Interlude: The Liberator's Eighth Letter

March 23rd, 1997

Dear Minister Scrimgeour:

Though you have probably already heard this, Falco Parkinson has Declared for the Dark.

I do not think he has any real idea of what he is doing. My dreams come clearer and clearer to me now, and in them he has the most ridiculous pitying look on his face as he listens to the instruction of the Dark. (I think he would have been happier to be a Light Lord, but he seems hardly likely to listen to me). He believes it will not catch him in the end. He thinks he is smarter than it is because he has fooled it for six hundred years. He does not dream of its delayed vengeance—

My pardons, Minister, for the long scratch of ink across the parchment at this point. My mother came in and grasped my wrist, pulling me to my feet, and stained the letter. Luckily, she did not look down to see what I was writing. I have made sure to write bad poetry on plenty of occasions, so my parents think now that that is what I write all the time.

She called me a fool, hissing it at me, close to my ear. I trembled, for I did not know what I had done wrong. As it turned out, she was angry about something my elder sister had done—or perhaps Harry. The rages burn and blend in her until I cannot tell their source. I can only tell that I am their most frequent target.

She nearly broke my wrist before she let me go.

I need to leave this house.

I still do not (quite) dare tell you where I am or who I am, Minister. My father knows when a letter leaves the house or enters it with his name in it, even anagrams of his name. And I still—perhaps it is unworthy of me, considering all they have done, but I would like to leave my family with an intact reputation if at all possible. They have done a great deal of talking about aiding Falco Parkinson, but they have not actually accomplished anything. They are harmless.

Except to me.

But, to finish with my chatter about Falco Parkinson. He does not dream the Dark might take delayed vengeance. He does plan to attack on Walpurgis, when the power of the wild Dark is at its height. Insofar as that falls out, he is intelligent.

I do not think he can win. But if my warning might make the battle easier for Harry or spare a life, then I will send it.

My growth is diminished and haunted here, and I am a shell of the person I could be, I should be. Harry's visions of freedom have inspired my own. In the end, I think, I must leave this house and take my chances in an outside world where I have no friends, no shelter to call my own—

And I inflict this on you in what is not meant to be a personal letter, Minister. My apologies.

Yours,

The Liberator.