Disclaimer: I own the plot—loosely. (I've borrowed a few concepts from Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass). J.K. Rowling owns all scenes and characters of the Harry Potter series, with the exception of Imogen, Jill, Gabriel, Elena and Anni. (Other characters may appear when necessary).

Author's Note: I apologize if I'm losing people here. I'll try to explain as best I can. Bear in mind that during the first half of this story, it's not necessary to know completely what's up. It's all in the name of a good story line.

Chapter Three

Wounds

"Fear in me so deep

It gets the best of me

In the fear I fall

Here it comes face to face with me

Here I stand

Hold back so no one can see

I feel these wounds

Step down…step down…step

Am I breaking?

Can I break away

Push me away

Make me fall

Just to see

Another side of me…"

Trust Company: 'Downfall'

                She knew what options were left to her and in those last few seconds that remained for her to chose—feeling a large shard of glass slice through her palm—she had made her decision. It was a decision that had ended Lucy's life in that very same moment.

                She remembered how it felt—the cold glass, the warm blood as it rushed from the wound she'd inflicted on another, taking the last vestiges of life with it.

                With increased, painful breaths she dropped the glass in disbelief as she watched the dark eyes of her attacker deaden. She had to work fast to get out of this mess and to help the others. But, the startling reality was, she couldn't move. She was paralyzed with the gravity of it. She was a murderer.

                It was eerie to see her own eyes, her face on one of the people she'd hated most. She was almost relieved for a second that she'd killed this woman—a woman famous for killing so many.

                She picked up a piece of glass, mirror that had shattered at her feet, surveying her own reflection. She had adopted the dark, merciless eyes, upturned and heavily lined and dark Russian features. She had become Elena Vassikin and Elena was dead.

                She allowed herself a small, mirthless laugh at the irony of the situation: she was the one to blame for her own death, yet she would be the only one to walk out of here alive. Lucy was dead. Elena was dead—Imogen alone had survived.

                She bent and plucked the knife from Elena's lifeless hand—the knife that was to be her end.

                With one bloody hand, Imogen as Elena, stashed the knife inside her cloak (the cloak that had belonged to Elena).

                One last look around the room afforded Imogen the chance to pray to whoever might hear her, "God be with me. God be with my friends," she wiped a tear from her cheek and turned the knob, "Have the grace to spare them from this scene," she finished as her eyes lingered on her handy work. Only Lucy lay lifeless on the floor in a pool of blood. She desperately hoped that Draco would not stumble upon this sight. She would spare him from it if she could.

                She shut the door and walked briskly up the hall to fulfill the role that was expected of Elena. She didn't want to bring suspicion upon the others unnecessarily and so acted her part.

                "It is done, my lord," she announced as she came into the hall where she met the two men that she had always feared the most.

                Tom turned, looking hassled but clam at the same time and nodded.

                Lucius Malfoy was with him. His eyes lingered disdainfully on her crimson stained hands.

                Her first impulse was to hide the incriminating stains in the folds of her cloak. She was thoroughly ashamed of the violent act she had just committed—but Elena would have been proud of her latest kill, she reminded herself. She stayed her shaking hands and moved further into the room, reminding herself that Elena walked with purpose, not intimidated by these two. She was their equal in evil genius.

                Imogen almost smiled at just how untrue that truth was at this particular moment.            

                "What troubles you, my lord?" Imogen asked, moving toward Tom to accept the arm that he offered her.

                "Lucius has lost me my sacrifice, his son Draco as well as my treasure, the seer," he bit off this answer as if wishing to say more, but he didn't.

                Imogen's heart leapt at the news. Draco and Ginny had gotten out. It was the hopeful news that she was longing for and doubting at the same time. She knew also that it was hopeless to try an escape. They couldn't walk out over the bridge. It was certainly guarded. There were wards to prevent Apparating.

                They were still in the fortress somewhere.

                "I will find them, my lord," Imogen offered under the intense glare of Lucuis. She knew that he no more wanted his son in the hands of the Dark Lord than she did. He wanted no immortality for his master. In fact, Imogen knew that he had plans to end his master's life tonight, placing himself in the seat of power. He had his own agenda to attend to. Voldemort was certainly a large obstacle, quickly removed, on the road to his own goals and ambitions.

                "Oh, I know where it is they have gone. Can you have no guess?" Tom waited for the idea to come to her.

                Imogen only shook her head.

                "Elena, my dear. They have gone after the little one. But as you have just informed me, young Miss Malfoy is no more." He turned and smiled slyly at Lucius who betrayed no surprise. "Yes, I used her to motivate him."

