The bullet is followed by the silence of the grave, but a wasted youth is followed by years of grief and agonising memories.

— Anton Chekhov

An elderly witch sat motionless in a cell. She was not in Azkaban, but somewhere else, somewhere underground. There were no windows to light her way but Alice didn't need any. She had been here before. This was not the first time she had dreamt of this place. — Souviens-toi, the old witch whispered. Her voice was thin with age. They treated her well here, she was clean and fed, although she sat in the darkness like a wounded animal. Alice's hands gripped the cell bars and she pulled herself closer. She could see a ring glint on the witch's finger, some sort of sigil. It looked familiar. There was a dread inside her that weighed her limbs heavy like a Draught of Living Death. — Souviens-toi, the old witch repeated again, unmoving. She was saying: remember . The old witch was made of stone, a gorgon, a monster. Alice tried to pull away but her hands would not pry loose. — Tes origins, the witch spat suddenly imperious. Your origins . But Alice's origins were blackened, thrust into a pit of tar, slicked with shame. Alice saw the witch shift, her bones shifting underneath thin robes and she felt a whimper escape her lips as the crone moved forward, half caught in the gloom, then— — Qui es-tu ? À l'âme ? Profond de toi ? Her words were quick bullets, one question after another: Who are you? To your soul? Deep inside you? They peeled back Alice's flesh to expose skeins of darkness running like rivulets down her organs. Defiled meat. There was no use crying, no sense in protesting, for Alice knew the witch's face as she moved forward into the weak light. She had seen it all before; the short cropped hair, the dark eyebrows. The pale moon face, shadowed with age. Her face was warped by the dream but it was still her own. She could recognise it anywhere. When she saw herself like this, she screamed anyway.

Alice jolted awake on the Tube, startling a Muggle man who smelt like clove smoke next to her. She whispered a hasty apology and tried to make herself look respectable as possible. Her ears were burning painfully; had she screamed out loud? Or was it only in her dream? Alice felt sick, the Tube was suddenly too hot and she was desperate to move, put as much distance between herself and the dream as possible but it was no use. It was two stops until her change and better to not draw any more attention to herself than she likely already had.

She was used to Apparating from her flat to a street or two away, but since the war all Ministry workers were required to have an administrative official perform anti-Apparition wards around their properties. She thought briefly of the case notes of the Puffskein massacre: ' all found deceased in their homes, signs of grievous bodily harm .' Despite the fact that she now had longer to commute, it didn't seem like such an odious task after all. She left at too obvious a time to Apparate from anywhere else and she found that she quite liked the Muggle notion of a commute— she never had time to exercise anymore and so the walk to the Highbury & Islington stop where she took the Underground felt like an adventure.

She changed at Oxford Circus (still profusely apologising to Clove Smoke Muggle) where she had developed a habit of buying a croissant from a dowdy looking Muggle in a convenience store who never smiled. Then she was on to Whitehall, munching on her second breakfast and reading a battered copy of The Daily Prophet (which she'd enchanted to look like the Sunday Paper ) for the cryptic crossword, one Frank had given her a week earlier. She walked up the Underground steps to the street, her nose still in the newspaper; "A bird of prey circles over the king's court wizard (6)."

"Oh, sorry— I'm so sorry, I—"

But Frank Longbottom was grinning widely and fell into step beside her. Today he was wearing a smart striped shirt tucked into dark brown pants and a clashing tie which couldn't detract from his broad shoulders.

"That one stumped me for ages, too."

"Stumped is putting it lightly," she huffed as they descended another set of stairs to the public loo. It didn't help that he also smelled amazing this close up. "The only court wizard I can think of is Merlin which fits, but the bird of prey?" She shrugged off her coat in the heat of the tunnel.

"You'll be annoyed once you get it." he said, smiling wryly as they joined the queue. She was silent and he looked at her, searching her face. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Never been better actually!" she chirped breezily, although she said the words an octave too high, like a kettle boiling.

"Have you had any sleep at all?" he asked quietly, checking over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being heard but it wouldn't have mattered anyway— everything was drowned in the sound of flushing toilets.

She smiled thinly, feeling like she was as brittle as porcelain. "I'm fine, Frank. Really. Besides, I've always wanted to drown in paperwork. It'll be an adventure."

The corners of his mouth turned up and she felt that flush creeping up her neck again. His eyes were just the shade of brown she liked and they looked at her intently.

"Blackwood isn't doing you any favours by keeping you desk bound, you know."

She snorted derisively. "He says that fieldwork is only for those who are true A.U.R.O.R.S," and she mimicked his lilting voice: "Attentive, unflappable, responsible, on-guard, responsible, sharp—"

"You said responsible twice."

