Lily's arm was getting tired. For being an unformed spiritous apparition that fed only on the fears of mortals, the Boggart was surprisingly heavy. Seizing the suitcase had seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time, but now she was regretting it. What was she supposed to do with the rotten thing? She supposed she ought to open the suitcase up and finish the Boggart off herself, but something made her resist this idea. Perhaps it was the memory of the Death Eater rising up out of nothing, wand pointed at her heart…

There'd been an article about Death Eaters in the newspaper just this week. Though Harmonia Lufkin's assassination had been attributed to the so-called Muggle Rights activist Samuel Cornfoot, the incident had briefly brought the Death Eaters to the forefront of Wizarding consciousness. That, and another string of grisly Muggle murders in Slough had warranted a front page piece on the mysterious group of Dark wizards…with their skull-like masks and their militant hatred of people like Lily…

After some consideration, she decided to take the Boggart to Professor Dearborn. He was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, after all. He could dispose of it properly.

Having resolved her most immediate problem, Lily's thoughts returned unhappily to the scene in the corridor she'd just left. She must've looked so stupid. She knew the spell to ward off a Boggart, but she hadn't even gone for her wand. She'd just stood there like an idiot, staring at the fake Death Eater, until James Potter of all people had had to step in. She briefly wondered why he was afraid of a woman in green robes, but her curiosity was quickly quelled by a burst of anger.

Potter. It was all his fault. She bet he and Black thought that was awfully funny, the Muggle-born who couldn't even handle a Boggart. How could she have ever thought she fancied someone like him? How could she have ever even entertained the notion?

Just as she was fully indulging in this comforting wave of loathing, a body turned the corner like a shot and barreled right into her, knocking her to the ground. Lily let out a small cry of surprise as her bag tipped from her arm and spilled a constellation of quill-ends and parchment sheafs along the flagged stone floor. The suitcase went skidding into a wall, but mercifully, it remained shut.

"Oh god! Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry."

"S'all right," sighed Lily, slightly winded as she pushed herself up, her hair tangled about her face. "I wasn't watching where I was going either."

"I can be a damned oaf sometimes," said the boy who had knocked her down. He knelt beside her to gather her scattered belongings. "Just barging around like a great lout."

"Really, it's —" She brushed her hair out of her eyes to take a proper look at her accidental assailant and once again felt the breath knocked out of her. He was gorgeous. Tall and fit, with a swoop of barley-colored hair, sharp cheekbones, dark lashes, and eyes like the ocean. To put it simply, he was...

"—fine. It's fine!" she amended hastily. "I'm fine."

"You must think I'm a complete brute, knocking you down like that," the handsome boy went on, oblivious to Lily's temporary mental glitch as he continued to gather her spilled belongings. He was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place him. "I can't apologize enough. Only I'm late for Quidditch practice — again. Phin said he'd hex me if I was late one more time, and I don't think he was bluffing." He laughed as though Lily was in on the joke. "Lily, isn't it?"

"What?"

"From the Slug Club?"

And Lily suddenly realized where she'd seen him before. He was the handsome boy who had smiled at her when she'd arrived late. How could she have forgotten a face so pretty?

"Right! Of course. Sorry, the context was missing…Oh, just leave them," she said, as he attempted to organize the haphazard mess of parchments. "Really, don't bother—"

But he stacked them up in a neat little pile nonetheless.

He stood and offered her a hand up, which she accepted, understanding for the first time what people meant when they spoke of butterflies in their stomach. Except this was a whole migration of monarchs.

"I'm Anson. Anson Nott."

"Lily," said Lily, stupidly.

Anson grinned.

"Right." Lily shook her head, embarrassed. "You knew that already. Nice to meet you. Again. So — er — you play Quidditch, do you?"

"Seeker on the Ravenclaw Team. You?"

