Chapter 18: Change of Plans

Cressida's hand fiddle at the back of her neck, unlatching the necklace with the blue stone. Sirius watches with pursed lips, grimly taking it once she hands it to him. "I can't," she says again. "People have seen me wear it. It could identify me."

"Only reason I'm allowing it," he sings in a mocking tune. Cressida smiles softly, her fingers running over the outside of her jean pocket. Another ring is hidden away; one that she couldn't risk leaving behind.

Moody is in another room of the safe house, finalising the parts of her temporary new identity. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, leaving the room in early morning shadows.

She has to leave her diary behind too. Despite its inability to be read, it not only has traceable magic, but people from her graduating year of Hogwarts have seen her with it. And as Alastor Moody has warned her, she might come across a familiar face or two.

Glancing to James, who leans against a counter with loosely folded arms, Cressida goes to the bracelet on her wrist. Untying it, she goes to hand it to James, but his arm is already held out to her. His fist is closed, like he is already holding it. Chuckling, Cressida ties the bracelet around his wrist. "Don't lose it, will you? I sort of like this a lot."

James holds it closer to his face. "You might have to fight it off me when you get back." When. Not if. "Though I'm not usually a silver person."

"No," she muses, "because that would mean second place. You've always got to have first." James smiles proudly, shrugging his shoulders in agreeance. "I'm going to see if Alastor has it all ready."

The boys nod and go back to eating their breakfast since they have been here for quite a while with her. She wishes she could have Remus and Peter too, but the former is in Scotland and Moody wouldn't allow anybody else to know of her mission. She had to tell Peter that she's going to track a pack of werewolves. That's the story everybody else is getting.

Werewolves have been drawn to the service of Voldemort under the promise of power. And that power is a sense of identity. No longer shamed to be who they are. No longer turned away when they beg for work. Part of her doesn't blame them for it, though she's sure that view would be different if she didn't personally know a werewolf. Remus considers himself the luckiest werewolf – if there ever is such a thing.

Alastor Moody is latching close the magically extended trunk. It harbours her clothes, her Polyjuice potions and information. "Come here," he grunts. Cressida stands next to him and the Auror grabs her wrist, planting her hand on the leather of the trunk. It heats under her touch and a shock of anxiety soars through her at the pain heat last brought her. But it cools within seconds. "Touch memory," he tells her. "Like Snitches have only this trunk won't open for anybody else but you now."

"I suppose that'll be handy. Not sure I'll invite any of my new friends around to this house you got me staying at though."

"You might not have a choice." Moody glances to the open door leading to the main room. With a flick of his wand, the door closes and locks. "Muffliato." Cressida raises her brow, glancing between the door and Auror. "I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with what this job will entail, Miss Hawthorne. And as much as you trust your companions, they still are risks to your anonymity by knowing."

She frowns, pushing her tongue against the back of her teeth, folding her arms with a slightly cocked leg. "Then what exactly am I doing?"

"Exactly what we discussed," Moody answers with a flat smile. "Only more dangerous. It is not bandits and Snatchers that you will be associating with. Rather, an inner circle of Death Eaters themselves."

The unease that had diluted over the night, coddled in James' hold, resurfaces. Death Eaters. She's going to be with Death Eaters?

"I hope you understand the implications of this," he continues as she tries to catch her breath. "You are to take on the identity of Rowena Tether, a pureblood witch who has recently been inducted into his ranks with the Dark Mark. We currently have her in custody under strict secrecy that the Ministry is not even aware of. With Polyjuice, from what we have observed, you will bear the Mark yourself, but there are no magical abilities that come with it. You will not feel when he uses it to call you."

He. Voldemort.

Cressida swallows, eyes blinking wildly as she forces herself to focus on the situation with a clear mind. "What else is the Mark used for?"

"That we don't know. It's not like it comes with a manual."

"And where is the real Rowena? Won't people notice I'm acting differently from her."

"Rowena was specifically chosen due to her fresh start within his higher ranks. From the intel that our dear Mr Griffiths has gathered, she is relatively unknown by those who we guess will be there. She provides the least risk of being revealed due to inconsistencies with persona. And if anybody asks or suspects that you are acting differently, then just tell them that Alastor Moody caught you, tortured you, and you escaped." He says the last part with a smile. "Yet it is best that you are with one of them at most times. You will have no idea if you are being summoned, and not showing would be a very damaging accuser."

"So the best way to keep my identity hidden is by keeping my distance and not being pushed into revealing anything, but also by keeping someone close by?" she concludes.

