There and Back Again Lane

Ch. 16 – Circles and Roundabouts in Crepuscular Towns, Part 2: Plots Have I Laid…

Brief Non-Canon Character List (Not all of whom will be appearing in this chapter)

Babbage, Nicholas: Permanent Undersecretary of State for Magical Law Enforcement

Catesby, Thomas: Officer, Magical Law Enforcement Squad (MLES) Special Section

Clarke, Elspeth: Mistress of the Rolls, Keeper of the Archival Quills and Seals

Dudson: Controller of rat-agents for the Department for Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE)

Perkins, Lucretia: Minister of State (i.e., junior minister) for Magical Law Enforcement

Interlude: May you live in interesting times

There was an old Muggle poet with the wretchedly common name of Milton who wrote that it was 'better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.' Admittedly, Lucifer reputedly says those words – villains always have the best lines – but Milton, the swine, never ventured to Borneo. Acromantulas, no proper people about (you know, witches and wizards of good breeding) only half-naked tribespeople, infernal temperatures, and one hundred-percent humidity. Yes, one hundred-percent. Can't even perspire properly here, if I ever did such a thing. Then, of course, there are the rains, the snakes, and the devil knows what else. For this I supported my idiot father? What I wouldn't give to be back in Wiltshire lounging in my silk pyjamas, toying with the affections of some simpering half-wit.

So I have evaded justice. Justice? What a farce. 'You had defected near the end,' you say, 'so why did you leave?' Yes, I had seen which way the tide was flowing, noticed my father obliviously drowning in the undertow, and swam back to shore while I still could. I switched to the side of the bland, er, good. However, Perkins, that, well, Hufflepuff, had to prove she was capable of protecting our world from my sort, whether we'd turned or not. Having received an anonymous eleventh-hour warning, I left my beloved England for the Continent hoping to meet with an acquaintance or two from Durmstrang. But the bastards shunned me, cast me, me, out as a traitor to the proper order. I've been hiding ever since, always in ever worse circumstances. I've not seen a proper Quidditch match in four years.

Hell and buggery, even that ineffectual prat Snape received a State funeral. Admittedly, it had to wait until after the War, but still.

Personally, I feel this life – if I can call it that – is punishment enough for all I had done before. The only consolation I have is that Potter is dead along with most of those wastrels the Weasleys. It's about the only thing that lets me sleep at night.

—Draco Malfoy, Sarawak, 12 May 2003

Havering on a Hart

Glamis and Cawdor Wizarding Assurance, Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh

---(Ginny's POV)---

Before me my lover is supine on the wooden floor, struggling to rise. Scrambling to Harry's side, I pull him from under the cot he had overturned when trying to extricate himself from the bed. Fear fervently worries my throat as I hold him to me. His eyes are glazed, his face turning a dangerous shade of pale green, and his limbs seem limp. He feels cool and moist to the touch, shuddering slightly as I hug him tighter to my chest. Of all the times to suffer a relapse... Some strength returns to his arms as he clutches me like a terrified infant. Pressing his forehead against my shoulder, he begins to huff and attempts to force himself away. He tries to quell the impulse to vomit. Instead, I tighten my embrace. By the time Tonks rushes into the room again, the shivers have lessened, his breathing has become regular, and his face has reverted to a healthier shade of pink, though still too pale for my liking.

'I don't know whether he'll be able to travel,' I admit, unable to hide a note of panic. Harry notices the hitch in my voice and tenses. Perhaps he's afraid of being left alone with my peculiar boss or maybe of losing his last link with the world he knew. I don't know. Am I doing what's best for him by putting him through all this misery? Perhaps, as everyone seems to insist, this entire relationship is all about some lingering adolescent obsession. If that's the case, why am I possibly throwing my career away or thinking about simply getting Obliviated myself so Harry and I could live in blissful ignorance as Muggles? I don't care if he never remembers the past anymore. Indeed, a large part of me hopes he never does so he can avoid all of the misery of his real life and remain secure and happy in his mundane fantasy world. A little late for all that, though...

Harry's condition is far outside my ken. I should've sent his symptoms to Hermione earlier but that damn sedative Tonks gave me prevented that. My dear sister-in-law isn't connected to the Aurors' secure cauldron network in any case, making this one of the few times I'm not glad we're not in the same department. Perkins likely has the Floo network under surveillance, so that's out. Owls can't get through the bloody dome until the evening except on official business. I doubt that Catesby hasn't informed the owlmaster about my rogue status by now. Had Ron and I not been so eager to berate one another, I could have relayed Harry's condition through him.

