The Prewetts received the transmission a few hours before dawn. Fabian's shout awoke Peter, who rolled off the sofa and landed hard on the parlor floor. He scrambled into the corridor and nearly collided with Lily as they rushed to pull on clothes and coats. Gideon wrote down the particulars on a notepad next to the crackling wireless.

James emerged from his room, a silver hand mirror held out before him. "Yes, this is for real, Padfoot. Now get the hell up and meet us over—where are we going, Gid?—place called Uxbridge North, far west London. Just be there!"

They stumbled out the door and Apparated in shifts from the porch. Peter squeezed through space and, before he knew it, he found himself shivering in an alley between two dark brick walls. He followed James and Lily out into the large town square. The rattle of a rubbish bin echoed across the space; Peter turned sharply, eyes darting. Probably just a cat.

Curved, shallow steps descended from a platform in the center of the square, expanding to the outer buildings like ripples; before them, the long ribbon of the high street unfolded into darkness. A green bus rumbled through the square—a lone driver was just visible through the clouded glass of the door—and disappeared down another street. It had rained recently; the pavement reflected the streetlights as indistinct splashes of glistening white that moved with them as they crossed the square.

Two more pops from the same alley signaled the arrival of the Prewett twins.

A dark, glimmering shape lingered on the other side of the square: it was Alastor Moody. He was wrapped in a black coat that was slick with rain, a broom propped against his shoulder. His hair was windblown and crackled with static; he had flown high and fast through the storm to meet them.

They met at the corner, where Moody nodded in greeting. "Thank you for getting here so quickly." He ran his eyes over the five of them, counting in his head. "It's through there." He pointed down a dark street behind him.

They hurried into the chill night, hands darting into pockets or sleeves to feel for their wands.

Moody got ahead of them and walked backwards, his strides surprisingly long and graceful. "I know you can't really do much, but you can learn. Remember, this is an official investigation, so don't touch anything. I've told the others you're some trainees in your first year of the Auror program. Usually I keep trainees on surveillance—nice and boring and safe—but I've made them think I've had a change of heart—" He said this in a mocking tone. "—and want to give you some hands-on experience. Bah. The point is, you need to see this to get a good idea of what we're up against."

He stopped abruptly; the other five stumbled to a halt to avoid crashing into him. Moody exhaled heavily and pursed his lips. "It's important that you understand that werewolves aren't neutral in this fight."

Peter's brain fizzed with confusion and his mouth went dry.

Just as suddenly as he'd stopped, Moody turned on his heel and set off again. The others followed, more slowly. Lily reached out and pulled Gideon by the shoulder. "Gid, what exactly happened?"

He looked suddenly uncomfortable, but he didn't break his stride. "You know all those missing kids?"

"Yes…"

"It's one of those, except…more."

A tight circle of people had already gathered under a streetlight on the corner, obscuring whatever lay on the pavement. Just outside the streetlight's beam, two witches in Ministry robes were questioning a man in jogging gear. A girl with smeared eyeliner and her scruffy boyfriend were huddled together in horror a few yards away. Nearby, Moody knelt with a young wizard who was digging through a supply bag.

Over the heads and between the bodies of onlookers, Peter caught glimpses of two more Ministry workers; one had a camera and the other was checking a device that looked like a cross between a magnifying glass and a pinwheel—a series of differently-sized lenses whirred and retracted.

Fabian broke into the circle first. "Merlin," he whispered, and made the sign of the cross.

Dread clenched a slow fist in Peter's gut. He edged around Fabian and peered down at the pavement.

It was the body of a middle-aged witch; her throat and chest were slashed into a pulpy mess of blood and tissue. Her eyes were open. The blood was beginning to congeal in pools on the pavement, drying black on the green jacket the woman wore. The tangled wreckage of a blue baby carriage was beside her, but there was no baby.

Peter was transfixed by the sight. He was still fuzzy from sleep—the first peaceful sleep he'd had in ages—and the jolt of adrenaline was making him feel hollow and jittery. He could smell blood and urine; the metallic scent mingled with the sharp and turned his stomach.

He jumped when he heard the rev of a motorbike behind him. Sirius rumbled over the pavement and parked his bike on the opposite sidewalk. A few Ministry workers craned their necks and frowned at the noise; one pretty young witch hid a smile behind her clipboard. Sirius jogged over, grinning, excited that there was an actual scene to investigate.

