.

"Progress is man's ability to complicate simplicity."

- Thor Heyerdahl

.

The heavy wooden hatch clashed off the solid wall behind it as raw air, sleet, and six pairs of heavy duty red boots caked with grass, water, and sleck entered the passage. Broom handles clattered against the weather-beaten stony sides adding to the cacophony of squeaking leather, wind, and whimpering from the individuals shuffling out of the furor. The air inside the damp way was heady with the smell of petrichor, but numb noses could only take note of the temperature change provided by the sheltered changing room when the door closed, and the argands lit.

"I can't believe Harry is still out there quite literally going for gold," said a low Scottish voice, tinged with annoyance, "when I only lasted 5 minutes."

But the diatribe didn't last long, as they never had done before when in the presence of a certain pair.

"Don't worry Oli-"

"-it can happen to the most experienced of men."

Wood stopped and turned behind him to glare at the sniggering redheads, that is until an old memory surfaced and his eyes gleamed. "But of course. Angelina would know all about that. Right, Fred?" said the Captain with a coy smile.

The rest of the team exploded in laughter at the inside joke whilst the couple in question were left with an open mouth and a set of pursed lips.

"Aaand Captain Oliver Wood deflects a devastating bludger right back at beater Frederick Weasley. The crowd doesn't know how to react! It's never happened before!" commentated George in an over-the-top rendition.

"I'm so proud of you Oli," said Fred, wiping away an imaginary tear and beginning to snivel melodramatically like an emotional mother. "Those Puddlemere boys must be a good influence on you after all. I always knew this day would come, his first comeback, but it still doesn't prepare you for the real thing!" he went on, moving to sit down on one of the low benches and proceed to wail.

The keeper rolled his eyes. "Oh shut up," he said with a long suffering laugh, beginning to wring out his sleeves.

George continued to grin, but watched his twin with a critical eye. Only from extended experience could he note – under the melodramatics – the stiff posture, creased eyes, and white knuckle grip on the bench; Fred was in pain again. But George had learned, under firm instruction, to reel himself in in the emotion department ever since they'd left St Mungo's hospital those few months ago. When in the past he'd have approached his brother outright in whatever company, to question him on his discomfort, and ensure that he was alright, now, eye contact was usually sufficient.

Although they were already pretty good at decoding each other's well being just from a glance, George felt that he had it down to an art form these days. He could successfully tell an, 'I need help,' from an, 'I'm fine, stop nagging,' and a, 'not great, but I'll live' – the message he was receiving at present – with surprising accuracy.

He still found it difficult, even after all this time, to not worry about Fred whatever he was doing. The image of his brother's vacant eyes, pallid skin and tattered clothing, lying on a body bag in the Great Hall still gave him sweats in the middle of the night. The crushing abyssal pain of losing Fred, then the shock of learning via Madam Pomfrey that his heart was actually intermittently beating, then the whirlwind of urgency and pure emergency of him and the rest of the family getting him to St Mungo's, had nearly destroyed him physically and emotionally.

'79% total skeletal trauma, hepatic, renal and intestinal perforations, pneumothorax, intracranial edema, severe internal haemorrhaging, spinal hematoma-' the list had gone on and on, and George had neither paid attention to what had been said by the army of healers, nor did he really understand half of it anyway – certainly not after Fred had clinically died three times on the operating table, and especially not when half of his soul had been lying in intensive care on a hospital bed attached to every monitor and piece of apparatus you could possibly have hooked up to a human being. The only thing he could take in was the gentle voice of the elderly matron, when she came by to do her rounds on that first day of recovery. 'He'll live.'

The coma had endured for just over three months, and it had been the most challenging three months of George's life. Every day he sat next to the hospital bed – ignoring the pleas from his family to come home and rest – worrying, praying. What if Fred never woke up? What if he'd gone to hell and back, been brought back from beyond the veil, just to never wake up again? What if he did wake up, but years from now, to a world where everyone had grown up, and moved on? What if he woke up, but he had changed? Nobody knew of the true severity of the brain damage sustained in the blast…what if Fred wasn't Fred anymore? George honestly didn't know what was worse.

The day it had finally happened was one in which he barely remembered now. Between the joy, and the tears, and the weight being lifted off his heart at long last – it had gone by in a haze of emotion so strong that reality had failed to get a look in. He didn't think he'd been happier in his life than at the moment he'd looked into his twin's eyes, and Fred had looked right back at him, eyes filled with recognition and love. The following slurred and mixed up, 'You worse look than me,' was a close second; even Percy had been crying at that point. And George knew, from that moment on, everything would be okay.

