Disclaimer: All of the standard legal stuff applies. I own only a few characters and some plot. Rowling owns the rest.

Author's Note: If you happen to be slightly confused with regards to Ruthie and Imogen, I'll give you a hint: They are the same person. The rest you have to figure out yourself—sorry. You are very welcome to e-mail me or leave questions in your review if your lost. (Most likely, the fault is mine and I've failed in my number one goal: clearly conveying my story. But there's a twist and so it becomes even more complicated to write). But I will answer to the best of my ability anything you may want to know.

Thank You's go out to:

Oliverwoodsgirl: Thank you for your review. I have to say you are getting very close to figuring Imogen out. Maybe this chapter will point you in the right direction.

Linda: Thank you so much for you interest. Your review made my entire day. Thank you terribly for the kind words and encouragement. I hope that the rest of this story lives up to your expectations.

Kim: I consider this to be some of the least of my work. I am so glad that you enjoyed it. It gives me hope that my chapters to come will keep you reading. Thank you for your very flattering praise.

Chapter Four

Tea And Sympathy

"Not intended

To leave this castle full of empty rooms

Our love the captive in the tower never rescued

And all the victory songs

Seemed to be playing out of tune

Cause it's not the way

That it has to be

Don't trade our love for tea and sympathy

No, it's not the way

That it has to be…"

Jars of Clay: 'Tea and Sympathy'

                Monday morning found Imogen reluctant to wake up and start her monotonous routine all over again. After a week trailing Minister Grey, she was finding nothing that could aid in his demise. He was a straight arrow—or at least he was skilled in playing one.

                It wasn't her Ministry job that she was growing tired of. It was the fact that when her work there was done, she would have to start the entire day over, going to her remedial classes at Hogwarts as a student.

                She wasn't forced to attend Hogwarts though. It was her choice—her condition, really. She felt that she must stay there, if only to keep an eye on Draco. He seemed content to drink himself into destruction and that worried her enough to make the concession worthwhile. Pulling double duty was worth it to remain his voice of reason and guardian. And whether he would admit it or not, a guardian was exactly what he needed.

                She rolled over on her side, yawning and sluggish and picked up the bracelet that she always carried with her. She opened one of the small compartments—the blue sapphire one—and popped the pill it concealed without the aid of water. To most people that would seem disgusting, but it was survival. She had to learn to get along with very little. There was at least two occasions she could remember when there was no water at hand and she had to keep replenishing the potion in her veins to maintain her identity.

                Now she was into the habit of always swallowing them dry.

                She replaced the bracelet on the nightstand and pulled the covers back over her head. It would take a moment or two for the pill to course through her veins and she was eager to catch what little sleep time remained to her.

                Ten minutes or so later, her internal clock told her that she needed to get up finally. She pulled at her hair, satisfied to find it had turned auburn. She was Ruthie.

                Kicking the covers off of her, the joints in her legs stiff from disuse, Imogen stood and stretched her back. Her back always hurt, but she was getting better at ignoring it.

                She opened the door and padded across the hall to the bathroom. The house was quiet. Either Arabella wasn't up yet or she had gone into the office early—both were likely.

                She showered, changed and covered up the circles under her eyes with makeup. She surveyed her appearance. Ruthie, she considered, was one of her prettiest identities. She loved acting this role far more than her others. Although Imogen had the most fun, she was also the most plain of all of them.

                She shrugged, surveying her appearance once more in the mirror and left the house, walking the few blocks to the Underground.

***

                Harry knew Ron was angry with him. The silent treatment really wasn't necessary.

                He was in the hall, just outside of McGonagall's classroom walking at Hermione's side quietly. They were all quiet. It seemed that no one had anything to say to the other.

                Hermione had tried to stimulate conversation at breakfast, but seemed disappointed when all she got was non-committal noises and one-word answers from him. But Ron was worse. He hadn't even opened his mouth and only glared at Harry.

                They took their usual seats at the back of the room, but didn't even have time to pull out their books and notes when Professor McGonagall's voice summoned them to the front of the room.

                "Miss Granger, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. May I see the three of you for a minute?" she asked, staring over her spectacles at them as she walked past the rows of desk and out into the hall.

                The three of them looked briefly at each other and followed.

                "Professor Dumbledore has returned just last night and has expressed an urgent need to speak to the three of you in his office. You are excused from class, but come directly back when you are finished," she said with rigid posture and hands folded properly in front of her, "Do you understand?"

                Three mechanically nodding heads answered her and said, "yes, Professor."

