Chapter 27: The Devil's Names

Monday was a pleasantly quiet day for Albus. As most predicted, the extreme cold and snow prompted a cancellation of all Herbology classes. In fact, even Neville took the day off to stay in London with his family. The students took advantage of the powder still on the ground to do what any children would likely do in that situation - form the snow into spheres and throw them at each other. Albus sat this activity out. Going to visit Scorpius each day of the weekend had put him a bit behind for his assignments that were due Tuesday. Sylvia had either finished them, or didn't care much. She almost convinced him to come out… but on top of the homework he had, the fire seemed much too comfortable. And with the common room largely empty, it would be one of the few times in the winter he could hope to have it to himself. So he curled up on one of the couches, reading his Charms text. He and the rest of the students had found out that Professor Crawford was much more prone to giving pop quizzes than Gladstone had been. On the upside, unless you hadn't read the text at all, they weren't terribly tricky. After a while, he switched to Potions. A particularly troublesome brew had gotten the best of him last time. Nothing exploded, thankfully (his streak remained alive), but it had gone thick enough that he nearly bent his ladle trying to remove it from the cauldron. Not optimal.

The afternoon was surprisingly uneventful, save for when Freddy Weasley, looking a bit glum, came down from the dormitories to affix something to the House bulletin board. As it turned out, he was putting together a sheet for tryouts for an open spot on the Quidditch club. They had managed to fill the two positions left vacant after November, but then one of the two substitutes left after "...something about his coursework getting more difficult," Freddy mentioned, not looking for a second like he bought it. "Personally, I think he just didn't want to practice in the cold twice a week."

And on top of that, apparently, Freddy and Greta had fallen out over… something.

"Maybe I'm just destined to end up like Uncle Charlie," he mentioned with a shrug as he started to leave. "Quidditch Captain, lifelong bachelor…"

"You don't seem that cut up about it," Albus felt the need to comment for some reason.

"Because I know I'm right," Freddy answered. There was a bit of an edge in his voice, but he seemed more defiant than angry. "It doesn't matter. She's graduating and moving on with her life in the summer anyway. Lot less complicated to just date a girl in your own year, isn't it?"

Albus was taken aback by this question. "Why are you asking me? I don't know."

Freddy replied to this with a maddening raise of his eyebrows as he left the common room through the portrait hole.

Afternoon gave way to evening, and the darkness of the early winter sunset sent the students back inside. It was nearly time of supper by then, and Albus went down to the common room with Sylvia and a large knot of Gryffindors who were from other years and he didn't know well - with the exception of Isaac Pike, who saw him and pointedly refused to meet his eye. At the Great Hall, a variety of soups and stews were on the menu - as if Professor Gladstone or the elves or whoever had made the decision had known that most students would be up for a good, hot soup in these conditions. Albus personally had beef stew. It was almost as good as his grandmother's. Almost.

He caught sight of James, Murphy and Rowan some ways down the table. They seemed to be having an intense conversation of sorts. But then, that wasn't abnormal with James, Murphy, and Rowan these days. Albus wondered what they were talking about. At the same time, though, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. He was, on the other hand, reasonably sure that James didn't want him to know. He never really did.

They had made the mistake of staying a bit too late, too. Albus had meant to go visit Scorpius after supper, but it was coming up on eight o'clock. Madam Pomfrey, unlike her younger, more flexible understudy, didn't allow nearly as much leeway on visiting hours. At ten minutes before the hour, there was no point in them even making the trip.

Somewhat fortunately, when Albus got back to the common room and went up to his dormitory, he found out that any more walks up to the hospital wing were going to be quite unnecessary.

"Scorpius," he called to the blond-haired boy sitting on the edge of a four-poster across the room from the entrance.

Scorpius jumped. Several pieces of parchment went everywhere.

"It's alright, it's just me," Albus tried to reassure him, walking across the room. "When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago," Scorpius replied, but then he looked around himself and gave a sigh. "Damn it," he whispered.

Albus took note of a larger piece of parchment, one that looked rather familiar, sitting on Scorpius's nightstand. But Scorpius, at the moment, seemed more preoccupied with the smaller ones scattered around his bed. Albus approached and knelt to pick one up. There, he saw a message.

"Dear Scorpius,

All is well.

Love,

Dad."

He picked up a second - same message. Then a third - same message.