Knowing Hermione, it's probably for the best she doesn't know how Harry's doing. I've no desire to risk her pregnancy. She might advocate caution to others, but she has the remarkable and otherwise enviable trait of forgetting that when those she loves are in the lurch. Travel by portkey or Floo are risky enough. Mercifully, my berk of a brother's visit – probably courtesy of Shacklebolt seeking to dissuade me from further adventures – expended this safehouse's weekly quota for non-emergency portkey usage. Even if she could Apparate into the Hill, I'd seriously argue against it with Catesby still about. Who knows of what that cretin's capable. We have to go somewhere she could travel to safely. Hogsmeade? Perhaps some good came out of my purported allergy to Tonks's tea additive after all.

Harry turns and struggles unsuccessfully to sit upright. Now I know what Mum felt like when Fred and George were two. 'J-just n-need s-some h-help w-walking,' he mumbles weakly. Thankfully, it's only his co-ordination that's regressing rather than his mind.

'Like a pair of bloody legs,' she snorts as she performs her own perfunctory examination. Even in his rather floppy state, the contemptuous grimace with which he regards Tonks as she grasps his chin to scrutinise his eyes dismays her until he follows it with a churlish grin. Obviously I was wrong about the lack of mental regression.

'Is th-this a c-common s-side-effect of me-memory alteration?' he asks, returning to a measure of maturity. He tries to twist around again to face me, but needs my help. His head slumps onto my shoulder, his eyes firmly shut. A hint of resignation in my superior's expression makes me hold him tighter, until he begins to cough. I can't leave him here. She looks at me, her mouth twisted in concern and uncertainty. It will be terribly dangerous moving him from the shop to one of the gates, but we can't risk an emergency portkey. Using one of those would immediately alert Perkins to our location and would precipitate Shacklebolt's overt involvement in our little palace coup at far too early a stage. Can't anything be simple?

'I don't know, Harry,' I eventually admit. 'I've never really seen anyone in the first stages of recovery before.' At least Lockhart has moved on from joined-up writing…

'I'm brimming with confidence,' he grumbles into my hair just loud enough for all to hear, his chin resting on my collarbone, his breath scratching my ear. He refuses to let go of me, though. Mind, I'm the only thing keeping him somewhat upright at the present moment.

Tonks stands, looking ready to give him a sharp kick to the shins that I return in equal measure. 'Now that you're back to your old self, Harry,' she announces motioning me to follow her, 'the adults have to discuss how to get you out of here.' Shaking her head, she leaves the room.

With the exception of his almost silent breathing, he doesn't make a sound. The bastard's fallen asleep again. Dragging him to the bed and edging the fallen cot further away with my foot, I gingerly lay him onto the sheets and grudgingly slip from the room, following my mistress.

---(Harry's POV)---

Ginny steals silently from the room following her strange colleague, leaving the door open a small crack. The small mirror rests on the wooden nightstand at the head of the bed, peering straight at me. A Stooges song comes immediately to mind. I can't look at it for long with the strobing lights blinding me. A bit like bad club lighting, and just as painful. Some mediaeval torturer is trying pluck my eyes out of their sockets from behind with some success. I try to open my eyes, but even the thought of looking at something encourages my seditious stomach. By touch, I twist the silvered eye around so it faces the door. Please don't let them notice just yet. I need time to think about those dreams even as most of the images begin to fade.

Unfortunately, the harder I try to bring those visions into sharper focus, the worse my headache becomes. The searing agony behind my eyes makes it impossible for me to think. One name, connected to that demonic serpent-faced creature, remains. Tom. What is he, and who were the others in the black robes and masks? A visceral revulsion matches that of my rebellious stomach, the one aggravating the other. Flashes from the retreating memories send me into a swift downward spiral. Whoever those men in black were, they weren't us. More like the National Front or something. All this thinking is bloody murder...

Murder. Tom. I killed him, with a bloody great sword. Am I sodding St George or a common assassin? Feels more like the latter. Feelings are all I have to go on with my mental faculties in complete disarray. I just want to hide. All that blood, that screaming... Shrieking, tearing at my ears... And I may have killed others. My stomach foments a mutiny, partly in reaction to the pain, mostly from the memories. I crawl over to the window on my forearms like a seal, managing to open it just in time. Gardyloo... I hope no one was walking past on the pavement below.

What started as a ploy to drive Tonks from the room has become reality. I'd hoped the headache was waning, that I would have some time to talk with Ginny about my dreams, but it's returned with a vengeance. Without the strength to stop the retreating memories or even to stay awake, I withdraw to the bed seeking some release. Making no effort to stem the tide of images and emotions washing over me, I hope a coherent pattern will emerge. And that I don't boak again. Eventually, I succumb to fatigue...

