How High the Moon

.ψ.

Chapter Twenty: A Bittersweet Grip

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Who told us we'd be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We're asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It's unfair.

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

-'Held', Natalie Grant

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Charlie flew out of the muggle pub on the wings of Stella's uncomfortable speed.

His mind was numb and his feet followed hers by rote, not thinking for fear of treading on dangerous mental ground. The night had been far too full of chaos already for there to be any room left in his head for this strange, impossible revelation, and now he had to be strong for Ginny. She would need him, since he knew she would be awake and well when they returned.

She had to be.

They swooped around the krup-lady and the gum-chewing receptionist, down the dark hallways and past the rubbery corpse to the tiny backroom. The view was not much changed from the last time he'd been there except that Ronnie was back. Charlie's eyes were all for Ginny. She looked just the same too: same matted hair, same ashen face, same death rattle echoing in the cave-like room.

The world was suddenly sluggish, underwater almost. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. She was supposed to be awake. Stella said that everything would be fine, hadn't she? She'd said that it would be alright, because Fish-face was the best of the... of course!

The skinny little blond looked up with an expression of only mild surprise when Charlie barreled into the room and grabbed her by the lapel of her perfectly pressed green robes.

"What did you do to her?"

He vaguely heard Stella and Ron shouting, but paid no attention. He was focused on the delicate, bony face inches from his own. "What did you do?"

She gazed at him blankly.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" His roar made the crystal vials on her desk shiver.

The answer was hushed and rang in his ears.

"I saved her life."

Suddenly his head really was ringing. The world wobbled, he tasted blood, and somehow Charlie found himself on the floor in a disbelieving slump.

"Merlin's Beard! What do you- Ronnie?"

"'The hell d'you think you were doing, you git? She just saved Gin!" A familiar red-headed figure loomed over him, cradling one fist. "Are you thick or something?"

"You hit me." Charlie pointed out, unable to think of anything else to say.

Ronnie had hit him. Really hit him! Sure, they'd rough-housed a lot when he had come home on summer holiday, but no one had ever hit him and meant it before.

"Good thing he did it before I did." A crisp voice sliced between them. "I've got much better aim."

He turned to gaze up at Fish-face, who was primly readjusting her collar and looking far too dignified for someone who had just been manhandled.

Stella just blinked at him from her perch on the end of Ginny's bed, dumfounded. "What was that?"

Oh Ginny.

"I … you … she …" He was hardly aware of inching towards Ginny's bed. "She's alright? Merlin, she doesn't look alright. Are you sure?"

Ron made a frustrated sound and stalked out of the room. Charlie paid no attention, watching Ginny's chest rise and fall with tentative hope. Maybe she did sound a little better. But maybe not. This whole horrific night was full of too many maybes, and neither woman was answering him.

"She's alright, isn't she?" His voice broke. "You said you saved…"

Stella finally stopped blinking at him and took his hand in hers. At any other time the gesture of her touch would have been a right brilliant one, but now it was overshadowed by the terrible uncertainty in her eyes as Herman's steely voice severed what little comfort he might have taken from it.

"Just because she's alive doesn't mean she's alright, Weasley. Even my magic is imprecise. I won't make you any guarantees."

Just then, Harry Potter burst into the room, followed hotly by Ronnie and his girlfriend.

"See! I told you so, you pillock! Charlie's just having a fit. Nothing to be worried about." Ronnie's knuckles, he noted with some small twinge of vindictive glee, were starting to turn purple. Served the little prat right for knocking him.

Once Harry decided that there was no immediate danger, he simply sat down on the chair next to Ginny and took one of her hands. The room fell strangely quiet, except for Fish-face, who had gone back to her paperwork. The quill scratched annoyingly at the parchment. Charlie had the odd notion that they were all waiting for Harry to make up his mind about something, though he had no idea what that something was or why they should bother waiting for it.