Naturally the following months of physio and brain therapy had been gruelling, but Fred was a trooper, pushing himself as hard as he dared to get walking and talking again – but more importantly, back to work. Looking at him now, apart from the nerve pain he now had to live with, reduced function in his liver and kidneys, and the bouts of dyspraxia, no-one would have ever known Fred Weasley had played tag with the Grim Reaper and won.

George came out of his reverie into mid-conversation. He saw that Fred was giving him a knowing smile.

"-miracle anyone managed to stay on their brooms for 5 minutes. When Hooch is warning you about the conditions you know it's gona be a doozy. She did say we could have another slot if need be, since y'know, no other team was mental enough to sign up for today." The exasperation in Angelina's voice was hard to miss.

Everyone knew that tone all too well, including the Captain who decided to tread carefully. "It's just…I was sure we had worse during the dementor attack," he said, breathing hot air into his hands, and looking a tad sheepish. "Although now I guess I sit corrected."

"Well while you sit there I'm going to get out of these wet clothes," said Katie bustling off into the girls' section. "Then we can discuss how we're going to salvage this, preferably in the common room in front of the fire."

"Yes good idea, Kate," said Angelina in pursuit, soon followed by Alicia.

Unable to resist, Fred called out, "If you girls need any help just, y'know, give us a shout!"

"Thanks," replied Angelina, stopping to look him dead in the eye, "but we usually just help each other."

And with that the three smirking girls disappeared around the corner leaving all three of them to look on after.

"I can't be the only one who's thought it," remarked Fred after a beat, as Harry chose that moment to pile noisily into the room with golden snitch in hand, triumphant shout, and half the weather right behind him.

George and Oliver simply shook their heads meekly.

"I've just realised we haven't seen you since your birthday, mate," said George taking one side of the sofa in front of the blazing fire in the Gryffindor common room.

"Yeah, how you keepin', Hart?" continued Fred claiming the other half, as was his wont.

Harry was about to interject that he was the one who should be asking Fred that question, considering that, for all intents and purposes, the larger than life twin shouldn't've been there at all had nature taken its course. But through all the months of pain, and healing and recuperation, Harry had to remind himself that he'd probably been asked that very question so many times it was likely causing him more grief than his injuries at this point.

Harry flopped down into an armchair soon copied by Wood on the other side. He didn't answer straight away, because the first thought that came to his head, after the wellbeing of his friend, was that it was a strange feeling being back in this room – a room that had been redecorated and rebuilt from rubble, essentially. On the one hand it was so full of happy memories, and experiences, that he felt he'd come back home in a way – and yet on the other hand, it was almost unnerving; the place, where for so many nights, thoughts had lingered on dark plots, evil happenings, and snake-like faces. How many times had he looked into that fire and wondered if he'd ever get the opportunity to do it again, all the while happy voices chattered around him, discussing homework and friends and what they were doing over the weekend. The place felt marred in a way, corrupted from change. It was familiar, yet off.

The smell of the logs in the fire, and the leather armchairs, and the remains of the ancient wallpaper filled his nostrils. It was different than before; new, but definitely an improvement on the last time he'd been here, when all that'd filled the air was the smell of burning plaster, the vaporised castle stonework, and the ozone left over from thousands of spell bursts.

It was sobering how the events of one day could almost overshadow six years of happy school life.

Apparently this all showed on his face, though, as he caught Fred, George and Oliver looking at him with concerned eyes.

He was about to say, 'Fine,' but then remembering who he was talking to, and the annoying ability they had for reading people like a book, opted for honesty instead. "Busy more than anything. Too busy. Youngest Auror in history may sound glamourous but it doesn't half take it out of you. Ginny jokes that I'm getting grey hairs."

Fred, about to interject with a witty response, was unfortunately beaten to the punch.

"Thing is, you're the most qualified out of everyone, mate," said Oliver with a laugh, shifting around to get more comfortable in the old seat. "And things have bound to've calmed down since May."

The dubious look didn't go unnoticed. "You'd think that, but I swear it was easier when Voldemort was still alive, at least then I had clear idea of what I had to do, but now…" He sighed heavily. "What started as a simple case of seek and destroy has changed into something, I don't know, darker in the past few months."

"What do you mean, Harry?" asked George with eyebrows furrowed, as Fred and Oliver started to pay more attention.

The fire swayed violently, as a breeze came down the chimney, letting out a snap and a curl.

