The next thing I remember is the warmth of brilliant sunlight spilling across my face. I grimaced as my eyes struggled to adjust, and when I tried to sit up I felt instantly woozy. After swaying for a moment on the spot I felt someone gently tucking a pillow behind me for support. Looking around, I saw the kindly face of a young nurse, who, after propping me up, turned away to ladle some hot soup into a bowl.

"Where am I?" I croaked. The nurse smiled at me.

"You are in the Hogwarts hospital wing," she said gently. "I am Madam Pomfrey, and Professor Dumbledore has asked me to care for you while you recover."

"Hogwarts?" I asked, stunned. She simply smiled and nodded, then held a spoon of soup to my cracked lips. I slurped the soup clumsily, not having eaten in I don't know how long. She fed me in silence, her face betraying nothing, until I had drained three bowls of soup.

"There now, that's better," she said cajolingly. I felt a surge of irritation at her kindness, unused as I was to such care. She seemed to have sensed my mood, for she frowned and said, "Not to worry. I shall go and tell Dumbledore you are awake." She bustled away, leaving me quite alone in the sunny hospital wing.

I studied my hands, gnarled and bony with starvation. Someone, the nurse no doubt, had dressed me in a clean white linen robe. With great trepidation, I pulled back the left sleeve and peered at my forearm. The ugly Dark Mark was barely visible. It had faded to the dull pink of an old scar. Because Tom is dead, I thought savagely. It's gone because I killed him.

Soon the door opened and Professor Dumbledore entered, with Alastor Moody in his wake. The Headmaster was all smiles, but Moody scowled at me over Dumbledore's shoulder. With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore drew up two chairs beside my bed and they sat. For several long moments, no one spoke. Finally, Moody broke the silence.

"You look like shit," he said, his electric blue eye quivering. Dumbledore looked shocked, but I barked a grim laugh and nodded.

"As rich as that is coming from the likes of you, I'm inclined to believe you," I said, my voice still hoarse. "How long was I in Azkaban?"

Dumbledore leaned forward. "Seven months," he said quietly. "And you've been delirious here in the hospital wing for nearly a week." I breathed deeply through my nose, taking in this news. Seven months.

"What happened to my magic?" I breathed, though I already knew the answer. Dumbledore frowned, considering me.

"It is my belief that your magic was lost when Voldemort's curse struck your astral soul in Godric's Hollow. Though it couldn't kill you entirely, it did manage to kill a part of you – the magical part."

I nodded, digesting the harsh confirmation of my suspicions. The deep silence I had experienced Hallowe'en night after I had returned to my body had been evidence of the lost. The electric hum of magic would never again thrum in my veins. My accomplishment as a Legilimens was gone forever. The world was closed and silent to me now, as it always had been to non-magical people.

"And why am I here?" I asked, feeling the old familiar surge of guilt and self-loathing that came with years of following Voldemort. "Why not let me die there – or worse? Are all the other Death Eaters free?"

"Many questions, with as many different answers," murmured Dumbledore, steepling his long fingers and leveling his piercing gaze at me. "You are here, Ms. Delacroix, because we have much to discuss. I did not let you die – or worse – in Azkaban because I have a more pressing job for you. Many Death Eaters testified in court after Lord Voldemort's disappearance, either proving their innocence or bartering information for release. And as for the others in Voldemort's inner circle, they are not free, but remain in Azkaban prison indefinitely."

"And I wouldn't be celebrating your own 'freedom' either just yet," growled Moody. "If you think I'll just let you waltz out of here, you're more idiot than I thought."

"Alastor, please," began Dumbledore, but Moody stood up and cut his words short with a wave of his hand.

"No, Albus, she's got to hear it from me!" he shouted. He circled the bed and came to stand close to me, looking down at me with a heart wrenching mixture of loathing, anger and pity in is mismatched eyes. "Amelie… you were like a daughter to me, once. I would have given you anything, would have died for you! But that girl is long gone. I don't even recognize you anymore. I would be well within my rights to kill you right here for the crimes you've committed!"

My eyes began to sting with tears, but I refused to look away. I deserved these words, I knew it well. Dumbledore was looking politely out the window as Moody continued.

