A/N: Here's something a little different from the last seven chapters. Once again, thanks very much for your reviews. Hannah, if you're ever in New Zealand, drop me a line, because I may or may not own every Singstar ever released in this country...

FOUR MONTHS AGO
MAY 14th, 2013. 9.20pm
The Bundimun, Knockturn Alley

'Same again?' the bartender asked the man who had been sitting in the exact same spot for at least an hour, slumped over the bar with a look of utter regret on his face.

The man gave a curt nod, and Vik fetched the firewhiskey again. The action was getting quite repetitive. It was a slow night, but that wasn't unusual for a Tuesday. The usual after-work drinks crowd had cleared out hours ago to go home to whatever family they had, and now all that remained were the handful of usual boozers and a few dark characters come to carry out some dodgy dealings, picking at substandard meals.

'Oi!' a greasy-looking woman in a dark corner called out. 'There's a flobberworm in my stew!'

'So what?' Vik replied, not looking up, and not sounding the least bit concerned. 'There's probably a bit of flobberworm in everyone's stew.'

'So it's disgusting! I reckon I can taste the mucus.'

'That's what you get for six sickles. Add more salt,' Vik suggested with a shrug.

The witch stood up in outrage, revealing a tattered and ripped purple cloak. 'Well, I just might take my business elsewhere.'

'Oh, pipe down, Meerna,' Vik waved his hand dismissively at her, knowing it was an empty threat. 'We both know you won't set foot in The Kappa, The Augurey wouldn't let you within ten feet of the place looking like that, and the minute anyone sees your face in The Leaky Cauldron, they're going to alert the Ministry. Yes,' he nodded with a dry laugh. 'I know you're wanted on suspicion of burglary, forgery, and receipt of stolen goods. And I've a fair idea that suspicion will turn into certainty if you're arrested.'

Meerna sank bank into her chair with a scowl and Vik nodded knowingly. Most of The Bundimun's clientele were some brand of criminal. Either that, or folks so devastatingly poor they couldn't afford standards. On any given day they had petty thieves all the way through to full blown murderers drinking from Bundimun goblets. There was a known assassin sitting at the other end of the bar right now. Vik had been the proprietor of The Bundimun for going on three decades, but he'd been working there for six, ever since he'd dropped out of Hogwarts at sixteen after collecting a scraping of OWLs. A lot of people thought he was a dunce dropping out of school prematurely, but instead of staying on to learn fluffy charms and useless transfiguration skills, he'd spent those extra two years in private tuition under his Uncle, honing his capabilities in the Dark Arts.

The Bundimun was the darkest pub in the area, located in the sub-sub-basement of an abandoned shop at 13C, behind Borgin and Burke's. A lot of people weren't aware it existed, and it was near impossible to find if you didn't. The only entrance was by a dingy black door in a back alley filled with trash and stray cats, and the whole place was heavy with layers of dark magic to keep out unwanted visitors. The alley seemed to be perpetually wet, since it never saw the sun, and it gave off the constant stench of vomit, stale urine, and decaying rat. It was hard to believe that a ten minute walk would land you in Diagon Alley, where the witches and wizards strolled easily, and ate their Florean Fortescue ice cream in the sun, letting their children run off alone to gawp at the window displays. The basement and sub-basement of 13C served as a kind of ad hoc accommodation for those needing a leaky roof over their heads. The deepest room, one level below the pub, was divided in two. Half was a storage cellar, half was a room reserved for dark dealings not fit even for the ear of the average Bundimun patron. It was rumoured that if someone was to tunnel any further down, they would fall right into one of the caverns housing Gringotts vaults.

'Kaley!' Vik hollered back into the kitchen. 'Did you put flobberworms in the stew on purpose?'

The wary face of a young girl, perhaps no older than seventeen, appeared at the makeshift swing doors, which weren't really doors at all, but a pair of thieved window shutters hinged poorly to the wall. 'Nope,' she answered, caring even less than Vik did.

'Well, we've got an infestation. Check the lettuce, and if you find any, chuck 'em into a bucket. I'll put flobberworm fritters on the menu for tomorrow.'

A bell tinkled as a shady-looking man entered the pub. He was of average height, but very thin and angular. He wore an enormous dragon hide coat that looked like it could have easily wrapped twice around him. He was dripping with rainwater, and visibly shivered, his frame not allowing much opportunity for natural insulation.