                They followed her back into the classroom to collect their things. They were silent and asked no questions of each other.

                Harry was beginning to feel uneasy about this impending meeting. It was the same as it always had been: Horrifying experience, loss of more people he cared about and then the sterile and mechanical recounting of it all. Dumbledore would nod sympathetically and then impart some crystals of wisdom so that everyone could grow from the experience. Harry didn't want to grow from it, he thought angrily. It was bad enough that he had survived it. And now to relive it—he regretted that Ron and Hermione were being put through it all as well. In the past, Harry would have to face meetings like this alone and now they were subject to it as well. The old familiar feeling of having brought this on them all came back to Harry with uncomfortable clarity.

                He heaved his bag onto his shoulder and filed out behind his silent friends and left the classroom.

                In the hall, just below the stairs, Ginny caught up with them.

                "Do you know what he wants with all of us?" she asked timidly, she seemed to have already guessed.

                "He wants to interrogate us about what happened in Ireland," Harry answered blandly.

                Ginny gave an involuntary shudder and stared forlornly at the ground in front of her feet. Harry imagined that if there were anyone more reluctant to relive the events of the past summer than him it would probably be her.

                Ron, walking beside her, placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and in a reassuring voice said, "He won't make you talk if you don't want to, Gin. Besides, we'll all be there with you."

                She half smiled at his attempts but kept her eyes glued to the ground.

***

                Draco sat frowning, hands folded on his lap, staring blankly at the Headmaster as he spoke.

                He had been slightly surprised to see him in this condition. Whatever thoughts the Headmaster had conjured in his mind, weak was never one of them. And yet, as he stood and Draco had entered his office, the sight of Professor Dumbledore leaning on a cane and limping gave him the pathetic air of weakness—senility even.

                "Professor Snape has informed me of your decision regarding the position of Head Boy," Dumbledore said in a weary voice.

                "I have turned it down."

                "I don't want to know your reasons. They are your own and you may keep them if you wish," he paused and stared at Draco in a way that unnerved him, "But I do hope that your decision was based on your own expectations and choices and no other outside factors."

                "Outside factors?" Draco asked, feeling a little put upon. In his nearly seven years at school here, the Headmaster had not been remotely interested in his motives, choices or decisions. The loss of nearly his entire family within roughly the past three years was no call to be so now.

                "Like your father, Draco," Dumbledore answered plainly.

                He merely stared.

                "I mean only to council you to live for yourself and not for others," the Headmaster finished, sensing Draco's unease with the subject of his father.

                "There is no one else besides me now is there?" he pointed out a little scathingly. He knew what the Headmaster was getting at and he was just being obtuse for his own amusement—and to put off the inevitable discussion of his sister.

                Conversation began to follow that path and Draco began to dread every syllable. He hardly heard the old man's words and stared distractedly at the large Boarhound asleep by the desk, unable to look into the compassionate blue eyes that were leveled at him. He didn't want compassion—not from someone who didn't know him, didn't know Lucy.

                He nodded and made non-committal noises and that seemed to satisfy the Headmaster.

                A knock at the door brought sweet reprieve and Draco was glad for the distraction until he saw whom it was that had knocked.

                The first image to assault his eyes was Ron. Then Hermione and Harry appeared behind him. Last and worst of all, Ginny came uncertainly into the office.

                His first thought was how long could he stay in this room and remain cold and aloof—it was never easy with her there. He was feeling acutely how bad things were when she was there. But for some stubborn and unnamed reason, he couldn't face her—couldn't talk to her. He'd behaved so badly before and apologies were never his forte. Besides, he countered reasonably, he wasn't even sure how she felt. They hadn't really gotten that far over the summer. He had hoped that she felt something for him but at the same time wouldn't let himself entertain the fact that he'd felt anything for her. When she had been taken this summer it had put everything into stark perspective for him and he felt he would do anything to get her back—give anything. As it turns out, he had to give up his sister—the one person whose love he was sure of, whom he could count on. And now that it was all over, he wasn't sure if he would have agreed to such a sacrifice. He just wasn't sure about anything and that frightened him a bit.

                Noting the dull indifference that clouded her eyes and masked her usually animated expression was cause for alarm as well. Out of the corner of his eye he noted her alterations with mild curiosity and concern. It was probably just guilt, he reasoned. He tried to occupy himself with internal criticism for the group that loitered before him. Harry and Hermione sat beside him in the plush leather chairs across from the Headmaster's desk—he tried to pay little attention to them.