"What did I miss—Oh Christ." His eyes dimmed. "What—what happened?"

Moody appeared between them, voice grumbling low in their ears. "A werewolf."

Moody's heavy hand weighed down on Peter's shoulder; it was warm, and he was thankful for the touch. It grounded him: he wasn't alone and he wasn't dreaming, even if it meant that the bloody body on the dark street was real, too.

"Like I said," Moody grunted. "We all need to understand we're up against. Especially you two and Potter. We can discuss the…finer points when the body's all cleaned up."

Moody squeezed his shoulder once before moving between them to squat next to the photographer.

Remus, Sirius mouthed.

Peter just shrugged. James drew in to fill the space that Moody had left between them.

Remus's absence had been weighing on all of their minds, particularly the mystery of how he had been surviving the full moons. Had he found a place to shackle himself down? A place far from humans and potential murder? It couldn't have been him.

The cluster of officials was starting to disperse. A few had Apparated away, samples in hand. Lily whispered with Gideon as he took notes on the pad he'd brought from the house. Fabian stood off to the side, staring blankly at the woman's body. He looked like he was asleep on his feet, and no wonder; there was only so much adrenaline could do at four in the morning.

Just beyond the circle of light illuminating the corpse, the witches who had questioned the jogger drew their wands. The first extracted a memory from him; the bluish strand separated from his head like a snipped string. Once the memory had been stored in a vial and replaced in an inner pocket, the other Obliviated him. He ran dreamily back towards the town center and disappeared. They did the same to the young couple and sent them stumbling off into a side street. The witches watched them go, then drew a wide circle around the scene with their wands. They mumbled protective spells; wards to keep any first-shift muggle visitors from getting curious.

When the circle was closed, the witches drew closer to the body; Moody thanked the photographer and stood to greet them.

"Tragedy," the first, who seemed to be the one in charge, said in a drawling, tired voice. "Her first kid. She'd been trying for years. Just wanted to take him for a pop round the block when he couldn't sleep."

Moody shook his head. "Terrible. Someone from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures should be here soon. To examine the rest.

Sure enough, a few minutes later a thin, grey-haired man popped into their midst. He looked exhausted—pale, with dark rings under his eyes. "Auror Moody?" His voice was gentle, bordering on wary.

"That's me. Are you the bloke from the DRMC?"

"Yes. Lyall Lupin. I'm the consulting specialist. Pleased to meet you."

Moody peered at Mr. Lupin's face for a long moment—perhaps a beat too long—and nodded. Peter shared a wide-eyed look with James and Sirius. They had never met Remus's father, although they had heard plenty about him.

Mr. Lupin removed a small memo pad and quill from his pocket. "Let's have a look, shall we? I'll need to get copies of whatever photos you've taken, and I'll be taking a few samples for testing—"

"I need a bloody cigarette," Sirius moaned, slouching off to lean against a brick building and light one up. James followed.

There was another pop behind Peter. He did not turn to look—he expected transport would be coming to take the body away to a morgue somewhere. It made him feel ill. Peter wondered miserably if the mother had known that her child was going to be stolen by whatever—whoever—attacked her. Had the baby been snatched and the mother fought back, resulting in her grisly death? Would it have mattered—would the werewolf have spared her—even if she didn't resist?

Peter thought of his own mother, of what it would be like to find her petite, brittle body like this, knowing that she had been helpless and he had been unable to protect her.

"Good God," a new voice said. It was bright, and far more cheerful than Peter would have expected. "When they said massacre they meant it."

The speaker was a young man a few years older than Peter and incredibly sharp-featured: pointed nose, pointed chin, pointed pencil stuck behind one ear. His light-blond mustache curved down, its soft fullness contrasting with the angles of his face. He was carrying a notepad like the other workers, but he was wearing a neatly-pressed mackintosh instead of Ministry robes.

"Have a little respect," Peter muttered, hating how small his voice sounded.

The man seemed to see Peter for the first time. "Sorry," his mouth spread into a barely-apologetic grin. Without a second look he strode away towards the witches who had questioned the jogger.

Peter was, admittedly, stunned by the man's unflappability: even when Moody strode up and hovered imposingly, the blond just smiled and held out a hand. Moody, however, was not as eager to make the acquaintance. He stared wordlessly at the outstretched hand for a few seconds before looking up to glare into the man's eyes. The man retracted his hand smoothly and went on talking as if there was nothing amiss. His smile faltered only slightly.

