Thank you to everyone who is still reading this story, especially those who have been kind enough to leave a review.


The sun had just begun to dawn on a particularly chilly October morning when Bellatrix apparated to the outskirts of Hogsmeade village. Aside from the remote rustle of the forest, everything seemed dreamily quiet and deserted as she made the slow trek up the lane to the Shrieking Shack.

In the cloudy distance she could just make out the towers and spires of Hogwarts, and the sight filled her with an unexpected pang of nostalgia. She'd once been truly, uncomplicatedly happy here - with her sisters, her Quidditch, her impossible dreams - though of course she'd neither known nor appreciated it at the time.

Still, a small smile found its way onto her face as she remembered the way they used to race to Honeydukes, and the way she'd always cheat by shooting silent tripping jinxes at Andromeda and Cissy.

For all that had changed in the past twenty-odd years, the Shrieking Shack looked much the same as it had in her school days, gnarled and teetering sideways as though a tornado had tried to yank it from its foundation.

Bellatrix waited, and a few minutes had passed when her birdlike senses picked up a slight shimmering movement not ten feet away. With a flick of her wand, a dead branch rose in the air and began to gently poke and prod the invisible figure as it ran pell-mell toward her.

"Ouch! Ow! Stop it!" came a familiar voice, and a moment later, her nephew appeared, glaring as he tried to beat off the floating branch.

Bellatrix couldn't help but laugh at the sight. "That's what you get for that tragic Disillusionment Charm, kid."

"Very funny," Draco huffed, self-consciously adjusting his tousled hair. Then his eyes widened as he took in her appearance. "Aunt Bella? What in Merlin's name happened to your face?"

Shit, Bellatrix cursed inwardly, wondering how she'd forgotten to cast a passable glamour before leaving the house. "This?" She touched her battered cheek gingerly. "Courtesy of Ungur the Unkempt."

"Negotiations with the Giants not going well then?" Draco asked, all studied nonchalance, though he couldn't help but look terribly impressed.

Bellatrix snorted. "That would be the understatement of the century."

"But I thought …" he furrowed his brow. "Weren't they happy the Dark Lord let them rip up that muggle town?"

"When it comes to Giants, the line between 'happy' and 'murderous rage' is a very thin one." Bellatrix sighed, vanishing the visible damage with a wave of a hand. The rest of her hardly looked any better, but was at least concealed by her heavy woolen robes. Disagree as she might with the Dark Lord's plans to recruit all manner of magical creatures, she still had to do her job. "Anyways, you've got your own assignment to worry about. That's why we're out here at the bloody crack of dawn, right?"

"Right." Draco nodded, obviously trying to put on a determined front. "Well, we'd better get going then."

After swallowing the polyjuice Bellatrix had brought along, the two began to make their way up the path to Hogsmeade, newly unrecognizable as a pair of ancient bespectacled wizards sporting rather impressive white beards.

It was a testament to Draco's growing proficiency as an Occlumens that Bellatrix still did not know whom her nephew was intending to target today. When she'd first agreed to help the boy with his mission - after weeks of his mother's tantrums - Bellatrix had made the decision not to execute his entire plan for him.

Aside from the fact that Draco was desperate to earn the Dark Lord's favor on his own merit, there was a part of her - the dispassionate, logical part - that doubted she would last even a year at the rate things were going. And after she was gone, the responsibility for protecting the family would fall on this boy, this child. It may not have been right or fair, but she had to give him the tools to fight his own battles … and put in every possible failsafe should he prove inadequate in the end.

Manipulating Snape into making the Vow was one such failsafe. Making Draco repair the Vanishing Cabinets so that he could have backup when the moment arrived was another.

Aside from that, she was just here today to make sure his first real Imperius curse didn't backfire.

She noticed that Draco kept worrying his lip, an action that looked rather comical on the face of the stately old wizard he was impersonating. "Just remember that when it comes to the Unforgivables- "

" ...You really have to mean them," Draco interrupted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "You've only told me about a hundred times."

"And I'll believe you actually heard me when I see proof," she fired back with a grin.

They fell into silence: Draco lost to his own worries and doubts, Bellatrix returning grudgingly to a subject that had been plaguing her thoughts far more than she cared to admit. The girl.

Over the months of 'accidental' meetings and unanswered correspondence, the girl, immensely irritating as she'd been, had managed to stake out a place at the periphery of Bellatrix's life.