Vik glanced up as the man settled himself onto a stool and started a small fire in an ashtray to warm his hands by. A smirk appeared on the bartender's face. 'Charlie,' he chuckled. 'I read about you in the papers. You have been a naughty boy.'

'What can I say, Viktor?' the man named Charlie spread his hands briefly, palms towards the ceiling. 'Is there any greater pleasure than taking a life and feeling the warmth stray from a body? I think there isn't.'

'I wouldn't know, Charlie,' Vik admitted. 'But I'm sure Paddy here does.' He turned back to the man slumped over the bar nursing a firewhiskey. 'Hey, Paddy?' he shook the man's shoulder. 'Meet Charles Hoyt. You two're in the same business. Charlie, this is Patrick Doyle, Junior. He was a key player in the mob crimes that took place after we lost the Dark Lord.'

'He's ina businessiff raping and terrifying,' Paddy slurred. 'I'm ina businessiff revenge and nothing more.'

'If you say so, friend,' Hoyt's expression failed to change.

'I'm not your friend.'

'The way I see it,' Vik cut in. 'The outcome's the same: dead bodies. So no judgement from me.'

Paddy knocked back the last of his firewhiskey and slammed his goblet onto the bar. 'Another,' he said roughly.

'What can I get you, Charlie?' Vik asked as he poured Paddy yet another drink. 'The usual?'

'No,' Hoyt said slowly. 'No, I'm feeling adventurous tonight. Surprise me.'

'Alright,' Vik raised his eyebrows as he scanned the filthy shelves behind him for something suitable. 'How 'bout this?' he asked, returning with a dusty black bottle. 'Quintin Black, Scottish import, spellbound for eighteen years in a copper cauldron. Supposed to be smoother than a whore out of galleons.'

'That isn't smooth, Viktor. That's cheap and desperate,' Hoyt shook his head. 'Smooth is the skin at the curve of a virgin's hip. The skin there is smooth whether she wants it to be or not. And whether she is alive or not.'

'Noted,' Vik fought the urge to roll his eyes. 'You want to try it?'

'Yes,' Hoyt nodded. 'I will.'

'What brings you to The Bundy on a Tuesday night, Charlie? Don't usually see you here until Friday.'

'Oh, Viktor, tonight isn't like any other night,' Hoyt sighed. 'Tonight I seek sanctuary. I was nearly happened upon by some campers in the woods. I nearly had her, Viktor. I was so close, I even had the grave ready. I just needed to kill her… and they RUINED IT,' he banged his fist down hard on the bar, his temper escaping him in an instant. He reeled himself back in just as quickly though, because when he next spoke his voice was calm again. 'She will have escaped by now, the Ministry may be assembling a task force as we speak. I need to lie low for a while. I assume there is a room upstairs I might occupy?'

'Aye,' Vik gave a nod.

'Why didn' you jus' stabba?' Paddy's slur was worsening, and he swayed a little on his stool. 'Jus' right in 'er 'ead? An ice pick would've dunna job nice 'n quick.'

'He's got his little rituals,' Vik answered. 'Likes scalpels. Y'know, those tiny swords Muggle Healers use to cut their lot open with?'

Paddy grunted.

'You're in a bad way, my friend,' Vik noted. 'What's the problem? Women troubles?'

'I wish,' Paddy laid his head in his hands. 'Maura's comin' back.' He took a deep gulp of his drink and barely grimaced, now too drunk to properly taste it.

'Maura?' Vik appeared confused. 'I never heard of any witch going by Maura. Who is she?'

'My baby…' Paddy almost moaned in agony. 'Gave 'er up. Now she… 'scoming home. But she's hardly even mine!' Another few mouthfuls of liquor found his glass empty, and he clumsily seized the bottle from Vik's side of the bar. 'Whatiff she finds… 'ermother? Whatiff… my old man finds out? He don' even know he'scotta granddaughter. She'sconna be thirteen in August.'

Paddy slid off his stool, bottle still in hand, stumbling and almost falling, searching for the bathroom while the room spun around him. ''Sconna be thirteen,' he muttered again to himself, before tripping over an uneven floorboard and hitting his head on the corner of a table, knocking himself out cold.

