Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and world created by JK Rowling. Anything you do not recognise is my own creation. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

– CHAPTER SIX –

The Muggle

'How do you feel about death?'

I run my fingers along the edge of Fabian's watch. Each miniscule marking has been tortuously carved by hand. I can't help but admire the craftsmanship; a wizard somewhere had spent countless hours poring over this watch. They put their life and soul into it, and the result is clear for all to see. How lucky they are. After all, what do I have to show for all my time hidden deep in the Department of Mysteries?

'You seem distracted,' says Sayer. He leans back in his chair; dappled sunlight reflects off his glasses, masking his eyes.

'You must have been top of your fucking class,' I say.

I consider, for the hundredth time, what would happen if I just refuse to come to these pointless sessions. Bogand would have me thrown out of the Unit, of course, but that is no big sacrifice. The press would brand me an escaped mental patient, so nothing new there. What I fear, though, is Bogand sending an Obliviator to get me. And I need my Unit memories if I'm to find my Luna's killer.

'Would you like to share?' says Sayer, fixing me with that gormless smile of his. He crosses his legs and ignores the fact that I am drumming the arm of the sofa with my free hand. I had hoped it would annoy him.

'I was thinking of whether getting out of here was worth losing my career over.'

Sayer just smiles his soothing smile. I drum harder. 'Let's talk about that, then.'

'What's there to talk about? This is a waste of time – you know it, and I know it.'

'I don't feel that way.'

'I have my own friends to talk to about my problems.'

'Do you?' he asks, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. I drum harder still, so that the gentle ticking of the old grandfather clock is drowned out.

'Of course I bloody do.' I wonder how it is that Sayer manages to get under my skin. Perhaps it's something he learned in Healer training.

'When is the last time you shared a problem with somebody?'

'Just –' I begin, but I struggle to finish the sentence. Just last week? Last month? Last year? If I am honest with myself, the last problem I shared was when I was at school, telling Ron and Hermione about the Horcruxes. I realise that I have stopped drumming.

'Do you feel you cannot trust people?'

I glance back at my watch. Half an hour to go.

'I don't think I can,' I whisper. If I am going to be stuck here for another half hour, I might as well have some fun.

'Go on,' says Sayer, his smile widening.

'I guess I was lied to and betrayed by adults all the time as a child,' I say, in my sincerest voice. 'I trusted Dumbledore, the closest thing I had to a grandfather, and he lied time and time again. It must …' I pause, for it is becoming too much. 'It must be because of my upbringing. The Dursleys taught me that revealing my innermost thoughts and feelings led to punishment, and I still carry that with me.'

I cannot hold in my laughter any longer. My cheeks feel strange; I have forgotten how to smile. Sayer betrays a flicker of annoyance, but the stupid smile soon returns. I notice, though, a slight crease between his eyebrows. I take it as a sign of victory.

'Perhaps we should try a different technique,' he says.

'Knock yourself out,' I say, and return to my watch. Twenty-seven minutes.

Sayer swivels away from me in his chair, and reaches down to open a cabinet by his feet. With some effort, he retrieves a very familiar object from it. It is a shallow stone basin marked with various runes: a Pensieve. Sayer handles it as though it were an infant and carefully places it on his desk.

'How did you get your hands on one of those?' I say sharply.

Sayer brushes stray hairs from his face before answering. 'It was a donation from a very wealthy family. I assured the owner that it would do a lot of good.'

'I was under the impression that there were only three left in the country.'

Sayer considers me for moment. 'The family in question lives in France. But that is irr –'

'So you were one of the ones who fled, then.'

I try not to sound accusatory. After all, Sayer strikes me as a Muggle-born, and the logical thing to do when faced with a Voldemort-led England would be to flee. But perhaps I am not successful: the crease between Sayer's eyebrows deepens.

'I've lived in France since I was a child; I only recently came back. Now let's get back on point –'

'If you think I'm giving you a memory, then you really haven't learnt much about me.'

'Of course not,' says Sayer. He places his wand at his temple and extracts a silvery memory. In one smooth movement, he places it in the cloudy mist of the Pensieve, never quite liquid or gas.

I am curious enough now that I leave the comfort of the leather sofa and approach the desk. Why would Sayer want me to see one his memories?

'After you,' says Sayer. I can see his pale blue eyes now and they are wider than usual: with excitement, perhaps, or is it just anticipation?

I glance down at my watch again. Twenty-five minutes. I would rather spend them watching a memory than endure Sayer's failed attempts at getting me to break down. I put my watch in my pocket, take a deep breath and plunge my head into the Pensieve's silvery depths.

