. "I did not believe it when I first heard about the community from the villagers; however, when I saw it for myself, I quickly changed my mind," she replied and laughed nervously. "Almost didn't live to tell anyone what I saw."
Pulcheria's eyes widened in amazement. "You actually saw the village?" she asked, leaning forward.
"I did," she answered solemnly. Althea closed her eyes and took a deep breath, imagining Remus frowning disapprovingly at her. Sighing, she opened her eyes before she began, "It was a beautiful day and I decided to take a walk. The villagers had warned me not to do so as I wouldn't return before nightfall. I didn't listen, and I started my journey—absolutely gorgeous country. But, I became lost and it was nightfall before I found a village—except it wasn't my village."
"Oh no," she breathed, perching her chin against her hand. "It was the werewolf community?"
Althea nodded slowly. "I realized it wasn't my village when I noticed dried human bones decorating the boundaries of the village. I was unable to leave, as it was the full moon, so I climbed a tree. I watched as some of them brought back freshly killed humans for them to devour. There were even children…I couldn't believe my eyes," she explained and wiped the fake tears she had produced.
Pulcheria tenderly touched Althea's hand. "That is what I hope my books protect us from," she said softly. "Those half-breeds are monsters, subhuman, and should be treated accordingly," she added and Althea retracted her hand in disgust.
"However they're only monsters one day out of an entire month," she replied thoughtfully and took another sip of coffee.
Pulcheria laughed. "They want to blend in, waiting for the right time, no doubt. I've read my opponents' work. I've read that Morrigan fellow's work—absolute rubbish if you ask me. Werewolves capable of love? How can a bloodthirsty beast be capable of love?" she asked and took another sip of coffee.
Althea caught her breath at the mention of her father's name. It was the first time she had mentioned Daniel Morrigan. Her plan was working and soon she would have the evidence needed to send her to Azkaban. Maybe she will be in the cell next to Sirius, she thought—her breath returning to a steady pace. They could compare the people they've betrayed and the people they've killed.
"I've read Morrigan's books as well—weren't you two colleagues at one time?" she asked with feigned innocence.
Pulcheria took a long drink from her coffee. "We were until our views radically changed. He was blinded by compassion and misplaced sentimentality toward werewolves," she explained with an air of disgust.
"Yes, he did emphasize their humanity," she replied, tapping the side of her cup with her index finger. "So, you stopped working together because of your differences on werewolves, then?" she asked, hoping Pulcheria would not recognize where the questions were leading.
Pulcheria shook her head. "No, no. It was part of it, but not the entire reason," she began and frowned. She motioned for Althea to lean closer and she did so. In a low voice she asked, "What are your thoughts on blood status?"
Althea's heart leapt forward as a large dose of adrenalin surged throughout her abdomen. "Blood status?" she replied thoughtfully, frowning as if she was carefully constructing her answer. "I do believe in the greater the wizard, the purer the bloodline…if that's what you mean," she explained in the same low tone.
Pulcheria smiled approvingly. "I thought so…very good answer," she replied, leaning back in her chair. "I knew I liked you. Remind me of myself."
I hope not. Althea noticed Pulcheria had become more comfortable in her speech and her manners were at ease.
"Obviously you have more intelligence than him. Only unions between pure wizards and witches will produce the strongest wizards and witches," she explained casually.
Althea feigned an appreciative smile and tightened her grip on the coffee mug handle.
"He, however, did not think as you do—obviously blinded by his own Mudblood status," she replied and raised her mug to her lips. "Merlin, how that disgusted me when I discovered."
Before or after you bedded him, she thought, you psychotic slag. Althea took a long, deep breath to calm herself from leaping across the table and strangling Pulcheria. She had to continue the lie. She had to see the Dark Mark. Althea feigned a thoughtful frown.
"Do you believe your research influenced You-Know-Who's popularity?" she asked quietly and bit her bottom lip.
A smile flickered across Pulcheria's face. "Ms. Derry, scientific research is separate from politics," she replied—her smile widening.
Really, Althea thought—her stomach churning at the self-satisfied smile of Pulcheria, then why would Voldemort want my father dead over some simple scientific research?
"So, are you still conducting this research?" she asked, briefly looking inside her coffee mug and then at Pulcheria.
"Oh no, no, my funding has been cut off," she answered sadly.
"How awful," Althea lamented, frowning.
Pulcheria sighed. "It is—this sort of thing must be researched; however, it is too much of a touchy subject now," she replied and looked inside her coffee mug. "Would you like more coffee?"