Another bloody buggering corridor.

In the flickering torchlight, crowds of young people dressed in black robes like monks and nuns come into view. Students.

Before me, an odd group calls attention to itself. A boy with hair so blond I first thought he was an albino has cornered a girl against the wall aided by a pair of monstrous gits. Her friends trying to force the three pricks back with screams and ineffectual shoves. A shock of red hair emerges from in front of the tormentors. It's Ginny. My hands clench into fists automatically as I surge towards them. A calming hand, however, stops me. I look to its origin to see an odd young woman with dirty blond hair and protuberant eyes. She needs only a raised eyebrow to stop me, to tell me to wait. In the end, I'm glad I did. The blond boy immediately stumbles backwards, clutching his profusely bleeding nose. His two friends gaze on in gormless astonishment. Ginny's friends exchange looks of joyous surprise and amusement while she holds a hand to her forehead. Noticing the blond girl has released me, I rush towards the red-haired victor, but she simply brushes past me without a word. Calling her name, I catch up to her and grasp her arm, to stop her for an instant...

---(Ginny's POV)---

Tonks is leaning against the desk nearest the door to the shop wearing a frown of irritation. A fresh cuppa in a repulsively cheery mug with sunflowers on it is ready for me on the table. Answering the grimace on my face caused by the offensive mug, she quickly declares, 'It's Hornby's, I swear.' It must be a gift from Frank's wife, then. Olive's a dreadfully jealous woman and this is her way of ensuring no other witch would even consider the poor man. Any road, I've put my boss on the defensive.

Sitting on an old straight-backed wooden chair, I try to make myself feel at ease. The brew receives a quizzical sniffing scrutiny before I finally sip. Why can't she brew a proper pot? Now I never know whether I'll be poisoned or merely disgusted.

'I much prefer the earlier Harry,' she declares huffily. 'He was much more easygoing, less of an arse.'

'If we do this right you might just get him back,' I hiss back. 'Besides, you weren't around for all the tantrums and the surliness.'

'Perhaps, but I'm not there for the sex now either, thank God,' she retorts with a shudder, a spark of devilry in her eye.

Exaggerating a grimace at another swallow of her dreadful brew, I fire back. 'Or maybe you simply have fond memories of pubescent angst.' Cue angelic eye flutters and grin.

'Ah, yes, now it's all coming back,' she says, looking joyously upward entranced by purportedly fond memories. 'The screaming, the broken trinkets, the verbal abuse,' she continues gleefully.

'And that was with people he liked,' I reply.

'Yes, but that Harry had You-Know-Who trying to murder him, society pressing him to save us all, and a near perpetual headache,' she answers. 'What's this prat's excuse?'

A bitter anger rises in me, but I stem it before I say something too cruel. Instead, I keep my answer simple. 'That Harry had friends who supported and loved him and, insofar as possible, he had grown accustomed to pain.' OK, so there was a little barb there... 'How else could he have survived all the miseries of his teenage years without those experiences, good and ill?' Tonks's expression is devoid of emotion. I might as well try to convince the table.

'For whatever reason,' she mutters, 'at least you can bear him.' A smirk flits across her visage as it takes on a kinder appearance. She circles the table to embrace me. Though I wish to return the gesture, my arms hang limply at my sides. My head droops onto her arm, however, while a sigh escapes me. 'We'll get him out of here, don't worry,' she swears, stroking my hair gently, reminding me of Mum. A breath catches in my throat as a chill passes through me. 'No more of that now, OK?' Somehow, I manage a nervous nod.

Having dispensed with the recriminations and forgiveness portion of our discussion, we investigate how best to remove the three of us from this place. Tonks's operatives report that Catesby's come no closer to rooting us out despite having passed the shop twice. What an imbecile. At present, the berk is ranging along the owleries and rookeries of Wyvern Lane at the south end of Haseltoun. Good to see old views of my family's reputation have survived. I shouldn't be so harsh to that part of town, though. Until the last war, it had been one of the finer streets in Haseltoun. Still, with luck Tonks's people will keep Catesby distracted long enough to sneak through Thane Gate in the north, if it's still open.

We will likely encounter several obstacles. Catesby's probably convinced Perkins to set wards over all of the gates, maybe even bolstering those bloody hexes with a retinue of Millies. After so many years of paying rapt attention to Bill's tales of his work as a curse-breaker – one of the side benefits being the Bat-Bogey Hex – the possibility of wards doesn't worry me in the least. A run-in with other members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad won't be so straightforward.