My feet leave the floor and I plummet through whirling darkness. And then, quite suddenly, I find myself in a very familiar bedroom. The high, arched windows and magnificent four-poster bed give it an air of faded grandeur. The walls are adorned with wizards in bright orange robes hitting Bludgers, catching snitches and scoring goals, except above the bed. Here, there is a gold-framed portrait of a mousy woman with bubble-gum pink hair and a haggard man who looks delighted to find himself in her company. This is Teddy's room.

Teddy, sporting his favourite look of messy black hair and brilliant green eyes, is sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs dangling off the edge. He is biting his nails, a sure sign that he is uncomfortable. The source is Sayer, who is seated not far from Teddy, and is smiling.

'What're you –' I begin.

'Just watch,' says the real Sayer.

'Theodore,' says memory-Sayer, 'I'm going to ask you a few questions, if that's alright with you.'

Teddy stops biting his nails and his hair turns flame red. 'Are you from the Ministry?'

I feel a fierce sense of pride at this. It is good to feel.

'No,' says Sayer, 'not from the Ministry. I'm a Healer, actually. I don't know if you know this, but I've been helping Harry out recently.'

Teddy folds his arms and, slowly, his hair turns black once more. 'Uncle Harry's fine.'

'I know he is, he just wants me to ask you a few questions.'

'So … Uncle Harry sent you?' says Teddy, cocking his head to one side.

'Of course.'

My pride at Teddy turns to anger. How dare Sayer use me to manipulate my godson! What right does he have to barge into Grimmauld Place and interrogate Teddy? I had told Sayer in a previous session the lengths I go to to keep Teddy out of the papers, and this is how he uses that information?

'Do you love your godfather?' asks Sayer, grabbing my attention.

Teddy sits up straight, and his eyes are wide. 'Yes! He's my favourite Uncle!'

'What do you love about him?'

'He lets me do whatever I like, and he buys me all this cool stuff. Like for my last birthday, he got me the Firebolt Two; all my friends are so jealous, and now I'm sure to be on the Gryffindor team in my first year, just like he was!' Teddy barely draws breath before continuing. 'And he tells me all these cool stories about my parents: like my dad used to teach him, and used to be best friends with his dad, who was an Animagus, which is really cool! I'm gonna try and be an Animagus, too, I bet I'm a lion! But Grandma says it's really hard and I'll have to wait years and years ...'

'That you will,' says Sayer, as though he has known Teddy his entire life. 'When was the last time you saw your Uncle Harry?'

Teddy deflates. His hair reverts to its natural sandy brown, and with that downcast expression, he resembles his mother when Remus had rebuffed her love.

'I haven't seen him in ages,' says Teddy quietly. 'Not since ... you know ...'

It is as though I have been slapped in the face. This, then, is the point of this exercise. Have I really not seen my godson since she was killed? Shit. I am just like Sirius. No, worse. Sirius risked his life and freedom to see me. Hell, he even stopped hunting Wormtail for me.

But surely it would not be long before I found her killer? I have set records in the Unit for finding sick fucks like the one that took her from me. Yes, I will spend another few weeks bringing her killer to justice, and then I'll be the godfather that boy deserves.

'Take me up,' I say.

'But we're not –'

'Take – me – up.'

Sayer is taken aback: I smell fear. I stare at him, daring him to refuse me. He adjusts his glasses, and the calm veneer returns. He takes me by the arm and tugs. In a moment, we are back in the asylum. He returns to his char, but I remain standing.

'How dare you!' I spit. 'You have no right to snoop around my life, manipulating the people that are important to me.'

I realise that I am pacing, and my breathing is heavy.

'Why are you so angry?' asks Sayer.

'You can try and stick your nose in my mind all you like, I don't care about that. But Teddy's completely off limits. If you ever go near him without my permission again –'

'Why are you so protective of Theodore? Why is he so special?'

'He's my godson! Remus' son. He needs me – who else does he have, other than Dromeda? He needs to be protected –'

'From whom?'

'From the press, who would use him to get at me. From former Death Eaters who'd like nothing more than to take him from me, the same way I took their master.' I stop pacing and round on him. He is leaning forward, and is gazing intently at me. 'From –'

'From having to live in the cupboard under the stairs.'

That takes me by surprise. I find myself returning to the couch, careful not to take my eyes off Sayer, who betrays a flicker of triumph.