Scorpius turned around toward him and Albus flinched, thinking he might flip out. When he didn't, Albus handed the strips of parchment to him, saying, "They all say…"

"The same thing," Scorpius finished. "He's been sending an owl to me every day since I got back to Hogwarts."

"But you haven't been getting them?" Albus finished.

Scorpius shook his head. "He's been using post owls, and they've been holding the letters in Glasgow, turns out."

"What? Why?" asked Albus.

"Something something 'may contain dark magic' something," Scorpius answered a bit bitterly, starting to stack the parchment letters one on top of the next.

Albus frowned. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not surprised," Scorpius conceded. "Dad told me that sort of thing could happen even back before my first year. That's why we never wrote to each other."

There was a pause.

Albus swallowed hard. "Listen-"

"Don't," Scorpius interrupted him. "You've already done enough."

Albus was floored - he was really willing to let it go that easily?

Albus himself, however, was not. "No... " Scorpius, who had walked past him, turned around. "You were right. I should have been different. I just assumed the worst so easily… and I let everyone around me do it too. Rose and the others…"

"Hold on a second," Scorpius interrupted him again. This time, his gray eyes were firm, almost cold. "Maybe you made a mistake. But don't take the fall for Rose or anybody else. They've got brains. They can think for themselves. At least, they should be able to…"

Scorpius swallowed hard and looked away.

"Rose has turned into…" Albus started, but trailed off. "I don't know. She hasn't been the same since that night. I think something in her… snapped."

"You think so?" asked Scorpius. "Her parents and grandparents have been feeding her and her brother all the awful details about my family, I'd bet," he answered.

"They also told her to listen to the people in charge," Albus pointed out. With a sigh, he said, "And to trust them. But Wenster screwed us. She's always had faith in the 'system'...but she doesn't know who to trust now..."

"I know who to trust, though," Scorpius piped in. He paused for a moment. "Al, if we're going to be friends, I need you to understand something." Albus glanced at him, wordlessly giving him permission to continue. "I know Rose is your family, and I know you love her, so I'd never ask you to pick between her and me. But she and I won't ever be friends. In fact, I'm probably never going to speak to her again."

This was sad… but Albus understood. Rose had been right nasty to Scorpius and nearly everyone else lately.

Scorpius went back over to his bed and sat on it, looking very sad. "I…"

He trailed off again, biting his lip.

In the silence, the door swung open violently. Desmond McLaggen came thundering into the room, and turned toward the other two boys.

"MALFOY!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Rowan Lester had come in not far behind him. "Desmond, stop it."

But Scorpius had already jumped to his feet by the time Desmond, who was considerably bigger, had advanced on him. "I hope you're happy, you selfish son of a bitch." Desmond was practically snorting smoke. But Scorpius didn't flinch in the slightest.

"Mind telling me what I've done this time?" asked Scorpius, who had been at loggerheads with Desmond ever since the 'incident' in November. "And in your indoor voice, thanks."

But this was different. Desmond was seething. It really was a bit frightening. Albus wasn't sure he'd ever seen him this angry, and that was saying quite a bit. "Vaisey's parents are thinking of pulling him out of Hogwarts."

There was a pause.

"Not sure how that's my fault," Scorpius answered. "And not sure how you found that out."

"I've been helping him make sure he gets his coursework," Desmond answered. "Not like any of you sods would do it, right?"

Vaisey was in an odd spot with the student body - still allowed to take classes, but not really allowed to attend them or interact with any other students. Apparently it was less of a punishment and more for Vaisey's own safety. But it was odd - even Albus had to admit that. It was almost as if the school had really wanted to expel him and couldn't find the guts. But this, in a lot of ways, was worse.

"I guess you're expecting some sort of medal for being his only friend?" Scorpius spat back. "Well, you sure as hell won't get one from me. Not after what he did to my cousin, and Al's family. He deserves every bit of what he's getting. And if his parents want to pull him out of school completely, that's fine by me. He shouldn't be here. He can go home."

"HE CAN'T GO HOME!" Desmond suddenly bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"Desmond, calm down!" Rowan implored him.

"No, I can't calm down because you jackasses don't get it!" Desmond snapped. His eyes were wide and his fists tight. "Don't you know what'll happen to him - you have no idea…"

"Whatever it is, it's probably too good for him!" Scorpius shot back.