Harry watched it as it thrashed. "Finding scared death eaters on the run is one thing, but then it's like, weird news, and more disappearances. When Voldemort was on the prowl last time, before he revealed himself, it was the same sort of thing." He looked pensive for a second. "And when you add that to the business with Snape and now Nott...I'm convinced something's brewing. Kingsley thinks so too."

There was a pregnant pause.

"God, Ron doesn't tell us anything!" grumbled Fred, before he called out, "Kreacher!"

Before anyone could ask what on Earth he was doing, there was a CRACK and the old leathery house elf himself appeared in front of the four of them almost instantaneously. He beamed when he saw Harry.

"Master has returned to Hogwarts! Kreacher is so pleased to see Master in such good health," said the elf, bowing so low that his nose dusted the floor.

"Hello Kreacher," said Harry, dazedly, a bit lost at the situation. "Nice to see you too."

He returned the offered handshake from the elf and watched amazed as he turned to Fred and George with an equally large smile. "And Messrs Weasley, how can Kreacher be of service to Master's friends?"

"I was just wondering that myself," said George, slightly baffled.

"Kreacher," began Fred, "we're about to get into a serious gossip session and are going to need plenty of tea to go with it. Could you perhaps prepare some for us?"

The elf looked ecstatic to be doing something for someone again. He bowed low once more, speaking into the ground, "of course Master Weasley, Kreacher will bring some tea and biscuits right away."

And he disappeared with another CRACK.

Harry had certainly not been expecting such a change from the ancient elf, and in such a short amount of time, considering the last time he'd been in Fred and George's company he'd called them, 'nasty blood-traitor brats,' and proceeded to ignore everything about the Weasleys from henceforth. He'd have put it down to mind altering Wheezes' products had he not experienced Kreacher's metamorphosis first-hand.

"Huh," said George simply, looking at the spot the elf just vanished from. "Why didn't I think of that."

"Story of your life, innit."

"Serious gossip session?" reiterated Wood looking rather incredulous, whilst George just looked highly unimpressed – most likely with himself for his inability to think of a retort; the irony wasn't lost on him. "What are we, having a girly sleep over too?"

Fred gasped. "How did you know?" he said, camping it up for all his worth with a limp wristed flick.

Not missing a beat, George grasped Oliver's left hand. "First things first, we're fixing those cuticles!" he lisped, narrowly avoiding the slap aimed at his head.

Harry vaguely wondered why his face was hurting until he realised it was because he was grinning so hard. Although Ron and Hermione would forever be considered his number one friends, and Ginny was now firmly planted somewhere around there too, sometimes there was no beating the twins' company. The big brother-type banter was something that he'd never really had until he'd met them, and the rest of the Weasley brothers for that matter. They were the sort of people who's company you never realised you'd missed until it was all over you. And it usually took some getting off.

Nevertheless, Harry schooled himself. "And just what makes you think I'm in a divulgatory mood?" he said trying to sound serious, eyebrows visible over his glasses. "Or that I can divulge anything?"

Ever the salesman, Fred slipped into haggle mode immediately. "Well mate, it's either this, or that," he said with feigned indifference, pointing to the window where the rain and sleet was now coming down in lakes. "The captain here would have no problems going for Round Two, would you Cap'?"

"Nope," stated Wood simply as he regarded Harry, arms crossed.

And Harry knew damn well he was telling the honest to God truth. He looked behind him at the window, and then back at the three. "Fair enough," he said, not even putting up a fight.

Kreacher returned soon after with tea for four, and various plates of multi-coloured cakes and biscuits. Only once the elf had gone, and every one of them held a steaming cup and a sweet, did the mood suddenly take a slightly more serious turn.

"Spill," Fred said without question. "Unless it's top secret…then do it anyway, just in a more enigmatic tone," he added, wiggling his fingers for dramatic effect.

Harry rolled his eyes and moved to sit sideways on the armchair, whilst trying not to spill his tea, legs lying over the arm rest so he could face the trio. "None of this leaves the room."

Only when three 'scout's honour's replied, and George cast a quick Muffliato about them, did he begin.

"Well, a couple of weeks ago, we captured Nott; he was one of the death eaters in Voldemort's 'outer' circle I guess you'd call it. Well, I say captured, he sort of just wandered into our midst – didn't even put up a fight, nor did he really say anything."

"You think he'd had enough?" said Wood curiously. "Of running, I mean," he clarified needlessly.