"Oh no, I'm fine, thank you," she replied, smiling as Pulcheria started to stand. Althea sighed and swirled the remaining coffee around the inside of her coffee mug. "Imagine if the Dark Lord had lived, your research could have continued," she added carefully and waited for Pulcheria's reaction—she could not have been more pleased.
"Yes," Pulcheria said absentmindedly and then gasped, realizing what she had said. "Oh, I didn't mean—"
Althea laughed to soothe Pulcheria's nerves. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," she began, slightly smiling, "as there were and are many supporters of him."
Pulcheria released her breath and laughed nervously.
"It was only the brave that truly followed him," she added and pointed to her own covered left forearm. Althea prayed Pulcheria would believe she had the Dark Mark.
Pulcheria's face softened and she smiled serenely. "Yes," she admitted and lifted her sleeve.
Althea saw the Dark Mark hideously imbedded into Pulcheria's flesh.
"It is still as dark as the day the Dark Lord gave it to me. Some have forced theirs to fade, but I will keep mine always," she explained, almost lovingly caressing the Dark Mark. She paused, sighed sadly, and picked up her coffee mug. "Now, I believe I do need more coffee."
Althea watched as Pulcheria walked toward the coffeepot. "So, what does your research have to do with Morrigan, then?" she asked and finished her coffee.
Pulcheria paused before she placed her coffee mug on the counter. "We were researching the same thing—blood status…except—except his research was resulting in some dire conclusions," she explained and tapped the glass coffeepot with her wand to warm the coffee.
"What sort of dire conclusions?"
"Conclusions that went against the truth of the research we were conducting," she answered and tapped the coffeepot with her wand again. "He would not be swayed to our way of thinking though."
Althea stood and walked toward the sink. "Yes, and ultimately he paid the price," she said and Pulcheria turned to face her. "His life, I mean. He was murdered…horrible what they did to those that murdered him," she added and sighed with feigned sadness. "Horrible."
"Oh indeed," she agreed, shaking her head and turned once more toward the counter. "Anyway, it must have been a surprise for that nasty daughter of his."
Althea inhaled sharply.
"His precious Althea," she said and made a noise of disgust.
My father would've shown her a photograph, wouldn't he, she thought, resting her trembling fingers upon the edge of the sink. She cursed herself—had Pulcheria known all along? She noticed Pulcheria had not washed her dishes from her lunch, and to her right, lying on the counter next to the sink was a long carving knife. It was an old knife with a few small chips of wood taken out of the handle, a small ring of rust encircled where the handle met the blade, but the blade was sharp. Althea wondered why a prolific writer wealthy from her works would own such an old knife. As she stared at the knife, she caught her breath, when the idea of thrusting the knife into Pulcheria's chest entered her mind. She killed your father. She would kill you, too.
"Muckblooded upstart, more like it," she remarked, pouring herself more coffee and jolting Althea from her murderous thoughts. "Flaunting her relationships with pure-blooded wizards—"
"Probably upset she wasn't one herself," Althea interrupted, her hand resting on the knife's handle.
What am I thinking? Stop touching the knife, Althea, she thought, quickly letting go of the knife's handle. To distract herself, she turned her head to see Pulcheria scooping sugar into her coffee mug.
"Oh no, it was more sinister," she said and frowned. "You weren't aware of the plan to infiltrate pure-blood families?"
Althea felt the blood in her veins chill. "I—I wasn't in England," she said quickly. "Ro—Romania, remember?"
"Ah yes," she said and nodded. "She was one of them, a little Muckblood whore, poised to lure pure-blooded wizards from their true path," she explained, adding a large scoop of sugar into her coffee mug.
"Terrible," Althea muttered—her face and neck prickling with warmth from her anger.
She grabbed the towel next to the knife and twisted it, imagining it was Pulcheria's neck. How much satisfaction would she derive from seeing Pulcheria flail and panic as Althea strangled her! This woman is completely insane, she thought, letting go of the twisted towel. She's waited for this moment, hasn't she? To expose me before she killed me. As Pulcheria continued to degrade Althea as some scheme thought up by Dumbledore to produce hoards of inferior wizards and witches, Althea's anger surfaced and she went to reach for her wand, but thought better of it. You wouldn't bloody think I'm inferior if I blast you across the room, she thought darkly, smoothing out the crumpled towel.