First, the Aurors have a good working relationship with the local plod. Several of our lot fought and died alongside theirs in the last war and the two forces have maintained amicable dealings ever since. There's the slight chance we can get some of them to turn a blind eye – after all, Perkins isn't very popular in Haseltoun, especially as the local commander knew the junior minister at Hogwarts – but that might lead to a 'cleansing' of the barracks, with all the lot sympathetic to us being sent on to duties in the Falklands or South Georgia Island. With that strong disincentive, Tonks and I could only expect a bitter fight should we run contrary to the Millies. I'm not all that keen on getting Tonks involved in the first place, but if we become outlaws she'll be cast adrift, losing all she's fought hard for all these years. Admittedly, she's familiar with Muggle society, yet leaving the wizarding world would kill her. Hopefully, Shacklebolt will be able to protect her should something go wrong...

If something does go horribly amiss, the plod will attempt to subdue the three of us – Tonks, Harry, and me – with equal measure of force. Not that I would blame them, to be fair. The odds would like be overwhelmingly against us, leaving no doubt in my mind Harry would get injured and possibly quite seriously. Yet I don't see how we might avoid that potentiality, except through luck. Unless...

When I inform my mistress of the plan, her hair unintentionally changes to a bright cherry red and her pupils drown in midnight irises, both regrettably perfect matches for the look of shock brought by my foolish idea. Then a fiendishly broad smile forms.

'Now why didn't I think of that?'

I've no idea how I managed to forget Professor Flitwick up until this point, but everything seems so clear now, so simple.

The Headmaster is connected to the secure cauldron network. Owing to Professor Flitwick's vital role in the postwar reconstruction efforts, Shacklebolt insisted that he had an infallible line of communications with Hogwarts. That the Professor was a member of the Order was conveniently left unspoken. With Minister Bones in complete agreement, Junior Minister Perkins reluctantly accepted the request. Worse yet for Perkins and Babbage, ever since the War, the Headmaster hasn't been his old carefree self. The Professor insisted that the cauldron connection only be with the Aurors' network. He frequently casts charms over the cauldron to ensure no one has tampered with the line, as well... Rather paranoid, really, though he remains good-natured as long as you approach him from the front. After all he endured in those last two years, it's no surprise he's still nervous. At least he doesn't stutter incessantly like Quirrell had.

It's hard to suppress a shudder at the memory of Ron's letters from his first year. They made me dread Defence against the Dark Arts, a feeling that only got worse with my first year. If there was anyone to give a student reservations about asking a professor for help, it was Lockhart.

You're concerned about being constantly tired and waking up with a strange red substance, possibly blood, all over your nightdress and bedclothes? Well, look at the time. Must dash.

About as useful as waving a white flag to ward off a manticore. And there I was, a prime example of possession by a Dark object, and the prat couldn't see it. Not that anyone else did, either... Sodding bastards. If it wasn't for Remus, I'd probably be playing Quidditch. I'd have more money but probably no Harry. A time like this makes me wonder whether I made the right choice, though. Anyway...

Professor Flitwick. Right. He'll probably go along with our scheme. It's well-known that his love of Perkins matches that he had for Umbridge. He may not declare such opinions in the Daily Prophet, but the mere mention of either of those hags' names sends him into an apoplectic fit as he battles to contain a string of vituperative abuses and giggles, the one leading inevitably to the other. There is another even better reason why the Professor might accept our plan.

Thanks to an indiscreet comment by Hermione, I know he knows Harry's alive. Tonks gives me another scathing glare. 'I was sworn to secrecy,' I plead to no positive effect – an eye-roll and an aggrieved sigh, to be precise – before continuing. Surely Professor Flitwick would support an effort to bring Harry back into the fold, especially now that the Memory charms are weakening. After all, the Headmaster always said that Harry's mum was his favourite student, along with Hermione, of course, and the professor has a similar fondness for Harry, though the young man never put forth the proper effort in class. Indeed, the good professor controls the weekly disbursement of Harry's parents' legacy as well as its deposit into Harry's Muggle bank account. That's the key to our scheme.

If the operation of the Aurors' special fund for informants is any indication, the money is transferred by goblin courier from Harry's Diagon Alley account using a special portkey. Needless to say, any other portkey cannot be used to go to or from a Gringotts branch. Even house-elves and other magical creatures can't disapparate from a Gringotts branch, which likely irked a few relatives of those Death Eaters who had been captured or had perished during the War, as well as the house-elves. If we can convince the Headmaster to use his connections in goblin society to convince the local Gringotts branch to let us travel with a courier to the Diagon Alley branch, we could avoid the MLES patrols at the gates and save Hermione the bother of travelling. The goblins might resent Professor Flitwick for what he is, but what he represents and what he did for them both during and after the War far outweighs their prejudice.