                Ron was out of his range of vision and lurked annoyingly somewhere behind his chair.

                Ginny sat by the window, somewhat apart from the group, grave and nervous. She didn't want to be here any more than he did.

                "I have had the official reports while I was deterred in the hospital," Professor Dumbledore began in a solemn tone, "But I would appreciate some clarity on a few points that only those involved in the incident can provide. If you are willing, I would like to hear from the beginning what exactly happened inside of Ravenclaw's castle that night."

                He waited for objections and when he got none he moved on. "Starting with my Casualty Ward neighbor," he continued with a sympathetic wink toward Ginny who jumped slightly as if coming out of a daze.

                Casualty Ward? Draco thought with a rather unkind inward smirk, she would start with recognition at that. She must be in and out of there more often than Potter was in and out of the Hogwarts Infirmary. Probably another failed attempt at suicide. What would that bring her current record up to? He wondered.

                Dumbledore continued. "How did your visions come about? What was the nature of them? What did they reveal to you?"

                She shifted uncomfortably at this.

                Draco saw Ron move toward his sister and take her hand as she attempted to answer.

                "I guess it started around the beginning of my fourth year," she began uncertainly.

                "Two years," Dumbledore stated flatly.

                Ginny's head shot guiltily upward in reply, as if this were some sort of accusation.

                "I," she began again. Her chest was rising and falling with short, agitated breaths. "I didn't know what they were at first. But it was sort of like dreaming—only sometimes I was awake," she admitted, returning her eyes to the floor.

                "A trance," Dumbledore informed her.

                She seemed uncomfortable with the terminology. Draco couldn't blame her for that—it was a freakish gift and he'd wondered how she got along with something like that. The answer seemed to be not very well.

                The Headmaster left Ginny for a while, questioning the others in turn. Draco had been called upon to lend information about his father's involvement and anything helpful that Voldemort may have said while he was in the room with them.

                Hermione's account of the dark and dangerous Elena Vassikin gave him a start. Draco new that there was nothing redeemable about that woman. She was his father's mistress. Openly. While his mother was still alive. They all knew about her. It was she whom his father had commissioned to kill his sister.

                And yet, as Hermione told it, it sounded as though they owed their escape to her. She had loosened Harry's restraints, killed the guard and who knows what else—according to Hermione.

                He would have to think this over on his own before he could subscribe to such a wild stretch.

                He knew her and knew that nothing interested her that didn't involved brutal murder. What would have been her motives in setting them free? He couldn't guess.

                Harry gave a reluctant account of Voldemort's death as Draco stared at his watch.

                He knew what would follow. Lucy.

                So far the Headmaster had been careful not to mention her in front of this group, but conversation turned that way before Draco had expected it.

                Again, Dumbledore's attention turned to Ginny who was ringing her hands—waiting for the inevitable topic as well. 

                "And how was it discovered that the Ravenclaw heir was Miss Malfoy?" he asked, looking toward Ginny.

                Ginny dared a brief glance at Draco, glaring back at her. She dropped her gaze to the ground once more and swallowed hard.

                Draco would not feel any sympathy for her. Her fear had delivered his sister into the hands of his all too willing father and to Voldemort. It was, for the most part, on her conscience that Lucy's death would rest.

                He suddenly realized that he didn't want to hear her answer. She could say nothing, he imagined, that would convince him of her innocence.

                As she seemed to struggle for the words to say, Draco got up quickly from his chair in front of Dumbledore's desk and made a direct path for the door.

                He wouldn't dare chance a look at the expression they all must have worn. He knew they all loathed him for walking out like this. But he wouldn't stick around to hear the particulars of his sister's death discussed by strangers. He just wouldn't.

                Without a word he shut the door behind him, leaving the do-gooders to explain away Lucy's death as they wished.

                He just wouldn't be an audience to it.

***

                Imogen sat in the sterile, scrubbed cafeteria of the Ministry across the table from one of Sirius' contacts. Jill was an incredibly beautiful woman with a kind face and a patient air.

                She must need all of her patience, Imogen reasoned. Her son was a rambunctious ball of energy that never ceased. But he was adorable.

                She watched with a smile as he played in the food on his mother's tray and his own as his mother talked with her, intermittently removing his hands from the food and wiping them clean.

                She explained that she sometimes had to bring him in with her when his regular sitter canceled. She didn't seem too inconvenienced by his presence though. Imogen watched with wonder, as she seemed to tend to his needs and carry on with her job in a practiced grace born of practice.