"But… but after all of it, all the torture, murder and God knows what else, you chose right. I can't ignore the fact that you saved that boy and you ended You-Know-Who. Doesn't erase it all, but it certainly helps. And judging by the state of you now, you're suffering a pretty hefty sentence anyway. Magic gone… I won't say you don't deserve it, but it pains me nonetheless." He lingered a few moments longer, then turned away and returned to his chair beside Dumbledore, his eyes fixed determinedly on a point somewhere above my head.

"You see, Ms. Delacroix," said Dumbledore softly, "we have rescued you from Azkaban because, unlike the rest of Lord Voldemort's followers, you chose the Light in the end. You worked hard to achieve magic most witches and wizards never dare to accomplish, and you used it for the good of us all. The Light doesn't erase your past, certainly, but redeems it for sure."

"And what now?" I said, tears streaming in earnest down my face. "I have no magic, no future, no purpose. I would have been better off kissed by the dementors than to live out the rest of this miserable life as less than a Squib."

"Ah, you see, you are forgetting what I said. I could not allow the dementors to kiss you because I have a pressing job for you," said Dumbledore, conjuring a spangled handkerchief and passing it to me. "In fact, you have a better future, a stronger purpose now than you ever did while Lord Voldemort dictated your life."

"Yes, and what is that?" I spat, now churlish with despair. "Mopping floors here with Filch? Mucking out the thestral stables? Surely there is no decent place in wizarding society for an ex-Death Eater with no magic."

"You are right about that," conceded Dumbledore. "Wizarding society indeed would have very little to offer you now. However, as a Muggle-born witch, you are quite adept at living in the Muggle world. Which, incidentally, is where we now find the Boy Who Lived."

I sniffed. "Who?"

"The boy, you ridiculous girl, Harry Potter!" snarled Moody, tossing up his hands in exasperation. I blinked.

"He is in the Muggle world?" I asked. "But why? How?"

With a gentle smile, Dumbledore explained the events that had occurred after Hallowe'en night in Godric's Hollow. He explained the mysterious protection Lily Potter's sacrifice had afforded her son, how he was now safe within the walls of his mother's only blood relative.

"Safe, but not loved," he continued with a sad smile. "His aunt and uncle keep him only reluctantly. There is no warmth, no kindness for him there. A sad arrangement, to be sure, but I rest in the knowledge that evil cannot find him while he calls the place home."

"Evil? What evil? Now that Tom, er, the Dark Lord has gone, isn't the boy safe?" I asked. Moody grunted and Dumbledore leaned forward, speaking very quietly, his piercing blue eyes searching mine.

"Amelie, think," he whispered. "Where is the body? Where is the proof that Voldemort is truly dead? What really became of him the night his curse rebounded off your soul?"

A trickle of ice shivered down my spine. Suddenly I felt tainted, watched, as though Tom's red eyes were still marking my every move from some unseen place. "Then, he isn't… dead?" I asked, hating the tiny trace of hope that quivered in my voice. If Dumbledore noticed, he was polite enough to ignore it.

"Alas, I do not believe so, not truly," he said. "I believe… I fear… that he will return one day and attempt to finish the job he started."

"And when he does, the Order'll be ready to meet him head on," spat Moody. "And I'm here today because I hope you'll be part of it."

"Part of what? What can I possibly do with no magic?" I felt tears threatening again. Seven months had not been long enough to mourn the loss of my powers.

"Part of the Order of the Phoenix," answered Dumbledore. "Ms. Delacroix, there are more powerful things than magic. Love, most of all. And I believe there is enough of your heart left for that."

I shuddered visibly and stared down at the pink scar of the Dark Mark. "I don't know about that," I said.

"Child," murmured Dumbledore, despite the fact that I hadn't been a child in forty years, "what you experienced with Tom Riddle was not love. It never was. I am afraid, saddened, to tell you that you probably haven't experienced love since leaving your parents all those decades ago. But not to worry. Love is always there, waiting with open arms, for those willing to accept it."

My eyes met Moody's, and suddenly I felt like a young witch again, bursting into sobs that wracked my frail body. In one swift movement, Alastor was at my side again, bent over me and wrapping me in a bear hug that threatened to crack my ribs. He patted my hair awkwardly as he drew back again, his normal eye shining with fatherly tears. "Dumbledore's right," he gruffed, wiping his lopsided nose on the back of his sleeve. "Love, forgiveness, mercy, all bigger than what you've suffered – than what any of us have suffered. You chose right on Hallowe'en. Rest there, Amelie. You've got time left to remain in the Light."