'I'm not meant to provide you with the answers, Harry, but on this occasion I'll make an exception. It's quite natural for you to see yourself in Theodore. You were both orphaned at a very young age. Your parents died to save you, as did his. You were raised by emotionally crippled relatives, as is he –'

'Dromeda is a fantastic carer –'

'– Who lost her only child and husband. In fact, I suggested therapy for her when I visited earlier this week. You and Theodore share a special bond, one which you should cherish.'

'I do.'

Sayer is quite agitated now. He absently fidgets with his wand as he speaks, which emits red sparks that are unseen by its owner. 'Do you? You've shown in these sessions dangerously nihilistic tendencies. You are so hell-bent on finding your wife's killer –'

'I'm not trying to find her killer.'

'Come on, Harry, I don't need to be a qualified Healer to know that you are. You are so consumed with the goal of finding her killer that you forget there are other things worth living for.'

A silence falls between us.

He is right to some extent, and I wonder what else he has guessed or inferred. This is the second time that I am forced to contemplate how dangerous these sessions are. I can't have him work everything out. I can't have him passing the information on to the Ministry and have them find her killer before I do.

And I will need to consider more effective ways of protecting Teddy. I need to be completely focused on her killer; I can't be worried about him as well. Once I get closure, he will be my priority again. I have work to do.

The couch squeaks as I get up. I am halfway to the door when Sayer calls after me.

'Harry, you shouldn't leave now, we're making good progress.'

I stop. I can see much of the office reflected in the golden doorknob.

'I know,' I say. And, without looking back, I walk out.

My new lover writhes before me, intoxicating, beautiful. I can see myself in her. Where she is vibrant and alluring, I am gaunt and pale. I bring my lips to her and drink. Her burning passion infects me, and it is soothing. I lay her gently on the table.

'Is that Harry Potter drinking alone?' whispers the witch at the next table, just loud enough for me to hear.

Alone? Perhaps. But when I have my Firewhiskey, I am never truly alone. She is eternal, and undying.

From the corner of my eye, I notice a figure approaching. I glance up: it is a handsome black man with high cheekbones, and well-fitting grey robes. In the enchanted glow of the flickering purple candles above, he cuts an impressive figure. He fixes me with a cold stare coupled with a strained smile. I admire his courage. I am no longer approached by fans, not now I am the Man Who Lost His Mind. But this is not a fan, he is too familiar.

He is at my table when I recognise him. I think his name is Zabini, but I can't be too sure.

'This won't be much consolation, Potter,' he says, 'but I wanted to offer my condolences.'

He keeps his distance, and his wand is within reach. Prudent.

I do nothing but stare at him, willing him to leave and take his false condolences with him. He glances down at the purple club chair by my table. I give an imperceptible shake of my head. He seems to understand. His head moves a fraction in what could be mistaken for a nod before retreating. The empty nature of his commiserations are confirmed: he joins Draco Malfoy on the other side of the bar.

I wonder briefly what his motives are. No doubt he will stand for some kind of office, ever the Slytherin. It is fairly smart of him to seem friendly in my time of mourning; it may mean I will not oppose his candidacy. Perhaps he even thinks I will support him once public opinion swings back in my favour. That is not so smart. Public opinion will never favour me again.

My thoughts drift to more important things, like who to interrogate about the murder. Moondrop, that scumbag shylock, would be an obvious first step. But from what I understand, he is a pure-blood and, like the Gaunts before him, it is all he has left. It is not likely that he would associate with a wizard Muggle enough to use C4.

I glance around the pub. The theme is decidedly purple: it infects the dozen tables, the club chairs around them, and even many of the patrons' robes. The flamboyant barman describes it as 'avant-garde', 'the end to painfully traditional hovels', and other such bullshit. I admit the bar (the 'pièce de résistance') is something to behold; the entire structure floats on a radioactive purple cloud in the very centre of the room. When approached, patrons are elevated by the geyser-like plumes that emerge from the ground. There are not many people left tonight, however. I watch the gossipy witch from the next table leave with what is evidently her lover for the night. He has a smug, punch-able face, like so many of the patrons: after all, the Daily Prophet describes this place as the 'watering hole of the rich and famous'. Revolting.

But it serves its purpose. I am able to sit and drink largely undisturbed, something I certainly could not do in the likes of the Leaky Cauldron. And from my usual spot, this alcove in the corner of the room, I can see both exits, and more or less every patron in the place. No surprises.

'More Firewhiskey, Mr Potter?'

The barman is young and handsome; rumour has it he is the illegitimate son of Gilderoy Lockhart. He has the same toothy, sparkly smile, and floppy golden hair. His robes of deepest purple have odd silver symbols dancing across them.

'No, thank you,' I reply.

'You know where to find me!' The pub is a newbuild, and the barman is keen to appease me to further his business.

