Chapter Six
Warnings unseen

The next morning dawned clear and cloudless, and Ruta was up early, collecting fresh rose petals in her garden, for a fresh batch of her famous anti-mildew potion. After a small flick with her wand her kettle agreed to boil enough water for her morning coffee, and the coffee mill busied itself with grinding the dark beans into the filter on top of the coffee pot while Ruta scrupulously measured off the pure alcohol she needed to steep the petals in. Sometimes she wondered how Muggles ever managed to get everything done; by the time she had corked the clay bottles and taken them down to the cellar to age for the next two days, the coffee pot, her plate and cup had performed a neat little ballet together with toast, butter and country cheese, and all she had to do was to sit down and enjoy her breakfast.

Afterwards she performed one of Andromeda's favorite spells and left the dishes and cutlery to cleaning themselves while she took off her gardening apron, settled in front of her desk and made a neat list of all orders she had completed during her holidays. There was still a delivery of aster plants to be completed (to her secret relief not for Mrs. Carpenter), and so she spent the rest of the forenoon in her back garden before she finally found the time to decide what to wear while visiting Ginny Potter.

Ruta Lupin was not the woman to spend much time in front of a mirror; she could barely remember when she had last used any make-up, and the crow's feet slowly beginning to engrave around her eyes weren't the sort of thing she tended to worry about. The fact that she was constantly busy with soil and saplings had hardened her hands, and she had recently discovered the first silvery streaks interspersing her thick, hazelnut brown hair (one of the very few parts of her outer appearance she really was fond of). After the initial shock she had decided to accept those clear signs of approaching age with dignity and humor.

Now she gave her face the usual, quick treatment with a simple Muggle baby cream, took some more time to pin her hair up to a heavy knot in the back of her neck and after some consideration (and the memory of the evenings she had just spent with Stephen Seeker in mind) she decided for a witch's robe instead of a Muggle blouse and skirt. She was a witch, after all, and she was going to Berwick today. The robe was of a soft powder blue, and she found that she liked the contrast of the gentle-colored fabric to her sun-tanned skin. Studying her own appearance one last time, Ruta frowned at the unfamiliar sight of her empty earlobes… and found herself smiling at the thought of where the small golden earrings were now.

She pulled the small jewelry box she kept in her night stand out of the drawer and noticed the layer of dust on the lid; when had she last bothered to choose among the rather small number of items in the box? Then she remembered; the last time she wore any of the more festive necklaces and earrings had been on Remus' wedding. Eight years of a nearly unembellished life, she thought, wondering what had gotten into her today, the smile dying on her face. Then she straightened her back, opened the lid and took out two small, flower-shaped studs, the petals made of moonstone and blue topaz. She fixed them on her earlobes, then put the box back into the drawer and left the bedroom. A short, scrutinizing gaze into the kitchen showed her a scrubbed table, a clean sink and the plates back where they belonged.

This promised to be a beautiful afternoon.

Taking the bicycle while wearing the robe wasn't a very practical idea, therefore Ruta decided to Apparate for a change. With a small pop she vanished from the middle of her living room.

The decision to Apparate kept her away from the street, though, and both the list and the asters had delayed her quite a bit. Otherwise she might have seen Constable Bernie Smithers, eye of the law of St Mary Green, stumbling from the direction of Ezra Donohue's cottage earlier that morning. He was trembling from head to toe, his uniform was spotted with blood and the only half-digested remnants of his last sandwich, and his face was white with horror.

vvvvv

Arriving on the doorstep of the Potter's house at the edge of Berwick, Ruta was greeted by the angry bawling of a baby's voice. The door was not locked, so she walked inside, following the noise, until she found the former Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies, rocking Baby James in her arms. His small face was nearly as red as his hair.

Ginny looked up from her fretful son and saw her.

"Hello, Ruta!" she said, the relief plain on her face. "Harry told me you would come today, but I haven't managed to prepare anything so far… this little squaller here has been keeping me quite busy, I can tell you."

"Don't bother," Ruta brightly replied. "I've already had my breakfast… but you look as if you didn't."

"Breakfast…?" Ginny groaned. "You mean a proper cup of tea, and bread rolls? Marmalade and scrambled eggs?"

Wee James chose that moment to start a new attack on her ears.