"Blackwood isn't exactly known for his creativity."

There was a pause before they both began to laugh. Alice stopped quickly, hers felt a little too on the edge of hysteria and Frank watched her quietly again. His dark eyebrows were knitted in concern and his soft oval face looked worried. "Come on," he said as they stepped to the front of the queue. "Just think about the crossword." Bird of prey for six letters, what the hell could it be? Falcon fitted but it didn't explain the court wizard clue and she fell silent as they stepped into the cubicles. She tucked her elbows in as she gurgled down the toilet, spinning furiously, her mind a blur.

She had spent her morning in her greenhouse— the one on the roof of her apartment building. Like most mornings she spent it checking on her larger, more dangerous plants such as Robespierre, the Venomous Tentacula. He was much happier since she'd transferred him to a large pot on the west side and he entertained himself by snapping lazily at curious flies. They were still in the throes of winter but she would have to start thinking about some spring produce soon enough. Her chard, kale, leeks and parsnips were growing happily and there was a particularly enormous sweet potato that was ready for eating which she pulled from the earth much like pulling a mandrake. But when she had gone to grab a porcelain bowl from near a misty glass window, she flinched suddenly and violently, the bowl shattering on the ground. The plants, including Robespierre, twitched with alarm. She had just remembered the old witch from her dream, the woman who wore her face. "Not bad," she muttered to herself before drumming her fingers against her thigh, one, two, three times. The tapping was something she'd done since she was young and it wasn't the first time she'd dreamt of the witch. It was the only way to get her out of her head.

Alice made sure to keep her eyes screwed shut as she spun through the Floo Network. The last thing she needed to see were those heavy brown eyes looking back at her from the hungry green flames but the rest of the morning passed uneventfully. She had only two days to finish the insurmountable backlog that Blackwood had left her and she was determined to finish it all.

"Wotcha, Fortescue," came a familiar voice and Alice smiled as Johanna Shacklebolt leaned against her desk, stealing a bite of her second breakfast: half a baguette slathered in honey and gruyere. Johanna was wearing a yellow jumpsuit and a matching bandana, her eyes like honey, gold jewellery dripping from her ears– it gave off the impression like the sun had entered her office. Johanna also had the added effect of dazzling everyone with a radiant smile which only added to her sunflower effect.

"Hiya, Jo," Alice said, feeling temporarily better in Johanna's rays. "You may as well finish that. I'm not hungry anymore."

Johanna's mouth dropped open. "Alice Fortescue, not hungry?" she said incredulously. "And Merlin is my uncle."

Alice let her head fall pathetically on a huge file, and said with a muffled voice, "What joy is there left for me as a French woman? Next they'll expect me to give up striking."

She heard Johanna burst into a fit of laughter which she tried unsuccessfully to hide and as she looked up she saw the other Aurors eyeing them suspiciously. Alice felt herself deflate like a balloon. It was all well and good for all the blokes of the office to spend their time jockeying and laughing and generally being a nuisance but when witches did it? Different story.

"I'm sorry to add more to your plate, Fortescue, but I don't have time to be chummy with the cadets and they're so young I think they're half expecting me to be their mum," said Johanna in a brisk voice but winking at Alice, evidently sensing the tone shift in the office. Alice nodded back understandingly, producing the other half of the baguette for Johanna as she finished the first. "Thanks– jeez, where'd you get this? Actually, never mind. I know Blackwood spoke to you about tailing the Montagues and Elia Montague is looking like a likely suspect since her brother has gone MIA. You have anyone in mind? I need someone keen, eager, smart . I don't have time for heroes."

Alice bit her lip, thinking. She'd never been asked for her opinion in the office before and she felt ears straining in proximity to their conversation. Suddenly she didn't seem so exhausted– she liked being asked and she racked her brain for someone who wasn't overly keen to become a war hero. She was silent for another moment, and then, "Tiberius Nibb."

Johanna looked at her warily. "The one who looks like he still sucks his thumb?"

"The very one." And they looked over at Tiberius in the cadet corner who was using his wand to add more crochet flowers to his elaborate coat with a smile of supreme contentment. She ignored a nearby Auror derisively snorting at her choice.

"It's a good bit of magic, I'll grant him that," Johanna said with a smirk. "But Fortescue, he's not exactly incognito. He looks like a disco fan and a druid had a baby." She considered his shock of ginger hair. "And then electrocuted him," she added.

