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 NINE –

Walcott Square

The night is wet and windy. A group of young witches bustle past me, filling the air with the smell of cheap perfume and even cheaper rum. Upon closer inspection, I see that they are Muggles dressed as witches; any witch caught wearing such revealing garb would be the subject of scandal. I watch the young women, who are huddling together for protection, fight against Mother Nature's onslaught. They make slow progress past an abandoned shop front and turn right, and away.

I glance around. In the mizzled light of the dying street lamps, I see no Muggles. The rain lashes down with such ferocity that it is difficult to be sure, but if I can't see them, I am sure that they can't see me.

I take out my Unit-issued Deluminator, developed based on Dumbledore's design, and put the feeble streetlights out of their misery. The cobbled Victorian street is plunged into darkness, and I can now be certain that I will not be seen.

Time to play.

A gust of wind grabs my heavy, rain-soaked robes. I could cast protective charms around myself, but I do not. I like the rain, I like the wind. As a child, I would watch thunderstorms and will it to rain harder. Thunderstorms meant no school, and no school meant I did not have to deal with Dudley's gang. Without his cronies around him, Dudley was a far less intimidating prospect. I tilt my head back and allow the rain to pound onto my face. It is freezing. It is delicious.

Satisfied, I take out my Hand of Glory. It is a truly ingenious magical object, one that has helped me out in countless missions. I guess I have Malfoy to thank for the inspiration. Instantly, it grants me a better view of the road than the streetlamps ever did.

Walcott Square is the kind of road that Aunt Petunia would regard with scorn. The terraced houses are narrow and cramped. There are boarded windows, dislodged doors and dated 'For Sale' signs as far the eye can see. It is perfect.

My shoes, pregnant with rainwater, squelch with every step I take towards number twenty-three. As I draw near, I see that it is one of the few houses with a gate. I notice the shabby car parked outside is the only one with no signs of intrusion.

I draw level with the dark hedge and peer over it to see that the man who would put me at rest has not drawn his curtains. I can see him quite clearly in the smallest living room I have ever seen. He is lounging on a moth-eaten couch watching an old-fashioned panelled television, the kind Dudley had discarded decades previous.

But he is not alone. He holds in his arms a small child, no more than a baby, who has a mop of untidy hair. It is the same shade of jet black as its father. I watch for a little while, and wait. Neither man nor baby looks in my direction. I touch the cold gate, rough with rust, when a woman enters. Her dark red hair is tied into a bun and I am reminded of my mother.

She saunters over to the man whose messy black hair reminds me so much of my own, and curls up beside him. The baby, delighted at the sight of its mother, crawls off the father and leaps into the mother's arms.

My eyes sting. A stab of pain runs up my arm and I realise I have been digging my hand into the gate.

What is wrong with me? These are not my parents; I know exactly where my parents are. I do not even need to feel guilty; I am not here to hurt any of them. I simply need to extract the name of Luna's killer and leave. I try and keep Luna to the forefront of my mind, but it is difficult. I cannot help but see James and Lily, and the life I could have had. I wonder what Sayer would make of this.

The gate creaks a little as I push it open, but the family does not hear. I raise my wand to the door, and with a soft click it opens. With an almighty howl, the wind slams the door against the wall, and my cover is blown.

The baby begins to cry.

'W – Who's there?'

The man who could be my father emerges from a door to the right. He has barely enough time to register surprise when I whisper, 'Petrificus Totalus!'

His arms snap to his side and he falls like log. The force of his body hitting the floor shakes the house. I step over the man and enter the living room.

The woman, unlike her husband, does not register fear. She places the baby down on the couch and reaches for a gun that lies by a badge on the three-legged coffee table. I barely have time to transfigure the rug.

She fires a round.

Each bullet meets my newly-transfigured steel shield with a deafening clang. The baby cries harder. The woman's eyes widen with shock.

'Who –'

Stupefy!

She falls backwards onto the couch, missing the baby by inches, and lies quite still.

The baby is bawling now. I wish it would stop. I do not risk Stunning a child so young, so I silence it instead. It stares at me with adorable green eyes. I had always yearned to have children, but Luna wanted to wait. Now I may never know what it feels like. It is something else her murderer took from me. With some effort, I turn away.