For his part, Charlie was still just trying to make sense of Herman's declaration, figure out how he'd gotten into Stella's arms and why he was letting her comfort him. He wasn't even sure if he still had amorous feelings for the woman, and here he was letting her cradle him like Ronnie was cradling his bruised fist!

He was so deep in thought and shock that it hardly registered when Harry began to move. Their secret activities had been unkind to the bloke, and it was a gaunt, heavy-eyed man with stern, bony fingers instead of a cocky, foul mouthed boy who gently laid Ginny's hand down and began to walk out the door.

"Where do you think you're going, kid?" Stella's warm arms were abruptly absent, her demeanor intimidating as she grabbed Harry's arm.

"To take care of some things." His voice was firm and final.

"I want a look at all of you first." She eyed Ronnie and his girlfriend who were trying to sneak out unnoticed. "You're not fit to go out without a bit of help, and I won't see you snuff it because you're too proud for a once over."

"This isn't a question of pride. We don't have time." Hermione spoke up. She had been very quiet since their return, and had Charlie been thinking straight that fact alone would have told him that what they were doing was beyond difficult.

Or just terrifying.

"I said I want a look at you. It wasn't a question."

"No."

"Do we have to argue about this every time I see you lot? Como sigas dando la lata te voy a dar una leche!" She grumbled in what he assumed was supposed to be a menacing fashion, starkly reminding Charlie of what he had learned in the pub not an hour earlier. "You will do as I say!"

"Let them go, Myra."

All eyes turned to Fish-face. The slant of her eyebrows said that the other woman was being completely thick.

"What do you mean, let them go?" Stella began to heat up. "Let them go? Let them go? Virgen Santa, Moi! I won't let them die! I won't!"

"They are the masters of their own fate." Herman replied quietly, almost gently.

There must have been something very important hidden in that simple, cryptic statement, because Stella's face softened ever so slightly and something unnamable seemed to crumble. She turned back to face Harry Potter, staring hard into his eyes.

"If you will not let me see you now, you must promise to live long enough to let me see you the next time. I have scores left to settle, and I can't do that if you're worm chow. You will come back in one piece, yes? You will promise me?" Her questions were more demands than questions, but Harry nodded gravely. She released his arm.

"Don't you die on me, kid. Don't you dare."

.ψ.

The next fortnight was murder. Charlie couldn't bring himself to leave Ginny's side, and his only consolation was that his mum didn't know. Merlin, the poor woman had had enough trauma to last anyone a few centuries. Dad's run in with a gigantic serpent, her brother's deaths not long before he was born, the fiasco with Percy, Bill's attack, Ginny being possessed, not to mention eighteen years of dealing with the twins. And people wondered why she worried so much!

He was glad she didn't know about this.

For Charlie, it was Bill all over again. He ached at the thought of loosing Gin and memories kept tumbling into his skull: changing her diaper, teaching her how to punch, the night he caught her breaking into the broom shed to practice with his old Shooting Star. In his mind's eye he saw her as she was: strong and free again, like the day he'd come to watch one of her Quidditch matches last year. Ginny was a fierce little hawk that soared above everything, an oak too strong to break with an iron will inherited from mum.

The sharp stink of Herman's sterilizing potions brought him back to earth. Charlie felt numb, images of her on that sickening table competing for space in his brain with the others. He held her hand, just as Harry had the night the three of them left. They had not returned, and he still did not know what had happened to put his baby sister here.

"Ginny, what were you thinking?"

He never got an answer. The pitiful chartreuse fire in the corner grate blazed to life and expelled a plump little witch with brown plaits. Her flowery perfume quickly filled the cramped space as she brushed off her robes.

"Hey thur, Mister Charlee!"

"'Lo." He knew mum would disembowel him like an angry female Vipertooth if she knew about his terrible manners lately, but somehow he couldn't make the effort to care.

"Sorry ta be keepin' ye from yer meetin', but they had me on fer a double shift. Is Ms. 'Erman gone already?"