"I don't think so," said Harry tentatively. "You see, he wasn't making much sense, didn't really know what was going on even as we questioned him. And his answers were just all over the place. Yet he seemed calm, and lucid, just…vacant."

"A memory charm."

"Yes," said Harry, nodding at George, "his memory had been wiped, and although whoever did appeared to've done a piss-poor job of it, it had been enough."

"Can you reverse it? Or use veritaserum to get more info out of him?" asked Wood.

"Veritaserum only uncovers truths that the recipient is aware of," said George knowledgeably. "If the person has lost the plot, the potion won't work on them."

"Yeah, what he said," indicated Harry in an aloof manner, trying to act as if he'd known that.

It was times like this he was reminded how glad he was that Hermione had decided to take an internship in the Ministry. He'd grown so used to her company that he felt way out of his league when she wasn't there to help out. Without her knowledge of all things magical and her constant stream of ideas, more times than not he felt like a clueless firstie addressing a room full of expert wizards whenever he had a meeting with the other aurors; which really wasn't too far from the truth. And it was mainly because of that reason he'd been reluctant to take on such an important case in the first place; only Kingsley's unwavering faith in him had eventually made him reconsider.

Oliver turned to George in apparent amazement. "Since when did you two pay attention in school?"

"One of us had to," smirked Fred. "Who'd you think comes up with the potions?"

George toasted his cup.

Harry steered the conversation back. "Obviously the first thing we did was perform Priori incantatem on his wand," he stated, "and the memory charm was not performed by it."

"So you think someone had beef with him?" asked Fred in a stage whisper, turning to Harry. "Thought they'd stop him from talking?"

Harry's eyebrows creased as he glanced once more into the dancing fire; he'd been thinking on this a lot. "It's hard to say, there's a lot of different ways someone can end up with a missing memory. Just take a look at Lockhart, used someone else's wand, but got a face-full of his own spell."

George smirked. "Oh yeah, forgot about that plonker."

"But then again, even if someone did the wiping, or it was an accident, it still boils down to someone not wanting someone else to talk," piped up Wood, "and he was there amongst it."

Harry sighed. "Which is why we're turning our attentions to finding Theodore Nott, his son. It's a good chance they've been living together since last year on account of nobody's seen the pair of them since the Battle."

"Theo Nott," drawled Wood, glancing into the corner of the room in thought. "Yeah, I remember him; ratty looking Slytherin bloke; hung around with Malfoy," he said in a tone of voice which suggested he had a bad taste in his mouth.

"That's him," said Harry. "And no, before you ask, the Malfoy's had no info on him either – we already asked."

"Have you tried putting out a reward or something similar?" said Wood with a confident smile. "I bet that would get some results."

"Bad idea," said Harry immediately, shutting down the keeper. "People are generally a lot easier to find when they don't know people are looking for them."

"Ah, yes...Good point."

George tutted loudly. "God Ollie, it's a good thing you're not on the force. Trelawney and her crystal ball would have a better job tracking down death eaters than you."

The slap from earlier made its mark this time.

Fred sat back in his seat and tucked his feet underneath him. "Exactly how useful have the Malfoys been?" he asked slowly.

Harry took a sip of tea. "More useful than I could've known, actually." Which was the truth. "So far Lucius has given damning information leading to the arrest of Crabbe, Goyle, Jugson, and Rowle, the blonde one who used to go around with-"

"-Dolohov," said Fred and George at the same time, their faces a rictus of disgust at the name of the man who had left a gash in the Prewett family forever, and had almost done the same to the Weasleys.

"And I reckon Selwyn and Rosier are soon to follow," continued Harry, not questioning that look. "Those two have been careless." He let out a laugh. "Kingsley had the muggle prime minister release pictures of all the death eaters on the news soon after the war. As far as the muggles are concerned they're escaped convicts; they were actually spotted at a pub in Coventry of all places, completely oblivious to the fact that their faces were on the tele."

George, uncharacteristically, took on a more steely expression. "How many are left, Harry? To find?"

He didn't answer straight away, instead taking a deep drink of tea. "Not including the ones I've just mentioned…about six. And those are just the ones we know about."

"Who?" said all three at once.

"The LeStrange brothers, Rodolphus and Rabastan – we reckon they'll be in the same place, Travers – the cowardly death eater Hermione took down in the Department of Mysteries, Mulciber and Avery – those two kept a low profile anyway, and Yaxley – the one who got away," said Harry, suddenly looking quite sheepish as he glanced at George.