Of course, now that she'd gotten used to Granger's presence and offered the proverbial olive-branch, the girl was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't written, and the one time Bellatrix had swallowed her considerable pride and gone by Heaven's Gate, there had been no one there.

Frustration crackled in her bones like static. How like the wretched fates to toy with her - to dangle something shiny in her face, and yank it back the second that she reached for it.

She opened her mouth, and the words were already out before her brain had a chance to protest: "Tell me about Potter's friends."

"Weasley and Granger?" Draco gave her a strange look. "Why'd you want to know about them?"

"Well, now that I've actually met him, it seems even more unlikely that Potter's managed to survive as long as he has. I mean, the boy's hardly a prodigy." Draco gave a snort of agreement, and she went on: "So I can only assume he's got some talented friends."

"Talented?" Draco's cried, incredulous. "That idiot ginger is a complete menace on the pitch. He only got on the Gryffindor team because he's best mates with Potter - of course McGonagall made Precious Potter captain this year - "

He went on in this vein at length, and Bellatrix tried to hide her impatience. Really, she'd only asked because she wanted to know about the girl.

"And on top of all that," Draco delivered his final salvo, "Weasley's practically brain-dead. It's a miracle him and Potter haven't flunked out yet. Probably because they don't do any of their own work. They just copy off her."

"Off who?" Bellatrix prompted.

"Granger." He said the name with a faint shudder of contempt. "That smug little know-it-all. Thinks she's sooooo smart."

Bellatrix couldn't help her smirk at his obvious envy. "And is she?"

"Well, ok, she's had one or two good ideas," Draco conceded grudgingly, and she could tell the admission pained him. "Like, last year when we caught the DA - that's Potter's little fanclub - it turned out that they'd been using Galleons to communicate. Granger charmed them so that they showed the time and date of their next meeting."

"No paper trail. Clever."

"Exactly. I was thinking I'd make some for Madame Rosmerta - " He faltered, having inadvertently revealed his plan, and his brow crinkled in self-doubt. "I mean, unless… you think she's a bad target?"

"Let's see…" Bellatrix considered, "You can meet her in public without drawing suspicion, she's close enough to smuggle things into Hogwarts, and she probably overhears a lot of useful information at the bar," she listed judiciously. "No, I think she's an excellent target."

He beamed at her, launching into a garbled explanation of his plans, and Bellatrix sighed internally, knowing that the chance to glean more information about Granger had passed her by. If she asked again, it would only draw suspicion.

The Three Broomsticks was just as she'd remembered - a storybook house, nestled between two snowbanks, with a single candle flickering in the window. But it was too early for students or shoppers; there was only Rosmerta, humming softly to herself as she cleaned mugs and glasses, levitating them into place with the ease of long practice.

She looked up when the door slammed shut behind them, seeing two shivering, aged wizards, and smiled. "Chilly out there, is it?" She motioned them to a spot by the fireplace. "What can I get you? Butterbeer? Just got a fresh batch in this morning, it's nice and hot!"

Bellatrix shot Draco a pointed look as the witch prattled on, but as usual the boy seemed to have lost his nerve at the crucial moment. There'd been no hesitation with Karkaroff, as she recalled, but perhaps the boy had some chivalrous hang-up about attacking a lady. He fidgeted with his wand, avoiding her gaze.

Tramping down her annoyance, Bellatrix tried to stall. "We'll take a butterbeer and a firewhisky. Make the last one a double, love."

Rosmerta gave her a joking, flirtatious wink - and, suddenly, a long-buried memory surfaced out of the depths.

It was Slughorn's Christmas party, her fifth year. Bellatrix had just been made Quidditch Captain, and, drunk on her victory (not to mention the spiked punch), she'd spontaneously pulled a younger Rosmerta under the mistletoe. The witch may have been a Hufflepuff and an idiot, but she had also been painfully lovely.

Her blue eyes had opened wide in shock, her mouth parted slightly - and for one perfect second, Bellatrix had actually believed it might happen - but then the witch drew back and laughed. "Oh Bella, you're so silly."

Feeling the echo of the mortification and shame of that moment, Bellatrix frowned. "I don't have all day, you know," she whispered to Draco. "If you can't curse her to her face, wait until she's behind the bar."

He gave a jerky nod, creeping forward as Rosmerta fixed their order, and raised his wand. "Im… Imperio," he stuttered.