                "Very clever," Lucius said in a bored tone.

                Imogen would have cried if she were free to do so. The exchange was heartbreaking. They talked of Lucy as if she were nothing. Whether she lived or died meant nothing to either of them. At least it should have meant something to her father.

                But he care nothing for her. Imogen knew that.

                With Lucius and Tom, Imogen traced her steps back to the very room she had previously escaped from, dreading what she would find there—praying that she had the strength to keep in character. It would be hard not to confess everything, to lessen the pain of the people she loved, the people who were now standing in the broken glass of the shattered mirror, looking on in surreal disbelief as Draco cradled his dead sister.

                They had found her. Imogen was condemned in that moment.

                She heard none of the snide repartee that passed between Tom and Ron. It only registered later, as if in hindsight, that there was something terribly wrong with Ginny. As Ron argued with Tom, she lay quite still in his arms—a sort of grim copy of the other pair of siblings in the room. It hadn't occurred to her then that Ginny might be in grave peril.

                Act your part, she urged herself. It was of the utmost importance to keep Elena's character and habits.

                The Lestranges entered the room, seizing hold of Ron, wrenching Ginny from his grasp.  Hermione made a movement toward him only to be roughly detained by a cloaked figure.

                Imogen had formed a sort of half-plan in her fuzzy and guilty mind. She had to get to Harry if she intended to help them out of here. She failed at saving Lucy, but she could still save him—not that playing the martyr would redeem her.

                She betrayed the smallest of sobs as Harry glared at her. She grabbed his wrist roughly, pinning his arm behind his back. Elena wasn't that intimidating in stature, but she was certainly as tall as him. In any case, he didn't seemed eager to put up a fight. It was the first moment that Imogen suspected Lucy's death had crippled him.

                Draco, laying Lucy aside, seething with rage followed Tom willingly from the room. The rest, prisoners and captives followed behind.

                The determination that set his jaw and the murderous intent that glinted in his eyes made Imogen shutter. Draco looked more like his father than she had ever seen him look.

She prayed.

She asked for determination and strength. She didn't know how much longer she could hold on. Her knees felt weak and every step was becoming arduous. She was running on less than two hours sleep.

"Is that blood on your hands Lucy's or have you killed more innocent people tonight that you can count? Hard to keep track after a while isn't it?" Harry shot scathingly over his shoulder.

Imogen's heart sank painfully. He would never understand. She knew that he was speaking to Elena—but he was somehow speaking to her as well. He would never forgive her for this, she dreaded it with every step she took. She had to believe there was a hope of his understanding, or she couldn't have gone on.

It wouldn't help to explain that the blood on her hands was her own, coming from  deep wound on her palm. She told him to keep walking and shoved him roughly onward.

In the ceremony hall, lined with Medieval weaponry of all kinds, Imogen thanked God for her fortune. There seemed to be no place more conducive for an all out brawl that this one. She watched as each captive was tied.

She bound Harry's wrists together, tying him to a pillar next to Ginny, careful to leave the knot inconspicuously loose.

She looked at Ginny, careful to keep indifference on her face. She didn't look good. She was slumping. Her bonds were the only thing holding her up.

She looked to Draco who seemed to give Ginny's condition a moment's thought as well, before being presented with the sword of Gryffindor.

Imogen tried not to watch. She knew it was an unequal match in Lucius' favor. She only hoped Draco could handle his own while she worked from the outside.

Even though her joints were painfully stiff, she moved as deftly and silently as possible, knife out—ready to strike.

The large troll of a Death Eater, stood with his back to her, anticipating the parley that was to take place between Draco and his father. He hadn't the chance to cry out as Imogen leapt onto his back dragging the blade across his neck. She cringed as she felt the soft flesh of his neck and the arteries beyond that give way under the sharp blade. Again, the warm, familiar feeling of blood washing over her hands greeted her. She had killed twice. This time it wasn't in self-defense.

She leapt off of his back and jumped to the side to avoid the crushing impact of his body as it hit the floor.

No one heard.

Harry had freed himself from the ill tied bonds. He had the sword of Gryffindor. Hermione and Ron were free and were freeing Ginny at that moment. Draco was dodging the advances of his father. Voldemort—Tom, was cowering like a trapped snake against his precious assurances of life immortal.

Imogen fought the urge to jump into the fray and help. But, she had to work under the assurances that her friends could save themselves from this point.

She had to get the wards up.

Running as fast as her tired limbs could carry her, she dodged in and out of rooms, looking for the bloody idol. She knew that Ravenclaw's castle contained a ward protection in an ancient runic idol—a sort of pagan crucifix.