"No," she said, raising her voice. "The only one here getting his meals on a regular basis right now is our noisy offspring. Harry has allowed old Kreacher to spend a few weeks in the house at Grimmauld Place; you never saw the Gothic nightmare as it was 10 years ago, but Kreacher's just doing his best to finally turn it from a pompous tomb into a place where someone is actually able to live. He accepts our home here… but I think he's never really overcome the conviction that the man who defeated Voldemort should have a more… presentable place to reside in. I guess he feels that Berwick is far beyond his dignity… and ours."

She gave an exhausted sigh.

"It's been days since I've had a chance to even see the newspaper. Harry vanishes with the Daily Prophet right after breakfast, and I haven't bothered picking up the Muggle news off the lawn. Why Harry wants it, I don't know, if he's not going to read it. But I'm nearly desperate enough to give it a try. All I get to read right now are the labels on those baby food jars Dad sent me last week - a huge cardboard box full of 'Baby Carrot Puree'. I don't dare to think what Mom thought about his idea of testing Muggle baby food on her first grandchild – I'm sure he's still tiptoeing through the Burrow, to keep out of her line of fire."

Her smile was more than a bit nostalgic.

"I never thought I would say that, but I wish I had her nerves."

"And seven children?" Ruta asked laughing. "Although even your mother had to take them on one at a time." She noticed the shadow that suddenly filled Ginny's eyes and bit her lip, angry at herself for forgetting. "Except for the twins," she added, belatedly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Ginny said, giving her a pale smile. "Sometimes even I forget about Fred… though I still find it incredibly difficult to believe that he's gone."

She reached out, and her hand grazed Jamie's brow in a fleeting gesture of love and protection.

"And we'll all feel better as soon as those nasty milk teeth have come through. Harry's lucky that he's been called in for a meeting of the Aurors in London… and Neville's probably got lost at Flourish & Blotts, up to the ears in books about magical herbs in Normandy. He's pretty enthusiastic about his new project."

Ruta decided that this was not the day to expect a courteous host; she made her way into the kitchen, pulled the willow wand out of the sleeve of her robe and opened the door to the pantry. Fifteen minutes later Ginny sat at the table in the small dining room, her legs propped up on a stool, sipping her first cup of a marvelous Darjeeling. A small bowl with scrambled eggs and a basket full of toast were waiting for her while Ruta sat in a rocking chair by the window, caressing the baby's cheek and producing a piece of peeled licorice from her pocket.

"Here, little one," she said, smiling when a little fist closed around the interesting new item. "Try to chew on this… no, not into your nose!" The piece of licorice now found the right orifice, partly vanishing in the baby's mouth while Ruta still held the other end. Slowly a happy grin spread on Little Jamie's face. "See? I knew you would like it!"

Ginny took a mouthful of scrambled eggs and gave a sound of utter satisfaction. She swallowed and gazed at her son who had finally stopped proclaiming his discomfort in favor of raptly belaboring the licorice with his toothless jaw. "You should've come earlier," she stated, reaching for a crisp slice of toast. "This is my first break in hours."

"When will Harry and Neville be back?" Ruta asked. "I could prepare a lunch if you want."

"They'll return this evening," Ginny said, buttering her toast and helping herself with a generous portion of orange marmalade. "But I won't object if you cook something, a little later. I have chicken breast from the market, and fresh spinach."

"Splendid idea – ouch!" Ruta carefully removed a chubby hand from the glittering flower on her earlobe. "My dear boy, I think you need a nap… and if you don't, your Mama certainly does."

vvvvv

At the same time as Ginny Potter took a well deserved nap, Ruta steamed the spinach leaves and Baby James happily crawled around on a blanket in the kitchen, Thomas Grey, chief editor of the Eskdale Gazette, stood behind his desk, gazing down at a series of black and white printouts made from digital photographs. He silently blessed the fact that they didn't show the original colors; he hadn't felt that cold and sick for years.

"What did the pathologist say was the cause of these… of these wounds?" he asked softly.

"Teeth, and sharp claws. Who – or whatever – it was, it literally tore that poor old bloke apart. Maybe with some kind of sharp tool – a garden rake, perhaps. The pathologist thinks whatever it was it had spikes or teeth at least three inches long."

Ernie Pembroke, local reporter from St. Mary Green, felt another surge of sheer relief that he'd come too late to Ezra Donohue's cottage to witness the whole extent of the mess. The photographs on his boss's desk were the result of his good connections to the police in Kendal, and he still wished he'd never seen them. He'd been a war correspondent in Afghanistan and Israel before he retired into the sleepy peace of the village where he had been born and raised. And even the nightmarish memories of those grim times hadn't prepared him for anything like this.