Alice shrugged but her ears were burning. "Put him in Muggle clothing then. But I think he's your wizard for the job. His training notes are good plus there's no chance of him playing the hero," and Alice fished his file out of the nearby filing cabinet, flicking to some hastily scrawled written comments by a training witch. "See here," and she raised her voice for the benefit of the sexist wizards in their vicinity. " Absolutely useless in a fight but fantastic observation skills. Alarmingly clever with potions and charms. Knitted me a lovely sweater. "

Johanna beamed and then lowered her voice as the busybodies lost interest. "I know Blackwood is a dickhead but I do appreciate his suggestion to pass this over to you. I'm just swamped. You gonna be ok?"

Alice was only too happy to take over, it seemed an easy enough task plus she got more hands on experience. She outfitted Tiberius with an emergency Portkey in the event that Disapparation was impossible and clear instructions that he was to watch only. And then he surprised her by using his wand to fix a loose fray on her jacket sleeve. Despite the murkiness of aboveground she felt something akin to hope blooming in her chest. Maybe she could show Blackwood she was worth her salt after all.

She worked without stopping— except for lunch. She was French after all, despite what the job entailed. After downing a bucket sized bowl of Garbure (which her father would have only been too proud of her making) and mopping it up with crusty bread, she was back at it, writing up field reports to be filed in the enormous cabinets that lined the walls up to the ceiling on the east side of the office. Several times owls dropped amendments to her, scribbled notes from either Blackwood or other Aurors with details on which law was broken, what potential mitigating factors there were and whether the accused had entered into a plea bargain. She was saved from a particularly noxious file by this very instance: a Death Eater captured by Johanna's brother, Kingsley, had agreed to turn informant and Alice's report writing was suspended in the absence of an impending trial.

She was in the kitchen making her seventeenth cup of tea later that afternoon when she realised that Frank had entered. He normally said hello and her stomach sank, perhaps he was bored of her? But then she realised that he was not only glassy-eyed, but had opened the fridge and was simply staring inside.

"Frank?" He didn't answer so she tried again. "Are you praying to the fridge or are you going to make something?"

"Hm? Oh," and he let it swing shut. She waved her wand and another mug appeared, slowly filling with hot tea. Hang waiting for the Muggle kettle; the man looked like he'd just seen a Boggart.

"Is something the matter?" she asked as she made his tea just the way he liked it: with extra milk and a teaspoon of sugar. She passed him the mug and he gave her a weak smile. Up close, he didn't look so good, there was a harried look about his eyes that wasn't there this morning.

"Cheers. Sorry about this, Alice, you're swamped too. I shouldn't be complaining."

She snorted. "Nonsense, Frank. I knew an Australian once who said 'we're all up shit's creek'. Charming fellow. And he's right although I don't know where shit's creek actually is…"

This elicited a small laugh from Frank and the sun was dawning again in her belly, flooding it deliciously. She loved making him laugh and his chuckles were like a glass of whiskey after a long day; warming, spiced.

"Baburam Maheshwari's gone on sudden leave. Bibek too."

This was not what Alice expected although it explained why Frank looked like he was taking on an entire subdepartment alone– in effect he had. She'd never met Baburam, all she knew is that he was extremely gifted with arithmancy and ancient runes, and Frank had become his pupil or apprentice almost although he was a born again Aristotle. He and his brother, Bibek, both grade three Aurors, were top of their class and regularly out on the field. Baburam, unlike his brother who was treated somewhat like a celebrity, preferred solitary work and was seldom seen in the office.

"Is there any reason why?" she asked, trying to sound professional instead of prying. She hated office gossips. "I thought Bibek was working up to that case against Milo Zmok, the one who had been targeting Muggles?" She didn't add what Blackwood had let slip– that the Zmok case was an impending disaster.

Blackwood hated both Baburam and Bibek but Frank knew that well enough already. The Maheshwari brothers were not only talented, smart, and well liked but they were Nepalese which Old Boys like Blackwood and Malfoy seemed to think a tick against them. Wizards loved pretending racism was a Muggle invention but everyone knew that was bullshit.

Frank rubbed his jaw and sighed. "No idea," he replied grimly. Alice pretended not to notice the vein pulsing in his neck. When was the last time she'd gone on a date? She resisted the urge to laugh. As if she had time for that anyway. He caught her off guard by glancing at her suddenly from under his dark lashes, almost coyly. "But I mean why would I know if they're gone on secret Auror business? We're just lackeys, right?"

She laughed without humour. "Frank, you're like Baburam's chosen successor. He actually values your opinion. Me? I'm about as interesting to Blackwood as a fly is to a basilisk."

He snorted in derisive agreement before bumping his shoulder to hers and she fought a blush. "How's it going then?" Then he surprised her by peering closer and looking at her. Really looking at her. She wanted to shiver. How did he have that way about him as though he could see straight inside her? Suddenly a cold sweat bloomed on her skin as she remembered the haunting witch from her nightmare.

