Disclaimer: My stuff is mine and Rowling's stuff is hers.

Author's Note: Thank you to my reviewers. I really hope that you enjoy this third part in my series as much as you did the second half.

Chapter Two

Sweet Denial

"So we laugh, and we smile

And we play our games of sweet denial

But don't tell me we're forgiven

If we hold, all our breath

If we kneel right down and just repent

You can't tell me we're forgiven…"

The Calling: 'We're Forgiven'

She nearly did a double-take when she'd looked up and met her new reflection in the mirror. This time her eyes were an eerie sage-green color and her hair a wavy auburn, freckles dotted her cheeks and nose. One hundred and eighty degrees difference for her natural appearance, she thought and gave a small grin. She loved being underestimated. It gave her that needed buffer to completely fool anyone. And it was easy to fool someone who thought she was capable of nothing more than sweetness and innocence. Oh, she was much, much more.

She shook her head as it filled with all of the possible ways this operation could go wrong. She'd never done this sort of undercover work before. She was being placed almost at the very top—the Minister's aide. Butterflies filled her stomach as she imagined what might happen to her if she was found out. She ignored the sick feeling and brushed her teeth. She ought to be on time for her first day on the job.

A knock on the door and Arabella Figg's voice calling for her to finish up, prompted her along.

Brushing her hair aside, then determining to tie it back altogether, she drilled herself on the basic facts about her new identity.

"I'm Ruthie James from Oxford. I am twenty-two years old and have no family and little political affiliation. I am intelligent but not nosy. ( This last bit she would have to remind herself of often. She was always driven to odd means to gain all sorts of information. Nosy didn't even come close to her nature. It was far more than a hobby to know all she could about everyone she came in contact with. She spent many hours digging around in strangers' pasts, which actually made her quite the perfect spy).

Arabella's voice came again.

Ruthie shook her head. Annoying and bossy. She hadn't quite come to a decision about what she thought of Arabella. She sure had Ruthie stigmatized.

Her family's connection with the recently defeated Dark Lord was somewhat notorious. Her name and her father's involvement with Voldemort had given Arabella the means of enslaving her for all sorts of dirty work. Enslave might be too harsh of a word, Imogen—or Ruthie—reasoned. Arabella had actually been quite charitable. She could have sent her to Azkaban and been done with the whole thing. She was still guilty of murder after all. But, Arabella had taken her in instead, despite her glaring dislike for her father and his dark affiliations.

Never having had long hair before, she reminded herself not to mess with it or in any way give herself away. This would be one of the most important and dangerous things she'd ever done of her own volition.

She heaved a nervous sigh and headed out the door. She needed to be at the Ministry in five.

***

Sirius shuddered as he came to the dominating gray fortress that had been his hell for twelve years. He gripped the file in his hands tightly. This was going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He could feel it hanging ominously in the air.

Well, he reasoned as he was ushered silently into the prison governor's office, it was without its most terrifying attribute: Dementors. They were still a large problem for the wizarding community, but not for Azkaban in particular. In their place were specially trained guards, not soul sucking dark creatures. Azkaban was now the hell that one made for himself.

The memories of the horrible creatures were enough to make Sirius shiver. He had no desire to see them again.

"Here to see inmate nine-forty-three?" the governor said without looking up from his papers.

Sirius managed a weak, "yes," before the governor shoved a clipboard across his desk and ordered him to sign it. Some ground rules where rattled off unceremoniously that Sirius was required to comply with and then he was ushered through another set of doors and onto a familiar cell block.

"Thirty minutes," the guard that had shown him in grunted, leaving him alone, standing in front of an iron barred cage. Peter was there, staring out of a small window with dead eyes and a self-loathing frown.  

With his hands hanging limply at his side, Peter walked to the bars and stood there expressionless. He wasn't going to initiate conversation, but he was not averse to hearing what Sirius wanted to say.

"Your hearing is set for the twentieth of November," Sirius began, shuffling through his papers, unsure of how to proceed. He'd been working on Peter's case, fought for a temporary stay of execution, earning himself a lot of enemies with that one. He'd done all of this—no problem. It was his job, or his former job. But he still couldn't bring himself to look his old friend in the eye. He felt that if he had, he would lose his professional detachment—want to tell Peter that he would do everything in his power to help him. He wasn't sure if he wanted that. This was still the same Peter that sold out his family, James and Lily and killed his last true friend and the best man he'd ever known, Remus. But it was hard to distinguish between the Peter that had done all of those things and the Peter that had taken the blame that should have been Sirius' when he made Professor Benwick's hat sing "Yellow Submarine" on Halloween first year.