"We'll print an evening edition," Thomas Grey decided. "People should know, and as fast as possible. Radio Cumbria's going to air a warning every half an hour, and the police are driving patrols."

"Bernie Smithers said he means to go from door to door in St. Mary Green, as soon as he gets back up there to make sure that everyone knows," Ernie Pembroke piped up. "Thank God the TV team from BBC Cumbria has already left, because of that huge multiple pileup on the M6. The last thing we need is some overzealous reporter arse around here, shoving his microphone into people's faces."

The warning was aired, every half and full hour. Muggle families listened to the serious voice, bringing shocking news between advertisements for washing powder and schmaltzy pop songs, and they hurriedly called their children inside, firmly closing the doors.

Andromeda Tonks left the house and Apparated to Berwick where old Mrs. Walburga Warne had just received a long-expected package with two tea services from Millington's Magical Porcelain & Pottery in London; she couldn't resist the temptation to have a look at her newest acquisition and told Teddy that she would be back within half an hour. She impressed upon her grandson that he was not allowed to leave the house or to open the door to anyone. It took her slightly more than half an hour to return, of course. Mrs. Warne made her own, brand new tea pot brew a fine Oolong while the two women listened to a recording of Celestina Warbeck's Favorite Fairy Tale Songs.

Teddy Lupin lay on his bed, reading a children's book about Quidditch and fighting the growing despair about his aunt's ongoing irritation with him. When Constable Bernie Smithers pulled the chain of the door bell, he didn't even look out of the window; he was determined to obey Gran Dromeda's last order, feeling very mannerly and terribly misunderstood.

None of them listened to the Muggle program in the radio.

vvvvv

Late that afternoon Ruta paid a hearty farewell to Ginny and her son and Apparated back to St. Mary Green. The rest of the evening stretched before her, free of all duties; she stood in the middle of her silent, spotless living room and suddenly found the expectation of an evening spent all on her own slightly depressing.

She felt herself smile. One week of chess lessons, each of them as hard as your N.E.W.T in Transfiguration… and now you actually miss them.

Ruta was well aware of the fact that those lessons – however exhausting – were Seeker's way of telling her that she was forgiven. She found it still astonishing that after Teddy's thievery and her own betrayal he had been the one to make the first step – instead of backing away in anger from the hesitant rapport they had built during those few, short weeks. His hunger for friendship had to be very deep if he was ready to give his pardon that easily.

But what about her own hunger? She had never been popular, never been surrounded by a gaggle of admiring schoolmates, let alone any male students. She had never found it easy to build a strong friendship – her best friends had been books, her best ally her constant desire for knowledge. Her cousin's secret and her own determination to keep it from anybody had only increased a certain isolation… until she had sometimes struggled against the feeling that she was living behind an invisible wall of glass, watching other boys and girls her age, enacting their turbulent fates like a company of players on some colorful stage.

She'd learned to master her frustration, the sharpness of it slowly subsiding with the years while she managed to lock away the old ghosts of unpleasant memories and settled into the comfortably organized life of a self-sufficient spinster. The amicable contact with her colleagues at Fionnula's was satisfying enough, and Andromeda and Teddy had come to be the best substitute for a closer family she could imagine for herself.

Her father didn't count. She had cared for him after her mother died, honestly trying to be the daughter he wanted her to be. But once she decided to go her own way, had found the job in Dover and left him behind in their small parental home, the relationship between them had become more and more threadbare. She still visited him on his birthday and every second Christmas, and he never forgot to send her a present on her own birthday, but she was unable to feel a deeper love for him. Perhaps he was unhappy about that… perhaps he was disappointed. Ah well… there were days when she was rather disappointed, too.

No. It was not a good idea to stay at home alone. She could take a walk… Apparating was all very good and well, but she had spent most of this day indoors, in the company of a young mother and a bad-tempered baby, and suddenly she had a hearty appetite for fresh air. Yes, a walk was a good idea… even if it was only short and led her straight away to Stephen Seeker's cottage.

She left the house, closed and locked the door and made her way down the street, still not sure if she was irritated or amused with herself.

vvvvv

Stephen Seeker opened the door almost immediately.

"Miss Lupin!" The flexible eyebrow rose towards his hairline. "I didn't expect you this evening; hadn't you planned to visit Mrs. Potter today?"