Yes.

"Oh Fiddlesticks! I was 'opin ta talk ta 'er abou' this order a' yers. Sounds so excitin' an' all, savin' the wurld frum you-know-oo!" She whispered the last dramatically while looking around as though to uncover dark wizards hiding in the tiny office somewhere. "Ah, but I guess I'm keepin ye, aren't I? Off ye go then!"

"Thank you, Prudence. I appreciate this." He murmured, deftly plucking his Comet 280 from the corner. "I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"Don'cha worry, Mister Charlee, I'll be taken' gud care uv 'er."

He mustered the best attempt at a smile he could manage and hurried out into the back garden. The wind was gusting and promising worse, flinging snow in his eyes. Charlie was almost glad. Flying in this kind of weather might just take his mind off of Gin.

It might even take his mind off of Stella.

He welcomed the challenge, breathing in an icy blast. Even if it was the coldest winter the country had seen in nearly fifty years, it was nothing compared to a few hour's patrol around the summit of Kostya's Peak, searching for poachers in the middle of February. In fact, the chill gave him a little pang of homesickness for Wallachia. Charlie reached into his back pocket and took out a pair of Ice-Sight googles, running his finger over the rims for a moment as he recalled the circumstances under which he had received them.

It had been his final Christmas at Wallachia, though he didn't know it at the time, just a month or so before McGonagall's fateful letter. Krum had tossed him the hand wrapped package and made some gruff, offhanded remark in true Krum-ian fashion that went along the lines of "Perhaps now ve vill be having closer races, I am thinking."

Things hadn't always been so easy between them.

He laughed a little at the memory now, realizing what a sorry sod he must have seemed like at first. After all, it wasn't but a few years before that that some of the best teams had been vying for his skills. He should have known better. It had just been so long since Charlie could think of Quidditch without wanting to howl, without thinking about The Mistake, and then to meet a bloke who had been hired for a position that once could have been his… It had taken some getting used to.

Thankfully the other man had looked past his initial hostility, and the two of them had come to be good friends and allies. It was a lucky break for Charlie, all things considered, since Victor was the only other member of the Order of the Phoenix in a thousand kilometers who spoke intelligible English. Once it became clear that Krum (who called almost everyone by their surname) was just as unaware of The Mistake as the rest of the world, they settled down for long discussions of the finer points of The Sport. Some nights after the underground Order meetings, the two of them had even gone flying together. Krum had never once commented on the fact that he always favored his left hand, even though it was impossible for a well trained eye to miss.

Charlie was always grateful for the respect that the other man showed in his silence. Some mistakes are best left unspoken.

He shook his head. No time to think about that. You've got a meeting to get to, man.

Casting a quick disillusionment charm, Charlie threw a leg over the broom and kicked off into the night with a practiced sort of loping grace. The climb was quick and brutal in the biting wind, knocking any other thoughts right out of his head.

.ψ.

The Order of the Phoenix gathered as usual that harsh winter night in the second week of December. Protocol was followed, taking longer than ever now that the recruiting had started to pay off. Everyone had to be inspected and reinspected, -it took Mad-Eye nearly a half an hour to decide that Charlie wasn't a dark wizard in disguise- before the blinds were drawn and the wards were set. It wasn't much different from any other meeting really, except for the last order of business.

The short wedding ceremony could have been just another bulletin on the suspected whereabouts of a death eater or a report on the black market rumors of inferi for all its pomp and circumstance. In fact, the only change in the scenery was the presence of a few vases of flowers and the absence of the usual podium at the end of the cavernous dining room. A thin, silver-haired man named Elphias Doge stood in its place, officiating the vows.