"Are you okay?"

She panicked, stomach rolling. Did he know? What if Frank was secretly a Legilimens and could see the sort of sordid things in her mind? She was stalling for time, racking her brain to avoid the question somehow. What if he knew the witch in the dream? What if he pieced it all together?

"That's a question I should be asking you," she shot back and returned the shoulder nudge, desperate to alleviate his penetrating warm gaze. It reminded her of the same way her father looked at her, with tender love and concern. She didn't deserve it.

"Touché," he smiled, throat humming. He downed his tea before moving back towards the office. "If it gets too much, you'll let me know, yeah?"

"Says you Mr Arithmancy." He smiled and rolled his eyes, before he left, leaving her alone in the kitchen again.

When it was nearly five o'clock, she stood up from her chair and yawned, her back cracking as she stretched. People were still everywhere, it was too hard to avoid overtime these days and she stared at the remaining pile of work entirely untouched, feeling somewhat crestfallen. It was going to take at least another eight hours to get through the day's leftover work to not be behind for tomorrow's influx of administrative casework. Johanna was nearby wrapping a scarf around her curly hair to shield herself against the cold and must have sensed Alice's impending panic. She wandered over, pulling on mittens, drawn like a calm bee to a distressed flower.

"You nearly done with that?" she asked, eyeing the stack apprehensively.

Alice plastered on a smile. "Yep!" she replied in a voice that sounded as natural as the idea of Barty Crouch being an avid fan of musical theatre. Johanna didn't buy it.

"Hey," she said, leaning forward onto Alice's cluttered desk and moving her hand away just in time from planting it into day-old toast crusts. "I know it's been tough joining right in the middle of all this. Especially when certain asswipes get promotions over other hard working Aurors who have been here longer…" she trailed off. "Just don't let him ," Johanna continued and Alice didn't have to ask who him meant, "break you down, okay?" She reached out and gripped Alice's frigid hand before she bid her goodbye, her long leather coat whipping around the door as she left.

Alice watched her go, desperately wishing she could run after her and they could go for coffee or a Butterbeer or anything that friends would do. She looked around the office and thought miserably of the Order, of her friends who she hardly ever saw these days. Frank was stuck in his cubicle on the other side of the office but she was sure he had more important things to do than listen to her complaints. Not when he had an entire sub-department to take on. What were her troubles in comparison? She groaned and rubbed her eyes before checking her watch again, five-fifteen in the afternoon: the work wasn't going to do itself. Besides, she had an ulterior motive for working herself to the bone.

You don't dream if you don't sleep.

The next day passed in a blur, the edges of her vision like ink blots thanks to sleep deprivation. Frank spoke to her a few times but she hardly took any of it in, there was fog in the office and water in her ears and a fresh pile of paperwork as though she hadn't even cleared last night's backlog.

Johanna passed by and Tiberius checked in, she nodded blandly through all of it. Tiberius tried speaking to her about whether she had time to give him extra training, but she had to disappoint him. She didn't even know what she was doing herself, how the hell was she supposed to mentor a Cadet? It was one thing to recommend him and one to get him set up for distance tailing work but it was another entirely for her to mentor him. That would be absurd.

Blackwood himself dropped by for a bit of light sport but found her a boring sparring partner. He had said something insulting and she had just hummed in response, not looking up from her work. He'd even gone as far as to touch Sartre's leaves before, unbidden and surprisingly, she'd snarled at him not to touch the plant. Blackwood purred and made a cat noise in return but seemed to respect that she was in no mood to be trifled with.

By the time she collapsed onto her couch that night, she was spent. She'd taken some of the work home with her, it was only a few hours more, that surely couldn't hurt? She was currently at her forty fourth hour awake which seemed fine. Totally fine. Her eye was twitching manically but that was just a tic, surely. She fished around her fridge for enough food to make a meal, which mostly consisted of eggs, cheese and some withered crudités. She hadn't been shopping all week which was most decidedly unlike Alice. The Daily Prophet 's cryptic crossword sat unfinished on her antique coffee table and she poured herself another coffee, taking her plate of sad food to her squashy burnt orange couch where she curled up like a cat.

There came a sudden tap at the window and she froze: it was a screech owl.

She unfurled herself and crossed to the window where it hopped in, sticking its leg out dutifully for her. She ran to her work satchel to fish out a Knut which, upon receiving, the owl took off. She peered out the window quickly before snapping it shut, sealing it with her wand, and then tapping three times with either hand. You could never be too careful. As she wandered back to the couch and sank down, she saw her father's cramped hand as she unrolled the parchment.