"Oh, god no. I mean—" Why was she the most awkward human ever to walk the earth? "I like Quidditch — I love Quidditch. I'm just…not very coordinated. As you might've noticed by my knocking everything to the floor…"

"As I recall that was definitely my fault." He glanced back towards the corner he'd come around as he said this and noticed the suitcase lying haphazardly against the wall. Before she could protest, he dashed to pick it up. "Here's your — er — suitcase?"

The Boggart gave a thump. Anson stared at it in bemusement.

Lily laughed uncomfortably. It was incredible how James Potter could embarrass her even when he was nowhere in sight. "It's — ah — it's a Boggart."

"A Boggart? Really?"

Thus, for lack of a better idea, Lily explained the situation. She left out the bit with the Death Eater, though. "So I'm taking it to Professor Dearborn," she concluded. "That's where I'm headed now."

"Blimey," said Anson, and he laughed. And Lily laughed too because in this new, happy light cast by Anson Nott's gorgeous smile, the whole thing seemed terribly funny. "Well, I guess I better let you get on your way then," he said. "And I've got to run myself…which is what I was doing…which is why I knocked you down…but it was very nice to run into you, Lily Evans. Figuratively."

"You too," said Lily. "Literally."

He grinned. "I'll see you at Slughorn's next dinner?"

"Definitely."

Lily had nearly forgotten the whole point of her expedition, basking as she was in the warm glow of that pleasant interlude, but the Boggart in the suitcase gave a furious thump, and she was brought back to earth. She sighed, scooped up the handle of the suitcase, and continued on her way to Professor Dearborn's office.

She was afraid he might not be in, but thankfully his door hung slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the stone floor of the hall. She knocked and the door creaked open half-an-inch more. Dearborn didn't seem to notice her. He was hunched at his desk, head in his hands. Spread out before him was a large collection of Daily Prophets.

"Excuse me, Professor Dearborn?"

Dearborn looked up with a small start at his name. "Miss Evans," he said in a tone of mild surprise. "Do come in."

She pushed through the door and stepped into the office. It was as bare as his classroom, empty-walled and projecting that special sort of dreariness the sparsely-decorated room implied: the stagnant sense of impermanence, of one who never bothered to unpack a suitcase for too long. He hadn't even bothered to put all his books on the shelves; they hung around the room in tottering clusters, gathering dust or propped open haphazardly to some forgotten page. On one of the piles, another copy of the Daily Prophet slumped open, and though she was too far away to read the text, she recognized the photograph, the one that had haunted her all week: dark-hooded men with gleaming white masks, skull-like and empty-eyed…

"Running away from school, are we?"

"What?" Lily looked up from the newspaper. Professor Dearborn was eyeing her with faint bemusement. Only when the suitcase in her hand gave a little shiver did she realize what he meant. "Oh — no," she laughed. "No, not at all. This is why I came to see you, actually. It's a Boggart." And for the second time that evening, she explained the situation.

Dearborn looked amused, if a bit tired. "Yes, I can take care of it." He beckoned her further into the office. "Lucky Filch. You spared him quite a shock."

"They wouldn't have gotten in, anyway. His door was magically locked. I thought they'd probably dump it in the first year's dormitory."

"That would've been most unfortunate indeed."

"It's thoughtless," said Lily, her frustration with the boys bubbling up again. "Their idea of a clever Halloween prank, I suppose. Those boys think they're being funny, but people have enough to be frightened of these days. They don't need help."

"You're not wrong about that," said Dearborn. He smiled as he took the suitcase from her and hauled it onto the desk. "Nasty little buggers, Boggarts. But great for the armchair psychologist. Have you ever met one?"

"An armchair psychologist?"

Another smile. "A Boggart."

"We studied them third year."

"A practical lesson?"

"No, just textbook." She hesitated, then added, "But I saw this one. Tonight. It — well, it turned into a Death Eater."

Dearborn, who had been examining the lock on the suitcase, looked up at her slowly. "Smart girl." There was a pause. "You're Muggle-born, aren't you, Lily?"

Lily felt her cheeks flush, but she met his gaze with something like defiance. "Is it obvious?"