Peter nodded and Sirius didn't notice the shadows on his face. They stood there in awkward silence for some time before Peter finally spoke.

But it wasn't like any normal person speaking in a normal conversation. He had that sort of quality to his voice that Professor Trelawny often used when in a fake trance.

"She saved me and I let her die," he kept his eyes on the ground but they looked as if they were staring past it, if that was possible.

"Who, Peter? Who are you talking about?" Sirius asked, looking around, convinced that Peter must be talking to someone. Or else he was going mad.

Peter looked up. A tear ran silently down his cheek. Sirius noted it with mounting unease. It wouldn't help Peter's case to become completely unstable months before his trial.

"She said she could handle it herself, but I knew they would kill her and I didn't help her. I left her there. When I came back for her it was too late," he turned away from Sirius and sat in the corner of his cell.

Sirius had an idea now of who he was going on about. Lucilla Malfoy. Arabella had told him of how she'd found Peter wandering around the loch carrying the dead girl with him and sobbing. Maybe he slowly was creeping into insanity. How much lies, betrayal and destruction could one human conscience take, after all? It did, however, sound just like Dale to make her last act on this earth one that could redeem the irredeemable—and Peter was just that. Sirius had thought he'd had no hope. In reality, he just hadn't met his saving grace yet, until that night. And then she'd died.

Sirius stood there silently as the minutes ticked slowly down from thirty and Peter sat rocking slowly in his corner.

Seconds before the guard had come in to announce that time was up Peter admitted in a small voice infused with regret and humility, "I know you don't forgive me, and you shouldn't, Sirius. But I am sorry for the choices I've made. Not because of where they got me, but because they've hurt the people I loved."

Sirius opened his mouth to assure Peter that his apologies were useless, but the guard had entered, ending their meeting. Sirius shook his head and left the cell block before he had the time to change his mind. He didn't even know why he felt so compelled to help him. His heart hardened at the thought of all that Peter had taken from him.

***

Ruthie had been in the Ministry on preliminary interviews and things, but it was still intimidating. Figg had left her with the understanding that she would be on her own for the most part. She was to work a regular day and at the stroke of five, Ruthie was expected to check in, report her findings for the day. She was unsure of how long this was supposed to take. If she were lucky (which Imogen usually wasn't) she would have enough incriminating evidence to put the Minister in Azkaban and she could go back to Hogwarts without distraction, maybe she would even be allowed to give up the charade she'd been living for three years now. It killed her that she couldn't be fully honest with her friends there. She had so few that it made them that much more important to her.

Arabella Figg's co-workers didn't seem as bad as all that, which was a comfort to her. Figg could sometimes get a bit carried away with the job and getting someone in the Ministry that she could be a little bit blind to the fact that Imogen had never done this before. An experienced agent might fair quite decently when thrown into a situation as she had been, but she was far from experienced. The only thing that recommended her for this sort of work was her ability at acting and the fact that she had Lucy's Polyjuice altercations that she'd stolen from her laboratory.

The receptionist, Corbin, seemed very helpful and was always eager to set her mind at ease about Figg. And there was Sirius Black, the one reason she'd agreed to this crazy scheme in the first place.

Although Arabella was the only one with the full knowledge of who Imogen was, her background and relations and her capabilities as an informant, Sirius knew what sort of task she was up against and did his best to lessen the strain of the very big assignment Arabella had dropped on her. He'd even given her the names of two insiders in the Ministry that she could go to if she had any problems. She hoped that it was not her age that had given her away as someone who couldn't handle the job. She was eager for this job, the one assignment that Arabella had given her that didn't include informing on, tracking down or in any other way incriminating her father. She was only fourteen masquerading as a twenty-two year old, but she figured she'd done plenty of life-threatening things in the past and had come out relatively unscathed—dictating a few measly letters for a Minister suspected of dark sympathies seemed almost tame by comparison.