As the barman floats back up to the bar, I realise something. If I am to catch the killer before Neville does, I must use new methods and new informants. There is no point interrogating someone like Moondrop; Neville will have gotten there first. That is probably one of the reasons why I am forced to attend those god-forsaken sessions with Sayer: to give Neville, and the Unit, a head start.

The Unit has plenty of informants in the underworld, so what I need is something different. But of course. The answer has been in front of my face for the past half hour.

I rise to my feet as quickly as I dare. The world does not rock too much: my lover does not have her hold on me yet. I amble over to where Malfoy and Zabini are having a hushed conversation. Malfoy is the first to look up. Time has not been kind: his hair is receding and there are heavy bags under his eyes.

'What do you want, Potter?'

His tone is lazy, but his eyes are wide and alert.

I rifle through my collection of masks and find the one I need: the school rival.

'I was expecting a better welcome from an old classmate,' I say, as I take the remaining chair.

'Draco and I were just talking about the old days,' says Zabini. He leans back in his chair, seemingly content to watch the inevitable argument between Malfoy and I unfold.

'Were you now?' I ask, leaning back also. I glance at Malfoy, whose hand involuntarily goes to his left forearm. 'I guess some wounds never truly heal.'

Malfoy realises where his hand is and removes it as if burnt.

'You should know,' says Malfoy, looking pointedly at my scar.

'As much trouble and pain as it gave me, I think I prefer my scar, Malfoy.'

'I don't know what you're referring to, Potter.'

My eyes pass over Malfoy's offending forearm. 'Don't you?'

'I was cleared of all charges, as well you know.'

As well I should. Feeling sorry for the coward, I allowed myself to be witness at Malfoy's trial. Rather than tell tales of how his actions led to Dumbledore's death, I revealed how he was kept captive by Voldemort, and how all his Death Eater actions were a charade built to save his family. It is widely believed, with some justification, that had I not intervened, Malfoy would be in a cosy cell in Azkaban. I imagine the thought of being in my debt eats him alive.

'Yes, I'm sure one or two acts to save your own skin excuses a lifetime of supporting Voldemort.' Both Zabini and Malfoy wince. I have them on the back foot. Perfect.

'Potter,' says Zabini, 'do you really think it wise to reopen old wounds?'

'How very bipartisan, Zabini. So tell me, what position are you gunning for?'

Zabini's lips thin. He is clearly unhappy at this new-found attention. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Well, you're following Malfoy around again after years of estrangement, and you openly approached me for the first time ever today. Clearly you need gold from Malfoy, and a bit of influence and publicity from me.'

Zabini is saved the trouble of a reply by Malfoy's derisive snort.

'Influence?' he scoffs. 'From what, some washed-up has-been? Yes, I'm sure you're the first person the Minister writes to for advice. And publicity? The only publicity Zabini will get from you is questions about his sanity.'

I smile. 'Not bad, Malfoy, but your taunts were a bit sharper at school. I see living on the straight-and-narrow's softened you.'

'I need to head off,' mutters Zabini. Smart. If the argument between Malfoy and I turns into a brawl, the last thing he would want is to be associated with it. What he does not know is that I am in full control. There will be no brawl. I am simply waiting for Malfoy to say something that could legitimately anger me.

For his part, Malfoy barely notices Zabini's departure. I have his attention now, he is fully invested.

'I hear you're seeing a Mind Healer now,' says Malfoy, smirking.

'Yes, I've been advised to see Healer Sayer. You'll never believe who has the appointment after mine: your darling mother.'

I know that this will irk him. He was always such a mummy's boy.

'How do you – what utter nonsense!'

'Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? Her husband's a raging alcoholic and her son is, well, you. You can't really blame her –'

'Shut your mouth, Potter,' snarls Malfoy. 'I know what your game is here. It's pretty sad, really. You come here to drink your sorrows away and spread your misery like a disease. The Daily Prophet's right, you do need that Mind Healer. I guess it was to be expected, ten years with Loony Lovegood will do that to you –'

And there it is.

I raise my wand over my head and the chair Zabini has just vacated catches Malfoy by the throat and pins him against the wall. He tries to reach for his wand, but too late; I have it in my hand. It is familiar, like an ex-lover from a relationship long ago. With it, I stun the only two people left in the bar: an old man I vaguely recognise from the Wizengamot, and the barman. One final flick and the two doors are locked.

Malfoy squirms against the chair like a fly caught in a spider's web. His face grows redder and redder as he struggles to breathe. He is well and truly terrified now.