"Well, you're one of the few students who takes my class seriously, for more than just an O.W.L. It's a subtle difference, but I can tell. But then again, I know what to look for. I'm Muggle-born myself, you see."

"You are?" Lily had never had a Muggle-born professor before. In fact, she'd never met a Muggle-born adult, unless you counted a brief handshake with Mary Macdonald's father at King's Cross several years ago.

"Oh, yes," said Dearborn. "My father was quite disappointed when I got the letter. I was supposed to follow in his footsteps, you see. Go to Eton, go to Oxford, become a Member of Parliament. Needless to say, I followed a different path."

"Did he come around, your dad?"

"We haven't spoken in years," said Dearborn lightly. He drummed his fingers on the suitcase and the Boggart gave an angry thump in return. "You know, I think I'll deal with this in the morning. It's getting late."

As he lifted the suitcase to stow it safely under the desk, a flurry of newsprint fluttered to the ground. Lily leaned down to pick it up and felt a dousing shock at the photograph on the front of the Evening Prophet: It was the curly-haired man from Diagon Alley that she'd seen making that speech all those months ago. She almost didn't recognize him…if his face hadn't been haunting the corners of her thoughts for months, she probably wouldn't have. He looked as though he'd seen a lifetime of despair since that day in Diagon Alley. His once soft features were wrought with misery, his round cheeks diminished to shadowy caverns. There were dark smears of some brown substance along his chin, the sight of which made Lily feel rather nauseous, and the eyes that bore out of the photograph might as well have belonged to a cadaver.

The headline read: CORNFOOT CONDEMNED FOR MURDER OF MINISTRY OFFICIAL.

"That's Samuel Cornfoot? The man who murdered Harmonia Lufkin?"

Dearborn looked down at the news clipping in her hand. "Yes," he said dispassionately. "He's been in the news quite a bit recently. That's the first photograph they've released though. Not a nice one. Rita Skeeter is very proud of herself, I'm sure."

"But I know him!"

"What?" said Dearborn rather sharply.

"I mean — not personally," she clarified, discomfited by the intensity of her teacher's reaction. "We've never met, but I saw him in Diagon Alley this summer. He was giving some sort of speech about Muggle rights and employment and…stuff."

She hadn't exactly caught the finer details of the speech; by the time she'd arrived, the crowd had devolved to something resembling a mob.

"That sounds like Sam," said Dearborn softly. "The old fool."

"You know him?"

Dearborn frowned. For a moment Lily thought he was going to refuse to answer her, but then he just sighed. "We were at school together. Book-smart boy but not a Knut of common sense."

"But—" Lily struggled. The news that Harmonia Lufkin's murderer had been associated with a radical Muggle rights group — rather than Death Eaters as originally assumed — had been sensational at first, but interest had quickly petered off. As far as the general population was concerned, it was horrible what happened to Lufkin, of course, but ultimately unsurprising. Everyone knew you couldn't trust Muggles.

Lily had swallowed all this with a quiet, lonely rage, the snuffing of a candle that refused to stop burning. And now — seeing the face of this man, a man Lily herself had heard arguing in defense of Muggles…to think that this man had murdered the Ministry official responsible for the most Muggle-friendly legislation in recent history…it was wrong. Something was deeply wrong.

"It doesn't make any sense," she concluded.

Dearborn observed her calmly, as though she had merely raised her hand to ask a question in class. "Why not?"

"Because I saw him! I heard him. He's pro-Muggle. And hadn't Lufkin just proposed the Muggle protection legislation? Why would Cornfoot give a speech on Muggle rights one day, then go out and murder a supportive Ministry official the next?"

"Maybe he thought her legislation wasn't radical enough," said Dearborn, echoing the common refrain of the newspapers.

"Oh, that's bollocks," said Lily, forgetting herself. "Er — sorry, sir."

A smile. "Not at all."

"It just — it doesn't make any sense."

"On the contrary. It makes agonizingly perfect sense, only you're looking at it through the wrong lens."

"You really think he killed her?"

"I'm quite certain he did."