Chère Alice, Your maman and I haven't heard from you in two weeks. Is everything ok? Maman wants to know if you're eating enough, she's happy to send you food if you need. I suggested to her that we come and camp for a week at your flat, help you around the place with food and groceries. What do you think? It's cold and I haven't made cassoulet yet this winter, and I can make it with those pork sausages you love. Your mother is asking me to add that we can also add lamb to it. She's also making me write that lamb is your favourite. Just let us know and we'll be over as quick as we can. We've got someone to mind the dogs for a week or two, Biljana just over the hill. She's a dear thing, sad life though I'm afraid. She's a retired Yugoslavian Ministry official, well, soon to be Croatian Ministry official. She says it's all just awful but she did give me a wonderful recipe, something similar to cassoulet , in fact. It's called sarma . Have you heard of it? Apparently you wrap pork in pickled cabbage leaves and there's an alarming amount of sauerkraut involved and some sort of delicious tomato sauce— there's also bacon in there, I think. Or was it speck? I'll admit there were a few things lost in translation but I did understand that she wanted to cook for you when you next come to visit. Speaking of which, why don't we meet for coffee? I could nip off from my shift for a bit? Maman is asking that I don't put that bit in, says it sets a bad example of lax work ethics but I've told her there is nothing more important than you. And the French Quidditch team, of course. Jean Rideaux was suspended last week for potion doping, can you believe it? I was so angry when I heard the news, I couldn't believe he would stoop so low. Have you been keeping up with Muggle politics, chèrie? I'm sure you're all over it at work but your mother and I have been keeping an eye on it with the war and I'm afraid it doesn't bode well. The leader of the Muggle Conservative party, Thatcher, her name is, well there's talk that she's going for the top job. I don't like the idea of her knowing about us. Or Minchum entering that office and telling her everything. And she doesn't like unions. That's the last thing this Ministry needs, especially with all this You-Know-Who stuff— anti-unionism. The French won't ever let it happen. Imagine if we were told to stop striking? Speaking of, I've been trying to get the other Healers at St Mungos to organise a walk off for better pay but they're getting antsy. Might be that Thatcher's ideas have infected us already…

Gabriel Fortescue's letter ran for several more sheets of parchment, flitting from one topic to another as quickly and deftly as a hummingbird, sometimes using the wrong verb agreement or conjugation which was because his brain thought so fast his hand had a hard time keeping up. She desperately wanted to reply and thought for a moment about just sacking off her work and visiting them now— but it was nearly eleven o'clock and aside from the obvious fact that her parents lived on the other side of London.

In truth she had been avoiding her parents. Maman had made her thoughts clear when Alice had joined the Auror department by not speaking to her for a week until Papa had stepped in, reasoned with her. He was too understanding, that was his problem, and Alice didn't know if she could stand his brown eyes looking at her sympathetically, tenderly. She wasn't sure if she could handle his compassion, afraid that it would make her look weak to Maman. He was so busy at the hospital, so full of love and intention that she was afraid he might burst or overflow like a dam. What was being overworked compared to death and the dying?

And Maman had her books. In her father's previous letter he had said that she'd settled on a deal with Flourish and Blotts to have Comment Bien Se Protéger Contre Les Forces du Mal , En Connaissant des Sorciers Malsains , and Ma Mère: Un Héritage d'une Sorcière Mauvaise translated into English, that new editions were already being re-released in France, that even Germany and Spain were having her work translated. Beauxbatons had asked for her to return as a consultant for the Defence Against the Dark Arts department and for her to guest lecture sixth and seventh years. Her father bore her mother's absence well when she travelled for work, but she knew he missed her terribly. Hélène Fortescue was busy fighting, not with a wand, but with paper, academia, theories and knowledge.

Meanwhile Alice was busy fighting with filing.

Who was she kidding? She was terrified of telling them about the dream, that the nightmares had started again. She could almost hear her parents' voices in her head. Her father would look at her, eyes melting with concern whereas her mother, in typical French fashion, would tell her to go for a walk. Once a Parisian, always a Parisian. No, there was no sense in worrying them and certainly not over a silly dream .

She sighed, mussed her hair and rubbed her eyebrows. When that didn't stave off the exhaustion she pinched her cheeks, hard. Perhaps if she just lay down, only for a moment? It wouldn't be long, she assured herself. Just a moment, and her eyes fluttered closed as she sank back into the springy folds of the velvet couch. It was so soft, almost like a bed, almost like sleep, and then she was drowning in the past, quicksand filling her mouth and ears, there was nothing she could do to stop it, she was scrambling backwards, clinging to the edge—

And she fell.