Chapter Forty Three – Scenes from November

His last memory was of pain. The girl. Only it couldn't have been a girl. Nothing human could move so fast. The fog slowly began to lift from his mind. It was a trap. The house was a trap. That was the only explanation for what happened. He'd been lured into a trap and captured.

He opened his eyes. He was in a room. The walls were brightly colored. Something seemed very off. His bed. The railings were made of metal. There were tubes attached to his arms. They were connected to some kind of bag suspended over his bed filled with liquid. There was strange device next to bed making a strange noise. The picture on its face was of some moving lines.

Where was he?

His right arm was in a cast. He could not feel his legs.

The door to the room opened and woman entered. She was garbed in white like a nurse at St. Mungo's only her uniform was wrong.

"You're awake," she said. She leaned back out the door. "Doctor. He's awake."

The woman entered the room followed a few seconds later by a man wearing a long white coat.

"Mr. Malone," he said. "You're awake." The man walked up the bed and shined a light into his eyes. "Tell me Mr. Malone what is the last thing you remember?"

"Get away from me," he shook his head. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Abernathy," the man replied. "Mr. Malone, do you remember the accident?"

"What accident?" he snapped. "I'm Lucius Malfoy. What are you babbling about?"

"Mr. Malone, you were in a rather severe car accident last week," the Dr. said. "You were badly injured and received a severe concussion. You have been unconscious for nearly seven days."

"Where am I?" Malfoy began to feel the first touch of panic.

"St. Ann's General Hospital in London," Dr. Abernathy replied. "You were brought here after the accident. Mr. Malone what is the last thing you remember?"

"My name isn't Malone!!" Malfoy shouted. "I am Lucius Malfoy. I demand to see your superior. I demand to see Minister Fudge."

"Minster Fudge?" the nurse looked confused. "Whose Minster Fudge? What Ministry would put a man with the name of Fudge in charge?"

"Nurse," the Doctor said in a concerned voice. "Get Mr. Malone's things," he turned his attention back to Malfoy. "I know you are going to have a hard time hearing this Mr. Malone. But you appear to be experiencing a trauma-induced form of amnesia. Your name is Louis Malone. You are a resident of Becon Wales. You write children's books."

Malfoy was utterly confused. Who were these people?

---

"Are you sure this is the best approach with him Agent Cromwell?" Major Chisholm asked. The two were in watching Malfoy on a monitor in a separate room.

"Straight questioning won't work against someone protected by a Fidelius Charm," Cromwell answered. "Psych profile indicates that Malfoy defines himself by his position. Destroy that sense of position, that sense of self and he'll be easy to control. It will also make the Fidelius easier to work around. We do this right and he'll take it down for us."

"Your call Jerry," Chisholm said. "You didn't try this approach with Black."

"Black has a strong sense of self," Cromwell replied. "This kind of trick wouldn't have worked on him. I had a different strategy in mind."

"What about the others?"

"Low level flunkies," Cromwell said. "Unlikely they'll know anything critical. We'll use them to get a baseline reading on the types of information protected by the Fidelius. This guy is the key. It's going to take a little time. But he'll tell us every secret in his head, just to prove he still knows who he is."

----

"Sir Ian."

Director Buford turned at the sound of the voice behind him. "Ah, Harry, good see you again," He said.

"We don't see you in Thames House that often," Harry said. "What's brings you down here?"

"I just need to review some budgetary matters with the Minister," Sir Ian replied. For once he was actually looking forward to dealing with the budget. It would be a welcome respite from the Riddle matter.

He was angered about the mistake with Black. In the back of his mind he knew he had made the correct call based on the intelligence available to him at the time. Yes in hindsight it could seen as obvious that Dumbledore was running his own group or that perhaps the case against Black wasn't as straight forward as it seemed. But that was the problem with the intelligence game. You always made calls based on limited and often incorrect information.

There were days when he wished it worked the way it did in the movies. Where information could be obtained so easily. A phone tap, long range mikes, targets foolish enough to make it simple to learn their secrets. No, the real world wasn't like a movie. You didn't look at a single blurry satellite photo and instantly know where the enemy base was.

Twenty five years going toe to toe with the KGB taught him that against a determined opponent you would be lucky to learn half the story. That you often had to make a move based on the information in front of you, not the information you would like to have.

Of course, that truth didn't make living with the consequences of a mistake any easier.

Allies feeding you false information didn't help. Sir Ian needed to find ways to lessen MI5's dependence Elder Sinclair.

Harry interrupted his thoughts. "So tell me Ian. What is it you do in Special Projects? It does seem a bit strange that your 'retirement' posting has lasted for over fifteen years."