Now, as she looked for the office of one of the other insiders, Jill Parry, she wasn't so sure that she could handle this. Her heart was pounding and she felt conspicuous and she was sure that that impertinent young man behind the reception desk was laughing at her. She glared back. Intimidation and bad manners were never endearing to her. She wore an indignant frown as she changed directions and headed straight for his desk. He grinned at her self assuredly.

"How can I help you, red?" he asked propping his feet up on his desk and leaning back in his chair. Does this one think he's God's gift to women or what? Imogen thought to herself as she let the comment slide, eyeing his nameplate that read Roger Davies.

"You can start by calling me Ruthie, because yes, my hair is red but it's not worth mentioning," her bored but yet authoritative tone seemed to spark his interest and he sat up, still grinning crookedly. If she'd had the luxury of time, she might actually waste some with him, he was pretty charming in an overly cocky way. But as it was, she was late.

"Yes, Ruthie," he smiled, "I'm Roger." He stood and held his hand out. Imogen took it.

"I was wondering if you could direct me to Ms. Parry's office. If she's unavailable, I was wondering if I could speak to Arthur Weasley," Imogen said, a bit unsure of herself. She obviously looked as though she would be fun to toy around with, because the man sat back down, seemingly ignoring her request.

"Does Ruthie have a last name?" he asked raising his eyebrows as he leaned back again.

"James. May I please see Ms. Parry?" she persisted.

"Out at the moment. Ms. James?" he asked making like he was jotting down a message that she highly doubted would reach Ms. Parry from his hands.

She crossed her arms impatiently and waited for the games to cease.

"Or is that Mrs. James?" he smiled again.

"Miss," she answered monotonously, "Then may I see Mr. Weasley please?"

"Will you let me take you out to dinner tonight?" he asked gallantly. She shook her head. Was he really begging her to shoot him down cruelly in front of this busy lobby full of people? If that was the case…

"Why would I let you do that?" she asked. Her staring at him, all business-like and unflinching made him cower slightly. Not so sure of yourself now, are you, Mr. Davies? She thought to herself. His reaction was almost intoxicating. She had to remind herself that he was a jerk and deserved this. She couldn't justify being this mean to just anyone. He really had asked for it.

"Because I know you found me charming just now and—," she cut him off, not wanting to hear the rest of his reasons.

"Mr. Weasley's office, please," she asked, leaning menacingly over his desk, her sage eyes fixed unblinkingly on him.

"Down that hall and to the left, 420," he conceded.

"Thank you," she smiled and then turned to leave.

"You'll be back. You find me irresistible, Ruthie," he called after her, apparently not caring who overheard him. Several ladies laughed behind their hands as they passed.

She shook her head in the negative.

"Okay, maybe next weekend. We shared a moment and you know it, Ruthie James," he persisted.

She stopped and turned, just before rounding the corner. She had to leave him with something. "Oh yes, Mr. Davies. I'll write every magical word of our conversation down in my diary and press it to my heart, thinking fondly of you and sighing like a fool in love," she yelled back sarcastically and blew him a kiss before rounding the corner and laughing hysterically.

She straightened and composed herself before turning the doorknob of office four-twenty.

"Way to be professional, Ruthie," Imogen berated herself silently before entering, "you were just shouting across the lobby with some pathetic has been, who probably got all the girls back in school with his flashy smile and his dashing Quidditch robes." Poor thing, she thought jokingly as an amendment to her last idea, he probably still has that old jersey at home and wears it some lonely nights thinking how great he used to be. Sad really.

***

Sirius went back to the London office where he found Arabella pulling report duty. It was always unusual to find her at her desk and so he naturally inquired as to why she wasn't out in the field.

"I'm expecting a noon report from my new girl on the inside," Arabella answered flatly, sipping her coffee and reading over a file that she was supposed to send out to their correspondent at the Museum, Dr. Beckett. She hated this sort of work and it showed.

"Ah, Imogen. I don't suppose you're ever going to fill me in on her full story, are you?" Sirius asked, propping his feet up and leaning back. He didn't feel like working. Talking with Peter for half an hour was stress enough for one day. He wasn't going to allow Arabella to be productive either.

"Do I ever give you the complete background on any of my informants?" she retorted unceremoniously. She never took her eyes off of the documents she held before her, as if she were hiding something. Arabella had her ways, but she was never usually this withholding. "All you ever need to know is that I've checked into her background and she's quite sound. She'll work with us just fine. She won't mess anything up," she assured him.