The wedding party was hardly festive itself, just Lupin and Tonks and their families, two people holding hands and radiating a love that you could almost cast a spell with. Lupin looked as strong and healthy as he ever did, but a broad grin eclipsed his face and made him like a kid with a new broom. Tonks had been earning more worry lines and battle scars these last few months, but tonight she too wore a smile that reminded him of the spunky little girl he'd met almost thirteen years ago, when she had hidden behind a statue of Merwyn the Malicious and badly transfigured Hestia Jones's penny loafers into a pair of hamsters. She was older and taller now, but that same kind of childish glee came pouring out of her face like torchlight. She held another small bouquet of flowers and wore her hair the way she had the night of Bill and Fleur's big day, long and black and slightly curly down her back.

The two weddings couldn't have been more different. There were no pretty dresses, no bushes of flowers; there was no feasting or music or dancing, and Charlie knew it wasn't right. Tonks and Lupin deserved to have a normal celebration just like everybody else. He found himself hating you-know-who more than ever for taking something so special away from his friend.

When the happy couple kissed and the meeting ended, members crowded around the newly joined families to wish them well and pass around drinks. The girls from the band were laughing and crying and generally just being weird and emotional. Why on earth would you cry if you were happy? Witches. Charlie was sure he would never understand them.

"Congratulations luv!" Stasia burbled brightly. By the way she draped herself over Tonks when they hugged, he figured the girl had already had too much to drink.

"Yes, congratulations, the both of you."

"Indeed."

"It was beautiful." Little Jaci sniffled quietly. Professor McGonagall handed her a lacey handkerchief from somewhere inside her tartan edged robe.

Don't think about tartan, Charlie. Not tartan robes, not tartan couches. No tartan at all.

"You two will have a safe trip, won't you?" Mrs. Weasley was torn between glowing at the after-effects of her match making and her motherly instinct to worry.

The biting voice of Fish-face crackled dryly. "Yeah, try not to kill him before the honeymoon's over."

"Girl has a point." Old Mad-Eye growled. "Be on your guard at all times. Something big's afoot; you can smell it in the air."

"Poppycock, Mad-Eye." Tonks shook her head with an air of patient longsuffering. "We're as likely to get charged by rampaging puffskeins as find a death eater where we're going."

"You can never be too careful!" Moody roared and thumped his clawed foot. "Besides, do you think that a dark wizard is going to care if you're just hitched? After all my hard work it's a bloody waste to se ya using such clouded judgment, girl. Be dead in half a hippogryph's heartbeat if you don't stay alert, mark my words."

"Don't you think that's a wee bit extreme?" One of Stasia's sisters asked placidly. The big, solid girl was eyeing up Mad-eye like a calm, well fed bear might eye up an excitable fox.

"Bresa Tremlett, meet Mad-Eye Moody, my first instructor at the Ministry. Mad-Eye, this is Bresa."

Tremlett? So this was the one Donaghan married.

"Mad-Eye?" Charlie decided that she seemed like a nice enough witch. She had saved his life, after all.

"Don't ask." Tonks giggled -a very silly noise- and Charlie sighed. She was a great friend, and knew her way around her job when they crossed paths at Gringots, but sometimes she could be a bit of a twit. Witches! At least Stella wasn't like that. Right. Stella.

Don't think about Stella.

"Remember your training, young lady! Constant vigilance!"

"Mad-Eye, you do know that line gets very old, don't you?"

Lupin was receiving his fair share of heckling as well.

"You've got your work cut out for you with this one." Kingsley Shacklebolt rumbled confidentially to the groom with a slow grin. "A word of advice from too many training sessions? Watch out for her left hook."

"I'll remember that."

"You say that like you might be serious!" Guffawed a chubby man with a pipe who looked a few years older than Lupin.

Lupin shrugged. "With Dora, you never know. It may just come in handy."

The chubby man began to laugh even harder. "Remus John Lupin! I never thought I'd be around long enough to see a witch get the better of you. If James and Sirius were here they'd never let you live it down!"

"No, they wouldn't, would they?" Lupin's smile faded a little, and the company fell silent. Charlie remembered hearing once from his father that those wizards had been friends.