Many of the patrons of The Bundimun were not entirely at ease with the pub's unquestioning service to those guilty of more serious crimes. The Bundy was well known in dark circles for catering to those who operated outside the law, but witches like Meerna, whose crimes would never escalate above that of thievery, by no means condoned the rape and murder of innocents. Yet, as Vik had pointed out earlier, there was really nowhere else to go. So she, and the others like her, were forced to sit and pick at the unwanted flobberworms in their stew while Charles Hoyt spoke freely about wanting to kill a woman who might still be running through the woods somewhere at this moment, unclothed and violated, knowing her husband was dead, and maybe wishing she was, too.

Paddy Doyle awoke the next morning on the dilapidated floor of The Bundimun, a jackhammer pounding in his head. He lay in a puddle of urine, and there was a pool of vomit next to him. A mouldy blanket had been thrown over him, but other than that, there were no attempts at help. He threw the blanket off himself and rolled onto his back. Putting a hand to his forehead in a futile attempt to massage away the screams of his brain, he suddenly located a large, sore lump just beyond his hairline. Braving the vertigo, he hauled himself up and shuffled to the bathroom, which was in a completely different direction to where he'd been heading last night. Once there, he was able to assess the damage in a grimy piece of broken mirror. It was bad news: he looked even worse than he felt. There was a crusty mess of dried blood in his hair and a few trickles down his face, making it look as though a small volcano on his skull had erupted during the night. The lower right half of his face was adorned in dried vomit, and his urine-soaked trousers had failed to dry very much at all, leaving him damp and sticky.

When he emerged, not looking all that much better (a dark wizard is seldom learned in the art of magical cleaning), the mess he had made on the floor had vanished, and Vik stood behind the bar making some kind of list on a piece of parchment.

'Well, looky here,' Vik spoke with a cackle. 'If it ain't Paddy Nose-Diving Doyle. That was quite the fall you had. Manage to sleep it off?'

A sudden stumble from Paddy, which he managed to recover from, sent Vik into a fit of irritating laughter.

'Ha. No. Guess not. Hair of the hippogriff?'

Paddy grunted in affirmation and slumped himself back over the bar once more. Soon he had a goblet of firewhiskey in front of him, and could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen.

'Kaley! Poor some o' that brew for Paddy, and take Charlie his breakfast. He's paid up for the next four days. And take this knut and get me a Daily Prophet, will you?'

'Yes,' Kaley sighed, shuffling into view looking utterly disparaged.

'Make it Irish,' Paddy indicated his coffee after Kaley had disappeared up the stairs with a breakfast tray floating along behind her.

'Sheesh, that bad, huh? You sure were in a bad way last night. I had no idea you had a daughter.'

Paddy looked up sharply. 'What are you talking about?'

'What d'you mean what am I talking about? I asked you why the long face last night, and you had a big cry about some kid you gave up. What was her name? Mara?'

'Maura,' Paddy immediately corrected. There was a beat of silence. Then: 'Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!'

This behaviour was as unusual for Paddy as his sorrowful demeanour had been the night before. He was a very intelligent man, and liked to pride himself on his two chief characteristics: calm and calculating. He was a master planner. More often than not a planner of evils, but even that could not detract from the sheer brilliance of some of his schemes. He was revered, and somewhat infamous, for his ability to cover all bases, and it was this talent that had led to the considerable success of his Irish mob and their affiliates. The mob dreamed up ruthless end goals, and Paddy forged a flawless path to achieve those ends. Their track record had been near perfect, until Paddy made a single mistake. The error had been small, but the stakes had been enormous. While his mob, which was like his family, and indeed included some of his family, usually received his undivided attention, for the first time in his life, Paddy found himself distracted beyond help. This distraction led to a tiny oversight, which in the end, was large enough to see most of his mob arrested and imprisoned. Only Danny Boy Flannigan, his right hand man Kevin Brennan, and Paddy himself had managed to evade capture. The name of that distraction? Hope Martin, seven and a half months pregnant with their child.

Paddy stood up then, his bar stool scooting backwards across the floorboards with a screech. He reached over the bar and took a fistful of Vik's shirt near the collar, pulling their faces as close together as possible. Vik had been caught unawares and stood with a look of fear in his eyes as Paddy pressed the tip of his wand to Vik's temple.

'Tell me exactly what you know about my daughter,' Paddy growled. 'Everything I said last night, and everybody who heard it.'