"We do the work of her Majesty's intelligence service," Sir Ian answered. "How are things in the Counter-terrorism unit?"

"About the same," Harry replied.

"If you will excuse me I must get to my meeting."

"Of course Sir Ian," Harry replied.

---

"Gray it's good to hear from you," Dawn spoke into the phone.

"And you as well Dawn," came the reply.

"How you found anything yet?" Dawn asked.

"Nothing specific yet," Sir John answered. "But I have few suppositions I'd like to share with you. And I would like to discuss with you another potential route for learning more. Would you be available to come by Oakwood in the near future."

"I'll make the time," Dawn replied.

"Excellent," Sir John said. "Just contact Linton with the details."

"I will," Dawn said. "Goodbye Sir John."

"Goodbye Dawn."

Dawn hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair.

The Key. She needed answers. But she wasn't certain she wanted them. What if her purpose included giving up being Dawn Summers? It had taken a long time, but she had finally found a place for herself. She knew who she was and what she wanted to be.

Buffy was planning a trip to the Passau for the following week. Dawn could probably convince her to spend a couple of extra days in England. She needed her sister around when she talked with Gray. It taken a long time after Sunnydale went bye-bye and a year of living together in Rome but Dawn and Buffy had finally re-connected.

It wasn't the same bond they had before died. But in some ways it was stronger. Dawn had become the only person, outside of Spike and Faith, that Buffy had really talked to about Heaven and what she had lost. She never had been able to talk about it with Willow and Xander. They were the ones who had pulled her out of heaven. Had taken the peace away from her.

A very small part of Dawn would probably never fully forgive them for what they had done to her sister. That same part would never forgive herself for how she treated Buffy after she came back. Her own selfish refusal to see the obvious pain her sister was in. But Buffy had been able to forgive her. And they had rebuilt their shattered relationship.

They were sisters.

Dawn didn't want to give that up. She didn't want to do that to Buffy. To any of the Scoobies. Being part of the 'Destiny Club' sucked.

----

"My Lord," the young man knelt before the Dark Lord. "You wished to see me."

"Yessss," Voldemort stepped out of the shadows to stand a few feet away from his follower. "I have an important task for you. One for which you are ideally suited."

"Yes My Lord," the man was pleased. Voldemort had picked him personally. When he succeeded he was certain he would be rewarded.

"Tell me Pritchard," Voldemort asked. "You were recruited over the summer, after my return, were you not?"

"Yes My Lord," came the reply. "I was inducted me into your service over the summer. The day you granted me the Dark Mark was greatest day of my life." Pritchard was starting to feel a little nervous. Rumors of betrayal within the Death Eater's ranks left many of his colleagues uncertain. But not Pritchard. He knew he was loyal. He pulled himself together. "What is it you require of me Master?"

"Youth," Voldemort began. "Always so eager. I have a simple task for you. You are well known. Well respected. You have also spoken out against Dumbledore's policies."

"As you have directed My Lord," Pritchard answered.

"And you were recruited by a Pucey," Voldemort said.

"I would never betray you My Lord," Pritchard nerves began to act up again. He stayed glued to the floor, kneeling in supplication to his Lord. "Ask anything of me My Lord. I will prove my loyalty."

"Your task is simple," Voldemort replied. "And you are perfect for it. It will take no effort on your part at all."

"Tell me what you need Master," Pritchard said. He heard a sound behind him. Footsteps. The heavy footsteps of a very large man. Then he heard a grunting noise. Danger. He rose from the floor and spun around to face the source of the grunt. He froze. Standing there was a creature out of his nightmares. It was tall, close to seven feet. It's skin was brown there were horns sticking out of its head. The monster seemed to smile at him.

"I need you to die," Voldemort said.

The monster charged at Pritchard. He stayed frozen to the spot, his mind unable to comprehend what was happening. He didn't have time to think. He didn't even try to reach for his wand. It was over in seconds.

"Pathetic," Voldemort said. "Not even a fight." Voldemort knelt over the body. He pulled back the sleeve where the Dark Mark was hidden. He tapped his wand over the Mark and spoke a few words in a language not heard in millennia. The Dark Mark disappeared. He rose to his full height and looked at the demon his ally had sent him. "Place the body where I told you."

The demon acknowledged the order in its own guttural language.

"Go now," Voldemort instructed. He watched the demon easily lift the broken body and carry it out of the room. Yes it was good to purge the ranks. Remove the allies of the ones who had already betrayed him. And their deaths would serve a purpose.

His old mentor would soon have nowhere to call home and no allies to support him. Voldemort smiled.