The witch gave a shrill wail, tripping over her robes and taking half her stock of mead down with her. She tried to scramble away, but her hands kept catching on broken bottles, leaving the floor a grisly mess of blood and foam. "Please, please, I haven't done anything!" She cried. "Take anything you want! There's money in the till!"

Draco began to hyperventilate beside her. "What should I… do you think I should -"

"Petrificus Totalus." Bellatrix's voice cut calmly through the chaos, and Rosmerta froze in her terrified, pleading pose. That went about as well as expected, she thought.

"Heal her," she said coldly. "And try again."

Looking sheepish, Draco leaned over the witch and began to sing the complex incantation of the healing spell. As he chanted, pale tendrils fell from his wand and wrapped like bracelets around the woman's bleeding arms. It was moments like this, she thought, when the boy's inborn talent and skill shone through clearly.

But Dark Magic was a different matter entirely. She could see that his heart wasn't really in it, and the realization brought a sharp pang of pity.

"The stronger your curse, the easier it will be for her," she told him. "A well-executed Imperius feels like a daydream."

"Yeah, I remember. Moody cursed me once. Or Crouch, I should say. Ok… here goes nothing." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Imperio."

This time, Rosmerta's eyes clouded at once, and when Bellatrix removed the Petrificus, the witch lay entirely still.

She lay her hand on Draco's shoulder. "Well done," she praised, realizing then that she hadn't really believed he could do it. "I'll finish up - you'd better go and meet your alibi."

"Alibi! Ha!" Draco smirked, reminding her forcefully of a younger Lucius. "McGonagall's going to love that." He'd conspired to get a detention with the Gryffindor Head for the Hogsmeade weekend, in case this dubious business were ever traced back to him.

A few flourishes of her wand, and the room was set to rights, as though no Death Eater had ever set foot here. Rosmerta was back behind her counter, wearing a cheery though somewhat abstracted smile.

Lifting her firewhisky out of the woman's limp fingers, Bellatrix settled onto a stool by the fireplace, and noticed Draco watching her from the doorway, his expression carefully blank. Probably judging her, the little bastard.

She raised her glass to him in mock salute. "What's that saying? 'Waste not, want not.'"

Not long after he left, others began to filter into the pub, no one paying much mind to what looked like an elderly, spectacled wizard nursing his drink at the bar.

It was Bellatrix's first day off in...she couldn't remember how long, and she had nowhere to be and nothing to do, other than make sure Rosmerta didn't take poorly to Draco's Imperius and ruin their plans. That happened sometimes with a novice caster: the victim would begin to act strangely, and would eventually be driven insane.

Casting her eye over the room - filled now with chittering students, couples on dates, shoppers laden with parcels - she marveled at how carefree they all seemed. Were they really oblivious to the sense of impending doom which hung in the air, or were they merely pretending?

"Excuse me, can I get three Butterbeers, please?" a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Hermione bloody Granger. Appearing at the most inopportune moment as per usual.

Rosmerta's answer was oddly mechanical as she pulled the mugs from the shelf. "Coming right up, dear."

The girl was standing so close that Bellatrix could recognize her scent. Whatever you do, don't look at her, howled some instinct for self-preservation, but unfortunately she'd never paid that particular voice in her head much mind. She turned to look.

It must have started snowing - too early in the season, even for Scotland - because the girl's dark school robes were speckled white, and looking closely, she saw that tiny frozen droplets were clinging to her messy curls.

The girl looked … no, not happy exactly - but content, and rosy-cheeked, and surprisingly well-rested. That sense of just-about-to-snap tension seemed to have eased a hair, and a small smile was playing at the corners of her mouth.

With a sick sinking feeling of inevitability, Bellatrix realized that she was beautiful. Odd that she'd never noticed it before. Had she been trying not to notice?

"Oi! Hermione! You coming?" someone called from across the crowded pub. It was a tall gangly ginger - Weasley, almost certainly - flanked by none other than the Chosen One himself, Harry Potter. They were grinning at her, muffled up in matching knitted Gryffindor scarves.

"Why don't you get a table," Granger yelled back. "I'll be right there!"

They could have been any of a thousand Hogwarts students enjoying their one day of freedom, but their cheeriness seemed somehow forced, as though these three were trying to claw the last few shreds of normalcy out of these darkening days.

One thing was certain: if Potter & Co were here, the Aurors couldn't be far off.