"Oh, I did visit her," she quietly replied, "and it was a pleasant afternoon. But when I returned home, it suddenly occurred to me that during the last six days, whenever the topic wasn't chess, it has always been you who asked the questions… and me who gave the answers."

"And your answers were very valuable," he said earnestly. "I take it that you are not here to get another chess lesson, then?" To her amazement the black eyes were twinkling.

"You're making fun of me," she stated.

"That is something I would never dare." He made one of his small, elegant bows. "But I assume that even your capacity for suffering has its limits."

"It has indeed." Ruta grinned. "But I thought you might perhaps be willing to fill my gaps of knowledge for a change."

"By telling you what?"

Her gaze was clear and straight. "By telling me how you survived that last attack... and how it was possible for you to escape your grave and to stay invisible for nearly eight years." She hesitated. "You don't have to… of course… but it is something I've been curious about for quite some time now."

A short pause; she anxiously studied his face. Again it dawned on her how limited her understanding was of the heart and the memories of this man… and it was easily possible that he would refuse to share more than she already knew of him.

He surprised her, though. His face relaxed in a slow smile.

"You know, I've already been wondering how long it would be before you worked up your nerve to ask." He stepped back. "Come in."

vvvvv

"What do you want to know?"

Ruta sat in the living room, this time in a very comfortable wing chair opposite the window. Her host had closed the curtains, to keep her from being dazzled by the rays of the sinking sun. Winky had greeted her with enthusiasm and a coffee that was strong and wonderfully aromatic. The caffeine felt like a gentle blow against her solar plexus.

"I don't know what to ask first," she slowly said, "Perhaps you should simply start with your… with your death?" This felt increasingly surreal.

"Well…" Stephen Seeker sat down at the table, reaching for the bottle of wine Winky had served together with the coffee (and with a secret, condemnatory glare in the direction of her master that made Ruta smile). He uncorked it and poured a small amount of the dark crimson fluid into a glass. He let the wine swirl, inhaled the scent, and then finally took the first sip. And still there were a few more moments of utter silence until he spoke. She waited patiently, her gaze fixed on the pale face with the deep, shadowed eyes.

"I had been quite sure that the day would come when the Dark Lord found it appropriate to get rid of my priceless assistance… and so Winky became a kind of protective shadow for me, constantly carrying a small phial with preserved phoenix tears, and a flask of the Draught of Living Death. And when Voldemort set his snake on me, she came just in time to heal the damage… but it was a close thing. The fact that Harry Potter suddenly appeared, enabling me to deliver my memories, was unexpected… and it nearly robbed me of my last chance to come back."

"Why?"

"Because Nagini's poison was a very potent one… and it had more time to do its harm than I had planned. On the other hand, the boy finally knew what to do, he knew enough about me to draw the right conclusions… most certainly more than he ever wanted to find out."

He gave her a crooked smile.

"I was severely wounded, but I had the time to heal… and the Draught of the Living Death provided me with more sleep than I'd had in years. When I woke up, I found myself lying in a magnificent tomb… and - on top of everything - as the tragic hero of half a dozen incredibly chintzy tales. Which I found out later, after Winky came to let me out of my cold refuge."

Ruta frowned, studying his face.

"But… you must have been in need of a place to stay undetected – after escaping that… cold refuge. I honestly can't imagine Winky hiding you in some secret cupboard in the kitchens of Hogwarts." She drank the rest of her coffee, the thoughts rushing in her head. "No more than I can imagine her marching straight away into Gringotts, wrapped in her towel, demanding to withdraw Severus Snape's money and close his account."

He snorted audibly. "Your conclusions are extremely fascinating, Miss Lupin."

"My knowledge about potions - aside from those helpful with plants - may be a little rusty, but as far as I remember the Draught of the Living Death doesn't last for more than a few days. Which means that you couldn't simply walk around in the wizard world, hoping not be recognized for who you were," Ruta continued, quickly warming for the intellectual attempt to unravel the intricate pattern of his plans. "Of course you could have closed your account yourself in advance, and kept a solid amount of Polyjuice Potion in stock, just in case… or simply Apparated to some solitary hideaway far abroad."

"Quite believable," he remarked, sipping his wine and studying her face in return. "I actually used Polyjuice Potion for some time, directly after my… erh… secret resurrection. But I wasn't provident enough to close my account in advance."

He leaned in, his black eyes holding more than a small challenge of her skills. "What do you believe I did?"