                She'd never been around children herself. But Imogen was nevertheless charmed by this one.

                Gabriel was his name. But an angel he was not—that was probably why Imogen liked him so much.

                "So, Ruthie," Jill began again after wrestling her son back into his chair and wiping his face. "How did you enjoy your first week here at the Ministry?"

                Imogen smiled. "It was tons of fun. I have to say that all of my nerves and apprehensions about the job seem unfounded now. I love it."

                She nodded and put a hand over Gabriel's mouth as he began to bark loudly in imitation of a dog.

                Imogen laughed despite his mother's displeasure with his scene.

                "He is too adorable," Imogen said "Does he bear more of a resemblance to your husband? His hair is too dark to have come from your share of the genes."

                Jill laughed. "No, we adopted Gabriel from a children's home on the East End. But he does share his father's knack for drawing attention to himself," she added as Gabriel was turned around in his seat blowing kisses to a group of women seated a few tables away.

                "I used to do some charity work for children's homes in the city. Maybe I know the one that Gabriel came from," Imogen said.

                "St. Michael's. Are you familiar with it?"

                Imogen's blood ran cold for a fraction of a second. Yes she'd heard of it before, but not from her charity work. It was the orphanage that Tom Riddle, Jr. had been raised in. "No, I'm sorry to say that it doesn't ring a bell," she lied.

                Jill shrugged. "We began searching for a child about six months after we were married, John and I. We went to St. Michael's and he was standing in the hallway when we came in," she smiled sadly, "he was just over a year old at the time. We fell in love with him immediately."

                "How lovely," Imogen said with a smile. "He must know what an incredibly lucky boy he is," she said through her laughter as the four-year old climbed into her lap and began to play with a tomato in her salad.

                "No, John and I were the lucky ones," Jill said.

                "I should say so," Imogen managed as Gabriel was trying to feed the tomato to her, saying, "Eat Ruthie, eat."

                Imogen ate the tomato he offered her with exaggerated gobble noises that made him squeal with laughter.

                "You know," she said, "I would be happy to watch him any time your regular sitter cancels."

                Jill crossed her arms and smirked. "Okay, how about right now? I can't get anything done in the office with him there."

                "That's fine," Imogen answered Jill, "As long as you don't mind sorting mail, Gabe."

                Gabriel jumped up and down in Imogen's lap shouting, "Sporting Mail! Sporting Mail!"

                "Well, then I'll be getting back to my desk." Jill stood.

                "I'll have him back to you by five-thirty," Imogen said with a wave as Gabriel blew kisses to his mother's retreating form.

***

                Ginny fought against tears. She had appeared weak too often in the past month or so as to make it almost shameful to her. She wouldn't cry now. She had to show everyone present that she could take care of herself. She appreciated it, but their fierce protection of her was not necessary.

                She knew that Draco had not forgiven her and so made no illusions that he would when she saw him today. But she hadn't been prepared for his dramatic exit. It seemed to say all that there was left to admit between the two of them. It was over. He wanted nothing more to do with her.

                "You have acted very bravely, Miss Weasley," Dumbledore added after she had finished recounting the last events of her captivity. She wasn't looking for gratitude or sympathy and so made no reply.

                "Miss Malfoy's death was not your doing. It takes a strong person to have lasted as long as you did under their methods. I dare say it was difficult to hide your knowledge of her under the influence of such a high dosage of Veritas Serum. And even more of a miracle that you survived on top of it all."

                Ginny solemnly nodded.

                As the meeting mercifully concluded, the Headmaster asked Harry to stay behind a moment.

                Harry nodded as Ron and Hermione said they would wait outside for him and Ginny quickly hurried out without a word to any of them and disappeared down the hall. Harry held no illusions that it was due to her eagerness to return to class.

                Harry remained seated and staring at the Headmaster as the door closed and they were left alone.

                "I have something for you," the Headmaster said, a twinkle of his old self shone just below the surface of the world-weariness that now clouded his once youthful appearance. "Actually, two things," he amended.

                "Firstly, I commend you on a burglary well executed. Ron, Hermione and yourself make a fine team."

                Harry furrowed his brow, unsure of what the professor had meant by this.

                He brought out the ruby encrusted sword with the engraved name of Godric Gryffindor running up the blade. Harry nodded. Dumbledore was complimenting them on the job they did getting at his sword.

                "It's rightfully yours, Harry," Dumbledore said holding the magnificent piece of weaponry out for him to take.