She noted with a half-interest that the Lestranges had ducked out the front entrance. She wondered how far they would get before they were hunted as traitors. She knew, pessimistically, that not every evil person would perish here tonight. And certainly both of them would hunt traitors down outright.

Then she saw it. The idol was in a small antechamber off of the main entrance. She ran toward it—not knowing how else to disarm it, she flung herself at it, knocking it to the ground. It smashed and the foundations shuddered. The charm had lifted.

Before she had the chance to turn around, she heard the entrance doors crash open. Urgent footsteps exited the fortress.

She hoisted herself wearily from the ground. She was nearly spent. Her legs were wobbly.

She came out into the hallway, the enormous oak doors, the entrance to Ravenclaw's keep were flung wide open crashing against the stone walls in the driving wind and rain. Out on the bridge she could barely make out Ron and Hermione, carrying a frightfully lifeless Ginny.

Draco and Harry were not with them.

She realized this almost the same instant that they came hurtling around the corner, the crackling of flames and the roar of collapsing masonry registering in her hearing.

The structure was caving.

They would be buried in a matter of minutes if they didn't get out now.

Harry was still carrying the sword and, though she deserved any revenge he might feel inclined to exact upon her, she cowered back into the wards chamber and waited for them to exit ahead of her.

The crash just outside of her door soon afterward told that the entrance had been caved in—her way was blocked.

Trapped, frightened and weary, Imogen gave it all up for lost and slumped against the wall. Her legs were unable to support her any more and she sat hard on the ground. She would die and she deserved nothing less.

But the thought that she still had a job to do, family to take care of, friends to watch out for, prompted her forward. She couldn't leave Draco alone. She couldn't allow Harry to shoulder all of the guilt of Lucy's death, she didn't even know whether Ginny would make it. She had to keep going. It was selfish of her to give up, she scolded herself.

She nearly gagged on the stifling amount of smoke permeating the air, ash was falling from the rafters as they were slowly being consumed in the spreading inferno.

Her eyes burned, but she could see through the thickening blanket of black a small window on the north wall of the room. She guessed her chances were better in braving the chill waters of the loch than the fire and smoke of her current hell.

She closed her eyes and jumped.

She felt her stomach lurch with the fall.

Flinging her arms and legs out to stop her descent, she gasped and jumped up. She blinked, startled to find herself on a plush couch. A warm fire crackled in the grate next to her.

Draco eyed her suspiciously from a green velvet chair in the corner.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked, almost laughing at her reaction.

"Nothing—dream," she muttered, mortified to have a witness to her private insanity, "don't stare at people while they're sleeping. Don't you come with any manners?"

"I don't have a practical use for them," he admitted.

"Oh, but clearing a liquor cabinet in two hours has its practical uses?" she asked sarcastically, scanning her scarred palm. It was a reminder that that whole frightening scene was real and ever present. She was still paying for her actions of that night. And she would continue to pay until she could find something incriminating enough to send another to Azkaban in her place.

"Sometimes," Draco agreed. "I need you to do something for me," he added, treating the matter as if she had already agreed to be party to his plans.

"What do I look like to you? Your bloody go-to girl?" Imogen asked, sitting up and rubbing her back, wincing.

Draco shrugged, "Of course you do," he smiled, "take this to Ginny."

Imogen eyed the bronze Pensieve incredulously. "No way in hell!" she exclaimed. "You make up with your girlfriend without me, if you don't mind."

"Imogen!" Draco implored.

"No," she answered.

"Imogen, Immy. Be a friend. Do this one thing for me. Just this once. I don't want to see her and I don't want this piece of junk." Draco whined. He was no good at it. He looked ridiculous when he begged.

"You're such a child. Why the hell can't you…" she paused and her heart leapt, "Oh shit!"

Her eyes widened comically and Draco looked at her has if she were a mental patient.

"What?" he asked.

"What day is it?" she asked, panicked, jumping to her feet.

"What day is it?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Hmm…I'm not quite sure I know the answer to that question," he teased, holding out the Pensieve as she rushed at him, very harassed.

"You fucking bastard! What day is it?" she asked grabbing wildly at his robes pulling him from the back of his chairs by the collar.

He laughed. "Take this to Ginny," he demanded.

She released him and snatched the centuries old artifact from his hands resignedly.

"Saturday," he chimed, "one-sixteen in the afternoon," he offered further, consulting his watch, "or maybe it's Tuesday," his smile widened into a sly grin.