A moment later, Moody's beady eyes bulged. He leaned forward, brandishing his wand and threatening loudly to turn the mustachioed man into a monkey. "—Curious and foolhardy, like you!" Moody bellowed.

The blond darted under Moody's arm and ran back towards Peter, mackintosh flapping. "Bloody hell," he gasped, tugging his lapels back into place, pencil still clutched in his fist. "Not a friendly bloke, is he?"

Peter shrugged. "He can be like that." Moody was still glaring towards them, wand held tightly in his thick fingers. Peter raised a hand and, after a moment's pause, Moody gestured back: a 'good riddance' sort of motion. The auror turned and walked back to the body.

The blond man's light grey eyes—as sharp as the rest of him—flicked over Peter, assessing him. "You work with him? I'm sorry to hear that. I'm Barny." He held out his hand and Peter shook it.

The hand was dry and papery in Peter's sweaty one. "I'm Peter."

"Pretty terrible, eh?" Barny jerked a thumb at the mangled body. "I've never seen a werewolf attack this brutal." He scanned the small street, then turned back to meet Peter's eyes. "Have you been here long?"

Peter puffed up slightly; he was not a Ministry worker or an Auror, but he felt rather pleased that this man (apparently some kind of werewolf enthusiast—very odd, but it was not unheard of) was treating him as an authority on the scene. So pleased he promptly forgot that Barny had sought Moody out for the information in the first place. "Well, yeah. One of the first on the scene. Very nasty—the baby was her first and only. Apparently she'd been trying for a long time." Peter adopted a relaxed sort of stance that he'd seen Sirius do once or twice. "Quite bloody. Lots of dark magic attacks in general, lately."

Barny gave him a sidelong glance. "Very bloody. Usually the victims don't usually have a mark on them. So I've heard, anyway."

Peter thought of the cases he'd seen in the Daily Prophet over the past few months; they reported on the attacks and murders as much as they ever did, but now references to Voldemort and the Death Eaters were growing less and less frequent, obscured by rhetoric and misdirection. "The papers haven't been reporting on them much, have they?"

"On the Killing Curses?"

"The people casting them."

"Oh, that. Apparently there's some kind of gang. It's not that uncommon." He didn't sound entirely convinced, but he didn't sound concerned, either.

"Is it? It's…funny that the important stories are the ones getting overlooked."

"It's a dirty business, but a business all the same. A bit disgusting, I always thought."

Peter could feel cold fear and frustration simmering in his gut. People were dying and going missing—and not the ink-and-paper people he only read about. The bloodied, vacant-eyed evidence was right in front if him. How long until it was someone he knew? Someone he was friends with?

"You'd think the reporters would want to shed real light on these events. Get the truth out there."

Barny shrugged. "It's not that they don't want to, mate—at least, the right kind of reporters do. But they have to write the stories they get assigned by the head honchos, and no more. And the head honchos have people even higher up to report to." He winked.

"How do you know that?"

"Sad to say, I'm intimately involved in the process." He held up his pencil. "I write for the Prophet."

Peter glanced over his shoulder automatically. Not a werewolf-fancier, after all. He was not sure what to say. It was rare that he was without one of his friends, who were generally much quicker with witty one-liners and retaliatory spells than he was.

James, Lily, and Sirius were still chatting against the brick wall, but Marlene and the twins were nowhere to be seen. Had they headed back to the house? Were the other three waiting for him? He sneaked a glance at Barny.

"Didn't mean to surprise you like that," Barny smirked. "Not a fan of reporters, eh? Can't blame you. We're a bunch of right bastards."

Flustered, Peter tried going on the offensive. "That doesn't sound very journalistic, the whole 'only-sticking-with-what-you're-assigned' thing. Aren't you lot supposed to be digging through rubbish bins and watching at keyholes for any story you can get?"

The blond mustache stretched in a grin. "In less newsworthy times. With all the rumors flying about these days, we can only trust the proper sources. The proper organizations."

It would be good for the Order to have an ally in the press.

The thought revealed itself with a flourish that left Peter momentarily off-balance. Once he regained his bearings, he considered the effects of allying with Barny, with one of "the right kind"; one who hoped to uncover the truth of the disturbing disappearances and spectral skulls hovering above the ever-growing list of victims.