This has been messy. The gunfire alone will have woken up the entire street, or whatever is left of it.

'Repello Muggletum,' I say, waving my wand in a wide arc. That should be enough; I am more than a match for any wizard, should one come snooping about.

I return to the hallway where the man's eyes are screaming. I partially remove the body bind so he can talk.

'Who are you? What have you done with Mary and Peter? Take whatever you want, just please don't hurt them!'

'Calm down,' I say, standing over him, 'I haven't –'

'I heard gunshots! You killed her, didn't you?'

His face is full of anguish and fear. His eyes dart furiously between me and my Hand of Glory.

'Is that her hand? You sick fuck! Oh God, I can't believe it! Mary –'

'Shut up!' I snap.

I pocket the Hand: I will no longer need it. I levitate the man and bring him to the living room. With the four of us in it, it is beginning to feel quite cramped. I prop him against a dilapidated old cupboard that is itself leaning vicariously against the wall. The shelves are full of books, and behind a glass cabinet is an assortment of photos littered around dust-strewn fine-bone china, a relic of a better time for the family. The baby has stopped crying and stares expectantly at his father.

'You see?' I say. 'I haven't harmed either one of them.'

'And Mary?'

I rennervate Mary, who gingerly raises her head. Before she gets any firearm-related ideas, I stun her once more.

'See,' I say, 'she is just sleeping.'

'How are you …? What are you –'

'Stop spluttering. The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner I leave you be, never to return.'

The man glances at his family, and then back at me.

'What do you want from me?' he whispers.

'Does the name Harry Potter mean anything to you?'

He is confused, and it genuine. 'No ...'

'Or Luna Potter?'

'Luna Potter ...' he murmurs, and his face contorts with the strain of trying to remember something. After a moment, he seems to give up. 'No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Will you let me go now?'

I sigh. I had not expected it to be simple. I take a few paces towards the man so that there are only a few inches between us, and I have an unimpeded view of his dark eyes.

He flinches. 'What're you –'

'Legilimens!'

His pupils grow wider and wider until I am engulfed in them. A haze of partly-formed memories swim past me. I see glimpses of a skinny child being bullied, a man hitting a woman while the same child watches from under the bed, a teenager babysitting a young boy with slick, black hair. I bat these memories away and dive deeper: I see Mary in a wedding dress, a dense fog, Peter being born under a glare of hospital lights. I stop and summon the dense fog, which passes by so quickly I almost miss it.

The fog refuses to solidify into a memory. Instead it seems to call other memories to act as a shield. But I am a far better Legilimens than I ever was an Occlumens. I chase the fog, parrying useless memories as they come.

I manage to corner the fog in the darkest recesses of the man's mind; a man, I understand, whose name is Jack. But still it refuses to solidify.

Jack has been Obliviated, and not just by anyone. Whoever did this was a wizard of prodigious skill. If I am to get this memory, I will have to delve deep; so deep that Jack will never recover. I think of his wife, Mary, and his son, Peter, and of Neville and his mother, who is in a living death in Ginny's ward.

The fog is gone. It has used my hesitation to escape. I curse myself. But then again, would I have been able to callously tear this family apart for my own personal gain? No, I will think of another way.

The darkness dissolves to reveal Jack's face, which is now pale and sickly. His breaths are sharp and quick, and his eyes stare straight ahead, lidless and unseeing. I almost went too far.

But then I see it. There, in the corner of my eye, gleaming in the glare of the television. It is a photo in grainy colour. I recognise Jack immediately; he is the skinny boy on the right with a shock of jet black hair. A middle-aged man has one hand on Jack's shoulder and another on a boy who he greatly resembles. He is young and smiling – something I have never seen him do as an adult – but it is unmistakeably Boris Bogand.

I stare at the young Bogand for what might have been minutes, or hours. The world has been stripped bare, and all that remains is me and my boss, and my dawning comprehension.

I must be sure. There must be no mistakes. Shakily, I reach for the cupboard and open the glass cabinet. I pick up the photograph. It is solid. It is real.

Slowly, I look up at Jack. His lips are moving. I realise he must have been speaking this entire time. He has made a remarkably swift recovery from my intrusion into his mind.