'I, uh… you said…' Vik quivered under Paddy's gaze.

'I didn't say I had a lot of time,' Paddy tightened his grip on Vik's shirt and pushed his wand a little harder against Vik's temple.

'H…Her name is M…M…Mara-'

'Maura!'

'M…Maura and she's t…turning thirteen. She's c…coming back, but y…you didn't say where sh…she'd been.'

'Is that all?'

'N…no. You were… were worried she'd find her mother, or th…that your father would find out.'

'And who else knows?' Paddy released Vik, but kept his wand trained on him, feeling slightly calmer now that his brain had started to formulate a plan.

'Everybody in here could have heard you,' Vik backed away to get himself out of Paddy's reach. 'The assassin, Copperhead-'

'Vernita Green?'

'Y…Yes. The petty thief witch, Meerna. The hag, Annis Black. There was a goblin I didn't know, but he was showing off a fresh demiguise pelt. There were… a pair of vampires. They were in the shadows, but I think it was the half-vampire Lorcan d'Eath and Amadeus Lestoat.'

'Amarillo's son?'

'Yes,' Vik nodded furiously. 'I don't remember if he was here during your big reveal, but Augustus Rookwood's cousin Julius came in for a brief bit of business. Other than that, it was just me, Kaley, and Charlie.'

'Who's Charlie?'

'Charles Hoyt. You two made acquaintance last night?'

'Slimy bastard,' Paddy's lip curled suddenly, the introduction springing forth from his hazy memory. 'Are you sure that's everybody? You'll be damn sorry if you've missed anyone.'

'Yes! Yes, I'm sure!' Vik squealed at the threat, not willing to raise his wand and initiate a duel with Patrick Doyle, Jnr.

'Good. Thanks for your help,' Paddy spoke calmly. He waited until Vik was letting out a sigh of relief before 'Obliviate!' hurtled from his mouth, and a bright jet of light cut through the dank dark air of The Bundimun, hitting the pub's only other occupant squarely in the side of the head.

Vik stared into space for a short while with dilated pupils before coming back to reality. 'Paddy,' he looked up in surprise. 'What are you doing here so early? You look like shit.'

'Bit of a rough night. Thought I'd come in for an Irish coffee or two,' he indicated his cup. 'I served myself, and sent your girl out to get me a paper. Hope you don't mind.'

'Not at all,' Vik came to the counter and stared at a piece of parchment he didn't recognise. 'Looks like I've started an order list,' he said, bemused. 'Don't remember doing that.'

'Maybe you need more sleep?' Paddy suggested, taking a sip of coffee.

'Hmm. Yes, I guess I have been having some late nights recently,' Vik answered thoughtfully. 'Have I?'

The bell tinkled then, and Kaley came in with a copy of The Daily Prophet under her arm, and the breakfast tray, untouched, still bobbing along behind her.

'Charlie's not up there, Vik,' she dropped the paper on the bar and continued into the kitchen. 'It's just Meerna and Copperhead. And Meerna didn't sleep all night because she thinks Copper's there to off her.'

'Was Charlie here?' Vik asked, surprised, at the same time Paddy ducked into the kitchen under the guise of a coffee refill.

'What did you say?' Kaley emerged behind Paddy, her eyes looking a little opaque.

'I said was Charlie here?'

'I don't know,' her eyebrows knitted together. 'Should he have been?'

'You just said he wasn't upstairs.'

'No, I didn't,' she scoffed, stalking back to the shutters. 'You're losing it, Vik.'

'Well, thanks for the coffee,' Paddy stood up after whispering a hurried 'Evanesco!', satisfied with his charmwork.

Vik looked up in bewilderment. 'You're leaving already?'

'Yeah, you know how it is,' Paddy tucked the newspaper under his arm. 'No rest for the wicked.'

'You'll be back,' Vik smirked. 'You never can stay away for long.'

'Right you are, Viktor,' Paddy gave him a half wave in farewell and made a beeline for the stairs. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his pounding headache was returning in full force, and he was feeling very queasy. He exited the stairs briefly at the basement level to perform some quick memory charms on the witch and the assassin. Four down, six to go. This drunken damage control couldn't happen fast enough.