George sighed but otherwise looked understanding. "I've told you mate, don't beat yourself up about that. You weren't even involved with his arrest."

When Oliver began to look quite confused, Fred decided to provide some exposition. He leaned forward so's to see the keeper. "George and Lee kicked seven shades out of him at the Battle, after I was gifted with the castle wall, and he was captured along with the others following the clean up. Unfortunately, the sneaky sod managed to get free and high tail it as he was being transported to Azkaban."

"Damn," said Wood, simply.

"Yeah that pretty much sums it up," said Harry with a grimace, suddenly feeling – and probably looking, he mused – much older than his years.

"But I mean, how'd you even go about tracking these people down, Harry? Especially these lot who seem to be quite good at not being found," Oliver went on. "Not to state the obvious n' all, but what about their vaults and so on…"

Harry was shaking his head before he'd even finished the sentence. "Their vaults were emptied even before the Battle took place. The goblins told us it had been a quite common practise amongst the death eaters to get their gold out when things started to go South, even during the 1st Wizarding War.

"The standard methods of tracking aren't going to work here. It's an almost 100% surety that we're dealing with criminals who're living under fidelius charms, moving around under influence of polyjuice or demiguise etc. and are keeping a very low profile. You've got to remember that half of these guys used to work in the Ministry in high up places, and know all the tricks," said Harry, reiterating what Hermione had told him months ago. He fiddled with his sleeve and scoffed. "It's a good chance they may not even be in this country anymore."

"I wouldn't count your chickens before they're hatched, Harry," said George coyly. "Especially considering who the new Junior Undersecretary to the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation is."

Fred let out a snort. "Yeah, Hart, I can guarantee you that any funny business at all – long distance apparition, unlicensed port key use, anyone with a shifty look using the floo network – and Percy will be on it like stink on shit," he went on, half in amusement, half in contempt.

"You seem to be talking from experience," sniggered Wood.

George muttered something less than pleasant under his breath, and Fred groaned, becoming more animated.

"The bloke's a menace! When we originally set up the floo network in the flat – obviously we knew we had to register it – but we just needed to nip over to mum's to grab some stuff we'd left behind, so we just, y'know, jimmied open the port – 'Dung is actually pretty useful for learning stuff like that – and quickly flooed over; everyone does it."

"You hotwired your own floo?" laughed Harry at the absurdity, but then decided upon reflection that he shouldn't be surprised in the slightest.

"So when we get back," George continued, "– we were away for, pff, 10 minutes tops – and there's a Ministry owl waiting for us in the lab with a letter."

"And all it says is, 'I saw that, you naughty boys – P," finished Fred with an incredulous look.

Oliver snorted. "That sounds like him."

"So unless your blokes scarpered to the south of France immediately following the Battle when the Ministry was running around like headless chickens, I reckon there's a solid chance they're still here, mate," said George, logically.

"And with this whole business with Nott, as you say, it sounds like at least some of them are still running around," concluded Fred. "Hard to wipe an Englishman's memory if you're sat in Barbados."

"If it was done intentionally," supplied Harry, nevertheless, now looking more thoughtful.

"Have you two considered working in the auror department?" said Wood, offhandedly.

"And steal Ronnie's thunder?"

"We couldn't possibly do that."

Harry let out a laugh. "Actually some of the research we're conducting, to help out, was actually his idea."

"Or his girlfriend's…" muttered Fred.

"Research?" asked Wood. "Since when does the auror department do research?"

"Well we aren't," said Harry taking a bite of French fancy, "but Kingsley granted us pretty much every resource we need to track down the death eaters, which pretty much includes the entire taskforce of the Ministry. For instance, there's a slew of people looking into the Taboo curse that Voldemort created, for tracking. Ron thought that if we're able to figure out how to do it, we can place a taboo on certain phrases-"

"-which could lead you to certain people."

"Exactly," said Harry, nodding at Wood. "Another big one is putting an embargo on the sale of ingredients used in polyjuice potion – that one was Hermione's idea," he said glancing over at Fred, making sure to stress that Hermione hadn't indeed taken all the glory in all of their endeavours; the redhead just stuck his tongue out.

George looked dubious. "Wouldn't that affect just regular old potions that use the same stuff?"

"Not if we're only analysing the sale of the more rarer ingredients. Apparently stuff like boomslang skin is rather specialist – and you have to go very particular places to acquire it – and fluxweed, which you have to pick on a full moon; stuff like that is used in only a handful of other potions, which makes them good candidates to track, obviously on top of the stuff we need to be looking out for anyway – non-tradeables etc." That was actually something he had remembered. The Polyjuice potion was something that he wasn't about to forget in a hurry, considering how often he Ron and Hermione had had to use it over the past few years. He was sure by now he could mix a batch in his sleep.