"You must have had help, from someone else than Winky, that much is clear," she slowly said. "But who…? You were not very famous for your sociability, you know." She blushed fiercely. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

He laughed softly. "My sincere gratitude for your tactful circumlocution of the notion that I had no trustworthy friends to rely upon, Miss Lupin. But yes… I actually found help, and from someone whose conscience made her glad for the opportunity to compensate me for her distrust… and for the staggering fact that she tried to kill me the last time we met in person."

He leaned back again, visibly enjoying this strange, little game.

"Her very… Gryffindorean idea of honor and reparation made her a perfect accomplice. And her position as Headmistress provided her with the ability to use a great amount of influence on my behalf."

Ruta blinked and gave a sharp gasp when the pieces of the jigsaw suddenly fell into place. "McGonagall? Minerva McGonagall?"

"Exactly." He emptied his glass. "Of course I had some difficulty convincing her that I actually was who I claimed to be. But after the first few obstacles – and after she had recovered from the first, very understandable shock – she was a great help."

He got up from his chair and slowly started to pace through the room.

"I decided it would be wise to leave the country and to stay abroad for a time… as you had assumed." He gave her a short nod. "But I urgently wanted to keep the option of coming back … and I didn't want to spend my days in the skin of someone else, constantly dependent on a potion I had no intention of drinking on an hourly basis for the rest of my life. It was Minerva McGonagall who used her impressive connections to provide me with whatever money I had –which was not very much back then – who managed to sell my old home for a decent amount, and who finally created a completely new identity for me."

"How did she do that?" Ruta asked with rapt fascination.

"Minerva McGonagall is a very powerful witch, Miss Lupin," he retorted. "I personally believe it was a most clever mixture of magic and manipulation. If you searched the annals of Hogwarts nowadays, you would find the complete school career of a certain Stephen Seeker, born in Canterbury in 1960 and graduated in 1978. He gained some merits in several subjects – without being too obtrusive - and spent the next eighteen years in foreign countries, elaborating his skills and filing patents for half a dozen rare potions, for unusual metamorphoses and against a few particularly nasty magical diseases."

He noticed her surprised gaze.

"Oh – the patents are quite real, only they were filed after 1998 and not before… something no one will ever be able to find out after Minerva worked some very credible changes on the records in question. The fact that I actually made the journeys attributed to my second identity had the pleasant side effect in that I was given the chance to do some enormously enlightening research in places like Egypt, Africa and the Far East… and Stephen Seeker's bank account at Gringotts is much more satisfying than the account of Severus Snape has ever been, believe me."

"My goodness!" Ruta shook her head in amused disbelief. "You simply thought of everything, didn't you?"

"Thank you, Miss Lupin." He gave a polite, slightly derisive bow. "I am sure Minerva will be delighted to discover your admiration of her skills."

vvvvv

At the same time a police car slowly drove around the bend of the road. Constable Bernie Smithers sat on the driver's seat, a hunting rifle within reach. He had changed his ruined uniform long since, and received the order to notify people that they should by all means stay at home. He hadn't made the progress he'd hoped for, though… there had been no less than six false alarms from farmers who were dead sure that a mysterious monster lurked behind their own stable, threatening to eat their children. A few people hadn't been at home when he stood on their doorsteps; he would have to try again, and the repeated interruptions of his patrol began to tug at his nerves. He had taken a short break for a cup of tea, but he hadn't been able to bear the thought of any food since that very moment when he saw the door of Ezra Donohue's cottage, hanging askew on its hinges, and then the obscene amount of blood and what was left of the old man and his dog.

He swallowed dryly.

There was the cottage Mrs. Ogilvie had finally let to someone three months ago; it was the last one in a row of houses along this street before it narrowed down to the path that led towards the hills. As far as Bernie Smithers knew, it was now inhabited by an impressive fellow with the air of an university professor, obviously single and rather withdrawn. Smithers had seen him once or twice, sitting in his well-kept garden with a book – no cheap paperbacks but the kind of tomes he would've expected in an ancient library, lots of leather and embossed, golden letters. Definitely some kind of scholar.