I point to Bogand. 'Who is this?' I say.

'A – A childhood friend,' says Peter, his face contorted in confusion. 'You said you'd leave –'

'What's his name?'

Jack's eyes narrow a little. 'Boris, Boris Bogand. But why do you –'

'How do you know him?'

'He – He used to live down my road. We grew up together, we're childhood friends.'

'Childhood friends ...' I whisper.

Childhood friends. That would surely make Bogand a Muggle-born, or at the very least have strong ties to the Muggle world. Luna's murderer also has ties to the Muggle world.

'C4,' I say.

'W – What?'

'C4,' I repeat, this time a little louder. 'What do you know of it?'

Jack is incredulous now, but I do not care. This could be it.

'Quite a lot. I work for Brand Brothers; we manufacture C4, amongst other things. Why?'

It was Bogand.

I can see it in my mind's eye. That slick fuck casting the Imperius Curse on his old friend and getting him to trigger the explosives from a safe distance. And of course the memory charm was perfect: he had learned it from the same man who taught me.

Bogand, you treacherous piece of shit, why? Was he afraid that I was rising too fast, that pretty soon the Wizengamot would be clamouring to have me replace him? Or did he think that Luna was too much of a distraction, that I could never do the job properly with her alive? Or ... he wants my Hallows.

Crack!

I have been gripping the photo so tightly that the glass frame snaps in two. I allow the pieces to fall out of my hand. I do not care that my hand is now bleeding. I do not feel it. It is nothing compared to Bogand's betrayal.

He wants my Hallows. That must be the explanation. It explains why he asked to examine my cloak last year. It explains why, two years ago, he drilled me with questions about how the Elder Wand differs from my own. As isolated incidents, they did not register, but now I see them as part of a greater tapestry.

'YOU SAID YOU'D LEAVE US BE!'

My head snaps back towards Jack, who now looks more afraid than he has ever been.

'Yes,' I say, barely above a whisper. I raise my wand. 'Obliviate!'

It is a simple procedure, particularly so since he has been Obliviated before. His eyes glaze over; he will remain so for some time, but it is late, and I doubt such a young family expects visitors at this hour. I Rennervate his wife and give her the same treatment. She is a little more difficult. Finally, I turn to the child, who is eerily still. No, I can't do it. By the time he is old enough to communicate what he has seen, it will be too late.

The clock is ticking for Bogand.

I leave the house, lost in my thoughts. Bogand almost certainly has the Stone. I need the Stone, and I need him dead. But which do I do first: kill him or recover the Stone? If he is neutralised, the Wizengamot will move swiftly to appoint a new Head which, given my current press, will not be me. The fate of the Stone will then be in doubt, an unacceptable outcome. If I take the Stone first, Bogand will know that I am the perpetrator. He will expel me from the Unit, and possibly have me neutralised ...

... Unless he does not know that I have taken the Stone.

I can use the replica the goblins made for me, and then only a goblin will know the difference. If Bogand has the Stone, he will have hidden it in the Unit. It is the perfect cover: after all, one of the Unit's stated aims is to protect such objects. Once I pinpoint exactly where it is, I can swap the real Stone with the fake, neutralise Bogand, and then work on waking Luna up.

When I find the Stone, I will need to examine the protective charms Bogand has around it. Doubtless he will be alerted when it is removed, but there are countless other charms and curses he could have placed around it. Unlike Dumbledore, I do not have an expert like Snape around to patch me up if things go badly.

I realise that my feet have carried me further down Walcott Square, away from where I had arrived. It is no longer raining, but the wind relentlessly buffets the ramshackle old street.

Suddenly, I feel a familiar tug. I stop. There is some kind of ... residue in the air. I can't quite put my finger on what it is. It reminds me of a village I visited in Kenya with Luna ...

The sun beats mercilessly down on the savannah. The heat makes the air shimmer. A group of cows in a nearby enclosure swish their tails furiously in a vain attempt to cool themselves down.

Our guide, an old, stooped wizard leans against his staff. Far from his usual enthusiastic demeanour, he is suddenly stiff and wary.