The room went silent. Desmond's stare went almost blank.

Rowan had obviously seen something in his schoolmate's eyes that he didn't like. "Desmond, don't. Don't do it."

But Desmond put his hands up and turned around. "It's good. I'm alright."

Clearly he was not 'alright', though - because his very next action was to whirl around and slug Scorpius Malfoy in the jaw.

Rowan tried to pull Desmond back, while Albus jumped in front of Scorpius and pinned him to the wall to he didn't retaliate. Albus heard Rowan grunt, quickly realized that Desmond must have gotten rid of him, and immediately whipped around with his wand, standing between Desmond and Scorpius.

"Take another step and I'll Stun you!" Albus shouted clearly.

"We haven't even started on that in class," Desmond snapped. "You don't know how!"

"You want to try me?" Albus asked breathlessly.

Some combination of better sense and probably just enough fear caused Desmond to back down. Which probably worked in Albus's favor, because Desmond had been absolutely right. Even though he knew the incantation for a Stunning Hex, he'd never cast one before.

"What's all this noise?"

The door opened again. It was Kenneth Bourne, the fifth year Gryffindor Prefect. Albus felt a pang of irritation. Bourne wasn't altogether a bad sort, and he had never been on Wenster's side, technically, but… the only thing Albus could remember when he looked at him now was how hard he had tried to prevent them from leaving Gryffindor Tower that evening to look for his and Rose's respective siblings.

Bourne sighed. "Malfoy. You're back. I should have known."

"Hold on a second," Rowan, who had been on his backside, jumped to his feet. "McLaggen was the one that threw a punch."

"I didn't see that," Bourne answered.

"No, you didn't - and you didn't see Malfoy do anything either," Rowan went off. "So then why are you assuming he's the one that did something wrong?"

"Watch it, Lester," Bourne returned fire. "You've had a good record so far."

"You didn't answer my question." Rowan would not be denied.

"I'm not obligated to," Bourne replied.

"Maybe not," Rowan admitted. "But you should know that I saw the whole thing… and that I know what a Pensieve is and how to work one. My uncle taught me." Rowan was pointedly not looking at Bourne, but Albus was, and could see the Prefect's jaw unhinge, along with more than a bit of color leaving his face. "So if you go to Wenster or one of the other professors with a story other than the truth… I can show Longbottom first thing tomorrow morning, and he'll have that badge ripped off your chest by lunchtime."

Bourne was clearly unnerved by this, but tried to regain his composure. "I don't appreciate being threatened."

"It's not a threat," Rowan answered casually, walking over and sitting on his own bed. "A threat's something that might happen. After the debacle with Temple in the fall, how much patience do you think Longbottom's going to have with another one of his Prefects abusing their power and making him look bad for picking them?"

Bourne breathed through his nostrils. "Abusing my power? I'm just -"

"-Trying to keep Hogwarts safe?" Rowan interrupted. "Because we haven't heard that before."

Bourne stared at Rowan for a moment and then said, "Five points from Gryffindor. Keep the noise down."

And he left.

Rowan rounded on Desmond.

"Don't look at me like that - Malfoy deserved it for what he said," Desmond spat back. Glaring at Scorpius, he murmured, "He should keep his mouth shut about stuff he doesn't understand."

"Well, if you want someone to understand, punching them in the face is kind of counterproductive, isn't it?!" Rowan snapped as Desmond walked past him.

Desmond clearly wasn't in the mood to discuss it anymore. "All of you can go to hell," he said, going to the door, opening it, and slamming it behind him.

Rowan walked over to his own bed and flopped upon it. "This isn't helping," he growled through his teeth, hands over his eyes. He sat up again.

Meanwhile, Albus turned back to Scorpius, who, somewhat to his alarm, was wiping away a dribble of red from his lip with his hand.

"Are you alright?" asked Albus, a bit nervous about Scorpius' answer.

"I'm fine," Scorpius said. Albus wasn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned at his relative lack of reaction. "He pulled it. For whatever reason. I know he can punch harder than that…"

Scorpius shook his head.

"What's wrong?" asked Albus.

"Nothing." Scorpius's reply was quick - reflexive. He shook his head again. "It's just really bollocks," he murmured after a moment. "Prick like him doesn't deserve as many friends as he has."