She shoved him back against his chair, shaking her head. She headed for the common room entrance and added just before leaving, "You're such a jackass, Draco."

"Ah, but I'm a jackass with an incredible wit and stylish shoes," he amended.

***

 "That still doesn't matter," Sirius said, scanning a letter from Jill Parry, Dept. For Experimental Charms. She was one of their insiders in the Ministry and a dear friend of Arabella's from school.

"Why doesn't it?" Arabella shot back vehemently, "He aided in the downfall of Voldemort same as Harry and his friends. Your judgment is clouded when it comes to Peter. You are hell bent on avenging people who don't want avenging. Stop being such a noble idiot and help your friend. He still is your friend after all," Arabella lectured.

"Huh, would you look at the time. I'm late. I wouldn't want to keep Jill waiting," Sirius said as a means of extracting himself from another one of their now famous rows. Every conversation they'd had lately seemed to come back to Peter and it always ended with shouting.

Sirius was in too good of a mood for shouting. He'd been long in beating around the bush with Jill. Since Dumbledore had put him in contact with her back in the summer of ninety-four he'd been immediately attracted to her. Never having had the talent of picking his moments, Sirius had let several opportunities pass him by.

Jill ended up making the first move, embarrassingly enough.

He laughed at her none too subtle approach—very like Jill. "I've hired a baby-sitter tonight for Gabriel on the off chance that you've finally found the courage to ask me out to dinner."

He had been so caught off guard by her forwardness that he'd promptly walked into a door.

He'd met Gabriel on a few occasions. He often times accompanied his mother to work as she was alone and didn't trust daycare. She was one of those protective types that barely had a life outside of taking care of her child. Sirius had no desire to pry into her past and so only knew the basics of her husband's death. He had been an Auror and was killed in action. Sirius knew no more than this and never asked questions.

 When the promised baby-sitter canceled and Sirius had offered Harry for the job, her accepting instead of canceling their date offered him the hope that this could evolve into something worth while. The kid turned out to be a four-year-old handful. Sirius was worried how Harry might handle it, never having actually spent so much as five minutes alone with a kid, since he and Dudley were that age. But, to Sirius' great relief, they had become fast friends. Gabriel worshipped Harry as a hero and Harry had found the challenge of watching such a unrelenting ball of energy quite amusing.

Gabriel asked about Harry nearly every time he saw Sirius.

"I bet you don't want to keep her waiting," Arabella peered over the rim of her glasses, knowingly raising her eyebrows at him.

"Bye, Bella," he said in a tone that voiced clearly his impatience for her teasing. He slid his sunglasses on and walked out the door.

"Give my love to Jill and Gabe, dear," she laughed as he shut the door and blocked her comments. She lived to make his life an uncomfortable Purgatory.

Sirius stepped out into the September sun desperate to keep his mind off of Peter for once. He smiled as the tiny sound of a boy's voice called his name.

Gabriel waved excitedly, shouting as his mother wiped ice cream from his mouth. He wiggled in protest as Sirius came up to them. His face, smeared with fudge, gleamed as Sirius high-fived him.

It could really go to one's head, to have the adoration of a four-year old, Sirius thought, over something as trivial as a high-five. But Gabriel loved it.

"Hello," Jill laughed, watching the exchange between her son and Sirius.

"Hi," Sirius offered, a bit shyly. He sat next to Gabe.

He had never been able to keep his eyes off of Jill, since the day he'd met her. She had the short, bobbed hair and dramatic features of Audrey Hepburn. Not only was she beautiful, she was smart. She had amazing resources when it came to spying inside the Ministry. She was one of their most accomplished on the inside. She was singly responsible for the capture of Walden MacNair. And now she was heading up the private investigation into the sympathies and practices of David Torrell, Director of Forces, Dept. of Magical Law Enforcement.

He opened his mouth to say something that would probably have turned out to be an unintelligible disaster, but he was interrupted as Gabriel tugged on his shirt sleeve, jumping up and down sporadically.

"Where is Harry?" he asked eagerly.

Sirius smiled. The charm of such a small and rambunctious boy still hadn't worn off yet. He wasn't even sure that he would ever grow weary of the boy's incessant fidgeting and questions. He found his questions amusing and the fact that he had a question about everything and when Sirius attempted an answer another question would pop up to replace the one he'd asked only seconds before.

"He's at school, mate," Sirius attempted as Jill reached over, removing her son's ice cream sodden hand from Sirius' shirt. She wiped at the stain and muttered an embarrassed apology.

"I already explained it to you, dear. Don't you remember," Jill continued gently, "older boys and girls have to go to school to learn their proper magic and someday you'll go to school just like Harry."