'You're afraid,' says Luna, in that perceptive-yet-dreamy way of hers. Her dirty blonde hair clings to her face. Her eyes remain protuberant despite the sweat dripping into it. She has decided against a cooling charm, she says it attracts Dungwraiths.

'Yes, I am afraid,' whispers the guide, 'come quickly now.'

'Why are you afraid?' I say.

'Bad spirits here,' he says, gesturing furiously at us to keep up with his quickening pace. For a wizard who looked as though a strong gust of wind would send him flying, he really could get moving.

'Bad spirits?' asks Luna, tilting her head to one side.

'Yes. Big accident here many years ago. Bad witch made experiment. Stupid witch. Whole village goes boom. Now bad magic in the air. It infect you if you stay long. Now come!'

I close my eyes and concentrate. I could kind of see what he means: the air feels different here, and not in a good way. I am ready to accede to his demands, but Luna remains quite still. She is staring at something over my shoulder. I turn around and follow her gaze. A stone's throw away from the cows, seemingly invisible to the young boys pacing around the enclosure, are three rows of hastily assembled graves. Each is marked with a cross fashioned out of twigs. It is clear that whoever lay those graves was as keen to get away from the area as our guide is.

Luna walks over to the graves; not with her usual carefree amble, but with determination and intent.

She kneels down in front of each grave in turn, and seems to be performing a silent prayer. I do not understand why she is doing it, but I know that this is personal. I watch from a distance.

We never speak of it again.

How strange that I should feel the same aura around a rat-infested, abandoned Muggle hovel. But I have no time to investigate. I have to pay a visit to the Ministry. After that, I need to work out if Bogand has a routine.

If he does, he will be dead within the week.

I take out the Deluminator, release the street's lights, and Disapparate.

I reappear in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It is blissfully empty. My feet take the familiar route past the Fountain of Magical Brethren, a sleeping watchwizard and beyond the golden gates at the end of the hall.

To my surprise, there are two wizards waiting for lifts beyond the gates. One is an Auror I vaguely recognise, and the other is Neville.

Neville is the first to notice me. His eyes widen in surprise before darting to the Auror. I can see that Neville is excited about something; he is fidgeting with his hands and bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. Has he discovered something? Did he, like Malfoy, interrogate the eye-witness? I cannot have him tipping Bogand off; our Head is likely to be less scrupulous when it comes to breaking through memory charms.

'Harry, what a pleasant surprise,' says Neville jovially.

'Hello, Neville,' I say.

The Auror turns around. He is young and sleep-deprived, clearly a new recruit. Neville and I must be guarded while he is around.

'Mr Potter,' says the Auror, a little star-struck. 'I was so sorry to hear –'

'Thank you,' I say curtly.

The lift directly ahead of us arrives. As we enter, the Auror presses for level two, I level three and Neville level four. The grill slams shut and with a lurch, the lift hurtles backwards, and up.

'You're working late,' I say to Neville.

'Yes, but I've had a breakthrough that I have to report to Scamander as soon as possible.'

'Big breakthrough, is it?'

'Huge.'

The lift grinds to a halt, and a cool, female voice says, 'Level Four: the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.'

'Well, this is me. See you soon, Harry.'

I return Neville's wave, and the lift takes me away. I can't help but glower at the remaining Auror. If it weren't for him, I could have questioned Neville further and worked out what it is he knows. But instead, I can only guess. I know that he's found a witness, but the question is, which one?

'Level Three: the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.'

I storm down the dimly lit hall with a quickened pace. I have to get to the Stone before Bogand puts the pieces together and switches the hiding place. Damn it Neville, why do you have to be so good?

I tear past the Obliviators' offices and the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. The bracketed torches roar into life as I approach and extinguish themselves once I have passed.

Finally, I come to a shabby little corridor that branches off from the main corridor. At the end is a door that could be the entrance to a broom cupboard. There is no handle. I place my wand in the small groove and place my hand next to it. But there is no lettering.

I am locked out.

I try every magic known to open doors, from Alohamora to the Hand of Glory, but none work.

'Fuck!' I yell, and kick the door with all my might.

It does not budge.

Bogand saw me coming. He knew I would find out. He is good, but I am better.

I will find another way in.