"Who - McLaggen?" asked Albus.

"No - Vaisey," Scorpius replied. "But never mind that. What's a Pensieve?"

Rowan sat up from his bed. "You don't know what a Pensieve is?"

"No. What - should I? Is it some sort of dark magic artifact?" Scorpius asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice and an ironic smirk on his lip.

Rowan frowned. "No, that's not what I meant… I wasn't even… Never mind. You've seen one, right?"

His eyes flicked over to Albus.

"Me?" Albus asked. "Well, yeah, I have an idea of what one looks like, but I've never seen it up close."

"Really?" asked Rowan. "I thought your dad might have one, with his line of work…"

"Not his own. They have some at the Ministry - but those are for official use only," replied Albus. Then, realizing he would now have to explain what a Pensieve was, he turned to Scorpius. "A Pensieve is this kind of… basin, I guess. Where you can put memories."

Obviously Rowan, after seeing Scorpius's confused look, had felt this explanation wasn't quite up to scratch, because he chimed in: "You can put them there for safekeeping or you can view them."

"View them? You mean, like…" Scorpius trailed off. "I don't get it. If you want to remember a memory, why not just… remember it?"

"This is a little different," Rowan explained. "You get to view the memory from kind of… outside yourself, I guess. And not just your own, either. You can extract memories from other people and look at them, too."

Albus cringed. "Extract? That sounds like it hurts."

"No, not really," Rowan answered casually. "Although you can get a wicked headache if you try to do it too quick. Or so I've heard."

He went silent for a minute.

"I'd love to know why Bourne's got his head so far up Wenster's arse," Scorpius intoned.

"Politics," Rowan answered offhandedly. "It's all politics."

"What's that mean?" Albus asked.

Rowan jumped off the bed to his feet.

"From what I've heard," he started to explain, "Headmaster Flitwick's life isn't in danger anymore… but he's also not likely, at his age, to ever be the same as he was before the heart attack. He has to be careful. He was lucky to survive the first one, but a second will almost definitely kill him. Between that and putting the Founder's Veil up twice in one year…"

Rowan paused.

"I'm pretty sure we've seen the last of him as Headmaster at Hogwarts," he finished.

The room went silent for a moment.

"You think Flitwick's gonna get sacked?" Albus asked, a bit shocked.

Rowan shook his head. "'Sacked' isn't really the right word. The governors - most people, really - have too much respect for him to do that. It's likely they'll strongly advise him to retire, and then when he does, they'll vote in a new Headmaster over the summer."

"Professor Gladstone's done a fair job taking over for him, I guess," Albus admitted, a bit sadly. He really liked the old Headmaster. Flitwick had always been kind to him - to most people, really.

"More than fair. She's been brilliant. At least, I think so," Rowan opined. "But… the board never wanted Flitwick to name her deputy. She was too inexperienced. So Flitwick got around it by… just not naming her deputy. Not officially, at least. But she had all of the duties, and basically everybody here at Hogwarts understood that, if something were to happen to him, she'd be the one to take over. The board will want to vote their own person in. Somebody with a lot of experience teaching."

"Neville - Professor Longbottom, I mean…" Albus corrected himself, realizing the other boys did not have nearly as familiar a relationship with Gryffindor's currently absent headteacher, "...He's been here about ten years now, hasn't he? More than that. I think Dad said he took the job as Herbology professor the year Lily was born, and she's twelve now…"

"That's true. And he's very popular. I don't think anyone reasonable would bat an eyelash if the governors elected him," Rowan replied. "Only…"

Rowan trailed off and frowned.

"What's wrong?" queried Albus.

"Well… even though we haven't seen it in a long while, it's not unheard of for a Headmaster to be married," Rowan explained. "Children, though…"

"...I get it," Scorpius intoned. "After all, the Headmaster basically lives here in the castle. So, if it's not him, who do you think the Board of Governors would -"

He stopped suddenly mid-sentence. Albus watched his gray eyes glaze over… and then turn to meet his.

"No…" Scorpius uttered, sounding like his mouth had gone dry.

Albus had to take a moment to collect his thoughts. "No," he repeated. "Not him. No way. He can't be Headmaster. Not after all he's gotten up to - there's no way."

"You're right," Rowan said. "Our only chance… is that the truth comes out between now and when that vote happens."

"...The truth?" Albus asked.