Just as the thought had crossed her mind, the door opened, admitting three cloaked figures, who scanned the room and parted ways to take up strategic positions in the corners. Bellatrix shook her head, amused. They couldn't be more obvious if they tried.

Surreptitiously studying all three, she was surprised to see her niece among them. The bright pink hair had given way to mousy brown - a concession, perhaps, to blending in, or more likely, an outward signal of her mental state.

In fact, she looked like she had recently been crying. Bellatrix sighed, plagued by a strange sense of deja vu. If Nymphadora was anything like her mother at that age, she'd probably gotten herself involved with - or gods forbid, knocked up by - some totally unsuitable wizard with one foot already out the door.

"Here you are, dear," Rosmerta chirped, depositing three steaming mugs of butterbeer in front of Granger, who gathered them up awkwardly in her arms. Had Bellatrix been staring less intently, she never would have noticed the tiny green-winged beetle clinging to the hem of Granger's robe.

Well, well, isn't this interesting? she thought. But then again, wherever Potter went, all types of dubious characters were sure to follow.

With a decidedly sinister smile, she finished off her drink and stood. Brushing casually past, she plucked the little creature off the girl, and squeezed it tightly in her fist as it frantically tried to wiggle free.

Only when they were safely locked and warded in the back pantry did Bellatrix let the beetle go. It tried to fly, but faltered on a twisted wing, fell to the ground, and morphed into a rumpled, furious witch.

"HOW DARE YOU!" she shrieked, stumbling on the train of her lime-green robes. "Do you have ANY idea who you're dealing with?" Noticing that her glasses were cracked and her pin-curls were standing on end, Bellatrix smirked.

Stepping into the light, Bellatrix felt her features begin to shift as the Polyjuice potion wore off. The woman's eyes widened comically as the true nature of her predicament became clear, and she raised her wand in a trembling hand.

Bellatrix disarmed her with a lazy flick. "Rita Skeeter…" she peered at the badge pinned crookedly to the woman's lapel. "And Assistant Editor at the Prophet, no less," she drawled, giving the title a mocking ring. "Looks like our little school gossip finally found her calling."

Skeeter's lips pulled back into an ugly sneer, and she glowered at Bellatrix as though she was about to scratch her face off with her red-tipped talons. Eyes darting across the floor and finding her wand far out of reach, she visibly controlled herself.

"I already had the necessary skill-set," Skeeter said crisply. "Can I help you, Bellatrix dear, or did you bring me here to reminisce?" She donned that same fake, cloying grin she'd used at Hogwarts to wiggle her way out of trouble.

Bellatrix was itching to slap it off her face, but with Aurors stationed not ten feet away, there wasn't any time for games. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe Edgar Bones used to have your job."

Skeeter seemed genuinely surprised by the question. "Yes, I was his copyeditor… before you people murdered him," she hissed.

"Well, you're welcome for the promotion," came the flippant reply. "What happened to his notes?"

"They're probably still in Records. But you'll never get in!" Skeeter gave her a triumphant glare. "You need clearance, a badge - "

"Oh, like the one you've got right there?" Bellatrix cut in, all innocence.

The witch covered it protectively. "This isn't school, you can't just take whatever the hell you want!"

"You're right. This isn't school." Bellatrix stalked closer, giving her wand an ominous flourish. "No one's going to give me detention for cursing you."

"But I - I need this for work," Skeeter stuttered, clearly shaken. Mind no doubt running through the lengthy list of Bellatrix's crimes.

Bellatrix pretended to ponder this problem, enjoying the mounting fear of her victim in a way she seldom did anymore. But this was a mutual hatred that went back a very long time: to their first year, in fact, when Skeeter had let the whole school know that her Slytherin dorm-mate slept with a teddy bear. Bellatrix's revenge had cost her a month's detention, but had been well worth it.

"Then, I guess it's fortunate that you're about to go on a little holiday. I was thinking Greece," she threw out casually. "I hear it's nice this time of year."

"You're insane! You want me to just … disappear? So you can break into the Prophet, and do … what?" Skeeter cried, but her shrill voice died away as an idea seemed to occur to her. "You forget that I know things Bellatrix," she went on softly, cruelly. "I could make things very awkward for you. You and your little whores." She gave a derisive little laugh, her face a mask of disgust. "I doubt they want their husbands to know what kind of trash they roll around in bed with."

Bellatrix quirked her lips in a cynical smile. "Now why would you want to go and ruin my good name, hmmm? Haven't I been playing nice?"