"You know, she dated a Black?" Pulcheria remarked and made some derisive grunt.
The mention of Sirius returned her interest and caused her stomach to sink.
"She flaunted that relationship as if she had won the greatest prize."
"I remember. All of us saw them together…shameful," she replied hollowly, her attention once more drawn to the knife.
No, I was his little joke, she thought, her hand sliding closer to the knife. He used me as his cover…no one would suspect Sirius while he was with me. Someone was feeding information to Voldemort from the Order over a year before Lily died. Who did he start a relationship with over a year before? Me. Oh how could I have been so stupid! Althea quickly retracted her hand once she realized her actions. No, she must not let Pulcheria unnerve her. What would be the use of killing her? Azkaban would be a greater, slower death for the woman that killed her father. Oh, but how she wished she could plunge the knife deep into Pulcheria's heart! To be able to look into her eyes and watch as the life left them; the last thought on Pulcheria's mind knowing that Althea Morrigan, the daughter of the man she betrayed, killed her.
"Thankfully, he saw his mistake and returned to us," she remarked and laughed. "She's probably still crying over him, no doubt. Wishing he would have killed her," she added and laughed louder. "I wish he would have though, so she could be where she belongs, with her Mudblood father."
Althea's hand tightened around the handle of the knife. How dare she say those things, she thought furiously, looking at her reflection in the knife's long blade. This woman had betrayed and had killed her father, and Althea conjectured that this woman might have murdered others as well. As Pulcheria continued to degrade Althea and her father, Althea wondered what would have happened if her father had been alive—if Pulcheria had not betrayed him, if she had not existed. Althea would not have almost killed herself, and Sirius would not have found her—she would not owe her life to him. She would not have seen the minute thread of goodness that surfaced that night—the goodness that wiped her tears and held her close at the news of her father's death. She would never have known of the goodness that attempted to protect her from reading about her father's death and wrote her foolish love letters. None of what occurred would have happened. Lily might be alive, James might be alive, Peter might be alive, and those twelve Muggles would be alive. Althea would be able to have children.
Out of her periphery, she saw Pulcheria reach into her robes. No! her mind screamed, and she lifted her hand that held the knife from the counter. In one swift movement, she swung Pulcheria to face her and plunged the knife deeply into Pulcheria's abdomen. Wide-eyed, Pulcheria gasped as Althea pressed the knife further and upward as Pulcheria's legs buckled. Quickly, she pulled the knife from Pulcheria's abdomen and stepped backward as Pulcheria fell to the ground. Althea whimpered. Her body began to shake. Looking from the woman bleeding on the tile floor to her bloody hands, Althea dropped the knife—it hitting the floor with a muffled sound as blood spattered from the knife blade.
"Oh my God," she whispered, fighting the overwhelming urge to vomit. "What have I done?"
Wide-eyed, Althea looked from the dying woman to her own bloody hands. The blood was warm and coated her hands like an oozing film. What should she do? She cannot let this woman bleed to death, but it would surely mean Azkaban for Althea. Her eyes darting around the room, Althea attempted to think of a plan. Should she clean the kitchen and dispose of the body? But where would she dispose it? She would be seen! She did not intend to kill her—it was an accident. She was not thinking—it happened so quickly—so quickly. What would she tell the authorities? Pulcheria ran into the knife? No, the authorities would not believe that scenario. Self-defense? Yes, it was self-defense, or rather self-preservation. Pulcheria had betrayed and had killed her father and she was indirectly responsible for Lily's death. How many others had this woman betrayed and killed? No, this was self-defense, and Althea bent to pick up the knife. She did not know how to dispose of a body, but she could dispose of the knife. Slipping the knife into her robe pocket, she realized she would not be able to leave the flat undetected. She could not walk out the flat door—she would be seen and once someone found the body, she would be arrested. She had to find another way.
Looking at the palms of her bloodstained hands, her eyes traveled to her wrist, to the tattoo that reminded her of what she was—what she was able to do. Wiping her hand on her robe, she opened the window and looked out—the street was empty and her escape would go undetected. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, her body became rigid as she waited to transform. Slowly she felt her body grow smaller and lighter. God forgive me, she thought, hopping up onto the window ledge.
The water in the bath had cooled and her teeth began to chatter as she sat in her bathtub. Althea looked at the knife that rested against her bare abdomen. It was clean now, not even the rust that encircled where the handle met the blade was left. She was a murderess. She had gone to Pulcheria Oswin's flat with every intention of sending her to Azkaban, but now Althea would be the one sent to Azkaban. Althea inhaled through her nostrils and repeated the mantra she had been telling herself since she arrived at her cottage—it was self-defense.