Rowan paused for a long while, and didn't look at him.

James

A brutally cold January gave way to February eventually, and although this was proving to be an especially snowy winter (James wasn't sure he'd seen any grass on the Hogwarts grounds since term started), things were no longer as unbearable as they had been a few weeks back.

The last half of January had been so relatively peaceful that there were even rumours going around the school that the yearly Valentine's Day Social, which students had naturally assumed would be cancelled, might even be put back on. James didn't really think much of it, honestly.

"That's because you don't have to agonize over who to ask if they end up having it," Murphy told him over lunch on the first of the month, which was a Saturday. "The rest of us normal blokes…"

"For what it's worth…" James started, gulping down a spoonful of tomato soup. It wasn't his favorite thing in the world, but it was warm. "I think Martin and Starr broke up."

Martin Croyle was a Gryffindor fourth year, and a roommate of theirs. Nominally, at least; he was something of a social butterfly, and was in the room so seldom that James had only nailed down his name in the last couple of months.

Starr Reynolds was a fifth year, the daughter of a British stage actress that was apparently fairly well-known in the Muggle world. She was very pretty, and was even said to have a pleasant singing voice. James had never heard it, though.

"I'm not asking Starr," chuckled Murphy, almost dismissively. "First of all, even if she said yes, I don't want that kind of attention."

James shrugged. He wanted to help, but also, Murphy was asking the wrong bloke. He hadn't even ever formally asked Brynne out. They just kissed that one time, and that was that. That wasn't typically how things worked, and even he knew it.

"Gemma? No, she's dating Asher. Still. I think," James murmured, mostly to himself.

"You know Anna tried to set me up with one of her friends?" Murphy recounted a bit grouchily. "Sometimes, I think she forgets that she's twelve."

"Isn't her birthday coming up in a few weeks?" asked James. February was a shorter month than others (although this was a leap year, if James remembered correctly), and James was reasonably sure Murphy had mentioned that his little sister was born in the first part of March. James would remember that fact; he was born in March himself.

"She's still twelve," Murphy reasoned. His expression turning dark, he added, "She asked me about Croyle, too, so remind me to punch him in the face the next time I see him." James sniggered.

"Between you and your dad, Anna's not getting married until she's forty, is she?" he asked wryly.

"Not unless she elopes," chuckled Murphy. "Although that's something I wouldn't put past her…"

A bespectacled boy with a mane of brown hair came into view. James's brow furrowed as he watched the boy sit down next to Murphy. James and this other boy got into a bit of a staring contest for several moments.

Rowan Lester finally looked away.

"There's no use still being pissed off at me," he said. "It's done."

"I know it's done," James responded. "I just don't understand why it was done when I didn't want it to be done."

"I'm here as a favor to Brynne, first off," Rowan bristled. "I'm not your crony. I thought it was best. If we have a difference of opinion, then -"

"You're damn right we have a difference of opinion," James interrupted.

"James, c'mon, mate," Murphy interjected.

"I don't want Al in the line of fire," James talked over him, staring a hole through Rowan. "I thought we were clear on that."

"Are you afraid he might want to do something about it?" asked Rowan, not meeting James's eye. "Steal some glory from you, maybe?"

It was a fortunate thing in this moment that these tables were set up so that someone sitting on the opposite side would be just out of arm's reach, because James had just had a sudden, powerful urge to grab Rowan Lester around the throat.

"That's not why I'm in this," James finally said, calming himself down. "And if you don't know that by now -"

"Then what's the real reason you want everyone else out of the loop? 'Something something, people might get hurt, something.' That's bollocks," Rowan answered firmly. "People are safer when they know something than when they know nothing at all. Just look at the last war. Things would have gone a lot better if the Ministry hadn't spent a whole year trying to discredit your dad and Albus Dumbledore when they were saying Voldemort was back. He got a whole year to gather his forces and get stronger and Britain lost a whole year to try to stop him. Besides… Albus knows something's up already. How can he not, with what happened to your sister? To try to pretend that there's nothing to worry about at this point is… well, honestly, it's kind of insulting to him."

James looked away from Rowan sourly. "The problem is, I can't trust you now. How do I know you haven't run off and told Brynne about the Scarlet Hand?"