Skeeter's retort died on her lips as she was shoved roughly into the wall, a crooked wand at her jugular.

"Rita, Rita… what am I going to do with you?" came the bone-weary sigh, before the voice turned steel. "You'll go to Greece for a week - all expenses paid, of course - or the vacation you take will be of the permanent variety. Do we understand each other?" She was paralyzed with fear, but an icy hand grabbed her face and forced her to nod. As soon as the hand withdrew, Skeeter dropped to the floor, gasping.

Bellatrix knelt to pluck the badge from the woman's robes, then took a long draught from her hip-flask, once again assuming the appearance of a harmless old man.

"Bon voyage," she taunted, shutting the door on Skeeter and making her way back through the crowded pub. Draco's curse had worked - Rosmerta seemed her usual gregarious self - but there was still one other thing she had to do.

Rumor had it that all inbound mail was being checked at Hogwarts, so she'd have to sneak the girl a message right under the obnoxious noses of her little friends. Fishing a piece of parchment from her pocket, Bellatrix scribbled a hasty note:

Have a lead on the notes of EB. Going to check it out tomorrow night. Meet me at the house.

PS. Bring mice - preferably dead.

There, that was clear enough. Scanning the sea of faces, she finally found the girl, huddled in a window seat and whispering conspiratorially with Potter and the Weasel. As she approached, the red head made some offhand joke which drew a peal of genuine laughter from the girl. It suddenly struck her that, despite her strangeness, her otherworldliness, her seeming isolation… Granger really did belong with these people.

It was not a pleasant realization.

Pushing past the girl with an, "Excuse me, miss, I think you dropped this", she slipped the note into her hand, and kept on walking.


"You are Stanley Stoddard Shunpike, aged 21, conductor of the Knight Bus?" Auror Dawlish asked, rifling through a casefile with an air of total indifference. This entire thing is a waste of time, his demeanor screamed.

Eyeing this exchange from the back of the room, Scrimgeour bristled, sensitive to the merest hint of insubordination. It was odd, he mused, how the troops had shown him more deference when he was Head of the Auror Office than they did now that he was their Minister.

Oh, he knew exactly what they thought. That in becoming a politician - the lowliest and most despicable of creatures - he had traded his principles for personal power. He wasn't one of them anymore - one of the "good guys", the Aurors, that last great bulwark against the forces of darkness, and all that self-righteous claptrap.

He himself had never been prone to such infantile black-and-white thinking. No, Rufus Scrimgeour had always had vision.

Meanwhile, Stan Shunpike fidgeted nervously with his handcuffs. "Yeah, tha's right. So what if I am?" He glared at each of them in turn, all false bravado. "Does that mean you can come and rip me out of bed in the middle of the bleedin' night without so much as a by your leave?" He looked extremely aggrieved as he pointed to his stockinged feet. "Didn't even let me get my slippers on. Now, is that right, I ask you?"

"Can you confirm where you were last Friday, on October the 7th, at approximately 11 pm?" Dawlish continued in that same bored monotone.

"Same place as I am every Friday. The Leaky Cauldron. I like a pint after work as much as the next bloke," Shunpike said easily. It was clear he had no idea where this interrogation was going, or why he had been arrested in the first place.

"And that night at the Leaky Cauldron, did you or did you not say," Dawlish cleared his throat as he began to read from his file. "And I quote - 'You'd be surprised at the sorts of things I hear on the job. Loads of dodgy characters travel on the Knight Bus- Death Eaters even! Sometimes they talk to me… confide in me, like. If the Ministry knew half the things I know … well, let's just say a lot of people would be halfway to America by now, if they knew what was coming to 'em."

Everyone looked at Shunpike expectantly, and the boy flushed a delicate shade of purple and began to stutter: "No! I m-mean, well, it's not like how it s-sounds…"

"We have at least three witnesses who can corroborate this account," Dawlish cut in dryly.

The boy's eyes scanned the room warily, as though searching for a way out. "Look, I was just havin' a laugh, I didn't mean any of it."

"I find that hard to believe, Mr Shunpike," Scrimgeour spoke for the first time, drawing everyone's gaze. It was hardly routine for the Minister himself to sit in on interrogations, but he needed Shunpike's conviction - the public needed it - and he did not trust the Department to deliver. There had not been a single arrest since the battle in the Department of Mysteries, and his political rivals were already clamoring for his blood.