                Harry did reluctantly stand and take the sword.

                "And," Dumbledore continued, "Hagrid wanted you to have Fang."

                Harry looked down at the forlorn dog in front of the fire. He seemed sad that his master and friend was gone. They all missed Hagrid and felt his absence acutely.

                "You may keep him in the castle if you like, that is, if you wish to keep him at all."    

                Harry's head snapped up from where he was lost in thought, staring at the sad and depressed hound. They were two of a kind, really. He felt a wave of gratitude toward the Headmaster for giving him Fang. Of course he wanted to keep him.

                "Yes, thank you Professor," was Harry's stunned reply.

                "Good. Everything settled then?"

                Harry nodded calling Fang to him. The Boarhound got lazily to his feet but wagged his tail energetically at him.

                "You may return to class now, Harry. And thank you for sharing your story with me. I know it had to have been hard for you all. And I wouldn't for anything ask you to relive it if it wasn't important."

                "Goodbye Professor," Harry said and left the office with Fang and Gryffindor's sword.

***

                Imogen sorted the Minister's mail while Gabriel lay sprawled on the office's carpeted floor, surprisingly quiet. His tongue protruded from his mouth with intense concentration as he set himself to the task of drawing Mrs. Milton a picture.

                The Minister's secretary, Evelyn Milton, was enchanted by the adorable little creature and took on a rather grandmotherly air around him, where she was stern and official with most everyone else.

                Imogen sat thinking distractedly about her last trip through the Pensieve with Ginny and the scene that they had witnessed. Ginny seemed to have been taken in by the details and had new resolve to tell the story that the Founders had never had the chance to tell themselves.

                What Imogen found curious about the scene was Isaiah's need to have his father's sword back. Cost what it will, Isaiah seemed determined to the point of murder.

                Indeed, had the others, Galahad, Maren, Mungo and Azria, not been present to defuse the situation she was sure that he would have killed Faramir, desecrating the wishes of his father that the sword remain with his squire.

                If Ginny were going back into the Pensieve, Imogen wanted to go as well. She had an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling about this sword of Gryffindor. She didn't know what sort of consequences this curiosity would have. But then again, how could she have known what sort of trouble she would fall into and what sort of destruction she would help the wizarding world to avoid.

                She was no divine seer like Ginny.

                She relied on intuition only.

                "Come on Gabriel," she said, placing the last of the mail in its appropriate spot and grabbing her bags. "It's time I got you back to your mother."

                Gabriel stood, handing her a scribbled up piece of paper proudly.

                Imogen beamed as she looked at the nonsense picture he displayed and took it, placing it carefully in her cloak pocket, treasuring it and thanking her newest little friend.

                She hadn't even known this kid for more than a day and already she had fallen in love with him.

                He was such a little charmer, she thought with a smile and he followed behind her.

                She had hold of one small hand and the other went to his mouth as he blew kisses to Mrs. Milton.

                Downstairs, her good mood seemed likely to be shot to hell as she met an obstacle in the form of Roger Davies.

                "Ruthie James," he said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair, "I knew you would be back. Can't resist me, can you?"

                Gabriel ran across the lobby and into his mother's office as Imogen leaned against Roger's desk and crossed her arms in front of her.

                "Yes. I just can't sleep at night, I think about you so much. I want you. I need you," she said in a flat tone. She leveled her sage eyes at him as he laughed at her sarcasm.

                "You still don't want to have dinner with me some time?" he asked, digging for some sort of positive sign from her.

                "No, Roger. I don't want to have dinner with you," she replied plainly.

                "Why not? What is it about me that you don't like? I can change. I would change for you, Ruthie James," he pleaded.

                She laughed at how openly pathetic he was. She didn't have the heart to tell him that his efforts would always remain fruitless. Did he know that he was pursuing a fourteen-year-old girl in vain?

                "I like mine with green eyes, Roger. I'm sorry," she answered with a smile.

                "But I have lovely blue eyes. Everyone tells me how I remind them of Frank Sinatra," he smiled and raised his eyebrows.

                "I somehow don't find that to be a logical connection."

                "Why not?" Roger said, leaning forward.

                "He was famous for his beautiful eyes and yours are nothing remarkable," she answered pushing away from his desk and walking toward the large doors to the street. "Have a nice evening, Roger," she added over her shoulder.

                "I'll wear you down Ruthie James!" he yelled after her, "You can't hold out forever. No one's resolve is that strong."

                "Let's see shall we?" she called and then disappeared out the doors and around the corner.