Mrs. Ogilvie lived in the house next to that cottage; the old lady was a kind of local celebrity. She owned four of six buildings along this road, in addition to the Eskdale Gallery and the well-frequented Virgin Inn. During the past thirty years she had actually been for St. Mary Green what Beatrix Potter, the legendary storybook author and sheep farmer, had been for Near Sawrey - and what Eleanor Carpenter with all her grim flurry of activities so desperately craved to be. Callista Ogilvie didn't look half as formidable and daunting as the famous Miss Potter. She was more the petite, silver-haired type of woman, with a fondness for pastel-colored pearls, angora cardigans and old-fashioned frilly blouses. But the mignon façade hid a sharp mind and an iron will. Everybody who tried to get the better of that delusively harmless old woman was about to get a nasty surprise, and Bernie Smithers, born and raised in St. Mary Green, never failed to pay her the respect she deserved. Now she was the last one along this road to be warned… she and that scholar fellow next door.

He got out of the police car, shot a quick gaze up and down the street and walked through her neat garden. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and a small, white poodle swished over the threshold and jumped up against his legs, yapping like mad.

"Nice puppy," Bernie Smithers murmured, quickly hiding the rifle behind his back. He hated poodles, and this one in particular.

"Oh come on, Fancy… leave the good Constable alone, will you?" Callista Ogilvie stood on the doorstep, peering up at him, her eyes round and lively like those of a blackbird. "It is time for my little darling's evening walkies. Is there anything I can do for you?"

The good Constable tried his best to ignore the dog sniffling at his shoes and straightened his back.

"I presume you have followed the news on Radio Cumbria today, Mrs. Ogilvie?"

"I have indeed, young man," the old lady retorted. "I guess you're talking of those nasty stories about the madman the police are combing the whole district for. Poor old Ezra… no one deserves such a miserable ending." She took a deep breath. "Don't be afraid, I'll take Fancy inside within a minute – she won't run out of my garden anyway - and I will stay where I am."

"I'm glad to hear that," Bernie Smithers said… and in that very moment the radio unit in his police car awoke to life with a loud, snarling sound. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

He hurried through the garden gate to the car. "Yes, Margery? Smithers here."

"Tom Kerrey has just stormed the office; he's worried about his sheep," the voice of Margery Harris from the police station squawked out of the small speaker. "That mysterious beast already let loose on them a few days ago – at least this is what Eleanor Carpenter told the newspaper - and now they've been attacked again. He's making quite a fuss over here."

Bernie Smithers sighed.

"Tom always makes a fuss, Marge," he replied. "He simply can't help himself – and if you ever tell him that I said that, I'll lock you away in our drunk tank. It is the northern pasture again, I presume?"

"Yes, exactly. And Tom refuses to drive there on his own."

On any other day this would have earned her another acid remark about Tom Kerrey's dubitable qualities in general and his courage in particular, but Bernie Smithers remembered what he had seen in Ezra Donohue's cottage only too well not to understand Tom's fear. "Ask him to wait, Marge… I'll be there any moment."

He put back the radio and turned to call back to Callista Ogilvie who was still patiently waiting on her doorstep.

"Mrs. Ogilvie?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind calling your neighbor and asking him to stay inside? I have to leave now… there's an urgent matter I have to take care of."

Mrs. Ogilvie smiled. "Of course!"

Bernie Smithers started the motor, and the police car disappeared around the bend of Mill Walk; Callista Ogilvie closed the door behind her and returned into her living room.

Some day soon she would have to ask the nice, young doctor in Berwick to adjust her hearing aid. She had no problem understanding people if they stood rather close to her… but if they were talking from beyond a certain distance, she simply missed half of what was said, no matter how much she pumped up the volume of that annoying, little apparatus in her ear. She was forced to lip-read… what had the young policeman told her? Ah yes… he had to leave to care for an urgent matter, and he had already warned her neighbor. All she had to do now was to settle down in front of her TV, ignore the news and watch a video tape of her favorite show, Upstairs Downstairs.

She would never admit it in public, but she'd always had a solid crush on Gordon Jackson. His "Mr. Hudson" might be a servant who knew his place, but even so he was a true gentleman.

vvvvv

The living room of Stephen Seeker's cottage was very silent while Ruta tried to digest the overwhelming plenitude of new facts that made her head spin.

"So you spent the last eight years far away from England?" she finally asked, taking up the thread of their conversation again.

"I did," he said, sitting down at the table again and slowly refilling his glass. "More or less. And as I said, the time was not wasted. Egypt is a fascinating country, as is the rest of Africa. But the place I benefited most from was doubtlessly Tibet. I found ingredients and recipes there I'd never thought actually existed, and wizards with a knowledge as bottomless as the ocean and as high as the top of the mountains."

