A/N: Hmm... regrettably short chapter, that last one. It was simply finished; what can you do? Well, this one at least has a weightier wordcount. By a little. I'm a fan of dragging out of suspense. Or lazy.

On another note, terribly sorry for the delay, here. Intense and extended computer failure.

It was clear that no further details of what had actually happened were forthcoming. Albus tried another approach. "So, what'd you do?"

"He saw I weren't—Weren't helpin' none, an' took me aside a bit. He said, uh, that I, shouldn't feel, erm, misguided sympathy fer the obligations forced on me, an', eh, that I oughta embrace m'pure an sacred blood. An' like that. Took me a bit afore I realized he meant the family." Hector paused to stare vacantly into space, a more pained expression than usual on his face. He didn't even seem to be looking at Ogden's best. "I love my Elsie. I wuddn'a done what I done in the first place if I didn't. An' the brats... They're mine, y'know. I may not'a done too well by 'em, but they're my kids. I love 'em."

Hector paused too long, and Lucretia obviously couldn't help herself. "Fine job you've done of it."

Aware of Hector's basic impulse to injure grieviously anyone who upset him, Albus stepped in. "Please, Longbottom."

"Naw, she's right." With a throaty half-sob, he went on. "S'only thanks to that boy o' hers that mine's turnin' out a bit o' decent. Anyhow, that's what I told him. Never saw anyone look that... I was scared t'death o' him. Him as I've known these twenty years at least. Hell, I just got outta there. He yelled after me... Well, not even yelled... He said there's no hidin' from Lord Voldemort, an' I'll rue the day I betrayed m'own blood. Hell, he always talks like that, but it scart me good that time."

Albus was moved as much as triumphant, but kept his head. "This meeting is hereby adjourned. We'll discuss further as soon as possible."

"So now it's a meeting? Shouldn't meetings have cookies?" Skye looked around, apparently pleased at being the only one in the room callous enough to be flippant. He shrugged and filed out with the others, though his voice echoed irritatingly as he left, exchanging noisy pleasantries with Aberforth.

Albus looked back around to Hector. "How do you plan to get home?"

"Uh... Dunno." Hector shrugged. "Broom finally fell apart on me. Can't apparate, y'know that. Can I borrow a fist o' floo powder?"

"Yes." Albus pulled a jar from the mantle. "And, in fact, I'll come with you. I'd like a word with Oran."

With another shrug, Hector tossed too much floo powder onto the fire. "Number twenty-seven, Privet Drive." Albus followed.

His first impression was simply of an incredibly dingy kitchen that smelled rather strongly of mildew and horklumps. Stepping out of the hole in the wall that served as a fireplace, he was about to call Oran's name when a strangled scream echoed from the other room. Albus drew his wand and dashed through the empty doorframe.

All he took in was Hector, leaning over a dark form. "Lumos." The room snapped into view.

Corpses. Five of them. Collapsed across a broken chair, spine at an impossible angle, was a short, clean shaven, respectable version of Hector, his wand (twelve inches, aspen, fairly whippy, equipped with a fine Opaleye's heartstings) several feet away. Oran's daughter, Maeve, lay nearby, in a pool of her own blood, face obscured by a magnificent mane of brown hair and the scattered splinters of what had once been her wand. Almost indistinguishable, spitting images of their father, Marcus and Tulius had fallen side by side, whereas in life they'd been ever at odds, if their school careers were any indication. Their sister, Julia, appeared to have fallen down the stairs, presumably in pursuit of something. She wasn't known to have ever fled anything in her nineteen years.

In Hector's arms lay Elsie. His incoherent sobbing made the spectacle hard to miss. Trying to control himself, Albus counted off. There were a few missing, assuming Oran's wife, Dierdre, hadn't also been present. Afraid of what he might find, Albus skulked up the stairs. The hall he found was as decrepit as the rest of the house.

Of the three he saw he saw, one door was missing, one was hanging open, and one had Dierdre Snape slumped against it, unconscious but breathing shallowly. Relieved but slightly numbed, he checked to be sure she was in no immediate danger and moved her away from the door.

He was prepared to blast the thing open, but it wasn't locked. Instead of Aloharmora, he found himself uttering a shielding spell and ducking a remarkably violent stunner.