The Auror lays his hand on her opposite shoulder. "You are the woman for the job. If I did not consider you capable, preparations would not have even begun."

"Yet you gave it to Marlene first."

"You were the first choice. But after the incident at the Riddle Manor, and your recent engagement to Mr Potter, I wasn't sure you would be willing or mentally capable to undergo this. Marlene had proved herself on many occasions, but her strength lies in duelling and her voice. Yours lies in spells, puzzles, and your ability to observe. And that might save your life"

Cressida takes her time to let the revealing of her true task take hold. And when she finally feels ready enough, slowly emerges from the room. James and Sirius sit separately. She can't tell them the truth. Shaking off the paleness she knows is showing from her expression, Cressida strides to Sirius first, wringing her arms around his neck.

Her feet leave the floor and her chuckle is muffled by his shoulder. She never wants to let go, but she has to. Fearing that her muscles would lock in place, Cressida forces herself to slip from his embrace early and turns her attention to James. Her arms are nearly shoved against her own chest until she can slip them out and around his middle. One of his hands settles on her head, the other spanning over as much of her back as he can manage. Like a cage.

A cage she would be happy to be locked away in forever.

Xx

The house is surprisingly nice. Though not her style at all, it is filled with polished antiquities, a rich, dark wood that does not show a speck of dust and fine furnishings that look more aesthetically pleasing than she guesses they would be comfort wise. It is a two story home; thin but long in the midst of Muggle Oxford. The front of the house is a small dwelling area with a fireplace and chairs for company. No television. Then looking down the narrow home, on one half of the corridor is the stairs leading to the upper story, leaving a thin passage to the back of the house where the kitchen lay.

Cressida pushes the black hood from her face, the material following down to her ankles in a fitted black coat. She hasn't taken the potion yet, opting to save as much as she can for the times she will truly need it.

There are no photos are seemingly personal items on display. It looks very much like a home open for display, if you travelled back in time thirty odd years with a gothic sense of style.

She huffs randomly at Moody's comment about her observation skills. It is hardly a purposeful thing. She just prefers not to talk when her friends are not around. With a swish of her wand, the trunk that is far to heavy to carry, floats up the stairs and to the second story, Cressida pacing up the stairs behind it.

The bedroom that she finds is no different from the rest of the home. A blanket of deep black over white silk sheets. The bed's bannisters are carved into twists, holding a canopy above with tossed sheer curtains.

Cressida sits on the bed running her hand along the material. It is soft. Digging into her coat, she pulls out the instructions that were written down and memorises them. She'd have to burn the letter one she has read it. For the most part, they are how not to get herself killed. Simple titbits of Rowena's life that the Order has uncovered. But also a time of meeting that they drew out of Rowena in an interrogation. She hopes by interrogation they mean vertiaserum.

It isn't until tomorrow afternoon at 4 pm sharp, but no address. Someone is coming to escort her.

Cressida burns the letter, watching the flames engulf the parchment, eating at it. Death Eaters. Death Eaters are not simply followers of the man who calls himself the Dark Lord. They are those who prove their utmost loyalty in the vilest of ways and earn their way into the position. From the intel gathered by the Order of the Phoenix, corroborated with that of the Ministry's, there is less than fifty total. And many of them have been captured recently or killed entirely.

She might see her old schoolmates. She might see people that bring her great fear. Names that Sirius has told her of, or family names of Slytherins. And the worst of it all, she is going to see Voldemort for herself.

Voldemort, she has been warned, is an experienced legilimens. Which means that Cressida has to be beyond careful not to draw any sort of attention to herself, not get to close to him, stay quiet and simply observe.

She had questioned Alastor on what she is to do if they send her on some sort of killing spree and he told her to do what she had to. Cressida doesn't know what that really means, but she knows her own interpretation of that isn't going to include torturing Muggles and Muggle-borns.

None of the clothes in the trunk are her own. Cressida idly snorts at the idea of Moody shopping for Death Eater fashion, brushing away the logic that he would have connections do so for him. They are the only things from the trunk that she can safely remove.

There is no sound inside the house. No children ringing their bike bells as they ride along the lane. No birds chipping and scratching their nails along a fence. No music blaring from rowdy neighbours.

Cressida sits once more on the bed, staring at the room in front of her, when, finally, the crushing phenomenon of loneliness becomes ever so apparent and her ties with her lie are severed. With no owl to send messages, no journal or necklace, no belongings that are her own. Cressida Hawthorne is truly alone.