Still, the goblins – and Gringotts specifically – might scupper the plan on principle. After all, any plot that has wizards and witches fooling about with Gringotts portkeys is bound to engender animosity. Then again, the Goblin Minister would dearly love to embarrass Perkins as well. If only Bill had survived, this plan would be so much easier.

Tonks notices my eyes mist over as the memories and regrets flow forth once more and dotingly plays big sister. 'Bill, right?' she says as she wraps her arm about me, handing me a clean handkerchief. It's miserable to be so transparent. And so dependent. Despite how long I fought to gain my own space away from the looming shadows of my over-protective family, I feel the loss of their sheltering embraces and words more and more each day. Only my two remaining brothers, my two new sisters (Hermione and Angelina), and Harry have kept me from dissolving with the rains or killing myself with overwork. Tonks and Remus aren't so bad, either.

A giggle – I can't believe I still giggle at my age – announces that I've returned to the present. Sensing that I'm strong enough to cope with criticism, my boss addresses the enormous flaw in the scheme. The Millies' barracks are but a short stretch of road from the Gringotts branch and have a clear view of the bank's front entrance. As one might expect, Gringotts has no side or back entrances. With any luck, the larger gate and day patrols will empty the barracks. Of course, counting on luck for a plan to succeed is an invitation to disaster. At the moment, though...

'Seeing as we have the unimportant matter of your imminent escape from justice settled,' Tonks starts, a grin stretched across her face as she pulls me from a bout of introspection, 'where's the ring?' I pull a gold chain from under my Hearts jersey – don't ask; I know it's very kitschy for a witch in Edinburgh with an amorous disposition – revealing my engagement ring. She utters the expected response, 'It's a bit, er, modest.'

When Harry had presented the ring to me, I'd honestly imagined larger or more diamonds myself. Neither Hermione nor Angelina was impressed, arguing that even an Obliviated Harry couldn't be that miserly. Our Muggle friends weren't nearly so harsh. Indeed, a number of them were surprised he was frugal enough to save for that simple band on the weekly allowance from his parents' legacy and his job at the university. I couldn't bear telling them how many guineas that allowance was and wondering why he sought that job. Then last week he showed me the nice house (and the attached mortgage) he'd found for us with the money he'd invested from that allowance. It's no mansion, but it's more comfortable than estate agent 'cosy.' Regrettably, I've no piccies of the place, and I doubt she'll take my word for it.

'I hear that you've put in a change of residence form, though,' she enquires with a raised eyebrow. 'You lucky git, you.' Is there anything I do that no one knows about?

'Sleeping beauty's awake,' Tonks notes, drawing me back from another reverie. She points to the hand mirror, noting it's directed towards the door. Fearing the worst, I scramble from the table and up the stairs nearly bowling her over in my haste. 'You're welcome!'

---(Harry's POV)---

…And she thumps me on the conk before storming off. Down I go…

I feel someone grasp my hand and pull me upright. When I open my eyes I see an older Ginny before me, her face etched with worry. And no club lighting.

'You thumped me.' I really must learn not to say the first thing that comes to mind.

'No, I didn't!' she retorts. Even without my glasses I see her face contorted in denial of the accusation, before pushing me back onto the bed. I am ever so grateful this mattress is comfortable.

'In my dream, Ginny,' I counter before she decides to have another go at my nose, 'after you headbutted some blond git.'

From outraged to chortling in three seconds. 'I don't see what's so funny,' I teasingly protest. 'Me, flat on my arse, nose askew thanks to the school's female featherweight boxing champion,' I declare, crossing my arms with a grumble.

In between giggles and guffaws, she manages, 'You had to have been there.'

'So who was he?' rising back onto my elbows, avoiding the implied dig on my absent memory.

'Draco Malfoy,' she says with a sneer.

'God, what a name,' I declare. 'With a name like that, how couldn't he be a prat?'

'I never thought of it that way,' she answers as if my suggestion merits consideration.

'Might as well've named him 'Hellion' and had done with it,' I mutter grabbing my spectacles.

'I think his parents were saving that name for a daughter,' she replies with a smirk.

There's something else, something she's not telling me. 'Did you two just, er, break up?' Apparently not. Her face goes from amused to disgusted even faster. Oh dear…

'Don't ever…' she snarls, her face inches from mine.

'I can't remember, remember?' I growl in retort, raising my head until our noses touch.