But if the Ministry—or pureblood families—were leaning on the Prophet, bribing them to bury leads or misdirect their readers, someone had to be the one to get the real story out there. And if the Prophet was burying leads, they had to be sitting on information that would be very valuable to the Order…

Why not me?

Peter's brain brimmed with potential. He could point Barny in the right direction. His information could shed some light on the true motivations—and identities—of the Death Eaters and Voldemort. The kind of information that couldn't be ignored, that the papers would pick up on. Perhaps the new headlines would prompt proper investigations and force the Death Eaters' hand. The actual authorities could regain control, and the Order would be released from months of secrecy, danger, and responsibility. The perpetrators would be caught, tried, and arrested, and Peter and his friends would be free to live their lives without fear of death or overthrow—

"What makes a proper source?" He said it as casually as he could, but Peter had never been good at feigning disinterest.

Barny studied him for a moment. He was still smiling. "Generally it means that we've used you before, or that you're a Ministry official, or part of some recognized interest group. Naturally anyone personally involved in a story—you know, witnesses. Official paperwork, of course. Just got to make sure the information checks out." He tipped his head. "Usually."

Peter barely heard him; his mind was racing. Would Barny even want to help? "Do you care about the Death Eater story?" He felt his skin pricking, his very blood pulsing under it.

"Death Eaters, hm? That would depend on what information a potential source might have for me." Barny chewed his pencil eraser thoughtfully, eyes alight with interest.

Peter thought of all of the suspects that James had encountered since he had volunteered to tail the Minister. He had collected many names, despite the fact that he'd only been on the job for about ten days.

Lucius Malfoy, Enoch Rosier, a bloke with a Slavic name—Igor something. Someone called Travers. All purebloods. Usually wealthy ones.

All of Peter's earlier exhaustion had evaporated; every cell was singing. He felt alert and strong and useful. For months, he had been torn between his fear and his creeping jealousy; between his instinct to stay on the sidelines and the twinge of resentment at being passed over when it came time to assign missions. This opportunity eclipsed the first and eradicated the second; he could be useful on his own terms. Wars weren't always won with wands.

He could help them. Maybe he didn't have familial connections or bravado like Sirius, or bravery and a Cloak like James, but he could do this. Information was power, and if he could trade in it, perhaps he could see some of their adversaries behind bars. His insides started to fizz and prickle once more.

"What's in it for…the source?"

Barny smiled.

A loud pop interrupted them: Dumbledore had arrived and headed for Moody and Mr. Lupin.

"Well, well," Barny raised his eyebrows, looking curiously at the three old wizards. "Dumbledore?" He twitched his glance over to James, Sirius, and Lily, then back to Peter. Peter could see the wheels turning in Barny's head. He tried to edge away, but Barny had gripped his shoulder firmly. "Not so fast. I think we both know you're in league with Dumbledore's little rebel club." He didn't sound particularly surprised. In fact, he looked as though couldn't believe his luck.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter tried. That never sounded very convincing, and this time was no exception.

"Right," Barny deadpanned. "I'm sure a bunch of non-Ministry wizards are gathered about a crime scene in a mostly-muggle town at four AM on a weeknight for fun."

Peter did not reply. He turned his gaze to the sky, which was lightening from black to inky blue.

"But I'm not bothered," the reporter shrugged, removing the pencil from behind his ear and poising it over the pad. "Do what you want. I'm just here to investigate a grisly murder and a heart-wrenching kidnapping. If I happen to get another lead, perhaps involving Death Eaters, well, that saves me a trip to the rubbish bin."

"Well…" Peter began.

Barny's eyes did not leave Peter's face.

Peter glanced at Moody and Dumbledore. They were locked in solemn conversation next to the body, which was still crowded with Ministry workers. A few more had arrived in a bright green ambulance to transport the body. They moved her onto the purple stretcher they had laid beside her and covered her with a sheet. The stroller was long gone—the only evidence of a crime was the quickly-congealing stain on the pavement, and even that would be Scourgified very soon.

The stretcher was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Dumbledore was talking to one of the Mediwizards; his gnarled hand reached out and patted the man on the shoulder. Dumbledore's gaze lifted and scanned the street, meeting Peter's eyes for only a moment—the wizard's gaze skimmed right over him and focused on James, Sirius, and Lily, who were still huddled against the brick wall, talking with their heads close together. Their hair was awash in smeary orange light from the streetlamp above them.