The reverent pause was interrupted when Headmistress McGonagall jostled her way over dragging a reedy, rumpled old man behind her.

"There you are Remus! I was afraid I would miss you before I had to get back to the school. Circe knows what sort of brouhaha that might have turned into!"

"Yes, of course." Lupin turned to the old man, who smelled strongly of smog and spirits and … farm animals, of all things. His hair was tangled and nearly touched the floor, and his spectacles were water-spotted. Everything about him seemed scrawny or knobby. "That means you must be..."

"Abe." The grey man grunted tersely, spraying flecks of spittle. "You been the secret keeper then?"

"Dead tellin'! This 'eres one of the best wizards I've ever 'ad the privilege o' workin' with." Hagrid's beetle-black eyes began to crinkle with firewhiskey-induced emotion.

"Yes, I quite agree." McGonagall added. "But I do believe it's high time that Remus, Alastor, and I step down and allow someone else take charge of the Order. Albus …" She collected herself. "Albus would have wanted us to go on with our lives, and I'm sure he would have wanted you to enjoy your marriage without having to run the Order, Remus. He was very proud of you, you know."

"We're all grateful to ye." Hagrid beamed at the shorter man and thumped him on the back.

Lupin spit out his Chipman's Cheerful upon impact, sending the champagne's trademark pink bubbles flying everywhere, bouncing in glowing arcs to all corners of the room where they hovered for some time before popping. Even mad old Mad-Eye cracked a smile at that. (At least, Charlie thought it was a smile.)

Others laughed too, making the most of a night of happiness in the midst of a world where abductions, torture, and murder were becoming bywords for the Order. It was whispered in hushed tones that the death eaters were planning something big, something to strike all of the members at once, possibly even an attack on a meeting itself (though that, at least, wasn't possible with all of the secrecy that surrounded them.) Members disappeared every few days now, often turning up in brutal scenes that haunted headlines and told even the most reluctant wizard that the war with you-know-who was an undeniable reality.

But tonight everyone chose to leave that knowledge behind, if only for a few brief hours. The bride and groom were toasted and blessed all around. Old friends showered the crowd with tales of Lupin's youthful indiscretions and enough incriminating material to write a book titled 'Trip-Ups with Tonks'. Stasia and another of her many sisters got so piss drunk that Bresa had to haul them off to a quiet room, and a number of couples mysteriously disappeared once the wards had been lifted, some of the pairings very unexpected.

A few eyebrows were definitely raised at the sight of tiny, bookish Jaci and the ever-unapproachable Mr. Croaker strolling out arm in arm, and if Charlie hadn't seen it happen with his own two eyes, he might never have believed the person that slipped out behind Moira Herman, of all people. He was the only one to notice, since many of the older witches and wizards watched with little knowing grins while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stepped into the garden 'for some air' at the same time.

Distracted from his surprising discovery, Charlie's cheeks felt like they were on fire.

Tonks' parents were much better behaved, all proud smiles and silent tears, quietly off to one side but easily picked out from the crowd by her mother's long silvery hair. Of course, there was one other family member who faded into the dimness next to her sister, unusually voiceless but basking in the other girl's joy.

Charlie waited awkwardly until the end, dreading the inevitable and still mulling over his doubts, but soon enough Tonks was smothering him in a giggling hug.

"So, am I supposed to call you Mrs. Lupin now?" He attempted a halfhearted joke when she finally let him breathe, a bit unsure of how to act around her now that she was a married woman.

"Oh come off it, you silly sod. D'you really think I look like a 'Mrs.' anything?"

He had to grin. "Guess not."

Yet despite his best efforts to focus on his beaming friend and her new husband, Charlie couldn't stop thinking about the shorter, darker shadow that had slipped away from the bridal party unnoticed.

It had been nearly a week since that fatal night in the pub. After the incident with Harry, Stella had left Ginny in Fish-face's dubious care had been avoiding him since.