Breathing fractionally fresher air out in the alley no more than a minute later, he felt his stomach convulse and he emptied its meagre contents into a nearby pile of rubbish. The second he had straightened up and wiped his mouth, he disapparated with a sharp crack, travelling the 212 miles to his current home in Liverpool.

Patrick Doyle, Jnr had purchased an old barn in Simmonswood, and had it converted into a stylish four-bedroom home. He had never envisioned living in a barn, but this particular building held very special meaning to him. Around fifteen years ago, Paddy had met Hogwarts student Hope Martin in the hills surrounding Hogsmeade. It was summertime, and he had been taking some time alone, feeling taxed as a result of his father's heavy expectations. Hope had travelled by floo powder to Hogsmeade village, wanting to buy her textbooks early and look for some knotgrass for her father, who was attempting to brew a new mead. Hogsmeade was one of the few places she was permitted to visit unaccompanied, as she had a Great Aunt there who was newly retired from the Department of Defence at the Ministry. Hope had just turned 15, Paddy was about to turn 20, and when she came across him sitting contemplatively at the mouth of a cave with the sun on his face, she was captivated.

Their conversation flowed easily, much to her surprise, and she found that despite his somewhat rugged exterior, he was actually very thoughtful, and wonderfully intelligent. She came to love the way he interpreted the world, and somewhere along the way his quiet, assured walk, his smile, his laugh, and the little crinkles around his eyes became the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. They had spent a lot of that summer wandering aimlessly through the Hogsmeade hills, talking, laughing, and in the last few weeks before she returned to school, kissing. It was all happening very fast, but neither of them were worried, or frightened. Paddy finally felt happy, and understood, and Hope felt safe and genuinely appreciated for the first time in her life. A handful of weekends later, just over a month into the new school year, Hope had snuck out of the castle and arranged to meet Paddy, having desperately missed seeing her secret, older boyfriend all week. As usual, they met at their Hogsmeade cave, and Paddy asked her if she'd like to visit Liverpool. It was a sister city to his beloved childhood city of Dublin, and he wanted to explore it with her. He held her close, and apparated them both to Walton Hall Park. Without letting go of her, he had whispered, 'Town or country?'

'Country,' she had replied in an instant, and smiled as he slipped his hand into hers. They had walked along the inside of hedgerows and fences, hoping to minimise exposure to passing traffic: Hope was in a uniform, and both of them wore robes as the summer began to give way to fall. Lord Voldemort was once again at the height of his power, and it was dangerous to be out in the open like this. It was nice though, as they breathed the crisp air, and drank in the beautiful colours: bright reds, blazing golds, and fiery oranges in the midst of fading bronzes. They stepped through countless layers of fallen leaves, and Paddy grinned harder than he ever had before when a sudden gust of wind hurtled through a nearby tree, and Hope went to spin in ecstasy beneath leaves that were making their first journey to the ground.

They had walked towards nothing in particular for almost two hours when the weather started to make a turn for the worst. It wasn't until heavy raindrops were bursting on Paddy's head that he pulled Hope into the nearest building for shelter: an old barn. Hope couldn't use her magic outside the school grounds, but Paddy found a collection of empty wine bottles and filled each one with bluebell flames. He conjured a blanket to lay over a stack of hay, and charmed the bottles to float in the air above them, just like the candles at Hogwarts. They had lain down together, and she had nestled into his arms, each of them listening to the hammering rain outside that sent goosebumps erupting in waves across their skin. Cuddling had turned to kissing, kissing had turned to wandering hands, and wandering hands meant they were soon wearing significantly less clothing than before. Hope, usually the sensible one, paused slightly breathlessly for a second or two to listen for any warning bells in her head. But there was only the wonderfully speedy pulsing of blood in her ears, and her chest, and further down, and it was that particular blood allocation, she suspected, that was urging her to just surrender herself to the unimaginably wonderful feeling of being in love, and being loved in return. It was without qualm or reservation that she gave all of herself to Paddy Doyle that afternoon, safe and warm and happier than ever in the midst of a Liverpool autumn shower.

Paddy hadn't understood what was funny when afterwards, Hope, the granddaughter of a Muggle farmer, had giggled and said she never thought she would actually end up rolling around in the hay.