There was a protracted silence in which Moody seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable with his unusual show of affection. He cleared his throat loudly and turned to Dumbledore. "Right, well, then, I've got work to do. An Auror's job is never done. Constant vigilance!" he said, then stomped away and left me alone with the Headmaster.

I took a deep breath to steady my emotions, yanking the sleeve back over the scar. Dumbledore waited patiently, looking up at me with polite interest. Finally, he spoke.

"You're not the only one with an interesting scar," he said conversationally. "The Potter boy has got a lightning bolt, the exact shape of the Killing Curse, right on his forehead. It will never fade, I'm afraid, but I hope he will grow to accept it. It may even prove useful someday."

"Sir, you said you wanted me to protect him," I said. "How can I do that? Won't the Ministry frown upon placing a Death Eater in such close proximity to Harry Potter?"

"Ex-Death Eater," he corrected me pointedly. "And as for the Ministry, I've had you fully pardoned. They found my evidence as to your true allegiance not only satisfactory but really quite inspiring." He smiled and paused to pull a handful of parchments out of thin air. He handed them to me and I glanced at the topmost page. It bore my own photograph, along with an unusual and unfamiliar name.

"Arabella Figg?" I asked, frowning.

"Your new identity," said Dumbledore with a smile. "I've seen to it that all the proper paperwork is done. The Ministry may have pardoned you, but alas, I'm afraid those who still claim allegiance to Lord Voldemort will not be as lenient. This new identity will keep you safe."

I gave a short laugh. "Silly name," I said, more to myself than to Dumbledore. I read through the list of identifying features. "Squib? I'm to be a Squib?"

Dumbledore looked at me pointedly. "How else to explain how a woman with no magic has come to be so… familiar with Wizarding ways? At any rate, as the Dursleys are quite unfriendly toward witches and wizards in general, it is best they know nothing of your past, nor your connections to our world. As far as they should know, you are merely a kindly Muggle spinster with a fondness for babysitting small boys."

I cringed at the word kindly. I rifled through the identification papers a bit more, marshaling my thoughts and feelings before I could speak.

"What will you tell Harry? When he's old enough to ask," I said. Dumbledore stood and looked out of the window for a long moment.

"I will tell him the truth. That love saved him. That is all he needs to know."

"How can I ever forgive myself for all I've done?" I whispered, closing my eyes.

Dumbledore's voice was soft and sad. "We've all made choices and mistakes in our past that we'd rather forget," he murmured. "As for me, I have found that the only way to begin to move forward is to recommit to the Light day by day. Go and live in Little Whinging. Watch out for Harry. Be kind to him. In time, forgiveness will come."

Three weeks later, I moved into the safehouse Dumbledore had procured for me in Privet Drive. It was small, and smelled like cats – nothing like the regal halls and opulent grandeur I had lived in with Tom. The spoiled, feared Lady I had been would have reviled such a place. But I found as I began my life anew, slowly becoming Mrs. Figg, a deep contentment in the little place. For the first time perhaps ever, I felt in control of my life.

I stepped outside into the bright summer sun and watched as across the street haughty, horse-faced Petunia Dursley crooned over a squealing blond toddler in a plastic swimming pool. Behind her, sat alone in the grass with nothing but an old wooden spoon to play with, was the small, black-haired Boy Who Lived. Sensing my presence, he looked up, meeting my gaze with bright green eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it seemed to me that he smiled. I smiled back and waved before sitting down in my rocking chair to watch over Harry from a distance. As he turned his attention back to the wooden spoon, waving it through the air in an unmistakably wand-like motion, I felt something stir in my heart. New, warm, completely innocent. It was love.


Author's Note:

I started writing this FanFic in 2003, when I was a 20-year-old college student. And then I married, had two children, and got so busy with life that the story lay forgotten for years at a time. Since then, I have revisited Amelie and her sordid affair with Tom only sporadically. And now, after 19 years, it is finally finished. Thank you to those who have stuck with my story from the beginning (especially through my cringier early chapters!). I have loved examining the rise and fall of You-Know-Who from a different angle, and sharing new conjecture about what really saved Harry that night.

I want to say unequivocally that Amelie's "relationship" with Tom was never healthy. Abuse comes in many forms, and if you find yourself in a relationship that mirrors this tale in ANY way, please call the National Domestic Abuse Hotline at 800-799-7233. You are worthy of love, respect and safety always.

Wishing you Love and Lumos!

Ashley