Well, they had been avoiding each other really, but that wasn't the point.

Charlie had had a lot of time to think about what she had told him in between shifts at his boring job and sleepless nights sitting with Gin, but he still wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about it. Part of him said that she was right, that no one gets to choose their parents, but a small voice nagged on that this explained all of her loathsome, self-serving traits.

She had –as he had come to learn- a bit of a reputation for extorting things out of people the way she had extorted money out of Fred and George. (Come to think of it, they might've had a bit of a right to the whole 'jibber-jabber' incident.) She still discussed disturbing topics like 'paving roads' and 'painful lessons' like they were the most normal thing in the world. Somehow it made sense that her parents were dark wizards.

But part of him was shriveling up every day he didn't see her face. Memories of happy times they'd had together plagued him just as often as worries about Gin. Just thinking about going back to his apartment or his job nearly made Charlie want to bellow in frustration. He couldn't imagine going back to life as usual without her in it. He missed her disorganized flat, missed the smell of paint and wood and her strange –and all too often dangerous- muggle boxes. He missed Bimby; he even missed the bloody Buto, for Circe's sake! The back of his mind wanted nothing more than Stella's dogy old kitchen chairs, her strange hairnet and her tactless practicality, her ugly sofa and her breathy kisses, her warmth and her joy and her happy character that lit up rooms.

It wanted her.

But where to begin, even if he somehow managed to forget about her less desirable traits? How to pick up where they left off now that she had gone and admitted her awful secret? Not to mention that she probably hated him for dragging it out of her. Could he ever look her in the eye again without flinching? He knew that it really shouldn't matter, that she was right and that blood wasn't as important as who you were, but he was still uneasy.

In a very private corner of his mind, Charlie just didn't know if he was a strong enough man to overlook it.

Yet he could not stay where he was, uncertain and afraid to move. He was a Gryffindor! He was not a coward who hid from his problems! Charlie continued to repeat similar unhelpful mantras as he quietly followed the hem of a dark brown robe out of the dining room and into the kitchen, just in time to see the door to the back stoop swing shut. He scraped about for any remaining courage and closed his eyes before turning the knob.

Uncertainty broiled in his gut like a potion gone bad.

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Authoress's Notes: So, how do you like Prudence? What do you think Moira meant about letting them choose their own fates? Who do you think Moira has 'mysteriously disappeared' with?

Como sigas dando la lata te voy a dar una leche is Spanish roughly translating into something like 'if you carry on being a pain I'm going to thump you'

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Possum- I take it that means you were sufficiently creeped out by my morgue? You make me a very happy authoress! That was exactly what I was aiming for. (don't know how my mum can stand the thought of those places, but I'll be drawing on her perspective if I end up writing that seqel-ish fic I was telling HarryPotterMagic about. My mother and (subsequently) Moira (since that facet of her personality is based off my dear old parental unit) both have rather odd views on the matter.) As for the question of Myra being a death eater at some point … oh I do hate to be one for suspense (I am a bad liar) but I swear you get that answer next chapter. I'll even tip off that the working title for next chapter is 'A Lonely Word'. (Note I said 'working title', not 'undisputable title') Is Charlie a big enough man? Good question! Even I'm only 99 sure about the answer at this point. Who knows, he may end up surprising me too!

Random- I don't know Random, I hope he has learned something by now but he's very much a human being and human beings are well known both for their inability to change for their tendency to make dumb mistakes from time to time. He has finally admitted to himself that he isn't sure if he is a big enough man to deal with all of Stella's issues, but that may just be a step in the right direction. As for Ginny, the prognosis is still grim and though I am toying with the idea of offing her before the end (what a tear-jerker!) there may be some hope. Or …maybe I'll just keep her alive until I have a really bad day at work, and then take out all my stress by pulling the plug on Harry's girl! Damn, I love playing God! Muahaha!