This touched a nerve. "One, because I would never do that. Two, because we have no idea that it's a fact yet," he replied. "As far as she knows, the man that's in Azkaban now is all there is. Nobody pulling the strings behind him, nobody giving him orders. Just him." Rowan paused. "Just Creevey."

"Creevey… I've seen that name before," mused James. "It's on the Second War memorial at Dumbledore's tomb on the Black Lake. I found it when I was looking for my uncle Fred on there back during my first year."

"Well, it couldn't have been him," Murphy pointed out. "He's dead, right?"

Rowan's jaw twitched. He pushed his glasses up his face, remembering the conversation from a few days back...

Brynne

"You want to what?" Kadric Howell leaned over the table. He glanced over at Rowan, who was sitting next to him. The two appeared to agree. Brynne was not surprised by this or by Howell's reaction. She had figured he would not take this well. "No. No, no, no, no. Seriously. That's an awful idea. No."

Rowan grimaced as he glanced at Brynne. Then he shook his head.

"He knows more than anyone at this table about Lucan Wenster, more than likely," she finally said. "What's the downside?"

"Other than the fact that he's mad?" Howell let out a mirthless chuckle, as if he could not believe what he's hearing. "I think we've got a better chance with Scorpius Malfoy, personally."

"Have you seen Scorpius Malfoy lately?" queried Rowan seriously. "He's not in any condition to… his mind's on other things, alright? And as close as he is to Albus…"

"There's an idea," Howell said. "Why not both of them? I know Potter's got to have his own bone to pick with Wenster after what happened with Lily in November. And he's got more to him than it looks like - you saw what he did to Eamonn Temple a few weeks ago…"

"Fine - but you're going to be the one to let his brother know, not me," Rowan replied, shaking his head and putting his palms out. "James already thinks I've told Albus too much…"

"Those are all fair ideas," Brynne answered, "But I'd prefer him." She looked at Howell. "I know you're upset about what he did to Lena, but…"

"That's got nothing to do with it," Howell said, not meeting Brynne's eye. "He's… how is there any chance we can trust him?"

"Howell's got a point." Rowan, who had watched this conversation mostly silently with his arms folded, finally interposed himself. "Think about it - even Wenster thought he was a liability. He's a loose cannon, Brynne - on a good day. Seriously… I mean, you haven't had many outright bad ideas, but this… this is a bad idea."

Brynne watched the three boys around her - Howell, whom Brynne knew from the jump would be dead set against this; Rowan, who had talked very little; and, next to her, Tellius Nott, who hadn't spoken at all.

"January's almost over," she finally reminded them. "We're running out of time."

"Then we should be focusing on people that can help us," Rowan answered, betraying the smallest dash of annoyance. "Not blokes that might just rat us out to Wenster to get back in his good books."

"You really think he'd do that?" asked Howell seriously. "I mean, from the sounds of things, Wenster kind of made him take the fall for most of what happened."

"He deserved to. It was mostly his fault." Nott finally spoke.

"Wenster was the one who gave the order," Rowan pointed out. "They wouldn't have been down there to begin with if not for him. And I think he knew the type of person he was dealing with. That's why he recruited him in the first place."

"There are things about Stephan Vaisey that very few people know," Brynne finally said.

Just then, though, two blonde-haired students approached the table at which Brynne and the four boys were sitting.

"That was an awful lot," the girl groused, taking something in her palm and slapping it down on the table in front of Brynne. "Madam Pince says she organizes those shelves once a week but I think she missed this one - found it in the 1780's section after looking for damn near a half hour."

Brynne frowned. "Sorry, Serra."

"You owe me one," the blonde girl replied.

Brynne grimaced. "I know. It's the right one?"

"I sure as hell hope so; it says '2000' on the corner," Serra Paxton pointed out. The number '2000' was indeed on the corner of the white slip, in quill ink that looked as fresh as if it had been written just yesterday. It probably had some sort of Anti-Smearing charm on it, Brynne figured. That was a basic spell, and Professor Gladstone had made a habit of teaching all of her second year students the charm, simply because it gave her and the other professors and easier job reading the students' homework essays. It must have been a more powerful version of the charm, though, Brynne thought, to make the ink last twenty years without fading.

"What's that?" queried Rowan.

"Photograph," Brynne answered.