Dumbledore left the Mediwizard to his duty and strode past Peter and Barny; he engaged James and the others in whispered—but animated—conversation.

That was all Peter needed to see to make up his mind. He began to consider what he was up against and what information he could stand to gain.

Ministry infiltrators, kidnapping, bribery. Why does the press have it out for Dumbledore?

"Seems like there's a bit of bad feeling between the Prophet and Dumbledore right now," Peter said.

"Not at all," Barny lobbed back. "I assume you're referring to the comments made by Lucius Malfoy a little while ago; Mr. Malfoy does not necessarily represent the views of the Daily Prophet. Or do you mean the bit of coverage here and there about your secret society?"

Peter ignored that. "It would be in the interest of fair reporting to investigate Dumbledore's lead, wouldn't it? If you can talk to Lucius Malfoy, surely you can follow up with an equally esteemed wizard. If you uncover nothing, no harm done. But if the lead pans out…" He tried to whistle, but only succeeded in expelling a bit of spittle.

Barny's eyes fixed on his: he was willing to hear Peter out, which was more than Peter was usually allowed. Perhaps it wasn't typically ideal to get in league with the press, but it was surely worth it to fight the Death Eaters.

"That's a tempting offer," Barny said finally. "A reporter would hope that a source has the info to back it up. A starting point, at least."

'You never did tell me what was in it for the sources."

"I'm very generous, I assure you." Barny glanced at the knot of people behind them and rolled his shoulders like he was shrugging off his conscience. "Depending on how useful the information is, of course."

Act like you don't need the money, no matter how desperately you do.

"Naturally." Peter made a show of thinking it over. "Do you know what the Death Eaters are about, Barny?"

"There are many theories," Barny replied evasively, replacing the pencil behind his ear.

"Are there?" Peter laughed and flicked a hand like he was shooing a fly. Was this what Sirius and James felt like all the time? "I've only heard one."

"The blood purity thing."

"And who would be worrying about blood purity, I wonder?"

Barny smirked. "I see. Smart."

Peter glowed inwardly. His satisfaction had typically been the kind that came with a well-executed prank, a group effort. This had been accomplished entirely on his own.

"And I'm guessing I won't get much out of you about the secret organization you're all in?" Barny asked.

Peter looked pointedly away.

Barny sighed, but he seemed amused. "I didn't think so."

After a few moments, Barny reached into his breast pocket. "If you ever need anything, or if you ever have anything else to say…here's my card."

It was a pentagonal piece of green card stock stamped with the Daily Prophet logo—a quill crossed with a shepherd's crook—and BARNABAS CUFFE, JUNIOR REPORTER. Underneath was the Prophet's address in Diagon Alley.

When Peter looked up again, Barny was already striding away towards the mediwizard who was closing the ambulance doors.

"Who's that?"

Peter turned to see Lily squinting at Barny.

"Barny Cuffe. Works for the Prophet." He looked down at the card again and slipped it into his pocket.

Lily sniffed. "Vultures. Can't even let a dead woman have a moment's peace."

Peter decided not to mention the particulars of their conversation to the others. He had not caused any harm—it had barely been a nudge in the right direction, really—but it could wait. Pride blossomed again, privately, in the wake of his secret service to the Order. He hoped Barny would use the nudge wisely.

Lily put a slender hand on his arm, which pulled his gaze away from Barny's back. "We're going to head back and wait for Dumbledore. I was going to make a pot of coffee, unless you'd like to sleep a bit more?"

He followed her, glancing back to glimpse Barny once more time. Instead he spotted Mr. Lupin, who was examining the leftover pools of blood with a magnifying contraption of his own. Remus had described his father as secretive, well-meaning—like father, like son—and adamant that people did not come to the house. They suspected that Mr. Lupin was not aware that Remus had friends at school who knew what he was.

For a moment, Peter's newfound self-regard was blotted out and he thought of Moony, out there somewhere in the world, probably alone. Remus knew how to be alone, but he certainly didn't enjoy it.

Peter thought of the werewolf who had murdered a woman and stolen her child and tried not to let it overlap with thoughts of Remus.

"You coming?"

Peter glanced up; James and Lily were cuddled together and Sirius was beckoning with his lit cigarette.

"Oh, yeah. Let's go."

They disappeared with a crack.