Pulcheria had caused enormous pain and suffering. She had betrayed, had murdered, had separated families, and had propagated abhorrent lies about werewolves and vampires. She wanted to exterminate all werewolves. She wanted to kill Remus, and Althea could not have that. Pulcheria was a follower of Voldemort and followers of Voldemort never exhibited mercy. So why should Althea toward them? Furthermore, she was still an ardent supporter of Voldemort. How many more people could Pulcheria have killed? If she thought, there was a chance that Voldemort could return, who knew what she could be capable of—Althea had done Wizarding Britain a service by ridding the streets of a dangerous criminal.
Her mind shifted to other dangerous criminals captured and sent to Azkaban after the fall of Voldemort. Her mind came to the most notorious case—the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom. What if someone had killed the four before they could have tortured Longbottoms? The Longbottoms would still be sane and happily raising their son—possibly adding to their family. Now that little boy was robbed of any brothers or sisters he might have had. Who knows how much longer the torture and the murder by former Death Eaters would continue? She was right in what she did. Members of the Order had killed, and the Ministry had authorized the Aurors to kill, too. Sometimes death was necessary.
After hiding the knife in the cupboard underneath her sink, she Apparated to Northfield and entered her bedroom. Pulling the sheets back, she slipped underneath and closed her eyes. She would dispose of the knife the next day and attempt to forget about the murder. Maybe Remus would enjoy some company in the Amazon.
"Mummy! How could you? How could you abandon me?" Prudence shouted—her face red with tears.
Althea gasped and covered her mouth. Prudence had every right to say those hurtful things. "I—I didn't abandon you. I love you," she whispered, resting her hands on Prudence's shoulders.
Prudence shrugged her shoulders and stepped backward. "You did…you abandoned me," she replied and covered her face with her hands.
"No, I love you. I had to save you. I love you," she whispered tenderly.
Prudence continued to shake as she lowered her hands. "Oh, mummy!" she laughed and Althea became puzzled as Prudence continued to laugh. "If you loved me you would have let daddy's mummy take me! I'm more like him everyday."
"NO!" Althea screamed and lunged at her daughter.
"Oh, mummy!" Prudence laughed as Althea strangled her….
Althea awoke, panting, and wildly scanned her room. Resting her head against her knees, she began to sob. How could she dream of killing her own daughter? As she continued to sob, an owl flew into her bedroom and dropped the Daily Prophet on top of her head. Hoping it would bring her relief from her nightmare, she wiped her eyes and opened the paper to the front page.
"They found her," she whispered in shock—her body quickly becoming numb.
The Ministry would come for her and she would be sentenced to Azkaban for the rest of her life or worse. Althea shivered at the thought of The Kiss. Swallowing a difficult breath, she began to read the article:
Pulcheria Oswin, the well respected author of such books as Wanton Werewolves and Vicious Vampires, was found dead in her flat by a neighbor late yesterday evening. As of release, the circumstances of her death are vague, but the Ministry assured us that her death was indeed murder. The question to ask next is: Who would want to murder Pulcheria Oswin? The answer to that question was written in her own blood. It seems that Miss Oswin was not dead, or perhaps the murderer had left his signature to tell us of the deed. Written in her own blood was the name of Kelly Derry. Who is this Kelly Derry? No other description was left and we are left to wonder is Kelly Derry a man or a woman?
"I don't believe this," she breathed as she continued to read:
After a thorough search of her residence, it seems that Pulcheria Oswin was in league with You-Know-Who. Through documents and other artifacts collected, the Ministry believes Miss Oswin was still tirelessly working for You-Know-Who. Bartemius Crouch Sr., upon interview, believed that Kelly Derry was making the job of the Ministry in capturing followers easier. This makes the author of this article wonder; will this be the first of You-Know-Who follower murders? Be warned followers of You-Know-Who, you are not safe and would rather suffer the fate of convicted followers than the fate of Pulcheria Oswin—murdered in a most Muggle way….
Althea sighed with relief as she finished the article. The murder would likely go unsolved and Althea would be safe. The Daily Prophet and those in the Ministry were actually praising her for what she had done—as if they were almost coaxing her, or challenging her to take up the fight to eradicate Voldemort's supporters. She was not a murderess. She was a heroine.