Fred and George became still for a moment.

"What sort of other stuff are you keeping tabs on, Hart?"

Harry glanced up to see them looking. "Plenty of things," he said, making sure to sound vague and disinterested, but it couldn't last. "How so?" he added, the tiniest curl of lip making itself known.

"Oh you know, we deal in the rare and exotic at times, just being nosy," George said, in a pleasantly curious sort of tone, while Fred maintained careful eye contact. Oh, they were good.

Harry made apparent to scrunch up his face for a moment so it looked as though he was trying to remember the list of things. They didn't falter. "Hermione's the one to ask about all of that – but if it's used in concealment, considered dangerous, or illegal to trade, someone's trying to watch it."

George 'Hmmd' neutrally and made to pour himself and Fred more tea.

Harry couldn't resist. "Oh no, wait, 'Venomous Tentacula Seeds' are high up on that list, yeah, that's right, Class C Non-Tradeable Substance – really gona be watching out for those," he said with a straight face. "Apparently there's been an upsurge in children coming down with crazy symptoms after ingesting them – especially during class for some reason."

George's lip twitched.

"How unfortunate," said Fred, his eyes twinkling.

"If you're cracking down on non-tradeables, Harry, make sure Hagrid knows before all others," interjected Wood, who seemed oblivious to the exchange.

Harry considered that for a moment. He was definitely right about that. "Yeah, that's not a bad shout. Although considering the raids that happened not too long ago, and the business with the poultry farms – which I'm sure he'll know about by now…" he said, trailing off slightly. "I reckon he'll know to behave himself," he concluded in a tone that was half certain, half hopeful.

"Yeah, he certainly doesn't want to get mixed up in all that," remarked George. "Especially with his track record, and the fact that they were apparently good friends…"

"That's a dangerous combination if I ever I heard one," said Wood, now picking at the glaze on his tea cup. "It's probably for the best he did a runner."

"Aptly put," said Fred with a grin, now stretched out like a lion on his side of the sofa.

"Although," George began, looking at Harry, "I'm assuming that we're only assuming that?"

Harry caught the confusion sweep across Fred's face as he tried to unravel what his twin had just said, but Harry knew what he was getting at. "Yeah, that's right. In light of recent events we can't rule out abduction," he said, the slightest hint of exasperation creeping into the statement from the reminder that so many loose ends were now dangling in his Department. Sometimes, it made him physically ache with weariness: the dissatisfaction of putting out so much energy and not getting anywhere, or the excitement of new evidence just to have it simply bring with it its own slew of questions. It was maddening.

There was a lull in the conversation, but Harry could feel what was about to be said. It's all he'd heard from people who he only saw from time to time, a sort of go-to question. But he found that the thought of resurrecting the conversation for the umpteenth time didn't bother him, in fact, sat in the castle, with two people who could easily pass for Slytherins, it was almost appropriate.

"How's the other manhunt going, Harry?"

Like clockwork.

He took a final drink from his almost empty cup, and grimaced slightly when he got a mouthful of cold tea. "It's frustrating. The best person to work out how to find this person, is the very person I'm trying to work out how to find."

When all he heard in response was the wind whistling down the flue, and the distant sound of footfalls on stone, he glanced up, only to be met by two neutral expressions and a blank face.

"Put it this way, if he graded me on my progress, I'd probably get a T," he went on, resting his chin in his palm and poring over the patterns of tea leaves that had clumped in the dregs. He wondered abjectly what a tiny giraffe could possibly portend, then made a note not to ask Trelawney.

"I'm sorry fellas but you've lost me a bit. What is this about?" piped up Wood, now opting to rest his weight on his knees in what was clearly an eager posture.

The footsteps outside were now clearly audible outside the portrait, as was the distinct sound of female voices; Angelina, Katie and Alicia were clearly back from the changing rooms. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about this with them, so decided to just give the condensed version of the story for now.

His cup tinked against the treated wood as he put it back on the trolley, and he swallowed heavily. "As you probably know, we never recovered the remains of Severus Snape. All that was left in the boathouse when I went to retrieve him following the Battle, was two sets of footprints going to and from the place where his body had lain, and a trail of blood leading out of the door."

A/N: Things are certainly starting to get mysterious. Stay tuned for more...