Paddy jolted himself from his reverie as he caught himself smiling. There were important things at stake, and he still had six memory charms to perform before the information started to leak out beyond his control. The upcoming work had the potential to get very dirty, and he decided a quick bath wouldn't be a terrible idea. He knew where he could find the vampires, and possibly the hag. Julius Rookwood was a slippery character, but he knew channels through which he could track him down. He had a bad feeling that Charles Hoyt and the goblin were going to give him a real problem, though. While he waited for his tub to fill, he looked over his copy of the Prophet for the first time. His blood suddenly ran icy cold and his empty stomach was filled with a foreboding sense of dread. On the front page was a picture of Charles Hoyt looking utterly furious, surrounded by hordes of Ministry of Magic officials just outside Borgin and Burke's. He must have left The Bundimun for a short while, though Paddy couldn't think what for.

"Charles Hoyt," Paddy read, "who we might easily count among the darkest of the Dark Wizards, was captured outside Borgin and Burke's, of Knockturn Alley, at approximately 2.23am this morning. It is unknown what business Hoyt, who has been wanted for over a decade for the known rape and murder of nine couples, had in the area. Hoyt sexually violated and intended to kill Emily Stern just last night, but was interrupted by an unexpected group of teenage freedom campers celebrating the end of their final exams, allowing the victim to escape. Emily Stern is known to hold a job in the Muggle-Born Registration Commissionary, but it is not thought that her occupation played a significant contribution in her being targeted. Her husband of four years, James Stern, was found dead at the couple's home in Reading. The area surrounding Emily Stern's intended burial site will be searched this morning for any remains of Hoyt's previous victims. The Ministry's most accomplished Aurors, along with representatives from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, were involved in Hoyt's capture, made possible thanks to quick thinking by Emily Stern. She was able to slip one of her earrings into Hoyt's pocket, and keep the other on herself. Mrs. Stern routinely charms all her pairs of earrings to be attracted to one another, in case she loses or misplaces one. Ministry officials were able to tweak the charm slightly, so that the earring in their possession would lead them to the one hidden on Charles Hoyt's person. This is undoubtedly a very joyous day for all those in the Wizarding community, and we may now all sleep a little easier in our beds knowing one of our most ruthless killers is off the streets. Mr. Hoyt remains in custody, where he awaits trial and sentencing by the Wizengamot on May 30th."

While Britain's magicians were indeed celebrating Hoyt's capture over breakfast, Paddy couldn't think of a worse thing to happen. Charles Hoyt would most certainly be sentenced to live out the rest of his sorry life in Azkaban. He was going to be led straight into the same prison where his father and their mob were currently serving time. If Patrick Doyle, Snr caught even the smallest whisper that Maura was alive, Paddy knew he would have both her and Hope killed out of pure spite. His father had never liked Hope, and after Paddy fudged their last operation because he was busy thinking about her, there was nobody Patrick Snr loathed more.

It was still a long time before the mob was due to be released from prison. All but one of their members, that is. Tommy O'Rourke , he knew, was going to be let loose on the world once again in just a few months. He had never been the most self-sufficient man they'd had, but Paddy knew, if his father ordered Tommy to take out Hope and Maura upon his release, Tommy wouldn't dare disobey him, even if he landed himself back in Azkaban.

Paddy groaned as the sheer weight of the situation settled on his shoulders. How could one drunken ramble become so frustratingly far reaching? When his father found out Maura was alive, and he felt sure it was a question of when, and not if, he knew the loyalty of the gang would split for good. It was going to inevitably become Paddy Jnr versus Paddy Snr, and after what his mistake cost the group, he knew whatever side he might manage to scrape together would be quite severely outnumbered.

Now that he felt quite sure his father finding out he had a granddaughter was an eventual certainty, the urgency of performing memory charms on The Bundimun's Tuesday night patrons faded quickly. Now it was not a question of damage control, but rather, of keeping the love of his life and the daughter he had surrendered, alive, without either of them finding out about the other. He was going to need help, and he was going to need it fast. He stilled the taps and strode hurriedly to his bedroom. There, he penned short notes to Kevin Brennan and Danny Boy Flannigan, requesting their company as swiftly as possible. His owl was thrust into the cold morning less than a minute later, and Paddy watched it until it was out of sight, wondering where in the world his free brothers were now.

Eventually he returned to the bath, letting out a slow breath as the hot water engulfed his aching body. Now he was playing a waiting game, and it was already agonising.