"A photograph?" repeated Rowan. Meanwhile, Brynne flipped the picture over. As with all wizard portraits, this one featured small movements that did an adequate job of capturing what the subjects were feeling at the time. This particular picture was of several broomstick-wielding wizards in red, black, and gold robes. Brynne's eyes scanned the faces. It appeared the captain of what appeared to be the Gryffindor Quidditch team was a girl that year - older, probably a sixth or seventh year by the look of her, with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair that had a windblown quality. She was grinning, holding the large, silver Hogwarts Quidditch Cup aloft with a tall, strapping, tan-skinned boy that was smiling also, stealing telling glances at her every so often. Judging by the club that was in his free hand, Brynne figured the boy had been a Beater. Lucan Wenster was in the middle of the picture, looming over everyone in the back. Apparently he had been bald even twenty years ago, but his beard was somewhat longer and considerably less gray. He still had a blood-red cloak and looked as grouchy as ever, but there was a grim pride in his eyes as he stared down at the children underneath him. Another boy toward the middle was forcing an uncomfortable smile. He was supporting himself on crutches and had an obvious cast on one leg. Near the bottom of the picture, holding a bright red Quaffle, was a quite smaller boy, considerably younger than the rest, with brown hair and a twinkle in his eye that Brynne, with a short gasp, immediately recognized.

"Hey, Rowan, look at this," Brynne said, sliding the picture over to him. "Do you see someone you recognize?"

Take away Rowan's glasses, Brynne thought, and the two would look very much alike. It took all of three seconds for Rowan to spot him as well. "That's Uncle Flynn. Blimey, he must have been… twelve, thirteen at most." He paused. "He never mentioned that he'd played - much less won a Cup."

A pause.

"We went through all that trouble just to get a picture of Rowan's uncle?" asked Serra.

"No," Brynne said, unable to hide the tone of sadness. She extended her hand, wordlessly requesting that he return the picture. Rowan slid the picture across the table again, and Brynne caught it, pulling out her wand. "Engorgio."

The picture stretched and grew until it was larger than an average sheet of parchment. The other boys could finally see it as well now, and leaned in its direction.

"I've seen that girl before," remarked Howell.

"Which one?" asked Nott. "The one with the trophy or the other one?"

"The one with the trophy," Howell answered. "Her face is familiar, I just can't place… she looks like someone. Maybe I've met a relative of hers or something."

"So who's the other one?" asked Nott.

Brynne's eyes slid over to the dark-haired girl at the left side of the picture, who was smiling, but wiping her eyes every few moments with her free hand. (The other appeared to be clenched tightly over a tiny ball.) Standing next to her with an arm around her shoulder, was…

"I've forgotten her name… but the boy next to her was the one I was looking for." Brynne announced.

"What, that bloke?" asked Mark Albertine, who had arrived with Serra earlier. "Looks like he might've been the Keeper, judging by the kit… but he looks pretty ordinary. And grumpy. I wouldn't look that pissed off if I had a girlfriend and a Quidditch Cup."

"They say he didn't smile much," Brynne explained. "Not after he turned fourteen. That was the year Voldemort took over the Ministry and posted several of his Death Eaters here at Hogwarts."

The table fell silent. They were all clever. They knew what she was implying.

"Did he lose someone?" asked Mark, frowning.

Brynne shook her head. "He lost everyone. His parents, who were both Muggles… his little sister, who was only eight... and his brother, who died the night of the final battle. Despite all this… somehow… he managed to put together a good life for himself. He finished school - a nice family in Hogsmeade took him in and let him stay there during the holidays - became a Prefect, even a Quidditch Captain… graduated with splendid marks, began working for the Ministry. But his hate for Voldemort and his supporters never went away."

Rowan realized it first. He leaned back from the picture now, as if repulsed.

"God," he uttered breathlessly, his amber eyes darting from the photograph and up to Brynne. "You're saying that's…"

Brynne didn't acknowledge Rowan's reaction. "He would grow up to lead a band of merciless vigilantes who targeted anyone they believed to have been connected with the Death Eaters or Voldemort's puppet Ministry regime. And although they were suspected of being behind several murders, including that of a former Minister of Magic, they were only ever tried and found guilty of two: Edmund and Hestia Walter of Swansea, Wales."

"Your parents," Nott said blankly.

Brynne nodded grimly. "This ordinary-looking boy became the man that killed them - Dennis Adam Creevey."