HarryPotterMagic- as usual, thank you for the wonderful compliments! It's a real treat to know that I can inspire anxiety for the well being of one of my characters, odd as that may sound. Again, I am so very glad that the morgue scene came across the right way (see my notes to Possum on the subject) You have no idea how long I agonized over that blasted thing, trying to get it right! Yes, annoying as he is, Quex is a handy pet to have in a tight spot (and as with most minor characters in my writings, he has a very … shall we say, interesting … back-story. Ten points if you can make any guesses!) Was Stella a DE? It is an important question, I'll admit, but I certainly hope it's not the ONLY question left!

Ah yes, the sequel. Though, as I said, it is better classified as 'sequel-ish', as I 'think' that it runs at least somewhat parallel to the plot of HHtM. (Think is the operative word in that sentence, since nothing is ever set in stone with me until it's up on FF. Sometimes not even then!) JKR? Ok, now I think I've just died of pleasure at the comparison. (giggles) Really, this is shameless, not to mention the fact that you're doing a terrible disservice to a wonderful authoress by categorizing her with me! I could only dream! She finds inspiration in coffee shops, but I find I do my best thinking while driving out on the country backroads to and from work and my best writing in a quiet room on my computer. I think we might have a vaguely similar style of organizing (or at least jotting down our thoughts) but my pages of notes on the computer might fit into one or two of her dozens of boxes of notebooks. Course that might have a bit to do with the fact that I am not paid to write and must sustain myself otherwise. I rarely get the chance to plan things out half so well as I would like though, but when I do I make a lot of charts and diagrams. towards the beginning of planning this piece, I sat down and made a huge Excel spreadsheet that shows the year by year lifelines of all the cannon characters (and all my little bastard characters too), detailing births, deaths, schooling and things of that nature so that I could look up to see how character X might relate to character Y. Sounds complicated, and probably very silly, but it makes sense in the crazy space between my ears so I'm content with it.

Cynthia- Dark Lord it is! Right on the money. There's that old pesky Death Eater question again! Too bad I can't give you an answer… (Hold off on the rotten fruit! I'll tell you next chapter, I swear!) Ah, Moira. What to say? She has to be one of the characters I'm most proud of. Don't really know why, but she's just grown on me, the old stick in the mud. (don't tell her I've called her that, she'll hurt me!) She reminds you of a friend of yours? Well bless my socks, that's a new one! I never thought there was really a person like her out there somewhere. Doesn't the Big Guy have an ironic sense of humor? If you like her, you just might enjoy the sequel-ish sort of story I have been considering writing after this, since Moira and her certain somebody play the staring roles.

As for Quex, the flying menace that everybody loves to hate, he is still at the morgue. I'm glad to see that the readers have kept an eye out for him, as he might just be important someday… Harry and Co. went there because when Ginny got poisoned and they called for Stella, she wasn't powerful enough to figure out what was wrong without Moira's help and access to potion ingredients. Moira was in the morgue, so when they used a feather to get to her that's where they ended up. (Consider that Myra was taken to Harry when he called her. Consider that Harry was taken to Moira when he did the same thing. This is significant, especially for Miss Herman's story.) When they got there, they stayed because well, let's be honest … morgues are creepy! Who do you really think goes there when they don't have to?

Darcy- Welcome aboard the reviewing caboose! Free cocktail weenies for new reviewers! The oddity… well, yes and no. One part of the mystery does have to do with the death eaters, specifically the obvious question that is now on everybody's mind: was Stella a death eater? But the oddity I was really referring to was something very subtle that no one has picked up on yet and is something specifically about Charlie himself. There are a few hints in this chapter as well. Good luck with the hunt! But you did pick up on Mr. Bulstrode! You are the first, congratulations! Actually, the Bulstrode murders had their first appearance in chapter eleven: Hellespont and Hen's Teeth when Charlie is reading the newspaper. Yes, Millicent is involved but no, she is not dead. You may see more of her…