Her response is not the one I expect. I'd prepared myself for a slap, a punch, or a kiss, in that order. Instead, she scuttles backwards against the wall at the foot of the sleeping alcove muttering a garbled apology, peering at me in shock as her hands clasp over her mouth.

I drag myself towards her (bloody uncooperative legs). 'Ginny, what's wrong?' Instead of answering me, she keeps apologising. I do the first thing that comes to mind: I pull her from the wall and to my chest and hold her tightly. For the first time in two days, I've done something right. She relaxes, her arms dropping from her face to circle round my waist. I'm wise enough now not to tell her everything will be OK, but I gently kiss her ears and her forehead until she's ready to speak.

We can be a taciturn pair, particularly on certain issues, yet she surprises me again. 'Harry,' she asks my shoulder, 'can you walk?'

I contemplate making a joke, but decide otherwise. 'I don't think so.'

She mutters a few well-chosen oaths before following with another question. This time she pointedly looks me in the eye. 'Do you trust me?' Still that nagging fear there…

'I'm sitting here, aren't I?'

'Standing would be better proof,' she quips with a mocking scowl.

'I'll see what I can do,' I reply in a suitably insolent voice.

'You really know how to inspire confidence in a girl,' she grumbles. 'This is, of course, not a conversation I want to have on our wedding night,' she demands, her eyes narrowing to indicate she's absolutely serious.

'That won't be a problem.' I pull her closer, revealing the honesty of my statement. A devilish gleam returns to her eyes, along with a salacious leer. How I love this woman. But naturally…

'Come on, you two,' her colleague shouts from below, 'we haven't got all bloody day!'

Our eyes roll towards the ceiling. 'If she wasn't my boss…'

---(Ginny's POV)---

Having navigated my legless fiancé downstairs and corresponded with my dotty former headmaster, we three are ready to depart. Tonks and I are in full field dress: weighted black cloaks, dragonhide vests, knuckle-dusters, and boots. Tonks provides Harry with a dragonhide vest in case Catesby appears, but otherwise he's dressed as before. Harry glances at us furtively as if we are a pair of deranged rooks on a day outing. I must ask him about his dreams. Even after Tonks casts a new set of glamours over us he appears suspicious.

The rest of our plan is going swimmingly. As we suspected, the goblins rejected the plan until the Goblin Minister learned of the potential ramifications of our ingenious scheme for a certain junior minister. Professor Flitwick wrote Minister Grunog practically skipped – disturbing mental image – when he heard Perkins might be for the chop if we carry this off, even after it was explained to the Minister 'the chop' in question was merely figurative. With Grunog's weight behind the scheme, Gringotts diffidently submitted. Not all goblins bet.

After Tonks's man signals the all-clear, we swiftly break from the shop heading northwards along Moggan Wynd to Thane Gate. Haseltoun's burnished silver 'sky' threatens rain outwith and within. The clever buggers who charmed the dome devised the rain within to cleanse the town of offal and other refuse that would otherwise linger in the gutters. Maybe it'll wash Catesby away, or at least keep little shit indoors until we leave. Unfortunately, the looming downpour drives merchants and their clientele indoors, leaving only the destitute and either ignorant or unconcerned passers-by scurrying about on the roads. And not a few selkies. Tonks takes the lead first at a good five-to-eight yards distance, burdening me with my weak-kneed fiancé. We decide to use as little magic as possible to minimise our presence even though there's probably enough magic about to hide what we might do and alternate propping up Harry as he gamely tries to walk. He's managing to string together a few paces, but not enough to leave him alone.

Despite or perhaps because of the threatening showers, the shops along the road appear to be doing a booming business. Harry and I peer through their windows with astonishment as they fill to bursting. The green-grocers and fishmongers hurry their stock indoors as do the café owners their customers while clothiers and laundresses grin on. A witch, wizened beyond reckoning and gap-toothed, grins at me as I struggle keeping Harry upright with a shrug of understanding: wizards are all the same at that age, a pack of drunken boors. I smile back as best as I can, snatching him as he totters forwards.

Recognising the look, Harry tugs his forelock and delivers his best drunken leer to the old girl. Scandalised and enchanted, she slaps his arm, giggling as she trundles away.

'Should I be concerned?' An inquisitorial glare conceals the smirk on my face.

'Maybe in about eighty or ninety years,' he quips.

His face takes an odd expression as he sniffs the air apprehensively. 'What's that smell,' he wonders aloud, 'like seals at the zoo?'

Ah. 'Selkies.' An eyebrow rises as he opens his mouth ready to declare there's no such thing. Instead, he asks where.