"You seem like a man of the world, Minister." Shunpike leant forward, his tone wheedling and conspiratorial. "I'll be honest with you. There was a girl there, see. Real pretty - looked like a Veela, she did." He made a crude outline of curves with his manacled hands. "Now, a girl like that isn't interested in plain-old-boring Stan the Bus Driver. And I just thought I'd...embellish things for her a bit. You know, to impress her." He shrugged, looking sheepish. "But I never, never, spoke to no Death Eater in my life! And that's the gods' honest truth! I swear it on my mum."

Studying the boy, Scrimgeour decided that he believed him - as did every other Auror in the room, if their defeated stances were any indication. Unfortunately, it didn't matter in the slightest if this little shit was innocent or not.

Scrimgeour sighed. "Dawlish, take Mr Shunpike's statement and - "

He was interrupted by a dainty "hem, hem," from the doorway.

Scrimgeour cursed internally. Why couldn't that wretched hag give him a moment's peace?

"Yes, what is it Dolores," he ground out.

Umbridge gave him a saccharine smile. "Your 2 o'clock is here, Minister," she announced primly.

"Alright, I think we're done here." Scrimgeour gestured vaguely at the boy, making his way to the door.

"Does - does that mean I can go?" Shunpike asked hopefully.

"Certainly, you can go…" Scrimgeour turned to the guards. "Take this young man back to Azkaban."

Shunpike's eyes grew wide with terror, and his screams and pleas for mercy followed Scrimgeour as he made his way down the hall to his office.

Umbridge struggled to match his long stride, the frantic click-clack of her heels on marble grating on his already strained nerves. Such a pity that he couldn't tell her to bugger off - or better yet, fire her.

But much like a mold infestation in an old, run-down house, Dolores Umbridge would return to the Ministry no matter how hard one tried to get rid of her. He would have admired her tenacity, were she not such a royal pain in the arse.

"I must confess, Minister," Dolores began breathily, "that I have concerns - "

"You don't say," Scrimgeour muttered snidely under his breath.

" - about the fact that an arrest has yet to be made in the Florean Fortescue murder."

Scrimgeour stopped cold and turned on her. "You mean the Fortescue disappearance," he corrected in a menacing undertone.

Instead of shrinking under his glare - the reaction he was used to and expected - Umbridge seemed to puff up with self-importance, like a fat colorful parrot. "That disappearance story has been fed to the papers for appearances' sake, but surely we can speak frankly … as old colleagues. That man was torn limb from limb - eaten alive - and we both know the sick degenerate who did it."

Ah, so that's what got her so riled up. Ever since that centaur attack this past summer, the hatred Umbridge had always nursed for magical creatures had curdled into full-blown fanaticism. She was becoming increasingly volatile, and given her leverage and connections, could pose a serious threat to his plans.

"There is no proof it was Greyback," Scrimgeour said evenly.

"Proof?" Umbridge gave a mocking little giggle. "Don't be absurd. You are the Minister for Magic! You don't need proof. You ought to have rounded up every single last one of those beasts the day you took office," she hissed. "They need to be put out of their misery - for the good of the public."

"And how, pray tell, would I justify such a move to the Wizengamot? There's a mutiny in the offing as it is, and I can't stand to lose any more votes."

A passing Auror eyed the pair of them surreptitiously, and Scrimgeour pulled Umbridge into a corner, and went on in a frantic whisper: "Don't you go all idealistic on me, Dolores. Not now, not when we're so close. We have consolidate support, be cautious, strategic -"

"With all due respect, Minister," Umbridge cut in, her voice high and vicious, "I gave you my backing because I believed you were a man who could restore things to their proper order. A man who understood that civilized society can never have a place for the unworthy, the savage, the unclean." Prying his hand off her shoulder, she stepped back and gave him a disdainful once-over. "I am beginning to fear that I was mistaken."

Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes. "You forget yourself, Dolores." Though calm, his voice held an unmistakable threat.

"Oh no, Minister. I remember all too well," she cooed, sugary-sweet. "I remember what you did - what we did - and you would be wise to remember it too. Change is coming whether you like it or not. You can choose to stand at the helm… or you can be trampled underfoot."

With that sinister pronouncement, Umbridge donned her mask of professional courtesy, handed him his schedule, wished him a good meeting, and walked away as though nothing had happened.