"And I will go to school with Harry?"

Sirius chuckled softly behind his hand as Jill shook her head at her insistent son. "No dear. Harry will be finished with school long before you're old enough to attend," she answered, wiping his hands and removing her wand to clean Sirius' shirt.

***

Imogen hung back for a minute to watch some Gryffindors give the password and enter their common room. It was really a shame how simple it was to trick unsuspecting Gryffindors.

She shook her head. Now she was thinking like a Slytherin. That had to stop immediately. Just because she wore the tie didn't mean she would automatically carry the mantle.

She was glad that it was Saturday, not only because she had been afraid that she'd missed class and work, but because it would be easier to pass through the portrait hole without the conspicuous green and silver stripes to call attention to her.

She came to stand in front a large woman in pink who demanded the password of her.

She gave it with confidence and entered.

There were very few people inside the plush red velvet and gold walled room. Of course there wouldn't be. It was Saturday after all. She noticed with slight indignation that their common room was much nicer than that of her house. For one thing, there were no drippy stone walls and another, it was a vast deal larger. She didn't care though. She didn't even sleep in the Slytherin's quarters. It would be too obvious to everyone if she were coming and going at the odd hours she was accustomed to. Having her duties at the Ministry and going to school took a lot of coordination and she stayed most nights at Arabella's house.

It was lucky for her that she didn't have any dorm mates (the only Slytherin girl in her year) and that she was, for the most part, a loner. No one had noticed her absences thus far.

She looked around for a little bit and debated whether she should ask someone if they knew where she could find Ginny Weasley, but decided against that.

Instead, she climbed a set of stairs at the back of the room, assuming that they lead to the dorms.

She scanned each brass plaque on the door that announced the years and genders of the occupants. "Efficient," she muttered to herself. She was always a fan of the orderly and tidy.

She finally came to a door at the end of a long corridor that announced that it was the sixth year girls that lived here.

She planned on just popping in and dropping the bloody thing on one of the beds. It would find its way from there into its owner's hands, she guessed.

But when she opened the door, she was met with a sight that told her she wasn't alone in the room.

Ginny sat on one of the beds, a large book opened in her lap. She didn't look up but asked in a slightly agitated voice, "I thought you were going to spend your day following Dean around, Nan?" She flipped a page and kept her eyes diverted. Whoever this Nan was, Ginny didn't appear to be too friendly with her.

"I'm not Nan. But I can come back at a better time," Imogen offered. Ginny looked up, shocked to find that it wasn't who she expected.

"Oh! No, I'm sorry I thought—," Ginny began to explain.

"You thought I was some tramp named Nan who stalks a boy named Dean. I got that," Imogen stated.

Ginny closed the book on her lap, a photo album, and looked expectantly at Imogen. She looked as if she was struggling to place her face. Then she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are."

"Imogen Spencer," she said self-consciously. "I have this for you," she added, producing the small bronze Pensieve.

"How did you…?" Ginny asked, astonished.

"Draco.  He asked me to bring it up to you," she added, knowing how lame that sounded. She couldn't help it, those were her orders. Credit for lameness would have to go to Draco for that one.

"He had it and he couldn't give it to me in person?" she wasn't accusing at all, more hurt than offended.

Imogen shrugged and set the Pensieve at the foot of her bed, "He's a pansy-ass coward," she offered simply.

Ginny laughed and picked up the bronze cup, surveying it apprehensively.

Imogen turned to leave. She probably couldn't sleep anymore today, although she desperately wanted to. But she could get some homework done at least.

Ginny stopped her with her hand on the doorknob.

"Wait," she said, suddenly realizing something. "You're the little Slytherin girl. The one that was in the cell next to me in Azkaban."

"Yeah," Imogen said. What a trip down memory lane, she thought, 'we were cell-mates in hell, remember?' She bent to tie her shoelace before leaving.

"Is that a…a Time-Turner?" Ginny asked, amazed when she saw the small piece of jewelry that fell from its hiding place inside Imogen's collar.

"Yes," she answered nervously. No one was supposed to have known about that. She looked to Ginny, knowing she would keep her secret, but panicked just the same.

Ginny eyed the Pensieve for a moment.

Imogen stared at her for the longest moment. "What are you going to do with it?" she asked Ginny out of curiosity.

"I don't know. Write a book," she shrugged sarcastically, a mischievous glint sparkled behind her eyes as she looked up at Imogen.

Imogen stared back, slightly intimidated.

"Do you want to have a little fun, Imogen?" Ginny asked with a grin.