"I don't understand."

"I never said he did it of his own free will."

Lily stared at her professor, eyes wide as the meaning of his words hit her like a bucket of icy water. Dearborn sighed and dropped himself into the groaning leather chair behind his desk. He gestured for her to take a seat as well and she did so, setting the news clipping carefully back on his desk, not wishing to stare at Samuel Cornfoot's ruined face any longer.

Professor Dearborn rummaged around in his desk drawer for something, then seemed to think better of it. Another sigh. "It's just the sort of thing the Death Eaters would find amusing. Take an adamant pro-Muggle activist, force him to commit atrocities, and leave him with the memories. Azkaban is a pretty effective way to silence someone."

"You think he was Imperiused?"

Dearborn gave her an appraising look. "You know about the Unforgivables, do you? The school governors assured me I was barred from teaching those before sixth year."

"I read," said Lily simply, and Dearborn almost grinned.

"Yes, I think he was Imperiused."

"By Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

It was refreshing — if discomfiting — this level of honesty from a professor. No dodging or softening blows. Just reality, no matter how awful it was. That wasn't something one got a lot of at Hogwarts. Everyone was always too busy pretending everything was fine.

"But why him?" prodded Lily. Now that someone was at last answering her questions, it was difficult to stop asking them. "I thought it was just Muggle-borns the Death Eaters hated. Cornfoot is pure-blood, isn't he?"

"Precisely. He's far more dangerous. You see, it's very easy for the magical community to dismiss noisy Muggle-borns as mere trouble-makers. But a good pure-blood boy from a sacred twenty-eight family? Why, someone just might listen to him."

There was a quiet but palpable fury in Dearborn's voice that Lily found unsettling. Though he maintained the even and pleasant demeanor he always seemed to have painted across his features, his nostrils flared ever so slightly as he spoke; his jaw was set.

"When Cornfoot aligned himself with a so-called radical Muggle Rights group, he became what pure-blood supremacists call a 'blood traitor.' It was only a matter of time before they went after him. Now, pure-blood supremacists have been trying to purge the Ministry of undesirables since Nobby Leach resigned. He was the first Muggle-born Minister for Magic, you know. Before your time. Under his administration, a lot of progressive policies were put in place, a lot of Muggle-borns and Muggle-friendly officials were hired.

"Then came the inevitable backlash. Leach was ousted. 'Mystery illness,' my arse. If he wasn't blackmailed or hexed out of office by one of those pure-blood bigwigs, I'll eat my wand. And now they're trying to clean house."

Lily listened to every word of this history lesson with faint horror and fascination. History of Magic rarely covered anything more recent than the 18th century. She had known vaguely that there had been a Muggle-born Minister for Magic, but little beyond that.

"When you think about it," Dearborn continued, "the assassination was a stroke of political genius. Talk about killing two birds with one stone: They assassinate a popular Muggle-friendly politician, frame the radical blood traitor for her murder, and use the incident to scapegoat the entire Muggle-born community in the process. Hell, forget two birds. They slaughtered the whole flock."

"Then how can the Wizengamot convict him?" protested Lily, leaning forward earnestly in her chair. "Surely they know Cornfoot was a pawn."

"He confessed."

"Yes, but if he was Imperiused—"

Dearborn gave her an almost pitying look. "They don't care. The Ministry wants this mess tidied up quickly. It makes them look bad. I daresay Sam might've gotten a fair trial if they'd been allowed time…but Rita Skeeter's little scoop got everyone all riled up. The public wants punishment, and it's far easier to hand them the Muggle Rights activist who confessed to the crime than it is to do an actual investigation — the result of which would be far less satisfying to print in the papers."

"But it's wrong."

"Yes," said Dearborn simply. His gaze drifted momentarily to the news clippings on the desk, and something unspeakable, something wounded, flittered across his face as his eyes landed on the one with the photograph of Samuel Cornfoot and his haunted gaze. Then, without comment, he flipped the photograph over, and his expression returned to neutral, pleasant, empty. "It is."