"It's not that I think she'll mess anything up, or that she'll turn double agent or any of that—," he began.

"Then what is it?" Arabella asked, throwing aside her papers, becoming indignant at his inquisition.

"She's fourteen, Arabella. Don't you think there's a safer place you could start her out? We're not even sure what exactly happened to his last assistant. I'm worried that you've got her way in over her head," he admitted, dropping his feet from the desk and sitting up straight, returning his colleague's stare.

"Sirius, she's killed two people. Rather than send her to Azkaban, where she undoubtedly belongs, I'm giving her the chance to redeem herself. And she can handle herself just fine." She said this as if the conversation had ended and went back to her reading. "Besides," she added a moment later, "There's always a place at the Prophet I can stick her if she decides she can't handle this."

Sirius shook his head, disbelieving, "I just don't see Imogen up and murdering two people in one night like you say. She's too sweet," he said almost to himself.

Arabella seemed to want to argue, "It wasn't one-hundred percent, cut and dry, black and white murder. She killed a Death Eater Assassin that night when Harry and his friends where in trouble and then our agent only a few minutes after that. She swears that he was taking orders and behaving as any normal Death Eater. There were only a few there, as the other witnesses that evening have confirmed, Voldemort's trusted society only." She shrugged as Sirius nodded, apparently taking in all of this new information eagerly. "Anyway, she claims it was all in her own defense and that of Harry and the others."

"And what do you think?" Sirius asked.

"He was one of my most trusted at the Prophet. I want to think that she had it wrong. But she admitted to killing him and gave an accurate description around about the time he went missing last month, so…" she trailed off.

"So you want to believe her, but it would be better off for your undercover outfit at the Prophet if he hadn't been a double agent," he clarified for her.

She shook her head and the analysis of Imogen's pending guilt or innocence lay untouched for the remainder of the workday.

"How is Peter?" Arabella said with some reservation, after a few minute's silence.

Sirius gave a cryptic shake of his head. "He looks like he's coming apart in there. I don't know whether I can sell that to the courts as innocent or guilty."

"And you? How did you handle it? Going back there, I mean," she asked tentatively.

"It's still the same terrifying place, only a little less so with them gone. But it's still haunting to say the least," Sirius admitted.

"Maybe I should visit him. He could use the company and it would ease my mind to see how he's doing myself," Arabella chanced.

"I don't want you to go," Sirius said quickly. "It won't do either of you any good."

"I have to. He finally stood up to them. That took a lot for him to do that, you know. He needs to know that there's at least one person around who doesn't want to see him hang, Sirius!" Arabella shouted, jumping to her feet. "I still care about him, even if his other friends have turned their backs," she spat accusingly, walking out the front door and slamming it, drowning out Sirius' retort.

"I haven't turned on him. He turned on all of us. His other friends are dead. And I'm the one trying to save his life," he yelled at the door where she'd just exited.

***

Ruthie left Arthur Weasley's office, filled with all sorts of Muggle gadgets and clutter, feeling more at ease than she'd had since she'd heard what task she'd been assigned to. It felt good to know she's got at least one ally loyal to her side. Sirius had been right in saying that he was the one to go to if she had any problems. He knew the Ministry inside and out and had given her some valuable advice about the Minister. She was exceedingly jealous of Ron and Ginny, she found herself thinking, as she walked up two flights of stairs to the Minster's offices.

Here she was, she thought as her heart beat a mile a minute, she hoped desperately that she didn't do anything inherently stupid and give herself away. She turned the knob and entered.

"You're late," an older woman chirped as Ruthie walked through the door.

She opened her mouth in preparation of apologizing and then the woman smiled.

"Got lost, dear?" she asked with an understanding nod. "This place is a regular zoo. I don't suppose that one at the front desk was all that helpful either."

Ruthie could only shake her head in reply and relief. She thought she would find nothing but enemies, evil and suspicious. She wasn't prepared to find a sympathetic smile and understanding. She had to remind herself that this woman was probably involved in the ring that she was supposed to be subverting.