'Potter –' he rasps, his face turning an alarming shade of purple that matches the décor.

'It's funny having this wand back,' I say. As I peer at the blackthorn wand, my own keeps Malfoy in place. 'The wand that defeated Tom Riddle … you really don't deserve it.'

'Potter ... c – can't ... breathe ...'

With some regret, I order the chair to ease up a little. I guess childhood grudges really do die hard. Now that he is not choking to death, Malfoy tries fruitlessly to budge the chair.

'You know you really shouldn't struggle so much,' I say.

'I apologise, okay? Now – Now let me go!'

'Your apology won't be enough. I need something from you.'

'The wand? Take it, it has not worked perfectly for me since ... I am having another one made in any case.'

'No,' I say, 'not the wand. What I need is information.'

'Information?'

'Yes, information. You see, we both know that Luna had no enemies, everyone loved her ...' Malfoy's eyes narrow and he looks as though he is ready to argue, so I press on. 'I, on the other hand, have plenty of enemies, and many of those enemies are friends with people you also happen to be friends with.'

'I don't have any –'

With a jab of my wand, Malfoy's head hits the wall with a resounding thud.

'Don't lie to me! This isn't school anymore, I'm a different person now. I don't give a fuck if you live or die. I'm free, Malfoy. Well, nearly – once I find her killer, I'll be free.

'Now, I'm going to give you three seconds to tell me what you know, and then I'll fire a Sectumsempra at your throat. You remember what Sectumsempra feels like, I take it? And this time, there's no Snape to patch you up. You'll bleed all your pure blood out. One ...'

Malfoy stares at me, deathly white, desperately trying to ascertain whether or not I am bluffing. He would be foolish to take the risk.

'Two ...'

Malfoy is a coward, I know he will cave. But why hasn't he yet? Perhaps he really does not know anything.

'Thr –'

'Fine!' yells Malfoy.

I smile. 'Good. Now tell me what you know.'

'There is someone – a friend of a friend, not a friend of mine – who comes in here sometimes. A week ago, he had one too many, and I overheard him talking about Loo – about your wife. Saying all this stuff about how he knew who killed your wife, and he would tell the next person who bought him a drink. I was curious –'

'Curious, or you knew that I would trade anything for the information?'

'I was curious, so I obliged. It took quite a few drinks to get it out of him –'

'Who?' I snarl.

'Some Mud– Muggle-born, I wasn't there to get acquainted with him. Frankly, I don't even know how he gets in here.' Mingled with the fear is a hint of disgust. The war had taught Malfoy nothing. 'This wizard told me that it was a Muggle that did it, can you believe? He lives nearby and, while walking his dog, witnessed this Muggle taking some kind of Muggle variant of Fiendfyre to your house before it happened.'

I could feel the pulse in my neck throbbing. The story fits with what I already know. But ... a Muggle?

'Why doesn't the Ministry know?' I ask.

Malfoy, who is relaxing a little, smirks. 'Has working in whatever broom cupboard you're in really dulled your senses –'

With the barest flick of my wand, the chair presses against Malfoy's throat with a vengeance. I have to remind him who is in charge. His arms flail desperately, and his face betrays his utter anguish. I release the pressure before he passes out.

'Let's try that again, shall we? Why doesn't the Ministry know?'

Malfoy takes a moment to recover. 'The Ministry knows, but Paulson's account conflicts with the evidence the Ministry gathered at the scene. In any case, they didn't want to make this a murder investigation: Shacklebolt's up for re-election next year, and he's a law enforcement Minister. The lower the body count this year, the more likely he is to keep his job next year.'

'The more things change, the more they stay the same,' I say, barely hiding my revulsion. I know that the Ministry deliberately did a sloppy job, but hearing confirmation from Malfoy makes it worse.

'Who is this Muggle, then?'

'I will tell you who he is, but I have some conditions first.'

Malfoy's eyes are narrowed with barely contained greed. He really does not realise what danger he is in.

'Sectumsempra!'

The spell misses Malfoy's right ear by a fraction of an inch and shears off a clump of his hair. There is no more greed. Fear reigns supreme.

'What do you think of my counter-offer?' I ask.

'V – Very well! The Muggle lives at 23 Walcott Square – that's somewhere in London. Now release me, you absolute lunatic!'

I oblige, and follow up with a Memory Charm. All he will remember is that he got very drunk and started throwing curses around. Luckily, I used his wand for the most incriminating spells.

As I undo the damage to the bar, I contemplate what Malfoy has told me. This Muggle is the puppet I witnessed in the Priori Incantatem.

I will pay the Muggle a visit and find out who holds the strings.