He smiled absently, and Ruta stared at him; for a moment the wondrous things he'd seen in a faraway world seemed to be mirrored in his face, and the lines of a bitter and dangerous life were gone without a trace.

"The peaks of those mountains graze the sky," he softly continued, "and the wizards on their slopes spend years and years in search for the perfect ingredients and the matching words for a spell… over there time is like a long, winding river, and it isn't measured in years but in wisdom."

Ruta looked down at her hands.

"You make me wish to see them one day," she finally said. "After all that secrecy and ongoing disguise it must have been a rather… healing experience."

"It was indeed," he replied, "it was actually very restorative to be able to concentrate on what has always been my favorite subject when it comes to the magical arts. Restorative and refreshing."

She raised her gaze to him.

"Then why did you come back?" she asked. "Surely it can't have been your deep longing for the eternal beauty of Albion?"

"No." He stared at his glass, slowly turning the fine stem between long, slender fingers. "I thought I should find out about the well-being of Harry Potter before I decided what to do with the rest of my life."

Their eyes met.

"Are you surprised?"

"Of course not," she retorted. "You spent seven years protecting the boy – why shouldn't you want to find out if your efforts were at long last successful, and what kind of man he is now?"

He looked at her, and for the fraction of a second she had the distinct impression that he tried to read her mind. Suddenly Ruta remembered what Harry had once told her about his miserable efforts to study Occlumency with that particular teacher, and she understood that Stephen Seeker – Severus Snape - was probably skilled enough to reach his aim. She felt a short, cold flickering of fear, but she mastered it, returning his gaze as calmly as possible.

He sighed, breaking the eye contact.

"Your unflinching belief in my sense of responsibility is quite moving, Miss Lupin," he remarked, placing the glass back on the table. She took a deep breath and noticed for the first time that she held her empty coffee cup with a grip hard enough to make her knuckles turn white. "Don't be afraid – I wouldn't risk your trust for the sole purpose of satisfying my curiosity."

She spoke without thinking. "It would take much more than that to lose my trust. I'm not afraid of you."

"Which is remarkable enough."

Ruta looked around in the silent room; suddenly she noticed that most of the deep golden light had gone. Shadows filled the corners. How long had she been here? It felt like hours.

She rose from the chair.

"I should leave," she said. "I have occupied your time enough as it is."

His eyes were fixed on the deep red wine in his glass.

"I was just thinking of asking Winky to prepare a light dinner," he slowly said. "Just sandwiches, or a salad… if that's not beyond her dignity as a cook. Would you…" He hesitated. "Would you care to join me?"

"Oh. - Was that an invitation?"

He cleared his throat, still not looking at her. "Miss Lupin, I may be slightly out of practice, but… yes, of course."

She felt a sudden joy bubble up inside of her, walked over to the table and sat down again, this time opposite of him.

"You must forgive me," she said, feeling a wide smile spread on her face. "It never occurred to me that my interrogation would be rewarded with a dinner in your company."

"You have rather strange ideas about the nature of rewards," he dryly said, but she could see her smile mirrored in his eyes, and her joy grew even stronger. "Sandwiches or salad?"

"Both," Ruta said. "And now I'd love to have a glass of wine."

vvvvv

Half an hour later the special edition of the Eskdale Gazette slipped through the letter slot of Harry Potter's house in Berwick. Ginny Potter missed it – like she had frequently missed the newspapers during the last months – because she was sitting in the living room, singing to Baby James:

A second little pig,
Built himself a little house,
When he heard the Wolf was
Eating all the pigs, pigs, pigs…

James laughed, grabbing for the end of his mother's braid. Ginny pressed a kiss against the velvet soft brow and tickled his belly.

With a huff and then a puff,
Old Wolf ate him soon enough,
For the silly pig had built his house
With twigs, twigs, twigs…

vvvvv

At the same time the newspaper lay unnoticed outside Stephen Seeker's cottage in St. Mary Green, a pale, rectangular spot, hidden in the shadows of the empty porch. The black headline said:

Mysterious murderer kills helpless old man and his dog
All Citizens of St. Mary Green and Berwick are strongly cautioned not to leave their homes

Author's Note: Beatrix Potter bought her first house, Hill Top, in Near Sawrey. People in that village near Lake Windermere still remember her as the lady who saved a big part of their area as a heritage for the National Trust.