"Minister Grey isn't in this early anyway, you're lucky. I can show you around before he gets here and puts you straight to work," said the old lady, pristinely dressed and groomed, with manners and charm to follow. "As aide to the Minister, you will basically be working for me. Do you mind if I call you Ruthie, or do you prefer Ms. James?"

"Ruthie is perfectly fine," Imogen answered, "And," she faltered, the enormity of her task weighing down on her again. She felt her breathing become more labored and strove to control it. She realized then how unprepared she was coming in here. She didn't even know this woman's name. "I'm sorry," she managed at last, "The man who interviewed me didn't tell me your name."

"Evelyn Milton. Evelyn or Ms. Milton, whichever you prefer, dear," she placed her glasses back on her nose that had previously dangled from a pearl chain around her neck. She reminded Imogen of a more personable Madam Pince. "Your desk is just there," she pointed to a small chair and table in the corner, mail littering the tops of both. "Your first duty of the day will be to sort through all of that mail. You'll get the hang of what to keep and what to toss as you go." She picked up a document she had been revising and pushed her glasses further up her nose. "The Minister's office is just through that door," she indicated a door behind her desk with brass hardware that definitely made it look official. "It's a bit too early for you to meet the staff, as most of them do not arrive until nine or after that. I expect the Minister will want to meet you when he comes in." She paused and looked up at Ruthie, "Any other questions."

Ruthie smiled and set her bag down at her chair piling the mail that had occupied it onto the heaping piles that threatened to topple the tiny desk. "I'll let you know if I come to any," she sat down to make sense out of the mess.

"Please do, dear," the proper, gray-haired secretary said as she lifted her coffee cup distractedly to her lips.

Imogen heaved a sigh. This didn't seem to be so hard of a job. But she hadn't even met the Minister yet. He could be a real task master, she reasoned. She'd heard of him, mentioned among some of her father's acquaintance, and was quite eager to see if the rumors were true. If they were, then he was nothing more than a yes-man with a more powerful  backing. She didn't even want to venture a guess at who might be holding the Minister's strings. That wasn't her job. Her job began and ended with the Minister—she went no further than that. That was the deal.

He was nothing like she imagined, she thought when Solomon Grey finally did appear at his office, around ten. He had a sharp perceptive quality about him that unnerved her slightly. He was perfectly charming in his tailored suit and designer glasses. He wasn't your average politician in that his every movement exuded grace and determination, rather than wasting the effort to cover up their overly arrogant confidence. He was anything but a humble servant of the people.

She saw now how he had won his office with his mere presence. The former Minister hadn't even been dead for two weeks before, no one really remembers the exact circumstances, he simply appeared and took office. That in itself might be a red flag to anyone who was paying attention, Imogen reasoned, but she could see how the general public would be easily blind-sided by this man. He had a smile that Gilderoy Lockhart would envy and the charismatic personality that Cornelius Fudge had lacked entirely.

This was going to be an interesting project, Imogen thought with a smile as she was introduced by Ms. Milton to the Minister who was beaming at her. She had always followed politics closely and if, for no other reason than finally being in the middle of it all, this job was going to be exciting.

"I am honored Ms. James," he said flatteringly as he took her hand, "You came highly recommended and I trust the Master of St. John's College will miss you." He paused a moment and gave this some thought. "That's Oxford, correct?"

"Yes Minister, sir. You may call me Ruthie if you like. I was aide to the Master at St. John's college. But I'm eager to learn something of how politics work from the inside." She smiled. A little too eager, she thought cautiously. She'd have to tone down the giddy-Ravenclaw-in-a-library act before she overdid herself.

He gave her an appraising look, considering something about her story for a moment or two. "You attended Hogwarts? And Oxford for a while after that?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I was interested, for a while, in Muggle law," she added after a moment's reflection.

"Good," the Minister said, clapping his hands together triumphantly. "I can expect nothing but perfection from you then, Ruthie." He smiled and turned to his office, disappearing behind the thick oak and brass door.

"Yes, Minister. Absolutely!" she smiled after him. He loves me she thought with such self satisfaction that she nearly skipped back to her desk to sort the mail. She could handle this job, even if the Minister was a bit on the scary side.

"He's taken with you, I can tell," Ms. Milton said over the rim of her glasses.

"He's taller than I imagined him to be," Ruthie admitted with a pleased smile, tossing some of Minister Grey's fan mail into a pile.