As ever, standard disclaimers apply.
"I haven't lost--" Margaret Sellinger cut herself off. Well, yes she had lost him. She had thought him safely ensconced in a large, impersonal, understaffed, mental institution. Who would have thought some idiot would decide to run a feature on the 'state of mental health care for the indigent in the UK' of all things! "Yes, well. I want him back. It was wizards who took him. Who?"
"Not the ministry. We'd have heard. Fudge would have made a huge example of him, I should think." one of the wizards, a tall ruddy strawberry blond who wore a neatly trimmed beard to offset the growing baldspot at his crown.
"Not necessarily, Raoul" the witch countered. "But that's neither here nor there. She wants the Pureblood back."
"Can't use someone else, I suppose," one of the other wizards, Travers, a steel eyed man with greying sand colored hair and a thin goatee countered. He had his hands in the sleeves of his robes and wasn't drinking the butterbeer in front of him.
"No. No one else. He killed Eric and he will pay. Besides, he's perfect for the project."
"I'm not sure I trust your government to use this... weapon wisely."
"But I'm supposed to trust yours?"
"Point taken, Margaret. But we got him for you once at great risk to ourselves."
"I know. But who else can I turn to? You are-were his friends. And this is as much for Eric as it is for... for the Muggle world."
The witch, a grey eyed blonde, reached out a comforting hand. "For Eric. The inbred bastard deserves whatever the Muggles do to him."
"Alastor is the key. He knows something." Sellinger offered softly, trying to nudge the conversation in a more fruitful direction.
"I agree. He's been terribly active for an old pensioner." Raoul took the bait. "But he's not senile yet and he's got that damnable eye."
"Think of it as a challange, old man!" Travers laughed.
A deep, somber voice overrode the rest. "We'll do it Margaret Alice," the third wizard, who had not yet spoken finally joined the conversation. "For Eric. But you will be indebted to us." He favored her with a cold, steely eyed look. "Eric was my partner and I am ready to make an end of this obligation to his memory. I expect the Pureblood to be destroyed. I want to move on with my life."
"I promise you, Merritt. He will be destroyed." She took the wizard's rough hand in hers and squeezed reassuringly.
"We'll contact you," Raoul assured her.
Margaret left first, returning to the mundane world of Muggle London. The first thing she did was go into the nearest bar and start drinking. Not firewhiskey of course. But Muggle whiskey was good enough. Two men came in and sat down at her table without invitation. 'Preston' and 'Lou.'
"Gentlemen."
"Well?"
"They will contact me. My brother's ex-partner is even more anxious than I to get things moving."
"When they contact you--"
"You will be the first to know." She knew they had bugged her apartment and office and probably her lab as well. She didn't care. Wizards were not going to use the telephone!
The two men rose and left without another word. Margaret waited about ten miunutes, nursing the single shot of liquor, before making her own unhurried exit.
At home, she stripped, letting the blouse and trausers fall where they would on her bedroom floor, then drew a bath, adding a series of salts and scents. Bra and panties came off in the bathroom. She lowered herself slowly into the slightly too hot bath. Once acclimated she relaxed and let her memories flow to the surface of her thoughts, knowing full well it would stir her hatred of the boy who had been allowed to become a man.
--
The Leaky Cauldron was dark and nearly deserted that evening, she remembered. They sat at a table in one of the private rooms, three wizards, a witch, and a muggle, firewhiskeys and other drinks before each one of them. No one was drinking.
"You know we are not supposed to discuss it with you," Travers, a much younger Travers, was saying. he leaned back and Margaret had to notice he seemed relaxed. Was she the only one still mourning Eric's demise? Twenty-two months was a long time but not so long that she had lost any of her passionate grief.
"So his death was connected to his being an Auror?"
"Oh quite, that was never in question, Margaret."
"But you must know these things are rarely made public," Raoul added. "Especially not outside of the wizarding world."
"But you will tell me about it?"
"Merritt will. He was there. We feel you deserve to know." Nyssa, the witch replied.
Merritt, she recalled, arrived very soon after that, looking a tad harried and unusually disheveled. He sat, and gave her a weary yet sympathetic smile. "Margaret. You are well, I hope," he greeted warmly.
She nodded. "As well as I can be."
"Indeed." He leaned forward toward her. "Are you certain you want to know this?"
"Yes! Yes, I need to know! I can't stand it. I must know how he died."
"And who killed him." They had known and not told her! "I should imagine you would like to know that as well. If I thought there would be justice, I'd never tell you. But there won't be. My partner is dead and the killer is going to be let out of Askaban-- Do you know of Azkaban, Margaret?"
She shook her head. She'd worn her hair in a neat bob then and it had danced when she moved.
"It's a wizard prison. Even more isolated than Devil's Island. The worst offenders are sent there. We no longer practice capital punishment, although I would not mind it if we did. But some would say Azkaban makes up for it by being guarded by Dementors." BEfore she could ask he was already explaining, "Dementors have a humanoid appearance in that they have two arms, two legs, head, torso. But they are not human and likely never were. They soak up all but the very worst of the basest emotions. They take the good ones first. Oh yes, and the memories that go with them. Gone. A prisoner is left with only terror and whatever horrors are within themselves. They are, quite effectively, driven completely mad. And then, there is the Kiss. The Dementors Kiss draws out the very soul and leaves behind a shell. Not even the best psychiatrist could bring them back," he sneered.
"If there was justice, that boy would have got the Kiss. As it is, he rots in Azkaban, and not even for that crime, but for another. But it will be only temporary. Albus Dumbledore has seen fit to become involved."
"That name sounds familar... he was a teacher at the wizarding school. How does he matter? What differnce--?"
"When we were there he was Transfiguration professor. He's since become the Headmaster. But he is, in fact, so much more imprtant than that."
Margaret had put two and two together and come up with the wrong answer. "Is he You-Know-Who?" she gasped.
The wizards had all laughed mirthlessly at that. Raoul answered with a shake of his head. "Most assuredly not. But he does poke his nose in where it doesn't belong."
"For all his wisdom and experiance," Travers added ruefully, "He is more than a tad naive."
Merritt retook command of the conversation, "Margaret, there's a war on. A war between good and evil, most certainly. But it is also political. The old families, that is, the old Purebloods, see the rest of us, the Muggle-born, as an infringement on their power. They grow weaker and fewer while we grow stronger and more prolific. I would not begrudge them a place, but not all of them accept this change of fortune."
"Not all the old wizard families, of course," Travers hastened to add, "But the important ones, at least."
"The boy who killed your brother is a Pureblood. With luck and as far as I know, the last of his line. His line is well known for their connections to the Dark Arts -- a vile family if ever there was one. His initiation into the Dark Lord's fold included the murder of your brother. His name, though it will mean nothing to you now, is Severus Snape. Whatever happens, he is who you will want to watch."
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