Undeniably rattled, Scrimgeour took a moment to compose himself. It would not do to show weakness in front of his visitor, who was prone to taking unwelcome excursions into other people's heads.

He opened the door and saw her, leaning casually against a cabinet, her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankle.

"My dear Evelyn, what a pleasant surprise," Scrimgeour greeted, crossing the office and taking a seat at his desk.

She was as lovely as she'd been when she started working for him fifteen years ago, almost angelic with her flaxen hair, enormous eyes, and delicate little waist. But appearances were, in this case, deceptive. Like every Malfoy, she was a viper.

"Minister," Evelyn purred, "I hear you've finally arrested dear cousin Lucius."

"Yes, and he's claiming he was under the Imperius curse at the Department of Mysteries. Same as last time."

Evelyn gave an incredulous laugh. "Oh, I'm sure he is." She sauntered towards him, her fingertips trailing gently across his back as she circled the desk. "I think you know why I'm here. Why don't you let me take him off your hands, hmmm?"

Leaning in close, she enveloped him in the cloud of her perfume. "If you think I've been helpful to you so far," she continued in a near whisper, "Just think how much more helpful I could be if I had my magic back."

Scrimgeour had to give it to her - at her most persuasive, she was near-impossible to resist. But there were bigger issues at hand: namely, the upcoming confidence vote on his leadership, a vote he was increasingly concerned he would lose.

Grasping her outstretched wrist, he pushed her aside dismissively. "Let's talk about Hermione Granger."

"Oh, yes, her." Evelyn cast her eyes skyward in irritation. "They won't let her join the Order, and she claims Potter will never agree to work with the Ministry. Something about his 'principles'. Really, Rufus, the girl is all but useless. I think we should cut our losses."

"You mean void the contract, send her to Azkaban to die? I thought you liked the kid?"

"Oh, I do. She's … sweet, though a bit naive." Evelyn cocked her head, considering. "On the other hand… if you harm her, I believe it will infuriate Potter so much that he will go out of his way to sabotage your campaign. Do you really want the 'chosen one' as you enemy?"

"What I want are results!" Scrimgeour's fist came down hard on the table, rattling his collection of Sneakoscopes. "How much time have we wasted on this bloody stupid girl and her bloody stupid leads?"

"She has given information on Death Eater raids," Evelyn said reasonably.

"Which turned into a colossal waste of resources! I had my men running all over the country - and for what? A couple of low-level lackeys with no useful information? Perhaps you're right. Perhaps the girl has outlived her usefulness." He leant back in his chair, considering her over his steepled fingers. "Or perhaps … she just lacks the proper motivation."

"Motivation?" Evelyn repeated, uncertain.

"I don't care what you have to do to make it happen, but I want the girl to get Potter on board." With Potter's support I would be untouchable, Scrimgeour thought. With Potter's support, all the naysayers and malcontents would fall quickly in line.

"Otherwise, our deal is off. Lucius can rot in his cell for all eternity." He sneered, knowing how the threat would affect her. "You won't be getting your hands on him...or his precious magic."

For a fleeting moment, Evelyn's face contorted in a terrible rage. She seemed ready to rip his throat out with her bare hands, but quickly mastered herself. "I told you - it's impossible! Potter won't budge."

Scrimgeour shrugged. "That's your problem to sort out."

With a frustrated snarl, Evelyn stood and began to pace, lost in thought. "What if the girl can give you something better than Potter's support?" She said after a long silence. "What if she gives you Bellatrix Lestrange?"

Scrimgeour raised a dubious eyebrow. "I though Lestrange refused the offer to spy for us in exchange for a pardon?" When he first heard of it, he'd thought the idea beyond laughable. He couldn't imagine why Granger believed the Death Eater would ever agree.

Evelyn's distracted fingers traced a quill on the table. "I'm not talking about Lestrange's cooperation," she corrected lightly. "I'm talking about her life."

And that certainly caught his attention - capturing the lieutenant was nearly as good as capturing You Know Who himself. He could already imagine the headlines.

"You think Granger can bring her in, knowing Lestrange will be killed?"

"With the proper motivation," Evelyn parroted his previous words, her smile rigid and cold.

"Very well. If she doesn't come through...well, I suppose I can deal with Potter myself." He pinched the bridge of his nose and mulled it over, before turning to Evelyn: "Tell Granger that she has until the end of the year to fulfill her obligations...or she will face the Dementor's Kiss."