'Well, the woman who just passed for one,' I reply. 'She's only about thirty-five.'

'Then why… what…?'

'It happens when they're ready to go back home.' I think. At least that answer satisfies him for now.

But he's still in an inquisitive mood. It's in his eyes as he squints trying to frame the question in a manner he can understand and I can answer promptly. In the end, he defers the query with a shake of the head. His silence and the odd looks he's giving Tonks and me are troubling. I pry. Unusually, I get no response except a grimace masquerading as a smile. Ordinarily, I would press further, but it's a hard enough slog without badgering a recalcitrant boyfriend for information.

When we reach the pub on the corner of Prestwick Lane, Tonks acknowledges my gasping and grunting with an offer to take him to the next rendezvous, handing me my kit bag. Though his weight is becoming a dreadful burden to bear, I'm reluctant to leave him, arguing I can carry on dragging him. But she overrules my plea as well as his declarations about being able to walk. We exchange burdens and westward we go, with a chary Harry arm-in-arm with an increasingly tetchy Tonks.

Though I'm a fair distance away, the empty roads make it impossible not to hear her striving to converse with Harry. He's polite yet desperately seeking to dissuade her from her efforts. In the end, she returns to her original assessment of the new Harry and calls him an arrogant prick. The ensuing war of insults leads to a truce of sorts as they continue to lob abuse at one another while chuckling or congratulating the inventor of a particularly creative attack. Glancing back, I see Harry's regained some strength in his legs. He's edging out of her clutches, endeavouring to travel without her assistance, which causes my boss to pull him closer. Since they've reached their little détente, I'm beginning to think she's taking advantage of her situation. Then other matters begin to take precedence.

Halfway down Kimnel Lane, the promised rains begin. It's been smirring ever since we passed Fenshawe the Ockerer's den, just up the road from the safehouse. Now it's coming down heavily to the sound of cats mewling in pitiful exasperation. Customers have ceased looking even mildly interested in the merchandise inside and are pressing their noses against the store windows only to be washed back by the rains upon the shelves to be feasted upon by the hovering clerks. Indeed, the deluge is threatening to drown us. Visibility has decreased as well. I can see figures well enough along the empty, narrow roads, but not clearly enough to recognise anyone. The weather has allowed us to sneak past a pair of listless patrols, however I doubt a more determined adversary would be so easily deterred. If we're to encounter Catesby, I'd rather be able to strike first than risk injury to either Harry or Tonks.

Speak of the devil's minion.

Mr Catesby's exchanged his Muggle clothes for non-descript robes, probably to blend in with the non-existent crowds, but it's definitely him. In spite of the obscuring torrent, it's obvious he's gravely unhappy. Hunched over against the downpour that soaks us all to the bone, his visage is twisted in an inaudible snarl. I needn't look behind to know Tonks has Harry safely sheltered somewhere. Loosening my cloak, I meet his aggressive stance with a defensive one. This should be entertaining...

---(Catesby's POV)---

The silly cow takes an obvious defensive posture. If it hadn't been for the buggering rain, I'd've had the drop on her. As it is, a couple of spells and it's back for tea and medals.

Of course, I'd have to find her little friend first. The last communiqué from on high cleared me to use the Killing Curse and him for archiving. Miss Weasley here may be despatched, if necessary. But first, a little playtime.

She has her own tricks. Shouting Caligo! she disappears in a mist. Having read her file prior to taking this mission, I'm aware she's done this before and launch a powerful stunner at the centre of the fog while casting a formidable severing charm at her form as she jumps at me. She'll never know what hit her.

What the...?

---(Harry's POV)---

Tonks leaves me leaning against a store entrance after thrusting one of the wands taken from our warders into my hand as she rushes to help. Seconds later, she wrenches the wand from my grasp, hauls me from the doorframe and yanks me to where Ginny stands over a body. All the way Tonks mutters, 'Why do I bother?'

When we reach Ginny, she's grumbling as well. Kneeling on the cobbled road, she holds her cloak. With it off, she looks like a motorcyclist, although with a woollen jumper instead of a leather jacket. Though it's difficult to see through this rainstorm, particularly with glasses, I can tell she's sporting a look of disgust on her face. As Tonks and I approach, we learn why.

'Dirty bugger cast a severing charm,' Ginny groans to Tonks. 'Look what he did to my cloak!' The fabric's rent by an enormous, still smouldering diagonal gash. Setting her jaw as she stands, his wand in her hand, she gives the downed man a swift boot to his left shin.

'Ginny, dear,' Tonks interjects. 'He broke his right tibia during the War.' A wickedly sweet smile winds its way across her face.

'Oh, right.' A boot to the appropriate shin follows, along with a nasty crack. Ginny mutters something like ferrula and the man's leg becomes rigidly straight, saving it from further injury. She reclasps her cloak, sauntering towards us.

An ugly realisation dawns upon me. The bastard tried to kill her. 'That bloody...' I splutter. For a second, I forgot my legs aren't completely cooperative. Fortunately, Tonks isn't so absent-minded and rights me before I tumble onto the road.

'How did you disable him?' Tonks asks, grinning with undisguised pride while struggling to keep me vertical.

Ginny humbly shrugs putting the man's wand in one of the cloak's pockets. 'Fog charm, Apparated behind him, levitated the cloak, then thumped him.' As she exchanges her kit bag for me, I embrace her tightly until I hear a muffled 'Oof!' When I relax my hold, she grins at me broadly, blushing with exuberance. 'It was brilliant,' she declares, returning my embrace with equal if not greater fervour.

'You could have just gone for a bog-standard stunner,' Tonks states, the joy with which she'd initially greeted Ginny's success ebbing away, 'rather than showing off.'

Ginny remains exultant, her hand dancing in mine as the adrenaline still courses through her. Yet as she speaks with her boss, a professional demeanour imposes itself. The inflections in her voice flatten, the consonants become sharper, and her overall bearing more restrained. When we pass the man's limp body on the road, her foot raises the assailant's cloak revealing a vest similar to the ones we're wearing. 'I wasn't certain, but...'

Tonks smiles appreciatively, clapping a hand on Ginny's shoulder before taking the lead.

Having received the approbation of her boss, Ginny grins at me again as she guides me along the treacherously slick pavement. I don't know what to offer her. Apparently nothing comforting. She quickly looks away, shamefaced, believing that I think the worst of her. Yet it's the memories of figures in black roaming about my mind that plague me. And how casually she faced death. I shudder and feel a sympathetic trembling beside me. Pulling her closer to kiss her head, we stumble and slide dangerously on the cobblestones.

'You prat!' she mutters, swatting my stomach. But now I'm laughing, my worries momentarily forgotten. Our pace becomes erratic, especially after Ginny joins me. When Tonks turns around to glare at us, we nearly tumble. We're still giggling inanely by the time the rains stop and the crowds storm onto the pavement.

Minister of State Perkins's Office, Ministry of Magic, London

---(Babbage's POV)---

Perkins is in fine form today as she berates me about the ineptitude of the four Special Section officers she sent to Edinburgh. Coiled against her desk, hackles raised, fit to pounce, she ranting loud enough to awaken the Mistress of the Rolls. 'Come now, Minister,' I chide, 'they were merely following your orders.'

'That's a lie!' she shrieks. 'I told them to observe, not to act against that dreadful woman, and certainly not to get themselves sent to hospital!' Her bulging eyes threaten to burst from their sockets, her face becoming a rather violent shade of violet.

'Minister, you need to calm down,' I insist to no avail. Politicians. They have no stomach for the real art of governing. They merely want everything to be easy and simple, much like themselves. 'Besides,' I scold, 'I dimly recall you ordered Mr Catesby to archive Miss Weasley and the other one, whoever he might be.' One would think that last statement would at least cause her to contemplate her actions a little further. One would be wrong, of course.

'How can I be calm?' she screeches. 'I've three...' The small gilt cauldron on her desk briefly smokes before coughing out a slip of paper. The Minister glares at the flattened page, gnashing her teeth. Oh dear. Now she's so furious that her rage constricts her throat so she can only curse at a mere whisper. 'I've four irreplaceable, loyal operatives in hospital at the moment, and you expect me to be calm?' The gravity of her situation, our situation if I'm to be honest, allows her to regain a measure of composure.

'That Weasley woman is a menace,' she continues. 'And if that man with her is You-Know-Who, and if he begins to you-know-what....' I could almost assume that Perkins is pausing for me to refute the logical conclusion of her thoughts, hoping against hope for an alternative. Yet in all my years in government, the one thing I've learned is that the direct approach is the best means of countering the most serious threats. One simply needs the will to carry the matter through. '...We may have to arrange something for them.'

Splendid! I love a good show trial. But of course she opts for the more gruesome option first.

'You've already tried that, you silly sod, and look what's happened!'

Well, that's finally silenced her.

Special note: While not possible to Apparate into Haseltoun, it is possible to Apparate very short distances within the town. Apologies for the hackneyed plot device.

 While not possible to Apparate Haseltoun, it is possible to Apparate very short distances the town. Apologies for the hackneyed plot device.